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Chapter Text

There were many wretched and forlorn that day.

In the dust of battle, in fields of bullets and casualties, one of the surgeons went down far from his station; none of his comrades cared that he was missing.

Inside a nearby compound, well-trained soldiers made their way through halls of offices and labs. They weren't certain of what they were to find there; they had figured it for a slightly modified military research base. But the cages, and worse still the cages' contents, told another story. Another thousand stories.

Inside a small room, a door was opened and light made its way in for the first time in several... hours? Days? Her sense of time had been dulled to a haze.

In a medical facility bed, far from Afghanistan, and the sun, but no less important, a man fought for his autonomy as his body worked to cleanse itself of his once voluntary poison.

Then, the successful escape of a creature.

Harry Watson had never put much faith into family. Good ones are a pipe dream and bad ones clogging the way out. And for some ungodly reason people loved to say how important it is to keep in contact with those same people. Well fuck that, she thought. Her father was a bastard, her mother's dead, her brother fucked off, and her wife's gone. What's the point in any of them, hm? Why did she need people who didn't need her? She didn't. That's what she told herself.

And yet that traitorous bastard of a brother dared to show up on her doorstep. He's the one who ran off to med school and then the army: why should she care for that prick?

But he wasn't the same as when he left. She hadn't known the army could change a person so thoroughly, though that must be the case. Sure, he still talked the same way, mostly, and he still looked the same, mostly, but he was so... subdued. Apologetic.

Pathetic.

She wasn't sure where the pity for this hot mess of a human being came from, but she found herself more at ease around this new John. Maybe that was a red flag in and of itself, but she's tired. Of this. Of everything. Whatever. But the thing is: he didn't yell at her. Not even after she had spent a good quarter hour chewing him out over whatever her addled mind latched on to. He just sat there, taking it, looking unbearably broken. She couldn't bring herself sever this broken thing from her life.

She's a masochist, isn't she?

Sherlock's been clean for nearly half a year now. Part of him is determined to keep it that way. He is not an addict. He is not controlled by anything other than himself.

But another part aches for it. He misses the clarity, the silence, the distraction. His mind never stops (sometimes he doesn't want it to, other times he wishes everything would). It eats and it eats and begins to devour itself if there's no more morsels to be had.

But this is his body and he will control it.

Sadly, his living situation isn't cutting it. The current landlord has finally decided enough is enough and wants him out by the end of the year. Which would've been fine if Mycroft wasn't still controlling his finances. If he ever wants his financial freedom again he has to play by Mycroft's rules in the meantime. While Mycroft said he would remove the block if he had another human living with him, Sherlock's certain even Anderson would've been able to see through that transparent ploy. The flatmate phrasing was just a polite veneer to cover his intention.

But Sherlock detests the idea of having to share his daily life with some government employee being paid an exorbitant amount to spy on him and report back. Access to his trust would be nice; if only because he could then take only the private cases that actually interested him instead of needing to be economical about them. But he refuses to even consider having a minder appointed by his own brother in his home. He'd have to talk to them, for Christ's sake. Well, he supposes he could just ignore them entirely, but he could easily picture whatever unlucky soul had the misfortune to end up with that assignment getting fed up or, worse, trying to control his life in some manner.

So, a flatmate was out of the question, which meant his funds were still blocked by Mycroft. An unbearable situation.

Well, technically he could try to find his own flatmate. Some unfortunate stranger to go halves with and, more importantly, give him access to his accounts again. Though that idea was dead in the water. Mycroft would absolutely hire him once he was in and besides, who'd want a flatmate like him?

John isn't sure how to go about his life at this stage. Everything feels off kilter, surreal, like he's drowning behind frosted glass and the real world is out of his reach. He's adrift. He has a phone now, thanks to Harry (god, Harry), but he doesn't know who to call, what to say, how to say... and the numbers he had bothered to memorize are out of service.

Most days, memories play behind his eyes and under his skin. The silence of the bedsit rings in his ears and drives him to go out every chance he can manage. An unknown face in the sea of London's other nameless faces. It's comforting knowing no one will look twice at him. He's just another speck of dust in this city. 

"John? John Watson?"

John must've given the man an awkward look because the friendly fellow walks over to him and introduces himself as "Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were together at Bart's."

It takes John a second to process that. To remember the relevant information about Mike Stamford and Bart's. He worries his eyes glaze over in the time he takes to process things, but does his best to quickly smooth the reintroduction.

"Yes. Sorry, yes, Mike." The handshake is uncomfortable for John, though not for the reasons Stamford would assume. "Hello. Hi."

He has no idea how to act. Luckily, Stamford takes his awkward social stumbling as an opportunity for a self-deprecating joke.

"Yeah, I know, I got fat."

"No." John drawls. The old John Watson might've sank his teeth into that given half a chance. Stamford was far too friendly and outgoing and, unfortunately, trusting, to be wary of what he said around John Watson. The current Watson hates the old Watson.

"I heard you went abroad somewhere" John internally flinches at the reminder, but it doesn't show on his person (he hopes), "getting shot at. What happened?"

This part John can do. The joke's rolling off his tongue before he can think twice about it: "I got shot."

The awkward look Stamford gives him in return makes him wonder if that was inappropriate after all.

Later, on a bench with a coffee John really shouldn't have bought, he asks if Stamford is still at Bart's and Stamford affirms that he teaches there now.

"Bright young things. Like we used to be. God I hate them!"

John laughs at the joke to keep up appearances even though on the inside he's dying from the act. He hates the person John Watson was.

"What about you? Just staying in town until you get yourself sorted?"

The question catches John off guard again. He's been avoiding people so thoroughly that he keeps finding himself caught out by things he should be able to handle. It should not be this hard to answer an innocent question. But Stamford is being friendly, and he's craving positive interaction with someone else so keenly that he doesn't want to lie. So he tells a half-truth. That he can't afford staying.

"Ah, and you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know."

The words stab and it takes every ounce of ability and talent he's ever possessed to keep the dread from appearing on his face (and even then only succeeding in looking blank) as he mumbles:

"Yeah. I'm not the John Watson..."

And it's not until he's said that much that he realizes he wasted so much effort on his expression that he forgot to coach his words.

He's glad Stamford misinterprets his uttering as self-deprecation.

"Couldn't Harry help?"

And God, this conversation just keeps stumbling farther down the rabbit hole the longer it goes on. Johns considering cutting his losses with this trainwreck of a social interaction as he painfully says, "Yeah, like that's gonna happen."

God. Harry. He could never force his presence on her. She doesn't deserve that.

But Stamford is marching on: "I dunno. Get a flatshare or something."

And John can't help but break character completely for a split second: he laughs. Between having just thought no one, especially Harry, deserved John Watson's presence forced on them and having been drawn to contradictory ends through the whole interaction (joy from being friendly with someone and despair at the conversation itself). "Oh come on." He says. "Who'd want me for a flatmate?"

And then Stamford breaks from the expected with this amused look and a light chuckle.

"What?" John asks.

"Well, you're the second person to say that to me today."

"Who was the first?"

Chapter Text

Meeting Sherlock Holmes for the first time is alternately a harrowing and enlightening experience. A true rollercoaster of apprehension and bafflement. John had just meant to be helpful, letting him borrow his phone when his didn't have signal and Stamford didn't have his on him. Then all of a sudden the words "Afghanistan or Iraq" are tumbling down his spine along with a fresh chill of fear. Did he know? How could he possibly know?

"Sorry?"

"Which was it: Afghanistan or Iraq?"

But the repetition of the question helps knock the world back into focus. Iraq. Why would he bother mentioning Iraq? So John confirms Afghanistan because he thinks he realizes what the question is actually about: his military history. The dread that accompanied the question if he was in Afghanistan melts beautifully into the confusion of wondering how the man had guessed at that.

Stamford hadn't told him anything, which John hadn't figured to be the truth anyway given that they'd met by coincidence and headed straight here after the mention of a flatmate. And Stamford didn't have his phone on him throughout that time, but it was still wild for this veritable stranger to have gotten that so out of the blue. Had he seen something? Did he know John Watson from Before?

There's no memory of a man with his looks to his knowledge though. Perhaps he's just good at picking out civilian soldiers on sight. They do tend to have a certain composure to them that John knows how to pick up, too. Though that doesn't explain the confidence of—no, wait. He's clearly injured what with the cane and all. Active engagement is a reasonable assumption—though it would be an assumption given it could've been an accident on base. So how did he get Afghanistan or Iraq?

His memory search leaves him passive through the interaction with the awkward woman with the coffee. And even he can tell the girl, Molly, is trying, emphasis on trying, to flirt with this strange man. And yeah, he can see the appeal. He's got a certain elegance to his movements, smooth and controlled, in contrast to his hair which is wild and unruly. He's this mix of not conventionally attractive, and undeniably attractive. A fae beauty.

John's never experienced that kind of attraction: the kind that makes you want to chase after someone. Just not how he works, he figured out years ago.

Poor Molly though. He's being a bit too blunt, although John sees the awkwardness and confusion of the man as he notices the change of lipstick. It gives him the feeling that although he was too blunt, probably even intentionally, he hadn't intended to be cruel. Maybe he's looking too much into this beautiful creature though.

And then this strange man casually asks, "How do you feel about the violin?"

It's so out of left field that John is left genuinely confused. He looks around for something to input meaning into the statement, but Stamford's knowing smile lights up the bulb in his head. This man is speaking to him. About how he feels about violins? As an instrument? Does he go around asking everyone that, hence the knowing look? A survey? A curiosity?

He nearly just states 'I prefer cellos' as a lark but decides instead to ask for clarification.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end." He looks right at John and asks, "Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

There are many things that happen at once inside John's mind at that moment. 1) That smile is hideous. It's like a warped version of the kind people make when they're softening the blow of their words. 2) That kind of smile, not the hideous one the man's making but the softening blow kind, makes John keenly miss his sister who was always trading fun and lighthearted barbs with him. 3) Number 1 deserves revisiting because it's just that bad, and there was no joke or friendly tease to be softened. Well, the last line could've been seen as such but it was hardly one to be softened. Has the guy been pegged as a stalker in the past because of his manner and wishes to be as conciliatory as possible in order to obtain someone to go halves with him? But his clothes look nice, so is money even an issue? Must be in some fashion if he's looking for a flatmate, right? Maybe he just has a strong sense of fashion... 4) 'Sometimes I don't talk for days on end' is a fucking mood. 5) Who said anything about flatmates? 6) Stamford doesn't have his phone on him. While the man could've been somewhere with signal to receive a text and then come to this lab after having heard from Stamford, he did not pull a phone out while they had made their way here, and Stamford and John's meeting was complete happenstance, not to mention Stamford's smug knowing smile, which loops right back around to number 5:

"Who said anything about flatmates?"

"I did." And just like that John feels like facepalming because of course. "Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for." And John wonders about his inclusion of that. He gets Stamford telling him it was the second time hearing that today, but unless they had communicated why would the man feel the need to bring that up when he could just say 'Told Mike this morning I was looking for a flatmate.' "Now here he is. Just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan." And John swallows the sigh of relief that threatens to occur with the confirmation this guy was just referring to John Watson's military service. "Wasn't that difficult of a leap." It really wasn't, he quietly agrees.

Afghanistan stress is still bugging him though and he has to know what about him specifically screams it. So he can get rid of it. That's the one thing he still hasn't twigged onto yet.

"How did you know about Afghanistan?"

He needs to know.

He's ignored though. The guy is readying himself to leave and simply says, "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it."

He walks towards John and says, "We'll meet there tomorrow evening: seven o' clock." And John wants to stop him right there because he didn't even ask to meet, he decided it. But the strange man makes this motion with his body language and says, "Sorry—gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." And John's not gonna touch that topic with a ten foot pole, regardless of how casually the guy brings it up. He's almost babbling, rambling, the way he speaks. Like he isn't used to conversing with other people.

He has to walk past John to reach the door. John grits his teeth briefly to ward off the vertigo he's feeling and turns around to call the guy out. Seriously. Who sets a time to meet without asking and then forgets to mention the meeting place? What a guy!

"Is that it?"

It's enough to get the guy's attention which is all he really needs to continue, but the "Is that what?" he asks sounds combative. Like he's expecting something. John has the vague feeling he's being fast talked for a reason, but settles for just giving him a look and asking, "We've only just met and we're going to go and look at a flat?"

"Problem?" God where to start.

"We don't know anything about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name."

Honestly. You'd think someone trying to fast talk would at least get in the important parts.

John doesn't bother looking back at Stamford; he stares straight into the man's piercing eyes. The contest lasts for a moment before the man begins an intimidating spiel: "I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother whose worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him. Possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic—quite correctly I'm afraid."

John's not quite sure what to think of all that. The confidence in the man's voice is in stark contrast to the reality John knows. He manages to bite down a laugh at all the assumptions. They've been talking about the army stuff, so that makes sense even if he still needs to know the how. The brother stuff is super weird; is he referring to Harry? How could he possibly know about Harry? But the weirdest and creepiest part is the bit with the therapist. Guessing at the psychosomatic limp is one thing. Guessing at him having a therapist is one thing. But claiming his therapist thinks his limp is psychosomatic?

Which barely touches on how wrong all of it is in reality. Not that he's going to dispute any of it: he's got a persona to keep up.

"That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"

John completely disagrees. Other than the army stuff implying possible PTSD, none of that was relevant to flatsharing. Was he just trying to show off? With incomplete facts? This man is hilarious.

John's so absorbed in trying not to laugh in the poor guy's face that he makes it to the door to leave. Luckily, the guy seems to click with the other two questions before he leaves completely and gives the required information while leaning behind the door: "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is two two one b Baker Street."

And then he fucking winks. John takes a moment to wonder if he's just been flirted with as the man, Mr. Holmes, calls out "Afternoon." and leaves.

John looks back at Stamford to get his reaction and he just smiles and says, "Yeah. He's always like that."

Like what? A hurricane? A whirlwind? Fast talking people? Scaring people with his insights? Flirting with people? What?

Well. At least he has the address and a name now.

Sherlock Holmes meanwhile doesn't spend that much time thinking about his possible flatmate. He just needs someone sharing living space with him for a couple months. Mycroft was firm at 6 months—and that was after haggling it down from a year. The chances of this one staying that long is low, so he'd have to be on the lookout for a replacement as soon as things seemed suspect. And that's all assuming this one stayed in the first place.

Luckily, an army doctor would be more likely to accept some of his lifestyle. He'd be more likely accepting of body parts and experiments. Sherlock's dangerous lifestyle wouldn't be complete anathema. As he was also short on funds, the prospect of going halves was likely a big draw. If need be, Sherlock could offer to cover his half as well in exchange for him staying for a bit longer as he found a replacement. He just has to make 6 months and then his accounts will be his again so long as he doesn't do anything stupid.

The idea of Mycroft buying him out still looms over his head. Given his funds he was more likely to take an offer. Still, better someone untrained and unaffiliated spying on him poorly than having one of Mycroft's trained goons living with him. Hell, they could even feed him information together for quick cash if that's what it took to have his freedom.

Now if only the DCI would let him in on these 'serial suicides.'

John sits in the bedsit and contemplates his options. He needs to go out for food soon. He needs a plane ticket; he needs to return home. But he needs money for the plane ticket, as well as expenses. And he'd need to be extra careful in how he got there. He doesn't really want a trail following him home. Should he say fuck it and walk across Asia to get there?

He's stuck here for now. As John Watson of England, living in London.

So the flatshare is a good idea. Mr. Holmes seems a bit eccentric, both in person and on his blog, and the fear that John could get found out by someone so observant is terrifying. Nightmare scenario.

But he needs the savings.

And... he can't help but feel awed by the man's manner. The text on his phone says "Arrest the brother. -SH" ...Curiosity has always been a weakness of his.

Chapter Text

221B Baker Street is prime for Sherlock's needs. Central London. A lovely landlady who likes him and is willing to give a discount. Wonderful rooms. Street facing window. It's rather perfect.

The only problem is the potential flatmate. Having looked up his social media presence in a fit of pique and being unsurprised by the amount of John Watsons in the world, he wasn't able to get a clearer read on the situation. Trying to narrow the search with other common names like Harry and Clara didn't help as much as he'd hoped. He could stand to live at Baker Street solo for a couple months or so if he stretched himself and continued taking tedious cases, but if he could pull this current potential his prospects for the long term would be significantly better.

When faced with which bedroom to take, he immediately wants the one downstairs. It isn't up a flight of steps, convenient, a doable climb from the window, and perfect for his things. But as he thinks about it he realizes that someone with a limp, psychosomatic or not, might not appreciate a second set of stairs. He'd hate to have that be the nail in the coffin. But the upstairs bedroom is also further away from the living area so if he enters a chat with his violin there'd be more of a buffer between the noise and the flatmate. And really, once he has his accounts and is living alone again he'd just end up moving into this one anyways; why waste the time?

He decides to just take the better one for himself anyways. If the stairs really are the deciding factor, they can work that out then.

At exactly 7 o' clock his cab returns to his new place with the doctor just knocking on the door. How prompt.

He gives a quick "Hello." to the man to get his attention and then pays the cabbie and gives a customary thank you; politeness is key to good relations and his work rather relies on good transportation so he doesn't mind the extra work.

"Ah, Mr Holmes." He says, and how formal! There's something thrilling about the respectfulness, but his goal is to seduce this man into flatsharing with him so he suggests, "Sherlock please." A first name basis ought to instill a sense of familiarity and comfort and hopefully make this more appealing to the doctor.

And a handshake to help seal the feeling of familiarity, though he gets the feeling neither one of them is keen on touching a stranger.

"Well this is a prime spot." John Watson says. He's glad they're in agreement there, hopefully it'll help push the sell. "Must be expensive." And there's a hint of worry at that. Money isn't an issue, not really, so that's not a problem, and if he feels disappointment then he must be interested in the first place. Good, good. This is the perfect opportunity to get a read on how this John fellow will feel about his career and influence.

"Oh, Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back her husband got sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

And he sees a flash of something in those eyes. Surprise perhaps. "Sorry. You stopped her husband from being executed?"

"Oh no." He says, smiling at the memory and testing the waters simultaneously. "I ensured it."

And there's definitely something there in those eyes. Recognition? Surely it's obvious that someone offering a discount on rent because he ensured their husband's death implies heavily that the man deserved it. Maybe this will work out after all.

After introductions with Mrs Hudson, they head upstairs. Sherlock pauses before the door, looking back at the struggling soldier making his way up. He decides to wait until he's there before opening the door; hopefully a dramatic entrance will help with positive association.

John is quiet as he looks around. There's no particular reaction to anything in the room, but that hardly means anything. Still, hope sings in Sherlock's heart.

"Well, this could be very nice." He finally says. "Very nice indeed."

And Sherlock is ecstatic because it seems he hasn't yet driven this fellow away. He just needs to seal it, so he continues with a positive agreement: "Yes, yes. I think so. My thoughts exactly."

He looks around, missing the moment John starts to speak as well and they overlap each other with: 

"So I went straight ahead and moved in."

And: "Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out—oh."

Sherlock's only comfort in this instance is the stricken look on the man's face. He probably wouldn't have said it out loud if he'd realized.

"So this is all..?"

Feeling a little stricken himself with this possible obstacle he halfheartedly tidies some of it while saying, "Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit."

John mutters, "Sorry. I didn't realize it was yours." And they leave it at that.

As his knife stabs through the correspondence John lifts his cane up to point in his direction. "That's a skull."

Ah yes. The skull. It's a useful tool to work on his thoughts verbally. Probably should've hidden it away until after he'd managed to successfully get him as a flatmate. Too late for it now.

"Friend of mine." He tests the waters again. "Well, when I say 'friend'—"

But he's cut off by Mrs Hudson as she asks, "What do you think then, Doctor?" But then continues with: "There's a bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two."

The doctor gets this adorably confused look on his face. His head tilts at an angle, like a puppy's, and responds: "Of course we'll be needing two..?"

"Oh don't worry." She says conspiratorially. "There's all sorts around here." She then drops her voice and gossips, "Mrs Turner's got married ones."

John just continues his confused look before turning it on Sherlock. Sherlock, meanwhile, decides not to bother correcting Mrs Hudson's assumption on the premise of learning how homophobic this man might be. He'd rather not spend his days living with someone like that. He'd rather just go through the hassle o finding another flatmate.

But he says nothing, eventually resuming his perusal of the room with the exact same flat intrigue as before the insinuation.

Mrs Hudson interrupts any ongoing thoughts with: "Oh, Sherlock. The mess you've made."

John's eyes briefly trail after Mrs Hudson as she heads into the kitchen, and then he throws himself into one of the two armchairs. He seems to pull into himself for a moment, considering his options perhaps, before opening his eyes and meeting Sherlock's again. Again, because this man has a strong presence with his eye contact. It's like Sherlock physically can't look away. Which makes Sherlock want to do so, naturally.

He simply states, "I looked you up on the internet last night."

Of course. His search for one out of many John Watson's came up useless, but use of his middle name (which happened to be his preferred name anyways) meant it was more recognizable. Useful for twigging a search engine to lead to his website where he could get clients. He feels a bit excited. He likes his website.

"What did you think?" He asks, smiling, and it's not until he's asked the question out loud that he remembers the typical response.

But this John Watson doesn't give the typical response. There's no disbelieving look, though there's also no believing look either. He's simply... intrigued.

"You said you could identify a software engineer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb."

Interest. He's interested in the how. That could be bad. Accepting he's a hard flatmate to live with but doing so anyway is one thing. Explaining his thought processes had never gone well before. He could end up losing this opportunity. Still... he can't help himself.

"Yes. And I can read you're military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits from your phone."

This is all mostly repeat, having mentioned it yesterday at Bart's. He's just giving hints to the how. To get a clearer read on his reaction. Surprisingly the only real difference is that there's less tension than there was in the lab. He just looks... intrigued. There's this glint in his eyes.

Sherlock smiles and turns to look out the window. There's flashing lights: and a police car. Interesting.

"What about these suicides then, Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson bustles back in, breaking the quiet tension between them. "I thought they'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same."

Sherlock catches out of his peripheries the confused look the doctor gives his landlady, but he doesn't give it too much thought. "Four," is what he says. How exciting! "There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time."

Sherlock turns just as Lestrade enters to face him. He's got his face under control to not let his excitement show.

"Where?" He asks. 

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if it wasn't something different." Because Scotland Yard is full of idiots.

"You know how they never leave notes?"

Yes! "Yeah."

"Well this one did. Will you come? " Yes, yes, yes!

But: "Who's on forensics?"

"It's Anderson." No!

He does let his disapproval of that show on his face with a grimace. "Anderson won't work with me."

"Well he won't be your assistant."

"I need an assistant." He says petulantly. It's less that and more that he needs Anderson to not be stupid. Or anyone to not be stupid. That'd be nice.

"Will you come?" And what a hit to Lestrade's pride that must be. Sherlock doesn't want to seem too eager though. And he does not want to sit in a police car.

"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind."

"Thank you."

He sees Lestrade take in his new place, especially the man he might be living with, but doesn't say a word and leaves.

Sherlock manages to keep calm until Lestrade has left the front door before breaking out in a display of glee.

"Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!"

He's so excited that he can't pay the potential flatmate any more of his attention. He tells Mrs Hudson that he'll be late and to prepare him something for later, he doesn't care what, before he thinks he really should make the flatmate potential feel at home. "John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!" He hopes that's enough to ameliorate his sudden disappearance, but how could he possibly delay such an interesting case?!

John goes from feeling exhilarated to empty in moments. The interesting guy is gone, left on something involving police and... serial suicides? What the fuck is a serial suicide? Makes no sense to him. Regardless, the guy is gone and the landlady is talking: "Look at him! Dashing about. My husband was just the same."

John doesn't care about the return to thinking they're an item; though Sherlock struck him as the type to correct assumptions and misunderstandings unless they benefited him. So that's interesting. He seemed anxious about whether John might be interested in the flat. Was it just about the flat though? Was he being flirted with? Given the situation with Molly it's entirely possible he's just oblivious to his own manner and how it could be construed as flirtatious.

The grimace he makes is more at the thought of Mrs Hudson's husband 'dashing about.' If you give a discount on rent because a guy ensured your husband's death, the husband probably wasn't great. Unless Mrs Hudson herself is the not great one. A terrifying thought.

What actually gets under his skin is her following comment of: "But you're more the sitting down type; I can tell." He actually has to bite his tongue to keep from barking out a laugh at that. That's literally the opposite of how he is!

"I'll make you a cuppa." She offers. And John fights a frown. He's not particularly into tea, too much caffeine is bad for him, but it might be weird if he declined... "You rest you're leg."

And something about that feels like a punch in the gut. It's more instinct than anything, his yelled, "Damn my leg!"

It's not real. He doesn't have a limp. It's not psychosomatic: it straight up doesn't exist. It's fake. He's faking it. The tremor too. He's a horrible person. A horrible friend.

It's like he's suffocating behind frosted glass again. Like no one can see him. The real him. He misses his family deeply in that moment. He misses his sister and his uncle and papa and everyone else so keenly it's like a physical hole in his chest.

But the moment dies quickly as he realizes he's just yelled at the sweet lady only trying to offer him some comfort. He immediately apologizes, "Sorry. I'm so sorry." And then figures he could blame the leg for it. "It's just sometimes... this bloody thing..." He bashes the cane against it, harder than he should but the spike of pain is perfect for calming his nerves.

Sherlock decides to take a moment just inside the front door to cool down from his exuberance. No reason to show the whole world his excitement. Mrs Hudson and John we're one thing; they'd both likely see plenty while he was living here, but the idea of Lestrade seeing him as anything other than competent is repugnant.

The shouted "Damn my leg!" rings down the stairwell to Sherlock and in that moment several things click and an idea forms in his mind. Doctor. Army doctor. Soldier: invalided, not retired. Interested. Intrigued. Bored?

If it means having a medical opinion other than Anderson's to rely on, he'll take it. Worth a shot at any rate.

The doctor had picked up a newspaper showing one of the earlier suicides, and clearly notes Sherlock's re-entrance based on the flick of his eyes.

"You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor." And the man only responds by giving him a look like he doesn't understand why this rehashed information is important and a simple, "Yes."

Sherlock takes steps into the room as John stands to meet him.

"Any good?"

John grins and says, "Very good."

"Seen a lot of injuries then: violent deaths."

A brief flicker of emptiness threatens to take over those eyes, and he says, "Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much." And for a moment Sherlock doubts his decision. It had seemed good at the time in the face of Anderson's uselessness.

Still: "Want to see some more?"

"Oh god yes."

The words send Sherlock smiling again. He turns quickly enough that John shouldn't have seen it.

Mrs Hudson is at the bottom of the stairs, staring at John coming along behind him. "Both of you?"

"Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point in sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!"

"Look at you, all happy, it's not decent." She's smiling sweetly as she says it though so Sherlock pays it little mind. 

"Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!"

Once in the cab, Sherlock Holmes is checking his phone. John just stares at him expectantly until he eventually looks up and lowers his phone.

"You have questions." He looks tense.

"Yeah. Who are you and what do you do?" Let's start with some basics.

"What do you think?"

"I'd say private detective, but..."

"But?"

"But the police don't go to private detectives." Or at least he thinks they don't.

"I'm a consulting detective." His pride's showing through as he says it. "Only one in the world. I invented the job."

Well if you invent a job you're bound to be at least the only one for a little while, thinks John. He asks, "What does that mean?"

"It means when the police are out if their depth, which is always, they consult me."

Which is why they didn't come to you until the fourth suicide... but John doesn't bother poking that hornet's nest. Instead, he tries to wheedle something more out of the man. He seems a prideful sort. Prideful people are pretty easy to push when wheedled just right...

"The police don't consult amateurs."

And there it is. Feint at the pride and he's ready to get to the point. He gives John this look and dives in with, "When I met you for the first time yesterday I said 'Afghanistan or Iraq'. You seemed surprised."

And this is the important part. He needs to know how Sherlock knew about Afghanistan.

"Yes, how did you know that?"

And then he starts: "I didn't know, I saw." Okay, and? "Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military." Acceptable. "But your conversation as you entered the room..." Makes sense. "Said trained at Bart's. So: Army doctor. Obvious." So far so good. But what about Afghanistan? "Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists." John has to look at his wrists to see for himself. He hadn't thought of that. "You've been abroad, but not sunbathing." So an abroad base. Good so far. "Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it." It's actually fake but John sees his point. "So it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic." Understatement. Coincidentally not related, unbeknownst to Mr Sherlock. "Wounded in action, sun-tan: Afghanistan or Iraq," Oh. Wounded-in-action. Another assumption. That's disappointing. Well, it is a reasonable leap of logic based on statistical probability. He'll let it go.

Sherlock clicks the final letter like it's the final piece of a puzzle. Or a bullet.

John stares for a moment before asking, "Why would you think that my therapist thinks that my limp's psychosomatic?"

"Well, if they're any good at their job that's what they'll think."

"Ah." is all John offers is response to that. Arrogance and pride. Often a bad combination.

"Then there's your brother."

"Hmm?" There he goes with the brother thing again. He's had a look at the phone since yesterday and realized there's an engraving on it that says:

Harry Watson
From Clara
xxx

"Your phone." Holding out his hand expectantly. John hands him the phone. "It's expensive, but you're looking at a flatshare. You wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift then."

That part is both fun and confusing. John knows almost nothing about electronics or exactly how expensive this phone would be. But assuming he wouldn't waste money on an expensive phone is absolutely correct.

"Scratches." Sherlock shows him the phone. He'd never bothered to look too closely at them so long as they didn't ruin the functionality. "Not one, many times over. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this," He absolutely would! Not intentionally, but he's absolutely the type to do things like that without thinking through the consequences. Hell, he'd never thought of the keys/coin/scratches thing 'til the moment this guy mentioned it! And besides, John had only ever bothered with feature phones growing up and they're not delicate like touchscreens seem to be. And it's not like he plans to keep this phone in the long run. He'll have to dispose of it sooner or later. "So it's had a previous owner." Yes. But the reasoning's a bit fragile for someone with so much confidence in it, regardless of the truth of the matter.

"Next bit's easy. You know it already."

And it is. "The engraving."

"Harry Watson: clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget." John is on the edge of laughing at this poor guy. He is technically correct, but his reasoning is so flimsy. "Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live." And John's mirth is dashed at that. War hero. War hero! John Watson is certainly no war hero. Just what kind of fantasy realm is this guy living in—but, John reasons, he doesn't know the real John Watson. He doesn't know. Of course he assumes an army doctor would've been a good person: most people would.

Harry and John both know better.

But Sherlock's still steaming ahead: "Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to," God that's literally the opposite of correct, "so brother it is." What arrogance!

"Now Clara." Poor Clara. "Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment" kissing can be platonic, or sexual... "the expense of the phone says wife not girlfriend." Okay but rich people exist. Statistically unlikely though, so John'll give him that one too. "She must've given it to him recently: this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then. Six months on and he's just given it away?" Could've been lent rather than given but yeah, sure, whatever. "If she'd left him he'd have kept it. People do. Sentiment." And another assumption. Lots of people get rid of anything reminding them of their ex in an effort to move on. This one John doesn't know though; he doesn't know enough about Harry's present to guess at her every motivation. "But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you: that says he wants to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help? That says you have problems with him." Wrong. John just refuses to force his presence on Harry. She doesn't deserve that. "Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don't like his drinking."

John's feeling frayed again with the mention of Harry, but at least the humor of this arrogance paired with summation without sufficient enough evidence is amusing enough to keep his nerves calm.

Instead he asks the obvious follow up: "How can you possibly know about the drinking?"

The smile Sherlock gives in response is bright and John likes it. "Shot in the dark. Good one though." Hey! Finally some good word choice. There's a difference between assumption and suspicion. Thatta boy. "Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge, but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone;" Okay, that's just silly. Clearly this guy's never watched John fiddling with tech before. "You never see a drunk's without them."

John's stupefied even before Sherlock hands the phone back saying, "There you go, you see. You were right."

John's taken back enough by that non-sequitur to gape, "I was right? Right about what?"

And then, as if coming to the end of a long race, because yeah, that was quite the monologue he just had, he finishes:

"The police don't consult amateurs."

And wow. The verve of this guy. So much arrogance and pride and ego—

And nervousness.

John's giving him, as well as himself, a moment to process all that. He's not looking directly at the guy, this Sherlock, the world's only consulting detective, to give the guy a moment of privacy. His peripheral vision is better than the average human's though, and he can see how this guy bites at his lip as he looks away. Waiting for judgement.

And yeah, sure, throughout the whole thing John had been bemoaning some of the leaps of logic, but on the whole it was impressive. It was absolutely...

"That..." and John wets his lips as he sees Sherlock turn to see his reaction, "was amazing." It truly was.

From his excellent peripheries he watches Sherlock struggle to grasp for words. Eventually he manages a "Do you think so?"

And oh. John can see it in his mind's eye. He's arrogant and blunt and prideful, horrible at social interaction, ignored by the police he clearly likes working with, and oh. John can see and hear the simple nervousness of a sensitive soul dearth of kind words.

"Of course it was." He emphasizes the course as if there was never a doubt. And then repeats softly, gently, "It was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say." And John feels that in his soul. The man's a good actor, just like John is, but John can still catch the smallness in his voice. The desire for confirmation; the need for affirmation.

"What do people normally say?" He asks, though he can easily guess.

"'Piss off,'" is what he goes with. John knows that can't be the worst of it, not really, not with that level of wrangled emotion. But the man, Sherlock, smiles at him, and John smiles back.

Chapter Text

It's thrilling, having someone appreciate his deductions. It's hardly new, he tells himself. Plenty of clients, Mrs Hudson among them, have thanked him for his service. It's nothing new, he tells himself again.

When they reach Brixton, Sherlock can't help but ask, "Did I get anything wrong?"

John pauses for a moment, apparently collecting his thoughts. Sherlock worries for a moment that there is something, something crucial that would hurt his credibility, but John just confirms, "Harry and me don't get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce. And Harry is a drinker."

"Spot on then." He can't help himself. "I didn't expect to be right about everything."

And then John walks past him with a smirk on his face as he says, "And Harry's short for Harriet."

It hits him like a punch and he has to stop dead in his tracks to process it.

"Harry's your sister."

"Look, what exactly am I doing here?"

He doesn't even have to pretend to ignore that because all he can think is: "Sister!"

"No seriously what am I doing here?"

"There's always something." He bemoans as he starts walking again.

Sally does not like Sherlock Holmes. Everything about him pisses her off. She went to school and trained to get where she is. And this posh freak has the nerve to walk over all that.

She knows he's going to show up soon. DCI Lestrade had walked past warning her that he'd paid the freak a visit. Immediately set her teeth on edge.

In fact there he is now. With some guy barely keeping up with his freakishly long legs. Looks pathetic.

"Hello, freak."

They exchange the usual pleasantries. All the while the short fella glares at her. He seems to have some misapprehension about her calling the freak a freak. Well, he'll figure out for himself just why that is.

And then the freak introduces him as his colleague. His colleague!

"How do you get a colleague?!" She turns towards the apparent doctor and asks, "What, did he follow you home?"

And annoyingly she can see the amusement in his eyes, but it's amusement at her expense, it must be, because he opens his mouth to say something snarky, had to be with that smirk on his face, only to close his mouth and shake his head like he changed his mind. As if he were taking pity on her.

He turns to Mr Holmes instead and suggests, clearly sardonically, "Would it be better if I stayed out here and waited..."

The response from Holmes is an immediate "No." and a lifting of the tape. For him. What.

And the guy just walks under, smiling, like it's not the weirdest thing the freak's ever done. Which objectively it isn't, the problem is that it's surprisingly normal for the abnormal freak. Colleague!

She tells the radio that she's bringing the freak in and then they meet Anderson at the entrance. Sally barely pays attention to the exchange between the freak and Anderson until the freak starts going on about how Anderson, a man, is wearing men's deodorant. And how she's also wearing the same smell.

There's a moment of oh God no before she regains her composure. And then he mentions her knees. For fuck's sake. This night's a trainwreck from hell.

And then when the supposed doctor follows the freak inside he pointedly looks at her knees with that same infuriating smirk.

Oh god. Oh god. Is the poor sod a fanboy? Or god forbid a boyfriend. Is the freak literally bringing his boyfriend to crime scenes now? And Lestrade's just letting him? And how did he snag a boyfriend...

When inside, the policeman from the flat is suiting up in coveralls and John's first thought is no. And then Sherlock gestures at another pair and says, "You need to wear one of these." and John's brain continues upon its rhythm of nope.

"No," is all he says out loud, reaching only for a pair of gloves, same as Sherlock. Sherlock, meanwhile, gives him a look of surprise like he didn't expect that out of John.

"Who's this?" The cop asks.

"He's with me." Sherlock takes off his nice ones to put the plastic ones on.

"But who is he?" Ah. The age old question. 'Sir, I'm not sure if I know at this point.' Jokes aside...

"I said he's with me." And Sherlock looks so petulant. Like a child being threatened his favorite toy might be taken away from him.

The cop seems to give up the unwinnable argument, and upon seeing John's disregard for coveralls standing beside a Sherlock who also didn't bother he seems to lose a bit of his soul through a heavy sigh.

"Where are we?" asks Sherlock.

"Upstairs." The cop answers. "I can give you two minutes."

"Might need more." Sherlock says absently.

"Her name's Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her."

Sherlock sweeps into the room and does a sweep of it. He then stares at the corpse: a woman in bright pink attire.

John sometimes wishes he'd never gotten used to dead bodies. If only to pretend he was normal, for a little bit.

"Shut up." Sherlock snaps suddenly, looking at the cop. Lestrade. That's what Sherlock had said to that unlikable cop outside.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking. It's annoying."

And he looks so serious when he says it too! John can't help the snort that claws its way out of him. They both look at him strangely and he can't help but tease this overgrown child. "Sorry. We're just over here. Thinking." And he can't erase the grin from his face that this madman has etched onto him.

Lestrade goes from startled at Sherlock's snappy remarks to startled by John's mirth. Oh well. It's not like they're likely to ever meet again. Probably. It doesn't matter what some strangers think of him. So long as they don't link him to certain unwanted subjects he genuinely couldn't care less.

Sherlock gives him a petulant pouty look and then goes into this state that would've scared John if he didn't know Sherlock was human. He watches his movements closely. Touching objects, checking his fingers, touching objects, checking his fingers. John can tell she's soaked from here; does it have to do with that? Or is there some substance he can't see from where he's leaning casually on his cane?

And then he's checking something that might be jewelry?

"Got anything?" Lestrade asks. He sounds both like he expects nothing and hopes for something.

"Not much." And John can hear the smirk.

"Okay he's bad enough, but why is this guy contaminating my crime scene?" Some guy glares from the door directly at John.

Sherlock turns to glare back at the intruder, but John beats him to it:

"Anderson, right?"

"Yes. And as I said it's bad enough having him in here," with a quick motioning gesture, "but if I have to have another person here contaminating my crime scene—"

"Well. Given that you've been in here already, I think we can go ahead and write that off as a lost cause, don't you think?"

And the mirth just keeps flowing. These people are hilarious. That offended/shocked face of Anderson's, the pleased/shocked expression of Sherlock's, and the tired/please-end-my-suffering face of Lestrade's. Worth.

Anderson's clearly pissed, but a pointed sniff and glance at his knees shuts him up prettily enough. He gives a heavy sigh, oh and there's goes his soul as well, and he has apparently dealt with Sherlock enough that he gives up that fight pretty quick. He's clearly not happy about it though. Gritted teeth and everything.

He instead turns to the corpse, and while Sherlock walks toward him he suggests, "She's German. Rache: it's German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us something..."

And then Sherlock shuts the door in his face. Oh God, what a mad lad!

"Yes, thank you for your input." God he's adorable when he's like this.

He's looking intently at his phone as Lestrade tries to continue the thought: "So she's German?" Which. What? Why would knowing German make you from Germany? But then John realizes from his expression that he's fishing.

Sherlock doesn't, so the fish works. "Of course she's not. She's from out of town though." John can see the water on the floor from here. "Intended to stay in London for one night." Okay how would he have gotten one night from anything? "Before returning home to Cardiff." Ah. The phone. He must've been checking local weather; there wasn't any rainfall in London so he must've been checking where there had been rainfall today. That makes sense. But narrowed to Cardiff?

He pockets his phone and comments, "So far so obvious."

When Lestrade's eyes appear to glaze over, John offers, "Minus the one night bit and the place she's from specifically being Cardiff, I'm following."

Sherlock seems genuinely surprised at this, Lestrade even more so, but before Sherlock can possibly explain those two points Lestrade takes reign of the conversation again.

"What about the message?"

Not that Sherlock cares. "What do you think?" He says while staring directly at John.

"The message?" John asks because the first thing that came to his mind was Rachel.

"Of the body. You're a medical man."

Right. Of course. Doctor. Easy to forget that.

"Wait, no." Lestrade cuts in. "We have a whole team right here."

Sherlock makes eye contact and pushes. "They won't work with me."

"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here."

"Yes. Because you need me."

And Lestrade lowers his eyes after a moment and helplessly says, "Yes, I do. God help me." Bit of a strong oath for the situation, but yeah sure.

"Doctor Watson." Sherlock says, clearly trying to assuage Lestrade with the fact that he's a medical man. Well. Had medical training. Well. Is pretending to be a guy with medical training.

John takes a moment to stare at the cop. He wants the certainty. The clearance that he is in fact okay to do this without getting imprisoned. That would put a damper on his day.

It doesn't take long before the guy bites, "Oh, do as he says! Help yourself." and then turns to the hallway to tell people to keep out.

John then joins Sherlock over at the body before kneeling down carefully to inspect it closer. He closes his eyes for a moment, focusing inwardly as he calls up the relevant skillset. He takes a deep breath in, then releases it and opens his eyes to take in the corpse properly.

He must've taken too long because Sherlock is asking, "Well?"

John can't help himself: "What am I doing here?"

"Helping me make a point." This guy's hilarious.

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent."

"Yeah, well, this is more fun." And god John can't disagree.

"There's a woman lying dead."

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper." And John cannot help the chuckle threatening him. He tamps it down after a second and then shifts to do a better check-up. As much as he hates the old John Watson, he was a damn good doctor.

"Yeah. Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs."

"You know what it was. You've read the papers." To which John just stares incomprehensibly at Sherlock because no he hasn't.

He says as much and Sherlock stares incomprehensibly back to which John shrugs.

"You were reading it when I came back in." With a cute scrunch of eyebrows.

"No. I had just picked it up because I was bored and it was there and it had a picture of this guy." And he points to Lestrade in the doorway.

Sherlock stares for a second more before huffing an aggrieved sigh and explaining: "There have been three identical deaths since October. This is the fourth. They all died in the same way and they've been ruled as suicides."

John has to question that, so he turns to the cop and asks, "Why have they been ruled as suicides?"

Lestrade looks surprised to be brought into the conversation but answers, "None of the victim's have self-defense wounds nor are there any signs of a struggle. Cause of death is ingested poison; we know that much. The victims have no obvious connections between them. If it wasn't for the fact that there's more than one..."

Serial murders without a currently known connection makes far more sense to John. Cult behavior is probably second. Maybe John is missing something obvious... he must be, right?

Greg is not sure what to think of this strange new person. His first thought when he'd gone to Sherlock's new place was that he was a client, but there was no hint of an active case going on. A friend? And yet this newcomer arrived alongside him to a crime scene. If he didn't need the detective so badly he absolutely would've kicked up a bigger fuss: but people were dying, and they mattered more than his pride.

Still. A strange new person who happens to be a doctor that Sherlock wanted to check out the body? Having been at his new home? Who'd have thought Sherlock Holmes would've gotten himself a boyfriend!

But the two of them are quite similar. Both refuse to wear coveralls at an active crime scene. Both dislike Anderson. Both even seem to see things he cannot if the doctor's comments are anything to go by.

He doesn't seem to have Sherlock's arrogant confidence though. Not in the same way at least. He's snarky and sharp, but if the nervous look he sports now means anything he isn't as self-assured as Sherlock is.

He doesn't give himself, the doctor, or the detective a moment dwell on anything. He can't risk this. "Sherlock. Two minutes, I said. I need anything you've got."

Sherlock stands easily enough and does not offer the doctor a helping hand, unsurprisingly.

“Victim in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Traveled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase.”

Throughout the whole thing both him and the doctor are paying close attention. At the mention of a suitcase Greg asks, “Suitcase?” while the doctor's eyes light up and begin scanning to room.

“Suitcase, yes. She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married.”

And Greg can't stop himself at that. “Oh for God's sake. If you're just making this up...”

Sherlock points at her left hand and goes, “Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly clean, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside—that means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work; look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple.” Greg doesn't think so, and given the look on the doc's face he reckons the doc doesn't think so either.

“Cardiff?” Greg asks incredulously.

“It's obvious, isn't it?” Sherlock asks as if it must be.

To Greg's surprise the man with the cane replies, “Minus the ring thing, and how it's not any of the other surrounding areas, yes.”

“It's not obvious to me.” Greg supplies, feeling uncomfortable about the eyefucking Sherlock gives the other guy in response.

Sherlock gives him a look as he mutters, “Dear God what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring.” All while the doc gives Greg a pitying look. This is not what he signed up for when he took this job.

“Her coat: it's slightly damp. She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She's turned it up against the wind.”

And to Greg's amusement here is where Doctor Watson mutters, “Oh is that what coat collars are meant for?” Sherlock gives the doc a look, either for interrupting him or for the useless comment.

“She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but its dry and unused: not just wind, strong wind—too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have traveled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?” And then he dramatically shows off his phone. “Cardiff.”

“Now that was amazing.” Doctor Watson comments out loud. And Sherlock's look of surprise is almost kind of sweet. “Still caught up on the ring thing though.”

Sherlock's eyebrows scrunch up. “We've already been over the ring. What's to get caught up on?”

There's a moment of pause as if Sherlock's expecting something, some kind of response. The doctor gives nothing for a moment, in fact he's busy staring incredulously, as if trying to read Sherlock's mind.

The doctor's actual words are a surprise, and very much in contrast, to Lestrade's expectations:

"I'm afraid I disagree with the conclusion." And at this point Lestrade readies himself for the inevitable tongue-lashing Sherlock will give this newcomer. "There are too many other possibilities that perfectly explain those clues while pointing to a different conclusion. The opposite conclusion, in fact."

Sherlock, to Greg's surprise, looks almost shocked by this dissent; it's hardly a new thing for him, but he pulls himself together quickly enough to ask, “And what makes you think that?”

And then this guy, this doctor, this stranger, keeps eye contact with Sherlock-bloody-Holmes while he describes: “It makes too many assumptions. For example, what if the reason it's dirty isn't because of an unhappy marriage, but because of a happy one?”

Sherlock doesn't seem to follow. “What do you mean?”

“Well. Sentiment.” He says it like it explains everything, shrugging noncommittally. “People do things like not clean sentimental pieces of jewelry even though they clean everything else. Humans are a very irrational species.”

Sherlock's eyes widen fractionally at that, but otherwise maintains his cool demeanor. He doesn't concede: “Then explain why the inside is clean while the outside is not.”

And the doctor doesn't even need a moment to reply: “She takes it off before bed.”

The doctor then shrugs again and says, “If I were the marrying type that's probably what I'd do. The idea of sleeping with any jewelry on, even a ring, sounds incredibly uncomfortable. I don't know how so many other people do it.”

And to Greg's continued surprise, Sherlock doesn't argue the point but rather tilts his head while giving the doctor the same look he gives corpses and crime scenes.

And apparently the doctor has more tricks up his sleeve because he continues: “In fact, we could both be correct. Just without the adultery.”

“How so?” Sherlock immediately asks. He looks like a cat eyeing up prey with how he's slowly leaning into the doctor's face—hey wait a minute.

“Well, maybe sentiment is why she doesn't clean it, but the reason the inside is clean is because she does take it off for lovers not her husband.” Which makes no sense to Greg until the doc adds, “Perhaps the husband has been dead for years. Perhaps they have an open relationship. The thing with one night stands is that they often get weird about marriage even when the married couple is all for it. So, she'd take the ring off each time despite the marriage going well.”

And only then does the fellow break eye contact and roll his head as he says, “But statistically speaking you're probably correct. What's her reason for coming into town for a single night? Work, or a lover, or both? And really, unless one of the lovers has something to do with all four deaths it's not even relevant. I'm far more interested in this suitcase you mentioned.”

Sherlock takes a few moments more than Greg would've assumed to stare intently at the man who is now combing the room for some hint of a suitcase, presumably again, and still not finding one. Then he himself changes gears back to the case and says, “Yes. Where is it? She must have had a phone or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is.”

“She was writing Rachel?”

“No, she was leaving an angry note in German. Of course she was writing Rachel; no other word it can be. Question: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?”

Greg asks, “How d'you know she had a suitcase?”

Sherlock points to the body. “Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag so we know she was staying one night.”

“Now that's brilliant.” The doctor chimes in. Sherlock adopts that pleased/shocked look on his face again as he whirls around to face Watson again—and please god let them not eyefuck in front of him again.

“Do you know you do that out loud?” Sherlock asks.

“Yup.” Watson replies simply, popping the 'p'. “I can stop if you want.” With a wolfish grin and goddammit they're eyefucking again.

“No. It's... fine.” Sherlock sounds hesitant; he never sounds hesitant! God.

Greg can't take it anymore and interrupts with: “There was no case.”

Sherlock spins on heel with an intent expression dawning. “Say that again.”

“There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase.”

Sherlock sweeps out of the room while calling, “Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?”

Greg and the doctor leave the room and watch the madman descend the stairs.

“Sherlock, there was no case!”

Sherlock's steps slow at that and he's muttering, “But they take the poison themselves; they swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs. Even you lot couldn't miss them.”

“Right, yeah, thanks, and?”

“It's murder. All of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings—serial killings.”

And then he does that disturbing thing where he looks absolutely giddy over people dying. His hands come in front of his face and he is the picture of joyful. “We've got ourselves a serial killer. I love those. There's always something to look forward to.”

“Why are you saying that?”

Sherlock calls up, “Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case.” And then he mutters something to himself.

The doc must've heard it though because he suggests, “She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there.”

“No,” Sherlock calls again, looking up at them, “she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She color-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking...”

He gets this dawning realization on his face and lights up and he shouts out multiple “Oh!”s.

“Sherlock?” Watson questions.

“What is it, what?” Greg is less patient than Watson is for the answer.

Sherlock looks delighted as he explains, “Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake.”

“We can't just wait!”

“Oh, we're done waiting!” Sherlock says as Watson mutters thoughtfully, “There's already been a mistake.”

“Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!”

“Of course, yeah—but what mistake!?”

Sherlock had left view briefly, but he runs back up several stairs until he's back in view to shout, “Pink!” And he sounds so ecstatic about it too; just before dashing off and leaving everyone—including the doctor!—behind.

Greg is baffled, but that's hardly unusual for dealing with Sherlock Holmes. He nearly forgets about the doctor completely himself until he hears the first peals of laughter erupt from the guy.

He's standing at the top of the balcony beside him, hunched over so one hand's on his cane and the other's on the banister. It's a full laugh, and he looks a little unhinged. Greg's about to ask if he's okay when his head shoots up and he says loudly, “Oh that was fantastic!” He looks alive and bright with energy as he turns, ignoring Greg and everyone else as it were, and heads down the stairs himself. The officers that were rushing up at Anderson's insistence to “Let's get on with it.” move out of the man's way as he passes them, seemingly intimidated. He's grinning the entire way down.

Chapter Text

The reappearance of the unprofessional cop in his life dampens his spirits a little bit, but he refuses to let it drown him. This is the most alive he's felt in years.

"He's gone." She states unprompted. Which, like, yeah. He'd gotten that much. He probably could've tracked him down, but chasing in this persona wasn't exactly appealing.

So he rhetorically asks, to be conversational: "Who, Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yeah. He just took off. He does that."

Good to know. More importantly: "D'ya know where I can get a cab from here?"

"Er." She awkwardly pauses before deciding to lift the tape for him. Polite for him but not for "freaks." Fuck right off. "Try the main road."

"Thanks." He says as he ducks under it.

And then she makes the mistake of continuing to speak. "But you're not his friend." He turns back to give her a flat look, but it either doesn't penetrate or doesn't deter her. "He doesn't have friends. So who are you?"

'Not interested in you', is the first thing that pops into his mind. The second is the impulse to deny involvement because he needs to remain unattached and safe.

"I'm... nobody. I just met him."

Unfortunately: "Okay. Bit of advice then:" which John did not ask for "stay away from that guy."

John doesn't even want to dignify a response. But he supposes the smart thing to do would be to obtain info on a potential roommate. So he bites, "Why?"

"You know why he's here?" Enjoying the pleasant company perhaps? "He doesn't get paid for it.” Okay and... “He likes it." True. "He gets off on it." Not enough data, but John's leaning towards no... Wait. Riding crop in mortuary. Hmm. Note: revisit that topic after all. "The worse the crime the more he gets off." Has she never read a mystery novel before..? "And you know what?" Nope. "One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes'll be the one that put it there."

John barely manages to hold back a bark of laughter wondering what she would think if she knew how many have fallen to him.

He instead asks: “Why would he do that?”

“Because he's a psychopath. And psychopaths get bored.”

He sees Sherlock isn't the only assumption-maker. 1) That he is a psychopath. 2) That psychopaths will inevitably murder when they grow bored.

Ableist asshole.

She can fuck all the way off.

John doesn't have the energy anymore to deal with her, but thankfully Lestrade calls for her. John turns as she calls back to Lestrade, and then leaves him with, “Stay away from Sherlock Holmes.”

He probably should but damn if he's going to just yet.

Mycroft is unsurprised by his brother's attempt to wriggle out of a perfectly valid agreement, but he supposes Sherlock could've chosen worse.

John Watson. Quite a common name. Soldier. Could be either a blessing or a curse depending on what stance he takes given his brother's career and hobbies. Doctor. Could be a problem if Sherlock tries to get prescriptions through him, must be vigilant of that. Honorable discharge out after having been shot in the shoulder. Therapist's notes mention and suggest a psychosomatic limp, a tremor, trouble adjusting to civilian life, PTSD from the war, and trust issues. Someone with trust issues following around his little brother? Sounds like a recipe for disaster. Why does Sherlock have to be so troublesome?

The history pre-military is worryingly sparse though. No social media presence of his own, though his sister appears to have kept up a typical presence before her drinking took a hard turn. The ex-wife as well. They don't mention John Watson much though, and when they do it's so vague as to be practically useless to build a character from. Some of the sister's more recent rants do not put her brother in a good light, but it goes into no detail beyond her opinion of him as a bastard. Given that she's equally, or more, rabid over her ex and parents it's possible that's not even an accurate assessment. Worryingly little indeed.

No criminal record either, though a lack of paperwork hardly means a lack of crime. School records are very good though. He's clearly a good doctor, or at least was before his injuries. An adequate soldier. No notable skills from that part of his life. Unfortunately, acquiring more information about anything else would require in-person interviews. Less than two days is hardly enough time to track down and convince abroad army personnel to spill information on an ex-soldier. If this man sticks around, though, he'll have to be sure to do so.

The blog he's been keeping since returning to England is similarly useless. The first several posts are sparse, flat, and clearly someone doing so only because his therapist recommended it. The first one is a basic introduction including very little personal information. The second is barely a few sentences pointing out how little use this exercise is for him. The third is an attempt at describing the 'melancholy feeling pervaded by an evening sunset.' The fourth is about avoiding drinks with old rugby friends (not put so bluntly, but that's clearly what happened).

And then he spends a full post describing the meeting with his brother the previous day at Bart's. To Mycroft's surprise he seems to be able to follow some of Sherlock's logic, but Mycroft has to wonder how much of it was figured out in hindsight rather than in the moment as it's portrayed. One problem with stories written after the fact is that history can be rewritten. First hand information is far more valuable.

A trail of ringing phones and a strange man threatening him with cameras later, John's found himself in a nondescript black car. Huh. Been awhile since he was in one of these.

There's a professional looking woman in the car with him typing on a smartphone. He figures he might as well try to get some information.

“Hello.”

“Hi.”

“What's you name then?”

“Er... Anthea.”

John's unsurprised by the obvious fake name. Still: “Is that your real name?”

“No.” Smiling.

“Any point in asking where I'm going?”

“None at all.”

“Wonderful.”

Well that was a useless interaction. Does this whole thing have something to do with Sherlock Holmes? God he hopes it has to do with Sherlock Holmes. There's something about that man's voice, and this woman, that just feel... familiar somehow. In a not-good way. It's putting him on edge when all he wants to feel is the remnants of his earlier happiness.

Eventually the car pulls into an almost-empty warehouse. John gets out of the car and oh god no.

John knows that face.

The same man in a suit, holding an umbrella, looks over the group of well-trained soldiers.

His mother contracts herpes after her long-term boyfriend cheats on her.

The woman, not-Anthea, gives him orders about his next mission.

A fellow operative jokes about their boss.

His older brother dies of leukemia at a young age.

The woman provides another mission.

The fellow operative bemoans the use of intelligence for keeping an eye on their higher ups' little brother.

The man greets them and congratulates them on a job well done again.

The beast charges forward, easily decapitating his fellow operative along the way. It's a swift strike. The head comes off cleanly and quickly. There's blood everywhere. The bullets do nothing. Not even slow it's advance. Hitting the eye makes it tumble past him and his crew. Did they get it? What is that thing? Did higher up know?

His step-father, his mother's second ex, is a kind man who shows him plenty of kindness and how to fire a gun.

Another mission.

There's a young woman with black hair inside the room with no windows.

Another—

The monster they thought was dead not only moved from its spot, but regrew the shot out eye right before their eyes.

He's the last one alive—

The black-haired woman steps over his ravaged body, towards the creature. He just wants to die.

The black-haired woman stands toe-to-toe with the monster and wins.

The black-haired woman is covered in blood and gore and she's doing something to his comrade's corpses. Is she eating them??

The black-haired woman comes over to him last, and he's still gasping and coughing up blood from punctured lungs, his dominant hand is completely missing, blood is dripping from a head wound into his eyes; there's no way he can put up a fight. But she just apologizes to him. She's crying, but expressionless. She ends his misery.

Mycroft Holmes.

The woman in the car is his PA.

The memories-not-his assert themselves, but thankfully the flashbacks are quick enough to allow John to keep his mask. His body is made for information and subterfuge. It doesn't slow him down now that he's not dissociating.

This is bad though. Very bad. The entire purpose of being John Watson is to not be found out. This is bad. So bad. He can't get caught. Not by a government. What if they—

Damn. Damn! He shouldn't have gotten into that bloody car. Maybe if he'd just said fuck it and chased after Sherlock Holmes he wouldn't be here now. He should've—

Oh.

Oh!

Maybe this isn't as bad as he's fearing.

A little brother being spied upon by the higher-up Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. It's possible.

It's possible this has nothing to do with John and everything to do with Sherlock Holmes.

God he hopes so.

“Have a seat, John.” The man gestures to the lonely chair with his umbrella. It was clearly, intentionally, brought to the warehouse for this meeting. John decides 'fuck it' and 'fuck him' and makes the decision to stand.

No one has ever claimed that John has smart impulses.

“You know,” he says as he makes his way over “I've got a phone. I mean, very clever and all that, but uh, you could just phone me. On my phone.”

An older brother of Sherlock Holmes would have a penchant for dramatics, wouldn't he? Can't just send a menacing text of “Don't hurt my little brother!” Nope. Gotta drag the potential flatmate, of whom has only known of the guy all of a day, to an empty, possibly abandoned, warehouse by black car and freak him out with his control of the city's cameras.

Like wow.

“When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place.”

Oh THANK GOD. It is about Sherlock Holmes. Thank god thank god thank god.

“The leg must be hurting you. Sit down.”

“I don't wanna sit down.” And he loves how perfectly he gets the petulance in his voice. He thinks he's hilarious. Now that it's clear this isn't about John himself he can fully relax and have some fun with this asshole.

Mr Holmes looks curiously at him. “You don't seem very afraid.”

“You don't seem very frightening.” It's true. If he doesn't know what he is, he doesn't know how to fight him. And John is much stronger than humans.

“Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?”

John just barely manages to prevent himself from rolling his eyes.

“What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

John didn't even realize he'd had a previous connection, distant as it is, until the flashbacks a moment ago. Not that this guy would know any of that. Those weren't John Watson or even his memories. “I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him yesterday.”

“Mm.” Mr Holmes hums knowingly. “And since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?”

John nearly laughs. It's clearly meant to be a joke, albeit not one intended to be laughed at given the guy's manner, but really. He hasn't moved in yet and he barely helped at the crime scene. What is this guy on about?

“Who are you?” He asks instead. Need to keep up the fiction of ignorance after all.

“An interested party.”

“Interested in Sherlock. Why? I'm guessing you're not friends.”

“You've met him. How many 'friends' do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having.” Ouch. Harsh from an older brother. John likes Sherlock well enough so far.

“And what's that?”

“An enemy.”

“An enemy?” His older brother uses his government position to stalk him. Of course he's wary.

“In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic.”

John barely manages to bite down that laugh. He looks pointedly around them and says, “Well, thank God you're above all that.” The frown he gets in response is perfect.

Then his phone dings and John goes to check it. Unless it's Harry there isn't really anyone who should be messaging him...

Oh.

Baker Street.
Come at once
if convenient.
SH

What a cutie.

“I hope I'm not distracting you.”

“Not distracting me at all.” John couldn't care less. He wants to know what's next: older brother or not. He makes a point of taking a moment before pocketing the phone and looking back up.

“Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?”

He really shouldn't. An observant man capable of making leaps of logic with an older, spying brother whose in the government? He really, really shouldn't.

But god he wants to.

“I could be wrong, but I think that's none of your business.” And that much, at least, is the truth.

“It could be.” The guy says ominously.

“It really couldn't.”

The man pulls out a notebook and says, “If you do move into, um... two hundred and twenty one B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way.”

What.

Wait is this guy serious?

There is so much wrong with that John's not even sure where to begin. Yeah he needs funds for his future, but he's not going to sell someone out to do so. He's not going to sell out what few morals he keeps for that. He was raised better than that. Fuck this guy.

“Why?” John grits out.

“Because you're not a wealthy man.” That's it?

“In exchange for what?” Gotta play ignorant.

“Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel... uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to.”

“Why?”

“I worry about him. Constantly.” Stalker! Overbearing! Helicopter! John's pretty sure at least one of those is relevant.

“That's nice of you.” He replies tetchily.

“But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a... difficult relationship.” Oh really? He wonders why.

He doesn't get to point out the irony before another ding rings from his phone. Another text from the fool in question:

If inconvenient,
come anyway.
SH

“No,” is all John bothers with saying, putting his phone away.

“But I haven't mentioned a figure.”

“Don't bother.”

Mr Holmes laughs briefly at that. “You're very loyal, very quickly.”

“No, I'm not.” And that bit's honest. John's actually the opposite of trusting. “I'm just not interested.”

The guy stares at him closely for a moment, not dissimilar to the look Sherlock gets in his eyes. Family resemblance much?

He pulls out the notebook again and reads from it: “'Trust issues,' it says here.” John isn't unnerved as Mr Holmes probably expects him to be. Dude's spying on his little brother and has probably checked through—

Oh no. John Watson's history. How much of it is public? From what he remembers John Watson wasn't social online and never did anything that led to paperwork. He hopes he doesn't ask around. Fuck, he probably will. Maybe he can pass off as being a changed man who's no longer the horrible prat he was Before? Soldiers can come back different, right? Fuck.

Okay. So a little unnerved. Just not for the breach of privacy. But the worry of how the previous John Watson might've fucked up the current John's chances in some way. Fuck.

“Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?”

Not really. He just likes the guy. That kind of trust isn't possible for someone like him. Not with a stranger. Not with someone who isn't his family.

“Who says I trust him?”

“You don't seem the kind to make friends easily.” Understatement.

“Are we done?” Cause he really wants to know what's up with Sherlock.

The man makes eye contact with him and asks, “You tell me.”

The answer is yes. Now fuck off.

After a brief stare-down, he turns and makes his way out.

“I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen.”

John stops dead. His left hand. What about his left hand? The—

The tremor. He was so absorbed in Sherlock's texts and Mycroft totally-not-dramatic Holmes, watching his words and his leg, pushing away the flashback and memories and—he forgot about the hand. No. No no no no no.

He shakes his head and he feels his shoulders tense. He turns back because he can salvage this. He can.

“My what?”

“Show me.”

And then he leans forward on his umbrella. Like he expects John to come over to him. Fuck that. Fuck this. No. John lifts his left hand up, not bothering with the tremor because he has an idea and if it works it'll be convenient in two ways.

After a moment where it's clear John's not going to move an inch, Mr Holmes, unperturbed, strolls forward and hooks the umbrella over his arm, reaching for John's arm.

Gotta play the part. He hates faking disabilities like he has been, so if he can just get Mycroft to...

John pulls back a bit. “Don't.”

Mr Holmes looks pointedly at John. Probably thinking about the trust issue thing. Ha. Let him. Only works in John's favor.

He lets his hand be taken and examined. No tremor. No need for it. After all:

“Remarkable.”

“What is?” He asks as he pulls his arm away, as if he doesn't already know.

The man turns and walks away before turning back and saying, “Most people blunder round this city and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield.”

He's not wrong. He's also not right. And he's thinking exactly how John wants him to.

“You've seen it already, haven't you?”

“What's wrong with my hand?”

“You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service.” Haunted by the horrors of humanity, sure, but not really the battlefield.

But he's got a part to play: “Who the hell are you? How do you know that?”

“Fire her. She's got it the wrong way round. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady.”

Yes! Exactly as John desired. Good boy. Stalker older brother proves useful!

Can't act happy though.

“You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson. You miss it.”

God does he.

Well, not the war Mr Holmes is imagining, but still.

And then he does this... thing. John really has to bite back the laughter this time because the guy... the guy leans in conspiratorially and whispers, “Welcome back.”

What a funny bastard!

“Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson.” He says as he leaves the opposite way.

He checks the newest message in the car, which not-Anthea said will take him home.

Could be dangerous.
SH

Chapter Text

The nicotine is an unfortunate necessity. It helps accelerate his brain work though.

“What are you doing?” John asks. He's staring down at him with this bemused look.

“Nicotine patch. Helps me think.” He shows off the nicotine patches on his arm. “Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work.” His 'k' pops in what he hopes is a dismissive manner.

“It's good news for breathing.”

“Oh, breathing.” Living would be so much easier without it. “Breathing is boring.”

“I don't disagree.” John adds casually. “Kind of required though.”

His tone changes to a more serious one as he asks, “Is that three patches?”

“It's a three-patch problem.”

“Is it really though?” He sounds disapproving. Good thing Sherlock couldn't care less about someone else's opinion.

Sherlock closes his eyes to shut him out.

“Well?” John says. “You asked me to come. What do you need me for?”

Sherlock opens his eyes again. “Oh, yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone?”

“My phone?”

“Don't wanna use mine. Always a chance that the number will be recognized. It's on the website.”

“Mrs Hudson's got a phone.”

“Yeah, she's downstairs. I tried shouting, but she didn't hear.”

“Text her then. I was on the other side of London. Where you left me.”

He sounds oddly not irritated by that fact. Not that it matters regardless. “There was no hurry.”

John stares for a second before shuffling over and setting his phone on top of Sherlock's chest with this cheeky expression plastered over his face. “Here.”

Sherlock frowns at the army doctor's childishness, but picks the phone up to cradle it in his hands. He's currently still sifting through what the best course of action should be.

“So what's this about? The case?”

Softly: “Her case.”

“Her case?”

“Her suitcase, yes, obviously. The murderer took her suitcase. First big mistake.”

“So he took her case.” This repetitive exchange is tedious so he ignores him and mutters to himself, “It's no use, there's no other way. We'll have to risk it.” He holds the phone out for John to take it back from him. “On my desk there's a number. I want you to send a text.”

There's a beat of silence before: “You brought me here... to send a text for you.” Many people might've been angry about that. This John just sounds bemused.

“Text, yes. The number on my desk.”

There's silence for a moment before John says, “No.” followed by the sound of him sitting heavily in the same armchair as earlier. Sherlock opens his eyes to glare at him, but John's looking right back with an amused expression. “You know, you could've just texted that instead of having me come here. A quick, 'Hey. My number's on my website so I want you to send this text to the following number.' And then putting the number and the text. What is it with people and phones today, anyway?”

“I was still considering my options.” He replies testily. He continues to hold out the phone to which John eventually raises his eyebrows at him as if to non-verbally say 'Really?' and not making a move to follow through. In fact, John seems to sink further into the armchair. Really. And people accuse him of being childish.

He isn't the first to break though. John stands up after 1 minute and 27 seconds, but then he bypasses Sherlock entirely to go stand by the window.

“What's wrong?”

“Just met a friend of yours.” What? Sherlock doesn't have friends. And the people who come to mind at the word are—

No. Don't think about them. “A friend?”

“An enemy.” At that Sherlock relaxes. He has plenty of those.

“Oh. Which one?”

“Your arch-enemy. According to him.” Ah. Mycroft has already visited him then. Interesting that John bothered to mention it to him. Surely Mycroft would've advised against that? John then turns from the window to stare at Sherlock with one of his more unnerving looks. “Do people have arch-enemies?”

Sherlock turns his head to stare back. That piercing gaze he receives in return makes it hard to deduce anything about the man's current thoughts. “Did he offer you money to spy on me?”

“Yes.” Damn Mycroft! But. John is telling him about it. Which might mean—?

“Did you take it?”

“No.”

Several thoughts cascade through him at once. Mycroft tried to buy off his first potential flatmate within less than a day of meeting him (Bloody Mycroft!). The man didn't take it (Why? Moral code? Doctor. Soldier. Very probable.) Good. Good! Better yet he doesn't seem less disposed to flatsharing with someone who has enemies that offer money to spy on him. Between their earlier conversations and the acquiescence at the call of danger, it's very likely this man is an adrenaline junkie. This might just work out better than expected. In fact, he can already see the plan he's had in mind for sealing the move-in as desired as a possible success.

But he shouldn't advertise his emotional state like that. And he knows the perfect cover for it. Not even a lie, really.

“Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time.” Taking money from Mycroft would've been low-key satisfying if nothing else.

“Well. If you'd thought to prep me on it perhaps we could've.” And John doesn't seem to take offense to his snippy remark. Interesting. “So who is he?”

Sherlock mutters, “The most dangerous man you've ever met, and not my problem right now.” and then more loudly, “On my desk. The number.” The phone is still being held out.

John does pick up the paper with the number on it only to pause and say, “Jennifer Wilson. That was... Hang on. Isn't that the dead woman?”

“Yes. It's not important. Just enter the number.”

Shaking his head, John walks past Sherlock again, this time dropping the paper on his chest. Sherlock narrows his eyes into a glare again, not that John seems to notice or care.

Sherlock decides this stalemate isn't worth the time they're wasting; they have a murderer to catch for Christ's sake! Though it is strange that John isn't doing it himself. Surely Sherlock hasn't misread his need for danger wrong? If he has then the next part of his plan might not work out after all. He huffs loudly enough to make it clear that he's aggrieved, but John just looks at Sherlock like he's a child refusing to go to bed at curfew.

After another moment of no reaction Sherlock finally bites and swings his legs around to a sitting position. The paper unceremoniously flutters to the floor after catching on his pants leg. He quickly types in the needed message, not bothering with dictating it out loud as vengeance for forcing him to do this part of the work.

Once he's got the message written up and ready to go he heads over to where the suitcase is resting and focuses on listening for the sound of a phone going off when he hits send. There is no response, just as he expected.

He hears John coming up behind him after a few moments and comments, “So that's what you ran off about.” Once he's right behind Sherlock he says, “Wow. Pink indeed.” A second's pause before: “So you've just texted her phone, but there's no answering tone in her bag. Presumably you would've checked the area around where you found the bag as a precaution. So: where's her phone?”

And again this simple army doctor is able to follows lines of logic without much or any prompting. To a degree it's a relief to hear someone other than the brainless dogs of Scotland Yard try to keep up with him. And he's not as obnoxious as Mycroft, though that's not a hard achievement to avoid. It's clear by the look the man's eyes, in the second's glance Sherlock takes while searching the case thoroughly, tells him that the man knows where it is as well.

He leaves the case alone, it clearly does not hold her phone, and he heaves himself onto the other armchair to wait.

“So where did you find it?”

Sherlock makes eye contact, and again there's that obnoxious pull of those eyes, and starts, “The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention—particularly a man, which is statistically more likely—so obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake. I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens... and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip.”

“Nice,” is all John supplies, before he huffs himself into the opposing armchair. And then: “Good work.”

Sherlock's not sure how to feel about that. Part of him feels patronized, that's how those words are usually directed at him, not that he cares how others view his work. But the rest of him is tickled pink by how earnest John seems with his praise. Like he really did good work and should be complimented appropriately for it.

“I've been thinking this since the crime scene—”

“Careful that can hurt.”

Sherlock gives him a patented glare all while John smiles guilelessly back, unaffected.

“I've been wondering how it is you seem to keep pace with me.”

John tilts his head quizzically, adopting a similar expression to the one in response to Mrs Hudson's intimation earlier.

“Most people are idiots.” Sherlock Holmes supplies. “I find myself having to dumb down my deductions constantly to lead them along to where I've been standing the whole time. But at the crime scene, in response to my 'It's obvious isn't it?”, you said 'Minus the ring thing and how it's not any of the other surrounding areas, yes.' I believe we've already been through the 'ring thing', as you so elegantly put it. Take me through your process with the other one.”

John untilts his head throughout that as he realizes what Sherlock is asking for. His face scrunches up, his arms cross each other, as he tries to figure his answer. He bites his lip as he thinks. It's adorable.

“Well. There's a murder victim covered head-to-toe in water. No smell of chlorine so it's not like she fell into a pool. When you walked over to her I saw you checking” and he mimes the motion a bit, rubbing the chair's arm and then looking at his fingers “parts of the body including the umbrella. There had been no rainfall in London, and I noticed when I got closer that it was definitely rainfall because of the particular scent of the water. Anyways, no rainfall in London, so somewhere close enough to still be wet from where it was raining. You had checked your phone after your inspection of her, so it wasn't hard to connect you were looking for places nearby where it had rained—given you believed she'd had an overnight bag and was therefore not from a further distance. It being Cardiff specifically threw me as I didn't have the weather app in front of me myself to check it, though I suppose high winds could help narrow it down sufficiently.”

John had taken to staring into some middle distance as he called back his thought process of that moment, but now turns back to meet Sherlock's eyes. It's not the intense eye contact of previous times though. This is the simple and pure gentleness he's given at other times. He shrugs casually and says, “Mind, I'm not as good at this as you clearly are. I can't tell case sizes by splash patterns and I probably wouldn't have noticed most of that if I hadn't watched you do so. I can follow logic when it's presented to me but, ah...” He scratches the back of his head and looks at the mantel. “I'm far too anxious of a person to make the kinds of leaps of logic that you do.”

It's a reasonable explanation. Sherlock can't help but be drawn to his explanation of the water's scent. He'd noticed it didn't smell of chlorine, but being certain it was rainwater is an interesting point. He remembers the face John made when he'd smelled the victim's breath as well. Sensitive sense of smell?

The compliments are nice and all, but Sherlock's not a fan of his work being called leaps of logic so he has to question that.

“What do you mean 'leaps of logic'?”

“Well, you attach too much importance to statistics for my tastes. Don't get me wrong, statistics can get you going on the right path and save you time, but assuming every case is just like the most statistically likely one is a step too far for me to take. For example, while it's statistically more likely our murderer is male, and therefore more likely to dispose of a garish pink suitcase his victim left behind in his car, it's not guaranteed. Though banking on fragile masculinity is generally a good call.”

The last line is meant to be a joke, clearly. Fragile masculinity has nothing to do with this case. The suitcase wasn't at the scene, so either she didn't bring the case inside or the murderer took it out. Simple.

“There's just a marked difference between assumptions and suspicions for me. Word choice can make all the difference. Not to mention the assumption that he would've noticed within five minutes. It worked out, but it could've been hidden behind the driver's seat and he didn't check the back seat or see it. Or perhaps it was in the trunk. Or something.”

Sherlock's about to respond to that, he has absolutely no idea what he's going to say he just knows he need to say something to defend himself somehow, when John's phone starts buzzing.

“That our guy?”

Sherlock says out loud, “A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer...”

He pauses until the ringing ends, feeling the excitement bubbling inside. “...would panic.”

He dashes off to gather his coat and begins heading for the door.

“Have you notified the police?”

“Four people are dead. There isn't time to talk to the police.” More like they'd lose their only lead. He doesn't trust them to not be stupid.

“So why are you talking to me?” He sounds on the edge of laughter again. Is the man easily amused or something? What's so funny anyways?

Sherlock meaningfully looks at the mantelpiece where he'd been very put out that his skull had been missing when he'd needed it. “Mrs Hudson took my skull.”

“So I'm a replacement for the skull, am I?” And why John is grinning at that insinuation Sherlock's unsure. He thinks most people would've been upset at the comparison. Not that he cares. Still:

“Relax, you're doing fine.” As he puts on his coat.

John isn't moving though.

“Well?” Sherlock asks.

“Well what?” John asks innocently.

“Well, you could just sit there and watch telly.” Most aggravating and boring thing he could think of.

“You want me to come with you?” And he sounds like he's seconds away from inviting himself. It's... confusing.

“I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so...”

John continues smiling at him without much reaction.

“Problem?”

“So that unprofessional cop at the crime scene, you know the one, Sergeant Donovan?”

Sherlock has to look away at that. Oh. That's where the amusement's coming from. “What about her?” He spits out.

“She said you get off on this.” He pauses for a moment before clearly tacking on, “That you enjoy it.”

Sherlock does not like that insinuation. But he figures he can play at this game, too. “And I said 'dangerous,' and here you are.”

“I was referring more to the riding crop in the mortuary, but, yeah, sure, call me out like that.”

And just like that John's following him down the stairs and into the street.

“It was an important experiment. I needed to know what the marks would look like if done after death.”

“The riding crop thing? Good to know.” And apparently that's all John feels the need to say.

This man isn't lining up to any of Sherlock's expectations. He's so used to having people look down their noses at him and his Work. While he'd suspected the army doctor might be more open to his way of life, John Watson seems startlingly open to his way of life.

Or maybe the guy just really, really needs the money.

But no. He would've taken Mycroft's money if that were the issue. Perhaps he needs the money, but isn't willing to compromise his integrity for it. So: flatshare with an impossible flatmate it is, even if he has to fake interest. That's more plausible. More plausible than him being okay or even interested in Sherlock at any rate. People will sometimes smile more while keeping up a consistent act. That would make much more sense.

It hardly matters what this man's actual opinion is of Sherlock at any rate. 6 months. That's all he needs.

“So where are we going?” John eventually bothers to ask.

“Northumberland Street's a five-minute walk from here.”

“You think he's foolish enough to go there?” Clearly John's read the message already.

Sherlock grins as he thinks his plan over again. “No—I think he's brilliant enough. I love the brilliant ones. They're always so desperate to get caught.”

“Why?”

“Appreciation! Applause! At long last the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius, John: it needs an audience.”

“Yeah.” John says with an intonation that means he's thinking of something in particular.

Sherlock ignores it and spins around once as he walks, gesturing to the streets. “This is his hunting ground. Right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go.”

He puts his hands up next to his head in one of his poses that helps him think and sort his thoughts a little more clearly. Like they're funneling from his brain to line up in front of him.

“Think! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?”

“I dunno. Policemen?”

“No, but a good thought. Someone who can hunt in crowds and who most people trust. Definitely on the right track though.”

“Well maybe I could think of some more with some food in my stomach. You've dragged me out here: treat me to something.”

Sherlock puts his hands down and stares at John again. Is he being asked out to dinner? Admittedly he was planning to use Angelo's restaurant as his stake-out, but that was for the Work. Why would John want Sherlock to treat him? And why should Sherlock treat him? Though he supposes it could help foster positive association and get him that flatmate.

He won't pay for it though. But neither will John. If Sherlock knows Angelo well enough, he'll probably give them this meal for free. Taking cases for little to no pay might not be economically prudent for the most part, but having an inventory of favors is infinitely more useful.

“I know a place.” He says simply and heads in.

The place is quaint, in a good way. John likes it well enough at least. He'd meant the food thing as a partial joke (he was hungry, but then again he was often hungry), but given where they were this was probably their destination all along.

John can't help but notice the reserved sign Billy removes. Most people might see that as a date thing, but John's eyes immediately flick to the large window.

Sherlock takes the best spot to watch out the window, which makes sense, he's the invested one. John's just along for the ride.

Sherlock nods towards the street. “Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it.”

“He isn't just gonna ring the doorbell, though, is he?”

“He has killed four people.”

And John has to give Sherlock that. So with a shrug and an amused “Okay.” he leaves it at that.

Not that he'd be able to go into more if he'd wanted as this excited fellow comes up to their table, and is clearly uniformed or else John might've been wary, and says, “Sherlock.”

The two shake hands as John steals a glance out the window.

“Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free.” Oooh. Nice. He might regret that offer with John's stomach. But given they're on a stake out he should probably choose something quick and easy to scarf down. “On the house for you and your date.”

“Order whatever you want.” Sherlock offers and all John can think to say as he picks up one of the menus is: “Food. I want food.”

He can see Sherlock turn to raise an eyebrow at him as he says, “I believe you have to order something more specific than that.”

“Shhhhh.” He does in a wavy, intentionally comical way, accompanying it with an uppy-downy hand wave. “I'm talking to the menu.”

Do not interrupt John when he's hungry. Do not.

He thinks it's interesting that Sherlock didn't deny him being his date again though. Is this how the guy dates? Dragging them on murder cases and stake outs in restaurants? He's absolutely ridiculous.

Sherlock leaves him with a raised eyebrow and smothered amusement (John likes to think his humor is amusing in its own right even if its got nothing on Mr Madman) to look out the window again.

“This man got me off a murder charge.” The person says unprompted.

“This is Angelo.” Sherlock offers when John gives him a confused look of 'why is this guy still talking to me when I could be eating'? John begrudgingly turns away from the menu to shake Angelo's hand.

“Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking.” Impressive.

“He cleared my name.” Well.

“I cleared it a bit. Anything happening opposite?”

“Nothing.” He turns back to John, much to John's disgruntlement. “But for this man, I'd have gone to prison.”

“You did go to prison.” And see. There's the thing. Sherlock's the kind of person to correct blatant falsehoods unless they suit him. So why isn't he denying the insinuation of them being an item?

“I'll get a candle for the table. It's more romantic.”

John's not sure about that, but whatever'll make Mr Angelo happy and as long as he gets his food.

He comes back with this lovely glass bowl with a tea-light in it and John admits to himself he actually does like it a little bit.

A bit of waiting later, and a few errant suggestions that pop into John's mind like teacher, celebrity, and delivery guy, and John is tucking nicely into his food. John's monstrously high metabolism is temporarily sated. He thinks it's about time to nip this potentially-interested-in-a-relationship thing in the bud.

“People don't have arch-enemies.” John knows personally that that's not true. But it's something a normal person would think and he is keeping an act. Besides, it makes for a great segue into what he really wants to ask.

It does the trick of getting Sherlock's baffled attention if nothing else. “I'm sorry?”

“In real life. There are no arch-enemies in real life.” Well. Not normal people's real lives. Not really in John's either, exactly, but his previous generation had a set, so he's pretty certain it counts. “Doesn't happen.”

Sherlock loses interest (John doesn't blame him... much) and says, “Doesn't it? Sounds a bit dull.”

“So who did I meet?” He asks for act's sake.

“What do real people have, then, in their 'real lives'?”

Family. John thinks. Oh, not everyone does. Harry is proof of that. Family can be full of bastards. But John's real family is full of many wonderful people, most of them not blood-related (technically only his sister and aunt are). He may have been raised by his family, but that isn't why he loves or cares about them. He chooses to. And they chose him. And he misses them with an intensity the leaves him struggling for air every time he remembers.

Friends also come to mind. John's not so well-versed in true, deep, and abiding not-family-related friendships. He doesn't have the trust for it.

Acquaintances John is far more familiar with. Those people you barely know but recognize and interact with. Those friends who aren't quite close enough to your heart to be trusted with your soul but whose company you enjoy.

Colleagues. John's held a few jobs in his life. The part-time work he did during high school to get some spending money (because he wanted to be independent not because he had to). That period of his early twenties where he had a public persona. The missions he took on behalf of Red Shield could count. He has many barely touched memories of other people's working lives. He had John Watson's... no. John Watson and that other man's 'business' do not count.

Other people often have romantic partners. John's only felt that way twice and it did not end well that first time, and it was years ago. He could give it another go, technically, but why should he? Not only is his current situation not conducive to such a thing—for so many reasons—but he'd have to find someone he could trust irrevocably to do so without regret or remorse or guilt or shame. Who would trust him in return. Who would accept him, the real him not the John Watson character he's currently playing into. Which are only some of the reasons he's not in a position at present where he can even if he wanted to.

Instead John goes with: “Friends; people they know; people they like; people they don't like...” And on to the crux of the matter: “Girlfriends. Boyfriends.”

“Yes, well, as I was saying—dull.”

And technically John could've left it there. But just saying the idea was dull did not mean he didn't participate. In addition to gauging his interest in John, it would be useful to know if John would have to worry about girl or boyfriends wandering into the flat. That would be uncomfortable.

“So no girlfriend then?”

“Girlfriend? No, not really my area.” That's a cute way to phrase it.

“What about a boyfriend?”

Sherlock turns at that, to John's mild surprise. He makes eye contact of his own volition and John wonders what kind of impression he's given on that topic—he hadn't denied Angelo's assumption and was merely confused about Mrs Hudson's assumption—but something about Sherlock's tension clicks a gear in John's head. Perhaps he's homomisic and just ignores the assumptions people make about him, or he's been otherwise hurt in this topic before.

“Which is fine, by the way.” John extends the proverbial olive branch.

“I know it's fine.” Well there goes the homomisia version (hopefully), thank god, but sadly that leaves John with the other possibility. There could be some other thing he's just not thought of yet, but the coiled tension and his choice of response 'I know it's fine.' and in such a defensive tone. Yes, there are other possibilities, like he's asexual and people always assume he's gay or something. But it doesn't really matter. Not to John. It's none of John's business. He's not going to pry and pull for secrets or gossip.

But he does want to help Sherlock feel at ease. And he needs to know if there'll be strangers (well, a private detective will be getting those, but hopefully only as guests during daylight hours) or company in the flatshare. That's as much as John has to know, unless Sherlock wishes to tell more.

John smiles kindly and asks, “So you've got a boyfriend then?”

“No.”

And John can't help but smile with relief at that. One less variable in this potential future he's actually bothering to consider. God. He has issues.

Sherlock's not a fan of people probing him for answers. He doesn't like giving up pieces of himself to strangers to anyone. But answering this will give him some insight on John's own thoughts and so he abides by the game of questions.

It's not until John starts mumbling, “Right. Okay. You're unattached. Like me. That's fine. Good.” that Sherlock realizes what might've actually been happening.

He turns back around to face John, he remembers reading somewhere that people don't like being let down coldly and he still needs the flatmate, but he doesn't get to think farther than 'I need to make him think I'm unavailable' before words are tumbling out of his mouth.

“John, um... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any...”

“No.” John interrupts abruptly. He turns to face Sherlock and clears his throat. “No, I am not asking. No.”

Sherlock wonders if he should be offended by such a clear denial.

“I'm just saying it's all fine.”

Their eyes are connecting again, that pull of John's coming in full force, as he smiles kindly at Sherlock. Apparently the conversation was just that: a conversation. Between Mrs Hudson and Angelo John must've figured he ought to check-in to see Sherlock's thoughts. Or something. It's all fine. Is it really though?

Doesn't matter. He just needs the flatmate. He doesn't bother examining his exact feelings on the matter, because it doesn't matter.

He manages a perfunctory “Good. Thank you.” because it is nice to know the man's accepting if nothing else.

When he looks out the window again there's still a cab sitting alongside one of the curbs. It's been sitting there for a bit now. No one getting in or out. It looks like there's a male in the back seat, looking around the area.

“Look across the street. Taxi.” John does. “Stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out.”

Sherlock mutters to himself, “Why a taxi? Oh, that's clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?

“We trust them even though we don't know them. They go unnoticed, but are everywhere and hunt in crowds.” And Sherlock can hear the intentional echo of his own words from earlier. Oh that is clever.

“Don't stare.” He says.

“You're staring.”

“We can't both stare.”

“Aw, why not?” But John dutifully turns his head so he's no longer looking out the window, and he has that amused grin on his face. Clearly a joke then. Probably. Sherlock's not going to dignify it at any rate.

Sherlock stands and puts his scarf and coat on. He needs a closer look. John follows suit, looking excited (and completely forgetting the cane—yes!). Just outside the door he watches the passenger twist and look around, and upon looking at the restaurant his eyes clap onto Sherlock and they stare at each other for a bit. Then the passenger turns to the front and suddenly the taxi is pulling off. It's leaving!

He barely even notices the car he runs into, barreling over and trying to close the distance, but he realizes quickly enough that he's not going to reach it this way.

John stops next to him, looking expectantly.

Sherlock's hands shoot up to the sides of his head. He needs to visualize where the taxi is heading and figure out a shortcut to catch it out.

“Right turn, one way, roadworks, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights.

The verbal is more to cement the plan for himself, and then he's off following his alternative route. He can hear John behind him, apologizing to the man he pushes aside and easily keeping pace as Sherlock catches him when he glances to check (Why did he bother checking?). Sherlock leaps to the next building with barely a thought other than 'easily crossable with a good running start'. John doesn't even appear to give it that much thought when Sherlock turns to make sure he jumps—

(Why does he keep checking on John? It's not as though Sherlock needs John with him at this stage. A more honest part of him suggests he wants an audience for his reveal at the end of the chase. Even if this ends as a coincidence, he can easily imagine John's warming praise for having weaved through London back alleys and rooftops to catch up with a cab with no known destination. The rest of Sherlock begs for it to shut up because surely not...)

—John makes the jump easily. As if he were born for such feats of agility. Sherlock can't think on it for long as he turns and continues the chase.

Down through another alley they two come onto the street where they end up just missing it!

“Ah, no!”

He continues following another bout of paths that form in his mind, and he says, “This way.” (and he ends up checking to make sure John is still following him)

John is heading directly after the cab though. “No, this way!”

John turns back towards him immediately with a wry “Sorry,” through his grin.

The new point requires some backtracking. Through more alleyways, they make their way to the interception point on the next street over and finally, there's the cab!

He throws himself in front of it, and he crashes onto the bonnet, but he's fine. He scrabbles inside his coat pocket for the ID he keeps there and flashes it at the driver. That should keep the cab from moving until they're (they're???) done.

“Police! Open her up!” He shouts as he moves to the passenger's door. He's panting heavily as he wrenches open the door to get a good look at their potential murderer—

John is looking at him oddly just as his mind clicks that this man is not their murderer.

“No.” He straightens in his aggravation before ducking back down again to get a closer look.

“Teeth, tan: what—Californian?” He looks at the floor. “L.A., Santa Monica. Just arrived.

He straightens again. Well there goes that potential.

John's still looking at him oddly and Sherlock feels an inexplicable pang of disappointment in himself at the look. Why?

And then the look on John's face clears and he looks at the passenger. He asks, “How can you possibly know that?”

“The luggage.” He looks at the suitcase showing he's flown from LAX to LHR.

“Ah.” And Sherlock feels another pang of disappointment in himself for some reason. How ridiculous!

He turns back to the passenger and says, “It's probably your first trip to London, right, going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?”

“Sorry—are you guys the police?

“Yeah.” Sherlock says, flashing the badge quickly. “Everything all right?”

The guy smiles awkwardly and says, “Yeah.”

Sherlock has no idea how to end the conversation so he pastes on a smile and says, “Welcome to London.”

He leaves immediately, but John sticks around for a second, stepping closer to the cab judging by the footstep and voice position. He says, “Any problems just let us know.”

Sherlock glances back to see John's head is practically inside the cab, squinting. The passenger nods. John's smile is polite as he slams the door. The passenger looks bewildered at the driver and, ah—

They should probably get going.

John makes it over to him, and he's giving Sherlock that odd look that's causing Sherlock's stomach to drop.

“Sherlock, what—”

“We should probably get moving. I don't think he buys our story.”

“But what about the—” This time John interrupts himself. “Hey, where—where did you get this? Here.” He reaches out for the ID card in Sherlock's hand and Sherlock lets him take it. He looks at it. “Detective Inspector Lestrade?”

“Yeah.” And Sherlock doesn't know why but he wants to see John's reaction to this: “I pickpocket him when he's annoying. You can keep that one; I've got plenty at the flat.”

John nods, an amused grin on his face that makes Sherlock feel a little lighter, and then suddenly he's giggling.

“What?” He didn't think what he said was that funny.

“Nothing, just... 'Welcome to London.'”

And Sherlock starts laughing a bit with him. He looks up from John and sees a police officer attempting to discover why the cab is stopped in the middle of the street.

“Got your breath back?”

“Ready when you are.”

And they're off again.

Chapter Text

Upon reaching Baker Street, they slow down to catch their breath. Sherlock's feeling surprisingly buoyant despite the glitch in the case. He'd felt the familiar pull that the cab was the right answer, but often times there's something small that he's missing from understanding the full picture. He just has to figure out those pieces and...

Inside his new flat John hangs his coat up on the rack and Sherlock divests his onto the stairwell banister. They're both an inch from grinning their faces off.

“Well that was fun.” John says as he leans against the same wall Sherlock is. “That was the most ridiculous thing I've done in years.”

“And you invaded Afghanistan.”

John starts giggling at that, and Sherlock has to join him. It's infectious.

“That wasn't just me.” He says through his laugh, and Sherlock laughs at that, too.

Eventually John has control of himself again and he asks, “So why aren't we back at the restaurant?”

Sherlock gets a hold on himself as well and says while waving a hand dismissively, “Oh, they can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway.”

“So what were we doing there?”

Sherlock clears his throat before saying, “Oh, just passing the time.” Then Sherlock gives John an appraising look. “And proving a point.”

John gets that cute confused look of his. “What point?”

“You.”

He turns before he can see John's reaction to that and calls out, “Mrs Hudson! Doctor Watson will take the room upstairs.”

When Sherlock turns back he suffers a moment of doubt at the closed-off expression John's giving him. “Says who.” Flat. Tense. Angry?

Sherlock glances at the front door and says, “Says the man at the door.”

John continues staring at Sherlock with that shuttered look—which is nowhere near as endearing as his laughing, confused, or gentle looks—only to flinch at the three knocks that come through the front door.

The man looks terrified, although he's good at covering it up. Of what, Sherlock's not sure. Did he miss something? Something important?

He looks back at Sherlock who tries to offer what he hopes is an encouraging smile.

John stares at him for a moment, and then his eyes glance up to 221B, before settling back on Sherlock for a moment, before walking himself to the door.

He stops just before opening the door, and is he shaking?, but then he takes a deep breath and opens the door.

Angelo is standing on the other side with his cane in hand.

“Sherlock texted me.” He holds up the cane. “He said you forgot this.”

Sherlock can't see John's face from this angle, can only see the back of his head, but he watches as the man's shoulders tense up and the trembling become more pronounced. Then, suddenly, it all disappears. John's reaching forward and taking the cane from Angelo and saying, “Ah. Er. Thank you.”

He shuts the door after saying goodbye to Angelo, and then turns to stare at Sherlock with wide eyes. Ah. It was just the shock, then. Sherlock grins at John, full of pride. He's solved plenty of crimes, but he's never helped someone like this before. And surely it will secure him that flatmate! It feels good. It feels—

Mrs Hudson comes out of her flat with an upset countenance and tears in her eyes. Immediately Sherlock is worried about who hurt her in their absence.

Except apparently it is him who caused it. “Sherlock, what have you done?”

“Mrs Hudson?” He feels lost seeing her like this.

“Upstairs.”

Sherlock sees John snap to attention, out of his shocked fugue, and glare upstairs. Sherlock is closer, and that is possibly the only reason John doesn't pass him in their haste to reach the upstairs.

Opening the door he sees Lestrade sitting casually in the armchair opposite John's. He's already considering it John's? There are other officers in the flat. His home. They're going through his things—

“What the fuck?” John is the first to speak, though Sherlock is on his heels as he storms over to Lestrade to demand, “What are you doing?”

“Well, I knew you'd find the case. I'm not stupid.” Sherlock really has to wonder that because he'd just finalized the possibility of John staying here and now this.

“You can't just break into my flat.” Sherlock says as John tells the officers: “Put that down.” It's such a low register that if Sherlock weren't already furious it might've affected him the way it does the officers who clearly don't know how to react.

“And you can't withhold evidence. And I didn't break into your flat.” Lestrade seems oddly smug. Sherlock has a bad feeling that shivers down his spine.

He swallows his anger and anxiety and demands, “Well, what do you call this then?”

Lestrade looks at his officers, who have stopped rummaging at John's command and are now looking helplessly between Lestrade and Sherlock, much to, apparently, Lestrade's surprise.

He recovers fast enough, and looks back to Sherlock with a false innocence on his features before saying the worst possible thing he could: “It's a drugs bust.”

The world-shattering “What?” that comes from John behind him feels like an arrow in his spine. Damn Lestrade! John had shown considerable interest in flatsharing with him up until this point, and Sherlock had just gotten the last nail in, or so he thought, before Lestrade went and ruined the whole thing, pried out the nails. He couldn't have even waited until the contract was signed. Not even a single full day—

And then John steps up next to Sherlock's side and is glaring at Lestrade. “Okay. I'm going to show my ignorance here; I don't know how the British legal system works. I might be mistaken,” John over-pronounces the mistaken and pauses briefly before saying, “but don't you need a warrant for such a thing. Reasonable suspicion of possession. Prior incarceration for possession or sale. A current investigation. Something of that sort?”

At Lestrade's blank stare John raises an eyebrow and asks, “You do have something, do you not? Surely the British legal system isn't so broken that anyone can be raided at any time based on the whims of an officer or two? And surely there are better, less invasive, ways to recover evidence you believe this guy has yet to turn in.”

One of the officers comments, “Why are you angry about this? It's not like you live here.”

John turns on him so fast, stepping forward a single step too, that the officer nearly retreats. “I've yet to do so, but I intend to move into this place as well. This could be my stuff you're mistreating and disrespecting. Of course I'm pissed.” He turns back to Lestrade. “Nothing?”

Sherlock's not sure how to feel. On one hand, John's defense is kind of sweet pointless. On the other, John doesn't know he does have priors. As a doctor, he'll be against it. But perhaps a doctor would be understanding of a recovering addict? He's not sure. But he doesn't want Lestrade to be the one who says it.

“John.” Sherlock says quietly. He hates this. This vulnerability. Bad enough people knew about it at all. He needs this flatshare to be independent again.

Sherlock's glad he has great control of himself because he's the next target of John's intimidating pivot and glare. The glare softens as it meets Sherlock's eyes though. He asks: “Are you currently using?”

“No.” Sherlock answers simply. He feels weak. Impotent.

“Is there anything in the flat?”

“No."

“Do you plan on using again in the near future?”

“No!” He says more strongly and fiercely. Never again. God he hopes.

And John just nods sharply and turns back to Lestrade. “Call off the hounds, Lestrade. This is unnecessary.”

...That's it?

“That's it?” The other officer, the one who wasn't subject to John the first go round, questions. John doesn't even turn towards him fully, just angles his head to glare. Strong enough the officer swallows uncomfortably, apparently.

John slowly opens his mouth and says, “His past is his business. Not mine. I only know this present version of him. He is not, and does not plan, to use anytime soon. That is all I need to know for now.” John's eyes narrow and then he preemptively answers, “And yes. It really is that simple.”

John turns back to Sherlock, locks eyes, nods sharply again, and then uncrosses his arms from his tense posture. He turns back to the officers and gestures to the door. “Out.”

“What?” They glance at Lestrade for instruction, but John couldn't care less. He starts moving towards them saying, “Out of my home.” in such a low, threatening register Sherlock wonders at their ability to stand their ground.

“I've got this.” Lestrade finally says, standing. He's hiding his own shock well, and it's enough to remind Sherlock to school his own expression.

Sherlock's not sure how to process the luck that is John's apparent acceptance.

Sherlock's not a fan of how out of control he feels in this situation though. Now that he doesn't have to worry about John leaving (he said he intends to live here! and called it his home!) he barks at Lestrade, “I'm not your sniffer dog.”

“No, Anderson's my sniffer dog.” Lestrade says, though not as uppity as he clearly wanted to say it.

“What, An—”

From the kitchen out comes Anderson. Just like out of a horror story.

“Anderson, what are you doing on a drugs bust?” Anger. The angers back.

“Oh, I volunteered.” Said with an extreme amount of venom. Sherlock turns away, biting his lip to keep from lashing out.

“They all did.” Lestrade says, eyeing John warily, who does not look pleased. Those blue eyes of his are shining in the flat's lights of which are all turned on to assist with the 'search'.

Donovan also comes into view from inside the kitchen. She's holding a glass jar—his eyes!

“Are these human eyes?” She sounds disturbed.

“Put those back!” He yells at her. It's always easier fighting with Sally.

“They were in the microwave!”

“It's an experiment.” Sherlock says slightly less forcefully as he takes in John's bemused expression at the eyeballs.

Lestrade says nothing, though he clearly wants to tell them to keep searching. He's eyeing John like he's a wild animal about to snap and attack the weaker human prey in the room.

John regains his sense of fury and holds eye contact with Lestrade with those blue eyes. Lestrade holds it for a moment before sighing and saying, “You could help us properly and I'll gladly stand them down.”

John breathes out and turns to Sherlock then. His eyes aren't shining in the lights at this angle, and his face is overall softer than when he looked at the others. He thinks Sherlock should take it.

Sherlock really doesn't want to though. On principle.

“This is childish.” He declares angrily, pacing into the main of the flat to replace some of his stuff to their proper spots.

“Well, I'm dealing with a child. Sherlock, this is our case. I'm letting you in, but you do not go off on your own. Clear?” He's regained some of his surety back now that John isn't breathing down his neck.

The fury in Sherlock won't be abated though. His stuff has been carelessly rifled through. For drugs he does not have. That he does not want or want to want. In front of his flatmate who he needs to stay, who only through some miracle doesn't have a problem with him. His home has been invaded. How can he feel safe here now? There are people who hate him in his home. How is he meant to be okay with this?!

“Put that down!” John yells at Donovan in the kitchen, cutting through Sherlock's building rage. She startles and frowns back at John, and says, “We're just doing our jobs.”

John is glaring, not quite as seriously as before, but it's a decent glare all the same. “Do I look like I care?” The low, dangerous, threatening register is back though. The one that's making everyone who hears it shiver. “Put it down while they finish this negotiation like adults.” The last part is pointed at both Lestrade and Sherlock.

Sherlock feels a little hurt John isn't completely on his side.

Meanwhile, Sherlock confronts Lestrade: “Oh, what, so-so-so” god, not the stutter again, which causes him to angrily spit the rest: “you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?”

“It stops being pretend if they find anything.”

“I. Am. Clean!” He shouts in his face.

“Is your flat? All of it?”

“I don't even smoke.” And he's jerkily pulling up his shirtsleeve to show the one remaining nicotine patch.

“Neither do I.” Lestrade says and shows his own patch.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, he already knew that. He turns away from Lestrade to yank his sleeve back down and hears Lestrade do the same, albeit less emotionally hastily.

“So let's work together,” Lestrade says. As if Sherlock will want to after this—“We've found Rachel.”

Sherlock pivots fully back to him; immediately his interest in the case is revitalized. “Who is she?”

“Jennifer Wilson's only daughter.”

“Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter's name? Why?”

Finally, a topic that doesn't set John's teeth on edge. Going from a thrilling chase through alleyways and over rooftops, to the horror of realizing he'd forgotten about fucking faking a physical disability again, to the terror of sensing people upstairs in the flat as well as Sherlock in front of him and someone at the door that Sherlock knew would be there... to the overwhelming relief of not having to fake disabilities anymore (of which he is very glad to have an excuse to no longer affect because faking a disability, even if it was for the sake of survival, left a bitter and guilty taste in his mouth), and the pure anger John still feels on Sherlock's behalf for this invasion of privacy... It's nice to hear something related to the case.

He's really glad John Watson's natural eye color is blue. He's pretty sure his power flared up a couple times during that mess. Sherlock was in the wrong for hiding evidence perhaps, but the particular excuse they chose to do this rubs John the wrong way. Yes, let's throw a pretend drugs bust on the guy trying to remain clean. Using people who fucking hate his guts to be the ones to rifle through his personal effects for a pink suitcase that is right fucking there in the middle of the living area. Sounds like a great fucking plan. Fuck these people.

Ah. It's making him angry again. Focus on the case. The fools are finally communicating. Don't ruin that, John.

Also don't punt Anderson out the window. That impulse is particularly tempting, but he will do his best.

He hates people like them.

“Never mind that.” Anderson is saying in the background. John would tune him out if he wasn't a couple feet from him. “We found the case.” John somehow manages to resist the impulse to facepalm. “According to someone, the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favourite psychopath.”

John nearly gives into the impulse to turn and backhand the fucker.

He lets himself turn a glare on him though. He enjoys the subconscious flinch and increased heartbeat that accompany one of his more predatory glares. Sometimes being a monster humanity is instinctually terrified of felt really good. A small fragment of satisfaction.

Sherlock, meanwhile, can take care of himself, which John has been letting him do after his initial commandeering of the situation ran its course. He feels Sherlock would prefer fighting his own battles, except apparently he doesn't do it well because what comes out of his mouth is: “I'm not a psychopath, Anderson. I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research.”

John's world tilts horribly for a second. What.

What the fuck does that even mean????

Does he even know what words mean? What the fuck even. It almost sounds as fake as his own attempt to distance himself from his family back when the fear of turning out like his mother was so strong it led him down a dark path of thoughts.

Like his old self—

Like a defense mechanism.

Oh. Oh that's sad. What the fuck.

Sherlock has turned back to Lestrade and is asking about Rachel. Except Lestrade explains that Rachel is dead. Sherlock seems quite excited about that fact. It initially startles John, but then he re-acclimates as he remembers Sherlock's excitement is at the puzzle, not the woman's death.

“How, when, and why? Is there a connection? There has to be.”

“Well, I doubt it, since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago.”

Oh. Well that's... odd. And sad. But mostly odd.

Sherlock's apparently confused by it too: “No, that's... that's not right. How... Why would she do that? Why?” And while John agrees there's something niggling at him that something's off, Sherlock's phrasing definitely makes him sound like he's extremely disappointed in what he thought was an important clue being a red herring.

“Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments? Yup—sociopath; I'm seeing it now.”

John nearly delivers on the backhand. So close. It wouldn't do to shatter face bones from a backhand though. Hardly subtle, that.

Sherlock turns with an exasperated look that John feels in his bones. Anderson is tiring to deal with—and John isn't even dealing with him right now! “She didn't think about her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort. It would have hurt.”

Exactly! That's what's bothering John. Thinking about her daughter in her final moments makes sense. Writing it down wouldn't have been too weird in comparison to scratching it painfully into wood. It's so much work she could've spent actually thinking about her daughter. Or—

Or.

Oh.

Maybe?

Long shot, but...

“It might be about her daughter, but not actually the daughter herself...” John mutters softly. He's not certain about it, but... it's an idea. A starting place, perhaps.

Sherlock turns on him. “What do you mean?”

“Well. It's just. People use important things in their lives as passwords, right? Maybe she was...” He loses confidence as he says it; everyone is staring at him. He'd just thought maybe she would write something that could incriminate the murderer. 'Dying message' was a popular media thing after all so someone dying might think of it. Maybe John's wrong though. “Nevermind.” He ends softly, awkwardly.

Sherlock's eyes are wide and bright though. “If you were dying, what would you think about?”

John hesitates. There's John Watson's answer, and there's his answer. He decides on John Watson's: “Please God, let me live.”

“No, no, use your imagination, you were—”

“Don't have to.” John mutters. Sherlock actually stops for a second and shuffles with an apologetic scrunch to his face. Sherlock thinks the person who had to think that is standing before him. Thankfully, god did not let John Watson live.

“Not good?” Sherlock asks, sounding uncertain.

“Bit not good, yeah.” John offers. He doesn't actually mind, but he's not gonna lie to Sherlock neither.

He doesn't apologize actively but instead rephrases: “You're going to die by poison you've been forced to ingest. What do you think about?”

“Rache.” John mutters, feeling the irony in his bones, and the embarrassment of Sherlock taking his line of logic seriously. What if he's wrong?

“Revenge.” Sherlock picks up excitedly. “Exactly!" He shuffles through the stuff on the table to find his computer. "She's trying to tell us something!”

Mrs Hudson has come up to let Sherlock know his taxi has arrived—

But he never called for a taxi. Did he? He texted Angelo throughout the chase, apparently. Can you text for a taxi? Not to mention—

The driver. John thought it was weird Sherlock didn't give the driver a second glance. He was so focused on the passenger, to John's immense confusion, because wasn't the driver the obvious conclusion??

But he didn't.

But there's a taxi, a taxi Sherlock didn't call for, calling for him.

Oh.

Clever girl! Sherlock thought as he successfully logged onto the Mephone website using the e-mail address on the suitcase tag—she didn't have a laptop so she must've done her work on her smartphone—and Rachel as the password. Rachel was her password! He loves it when the victims are smart!

And John's idea was good. About the daughter, but not the daughter herself. He should have more confidence in himself; he's clearly able to follow basic lines of deduction to reach practical conclusions. Maybe living with him won't be such a hassle after all. The last few hours have proved they were quite companionable socially, much to his surprise.

A smart victim! A smart and friendly amiable flatmate! Today is Christmas.

The locator takes time to locate (3 minutes?! he hates this cheap company) as he turns to grin at John. Who is no longer standing where he was. Where'd he wander off to at a pivotal, vital moment of the case?

Sherlock ignores the disappointment of the disappearance and turns back to the laptop that is still processing.

He stands and starts directing Lestrade in what needs to be done. "We need to get vehicles, get a helicopter. We're gonna have to move fast. This phone battery won't last forever."

"We'll just have a map reference, not a name." Lestrade comments uselessly.

"It's a start!" Sherlock turns back to the laptop which is now zooming into the location. Good!

Except.

It finishes processing and shows the location of the phone alright... but it's showing the location at the flat? But that's not possible; the murderer called from it earlier. "How can it be in the flat? How?"

Lestrade suggests, "Well, maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere."

Sherlock turns, his pulse is elevated and he's missing something, he knows he is, he just doesn't know what, and bites at Lestrade, "What, and I didn't notice it? Me? I didn't notice it?"

Lestrade turns to his colleagues and shouts, "Guys, we're also looking for a phone somewhere here, belonged to the victim..."

Sherlock meanwhile ignores the useless search. Is it in the flat? Was it dropped off while him and John were out? Planted, just like Jennifer Wilson did to him? Did the murderer know Sherlock was after him? Why would the phone still be on him once he got out of the—

The locator dot starts moving on the screen. Away from Baker Street. A resurgent thought hits him like a truck:

Where did John go?

Chapter Text

Sir Jeffery Patterson left a railway station.

Who do we trust, even if we don't know them?

James Phillimore on a rainy evening.

Who passes unnoticed wherever they go?

Beth Davenport didn't have her keys.

Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?

Jennifer Wilson arrives in London.

Mrs Hudson said there was a cab calling for him.

Where is John Watson?

“Taxi for Sherlock Holmes.” Jeff says. He's not sure about this, but his sponsor asked that his next victim be Sherlock Holmes specifically, so that's who it'll be.

“I didn't order a taxi.” The man says. He doesn't look at all like Jeff thought he would, but who is he to judge? He remembers the two chasing his cab. He'd figured the taller one to be Holmes, if only because of how he'd jumped in front of the cab with a fake ID and questioned the passenger. But it was the other one, this shorter one, who actually saw through the passenger ruse. Who looked directly at him, the driver, with suspicion. The taller one's 'deduction' had been based off the luggage tag: hardly impressive. But this one? This one saw right through him.

“Doesn't mean you don't need one.” He offers.

“It's you, isn't it?” He asks simply.

“Yeah. No one ever thinks about the cabbie. It's like you're invisible. Just the back of a head. Proper advantage for a serial killer.” This guy's profile is of a genius who solves crimes. The admission should serve to lure him in.

“Is this a confession?” Sherlock Holmes asks.

“Oh, yeah. And I'll tell you what else: if you call the coppers now, I won't run. I'll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise.”

“'Kay.” is what the man says and then turns his back to yell into the flat.

Jeff hadn't expected that, but he isn't caught off guard by it either. His body moves on instinct, and the syringe finds its mark in the man's neck while the other successfully cuts off the shout.

The reaction is immediate and violent. Jeff finds himself slumped against his taxi from the force of the man's shove—stronger than he looks!—and the man is bent over gagging and clutching at the syringe, pulling it out. It's too late though. All the poor guy can do is throw the syringe at the wall where it shatters with the force of the throw.

Damn, it would take too long to pick up all those pieces. He turns to open the back door before jogging over to pick up the larger pieces at least. He can't find the needle with his eyes though, before turning back to the guy on his knees with cloudy eyes.

He walks over to the weakening body. “I was told it'd take quite a bit to overcome your drug resistance.” He whispers into the detective's ear as the drug takes its effects.

The terror on the man's face is liberating.

Sherlock is dashing from the dining table and down the stairs to the street, completely ignoring any comments made by the officers. Why did no one question where John was going!? Did nobody notice him leaving? Sherlock had been setting up the GPS locator at that time...

There was a taxi calling for him despite not having called a cab. John had been giving him a strange look the entire time he had been looking at the passenger. John had leaned into the cab and looked at the driver. John had been trying to ask him why he was interested in the passenger instead of the driver, but he kept being cut off. John disappeared after the first mention of a cab being here for him, asking for Sherlock Holmes—

The street is completely barren this time of the night. No sign of a cab.

He spins on heel to dash back into the flat, to the locator, when he notices something on the ground that wasn't there earlier. Broken pieces of something. Plastic? There's markings of some kind on them but they're far too small to parse at a glance. He pulls out his phone to get better lighting on them—

Something glints in the light. A thin, metal needle.

That wasn't there when they arrived. Someone had tried to clean it up, but didn't have the time to grab much, and didn't find the needle wedged in the grout.

He stands to dash back into the house, but Lestrade is blocking the stairwell with his existence.

“Get people on that signal now, Lestrade. Or you'll have another victim on your hands within the hour,” is what he says as he shoves past.

“What? What's happened?”

Sherlock whirls on him, furious with himself with the officers. “Doctor Watson disappeared after a cab called for me. I did not call for a cab. There is a broken syringe on the doorstep that wasn't there half an hour ago. The locator showed the phone being at Baker Street. It's currently showing the phone leaving Baker Street. Put it together yourself. Better yet, go downstairs and start your vehicle. I'll be down with the GPS.”

Lestrade is startled by this news, to Sherlock's vicious satisfaction even if it is hollow, but he immediately pulls out his phone and begins heading downstairs after a sharp nod. One of the few reasons Sherlock likes Lestrade more than other DIs is that he'll act quickly when needed.

Sherlock scoops up the computer and grabs his coat with his other hand on the way down the stairs. He doesn't put it on yet, just slides shotgun into Lestrade's vehicle with the laptop on his lap before he attempts to shrug it on. “Move,” he tells Lestrade when the man doesn't immediately do so.

John wakes, feeling groggy and uncomfortable. The world is vibrating and he is not a fan of that.

A voice cuts through the haze, “You're up a bit earlier than I'd thought you'd be.”

The cabbie from earlier. John jerks himself upright, though his head isn't a huge fan of the movement either.

“Don't worry. Almost there.” is all the driver says.

Fucking serial killers man.

“Well, since we have this time now we can have a good chat.” John would really rather not. “Recognized you, soon as I saw you chasing my cab. Sherlock Holmes! I was warned about you. I've been on your website, too. Brilliant stuff! Loved it!”

Still thinks he's Sherlock Holmes then. John's kinda glad Sherlock doesn't keep a picture of himself on his website. The downside is the drug. John vaguely remembers the cabbie mentioning he had to use a higher dosage because of drug resistance. Likely, it was the increased dosage that was enough to work on John's biology. A downside of his biology is that his body metabolizes things quickly, be it food or drugs. On the off occasion he drinks, if he drinks enough in a short enough time period, he gets drunk quickly. The upside is that any effects tend to wear off quickly. He'll get drunk quickly, but he won't stay drunk for very long.

He shouldn't have turned his back. It was a foolish thing to do. An amateur mistake. He was complacent with the officers inside the flat and a single very human cabbie. He should've known there was something else. Ugh.

Oh well. He's here now, and the situation isn't too bad considering. So long as he doesn't get another neck full of sedative again, he shouldn't have any problems. He's not sure if his last ditch thought to leave crack the syringe with his hand and leave it at the scene worked all that well though. He remembers the cabbie trying to pick up some of the pieces, but he's pretty sure some got left behind in the haste. Long shot, but if someone was going to notice such a thing the man living in that flat would be the one.

John's throat feels constricted. The sedative? It's a bit hard to speak, but he manages, “Who warned you about me?”

“Just someone out there who's noticed you.”

Yeah that's not worrying at all. Enemies indeed.

“Who would notice me?” He asks. If he's playing Sherlock Holmes right now, he's gonna do it right.

“You're too modest.” That's a laugh.

Sherlock would be somewhat cognizant of that: “I'm really not.”

“You've got yourself a fan.” Yeah and that's not creepy at all.

“Tell me more.”

“That's all you're gonna know... in this lifetime.”

John's got plenty of lifetimes... but he knows what's happening. Isolated location. Forced ingestion. The how and why are still up in the air though. He'd caught talk of a smartphone's GPS on his way out; and the phone on the passenger seat is a smartphone. He shouldn't even have to do much work himself. Just buy time 'fore company arrives. He can do that.

Sherlock reads off turns as necessary. He doesn't know where the end destination is though. Somewhere isolated, that's clear, but there are plenty of possibilities. Too many to narrow down in this part of London. All they can do is follow.

Lestrade is looking over at him on occasion with a worried look. Sherlock ignores him.

All of the victims died after reaching the location. They swallow the pills themselves. His flatmate should still be alive.

Sherlock doesn't admit it's not just the flatshare he's interested in saving.

It's not too long after he's woken up that they've pulled into a place. Two buildings tower over them.

“Where are we?” He fishes.

“You know every street in London.” Fuck. No he doesn't. “You know exactly where we are.”

“Yes, but why here?” He avoids as best he can.

“It's open; cleaners are in. One thing about being a cabbie: you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I'm surprised more of us don't branch out.”

“And you just walk your victims in? How?” Sherlock would be interested first and foremost in the case.

The cabbie pulls out a pistol and John doesn't have to fake the eye roll, though he adds the huff of disappointed “Oh, dull.”

“Don't worry. It gets better.”

“You can't make people take their own lives at gunpoint.”

“I don't. It's much better than that.” Fucker's excited about it. “Come on.”

John rolls his eyes again and starts to get out of the car when it hits him. Two buildings. Victim's phone's in the cab. Not good.

John makes sure to trudge a bit in his walk to the door.

The lighting condition is poor, but he could've sworn... he'll have to check it in better lighting. His night vision might be fantastic, but it's hardly perfect. That gun looked off somehow though...

He's led to a room that cabbie-guy has him open. An empty classroom. Huh. So this is where he's supposedly going to die. What fun.

“Well, what do you think?” John gives him a look that he hopes conveys 'what do I think about what?' “It's up to you. You're the one who's gonna die here.”

“No, I'm not.”

“That's what they all say.”

Except John's not human. State-altering drugs might work on him more or less as expected, but death-inducing ones have limited effects. Oh, they'll knock him out all right or—in one unfortunately memorable experience—send him into a temporary coma, but they won't kill him.

Not exactly ideal for his cover though.

It clicks in Sherlock's mind as soon as it appears on-screen. Roland-Kerr Further Education College. The time of day means that it'll likely be open for cleaning staff. It's rather opportune. When the dot settles by it he relays the location to Lestrade who relays it further.

Sherlock sees the taxi from the window: same license plate from the chase. They're in the right place...

But there's a problem. Two buildings.

Sherlock opens the door before the car has fully stopped, much to Lestrade's verbal complaint, and Sherlock is beside the cab in an instant. It's unlocked. Jennifer Wilson's phone is sitting in the passenger's seat. There are pictures of children on the driver's side. Sherlock finds John's phone on the floor of the back seat, close to the door. There's nothing but bottled water in the boot.

“They're here!” He shouts the confirmation to Lestrade who had made his way over. Sally pulls in behind just as Sherlock pulls back from his examination of the cab.

“You're sure?”

“Our victim's phone is in the front seat and John's is in the back.” There's just the problem of which building?

“Donovan, check the building on the left. I'll take right. Sherlock, stay out here.” Like hell!

He doesn't bother answering though. He'd taken to checking the ground with his phone's light on the off chance there was something to be found, and notices a pattern of footsteps that seemed to have dug into the ground heading towards the building on the right.

John's phone was left behind. On purpose? The size of the shoe prints are correct. Lestrade's own prints cover some of the proof, but there's a second less clear set of prints following the same path. The phone had been left closest to the door. It'd have been the ideal spot to have been dropped intentionally without it being noticed as he got out of the cab.

Sherlock enters the building on the right.

“Shall we talk?” The murderer asks and gestures to one of the benches. The lighting is better in here and John gives the gun a good once over. Both special forces guy's, who's memories are still sitting close to the surface from accessing them earlier today, and his own knowledge tell him that the gun might not be real. He wants to see it up closer to be sure.

The murderer takes one side, and John spins a chair to sit on the other side.

“Bit risky, wasn't it? Took me away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen. Mrs Hudson will remember you.”

“You call that a risk? Nah.” Arrogance much. He pulls out a bottle from his cardigan. “This is a risk.”

Probably the poison, if John had to guess.

“Ooh, I like this bit. 'Cause you don't get it yet, do you? But you're about to. I just have to do this.”

And then he pulls out a second glass bottle with pills in it.

Huh.

It might be a bad thing that John hasn't caught on yet.

“You weren't expecting that, were you?” And then he leans forward. “Ooh. You're going to love this.”

John really won't. But. Gotta buy time: “Love what?”

The guy sits back and says, “Sherlock Holmes. Look at you! Here in the flesh. That website of yours: your fan told me about it.”

Creepy. And amusingly incorrect. But: “My fan?”

“You are brilliant.” And John can hear the manipulation like it's a tangible wind. “You are. A proper genius. 'The Science of Deduction.' Now that is proper thinking. Between you and me sitting here, why can't people think?”

And then the fucker looks down with this affected expression of anger on his face. “Don't it make you mad? Why can't people just think?”

He looks up again and meets John's eyes. John is so done with this guy already. He's not even interesting. He's pomp and arrogance and not in the fun way Sherlock is.

“Oh, I see. So you're a proper genius too.” The sarcasm is dripping from his lips.

“Don't look it, do I?” John can't tell if his comment has been taken seriously or not. “Funny little man driving a cab. But you'll know better in a minute. Chances are it'll be the last thing you ever know.” John would roll his eyes if he thought it wouldn't bring too much attention to himself.

Honestly, what even is his life? He was never normal, but he's met three cartoonishly dramatic people today, two of whom are painting themselves as antagonists, one of whom has definitely killed innocent people. Even with that last one it's all so funny to him. Little humans trying to scare each other, intimidate the other into thinking the way they want, completely ignorant of just what they're messing with and how much they look like kittens puffing up their fur to him.

John keeps eye contact for as long as his patience allows before he gets bored enough to look away to the bottles and asks, “Okay. Two bottles. Explain.”

“There's a good bottle and a bad bottle.” So John's meant to pick? “You take the pill from the good bottle, you live; take the pill from the bad bottle, you die.”

That would be how he got people to kill themselves at gun point. Right then.

“Both bottles are, of course, identical.”

“In every way.” Minus the poison, apparently. John remembers reading about how for placebo pills it can be important that the fake pills mimic the real thing. Smell, taste, appearance, etc. There wouldn't be a way to tell until the effects take place.

“And you know which is which.”

“Course I know.”

“But I don't.”

“Wouldn't be a game if you knew. You're the one who chooses.”

“Why should I? I've got nothing to go on. What's in it for me?”

“I haven't told you the best bit yet. Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one—and then, together, we take our medicine.” Wow what a fuck.

Sherlock would probably grin or something though, so John does that.

“I won't cheat.” As if John believes that. The guy fucking drugged him when he went to tattle. “It's your choice. I'll take whatever pill you don't.”

Sherlock would probably examine the bottles with the intent of figuring it out. John gives them a cursory glance before deciding 'yup, they're identical.' and moving on with his life.

“Didn't expect that, did you, Mr Holmes?” Don't care about that, is how John feels.

“This is what you did to the rest of them: you gave them a choice.”

“And now I'm giving you one.” Not really.

“You take your time. Get yourself together.” He licks his lips in anticipation. John, meanwhile, is ecstatic at having an excuse to just wait around and buy time. Provided the phone hadn't lost battery on the trip over, this guy must actually be pretty dense not to consider the smartphone a liability. Not really a genius at all then, probably. Even John, the ever tech illiterate, got that bit. Burner phones are a thing for a reason. Regardless, he'll give it 10 minutes before he calls it a lost cause and takes matters into his own hands. “I want your best game.”

“It's not a game. It's chance.” John says in his boredom.

“I've played four times. I'm alive. It's not chance, Mr Holmes, its chess. It's a game of chess, with one move, and one survivor. And this... this... is the move.”

Then he slides the left bottle towards John. John so wants to laugh in his face. He licks his lip again.

“Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one.”

All John can think is, 'This is pointless.' He just pointed out the flaw in this whole setup. Two possibilities immediately spring to mind: he's lying, they're both poisoned, and there's sleight of hand involved in making sure he survives. The other is that it really is chance and he's just a lucky motherfucker.

Moving one of the bottles isn't a move when you know jack shit about the other player.

It's fucking Princess Bride up in here.

Oh. Maybe it is Princess Bride in here? Not the immunity thing, but it sparks an idea in John's mind. John swears he's heard something like this situation before. A riddle or something. There are two pills. You're told one is poisoned and one isn't. You choose which one to take and the other is taken by your enemy. It's set up by the enemy; how does the enemy ensure he won't die from it and you will?

The third possibility solidifies as a hypothesis in John's mind as he considers, Sherlock Holmes has a fan.

Once inside the building Sherlock catches sight of Lestrade heading down the first floor hall. He leaves that to him and takes the stairs two at a time to reach the third floor. From the hallway he hears the faint chatter of voices beyond one of the sets of doors and opens them with what's probably more force than necessary.

John's sitting at a bench across from another man. John looks up at Sherlock's arrival with a pleased, if languid, look on his face. There are two bottles on the table, both with pills in them. The cabbie is looking at Sherlock with an expression clearly indicating surprise. There's a gun in his hand.

“Oh thank god.” John says a moment following Sherlock's entrance. Sherlock sees the cabbie tighten his hand on the gun when he tries to step closer. “This guy was just in the middle of trying to bore me to death.”

The cabbie pulls the gun and levels it at Sherlock.

John, who seems utterly removed from the seriousness of the situation, rolls his eyes at this and says, “Enough of that.” And then reaches over the bench towards the gun, leisurely, and continues, “We both know that isn't a real gun.”

John successfully yanks the gun from the cabbie's hand, sits back in his seat, points it out the window, fires—and a small flame comes from the muzzle.

He then pulls his arm back in, shrugs, and tosses the gun off to the far side of the room.

Once the fake gun is across the room John stretches his arms above his head lazily, favoring the shoulder where he must've been wounded, and lazily states, “Well. I've done my job. Mind if I leave the rest to you, Sherlock?”

John watches the cabbie's face with a satisfied smirk as he says his name. The cabbie turns wide-eyed at that where he had merely sighed at the reveal of the fake gun. Ah. He must've assumed John was actually him and John played along with it. The cab was calling for Sherlock after all.

“Yup.” John pops. “You got the wrong guy. Good going there.” He turns to Sherlock. “Where the cops?”

“Checking the rest of the building. Lestrade'll be here eventually.” The cabbie's face pales at that. “What's going on here?”

“This guy” John points smugly at the cabbie “thinks he's smart. According to him, he pulls people into isolated places with a gun, shows them two bottles, says one bottle is good and the other is bad, makes them choose which bottle to take, and then he takes the pill from the other bottle. That's how he gets them to kill themselves.”

“According to him? You don't think so?” Sherlock asks as he walks closer. The bottles on the table are suddenly fascinating.

“I don't see it. He's done this four times already and is planning on a fifth? And he leaves it up to chance? He either really is leaving it up to chance and is genuinely lucky, or, more likely, there's a trick to it that ensures his survival.”

The cabbie swallows and appears to regain some of his composure. “I told you. It's not chance. You're not playing the numbers, you're playing me. Did I give you the good pill or the bad pill? Is it a bluff? Or a double-bluff? Or a triple bluff?”

“It's boring is what it is.” John yawns from where he's slumped on his chair. “Also, in case you didn't notice, I'm not playing anymore. Never was, really.”

“Still just chance.” Sherlock supplies. He wants to know. Now that the immediate threat has dimmed to a simmer, his mind is once again able to enjoy the tangle of the puzzle.

“Four people in a row? It's not just chance.”

“Luck.” Sherlock intones.

“It's genius.” John snorts at that. The cabbie ignores him. “I know how people think.”

“Clearly not.” John comments. He's leaning one elbow on the table now, watching the proceedings with an amused expression.

“I know how people think I think.” And the cabbie's ignoring John entirely, focusing only on Sherlock. “I can see it all, like a map inside my head. Everyone's so stupid—even you. Or maybe God just loves me.”

“Or maybe you're a cheater.” John mutters, apparently content to be the peanut gallery.

“So, you risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?” Something about that is nipping at Sherlock's mind, he just hasn't pieced it together yet.

“Time to play.” The cabbie motions to the bottles. John notices Sherlock's eyes flick between them and makes a frown followed by him saying, “Nope. None of that. We can literally just have them tested for poison after this if you really must know.” He follows this up by reaching to pocket them.

The cabbie is clearly not a fan of that and moves to stop John, but John's having none of it and easily grabs the cabbie's wrists. He glares directly into the man's eyes before roughly throwing each wrist aside in opposite directions and grabbing both bottles and stuffing each one into a different pocket.

“Please. Feel free to continue where you left off. Just pretend I'm not even here. Or the only voice of common sense in the room.” He sweeps his hands dramatically at that. The cabbie's face can't seem to decide between anger, frustration, and fear. Why fear?

Sherlock takes John at his word and takes a third chair to add to the bench. He steeples his hands in front of him and starts his 'turn', “There's shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody's pointed it out to you. Traces of where it's happened before, so obviously you live on your own; there's no one to tell you. But there's a photograph of children. The children's mother has been cut out of the picture. If she'd died, she'd still be there. The photograph's old but the frame's new. You think of your children but you don't get to see them. Estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them and it still hurts.”

The cabbie manages to regain himself by this point, but Sherlock's not done. “Your clothes: recently laundered but everything you're wearing's at least... three years old? Keeping up appearances but not planning ahead. And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What's that about?”

The cabbie's expression is controlled and flat at this point, but the deduction hits him anyways, “Ahh. Three years ago. Is that when they told you?”

“Told me what?”

“That you're a dead man walking.”

John turns his gaze on the cabbie fully at that and with narrowed eyes seems to draw the same conclusion. He nods sharply, once, and then returns to his leisurely state.

“You don't have long, am I right?”

The cabbie smiles. “Aneurysm.” He taps the side of his head. “Right in here. Any breath could be my last.”

Sherlock smiles at that, and then John makes it better by staring at him in admiration and saying, “Fantastic.”

Then a thought hits him and Sherlock's frowning. “And because you're dying, you've just murdered four people?”

“I've outlived four people. That's the most fun you can have on an aneurysm.”

“No, that's fucked.” is what John says, frowning as well, glaring at the guy. “You abused their trust in you. That's not okay.”

Sherlock meanwhile has a different thought passing through his mind: “No, no. There's something else. You didn't just kill four people because you're bitter. Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator.” Sherlock knows that personally; John's giving him a look that he ignores. “Somehow this is about your children.”

The cabbie sighs at that and looks away. “Ohh.” And then he looks back. “You are good, ain't you?”

“But how?” This is the crux of the motive. He can feel it. John seems more actively attentive as well—that syringe, what was in it? Is he okay?

“When I die, they won't get much, my kids. Not a lot of money in driving cabs.”

“Or serial killing.” None of the victims were robbed.

“You'd be surprised.”

“Surprise me.” Sherlock pushes.

The cabbie leans forward and says, “I have a sponsor.”

“You have a what?” Both Sherlock and John respond in unison.

“For every life I take, money goes to my kids. The more I kill, the better off they'll be. You see? It's nicer than you think.”

“Oh, I'm sure they'll be real happy to know where their funds are coming from. No wonder you've been estranged.” John mutters as Sherlock asks, “Who'd sponsor a serial killer?”

“The fan?” John answers, staring intently at the murderer.

“Fan, what fan?” Sherlock asks.

“Apparently,” John says to him, “you've got a fan. The creepy kind that sponsors serial killers.”

Sherlock's brows raise at that. Then he switches to stare at their murderer again who says, “You're not the only one to enjoy a good murder. There's other out there just like you, except you're just a man... and they're so much more than that.”

Horror sluices through John at that phrasing. It couldn't be. Surely his sponsor isn't...

But it's possible. And that mere possibility is enough to paralyze John.

Sticking with Sherlock Holmes might just end up being important to his mission.

“What d'you mean, more than a man?” Sherlock continues the thread, distantly from John's current mindspace. “An organization? What?” This isn't their usual experiment though...

“There's a name no one says. And I'm not gonna say it either.” Not the company name then. But he could be referring to a smaller part of it...

His eyes flit to the table and then to John's pockets, but John is still stuck on the possibility. He considers asking bluntly, but he doesn't want Sherlock to get curious about it or ask questions or do his own research about it later.

“Well then, what use are you?” Sherlock says as he stands up. And the tone is enough to shock John out of his paralysis. He begins to stand as well, glancing outside as he does so, when he sees it.

His body is moving before he can even think. He's throwing himself at Sherlock, dragging him roughly to the floor as he shouts, “Get down!”

Sherlock's barely finished standing when John's weight is dragging him down. The sound of shattering glass deafens the room, as does the following scream. The cabbie falls and sprawls out next to Sherlock on the ground. John holds Sherlock still when his body moves to look closer, around the bench blocking them from the window's view.

“Hold on.” John says calmly. He pulls out a gun (where had he been keeping that?) that must've been his service revolver (why does he still have it?). He shoots up above the bench with it at the ready, but soon after is down on the floor beside Sherlock again without firing a shot. The cabbie gasps in pain beside them.

“Wasn't there.” John tells Sherlock. Sherlock considers the sniper's likely intent. All three of them were in view of the window, but they went for the cabbie.

“We're not be the target.” Sherlock says with more confidence than the situation calls for. He's fairly certain though.

“That was my thought. A sponsor? And I broke the game. He lost usefulness. Backup plan...” John gets a look in his eye and leans around Sherlock to ask, “I've got a question. Was there any difference between this murder attempt and the previous four?”

“What?” The cabbie gasps.

“I'm asking if there was any difference to the game you tried to play with who you thought was Sherlock Holmes and the previous four victims. Was it exactly the same, or was there, say, a drink to help them swallow?”

The cabbie stares incomprehensibly at John while Sherlock listens with interest.

John then turns to Sherlock. “Did you check the cab before you came in? No, wait, of course you did. You saw the kids. Was there anything else in the cab?”

“There were water bottles in the trunk.” Sherlock pronounces each word carefully, trying to figure out where John is going with this.

“Ah-ha.” He says, and grins. “That's how I'd have done it. Either sleight of hand a placebo, to ensure success, or offer some poisoned water to swallow a placebo pill. What tipped it towards the water for me was the inclusion of the fan. Especially as the sponsor. Why would the fan want you dead already?”

The cabbie looks stricken at John's thought. “You didn't know, did you?” Sherlock asks to see if he can get any information out of him, but he doesn't say a thing, simply looks through Sherlock with a thousand mile stare.

John picks up after a moment when it's clear he won't answer. “A blind. The murderer will be able to act more confidently if he thinks his actions actually have a consequence in the game. Your fan doesn't want you dead, so he tells the cabbie not to offer you the poisoned water. Still just a hypothesis though. Would have to test the pills and water to confirm the idea. Still.” John is still grinning to himself.

Sherlock likes it when John is confident.

“It's a gamble of its own though. That the victim will take the water.” Whereas sleight of hand would be more reliable.

“Do you really think someone who sponsors a serial killer cares?” It echoes back to Sherlock's earlier comments about the serial killer showing up at Northumberland. “They're a fan of yours. Instead of assassinating you outright, he sponsors a serial killer? They don't care about the murders, they care about enticing you, testing you. Probably. They'd need the killer to believe his own methods, but with no actual danger to you, in order to trick you into believing him... that was my thought process at least."

Sherlock nods. “Won't know until we test them I suppose.”

“Guess not. So which one did you think it was?”

“What?” Sherlock asks, confused. “You just reasoned out that it was likely the water.”

“Well, I'm probably wrong. So which one?” John asks cheekily.

Sherlock stares at the self-deprecating smirk with affected disdain. What happened to that confidence less than a moment ago? Instead of answering he stands abruptly.

“Whoa, hey, what're you doing?” John hisses and stands up behind him, eyeing the building beyond the window warily. The sniper is still missing, probably packed up and left to avoid the cops crawling through the campus that would've heard that shot.

“Proving a point.” Sherlock says simply, satisfied with the current situation. The cabbie is still bleeding on the floor, definitely dying, and with an answer that Sherlock needs.

“Tell me the name of your sponsor.” The cabbie stares straight up at him, having finally come back from his shock of having been manipulated. “They lied to you and had you shot. Why protect them on your deathbed?”

John has moved over to the window to keep a close eye and adds, “Given that track record, the whole point of this, that they might pay your kids, might even be a lie. They might even have them killed. They might've planned to the whole time, or they might make the decision in light of your failure. You might as well.”

The cabbie withdraws again at the mention of that. That he killed people willfully, enthusiastically, for a sponsor who not only betrayed him but might hurt the kids he strove to do all of it for. That or he's about to die. That would be anticlimactic.

Sherlock moves to put his foot on his wound just as the man mutters, “Moriarty. That's the name you want.”

To say Lestrade was not happy was a bit of an understatement, though John's insistence that Sherlock's arrival was a godsend seemed to assuage him a bit. Although if Sherlock remembers correctly it was less saving his life and more taking reign of the conversation. John was rather efficient in his explanation of what happened, so he mostly let him deal with the statement, only jumping in to add in something he'd noticed that John had failed to mention.

The police found nothing in the buildings across the way, not even in the one John pointed out as having seen the sniper in.

Jefferson Hope was the name of their murderous cabbie. Didn't have much hope at the end, did he?

Why Lestrade was insistent on keeping the shock blanket on his shoulders he has no idea, but even John had taken to pulling it back on him whenever he tried to slip it off. Where Lestrade's insistence appeared to be from misplaced worry, John's actions seemed distinctly more playful in nature, even trying to stack his own onto Sherlock with that cheeky and friendly grin on his face.

John leaves out any mention of Moriarty, only notes there was a sponsor and explaining what that meant, and Sherlock is content to keep it that way. They instruct Lestrade to have the pills (he'd had a third pill on his person, sleight of hand indeed!) and the water bottles tested for the same poison that killed the previous victims. The look on Lestrade's face when John produces a bottle of pills from each of his pockets was definitely amusing.

Eventually Lestrade lets them go for the night. They both get a bit away from the crime scene before Sherlock asks, “Are you all right?”

“Hm?” John turns a confused look on him.

“Well you were just drugged, kidnapped, and watched a man die.”

“That's true, innit?” John says, and apparently his response was to stifle a laugh. “He wasn't a very nice man though.”

“No. No, he wasn't really, was he?” Sherlock's relieved John seems to be okay.

“And frankly a bloody awful cabbie.” Sherlock has to laugh at that because: “That's true. He was a bad cabbie. You should've seen the route he took to get here.”

They're both giggling at that as John bats at Sherlock's hand lightly saying, “We shouldn't giggle a crime scene. Stop that.” John doesn't bother trying to stop himself though.

Once they've got control of themselves Sherlock asks, “When Mrs Hudson came up to tell me about the cab—why did you head down alone?”

“Huh? Oh.” John's face morphs into an interesting arrangement of embarrassment. “I kind of, uh, didn't think that through. My mind went 'what if it's him' and my body followed it without really considering the consequences. And then when I was outside I turned my back like a fool.”

The red on his face is kind of cute.

“I don't think 'kind of' is an accurate enough assessment of that.”

John elbows him lightly and says, smiling, “Uh huh. And you wouldn't have done the same if you had figured it out first? Please. We both know you can't resist a good puzzle, certainly not the answer to a puzzle. It's what you do, isn't it? Risk your life to prove you're clever?”

"And why would I do that?"

"Because you're a fool." John giggles. He's being teased and its... fun.

“And how would you know that?” He quips, smiling back. “We've only known each other for a day.”

“And what does that say about you, hm? That I was able to pick up on that part of you so vividly within a day.” John's grin is infectious.

Sherlock's glad John seems to be okay. If after all this John decided to skip on the flatshare after all...

And why is a feeling of disappointment threatening to appear at that thought? It doesn't appear solely tied to his accounts anymore. The sheer dread he'd felt from the moment he saw that John had disappeared... That wasn't just frustration for his finances. That's... worrying.

But it's also nice. To have someone who understands him to a degree. To be seen, to be known. It feels good.

“Dinner?” He asks, feeling famished and not wanting this night to end just yet.

“Starving.” John agrees. (Didn't he eat a few hours ago??)

As they start walking again Sherlock suggests, “End of Baker Street, there's a good Chinese stays open 'til two. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle.”

“I'll take your word for it.”

Sadly the conversation is overshadowed by the black car haunting the street ahead of them. John notices Sherlock's sudden change in disposition and turns to look, and develops an near identical look of annoyance.

Mycroft pulls himself out of the car to greet them. If his brother was going to lack the decorum to spy on him, the least he could do was stay out of his life.

“Yeah. That's the guy who abducted me earlier.” And then a little louder: “Am I so irresistible that mysterious men in cars can't help themselves?”

Sherlock bites down the laugh and simply says, “I know exactly who that is.”

“So another case cracked,” Mycroft says, sounding infuriatingly smug, “How very public spirited... though that's never really your motivation, is it?” Mycroft's never really forgiven him for refusing to be his willing pawn.

“What are you doing here?”

“As ever, I'm concerned about you.”

John mutters, “Could've fooled me.” Sherlock fights back the smile such an exasperated response at Mycroft deserves.

“Yes, I've been hearing about your 'concern'.”

“Always so aggressive.” “I wonder why.” “Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?” “Nah.”

John's color commentary is distracting, but it's easy enough to respond, “Oddly enough, no!”

“We have more in common than you like to believe.” “Mm.” “This petty feud between us is simply childish—”

“Takes two to tango.” John mutters again and Mycroft interrupts himself to glare at John and ask, “Must you?”

John stares right into Mycroft's eyes and says, “Yep.” popping the p as he does with what must be an infuriating smirk. It's satisfying to see that tactic used against Mycroft. He does so hate it when people don't take him seriously.

Mycroft's face is the perfect mix of anger and irritation before he clamps down on his outburst. He turns back to Sherlock, obviously ignoring John at this point, to continue, “People will suffer and you know how it always upset Mummy.” though he's clearly not as unflappable as he was a moment ago.

“Called it.” John continues as Sherlock bites out, “I upset her? Me?” Using Mummy is a low blow and he knows that. Meanwhile John's staring with this satisfied look on his face. “It wasn't me who upset her, Mycroft.”

“And how did you call anything.” Ah. Not ignoring John after all. Either that or it didn't work as well as he'd hoped. Perhaps if Mycroft spent less time spying and more time using his mind he'd have figured out John's not part of the mindless masses.

“Family resemblance.” He shrugs smugly. Which. Ew. He does not resemble Mycroft. His face must give his disgust away because John glances at him and says, “You're both good at reading things us normals can't imagine.” He turns back to Mycroft. “Plus: arch-enemy? I've got a sister. I understand. Though you two take it to a whole 'nother level.” John's still grinning. He then jokes: “Kind of sad he's not a criminal mastermind though—could you imagine the drama?”

“He's close enough.” Sherlock bemoans.

“For goodness' sake. I occupy a minor position in the British government.”

“He is the British government, when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis.” Wait. Maybe he shouldn't have said that to John. John doesn't looked peeved though, in fact he looks—

“That's impressive,” with a smile.

A spike of jealously runs through Sherlock. Suddenly Sherlock wants to be far away from here.

“Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what is does for the traffic.”

Oh dear. A single compliment and his brother is running away. He'd noticed the closeness the two shared as they'd walked away from the scene. The delighted look on Sherlock's face when he looked at John. Less than a day and his brother was in farther than anyone could've hoped.

With who? He's yet to have the time to investigate Doctor Watson more deeply, but everything about him screams 'average man.' He's a better than good doctor, so Mycroft supposes there must be some intelligence in there, and he had guessed at their relations. But there's just no real substance to him yet. His instincts are telling him there's more.

Meanwhile this John's staring after Sherlock like he's hung the moon. Or at least provided enjoyable enough company. It'd be sweet if it weren't for Mycroft's own distaste of sentiment—bad enough he cared for his family. But then he remembers Sherlock when he was younger. Lighter. More innocent. How desperately he'd craved for company. How the intervening years had stripped those qualities from him mercilessly and without restraint. How he'd felt watching the decline of his own brother: the helplessness and frustration.

Perhaps, if they're very lucky, this John Watson fellow will be good for him.

"Interesting, that soldier fellow. He could be the making of my brother—or make him worse than ever. Either way, we'd better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade Three Active."

"You did get shot, though."

"Sorry?"

"In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound."

John pauses as if a deer caught in headlights before he answers, "Oh, yeah. Shoulder."

"Shoulder! I thought so."

"No you didn't."

"The left one."

"Lucky guess."

"I never guess."

"Quote: 'I'd guess something in the media judging by the alarming shade of pink.'"

"Oh that is not the same thing."

"I believe the word you used was... 'never'."

Chapter Text

The weeks pass amicably between Sherlock and John. So much so that Sherlock's wondered at the convenience several times. John has slotted right into his life without much in the way of friction.

Oh, there have been a few road blocks, but it's mostly worked out in his favor:

The first night had seen one of Mycroft's men trying to bug their flat. Sherlock had been too exhausted, but John's must've alerted to the intruder. He'd chased the man out before he'd even gotten all that far. Sherlock was easily able to dispose of the remaining pieces. That must've rankled Mycroft deeply. And in the morning, once John had come down, they'd shared a grin at having gotten one up on him. Apparently neither one of them had any interest in being spied on in their own home.

When John opened the fridge to find a human foot next to the carrots, he forced Sherlock into a discussion over preventing cross-contamination. Apparently severed and decaying body parts are fine so long as health and safety precautions are followed. Not the worst compromise to make and its not like Sherlock wants to catch anything either; Sherlock had intentionally left the foot next to the week old, cooked carrots uncontained just to gauge John's reaction.

Chemical experiments had much the same compromise: do so responsibly. Don't threaten the health and safety of anyone—including himself apparently. Why John had felt the need to add that part is beyond Sherlock. He also didn't seem above using Mrs Hudson as a pushing point.

John seems to favor his violin. He self-admitted he'd never given the violin much thought before, but that he loves (that was the word John used) his playing. Even tonal chats don't seem to bother him. It's only the high-pitched screeching of frustration that seem to unnerve him. And even that seemed more of a physical reaction more than anything.

He also accepts Sherlock's ultimatum that he doesn't do requests. He simply said, “I don't even know any violin pieces to request.”

If Sherlock is unresponsive, John doesn't press unless he feels it's important. Their ideas of what is important differ greatly, but at least the concept is there.

The most interesting discussion they've had was unprompted. Sherlock hadn't even been considering it, though clearly it'd been on John's mind for a while. Since at least the chemistry test. John's acceptance of everything so far had left Sherlock on edge, so when John finally, tentatively, started the conversation, Sherlock was worried about what he'd missed.

“Sherlock. There's one thing I need you to never do. Never, for any reason, experiment on me. I don't care about testing my boundaries—I know that's what you've been doing and I can deal with that, but...” John's eyes became distant for a moment before he finished, “Never experiment on me. It's probably one of the few things that would be an instant deal breaker for me.”

If that's the one thing keeping Sherlock from financial freedom he's sure he'll manage.

“I'm not going to experiment on my flatmate,” is what he had said, affecting offense.

But John had shaken his head and said, “It's not about you. I wouldn't be able to deal with it. If there's something you want from me that you're uncertain if I'll be okay with—just ask. And never, ever, dose me with anything without my express consent.”

It's such a specific set of rules that Sherlock wonders if it comes from somewhere specific.

They don't exactly know each other well enough for Sherlock to pry into that can of worms. Even he could tell it wasn't something to drag into the open and expect the conversation to end well. Not to mention how very little he wants to have such a conversation.

And it's not like Sherlock doesn't understand. He'd avoided food and drink provided by others for awhile afterwards. Eventually he'd gotten over it, half by necessity, half by sheer will. And the statistics are—

“Need an answer, Sherlock.”

“Huh? I already did.”

“Response, perhaps, but not an answer. I need clear confirmation.”

Sherlock held gaze with John for awhile. John didn't seem particularly ashamed about his demand, but he didn't seem completely unaffected either. Sherlock got the clear impression that this was undeniably 'the line' to not cross with him. It was rather... steadying to know there was a line. Rather than wondering just where it was and chance stumbling over it.

“I won't experiment or dose you without your consent.”

“My express consent.”

“What's the difference?”

“My saying yes to something is not saying yes to everything. I better know damn well what I'm getting into.”

He pretended to mull it over for a moment. “Fine. I will not experiment on your person nor dose you with anything without your express consent. There. Happy?”

“Very.” And he looked it, to Sherlock's confusion. Relaxed as compared to a moment ago. Pretty much the only other thing he's been asked to do by John is to be cognizant of health and safety. That appears to be his line in general. Was this just an extension of that? Simply John's worry about living with someone like Sherlock? It's not about you, he'd said. Then who?

Living with Sherlock is... interesting to say the least. John figured it would be, but actually living it was different from expectations. It was fairly clear, at least to John, that Sherlock was intentionally testing his boundaries on certain things. There might've been an uncontained foot in the fridge, but there was plastic beneath and around it, near an item slated for the bin. He easily remembered the eyes Sergeant Donovan had found.

Then there were the chemical experiments. And not just chemical experiments, but all sorts of experiments. John used to be deathly curious about everything as well when he was younger, but his recent experiences left him with a phobia of such things. It hardly seemed fair to tell Sherlock to stop them though. He clearly enjoyed them; whatever he said his reasons for doing them was. And John was interested in them.

He was also just paranoid. And anxious. Worried and afraid. He felt ridiculous. He felt on edge in his own living space.

The violin was an easier topic. It wasn't quite the nostalgia of the cello, but Sherlock was good with it—when he bothered to be. John even found himself reminiscing on his own practices whenever Sherlock ran through a few bars not music. Sherlock's request for no requests didn't even strike John as anything especially unique when compared to the rest of him. It was only the screeching that left him questioning his life choices.

Cases weren't always as interesting as the first. Thank god for that. John might like some excitement in his life but the concept of a constant stream of serial killers was terrifying to consider. Sherlock got a lot of cases typical of a private detective: find my pet, find out if my spouse is cheating on me, I lost this object... Some of them Sherlock threw right out. Some he solved within moments and then threw them out. A few he listened to intently and took them on fully. And John was allowed to linger and watch; it was fantastic.

There had been a couple... incidents that worried John. The first night they'd got back from a companionable dinner and parted for the night. It was late, early morning, a couple hours after they'd gone to bed, when John awoke suddenly. The whole world sharp and alive around him in his current state.

Someone had invaded their home.

Biting down on his rage, he had made his way calmly to the living area where he surprised a man dressed nicely in black. The man swung out at him, which John calmly and easily deflected. He spun around and flipped the man onto the couch where it moved a little with the impact. He hadn't thrown him hard: just enough for him to get the message that he was no match for John.

John then calmly said: “You're one of Mycroft's men, are you not? I don't blame you for doing your job, but I'm afraid that I must encourage you to not finish it.” His eyes had probably been glowing a bit, what with how angry he was. How dare!

The man had taken a moment to contemplate his odds and situation before standing, straightening his cuffs, and then apologizing (how polite!) for the hassle and leaving. John checked the area where he'd been at and found a piece of equipment. He picked it up, snapped it, and plopped it in the trash before heading back upstairs to bed.

The following morning Sherlock had greeted him with a grin and two other pieces of tech John hadn't caught smoldering from an 'experiment'. John had grinned back.

The other incident occurred on a case that came to them a couple weeks after they'd met, around Valentine's Day. A woman named Isadora Persano came in, frayed at the edges. It became clear through the course of things that she was being made to believe she was losing her mind. Sherlock had apparently decided to gaslight the culprit in return in order to get him to confess...

John wasn't completely against it. As a general rule he was staunchly against torture, just not against revenge. It just thrust to the forefront of his mind one of his greatest fears. Sherlock was a scientist. A self-proclaimed sociopath, even if he obviously didn't know the actual meaning of the word. He liked experiments. He was testing John's boundaries. How far could he go? How far would he go?

John couldn't feel safe feeling like he'd have to constantly look over his shoulder to know if his flatmate was going to drug him or cut him open. Ridiculous, surely, but still it was there. Choking him. An itch that demanded to be scratched. So he set the only rules that could not be broken. Maybe there would be more later, but those were the most pressing. Never again.

This is one for the internet geeks out there. 'Anonymous' has been in touch:

'I've emailed you a little message. A little game to play. I do like games.' And he has, indeed, emailed me.

'Dearest Sherlock

A Roman Emperor will help you work out what this means.

DSPCWZNV T LX HLENSTYR JZF

xx'

Obviously, it's a secret code. See how you get on. I'll post the solution later in the week.

Only a couple of days together and some creep was sending Sherlock creepy messages. Was the guy a magnet for stalkers or something? Terrifying. When he'd brought it up to John, he did it in such a way that gave John pause. He seemed to ignore the stalker aspect completely and was simply curious what John thought of the code.

John knew a bit about cryptology. He knew of one called Caesar Shift and instantly suggested it, what with the hint and all. Sherlock had grinned at him in response, but refused to just tell him the answer. He did a quick google search, instead of working it out by hand as Sherlock clearly expected, and revealed the creepy 'sherlock I am watching you'.

Wow. Just wow. Talk about gross.

John got a laugh out of Sherlock for suggesting it was just Mycroft being desperate for his little brother's attention—he'd hammed it up and everything to make it clear it was a joke. So at least there was that.

There's a private case in late February involving a wife worried for her husband. Given to anyone else and they'd have termed it a simple case of adultery, but the woman insisted that her husband seemed to shut down whenever the suspected mistress was mentioned. In particular she described an incident regarding Valentine's Day where her husband had practically begged her to make plans for the both of them for the day. Regardless of what the truth was, she wanted to at least know the truth. Sherlock had worked out that the boyfriend was clearly being blackmailed by the suspected mistress.

Later, after the wife was made aware of the sickening reality, after the 'mistress' was sternly threatened warned off and arrested for attempting to assault the officer brought in once the situation had escalated and John had stood between Sherlock and a gun, why had he done that??, Sherlock and John were decompressing back at Baker Street when John says absently, “Well, you wanted proof. Not the happiest example, but still technically an example.”

Sherlock looks up from his stupor to scrutinize John for his non-sequitur. “What are you talking about?”

“At the end of the Ms Isadora's case around Valentine's you had said that 'love is a defect of the losing side'. This case negates that hypothesis a bit.”

Except it doesn't, Sherlock thinks. What he says is, “But love was the problematic factor in that case, and it certainly caused Ms Ramsek a bit of trouble.” An understatement. Cases involving sexual assault always left Sherlock on edge. John, too, if the persistent tension of his shoulders indicated anything.

“At first, but that was before the situation was made clear to her. Their relationship is what kept both of them sane. And certainly Mr Ramsek was made stronger for the love of and for his wife. He has someone who cares for him and is interested in helping him through this. Who accepts him and is willing to protect him: even from his own thoughts.”

“And yet it was the blackmailer's motive.” Sherlock pushes. He knows just how destructive love can be if uncontrolled. Why other people seemed to view it as this pure and wonderful force was beyond him. It made people stupid or willfully blind, like Isadora Persano, or made them targets like the Ramseks. “To keep Ramsek under her thumb. He hardly came out the better for it.” Surely John wouldn't argue that point. Hopefully he wasn't one of the mindless masses in that regard. He hadn't seemed so during the case nor when he spoke to the Ramseks at the end.

“No.” John says simply, snapping up briefly with a serious expression. He near-growls the next bit: “That wasn't love. That was obsession.” After having said that he settles back again and continues, “Besides, I wasn't claiming love is a purely positive force, and certainly not a cure-all. Simply that it can be more than a defect. It can be a strength as well. Would he have been better off if none of it happened? Almost certainly. But the fact is that it did happen. Which begs the resulting question: what now? His wife cares. She'll be able to support and help him figure that out. There's only so much strength a single person can bring to bare, and sharing strength or burdens with others can be more effective.”

Sherlock clicks his tongue dismissively, not wanting to think too much more on the subject, and returns to his mind palace.

At the end of March's first week Lestrade had appeared in their flat with a request to give his thoughts on a scene that showed both signs of murder and suicide. Upon viewing the scene, however, Sherlock's initial interest quickly turned to disappointment. How the NSY retained any amount of trust from the people was beyond him. Throw in a single deviation from the norm and suddenly they have no idea how to proceed.

Not that John had any clue either, but at least he was attempting.

Watching John stumble upon one of the pieces seemingly by accident was an interesting opportunity to observe him. He'd started a conversation with the man's brother who seemed distraught, and he was, but not just about the death (well, not only the death). There was also slight confusion in his countenance that John had picked up on and teased out. John's ability to slide into someone's trust was impressive seeing it as a third party was informative and he pulled the information that their victim was a still-closeted trans man who, as far as the supportive brother was aware, had disposed of all his dresses—having found his brother dead wearing one, certainly not of the type he would've worn if he had developed the confidence to wear them without dysphoria again, left the brother thrown for a loop.

It contrasted with the victim's girlfriend's account. Upon speaking with her, Sherlock's hypothesis was nearly confirmed, and later when he explained it all he saw John adopt a proud look for having gotten part of it (even if he hadn't gotten the suicide part), although it was very quickly overtaken with disdain towards their fraudulent criminal—not a murderer but someone who had adapted the scene after the fact to suit their desires. The victim had indeed killed themselves, but the girlfriend was a gay woman who apparently didn't embrace the t part of lgbtq and had arranged the scene to remove the victim's true identity. The brother, who had already been distraught, seemed to shut down upon this revelation, but while the police sorted out what they were going to do with someone who tampered with a crime scene, John had taken to the brother's side and talked to him long after Sherlock was ready to leave.

He heard later, through the vine, that the brother had decided to attend therapy after all. John denied it, but Sherlock knew his words had made the difference for the brother's perspective. He'd seen it, in that moment of shut down, the coals being heaped upon himself, the blame, the guilt. He could've just left; the story having completed. But he didn't.

Chapter Text

John couldn't help but worry about his end of the rent. Without the injuries, his prospects were better, but the idea of using John Watson's abilities professionally freaked him out a bit. More than a little bit. And Sherlock's Work was so much more interesting. He kept putting it off.

Sherlock didn't seem worried about it though. It brought to mind a thought John had had when they'd first met: he seemed well off, so why did he need a flatshare? Does he really desire the company? He affects an air of isolation while latching onto John's company like a leech. He seems to speak against his own nature, but embrace it in practice. He's a confusing mess.

It's two months in before the topic comes up.

When Sherlock rejected the case concerning the Jaria diamond, he had expected retaliation; he just hadn't expected John to be out of the house at the time.

Probably for the best though. An overbearing older brother might be one thing, but the idea of their home being invaded by intruders might be too unpleasant to accept.

The fight with the assassin goes about as well as expected.

When John gets home from shopping he glares around the room as if he suspects something is off. Sherlock doesn't bother looking up from his book: “You took your time.”

“Yeah, I didn't get the shopping.”

Sherlock does look up at that admission, and nearly falters at the aggrieved look on John's face. He adjusts his features to look indignant instead and asks, “What? Why not?”

“Because I had a row. In the shop. With the chip-and-pin machine.”

Sherlock lowers the book a little in disbelief. “You... you had a row with a machine?”

“Sort of.” John admits, clearly beyond caring. “It sat there and I shouted abuse... have you got any cash?”

Sherlock tries to hide his amused smile and gestures towards the kitchen. “Take my card.”

John walks into the kitchen for his wallet. While he's in there Sherlock closes his book only to realize the sword the assassin had used was still rather out in the open. He moves it over with his foot. When John comes back out of the kitchen he's staring wide-eyed at Sherlock. After a brief moment looking him over, he dashes over to his side.

“Why is there a new groove in the kitchen table and why are you hiding a sword?” He asks rapid-fire.

“What? I—” Sherlock attempts to deflect with an insult or two, but he TEMPORARILY loses his ability to speak FROM THE SURPRISE of John SUDDENLY grabbing his head between his hands. He's cradling him gently, despite his obvious tension, and softly urging it in directions to look him over.

John's speaking as he checks Sherlock over: “There's a cut in the kitchen table. It wasn't there this morning when I ate. And I know blade cuts. And I heard your foot on something on the floor. Why are you hiding it from me?”

Sherlock has no idea how to answer that. He's not even sure how to react to John touching him. Once John has satisfied himself with his head and neck, he steps back and looks over the rest of Sherlock. The care, the worry, it's... nice. It's terrifying. He already misses the touch.

Sherlock considers lying; he gives it a good consideration, but the sword is right under his chair. It wouldn't take that much to disprove. He can think of a number of excuses, but he's learned John is especially perceptive at reading people—even him, much to his consternation. He'd probably know. He might allow Sherlock to get away with it—or he might not. Given his current tension Sherlock would bet on the latter.

Which isn't even to mention how scrambled his brain is from that touch...

“Remember the case that came in this morning?”

“The Jaria diamond?”

“Well, they didn't like me declining it.” John seems to make a whine at that. “I sent a message.”

“Clearly.” He says, sighing with stress. “You are okay, right?” With one of his intent looks.

“Yes. I'm fine. I do know self-defense.” Sherlock can't help but feel defensive under that gaze.

John nods, a blink removing his striking gaze, smiles and says, “That's good. I'm glad you're alright.”

Sherlock knows he should already be used to it—two months of John's presence at this point—but it still catches him off-guard: the genuine care John seems to feel towards him. Perhaps if it was only him he'd be more wary of it, but John's just as compassionate with everyone whether they're clients or strangers or him. He's less so with people who've crossed him—Hope and the culprit of the Ramsek case come to mind—but compassion is hardly his only quality.

John heads back into the kitchen after a moment of relieved staring, (and it's one of his more disarming stares, the one that seems to find contentment in Sherlock's presence, the one that reminds him of some quality of sun rays), to finish retrieving the card, though when he comes back out he's got a pensive look about him. “I've been wondering this for a bit, but haven't quite figured how to bring it up before now.” He lifts the card to make it central attention. “But... your clothing seems high-end and you don't seem to worry for cash. Yet you were looking for a flatshare?” John turns up his questioning look with a tilt of his head.

Sherlock deliberates for a nanosecond and easily decides to just out with it: “That would be my brother's fault. Our family is well-off enough, but after certain misadventures of youth he decided he needed to restrict my access. His last rule before I get them back is that I have to live with another person for 6 months. Doesn't take someone of my intellect to figure out he was wanting to install someone to spy on me full-time, so naturally I had to find my own. Someone I could deal with.” More like someone who could deal with him.

The look on John's face as he blames his brother is great. It's fun having someone who thinks Mycroft is just as aggravating as he does. At John's worried look though, Sherlock realizes the implication of only needing a flatmate for 6 months and also realizes he might not mind John sticking around longer. So in order to portray the following comment as a passive and uninterested follow-up he bends down to retrieve the sword from under his chair while adding, “You're not as bad as I thought you'd be. Not completely useless. Feel free to stick around for as long as you like.”

“Thanks.” John says wryly, but he looks relieved.

John looks at the sword in his hands and asks, “Any plans for that thing?”

“The sword? No, not really.” He's sure he could come up with something. Either that or chuck it in the bin.

“I want it.”

Sherlock gives John a raised brow to which John grins back. He's serious about wanting the sword. 'I know blade cuts,' he'd said.

“Here.” Sherlock offers John the hilt who takes it eagerly to inspect the blade.

“You know, you could just get a second fridge in that case.” He says while seriously considering the curved sword; the non-sequitur catches Sherlock off-guard. “For things you need to refrigerate for your experiments.”

Ah. That had crossed Sherlock's mind: that he could get a second, separate fridge to store his things. But then he'd caught John laughing to himself at having found sheep eyes in an egg carton and decided against it.

“Why would I do that when you clearly enjoy it?”

“Bastard.” John mutters at the ceiling, then starts giggling as he says, “Dammit. You're not wrong. It's kind of fun opening the fridge thinking 'What's in here today? What's that next to the milk?' A game of 'Is it eyes or is it eggs?' S'long as the food isn't in danger, I really couldn't care less.”

“The advantages of living with me.” Sherlock intones.

John giggles again, much to Sherlock's satisfaction, and says while brandishing the blade: “No kidding. It's never boring!”

While John is out getting the shopping, Sherlock decides to apply himself to John's laptop. The password is easy to guess and hardly a deterrent. There's nothing of interest on the desktop, and his search history is equally boring. John's blog is there, but Sherlock's been avoiding it for reasons after having learned about it on his own website's forum. Maybe he'll finally look at it later today.

For the moment he opens up his emails to see if there's anything interesting no, he's not avoiding looking at John's blog and immediately staring at him from the sender column is Sebastian Wilkes. He hasn't seen or thought much of him since university. It's a strange email that promises a case. But he'd have to see Sebastian again to have at it.

John comes back in that time and puts away the shopping. It's not until he's done that he asks, “Is that my computer?”

“Of course.”

John takes a second to work past his giggle John is constantly giggling, or so it seems, and Sherlock likes making him so Sherlock takes the opportunity to add, “Mine was in the bedroom.” which gets him a satisfying snort.

“What, and you couldn't be bothered to get up?” He teases. Sherlock doesn't bother dignifying that with a response; he just sets the laptop aside to think on the email for a bit.

John has moved over to his chair, but pauses at the table. “Oh.” He mumbles. He picks up the letters and shakes his head in resignation. “I need to get a job...” He sounds distraught.

“Oh, dull.” Sherlock idly comments.

“Agreed.” John mutters sadly before tossing the letters back onto the table. He sits in his chair with a pensive/sad look. He looks like he's about to say something, but keeps interrupting himself. Eventually he manages, so softly Sherlock almost doesn't hear, “But I have to if I'm to keep living here.”

Sherlock dismisses the thought with a wave of his hand. “Don't worry about it.”

“What?” And suddenly John sounds angry. Is he angry? Why is he angry? “So you'll just cover it? All of it?”

“I don't see why not.” Sherlock says briefly. He doesn't know where John's sudden tension has come from. “I can access my accounts now, even if they're not mine again for 4 more months. It's not a problem.”

John's expression is still closed off though. He repeats, softly, scathing, mockingly? “It's not a problem?”

“It's not.” Sherlock repeats. John's not making any sense. It leaves him anxious.

“I—” and John pauses as he considers his words. His jaw clenches suddenly in frustration, or aggravation, or anger or something. “So, what, am I just to be a kept man for the time you need me? Is that it?”

“What?” Sherlock isn't following John's conversation at all. “What are you talking about?”

John breathes in suddenly, holds his breath (counting to ten?) before he breathes out and explains more calmly, “I don't have the money to hold this living situation if I don't get a job. But you're offering to cover all the expenses of living here. That's unequal. I feel...” He seems to struggle to find an adequate description of his feelings but ends with: “like I'm taking advantage.”

“I'm the one who needs a flatmate for 6 months.”

“Exactly!” John says, emphasizing. And Sherlock still doesn't understand. “And what happens to me after 6 months?”

“I said you were free to stay.”

“So, what?” John adopts this incredulous look on his face. It's not a pretty expression. He looks lost, sad, hysterical, something of that nature. “You're offering to, what, own me while I'm here?”

A frigid chill takes hold of Sherlock at that insinuation. “No.” is what he says immediately, before he can collect himself enough to give a proper response. He does eventually think of one: “You've been assisting me on cases. That's hardly nothing.”

“So, what?” John keeps saying that. He still sounds incredulous, still sounds frustrated when he asks, “Are you offering to hire me?”

Sherlock doesn't even know what to do with that possibility. He doesn't like the idea of John censoring himself because he feels intimidated by Sherlock, so having John as his employee isn't an option. “I wasn't going that far."

John hides his face in his hands and says, “That's a lot of trust to give me! We've barely known each other two months!”

“It's hardly that.” Sherlock says, referring to the trust. “It's not like you'd run off with any of it.”

“You don't know that!” Coming up out of his hands he clearly shouts that louder than he intends. More controlled he states: “Most people don't give that kind of trust unless they're married or something. How can you possibly feel so certain about me?”

John sounds desperate, and it hits Sherlock just how confused John feels about this argument as well.

Sherlock huffs in irritation. They're going in circles. This shouldn't be so hard. He wants the Work. John wants the Work. He wants John to accompany him on the Work. That means John shouldn't have a job to interfere with the Work. So John needs a way to pay for things outside of a job—

An idea hits Sherlock and he's standing in a heartbeat saying, “We need to go to the bank.”

John is up behind him saying, “I don't know what you're thinking, but we're not finished with this.”

“It's for a case.” is all he says as he leads John out.

John is silent the trip over, but time seems to have calmed him a bit. Or maybe it's the promise of a case that has calmed him. Regardless, a mild curiosity has returned to his countenance once they've entered through the revolving glass doors of Shad Sanderson Bank.

Sherlock was himself collecting data about the bank. Sebastian's email had said there was an incident at the bank; therefore the bank's security would be important.

"Sherlock Holmes." He tells the receptionist.

They're shown into an office. The place smells sterile: that ugly blank smell a place too high in the sky and devoid of life gets without artificial influence. It's not even the clean, chemical smell of a hospital. It's just… a room without soul.

John'll take any number of acrid chemicals over this awkward sterility.

Perhaps that's not fair to offices. He has been in offices before, even the cubicles just outside this lonely office had more personality than this. Fake plant plastic, dusty corners and dirty keyboards, old tech, breakfast…

Whereas this room was little more than wiped down, framed, and reeking of men's cologne.

The man who greets them seems affable at first glance, and John isn't getting any danger vibes from him, but Sherlock has that look to him again. Not the thinking 'I'm not here right now try again later' look nor his deducing state or any other pleasant countenance. He's not tense per se, but there is an undercurrent of tension.

Their greeting to each other doesn't appear new. There's a tone in both of them that indicates this is a reintroduction. Sherlock has his fake Normal smile plastered on; one of the ones John hates, and he likes the tense lip corner in Sherlock that Wilkes' presence seems to affect far less. The handshake is similarly uncomfortable—on both their ends. 

"Howdy, buddy. How long's it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?" The uncertain implication of familiarity sharpens into interest at the confirmation. Who is this Sebastian Wilkes guy? What's the case?

And that look Sherlock is returning. That barely disguised dislike. What's going on?

When the guy turns to John, Sherlock seems to puff up a bit as he introduces him: "This is John Watson. My friend."

John's brain stops production for a moment because... what?

Friend? John's someone's friend? Sherlock thinks of John as his friend?

Ah, no, it makes sense. Really, it does. It just catches John off guard. Er, no, that's not the truth either, not really. The truth is that it scares him. Terrifies him.

Even if he does reciprocate (He does. Fuck. He does.) it'll hardly be long term. John's only just learned this morning that there's a possible 6 month end to his situation, 4 months now. Though that's not true either. Sherlock said he wouldn't mind John sticking around, to a ridiculous degree, and really John has no excuse for letting this moment affect him so. It's just... It's just that—

He can't stay.

He's been putting it off because of fear and distraction and money and melancholia… but he should really…

He can't possibly stay.

Except Wilkes takes on this tone, this negatively surprised, disbelieving thing, as he asks, "Friend?"

Suddenly the future doesn't matter quite so much. It does, but it's now a muted anxiety compared to the protective instincts that rear up in him.

Suddenly it's very important that this Wilkes character is taken down a peg.

"And colleague." He works his throat to emphasize the conjunction. Yes, Sherlock can have friends, Wilkes. Yes, he can have colleagues, Donovan. John might be wreck and incapable of using the f-word without having a mental breakdown, but he does recognize, distantly, anxiously, that that is what they are at this point. And John's lack of ability to friend is not a reflection on Sherlock, not in the least. He'll have his mental breakdown over the implications later.

Right now?

Right now: fuck this guy.

Wilkes' shocked expression and Sherlock's peacock posture help ease John's own misgivings. A little bit. He can do this. He can be someone's friend for a few months. Friends fall out of touch all the time—he wouldn't be trapped by making a single connection with someone. Right?

It's a cop-out of an excuse and he knows it.

Still, Wilkes' disbelieving "Really?" is absolutely worth the stress.

John pointedly doesn't give him the time of day in lieu of response. Ignoring his foolish question is satisfying in it's own right. Sherlock on the other hand is busy preening and couldn’t care less. Wilkes seems to realize neither of them is going to give any details and shakes off his lingering doubt in favor of business. "Well, grab a pew. D'you need anything? Coffee, water?”

Just a brief "No." is all John says; the idea of ingesting anything offered by a stranger is… god no.

At the end of the day, Sebastian doesn't care as long as his job is secure. He'll deal with an old schoolmate, even if that chum is Sherlock Holmes. He'll even deal with him bringing his... friend along. Specifics don't matter, however it is the detective works, as long as the problem gets solved.

That doesn't mean he has to like it.

They've barely sat down when Sherlock's starts reminding him just what it used to be like around him: “So, you're doing well. You've been abroad a lot.”

“Well, some.” He admits.

“Flying all the way round the world twice in a month?”

“Right. You're doing that thing.” Sebastian hates the thing; everyone did though so it's not like he's alone in it. He turns to the 'friend' and says, “We were at uni together." Until Sherlock wandered off a week before finals anyway. Who does that? "This guy here had a trick he used to do.” Sherlock mutters something that catches John's attention, but Sebastian doesn't bother with it. “He could look at you and tell you your whole life story.”

“Yes. I've seen him do it.” The friend sounds... defensive almost. No, that's not right. More likely is that he feels cagey over the memory of Sherlock having done it to him before. That would make more sense.

“Put the wind up everybody. We hated him.”

If John hadn't already taken a dislike to the guy, Sherlock's quiet “It's not a trick.” followed by the guy saying “We hated him.” would've been all John needed to make that decision.

The clincher, though, is the glimpse John gets of Sherlock's face as he turns away: that blank lifeless thing. We hated him. John remembers being told by a classmate that he was hated. It was not a pleasant experience. The shame and embarrassment and self-consciousness he'd felt. The self-hatred and self-doubt and worthlessness. Even when he logically, rationally, disagreed: the words were needles digging into his skin, itching beneath the layers in a place he couldn't scratch them out.

But he'd at least had his sister to support him. His papa and uncle, too. There was also Lulu and Lewis and David and Julia and Alfie and Sabrina and Jake and the Joels and Kaori and Mao and Akihiro... He'd had others in his life who loved him, who cared about him, even at his most self-destructive.

Sherlock had... Mycroft, maybe? John's not even really sure about that though. Maybe his parents? Again, not sure. He doesn't know nearly enough about Sherlock Holmes to know if he did, in fact, have family or acquaintances or friends he was close to earlier in his life. But right now, at this moment? John is the only one in the room.

Fuck it. They're friends now. And nobody hurts the people John cares for. No one.

Wilkes is still talking while John is in his head making this decision: “You'd come down to breakfast in the Formal Hall and this freak would know you'd been shagging the previous night.”

And there's that fucking word again. God, it's like it follows him around. Fuck that.

“I simply observed.” Sherlock's quiet under-his-breath reply. There's something about Wilkes that seems to make Sherlock less of his usual in-your-face self. John doesn't like it.

“Go on, enlighten me. Two trips in a month, flying all the way around the world—you're quite right. How could you tell?"

This is a bank, not a rag office. They're there for a case, not for Sherlock to be dragged over coals by a former classmate, but John lets Sherlock speak; he's already opening his mouth to do so after all and it would be rude to disrupt this free spirit's verve. But Wilkes interrupts him before he can get a single word out: “You're gonna tell me there was, um, a stain on my tie from some special kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan.”

1) That would still be impressive. 2) How the fuck would a stain on a tie indicate two round world trips in the last month??

“No, I—” Sherlock tries, but again Wilkes cuts him off: “Maybe it was the mud on my shoes!”

3) That at least has a possibility of making some sense (in comparison to the ketchup jab because what?) except for the fact that Wilkes keeps his room so clean it's sterile so even if that were believable he'd have been surprised if Wilkes was walking around his nice clean office with muddy shoes. 4) John is getting really pissed that he's not shutting his mouth long enough for Sherlock to give the answer he asked for. And he especially doesn't like how subdued Sherlock seems to be in his presence. It's worrying. 5) Fuck this guy. 6) Still doesn't explain two trips round world... 7) Fuck this guy. 8) ...

8) is the blank look on Sherlock's face as he says, “I was just chatting with your secretary outside. She told me.”

A blatant lie if John's ever heard one. He was there. No such conversation occurred.

Sherlock's clearly lying. The question is why. Too much effort? Is there something about Wilkes? To fuck with Sebastian Wilkes? All of the above?

Wilkes laughs humorlessly in response, Sherlock smiles humorlessly back, and John is seething under the surface. He clips out, “Someone here is interested in gossip, and it's not me. So let us move on to the case, shall we?”

His voice is deep and steady as he commands it.

Sherlock had forgotten just how unpleasant dealing with Sebastian was. He knew there'd be some degree of small talk, people meeting after years unconnected did that and he had expected to have to engage in it, but he hadn't remembered just what Seb was really like until he saw it again in person.

If anything years as a banker have made him worse.

In his last two years at university, he had alternated between desiring companionship and shunning it entirely. Sebastian Wilkes was one of his better options, sadly. Completely regrettable in the clarity of hindsight.

Upside: John positively hates Sebastian. That chilling/threatening low tone accompanies his demand to turn to the case. Watching someone shudder from the tone of his friend's(!) voice should not be this enjoyable. Probably.

Sebastian's a banker, and made of sterner stuff than when he was an awkward uni student, but he's definitely offended by John essentially calling him a gossip. True, too, though John probably doesn't know the extent of it. Part of why Sebastian was one of the few he spent any time with during that period of his life. Sebastian may not have liked him, especially when his observations were about him, but he always did enjoy a good spot of chinwag. An unwilling-willing ear, as it were.

Not that he has to bother thinking about that with John in his life now. John who not only listens to his observations and deductions, but appreciates them, calls them brilliant and fantastic. John who's been living with him for two months now and enjoys his company. John who has no problem with his hobbies or the Work—is even an active and engaging participant in it! John who didn't deny being his friend. It's quite wonderful.

John's company is significantly superior to the attention he desperately and needily desired when he was younger. Certainly better than anything Sebastian's company had ever offered.

Sherlock's not sure if even John's bright presence would've been able to help him back then—

Sebastian covers the awkward pause created by John's icy glare with a sudden clap of his hands and another humorless laugh. “Right, well, I'm glad you could make it over. We've had a break-in.”

A moment later, as they're walking to the location, he describes, “Sir William's office—the bank's former chairman. The room's been left here like a sort of memorial. Someone broke in last night."

John asks, "What for?"

"They just left a little message."

After showing the message and an overview of the banks security, Sebastian's just offered what he hopes is a incentivizing advance when Sherlock Holmes declares, “John will take care of that.” and turns around to leave. Sebastian, mostly unruffled, pivots to face the 'friend', but is struck by the glare John is giving Sherlock's retreating back.

“What? Oh no. No. Sherlock, stop.” Sherlock does, to Sebastian's surprise, and turns to look over his shoulder back at Mr Watson. He looks unbearably smug. “Don't think I won't continue our argument from this morning in front of all these people: because I will.”

"There's no need. I've already figured out the solution. You said yourself that you need money outside of me, but that taking a job would distract from the cases. I can live off my funds, so you'll take any money offered by the cases.”

John stares at him incredulously. Sebastian is also staring at Sherlock like he's got two heads. Did he just... admit to letting his friend live off his money? They're... no. Surely not? They're not together are they?! Or... y'know what? He vaguely remembers hearing something about Sherlock having a boyfriend in uni, and Sebastian would rather think of them as boyfriends than imagining Sherlock as someone's sugar daddy—ugh, no, stop! Stop thinking about it!

“I'm not—it's not like I—they're your cases, Sherlock.”

With a raised eyebrow Sherlock Holmes cockily states, “You're the one who said you were my colleague just a few minutes ago.”

“But—” Something seems to work itself in John's mind because suddenly he's yelling at the ceiling, “Dammit!” He doesn't sound angry, per se, just aggravated.

“In fact,” he does that annoying thing where he clicks his letter, “I rather remember introducing you as my colleague during the Jefferson Hope case as well. I don't see why this is a problem.”

“Of course you don't.” John says softly, but it lacks the bite Sebastian would've expected of the words. John seems to deliberate for a moment before growling indignantly at the ceiling again, and saying, “Fine! But if I'm of no use to a case I'm refusing it.”

“Then you're accepting it.”

“That's quite presumptuous of you!”

“No, I just have high expectations.”

“You are a presumptuous peacock!”

“I—what?”

John turns his face slightly away to laugh at Sherlock's flustered reaction, but it's not the kind Sebastian would've expected. It seems fond. And nervous? Oh god is this their form of flirting? Nope, no, not interested in that this early in the morning.

“You heard me.” Lord no.

Sebastian pushes the cheque onto John's person with a glare and returns to his office to avoid having to watch this. 'Just find the hole', he thinks.

Chapter Text

John swears he's seen these symbols before.

As Sebastian leads them back out to brief them on the security systems, all John can think about the whole time is those symbols. He's seen them somewhere before, he just can't recall where. He doesn't mention it out loud, though. He's uncertain which life the knowledge is from.

He thinks it's from a childhood. He just can't place it.

After the conclusion of their little argument (which Sherlock definitely won, damn him), John's thoughts turn immediately back to the symbols. Sherlock's off in the background dancing (bobbing and weaving behind desks and pillars—getting a viewpoint?—John hopes he's not in the way).

Where? Where has he seen them before? When? Whose life was it?

The truly frightening part is that he thinks it was his. They don't feel muted the way untapped, surface-tension memories-not-his feel; this feels like old knowledge, visceral knowledge—from his lived-in life. He was a voracious knowledge monster, him and his sister, they could easily have stumbled across such a thing at some point and then just as quickly forgotten it.

After a bit Sherlock pops up behind him, looking smug despite his intentionally blank expression. John looks up at him briefly, then frowns at the symbols again. He knows them from somewhere. Ugh.

As he follows Sherlock, he wants to distract himself from them, so he states, “Two trips around the world this month. You didn't ask his secretary; you said that just to irritate him.”

Sherlock smiles, finally, but doesn't answer right away.

"How did you know? Was it his watch? You would've had a good view of the face when he went to scratch his neck."

Sherlock's eyes are riveted on his all of a sudden. "What makes you think so?"

"Nothing else in view screamed dates or time zones. Given his lifestyle, an expensive watch is hardly out of the equation. Your deduction came after. Etcetera."

Sherlock holds John's gaze for a moment before diving in: “It was the watch. Well deduced. The time was right, but the date was wrong. Said two days ago. Crossed the dateline twice, but he didn't alter it.”

“Within a month? How'd you get that part?”

“New Breitling. Only came out this February.”

John's step falters infinitesimally as he blinks in awe at Sherlock. “Ah... Wow. That's actually more impressive than I was initially thinking. You are a right repository of facts.”

Sherlock eyes light up at John's praise. What he says, though, is, “See? Already earning your keep.”

“Oh, now that hardly counts! I only got that it was the watch. It's not even relevant! Probably.” Sherlock still looks unbearably smug. John lets the semi-faux irritation fade and returns to the case again: “So, d'you think we should sniff around here for a bit longer?”

“Got everything I need to know already, thanks.”

“Hmm?”

“That graffiti was a message for someone at the bank working on the trading floors. We find the intended recipient and...”

“...they'll lead us to the person who sent it.”

“Obvious.”

“'Course. There's three hundred people up there. Figure out who it was meant for?”

“Pillars.” Sherlock intones ominously. God, he is such a dramatic peacock.

“I had a feeling that's what you were doing.”

Sherlock gives him a small, pleased smile and explains, “Pillars and the screens. Very few places you can see that graffiti from. That narrows the field considerably. And of course the message was left at eleven thirty-four last night. That tells us a lot.”

“Does it?” John asks before his brain remembers the watch. Time zones. Of course.

“Traders come to work at all hours. Some trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the night. That message was intended for someone who came in at midnight.” Sherlock holds up a name card and John bites off the startled laugh at Sherlock pilfering something again. “Not many Van Coon's in the phonebook.” And this guy would have it memorized, wouldn't he... John stops himself from laughing again; this time at the image of a younger Sherlock reading the phonebook with a serious look on his face intent on memorizing it.

Diamonds are forever

Except they're not. Sherlock rejected the case. Apparently missing diamonds aren't 'interesting' enough for him.

On the bright side, we found a dead body. So he's ecstatic about that.

Where have I heard that phrase before? Diamonds are forever?

Sherlock Holmes 23 March 17:08

James Bond. Have you heard of James Bond?

John Watson 23 March 18:02

I've heard of him, yes.

Sherlock Holmes 23 March 18:04

You haven't seen one, have you? Right, we're having a Bond night.

John Watson 23 March 18:06

It's nice to have something to look forward to.

Sherlock Holmes 23 March 18:09

Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Sherlock.

John Watson 23 March 18:14

That's demonstrably untrue. That clip of a cat falling off a shelf for example. The one you insisted on watching twelve times.

Sherlock Holmes 23 March 18:16

That WAS funny. Anyway, why are you writing on my blog when you're sat downstairs?

John Watson 23 March 18:20

I. AM. BORED. And I'm wondering what temperature I'd need to create to blow up your cans of soda...

Sherlock Holmes 23 March 18:23

OK OK I'm coming down.

John Watson 23 March 18:24

A rant

Do you know what I hate? Those unmanned checkout machines. They're there to 'save time' but they don't. They clearly don't. Nobody can use them. Staff have to come over and help. How do they save time?

Ooh, can I play? I can't stand those people who only decide what they want to drink when they get to the bar. Decide beforehand! Grr!! I'm trying to think of other things now!

Harry Watson 23 March 18:01

Covent Garden tube station. Those bloody lifts take ages.

Mike Stamford 23 March 18:04

This new lipstick I brought. Because the colour on the packaging doesn't match what's inside at all! I should have listened to Connie Prince. Never buy cheap!

Molly Hooper 23 March 19:06

Sword marks on my furniture!

Marie Turner 23 March 19:07

It's Mrs Hudson again by the way.

Marie Turner 23 March 19:08

stupidity

theimprobableone 23 March 20:01

Freaks

sallydonovan 23 March 20:02

Unprofessional cops.

John Watson 23 March 20:15

The crushing tedium of boring people with their boring everyday grievances.

Sherlock Holmes 23 March 20:20

Indeed.

Anonymous 23 March 22:45

The next day John had returned to the flat from an errand to Sherlock whining, “I said, 'Could you pass me a pen?'”

John checks the room over once, just in case he'd missed someone, before turning back to Sherlock and asking, “What? When?”

“'Bout an hour ago.”

John sighs, then bites a laugh. “Didn't notice I'd gone out, then.” He picks up the pen for him and tosses it in Sherlock's direction without bothering to look. Sherlock catches it without bothering to look.

Last night he'd had a proper sit-down with himself over what this whole friendship lark was going to mean for him, but didn't get much farther than what he came up with in the bank. He needs to reconnect with his family. For himself, but also for their sanity of knowing he's alive and okay. And, eventually, he wants to return to his Work.

He's going to have to leave one day.

But that day isn't today. And John'll enjoy every second he gets with Sherlock Holmes, madman detective.

John looks over Sherlock's shoulder at the photographs of the sumbols he's been staring at intently the entire time. He just can't quite remember… after a moment of silence Sherlock says, “Here, have a look.” and gestures to the computer on the table where an online article is in view.

“The 'intruder who can walk through walls'.” John's brain shorts at that supernatural suggestion. Sensationalist media, he supposes. Hopes.

“Happened last night. Journalist shot dead in his flat; door locked, windows bolted from the inside—exactly the same as Van Coon.”

“Oh dear. So then...”

“He's killed another one.”

John's a little pleased with Sherlock going through the police to get access to Brian Lukis' flat. One of his worries with Sherlock's tactics is that his near-illegal activities could somehow render evidence discovered unusable. Again, no understanding of the British legal system.

Even if Sherlock gets that permission through fierce coercion and emotional pressure. And it's not like John didn't assist...

He hesitates pushing the media's version though. It's so... no. He's got an idea of his own as to how the perp could get inside—between the bank office's, Van Coon's situation, and Brian Lukis'. Sherlock's probably either already come to the same conclusion, or has somehow already considered it and discarded it.

In the flat, however, John feels a bit of satisfaction at having been right. Even if Sherlock is a bit dramatic is his description of it. It's always fun getting bits of the case before Sherlock reveals them. Makes him feel competent. John used to enjoy a bit of freeclimbing himself before he became John. It's not that complicated. Certainly not more impossible than moving through walls.

Later, after a taxi ride to the West Kensington Library, Sherlock leads him to the aisle where a book Lukis had borrowed came from.

“Date stamped on the book is the same day that he died.” And with that he begins removing books from the section where the borrowed book's reference number indicates...

But there's something in the air. A small whiff of... something familiar. Paint, John thinks. It's incredibly faint. Old, then. But it's got that same tang that the paint in the bank had. He's surprised even his senses caught it, but that's par for the course. He doubts he'll ever understand the true extent of his abilities, nor their rules or explanations.

He follows the vague scent's direction, and only has to pivot slightly to a nearby shelf to find its origin. He pulls out a few...

And staring him right in the face are those same symbols. The ones he's sure he's seen before somewhere, but it's just not coming to him...

A soft, tinny bell sounds. The place smells dusty in that way very old antiques do. They're laughing with their sister. This is so much fun!

The memory is just out of reach. He's got the senses and emotions of the relevant moment, small flickering visual images, but the specifics, the pieces he actually needs to know, are right at the edge of his brain. But it was his memories—his childhood. He just has to narrow down which part...

“There's nothing here. There should be... something.”

Sherlock's complaint brings John back to the present. He turns away from the symbols (the presque vu is starting to drive him a bit crazy) towards Sherlock and softly calls for his attention.

Sherlock turns and upon seeing the sliver of paint in the gap John has made steps right beside him to pull out some more.

Sherlock slots himself close to John to do so. His mouth is right by his ear. He can feel the moisture from his breath—it prickles some of the nerves in John's neck. What is Sherlock doing? Is this intentional or just his usual lack of personal space? If his body was angled entirely toward the bookcase John would've believed that to be so and not paid it much mind—but Sherlock has contorted himself to fit close to John instead of shoving John to the side. John's also pretty sure his head doesn't need to be quite that close to reach out for that particular section.

Also he grabs a lot of books with a single hand. That's... kind of hot actually. Huh. Might feel nice against his throat—not choking, John's not into that—just resting like it's trying to encompass his neck...

Oh well. It's not too hard for John to shift slightly away from the man's mouth; he just has to keep his eyes trained on those lovely hands and the books he's moving. Then, when he turns back to the symbols, he pivots his body to remain just away from his breathing.

He's got several women he can call for quick sex and a meal. He's not about to seduce his possibly-subconsciously-interested flatmate (AND FRIEND) because he happens to find him hot. That's just not on.

Doesn't mean he can't appreciate, though.

“The world's run on codes and ciphers, John. From the million-pound security system at the bank, to the PIN machine you took exception to, cryptography inhabits our every waking moment.”

“I'm aware.”

“...but it's all computer-generated: electronic codes, electronic ciphering methods. This is different. It's an ancient device. Modern code-breaking methods won't unravel it.”

“Right then. So where are we headed?”

“I need to ask some advice.”

“Sounds good. Who are we asking?”

“An expert on painting.”

When he's tossed the spray can, John catches it on instinct. John looks at it, looks back, then tosses it over his shoulder with a quick flick of his wrist. When the voice comes around the corner, he's already on Sherlock's heels. He has no interest in any of that; Sherlock's the only true interest in his eyes right now.

Back at Baker Street, they're back to staring at the photos. John swears, SWEARS he knows them.

And then Sherlock's sending him off to Scotland Yard to check one of their victim's belongings while Sherlock checks in with Van Coon's PA. Yay.

Sherlock walks down the street away from John as he hails a cab. But there's something... prickling at John. Like...

Like he's being watched.

He looks around casually, not wanting to appear frantic, but he sees no one. Sherlock has already vanished from sight.

Getting the diary from Dimmock is easier done than said, so that's nice.

Out on the street, following his lead, Sherlock manages to collide into him. John's not surprised (the pros of being tuned into his senses) though he acts it briefly, but more amusingly is that Sherlock doesn't seem phased by John's sudden presence at all.

“Eddie Van Coon brought a package here the day he died—whatever was hidden inside that case. I've managed to piece together a picture using scraps of information...”

“Sherlock...” John barely tries getting his attention. He looks so alive!

“...credit card bills, receipts. He flew back from China, then he came here.”

“Sherlock.” He says again, intending to more seriously get his attention against his own wishes. Sherlock's probably peacocking again—detailing an admittedly impressive trailing of Coon's history seemingly for John's benefit—or maybe this is the whole 'I'm thinking out loud and having a living wall to bash my intellect against helps' sort through thing, again. Or maybe it's the flattering 'I think you're here even when you're not' thing that he's done a couple of times before (pen thing much?). Whatever is fine—

Except.

Except John remembers. China.

John's calling his name, but it's a distant murmur in the cacophony of his mind. Where did the taxi drop him? Where—?

And then all of a sudden John has shoved his hands roughly into his own hair and says, “I KNEW I'd seen those symbols somewhere before!”

Sherlock's mind is used to sudden stops—part of the allure of the moment of realization is the elation of all of it, everything, suddenly stopping, after all. That happens now, though not in its usual way. What had been a John-sized existence in the peripheries of his awareness was now front and center.

John was here? Why was John here? And he recognized the symbols? How? What are they?

John, however, seems to pay him little attention in kind, more interested on his realization. “They're... ugh! What's the word?! They're, um... AGH. It's right there. It's, um...”

He's silent for a few seconds, groaning with frustration, before suddenly he's bright in Sherlock's face saying, “Suzhou! They're Suzhou numerals!”

“Suzhou?” Sherlock questions.

“Yeah. It's an old rod numeral system. It's mostly phased out, I think. It was still used in Hong Kong transportation until the 1990s; it's been changed to Arabic numerals since, but it's still common for Chinese merchants to use it as a shorthand for prices. Kinda like how it's simpler to write the numeral 1 instead of spelling out o-n-e.”

Sherlock's brow scrunches up slightly. “I know of Hangzhou numerals, not...”

“Ah.” John shakes his head and explains, “That's a misnomer. I think the Unicode... Consortium? They misnamed Suzhou as Hangzhou when they put it in their system.”

Sherlock feels the frustration that comes with having incomplete or incorrect information. He can only do his job if he has proper and correct facts! It seems this isn't too big of a gap of knowledge, though, just a case of misnaming, but it still grates on him.

Which reminds him. How did John recognize that they were Suzhou numerals? Not exactly typical doctor or army stuff, that.

When he asks that of John, his friend seems to stop working for a moment himself. He stands there, a frozen portrait of his exhilaration of having remembered what the numerals were. When Sherlock calls out John's name, he gasps and comes back to himself, shaking his head casually and saying, “Ran into them when I was younger. I was curious.”

Something about his explanation is off. Sherlock's fairly certain he's telling the truth, but his initial reaction was suspicious. It wasn't the full story at the very least.

Sherlock eyes John suspiciously and asks, “How are you here?”

John shows him Lukis' diary. “Lukis was here, too. He wrote down the address.” Then points to a building.

“Oh.” is all Sherlock has to say to John's back as he escapes into the shop.

China. Their nearby neighbor. Their native language was based off of Chinese in the past. The people are similar, but different. Two black-haired little girls are practically running rampant and their caretaker is feeling exasperated and fond with the effort it takes to keep these two out of trouble.

“Kai! Let's go look at the shops!” yells one of them.

“Yeah, Kai! Shops!” yells the other.

The caretaker, a striking, young Japanese man named Kai, sighs at his girls. He's their papa, even if not by blood. They just like to see his aggrieved face when they call him by his name instead of as their dad.

“Alright, alright, but only if you're careful and respectful, right?”

They both grin at Kai, and then at each other. They're mirror images of each other—very clearly identical twins. The only difference in their physical appearance is the color of their irises. Kanade's are a ruddy brown. Hibiki's irises are blue.

“I'm going to regret this.” Kai mutters under his breath, too far for Kanade, who had run off a step in front of Hibiki, to hear. But Hibiki heard. That wouldn't do. She'd make sure Kanade and herself were perfect angels—just for papa!

Through a bookstore where they sniffed around the scent of books, a pet shop where they gawked at creatures (when the shop owner offered to let them touch one, both of them went ballistic, everyone in the room figured that was why the animals shied away from them—except for Kai who knew the real reason), through some stalls selling jewelry and produce, and past an antique shop.

There's this beautiful teapot that makes Hibiki stop and gape. It's super simple, no patterning, but it's such a beautiful deep, deep blue that she feels entranced. She begs papa to let her inside to see it without the window between. He capitulates after she swears up and down she'd be the most respectful EVER and wouldn't touch a thing.

It's just as beautiful in person. Sapphire? Midnight? The ocean? It's so pretty. Like ocean glass except less see-through. Hibiki could stare at it FOREVER.

The price tag underneath is a bit beyond Hibiki's understanding, so she asks her papa. He grouses and says they aren't buying her an antique teapot; what would she even do with it? If she were older she might've thought of the comeback 'Make tea.' but as a child she simply ignores him since she isn't interested in taking it home anyways. She just wants to know.

Upon explaining herself, Kai sighs, used to his girls' ideè fixes, and turns to find the proprietor of the little shop. Kanade grins at her sister impishly and sneaks off behind papa to jump on his back—Hibiki hears the usual oof that indicates such has indeed occurred around the corner.

Alone, staring at the pot intently, wishing to do nothing more than never forget such a beautiful blue, she begins singing a little to herself. Kai always looks like he's just eaten something sour when she sings, but still encourages her. Kanade loves her voice, even though Kanade herself can't sing like Hibiki can. After a moment of singing, something is thrust in front of her vision. She looks back, wide-eyed, to see a man's hand holding a rose. A pretty blue rose!

"Wow!" She says, before looking at the man's face. "That rose is beautiful!"

"Isn't it?" The man says. "It deserves a fitting owner. And you sing beautifully."

He moves the rose in Hibiki's direction who smiles wide and asks excitedly, "I can have it?!"

The man smiles and nods, but just as little Hibiki goes to take it she pauses and says, "I should ask my papa first. To make sure it's okay with him."

"There's no need." The man says. "I know your papa, though not as well as I'd like." He says that line the way Julia does when she's flirting with her husband. "The flower is yours, I've got to be on my way anyways."

Hibiki freezes, uncertain if it would be okay or not. Papa never lets them do anything without checking with him first. But the man's going to leave with the pretty flower!

The man patiently waits the few seconds Hibiki thinks about it. She figures taking the flower and then immediately running off to Kai would be acceptable. She reaches out to pluck the flower from his hands, ready to run off in search of papa immediately—

The man grabs her other arm strong enough to keep her from moving. He leans close enough to whisper in her ear, "I really did love your singing. Consider me a fan for life."

What happens next is so quick Hibiki almost couldn't believe it happened at all!

The shop's little bell tings and suddenly there is this super tall, pretty, dark-haired man with this huge THING on his back. He's so cool! He breaks the man's grasp on Hibiki and shoves him away from her, standing between her and him.

The man stumbles back, holding his hands up and showing off his palms. The man says, "Sorry, sorry! I just wanted to compliment her on her singing. She's a real diva, you know?"

The last word isn't familiar to Hibiki. It's that that makes her realize the man was speaking fluent Japanese the entire time! But they're in China… is he a tourist like her family is?

The cool man is completely silent (and expressionless) except for when the man says that unknown word! He flinches when the man says that word.

"Diva." She repeats, tasting the pronunciation in her mouth. The cool man turns to look at her with a shocked expression. Oh. Is it a bad word? Something little kids shouldn't say?

… what did the man call her then?

The flower man is stumbling out of the store just as papa comes back around the corner.

Papa's happy face crumbles into a blank mask when he sees the blue rose clasped in little Hibiki's hands.

"Hibiki." He says softly. He sounds scared. Why does papa sound scared? "Where did you get that?"

"A man gave it to me." She mumbles. Kai is going to be mad at her.

"What man?" Kai asks. He doesn't sound mad, but he still sounds scared.

"There was a man who liked my singing. He wanted to give me this as a gift." She gestures the rose in the air. "It's so pretty! Can I keep it?"

Kai still looks shaken though. Kanade pops around his shoulder where she'd hung onto him to look at the gift.

"Wow, Hibiki!" She shouts in Kai's ear. He doesn't even flinch like usual. "That's so pretty!"

"What happened with the man?" Kai asks. "Where did he go?"

"He left." She points to the exit. "He got kinda rough with me—" Kai's face somehow drained of even more blood! "But this really cool guy made him stop!"

"A cool guy?" Kai mumbles, then asks, "What did this 'cool guy' look like?"

"He was SUPER tall. Even taller than Kai! He had dark hair and this thing on his back. Oh! And he was really, really pretty!"

Kai's eyes had widened at the cool man's description. "This thing on his back, was it even bigger than him? Six-sided?"

Hibiki thinks about it for a second then confirms, "Yup!"

Recognition flits through Kai, but he doesn't say anything more about that. He bends down, to let Kanade down, but also to be on Hibiki's level to explain how dangerous that was. What if the 'cool guy' hadn't been there? Hibiki mumbles through her answers, scared of Kai hating her for not listening. Kai isn't mad though; just worried, he says. A stranger could take her away from her family, after all. That scares Hibiki too. Taken away from papa and Kanade?!

It's only after that's been settled that Kai switches topics to the price tag.

That happened a bit before they officially met their elusive and cool uncle.

It was a bit after that that she learned that blue roses weren't natural.

Chapter Text

Inside the little shop, the Lucky Cat Emporium, the shopkeeper attempts to push the sale of one such creature. Both Sherlock and John ignore him, instead looking at the price tags.

“15. And 1.” John says as Sherlock examines the shop. “That's what our symbols mean. But what that's supposed to mean I haven't gotten a clue.”

“A threat of some kind.” Sherlock knows. Both victims had run off to their homes in the sky where they thought they were safe. “We'll need the key to understand it.”

They leave the shop to check out some local stands where more of the symbols are on display. It's easy to double check John's translation since the price boards have both Chinese and English prices.

John's distracted by a photographer, but it's easy enough to regain his attention by mentioning heading into a cafe. John is always hungry, Sherlock has learned.

In a small cafe across from the Emporium, John orders something to eat while they watch the store. Sherlock's pulled out a napkin and is writing the symbols on it to etch them into his recent memory. John is talking out loud for him.

“Two men travel back from China. Both head straight for the Lucky Cat emporium. What for?”

“What they brought back in those suitcases.”

John catches on easily enough. “Ah. And you don't mean duty free.”

John begins eating as Sherlock puts forth the facts for him. “Think about what Sebastian told us. About Van Coon. About how he stayed afloat in the market.”

“Lost five million...”

“...made it back in a week.”

“Ah.”

“That's how he made such easy money.”

“He was a smuggler. Mmmm.” John really does like food.

“A guy like him: it would've been perfect. Business man...”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“..making frequent trips to Asia. And Lukis was the same... a journalist writing about China.”

“Mmm.”

“Both of them smuggled stuff out, and the Lucky Cat was their drop-off.”

“But why did they die? If they both turn up at the shop and deliver the goods, why would someone threaten them and kill them after the event? After they'd finished the job?”

John's words are a satisfying bolt of epiphany. Sherlock sits back a bit and smiles as he realizes the answer.

“What if one of them was light-fingered?”

“Oh.” John looks up at Sherlock in similar recognition.

“Stole something; something from the hoard.” Sherlock says.

“And the killer doesn't know which of them took it, so he threatens them both. Right.”

Sherlock looks out the window again and notices the windows above the shop. Below, a Yellow Pages wrapped in plastic left at the door to a flat positioned above the Cat.

“Remind me... when was the last time that it rained?”

Sherlock stands to leave without waiting for John; he has to know.

Checking the wet pages closer, he can observe it's been there from Monday.

“Could've gone on holiday.” John suggests.

“D'you leave your windows open when you go on holiday?”

John shakes his head in his peripheries as Sherlock hits the doorbell. After a few seconds, Sherlock checks the alley around the corner; his eyes rivet on the fire escape. With his height...

A running jump is just enough to make it. He's able to climb up and make his way inside. The ladder snaps back into place once he's up. He'll let John in through the door once he's checked the place over; he can't have John following him inside and mucking up the place.

In through the window he finds himself in a kitchen where an ill-placed vase nearly falls off onto the floor. With a muted cry Sherlock manages to keep it from landing, but a look at the floor reveals water exactly where the vase would've fallen. He straightens from his observation to call out the window to John: “Someone else has been here.”

He puts the vase back and looks around. “Somebody else broke into the flat and knocked over the vase just like I did.”

The clothing in the washing machine did not seem fresh in the least. The doorbell rings and John calls out, “D'you think maybe you could let me in this time?” The tea towel is dry. “Can you not keep doing this, please?” John whinges.

The milk in the fridge isn't great either. He calls out: “I'm not the first.”

“What?”

“Somebody's been in here before me!”

His pocket magnifier helps him view the rucked up rug of a footprint. “Size eight feet.”

“Sherlock!” John calls out, loudly, from the door.

He's still looking at the rug as he moves through the beaded curtain separating the kitchen and living area. “Small, but athletic.”

“Sherlock, let me in!” He sounds a bit desperate; he's banging hard on the door now.

“Small, strong hands. Our acrobat.” He says, looking at fingerprints on the glass of a photograph. He puts the magnifier away. “But why didn't he close the window when he left...?”

It hits him just as John yells out once again, “Sherlock!!”

“Oh, stupid. Stupid. Obvious. He’s still here.”

Sherlock looks at the folding screen across the room. He goes to move it, but there's only stuffed animals that he disturbs behind it. The distraction is enough for the soft-footed killer to slip a silk scarf around his neck.

“John!” He calls out, but his voice is majorly softened by the pressure on his throat. “John!”

But he left John outside. John can't help him. It's just him and... his assailant.

Sherlock takes a breath, or tries to, and focuses on surviving. It only takes seconds to pass out from lack of oxygen or blood flow and every extra second can matter. Smile. He can't get a good grasp on the killer's hands, the scarf creating too much distance, and he can't pull with enough strength at the scarf to give him enough reprieve. He eventually remembers, through his panic, to turn to the side, and it does lessen the pressure for a precious moment, but Sherlock's attempted follow-up strike fails to connect and the acrobat has compensated for his movement and is back in control.

He's terrified.

"Let him go."

It's John's low growl coming from behind them. Sherlock can barely recognize it over the roaring in his ears. The acrobat whirls around, intentionally placing Sherlock's body between himself and John's gun.

Sherlock is lightheaded and the pressure hurts.

There's no time, John, he thinks. Take the shot now, or..!

John's blue eyes flick briefly to Sherlock's left, to the arm most exposed by the assailant's attack. Sherlock puts all his effort to jerk to his right, exposing the arm as much as possible. John takes the shot.

Very suddenly Sherlock is on his knees coughing and gasping for air. The killer has dropped him, in pain from his new wound, and sprinted away. Sherlock hears the sound of glass breaking to his left. A second, chasing bullet is fired. He catches a glimpse of the assailant's neck in the chaos: scar discoloration and traces of concealer.

His hands fumble their way to his neck to pull off the silk scarf that was left behind in the haste, and then they unwrap his own scarf to let him breathe easier. He catches sight of John's shoes sprinting to the window, to chase after—

"John.” Sherlock says softly, against his will. John needs to chase the suspect. The killer needs to be stopped—

But Sherlock is still trembling. The man had invaded his space, put his hands on him, he'd felt his body against his back—

Disgusting. Sherlock's own body feels absolutely revolting.

What happens if he's left alone while in this state? What if—? This is why he dislikes emotions. They scramble his processing abilities and they lead him into make stupid and illogical decisions.

"Please, John."

But he doesn't feel safe right now. He's finding it hard enough to breathe already; he doesn't need to make it worse with a panic attack.

Please, John. Please stay.

John does. He gives up the chase immediately and runs to Sherlock's side.

It's easier to breathe with John in the room.

John's saying something to him... oh. He's suggesting sitting on the bed. He can do that. John's asking him... ah. He wants to check Sherlock for damage. John's a doctor: that's fine. John's not touching him again, though. Not like the other day with the assassin. He's tentative and using only his fingertips this time. His eyes are wide and he looks scared—

Good John Watson, Sherlock thinks. He cares too bloody much. Even about something like Sherlock...

All of a sudden John is standing and—he's leaving—!

“I'll be right back, Sherlock. Just going to see if there's something in the fridge.”

Ice. Right.

Sherlock hates being this way.

John's not even gone 15 seconds before he returns with an ice pack and the tea towel. Sherlock's eyes are forcibly riveted on the shattered gap of the window the entire time.

“This'll help.” John says, giving it to Sherlock to hold to his neck.

“We need—” Sherlock attempts to speak. His throat hurts and the sound is croaky and barely audible. But he needs to say this: “We should leave.”

“Yeah. I doubt they'd be too understanding of my unregistered gun.” John half-jokes, stands again, and looks at Sherlock with an intense gaze. “Should probably get a silencer for the thing if this keeps up. Think you can stand?”

“I'm fine.” Sherlock manages, feeling a touch more like himself. He forces himself to stand, wobbling horribly, but John is there to provide a supporting arm. They make it through and down the fire escape. “You should've chased after him instead.” He says as caustically as his throat can manage.

“Uh huh,” John hums in response. It's enough of a dismissal to be able to pretend he didn't just have the approximation of a panic attack. “Stop talking.”

They've made it a couple of alleys over, but John is still stubbornly making sure Sherlock is keeping the ice and towel against his throat. “Ten minutes.” is all he says when Sherlock complains. He remembers the first aid for strangulation, but his pride demands for him to shrug off John's concern. He's mortified at having shown any degree of vulnerability, let alone something of that intensity. It's better if he makes John think he misinterpreted his pleas. That he was telling John to chase, to leave, not to stay, and that John got it wrong.

Meeting Sebastian again after all this time was a horrible idea.

He opens his mouth to say something else, to push the fiction, but John has shoved something in his face. A note from someone named Andy who is worried about Su-Lin. The stationary denotes the National Antiquities Museum.

“Swiped it on my way up.”

“How did you get in?” Not the window; he hadn't seen it there. Mail would've been inside the door.

With a fascinating flush of bashfulness John admits, “I... may've kicked the door down.”

Andy's a little helpful in finding out more about their Su-Lin. She's a recently resigned staff member. In the basement Sherlock brings attention to another of those warnings.

It's nighttime when they exit the museum, but there's no rest for them as Raz, the painter from before, shows up again saying, “Found something you'll like.”

Just like that they're following Raz when John gets that feeling again. It can't be a coincidence. Someone is watching them. Or at least John.

His instincts are on the defense, but they're not too agitated. A lack of killing intent, probably. Unfortunately, a lack of bloodlust is hardly a lack of danger or ill-will.

He thinks he catches a shade of dark hair out of the corner of his eye that catches his attention, but they're around a corner before he can get a proper look. He considers looking into it himself—how would he possibly explain it to Sherlock?—but after what happened with that bastard in the flat, John really doesn't want to leave Sherlock alone in the dark.

God. The terror he'd felt when he'd realized there was a second heartbeat in that flat...

And the disappointment in himself as he, once again, felt the vicious satisfaction of tearing skin as the first bullet embedded itself in the man's arm. He hates how he wished it were his own hands pulling apart that flesh. How he wanted to bite down and drain the man who had tried to snuff out the life of Sherlock Holmes.

Although. He got the impression that the man hadn't intended to kill, only to incapacitate.

Still, strangulation is horrifying. According to John Watson's doctor knowledge, prolonged suffocation could lead to brain damage. To someone who prized his mind as highly as Sherlock, the very idea must be anathema to him. John's been keeping an eye on him, and thankfully there appears to be no lasting damage to any part of him.

Well. Physically.

If recognizing a second heartbeat had terrified him, and seeing the assailant suffocating his friend had sent him into a pure rage, hearing Sherlock's all-too-quiet plea for John had hurt.

John didn't begrudge the snipes Sherlock had tried to make to regain his sense of dignity, even if John thinks that kind of stuff is bullshit. He won't shoot Sherlock down for his unhealthy coping mechanisms, he's hardly one to talk, but he won't condone them either.

He hopes the message he wants to convey comes across.

The three of them come upon a heavily graffitied wall and Sherlock is going on about hiding trees in a forest. “There.” Raz says, pointing to a specific area with familiar yellow slashes. “I spotted it earlier.”

"They have been in here.” Sherlock turns to Raz. “And that's the exact same paint?”

“Yeah.”

“John,” and John likes it when Sherlock's eyes are on him, “if we're going to decipher this code, we're gonna need to look for more evidence.”

And just like that they're splitting up again. Despite John's internal reservations. Dammit Sherlock.

It takes a bit of searching, but John's still kind of surprised he's the one to find something. He snaps a picture on his phone, just in case, before he tries to ring Sherlock.

Who doesn't answer.

It's fine, John tells himself, it's just Sherlock's usual absentmindedness.

His anxiety doesn't agree.

Abandoning the cipher (he probably didn't even need the photo really), he focuses on his sense of the world to track Sherlock down. It's not too hard, thankfully, as he's nearby, but John can't help the tone that creeps into his call of “Answer your phone! I've been calling you! I've found it.”

He turns as soon as he sees Sherlock's excited expression in the shadows of the dark. He looks good in the shadows, like he's part of them. They walk side by side in the pitch as they return to where John had seen the markings—

Which are already gone. In the few moments it took John to locate and reach Sherlock, someone had deleted its existence.

“It... it was here... five minutes ago... I saw it. A whole load of graffiti!” It's validating to see Sherlock search the area in his peripheries, the fact that Sherlock doesn't doubt him at all, but still. Why bother deleting it? If they'd seen John see it, they'd have seen him take the photo—

Maybe they only saw John leaving to get Sherlock and didn't catch him before that? He tries to remember the sensation of being watched, if he had felt it while there, but all he can pull up is the anxiety of worrying about Sherlock. Which, as he thinks about it, might answer his own question. He hadn't noticed anything before that point, but while he was leaving he was distracted.

“Somebody doesn't want me to see it.” Sherlock mumbles. John gives Sherlock a look that he hopes conveys how wrong that is given that John can read the numbers perfectly fine now that he's remembered what they are.

Sherlock either doesn't care or can't see his expression in the dim because he turns and grabs the sides of John's head in both hands—

Oh.

Oh.

Oh dear.

It's not quite Sherlock's pale hands resting gingerly against his bared throat, but wow.

Sherlock has really nice hands.

It's not a revelation so much as a reminder. The boy really does have—

“John. Concentrate. I need you to concentrate. Close your eyes.”

“What?” John says, feeling slightly annoyed though he isn't even sure why he is. “No. Why?”

Sherlock's hands move to hold his upper arms. Yikes. Is this boy even aware of his actions? God.

“What are you doing?” is what John manages to say. It's mixed with both genuine confusion and genuine humor. What is Sherlock doing?

And. And then. And then Sherlock starts spinning them around on spot. He's staring intently into John's eyes as he does so. He has really pretty eyes. Wait. Fuck. Scratch that. His eyes are fucking gorgeous. God damn.

“I need you to maximize your visual memory. Try to picture what you saw. Can you picture it?”

That... That's what this is about?

John can't help it. He bursts out laughing. It's just too much!

His hands come up to hold Sherlock's arms to him, he doesn't want Sherlock to misunderstand and feel offended, doesn't want him to think John is laughing at him in that way, but wow. This guy is just so...

He is so oblivious it's cute. He's cute. God.

John is grinning at Sherlock's confused/offended expression as he tells, “Sherlock. My visual memory is very good. Not to mention I know how to read the numbers. Which also isn't to mention...” He pulls out his phone. “I took a photograph.” Small chuckles are still escaping his smiling lips.

Sherlock looks adorable when he's embarrassed. He jumps back from John, taking his phone from him to look intently at the picture. The blood under the skin of his sharp cheekbones is a wonderful hue, a beautiful contrast on his pale.

It makes John deliciously hungry.

He's going to have to ensure he's got a date tomorrow.

They've returned to 221B with a new photograph. They have the numbers, but not the meaning. John's biochemistry is starting to flag with the quiet of the flat.

Sherlock has a thought though: “Numbers come with partners... Why did he paint it so near the tracks?” That's about all John really catches before Sherlock is smiling triumphantly saying, “Of course! He wants information. He's trying to communicate with his people in the underworld. Whatever was stolen, he wants it back... somewhere in the code... we can't crack this without Su-Lin Yao.”

Sherlock's leaving again. “Oh good.” John mutters as he forces himself to follow.

Back at the National Antiquities Museum, John is feeling a bit more awake and able to add to Sherlock's recounting of the case to Andy with: “Su-Lin Yao's in danger. Now, those symbols—it was just as the others. He means to kill her as well.”

Andy isn't much help, stating, “Look, I've tried everywhere. Um, friends, colleagues. I—I don't know where she's gone. I mean, she could be a thousand miles away.”

Sherlock's dissatisfied with this lack of progress, but gains an odd expression as he looks off to the side.

“What are you looking at?” John asks as he follows his gaze to the teapots.

Sherlock ignores him and walks up to the case and demands, “Tell me more about those teapots.”

“The—the pots were her obsession. Um, they need urgent work. If—if they dry out, then the clay can start to crumble. Apparently you have to just keep making tea in them.”

Definitely interesting. Especially considering the shine very present on them.

Sherlock clearly has the same thought: “Yesterday, only one of those pots was shining. Now there are two.”

Chapter Text

After nearly scaring Su-Lin into breaking an ancient pot with his dramatic nature, she and John take stools as Sherlock stands at the end of a table.

“You saw the cipher. Then you know he is coming for me.”

Sherlock says, “You’ve been clever to avoid him so far.”

“I had to finish… to finish this work. It’s only a matter of time. I know he will find me.”

“Who is he? Have you met him before?” Sherlock asks.

Su-Lin nods. “When I was a girl, living back in China. I recognize his… ‘signature’.”

“The cipher.” Sherlock says.

“Only he would do this. Zhi Zhu.”

“The spider?” John asks.

Su-Lin brings her foot up to take off her shoe. On the underside of the heel is a black tattoo of a lotus flower inside of a circle. “You know this mark?”

“Yes. It’s the mark of a Tong.”

“Every foot soldier bears the mark; everyone who hauls for them. I was fifteen.” She says, attempting to explain herself. Understandably defensive. “My parents were dead. I had no livelihood; no way of surviving day to day except to work for the bosses.”

“Who are they?” Sherlock asks.

“They are called the Black Lotus." That twigs John's memory, there's something familiar about a 'Black Lotus Tong', but he cannot place it, even less than he could the Suzhou. "By the time I was sixteen, I was taking thousands of pounds’ worth of drugs across the border into Hong Kong. But I managed to leave that life behind me. I came to England.” She smiles. “They gave me a job here. Everything was good; a new life.”

“Then he came looking for you.”

“Yes.” She swallows before continuing tearfully. “I had hoped after five years maybe they would have forgotten me—”

John interrupts, “Our two smugglers’ drop address was the shop directly below your flat.”

She freezes at that comment. Her eyes dart to his like a prey animal. She swallows stiffly and guiltily explains, “They never really let you leave… A small community like ours—they are never very far away. They wanted someone who knew antiquities.” She wipes away a tear. “He came to my flat after... He asked me to help him track down something that was stolen from this shipment.”

“So you know what it is?”

“I refused to help. I couldn't...” do it anymore.

"You knew Zhi Zhu well?”

“Oh yes.” She looks regretful. "He’s my brother... Two orphans. We had no choice. We could work for the Black Lotus or starve on the streets like beggars. My brother has become their puppet. In the power of the one they call Shan. The Black Lotus general. I turned my brother away. I didn't want it anymore. To be part of that life. He said I betrayed him. Next day I came to work and the message was waiting."

John tries his best not to let her story worm its way inside him, but he can't help the empathy with the two sibling orphans, to not want to be part of that life anymore, and for having to find a way to live.

"Can you decipher these?" Sherlock asks, laying out the photos.

Su-Lin slowly meanders her way to answering what the code is; she takes long enough that when she finally gets around to explaining the lights have shut off.

Her face floods with dread. John catches the uptick in her heartbeat. It sounds delicious. Damn. He is way too hungry and tired for this shit right now.

Sherlock straightens and runs off. Because of course he does. Unsurprising, but John's still on edge about this Zhi Zhu fella getting the drop on Sherlock again.

It's fine, he tells himself, Sherlock knows self-defense and was simply ambushed last time. Hopefully Sherlock won't be a complete fool while—oh goddammit he can't even finish the thought.

He's just gotten Su-Lin behind a table for cover when they hear the gunshots. It's John's turn to have dread flood through him. No. No! Please—

There's no scent of blood. There's no blood. Sherlock's okay for the moment. Calm down, John. Get to him. How dare he attack—try to hurt his—how dare, how dare!

The only thing John can think of in that moment is the need to find and protect Sherlock. He vaguely feels himself tell Su-Lin that he has to leave and help before running off to do just that.

It's easy to follow the sounds of the gunshots, right until John's self-awareness slams back into him as he realizes that not only have the gunshots stopped, but the fourth heartbeat is converging on the room he just left Su-Lin in.

Away from Sherlock. As terrible as it might make him, he feels relieved.

He makes the snap decision to use his speed to make it back asap. Sherlock hadn't known he'd left, Su-Lin wouldn't know how far he'd gotten, there are no cameras in these particular halls…

Plus it's always fun to have an excuse to bend physics. Even if the situation on the whole isn't ideal. It's been awhile since he's gotten the chance that didn't involve fearing for his own life. It's been awhile since he could enjoy his existence.

John makes it back just as the other heartbeat does. Sherlock's is still quite a bit away; he won't be able to interfere. Or know. Good.

"Liang." John hears her say affectionately, just as he enters the room. He's too far: gun or speed? He really doesn't want to take the speed option, but he won't let her get hurt because of his cowardice when he knows he could do something to stop it, to save her. He won't sacrifice her for himself, he decides in that moment. And the gun option might allow the spider to get a shot off. That's just not on.

"Big brother…" Said in Mandarin. She cups his face, trying to appeal to him. “Please.”

The spider is completely focused on Su-Lin. He isn't buying into her appeal. He's going to kill her. John can feel it. Can sense it. Knows. That die has already been cast. John won't let that happen. John makes his decision at the last possible second.

Guns are so much easier to deal with. Relies on positioning and competency. Environmental conditions. Mind games.

Sherlock can work with that.

When the shooting stops, however, short of the expected number of shots for reload, Sherlock feels the hated disappointment in himself rush through him.

Su-Lin is the target. Left to give chase. John's there with his gun, but John may well have tried to follow after Sherlock—noted protective streak (3 is barely a streak) so far—leaving the target, who is their only lead, defenseless.

Stupid.

The deafening shot that rings through the museum sends frigid ice throughout his veins. He's failed.

But when he makes it back to the room, he's extremely surprised by what he finds. Instead of Su-Lin dead, or John, or Zhi Zhu; the spider is retreating, having just slipped out of sight. Su-Lin is grasping desperately at John—

John.

He seems... unhurt. Su-Lin is pawing at him, but he's seemingly at ease while he dismisses her worry. He does look vaguely uncomfortable; his left hand is her desire and it's away from Sherlock's view, but his general countenance lacks any note of pain or major injury.

John must not have gone too far. Or not left at all—no, the door in was ajar, John would've closed it if he'd stayed behind. He succeeded in protecting Su-Lin where Sherlock failed.

Su-Lin looks up to Sherlock with an open and harrowed expression just as John begins guiding Su-Lin in his direction, towards the exit. “We need to get her somewhere safe.”

John seems to have Su-Lin well in hand, so Sherlock grabs the photos from the table and follows after them. Just as he catches up to them he hears John say, “I'm fine.”

“But—I saw—”

“See?” He says, showing her his left hand, Sherlock can see— “I'm fine. I think I got lucky.”

The freeze returns as he considers this information. John got lucky. There was a gunshot. John protected Su-Lin from the gunshot. It had been a close call.

Second gun in John's possession now, judging by the bunch up of his jacket.

Tear marks on his clothes: left forearm specifically. Ripped. Sliced. After John took the gun, the assailant tried to attack with a blade. John took that, too; no blade in the acrobat's possession as he left, no safe place to keep it without a sheath, but there was no blade in the room—inside jacket pocket? Would be the best place for a blade sans sheath.

John could've been hurt by his stupidity.

He wishes it was easier to shove down the mire that thought creates in him. He's on a case. He needs to focus.

“I know a place.” He says simply, and booking no arguments he overtakes their stride to lead the way.

There is much Su-Lin doesn't understand. That is to be expected of someone who spent their teenage years hauling contraband instead of finishing school. But she especially does not understand what just happened.

She had been enjoying her new life. It had been years. And then a representative of the Black Lotus had shown up at her door and she was forced to be a cog in their machine again. Just a drop point and an antiquities information provider, but it still filled her with shame and guilt.

Then her own brother was at her door, (she had not seen Liang in so long, the scar on his neck was missing, he looked underfed), demanding she help find a missing piece of inventory. Seeing him again, seeing how cold he looked at her, had finally broken the last of her crumbling reserve. She refused. She actually refused! The pain Liang's words gave her... but she had finally cut out, painfully, dangerously, that part of her life. The first step, at least. She was not sure what her next step would be, but she was going to be free—

Deadman.

That is what the numerals, 15 and 1, meant. She knew immediately. It was a common use of the cipher, after all.

So she hid. She had not thought it was the best hiding place, but, selfishly, if she was to die she wanted her pots to live a little longer. But she had been a very good runner. She knew how to hide when needed.

She had initially thought the man who snuck up on her so quietly was her brother who finally found her, but the dark-haired man claimed he was only interested in cracking the cipher. She hesitated on giving him the full answer immediately. The old fear of compliance and subservience. Her hesitation meant her brother was able to interrupt her explanation.

She knew. She knew she was going to die now. Here, behind a table, as that short man froze and seemed to retreat into a base creature because of the gunshots. As his eyes glinted blue in the moonlight.

She could feel it. The drum beat of memory from an early indoctrination ritual into the Black Lotus. It fills her senses as she notices someone standing behind her.

Pleading will not work, but she would like her last memories to be of trying, of remembering how much she used to love him.

In the breath of a second the short blonde man is back at her side, behind her, reaching around her, reaching for the gun—

It fires.

The man's hand is covering the muzzle of the barrel with his palm to block the shot.

The same hand clamps down on the gun and he rips it out of her brother's hand. Zhi Zhu, to his benefit, does not seem to dwell on it as Su-Lin does. He unsheathes a dagger and lashes out with it. Her protector pushes her behind him as he moves to intercept the blade. She briefly stumbles onto the table behind her, and by the time she can look back up to the confrontation she sees the blade embed itself in the man's left forearm.

When Zhi Zhu goes to pull the knife out and away, John's other arm snaps up and pries the hand off the hilt. He then shoves her brother by the chest, one-handed, away by several feet. Zhi Zhu, after stumbling back a couple more feet, regains his balance and uses the momentum to turn and sprint away.

John has pulled out the blade, and then connects his lips to the tear in the clothing. And then tongue to the skin of his hand. The glimpse of a blood bead on the hand makes it hit her that this man just took an injury to protect her, possibly a life-changing one. Her brother is running away. She moves forward to help him—

There is nothing. His mouth comes up off his hand to run his terrifyingly intense gaze over her. There is no blood on the clothing or his skin or his palm…

The man's companion returns soon after. John practically sweeps her out, worrying over her.

"I'm fine." He says when she tries to manhandle the hand again to see it properly; is he just pretending to be okay?

“But—I saw—”

“See?” He says, showing her his left hand.

There are no wounds. The jacket is still torn up, but there's no wounds. His palm is normal, his wrist and forearm are clear of blood. No wounds—

Is there red there? In the sleeve threads? Small, small flecks. From a nick? But his skin seems flawless…

“I'm fine. I think I got lucky.”

Sherlock apparently keeps boltholes established all over the city for various uses. At least it will be slightly harder to find than their more publicized home.

In the quiet of the night air, John feels his exhaustion take hold again. He waves Sherlock and Su-Lin off to finish their translation of the message and an explanation of the cipher while he takes the only bed for himself.

It must not be that long later before he's awoken by the feeling of someone approaching him. His eyes snap open and his hand clamps down on the offending wrist of Su-Lin, who looks terrified. She's baring the dagger he'd taken out of his pocket so he didn't sleep on it. Given that there were two guns beside it on the end table, at least one of which is definitely loaded, that means she probably wasn't trying to kill him. Though she could've been avoiding the sound of a gunshot, she lacked killing intent.

She's suspicious of him still. Of his gambit. That’s worrying. He may've rolled snake eyes when betting the pass line.

People tend to believe their perceived reality over contradictions. They’ll generally accept explanations that don’t upturn their existing understanding. Perhaps she's open to non-scientific realities? Or maybe… a thought strikes him. It's possible.

"Where's Sherlock?" He asks. He doesn’t want Sherlock to be part of this conversation.

"He went out."

"2030." He says simply. "China. Where were you then?"

"Wutong Mountain." She whispers quietly, tentatively. As though John were a monster who would attack once the spell over them was broken.

"Hmm." He hums noncommittally. He was afraid that would be her answer. He thinks that's where he'd heard of the Black Lotus Tong before today. There are several ways he could play this. He’s not sure which way he should play this...

"That's how they… what they…" She tries.

"It was one of the 'drugs' you transported." Delta Seven Two, if he remembers correctly.

She nods. She’s shaking. "Some of the boys in that group took some in secret. They… changed."

"That must've been terrifying." He's sat up by this point, instinctively guarded. She's replaced the dagger on the end table beside the guns, though. She must be aware how little good it would do her against something like John. Not that John would attack her without provocation, but it's nice not to have a weapon pointed at him.

John thinks he remembers her specifically, too. A scrawny little teen and her brother hiding from the ‘mice’ that had actually been monstrous transformations of some of the other smuggling kids.

"It was." She says softly. A tear slips down her face. John doesn't blame her in the least. The 'mice' are grotesque abominations. Seeing a human body transform into one of those things... The destruction and bloodshed he remembers from that 'incident' would've been bad enough for anyone. There are many reasons most people who witness the destruction of caused by Chiroptera either push the memories away or join Red Shield to fight against them.

He's not entirely sure what to do with Su-Lin before him, though. He doesn't think he has any worry from Su-Lin herself. She won't be able to kill him. She's not a government offical nor is she a detective with close ties to police and said government official. She wasn't the sister who grew up with the man he was impersonating. In fact, she's an ex-smuggler who wants to break from that life. No one would believe her if she did squeal.

She might tell Sherlock though. He might believe her.

"What were you trying to do?" Referring to the blade. John figures he knows, but he's not against a little intimidation to protect himself.

"I remember… the injuries. You had none, but... And those… things regrew parts of their bodies… Bullets came out of their skin... There was this woman who chopped them up, but if she was not thorough they could regrow entire limbs..." She swallows thickly. "I'm sorry."

"You wanted to make sure you weren't losing your mind?" John checks. She nods in affirmation. She's trembling.

John has no clue what he should do. He doesn't regret saving her. But…

"You saved me." She says for him. She's braver than he is. John can respect that.

"More than once." He says softly. As fun as living with Sherlock is, it's a relief to be able to share a bit of himself again. He doesn't intend to tell the whole truth, but even just a bit is a tantalizing fruit.

Her eyes widen, and then her brows contract in confusion. "All of the boys were Chinese. You would not have…"

John smiles enigmatically. He gives a partial truth: "There's an organization of people who live to fight those monsters. I'm a member." He's more than just a member, but she really doesn't need to know the whole secret.

"Oh." She says softly. "I remember… there were… men who showed to clean up after. They were not part of the Black Lotus… but they had not seemed like government either, I thought. They did not really interact with us, and most of us managed to slip away."

"Mmm." John hums in consideration. The traitor was among that operation, when he thinks back on it. It's possible he let those kids go knowingly or intentionally. Red Shield wouldn't have just let them go. Not without at least talking to them. Certainly not after what they'd just witnessed. He vaguely remembers talk about those kids escaping, but he wasn't a member of that part of the operation. He was part of damage, not damage control.

Had been a part of. He doesn't know how to re-establish contact. That's the primary problem. They're off-grid, secretive, paranoid, and protective. Once you've lost contact it can be hard to re-establish. And without them backing him he feels adrift and alone, unable to take the chance necessary to potentially get back. A lot its members are soldiers who lost units to those things. If he asked around the army he might get something; it's even possible Mycroft knows about them, but…

He can't bring himself to. He's scared. He can't bring himself to trust anyone outside of his immediate family anymore. The traitor's undoubtedly still a trusted member, so it's possible getting back to the organization in the wrong manner could tip him off. It would be safest for him, for everyone, to find someone of his family first, explain the situation, take care of the traitor, and then he could go back to trusting Red Shield as an organization again... maybe. He's not even sure. This sucks.

That he's found any degree of camaraderie with Sherlock is something of a miracle to him. At least now, even if he can no longer trust people not to hurt him, he can live with some semblance of life in his veins.

"Are you dangerous?" She asks him, pulling him out of his thoughts.

"In general? Very. But I believe the question you want is: am I danger to innocents? The answer to that is very much no."

"I'm not innocent." She says. John scans her face and body language intently. She regrets. She feels guilty. She wishes she hadn't had to be part of this.

"You tried to get out." He offers, looking to explain his perspective as well as soothe her. "You were young when you had to turn to that life. You even said no despite the consequences. Keep making amends; I fail to see a problem."

She looks at him with surprise, and then with gratitude. She swallows again.

"I almost finished the translation." She offers him in return. "I got the more common words, but I need the book for the more uncommon ones."

"What book?"

"London A-Z." She's apparently more willing to out with it now. John's glad she feels safe enough with him. He hopes he can feel safe with her in return. "Your friend left to get me a copy."

"Ah." John thinks it over in his head before asking for a copy of what's been translated so far. Knowing Sherlock, now that he knows the key he'll just translate the rest himself. And probably do something stupid like follow the lead alone.

*NINE MILL FOR JADE __ DRAGON __ BLACK __*

"So the important bits. Wonderful. Impressed you had this much of it memorized."

Sherlock's probably been gone too long for John to just track him. His hunger has dulled a titch with sleep, but he definitely has to eat by tonight. Of course the man has to make this difficult.

"I need…" he says hesitantly. He doesn't want to leave her alone again after what happened last time, but that also makes him want to find Sherlock more.

"To find him." She finishes for him. "Then you need the book. It's the page number and then the word on that page. Go."

He gives her a desperate look that he hopes conveys both how bad of an idea this is and how much he needs to do it.

"Go." She says more softly.

He does.

Liang had not felt fear like that in years. Not since the mountain haul, or perhaps his first kill. In the apartment it made sense, a gun was being leveled at him after all, but the feeling returned in the museum. That hunted feeling.

That must be how the two foot soldiers felt. Being his prey.

He had not been there. He had not. And then he had. The blonde man. Liang had seen the door open beyond Su-Lin. He'd felt the hunted fear kick in then, but had thought it was just the knowledge that he had miscalculated and would die for finishing his job. Given that it was his Su-Lin, he would be deserving of it.

And then he was there.

Curling around his sister, protecting her, putting his own hands between the gun and her.

Liang vividly remembers the moment. The afterimage blur of his appearance as he moved at inhuman speed. The shining iris of blue glaring into his soul. The inability to shift the gun, to move it, and the muzzle being firmly grasped. The pull of his finger and the smell of gunpowder. He glanced down, briefly, saw the palm placed right up against the muzzle. The bullet would have dug into the palm and through the wrist. Fear had him maneuver for one of his close range weapons once the gun was out of his control, a dagger; he struck out.

The blade caught and tugged, but once again the man's hands were immovable iron. The give he could force wasn't enough for further attack.

And then he was shoved. One-handed.

Humans cannot do that. That much force centralized only in the arm. Not even any wind-up. He went flying back several feet. The man didn't even look winded or off-balance. From his angle on the ground he saw it.

He saw him lift the wound on his arm to his lips and suck.

He didn't stick around to finish that task. (Did he even want to?) He could not fight him. Not that man that reminded him too much of what he might become. Not over his Su-Lin. The memories of a creature gorging itself on the blood of its victims still haunts him to this day. So he used his honed balance to spin with the momentum and push with his legs.

Run. That was the only thought that made sense. Run.

He is almost glad his arm had already healed since his sister's place.

He hated the serum, but it gave him back maneuverability in his arm. That bullet would have ruined his ability to finish his task if he had not been taking it.

Sometimes he thinks he is as bad as those fools on the mountain who skimmed the product they were hauling. The one they learned the hard way changed humans into non-humans. How far gone is he already? How much of the liquid does it take to trigger a transformation? It is not the same stuff as the mountain, not remotely; it is a different solution, but they are related and the fear consumes him.

Is he even still human?

He had wanted to separate himself from his humanity to make things easier for himself. He had accused his sister of betraying him, but it was the opposite, was it not?

He had betrayed her years before. When he gave up on being human.

If that non-human would protect a stranger, what did that make Zhi Zhu?

Nine million quid for a jade pin. A small item of jewelry would've been an easy object to slip out of its intended hoard and to not know its worth. Could hide it in plain sight even. It's all about the history, most likely. Who owned it.

Dragon den black tramway is a reference to one of their hideouts that their operatives would recognize. Obviously. Narrowing down the hideout quickly will require his maps. While his mind palace should have the necessary information, the trip to Baker Street will take less time.

He realizes at the doorway to their flat that taking Su-Lin to one of his safehouses was the better option over bringing her home with them after all. Zhi Zhu is waiting for him in their living area.

"Not going to try to strangle me again?" He tries to provoke. If he was wanted dead, then the spider wouldn't be waiting for him casually in clear sight. So what does he want then?

"No." The rough voice says. He stands, which puts Sherlock's instincts on higher alert. He does not want this man near his body again, if it can be helped. "I want information."

"Don't know where your jade pin is, sorry." He offers facetiously.

The spider doesn't seem bothered by his knowing the cipher. Instead, after a moment of tense silence, he asks, "Who is your associate?"

Sherlock schools his features and paints on a patronizing smile. "I'm not sure who you mean."

"The one who shot at me." Shot at me. Not shot me. Interesting. He remembers the scream of pain. Being dropped. The shattering of the window and the second shot. The first shot must've hit for the scream and drop to occur. A trained assassin wouldn't lose composure on a missed shot.

Zhi Zhu absently reaches up with his injured arm to touch at the scar on his neck. The arm appears shockingly fine at a glance, but it is hidden under cloth; the ripped hole the bullet had made isn't enough at this distance to get a good read on it. Can't tell with this limited data.

Perhaps it simply seemed worse at the time, but turned out to be little more than a scratch. Shot at.

"Oh, him." He offers dismissively, sweeping into their flat, towards the kitchen's doorway, affecting casualness. "Ex-soldier, you know how it is."

The spider hums thoughtfully and asks, "That's all you know of him?"

"We're flatmates. We live together. I know how he likes his toast, if that's what you're interested in."

Sherlock is considering his options for defense. John has his gun, as well as Zhi Zhu's gun and blade. The spider has a second knife on him, at least, but there doesn't seem to be a replacement gun yet. John's new sword ought to be in his bedroom upstairs, either in plain sight, in the closet, or under his bed. Given his night terrors, there might be comfort of a weapon within reach. Though the gun in the bedside table might be enough for that need. Closet or plain sight it is then—

"So you know nothing of the man living in the place where you sleep?"

"I know enough." He's not sure why the killer is so interested in John. Pride, most likely. He's been caught off-guard by him twice now, both times being thwarted from his kill. His first thought was that they knew each other somehow, but John had no recognition of Su-Lin, the Black Lotus, Shan, or Zhi Zhu, so that couldn't be it. Poisons in the kitchen and his bedroom. Acids in the living room near the window the spider stands in front of.

"What I'm more interested in is you. You and your sister join a gang in your teens in order to scrape by. Oddly, your sister wants to escape that life while you embrace it. Why?"

"Differing fates?" He offers, but the caustic quality of his voice, however slight it is, leaks out.

"No, no. It's like a cult, isn't it? The Black Lotus. But why were you indoctrinated when your sister wasn't? Different jobs? Different tasks? She dealt with antiquities, you were… a soldier. A fighter. Were you trained as an assassin before or after?"

"Before or after what?" He growls. How terrifying (how droll).

"You were injured." The acrobat stills almost completely, except for his hand which darts back to his neck. "Old injury, almost deadly. Traces of the scar on your neck: discoloration. Prefer to take care of your targets from a distance or by ambushing them. Still, you carry close range weapons, at least two of them at a time, just in case. Been attacked before. The scar is faint, and it no longer physically effects you, but you cover it up. Traces of concealer. Traces, not full coverage. You cover it up in daily life, but remove the concealer during a job. You run your fingers over it when you're feeling nervous. Serves as a reminder. For what?"

Sherlock's not certain how much of that was spot on, there's always something, but the distraction gives him the ability to better position himself.

Zhi Zhu doesn't react much at all beyond the increasing stiffness of his posture and the jerk of his hand away from his neck and down to grasp at the window sill behind him. John keeps things locked by default and Sherlock hasn't touched them since the previous night; Ms Hudson must've opened them to let air in.

He realizes Zhi Zhu intends to escape rather than fight just as he turns to leave without answering. Sherlock gives chase to the window, but Zhi Zhu is already long gone by the time he's there.

What was any of that about?

Chapter Text

“Understood.” He tells the boss before ending the call. Shan had followed the targets from the museum to a nondescript building. He's to head there and finish the job. He'd asked about the associate, and Shan confirmed she'd seen him leave a few moments ago.

He's surprised how easy it is to enter through the front door. And there's no hateful pull in his veins; no need to obey Shan's wishes. No, there is, but it's so faint, like a sense in a mundane childhood memory. Easily ignored. It's the first time in years that he's felt free.

He has a theory as to why that is. If he's right, then it seems that it's Su-Lin's turn to save him.

Su-Lin is understandably, heartbreakingly, terrified to see him. What she must think of him: this wraith of a brother.

He does his best to appear as harmless as possible; slouched posture against the doorway giving plenty of distance between them. What he hopes is a soft expression. The room's few windows are covered: good. He won't need to worry about Shan seeing any of this.

He begins simply, “Su-Lin.”

She doesn't respond at first, and that alone nearly breaks him, but after a few moments where he doesn't move she says his name in return. She swallows. She really is afraid of him. He can't blame her. He doesn't blame her.

The monster who attacked her in the museum was him after all.

He hasn't spoken to her properly in so long. She's essentially a stranger to him, and him to her; he isn't sure how to bring up the topic he wants to have, so he chooses to bluntly pull it to the foreground: “Do you remember the run we had in China? Shenzhen. Across the mountain.”

He sees something flicker across her face, but it's so quick that he can't name it. She simply says, "You're the one who asked me to forget. You bade me to forget. Why ask me to remember it now? Why do this to me?"

The last question overtakes the guilt and shame that the lead up engenders in him. He's hurting her. He has hurt her. He wants to beg her to give him this chance, but the words won't form. His body won't move to follow through. All he can manage is to continue the conversation:

“You saw that man get shot. I even stabbed his arm. How is he not in a hospital?”

“You must have just missed.”

“I didn't." He presses. Is she protecting the man or does she really just not believe her own eyes? "He was across the room, and then he was between the gun and you.”

She hesitates for a moment before defensively muttering, “I don't know what to say.”

He girds himself for the words he's wanted to say for so long:

“I do. I'm sorry.”

“What?” She's confused and doesn't understand. That's okay. He deserves this.

He takes a few careful steps towards her so that she can see it better as he rolls up his left sleeves. The bullet wound he got in her home has already healed. He points it out to her, putting effort into ignoring her flinch away from him.

"That man shot me less than 16 hours ago." She'll understand that wounds do not heal that quickly. He then yanks his sleeves as high as he can force it and brings attention to the many tiny scars on the inside of his elbow and arms.

He hates these scars in particular. The other ones represent what he's becoming, but these ones are the cause.

“That wasn't the only drug of that type. There are others. This one is used for inhuman healing and obedience.”

That's as much as he really knows about it. Su-Lin is smart. She'll realize the connection. And she does. He watches the spark behind her eyes. She questions the most important part: “Obedience?”

He explains, “Useful for soldiers. There's a ritual involved though. The recipient must focus solely on the person they'll be obedient to.”

“Shan?” She knows exactly who that focus would be.

“Yes.” He admits, hating the acidic feel of it on his tongue.

She doesn't necessarily believe him, but she's trying to understand, even going as far as approaching him and tentatively putting her fingers to the injection marks. Her touch burns. If that's all he gets he'll accept it wholeheartedly. She takes a minute to process before she asks, “Did something happen? Something that changed your… focus. ”

Honesty: “You did.”

That catches her by surprise. “I did?”

“Shan became complacent." Less involved in the ritual. Less strict about ensuring his focus was solely on her. She just assumed his focus on her was status quo now. "I thought of you during the most recent transfusion.”

“I...” She has no idea what to say to that confession.

“Well this is... unexpected.”

Zhi Zhu had clearly not yet noticed him, though Su-Lin had. Upon leaving the safehouse John had noticed the camera woman watching them again, so he had pretended to leave only to loop back around and corner her. Unfortunately, that was when John caught sight of Zhi Zhu heading inside the safehouse. Su-Lin's safety took priority for him—if he's gonna reveal himself to protect someone he should at least ensure they survive—so he ditched the stalker and went back to the safehouse.

He had expected to have to break up an altercation or prevent another murder, but instead the two of them were… talking. Seemingly about something he should definitely learn more about. Especially if her brother had anything to do with chiropterans. He had just caught the mention of transfusions, and the lack of injured arm had been bothering him, after all.

"What are you doing here?”

“I needed to speak with her.”

“About what? How you're going to kill her?”

He flinches at John's words, but says, “No. About why I won't.”

“You would have already if I hadn't stopped you.” John comments caustically. The killer flinches again.

“I know,” is what he says. He then backs away from Su-Lin a step to give a quarter bow... in gratitude?? “Thank you.”

John's thrown off-guard by such a seemingly sincere show of thanks. He refuses to accept it, though. After all: “...You tried to strangle my friend.”

He straightens from his bow and claims, “I intended only to incapacitate him, not kill him.”

John... had thought that, hadn't he? It doesn't lessen the anger or anxiety in his gut though. So instead of accepting it and moving on he questions, “Why is that? He was—is—threatening your operation.”

“...Because I wasn't ordered to kill him.”

There's a pause as John lets his frustration and disdain wash through him. He sardonically asks, “So you were only following orders, huh?”

“Liang.” Su-Lin pleads, speaking for the first time since John entered. “Tell him what you told me. And show him your arm.” Liang stares at Su-Lin, clearly uncertain... but does what she tells him.

He shows his arm, the bullet wound, to John. There is a wound there, but despite it being inflicted less than 24 hours ago it's already healed and scarred up.

“I was wondering how you were moving that arm... What are you?” John's glad his voice remains steady and serious because he can't stop the frisson of fear that takes over his body.

“Now show him the injections.” Su-Lin commands. John had caught the bit where they were talking about Shan becoming complacent, but upon seeing the healed wound and infection sites the gut feeling he had that this was chiropteran related kicks into overdrive. The Black Lotus had transported Delta Seven Two at one point after all, and who knows what kinds of advancements those bastards could have made since then.

“So many,” is all he can bring himself to ask.

“Over years.” The spider confides.

“What were you injected with?” John needs to know. It's his job to deal with things like this… even if he isn't currently...

“An experimental serum.” Because of course it is. “Rapid regeneration... and obedience are the effects.”

Those symptoms sound a bit like... but the latter one requires more clarification so he asks, “Obedience?”

There's a pregnant pause as Zhi Zhu hesitates, John considers, and Su-Lin builds up the courage to say to her brother, “Tell him.”

“It's a ritual of sorts. Once every 3 months, or whenever injured. Whichever comes first… They make you think of one person during it, and you become protective and subservient to them.”

John digests this, considering the information he knows and how familiar those symptoms sound. Chevalier is the designation given humans who have ingested a true chiropteran's undiluted blood and changed at a genetic level to become a sort of subspecies of chiroptera: with many of the abilities that a true chiropteran has. Including rapid regeneration. But also at the cost of being subservient to their 'Queen': the true chiroptera that gave the human her own blood. That subservience wasn't guaranteed; one of his mother's chevaliers, Solomon, had betrayed his mother for Saya, his mother's sister. Though that was because he fell in love with her. John's sister became the Queen for most of their family after The Incident, but she had no interest in subduing her own family in any way. They may experience more of a need to spoil her than before they were changed, but the point is that subservience wasn't a guaranteed thing for chevaliers. But it was absolutely the kind of thing assholes would want to develop. The two big 'goals' of stereotypical pharmaceuticals: immortality and mind control.

Hopefully it was still far from final stages.

After considering how this new information made sense with what he already knew, he asks for further clarification, “Who are the 'they' and who are the 'you'?”

“In the early stages it was some man, and he still shows up time from time, but recently it's usually become Shan alone... I'm the only subject I know of anymore.”

“Anymore?”

“The few others were taken by the man. I was left behind as part of the payment for the transaction.”

John catches on: “Their own personal assassin. Right. Big draw, that. What changed?”

“You... and Su-Lin.”

“How so?”

“You shot me.”

“And?” John doesn't regret it in the least.

“I had to get an injection to heal it.”

That's when it hits John. 3 months or when injured. “Ah. A new opportunity to imprint.”

“I was thinking of Su-Lin at that time. And Shan had become too complacent to prevent or even consider such a thing.”

That's where he had walked in on the conversation. But… “But that would've happened between then and the museum...” Su-Lin's brother looks down in shame. “Ah. Old comforts... the protectiveness instinct not that strong then?”

“I'm… not sure. No new orders, perhaps. Or perhaps the change was too recent… I would've killed myself after.” He sounds certain about that.

“Mmm. And that totally makes it better.” John can't help himself. He's still mad on Sherlock's behalf. Su-Lin can believe whatever she wants, but John's not going to capitulate on that unless Sherlock himself does. And even then probably not.

“How does it work for you?” Liang asks.

“Hm?” He thinks he knows what's being asked, but he'd prefer not to divulge that if he can get away with it.

“You healed without any injections, yes?”

“Mm.” Hard to deny that, after all.

“...How?” Really don't wanna answer that.

Su-Lin saves them from an awkward staredown that John would've won by asking, “Liang, does it matter?”

Liang turns to meet his sister's eyes. “His eyes. They're the same as that woman's.” Dammit.

“...I noticed." Dammit again. "But does it matter?” Thank you, Su-Lin. John is willing to go out on quite the limb to save your supposedly beloved sister's life. The least they can do is not ruin John's.

“...No. Sorry.” Su-Lin you are a goddess.

As glad as John is that they won't force his confidence, not that he would've let them, he doesn't like that he's essentially forged a potential alliance with the guy who strangled his friend. “Still mad at you for hurting my friend.”

Liang gives another quarter bow and proper apology. John tells him to do that to Sherlock if he actually feels that way. When he straightens from his apology he says, “Shan has been watching you.”

“Hm?”

“Shan's been watching you herself.”

“Damn.” Apparently missed the leader herself in his scramble to get back to Su-Lin. Wonder if she's still there...

“She would've been replaced by someone else by now." John clicks his tongue. "They shouldn't be able to see inside... We might be able to fake it.”

"Her murder?" John glances at Su-Lin. She seems pretty calm about the idea.

“Su-Lin. You'll need to remain here and away from the windows.”

“Okay.” She agrees without hesitation.

The spider then explains which tramway the missing piece's drop point was going to be and that it'd been retired as soon as it became clear the cipher was compromised. "I'll leave through the window. Give the sense I'm being chased.”

“So just like that you're switching sides?” John can't bring himself to just suddenly trust this guy.

“I've failed Su-Lin enough,” is all he says before dropping his other knife to the floor, pulling off his hoodie to give to Su-Lin, and sprinting to the window where he leaves through.

“Right then. I best look suitably distressed, yeah?” He asks Su-Lin rhetorically before following through on the ruse and running over to the window, peering out of it as if searching for any sign of the spider. Intentionally finding none, he heads back in to tell Su-Lin he'll swing back by in a bit to relocate her once he's collected Sherlock.

There's no one here. Did they realize he got the key to the cipher from Su-Lin and retreated? There's signs that there were people here, recently at that, but no signs of anyone here at the moment. Damn.

He hears footsteps from the entrance he came through. He hides just in case, but recognizes the tread a moment after and steps out when John calls, “Had a feeling I'd find you snooping around here.”

“John!” How is he here? Why is he here?

“Any luck?” John asks, taking in the abandoned drop point.

“No. No one's here. How are you here?” Let's start with that.

“Long story; tell you later. Also: learn to answer you're damn phone. Anyways, if no one's here, we need to head back.” John's being evasive, but Sherlock can see from his expression that he wants to say something and that it's the openness of the location that leads him to not do so.

“Not sure. They should be here.” That's fine, though. Sherlock's got a back up plan in mind.

“They might've been tipped off to us coming here." John picks up. Then he pushes: "Come on; I need you to follow me.”

Sherlock feels he should push the idea of checking in on Su-Lin, given that that's where John was something must've happened with her, so he asks, “But what about—?”

John cuts him off before he has to give too much of an act. “Follow. Now.”

Once in the relative safety of the safehouse, John and Su-Lin explain what they can, minus the chiropteran stuff obviously (so basically 'her brother claims to want to quit the life and protect her, also we're pretending he succeeded in killing her so that's a thing now.') They decide to secret her out to a different safehouse. The observers have apparently moved on because no one is watching them now. John goes to check while Su-Lin wears her brother's hoodie to cover up her features and Sherlock escorts her to the new location.

Later, in Baker Street, thoroughly tired, John looks up from his seat and says, “So, yeah.”

“You've certainly had an interesting night.” Sherlock offers. He's got that look like he's seconds away from disappearing into his mind to consider all the new information it's gathered, though he appears to be sticking it out long enough for John to finish and leave for bed, which John will be doing gladly.

He's not going to leave without getting in an important shot: “And you keep wandering off without backup.”

“You were asleep.” It's a weak excuse and Sherlock has to know that. John's certainly not letting it lie.

“Wake me up!” Honestly! Don't go wandering into dangerous situations when John's right there willing to join (and protect)! "And answer your damn phone."

Sherlock just rolls his eyes and fully retreats into himself. John sighs, then immediately yawns, then sighs again, before standing and heading up to bed with a genuine, "Good night," and when Sherlock doesn't so much as twitch in response, he tacks on an affectionate, "Sherlock."

By the evening of the following day Sherlock has cobbled together a back up plan for his back up plan. With Dimmock convinced of the murders and smuggling ring now, thank you crime syndicate for marking your people with the same tattoos (and how did the coroner not catch that themself? People really are useless.), he'll have a little more use of the police. With the key given to them by Su-Lin, though, there's not much in the way of work for them to do before tonight.

So they head back to Baker Street to wait the last hours to nightfall. John keeps Sherlock company with a taste of the enforced Bond marathon that was previously promised, and threats of 'eat something or I'll make it Lord of the Rings.' Ugh. At least the Bond movies have guns and are based on some facsimile of reality.

About an hour before sunset, though, John goes upstairs to change. Sherlock doesn't really notice at first, he's busy ignoring the movie, but when John comes back down in one of his nicer shirts Sherlock realizes John plans to head out. Now? He wouldn't wear that shirt while on a case; it's not easy to move in (John's opinion). So he's going out recreationally. To impress someone? Who was he texting earlier?

… He's not sure why but he blurts out, "I need to get some air. We're going out tonight." He'd assumed John would be around and amenable to the surprise of joining him so he hadn't mentioned it. But if John had a…

"Actually, I have a date tonight." He says it matter-of-factly, like it doesn't mean anything to him and shouldn't mean anything to Sherlock.

Somehow Sherlock has managed to forget John wasn't celibate like him. Wasn't so absorbed in the Work to forget thoughts of sex as Sherlock was. John would go out for a few hours every couple of days, but it was typically during hours that didn't impede a case or while Sherlock was otherwise employed and therefore didn't notice. He hasn't chosen a 'date' over Sherlock yet (and there are different women given the varying lengths of stray hairs and colors as well as lingering perfume and shampoo scents).

"What?" is all Sherlock can eke out of his mess of thoughts.

John looks vaguely amused and says, "It's when two people who like each other have fun together."

"That's what I was suggesting." He doesn't know why he sounds so defensive. It must be only to his own ears though because John doesn't look offended or confused, only still mildly amused.

"No it wasn't. Or, at least, I hope not." That… hurts. Sherlock knows what dates are; he's been on a few… back in university. If those even count after… He wasn't trying to insinuate that with John at all, just that he was offering an outing that would be fun for them, so why does John saying that he hopes Sherlock wasn't asking him out hurt so much?

Sherlock asks, thinking more about how to get John to go with him than actually interested, "Where are you taking her?"

"Uh." John gets this bemused look on his face. "Her… place?"

So, what? He's going to go from watching movies with Sherlock to watching movies with someone else? Why? And Sherlock knows well enough that John's idea of fun is more closely aligned with what Sherlock has planned for the evening than watching movies with some woman. One of several. Unless he's serious about this one. But he would've talked more about her if that was the case, right? Had he, and Sherlock just hadn't paid attention?

"Oh. Dull, boring, predictable." Insult his taste so Sherlock can offer the circus as an alternative… he offers the piece of poster he'd ripped off last night of a Chinese circus in town for a single night just as a Chinese smuggling ring involving a Chinese freeclimbing assassin makes a few kills following a missing item. "Why don't you try this?"

John looks at it, looks back up at Sherlock, then off to the side with a breaking grin. "Sherlock, I'll be gone a couple hours at most. We can go to the circus when I get back." Sherlock's not sure why the confirmation that John will be coming to the circus with him, sans date even, doesn't assuage him. He still feels what's essentially a hole of hurt in his chest.

Regardless of Sherlock's feelings, he doesn't say or do anything other than roll his eyes at John's implication and curl up on the sofa for the hour or so that John is gone, wondering how to taper his own confusing mess of emotions.

John is perfectly satiated by the time he returns to Baker Street. Given he actually wanted blood, not sex, meant it was pretty easy to offer something quick and still get what he needed from the exchange. Sherlock is still on the couch when he gets back so he pokes him and tells him to get ready if he needs to before going upstairs to do so himself.

He'd nearly called Sherlock out on his jealous behavior earlier, but decided against it last second. Sherlock had seemed… confused and distant and more interested in John coming to the circus than with his date. This is why you make plans ahead of time instead of last second, or in Sherlock's case tell him of the plans at all. He does have a bad habit of that and gets tetchy when he doesn't have control.

John isn't as sure how he feels at the attempt to manipulate him. Given that it was a passive, 'Give this a try,' and just not being verbally clear that that's what he had in mind, was a little more palatable than a more thorough manipulation or aggressiveness. Sherlock had just seemed… lonely perhaps.

John had a feeling that Sherlock mostly understood the world through the lens of control or controlled. It was only a slight inkling at first, but in the months they've lived together it's become a more definite impression. Sherlock needs to feel in control, but refuses to be controlled. He'll occupy the kitchen table with experiments, but complain if John moves anything, even temporarily. He restricts when and how much he eats, how much he sleeps, requested no requests for his violin playing, and it's possible his panic attack at Su-Lin's flat was even partially about that (though John's not as sure on that one). Subtle manipulation is just how Sherlock interacts with the world by default. Molly could be considered an example of this if it truly isn't obliviousness. Many of his interactions with John could also be seen as such to the untrained observer, though John is admittedly better than the average person at seeing through and butting heads with that kind of personality trait so it doesn't bother him quite as much as it might a more normal person.

It's the manipulations he doesn't see that actually terrify him. Or rather, the possibility of manipulations he doesn't manage to understand or intuit. The line Sherlock's toeing hasn't been crossed with John yet, but the fact is that he does toe it. Worse, Sherlock may not quite realize where that line even is for John. John barely knows where that line is for himself. That's part of why he was so blunt and insistent about the experimentation and drugging thing. It was an attempt to draw the line that could not be crossed. An attempt to say, 'Here. Around here is the line. Cross it and we're over. Please don't cross it.'

Of course at that time John hadn't even been considering friendship as a possibility. God. John just can't have simple things in his life, can he? Always got to be complicated.

At least the circus is fun. Even if the opera singing nearly sends him into his own panic attack. He manages to stem it; she sounds nothing like him or his mother so it's easy enough to shove aside once Sherlock does his 'lack of personal space' thing as well.

Sherlock sits in John's ear and reveals the secrets behind the acts and their tricks, which John loves. Eventually Sherlock gives him a look and comments that most people don't like having the 'magic tricks' being spoiled for them. Wow. So he was spoiling them even though he'd assumed John would've preferred them unspoiled? This guy.

So John whispers back, "Well for one, I'm not most people. For another, I couldn't care less about the trick itself; that actually kind of bores me. Well, depends on the trick I suppose. Now the process, on the other hand, the set up and the how? Now that stuff fascinates me."

Sherlock gives John this look in response that John cannot read. It's some kind of mix of… something. Pleasant surprise, maybe. Or awe. Something of that nature. But it's also complicated by a furrow of the brow, like he can't believe John or something.

John doesn't get it, and Sherlock deflects back to the show when he tries so he gives up and goes along with the flow.

Chapter Text

Sherlock's not sure how to feel about the good fortune of having met John Watson as his flatmate. John's words, taken from an unrelated context, illuminates a bit more of the man who's made such an impression on him. A person who doesn't care overmuch for the magic of a trick, but does like understanding the how of the trick.

It's such a difference from Sebastian who didn't care for the how at all, and not even the 'trick' really, just in the gossip. It's different from the clients who only care about the results of his investigations. It's different from the detectives who want the crime solved and only want to know the how for the sake of soothing their own egos or because they don't believe Sherlock could put two and two together.

Fascinates. John said the how fascinates him.

He may not have been talking about Sherlock, or Sherlock's deductions, specifically, but it allows Sherlock to understand a little bit more how John is different from others. How it is that he sees the world, sees Sherlock, differently than others do.

It wasn't a direct compliment, but it feels like one.

It's not too long after that that Sherlock sees his opportunity to sneak backstage. John continues with his eerie ability to follow Sherlock's lead amidst distraction. So far the only ways Sherlock's been able to shake him are when John himself has no intention of following, when Sherlock takes him by enough of a surprise to get a head start, or by using logic to convince John that they should separate. He's a wonderful follower despite his bouts of stubbornness.

The backstage is being used as the dressing rooms, and a number of things stand out to him. First: the warrior armor which turns out is on a stand. Then Sherlock peeks through the curtain. Their friend the acrobat is performing his act now. Back in the dressing area he checks the pressurized cans and finds one with the same color and consistency as their ciphers.

When he turns back to John to show off his finding to John, he finds John staring in the armor's direction with an… expression on his face. It's some mix between unamused and disappointed.

"I'm sorry if I disrupted your plan for a dramatic entrance, but I already know you're there so you might as well come out."

That's when Sherlock notices the presence of a man very near the armor who runs at John as soon as he's been caught out. John, meanwhile, is unimpressed with this course of action and makes to throw him over his shoulder using the man's own momentum.

That's the moment all hell breaks loose.

With the sound of the man's fall others flock backstage to check on him, and find Sherlock with a spraycan in his hand and John towering over the fallen man with a foot on the guy's chest.

"Plan?" John asks him.

"Yeah. Feel like a fight?"

John grins to himself at that, looking vaguely predatory in the direction of the closest person. "Always."

They're at Baker Street before too long, giggling to themselves and feeling exhilarated just to be alive. Sherlock's got proof that the circus is made up of members of the smuggling ring looking to reclaim their lost item and even if the cipher is no longer useful for tracking them at least now the police will have a more open eye to their threat. Chase them out of London, away from their prize, claim it for themselves and then even if destroying the entire group is impossible at least they'll have lost this round. He just has to figure out what happened to the pin, though he already has a strong suspicion of just where it is and what he'll do with it once it's recovered. This might not be a total victory, but it is a win, and once the pin has been relocated to the museum satisfaction will be had—

Except.

Except there's yellow paint on 221B's windows. Likely different handwriting than the acrobat's given the way he rounded his curves versus this one—

Where's John? He was just beside him. They were laughing together at the front steps. They started heading inside—

He starts heading back down there to look things over—is John okay?—there's nothing to be seen there—John would've tried to leave a message like last time—there's a bit of blood on the sidewalk—is it John's??—how did this happen when he was right there—is John okay?—Deadman—where??—John!—right outside, how?—

It doesn't matter that John is in danger , he chastises his emotions. Knowing that doesn't change the situation. Only figuring it out will help and his mind simply won't shut up and let him process.

He wishes he could completely cordon off his emotions whenever he needs to. Separate or quarantine it away from his logical mind. Amputate it if need be.

He hates that years of practice hasn't worked for him the way it has for Mycroft.

He takes a deep breath and focuses:

Same cipher: related to the case.

No body: abduction. It's a threat.

Conclusion: They want their pin back.

"Mr Holmes!" He hears in the distance, barely through the roaring in his veins. It's Su-Lin. Why is she here? She offers it up quickly enough: "Liang came by the safehouse saying they planned to take John to coerce you. He gave me the location. Come on."

This had better not become a new habit of mine, John thinks as his awareness comes back to him. He's up to three now, not including times while incarcerated, and two of them have been in the last two months. This time feels… different though. From the time with the cabbie. He doesn't like it. His mind comes back online before his body does; that's not the usual way of this. It strikes fear in him. It's... it's similar to the kind of sedative they liked to use back in Afghanistan, in the lab... The way it leaves him feeling.

Bile sits at the back of his throat and the numbing lethargy of his limbs leave him unable to move from his starting position. Voices eventually start filtering in, but they're idle comments and conversation, nothing particularly interesting. With the new stimulus John turns his focus to other senses like smell: musty and molding. His extrasensory instincts come online next: three heartbeats/sources of blood. One of them is more attractive than the other two, though one of the other two is slightly more alluring than the third one. There are a few more further away; John can't focus nearly enough right now to get a clearer read than that. Eventually touch comes back to him: carpet on cheek, rope-tied arms behind back, clothes he was wearing earlier, cool night air tempered with the room's temperature.

Sight is last, but that's more because he can't move his body easily than indicative of anything else. Why are his limbs so numb? So uncooperative? It reminds him too much of the lab. No, no, no. He never learned what drug that was. If it was common or designer. He hopes it's common. That it's use in this instance is a coincidence. Or perhaps it's just what they had on hand? Back up for if their test subjects rebel or something? He doesn't know, he doesn't know—

“Waking up, princess?” One of the voices has come over to him. The other two had left the room for some reason about a minute ago. This is the one that smells most appetizing. It's the one whose blood calls to John the most. If John's body could move it would desire a taste of him. John hates that that's apparently his body's main thought right now. Didn't he last eat a couple hours ago? So why does this man's blood call to him so?

“Apologies for the trauma, but I simply had to meet you again.” is what he says once John peels open his eyes to get a look.

Again?, thinks John. Have we even met before?

The fellow's face isn't remotely familiar to him. Nothing about him pulls up any sense of familiarity. Not smell, not figure, not voice: nothing.

“It's fine.” He says, slipping a hand under John's chin, tilting it. It feels especially sickening given that John can't move in the least. The most he manages is a small groan of disgust. “You don't have to speak. I'm just honored to be in your presence.”

The bile in John's throat peaks, but nothing comes up. Just a few coughs.

“I wish we could've had more time to get to know each other better.” The man sounds despondent. As if he's genuinely sad he won't be spending more than a few moments with a drugged up and unresponsive John. He becomes excited with his next statement: “But! I suppose I'll just have to survive off these little crumbs. Being able to see you, touch you," He reaches out to caress John's face, much to John's extreme disgust. John can be considered sufficiently creeped, if that was this guy's objective. The bile has abated a bit with the coughs, but now he wants to actually vomit up something for the sheer catharsis of the act. He wishes he could say he put all of his effort into giving the man a satisfactory nip for invading John's personal space like this, or that he could at least blame the drug for why he didn't, but the truth is that he was part paralyzed from fear and part determined to fight against his instinct to have a taste of his blood.

The man continues his sentence ignorant of John's revulsion: “is more than I'd ever thought I'd have." Then he earnestly mutters to himself, low enough John thinks it wasn't directed at him at all: "This will just have to sustain me for now.”

He then stands, grinning down at John, all trace of sorrow and heartbreak gone. “Until next time, my dearest!”

John's not entirely certain what happened next. Perhaps he blacked out. He remembers the man turning to leave. Then Shan and Liang were in the room. Liang is giving him worried looks whenever Shan isn’t looking.

Who was that guy? And what the hell was he on about? John doesn't like what his instincts are telling him. He still feels sick. Did it even happen at all?

Su-Lin doesn’t think infiltrating the place right out is the best strategy, but Mr Holmes seems set on that course of action. When she asks why he doesn’t involve the police, he asks her if she cares about her brother. While that keeps her from pushing the subject, it doesn’t stop her from questioning it in her mind.

Regardless, the infiltration is just the two of them. Su-Lin is not a fighter by any means, she knows some basic self-defense, but she hasn't even practiced it in years. Mr Holmes does suggest she not join him, and logic tells her that's for the best, but she feels that Liang is her responsibility. She's aware John doesn't trust him, and that her brother could be a danger just as much as he could be an ally. Most of her belief in him is centered on the facts: John isn't trusting him because of his actions, not because his story was impossible. Given his apparent experience in this realm, and especially with Su-Lin's memories of impossible creatures, she's willing to give her brother a chance. If he's sincere she'll be ecstatic, but if she's wrong for trusting him ever again, and especially if someone got hurt for her choice to try to trust him…

He did give her the address for where John would be taken as soon as he had opportunity to. He'd also explained something she hadn't passed on to the detective: the decision to abduct John Watson did not come from Shan, but from someone who had influence over her. He didn't know any specifics, only that the ransom was a side effect rather than the primary purpose. Su-Lin didn't tell the detective any of that on the hunch that it had nothing to do with the case and everything to do with John's situation.

The plan was for her to make contact with her brother while Sherlock focused on reaching John. Or at least that was the plan as far as she was told. If he had anything else in mind, she wasn't privy to it.

She wonders just what manner of creature that John person is. He isn't a normal human, that much was for certain, and he had the same eyes as the black-haired woman who had saved them and killed those monsters. The same glowing blue.

And then there were the injections. If it weren't for her first contact with it in China, and then the confrontation in the museum, she would not have believed her brother in the least. But there was a drug that changed people, made them mindless monsters that regenerated. There was a woman with inhuman strength and speed who could hurt and kill those things. There was a man who could cross a room in time to stop a bullet with his own hand. Who could drink the evidence away and heal the wounds in moments.

Humans always think they know everything. And then the universe reminds them that they know nothing.

But despite the monsters' violent strength, the woman had protected them. And John had protected her. Was it a kind of civil war? Or something else entirely?

They were the reason she was willing to give her brother a single chance to prove himself.

The house wasn't too well-guarded. They probably hadn't expected or planned for one of their own leaking the location. He was likely expected to show at the tramway, to meet with a representative who would make their demands clear.

The moment of truth comes when the brother and the opera singer exit the building. The singer leaves in the direction of the tramway; the acrobat leaves in the direction of Baker Street. Trying to locate him.

Considering his options, he makes the decision to text Dimmock the tramway address with the suggestion of catching smugglers in the act of asking for ransom, with just enough detail to explain the situation. He then turns off his phone and leaves him to it.

With the brother having left the building, it also solves the problem of Su-Lin's impetus for wanting to join him. She looks conflicted as he lays down enough of a minefield of reasons she shouldn't join him, but the lack of brother is the one that finally convinces her. She agrees to instead take the role of lookout. Checking for any new guards (or the opera singer, who Su-Lin identifies as the general herself) or the return of her brother. He'll likely loop around to meet with her, after all.

Which means Sherlock is going in alone. On one hand, it's his usual. He prefers to eschew police involvement when he can because he can't trust them to solve the problem. And this problem involves John's safety. Which brings Sherlock to the other hand: he'll be alone until he finds John. While it's true John could be incapacitated or otherwise unable to assist im his own escape (nothing permanent, hopefully. Sherlock's not sure how either of them could deal with that kind of life-changing event.), the very idea of having John by his side makes Sherlock feel safer. How ridiculous.

It’s not… too long later? that something new happens. He hates this. He’s starting to think it really is the drug they liked to give him in the lab. It has the same result of scrambling his senses: the prolonged feeling of uselessness and weakness. His sense of time is guesswork at best. But he’s doing better now than a minute ago, and he was doing better a minute ago than earlier. Even if this thing is designer for his biology, his body is still able to break it down at a reasonable pace. He thinks.

In the time from when the man left, or at least this is what John thinks are the order of events are, Shan had come back in with Liang to check-in on him, and then soon after they were both replaced with two unknown guards. His blood sense is a bit better than earlier which gives a slightly clearer sense of positions. Mystery Man doesn’t appear to be around any more. Liang and Shan are leaving currently. There’s one other… somewhere nearby? In the building? In the complex? He doesn’t quite have a read on that sense yet.

The two in the room with him don’t seem very interested in him. He seems to be a typical commodity to them: a task to complete. They don’t… seem twigged onto the abnormality of their charge. Without the creepy mystery man around it’s likely John will be okay once the drug has fully cleared his system.

But still. What if there’s more on hand? How did the drug from the lab in Afghanistan find its way to London? Was it the testing with Zhi Zhu and the others? Or was it… unrelated? John really, really hopes it’s related to the Delta series experiments because if it was used specifically to subdue him...

That would mean someone, somehow, knew what or even who he was, to some degree. Liang would be the only member of the Black Lotus to recognize that, wouldn’t he? He’d looked guilty, was that why? Or was it the more general guilt of being involved with this situation? How would anyone know to use it on him specifically if it wasn’t Liang? Who was the one who used it on him? He can’t remember.

Was it the unknown guy? The one who felt like a fabrication? The one that, when questioned, Shan denied having existed at all?

When he’d escaped from the lab, all the infiltrating service members were dead and there hadn’t been any lab members around. He’d been able to slip out into the arid openness of the battlefield. He’d intentionally and, he had thought, successfully avoided contact and sight until he’d run across the corpse of John H. Watson and drained him of memories, skills, and remaining blood. But he couldn't be certain, was the thing. He was blood-starved and barely able to put two thoughts together that didn't involve getting the hell out of there as quickly as possible.

He’d then shifted into John’s form, dressed himself in his fatigues, and restashed the corpse. He'd considered putting the paper-thin gown that had been among his only wearings during the period he’d been there along with it, though decided not to. It would just go into the ether or wherever the fuck shapeshifted clothes went to. It was always either that thing, hospital gowns, nothing at all, or occasionally outfits similar to what's used at crime scenes. Out of all the options, that dress, bloodied though it may have been by the end, was easily the best option of what he'd become used to. He just has to be careful not to shapeshift back in front of anyone who'd take notice of the blood and wonder what the fuck Hibiki did.

He’d been incredibly paranoid during the whole escape process. He was constantly dropping his current task to check his surroundings for anyone who might discover him. Had he missed something? It's very possible, what with the state he was in. But even if that was the case, how would that have led to this…

He’s feeling more himself by the moment and his new guards are absent-minded humans. Once he feels up to it he should probably make a break for it—

Oh yeah. What does Sherlock think of this situation?

John hadn't even thought about him directly before now. Would it be better to do nothing and wait to see what Sherlock does? John really isn't interested in being anyone's captive though. Especially not people with known connection to Delta series.

He's going to have to ask for how it all went down. He remembers the circus, the brawl, returning home, and Sherlock ahead of him on the stairs… he knows there was a struggle of some description. He remembers strange limbs from behind him and pressure around his mouth. He remembers biting whatever was so near his teeth. He doesn't remember how the drug was administered. He doesn't remember how the blood tasted. He doesn't know who pulled him (was it the mystery guy?) and he doesn't know what happened after. John hadn't noticed anything, so surely Sherlock hadn't? But once the struggle began, what happened then? Sherlock was ahead of him. John hadn't noticed anyone behind him—

Wait. A memory, fleeting and faint. He had. Just before the attack. He'd sensed something last moment: a sudden heartbeat, (a tantalizing meal?), and paused to investigate it. He hadn't found anything, just his own heart beating like a drum. It was such a strange feeling. Something he can't pull up even now that he's remembered there was... something.

He doesn't like this situation at all. It really just drives home how important Red Shield is: to the world and also to himself. He's going to have to push past his hang-ups and do something about this quagmire.

He doesn't see it happening in reality, but it's nice to dream.

And then, to his chagrin, a new heartbeat enters the fray. And a bit after that two more enter the place.

It's about the time that John thinks fuck fully recovering from this it's time to get the fuck out that there's a noise that permeates the building: a gunshot.

John briefly entertains the idea of Liang returning, but then further considers the number that arrived. One at first, two a bit later. Sherlock and two others? Su-Lin and Liang? It's a possibility if nothing else.

There's blood in the air. John's feeling peckish since he shortened his date from a full meal to a quick bite followed by the stress of the situation and the allure of that man's blood.

That had better not be Sherlock's blood, he thinks venomously.

Both of his guards pulled their guns and one of them went to sweep while the other one stayed to keep an eye on him. When the first one doesn't return, the second one walks over to John to, if John had to guess, begin the process of escorting him out. Yeah, no.

John pretends his legs are slightly more jelly than they are and he pretends to follow the order to move. Once he's standing, though, it's rather easy for him to slip inside the man's guard and headbutt him into unconsciousness.

It's just when he goes to break his bonds that his legs do end up faltering again. Well, at least they held up long enough for that.

John… really isn't used to existing like this. This weakness and uselessness. Well, technically he lived with it lots throughout his experience in the lab, but he, understandably he thinks, doesn't like to dwell on that. It's still so recent. Barely a scab. And he doesn't have anyone to help him with it, not until he returns home. So it's better dissociated from until he's in a situation where he can safely process it.

Really, he'd prefer to erase it completely from memory, but that's not exactly practical on several fronts.

It's in this dizzy spell where his legs feel like lead bolted to the floor and he's thinking too much on memories he isn't ready to handle that the door to the hallway opens.

The gunshot catches Sherlock off-guard. It couldn't have been related to John, as the shot occurred in an area of the building he'd already checked. There was the satellite guard, but the spider returning shouldn't have necessitated such action. Unless his cover was blown? But why would it have been?

It proves a perfect distraction though. At the end of the hall he's in, a door opens. Sherlock slips back inside the room he had just checked and waits for the guard to pass him. From behind, a clean takedown is much easier. The adrenaline from that kind of altercation joins him along with the gun to the room that the guard had left from.

There's no noise from the other side of the door, but that hardly means no one's there. He debates how to best approach it and decides to throw the door open with the firearm ready.

What he finds on the other side is both relieving and worrying. John is there, yes, and seemingly unharmed, with another probable guard unconscious on the floor in front of him. But John himself seems… out of it. Not unconscious, but not entirely present at first.

In the first instant of the door opening, John looks like he's fighting against something internal as he works to be wary of whoever just came through the door. Then, upon seeing Sherlock, both the wariness and the unknown turmoil cease seemingly completely. John's face melts into a relieved smile, opening like a flower in bloom.

He's just pleased to be rescued; it has nothing to do with it being you, idiot.

The picture becomes slightly marred by the trickle of blood slowly trailing down John's forehead. Sherlock calms himself with the deduction that with his hands bound he must've headbutted the other. Still, he runs over to John to check. No wound on John, wound on other guy: it's not John's blood. That's... relieving.

As Sherlock begins the process of undoing the rope, John twists his head over his shoulder to look at Sherlock while he says, "I'm glad you weren't hurt."

Sherlock's body freezes involuntarily as a certain realization slams into him. The closeness of him and John, the elation of him being okay, the way his eyes look fleeting through his bangs and lashes, the skin beneath his hands, John's soft voice that is nothing but glad to see Sherlock and that Sherlock isn't hurt…

Oh.

Oh.

That's why John's 'date' bothered him even after it was clear it wouldn't affect the Work.

Sherlock wants John Watson.

He wants to curl up in John's space and touch him and he's pretty sure he'd like to kiss him as well—definitely wants to kiss him: wants to kiss right now, right into that warm smile of his. He wants… not at the moment, thankfully his libido isn't that heinous, but he's certain in a more domestic moment he'd very much desire sex.

That's dangerous—John Watson is dangerous. Feeling like this again is dangerous. He barely even knows John Watson; surely this is a mistake of his transport. An error in the works. Surely life doesn't intend to torture Sherlock like this.

He'd frozen just as the ropes were completely loosened; a lucky coincidence as Sherlock doesn't think he would've had quite enough wherewithal or presence of mind to continue like everything was normal for those few seconds of revelation. Because it's not normal: not with this knowledge. This ruins everything—

John asks, "What was that gunshot about then?" He's rubbing his wrists to mitigate the rough feeling of the rope, and Sherlock, in his currently unmoored state, dares to imagine holding them himself, providing comfort, or maybe just holding his hands, studying them, enjoying the warmth and connection—

Stop. Stop this, Sherlock. Those words echo with Mycroft's disdainful tone.

He forces out: "My guess is Su-Lin or her brother followed me in, but I'm not entirely certain."

And lovely, caring John suggests, "Let's go check on them real quick then. Help me up."

Chapter Text

John's not really sure what he expected to be at the scene of the crime. Su-Lin glaring venomously at a wounded man while Liang stares at her with awe wasn't high on his list of possibilities, though he feels it should be noted that it was on there.

Apparently, this guard had been warned, somehow, that Liang would be returning early with the intent to release John. There'd been a scuffle to control the gun, which Su-Lin managed to be the one to pick up after it skittered away from the tussle. This apparently went unnoticed by both parties until the one started to choke her brother out at which point she shot the guy's leg. Su-Lin admitted she had followed her brother in because she felt responsible for him.

"You might wish to leave the premises. Also, give that here." Sherlock says and holds his hand out for the gun. Su-Lin hands it over to which he immediately pulls out a cloth and wipes it down before replicating the guard's prints.

John adds, "Yeah... Su-Lin might be okay if we explain it, but I wouldn't count on them buying his story."

"No reason to put it to the test, at any rate." Sherlock finishes. John plops himself onto a ratty sofa, sighing heartily, and feels positively knackered. Sherlock glances over at him with an inscrutable expression.

?

It's not too long after they leave that DI Dimmock shows up at the place. To John's confused, sleepy stare Dimmock explains he had been nearby at the tramway arresting those involved in that part of the operation. John nods absently.

To John's surprise, whatever mood Sherlock's found himself in doesn't seem to extend to making John go over everything. Instead, Sherlock provides a rapid-fire summary and uses John's state as an excuse to head right home. John can tell Sherlock's using him as an excuse, but doesn't mind enough to actually protest. In fact, he just kind of lazily provides proof in the slow, floppy handwave he gives.

Is Sherlock still worried over him? Could that be the origin for this odd mood that's taken him? He keeps looking at John like he's trying to figure something out. John is off-beat right now so it's possible Sherlock's keeping an eye on him...

Liang and Su-Lin are waiting for them at Baker Street. Sherlock ignores them entirely and retires to his bedroom right away, and God John does not want to play host but if he doesn't talk to them now he might not get a chance to again.

"Sit, sit." He gestures to the couch. The living area is furthest from Sherlock's bedroom and he wants to prevent any eavesdropping that could occur. "I wanted to ask a couple things."

"What is it?" Su-Lin responds. Liang is more reserved, but defers to her.

"For one, was there really no one in the room?" He states at the brother as he asks as the question is directed at him.

"There was a man." He confirms. Which thank god. Between the surreal quality of the encounter and Shan's denial he'd started to feel more than a little worried. "But I don't know who he is. Shan just said to treat him with respect. I didn't speak to him."

"That's fine. Any idea why Shan would deny his existence to me?"

Liang shakes his head in response. "He just told her to do so. I have no idea why."

John bites his lip and nods, disappointed there's no more information on whoever the hell.

"Right then. Any idea what the future holds for you two?"

"About that," Su-Lin chimes in, "we were wondering if you had any suggestions for what to do about Liang's doses. What will happen to him if… when he misses the next shot?"

John ponders this for a second, then stands with determination. "I have an idea. No promises it'll work, but…"

He grabs one of Sherlock's empty test tubes and a pipette, then plucks the sharpest kitchen knife. He instructs Liang to draw his own blood, even the smallest amount will do. They wrangle it into the tube whereupon John cuts his own hand with a canine and lets the drawn blood plop onto Liang's in the tube. He watches it with inhuman eyes, looking for any sign of crystallization or reaction.

John's species is...weird. In a large number of ways. Chiropterans are much stronger physically, can be much faster than humans, they survive on drinking human blood like vampires of myth and can shapeshift into the visages of humans they've drained dry, and John's capable of gaining bits of skills and memories from his bits of meals…

Chiropteran Queens are, as far as anyone knows, always born as identical twins. Reproductively identical at least as they originate from the same egg, though not physically identical. The easiest way to tell them apart is their eye color. One sister will have ruddy eyes that glow red when using their powers, and the other has blue eyes that glow blue. The blue-eyed sister can sing and enchant others in a way the red- eyed sister doesn't seem able to imitate. And more.

The most terrifying one to John is this: the Blue Queen's blood is poisonous to the Red Queen and vice versa. This additionally applies to chiropterans created from their blood: whether they're chevalier or experimented humans. Only the Queens' blood possesses the poison, though. So chiropterans lower ranked than Queens cannot use that poison on others. Thus far.

Kanade and Hibiki had to be careful to never mix their blood at the source. It would've kill one or both of them. Hibiki had to be careful to never mix her blood with Haji or anyone who later became Kanade's chevalier either; it would've killed them.

And it would've killed them horribly. It's a direct reaction: possibly chemical, probably supernatural. When two opposing Queens' blood come in contact they violently crystallize. If the affected entrance isn't amputated quickly, and there's enough blood, the victim becomes a crystal statue. Unsurprisingly, the process of being quickly crystallized hurts a lot. John doesn't know that personally, thank fuck, but he's heard plenty of stories.

He and Kanade had done all sorts of experiments on their blood growing up. Red Shield had done all sorts of experiments. John had never seen the crystallization of a live subject before; all non-chevalier human-chiropterans in the world were created from Blue blood samples and therefore he had to destroy the things the hard way by dismembering them thoroughly and leaving the clean-up to others. Less crystallization, more cover the hacked up pieces Hibiki left in her wake in concrete and wait for Kanade's yearly or so tour around the world to crystallize them. Decapitation technically worked (though now John has reason to suspect that even decapitation isn't as permanent a death as everyone had suspected), but no one wanted to take the chance of leaving it at just that. Explosions or even bombardments were the go-to of those who wanted to cover up their involvement of at any cost.

So before John does something like ingest Liang's blood, who's been notably experimented on with chiropteran (probably) blood, John wants to make absolutely certain hell isn't going to break loose the moment he ingests it. It's unlikely, incredibly unlikely, but he has been out of the game for a year and a half and he's incredibly on edge and he is not up to making such an easy-to-prevent mistake.

Anticlimactically, and thankfully, nothing happens.

He washes everything thoroughly and replaces it before heading back and holding out a hand. "Give me your arm."

Liang does so hesitantly, and only after direction from his sister. Tentatively, John makes a small bite to taste the blood. He doesn't want too much of it inside of him, just enough to…

...get a read on it.

It's a struggle to pull himself away. His blood tastes heavenly... but he does so and affirms, "It seems mostly fine. You're definitely still human." The words come out as a definite relief to everyone in the room. "I can't say much more than that for certain, nothing about your future, but my guess is that it'll hit like a bad withdrawal."

"That's… manageable." Su-Lin offers. Her brother nods in agreement.

"It could be that simple. There could be more to it; I honestly have no way of knowing." If he knew how he would've directed them to be tested by Julia, but since he had no idea how exactly to contact her or her husband… Should he mention Red Shield to them? Or would that just be his selfishness speaking?

In the end, something keeps him from suggesting it. His instincts are telling him that would be a bad course of action. His instincts have always been reliable, and there is at least that one traitor in their midst, so he decides once again to follow his gut.

They leave after a little more talk and John (thank GOD) finally gets to go to bed.

The Blind Banker

It's been an interesting couple of days. First Sherlock rejected the Jaria Diamond case, and then he dragged me to the bank without an explanation. The usual.

Someone wanted Sherlock to figure out how the bank was broken into. Not why or what the message was or anything—because nothing was stolen. Only a message was spray painted in a room stories up without being caught on any cameras or by security.

Sherlock was able to narrow down who the message was aimed at. Because of the pillars and screens in the office, only one desk could see the message and it was a Hong Kong trader. Let's call him John Doe. So we go to his house and find him dead.

Yard's wanting to rule it a suicide because there's a gun in his hand, the door to the room was locked, and it was far from the ground floor, but Sherlock didn’t buy that.

Sherlock picked up on a clue involving a book Doe had borrowed from the library. He drags me there and behind some books in the same aisle of that borrowed book is the same message.

The next day Sherlock shows me an article he found for, let's call this victim Joe Smith, describing Mr Smith, a journalist recently home from China, killed in a room far from ground floor with the door AND windows locked. So we go to investigate and Sherlock explains how it makes more sense if Doe and Smith were killed by the same guy: someone who could climb. The bank office room had a balcony. Doe's place had a balcony. Smith's had a skylight.

The question wasn't how were they killed but why. What was the motive?

Sherlock tailed Doe's movements the previous day and I was sent to track Smith's. We ran into each other just outside the shop where they had both visited just after returning home from an abroad trip… to China. They then came to this shop.

Inside the shop it became clear the message that had been painted was Suzhou numerals. Mostly used only by Chinese merchants as a shorthand for prices (sort of like writing the numeral 7 rather than the word seven in English). This made it easy to translate into English as some of the nearby merchants wrote translated prices. Our message were the numbers 15 and 1 respectively.

We couldn't learn anything more without the key to the cipher, but in the meantime Sherlock deduced the motive: they were smugglers and one of them had stolen from the hoard.

He then noticed the flat above the shop both of them visited had its window open and a copy of the yellow pages still sitting outside the door still wet. It hadn't rained since Monday.

No body this time, but our assassin was there looking for them. We drove him away and found the flat owner's employment. She wasn't there, but in the meantime we found another message there in the museum, the same one as previous. We then found another one by scouring the right neighborhood:

They attempted to keep this new message from Sherlock, I was the one who found it, but they neglected to realize I would take a picture of it with my phone.

So we have another message and a missing woman. We need the woman to figure out the message, so we head back to the museum to try again. Sherlock notices that some of the teapots have been shined since we were there last; they're the kind that need to be used constantly or they'll crumble. No indication anyone had taken over the job. Our woman had been hiding out in the museum.

We confront her and it becomes clear that while she had been a member growing up, she had never wanted to be a part of it. She was an orphan teenager with no way to survive so she turned to smuggling. But she had moved to England 5 years ago and got a job she loved and wanted nothing to do with her old life. But that life didn't leave her alone. Well, they did for a while, but then they tried to force her back into it. She wasn't being hunted because she was suspected of stealing the item, but because she had blatantly refused to help search for it. She had decided she wanted nothing to do with them anymore.

The assassin turned up at the museum, but again we drove him away. We couldn't catch him, but we did protect her. She provided us with the key to the code as thanks.

The smuggling group had been using London A-Z as their key. If you turn to the 15th page, the first word is Deadman. Neatly proved Sherlock’s hypothesis that the cipher was a threat.

With the key, we translated the longer message I found and discovered the drop point for if the item was found. The assassin must've been warned we got the key from the woman, though, as no one was there. There had clearly been people there recently, though.

The next night a circus was in town. A Chinese circus that came to town just as a Chinese smuggling ring lost an item. There for one night. And our assassin could climb buildings with ease. So we paid them a visit just to be sure.

It was, in fact, related. We got proof they were connected to the messages, and had proven the murders and connection to the smuggling group earlier.

Unfortunately things got a bit complicated once we returned home. I got myself kidnapped. Don't @ me.

Worked out though. They figured they could coerce Sherlock into getting the stolen item for them. Didn't work out that way. They expected him to go to the meeting place established in the cipher, but he instead sent the Yard after them there and got me himself. Honestly? Preferred. I don't like being fussed over.

My poor taste in humor aside, this split allowed more to be arrested and nearly caught the ringleader. The ringleader managed to slip away, but most of the operatives that came to London were apprehended. All-in-all a busy couple of days.

I can't deny that I prefer this kind of life. Being a civilian doesn't suit me. But the thing is, this life we've chosen isn't safe. Sherlock chooses to be a consulting detective and I choose to be his colleague. But he's becoming known. People know of him. It's like what that taxi driver who knew about him said. Then the opera singer: she knew about him. How long before someone else comes after him?

Are you on drugs?!

Bill Murray 28 March 12:12

John, what have you been up to?!

Harry Watson 28 March 12:15

Hey, Harry. We should meet up sometime soon. Someone within the next week sound okay?

John Watson 28 March 13:02

John, this is appalling. It's all 'and then we ran here! So then we ran there! And it was a code!' What about the analysis, John? The analysis! How did I work it out? How did I know where to go?

Sherlock Holmes 28 March 13:04

This is my blog. I'll write how I want, thank you very much. =/

John Watson 28 March 13:07

Oh not the emoticons again. I know you discovered them recently, but as I told you before they do not make you seem younger.

Sherlock Holmes 28 March 13:09

I don't care about seeming younger. And I've known about them for years. I was born in the late 2000s. =/

John Watson 28 March 13:11

Get a room!!! Lol!!! And sure John I'd be up to grabbing a pint with you by the end of the week. Well fine tune the details later?

Harry Watson 28 March 13:12

you shouldn't talk to sherlock holmes like that. he is a thousand times the man you will ever be

theimprobableone 28 March 13:17

Seriously, you're just weird!

Harry Watson 28 March 13:19

John, my new friend Jim says that we all make our own choices in life. I don't think you should worry about others so much. Did I tell you about my new friend Jim?

Molly Hooper 28 March 13:25

I've just read your blog. He sounds very...sweet.

John Watson 28 March 13:46

He is.

Molly Hooper 28 March 13:48

If he washes his own clothes rather than expecting his landlady to do them, then he's perfect.

Marie Turner 28 March 13:50

It's me, Mrs Hudson.

Marie Turner 28 March 13:51

Bravo again, John!

Mike Stamford 28 March 13:52

Oh yes. Bravo.

Anonymous 28 March 14:06

HOW DO I SPEAK TO THIS SHERLOCK BLOKE? I NEED HIS HELP

Barry Berwick 28 March 14:10

Contact him on his website The Science of Deduction

John Watson 28 March 14:14

Ooh! A new case!! You have to tell me about it over drinks.

Harry Watson 28 March 15:02

Sure. I'd love to tell you what I can. =)

John Watson 28 March 15:05

John! I need you to book me some aeroplane tickets! I'm going to Minsk!

Sherlock Holmes 28 March 15:55

Oh for fuck's sake. Learn to book your own tickets. =/

John Watson 28 15:57

Second Code

Sherlock's had another of those coded messages, if you fancy proving yourself. Go to The Science of Deduction.

‘Anonymous’ has been in touch again. Thanks to those who worked out his first message. Obviously, I am terrified. This is their second email:

‘Hi Sherlock

SOMNEHCCGTEKOTYRIMOOLAIGU

You’ll never find out who I am. I live off the grid.

cheers

xx’

You don’t need me to point out the clue there -

Sherlock

This time it's a grid cipher. This stalker's not even trying to be interesting, is he?

SHERLOCK I AM COMING TO GET YOU

God, just kill him now.

The situation with John is far more pressing. Not that John's aware there is, in fact, a situation, and Sherlock would very much like to keep it that way.

In the meantime he's worked up a few possible plans of action. The first part of which is inquiring into John giving Su-Lin and her brother some of the cash from this case's payment. When asked why, instead of giving some banal explanation of 'it was the right thing to do' or 'I felt bad for them' John melancholically calls Su-Lin inspiring.

When Sherlock questions why he specifically said Su-Lin and not the both of them John mutters, "Still not forgiving that guy for strangling you." Sherlock had forced himself to get over it, but it would appear John is just as stubbornly refusing to do the same. The fact that it makes Sherlock feel warm aggravates him further.

When Sherlock further inquires as to what was so inspiring about her, John describes how she was making an effort to turn back on her old life and how he could appreciate that. He's smiling sadly as he speaks.

Sherlock wonders, selfishly and hopefully, this is more personal than John is leading him to believe.

John Watson continues to intrigue. Where before he'd been a blank slate due to lack of information, he now has more entries on social media to his name. Most by his own hand.

Most interesting isn't his most recent posts, but rather the fact that he has edited several of his previous blog entries. Where before he was suspicious and intuitive, he now paints himself as little more than an observer of events. Inconsequential to the case at hand. A third party who happened to be present. What had been an insight into John Watson's thought process was changed to become a simple depiction of the events around him. He took away the detailing of how Sherlock reached his conclusions, most likely in a misguided attempt to not reveal too much of Sherlock's capabilities, and completely stripped away any of his own thoughts or involvement as he deemed necessary. The writing still read as personable and excited, but now reflects someone who wants to bring some attention to someone else without bringing too much attention on that subject, or any attention on themself. It just so happens the subject of this intentional depiction is his younger brother. John Watson has essentially turned his blog into another, frankly more accessible, platform to advertise Sherlock's work. It was crafted, and older parts recrafted, to reflect that new intention.

It's definitely a contradictory revelation to the information he's recently uncovered through his sources. No one said anything bad about him directly, some even seemed to like him, but there were notably some who were lying through their teeth and some who blatantly hated him. He had a similar reception in the army with an even higher degree of (expected) reticence. For someone who came across as personable and caring now, he sure had a mixed record in the past.

It was time, Mycroft thinks disdainfully, to visit the alcoholic sister and get her impressions as unfiltered by the social media. As much as he hates legwork, something about John Watson has him on edge and he decides it's worth the effort.

"John's a bastard." Harry tells him straight when he asks. It wasn't hard to invite himself into conversation with her, simply identified himself as her brother's flatmate's older brother after sitting next to her. Part of Mycroft wants to grasp onto the accusation, but unfortunately such from a sibling doesn't hold much weight. But then she continues: "Or at least he was. I don't know if it was the army or the near-death experience or meeting that brother of yours or what, but he seems almost... nice now. It's disturbing."

"Was he not nice before?" Maybe this is it. What he needs to convince his brother John isn't a suitable flatmate.

"Not really." She says. She might be too drunk already to give him anything useful. "He was always closed off and preferred to isolate himself, didn't much care for others. Had lots of girlfriends. Played rugby. You know the type."

Mycroft did. Or knew of, rather, through his brother's encounters with them as a teenager.

"We never liked each other. I got girlfriends. Dad hated my girlfriends. John tried to steal my girlfriends. Right arseholes the both of them."

"And your mother?"

"Useless. Typical victim. I don't hate her as much in retrospect, but I don't have many fond memories either."

"And how was John rated by your father?"

"Golden child." Harry confessed sleepily. This conversation wouldn't last much longer. How annoying. "Could never do wrong."

"And this continued until he was deployed?"

"Yeah." She says angrily, then softens confusedly as she admits, "He's so different now. I'd heard the army could change people, but I didn't think it would change him. Not for the better. I thought he'd always be the spoiled golden child. Teachers loved him too..." She's trailing off as the exhaustion overtakes her. "This interrogation's been fun, but I'm done for the night. Bye."

As she gets up to leave she mumbles in a daze, too quietly to have meant to be heard by him, "He apologized. He actually... told me he was sorry..." and then she disappears out of the pub.

Definitely interesting. And immensely worrying. Perhaps a carrot should be his next step.

Chapter Text

After returning from Minsk, there are no more distractions. He hates people who try to use him, and for such ignoble means too, so he's been left especially aggravated.

More annoyingly: part of him wishes John were here to help stave off the boredom while the rest of him is viciously glad John isn't here inflicting his presence on Sherlock.

Friendship was bad enough, but with enough benefits to make the decision difficult. Love was an entirely different hypothesis. Friendship came with enjoyable company, someone to work a case with... and much desired distance. Love made people stupid. It makes him stupid. He can't be in love; he won't allow it to continue. It can't be allowed to continue.

So he has to kill it. The obvious solution is to cut John out of his life, but as is the way of love's parasitic nature, he does not want to. Besides, this isn't just a crush on some associate he could replace with a new associate; John has been uniquely interested in the Work and in Sherlock. His traitorous heart wants him to keep John in the Work—but at least it's not entirely the crush begging for that. John's presence does enhance the Work. Perhaps it's the addict in him, but he desperately wants to keep that part of their connection.

But if John stays, then Sherlock'll be hurt. A conundrum.

A surgery, then. He won't remove John from his life entirely, but he can try to remove his feelings. Maybe find out something about John that will taint his view of the man. Just enough to shock this infatuation out of Sherlock.

It won't work.

Perhaps temporary isolation? Drive John out for limited time, and by the time John comes back Sherlock will have re-contextualized his feelings into something manageable.

Won't work, but has better long term implications.

Won't confess anything. Obviously. He has no interest in being a relationship; he just wants these feelings to vanish. He wouldn't make for a good partner anyways; no reason to subject John to that. Sherlock's feelings are his own fault, however much he wants to blame John, and John wouldn't deserve dealing with him like that anyways...

And he shows every inclination of being straight. Easier to avoid the fantasy when success is nil. Small mercies.

Firing the gun inside the flat, really? This guy just revels in being off-putting, doesn't he?

And as usual Hibiki—John has to be the voice of reason in the room. He takes the gun away, although he can't help the laugh that bubbles up as he asks, "Did you wait until I got home to do this?"

"Not everything revolves around you." Sherlock says caustically. Sherlock seems extra keyed up at the moment, in a way that puts John immediately on edge.

"What about the Russian case?" He asks.

"Belarus." Can't believe he forgot that. "Open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time."

"Shame." John intones. He goes into the kitchen and ignores the mess on the table in favor of the refrigerator… except there's nothing in. Well, there's a severed head. Been awhile since John's seen one of those. Afghanistan, at least. That service guy who got his head chopped off by a chiropteran. That head was fresh though, this one… not quite as fresh.

"A severed head? In the fridge?" John tries. He both hopes to get the specific experiment to be performed on it and is hoping to bring Sherlock out of his mood a bit.

"Well, where else was I supposed to put it?" He turns toward John. "You don't mind, do you?"

John just stares back with a raised eyebrow.

"I got it from Bart's morgue." John blinks blankly. "I'm measuring saliva after death." John finally breaks his act with a grin.

Sherlock doesn't join John, though. In fact, he seems to close off more at John's grinning face, oddly enough.

"I see you've written up the taxi driver case." Sherlock then caustically adds, "'The Serial Suicides.'"

"Uh, yeah." John swallows in trepidation. He'd tried to walk the fine line between extolling Sherlock's capability and not giving too much away. Sherlock's own website said he didn't want to bother describing how he does what he does, so John took from that and was specific only as he had to be. "Did you like it?"

"Erm, no." Sherlock replies flatly. That… sucks. But to each their own. He should find out what Sherlock didn't like though. See if it's something easily fixed.

"Why not? I thought you'd be flattered."

John swallows nervously again. He doesn't expect anything good or nice, not in Sherlock's current state especially, but he doesn't expect the reaction he does get.

Sherlock glares at John with surprisingly intense emotion. "Flattered?" He then points out a line of the blog with his finger and reads, "'Sherlock sees everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.'"

John's stomach plummets. He hadn't intended… "Hang on a minute. I didn't mean it in a…"

"Oh, you meant spectacularly ignorant in a nice way!" He kind of had though. "Look, it doesn't matter to me who the prime minister is."

"I know." John says softly. He hadn't meant…

"Or who's sleeping with who."

"Whom." John corrects quietly, on John Watson autopilot. Sherlock's expression hardens more. Nervously, John covers, "Or whether the Earth goes round the sun."

"Not that again. It's not important!"

"Not imp…" John's brain is on a delay and can barely think as he considers how to steer this conversation to less volatile ground and maybe apologize for offending Sherlock so much. "It's primary school stuff. How could you not know that?"

Sherlock presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. John's stomach drops again. He's making this worse, somehow.

"Well, if I ever did, I deleted it."

"'Deleted it?'"

Sherlock roughly spins his body in the chair to put his feet on the floor. "Listen." He gestures to his head. "This is my hard drive," No, John quips idly in his head, this is dissociation. "and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful. Really useful." He grimaces. "Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?"

John almost succeeds in wrangling back the persona and re-entering the conversation as himself. The imitation of John Watson that sits under the surface in order to keep this interaction going while he escapes into himself like a scared child. But the last line is out before he can catch it: "But it's the solar system."

"Oh, hell, what does it matter?!" Shit. Shit, shit. He didn't actually want to say that last bit. Fuck. "So we go round the sun! Or if we went round the moon or round and round the garden like a teddy bear," what? "it wouldn't make any difference. All that matters to me is the Work. Without that, my brain rots."

He's just about opened his mouth to… do something. Apologize, maybe. Explain that he gets it, really. He's not sure. Just… something to smooth the situation. But Sherlock beats him to it and what he says shatters what's left of John.

“Put that in your blog. Or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world.”

Sherlock stands and makes his way over to the other side of the room to dive into the sofa—this is stupid; he'd wanted an excuse to hate John after all, so he probably has no right to feel so hurt—but freezes on spot upon catching a glimpse of John's expression. Or rather, his lack of expression.

Sherlock watches in morbid fascination as John's usually open face slowly descends into a blank, emotionless mask. There's no amusement, or anger, or even annoyance, to be seen in his slack, lifeless features. The closest thing he can think to name it is contempt ; the very thought of such a thing being directed at him by John makes him want to curl up and beg—

So he does the opposite and angrily throws the magazine onto the table while following through on his initial impulse to shove himself into the sofa cushions. He doesn't need John's approval; he doesn't need anyone's approval!

It still hurts to hear John stand up from his chair and head towards the door and the stairwell. Sherlock looks over his shoulder to ask, “Where are you going?”

“Out,” is the only thing John offers him.

Sherlock is the one who should be angry, he was less than a minute ago, so why does he feel like he's the one who's made a mistake?

John wakes to the warm body of a naked woman tucked inside his limbs. Her pulse is thrumming beneath his lips and he sleepily nips for a quick snack. She moans and shifts in her sleep, but doesn't wake. His nip only draws a little blood, enough for his sleep-addled mind and body to feel satiated. It's an extravagance after last night's more intense feast.

It's always interesting watching humans respond to his bites. They're clearly pleasurable, and he gets impressions of it from the memories he absorbs. And his bites heal quickly, so there's never a threat of being discovered because of them. Biting during sex just comes across as a kink of his. John doesn't understand it on a personal level—and never will given what a bad idea having a human ingest his blood is—but it is clearly very nice for his partners. He often wonders how confusing it must be for them to love it from his mouth, but be disappointed by the difference when it's someone else's, a normal human's, bite. Probably still good, but without that supernatural euphoria.

Her blood is quickly and eagerly lapped up, and the wound heals. (It's not the spit—Kanade and him tested it out when they were younger. Their bites... just heal quickly if there's no significant damage inflicted.) It's warm and slightly metallic and John's body can never get enough.

The morning is slow and lazy as they both slide out of bed and prepare for the day. John's still feeling raw and hollow from yesterday, but the words are scabbing over for now. With a clearer mind he thinks he realizes Sherlock was lashing out at him over something else.

He didn't mind Sherlock not liking his words, but he couldn't handle the despair of being labeled a bother.

(A problem child, not good enough, have to try harder than others to receive equal treatment, keep an eye on that one, use her, test subject—he hates it. Hates being made to feel like it would be better if he had never existed at all. That his thoughts and feelings and personhood aren't a right but a privilege granted to him by others at their whims.)

He's idly watching the news when it reports an explosion on Baker Street. However hurt John still feels, he feels this strong need to make sure Sherlock's okay.

So he makes his goodbyes and heads back home.

"John." It's a relief to have someone besides Mycroft to talk to now. Even if the fact that being relieved by John's arrival brings with it a disgust at that relief.

"I saw it on the telly. Are you okay?"

For a moment Sherlock has no clue what John's referring to. "Hmm? What?" Couldn't be his emotional turmoil; he's been keeping that in the background. But as he thinks that his eyes scan their background and realizes this is John's usual check-in on his physical wellbeing after something intense has occurred.

"Oh, yeah. Fine. Gas leak, apparently." John looks incredulous, but Sherlock ignores it and instead gives his brother a pointed look and says, "I can't."

"'Can't?'" Another pluck of his violin strings to drown out his droning.

"The stuff I've got on is just too big. I can't spare the time." More that he has no interest in being Mycroft's pet. It's not a lie though, even if he would rather die than tell Mycroft the truth: that he's currently in the middle of a crisis involving having romantic feelings for his straight flatmate, friend, and colleague. And he certainly doesn't want Mycroft to deduce why he's so determined to kill those feelings off. Admittedly his brother would likely assume it's something mundane, so even if he realizes that much he's hopefully not to pick up on the fact that there's far more to it. He's not sure how his brother would react to the reality that his younger brother was a freak in even more ways than he already knew or assumed, but some of the worst versions involve Mycroft using the knowledge to blackmail him, or at the very least not letting him ever live it down.

"Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance."

Oh, just leave already Mycroft. Your little brother's a fuck up and there's no amount of high-import cases that will fix that.

"How's the diet?" He snips back.

"Fine." It's always viciously satisfying to see Mycroft give up on him when he acts particularly stubborn. "Perhaps you can get through to him, John."

Sherlock's stomach drops. He isn't sure if John trying to convince him would make him take it or not. Probably not, given he's currently in the middle of trying to delete his feelings, but he can't be certain just how compromising they'll make him.

"What?" John says, seemingly uninterested in not just the case but the entire conversation. He's far more interested in the mess that used to be their windows.

"I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent."

The return look John gives Mycroft is additionally satisfying. Ugh.

"If you're so keen, why don't you investigate it?" Sherlock pokes.

"No no no no no. I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time. Not with the Korean elections so…"

John continues focusing on the rubble, seemingly paying the comment no mind. Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "Well, you don't need to know about that, do you?"

Mycroft hinting at something he shouldn't hint at seems a touch unlike him. He's giving this humorless smile that asks for his comment to be forgotten. Sherlock gets the feeling it was a test of some kind. That he was trying to get some kind of response from John. A response John isn't giving.

"Besides," he continues with the original topic, "a case like this requires…" a look of distaste, "legwork."

Sherlock misplucks one of his strings in agitation. He wishes John would at least have the decency not to bring his conquests loose hairs home with him. See? He tries to tell himself. That's the most you could hope to be, too.

"How was the blonde, John?" He spits it out more harshly than he should in front of Mycroft, or either of them really.

Mycroft lifts a casual brow at him, damn, and then checks his watch as he says, "Brunette, Sherlock. Her hair was dyed blonde a while ago."

Sherlock does a quick once-over of John to confirm this, forcing it to be impartial and focusing on the signs from his night out rather than the man himself. "Oh yes, of course."

John just shakes his head and rolls his eyes, seemingly uncaring of how they knew that. He then plants himself on the table and gives Mycroft a calculating look. A look that Mycroft returns.

"Sherlock's business seems to have boomed since you and he became… pals."

Mycroft is hinting at something with those words and it pisses Sherlock off that he can't pinpoint exactly what his older brother is aiming for. The hesitation makes it clear that implicating they're a couple is the primary implication. That or implying they aren't friends, just acquaintances. Both of which burn Sherlock's guts with how it worms into his currently festering wound. Bloody Mycroft!

While Sherlock gives him a dark look, John gives an odd look that almost seems to be pride tempered harshly by control.

Mycroft ignores Sherlock entirely to ask John, "What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine."

John develops a disdainful expression as he thinks about how to respond to that. Initially, Sherlock worries; weren't they cohabiting well together so far? Then John snorts and says, "Not that you would know, would you?" And cockily gestures around the flat, referring to the failed attempts at bugging their place. "Thanks for wasting our time, by the way. And to actually answer your question, not that it's any of your fucking business, but I quite enjoy it. We work well together... for the most part." At the last part his face descends back into that blank lifeless thing just like it did at the end of their earlier spat. Still mad about that then. Good to know.

Mycroft, meanwhile, has adopted his own blank, calculating expression. Sherlock distinctly feels like they're having a conversation without him and he hates it.

He glares at his brother while reaching to pick up his bow to occupy his other hand, just as Mycroft stands and moves to offer the file. Mycroft gives him a patronizing look before offering the file to John.

John does not take the file. He stares at it like it's a bear trap that will snap at his hand if he reaches for it. He then looks back up and the two of them seem to have another conversation without Sherlock. Oh, this is intolerable.

"Andrew West." Mycroft says, knowing Sherlock's listening whether he actually wants to or not. He turns the folder around and opens it in front of John. "Known as Westie to his friends." John seems to relax and takes the folder. "A civil servant found on the tracks at Battersea Station this morning with his head smashed in."

"Jumped in front of a train?" John offers idly.

"Seems the logical assumption."

"But..?"

"'But?'"

"You wouldn't be here if it was that simple."

Sherlock is applying rosin to his bow as he smirks at John's deduction.

"The M.O.D. is working on a new missile defense system—the Bruce-Partington Programme it's called. The plans for it were on a memory stick."

"Well that's not very clever." Sherlock grins in agreement.

"It's not the only copy."

"Marginally not as bad then."

"But it is secret. And missing."

"Okay. And?" Sherlock fights with his love of how dismissive John is.

"It's top secret. Very top secret. We think West must've taken the memory stick. We can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands." Mycroft then turns back to Sherlock. "You've got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don't make me order you."

Breathing in sharply, Sherlock raises his violin, ready to screech Mycroft (and maybe John) out. "I'd like to see you try."

John breaks into a grin in the background though he quickly smothers it. Right then. Still very mad at him.

Mycroft leans down a bit in an attempt to appear more threatening. "Think it over."

Sherlock, unimpressed and determinedly unmoved, stares back.

Mycroft then moves onto John and repeats, "Maybe you'll get a better response out of him?" Sherlock seethes away at the idea of Mycroft using John's sense of right to manipulate Sherlock.

John has no such reaction, though. In fact what he says is, "I highly doubt it. Not to mention the fact I wouldn't do so anyways. He rejected your case, whatever the reason. I'm not going to interfere with that."

"It's to do with national security. We can't—"

"If it's really so important," John interrupts, "then get someone else on it. Or do it yourself. I don't care. Just stop harassing us, would you?"

Mycroft glares at John's equal dissidence with distaste before offering his hand for a parting handshake. John satisfyingly just stares at it like it's a viper. "Goodbye John. Keep the file." He smiles creepily as he retrieves his hand. "See you very soon."

Sherlock glares at his brother's retreating back as he plays a repetitive few notes to show his displeasure. John stares at the folder in his hands before plopping it onto a desk with the remark, "Just leave the file detailing some top secret stolen missile plans in your brother's home. Sounds like a smart idea." Sherlock nearly flinches at the reminder that he failed to notice John getting picked up right outside their own home. Twice.

Sherlock stops playing when John sits on the table and asks, "Why'd you lie?" Sherlock stares back. "You've got nothing on—not a single case. That's why the wall took a pounding. Why did you tell your brother you were busy?"

Great. So now John suspects something. This is not going to plan.

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Oh!" John nods knowingly. "Oh, I see. Sibling rivalry. Now we're getting somewhere."

Sherlock turns to debate that, but then his phone rings and nothing is as important as having the opportunity of a case.

Once the call is over he tells John, "Lestrade. I've been summoned. Coming?"

"If you want me to." John says blankly. The anger is back.

“Of course. I'd be lost without my blogger." It's his version of an apology. Hopefully that will be enough to bring John along for this case. He needs more data in order to properly and fully assess this situation he has going on with John. A case will serve as a good backdrop: a perfect excuse to observe him more. And if the part of Sherlock that's already settled into having feelings for this man is pleased with the excuse he doesn't pay it any mind.

But John doesn't follow him. Instead he growls, “I won't be bought with flattery, Sherlock.” It's the first time that tone has been directed at Sherlock and he does not like being its focus in the least. “You're gonna have to tell me what your problem with me is because I can't... do anything about it if I haven't the slightest clue.”

“What makes you think you've done anything to merit compromise?” He asks, by way of the dialogue as well as a continued need of tell me, please tell me why I should hate you.

“Oh?” John makes the noise in a way that is clearly sardonic. “So you mean you were throwing a strop over an idle sentence on my blog yesterday? Great to know you actually think that little of me.”

Sherlock... doesn't understand what John means by that. If anything the fact that Sherlock felt insulted and reacted so strongly to it had left Sherlock feeling a little vulnerable from how it felt far too much like he was showing his hand. If he'd actually thought little of John's opinions then it wouldn't have hurt at all.

John is glaring in anger—frustration? ...hatred?—at Sherlock.

This isn't... right. He was supposed to find something to hate about John Watson, not the other way around. He still wants to keep his friend and flatmate, not drive him away. This isn't... it isn't supposed to be like this.

His feelings of confusion must show on his person in some meaningful way because John takes a calming breath and explains, “I can't... Don't treat me like I'm not a person, Sherlock. I won't stand for it.”

Sherlock can hazard some hypotheses where, growing up, John wasn't given much autonomy. Or otherwise lived amongst those who treated him as a child and refused to actually listen to a word he said—that was something Sherlock could personally understand. 

“I don't mind if you don't like my writing style or whatever. To each their own. I'm not looking for compliments or praise or recognition or whatever. Just don't... Don't belittle me. My mind. My personhood, like that. That's not okay.”

“...Okay.” is all he can say to that. He's not sure if he can promise that—though John never seemed to have a problem with the occasional insult anyways so that probably isn't the problem here—but he can understand. The desire for personhood. For autonomy. The desire to have his thoughts and mind and personality taken seriously and accepted. Recognition of his ideas, even if not his character.

In his quest to find something about John to hate, while not driving John away, he seems to have forgotten to think of John as a living, breathing variable. Tangible and reactive... The plan was to change Sherlock, not John, after all.

John's still glaring at him though, enough for Sherlock to realize what he said isn't enough for John. John does seem to prefer explicit wording to clarify intentions, etc. etc. So Sherlock counters, “Why should I have to apologize for reacting to being insulted?”

John sighs, the aggressive energy radiating off him dissipating with it, and thinks to himself for a moment before saying, “I hadn't intended for that to be read as insulting. I'm sorry for making you feel that way.” He gives a full bow with the apology.

...how does John do that so easily? How does he make Sherlock feel like he actually means what he says? It's terrifying. How does he surgically strike right at the heart of the matter with such sincerity?

And what does he mean he hadn't intended it to be insulting? What else would it be?

“Right then.” He says, feeling put upon by the need to voice this. “Well, if you can admit that then I suppose I can apologize for saying your opinions don't matter. I was being serious when I said I'd be lost without my blogger.”

That seems to finally do the trick. John's visage relaxes, his shoulders and postures and... everything seems to lose its tenseness. Sherlock hadn't realized just how wound up John had been until he had loosened into his usual manner again. He... really had been hurt by Sherlock's words, hadn't he?

"Okay." John says, much lighter than he'd been since he returned. "So where are we going?"

Chapter Text

They arrive at New Scotland Yard and convene with Lestrade.

"You like the funny cases, don't you? The surprising ones?"

"Obviously."

"You'll love this. That explosion…"

Sherlock exchanges a glare with Donovan as he says, "Gas leak, yes?"

"No." Lestrade says. And there it is, thinks John. John's old job left him with a healthy dose of suspicion whenever explosions are ruled as gas leaks.

"No?" Sherlock prompts.

"No. Made to look like one."

"Unsurprising." John mutters under his breath, catching eyes he didn't mean to attract. Oops. He shrugs and puts it off as, "I've watched one too many movies. Don't mind me."

There's an envelope lying on Lestrade's desk. "Hardly anything left of the place except a strong box, a very strong box, and inside it was this."

"You haven't opened it?"

Lestrade says, "It's addressed to you, isn't it?" John fights the urge to roll his eyes. "We've x-rayed it. It's not booby-trapped."

"How reassuring!" Sherlock briefly hesitates picking it up. He does though, and takes it near a lamp for a better look. "Nice stationary. Bohemian." He comments and Lestrade prompts for clarification. "From the Czech Republic. No fingerprints?"

"No."

"She used a fountain pen. A Parker Duofold-iridium nib."

"'She?'" John questions.

"Obviously." Sherlock says.

"Obviously." John deadpans back. Fine, he won't compliment him on the pen-thing then.

Inside the envelope is a very familiar phone.

"But that's… that's the phone. The pink phone."

Lestrade asks, "What, from The Serial Suicides?"

"Well, obviously it's not the same phone, but it's supposed to look like…" Then Sherlock and John realize what Lestrade just admitted to. "You read John's blog?"

"Course I read his blog! We all do." That's mortifying. John knew Sally did given her comment on the A rant blog post, but… everyone at NSY? That's… "D'you really not know the earth goes around the sun?"

John feels shame prick at his face and stomach. Godammit. Why is everyone hung up on that? John had just thought it was a cute and funny anecdote, but everyone is taking it so seriously. The glare Sherlock gives Sally when she sniggers doesn't help his guilt.

John looks stricken while Sherlock glares at Sally, or maybe embarrassed. Sherlock, meanwhile, wishes he wouldn't look that way. Both his crush and his need to dissipate said crush don't want him to look ashamed of it. Just let Sherlock hate him already.

He's moved back to observing the phone when John pipes up, "Oh, what does it matter?" It’s surprising mostly because it's an echo of what Sherlock had said earlier, during their argument.

Sally is, unsurprisingly, the one to follow up on that: "What? You're the one who wrote that on your blog. Not to mention you wrote him as uncaring to your abduction. I’d have figured you finally realized—"

John gives Sally a look of abject disappointment, cutting her off by explaining, "He deals with cases that often involve violent and manipulative criminals. Circumspection and exaggeration seemed the best course of action to protect him and others. It seemed like a better idea to paint him as someone who cared not a whit than someone who does... why would I want to put any potential vulnerabilities online where anyone can read them? That's foolish. I only added the part about ignorance because I personally saw it as a cute and minute humanizing quality. I had no idea so many people would take it so seriously. And: I figured an in-the-know perp might be less likely to take someone hostage if he thinks it won't do him any good. Just as an example..." John gives a slanted shrug, looking incredibly uncomfortable with eyes on him. He always does. "Probably just me being overly paranoid, as usual, but better safe than..."

John cuts himself off to stare blankly through Sally before raking his hands through his hair and erupting, "Ah! I'm an idiot!" He then pushes through Lestrade to get closer to Sherlock. In response to his aggrieved "Hey!" John just says, "Don't care. Apologizing to Sherlock more important."

Even if Sherlock hadn't been hanging on John's every word, that would've piqued his interest. Apologize to him for what?

"Hey. Hope I'm not distracting you too much with this, but I just realized we might've had a bit of a miscommunication. Did you hear any of what I was saying just now?"

John's words nearly run together with how quickly he tries to get them out. Sherlock doesn't want to have to listen to it all again, this phone is very intriguing, but also doesn't want to admit he was listening fervently, so he instead says, "Was a bit hard not to."

"Good, good. Don't have to repeat myself then. So basically, that's kind of what I had in mind when I was writing my entries. I somehow managed to completely forget to do something as simple as check in with you to see what would work best for you. I took note from your site as well when writing them the way I did. You had refused to go into detail of how you did anything, so I also decided not to explain anything. Also because, personally speaking, I like being underestimated; I've found it makes my life easier, so I was also considering it from that perspective, but I forgot to think of or ask you if that was how you'd like your work presented. So: I'm sorry."

Once John's pushed that out through his lungs, (Breathe, John. Breathe!), he gives this 90 degree bow of apology again. Once he's straightened up again he's looking at Sherlock with these open and genuinely concerned eyes.

Sherlock gets the feeling he's supposed to respond somehow, but he has no idea what's expected of him. Thank him for the clarification and for thinking about how his words could potentially affect the Work? (Sherlock hadn't considered any of that.) Forgive him for the miscommunication? (But didn't he forgive him for that already earlier? Or is this apology considered different enough to warrant a second forgiveness?) Dismiss it so no one in the room considers him in any way sentimental? (That would probably hurt John's feelings. Sherlock doesn't want to do that again.)

In the end he takes long enough to respond for John to tilt his head in that way he does when slightly confused (although he'll often do it when he's waiting on an answer as well, like in this scenario), and for Sally to throw up her hands and shout, "You're wasting your time. He clearly doesn't care. Why are you bothering?"

To which John points a rude gesture at her while saying, "This isn't about you. Fuck off. Stay out of this." With a wonderfully aggravated look on his face that completely melts when John turns hopefully back to Sherlock.

Trying to take a page from John's book, Sherlock ignores everyone else in the room and considers only what he wants to get across to John: that he's glad (against what's probably better for his heart and sanity) that John really hadn't intended to insult Sherlock, just paint enough of a picture of a genius who could solve complicated cases without giving actual weaknesses away.

And John has a point. John looks perfectly harmless even when Sherlock knows he can be quite dangerous.

And John is also correct in the fact that that kind of defense isn't Sherlock's instinct. He prefers to ward people off by making himself as inhospitable as possible.

"Ah." John says again, clearly having realized something else. The noise shocks Sherlock back to reality, back to the people staring at him waiting for him to answer. "You don't have to answer. Not right now at least. I just wanted to try to clear up the misunderstanding is all. We can talk about it more at home or something. Okay?"

It's an out from having to respond in front of everyone. All these people who see the worst in him. 

He takes it, like the coward he is. He had wanted to follow John's example and ignore everyone who isn't John, but he can't bring himself to do so in front of these people. He just… can't.

Instead he mumbles something that sounds like, "Yes, well, now that you're ready to return to the case, you'll notice it isn't the same phone. This one's brand new."

"Huh." John comments, seemingly unoffended by the dismissal.

"Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like the same phone. Which means your blog has a far wider readership."

John takes on a confused expression as he states, "Except I never gave any details about the phone on my blog. Intentionally. I just said 'a pink smartphone'. No brand given or anything."

True. Sherlock opens up the voicemail and there's a single message. Interestingly, it's the Greenwich pips. The Greenwich Time Signal gives five short pips followed by one long one. This one is four short pips followed by one long one.

"That it?"

"No, that's not it." There's also a photo.

Lestrade is saying something in the background, but Sherlock is more interested in the pull of knowledge that comes with the image. "It's a warning." He says before he's fully processed the deduction consciously.

"A warning?" John prompts.

"Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that. Five pips. They're warning us it's gonna happen again."

"What?" John intones, but Sherlock's moving on ahead.

"And I've seen this place before."

John follows him out. "Hang on. What's going to happen again?"

"Boom!" He mimes, and John gets it.

Greg has never seen anyone apologize so fervently to Sherlock, nor has he seen Sherlock quite so uncertain what to do about it. He normally bowls over whatever attempt is being made unless it’s important to the case-at-hand. While he does just that at the end, he doesn't interrupt John or tell him to shut up. And it's more that he just takes the opportunity, an opportunity John provided for him, to turn back to the case without having to respond.

They have a mindboggling relationship. In that Greg can’t quite believe it’s working as well as it is.

Greg's always thought there was something worth fighting for in Sherlock, that one day he could not only be a great man but a good one, but John's gone the extra mile of not only treating him with kindness, but meeting him on a far more equal playing field than Greg, or anyone that Greg knows, can or is willing to.

The insults roll right off his back, and while sometimes he needles back, most of the time it's like he doesn't pay them any mind at all. He might not be up to Sherlock's impossible level of intelligence, but he is seemingly able to follow and keep up with him enough to even impress him on occasion.

Mind, Greg's only met John about 5 times by now. And his first impression wasn't that great, especially with that near-deranged laugh that echoed in his head for a while afterwards. And then when Greg was thoroughly intimidated by him in the flat later that night... Not the best of introductions.

But the three cases of Sherlock's type that came up in the last two months had helped ameliorate those initial impressions. He had been a veteran in the midst of finding his life's calling (if his blog was to be believed). A bit of overexuberance is to be expected in such a situation, Greg supposes.

More impressive, and frankly lifesaving, is his level head and ability to smooth interaction between Sherlock and the world. He's hardly a Sherlock-whisperer; hell, he's more likely to join Sherlock in his more dangerous endeavors really, but it is definitely easier to get Sherlock to cooperate when the mediator has some degree of sway over him. It's a very minor sway, but it's there even if Sherlock likes to pretend he's in control 100% of the time.

It's just nice not having to be the sole sane person in the room, okay? Even if calling John sane feels like an oxymoron sometimes. A contradiction? Whatever.

Point is these two make a good couple and Greg is glad they have found each other. The fact that it's made Greg's life infinitesimally easier is just a wonderful extra.

Almost makes walking into the unused 221C, which is the location in the image, with nothing but a pair of shoes inside worth it.

It doesn't, but Greg is an optimist.

John feels bad for the woman, really. Being forced to say those things about herself in that kind of situation must suck. That’s a kind of manipulation that would tick John right off.

And from someone whose word choice is so… ugh. ‘Or I’m going to be so naughty.’ At least the chiropterans were mindless monsters after a certain stage. And when they weren’t mindless they were just warped and terrified people…

John might have a very different threshold for fucked up than the majority of the populace.

Sherlock apparently does as well, or at the very least he’s certainly affecting indifference. He’s very good at ignoring things that aren’t an asset to his deductions. If John has information, he’s riveted. If John’s talking about his day, he couldn’t care less. His Work is his Life. It’s intentionally structured that way down to his mental walls.

There’s still an uptick in heartbeat, in breathing, the anxiety of someone depending on him. He ignores it, intentionally, but he can’t erase it quite as well as he thinks he can.

Well, that’s what John deduces about him at any rate. Who knows if he’s right. And in that sense, he figures he can get a little revenge, if you want to call it that, on Sherlock. Poke him. See what he has to say about it.

“So, who d’you suppose it was?” just as a text alert pings from Sherlock’s phone. Sherlock doesn’t even glance at it.

Absently, obviously more interested in the shoes, he hums, “Hmm?”

“The woman on the phone—the crying woman.” John clarifies. John couldn’t care less about the perpetrator beyond what it’ll take to shut them down.

“Oh, she doesn’t matter. She’s just a hostage. No lead there.” Hm. And there’s that thing that makes people think he doesn’t care. The dismissal of life. Of personhood. It’s what pissed John off earlier. Like any egocentric, he has a hard time seeing people outside himself as sentient beings just like himself.

It’s probably on purpose. That’s one of the ways John had tried to work through mercy killing the more sentient chiropterans. Easier to kill them if you train yourself not to see them as human.

Part of John wants to put forward that it’s not healthy doing that outside of a battlefield, but in a way this is a battlefield. It’s just a more civilian backdrop.

“You’re not going to be much use to her.” Sherlock warns.

“I don’t want to be.” John considers for a second how to phrase what he wants to get across, but is interrupted by another text alert.

“Pass me my phone.” Sherlock demands. John stares incredulously.

“It’s in your jacket.” He says, feeling slightly agitated.

He makes his way over and roughly manhandles him to get at his phone. He completely ignores Sherlock’s testy “Careful.”

“Text from your brother.” John says blankly, unsurprised.

“Delete it.”

“Delete it?” John checks.

“Missile plans are out of the country now. Nothing we can do about it.” An assumption, or has he actually been looking into the case? Probably assumption.

“Mycroft thinks there is. He’s texted you… eight times. Must be important.”

Sherlock is clearly exasperated. “Then why didn’t he cancel his dental appointment?”

“What?”

“Mycroft never texts if he can talk.” And Sherlock never calls if he can text. It’s almost like Mycroft is the more social of the two of them. “Look, Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains. End of story. The only mystery is this: why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?”

That is a very dangerous thought pattern.

“Try and remember there’s a woman here who might die.” John recommends, gearing himself up for another potential argument.

“What for?” Sherlock looks up at him. “This hospital’s full of people dying, Doctor. Why don’t you go and cry by their bedside and see what good it does them?”

John sees it for what it is. Sherlock’s trying to get under his skin. Has been since yesterday. Is this an extension of testing John’s boundaries? Is he intentionally trying to find out what gets under his skin? Something else?

It’s entirely possible Sherlock’s trying to drive him away. He was acting weird after the last case. Maybe seeing John, a newly christened friend, in such a vulnerable position made him question his desire for company. Easier to shut everyone, victims and cops and friends, out than let anyone in who can hurt you, or be used to hurt you, after all.

He’s definitely trying to tick John off at the very least. That’s the only thing John’s certain of.

Too bad for Sherlock he missed the mark with that last jab.

“We chose this.” is what he says to capture Sherlock’s attention.

Sherlock does look up to him at that, obvious confusion in his expression (overrun by agitation at having been successfully drawn away from his precious shoes).

“I couldn’t care less about the people in this hospital, Sherlock. I feel bad for them, sure, but they’re not my responsibility.” He clarifies that part first, just as the computer dings. His timing is poor, but his words are just enough to keep Sherlock’s interest long enough to finish his thought: “The police, the two of us, and the criminals we catch: we all chose this life. You said yourself this woman isn’t a lead. So, she has nothing to do with the crime. As such, she’s an innocent in this matter. A victim. I… hate when the people who didn’t ask to be involved are forced to be. It steals their freedom.”

Sherlock assesses John’s posture head to toe and then questions, “Is that why you rejected my brother’s case?”

“Mostly. I also just don’t like him. Plus, it’s different. His little problem might be an arguably bigger problem with more potential casualties, but it can be done by someone else. Someone more willing. Plus, your brother’s just being lazy. This situation, however…” John purses his lips. “Is far more delicate. And you’ve accepted it as your responsibility.”

John loses the thread of the conversation as Sherlock ignores him to turn back to the computer. John heaves a sigh at how unsurprising that is. Well, he said his piece. And it didn’t turn into another all-out argument! Silver linings.

And then Molly comes in.

Manipulating people is so easy. It’s also one of the few joys of life. Molly in particular was courted for this specific encounter. He makes himself seem like an extra, apologizes and starts to leave only to be called back in by Molly herself.

So predictable.

What is fun, however, is the way Sherlock Holmes, in the flesh, rakes his eyes over him.

Oooo. What kind of deductions is he making? The hair, the pose, the cream and eyes, his disinterest in his own girlfriend. What parts is he picking up? This is delicious.

And wow. She must really be crushing on Mr Tall-Dark-And-Handsome if she forgets the name of the man whose blog she posted on less than a day ago.

John Watson is fascinating in his own right. He wouldn’t have been, if he hadn’t been warned by his associate not to throw him in the crosshairs. He’s so… mind-numbingly normal. Blegh. Exactly someone he might strap to one of his bombs, just later in the game. Gotta get all your requisite hostages after all. First a scared woman, then maybe a random man, then maybe an old disabled lady—he’s got a specific one in mind, then a child just to prove how far he’s willing to go… yeah. Maybe he’ll use him for the last pip. That could be fun! And it’s not like he’ll actually kill him or injure him… his associate should be accepting of that so long as he warns him first…

It’s the associate that makes John Watson so interesting. Sherlock Holmes is interesting in his own right, but little old John? Little and old and a boring army medic. Who cares, right?

Except that one of the most fascinating, impossible people is obsessed with him. Poor thing. Must’ve been terrified when that special little drug shut down his system… It was quite a hassle to arrange that meeting between them. He hopes his associate got what he wanted out of it…

John continues to appear ever the normal, most boring thing in existence next to Sherlock’s shine, so he refocuses on him.

Who the fuck is this?

That’s about all John can think as ‘Jim from IT’ bustles his way in Sherlock’s direction. John barely catches the faux pas Sherlock stumbles into as his instincts warn him of… something.

The deduction of the guy’s sexuality feels at odds with his gut, though. That’s not sexual attraction—that’s fascination… is that right? It’s… infatuation? It reminds him of the mystery man from the other night.

The bit about Molly’s weight was completely uncalled for though, Sherlock. She didn’t ask.

When Sherlock looks startled by her abrupt exit, John offers a flat, “Charming. Well done.”

“Just saving her time. Isn’t that kinder?”

“The intention, sure. The execution? Not even a little.” John tells him bluntly.

Sherlock’s eyes screw up in agitation, he doesn’t understand at all does he?, so he ignores it like he usually does and continues as if it never happened. John makes a note to talk to Molly himself later, to check-in with her.

His eyes trail Jim’s card as Sherlock sets it down, uninterested. Should he… follow up on his gut feeling? It’s saved him so many times before…

But then Sherlock moves one of the shoes closer to John and says, “Go on, then.”

John stares back with confusion and asks, “Mmm?”

“You know what I do. Off you go.”

Oh. Oh no. His own negative self-talk is one thing. There’s no way in hell he’ll be able to take Sherlock’s criticism of him healthily.

“No.”

“Go on.” Sherlock insists.

“I’m not gonna stand here so you can humiliate me while I try and derive…”

“An outside eye, a second opinion. It’s very useful to me.”

John stares back suspiciously and reminds himself that Sherlock’s testing him for… something. Mycroft was hinting at something earlier too…

They haven’t… they haven’t found out about John Watson’s past, have they?

“Yeah, right!” John bites out, feeling even more on edge now.

“Really.” Sherlock insists.

John is weak to whatever Sherlock infuses into that look. Against his better judgement, and his mounting fear, he picks up the shoe and examines it closely.

Sherlock easily decides to take the opportunity to get more data on John. What are his thought processes like? How will he approach this problem? Is he worth this?

John picks up one of the shoes and looks closely at the top half first with a pinched expression. He checks the tongue, notes the name smudge and quirks his head, and then tilts them upon noticing something inside: the inside wear marks of the weak arches. He then turns them over and notes the mud in the tread. He checks the laces last, but doesn’t seem to pick anything up from them, then he glances nervously at Sherlock.

“They’re well-worn.” He gestures to the wear marks of the inside and out. “Well taken care of.” He brushes a finger tantalizingly along a whitened strip. “Adults don’t tend to write their names on their shoes, so a younger person’s. Still in school.” Shows the tongue. “But they’re of decent size. Secondary school…” He trails off.

“You’re on sparkling form. What else?”

He slowly, as if in a daze, turns the shoes back around to peer inside. He then sets it down and examines the laces under more intensity. He then shakes his head as if he lost whatever train of thought he’d had when it hadn’t come to fruition.

“That’s all I’ve got.” John says sullenly.

“That’s it?” It’s disappointing, but at least John acknowledges it’s not enough to work with without dismissing the deductions he has made.

John nods affirmation and then gears himself up and asks, “How did I do?” He looks a bit like he’s preparing for a firing squad. A bit dramatic, Sherlock feels. It wasn’t that bad.

“Well, John. Really well.” Certainly better than any of the fools at Scotland Yard would’ve done. “I mean… you missed almost everything of importance, but, um, you know…”

John just… sighs defeatedly. But he looks almost relieved. Like he expected worse. That… hurts. He’s not that bad, is he?

Sherlock distracts himself from that, and John from his own thoughts, with his own deductions: “The owner loved these. Scrubbed them clean, whitened them where they got discolored.” John nods that he’s following. “Changed the laces three… no, four times. Even so, there are traces of his flaky skin where his fingers have come into contact with them, so he suffered from eczema.” John butts in to get a closer look at that, then nods his agreement. “Shoes are well-worn, more so on the inside, which means the owner had weak arches. British-made, twenty years old.” John shows no particular reaction to that, simply nods agreement. “They’re not retro; they’re original.” John makes a face at that. Sherlock’s learned that while John is impressed with Sherlock’s ability to use release dates to figure things out, he holds no personal interest in that research. Still, he shows John an image of the brand on his phone: “Limited edition, two blue stripes: two thousand and sixteen.”

“They still look well-kept, though.” John puts forward.

Sherlock looks thoughtfully at them. “Someone’s kept them that way. Quite a bit of mud caked on the soles. Analysis shows it’s from Sussex, with London mud overlaying it.”

“How do you know?”

Sherlock gestures to the computer screen: “Pollen. Clear as a map reference to me.”

“Cool.” John offers idly. It’s not quite an ‘amazing’ or ‘extraordinary,’ but it’s still an ego-soother. He’d really miss those if—

Stop.

“South of the river, too. So, the kid who owned these trainers came to London from Sussex twenty years ago and left them behind.”

“He cared for the shoes. So what happened to him?”

“Something bad.” Sherlock meets John’s eyes, excited John’s on the same wavelength as him. “He loved those shoes. He’d never leave them filthy. Wouldn’t leave them unless he had to. So: a child with big feets gets…”

Sherlock stops talking and fades out of reality a touch as he realizes what it is he holds in his hands.

“Oh.”

“What?”

“Carl Powers…”

“Sorry, who?”

“Carl Powers, John.”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“It’s where I began.”

Chapter Text

"What do I have next?" Mycroft asks Anthea (since giving that as a fake name to John the day they met she'd taken to it as her current pseudonym).

"A meeting with Joel Goldschmidt. The elder one."

"Ah, good." The elder Joel Goldschmidt is always a pleasure. This 'meeting' is less about his job, usually, and more of a personal excursion where they enjoy each other's company. A little break is just what he needs.

"He arrived a moment ago. Should I send him in?"

"Yes, please."

Joel Goldschmidt VI wheels in with a polite smile on his face. Age has treated him well, and in his fifties looks fairly like he's still in his early twenties.

They exchange warm pleasantries as Anthea sets up the board for them.

Joel may not be a contender for a champion in chess, but he is still a ruthless and enjoyable opponent, and his conversation is pleasant.

They speak of anything they wish as the game is played, even if Mycroft is more sparse with his words than usual. Bloody root canal. The Korean elections are a pain, though he can't go into much more detail out loud (Joel likely already knows). There's a new corporation started up in France that is expected to have a big impact on the global economy. How's the son? Joel VII is doing well. They don't talk about the mother. Joel asks if there's been any word on his request. Mycroft tells him there hasn't.

The games end. Mycroft as victor, though one of the most pleasant parts of playing against Joel is that he never takes it personally and is always up for another. He has to get back to work, however enjoyable this distraction was.

They shake hands before Mycroft returns to his desk and Joel departs. Anthea brings him the next item on his agenda.

In the back of a taxi Sherlock details his first case: “Twenty nineteen, a young kid—champion swimmer—came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament; drowned in the pool. Tragic accident.” He shows John the front page of a newspaper on his phone. “You wouldn't remember it. Why should you?”

“But you remember.”

“Yes.”

“Something fishy about it?”

“Nobody thought so—nobody except me. I was only a kid myself. I read about it in the papers.” It still chafes at him.

“Started young, didn’t you?” John says with apparent affection. It continues to throw Sherlock off. Why does he see Sherlock so… differently? What events in his life led him to become so tolerant of Sherlock's interests? He wants to know...

“The boy, Carl Powers, had some kind of fit in the water, but by the time they got him out it was too late. But there was something wrong; something I couldn’t get out of my head.”

“What?”

“His shoes.”

John pauses as he realizes the problem here. “They were missing.”

“They weren’t there.” Sherlock agrees, giving John an appraising glance. “I made a fuss; I tried to get the police interested, but nobody seemed to think it was important. He’d left all the rest of his clothes in his locker, but there was no sign of his shoes…” He glances down at the bag with the trainers. “Until now.”

John shakes his head in commiseration. “Champion swimmer drowns, his prized shoes missing: you’d think at least the parents would have kicked up a bigger fuss.”

Stop that. Sherlock grouses internally. Stop being likable. Ugh.

Back at home John’s phone pings. He makes a face at the sender. “It’s your brother. He’s texting me now.”

“Must be a root canal.” Sherlock mumbles thoughtfully. John huffs a laugh.

“This is getting obnoxious. Is he always this level of obnoxious?” John asks, only partially rhetorically.

“Always.” Sherlock intones. John sighs in aggravation. Mycroft-bloody-Holmes.

A discovery of clostridium botulinum, posting it to Sherlock’s website: FOUND. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989). Botulinum toxin still present. Apply 221b Baker St. (Which is a hilarious way to phrase that, John thinks), a call from the ‘bomber’ as the woman tells where to pick her up, and a night passing later the two of them find themselves at New Scotland Yard again, in Lestrade’s office. Sherlock is still being dense regarding appropriate timing for word choice, and a new game is underway.

John really fucking hates criminals of this ilk.

“And you’ve stolen another voice, I presume.” He’s just walked into the room because he was suspicious of the phone call Sherlock received, and especially the look on Sherlock’s face. That split second he didn’t have his mask up to hide his own brand of disgust of the situation. What an adorable man.

John is not a fan of this fan.

Later, at the riverside, Donovan has taken to talking to him. God. John might have even liked her as a person if she weren’t such a bitch to his friend.

“You’re still hanging round him.”

“Yeah, and?”

“Opposites attract, I suppose.”

John just gives her a look he hopes gets across how dull he thinks she’s being. Sherlock and him are actually more similar to each other than either of them are to the rest of the populace. It’s probably the persona John puts on. That thin veneer of normalcy people buy into so easily.

And then it hits him she’s insinuating a romantic entanglement. Which is… okay then. He guesses he can see how people might misunderstand that, but like… okay??

“We’re not…” John says half-heartedly. He doesn’t actually care, and Sherlock doesn’t seem to either, and he’s starting to think anyone not Harry doesn’t matter, but it’s more the principle of arguing with Donovan at this point.

“You should get yourself a hobby: stamps, maybe. Model trains. Safer.”

And boring as shit. It’s fine for people who enjoy those hobbies, but they do not light someone of John’s ilk up.

And it’s not like he can participate in his usual hobbies right now… for reasons.

Watching Sherlock play the wife like a fiddle might've been uncomfortable, but John can see the wife's acting for what it is. She’s not quite as seasoned as him or Sherlock. John still plays the part of impulse control/conscience because that almost seems like what he’s here for.

“Fishing!” Donovan yells at him as they walk past her. He gives her a quick glare. “Try fishing!”

John ignores her and asks Sherlock, “Where now?”

“Janus Cars.” The two-headed god? Who in their right mind would name a business that? “Just found this in the glove compartment.

Watching Sherlock play Mr. Ewert like a fiddle is far more enjoyable. The wife was a better actor than him.

John basks in seeing Sherlock in his element. It’s possible to enjoy good things in bad circumstances. Fuck the bomber, but Sherlock’s having a blast. John lives the world mostly through instinct and occasionally moments of actually using his brain in practical ways. Sherlock lives for using his mind. He shines so brightly in John’s eyes.

His enthusiasm in the presence of others is perhaps ill-timed and ill-worded, but Sherlock doesn’t really seem to have a sense of such things, so John does his best to be that part of his conscience for him, as usual.

‘Congratulations to Ian Monkford on his relocation to Colombia.’ is another great post to Sherlock’s site.

Sherlock looks up and smiles at John once the police have been directed to the victim of this case, before just as abruptly letting it fall and leaving to shut himself in his bedroom.

?

This is not working! He keeps forgetting himself and basking in John’s rays. Stop this, Sherlock. Don’t do this to yourself again. The thought sounds too much like Mycroft still.

But Victor was a manipulative bastard. His broken heart supplies. Has John shown any indication towards that end?

But he’s too nice. The shadows whisper harshly. Victor pretended to be nice for months. It was strange that there had been no arguments between you. That he just accepted you. Because it had been fake. Remember?

But there have been with John. His memories supply. We’ve had arguments, several of them. One very recently. John prefers understanding and compromise over force or coercion or dishonesty.

But I don’t know anything about him. His instincts tell him. He’s a mystery. An uncertain point. How do I know that's his authentic expression of himself?

That’s part of the allure. His heart sings again. You’re favorite kind of puzzle. One with a definite answer that takes time and effort to reveal.

I don’t like people. He tells it off. This is ridiculous. He’s being dragged in all sorts of contradictory directions over this. Why can’t he just cut it off and stop feeling this way? They were fine as friends. Platonic feelings were okay. Terrifying, but rewarding enough to be worth the hassle. Romantic feelings? Sexual interest?? Those could never be worth the humiliation. He found the purpose of his life in the Work. Why should he have to deal with these complications?

Why does it have to be complicated? A quiet part of him asks. Why can’t it just be what it is?

It’s too quiet, though. Only the heart shows even the vaguest interest in the notion and it is therefore ignored.

Come on, Bomber. Sherlock thinks, staring at the phone in his hand. Give him another puzzle so he can stop thinking about John.

“Feeling better?” Sherlock asks. They’re in a cafe and John is tucking into a nice breakfast. Sherlock is drumming his fingers impatiently waiting for the phone to ring. And not eating. It worries John.

“Mmm. We’ve hardly stopped for breath since this thing started.” He comments, shoving the smaller, separate plate of hashbrowns towards Sherlock. He eyes them like they’ve eaten his kids. “So is it just me or is our bomber playing a game with you? The envelope; breaking into the other flat; the dead kid’s shoes. It’s all meant for you.”

“Yes, I know.” And Sherlock smiles falsely. Why is he so tense?

“Is it him, then?” John asks, not catching onto whatever Sherlock's doing. “Moriarty?”

“Perhaps.”

The phone does go off again. Sherlock eagerly switches it on to the sound of two short pips followed by the longer tone. And a photograph of a smiling middle-aged woman appears on the screen.

“That could be anybody.” Sherlock bemoans.

John smiles indulgently and says, “Well, it could be, yeah. Lucky for you I’ve been more than a little unemployed.”

“How d’you mean?”

“Lucky for you Mrs Hudson watches far too much telly and Molly has referenced her on my and her blog.”

With that he stands, walks over to the counter, smiles beguilingly at the woman behind the counter, and uses the remote control to switch the television to the one he wants. Sherlock watches the station John pulls up, showing Prince's show, for a bit before the phone rings and he picks it up. John walks back over.

Sherlock keeps glancing at John throughout the conversation. John continues to pretend he can’t hear the other side of these conversations.

The TV announces that Connie Prince, their photo subject, is dead. How unsurprising.

At Bart’s morgue John, Sherlock, and Lestrade stare at her corpse. John should definitely eat soon if a two-day old corpse is calling to him.

John sends a message to one of his calls and hopes for a quick response.

Then Sherlock is asking for his medical help, which has gotten even easier to provide on autopilot after multiple uses. Those skills sit closer to the top than a lot of the other stuff now.

“The cut on her hand: it’s deep; would have bled a lot, right?

“Yeah.”

“But the wound’s clean— very clean and fresh. How long would the bacteria have been incubating inside her?”

“Eight, ten days.” John’s knowledge provides.

Sherlock quirks a one-sided grin at John and John puts it together. “The cut was made later.”

“After she was dead?”

“Must have been. The only question is, how did the tetanus enter the dead woman’s system?” Then Sherlock turns to John and asks, “You want to help, right?”

John’s confused but says, “...Sure.”

“Connie Prince’s background—family history, everything. Give me data.”

“Okay…” John blinks back at him. Something’s off here. It feels more like Sherlock’s trying to get rid of him for a bit than actually using John to get information.

He turns away, after staring into Sherlock’s eyes suspiciously for a bit, and then makes his way out.

Sherlock’s glad to be rid of John’s distracting presence. He needs to focus. Figure out how to track and subdue the bomber. Only with him disposed of will anybody be safe from him. Maybe not even then. He’s showing off, most likely. All for Sherlock’s sake. He swallows against the bile in his throat. Why won’t people just leave him alone in that way? Bring him criminals, bring him cases and puzzles, but would it kill the world to stop sending him stalkers?

John listens to the brother, Kenny Prince, grieve. It’s not pleasant. The hairless cat hides in the corner, staring with pure apprehension at John. John stares back on occasion when his patience wears too thin. The cat hisses and spits and then runs away on this most recent staredown. Kenny remarks that it is very unlike that cat. Normally they’re all over anyone including strangers. John is unsurprised. Animals do that around him. Unlike humans, which have layers of senpiance and logic and denial to persuade themselves that John is just another human, animals tend to rely more heavily on their instincts to survive. And their instincts tell them that he is a predator they should fear.

In the prattle John is offering to replace the silence of Kenny’s pensive examination of one of Connie’s pictures John is too distracted to realize until Kenny has sat himself right beside John that there was a look in Kenny's eyes. Flattered, but still paranoically playing the straight man (he's got to figure something out regarding that), he feels uncomfortable.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do now. I mean, she’s left me this place, which is lovely… but it’s not the same without her.”

Kenny is coming onto him in a very uncomfortable way and John is not okay with this shit. He stands abruptly and takes to interviewing from standing in front of Kenny. He does not want people touching him without his permission. Fuck that.

That might be a bit harsh on Kenny, actually. John's not sure why he's so irritable right now. He tries to keep his face friendly and interested.

Kenny looks baffled, but John continues effortlessly, “That’s why my paper wants to get the full story straight from the horse’s mouth. You sure it's not too soon?”

The cat has wandered into the opening of the room. It’s glaring at him mercilessly, but seems to calm a bit when he puts distance between him and Kenny. Apparently the cat isn’t a fan either, albeit in a protective ‘stay away from my person’ sense. What a darling.

“You fire away.” Kenny says.

When Sherlock reveals, less than an hour before time, that it was Botox injections, John doesn’t look at all pleased with his deductions.

He stops Sherlock from following Lestrade into his office. “Hey, Sherlock. How long?”

“What?”

“How long have you known?” John sounds… not angry, but tired.

“Well, this one was quite simple, actually, and like I said, the bomber repeated himself. That was a mistake.”

He’s got that dead, flat look on his face again. The one that doesn’t let anything other than disapproval through. “So you wasted my time and let the victim suffer needlessly?”

“I knew I could save her.” He presses. “I also knew that the bomber had given us twelve hours. I solved the case quickly; that gave me time to get on with other things.” Like figuring out more about the bomber himself as well as considering the John situation a bit more. “Don’t you see? We’re one up on him!”

As he turns away, into Lestrade’s office, he hears John faintly mumble viciously, “I see nothing of the sort.”

And then the woman dies. John didn’t realize why Sherlock was telling her not to say anything until it was too late. It’s possible John could’ve used his Voice to command her to stop in time if he had. But he’d had no clue, so he didn’t.

John’s had to deal with innocents being taken down in his line of work before. Sherlock may or may not have though. Regardless, he's taking it hard. Heartbeat, that expression when the phone cut off, the fact that he’s avoiding it so intensely now…

At least John hopes he’s reading that all correctly. It’d really suck if he wasn’t.

“So why’s he doing this? Playing this game with you? D’you think he wants to be caught?” John asks in the wake of the news detailing the casualties of the ‘gas leak.’

“I think he wants to be distracted.” Sherlock offers.

John huffs humorlessly and mutters, “I hope you’ll be very happy together.”

“Sorry, what?” Is John still upset from earlier?

John gives him that dead look again and says, “There are lives at stake, Sherlock. Innocents—victims. Just so I know, do you care about that at all?”

"Will caring about them help save them?" Sherlock asks irritably. He’s still raw from failing the old woman.

"Maybe." is what John says.

"Maybe?" That's not the answer he was expecting. He'd been expecting either an indignant yes or a conceding no. It makes him angrier than either of the other options would have. "Are you saying I should risk their lives on a maybe? As I've said before: sentiment is a defect on the losing side." It's really Mycroft's adage, 'Caring is not an advantage.' but Sherlock had taken it and made it his own.

"Hmmm. No. That's not quite right either." John disagrees, also disgruntled. "Being cared for can a strength, we've been over that, but I think caring can also be strengthening." He looks like he has something specific in his mind when he says that.

"Oh? Do tell."

"Personal fulfillment and enjoyment are the immediate answers, but there's more to it than just that. Caring about someone outside yourself makes you want to become better, for them. Improving oneself can be strengthening. It gives you something to fight for. Something to look forward to experiencing again. A goal to aim for. It doesn't have to be all rejection and depression or rainbows or whatever."

"All that rather implies closeness, familiarity. These people are strangers. Why should I waste the effort to care about them?"

John gives Sherlock a look, but it's more one of confusion than disappointment. "Why would it take effort to care?"

He seems to be genuinely asking. Sherlock considers his answer before saying, "Perhaps effort wasn't the right word. Distraction. Emotions are distracting. They waste time that could be spent thinking. Why delay their rescue with sentiment?"

"Ah." John says. "Okay, that makes more sense. Hmm." John bites at his lip in thought. John… actually seems to be considering that. "I do agree that being extra in sympathy could be exhausting… hmm."

It kind of… bothers Sherlock that John isn't contesting him more. Say something, John. Please prove Mycroft and him wrong.

"Well. Nothing is truly black and white. They might well be detrimental in some situations, but that doesn't make them pointless or undesirable or useless. There are pros and cons to sentiment, just like there is to anything."

"Regardless, I only care about the puzzle. I've said as much."

"Mmm, no." John dismisses fairly quickly. "If that were the case there'd be no reason to provide the solution. Just solving it would be enough of a thrill. I suppose you could argue conclusions are required for reputation, as reputation is required for future work, but if that were the case why be a consulting detective? Why not become a criminal and commit crimes yourself, or help others commit crimes?"

"What, like a consulting criminal?" The direction of this conversation is worrying. Sherlock just had the thought earlier, in the cafe, that John might be more involved than he seems. And now this?

John just shrugs in response. "Yeah, I guess. Why not be a consulting criminal instead if the puzzles are the only thing that matters to you. In a related vein, would you really want to live in a world where Mrs Hudson wasn't lovely?"

It's meant as a parting shot. Whimsical enough to drag the conversation out of it's serious tone while implying a world without sentiment for others would be boring in its own right.

It leaves Sherlock even more irritated.

"I've disappointed you." He mutters, clenching his teeth in the chaos of confusing emotions he's feeling.

"Eh. More confused than anything." John says, but he's still tense and fidgety. His expression now only a facsimile of his usual friendliness. His vocal tone and words are at complete odds with his body language.

"Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don’t exist, and if they did I wouldn’t be one of them." He doesn't deserve to be put on a pedestal, so don't do that, John. Sherlock's not as interesting as he seems on the surface. Don't look too deep. Don't fall into idolatry.

"I'm really not." John bites, his tone a bit more in sync with his tension now. Genuinely riled up at the mention of heroes. "Even monsters can have standards they keep themselves to. It's different for everyone.”

Just what kind of man is John Watson? Is he a caring ex-army doctor or more amoral than Sherlock would’ve thought? Dammit. He was supposed to be creating distance between them, not becoming more interested. Nothing is working on this bastard.

Thankfully, the bomber makes contact again so they can avoid continuing the argument. It just serves to make Sherlock more and more suspicious of John, and selfishly he doesn't want that hypothesis to be correct. Because if it is correct, and John Watson isn't real… then there was never a person who actually cared about Sherlock at all.

Chapter Text

Assassins, security guards, whatever. John’s losing his ability to connect with others in his shutdown. He’s hungry and lonely and doubting his life decisions. The homesickness is reaching a pitch and he just… wants his sister. She's good company when he's like this. She doesn't make him feel like he's useless or foolish when he's like this, but also doesn't let him get away with shit he shouldn't.

He’s just living one moment to the next right now. On complete and total autopilot. Mycroft’s still texting him. Annoying. Sherlock’s still ecstatic. Annoying. The bomber’s still at it. Annoying.

Everything is annoying.

It’s at Vauxhall that he comes back to himself a bit. Enough to realize he's probably suffering in a serious depressive episode. Anxiety is his constant friend, but he is extra paranoid right now. Apathy? Obviously. Check. General discontent? Again, obviously. Check. Guilt? That he can't help much the way he is right now, he supposes. Hopelessness? Kind of, yeah. Loss of interest or pleasure in activities? That would be a hard yes. Check. Mood swings? Maybe. John doesn't care right now. Sadness? Maybe. Agitation, irritability? Again, obviously. He's been excessively tired since the incident with the Black Lotus and insomniatic last night in particular. Lack of concentration, slowness in thought or activity… repeatedly going over thoughts…

Great. Just what everyone needs to deal with in addition to a bomber terrorizing people. Him in an Episode™.

It probably started going downhill with the Black Lotus kidnapping and was then triggered into a full state when Sherlock had him visit Prince for no reason. Or was something else the trigger? Whatever. Doesn't matter. (It does.) Point is he's here now.

It's about the time when he nearly considers telling Sherlock to just keep the gun to protect himself while John takes the assassin head-on that John realizes just how apathetic he's really feeling. He wants blood. He wants to draw blood. He wants to hurt and break—

He curbs the impulse.

He does not curb the impulse minutes later when the Golem is strangling Cairns.

He doesn't hesitate. He lifts his gun upon entering the room, having sensed two heartbeats, and fires exactly where the large man's heartbeat is. And then he fires again. John smells the tang of blood in the air and that's when he thinks to consider Cairns. John's a good shot, but should he really have chanced that like he did?

It gives Sherlock enough time to sprint across the theatre though. Golem's used to resistance, but probably not painful or actually threatening resistance. The pain of being shot is enough distraction for Sherlock to force him away from Cairns.

Sherlock's distraction comes at a price: he's now close enough to be in range.

As the Golem laces his hands around Sherlock's throat and head, the world stills around John. In her fall into unconsciousness, and it is unconsciousness thankfully, Cairns' hands had hit some of the devices around her and now the lighting in the theatre is beyond inconsistent. But John can see. John can hear the roar of blood and feels the hunger prick at his throat, prompting his mouth to bare fangs. How dare—

John finds himself, without any conscious decision, beside the two struggling men. With a swift and violent motion John grabs Golem's closest arm, braces the other against the man's chest/side, and pulls.

John has just enough wherewithal not to pull too hard: the way he wants to. He could easily rip the entire appendage off and soak in the blood. But he doesn't. He only pulls enough to severely dislocate and potentially damage some of the muscles. It's fine.

The man roars in pain, and for a moment John is worried he'll end up cracking Sherlock's skull with the hand still clasped to it, but then John meets his eyes and the instinctual part of humans, the one that still fears what John is like all animals do, comes to the forefront and The Golem's only thought is the need to escape.

Well, he certainly tries to. John takes up his gun from where he'd stashed it in his waistband, horribly lacking all consideration for gun safety in his current state, not that it really matters, and shoots one of his legs. He tumbles down the aisle with the sudden loss of his leg's ability to hold weight.

John watches idly and with moderate interest before turning to the collapsed form of his friend. Still friend? Who knows. He starts bending down to get a closer look at him, but Sherlock snaps, "Check on Cairns." So John just follows the orders he's been given.

Even Sherlock forgets just how dangerous John can be; how efficient and ruthless he is when he needs to. For someone who can be so kind, he can also be absolutely terrifying.

Cairns, as it turns out, won't be of much help to them. They (or rather John's lack of hesitation) likely managed to save her life, but she passed out from lack of air and banged her head on the way down. She's been rushed to hospital to check for complications.

Golem isn't any use either, unsurprisingly. He was just a hired hand. A weapon pointed in a direction.

Time is running up and Sherlock's not sure exactly what the bomber needs him to point out for this one. It's something about the painting, obviously; it's clearly a fake. But what about it proves it?

When the kid's voice comes on speaker everyone is struck with despair. Everyone except John, it seems, who just looks up from the phone in Sherlock's hand to stare at the painting like it'll just tell him the answer.

It's down to the last ten when John says the first thing in what seems like hours: "Stars."

"What?" Sherlock whirls around from the painting in confusion.

"The security guard and Cairns. Neither one of them was an art expert, but they were both star experts."

Oh. Obvious. Space. It's an art piece with a night sky… A piece painted years ago. It's possible something has happened since it was originally painted. Whoever forged it didn't realize that and mistakenly painted the sky as it is now, instead of as it was then.

… It's a brilliant hypothesis, so why does John look so bored? Or perhaps apathetic is a better descriptor?

John has been apathetic(?) all day. Is he okay?

Regardless: the case and victim come first.

He does manage to save the child, to everyone's relief. Before, he could distance himself enough from the victims to concentrate solely on the case, but children as victims are a bit beyond even his ability to distance successfully.

John did, though.

Wait. Bring that thought back.

John did, though.

The sinister thought worms its way into his mind again:

Someone who could stand to be in the same room as Sherlock. Someone who appreciated his work and deductions. Someone with a morbid sense of humor that complimented him well. Someone who was intelligent. Someone who didn't fear Sherlock or what he could do or what he could be. Someone who seemed to even like Sherlock's company.

It was hardly rare for spies to worm their way into a target's trust. Additionally not rare to use attraction to get what they want.

John was even the one to lead to the concept of a consulting criminal. He keeps asking about the bomber. He's apathetic about the child's situation. He didn't hesitate to shoot a man. He was upset over being pushed away in Prince's case...

John… could John really be…?

Sherlock wonders if Mycroft noticed something was up with John, or perhaps John's history, and that's what the unspoken conversation several days ago was about. Maybe his brother wasn't looking to have Sherlock solve the missile plan matter for him, but rather trying to gather whether or not John had any interest in such a thing.

But if that was the case, surely it would've been better to lean on the army background and push patriotism in order to get closer to it. It might've even been less suspicious that way. Sherlock probably would've pushed the case onto John if he'd shown the slightest interest in it, back a few days ago when he was testing John in that way.

But what about the old lady? Except there are a number of explanations that it could still be John. The messages were pre-recorded; though that's unlikely given the back and forth. There are two people then. That one feels more probable. Sherlock's drawn to it. A spy is planted near, and another plays the 'voice.' It would allow one to be in view, innocent of the bombings, but still a present force in proceedings.

It's possible. Sherlock hates that it's possible. That his feelings could be toyed with and manipulated, again.

That pisses him off more than anything else. Dealing with having unwanted feelings was one thing. But someone else using them?

So he needs to make sure.

When John leaves for one of his girlfriends later, Sherlock shows him out and then posts a meeting place and time for the bomber on his blog. He knows what they're after now, after all. And there's only one sure-fire way to test this hypothesis.

He couldn't possibly resist the invitation.

Changes in scenery continue to be both a perk and an odd transition for her job. Not a half year ago she was under the Afghan sun dealing with obnoxious British soldiers, and now she’s preparing a rifle to play the support for this madman’s game. 

What she doesn’t expect is the face of the pawn when he enters the pool. She knows that face.

It’s the face of a man she’s certain she killed.

It's… him. That bastard. The one with the smarmy smile and cocky demeanor who thought he knew everything about her. He’d tried to blackmail her, so she executed him like the dog he was. Humans don’t survive that. The shoulder shot, maybe, the shot to the femoral artery less so. But most astonishing is that she executed him. Proper took a gun to the back of his skull and blew his brains out. She checked for a pulse before she left. Humans can survive some crazy stuff, just read the news for some interesting injuries and survivals, but what kind of devil’s luck would be needed to not just survive, but to survive without permanent damage? Nerve damage? Brain damage?

And yet there he is. Blond hair. Recognizable silhouette and facial structure. No smarmy smile; she feels viciously glad about that. He looks tired, like he should.

Could be a coincidence. She thinks idly as she puts a majority of her focus on her job. Doppelgangers. He just looks similar from a distance. It’s such a certain feeling of familiarity though. She’d known him for a bit before he turned on her. Before he overextended himself coming after her.

Those eyes though. They don’t look like his at all. Maybe it is just a guy with a similar face and hair.

Doesn’t matter. She’s got a job to do.

Chapter Text

The building is sweltering, someone's turned the heat on, so he drops his coat off in one of the locker rooms before he heads out to the stage.

He plays his part for a bit, making a grand entrance and a grand show of having brought the memory stick, making sure it can be seen, spinning in place.

He looks over his shoulder, at the door that opens moments later, and freezes. Despair invades along with the sight that greets him.

Of course John Watson doesn't exist. Of course. How could anyone possibly stand Sherlock for any length of time that isn't looking to make use of him? Someone who looks at Sherlock with genuine kindness can't possibly exist. This really was the only reasonable outcome.

That dead look is still in his eyes, except he seems more irritated now. Agitated perhaps. His tread is halting and unsteady. Why? Is it really boredom? Has Sherlock become boring to him?

Something changes in John's expression upon seeing Sherlock's, though. It's not the instant change of putting on a mask, but a gradual shift from absent to present. He blinks several times in quick succession before opening his mouth, only to clack his teeth shut. He then says, "Evening."

Sherlock's hand begins to lower, gravity, and bile sits at the base of his throat. Otherwise he does not move. He is frozen still. But time moves on mercilessly without him:

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?" The eyeroll John gives seems at odds with the situation, but that's clearly Sherlock's fragile hope and denial talking. No, it makes more sense if it's a pun on the use of 'up.'

"John. What the hell?" He asks because he needs to know. Why all that work? Why do this to him? What's the point? Just to hammer home what Sherlock already knows? That he isn't worthy of anything? It's not news!

"Bet you never saw this coming."

Sherlock finally manages to move, to turn and take a few steps towards his… friend, and he hates how he's completely unable to control his mask in this moment. He's sure he's providing some kind of pathetic expression that John will absolutely remark on at some point in the proceedings. Sherlock's an idiot. An absolute fool of a person.

John even said that with a sneer… but the sneer isn't directed at Sherlock, is it? It's directed off to the side; his eyes gesturing towards the doors he came in through. And his teeth are clenched tight. And—

And why is he wearing a heavy jacket when the heating's been turned on?

John meets Sherlock's eyes, a determined, serious sort of look, as he removes his hands from his pockets and opens the jacket to reveal explosives. A sniper's sight additionally dances across John's form, highlighting the threat.

There was one more pip. Sherlock is an idiot. He hadn't considered it because it was the final long dash of the Greenwich pips. The full stop. But no: a proper pip.

A final victim.

And it's John this time.

John is sick. In every conceivable way. Mental illness? Fuck yeah. Sick of this shit? You know it. Physically? Debatable, especially since he has the motherfucking drug in his system again.

He was on his way to a meal hoping it might perk him back to himself. He was quite hungry after not feeding for a couple nights. But nope! Ambush! This time in broad daylight! With people around! Fuck John's life.

This is hell. This is actual hell. Life just can't give him a break! John just wants to be allowed to be normal! To be human with his sister and—oh, no! Everything's got to be so fucking complicated!

And even the highlights aren't there for John right now because who even knows what's going on with Sherlock during this time. Has he changed his mind and wants John out of his life now? Is John wrong and he actually doesn't care? Who fucking knows!

Huh. He's apparently crossed through irritable and apathetic into emotional mess of anger. What fun.

The sluggish quality of the hated drug leaves him stewing in contempt for everything as he waits for the effects to fade. This sucks.

Maybe it'll mean he gets to see mystery man again though. Get more info on him. He's got to find a better name than that though. Creepy Stalker Dude could work. Fucker works just as well. Creepy Bastard is reserved for Mycroft so that doesn't work…

There is a distinct lack of self-preservation in the way John feels. Anxiety is his constant companion, but the moment apathy hits him... it's still there, just now alongside the depressing thought that nothing fucking matters. So why bother, right?

When he's finally saved from being alone with his mind as his only company, he's vaguely unsurprised to see 'Jim from IT' in a suit. Knew he should've followed up on that hunch. But nooo. He got distracted by Sherlock's shoes and… just... everything.

He briefly tries greeting John with the persona, but then John just stares blankly, with agitation and contempt, out at him until he snaps and breaks the character.

John is so done. He can't even enjoy successfully fucking with the guy. He's getting really sick and tired of being treated like this. It's like he never fucking left Afghanistan. Left drugged up and starved while the humans around him played with him like a toy.

It's not until he's been bedecked with a jacket of explosives and sent out to meet Sherlock in the pool that he starts to calm down a bit, edging back into the comfort of apathy. But it's not the black void of apathy of earlier. This is more the rumbling of waves after a storm's passed. The moment he enters the pool area and sees Sherlock he almost bursts into tears. There are no tears to be found, though, so he settles for vacancy.

The look on Sherlock's face as he gets closer though. That lost look that makes this giant of a man look like a hurt child. The disbelief.

The realization that Sherlock is devastated by the idea that John betrayed him soothes something vital in him. That Sherlock does care about him. That someone cares about him. That whatever was going on with Sherlock, John isn't just a tool after all.

With that realization comes the determination. How dare little old Jim etch that look onto Sherlock with this game of his. John doesn't care who he is; his instincts clamor for blood. He's starving and was denied today's meal with these shenanigans.

But first he has to let Sherlock in on the situation. He's warned, sternly, that any words of his own will explode him. He's not actually sure how badly an explosion will hurt him, especially when he's this hungry, but as long as he got them off his immediate person he'd probably survive in the long run. It's Sherlock he's worried about. Human Sherlock who looks so soft and vulnerable right now.

Running more on instinct than John normally allows, he feels in his bones, to his soul if he has one, that he must, that he will, protect this boy.

"What… would you like me…" John pauses less like he's overwhelmed and more like he's annoyed with how slow the person in his ear is talking. "To make him say..." Sherlock has taken to scanning the area, though he's still taking steps towards John. Is the person in view? There are windows on the opposite side of the pool that would perfectly show them. "Next?" 

John. John who isn't Moriarty like Sherlock feared. Who wasn't using Sherlock's feelings after all. John—

"Gottle o’ geer... gottle o’ geer... gottle o’ geer." John looks so done.

This is the John Sherlock knows. The John who, after having been kidnapped by a known serial killer, was snarky and refused to play the game he was presented. The only reason he is currently following orders is because of the distance of the threat and, more likely, because Sherlock's in the room and therefore also a target. Oh, John.

"Stop it." Sherlock says. He tries to make it sound more like a command than the beg it actually is. Stop. Don't hurt John. Please.

"Nice touch, this; the pool where little Carl died. I stopped him." John grimaces at the next line. "I can stop John Watson, too." No. "Stop his heart."

Sherlock's only consolation is that John seems unaffected by the threat. He doesn't think that's a very good consolation, however.

"Who are you?" He's hardened at this point, though still searching for the puppetmaster.

The door at the end of the pool opens and a soft voice calls out, "I gave you my number." Plaintively it adds, "I thought you might call."

Sherlock and the criminal, Moriarty, are flirtingish while John scans their surroundings. The drug haze is still there, but at least it's tempered by the adrenaline of wanting—needing—to protect Sherlock. It gives him a focus. A recognizable focus. Protect. Danger. Protect from Danger. It's so easy for him to fall into instinct.

Sniper in the upper balcony. Moriarty behind him. Sherlock in front. No other life signs.

Just one sniper? He thinks jokingly. I'm almost insulted.

He's not actually, but the use of the drug leaves him suspicious. Less likely a coincidence if Moriarty understands its effectiveness on him.

Still. He's feeling better by the second.

He's also feeling hungrier by the second.

Not a great combination for little Jimmy. Sherlock's presence keeps him from dwelling too much on just ripping out his jugular with his teeth. He selfishly doesn't want Sherlock to know just what kind of monster John really is. He will, if it absolutely comes down to it, but he's self-aware enough to recognize no thought, beyond Sherlock dying or being injured, scares him more than Sherlock finding out about him. And really, those two thoughts are one and the same. He'll lose Sherlock's esteem if he finds out. But at least in that scenario he survives, and there's a chance, however small, that he doesn't recoil from John.

But it's all probability. John Watson may have enjoyed gambling, but it is not John's scene. He prefers to hedge bets than rely on risk.

Point is: when John is hungry he can be either more (as he would be at this stage if the drug weren't in his system) or less (if he's been thoroughly starved) dangerous. He's feeling quite peckish and Moriarty is seeming like a better and better victim the more he ticks John off.

Something must show on his face, he has no idea if it's predatory or tired or  hunger or if it's nothing at all, because Sherlock gives him a worried glance in the midst of everything.

"So take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off." Moriarty smiles. "Although I have loved this—this little game of ours." He puts on his London accent for a moment. "Playing Jim from I.T." He switches back to his Irish accent. "Playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?

"People have died." Sherlock echoes back to something John thinks he said at some point recently. What a sweetie.

"That’s what people DO!"

He screams the last word furiously. John is seriously Done. He wants to eat, go home, and sleep. In that order. Maybe with Sherlock sprinkled in there somewhere. Just. He's so done with Moriarty. Give him a chiropteran over this nonsense any day.

Sherlock, softly, "I will stop you."

Moriarty, contrarily, "No you won’t."

Sherlock glances to John again. "You all right?" He asks, and John feels minutely calmer under the care of Sherlock's gentle heart.

He's been ordered not to personally interact with him though, so he teeth-grindingly ignores the ask.

Then Moriarty walks forward, reaching his side, and tells him, "You can talk, Johnny-boy. Go ahead." Oh he does not like that nickname.

John's contrarian nature comes to fore and suddenly he's like 'no.' Now that he's been given permission to talk, he doesn't want to. Fuck this guy. Instead, he gives Sherlock a silent, firm nod and solid eye contact. John is fine. It's Sherlock he's worried about, honestly.

Sherlock offers the flash drive (in exchange for John? Sweetheart) and Moriarty takes it, practically flirting with it. Ew. And then he chucks it into the pool. John decides to use the opportunity to offer Sherlock the ability to escape. John’ll be alright on his own, after all.

John races forward and slams himself against Moriarty’s back, wrapping one arm around his neck and the other around his chest. Sherlock backs up a step in surprise but keeps the pistol raised and aimed at Moriarty.

“Sherlock, run!” He suggests, not necessarily expecting Sherlock to listen to him. The two of them are a bit too alike sometimes.

Moriarty laughs in delight.

“Good! Very good.”

Sherlock doesn’t move, still aiming his gun at Moriarty’s head but now starting to look up, anxiously, probably wondering what action the sniper might take.

John whispers savagely, and a touch seductively, into Moriarty’s ear with the threat: “If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr Moriarty, then we both go up.”

Moriarty, calmly, to Sherlock, “Isn’t he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. But then people do get so sentimental about their pets.” John nearly laughs with teeth bared. Animals can be quite vicious, even well-trained ones like him.

John pulls him even closer, sandwiching the bomb between them, breathing right onto Moriarty’s ear with intention. Moriarty scowls back at him.

“They’re so touchingly loyal. But, oops!” He grins briefly at John, then looks back at Sherlock. “You’ve rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson.” Oh not that fucking name either.

He chuckles as the laser point appears in the middle of Sherlock’s forehead. John sighs with exasperation and a touch of worry. Best he could do from this position would be to shove Moriarty between the shot. And gunshots are a bit too fast for him sometimes. Depends on factors. And right now is not in his favor. Sherlock, either seeing the edge of the laser beam shining from the gallery or realizing what’s happening from John’s expression, shakes his head slightly.

“Gotcha!” Moriarty says. Does he though?

Seeing this opportunity isn't going to work after all, not that he’d actually expected it to, John slides off Moriarty's back. But he takes a souvenir with him before he backs up.

"Ow!" Moriarty yelps. He holds one of his hands to his ear, the one John's just nipped, and growls, "Your dog just bit me."

"Careful." John quips with a predator's smile. "This one bites." And then he licks at the blood that's made it into his mouth and onto his lips. Slowly, sensually, trying to get a reaction out of the criminal.

"Fascinating." Moriarty mumbles so, so quietly under his breath, eyes riveted on his lips and wide. Sherlock is conversely anxious over John's safety. It's sweet. Not the blood. Sherlock's sweet.

He didn't get much useful from such a tiny amount, but the look of awe and giddy excitement on Moriarty's face confirms what little the blood-sense tells him: this man knows. John isn't sure what he knows, or how much, but he definitely knows something.

"What is?" Sherlock asks, defensive and protective. Sweet child.

"Oh nothing." Moriarty trills. "It's just that it is so hard to get decent help these days. I'm a little jealous." Nice cover up, John thinks idly. They both have vastly different reasons for wanting to keep this thing a secret from Sherlock. Still.

Then he turns back towards Sherlock while brushing his hands down his suit to straighten it. He gestures to it indignantly. “Westwood!”

He lowers his hands and stands calmly in front of Sherlock who is still aiming the pistol at his head.

“D’you know what happens if you don’t leave me alone, Sherlock, to you?”

Sherlock, sounding bored, “Oh, let me guess: I get killed.” Yeah. John and Sherlock are way too alike.

“Kill you? N-no, don’t be obvious. I mean, I’m gonna kill you anyway some day. I don’t wanna rush it, though. I’m saving it up for something special. No-no-no-no-no. If you don’t stop prying, I’ll burn you.”

He runs his eyes briefly down Sherlock’s body, then meets his eyes again and his voice becomes vicious.

“I’ll burn the heart out of you.”

His face is a snarl as he says the word ‘heart’. Oh great. Another anti-sentimentalist.

Sherlock, softly, “I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one.” Well John’s just going to have to dissuade that, now isn’t he?

Moriarty argues, "But we both know that’s not quite true."

Sherlock blinks involuntarily, his eyes stuttering infinitesimally in John’s direction. Oh.

Moriarty looks down, smiling, then shrugs. “Well, I’d better be off.” He nonchalantly looks around, perhaps checking his exit route, before turning back to Sherlock. “Well, so nice to have had a proper chat.”

Sherlock raises the pistol higher and extends it closer to Jim’s head. “What if I was to shoot you now—right now?”

Moriarty, completely unperturbed, "Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face." He opens his eyes and mouth wide, mimicking shock, then grins at Sherlock. “‘Cause I’d be surprised, Sherlock; really I would.” Dick. He screws up his nose. “And just a teensy bit disappointed. And of course you wouldn’t be able to cherish it for very long.” Slowly he begins to turn away. “Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.”

On his way past John, though, he stops abruptly and pulls himself into John’s space. "Don't fret." Moriarty whispers into his ear. "That was the last of the vials of that stuff."

… the drug? The shitty one that turns John into a lump of flesh barely held together by a fractured consciousness? Like hell he believes that.

Hope is a dangerous thing though.

It's complete instinct, when Moriarty goes to return a nip to his own ear, to dodge out of the way with a feral warning bite at the air in front of the man's face.

Moriarty can not be allowed to ingest any of John's blood. He does not want someone like him as his first chevalier! Fuck no!

Moriarty just laughs to himself though, possibly not realizing the full implication of what he'd just tried to do. And then he leaves. What an asshole!

The door closes. Sherlock doesn’t move for a few seconds, his gun still aimed towards the door, then his gaze drifts across to John and he instantly bends, putting the pistol on the floor, then drops to his knees in front of John to start unfastening the vest to which the obnoxious bomb is attached. He's sweetly uncoordinated in how desperate he is to get the thing off of John. John hasn't felt this cared for in a long time.

“All right?” Sherlock asks and wow suddenly John is having trouble breathing properly.

“Are you all right?” Sherlock asks again, more urgently. Clearly worried over him.

“Yeah-yeah, I’m fine.” John manages. His heartbeat is doing quite the run. Sherlock smells fucking delicious.

Having unfastened the vest, Sherlock jumps up and hurries round behind John, starting to pull off the jacket and the bomb vest.

“I’m fine.” John tries again, feeling off-kilter without the full weight on his shoulders and body.

Sherlock, also breathing too fast, continues tugging at the jacket and vest.

“Sherlock.” He tries. He’s not entirely sure what he’s trying to communicate anymore. “Sh-Sherlock!” It’s just calming to be able to say his name.

Without the steadying weight of the jacket, his jelly legs return. He shoves his back against the wall, with a soft mumbled “Jesus.” under his breath from the vehemence with which Sherlock just pulled that thing off him, and settles down next to it. Sherlock fucking chucks the vest away from them, like that'll help somehow, and John feels nothing but charmed for this man.

He reaches up and pulls the earpiece from his ear because fuck that thing. Sherlock turns and stares at him for a moment, then hurries back to pick up the pistol before racing towards the door through which Moriarty left. John tiredly watches with vague amusement that should really be gratitude and worry. Without the active threat John’s body is not holding itself anymore under the remaining effects of the drug.

He drops to the floor, letting his legs take a break, while he blows out a long breath and tries to calm himself down. Sherlock comes back in, having apparently seen no sign of Moriarty outside. He starts to pace up and down near John, so hyper and distracted that he doesn’t even realize that he is scratching his head with the business end of a loaded and cocked pistol (?!).

"Are you okay?" John asks him. He doesn’t look okay.

Sherlock, quick fire, still pacing and scratching his head with the gun (!), clearly still keyed up, "Me? Yeah, I’m fine, I’m fine. Fine."

He turns to John, wide-eyed and breathless. "That, er... thing that you, er, that you did—that, um…" He clears his throat, "...you offered to do. That was, um… good."

Oh bless this sweet summer child. "Of course." is what John says. Of course he was willing to give Sherlock an opportunity. Wasn't even a question. Sherlock's looking at him like John's given him the world though.

Now that the crisis is over John feels the itch to cut the tension open. His tongue decides on a sex joke because he's hungry and he might've accidentally come to associate hunger with sex over the last half year, which he does not like: "I’m glad no-one saw that."

Sherlock lowers his hand, long enough not to accidentally risk shooting himself in the head like a fool, although he has terrible jitters as he holds the gun by his side. He then lifts the gun up again to rub his chin while looking down at John in confusion. John wants to smack him for that poor gun safety, but it'd be both hypocritical and, more importantly, require limb coordination.

"Hmm?"

"You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool." Sounds kinda hot, honestly. "People might talk."

Sherlock shrugs. "People do little else."

"Ain't that the truth."

He looks down at John's cheeky remark, and grins. John snorts a laugh and then leans forward in his first attempt to stand back up. Bit hard without the adrenaline high. Damn drug. But before he can move, the beam of a sniper’s laser is dancing over his chest again. John looks down at it and then throws his head up with a theatrical groan. Fucking goddamn—

The door near the deep end of the pool opens and Moriarty comes through, clapping his hands together.

"Sorry, boys! I’m soooooo changeable!" FUCK this guy.

Sherlock keeps his back to Moriarty for a moment, looking up into the gallery to try and judge how many snipers there might be up there. It’s becoming clear that there are quite a few now (where'd the new ones come from?) because there are at least two laser points hovering over John, and at least three more travelling over Sherlock’s body. Moriarty laughs and spreads his arms wide.

"It is a weakness with me but, to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness." Oh fuck off.

He lowers his hands and puts them in his pockets. Sherlock turns his head and looks down at John, who lifts his own head to meet his gaze.

"You can’t be allowed to continue. You just can’t. I would try to convince you but…" he laughs and his voice becomes higher pitched again, "...everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!

Sherlock, who had looked away from John for a moment, now turns and looks down at him again, his face showing no emotion but his eyes screaming a silent request. He wants to use the bomb as a threat. That's fine with John. Worst case scenario he body blocks for Sherlock. So John responds instantly with a tiny nod, giving him full permission to do whatever he deems necessary.

Then Sherlock turns back and says, "Probably my answer has crossed yours."

He raises the pistol and aims it at him. Moriarty smiles confidently with no fear in his expression. Slowly, Sherlock lowers the pistol until it’s pointing directly at the bomb jacket. All three sets of eyes lock onto the jacket. John's breathing heavily (man he feels like shit), but adjusts his position to be braced against the wall in a way that should make protecting Sherlock easier (i.e. shoving off at high speed and covering his body with John's more indestructible one). Sherlock looks calmer than his heartbeat indicates. Moriarty tilts his head, looking a little anxious for the first time. Or maybe just intrigued. He's both easy and hard to read at the same time. As Sherlock holds his hand steady, continuing to aim towards the jacket, Moriarty lifts his head and locks eyes with him. Sherlock gazes back at him and Moriarty begins to smile. Sherlock’s eyes narrow slightly.

Fucking showdowns. It always feels better to be a part of them than as a bystander. He kind of wishes he had a sword. And more limb control. And to not be hungry.

Chapter Text

After all that build-up, you’d think the wind-down would’ve been a little less anticlimactic. Not that John’s complaining, mind, but it’s so… nonsense. His entire life is one long joke; he should really get used to this shit again. At all.

Short version: Moriarty gets a phone-call. He answers (John’s hearing can catch the other end). The conversation in full goes like this:

“Hello? “

A woman’s voice: “Is this Moriarty?”

“Yes, of course it is. What do you want?”

He mouths ‘Sorry’ at Sherlock, who sarcastically mouths ‘Oh, fine’ back at him. Moriarty rolls his eyes as he listens to the phone, turning away from Sherlock for a moment. The woman says, “I have blackmail on the royal family.”, at which he spins back around, his face full of fury.

“SAY THAT AGAIN!”

The woman calmly says, “You heard me.”

Moriarty, venomously, into the phone, “Say that again, and know that if you’re lying to me, I will find you and I will ssssskin you.”

She repeats, “I have blackmail on the royal family,” and this time she adds, “and I don't know what to do with it.”

Moriarty, into the phone, “Wait.” Then to Sherlock: “Sorry. Wrong day to die.”

Sardonically Sherlock asks, “Oh. Did you get a better offer?”

“You’ll be hearing from me, Sherlock.” And he turns to walk away again, calling off the snipers. John won’t trust that until Sherlock’s in a safer place.

“So if you have what you say you have, I will make you rich. If you don’t, I’ll make you into shoes.”

That's a good one. John'll steal that threat, thank you very much.

The next hour or so is spent building up the necessary energy to go out and feed. He's really hungry now. But he's not sure if picking up a girl would be expedient or safe right now. The one he had been leaving to visit, while understanding of his plight, decided to leave the rest of the night unattended. Which was fine, just meant John needed a different source of blood.

Plus there's the fact that Sherlock won't stop eyeing him. Claiming he's going to visit a girl immediately after tonight seemed both hard to press and vaguely rude. Sherlock's clearly worried about him, he isn't exactly in top form, and the thing is that John doesn't want to leave him alone right now either. Or be alone. What he'd really like to do is go home and watch some crap telly while Sherlock did something vaguely distracting in the background, or maybe listen to Sherlock's moody violin. Something of that nature. Something life-affirming and mundane.

But he's too hungry for that to be safe. He'd probably get through the night without nomming on Mrs Hudson or Sherlock, but he doesn't want to take that chance. Secreting life-required blood from strangers is one thing, but stealing it from people he cares about without their express permission is just… it feels icky to him.

Back before he had to start pretending to be John he rarely fed directly from humans. Bags full of blood were plenty. Sometimes they were hooked up and infused, especially when they were younger and no one knew how they’d react to the world they lived in. It was framed as a medical procedure before it was explained to them. Blood deficiency, anemia, something like that is what the normal world was told.

Then Kanade, being the tradition bucking bitch she is, was like… why infuse them when we could just drink them? Less equipment needed, less people needed. Less hospital visits. Just have to take a few bags and keep them stored at home. And nobody questioned Kanade’s whims the way they did Hibiki’s.

Actually. There’s a thought.

It is not easy to convince Sherlock (or Lestrade) that he just wants to be alone for a bit. He throws in as much influence from his Presence and Eyes as he can in order to let him slip away. He normally doesn’t use those things, least of all on friends, but this is something of an emergency situation. He might not have the time for setting up a date, and he feels convincing the others that visiting a date would be good for him is a bit out of his ability, but he’s stubborn enough for going on a walk.

Of course Mycroft is going to have a conniption the moment John disappears from surveillance, assuming he's tuned in with all the noise, but he won’t be gone too long.

Just have to steal a bag or two from Bart’s. There might be a better location: Baker Street is about a 50 minute walk from here. But Bart’s is the place John knows, and once he slips the surveillance he’ll be able to travel significantly faster than walking speed. It’ll be easy enough for him to take the detour to Bart’s and then make it to Baker Street within the expected time frame.

Blood is usually kept chilled and has to be thawed for 30 minutes before humans can have it put into them. John can drink it before it's fully thawed without the issues a human would have having it infused (it’s a coagulation problem), though he’d definitely prefer it body temp. Regardless, given the pinch he’s currently in he plans to make the quick trip to Bart’s, wait until it’s drinkable, suffer through slightly cold blood, then make his way to the walking path and slip back into surveillance. Let Mycroft and his people freak all on their own or whatever it is they do. John doesn’t care anymore.

...

It ends up not being as big of a deal as John feared. Hardest part was, unsurprisingly, the convincing of Sherlock and Lestrade, especially Sherlock. But once that part was over it was pretty simple to slip, steal, drink, and slip back. Sherlock was playing for him when he got back. Probably timed it out in his head and then made up for any deviation by either watching out the window for him or listening for the door to open under John’s hand.

An unwelcome thought accompanies the warm giddiness that bubbles up at that thought: what will happen with him once John’s gone?

He doesn't feel the usual post-case satisfaction. It's been tainted by Moriarty. He feels sick when he considers this feeling extending into, tainting, other cases. He remembers what it was like to play his violin after he'd gotten it back—the disgust and frustration. He'd had to hold back from chucking it across the room several times within those first few months. The horrible skin crawling whenever he picked it up—

It's still there when he takes it up sometimes. Nowhere near as often, and when it does sometimes a quick and unpleasant note is enough to shock himself out of it.

It pains him to think this could ruin the exhilaration of cases for him. Perhaps—perhaps he could direct it. Like he did with his violin. Cases don't put John in danger (they do, but they're generally a by-far more consensual danger than the pool was. John said it himself: they chose this. Sherlock forces that reason because without it he might lose his mind entirely), Moriarty did. Moriarty's cases, his games, that's what's tainted now. Not the Work. The Work is a victim of Moriarty's game, and he's very good at bringing criminals to justice.

At no point in his thoughts does he consider blaming John. Ejecting John from his life, to protect him, does briefly come up, but both that or blaming him feel like impossibilities.

Honestly, with the revelation that John isn't Moriarty, is genuine in his place in Sherlock's life, with the shock of the alternate possibility and terror of losing him to his stupidity and ignorance, Sherlock's lost the drive to fight against it anymore. He hates thinking about it, but it was a similar, albeit at the time less dramatic, process to the time he'd developed a crush on Victor. The denial only lasted about a week or two before he’d considered himself a lost cause.

Except then Victor had come to him…

Stop. Sherlock demands of himself. It sounds like John's voice. Don't think about that. That part sounds like his own.

Instead he distracts himself with further thoughts of John. Unlike before, where Victor had come to him with the offer of a relationship, John isn't interested in romance with men. Which is fine, objectively speaking, and better given that Sherlock has no interest in having one. But the feelings are going to fester regardless of his intentions, so is there anything he's going to do about it?

It would be a good opportunity for experimentation. See what kinds of things an unrequited love can bring with empirical first-hand experience. It has been almost a decade since he experienced any of that, including romance-based jealousy. An obnoxious amount of crime occurs from passion, including and perhaps especially love. Could be useful.

Really, though, if he can't do anything about the feelings themselves, then why not try to enjoy them? John won't reciprocate, Sherlock wouldn't want him to if he could, he can't rid himself of the feelings, and John's staying. So: enjoy them as much as possible.

Test what kind of physical boundaries John has. Will he be stereotypically English in that way? Given his penchant for actually wanting to talk about his feelings, at least with Sherlock, to a degree, Sherlock doesn't think that'll be an issue. Maybe he'll be shy in public, PDA is a bit different…

But will he want to? With Sherlock? Will touches (platonic of course) be acceptable, not just in general, but when coming from him? And if it is, what kinds of things would he be okay with? What would Sherlock even be okay with?

Hugs from the front would probably be fine. He has no idea how he'd establish the practice with John, but he knows he'd be okay with that. He likes hugging Mrs Hudson. But will it be different since John is a man? He is a smaller man. Nice and compact. Soft. It'll probably be fine.

None from behind. The very thought makes the skin of Sherlock's back crawl with disgust. Especially not if he's holding his violin.

Handholding? Sherlock remembers from somewhere, probably adolescence, that in Victorian England men who were close friends could walk down the street arm-in-arm. Not strictly handholding, but a similar concept. The concept has, however, in more recent times, gone from a platonic gesture to more intimate. So perhaps not that. Sherlock's not even sure if he'd like it. Having someone tucked against his side? As they're walking? With John's shorter legs? Sounds inconvenient. What if they need to do something suddenly? And have to disentangle their arms first? Definitely not at a high-energy part of a case at least.

Strict hand-holding then? Side-by side is definitely considered a more intimate gesture, but if one of them is leading the other somewhere it suddenly becomes more acceptable. Weird distinction. But doable. That one's definitely on the list of ones to test.

What else? Hair petting? Maybe. Sherlock would definitely like to touch John's, but he's not sure what kind of reaction he'd have. A positive one, he hopes; it sounds pleasant in theory.

Draping his limbs haphazardly over John while he watches something bad on telly is a given.

Sherlock sighs at his imagination, feeling exhausted, and turns over to force himself to sleep.

John goes to bed that night with opposite considerations. He needs his family. He has no support network to help him when he loses himself. And he obviously isn't as infallible as he had trained himself to feel. He's terrified. What if it happens again? And again and again? He can't…

How can he possibly feel safe when he's clearly so far off his game he's gotten bested three times in the same fashion. It is, admittedly, the best way to get advantage of something like him, which is also part of why it's as goddamn terrifying as it is.

He underestimated the cabbie, but that was a nobody who slipped inside John's guard.

He was somehow caught out in his own home with Sherlock nearby with a drug that ruined his abilities for, for his biology especially, an exceedingly long period of time. People are still out there hunting him.

They must be. It can't just be a coincidence that there was a third (not including the cabbie, that was a human drug, the third he’s referring to are the uses of a similar or same thing during his time in the lab) time this had happened. And they're getting bolder: he was snatched more or less from a crowded street this last time.

He's not safe, he's not safe, he's not safe , he needs his family, he misses them…

They warned him. They warned him what could happen if he joined Red Shield and he did it anyway because of his all-consuming guilt. He'd always felt like his very existence is stolen; that it's nothing more than an aberration.

He decides he can't do this anymore. They'll understand the risk he's about to take. They'll understand and probably even call him a fool for thinking too much about this and not just coming home immediately. They'll probably scold him for worrying them so much and hug him as he cries out the last few years of his life.

He doesn't know what will happen to Sherlock after he goes back. He'll probably convince his family he needs to spend four more months as the guy's flatmate as thanks for saving him from himself at a low point in his life. Lowest? John's not entirely certain. Maybe.

So with his family helping to keep him safe, he'll help Sherlock get back on his feet, and then…

And then what?

The thought feels foreign. He's going to rejoin Red Shield, right? So why does he feel such a swooping sense of dread at the thought? Such deep disappointment and distaste.

Back to a life of killing. Of being looked down on as less than human. A monster. He's a monster. Should he even have autonomy? He's a weapon to point in a direction. Kanade was right. He’d rather, wants to, stay with Sh—

Enough of that. John joined of his own free will. If he doesn't kill chiropterans, protect humans and the world from the destruction caused by their his own species, who will? He has to go back. He can't stay. He can't just quit. People will die. People have probably already died in the time he's been gone.

It's his responsibility.

"It's not your responsibility, Hibiki.”

He just wants to go home.

John comes down the following morning with a look on his face that Sherlock isn't sure how to categorize. He's clearly still feeling distraught from yesterday's events, but there's also a glint of what appears to be forced determination. Reluctance. Sherlock has a bad feeling about it.

John does eventually get to telling Sherlock what it's about, and it is about leaving Baker Street like Sherlock was fearing it could be, but it's not a permanent vacation of the premises. It is, however, a vacation.

John will be visiting Japan for almost a week. Possibly longer, he warns.

Sherlock considers the irony of initially wanting to put some distance between them for the sake of dealing with his feelings, but now that the opportunity's in front of him he feels hollow. He wants John to stay, to stick around and annoy Sherlock with his presence. Now that Sherlock's accepted that he's stuck with these feelings, he wants to capitalize on the aspects of their relationship that he can engage in like keeping each other company and the Work.

Of course it's just as Sherlock's accepted that he has romantic feelings for John, and wants to try the different strategy of enjoying them and him, that John decides to take a hiatus.

The next week or so is going to be tedious.

Chapter Text

Once on the plane John's nerves kick back in. He's actually doing this. Actually making the trip to Japan. He'll set-up a room and then carefully shapeshift into a different face and make his way to his home. If he's going to do this, he's going to assuage his anxiety as much as possible by submitting to his paranoia.

What will he do once he's there, though? Explain himself, obviously, but beyond the short-term. Will he really just join back up with Red Shield? Maybe he should take a vacation first and attend therapy before he does that.

Sherlock's presence lingers in John's thoughts as he considers what he wants to do about that part of things. With his family in his life again, he wouldn't have to pretend to be John Watson anymore. 

He'll have to, at an absolute minimum, return for Harry—

Oh god. He hasn't actually considered that too much. How is he going to kill John Watson? Literally would probably the safest route, as Harry might expect interaction from him if he just 'left' and became a hermit. Not to mention out of character?? Good going, Hibiki. Because you decided not to be a douche like the original John Watson and acted more or less as if John was you with a different face, you also established John in his current role. Nice.

Back to Harry: to make this trip he had to cancel drinks with Harry. While he doesn't mind not encouraging her alcoholism, he does regret canceling on her. He updated their meeting for 'sometime after he gets back'. He'll be sure to at least do that before he begins the severance process.

Sherlock drifts into his mind (and again it's the look in his eyes at the pool: that picture of devastation in the moment he thought John might be Moriarty, that lost look as he realized he might not have a friend after all) and he aches with the thought of never seeing him again. Six months returns to his mind. Oh yeah. He had already decided to stick around long enough to satisfy Mycroft's demand for Sherlock's sake. He wouldn't be leaving immediately then. This is so… confusing. He still feels ill that it won't last, but at least they'll, he'll, have a little longer.

What if you told him?

The terrifying thought comes to him the way a demon might whisper. If he wants to keep Sherlock as a friend, he will have to tell him. He's far too intelligent to play any kind of trick involving switching off between Hibiki elsewhere and John in London. Hibiki's seen enough of how Sherlock works (and acts). She'd have to fabricate a life for John outside of London, sightings and documents. And what if Sherlock tried to pay a surprise visit? He could claim traveling rather than moving house, and as such harder to track, but…

Hibiki does not think Sherlock would buy it. He may not figure out exactly what's up, but he would definitely figure out that something was up. Plus there's a part of her that... wants to tell him. As terrifying as the concept is, and much as she knows how bad of an idea it is, she wants to make a friend of her own. She wants someone to accept her.

She could… tell him part of the truth. That's a far more appealing thought. She won't say anything about how she's a monster, not yet for certain; she'll just introduce him to the human side of operations: Red Shield. She could paint and weave John Watson as a member of Red Shield. It… would make for a good entry point when she… when she… if she decides to tell Sherlock the whole truth later. She can explain that chiropterans are real, that while there's some science-like parts to her biology and existence there are also supernatural parts that are hard to explain or figure out. Introduce this new world without completely upending his perceptions all at once. Provide the history without telling him that John himself is one of the creatures until later, once the more impossible parts have been accepted. And then tell him the whole truth. That John isn't actually John, but someone else entirely that stole John Watson's face and life...

It's better than the initial thought of just outing herself straight off. She can get a read on Sherlock's likely reaction by prepping him first. If she just came out with it instead of leading up to it… it could go so very badly…

At the very least her family should have a say in it. Him knowing could adversely affect them after all. Kanade would probably even support her wish—if when she inevitably vets Sherlock she believes he won't hurt Hibiki. Hell, if Kanade decides she likes Sherlock she'll probably call Hibiki a fool and that she should tell him already.

Hibiki in John's skin smiles at that thought. God she misses her bastard of a sister.

Later, in a new face of German origin (it's another man), he wanders the familiar streets, letting the nostalgia bring a smile to his face. He'll probably just look like an enamored tourist. He hasn’t been here in over 4 years. It’s changed so little—

He turns the corner onto the street where his childhood home is…

Should be. Where it should be. There’s nothing but a hole in the ground. Why?

Calm down, Hibiki, currently Kurt Müller, thinks to himself, willing away the desire to just let himself go and have a panic attack right then and there.

It’s not just his old home that’s missing, but the neighboring buildings as well. Whatever’s left has been left in disrepair for the most part, though John notes some recent attempts at clean-up.

What… what happened here?

And where is his family?

He knocks on the front door of the nearest lived-in home, begging that the heartbeat he feels on the other side can help answer some of his questions. An old woman opens the door and it appears that Tae-san still lives here then. It’s… wonderful to see a familiar face again, even if it has been nearly a decade since he last properly spoke to her. Age has taken to her well and Hibiki almost forgets to play his part in the wash of nostalgia.

“Excuse me, ma’am.” He says, long having decided to use a more formal register of Japanese grammar, though with a slightly put-upon accent. Since most classrooms and programs tended to teach the most formal levels of a language as their default introduction to the language it was common for foreigners to end up sounding overly formal to a native. And Kurt’s invented excuse for learning Japanese was having had a Japanese girlfriend he learned from and for. It was common that the partners of Japanese women would learn the same way of speaking from their partner and thus end up speaking similarly.

“I was wondering… I had heard about a family cafe and restaurant that was here that I wanted to try it out, but when I got here… Well. I was wondering when that happened and how it happened.”

He does his best to put on his kicked puppy expression, the one Tae-san always had trouble saying no to. He did his best to give the impression he had heard good things about Omoro (his family's business) and is sad he won't get to try it. It wasn’t that hard given the gaping hole in his chest.

“Oh my.” She replies. “Yes, it’s sad what happened. I’ve heard conflicting accounts, but the official story is that there was a gas leak and explosion.”

Official story. Huh. Kai was always careful about safety in that place. He never would’ve let such a thing happen.

“Official story?” He questions as innocently as possible, like he’s really just confused by the way she phrased the comment.

“Oh, it’s nothing. The army came in to deal with it so people thought there was more going on than there was. Even my husband is convinced of it. I can’t tell him otherwise.”

The army. The American one, most likely, from the nearby base. John is reminded of the story of his aunt’s first encounter with a chiropteran in her new life (she'd had amnesia for a bit) and how the military had handled that situation. How they’d covered up the death of a faculty member by claiming and providing a falsified story about an ex-soldier holding up in the school and killing the teacher in the process… and how they had refused to release the teacher’s body to the family. It hadn’t been shot, after all, but torn apart and eaten by a monster.

“Oh, I see.” He pretends to accept that. “What about the people who worked and lived there? Was anyone hurt, or..?”

Tae-san becomes sad at that, which terrifies Hibiki for a moment until she says, “Everyone survived, thank god, but they couldn’t rebuild what they had lost and left. It was tragic. They had just lost contact with one of their daughters, too.” Hibiki has to try his hardest not to look affected at the knowledge that the missing daughter was him. “They tried to stay in the area, but I don’t think it worked out. I haven’t seen anyone visit the place in almost a year.”

Hibiki strains his abilities to ask about any ways to contact them, claiming he is an old acquaintance, and when she shakes her head sadly he swallows down the heat and thanks Tae-san profusely for telling him all that she could and makes it away from there.

He manages until he’s truly alone before he breaks down.

He thought… he'd thought he’d be able to reconnect with them. See them again. What actually happened? Was there an incident? Sabotage?

God. He thought… he'd thought… no...

Distantly, he hears his phone ding. He's made it back to his room in his state. When did that happen?

It's a text from Sherlock—multiple texts from Sherlock that are still dinging in. He is so self-centered and ridiculous…

The small, tremulous smile it affects shocks John out of his state just enough to realize he can't give up just yet. He should at least put some effort into seeing if he can get any contact info from anyone. If, after that, John is still left adrift…

Then he can freak out all he wants. It's a comforting thought to know oblivion is still an option at the end of the day. He knows he won't do anything drastic, probably cry some more, maybe scream, maybe hit something, probably head back early, definitely sleep… Even if his efforts would have an effect, he shouldn't do that to Sherlock. Sherlock shouldn't have to deal with his fucked up shit and his screwed up head. So: nothing drastic. Still, it's comforting to consider. To have it as an option even if it's one he won't take. Even if the thought echoes with it the memory of Kanade's worried determination and everyone else's horrified pity.

He puts a little too much thought into the assassin's blade sitting in his room..

Nothing comes up. It’s as if his whole family has uprooted itself and moved. Were they being chased? Was there a present danger they had to go into hiding from? Why were they targeted, and by whom? Which set of bastards—

Hibiki and Kanade giggle at Kai’s aggrieved face. They keep calling him by name instead of papa, like he asks, because they think the faces he makes are funny. They race ahead of him, up the stairs, up to—

He’s giving up for the moment. Maybe entirely. Maybe just for now. He’s not sure. But he does know he’s not okay. So he takes precautions, and then makes his way to the family grave with John's face.

They’re having a picnic. They’re still young at this point, and do not understand all the layers of importance this place holds, but they will one day—

The sky is on the verge of a tantrum. It’s not raining yet, though it feels like it should be. Drench him. Complete his melodrama. Match the external world with his internal one.

Mirror the stories he grew up hearing—

A later memory: “This is the Miyagusuku’s family gravesite.” Kai tells her. Hibiki feels tense with no idea why. Kai looks so serious. Why does he look so serious?

“I know. We’ve been here lots of times.” She says, trying not to sound like she’s complaining. In reality, she just feels really confused. Why does he look so sad? So pained?

“But I’ve never told you why.” He says to her. That’s confusing too.

“We come to visit my aunt and honor grandpa George and your brother Riku, right?” She suggests, frowning a bit. She feels kind of uncomfortable.

“You’re right. That is why we come here…” He tells her, which is somehow more confusing. Why bring it up then? “Have you thought about why I, why everyone, tells you to keep this place and our visits a secret?”

“Kanade and I have both wondered.” She answers. She takes to uncomfortably gnawing her inner lip and continues, “We assume it has something to do with the fact that aunt Saya is sleeping inside of a cocoon. That’s… not a normal thing, right?”

“It’s not.” Kai affirms. “Humans do not sleep in cocoons for 30 years.”

“‘Humans do not.’” Hibiki echoes. “So you’re saying aunt Saya... isn’t human?” She looks to Kai, asking him to help her understand.

“She’s not.” He confirms.

“So… we’re not human?” She asks, scrunching up her eyes, trying to figure this out.

“I am.” He tells her. Which… yeah. She knew Kai wasn’t their biological father. So that follows.

But Saya is her biological aunt. Which means: “But I’m not.”

It tastes sour in her mouth. Exclusionary. Kanade, Hibiki, and Saya. These three people are different from others. From everyone else. They’re not even the same species. Wait. Kanade is too, right? Then why isn’t she here hearing this as well?

“No.” Kai says tentatively. “You’re not.”

“And what about Kanade?” She asks. Kanade’s her twin sister, so she must be the same, right? It’s not just Hibiki and Saya, right?

“She’s also not human.” Kai says. Hibiki sighs with relief. It’s not just her. But then—

“So why isn’t Kanade here?” She asks. Why shouldn’t they both be hearing this at the same time? Surely Kai is planning on telling her too!

“I wanted to have this conversation with each of you individually.” He explains (no more than that). Hibiki later finds out that Kanade had been told before Hibiki was. It was a trend. Tell Kanade first, get her reaction, and then give the seasoned talk to Hibiki. Because Hibiki was— “It’s important, especially for you, that you understand—”

It’s clean. Well, there’s some dust, possibly a couple years worth, but it’s clean.

It’s not just Kai, Kanade, and Haji that have disappeared. Everyone has. And also…

Saya’s cocoon.

Saya is missing. There’s not even a trace of webbing left behind.

“Haji!” Kanade calls out. Haji doesn’t always meet them at the grave, but it’s always a delight when he does. Hibiki hangs back with the basket and watches her mischievous sister jump into Haji’s arms. He’s so silent and severe on the outside, but an absolute sweetheart on the inside. Hibiki smiles a little at the clashing of Kanade’s hyper and his graceful poise.

Hibiki wonders if Saya’s personality is anything like Kanade’s—

“So they really have left.” He mutters to himself. Shit. He didn’t mean to. But he’s so lost right now. What is he supposed to do? But there is perhaps no firmer proof of their having left than the absence of Saya’s cocoon.

Actually, John thinks, I’m pretty sure the 30 year mark occurred during my… captivity.

He’d been afraid of that. That Saya would wake up from her 30 year hibernation without Hibiki there to meet her in person. That she, the person who had so thoroughly ensnared these different people into her family, would wake up, see her sister, see the chiropteran Queen named Diva, in Hibiki, and like a matriarch she would declare Hibiki too dangerous to remain alive.

Kanade would fight tooth and nail to defend him. He thinks. He hopes. Kai… might follow Saya’s orders. Or maybe Kanade’s orders, given how that shook out. Haji was in a similar nebulous state, except as Saya’s proper, and only, Chevalier (and very, very much in love with her) he would likely follow her wishes. But… no. He defied her once. He refused to fulfill their promise to kill Saya at the end of their quest. But he refused it because he wanted her to live. So what would he do if she wanted to kill Hibiki—?

And really, thinking Saya might order his death is uncharitable to someone he’s never actually met—

It was somehow both pretty and vile at the same time. Hibiki liked bugs and insects alright; well, okay, she actually quite liked them! Especially the freaky ones. Spiders especially. Other girls seemed to be afraid of spiders, and freaky things in general, which Hibiki didn’t personally understand. They were so cool!

Inside the stone building was a cocoon. A BIG cocoon. At least as big as an adult. A bit bigger, probably. There weren’t any bugs or spiders big enough to make such a big pile of webbing.

Point is that 30 years ran up while Hibiki was in captivity. Saya probably woke up and then… and then they left. Without him. Travelling the world, maybe. Hiding from whoever’s after them. With Saya.

“Dad,” Kai said, referring to Kai’s adoptive father, George Miyagusuku, “was in a very bad place after the war. Possibly from the war itself, but also because he’d just lost his wife and kid.” Grandpa George was an Okinawa-American who had been a US Army soldier in the Vietnam War, and David senior’s (the father of the David Hibiki knew; the father of the David who married Julia and was the father of Alfie) dying words to his subordinate were to look after Saya as she finished her sleep, until she woke up. His last task. The same Saya who had just massacred dozens upon dozens of soldiers and civilians in a bloodrage caused by Red Shield forcing her to wake up too early from her hibernation. The fallout of which led not only to the slaughter of innocents by Saya’s own hands, but to her developing amnesia after she woke up a couple years later (at the natural end of her cycle) and, understandably Hibiki thinks, PTSD as the repressed memories forced their way to the surface.

Hibiki is not the same innocent child she’d been when she’d visited this place in previous years. She’s a teenager now. She knows what she is now. She hates herself. She hates everything about herself. She’s a monster, she’s—

“I heard this from Saya, while we were…” Kai stops for a second and breathes in forcefully, as if remembering something particularly painful—ah, he’s likely remembering his little brother, Riku.

Riku Miyagusuku: Kai’s younger brother. Whom Kanade and Hibiki will never get to meet.

“We were at the Red Shield headquarters at the time. I don’t remember how, but we started talking about Dad. And how Dad knew about what Saya was. And… she told us a story. A story Dad had told to her in Okinawa, not long… not long before he died.” His hand brushes the elevated stone beside him, the one he’s leaning against as he speaks to Hibiki.

Hibiki’s not sure if she’s really listening or not. She’s hearing the words, but she doesn’t know why or how.

“It was before he’d adopted us—adopted me and Riku—not long after his wife and kid died in a car accident. He was distraught. Incredibly so… And suicidal.” Kai swallows, probably in pain from imagining his Dad in such pain. Ah. so that’s what this talking to is about. Hibiki’s suicidal thoughts. Great. “He felt he had nothing left to live for. This was it: his last task. The promise he made to an army buddy. Watch over Saya until she woke up. But when would she wake up? How long would it be before she woke up? Eventually it all became too much for him and he came here one day with his gun intending to swallow it.” Kai swallows again, probably imagining it despite himself.

Hibiki didn’t know George. He died even before Riku did. He died protecting Saya, sort of. Protected her, was hospitalized, was kidnapped and injected with Delta 6-7, found by Saya, and mercy killed himself with her blood, crystalizing painfully to death. Or so she understands.

Kai looks up at the cocoon. He gestures to it. Hibiki looks up at it. It’s a familiar sight. An odd sight to be familiar with, sure, but it is to Hibiki. A human-sized cocoon made of what looks like white webbing, stuck to the walls around it, keeping it upright, nestled in amongst the urns, made of a material that is somehow both impossibly hard and incredibly soft to the touch.

Hibiki feels her heart pulse hard once, only a single one, enough to make her feel off-balance before returning to its normal strength, in her chest. It’s unnerving to look at the cocoon right now, where before it had only ever felt comforting, if a little sad.

Her aunt, the Red Queen Saya, is hibernating inside that cocoon. Chiropteran biology makes no goddamn sense. They’re active for 2-3 years and then they hibernate for 30 years. But only after they’ve grown up a bit first. Saya didn’t enter her first hibernation for decades after she was born. Kanade and Hibiki are only teenagers right now.

One day… one day Kanade and Hibiki will enter hibernation, too. Gone from the world in 30 year increments only to wake up and enjoy the world for 2-3 years before they sleep for another 30 years.

Just one more reason Hibiki doesn’t want to bother.

And even if, even if, Saya maintains the decision she’d made when they were born, when she was poised to plunge her sword into two freshly hatched Queens and kill them, when she decided not to kill them after all, what about when they begin their sleeps? What if they come to like her immensely, and vice versa, and then their cycles… don’t align. They’d never meet again. Only ever to greet the other as cocoons.

Just one more reason—

“He was going to do it when he… felt something. A warmth. Coming from Saya.” He says her name with such affection. What if Saya hates Hibiki? Will he still think of her fondly? Will he agree and say Hibiki is a monster? “Calling out to him. It made him want to live. And he did. He adopted me and Riku. Then Saya woke up. With amnesia, with no idea how to function in the world, but we were a family. We were a family for a whole year—”

John shouldn’t be here. There’s nothing for him here. The graves and memories of people he’s never met. No family. No aunt Saya.

There’s nothing here for him.

Chapter Text

John returns home from abroad sooner than expected: much sooner than expected. He sent Sherlock a text less than a day out that he would be returning home early. He had seemed so excited, if immensely nervous, when he left. Yet there he was boarding a flight back near immediately instead of after a week like he'd planned.

He looks tired, downright exhausted, but not just in a sleepy way, when he arrives back on Baker Street's doorstep. Sherlock can tell immediately that John isn't okay, even if the dead expression in his eyes didn't clue him in.

"What happened?" is the first thing out of his mouth. He can see—

John slowly looks up at Sherlock, as if so far on autopilot that he's simply responding to stimulus. Eventually he manages, "I… can't. Right now. I'm sorry. Can I just…" His eyes drift away, behind him towards the staircase up to his room, but he continues, "Can I be left alone, please?" Sherlock considers pushing, he certainly wants to, but John gives him this pitiful, broken expression, and then he considers how John listens to his preferences during his Moods, and reluctantly decides to give him the same consideration. For now. At least a couple hours worth. After that, Sherlock makes no promises. And then John heads immediately upstairs.

Sherlock, upon hearing John's door shut slightly harder than his usual, takes to the sofa and brings up his hands to consider this turn of events. It eats at Sherlock: the fact that he didn't press. The fact that he doesn't have enough information to deduce what happened without asking. It eats at him that John feels this way at all and that Sherlock can't do anything, that John, in fact, didn't want Sherlock around at all…

Clearly something happened while John was overseas. Most likely, he'd gone to Japan with something specific in mind and whatever that thing was didn't pan out. Except it was obviously something more than a disappointing trip. He'd have gone straight for his purpose, been disappointed, but likely tried to find other things. There are plenty of places to go and things to do in Japan. But instead he'd immediately returned.

Disappointed doesn't seem a strong enough word for it. He's seen John shaken, and stricken, and not okay, but never this level of… broken. Whatever it was was earth-shattering. It's left John unmoored and drifting.

Sherlock briefly wonders for a moment if he's the only person John has to talk to. There's Harry, but they don't get on. And… there's John's girlfriends. But he's said himself they aren't proper relationships so much as quid pro quo. There's his therapist, but John clearly doesn't like baring himself to strangers. Is Sherlock the only comfort John has? That's… not good. Sherlock might possess feelings for him, but he doesn't know how to take care of others. Certainly not sympathize with them.

He can try to deduce what happened. Make that part easier on John at least. The rest…

Maybe he should get John some other friends. That way he has someone other than Sherlock to commiserate with. Lestrade might be interested in a compassionate pubmate to whine about his failing marriage to.

Later. Not important right now. Something to consider; just at a later time. Back to task.

What does John care about? He lives frugally by choice and isn't strapped for income at the moment thanks to, ugh, Sebastian. Once the impetus for basic necessities was covered, he never showed any interest in extra (this trip to Japan being the only thing of that nature, which pushes the idea there was a purpose beyond vacation more). He wouldn't be that upset from something financial.

It could be chemical, Sherlock supposes. Depression that reared its head at a bad time. PTSD being too much trouble and ruining the experience. An event occurred that left its mark on him—

Someone died?

People are a likely cause if it isn't biochemical. Human connections drive people to such ends more than anything else. Perhaps someone died during his leave and he couldn't enjoy the trip anymore? But that's not what pulls at Sherlock.

Death of a friend seems more likely. There was redness and moisture about his eyes. Had he been crying? Not on the plane trip back at least. Something dreadful. Not a murder, or at least not an unsolved one, he likely would've consulted Sherlock immediately even through his fugue.

Most likely it was something personal that shouldn't have happened and ruined the purpose of the trip. Oh.

Perhaps John had intended to meet with someone in particular? A girlfriend, actual girlfriend, who broke up with him immediately? Possible, it fit well enough, but didn't quite pull at Sherlock. Something like that, though.

What is John supposed to do now? His entire reason for existing is out of his reach again. The future he thought he could have has once more slipped through his fingers like a gaseous mist. How is he meant to bear this?

This is what happens when something like him hopes. The universe sees fit to put him back in his place. Is this what he deserves? It can't be, right? Surely no one deserves to be forsaken for the sake of it, not for things out of their control? It's not. It's not his fault he was born this way. It's not.

So why does everything and everyone act like it is?

Kanade isn't treated like this, so why should he? Just because he has his mother's eyes? Who made that rule?

He just wanted his family back in his life. Is that really a lot to ask? Is it really?

He just… he just wants to see Kanade again. His lovely bitch of a sister. She's good at comforting him. At just… keeping him company and listening to him. At letting him feel comfortable letting everything out, just being there for him, and not making him feel like an fool for it. Helping him sort out his shit and what to do about it. Kanade never treated him any differently because of his genetics. She acknowledged them, didn't disregard them as meaningless, but never blamed him for them or even see them as a burden. Even Kai, for all he did try his best not to judge or treat Hibiki differently, felt more anxious around him than he ever did Kanade.

Because Kanade was the red-eyed sister and reminded everyone of their absent loved one, Saya. Saya was a red-eye, but her sister, Diva, was the blue-eyed twin and known mostly for all the atrocities she and her chevalier's committed. People can't help but look at him and worry "what if it's genetic?"

But Kanade grew up alongside him. She didn't view him that way from the start like others did. Like Kai did. His own papa . How can a relationship of trust be built upon fear? He was just a kid!

He knows Kai hadn't meant that at all. He does know. But right now, with his head full of muck and the burn of tears spilling over, he just needs to feel angry. Either he's angry or he feels nothing, and anger feels safer.

The anger doesn't last though. The flame is snuffed out by his love for his papa. With memories of making amends and genuine apologies. It flickers until it's nothing but smoke.

And all that remains is despair.

Why? Why must he do all this? It's not like he's the one who plunged the world into chaos. Humans did that. Even if Amshel was his mother's chevalier, he was human first. And Van. And the other scientists—

Why?

Why?

Why?

It hurts.

He just wanted his family.

He just wants to feel loved again.

What happened to them? Are they okay?

What's going to happen to him now?

A year.

He was in that lab for a whole goddamn year. Locked in the room with no windows. Alone. Except for when he wasn't. It was better alone. It hurt. It hurts —

Ah.

John comes to himself enough to notice he's taken to gripping his wrist with such strength that the skin has twisted under the grasp, morphed into unseemly folds. His trimmed nails flirting with the idea of pressing in and making himself bleed. It would be such a relief. The warm flowing of blood. It would make him feel better.

But how would he hide the evidence? He could just bite and drink his own, sure, but in his current state? He doesn't trust it. Doesn't want it like that. Biting isn't quite as intense as what he wants needs right now. But not digging in, either, that causes too much damage, which is harder to heal and not what he wants right now…

He shouldn't. He really shouldn't. He's been doing so well for so long. The time while in captivity doesn't count he feels, but he was good and didn't hurt himself even in the horrible funk after he'd gotten out.

Kanade would be so worried about him. Kai and Haji would be too. Everyone would be disappointed in him. Again.

But they're not here. That's the whole problem . They don't get a say if they're not here to say anything.

His eyes drift to the desk where the curved blade has been sitting since a few days ago. A knife would be better, but a sword would do. A sword would do fine.

A bit later, Sherlock's in the middle of setting up an experiment involving fingers when he hears John's bedroom door open and footsteps on the stairs. They aren't John's usual tread, though. These are stuttered. Slow and out of rhythm.

Sherlock turns around to watch for John as he comes into view on the stairwell. First John's shoes come into view, he hasn't taken them off?, and then something silver in his left hand glints and catches his attention. Metal.

John is holding the sword, the curved assassin's blade, tightly in his left hand.

Sherlock is initially discomfited. A frisson of fear making its way into him. He chastises that reaction. This is John. Surely there's an explanation.

When John's face comes into view Sherlock can tell he's been crying fiercely within the last hour. John looks around with the absentness of running on instinctual responses to stimuli only. He does seem to come out of it a little bit when he catches sight of Sherlock in the kitchen though. He stops descending for half a second, and blinks rapidly upon seeing him. He looks dazed.

Then his eyes trail behind Sherlock and catch on the fingers on the kitchen table. He gives them… a really odd look. Sherlock cannot name it beyond idle fascination; his expression is far too closed off to be read accurately. Sherlock just knows that he Does Not Like It. John's fingers are flexing (the left hand tightens into a death-grip on the blade's hilt).

Sherlock has no idea what to do. He knows John isn't okay right now, but beyond that he has no concept of what the best approach would be.

Tea. John's never been an avid drinker like the rest of England, but he does occasionally enjoy a cuppa. Maybe something calming?

"I'll make tea." He forces out and turns around to turn the kettle on.

He's just about to put it on when he hears a thump behind him at the stairwell. He turns around and sees John has collapsed onto the landing floor. It's as if he were a marionette whose strings were suddenly cut. He falls into a haphazard Virasana (Hero Pose) with his limbs spread around him. His eyes still distant and absent. The sword is still clutched tightly in his hand.

Sherlock leaves the kettle off in favor of making his way over to John to make sure he's alright. He has no concept of how to help, so he focuses on what he can and follows his impulses. He squats down in front of John and checks him over.

John's eyes follow Sherlock's movements, and flinches from his touch, but doesn't otherwise move or react. His mouth is slightly parted and his fingers flex around the hilt of the sword. Sherlock takes the opportunity to gently pry the sword out of his grasp. He doesn't fight it, though his hand does instinctively trail after it a bit as it comes into Sherlock's possession. Sherlock chucks it behind him, into the kitchen.

"John." He tries. What is he supposed to do? What is the right thing to do?

Sherlock, worried greatly about John and his lack of response, decides to press, "Talk to me, John." John gives him a dead-eyed absent look in response that cuts. "That's something friends do, right? They talk to each other about their problems?"

"I…" It's the first time John's spoken since he disappeared a couple hours ago. His voice is wrecked. "I can't…" Emotion has come back to him. The dead mask cracks into something that's fighting against feeling anything for the sake of self- preservation.

Sherlock panics for a moment. What should he do? How can he help? His hands hover uselessly in the air around John and he glances down the stairs, away from John. Mrs Hudson. What would Mrs Hudson do?

He forces his arms to stop their useless flutterring and reaches out to hold John's arm. Sherlock figures the motion is a success given how John immediately grasps onto his hand with one of his own, holding it with strength to his person like it's the only thing keeping him from drowning and a scrunched expression of agony.

"John." He says again, anguished that there's nothing he can do to help assuage whatever it is plaguing John at this moment other than to repeat his name.

John looks up at this though, with such a broken, if more open than previously, expression that Sherlock nearly goes into another panic.

Before that can happen though, Sherlock is suddenly shoved back onto his arse as John barrels into his chest with this keening noise. John has latched himself onto Sherlock's torso, insinuated himself inside Sherlock's space, his arms gripping desperately to the fabric on his back, and is—there is simply no other way to describe it—crying his heart out.

Sherlock's hands are once again hovering uselessly in the air around John, and the initial assault leaves Sherlock tense, but as John sobs and sobs Sherlock finds himself relaxing and feels his body move to envelope John.

He hasn't hugged or been hugged by anyone other than Mrs Hudson since he was a young teenager. Well, nothing he would consider a proper hug at any rate. But John clearly needs this. And it's not like it's the worst thing in the world.

He wraps his arms gingerly around John's back, careful not to move too quickly or harshly. He has no idea where his hands should go so he settles one around John's lumbar region and his other winds up threaded in John's neck hair. His hair is soft and comforting under his fingers.

The instant Sherlock reciprocates and takes him in his arms John flinches hard and keens again, this time with despair. He starts apologizing under his breath, into Sherlock's clothes and skin, saying things like, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm like this. I'm sorry you have to put up with this useless… thing that I am."

What is Sherlock supposed to say to something like that? Without thinking it through he just buries his cheek against John's hair and replies, "Ridiculous."

John must not hear him, or at least doesn't process it, because his words continue to make no sense. It's all apologies and muffled sobs for several minutes, and Sherlock can do no more than hold onto him like he's the only anchor keeping him there. He might just be.

Eventually John's tremors calm down and the severity of his cries have calmed to an occasional sniffle. He's still tightly attached to Sherlock's person; he's even turned his face into Sherlock's neck now. It'd be nice, if the situation weren't horrible.

"Sorry about all that." John mumbles into his shirt collar, obviously embarrassed now that he's returned to some semblance of himself.

"Nonsense." Sherlock tells him. He may not understand the why , but the outburst has clearly helped John regain his senses. "You seem… a bit calmer now."

John vibrates in his arms, which Sherlock realizes isn't more crying but rather laughter. John laughing in his arms is… precious. He just wishes it was under better circumstances.

"What?" Sherlock asks testily.

"Nothing." John says. Oh. Sherlock can feel John smiling into his skin. That's as distracting as it is pleasant. "Just… thank you."

"Of course." Sherlock says, even if he has no idea what he's done to deserve thanks. If John thinks he was of assistance then that's all that matters.

They both swallow at the incoming question. Sherlock because it's what caused John to close off twice now...

...John because he knows he's going to have to tell Sherlock something. And he is not ready to reveal himself, not remotely… but there's no way in hell Sherlock would leave this level of breakdown unanswered. He's going to have to provide him with something.

God. But what could he even say?

"Give me a minute?" John pleads for time to think. Sherlock nods his acceptance against his ear. John breathes out a sigh of relief, relaxing himself a bit, but then Sherlock tries to untangle himself from John. John feels panic flare up and he ends up holding tighter to him.

Sherlock pauses, probably confused (John hopes this isn't too uncomfortable for him), but he seems to understand that John needs this right now. Hopefully he doesn't realize John just can't bear for him to see his face right now.

What doesn't contradict John Watson's history? Watson never visited Japan, but there is some time unaccounted for by anyone local or army. Perhaps he can edit that experience and make it something more… personal.

"I went to Japan to find some people that are important to me." He starts. God, what if he fucks this up?

"Figured." Sherlock arrogantly claims. It actually helps assuage his fear that his plan won't work out. John laughs a bit. He really would've missed this man.

"Course." John agrees casually, trying to keep up the easy mood. Maybe it'll help him to do this. "I met them some time ago, and their presence in my life changed me for the better." And that phrasing could help ameliorate any potential future discoveries involving John Watson's shitty character. "I went to visit them at their home…"

"But something went wrong."

"Yeah." John swallows painfully at the memory of the fucking hole in the ground where his childhood home had been. "The place they lived and worked in was destroyed… gas leak, apparently."

Sherlock stiffens in John's arms at that. Their too recent encounter with 'gas leaks' coming to his mind. "I don't think it's Moriarty." He says quickly, trying to steer away from that fear (trying to steer himself away as well). "This apparently happened a couple years ago." The admission unfortunately pokes holes in any army Watson discoveries, though it could be argued they gave him an old address they knew was destroyed. Still, it's worth it to feel Sherlock loosen up again. His body is still tense, but it's back to the same tenderness as since John attacked Sherlock with this hug.

"Probably unrelated then." Sherlock agrees. Having Sherlock agree helps assuage some of that fear in John.

"They're alive, probably. A neighbor said no one was hurt. But… there was no way to contact them. I checked."

"I see." Sherlock says. His hand idly and wonderfully threads through John's hair. God. No one's played with his hair in years. He nearly forgot how much he loves it. "You know I could…"

John closes his eyes and does his best to regulate his breathing. He was afraid Sherlock might offer that. Flattered, ridiculously happy about the offer, and very tempted to accept it. But letting Sherlock do that could lead to any number of bad results. He'll probably try regardless of John's permission, but without the permission it'll involve less involvement from John and thus less evidence that he's not telling the full truth. Less information to be contradicted. John may be a good actor and liar, but there's only so much people can manufacture. And he doesn't want to lose Sherlock yet. Especially not… especially not when he's the only good thing in John's life right now.

John just isn't willing to make that gamble.

John hates that he's taking advantage of the hesitation Sherlock had with his offer, but he does so anyway: "It's fine. It was a big disappointment." Serious understatement. "But it was more of a trigger than anything else." That part wasn't a complete lie, but it was definitely an exaggeration. "I just…" Time to get a bit too close to John's personal truth, but for the greater good of deflecting attention from 'the people.' "Get like this sometimes." Luckily PTSD is the reason Sherlock will assume.

"...Overwhelmed?" Sherlock asks tactfully. John nods assent. 

"Was a bit much." He admits.

"Mmm." Sherlock hums.

"This is nice." John says, testing the waters for physical intimacy. John is a very tactile person.

"What is?" Sherlock asks ignorantly.

"Hugging." John offers casually.

"Ah." Sherlock says. His hand in John's hair halts for a moment, but once he's processed he stiffly resumes its motions.

"Really." John pushes. " Thank you ."

"...So you've said…" Sherlock obviously doesn't understand why John keeps repeating himself, but that's okay. As long as he understands a small degree of what this means for John, that's okay.

John finally builds up the stubbornness to pull away from the warm embrace. He makes sure to keep his hands clasped on Sherlock's arms as he backs away, and he maintains eye contact. Sherlock's expression is hard to read, as usual, but John reads bits of wonder and worry. His fingers twitch as if desiring to hold onto John more. It's sweet, really, and John would love to… just maybe on the couch or something. With something mindless on in the background. That sounds great right now.

Now that he's calmed down, John looks over, past Sherlock's head, at the fingers on the kitchen table which at the time had made John imagine cutting off his own fingers. Or someone else's, like one of the scientists. He internally flinches at the memory of that thought process and distracts himself by asking, "Will those fingers keep for a few more hours?"

"... I could conceivably wrap them up without any deleterious effects to the experiment."

As good as a 'yes, what do you have in mind?' from Sherlock. He's so cute when he tries his best.

"I was thinking—hoping really—that we might watch something mindless on telly and continue my recovery on a softer surface." He smiles as best and puppy-like as he can and watches Sherlock's eyes calculate.

"That would probably be for the best." He says imperiously. "No need to aggravate your leg again or…"

John just nods contentedly and makes to stand, having to release his hold on Sherlock's arms to do so, before he looks over and remembers the sword. Oh yeah. He still wants to keep it… but maybe not right now.

"Could you put that in your room while I set something up?" He asks. He doesn't feel like he should even touch it right now.

Sherlock's eyes snap up to him from the sword at that. He watches John stand before standing himself and picking up the sword. He glances at the sword in his hand and then up the stairs to John's room.

"As you wish. I'll be taking your gun, too. I've been meaning to examine it."

John's confused by that for a moment, before he remembers what normal people would think in this situation. Well, Sherlock's not wrong. Hell, if John weren't practically immortal he would've died decades ago and many times since. Sure, maybe that was a cause in his particular case, but…

"Yes." John says, even though he holds no interest over the gun. "Please do." He needs to feed into expectations, though. He's considered suicidal right now, dangerous to himself. As such, dangers should be removed. For John that means blades (and when he was younger also poisons and medications), but for normal humans that would also include things like his gun. So he agrees to it for Sherlock's sanity.

It's not like John needs it for self-defense.

Honestly, what does it say about John that he would prefer to be considered suicidal (which isn't untrue, just complicated) over just telling Sherlock that he cut himself as his preferred method of self-harm a lot in his younger years. And how close he was just now to nearly breaking his recent clean streak.

Other than his overwrought breakdown, the rest of the evening is actually enjoyable. Sherlock deigns to start a pot of tea, allegedly for himself, and also cuddles (don't call it that to Sherlock's face, he gets pouty and pretends to dislike it, but John likes to call things as he sees them) up with John as they watch some shitty indie horror flick (with Sherlock picking apart costume seams and reflections of boom mics and it was wonderful).

Not worth it, but definitely a lovely consolation.

Chapter Text

"You should ask Lestrade to meet up with you for a pint."

John gives him that bewildered look in response that means Sherlock has successfully caught him off guard. "What? Why ‘should’ I do that?"

"Because I'm about to start a particularly noxious experiment and I've been told it's good manners to warn those living with me." A reasonable excuse.

Except John is anything but typical. "I don't care. I mean, thank you for the warning, but I'd much rather spend the evening with you."

Sherlock fights the pleasure that bubbles up. Ridiculous. This man is going to be the death of him. "I'll hardly be good company."

"Then I'll enjoy the silence." John says stubbornly. Why is he being stubborn about this?? Does he not like Lestrade? They seemed to get on well enough...

"It'll hardly be silent. Quite noisy, actually."

John gives him a look that is disbelieving and searching in equal parts. "Why do you want me to go out with Lestrade?"

"He could use a distraction from his failing marriage. I've heard misery loves company."

"Not what that phrase means: that implies I'd also be miserable too, but I see your point." John is giving Sherlock the oddest look, which then morphs into one of calculation, followed by one of contemplation.

"Yeah, sure. I'll ask him out—for a pint." Good. That's how many normal friendships start out, right? "But only if you promise and follow through on the promise, if it's applicable, that you'll call me if a case comes up while I'm out."

So specific. John sometimes likes to word things like he's talking to a genie. Sherlock idly agrees and waves dismissal with his hand. John rolls his eyes at Sherlock and pulls out his phone to send a text to Lestrade. Good. It's important for John to have people who aren't Sherlock to rely on. It doesn't matter if he's a little jealous; the fact is Sherlock isn't what John needs in his life. He's glad John's here, in his, but it's in his best interest if he has a life outside of Sherlock. People who actually understand how to help others instead of flailing uselessly. He can't be what John deserves, but he can push him towards people who can be. So he will.

"I think he's worried about me." John says after a prolonged sip.

"How d'you mean?" Greg asks.

"I kind of had a… moment a couple days ago. I think he's still freaking out over it and doesn't know how to deal with that." John looks contrite, and Greg's just tactful enough not to ask for more than John's willing to give him. Maybe it was a PTSD thing. Something that freaked out Sherlock regarding John, at any rate. Nudging him to have drinks with Greg is an interesting response, though.

"So he's foisting you on me?" He aims for levity.

"I think he's foisting us on each other." John eyes his ring. Ugh. Unsurprising that Sherlock knows something about that. Still rubs that he's so transparent though.

"Yeah, it's not going well."

"Wanna vent? I make for a great brick wall." Greg decides fuck it. He's enough beers in, and someone's willing to listen to him? Why the fuck not?

It turns out John really does make for a great person to vent to. And once he's got some of that out of his system he also proves pleasant company in general. He's not sure how he thought someone who pulled Sherlock's interest would be, but he's surprisingly insightful and practical.

They don't talk about John at all though. He wonders if that's intentional.

"Hi!" Molly waves at John as soon as she sees him. He weaves his way through the crowd with practiced ease that leaves Molly a little jealous.

Well. It might not be that that she's jealous of.

She doesn't even know why she still has this… thing for Sherlock. She's not even herself around him. She knows it would never work, but her hormones just do not care. It's ridiculous. She's ridiculous for Sherlock Holmes.

But it's hardly John's fault he slipped right into the space Molly would've like to try. She doesn't think she and Sherlock would've made a good lifetime couple or anything. He needs someone who can stand up to his force of a personality and normally she would've thought she'd be a good match for that… but she just can't with him.

Ugh. No. Stop, Molly. This is supposed to be a friendly outing with John. He'd like to be friends. And she'd like to be friends with him! Really.

Really, really. He reminds her a bit of Sherlock. He doesn't look at her and see a woman. He sees Molly Hooper. They share a fascination with death and decay and the way biology reacts to the world within and around it...

Ughhhh. It's not until there's caffeine in her hands that she's finally able to focus on the outing itself. Though it likely helps that John is a kind and attentive conversationalist.

It also probably helps that he's as interested in talking about Sherlock as she is. She felt weird the first time she referenced him, something strange he did, but John had just watched her with interest and added his own relevant anecdote. He didn't call her out as lovesick or annoying. They had stories to tell, with several happening to have a common denominator of one Sherlock Holmes. He didn't make her feel foolish for her feelings. It was… nice.

John seems a bit distracted by the end of it though. When Molly asks what's on his mind, he jolts out of his head to stare at her, then chews on his lip as he considers.

"I'm meeting Harry, my sister, tonight." He tells her.

"You don't get along well?" She asks, taking the final sip of her now lukewarm cup.

"Something like that." He admits. "It's just that I'm planning to... 'come out' to her tonight. And given our past interactions it's hard to see that going well."

"Ah." Molly hums in commiseration. "She's not… is she?"

"Not what?" John asks, tilting his head slightly in confusion.

"Homophobic." She mumbles into the din of the cafe.

"Oh. No." John lightly shakes his head. "Harry's the gay one actually. I might've… not reacted well when I was younger…" His eyes are downturned and a disgusted grimace has taken to his face.

"Ah…" Well. At least he seems regretful about it. "I can see why you're not looking forward to that."

"Yeah." John agrees stiffly.

Molly considers how to phrase the fact that his sister must already know given his relationship with Sherlock, but they have been pretty low-key about it. Maybe she wouldn't know?

In the end what she asks is, "Well. Are you planning to come out to anyone else?" It's not until she's said it that she realizes he might've just come out to her of all people first. Maybe second if you include Sherlock.

John just shakes his head though. "Nah. Harry's the only one I feel obligated to 'come out' to. Anyone else can just find out the normal way."

"The normal way?"

John rolls his eyes a bit. "Yeah. It's not a big deal to me. I am who I am. I like who I like. It's other people that are so weird about labels. I feel no obligation to tell them anything just because they make assumptions about me. I'm only going to tell Harry like this because of our history."

It kind of hits her that he has a point. People tend to assume someone is straight until they're contradicted. And in the thought of bi-erasure they'd likely look at him and Sherlock together and just assume he's gay. That's not really something she's considered before now. Always new things to learn.

She nearly comments that it would make it hard for anyone who's interested in him to know they have a chance before she reminds herself he's already taken. Given that, Sherlock, and she supposes John's sister, are the only people who actually need to know anything.

All in all it's a lovely outing that she really needed after her break-up with Jim. They agree to meet up again sometime in the next couple of weeks.

It’s tense and awkward, talking to John like this. Harry hates how he always walks on eggshells around her now.

He also doesn’t like how much she drinks. It’s not like it’s his fault she’s a better person when she’s drunk—oh wait.

Briefly, she kind of misses their occasional pub crawls back when he was in uni. They were rare, but John always knew how to have a good time. Now he was so straight-laced and boring . How was she supposed to get buzzed if he was there giving her guilty little glances?

"What is it?" She snaps at him.

"Hmm?" He hums. She doesn't know if he's trying to avoid her or just needs the subject. Both piss her off.

"You keep staring at me. If you've got something to say, just say it already."

"Ah." She can see him open his mouth to apologize again. God, she hated the man he was before but at least he didn't pussyfoot around like this. "Um. First of all I want to reiterate that" oh fuck her "the way… I… used to treat you was fucking bullshit," They've been over this, like, half a dozen times. Harry shouldn't have asked. "but I'm not trying to go into that again in this case. I'm bringing it up because… I, uh, wanted to…"

His face pulls a grimace and Harry is left wondering what the fuck he's trying to say. He looks constipated.

"Oh just spit it out."

"I'm pan." He chokes out. Harry's world tilts on its axis.

"You're what?"

"As in pansexual." He adds, as if Harry needs the clarification. She did, actually, because the idea that her brother likes—

"You like dick?"

John gives her this look in response. All his nervousness temporarily vanishes to properly convey to her just how obnoxious her question is. So naturally she leans further into it.

"Seriously? Three Continents Watson—"

"How the fuck did you learn that nickname?" Said flatly.

"—is into dick."

"I'm into all kinds of people, yes ." John looks done with Harry and this conversation already. Closed off and annoyed. It kind of reminds her of the old John. Honestly, after the shit he's pulled on her she's at least allowed to rag on him for this.

"Wow. How did you figure that one out—" A thought hits Harry like a train right into her ribs. She starts laughing. John continues staring at her like she's a particularly annoying insect.

"Oh my God. It was your supposed flatmate, wasn't it? I didn't take that other guy, on your blog, what was his name?, seriously, but wow. You don't just want The Dick, but your own flatmate's co—"

John leans over the table, irritatingly calm for the shit Harry's giving him, and covers her mouth.

"Not quite." He says. "But I can see how you came to that conclusion."

She sticks her tongue out and gets saliva all over his hand. Rather than exemplify distaste, he just grins lopsidedly at her and smugly removes his hand… then wipes it on her hair. Bastard!

"Oh wow. You're even starting to talk like him~" She teases. Harry doesn't know how Sherlock Holmes talks beyond the banter the two of them have on John's blog. Though really she probably should've guessed someone who caught her brother's interest would have to be special somehow. She hasn't seen or met this guy yet. She just might if her little bro had a crush… on a guy!

John snorts at that. "Oh please. If I was mimicking him I would've called you an idiot. And then assured you that it's okay because everyone's an idiot compared to me." After saying that, however, John's face briefly scrunches in distaste at something. He returns quickly though.

The conversation manages to drift from there. Harry's still internally stuck on it though. She has good reason to be!

Maybe it was a case of 'so far in the closet he's toxic to those like him?' though. It's true that he hadn't been especially antagonistic to her when they were young children. When they hadn't known any better. It wasn't until father started turning on her that John followed suit. Always the little soldier to their father's command.

Speaking of their dad… "You're sure you don't want to swing by and pick up anything of dad's?"

John's face immediately falls. "No." He says harshly. "In fact, feel free to burn all of it if you want. I don't want any of it."

She almost just asks. She almost opens her mouth and just asks what the heck happened in Afghanistan that changed him so completely. They say war is hell. So what the hell happened to her brother?

She doesn't though. She's somehow afraid it would break this spell. That it would tear this fragile peace between them. She doesn't… have a lot of people in her life right now. She's apparently desperate enough to actually hang out with her own brother.

What does that really say about her and her life?

Sherlock is being stubborn. No surprise there. He always likes to do the opposite of what Mycroft wants. Except when he tries to intentionally make use of that. Then all of a sudden, because he must be a contrarian, he'll switch tunes on him.

Right now he's being stubborn about this flatmate situation.

While he's now put in interest as to John's background, it's infuriatingly coached in an interest in his connection to Japan. His eyes had relayed that only one thing of interest occurred on John's trip: a visit to a private gravesite.

Interestingly, the family associated with that gravesite is highly classified. The observer had retrieved the family name associated from the locals, but the government information side of things was being reticent with releasing any information to him. Which left him more uneasy. How could a normal British army doctor be associated with a Japanese gravesite of a family that was so highly classified Mycroft had yet to be able to get his hands on any of it. There was something suspicious here.

And here his brother was, asking after what happened to John while he was in Japan. Mycroft had initially thought maybe his brother was finally suspecting something was off with his choice in flatmate, but from his tone it seemed more like he was simply worried over John Watson.

His spy had made notes about the redness of the subject's eyes on the plane, after a quick exodus following the single gravesite visit. He'd gone nowhere else, according to the watcher, though they had noted there is a possibility he slipped out for the early part of the day. Which would also be interesting, as it would mean he knew he was being watched and did his actual business secretly… but then allowed his visit to the grave to be witnessed. To show off? To intimidate? A warning? Or was he truly as distraught as Sherlock believes and therefore faltered in his attention?

There are simply far too many unanswered questions to be safe.

Chapter Text

This is the first time he’s done this since he realized and accepted his feelings for his friend and flatmate. Would it be disrespectful to think about him in any way? People fantasize about others all the time, right?

The first steps are the same clinical preparation he always makes it be. No worries of imagining John there.

He hesitates, as he always bloody does, but he's definitely horny enough that it could prove a distraction. Better to curb/satiate it a bit now than let it consume his thoughts for the foreseeable future.

Sherlock's eyes drift around the room and he realizes his choice of environment isn't helping as much as he'd hoped. He'd figured the bathroom next to his room would be best for a number of reasons including easier cleanup, more sterile environment, and perfect place to begin his next experiment when he's finished. It ought to be enough to obscure any traces Sherlock misses in his haste to leave and provide alibi for why he's in here so long. There's no window in here, but Sherlock knows it's early morning from his own room's windows. John'll be down soon…

Ah. There's a thought. John comes downstairs and smiles at him. That contented 'Hey there. Fancy meeting you here.' smile even though seeing Sherlock in the living area of their shared flat should not be cause for such a thing. But John does anyways. Like he genuinely is pleased with Sherlock's presence.

Tangent. John comes downstairs and smiles at him. Sherlock is struck by it. John walks over to him, smiling the whole time…

He tries to recreate the feeling of when John shifted his head to look at his throat following the assassin. Ignore the assassin, especially the assassin's blade. Sherlock closes his eyes and replays the memory. The gentle movement of care. Like Sherlock is precious…

Sherlock groans with frustration. While that's pleasant, it wars too much with his preconceptions about himself to go unmolested by other images and thoughts. The uniqueness is too contradictory to experience and it therefore calls experience to memory. Something less saccharine might be required for now. Damn.

Post-case adrenaline could be useful. A good chase, or maybe something life-threatening, where instinct and desire are the things that come into play. Life-affirming sex would be new, but the roughness would be familiar enough …

Worth a try at any rate. Sherlock's starting to feel weird sitting in the bathtub with a well-lubricated dildo near his entrance as he considers possible wank material.

Dammit. Just do it. The sooner he has it in, the sooner this can be over with. With that thought he imagines the two of them having just returned from a case, still panting and hyped up, like after the chase that first day they met. Except maybe not just inside the front door. No need to scandalize Mrs Hudson in that way. So living area. They've made it up the stairs, and Sherlock must've failed to control his expression because suddenly John looks hungry.

Sherlock moans through clenched teeth as he pulls his free hand up his side. Dammit, he's going to want to play this scenario piece by piece. Maybe if he speeds up events a bit…

So John shoves Sherlock up against the nearest surface, let's make it the kitchen table sans any equipment, and kisses him roughly.

Another moan. His tongue slides around his mouth at the fantasy. His head lightly knocks against the wall. God yes.

He takes a second to imagine the feeling of John, clothed, pressed against the length of Sherlock's similarly clothed body. Ravenous kisses. He can feel…

He presses the dildo against his perineum. It's right there. God.

No words are needed for this fantasy. He just makes John open his fly and reveal his cock.

John divests Sherlock of his trousers and pants. He's sitting on the edge of the table similar enough to the position he's in now. John presses…

Sherlock skips prepping in the fantasy entirely, it's a useless scene at this point anyways he feels, let's just say it happened off-screen. Instead, Sherlock gets to finally enjoy the slide of the lubricated dildo inside him. Fuck.

He imagines it as John's cock inside him and moans fitfully for a moment. Fuck. And John would be careful, not rough, not like Sherlock deserves, but still strong and in control. Fuck.

After a moment of pretending John's waiting for him to adjust and settle, he gives a whine in real life to indicate he wants John to screw him.

He starts with a few short pumps. Luxuriating in the slide and stretch for a few moments. Then he aims to surprise himself with a sudden thrust all the way in. He grinds his teeth at the rough feel.

Then he turns attention to his prostate and rubs it against it. It's at about this point he turns the vibrations on. Low first, just enough to distract him from the rest of his body, to feel on the edge of too much, and then as his fantasy turns from beginning to middle he turns it up higher.

Nnng. Or something similar is the noise making its way through his throat. God. He loves the way it slides in so smoothly. It's hard to think when his body is overtaken with pleasure. He switches back to the fantasy where John has taken to gripping his hips in a death-grip and is shagging him senseless. God.

It's when the fantasy, and Sherlock, reach final moments that it finally all goes to hell. Sherlock thought things were going too well. Fantasy Sherlock wants it a bit rougher, so they turn him over on the table. He decides to mimic it in real life, turning onto his knees, face to the tub wall. God. If he shoves the dildo in just right in this position it leaves him gasping. He's positioned himself so his face is shoved against the wall.

In the end, there’s something about the position that forces his mind to its undesired halt. His free hand has been braced against the wall, wedged in to keep too much pressure from his face, but he wants it free to touch himself. He'd basically forgotten about that part of this. Still aware of it, just not in his focus. The need to come out of the fantasy to maneuver himself to take care of it takes him out of the fantasy just enough to bring with it the unwanted reality of the world around him. Him, with a dildo in his ass moaning wantonly like a whore while he fantasizes about his straight friend .

In a few moments he has the dildo pulled out of him without regard to comfort, and he's dry heaving over the edge of the tub. It would perhaps make more sense to not do that, but being able to brace himself on the edge is a comfort. For a moment.

That's when the memories really crash in.

Dammit. He was doing so well too. Almost even enjoyed himself for once. Maybe that's the problem.

Suddenly he can't stand to be braced over an edge like that; it's too vulnerable a position. He forces himself to sit up straight with his buttocks resting between his shins. He braces one hand on the edge of the tub and the other rakes across his face in anguish. Dammit!

He leans his back against the wall, intentionally letting the cold shock hit a bit and focuses on his breathing for a while. The dildo is still vibrating in the distant background, somewhere. Sherlock couldn't care less. Once his breathing is more manageable again, he looks blankly out at the rest of the room. How can he even be sure he's really in 221b right now? What if the last five years have been an elaborate fever dream? Does John even exist? Does the Work?

His cock is still throbbing between his legs, even if it's nowhere near as interested as it was before. The distracting pulse is aggravating.

Fuzzy as he feels, one particular memory pops up in front of his eyes. Out of pure spite, the hand on the edge of the tub moves to tug at himself. He stares out into the room: glaring through his fingers at the memory, at the person in the memory, and brings himself to completion like that.

Once he comes down from it he realizes the fantasy he came to wasn't the more pleasant coupling with John, but rather a spiteful fantasy of masturbating in front of his worst abuser.

Sherlock's rather glad he has an experiment to cleanse the tub with after that.

Well. John had wanted a bath this morning. But it looks like that's not going to happen.

There's a soft scent of something underneath it? Is John crazy? He must be. The fumes are making him crazy.

Closing that door he heads back upstairs to the shower unit to clean himself up for the morning.

Sherlock's in a Mood, and not one of the "I'm bored here's a strop" ones that means he's gnawing at his own mind, although he's putting on quite the show that that's what it is. But he keeps looking at John, like he's trying to get a read on if John's buying it. He's not. Sorry darling, you're good but you're trying too hard.

He's agitated and irritable all morning, so John does his best to ignore the glances thrown his way and pretend that he is buying it. He pulls out his laptop and finishes up a heavily edited version of The Great Game. Maybe it'll catch a potential client's attention: a nice little problem to distract him with.

Just not Moriarty. Fuck that guy. Seeing him ever again without it being his dead corpse would be far too soon.

There's no bites on the blog, but a walk-in does knock. John hopes for Sherlock's sake it's at least interesting enough to pull him out of his spiral.

It is, if you consider a cat-lady found eaten by her own pets over in Greenwich and the insistence of the client, the victim's niece, interesting. According to her, she'd visited within the week, and the cats were always well-fed. John might've if not for the whole, y'know, cat thing. And the culprit having secretly starved the animals because of their vegan lifestyle (John's still mad about that one; cats are obligate carnivores. That knowledge had helped John a lot growing up when dealing with his own body's requirement for blood, so he feels empathy for the poor things. Fuck that bitch.) that led to the cats taking to the old lady when she fell, couldn't move, and wasn't checked on soon enough. A horrible way to die. She was likely unconscious for it, but still. A bit like the kills 'mice' make except the cats were less messy. Mice tend to either drink directly from their catch, messily but without much fanfare, or more often rip them to shreds and then lap up the spillage.

Great. He's somehow taken killer cats and made it about blood-drinking bat monsters. If he could get away with it without Mycroft catching on, he'd go back to seeing a therapist again. None may understand the specifics, but a good one can help even without full understanding. Hell, sometimes just having someone to talk to helps tremendously.

Ah well. At least Sherlock seems happier.

Sherlock should probably not be as amused as he is by John holding a staring contest with one of the cats. But John had turned and given him this long-suffering look as if to say 'this is my life' over the matter of none of the animals liking him. Apparently, and this is according to John's own testimony, animals hate him.

"Well. Hate might be a strong word for it. They have an aversion towards me. Always have."

Shame on the animals. John looks perfectly cuddly. Especially with that flat, put-upon expression. It makes him want to try kissing it off. Is that… not good? It's not like he wants John to look put down. It's just that he does and Sherlock feels the desire to mitigate it. That's a normal impulse… right? To want to help the one you like feel better?

Regardless, it's not like he can follow through on that impulse. That would definitely be a bit not good. Kissing him that is. Comfort on the other hand, no jokes intended, should be acceptable. Sherlock tests a hand on John's shoulder and ends up with the unexpected result of having John lean up against him, just before feeling the rumble of a short laugh, which happens before John grins up at him.

"Thanks." He says wryly, yet it doesn't seem completely insincere. He gives the pets a last sad glance before they leave.

That's… definitely a stronger predilection for physical intimacy than Sherlock would've thought of John. That or he's making fun of Sherlock. That thanks was wry, and it was a pretty shallow excuse on Sherlock's part. Did John notice? Was Sherlock too obvious? But John has seemed genuine in his affection so far…

It's nerve wracking, this crushing lark. He's 28 years old and hasn't felt like this since he was 20. Surely this is ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Pathetic, even—

And then John upturns his world again with the smallest of touches to the small of his back as they exit the building and the 'butterflies in his stomach'—that's the common colloquial term for the sensation, right?—ignite as if caught in an intense chemical reaction. He's probably blushing. Why is he blushing? This is ridiculous. He's being ridiculous. He is ridiculous for John Watson.

That'll be a handy way to phrase it when it inevitably changes from infatuated to in love. Mycroft's unwanted commentary butts in, acidicly. But it has a point because he doesn't see how this crush doesn't crash full-tilt right into love eventually, probably soon knowing his luck and John's… Johnness. Technical term. The question is really more how long and how hard?

And physical intimacy isn't going to be restricted to emotional outbursts, is it? While he doesn't mind helping John feel more like himself again, coming to associate it as the only time he's allowed to be near him would be intolerable. Fine, objectively speaking, but far from ideal.

Unless the reason for that distance is specifically because of him and not because John just doesn't do physical intimacy in platonic relationships. That would hurt. He wouldn't blame John for that stance, but it…

Anyways.

The next case of note occurs later that month. At the end of April, a call from Lestrade brings them to the London Coliseum, the Opera House in Covent Garden. The case itself possesses a few interesting points of its own, but it's most interesting features are a couple incidents involving John.

Chapter Text

Sherlock was too excited to notice immediately, although signs were there in retrospect. John had looked out of the cab windows, having just turned from grinning at something Sherlock had said, and it was as if something outside the cab had leached the life from his features. At the time Sherlock had thought nothing of it; it wasn't an expressly negative replacement at first glance. Blank, but not dead so much as far away. There was a case to be had.

They'd gotten a summons from Lestrade about a murder victim found on the London Coliseum stage. An opera house whose construction began in 1903 and was designed as a mix between a music hall and a variety theatre. The English National Opera company, as it's currently named, owns the place and it is also well known as the London home of the English National Ballet.

John was also silent on the way in, but other than uncharacteristically ignoring Sally's annoyance that hadn't struck Sherlock as odd either.

Sherlock wasn't even the first one to notice it, in the end. Lestrade is the one who looked up from the stage to where Sherlock was descending through the audience seating and asked, "Where's John? I thought you said he was coming with."

The first thought Sherlock has is that John's right behind him, obviously. He had come into the interior; Sherlock had looked over his shoulder to glance at him right as they'd entered the larger interior room. He wanted to catalogue his reaction. There hadn't been one, of any kind, just John staring determinedly at the body on the stage. He had looked agitated, but not enough for Sherlock to consider it actively needing addressing.

Regardless, a quick glance over his shoulder affirms that John is, in fact, not behind him. As Sherlock scans the seating up to the doors they'd entered, he realizes there is no sign of John anywhere.

After the previous experiences of this happening his first reaction is a swooping of his guts. Immediately, though, logic tells him that there are cops everywhere (didn't stop Hope—the police were all upstairs not literally around him though—didn't stop the Black Lotus from getting him from right behind Sherlock or Moriarty in broad daylight—except Sally's at the perimeter and there's an officer watching the doorway they came through…)

He distantly hears Lestrade shout his name behind him, but Sherlock has already sprinted his way back up the path and has nearly flown through it, much to the disgruntlement of a tech he nearly barrels into.

"You. Did you see John Watson on your way in?"

"Who?" The tech answers uselessly.

Rolling his eyes and oversimplifying he says, "Blond. Short. Male."

"Uh. No." Sherlock's moving almost before he's given the answer. Each level of seating has its own restroom area. John would've said something if he'd just needed the loo. This is when John's facial expressions, or lack thereof, come back to Sherlock and with certainty he feels that something is wrong.

Sherlock immediately wishes he hadn't thrown the door wide open because John flinches at the sudden noise. He looks up from the sink, his gaze a bit empty and far away, not completely unlike the dead gazes of when he'd come back from his trip to Japan. Even if the initial fear of something physically happening to John again was erroneous, he's clearly not okay emotionally.

What caused this? What triggered him?

It takes Sherlock an agonizing moment to realize John's breathing has quickened. Is he having a panic attack? Sherlock, having no idea what he should do, takes a few soft steps in John's direction. John falls to a squat, arms still holding the edge of the sink above his head. Sherlock bends down beside him, nervous.

"John." He says softly, remembering John said that saying his name helped him last time. It causes John's eyes to follow the stimulus at least, so he says it again before taking one of John's hands, completely on instinct, and putting it against his sternum; he tells him to mimic Sherlock's breathing. John nods once, then hangs his head and does his best.

After a while Sherlock's thudding heart has calmed down and John is no longer looking like he's half crazed. He turns his face ever-so-slightly, just enough to look through his lashes with this expression of embarrassment. That won't do.

"What was that about?" He asks, and is confused by the snort John gives in response.

"Blunt as always." John murmurs, mostly to himself. What? Sherlock had thought he was being circumspect enough with that question. General, but open. Didn't point out the incident specifically, but made it clear Shock would listen. Was he not as vague as he thought?

"It's really silly." John warns. Sherlock raises an eyebrow at that. "I have a… thing with opera houses. It's literally just about a story I grew up hearing. Don't know why it hit me like that. Like I said: silly."

"Must've been quite the story."

"Mm-hmm." John agrees absently. "Never quite seen opera houses normally since. Talk about an odd phobia to have, right?"

That's almost certainly not the whole story. He's being vague on purpose; Sherlock decides to let it go for the moment, but is determined to return to it later.

"Well, they say phobias are irrational. That's why I don't bother with them." John'll probably get a kick out of that.

He does crack a smile at that. "Oh? Then why is every surface of our flat covered in something? Pretty sure you've got a phobia of uncluttered tables."

"That's not a phobia. That's practicality."

"Uh-huh." John hums disbelievingly. He's looking better and joking with Sherlock again. "Practicality. So that's why it takes you several moments to remember where you've put something."

"I have a system."

"Mmmm." John is seemingly unconvinced, yet is still smiling warmly at Sherlock. His heart is not made for those smiles. How is he meant to defend against them?

Behind him, the door opens a crack. John flinches minutely, but immediately commands himself to relax and smile sheepishly at—Lestrade.

"Do I want to know?" He clearly can't read the situation well enough to recognize whether the situation is serious or not.

John latches onto that levity in tone, but doesn't lie in word. "Nah. I just had a Moment is all. Sherlock was helping me through it. I'm good now."

Lestrade gives John a doubtful look. "Y'sure?" The tech from before is peering over Lestrade's shoulder. That is not acceptable. John isn't a sideshow.

"Yeah. S'not so bad now that my brain isn't trying to kill me. I'll be out in a sec, just give me a moment to wash up, will you?"

John makes to stand after another moment, which Sherlock matches, mentally checking the position of his hands so he isn't nervously fluttering them around John's person. Once it's clear John doesn't need any physical support, Sherlock turns on heel to leave. He makes sure to say something, he doesn't really remember what it is he says, probably asked for case details, to Lestrade; something that would distract him from hanging around John. No reason to encourage other people to gawk. No need for an unwanted audience. John can join or not on his own time. Give him some time to compose himself.

It's what Sherlock would want.

What John doesn't tell Sherlock is that he probably would've been fine if it had just been an opera house with a body. The amount of blood and the degree of mutilation he could see didn't really phase him on the whole anymore. This was far from the worst he's seen. But the opera house made him think of his mom, and the corpse on the stage made him think of his mom, and thinking of his mom brought with it all sorts of tangled emotions and thoughts. But even that he probably would've been able to deal with.

But then he'd had the split second impulse of singing and that made him think of Afghanistan.

Really, all he needed to complete the ensemble was a pair of freshly born (read: hatched) twins, a sword, and oh yeah the destruction of the entire opera house with ordnance.

This place isn't like the Metropolitan Opera House though. Still whole, not rebuilt from a terrorist attack, not a place (as far as John knows) that a chiropteran had been in before today.

It's actually kind of funny when he thinks about it like that. He bets no one here would think he was born in New York, in the MET, just minutes before it was leveled.

God his life is wild.

Singular human corpse on a stage in a large ornate room? Should be doable. He just has to not think about singing. Or music. Or the darkness of—

How about not thinking about those things, huh?

John's a little grateful Sherlock ushered the onlookers away. It gives him a couple moments, now that he's calmer, to look himself in the mirror without feeling rushed.

Exactly how would he sing anyways? He doesn't exactly have his usual vocal cords right now. What are John's like? Would he be able to adapt to a male singing voice quickly? Would he like it? Enjoy it? Or would it just make him even more homesick?

As a matter of survival he's been trying to adapt to accepting John Watson's face as a variant of himself, of his own identity. It may have used to belong to another man, but he wasn't exactly a very nice man, and John is certainly doing more good with it. It's been months, and he's seen nothing but it in the mirror during that time (barring the singular incident of Kurt Müller, and the singular incident of stealing blood from Bart’s). He's actually starting to think of himself when he sees at reflections.

The lack of change, though, leaves him a bit listless. He feels homesick for his family, of course, but also for his old face, his original body, the one he imagines when he thinks: "This is me: Hibiki Miyagusuku." The trip to Bart's was a breath of fresh air, a couple moments of black hair and a dress (even if it was still covered in blood and embarrassingly threadbare), but it was little more than that. He’d had to fight the desire to stop and stare at his reflection and focus on finding food instead.

He also misses his old hobbies. It's been far too long since he's held a cello under his fingers. Too long since he sang for enjoyment and not for survival. Since he practiced with a sword because he found it fun, not because he had to.

How long before he could do any of those things again..?

He's done some practice with that curved assassin sword, but it's just not the same. It's not Hibiki's. The weight's different. There's no room for acrobatics in John's small bedroom. It's fun, he supposes, but not fulfilling.

But at least it's something. He's had no progress on the music front unless you count listening to and enjoying Sherlock's playing. While nice, it's just not the same. Sometimes it even leaves John feeling envious. Wistful. Homesick.

That obstacle is the one that popped up a few moments ago. It's been months free of the lab, and the relative sense of safety means those repressed memories are trying their damndest to force their way through. He'd been hoping for his family and a good therapist for this. He's not sure what he's going to do if he keeps having panic attacks on cases like this. Will Sherlock get sick of him? He was kind this time, but what about if it becomes a constant companion?

Dammit. He's not very good at this whole ‘don't think about your triggers’ thing. But at least he's processing, he supposes.

Greg's not sure what he expected to find on the other side of the door, but both of them crouched on the floor wasn't high on that list. It was on the list, just not high.

It takes him an embarrassingly long time, and John's explanation, to realize what was actually going on. He lets Sherlock bustle him out, once again fascinated by the way Sherlock treats John. John had mentioned freaking Sherlock out just the other day, and here he is having presumably just helped John through another Moment, as John called it.

It is genuinely relieving to witness Sherlock openly care for someone.

He's a bit worried how John will work out in the long run, though. If that reaction was due to the state of the body in any way, he might not last much longer as Sherlock's colleague.

It seems exactly like Sherlock's preferred brand of morbidity, given that the victim has been stripped of most forms of identification. It's not a pretty sight. Strangely, despite the messy dental work and mangling of the fingers, identifying the victim as Mona Garland proved suspiciously easy.

Her passport had been left conspicuously intact and in plain sight upon her chest.

They're still waiting on confirmation though.

Sherlock's eyes, unsurprisingly, light up at this contradiction.

John's pretty good at pretending he's not being stared at. Well, he's good at not physically reacting. The emotional component's always a bit iffy

That and he's pretty damn stubborn. He's determined not to let his Moment control the evening.

He'd barely paid attention to the body on the stage before his freak out, more focused on the his turmoil than anything else going on around him. But now that he's actually paying attention… wow. That's definitely something.

He's seen a lot worse before. But it's still a lot. Her face is bloodied and ripped to shreds, muscle and bone caressed by the air around it. The lower half of the skull has been broken and is missing from that mess. Eyes are, too.

Her fingers are missing, as well. Rough tears mostly at the second joint: the proximal interphalangeal. Said hands are positioned on her throat; laid to imitate her choking herself. A small booklet, a passport he realizes as he comes ever closer, lays in the middle of her chest: on the manubrium.

John's initial guess is an attempt at preventing identification. He knows the procedure for identifying disaster victims is fingerprinting, dental, that DNA samples post-mortem can be compared to antemortem samples or biological relatives, and that medical implants in registries can help identify the victim as well.

This victim before them lacks both fingers for fingerprints and jaw for dental. Face is disfigured possibly to prevent visual identification.

"What've I missed?" He asks while climbing the stage.

Lestrade turns to him, staring, but answers, "Mona Garland. Supposedly."

"Mmmm. That's whose passport that is?"

"Yeah."

John sniffs surreptitiously, letting his senses read the blood-scent in the air. The body must not be too old; it still smells appetizing. So probably less than a day. There's not much mess on the floor despite the extreme disfigurement: so cleaned up or transported. Or cleaned up and transported. 

"John." Sherlock commands with little more than his name.

"Yeah, yeah." John whinges just because doing so is fun. At least Sherlock isn't staring at John like he has a second head or is about to collapse. So he acquiesces gladly to the call, kneeling next to the body and pulling on the gloves he offers.

This close the pallor mortis is clearer to distinguish. It's also obvious that it's not as appetizing this close up: lividity probably began several hours ago. The blood pools towards gravity, what with the circulatory system no longer working, and becomes 'fixed' after about 6 hours. The blood deoxygenates during that time period as well, which is why lividity shows through the skin as purple. It also tastes like shit. Well, it's not that bad, but fresh, more liquidy blood is way better.

John Watson's blood tasted fine. He must've been dead only a couple hours.

This corpse is in full-blown rigor mortis. It peaks at 12 hours after death before subsiding again into secondary flaccidity. Eyes, then hands, then the rest of the body—though given the lack of eyes (and even the lids have been torn out), and the missing finger sections, it looks quite odd. The stumps are attempting to grasp at the neck ineffectively.

John checks the skin for where livor mortis has left the blood pooled. If he's right that the body was moved, it's possible it was moved after the blood fixed and thus be different then the body's current position. If it is the same position, the purple lividity will be all along the back of the body, but if it was otherwise…

There's no lividity on the back of the neck. Nor the small of the back. Her feet, however…

It's not as much as he expected, though it is purple and fixed. It's as if there's significantly less blood in her body than there should be. The bloodsense is weaker than he expected too. Drained?

He combs the skin and finds perimortem cuts around the ankles. Lividity exists below the cuts, but not above. Interesting. Was she left sitting or suspended for hours after her death?

Following that thought he checks her wrists. There is lividity around the wrists where an imprint of something that must've been cutting off the bloodflow once existed. Rope would be John's guess based on the pattern. There is blood around the finger wounds, so the wounds were inflicted perimortem, around the time of death, not hours later nor much earlier (corpses don't bleed; wounds heal/scar while alive).

Suspended. Fingers severed while suspended? Yikes.

He delivers his medical analysis as succinctly as he can: Body's been moved. Substantial amount of missing blood. Possibly tortured.

"Always hard to tell if perimortem injuries happened just before or just after death."

"Not an easy thing to study, either." Sherlock sighs.

"Yeah. Torturing live, sentient subjects to compare varying degrees of perimortem injuries is a bit much." John agrees half-indulgently, half-wryly, studiously avoiding thinking about Afghanistan.

Chapter Text

As the witness who found and reported the body, they have an opportunity to meet the consulting detective and his partner. They were a bit worried the police might decide to prevent the seemingly contemptuous detective from interrogating them, but luck must be on their side because standing before them now are the two in question.

"Joshua Archer." The detective, the police one, introduces them.

"Marion, please." They insist, eyes unable to leave the eerily familiar face of John Watson.

There's no reaction to the similar name. Oh well. They weren't necessarily expecting one, though they had, perhaps, hoped. They're more comfortable using this alias anyways because of the similarity to their real name. No loss.

"John Watson." The Captain returns pleasantly, if professionally. He then gestures to his less interesting companion. Marion pretends to be as equally interested in the sharp-eyed, tall and dark gentleman. "And Sherlock Holmes."

"Well met." They greet, and then probe, "You're not police are you."

"I'm a consulting detective." Which was said as if that explains anything. The man's eyes flick down to their feet. "Do you always traipse mud inside when you arrive?"

Marion glances down at their boots, a little miffed they'd forgotten about them in the morning's chaos. "Ugh, again?" They look back up, feeling aggrieved. "I wish I could say no, but it's something of a reoccurring habit I'm afraid."

"Mmm. Come over from Lambeth?"

"Mmhmm." They lie easily, becoming intrigued by his accuracy. "Live right above the water."

"Which entrance did you come in through?" Mr Holmes jumps a few steps ahead in the conversation, but Marion rolls with it.

"Employee's in the back." is all they say and jerks their head in the general direction.

"Show me." Tall, dark, and intense has quite the stare for a human. Marion secretly approves.

Examining the back entrance seems to take that man's interest, and that police officer has temporarily vanished to take a call, allowing Marion to take up a comfortable position near and beside their target for the morning.

Unlike usual, however, their intent has little to do with murder and entirely with how is John Watson here?

Asking him about it right in front of his detective friend and surrounded by cops feels too crowded for Marion's comfort. They're thinking a bit of subterfuge might be the better play here.

So they strike up a bit of small talk with him, laying on a bit of charm. They've had enough practice pretending to flirt with men before. Always makes them feel a touch icky as they would much rather flirt with their wife, but it's necessary for the character and the performance and it will get them what they want so they put up with it.

The friend notices their advances first.

Is that jealousy they detect in that glance?

Regardless of if it is or not, it kind of makes them want to find out.

Annoying.

The talking, yes, but also the jealousy. If he must be distracted by John Watson, he doesn't need the help of a flirting witness. Flirting, ostensibly male, witness. The thoughts are like gnats in his head, getting in the way of thinking about the case. There's something about the witness that's ringing alarm bells so he wanted to check other entrances as well as the front he looked over as they came in. There are some fresh scratches on the keypad—a generic thing that is painfully easy to bypass if you know what you're doing—that are rather suspiciously placed as well as cursory signs of a bump key used on the accompanying padlock—he'll have to direct forensics onto it if they haven't already done so—no mention of it from Lestrade as they came over so probably not—

Gnat #1 decides it's a good idea to spontaneously ask, "Holding up okay?"

John, bewildered by the non sequitur and probably having pushed earlier away from his thoughts, takes "too long" to respond.

"Sorry—it's just–I heard the commotion earlier and peeked—you holding up okay? That body was quite..."

John seems to take an additional moment to register the further inquiry. Lost in thought or ignoring him? Sherlock wishes he'd take a hint, too.

"Wha..?" John looks away from Sherlock to stare at the witness this time. John seems rather more interested in the case than in the witness's attempts at flirting. "Ah, no." He answers after a moment, shaking his head ever so slightly. "I'm actually quite used to that kind of thing. The truth is actually way more embarrassing."

"Ehh…"

They're silent for a blessed moment as Sherlock leaves the door to examine the surrounding concrete and mud. John follows and takes the opportunity to glance at the locking mechanisms himself—

"Would you be open to going out for coffee sometime this week?"

John blinks once; then twice. It seems to take him a good moment to register that he's been flirted with this entire time. Then his hands are up and waving: "Ah, no, sorry. I'm flattered, really, but I've got to draw the line at potential murder suspects."

"Surely you don't think I did it just because I found it." The witness pouts in a way that seems forced somehow.

John's brows screw up in obvious confusion. "It doesn't... matter what I think?" An interesting response to give. "I'm not about to sleep with someone involved in the investigation." There's a noticeable lack of sexual orientation as argument. John's never actually said that he was straight, has he? He'd only given people weird looks when assuming he and Sherlock were together.

"Mmmmm. What about after then? When I'm all cleared?" Persistent. While the words themselves are objectively reasonable, the delivery is… pushy. It sets Sherlock's spine on edge.

John stares and blinks for a moment and then stumbles out a, "Uhhhhh, I'll think about it?" Which had all the intonation of 'the answer's no but I'm trying to be polite by offering you an out in which you can back off with dignity.' Even Sherlock can read that in his voice; it's so heavily infused into his tone and expression. His posture supports that reading as well as he's slightly defensive and wary in a way he wasn't before.

Either Marion doesn't catch on or doesn't care.

Just as suddenly as Marion's hand slips into John's coat pocket, John whips around and knocks Marion's arm off to the side with force.

"Do not take my vacillation for acquiescence."

"What?"

'Idiot.' Sherlock wants to say. 'He's clearly not interested' also wants to make itself known. But his ability to speak has been robbed by the shadows. Even his ability to move has been stolen by their shackles.

Bystanders have the most important role in these situations so why can't he just do something.

Marion's blue eyes feel like they're pinning him out of his peripheries. He's not sure why his attention is focusing on the shine of them in the overhead lights, but it's like he can't stop thinking about them and can't not fear them.

John does not seem to be affected like Sherlock though.

"Do not touch me without my consent to do so. How is that a hard concept to grasp? I'm sorry if my polite demurral sounded like uncertainty to you; it's a habit. Allow me to be blunt then: sorry, I'm not interested."

And with that John backs up, not taking his eyes off the man, clearly guarded, until he reaches Sherlock's side. Only then does he relax a bit, but even then it is only a bit.

It's at this point, naturally, that Lestrade deigns to return.

"Get this idiot out of here, Inspector. He's making it hard to think." Sherlock spits acidicly, clicking the final K harder than usual. Of course. Of course it's only once John's defended himself and Lestrade's returned that Sherlock has found the ability to speak again. Some friend he is.

Why did he even freeze up? He's built much of his persona specifically to overcome social pressures in order to both be better at his career choice as well as obfuscate his uncertainties with nonchalance and boldness.

It was something about the eyes, he wonders. He feels irrationally certain that Marion's eyes had held a similar quality to John's when he's at his most serious. An aura of 'do not approach, don't even speak without permission' that made Sherlock's skin turn to ice in spite of the anxiety sweat that had dared to break out. A commanding presence that expected obedience.

Anger. That's the feeling that's invading now that he's no longer bound by it. Self, Marion, everything.

He's got at least enough wherewithal to not want to toss John on that bonfire.

Lestrade probably doesn't deserve the icy glare Sherlock gives him either, but he's a bit past the point of caring.

Interestingly, it ends up being John to break the tension as the two of them have taken to winding around the outside of the building: he hits the wall with the side of his fist—without much force—in frustration.

"I was going to say no regardless." John seethes under his breath. "Person of interest or not, he's just not my type." He lets his arm drop and sighs into the atmosphere, letting his irritation leave him. "…really pissed me off." Sherlock notices his fists briefly clench in his emotion as he mutters this last piece.

Sherlock's wonders if by 'not his type' he might actually mean something specific. It's not really important right now. Helping him is. "You looked like you were a hair's breadth from laying him flat."

"Oh I was." John says as if it really was that simple to toss a tosser. Though, given John's previous demonstrations of his strength, it just might've been. "This may sound odd to say, but I'm unfortunately used to having to fend off unwanted advances." John sighs something that's some mix of perturbed resignation and disgusted annoyance. He then mutters grimly, "I do not understand that mindset."

"Of why people gravitate to you?" Sherlock asks, trying to gauge where the topic is going.

John's expression takes on a weird quality, but it's far too brief to read with any accuracy. He answers, "No, no. That is what it is. I just don't get how some people don't understand basic consent. It's just… one of those things really irks me, you know?"

Sherlock does.

He has no concept of how to articulate that though. Not without giving something away.

And that's the last thing he would ever want to do.

"I don't understand it either." He manages. It's intimately true; perhaps that's why he feels hollowed out just admitting something so noncommittal. He doesn't understand it, any of it, not even the parts he does.

It also doubles as a kind of safeguard. Should John get it in his head that Sherlock's coming on to him, he'll know Sherlock won't force him into anything. They're on the same page in that regard. That has to mean something.

Sherlock's been obsessing over mud types and their presence in specific London districts most of the morning and John is happy to let him. He's feeling a bit jittery after the incident with the witness. He's since figured out, by the slip of paper in his jacket pocket, that earlier was apparently a poor attempt at slipping him a number. He found it while emptying them once they'd returned home and hasn't mentioned it to Sherlock yet. Hasn't thrown it out either. Who knows if having the witness's number on hand will be useful.

It feels nauseating to keep it though.

John remembers the last time he had a guy be a bit too pushy (just gonna pretend the lab didn't happen real quick)—an ex-army white American who just would not shut up. Hibiki's original human form is that of a black-haired slip; conventionally beautiful at a glance (that's probably the point—?). She looks small and fragile and unassuming by Western human society's standards.

The soldier must've been green in this world of theirs, and apparently hadn't known her face. Knew of her, what she did, but hadn't clocked on yet that the woman he was flirting with disaster with on base was Red Shield's main offensive weapon against chiropteran incursions.

Lulu had wanted to bash some sense into the guy. Probably literally. Lulu has always been very on-or-off and her version of on is often axe-to-the-head. John appreciated the sentiment but had to talk her down to glaring and a non sequitur slap—and with her strength that had sent him bruised to the ground, his ego bruised along with his cheek. He hadn't seemed to grasp that Hibiki really was a monster until the next mission where he got to see her, fresh from a kill, having saved his foolish ass, covered head to toe in blood with her eyes shining. Apparently being matted with gore was a turn off for the guy.

Lulu was the one she'd spent the most time with most recently. Her existence was something of a special case, even by his life's strange standards, having been raised in a lab, and having lived her free life on the run and amongst her fellow non-humans, her family (who are all gone now; she was the only survivor), and settling into civilian life was a bit too weird for her (at first). She hadn't disliked it, she told Hibiki later, but she loved fighting too. Lulu was the one who accompanied Hibiki on missions the most. Not every time—unlike Hibiki, Lulu participated purely for fun and had a healthy work-life balance.

Great. Now he feels homesick as well as general unease. Great! Job! John!

He's just shaking himself out of his misery when Sherlock's phone pings. Sherlock doesn't move, so without even really thinking about it, John picks it up from where it rests on the table beside him, sees it's Lestrade, and skims the text.

"Huh." John comments. "Looks like our victim has been confirmed as Mona Garland. Medical implant in her leg matches up to her records. They're still going to check DNA comparison though, to be certain."

"Hmm." is all that comes out of Sherlock. John pecks a quick message to Lestrade, a simple thank you and to let him know that the information has been passed on.

Between the potential moving of the body and passport laid on the fresh, mutilated corpse John is getting a strong sense that someone is trying to hint at something. It's the conflicting presentation. The mutilation hides the identity, but then the passport reveals it anyways. And then the remaining medical implant: was the intention for temporary confusion, and if so then for what purpose did the confusion serve? Was the body moved before it could be taken out as well? Or was it an unknown quantity and was left by accident?

John's just getting into debating these possibilities with himself when Sherlock's phone makes noise again. Except this time it's a call instead of a text. Still Lestrade though.

"Local resident of The Zoo speaking. Please tell me this is not an emergency."

"Sounds about right." Lestrade sighs his comment on John's jest first, and then answers the second promptly: "No, but… Can you put Sherlock on?" He sounds a bit harried.

"It's Lestrade." John says at just under a shout to get his friend's attention. Sherlock merely waves his hand and doesn't turn around so John turns on speaker, ups the volume, and sets it on the table in order to curl up on the chair to listen.

"You're on speaker."

"Thank you." Lestrade says.

And that was how John's day got worse.

"You're going to want to pay attention to this because it turns out our witness isn't who he says he is."

This does not, in fact, seem to draw Sherlock's attention.

Nor does the following: "He is not currently employed with the company in any capacity."

The next bit, however, mercilessly drags both of them in:

"In fact, Joshua Arthur has been deceased for over seven years."

Sherlock turns just a moment too late to witness John's poleaxed expression. Instead, an acceptable level of surprise has become his mask. A sick feeling is building up from the effort. From the memory of this witness'—and he just let them—

"He did work for the company. Until he died seven years ago. We're running a check for death certification and trying to contact next of kin for confirmation, but given that the contact information he gave us leads nowhere, we're not expecting a conflict of information."

Sherlock steeples his hands and asks rhetorically, "Why bother impersonating a dead man? Why not choose a current employee?"

"Ah. Yes. Thank you." Lestrade says distantly—to someone else. "Well, what if he didn't die?" Lestrade tosses into the room. "Could've faked his death. Or he did die and someone stole his identity."

Or could be someone stole his face. John thinks half-hysterically. But it feels so out of the realm of possibility that John just does not want to consider it. Should be. Should be out of the realm of possibility.

That man from the antique shop—Surely not? But weirdly obsessed with him?—Flirting with him?–And he's always wondered what that was even about—

Lestrade's voice fades into the background.

John is being paranoid. Who could it possibly be? None of his family or friends would approach him like that, surely? And all other chiropterans are gone. Diva's dead. All of her chevaliers are dead. There are no other shapeshifters, it's probably just some human crime and John isn't feeling great after his panic attack earlier—

Zhi Zhu. The experimental serums. Someone is continuing the Delta project, like Red Shield suspected. They mimicked a soldier serum, why not one that attempts to recreate their shapeshifting ability?

John… needs a moment to breathe. He almost misses how Sherlock stands to leave, pausing when he notices John's shellshocked countenance. He didn't even notice Sherlock ended the call.

At Sherlock's look, John fights to think of something, of anything to say that will keep John from having to leave—that will keep Sherlock leaving—

He thinks he'd just like to be alone for a bit.

"I, uh, think I'm gonna stay home for a bit. Grab some water. Maybe take a bath." Say he's unnerved without saying he's unnerved. It's just paranoia. It's just paranoia—

The drug—the kidnappings—

"Sure?" Sherlock doesn't sound sure. He looks worried. John is worrying him. Damnit.

"Yeah. Little unnerved from earlier. But I'll be okay." He smiles what must be a ghastly fake, but it must be honest enough because Sherlock nods and gets himself ready to leave.

"Keep your phone on!" John yells after him as he descends.

The door slams some point later but John's not really sure.

It's paranoia. It is. It's anxiety. It can't be. Surely it can't be part of his convoluted other life.

It's a faked death like Lestrade posited. It's stolen identity. He had actually been an employee of the Company, so maybe it was just the easiest for them. Somehow.

He doesn't want to think about more. There's already enough what with his—

Stalker.

In particular he tries to pretend the weird encounter with that man who called him princess, that word far too related to Queen, didn't happen.

It's just another unexplained thing in his life. That's all. That's all—

Everything feels far away. His body, but also his surroundings. His breathing isn't erratic like it was earlier today, but he doesn't feel… present? His worrying is shifting into a lack of thoughts which, while not enjoyable, is temporarily preferable.

Let him fade away and—

"John?"

John turns to the source of the voice and. Yes. It's Mrs Hudson. Holding a… tray… with stuff on it..?

"Hello Mrs Hudson." He offers mechanically, not liking the way his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. Water. He needs water. Probably.

"Hello dear." She greets him back, setting the tray onto the table beside him. Tea and cook—biscuits. ...For him? "Sherlock mentioned you were feeling a bit under the weather and thought you might appreciate a little something."

John blinks a couple of times, knowing he would wanna smile if he was really present but not having the spoons for the gesture at the moment. It takes him a few seconds before he mentally claws his way to the realization that he should probably respond somehow.

"Yeah. A bit. Thank you." is what he manages. Upon reaching to pick up the cup his whole body locks up against his will and at the last second grabs a biscuit instead. He munches a bite as he listens to Mrs Hudson say something about her own moods. She's a lovely focus point.

"I was much the same after my husband died. I swear, the oddest things would leave me feeling out of sorts."

John listens to her rambling with a soft look on his face.

"Sherlock, the poor dear. Didn't quite know what to do with me. Looked like he didn't quite know what to do with you either."

"No, but he does try." John manages to add. He's feeling a touch more at ease than a moment before. He manages another slight smile to accompany his words with the warmth he's feeling.

Mrs Hudson shares that smile with him. "That he does." She pats the back of his chair twice and then she rolls her eyes as she turns away. "Now if only he would treat himself with that same kindness."

John grimaces in agreement there. Not that he's really in a position to judge. He's trying, dammit. And even been mildly successful in some ways!

But he's definitely more successful than Sherlock. He thinks. Which probably says more about Sherlock than it does him.

He hopes that his presence helps Sherlock half as much as his helps him.