This story is for kgreen20. Merry Christmas, kgreen20. I realise I did little with your prompts but I hope you like this offering nevertheless.

Enormous thanks to besleybean for an incredibly quick and helpful beta. Thank you, besleybean, you’re the best.



[strong]Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Body Snatchers[/strong]





“Tea?”

 

John stared hard at the apparition beaming at him enquiringly, an air of angelic innocence attached to its features. It templed its fingers beneath its chin in a disconcertingly familiar gesture that had John balling his fists at his side to keep them from scrunching in his eye sockets as if to check whether he were still asleep.

 

But no, he wasn’t. Bright sunlight spilled into the room to bounce and dance over the jagged peaks and rippling surfaces of the disaster area that was 221b Baker Street’s interior after a week without cases. The first few days John had done his best to keep the wreckage at bay, vacillating between distraction techniques and attempts at mollifying the nerves of the tempestuous natural phenomenon that lay sulking on their sofa. The sheets of sleet that had been slashing the windows throughout hadn’t added to creating an affable atmosphere. Halfway during the third outburst Sherlock had managed to combine previously unattained heights of derisive invective with an equally acerbic list of deductions why John’s last dinner date had been a total disaster. John had decided braving the severe weather outside was preferable to enduring the low pressure front brooding inside the flat and walked out into the driving rain. It had taken him three pints and two games of darts to regain a state that more or less resembled his usual equilibrium. Back at Baker Street he’d found Mrs Hudson waiting for him in the hallway with a towel and a small tin at the ready.

 

“Here, John,” she’d said, thrusting both items into his dripping hands. “Best dry yourself quickly or you’ll catch your death. Silly man, going out in such a downpour. Now, I know you don’t believe in them but God knows I’d have murdered him by now if it weren’t for these. Two cups will do the trick.”

 

And indeed the herbal soothers had helped John through the consecutive nights and days of semi-continuous attack on his mental health. He’d even fallen asleep halfway through last evening’s concert for hellishly caterwauling violin with an accompaniment of Mrs Turner’s married ones banging the walls and shouting for some peace and quiet.

 

After the week he’d had John considered ‘huh’ an outstandingly eloquent answer to Sherlock’s enquiry although he already knew it would be met with a verbal flood of derision. He blinked when Sherlock’s sole response consisted of raising their teapot. John now noticed it was adorned with the flowered tea cosy Mrs Hudson had crocheted Sherlock as a Christmas present, complete with carefully stitched on bees sampling the flowers. “Tea?” he repeated in an alarmingly pleasant tone.



“Yeah, all right.” Gingerly, John seated himself on his chair. The desk cum dining table between the windows had been cleared of the massive jumble it had been almost literally staggering under when John went up to bed and was bedecked with another example of Mrs Hudson’s industry, this one produced at her quilting class. Spread on top was a breakfast honed to John’s preferences. The toast in the rack was warm and an appealing even dark caramel in colour. Even better were the scrambled eggs and rashers of bacon on his plate, which he saw were cooked to exactly the state of gooeyness and crispness he continuously worked at and failed to achieve. The smell that wafted up from the tableau tickled John’s olfactory senses and resulted in his mouth watering. On the far side of the table perched his flatmate from hell, immaculate in a chalk white shirt and his tartan dressing gown, pouring John a cup of tea and commenting on the weather’s pleasantness.



“—though we may expect a scatter of rain later in the afternoon,” he babbled. “Oh, it looks like I forgot the marmalade. Or don’t you want any?”



“What?” Actually John wanted to ask who the person in front of him was and what he had done with Sherlock, but the memory of the derisive sneer cast at Lestrade when he made that particular joke the one time Sherlock had openly complimented the DI, froze the words in his mouth.



“Hmm no, this is fine,” he said instead, picking up his fork to poke at the eggs which wobbled seductively in return. Cooked to the height of perfection. What was Sherlock up to?



“Don’t you want them, John?” Sherlock’s distress seemed genuine. John looked up to catch him frowning slightly, his lower lip on the cusp of trembling. He knew that expression.



“You’re not experimenting on me, are you?” The question proved perhaps what a sick tosser he’d turned into. But then living with someone with the moral sense of a great white shark tended to blunt the gentler aspects of one’s personality. “Seeing as you were tearing apart the flat not eight hours ago,” he clarified.



Sherlock’s response was a huge eye roll. Well, that was only to be expected, John supposed.



“I was bored with being bored,” Sherlock declared. “So I decided to have a go at being normal and mundane to see whether that would stop me from being bored. So far I find the experience excruciatingly dull and your suspicious attitude isn’t exactly helping. Those are perfectly good eggs and Mrs Hudson assured me this bacon is from the best butcher in the area.”



He crossed his arms and glared at John who mumbled “fine”, cut up his bacon and dedicated his attention to his plate. Every bite was appetisingly delicious, as was the tea, a perfect savoury blend far more delicate than their usual brew. After ten of the most satisfactory minutes John had enjoyed in a long time he wiped his lips with the paper napkin Sherlock had thoughtfully provided and shoved back his chair.



“I think this is one of your better experiments,” he told Sherlock, whose right eye twitched in a manner indicating the current line of research was shortly to be terminated. “I believe washing the dishes is a very normal thing to do,” he added and fled to the bathroom, determined not to witness the collapse of Sherlock’s attempt at ordinariness which might occur any second now.



A quarter of an hour later he nearly bumped into a person as intent on leaving the living room as John was on entering it. An extremely smelly person, John’s nose informed him, and from what he could see as the figure whirled past him, dressed in a hodge podge of clothes aimed at keeping warm rather than making a fashion statement. A member of Sherlock’s homeless network then.



“Next time you want my help you know where to shove it, Sherlock,” the man – judging by the depth of the voice – snarled.



“Always a pleasure, Billy,” Sherlock re-joined from his position behind the uncleared breakfast table. He sighed and in sheer defiance of Newton’s law of gravitation slumped even deeper in his chair. At the sound of the front door slamming shut he closed his eyes in a theatrical show of mental agony.



“Who was that?” John enquired, a part of him contemplating whether it would be necessary to re-enter the bathroom.



“No one of importance,” Sherlock muttered, adding as an afterthought. “Unfortunately.”



As he didn’t forward further information John dug up his laptop from beneath a pile of books that had somehow materialised on top of it since he last put it on his side table, started it up and began checking his mail. The full brunt of Sherlock’s attention rested on top of his head but John had learned to ignore such scrutiny and carry on with his activities as if Sherlock didn’t exist.



“Billy Wiggins,” Sherlock announced at last in a disparaging tone. “He’s a sort of host to anyone fresh on the streets, like the walking Rough Guide to the homeless life. Helps them get acquainted with the best skips for finding food, dry sleeping places, safe places for getting your fix. A newbie disappeared a week ago. Young kid, still healthy. Bill is worried.”



“I can imagine,” John nodded. The explanation multiplied his sympathy for Bill Wiggins with a factor three at least. “So why don’t you help him? You’ve nothing else on. Except from clearing the table, that is.”



“Don’t be stupid, John.” Sherlock heaved himself up and flopped down in his chair, thrusting his long legs in John’s direction aggressively. “It’s been raining for a week. It was cats and dogs the night the girl was last seen. Any traces for me to work with have long since washed away.”



“Can’t do harm to have a look though.”



Sherlock snorted but refrained from commenting. John was still wavering between berating his friend for laziness or hard-heartedness when a notification popped up on the screen. John looked. “Oh,” he said.



“What?”



“That interview for the temp locum job on Marylebone Road. I had forgotten completely.”



This elicited an even more withering snort from Sherlock. “I don’t see why you bother.”



John chose not to grace that observation with a reply. They’d had many bitter arguments on the subject ever since that case with the Chinese smuggling gang. Shortly after The Woman had disappeared from their lives John had logged in on his bank account to discover the staggering sum of £ 250,000 lumbering there, courtesy of ‘Her Majesty’s Treasury’. He’d returned the sum, only to have it pop up again a few days later. Thus the money had been sallied back and forth through virtual reality at accelerating speed, to the increasingly loud accompaniment of John’s exasperated grunts until Sherlock had exclaimed one day, “He won’t give up, John. And remember, the British taxpayer would have had a worse deal if we hadn’t solved the case.”



“We?” John had cried out. “You mean you. I didn’t do anything. I wasn’t even there when you figured out the code.”



“Nonsense. In mentioning names earlier when I was busy solving Bond Air you planted the seed of the solution in my mind, I just didn’t realise it at the time. Without you her Majesty’s Treasury chest would be as depleted as a platter of cake put in front of Mycroft. Perhaps now you’ll finally accept you don’t need to bore yourself to death with locum work.”



“I like it,” John had replied then as he did now. He didn’t add, “and it makes me feel useful” for that was a concept Sherlock would never grasp.



“I’d better hurry,” he said instead. In his room John changed into a neatly pressed pair of jeans, one of his better shirts and a new jumper in a bluish green hue Sherlock had lectured him was termed ‘viridian’.



“Lunch with Stamford afters,” he threw in the direction of the living room while bolting down the stairs. He still had ten minutes left and the practice was just a five minute walk from 221 Baker Street but he’d rather not arrive panting and sweaty.



Rounding the corner John noticed the sleek black Bentley slotted neatly next to a pair of red lines, regally oblivious to the angry blaring of horns from the cars that had to swerve around it. He was still at a distance of five yards from the vehicle when the driver’s door opened to reveal a suited man who proceeded to open the rear passenger door while addressing John, “If you please, Mr Holmes would like a word with you, Dr Watson.”



A quick glance confirmed the man was recruited recently, from the SAS in all probability, given the Holmes’ penchant for dramatics. For all John’s training this man would have him flat on the ground with his hand cuffed behind his back before John had properly drawn breath to tell Mycroft he could sod off. But people habitually underestimated John’s partiality for ridiculous undertakings so instead of complying John shook his head and said, “Nope”, popping the p with relish.


The man merely smiled. “Mr Holmes told me you would say that. He also instructed me to tell you your appointment has been postponed to three o’clock and the chauffeur will drop you off at Bart’s in time for your lunch with Dr Stamford.”


“Jesus,” John muttered. Just that moment a trail of primary school children passed by, fussed over by harassed-looking teachers and bedecked in fluorescent safety waistcoats for their trek through the jungle that was London on an ordinary Tuesday morning. Reasoning he’d rather not traumatise the innocent souls by putting up a fight John acquiesced with a grudging, “fine” and slotted into the backseat.


“Hello John,” not-Anthea flashed her teeth at him over the top of her Blackberry. Her attention was back on the screen before John had opened his mouth so he gritted his teeth and settled for staring out of the window.


At long last the car rolled into the basement of one of those abandoned warehouses Mycroft favoured for their ‘little chats’ as he deigned to call these impromptu abductions.


“The lift still works,” not-Anthea informed John, thumbs busily working the pad. “Third floor and on your left.”


John pointedly did not thank her for these directions. When the doors of the lift opened his nose was hit by the smell of freshly brewed coffee. Extremely good freshly brewed coffee.


“Ah, John,” Mycroft Holmes greeted him, half turned from the sideboard. John vaguely recognised the thing as art deco, if his viewings of the Antiques Road Show with Mrs Hudson were anything to go by. It was situated at the farthest edge of a rug that looked like it cost more than the total amount John had earned in his life – including the Adler recompense. A pair of comfortable leather club chairs and a dainty coffee table completed the cosy setup. Mycroft arranged the silver pot he’d been filling on a serving tray heaped with a porcelain coffee service for two and a plate bearing several intricately looking cakes. His ubiquitous umbrella hung jauntily from the back of the chair on the left.


“I usually take a coffee at ten thirty, circumstances permitting,” Mycroft said, carrying over the tray. “It boosts the senses for the rest of the day, I find.” He nodded meaningfully at the chairs. “Please, John, have a seat. Though you look extraordinarily well for a man who’s just survived a week of my brother at his most stroppy. You must be mentally exhausted.”


“And how does being kidnapped help exactly?” The coffee’s aroma really was incredible.


“The beans are grown on St Helena which explains the fruity palate,” Mycroft explained. “I’d personally recommend that almond gateau. Just the right hint of sweetness to accompany the coffee’s slightly bitter aftertaste.”


“Look, Mycroft,” John growled. “What do you want? That is, I’m assuming you want something from me, right?”


“Really John.” It was spooky how far Mycroft’s acting abilities outranked Sherlock’s. The look he cast John was one of profound sadness, hurt even. “I surmised you’d be in for a treat.”


“How about laying off the surveillance and stop interfering in our lives? That would be a real treat,” John proposed, struggling to stuff his mouth with the almond thing. This required some enterprise as the concoction managed to be ridiculously sticky and crumbly simultaneously. “I don’t know how you found out about my agenda for the day, you probably read over my shoulder, but I wish you’d stop it.”


Mycroft huffed in disparagement. “Frankly, for someone who’s lived with my brother for over a year you don’t know him very well. Especially as Sherlock’s tells aren’t that difficult to unravel. Don’t worry, John, he spent three very happy hours debugging the flat from every little device I had my people install earlier this month. He even found the microphone in the bathroom. If you don’t want me to know about your tedious interactions with the rest of the world you shouldn’t leave them all over the internet. Carry a personal organiser, like every sensible man does.”


To John’s astonishment he produced a tiny Filofax from his pocket. “Besides,” he continued. “I don’t understand why you object so strongly to these tête-à-têtes of ours. Enjoying a snack and some gossip; isn’t that what you regularly get up to with…” Here he peered in the diary, “…Dr Michael Stamford. Or the estimable Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade during your rowdy pub nights. Now tell me, what did Mr Wiggins discuss with my brother?”


“What?” A spray of coffee-sated crumbs spewed forth from John’s mouth. Despite some deft manoeuvring with his plate the lion’s share landed on the carpet where the dark blobs contrasted unattractively with the muted colours of the softly glowing silk or wool or whatever the rug was comprised of.


“Oh god,” John mumbled. “Sorry about that.”


Mycroft didn’t bat an eyelid. “Mr Wiggins, John,” he pressed.


“Look,” John said. “Until an hour ago I wasn’t even aware of the man’s existence. I only met him on his way out. Even if I’d been present I wouldn’t tell you about it so I don’t see why you bothered bringing me here. For a man reputed to be clever you seem remarkably slow on the uptake.”


This address seemed to vex Mycroft to no end, which cheered John immensely. He bit into his cake with renewed vigour, only to be almost startled into a repetition of crumb showering by Mycroft snapping the agenda shut and jumping out of his chair with an abruptness that revealed a body control almost rivalling Sherlock’s, despite his younger brother’s claim Mycroft was nothing but a fat blob with a power complex.


“Fine,” he said. “It pains me to hear you still favour reckless loyalty over common sense in your dealings with my sibling. And yet you strive for independence. The job is yours, John, don’t worry. But when are you finally going to choose?”


Pointedly not benefitting John with a look he took hold of his umbrella. “I trust you can see yourself out.” With that he strode away, umbrella swinging thoughtfully at his side. He went past the lift and disappeared around a corner John hadn’t even noticed.


John sighed and finished his coffee. For a moment he considered cancelling his lunch with Mike but he reasoned he could do with a breath of normality in his life.


***


The job interview ran surprisingly smooth, given the fact that the doctor conducting the interview was terrified out of her wits. John spent a large part of their conversation convincing her he wouldn’t hold it against her if she picked any of the other applicants. Neither would the wrath of the British government and all his minions rain down on her should she follow her conscience rather than their orders. Thankfully her assurances his credentials were the best appeared perfectly genuine so John’s lust for Mycroft bloody Holmes blood had waned somewhat by the time he shook hands with the promise he’d start at seven thirty am Monday next.


That didn’t keep him from yelling, “Now your brother is even meddling with my life,” first thing upon entering the flat. To his astonishment the sitting room was Sherlock-less. The faint noise from the kitchen turned out to be Mrs Hudson, elbow-deep in frothy bubbles and tutting.


“Really, John,” she said, “I thought you knew better than to leave the breakfast plates on the table.”


“You should tell Sherlock.” For his landlady’s sake John quelled his frustration and lifted a tea towel from the rack to dry the cups and plates. “He made breakfast this morning. He tried being normal so I said he could do the washing up as well.”


“Nonsense,” decreed Mrs Hudson. “Sherlock and normal, hell would freeze over first.”


“Yeah, where is he by the way?”


“Oh, he went out shortly after you left. Came bouncing down the stairs so hard I was sure it was murder but he told me he was just going for a stroll in the park. Should I be worried?”


“I don’t know. Perhaps…” John broke off at the sound of rapid footsteps on the stairs.


“I’ll put the kettle on,” Mrs Hudson said in sync with Sherlock’s flamboyant entry into the kitchen. His coat tails swooshed as he swept past them into the sitting room where he shed his coat and began pacing the carpet distractedly, wittering to himself.


“Found a dead body in the Open Air Theatre?” John joked to Mrs Hudson in an undertone. Sternly, she wagged her finger at him but pleased creases around her eyes belied her scolding. “John, you let him rub off on you.”


“Pot and kettle, Mrs Hudson.”


“I was married to a murderer, young man. That makes all the difference.”


The upshot of this remark flew over John’s head completely so he threw her a vague smile and settled his attention on Sherlock who swirled round at his approach to growl, “Data John. I need more data.”


“You’ve got a case,” John savvied. Long experience had taught him Sherlock in his current state was too wrapped up in the details to sit down and explain what he was on about. Rather than prodding for unsatisfactory answers John reached for the remote to flick on the telly and check the news as the quickest means to unearthing why Sherlock was in such a flap. One of Sherlock’s impossibly long arms snaked in front of him to grab the device and launch it across the room.


“This isn’t the time to indulge your craving for crap telly, John.”


“I wasn’t,” John protested. “I’m trying to find out what’s going on.”


“Everything is going on,” exploded Sherlock, throwing his hands up in the air with his patented brand of theatrical exaggeration. “Three suspicious disappearances over the last four days and here I’ve been nearly going insane from boredom.”


“Three? But you said…”


“They were all outside of Wiggins’ jurisdiction,” Sherlock interrupted him irritably. Noticing John’s bafflement he explained, “Billy can’t look after every and each one of London’s homeless. There are several gangs taking care of each other, little empires living side by side, peacefully enough most of the time but with the sporadic outbreak of war. Billy’s gang is the best organised, but occasionally I make use of some of the others. After you left I decided to have a look at the site where the girl disappeared, like you suggested, having nothing better to do. Obviously there was nothing for me to find and I was about to leave when a girl accosted me. Three other people disappeared, all young, like Billy’s girl, dragged into a van right before the eyes equally unreliable witnesses. Drunks and mainliners, totally useless. None of them could even tell me the van’s make.”


“Yeah.” John shook his head wearily.


“Oh Sherlock.” Mrs Hudson placed a tray with their mugs and a plate of biscuits on the desk. “That sounds terrible. But why didn’t they go to the police?”


“They know the police are useless. Oh.” Sherlock flicked his wrist at Mrs Hudson’s indignant expression. “Not in that sense though that’s true as well. Just remember, these are the homeless, the dredges of modern society, most of them indulging in various substances irritating busybodies like my brother have declared illegal for no good reason…”


Now it was John’s turn to interrupt. “Speaking of who, he abducted me again. He wanted to know all about your visitor.”


“Speaking of whom, John,” corrected Sherlock, almost automatically. He dropped into his chair and templed his hands in front of his face, already halfway into deep thinking mode. “Mycroft wanted to know about Wiggins. What did he say? Repeat his words as exactly as you remember them.”


Repressing the urge to tell off Sherlock for his boorish remarks on the people they worked with on a daily basis John said, “he asked ‘what did Mr Wiggins discuss with my brother?’ I told him I hadn’t the faintest and that was the end of our meeting. He also bullied the doctors at the practice into hiring me. I’ve left him a rude message in the hope it will keep him from interfering.”


Sherlock flapped his hand dismissively at the suggestion. “Sticking his nose where it isn’t wanted is as necessary to Mycroft as breathing is to others.”


Mrs Hudson tutted and the hand went flapping in her direction. “Don’t you have some shopping to do? Isn’t that sherry bottle posing as a bottle of bleach beneath your sink in need of replenishment?”


John shot their landlady an apologetic look but the damage had already been done. Mrs Hudson huffed, took an arch turn and sailed out of the room with the hurt dignity of a royal advisor whose warnings are spurned.


Unsurprisingly, Sherlock was unaffected by these proceedings. “Interested in Wiggins,” he repeated. “Hmm.” He lifted his phone out of his pocket and began working it furiously, scrolling the internet. “Put on the telly, John. If Mycroft is involving himself something must be out.” He majestically ignored John’s muttering eye roll.


A search of the sofa and its environs yielded the remote. The television screen sprang to life to reveal a harassed-looking Greg Lestrade, answering questions in the Met’s press room with Sally Donovan at his side. A news ticker revealed Greg was updating the press about the disappearance of some MP’s young daughter. She’d last been sighted entering her room at her boarding school. Failing to appear for breakfast the next morning a girl sent up to fetch her discovered the room was empty, the bed unslept in. A day was wasted combing the grounds before her parents were alerted. These contacted the police straightaway but for a reason Greg refused to relate insisted no public alarm be raised.


Sherlock snorted. “Mycroft.”


“What?”


“Think, John.” Sherlock’s fingers were flying over his phone. “Half of Parliament dances to Mycroft’s tune. The mother is a Conservative MP. Do you really believe the first person she called was their local PC?”


On the screen Greg’s attention flickered towards his mobile, lying on the table in front of him. He startled, recovered himself and slid the phone over to Sally, mumbling something the microphone on his jacket lapel didn’t catch. After an equally startled beginning Sally’s expression quickly glided to one of annoyance. She shoved back her chair with more force than was strictly necessary and stalked out of the room, dialling a number on her own phone.


Sherlock answered at the first ring. “Sally, I was hoping to speak to Lestrade.”


The tinny sound that seeped into the room still managed to convey Sally’s outrage. The empty place at Greg’s left hand side gaped accusingly at John.


“The press isn’t going to solve your case, Sally. As ever Lestrade hasn’t his priorities straight. I want a photograph of the girl, make it thirty copies, would you and have them delivered here at Baker Street.”


Midway through what sounded like another rant Sherlock rang off. John watched Sally striding into the room again, seating herself next to Greg and scribbling something onto a paper she slid under his nose. He cocked one eyebrow at her, obviously asking whether she had already complied.


“Interesting, isn’t it?” Sherlock observed.


“I still don’t know what you’ve done to her but it must have been bad, even according to your standards,” John replied. As he knew Sherlock wasn’t going to deliver anyway he went on, “so you think the girl disappeared twice?”


“A conjecture prior to the facts but yes, that’s what the photographs are for.”


“You don’t think this Wiggins had a hand in it somehow?”


“Other than helping the girl survive on the streets, no. Billy and I go way back, he has his weaknesses but he adheres to his own moral code which is surprisingly strict. He could teach Mycroft a lesson or two. And remember this girl isn’t the only one to disappear. There’s three others. With parents less interested in finding them...”


“So the girl wasn’t kidnapped for a ransom,” John concluded.


“Exactly. We don’t know why she ran away from school but that isn’t important. Some quarrel with her friends no doubt. The fact she was young and healthy, as were the others according to my informants, is though.”


“Oh god.” John felt his throat tighten in revulsion.


“Probable but unlikely,” Sherlock answered his unvoiced fear. The tips of his fingers were once again neatly aligned before his mouth. “They all were English natives, a bit harder to lock up and exploit than Ukrainian or Russian kids who don’t speak the language.”


The total certainty of his tone washed over John as a wave of relief. “All right, if not that, what then?”


“I don’t know,” Sherlock replied simply. “It’s no use conjecturing before the facts so I need to assemble those first.”


The loud clang of the bell rang through the house. Sherlock shot out of his chair and grabbed his coat.


“That will be the photographs,” he exclaimed. “I’ll be gone for a few hours, John. Give Lestrade my regards, should he call.”


“But—,” John began but Sherlock’s footsteps were already pounding down the seventeen steps.


On the screen Greg was saying he’d take no more questions. John flicked off the telly. He wondered about going downstairs to unruffle Mrs Hudson’s feathers when his mobile started ringing. It was Greg.


“Why doesn’t he answer his phone?” the Detective Inspector came straight to business.


John shrugged, belatedly realising Greg couldn’t observe him. “Out distributing the photographs of the lost girl among his homeless network. She isn’t the only one apparently; three other people disappeared earlier this week.”


“What?” Greg squawked, “Why don’t we know about those? What else has he been keeping from us?”


“Sherlock only learned about it today. And we’re not talking about people running away from school but strays rounded off the street and shoved into the back of a van. At the moment Sherlock is trying to establish whether the girl you’re looking for is the fourth.”


“Jesus.” Greg’s shock was palpable.


“Yes.” There was little else John for John to say. “You’re welcome to wait for him here,” he offered. “I’ll orderThai.”


“Ahem, no, thanks. My in-tray is stuffed to bursting and not just with this case. Ask him to contact me as soon as he comes home, okay?”


“Okay,” John promised, after which there was nothing for him to do but order and eat his Thai and settle himself in his chair with a spy novel to await Sherlock’s return.


The flat was preternaturally quiet after the hectic storms that had raged through it the previous days and the novel wasn’t as full of beans as the back cover stipulated. John thought the fare remarkably lacking of substance compared to some of his blog entries. After a few pages his head was nodding forward, he recovered himself several times but at last he was forced to give in. The book slipping from his hand into his lap was the last thing he remembered.


***


“John!”


A heavy hand shook John’s shoulder. “John, wake up, John.” A voice John recognised to be Sherlock’s prodded him. With some difficulty John opened his eyes to see Sherlock looming over him with his jacket at the ready in one hand and John’s gun in the other.


“I hid that,” John exclaimed.


Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Please, John,” he huffed, “even Anderson would have uncovered your inadequate hiding place in less than five seconds during one of those ridiculous drug busts. Get ready, we have a long night ahead of us.”


“Why? Where?” John mumbled automatically while struggling out of his chair and into his jacket. “And give me that.” He snatched the Sig Sauer and stuffed it into the waistband of his jeans.


“The MP’s missing daughter. Eleanor Portendorfer, is indeed the girl abducted two days ago. What’s even better, I’ve got the exact kidnapping locations. Three girls and one boy pulled into a van south of the Thames near major thoroughfares. That indicates they’re taken out of London as fast as possible.”


“A lot of vans driving around in London,” John reflected.


“Yes,” Sherlock complied. “And a lot of drifters for them to hunt. But Wiggins and several others are spreading the word as we speak. Eyes all over the city will be on the lookout and they’ve all got our number. Still, judging by the locations I think the next strike will be somewhere in Southwark. Two people disappeared on the Ministry of Sound’s doorstep. ”


“And you want us to do what? Walk the streets at random? We might as well stay here where it’s warm.”


“Nonsense. That’ll make us lose precious minutes.” Sherlock was already out on the landing.

Deciding complying would be easier than objecting John followed him. “Have you spoken to Greg? He wanted you to phone him as soon as you got home.”


“Who? Oh you mean Lestrade. No time.” Sherlock waved him off, taking the stairs two at a time.


“Mycroft?” John ventured. At the mention of his brother Sherlock grinded to a halt.


“Why would I phone Mycroft?” His countenance expressed sincere bafflement.


“Because he wanted to know what you and Billy Wiggins were talking about this morning.”


“Well, he’s had all day to work out that question for himself. If he hasn’t found the answer by now he’s an idiot,” Sherlock stated and swanned through the front door.


John sighed. For a moment he contemplated leaving Sherlock to himself and trudging up the stairs again. Another bellow of his name hauled him outside into the muted glow of the streetlamps defying yet another foggy London night.


***


After an hour of patrolling the streets John felt sorry for not having brought his gloves. Sherlock was repeatedly rubbing his’ together in an attempt to stay warm. John shivered and pulled his collar tighter around his throat. Sincere compassion for the men and women who called these streets their home flooded his chest.


They were ambling along the A302 in the direction of the Elephant and Castle tube station when the squeal of car tyres tore through the quietness surrounding them, immediately followed by Sherlock’s ringtone. His eyes were already darting around in search of a taxi as he answered his phone, breaking into a run in the direction of the noise at the same time.


“Black van. Tinted windows. Yes, yes. License plate number?” he shouted. “What?”


A cab approached them from behind but Sherlock was staring at his phone in furious dismay, his feet still pounding the pavement, and the taxi ignored John’s raised arm.


“What do you mean you didn’t get it,” an irate Sherlock was growling into the phone. “Think, you moron.”


“Sherlock,” John warned between two heaving breaths.


“You’re useless,” Sherlock yelled and ended the call. “Why didn’t you flag down that cab, John?” They kept running. Several cars passed them but none of those bore the gently glowing taxi sign. John reckoned they’d covered five hundred yards when a figure sprang out of the shadows.


“Mr Holmes,” the figure – who proved to be a young man of about twenty – cried out. “I’m so sorry, Mr Holmes but I were shitting myself and it all went so quick. They took Terry, my best mate. He was off for a piss in that doorway over there. It was—”


“Terrifying, yes,” Sherlock cut the boy short. “Any update on that license plate. Which direction did they come from? Where did they go?”


“They came from the station and went back again after taking Terry. I think the plate had a ‘B’ and an ‘A’ in it. But I’m none to sure. I never did well in school—”


“Obviously.” Sherlock brushed off the boy and began avidly tapping on his mobile. John murmured some words of sympathy. “…and we’ll find your friend,” he was saying when Sherlock barked: “Mycroft, I want you to stop bothering John and I need access to the CCTV-cameras covering the A302 and every major route south of it.”


His expression was one of intense dislike and impatience as he listened to whatever the British government was telling him.


“I’m actually helping you, Mycroft, so stop expostulating and just give me the footage,” he snarled after a while. The boy was staring at him open-mouthed. “We’re on the A302 now between Hayles Street and Elliott’s Row. Looking for a black van, tinted windows, plate featuring a ‘B’ and an ‘A’. Time was eleven twenty. Be quick about it.”


“He tends to get a bit excited,” John explained just as Sherlock ended the conversation with a swipe of his thumb.


“Got what you wanted?” John asked. As expected he got a distracted hum for an answer. “Still want a taxi?”


At that Sherlock looked up. There still wasn’t a cab in sight and the flow of traffic remained dismally low.


“We haven’t time to wait for a cab,” Sherlock said and strode purposefully towards the road on their right and the line of cars parked along the curb, attention still intent on his phone. John gave the boy’s shoulder a last reassuring pat, nodded at him and hurried after his friend.


When he caught up with him Sherlock was checking each of the cars methodically, scrutinising the doors and the cars’ interiors.


“Sherlock, what…” John hissed when Sherlock lingered for a few seconds at the driver’s door of a battered Morris Minor of a hue difficult to define in the orangey glow that barely managed to penetrate the darkness.


“Shut up and get in,” Sherlock hissed back, slithering into the car and reaching over to open the passenger door.


“We’re stealing a car,” John said, shaking his head in disbelief but seating himself into the passenger seat nevertheless. The floor beneath his feet was a mess of discarded wrappers, several of which immediately clung to his shoes with the insistency of family members one’d rather avoid, and used Kleenexes. “We’re actually stealing a car. Greg is not going to like this.”


“Lestrade? Not his division,” Sherlock countered. “Besides, we’re not stealing it, only using it temporarily to make a citizen’s arrest. Now shut up. Your prattle is annoying and I need to concentrate.” Head bent, his hands were fumbling beneath the dashboard. Air whistled through his teeth. After ten seconds the engine ignited. Sherlock grinned and laid his right hand on the steering wheel. John wanted to screw his eyes shut but Sherlock was jabbing him in the chest with his elbow and holding out his mobile.


“Here, check the CCTV and direct me. Remember, black van, tinted windows. Mycroft will have the footage in a few seconds.”


The car shot out of the parking space onto the street, narrowly avoiding a collision with a car approaching from behind.


“feck, Sherlock,” John shouted over the din of a blaring car horn.


Sherlock tutted. “Language, John.” The next instant John had to brace himself with his free hand against the dashboard as Sherlock accelerated and the Mini leapt forward with a mighty roar of its engine and the speed of a jaguar closing in on its prey, swerving around the vehicles before them. Sherlock never even blinked.


“Stop looking like a rabbit and make yourself useful,” he instructed. “I suspect they went straight to the A23 but there’s always the possibility these people are actually clever.”


“Right,” muttered John. Jumping out of the car was as certain an invitation of instant death as remaining seated, it would just arrive sooner. He peered at the screen of Sherlock’s phone, which showed their surroundings with a black van with the number LB 52 ZAR in the middle. He hissed.


“That’s our van,” Sherlock comprehended. “Sometimes having Mycroft for a brother has its advantages. Which way?”


“Uhm—” Luckily, after more than a year as the world’s only consulting detective’s flatmate John was an old hand at getting up to date with the latest spyware while simultaneously stalling fears for his life and crushing qualms about appropriating someone’s – admittedly not cherished – possession. “A23,” he determined. “They’re ten miles ahead of us and exceeding the speed limit with twenty-five miles an hour.”


“Ha.” In virtual reality the sheer severity of Sherlock’s disdain would have fuelled the Mini straight through the sound barrier. The laws governing actual reality limited the vehicle’s maximum speed to ninety miles per hour, no matter how hard Sherlock gripped the steering wheel and pressed the accelerator.


“We’re losing them.”


Sherlock’s answer was a grunt of frustration. “No, we’re not. We’re just taking longer than I’d like to.”


They raced on, the Mini’s every bolt and screw shuddering with exertion. The van was a brand-new Mercedes, its driver as single-mindedly pursuing an instant driving ban as Sherlock but at superior odds. A nifty little app in the mobile’s left-down corner faithfully recorded the increasing distance between the futuristic black Teutonic monster hurtling through the darkness and their pitiful hansom designed for shopping on a lazy afternoon. The rear passenger door on John’s side began rattling ominously.


“A22.”


Save for the occasional swerve around the vehicle of a law-abiding citizen the van kept speeding along in an almost straight line, ignoring every junction. Any second John expected blue flashing lights to pop up, either on-screen or behind them but the damp weather appeared to favour both them and the kidnappers.


“Shouldn’t we ask the police for assistance,” John forwarded.


“What for? We don’t want to arrest them, we want to know where they’re headed.”


John had to concede Sherlock’s answer made sense. Silently he apologised to the unfortunate Mini owner who would soon find a dismal number of speeding tickets in his letterbox.


South of the M25, shortly after taking the Oxted junction the van suddenly disappeared.


“It’s gone,” John breathed.


“What?”


“The van. It just…vanished.”


“Ah. Excellent.”


“What?”


“Just think, John,” said Sherlock. “Either they’ve reached their destination or they’re switching transport which will make them lose precious minutes—” Sherlock’s leg trembled with the effort of another hopeless jab at the accelerator, “—and leave us the van at least. Keep a lookout for another vehicle.”


Nothing happened except for John joining Sherlock in gritting teeth after staring at an empty screen for what felt like an eternity. Twenty-eight minutes later Sherlock’s foot hit the brake and he dimmed the lights.


“We’re in the middle of the road,” John protested.


“Stop stating the obvious. Look where they can have turned off.”


It was pitch-dark, the road unlit and the moonlight barely managing to penetrate the clouds’ thick cover. After a few seconds John’s sight adjusted to the prevailing darkness.


“There, a gate on the left,” he pointed.


“Open it, John. And give me my phone.”


John did as instructed. It was heavy work for the gate was of a sturdy construction and the hinges could do with some oil. The muddy soil beneath his feet squelched audibly. As he pushed at the gate he felt his feet slipping and the icy-cold sludge sloshed over the edge of his shoes and sank through his socks to his skin. Those shoes were a write-off. And he’d bought them two weeks ago. Damn Sherlock and his demands.


Magnificently unaware, Sherlock drove the car through the gate and jumped out, scanning their surroundings. They were on the edge of a field, which stretched away to their right. Deeper darkness on their left indicated the presence of a copse. An owl screeched in the distance. The only other sound was the soft swish of the drizzle slowly saturating John’s hair.


“Flashlight?” Sherlock enquired in an undertone. He’d produced his own from the depths of his pockets. John fished the small Maglite habitually carried these days out of his jacket pocket.


The beam of Sherlock’s flashlight skimmed the ground; searching for tyre tracks John presumed. Apparently Sherlock had soon found what he was looking for. He cut to the chase like a whippet after a hare, oblivious to the field’s less than ideal conditions. After a hundred yards he went straight for the undergrowth, where his torch revealed a small trail that barely fitted two people walking side by side. A sweep of the beam at shoulder height revealed a sorry scene of broken branches. Sherlock snorted in satisfaction.


The van stood in a small plantation of taxus trees, hidden from the unobservant eye by a loose screen of branches. John tried each of the doors. They were all locked.


“Right. What do we do now?”


“Unlock the doors,” Sherlock replied calmly. “Switch off your light, John.” He’d taken off his gloves for greater dexterity as his fingers flew over the screen of his mobile. Seconds progressed into minutes. John glanced about him uneasily. Sherlock’s face bathing in the soft glow of his phone provided the only source of light. The all-encompassing blackness started to work on John’s nerves, reminding him too much of the dark hours prior to the attack that had cost him his army career.


At long last a faint electronic beep sounded John’s salvation. The tweed of Sherlock’s coat brushed John’s hand as his friend moved past him to open the backdoors. Bright light flooded the darkness, temporarily blinding John. When he’d finished blinking he gasped at the sight of the van’s interior. It showed a state of the art ambulance, with only the stretcher missing. John goggled at the abundance of equipment.


“Bloody hell.”


“Quite.” Sherlock had already donned a pair of nitrile gloves and was hopping on one foot, putting a disposable overshoe onto the other. After placing the shod foot into the van he put on the other one.


“Bloody hell,” John said again.


“You keep a lookout, John.” Sherlock was already rifling through drawers, checking surfaces for stains and fingerprints, collecting hairs with a tweezer and relocating them into evidence bags. He worked fast and methodically.


“Ketamine. They drug them on the street. Never stand a chance. They want them safe and healthy. No expenses spared, the London Ambulance Service would bounce of the walls if they got their hands on this equipment.”


“But where are they? What’s it doing here in the middle of the woods? Where’s the stretcher? Did they vanish into thin air?” John was baffled and Sherlock flitting around excitedly ratcheted his frustration several notches.


“Exactly,” Sherlock crowed. “John, did your teachers ever compliment you for asking all the right questions? Probably not. I suppose they were idiots.”


“Some of them,” granted John. “But—”


Sherlock was already on the forest floor, the beam of his Maglite running over the mulch of last year’s fallen leaves, moss and small twigs.


“There.” The spot his finger pointed at bore a remarkable resemblance to its surroundings. “We’re done here.”


After closing the doors of the van and relieving himself of the overshoes he set off into the darkness, choosing the same path they’d already travelled judging by the broken branches.


“The boy was strapped to a gurney. See the tracks? Quite deep because of the mud. We’re in luck it rained so much last week,” Sherlock babbled.


The mud squelching in John’s shoes with every step begged to differ but at least his feet had by now warmed the stuff. Out on the field again Sherlock appeared to lose the trail. He frisked about, crouching close to the ground and muttering to himself in uncanny imitation of a bloodhound chasing a fox. Suddenly he was off like a shot, John hurried to keep up and nearly collided when Sherlock stopped just as unexpectedly as he’d started.


“Helicopter.” He gestured towards the ground, the beam of his flashlight highlighting the two longitudinal lines of flattened grass. “Hold the light.”


John guided the Maglite while Sherlock measured the length of the lines.


“Ambulance helicopter,” he determined. “Obviously.”


John swallowed. His stomach felt decidedly queasy all of a sudden. “So what do we do now?” he asked, helplessly.


“Now we go home and find out where that helicopter went,” Sherlock decided. “Come on, John.”


***


John had braced himself for The Fast and the Furious Sherlock-style part two but he needn’t have worried. Sherlock’s mind was obviously on a higher plane than the A22 and they coasted along the road at a steady fifty-nine miles an hour.


Shortly after entering the city Sherlock pulled into a gas station. John stared at him in amazement.


“Not stealing,” Sherlock said and dedicated himself to fuelling the car with the detached absentmindedness the average motorist exuded while similarly occupied.


The ‘acting normal’ experiment was an astounding success, John mused. He couldn’t wait to share the story with Greg over a pint of beer. Too bad he still hadn’t figured out how the camera on his phone worked. Greg might demand solid photographic evidence.


“You can contact Lestrade tomorrow to cancel those speeding tickets.” Sherlock folded himself behind the steering wheel again. John almost jumped in his own chair, wondering for the umpteenth time about Sherlock’s mind-reading capabilities.


Sherlock sniffed. “Please, John, today you discovered I can perform mundane tasks as well as the next idiot. Of course you’re dying to tell Lestrade.”


Denial was useless. Besides, John was too tired to even contemplate it.


The Mini’s parking space was still empty. The second Sherlock threw the car door shut a cab appeared as if summoned by magic.


Back at Baker Street John truly felt his exhaustion. Sherlock however, had perked up considerably and was rubbing his hands in satisfaction while booting up his computer.


“Best catch as much sleep as you can, John,” he advised. “Looks like we’ll have a full day ahead of us.”


Long experience had taught John it would be no use prodding his flatmate about next day’s schedule so he wished Sherlock a good night and went up to bed.


***


John came down the next morning to find the flat full of people. Mrs Hudson was bustling around the four members of Sherlock’s homeless network seated at the kitchen table, refilling their mugs and urging them to eat their eggs and sausages while Sherlock sat staring down what John assumed to be the ringleaders in the living room.

“We only want to help, Mr Holmes,” one of them was complaining.


“No,” Sherlock answered in a voice that brooked no further argument. “Ah, John,” he greeted. “Did you find my note?”


“Note? No.” John looked longingly at the mugs of hot tea everyone but Sherlock was cradling in their hands. Thankfully, Mrs Hudson once again proved herself to be an absolute saint and came hurrying towards him with a mug and a plate. Sherlock glared at both items.


“It’s on your door with instructions to pack an overnight bag. Our cab arrives in half an hour.”


“Fine.” The tea was still too hot to drink so John dedicated himself to reducing the contents of his plate first.


“Why can Dr Watson go and not us?” another member of Sherlock’s network said. “It’s our mates that are taken.”


“Who are taken. And yes, exactly,” Sherlock confirmed. “Sentiment is an obstacle, not an asset when it comes to investigation. No, you stay here and watch each other. No doubt they’ll try snatching someone again this evening.”


A collective shiver ran down everyone’s spine at Sherlock’s choice of verb, save of course Sherlock’s spine and perhaps Mrs Hudson’s. The change of atmosphere in the flat was palpable. “What?” Sherlock asked, petulantly.


“Body snatchers,” whispered a girl. “Oh, Mr Holmes. Oh, Davey…” Her eyes watered and with heaving shoulders she buried her face into her neighbour’s overcoat.


Sherlock looked perplexed. “Is this one of those pop culture things?” he asked the room at large.


John nodded and drank the last of his tea while his flatmate rolled his eyes before leaping to his feet.


“Right. I can’t think with so much stupidity in the room.” He began making shooing motions at the distraught girl and the boy who sat comforting her as well as the others. “Everybody out. John and I don’t have time for this nonsense. Out, out, all of you.”


***

 

This fic is for stoertebeker.

It all started the day before Christmas Eve.
Molly had invited them to a dinner party; and of course, Sherlock didn't want to go.Things happen, things are learnt, and apparently, you can build a dragon out of Lego bricks.


Of Christmas, love, and Lego dragons

It all started the day before Christmas Eve.

Molly had invited them to a dinner party at her new boyfriend's house in Kent; Stuart the architect - as Molly had excitedly told them, after making introductions a few days prior, her eyes glimmering proudly - was looking forward to meeting them.

Of course, Sherlock didn't want to go; and, at just hours away from the event, John still hadn't managed to persuade him to stop grumbling about it.

"You know I don't like Christmas," he whined; very nearly pouting. John sighed, corners of his lips still turned up, because at least Sherlock wasn't refusing categorically just yet.
"It'll be fine. It won't even be that ‘Christmassy’”- he visibly cringed at the word – “Stuart is allergic to pine needles - and spices, apparently."

"Oh, really?" Sherlock scoffed, folded his arms on his chest petulantly. "And pray tell, how would you know this? Am I going to discover that it's not this silly party that interests you, but the organiser himself?"

"Sherlock!" John shouted at that, horrified. "The reason I know is because Molly bloody told me!" He meant to say more, but stopped himself; there was no point. "Look. The last thing I want to do is fight with you about a Christmas party."

Sat on his chair, back ramrod straight, eyes looking away, Sherlock didn't react; and so John sighed again.

"I have to go to work now. We'll... we can talk later".

Sherlock turned his head lightly towards him. He didn't want to give in now that he'd manifested his opinion on the matter - yet he didn't want John to leave feeling that they were in a fight, either; in the end, he only set his jaw, and watched as John grabbed his coat, and left with a harrumph.



***



When the call arrived, he almost ignored it. Almost - but he answered when he saw it was an unknown number; Lestrade sometimes called from strange phones, in what Sherlock believed was certainly an attempt to irritate him - as if his incompetence wasn't enough already.
But Lestrade, it wasn't.

"Mr. Holmes? It's Nurse Lewis, from the Chelsea & Westminster Hospital. You're John Watson's partner, correct?"

Sherlock had only been able to respond with a babbled, broken 'I am'; his blood had already turned to ice.

"Dr. Watson has been hospitalised. We're running tests on his cardiovascular system, but he's asked me to tell you -"

Sherlock had already stopped listening. The nurse's voice had gone tinny just after the word 'hospitalised'; and at 'cardiovascular system' he'd started having trouble breathing.

"I'll be right there," Sherlock growled, barked almost, and then grabbed his coat from the hanger - thank God he was still wearing his shirt and trousers - and threw himself outside, stopping the first cab that passed by, barking more orders about getting to the hospital 'fast as you can'. Every minute of that ride had gone so slow, so slow, that the moment he arrived at the hospital he had no patience left for any more waiting. Fortunately, the receptionist noticed his wild, red-rimmed eyes - you're not going to cry, Sherlock Holmes, you're not going to cry- and not even ten minutes later he was being chaperoned down a white corridor by the same Nurse Lewis he vaguely remembered speaking to on the phone. She tried to make conversation - something about 'just checking, just to be sure' - but all Sherlock wanted was to get to John, see John - nothing else.

And although he felt focused, a man on a mission, it's alright, you're here, now you can see for yourself, his face must have contorted itself into a weird, unfamiliar expression because when John saw him he frowned, sat up straighter in bed, cocked his head to the side.

"Sherlock, you didn't have to-"

But Sherlock wasn't listening. His eyes wide, red-rimmed, terrified - his lips trembling, "John?" he hesitated at the door for a half-second, then strode to John's bed, sat on the chair right next to it, a bit awkwardly - and his hands were on John at once, touching his arms, fingers holding his hands.

"John, John." His voice a frantic murmur.

"Sherlock, hey. Hey," John murmured back. His hand cupped Sherlock's cheek, and made him look up. "Love? What's the matter?"

Sherlock's eyebrows shot together.

"I - John - you're at the hospital, you - what happened?'"

"Hey," John murmured again. He stroked Sherlock's lower lip, trying to soothe. "Didn't the nurse tell you? It's just palpitations. It can happen, with PTSD. It hadn't happened in a while now, but - sometimes, it does." Sherlock kept wide eyes on him, so John continued: "In these cases they just run tests because, well, it's the heart, and they need to be careful."

That didn't seem to comfort Sherlock much. "But - the nurse said...," he insisted, in a breath that sounded like a sob.

John sighed. " I asked her to let you know that I was here but that it was nothing to worry about...What did she say?"

Sherlock blinked, corners of his mouth turned down. "I - I might have not listened."

Another small sigh; then John smiled briefly. Sherlock would have tried to smile, too – if only he hadn't become aware of someone else in the room. Lestrade; knocking gently on the door, opening it, politely waiting to be acknowledged; not uttering a sound, but of course Sherlock could immediately tell it was him – his footsteps, his presence, even his breathing, all unmistakable clues.

“Why is Lestrade here, John?” he asked, trying to keep the nervousness out of his voice, and failing. John wasn’t supposed to be there to begin with – why were people now coming to his bedside?

“I called him. When the nurse told me you were on your way over.”

Sherlock watched as John smiled at Lestrade, and was able to read the silent message sent between the two practically instantaneously.

“I'm not going. I'm not leaving you here, John.”

“Love, you can't stay. They wouldn't let you, there is no space – and there's no need,” John said, firm. He was using his doctor voice, the one that always made him sound like he had everything under control – the one that, in normal circumstances, always persuaded Sherlock to give over control. Right now, though, it only just dampened his apprehension. He bristled, and held onto John's hand, refusing to look back at Lestrade.

"Are you really alright, John? Are you?” Insisting; voice almost back to panicked. “Don’t lie to me".

John looked into Sherlock's still-red eyes, stroked at his lower lip again.
"I promise you Sherlock. I'm alright. It's just a precaution – it's normal procedure. They want to keep me in for observation, but it's nothing to worry about.”

Sherlock still refused to tear his eyes away from John; John smiled.

"Believe me, sweetheart, I want nothing more in the world than to go home now so I can make love to you."

Sherlock laughed through his tears. "That's not what you usually say," he murmured on John's lips.

"Okay. I want to go home," John started again; then in a lower pitch, husky: “ so I can feck you."

"So you can feck me," Sherlock nodded on John's lips, his own lips still wet with tears. He joined their mouths in a hungry kiss, and John pushed back against him, opening his mouth, deepening it instantaneously. For a couple of minutes their breathing was all that could be heard as they kissed, slow and deep and intense. Sherlock's hands were itching to touch, stroke, squeeze and pull – they almost never just kissed, their kissing practically always prelude to foreplay and sex - but that just couldn't happen here, of course. He was reminded of their surroundings by a quiet harrumph from somewhere behind them, and then John, the ever conscientious John, broke the kiss, pecked him gently one last time.

“Now, Sherlock. You don't want to give John tachycardia for real, do you?”, Lestrade tried for a joke; Sherlock chuckled on John’s mouth, blushed. “How about we let John get some sleep, and then you can come pick him up nice and early tomorrow?”
He'd turned all fatherly; as he felt his heart squeeze at the thought of leaving John at the hospital, Sherlock realised he didn't really mind his paternal concern. He grimaced a bit again, and closed his eyes to steel himself.

“It's alright," John murmured to him, stroked his thumb over a cheekbone again. “Yeah? I'll see you tomorrow."

He waited until Sherlock reluctantly nodded, and then removed his hand, sat back on the bed. Sherlock stroked a hand over his own face, tried to get rid of his tears as fast as possible – so embarrassing, always crying, just stop – and then he stood, forced himself to smile.

“Come on, you”, Lestrade encouraged, steering him gently towards the door.









***



"Are you sure you're alright?", Sherlock asked for the third time that morning.

Barefoot, wrapped in a bathrobe, John rubbed a towel into his short sandy hair.
"Baby, I'm fine! They would have kept anyone in observation, especially with my history. Just - believe me..?"

Sherlock looked up from where he was manhandling his laptop from its hiding place in the table drawer, cut him an amused glance.
"Well, you just called me 'baby'. You can't really blame me for thinking you're not feeling well".

John set his hands on his hips, huffed out a sigh - but his mouth distended into a smile. His eyes were bashful.

“Sorry. What can I say, you've been fussing over me all morning, you have me flustered," he waved his hand. Then he frowned. "And what are you doing?"

Sherlock had stuffed his laptop into a bag, and was now moving on to John's phone charger and electric shaver, which he placed on top of a pile of clothes, nearly folded and stacked inside a small suitcase.

"We're going to Molly's party. It's 10am already - thought if we leave about now, we'll be in Ashford by midday, which will give us enough time to check into our hotel and then drive over to-"
Sherlock stopped his quick-fire explanation at the sight of John's face; the older man was smiling, his eyes soft, and glittering. Sherlock cocked his head to the side.

"What?"

"We're going to Molly's party?"John's smile grew larger, tender. "Thought you didn't want to?”

"No, no, I think we should go," Sherlock stood, leant back against the table, looked down; spoke quickly again. "We should meet her boyfriend, she - she finally found a serious one, would be a shame to let her efforts go to waste".

John chuckled; walked over to him slowly, placed his hands on Sherlock's hips.

"Oh, really?"

"And Mrs Hudson wants to go," Sherlock continued. His hands held onto the edge of the table tightly, and he didn't look into John's eyes. "And I've booked us a suite at this hotel not far from the cottage. It's a spa - you can - you know, relax, play golf - things like that."

"Play golf...?", John teased tenderly again. One of his hands left Sherlock's hips and went to nudge his chin gently to get him to meet his eyes; Sherlock's expression was sweet, lost. He shrugged.

"That's what people do - when they attend such places."

John smiled, looking up into his face. "You're amazing, love. Thank you." Sherlock blushed, looked down again; John pushed himself more tightly against him, pushed his pelvis against Sherlock's belly through the soft terrycloth of his bathrobe.

"Do you think," he murmured, stroking a thumb slowly over Sherlock's nipple through his thin lounging t-shirt; Sherlock closed his eyes. "Do you think we have time for a bit of - what we were saying last night?"

He pushed up, taking Sherlock's lips in a kiss that deepened almost instantly. Sherlock sobbed quietly into his mouth and John softly moaned back, pushed his erection more firmly against Sherlock's abdomen, making him feel it. Sherlock kissed back for a couple of seconds, then gently pushed with his hands against John's chest.

"John, no. We have to leave soon. Mycroft's car will be here very shortly."

"Mycroft?"

"If you two are quite done pawing at each other", Mycroft appeared as if on cue, grumbling from the door, looking immaculate as ever. He cleared his throat. "Would you kindly put some clothes on. We should really be on our way."

Behind him, by the door, Mrs Hudson beamed - clearly the culprit in having let him in unannounced.

"Ah Mycroft, don't give the boys a hard time," she scolded jovially. She was all dressed up, and smiling from ear to ear. "They're really alright. The married ones next door get up to much worse if you can believe Mrs Turner!"

John closed his eyes, took a deep, resigned breath - his hands fell limply at his sides, his erection disappearing immediately.
Sherlock chuckled under his breath.



***





"Now we need to build the roof."

Stood on the patio, crisp air gently biting at his face – it was pleasant - Sherlock watched through the big glass doors as, inside the house, a small child played with big multi coloured Lego bricks.

“Yes, I think red would be a good choice, " Molly's boyfriend Stuart was saying, as he helped in the construction of a rather wonky, rather interesting looking sort of house with three blue walls and a green one. "Definitely a better colour for a roof, unless you want it to look like a Hobbit house…”

"I don't want a hobbit! I want to make a dragon!", the child said, the words turning petulant at the end. He wrapped short arms around himself, frowned, and sulked. Sherlock rolled his eyes: of course you can't build a dragon out of giant Lego bricks - that's just ridiculous...

Stuart, however, smiled calmly; his relaxed, possibly-plain-but-probably-friendly features showing that he was a social being, at ease with people, even with whiny children.
Sherlock blinked, looked down. There was a picture in the house, by the hallway, one he'd noticed as they came in, of Stuart and Molly together, smiling and embracing as they posed in the middle of a huge bank of snow - it looked like it must have been somewhere in the area. They seemed happy. Sherlock glanced over at Stuart again, then at the child, who was now back to smiling; he bit the inside of his lip, looked away.

"You alright?”

John had appeared at his side. Sherlock blinked – he must have been really deep in thought, nearly inside his Mind Palace, if he hadn’t heard him approaching.
John looked at him questioningly, frowning. The cup of mulled wine in his hand was steaming, and Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the fruity smell that reached his nostrils.

“I'm fine. Just – thinking.”

John nodded; took a sip.

“Want to go for a walk?," he asked, cleared his throat. “It doesn't look like it’s going to rain, and we still have a couple of hours before it gets dark.”

Sherlock knew he was being offered an out from the people in the house, the atmosphere warm, but at times too intimate and demanding for him. He nodded.
The patio overlooked a rather large portion of field that extended behind the cottage, currently covered in grey-green dormant grass, and dotted with pine trees and shrubs – blackberry? No, bramble - with a small but lively stream of water that separated that sort of well-kept back garden from the patch of woods further afield. Sherlock followed John down the wooden stairs that connected the patio to the ground, and then away from the cottage, towards the river, and alongside it.

“Nice bit of countryside, this," John said, and took another sip of his mulled wine. It must be lukewarm by now. “Nice for – a holiday. Not every day, no.”

It was obvious he was trying to fill the silence – test the waters. Sherlock wanted to smile, reassure him that it wasn't needed, he was fine; but that wasn't the truth, not entirely. And so he didn't react, only kept his eyes on the small river - the clear water streaming peacefully yet lively, miniature waves crashing into miniature rocks, like the tiny version of a waterfall, the shrunken copy of the bank of a torrent he'd seen in a documentary he wasn't really watching on telly. To the water, he spoke.

“Was it me?”

He wasn't looking directly at John, so he only saw him out of the corner of his right eye, as he blinked.

“Was it… Was it you??”

“Did I cause it. Did you get stressed and did you end up in hospital because of – my behaviour?”

“Sherlock, what-“

“You have to tell me," Sherlock interrupted, finally turning his eyes to John. His heart beat fast suddenly and he could feel he was running out of breath, but he forced himself to stay calm and controlled because must not upset John again. “John, you have to tell me. I can change. I never knew but – I can control it. I can change. I will change.”

John froze. Sherlock saw him blink, blink again, open and close his mouth; then step back. His face changed – from placid to agitated; so much so, in fact, that the cheerfully streaming water looked and sounded so completely misplaced next to him. Sherlock thought back to the photograph: happy. In tune, serene. Such a difference.

“Sherlock, no. Just – no.” John said, frowning. “No. What – why would you think that?”

Sherlock looked at him, huffed through his nostrils in frustration.
“I've never been good for you. This has always been true, but now – now it's even detrimental to you physically and I can't…”

The split second of a realisation: and Sherlock no longer knew what he was fighting for. Frustration made him see reason – there was no point in hoping, he couldn't change, of course he couldn't, why was he promising John, once again, when it was never going to happen? The photograph flashed in his mind again, cruel, and he closed his eyes.

“…you should be with someone else. You should want someone like – like Molly, or Stuart. Not me.”

It took a few scary seconds, but the thumping of his heart in his head dissipated, somehow – and he was able to hear silence. Silence coming from John; thick, heavy silence, over the chirpy sound of the happy little river.

“…not good?" he dared to ask, risking a glance towards John; his voice died in his throat when he saw that John looked thunderous. Absolutely thunderous.

“Not good, no.” John’s voice was a growl. He clenched and unclenched his fists, took a deep breath; glanced back towards the cottage, as if getting ready to raise his voice. Sherlock looked down, towards the frozen grey-green grass, and kept quiet.

“Not everything is about you." John's tone was low, severe. It made Sherlock look up at him for a brief moment, to check his eyes. “Not everything is connected to you.”

He looked away, down; then back up again, towards Sherlock’s face.
“Sherlock. Look at me?”

The words surprisingly soft, unexpectedly so; Sherlock inhaled, looked up.

“You are my whole world. I'm no good with words, but - that's the truth. However, that doesn't mean that you're always responsible for everything that happens. You have to- “ and here John stopped, started again. “I don't want Molly, or Stuart, or any other person, because – because that's just what you think I should want. I want you. You are the one I want.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened; he blinked, wanted to speak, but couldn't. That was the first time John had ever said anything like that to him, and Sherlock felt, really deep in his chest, that his insecurity and self-hatred weren't needed just now.

“I-“, he started, wanting to protest, however half-heartedly now – but John didn't let him speak.

“Sherlock. You're at a Christmas party - even though you hate Christmas - just because I wanted to go, even though there’ll be songs and noises and strangers and you usually avoid all that. Hell, even Mycroft's run off long ago, and he doesn't even hate Christmas as much as you do! That is some sacrifice," John chuckled – but he was speaking sincerely. Sherlock seemed to only be able to linger on the negatives, all the aspects of his personality that people usually didn't get, or flat out disliked; somehow, John managed to not just see past that, but shatter it altogether. John managed to make him feel important, useful – cared for.

“That is the person I want.” John took a step towards him, hesitant, then reached out, and with the thumb of his left hand he stroked Sherlock’s lower lip. “You make me live, Sherlock Holmes; you're certainly not gong to be the one to kill me.” Thumb stroked again, and John chuckled. “Well, not yet, anyway”.

“John," Sherlock chuckled as well, feeling his eyes crinkle at the corners. John took the extra step that separated them, and looked up; gently nuzzled with his nose and lips against Sherlock’s cheekbone, a bit like a kiss, but more like a request, the nudge of a suggestion. Sherlock turned his face, gave in to it; and their mouths joined. Soft at first; a gentle press of lips, a gentle bite - a deep breath, then tongues, teeth, lips. Hands. John’s slid slowly down to Sherlock’s hips, held fast onto the bones – and Sherlock moaned, needy, breaking the kiss to nudge his forehead against John’s.

“I believe you promised to make love to me, Doctor Watson," Sherlock murmured on his lips, his voice a quiet, bashful sob.

John kissed his mouth again, softly; reverently.

“I am,” he said, smiling; making Sherlock smile with him.



***



The mulled wine, in the end, didn't taste too bad. Sherlock sipped, standing by John quietly, while John happily made conversation with Mrs Hudson and laughed when she mentioned for the third time how the warm alcohol made her ‘wobble, so terribly quickly’. The mince pies were Sherlock’s favourite: sweet, crumbly, so rich that he felt as if he’d eaten a whole box of them instead of just one, so satisfying. Every now and then John looked up at him, his eyes checking, making sure – and Sherlock knew that whenever he wanted to leave, John would be ready to go with him.

Stuart’s nephew still played, seemingly not having had enough of his new toy yet. Molly sat nearby, watching them with a mellow, loved-up expression. Sherlock found that he wanted to roll his eyes but his lips turned up at the corners instead, traitorous.

“Look, look! I made a dragon!”, the child squealed then, holding up a pile of red bricks – a square base, two pieces hooked on top – was that the neck? - and finally a green one, sticking out from the outer edge of the upper brick. “It's a dragon, look!”

Molly looked at him, smiled, then looked at Sherlock. Her eyes were laughing. Apparently, it seemed it was actually possible to build a dragon from Lego bricks after all.




 

This story is for Kerkerian.

Hover Through the Fog

  In his mirror, he saw not himself, but what would be. His whole life, planned before him with the scrape of a pen against parchment in the flickering, hazy candlelight of a London night and projected through the glass. Broadcasting in crystal-clear quality, it showed two figures racing through the cool night, amusingly high giggles complemented by the baritone, breathy laughter he knew was his own. Then there was smoke swirling from a pipe, a double-brimmed cap shading a sharp, ageing face, a gorgeous little cottage in Sussex Downs with bees and flowers, peace and Dr. John Watson. 

Gritting his teeth, he shattered his future with the bloody knuckles of a desperate man searching for freedom. 

~

The first flake falls the day after they wash Sherlock Holmes's blood from the cracks in the pavement. Glimmering in the weak light from the street lanterns, it settles to the concrete, hesitating on the brink of resilience and inexistence. Finally, it seems to make up its mind, and it stays put.

The rest of its companions join it, clustered together in the way of a first snow. Fragile. Brittle. Light, like one gust of breath could blow them apart into forgotten memories.

John's eyes bruise dark with the plague of an illness beyond cure. It is his particular soldier's brand of nightmare, the kind where both sides have won and lost and all he has to show that he survived is the renewed ache in his leg and the constant barrage of hatreddisgustguiltsorrowlonginggrief raining down on his shoulders. The kind of pain that promises to stick like black tar, clinging to his skin no matter how raw he scrubs it.

A monochrome film settles over his vision. It reduces everything to dull blues and greys. His whole world bleeds away from him as he lays in the sand, as Sherlock's body rests in a locker in the morgue, as James Moriarty's laughter seeps into the edges of his waking moments. His fingers brush over the mug sitting on the coffee table, its contents ice cold with neglect. Sherlock's lips touched this, yesterday. Those same lips that used to spread wide with genuine laughter for him, that turned crimson red when his teeth scraped against them in concentration, that quirked up at the corner with sarcastic amusement.

Sherlock's lips are turning fuzzy in John's memory already, like the grainy photographs his mobile takes. His eyes turn towards the quiet street, and he sees only low-resolution grey.

Gently, the snow accumulates. At the right angle, it looks like broken glass.

~

  The shards in his bloody hands were different. There were brief flashes of moments, of people he didn't recognise, of clothing and technology from ages past and times of which he had never dreamed of viewing. Here, an unfamiliar woman, stood between him and a cowering man stinking of blackmail, her modern bullet careening towards his shaking view. There, the cottage, painted off white, fat bees buzzing lazily across the glass. London fog. London sun. Sussex breezes. Pembrokeshire waves.

He split his palm open with the shard on his right, wedged into the cedarwood of the floor panels, and hardly winces. The mirror is your life, child, once whispered his mother. Guard it well, lest you be split apart and scattered to the cruel winds.

  'Oh, Watson,' murmured he, his blood dripping to the floor from his clenched palms. 'Forgive me.'

  The second drop hit the floor with a soft thud, and the mirror carves its penance from his life.

  Two drops.

  Across history, where his soul had been splintered into a thousand pieces, every new version of him lost two years of the life he desired so strongly.

~

 Lestrade comes to John a month after the last of Sherlock settles into the cracks in front of St. Bart's. John can hardly stand to look at him until he stops seeing a traitor and starts observing everything else. The dark bruises under his eyes. The haunted grief, layered behind his downtrodden glances. Wrinkled clothing, shadows across his jawline, pronounced wrinkles... he’s defeated.

‘I’m sorry,’ Lestrade says, hitting his fist against the table. ‘Dammit, I tried, John, I really tried. But I’m not like you. I really didn’t want my life to revolve around Sherlock Holmes, and that was my biggest mistake. I’m sorry.’

It’s not his fault, John thinks, finally accepting it. They’ve all been played. Even Donovan and Anderson were prodded in the right direction. Every one of them are dolls on strings, dancing for the puppeteer, even after the main event.

This time, John listens. This time, he gives Greg a weak smile and raises his glass.

‘feck Sherlock Holmes,’ he says in toast.

I forgive you, he means.

~

  ‘I forgive you,’ Watson would promise, taking him into his embrace. ‘I am so sorry, Holmes, I forgive you, I forgive you...’

  Holmes would smile weakly with his relief, bowing his head into his doctor’s shoulder. He would cling onto Watson’s coat with the conviction of a man who would die if he released his grip.

  Affection swelled within him at the thought.

  ‘My dear Watson,’ he would murmur, raising his head and gazing down upon a gentleman he dares to call his friend, ‘do not apologise. Freedom is upon us.’

~

 In America, Sherlock Holmes meets Irene Adler again. The Woman dangles a cigarette from her manicured fingers, twitching the ashes off of a bridge and into the gently moving river below. There is more snow here than in London, piled gently on top of statues and pushed along the sides of roads and pathways to make way for the steady stream of people walking back and forth. He remembers winters in France, from his childhood, when the mountaintops sparkled like diamonds in the sunlight, ringed with cap-like clouds. Here, the mountains are different, but the same.

They are like him.

‘Have you told him yet?’ Irene asks, turning to look at him.

He scoffs. ‘That I’m alive? Please.’

She raises an eyebrow, and he knows that’s not really what she’s asking.

‘No,’ he says, and he can’t look at her pitying gaze anymore, so he diverts his attention.

Her hair is down in a braid over her shoulder, and her makeup is sparse–just eyeliner, dark and simple and ordinary. If he were a lesser man, if he hadn't seen her out of his shower, he wouldn't have recognised her. He wonders if she feels the same way about him.

She looks completely at home. She has claimed this place as hers, settling into it as easily as her Belgravia property, but he has no doubt that she could just as easily uproot herself and move on without a care. He might pretend to do the same, but he knows that he will never truly feel at home anywhere but his little-big flat with his little-big flatmate and his crime-solving and the familiarity of the little hollow he’s created for himself in his city.

She is so very sharp. She understands. ‘It's not too late,’ she says quietly, leaning on the guardrail, ‘to fix it.’

He has 127 days, says the phantom cuts in his hands that have taken his price. ‘Not yet,’ he answers. There are people to stop, and futures to end, paths to carve and security to find. There are friends to save and villains to erase and a light at the end of the tunnel, waiting for him. 127 days.

She nods and kisses his cheek, leaves her mark on his skin in red lipstick as she presses the thumb drive he wants into his palm.

‘He’ll be gone,’ she warns, ‘if you wait too long. And there’s no way to go back.’

He looks away, tucking the information away into a pocket. ‘Perhaps it’s better that way.’

~

 It’s winter. He can see his breath in front of him like smoke, little insignificant wisps of nothingness. The cold numbs everything with a pleasant shiver, and John feels like a ghost in his own body. He wonders if he leaves footprints in the snow. He never looks to make sure.

He goes up onto that rooftop and stands on the ledge, looking down at the pavement. It has long since been scrubbed clean, but he can't help musing that there are still traces left, lodged into tiny cracks where they trickled through.

He thinks, so that's what he saw, as he peers down at the little people, walking over the spot as if nothing had ever happened there.

What would they do if they remembered? Would they even care that a great man died on that very stretch of concrete?

Would they care if two different stains of violent crimson seeped into the crevices?

In the end, he's too cowardly to step forward. Instead, he goes home and pours the rest of the bottle of cheap whisky sitting out on the table down the sink. It’s been two years. It’s time to stop feeling sorry for himself. There’s Mary to think about, now: the pretty nurse who seems to look past his bouts of depression. He thinks she knows that he won't let go of his ghosts, but unlike the rest of them, she’s willing to share. Isn't that so kind of her? Doesn't he owe her something for that?

He turns to the living room and sees a man with a dark coat and eyes like glacial glass and blood matted in his curls and blurry lips and John flinches, as he always does, before he closes his eyes and counts his breaths. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

There’s no one there. There won't ever be anyone there, when his mind tricks him with fear and anger and guilt.

~

 How lovely is she, thought Watson, pressing a kiss to her cheek and drawing delighted laughter from her soft lips. Beautiful, delicate desert flower, tolerant of his dual devotion but capturing his attention all the same. Lovely Miss Mary Morstan, with her golden hair and gentle smile and her sweet love.

  How lovely is she, thought he as he held her close to his chest and stroked her swelling belly through her skirts, feeling his child kicking with health and petulance at his touch. Resilient Mrs. Mary Watson, who kept his grief grounded and chased away, with her comforting warmth, the spirit who haunted his dreams.

  How lovely is she, thought he, pressing a wet cloth to her forehead and willing her body to hold itself together with his doctor’s touch. Strong Mary, who fought for her life and their baby’s with each shuddering breath and feverish smile.

  How lovely is she, thought he as he stood at her side, warming her cold skin with his shaking hands. Brave Mary, who wept for him and his chronic loneliness and gripped his hand tightly with her fragile fingers and apologised for stealing his child from him with her dying breath.

  How lovely was she, thought he as he watched them lower the coffin into the frozen ground, the priest’s monotone words sounding only like full noises under the crushing silence of her heart, sealed away in a wooden box with her broken body and their lost little girl. Generous Mary, who shared him with a memory and never asked for all of him, who left him because he wasn't paying close enough attention.

  How lovely was she, wondered he as he left a bouquet of roses to die in the snow atop her grave.

  How perfect was he, mused he as he left his heart on the frosted tombstone of his ghost on the other side of the cemetery.

~

Sherlock rifles through his suitcase with hasty fingers when they catch, not on clothing, but the razor-sharp edge of paper. He winces and examines the thin red lines across the pad of his index finger, welling with blood, before wiping it off carelessly on his jacket and reaching in more carefully.

The book is old, leather-bound and flaking away at the spine. Gingerly, he examines it, tilting it up in the light and reading the faded gold-leaf letters that remain.

  HE H  UND   F TH   B  SKE  V    L  S

He flips it open, but the pages are blank, yellowed with age but empty of all ink. He thumbs through all of them, suspicion set low in his chest. Not a single word on any pages, but taped to the back cover is a shard of glass, the length and width of one of his fingers and jagged along the edges, where pieces of it have splintered off from impact. He holds it up at eye level and realises, belatedly, that it is a shard of a broken mirror.

He drops it like it scalds, the way dry ice burns against bare skin. It falls to the floorboards with a jarringly loud clatter. The glass does not shatter any further, but the image in the mirror isn't of the ceiling in his safe house; it’s of a dusty room, lit by a flickering oil lantern. The detective hesitates, then reaches for it again.

One day. One day, but he can't go back yet, because the job isn't quite done, his friends not yet safe, his future not secured. One day, and he looks into the shard and knows that what he sees is not the world that belongs to him. It doesn't sit right. He knows because he remembers this, the oil lantern and the configuration of beams in the ceiling, but that memory is painted in sepia tones and smoke and politeness and secrecy.

If he puts his ear close enough to the mirror, he thinks he can hear Watson’s pen against the pages of his manuscripts, hear the rustle of his tweed sleeves against the table, the steady breathing that follows his concentration.

One day passes into none. Old scars in his palms sting with phantom pain. Sherlock rips his cheap bed sheet into strips and wraps the mirror with the same care he takes in cleaning his wounds.

The book is carelessly tossed into the fireplace. Sherlock suspects Mycroft’s meddling, though he cannot fathom the reason that his brother would understand the significance of his message. In the end, he supposes the reasoning is insignificant, and he settles down to watch the empty pages burn.

~

 It’s Harry who gives it to him. It’s an old pocketwatch, the key to wind it lost to the changing of hands and years in the attic, burnished brass with her initials etched into the surface. He vaguely remembers seeing it before, in his grandfather’s study when he was a boy on visits out to the countryside. It warms in his hand as he examines it, wondering if the grooves at the keyhole are the same as the grooves in his mobile’s charging port from a lifetime ago.

Curiosity and boredom prompt him to pry it open, when Mary is covering a double shift at the clinic for a sick colleague and a little velvet box weighs heavily in his pocket. The timepiece has long since frozen at 8:32. He frowns at it, rubbing at the dirt lodged in the crevices, before turning his attention to the mirror in the top half of the watch. He scrubs at it with a cloth, but no matter how much he tries, the image reflected doesn't sit right. It’s too dusty. Too dark.

He holds it closer to examine it before cursing and snapping it shut with lightning speed, because the eye reflected back at him? Too bright. Too clever. And he will not tolerate ghosts in his head any longer.

When he opens the pocketwatch again with trembling, fumbling fingers, all he sees is the moisture threatening to spill from his tired, tired eyes.

There’s a little velvet box weighing heavily in his pocket. ‘Time to move on,’ he tells the watch. Evidently, it doesn't agree.

~

Sherlock comes back on a Tuesday. He’s 57 days late, but it seems like 57 years, stretching the bowstring of his body taut with anticipation, dread, remorse, and a layer of arrogant hope and importance. There’s a bow tie and an ill-conceived plan and an eyeliner moustache and fear in John Watson’s eyes, like he’s set eyes upon a ghost, a hallucination, that he has seen too often before.

Sherlock remembers this. Or, rather, something lurking at the back hallways of his mind does: The horribly afraid expression. The deep swallow. The panicked glance around the room for someone to say, yes, I can see him too, you’re not as crazy as you think.

But that smoke-filled memory is followed by no confirmation and a dead faint, because, of course, the real ghost haunting them was of Mary Watson, who was once Mary Morstan and who, he can conjecture, is the blonde nurse (liar) who confirms his reality with a quickly sobering glance up at him, eyes wide with surprise and confusion.

And John is no fainting damsel when confronted with reality and tangibility. So Sherlock fumbles his way through what he meant to be a lighthearted reunion, modelled after images of this moment that had kept him running for the end of those 787 days of ghost-like existence, and he says all the right things mangled to sound utterly and completely wrong.

But even when the first touch Sherlock receives from John is the feeling of his hands in his lapels, shoving him to the floor and threatening to strangle the life out of him, he can only feel relief with his disappointment. Even when the shard in his pocket rips holes in the fabric and jabs at his skin, he knows that those 24 months, 57 days, 12 hours, 32 minutes, and 19 seconds were utterly worth his second, third, fourth, hundredth chance to change the story.

~

 ‘My dear Watson,’ said Holmes, ‘I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected.’

~

 Hatreddisgustguiltsorrowlonginggrief. It’s been two years and 57 days, and John doesn’t know what to do when that cloying smog of deadly emotion suddenly disappears.

Just a magic trick.

He’d just found his order. His world had just begun to make sense again. But now, God, now he has hope and terror when he sees blue eyes watching him with such reckless abandon and can only envision them framed in crimson stains when he sleeps by Mary’s side.

Loss leaves its scars. He doesn’t know how to reconcile the remorse and the devotion and the need to just hold Sherlock close and never let go with the black gravestone and Mary’s devoted love. He wants to scream and shoot the walls and punch someone, but he won’t lose control again. He’s a doctor, after all, and has to maintain some semblance of sanity.

He can forgive; he won’t forget.

But.

But his hallucination is real.

The relief is crushing.

~

Of course, Sherlock had foreseen the consequences. Everything occurs out of order from the expected, but enough of it is predictable. John’s wedding, for example. It’s happened before, and it will happen again. This time, Sherlock has a much smaller window of opportunity. They are much older.

But some things are different. For example, now, he truly enjoys Mary’s company. For once, John’s choice in women wields someone who is willing to share his attention with Sherlock. She is someone who can think a little more clearly, who reaches conclusions sometimes faster than her partner, who knows how to keep Sherlock’s irritation at incompetence from flaring at inconvenient times, and who can, on occasion, make him smile.

Incredible, that he thought he could have grown to love her, as she had become as much a part of John as himself. How blind he’s become, in his quest to make John happy and make up for all of the hurt he’s caused.

How had he forgotten to search for the tiger, hunting at Moriarty’s side?

How could he not have seen those cunning, feline traits in her eyes? How had he overlooked the preciseness of her aim? How had he managed to ignore that wrongness in this Mary Watson?

  Cat lover. Secret. Clever.

  Liar.

He admits to himself that she may be the most brilliant foe he has ever faced, because she has one distinct advantage: She is his friend.

She is his friend, no matter the great cat that lurks behind her smile, and he is willing to do everything for the people he holds close enough to his chest to trust.

She is his friend, and for all of her faults and mistakes, it feels like a betrayal when he looks John Watson in the eye and means I love you when he says, ‘Sherlock is actually girl’s name.’

It is a new year when he steps off the plane, heart hammering in his chest and Moriarty’s laughter ringing in his ears and the guilty swell of hope at the wedding ring no longer on John’s finger and the toll that her secret tigress and his secret admission have taken on their futures.

~

John looks into that mirror in his frozen pocket watch and sees sepia tones, smoke swirling from a pipe, a double-brimmed cap shading a sharp, ageing face, a gorgeous little cottage in Sussex Downs with bees and flowers, peace and Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

It’s a dream. A fantasy disguised as a memory. An admission of his own. But he’s oh so scared, because his daughter is days from being born and Mary’s already received his promise of forgiveness and voluntary ignorance and Sherlock is so quiet these days, absorbed in a mystery greater than their little domestic problems.

He’s needed to escape that suffocating loudness of Mary’s pained smiles and the weight of his wedding band in his pocket for days, but the Baker Street flat sits empty with its inhabitant investigating on his own, and John has few places to go. So he finds himself in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, a cup of freshly-brewed tea and a full English fry-up steaming in front of him.

‘It’s a bit nippy out there,’ she comments, peering outside. ‘It’s supposed to snow, soon. Wouldn’t that be lovely? A last chance to see it before next Christmas.’

His former landlady is so much stronger than she looks. He’s an ex-army doctor, not a psychologist, but even he knows that she’s watched the whole world turn against her, falling apart all around her, but here she stands, iron-will and steadfast, quiet bravery wrapped up in a flower-print dress and a tendency to irresistibly mother-hen. She’s now lived through Sherlock’s death twice, and he’ll eat that damn pocketwatch alongside his comfort food if she doesn’t see the detective as her own son. He suspects she thinks the same of him, and it warms his heart, seeing her smile at him when she coos about Mrs. Turner or the husbands next door as she busies herself around her kitchen.

‘I would think so,’ he agrees, smiling and raising his mug in toast. ‘I’d love to shove a handful down Sherlock’s back, just for a laugh.’

She giggles at that, her eyes crinkling at the corners from the smiles she hands out so easily to them, her boys. It’s worth it, he thinks, to cheer her.

She’s so unchanging. Being in her kitchen makes him forget that he’s trying to fool himself into believing that any other address is his home. Like nothing has changed.

The mirror burns in his pocket.

~

In the end, everything falls into place, the way broken glass can be fitted back into its original mouldings.

Moriarty’s puzzle is carefully crafted to make Sherlock lose, no matter how hard he fights. He realises belatedly that a battle he can’t win requires only thoughts on how to pick up the pieces.

He isn’t there to remember the events properly. He knows only that there had been an incident: A sniper’s bullet and a rush to the A&E and John Watson, eyes glazed with shock and his chest and arms covered with Mary’s blood.

‘She saved my life,’ the doctor says into Sherlock’s chest when the detective catches his sagging body in the waiting room. ‘She saw something, didn’t even think twice, just shoved me out of the way and took the bullet.’ He looks up at Sherlock with fear, an expression he only recognises as the man’s reaction to what he believes to be a ghost. ‘The baby. Oh, God, Sherlock, what have I done?’

‘Nothing,’ Sherlock finds himself saying, holding John tightly against his chest. Embraces aren’t awkward anymore, not when he’s learned the exact cadence of John’s heart beating in his anxiety, when the warmth of his blogger’s body is enough to keep the panic at the influx of emotions.

Pain. Loss. Heartbreak. Death. Relief.

‘She saved me,’ John says again. He sounds confused and angry and grateful and grieving. ‘She tried to kill you, and she saved you and she’s going to kill me because she’s dead.’

Sherlock watches the sombre-faced doctor approaching from over John’s shoulder.

‘So foul and fair a day I have not seen,’ he steals from the pages of a book. ‘It’s over, John.’

He lets go.

~

 In the mirror, Sherlock watches the lonely doctor, who left his best friend to pursue a happy ending, write a story that will never be read.

He takes the last of the mirror and the watch stolen from John’s pocket, holds them gingerly in his fingers, and hides them away. They are swiftly forgotten.

~

There is a cottage in Sussex Downs where it was once written that a great detective retired to tend to bees and live out the rest of his days in relative comfort. Now, there is a very satisfied and content woman with her vengeance sated and no more beehives casting shadows over the flower patches.

It doesn’t matter. There are no more words to bind him to the place, and no more reflections to remind him that it is what he was fated to do. 221B Baker Street is good enough, when he has John to keep him from slowly destroying it in his loneliness.

John’s nightmares plague him less as each night passes, but less is not never, and still, he wakes with starts and gasps and screams, clutching for something–or someone–slipping out of his grasp. He cries out Mary’s name, Sherlock’s name, the name of his stillborn child. When it happens, Sherlock doesn't hesitate to pick up his violin and play gentle lullabies to lull John back to sleep.

Sherlock’s nightmares start with a fall and end with a spider’s laughter and shattering glass, mocking him for his failure. He never screams, but John always knows. When it happens, John strokes the curls from his sweat-soaked forehead and doesn’t say a word.

The crackle of lightning and the steady pitter-patter of rain against the pavement announces the end of their suffocating winter.

It’s not perfect. It will never be perfect. They are broken puppets, still trying to convince themselves that they can move without their strings, cut with shards of glass.

John kisses the white scars on Sherlock’s hands. It has been 34 months, 19 days, 8 hours, 45 minutes, and 16 seconds, and finally, he is home.

~

 'My dear Watson,’ said Holmes, cradling his doctor’s face in his hand. ‘Good man, we are free.’
 

Last edited by Schmiezi (December 14, 2015 11:24 am)

 This is a little story for Lilythiel.

Sorry I just chose two points from your prompt list (John/Sherlock VERY close friendship and Victorian AU). First I tried something else but that was material for a whole novel than just a short story.

Hope you nevertheless like it.

Merry Christmas!

Your unknown author



Play H for Murder


“So what exactly am I doing here? “ Holmes’ look went around the little theatre and down to the stage some meters beneath their loge while he took off his coat and placed it together with his top hat on the small table between their seats. Small gas lamps put the loges and the auditorium in diffused light while the curtain of the small stage was ablaze with light. Everywhere you could hear conversations among the audience who waited for the play to start.
Watson cleared his throat. “Doing me a favour? After the case with the mummy you suggested ‘I’ could choose an activity for a change.”

Holmes looked at his friend with an amused smirk on his face. “Well, I had something completely different on my mind.”
Watson lifted his eye brows. “Oh, I can imagine that. But no, tonight it’s time for some culture. A friend recommended this production. And now shush. The curtain rises”, he whispered and pointed at the stage with a slight nod.

Watson couldn’t really enjoy the play. Holmes was permanently commenting on the in his eyes illogical story. Watson’s note that it was really useless to criticise a several hundred years old work of Shakespeare in that way couldn’t stop the consulting detective, either. People from other loges already threw angry looks at them.
And Watson became aware that his friend actually didn’t know the play at all. Apparently something that was too trivial to find a place in his extraordinary mind, even a classical piece of art like Shakespeare’s “Hamlet”. Watson gradually started to regret the visit to the theatre. He was glad when Holmes finally grew more quiet and got nearly interested as the scene with Hamlet and his mother Gertrude in act 3 started in which Polonius hid out to spy on Hamlet.


“Hamlet will kill Polonius”, the detective predicted.


“You don’t say!”, Watson replied, shaking his head.


“How now? A rat? Dead for a ducat, dead!” On stage, Hamlet rushed to the tapestry where Polonius was hiding and stabbed him twice.


“He really killed him”, Holmes stated immediately, straightening himself up in his seat.


“Yes, that’s how Shakespeare wrote it”, Watson responded, a bit annoyed.


But Holmes rose. “No, Watson, I mean he actually stabbed the actor behind the tapestry. Can’t you see?”


Holmes turned around and left the loge in a hurry.
Puzzled, Watson stared down to the stage where Hamlet was helplessly turning around and Gertrude shouted “Curtain! Curtain!” after a few more seconds. Shortly before the curtain closed, he could spot a lifeless hand and some blood pouring from behind the tapestry. Then he grabbed their coats and hats and rushed after his friend.

He only caught up with Holmes backstage and together they reached the stage where the actors stood around, shocked, unable to do anything. The actors who played Gertrude and Horatio kneeled next to Polonius who someone had dragged in front of the tapestry. Watson pushed through the crowd. “I’m a doctor. Let me through.”

Gertrude shook her head. “He’s dead”, she said and tried to fight her tears. Watson leaned over the body and took the pulse at the man’s throat.

“He’s dead”, she repeated. “Sometimes I help in a workhouse. Unfortunately I’ve seen too many dead bodies.”
The doctor turned around, searched for Holmes’ look and shook his head.


Holmes immediately went to the actor of Hamlet. “Show me the knife!”, he demanded.

Stunned, ‘Hamlet’ stared at the bloody knife in his hand. “I... I... I didn’t want... I can’t believe... I... I did that”, he stammered.

Holmes grabbed a clean handkerchief which a nearby standing woman had just wanted to use and took the knife carefully by its hilt. He didn’t take notice of the woman’s outraged expression and examined the knife by turning it.
“Interesting. A proper blade was used”, he mumbled.


“Did someone send for the police?”, Watson asked no one in particular.


“Yes”, the player of Claudius answered. “Samuel, our stagehand, is on the way. But for heaven’s sake, who are you?”


Watson faced the actor. “I am Dr John Watson and this is Sherlock Holmes. He’s the right man to be here now, believe me.”


The actor wanted to reply something but Watson stopped him by turning his back on him, went to the front of the stage and drew back the curtain a bit. Holmes joined him, the knife still in his hand.


“The audience is angry and leaving. Shouldn’t we...”


“They can go. They aren’t required. The culprit is with us on this stage, Watson”, Holmes interrupted him.

“Oh, how I love this. Who would have thought that theatre could be so fascinating?”


“Sherlock, please”, Watson hissed and turned around again, where the players stared at the corpse and them in turns now.

Claudius seemed to be the leader and chimed in again. “You aren’t from the police, are you? What gives you the right to act like this?”


The detective ignored the man, went to the corpse, knelt down and started to examine it without saying a word.

Watson tried to defuse the situation. “You don’t have to worry. We know exactly what to do. Mr. Holmes often works with the police. And I would really appreciate it if you were as polite as we were and introduce yourself. And your company, if you don’t mind.”


Holmes glanced at his friend and smiled. ‘His’ doctor and his determined way to handle such situations, a relic of his time at the army... Watson was the only one he knew who was able to hold a candle to him, at least in this case. One of the many reasons why he appreciated him so much.

His look went back to the corpse. “Well, these are two proper stabs. Didn’t you feel the resistance, Hamlet?”

‘Hamlet’ was still stunned. “My... my name is Francis... Francis Thomas. I... I thought it was the tapestry. It’s really thick, you know? Usually... Brighton stands far enough so the knife can’t reach him. I don’t understand...”

Suddenly the crowd’s mumbling became louder again. A man accompanied by a very tall guy and three police officers entered the scene. As the man caught sight of Holmes and Watson you could read an ‘Oh, no’ on his lips.
He gave a few instructions to his men and headed directly towards the consulting detective.
“Holmes, what are YOU doing here?”

“Nice to see you too, Inspector. You won’t believe it, we came here to watch a boring play and got an exciting murder instead. By the way, this gentleman is Francis Thomas. He stabbed the victim, but he is not the murderer.”

Holmes arose and thrust the knife into Lestrade’s hand. Francis Thomas nervously ran his hands through his hair. He didn’t seem relieved at all, albeit Holmes’ conclusion.

“Sorry, what?” The inspector seemed slightly annoyed.

“That’s the murder weapon. Hamlet did murder Polonius by accident.”

Holmes went to the tapestry and pushed it aside. An open space appeared.

“The blade of that knife is too short to reach the victim without further ado. What do you think, Inspector? Six feet perhaps, from the tapestry to the wall?” Holmes stepped in. “Ah, and you can leave sideways. On the right there’s a low passage.”


He left the little chamber again. “So the question is: What made the victim stand that close to the tapestry?”


Lestrade’s look went from him to the knife in his hand and back again. “He was forced to? He guessed.


Holmes pointed at the inspector. “Excellent. I’ll leave the ‘How’ to you.”


He went to his friend and grabbed his arm. “Watson, we can leave now that the capable inspector has arrived. Let the police do their work.”


Shortly before they left the stage, Holmes turned around once again to get a general idea of the situation. The players were standing around, still shocked. Some were whispering to each other, now and then disturbed by Lestrade who questioned them. The actress of Ophelia stood a bit aloof and seemed strangely calm. The tall man who had arrived with the police stood alone at the edge of the stage, seemingly alone and also a bit angry. The Consulting Detective noted a small cut running across his forehead.
He turned back to Watson. “Come on, let’s go.”


In front of the theatre, he immediately started to question the doctor about what he had found out about the theatre cast. But before Watson gave him an answer, he first asked something in return, “Are you sure about leaving Lestrade alone with this? I am surprised that you didn’t want to go any deeper.”

“Oh, I’ve seen everything I needed to see, my dear Watson. Lestrade will do well. At least he can’t do anything wrong. So what have you got?”


“Right.” Watson opened his small notebook, using the glow of a gas lantern to read. “The victim’s name is Brighton Homrich. He does the acting just for fun, the same way he owns that theatre just for fun. He makes his living with being a ship-owner, originally located in Portsmouth. The murderer whom you don’t think to be the murderer...”

“I KNOW he isn’t the murderer.”

“Well... yes... anyway, Francis Thomas inherited the theatre from his father Charles Thomas who died due to an accident eight months ago. He fell from the loge we sat in. Francis had to sell the theatre just a few weeks ago because he couldn’t pay the debts which he inherited together with the theatre. Of course Francis’ heart was bleeding about this because his family had owned that theatre in the third generation.”

“Interesting. Who told you all that?”

“Elisabeth Newton. She plays Getrude and was very communicative. Knows a lot. Alden Rutherford, Claudius, for example was an old friend of Charles Thomas, really grieved for him and didn’t like Homrich at all. Actually no one did. George Temple, Horatio, used to work for Homrich as a bookkeeper until he suddenly decided to follow his passion in acting. It seemed to be a really unpleasant surprise for him, according to Ms. Newton, to discover that Homrich became his boss again. And Homrich in return also seemed very surprised to see him. Ms. Newton told me that there had always been a tension between them. ”

“So we have everyone but Ophelia. And the stagehand, who came back with Lestrade.”

Watson turned a page in his notebook. “Annabelle Christie is Ophelia. Astonishingly Ms. Newton didn’t know much about her. She joined the company about a year ago and is a passionate actress. But in real life she seems to be an inconspicuous and very shy person. Nobody knows exactly how old she is, certainly in her early twenties, what she did before... her origins. But Charles Thomas was absolutely enthusiastic about her, an ardent worshipper. Already rumours had started among the cast. Offside the stage she also has no contact to the other cast members whatsoever which increased the tattle. Finally... Samuel Cooper, the stagehand. Very tall, strong, hardworking... and mentally retarded. He was something like a foster son of old Thomas. He picked Samuel from the street when he was a child. Ms. Newton mentioned that she finds him a bit scary. Because he behaves very strange and weird sometimes. How did she describe him? ‘A poor soul which, if hadn’t been found by old Thomas, certainly had already died on the street or at a workhouse. Samuel really loved old Thomas like a son his father and was devastated because of the accident. Nearly more than Francis, the genuine son.”

When Watson concluded his report and looked up again, he saw a smile on his friend’s face. He wasn’t sure what to make of it and gazed at him sceptically. “What?”


Holmes slightly shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe himself what he was about to say now.
“I love you“, he answered softly.


The words raised a smile on the doctor’s face.

“Sherlock...”, he started, but was interrupted by that handsome tall man laying his hand on his arm.

“You know that, don’t you?” Holmes looked around to check whether or not they were alone, leaned forward and pressed a smooth kiss on Watson’s lips. He shivered and enjoyed being kissed deeply, but the noise of a coach turning around the corner stopped the kiss.
Holmes had no problem to turn back to business by stopping the coach. With a sigh Watson followed him into the coach.



*

Early the next morning Watson turned around in bed only to find Holmes’ side empty. He had gotten used to that a long time ago. When a problem occupied his friend’s mind he often rose with the sun to walk around lost in the deepness of his mind palace. Watson reached for Holmes’ dressing gown and threw it on. He found his friend in the parlour, fully dressed, poking at the logs in the fireplace and trying to fan the embers again.

“You are up early, Holmes.”

The addressed turned to Watson and looked at his fob watch. “For three hours and 4 minutes already to be precise, my dear Watson. Hope you slept well?”

“That means you got up”, Watson also glanced at Holmes’ watch “at four o’clock?”

“Yes. Needed a close look at the crime scene once more.”

“In the middle of the night? Who let you in?”

“I let me in, Watson. That wasn’t really a challenge. I prefer it when everything is quiet... and nobody’s around to disturb me.”

“Including me,” Watson stated a bit angry.

But Holmes didn’t get into it. Instead he ran his hand over his friend’s shoulder and back while passing him.
“I like you wearing my dressing gown. Are you wearing anything underneath it?”

Watson sighed.
“Sherlock, please, not now. Did you discover anything new? I thought you had seen all?”

The detective settled in his arm chair and put his fingertips together.
“It is always helpful to judge something from the distant. I inspected the whole stage once again including the passage next to the small chamber behind the tapestry. I was curious where it was leading. I went through it and found myself in a storeroom full of props. There are two more doors, one leading into the backstage area and one straight out onto the street. How it happened: someone came through that passage to the chamber, held Homrich so he couldn’t avoid the knife and escaped the same way.”

“You seem pretty sure about that, Holmes.”

“Indeed. And I have a hunch who did it. Just need the final proof. You should get dressed. I sent Archie to Lestrade with the request to invite the theatre people to the crime scene. We are going to do it in an unusual way this time. Calling them all to expose the murderer... yes, of course, that’s a bit unworthy to my skills. But nevertheless it could be entertaining."



*

Almost an hour later all involved parties were assembled at the theatre again. Of course they all were less than thrilled about being gathered at 8 o’clock in the morning.
Rutherford expressed it very angrily. “Who do you think you are? Who gives you the right to tease us at the crack of dawn? And, what is even worse, supported by the police. What a poor kind of inspector are you, Mr. Lestrade?”

While Lestrade tried to calm down Rutherford and the other annoyed theatre people down, Watson dragged Holmes a bit aside where the gas light rarely reached them.

“Elisabeth Newton is missing. Shouldn’t she be here as well?”

“No. There is no need for her. She is the only one without a motive for murder. Her only fault is that she pokes her nose into everything. Well… which was a bit helpful this time.”

Holmes turned to the theatre cast again. “So shall we begin?” he asked, walking slowly around, skimming along the tapestry when he reached it.

“Begin? With what?” George Temple asked provokingly.

“Ah, Mr. Temple, it’s very kind of you to volunteer to be first. You used to work in the victim’s company as a book keeper? Why did you leave?”

Temple looked around as if searching for some kind of support, but in vain, and then hesitantly answered.
“Being an actor always was my passion. I wanted to concentrate on it completely.”

“But you aren’t very good at it. To me you actually seemed very half-hearted last night.”
Holmes glanced to the other attendees. “But I’m not an expert on that. Anyone sharing my impression?”

Rutherford cleared his throat. “Yes, I’m sorry to say that, George, but in fact you aren’t a good actor at all. You don’t put much feelings into your roles. And you’re absolutely terrible at learning and remembering your lines. You will never get a lead.”

Temple felt offended. “But you had a splendid career, hadn’t you? Why aren’t you part of the cast in a big renowned house instead of stagnating at this small amateur theatre then? Too many glasses of wine before every performance?”

“Dear gentlemen”, Watson wanted to step in and calm down the situation but was kept from it by his friend.

“Excellent. I want to hear more. It’s getting interesting”, Holmes whispered.

Now Francis Thomas rose to speak. “Amateur theatre? The “Marylebone Theatre” is a traditional house. My grandfather founded it nearly a hundred years ago. We already had the most excellent plays on this stage with superb critics.”

“Ha! But the good days must have been over as soon as your father passed away. How long did it last until you had to sell the theatre?” Temple replied angrily.

“And how surprised you were, unpleasantly surprised, on discovering who your new boss was, my dear George”, Rutherford chipped in. “Perhaps a sufficient reason for a murder?”

Holmes stepped forward and stopped the action the enraged George Temple wanted to start. Watson and Lestrade also observed everything alerted, ready to intervene if needed.

“Dear gentlemen, please stay calm. There’s no need for a row. Even if you, Mr. Temple, wanted to hide from your old boss. You being here had nothing to do with ‘a passion’. You thought getting away from Portsmouth, to a big city like London, and to a place you never expected Homrich to show up would be safe. How much money did you embezzle while working as a book keeper in Homrich’ s company? It certainly wasn’t enough to make a good living for long, was it?”

Temple gasped for air. “It wasn’t... I didn’t.”

Holmes waved aside. “Don’t worry, Mr.Temple. I don’t think, no, I know you didn’t do it. You just are a small fraud. You couldn’t carry out a murder without an accomplice. And there is no one around here who would help you. Because nobody really likes you.”

“Reminds you of someone, doesn't it?”, Lestrade whispered to Watson, nodding slightly. The doctor gave him a knowing smile.

“What about you, Mr. Rutherford?” The consulting detective went on.

“About me?” Rutherford replied and folded his arms defensively.

“You were good friend with old Thomas, a very good friend actually. What do you think about his incapable son and this chinless wonder ruining your friend’s lifework?

“Francis is a good boy”, Rutherford answered in high dudgeon. “It’s not his fault that the theatre had to be sold. Times aren’t easy for small companies like his. Rich people go into the big theatres and our small one is sparsely attended. Homrich was a ghoul. But he ‘did’ spend the money to save the “Marylebone”. So, what can I say?” With his last sentences he became quieter.


Holmes turned to his friend and slightly shook his head, which meant, ‘It wasn’t him.’


“Well, seems that I was wrong then”, Holmes said while observing everyone intently.

“Holmes... says he’s wrong?” Lestrade asked in disbelief.

Watson grinned. “You don’t really believe that, my dear Inspector, do you?”


“It indeed looks like Hamlet murdered Polonius. And his accomplice was a tall strong man who held the victim and then escaped from the murder scene through the passage aside.”

Holmes looked at the stagehand, Samuel Cooper, who as a reaction hesitantly touched his forehead.


“Oh yes, Mr. Cooper, you didn’t pay attention, being in a hurry, and banged your head against the small passage. Not easy for a tall man like you though you certainly know the way blindly.”


“I... That’s not true. I didn’t murder... I didn’t know...!” Francis Thomas tried to defend himself desperately, yet not very convincingly.


Holmes put his finger tips together in front of his face.
“Right, but if you didn’t put Mr. Cooper up to help you, what made him doing it? What did you mention to him?”


Francis Thomas frowned and looked at the stagehand.

“I can’t remember saying anything to Samuel, that... Well, I was angry and disappointed when I had to sell the theatre. It could be that I said things...”


“Things like...?” The detective wanted to know.

Thomas shrugged.

“Like... that if my father hadn’t died before, this sale would certainly have killed him. And Homrich would have been his murderer. Silly things someone says when it gets emotional.”


“But... but... you said, Homrich did it, Francis. He killed father!” Samuel shouted excitedly. Nervously he wiped his face with both hands and then stared at Francis with wide opened eyes.


“Samuel, no. I meant it in the figurative sense. You know how father was killed. He fell from that loge... lost his balance. It was an accident. Oh my god... Samuel!” Francis Thomas replied stunned.


Before anybody could go in for something, Samuel Cooper ran over to Annabelle Christie and held her, with a knife at her throat. “Don’t... don’t come closer!”


“Oh my god, Samuel.” Francis Thomas repeated in a low voice.


Slowly Samuel stepped backwards, holding poor Annabelle as a shield in front of him. Watson and Lestrade had stood at the side behind Cooper and started to move carefully. But Holmes shook his head without looking at them. Watson understood and stopped Lestrade.

“Holmes needs some more time”, he hissed to the Inspector.


“He needs time? For what? I think, Ms. Christie hasn’t got any time.”


“We have to trust Holmes, Inspector. I do”, the doctor replied with a piercing glance.


Lestrade wanted to say something but that glance let him remain quiet.


They both watched what happened next.


Holmes started walking around, but not towards Cooper. Instead he circled him in a certain distance.


“Don’t come near me. I will kill her!” Cooper shouted with manic eyeballs.


“Calm down, my dear Sir”, Holmes tried to quieten him, “I’m not coming closer. The distance is constant, you see?”


Cooper breathed heavily. His hand with the knife trembled at Annabelle Christie’s throat.


“You murdered the wrong one, you know?” The consulting detective went on, still circling with slow steps around the tall man and his hostage. “Homrich didn’t kill Charles Thomas. You made a mistake. But you are going to correct it as I notice.”


“Correct it? Can’t... can’t make him... alive again. Francis lied to me!”


“I didn’t tell you to kill anybody. I didn’t tell you that Homrich was guilty of Father’s death!” Francis Thomas cried in defence.


Holmes saw tears running down Cooper's cheeks, who had become a murderer because of deep love and his missing ability to understand.


“Correct in terms of judging the real murderer now.”


“What... what do you mean?” Cooper stammered.


“I mean you wanted to punish the murderer of Charles Thomas. And you are holding her right in your arms now.”

Holmes’ words made all attenders gasp.


Inspector Lestrade reacted first.

“You are asserting that Ms. Christie killed old Thomas?”


Holmes gave him a serious look. “Dear Inspector, I’m not asserting, I know that Ms. Christie killed Charles Thomas.”


He looked back at Cooper and his hostage. Fear... and anger were reflected in his and... her face.


“Tell me, Ms. Christie, what exactly happened the night, Thomas fell from that balcony. I assume, he became importunate? And that wasn’t the first time. That time you and him alone at the theatre he not only wanted a touch, a kiss. No. he wanted more, much more. He thought, you should be... thankful. A young woman... alone... in this big town. You certainly needed a strong man to protect you. That was what he was convinced about. And he wanted to be that man, with the whole range he thought to be entitled to. But you didn’t want that. This old disgusting man...”


“Yes! Yes! You are right!” Annabelle Christie suddenly cried out. And Samuel Cooper was so shocked, that he loosened his grip and let her go.


“He was a creep. Always wanted my best, ha? He couldn’t keep his dirty thick fingers away from me. That night he was drunk. He restrained me and...” She started sobbing. “I managed to free myself and pushed him away. Only realised what happened as he flailed his arms. The balustrade is low...”


She dropped on her knees and wept inconsolably. Holmes nodded to Lestrade who took the chance to throw the totally stunned Samuel Cooper to the floor and put handcuffs on.


The police officer who attended the inspector went to Annabelle Christie and pulled her up.


“Unbelievable!” Watson stated after joining his friend. “How could you know all that?”


“Implications of everything Ms. Newton told you. Always read between the lines, my Dear Watson, and observe, of course. Old Thomas was a creep as Ms. Christie said, driven by his unsound mind. Rutherford is a big sedate dog which barks but doesn’t bite, Francis Thomas, only a desperate young man who tried to rescue his heritage. Samuel Cooper... just a poor chap who wanted to revenge his mentor’s death but made the wrong decision. Well, and Annabelle Christie? She really needed protection but didn’t get it. She will not be able to prove the self-defence. And, you know what? Now I feel like having breakfast. I hope you told the coachman to wait.”


Once more the consulting detective cast a satisfied glance at those assembled and then turned around to leave the scene. Watson followed him, mumbling, “Breakfast? He wants to eat? Now?”


As they sat in the coach on their way home Watson dug deeper. “You’re serious? You just caught two murderers and want to have breakfast?”


Holmes smiled. “Oh John, I’m unbelievably hungry. You... in my dressing gown this morning... I'm sure you know what I want for breakfast.” And he bent over to close his doctor’s mouth with his lips.

 

Christmas Is ForGiving

for BreathingIsBoring

Secret Santa Fic Exchange 2015



2 PM, The Watson's. Christmas Eve. “JOHN!” Mary’s irritated voice rang throughout the flat, combining with the shrill, anguished howling of the littlest Watson, Claire. Om the couch, pressed as far into the cushions of the couch as he could get, John Watson screwed up his eyes, and clenched his fists and gritted his teeth, remaining silent.


3:50 PM: Something heavy clanged to the floor in the kitchen. “John!” Mary called, sharply. “Come and help me!” John buried his face into the back of the couch. Claire began to cry again.


3:55 PM: Something was burning and an acrid stench of smoke began to waft into the sitting room, making John’s eyes water. He absolutely could not make himself get up off the couch, he couldn’t make himself answer his wife. Tears began to slip down his cheeks and he told himself that it was the smoke.


4:20 PM: Something warm and wet and stinky was shoved into his arms. Mewling. Crying. John opened his eyes. His arms were full of wriggling, wet 18-month old girl. Her diaper was leaking. Her eyes were leaking, too. Along with her nose. John blinked. His daughter. But she didn’t feel— like his.


He thought back, feeling numb. When Claire was born, John had a lot of trouble bonding with her. Of course, there had been no lack of impediment caused by his wife. Mary had gone to a private hospital for the birth and said that she preferred to have the baby on her own, “in dignity”. Said something about how witnessing a birth was bad for the sex life in a marriage. Not that they’d been having sex, anyway. Not after Mary shot Sherlock. John hadn’t even seen his daughter until nearly three days after the birth. He hadn’t even been allowed to hold her until Mary was sure he’d not pass on anything to her. Mary named the child Claire, after her favorite magazine. John thought it was as good a name as any.


So now, he John felt— disconnected from this tiny child, screaming in his lap. He had to force himself to pick her up, and take her to the bathroom for a change. He hated every minute of it and hated himself for it. He brought the child back into the kitchen. Mary stood at the counter, mixing bowl before her, a carton of eggs precariously perched on a cookbook.


“No.” Mary took one look at John, frowning. “It’s your turn.” She broke an egg into the mixing bowl. “Everyone will be here tonight, and I’ve got to get this done.” “She cracked another egg, cursed, then fished broken eggshell out of the bowl. “Finish the tree.”


“Mary—” John started.


“The tree, John. The rest of the fairy lights, the tinsel! Finish. Take Claire with you.”


John didn’t feel like arguing. He took Claire into the sitting room and sat her on the floor. She was sniffling again. John tried to distract her with tinsel and finally gave her a handful. She settled after that, gurgling merrily as she ripped it to pieces and mouthed it.


John put on the radio, horrible, maudlin Christmas music, but that was what Mary wanted, so that’s what they listened to. She insisted, because it was normal. And that’s what they were. Normal. That’s what John had wanted, too, he reminded himself. Normality. Boring, banal, stultifying normality.


He’d gone to visit Sherlock one day in June and told Sherlock that from then on, he had to focus on his family. He wouldn’t have time for cases. He needed to keep his family safe. Sherlock said it first. “And, I’m not safe.” And, with a sad pained smile, Sherlock had held out his hand to shake John’s in farewell. John couldn’t take it, not this time. He simply had said, “Goodbye, Sherlock,” and then he’d left, never to return to 221B. He’d never looked back.


Mary had lots of friends. John had none of his own. Mary’s friends would come tonight and eat their food and exchange presents and John would try to be normal. But he wasn’t normal was he? No matter how much he wanted to be or tried to be, he felt as if he were suffocating in Mary’s forced normality.


This is what you signed up for, John reminded himself. You forgave her, and that’s that. You chose this.



6:21 PM: John jolted awake. Claire was gone. Someone was banging at the door. There was yelling. More like command voices. John shot to his feet, went to the door. “Mary?” She must have put Claire down for a nap. “Mary?” No answer. Errand? John looked through the peephole. Two men looked like coppers— or maybe Mycroft’s minions. Heaving a great sigh, John opened the door.


Both men were tall and broad and grim.


“Yes?” John answered.


One of the men, with sandy crew-cut hair and horn-rimmed glasses, spoke while his darker, non-bespectacled partner sized John up. “We have a warrant for the arrest of Mary Watson.”


John went cold as the sandy-haired man flashed his badge. Interpol. And American CIA— John thought as the other man held out his badge for inspection.


“For what?”


“Where is she, Doctor Watson?”


John heard voices behind the men and peered around them to see what had happened.


There were a lot of people— a lot of them— CO19 Force Firearms Unit? More agents from America?


John could hear glass breaking in the kitchen, the kitchen door thudding open— the heavy tread of booted feet— the ratcheting sound of weapons being cocked, loaded for bear.


“She’s not here.” One of the men said. The sandy-haired agent gave John an appraising glance.



“The child?”, he asked.



“Claire?” John whispered.



“No. AGRA took her, too.”



“Claire.” John sank to the floor. “Mary—”



**



9:35PM.


All of the officers and agents had gone. John sat on the floor in a detritus of toppled tree, trampled presents and rifled and scattered belongings.


All of Mary’s weapons had been confiscated. John’s old gun had been locked away in storage, and so hadn’t been at the flat. Mary had kept all her old gear… in very good shape, shut behind a false wall in the hall closet. Two of the guns had recently been fired, cleaned. John’s and Mary’s joint accounts had been cleaned out. All of Claire’s clothes were gone. Diapers, everything. Of course, Claire had never been John’s to begin with. For that matter, neither was Mary.


It was all gone. Everything. The dream was gone.



And what Mary had done… there was no coming back from this. Not ever.



John got up off the floor and went to get his day bag. In it, under the folded shirts, and other things he took with him on his ride to work— a respectable roll of cash. He stuffed it in his jeans pocket along with his phone, then picked up his coat off the floor and walked out of the flat.



**



10:50 PM, Kinnison’s Pub.


John wanted to forget. He kept slamming shots of whiskey, and he slammed beer after beer. He still remembered. He wanted to slam his head against the wooden bar but sensed that would only get him thrown out. So, he refrained and had another two fingers of whiskey. He wanted to scream, but he was feeling warm, (actually sweating) and hazy and soft and hurt and angry but too drunk to do anything about it. He dug his phone out of his pocket, dropped it, and nearly fell off the barstool retrieving it. He clambered back up and punched in a number.


“John.” A female voice, gravelly. Oh, right— his sister.



John could barely get his mouth to work. “Harr—”



“John, what’s wrong?”



“She’s— Harry— I think I’m drunk.”



“Where are you?”



**


Sometime Later, that night:


There was someone sitting next to him. He was in a dark place. But he’d been at the bar— where— what had happened?


“John?”



That voice.



“John, are you hearing me?”



“Where am I ?” John whispered. His head hurt. His eyes hurt. It was too— everything.



“John, it’s me.” John’s eyes finally focused on a very worried looking Sherlock. “You’re at Baker Street. Harry called me.”



“Tired.” John felt himself slipping, inexorably into the pit of the dead drunk. He wasn’t going to be conscious much longer. “Spinning.”



Sherlock sighed. “I know. Down you go. Try to sleep.”




**




John woke up in the dark. It felt familiar. It smelled right. Comforting. There was enough light in the room to see his phone on his bedside table. He got it, groaned. Hungover—no, still drunk. 2AM. He wasn’t at home.


He was in his old bedroom at Baker Street. Sherlock had to have come to get him from the bar.


Back at baker Street. He started to get up. He wasn’t supposed to be here. This was all Sherlock’s fault.


He wept.



**



3:45PM. Christmas Day, Baker Street.



Murmuring voices downstairs in the sitting room. Mycroft, then. Right. Time to face the music.


“Dr. Watson.” Mycroft sat in Sherlock’s chair, looking unusually grim.


Sherlock sat on the sofa, as brittle and pained John had ever seen him. He stared at Mycroft, his expression almost pleading.


John made his way to his own chair and sank into it. “What happened to Mary and Claire?” He was proud that his voice wasn’t shaky. Both his hands were, but he couldn’t even be bothered to hide it.



Mycroft pursed his lips. He bowed his head, then raised his head and met John’s eyes. “I’m truly sorry to tell you this, John. Mary has been captured and is being extradited back to the United States where she will be held on charges of murder and kidnapping. That’s in addition to other international charges. Claire will be sent back to her father, in Peoria, Illinois.”


John couldn’t speak. He tried, but all that came out was a wheezing breath as if he’d been punched hard in the solar plexus.


Sherlock half-rose from his seat, but sank back down— hands flopping in his lap, uselessly. His eyes were sad, so sad.


Mycroft’s voice was a little hoarse. “Mary murdered Claire’s mother for the baby. That’s why you weren’t allowed anywhere near the birth— because there was no birth. She wanted you to think the child was yours, but since she was never pregnant—”


“Oh, God.” John choked, “She— was a monster—”


“I’m so sorry, John.” Mycroft stood. “I will personally take care of any details or arrangements needed.I promise you,” he said— looking first at John and then Sherlock, who nodded slowly. “—I’ll do all I can for you.” He left, and then John and Sherlock were alone.



**



“So, how long did you know?” John spat.



Sherlock just looked at John. “What?”



“You had to have known.” John launched himself up from the chair, beginning to pace around the room. “You know everything. You knew.”


“No- John, I—”


“This is your fault.”


“John—”


John sputtered in his rage, "You-- you LIED to me. About Moriarty, about MARY! Why didn't you tell me! Why didn't you warn me---"


Sherlock stood, eyes on the carpet, shoulders hunched. " I didn't lie to you about Mary." He lifted his gaze to meet John's. "I stayed out of it because I thought that's what you wanted.That’s what you told me you wanted, John."


"So it's MY fault! Always, always--- "


"I didn't choose for you---"


"YES YOU DID!" John howled, stepping towards Sherlock, both hands clenched into fists. "You bloody well did choose for me. YOU made the decision to make me think you were dead, just so you could go off and play hide-and-go-seek with Moriarty's people. It was fun for you, was it? Easy to fool John. YOU decided not to deduce Mary, and left me to marry a bloody assassin! You're the reason Claire doesn't have a mother-- you're the one-- you're responsible-- you ruined my whole life--"



Sherlock’s legs seemed to go out from under him and he fell to his hands and knees, his whole body trembling. “Stop it, John.”, he whispered. “Please, stop.”



John looked down at his hands, made into brutal fists. He’d been about to hit Sherlock. Again. He really thought he would have killed him, beaten him until he was pulped flesh, bloody and lifeless. He could see it so clearly and it made him gag. What kind of man was he? Shuddering with horror, he backed away. “What am I doing? What—”


“Please, John— don’t go.” Sherlock sat back on his heels, exhaustedly. “Don’t leave. Stay here, with me.”


“I—” Unwillingly, John took a hesitant step towards Sherlock.


“John, it’s Christmas.”


John reached down, and Sherlock took his hand to be pulled to his feet. They stood, two men, damaged men— men who had hurt each other in the worst ways; two men who needed each other to heal, to love and be loved. There could be no more secrets.


“I missed you so much, Sherlock.” John reached out and grasped both Sherlock’s wrists. “I’ve missed you so terribly…because I’ve always loved you, and I could never admit it.”


“I know. I love you, too.” Sherlock bent his head to touch his forehead to John’s. “Do you think we can—”



“Forgive each other?” John moved closer to Sherlock and released his wrists to slide both arms around him. They were leaning against each other, holding each other up. That’s how it should have been from the beginning.



“I think we can. ” Sherlock said, voice husky against John’s ear, the corner of his mouth. “It’s Christmas, John. Anything is possible.”



Fini
 

Aiden Gruner had always been an arrogant, self-centred man, and Ms Adler had no time for those. Well, aside from the possible exception of Sherlock Holmes but then, he was everyone’s exception.
She had first encountered him in her work life. He had experimented with BDSM and decided it was not to his liking after all, but then she had given him the whipping of his life. Afterwards he’d attempted to woo her with his charms. It didn’t work. She saw something in him from the very second he walked through the door. Something dark. Something not right. She’d always had a good sensor for it and in the majority of circumstances found herself drawn to the ‘bad boys’, knowing they were wrong and taking enjoyment in it. But not Gruner. Gruner gave her the creeps.
She’d forgotten all about him until she heard about the court case, and the death of his wife. She liked to keep up with the news and, in her business, she heard a lot of whispers, rumours, news stories before they’d even hit the press. It wasn’t difficult at all for her to believe that Gruner had murdered the unfortunate woman, so when she received an e-mail from the man asking her advice with regards to Sherlock Holmes, she began to get both suspicious and worried.
Although Mr Holmes and her hadn’t exactly been the best of friends, they had shared a special kind of relationship that no one else could fathom or comprehend and a few secrets that only the two of them were party to, certainly not Aiden Gruner, who, judging from his e-mail, still believed the two of them were enemies.

Irene.

Long time no see, or speak. How are you, my dear? I still have fond memories of our all too brief encounter.

On this occasion, however, it’s a man named Sherlock Holmes I wish to confer with you about. My sources tell me that you and he came head to head a few years ago and now the pest is dogging my heels as he once dogged yours.

How did you manage to shake him? What are his weaknesses and failings? Any information you can give me would be most valuable and rewarded highly with whatever you desire. I remember you being a woman with most expensive tastes. Those dresses of yours do not come cheap.

I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Kind regards,
Bn. Aiden Gruner.

Her old e-mail address was still up and running despite the fact that her website and Twitter account had long since been left to rot after her ‘death’. People still occasionally contacted her on it. She never replied, of course. That would blow her cover. And in this instance, she didn’t reply either. She couldn’t even risk sending an e-mail to Holmes. Instead, she packed up a small bag and made her way back to the UK, travelling under a fake passport and name like she always did whenever she needed to go anywhere.
Now, she found herself stood over Sherlock Holmes’ bedside, after he had given word to the nurses that she was most certainly allowed to come in and see him.
“You didn’t have to bring flowers,” he croaked, his voice a hoarse whisper.
“Well, what kind of date would it be if I didn’t?”
“A less…smelly one?” He scrunched up his nose at the overly pongy roses.
“Oh, so you admit it’s a date then?” She smirked, pushing back her shawl off her hair and shaking it out.
“Now’s hardly the time for flirting, Ms Adler. What are you doing here? You know, if anyone saw you…”
“Relax,” she rolled her eyes. “No one saw me, Sherly. And I think you’re probably big and clever enough to work out why I’m here…”
“Aiden Gruner?” Sherlock took an educated guess, reaching out with one hand to turn up the levels of morphine with a soft groan.
Irene nodded.
“How did you know I was here?”
“All over the newspapers.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed.
“Although naturally I called round to Baker Street first. But you weren’t there.”
“Surprised John didn’t come with you.”
“Well, that’s just the thing…John wasn’t there either. And according to Mrs Hudson, he didn’t come home last night.”
“Must have struck it lucky with that girl then,” Sherlock mumbled.
“So, naturally, I tried your phone,” she continued relaying her story. “No answer.”
“Mm.”
“Then I tried John’s phone. No answer there either.”
“Mm, so what was your next course of action? Do share, I’m fascinated,” murmured Sherlock sarcastically, his left eye still half closed from the vicious beating, but his right one looking at her keenly.
“Well, I tried to think what the great Sherlock Holmes might do, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I hacked into John’s laptop.”
There was a small flicker of a smirk across the detective’s lips.
“His password wasn’t hard to guess.”
“Never is,” muttered Sherlock.
“He really needs to be more security conscious.”
“I’ve tried.”
“Anyway, I found the e-mail off this mystery woman he was supposed to be meeting. It was the IP address attached that interested me the most.”
“Really? How so?”
“I recognised it. John wasn’t going on a date. He was going to meet Aiden Gruner.”
The smirk vanished from Sherlock’s face. He reached out again and turned down the morphine. “He was set up.”
“Precisely.”
“What did you do next?” he asked eagerly.
“I made my way over to the address where ‘she’ had told him to meet her. Somewhere near Charing Cross. Didn’t see anything of interest but then, I wasn’t exactly sure what I was expecting. That was where I saw the newspaper headline about you. After that I made my way straight over here. Called big brother on the way.”
“Mycroft,” Sherlock spat out the name with disdain and attempted to roll his eyes, failing miserably. “Why d’you have to involve him?” Although really, Sherlock already knew the answer and deep down, he had to reluctantly admit it was most probably the best move with regards to finding John as quickly as possible. He was certainly in no fit state to rescue him in his current condition, and with Mycroft’s access to CCTV cameras all over the city, they could easily track down where John was taken and mount a successful rescue operation, which was exactly what was being planned right at that very moment.
Naturally, Mycroft Holmes had been somewhat surprised to learn of the continued existence of Miss Irene Adler, but right now it was a case of ‘ask questions later.’ John Watson needed him, and his little brother needed John Watson. He had heard of Sherlock’s unfortunate accident at the hands of Gruner’s men. He wouldn’t bother paying a visit to the hospital. Despite his numerous injuries, he knew the detective would pull through perfectly fine, and that he would want him to be focused on John and John alone, which was exactly what he did.
First of all, the CCTV cameras on that quiet corner round the back of Charing Cross were checked, in lieu of Ms Adler’s information. Sure enough, John Watson could be seen approaching with his hands in his pockets, soon to be met by a black car screeching round the corner, the back door flying open. As he turned to run, he was shot by an outstretched hand and knocked unconscious, falling flat on his face and no doubt injuring himself somewhat in the process. Once he was out cold, that same man leapt from the vehicle and dragged him into the back seat before the car was driven away.
Mycroft paused on the video and had it zoomed in on his face, ordering snapshots to be taken and background checks made, to try and identify the suspect from his photograph. Of course, the next move was to get a clear shot of the licence plate on the vehicle, trace the owner, and find out as much as possible about that. In the end, it was hardly needed, and the mystery of where John had been taken was a very simple one to solve. So simple that Mycroft began to get suspicious that whoever was behind it actually wanted John to be found. The vehicle made no attempt to disguise itself, stuck to all the main roads through the city, and was, as a result, easily traced on CCTV cameras to its final location at an abandoned factory near Greenwich.
“I want a full team over there,” Mycroft demanded, frowning as the growing suspicions swirled round his overly large brain. “No expense or man power spared.” If there was someone waiting for them ready to attack, they would be in for a bit of a shock.

***

John’s negotiations with his captor had been going fairly well.
The two of them had bonded over their joint experiences in the army and he was beginning to suspect he might be able to talk him down from his job if he’d been given another couple of hours with him.
In the end, it didn’t get that far.
The door to the warehouse was kicked open, sending sunlight streaming in, followed by eight men with guns all pointing at Harris, the ex-army man whose name John had managed to learn during their time together.
Faced with such impossible odds, he immediately raised his hands into the air and dropped to his knees.
“Don’t shoot him!” John cried out. “Don’t shoot!”
Mycroft’s team came rushing over and surrounded Harris, pushing him to the ground on his face and dragging his hands behind his back to be cuffed.
It was over within seconds and John was soon getting untied and seen to by a medical man.
“Where’s Sherlock?” was his first question, slightly confused as to why all these government guys were here instead of his friend.

***

“Jesus Christ, what happened?” John Watson stormed into the hospital room in a panic, his face still grazed and a little cut up from his kidnap but otherwise in a fairly good condition, unlike the detective, who looked as though he’d done several rounds with a professional boxer.
“I’m fine,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. Or tried to. “I see Mycroft’s rescue went according to plan.”
“He’s an efficient man, your brother, I’ll give him that,” smiled Irene. “Could be quite a turn on if he wasn’t…well…you know…”
John did an immediate double take.
In his haste and eagerness to see Sherlock, the curly haired detective was the only person he’d focused on upon his arrival into the room. Now, however, he turned to Irene Adler with an expression of shock and surprise.
“But you’re…Jesus…” He spluttered.
“Not quite.”
“Dead!”
“Definitely not.”
“Again?!”
“It would appear so.”
“How the hell d’you keep doing this?!”
She laughed and glanced at Sherlock. “Shall we tell him, Mr Holmes?”
“Mm, not really important, is it? Don’t want to blow your cover.”
“Oh, I think it’s a little late for that.”
“Ugh, you two, this again,” John grumbled under his breath. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone.”
“Good. Now we can get down to business about how we’re going to stop this guy,” said Sherlock, pushing the electronic device on the side of his bed to get himself into a sitting position.
“Gruner? Was it Gruner who had me kidnapped?”
“Of course it was Gruner. And it was Gruner who had me beat up while I was trying to break into his house.”
“You were trying to what?!”
“Oh relax, John. It’s not like we haven’t done it before.”
“Yeah, but now look at you.”
“He would have done this anyway. He’s trying to put us off investigating him.”
“It’s bloody working,” John grumbled, stuffing his hands into his pockets and pacing up and down the small hospital room before finally settling at the left side of Sherlock’s bed, with Irene stood directly opposite him on the right side. He loved to complain, but deep down he knew that neither of them were prepared to give up on this guy.
“My plan to use you as a distraction isn’t going to work anymore, John,” continued Sherlock. “He obviously already knows who you are so we’ll have to think of something else.”
“Wait, what? What?” snapped the small, angry army doctor. “You were going to use me as a distraction? Oh, thanks very much. How?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Get you to go round and knock on his door and try to sell him something. Chinese pottery or something, I hadn’t worked out the finer details.”
“Whilst you did what?”
“Had a snoop round his house and found some evidence.”
“What kind of evidence?”
“Won’t know until I see it.”
“Wow, this is a really solid plan, Sherlock, Jesus…”
“Well, it doesn’t matter now anyway because, like I said, he already knows who you are so we’ll have to think of something else.”
“He’s right though,” Irene spoke up. “There is evidence in there. I’ve seen it.”
Sherlock turned his head to look from John to Irene. “Expand.”
“Well, as I briefly explained, Gruner and I have a sort of…history. I was at his house once and he showed me this…book.”
“Book?”
“Mmhm. He trusted me. It’s a mistake a lot of guys make after I beat them.”
John grimaced slightly. “So what’s in this book?”
“It’s basically a book of all the women he’s slept with, screwed over, taken advantage of. It’s got their names…dates…and what he managed to get out of them. Little notes by each name. ‘Declared her love for me after one night in the bedroom’ or ‘lent me 10k. I never paid it back’. Things like that.”
“Sounds charming,” muttered John.
“Oh, he was proud of it too. That’s the kind of guy he is. I don’t know any woman in their right minds who’d want to associate with a low down piece of scum like that.”
“That’s pretty damning coming from yourself. You’re not exactly Miss Moralistic.”
“Mm, this is good news though,” said Sherlock. “All we need to do is get our hands on that book and show it to Molly. She may be smitten and in love but she isn’t stupid.”
John shot Sherlock a quick look of surprise, mingled with admiration and respect. The detective had been mean to Molly over the years; chastised her, made fun of her, deduced her in public and mocked her, but bubbling underneath the surface there was a respect and love for the bubbly, innocent morgue attendant he rarely allowed anyone to witness.
“That just might work,” he nodded.
“It has to work. She obviously doesn’t believe that he murdered his wife,” sighed Sherlock. “Unless we can get some hard evidence to prove otherwise. I don’t suppose he wrote about that in his little book?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see all of it. Just one page,” replied Irene. “He keeps it in the library in his house. Hidden behind some kind of weird secret panel behind the Bible.”
“I’ll find it. All I need is some time. Can you do it?” He looked directly at Irene.
“Me?”
“Her?” John scoffed.
“Yes,” snapped the impatient detective. “I’ve already explained that I can’t use you anymore, whereas Irene already has an established relationship with him. He apparently trust her. It would be easy for her to arrange a visit to his house on false pretences. Would it not?” He looked from John to Irene for approval.
“Actually, yes. He wants to know as much as possible about you.”
“Perfect. Tell him anything you like. Just keep him talking. Now I just need to check out this damn hospital.”
“Sherlock, you got a severe beating, you need to rest up for a while,” John protested.
“I’ll be fine,” Sherlock insisted. “Get me some morphine to go and sign me out. I’ll have my personal doctor take care of me.”
“Who’s that?”
“You, you idiot.”

***

Despite Sherlock’s childish obstinacy that seemed to disregard his own health in favour of action, John still successfully managed to keep him at home for the next two days, persuading him that it would be a good idea to allow Gruner to think that they had given up. Eventually though, he could stand it no longer, and despite still being fairly badly bruised, the arrangements were made between Irene and Gruner, and Sherlock tagged along for a meeting at the criminal’s expansive residence.
John was once again dispatched to wait around the corner, grumbling and complaining under his breath as he wrapped his hand around the butt of his gun, safely tucked away in his inside pocket and ready for action. He was close enough to the house to be able to tell if something was going wrong, and available to rush in at any minute. He was kind of hoping something would go wrong. It had been ages since he’d got to use the gun.
Sherlock ducked down, unseen on the outside of the gate, obscured by one of the perfectly trimmed hedges, as Irene pressed the buzzer and announced her arrival. Soon, the electronic gates were opening and she was strolling on in. Once he’d ensured she was inside and happily chatting to Gruner, distracting him, Sherlock jumped up and scrambled over the gates, albeit not as athletically as he had done the first time, due to his many injuries. He winced and grimaced and struggled his way through, not allowing himself to be beaten down by the pain. This was more important and he would rise above it.
“Are you alright?” John hissed from round the corner, hearing the awkward landing.
“Yes, I’m fine,” Sherlock hissed back. “Stop worrying.”
“Somebody bloody has to…”
The determined detective picked himself up again and carried on, sneaking round the corner of the building to the back door, which he decided would be easier to gain entry seeing as the living room next to the front door was currently occupied by Irene and Gruner, having their nice pleasant chat.
He glanced up at the security camera warily, then quietly got out his tool kit and began to pick the lock.
Sherlock Holmes could be modest when he wanted to be. There were plenty of people who were much better at picking locks than he was, but nevertheless, he was still rather good, and found himself safely inside within two minutes and thirty seven seconds, which disappointingly didn’t beat his record.
He silently looked around the room he was standing in. Some kind of open plan dining area with a conservatory and view of the garden. He could hear the voices of the other two occupants a few rooms away. The hallway was directly in front of him, with two rooms on the right hand side and one room on the left, built underneath the staircase.
He crept on his tip toes and tried the room on the right first.
The office.
Although it was tempting to have a nose around in the desk drawers, he’d already been told where to find Gruner’s precious book, so he needed to find the library as quickly as possible and get out before he was discovered.
It was the room to the left that he tried next then, turning the handle slowly and pushing it inwards. He saw a glimpse of books in the darkness and his heart gave an excited flutter, realising he’d struck gold. He reached his hand in and fumbled for a light switch on the wall, finding it and flicking it on. The ceiling spotlights gleamed into life and revealed the library in all its glory – four walls of bookshelves stacked from floor to ceiling. It was an impressive collection, and one which Sherlock would have enjoyed perusing at his leisure if he’d had the time. Instead, he walked from row to row, shelf to shelf, scanning his eyes over the title of every book looking for the Bible. Gruner was helpful enough to have kept the books in some kind of order. Political biographies and journals were all in the same section, as was History, Science, Fiction, and of course, Religion.
There were four copies of the Bible, but Sherlock went for the biggest and the fattest, removing it carefully from the shelf. He didn’t bother flicking through the pages or even looking at the front cover, because he saw what he was after immediately on the shelf behind where the book had been kept.
A square panel, about one foot by one foot, built into the wood of the book shelf. He removed his gloves and prized it open with his fingernails. It gave way with a little popping noise to reveal a hidden compartment, with a leatherbound black book resting inside.
He swiftly removed it, then glanced over his shoulder instinctively as he heard movement in the living room.
He didn’t have time to check whether this was the right book, or read any of the contents. Everything Irene had told him had been correct so far. He hurriedly slammed the panel shut, put the Bible back, turned off the light and left the room and quickly and as silently as humanely possible, headed back the way he had come in, through the conservatory and out of the back door, just as he heard:
“Well, it’s been very nice to see you again, Ms Adler.”
He raced round the corner at full speed, the little black book tucked under his arm, wanting to clamber over the fence again before the front door opened.
He took a running jump and scaled it, landing with a painful thud on the hard pavement beyond and ripping open a couple of his stitches in the process. The adrenalin had kept him going throughout it all but now, everything came back in a wave of agony, his vision blurring out and turning red and white at the edges.
John, waiting patiently round the corner, had witnessed Sherlock’s hasty escape and came rushing round, pulling his friend into his arms and dragging him out of sight away from the gates as Gruner opened the door to show Irene out.
“Jesus, Sherlock…can you hear me?” He cradled the detective in his lap and looked down at him worriedly.
“Mmm…” Sherlock murmured in response, his eyes half closed. “I’m fine.”
“Yeah, that’s what you always say, whether you’re fine or not. I’m calling us a cab, I need to redo your stitches.” He could see the blood starting to seep through Sherlock’s pristine white shirt.
High heels click clacked on the concrete as Irene joined them. “He’ll be fine,” she said with an air of authority. “I’m sure he’s been through worse.”
“Excuse me, I’m the doctor around here,” John muttered impatiently. “I’ll be the one to decide whether he’s fine or not. Call a cab.”
“Is that an order, Captain?” she teased, smirking as she took out her phone and ordered a private chauffer.
John rolled his eyes slightly. He was in no mood for jokes. “Yeah, it bloody well is.”
Irene Adler still obviously pulled some authority round London, however, because five minutes later they were sat on comfortable white leather seats being driven in a Mercedes with blacked out windows back to Baker Street.
“Try not to get blood on the seats, Mr Holmes,” Irene popped her handbag and took out a mirror to inspect her make up. “I get billed for it every time that happens.”
“Endeavouring not to,” Sherlock muttered, clutching his stomach.
“Does it happen often?” John asked, getting only a smirk from Irene in response.
Once they got back to the flat, John did a quick patch up job on Sherlock’s stitches whilst the detective perused through their find from Gruner’s library, his eyes widening in delight. “This is perfect,” he announced. “If this doesn’t change her mind about the guy, nothing will.”
“I told you,” Irene smirked, leaning over Sherlock’s shoulder and pecking him on the cheek.
Sherlock didn’t bat an eyelid, barely even noticed the show of affection he was so engrossed. John glared at the two of them protectively. He didn’t want Irene messing around with his friend’s emotions again, if that was even what she did last time. He still wasn’t entirely sure.
“Shall I give her a ring?” He offered, wanting to get himself more involved in an effort to push Irene out. She’d done her bit; she could leave the rest to them now. “Tell he we’ve got something she ought to see.”
But before Sherlock could answer, the laptop beeped loudly from its position on the desk they were sat next to, alerting them to a message having come through from the website.
That meant clients.
John grabbed it and dragged it onto his lap, eagerly opening up the e-mail and giving a quiet gasp of surprise, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead. “It’s him. It’s…off Gruner.”
Sherlock snatched the laptop from him without saying a word and flipped it round so he could read it.

I’ve seen the CCTV footage. I know all about your little deception earlier this evening. Meet me tonight at Aldwych. 11pm. I have a proposition for you.

“Aldwych?” Irene asked.
“The abandoned tube station next to Charing Cross,” answered Sherlock.
“How do we get access?” asked John. “Isn’t it like…closed down? Grade II listed or something?”
“My brother can let us in.”
John rolled his eyes slightly. “Of course he can.” He glanced at his watch. “Well, I’d better get ready, I suppose.”
“No, you’re not coming.”
“What?”
“This could be dangerous, John.”
“And?”
“You’re not coming.”
“Then you’re not going.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not being ridiculous, Sherlock, I’m being deadly serious. I’m not letting you go out on your own, not in your condition and not to meet this psychopath. Besides, you might need a gun, and you can’t shoot straight.”
Sherlock looked mildly insulted at that. “Yes I can.”
“Of course you can,” said John sarcastically before wandering off to make himself a quick cup of tea. Sherlock could argue with him all he wanted; he was still going.

***

The Aldwych section of the London Underground was closed during World War II and used for an air raid shelter, and although one of the platforms afterwards, the other still remained closed. It was never a particularly popular station and TFL couldn’t justify spending the millions that would have to be shelled out on refurbishment so, after running limited and peak time only services for many years, the second platform was finally closed down permanently in 1994.
Everything about the place felt dated and old fashioned, and John felt a slightly odd eerie atmosphere as the two of them trapsed through the deathly quiet and echoey corridors of the station. Now and again, there came a sudden gust of wind and a breeze as if from nowhere, followed by the distant rumblings of the nearby Piccadilly Line and gave him the creeps.
“Where abouts are we meeting him?” he whispered to Sherlock, as if not wanting to interrupt the silence of the place.
“I don’t know. Platform, probably.”
“You know how to get there?”
“Yep.”
“Why does that not surprise me,” John muttered, jogging for a couple of seconds to fall back into step with Sherlock’s long strides, the two of them walking side by side down the corridor and finally turning the corner to emerge onto one of the platforms.
Amazingly, there was still a train sat there on the far side, half sticking out of the tunnel and looking rather sad and forlorn and sorry for itself, falling to pieces and turning rusty. A few mice scattered away at the sound of their footsteps on the tiled floor and soon, there was another set of footsteps echoing from the other side of the platform, up near where the train carriage was.
Aiden Gruner emerged from the shadows, walking towards them with a small smile and looking left and right and up and down, as if he was taking the everything in and admiring his surroundings.
“Lovely place this, isn’t it? Fascinating. So quiet, isolated.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes slightly and let out a small sigh, wishing Gruner would just get to the point.
“Perfect place to kill someone, don’t you think? I wonder how many murders have happened down here…One or two, I should imagine.”
At that, he withdrew a gun from his pocket and pointed it at Sherlock, stopping his idle stroll and standing his ground some five metres away.
John immediately withdrew his own and pointed it back at Gruner.
“I could kill you both right now and no one would ever know.”
“Mmmm…” Sherlock pretended he was thinking about it for a second. “Nope.” He popped the ‘p’. “Actually, my brother would know. He knows we’re down here so…when we didn’t come back he’d invariably come searching for us. Or at least, he’d send someone to search for us. Never does anything himself.”
“And you wouldn’t be able to kill us without me killing you,” John added, removing the safety catch.
Gruner chuckled, his shoulders shaking with the laughter as if really enjoying some hilarious joke that neither John nor Sherlock could understand the punch line to. “I’m not here to kill anyway, I’m here to make a deal,” he said, lowering his gun arm to by his side and taking two steps forward. “I want that book back.”
“Not happening,” said Sherlock.
“Name your price. Any amount of money. It’s yours.”
“Still not happening.”
“We can’t be bought out, Gruner,” added John. “Our friend’s welfare is more important to us than money. Sherlock doesn’t give a shit about money anyway so you’re trying to bribe the wrong guy here.”
“Mm, true, if I wanted money I’d just pinch some off Mycroft. We’re keeping the book, Gruner, and that’s the end of it, so if that’s all we’re here for, I suggest you turn around and walk away before my small, angry doctor here puts a bullet in you.”
“Small?” John shot him an objecting glance.
Sherlock shrugged, unapologetic.
Gruner gave an angry and frustrated cry before raising the gun one more time and firing off a shot.
The noise reverberated round the circular and hollow chambers of the tube station, deafening them all momentarily and John felt a sudden, familiar searing hotness in his left arm as the bullet made contact.
He gave a yelp of pain and his legs buckled slightly, firing off a couple of shots from his own gun back in the direction of Gruner before staggering into Sherlock’s arms who was immediately there for him, grabbing him and getting him to the floor.
“John…John, are you alright?”
He heard his friend’s panicked voice through the blur and mayhem of what had just happened, scrunching up his eyes tight then forcing them open again and wincing.
“John…”
Sherlock was ripping at his clothes in a frenzy, tugging at his jacket and jumper and shirt, as some blood began to seep through.
“Sh…Sherlock…I’m fine,” John muttered, everything coming back into focus again as he told himself to concentrate on the situation, the adrenalin kicking in and taking over, analysing his own wound. “Pretty sure it just sliced through.”
As Sherlock fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, John helped him by shrugging his injured arm out, cursing loudly as he did so with the pain.
“Take it easy, John, don’t move it so much,” Sherlock chastised him with a gentleness of tone that John never saw, genuine concern and worry in his bright multicoloured eyes. “Just…tell me it’s going to be OK.”
“Of course it’s going to be OK, Sherlock, it’s just…” He turned his head to actually look at his arm now it was out. There was a decent chunk of skin missing and plenty of blood gushing out, but the bullet had passed straight through and wasn’t lodged in him, and it had missed any major veins, arteries or organs. “Just a flesh wound. I’ll honestly be fine, just…leave me here and get after Gruner, OK? You’ll be faster on your own. Did I get him?”
They both stopped what they were doing and looked over at where Gruner had been standing previously. He was gone.
“I think you missed,” smirked Sherlock, relieved that John’s injury was only minor. “And you said I was a bad shot.”
“Excuse me, I was injured,” John objected, laughing slightly.
The two of them chuckled quietly as Sherlock stood up and, leaving John sat with his back up against the wall clutching his arm and resting, set off after Gruner armed with the gun and ready for action.
Sadly, he didn’t find any.
Despite trawling through the tube station for another twenty minutes, there was no sign of the sly Austrian. He was long gone.

***

Sherlock and John felt like they were becoming regulars at the hospital, especially when one of the nurses who had helped patch Sherlock up did the same for John some three days later, but thankfully they didn’t need to spend too long there. Several stitches later and he was insisting that he be allowed to go home.
“What about rest?” Sherlock asked, the roles completely reversed from last time. “Shouldn’t you…I don’t know…stay here so they can keep an eye on you?”
“Sherlock, really, I’ll be fine. I hate hospitals just as much as you do.”
“You work in them.” Sherlock gave him a perplexed look.
“Yes, and everyone knows doctors make the worst patients, now let’s just go home.”
“We’re not going home, we’re going round to Molly’s.” Sherlock opened up his coat and showed John the black book which was still safely tucked away in his inside pocket. “Let’s give her this and get this thing over with. She’ll break it off with Gruner then we can get him arrested for shooting you. Attempted murder, possession of a firearm etc. I’m sure Lestrade will be able to slap on the charges.”
“Right yeah, fine, good idea,” John agreed with a nod, signing his own release form and scribbling his phone number at the bottom for the pretty nurse before following Sherlock down the corridors towards the exit.
Outside, they jumped in a taxi and headed straight for Molly’s small flat, west of Central.  
Sherlock could tell something was wrong from the moment they arrived.
“He’s been here,” he remarked, frowning as he ran a gloved finger over the doorframe then pressed the buzzer for Molly’s flat.
“How d’you mean?”
“I can smell him.”
“Geez, Sherlock…exactly how good is your nose?”
“He has a distinct brand of aftershave, it’s not difficult.” He pressed the bell again. Still no response.
“Mm, the light’s are on,” John remarked, gazing up at the window of her first floor residence before cupping one hand near his mouth (from his uninjured arm) and yelling up. “MOLLY!”
“Shh!” Sherlock nudged him.
John gave him a look. “Why do we have to be quiet?”
“In case he’s still around.” He pressed the buzzer on one of the other flats and waited.
A couple of minutes later, a man in his early twenties answered. “Can I – “
Before he’d had chance to finish his question, however, Sherlock had barged right past him and into the hallway of the house.
“Sorry,” John mumbled an apology and stepped in after him.
“Excuse me?” The man turned and looked at them both in shock. “Who are you? What are you doing?”
“Uh, we’re friends of Molly,” John explained. “Flat 3? She’s not answering her buzzer.”
“Oh right, Molly, yeah,” the poor chap seemed a little relieved at that, obviously having thought originally that the two of them were burglars or murderers or something. “She was definitely in earlier, then her boyfriend came round.”
Sherlock was already on the stairs heading up, but he stopped at that and turned round to look at the Flat 1 resident. “Is he still here or has he left?”
“I heard someone come down the stairs and then slam the door about half an hour ago so yeah, I think he left.”
Sherlock nodded and hurried on up, followed by John.
They knocked directly on her door.
No answer.
“Molly?” Sherlock crouched down and spoke through the keyhole. “Molly, it’s us. Open up.”
Still no answer.
“Maybe that guy downstairs has a spare key?” John suggested. “Neighbours sometimes do that.”
Sherlock ignored him and stepped back before aiming a kick directly at the door frame, near where the handle and lock was.
“Orrrr…you could just break it down….” John sighed, moving to one side and allowing Sherlock to do what he wanted.
A second kick came flying in.
“You know…we could have just called her. On her phone.”
Third kick.
“That’s what most normal people do…”
Fourth kick. A few splinters of wood came flying off, the lock beginning to shatter and weaken.
“But then, I suppose you’ve never been normal…”
Fifth kick.
“Maybe that’s why I like you…”
Sixth kick and the door flew open, swinging back off the hinges, clattering against the wall behind it and revealing the small, homely flat beyond.
Somewhere inside, a cat meowed and then darted across their path into one of the other rooms, obviously frightened by the disturbance.
Sherlock, slightly out of breath from the exercise, reflipped his collar and stepped smoothly into the flat, leading the way through to the main living room on the left hand side just behind the door.
The sight that greeted them there was one that neither of them would ever forget, and one that would haunt both their dreams for many nights to come.
A small tabby cat was sat on the floor, mewing and purring and rubbing it’s head against a pair of feet; a pair of feet that were suspended and dangling in the air about two inches off the ground, swinging slightly back and forth along with the rest of Molly’s body. Her neck was at a crooked, awkward angle, her eyes were half open and rolled to the back of their sockets, her skin was a pale yellowish white, already beginning to discolour in the aftermath of death.
John was the first to act, rushing towards her and grabbing at her legs, pushing her body upwards in an attempt to remove some of the pressure of the tight rope that was placed around her neck but inside, logically, medically, he already knew it was too late. Far too late.
Sherlock jumped up on the sofa and stretched out his long arms to remove the rope from the small iron hook which had been drilled into the ceiling, silently helping to get Molly’s stiff body down and rest it on the sofa. Her two cats came round and leapt on top of her, meowing and pawing at her clothes while John performed some cursory checks for her non-existent pulse.
Sherlock immersed himself in his work, choosing to cut off the emotions he was so obviously feeling and concentrate entirely on finding out what had happened and why. It was too late to help Molly now, he argued inside his head. No sense getting upset about it. Stay focused.
“Well, I think we can both agree it wasn’t suicide,” he murmured.
“Mm?” John looked back at him over his shoulder, still crouched down by Molly’s lifeless body on the sofa.
The detective stooped low to the floor and ran his finger across the carpet before showing it to John. “Dust. Fresh too. That hook,” he pointed up to the ceiling. “Was fitted for the purpose, so that it would take her weight.”
“Right…” John was finding it pretty difficult to concentrate. This wasn’t just some random victim they had no emotional connection with. This was Molly. Their friend.
“John,” Sherlock said quietly, walking over and placing a hand on his shoulder. “Stand up.”
“But…”
“There’s nothing you can do for her now, and I need your help.”
There was a pause. John looked back between Molly and Sherlock.
“The only thing we can do now is catch Gruner. Please. John. Focus.” He offered him out a hand.
“Right uh…yeah. Focus. Yeah.” John clasped it and hauled himself up off the floor, brushing the knees of his jeans down a little. “What do you need me to do?”
“Look around.”
“Look around. Right.” He nodded stiffly and left the cats to mourn for their owner as the pair of them perused round the flat for any evidence.
In the end, it didn’t take long for John to find something of importance and inadvertently prove his worth to Sherlock.
“You might want to take a look at this…”
“What is it?” Sherlock was on the other side of the room by the bookcase, but came stalking over in an instant to where John was standing by the small two person dining room table.
“This was just sat here on the table. I think he uh…probably wanted us to find it.”
It was a note on an A4 sheet of paper, typed. In big bold letters in the centre of the page it read:

THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU PUSH ME.
THE WOMAN’S NEXT.

“Typed it so we wouldn’t see the difference in handwriting between his and Molly’s,” Sherlock murmured, snatching the piece of paper from John’s hands and turning it over, examining it from every angle but at the same time being careful not to touch too much of it and corrupt it with his own fingerprints. “This would still pass as a sort of encrypted suicide note for any idiot at the Yard. Pushed to suicide by the breakup of her relationship, alternating between referring to herself in first person and third person, deluded and not in her right mind, etc etc.”
“The woman? Do you think he means…”
“The Woman woman, yes.”
“We’d better warn her.” John took out his phone and began to locate her number.
“Tell her we’re coming over right now.”
“We are? What shall we do about?” He glanced over at Molly.
“She’s not going anywhere. Come on.” He grabbed John’s wrist and yanked him towards the door.
“I didn’t mean that!”
“I don’t know, John,” snapped Sherlock, losing his temper slightly for the first time since this whole thing began. “Call an ambulance on the way over to Irene’s or something. Call Lestrade. Call my brother, call whoever you want. There’s no sense fussing over one dead person when we could have a second on our hands if we don’t get a move on. Now let’s go!”

***

Irene Adler was surprisingly angry and sympathetic at hearing the news of what had happened to Molly. John had always imagined her to be more of the uncaring, unfeeling type, but she displayed a sudden passion and fire he hadn’t particularly expected, her perfect unblemished skin crinkling up in a frown and an expression of distaste, shaking her head with sadness.
“She didn’t deserve that. I didn’t know her very well but…she seemed like a good person.”
“She was,” mumbled Sherlock quietly. “Kind. Sensitive. Always made time for people.”
John reached out and gave Sherlock’s arm a small squeeze as the three of them sat side by side on Irene’s sofa, waiting in semi darkness for Gruner to arrive, which he invariably would. John knew Sherlock wouldn’t take Molly’s death all that well, no matter how much he tried to cover it. He’d need to support him however he could, if the detective allowed him to.
“We’ll get justice for her,” he mumbled.
“Gruner’s a piece of shit,” sighed Irene. “He deserves all he gets. You know, he once thought he could try and control me…own me…”
“Mm, would have like to see him try that,” muttered Sherlock.
“He didn’t get very far.” She stood up and walked over to her desk, retrieving a small vial of clear liquid. “If he tries anything this time, I’m going to throw this in his face.”
“What is it?” John asked.
“Acid.”
“Probably won’t be necessary. There’s three of us and we’ve got a gun.”
“You’ve got my gun, Sherlock.”
“I have?” He frowned then felt around in his pockets. “Oh yes. So I have.” He took it out and handed it back to John, who checked the bullets and got it ready for action, just as there was a loud and determined knock at the door.
“That’ll be him,” said Sherlock.
The three of them tensed slightly.
“Do you think he’ll try to kill me immediately, or come in and sweet talk me a little first?”
“I don’t know,” Sherlock answered in a whisper. “Let’s all go to the door together and see. You answer it on your own, we’ll stay out of the way, hidden but close.”
They all got up off the sofa and crept out into the hall, with John and Sherlock standing with their backs against the wall so that they would be behind the door when Irene opened it.
“Good evening, Ms Adler,” said Gruner smoothly, obviously going for the ‘talking first’ approach. “Sorry to drop in on you unexpectedly like this. Mind if I come in for a quick chat?”
“You’ve got five minutes,” Irene replied tersely. “I’m expecting a client.”
She swung the door open a little wider and Gruner stepped in.
Almost immediately, he spotted Sherlock and John lingering against the wall.
He gave a small cry of surprise then quickly turned and attempted to retreat back out onto the street to run away, but Irene’s arm twitched and in one movement she had flung the entire vial of acid at the back of his head.
The scream that followed was so loud and earsplitting that it was difficult to believe the entire street hadn’t heard it.
Gruner’s legs buckled and he dropped to his knees on Irene’s front door step, clutching at his neck and hair and howling and yelling in pain.
Sherlock and John were on him in an instant, grabbing his hands and yanking them downwards, John holding him still so that Sherlock could slap a pair of cuffs on.
They hauled him to his feet and dragged him back inside the house where John did his best to treat the acid burning whilst they waited for the police to arrive. Sherlock roughly searched their new prisoner’s pockets and found him to be in possession of the gun he had used to shoot John, as well as a small bottle of poison which he was obviously planning to use to murder Irene, no doubt setting up another fake suicide in an effort to get away with it.
And then, almost as quickly as it had began, it was over.
It had been one of those cases that John was loathe to document and Sherlock wanted to forget. Although the culprit at the heart of it had been caught (and given a lengthy sentence), it had been at great personal cost to the detective and those he cared about. Lestrade too, took Molly’s death particularly badly, and the funeral was a difficult day for all involved.

***

“Life rarely gives happy endings, John,” Sherlock offered up an unexpected philosophical musing round the breakfast table the following day, having remained mostly silent and introverted throughout the funeral and all of the previous evening, opting not to attend the wake following the ceremony and using his lack of social skills as an excuse to get out of mingling. John had been slightly worried, but Lestrade had persuaded him to stay with the others at the pub and drink to the memory of their lost friend and colleague. Sherlock just needed space, time to think and reflect. He’d be OK. He always was. He had to be.
John stared at him over the brim of his coffee cup. “Mm. No, I suppose it doesn’t.”
“I wonder who’s going to give me body parts now.”
And that was the last that was said about it. For a long, long time.
Life went on, the world continued turning, and clients from all over the UK and the world continued needing the advice and help of Sherlock Holmes, and the sour, bitter memory of Molly Hooper’s last boyfriend gradually began to fade.  

 

Chapter 2




When John wakes it is to a very different environment. He feels warm for one, and he is definitely not in the suit he had been wearing. There is something soft covering him; a blanket. As John slowly blinks awake, he feels his leg throb, but the pain isn’t as bad as before.


Vague memories cloud John’s head of a woman’s voice, Sherlock, and the gunman.


Christ Sherlock, just like you to run out into the middle of a gunfight…but hey, who am I to talk?


John groans less from the pain and more from the fact that’s he’s somehow managed to get himself shot again. Though considering the life Sherlock and he lead, it is a miracle he hasn’t been shot before this.


John’s vision is rapidly clearing, so he looks around to gauge where he is. The first thing he notices is that he’s on a sofa, in a study of some sort; if the desk and filing cabinets are anything to go by. The biggest detail he notices is several frames directly across from him above the mahogany desk; even from this distance John can tell they’re university diplomas, several of them medical.


He frowns. ‘Where the hell am I?’

“Where’s Sherlock?’ John mumbles out loud, a bit groggy as he tries to push himself up from the sofa.


It is as John manages to push himself up to sitting that he hears two sets of rapid footsteps, and a familiar deep voice arguing with a higher one on the other side of the door, which is near the foot of the sofa.


John throws the blanket off, and briefly registers that he is wearing a blue T-shirt and grey lounge trousers.


Oh I hope Sherlock didn’t dress me.


John pulls up his left trouser leg to take a look at his new bullet wound. It is neatly covered with a sterilized bandage. Careful not to contaminate the area, John carefully lifts a loose corner to peer underneath. There are stitches, their application neat and tight, obviously done by a professional.


John carefully pulls the trouser leg back down and decides to test himself with trying to stand. The moment he puts weight on his left leg he bites his lip in pain and collapses immediately back onto the sofa. He fails to completely suppress the pained sound that escapes his mouth.


Suddenly the door is flung open. John barely has time to take in the sight of Sherlock before the Detective rushes to John’s side. He appears unchanged from the last time he saw him – Belstaff framing his lithe body, high quality tailored suit enveloped beneath it, and curls wild upon his head.


There you are you mad bastard.


John breathes a sigh of relief that Sherlock seems to be uninjured, unlike his own jolly self. With that assurance aside, other thoughts and feelings make themselves known in Johns head at the sight of the Detective. For instance, how it is obvious Sherlock and the mysterious second shooter – the woman, knew each other, and how it could not be a coincidence that Sherlock and John were suddenly shot at, chased, and then summarily assisted by aforementioned woman all after Sherlock so abruptly abandoned the Opera House.


Other than an effusive answer that didn’t really answer anything, Sherlock didn’t give John a reason for the abrupt change in plans. With what happened afterwards…a small detail of the evening suddenly blooms in John’s memory, that of Sherlock reaching into his pocket and making several movements before stilling…his mobile, of course.


All the little pieces, including the fact that even when John had thought they were simply walking and Sherlock really may have just been bored with the Opera – in hindsight the route they were taking seemed very deliberate, make one thing clear to John.


He knew something was going to happen, hah, he’s Sherlock, of bloody course he did…


At the time Sherlock didn’t seem to be expecting the shooter, but he certainly wasn’t surprised by the woman who appeared (with a gun no less). And though the memory is somewhat hazy, John remembers the familiarity with which the woman spoke to Sherlock. If all this doesn’t somehow turn out to be a case, John will go all Hannibal Lecter on his foot.


Is this why he agreed so easily to come here in the first place? John asks himself.


John can’t help the needle of anger, and hurt, that Sherlock didn’t deem it important to confide in him that they were indeed on a case, especially when John very clearly asked him if it was. Sherlock seldom tells John everything, something he has long since learned to make peace with, but with everything else that’s happened – and the fact that John got shot this time – John is having a hard time making peace with this at the moment. If Sherlock knew they were on a case John would have made sure he was being more alert.


Did Sherlock not trust him with the information for some reason?


Even with the odd uncertain tension lingering between them, like a wound that won’t heal, John hasn’t doubted that Sherlock trusts him, and that miraculously John still trusts Sherlock. Then again, this is the first time Sherlock has appeared to have blatantly lied about something like this since…since Moriarty.


That particular memory doesn’t help John’s mood, his hands involuntarily clench. John takes a deep breath and forces himself to go through a breathing exercise his therapist once taught him to do. John has never had the most controlled of tempers; perhaps before he gives into it John owes Sherlock the benefit of the doubt because there has to be an explanation for all this, and so help the lanky bastard John will get one.


Sherlock stops a couple feet away from John, carefully observing John’s increasingly tense posture and the slight glare he is firing Sherlock’s way.


It wouldn’t take an observational genius like Sherlock to read John’s displeasure with him.


When John notices the look of concern Sherlock donned when he had first entered the room melt away at the look on John’s face, the memories of how Sherlock reacted when John got shot resurface…more specifically, that moment where Sherlock touched his forehead to John’s.


John feels abruptly warm at the memory, and squeezes his eyes shut – silently willing himself to not do something embarrassing like blush. What is this? Don’t be an idiot!


He then remembers thinking that he had only ever seen Sherlock look like that when John has been in danger. John isn’t sure what to do about the variety of feelings that thought causes…or what to do with being so indisputably confronted with the reality of how much he might mean to Sherlock.


John has always shied away from thoughts like that one, and from the reason why, because…Well, John doesn’t get farther than that. John stops himself here, the maelstrom of emotions already too much for his control at present to handle.


He sighs and groans in frustration, taking another deep breath before unclenching his hands in an attempt to compose himself.


Focus John, focus, now is what matters, you were shot remember? Find out what the hell is going on…I can always drown myself in a pint or two later...Sherlock’s eyes so close to his own, cold nose softly touching his…maybe a dozen.


“John?”


Sherlock’s query interrupts John’s thoughts, for which he’s actually grateful.


John ignores the throbbing in his leg for now and meets Sherlock’s gaze unblinkingly. Sherlock is standing stiffly, tense before him, he is the very image of a man waiting or expecting to be judged. His face may appear fairly expressionless, but for someone who has known Sherlock for years, as much as someone can ever really know Sherlock Holmes, John can tell the expression is being forced. The faint crease between his eyes betrays his wariness at John’s continued silence, obviously wondering why John hasn’t laid it into him yet.


Angry or not, John will never get used to whenever that Sherlockian gaze gives him ‘the look’…which doesn’t mean that John hasn’t long since become immune to the almost childlike expression Sherlock will give him when the bugger knows he’s done something John believes to be wrong and thinks if he can look as innocent as possible John won’t be too angry; which also doesn’t mean that Sherlock doesn’t look ridiculously adorable when he does so, like now. Not that John will ever, ever admit to it. What happened to not being an idiot?


“No more lies, excuses or diversions Sherlock, tell me what the hell is going on.” John congratulates himself for how calm he manages to sound…at first. “Is all this all part of some sort of case you didn’t reckon I ought to know about until I got bloody shot first?” John’s tone has gone from relatively controlled to bitter quickly.


Sherlock’s wince when John mentions being shot is just barely perceptible, but it is there for a moment. Sherlock covers the slip by taking a deep breath; by the look of the crease in his forehead he is restraining himself from showing frustration.


John watches with narrowed eyes as the man makes an aborted movement towards the sofa where John is currently sat. He instead moves towards the desk. Sherlock pulls the straight-backed wooden chair out from behind it, picks it up; walks back towards John, and then places the chair directly perpendicular to John so it faces him.


Well, looks like I’ll get an explanation at least.


Sherlock takes a seat and stares at John without hesitation; eyes focused, lips thin, his hands clasped together atop the crease of his thighs and the long wings of his coat splayed over the rest of the chair. It is the look Sherlock adorns when speaking with clients, John knows it well. The only crack in his stoic façade is a brief glance Sherlock casts towards John’s leg; the lump of a bandage visible through the material of the trousers he’s wearing. This appears to cause Sherlock to shake for a moment before returning to his apparent state of ease; looking John in the eye.


Because John is watching carefully for any sign of…something, he sees this all.

Why is Sherlock trying so hard to appear more at ease than he really is? Generally Sherlock has more often than not acted more amused or intrigued by John when the Doctor is angry, not…this.



Neither of the two men notice the woman leaning against the wall just outside of the door; conveniently eavesdropping on them. One of whom she knows personally, and the other she knows only by what the former told her nearly three years ago.



“First of all, you have made several assumptions. However I will concede they are assumptions not without…precedence.” Sherlock begins.


John huffs and leans back, the action causing the skin of his wound to pull. He winces; Sherlock’s eyes narrow perceptibly at the movement.


John crosses his arms defensively.


“Oh? You think so do you?” John’s voice is biting.


Sherlock ignores the comment.


“There is a case-” John’s jaw clenches. “-but I didn’t know about its existence with certainty until we were already being pursued.” John rapidly blinks, his bearing relaxing slightly. Sherlock continues. “Admittedly I highly suspected there was one when I received a call from an acquaintance while I was out this morning. She requested my assistance with a personal matter. She stated that the details would be better explained in person, and requested that I meet an associate of hers for directions on where to meet her. If nothing else that piqued my interest, since I know she would have given me the directions herself, she obviously had reason to be cautious. The original plan had been to initially meet away from her work address and make an assessment of the situation before ultimately deciding if it was safe to head to the clinic; where we currently are at present. Ensuing…circumstances made that decision for us.” Sherlock breathes deep, the fingers of his clasped hands twitching, and looks away from John for a moment. The latter waiting patiently, sitting forward in his seat, for Sherlock to continue. “Given the nature of her work and what little I knew, I suspected – correctly it turns out, of course - that there would be others involved. Unfortunately, I didn’t anticipate that they would show themselves before I began to actively assist her, without all the facts the variables were significant. She has verbally only given me negligible details so far, after observing her in person deducing her reasons for approaching me was not difficult.”


Hm, there’s definitely a deeper story there with this woman…Sherlock seems very intent on portraying nothing but sincerity, and so far, John believes what he’s saying.


“John…” Sherlock continues, a bit lower than before. “It was – It is never my intention to wound you.” The choice of words is clearly deliberate, the look he gives John’s leg before quickly glancing away again makes it almost seem like Sherlock blames himself for John’s current injury.


John sighs and nods brusquely, accepting the explanation. Sherlock appears to relax a little.


John still has questions though; about the actions of earlier, his stitches, the various diplomas and the somewhat hesitant mention of a ‘clinic’ it’s obvious this woman is a Doctor. “The woman with the gun-”


“That was Dr. Julia Almont.” Sherlock interrupts. “Educationally speaking.” He adds as an afterthought.


John, about to continue, pauses at the added clarification. Educationally speaking?


“What does that even-?”


Before John can ask what Sherlock means, a woman enters the room. With the addition of some light, John can see her much clearly now, it is definitely the woman from before – this must be Dr. Almont.


She looks to be at least ten years younger than him; thick blond hair tied loosely in a bun, Caucasian and sun tanned, average weight, attractive with wide set dark brown eyes, a button nose curved slightly upwards with a deeply defined jaw that can rival Sherlock’s own cheekbones. She is currently wearing rectangular shaped glasses, a white top wrapped in a lose, button up grey jumper and baggy red trousers.


John is a hot-blooded man; he would have to blind not to notice how beautiful she is. He has not had a relationship, of any kind, since Mary…hasn’t much felt the need, or urge to, if he is to be completely honest. John suspects that if he had met this woman before all that happened, he would’ve turned on the John Watson charm he is famed for in over three continents. Now…now something has changed. If he could just identify what that something is, he suspects he would find this train of thought a lot less frustrating…maybe, probably just wishful thinking.


“Hello Dr. Watson.” Dr. Almont greets with a sunny grin. “What Sherlock means is that while I still have the skill, education and experience of being a Doctor, my licence was revoked many years ago, but that is a whole other story. So to sum up, technically I’m no longer a Doctor. My skill is none the less sharp, I can assure you.”


John nods with a small smile. He may not know her, but Sherlock obviously trusts her, something that is not easily gained. “Dr. Almont, nice to meet you.”


“It’s Julia, John. I feel as though I know you already. And not just because I saw all your business, I am a professional though not a peeping tom so not to worry.” Dr. Almont winks at John, he smiles back out of habit more than anything else.

So she was the one who dressed me…at least it wasn’t Sherlock, that would’ve just been awkward, for me anyway, the daft git has no compunction about nudity whatsoever.


She glances at Sherlock before snorting, clearly amused for some reason. She then situates herself between John and Sherlock; the three of them now forming a triangle.


John glances at Sherlock, then blinks in surprise when he notices Sherlock is looking at neither one of them; his gaze fixed on some indeterminate point off John’s right. The biggest surprise is that Sherlock’s body is tense again, fingers fidgeting with each other, an action he does when he is either focusing hard on something, or is feeling impatient.


John looks back at Dr. Almont – Julia, the woman is very obviously trying not to laugh.


Err…what the hell is going on?


“Have I missed something here?” John asks.


John’s voice seems to shock Sherlock at whatever state he had been in.


“Ha!” Julia laughs once. Sherlock glowers at her.


Their interaction is so…familiar. John is wondering exactly how they know each other…could they maybe be…? John suddenly feels himself getting tense for reasons which he is definitely not going to think about. Stop it John, this is Sherlock right? He’s practically a celibate priest.


“Oh unclench Sherlock.” Julia admonishes.


John raises an eyebrow at the comment.


He has seen the look Sherlock is currently sporting many times, the same look and smile he gets right before he is about to tear into someone with pin point deductive precision. Sherlock rests his elbows on the chair, palms placed together in a prayerful position, his eyes fixed on her.


Uh oh.


“Julia dear, I believe you will find the allergy you have developed to the chemicals used in manufacturing polyester blend clothing is the cause of the rash you are so mystified by, perhaps forgo the thongs for now. In addition, I highly recommend reconsidering the wisdom of your latest dalliance, hematolagnia is merely one fetish of his I doubt you would find pleasant. In all likelihood he will approach you for a more…intimate request soon.”


John glares at Sherlock with disapproval, barely raising a brow at the deductions themselves (while a part of him is impressed as always). She did pretty much save their arses for goodness sake!


He is half expecting Julia to slap Sherlock, or tell him to piss off, as is the usual response for this kind of thing.


He is not expecting Julia to merely groan in something akin to disappointment.


“I don’t even want to know how you know all that – I said I don’t want to know!” Julia raises her voice a bit at the end when Sherlock opens his mouth to speak. “Ugh, hematolagnia? Really?” She gives Sherlock an almost pleading look. Sherlock merely raises a single eyebrow. “Damn. Well, I’ve heard of worse things…” Julia sighs and walks over to Sherlock. To John’s utter shock she reaches out and tousles Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock cringes away and looks at her with murderous eyes. “I have missed you Sherlock.”


John just blinks. What the… “Who are you?” John asks, utterly dumbfounded by what just happened. He doesn’t know whether to be jealous, hug her or laugh at Sherlock’s obviously annoyed expression.


Jealous? Don’t be ridiculous, why would I be jealous?


Julia turns towards the couch and sits down beside John, carefully so as to not jostle his leg.


“Julia Almont is a highly manipulative individual with little respect for personal boundaries.” Sherlock answers John’s question before the woman herself can, patting down his hair.


Julia laughs, and this time John understands why.


“No wonder you two get along.” John snorts, waving a causal finger between the two.


Julia hums in affirmation.


“Barely.” Sherlock mumbles. “To her credit though, Dr. Almont is – present company excluded – the most talented physician I have ever had the misfortune of knowing. And in comparison to the rest of the world, not an idiot, which is the only reason I can tolerate her presence at all.” Sherlock sounds exasperated, but there is a hint of a smile to his face.


John tries not to feel like a spotlight is shining on him when he comes to the conclusion that even though they obviously know each other well, they obviously don’t know each other…well, in that way at least. He almost laughs at himself for even thinking of the possibility that they might know each other romantically, or sexually, this is Sherlock Holmes…he just, doesn’t do that. John certainly hasn’t seen evidence of it.


Their interaction almost reminds him of a brother and sister. All this doesn’t mean that in spite of liking her already, John doesn’t feel a bit off kilter for seeing Sherlock act like this with someone, a person he has never even told John about…and in a way Sherlock and he haven’t teased each other for a while…is it wrong to feel jealous? Why should it even matter? John groans internally and locks away the thought as one of many to either look at a later time, or preferably forget altogether.


“You forgot I am one of the few people who can honestly say I have seen the dark side of your moon.” Julia smirks.


John’s jaw drops. Sherlock moans loudly in displeasure as he rests his head against the back of the chair he’s sitting in.


“She also makes horrible puns just to see how many cells of my brain she can atrophy.” Sherlock echoes dejectedly to the ceiling.


John is surprised at the sheer strength of the sudden urge he feels to demand he be enlightened as to how Dr. Almont and Sherlock know each other, and the blush he’s fighting. John Watson, Army Doctor does not blush. It would be difficult for anyone to miss what Dr. Almost is referring to. John wonders if he was perhaps premature in his assumption that the two of them –


“Before your head explodes Dr. Watson, Sherlock Holmes here got himself shot in the gluteus maximus a few years ago. I was the lucky one who extracted the bullet and stitched him up. I cannot tell you how tempted I was to drag it out...” Julia sighs with put upon sadness.


Sherlock tenses a bit, a faint redness scattering his cheeks, very determinedly still staring at the ceiling; though his eyes flicker towards John.


John’s stomach twists and his entire body clenches. With that explanation, John does not feel better. There are two reasons for this, one, an emotion John refuses to identify as possessiveness (because that wouldn’t make any sense, in the short amount time since having been shot, again, with the memory of a panicked Sherlock on top of that, he’s been having a more difficult time keeping these…feelings, whatever they are, in check) is clawing at his throat in response to Julia’s enthusiastic comment about Sherlock’s arse.


And two, perhaps the biggest reason, is that if Sherlock was shot a few years ago…wait, that would mean…


“You knew he was alive?” John breathes out, a feeling all too familiar swooping through his being like he himself has fallen from a great height…the comparison does not help, if anything it makes it worse.


She knew.


It has both been a while, and yet not, since Sherlock returned. John thought – or hoped that the wound would’ve healed by now, it hasn’t. As John honestly knew it hadn’t. Even though Sherlock is right here, sitting in front of him, even though it was all a lie, the grief, the agony was so real it scarred John…in ways John doubts he will ever completely heal from.


This time when John moves and feels the pain in his leg, he relishes it.


feck. He really thought he was at least done thinking about this. Every once in a while though, there will be a reminder, a trigger, that will bring all the feelings rushing back and John is right there…collapsing on that pavement beside his dead best-friend, and then two years later John is right there again, seeing the man he…oh feck it, the man he loved, his best friend, standing in front of them, as though no time has passed, wearing that tuxedo. The fact that the memory also contains Mary barely registers in the wake of Sherlock…Maybe that should tell him something.


No one responds to John’s question. No one needs to.


The silence is thick and cloying, Julia obviously realizing the Pandora’s Box she just unknowingly opened, and Sherlock…Sherlock is no longer splayed in the chair but sitting upright, alert, watching John with concern and appearing uncertain. Sherlock knows exactly where John’s mind has gone.


John notices then exactly how tense his entire body has become and that he has leaned completely forward with his head in his hands – or rather, head on his fists clenched so tight his knuckles are stark white. He forces himself to breathe steadily, and deeply.


Pull yourself together Captain Watson!



John feels a pressure on his knee. Without moving his head he looks down and sees a familiar, long fingered hand.


“John…” Sherlock’s voice is quiet, too quiet.


No, not this. Not with what he just thought in his head. Time to move on.


John lets his hands fall and leans back against the couch; Sherlock’s hand falls away as a result. The latter frowns, poised as though to speak. He doesn’t however and leans back in his own chair, his eyes look almost…sad.


Julia to John’s right is watching the two of them carefully, silently, thoughtfully.


“We’ve gotten off track a bit here yeah? Remember, I got shot. Julia, what’s going on?” John tries a forced smile, intended to reassure. He is desperate, very, very anxious to move on.


(In more ways than one)


John does not look at Sherlock and instead turns so he is facing Dr. Almont. He uncurls his wounded leg and settles in to listen.


“John-”


“Do you know who was chasing us?” John quickly interrupts Sherlock with a louder, firmer tone. He hears a deep sigh from beside him.


John momentarily feels a bit guilty for talking to Julia that way, but not for long when he remembers she was one of the privileged few who knew Sherlock was alive (unfair the mature part of him knows, but damn it he doesn’t care). If her sympathetic eyes are anything to go by, she understands.


John pretends not to notice the look she shoots Sherlock.


“Yes and no. I know why, or at least I think I do. But I’ve never met, or seen, him before.” Julia takes off her glasses and pinches the corners of her eyes, one arm lying over the other, the glasses dangle precariously from the hand currently not against her face. It is an expression of weariness. She lets her hand fall.


Sherlock stands up suddenly and stretches a hand out towards Julia, palm up, other arm curled casually around his back. Both John and Julia look up in surprise. John is wary of meeting Sherlock’s gaze directly, but he needn’t worry since Sherlock is looking very intently at Julia.


The two men are obviously avoiding the others gaze, each for their own reasons.


Julia’s surprise melts away when Sherlock gestures towards her glasses. She gives Sherlock a pleased smile and places the frames in his hand.


“Thank-you.”


Sherlock gives a slight nod before striding away, beginning a pacing regime from one end of the room to the other; Julia’s glasses held firmly behind his back.


John looks at Sherlock this time, mouth parted in disbelief. That was…almost considerate, a gesture done without benefits or reason; a rarity for Sherlock.


This only adds to the increasingly present thought ‘I don’t know what to think, or feel, anymore’


“Start at the beginning, I trust you will leave nothing out.” Sherlock’s voice is loud and abrupt, shocking John out of his momentary reverie.


John gives an inward thanks that Sherlock hasn’t tried to talk to him again. At this point John dreads the next time he is alone in the same room as the man...which doesn’t bode well for their friendship.


Never-the-less, right now all that doesn’t matter, the case – whatever it is, needs to be the focus now.


“I would assume that you’ve figured it out by now.” Julia attempts a smile, though it seems a bit forced to John.


Sherlock hums. “For the most part, yes, it was rather obvious when I saw both you and what little of the clinic I’ve been able to observe so far.” He shrugs, noncommittal. Sherlock pauses to stand in front of the only window in the room, behind the desk, his back to the room. John watches as Sherlock takes off his coat and throws it gracelessly over the wooden surface of the desk, exposing his black suit complete with pale blue shirt. According to the clock on the wall, it is nearing midnight. Almost Christmas…John certainly never thought he would be here last year. “In order to get a more complete picture, it would be helpful to hear it all from your own lips. Then I will examine the entirety of the clinic.”


From little John has been able to gather, Julia seems only mildly distressed, not scared but definitely on edge. It’s clear she’s controlling herself exceptionally well and you only need to control yourself when there’s something you feel the need to control.


John turns to give Julia his full attention; ready to listen.


“Alright,” Julia takes a deep breath. “It started about two weeks ago. I’d actually made my own plans to deal with this, it is very much my luck that you happen to be in the same city and one of my contacts managed to spot you.” Julia directs the last comment towards Sherlock. John nods slowly. She really wasn’t part of the reason Sherlock agreed to come after all…another small mystery on top of a larger one. “I work in a…let’s say a grey morality area, some of the people I do work for are “better” than others, more…moral, some not so much. Every once in a while I’ll catch some unwanted attention, but generally it is nothing I can’t handle. I make it a habit to not stay in one place for too long. Originally I’m from the United States and I’ve been everywhere from South America to Russia to Africa. I’ve been here in Milan for a couple of months. I had actually been planning on leaving in a few weeks when I got a call.”


John holds up a hand before Dr. Almont can continue.


“I’m sorry, but what exactly is it that you do?” All John has been able to figure out for sure is that she is a Doctor, and is involved in something not strictly legal, which explains why she probably hasn’t contacted the police, plus she knows Sherlock. John is fairly certain that anyone within Sherlock’s circle of acquaintances, even friends, isn’t squeaky clean. “Are you a…mob doctor or something?” John posits, mostly as a joke, but honestly he suspects it isn’t far from the realm of possibility.


Sherlock huffs in amusement.


“Sort of.” John raises an eyebrow. Julia turns her attention to him. “I like to think of myself as a doctor for everyone, I don’t let things like money and insurance get in the way of helping people. Unfortunately, it is near impossible to do that within the system and not get caught, hence my licence being revoked. I have my own set of morals and rules, but I don’t bring them into my medical ‘career’-” Julia emphasizes the latter with quotations using both her hands. “-the only way I am able to operate as I do, and not get imprisoned, is to have powerful friends, friends that have the influence and the money. In return I assist their people on medical matters in most avenues whenever I can; since I am a specialized surgeon, diagnostician and GP, this covers just about everything; one of my biggest accomplishments, especially because of my age. All that ceased to matter one day just because I wouldn’t stop being a compassionate human being.” Julia looks away for a moment and shakes her head, anger tinged in the lines of her mouth.


She shakes it off and once again looks to John after giving Sherlock a passing glance. John assumes this is because he likely knows this already, and John finds himself intrigued by her story. Sherlock isn’t the only one who enjoys their work after all.


“The long and short of it is, I am skilled enough that I am worth their time, and since my level of skill is a rare enough commodity, I highly doubt I’ll get offed unless I do something truly stupid.” Julia shrugs, shockingly unconcerned. “They fund me in almost everything, but after having done this for years; I have developed my own network as it were. Do I wrestle with my conscious on occasion? Hell yes.” She sighs. “But, I figure the payoff is worth it. If patching up a bullet wound for a nefarious gang member gives me the money and clout to bribe the supplies I need and in doing so I am then able to help treat and heal hundreds of people who couldn’t do so otherwise, not just the homeless, but poorer people as well, then I can deal with that. Still, I try to only go where I am genuinely needed; if I bring too much attention to myself I’m screwed.” Julia is repeating all this like she has done so many times before, but John can say he admires her for attitude and dedication, whether he agrees with the entirety of her methods or not. “That’s pretty much it. With all that in mind, I’m sure from that you can figure out how I came across Sherlock.” Julia reaches up to adjust her hair into a tighter bun while making a gesture towards the still and statuesque Detective still standing in front of the window.


It takes only a second before it clicks…ah, of course.


“You assisted him while he was…” John’s voice trails off and he makes a generic hand movement, feeling that creeping off kilter sensation as he tries not to finish that sentence, especially considering Moriarty turned out to be alive in the end anyway.


However, John is glad Sherlock had…someone to look out for him, at least sometimes.


Even if it wasn’t him.


There is an awkward pause, Sherlock suspiciously silent, before Julia speaks.


“Yep, ran into him a couple times actually. I didn’t merely fondle his, if we’re being entirely honest here, glorious tushie-” Sherlock huffs indignantly and John has to resist the urge to smile whilst most assuredly not picturing anything. Julia grins. “-I also ended up becoming an informant. I had never been a part of James Moriarty’s network, but some people I came into contact with had. You could say a couple of my funders were occasionally “competitors” of his. Win win.”


John feels the old, familiar anger at the mention of Moriarty…so many reasons to hate that man.


“Dr. Almont! Do you need my help or not?” Sherlock is very close to shouting, hands clenched tightly behind his back.


John can’t help but be grateful for Sherlock’s impatience for once; the topic steadily heading a direction that not’s going to help anyone right now.


Julia abruptly closes her mouth and gives Sherlock a calculating look. Her eyes flicker to John, then to Sherlock and back again. After a minute, she nods.


“Anyway, so I got this call, nothing unusual; just one of my contacts calling about a young woman who approached them in pain, saying they needed to see me. More often than not that’s the kind of thing I mostly deal with. I generally don’t ask questions when people choose to come to me rather than…technically legal sources. I’ve made that mistake before, and more than once I’ve needed to find my own nefarious doctor for my troubles.” Julia snorts a tad bitterly and absently rubs at two of her fingers. John gives them a cursory once over and notices one of them is at an odd angle from the first knuckle up.


“When the young woman arrived, I saw that she had somehow dislocated her shoulder. Which wasn’t even the worst part.” Julia, John has observed, is rather good at keeping her emotional inflections when speaking relatively level, especially when she’s been talking about her work; a trait quite common in doctors and those who need to maintain an objective point of view. Now though, Julia’s façade has hardened, her mouth pressed into a thin line, eyes hesitant to meet either John or Sherlock’s gazes; the latter of whom has now turned around to face her. John reaches out and places his hand on her shoulder; she in turn gives him a grateful smile. “She looked terrified, wasn’t even wearing a coat, just a long skirt and a pyjama top; it wouldn’t have taken a genius like Sherlock over here to realize she was running from something. It was so cold; I’m still surprised she didn’t have hypothermia on top of everything else. She seemed…ok enough when I showed her to my examination room, told me her name was Anne. She was obviously anxious, and yet…I noticed she was so careful, almost obsessively so, about not expressing any pain, it was just one of the many things that had alarm bells going off in my head.” Julia shakes her head and stands up, her presence and form; transforming from a confident, relaxed poise to one of consummate control, the only sign of unease being the crease between her eyes and slight twist of her mouth.


John has little trouble believing she is genuinely good at what she does, and obviously compassionate, two traits not all Doctors have John is sad to know; often it is one or the other.


Julia is walking towards Sherlock, and he – anticipating her needs – places her glasses back in her palm when she reaches him. John has the passing thought of being surprised that they don’t appear bent from the way Sherlock had been clenching his hands before. Then again, if John hadn’t been looking at him, you would never guess that only moments ago Sherlock had been tense at all. Now, in the poised, collected way he stands, his eyes never losing sight of Dr. Almont; intent on analysing every detail he sees and hears as she dons her glasses and takes up a large notepad from her desk, it is easy to tell Sherlock is in his element.


John goes back and forth from being admiring and occasionally frustrated by the way Sherlock can completely slip from one state to another. It is an ability that makes it difficult, if not impossible, to truly know the man. He can be quite the actor.


Ultimately, especially with the events of the last couple of years and tonight even, John gets so much conflicting information from Sherlock. There are times when he feels almost alien to John, despite being best friends.


John can admit to himself it is one of the things he has always found so intriguing about the Detective, the man exudes a dangerous sense of unknown John can’t help but be drawn to…obviously. Even so, with the lingering memories of his faked suicide, to the wariness and strain that’s been building for months, and finally the sight of an genuinely tender Sherlock at John’s side, one thing John can’t deny no matter how angry he gets, it is that Sherlock has a passion and dedication incomparable to anyone John has ever known.


Depending on John’s mood, John will either curse himself at being continuously pulled back to the man no matter how much of an utter dick he is or, let’s be honest, grateful for it. Sherlock provides him with something no one else does, or nothing ever has in quite the same way; excitement, and pure, unadulterated life 24/7. Sure John wouldn’t be sad if that happened without the sacrifice of all his sanity, but…sanity and Sherlock don’t go together, and John knows which side he would rather belong to.


John inwardly sighs. Good choice of words there.


“When I got her to sit down, carefully, I remember very clearly that she would not meet my eyes and kept looking around the room, barely spoke a word.” Julia’s continuation disengages John from his thoughts, if only that happened sooner.


At times like this John wonders when so many of his thoughts became centered on Sherlock Holmes.


John changes his position slightly to face Dr. Almont, currently standing in between Sherlock and John reading something on her notepad. “I asked her when this happened, about twenty minutes she said, I gave her the strongest analgesic I had at the time and then asked her if she needed my help in removing her shirt. She nodded, and then…” Julia pauses, looking up from her notepad with her eyes narrowed and gazing at some point in the middle distance.


“Yes…?” Sherlock encourages, with his impatience remarkably restrained – for him.


When Julia doesn’t continue after a few seconds, he turns away from her and eyes the shelf to the left of the sofa.


“She asked for a glass of water.” Julia says. “It was…strange.”


John frowns, while Sherlock looks to Julia with a sort of ‘aha’ expression.


“Why was that strange?” John can’t help but ask.


Julia shakes her head. “That isn’t what was strange; I remember when coming back from getting the water I sensed there was something…different. I couldn’t pin point what it was ‘till just now. Now, I remember. It was her shirt. When I came back, her overall demeanour wasn’t different, but the top button of her shirt was undone and her hair seemed even messier. Other than that, nothing out of the ordinary happened. She took a sip of the water, and then I helped her with her shirt. There was quite a lot of rectangular bruising on her arm and upper back, like she fell.”


“Or was pushed.” Sherlock mutters to himself.


John’s jaw clenches. Throughout Julia’s recounting, John had been wondering if this woman – Anne – she had been talking about was a victim of abuse. In his multiple lines of work, John has seen a lot of evidence of it, especially as a doctor.


Julia nods. “There were no marks on her otherwise. Lucky for her, I have quite a bit of experience with dislocated limbs. I was able to deal with it without much struggle; she did scream once and bit her lip to near bleeding afterwards. Afterwards I gave her a bottle of NSAIDs, good for several weeks, wrapped her arm in a sling and then helped her put her shirt back on – half on really, then I gave her a spare jacket, a hat and some gloves. I practically had to push them at her before she would take them. There was just no way I was letting that poor girl back out there with the snow blowing like it was. I tried to offer her more, but she wouldn’t take it, she was very determined to leave.” Julia takes another deep breath. “That was on a Monday, on the Wednesday after I arrived back here to find the place had been broken into and ransacked, but nothing stolen.”


“Nothing?” John frowns. How…bizarre.


Julia shrugs. “Nothing.”


“Hm…if the two of you are quite done being parrots, continue Dr. Almont.” Sherlock says, tenor the edge of biting. His attention obviously on her though his eyes seem fixed on some point of the shelf, moving books and looking in between them for no particular reason that John can see.


“Yes master,” Julia drones. John grins, and then grins a bit wider when Sherlock shoots her an annoyed look. “Anyway, it’s not the first time I’ve been burgled, but usually that implies actual stealing. It was odd, but since I couldn’t think of any reason for it, I cleaned up, nailed up a board of wood across the broken window the culprit must have entered, and later I left for the day. The next day, I came back again to the exact same thing. Broken into, different window this time – I knew I should’ve done the rest, stupid of me - ransacked, nothing stolen. I don’t know what they were looking for, but since I haven’t been broken into since then I figured they must have found whatever it was they were looking for or gave up. I had nearly written off the entire incident, but then the next day I started being followed.”


“Do you know by whom?” John asks.


“Nope, but I assume whoever it is, they are somehow connected with the man who shot you. I know he wasn’t the one who was following me; that person is much shorter. All I know is that they have never approached me directly, I have not been sent any threatening messages, but every day for over a week I have spotted the same person – a man I think, they are always very heavily dressed up so it’s hard to tell, regardless this person has been following me everywhere. I’ve always managed to shake them before arriving at my apartment, but…I won’t deny, am fucking creeped out!” Julia finishes on a frustrated note and paces a little, arms folded neatly across her torso.


John hums. “And you think all of this is connected?” If it is, whatever is happening is escalating, break-ins to stalking, and now the man with a gun, John can’t quite figure where this woman named Anne fits into all this…Thinking over what Julia has already mentioned, the water thing seems to stick out, could it have been a distraction? Get Julia out of the room for some reason? Why?


“Call it intuition or whatever, but yes, I do.”


“It is, obviously.”


John and Julia turn to look at Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock straightens out of his slight crouch and looks at Dr. Almont. “I need to see the exam room Anne was in.”


“And then you’ll tell us what that massive brain of yours has figured out?” John asks Sherlock directly, for the first time in several minutes.


Sherlock whips his head to face John, looking vaguely surprised; perhaps since John is addressing him directly for the first time in several minutes.


“Once I am in possession of all the facts, yes.” Sherlock nods. “Though at this point I mostly just need to confirm a theory, of which I anticipate being correct of course.”


“Show off.” John mumbles, a smile threatening to pull at the corner of his mouth.


John sees Sherlock restraining a smirk before turning to give John a long, assessing look. Sherlock’s expression is unreadable when he turns away from John and walks over to his coat and pulls his small magnifier out of one of the pockets. Before either John, or Julia, can say anything more Sherlock is striding out of the room.


“Humble much?” Julia snorts, appearing amused; quite obviously pretending, for the moment, that she didn’t see the look shared between Sherlock and John though she must have. “Not that I’m not thrilled, of course.”


John barks a gust of laughter. “Sherlock is many things; humble has never been one of them.”


“True, true.” Julia responds.


John nods. “I guess we should follow him yeah?” John says and begins to rise from the sofa…and just like before, the second he puts weight on his wounded leg he feels a pulse of stabbing pain. He grits his teeth and forces himself to stay standing; there is no way he is going to sit on his arse while Sherlock flies off the handle of a case. John can recuperate and pay the consequences later.


He takes a few deep breaths.


Julia watches him with concern and then moves away towards another door. She opens it and reaches for something. A few seconds later she is standing in front of John with a cane.

John blinks. Should I laugh or scream?


The irony and parallel to John’s first use of a cane is blatant.


“I would offer you some crutches, but…I figured you would prefer to have more control and freedom with your other arm.”


While not exactly thrilled at the prospect of using a cane again, he will need it for some support if he wants to get anywhere for at least a couple of days, especially tonight.


“Ta.” John gives Julia a polite smile and takes the cane.


The grip and sensation of the object is bitterly familiar, but after a couple of test steps John, despite the pain, finds it not intolerable to move.


John can hear a few things banging about not too far away, and assuming that is where Sherlock has scampered off to, John makes to follow.


When John reaches the office door, a grimace every few steps, Julia calls out to him.


“Dr. Watson…John, may I have a word?”


John stops walking and turns to face her. Her arms are crossed and those wide brown eyes of hers are fixed on his with a look similar to when Sherlock has his attention fixated through the lens of a microscope.


Sherlock may trust her, and John has so far yet to see a reason not to (mob connections aside), it wouldn’t even be a stretch to say that he respects her to a point, but even so…John’s posture stiffens at the look on her face.


“Alright…?” John tightens his grip on the cane.


“I realize that we’ve only just met, god awful circumstances too, and I certainly don’t know Sherlock as well as you do, but I find myself…concerned.” Julia steps closer towards John, making it impossible for John to avoid her gaze.


“Why would you be concerned about Sherlock?” John nods towards the open door, his voice somewhat apprehensive and perhaps a little defensive.


“You’re really not an idiot John, why do you insist on being one?”


John tenses.


“What?”


Julia rolls her eyes and sighs deeply.


“Ok, look, I don’t know all the details of the last year, and the last time I spoke with Sherlock directly was not long after he returned to England, but I do know one thing; I know what a heartbroken and lost Sherlock looks like. He tries to hide it, and boy is he good, but Sherlock isn’t the only one with powers of observation.”


John laughs bitterly. “I’m sorry, but are you serious? Sherlock, heartbroken? I don’t think we’re talking about the same man here.” John persistently ignores how false those words taste. He just…he can’t, a part of John knows he’s being unfair, but if he thinks otherwise of Sherlock…John can’t come back from that.


Julia blinks slowly. “Wow, you really are in denial aren’t you?” John feels a bubble of anger, which Dr. Almont evidently sees because she puts her hands up in defense. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry. It’s just…Sherlock reminds me of someone I used to know, my little brother, childlike, unique, incredibly smart…he has ever since I first met him. Sherlock doesn’t consider me a friend, but I think of him as one, and I am sure we can both agree that Sherlock can be incredibly ignorant about some things.”


John is decidedly not happy with this conversation, but he does agree with that point. He in fact said something very similar in his first case blog about him.


John nods but doesn’t speak, inwardly debating whether or not he should just leave before she can say something that will mess with John’s head even more. Certainly don’t need any more help with that.


“The few times I saw him during those two years, he was so incredibly focused, working as fast and thoroughly as he could…with that kind of determination, I figured he had something to go home to. You know what he said when I asked him what that was?” She appears to be waiting for some kind of response from John. He can honestly say he has very little idea how Sherlock would answer that kind of question.


John knows Sherlock loves his life, loves what he does, and maybe in some twisted way probably enjoyed the “game” of unthreading Moriarty one net at a time, perhaps he missed the Skull.


“I don’t know.” John shrugs, with a bit of a fake smile.


Julia hums. “Well, he ignored me initially. However, I have a bad habit of eavesdropping, pretty much my only vice ok? Anyway, I left the room where we were at the time and waited just outside the doorway to see if he did anything. He did. Pulled out his phone like he was going to make a call, he stopped before he could press talk. The only thing he said was ‘I wasn’t supposed to miss you’, you. I bet my jiggly boobs I know exactly who he was talking about, Dr. Watson.”


On that note she brushes past John, careful to avoid his injured leg, with a vaguely sad expression, and leaves the room; presumably to go after Sherlock.


John is frozen in the doorway, heart pounding in his ears, stomach swooping and feeling faintly sick.


He sighs and brushes a tired hand down his face, very much ignoring the Pandora’s Box labelled ‘Sherlock Holmes’ rattling around in his head.


What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Why would she even…? Christ, I can’t…can’t deal with this right now


“Wow, you really are in denial aren’t you?”


John groans angrily and turns around, with the intent of marching to wherever Sherlock and Dr. Almont are. Committed to helping Sherlock solve this case in whatever capacity he can with a wounded leg. Then Sherlock and he, probably just John, can apologize to Mrs. Blackhart for the abrupt departure, and then go home on the 26th as scheduled, back to London and 221b.


Everything will be fine; Sherlock and John will find their equilibrium again. They just need a little time, a little bit more time, and then the strange distance will lift and everything will go back to normal.


“You’re really not an idiot John, why do you insist on being one?”
 

John assumes Julia must flick on the light as well, because for the first time since they entered the flat the entire room is completely illuminated.


“I know you speak English, so listen to me very, very carefully.” Sherlock has his head poised close to the ear of the man John still has in his hold; one hand keeping his confined wrists still and the other checking for any other hidden weapons on his person. At Sherlock’s voice, deep and menacing (John’s body shivers involuntarily in response), the man’s protests very quickly quiet. “You are in the presence of three individuals far more skilled and dangerous than your deplorable self.” Sherlock’s face is eerily calm; his eyes flash with emotion that reminds John of when Mrs. Hudson was injured and temporarily held at gunpoint in 221b. John remembers that if Sherlock is right, this man – going by his physical appearance, and what Sherlock deduced about the woman Anne, John guesses this must be her brother – abuses Anne on a daily basis, has terrorized Dr. Almont and is indirectly responsible for John getting shot. “You will remain silent until I say so.”


John wonders which of those has Sherlock the most angered.


Then again that could just be because this case wasn’t exactly “stimulating” by Sherlock standards, somehow this seems the most unlikely option to John; true or not.


The man looks genuinely afraid despite the defiance rigid in the tension present throughout his entire body. He does nod however.


Even when dealing with the most horrid of people, and they have come across a hell of a lot doing what they do, Sherlock rarely lets his objectivity and detachment from the facts crack. If he feels sympathy for a victim or hatred towards those that have committed the crime, he almost never shows it, to such a successful degree than John has questioned the man’s humanity (like during the bomb case that inevitably led them to Moriarty), wondering if the man is even capable of looking beyond the facts and joy of a puzzle.


John doesn’t always remember how human Sherlock really is; a man made up of polar extremes…it is moments like this that remind him.


John finds a wallet, and a key. With one hand still keeping hold on the man’s wrists, he reaches out behind him so Julia can take both.


“Alastair Moretti.” Julia calls out. “Bastard.” She mutters under her breath.


The man’s – Moretti’s eyes flash towards Julia which causes John to automatically slide to the left, thus blocking his view.


“You have failed, abysmally so, Mr. Moretti-” Sherlock begins, however at those words Moretti tries to fight back by whipping his head backwards and kicking his legs. John is able to pin the latter down by throwing his body weight on them and Sherlock is barely even thrown by the action. Julia immediately comes over, stance threatening, and makes sure Moretti sees both guns in her hands.


“The necklace is mine-” Moretti grounds out angrily with his face plastered by Sherlock’s hand onto the hardwood floor.


“It belongs to your sister.” Sherlock interrupts. So he is her brother then. “And it is beyond your reach now.”


The man growls, which quickly turns to a whimper when Sherlock puts more pressure on his hold; probably painful at this point.


“I - I haven’t done anything to you! I have frie-”


Sherlock stops the man’s protests again by covering his mouth with the sleeve of his coat.


“Oh I have friends too Mr. Moretti, and far more powerful than any pitiful connections you have. I guarantee, no matter what happens now, you will be imprisoned, so unless you want to risk potentially more serious injury and punishment I suggest you cooperate. Nod if you understand me.” Sherlock speaks; his voice imbued with a danger letting Moretti know how pointless further protests will be.


Moretti looks beyond furious, but slowly, fighting his defeat, he nods. John is reluctant to let him go, but when Sherlock narrows his gaze at Moretti for a few seconds, takes a deep breath and looks at John positioned awkwardly across Moretti’s body and gives him a nod of his own, John warily pushes himself off and releases his hold on the man below him.


John and Sherlock roll the grunting man over and prop him awkwardly up against the closest wall.


“There, that wasn’t so difficult.” John states as he slowly, painfully with his throbbing leg, stands up. “I would listen to him if I were you; he once threw a man out of window for harming our land lady…how many times was it?”


Sherlock huffs an amused breath. Moretti glares at John and flicks his eyes nervously from him to the taller man.


“I stopped counting after three, or four, can’t remember which.” Sherlock shrugs, all too casual as he moves to stand beside John, eyes fixed on the now quivering man on the floor.


Moretti looks horrified, and certainly more scared than he had been before.


Julia is staring at them with wide eyes and an open mouth.


“Is he being serious?” Julia looks to John.


“Oh yes.” John had both been shocked and perhaps inappropriately delighted when he found out how Sherlock dealt with the bastard that attacked Mrs. Hudson.


“Hell, remind me never to piss him off, or you for that matter. You two are crazier than I am.”


John snorts. I certainly can’t deny that.


He gives her a brief smile before focusing his attention once more on Mr. Moretti.


Julia, still off to the side has relaxed her stance somewhat. She puts the disarmed gun down though her hold on the other is still firm and pointed towards the cuffed Moretti.


John makes a move for his cane, but immediately stumbles backwards to grab the side of the sofa when his leg throbs painfully.


Sherlock makes to move to John, as does Julia, both stop when John shakes his head to indicate he is fine. Which he is for now, but soon John will need to rest his leg if it is to heal properly. Sherlock grabs John’s cane, walks over to the Doctor and hands it too him.


“Ta.” John nods thanks and grips it tightly in his hand.


Sherlock walks a few feet towards Moretti and crouches down in front of him. Moretti might well be pissing himself if the expression on his face is anything to go by.


It is almost pathetic.


“Per favore, please, please don’t throw me out the window!” The man speaks shakily, with near bloodshot eyes (which John notices for the first time).


Sherlock leans forward slightly; cold eyes darting all over the man’s face and form, deducing who knows what.


Sherlock’s eyes zero in on Moretti’s face. Despite the pain in his leg John keeps a tense stance and a fierce eye on the two men in case Moretti tries anything.


“You’re a middle child, grew up in a wealthy family and largely went by unnoticed from most of the world including your family, especially your mother who favoured your little sister. Your father died before you hit puberty, after which you developed proclivities to addiction and violence. You saw multiple therapists over the years when you lived at home but stopped altogether when you left. You have an addiction to Cocaine, which you developed during your teen years; this significantly impacted your physical and emotional health in an even more detrimental way. You both loved and hated that you were able to get away with being high right under your family’s nose, loved it because it gave you an escape from a world you were growing to hate, and made you feel more alive than you had ever been before-” John clenches a bit here and eyes Sherlock carefully, not liking the lingering edge to Sherlock’s voice. “-and hated it because it proved what you had always known, your family ignored you. This led you to further violence, vandalism, fights at school; oh you got all the attention then didn’t you?” Sherlock’s voice is low, and steady, reciting the story he’s read in the lines and crevices of Moretti’s face and increasingly nervous and shocked expression; practically on the verge of passing out.


“Eventually your proclivities lead to your family fortune dwindling to almost nothing over the years. You and your little sister are the only two left in your family. She’s afraid of you; you regularly take your anger and frustration out on her physically and emotionally because out of the three of you, she looks the most like your mother, this has angered you for years and the only reason she hasn’t escaped your vile behaviour is because she believes you’re all she has left, and years of your abuse have made her feel like this is all she will ever deserve. You wanted to sell her necklace, gifted to her by the older sister I presume (the latter of whom died several years ago), because you owe large amounts of money to multiple drug dealers, the resources of your once prominent wealth long since spent. Your sister showed defiance for the first time in a while, which shocked you just enough that when she ran out of your home you didn’t follow until it was too late. Of course she came back later, with a story about losing the necklace…you didn’t buy it did you? No, you got the information out of her the only way that has ever gotten results for you; violence. You hurt her…worse than you ever have before, and even with her injured shoulder she tried to defy you further…but you have her so warped by your own idiotic, cowardly self that she’s convinced herself she’s deserved every hit, every word, everything. Congratulations Mr. Moretti, your mission to make someone hate themselves more than you despise yourself appears to have succeeded.” Sherlock slowly stands up, his whole manner a threatening presence that seems to expand and fill the room. “I hardly think you’re worth the effort of throwing out a window.”


Sherlock’s deductions of Moretti ran off with their usual unflinching, brutal speed, only this time John can’t find it in him to feel sorry for this man prostrate on the floor; gawking at Sherlock with wide, scared eyes, heavily breathing and biting his lip so hard it’s bleeding. John may pity the man on the floor, but even so it’s taking everything within John’s limited control to not go over there and fucking punch Moretti. If the look on Julia’s face is anything to go by, she feels the same.


John’s hands are clenching into fists so tight his fingers are tingling from lack of blood flow.


“How – this – you – you don’t know anything!” Moretti denies, the shakiness of his voice portraying his doubt, the drooping curls of his dark hair, exhaustion creeping into his limbs, the redness and dilated pupils of his dark green eyes make him appear significantly older than John suspects he actually is.



“Ah that’s where you’re wrong Mr. Moretti.” Sherlock pauses and gives the man a once over. “Unfortunately, due to your greed and idiocy, I know far more about you than I will ever care to know.” Sherlock adds, face expressionless, tone dark. He walks away a few steps and pulls out his phone, his long fingers send off a few, short texts. “John?”


John swiftly looks up at the sound of his name.


“Yeah?”


“I believe the police are expecting another ‘package’ to be dropped off on their doorstep much like the one earlier this evening.” Sherlock says with a nod in Moretti’s direction. “I would like to ensure delivery, make a brief stop, and then put this entire evening behind us.”


“Amen to that.” Julia breathes a sigh of relief. “I’ll make another call then?” Julia pulls out her own mobile, gesturing it in Sherlock’s direction.


John glances between Sherlock and Julia with a frown.


“Please do.” Sherlock nods with a smirk.


Julia’s face mirrors Sherlock’s own satisfied smile while she dials a number on her phone. She then eyes Moretti on the floor with a disgusted grimace.


With the phone to her ear, Julia walks over to John and hands him the loaded gun. ‘Just in case’ she mouths. He nods gratefully and takes it from her before turning his attention back to Sherlock and Mr. Moretti. Julia walks towards the opposite end of the room, beginning to talk someone in rapid Italian on her phone.


John leans back on the sofa arm and looks up at Sherlock; currently watching Moretti with his arms crossed; expression stony.


“Care to explain?” John gestures behind him to where Julia is.


“You’re not the only one with influential friends.” Julia calls out after having heard John’s question, quickly resuming her phone conversation.


“Dr. Almont has various connections in both law enforcement and the medical profession across multiple countries; it is why she is successful at what she does. After you were shot she contacted an acquaintance with the MPD to ensure that she wouldn’t be implicated in incapacitating him with her own gun, given the fact that I deduced he already has a criminal record and I had my own…chat with him, I highly doubt we’ll be on the receiving end of tedious police policy anytime soon, Dr. Almont as well. As for Mr. Moretti…” Sherlock pauses, Moretti eyes Sherlock nervously; his throat moving in an anxious bob as he swallows. “I anticipate no problems.” Sherlock’s smile is positively chilling.


Sherlock can really be bloody terrifying when he wants to be. Moretti actually whimpers and then…passes out; probably due to a combination of adrenaline crash, exhaustion, a tapering off high and Sherlock being a downright scary bastard…still, John has never actually seen Sherlock trigger someone into literally losing consciousness before.


Well, had to happen eventually. John has a rather inappropriate urge to laugh.


“Alright genius, I have two questions if I may?” John crosses his arms. Sherlock turns away from Moretti with a bemused expression that quickly melts when he looks at John. He nods. “What the hell did you do the floor?” John asks, barely restraining giggles.


It doesn’t take a mastermind to figure that Sherlock put something near the entrance of the door that must have made Moretti slip and fall like he did.


“Butter.”


John blinks. “Butter?” Seriously?


“That is what I said.” Sherlock gives an annoyed sigh, but John can easily tell his eyes are shining with amusement. “All in all, remarkably effective. Hmmm, I wonder…” There is a sudden, interested gleam to his eyes that immediately has John bristling…


“Don’t even think about it!” John scolds, elbowing him playfully in his side.


“What?” Sherlock looks at him with a pout, very purposefully projecting innocence.


John laughs but narrows his eyes dangerously at the Detective. “The last time I saw that look on your face I woke up the next day to find every, single pair of my socks riddled with holes!”


Sherlock groans and waves his arms in exasperation. “It was a vital experiment John! How else was I to gauge the corrosive effects of-”


“Why didn’t you use your own bloody socks?” John nearly shouts.


“The experiment necessitated natural fiber!”


“You couldn’t have bought new ones then?”


Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Don’t be an idiot John; I needed to know the exact age of the socks in order to properly gauge time and effect-”


“It doesn’t matter now, bottom line is, if you want to pour deadly chemicals on clothing, knock yourself out – I don’t care - just leave me and my wool socks and any of my clothing alone!” John cuts him off with firm hand cutting through the air.


Sherlock sniffs indignantly.


“It wasn’t all your socks, I left you one pair.”


John gapes. “It was the joke pair three years ago from Greg, pink with white clouds and fucking candy canes!”


Sherlock blinks slowly. “Who?”


Bloody hell. John palms his face. “Never mind, just…whatever you’re thinking about, stop it right now. I will throw all your equipment out the window if you start putting butter in random places all over the flat in order to catalogue minor bruising injuries or the effectiveness of John Watson verses buttery kitchen floor or whatever the hell it is you’re thinking.”


Sherlock huffs. “I would hardly design an experiment that could potentially injure you-” John snorts here, Sherlock ignores him. “-although it could garner potentially useful information, perhaps Mycroft or Anderson could-”


“No.”


“But John-”


“No.”


“John-”


“Sherlock.”


Sherlock glares petulantly, huffs and leans heavily back onto the sofa arm beside John.


John smiles at the pout on Sherlock’s face. The Detective glowers at him.


This atmosphere is their comfort zone; that feeling of inappropriate “crime scene” hilarity and banter Sherlock and John have always been prone to.


Honestly, John is more amused by that spark of mischief in Sherlock’s eyes than anything, although he was entirely serious about the sock thing. Sherlock knows it to.


John sighs. “Fine, I will admit seeing Mycroft tumble on his arse would be hilarious…”


Because let’s face it, it would.


The scowl melts as Sherlock barks out his baritone laugh. The sound inevitably gives John tingles throughout his body, seeming to center around his chest. The look on Sherlock’s face is so achingly familiar and in that moment John is painfully aware of how little Sherlock has laughed like that lately. John doesn’t have the energy to try and suppress all his own reactions to seeing Sherlock smile, and laugh, like that; especially knowing that he was the one who caused it.


And so John finds it all too easy to laugh right along with him.


With the light extenuating the angular lines of Sherlock’s face, right now there is only one word John can think of when looking at Sherlock, despite the clawing fears, old anger, long held assumptions and denials desperately trying to put it back…Stunning.


feck. John clenches his jaw and takes a steadying breath. feck, not this, not…


The appearance of Julia dissolves the bubble that had temporarily formed around the two men.


“You guys are just insane enough to be meant for each other, really.” She looks at them both with incredulous eyes fixed on their laughing faces, lingering a few seconds more on John as though she can read the thoughts permeating his mind…much like Sherlock actually.


John stops laughing when words settle in his mind, as does Sherlock; the latter much more efficient at going from peppy to blasé in the blink of an eye. If Sherlock is at all affected by her words he doesn’t show it, beyond a tinge of pink to his cheeks that could be explained away by practically anything.


John coughs and shifts uncomfortably.


Sherlock notices the movement and stares at John for a moment, expression indecipherable. John tenses and looks away.


Hell this is getting uncomfortable very, very quickly.


John finds himself worried how Sherlock will take the comment, most of the time he’s always just ignored them, but the swiftness to which Sherlock’s mood shifted has John feeling nervous.


“Mrs. Hudson would probably agree with you.” John jokes in an attempt to diffuse the tension.


Julia narrows her eyes. “You don’t?” She asks.


Oh shit, how the hell am I supposed to answer that? John resists the urge to glare at her, mostly because Sherlock would see that.


“Of course not.” John refuses to acknowledge the sour feeling in his gut and the locked box inside his mind growing steadily more vulnerable screaming ‘Liar! Liar! Liar!’ Not to mention the memory of Mrs. Hudson’s insistence on how Sherlock feels about him. Perhaps it is the latter that has John spewing what he says next. “And I’m sure Sherlock doesn’t either, people will always talk, friends and partners in crime right?” John smiles his best nonchalant smile and clasps Sherlock on the shoulder.


Fantastic John, really convincing.


John hates an unsolved puzzle almost as much as Sherlock, this swirling pool of emotions in regards to the mystifying Detective has John wanting to sleep for decades and hope he wakes up with a clear head.


Why can’t everything just go back to the way it was? When it all made sense, because…it did, didn’t it?


John is not expecting for the shoulder under his casually resting palm to stiffen the way that it does. He looks at Sherlock, fully expecting the man to agree in his own unique way, he was the one who pretty much implied that people do little else but talk, making assumptions and incorrect observations as they go. John has assumed this is why Sherlock simply ignored people whenever they made assumptions about the two of them, which is what John did…eventually.


“The idea that two people are meant to be together is an illusion the sentimental idiots of humanity have bought into. Almost as much as the chemical neurons referred to as “love”, much to the detriment of their minds and society, it has brought more suffering to the world and is the causation of many criminal acts committed. I see no benefit to it. This is a pointless matter to discuss and I would rather not lose more brain cells to this conversation. Dr. Almont I assume that your “friend” is one of the few who knows where you live and is currently on their way here? Yes? Excellent, let’s leave. This idiot isn’t going anywhere.” The last sentence is directed to the passed out Moretti.


Sherlock’s voice is severe and biting in a way John hasn’t heard for a long time, the words come out of Sherlock’s mouth like daggers…and John feels every one of them.


Sherlock doesn’t look at John, or Julia, as he leaves the flat fast – neatly sidestepping the buttery floor. He might as well have run out the door.


John lets his arm drop from where it had been frozen in the air after falling from Sherlock’s shoulder when the Detective abruptly exited.


What the feck?


Sherlock’s words are hardly a surprise to John. Though John would be lying if he said he didn’t feel a certain…sadness because of them. He’s sure more than ever that Mrs. Hudson must be wrong, just wishful thinking on her part (and not yours? Shut up mind). The way Sherlock spoke though…John wants to run after Sherlock and…and…John doesn’t know, see if he’s alright?


All he knows is that something was off with the way Sherlock acted.


John is confused to say the least.


Julia loudly exhaling breaks the eerie silence. John forces his gaze away from the wide open door and looks at her. She is staring at him…obviously angered.


“The saddest part is, only a person who has experienced love would protest something in the way he did. Surely you must realize that.”


John’s hackles rise in defense.


“Listen, I know you care about Sherlock, but seriously enough of this. You don’t know me, and you hardly know him for that matter.” John insists, meeting her angry gaze with one of his own.


Julia laughs bitterly. “You’re right Dr. Watson, I don’t know you. However, given what I’ve seen, I clearly know him far better than you do. That man just spouted bullshit known only to those who have ever had their heart broken, and it was hardly coincidence all that came gushing out right after what you said. You know what has to happen in order to have a broken heart? You have to love first. That man is brilliant, but he is also an inexperienced child who has been dropped in the middle of ocean with no idea how to swim – you can thank my mother for the cheesy metaphor, but I think it applies here. I don’t know what excuses, fears or denials you’ve got rolling around in that head of yours, but you have got to let them go before they destroy both of you.” Julia takes a deep, unsteady breath. Her eyes are boring into John’s with intense fire.


John wants to scream, he wants to shout at her ‘how dare you!’ ‘who the feck do you think you are?!’, he wants to walk away and dismiss her words, he wants to hit something.


Instead, John finds himself frozen as he stands there; staring, heart pounding, breathing heavily, clenching both of his fists as Julia’s passionate, personal words echo loudly in his mind…impossible to ignore. There is so much he wants to say, half of which he doesn’t know what it is, and all this is driving him crazy.


John closes his eyes and attempts to take a deep, steadying breath, trying to rein in that pressure cooker he can feel about to explode. I’ve tried, I’ve tried…Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.


At John’s silence, Julia rolls her eyes and sighs; wiping a palm across her tired face. She walks out of his line of sight; John assumes she’s leaving as well.


“Close the door on your way out, and don’t wallow for too long.”


Julia steps further away. With her words repeating themselves on a continuous loop inside his head, he realizes she is right about at least one thing:


“The saddest part is, only a person who has experienced love would protest something like that the way he did.”


“Wait.” John calls out to her, the pounding in his head almost outweighs the pounding in his leg as he turns to face the other Doctor. Julia is currently standing in the doorway, waiting for John to speak, her arms crossed. “This isn’t just about you caring for Sherlock is it? This is about you. You’ve…” John squeezes his eyes shut; battling with his own self. Having a lot of anger is more than a little exhausting.


Don’t be a coward John Watson. Come on, come on, and admit it. Admit and mean it.


I can’t! I can’t! It isn’t, it can’t be, this can’t be true it doesn’t make sense! I’m not gay!


Bisexuality is a real thing you know, stop using that excuse, no one is buying it anymore…not even yourself. Stop lying to yourself, aren’t you tired of lying? You know exactly why you and Sherlock have been having trouble don’t you? You just don’t want to admit it. You’re afraid. You hate that you’re afraid. You don’t want to get burned again. Coward. Coward. Coward.


He’s bloody Sherlock Holmes! Ultimate cold fish, he doesn’t…


Liar. You’re letting your own fears; assumptions and anger get in the way of the facts. You have the facts. Deduce.


That last one sounds suspiciously like Sherlock.


Sherlock….Sherlock, what have you done to me? feck, I really am screwed.


John forces himself to continue from where he left off. “You’ve been in my, my position before.” He tries to sound in control, with the army, years of being a doctor, and daily occurrences of expecting the unexpected while living with Sherlock under his belt, he almost succeeds in creating calm at the center of this storm.


Julia squeezes her eyes shut for a moment as though fighting back tears. She looks at John, more sympathetic than she had been a moment ago.


“Yes. I didn’t…I don’t…I wouldn’t wish the feeling of perpetual regret on anyone. I’m sorry, just, please John…” She opens her mouth as though to speak more, but she shakes her head and quickly leaves the flat in much the same way Sherlock did.


John walks forward, intending on leaving as well, his movements robotic at best. When he reaches the doorway, he takes a deep breath and punches his fist hard into the doorway.


“feck!” He screams through gritted teeth. John isn’t even sure if the sentiment is from the pain in his body or the pain…everywhere else.


Why is it that the saying goes ‘your life flashes in front of your eyes before you die’?


John sure as hell isn’t dying, but beneath the tense, controlled façade he is exuding in his posture and face, it feels like a dam has broken…like everything he thought, everything he was so sure of, never truly existed. In a twisted way it reminds him of when he discovered Mary, his wife, wasn’t who he thought she was. His whole life and what he believed it was going to be, everything was turned up on its head.


And now, John Watson isn’t who he thought he was. Yet, this time, there is one, fundamental difference…how he’s feeling right now, the closest comparison he can come up with is the first time he rode a rollercoaster. It felt like it went on forever, rickety, twisting, turning, upside down and right side up, never stopping, he never admitted it but he was terrified, and then…it finally stopped. John had gotten off and stood still, mind dizzy and feeling sick to his stomach, but finally, blessedly he was on steady ground where he belonged.


This feeling…you recognize this feeling, don’t you?


No, not this feeling.


But you know what it is don’t you?


You love him.


He’s my best friend.


And he’s something else…isn’t he?


…yes. Oh god.


John has always been drawn to where danger lays, the thrill and intoxication of it, even when he tried to settle down in a normal life. Sherlock Holmes is, and always has been, the most central point of dangerous John has ever experienced. Not just because of what he does, but because of who he is; a person John could never fully separate from, even when he was angry, even when he thought the man was dead.


John always wondered how a single person could have such an intense hold over him.


In the depths of his mind, and heart, John can admit that it scared him as much as it frustrated and thrilled him.


Has that been John’s fear? Sherlock, having that much power over him? It wasn’t always, John is sure, but after Sherlock faked his suicide…it changed, John changed, John realized exactly what the Detective meant to him and tried to forget, move on for his own sake. Not Sherlock, there is no way in hell John could ever forget him short of amnesia, just…forget what could’ve been and what never could be. He never said it out loud, Ella encouraged him to but he just couldn’t. And when Sherlock came back…well, John snapped. What Sherlock did almost killed John; if it happened again…John isn’t sure he would survive losing Sherlock a second time.


John has an addiction to danger and has never shied away from a path just because it was dangerous. The ironic thing is, John knew then, and knows now, being in love with Sherlock is the most dangerous thing anyone or…John could ever do. It is the one danger; throughout his life with Sherlock, that he studiously avoided and pretended didn’t exist, couldn’t exist. He hid behind doors, walls, cloaks of almighty heterosexuality, all to protect himself. Of course, Sherlock being Sherlock seems to have pulled a blitzkrieg into John’s heart, in more ways than one.


John isn’t even going to touch how Sherlock may feel right now.


John already feels as though he’s going to explode any minute. He’ll think about that…and this, all this, later. First he has to somehow survive a car ride with Sherlock and Dr. Almont and who knows what after, all while settling himself to the fact that he loves Sherlock in a way he fought to deny and control…and always has.


Everyone’s been right.


Thoughts, feelings and wants that had been locked firmly (or perhaps not so firmly) away in that Pandora’s Box inside his head have been unleashed and are pulsating in his blood and thoughts; a jumble of I’m doomed. Kiss. Hold. Together. Pain. Never. Always. Love. Love. Love. Love. Amazing, fantastic and brilliant are given new layers of meaning. That impulse of reaching over and casually brushing a curl away from that porcelain face, the heat John would feel and disregard when Sherlock would casually stroll out of his bedroom naked after a rare long sleep, without a care for the fact that his nude arse was currently on display, and how John had cried when Sherlock gave that speech at his wedding, not just because he was moved…but because he found himself so deeply sad.


Sherlock Holmes has ingrained himself into John’s mind and being in a way no one or nothing ever has.


Shit…what do I do now?


John has no idea where to go from here.


He does know that now is not the time to have a mini-breakdown. The night isn’t over yet.


John breathes deeply, steady John, steady, jaw and fists clenching, leg, heart and hand throbbing; all for different reasons.


With a final nod and steadying breath, hoping Sherlock won’t see his face and immediately knowing what just happened, John leaves Julia’s flat – bypassing the unconscious Moretti and butter laden floor – and closes the door behind him.


As he makes his way through the building, cane in hand, the throbbing of his leg reminds John of the moment not even two hours ago when he had been shot and how Sherlock had reacted.


Suddenly the moment where Sherlock rested his forehead to John’s, and tenderly, just for a moment brushed his nose against his, feels more significant somehow.