Happy Holidays, Ormond Sacker!



THIS TIME IT’S PERSONAL



He didn't talk about it. Not to his psychiatrist, not to any of his old army pals, nor Stamford or his colleagues from work, not to Mrs Hudson, not even to Sherlock - his best friend.

The death of Mary had affected John Watson deeply and it had become intolerable for the consulting detective to witness his continual suffering any longer. Sympathy didn't come easily for Sherlock, but he'd been fond of Mary more so than any of John's previous women. She'd had a bit of something about her. Mildly intelligent, decent sense of humour, could throw a good punch when required. She'd come in handy on more than three occasions when he'd dragged her along on cases with John and at one point the three of them had made a rather excellent team so her death, or rather, her murder, hadn't been easy for Sherlock either.

It played on his mind quite a bit, wondering if there was anything he could have done differently. Perhaps there was an alternate decision or deduction, another direction they might have taken on the case that would have led to a happier, more successful outcome. It was all 'what ifs' and 'maybes', he would never know for certain.

One thing he did know though, was this couldn't continue. He couldn't sit back and watch John moping through his life, forcing himself out to work every day, struggling on and trying to pretend he was fine whilst at the same time saying he wasn't ready to return to cases, with Sherlock having to half heartedly go out on his own, finding he didn't have the same enthusiasm for it without his trusty blogger by his side. He wasn't ashamed to admit they both needed each other and they both needed the work. Not the dull nine to five at the surgery John was trying to convince himself he enjoyed. He wasn't an army doctor because he liked dealing with old women's wheezy chests. He was an army doctor because he liked adventure, craved danger and the thrill of the chase just as much as Sherlock did.

He'd tried to tempt John out with high society art thefts, a missing bride, a couple of decent murders, even a false rape accusation where he had to prove the man innocent by sifting through a variety of used condoms and testing them. He imagined John would have some glib remark about the detective's lack of experience in the area but not even that brought out his friend's unique sense of humour. He needed something else, something better, something that John wouldn't be able to refuse.

He knew what it was all along, of course. He knew exactly what it was, he was just trying to avoid thinking about it, because thinking about it meant having to admit he'd failed, and to face up to and deal with his own failure.

Mary's killer was still out there.

He'd made a run for it immediately after he took the shot. Sherlock and John had been too caught up in attempting to keep her alive until the ambulance got there to even notice or care where he'd gone. 'I'll get him later', Sherlock had said to himself. But he never did. He didn't even know the man's name. That was the worst thing. He didn't know where to start.

He did know one thing though. The man almost certainly worked for Charles Augustus Magnussen. That's who they'd been tangling with at the time of her death, a master blackmailer and a general nasty piece of work one wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of. He was still out there too, but Sherlock didn't expect to get his hands on Magnussen right away. He'd have to play the long game for that result. The henchman however, was attainable, and two months after Mary's death, it was finally time to put his promises into actions. They would find him and call him to account for his crimes.

Without discussing any of his plans with John, Sherlock put the word out amongst his Homeless Network and trusted criminal insiders, giving an extremely detailed and accurate description of the killer. He might not know the man's name, but he knew an awful lot about him otherwise. Five foot nine inches tall, size eight feet, right handed, short black hair, green eyes, thick eyebrows, history of military service, Welsh origin, Manchester accent, small scar on the chin, one earlobe slightly longer than the other and at the time of the incident he was wearing a black leather jacket cut just below the waist, an off white shirt, dark blue jeans and a pair of black lace up ankle boots.

Within a week, Sherlock had heard back about him. His name was Craig Lowry and he worked mainly as a freelance hitman as well as pursuing other interests in credit card fraud and petty theft. He called in a favour at Scotland Yard and discovered Lowry had a criminal record too, and a registered address - that was always handy. He compiled everything together in a folder with Lowry's mugshot on the front, slapping it down on the kitchen table as John was just sitting to eat his evening meal having returned from work.

The fork paused halfway to his mouth, his eyes staring intently at the picture. Of course he recognised him. How could he not? It was the face of his wife's killer, not something he was ever likely to forget.

"What...what's this?" He asked, looking up at Sherlock and trying to keep his voice steady. He managed to get the fork of wobbling peas into his mouth although suddenly he didn't have much of an appetite anymore.

"His name's Craig Lowry," Sherlock told him matter of factly. "I have his address."

The chair legs scraped loudly across the floor as John stood up, already making a move to cross from the kitchen into the living room and grab his coat.

Sherlock stopped him in the partition and put a hand on his chest."What are you going to do?"

"Well. Kill him sprang to mind, but I suppose all of a sudden you're going to get all moralistic on me, Sherlock, and say 'you're better than that' or 'we shouldn't sink to his level'."

"Mm," Sherlock cocked his head slightly. A small twitching of his lips into a smirk. "Sprang to mind."

"I suppose you have a plan," John sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging as he turned back into the kitchen, slumping into the chair and staring down at his untouched meal.

"Haven't really thought that far ahead," admitted Sherlock. "Just wanted to get a reaction out of you and knew this would do it."

"Great. You have your reaction. Perfect," muttered John sarcastically, stabbing a piece of chicken with his fork.

"The problem will be trying to charge him. There's no proof he killed Mary. Just you and I saw him. Our word against his. No actual concrete evidence unless we can trace the bullet back to his gun."

"And can we?" John looked up, a little more interested now that Sherlock was giving him something solid to go on.

"Well. We'd have to see his gun, wouldn't we?" Sherlock flashed him a quick, mischievous smile. "What day is it?"

"Uh, what?"

"What day is it?"

"You don't know what day it is?" John gave a snort.

"Just answer the question," Sherlock sighed.

"Tuesday."

"Oh really? What luck. He plays for the local darts team on Tuesday nights, he won't be in."

"You knew it was Tuesday anyway, didn't you?" John narrowed his eyes.

"Just get your coat, John. And no saying you've got a headache and can't come. That really gets on my nerves. Poorest excuse ever."

"Alright, alright, keep your curls on."

"Ugh, what does that even mean?" Sherlock rolled his eyes as he slipped on his long Belstaff, secretly delighting in the fact that he and John were engaging in friendly banter together again, something they hadn't done in a long while.


Within ten minutes, they were in the back of an expertly hailed taxi and heading to Craig Lowry's address in North London.

As expected, there were no lights on in the ground floor flat and no indication that anyone was home. Sherlock silently thanked his reliable informants and leapt out of the cab without paying. Finding himself left behind with a fare to sort out, John swore and muttered under his breath, fishing into his pockets to find a crumpled tenner. Some things just never change.


"Don't suppose you've got a key, have you?" He quipped, catching up with the detective at the front door.


"Nope. But that's never bothered me before." Sherlock already had his tool roll out and withdrew two thin metal rods he used for lock picking, expertly and swiftly diving in, his face a picture of calm concentration. John anxiously stood with his back to the door, trying to shield Sherlock from view of anyone who might be looking and just thankful it was a quiet street.


After what seemed like an eternity but in reality was probably only a minute or two, there was a soft click as the door clicked open and Sherlock gave a triumphant "yesss" in a hushed whisper, stepping into the darkened flat. John quickly followed, silently closing the door behind them with a final glance out onto the street.


"What now?" John hissed, checking his watch and wondering how long they had before the guy got back.

"Find his gun." Sherlock stalked through the hall and into the living room, immediately beginning to open up drawers and sift around. "Try and keep things tidy."

John nodded and joined in the search, the pair of them rifling through Lowry's things until it was John who came up with the goods, finding the small handgun stashed behind a volume of British Birds stacked on the shelf.

"Got it!" He spun round to find Sherlock had become distracted by a collection of documents he was currently reading. "What is it?"


"Nothing," Sherlock answered, promptly folding up the papers and stuffing them into his pocket. "Let's go."


"Wait, what have you just pinched?" John chased after the lanky detective who was hastily darting out of the front door.


"They're planning something."


"Who are?"


"TAXI!" Sherlock flung his arm into the air then opened the door as the cab pulled up. "Scotland Yard, please."

***

"Listen, Sherlock, if you broke into the man's property and stole his bloody gun, then I can't use this as evidence in court," Lestrade was explaining apologetically, almost wincing as he said it. "You know that as well as I do. It just won't stand up. There's not much I can do."

"Just sort out the ballistics report, Lestrade, we'll take care of everything else," Sherlock assured him calmly. "And come round to Baker Street Saturday morning at 6am."

John raised his eyebrows, wondering why the heck Sherlock wanted Lestrade over at 6am on a Saturday morning but saying nothing for the time being until they were in another taxi heading home.

"Are you gonna tell me what's going on, or just keep everything to your bloody self again?"

Sherlock grinned and pulled out the documents from his pocket.

"Look at these, John." He straightened them out and shuffled up a little closer to his friend so they could both look at what he held in his hands.

"It's...it's...some kind of map," John frowned, squinting at the intricate, detailed drawings depicting various rooms, doors and windows inside an unnamed building.

"Floor plan," Sherlock nodded.

"To what?"

"Post office on Wigmore Street."

"How on earth do you know that?" John looked at him in amazement.

"Nothing exciting, John. I've seen these plans before. I helped design the security system."

"You did?"

"Yes. Don't look so impressed. It was a favour for an old Uni friend of mine."

"You had a Uni friend?" John gave him a sceptical smirk. "Not that Sebastian guy?"

"No," Sherlock sighed. "Someone else. Guy named Victor."

"OK so...they're planning to rob the post office?"

"Yep. Saturday at 7:30am." He pointed to the plans where the date and time had been written in an untidy scrawl underneath.

"These aren't the latest versions though. The most up to date plans are in the safe at...at Baker Street."

John followed Sherlock's gaze and saw immediately what had caught his attention and caused the hesitation in his sentence. The taxi had turned onto Baker Street but was unable to get any closer to their flat due to a police cordon and two vans blocking up the road, the attention focused around Speedy's and 221B.

"What's happened?" John shoved the driver some money and jumped out of the cab, shortly followed by Sherlock, the two of them racing up to the door and ignoring any protests by the police to stay back.

Sherlock pounded up the stairs whilst John got caught up in tending to a distressed Mrs Hudson who was wrapped in a shock blanket and wringing her hands, a kindly policewoman attempting to calm her down.

The devastation of their upstairs rooms was quite profound. The walls blackened, furniture covered in dust, the bookshelf upended, windows shattered and glass all over the floor. The place was even more of a mess than it usually was. Having dived over to his violin to confirm it was still in tact, Sherlock easily located the source of the bomb blast - their small safe, busted wide open, papers and documents missing.

Having made sure Mrs Hudson was getting taken care of, John joined his friend in the living room, gazing round in dismay.

"Look," Sherlock pointed at the empty safe. "What was I telling you about in the taxi?"

"You think this is them? Er...Craig Lowry and his cronies?"

"Of course it is. They've got a big job on Saturday and they wanted to get their hands on the most up to date security and floor plans."

"They must have known we were out."

Sherlock nodded in agreement. "Which means they've been watching the house." Then he threw himself to the floor in a rather dramatic fashion, getting out his magnifier to examine a dusty half footprint.

"What is it?" John asked, crouching down beside him.

"Size five Doc Martins, woman's. She smokes Marlboro menthols and wears a very specific brand of Southern Italian perfume. Difficult to get hold of over here."

He reached out his hand and picked something tiny up off the floor, holding it to his nose and sniffing vigorously. "Enjoys Mexican food."

"How can you possibly tell that?" John laughed. "The food part, I mean."

Sherlock grinned and held the unknown item out on his palm.

"This is a piece of mince from a quesidilla. When was the last time we had one of those?"

"Um...I don't even know what it is so...never."

"Right, exactly," the detective chuckled, getting to his feet and wandering over to the broken windows, leaving John to look on impressed.

"So, we're looking for a woman who wears size five Doc Martins and - "

"And she's five foot three and came in from this window right here."

"She did?" John rushed to Sherlock's side. "How did she manage that? Scaled the wall?"

"Nope. Nothing as exciting. They had a ladder. Marks here and here, see." He pointed them out with an index finger.

"So, someone just put a ladder against our window and climbed in, without anyone even noticing?"

"It's night time, quiet stretch of the road," Sherlock shrugged. "Either way, it's likely she was dressed as a worksperson for extra cover. No one would have even noticed her and - "

He stopped dead, eyes sparkling, an idea clearly formulating. John looked at him expectantly.

"What?"

"I know a man who would have noticed."

***

Mycroft Holmes didn't look any more pleased to see his brother than Sherlock did, the pair of them exchanging sarcastic pleasantries with the fakest of smiles much to John's amusement. He knew better than anyone that much of their apparent bitterness and rivalry was put on for effect, almost like a game that they both deeply enjoyed playing.

And Sherlock was absolutely right, of course. The elder Holmes did have access to most of London's CCTV cameras including one that had now been permanently trained on 221B Baker Street at his bequest.

Zooming in on the grainy images, it was easy to see the ladder up against their window, being held firmly in place by a man at the bottom whilst the smaller, agile woman clambered up and smashed the glass of their window. The man looked nervously over his shoulder to check whether the sound had attracted any attention.

"I'm surprised Mrs Hudson didn't hear anything," John said.

"You know what she's like, telly on too loud," Sherlock tutted. "I keep telling her to get a hearing aid, she won't listen."

"Wait, zoom in some more on the guy holding the ladder," John pointed at the screen, squinting his eyes to try and see better.

Mycroft moved the mouse, selected the area and double clicked. A clearer picture of the man's face emerged on the screen.

"I thought so," said John. "It's him."

"Craig Lowry."

"Little bastard."

"Like I said, they wanted the plans," Sherlock shrugged. "Although I'd love to know how they managed to blow up the safe without injuring themselves."

"Tut tut, Sherlock," Mycroft chuckled, greatly amused by this. "The woman you're looking at is Maria Lapoza. Expert safe cracker."

"Of course," cried the detective with a hint of annoyance, hating being outdone by his older brother. "She cracked the safe, took the documents then they set the bomb off remotely."

"Why would they do that?" John asked.

"A message, a warning. If they've been watching us as I suspect they have, they're likely to know I've been investigating Lowry."

"What are we going to do?"

"Nothing. The plan doesn't change. We keep a low profile till Saturday. They know I'll notice the documents are missing. I think they want me to try and stop them."

"Why would they want that?"

"We're going to have to be very careful, John," said Sherlock darkly. "We've interfered with Magnussen's plans for too long now. He's getting tired of us."

"One of your 'trusted' criminal contacts, perhaps?" Mycroft smirked.

"You think Lowry knew we'd go to his house?" John asked. "That you'd find out about the post office job?"

"I think so," Sherlock confirmed with a small nod, his eyes glimmering with excitement.

***

The next four days were difficult and fraught with tension. Not only did they have to put up with living in a half bombed out flat that never seemed to look any better no matter how much tidying and cleaning was done, there was also the anticipation of what was to come at the weekend, the likely probability that they were willingly walking into a trap. Sherlock wasn't much of a help with anything, cleverly avoiding the clean up operation by spending most of his time in his room and claiming he was 'thinking', much to John's general annoyance who just wanted to get this damn thing over with and get his revenge on Mary's killer.

He'd spent a long time thinking about that himself too. He wasn't going to let him get away this time. He'd imagined pulling the trigger on his revolver, ending the man's life and not feeling an ounce of guilt over it.

Finally the day came, and it wasn't a moment too soon for either of them.

Lestrade arrived at 6am prompt as he had been instructed and seeing the grave expression on his face as he answered the door, John knew immediately that Sherlock had most likely filled him in on the details of what they were dealing with.

"Did you do as I asked?" The detective demanded to know immediately.

John was about to offer coffee all round but Sherlock was already getting his coat on.

"Yeah, yeah, I did," answered Lestrade. "Sherlock, what are we going into here?"

"I don't know, but as long as your men are in there like I asked, we'll be fine."

***

They were met at the door by a nervous looking post office worker who quickly let the three of them inside and locked up behind them, tugging anxiously on his woolly jumper. Lestrade walked Sherlock and John round the small room, which had been prepped in advance with two police officers cramped into the storage cupboard, one crouched down beneath the counter and two others in the back office ready to run out when the time came.


"Excellent," Sherlock nodded, pleased with the set up. "Although this one can go out the back with the other two," he pointed to the man behind the counter. "John and I will take this spot." He glanced at his friend. "Prime position wouldn't you say, John?"

"Oh yeah," John agreed. "Not going to miss any of the action there, are we?"

"You can go now," Lestrade addressed the employee. "Thanks for your help."

"No," Sherlock hurriedly interjected. "He needs to stay for the time being."

The young postal worker looked surprised.

"We need you to stand by the door and let us know when you see someone approach," he informed him. "Then you can run into the back room and stay there until we've arrested everyone."

"Um...uh...OK," he hesitantly agreed, remaining by the front door.

"Half an hour left everyone," Sherlock announced. "Let's all get into position and wait, in case they're early. No talking." He grabbed John and yanked him down to sit on the floor behind the counter, immediately wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him in close to whisper in his ear.

"We have an imposter in our midsts."

"What? Who?"

"Keep your voice down?" hissed Sherlock.

"Alright," John dropped to a whisper. "Who?"

"The postal worker. He's not a real postal worker, he's one of the gang."

"How do you know?"


"Look at him." He twisted round and got on his knees, edging up a little higher so he was just peeping over the top of the counter, looking across the room at the young man waiting by the door. John did the same.

"Well?"

"Can't you see it, John?"

"See what?"

"Oh for God's sake. His jumper. It's a size too small and a shade lighter than the standard Royal Mail issue. The badge has been bought separately and sewed on rather crudely and he's got a nasty mark on the side of his neck where its rubbed and irritated him because he's not used to wearing it. Aside from that,

there's his trousers."

"His trousers?"

"Yes, just an ordinary pair of black jeans. But it's his pockets I'm interested in more than anything, John, his right pocket in particular."

John dropped his eyeline from the jumper to the young man's right pocket, now noticing for the first time that he was carrying something in it, the outline of some unknown object.

"Too large to be keys or chains,” continued Sherlock. “Could be a phone but it's the wrong shape. Do you see it now?"

"It's...he's...he's got a gun."

"Exactly. How many armed postal workers do you know in London?"

"What are we going to do?" John asked as they slumped back down to face the wall, giving up their deductions for the time being. Sherlock didn't answer. He had his palms placed firmly together under his chin and was muttering quietly and quickly to himself, thinking aloud. John was just about able to make out a few words here and there.

"He was expecting to be able to leave when we got here....he's nervous, why is he nervous, room full of police, bound to make him a bit nervous...what is he doing here anyway, why do they need him...to let them in when they all arrive...but if he was planning to leave then that's not why he's here so why, why..."


"Um...Sherlock..." John hated to interrupt when his friend was working things through in his head but he'd spotted something that could be of importance.

"Not now, John."

"Sherlock. You need to see this."

"What?" He snapped impatiently, still wary to keep his voice down low. "What is it?"

"There's some kind of wire coming out of that till."

Sherlock followed John's gaze, his eyes widening.

"That's it. That's it, John, you are a genius!"

"Oh, don't give me all that," he grumbled. "Just tell me. Are we...y'know...sat next to a bomb?"

Sherlock nodded. "That's why he wanted to get out, John. In fact, that's why he's here in the first place. He probably has a device in his pocket to detonate the blast once he's far enough away to avoid it. There was never any robbery planned. They wanted to get us here so they could blow us all up. Brilliant."

"Sherlock...."

"Ohhh, what a plan."

"Sherlock! We need. To do. Something."

"Alright. Mr Postman over there has the detonator. If we alert him to the fact that we know he'll make a run for it and press the big red button. We need to apprehend him swiftly."

"Leave that to me." Within seconds, John had whipped out his gun from the waistband of his jeans and was standing up, vaulting over the counter towards the surprised gang member.

The young man lifted up the bottom hem of his jumper and fumbled to take his own weapon out of his pocket, but John had the advantage with the element of surprise and was already in control of the situation.

"No," he warned him calmly but firmly. "Just stop right there."

Sherlock vaulted dramatically over the counter too, his coat billowing up into the air, elegantly landing on his feet and joining John to apprehend the suspect.

"Lestrade!" He called for the Inspector as he grabbed the man by the shoulder and shoved him forwards against the door.

John took the man's hands and yanked them round his back, holding him in place until Lestrade and the other officers emerged from their hiding places.

"What's going on?" The detective Inspector wanted to know.

"This man's an armed criminal and there's a bomb in here," Sherlock explained succinctly as John delved into the man's pockets and drew out the firearm.

"Jesus bloody Christ," Lestrade swore then began taking control of the situation, ordering one of the officers to slap on a pair of cuffs before ushering everyone outside onto the street where the detonator was confiscated and a bomb disposal unit called for.

Despite the success of the operation, Sherlock felt bitterly disappointed. They hadn't got their man. Chances were he was never intending to show in the first place. This entire thing had been for nothing.

John, however, wasn't about to let one small setback stop him. Sherlock had stoked a new enthusiasm in him, a new fire, a new desire, and he wouldn't rest until he saw justice done. Just as two officers were about to get the young man into the back of a police vehicle, he approached for a quick word.

"Where's Lowry?"

The man shrugged. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Craig Lowry," John repeated the name clearly. "Where is he?"

"Answer the question," Sherlock came up behind John's shoulder, glowering at the man.

"I don't have to answer nothing," he spat, turning quite nasty as he struggled against the hold the two officers had on either arm.

"Well then, I suppose you won't be needing this in custody," said Sherlock, calmly plucking the man's phone from his pocket before turning and walking away. "Don't worry, I'll only need it a second," he assured the older policeman, who was already beginning to protest about his appropriation of potential evidence. "Oh look...you have Lowry's number, what a surprise. And someone called CAM, how interesting. And oh yes, here we go..." He scrolled through the phone then showed it to John. "The last address he searched for using his GPS map. It's an old warehouse off Edgware Road. I know it."

He handed the phone back and strode off, John falling into line beside him in a good mood, feeling like they were getting somewhere again.

Sherlock flashed him a quick smile and led the way to the main road for a taxi.

***

The warehouse was in a shoddy state of disrepair and it was certainly unlikely he'd be planning to come here for anything other than some kind of shady rendezvous. Despite looking unsafe and uninhabitable, there was a car parked outside, an indication that there were people in there as suspected. Sherlock ordered the taxi to drive past and they got out a couple of blocks further up to avoid attracting attention. They had the advantage this time. They had the element of surprise.

There was one major problem that Sherlock could see, however, and that John hadn't yet considered, too focused on his own personal vendetta to worry about it or to even care. They had no idea how many people were inside, and there were only two of them, and only one gun between them.

Sherlock placed a hand on John's chest to stop him going any further as they approached the door, then raised a fist and banged on the rickety frame heavily, shouting in a loud, booming voice.

"This is Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. The game is up. This building is surrounded by an armed response unit. Please lay down any weapons and raise your arms in the air above your head."

He grinned at John then listened carefully, his ear to the door. Hushed voices, at least two, maybe three. Then a shout, then the sound of running feet, scrambling away from them rather than towards them, perhaps towards another exit or escape route.

Assured that there were no more than three people inside and that they were all now sufficiently shaken up and panicky, Sherlock thudded his shoulder against the door and half fell into the room.

John immediately raised the gun in the air, sidestepping in and assessing the situation. One woman running towards a door at the back. Two men hurriedly packing a large rucksack together, stuffing it full of smaller plastic bags. One of the men he immediately recognised as Lowry. The other froze for a minute, then dived towards a gun that was resting on a nearby table.

"John, look out!" Sherlock cried, spotting it first.

John let off a single shot from his own weapon and hit the man in the leg, watching as he dropped to the floor. Sherlock raced over and grabbed the other gun, ensuring both of them were now armed and with both of their weapons now focused entirely on Craig Lowry.

"Remember us?" John asked.

"Oh yeah. The detective and his blogger, how could I forget," Lowry snorted.

"You didn't think I was going to let you get away with this, did you?"

"Away with what?"

"You know what."

Sherlock remained silent, watching the interchange between the two. This was John's moment, one he'd been waiting a long time for, and he intended to let him savour it for himself.

"Oh, I'm sorry, you might have to refresh my memory," Lowry said sarcastically.


"Oh, I'll refresh it alright," John muttered, dropping his gun on the floor and approaching him unarmed, thudding a fist into the man's face. He had an impressive right hook when he wanted to and Lowry was caught off guard, staggering back and onto the floor. In an instant, John was on top of him, sitting on his chest and pinning him down with a leg either side.

He raised his fist again, bringing it crashing into Lowry's cheek and hearing the crack of bone.

"Feeling refreshed yet?"

"Yeahhhh," Lowry spat out some blood and blinked up at John, sneering. "I remember now. I shot your slut of a wife."

That was the point where John lost it. He punched him again, and again, his knuckles making a satisfied thwacking noise and burning up as they were brought into contact with Lowry's increasingly bloody and battered face. He wasn't sure how many times he hit him, or how long it went on for. It was almost like a switch had been turned off and he wasn't even self aware anymore, wasn't even thinking. All he knew was, at some point he felt strong arms around him, pulling him off and hauling him back to his feet.

"I think that's enough, John," came Sherlock's low growl in his ear. "I've called Lestrade, police are on their way."

John, out of breath and exhausted from his onslaught, leant his hands on his knees to calm himself down, his heartbeat raging in his ears as he surveyed the mess he had made of Lowry's face. He felt no pity or remorse for the man, but was glad Sherlock had pulled him off when he did, otherwise he most likely would have continued until he'd killed him.

"Feel better?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh yeah," John confirmed. "That felt bloody good."

Sherlock smirked and clapped him on the back.

"Have we got enough to convict him though?" John asked, a little worried as he heard the sound of sirens getting closer.

"Yep. Even if we can't connect him to either of the bomb blasts, we did just find a hoarde of stolen and fake credit cards."

"We did?"

Sherlock nodded and picked up one of the plastic bags they'd been so desperate to pack before the 'police' burst in, turning it upside down and emptying the contents onto the floor - a dozen or so credit cards dropped into a heap.

"This alone will warrant a search of his property, thereby validating the ballistics report and proving he was the one who killed Mary."

John grinned broadly. It was the happiest Sherlock had seen him look in months and in that instant he felt prouder and more satisfied than any of his previous successes put together. To be able to bring a smile back to his friend's face, a warm, genuine smile, was worth more than he could put into words, more than he could even understand.

"Thank you," John nodded at him.

"Don't mention it."

"No, I want to mention it." He approached Sherlock and looked up into his eyes, holding the gaze for a moment. "Thank you."

There was a small pause, a silence. Sherlock didn't quite know what to say, how to formulate an appropriate response to John's gratefulness. Being polite was probably the key here, he thought to himself.

"Thank you too," he replied, offering out his hand rather formally for a shake. "It's been an enjoyable case for me."

John looked at Sherlock's hand. "What's all this," he laughed, clasping his own hand around Sherlock's then immediately pulling him towards him. "Give us a bloody hug, you sod," he mumbled, throwing his arms around Sherlock's waist and clinging to his back. "Been friends for this long I'm not gonna shake your hand like we've just done a business exchange."

"Right." Sherlock's own arms remained stuck out awkwardly for a few seconds, not knowing what to do. Then slowly, he returned the embrace, looping one arm under John's left shoulder and the other over the top of his right, hugging him silently.

It was the first time they had ever done such a thing and, for a brief moment, Sherlock wondered why they had never done so before. It didn't feel strange or odd or invasive of his personal space or even over sentimentalised. It felt perfectly natural, just right.

"Come on," he said eventually, patting John between his shoulder blades then stepping back away from the hug. "Let's go home."

The police were arriving as they got to the door and their job there was done. Lestrade was full of demanding questions, wanting to know what had happened and what was going on, telling Sherlock he needed to make a statement.


"I'll explain everything tomorrow," he assured him, managing to successfully avoid having to hang around any longer. Right now, he had something more important to do. He needed to take his best friend for dinner.

 

Happy Holidays Schmiezi


Happy Christmas,

With Love,

Mycroft

Because I thought that perhaps there are many ‘nice things’ that Mycroft does for his brother and that perhaps Sherlock is not always aware of them all.




Part I

John sits in his soft leather ergonomic desk chair at the computer staring blearily at the empty web page before him. So far he has written exactly one word: Christmas. He even messed around with the font a bit in an effort to make it more festive, finally settling on a type of Comic Sans in glittery green and red. Of course, he erased that promptly because it is probably way too over the top. All he needs is for His Nibs to come over and start making wisecracks; John knows for sure that would set him off the task once again. At this rate he probably should just quit anyway. He sighs and stretches, rolling his achy shoulder until it pops and then rubs the kinks out of it gingerly with the other hand.

The room around him is comfortingly warm, the fire in the grate crackling merrily in accompaniment to the joyous lilt of the violin’s melody that is being gently coaxed from the instrument by the man in the corner. Sherlock is half in and half out of the shadows, dramatic even in pajamas and his old dressing gown. They have no other lights on in the flat save for the ones on the tree and the white twinkly lights that decorate the outside of the window. He does stop and think to remember to send out the thank you card from them both to Mycroft for the beautiful tree that so far Sherlock has not grumbled about overly much, which is a gift in itself. John is pretty sure that Mycroft’s assistant is to blame for the one hundred strands of twinkly fairy lights sent to the house in plain brown boxes last week, most of which John promptly hid from Sherlock, not wanting them to become experiments on any level; but it is the thought that counts, right?

John’s eyes wander over the other man’s form as he sips from the steaming mug sitting beside the keyboard. He hums along a little with the familiar melody. He knows that he will never cease to be amazed by the bloody ridiculous amount of talent Sherlock possesses in so many arenas. For someone who claims to ignore the mundane, well, certainly John could not ask for a better cup of tea or a more relaxing atmosphere on a cold night in December. Even the snow steadily falling past the window outside seems to have been put in place just for his enjoyment. In his entire life he does not believe that he could have defined the word home so well.

So, surrounded as he is by reminders of this winter holiday, he wants to say something meaningful, something that clearly illustrates the way he feels about this most enigmatic man that he spends his life with by choice; a small token gift that he can give the readers of the blog he has steadfastly been ignoring since beginning work on the first manuscript detailing some of the cases Sherlock completed in the years prior to their meeting. They have a publisher already interested in it, John has had to make the book his priority in order to get it in on time. This is one of those times when it is good that Sherlock is back in the limelight: seems like half the business-owning population of London either owes him a favor or is in the process of being added to that list. He smiles to himself a little, picturing the mysterious Sherlock Holmes as the voice of the Shadow. Maybe it is because he was helping Harry clean out their parents’ house last week and he happened to come upon a big box of his old comic books, or maybe it is because his mind is casting about for any last minute idea, but it seems to get stuck on that concept for a moment.

He makes a mental note to see if he can really get Sherlock to say the catchphrase just once in that voice, then proceeds to fall into a daydream-like fantasy involving flashy black cars and a tall man in a long black cape; except in John’s fantasies, the omnipresent scarf around the Shadow’s neck is royal blue. Of course if there was anyone in the world who knows what lurks in the hearts of men it would certainly be his own personal Holmes brother and oh, boy the stuff that is presently lurking in his heart he absolutely cannot write on his blog. Not if he wants to keep it at least somewhat family friendly.

….perhaps this is the reason why his brain feels so clogged up right now. He fiddles with the mug in his hand before setting it back down.

Tearing his gaze from the artist-inspiring clotheshorse in the corner whose eyes are fluttering closed in some sort of musical ecstasy as his bow and fingers weave a story of notes and crescendos from the air and pointedly dragging himself back to the screen, John’s attention is taken over by that nasty black rectangle that is evilly attempting to tease him with its incessant blinking. He glares at it, blue eyes brightened to aquamarine by the light of the monitor, waiting for inspiration.

So of course nothing happens. Except that Sherlock plays several particularly very sweet notes that threaten to break through John’s attempt at disciplining his mind and going to work on the self-imposed task at hand.

Once again, he sighs (in a rather un-Sherlockian fashion) (he thinks, anyway) and places his fingers in their not-so-orthodox positions on the keyboard, resting his wrists and the heels of his hands against the smoothly rounded edge of the desk. Over in the half dark of the corner by the window, Sherlock smirks to himself, an expression that to an outsider would simply believe was the man concentrating on the instrument in his arms. Only two people on the planet would know otherwise, one of those being his brother, who is thankfully quite absent this evening.

The other one of those people is currently scowling at the computer as if trying to make the empty blog page write itself. Sherlock smirks again and changes tunes from God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman to an almost unrecognizable version of Happy Xmas. He knows that any song by any given prior Beatle usually wins John’s attention back from whatever mundane thing he is doing that Sherlock believes does not directly involve Himself.

Of course, sometimes even Sherlock Holmes can be wrong.

John looks at the blank screen with its mocking cursor, knowing full well the game that Sherlock is playing. Ah well, at least it gives him a reason to play some stuff that’s a little more contemporary. He decides right then and there that he will get this done tonight, even for no other reason than because two can play at this game. He tries hard to ignore the fact that it feels like the room just warmed up by about fifty degrees.

Tiny stars He writes and then thinks that there should be something more.

Tiny starbursts He deletes it altogether.

Petite starbursts dancing against a Caribbean green backdrop in his eyes, making them appear to sparkle with an inner joy very few others will ever see.

“Well, that is just stupid.” He mumbles and backspaces the entire line again.

He starts over for the fourth time that evening.

He sways gently in front of the window, a performer onstage with a violin under his chin, the blinking of tiny white lights from outside reflecting back to dance across the translucent panes from the snow on the ground below. Our Christmas tree stands in the corner, the golden star on the top just above his head, the gentle skin-caressing glow of a colorful plethora of sparkling bulbs transforming the otherwise sharp angles of his face into lovely cherubic softness as he calmly coaxes such perfect sounds from the instrument in his arms. When he finally turns toward me, there are miniature starbursts dancing in those crystalline jade eyes, lending light to the flames of an inner joy very few others ever take the time to see.

I feel my breath catch in my chest.

He is stunning.

“John.” A deep rumbling purr of baritone behind him alongside the feeling of deft fingertips stroking the nape of his neck pulls John out of his reverie. He closes his eyes and leans his head back against a torso that finally, after all these months, is sporting just a slight bit more padding that it had in the past. He is only half listening to what his lover is saying to him, instead choosing to focus on the heat emanating from the skin underneath the satiny dressing gown.

“Is that truly the way you see me? As some half-naked childlike mythological figure in an improbably white nappie cavorting about under the faerie lights?” Sherlock narrows his eyes, now he glares at the screen, silently daring it to cross him.

John giggles. “Yes, only your curls are most certainly not golden, regardless of the meaning of your name.” He rubs the back of his head against Sherlock for good measure.

Sherlock’s blue-screen-of-death glare intensifies. He wants to ask John why he writes such drivel and the words are right there, but instead he hears himself say “thank you.” John only hears the last word, however, because right at that precise moment the log in the fireplace decides to snap into two pieces.

John squirms around in his seat to regard Sherlock’s serious expression. “What?” He asks. Can he be faulted if his hand finds a resting place against a decadently plump gluteus muscle underneath all that soft material?

“Thank you, John.” He rumbles and then proceeds to physically drag John away from his writing with an even more clever use of his tongue.




Part II

Sherlock paces the floor of the flat, covering the distance from the door to the kitchen in four long strides as if he were taking over a dance floor with his dramatically flouncy dressing gown and expressive bare feet. Well, four and a half, if he is being precise. He is irritated that John is not home. He is even more irritated that John is not home due to the omnipresent annoyance in his life that is most aptly named (or not) Mycroft. Furthermore, his irritation is reaching new heights not only due to the fact that Mycroft pulled John away from the flat (and, by extension from Sherlock) for a few days because it is only two days until Christmas, which just happens to be John’s favorite holiday of the year. Granted, Sherlock can take it or leave it (mostly leave it) but he has some things planned for the two of them that involve possibly not leaving the bedroom for several hours at a stretch and perhaps involving some of Mrs. Hudson’s sumptuous treacle tart.

On his twelfth pass, he snatches his mobile from the low table in front of the sofa in order to stab at the keyboard with his fingertips. Apparently everyone is busy. Lestrade is evening ignoring his pleas for a case, any case, even something as mundane as missing jewelry. He receives a single text back from the DI, in response to the ten or so he has volleyed into cyberspace, and that single text does not please him by any stretch of the imagination. He frowns, causing a line of wrinkles to crease between his eyebrows and his lush lips to turn down at the corners in a pout. His fingers tap at the screen of the phone for a few short minutes longer before tossing the thing in the direction of John’s chair where it hits the seat then bounces none so gently to the floor. John would be thrilled that the extra shock-resistant case he purchased for his lean, pouty, and rather handsome cherub actually took the beating he shelled out over twenty pounds for was worth every pence. Of course, Sherlock was impressed with the yellow and black striped pattern, though it was one more thing he would grumble about profusely rather than admit that he was secretly thrilled that his gun-toting teddy bear remembered how much he respected the lowly honey bee. Changing direction, he crosses the room to the window where he cracks it open in order to stare down at the snow that has since been cleared for walking and is piling up on the side of the road in dingy frozen grey clumps. “Must be what is keeping the criminals lying low.” He grouses to himself.

On his fifteenth pass through the sitting room, Sherlock drops heavily onto the sofa with his lips pursed into a tight, thin line, his ratty old dressing gown puffing into the air with the grace of a parachute slowly descending to land. He crosses his legs and his arms over his chest, effectively locking his rather Ichabod Crane-like self into a tight knot. John would tell him that he is being ridiculous. Well, he argues with the John in his head, you aren’t exactly here to say that, now are you? He snorts and blows air through his lips.

This is so boring!

After a few moments of sitting with arms and legs locked tight in what could easily be termed Pretzel!lock to the uninitiated, Sherlock flops onto his back in order to study the ceiling. That is just as boring as pacing, even more so because the view never changes. He huffs out loud, making little puffs of air from his mouth that causes the curls falling over his forehead to bounce. That is interesting for about five seconds. He wonders what type of grossly overly exaggerated prose John would write about that, so, in the true nature of scientific discovery, he does it again.

And again.

John would actually laugh his pants off watching such a great mind be thoroughly entertained by such a simple action, though Sherlock (as with most things about the man) he would never admit that out loud. He stops after a bit and continues to stare at the ceiling, sliding deeper into an ashen fugue before falling asleep stretched out on his back, bare feet resting on the arm of the sofa, one arm hanging off the edge with his mouth wide open in a snore that many loggers would be proud of.

It is this way that Mrs. Hudson finds him and drapes the blanket from the back of the sofa over him. He snorts, closes his mouth and then somehow manages to turn over. She studies him for a few moments, remembering John’s beautiful description from his blog post from the other day detailing this man that she often thinks of as her brilliantly manic son. She thinks John is wrong on one account, though, it isn’t cherubic softness that describes his face in times like this, but rather dynamically innocent. Mrs. Hudson wanders through the room, quietly picking up stray bits of paper and the occasional empty mug and puts them in their rightful places in the kitchen. She never throws the papers away, even when the little scraps seem like they should be trash, rather she simply stacks them on the kitchen table knowing full well from long practice that when HRH Holmes the Younger decides to get to them they ought to be there.

She twists the wet washcloth she uses to wipe off the counters over the basin and hangs it on the edge of the sink to dry before she realizes how cold it is in this flat. For all of her reminders that she is not their housekeeper, it is a bit of a secret between herself and a certain Mycroft Holmes that the extra money that shows up in her account from time to time is more than enough to cover a little dusting up now and then. She smiles a little to herself as she closes the window, pulling it closed against the damp and the chill. She flicks the light switch on the wall and the Christmas tree in the corner comes to life, the soft rainbow of color gently contrasting with the merry lights framing the window. The end result is one of hushed simplicity; something she knows is rare here, even at this time of year.

Once she is satisfied that the place has gone from messy to merely disorganized, but still cheery, Mrs. Hudson stands at the side of the sofa looking down on the sweetly snoozing detective, the warm colors from the tree reflecting the brilliance within . Long before John came along and proved to Sherlock that he indeed was not born without such an important part of his anatomy as the one organ vital to life even more so than the brain, she often found herself in this exact place, carefully caring for this young man who will never understand his own self-worth. “Sociopath, my Granny’s knickers.” she mutters as she lets the door latch click into place silently behind her.

From his spot on the couch, Sherlock’s limbs and eyes twitch in response to a dream of John wrapped in a shiny gold jumper and tight black jeans. Behind John stands an open-air sleigh of monstrous proportions pulled not by tiny reindeer, but an eight-piece set of monstrous North American Elk (Cervus canadensis to be exact) wearing blood-red leather harnesses. Silver bits in their mouths and silver hardware on the harnesses contrast with the bright glow of John’s clothing. A constant jingling sound erupts from the bells that dance upon their necks as each bull stamps his feet in impatience to be off and running. Deep in the healing arms of slumber, the great detective smiles at his brother’s ever dramatic entrance and attention to detail. Mycroft-as-Father-Christmas is impeccably dressed in a scarlet three-piece suit, and though he wears no snow white whiskers on his face, his auburn hair is the color of new snow and his piercing blue eyes gleam over a pair of small, round-rimmed glasses. Upon waking several hours later, Sherlock will wonder at the fact that somehow Mycroft does not look the slightest bit out of place surrounded by such surreal images.

He soon shakes it off and decides dreams are useless. After dressing quickly (and avoiding any shade of the color red at all costs) he meanders about the streets until he finds his way to Lestrade’s office where he realizes with a start that it is December 24th and John still has not yet come home. Lestrade starts to offer him a stack of old case files when Sherlock shakes his head and flounces out of his office as quickly as he came.

A few moments later, Sally knocks lightly on the doorframe. Lestrade looks up from the omnipresent stack of paperwork on his desk and nods that it is okay for her to enter.

“What was that all about?” Sally queries.

Lestrade looks from the now-empty chair in front of his desk to the calendar hanging on the wall behind him and then back to Sally. He shrugs. “Dunno, he took one look at the calendar and froze.”

“Wonder what the Frea…” Sally starts.

Lestrade interrupts with a stern “Sally.” Ever since Sherlock’s return one year ago, Lestrade has been taking great pains to make his people offer some measure of respect the man who essentially helped them all keep their jobs, save for Anderson. Some things in this world are simply beyond help and a wise man knows to accept them for what they are.

Sally reaches down towards the floor beside her, just out of Lestrade’s line of sight, and holds up a large pine-bough wreath. It is made of hunter green boughs entwined around what appears to be red berries of a color Lestrade generally grudgingly calls ‘dried blood’. She hangs it on the hook on the back of the door and stands back to admire it. There is a tiny neat red bow at the bottom from which hangs a shiny silver bell. Lestrade thinks it may actually be real silver if the overall quality of the wreath is any indication of its purchase price.

“Huh, boss, who would leave you something like this?” She gestures towards the nice-smelling decoration. When Lestrade looks at it, he decides that his office is just that much cheerier for the weather outside and the mountain of paperwork in front of him.

“Have no idea.” He says. “Not my jurisdiction.” He pretends to be interested in the papers on his desk.

“Well then.” He looks back to Sally to see her tugging at a very small tag attached to the back of the wreath. She reads it and lays it down on his desk right in the middle of the paper he is actually reading as she steps out the door. He picks it up and smiles as he reads the precise lettering of the handwriting. Even such a short message conjures images in his mind of icy blue eyes and a well-protected heart. Suddenly, staying at the Yard so late one day before Christmas is a really stupid idea. A picture of a crystal tumbler exactly one-quarter filled with a soothing amber liquid pops into his head, the crystal backlit and the whisky glowing from the white fairy lights and candles that serenely decorate the sitting room fill him with a joy he so rarely gets to feel, let alone share. It is time to go home. He wraps quickly in his coat and a scarf that is the exact same shade as the bow on the wreath, leaving the note on his desk as he closes the door.

Happy Christmas, Greg. Thank you for all that you do in keeping yours and mine safe throughout the year. –MH




Part III

Mycroft Holmes likes very much to pretend that he is often much busier than he really is. It is absolutely true that with his minor position in the British Government he is often up to his elbows with work, the opposite does occur quite often. At this very moment, his freshly polished black Italian leather bespoke shoes are losing quite a bit of their gloss due to the dingy heavy clumps of snow that has been packed up against the curb of Baker Street. They look even greyer and dingier at three in the morning.

As to why he is now stepping upon the curb of Baker Street is another thing altogether. He is here to drop off his brother’s flatmate-lover-partner, ah that is a better word and since Dr. Watson is exhausted, Mycroft selflessly offered his help since he knew that even attempting to call Sherlock down to the street from his warm flat upstairs was tantamount to asking him to wax his car with the soft cloth he keeps for cleaning his violin. For a second Mycroft considered that to be an excellent practical joke, but then the reciprocation might not be worth the effort. After all, it takes a Holmes to beat a Holmes.

“Mycroft, I am really not fragile. I can make it up the stairs on my own steam.” John steps up beside Mycroft, truly looking completely done in from the dark circles under his eyes to his messy hair and the stray bit of dried blood on his cheek that he missed when he scrubbed up earlier.

“I must insist, John.” Mycroft spoke plainly through lips thinned in a line. He is truly perturbed about his shoes.

“Alright. Fine. Follow me then.” John dips his head and holds out an arm like an actor taking a bow after last curtain. A tired sounding laugh escapes him as he unlocks the front door but not before leaning his forehead against it and closing his eyes. “I’m getting too old for these what? fifty hours or something clandestine emergency surgery runs, Mycroft.”

Mycroft says nothing to that statement. He is actually quite chuffed about having such an excellent surgeon at his beck and call that thoroughly enjoys these clandestine emergency surgery runs no matter how much he protests. “I appreciate it, John, those three men are able to return to their families after things went pear-shaped and they have you to thank.”

“You’re welcome.” John mumbles against the door.

Mycroft reaches around him and turns the knob, easing John back with a slight pressure on his shoulder. “Up you get.” Mycroft commands, starting to reach out and rest the palm of his hand on John’s back but stops just before he actually does it because he knows the fury he would unleash from a certain very possessive consulting detective.

John made it to the very first stair before he spun around on his heels and planted his backside dead center of it. “Gimme a mo.”

Mycroft thinks that the mumbling has got to stop. “John, if you would be so kind as to simply haul your arse up those stairs there is probably a nice comfy sofa you may collapse on. I do not think for one second that neither my brother nor Mrs. Hudson would approve of you sleeping down here on Christmas Day.”

“I know.” John slurs. “’m still gettin’ too old for this.”

“No, John, you are not. Everyone has their limits and you survive every single day with my baby brother with your wits intact and your mental health in relatively stable equilibrium, I am sure the next sixteen steps will absolutely not do you in.”

“Good God, Mycroft, that was a lot of words.” John does a perfect face plant right into his hand. He can still see the torn bits of flesh and the bright red flowing blood as it breaks through the skin and the iron inside reacts to the oxygen…damn he is tired. He rubs his eyes with his hands and remembers his precise stitching in such neat little rows. Rows. Rows of stairs. He can do this. He pulls himself to his feet using the banister.

Mycroft sensibly steps behind him, thinking that if he falls forward he should be able to at least catch himself on his hands before catching his face on one of the steps. As it turns out, it is a good plan because when John does teeter on the second to the last stop to the partially open door, he falls backward just a bit. Mycroft reacts without thinking, using both hands to steady John. John mumbles his thanks and pushes open the door.

The sight that greets them is one that will live in his mind the rest of his life. The room is dark in only the way three in the morning in London can be. The Christmas tree is lit up in the corner, the fairy lights twinkle merrily around the window and his little brother is stretched out on the sofa stark raving naked.

Well, except for the violin that happens to be rather artfully covering most of the bits that usually embarrass people. People who live civilized lives, Mycroft thinks.

In front of him John freezes. Sherlock stirs on the couch, his normally active mind taking a mere two seconds to come back online and his eyes blaze, obviously only seeing John. He stretches languidly against the cushions and gives his John a rather predatory grin, his lips opening just enough to let the bottoms of his top canines show in what Mycroft thinks is some sort of primitive display of seduction. He huffs out loud.

Sherlock finally sees his brother. Then he sees the hand that is not his own resting on John’s shoulder. It is obvious to Mycroft that for all his brains and quick skill that he misses the even more obvious fact that he is practically holding John upright. He has got to head this curly-haired train wreck off at the pass.

“Sherlock HOLMES!” Mycroft bellows in a very good likeness of the voice John used several hours ago to make the nurse assisting him pay closer attention to the stitches and not the blood; Mycroft knows that the nurse’s actions will severely limit any future assignments for him with Mycroft’s team.

The shouting does exactly what Mycroft hoped it would do: stops Sherlock cold in his tracks. Sherlock cocks his head to the side and stares at his brother. Mycroft seriously wants to relish this, but for now there are more important issues to worry about: all of which are an almost dead on his feet ex-army surgeon.

“Sherlock put some bottoms on. Go in the kitchen and make the good doctor a cup of tea. Do it right. After he enjoys his hot beverage, you are going to put him to bed and let him rest. Do I make myself clear?” Mycroft is thoroughly enjoying this raising his voice business. Most of his minio…assistants are so cowed by him that he never has to speak louder than politeness dictates. It is to his own credit that he does not laugh like a maniac at his little brother’s white bum as it wiggles through the room at a speed usually reserved for chasing criminals over rooftops.

Now John is really swaying on his feet. Mycroft guides him to the sofa and helps him out of his coat. John is virtually asleep though Mycroft is quite amused at how he has missed the whole Sherlock-in-his-birthday suit debacle, but then again, he does see that all of the time.

In record time, Sherlock returns to the sitting room in a pair of green and red tartan pajama bottoms and cradling a cup of steaming tea in one hand. Mycroft takes one look at the bottoms and arches an eyebrow. Sherlock wrinkles his nose in a move that is a dare for Mycroft to say one thing about these new jim jams that John bought for him one night after he had ripped them…

Mycroft shakes his head. Truly, there are some things that older brothers should never know about younger brothers. Ever. That was sort of the purpose in removing the bugs from the flat in the first place.

“Shut up you two, your silent posturing is loud enough to give me a headache.” John says from the sofa.

Mycroft nods in his direction. “I will take my leave then. Thank you for your help, John. Happy Christmas.”

John’s tired “Happy Christmas” is joined by Sherlock’s voice as Mycroft closes the door.


Part IV

When Mycroft’s most annoying self is finally gone from the room, Sherlock takes the time to join John on the couch. He scoots over until he is right up next to John so that John has no choice but to rest his arm on Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock pushes in closer, finally resting his head on John’s shoulder. John finishes his tea and is amazed at how the cup is deftly plucked from his fingers as he leans forward to deposit it on the coffee table. He waits until Sherlock lets go the cup before wrapping his very tired arms around his lover. John closes his eyes and leans his face against Sherlock’s, enjoying the warmth and closeness after the last two days. He knows how Sherlock hates those times when they are separated, but John still has a need to use his skills and Mycroft’s sporadic cases not only help him out in that respect, they also pay incredibly well. He decided a long time ago that they are worth the long exhausting slog, and that it is not just about the money, but about being able to help in general.
Daybreak gently unfolds around them, around Baker Street and around London, the midnight blue sky giving way to teal and then gold. The colors are bright and crisp in the cold air. John awakes with a start, he was so exhausted when he came in that he forgot to get up off the sofa and get into bed. He blinks his eyes against the sunlight and moves to stretch his arms and his back, running into an obstruction as he does so. His hands fall to his lap where his fingers quickly become tangled in a mess of ebony curls. Without warning, he remembers what day it is.
“Sherlock.”
There is a stirring on his lap, the stirring of a very large feline stretching itself awake in the sunshine. Sherlock rolls completely over so that he is looking up at John, emerald eyes alight with sparkling intensity. John feels himself falling all over again and leans down enough so that their lips touch briefly, which is certainly not enough for Sherlock at all because he grasps the back of John’s neck in one hand and practically drags him downward.
With all of Sherlock’s focus on his mouth, John soon melts into a big glob of putty there on the sofa on Christmas morning with the fairy lights and the Christmas tree. When he finally remembers that there were words he was going to say to Sherlock, it takes him a while to put his poor brain back in gear. Somehow he manages, though, by placing his hands against Sherlock’s shoulders and not quite prying him away.
“Just for a minute, Sherlock.” He says, catching his breath. Sherlock narrows his eyes, trying hard to look intimidating, something that has never really worked on John in the past and works even less now with his flushed cheeks and sensuously just-been-kissed mouth. It takes every ounce of his strength to not finish what Sherlock started right now.
“Yes, John.” Sherlock smiles wickedly, knowing full well what that voice does to John. And certain parts of John’s anatomy, not the least of which is including his reptile brain. Sherlock reclines across John’s lap, elbow cocked and face resting against his palm.
“God, you are gorgeous.” The words slip out of his mouth before he can stop them. Sherlock reaches back up but somehow John stops him with a hand to his mouth. “Sherlock, I did not get you a present.”
“What do I need a present for?” Sherlock’s belligerent tone simply spurs on John’s libido. Sherlock lunges forward, ignoring John’s mouth and settling on his neck instead. Another sound escapes John’s lips that he will forever refuse to call a ‘giggle’ as some of Sherlock’s mass of curly bed-head tickles his cheek.
“Sherlock, you know I love to give presents.”
“Don’t need anything. Got the most perfect present right here.” It is a testament to Sherlock’s bull-headed stubbornness that he can form anything resembling a sentence when his lips and teeth are working so diligently on John’s skin.
“Happy Christmas, then, Sherlock.” Is pretty much all John can say as he pushes against Sherlock and they slowly sink into the sofa. There is not much talking after that, though they will both agree that it is the best Christmas either one of them has had for many, many years.

Last edited by Ormond Sacker (December 24, 2013 12:22 pm)

Happy Holidays Sherlock Holmes
(and thank you letting us see you with the antlers)

Sorry, not sorry that had to be said.


NOVA
Hello Boss!  I thank-you very much for the prompt you created, it sparked a story idea that for several reasons became very important for me to write. I hope what I've written honors your prompt. I may have skimped on the hints of romance or sexual tension, however hopefully I made up for it in the other areas you requested,


Warning: This fic contains description of child abuse and graphic violence.


Chapter 1




A scream. A terrified, excruciating scream of agony abruptly wakes John from an uneasy sleep. There is something about the case Sherlock accepted today that feels...off. Well, not really the case itself, but something about Sherlock has felt off to John ever since they arrived back at 221b from the crime scene several hours ago.

“What the...” For a brief, sleepy second he wonders if that scream came from him (nightmares wouldn’t be a new occurrence) or if he imagined it.

Just then, another scream reverberates within the flat.

John leaps out of his bed within seconds and immediately reaches for his gun; encased inside the drawer of John’s bedside table. He ignores the fact that he is in nothing but his pants and rushes out of his bedroom. His heart is pounding hard with fear and worry. However, out of sheer instinct he initiated a calm and steady soldier’s stance at the prospect of danger (maybe someone has broken in?) and the sound of his best-friend clearly in distress.

There is no mistaken that voice he heard....Sherlock. John has never heard him scream like that before.

John descends the stairs as quickly as he can – his mind vigilant, eyes and ears fully alert, listening and watching intently for any other unusual sounds or noises – without risking alerting a possible intruder.

He reaches the door leading into the kitchen and pauses in front of it; he gives the room (the table a complete mess piled with the remains of an experiment of Sherlock’s from this morning, there is a layer of crusted...something covering one end of the kitchen table than doubles as Sherlock’s personal laboratory, just one of the many realities of living with the mad, brilliant genius John has learned to accept; though he of course still gets frequently annoyed, as well as routinely amazed) a cursory once over before deciding it’s clear.

After deciding the living room (also a delightful example of chaos that John is honestly grateful to call home) is also clear, John tightens his grip on the gun and turns to head in the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom.

Bang!

Sherlock’s bedroom door is suddenly flung open and out strides the man himself.

“Sherlock! What the hell happened? Are you okay?” John’s relief – still tinged with worry – at seeing his friend unhurt is short-lived however as the man pushes past John as though he wasn’t even there.

John ignores that for the time being and swiftly runs into Sherlock’s room; holding up his gun in a traditional stance. There’s...Nothing. John relaxes his grip, confusion quickly taking over. Nothing...then why did he –

John’s thought is interrupted as a loud bang originates from the direction of the living room.

He swiftly heads back the way he came.

“Sherlock! What the hell is going on?” John calls out loudly, as he reaches the living room via the open sliding doors of the kitchen.

Sherlock, wearing nothing besides a pair of inside-out grey pyjama bottoms, is standing beside the now upturned living room table; steadfastly ignoring John.

It’s dark, so John can’t see Sherlock’s face. All he has to go on is the horrible scream – it most definitely was Sherlock, had to be – he heard before, which John can’t see any obvious reason for.

“Do you mind telling me why you screamed and why you’re tearing apart the flat at three in the morning?” The latter is nothing unusual, the former is. John is mildly irritated, but there is something not quite right here that has him feeling more concerned than bothered. Did Sherlock have a nightmare? Why is he ignoring me like this? Again, this is not unusual, but that feeling of something being off – though different now – is still present.

Sherlock gives no indication that he even heard John. All John can hear are the twin sounds of his breathing and Sherlock’s...which, now that John is listening, sounds awfully rapid.

“...Sherlock?” John says quietly.

Sherlock turns and walks unsteadily towards the sofa. He bends down and tightly grips the edge of the low table in front of it.

Sensing what Sherlock is about to do, John rushes forward and grabs Sherlock’s arm (not too tightly) in an attempt to stop him.

The second John’s hand touches Sherlock, the latter spins around and punches John firmly in the chin.

“feck!” John swears loudly. Ow! The coppery taste of blood fills his mouth and he staggers backwards in shock from the much unexpected blow. He can’t tell – too dark – but Sherlock appears to be staring past him, saying nothing. “Why did-” John starts to speak but abruptly stops as something registers to him....when John touched Sherlock’s skin, it was extremely sweaty and hot, and the man was ferociously shaking.

Oh.

John disregards the ache and pain coming from his jaw and mouth and reaches behind him to flip on the light switch. As light washes away the darkness of the room John immediately looks at Sherlock. His concern triples as he takes in his friend’s appearance and observes the symptoms; screaming, eyes wide and alert, though unfocused from his surroundings, rapid breathing and most likely an elevated pulse (John won’t risk touching him again to be sure, unless necessary), violent reaction to being touched, autonomic arousal, he doesn’t appear to know who I am.

John knows what this is, has experienced this himself though not for a long time; night terror. Why would Sherlock be having a night terror? The idea of Sherlock trapped in this terror is frightening and baffling to John; he can’t shake the growing feeling that this is somehow related to their new case. Only twice before has John ever seen Sherlock look this afraid, the first was during the Baskerville case, the second was eight months ago when Sherlock returned 3 years after his supposed “death” and John refused to move back in with him to Baker Street (at the time John had been living in the flat he and Mary shared, his wife. She had died the year before) and said he never wanted to see him again (John didn’t really mean that even then, he was just so...so angry at the time). It certainly didn’t help that when Sherlock came back, he initially acted like nothing was wrong...nothing! Oh let’s just go back to normal...not bloody likely. Two months later John started speaking to Sherlock again, and two weeks later John moved back to Baker Street; the only place that has ever truly felt like home to him.

John knows that has more to do with his flatmate than the flat itself. He also knows even though Sherlock and John have their good days, occasionally there will be times when contention reaches a high crescendo. Just like before. Except now there is additional tension and uncertainty that didn’t used to be there.

However, those two fears were very different compared to what John is seeing now, which is significantly more intense; the blinding fear of one caught in a night terror. The state Sherlock is in now is so vastly different compared to his normal (a part of John scoffs inwardly with a fond smile at the word ‘normal’) demeanour it’s almost surreal.

There is very little John can do, except try to be calm, wait for it to pass (night terrors in adults don’t typically last longer than a few minutes) and make sure the bloody man doesn’t injure himself.

“Sherlock, it’s ok. It’s me, it’s John. You’re going to be alright. I’m here and I won’t harm you.” John speaks in the calmest voice he can; his heart still pounding from the worry and intensity of the situation. He slowly lowers his gun onto the end table behind him and holds out his hand in a comforting gesture.

He knows Sherlock can’t hear him and likely isn’t even aware of what’s going on, but John speaks anyway in an attempt to settle his fear, and to keep Sherlock from doing anything stupid that could potentially harm himself or John.

Sherlock raises his arms up high and grips the sides of his head tightly; his breathing still rapid. Again, he gives no indication he even heard John.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe. I...promise.” John feels a lump form in his throat and his words come out shakily as old guilt and pain roils in his stomach; reminding him of how he felt after Sherlock...fell. “Sherlock, I’m your friend, I’m here.” John takes a cautious step forward.

Sherlock drops his hands and looks around the room frantically, his eyes never once settling on John. His mouth is partly open and the breath leaving him is coming out in quick, wheezing gasps.

John watches (making sure his body is well covering the view of the gun), feeling completely helpless as he continues to murmur comforting words.

With one arm Sherlock tightly hugs his stomach, with the other he appears to be reaching desperately for something. John can faintly hear pained whimpers coming from his friend; he feels a deep pang of sympathy for the distress his friend is currently under.

Sherlock finally moves to gaze at John. Though John is doubtful Sherlock is actually looking at him. Dozens of droplets of sweat are beading on his friend’s forehead, his pale chest is also covered in high amounts of sweat, and kaleidoscope eyes are filled with such strong emotion beyond the realm of unusual for Sherlock, and his entire body is continuing to tremble.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” John repeats. “You’re safe.” In any other situation, John would feel odd saying those two words to Sherlock in that particular tone of voice. In fact, John feels with absolutely certainty that if he were saying these things to Sherlock while the man was fully himself, it would earn him an infamous look and frown. But right now, even if Sherlock is currently unable to understand him, John needs to help him...or at least try.

“Wh-d-nguh-thg...” Sherlock begins muttering a string of nonsensical words and syllables as he continues to stare at John with glazed over eyes.

John feels a strong urge to take the quivering man in his arms and hold him close, but he resists it and instead tries to smile reassuringly.

John sighs deeply with relief when he notices that Sherlock’s breathing is slowly returning to normal, the thudding vein in this taut neck less pronounced as his pulse slows down. The look in his eyes is changing, slowly.

Feeling a bit more confident he won’t receive another punch to the chin, John slowly walks forward and gently wraps his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. The tall man still doesn’t seem to be truly aware of John, but there is no indication that Sherlock will be lashing out any time soon.

“See? You’re alright now, let’s get you back to bed you git.” John adds the last word as a term of endearment; a slight smile twitches at the corner of his mouth.

Sherlock sags against John. The latter manages to carry the weight of the lean, yet muscular man; greatly trying to ignore the fact that both he and Sherlock are embarrassingly close to naked.

John puts aside his confusion, worry and concern over this whole episode and instead focuses on his current plan which involves taking care of Sherlock, encouraging the man – currently very much at risk of falling asleep on John’s shoulder – back to bed and bring down his own pillow and sleeping beside Sherlock for the rest of the night. It is possible that he will have another night terror in the same evening, and John wants to keep an eye on him.

John would be lying if he said he hasn’t been feeling a bit more protective of Sherlock in the past several months, he’s surprised Sherlock hasn’t yet commented on it. Being the master of observation and deduction, he must’ve noticed it. In fact, he seems a bit more subdued in some ways since John moved back in with him...though no less eccentric or his flamboyantly arrogant self though.

It takes some, though not too much, effort to cajole the near unconscious form of Sherlock into his bedroom and onto the bed. John briefly recollects the last time he did this which was during the Irene Adler case.

“I’ll be next door if you need me.”

“Why would I need you?”

“No reason at all.”

John carefully arranges the limbs of the consulting detective into the recovery position and pulls the blanket over Sherlock’s form and up to his neck. His friend’s eyes are closed now, heart rate and breathing returning to a sleeping norm. John briefly touches his forehead, sticky with drying sweat, and without thinking about it he brushes a lock of curly dark hair away from Sherlock’s eyes.

John thinks no more of his small gesture and makes his way back towards his bedroom, turning off the living room light as he does so. He also makes a mental note to take advantage of a clinic free work day to tidy up in the morning.

As John gathers up supplies from his bedroom (pillow, blanket, etc), he goes over some of the possible causes that could’ve caused Sherlock’s night terror; poor diet and poor sleeping habits are certainly two that could’ve attributed to it. However as far as John knows, Sherlock has unhealthy eating and sleeping habits for years and to John’s knowledge Sherlock has never had a night terror, however that doesn’t mean those reasons couldn’t have attributed to the night terror now. John is still vastly unaware of what happened during the three year gap in which Sherlock was “dead” (a time John prefers not to think about), but again, there has been no indication of Sherlock having night terrors since coming back until tonight. The only thing that has changed today was this new case. Another cause could be emotional stress. Is Sherlock...stressed about the case? Could that be what was off today? John isn’t sure; all he knows is that there was something strange, and not the usual Sherlock strange that is a part of John’s life every day, but something different altogether.

John sighs deeply. There are other causes that can predispose a person to night terrors, but given the mysterious and enigmatic nature of his friend...John wonders what could’ve ultimately triggered Sherlock Holmes to experience a night terror?

Last edited by Ormond Sacker (December 26, 2013 5:24 pm)

Chapter 3




“So, tell me about the case.” John said as he and Sherlock rode by cab to the crime scene.

Sherlock shifted his focus from gazing out the window to looking at John; the usual fire of a new case was alight in his eyes.

“Initially when Lestrade relayed the case to me, it at first appeared to be obvious and I rated it low on my scale. Certainly not worth my time, so I was just about to dismiss it. However, he then proceeded to inform me that there was another murder, nearly identical to the one we’re headed but in a different location than the first. Less than a week ago a man was killed in a bedroom that had been setup in an abandoned office building, single blow to the left temporal lobe that killed him. Open and shut case according to Anderson, which of course was the strongest indicator that they were wrong in their theory and subsequent arrest. Idiots. Lestrade was less convinced, however they did end up arresting and charging the only person who appeared to have motive; the victim’s wife. The man had been having an affair, which is obviously unrelated to the murder; I knew that much half way through Lestrade’s explanation on the phone. The murder which has now been committed proves it. Now, another man has been killed and left in a bedroom identical to the first one, within an unused warehouse approximately five minutes from where we currently are.” Sherlock recited his knowledge in a single, unwavering breath. He turned away and resumed his elegant posture, staring out the window; thinking.

John frowned.

“So...someone is setting up a bedroom, the same one, in these empty buildings and killing men there? Why?” John asked.

Sherlock gave John a look that said ‘seriously John?’ before speaking.

“Obviously it is unwise to theorize without possession of all the facts, however based on what we know so far, I would postulate that the murderer is recreating the scene of a traumatic event that most likely occurred in the distant past. That much is evident, though I need more data to be sure.”

“Of course.” John spoke with a sarcastic edge but smirked fondly at the detective. John nodded once in acknowledgment at Sherlock’s declaration and clasped his hands casually in his lap. As John looked out the window he noticed that they’d entered an area of industrial buildings.

The cab soon pulled up in front of one that was sectioned off with police tape and accompanied by police cars and various officers. Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson are clustered close together on the opposite side of the tape to where the cab pulled up.

Sherlock, in true grandiose fashion, swiftly exited the cab; leaving John to pay. John left the cab and gave a few notes to the cabby. He made to follow Sherlock, only to notice that the detective paused halfway between the road and the police tape. John jogged up to his side and saw that Sherlock was peering with narrowed eyes and an irritated expression at his phone.

“Everything alright?” John asked, watching at his friend curiously.

Sherlock inhaled sharply and quickly pocketed his phone.

“Of course.” Sherlock nodded brusquely and strode forward; irritation was gone and the blaze of a new case once again took command of Sherlock.

Sherlock reached the police tape first and lifted the yellow for John to enter, much like their first night together. Except this time John is very much without a limp and cane.

The trio turned to face the duo now on their side of the police tape.

“Oh he’s here, that’s just great. Why?” Sally Donovan asked, her face twisted up in outrage. Anderson looked on with a very similar expression.

John frowned deeply. Sally may have desisted from calling Sherlock a freak – sometimes – but her disdain for the man was as potent as ever, and Anderson hasn’t changed in the slightest. John is normally quite bothered when Sherlock is unnecessarily horrible to people, however in the case of Donovan and Anderson, John isn’t bothered in the least. Those two, especially Sally – Anderson is really just an idiot (a fact in which John agrees with Sherlock) – can be very cruel to Sherlock, which he doesn’t deserve. Sherlock may be cruel at times as well, but not intentionally in the way Donovan is.

Lestrade wiped a hand over his face in a gesture of the long suffering and exasperated.

Sherlock gave a Sally a long look. “Sergeant, being in the presence of idiots is already agonizing enough-” Sherlock looked sideways to Anderson as he said that. The latter bristled. “-if you would refrain from expressing the same rhetorical question every time I see you, I may grow to simply dislike you instead of the contempt in which I hold you now.” Sherlock spoke quickly and exuded an air of condescension.

Sally was fuming. Before she could say anything Lestrade whispered something in her ear and she quickly departed, giving Sherlock a departing revolted snort.

“She has a point.” Anderson said firmly; his blue forensic coveralls were too tight across his midriff and backside.

Lestrade sighed and looked about ready to say something, but at that point Sherlock flicked his observing stare to Anderson, a tiny smile quirked Sherlock’s mouth, first disgusted and then gleeful.

Oh no. John thought in his head.

“Of course she does.” Sherlock smiled and bowed gracefully. Anderson looked at Sherlock dubiously. The tall man turned to face Lestrade. He cast a brief glance over his shoulder to Anderson. “You may want to apply an analgesic cream to your backside Anderson. I’m sure your discomfort was only caused by sitting on Sergeant Donovan’s hand...many times.”

John barely suppressed a laugh at the look of incensed horror and embarrassment on Andersons face. Sherlock giggled at John’s poor attempt at hiding his amusement. Lestrade looked vaguely horrified himself.

Anderson immediately turned and walked away, it was then that John noticed the obvious discomfort he was in. He knew it wasn’t right, but John had to cover his mouth to keep from laughing. John looked at Sherlock sideways and saw the infuriating man barely suppressing his own laughter.

“I feel like I’m in school again.” Lestrade muttered. “Seriously Sherlock, have you ever thought of trying, I don’t know...diplomacy?”

Now John guffawed.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly at John. He then turned his attention towards Lestrade.

“Lestrade, I am not responsible for the idiocy and sexual lifestyle of your colleagues.” Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. Lestrade looked ready to retort, but Sherlock quickly resumed speaking. “In any event, it doesn’t matter. The crime scene on the other hand, beckons.” Sherlock immediately sauntered away towards the warehouse, his long coat billowed widely around him and his thick, curly dark hair blew gently in the chill, London wind.

John shivered as a gust hit him. Should’ve worn a warmer coat.

“How are things John?” Lestrade asked, clapping him on the shoulder good-naturedly.

During the time of Sherlock’s absence, Lestrade had been one of the few connections to Sherlock that John kept in contact with. They’d formed a closer friendship during that time, which primarily consisted of either avoiding the subject of Sherlock altogether or Lestrade trying to hide the fact that he genuinely thought John would kill himself. He would be lying if he said the thought hadn’t crossed his mind, but John never went that far. Lestrade was the one that introduced him to Mary, a friend of his sisters.

“Things are generally insane and good as always.” John smiled slightly.

Lestrade laughed. “Glad to hear it mate.”

John smirked. “So how have you been Greg?” John asked. His stance shifted from one foot to the other in an effort to keep warm.

“Exhausted. Too much paperwork.” Lestrade said. “Also confused about this case, we seriously believed we had the person responsible. And now this.” He made a general arm movement in the direction of the warehouse.

Before John could respond, he heard Sherlock’s deep baritone echo loudly along the wind. “Come on John!” Sherlock called loudly from the door of the large, ominous grey building.

John sighed and watched as Sherlock stepped inside.

“I suppose we should go.”

“Yep, wouldn’t want the overgrown child roaming around the crime scene unsupervised would we?” Lestrade said. Fondness was evident in his voice.

John sniggered and stuffed his hands deeply into his pockets.

At that moment he went over the people that he is aware of that genuinely care for Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson (Sherlock might as well be her son, and John too feels deep affection for her), Molly, Lestrade and John (who knows Sherlock better than anyone else), Mycroft as well, in his own distorted and controlling way. John doubts that Sherlock truly realizes how many people actually care for him. John remembered then the conversation that occurred during the Baskerville case, “I don’t have friends, I’ve just got one”. And maybe for Sherlock that was true, however John is positive he isn’t the only one that feels affection for the consulting detective. The man has always had a blind spot when feelings and emotions akin to love or caring come into play, especially when directed towards him.

Those thoughts were quickly pushed away as another draught of cold wind nipped at John’s face, to his right John saw Lestrade shiver as well.

The both of them then started to speedily head in the direction of the crime scene and Sherlock.




***




There was no sign of Sherlock when John and Lestrade first entered the building. Both of them assumed the man, magnetically drawn to a potential mystery of any kind, had gone on ahead.

They were right.

John was lead by Lestrade through a large room that appeared to have been used for packaging of some sort, old, dusty equipment and piles of empty boxes littered the area; along with a few police officers and forensic specialists. One side of this gigantic room was dominated by a series of doors. Lestrade and John went through the one on the far left, this lead to another large space.

John’s jaw dropped open in surprise at the bizarre sight before him. The first thing John noticed (other than Donovan and Anderson chatting closely off to the side along with two other police officers) was that unlike the rooms he’d seen before entering this one, there was no indication of any previous business ever existing here. The police issue lamps (since the room was windowless) that were lit illuminated a very clean, certainly not dusty, space. However, in the middle of the room there was a large square rug that covered a good-sized portion of the cement floor. On top of that rug was a large, four-poster bed complete with bedding and pillows. There was also a plain, yet sturdy looking desk with a dark brown chair tucked against it; both at the end of the rug opposite the bed. The only other pieces of furniture were an end table beside the bed and a gilded lamp on top of it.

In the middle of this strange spectacle was the body. It was there that John spotted Sherlock standing over the man. At first it looked like Sherlock was observing the victim the way he normally does.

“We’ve been unable to determine who the victim is, no ID has been found on the body.” Lestrade spoke, loud enough for Sherlock to hear as well.

As John and Lestrade continued forward, John noticed a slight stiffness to his friend. John doubted anyone other than someone who knew Sherlock well would’ve noticed the difference between that and his usual almost tranquil immobility. This wasn’t focused stillness, a state common to Sherlock’s character; this...this was forced rigidness. As if he was trying to control something.

John frowned in concern and stepped close to his friend.

“Sherlock?” John whispered. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. The fact that Sherlock didn’t immediately say something or look at John was another indicator that something was wrong. John could feel it. “Are you ok?”

Sherlock didn’t respond. He just kept staring at the man lying dead before their feet. Sherlock’s eyes were unblinking; brow pulled stiffly together, something that could’ve indicated distress, intense concentration or confusion, maybe all three. Knowing Sherlock, it was difficult for John to know for sure.

John could feel Lestrade eyeing the exchange, good thing the man had tact enough to not say anything for the time being. But John knew that he couldn’t wait forever, there was a crime to solve after all.

John glanced down and noticed that Sherlock’s hand was clenching tightly and unclenching over and over again; other than that slight movement Sherlock was still totally stiff. “Sherlock.” John repeated a bit firmer, more concerned than ever. John immediately looked over Sherlock with a doctor’s gaze, nothing physically unusually jumped out at him.

Not entirely sure what to do next, John lowered his hand from the spot on Sherlock’s shoulder and moved to take his friends pulse. The second John’s fingers touched the pale, bare skin of Sherlock’s wrist, John suddenly felt a strong, vice like grip encapsulate his hand; essentially preventing him from taking his friends pulse.

The movement shocked John into stillness. He looked up to find Sherlock now staring at him.

“I’m fine John.” Sherlock’s voice came out sounding huskier than usual.

John highly doubted that Sherlock’s definition of fine and Johns were the same, but at that moment as he looked at his friends face; there seemed to be a wordless plea to not say or ask anything further. John hesitated, but eventually nodded; not at all happy with what just happened.

Sherlock looked almost relieved and gently squeezed John’s wrist – much to his surprise – once before he let go of John’s hand.

Sherlock nodded and focused again on the body. He crouched down and pulled out his pocket magnifier along with a pair of blue, latex gloves. He then began a thorough examination of the man’s head.

John felt a little like someone who had been staring at a wall of ice only to have it turn to fire in seconds. Just like that, Sherlock had blanketed whatever had been happening to him behind an expressionless mask and his normal demeanour of curiosity and observation arose to take over.

Something is off.

John crossed his arms and backed away a few steps, giving Sherlock room to work. The last few minutes repeating themselves in John’s head, he tried to figure out what the bloody hell just happened.

Lestrade moved to stand beside John. The former looked at John questioningly; clearly he’d noticed something as well. John shrugged. Lestrade frowned and turned to Sherlock.

“I really need something, what have you got for me Sherlock?” Lestrade asked. His arms were also crossed in a pose nearly mirroring John’s.

Sherlock straightened out of his crouch. John watched him with a careful eye.

“John, what do you think?” Sherlock asked, gesturing towards the body and completely ignoring Lestrade’s query.

Sherlock and John shared a glance, one that acknowledged John had noticed something odd happened – however briefly – to Sherlock, and Sherlock hiding it behind a resolute mask; that could’ve either indicated that he was planning on either postponing John’s questions or ignoring John’s concern altogether. John doesn’t trust that look; the last time he saw it was over three years ago.

John stood unmoving for a minute, and Sherlock seemed to frown briefly before exhaling deeply and turning his gaze away from John.

John unfolded from his position and crouched low beside the body; Sherlock then moved to stand directly beside him. He put aside his own concern for the time-being, brought about his anatomical doctor knowledge and like Sherlock, pushed his worries away (for now) and forced himself to focus on the case; already feeling that intoxicating sense of purpose Sherlock brought into his life...though if that purpose had come with less body parts in the fridge or fewer incidents of wall shooting, John wouldn’t have complained. However, he wouldn’t trade his life now for anything.

A pair of latex gloves appeared in the corner of his vision, being handed to him from Lestrade. John nodded and swiftly encased his hands in the gloves. He then started studying the man lying dead before him, making his own observations on cause of death and any other potential points that could help in distinguishing anything useful about the man or maybe even the killer. His deduction abilities pale in comparison to Sherlock’s, and what John could tell Sherlock that the genius wouldn’t be able to figure out himself, he doesn’t know. Still, John liked to think that he is useful...Even if it’s just “conducting light” as Sherlock once put it, at the time John wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or not. Eventually he decided that was quite a compliment coming from his friend, intentional or not.

“Adult male, approximately...forty years old, evidence of a blow to the left temporal bone that likely killed him...which maybe could’ve been caused by a fall, or being hit with something round gathering from the indentation? There are signs of a secondary fracture on the back of his skull, very different from the other one. No defensive wounds that I can see.” John pulled up the victim’s suit jacket and shirt to get a look at the skin beneath. “He’s been dead approximately eight or ten hours, lividity suggests he hasn’t been moved.” John stood up. “His clothes don’t seem right.” He added.

Sherlock made an approved hum from John’s left. John glanced at the man and saw a complimentary twinkle there as well.

“As always John, your observations are obvious, but I am sure more astute than any of the idiots here could produce.” Ah Sherlock, the master of deduction and insulting compliments. Sherlock started walking around the crime scene; briefly glancing at everything with narrowed eyes, taking a little more time to look at the floor. There was something rigid in his walk. John disregarded Sherlock’s remark in favour of observing the man himself with a troubled eye. “You are quite right about the clothes; I highly doubt any of those here noticed. Well done John.”

John smirked sarcastically.

Lestrade sighed. “Would you care to explain Sherlock?” The very exhausted sounding man asked.

“Really Lestrade, I would’ve thought at least you would notice that the clothes quite clearly do not belong to the victim.” Sherlock pointed casually to the body.

“What are you talking about Freak?” Donovan appeared to join the three of them near the body.

John felt himself tense. John never liked her, and he will most certainly never forgive her for the defamatory and horrible way she pounced on the ridiculous possibility of Sherlock being a fraud. He’s yet to say it aloud, but in his own head, he is happy to call her a bitch.

“There is no indication that the clothes the victim is wearing didn’t belong to him.” Anderson also commented, rather confidently. He joined Sally by her side.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and appeared to mutter ‘I’m surrounded by idiots’ under his breath. “Please Anderson; I can feel my mind atrophying from the sound of the single wheel turning uselessly in your head. Either shut up, or leave the room. I would be oh so grateful if you chose the latter.”

Sally narrowed her eyes. Anderson looked so horribly indignant as he turned to Lestrade, but appeared to acquiesce to what Sherlock said and didn’t say anything else...not that he was happy about it. The DI frowned as he glanced at Sherlock with a faintly disapproving look. Sherlock ignored the both of them and gave a slight dramatic twirl of his coat as he turned to focus entirely on John and Lestrade.

“There are heavy amounts of dirt caked under his untrimmed fingernails, his hands are heavily marked and very calloused, his hair is extremely knotted and he has an odor most definitely not decay, there is the presence of various forms of city dirt – most of which have been hastily, and rather poorly wiped off his skin – in between the crevices of his fingers, behind his ears and on his scalp, and the discolouration – also unrelated to the death – and weathering of the skin, all of these quite clearly indicate the man hasn’t bathed for a quite some time and that he resided primarily outside. Homeless. No one dressed him; he was made to dress himself shortly before he died. Obviously he was murdered, and as John so astutely observed, most likely due to the blow he received to his temple. Either the murderer didn’t really try to make the man appear to not be homeless, or he’s just that stupid. Other evidence would suggest he is merely theatrical, and angry, but far from stupid. This man was chosen by chance, you will find no motive for the killing of him specifically, likely the same for the other victim as well. Also, the man who set up the crime scenes is not the man who killed the two men. Additionally, since the man was obviously standing and bending over slightly, unrestrained, facing the killer when he was hit, most likely he was told to do so. The angle of which the blow was delivered indicates whomever did kill him is either a short adult or a tall child. Impossible to tell which at this point. There are a few indeterminate facts that are unclear to me, which so far makes this case moderately interesting. I won’t need to visit St Barts until tomorrow; I’ll retrieve the autopsy report for the first victim then. I’m assuming that due to the nature of the case Molly will be autopsying this victim rather soon after receiving the body, so if the report is ready by then I’ll retrieve that one too, as well as examine the body myself for any distinguishable markings. If you would be so kind and bring me the case file for the first victim and whatever you have so far for this murder, as soon as possible, it would be much appreciated. I’m guessing, though I rarely guess, that identical murder weapons were used on both and that they were left at the scene? I’ll need to examine those as well.” Sherlock bent down quickly and took a picture of the victim’s face with his mobile.

John was, as always, stunned by the speed and ease at which Sherlock performed his deductions and observations so casually. John at that moment doubted that he would ever cease to be amazed by Sherlock.

Still, there were a few things John didn’t like hearing Sherlock say so flippantly; the possibility of the murderer being a child being one of them. Before he could voice this though, Lestrade did.

“You’re saying a child could’ve done this?” Lestrade asked, looking at Sherlock with disbelief.

“Or a short adult. If a child was responsible, it is likely the child will be missing.” Sherlock said matter-of-factly; while he moved on to examine one of the bedposts with a frown. “I’ll need to view the case file for the other murder in more detail to make an absolute judgement.”

Lestrade sighed. “I’m not even going to bother wondering how you know all that, I don’t have the energy. I can’t just give you evidence we haven’t properly looked over yet, but we have bagged the murder weapon used here. You can take a look at it.” The DI gave a pointed looked to Donovan. She growled faintly and walked away in a huff, presumably to retrieve the murder weapon.

“Hold on, you said the man was standing, bending slightly over, unrestrained and facing the murderer when he was killed. Why?” John asked. He certainly couldn’t think of a reason.

“That’s a reasonable question John. In all likelihood he was threatened with something if he didn’t comply, what that something is...” Sherlock let the thought trail off. At that point he’d moved on from examining the bedpost to looking at the bed sheets with a strange expression, like he was in pain and trying to hide it. John only saw it because in spite of what Sherlock would say, he could read him quite well in most circumstances.

John immediately side-stepped the body and stood beside Sherlock.

“Sherlock, what’s going on?” John asked, his voice lowered so no one else could here.

“We are investigating a serial killer.” Sherlock shrugged, voice monotone and equally quiet.

“Don’t do that. You know what I mean; you’ve been on edge ever since we came in here. You cannot pretend there isn’t something...bothering you, not from me. I saw and I know you know I saw. Tell me what’s wrong.” John spoke firmly and calmly, trying not to let his worry show.

Sherlock’s expression briefly morphed into one of anger. John recoiled but didn’t move from his position beside his friend.

“I do not have to tell you anything John.” His voice had changed to a lower octave in a menacing way. “I don’t have time for your misplaced, sentimental concern.” Sherlock stared John down, and John stared right back.

“Damn it Sherlock, how is this misplaced? You’re acting...strangely.” John said, with no small amount of frustration. Sherlock raised a singular eyebrow. John rolled his eyes. “Stranger than usual.” John corrected and tried to calm himself down; a task not always easily done. “Look Sherlock, I’m your friend, I’m worried-”

“Don’t be.” Sherlock interrupted him.

John restrained the urge to growl in frustration. They are at a crime scene after all.

“I can’t not be.” He continued to stare at Sherlock with unrelenting determination. He resisted the urge to shake the man into telling what is wrong, which he knew would definitely be a bit not good. Something is definitely not quite right here. Sherlock rarely expresses anger like that towards John, unless he is bored or a case turns out to be frightfully simple for him.

Before John could say anything, Donovan returned.

“Here you go Freak. Do not take the evidence out of the bag. I’m watching you.” She said brusquely.

John and Sherlock stepped away from each other, and Sherlock – who had been bending forward slightly – straightened his posture. Neither noticed Sally returning nor how close and fixedly they had been staring at each other; both stubborn and daring the other to go further in their argument.

Sherlock tore his gaze away from John, a coldness seeping into his irises, and took the bag roughly from Sally. John sighed in frustration and crossed his arms.

It was when John heard a jagged inhale that he turned back to look at Sherlock and the bag – which John presumed to be the murder weapon – Donovan had just handed to him.

Initially his eyes were drawn to the weapon itself, only peripherally taking in Sherlock...John frowned in confusion. What the hell? “A bust of Norman Bethune? Huh, I’ve never seen that used as a murder weapon before. Bizarre.”

“Yes...”

John immediately glanced up at the tone in his friend’s voice; eerily hushed, very much not like Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes were rigidly fixed to the clear evidence bag, inside which is the two fist sized (yet heavy looking) bust of Norman Bethune; on the round part of his head you could see bits of hair and blood. Mostly Sherlock appeared to be frustrated and confused. It was almost imperceptible, but John could see the evidence bag shaking; caused by Sherlock’s hand trembling faintly.

Ok, what the bloody hell is going on?

John automatically placed his hand over Sherlock’s. “Sherlock.” John said quietly as he gazed at the eyes of his friend; fear very much present in them...fear? John suddenly felt scared himself. For more than one reason, when Sherlock is afraid of something, it is never a good thing.

The consulting detectives hand immediately stilled and the fear was gone as quickly as it appeared, however Sherlock didn’t retract his hand from underneath John’s.

“Norman Bethune, a famous military doctor from the early twentieth century, Canadian with strong British ancestry.” Sherlock spoke quickly, a blank expression on his face. He shoved the evidence bag quite forcefully – too forcefully – in John’s direction; he automatically caught it. “I have learned all I can here.”

Sherlock strode hurriedly away in the direction of the door.

John’s brow creased somewhere between confusion and apprehension. He immediately made to follow him, but was stopped by Lestrade gently grabbing his arm.

“What is wrong with him?” Lestrade asked.

John turned to look at him; he noticed that the man was wearing an expression similar to his own.

“I don’t know.” John sighed inwardly.

Lestrade nodded and didn’t pursue the subject further.

“I will bring the case file for the first murder tomorrow and whatever else I have for this one.” Lestrade said as he released John’s arm.

“Alright.”

“Take care John.” Lestrade said. The words carried an additional meaning.

John glanced in the direction Sherlock had disappeared to.

“I will, thank-you Greg.”

Lestrade smiled faintly and gave one last friendly pat to John’s shoulder before walking away in the direction of his officers and those preparing to take the body away.

John started jogging after Sherlock.

In very little time he was outside and anxiously looking around for the familiar form of the man in the long coat.

John noticed him standing by the curb, looking pointedly in John’s direction. He soon joined Sherlock’s side.

“I’ve called a cab. We’ll need to make a brief stop before heading back to Baker Street. Hopefully Lestrade will bring around those case files and autopsy reports early tomorrow. So far, this case is intriguing enough. The murder itself was unspectacular, but the manner in which he died and his surroundings are most telling to the killer’s state of mind, although the exact motive is unclear. I am certain that the individual who did the actual killing act had very little or nothing to do with the planning of it. I’ll know more once I get a look at those files, and should our next destination prove successful, from that as well.”

John was about to say something, but a faint buzzing from Sherlock’s pocket distracted him. Sherlock pulled out his phone and glanced at the text. He visibly tensed and growled. His fingers flew across the screen as he typed out a response. Sherlock, with a bit too much force, put his mobile back in his pocket.

John briefly wondered if that text was related to the one he received earlier.

“Sherlock.”

“Yes John?”

Sherlock turned his coat collar up against the cool wind whisking around them.

“What happened back there?” John asked, probably a bit too loudly.

Sherlock sighed in exasperation, his body was still tense.

“I do wish you would desist in asking that question and any one similar to it. We’re on a case that is at least interesting.”

John, seeing no better option, acquiesced for the time being. A frown appeared on his face.

“Alright.” He said, stuffing his hands deeply inside his pockets. “The case, gotcha.”

“John.”

He turned to face Sherlock. For a brief moment, John allowed himself to be distracted by the sight of a cold-nipped, unkempt by fierce wind, Sherlock Holmes. It was oddly endearing.

John noticed Sherlock was staring straight ahead at the road, studiously not facing John. In the distance the sound of a nearing cab was heard by the both of them.

“Yes?” John said.

“Thank-you.”

Sherlock said it so softly John almost didn’t hear it.

Chapter 5




John returns to Baker Street a couple of hours later, after having visited Mary’s grave (he brought her a bunch of white roses) and picking up a box of nicotine patches on the way back home. A funny thought occurs to John, never, during the years of Sherlock’s absence did he refer to anywhere as home. It was always, ‘where I live’, or ‘back at the house’. Even when he was married, nowhere felt like home to him. It was as though he was doomed to perpetually live a form of bizarre guest or nomad existence, moving from one cheap flat to another (so long as it wasn’t 221b Baker Street, he stayed there for a while after Sherlock...died, but it didn’t take long for John to feel suffocated by the past. So he left...the decision was definitely of the cliché phrase ‘a rock and a hard place’, John chose the latter), and then to the place he shared with Mary. It was only, all that time later when he finally, finally moved back into 221b, did a form of tension release. The same feeling one has after being away from home for years, or even just days and then comes back to it; pure, indelible relief. That feeling of coming home, John admits, had less to do with the flat and more to do with the man who had been standing in the middle of the living room...as if waiting for him.

John feels a sense of déjà vu when he opens the living room door of 221b, seeing Sherlock standing in that same spot, in the middle of the room. Except this time he isn’t watching the door, Sherlock is rigidly still and facing towards the window; judging by the way his arms are bent, John surmises that Sherlock has his hands resting against his mouth; thinking. He makes no indication that he heard John enter (this isn’t unusual), and John can’t see his face.

John doesn’t say anything for a moment and takes a cursory look around the room, very little has changed except the wall to the detective’s right. He notices dozens of crime scene photos pinned to the wall above the sofa (high enough that they cover the spray painted smiley face and various bullet holes); some placed in an obviously organized way, and others simply taped as if it were an afterthought. Knowing Sherlock though, there is probably a system to the chaotic collage, there always is.

“How’s the case going?” John interjects as he slips off his coat and lays it over the back of the armchair beside the sofa. He still feels ill at ease about what happened earlier, but for now he’d rather put it behind him and not continue to dwell on it. However, John’s concern at seeing Sherlock ill at ease himself, and afraid, a number of times in the past 24hrs, will continue to be there both strong in the present and on the fringes of his mind, because of this John is looking at his friend with a critically focused eye.

Unless something else happens, for now John will (along with Sherlock) focus on the case; an unusual serial killer case to boot, should be enough to keep the both of them occupied and Sherlock’s mind stimulated for at least a little while. There isn’t much else he can do, clearly talking and trying to get Sherlock to share (let alone something that clearly is shaking his control) about what’s going on is about as successful as getting an immovable brick wall to turn into a pile of daisies. The man is bloody impossible...just one of his many charms. John isn’t all that shocked really to note that the thought was not a sarcastic one.

Despite all of that, John still feels a heavy weight in stomach; more commonly known as ‘being unsettled’. There’s something about this whole situation, the case, Sherlock and however the feck Mycroft is involved...has John feeling more than a little on edge.

“I have confirmed that the actual murders were committed by two different children, most probably kidnapped.” Sherlock says so low John almost doesn’t hear it.

“Oh my god.” John whispers. He walks forward a little closer to Sherlock.

It was one thing when Sherlock mentioned it before, a passing theory, but to hear Sherlock say it with such conviction, and Sherlock is rarely wrong...children.

Sherlock appears to shrug.

“This fact however is currently secondary and inconsequential, the one who has – is, for he most certainly will force another child, a different one if the current pattern continues to stand, most likely a boy 10 to 12yrs of age, to kill again – been orchestrating these murders is an adult male, early to mid-thirties and it is him we need to focus on. I’ll need to go to Barts shortly to analyze some samples I took from the crime scene we visited yesterday. I’ll also need to re-examine the body, I have a theory that needs confirmation regarding him and the perpetrator, which was further supported by the information the Homeless Network delivered to me while you were temporarily absent. Unfortunately I’ll have to make do with looking at Molly’s autopsy report for the first victim instead of examining him myself; they released the body once they had a suspect in custody. Idiots.” Sherlock speaks in one, long exhale and he’s still standing before John, facing away from him; still as ever. The only real oddity is that Sherlock didn’t speak with the same...case-induced enthusiasm.

John is taken back, incredulous. He heard the majority of what Sherlock said, but his first words are throbbing loudly in his head. John supposes he shouldn’t be surprised at his friend’s cold callousness and immovable, often compassionless logic anymore, but there are still times when...especially when it’s children.

“The fact that children are being used to kill people is not bloody inconsequential!” John shouts, his tone simmering. “How can you just...” John sighs. “You’re talking about innocent children. Finding them is just as important as catching this maniac responsible for the deaths of these men.”

Sherlock is silent. He turns his head slowly to the side and looks at John with an impassive expression.

“Finding the ‘maniac’ as you so eloquently put it, is what will lead us to the children I am certain. Logically, it follows that we focus on him first.”

John, though still angry, exhales in defeat. As heartless as it may seem, Sherlock has a point. And though it may seem otherwise to others, and to John at times to (he is only human after all), John knows that Sherlock’s apparent callousness is not out of a desire or intention to be unfeeling or cruel.

Sherlock is watching John with those incredible eyes, flicking quickly across his features; observing the many emotions that must surely be showing on his face. Something in Sherlock’s expression changes, a subtle shadow appears behind his eyes and a faint crinkling of the skin creases his brow. John crosses his arms and waits for Sherlock to continue as he suspects he will.

“John, it would serve you well to disregard your compassion and empathy for the time being, lest it cloud your judgement and observation of the facts.” Sherlock’s monotone echoes loudly in the otherwise silent flat. He then turns back around to face the window. “It will make this more...difficult for you.”

John is shocked at the abrupt difference in Sherlock’s voice; small... a whispery undertone. Very much not Sherlock.

“Sherlock?” John takes a step forward and places a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock throws Johns hand off violently and whips around; a scorching fire in his eyes.

“Do. Not. Touch. Me!” Sherlock growls out each word with a menacing snarl; his body shaking.

John automatically backs away with his hands raised in surrender. What was that? There is a scary similarity to when Sherlock had a night terror, but this time Sherlock is definitely not asleep. Several theories bounce around in John’s head as he observes the distraught detective, mainly ‘why would Sherlock react so violently?’ he never has before.

“Sherlock.” John says firmly, but not at all aggressively. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The fact that Sherlock doesn’t react with an ‘of course’ and a derisive snort proves that something is indeed wrong here.

His friend doesn’t move, his stance and demeanour remain unchanged; however Sherlock’s eyes have narrowed and are pinned on John as if assessing a potential threat.

“Sherlock...” John says calmly, his heart pounding.

He risks a step towards Sherlock....which turns out to be a big mistake. Sherlock reacts immediately and rushes towards John with incredible force; immediately pinning him to the door with one arm across John’s chest and the other tightly gripping John’s wrists and pinning them firmly above his head. John gasps in surprise and suppresses a groan of pain when his back hits the door handle.

Even though his soldier instincts are telling him to defend himself, another gut feeling is telling John to not introduce more violence into this situation. Until his life actually becomes in danger, John will choose to remain still.

Sherlock’s face is scarily close to his own; John finds he is unable to look away from the dark eyes, burrowing into his own with alarming fear and anger (what is going on?). Both men, breathing heavily and with hearts racing for more than one reason, stare each other down with incredible willpower.

John feels a painful twinge in his shoulder caused by the awkward position Sherlock has restrained him in. John grimaces.

At this moment Sherlock seems to come back to himself. His eyes widen and he releases John and stumbles backwards; looking down at his hands as if they’ve started oozing acid.

“Sherlock?” John repeats, very quietly and careful not to move for both his sake and Sherlock’s. All thoughts of anger, confusion and ‘what the bloody hell is going on?’ are pushed aside at the sight of his friend looking so...lost.

“I am...sorry. John, I...” Sherlock, a man normally eloquent and sure, falters through his words; shock and surprise evident in his voice.

John doesn’t know what to say. He ignores the ache in his shoulder and dull pain in his back from the door handle and takes a deep breath. He looks at Sherlock, dozens of questions firing inside his head ‘Sherlock, talk to me!’, ‘Sherlock, what the hell is going on?’, ‘What was that?!’, ‘Sherlock, are you ok?’, ‘Sherlock, you’ve been on edge ever since the crime scene. You had a night terror for god’s sake! Please, tell me what is bothering you!’ among others. Which one to ask?

“I think it would do you some good to get out of the flat for a while. You said you had to go to Bart’s right?” John slowly begins to move, careful to stay in Sherlock’s line of sight, towards his coat that he’d laid down earlier. Seeing that Sherlock is still very much frozen, staring incomprehensibly at his hands, John moves all the way and grabs his coat. “I doubt you’ve eaten all day, or yesterday, stubborn git. So, how about we eat out? I know you don’t eat while you’re on a case but if you would humour me this once, I’d appreciate it. While we do that, you can tell me what else you’ve figured out about the case and I’ll do my usual ‘conducting of light’ and what not, then we’ll go to Bart’s together.” John says simply with a kind smile, allowing a smidgeon of fond sarcasm to integrate into his voice when saying, ‘conducting of light’.

John takes out the box of nicotine patches from his coat pocket and places it on the nearest table. He then pulls his coat on and turns back to look at Sherlock. The detective has straightened out of his previous slightly hunched over position and has his eyes closed; hands hanging limply by his sides. Sherlock gives the barest nod. John frowns slightly. Though satisfied with this response, it isn’t like Sherlock to assent this quickly. John clasps his hands loosely and leans against the doorway.

“Well, I’ll wait for you right here. You may not mind prancing about London in your dressing gown, but I would rather forgo that particular eyesore.”

Sherlock opens his eyes and looks at John; his eyes back to their usual, constantly observing, unblinking gaze...though vestiges of shock still linger in his irises. He flicks his eyes all over John’s face and body, focusing on his wrists and middle. It would be difficult for anyone who doesn’t know him to notice, but John can clearly see the signs of genuine remorse on Sherlock’s features (sociopath my arse) ...it is rare enough that John is sure of what he’s seeing.

Sherlock steps towards John and reaches out his hand slowly, John doesn’t move and watches with some surprise as Sherlock reaches out and lifts up the edge of John’s sleeve right above his wrist. He pulls it back and looks intently at John’s wrist. John can see faint, finger shaped bruises already forming there. From the look on Sherlock’s face, he can see them too. The detective inhales a quick, sharp breath as he eyes the bruises. After a few seconds, he releases John’s sleeve and his entire face shutters into yet another blank expression. Sherlock turns away from John, quickly striding past him with an even gait towards his bedroom.

John looks in the direction Sherlock disappeared to for a few moments before turning back and resting a palm to his face. He takes solace in the brief moments of his friend’s absence to breathe, thump his head back against the wall, close his eyes and think.

I don’t like this. Whatever...this is. John sighs, a whole explosion of emotions afire within him.

It doesn’t take long before Sherlock re-enters the area; coolly composed, wearing his deep purple shirt and coal black suit. John opens the door to wait while Sherlock dons his long coat, scarf and gloves. The whole time he’s doing that, he never once looks at John.

Sherlock walks over to his makeshift experiment laboratory that – unfortunately – doubles as their kitchen, and picks up a few little baggies John hadn’t noticed before, along with his mobile that had been laying on the table as well. Sherlock pockets them and strides past John, immediately descending the stairs.

John pauses briefly, taking a moment to gather himself before he exits also and closes the door behind him.

He reaches the outer door of 221 to find Sherlock is holding it open for him, a cold November wind rushes inside and John shivers. He gives Sherlock a small smile and walks out. He hears the door shut loudly behind him.

Sherlock, all long legs, billowing coat and curly hair twirling in the wind, walks past John and reaches the road first; he stretches out his arm to hail a cab.

Not a word is spoken as the two of them stand side-by-side for a few moments while they wait for the taxi to pull up. John with his hands clasped behind his back and looking at Sherlock sideways, and Sherlock staring fastidiously forward; still eerily silent. The silence is worrying John more than anything.

A cab pulls up and Sherlock slides in first, John doing so right after.

“St. Bart’s-”

“Angelo’s-”

Sherlock and John speak at same time to the cabby. They look at each other with mild surprise, John giving Sherlock his most intimidating stare, and Sherlock giving one just as unyielding.

“What was that lads?” The cabby, an older gentleman, speaks loudly.

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but John quickly cuts him off.

“Angelo’s.” John says this without taking his gaze off Sherlock. He finishes by giving the cabby the address.

Sherlock sighs with exasperation and an almost inaudible grunt. John thinks he hears him mutter ‘infuriating transport’, and John quirks a small smile; a ball of tension in him releases at the minute sense of normality (well, what constitutes as normality in their lives) that begins to return to Sherlock and the two of them despite the violence of what just happened. Sherlock reaches into his pocket and pulls out his mobile. Almost immediately he begins typing, his focus now elsewhere.

“Right away sirs.” The cabby, awfully cheerful, immediately pulls away from the curb.

It is hardly a long walk to Angelo’s; so the cab ride will be even shorter.

John leans back in the seat with a satisfied groan and closes his eyes.

“John?”

John’s eyes immediately snap open at the sound of his friend speaking his name. John looks to his left to see that Sherlock’s eyes have not left the screen of his mobile (John is once again reminded of that threatening text from Mycroft), but his face is frowning.

“Yes?” John says.

Sherlock presses a button on his phone and re-pockets the device. He turns to look at John, and John notices his right hand has fallen from his lap and is lying on the seat between them.

“Thank-you.” Is all Sherlock says.

John’s brow raises – it isn’t common to receive a genuine thank-you from the detective – but he smiles gratefully.

“Anytime Sherlock.” Sensing that this time the gesture won’t cause a violent reaction, John reaches out and tightly squeezes Sherlock’s hand once. Sherlock glances down at their hands, looking vaguely surprised, just as John pulls his away.

The two of them simultaneously turn to look out their respective windows; neither of them say another word during the short taxi drive to Angelo’s.

Chapter 7




The cab ride back to Baker Street was a painfully silent one. John tense, his hands clenching repeatedly, Sherlock sitting statue still the only way Sherlock Holmes can, one hand laid on the seat beside him, an elbow resting on the window frame; the same hand resting unceremoniously against his mouth. Though there was nothing casual about his demeanour. His eyes were narrowed and fixed at some point distant from John’s visual sphere, in his Mind Palace probably. He barely seemed aware of John and the cab. John tried to ask him questions, about the case, about the text, about anything, but Sherlock was unresponsive; withdrawn into his own world.

So John just let him think, but also thought that whatever was going on, Sherlock needed to know he wasn’t alone and John was damn sure going to tell him that.

Could this be some bizarre form of sympathy pains? Sherlock seems emotionally distressed and lacking control so now I do? John tried very hard not to punch the cab door in frustration. He succeeded, and soon the two of them arrived back at 221b Baker Street. But not before Sherlock received another text. John held his breath, half expecting it to be from the killer again. It wasn’t though, Sherlock read out the name when he saw it (whether that was to reassure John or himself is debatable) “Lestrade”. After he read the text, it was as though someone electrocuted the detective. His eyes widened, his mouth parted and his entire body became a coiled spring. He growled.

John was about to ask what it said, but that was when they arrived at the flat and Sherlock had bolted from the cab. Again, leaving John to pay the cabby.

Afterwards, John hurried after the detective.

Now in the entrance hall, John can hear raised voices, very loud, very angry voices...or rather, one very loud and angry voice – definitely Sherlock – and another more reasonably toned voice, but still loud as well.

“Sherlock! This isn’t my doing, and if you would listen-”

“I will not allow you or my meddling brother to bully me off this case! Your attempts to do so are really quite pathetic, not to mention futile. I would think you’d want to dwell pitifully on the fact that your wife is once again having an affair, with...ah, with a police officer in your department, a much younger sergeant-”

“Oh for the love of - ! It’s bloody impossible talking to you. Do not bring up my marriage. Sherlock, try and listen to me and allow me to finish what I was about-”

Wasting not a minute more, John rushes up the stairs, heart pounding, and bursts into the living room. The voices abruptly stop, and the two men, standing face to face, turn their gazes on John. Sherlock is fuming, and Lestrade looks incredibly frustrated.

“Having a bit of an argument?” John asks as he slips off his jacket. Sherlock’s expression is one he often gets when annoyed with someone either repeating their selves or stating the obvious. Lestrade sighs deeply and rolls his eyes. “How about we all calm down, if we can-” John gives Sherlock a pointed look. Sherlock narrows his eyes at John, the dark halo of his curls making the look appear all the more intense, and then turns away. He collapses onto his armchair in a full Sherlockian sulk. “I’ll make some tea-”

“Of course John, tea, the ultimate solution to any problem.” Sherlock mumbles.

Says the man who served tea to bloody Moriarty like he was the bloody queen.

“-and Greg, you better tell us exactly why you’re here...Before Sherlock loses it again.” John finishes as if he didn’t hear Sherlock. On the surface, those words sound flippant, but inside John is feeling anything but. He overheard Sherlock saying something about Lestrade and Mycroft trying to prevent him from pursuing this case? Why? John figures he must have iron strong tolerance to be able to deal with the strange behaviour’s and intricacies of the Holmes brothers, even when he doesn’t really understand them.

“Good idea John. Alright, like I was trying to say, your brother, much creepier than you by the way-” Sherlock snorts at that. “-contacted me...by phone, by text, by bloody car...” Lestrade trails off, his tone growing faster and more agitated. John raises a brow as he flips the kettle on, subsequently preparing three mugs. Sherlock can grouse all he wants about tea; it’s obvious he loves the stuff. “He told me, in very strong, borderline threatening terms, that I was to restrict all your access to the case and tell you it was under-”

“Mycroft knows that there’s nothing you could really do to prevent me from pursuing a case, he must be trying to use whatever sentimental attachment he thinks I have to you to discourage me from this case. Pointless. Since his attempts at doing so traditionally have failed, he must really be desperate to resort to such...inane tactics.” Sherlock speaks low and fast, sitting up straighter in his chair, both hands rhythmically tapping arms of his chair with those long, violinist fingers.

“Oi! Let me finish will you?”

Sherlock sighs. “You’re taking an awfully long time explaining yourself; do get to your point. Quickly.” Sherlock bites off the sentence with a hard, impatient tone of voice.

John sighs. The rude abruptness isn’t new, but...he is definitely not ok. The kettle boils. John pours the steaming water into the three mugs laid out on the counter before him.

“As I was saying, Mycroft said there would be disastrous consequences if you continued involving yourself with this case. The man really can be almost as scary as you Sherlock.” Lestrade says as he sits on the edge of the sofa.

John smiles briefly, but that quickly fades as the first part of what Lestrade said sinks in...Disastrous consequences...Is that even true? Or, is it just Mycroft exhibiting his Holmesian dramatic tendencies? Considering the way Sherlock has been acting, not to mention the night terror, John is undecided.

He picks up two of the mugs and walks out into the room.

“Ha, I have no trouble believing that.” John says as he puts down Sherlock’s mug on the coffee table in front of him. He walks over and hands the other mug to Lestrade; he accepts it with a grateful smile and a thank-you.

“You told Mycroft you’d think about it...” Sherlock says. John turns to look at him. He has his eyes intently focused on Lestrade, suddenly his expression turns into one of surprise. “Ah, but you don’t intend to follow his instructions.”

“No, I fully intend to tell him to shove it and if he wants to prevent you from working this case, he can do it himself.” Lestrade says this with absolute conviction, looking at Sherlock with a deep frown. “I need you – and if you say anything smart about the ‘oh so typical inadequacy of the police’ so help me god Sherlock I will punch you this time.” Lestrade holds up a hand as he sees Sherlock open his mouth to speak.

John can’t help it, he sniggers, half because of what Lestrade said and half due to Sherlock’s indignant expression. Now armed with his tea, he sits down in his own armchair directly across from Sherlock.

Sherlock scoffs and eventually turns his gaze to John, watching him with wide open eyes. John looks at him with a curious frown. Sherlock shakes his head, leans forward and picks up his tea; he takes a sip.

“The bottom line is, I do need you on this case, but I have to know what the hell is going on.” Lestrade’s tone is similar to that of a parent trying to get information out of their rebellious child.

I would love to know that too, John thinks.

“No, you don’t.” Sherlock’s tone brooks no argument. It sounds like Sherlock is saying this in response to Lestrade, but his gaze is focused primarily on John.

“Sherlock-” John starts to say.

“No.”

“Sherlock, what-” Lestrade starts to say.

“No.” Sherlock repeats, firmer than before. Lestrade sighs. John looks on at Sherlock with mild disbelief. Sherlock’s gaze is merciless, and this only serves to irk John even further. There is definitely something Sherlock is not telling me...and why does this bother me so much? It’s not as though Sherlock hasn’t kept secrets from John before. He is painfully reminded of Sherlock’s “death”.

Sherlock appears to be reading this on John’s face. The detective frowns. Without turning his face away from John, Sherlock continues to speak. “You’ve also come because you have information on the missing boys. Rather quickly I might add, good on you inspector.”

And just like that, the focus of the conversation abruptly turns. Probably for the best, John thinks. John turns to face Lestrade, Sherlock leaps out from his chair and stands in front of the inspector; looking expectant.

Lestrade sighs and stands up. “I do have information yes.” He takes out several (far too many) pieces of printed, folded paper stapled together from inside his jacket and hands them to Sherlock.

Sherlock takes them with a steady hand and begins to pace while methodically looking at the pictures and descriptions of the reported missing boys.

John stands up and moves closer to Sherlock.

He really hates it when children are involved. Considering what they’re being used for in this instance, and god knows what else, John is eager to get this maniac either behind bars or at the barrel end of his gun – should the need arise.

“Sherlock has narrowed down the location of where the boys likely have come from.” John looks pointedly at Lestrade.

Lestrade raises an eyebrow.

“Really? Good, I mean of course he has. What else have you figured out?” Lestrade directs this question to the both of them.

Sherlock continues to look through the pages of children that have gone missing within the last few weeks, making noises of frustration and discovery as he continues scanning the pages.

“John can tell you.” Sherlock murmurs. He takes a break in his pacing and lays out a few of the papers on the desk, looking at them with the usual fervour of being on a case.

“Ok...” John glances at Sherlock briefly in surprise.

“Alright then, what have you got?”

John turns to Lestrade and begins to relay to him all of what Sherlock has told him.

John has just finished his likely inadequate reiterating to Lestrade, when Sherlock...

“Aha! These are the three.” Sherlock holds up three different pages.

“So it is three that have gone missing...” John says sadly, his voice tight with anger.

“You’re sure?” Lestrade moves towards him.

“Of course. This also indicates the man responsible for all this is planning on killing again, soon. Obvious. ” Sherlock holds out the three pages to John.

He takes them and sure enough, all three of the children were from the same general vicinity the two victims were from; the outskirts of London. All of them in age range Sherlock had lain out before. One two weeks ago, another a few days later and then most recent one was yesterday. John really hopes Sherlock catches this guy. Soon. He hands the pages back to Sherlock.

“Alright, I’ll have my people look more into it and see if we can find anything.” Sherlock snorts derisively; Lestrade ignores him and continues speaking. “Thank-you Sherlock.”

Sherlock hums and glances over the pages once more before handing all of them back to Lestrade.

“We’ll tell you the minute we know more.” John says, placing a friendly hand on Lestrade’s shoulder.

“Probably not, but eventually.” Sherlock corrects, walking to stand once more in front of the photographs; his hands poised beneath his chin and his eyes scanning the pinned up visuals.

John rolls his eyes.

“Make sure you do.” Lestrade looks at Sherlock firmly. Sherlock ignores him, and John gives Lestrade a vaguely apologetic look. “Well, I’ve got to go. Take care Sherlock, John.” Lestrade nods at the two of them and pats John on the shoulder once.

John escorts Lestrade to the door and he notices the inspector give Sherlock a parting glance of concern before exiting.

With an almost inaudible click, John closes the flat door. He turns around to face Sherlock, finding the detective staring once more at the photographs, this time with a look that would most definitely cause normal mortals to run away screaming.

“Sherlock seriously, why is this man contacting you?” John crosses his arms and moves to stand beside Sherlock; keeping his eyes locked on the detective. He watches and Sherlock reaches down picks up a small box from atop the coffee table, the nicotine patches. Sherlock opens it with a practised hand, takes out two patches, and proceeds to place them on his left arm. He drops the box. John takes a deep breath to continue. “You must know more than you’re letting on. The text made it sound like he’s met you before.”

Sherlock whips his head around to face John, and if possible, his friend’s eyes darken even further. He doesn’t say anything though, just stares at John; his eyes flickering over John’s face. John doesn’t move and, quite determinedly, stares back.

“Not necessarily. If I have met this man before, it seems I have deleted the memory. This leads me to conclude that whatever possible encounter happened between us was both a long time ago, and personally, essentially insignificant. The only way in which he matters now is this case, the work John. Serial killers, commonly they are a most intriguing paradox of fascinating and boring predictability.” The look in Sherlock’s eyes changed almost imperceptibly, and oddly, when he spoke. John swears it was almost false confidence that Sherlock quickly tried to hide. An uncertain Sherlock Holmes is both fascinating and scary (not to mention concerning, especially in this context), not unlike that strange serial killer paradox Sherlock just mentioned.

Once again, John wants to ask him if he is ok...because clearly he is feeling...something. Something he doesn’t know how to handle. And John is feeling increasingly frustrated that he doesn’t know exactly what. Still, there is a case to be working on, one that involves murder and kidnapping.

If only John could separate his own personal feelings from what has to be focused on; namely, solving this case.

John can certainly try...how long that will last? Especially since Sherlock came back, John’s personal feelings and protectiveness have been very intense regarding the detective...that alone has John dwelling more than he wants to.

Sherlock seems to sense this and gives John a sharp nod, his expression shuttering into something slightly more innocuous. He takes off his coat (before that point he’d never taken it off since entering the flat), hangs it up on a hook by the door and walks over to his laptop on the desk. Sherlock sits down in the chair and opens up the laptop.

For a minute, John just stands there; watching Sherlock (his fingers flying fast across the keys, eyes darting around the screen, intermittently making hums of interest, victory or grunts of disappoint). John wonders what he can do to help and as he watches Sherlock, he wonders what is going on inside that colossal brain of his.

“If you are quite done staring at me, John, I would like your assistance here.” Sherlock declares loudly, his focus never shifting from his laptop screen. If John looked closely, he would see the briefest of smirks being made by Sherlock’s mouth.

John is taken back, both by being caught out (not really surprised about that, this is Sherlock after all) and the abrupt change to Sherlock’s tone; amused, almost smug, a far cry from his voice a few minutes ago; which was dark, and monotone.

He shakes his head and sighs. Suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by the mood swings at this point, bloody sod.

“Alright, what are you looking up?” John asks, walking over to sit opposite Sherlock, eager to help.

“Various psychiatric hospitals in London, a few seem promising.” Sherlock mumbles. “If you would, research past cases – solved and unsolved – for anything that bears similarities to the current case. It could provide valuable information.”

“You think this man may have done this before?” John asks, logging into his own laptop.

“No. However he may have been a witness or perpetrator – in some form – to a crime similar to the ones he is committing now. And if this man really does know me, it might’ve been a case I was involved in, though that’s highly unlikely. If it were, it couldn’t have been very interesting. Either that or it was something that occurred during my years using Cocaine. Again, I find that highly improbable. However, at this point, there are many avenues we can explore that may just turn up something useful. For now, the most promising is a past event which may have been reported in news papers, likely within the last thirty years. Take advantage of the internet John, luckily there are old newspaper databases online. Or it could also have been a case – before I became involved with NSY and started working on cases in general – that occurred within the same time period. Exclude all possible search results for those in London.”

John quirks a brow.

“Not London? And why...?”

“This man has been kidnapping boys and forcing them to kill older men by a single blow to the head using a very specific bust. Not only that, he is recreating a very intricate and specific bedroom-” Sherlock flicks his gaze away at those words, a pained frown appearing between his eyebrows. “-and building the furniture within the same space. All of this, he is doing in London. And yet he is residing outside of London? Sure it could be that he believes it would make it easier to not get caught, however, the constant moving back and forth, instead of choosing a place nearby would make it even more likely for him to be spotted. This man is not an idiot after all, not in the same way as everyone else is. The behaviour of this suggests that wherever he is currently staying, holds some manner of significance. Ere go, the event that is in some way related to these killings - and this man- must’ve happened outside of London. It is his primary motivation.”

“A motivation that involves you apparently.” John points at Sherlock briefly before logging onto the internet. Sherlock hums in acknowledgement. “So, just...search for any reported crime that bears any resemblance to our case?”

“Precisely.” Sherlock makes a few more quick taps on his keyboard.

“Outside of London is a fairly large area Sherlock.” John says. He could be sitting researching thousands of reported crimes for days.

Sherlock sighs in exasperation.

“I suppose you need me to spell it out for you.” Sherlock’s tone suggests this is a great grievance to him, however he doesn’t sound surprised. John isn’t sure which one to be more insulted by. “Just in the counties directly north of London, I can’t provide an exact distance, but not so far away that it would take more than a couple hours of travel by car.”

John nods. Well, at least that narrows it down a little. He pulls up the Google search engine and begins typing.

A few moments later he sees Sherlock narrow his eyes for a split second at the screen. “I’m going out to make some inquiries, stay here and continue researching. Text me if you find anything.” Sherlock then whirls out of his chair in a dramatic flourish. He heads over to where he recently hung his coat.

John frowns and turns around abruptly in his seat, opening his mouth to speak. “I’d rather go alone John.” Sherlock says quickly, John closes his mouth. “I’ll text you as well if I find anything, and if I happen to require your assistance.” Sherlock, now with his coat framing his tall, lean body, slips on his gloves and scarf while continuing to look at John.

Sherlock rarely announces when he’s going out, the arrogant sod either just does it and assumes John will follow, or he’ll leave and not make any sign of wanting John to come along. Within the last several months, John has noticed Sherlock has taken to doing the exact opposite...John still hasn’t gotten used to this form of consideration that doesn’t involve Sherlock giving John a few minutes warning that he’ll be using some form of John’s wardrobe for chemical burn experiments. He is torn between being grateful or confused. Often times it’s both, although Sherlock still seldom tells John exactly where he’s going. Really, John doesn’t expect him to.

“Ok.” John nods slowly, an unbidden rush of worry (egged on by the events of the past two days) urging him to follow Sherlock anyway. Ridiculous, he is a grown man and Sherlock can take care of himself...well, kind of.

Sherlock’s focus on John becomes more acute after John mutters that singular ok, those eyes so intense and magnetic drawing on John’s facial expression and likely making deductions as to what John is feeling. He looks calmly back at Sherlock, trying to ignore the worry churning with persistence in his stomach. Even though Sherlock is acting fairly in character, there is something not quite right that is setting John on edge. As though Sherlock were fighting some inner battle and having a difficult time not being able to quash it completely.

Sherlock inhales sharply and looks at John with his ‘tis a frustrating pity I am surrounded by fools’ look. Immediately John tenses, sensing that something is about to come out of Sherlock’s mouth that he definitely will not like.

“John, your feelings are causing you to feel...sentimentally concerned by this idea you have that I am in apparent turmoil. Absurd. I need your assistance with this case, if whatever feelings you are so determined to dwell on will get in the way of that; I suggest you make an attempt at deleting them or ignoring them altogether, otherwise you will be useless to me and I’ll have to solve this on my own. I can obviously do that of course, logically I don’t ever need your help.” Sherlock spits angrily.

He opens the 221b living room door and marches out without a further word or glance at John; the sounds of his footsteps fading as he makes his way down the stairs, and eventually the sound of the front door opening and slamming shut echoes loudly. Poor Mrs. Hudson.

It’s not something John hasn’t heard from Sherlock in some manner before, but that doesn’t make it any easier to hear. A bit not good Sherlock...Bastard.

John’s body is extremely stiff as he turns back to his laptop, resting his clenched fists on either side of it. He breathes deeply, trying to reign in his anger, also trying not to acknowledge how close to the bone Sherlock hit with that last sentence, let alone how bloody ridiculous his other words were.

One of the things that weighed on John the most when he arrived back in England after being wounded in Afghanistan, was that he would never be able contribute in anyway; his leg, his shoulder wound, his intermittent tremor, to name a few issues he had. Essentially, he would be useless. But then he met Sherlock...and his life went from grey monochrome to a dangerous, vigorous, never boring life. A life in which he felt useful to the genius in some capacity, he had purpose. However, it never escaped John’s notice that with Sherlock, he could accomplish pretty much all they do together on his own. Sometimes, that makes John feel as though he’s merely window dressing. That feeling was only intensified when Sherlock left him behind in the dark while he faked his own death and put John through hell as a result.

John must be insane, because despite all that he doesn’t love Sherlock any less. And however “sociopathic” his friend may be, he is certain that Sherlock cares for him as much as the detective is able to...which makes it feel even worse when Sherlock effectively insults him (whether that’s his intention or not) and his usefulness in what John firmly believes to be important work, and John’s understandable concern for him. John has learned to accept, tolerate and even embrace all aspects of Sherlock though. They are part of who he is, and truthfully, John loves him for it...and therein lays the insanity. Still, that doesn’t prevent John from feeling angry with the detective.

John sighs. Sherlock is right about one thing, dwelling on all this isn’t helping anyone. Still figuring he can do something, John continues his research.

At that precise moment, John hears his phone signal an incoming text. John leans back slightly to pull his mobile out of his trouser pocket.




Even though what I said is true, it doesn’t mean I don’t nevertheless want your help or that I don’t value what you do.

SH




John snorts, a very faint smile on his face. Bloody git. That’s about as close to a real apology or sentiment that Sherlock will likely ever get. John types out a short response.




Good.

JW

Chapter 9




It’s been several hours; a couple of pints, a long walk, a phone conversation with Greg, another visit to Mary’s grave, one to Sherlock’s – even though Sherlock has long since been alive to John and the public, his gravestone is still there, and a brief text conversation with the man himself, before John returns home to Baker Street.

The text conversation went something like this.

It was roughly an hour after John had left the flat, and though the anger and hurt wasn’t skin bursting, it was still simmering threateningly underneath. John heard the beep of a text coming from his mobile, he ignored it. Five texts in quick succession later, John finally looked. Sure enough, they were all from Sherlock.

Did you uncover anything doing your research? For obvious reasons, I wasn’t able to find out anything new while I was out.

SH

I would check your internet history myself, but unfortunately it is still not working...no matter how many angry texts I send to my brother.

SH

John?

SH

Ignoring my inquiry will not help get this case solved. Don’t be stupid.

SH




It occurs to me that calling you stupid would not likely endear you to respond to my pertinent work related request. I do not think you’re stupid, compared to the rest of society.

SH




JOHN.

SH

John clenched his fingers tightly around the phone as he read the texts, clearly letting him know that he is not ready to return home. Sherlock might as well have been pretending nothing happened if his texts are any indication. John sighed....he didn’t know what he’d been expecting. Still, no matter how angry he was at his flatmate, there is a case to solve.

At that point John went over in his head what he could remember and relayed that information to Sherlock in a professional and detached text.

It was barely 30 seconds later when Sherlock replied.

Thank-you John. Hardly helpful though, none of them are relevant to the case.

SH




Fan-bloody-tastic. John had then frustratingly pushed his phone deeply inside his jacket pocket, making a decision to go and sit in a crowded, non-Sherlock related noisy pub for a while.

It was only after his trip to the pub that John noticed he had received two texts while inside.

I find myself feeling...guilt, over some of what I said. It is unpleasant, and distracting.

SH




Dr. Watson, I know my brother must be acting strangely, and I know you yourself must be feeling a lot of worry for him, much like I do. I am certain he will only come to harm if he continues to pursue this case. Your unfailing loyalty to my brother and the work he does is admirable. I would ask you though to consider his emotional state now. I think we can both agree it is getting worse. We wouldn’t want to see him in any more pain now would we? Rest assured this case won’t go unsolved. I know the identity of the man behind all of these most terrible events, and I am using all of my available resources tracking him down. Surely the reasons I have given you must convince you that Sherlock’s involvement isn’t necessary.

MH




Damn Holmes brothers. John made a quick decision to text Mycroft back first, at the moment finding himself angrier at him than at Sherlock.

Mycroft Holmes always has an agenda. If he says one thing, you can bet he truly means another. As much as John wants this case to be over, he can’t trust Mycroft or any overprotective, megalomaniac spiel that comes out of his mouth. That doesn’t mean he was wrong about Sherlock and his emotional state, John knows though that Sherlock would never consent to being taken off this case. Mycroft was foolish to even ask John, of all people, to make Sherlock let the case go. No one can make Sherlock Holmes do anything. He is the most stubborn individual John has ever met. Despite the anger John had been feeling at the time, despite the thoughts of what to do about the cruelty of his flatmate, John’s loyalty is to Sherlock first. Mycroft can shove it.

This is why John responded to Mycroft with only two words.







Piss off.

JW




Mycroft never responded.

After John sent that text, he texted Sherlock back – not knowing what to say except...




If you hadn’t just said what you did in that last text, I might’ve started to wonder whether you’re a bloody sociopath after all.

JW




A few seconds later he received a reply.




Mycroft texted you. What did you say?

SH




John hesitated before responding; he started walking down the street and then sent out a reply.




I told him to piss off.

JW




It was a minute before Sherlock wrote back.




Thank-you John.

SH




John stopped walking then...feck! What do I do? He wondered, still feeling angry. Guilt or not (if Sherlock wasn’t lying) how can Sherlock just...John sighed, making a decision not to respond. Trying to understand that man would be a 24/7 job that John would rather not take.

John didn’t respond after that, and Sherlock never texted him again for the rest of the evening.

By the time John came home, he had calmed down somewhat. He was still determined to have words with Sherlock though; they were talking about this, one way or another. Mrs. Hudson had a point.

However, when John got home, he noticed he wasn’t in the living room like he expected him to be. After hanging up his coat, John had walked through the kitchen and down the short hallway to Sherlock’s bedroom.

He eased the door gently open and noticed the detective, still dressed, asleep on top of his bed; John’s laptop had fallen haphazardly off his lap and was on the covers beside him.

The peculiar sight of seeing Sherlock sleeping – especially during a case – jarred John out of his anger and hurt for a brief moment, John thought at the time that something must be making Sherlock exhausted, could be the night terrors he’s had, or something else. Or both.

John briefly thought about waking him up, but decided against it. They could talk when Sherlock woke up.

John bent over and picked up his laptop. While he did so, his hand brushed against Sherlock’s thigh and the man stirred briefly. John froze. Sherlock rolled over and, still very much asleep, reached out an arm and rested his hand on top of John’s; becoming still once more.

John refused to think more of it, suddenly reminded of the way Sherlock twisted his feelings for Sherlock and his own life. He removed his hand.

He then slowly exited the room and closed the door behind him.

Now, a few minutes after that, John finds himself in bed and ready to sleep. However, unconsciousness is eluding him. Oh how he would love to sleep and get this bloody day over with. He does have an early morning shift in the clinic tomorrow, sleep would be glorious.

John closes his eyes and waits. Finally, finally, John gratefully sinks into sleeping oblivion.




***




It is an hour later, and the loud piercing sounds of glass shattering cause John to wake up abruptly...and bang his head against the headboard of his bed.

“Bloody hell.” John groans.

He barely has time to contemplate the bump forming on his head before there’s another loud crash, and then the sound of a door opening downstairs and running footsteps; probably Mrs. Hudson.

Without further thought, John leaps out of bed (has someone broken in? Or is it Sherlock?), grabs his gun and races out of his bedroom; very much aware he is once more in nothing but his pants.

John near flies down the stairs and opens the living room door; gun drawn into the darkness, the only light coming from the...windows...

The sight before him causes John to momentarily freeze for the briefest of seconds while his mind processes the scene before him; Sherlock is standing, his arm covered in blood, in front of the tall window closest to John, now broken (likely by Sherlock himself – John notes with growing horror – if the blood on his arm is any indication), no sign of an intruder, and Sherlock is half hanging out of the window; his hands gripping the window sill tightly, even in the half darkness John can tell Sherlock is shaking and even amongst the sounds of late night London roaring from outside, John can hear Sherlock’s heavy, labored breathing...another night terror. The air rushing in from the broken window, chilling John’s very bare body, is minor compared to the fear John is feeling at the sight of his friend wounded, in the midst of a night terror, hanging out a bloody window...and pushing himself further out.

“John dear! What’s going on? Has he-”

“Stay back.”

The sound of Mrs. Hudson’s frantic speaking causes John to throw his gun onto the sofa and rush forwards. His heart pounds with panic; all other thought or feeling gone from his awareness as John focuses on getting Sherlock away from that window. Now. Flashes of pavement, hair matted with blood, stain themselves on John’s vision as he reaches Sherlock and grabs him around his middle; he pulls him backwards quickly with all his strength.

He hears a muffled yelp from Mrs. Hudson as he and Sherlock tumble to the floor...with the long, surprisingly heavy detective, landing directly on top of him.

The reaction is immediate.

Sherlock frantically punches the air and kicks his legs; John ignores the painful jabs to his torso, the elbow to his jaw, and kicks to his bad leg. What he can’t ignore is the horrible screams emanating from Sherlock’s mouth as John continues to hold him tight; afraid that if he let go Sherlock would try and jump out the window again. John would rather hold him tight throughout the remainder of Sherlock’s night terror, and receive all the blows his body can take, to prevent the man from throwing himself out the window.

“Sherlock, I’m not...not going to hurt you. It’s alright...I’m...” John struggles to get these words out amongst the constant head movement of the struggling, shaking, terrified consulting detective.

“LET ME GO! PLEASE!” Sherlock cries out.

It is the first time Sherlock has spoken with words that make any kind of sense. For a second John thinks that Sherlock is out of the night terror, but the still racing pulse, frantic breathing, and shaking Sherlock quickly discount that theory.

“Sher-Sherlock dear, it’s ok, we’re here sweetie.” Mrs. Hudson, sounding quite afraid – and yet incredibly brave, speaks loudly and with a trembling calm from behind the intertwined, and struggling forms of Sherlock and John.

The words of Mrs. Hudson or John do nothing to calm Sherlock. Sherlock is incredibly strong, and the adrenaline keeping John from giving into the aches of his arms and legs won’t last forever against Sherlock’s constant thrashing.

Suddenly, Sherlock throws his head back and hits John smack on his forehead; John goes momentarily dizzy and his arms fall to his sides.

Sherlock immediate leaps off of him. John tries to ignore the throbbing in his head and gets up as quickly as he can.

John is relieved to see that Sherlock hasn’t gone for the window; instead he has hidden himself underneath the desk, like a child, curled up in a tight ball.

John can hear Mrs. Hudson begin to cry from behind him, he gives her a quick glance to see that she is physically unharmed and turns back to face Sherlock; though from John’s current position, most of him is obscured.

Ignoring all the bruises and aching of his arms, the shooting pain in his shoulder and leg, and the pounding of his head, John slowly bends himself down to Sherlock’s level and lowers himself to his knees; keeping a close, yet safe distance away from the fear drenched and shaking man.

“Sherlock...” John whispers. His voice unexpectedly steady as he speaks, a doctor’s calm overtaking his outward senses, when inside he is surely shaking with fear much like Sherlock.

Sherlock is whimpering, actually whimpering, with his eyes distant and slightly glazed over.

John wants to do something more, but touching Sherlock now could only make things worse, the best thing John can do is talk to him calmly and make sure Sherlock doesn’t do anything stupid. Like break a window with his arm and try to jump out of it.

At the thought, John – with just his eyes – tries to assess the damage Sherlock did to his arm. Dozens of cuts, some deeper than others, litter the pale skin of Sherlock’s right arm. None of them look like they’ll need stitches, but there are a lot and as such there is a fair bit of blood...John is horribly reminded of the last time he saw blood covering the body of his best-friend, which turned out to be fake in the end. How John felt though was far, far from fake.

“Sherlock dear, you’re alright.”

John feels Mrs. Hudson kneel down beside John. For a moment John considers telling her to stay further back in case Sherlock lashes out again, which could be possible, but in a way that would be like telling a devoted mother to stay away from her terrified child in pain.

John doesn’t know which is more terrifying to him, seeing Sherlock whimpering, curled up, with his arms wrapped tightly around his knees, so childlike and afraid. Or Sherlock screaming, kicking and struggling, willing – even if it’s in the throes of a night terror – to use his arm to break a window and nearly jump out of it.

The small, wizened hand of Mrs. Hudson rests itself on John’s shoulder. John notices then that he’s not as outwardly calm as he thought he had been appearing, he’s shaking as well.

“Sherlock, whatever you’re afraid of, is not real. You’re here, home, with Mrs. Hudson and me.” John rests a hand on the floor close to Sherlock’s foot.

Sherlock doesn’t move, his eyes continuing to stare into nothingness, his breathing still fast and erratic.

“John...John.” Sherlock mutters, voice horribly shaky.

The sound of Sherlock’s voice so small, so...terrified, is enough for John to feel his heart break a little. He doubts that Sherlock is saying his name because he is aware that John is here, but John can’t deny that a part of him feels relieved to hear Sherlock say it.

John doesn’t cry very often, generally opting to keep his crying internal, so he is unable to speak as he tries to fight back tears threatening to spill.

“He’s here dear, John is here.” Mrs. Hudson says, her voice full of deep concern. “You’re strong my dear boy, you’re alright.”

“Why...why...why....” Sherlock continues to whimper.

This entire situation, everything, is painfully surreal. John never thought, ever, that he would be in this position. Trying to comfort and reassure a terrified Sherlock Holmes, ineffable and full of life, rarely afraid, mad, brilliant, annoying, cruel, arrogant, confident, possessing a childlike innocence at times, so...human.

This is the second time John has seen Sherlock experience a night terror, logically he knows what it is and can understand in detached terms what he’s seeing, but emotionally...Seeing Sherlock like this, John is unable to fully grasp it. Everything that is happening with this bloody case, and Mycroft, is doing something horrible to his friend. If only he could stop it.

“You’re safe Sherlock, we’re here.” John says firmly, hoping that Sherlock’s night terror will end soon.

“Saved...me...John...you saved...me.”

Sherlock’s words, quietly muffled, surprise John.

“Sherlock.” John doesn’t know what to say now, except his name, quietly, reassuringly, over and over again.

It barely takes a minute; soon Sherlock’s breathing returns to a more normal rhythm. His heart rate slows, the sweat that had been pouring from his brow and soiling the underarms of his shirt begins to dry up, his eyes drift close and the death grip Sherlock has on himself slackens.

The immediate danger now passed, John leans forward; preparing to move Sherlock to a more comfortable place. Sherlock would never forgive him if John let the man fall asleep, curled in a ball, on the floor beneath the desk.

Bed or sofa? He does need to treat Sherlock’s wounds (due to how exhausted Sherlock probably is after the intense exertion of the night terror, John doubts he’ll wake up again for a while) and the bed would make it easier, on both him and Sherlock.

“I’ll make sure his bed is fixed up.” Mrs. Hudson pushes herself up, a little shakily; a faint shivering to her frame caused by the cold air swirling inside the flat.

“Thank-you Mrs. Hudson.” John huffs out. Leaning awkwardly under the desk, John wraps his arm tightly under Sherlock’s.

“No need to thank me dear, I’ll go get the first aid kit too.” Her voice is quiet, trembling slightly. “Do you need help with him...?”

“No, thank-you again Mrs. Hudson.”John groans and with a great heave of strength (his muscles protesting the weight) lifts up the consulting detective.

Sherlock, deeply asleep, leans heavily against the aching John. The latter using what adrenaline he has left to keep Sherlock mostly upright. John notices Sherlock’s legs are incredibly weak; no way will he be able to even stumble towards his room. Damn it, only one thing to do then.

Mrs. Hudson gives both Sherlock and John a concerned glance before rushing away towards Sherlock’s bedroom.

John breathes deeply and manoeuvres the long, lanky Sherlock across his shoulders; his weight now entirely lifted, and held up by John.

John’s shoulder is screaming in pain. Shit.

John perseveres however, and he quickly makes his way towards Sherlock’s bedroom, holding a very heavy detective with one hand gripping his legs tightly and the other holding even tighter onto Sherlock’s hand.

Its takes close to over an hour before John is able to go back to sleep, after having arranged Sherlock comfortably in bed and treating his wounds, slowly picking out with tweezers any little bits of glass, cleaning up the broken glass from the living room; shivering as he did so and nailing an old wooden board Mrs. Hudson had downstairs as a temporary seal across the broken window. John also had a conversation with Mrs. Hudson, during which John explained that Sherlock had experienced a night terror (he didn’t go into any further details) and Mrs. Hudson sniffled, gave John a hug and told to let her know if he or Sherlock needed any more help. And she’ll be sure to call someone tomorrow to come and fix the window. John and she had a short argument before she left to go back to her flat, mostly because Mrs. Hudson insisted on paying for the window herself and John’s sense of right decided that he should and not her. Of course, Mrs. Hudson being the stubborn woman she is eventually got her way. John was too tired to argue further.

After another long hug, Mrs. Hudson left and John went back upstairs. Not to go back to bed though, but to repeat what he did last night. He gathered his pillow and blanket, once again going back to Sherlock’s room and placing himself next to the sleeping detective; determined to be close in case Sherlock had another night terror.

Now, as John lays beside the silently sleeping Sherlock, he realizes how amidst the trauma of dealing with Sherlock in his night terror, John completely forgot about all the anger and hurt he feels about what Sherlock said to him. It isn’t gone though, John still feels it, it’s just less urgent now. However, the night terror, much worse than the last one, has cemented John’s determination to talk with Sherlock about what the is going on. No more putting it off, case or not, divorced from feelings Sherlock or not, the man just can’t...go on like this. Whatever John’s friend is dealing with is making him increasingly unstable and John is, admittedly, afraid. Not of Sherlock, never of him, but for him.

John just hopes that Sherlock trusts him enough to help.

Why does John feel a sinking uneasiness that he won’t?

Chapter 11




John, lost in this thoughts (and catching a few minutes to snooze, he hasn’t been sleeping very well at all) doesn’t notice right away, before long he does...he frowns and scans outside the window of the cab to see if he can recognise where they are...he can, but barely. It’s a district of large houses; many of them appear to be for sale or otherwise abandoned.

“Sherlock, I don’t think we’re headed towards Baker Street...” John murmurs quietly, he’s sure those were the instructions Sherlock gave the driver...so...?

“Brilliant observation John.” Sherlock says, not in any kind of whisper; so obviously he isn’t concerned about the cabby possibly overhearing.

John rolls his eyes, either this man has no understanding of subtext or he just loves saying ‘brilliant observation’ ...maybe a little bit of both.

John turns to face his friend. Sherlock doesn’t look the least bit surprised; instead his eyes keep darting out the various windows of the cab as if searching for something.

“Allow me to rephrase, where the bloody hell are we and why?”

“You brought your gun I assume?” Sherlock leans in towards John slightly, speaking in hushed tones.

John nods and pats his hand on the bulge of the weapon. If there’s one thing John has learned after going on hundreds of cases with Sherlock, is that no matter how innocuous a situation may seem, things can change in seconds; so best to be prepared.

Sherlock nods approvingly and resumes his razor focus out the various windows.

What’s going on now? John doubts they’ve been kidnapped by the cabby, Sherlock certainly isn’t acting like it.

“Sherlock, why will I need my gun?” John asks seriously.

“We’re following a lead.” Sherlock fixates on a point a fair distance ahead of them, a slight frown coming upon his features. “Could be dangerous.”

Ah the magic words.

John nods.

“What’s the lead?” John asks, genuinely curious. Suddenly Sherlock seems to freeze then; eyes narrowed and then quickly going wide. “Sherlock-?”

Sherlock curses loudly and flings his arm out across John’s chest; pressing him tightly against the seat. “Brace yourself!” He yells.

A glint catches John’s eye a few buildings ahead. Shit. Not good.

John curses and follows Sherlock’s instructions quickly, as does Sherlock. The latter still has his arm holding John securely to the seat. At that moment it happens and to John it feels like slow motion.

A shot shatters the front window of the cab. The cabby slumps forward onto the steering wheel, the car swerves with horrible screeches as the cabby then slides off to the right; turning the wheel as he does so. His foot still on the gas pedal.

There is no time to make a jump out the doors of the cab before John sees the looming length of a lamp post they’re fast headed towards, nose first.

Double shit.

John prepares himself for a crash. He automatically does the same thing Sherlock did before and throws his arm across Sherlock’s chest, holding him as tight as he can against the seat; to protect from whiplash and being thrown forward. He momentarily considers throwing himself against Sherlock completely.

He feels Sherlock’s arm tighten even further and then – CRASH!

There is a loud ringing in John’s ears...dizzy...voices...smell of gasoline...blood, pain, blow to the head, it would explain this...this disjointed feeling...heat, very hot, heat....fire? “JOHN!” a voice cries...John tries to speak, he doesn’t know...what should he do? ...heavy breathing, “John!”, strong hands grip underneath his shoulders...he’s being moved...cold air, very, very cold...bright light, everything’s blurry...Sherlock...Sherlock...where-? “John can you hear me?!” ...John tries to nod, he thinks he does, he hears a sigh above him....hands grip his shoulders once more, pulling him quickly upwards...no, no, he doesn’t want to move...why is he...he hears a pained grunt from somewhere nearby...wait, these aren’t Sherlock’s hands holding him up, who....

John tries to force himself past the discombobulating feeling pounding through his skull and body, one instinct becoming clear; protect. He tries to struggle, not certain whom he’s hitting; but the arms half holding, half dragging him to...somewhere, John’s vision is still slightly blurry, concussion, but it is beginning to clear up. Where’s Sherlock? Did he escape?

“Keep fucking still or you’ll get hit like your friend here.”

A deep, gruff voice sounds very near to John’s ear. Sherlock, they’ve got Sherlock too. Shit.

John’s stability is slowly returning to him, as is his hearing and vision. He squints and tries to focus on where he is, looks like a large, empty space, windows are covered and the floor is hardwood. John can hear grunting coming from somewhere off to his right.

“I assure you, for many reasons, I will not be going anywhere. Don’t be stupid. You don’t need to restrain me, punching and continuing to threaten me with stereotypical anecdotes while you have both me and my friend captive, is pointless. You must’ve have gotten your kidnapping experience from those horrid films I’ve painfully heard so much about.”

“Shut up you fucking ponce!”

“Oh ponce, how original.”

“Shut UP!”

There’s another pained grunt, John struggles automatically. Damn it Sherlock, now is not the time to be a smart arse.

“Hey! What did I say?” That same voice echoes menacingly in John’s ear.

John theorizes there must be at least two or three men in the room. He and Sherlock could take them no problem, but with John still somewhat discombobulated and Sherlock being effectively restrained, they can’t right now. Plus, John doesn’t feel the familiar weight of his gun, they’ve got that too, and probably their own.

All that doesn’t mean John won’t jump at the opportunity to escape should it arise. Right now, he’s mainly wondering words that he’s been pondering often lately, except this time they’re not entirely in reference to Sherlock; what the bloody hell is going on?

John feels himself pulled up straighter. His vision now significantly clearer, John can see his surroundings much better. A single, though very large, man is holding onto John tightly from behind; he can feel the cold, threatening point of a gun at the small of his back. To his right he see’s Sherlock, looking only a little dishevelled and no obvious signs of harm from the crash John is relieved to note.

There are two men standing like sentinels beside Sherlock, restraining him tightly, both of them have guns. Sherlock is very carefully not looking at John, but as if sensing John observing him Sherlock nods quickly.

Their positions suggest they’re waiting for someone.

“I suppose we’re waiting for the big bad guy to dramatically reveal himself from the shadows...how dramatic.” Sherlock sneers.

Oh for god’s sake Sherlock! Shut up!

John see’s Sherlock get punched much too close to the kidneys. Sherlock groans but straightens himself quickly.

Then Sherlock’s words register...big bad guy...himself....wait a second...oh for fucks sake! Following a “lead” my arse!

John’s suspicions are confirmed when a man enters the room by way of door directly across from Sherlock and John.

He’s wearing dark trousers, gloves, large work boots, and a dark green zipped up parka. No hat. His features are what could be called boyishly handsome, but there is darkness there in the lines of his face, his eyes...a dangerous man.

“This will have to be done quickly; the police and that other Holmes will be here momentarily. If you cooperate Sherlock, I am positive we will all leave here unharmed and with what we need.”

The man, nearly as tall as Sherlock, with straight dark hair, walks right up to Sherlock. John automatically struggles; he feels the strong hand holding both his wrists tighten painfully.

Sherlock is observing the man with narrowed, vaguely interested eyes. However there is a shaking tension John can see Sherlock trying very hard to control.

“I don’t believe we have met.” Sherlock says matter-of-factly.

The man smiles tightly, anger alight in his features. He is standing much, much too close to Sherlock for John’s comfort.

“We have Sherlock, we have. I was hoping you’d remember. I’ve been trying, but all my efforts have clearly been useless.” The man is speaking far too calmly for that fierce expression on his face.

“I assure you, I have no idea what you’re referring to.” Sherlock doesn’t sound like he’s lying, but John knows a confused Sherlock when he sees one.

The man growls and grips the front of Sherlock’s coat tightly with both hands, dragging Sherlock down to his face.

John struggles further, but to no avail.

“You don’t want more men to die do you? More worthless, guilty boys like you to get taken?” The man looks deeply in Sherlock’s eyes, hands shaking with rage. Sherlock is starting to shake himself, but his face is as cold and immovable as ever. “ANSWER ME!”

“No, I don’t.” Sherlock says quietly, watching the man closely.

Wait, worthless and guilt boys like Sherlock was? What...this man is sick.

“Good, then you had better remember. Now. Or it won’t just be strangers I’ll harm, but your companion here too.” The man nods towards John without taking his angry eyes off Sherlock.

Sherlock looks at John though, a brief pained look flashing over his face before quickly turning back to the man.

“I don’t remember.” Sherlock’s voice is on the verge of cracking. “I don’t know!”

John is looking quickly between the two men, trying to gauge what’s going on. But John is utterly lost, and very confused.

The man’s grip on Sherlock tightens. His face twists into one of anguish and fury.

“I KNOW YOU DON’T!” He yells. Sherlock’s face remains impassive. However John notices that Sherlock’s hands are clenching, shaking, and clenching again. The man seems to hang his head for a moment, and then looks back up at Sherlock. “You, you destroyed me, you took away the one person who...” The man begins to shake. “And you don’t even remember.” The man’s face is stark with disbelief. He lets go of Sherlock and pushes him roughly. “You just got to walk away! Happy and forgetful! I find you, now a consulting detective, after all this time, and I find out you were never punished, it didn’t take much too also realize you didn’t even remember. You don’t get that unfair luxury; you deserve to be relentlessly, painfully punished and haunted. You, the one who caused all this, do not deserve to walk away FUCKING FREE!” The man screams those last two words loudly, his voice shaking, pointing an unsteady finger at Sherlock; hatred sharp in his eyes.

His words are swirling through the still slightly muddled state of John’s mind, none of them make sense, and yet on some level he feels they do make sense, but John still doesn’t understand what the hell is going on here.

John, who had previously been staring at the very angry man, now turns back to look at Sherlock.

...It’s as though someone has stabbed John and twisted the knife.

All measure of control and cold detachment are gone from Sherlock. All blood has drained from his skin; pure, painful shock is horribly imprinted on Sherlock’s normally incandescent face. Sherlock is breathing heavily, his entire body shaking and his mouth is dropped open in a silent scream.

It’s a heartbreaking sight.

The man is watching Sherlock too, with narrowed eyes and shaking hands, a disgusting kind of twisted pleasure begins to assert itself on his face; replacing the frustrated anger that was there before.

He motions for the men to let go of his arms. Sherlock immediately drops, he begins to wretch and soon Sherlock is vomiting onto the floor, tears are running down his face.

John pulls as powerfully as he can against the grip of the man still restraining his wrists with horrifying strength.

“LET ME GO FUCKING NOW!” John yells, wanting desperately to get to Sherlock, now.

John feels his wrists being twisted painfully; John resists the urge to scream.

The man, watching Sherlock with a now curiously blank expression, nods in John’s direction without taking his eyes of Sherlock; still retching onto the floor, clutching his stomach.

“Don’t try anything stupid, I’ve got your gun remember.” The goon whispers in John’s ear.

Feeling the grip loosen, John violently yanks his arms away. Ignoring the pain lingering in his head, which is worse when moving, John rushes to Sherlock’s side and immediately drops to his knees. He places a comforting, shaking hand between Sherlock’s shoulder blades.

“Sherlock, Sherlock, are you alright?” John murmurs to him. It’s a stupid question; John can see he isn’t alright. John is overcome though with shock and agony at seeing his friend so...broken.

Sherlock retches again, dry this time. He continues to shake as he collapses, sideways onto John’s lap; probably not on purpose.

John’s face tightens even further. Not caring one whit about the vomit, John moves his hand to Sherlock’s hair, turns his face slightly towards him and using his coat sleeve wipes away the bile lingering around Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock looks nearly catatonic. John wraps both his arms around the detective.

In the distance, John hears the fast approaching sounds of police cars. John tightens his arms protectively and looks darkly, with hatred, up at the man standing only a few feet away.

“Thank-you Sherlock, I’ll be seeing you soon.” The man, his face still curiously blank, nods to his men.

“I am going to kill you.” John says, voice darker than it’s ever been.

The man doesn’t turn around as he and his men quickly make their way towards the door.

The police sirens are getting louder.

“No you won’t John Watson.” The man calls back loudly. He pulls something out of his pocket, John’s gun, throws it onto the floor.

Don’t be so fucking sure of yourself.

“Timothy.”

Both John and the man freeze at the sound of Sherlock’s voice, pained and very, very dry.

The man seems to stiffen at the name (whose name?), but at a fresh wave of police siren sounds he quickly exits. John would very much like to pick up his gun and run after that man, but he can’t leave Sherlock like this.

John looks down at Sherlock. The latter is staring in the direction the man disappeared; his face still eerily bloodless.

“Sherlock?” John whispers. “You’re ok Sherlock; help is on the way.”

He hears the sounds of cars arriving, and the police sirens very nearby and incredibly loud.

“I’m empty, John.” Sherlock, unmoving in John’s arms, says this painfully quiet; faint tremors are still going through his body.

The words are cryptic, and John has no idea what Sherlock could possibly mean.

“No you’re not, for better or for worse, you’re my best-friend.”

Caught up in all the high running emotions, the pain swirling his best-friend and himself, John bends his down and rests his forehead against Sherlock’s; he plants a soft kiss to the man’s clammy forehead.

Sherlock, whose eyes had recently closed, open again at the touch. John moves away so he can see Sherlock’s face. Sherlock is looking up John, his face still bloodless, radiating an unfathomable pain.

What’s happened to him? John thinks, tears welling up unbidden in his eyes. I am really going to kill that maniac.

“Don’t cry. I don’t deserve you.” Sherlock’s face twists in pain and he looks away from John, his eyes blinking slowly, body still trembling in shock.

“No one has ever deserved a John Watson more than Sherlock Holmes.” John says (wondering why he referred to himself in the third person) with absolute conviction, pained at the way his friend’s voice sounded when he said that like he truly believes it.

Sherlock and John, Sherlock no longer shaking but still unmoving, and John still cradling him like you would a child, are an odd sight to Lestrade and the officers of New Scotland Yard when they arrive at the scene.

Lestrade walks over to the intertwined duo and kneels down beside them.

“What happened?”

John slowly turns his head. Lestrade is taken back at the sight of John, he looks down at Sherlock and notices how pale and ill he looks.

“I...” John is speechless. He has no idea where to start, where do you start? John feels as though he’s been overloaded with information and feeling...he needs time to process it. First things first though, Sherlock needs help. “Sherlock needs help.” John says.

Lestrade frowns with concern, taking a quick glance around the room.

“From the looks of things I’d say you need to be taken care of as well John.” Lestrade places a hand on John’s shoulder.

John smiles painfully.

“Maybe.” John says. “But he needs it more.” John tightens his grip on Sherlock when he says this.

Lestrade looks down, really focusing on Sherlock’s face...Lestrade feels sick. In all the years he has known this insane man, he has never seen him look so...wrecked, and horrid. John may be right.

It’s physically painful for Lestrade to see both Sherlock and John in this state. And yet at the same time, deeply moving to see how much the two are in sync, even when they think they aren’t. They’ve been a part of each other from day one. Lestrade knew fairly immediately that it was John who shot the cabby; Sherlock wasn’t exactly very subtle about his deflection.

He isn’t sure if either John or Sherlock are truly aware of it, but Lestrade cares for them both more than he could ever express in words. They’re family to him.

So Lestrade says. “I’ll make sure you’re both taken care of.”

Chapter 13


Warning: This chapter contains description of child abuse.


The first thing John notices when the vestiges of sleep begin to drift away, is that the heavy weight that had been resting against his back the entire night is now gone.

This isn’t a complete surprise to John. Sherlock is often awake before he is.

The memories of yesterday unveil themselves to John in a wild rush...including the fact that if Mycroft is to be taken at his word, he’ll most likely be waiting for John when he gets up. Where’s Sherlock?

John groans and turns over on his back; hands resting against his face. He needs to get up, but really John needs a few minutes to collect himself first; get a few things straightened out and clarified in his own head.

What did John learn from their confrontation with that maniac? Other than confirmation he really is insane? Not only has he kidnapped and forced children to kill, he murdered that innocent cabby! Indirectly or not. feck.

Focus John, focus. Categorize. An amused laugh escapes John’s mouth at the thought; he really is spending way too much time with Sherlock.

If John is to base his assumptions on both the reactions of the man and Sherlock, like it or not, Sherlock is definitely involved...those two obviously knew each other at some point a long time ago. What is truly unsettling John is that what the man said made it sound like Sherlock was more than directly linked with the crime, according to Sherlock this man’s father was the one originally murdered by a child though unlikely by the son...what possible way could Sherlock have been involved when he would’ve been a child himself? Unless...oh shit.

There’s more to it. There has to be. Sherlock reacted so powerfully and with obvious pain, he was sick for god’s sake! Whatever Sherlock remembered, had to have been pretty horrible for that to have happened.

I really need a cuppa. First though, find Sherlock and see how he’s doing. John is worried to find out.

John slips out from under his blanket and plants his feet firmly on the floor of Sherlock’s bedroom. The clock tells him it is barely 6:00am. He walks around the bed and opens the bedroom door (noting that it had been closed the night before). John yawns and walks down the short stretch of hallway that leads into the kitchen.

There is no sign of Sherlock at the table. John finds himself missing seeing Sherlock bent over his microscope, messing about with some wacky experiment.

“He isn’t here.”

John isn’t the least bit surprised to hear Mycroft. John frowns and walks into the living room, he sees Mycroft sitting with elegantly crossed legs in Sherlock’s usual chair.

John crosses his arms.

“Where is he?” John asks with equal parts concern and seriousness.

Mycroft’s penetrating gaze zeroes in on John’s face.

“I would imagine he is compartmentalizing and processing his experience yesterday, along with the bearing it has on the case itself.” Mycroft pulls out what looks like a Patek Philippe pocket watch and glances at the time. “If you would sit John.” Mycroft waves an inviting hand to John’s own chair, as if it weren’t and was giving John permission. Arrogant sod.

John doesn’t sit, not yet, instead reading the subtext in Mycroft’s words.

“So he’s gone out for some air?” John feels unnaturally edgy, his protective instinct regarding Sherlock having increased; especially since the man all but promised he and Sherlock would meet again. If something happened and John wasn’t there...John tenses. He isn’t shocked Sherlock has left the flat; anyone would need, and deserve, space to think. Knowing Sherlock though, there is probably another reason why he left the flat. However concerned John is for Sherlock’s safety (especially since he doesn’t know how stable Sherlock is right now) Mycroft doesn’t seem overly so, probably he’s keeping more than just an eye on Sherlock.

Still, John would like to know how Sherlock is from the man himself. John walks over to his jacket and pulls out his mobile from the pocket. He fires a quick how are you? Text to Sherlock and places the mobile on the table beside John’s armchair.

“To put it in colloquial terms, yes. Sherlock and I collided just as he was leaving.” Mycroft’s face is carefully impassive, but the brief pause before Mycroft continues speaking is enough to let John know that it wasn’t just a bump in the shoulder encounter. “He indicated that if I woke you up, he would steal my umbrella and test its effectiveness against sulphuric acid.” Mycroft looks vaguely displeased upon saying that. John laughs a little, glad to hear Sherlock isn’t still catatonically silent at least. “And to ease any potential issues you may be having regarding loyalty, privacy and such, he also said, and I quote ‘Tell him’. I was going to tell you anyway, I believe he mainly said that for your benefit knowing I would relay it to you.”

John’s brow furrows deeply as he finally heeds Mycroft’s “offer” and sits down in his arm chair; both dreading and wanting to find out exactly what Mycroft, and now obviously Sherlock, knows.

Mycroft sets his astute gaze on John.

“I am sure you have been less than pleased with my insistence and methods of trying to dissuade Sherlock from pursuing this case, I did so because I had hoped to prevent Sherlock remembering the very thing this man sought to bring up in Sherlock’s memory. Now that my efforts have been for nothing, I do not yet know what the consequences will be or what Sherlock will do as a result. I am finding my brother much less easy to predict than he used to be.” Mycroft glances briefly around the room.

“Less easy to control you mean.” John says blankly; watching Mycroft with a careful eye.

Mycroft sighs with exasperation.

At that moment John hears his mobile buzz with an incoming text. He reaches out to his right and grabs the phone; Mycroft watching him curiously.

Thinking.

SH

Of course. John grimaces briefly at the rebuff. Good enough for now. He sets the mobile aside.

Mycroft watches John for a moment and then continues to talk.

“I am positive some of what I’m about to tell you won’t come as a surprise, even the most unobservant would’ve been able to grace a few details from your confrontation yesterday.” Mycroft says.

“Sherlock said the name Timothy.” John puts out there.

Mycroft nods. “Yes, Timothy Morgan. He is the man you met yesterday, and a man I have kept a careful eye on for approximately twenty seven years, during which he was in a private psychiatric institution, until he was released one year ago and disappeared five months ago. He has a surprisingly virulent intellect as recent events have proved, but he is emotionally unstable. When the first murder occurred, I knew instantly he was responsible. My precise reasons for keeping this information from both Sherlock and you will become clear shortly. I’m sure you were able to figure out that Sherlock and he had met before; more specifically, when they were children. I was in my early twenties and already starting to get a decent foothold in my government position and had a fair bit of influence. They were both ten years old, and only knew each other for one day. It is a day however that admittedly has always haunted me.” Mycroft looks off to the side for a moment, closing his eyes briefly before opening them again.

John is watching Mycroft with incredible focus, listening intently and processing each and every word. It’s odd to see Mycroft admit to something ‘haunting’ him; the man generally seems even more emotionally detached than Sherlock.

“Our uncle had recently died and our father, now deceased, was named the beneficiary, he hired a lawyer to visit our manor home outside of London to go over the many assets our uncle had, one day and a night. He was a single father and asked if he could bring his son along since he had no one to leave him with. Our father consented.” John noticed Mycroft stiffen for a split second. John narrows his eyes, a sense of foreboding coming to him.

“Mummy was ill at the time and didn’t much leave her room; father went to check on her often. I was home for a brief visit; Sherlock was still at an age where he viewed me as a role model so-to-speak, however he was already at my level of intellect at age ten. He was troublesome, and yet quite a remarkable young boy. The son of this lawyer Andrew Morgan, was quite obviously Timothy Morgan. He and Sherlock were much alike in several ways, and while his father and ours were working that day, Timothy and Sherlock were exploring and spending time with each other. Even though I was home, I was also quite busy with my own work and didn’t realize until it was too late that Andrew Morgan had been eyeing Sherlock unnaturally the entire time.”

Oh no, John definitely doesn’t like where this is going, already he’s feeling sick...

Mycroft seems to notice the theory dawn on John’s face, he frowns sadly.

“Later that night, after our housekeeper had shown both the lawyer and son to their rooms, I took refuge in one of the drawing rooms not far from Sherlock’s bedroom on the second floor. It was also the same floor of the guest bedrooms. Mummy and father’s room was on the other side of the house in a separate wing. It was barely an hour after I thought everyone else had gone to bed when I heard a loud scream. Not Sherlock, but the other boy, Timothy. The scream however had come from the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom.” Mycroft, who up until this point had been reciting these words carefully and with some manner of detachment is now resting a hand against his face; looking towards the crime scene photos still taped to the wall.

“I ran in that direction and what I saw was Timothy standing away from the slightly open door of Sherlock’s room, he was shaking and seemed unable to move. I quickly went into Sherlock’s room and...” Mycroft seems almost reluctant to continue. John has his elbow resting on the armrest of the chair with his hand covering his mouth. “Sherlock was sitting curled against the wall, catatonic and holding a statue of Norman Bethune in his right hand. It was a gift to Sherlock when he was six, our father had an interest in military history, not just that of England.” Mycroft breathed deeply. “I also noticed that Andrew Morgan was dead and lying on the ground. His trousers were unzipped. The evidence before my eyes was impossible to ignore, deducing what happened was both easy and horrifying. I went over to Sherlock and picked him up; he was holding the statue very tightly. It was then I noticed blood, Sherlock’s, staining the back of his pyjama bottoms.” Mycroft breathes in a shaking breath, and wipes a hand over his face; resting the back of it briefly against his forehead.

John feels sick. Sick and enraged. The hand not covering his mouth is clenching tightly against his fist.

“I won’t go into details, it was disgustingly obvious what was done to Sherlock and that Sherlock had retaliated in self-defence. I’ve never quite figured out the exact details of what happened, but the end result was clear and I knew what I had to do. I used all the power I had then, a minor fraction compared to what I carry now though it was still significant, all the favours I was already owed – for which there were many, and organized the following; I called somebody I trusted to take Sherlock to the hospital and dispose of the statue properly, discreetly; the possibility of my parents waking up would’ve brought in too many complications. I came up with a plausible excuse for Sherlock’s absence later. I stayed home for a little while to deal with the scene and Timothy. I tried talking with the boy, but he kept on shouting repeatedly, he killed my father! He killed my father! I don’t believe he saw the entirety of what happened; all he saw was Sherlock giving his father a fatal blow to the head. So, Timothy quickly became my main problem.” Mycroft takes a deep breath.

“I was fully intending on making Andrew Morgan’s death appear an accident, which wouldn’t have been difficult if it weren’t for Timothy. I had to both disqualify any testimony he could possibly give and get him away so I could deal with the scene itself. I picked up Timothy, he struggled. I locked him in another guest room while I called in yet another favour mixed in with strategic blackmail and got a doctor from a psychiatric institution in London to helicopter over nearby and drive to the house. We agreed on multiple diagnoses severe enough to ensure he would stay in hospital, a delusional state brought on by extreme trauma, and paranoid schizophrenia being among them. The doctor immediately took him back to the institution. The fact that Timothy had no next of kin made ensuring his continued stay in the institution easier. I am digressing though; let’s go back to the scene.” Mycroft ponders for a moment, and John is horrified at both what happened to Sherlock and Mycroft’s treatment of the young Timothy.

“Forensic evidence investigation was grossly inadequate compared with today, with the calls I made to several members of the police force and my moving the body, removing all evidence of Andrew Morgan from Sherlock’s bedroom, making it look like he had fallen down the stairs and died was relatively simple. It was a few hours later when I finally called the police to report Andrew Morgan’s death. As I ensured it would, his death was officially ruled an accident. They talked to his son, and due to both the diagnosis and records I helped falsify anything he told them was disregarded as the ravings of an unwell and traumatised boy. Sherlock was never brought under any suspicion or exposed to any questions as to what happened, which was my primary intention throughout this enterprise.” Mycroft pauses and watches John cautiously. The latter is unmoving, looking at Mycroft with shock.

“Now allow me to explain the crux of the problem that most relates to now. Sherlock didn’t come out of his catatonic state until two weeks later, when he did he had no memory of what happened. Not of being assaulted, not of killing Andrew Morgan, and not of Timothy or any memory associated with the events or people involved. Dissociative Amnesia. A form of further self-defence, Sherlock’s mind completely buried the memories of what happened to him. When he enquired why he couldn’t remember the last two weeks and why he was in a hospital, I told him he’d fallen out of bed while sleeping, hit his head – which is what I convincingly told our parents – and didn’t wake up until recently. He was only ten, more easily fooled than the Sherlock we know now. His memories have remained repressed all these years, until yesterday. Although I think a part of him was already starting to remember after that first crime scene, it would explain the night terrors, he was fighting against feelings he couldn’t pinpoint or understand. I feared what would happen if Sherlock remembered, I wanted to protect him from any potential downfall of him recalling that knowledge. I did what I could to try and stop Sherlock from pursuing the case, hoping that it would somehow stop the memories from resurfacing. Clearly that didn’t work, and now the very thing I wished to avoid has happened. And Timothy Morgan is proving to be exceedingly difficult to track down.” Mycroft looks away from John and pulls out his mobile, typing something out quickly.

John sags into his armchair, entirely stunned with no clue what to say...what happened to Sherlock, and he was only ten... “Oh god.” John gasps, feeling bile swirl uncomfortably in his stomach. feck, if Andrew Morgan were still alive I’d murder him happily myself.

“The night terror of Sherlock’s I witnessed, he said something I found to be most curious, although not surprising. You might find it interesting. He said ‘John saved me’. Do you have any idea on what he meant by that?” Mycroft asks. John shakes his head, Mycroft’s gut-wrenching explanation still echoing loudly inside his ears. “Sherlock killed Andrew Morgan by use of a Norman Bethune statue; he was an army doctor as you know. In essence, the statue that killed Mr. Morgan saved Sherlock any further pain that Mr. Morgan would likely have continued to commit. When Sherlock was in the disjointed awareness of his night terror, he thought the statue was you, in that moment, I am sure Sherlock – though not aware at the time – was believing that you saved him from possibly being hurt again.”

John breathes in a shuddering breath. Oh god, Sherlock...John suddenly feels horribly guilty for all the anger, mistrust and frustration he’d been either feeling or taking out on Sherlock the past week. No wonder Sherlock was acting the way he was. Mycroft said he was fighting against feelings he couldn’t pinpoint or understand. That on top of the feelings themselves...Sherlock would be more than frustrated, and very angry. John didn’t know, how could he have known? Even so, that doesn’t change the guilt he’s feeling. All that Mycroft has just told him makes sense, John very much wishes it wasn’t true, but it is and nothing John can say or do will change that.

John has no idea how this will affect his relationship with Sherlock, let alone how Sherlock is dealing with all this. The case still needs to be dealt with, and now John, though he does feel some manner of compassion for Timothy (both for the horrible way Mycroft treated him and seeing his father being killed) he needs to be held accountable for the deaths and the kidnapped boys. This case just became a lot more personal.

While he was thinking all this, Mycroft had been watching him, assessing him.

“John, I told you this because I believed it to be important for explaining Sherlock’s behaviour the past week and because Sherlock now knows, I doubt he would’ve ever told you fully, it will have bearing on the case. When Sherlock returns, we’ll-” Mycroft is interrupted by the sound of his mobile ringing.

John watches Mycroft answer, though he’s still thinking about what Mycroft told him. Suddenly, John’s attention is further caught by Mycroft. His face has unexpectedly gone the littlest bit pale.

Terror grips John deathly tight. He bolts out of the chair.

“What’s happened?”

Mycroft murmurs a few quiet and livid words John can’t hear. He then stands up as well, worry and anger cracking through that carefully crafted veneer.

“Sherlock got into a white sedan thirty minutes ago and managed to circumvent my surveillance. We’ve lost him.”

Last edited by Ormond Sacker (December 26, 2013 5:30 pm)

Chapter 15




It is only twenty minutes later when John, along with Mycroft and some of his team (agents nearer by to Sherlock’s location were contacted and arrived before John, Mycroft, Anthea, and a few others) arrive at the house where Sherlock and the boys are.

By that time, John had long been ready to throttle Sherlock for running off on his own again.

Roughly an hour (of hell) after Mycroft and John received the news that Sherlock circumvented his brother’s surveillance, the GPS on Sherlock’s phone came on (they assume Sherlock had his phone turned off) for about half an hour (it moved during that time, showing the direction Sherlock was headed) and then it was turned off again. Mycroft, and John to a degree, deduced that it was Sherlock’s way of letting them know where he was. However, given the area they would still have to search and the fact that Sherlock seemed to purposefully wait before letting them know. Sherlock would be without backup for quite a while. Mycroft deduced a few more things about Sherlock during that time, none of which made John any happier, one being that Sherlock must’ve received another notification from the perpetrator (Mycroft added that Sherlock had also received a text the day they were confronted by Timothy Morgan, and Sherlock had told the cabby to drive to the address given – thanks for telling me Sherlock – although Sherlock had no idea the cabby would be shot) prompted the detective to go, another was that Sherlock was likely instructed to discard his mobile and make sure he didn’t have it on his person upon arrival.

What John angrily didn’t understand, still doesn’t to a degree, is why Sherlock had to go alone.

John flings the door of Mycroft’s car wide open and practically leaps out of the vehicle.

Before him is a long, two-story, rectangular house. It appears to be a cabin though not quite, the outside is made out of half cut long tree logs, and is far away from any major civilization; surrounded by English country side, made enormously chilly by the strong cold wind blowing.

Multiple people are standing around the house, members of Mycroft’s team presumably here taking care of whatever happened. Besides the one John arrived in, there are three other cars and what looks like an ambulance of some kind...the sight of which sends John into a dizzying panic. They were informed by those who arrived first that Sherlock was alright, as were the boys, and Timothy Morgan was dead.

John needs to see Sherlock for himself though.

Where is that mad bastard?

“Sherlock!” John calls out, pushing through the crowd of people...the action painfully familiar. John swallows. I swear, when I see that man-

“John! I’m over here.”

The deep baritone is blessed relief. John quickly turns in the direction he heard the familiar voice come from, and sees him standing a fair distance from the commotion; facing away from John and towards the thin road curving into the country expanse. His thick, dark curly hair is whipping fiercely across his face, his coat is absent and in its stead is a long, thick grey blanket; fluttering around his ankles.

John runs towards him. He soon reaches Sherlock and takes a moment to breathe deeply, fighting the urge tackle him and demand to know how he could be so idiotic...John knows that’s extreme, and he would never actually physically do it, but after everything, the idea of Sherlock sneaking off to go confront a bloody maniac again...it doesn’t sit well with John to say the least. If that had to happen, John would’ve wanted to be with Sherlock.

John watches the detective for a moment, taking in his elegant profile.

The events of the past week must’ve been grueling for Sherlock, not to mention the heartbreaking knowledge John was told by Mycroft that Sherlock himself has only recently remembered.

What do we do now?

John will try to be there for Sherlock the best way he knows how, while still respecting Sherlock’s own wish for privacy. He has never known, until now, someone close to him who had been sexually abused, whether it was as an adult or child. As a doctor though, he has – sadly – seen it. Especially when the abuse involves a child, never is it something you forget.

Seeing Sherlock’s face now, knowing what he must be dealing with (Sherlock can claim omnipotence in the area of emotions all he likes, John has seen Sherlock’s pain with his own eyes, even though he can’t begin to comprehend what it must feel like for Sherlock) John can’t help but want to hug the bugger and never let him go. Regardless of the fact that Sherlock would most certainly rebuff the action.

John is still livid though.

“Are you alright Sherlock?” John moves to stand in front of Sherlock, placing his hands angrily on his hips.

Sherlock turns his head and looks down towards John with those kaleidoscope eyes. John stares back unblinkingly.

Immediately John knows something’s different. That frustration and painful confusion that were immovable presences in and around Sherlock are no longer there, instead there is a kind of clarity, and resigned sadness John doubts Sherlock would let anyone but John see.

There is also uncertainty forming around Sherlock’s brow as he gazes at John.

“What do you think?” Sherlock appears to ask with genuine curiosity, gauging John’s reaction closely.

John sighs and let’s his arms fall. What do I think? He closes his eyes briefly and re-opens them again.

There is a strong subtext to that question. Sherlock is tentative. He is dealing with something that is a shock to both his physical and mental state of being, and the autonomous detective is just as human as anyone else would be in this situation. How on earth do you deal with something like this? John doesn’t know, but he believes he knows Sherlock.

So, he walks up to him, pausing briefly to see if the physical proximity is alright. Sherlock doesn’t appear to tense or move, so John reaches up and gently rests his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders.

“I think you will be.” John gives him a small smile and squeezes both his shoulders.

Sherlock’s expression doesn’t change for a few seconds, then he looks off to the side away from John and his eyes cloud over; the look he gets when retreating into his mind palace.

John stays where he is and waits.

Sherlock comes back a few minutes later and looks at John with an unreadable expression.

“I don’t know what to do John.” Sherlock looks pained at having admitted such a thing.

John exhales sadly and throws his arms around his best-friend; squeezing tightly, relieved beyond what any words could express that Sherlock is safe for the moment...from outside forces at least.

Sherlock tenses briefly, but quickly relaxes and cautiously raises his arms to wrap around John’s back.

“Never, ever do that again or I will murder you in your sleep. Bloody git, you’ll be the death of me.” John means it as a light tease, but given the situation he curses his mouth and is worried he’s just said something horribly insensitive. That worry is soon discarded however as Sherlock begins to giggle softly, the warm rumbling a welcome vibration to John’s frazzled state.

“I make no promises.” Sherlock says, also with a mildly joking tone. John rolls his eyes. Sherlock takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I had to go John, and I needed to deal with Timothy alone. I won’t apologize for that, however I am sorry for the distress I caused you.” Sherlock is most definitely no longer teasing, his voice hitching for a fleeting moment when Sherlock mentions Timothy...John will ask what happened later.

John frowns.

“Alright.” John sighs deeply. “I still hate being left behind Sherlock.”

A memory from their reunion after Sherlock returned from the dead enters both their minds.

Suddenly, something becomes clear to John, where before it was only hazy. The fall, Sherlock’s death...the way John felt in reaction to Sherlock’s behaviour, before he knew the truth, his anger and frustration towards Sherlock for not confiding, the feeling that he was hiding something, had everything to do with unresolved feelings from what Sherlock did before. He faked his death, didn’t tell John, left him, and came back as though nothing had happened.

John had hoped he was moving on quickly from that, it is a period of his life he would much rather let go of.

The common axiom “all in good time” floats across John’s mind.

“I know.” Sherlock emphasizes this with a careful squeeze around John’s middle. “At the risk of sounding disgustingly sentimental, I truly was lost without my blogger.”

Sherlock rests his cheek gently against John’s, a rare moment.

Something in Sherlock’s voice makes John think he isn’t just referring to today, did Sherlock read John’s mind again and see what he’d just been thinking about? John wouldn’t put it past him.

“You are the most magnificent, brilliant and idiotic man I have ever met.”

“Idiotic?”

Sherlock sounds so affronted that John has to laugh. Sherlock grumbles.

“I mean it as a compliment.” John says.

“How is being called idiotic a compliment?” Sherlock asks, sounding very confused.

John shrugs. “It depends on your perspective I guess, depending on the context, idiotic isn’t always something negative or matter-of-fact.”

Sherlock growls with frustration.

“That makes no sense.”

John smiles.

“Glad I can still stump you occasionally.”

John can practically feel Sherlock’s eyes narrowing. Then Sherlock asks John something that John never thought he would hear come out of Sherlock’s mouth.

“Are you in love with me John?” To John’s surprise, Sherlock doesn’t sound at all scornful, merely curious.

John tenses briefly, not really sure how to answer that question. And didn’t Sherlock already say he believes John does? Also, you don’t have to be in love with someone to care for them deeply and be wholeheartedly devoted to them. Sherlock however isn’t adept in how emotions work, acting on a more instinctual emotional level than a conscious, aware one.

“Why are you asking me that?” John asks, a little unsure.

“Curiosity, trying to figure out why you seem so...devoted to me, even though you have frequently said that I am, as you put it, an annoying dick.” A note of confusion seeps into Sherlock’s tone when he says ‘me’.

Ah.

John briefly considers his response.

“Sherlock, I don’t believe my love for you is romantic in the traditional sense of the word. However, if you would grant me a, how did you put it? A ‘disgustingly sentimental moment’, I will say you are the love of my life.” Now there is something John never thought he would actually say out loud. John emphazises this with a playful poke to Sherlock’s side and a subsequent tightening of their hug.

Sherlock hums, deep in thought.

“You’re right John. That was disgustingly sentimental.”

John smiles at the tease in Sherlock’s words.

“Thanks.” John mutters as he rolls his eyes.

“I’m still not sure I...entirely understand.” Sherlock postulates.

“Have you ever heard of something called a ‘bromance’?”

Sherlock shivers with distaste. “You did not just say that utterly idiotic term.”

John giggles. “What did I just say about the word idiotic hm?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“You are ever a mystery John.” Sherlock lifts his head away from John’s, but keeps his arms in place.

“Coming from you, I’ll take that as compliment.” John says.

Sherlock nods.

“You should.”

There is silence for a moment or two more, the reality of where they are and why begins to settle into their little sphere and quickly John realizes that he and Sherlock have long since moved passed sharing the longest hug of their acquaintance. John begins to pull away, but is surprised to feel Sherlock respond by squeezing him tighter; preventing John from moving.

“Cold?” John kids.

“I’m not wearing a coat, and have lost the use of my suit jacket; to top it off I am covered by a grossly inadequate blanket. Of course I’m cold.” Sherlock’s breath is a warm tonic against the cool air.

“Ah, so I’m just a blanket then?” John smiles faintly, hints of laughter bubbling on his lips.

“A very suitable, cuddly blanket. It must be those hideous jumpers.” Sherlock adds.

John laughs, Sherlock reciprocates.

Their light, teasing banter is as much their way of coping with the uncertainty and emotion of the situation as it is reassurance. Their way of letting the other know that in spite of everything, they will be ok.

There will be a lot to talk about, apologies to be made, later.

The case, Sherlock’s actions and what exactly happened in that house will be discussed; points clarified. Lestrade will be informed, and Mycroft and Sherlock will talk as well. Timothy Morgan’s accomplices will be caught and dealt with. The boys will be taken to the hospital, their families notified and they’ll go home.

Sherlock and John will ultimately go back to the barmy sanctity of 221b, both men different, and yet the same.

For now though there’s just this.

The two of them against the rest of the world.