BBC Sherlock Fan Forum - Serving Sherlockians since February 2012 / Secret Santa Fics 2015

**Posted by Schmiezi** December 11, 2015 2:03 pm

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

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

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

“Tea?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, where is he by the way?”

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

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

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

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

“Pot and kettle, Mrs Hudson.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Three? But you said…”

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

“Yeah.” John shook his head wearily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sherlock snorted. “Mycroft.”

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus.” Greg’s shock was palpable.

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

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

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

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

***

“John!”

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

“I hid that,” John exclaimed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

“Sherlock,” John warned between two heaving breaths.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re losing them.”

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

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

“A22.”

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s gone,” John breathed.

“What?”

“The van. It just…vanished.”

“Ah. Excellent.”

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right. What do we do now?”

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

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

“Bloody hell.”

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

“Bloody hell,” John said again.

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

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

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

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

“Some of them,” granted John. “But—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

**Posted by Schmiezi** December 11, 2015 2:03 pm

“Where are we going?” John asked as the cab turned into Marylebone Road.

“Isle of Wight,” came the immediate reply.

“Isle of Wight? But the van had a London license plate? Shouldn’t we try finding the owner and speak to him first?”

“Not really, unless you’re interested in means of financing online gambling debts. Mr Jones is a tenant in one of Barking’s less salubrious council estates and yet listed as the owner of an extensive fleet of cars, featuring two Bentley’s and a Rolls in the DVLA’s lists. He’s of no interest to us. Lestrade can deal with him.”

Apparently Sherlock hadn’t slept at all but spent the night hacking into various databases and personal computers. For a brief instant John felt guilty about letting Sherlock do all the work before remembering that unlike Sherlock he actually lived on regular bouts of sleep and three meals a day. If he adjusted his lifestyle to his friend’s he’d definitely be of little use to him.

“But he’ll know these people,” John argued.

“He’ll know his contact’s false name, and the contact will know his contact’s false name. Following that trail is what the Met would do. Unlike them, we’re actually clever.” At these last words Sherlock beamed at John, clearly containing him in his small selection of people who were actually astute. Normally John would have been flattered to be considered thus but since he was flailing about in darkness as deep as last night’s all he felt was a nebulous apprehension.

***

“So, what’s on the Isle of Wight?”

The train was rumbling out of Waterloo Station, the carriage swaying from side to side as it negotiated the points. The motion had no visible effect on Sherlock’s texting capabilities, his fingers danced over the phone at their usual nimble pace.

“Did you pack your swimming trunks?” he asked.

“What? No!. It’s March, the sea will be freezing.”

“Pity. Our hotel’s indoor pool is heated to a comfortable twenty eight degrees. Year round.”

Sherlock’s eyes twinkled over his phone’s rim. “We won’t have much time to savour the amenities but we can always stay an extra night if you’re so inclined. Mycroft is footing our bill so there’s nothing to keep you from combining business with pleasure.”

“We’re going on a holiday?” John asked, incredulous. “Why, Sherlock—”

“Of course not,” Sherlock sighed, his forehead furrowing in a frown of irritation. “Do keep up. The hotel is simply situated closest to our destination, the Lord of Wight Private Medical Clinic.”

“I see.” Though John really didn’t. As ever, Sherlock was quick on the uptake.

“A helicopter, John. Remember that van’s interior; it resembled a small operating theatre. Why transfer your booty to a helicopter if you’ve got such equipment at disposal. Your young and healthy booty. That we’ve been assuming has been snatched at random…”

Here Sherlock paused for dramatic effect, regarding John expectantly.

“Except they probably weren’t,” John supplied helpfully.

“Very probably, yes.”

“But that girl that went missing what… a little over a week ago?”

“A lot can happen in a week,” Sherlock waved off this objection. “Mycroft’s cameras aren’t the only means of surveillance of London’s streets.”

“Jesus.” John needed some time to let that sink in. Steadily widening patches of greenery provided a restful décor for the increasingly distressing thoughts tumbling through his head.

“But what would a private clinic want with stray youngsters living hand to mouth on the streets?” he asked Sherlock’s reflection in the window.

“Now you’re asking the right questions,” the face answered and disappeared as its owner bent over his mobile again. John’s phone blared the shrill beep that announced a text message.

“I’ve just sent you the link to their website. You’re the doctor. Tell me if you spot anything unusual in the services they offer.”

***

The Isle of Wight didn’t remotely resemble the photographs in the tourist brochures John had sampled aboard the ferry. In those the Isle basked in the golden glow of a perpetually shining sun. In actuality it was covered in the kind of dense fog the BBC never managed to conjure quite convincingly for their annual Christmas Dickens dramas. The moisture sank its teeth into John’s jacket. Ten yards out of the ferry terminal and he was already shivering. Sherlock, wrapped in his coat and scarf, appeared oblivious to the weather as he funnelled down the taxi rank.

The hotel was an ostentatious affair that instantly reminded John of Mycroft. Oddly, this didn’t perturb Sherlock in the least. He glided across the plush carpet towards the reception desk with the smooth ease of a sea otter jiggling its way down a kelp forest.

“What’s your handicap?” he turned towards John in the elevator.

“Handicap?” John echoed. “I thought you didn’t go for the obvious. My shoulder…”

Rolling his eyes Sherlock interrupted, “I was talking about golf, John.”

“Golf? I’ve never touched a golf club in my life.”

“There’s a first time for everything. That’s a saying, isn’t it? Meet you in the lobby in half an hour.” Sherlock flounced into his room and closed the door firmly in John’s gaping face.

What on earth did people wear on a golf course? John carried a manly disregard for the ‘sport’, flipping the channel the moment it was announced on Sky Sports. In the end he decided an extra T-shirt underneath his current outfit would have to do.

Downstairs the vast atrium was empty save for one other guest who sat perusing a copy of the Isle of Wight Country Press while impatiently jiggling a ridiculously long tweed-clad lower leg. As John walked towards the reception desk the newspaper was lowered and the guest addressed him.

“You’re one minute and thirty three seconds late.”

John stared open-mouthed at the man who’d stolen his flatmate’s face and was now casting him a withering look out of it. The man sighed.

“Is that really the best you can do, John?” he enquired in a voice so posh John briefly struggled to unravel what the man was going on about. One eyebrow nearly touched the brim of his cloth cap.

“Christ,” John dredged up from the bottom of his heart. “You look like Mycroft on a visit to Balmoral.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock countered. “Mycroft would never go for a hound’s tooth pattern.” The wide trouser leg’s tweed flared as he pivoted and marched off towards the entrance.

“Wait.” John hurried after his friend. “How are we going to golf without clubs?”

“The hotel is inordinately proud of its links, John. They’ll happily furnish us with something to chop up their turf.”

The bored teenager manning the shed on the course’s entryway did indeed perk up at their request, motioning for them to follow him to the back.

“They won’t let me play World of Warcraft, you see,” he chatted while skipping in front of a wall that held clubs in every imaginable size, “ ’cause the WiFi’s been useless ever since that clinic next door opened last year. Guests have been grumbling and everything. But they could let me have a telly at least. I’m bored stiff sitting here all day.”

“I know the feeling,” John agreed sincerely. In the corner of his eye Sherlock was testing a club and appearing far too knowledgeable about what he was doing to John’s taste.

“Right,” John said once they were standing on what Sherlock had told him was the first hole’s tee. “I haven’t the faintest why I’m here and what you’re at so I suggest you go first.”

“For heaven’s sake pay attention, John.” Sherlock implored the skies with his eyes. Due to the fog the overall effect lost some of its momentum. “We’re here to play golf, obviously.”

“Fine,” John gritted between his teeth. “Show me how it’s done then.”

“Look.”

Sherlock positioned the ball on the tee, took one step back, wiggled his hips and adjusted the golf club until his arms and the club ran in a straight line between his shoulders and the ball. Then he swung both arms sideways and whacked the ball, launching it into a graceful arc across the grass and a small artificial brook. Shortly after John lost sight of the white spherical object, as it blended with the milky-white mist hovering closely to the ground.

“Hole in one.” Sherlock didn’t even bother tampering the smugness in his tone.

“How can you possibly know that?” groaned John, continuing as this question met yet another massive eyeroll. “Anyone ever tell you you’re an impossible git?”

“Possibly,” Sherlock murmured. “There’s really nothing to it. Hand eye coordination and strength. Any four-year-old could do it. Even Mycroft has a single figure handicap.”

Right. John was a crack shot and he doggedly went through his push-ups and sit-ups regimen every morning. This shouldn’t be too difficult. He went through the motions Sherlock had performed, down to the ridiculous hip shimmying, swung his arms the way Sherlock had and missed the ball by half a foot at least.

Right. Or, not right at all, not with Sherlock hovering three paces behind him and watching his every move. Swearing under his breath John concentrated, stretched his arms and decked at the ball with a mighty swipe. The club head struck the earth some five inches short of the ball, launching a minor sand storm in the process.

“Goddamn’ ”, he swore, loudly this time.

“Concentration, John,” Sherlock advised. “That’s what the game is about.”

“Look,” John rounded on his flatmate, tightening his fingers around the grip. The excessively posh accent was beginning to drive him round the bend. “I don’t know why you’re intent on this stupid game while we should be working on a case but could you please shut your trap and dispense with the unwanted advice.”

Sherlock shrugged. “As you like. But we haven’t got all day so I suggest you try one last time before we aim for the next hole.”

For a brief instant John wavered between striking the prat on the head with his club or just chucking it on the ground and stalking off. The first seemed the more tempting option, especially as Sherlock’s eyes were twinkling with mischievous amusement. However, John prided himself on being the more sensible and stable of the two of them. So instead he resorted to heaving a deep breath of clean healthy seaside fog and following the trajectory Sherlock’s ball had taken earlier.

Sherlock caught up with him, swerving aside a few yards later to retrieve the ball from the hole. He flipped it up in the air once before stashing it in his pocket.

“We have the links to ourselves thanks to this mist,” he said in his normal voice. “A blessing and a nuisance. Let’s hope it will work to our advantage. Any thoughts on the website, John?”

“Huh.” John was still silently stewing and wholly unprepared for the change of subject.

“The clinic’s website,” Sherlock clarified. “That’s why we’re here, John. Not to play golf. I’ve always loathed the game.”

“You seem bloody good at it,” John commented bitterly.

“I practised a lot.” At John’s enquiring glance he sighed, “Think John. I can’t well afford Mycroft beating me at anything even remotely considered a type of physical activity. For obscure reasons wholly outside the realm of logical thought belting a ball and trudging after it while waffling about politics is considered a sport. Can you imagine the gloating if Mycroft would be better at it than I am?”

John’s first instinct was to dismiss the story as one more anecdote in the ongoing annals of Holmes sibling warfare. Then the memory of Harry’s face gloating after she’d beaten him once more at Monopoly popped up. He nodded solemnly. “I see.”

“Thank you.” It sounded as if Sherlock actually meant it. “Now, website.”

“It looked quite ordinary to me. They cater to the crowd that can afford to give the NHS a wide berth. Lots of very specific cosmetic surgery but that’s to do with the location, I suppose. Have a holiday and your eyelids lifted, that sort of thing.”

“Hhm,” Sherlock said. “We’ll see.”

Their route had brought them to a chain link fence along which they were now travelling.

“What’s there then?” John asked.

“Those are the clinic grounds,” replied Sherlock. “Do try to look like you actually now what golf is about.” He began hacking at the low scrub separating the grass from the fence, muttering to himself. The term ‘rogue ball’ appeared occasionally. All in all his impersonation of the upper-class twit of the year ferreting a stray golf ball was close to perfection.

On the other side of the fence a part of the mist materialised into a figure. As the figure neared John was astonished to watch it develop into a man shouldering a rifle and holding a chain at the end of which a German shepherd was straining forward violently. The man’s garb was camouflage, clearly top of the bill, but his stance told John he wasn’t military or even ex-military. Sherlock appeared oblivious to the man’s presence, tackling the shrub in mounting frustration.

“Can’t find it,” John queried in his best la-di-da accent. If anything he sounded like Boris Johnson on acid, but it would have to do.

“Don’t see where the blasted thing’s gone off to,” Sherlock answered, the grand brogue back in full force. He squinnied straight at the guard. “I say, my dear fellow, you don’t happen to have come across a golf ball, do you?”

Startled by the direct address the man yanked at the chain. The dog yelped, bared its teeth and began barking furiously. Sherlock twitched in very convincing fear.

“This is private property,” the guard shouted over the din. “You’d do best to stay away from the fence.”

“You’re most rude,” Sherlock squeaked, making a show of backing off. The guard retained his stance. When John looked back over his shoulder he was still glaring after them.

“What now?” he asked in an undertone.

“Now they’re assured they’ve frightened us away and we can finally begin our investigation,” Sherlock replied, veering towards the fence again.

They followed the barrier. On the other side shrubs and the occasional large tree drifted like islands in the sea of mist, blocking the view of golfers on the clinic terrain. After a few hundred yards Sherlock ground to a halt.

“It must be somewhere around here.” He delved into his jacket pockets, drew out two pairs of small binoculars and handed one to John. “Large building, about two hundred yards away,” he said.

This early in the spring most of the shrubs were largely leafless. John peered through the binoculars, adjusting them until he had clear vision, then started scanning the area behind the stroke of foliage. At last the square shape of a building emerged; painted white it was almost invisible in the milky fog. A sharp hiss beside him told him Sherlock had discovered the building as well.

Methodically sweeping his binoculars past the wall John counted three windows, all painted white as well. The height he measured at roughly twelve feet but it appeared to be quite long, spanning over a hundred yards. As he searched the top of the building he felt his heart leap into his throat and nudged Sherlock in the side.

“There, on the roof,” he whispered.

“Oh yes.” Sherlock’s voice oozed satisfaction. “Well spotted, John. That proves it then.”

“Proves what?”

“Later,” Sherlock answered in an undertone. “Let’s find out if there’s a pattern to their surveillance.”

He had scarcely finished speaking when a man with a dog rounded the corner of the building. Their dark outline contrasted sharply with the all-pervading whiteness. Sherlock checked his watch. John did the same.

During the next hour the same corner was turned four times by an identical pair. By this time John’s fingers were frozen to his binoculars and his eyes felt like they were stuck on the end of sticks. His damp clothes no longer helped his body contain the warmth it produced but siphoned it off and he was clamping his jaws to prevent his teeth from chattering. How Sherlock, who was nothing but muscle and bones, could remain so motionless for so long was beyond John.

At long last Sherlock lowered the binoculars.

“We’ve seen enough.”

John heaved a sigh of relief.

“Tweed, John,” Sherlock remarked. “Impractical in Antarctica but eminently suited to the inclemency of the British weather.”

He fished a few white threads out of his pocket and affixed them to the mesh wire. “There,” he said, “we’ll return here tonight. Now let’s go back to the hotel. Our preliminary investigations aren’t over yet.”

***

“So, what is in that building?” John asked half an hour later, lifting a tea muffin spread liberally with raspberry preserve to his mouth. They sat in the lounge in a pair of comfortable club chairs facing a lovely warm fire and John was beginning to feel his feet again.

“I’ve no idea,” Sherlock admitted surprisingly honestly. “Given the security I suspect the MP’s daughter and her homeless friends but it could equally well be some celebrity who doesn’t want the paparazzi to find out about their liposuction job.”

John snorted and almost choked on the piece of muffin he’d just bitten off. “Those men had rifles.”

“You’re right. Someone is desperate to keep something locked on the inside or outside, but that isn’t our first concern now. Getting inside without raising a general alarm is. Those dogs are our main worry. Thankfully you have an appointment at the clinic in three quarters of an hour. Best finish that tea quickly so you can go change.”

***

A quarter of an hour later John opened the door to his room to find an effeminate, overly enthusiastic assistant in the corridor. Sherlock’s hair was parted in the middle and drooped artistically on either side of his face. A scrunchie cerise-pink cravat billowed in ample waves down and into his buttoned jacket.

“Oh, Mr Norton,” he squealed in a voice at least two octaves higher than his usual range. “This won’t do at all!” With a playful shove at John’s chest he pushed him back into the room.

“Have you never put on a wig before?” he asked in his normal voice, tugging mercilessly at the outrageous riot of auburn shoulder length curls John was sporting. “And that shawl! Really, John.” Quick hands flew beneath John’s chin and when he looked in the mirror the rainbow-coloured silk shawl Sherlock had presented him with earlier sat around his neck in a naff bow that virtually screamed for attention. This had the advantage of paling the sunglasses on his nose – which John had thought unbelievably tacky – into the essence of modesty and good taste.

“There,” Sherlock said, voice dripping perverse self-satisfaction at the result of his lugubrious handiwork. “Much better. Shall we go, Mr Norton? Your car is waiting for you.”

Indeed a sky blue Jaguar Mark 2 sat purring right at the hotel doorstep, the chauffeur standing to attention next to the rear door. Sherlock steered John towards the car and fussed installing him into the backseat, then waited impatiently for the chauffeur to open the front passenger door.

The clinic grounds turned out even more extensive than those of the hotel. They drove for almost a mile along carefully manicured lawns and cultivated borders before pulling up in front of an elegant opaque glass façade.

“There’s no need to wait,” Sherlock told the chauffeur and began ushering John inside with fawning deference.

The lobby they entered outdid their hotel’s in sumptuousness. Amidst a jungle of exotic palms a fountain burbled soothingly. Comfortable low sofas in pale-silver velvet were sprinkled across the white marble flooring, glowing like barges in a fairy tale on the ocean of white marble floor tiles. A reception desk that had floated straight down from the starship Enterprise hovered on the right.

“We’ve an appointment with Dr Vance-Blackwell, daahling,” Sherlock squealed at the receptionist; one of the most beautiful women John had ever laid eyes on. Under different circumstances – if he weren’t looking like a seventies rock star long past his heyday – John might seriously have tried dousing her with a select whiff of John Hamish Watson charm. However, as a soldier John recognised a lost battle. The woman scrunched her pretty little nose at Sherlock in undisguised distaste before plastering a bright smile to her lips.

“Good afternoon and welcome to the the Lord of Wight Private Medical Clinic. Certainly. Your name or time of the appointment, please?”

“Oh, my name is Everett Puscat, but I’m not the reason we’re here to see Dr Vance-Blackwell, thank God,” tittered Sherlock, directing a meaningful glance at John. “Our appointment is at four sharp, daahling.”

“Right.” The fake smile threatened to slip from the woman’s face. Pretending to check something on her computer she stole several quick squints at John, plainly searching for a match between him and a long list of minor and major celebrities she was running in her head. John wondered what Dr Vance-Blackwell’s specialism was and what he was supposed to be ailing from. Sherlock hadn’t told him.

At last the woman decided she couldn’t keep them waiting much longer without raising suspicion. Cold-shouldering Sherlock she smiled at John, “You’ll find urology on the second floor, third corridor on your left. The lift is over there or you can use the stairs, which you’ll find around the corner, here at the back of the reception desk. Thank you for visiting.”

“Thanks daahling. We’ll take the stairs. Must watch those kilojoules,” Sherlock shrieked and turned to John. “If you please, sir. After you.”

Fuming inside, John strutted to the staircase; another scifi glass construction. Once the glass (what else?) door to the lobby had fallen shut behind them he tore into his flatmate.

“Urology! What the hell are you playing at, Sherlock. I’m not going to drop my undies for a case.”

“The name’s Everett, Mr Norton. Don’t you remember?” Sherlock screeched. Whispering, he continued, “Whyever not? I would. You never struck me as a prude, John.”

John opened his mouth to share his exact opinion on unnecessary exhibition of the naked male body but was cut short halfway. “Your worries are unnecessary. That receptionist and you share the same one-track mind, together with ninety-nine percent of the general population.”

He heaved a dramatic sigh that advertised his disgust with humanity at large and hospital receptionists in particular. “Dull but useful. Now when Dr Vance-Blackwell contacts her because we don’t turn up in his waiting room she’ll send security after a very distinctive-looking celebrity with a sex problem and his aggravating assistant, leaving us with plenty of time for a little snooping and a proletarian shopping expedition.”

“You want us to go stealing again?”

“Yes. Remember it’s for a good cause. We can always reimburse them through a donation later. But we’ll have to do something about those dogs. I’d already planned this visit but those animals were an extra incentive.”

Sherlock ignored the door to the second floor. At the third floor he halted to study the hospital ground plan that hung to the left of the door. From his pocket he produced a Boots carrier bag.

Untying his tie and stashing it into the bag he said, “We’ll work our way downwards from the top floor. The dispensary is on this floor. Are dogs allergic to ketamine?”

“I’ve no idea,” John answered truthfully.

“We’ll just have to take our chances then. Give me that shawl and wig and sunglasses, John. You look utterly ridiculous.”

“Thanks to who,” John grumbled.

“Whom,” Sherlock corrected automatically. John glared at him but all Sherlock said was, “Ruffle your hair, it’s flattened.”

They rearranged their clothes and hair and went up to the fifth floor, the bag dangling casually from Sherlock’s left hand.

“There are probably cameras everywhere,” he warned with his hand on the door handle. “Try to look as if you’ve business being here.”

The corridor they entered was empty. A look at the label next to the first door they passed taught John they were in the maternity ward. Sherlock set them a quick pace, seemingly taking no notice of their surroundings.

Halfway along the corridor a large cluster of artfully arranged tropical plants bravely carried on war against the sickening hospital atmosphere. Pretending to admire the arrangement Sherlock dropped the Boots bag amongst the leaves, which swallowed it as eagerly as a collection of carnivorous plants. Five yards on they skirted a corner and nearly bumped into a pair of nurses.

“Apologies.” Sherlock threw them his normal-people smile and strode on, John hurrying in his wake.

They criss-crossed the fifth floor without anyone accosting them. Sherlock apparently had the building’s ground plan by rote. The surrounding sounds and smells reminded John nostalgically of Barts and every other hospital he’d ever worked in. It was hard to imagine anyone working here participating in brutal abduction. That helicopter could easily be a trauma helicopter, employed to save people’s lives. The rifle-carrying guards were a bit more difficult to account for…

“Keep up, John,” Sherlock hissed. “There’s nothing here. We’ll go down to the fourth floor.”

They made their way back to the outlandish staircase. When Sherlock tried the door to the fourth floor he found it was locked. He rattled the handle but to no avail.

“That’s odd,” John remarked. “And against safety procedures. Imagine—”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock cut in. “What’s worse is that we now have a choice between crossing the fifth floor again or going back up from the third. Hmm. Third first, and return to this floor via the staircase on the other side of the building.”

The third floor was a bit busier than the fifth with visitors and personnel. The number of people milling about was still a far cry from the multitudes filing through the average NHS service but after the eerie quiet of the fifth floor the bustle had a relaxing effect on John. Thus he was taken unawares when Sherlock poked him sharply in the side, muttered, “Dispensary” and fell into a swoon, long limbs flinging in every direction and effectively blocking the hallway. A woman screamed.

John stared down bewildered at the prone form shuddering on the floor before remembering their purpose. He thundered into the dispensary without knocking and buttonholed the first white coat he saw.

“Please… my friend… outside...”

“What?” There were three persons in the room, now all centring their attention on John.

“Sir, what’s wrong?”

“My friend has suddenly fainted. Please come quickly.”

The two people closest to the door hurried outside while the third made straight for John.

“No please,” John warded him off. “My friend needs your help.” He gazed around the room and discovered a chair nearby. “I’ll sit here and recover from the shock.”

Unfortunately the man took his calling seriously and he squandered precious seconds accompanying John to the chair. The second he was gone John leapt up to frisk the cabinets. He managed to unearth a bottle of chloroform, some ketamine and a couple of hypodermic needles and was back in the chair when the accommodating apothecary returned.

“Your friend appears to be okay again,” he said. “He’s refused us examining him, claiming he hadn’t had anything to drink since breakfast. He’s out there enjoying a cuppa now. Can I fetch you anything?”

“No.” John shook his head. “Thank you. I’ll go see how he’s doing.”

In the hallway the other two apothecaries hovered over a sheepish-looking Sherlock perched on the edge of a seat cradling a plastic beaker of tea in his hands. The small crowd of onlookers had already dispersed; no doubt disappointed the promising drama had fizzled out into a solo of a man meekly sipping tea.

“I’m so embarrassed,” Sherlock sighed. From the looks the duo exchanged over his head it was clear this had been his pat phrase since ‘regaining’ consciousness.

“There really is no need,” one of the apothecaries said. “And here’s your friend. Now if you’re sure you don’t want a proper check-over—”

“Oh no, I’m afraid of needles. And you’ve been so kind, providing me with this delicious tea,” fawned Sherlock. That appeared to be the last straw needed to send the pair scurrying for safety. The teacup ended up in another helpful clump of foliage next to Sherlock’s seat.

“Have you got the supplies?” a miraculously recovered Sherlock asked.

“Yes.”

“Excellent. We’re off for the fourth floor then. Might as well take the lift.”

On the fourth floor Sherlock unerringly led them to the locked-off corridor. Here they encountered a pair of double swing doors. John pushed against one of the vertical push plates but the door didn’t budge.

“No use.” Sherlock nodded meaningfully at the middle of the doors and the lock snugly fitted there.

“But,” John said, staring at the standard swing doors. “Doors like these never have locks.”

“Exactly, John. You’re scintillating today,” Sherlock commented. “And yet these do. What are we to make of that?”

“That we can’t get in,” forwarded John.

“As can’t anyone else who doesn’t have a key,” added Sherlock.

“You can always pick the lock.”

“Are you seriously suggesting I engage in a spot of breaking and entering, Dr Watson?” Sherlock enquired, one eyebrow lifted archly.

“Seeing as you’ve already coaxed me into getting a five-finger discount I don’t see why not,” retorted John, adding, “I don’t like this.”

“Neither do I,” Sherlock confessed. “But breaking into this ward is too likely to draw attention and we’ll probably learn more visiting that outbuilding tonight. We’re done here for the moment.” He pivoted sharply on his heel and headed back to the lift. Downstairs the opening lift doors revealed the receptionist locked in urgent conversation with a man in a white coat and a couple of innocuously clad men whose backs might as well have written ‘security’ over it in neon-pink lettering.

“Good,” Sherlock uttered. “You first, John.”

John traversed the lobby at what he hoped looked like a purposeful gait rather than making a run for it. Once outside he sprinted another hundred yards before he dared breathe freely again. Night was falling fast, further densifying the fog that glowed mutedly in the circles of light thrown by the streetlamps. Sherlock popped up out of the darkness at John’s right-hand side but John was too tired to be caught on the hop.

“I want proper food and a bed,” he said. “Or I’ll be no use to you tonight.”

“If you must,” Sherlock conceded ungraciously. In the scant light he looked as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as he’d been that first evening after they’d just met, during the pink suitcase case. John thought of the indolent ennui victim who’d been recumbent on their sofa until yesterday morning and decided that this version of Sherlock was just as tiring but ultimately far preferable to the stroppy teenager model.

***

The torch’s bean disappeared into the darkness, together with the heavy chop of helicopter rotors. They’d been crouching in the darkness for over an hour, waiting for the helicopter to depart and counting the beat of the guards’ circumventions.

“Right,” Sherlock whispered. “I’m going to cut the netting now.”

To John’s overly sensitive ears each snap of wired metal announced their presence as loudly as a full blast of heavy metal played for a demented audience of hollering fans.

The excellent hotel food sat heavily in his stomach, as a stony reminder of the sinister flavour their hospital visit had left him tasting in his mouth. True, apart from the shut off ward and stuck-up ambience the overall atmosphere had been as impersonally friendly as that in any other hospital. The apothecaries they had duped had been as solicitous as one would expect, but as the evening progressed those locked double doors gained momentum in John’s mind until they rose before him like the gates of Hell itself. A tiny voice in the back of his mind whispered he’d been a hop, skip and a jump away from evil of the blackest kind. He’d faced the same premonition in Afghanistan a few times and each time his instincts had been spot-on. He still suffered from the nightmares to prove it.

“Stop distressing yourself, it’s annoying,” Sherlock muttered. “There, already done. Help me.”

Together they folded over the wire to create a hole big enough for them to wriggle through. A branch lashed John’s cheek unforgivingly and he winced in pain.

“Five minutes till the next one,” Sherlock said. “We’d best leave these bushes now. Have you got everything at the ready?”

“Yes.”

They cleared the undergrowth and waited, flattened on the damp grass. The cold moisture seeped through the fabric of John’s jeans.

“Now.”

The instant the word left Sherlock’s mouth the flicker of a torch beam came weaving past them. John launched himself to his feet, chloroformed rag at the ready and dove for the dog. Shaggy fur brushed his hands. It was over in seconds. Both man and beast were momentarily incapacitated.

“Quick,” growled Sherlock. Hoisting the man under his armpits he started dragging him back to the bushes and through them to the fence. John followed, carrying the limp dog’s body in his arms.

Working by the light of their torches which they held in their mouths they bound the man’s wrists and ankles behind his back and gagged him before positioning him on his side with his back to the fence. Then they muzzled the dog and tied its paws. They’d barely finished before Sherlock said in an undertone, “Next one in three minutes.”

Over the next hour they repeated the process three more times, after which they lay waiting for a quarter of an hour for the next one to arrive. Nothing happened.

“Right,” Sherlock announced at last. “That’s the first part almost over with.”

They crept back through the bushes. Sherlock relieved the men of their rifles, located several small knives, handguns, phones, radio equipment and headsets and checked their bindings while John injected each of them with a small dose of Ketamine. They put the used needles, weapons, phones and other equipment save for a headset and radio for each of them and a pistol for Sherlock into the rubbish bin bag Sherlock had ‘lent’ from the hotel and hid it among the bushes.

So far everything had been going exactly to plan. However, as Sherlock had confessed he still had no idea what they would find once they’d rounded the building they were now out in the woods. The pitch-dark woods. John trailed his fingers along the wall as he silently trod on Sherlock’s heels. The darkness remained after they’d turned a corner, not a glimpse of light escaping from a window to guide them along. Upon rounding the next corner their eyes encountered the feeble light of a tiny bulb protruding from the wall above a solid wooden door.

“Entrance?” John asked in an undertone.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied quietly. “That light’s a nuisance.” He bent at the waist and the moment he came up again swung his arm. The bulb exploded, rendering the darkness absolute.

“Golf,” John understood.

“Yes.” Sherlock sounded amused. “Let’s wait for a while.”

They stood shivering in the foggy night but all John’s ears discerned was the shrieking of an owl in the far distance.

“I think it’s safe.” He prodded Sherlock in the small of his back.

At the door Sherlock halted and switched on his torch to reveal a lock and, inserted into the wall beside it, a keypad. Sherlock produced his magnifier and began scrutinising the keypad in the light of his torch, accompanying himself with a steady stream of sotto voce mutter.

“Nine digits. And everyone as careless as the late unlamented Miss Adler. Let’s see. Most residue of oil on the four, then the five, so that’s two digits accounted for. How many digits in the code? One, two, six, seven and nine all clean so four-digit code it is. Hmm, the eight looks slightly less clean than the three. Right.”

He punched the four, five, eight and three in rapid succession and was almost hit in the nose by the door swinging open of its own accord. Bright industrial light spilled outside. John caught the door and held it open for Sherlock to slip through and followed after, pulling it shut with extreme gentleness.

For a few seconds he stood blinking as a deer caught in the headlights. His eyes adjusted to the strong glare of overhead lights reflected in the shiny white of the walls paint and the equally white floor tiles lining the long passage they were standing in. For a brief moment John wondered whether they’d scaled an industrial plant.

“Opri! Cine eşti tu? Ce faci acolo?” A man in a long white coat had appeared out of nowhere and was fastly approaching, training a gun on them with a trembling arm.

“Ei bine, am vrut doar ša întreb,” Sherlock said and dived for the man’s knees. The man shrieked and waved the gun, obviously not accustomed to handling the weapon. John wrestled it from his hand into Sherlock’s waiting one and immobilised the arm, simultaneously clamping his other hand over the man’s mouth.

Sherlock had resurfaced and was now addressing the man in the foreign language. The movement of the man’s lips against the palm of his hand told John the man was determined not to cooperate.

“I don’t speak the lingo but he won’t,” he informed Sherlock.

“Rumanian,” Sherlock replied curtly. He elevated his arm and took a dead aim between the man’s eyes.

“Spune-mi. Give him a chance to speak, John,” he said.

“Are you certain?” Unwillingly, John lowered his hand a fraction. The man drew a deep breath and launched into a torrent of incomprehensible sentences. Sherlock interrupted the stream several times, nodding his head and finally motioning the man to silence.

“He’s a night nurse, claims to be the only one in the building,” he told John. “A colleague will take over in three hours. We’d do best to bind and sedate him. He’s hardly the brains behind this outfit, just a despicable lackey.”

He raised his arm and struck the man savagely on the side of the head with the butt of the gun. The man groaned and collapsed against John who staggered back from the impact himself and was forced to let go of the body. It slithered into an untidy heap on the floor.

“Hey, stop it!” John shouted. “Have you gone off your rocker?”

Sherlock was looming over the unconscious form, pulling deep breaths into his chest and his pulse point beating visibly in his neck. “Almost,” he panted. “You take care of him, John.”

“But what—” John tried as he tugged the man’s arms behind his back and began tying them but Sherlock shook his head. “Not now. Have you done it?”

“Yeah.” John gave his handiwork a last check-over. The man would hardly be able to move, let alone raise the alarm. “Where do we put him?”

Sherlock skimmed the corridor and made a beeline for a door that looked no different from the others to John. “Here,” he said. “Best put him with the rest of the rubbish.”

John considered that especially offensive, even for Sherlock but he silently arranged the man on top of the bin bags. His flatmate’s behaviour of the last few minutes worried him and his unease increased when he looked up and saw Sherlock was definitely pale around the nose.

“Are you all right,” he enquired, by now genuinely concerned.

Instead of answering Sherlock strode off and disappeared through the second door on their left. John breathed deeply and sprinted after him.

The room he found Sherlock in was scarcely lit, necessitating John’s eyes to yet another quick adjustment. Once they had adapted themselves, he took in that they were standing in a rectangular space that probably ran over the whole building’s length. The room’s opposite end split up into narrow cubicles through curtains hanging from ceiling rails. Each cubicle contained a hospital bed and the equipment one expected to find in an intensive care unit. As John scoured the set-up he slowly realised he actually was standing in the middle of a giant intensive care unit. Most beds were empty but a couple of beds near the centre were occupied. Sherlock was standing next to one of these, gazing at the prone form on top of it.

“It’s actually true,” he said in the gravest tones John had ever heard him utter when he joined Sherlock. “The idea passed my mind when we discovered those helicopter tracks yesterday evening but I dismissed it as too outlandish. Goes to show one should never eliminate the improbable as being impossible.”

“What?” John asked, too apprehensive of his friend’s strange behaviour to spare a thought for the supine figure on the bed.

“I wonder whether even Moriarty could think up something this cruel,” Sherlock continued his discourse while his hands brushed nervously at the bed’s top sheet. To John’s consternation he appeared to be blinking back tears. His sigh expressed an infinite weariness.

“ ‘What a piece of work is a man!’ Dear God, the Bard never wrote words more true. John, I apologise for all those times I’ve called Anderson a brainless idiot. For even his brainless idiocy is infinitely preferable to the devilish mind that created this ward.”

“Sherlock?”

His friend didn’t acknowledge him. “Have a look at the chart, John,” he directed instead.

John did as he was bid, peering blindly at the letters that danced erratically in the half-light. Even after re-reading the sentences three times he couldn’t make head nor tail of the message they purported. Unless they’d inadvertently crossed an invisible barrier and were wandering a parallel universe where people adhered to a code of morals rejected in the world John had known.

He went over the information again, checked dates and operations, looked at the figure whose chest calmly rose and fell.

“I…” he stammered. “I… Sherlock, they’ve taken out a kidney, a lung, the retinas, the liver… this… how…”

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed. “They’re harvesting Eleanor Portendorfer’s organs. As well as those of the other wretches here.”

“But why?”

“For money, obviously. What other reason is there? On the one hand you have desperate rich people ready to dig deep into their purses for a kidney, on the other hand these beggars just ruining their perfectly fine and healthy kidney with drink and drugs. Nobody will miss them, you’ll be doing the community a service rounding them off the streets and making good money out of them. It’s the perfect solution.”

“Bloody hell.” John felt sick. The fact that Sherlock didn’t look much better offered no comfort at all. He already knew he was in for many long sleepless nights, not counting the ones he would wake up in a sweat. This coolly calculating industrial efficiency was far more depraved than all the senseless violence he’d witnessed in Afghanistan.

“What do we do now?”

“This building is a fortress. We begin by making sure no one gets in except Lestrade. Mycroft will send in his men as well, can’t be avoided. Might actually be of some use in this instance. Lestrade can send in the Hampshire Constabulary, have them lock up the place, find out what’s in that ward.”

“Do you think the whole clinic staff…?” John didn’t want to end the question for the notion was simply too grotesque.

“Hardly likely. Everything is too thoroughly organised and the bigger the group the bigger the chance of having to deal with a conscience. Unless they’ve partaken in a little extra murdering on the side.”

“Christ!”

“Yes. It’s…” Whatever Sherlock was going to say was bound to remain a mystery for he cut himself short. “I’ll ring Lestrade while you contact my brother, John. He’s always so worried about me. You can tell him what we’ve been up to and have him pressurise the County Sheriff’s office a little to ascertain the ugly minds that invented this scheme don’t escape.”

***

The three hours they waited for Lestrade and Mycroft to fly in were the longest of John’s life. Accompanying Mycroft was a Crown Prosecutor. After hearing John’s testimony on the condition of the five silent bodies in the ward the man had an urgent whispered conversation with Mycroft in a corner of the ward. The words ‘illegal’ and ‘court order’ leapt up intermittently, together with ‘medical consultation’. Sherlock glared at his brother throughout the conversation but John had the feeling Mycroft was the one arguing to let heart rule the head. At long last the Crown Prosecutor yielded and gave John leave to inject them with morphine and switch off the machinery that was keeping them alive.

Both Mycroft and Sherlock were more subdued than John had ever seen them before. After a heartfelt ‘Bloody fucking hell’ Lestrade had refrained from further comment. He kept shaking his head and muttering to himself, only stopping to rest a heavy comforting hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Well done,” was all he said. For once Sherlock didn’t shrug and accepted the compliment.

***

Two weeks later John came down the stairs to find his flatmate perusing the morning papers and waited upon by Mrs Hudson. The cheery light of April slanted through 221B’s windows, heralding the first balmy day of spring.

“Good morning, John,” Sherlock greeted in a breezier voice than John had heard from him for the last fortnight. “Slept well?”

“Excellent,” John replied truthfully. “Mrs Hudson, those scrambled eggs smell like heaven.”

“Flatterer,” she giggled. “You want some?”

“You’ve turned into a mind reader, Mrs Hudson.”

“Men and their stomachs. Doesn’t take much to read their minds,” Mrs Hudson said, ambling to the kitchen. “I’ll give you a cuppa first.”

She returned with the teapot which was wrapped in Sherlock’s tea cosy. John looked at the thing and felt his stomach turn.

“What’s wrong?” Mrs Hudson came from very far away. “John?” Hastily putting the teapot on the table she reached for John’s hand. Sherlock had risen and his quick glance was darting between John, Mrs Hudson and the teapot.

“It’s the tea cosy,” he deduced. “John associates it with our ghastly adventure on the Isle of Wight. Why? Oh, because I first used it on the morning Billy visited.”

“Yes,” John confirmed weakly, too put-out to even be properly amazed at Sherlock’s extraordinary retentive capabilities which had led him straight to the right conclusion.

“Oh dear.” Mrs Hudson blanched. John managed to leap up just in time to grab a chair for her to fall into with nervously fluttering hands. “Oh John, I’m so sorry, if I’d known—”

“But you didn’t,” Sherlock said. “So you can stop the apologies, just get rid of the cosy and serve John his tea.”

“Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson and John exploded simultaneously.

“What?” Sherlock raised an eloquent eyebrow. Then he grabbed the teapot, freed it from the cosy, opened the window and threw the cosy outside.

“Oi! Watch it!” an angry voice floated up from the street.

Sherlock pushed the window a little higher and bent the upper part of his body over the sill.

“Looks lovely on you,” he remarked, closed the window again and held the naked teapot aloft.

“Tea?” he asked.

**Posted by Schmiezi** December 12, 2015 7:39 am

This fic is for stoertebeker.

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

Of Christmas, love, and Lego dragons

It all started the day before Christmas Eve.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sherlock, you didn't have to-"

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

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

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

Sherlock's eyebrows shot together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

"Oh, really?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mycroft?"

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

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

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

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

***

"Now we need to build the roof."

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

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

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

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

"You alright?”

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

“I'm fine. Just – thinking.”

John nodded; took a sip.

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

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

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

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

“Was it me?”

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

“Was it… Was it you??”

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

“Sherlock, what-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John kissed his mouth again, softly; reverently.

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

***

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

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

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

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

**Posted by Schmiezi** December 13, 2015 8:16 am

This story is for Sherlock Holmes

Dear boss, I wish you a merry christmas and a happy new year with my fic. I hope you like it, it was fun to write. :-)

Your prompts are at the end, so they won't be spoilerish.

Oratorio in D-death

It had been grey and dark the whole day. Winter's sun hadn't shone down on London for two whole weeks now. As a contrast, the Christmas' lighting had been put up for a few days now and wonderfully lit the busy Great Ormond Street. People were rushing up and down, the noses in big scarfs, caps pulled deep down.

Mary only had a quick glance at the people rushing by down on the street. The windows in John's GP practice had been decorated with some artificial snow and window pictures showing angels, santas, sledges and stars. Mary pulled her cardigan close and turned from the window. She sat down at the reception and turned on the computer again. The quarter was coming to a close, the accounts had to be finished by tonight. Mary scrolled through the list of patients and noticed that she had only just managed until „D“. She sighed and started typing. It would be a long night.

-----------------------------------------------------

John stood in the doorframe of a little flat in Brixton. There were white walls with pictures of composers, John could identify Mozart and Beethoven at least. There was a big canvas with a modern design of notes and parts of a partiture. Apart from that the furniture was plain and simple. The most impressive peace of furniture was a big black grand piano right in the middle of the room. The big windows would light it beatifully John thought, if the sun would ever shine again.

„Her name was Jennifer Woodhouse, she was a young professional concert singer. Lyric soprano.“ remarked Lestrade. „ She lived on her own in this appartement. She was reported missing after she didn't turn up to a christmas concert in the Royal Albert Hall tonight. Never happened before. The concert took place anyway, but straight afterwards the conductor, Mr. Andrew Riley, showed us to this place. We found her suffocated on the floor, with the gas oven switched on. And there's a little writing desk where we found this.“

Lestrade handed over a piece of paper. Sherlock, who up to this point had stood in silence, reached out and took it.

John welcomed the opportunity to get a little lost in watching his friend. That was a new shirt he was wearing today, a very light pink, the kind of colour that no men would have been wearing a couple of years ago, but that was perfectly acceptable nowadays, combined with an anthrazite suit. Tailored perfectly to his features, as always. The curls looked still freshly styled, though it was late in the evening, and John thought he could smell the coconut shampoo Sherlock always used.

Sherlock scrutinized the paper from every side and angle. He measured the thickness and weight, smelled the paper with closed eyes and lightly brushed with his fingertips over the words written on it. „....average office paper.... 3.8 grams....got stuck in a printer, but....John! Have a look, there's definetely something off with the printing!“

John glanced at the letter, seing absolutely nothing „off“ there, except it was quite clearly a suicide note.

„It's my note.......That's what people do.....leave a note.....“

John felt ice-cold and numb. After all this time, he still hadn't got the slightest idea how he had survived this. Losing his best friend, his we-not-only-share-a-flat-but-all-of-our-time, his soulmate, his.....

No, better not proceed from here.

Mary had helped him getting through this. They had got married and expected. But then, Mary and Magnusson, the shootings...... both by Mary and Sherlock..... the baby.....

John shut his eyes close. He had just managed to gain a little control over his life again. He had forgiven Mary and they had started anew. Sherlock had made this terrible sacrifice, but that was sorted as well, with Mycroft having pulled the little stunt with the Moriarty-message.

John had just regained a little bit of control, he had his private life with Mary and his work, he had his friend and their adventures. But still.... The moment he had overcome his anger about Mary's lying to him about basically anything another truth began to sink in. And in moments like this it hit him hard. He had been on the verge of losing Sherlock again. In all reality. That was beyond his imagination. He would not survive this a second time.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Mary looked up when she heard the knock on the door. She frowned. It was almost eleven p.m., how could anyone consider the consulting rooms still open? Slowly she went towards the door. The knocking got more desperate. Mary applied the door chain and opened, peering through the port.

„David! What the hell.....?“

„Let me in! Quick!“

„No!“

„I need medical help, for christ's sake!“

„Go and see a doctor in the A&E then! John's not here anyway.“

„Think that over, dear. I don't think you really want me to go there!“

Mary hesitated a second, then she opened and let David in.

„So, what seems to be the... Jesus!! What happened to your leg?“ „Accident.“ David answered with a vague handwave.

„Seriously, David, I would be more happy if you saw a surgeon about this.“ She cut the leg of the trousers open and examined the wounds. „Mostly bruises.... There's one deep flesh wound though. With lots of black dust particles in it. Not sure if it's possible for me to clean it sufficiently here. Also it might need stitches. Wait, I see if I can get John on his mobile.“

„No! Do whatever is possible for you, it will suffice! I don't need your man around, he's probably with that lunatic again. Sherlock Holmes is the last person I need to see now!“ He leaned forwards and stared at Mary with a maniac gleam in the eyes. „Not a word to John about tonight, poppet, or..“ „Or what?“ Mary asked coldly. „For your information, John and I have started a new life. He knows all about my past.“ „Are you sure, poppet? Are you one hundred percent and absolutely sure he knows everything?“

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Lestrade led Sherlock and John into Jennifer Woodhouse's kitchen. Seargant Donovan sat at the kitchen table talking to a man with black hair and a classic black suit, just busy with attaching a tie pin in the shape of a violin clef to his dark red tie. „Mr. Andrew Riley“ Lestrade said. The men shook hands and sat down at the kitchen table. Mr. Riley looked at Sherlock expectingly. Sherlock smiled at him.

„What was it tonight, Mr. Riley?“ he asked.

„I beg your pardon?“

„The music. The concert, of course.“

„Oh. Of course. For a moment there I thought... Well, it was a classic. The christmas oratorio by Bach.“

„Wonderful piece of music. I used to study bits of the violin parts myself as a boy. Was it the first time you worked with the late Miss Woodhouse?“

„No, not at all. I've known her for quite a bit. You see, my wife studied the piano. They got to know each other at the conservatorium and became friends, though they were not that close anymore lately. We've worked a couple of times together and though she was still very young she was always very professional about her engagements. When I realized that she would indeed not turn up I tried to call her at first, but then I had to rush to get her understudy. I always have one for the solists, especially in the winter, the singers can always catch a flu or get seriously croaky.“

Sherlock had put a finger on his lips and nodded at Andrew Riley in deep thought. Then he turned to Lestrade. „Do we have a first assessment by the coroner about the time of death?“ „Well, nothing is for certain at the moment, but it should be between four in the afternoon and eight in the evening. The final report is to follow.“ Sherlock nodded again. „Mr. Riley where have you been at this time?“

„Well, I left the house around three, as my wife can confirm. At the Hall I have a backstage room for myself, in which I withdraw before such major events to get some sleep. It's calmer there than at home.“ He smiled apologetically.

Sherlock nodded at him in deep thought. His eyes wandered up and down Mr. Riley and came to a halt at his shoes. „You went to work by tube today?“ he asked.

Andrew Riley looked from Sherlock to John and back again. „I did indeed.“ he answered. „My car is at the garage at the moment. How did you.know?“

„Come, John, come. We've had enough here.“ Sherlock sprung to his feet and left, pulling John with him.

„Erm, Sherlock, what...?“ Lestrade called after them. „Tomorrow at the Yard!“ Sherlock screamed up the stairs he had already descended in an outrush of energy. On the street he waved at a taxi and opened the door for John with a bright smile. John suddenly felt all warm inside and couldn't help but smiling back before climbing into the taxi. „221b Baker Street“ Sherlock ordered and that was all that was needed to make John feel perfectly satisfied. It was home.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mary had rinsed the wound with germicide. She was quite sure it would need to be properly stitched, but David had been very clear about that.

„When was your last tetanus shot?“ she asked. „Oh, couple of years ago. No problem there.“ David grinned. Mary felt she would get sick having him around longer.

„Let me get some plasters and bandages. And then I would very much appreciate if you just left!“

„No problem.“ David grinned again. „I will leave perfectly satisfied, as we both know how to keep a secret, right?“ Mary didn't answer. „I'll get the plasters.“ she said.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

„You studied the christmas oratorio as a boy?“ John smirked at the mere thought. Sherlock must have had driven every violin teacher straight into insanity.

„I did. Parts of it. As I said, wonderful music, people give this kind of classics too little credit nowadays. They just swoon over „artists“ like this Daniel Garrilow dude!“

„David Garrett, Sherlock! And I like him, actually!“ Sherlock just waved this away. Then he turned to John, all excited, suddenly he had embraced John's hands with his. „I'll take you out to listen to this oratorio, okay? As soon as we have finished this one, I'll take you out! Say yes!“

Erm, yes, that would be most lovely...

Before John had processed his drumlike heart beating and before he could answer Sherlock retreated slowly again. John's hands felt very cold as Sherlock pulled back his hands again. „Erm, maybe not. Maybe you would rather go with...“

No. I want to spend time with you.

John didn't answer. Instead he asked „How did you know about the tube?“. That broke the tension again. „I didn't. But it was a good try, wasn't it?. There were those black cashmere socks showing. They are house brand of Harrod's men accessoires. And which is the tube station you would exit to get to Harrod's?“

„Knightsbridge.“

„And which one do you exit to get to the Royal Albert Hall?“

„Knightsbridge?“

Sherlock smiled broadly. „They looked really new. He probably got them before going to the Hall. But the shoes showed some dust. I would need to do some experiments, but I have a very good feeling that the dust could be attached to the one found there.“

The taxi stopped in front of 221 b Baker Street.

John paid the driver and opened the door.

„Come on, Sherlock, let's go in. I need to ask you a question.“

--------------------------------------------------------------------

„ You want to ask her.......again?“

„Well,....erm,....you know, we managed to sort out some trouble lately...It's not that bad at the moment actually......And since the marriage has not been fully legal because of....you know, after the abor-... I mean, after we lost the girl, Mary has been....“

John couldn't speak further because of this big lump in his throat. Sherlock sat down right across him and embraced his hands again. Instead of giving him a heartbeat and flutter in the belly again, John just felt comforted this time. Sherlock stroke his hand with his thumb.

„You know it wasn't your fault, John. Rubellas come in two stages, with the first one showing no specific signs but being just like an ordinary cold. Mary decided to still work with you, you couldn't shelter her from just anything.“

„I know.“ John took a deep breath and looked up. „So, what do you say? Do you want to be my best man....again?“

„Yes. Yes, I do“ Sherlock simply said.

John swallowed and faught against a croak in his throat. Then he stood up. „I'll better be off then. The day will have an early start. I need to see Mrs. Turner's cousin. The breast cancer is almost at terminal stade and she needs to have her fentanyl patches first thing in the morning.“ He turned towards the door.

„John, I might be a bit early with this, but heaven knows, when I will get you like this again. Here, just the two of us. I have a christmas gift for you.“ Sherlock handed over a wrapped package. John smiled and unwrapped it slowly.

„Sorry, I haven't done my shopping yet.“

Slowly, slowly he unwrapped what turned out to be a little snow globe. John had to smile, god, he had always found those to be so awfully corny. As the snow softly fell to the ground it revealed a simple house door. It was black with golden „221b“ on the front. The matching golden door knocker was lopsided. John looked at Sherlock, lost for words. Sherlock looked back into his eyes.

„Baker Street.“ was all that John could say. His voice had never sounded so small.

„Baker Street.“ Sherlock answered.

„Thank you“ John whispered. Then he turned towards the door again. But he stopped and looked back at Sherlock, who stood next to the mantlepiece and watched him leave.

„Sherlock?“

„Yeah?“

„Sherlock, can you give me one reason..... one reason why I shouldn't marry Mary....again?“

Sherlock didn't answer at once, but it struck John like a thunderbolt. Sherlock's eyes were wide open, his lips half parted, caution and disbelief on his face. But also a warmth and tenderness towards John that was barely tamed. John was speechless. How could he have doubted for one single second that this man wanted him back here, back in his life, back for himself, just as much as John wanted him? Exclusively? John's heart ached so much, he could hardly stand it any longer. But the revelation was too sweet to end this precious moment.

„No. I'm sorry. I can't.“ Sherlock answered.

John nodded slowly. Then he finally brought up the strength to leave.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next day John rummaged through the cabinet that contained his prescription only medicine.

„Mary, dear, any idea where I put the fentanyl patches? I need to be off to Mrs. Turner's now.“

Mary appeared in the doorframe of the consulting room.

„Don't get mad at me. I forgot to order them at the pharmacist. I didn't know we were that short.“

John sighed. „Right. Well, don't worry, I'll drop by St. Bart's and get some for today.“

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

During lunchtime John and Sherlock met at a garage near Hay Market.

Sherlock was all excited. He seemed to have forgotten all about the last night. John couldn't decide if he should feel relieved or disappointed.

„Why did you want me to come here, Sherlock? Neither of us even owns a car.“

„ But, John, this is the very one where Mr. Riley parked his the last two days.“

„So?“

„I need data.“

Sherlock rushed towards a black Alfa Romeo. A man in a boiler suit came out of a little dusty office to join them.

„Mornin', Mr. Holmes. Here's the keys.“ he mumbled without bothering to take out the cigarette.

„Thank you, Wiggins.“ Sherlock snatched the key and James shuffled back towards his office.

John stared at Sherlock. „Why does he just hand out the keys?“

„Helped him to put up some shelves.“ Sherlock grinned. „He owes me one.“

„Oh, right, well, who doesn't in this town?“ John said weakly as he watched Sherlock examinig the car. As usual he seemed to scan just anything: he crawled down on the car mats, carefully striked the car finish, hobbled on the seats and started the car, thoroughly examinig the cockpit.

With whirling coat tails he then rushed into Wiggin's office. John didn't follow but watched as Sherlock bowed over a big book. Sherlock seemed more than content when he left again. He dragged John with him „No time for lunch today, John. We'll just have a quick tea at Baker street, then we need to visit Mr. Riley for a second time.“

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

„Whoohoo!“ Mrs. Hudson cheerfully entered the living room with the tea tray.

„There you go, boys. And do try the shortbread, it's fresh out of...well, fresh out of Tesco's. Oh, John, dear, it's so good to see you again. I talked to Mrs. Turner earlier and she's so thankful that you take care of her cousin during her last days. But she's a right nitpicker, isn't she? Complained that you were thirty minutes late this morning!“ She laughed and helped herself with a cup of tea. Sherlock mockingly peered from behind the newspaper he had just flipped through. „Oh, John, you were thirty minutes late[\i]?“ „Well, Mary forgot to stock up the fentanyl patches and I had to collect some this morning myself.“ The amusement disappeared from Sherlock's face at once. „She forgot? That's not like her at all.“ „Hm, no.“ Sherlock frowned and turned to the newspaper again.

Suddenly he sprang to his feet. „Now that is interesting!“ he screamed and shoved the newspaper right into John's face.

„What is it?“

„A review of the chrismas oratorio. Conducted by Mr. Andrew Riley. Here's a picture of him taking a bow.“

„So?“ John asked for the second time today.

„But John! Take a close look!“ He took John's wrist and suddenly his voice was very close to John's ear. Deep and low. [i]Too close.

„Where's the tie pin?“

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

One hour later they headed towards the adress that Lestrade had given them, the Riley's house.

The musician opened. He looked well dressed in a pair of black jeans and a white shirt. But his thick black hair was ruffled and he had a look of deep concern on his face.

„Would you give us a couple of minutes, Mr. Riley?“ Sherlock asked in a very polite manner.

„Actually, I'm busy, I have a concert tonight and the concertmaster -he is a friend of mine- had a bit of an accident. I need someone to replace him tonight, that takes me a couple of calls.“

„It won't be long.“

„Well, allright then, but keep it brief!“

Together the three men entered the living room and sat down.

„What happened to your friend?“ John asked.

„I don't really know, actually. We had a quick rehearsal this morning. When he arrived he looked like death already, pupils like pinheads. He was on the verge of getting unconcious. We called the emergency and he was brought to have medical attention.“

„I'm a doctor, I can call the colleagues for you and enquire about his condition.“ John offered. „What's his name?“

„David Smith“

John's head bounced up again from his mobile, where he had already started to type out the number. He looked at Sherlock who looked back at him with the same astonishment.

At the same moment Mr. Riley's mobile rang and he left the room with a „I need to get this. Will you excuse me, please?“.

„John, I'm fairly certain that during your wedding preperations I knew perfectly well what the profession of Mary's old pal was but I must have deleted it!“

„He's a musician, Sherlock. A violonist. First violin. A concertmaster.“

---------------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock demanded everybody to come to Baker Street. Mr. Riley had thrown a tantrum, so they agreed to do it after the concert that night. Lestrade arrived, as well as Donovan and Mary.

Sherlock sat in his chair, hands together and up to his lips. Everybody looked at him expectantly.

„When I looked around the flat of the late Miss Woodhouse for the first time I dind't actually dwell on the idea of a suicide for too long. She was a young, talented and may I say quite pretty lady. Sophisticated and about to build a very serious career as a classical singer. The corpse was dressed in the evening gown which she obviously put on for her engagement that evening. The christmas oratorio, conducted by Mr. Andrew Riley. Why commit suicide fully dressed up? The next thing I stumbled over was the „note“ she had left. The letter was printed with a black and white ink printer. But in Miss Woodhouse' flat there is a colour printer. The two different kinds of black ink are clearly distinctable as you will all know. Meaning she didn't write this herself, not in her flat.“

He looked around, searching for approval and understanding, but nobody said a word. Sherlock sighed and continued.

„So, it became fairly obvious that she had been murdered. The motive? Boring. One of the oldest. She had fallen for a married man who refused to get divorced for her. It might have had an impact on his career. So she threatened to tell his wife. With whom she happened to be friends since the days at the conservatorium.“

All colour drowned from Mr. Rileys face.

„The withdrawal at the Hall was just a ruse, wasn't it? Your alibi. But secretly you picked your car from the garage to go to her flat. I know you did, because of the mileage indicator. It doesn't conform with Wiggins' notes, he always has to write down the mileage when he's being brought cars. You went to Miss Woodhouse flat and killed her, preparing everything to look like a suicide with the pre-written note and the oven. Unfortunately you lost your tie pin at the crime scene but didn't notice it until the first sounds of the concert. No wonder you volunteered to accompany the police to the flat. You managed to find and readjust the pin just in time, but I noticed it. And the pin was clearly not visible on the picture in the newspaper.“

„I liked her voice. She was nice. But I never went for more than a little adventure, and she knew it from the beginning.“ Mr. Riley said with a croaked voice.

„Right. But now comes the interesting part.“ Sherlock's eyes gleamed.

„Just now?“ Lestrade exclaimed.

„Yes, it does. Everything might have been fitting and neat, were it not for Mr. David Smith, someone you were not friends with, as you wanted to make us believe. Was he after you for a while already? What was it? More gauge? A promotion in the hierarchy?“ The musician didn't answer at once. „He...he knew about the affair. He had met us once in a little pub. We had always cared to be so decent, but...“

„He wanted to talk to you, didn't he? But couldn't find you in your cabinet. He had a vague idea where you would be spending your time. He probably didn't expect you to go for a crime but had an instinct to search you at the right place. Miss Woodshouse's place. Did he follow you to the garage after the murder? What happened there?“

„Well, since you already know a lot I might as well tell it. It's a relievement to be honest. He cornered me at the garage. It was late, there was noone in Wiggin's office anymore. Anyway I panicked, I just wanted to get rid of him and finish with anything nasty destroying my life. I fleed into the car and drove backwards. I hit him. I left him there without a look back.“

„Well he survived.“ Sherlock said. „ He got injuries, but he survived. He needed help, but was not keen to expose himself to awkward questions in an emergency room.“

„But then, how did he become that unstable the next day?“ John had stood up and paced the room „The colleagues I talked to didn't mention a source of internal bleeding, so it can't have been a state of shock.“

„No, no, it wasn't.“ Sherlock answered. He looked uncomfortable all of a sudden. His gaze went from John to Mary and back again.

Suddenly everything fell into place. John felt a rush of heat rise. Of big red anger.

„No. It wasn't a shock.“ he said to Mary. „ They were symptoms of an opioid overdose. The loosing of conscience, the respiratory depression, the narrow pupils. You didn't forget to stock up the fentanyl patches. You used them on him. Did he beg for secret help for his injuries?“ Mary looked up at him with barely a move in her face. Hands folded in front of the grey coat. Her head was tilted slightly sidewards. When had he seen that before?

„Why, Mary? What does he have on you?“ he shouted at her.

“The last bond between us and my old life.“ Mary answered.

„Which bond? I thaught we had it all sorted!“

„The baby.“

John squeezed his eyes shut. No. Not this.

„No, I haven't been unfaithful.“ Mary said, as if she had read his mind. „It was a matter of days, really. David and me, we had a last date, a mere couple of weeks before I met you. We had been seperated for awhile already but after a couple of drinks... I felt lonely, and him, too, obviously. Though we couldn't overcome certain character traits of his, so it was clear for me that there was no new beginning possible with him.“

She straightened up in her chair. John's chair.

„Then I met you. We had such a whirlwind of a courtship. When I realized I was pregnant I blocked it. Simply blocked it from my mind, the first days with you were so overwhelming. When you proposed to me after such short time I saw a chance. I thought I might get through with it. I was afraid and nervous though. You're a doctor, you might have done the correct calculations. It just couldn't be yours, John.“

John nodded. „Yeah. Maybe I blocked that, too. Maybe I've done too much blocking lately.“

„When he came for help that evening you saw the chance to get rid of this last relict of your life before John.“ Sherlock said. „You used the fentanyl patches on him that were determined for Mrs. Turner's cousin to ease her last days. Well, Mary, let me tell you that we realized early enough for him to have him getting the antidote in time. He will survive.“

Mary nodded.

Lestrade, who had just accompanied Mr. Riley outside, sighed and slowly approached her. John slowly retreated backwards to the door. He knew what was about to come now and he was fairly certain that Mary didn't want him to witness this. He closed the door behind him the very moment that Lestrade begun to declare the rights.

----------------------------------------------------------------

„Sherlock, where are you? It's almost midnight!“. John stood at the window in the living room of 221 b. The first precursors of the New Year's eve firework begun to shoot up.

„Wonderful, isn't it? Happy new year, John.“ Sherlock's arms embraced John from behind. John leaned a little backwards into the embrace and smiled. „God, Sherlock, what a year we've had.“

„Hmhm.“ Sherlock agreed without lifting his face from John's neck. Then he got all excited. „Let's travel, John! Not like the sex holiday after your wedding but...“

„Sherlock!“ John chuckled „I have to work again!“

„Hmpf. Boring. One day I will have to secretly buy your consulting rooms, so you can always come with me! Or even better, I'll have Mycroft doing it for me, and you, John Watson, won't have a clue.“

They stood in silence and welcomed the approaching new year.

For the first time John felt confident and confident about what was to come.

He knew he could face it.

Together with Sherlock.

The End

The prompts were:

A case fic that sticks pretty much to canon in terms of their characterisations but with overtly more Johnlock.
I generally choose not to read Sherlolly unless it comes as part of a main case fic or has a Johnlock twist. But other than that, pretty much nothing.
Case fic, Johnlock, Mary death, Major feels, Torture[/i]

**Posted by Schmiezi** December 14, 2015 6:08 am

This story is for Kerkerian.

Hover Through the Fog

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

Two drops.

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

~

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

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

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

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

‘feck Sherlock Holmes,’ he says in toast.

I forgive you, he means.

~

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

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

Affection swelled within him at the thought.

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

~

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

They are like him.

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

He scoffs. ‘That I’m alive? Please.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

HE H UND F TH B SKE V L S

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

~

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

Just a magic trick.

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

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

He can forgive; he won’t forget.

But.

But his hallucination is real.

The relief is crushing.

~

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

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

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

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

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

Cat lover. Secret. Clever.

Liar.

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The mirror burns in his pocket.

~

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

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

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

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

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

Pain. Loss. Heartbreak. Death. Relief.

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

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

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

He lets go.

~

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

**Posted by Schmiezi** December 15, 2015 6:28 am

Dear RavenMorganLeigh,

this is your fic. Your wonderful prompt was:

What would you like to read? Case fics, character pieces, angst, Johnlock, Vicklock (Victor has to be a nice guy) Sherstrade, . Bottom! Sherlock! :-) Omega! Sherlock. PTSD Sherlock. John-leaves-Mary-for-Sherlock. Mary finally gets hers.

What is your deal breaker when you read? GOOD Mary! :-D Blaming Sherlock fics. John-as-parent fics. Top! Sherlock. Alpha! Sherlock. Parentlock. Sherlock as Drug Fiend.

What is your prompt?

Forgiveness, understanding, scars and memories.

I picked a few of your ideas. You will see that I used your key words without mentioning them. I hope you like the result.

Jam tomorrow?

Sherlock Holmes is cooking. Literally. There are many who think that even making toast is a riddle to him and he has worked hard to establish that impression. But the truth is that he is quite an excellent cook. Because really, cooking is just applied chemistry, right?

He just does not cook very often.

Because there is a funny connection in his brain that has caused preparing food being linked to loving someone.

***

He was in primary school when he developed an innocent crush on Matt Fielding. Matt had fair hair, a radiant smile,and a mother who seemed to believe he liked cheese sandwiches. So every morning, Sherlock insisted on making his own sandwiches, put turkey on them or tuna or cucumbers and traded them for Matt's cheese sandwiches.

Sherlock disliked cheese sandwiches but the smile on Matt's face made the deal worthwhile.

The innocent crush came to an abrupt end when Sherlock found the courage to sniff at Matt's hair and found out that his affection was not mutual. The following two and a half years at primary school were even less tolerable than before.

***

The chicken is already in the oven, the soup is set aside for later. Time to prepare the Mousse au chocolate. A bit of a cliché, that, but the perfect choice for today. Sherlock had considered making double chocolate profiteroles with salted caramel cream or Clementine, cranberry and pistachio meringue wreath but in the end decided against them. They would not be appreciated as much as a plain mousse.

***

When Daddy brought home the little puppy Mummy had serious doubts that it would survive. "It's too young," she said, But Daddy had just rescued it from drowning inside a bag and insisted on trying to coddle it up.

Mycroft lectured then on the improbability of survival. Sherlock instead named it Redbeard and called a vet to find out how to nurture him while the rest of the family was still debating. He cooked him everything the vet as told him, five times a day, and Redbeard thrived. He never loved any of the other family members as much as he loved Sherlock. The feeling was quite mutual.

***

Preparing Mousse au chocolate is a lot easier than most people believe. All you need is a good egg beater, lots of cream and a lithe arm. For only fools use their wrist to whip cream.

With a little luck, Sherlock would need the strength in his wrist for something completely different later on.

He closed his eyes for a moment. Don't get ahead of yourself, he told himself sternly. It is only dinner.

***

At uni, Sherlock fell for a student named Dave. He had red curly hair and a vision. To be honest, Sherlock never grasped what vision it had been. Something about feeding the world with the help of folk songs.

Dave played the guitar and sang to it and criticized Sherlock for playing the tunes of the establishment on his violin.

When Dave visited Sherlock the first time, he was served a decent meal based on noodles and chicken.

In return, he gave Sherlock first a lecture on the atrocities of the chicken industry and then a wonderful blow job.

He never commented on the fact that Sherlock had stopped cooking chicken or playing the violin but introduced Sherlock to love, and weed, and left him one day to save the world by going to Africa.

When he returned, he never even tried to contact Sherlock again.

***

Sherlock puts the potatoes on the heat. Potatoes are a much underestimated side dish. He rarely prepared them when cooking for love but today, they fit perfectly.

***

It has also been Sherlock who did the cooking when the cancer left Redbeard too weak to chew his ordinary food. It did not help in the end but left Sherlock with the feeling of being the only one in the family who gave all he had in order to save his life.

***

Meanwhile, Sherlock chops the vegetables. The cauliflower comes first. Victor's favourite, he cannot help but think. Sherlock himself always loathes the white curds for being impossible to be chopped into even pieces but Victor claims to love the bitter taste of it.

***

Victor Trevor. An artist with delicate hands and gentle lips. Apparently he had watched Sherlock at a take-away Chinese five nights in a row before finding the courage to talk to him. Wanted Sherlock to sit for him.

Sherlock was restless back then, a young Consulting Detective without anyone to consult. Victor was restless too, a young artist waiting for the inspiration for the one picture that would make him famous.

They fell for each other heads over heels. The sex was exceptionable. It took Sherlock eight months and one fierce fight to accept the fact that Victor truly loved him back.

After those eight months, Sherlock had been willing to give his life for Victor.

They moved together in a small flat in Montague Street. Sherlock did all the cooking, which was all right because Victor did all the washing. They spend days in bed and nights watching stars and when Victor was lost in his paintings Sherlock went out to solve a crime or two.

Life would have perfect if only -

If only Victor had found his one inspiration. It never came, and Victor became restless again. He needed something to focus his mind soothe his nerves and found it with the drug dealers of the neighbourhood.

But he really loved Sherlock, and so he shared his cocaine with him. Sherlock was fighting his own demons at that time, a mind too sharp to calm down, and there was nobody at the Yard to listen to his brilliant deductions.

In retrospect it had been obvious that they were destined to fall apart spectacularly.

Victor overdosed twice, and both times only survived because Sherlock had been clean that time.

When Sherlock overdosed, Victor was high himself. If it hadn't been for Mycroft, Sherlock would have died.

Victor never forgave himself, and three weeks after Sherlock came back from detox, Victor left. Wanted to find himself and return when he would be able to be a stable partner.

He never returned until -

***

The water for the potatoes is cooking violently and Sherlock curses himself a little. He reduces the heat and starts to pluck rosemary. John always does cruel things to rosemary, Sherlock thinks. Chops it in all, or uses dried rosemary that comes out of a dredger.

***

John.

John appeared five weeks after Victor had left. The flat at Montague Street had been too big for Sherlock, too filled with memories. It was suffocating him with its emptiness.

John.

If it had not been for Victor, or if he had met him later in life, or earlier, Sherlock would have fallen for him instantly. Well, he did fall for him instantly,but ignored it. And John seemed to be way too straight to act on his own attraction to Sherlock, so all was fine.

They were friends.

Sherlock never had friends before. And John did all the cooking.

And so there were eighteen months of cases and quarrels and “Brilliant” and feeling at home when being at home, and then Sherlock went and destroyed it and left.

The first time that Sherlock was the one who left someone. It did not feel better than being left.

Returning had not helped either, for there had been Mary, and a baby, and then Magnussen, and then what appeared to be Moriarty but had been only a copycat with delusions of grandeur, and then Mary had been careless and the baby had been lost and when all was over, John was still married to her.

***

He starts to decorate the table. Not his strength but not rocket science either. It always depend on who you are decorating for. Today, Sherlock had decided for what looked the minimal approach. Nice napkins, not folded in a special way, a bit of deco that looked plain but was extremely hard to get and fit the shade of the table cloth just perfectly.

The table looked like Sherlock did not put lots of thoughts and money into it.

Perfect.

On his way back to the oven he notices a brush still lying underneath the cupboard.

***

He had fought hard to come to peace with the fact that John would never love him back and finally accepted that the love of his life would be unrequited for ever.

And then Victor returned. Was standing in 221b one night, without warning, when Sherlock jumped up the stairs, still drunk from a perfect case, with John right behind him even though Mary was waiting for him back in Kensington.

Victor was just standing there, smiling shyly, ignoring John. “I said I'd be back,” he whispered.

Loving two people was confusing.

All the old feelings for Victor came back instantly but that did not make the feelings for John vanish.

It did not become any easier when John left Mary after spending an evening with Sherlock, discussing how fulfilling his relationship with Victor was.

But Victor loved him and he loved Victor and the world was full of good sex and affection and being loved for a while.

Until Victor overdosed.

John was with him when he found Victor, sweat on his face, heart racing, fear in his eyes.

Afterwards, there were promises and apologies and emotional nights, and John's looks at Victor changed from something Sherlock could not name to something else Sherlock could not name.

Victor promised to remain clean and Sherlock promised not to deduce if it was true, for love does not survive suspicion.

The next time he was high, Victor nearly burnt down 221b.

There were tears afterwards, and apologies, and when Sherlock told John that he wants to forgive Victor, John had thrown Sherlock out of his new flat in Glentworth Street.

***

Sherlock checks the table and the kitchen. Every thing is ready now. All three courses were waiting to be served. Sherlock's heart is beating in his throat.

Because to be honest, this is not just dinner. This is planning your future.

When he hears the steps on the stairs, he swallows hard. He is downright nervous like hell.

***

“Please,don't leave me. I love you,” Victor begged. And Sherlock's heart had done something strange inside his chest.

***

There is a knock on the door. Sherlock's hands are wet. Ridiculous.

He crosses the distance with three long steps and opens the door before he can start wondering.

“Um, hi,” John says, a grin on his face and a ridiculous bouquet in his hands. “I was not sure if I interpreted the reason for your invitation right, so ...” His eyes fall onto the skilfully laid table and onto the look in Sherlock's face and his eyes grow soft.

He opens his mouth again to say something but, really, they have done enough talking for the rest of their lives. So Sherlock gathers up all his might, takes John's face into his hands and kisses him.

And John kisses back. Again and again. They have years of missed opportunities to catch up and they are both equally aroused. And in love. The flutter of Sherlock's heart is almost painful and mixes with joy and hope and lust.

They never manage to eat the dinner Sherlock prepared all day but that is all right. Sherlock has a lifetime left to cook for John.

**Posted by Schmiezi** December 16, 2015 6:21 am

This is a little story for Lilythiel.

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

Hope you nevertheless like it.

Merry Christmas!

Your unknown author

Play H for Murder

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

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

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

“Hamlet will kill Polonius”, the detective predicted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I KNOW he isn’t the murderer.”

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

“Interesting. Who told you all that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

“You are up early, Holmes.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Including me,” Watson stated a bit angry.

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

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

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

“You seem pretty sure about that, Holmes.”

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Francis Thomas frowned and looked at the stagehand.

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

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

Thomas shrugged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They both watched what happened next.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holmes’ words made all attenders gasp.

Inspector Lestrade reacted first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

**Posted by Schmiezi** December 17, 2015 7:49 am

This story is for SilverMoonDragonB. I loved the prompt which was, “I would like to read Johnlock (of course ), post Series 3, Sherlock sings, John keeps a journal, overall primarily fluffy and humorous story, some angst is OK. Lots of love, which John confesses first.”

Hope you enjoy xx KK

MAMMALS

The Journal of Baby Jasmine Watson

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Date:       March 11 2014

Age:         2 weeks, 3 days

Vitals:

Liquid In:      6 x 120 mL formula

Liquid Out:      5 wet nappies, 3 poo nappies

Weight:     10 pounds 3

Sleep:        14hrs,     28 mins

Mother:    AWOL

Other notes:    Slight superficial bruising on left temple (see below). Cuddling father’s chest appears to settle

Sherlock came round today. He brought Jasmine a magnifying glass, which she promptly smashed on her head and cried. Sherlock reassured me that it was break-resistant glass and that he had given Jasmine the glass in order to observe her reaction. Something to do with an investigation into a break and entry in the local nursery for Lestrade. He then informed me that she should have better control of her limbs by now. What an arse.

At two weeks she doesn’t even know her hands are part of her little body (I checked web Doctor). Threw him out of course.

Took a while to resettle Jasmine. Cuddled to chest for a long time before she went to sleep. Just popped her in the cot now.   Messaged Sherlock to tell him about how Jasmine hasn’t even worked out that they are her hands yet. He’s coming over tomorrow to teach her deduction. Too tired to argue.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Date:       March 12th 2014

Age:       2 weeks, 4 days

Vitals:

Liquid In:      5 x 120 mL + 2 x 45 mL formula

Liquid Out:      4 wet nappies, 4.5? poo nappies

Weight:     10 pounds 3

Sleep:        12hrs,     2 mins

Mother:    AWOL

Other notes:    Not very impressed with deduction. Prefers Sherlock singing. I know. Amazing. See below

Jasmine screamed when she saw Sherlock today. I tried to explain how it is very possible she has experienced classical conditioning from the magnifying glass incident.

“Don’t be ridiculous John, she may be limited but she is not Pavlov’s dog!”

Was too upset by him calling Jasmine limited to scoff at him for his ridiculous inability to apply any insights from any science that is not Chemistry into a real life situation.

Sherlock then proceeded to show Jasmine some actual dead hands he had procured from Molly (God knows why that girl can’t say no to him) . The purpose of which was for her to deduce by elimination which one’s were her hands and which were the dead ones, using a process of elimination.

I was going to kick him out again, but found Jasmine doing a pretty good job of letting her feelings known herself, with her cries getting more intense and indignant by the second. Most likely a fluke, but she was flapping about so much she even punched him in the eye with one of the dead hands.

And then of course, he did something incredible. He picked her up gently (using his own hands of course), held her to his chest and started singing “Somewhere over the Rainbow”. His voice was low and beautiful and Jasmine gurgled and sighed before falling into a deep sleep.

“You know, I could find her, if you want me too”, he says watching Jasmine’s little chest rise and fall.

I freeze and stare at him.

“I mean John, of course you are doing fine, it’s just..”

I stop him. “ It’s fine, Sherlock, really. I mean, Mary’s no mother. She never was right? I mean… and you’ll lend me a hand if I need, right?”

“Of course, Molly will just have to find a way to account for them. She is a clever girl, she’ll think of something”

“What are you talking about, Sherlock?”

“The hands, John. Honestly, I don’t know who is more limited, you or that baby. You can have a hand whenever you need of course. As long as it takes for her to learn deduction”

He smiled at me, put on his coat, and swooshed out the flat.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Date:       March 21st 2014

Age:       4 weeks, 0 days

Vitals:

Liquid In:      8 x 120 mL (but maybe 145 mL consumed?) + 10 x 45 mL formula (God knows how much consumed? Nothing? Everything?)

Liquid Out:      3 wet nappies, 2 poos, 1 on Dad, 1 on mat

Weight:     10 pounds 8?

Sleep:        2 mins maybe?

Mother:    AWOL

We didn’t sleep last night. You can see from the log, obviously, that she was a darn unhappy little baby. The maternal health nurse is concerned about her weight increases slowing down. She talked to me about getting Jasmine into a “Eat, Play, Sleep” routine. My child should be good at routines. I mean she is the daughter of an army doctor and a trained assassin for-god’-sake, surely she has inherited some sort of gene for discipline?

Well, turns out all she has bloody inherited is a little psychopath gene (another thing to thank her mother for). Psychopaths follow their own rules right? Jasmine totally didn’t get into this eat, play, sleep rule. More I kept trying to feed and change her, more annoyed she got. She is darn lucky I have a thing for little psychopaths or I might have bloody killed her.

Thankfully, the other psychopath in my life showed up this afternoon. He took one look at me and my screaming little girl and said,

“John! Cortisol! Reptile brain, John!”

“What?” I replied. I was so tired and confused I almost dropped poor little screaming baby Jasmine onto the counter.

“Aren’t you supposed to be some sort of doctor?” Sherlock smirked.

He’d obviously deduced I was too knackered to punch him today. Took all my effort to give him a death glare.

“Well, it’s all this… routine…” Sherlock, spat out the word “routine” as if he was sucking a sour lemon warhead. “Routine and baby logs and measuring bottles and nappies…”

“Says the man who got me drunk out of a pipette on my buck’s night,” I replied dryly. “And you even had this measuring type of app and asked me how much urine I discharged”

“No but that was different. Alcohol is a perfect antidote for all that cortisol and ... Hmm, maybe?”

I lost it then.

“You are not experimenting on my little baby with alcohol! You might not think I am a good doctor, or a good father, but I’m not soaking her little brain in alcohol because you think it may calm down her stress hormones. Ok!”

“What?” Sherlock looked stunned.   “You are a great doctor and father, John. You are just forgetting that you haven’t got a little lizard, you have a little baby! She is a mammal!”

I sat down, defeated. Jasmine was still screaming in my ear.   Sherlock continued.

“When we are stressed, that is our reptile brain, right? Flight, fright or freeze- remember? It’s all that stress hormone stuff, cortisol and adrenalin? But us mammals, have a way to calm it all down with some lovely oxytocin and endorphins. Just have to do three little things.” Sherlock smiled.

“Fine,” I grumbled, “Do your three mammalian little things”. I handed him screaming psycho-Jasmine.

“Well, first is warmth,” said Sherlock, wrapping her in a pink blanket that was on the side of the couch.

“And, the second is you speak in a soft, soothing voice.”

Indeed, his voice, had become soft and low and Jasmine’s cries softer and less intent.

“Finally,” smiled Sherlock at Jasmine, “Is soothing touch,”

Gently, he stroked a finger on the side of her soft cheek. Unbelievably she sighed, and breathed slowly. A few strokes later, her eyelids shut for the first time in 24 hours as her head lay heavy, asleep on Sherlock’s chest.

“I’ll go put her in the cot,” he said in his low, calm voice.

I remained sitting on the couch, flabbergasted.

“That was,” I said as he re-entered the room, “Amazing.”

“Just a bit of science, John” Sherlock replied smugly, sitting next to me on the couch. I could tell he was rather chuffed with himself.

I smiled back at him, rested my head on his shoulders and shut my eyes.

I’m sure I felt a soft stroke on my cheek as I fell into the best sleep I had had for days.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Date: March 30th 2014

Age: 4 weeks, 9 days

Weight: Not heavy enough

Oh God, I can’t even bring myself to write her weigh in number. Sherlock’s warmth, voice and touch trick is working a treat.   She is sleeping beautifully (almost through the night last night!) and is generally a much happier baby girl. I was so excited to show off to the maternal health nurse about the mammalian 3 part trick. But all she would say to me was, “She really should be heavier by now”.

So I’ve been trying to load her up with bottles but she keeps falling straight asleep. It was during one of these frustrating feeding/sleeping sessions, that I found myself longing for Sherlock to walk in and tell me what to do. Which of course he did. Since Mary went AWOL he has been coming over pretty much every day. I’ve tried to talk to him about that, I mean it wasn’t like he ever signed up to be a consulting parent, but whenever I try suggest he doesn’t need to be there, he totally ignores me and focuses on talking to Jasmine in that low, hypnotic voice of his.

Today he greeted me with, “You need to stop feeding her to sleep,”

“I am not feeding her to sleep! I’m feeding her to fatten her up!” I retorted.

“You know, kangaroos are mammals too,” he replied mysteriously.

“What?” I replied, stunned, “And no they are not Sherlock!”

“I keep talking to you about the mammals and you keep ignoring me,” He replied haughtily.

“I do not!” I shouted. God I wanted to punch that smug face. “And kangaroos are marsupials”

“Exactly as I said,” he replies, his voice low again, looking at the peacefully sleeping baby Jasmine. “John, let me hold her, you need to strip”

“What?!?”

“Fine, then! I’ll do it,” Sherlock grins and takes off his finely pressed white shirt. Underneath, he is all sculpted ivory torso. Honestly that man’s body would make a Greek God do a double check.

“Now pass me the baby, and the bottle” he says with calm confidence.

Stunned, I pass over Jasmine and the bottle. He cuddles her to his naked chest, and she rouses and starts rooting for a feed. What a little so and so. I’d been trying to feed her for the last hour and all I had got was snores.

I watch them, and Jasmine is sucking up that bottle like she hasn’t seen milk for days. Sherlock looks amazing, half naked holding the baby. I feel my mouth drop to the floor.

“Now, John,“ his voice low and damn it, seductive. “You try,”

In a daze, I find myself unbuttoning my shirt. He comes over to me with Jas and the bottle, nuzzling Jasmine and the bottle to my chest. She keeps drinking enthusiastically.

“Kangaroo care, John,” Sherlock smiles, “They use it in hospitals you know. Babies feed more against naked skin. The name comes from how mother kangaroos feed their joeys in their pouches. Yet another helpful fact about mammals”

He lays a warm hand on my shoulder, and I feel it burn through my body.

I look up from little Jasmine, he is still standing an arms distance away from me and I find myself gaping in admiration of his chest.   Something is stirring inside of me, and as much as I adore the baby in my arms, the direct of that stir I have to say is not to her but to the handsome, exasperating man in front of me.

“Marsupials.” I manage to whisper.

Oh my God. I want this man.

“Um, Sherlock,” I murmur, “I think you’d better go”

He looks me up and down quizzically, and then nods as if he has figured it all out.

“See you, John” he smiles enigmatically, god dammit, slips back into his shirt with ease and swishes out the flat, leaving Jasmine to guzzle her bottle whilst I question the very essence of my being.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Date: 21 July 2014

Age: 5 months old

Jasmine is even more gorgeous now. She plump and giggly and delightful and as I push her up Baker St she gurgles and smiles at the grumpy Londoners elbowing past her stroller. It has taken me a while to walk up to 221B of course. As much as I’d like to say, modern man that I am, that I sorted through my feelings quickly and maturely, I was a total mess of course.

The day after the kangaroo care session, I took Jasmine up in a train to Edinburgh. I told myself it was to look for Mary, as I know she has some friends over there, but it wasn’t of course. It was just a running away of sorts.   Anyway, Jas and I did the ‘mammalian’ thing over there in Scotland, and while she thrived with cuddles, warmth, soothing and naked skin, I knew she missed him too.

Eventually, when we couldn’t bare another deep fried Mars bar (Ok that was me, Jasmine is still on the milk, although she did try some oat porridge the other day to the delight of Sheena, the Scottish lady at our hotel), we took that train down back to London, and then to Baker St, where I knew we belonged.

He answered the knocker of course.

“John” he smiled

“Sherlock…” I began. “There is something else about mammals…”

“Yes, I know,” he said smugly. “Took you long enough to figure out”.

Jasmine giggled as he drew us both in his arms, the embrace I have been longing for since I met him. We were finally home.

THE END

**Posted by Schmiezi** December 18, 2015 6:43 am

Christmas Is ForGiving

for BreathingIsBoring

Secret Santa Fic Exchange 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mary—” John started.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Both men were tall and broad and grim.

“Yes?” John answered.

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

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

“For what?”

“Where is she, Doctor Watson?”

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

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

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

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

“The child?”, he asked.

“Claire?” John whispered.

“No. AGRA took her, too.”

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

**

9:35PM.

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

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

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

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

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

**

10:50 PM, Kinnison’s Pub.

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

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

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

“John, what’s wrong?”

“She’s— Harry— I think I’m drunk.”

“Where are you?”

**

Sometime Later, that night:

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

“John?”

That voice.

“John, are you hearing me?”

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

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

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

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

**

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

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

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

He wept.

**

3:45PM. Christmas Day, Baker Street.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

**

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

Sherlock just looked at John. “What?”

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

“No- John, I—”

“This is your fault.”

“John—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“John, it’s Christmas.”

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

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

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

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

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

Fini

**Posted by Schmiezi** December 19, 2015 6:18 am

This fic is for dioscureantwins.

You asked for:

Angst, AU, casefic, clothes porn, dark, death, unhappy endings, hurt/comfort
John being abducted
Lestrade, Molly, Irene, Mrs Hudson
Non-sexual, no pairings
No Sally or Anderson
No Series 3 references
Explore characters psychology
Maybe an occasional situation, reference or piece of dialogue that is reminiscent of the show

I have tried my best to involve most, if not all of these, to the best of my ability. I think you also said that you enjoy long fics. This turned out much longer than I had expected.

Hope you enjoy.

*******

Author’s Note:

This is set six months after Sherlock’s return from the dead. BUT, in this universe, there is no Mary, and none of the events from Series 3 happened. Phew. Imagine the return, reunion, and explanation of how Sherlock ‘did it’, exactly the way you WANT to imagine it, because it won’t be referenced here and neither will it be relevant to any of the plot. The pair of them are settled back into their lives with one another and living at Baker Street. Also, Moriarty died on the rooftop and most definitely did not come back in any way shape or form.

*******

Edit by Schmiezi: warning, character death!

Molly Hooper’s Last Boyfriend

The tail end of Sherlock Holmes’ finely cut Belstaff swished through the air with a decisive and pleasing sound as he swiftly turned the corner and strode down the corridors of St Bartholomew’s Hospital towards the morgue. He walked with purpose and determination, with a deep set frown on his forehead as if he was deep in thought.
He wasn’t.
He was just glowering.
An entire two weeks without even a sniff of a half decent case and Sherlock was beginning to get incredibly angsty, so much so that John had actually encouraged his little trip to the morgue that day to secure himself some body parts. Perhaps if he had his mind occupied with experiments, he would be less likely to berate his flatmate and cause the minor bickerings and ‘domestics’ that had been taking place at 221B Baker Street over the past few days. Mrs Hudson too, would no doubt be glad to be rid of him for a few hours, just to be free of his incessant pacing of the floors.
“Molly,” he practically shouted the poor morgue attendant’s name as he burst through the doors dramatically, his eyes scanning the room to make sure she was alone.
In the middle of writing up some notes on the latest cadaver that had been entrusted into her care, Molly Hooper jumped slightly and dropped her pen onto the floor with a clatter.
Sherlock strode into the room and bent to pick it up, handing it back to her. “Body parts,” he said. “What can you offer me?”
“Oh uh…good afternoon to you too,” Molly giggled, attempting some humour.
It went unnoticed. “Body parts.”
“Right yes. Um…well…you’ve actually come at a good time. We had a – “
“You’re wearing a ring, you weren’t wearing a ring last week.” He interrupted her, his index finger pointing at the shimmering silver band on the ring finger of her left hand.
She smiled broadly and held it up, her cheeks flushing a pinkish red. “I got engaged!” She squeaked, nearly bouncing up and down in her sudden excitement at the reminder of her new relationship status.
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Since when were you dating someone?”
“Since last month!”
“You got engaged within a month? Even for you, Molly, that’s…sudden.”
“I know! It all happened so fast! But I really think he might be the one.”
Sherlock scoffed and turned his head away in mild disgust. “Don’t be ridiculous, Molly. Remember what happened when you said that last time? And the time before that? And most probably the time before that.”
“But Aiden’s different,” she insisted dreamily.
“Alright, whatever Molly, I’m really not interested…just…let’s stick to business, shall we?”
“Right. Uh, yes. It was the uh…body parts, wasn’t it? Any in particular you needed? What’s it for?”
“To ease my boredom,” Sherlock sighed heavily. “I don’t particularly care what they are, just give me something I can cut up, dissect, dissolve or discolour. I want to play with my chemistry set.”
The corners of Molly’s lips twitched up in a small smile. “Boys and their toys.”
“’Scuse me?”
She ignored him and made her way over to one of the drawers where the bodies were kept. “As I was saying before you uh…noticed the ring…you’re in luck this week. This poor chap donated his body to science.”
“Perfect.”
“I’m sure they wouldn’t notice a missing lung.”
“Was he a smoker?”
“I believe he was.”
“Even better.” Sherlock’s eyes sparkled with delight.
He stood patiently and waited, and, soon enough, he was returning back to Baker Street with a slightly blackened lung tucked under his left arm.
It kept him occupied for the next twenty four hours, which John Watson, for one, was incredibly thankful for.
The ex army doctor turned part time GP, part time consulting detective babysitter was relieved to get some down time from the recent rantings of the curly haired man child. He used the opportunity to catch up on his book and managed to finish reading the Hobbit curled up on his armchair whilst Sherlock messed about in the kitchen causing some dreadful smells to emanate throughout the whole house. Still, he didn’t complain about that. John knew when to pick his battles, and by the second day, when Sherlock was starting to get bored again, John was at the surgery for eight hours anyway.
When he left at 6 o’clock, he was pleasantly surprised to check his phone and discover he had a text off Lestrade.
He and the Detective Inspector had, in the past year or so, become pretty close, to the point where they occasionally met up to go for a pint with one another, or watch the match. Greg had supported him after Sherlock’s ‘death’ and had remained loyal to the detective even after his profession had forced him to be the one who made the arrest in the hours that led up to the St Bart’s incident. When the truth finally emerged about Moriarty and Sherlock was exonerated, it was Lestrade who had held face and kept on to his position at Scotland Yard, even receiving an apology from the Chief Super, whereas others – namely Donovan and Anderson – had moved on with their tails between their legs. John didn’t really know what had happened to either of them or what they were doing now career wise, and he didn’t really care. Scotland Yard these days was a much pleasanter place to work and the team all appreciated his friend’s special knowledge and expertise without feeling the need to mock him.
This particular text, however, was different from others he might normally receive from Greg, namely in the fact that he wasn’t inviting John out for a drink but rather, inviting himself round.
‘Was wondering if I could pop round tonight for a quick chat with you guys? I’ll bring beers. GL.’
John tried his best to make some cursory deductions of his own.
1. Greg obviously wanted to see Sherlock, as well as him. Sherlock was rarely invited to their occasional social drinks, not because he wasn’t wanted there, but because he didn’t want to be there. Sherlock didn’t do socialising if he could help it, and everyone who knew and loved him had come to accept that as part of his personality.
2. He was bringing beers, so it was obviously not entirely an official visit so…not a case….but not wholly social either.
John was intrigued.
He of course text back immediately, letting Lestrade know that tonight would be fine and that he’d be home within half an hour.
When he got back to Baker Street, he found Sherlock in one of his usual positions, stretched out on the sofa facing inwards to the wall. He couldn’t see his face so it was impossible to tell whether he was asleep, in his ‘mind palace’ or indeed, dead. He opted to leave him for five minutes and make some tea before attempting to rouse him.
In the end, it was Sherlock who managed to rouse himself without assistance and join John in the kitchen, his hair all dishevelled and his mouse coloured dressing gown half hanging off his left shoulder.
“I’ll have one,” he croaked, fluffing up his curls.
“Please,” John prompted. “Magic word, Sherlock.”
“Abracadabra,” muttered Sherlock sarcastically.
“And you might want to pull some clothes on while you’re at it, we’re expecting visitors.”
“Who?” Sherlock scrunched up his nose distastefully. “One of your latest floozies?”
John scoffed. “What kind of word is that? And no, it’s not a girlfriend, it’s Lestrade.”
“Close enough. Is it a case?” He looked hopeful.
“I…well…I don’t know. I don’t think so. He’s bringing beers.”
“Don’t you two normally go out?”
“Yeah, we do. That’s why it’s slightly odd that he’s coming round but, we’ll see.”
“Not just odd, John. Suspicious. I’ll get changed.” With a swish of his dressing gown, he had turned on his heels and headed off to his bedroom.
John smirked to himself as he finished off making the tea. He could tell that the news of the visit had piqued the detective’s interest, regardless of what it was about.

***

An hour and a half later, after they’d both eaten the leftovers from last night’s takeaway, they found themselves joined in the living room of 221B by an anxious looking Lestrade, still in his open collared shirt and overcoat straight from work at the Yard and carrying a plastic bag of beers from Tesco. He immediately got one out and cracked it open as he sat in the simple hard backed chair the crime busting duo always set up in between the two armchairs whenever they had a single visitor or a client.
“Glad you could be here too,” he smiled at Sherlock.
The detective remained impassive, a slight twitch in the corner of his left eye the only indication of his impatience as he picked a stray piece of cloth off his perfectly ironed and crisp light green shirt, another variety of his that John couldn’t help but notice seemed incredibly tight on him.
“Want a beer?” Lestrade offered one out to Sherlock, who shook his head.
“Why are you here?” He asked instead, suspicious as always, finally speaking for the first time since the Detective Inspector arrived.
“I’ll have a beer,” said John cheerfully, reaching for the bag and taking one of the cans out. He cracked it open and took a swig.
“Well actually, it’s about Molly,” Greg began.
“Molly…?” Sherlock extended the ‘y’ of Molly’s name as part of the question, making it clear he didn’t have the faintest idea who Greg was talking about.
“Molly Hooper?” John ventured an educated guess, seeing as that was the only Molly any of them knew.
“Yeah,” Greg sipped his beer and nodded. “She’s got this new boyfriend.”
Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes. “So, what, you’ve come to drink a few beers and commiserate because you missed your chance with her, is that it? Well sorry to break it to you, Gordon, but you hair’s not dark and curly enough and you’re not smart enough to align with her highly specific tastes.”
John fixed Sherlock with his ‘you did not just say that’ look, and Greg gave a scoff to equal the detective’s and started chuckling and shaking his head at the same time, although there was a faint blush on his cheeks that suggested Sherlock’s deduction might not have been entirely off kilter.
“It’s a Friday night and it’s been a tough week and I just thought I’d double up a social call with a uh…well…more serious visit, that’s all,” Lestrade shrugged, a little defensively. “And yeah, I’m worried about her cause I care about her. I know you lot do too so there’s nothing…weird, about it, okay? And it’s Greg! Not bloody Gordon!”
Sherlock sat up, suddenly interested. “Wait a minute, why are you ‘worried’ about her?”
“Because of this guy she’s dating.”
“Aaron or something.”
“Aiden,” Lestrade corrected him.
“Mm.”
“Aiden Gruner.”
Sherlock looked as though he’d been slapped across the face. John saw the change in him instantly, even from his position in the opposite armchair, it was obvious. If he didn’t know better, he would have said that Sherlock was worried too, but as he looked at him again, it seemed as though he was more excited than anything.
“The Austrian murderer.”
“Ah, so you do know him!” Lestrade slapped his knee and laughed. “I told them you would! I bloody said you would! They didn’t believe me. Sherlock Holmes knows everyone, I said.”
“Who is he then?” John asked, intrigued. He wasn’t particularly surprised in the slightest that Sherlock had heard of this guy if he was a murderer.
“Well, he certainly fits Molly’s type. Tall, dark, handsome…curly hair not dissimilar to my own, stunningly good looking, and dangerously intelligent.”
“Did…you just describe yourself as stunningly good looking?” John smirked.
“No,” Sherlock frowned. “I was describing him.”
“Yeah, but…never mind. Uh, carry on.”
“He also happened to murder his last wife, and got away with it too, although of course I know he’s guilty.”
“Of course you do.”
“Lestrade knows too, otherwise he wouldn’t have come here.”
The two of them turned to look at the Detective Inspector who had been watching their conversation back and forth like a tennis match. “Well, I think most of the Austrian police believed he’d done it too, they just couldn’t prove it. He was…too clever.”
“He moved to London three years ago to get away from the scandal,” Sherlock filled in the blanks. “I’m honestly quite surprised this is the first time he’s entered our lives, although it wouldn’t surprise me if he had killed without our knowing it.”
“You think he’s a serial killer?” John looked at him in surprise. “You think Molly might be dating a serial killer?”
“He’s a charmer,” Lestrade mumbled. “He wins people over then does what he wants with them. We should definitely try to uh…discourage her…from dating him.”
“Most definitely,” Sherlock agreed with a nod. “But how? She’s hardly going to listen to us, is she?”
“Well, it’s worth a try. If we explain his history to her. What he’s done. The type of guy he is, you know,” shrugged John.
“No, no, he’s clever than that. He will have already warned her about this. Told her his side of the story.”
“What, and she’ll just believe it?”
“You believe what you want to believe when you’re in love.”
“What would you know about being in love, Sherlock?”
“I’ve had lots of experience. Not personally, obviously, but professionally. I’ve seen what it does to people. I understand it better than you do, John, otherwise you wouldn’t have such a hard time keeping a girlfriend, would you?”
“Now hang on a minute, I – “
“Girls, girls!” Lestrade raised his hands. “Have your domestic later, will you, we’ve got work to do.” He drained back his can of beer and stood up. “Shall we go see her now? She’ll be at home relaxing, might be the perfect opportunity.”
Sherlock nodded in agreement and jumped up, grabbing his coat from the back of the chair.
“Hang on a minute,” mumbled John, still finishing off his beer as he stood up and shoved his shoes on. “Shouldn’t we uh, you know, give her a ring first?”
“He’s already given her one.”
“You know what I mean,” he rolled his eyes. “To make sure she’s in.”
“Yeah, might be a good idea actually,” Lestrade agreed, taking out his phone. “For all we know, she could be out on a date with that slimeball right now.”
“Check up on his history, Lestrade,” Sherlock demanded in his usual authoritative manner. “I want to know everything about him. Where he lives, how he earns his money and, more importantly, who else he’s been dating, where they are now and how and why the relationship ended.”
“I’ll do my best. Let me just…” He indicated his phone.
Sherlock raised up his own phone and waggled it in the air in front of Lestrade’s face. “We’ll take care of that, and go round and see her. You…” He placed his hands firmly on the Detective Inspector’s shoulders and guided him towards the door. “You’re going back to Scotland Yard. You’re more useful to us there.”
“Ugh fine,” Lestrade huffed. “I was hoping for another couple of beers not more work.”
“Drink those afterwards. Right now, we have a case and the game is on.”
And that was that.
Complete inactivity and mind numbing boredom to racing around London surged full of adrenalin. And all on the back of one name – Aiden Gruner.

***

As usual though, Sherlock Holmes was right, which no doubt pleased him much more than the words they heard coming out of Molly Hooper’s mouth when they found themselves sat in her flat later that very evening.
“Oh, Aiden’s told me all of that stuff already. About the court case and the accusations. They’re just malicious.”
“Malicious?” John spat, eyes wide. “His wife is dead. Like uh, you know, she actually died. It wasn’t just some malicious rumour.”
“Oh, I know that, but it was a tragic accident. She fell down the stairs. I mean, there was never any proof, and Aiden was just absolutely devastated over the whole thing.”
“The neighbours hear shouting. She begged for her life.” Sherlock pointed out another fact from the case.
Molly rolled her eyes. “He warned me this might happen at some point,” she sighed. “When we first started dating. He said that people might come and try to pollute my mind with their lies.”
“I think it’s your mind that’s been polluted, Molly,” John scoffed, and was about to continue when Sherlock raised his hand for silence.
“What else did he say?” he asked, intrigued. “Carry on. Tell me his version of the story.”
“Well, basically, his neighbours spread the rumour about him, talked to the police, to try and get him into trouble.”
“Why would they want to do something like that?” Sherlock asked. “Why would they hate him so much as to lie to the police, claiming that he murdered his wife?”
“Because Aiden had a relationship with the woman next door. Well, less of a relationship, more like a one off sort of thing, more like a…uh…”
“They had sex?” John prompted.
Molly blushed a deep shade of red. “I…believe so, yes. Only once. She thought it was something more but it wasn’t, and when Aiden wouldn’t confess his love for her she got mad at him.”
“And decided to take her revenge,” said Sherlock.
“Exactly,” Molly nodded.
“It wouldn’t be the first time something like that had happened, of course, although in this case the allegations made against him are rather more serious than the usual.”
“Yeah, significantly more serious,” said John. “You’re dating a murderer, Molly. And it wouldn’t be the first time for that either, would it? You don’t exactly have a very good track record.”
“That’s what I told her,” said Sherlock.
“Look, you might as well just leave now if you’ve only come here to talk about Aiden,” Molly said firmly. “We’re in love, and we’re going to get married. That’s just the way it is and you’ll have to get used to it.”
As much as John continued to protest and reason with her, Sherlock could tell they were working with a lost cause. They would have to approach this from a completely different angle – just as he expected.
He grabbed John’s arm and practically dragged him from the room. The ex-army doctor could get pretty aggressive when he had a point to get across, particularly after he’d had a beer or two. “Come on John, just leave it.”
“No, I will not just leave it!” he snapped. “This is ridiculous! She’s being completely stupid! I know about these things, okay? I know relationships!” He waved his arm at Molly, wagging his finger like he was an angry dad telling her off.
“Yes, yes, of course you do,” Sherlock sighed, giving him one final tug to get him out of the room.
Once they were in the corridor, John pulled himself away from the detective’s grasp and huffed, readjusting his jacket as they walked outside, still shaking his head and muttering to himself.
“It’s alright, John,” Sherlock assured him. “We’re not going to allow the marriage to go ahead.”
“Good. What’s the plan then?”
“I don’t know yet. Let’s see what Lestrade has offered us.” He swiped open an e-mail on his phone as they walked off down the street, John checking the road for any passing taxis to hail, although one always seemed to come riding round the corner whenever Sherlock was around. John had become convinced at one point that Sherlock had some kind of taxi magnet hidden inside those oversized coat pockets of his.
“What does it say?” John asked of the e-mail.
“He’s managed to get Gruner’s home and work addresses. I propose we try and catch up with him at work tomorrow, but have the taxi ride past his home address right now so we can suss it out.”
Gruner’s place was impressive. A large, three storey, detached white house in electronically gated grounds with a perfectly sculpted lawn and healthy looking trees lining the front, and a gravel path leading to the black front door.
“Wow, is he rich?” John asked with a whistle as he pressed his face to the glass of the taxi window.
“Mm, probably.”
“Maybe that’s how he attracts them. Buying them things, treating them like royalty, spoiling them.”
“That might work for some of them but not all. Molly, for example, she’s more interested in romance than things of any kind of monetary value. He must be a smooth talker too. Suave, sophisticated, good looking, a beautiful smile, always knowing what to say and the right moment to say it.”
“Watch yourself there, Sherlock, any more analysis and you’re going to sound like you’re jealous…” John glanced at him with a teasing smirk.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, then nodded to the driver. “Alright, we’re good, carry on.”
It was difficult for Sherlock to remain idle when there was something much more exciting they could be doing with their time, so that evening was particularly difficult for him, but he spent his time on the internet, looking up everything he could from Gruner’s court case back in Austria, and researching relentlessly, deleting ‘useless’ facts from his mind palace in order to make room for these newer and more relevant ones.
John left him to it, knowing that he needed space, peace and quiet when he was doing this kind of stuff. He went downstairs for a good natter, a cup of tea and a few biscuits with Mrs Hudson, who was glad of his company for a couple of hours.
The next day, he’d expected Sherlock to be up and out of the house as early as possible. Instead, he was allowed to sleep in until he awoke naturally at around ten, and came downstairs in his dressing gown yawning and in search of a good cup of tea. He found Sherlock sat at the dining table dressed and apparently ready to go, with an incredibly anxious expression on his face.
“You didn’t wake me.”
“Very observant of you, John. Scintillating. You astound me.”
“Yeah, yeah, alright. Coffee?”
“I’ve already had six.”
“Geez, no wonder you’re looking all…wired. Why haven’t we left yet anyway?”
“Because we’re waiting until it’s nearly lunchtime. We’ll go in around 11. It’s a good time to catch him off guard,” Sherlock quickly explained. “A full morning at work. He’ll be tired and hungry and hopefully not expecting any visitors.”
“You’re going to speak to him today then?”
“With a bit of luck, yes.” The detective drummed his fingers on the table and checked his watch again while John made himself some coffee and breakfast and got dressed in a fairly leisurely manner.
At one minute to eleven, Sherlock stood up, grabbed his coat and demanded that they leave immediately. Thankfully, John was ready to go by that time too, and the pair of them thundered down the steps to the front door.
“Don’t forget your gloves!” Mrs Hudson picked them up off the floor where they had apparently fell out of Sherlock’s pocket. “It’s getting cold out again!”
“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” said Sherlock politely, collecting them from her and leaning in to give her a kiss on the cheek before turning and rushing out again. Even in the madness that surrounded a case, he always managed to make time for their beloved landlady, a fact that continued to impress and astonish John, who followed him outside with a little smile on his face and a warm sensation in his chest.
Wiggling his fingers into the tight leather gloves, Sherlock’s hands were too busy to be able to flag down the passing taxi that magically appeared on the corner of Baker Street as soon as they got outside, but John was perfectly capable of doing the job himself, despite his slightly smaller stature, and soon enough they were clambering into the back of the cab together.
"Leadenhall Street, please...Bartlett & Co,” instructed Sherlock, leaning forwards to give the address to the driver before sitting back again and staring out of the window. He sat back again and grinned. "I want to introduce myself to him," he said thoughtfully, and quietly to the point where John wasn’t quite sure whether he was addressing him or simply talking aloud to himself. "Give him my card, explain who I am, just in case he hasn't already heard of me...and let him know that we're investigating him. It would be more than interesting to gauge his reaction and it could well push him into doing something rash."
“Mm, when criminals act rashly they make mistakes, and then they’re easier to catch.”
“Precisely,” Sherlock smiled, quietly pleased that John had learnt so much about ‘the game’ over the many years they’d been working together. They were so in tune with one another now, it was a continual pleasure.
Soon enough, they arrived in the very heart of the business district of their great city. Young men and women in suits were busily walking up and down the street, disappearing in and out of buildings, supping from plastic coffee cups and cradling their briefcases and newspapers under their arms, mostly ignoring each other and everyone else who happened to be passing by, including them. The tall, imposing buildings of the various businesses - mostly insurance companies and banks - lined either side of the road.
Sherlock glanced up at the one they were now outside of as he paid for the taxi, telling the driver to keep the change. He was in a good mood. "Let's go," he smiled at John and led the way through the revolving doors and into the smart looking reception, with a gigantic fish tank lining one wall. He approached the reception desk.
"Excuse me," he smiled at the woman on the desk. "We'd like a meeting with Aiden Gruner, please."
"Do you have an appointment?" The woman asked, looking a bit confused.
"Er no," Sherlock played innocent, and a bit stupid. "Could we make one right now? With you? I mean, with him? You know what I mean." He flashed her a grin.
"Er well," she hesitated. "I'll have to call up and see what his schedule's like."
"That would be wonderful," smiled Sherlock.
The receptionist picked up her phone and rang through to Gruner's office. She was on for a moment or two, speaking in hushed tones and occasionally glancing up at the two strangers standing in front of her desk. Then she hung up and turned to them again with an apologetic smile. "I'm afraid he'll be leaving for lunch in ten minutes, but you're welcome to come back in an hour and a half and I'll try and fit you in for a consultation then."
"Ah..." Sherlock gave his best disappointed face, then glanced at his watch. "Well, it's not to be helped. We'll come back later. Thank you very much."
"No problem," the girl smiled.
Sherlock quickly turned on his heels and began to walk out again, expecting John to follow, back through the revolving doors and onto the street. "See? Now we've found out when his lunch break is. We know he's still in the office and will be leaving in ten minutes. All we have to do is wait...somewhere inconspicuous..." There was a Cafe Nero just across the road. He tugged John's arm and began to walk over to it.
John was glad of the small rest after all the running around, and ordered them both coffees and a sandwich for himself. Sherlock, of course, didn’t want anything to eat, but John happily sat there filling up his stomach while they waited. And waited. And waited.
Half an hour came and went and Gruner had still not left the office building.
John could tell Sherlock was growing frustrated, and angry at himself. “There’s probably a back exit or something,” he shrugged. “Or an underground car park. It’s no big deal. We weren’t to know he wouldn’t come out the front.”
Sherlock let out a soft growl under his breath and stood up, scraping back the chair legs noisily. “Back to Baker Street.”
The next four hours were spent in an anxious state, with Sherlock pacing up and down the wooden floor of the flat while John tried his best to calm him down, until they finally went out again at 6, when the detective estimated that Gruner would have returned from work.
Sherlock remained silent and focused the entire taxi journey. He would be home at this time, he expected. He didn't know the man's schedule, not yet...but he soon would do, after a few days and nights of trailing him around, which was what he was planning.
As soon as the taxi pulled to a halt, Sherlock jumped out without paying, a feat that John was, by now, used to. He sighed and tossed the driver some money before getting out himself and running to catch up with the long strides of the detective as they approached the automatic gates of the large detached house and pressed the buzzer.
It didn't take long to get an answer. There was a crackle of static and then a smooth, sophisticated voice with a very slight hint of a European accent came over the intercom system. "Who is it?"
"An interested party," Sherlock gave a typically vague response.
"Interested in what?" Gruner snapped. "I don't accept cold calls."
"I think you'll be interested in this one, Aiden Gruner. My name's Sherlock Holmes. You may have heard of me."
There was a pause.
Sherlock heard a crackle, then a buzz as the gates were unlocked.
John raised an eyebrow. “I think he has. Probably read the blog, of course. That’s how most people hear of you.” He chuckled to himself as he caught sight of Sherlock’s grumpy face out the corner of his eye.
The gates swung open slowly, and the two of them walked on through, but before they could walk along the small gravel pathway towards the front door, Sherlock had spun round and grabbed John’s arm.
“John, go round the corner and wait for me there.”
“What? No. Why?”
“Because there’s no need for him to know your face as well as mine. After this little chat I intend to have with him, he’ll be on the look out for me. If he thinks it’s just me on his case, he won’t be expecting you, now go, quick!”
John huffed but nevertheless did as he was told, jogging off and running round the corner just as the door was opened up by the owner of the house, a tall dark haired man with thick unruly curls that were slightly wilder than Sherlock’s and intense, piercing green eyes, as well as wearing a dark green silk dressing gown that Sherlock couldn't help but admire as he cast his eyes up and down it.
"Derek Rose," he noted with a smile. "Man after my own heart."
"What are you doing here?" Gruner sneered, stepping back to allow him inside.
"Would you like to see my card? Just to prove that I am who I say I am?" He got one out of his pocket and handed it over.
"I don't need to see it. I recognise you anyway," snapped Gruner.
The two of them still stood uncomfortably in the hallway with the door still wide open. "You're letting all the cold in." Sherlock muttered.
"What are you doing here?" He demanded again, slamming the door dramatically.
"Oh, just wanted to pay you a quick visit," Sherlock shrugged. "Size you up, get the measure of you, so to speak, and to let you know that I've taken up your case."
"What case?" he snarled. "I don't have a case."
"I can see you're not in the mood to invite me in for a cup of tea so..." He opened the only recently closed door. "I might as well go. I've said my bit."
Gruner put his hand on the door and slammed it shut once more. "Do you know what happened to the last man who 'took up my case', Mr Holmes?" He looked at Sherlock with a cold, glaring eyes.
"No. Do enlighten me."
"He met with a very unfortunate accident. People tend to do that...when they pry into my affairs."
"Thanks for the warning," said Sherlock casually. "I am rather accident prone now you come to mention it." He showed Gruner his left thumb. "Did this on the bunsen burner two nights ago."
"Get out."
"I'd love to...but you've got your hand on the door."
With an angry snarl, Gruner stepped back and flung the door open. "Get out!"
"Oh, don't worry, I'm going. But don't expect this little problem to go away, Mr Gruner. I'm onto you. I know what you are, and that poor girl you've got your clutches into will soon know too." With that, Sherlock happily jogged out of the house and back down the driveway, ending his short visit. He smirked to himself, pleased with how it had gone. He'd definitely ruffled the man's feathers, which is all he'd really intended, and it had confirmed his suspicions that he most definitely had something to hide. He was a positive devil.
“Well?” asked John, emerging from his hiding place.
“Well indeed,” muttered Sherlock cryptically, already deep in thought. “Well indeed.”

***

John had a date that night.
It didn’t happen very often these days, and it was typical for it to happen right when he least expected it, in the middle of a very interesting case.
Sherlock was his usual sarcastic self about the whole thing, making derogatory comments the whole time John was getting ready and then gruffly wishing him luck as he walked out the door, even though he most definitely didn’t mean it.
It wasn’t that Sherlock didn’t want to see John happy. Of course he did. He just wished John’s happiness could be more in tune with his own. He was happiest when they were hot on the trail of some abominable criminal mastermind threatening to kill or maim or terrorise. John, on the other hand, seemed to require something more. He needed soft words and touches, romance. Sherlock despised the very idea, shuddered at it, and occasionally even felt sick to his stomach over it. And he was always relieved and glad when relationship after relationship failed and John remained subsequently single. If he was ever dating someone long term, or God forbid, if he ever married someone, Sherlock was afraid that things would change between them. John wouldn’t belong to him anymore, he’d belong to someone else, and he’d have to share him, share his time. He wouldn’t be as available to come on cases, perhaps he might not even want to anymore if he found someone better to spend his life with. Sherlock Holmes would never admit to any of these thoughts or emotions out loud, of course, but in reality, he was insecure. He didn’t want to lose his best friend to some woman.
John Watson was acutely aware of this fact. He wasn’t as closed minded and idiotic as the detective sometimes made him out to be. He understood human emotions just as well as Sherlock did, the majority of times even better. He knew Sherlock was worried, deep down, and he knew that he’d never admit it out loud. He also knew that him finding a long term girlfriend or even a wife, would not change things between him and Sherlock. Whoever it was would have to be very special, because they’d have to accept Sherlock as an essential and constant part of his life. She would have to understand that occasionally, he’d disappear off at three in the morning to run round London with the lanky detective and that sometimes Sherlock would need him more than she did.
That night’s date, however, had come as something of a surprise.
He’d got an e-mail out of the blue, from the blog. She’d attached a photograph. She was very pretty, and what’s more, she was a fan. Of him, of Sherlock Holmes. She followed all the cases with interest, and thought John was ‘incredibly handsome’.
‘I know this is very forward of me,’ she went on to say. ‘But perhaps, if you weren’t doing anything this evening, we could meet for a drink. No pressure to take things further, just a drink and a chat.’
How could he resist?
She was a fan of Sherlock, but fancied him. It was perfect. That meant she wouldn’t mind if he went off doing cases. They already seemed like an excellent match for one another. It was almost too good to be true.
And it was, in fact, too good to be true, because as soon as John arrived at the agreed meet up place on the corner of the street, a car whizzed up, tyres screeching, back door already flinging open.
The scene was all too familiar and immediately John realised what was happening. He spun on his heel and turned to run in the opposite direction, but there was a small popping sound and a sharp pain in his neck as something hit him there, followed almost instantaneously by the darkness closing over his eyelids and clouding his brain as he blacked out, his limp body hitting the ground.

***

On that particular occasion, however, Sherlock Holmes was actually rather glad that John was going out for the night, as it would give him the chance to get on with what he needed to do without the good doctor telling him it was a bad idea.
He waited until midnight then headed out to Aiden Gruner’s residence, with the intention of burglarising his way inside and having a snoop around. He was especially interested in the office area. A man like Gruner had many secrets, and he was bound to have some kind of evidence of those secrets, whether they were locked up in a safe or in the drawer of a well-secured desk. They would be somewhere. He would have something. And whatever it was, Sherlock would find it.
With his toolkit stuffed into his pocket, he would first need to do a full recky of the house and suss out where the weaknesses were, as well as whether there were any security cameras watching him.
Everything was quiet when he arrived at the house, which was exactly how he wanted it to be. He was hoping Aiden Gruner was asleep in bed. Sherlock could be a very quiet burglar when he wanted to be. He was convinced he wouldn’t wake him or indeed anyone else in the neighbourhood.
He approached the front window and peered into the living room. Empty. Then, he began to walk round the side of the house, staring up at the top corners of the windows and the eaves, looking for cameras. A man like Gruner was bound to have them somewhere. He didn't even mind if he was spotted on them. Gruner knew he was investigating anyway, and he wasn't going to be scared by his threats.
He heard a branch crack underfoot behind him and spun round, stilling himself for a moment to listen, his ears pricked up like a bloodhound.
No one was there.
Still, he'd heard it none the less. He hadn’t imagined it. Perhaps someone was round the corner. Frowning, Sherlock crept back towards the front of the house just to make sure his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him. Probably just a fox at this time of night, he thought to himself.
Suddenly though, two men appeared, bearing round the corner.
Two tall, heavily built men, one of them carrying a baseball bat and the other some kind of iron crowbar. He might have thought they were burglars if they hadn't been dressed in suits. They looked more like Mycroft's men, except Sherlock knew better. They were obviously Gruner's men.
That deduction was most definitely confirmed when one of them took a swing at him and whacked him in the arm and side of his body with the iron bar.
He grunted and staggered sideways, but recovered fairly quickly and decided to try and take them both on. He went for the baseball bat first, grabbing hold of it with both hands and yanking it towards him before kicking the man in the stomach and propelling him backwards, managing to take control of the bat as the man released his grasp.
Sadly, the advantage didn't last for long, as the crowbar man came in again and this time landed one right on his shoulder. It hurt like hell and Sherlock dropped to one knee, trying his best to remain standing. He might have been able to do it too, had not a third man come round the corner from the back of the house and whacked him across the head with a plank of wood.
At that point, he fell flat on his face and the beating well and truly began, all three of them laying into him with their respective weapons, with baseball bat man rejoining the group now that he'd got to his feet and retrieved the bat again. Sherlock didn't stand a chance.
The last thing he remembered before he blacked out was the constant and agonising pain from every section of his body as they battered and bruised him all over, the blood starting to gush from the now open wounds and staining the grass red.

***

‘MURDEROUS ATTACK ON SHERLOCK HOLMES’ ran the headline in the papers the following day.
A slim, white muslim girl, her facial features and hair mostly hidden by her headscarf, picked up a copy of the newspaper at a stand by the entrance of Charing Cross station. Her stunning blue eyes scanned over the words on the front page, widening as she read them.
“You gonna pay for that, miss?” asked the newspaper seller gruffly.
“No thank you,” she replied in a perfect British accent, well spoken and well educated. She tossed the newspaper back onto the stand and walked away, a frown creasing her neatly trimmed eyebrows.
She approached the taxi rank and took the first one, ordering the driver to take her to the hospital mentioned in the article. She stopped on the way to get some flowers.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” asked the lady on the reception desk, looking up from her computer.
“What room is Sherlock Holmes in?”
“Are you a relative? I’m afraid he’s not accepting visitors at the moment.”
“Just tell him it’s the Woman. He’ll accept.”

***

John woke up with a groan, groggily opening up his eyes and attempting to look around him. He had a splitting headache and could taste blood in his mouth. It was dark, cold, and he could smell mould and damp. He tried looking left and right, but soon discovered there were ropes tight pretty tightly around his arms, chest and shoulders, restricting his movement massively.
He tried to recall the last moments he remembered before he blacked out.
He’d been heading out on a date. Except it hadn’t been a date at all. Whoever it was who’d sent that e-mail had set him up on purpose, to get him out of the house and away from Sherlock. To kidnap him. It was all so blindingly obvious now that he felt like an idiot for not having seen it coming.
He’d seen it coming far too late. They must have used some kind of tranquiliser to knock him out, he reasoned. Shot him down with it like animal handlers shot wild, rabid dogs. He grimaced, wondering who had gone to the trouble and what they wanted. It could have been a whole number of people. He and Sherlock had pissed off a hell of a lot of criminals over the years.
“Hello…?” He called out, his voice sounding hoarse and rough. Might as well attempt to meet his captor and reason with him, or her.
Someone came up behind him and slapped him across the back of the head.
He grunted and tried to twist round to see his assailant, but the guy walked round the front anyway and stood there, his arms folded across his chest.
He was tall and muscular, with a neat crew cut, wearing a suit. He looked like he could be one of Mycroft’s men, but John knew better.
“Well?” He asked. “Why am I here?”
“Not my job to ask questions, mate,” the man responded with an East London accent. “I just do as I’m told.”
“By who?”
“Whoever hires me.”
“So…someone hired you to kidnap me?”
“Yep.”
“And do what with me?”
“Keep you here.”
“Until when?”
“Until someone comes to rescue you. Or not.”
“You mean Sherlock?”
“I don’t bloody know.”
“And what are you supposed to do when I get rescued?”
“Shoot whoever it is in the head. And you too. And if no one comes within two days, I just shoot you.” He took out a gun from the inside pocket of his jacket and showed it to John with a shrug. “No hard feelings, mate. It’s just a job to me, y’know?”
“Right, yeah, course,” John sighed and rolled his eyes a little. “Well, good luck with that. Sherlock Holmes is notoriously difficult to kill.”
“You can’t survive a bullet to the head.”
John glanced the guy up and down. “You ex-army?”
“Yeah. How can you tell?”
“Easy to spot a fellow squaddie.” He smiled slightly. “The way you stand, the way you hold yourself when you walk…”
The guy looked pretty impressed. “Where d’you serve?”
“Iraq. Afghanistan. I’d probably still be doing it now if I hadn’t been shot.”
“Me too! Right here.” He raised up the trouser on his left leg and showed John the bullet scar.
“So then you got into killing people for money? Nice.” John muttered sarcastically.
The ex-soldier shrugged. “It pays well, and it gives me a bit of a thrill, y’know? That’s what I missed the most. The thrill. The danger.”
“Yeah. I know,” John sighed. He knew it all too well. That’s why he’d been so lucky to find Sherlock when he did, although he liked to think that his own moral compass would have stopped him from going down that same road as the man currently stood in front of him. “So uh…are you really gonna do it then? Shoot an ex-reg like yourself? For no reason?”
“I’m sorry, mate,” he mumbled. “No hard feelings, yeah? It’s just a job. You know how it is.”
John sighed and fell silent. He’d have to think of some kind of way to talk his way out of the situation. Either that or wait for Sherlock to get here and hope he was smart enough to not end up getting a bullet through the head.
Little did John know, however, that Sherlock was not coming to rescue him, and Aiden Gruner had never intended him to. He had dealt with Sherlock in an altogether different way, and it was the detective’s best friend he now wanted to rid from the planet, in order to punish Holmes for meddling in his affairs. He knew that no one would come to rescue John Watson and, at the end of the two days, he would be dispatched with a bullet and his body dumped in the Thames.
But Aiden Gruner hadn’t accounted for Irene Adler.

***

Last edited by Schmiezi (December 20, 2015 6:13 am)

**Posted by Schmiezi** December 19, 2015 6:19 am

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

Irene.

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

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

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

I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Kind regards,
Bn. Aiden Gruner.

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

***

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

***

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

***

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

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

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

***

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

***

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

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

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

***

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

***

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

**Posted by Schmiezi** December 20, 2015 6:24 am

This fic is for PenelopeW
Merry Christmas!!!
You asked for: What I’d like to read – Johnlock, case fic with different setting OR a romantic Christmas Season 4 fixit (sigh…)
What I don’t read – non-con, any pairing involving Moriarty or Magnusson, child or animal abuse (again, allusions to the above in the past are a maybe), threesomes involving Mary…
Prompt – “There was no way he was going to sit through the entire Ring Cycle just to please Mycroft.” (but I’d be happy as a lark with any opera allusions at all…)
That prompt inspired me greatly and I am very happy to have received it! I think I managed to fit your wishes (Johnlock, case-fic with different setting, romantic Christmas, Opera references everywhere...) and I very much enjoyed the Opera aspect of it.I hope you enjoy the result!

O Soave Fanciulla

Chapter 1

John Watson is cold. Very cold. He thought being farther south would be at least a bit warmer, but apparently Milan is determined to have an authentic white Christmas this year; brilliant for tourists, downright unpleasant for John’s poorly gloved hands. Unfortunately for John there’s a hole in his coat pocket, which he didn’t notice before, essentially allowing one hand to be toasty warm while the other slowly freezes to death. It has been said that John isn’t the only drama queen in 221b. John would argue that when you live with Sherlock Holmes for years, becoming more dramatic is the least of concerns.

One year ago, John was mentally preparing himself for Christmas dinner at the Holmes’, after having decided to take Mary back – she was the mother of his child after all, he felt it was his duty to at least try. All the while steadfastly ignoring the sour feeling in his gut, and the terror he felt seeing his best friend once again bleeding on the ground before him. John will never be able to fully articulate how relieved he felt when this time he succeeded in feeling Sherlock’s pulse beneath his fingertips (‘please, please, please, not again, please’ his heart begged). That relief had soon been replaced by instinct, and anger, when he loudly asked - demanded of the still prone Magnussen on the floor “Who shot him?!”

Even when John agreed to take Mary back, he would be lying if he were to say he was sure of the decision. He had to though, John told himself. Of course, once again Sherlock Holmes upended his world. Magnussen was killed. Moriarty returned. And yet again, Mary was proven to be not who she said she was; Sabrina Moran, long time right hand to Moriarty.

John didn’t even bother being surprised at that point.

However, finding out the baby wasn’t his turned out to be one blow too many. After that John spent a long evening with a bottle of scotch, under the uncharacteristically worried eye of Sherlock Holmes.

It was barely into the New Year, after that fateful Christmas, before the east wind bearing the name Sherlock Holmes, toppled the criminal mastermind after all; taking Sabrina Moran right along with him.

John moved back into 221b permanently. And the bottle of scotch got a lot emptier.

It didn’t escape John’s notice that whenever he bought more of the alcohol it would disappear shortly after; before he could even drink it.

The ensuing confrontation with Sherlock ended with a vague explanation of an experiment involving the density of shoe leather after being soaked in whiskey for twelve hours. John had been angry. Even more so when Sherlock eventually contacted a now post-rehab Harriette (to this day John has no idea what exactly Sherlock even said to her) and practically fled the flat (something about Molly, Bart’s lab and septicemia blood samples) when she showed up to “talk” to John.

It was difficult, and very little was actually resolved between the two of them, but after the long conversation he had with his older sister, John stopped buying alcohol. Being forcefully reminded of how the vice has nearly destroyed the lives of more than one member of his family was a good, cold dose of reality. One John admits that he needed, even if a part of him at the time didn’t want it.

When Sherlock arrived home later that same day, John apologized for getting so angry before. John is still mystified even now by how Sherlock responded; with a long look, Sherlock seemed as though he was about to speak but then changed his mind, instead nodding once and then going into the kitchen, where he proceeded to make tea for them both.

That was just one small example of how things were…different between them since everything to do with Mary/Moran and Moriarty was over.

Sherlock seemed more cautious and wary around John than he had been. Less confrontational – alcohol incident aside - which made John feel more on edge and confused. It got better as time passed, but even now John still feels something…off in their interactions. Of course it figures after everything that, as much as John may have liked it to be, things couldn’t go back to the way they were before Mary – Sabrina, before Moriarty even.

It is as though John doesn’t know how to approach Sherlock anymore, and the same appears to be true of Sherlock.

John knows there are things he should probably say to the man, things his therapist would say are needed to be said in order for them to move passed this…tension, but while John may be good at physical or anger fueled confrontation, conversations about emotions is something he finds very difficult, which is almost funny because in that way Sherlock and he are similar, albeit for different reasons. John; because exposing himself to vulnerability goes against so many instincts honed into him by the army and life in general, and Sherlock…well, Sherlock because John suspects the infuriating bastard either doesn’t know how to or just can’t.

Suffice to say, things are not “status quo” at 221b, even with the obvious attempted intervention of Mrs. Hudson “Oh boys, I know it’s difficult but you two need to sit down and have a nice long chat, before I am tempted to lock you in here and throw away the key!” John is positive she would have made good on her threat by now if she hadn’t known it would’ve been a useless endeavour against someone with the acrobatic and lock picking skills of Sherlock Holmes.

Even Greg and Mycroft have had a thing or two to say.

If his mother were still alive, John is sure she would’ve clonked their heads together and said something like ‘get your heads out of your arses already!’ She always was a colourful woman.

And maybe John would’ve said something by now if the person he needed to have the talk with wasn’t Sherlock Holmes of all people, and if John could actually pinpoint what the problem is…or maybe he just doesn’t want to acknowledge it, and hope this odd tension goes away altogether, and then they will finally be able to move on. John just wants to move on.

He is getting very good at ignoring the little voice inside his mind insisting ‘you know what the problem is John, tell him, be honest…’

What the hell do you know?

John’s inner thoughts are halted by a cold gust of wind slapping him in the face. The long coat of his best friend, walking silently beside him billows around his ankles.

John gives his wandering mind a good scolding, rolling his eyes in the process (see? This is why you can’t move on; you need to stop thinking about it all the time!). Before brushing away the past once more and focusing on the now, and how he ended up walking down some random street in Milan on Christmas Eve, in the bloody, buggering cold with Sherlock Holmes, after following the maniac when he ran out of the ‘Teatro alla Scala’, during intermission, before the final act of the fourth and last Opera, in an exhausting four day arc of Der Ring des Nibelungen. (A series of four Operas more commonly known as The Ring Cycle, as John was told by the Holmes brothers).

Life with Sherlock Holmes is certainly never boring.

When Mycroft first came to them with this random request, John was sure there would be more to it. However, so far it has turned out to be exactly what Mycroft said it would. Which has John feeling even more confused to say the least. Sherlock Holmes actually agreed to a request, put forth by his brother of all people, to escort the grandmother (Mrs. Amelia Blackhart) of an important dignatary to Milan over Christmas to see a special one time performance of Der Ring des Nibelungen (a strong desire of hers apparently).

Before John could ask why Sherlock, Mycroft had explicitly stated that it wouldn’t be just Sherlock, John must follow as well. Apparently Mrs. Blackhart, a fiercely independent woman, is also a major admirer of the two men and their exploits, even threw a celebratory party when Sherlock returned “from the dead“ (John couldn’t contain the burst of laughter at Sherlock’s expression in response to that revelation). Meaning, that she believed Reginald Blackhart (a man with influence strong enough that even a man like Mycroft Holmes must keep him pleased) her nephew, was simply being over protective in wanting to send a bodyguard with her when she left the country.

According to Mycroft she only agreed to being escorted when her nephew cautiously floated the idea of getting Sherlock Holmes to accompany her.

(“-and Dr Watson! Him too, oh those poor devils shouldn’t be parted after all that stress his horrible wife and that awful man! Morlarty? Moriarty it was yes! Those two need each other they do…” was her response to that, also according to Mycroft, to which John squirmed a little uncomfortably in his chair and Sherlock merely blinked a bit slower.)

The exact details of what happened with his now imprisoned ex-wife were never known to the press, but even Mycroft and Sherlock couldn’t dissuade all from printing at least some of the story when it was discovered. At the time John couldn’t say he was relishing the idea of possibly being in the company of an overzealous fan over Christmas, but the option was either that or to spend it with his sister, he chose the overzealous Mrs. Blackhart – who turned out to be quite an amusing old lady that reminded him of his mother .

And so, rather inexplicably, Sherlock acquiesced after a staring contest between him and his brother. A sight John is used to seeing at this point, he even managed to make himself a cuppa while he waited.

Sherlock still hasn’t told John precisely why he agreed to this in the first place, even with the uncomfortable tension in their relationship John could think of worst things than spending Christmas in Milan, but for Sherlock to agree to such a venture – with no case in sight – until now, it had been next to unheard of.

John half expected the man to toss his brother a scathing remark before storming off in all his dressing gown, petulant glory. However, no scathing remark was uttered, he agreed and Mycroft said he would have Anthea drop by later that day with their tickets and itinerary…then Sherlock walked off to his bedroom without another word, suspiciously not glancing at John even once. He didn’t come out for hours after.

Mycroft didn’t seem surprised at all, unlike John. He left with a single parting remark, with an almost sad shake of his head, uttered so quietly he might not have meant to say it out loud at all “Predictable”.

John spent the following thirty minutes going over what just transpired. As always, when it came to the Holmes’, John felt like he was missing something.

He is still no closer to figuring out what it is.

Now, John is mostly cursing himself for not having anticipated something out of the ordinary happening, everything has so far gone so spectacular ordinary in their trip; unanswered questions and slightly awkward silences aside, most often when Sherlock and John were ever in their hotel room alone. Mrs. Blackhart had been situated across the hall and would often ingratiate herself with them. Frankly John is surprised Sherlock hasn’t told her in his own special way to “shut up”, he hasn’t reined himself in completely however, and did manage to deduce everything about her from her peanut allergy to her secret affair with young woman thirty years her junior after having spent hours on a plane with her, John wasn’t surprised when she gave Sherlock nothing but an excited look and insisted he deduce her again, and once again John laughed at Sherlock’s hilarious expression.

Still, John has found himself distracted and increasingly on edge, expecting something to go wrong or some tragedy to befall them.

When Sherlock practically raced out of the Opera House nearly fifteen minutes ago without a word, to the surprise of both John and Amelia, with an apology to Mrs. Blackhart John followed him and muttered to himself “this is it”.

He didn’t expect to simply be strolling in what would be considered a romantic setting by many (John resisted the urge to kick himself for that remark, the words romantic and Sherlock Holmes hardly going together, he steadfastly ignored the memory of his best friends best man speech with a strength his former army commander would be proud of) minutes later with no apparent direction in mind. Sherlock hasn’t said anything beyond his initial response when John asked him:

“What was that?”

“There was no way I was going to sit through the entire Ring Cycle just to please Mycroft.”

Any further inquiries on John’s part were met with silence. And so, here he is, on a nearly empty street, in a city John has never visited before in his life, on Christmas Eve taking a walk with Sherlock Holmes.

Fantastic.

To say John is frustrated would be an understatement; though the cold and his underdressed state likely have something major to do with that. He could go back to the hotel, but for many reasons (some of which he doesn’t want to delve into further even in the privacy of his head) John is reluctant to leave Sherlock’s side, despite whatever the hell is going on with them lately. Also because John did notice that Sherlock has been especially…pensive today. He left their shared room at one point, to come back looking a bit tense.

Their shared room happened because Mrs. Blackhart herself procured their arrangements, and assuming they would want to share a room, she booked a comfortable suite with a single, king sized bed. John naturally asked why she would assume that, to which she replied “Why not? You two seem like the cuddling sort to me”. John’s jaw had flapped indignantly in response while she stalked off with surprising pep into her own set of rooms. Sherlock didn’t respond to her remark or give any indication that he even heard it. He then left a somewhat annoyed John in the hallway when he entered their suite ahead of him.

John didn’t even bother with the ‘not gay’ that time, there was just no point anymore, mostly because no one even believed him so why waste his breath? That’s what he told himself anyway.

This…normal, incident free “holiday”, just…isn’t normal for them. John is half-expecting a gun to go off any second.

Mostly John wishes he had worn something other than his only pair of ten year old dress gloves. Going somewhere as fancy as an Opera is not something he has done before. He might do again though – not just because he enjoyed it, which he has to admit he did to a small degree, even though Opera music is not to his taste, but mostly for the reason that John has only ever seen Sherlock so enraptured, was when he was on the scent of a really good case. So when Sherlock acted deeply annoyed by having to sit through the long series of Operas John was confused because even though Sherlock has proven to be adept at acting, there are times when John has been able to deduce himself the difference between Sherlock lying and Sherlock telling the truth. John is almost sure Sherlock was telling the truth. Why then did he look so…thoughtful through every act they’ve watched so far?

Just then Sherlock’s steps speed up. John huffs a breath, it echoes in the cold air very much mimicking smoke, and matches his pace. With a grunt John pulls off his useless dress gloves and rubs his hands together in order to keep them warm.

“Are we actually going somewhere? Or did you really fancy a stroll?” John asks, rhetorical and mostly to alter the silence as cold as the air itself.

To John’s surprise, Sherlock actually responds; deep voice perfectly matching the dark sky and deep, cold to the bone air around them.

“Here.” Sherlock stops walking at an intersection of shops, a cab passes by. John automatically does as well, looking around for something or something that must have caught Sherlock’s attention…nothing leaps to mind and Sherlock stays completely still. John frowns.

“Wha-” Turning to ask Sherlock why they’ve stopped. John abruptly halts his question when he notices Sherlock’s bare hands, the right reaching out to John with his own gloves held out in offering. John’s brow lifts in surprise. “What about you?” John’s eyes flick from the gloves to Sherlock’s face then back to his hand, already tinged red from the temperature.

To John’s further surprise, Sherlock quirks a familiar smirk.

“Didn’t you know? We heartless men are impervious to cold.” His tone is familiar in a way John hasn’t heard for a while, for a brief moment it makes John sad.

He doesn’t let on though, though he knows Sherlock must read it in his face if the slight hesitation on Sherlock’s own is anything to go by.

John shakes off his surprise with shiver.

“I thought that was Vampires. Is there something you want to tell me?”

He is still reluctant to take the gloves, for all his inner grumbling John has dealt with extreme temperatures before and he would rather not sacrifice his friend’s hands for his own.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and grasps Johns hands tightly in his own, taking advantage of John’s momentary shock to slip the gloves onto Johns hands; the warmth left behind by Sherlock’s elegant fingers nearly makes John groan in relief.

“I thought danger was something that appealed to you.” Sherlock quips, smirk still present, and crosses the street; hands now in his pockets.

John once again shakes off his surprise and jogs after Sherlock, matching his stride easily. He is warm from Sherlock’s gloves, the memory of Sherlock handling John’s own hands while he slipped on his gloves (with a surprising amount of care) lingers on John’s mind, adding its own brand of warmth. John doesn’t know how he should feel about that.

“The psychotic crime addicted flatmate is danger enough for me; I would rather not be a potential food source for your Vampiric self on top of that thanks.” John says nonchalantly.

Sherlock chuckles. John finds himself aching after hearing that sound, it feels like years since he’s heard it.

A few more moments pass in silence, the tension a bit eased by their earlier interaction however brief. John is actually beginning to enjoy himself to a degree. He moves his hands a little in the slightly too large gloves, a thoughtful expression on his face. Sherlock can be the most inconsiderate, unfriendly man John has ever met in his life…there is a paradox to the genius though, if the last year has shown John anything it is that Sherlock can be as callous and unfeeling as he can show a surprising amount of devotion and willingness to do all he can for those few he genuinely cares about.

John for the life of him does not understand why he feels the need to voice what he says next. “You know, heartless men don’t offer their gloves to their friends. So…ta.” It is true. For some reason, whatever John just said causes the air between them to freeze once more; with Sherlock right beside him John felt it when he tensed.

feck.

John looks up at the face of his friend. Sherlock must really be distracted by something within his own mind; otherwise John is sure he wouldn’t allow the almost pained expression that is now evident in the lines of his eyes and the frown in his mouth to show.

Sherlock stops walking, his hands curled into fists within his pockets, face blank and staring at the sidewalk in front of them.

John stops abruptly and without thinking he reaches out to his friends shoulder with concern in his touch. John doesn’t understand if it is something he said that has caused Sherlock’s change in mood or if something else has happened.

At John’s hand on his shoulder Sherlock whips around to face him, John quickly drops his hand – nearly as surprised as Sherlock seems by his action.

Sherlock is giving John an odd look he can’t decipher, he looks almost…nervous? Scared?

John shifts uncomfortably. The last time John saw Sherlock look like this was when Magnussen had just revealed his vaults were actually his mind palace…evil bastard.

“Sherlock…?” John tentatively starts. His posture stiffens and he feels genuinely worried now.

John thinks he sees one of Sherlock’s hands twitch, and his mouth open as though to speak.

“John, I am not…” He pauses, and then his gaze flickers to the ground.

John is about to repeat himself when he notices Sherlock’s eyes abruptly widen, his head lifts to look somewhere over Johns left shoulder, expression utterly changed from barely a moment before; determined, fierce, shocked.

John is about to turn around to see what the hell has caught Sherlock’s attention when the man grabs John’s hand.

“Run!” He yells. And so Sherlock does just that, speeding away and taking John right along with him.

John has no time to even think ‘what the hell’ before -

BANG!

A bullet nearly grazes John’s right shoulder.

Shit.

If this were any other time, John might be congratulating himself for having his instincts proven right; a simple stroll could never be simple where Sherlock is involved, the two of them are proven magnets for the criminally insane; a fact John has made peace with for the most part.

Soldier’s instinct and trust in the man running alongside him take over and John doesn’t even hesitate when grasping Sherlock’s hand in return; running with all the speed he can muster, eyes darting around for cover and wishing for some sort of bloody miracle that would make his gun appear in his hand.

BANG!

Another shot is fired and misses Sherlock by a scant inch.

John’s heart beat rackets up significantly more.

Whoever they are they’re not far behind them, shooting while running is not easy but they’ve gotten way too close for Johns comfort.

Were they being followed? Does this have something to do with why Sherlock left the Opera House early?

John curses, whoever this is has certainly picked a good time to shoot, so far no alley ways or suitable cover has presented itself.

For fucks sake we’re not even in bloody London and we’re being chased!

John can hear all three of their running footsteps, and the heavy breathing of Sherlock right next to him. John has experienced situations such as this too often to actually panic, but not being able to find cover and not even having the comfort of his gun is making him more anxious than usual, and severely tempted to look behind him to see if can recognize whoever is intent on killing or at least injuring them.

John has no idea where they’re going; Sherlock clearly does so maybe he has been here before. John wouldn’t be surprised.

Whatever area of the city they’re in is pretty much abandoned; a narrow street filled with commercial shops obviously shut down for the holiday, the only sounds being John’s heart pounding in his ears along with the rhythm of his running feet against the stone walk perfectly in sync with Sherlock’s; Johns hand still tightly clasped with Sherlock’s bare one.

Running. Pounding. Breathing. BANG! BANG!

Both John and Sherlock automatically tighten their hold on the other.

Shit shit shit!

Just ahead, John spots a sharp turn off. Finally!

Their pursuer is clearly in very good shape; their shots are even more wide however, running steps uneven, probably getting more desperate.

Sherlock and John narrowly avoid a large patch of ice as they swing around the corner.

If possible, it is even darker here, the buildings even more closed in.

Their gunman has yet to turn the corner.

John looks desperately around for an advantage. In the distance John thinks he can hear the sound of traffic.

And then, John spots an alley way entrance. Clearly Sherlock does too because in almost the same second John spotted it Sherlock pulls John into it. Cold darkness cloys in around them, accentuating the sound of their breathing and desperate running. Almost immediately Sherlock pulls John again behind a large dumpster bin, this time John does slip on a patch of ice.

He curses, sure he’s about to fall. Bloody perfect.

Sherlock twists his own body however and they both collapse in a heap – barely stifling pained grunts - Sherlock first, conveniently covered by the looming shadow of the large bin.

Sherlock is prone on the ground, John lying vertically on top of his body; silent, tense, trying to calm their breathing. The position has caused John to instinctively arch himself in a protective position over Sherlock (steadfastly ignoring the suggestiveness of the positions and the pain in his knee from where it slammed against the icy ground). Being the one in the easiest position to do so, John peers around the bin.

Running footsteps echo nearby, and then abruptly stop not far from the alley entrance.

John quickly glances down at Sherlock.

Those crystalline eyes might as well be glowing, but there is no immediate sign of injury that John can detect. Their faces are barely an inch a part, John gulps and nods his head in query. Are you alright?

Sherlock quirks a brow. Obviously.

John rolls his eyes at the look. Git.

The darkness makes seeing anything near pointless, but John can just see the amused smirk on Sherlock’s face. John momentarily feels a pang.

This, right here, the chase, adrenaline, blood pumping through their veins as Sherlock once put it, is – in a bizarre way – their safe zone. Any tension that existed before is gone when they’re dealing with what they know best; the calm eye at the centre of their storm.

Now is not the bloody time. John thinks to himself.

He clenches his eyes shut for a moment and listens carefully for any sign that their pursuer is still nearby.

A squeeze to his arm has him abruptly looking at Sherlock again. The man is looking at him curiously, his eyes flicker towards John’s knee.

Oh…right.

John shrugs with a forced smile, attempting to convey that he’s fine – surprised by Sherlock’s concern, though he’s not entirely sure why. Sherlock narrows his eyes momentarily but seems to accept Johns answer for now. Not much point in arguing in their present position after all.

Neither wants to risk moving and potentially alert the gunman to their current position, so the two men - lying atop the other as battlefield lovers might – listen, and wait.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Step. Step. Step.

John takes a deep breath, below him Sherlock does the same; expression utterly focused on some distant point. John can feel the taller man’s left arm move towards something in his coat.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Step. Step. Step.

They’re pacing. Why? Who the hell are they?

If whoever this is decides to enter the alley, John will be prepared to deal with them; armed or no. If they’re distracted, John may be able to take them unawares and disarm them.

Just when he is pondering that possibility Sherlock squeezes his arm again. John looks down at Sherlock to find him shaking his head – bloody mind reader – and mouthing something. It’s difficult to see in the dark, but it looks like he’s saying…no need?

John adopts a confused expression when he registers what Sherlock is saying, he shakes his head.

Why? John mouths.

Trust me, Sherlock’s lips utter silently.

John narrows his eyes briefly before forcing himself to take a deep breath to tamp down his frustration, fighting every instinct in his body to do…something, something about the person still pacing nearby, and something about the fact that he is still lying prostrate on top of Sherlock Holmes in the cold while the man below him is very obviously…warm, John has to physically stop himself from lowering himself further when he feels the cold wind nipping at his exposed neck.

John highly doubts Sherlock would take too kindly being used as a heating pad, and to be honest, John doesn’t want to consider the possibility that he might not mind at all.

After once more peering out as far as he dare, and spotting their pursuer – illuminated by a distant street light - now paused at the end of the alley way…not much taller than him and obviously a man, he has his head resting in his hands with the gun dangling somewhat precariously from them. John also thinks he can hear faint muttering but it is too quiet for him to figure out. Not that he wants to give the man ideas, but if he were him he would’ve at least come down the alleyway to check by now…John doubts he would’ve needed army training and years of living with Sherlock Holmes to tell that this man is obviously on edge, shaking, pacing frantically, amazing he was able to fire the gun in their direction at all…

John frowns and looks to Sherlock again. The Detective very obviously has his head tilted towards the gunman’s position, aside from his left hand still in his pocket and his right resting casually against Johns arm, he hasn’t moved at all…definitely waiting for something? What?

With John’s past experiences with Sherlock and being left in the dark, he is understandably irritated, but present circumstances prevent him from demanding answers and in spite of it all, John does trust the man (despite conventional wisdom) he is currently using as a cushion between him and the cold, hard ground.

In a movement that John will likely chastise himself for momentarily, John shrugs Sherlock’s hand – now seriously reddened from the cold – off his arm, Sherlock’s eyes crease together the second John does that, and then firmly presses the long fingered hand of the detective between their bodies.

Sherlock is now eyeing John with faint surprise; John meets his eyes for a moment…a long, long moment. Too long. The odd thought occurs to John that no one’s eyes should be that bright in this kind of darkness. His traitorous heart begins a staccato beat.

John inwardly curses himself and firmly squeezes his eyes shut. Oh hell, not this, not…A conversation between him and Mrs. Hudson a few weeks ago flashes in John’s mind.

John is just arriving home after a trip to the shoppes, arms full of bags, his hair wet from the spittle of London rain. Before he can even start the struggle of opening the door bearing the number ‘221b’, Mrs. Hudson opens it for him, John smiles at the woman gratefully. She smiles back.

“Ta Mrs. Hudson.” John nods and squeezes inside. Almost immediately John can hear the faint stirrings of delicate violin music from upstairs. Despite the somewhat awkward air of 221b these days, the place is still home to him and the sound of violin music is now a comfort rather than a sad reminder like it was during the years Sherlock was gone.

John is just about to pass the older woman while making his way towards the stairs, when he feels her touch at his elbow. John stops and turns to look at her, taking immediate note of the concern on her face.

Instantly alert, John puts the bags down and places his hands on her shoulders.

“What’s wrong?” He asks.

Mrs. Hudson shakes her head. It just feels so…wrong to see the normally cheery old woman looking so forlorn.

“John dear, I hope you know you and Sherlock are family to me-” John nods in agreement, and wonders where she could be going with this. “- I was never blessed with children of my own, he has made many mistakes and broke both our hearts, but Sherlock is my boy in every way that matters.” Mrs. Hudson suddenly fixes fierce eyes on John. “And so are you.”

John is not one to cry, but he can’t help but be moved by her declaration. He’s not surprised necessarily; her actions – and patience - have proven how much she cares for them. With the way she treats Sherlock, it is obvious how she feels, that she would include John in that category…John simply smiles and waits for her to continue.

“I know I tease, but you can hardly blame me with the way you two always carry on, even Mrs. Turner says -” John, with his hands still on Mrs. Hudson’s shoulders, feels rapidly uncomfortable with the direction she’s headed in. He misses a few of her words but he definitely catches the last sentence. “I want you to tell me something, and be honest young man.”

“I’ll try.” John’s mouth twitches into an awkward smile.

Mrs. Hudson just sighs and shakes her head, her eyes no less fierce than they were before. John’s hands slide off her shoulders when she lifts her own arms to place her hands on John’s shoulders. It reminds him of his grandmother when she would scold him for climbing the tree in her back yard for much of his pre-adolescence - which he would always fall from.

John has lived through war, both at home and abroad, the literal kind and the kind concurrent with being the friend, blogger and flatmate of Sherlock Holmes. He’s been shot, kidnapped, had bloody explosives strapped to his chest, been at the barrel end of a gun more times than he can count, and still nothing is more terrifying than Mrs. Hudson on a mission, especially where he and Sherlock are concerned.

“My dear John, I know the last years have been difficult for you, that whole business with Mary, Sherlock too-” John’s jaw automatically clenches with the memory of his now ex-wife. “- he loves you, not simply as friends so don’t even pretend otherwise.”

John freezes. “Er…what?” John says, sure he’s missed something.

Mrs. Hudson gives him a non-aggressive tap on the cheek.

“Sherlock of course! I may be an old woman, but I’ve known that boy for years, he may like to pretend otherwise but I can read him like an open book.”

John laughs awkwardly, and gives her a vague smile. Her eyes immediately narrow.

“Mrs. Hudson, I know you’d like to believe otherwise but Sherlock and I are just friends.” John has no doubt that this is true, but the continuing tension that has lasted for months now has him doubting where he stands with the man…wherever that may be, it isn’t where Mrs. Hudson is saying, it can’t be.

To John’s surprise, Mrs. Hudson sighs and nods.

“I know, I know-” She pats John’s cheek, humouring him, and then backs away. “You can’t fool me John dear. Remember that.” She says firmly with the point of her finger and makes her way back into her own flat; 221A.

The gentle click of her door startles John out of his frozen position.

“What the hell…” John’s heart is pounding faster than he’d like. He ignores this and shrugs off the bizarre conversation with Mrs. Hudson with a laugh and a smile.

Because she can’t be right, aside from interest in Irene Adler Sherlock hasn’t shown any romantic or sexual interest in anyone or anything in the entire time he’s known the man. And John certainly has never thought of him in a way besides friendship, he just…he can’t.

John Watson picks up the abandoned bags of food and makes his own way up to home. He tells himself when he thinks of home he thinks of the flat, not the man currently playing the violin with masterful skill.

He almost believes it.

The memory is there and gone as quickly as it arrived. John twitches uncomfortably. To distract his mind from it, and from what just happened with John sandwiching Sherlock’s hand between their chests, he quickly goes over the medical consequences of frostbite in his head. It is dull enough to push back the emotional eddy brought on by that particular memory.

Focus John, focus.

Just then, it sounds like the gunman is finally beginning to walk away, footsteps becoming distant and harder to hear.

At the same moment John feels a faint vibration at his side, and Sherlock suddenly has both hands on John shoulders and makes a move to push him off.

John takes the cue and jumps off, carefully avoiding the ice and ignoring the crick in his middle age bones caused by the uncomfortable position.

He helps Sherlock to stand and then gives him a pointed look.

“What the hell is going on Sherlock?” John whispers.

Sherlock shakes his head. “Not now, come on John.” Sherlock gestures towards the alley entrance. “He’s still here.”

John clenches his jaw but follows without a word. Sherlock reaches the entrance right when John does. The Detective is about to lean out when John stops him.

“You stay right there.” John’s tone brooks no argument. He may have absolute faith in Sherlock’s skill, but he also has absolute faith in Sherlock’s ability to get shot at the most inopportune times.

Johns protective instinct have him wanting to make the first move, it is possible that the man knew where Sherlock and John were all along and is now waiting for them to exit. Sherlock looks like he’s about to argue, but before the man can protest John pushes him aside. He then tenses, prepared, and peers carefully around the corner.

BANG!

“Shit!” John narrowly avoids the speeding bullet with a pounding heart and plasters himself back against the wall of the alley. “Fifty feet north of us, in a store archway.”

“I suspected as much.” Sherlock, against the wall beside him, utters.

John snorts.

“Of course you did, how so? The amount of steps you could hear while he walked away? What?”

Sherlock quirks a brow. “I believe it was the trajectory of the bullet that narrowly managed to avoid your head.”

John whips around to face him. It doesn’t take long before they burst into desperately restrained laughter; very inappropriate timing, but definitely characteristic of this duo.

“You arse.” John huffs out when he finally manages to stop himself from laughing now, of all times.

Beside him Sherlock is echoing faint undercurrents of amusement, his face alight with a smile; curly hair askew from the movements of the past several minutes.

“It has been said.”

John shakes his head in amusement and takes a deep breath.

“So, what do we do now?” John asks.

Sherlock hums.

“Wait approximately four seconds.”

John raises a brow. “Why four-”

Sherlock raises a hand to silence him, pushes away from the alley wall in preparation for…whatever it is he’s waiting for. In the dark or no, both literally and metaphorically, John does the same and really hopes Sherlock isn’t about to do something stupid.

BANG BANG!

All John registers before Sherlock leaps out of hiding is that those shots came from a different gun slightly further away.

Oh for god’s sake…

“Sherlock!” John shouts. Wind bites at his face while he frantically runs after the curly-haired maniac.

The suddenness of Sherlock and John’s appearance – along with this new gun equipped person randomly appearing into the equation - seems to have startled the gunman momentarily, just long enough for the second one to nick him in the shoulder. The man howls in pain but surprisingly doesn’t drop the gun, upon seeing the three people running towards him he speeds away in a panic. He awkwardly holds out his uninjured arm and points his gun behind him, randomly firing off shots towards all three.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

It is pure luck that they haven’t gotten shot yet, or perhaps it isn’t luck, this guy doesn’t seem all that skilled really.

As this new individual fires off another shot towards their original pursuer (which misses, unfortunately) John really hopes they actually are on their side. With that hope in mind, for now John focuses his attention entirely on the increasingly unstable man practically firing blind in their direction, and Sherlock ahead of him far too close to the gunman for John’s comfort.

John really wishes he had his own weapon right about now.

It all happens in a matter of seconds.

The gunman staggers briefly on a patch of slick ice, which causes his arm to flail wildly in Sherlock’s direction while a shot is going off. Sherlock ducks in time, but for those few seconds John’s heart twists painfully in his chest.

Not again, not again, not again

John hears the new individual yell – a woman judging by the voice – while firing off another shot, which takes advantage of the brief stumbling of the original shooter by guaranteeing a hit to the man’s leg.

Just as the man howls in unintelligible Italian, Sherlock being the closest reaches him first and crashes bodily into him. The sound of their struggling bodies hitting the pavement is nearly as loud as gunshots in the otherwise empty street.

“feck.” John is only a few paces behind. Out of the corner of his eye and slightly to the front he faintly sees long hair whipping around in the snow now softly falling from the sky.

Sherlock is attempting to dislodge the gun from the growling, kicking man trying to knee Sherlock in the gut, but rather than collapse from the obvious pain he must be in – the adrenaline caused by it is clearly fueling this man with unexpected strength.

Sherlock manages to get the man pinned below him. John skids to a halt in front of the two, immediately going for the two arms struggling for control of the gun. With a long since mastered move John grabs the gunman’s arm and twists it sharply while Sherlock tries to help John by holding the struggling man down with his full body weight.

Though the man cries out in further pain, Johns sees a thumb quickly press on the trigger a second too late before the man is forced to drop the gun.

BANG!

At the same moment John feels a sharp, white hot pain sting his leg and collapses backwards, he hears a scream.

“JOHN!” …Sherlock.

John has a brief flashback to when he was trapped beneath a roaring bonfire, hearing his friend call out to him in a similar manner.

John bites his lip hard, desperately trying to hold back the screaming curses that want to bubble out – feck, feck, buggering shit, being shot is not something I’ll ever get used to - his hands automatically go to the wound he can barely reach lying down.

Blood loss and shock are whiting out his vision in spots. It isn’t difficult however to discern Sherlock’s frantic voice. John then notices him hovering over John very closely; his bare hands look like they’re shaking as he anxiously examines John’s body.

The wound is painful, but even in his current position John can tell it is little more than a nasty graze. He’s not going to die from it at least.

“I’m alright Sherlock, I’m fine.” John insists through gritted teeth. “Here’s a pair of dress trousers I won’t be wearing again.”

Sherlock looks at him as he’s done many times in the past, when according to him John had been particularly idiotic. John almost smiles at the familiar look but Sherlock is apparently not in the mood as he resolutely ignores John and inspects the wound on John’s leg; he feels trembling fingers brush alongside his own beside the bloody area.

John can recall the amount of times he has seen Sherlock this panicked, this upset, on one hand. In a flash of revelation he realizes that they all revolved around him, John Watson being danger.

John smiles lazily, head lolling off to one side and watching Sherlock as the man moves aside the torn flaps of Johns trousers in order to better assess the injury; eyes brilliantly focused.

“You’re pretty.” John finds himself mumbling, internally slapping himself a moment later.

It’s possible he might be going into shock.

Sherlock either doesn’t hear him, and the red flush on his cheeks is most likely from the freezing air, or ignores him because a second later Sherlock appears to slump in relief.

“You’re alright, yes, you’re fine. The injury is minor, missed the femoral artery, not, not fatal.” Sherlock’s normally composed tone of voice cracks on the last word. He takes a deep, shaky breath before leaning back up into Johns view; keeping one hand – with Sherlock’s sleeve pulled up – covering Johns exposed wound.

John is trying to stay conscious, but minor or not being it hurts like hell. Though it is a consideration up to a point that it isn’t quite as bad as when he got shot through his shoulder.

John’s somewhat hazy gaze follows Sherlock as he leans in close to John’s face; those vivid eyes stare at him unblinkingly, alight with unshed tears…No, Sherlock Holmes doesn’t cry, you’re hallucinating.

For a few seconds all Sherlock does is stare and John finds he is staring back.

The thought that they are in the perfect position to kiss floats across John’s blood loss addled mind.

Then, Sherlock moves. For a brief second he thinks the man is going to kiss him, John has barely any time to register how precisely not panicked the possibility makes him feel and why before he is proven wrong in that assumption. Sherlock rests his forehead briefly against Johns, causing their noses to touch temporarily; Sherlock’s hot breath ghosts across his face.

Somehow the gesture is even more tender than a kiss could ever be, and far more than John ever expected to see from Sherlock Holmes. At the moment he can’t tell if his heart is pounding because of the lingering adrenaline or because of Sherlock’s atypical closeness.

The bubble of the moment is abruptly broken when Sherlock lifts his head away, all trace of tender concern gone from his eyes to be replaced by dark, angry fire. The sight causes John to frown.

Sherlock stands up and strides to somewhere below John’s feet and out of sight.

At the same moment John notices a woman rush over from that same direction and collapse next to John’s leg. She immediately goes for the wound with practiced efficiency, ignoring John himself for the moment.

Sherlock obviously doesn’t appear concerned about her presence and right now John is too close to losing consciousness to much care either way.

“I must say I am thrilled to finally be meeting the Dr. Watson I’ve heard so much about, bloody leg wounds and gun toting wackos aside-” The woman, John can’t make out her face but judging by her voice (American?) she sounds much younger than either he or Sherlock and far too cheery despite the present situation. John snorts to himself, it’s not like he and Sherlock have ever been much better. “-you’re lucky, no bullet and with the supplies I have I’ll be able to handle this no problem.”

He’s barely listening to her, and John is beginning to feel more of the actual pain as the shock wears off, the edges of his vision become foggier. The woman pulls something out of her coat and not long after John grits his teeth as he feels a sharp sting. Some sort of disinfect is being poured liberally onto his blood soaked leg.

He hears a feminine sigh. “That’ll have to do until we get to the clinic – Sherlock! Get over here! That asshole isn’t going anywhere and I need your help to carry John before the police get here.” The woman puts pressure on the wound after letting it bleed out for a moment and turns her attention back to John. “Proper introductions will have to wait Doctor, just relax; you’ll be fine if I and this fool have anything to say about it.” John thinks he sees her smile and gesture with her free hand in Sherlock’s direction.

John doesn’t have enough energy to respond. The last thing he hears before finally succumbing to the shock, blood loss and adrenaline crash is Sherlock; in a tone John is sure would frighten the pants off of any sane individual.

“Count your blessings, if you had killed John Watson, you would not be leaving here alive.”

The last thing he sees is Sherlock rushing back to his side.

**Posted by Schmiezi** December 20, 2015 6:24 am

Chapter 2

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

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

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

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

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

He frowns. ‘Where the hell am I?’

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

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

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

Oh I hope Sherlock didn’t dress me.

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

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

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

There you are you mad bastard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“John?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John crosses his arms defensively.

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

Sherlock ignores the comment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What does that even-?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Err…what the hell is going on?

“Have I missed something here?” John asks.

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

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

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

“Oh unclench Sherlock.” Julia admonishes.

John raises an eyebrow at the comment.

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

Uh oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Julia laughs, and this time John understands why.

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

Julia hums in affirmation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She knew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pull yourself together Captain Watson!

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

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

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

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

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

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

(In more ways than one)

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

“John-”

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

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

John pretends not to notice the look she shoots Sherlock.

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

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

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

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

“Thank-you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sherlock huffs in amusement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even if it wasn’t him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John inwardly sighs. Good choice of words there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Or was pushed.” Sherlock mutters to himself.

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

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

“Nothing?” John frowns. How…bizarre.

Julia shrugs. “Nothing.”

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

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

“Do you know by whom?” John asks.

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

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

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

“It is, obviously.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“True, true.” Julia responds.

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

He takes a few deep breaths.

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

John blinks. Should I laugh or scream?

The irony and parallel to John’s first use of a cane is blatant.

“I would offer you some crutches, but…I figured you would prefer to have more control and freedom with your other arm.”

While not exactly thrilled at the prospect of using a cane again, he will need it for some support if he wants to get anywhere for at least a couple of days, especially tonight.

“Ta.” John gives Julia a polite smile and takes the cane.

The grip and sensation of the object is bitterly familiar, but after a couple of test steps John, despite the pain, finds it not intolerable to move.

John can hear a few things banging about not too far away, and assuming that is where Sherlock has scampered off to, John makes to follow.

When John reaches the office door, a grimace every few steps, Julia calls out to him.

“Dr. Watson…John, may I have a word?”

John stops walking and turns to face her. Her arms are crossed and those wide brown eyes of hers are fixed on his with a look similar to when Sherlock has his attention fixated through the lens of a microscope.

Sherlock may trust her, and John has so far yet to see a reason not to (mob connections aside), it wouldn’t even be a stretch to say that he respects her to a point, but even so…John’s posture stiffens at the look on her face.

“Alright…?” John tightens his grip on the cane.

“I realize that we’ve only just met, god awful circumstances too, and I certainly don’t know Sherlock as well as you do, but I find myself…concerned.” Julia steps closer towards John, making it impossible for John to avoid her gaze.

“Why would you be concerned about Sherlock?” John nods towards the open door, his voice somewhat apprehensive and perhaps a little defensive.

“You’re really not an idiot John, why do you insist on being one?”

John tenses.

“What?”

Julia rolls her eyes and sighs deeply.

“Ok, look, I don’t know all the details of the last year, and the last time I spoke with Sherlock directly was not long after he returned to England, but I do know one thing; I know what a heartbroken and lost Sherlock looks like. He tries to hide it, and boy is he good, but Sherlock isn’t the only one with powers of observation.”

John laughs bitterly. “I’m sorry, but are you serious? Sherlock, heartbroken? I don’t think we’re talking about the same man here.” John persistently ignores how false those words taste. He just…he can’t, a part of John knows he’s being unfair, but if he thinks otherwise of Sherlock…John can’t come back from that.

Julia blinks slowly. “Wow, you really are in denial aren’t you?” John feels a bubble of anger, which Dr. Almont evidently sees because she puts her hands up in defense. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry. It’s just…Sherlock reminds me of someone I used to know, my little brother, childlike, unique, incredibly smart…he has ever since I first met him. Sherlock doesn’t consider me a friend, but I think of him as one, and I am sure we can both agree that Sherlock can be incredibly ignorant about some things.”

John is decidedly not happy with this conversation, but he does agree with that point. He in fact said something very similar in his first case blog about him.

John nods but doesn’t speak, inwardly debating whether or not he should just leave before she can say something that will mess with John’s head even more. Certainly don’t need any more help with that.

“The few times I saw him during those two years, he was so incredibly focused, working as fast and thoroughly as he could…with that kind of determination, I figured he had something to go home to. You know what he said when I asked him what that was?” She appears to be waiting for some kind of response from John. He can honestly say he has very little idea how Sherlock would answer that kind of question.

John knows Sherlock loves his life, loves what he does, and maybe in some twisted way probably enjoyed the “game” of unthreading Moriarty one net at a time, perhaps he missed the Skull.

“I don’t know.” John shrugs, with a bit of a fake smile.

Julia hums. “Well, he ignored me initially. However, I have a bad habit of eavesdropping, pretty much my only vice ok? Anyway, I left the room where we were at the time and waited just outside the doorway to see if he did anything. He did. Pulled out his phone like he was going to make a call, he stopped before he could press talk. The only thing he said was ‘I wasn’t supposed to miss you’, you. I bet my jiggly boobs I know exactly who he was talking about, Dr. Watson.”

On that note she brushes past John, careful to avoid his injured leg, with a vaguely sad expression, and leaves the room; presumably to go after Sherlock.

John is frozen in the doorway, heart pounding in his ears, stomach swooping and feeling faintly sick.

He sighs and brushes a tired hand down his face, very much ignoring the Pandora’s Box labelled ‘Sherlock Holmes’ rattling around in his head.

What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Why would she even…? Christ, I can’t…can’t deal with this right now

“Wow, you really are in denial aren’t you?”

John groans angrily and turns around, with the intent of marching to wherever Sherlock and Dr. Almont are. Committed to helping Sherlock solve this case in whatever capacity he can with a wounded leg. Then Sherlock and he, probably just John, can apologize to Mrs. Blackhart for the abrupt departure, and then go home on the 26th as scheduled, back to London and 221b.

Everything will be fine; Sherlock and John will find their equilibrium again. They just need a little time, a little bit more time, and then the strange distance will lift and everything will go back to normal.

“You’re really not an idiot John, why do you insist on being one?”

**Posted by Schmiezi** December 20, 2015 6:26 am

Chapter 3

“Sherlock Holmes! What the hell are you doing?”

The first thing John hears when he finds Sherlock and Julia, after having spent a few moments regaining his composure, is Dr. Almont scolding the Detective.

When John enters the room; complete with long counters and multiple cabinets on either side, including a medical table, bed, various equipment, and a few chairs lining the wall (also some boxes, many full but a few only halfway), it is easy to spot Sherlock.

The man has climbed onto the counter via chair and is now inspecting a spot of one of the cabinets with his miniature magnifier; the top of his curly head barely brushing the ceiling.

“Solving your problem.” Sherlock answers. He swipes his finger through some dark substances he finds, expression thoughtful. “I believe that is what you contacted me for.”

Julia rolls her eyes and throws her arms up in exasperation. “And that involves monkeying about on the counters?”

“Clearly.”

She snorts and leans against the opposite wall. At this point John enters the room fully; decidedly not looking at Julia, though seeing Sherlock as well has his mind spinning loudly with her words.

“How are we all getting along then?” John, cane in hand, makes his way over to a chair – the one closest to Sherlock – and sits down.

The sight of Sherlock walking on counters is not even close to the strangest thing he has seen the man do.

Julia glances towards John. Beyond a slight quirk of an eyebrow, she is showing no sign that their conversation ever took place.

“Fabulously, Sherlock here is showing off his impressive ability to balance and I’m admiring the view.” Julia pointedly looks at John – he frowns – then back to Sherlock and winks with a smile.

John follows her gaze and feels a hot blush when he realizes she is referring to his arse…sans coat it is very much on display.

John briefly considers getting up and blocking her view, but then realizes that she is goading him on purpose.

He scowls.

Sherlock gives no sign that he even heard her, something John is grateful for.

Suddenly Sherlock exhales a familiar gasp and jumps – backwards! – off the counter, completely bypassing the chair. Very quickly, he crouches by the trash can adjacent to the counter he jumped off of. After a few seconds of searching, he pulls out a dirty tissue and then pockets it.

John watches this feeling a bit perplexed. Sherlock turns around with a pleased smile.

“The young woman, Anne, hid something here, a piece of jewellery more specifically a necklace. It is she who broke in twice, which indicates it must have great sentimental value considering it would not have been easy to break in here with only one useful arm, though not impossible. This proves her determination. However, she is not responsible for you being followed Dr. Almont, though I believe she is connected to it. Probably it has something to do with why she felt the need to hide it in the first place. If that turns out to be the case, it is likely the necklace is also financially valuable as well. Julia, I need to see your flat.” Sherlock recites at his usual fast pace while straightening out his suit which had become ruffled from his acrobatic move before.

Julia frowns in thought.

“Whoa, whoa, back up there, why would she do that?” John stretches his leg out and leans forward to watch Sherlock closely.

“And how do you figure it was a necklace?” Dr. Almont asks as well.

Sherlock smirks and looks at John, almost smug.

“It was fairly obvious. I’m sure John can tell you how I came to that conclusion.”

“Sherlock…” John gives him a narrow-eyed look. “You’re not doing this just to make me look like an idiot are you?”

“Of course not, you are above average intelligence, nowhere near my calibre of course but I have confidence enough in your abilities to figure out this minor detail.”

Git.

“Be careful Sherlock. That was almost more of a compliment than an insult, wouldn’t want anyone to think you were decent. People might talk.” John grins.

The familiar moment of banter gives John hope maybe they can move past this hurdle in their relationship, and his smile unbidden turns a bit softer when Sherlock looks obviously pleased by the comment.

“It is hardly my intention to insult you John, I merely state the truth.” Sherlock counters with a smirk.

John snorts. “Arrogant arse.”

“Idiots.” Julia mutters under her breath, sighing into her hands. The comment goes unheard by Sherlock or John.

Sherlock’s smile widens. “Go on then John.”

“Ok, uh…” John frowns in thought as he thinks over what they know, both what Sherlock has observed and what Julia has told them…there was something…how would Sherlock – oh. John’s eyes light up. “The buttons, on the shirt?” John speculates.

Sherlock is positively glowing.

“Ohhhh…” Julia murmurs.

“Excellent John, further proof you are not the average idiot.” Sherlock’s corresponding nod is vaguely condescending, but his pleasure at what was admittedly an easy observation on John’s part is genuine none-the-less. Still…Julia bites her lip to keep from laughing. John silently wishes there was a newspaper nearby for him to wack Sherlock over the head with. “Now, Dr. Almont, you have a vehicle nearby I presume?”

“Yes, but-”

“Good. Drive us over to your flat and I will explain the details on the way.”

“Sherlock-” John tries.

“Make sure to take the easiest, most obvious way there and don’t drive too fast.” Sherlock speaks over both Julia and John as he exits the room and heads back to the office, probably for his coat.

Feeling more than a little frustrated, John pushes himself up and follows after Sherlock as swiftly as his injured leg allows. Julia is close behind.

“Are you crazy? We’ll be followed for sure! What am I saying, of course you’re crazy.” Julia shouts after him.

They reach the office to see Sherlock donning his coat, and pulling his scarf out from one of the pockets. He wraps it around his pale, angular neck.

John observes the man with narrowed eyes for a moment.

“That’s what you want; you want to allow this person to follow us.”

“Oh hell.” Julia bangs her head once against the wall and heads over to her closet.

“Dr. Almont has a gun, and I would honestly be surprised if it turns out we will have to contend with more than one individual. This will all be dealt with a lot quicker if we allow them to follow us, and if he has been following her every night there is reason to believe he is out there waiting for us to leave. I don’t perceive any problems arising that the three of us won’t be able to handle.” Sherlock states all this while thumbing through something on his mobile.

“I’m not exactly at my best Sherlock.” John sighs. “And who knows what this guy could do – and so help me Sherlock if you say ‘I do’ I will come over there and jab you with this cane!” John bites out the last when it looked like Sherlock had been about to speak. Sherlock, clearly saving his battles, abruptly closes his mouth. John is pretty certain he hears Julia giggle. “With me out of commission I’m practically useless and we only have one gun. There has got to be a smarter way to do this.”

Goddamnit I wish I didn’t get shot. If he hadn’t John would only feel marginally more comfortable with this. Even so, he hates to admit it but Sherlock is right; this will probably be the fastest way.

“Perhaps.” Sherlock concedes, much to John’s surprise. “But you are hardly useless John; even injured you are more proficient in hand to hand combat than many others. As you’ve noticed Dr. Almont is skilled with her weapon, and since I fully intend for us to arrive before the perpetrator, we’ll have at least a few minutes preparation time. Besides, this is the quickest, easiest way to the successful conclusion of this case.” Sherlock pockets his mobile and pulls his gloves out of his pocket.

John sighs, and abruptly finds his coat being draped over his shoulder by Julia. He gives her a nod of thanks before placing the cane against the wall, and then pulling the coat on and buttoning it up.

When John looks up it is to see Sherlock walking in John’s direction.

As John holds the cane in a far too familiar grip, Sherlock practically pushes his gloves at John again.

John feels a pang at the gesture.

“The easiest way isn’t always the right way Sherlock.” John tells him seriously as he pulls the gloves on.

Sherlock makes an aborted move to pass John. He turns his head slightly in John’s direction but doesn’t face him completely.

“So I have learned.” His voice is low, and thoughtful.

The air changes abruptly to something…else in the wake of Sherlock’s words. John looks at Sherlock and finds himself holding his breath. Sherlock meets John’s eyes tentatively before quickly looking away; a blank expression falls over his face.

John thinks he feels Sherlock brush against his arm as the Detective exits the room unnecessarily fast.

John breathes in shaky breath and turns to follow; his fingers grasping the cane even tighter than before.

Behind them is Julia Almont; standing there donned in her own winter wear, hat, mittens and coat, wondering if they forgot she was there.

She blinks herself out of her stupor.

“Seriously, idiots.” Julia mutters to herself before grabbing her keys off her desk, exiting the study and closing the door behind her.

***

A few minutes later the three of them are in Julia’s car, a tiny blue thing barely large enough to hold three people, and are currently on their way to her flat. John has the back seat all to himself, in order to stretch out his injured leg, while Sherlock occupies the front seat with Julia who is obviously driving.

They’ve only been on the road a minute or two, the darkness and lights of the unfamiliar city whooshing by, and Sherlock has yet to say a word; texting something frantically on his mobile.

John leans forward, as much as his position and leg allow, and parks himself in between Julia and Sherlock, one elbow resting on each of their seats with his hands clasped in the middle.

“Care to enlighten us now Sherlock?”

“Hm?” Sherlock hums, still frowning at his mobile.

“Sherlock-” John starts, feeling frustrated.

He is interrupted however when Julia releases one hand from the stirring wheel and in a move John doubts Sherlock saw coming (until it was too late), she reaches over and yanks Sherlock’s mobile from his hands and pockets it.

Sherlock stares at her in shock, jaw flapping furiously with his hands frozen uselessly in the air. Julia just gives Sherlock a scolding side eye.

And John leans back in his seat clutching his ribs to keep from exploding because he’s laughing bloody murder.

Sherlock whips around to look at John; his eyes full of betrayal.

This just makes John laugh harder.

“You will get your precious phone back once you’ve given us those details you mentioned.” Julia’s tone brooks no argument.

Sherlock looks at her, brow creased in infuriation.

“I was dealing with a time sensitive matter, and I would remind you that I-”

“Sherlock.” John speaks firmly, mostly to keep Sherlock from unnecessarily insulting the woman driving the bloody car.

Sherlock flicks an annoyed gaze towards John, and then to Julia, before facing the front again. A few seconds pass and then, as though the whole, odd, exchange never happened John can spot the very moment Sherlock slips into deducing mode.

“Dr. Almont, you’re moving correct?”

“Yes, but what does that-”

“I noticed you had several boxes, many of which were only half full, around the clinic, for the past couple of weeks you’ve been accumulating your supplies and other various items and regulating them to your flat. Including several plants, one of which was in the same room in which the young woman briefly occupied.”

“How did you-”

Sherlock waves away her question. “Obvious, minute soil deposits were left behind. Anne used her request for water as a distraction to hide her necklace in the plant, with every intention of coming back to get it. However, when she broke in to do so, you had already moved the plant. She panicked, searching for it, but when she didn’t find it she came back the next night to be sure. The fact that she didn’t try to approach you again shows me that someone close to her found out and frightened her into staying put, I suspect the very same individual she was hiding the necklace from. They got the truth of what she did out of her, and I suspect it was the same person that pushed her-”

John frowns deeply.

“How can you know for sure she was pushed?” John interrupts.

“Really John? From what we know of Anne’s behaviour, it is obvious she lives in an environment where abuse, mostly emotional and psychological, on occasion physical, is common place. No one would leave their home, late at night with no coat, in their pyjamas, unless they had to get away quickly.”

“feck.” Julia mutters, and John echoes her sentiment; anger causing his fists and jaw to tighten.

He suspected, he just…didn’t want it to be true, and there is no reason to believe Sherlock is wrong.

“As I mentioned before, the necklace is most likely valuable. There is no logical reason for Anne to hide it somewhere, to give the illusion that it had been lost as I suspect that was her plan, unless it was important to her. For some financial reason, a family member – likely a father or brother – wanted to sell it. With the facts I currently have it is difficult to pin point exactly why, however it was probably debt they owe to a criminal acquaintance, given the nature of what has occurred so far and the physical state of the man who shot John, I suspect the motivation to be drug related. It is obvious she wasn’t homeless, and given that she obviously knew who to look for, someone she knew, probably through her families’ connection – which is where the most likely possibility of criminal acquaintance enters in – to Dr. Almont and her practice. An altercation occurred, she was pushed and from the bruising Dr. Almont described it was probably down a short set of stairs. She was able to get away and searched for you-” Sherlock nods in Julia’s direction. “-because of the lengths she went to protect it, the necklace likely belong to a deceased relative that meant a lot to her, and since Anne lives in an abusive home it would be all the more significant.”

Long ago, John learned to accept that even in the most horrible of cases, Sherlock will often view it with a manner of detachment that does nothing to disprove the assertion of him being cold hearted and unfeeling. It took even longer for John to recognize that it isn’t because Sherlock is unaffected; it is because he has no choice. John believes it is largely why Sherlock is so good at what he does, not letting “unnecessary” emotion cloud his senses.

There are times when to John it seems far too easy for Sherlock to do so, but that is simply the way he operates. John has noticed however that especially lately, it doesn’t seem to be as easy for Sherlock to maintain that cold distance as he once did. Like now, John and Julia are visibly angry at the talk of this young woman who is apparently being abused; to the regular outside observer Sherlock has is in fact maintained his detachment. However, despite his tone, there is tightness to Sherlock’s eyes that betrays the truth that he is not as unaffected as he seems, he’ll just never admit it.

“So that’s why we’re going to Julia’s flat, you believe the necklace is still in the plant.” John adds.

Julia meets John’s eyes in the rear view mirror. “It was not a plant, it was a miniature rose.”

John lifts his hands in mock defense.

From this angle John can see Sherlock quirk an amused smile.

“I know it is.” Sherlock grins. John rolls his eyes.

“And what about the guy who shot me?”

“And my stalker?” Julia asks she makes a turn down a busy street.

“The man who shot you-” John narrows his eyes when he notices Sherlock’s posture noticeably tightens. “-is most likely a friend of the stalker, and it was clear he only had minimal experience with a gun and I’m certain if the stalker could have afforded it, he probably would’ve hired someone with more skill. I suspect the stalker asked him to follow and stop me if I were to head in the direction of Dr. Almont’s clinic. In all likelihood he recognized the individual who handed me the message initially sent to me by Dr. Almont and suspected I was connected in some way. He was getting desperate, and will continue to do so and make mistakes.”

“The stalker?” John clarifies, watching Sherlock closely as he nods. John pieces a few more things together. “Oh…you think that the man stalking Julia is the brother or father of Anne and he was the one that got what Anne really did with necklace out of her somehow and started following Julia to see where she went, or where she lived, because he believes she must have it?”

Julia’s eyes widen briefly, tensing a bit in her seat. “And he hasn’t approached me directly because if he really does know who I am, then he knows I could twist and cut his balls while wearing a straightjacket, something he would probably prefer to avoid.”

John again leans forward between the seats.

“Although if he is as desperate as Sherlock says, he probably would’ve eventually. You’ve obviously been too good at shaking him off, since he hasn’t been able to figure out where you live.”

Julia nods. “I keep my home base under tight wraps. I doubt he could easily find anyone in Milan who knows.”

“So now we’re purposefully leading the desperate bastard, who probably has his own gun, to your place. Perfect.” John says, with only mild sarcasm.

“Seems so.” Julia shrugs. A twinge in his leg causes John to lean back. He really, he really hates being shot. “I haven’t twisted or cut anyone’s balls for a while…” She muses.

John snorts and Julia smirks.

John suddenly notices that Sherlock is suspiciously silent throughout this entire thing. He looks curiously at the Detective, and resists the urge to laugh when he notices that Sherlock has obviously taken advantage of John and Julia’s distracted state and has an arm stretched in the space between Julia’s back and the seat (she appears to have a habit of leaning forward slightly when driving), which is slowly pulling back and – yes – with his mobile held delicately between his bare fingertips.

Sherlock meets John’s eyes in the rear-view mirror with a raised eyebrow. John shakes his head with an amused smile.

It isn’t until Sherlock pulls his arm away; mobile now clasped firmly in hand, and quickly returns the appendage to his lap, that Julia finally notices something just happened.

“Wha-?” Her brow is creased as she looks from Sherlock to John and back again, her eyes narrow in on the smirk adorning the Detective’s face and her jaw drops when she sees those nimble fingers flying across the pad of his mobile. The speed at which her head whips from side to side, from pocket to Sherlock, makes John feel dizzy. Julia then briefly rests her head against the back of her seat with a groan. “How did I not notice…hell. You’re good.” She giggles a little.

“Of course I am.” Sherlock smiles and pockets his mobile, hands clasped together and resting atop his thighs.

John snorts.

“And so modest.” Julia mutters.

“I believe John would beg to differ.” Sherlock teases.

John laughs again.

“Aw, you know we love you anyway buddy.” Julia reaches over and ruffles Sherlock’s hair.

Given her behaviour, immediately John can definitely see how Julia views him as a little brother.

Sherlock cringes away and stares at Dr. Almont with a look that could shatter diamonds. Julia of course is entirely unaffected.

“I find myself considering forgoing the consequences of ejecting oneself from a moving vehicle.” Sherlock mutters as he rearranges his hair.

Julia just ignores him, and John finds himself gazing at Sherlock with a small smile.

It isn’t until everything is silent for a few minutes that he realizes Julia’s words, though spoken with apparent jovial jest, were entirely serious and truthful in their implication, and that she gave John a sharp look through the rear-view mirror.

The smile slowly fades from John’s face and a more troubled, pensive expression takes over.

No matter what Sherlock does, no matter what his apparent flaws may be, John realizes something; he really does love him anyway.

With recent experiences fighting for attention and control (how John felt when Sherlock touched him so gently when he was lying, bleeding on the cold street…) with long held assumptions and old habits of denial and repression inside John’s mind, a question blares with siren strength; how do I love him? John’s effort to smother the voice that says, ‘if you have to ask, doesn’t that answer your question?’, with only minimal success.

The street they’re on now is more deserted, old style apartment buildings are becoming more common, they’re probably nearly there.

John sighs, thoughtful and maybe a bit sad, not surprising given the direction of his thoughts.

The sound seems to have caught Sherlock’s attention. Out of the corner of his eye John sees Sherlock searching him with a frown, the knowledge that Sherlock is now observing him has John trying to maintain an aura of nonchalance while struggling not to tense or give power to the irrational thought that what he’s thinking is blaring in neon across his forehead.

Stealing himself, John meets Sherlock’s gaze with a hard one of his own. John has the sudden sense that they’re both daring the other to do – say…something.

John shrugs. What?

Sherlock suddenly looks unsure, if John didn’t know any better he’d say his expression is almost…shy.

Sherlock Holmes is not shy.

Now John is confused. Sherlock closes his eyes, shakes his head and turns away from John, then looks resolutely out his own window. John frowns in his direction.

What was that?

Julia flicks her gaze between Sherlock and John, grumbling something unintelligible under her breath.

Just when John also considers forgoing the consequences of ejecting himself from a moving vehicle, if only to escape the all too familiar tension, Julia pulls into a walled parking lot with barely enough room on either side for the tiny car to squeeze through. In front of them is a small, three story, stone, apartment complex.

The second the car stops moving Sherlock is out the door. Wary that Julia will attempt to corner John again, he quickly moves to open the car door at his side. Before he can open it however, it is flung open from the other side to reveal Sherlock holding the door open for John’s convenience.

John resists the instinctive reaction to gape in surprise. The cold is biting into his skin already. He pushes himself out of the car, fumbling a little with the cane, and just when he has his footing – cane gripped tightly in hand – and automatically reaches out to close the door, Sherlock does it for him.

John is both miffed, and alright – touched by the gesture. He has no chance to say anything before Sherlock is striding away towards the building entrance.

John shakes off the moment and walks forward. Behind him he hears Julia exit the car and then a small *beep* as it locks.

It hurts a bit to walk, but it’s nothing John can’t handle. When John and Julia reach the entrance, an old style glass door – that appears to have no buzz in system or doorman, Sherlock has it open and is waiting for them.

Julia enters first, already unlocking the inner door with a key from her pocket, John second; stubbornly refusing to look at Sherlock even though he can feel the man’s gaze fixed on him as he passes by, their coats brush together briefly.

“Ta.” John mutters absently as he enters the building and hears the whoosh of the door closing shut behind Sherlock, preventing the icy air from entering any further.

Julia has the inner door unlocked. With a push she enters into a small lobby (complete with a staircase and an elevator that looks far too old to still be in service…which it isn’t according to a sign in Italian John assumes says something like ‘not in order’), John follows close behind. Sherlock passes them both and John tells himself that the faint pressure he thinks he feels along his lower back, as the Detective passes, is all in his imagination.

The man’s long legs carry him up the stairs two at a time.

“Hey! I haven’t told you which apartment is mine!” Julia hurries after him.

“Second floor, second door to the left and closest to the front of the building.” Sherlock calls out casually in response.

“Know it all.” Julia, a step or two above John, mutters.

“Oi! Thanks for waiting.” John groans as he begins his somewhat painful ascent up the stairs. Still, no matter how aggravating it is to have another bullet wound, with the memory of his shoulder and all the trauma that caused, he is very much aware that the graze to his leg could’ve been much, much worse.

Sherlock is already ahead of them, but Julia does turn around to ask John if he needs any assistance. He refuses but thanks her regardless, he’s just grateful she’s only on the second floor; he can almost feel the still fresh stitches giving him the evil eye as he forces himself through gritted teeth to complete the ascent.

When John and Julia reach the second floor hallway, John only sees a few doors. Sherlock is pacing impatiently in front of the one down to the left and yes, in front of the single window bringing foggy winter moonlight into the hallway. The building appears to be good condition, ordinary and unassuming in appearance both outside and in. John supposes it isn’t a bad place for someone like Julia to hunker down in for a few months.

“Hurry, I believe we’ll be expecting some less than desirable company in approximately ten minutes.” Sherlock bounces a bit on his toes.

“Chill out, I’m right here.” Julia pulls out her key, sticks it in the keyhole and turns the lock.

It is when she does this that John first notices the line of a gun visible through her now open coat.

“You’re sure we were followed?” John asks Sherlock as Julia jiggles a bit with the door.

Sherlock gives John a look. “Positive. As I said before John, this man is becoming more desperate as time passes; desperation makes people even more idiotic than they already are. He will make the mistake of confronting us directly; no longer caring that we are both in possession of a weapon, and outnumber him three to one.” Sherlock pauses and looks out the hallway window. “Want for money and love are the two desires human nature will continually sacrifice reason and sanity for, it is a constant and predictable pattern.” Sherlock’s attention is distant for a moment, eyes and brow drawn.

The way Sherlock says ‘predictable’ it is clear he is frustrated by that fact, perhaps annoyed.

John can’t deny that Sherlock is right. Though money is not something John has ever had major aspirations for, love…he has enough personal experience with that.

John glances up at Sherlock at the thought.

The question is unbidden on his lips and out before he has time to rein it in. “Do you count yourself in that pattern?” John is sure Sherlock is going to deny it, perhaps counter with a smart arse comment.

However, Sherlock is oddly still for a moment. Right when John is cursing himself for asking such a ridiculous question to Sherlock of all people –

“Am I human John?” Sherlock asks, matter-of-fact, facing forward.

John is momentarily surprised by the question. “Generally.” He immediately answers. Sherlock appears to be amused by John’s response, but it doesn’t escape John’s notice that Sherlock is decidedly not looking at him.

“Contrary to popular opinion, I am not immune to human nature.” Sherlock looks at John once, eyes dark pools that contrast with his pale skin, and then turns away. He doesn’t respond further. John gets the sense he isn’t going to.

When John’s heart begins to beat a faster pace, he doesn’t understand why.

“Guys?”

John looks away from Sherlock and sees that Julia has gotten the door open and is waiting for them to enter, her eyes flick between the two of them with a look far too knowing for John’s comfort.

John nods, posture and mind-sight going to battle, ready like the flick of a switch.

They enter; the only sound is the click of Julia closing the door behind them.

The first thing John notices is the boxes, open, closed and half open. The second thing he notices is that it is smaller than he expected, not that much bigger than the bedsit John occupied before meeting Sherlock. And finally, the third thing he notices is a few plants grouped together on the coffee table in front of the sofa. One of them is a miniature rose plant.

Sherlock’s coat billows around him when he walks over to the pink blossoms. He falls to his knees in front of the table and immediately begins digging through the soil. John has the suddenly amusing image of Sherlock as a bloodhound desperately searching for the bone he buried; it isn’t the first time he has made that comparison.

John looks around the flat once more, taking in all the details in preparation for the confrontation that will be happening soon, and then hobbling over to the sofa. He leans against the sofa arm to ease the pressure on his wounded leg, eyes fixed on Sherlock digging through the soil. Out of the corner of his eye he spots Julia adjusting her glasses and then taking out her gun from a holster that had been well hidden by her coat. She purposefully leans against the wall in the most prime position for keeping an eye on the flat door and then proceeds to look over her weapon to make sure it is ready; tension evident in line of her eyes and mouth, yet her hand movements are remarkably calm and sure.

The windows are letting in a surprising amount of moonlight and starlight now that the snowy clouds have dispersed from the sky. John has a good view of the entryway and parking lot from where he’s half-standing, so far there is no sign of this mystery man. He had to have been tailing them in a car; unfortunately John’s position in their vehicle wasn’t best for surveying the road behind them. Even if it were they were on busy streets most of the time. There would’ve been no easy way to tell which was which. Given Sherlock’s confidence that the man has followed them successfully and will find the flat, and consequently them in short order, John assumes Sherlock must have noticed him.

Most people would try to get away from a stalker, not purposefully lure them closer.

At that thought John’s gaze momentarily draws away from the window and towards Sherlock…at precisely the moment Sherlock pulls a long silvery chain, with some sort of pendant, from the flower pot; the Detective smiles in triumph.

Julia is watching with obvious interest.

Of course the bugger was right.

The Detective lays the piece of jewellery flat along the surface of his palm; his eyes widen briefly as he examines it, brushing away damp soil from pendant and chain. John moves to stand at Sherlock’s side in order to see it more closely; a simple chain with a large, teardrop shaped silver pendant with something on the front...huh.

“Is that-?”

“A flute.” Sherlock murmurs. “The chain is silver in colour, though the metal itself is platinum as is the flute pendant; it is adorned with diamonds as well. Given the size of the pendant, and allowing for variance depending on the exact weight of the diamonds in addition to the cocoon style of the chain itself, I estimate it to be worth approximately between six thousand or ten thousand pounds at the very least.” Sherlock recites this while examining it further, particularly the pendant.

Least? John whistles. That money may not be considered a fortune to some, but for someone desperate for cash it might as well be a million pounds.

“Wow, it must really be special to Anne then if she was desperate enough to hide it like she did.” Julia comments with slightly wide eyes.

Sherlock hums noncommittally. He turns over the flute pendant to inspect the back; it is flat and covered almost entirely with etching.

“It’s engraved.” John murmurs. “A name? A date?” He guesses.

“What does it say?” Julia asks, peering over from her position a few feet away.

“A phrase. Italian.” Sherlock answers while pulling his miniature magnifier out from his pocket. He turns to face the window, tilting the necklace closer to the blazing moon and holding the glass a few centimeters above the pendant. “Solo l'armonia di amicizia facilita tutte le difficoltà, e senza questa simpatia non c'è gioia sulla terra.”

It is not the first time John has heard Sherlock speak Italian ever since arriving in the country, but there is a soft reverence, tinged with surprise, in the way he utters those words.

John opens his mouth to ask the obvious question only to be interrupted by Julia.

“Only friendship’s harmony eases all hardships, and without this sympathy
there is no joy on earth.” She recites with a smile pulling at her lips. “I suppose I should’ve expected that.” Julia adds with a nod towards Sherlock and the necklace.

Johns heart begins beating just a little bit faster, unbidden he edges closer to Sherlock.

Sherlock nods, even though he gives no outward appearance to suggest he was listening to Julia at all, his expression is a thoughtful one as he traces the etching with a long finger. He pockets the necklace carefully.

“Am I missing something?” John asks.

“It is a translation from ‘The Magic Flute’, an Opera by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.” Sherlock answers and positions himself in the shadow of the window in front of him; able to view the outside world but not be seen by it.

“Huh, ok.” John shrugs with a nod of acknowledgement, rubbing the back of his neck and trying not to show how those words have affected him, and having been spoken by Sherlock is just the double whammy.

Opera is not his forte, but he has heard of a few of the more popular and famous ones. Until recently he had never actually seen an Opera, nor had any reason to believe Sherlock had either. He wasn’t surprised though when he noticed how enthralled Sherlock got, despite vocalising his boredom afterwards, when watching the multiple ones in The Ring Cycle. Sherlock has always enjoyed music, though John has more often heard him bring it to life upon his violin than listening to it, particularly the classics.

John takes a deep breath moves back a few steps to sit on the sofa arm this time.

Sherlock continues his watchful gaze out the window; Julia is still alert in her position by the door as is John on the sofa.

They wait.

They don’t have to wait long. Barely a minute passes before Sherlock speaks.

“He’s here.”

Julia and John join Sherlock at the window. He can’t see a car, but the man could’ve simply parked along the street, with the walled in parking lot hiding it from view. Regardless, it is hardly difficult to see him now; he’s not much taller than John, covered head to toe in thick, black winter wear, with the hood pulled up to hide his face. John can see the butt of the gun sticking out of his pocket, right hand on the base.

“Kinda hard to tell, but it certainly looks like the man I’ve been seeing, same coat at any rate.” Julia comments.

John watches as the man walks a somewhat shaky pace towards the building, looking from side to side, but never up.

“He’s not being awfully smart is he?” The question is rhetorical, no one answers besides twin snorts of ‘obviously’ from Sherlock and Julia.

Without seeing his face John can’t be certain, but by his physical manner and unsteady walking…the man must be running on pure adrenaline by this, John lays odds that he likely hasn’t slept in days. This fact is only slightly reassuring; it could make subduing him easier, but depending on what happens from this point on it may also turn out to be akin to pushing a wounded, angry animal into a corner; lashing out with nowhere else to go.

Not for the first time John wishes he hadn’t gotten himself shot again.

“How will he know which apartment to go to? Maybe we should head him off, I would really rather not see more people get hurt.” Julia posits as she moves back to her previous position.

It’s a good point, and John is about to ask Sherlock this before the man speaks quickly.

“There is only one other tenant currently in the building and they are on the floor above you according to the apartment number painted on the parking spot occupied by the only other car in the lot. In all likelihood the rest of the tenants are visiting family for the holidays. Besides, I made sure to walk through a sizeable mud puddle only partly frozen near the front door. This man may be an idiot, but I am sure he will have very little trouble finding us.”

John blinks. “Amazing.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicker towards John and an amused smile lilts his lips.

“I believe you need a new adjective…but thank-you.” The last is uttered quietly.

John smirks briefly.

Aforementioned man skims around the puddle Sherlock himself mentioned, nearly at the door now and picking up speed.

“Dr. Almont, give John your gun.” Sherlock says suddenly and moves away from the window. “You are skilled Julia, however even with a limp; John’s skill with a weapon exceeds your own.” Sherlock explains and moves to stand in front of the table on which the rose plant lies, directly in front of the door. He picks up the plant and moves it somewhere out of sight.

John is both surprised and pleased by Sherlock’s praise, limp comment aside. Julia looks like she wants to argue but when the sound of the front door being roughly closed below there is no time to argue.

Julia merely sighs and hands the gun over to John. In his peripheral vision John notices Sherlock release an exhale and some of the tension from his body, as though relieved. John doesn’t have time to think on the reaction however.

The apartment is utterly silent as John moves to where Julia was standing and Julia quickly mirrors his position on the other side of the door. John notices her reach into her pocket and pull out a pocket knife.

They can hear cautious footsteps on the stairs drawing closer as they ascend. John leans the cane against the wall and adjusts his stance accordingly along with a fire ready hold on the gun; he is grateful for the adrenaline surging through his body that alerts his senses and glosses over the painful throbbing of his leg. If this gets physical John might not be much good, but barring any crazy acrobatics, he is still an excellent shot.

The footsteps grow closer, John tenses as does Julia; the latter breathes deep and encloses her grip around the small knife. Sherlock appears utterly calm and John’s heart rate starts to pick up in panic when he notices Sherlock is still entirely within view of the front door, searching for something in the nearly empty kitchen area, if he doesn’t move soon; he will be the first thing this man sees.

John wants to yank the crazy bastard away and almost makes a move to do so. Sherlock stills John with a pointed look and a hand movement; calm, collected and confident. It goes against every instinct surging in John’s body, but with the man bearing down on them now there is no time.

What the bloody hell is he doing? Not even behind any cover the lunatic… John yells inside his head when he notices Sherlock actually crouch in front of the door his hands moving around, the long flaps of his coat fall over them so John can’t see what he’s doing.

Thud, thud, thud…

The footsteps are louder than ever, soon they stop directly behind the closed door. John runs through multiple scenarios in his head. He must know they’re in there, what will be this man’s first move? Will he come in guns blazing? Shoot first ask questions later?

It is no more risky, perhaps less so in some ways, than many other cases Sherlock and he have been on before. Sherlock has a reason for doing everything, every movement he has made and every choice he is making now will have an ultimate purpose. Whatever else is going on with them, John trusts Sherlock, and when you’re in a battle, you have no choice but to trust your allies.

John looks around once more, meeting the gaze of Julia – breathing remarkably steadily, John has the passing thought of wondering how many times she has been in situations like this before – and lastly Sherlock. John breathes a sigh of relief when he notices Sherlock swiftly move out of his crouch and place himself beside the window and against the wall. He looks at John then, and they easily find each other’s gaze in the room illuminated only by moonlight. The two men, in the battlefield storm of criminal intrigue, without the trappings of their personal lives confusing their heads and blinding their hearts, are perfectly in sync in that moment.

Click.

John looks down, his fingers automatically tightening around the gun, and sees the doorknob turning. Both Julia and John raise their prospective weapons in anticipation of this man’s entry, currently John is closest and will be in the position most likely to incapacitate this man quickly.

Suddenly, as the door begins to creak open slowly, John notices Sherlock make silent, frantic movements with his hands in John’s direction…as though pushing him away. John blinks but obeys the command and backs up a few feet, gun cocked in the direction of the door.

Then it happens.

Later, John will laugh. Now, John watches the next few seconds as though in slow motion.

John doesn’t even flinch when the door is suddenly kicked open and a man bursts through with his own gun clutched tightly and raised. John is about to make his move when the man appears to slip on something, flails about for a second – unable to achieve steady footing, falls with a loud, pained groan and drops his gun in shock.

What the hell –

Julia looks almost as surprised as John feels. No one hesitates though. Before the man can move, Sherlock collapses and pins the man (already trying to pick himself up) to the ground by the base of his neck as John resists the urge to cry out when he himself falls to the ground (hitting his still mildly bruised knee and pulling his wound in the process), grabs the man’s arms and pins them tightly to his back.

“Scendo me! Scendo!” The man yells out in Italian. John may not understand the words, but the sentiment is clear by the way he struggles. Luckily for them, this man’s adrenaline appears to be draining and it is only somewhat difficult to keep him positioned while Sherlock pulls what looks like zip tie cuffs out of his pocket (I swear the man has the oddest things in there sometimes, pretty sure he pulled a bottle of aged human teeth out of there once) and tightens them securely around the man’s wrists.

Julia swiftly steps around them and picks up the loose gun; effectively disarming it.

**Posted by Schmiezi** December 20, 2015 6:27 am

John assumes Julia must flick on the light as well, because for the first time since they entered the flat the entire room is completely illuminated.

“I know you speak English, so listen to me very, very carefully.” Sherlock has his head poised close to the ear of the man John still has in his hold; one hand keeping his confined wrists still and the other checking for any other hidden weapons on his person. At Sherlock’s voice, deep and menacing (John’s body shivers involuntarily in response), the man’s protests very quickly quiet. “You are in the presence of three individuals far more skilled and dangerous than your deplorable self.” Sherlock’s face is eerily calm; his eyes flash with emotion that reminds John of when Mrs. Hudson was injured and temporarily held at gunpoint in 221b. John remembers that if Sherlock is right, this man – going by his physical appearance, and what Sherlock deduced about the woman Anne, John guesses this must be her brother – abuses Anne on a daily basis, has terrorized Dr. Almont and is indirectly responsible for John getting shot. “You will remain silent until I say so.”

John wonders which of those has Sherlock the most angered.

Then again that could just be because this case wasn’t exactly “stimulating” by Sherlock standards, somehow this seems the most unlikely option to John; true or not.

The man looks genuinely afraid despite the defiance rigid in the tension present throughout his entire body. He does nod however.

Even when dealing with the most horrid of people, and they have come across a hell of a lot doing what they do, Sherlock rarely lets his objectivity and detachment from the facts crack. If he feels sympathy for a victim or hatred towards those that have committed the crime, he almost never shows it, to such a successful degree than John has questioned the man’s humanity (like during the bomb case that inevitably led them to Moriarty), wondering if the man is even capable of looking beyond the facts and joy of a puzzle.

John doesn’t always remember how human Sherlock really is; a man made up of polar extremes…it is moments like this that remind him.

John finds a wallet, and a key. With one hand still keeping hold on the man’s wrists, he reaches out behind him so Julia can take both.

“Alastair Moretti.” Julia calls out. “Bastard.” She mutters under her breath.

The man’s – Moretti’s eyes flash towards Julia which causes John to automatically slide to the left, thus blocking his view.

“You have failed, abysmally so, Mr. Moretti-” Sherlock begins, however at those words Moretti tries to fight back by whipping his head backwards and kicking his legs. John is able to pin the latter down by throwing his body weight on them and Sherlock is barely even thrown by the action. Julia immediately comes over, stance threatening, and makes sure Moretti sees both guns in her hands.

“The necklace is mine-” Moretti grounds out angrily with his face plastered by Sherlock’s hand onto the hardwood floor.

“It belongs to your sister.” Sherlock interrupts. So he is her brother then. “And it is beyond your reach now.”

The man growls, which quickly turns to a whimper when Sherlock puts more pressure on his hold; probably painful at this point.

“I - I haven’t done anything to you! I have frie-”

Sherlock stops the man’s protests again by covering his mouth with the sleeve of his coat.

“Oh I have friends too Mr. Moretti, and far more powerful than any pitiful connections you have. I guarantee, no matter what happens now, you will be imprisoned, so unless you want to risk potentially more serious injury and punishment I suggest you cooperate. Nod if you understand me.” Sherlock speaks; his voice imbued with a danger letting Moretti know how pointless further protests will be.

Moretti looks beyond furious, but slowly, fighting his defeat, he nods. John is reluctant to let him go, but when Sherlock narrows his gaze at Moretti for a few seconds, takes a deep breath and looks at John positioned awkwardly across Moretti’s body and gives him a nod of his own, John warily pushes himself off and releases his hold on the man below him.

John and Sherlock roll the grunting man over and prop him awkwardly up against the closest wall.

“There, that wasn’t so difficult.” John states as he slowly, painfully with his throbbing leg, stands up. “I would listen to him if I were you; he once threw a man out of window for harming our land lady…how many times was it?”

Sherlock huffs an amused breath. Moretti glares at John and flicks his eyes nervously from him to the taller man.

“I stopped counting after three, or four, can’t remember which.” Sherlock shrugs, all too casual as he moves to stand beside John, eyes fixed on the now quivering man on the floor.

Moretti looks horrified, and certainly more scared than he had been before.

Julia is staring at them with wide eyes and an open mouth.

“Is he being serious?” Julia looks to John.

“Oh yes.” John had both been shocked and perhaps inappropriately delighted when he found out how Sherlock dealt with the bastard that attacked Mrs. Hudson.

“Hell, remind me never to piss him off, or you for that matter. You two are crazier than I am.”

John snorts. I certainly can’t deny that.

He gives her a brief smile before focusing his attention once more on Mr. Moretti.

Julia, still off to the side has relaxed her stance somewhat. She puts the disarmed gun down though her hold on the other is still firm and pointed towards the cuffed Moretti.

John makes a move for his cane, but immediately stumbles backwards to grab the side of the sofa when his leg throbs painfully.

Sherlock makes to move to John, as does Julia, both stop when John shakes his head to indicate he is fine. Which he is for now, but soon John will need to rest his leg if it is to heal properly. Sherlock grabs John’s cane, walks over to the Doctor and hands it too him.

“Ta.” John nods thanks and grips it tightly in his hand.

Sherlock walks a few feet towards Moretti and crouches down in front of him. Moretti might well be pissing himself if the expression on his face is anything to go by.

It is almost pathetic.

“Per favore, please, please don’t throw me out the window!” The man speaks shakily, with near bloodshot eyes (which John notices for the first time).

Sherlock leans forward slightly; cold eyes darting all over the man’s face and form, deducing who knows what.

Sherlock’s eyes zero in on Moretti’s face. Despite the pain in his leg John keeps a tense stance and a fierce eye on the two men in case Moretti tries anything.

“You’re a middle child, grew up in a wealthy family and largely went by unnoticed from most of the world including your family, especially your mother who favoured your little sister. Your father died before you hit puberty, after which you developed proclivities to addiction and violence. You saw multiple therapists over the years when you lived at home but stopped altogether when you left. You have an addiction to Cocaine, which you developed during your teen years; this significantly impacted your physical and emotional health in an even more detrimental way. You both loved and hated that you were able to get away with being high right under your family’s nose, loved it because it gave you an escape from a world you were growing to hate, and made you feel more alive than you had ever been before-” John clenches a bit here and eyes Sherlock carefully, not liking the lingering edge to Sherlock’s voice. “-and hated it because it proved what you had always known, your family ignored you. This led you to further violence, vandalism, fights at school; oh you got all the attention then didn’t you?” Sherlock’s voice is low, and steady, reciting the story he’s read in the lines and crevices of Moretti’s face and increasingly nervous and shocked expression; practically on the verge of passing out.

“Eventually your proclivities lead to your family fortune dwindling to almost nothing over the years. You and your little sister are the only two left in your family. She’s afraid of you; you regularly take your anger and frustration out on her physically and emotionally because out of the three of you, she looks the most like your mother, this has angered you for years and the only reason she hasn’t escaped your vile behaviour is because she believes you’re all she has left, and years of your abuse have made her feel like this is all she will ever deserve. You wanted to sell her necklace, gifted to her by the older sister I presume (the latter of whom died several years ago), because you owe large amounts of money to multiple drug dealers, the resources of your once prominent wealth long since spent. Your sister showed defiance for the first time in a while, which shocked you just enough that when she ran out of your home you didn’t follow until it was too late. Of course she came back later, with a story about losing the necklace…you didn’t buy it did you? No, you got the information out of her the only way that has ever gotten results for you; violence. You hurt her…worse than you ever have before, and even with her injured shoulder she tried to defy you further…but you have her so warped by your own idiotic, cowardly self that she’s convinced herself she’s deserved every hit, every word, everything. Congratulations Mr. Moretti, your mission to make someone hate themselves more than you despise yourself appears to have succeeded.” Sherlock slowly stands up, his whole manner a threatening presence that seems to expand and fill the room. “I hardly think you’re worth the effort of throwing out a window.”

Sherlock’s deductions of Moretti ran off with their usual unflinching, brutal speed, only this time John can’t find it in him to feel sorry for this man prostrate on the floor; gawking at Sherlock with wide, scared eyes, heavily breathing and biting his lip so hard it’s bleeding. John may pity the man on the floor, but even so it’s taking everything within John’s limited control to not go over there and fucking punch Moretti. If the look on Julia’s face is anything to go by, she feels the same.

John’s hands are clenching into fists so tight his fingers are tingling from lack of blood flow.

“How – this – you – you don’t know anything!” Moretti denies, the shakiness of his voice portraying his doubt, the drooping curls of his dark hair, exhaustion creeping into his limbs, the redness and dilated pupils of his dark green eyes make him appear significantly older than John suspects he actually is.

“Ah that’s where you’re wrong Mr. Moretti.” Sherlock pauses and gives the man a once over. “Unfortunately, due to your greed and idiocy, I know far more about you than I will ever care to know.” Sherlock adds, face expressionless, tone dark. He walks away a few steps and pulls out his phone, his long fingers send off a few, short texts. “John?”

John swiftly looks up at the sound of his name.

“Yeah?”

“I believe the police are expecting another ‘package’ to be dropped off on their doorstep much like the one earlier this evening.” Sherlock says with a nod in Moretti’s direction. “I would like to ensure delivery, make a brief stop, and then put this entire evening behind us.”

“Amen to that.” Julia breathes a sigh of relief. “I’ll make another call then?” Julia pulls out her own mobile, gesturing it in Sherlock’s direction.

John glances between Sherlock and Julia with a frown.

“Please do.” Sherlock nods with a smirk.

Julia’s face mirrors Sherlock’s own satisfied smile while she dials a number on her phone. She then eyes Moretti on the floor with a disgusted grimace.

With the phone to her ear, Julia walks over to John and hands him the loaded gun. ‘Just in case’ she mouths. He nods gratefully and takes it from her before turning his attention back to Sherlock and Mr. Moretti. Julia walks towards the opposite end of the room, beginning to talk someone in rapid Italian on her phone.

John leans back on the sofa arm and looks up at Sherlock; currently watching Moretti with his arms crossed; expression stony.

“Care to explain?” John gestures behind him to where Julia is.

“You’re not the only one with influential friends.” Julia calls out after having heard John’s question, quickly resuming her phone conversation.

“Dr. Almont has various connections in both law enforcement and the medical profession across multiple countries; it is why she is successful at what she does. After you were shot she contacted an acquaintance with the MPD to ensure that she wouldn’t be implicated in incapacitating him with her own gun, given the fact that I deduced he already has a criminal record and I had my own…chat with him, I highly doubt we’ll be on the receiving end of tedious police policy anytime soon, Dr. Almont as well. As for Mr. Moretti…” Sherlock pauses, Moretti eyes Sherlock nervously; his throat moving in an anxious bob as he swallows. “I anticipate no problems.” Sherlock’s smile is positively chilling.

Sherlock can really be bloody terrifying when he wants to be. Moretti actually whimpers and then…passes out; probably due to a combination of adrenaline crash, exhaustion, a tapering off high and Sherlock being a downright scary bastard…still, John has never actually seen Sherlock trigger someone into literally losing consciousness before.

Well, had to happen eventually. John has a rather inappropriate urge to laugh.

“Alright genius, I have two questions if I may?” John crosses his arms. Sherlock turns away from Moretti with a bemused expression that quickly melts when he looks at John. He nods. “What the hell did you do the floor?” John asks, barely restraining giggles.

It doesn’t take a mastermind to figure that Sherlock put something near the entrance of the door that must have made Moretti slip and fall like he did.

“Butter.”

John blinks. “Butter?” Seriously?

“That is what I said.” Sherlock gives an annoyed sigh, but John can easily tell his eyes are shining with amusement. “All in all, remarkably effective. Hmmm, I wonder…” There is a sudden, interested gleam to his eyes that immediately has John bristling…

“Don’t even think about it!” John scolds, elbowing him playfully in his side.

“What?” Sherlock looks at him with a pout, very purposefully projecting innocence.

John laughs but narrows his eyes dangerously at the Detective. “The last time I saw that look on your face I woke up the next day to find every, single pair of my socks riddled with holes!”

Sherlock groans and waves his arms in exasperation. “It was a vital experiment John! How else was I to gauge the corrosive effects of-”

“Why didn’t you use your own bloody socks?” John nearly shouts.

“The experiment necessitated natural fiber!”

“You couldn’t have bought new ones then?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Don’t be an idiot John; I needed to know the exact age of the socks in order to properly gauge time and effect-”

“It doesn’t matter now, bottom line is, if you want to pour deadly chemicals on clothing, knock yourself out – I don’t care - just leave me and my wool socks and any of my clothing alone!” John cuts him off with firm hand cutting through the air.

Sherlock sniffs indignantly.

“It wasn’t all your socks, I left you one pair.”

John gapes. “It was the joke pair three years ago from Greg, pink with white clouds and fucking candy canes!”

Sherlock blinks slowly. “Who?”

Bloody hell. John palms his face. “Never mind, just…whatever you’re thinking about, stop it right now. I will throw all your equipment out the window if you start putting butter in random places all over the flat in order to catalogue minor bruising injuries or the effectiveness of John Watson verses buttery kitchen floor or whatever the hell it is you’re thinking.”

Sherlock huffs. “I would hardly design an experiment that could potentially injure you-” John snorts here, Sherlock ignores him. “-although it could garner potentially useful information, perhaps Mycroft or Anderson could-”

“No.”

“But John-”

“No.”

“John-”

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock glares petulantly, huffs and leans heavily back onto the sofa arm beside John.

John smiles at the pout on Sherlock’s face. The Detective glowers at him.

This atmosphere is their comfort zone; that feeling of inappropriate “crime scene” hilarity and banter Sherlock and John have always been prone to.

Honestly, John is more amused by that spark of mischief in Sherlock’s eyes than anything, although he was entirely serious about the sock thing. Sherlock knows it to.

John sighs. “Fine, I will admit seeing Mycroft tumble on his arse would be hilarious…”

Because let’s face it, it would.

The scowl melts as Sherlock barks out his baritone laugh. The sound inevitably gives John tingles throughout his body, seeming to center around his chest. The look on Sherlock’s face is so achingly familiar and in that moment John is painfully aware of how little Sherlock has laughed like that lately. John doesn’t have the energy to try and suppress all his own reactions to seeing Sherlock smile, and laugh, like that; especially knowing that he was the one who caused it.

And so John finds it all too easy to laugh right along with him.

With the light extenuating the angular lines of Sherlock’s face, right now there is only one word John can think of when looking at Sherlock, despite the clawing fears, old anger, long held assumptions and denials desperately trying to put it back…Stunning.

feck. John clenches his jaw and takes a steadying breath. feck, not this, not…

The appearance of Julia dissolves the bubble that had temporarily formed around the two men.

“You guys are just insane enough to be meant for each other, really.” She looks at them both with incredulous eyes fixed on their laughing faces, lingering a few seconds more on John as though she can read the thoughts permeating his mind…much like Sherlock actually.

John stops laughing when words settle in his mind, as does Sherlock; the latter much more efficient at going from peppy to blasé in the blink of an eye. If Sherlock is at all affected by her words he doesn’t show it, beyond a tinge of pink to his cheeks that could be explained away by practically anything.

John coughs and shifts uncomfortably.

Sherlock notices the movement and stares at John for a moment, expression indecipherable. John tenses and looks away.

Hell this is getting uncomfortable very, very quickly.

John finds himself worried how Sherlock will take the comment, most of the time he’s always just ignored them, but the swiftness to which Sherlock’s mood shifted has John feeling nervous.

“Mrs. Hudson would probably agree with you.” John jokes in an attempt to diffuse the tension.

Julia narrows her eyes. “You don’t?” She asks.

Oh shit, how the hell am I supposed to answer that? John resists the urge to glare at her, mostly because Sherlock would see that.

“Of course not.” John refuses to acknowledge the sour feeling in his gut and the locked box inside his mind growing steadily more vulnerable screaming ‘Liar! Liar! Liar!’ Not to mention the memory of Mrs. Hudson’s insistence on how Sherlock feels about him. Perhaps it is the latter that has John spewing what he says next. “And I’m sure Sherlock doesn’t either, people will always talk, friends and partners in crime right?” John smiles his best nonchalant smile and clasps Sherlock on the shoulder.

Fantastic John, really convincing.

John hates an unsolved puzzle almost as much as Sherlock, this swirling pool of emotions in regards to the mystifying Detective has John wanting to sleep for decades and hope he wakes up with a clear head.

Why can’t everything just go back to the way it was? When it all made sense, because…it did, didn’t it?

John is not expecting for the shoulder under his casually resting palm to stiffen the way that it does. He looks at Sherlock, fully expecting the man to agree in his own unique way, he was the one who pretty much implied that people do little else but talk, making assumptions and incorrect observations as they go. John has assumed this is why Sherlock simply ignored people whenever they made assumptions about the two of them, which is what John did…eventually.

“The idea that two people are meant to be together is an illusion the sentimental idiots of humanity have bought into. Almost as much as the chemical neurons referred to as “love”, much to the detriment of their minds and society, it has brought more suffering to the world and is the causation of many criminal acts committed. I see no benefit to it. This is a pointless matter to discuss and I would rather not lose more brain cells to this conversation. Dr. Almont I assume that your “friend” is one of the few who knows where you live and is currently on their way here? Yes? Excellent, let’s leave. This idiot isn’t going anywhere.” The last sentence is directed to the passed out Moretti.

Sherlock’s voice is severe and biting in a way John hasn’t heard for a long time, the words come out of Sherlock’s mouth like daggers…and John feels every one of them.

Sherlock doesn’t look at John, or Julia, as he leaves the flat fast – neatly sidestepping the buttery floor. He might as well have run out the door.

John lets his arm drop from where it had been frozen in the air after falling from Sherlock’s shoulder when the Detective abruptly exited.

What the feck?

Sherlock’s words are hardly a surprise to John. Though John would be lying if he said he didn’t feel a certain…sadness because of them. He’s sure more than ever that Mrs. Hudson must be wrong, just wishful thinking on her part (and not yours? Shut up mind). The way Sherlock spoke though…John wants to run after Sherlock and…and…John doesn’t know, see if he’s alright?

All he knows is that something was off with the way Sherlock acted.

John is confused to say the least.

Julia loudly exhaling breaks the eerie silence. John forces his gaze away from the wide open door and looks at her. She is staring at him…obviously angered.

“The saddest part is, only a person who has experienced love would protest something in the way he did. Surely you must realize that.”

John’s hackles rise in defense.

“Listen, I know you care about Sherlock, but seriously enough of this. You don’t know me, and you hardly know him for that matter.” John insists, meeting her angry gaze with one of his own.

Julia laughs bitterly. “You’re right Dr. Watson, I don’t know you. However, given what I’ve seen, I clearly know him far better than you do. That man just spouted bullshit known only to those who have ever had their heart broken, and it was hardly coincidence all that came gushing out right after what you said. You know what has to happen in order to have a broken heart? You have to love first. That man is brilliant, but he is also an inexperienced child who has been dropped in the middle of ocean with no idea how to swim – you can thank my mother for the cheesy metaphor, but I think it applies here. I don’t know what excuses, fears or denials you’ve got rolling around in that head of yours, but you have got to let them go before they destroy both of you.” Julia takes a deep, unsteady breath. Her eyes are boring into John’s with intense fire.

John wants to scream, he wants to shout at her ‘how dare you!’ ‘who the feck do you think you are?!’, he wants to walk away and dismiss her words, he wants to hit something.

Instead, John finds himself frozen as he stands there; staring, heart pounding, breathing heavily, clenching both of his fists as Julia’s passionate, personal words echo loudly in his mind…impossible to ignore. There is so much he wants to say, half of which he doesn’t know what it is, and all this is driving him crazy.

John closes his eyes and attempts to take a deep, steadying breath, trying to rein in that pressure cooker he can feel about to explode. I’ve tried, I’ve tried…Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

At John’s silence, Julia rolls her eyes and sighs; wiping a palm across her tired face. She walks out of his line of sight; John assumes she’s leaving as well.

“Close the door on your way out, and don’t wallow for too long.”

Julia steps further away. With her words repeating themselves on a continuous loop inside his head, he realizes she is right about at least one thing:

“The saddest part is, only a person who has experienced love would protest something like that the way he did.”

“Wait.” John calls out to her, the pounding in his head almost outweighs the pounding in his leg as he turns to face the other Doctor. Julia is currently standing in the doorway, waiting for John to speak, her arms crossed. “This isn’t just about you caring for Sherlock is it? This is about you. You’ve…” John squeezes his eyes shut; battling with his own self. Having a lot of anger is more than a little exhausting.

Don’t be a coward John Watson. Come on, come on, and admit it. Admit and mean it.

I can’t! I can’t! It isn’t, it can’t be, this can’t be true it doesn’t make sense! I’m not gay!

Bisexuality is a real thing you know, stop using that excuse, no one is buying it anymore…not even yourself. Stop lying to yourself, aren’t you tired of lying? You know exactly why you and Sherlock have been having trouble don’t you? You just don’t want to admit it. You’re afraid. You hate that you’re afraid. You don’t want to get burned again. Coward. Coward. Coward.

He’s bloody Sherlock Holmes! Ultimate cold fish, he doesn’t…

Liar. You’re letting your own fears; assumptions and anger get in the way of the facts. You have the facts. Deduce.

That last one sounds suspiciously like Sherlock.

Sherlock….Sherlock, what have you done to me? feck, I really am screwed.

John forces himself to continue from where he left off. “You’ve been in my, my position before.” He tries to sound in control, with the army, years of being a doctor, and daily occurrences of expecting the unexpected while living with Sherlock under his belt, he almost succeeds in creating calm at the center of this storm.

Julia squeezes her eyes shut for a moment as though fighting back tears. She looks at John, more sympathetic than she had been a moment ago.

“Yes. I didn’t…I don’t…I wouldn’t wish the feeling of perpetual regret on anyone. I’m sorry, just, please John…” She opens her mouth as though to speak more, but she shakes her head and quickly leaves the flat in much the same way Sherlock did.

John walks forward, intending on leaving as well, his movements robotic at best. When he reaches the doorway, he takes a deep breath and punches his fist hard into the doorway.

“feck!” He screams through gritted teeth. John isn’t even sure if the sentiment is from the pain in his body or the pain…everywhere else.

Why is it that the saying goes ‘your life flashes in front of your eyes before you die’?

John sure as hell isn’t dying, but beneath the tense, controlled façade he is exuding in his posture and face, it feels like a dam has broken…like everything he thought, everything he was so sure of, never truly existed. In a twisted way it reminds him of when he discovered Mary, his wife, wasn’t who he thought she was. His whole life and what he believed it was going to be, everything was turned up on its head.

And now, John Watson isn’t who he thought he was. Yet, this time, there is one, fundamental difference…how he’s feeling right now, the closest comparison he can come up with is the first time he rode a rollercoaster. It felt like it went on forever, rickety, twisting, turning, upside down and right side up, never stopping, he never admitted it but he was terrified, and then…it finally stopped. John had gotten off and stood still, mind dizzy and feeling sick to his stomach, but finally, blessedly he was on steady ground where he belonged.

This feeling…you recognize this feeling, don’t you?

No, not this feeling.

But you know what it is don’t you?

You love him.

He’s my best friend.

And he’s something else…isn’t he?

…yes. Oh god.

John has always been drawn to where danger lays, the thrill and intoxication of it, even when he tried to settle down in a normal life. Sherlock Holmes is, and always has been, the most central point of dangerous John has ever experienced. Not just because of what he does, but because of who he is; a person John could never fully separate from, even when he was angry, even when he thought the man was dead.

John always wondered how a single person could have such an intense hold over him.

In the depths of his mind, and heart, John can admit that it scared him as much as it frustrated and thrilled him.

Has that been John’s fear? Sherlock, having that much power over him? It wasn’t always, John is sure, but after Sherlock faked his suicide…it changed, John changed, John realized exactly what the Detective meant to him and tried to forget, move on for his own sake. Not Sherlock, there is no way in hell John could ever forget him short of amnesia, just…forget what could’ve been and what never could be. He never said it out loud, Ella encouraged him to but he just couldn’t. And when Sherlock came back…well, John snapped. What Sherlock did almost killed John; if it happened again…John isn’t sure he would survive losing Sherlock a second time.

John has an addiction to danger and has never shied away from a path just because it was dangerous. The ironic thing is, John knew then, and knows now, being in love with Sherlock is the most dangerous thing anyone or…John could ever do. It is the one danger; throughout his life with Sherlock, that he studiously avoided and pretended didn’t exist, couldn’t exist. He hid behind doors, walls, cloaks of almighty heterosexuality, all to protect himself. Of course, Sherlock being Sherlock seems to have pulled a blitzkrieg into John’s heart, in more ways than one.

John isn’t even going to touch how Sherlock may feel right now.

John already feels as though he’s going to explode any minute. He’ll think about that…and this, all this, later. First he has to somehow survive a car ride with Sherlock and Dr. Almont and who knows what after, all while settling himself to the fact that he loves Sherlock in a way he fought to deny and control…and always has.

Everyone’s been right.

Thoughts, feelings and wants that had been locked firmly (or perhaps not so firmly) away in that Pandora’s Box inside his head have been unleashed and are pulsating in his blood and thoughts; a jumble of I’m doomed. Kiss. Hold. Together. Pain. Never. Always. Love. Love. Love. Love. Amazing, fantastic and brilliant are given new layers of meaning. That impulse of reaching over and casually brushing a curl away from that porcelain face, the heat John would feel and disregard when Sherlock would casually stroll out of his bedroom naked after a rare long sleep, without a care for the fact that his nude arse was currently on display, and how John had cried when Sherlock gave that speech at his wedding, not just because he was moved…but because he found himself so deeply sad.

Sherlock Holmes has ingrained himself into John’s mind and being in a way no one or nothing ever has.

Shit…what do I do now?

John has no idea where to go from here.

He does know that now is not the time to have a mini-breakdown. The night isn’t over yet.

John breathes deeply, steady John, steady, jaw and fists clenching, leg, heart and hand throbbing; all for different reasons.

With a final nod and steadying breath, hoping Sherlock won’t see his face and immediately knowing what just happened, John leaves Julia’s flat – bypassing the unconscious Moretti and butter laden floor – and closes the door behind him.

As he makes his way through the building, cane in hand, the throbbing of his leg reminds John of the moment not even two hours ago when he had been shot and how Sherlock had reacted.

Suddenly the moment where Sherlock rested his forehead to John’s, and tenderly, just for a moment brushed his nose against his, feels more significant somehow.

**Posted by Schmiezi** December 20, 2015 6:29 am

Chapter 4

It took them twenty minutes to arrive at the home of Alastair and Anne Moretti. During which Sherlock and John were completely silent and Julia went from thanking Sherlock to telling them stories of her work…at the time John thought it was a pretty obvious attempt to fill the awkward silence of the car, but he was grateful for it.

He also went from being grateful for Sherlock’s silence, which gave him time to think and acclimatize. However the fact that Sherlock didn’t look at him once, or acknowledge him beyond a passive grunt when John asked if he was all right (among other things John had been trying to figure out what exactly he said that may have triggered Sherlock to retreat the way he did). The whole drive had John feeling even more out sorts. It wasn’t like the behaviour was completely uncharacteristic of Sherlock, but it felt…odd for the current moment, considering how Sherlock had been acting around John all evening.

On the plus side it gave John plenty of opportunity to watch him without being noticed.

For some reason John had thought once he saw Sherlock again there would be some major change and everything would feel different. It didn’t though, not really. This made John realize that he had been feeling all of this already, viewing Sherlock through every facet of his emotions for the man, but just hadn’t consciously been aware of it or thought it was something else.

With Sherlock in his sights, it also became difficult not to think about what Sherlock had said before rushing out of the flat, and the point Julia made afterwards.

Maybe it was pathetic, but one thing John could not stop thinking about was how Sherlock would ruffle his hair – either with one hand or two – when thinking, frustrated or simply out of habit. It had been a bizarre and random thought to have, but it was an adorable one. John then had the amusing thought of calling Sherlock that to his face one day just to see and record his reaction for future posterity.

Regardless, even with all that, John was able to keep a relatively tight hold on the feelings and questions running rampant inside him while they drove to the Moretti house; courtesy of Alastair Moretti’s wallet, which Julia mentioned she would be giving to her “friend” in the MPD later.

Sherlock had said they were returning Anne’s necklace, the ‘and to check on her’ was unspoken but heard by both Julia and John none the less.

John felt proud of Sherlock when he made the choice to check on her, and return the piece of jewellery to Anne Moretti himself instead of enlisting someone else to do it. It was just one of many small ways Sherlock evolved, not changed; he’s still the same bastard he always was, just simply…more.

When they pulled up to the somewhat dilapidated, rectangular brick house Sherlock had watched the front for a minute; Julia and John waiting silently in the car with him. At first glance it looked empty; curtains drawn, no light visible.

“She’s here.” Sherlock said.

John raised an eyebrow. “You sure?” Sherlock turned around then, looking at John for the first time since Julia’s flat. John heard it as soon as the words left his mouth, he didn’t need Sherlock to verbally call him an idiot; the look on his face did it for him. “Never mind, forget I asked.”

Sherlock turned away again; he no longer looked at the house but was facing forward. John was in the backseat again, and from where he had been sitting was unable to see Sherlock’s face.

Julia wasn’t saying a word, her fingers tapping a habitual rhythm against the steering wheel. She had been giving John pointed looks every once in while through the rear view mirror, which John had so far been ignoring.

“How’s your leg?”

John didn’t register it was Sherlock who asked the question for a moment, because of that he didn’t answer right away and glanced at Sherlock with surprise. With Sherlock giving him the cold shoulder for the past nearly half an hour, hearing that rare tone of genuine concern threw John for a loop. He was suddenly reminded of when Sherlock asked ‘are you alright?” after John had shot the cabby all those years ago.

And with his newly realized feelings for the man on repeat in his head, the moment when Sherlock was at his side after being shot, it all felt significant…like there was something else John had yet to figure out, some fact or sign right in front of his nose.

Sherlock turned around again when John didn’t answer; face blank, but his eyes were flicking from John’s face to John’s leg and back again.

It took more effort than John thought it would to not squirm with those laser eyes focused on him.

John sighed, and using the convenient excuse Sherlock gave him to avert his gaze and so he leaned down to roll up his trouser leg.

(With his attention distracted John didn’t notice Sherlock grasp the door handle in a tense, white knuckled grip as he watched John check his wound. Julia did though…)

John half-expected to see the wound bleeding again or the stitches pulled a part, given all the movement. However it wasn’t bleeding and the stitches were still secure; beyond some minor swelling – which was to be expected – the graze itself seemed fine. John sighed gratefully.

“I’m fine Sherlock. Julia did an excellent job.” He gave Sherlock an affirming nod and rolled his trouser leg back down. It was mostly true, John being fine that is. It’s a throbbing pain John is familiar with, still the near running around hasn’t helped.

“You don’t need to tell me, I know I’m the stitches queen.” Julia turned around and smiled at John; teasing.

John snorted. “What was it you said about being humble?”

Julia rolled her eyes. “Oh shut up.”

John laughed under breath, but smiled and nodded at her as well, all the while thinking that Sherlock wasn’t the only man who could switch moods at the drop of a hat; there was no trace of anger in Julia’s voice.

It is then John noticed that Sherlock’s focus was frozen on where John’s leg had been exposed. His eyes appeared almost glazed over; face tense, like he was looking through John, his mind elsewhere, lost somewhere in that vast mind palace of his.

“Sherlock?” John frowned and waved a hand in front of his face. Nothing. “Sherlock!”

John’s raised voice sparked a reaction out of him. Sherlock jumped minutely as though shocked. He looked at John. John had the instinctive feeling that it was very, very important to not look away.

Sherlock appeared almost puzzled with the way John was staring at him, dark curls falling over his forehead.

“Are you alright?” John finally asked, eyeing Sherlock carefully.

Sherlock blinked, and the expressionless mask fell back into place. He straightened up in his seat.

“Don’t be an idiot.” Sherlock huffed. Well, it wasn’t a strict no or yes. John sighed. “Dr. Almont, come with me.” Without waiting for a response, Sherlock opened the door and stepped out.

“Oi! Are you’re expecting me to just sit here?” John yelled before Sherlock could move away.

That was so not happening! And why?

John thought he heard an exasperated sigh before Sherlock leaned back in for a moment.

“Your assistance is unnecessary, I highly doubt anyone but Anne herself is at home. We’ll only be a moment.”

“But-” John tried to protest but the slam of Sherlock’s car door cut John off firmly. He growled. “Arse.”

Even though Sherlock was convinced Anne was home, there was no guarantee that she was alone, something could go wrong. John sure as hell didn’t want to be sitting on his arse in a car while Sherlock went into a strange place. John hates feeling useless, but he hates doing nothing while others go into an unknown situation even more.

John may have been overreacting, but basically being told by Sherlock to stay put got his back up.

“You are a Doctor John, and I know that you know that you really shouldn’t put more stress on that leg. Its fine now, but the stitches are still fresh. Quite frankly I’m amazed they’re still holding what with you throwing yourself on butter toppled criminal delinquents.” Julia hadn’t left the car yet, but she did have her hand on the handle ready to leave, at that moment though she had her attention on John.

“I thought you were the stitch queen.” John unconsciously rubbed his thigh. “Besides, I’d rather need a re-stitching than have that lunatic-” John gestured a pointed thumb at the Detective impatiently waiting outside. “-put himself in harm’s way, and he knows that. I’m not a bloody dog.” John grumbled and went to open the door.

A feminine hand gently grabbed his wrist, effectively stopping him.

Julia smiled. “Even us crown wearers topple every now and then. As for Sherlock, I think he’s just worried about you. He practically turned to stone when he saw your leg.” Julia gave John’s wrist a squeeze.

Looking at her face then, John had the brief thought that if circumstances were different he might’ve been interested in pursuing her.

“Sherlock doesn’t-” Julia raised a slow eyebrow and John stopped the old retort. He had been about to say, ‘Sherlock doesn’t worry’, but that wouldn’t have been true. Sherlock may not openly show it, or share it, but Sherlock does worry, perhaps not often but it does happen.

It would also be just like Sherlock to cloak his real reason for an action in the guise of something else, especially if it were sentimental in nature.

John smacked his head against the car seat and groaned, mostly because his traitorous leg had chosen that moment to flare up with pain. With the adrenaline of the case receding, the condition of his leg had been thrown more into the light. Honestly John would’ve liked nothing more than to take a long, hot bath, but…John looked at Sherlock again; the man practically vibrated with energy, seemingly unaffected by the cold spiking outside, in any moment he would be banging on the car.

Julia let go of John’s wrist, looked at Sherlock and then back at John.

“You still have my gun?” John wasn’t thrown by the question for long. He nodded and took it out of his coat. He held it out to her and she took it with a firm grip. “Wait here.”

Julia exited the car, walking around to the other side and moving to stand in front of Sherlock. John had been about to leave himself, no matter what Sherlock or Julia said, but the sight of Julia talking to Sherlock gave him pause. He couldn’t hear what they were saying beyond the muffled sounds of both their raised voices.

Sherlock waved his arms a bit and Julia just stood there looking unimpressed. She said something then that caused Sherlock’s movements to still abruptly. He was practically glaring at her, and Julia merely continued to stand there unconcerned; although the expression on her face would indicate she had triumphed at something.

Julia held out her palm, looking at Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock didn’t say or express anything as he mechanically reached into his pocket and pulled out…the necklace? John frowned for a moment, but then Sherlock dropped the necklace into Julia’s palm. She walked around him and headed towards the Moretti house.

John’s expression cleared as he got that Julia obviously intended to go herself and Sherlock, impossibly, agreed. John didn’t know whether to be concerned or impressed by his acquiescence (he must have had a good reason for it).

Outside John’s window, he saw Sherlock take a breath, and on the exhale it swirled in the air much like smoke out of his mouth. John had the passing thought of wondering how badly Sherlock was craving a cigarette.

John was about to open the door and ask what the hell was going on, but then Sherlock re-opened the front passenger door and stiffly resumed his seat, closing the door behind him with a slam. He immediately put upon a posture of deep thought, the entire line of his body sinewy and straight, his bare hands folded in front of the closed off expression on his face, Sherlock may as well have been screaming ‘don’t talk to me’.

“Well?” John leaned backed in his seat. He looked outside to check on Julia, she was at the door and knocking.

There was silence for a moment, and then Sherlock took an audible breath.

“Dr. Almont pointed out that with Anne’s history of emotional and physical abuse at the hands of her brother, a man such as me approaching her would not be conducive. And since she has personally already met her, Anne would most likely feel more at ease with Dr. Almont giving the necklace back to her and explaining what happened. I conceded to her point.” Sherlock recited. John nodded, alright, makes sense, with that in mind John feels a little bit better staying in the car. Still… “Given the closed off nature of the house, and what little I know of Anne, I doubt she will feel comfortable inviting a stranger of any kind into her home. We should be able to observe the interaction between Dr. Almont and Anne from here, Julia won’t be let into the house beyond the front door.” Sherlock added the last in answer to John’s unspoken question.

“Huh, alright.” John nodded in acknowledgement and looked back over to Julia, noticing that the door has now opened a crack; even from a distance John can see half of a young woman’s face, long, curly black hair spilled through the open crack of the door. Beyond that John could make out very little, except that when the young woman – Anne presumably – saw who it was she opened the opened the door a bit wider.

A moment passed as John continued to watch the two women talking, and then it suddenly occurred to John the situation he was in.

Alone. In the car. With Sherlock.

Alone with Sherlock for the first time since biting the ‘I’m so in love with the bloody git its embarrassing’ bullet.

feck. With how she’d acted up until then, John didn’t think it so far out of the realm of possibility that Julia didn’t make the choice to go out there alone just because of the reason Sherlock gave.

She did say something earlier about locking the pair of them in a room.

John finally understood why.

Regardless, John quickly became aware of the fact that Sherlock and he were alone, very, very aware of it.

John turned his focus away from Julia for a moment to look at Sherlock; the coat collar of his Belstaff was turned up – a sight John resisted the urge to laugh at – and his hair was falling over the edges of it slightly, hiding his neck and curve of his ear. His eyes, a fiery universe of their own, were closed. From where John was sitting he couldn’t really see the rest of Sherlock’s face.

For a brief moment, John wondered what Sherlock’s reaction would be if John told him how he felt. Despite what both Julia and Mrs. Hudson have said, John doubted it would go over well. In John’s mind at that moment, he hypothetically wondered that if Sherlock did return his feelings, would the man even admit it? Would he even want to pursue it? Sherlock practically makes a living out of casting aside the irrationalities (according to him) of human nature and disregarding nearly everything that doesn’t involve the Work.

And then, John had a horrible thought that caused him to feel chilled despite the warmth of the car. What if…maybe he already knows? The past several months of bizarre tension, and distance, flashed through John’s mind and he started wondering if this could be the reason why Sherlock has been cautious and wary around John when they’re not on a case. Had he observed John’s feelings all this time even when John didn’t fully realize them himself? Did it make him uncomfortable and unsure about how to act around John? Sherlock may be inexperienced when it comes to emotion, but he is the most observant man – aside from Mycroft – on the planet.

Oh god.

John placed his hands palm down on his thighs, stroking them to both distract himself and wipe away the clammy feeling.

John breathed in deeply through his nose, desperately trying not to panic or do something stupid like ask the man directly.

Yeah, that wouldn’t be uncomfortable at all.

Maybe this was another reason John never wanted to admit how he felt even if only to himself. It wasn’t just a question of does Sherlock return his feelings, but will he?

Shit. Shit. Shit. What the feck do I do? John asked himself. Don’t overreact, that would be a good start.

“You’re doing that thing again.”

John felt like he’d been shocked when he suddenly heard Sherlock mutter from the front seat.

John whipped his head around to face him. Sherlock hadn’t moved, but his eyes were now open.

John sighed, ignoring the fast beating of his heart. “What thing?”

Sherlock waved a hand casually in John’s direction. “That thing, where you think. It’s distracting.”

“I can’t exactly turn my brain off genius.”

Sherlock hummed. “Shouldn’t be that difficult for you.”

John blinked. “Do you have a newspaper up there?”

Sherlock swiftly turned to look at John, clearly surprised by John’s out of the blue question. “What?”

John crossed his arms. “You know, a newspaper, ink printed on paper detailing local and world events-”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I know what a newspaper is. I meant what-”

“Do I want one for?” John asked, a bit gleeful he’d managed to irritate Sherlock. “To smack you with of course, what else?”

Sherlock blinked slowly and his jaw dropped, indignant, very much akin to a fish.

A few seconds passed.

John laughed, and just like that, the awkward tension dissolved for a moment. Sherlock wasn’t laughing. In fact he returned to his ‘ignoring the world around me’ pose while facing the front of a car, but John could see the edge of a faint smile quirk Sherlock’s mouth.

It was still uncomfortable as hell, but laughing with Sherlock, even if only for a moment, made John feel a little better…he wondered how long that would last.

John looked out the window. Julia was still talking, but Anne had a hand (the one not in a sling) on her face – now holding the necklace, and she was crying. Julia then leaned forward and wrapped a gentle arm around her, which Anne seemed to accept.

Just as the awkward silence started to seep in again, John heard a loud sound in the distance. A clock chimed, over and over again, signalling the twenty fifth of December.

John sighed and rested his head against the car seat, suddenly feeling…melancholy. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Julia pulling away and Anne smiling as she put the necklace back on.

John looked at Sherlock again, wishing for a moment that the right choice, the right course, was clear and John could soldier through with the assurance he wasn’t making a mistake.

Not bloody likely.

Still, this is Sherlock, not Mary. Both betrayed him, but their intentions were as disparate as the poles. John admitted to himself that the way he cares for Sherlock surpasses anything he felt for Mary. Sherlock ultimately caused him the greater pain of the two and now John knows why. The pain was greater, because Sherlock held more of his heart, even then.

John looked to Sherlock again, his expression pensive.

Where do we go from here? John asked inside his mind. He sighed and forced himself to look away from the man he…the man he loves. Even saying that in his own head sounded so surreal in a way, but he knew, with every painful fiber of his being, that it was the truth.

“Happy Christmas Sherlock.” John said after the twelfth chime, voice quiet and flat.

Silence. John heard Sherlock move a bit in his seat.

“You too, John.” Sherlock uttered, barely audible even within the confines of the car.

John looked out to see Anne and Julia still conversing. A few houses down John could see Christmas lights decorating a few windows and archways, the sight reminded him of Christmas in 221b, and Christmas last year.

So much happened that day, everything changed. Sherlock made mistakes, killed a man to protect John and his family, an action that nearly caused him to be exiled which later – John eventually found out – would have led to his death.

That moment on the tarmac…it was one of those moments where everything and nothing was said.

Suddenly, watching as Anne closed the door and Julia wrapped her coat tighter around herself while walking back towards the car, John found he wanted to say one of those things he never said.

It was Christmas after all.

“Thank-you.”

John could practically feel Sherlock tense.

“For what?” Sherlock asked, he sounded genuinely confused.

For asking me to move in you, for saving my life, over and over again, for giving me purpose, for bringing adventure to each and every day, for not giving up on me, for all that wedding crap I know you hated doing, for protecting and saving me when you didn’t have to, for being a socially constipated arse, just…for being you.

John didn’t say all that.

“Everything.” John didn’t mean for that to come out sounding as breathless as it did.

Julia was almost at the car before Sherlock responded.

“No thanks needed, John.”

John looked at Sherlock.

To his surprise he found Sherlock already looking at him, neck twisted awkwardly in his seat. He seemed completely serious; he obviously meant what he said literally.

John shook his head. Sherlock crunched his eyebrows at the motion.

John didn’t even think about it, he reached out and clasped Sherlock on the shoulder. It didn’t even occur to John that it was something he hadn’t done for months.

Sherlock tensed underneath the touch, but he relaxed just as quickly. His mouth parted in surprise.

“Seriously, thank-you.” John squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder once.

It was then John became aware of how he had leaned forward in the process of reaching toward Sherlock.

John gulped. It took everything in John’s power not to look at Sherlock’s lips.

Back away! Back away! Back away! A part of John was screaming.

Sherlock must be a magnet, why else wasn’t John moving?

Sherlock wasn’t moving either. Why wasn’t he…?

And then…Sherlock moved. John watched as Sherlock lifted a hand, and rested it on John’s gloved one for a moment. He never looked away from John once.

“You’re welcome.” Sherlock spoke, his deep, hot breath bathing Johns face.

feck.

John forced a casual smile. “There, that wasn’t so hard was it?” John patted Sherlock’s shoulder, dislodging Sherlock’s hand in the process, and leaned away. He coughed awkwardly and settled himself back in his seat, cursing himself for reddening like a teenage girl.

John heard Sherlock move back to his previous position.

Great, good work John. What was it you said about not wanting things to be uncomfortable?

Suddenly the driver’s side car door opened.

“It’s fucking freezing out there! I’m sorry for interrupting whatever moment you two were having, but I couldn’t wait any longer. Anne told me to thank-you both, I gave her my number in case she needed anything, but she insisted she would be fine. Told me the necklace was a gift from her sister before she died. Anne said she was sad about her brother, but I’m pretty sure she was more relieved than anything. Anyway, it’s all over now. You guys are officially my favourite peeps.” Julia shivered and quickly closed the door behind her. “So, what did I miss?” She asked with a smile, looking between Sherlock and John.

John rested his head in his hands, resisting the urge to groan or…hit something.

Coward.

John opens his eyes.

He had dreamed about the moment where he could’ve said ‘to hell with it’ and kiss Sherlock. It seemed to play on repeat while he slept.

When John awoke in their hotel room on Christmas morning John had begun running through the entire car ride and ensuing…moment, determined to make sense of it all, with the benefit of a good night’s sleep.

Now, after basically reliving it, the only thing John realizes is that his sleep wasn’t all that good. Sherlock and he never spoke a word to each other after Julia helpfully dropped them off at the hotel; with a promise to call the next day and wish them a proper Merry Christmas. They had walked through the building, and rode the elevator up to their floor in complete silence.

The silence continued into the room itself. Sherlock then divested himself of his scarf and coat, and proceeded to throw himself prostrate onto the sofa; eyes closed with hands resting on his abdomen.

The Detective didn’t move in the entire time it took John to bathe, take some painkillers, change and do his teeth. When John chanced a look out into the sitting area of their suite, Sherlock was in the exact same position John left him in; probably not asleep, more likely lost in his mind palace somewhere.

John wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock turned out to still be there by the time John gets up from bed.

John supposes it was only fitting that he and Sherlock rung in the holiday with a case, and not a long night at the Opera or singing carols, maybe going to a midnight Church service like when John was a boy, you know, be regular people.

He is pretty sure getting shot and involved in a case with Sherlock Holmes, and in the course of the evening realizing that the bloody sock murdering lunatic has wormed his way through self-imposed standards of heterosexuality and years of denial to burrow himself deeply heart and mind without your permission, is not normal Christmas Eve tradition.

Does John wish things were different? Would he trade the insanity and unpredictability of life with Sherlock Holmes for a normal, predictable one? Hell no.

With the murky fog (pain both mind and body) from the evening before now lifted, If there is one thing John has realized; it is that if the consequence of knowing Sherlock Holmes, living in that battlefield, means falling in love with him…John can live with that. Whether anything comes of it or not, Sherlock is his best friend, nothing will change that. John won’t let it, if there is a second thing the evening previous has cemented for him, that fact is it.

If Sherlock somehow knows, or finds out, about the nature of John’s feelings for him (the prospect has John feeling sick in a way he hasn’t since school and wanted to ask Rachel Turner out on a date), John is determined to ultimately not let it wreck their friendship. John can live without loving Sherlock the way a part of him has always wanted to, he can’t – or rather, doesn’t want to even try - life without Sherlock’s friendship. No matter how infuriating the bastard is on a daily basis.

John is grateful that sleeping, however restless, has brought some clarity. It will make going forward easier, not to say that it will be easy, but perhaps less treacherous than before and well…John will take it. It could still be like walking through a minefield, but the difference is he won’t be blindfolded this time.

According to the clock on the nightstand, it is nearly 10:00am. The door between the bedroom and sitting room is closed, but the ivory curtains donning the floor to ceiling windows are drawn back; cold, morning light illuminates the entire room. With the snow dotting city rooftops; it is quite a picturesque sight.

John uses his elbows to manoeuvre himself to a sitting position.

“Shit.” John curses as the movement brings a pulse of pain from his leg. Once the adrenaline had worn off completely, John felt the full effects of a gunshot wound, no matter that it was only a graze. It isn’t as bad as the night before though, all the ibuprofen probably having something to do with that.

He shakes it off and reaches across the nightstand for his mobile. The white, ragged material of his undershirt pulls tight as his body twists.

It is possible he may delaying leaving the bed (shut up), but John has a legitimate reason for checking his mobile.

It is Christmas after all.

After his mobile is turned on it pings with a text and notices three voice messages.

The text is from his sister:

Happy Christmas Johnny, try not to get yourself into too much trouble today – HW

John sighs. Their relationship has been strained for years, beyond perfunctory hellos on significant holidays they rarely talk. That hasn’t really changed since Harriette came and talked to him at Sherlock’s behest, but the seed for possible future change had been planted never-the-less.

As John looks at the words written to him by his sister, he understands that Harriette has taken the first step, and is waiting for John to make the next move.

He’s a bit tense as he responds, but once it’s sent, he ultimately feels relieved.

Happy Christmas Harry, and it’s too late for that. Could we talk in a few weeks? – JW

There, step taken. Mum would be proud.

With a tap John brings up the voice messages. He leans back against the wall and rests the phone against his ear.

The first is from Mrs. Hudson.

“Happy Christmas dear! I do hope you and Sherlock are alright and taking care of yourselves, don’t think you’ll get past inspection when you come back home! I wish I could say more, but Mrs. Turner is helping me prepare for a party and I think I may have made a mistake putting her in charge of the punch, honestly! Anyway, give Sherlock a hug and a kiss for me, bye bye dear!” John can practically hear the devious smirk in her voice with those last words.

As if. John can’t help but smile though, it is nearly impossible to feel down around someone like Mrs. Hudson.

The next message is from Greg.

“Hello John, I can’t believe our resident genius managed to sweep you away to Italy for Christmas. I didn’t think the bugger had it in him to be that romantic-” John had left Greg a message before Sherlock and he left for Milan, so Greg knows very well what they’re here for. John rolls his eyes and snorts at Greg’s teasing tone, the two of them have always been casual friends. However Lestrade and John have grown closer, going on weekly pub dates, over the last year; commiserating over ex-wives and psychotic flatmates. With John’s new found epiphany about Sherlock and the love he has for him, Greg’s supposedly joking comments he’s made feel heavier with meaning now…Christ, did everybody know except me? “-seriously, happy Christmas John, I’ll expect full details of how the case went when you get back. Enjoy yourself and try not to let Sherlock cause a ruckus over in Milan as well. Just London being in a constant state of recovery is quite enough to handle.”

John shakes his head, faintly amused. There is one message left, it’s from Julia Almont. The two of them had exchanged phone numbers last night, just in case. In the end John has decided she’s not so bad.

“Merry Christmas Dr. Watson! I hope you and Sherlock find time to eat, drink and be jolly, or whatever it is people say. I’ve never been one to celebrate Christmas myself, but when I pop over later we are going to have some fun alright? You’ll have to help me get Sherlock a bit tipsy, or how is it you British say it? Pissed right? Because I bought him a Santa hat and something tells me he won’t wear it otherwise…” John laughs out loud at that. Oh god, poor Sherlock. “You’re probably laughing now, but I have an elf hat for you so don’t get cocky!” Damnit. John groans and wipes a hand down his now yawning face. “Alright, alright, all kidding aside, I hope you’re feeling better today. And John…my Sherlock’s name was Catherine, I’d rather not cry today so I won’t go into details, but suffice to say I missed my chance with her. Please, be happy, and don’t make my mistake…you may find you’re not as alone in how you feel as you think. Take care; give the big lug a hair ruffle for me.”

John is still for a few moments after listening to Julia’s message.

It hasn’t even been a day since John grasped the full nature of his feelings; he hasn’t even begun to seriously consider doing something about them…he just, he can’t. Not yet, maybe not ever, but…he can’t deny that a part of him wants to and feck the consequences.

For months he’s been saying to himself that if enough time passes, things will go back to the way they were and Sherlock and he will be alright and everything will make sense again, like the way they used to. Perhaps it would be easier that way…however, John has seldom been one to take the easy path, and even when he has, it has never, not once, worked out for him in the long run.

Go back to the way they used to be? John can almost hear Sherlock calling him an idiot now. Perhaps the better question to ask would be ‘If I could go back, would I?”

No, I wouldn’t.

No matter the pain and suffering John has experienced as a result of all his time with Sherlock, the rewards have proven time and again to outweigh the consequences.

John breathes deeply and hangs up the phone. He’ll respond to the messages later. Right now John needs to compose himself and see what the git is up to, and then maybe order breakfast; John’s stomach rumbles and his mouth waters at the thought of plates of eggs, bangers and tea, perhaps some sticky buns because it’s Christmas.

He takes a series of deep, steading breaths as he pushes himself up from the bed. Putting weight on his leg still causes pain, but it’s bearable.

John reaches for the cane leant to him by Julia, and begins to hobble his way over to the adjoining loo.

John barely makes it more than two steps before his mobile rings. He groans and turns around to see Mycroft’s name flashing across the screen.

Oh hell, what now?

The urge to roll his eyes and ignore it is nearly irresistible. Still, the man is as determined as Sherlock, if he wants something, he’ll get it eventually…might as well get it over with. John hobbles back over to his phone, remains standing and picks up the ringing device.

“What do you want Mycroft?” John answers, perhaps a tad edgy.

If he could see him, John is positive Mycroft would have a raised eyebrow.

“Happy Christmas to you too John, I’m sure you’re relieved to have your little…adventure resolved in time to enjoy this festive holiday.” The man is actually teasing him.

Mycroft has always been proficient at speaking without inflection, while at the same time conveying an entirely different meaning with his words.

And of course he knows about last night, the man probably had spies tailing them.

John isn’t sure what it says about him that he’s become this good at reading the Holmes brothers.

“Happy Christmas Mycroft.” John says; because he is capable of being courteous, even though he would really rather know why Mycroft is calling him. “Now, why are you really calling me and not Sherlock?”

There is silence for a moment, during which John thinks he hears Mycroft take a deep breath. That more than anything is telling about the tone of this conversation.

“Let’s put aside the fact that Sherlock would not answer if I bothered to call him, my purpose in calling is entirely to speak with you. I take it my brother hasn’t said anything to you has he?” Mycroft sounds exasperated, though this is not exceptional since he usually sounds like that when talking about or with Sherlock.

John frowns and sits back down on the bed.

“What are you talking about?” Is there something else going on that Sherlock hasn’t told John about? Something to do with why they’re here in Milan maybe? John begins to feel frustrated, also nothing exceptional when talking about or with either of the Holmes brothers.

“You don’t need to say anything further John, this will be over much faster that way and I think we can both agree that is what we would both prefer. I merely have a few words of advice you, and since my brother is being irretrievably foolish, I’ll say them for him if only to spare myself any more headaches over this.”

Now John is even more confused. He tenses and his hand tightens around the mobile. Mycroft is one to talk about bloody headaches…John can’t even remember the last time he went a day without getting at least one because of overexposure to Holmes genetics.

“Dr. Watson, I need not tell you than I am not a sentimental man-” John barely resists the urge to snort. “-my brother would tell you the same about himself. For the most part it is true, however in recent years he has undoubtedly become one of the most emotionally prone people in my wide sphere of acquaintance. The only difference is he is remarkable at appearing otherwise to the general populace, but not from me as he is uncomfortably aware. This is hardly difficult since people like to take things at face value all too often. In addition, my brother has made mistakes and decisions he would not have made years ago. Admittedly, at first I was worried this would ultimately bring him more harm than good. Of course I couldn’t say anything, knowing him he would do the exact opposite of what I advised simply to spite me. He is rather childish that way.” Mycroft breathes deeply.

Inwardly John is reeling, mostly because he has absolutely no idea where Mycroft is going with this, and that Mycroft has the bloody gall to be saying this at all. So far the conversation has John feeling apprehensive on what his ultimate point will turn out to be.

“I believe you would be more willing to at least listen to my advice, so I will give it. Do what you will with the information, but I urge you to take it very seriously, I don’t need to tell you the…consequences may well be severe if you don’t. Do I make myself clear?”

John feels like he’s in some pseudo Mob movie being warned by the big bad boss to listen to him lest he get his nuts blown off.

John isn’t afraid of Mycroft, but since Mycroft is talking about Sherlock he has John’s attention – which the man very well knows. He nods though Mycroft can’t see him.

“Very.” John says.

Mycroft hums as though pleased.

“I’ll get straight to the point. My brother has feelings for you he doesn’t know how to express. Nor is he convinced they are even returned. He is torn and uncertain of how to proceed, given that this is an area in which he has very little experience. My brother would never openly admit it but his biggest fear is of losing you. The evidence of this is glaringly obvious, if you need me to tell you that than you are markedly less intelligent than Sherlock perpetuates; which would only further my point in his regard for you. I ask you to consider this, why do you really think Sherlock has been cautious around you especially after all that business with Moran and Moriarty? I know you’ve noticed, and I also know that you yourself exhibit many signs that show me your regard for my brother is not simply one of friendship. Also your propensity to be stubborn rivals even that of Sherlock, and so I strongly encourage you do something John. I would prefer my brother not be hurt in the process, though if that is the end result then so be it, just remember I have no compunction about making sure all your bullet wounds match. Take care John; I hope you have a pleasant holiday. Give my regards to Sherlock.”

Before John can even say a word, there is a click indicating Mycroft has hung up.

It wouldn’t have even mattered if Mycroft had waited a moment or two, John is dumbstruck; mouth parted, grip on the mobile slack, heart pounding, body slack, thoughts whizzing loudly around his head.

He is furious.

Did Mycroft just give me his own version of ‘you hurt my brother and I’ll kill you’ speech? Yes, he did.

John thought over Mycroft’s words as he woodenly replaced the mobile on his nightstand, he thought over them as he stripped naked and took a long shower (leg properly bandaged), he thought over them some more as he brushed his teeth, dried his hair, and got dressed in a bright red Christmas jumper and jeans.

And as John stands poised and ready to open the door into the sitting, presumably where Sherlock is, Sherlock’s gift in hand, John thinks about them some more while staring at the medium sized box in his hand.

John pulled the gift from where he had packed it in before leaving, knowing they would be in Milan over Christmas. Sherlock can either be surprisingly easy, or incredibly hard to buy for, John had trouble thinking of what to get this year what with this being so…strained between them. He eventually settled on a pair of joke elf slippers complete with bells – mostly just to see the look on Sherlock’s face, and well, Sherlock could always use them in some experiment if he wanted – and the contact information of a school friend of John’s from the University of London who had recently informed him they would soon be in the possession of cadavers with rare skin mutations and diseases, John had pulled a few strings and managed to arrange for Sherlock to be the first one to examine them and do what he wishes, within reason of course.

This all just…seems not quite real.

Mrs. Hudson saying Sherlock loves him…John can write that off as being the hopes of a romantic older woman that cares about them.

Greg implying it John can write off as Greg playing into and teasing him about the many assumptions people have made about him and Sherlock in the past.

Even Julia with her knowledge and experience John can write off as being influenced by her own past and the fact that she’s really only actually seen and spoken to Sherlock a handful of times.

Mycroft however…Mycroft, he is perhaps the only person who knows Sherlock better than John (up to a point), maybe even the Detective himself. If Mycroft, of all people – president of the anti-sentiment pro logic club, basically implied ‘Sherlock is in love with you’ …how can John, rationally take what he said as anything but the truth?

However, no matter what Mycroft says, the only person who can confirm it for certain is Sherlock.

John likes to believe he is brave, but with not just his own heart but potentially also Sherlock’s on the line, John wonders if he can do what Mycroft all but point blanked asked him to do.

John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

You’ll know, you’ll know when you see him…you have to. You were a soldier John, you can do this.

No point in putting off the inevitable then. John turns the knob, opens the door and steps into the sitting room as though he hadn’t just been having a personal crisis on the other side.

**Posted by Schmiezi** December 20, 2015 6:29 am

Chapter 5

John had been expecting to see Sherlock still prone on the sofa even though it’s been hours, it wouldn’t be the first time, but what John sees is something differently entirely.

Sherlock is most definitely sitting up (wearing suit trousers and a white button up shirt) in one of the two green armchairs on either side of the sofa. The other is occupied by Mrs. Amelia Blackhart.

Sherlock’s back is to John, while the elderly Mrs. Blackhart is dressed in a red nightgown and robe ensemble sitting in the armchair opposite; the bright red and green contrast only adds to the atmosphere of the room, now decorated with multiple sets of white and blue lights that were most definitely not there the night before…what the hell? Who-? It is then that John notices Mrs. Blackhart has a wreath in her lap covered with gaudy golden bows.

Oh.

“Aw come on dearie! No Christmas is complete without a wreath; you have to have one I insist!” Amelia Blackhart shakes the item in question at Sherlock, her slightly drooping though brightly alert eyes pleading with Sherlock to relent. John also notices at that point that her long white hair is tied up into a bun with a gold ribbon very much like the ones on the wreath.

“I barely relented with the inclusion of lights in the hotel room, what makes you think I’ll agree to hang up that pointless piece of decoration for even a moment? The answer, is no.” Sherlock says, definitely crossing the edge of mildly annoyed to downright frustration that will likely lead to poor Mrs. Blackhart being ejected from the room in some form if John doesn’t intervene.

Neither Sherlock nor Amelia has yet to notice John, and this…this is far, far too amusing.

John will interfere before they come to fisticuffs, but until then…John quietly leans against the wall, Sherlock’s gift in hand, and settles into observe the two for as long as he can get away with it.

With the conversation with Mycroft still fresh in his mind, John’s eyes drift towards Sherlock. He can only see the back of the Detectives head from here, and a part of him wants desperately to move so he can see his face. He’s no Sherlock, but he wants to look at him, observe him, to see for himself if he can see what it is everyone else seems to…well, see.

“Oh please Sherlock! I’ve already got my room all gussied up, you wouldn’t let me put the nativity set on the mantle over there, but it would be sacrilegious to not have a wreath!” Amelia Blackhart’s mouth is twisted sadly, but there is a twinkle in her eye that leads John to suspect she is having just as much fun messing with Sherlock as John is watching it happen.

John bites his lip in order to confine the laughter begging to escape, his free hand covers his mouth.

“That makes absolutely no sense.”

John has no doubt that Sherlock is rolling his eyes. He smiles.

Amelia dismisses what Sherlock says with a wave of her hand.

“It’s such a small thing though, after the way you two boys abandoned me at the Opera last night-”

“I have already explained the circumstances to you, and you made it very clear you understood completely-”

“-Putting up a small token such as this isn’t a lot to ask now is it?” Mrs. Blackhart continues, speaking right over Sherlock.

“I don’t know what I find most frustrating, the fact that you are being deliberately obtuse or that you honestly believe this manipulative guilt routine will work on someone of my observational skill and emotional control.” Sherlock sighs, turning away from the woman in front of him to face out the window.

Amelia Blackhart’s smile then reminds John suspiciously of that creepy cartoon Grinch.

“It worked with the lights.” She grins, shaking the wreath at Sherlock again.

This is too perfect.

John has his arms wrapped around his belly now, and he won’t be surprised if he comes away from this with teeth marks on his lip. The truth is Sherlock has always been surprisingly cordial and tolerant, for him anyway, when it comes to motherly older women. After meeting Mrs. Holmes, John stopped wondering why.

“Mrs. Blackhart, if you insist on hanging up that wreath I will set it on fire and throw it out the window.” Sherlock is definitely not kidding. “Along with the small tree you placed by the door, don’t think I didn’t notice that.” He turns to face Amelia again.

They’re both openly glaring at each other now, and John is wishing he brought his mobile out with him so he could record it.

Regardless, even though Sherlock is being surprisingly tolerant here and Mrs. Blackhart might as well worship the ground Sherlock walks on, because John doubts there is anything the man could say that would actually offend her, John will rescue the poor man…soon.

“You need a few lessons in fun young man.” Mrs. Blackhart mutters.

Sherlock huffs. “I am perfectly content with my version of fun.”

Amelia looks like she’s trying to fight back a giggle, much like John actually.

“Solving crimes with that brilliant mind of yours?” She’s smiling openly now, hands clasped and body language much more relaxed than most people when in Sherlock’s presence.

Sherlock chuckles deeply. “And beating corpses with my riding crop to study post-mortem bruising.”

John restrains a sigh and rolls his eyes, locking away his reaction to hearing ‘Sherlock’ talking about using a ‘riding crop’ for another, later, much later time.

Amelia looks amused rather than horrified.

“You silly man, fine forget the wreath-” The sound Sherlock exhales here make it seem like he’s been in pain for so long and someone has finally offered him a miracle instant pain killer. “-ooh! How about some ribbon? I brought some more of that lovely gold ribbon with, it would look absolutely gorgeous with those locks of your-”

“Mrs. Blackhart! Good morning and Happy Christmas!” John shouts.

Yes John was enjoying the little scene, but even from behind Sherlock looked about ready to combust or run away in horror when Amelia started talking about putting things in his hair. John figures the poor man has suffered enough.

Sherlock whips around at the sound of Johns voice; looking immeasurably, beyond relieved to see him.

Amelia adjusts the glasses on her eyes, and then her face lights up when she notices John.

“John, I demand sanctuary from his woman. She has been trying subliminal methods of homicide for the past twenty minutes.”

Mrs. Blackhart makes a sort of ‘phshaw’ noise and waves a dismissive hand at the Detective.

“Are you telling me the great Sherlock Holmes can’t handle dealing with little old ladies?” John’s eyes twinkle as he comes to stand behind the sofa, in between Sherlock and Mrs. Blackhart.

“I say! Who are you calling little young man? I’ll have you know I was the tallest in my class when I was thirteen.” Mrs. Blackhart puts upon a look of mock offense.

John would never have been able to get away with saying something like that, even in jest as he did just now, with his father’s mother. She was Mrs. Blackhart’s opposite in every way.

“I’m sure you were, and the lights are lovely, thank-you ma’am.” John reaches out and clasps a gentle hand on her shoulder.

Amelia blushes. “Oh no need to thank me John; I quite enjoy spreading cheer wherever I go.” John ignores the snort from Sherlock’s direction. “And I managed to rope our dear Sherlock here into hanging a couple of sets of lights up.”

John looks at Sherlock with some surprise then – whenever John had decorated back at 221b, more often than not Sherlock would just pretend it wasn’t happening, it usually took some bribing to get him to help, but mostly John just ended up doing it himself.

It is the first time John has looked Sherlock full in the face since walking into the room. Right now he looks like he’s trying desperately hard not to be embarrassed, looking at neither John nor Amelia, his head resting back on the chair, legs crossed and arms casually laid across the sides of the chair. Those eyes, so transfixing, are looking anywhere but at the two people watching him with delight.

John’s inner thought from before he entered the room comes to him then:

You’ll know, you’ll know when you see him…

John closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep shaky breath. Indeed.

He smiles, perhaps a bit too wide and looks at Mrs. Blackhart.

“It was nice of you to pay us a visit, and I’m sorry about last night.” John walks around to her chair, leans his cane up against it and helps her get up when she struggles to stand for a short moment. She quickly waves him away once she’s standing; all in all she is surprisingly fit for a woman of her age.

“It’s alright dearie, Sherlock explained what happened and I wouldn’t want you to put any more pressure on your leg. I’ll just toddle off now; I hope you have a wonderful day and happy Christmas!” Amelia Blackhart gives John a brief hug, which he accepts and then blows Sherlock a kiss.

Sherlock accepts the gesture with surprising grace and nods at her.

John escorts the elderly woman out of the suite and gently closes the door behind her.

They are alone. His gift for Sherlock feels like a steel weight in his hand, and without another person in the mix John feels Sherlock’s gaze on him like the red beam of a sniper rifle.

John doesn’t look at Sherlock. He doesn’t look at him when he turns around, and he doesn’t look at him when he walks over to the chair. He waits until he’s sat down in the chair Mrs. Blackhart just vacated and has placed the medium sized box in his lap.

Then he looks up at Sherlock. John notices the man’s eye flick up towards him, presumably from where he’d been giving the gift a cursory glance.

A beat of silence.

Sherlock rests his elbows on the arms of the chair and then touches the tips of his fingers to the edge of his lip.

John rests a single elbow on the chair, with his head on his palm, laying the other hand atop his wounded leg.

Sherlock looks every inch the deducing Detective. John keeps his gaze, and remains silent for the time being, even though he has no idea what it is Sherlock is trying to figure out while looking at John.

John starts to squirm a little when Sherlock’s stare doesn’t relent. The latter’s eyes zero in on the movement immediately.

John doesn’t squirm, and Sherlock knows it.

Well, this is awkward.

John tries to act casual even though his heart is pounding fast. At least Sherlock doesn’t seem as stony as he had been during the latter part of the evening, which John supposes – if Mycroft is right – would make sense given what John said. If Mycroft’s right.

“Mycroft called you.” Sherlock suddenly says, effectively breaking the silence.

“He did yeah.” There is really no point in coming up with an excuse, Sherlock would know if John lied either way. This doesn’t mean John is going to recite the entirety of the conversation however.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, and?

John raises one right back, not giving into the bait. What?

Sherlock looks annoyed for a moment but shakes it off quickly. He is the first to break eye contact, looking off to the side and replacing his hands back on the armrests; the fingers begin tapping out a staccato rhythm almost immediately.

He’s anxious. Well, John is too, but what reason does Sherlock have to anxious for?

John frowns.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock jumps out of the chair at the sound of John’s voice.

What the…

John watches as Sherlock strides across the room, to a hook on the wall by the door; where both their coats are hung. Sherlock’s back is to John, rummaging around in the long coat.

John feels increasingly more baffled as Sherlock walks back over, a long, thin rectangular envelope in hand. He stands beside John and holds out the envelope. The only thing on it is John’s name, written in Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock isn’t someone who gives gifts, not often anyway, but this is what it must be right? John knows he must look like an idiot to the Detective with his jaw flapping in surprise and his eyes going from Sherlock to the envelope and back; not quite trusting that it isn’t something hazardous.

Sherlock gestures the envelope in John’s direction a bit more insistently; reminding John briefly of Amelia with the wreath.

“I can personally guarantee there is no anthrax in here.” Sherlock interjects with a raised brow.

John shakes himself out of his stupor and exhales a laugh.

“Well, I never know with you. You have poisoned me before.” John reaches out and takes the envelope from Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock smiles a bit then, and shrugs.

“You weren’t damaged.”

John gives him a narrow-eyed look.

“I would call memory loss damage Sherlock.”

Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. “Semantics.”

John rolls his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.” John murmurs and looks down at the envelope in his hands, wondering what on earth it could be.

Sherlock hums noncommittally. John smiles a bit. He flips the envelope around and begins to undue the seal with a nail.

John becomes abruptly aware that Sherlock hasn’t moved and is still standing beside him like a sentinel on guard…far, far too close.

“Uh…Sherlock?” John looks up at the tall man.

“Yes, aren’t you going to open it?”

Sherlock is too still to be considered relaxed, and the faint movement of his arms behind him indicate he’s doing the finger-tapping thing again.

“Not until you sit. You’re making me nervous.” John tries to laugh it off.

“Oh.” Sherlock seems almost surprised, like he hadn’t realized until just now that he is basically looming over John.

Surprisingly, Sherlock moves without further encouragement. He walks over to his chair and sits in it much like he was before, but if anything the staccato tapping is more insistent than before, and he won’t quite meet John’s eyes.

John had been curious, now he’s feeling genuinely worried. What’s going on?

“Sherlock-”

“Happy Christmas John.” Sherlock quickly gestures towards John and the envelope, still not looking at John directly.

John closes his mouth and sighs. Might as well see whatever it is that has Sherlock ready to jump to the ceiling.

John flips open the flap. He can’t deny that he’s touched by the gesture itself, no matter what it turns out to be.

John can’t even guess at what Sherlock would get him that would fit in –

John’s eyes widen and his brow creases…what…what… “What is this?” It perhaps comes out louder than he intended, but…he quickly looks up at Sherlock for an explanation.

In his hands is a piece of paper with only four words written on it, also in Sherlock’s hand:

The John Watson Foundation

To say John is confused would be an understatement. He doesn’t know what to feel.

Sherlock finally meets John’s eyes; his hands have stopped moving and his entire body is thrumming with a tension John cannot understand the reason for…beyond the fact that it has something do with the piece of paper John is holding.

Sherlock breathes deeply and stares at John like it’s physically difficult to do so.

“My grandmother died when I was twelve, and like my mother she encouraged and validated my interest in science and chemistry. She was also well off, and when she died, left a significant portion of her wealth to me in her will, to be held in trust for me until I turned eighteen. However, by that point I had already indulged in cocaine and heroin. Mycroft, even at that point in time, held a position of strong influence, strong enough to make sure that I couldn’t have access to my trust until I was clean for at least a year. I never had any great desire for that amount of money anyway; it wasn’t much of a loss. It wasn’t until the year before you and I met that the trust finally became available to me. I didn’t touch it, I didn’t want it. And to be honest I forgot about it for a while, I was managing and so it became unimportant information.” Sherlock looks a way for a moment, waving a hand dismissively.

John holds back a snort, only Sherlock would view what seems like a large inheritance as unimportant enough to forget. John’s still not getting what this has to do with him though… “Several months ago, I had an idea, a way to put the money to good use since I had no intention of using it.”

Sherlock pauses again at this point, his fingers begin to tap again and he keeps his eyes unblinking on John’s. Why… “I made contact with several of my own connections, and with ample research and thought I created a not for profit foundation that would offer life-time financial support to Veterans for their various maladies and needs, in addition to providing support to people negatively affected by war in Afghanistan and other Middle Eastern countries. The people I hired to run it actively are trustworthy enough, and Mycroft made some recommendations of his own since even though I was able to do much of the work on my own, ultimately I needed Mycroft’s help in order to make this enterprise a reality, especially within a relatively short period of time. The amount of money in my trust is significant, however it isn’t unending. The entirety of it has been entirely transferred over and will sustain all activities and support within the foundation for at least several years. I have no doubt however that the donations will be plentiful for a very long time. With my connections and Mycroft’s, contributions have already been coming in for the past two months and plans have already been put into action in order to make the goals of this foundation…your foundation a reality.”

It is Sherlock’s emphasis on ‘your’ that puts the final puzzle piece into place for John.

John just stares.

And stares.

And continues to stare.

John is sure his heart and stomach must be somewhere by his feet, his eyes and mouth must be dry from being open for so long. And the paper which John had been holding onto is clenched tightly in John’s fist as he fights the…something threatening to burst out of his skin. The sheer, overwhelming emotion he’s feeling, which only grows stronger as the full weight, the incredible generosity, of what Sherlock has done is just starting to truly sink in.

This…is incredible, god, I can’t even begin to…

Sherlock…Sherlock. What have you done? You…fucking hell.

When John saw the envelope held out to him in Sherlock’s manicured hand, he never would’ve thought that something like this would be inside.

It’s unbelievable. It must have been millions of pounds, and Sherlock is giving it all away to people John knows really, really need it and…and honouring John in the process.

Just…wow, Sherlock really doesn’t do anything by halves.

With the mention of Mycroft, the fact that he even called John makes sense, because what he said…oh god.

John has no idea what he must look like right now. It feels like his heart is burning.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice sounds genuinely worried, and it is like a whip across John’s consciousness.

When John comes back to himself he realizes he has his head in his hands; curled into fists covering his hot, wet eyes that are squeezed shut to prevent tears from escaping. John is entirely tense, the way he usually is when trying to control an overwhelming emotion, usually its anger, this time it’s something else entirely.

It’s true, everyone was right, oh god oh god oh god -

“Are you…upset? I realize it isn’t a traditional gift-”

John laughs; not the best or most sane reaction to have, but he can’t help it. His hands fall and he’s laughing hysterically.

John can’t believe he didn’t see it before; he really is an idiot.

John started laughing because it hit him fully when Sherlock spoke the second time, and the tone of voice he used is exactly the same as that moment after he’d given the central part of his best man speech at John’s wedding. Everyone was crying and Sherlock, wonderful clueless Sherlock, didn’t understand why, he’d turned to John and asked ‘did I do it wrong?’ like John held all the answers and John…John couldn’t control himself. He hugged Sherlock, heart aching for so many reasons, some of which he is only beginning to understand now.

John rarely loses control like this; tears run down his face sent forth by the hysterical high of laughter brought on by shock, joy, wonder…and everything else.

John tries to get his breathing back enough to stare down a very confused looking Sherlock.

“Did you seriously just ask if I was upset?” John manages to speak before another bought of laughter hits him. Oh you foolish, glorious, wonderful, idiotic man…

Sherlock’s mouth flaps a few times, clearly unsure how to respond, and he’s giving John a look; clearly wondering if John is devolving into insanity.

For some reason that thought causes John to laugh even louder and he fully collapses into the chair, head facing the ceiling.

Sherlock would probably roll his eyes at the sheer romanticism and over usage of the metaphor, but right now John really feels like he’s a blind man seeing the sun for the first time; indescribable, overwhelming, too much for the brain to even process that it has to cry, or laugh. Freedom. That’s what this is. Freedom.

Who are you now John Watson?

It makes sense in a way. Meeting Sherlock was like taking in a breath of the freshest air, and John had never felt freer. When he lost Sherlock, it felt like a part of him died right along with him…a part that didn’t return until Sherlock himself did.

“John, are you alright? John!”

John’s view of the ceiling is suddenly blocked by Sherlock’s face; at this point he is frantic and on the verge of calling for help.

John squeezes his eyes shut. If he continues to see Sherlock right now he’ll never calm down. “I’m fine; really, just…just give me a moment.” John is able to speak relatively clearly this time. Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but John can sense the man hasn’t moved from standing over John. “Sherlock, move please.”

John’s laughter dies off and his tears begin to dry, though the feelings are no less intense.

It takes a moment but he hears Sherlock finally move off somewhere.

John takes a deep, restoring breath. As with any chaotic situation, a person can search a long time for the center where everything is clear, where the way forward is as evident as the chaos itself. Some never find it. In the army, John was trained to find it wherever possible. John couldn’t find it in the miasma of feelings surrounding him in regards to Sherlock.

Now, now John has realized that the reason he couldn’t figure out how to move forward and find that center was because it never existed. John was already there and just never realized it. Sherlock is an entity unto himself; Sherlock is chaos with no set path. He exists, and John is right there with him, irrevocably, and deeply.

John never thought he would fall in love with a man, or that a man such as Sherlock would love him back. It is terrifying, and so undeniably real.

He opens his eyes and immediately spots Sherlock standing next to his own chair; his arms wrapped around his torso with his hands gripping his elbows. Sherlock’s expression isn’t quite as worried as before, not on the verge of calling for an ambulance at any rate, now he looks more confused and impatient, the latter because he is obviously waiting for John to explain his reaction, and he can’t figure it out himself.

Without taking his eyes off Sherlock standing before him, John picks up his own gift for Sherlock and sets it on the end table to his left. He stands up from the chair – inwardly muttering a ‘feck you I’m doing this’ to his wounded leg insisting on expressing its pain – and walks over to Sherlock as smoothly, and steadily as he can.

You can do this; you love this man, so what if he’s a man? In the great scheme of things, are you really going to let the fact that he has a cock get in the way? You were miserable before, you’re attracted to him and always have been even when you pretended otherwise, tell your long held supposed heterosexuality to feck itself. John privately chants.

What was it Mum used to say? ‘There will always come a time when a lie will hurt more than the truth.’

Sherlock had been moving a bit restlessly before, but the closer John gets the stiller and more baffled Sherlock gets.

John stops only an inch or two in front of Sherlock and just…looks at him, his goddamn nerves choosing now to actually hit him.

Is this a mistake? I can’t lose him, not again…

Sherlock blinks rapidly. “John…?”

Oh feck it.

John reaches up, grasps the front of Sherlock’s shirt and pulls the Detective to meet his mouth with his own; sensual, a little bit open, wet, and gloriously, wonderfully warm.

Oh.

Sherlock freezes. John is about to move away when he feels large, perhaps slightly wary, hands grasp the sides of his jumper. John sighs in relief, squeezes his eyes shut and pushes his mouth firmer onto Sherlock’s, determined to get as close as he can.

Oh god, yes.

John is almost afraid to break the kiss, afraid that moving away will break the spell. He slides arms around Sherlock’s waist, holding him as tight as he dares, while Sherlock’s hands slide up Johns back. John feels the most incredible tingles fly across his skin as he feels one of those artist hands brush alongside his neck, give it a small squeeze before moving up, up into his hair.

Perfect.

“John…” Sherlock sighs against his lips.

John hums and moves forward to capture those wonderful lips again, but Sherlock leans back an inch; it doesn’t escape John’s notice however that if possible, Sherlock is holding onto him – one arm around his waist and one hand in his hair – even tighter than before…like he’s afraid too.

“My brother would never admit it but his biggest fear is of losing you.”

“John, I don’t understand.” Sherlock utters softly. “Why are you…?”

John opens his eyes and looks at Sherlock. The Detective has his eyes shut painfully tight, his face twisted in pain; his hands are spasmodically loosening and squeezing John closer, tighter to him.

“Sherlock, look at me.” John speaks firmly, but softly.

Sherlock doesn’t move, continuing to breathe unevenly across John’s mouth. John almost cries to see that look on Sherlock’s face, the man refusing to open eyes…he looks so vulnerable.

John sighs and slides his arms further up Sherlock’s back, and then down again, attempting a soothing motion he hopes will reassure the Detective.

“Sherlock, please.” John tries again. I need to say this to you directly, please.

Sherlock tenses for a moment, as though bracing himself. He opens his eyes, John can almost see it visibly happen; Sherlock preparing himself to retreat, to hide behind the façade of uncaring, the impassive mask.

Well, that won’t do.

“Sherlock, I want you to listen to me very carefully. Tell me you understand, alright?” John moves his arms to Sherlock’s front and then slides them up his chest, skimming his neck and then holding that statuesque face with those eyes brimming with boundless brilliance and almost childlike innocence. Sherlock is a man filled with a never-ending supply of paradoxes.

Sherlock’s brow morphs into a frown, but he nods. John feels the hand in his hair slide down and hold onto John’s shoulder.

“I’m not walking away. I’m not going to leave. Do you understand that?”

Sherlock’s face twitches, a flash of fear coming to his eyes like he hadn’t realized how much of himself he was showing to John. “John, what are-”

“Sherlock.” John eyes him firmly. He has to do this right. There is no room for mistakes here. John won’t, can’t, feck this up.

Sherlock sighs, bites his lip and nods.

“I understand.” Sherlock sounds winded.

John smiles. This is it; you can do this, Captain John Watson Fourth Northumberland Fusiliers, run the rest of the mile and make yourself into a complete sappy idiot.

John holds the sides of Sherlock’s face firmly.

“I love you, so much, Sherlock Holmes. Do you understand?”

It is the first time John has said the words out loud…he finds it isn’t as scary as he thought it would be.

Sherlock’s eyes widen and his mouth drops open. John can’t help it; he quickly darts forward to plant another, shorter, sweeter kiss on his mouth before drawing away. Sherlock’s expression hasn’t changed. He appears frozen much the same way he was when John first kissed him.

John draws a calloused finger across one of those angular cheekbones. Sherlock’s eyes flutter and he sighs at the touch.

“John.” Sherlock swallows.

“Yes?” John smiles.

Sherlock’s eyes suddenly become alert and focused the way they are when first coming upon a crime scene, flicking all over John’s face at a near dizzying speed. John knows Sherlock is observing him for the smallest hint of deception or lie.

He won’t find any.

It barely takes a second until Sherlock gasps, his eyes widen and Sherlock pulls John to him so they’re standing chest to chest.

“You mean it.” Sherlock speaks, his voice much closer to his usual baritone than the breathless whisper of before.

John finds it strangely reassuring that it doesn’t sound like a question, Sherlock observed John. Sherlock knows.

Yesterday, John wouldn’t have been able to say this.

Today, on the 25th of December, he can.

“Completely.” John nods and moves his hands to Sherlock’s shoulders and squeezes tightly.

And then, the most beautiful, miraculous thing happens.

Sherlock smiles; wider and more genuine than he ever has before. John suddenly finds himself squished from head to toe against Sherlock when those long arms wrap around him and squeeze.

It is uncomfortable, and painful, but John wraps his own arms around Sherlock just as tightly and John doesn’t give a damn. Especially when he feels a set of hot, soft lips brush against his neck and the sound of Sherlock breathing heavily against John’s hair.

It never would have occurred to John, even two days ago, that he would be here, right now, with Sherlock; holding onto to each other with more than a little measure of desperation, in a hotel in Milan of all places on Christmas.

Milan…John suddenly has a flash of insight.

“Sherlock?” John asks.

“Mm?” Sherlock hums against his neck.

John pulls back, and doesn’t even bother holding back an amused grin when he notices Sherlock pouting. He keeps his arms around Sherlock however, which seems to please the Detective.

“Why did you really agree to come to Milan? No way would you willingly leave London unless a case called for it. I can’t see you agreeing to something this benign just because you owed Mycroft a favour, especially without being a dick to him first.” John asks with a skeptical eyebrow raise. It is something John had been thinking about on and off, and certainly with Sherlock’s incredible gift the man’s quick agreement to Mycroft’s request it is explained to a degree…but John’s intuition tells him there’s more to it.

Sherlock gives John a laughing smile, and nods at him as if to say ‘you may have a point’.

The smile fades however as Sherlock looks away and out towards the window, his expression a thoughtful one. Sherlock rids himself of it with a shake and a long exhale. He watches John’s face for a moment, and John waits for an answer.

He doesn’t get one immediately.

Sherlock pulls away completely and his hands fall from John’s face and back. John feels abruptly cold, in more ways than one. John doesn’t move when Sherlock slowly walks over to the window and stands in front of it, observing the world outside like he has done so many times in 221b.

Sherlock is a man who hesitates to show even the slightest sign of vulnerability or humanity. Right now may simply be that whatever it is he’s thinking about has him wanting a moment to himself. Given the intensity, and suddenness, of what just happened, John can’t say he blames him.

So John remains where he is, even though he would like nothing more than to walk over there and wrap himself around the taller man – tense and statuesque in front of the window - and tell him that he won’t think him any less brilliant and capable for letting himself go once in a while.

This is Sherlock though; John can’t expect him to be something he isn’t.

“I am sure you’ve noticed our equilibrium has not been the same for long time, and I found myself…unsure how to proceed. I have observed that sometimes a change of scenery can bring about resolution for certain individuals. I didn’t know what else to do.” Sherlock finally begins to speak. “I despise not knowing. Events of recent years have proven to me I am not as much of an expert in regards to human nature as I once thought myself to be. I have tried, time and time again, to understand why I am affected by you the way I am. It doesn’t make sense; I have always been able to remain objective in everything I do. In understanding that love is merely chemicals and neurons firing in the brain often more trouble than they’re worth, obscuring the facts, weakening the mind and even killing its victims, even with all that I know I should have been able to control it, to understand, and yet no matter how hard I tried, no matter what happened or what I did…I…I lost myself, I lost myself John. It became apparent that there was nothing more I could do, I had no choice but accept the inevitable and obvious…Truly and undeniably for the first time I was confronted with a mystery I could not – cannot solve.” Sherlock’s level control over his voice slowly disintegrated as he kept up with his soliloquy, until finally he has to reach out and grasp the window frame (one hand on either side) with his head resting on the cold glass of the window. “I’m weak.”

The pain, anger and sheer frustration in those last two words have John moving before he can think it through. There are so many ways John could counter what Sherlock just said, but it is hard to take this confession of Sherlock’s for anything other than what it is, a cry for answers and understanding.

His leg throbs as he quickly strides over, but John doesn’t care. He reaches Sherlock and wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist from behind.

It breaks John’s heart when he feels Sherlock sag and hears a ragged exhale.

“You’re not weak, you’re just inexperienced, and you are the strongest man I know, human just like the rest of us.” John is firm, and emphasizes his point with a squeeze.

Sherlock laughs bitterly. “Somehow I find your biased opinion less than reassuring.”

John shrugs. “That doesn’t make it any less true.”

Sherlock hums. John can tell he doesn’t really believe him.

Baby steps John, baby steps…

John sighs, time to come at this from a different perspective. “Do you see me as weak?”

John is surprised at the speed with which Sherlock’s head comes up.

“No, of course not.”

John can’t help but feel warmed with how certain and emphatic Sherlock sounds.

“Then explain to me why you’re weak, and I’m not.”

Silence. John can’t see his face, but he guesses Sherlock is frowning at his own reflection.

“Sherlock, every single bloody person struggles with understanding their emotions. And if I make an observation of my own here, you understand by rationalizing, everything, am I right?”

“You’re…not wrong.” Sherlock’s voice is quiet, lilting a bit at the end.

Good enough.

“Well, emotions can’t be rationalized, not always, and I think you know that but maybe…you’ve only just begun to accept it in regards to yourself.” John posits. “Perhaps you’re having the Sherlock Holmes version of a midlife crisis.” He shrugs. “I know this isn’t easy for you, it isn’t easy for me either. Nothing about this is going to be easy, you are without a doubt the most infuriating person I know and I concede to being far too stubborn for my own good, but I am willing to try if you are. I have no doubt it will be the ultimate challenge. If you need more time, to decide if this-” John pats Sherlock in the middle of his chest. “-is something you want to pursue, I’ll understand. Just know that you are the most important person in my life, and I don’t see that changing.” The words are difficult to get out, but they are necessary. John swallows.

Sherlock doesn’t answer for a moment.

“You are taking cues from your therapist John, almost prosaic and banal enough to become one yourself.”

The indirect response is light-hearted, intended to tease rather than insult, and that in of itself tells John everything he needs to know.

John gives Sherlock a narrow eyed look in the mirror and squeezes Sherlock tighter, causing the man to huff a bit; looking all too pleased with himself, which John will admit is a welcome change to the defeated, broken Sherlock of before.

“Shut it.” It’s true though, John isn’t quite that insightful and he did get the gist from across multiple sessions with Ella. Damn him. “You arse.” John murmurs and strokes a casual hand up Sherlock’s torso and down.

Sherlock is most definitely smirking now.

John pinches him lightly on the bum and pulls away.

Sherlock jumps a bit and whips his around head to level a glare at John.

“Never, do that again.” Sherlock growls out, one of his hands falls down from the window and lightly touches the pinched area.

“Oops.” John bites his lip to keep from laughing. He puts a bit of weight on his good leg and crosses his arms.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow and a mischievous gleam shines in his eye. He stalks forward; John refuses to move; instead raising an unimpressed eyebrow at the Detective.

Although John is wondering what he’s intending on do –

“Oi!”

John is shocked to find he is no longer standing on the ground, but has been picked up (bridal style for fucks sake!) by Sherlock Holmes and is being carried across the room.

“What the hell are you doing?!” John glares at Sherlock murderously even while a part of John is peripherally impressed. He is not an easy man to carry.

“An eye for an eye John.” Sherlock grins.

Just when John is considering elbowing the cheeky bastard, John is dropped onto the bed with a loud “oof!”. He lands on the soft mattress with only a slight bounce. John is given no time to get his bearings before Sherlock is above him, straddling John on all fours.

John’s eyes widen. This has certainly escalated quickly. “An eye for an eye?” John echoes as a question, trying not to let on how incredibly aroused he is right now.

Sherlock’s mouth twitches as he slowly, slowly lowers his face to John’s. Suddenly their conversation is wiped from John’s present; because right now all he can see is the face he has looked at for years, secretly falling in love with it in the process, coming closer towards him…

“Shit buggering hell!” John curses, painfully laughs and begins twitching like he’s being electrocuted; shocked quite successfully out of his mesmerized state by the devil that is Sherlock Holmes tickling him on the front of his stomach. How the hell Sherlock knew John’s bodily weakness, he has no idea.

He does know that Sherlock looks far too pleased with himself.

John reaches out, swipes Sherlock’s offending hand out from under him; essentially causing the Detective to crash on his side. Even with a gunshot wound to the leg, John is incredibly skilled at hand-to-hand combat. With that in mind John rolls Sherlock over, sits himself firmly on his thighs before the squirmy bastard can move and pins Sherlock’s arms above his head; effectively immobilising him.

John is skilled, but so is Sherlock. If this had been a real fight Sherlock would’ve fought back. Seeing Sherlock playful in this manner, it is a new side to him John is really enjoying. It really is a testament to how much Sherlock trusts John to expose himself like this, not just the way he is now, but the way he did before.

“You will pay for that Sherlock Holmes.” John promises.

Sherlock gulps, breathing heavily. In their position John is only a few inches away from Sherlock’s face.

“Oh? How so?” Sherlock breathes out, his eyes flutter.

John grins. He leans down and nips Sherlock’s upper lip, he relishes the gasp the taller man exhales, and then – very firmly – bites the tip of his nose. When John pulls back to look at Sherlock’s face it is to see the man giving him an annoyed glare.

John laughs. Sherlock fights to keep the annoyed look for a moment, but it doesn’t take long before it melts away, leaving an open, relaxed expression in its place.

John shakes his head a little, not quite believing that this is real; happening so fast, and not fast enough. It’s dizzying to say the least.

John gives Sherlock a firm stare, willing the man to read him.

You’re not the only one who is afraid of losing the other, his eyes say.

Sherlock seems to get it, his eyes narrow for a moment before widening slightly and then his mouth parts with a hot breath. Sherlock breathes in a somewhat shaky breath and meets John’s eyes before nodding faintly.

John sighs. I am so screwed.

“I hope you know I love you.” John says without hesitation. He has never been one to say ‘I love you’ that often when in a relationship, and he gets the impression Sherlock might not say it at all, but truthfully that doesn’t matter so much to John.

He can see it on Sherlock’s face.

“I am…getting that impression.”

Sherlock’s face and voice are utterly calm, probably to compensate for the watering in his eyes. John doesn’t comment on it, if only to allow Sherlock his pride.

John smirks and leans down again, this time touching his forehead to Sherlock’s; purposefully mirroring Sherlock’s gesture from Christmas Eve.

“Oh come dolci scendono le sue lusinghe al cor…” Sherlock whispers.

“What does that mean?” John asks, his lips barely brushing against Sherlock’s.

“It is not of import.” Sherlock shrugs, as much as he is able to in this position.

John is curious, but decides not to push it.

Taking a risk, John lowers himself onto Sherlock completely, letting go of the man’s arms as he does so. John rests his elbows on either side of Sherlock’s head; the dark curls are a stark halo on the pearl white of the pillows.

Sherlock’s hands come up to rest on John’s back; one pressing John firmer into him by pushing on his lower back, the other slides underneath John’s jumper and undershirt.

The skin to skin contact is orgasmic.

John sighs and begins stroking a strand of Sherlock’s hair with his thumb.

“I don’t know how to do this, or even if I can, but…you are my heart, John Watson.”

John squeezes his eyes shut and slowly shakes his head. He quickly lowers his head into Sherlock’s neck, not quite ready to bawl himself silly in front of Sherlock.

The sentiment is somehow deeper, and filled with more meaning than ‘I love you’ could ever be coming from Sherlock. The man who is accused by some to be heartless and to even profess the same thing himself…John feels more complete than he has in a really, really long time, perhaps in a way he never was.

It seems like forever since John could honestly say he felt happy, even when he was with Mary – before that all went to hell – there was something missing.

A few moments of silence pass, during which Sherlock and John just lie together and breathe. It is more peaceful and relaxed than John ever thought Sherlock would be comfortable with, but the man seems perfectly content to lay here.

“John?” Sherlock speaks a few moments later. John gives a vague hum; at this rate he may even fall asleep soon… “There is a silver, glitter Christmas tree on the back of your jumper.”

John smiles at how disgusted Sherlock sounds.

“You just noticed did you?” John murmurs into Sherlock’s neck.

“It is offensive.” Sherlock adds as though John didn’t speak.

“It’s festive.”

John smiles wider when he hears Sherlock’s sigh of exasperation.

“Regardless, if you don’t take off this quite frankly, disturbing jumper, I may have to re-consider this change in our relationship.”

John snickers and plants a firm kiss on Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock harrumphs, but John feels the Detective shiver at the feeling. Those long arms tighten around John, one hand coming up to rest on top of John’s head.

A relationship, with Sherlock Holmes…John can’t think of a more wonderful adventure.

They definitely need to talk about a few things, clarify some others.

Plus, John still hasn’t given Sherlock his Christmas present yet.

For now, John knows one thing for certain.

He has never had a better Christmas.

Several years later, Sherlock still wears the slippers every Christmas.

**Posted by Schmiezi** December 21, 2015 5:25 am

This story is for SusiGo!

A Long Road

Sherlock Holmes was pacing around the living room. It was four p.m. on Christmas Eve, which in itself wouldn't have bothered him; he was good at ignoring things he didn't care for. This year, everything was wrong though. Mrs Hudson had gone to her sister's for the holidays, if with regret: “If I had known you'd be here, dear, but now we've made plans...” She usually trailed off after that, inconspicuously letting the hidden accusation unfold itself in the ensuing silence: If you hadn't played dead for two years.

Sherlock huffed, not stopping in his pacing. It wasn't only Mrs Hudson's absence which was making him irritable, it was the fact that his best friend still wasn't speaking to him. Sherlock wasn't sure what exactly had gone wrong. He had come back, he had explained things, John looked like he understood the reasons why Sherlock had had to fake his death, and yet- instead of welcoming his friend back with open arms, he had thrown the detective out of the tiny, miserable flat he had moved to and had refused to talk to him ever since, had not answered any messages or calls.

“He's hurt, dear,” Mrs Hudson had said, shaking her head: “He'll come round eventually, if you ask me.”

But John hadn't, and Sherlock was beginning to lose his patience, worse, his self-confidence regarding the matter. He did not like to admit to himself that he was also feeling lonely, more so in fact than he ever had, even while he had been away. During that time, he had had things to look forward to, most importantly his return to Baker Street and resuming his old life. And now this. He hadn't expected to be alone in Baker Street, especially not on Christmas. There had been vague ideas about fairy lights and food and being with John and maybe snow, which all seemed rather silly in hindsight. Except for the notion of being with John, that always came with a pang instead of embarrassment.

As if to mock Sherlock, the thing which was least likely to happen of the lot was happening in the meantime: it had started to snow on the previous evening, so much in fact that it had already brought a majority of the traffic to a standstill.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and glared at the fairy lights which Mrs Hudson had put up, tempted to tear them down and spend the rest of the day in petulant darkness: if he couldn't have John, he didn't want any of the other things either.

He nearly jumped when his phone rang; it wasn't John, however, but Lestrade. Well. At least a case would distract him from all the wrongness for a while.

With another huff, he accepted the call: “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Are you at home?” Lestrade's voice was a little slurred.

“Where else would I be?”

“At your parents' house?”

“Why?”

“Because it's Christmas.”

“So?”

“Right. I keep forgetting you're not like other people. Anyway, stay where you are.”

With that, Lestrade ended the call. Feeling even more irritable than before, Sherlock frowned at his phone.

Nearly an hour later, the doorbell rang. Sherlock waited for a minute until he remembered that no one except himself was there to answer it. When he opened the front door, he found Lestrade huddled into his coat, looking miserable and swaying a little bit: “Where's Mrs Hudson?”

“Visiting her sister in Bury St Edmunds.”

“Huh. Can I come in?”

Sherlock was slightly disappointed that it wasn't about a case after all: “You got here by cab.”

“Yeah.”

“I didn't think they were still driving.”

“Only a few are. It's chaos out there.”

They went upstairs.“So, she left you again,” Sherlock said once they were back in his flat. “Tea?”

“Got anything stronger? I'm not on duty.”

“I wouldn't have thought,” Sherlock replied. “Should you drink any more, though? You've obviously started early today.”

“Oh, come on. It's Christmas.”

“Fine.”

While Sherlock dug through the kitchen cabinets, Lestrade sat down at the table rather heavily: “She wants a divorce, and this time, she means it. She's even gotten herself a lawyer.”

“Well,” Sherlock surfaced with half a bottle of Scotch, “you're probably better off without her.”

Lestrade glared at him: “Really. How do you know?”

“She's been cheating on you for over four years.”

“Not all the time.”

“Doesn't make it better, does it?”

To Sherlock's alarm, Lestrade suddenly looked as though he was about to cry. Quickly, the detective put the bottle and two glasses on the table: “Here.”

With an obvious effort, Lestrade cleared his throat: “Right. Sorry.”

They clinked glasses, each of them unhappily murmuring “Merry Christmas.” The alcohol didn't seem to lighten the D.I.'s mood though; Lestrade's eyes were still (or again) swimming as he was telling Sherlock about how he had first found out that his wife was cheating on him.

“I knew there was something going on, but I didn't know how to stop it, you see?” He ended with what might have counted a small sob.

Sherlock stood rooted to the spot, unsure what to do. Eventually though, he kicked himself into action and went around the table to pat Lestrade's shoulder.

“She's perfect,” Grant muttered, “perfect. And I couldn't give her what she needed because I'm... not. Maybe I didn't make enough of an effort, maybe I was overconfident.”

The sudden pang Sherlock felt was unexpected; it was very likely due to the whisky. And yet... Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked at it uncertainly.

“Maybe I should talk to her.” Lestrade unsteadily got to his feet. “Maybe I should go to her.”

“You can't!”

“Why not?”

“Because you just told me she's on a cruise.”

“Right.” Swearing, Lestrade sniffed audibly a few times: “I'm so glad you're not dead, Sherlock,” he then said, and all of a sudden, Sherlock found himself engulfed in a bear hug; he only barely kept his balance.

“Am I interrupting something?” a voice asked.

Lestrade let go of Sherlock: “John, old bean!”

John stood in the door to the kitchen, looking... annoyed, maybe, and a little sad. To suddenly see him there after weeks of silence sent a jolt down Sherlock's spine, and he felt a bit dizzy. John's presence seemed to fill the whole room.

“Becky wants a divorce,” Lestrade informed the doctor, whom he was now hugging.

“I see,” John replied slowly, never taking his eyes off Sherlock, who desperately tried to come up with something to say.

“What- erm... what are you doing here?” he eventually asked tentatively.

“I thought you might be snowing in and I wasn't sure... I know Mrs Hudson's in Suffolk,” John replied. “I... I brought sandwiches. And whisky. Although it seems you're well supplied.”

What Sherlock deduced was that John had been alone as well and had at the last minute changed his mind about that. It seemed that he had walked part of the way, despite the weather, and in the bag he was carrying there was also something which looked like a wrapped present, but Sherlock wisely didn't comment on that or on the fact that John knew perfectly well how Mrs Hudson'd never leave without stocking the fridge up first. It really didn't matter though, he was simply relieved that John had come.

“I could eat a sandwich,” Lestrade said pensively.

“Well, then,” John said, looking at Sherlock questioningly and at the same time managing to look lost.

“Oh, er, sure.”

Sherlock stepped aside, feeling a little outnumbered. Dealing with John on his own would have been difficult enough; dealing with John in the presence of a third party seemed impossible. He had spent a lot of time thinking up ways to approach John, but none of those included having a second listener. But he couldn't very well not broach the subject, could he? They couldn't simply make small-talk when the issue which had caused John to not talk to him for almost two months was still standing between them, untouched.

John regarded Lestrade more closely once he had set his bag down:“Since when have you been drinking?”

“All day! Then I came here and had some more.” Lestrade beamed at John.

“Well, Sherlock's still standing but I think you might need some coffee,” John told Lestrade. “I'll make some.”

Nervously, Sherlock watched as the doctor moved around the kitchen. He was suddenly very aware of his hands and that he didn't know what to do with them. Picking up the violin and playing something would almost certainly count as rude or inappropriate under the given circumstances; usually, he wouldn't have bothered about that, but right now he sensed that he couldn't afford any further offense. He was almost glad when his phone rang again.

This time, it was Mrs Hudson: “Sherlock?”

“What's wrong?”

“How did you- oh, it doesn't matter. Sherlock, I'm afraid I'm in a bit of a tight spot.”

“Why?”

“My sister and I had a horrible row and I left. Now I'm in Ely, and they've cancelled all further trains due to the weather. The only place which is open is the cathedral, but it'll close after the last service. What should I do? I'm stuck!”

“You could make friends with the pastor. He might take you in.”

“Sherlock!”

“Right. Sorry.”Sherlock thought for a moment: “We'll come and get you. Leave your phone on vibration so you'll notice it in case I ring.”

“We?”

“Long story. Do not wait outside, okay? It might take a while.”

Both John and Lestrade had stopped talking and were looking at Sherlock enquiringly once he had ended the call.

“We're going to Ely,” he said.

“Ely?”

“Now?”

“Why?”

“In these conditions?”

“We need to get Mrs Hudson before she steals the pastor's heart.”

“What?”

“I'll explain on the way. Grant, we need your car.”

“It's Greg.”

“Doesn't matter, we still need your car.”

“Yes. But. I was going to eat a sandwich.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes: “You can bring it with you, but we need to get going.”

“Sherlock, you're being rude.”

“No, I'm trying to help Mrs Hudson.”

“My name isn't Grant.”

“We're really going to Ely by car, in this weather?”

“Yes. The trains are not running anymore.”

“Well, then... okay. Okay. The coffee's ready by the way, I'll take a Thermos.”

“Bring the rest of the sandwiches, too, will you?”

“Could we hurry up?”

“You don't even know my name. You should be very polite to me if you want my car.”

“It's not for my sake,” Sherlock said with all the patience he could muster, “it's for Mrs Hudson's.”

“Right. That is different. She knows my name, after all.” Lestrade somewhat laboriously got to his feet: “Come along, John!”

John took a moment to shake his head before he followed them out: “Bloody- he didn't even ask if we wanted to come,” he muttered under his breath, though deep down, something felt astonishingly good about the matter.

For months after Sherlock's suicide, John had not been sleeping well. He had dreamed vividly, reliving the last few moments again and again. Before 221B, he had been told that he was a quiet dreamer, yet that changed after the events at St Barts: several times, Mrs Hudson had come up in the middle of the night because John had screamed, begging Sherlock not to do it.

He still didn't know how he had managed to carry on at all. At one point, he had moved away from Baker Street because he simply couldn't bear it anymore; it was too full of memories, too cosy, too much like a home he had had and then lost. And then, out of the blue, Sherlock had come back. He had shown up at John's new lodgings and appeared as chipper and spirited as if he hadn't just delivered another veritable blow to his best friend. John couldn't remember ever being so angry, and yet, he had listened to what Sherlock had to say, had asked questions, had taken in the answers to those, had tried to comprehend. Even if Sherlock's motives might have been noble, he felt left out and betrayed.

A few days later, once his initial anger had abated, John felt mainly happy that Sherlock was back, but he wasn't going to make it too easy for the detective, oh no. He was going to let him wait, make him boil in his own juices, and one day, make him admit that he had been wrong in not including John in the whole matter. The doctor decided to wait till Christmas, then drop by Baker Street with a bottle of whisky and, after Sherlock was drunk, have him write a confession. In his heart, John had almost forgiven Sherlock already, but he was too proud to admit it to himself. Though he yearned to move back to Baker Street, resume their old life again and leave the whole sorry affair behind, he needed for Sherlock to show at least a little bit of repentance first. Sure, he had apologized, but a simple apology wasn't enough. John needed for Sherlock to comprehend the whole extent of what he had done.

That Lestrade and Mrs Hudson had unknowingly put paid to John's plan was too bad, but somehow, he didn't mind as much as he'd have expected. He had missed Sherlock, well and truly, and he was certain that these feelings were reciprocated. Judging by Sherlock's rather tentative behaviour towards him, the detective had understood one thing or other in the meantime.

It took them an hour to get to Lestrade's home in Ealing; as they hadn't been able to find a cab, they had had no choice but to take the tube. Since even the underground's service was limited due to the snow, the trains were horribly crowded. John kept looking at Sherlock's annoyed face and found he was tremendously amused by his grimaces.

The BMW was parked at the curb and completely covered by snow. While John began to wipe it clean and Lestrade more or less helped, Sherlock chose to call Mrs Hudson right then and inform her they would be leaving for Ely soon.

“I'll drive,” he said once he had hung up.

“I'll drive,” John disagreed.

“You've been drinking.”

“I only had a few sips of whisky.”

“Which you're not used to and it still counts as drinking.”

“We're with the police!”

“No, we're with a rather inebriated Met detective who wouldn't exactly benefit from it if we'd be stopped while you drove.”

“Fine.”

Visibly irritated, Sherlock handed John the keys; so much for tentative, then.

Lestrade quite happily climbed onto the back seat: “I never usually get to appreciate my bimmer from back here,” he announced, sounding awed. “There's so much room for my legs!”

“Are you strapped in?” John asked.

“Yessir!”

John couldn't help it: with a sense of adventure, he pulled out of the parking space.

“How far is it?” he asked once they were on the motorway.

“About 80 miles,” Sherlock murmured. He was waiting for his phone to get a GPS signal. The snow was coming down so thickly that the mass of flakes which was swirling toward the windshield looked rather hypnotising. The few cars which were there all stayed on the left lane, since the right one was partially covered by snowdrifts, and no one was driving faster than 35 miles per hour.

“Anyone want a sandwich?” Lestrade inquired.

“No, thank you.”

“Well, I've eaten mine. I'll close my eyes for a bit.”

Soon, the sound of soft snoring could be heard.

While there were increasingly fewer cars once they had left the greater London area behind, the snow didn't abate.

“Tell me something,” John said after a while. “You can't remember his name, but you were willing to destroy yourself in order to save him. Why?”

Even though Sherlock sat very still, he gave the impression that he was actually squirming.

“He's a friend,” he eventually said. “He's slow-minded, but then, you all are. He's... good. And I knew I wasn't going to die.”

“You allowed the press to destroy your reputation and you gave two years of your life,” John replied, ignoring the slight, “that does count as self-destruction in my book. Your life as you knew it was over, and you had no idea for how long you'd be gone and how much time it'd take.”

Sherlock ever so slightly tilted his head in acknowledgement.

“You however had no idea how much it'd destroy me,” John continued, suddenly feeling the anger again, the disappointment. “Because you're not only noble but also very self-centered at times. You don't understand whichever mundane feelings others might have, therefore they don't count.”

“I meant it when I said I was sorry,” Sherlock said after a moment, and he sounded genuinely stricken. “I am.”

“I know,” John's voice was soft. “I just don't understand why you didn't ask me to help you. We've been a good team ever since we met, haven't we?”

Sherlock turned his head toward the window: “It was a one-man operation,” he murmured. “Together, we'd have attracted too much attention.”

“Bollocks.”

“No, John, it's true.” You have no idea.

“Give me just one example then.”

“I had to infiltrate a group of gun runners in Serbia. We couldn't have done that together.”

John remained silent, pursing his lips as he was wont to do when he disliked something.

“Okay,” he eventually conceded. “Maybe. But maybe I could have done something else in the meantime.”

“Divide and conquer?”

“Yes, like that.”

“I don't think so. It wouldn't have worked.”

“Why the bloody hell not?” John's temper rose and with it his voice. “Why would it have gone wrong, Sherlock, tell me!”

This time, Sherlock remained silent.

Frustratedly, John hit the wheel with his fist, accidentally honking in the process, which elicited a grunt from the back seat.

“You know what, I've had it,” John ranted, “I'll stop at the next services and you can go on without me. Apparently, you don't need me anyway, so why I am here at all, I'd like to know!”

Sherlock had difficulties to bring out the next few words, as his throat felt constricted all of a sudden; maybe this was the one offense too many, made even worse because his friend had no way of understanding Sherlock's reasons. But if John left now, he'd not come back, Sherlock was certain of it.

“John, please,” he said, barely able to get the words out.

“Please what!”

Sherlock briefly closed his eyes: “I do need you. I would have needed you, often. There were many times during which I regretted not having you with me.”

John snorted.

“But it was safer for you to be at home, no matter how awful I made you feel.” The words felt like grains of sand on Sherlock's tongue. “I don't have a problem with putting myself in the crosshairs, but you...” he trailed off.

“I don't quite see the difference,” John said obstinately, if somewhat calmer. “During our whole time together in London, we've mastered a lot of dangerous situations. You never once had any qualms about me. So why then?”

“It's a different scale,” Sherlock almost whispered. “These people... That network... What if they had caught you? What if they had tortured you?”

John gave a derisive snort, but then he fell silent. He opened his mouth and closed it again, eyes still firmly on the road. He swallowed a few times, and when he finally did speak, his voice was very low: “Tell me that didn't happen,” he said. “Sherlock, tell me that didn't happen!”

Sherlock cleared his throat: “It's all right,” he replied softly. “I got out.”

John's eyes were swimming now and he was gripping the wheel rather tightly: “You bloody idiot,” he said.

Sherlock experienced a sinking feeling. Why had he blabbered out what John was not supposed to hear? If he had been vexed about being left out before, this newly gained knowledge was bound to make it even worse. Neither of them spoke for a long time.

They were twenty miles from Cambridge when Lestrade suddenly sat up: “Can we stop for a moment?” he asked. “I need to pee.”

“We just passed by a lay-by, there are no services coming up, I think,” John said.

“You could just stop here,” Sherlock said. “There haven't been any other cars for ten minutes anyway.”

“Fine. But don't blame me if something goes wrong.”

Slowly, John pulled over to the left and stopped on the hard shoulder, carefully avoiding the snowdrifts which were piling up quite high.

“Thanks, mate.” With a bit of an effort, Lestrade hauled himself out of the car, then winced because he came to stand in ankle-deep snow which immediately found its way into his shoes. Ducking his head against the wind and the onslaught of snowflakes, he trudged towards the guardrail.

In the car, John could barely keep himself from drumming impatiently on the wheel; not having to drive meant being able to look at Sherlock, which would have been awkward. The bastard. Time and again, he always managed to turn things around so that in the end, it was John who was feeling guilty, John who thought he had to make amends.

The doctor was beginning to feel hungry and was about to turn around and look for the bag of sandwiches when Sherlock, who had been watching Lestrade in the wing mirror, suddenly unfastened his seatbelt: “For God's sake!” he muttered and was already out of the car before John even knew what had happened. He turned around and peered into the swirling darkness: apparently, Lestrade had taken a header into one of the snowdrifts. Sherlock had just pulled him out and was steering him back to the car. The DI's teeth were chattering: “Blimey, it's c-c-cold,” he managed to get out once he and Sherlock were in the back.

“Do you have any blankets in the boot?” John asked.

“N-n-no,” Lestrade replied, “This isn't a b-b-bloody ambulance, is it?” He was actually grinning.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, shrugged out of his coat and wrapped it around the other man. “I'll need it back,” he grumbled before getting out again and resuming the passenger seat.

“We'll see about that,” Lestrade muttered with distinct complacency.

As they drove on, John kept glancing sideways at Sherlock, who had wrapped his arms around his torso and pretended not to notice until he couldn't bear it any more: “What!?”

John shrugged: “Nothing. It's just... nice. It was nice of you to give him your coat. Especially since you're cold yourself now.”

“I'm not. Cold, I mean.”

“I know what you mean.” The smallest of smiles was playing around John's mouth, but Sherlock didn't see it.

“It's your fault,” he said defiantly.

John gasped in disbelief: “How!?”

“Because you stopped the car right next to the largest snowdrift there was. Gra-eg was bound to fall into it.”

“Huh. Right.” John shook his head: “Of course it's my fault if you put it like that. But then it's your fault that I'm having to live in a miserable little bedsit with mould in every corner.”

“Excuse me?”

“Because you had me believe you were dead and I couldn't bear staying at 221B. And I miss it. I miss the flat and Mrs Hudson and our old life. I bloody miss you!” He had been getting louder very steadily and had all but shouted the last few words.

“Then why didn't you speak to me!” Sherlock raised his voice as well.

“BECAUSE YOU'RE A STUBBORN IDIOT!”

“I? I AM A STUBBORN IDIOT? I CAME TO YOU RIGHT AWAY!”

“YES, AFTER TWO YEARS!”

“STOP SHOUTING!” That was Lestrade.

Angrily, Sherlock and John turned around to him: “SORRY!” Right then, due to the abrupt movement, the car began to swerve.

With the assistance of a lovely young woman who had been sitting next to Mrs Hudson in the pew earlier she had put her mobile on vibration, as instructed. Determined not to worry any longer since Sherlock was going to come and get her, she had then put it back in her bag and concentrated on the service. Spending the entire evening in a cathedral was not how she had imagined Christmas Eve, but she hadn't been able to endure just one more second of her sister's badmouthing her boy. She had been going on and on about how Sherlock was certain to be a fraud and how cleverly he had managed to turn the press once more in his favour, and that he couldn't be trusted, not after what he had done to the world in general and an innocent old lady in particular. She had never like him and had never denied it, but this time, it had been too much. So Mrs Hudson had fled after a vigorous shouting match, and now she was here in Ely Cathedral, a victim of the circumstances. She was getting tired as she waited for the last service at eleven thirty to begin, and she had to do her best to stay awake at one point. She had just nearly nodded off and was furtively glancing around to see if anyone had noticed when a dark figure slid into the pew next to her: “Merry Christmas,” Sherlock said in a low voice, and Mrs Hudson beamed at him in delight: “Oh, Sherlock, thank God!”

“You're in the right place for that,” he replied.

She sighed: “Yes. It's beautiful, isn't it?”

Sherlock tilted his head ever so slightly, looking around: “Hm. Acoustics must be good.”

“Yes, they are. You'd have liked the music.”

“Nevertheless- are you ready to leave?”

“I thought you'd never ask.”

They got up and Mrs Hudson gathered up her luggage: “Did you get here all right? The roads must be dreadful.”

Sherlock turned around to take her larger bag: “You have no idea.”

Mrs Hudson never learned the truth about why Detective Inspector Lestrade's nice BMW had sustained some thankfully light damage or what exactly had happened during the drive to Ely. She was happy to hear that John was going to move back to his old room in 221B and that he was going to stay for the rest of Christmas.

It was nearing three o'clock in the morning when they arrived in Baker Street, where all of them more or less just dropped into into their beds or, in Lestrade's case, onto the sofa. John barely managed to spread the fresh sheet Mrs Hudson had quickly dug out of her closet underneath himself before he fell asleep; late in the morning, he woke up in a tangle of bedding and with the comforting knowledge that he had come home.

During breakfast, Mrs Hudson kept beaming at her boys, including Lestrade in that selected group; he sat hunched over with a squint, unsure whether coffee really was such a good idea. Sherlock had filled her in about his situation on the way back from Ely, and Mrs Hudson had decided not to let him go home so soon.While she had busied herself in 221B's kitchen earlier, she had asked John if things between him and Sherlock had been resolved, at which he had shrugged: “Not entirely, but kind of. We're getting there.”

Sherlock was aware that Mrs Hudson could barely contain herself, and for once, it didn't get on his nerves. He felt surprisingly giddy himself, though he didn't let it on. The situation had turned out rather satisfactory, which he wouldn't have believed if anyone had told him so only twenty-four hours earlier. The matter between John and him had not been completely settled yet, but he felt... happy was probably the right word, so happy in fact that he generously invited Lestrade to stay. Best not to remind him of his damaged car anyway.

They spent part of the day watching TV, all of them still being tired; in the afternoon, while Lestrade was taking a nap on the sofa and Mrs Hudson had gone to “whip up a surprise dinner” in her kitchen, John and Sherlock sat in their armchairs in front of the fireplace, each of them with a book but neither of them actually reading. Sherlock was staring into the fireplace, watching the flames, and John kept looking around the room, astonished by how different it was now that life had returned.

He couldn't say that he had entirely forgiven Sherlock yet, but there was still some light to shed on a few things, questions to be answered. They'd have time for that, he thought with a pleasant shudder.

A brief, amused laugh pulled Sherlock from his musings. When his and John's gaze met, both of them regarded the other's expression for a moment, then John smiled fondly: “Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

Sherlock bowed his head ever so slightly, returning the smile: “To you, too, John. And a happy New Year.”

**Posted by Schmiezi** December 22, 2015 5:25 am

Dear NotYourHousekeeperDear,

you are a very lucky person. For a while, it seemed as if your Santa would be able to finish your fic, so I called for help. A member of the forum who did not want to take part in the Secret Santa Fic Exchange originally volunteered to write you a makeshift fic. Just when that wonderful little fic was finished, your original Santa told me that she would finish your fic, only maybe a bit later.

So today, I present you the first of two fics written for you. I hope you'll enjoy it.

Dear NotYourHousekeeperDear,
so this fic happened within 24 hours as sort of an emergency fic. I'm afraid I haven't been able to fulfill all your prompts – the case-fic had to go, so sorry about that. And the AU isn't a real AU but more of a cross-over, but well... I hope you'll like it at least a tiny bit and please ignore all the grammar mistakes you might find, there hasn't been time to really beta this fic.
Merry Christmas, dear!

And When All is Said and Done, Only the Tardis Can Hear You Weep

This wasn’t right. It didn’t feel right. Or to be more precise, it felt absolutely wrong. This couldn’t happen, it just couldn’t… not now, not so soon and unexpected!

The Doctor had no idea what to do about this. And that really meant something, because this rarely happened. The Doctor always knew what to do – or at least he always had a vague idea – but this… this just was impossible.

Of course he knew what would happen, he had experienced this before, far too often for his own liking. The process was inevitable. It didn’t always feel the same, there were variations, but what it came down to was the fact that it always felt like riding a rollercoaster and never was comfortable – and the timing always was wrong, just wrong.

[i]The regeneration had been a pretty bumpy process this time. It had come too unexpected and, the Doctor had to face it, very unwelcome.

Ten minutes ago he had been that tall, grumpy, Scottish bloke who looked suspiciously like that actor Peter Ca… well, whatever, but now… what was this? Seriously? The powers of the Time Lord universe must have gone mad. The Doctor stood in his Tardis and looked into the mirror. Freaky business.

“A moustache? Really? Come on…!”, he muttered to himself.

“That moustache has to go, of course”, he heard a voice from behind. A familiar voice, very familiar, belonging to his companion. A companion he had known for quite some time now but who he would have to get to know all over again, now that he himself had undergone that change which had turned him into a short man who looked more like a… yes, like a Hobbit than like a Time Lord, no doubt about that. Regeneration, what a gamble it was.[/i]

This time however the timing was particularly wrong. And that was due to his companion. The Doctor had always been very attached to his companions, no goodbye had ever been easy, not for him and certainly not for his companions. But this time…

The Doctor felt that particular pain roam through his body and he knew it wouldn’t be long now. “You will have to stand back now”, he said to his companion.

“What do you mean?”, he asked, looking quite puzzled at the Doctor – and that truly was a sight to see because this particular companion had always been so clever, so special and such a perfect match for this particular incarnation of the Doctor, right from the very start.

“Exactly what I just said. You will have to stand back. Remember what I told you about Time Lords and regeneration?”, the Doctor reminded his companion.

“Of course I remember. But this is not happening now”, his companion said with a slight hint of desperation in his voice.

[i]And bloody hell, now that he came to think of it…

“Your long coat has to go as well”, the Doctor said to his companion.

“Why?”, his companion asked?

“That coat will make me look like your… short friend!”, the Doctor said, his voice sounding a bit desperate.

“Do I detect a tiny bit of desperation in your voice?”, his companion asked, typically. He was far too clever for a companion. Of course the Doctor had always had clever companions, some of them more clever than others, but Sherlock Holmes… he really was clever-clever.[/i]

‘Oh, you clever boy. You clever, clever boy’, the Doctor thought, feeling his two hearts ache with almost unbearable sadness, but aloud he said: “Yes, it is, Sherlock”. And after a short moment of hesitation he continued to explain: “When we were on the ship of the Master with his accomplices, Moriarty and Mary, and they were ready to murder all of us, I had to absorb a lot of energy in order to stop the ship’s control tower from imploding… or we all would have fallen down into the energy pit and died.”

“Yes, I know all that, I’ve been there”, Sherlock answered, impatiently.

“But what you don’t know is that this has caused my body to go into regeneration.”

“But you can’t!”, Sherlock exclaimed.

“I have to! Or I’ll die!”

The Doctor and his companion fell silent for what seemed to be hours, just staring at one another, when Sherlock finally broke the silence and said: “You can't. You can't do this to me. John.”

The Doctor couldn't help himself but smile. John. Of course the Doctor had always just been the Doctor to his companions – well, to most of them – despite the fact that he did indeed have a name. A Time Lord name. On several occasions however, when on Earth there was the need to blend in, he called himself John Smith. Sherlock had immediately taken to the name – John, not Smith – once the Doctor had used it in his presence for the first time.

“It's perfect”, he had said, repeating the name several times, shifting it around in his mouth as if to test its sound, its feel on his tongue like some delicious food: “John... Jooohn... Jawn... John, the Doctor. It's perfect.”

[i]“I have no idea what you’re talking about…”, the Doctor said, taking a last look at himself and then ascending up the stairs to his closet. Those clothes had to go, they were definitely oversized now since his former incarnation – the twelfth, to be precise – had been so much… oh well. So he was number 13 now. That was just perfect. 13. Lucky number.

Oh well, lucky number or not, he had to find some new clothes now. That brown coat would be great again, he had loved that coat… but bugger, of course it would look absolutely ridiculous on him now. Now that he was about half a meter shorter than his tenth incarnation had been. Oh, and the hair, the sticky uppy… oh, never mind.[/i]

Sherlock hadn't called the Doctor 'John' very often though. It seemed as if he had saved it for very special occasions only. Intimate occasions. Soulful occasions. Occasions of communion. And occasions of passion. Two hearts, Sherlock had once theorized aloud, afterwards, obviously made for twice as much passion, heat, sensation. And love. A doubling which somehow seemed to be transferable onto the companion, Sherlock had said, since being together with the Doctor made him feel with an intensity he had never imagined possible.

Sherlock had no idea how right he had been, the Doctor thought. Double the love, double the pain. The pain of regenerating was almost unbearable in itself, but the knowledge of what he would have to leave behind this time made it so much worse.

Yes, he would come back, the Doctor always came back, not all was lost. Still, there was this particular Doctor, this Doctor who was called 'John' by his companion every now and then, who would be lost forever.

“There is nothing I can do about it”, the Doctor finally said. “And believe me, I wish I could. Not just because of you... of us. Whoever or whatever my next incarnation will be, I seriously doubt that he – or she – will be into striped jumpers.”

It was meant as a joke, but the man with the long coat and the dark curls didn't smile.

[i]“Sod it!”, the Doctor exclaimed and put the coat back onto its coat hook.

“Is anything the matter?”, his companion asked from down below where he lollopped around the switches and levers of the control room. Was he actually giggling...?

“No”, the Doctor answered.

“Is the moustache gone?”

Definitely giggling.

“I don’t shave for Sherlock Holmes!”, the Doctor exclaimed. He could hear his companion chuckle at that without holding back now.

And he could also hear him say: “You will do much more than just shave for Sherlock Holmes, Doctor...” [/i]

There had been times in the past when the Doctor had been able to prevent it from happening. Or to postpone it, if only for a little while. But this was not one of those times. He could feel it, quite clearly.

The Doctor's companion had resorted to absentmindedly playing around with the switches and levers of the Tardis control panel, only to avoid having to look at the Doctor.

“So this is it then?”, he finally asked, desperate and stunned, but still avoiding the Doctor's gaze.

“This is it”, the Doctor said.

“I can't believe it. After all we've been through... it's just like my brother always said... caring is not...”

“Sherlock, don't. I... I am so sorry. But please don't.”

Sherlock nodded and finally looked at the Doctor. He took a step towards the Time Lord, then said: “To the very best of times, John...” and put forth his hand, but the Doctor, as difficult as it was for him and as much as he hated himself for it, indicated for Sherlock to stand back.

And when the regeneration began, the clever companion with the sad smile kept his eyes locked onto the Doctor, his Doctor for as long as his familiar features were still recognizable.

[i]When the Doctor finally came back down to the control room, his companion welcomed him with a broad smile.

“I heard you”, the Doctor told him.“And you shaved for Sherlock Holmes”, Sherlock Holmes said.“That's true.”“So how do you like your... new you, Doctor?”, Sherlock asked.

“How do you like my new me? People normally... freak out a bit when this happens”, the Doctor countered.

“What's there to freak out about? I'm Sherlock Holmes and you are the Doctor. And quite frankly, as much as I liked that Scottish bloke, he never would have shaved for me. And all this...” – and he motioned around the room and then to the Doctor and himself – “now feels... right”, Sherlock explained.

“It does...?”

“It does.”[/i]

“John...”, was one of the last words the Doctor heard before the regeneration set in with full force. And then there were “Bees... talked about... I will... those bees...” – and then finally the Doctor, this particular Doctor who had loved wearing striped jumpers and who tended to clench his fists when things got going and who looked nothing like a Time Lord when standing right next to his tall companion, this particular Doctor vanished forever.

And when all is said and done,
and when you turn around
because he will be gone forever
and the one who follows will never be him,
you say goodbye to it all
and only the Tardis can hear you weep.
But the bees will always hum for you.

**Posted by Schmiezi** December 23, 2015 6:15 am

For Ben'sGrizzie

Playing It Close

Summary – John invites Sherlock to a Coldplay concert and learns something new about his old friend

Pairing – John Watson/Sherlock Holmes

Characters – Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Harry Watson

Tags and warnings – Established relationship, demisexual Sherlock, Homophobic language, anti-Catholic language, piano bar references

Playlist – At the end

Sherlock contemplated the unlikely events of the day. He had accompanied John on a lovely June morning to Manchester, albeit with some pro forma grumbling. They had found Harriet amidst the crowd outside Etihad Stadium. Sherlock had actually entered the stadium with them willingly. He was now sitting in the darkest spot he’d been able to find, far from the crowd and the stage, listening to a group of musicians (well, they were called musicians) and a clearly enamored crowd bobbing and weaving to electric guitars and drums, with a piano or mandolin added here and there.

John had given him polyurethane earplugs when they were still on the train and solemnly instructed Sherlock to wear them the moment they entered the stadium. Sherlock had scoffed at the time, but quickly installed them when they approached the huge thrust stage at the beginning of the evening. It had been bearable, at first, but as the music and the crowd grew ever more animated, he felt the pounding percussion raising his heart rate and blood pressure and suddenly it was too much. Too many people, too many smells, too much skin, too many voices yelling at each other, loose with alcohol and other things, too many motives, too much hope, too much disappointment, too much, toomuchtoomuch….

Then John had grabbed his wrist, pulling him back from the stage and up, up, up steep steps into the dark at the edges of the arena, high above the crowd and the band. John had sat with him, monitoring his pulse and breathing until something like calm had returned and he could think again.

“A bit overwhelming, isn’t it?” John observed.

“Not at all. It just… It smells awful. All those sweaty bodies jammed up against the stage… You should have provided nose plugs as well.”

“Cheers, “ John said with a grin. “I’m pretty fragrant myself at this point. Look, do you want to go? I mean, Harry is having a grand time, but she’ll understand. I can text her down there…”

“Don’t be absurd, I’m fine. I’m… I’ll just stay here and…”

“You’ll observe, I know. Just try to keep your observations to yourself, yeah? You don’t need another split lip.”

“You underestimate my reflexes and my skill.”

“And you’ll underestimate a Trafford Park lorry driver and I’ll find you in pieces under the stands. “

“Oh, please…”

“Yeah and thank you. Listen, they’re more than halfway done. I’ll go grab Harry and we’ll make our way back here to listen to the rest, alright?”

Sherlock nodded and John made his way down the tiers of the stadium and disappeared into the crowd. The detective closed his eyes and focused on the memory of how they had gotten to this place.

June had seemed impossibly far away when he had said yes to this plan and Christmas preparations had complicated everything, especially The Event at 18:48 on December 18, 2015. John and Hudders had just finished decorating for the Christmas party, the first since John had moved back to Baker Street. John, ever the boyish romantic, kissed Sherlock for the very first time under the mistletoe. Sherlock had promptly gone cataleptic, which, had they invited a longer list of people, might have delayed the start of the party. As it happened, Sherlock roused himself at 19:37 and found the only things amiss were that he was wearing a Santa hat and Molly, Greg, Wiggins and John were a full drink ahead of him. Hudders was two drinks ahead, but that was normal.

For the rest of the evening, John had given him little affectionate touches, nothing that different from the affection he had demonstrated ever since he had moved back in, but he was doing it when everyone could see. Sherlock distractedly played “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlefolks” and drank quite a bit of eggnog and otherwise sat folded up in his chair, watching John be the comfortable host in his true home. By the time the guests had left, Sherlock had moved to the couch. John walked a somewhat tipsy Mrs. H back downstairs and then returned, his steps sure and steady.

The doctor sat on the sofa, close but not touching, and faced Sherlock, taking his hand. “Alright?” he asked.

“What are we doing?”

“Well, I’d say I’m doing most of the doing, right now. I guess I’m asking, offering… Asking if you’re… interested?”

“Interested?”

“Yeah, in me? Are you interested in me?”

“John, I am always interested…”

“You know what I mean… Alright, alright, we’ll do it this way.” John took both of Sherlock’s large hands in his small ones and gave them a squeeze. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes, are you interested in a … Romantic relationship with me?”

“Romantic, meaning with kissing and… hugging and… so forth?”

“Yes, that’s right, kissing and hugging and… so forth, if you’re interested in so forth.”

“What if I’m not. Not interested in… so forth?”

“Sherlock, you’re my best friend and it turns out I’m happier living with you than I have ever been with anyone else. If we are just flat mates for the rest of our lives, I can… I can live with that. I can cheerfully, comfortably live with that. I just… I needed to ask or I would always regret not asking.”

“What if I like the kissing and the touching but I don’t know about the … so forth?”

“Then, if it is alright, we’ll find out about the so forth together, one day, one step at a time. Yeah?”

“Yes. John?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you? Could we try the kissing part again?”

“Good idea, genius.”

And they had done the kissing part again, for a very long time. Then they had gone to Sherlock’s room and done the hugging part for quite some time and Sherlock had found the whole business exhausting and fallen asleep. He had awoken to some sounds in the loo, but John had returned a bit later and snuggled back up and they had slept again and John, in fact, seemed quite content.

The next day had been very normal, John up at dawn and making coffee and smiling good morning and things had gone on from there. Sometime later that day John had explained that he had ordered concert tickets for Harry’s Christmas present.

“I’m sending her one ticket to the Coldplay concert in Manchester, that’s in June. June is her twelve-month sober anniversary date. I told her if she’s sober in June, I’d go to the concert with her. We haven’t done that together since I joined the RAMC. She’s pretty jazzed about that idea and she asked if you would come as well, so I’m asking. Will you come to a rock concert with Harry and me in June?”

Harry’s continued sobriety seemed chimerical and Sherlock’s analysis in December told him that twelve months sober was an unobtainable goal. In a fog of sentiment, he said yes. He should have known better than to underestimate Watson stubbornness. Now he sat in an uncomfortable stadium in Manchester, waiting…

“Wake up, Princess, you’re frog is here!” chirped Harriet Watson, who turned out to be entirely too cheerful a person when she was sober and in her brother’s company.

“Yeah, not here for long, headed to the loo before the lines get longer.”

“There are lines?” asked Sherlock, incredulously.

“At a concert like this, the way the beer is flowing, at this hour, there will definitely be lines. See, you miss all the experiential minutia, growing up in that cultured Holmes barrow. Back in a few,” John said with a grin.

John was barely out of earshot when Harry turned to face the detective, eyes narrowed and face grim. “So, how is it going? He seems happy. Are you happy? Are you treating him right? Has he managed to man up and take a good rogering yet?”

“I fail to see how that’s your business…”

“So that’s a no, then. No way you’d look less than smug if you’d managed that.”

“Harriet, I absolutely refuse to discuss…”

“I’ll trade stories. Just let me know how its going, no details, and I’ll tell you anything you like about John’s childhood. I know you’re dying for more data and you’ll never get it from him. I’m your best resource, your only resource, really.”

There was no doubt the wretched woman had him dead to rights. Barring an occasional story about med school or the army, John was a giant clam about his past and Harry was the only family John had left.

“It’s going well, I think. I don’t have anything to compare it to but… He’s not angry anymore, well, not much, just the usual sweary stuff about housekeeping and so forth. He’s not doing the nervous hand clenching or the long marches in the park. He’s… happy.”

“And the bedroom stuff is going all right?”

“You said no details!”

“I’m not asking what brand of lube you use. Just… men, he always liked men, a bit, at least, but he never… He was… We didn’t grow up in the most progressive household, you know? Johnny, he buried so much of himself. I just want to know if he’s managed to dig out, to be himself.”

“He’s very… affectionate, if that’s what you’re asking. He says the bedroom stuff, as you say, is going fine.”

Harry narrowed her eyes again and stared, but then she seemed to decide that was enough, for now. “Alright then, what do you want to know?”

It was carte blanche and there were 152 different starting questions on his list, but the conversation with Harry thus far was deeply into territory that Sherlock agonized over. He knew that he took “going slow” to a tortoise–like extreme and John had been extraordinarily patient. Sherlock was also certain such patience could not last; especially as it seemed unlikely they would ever manage real sex, which was certainly what John wanted. Sherlock imagined by next Christmas John would be out looking for a new romantic partner, one who could deliver the goods.

“Hey, Princess, you in there? John will be back soon. Better take advantage…”

Grasping at the last question entered in the queue, Sherlock asked, “Is this John’s favorite music then?”

“You mean Coldplay? Or rock music in general?”

“Either… Is this what he enjoys? He never plays this at home.”

“Yeah, no, he wouldn’t. He went to concerts with me during his rebellious phase. In fact, he sang in my band when he was in 11th form, but…”

“John sang?”

“Like a bird. Here, look,” said Harry, digging for her wallet. From behind a battered drivers license, she pulled an even more battered photo. “Don’t even think of nicking it,” she said before handing it over.

There stood a seventeen year old John, slender as a willow. He was wearing a baggy plaid shirt and loose, faded jeans. His head was thrown back, hips canted forward, face in a trance as he nearly kissed a microphone, completely serious and completely vulnerable in a way Sherlock had never seen.

“It was Madchester, you know? Stone Roses and all that…”

“He sang with you.”

“Yeah, I had this band, Harry and the Harridans, but then Johnny started singing with us and we changed the name to Scotch Snaps. He really hauled in the crowds until he quit to go to uni.”

“And he liked this?”

“Well, he liked singing and Da liked him and me working the clubs together. Thought we’d keep each other out of trouble. It sort of worked. John didn’t like it as well as the stuff he used to sing as a kid.”

“Which was?”

“Church stuff, mostly, you know, Bach and Handel and all that.”

“John sang Bach?”

“Yeah, some mass, you know? I think he was eight or nine. Anyway, the priest started paying for lessons for him. I remember that Christmas he sang “Once in Royal David’s City”. Honest to god, you would have thought someone cracked the sky and let an angel’s voice slip out, it was so bloody beautiful.”

“And then he just stopped?”

“Well, Da found out, din’t he. Said no son of his was taking lessons from some nancy paid for by a dog-collared sodomite to turn his son into a poofter. He was a piece of work, our Da.”

“So he stopped singing when your father cancelled the lessons?”

“Nah, Johnny couldn’t stop singing any more than a chaffinch could, but Da wouldn’t let him sing in church any more. He sang in chorus at school and in our band for a year or so, til he went to uni.. But what he really loved was…”

“Sour cream and onion,” said John from behind them.

Sherlock snapped his head around and found John in the row behind them, a small smile on his face.

“My favorite crisps, right, when I was a kid, were sour cream and onion. Can’t stand them now. Listen, they’re on “Amazing Day”. How about we head down and see if we can beat the crowd to the tram, since you two are just nattering on. Alright Harry?”

So they caught the Met back into town and got off at Piccadilly. If Harriet was disappointed at missing the finale, she didn’t show it. They were walking along Princess Street, headed toward Harriet’s flat. She was belting out “For a second, I was in control. I had it once, I lost it though.” The next moment John was joining in with a harmony, singing “I’ve lost you now, you let me go. But one last time, tell me you love me!”

Harriet’s flat was a walk up on Richmond Street, much more modern than 221B. As soon as they came through the door, she said, “Make some tea, Johnny. Use the good stuff and make a pot. There’s some stilton in the fridge and some decent bread. Search around, it’s safer than your kitchen.”

‘It’s your flat. You’re the hostess.”

“I need to dig something out for Sherlock. Back in a tick.”

John began rummaging through the cabinets and casually asked, “What did you two get up to then? I only stepped away for a bit…”

“Please, John, I have no idea where you went, but you clearly were giving your sister and I some time alone to get to know each other. No men’s room line could possibly have taken you that long.”

“Yeah, well she’s been bugging me non-stop since I moved back in, wanting to know if you were treating me right. I figured it was the simplest solution. Sorry if she bent your ear with old stories.”

“Actually, she surprised me. She said you used to sing and showed me a photo.”

“Hmmm… True enough. I wasn’t half bad, but I was never a real musician, couldn’t really sight read, learned everything by ear.”

“She said…”

“Here we are,” said Harriet, bustling back into the sitting room, wrestling an ancient Yamaha keyboard and power supply.

“Jeez, Harry, is that the same…”

“Yup, I’ve moved this thing to hell and back, but it still works. Still has your old standards on it too!”

“Jesus!”

“Nah, none of that stuff, I’ve got the ones you really liked. Sherlock, meet Johnny Watson, piano lounge singer extraordinaire! Earned his pocket money throughout uni singing to old birds in the bars. They ate it up. He always liked the sad songs best, the torch songs. I bet he still knows every lyric from Carousel. When Sunset Boulevard came out, he begged for a ticket for Christmas. He sang “Too much in love to Care” for weeks.”

John palmed his face while his sister fussed with the buttons. After a bit, a tune came floating out of the buzzy speakers and sure enough, Sherlock recognized it as something that had played overhead in John’s bedroom late at night. Harriet started humming along, and then stopped and said softly, “Come on Johnny, sing with me, just a bit.”

“I haven’t sung in years, Harry. Not since Afghanistan.”

“Give it a go, come on. Your boyfriend wants to hear you.”

John blushed hard and fast, but he glimpsed at Sherlock, who was rapidly shifting his gaze between the siblings. “I’m not a real musician, not like you,” John said softly, “You’ll be appalled.”

“You can’t possibly be any worse than the opening band tonight, and I listened to that.”

“Yeah, for ten minutes maybe.”

“So sing for me for ten minutes,” said the detective, sitting in a well-worn Morris chair. “She’s right, I’d like to hear you.”

Harry began noodling on the keys. There was a horribly sentimental, completely artificial string accompaniment and then she was singing:

There's a place for us

Somewhere a place for us

Peace and quiet and open air

Wait for us

Somewhere

John came in right on cue:

There's a time for us

Some day a time for us

Time together

And time to spare

Time to learn

Time to care

Someday

It was entrancing. The tinny keyboard speakers were abysmal, but John had a clear, strong tenor and Harry a rich mezzo. Their voices blended as only siblings’ voices can. When the ballad came to an end, Harriet kept going and soon John was crooning:

If you were smart, you would keep on walking
Out of my life as fast as you can
I'm not the one you should pin your hopes on
You're falling for the wrong kind of man
This is crazy! You know we should call it a day
Sound advice, great advice
Let's throw it away

I can't control all the things I'm feeling
I haven't got a prayer
If I'm a fool, well
I'm too much in love to care

They went on for far more than the ten minutes, duet after duet. John was pulling notes and lyrics out of his memory, his voice growing stronger as he went on. Then Harry started a new tune and John gave a wry smile at his sister. He turned and looked directly into Sherlock’s eyes and began to sing:

And I am telling you

I'm not going

You're the best man I'll ever know

John’s voice broke in places, but he never lost eye contact.

And I am telling you

I'm not going

Even though the rough times are showing

There's just no way, there's no way

We're part of the same place

We're part of the same time

We both share the same blood

We both have the same mind

John came and stood in front of Sherlock, nearly between his legs.

Oh, I'm not living without you,

Not living without you

I don't want to be free

I'm staying, I'm staying

And you, and you, and you

You're gonna love me

The lounge was silent. Harriet had slipped away on the last note. John knelt down slowly and took both of Sherlock’s hands. “I’m not going and you do love me. I’m not going, ever. You need to believe me. There is no way I’m living without you, ever.”

“Alright,” said Sherlock, “I’ll try. But I think you need to do a lot more singing to keep me convinced”

John leaned in and brushed a kiss against his partner’s lips. “Alright,” he said. “We can arrange that.”

Sherlock sighed and thought of the old photo in his wallet. He would really have to get Harriet a nice copy.

Playlist - Coldplay’s “True Love”, Leonard Bernstein’s “Somewhere”, Black/Hampton/Lloyd Webber’s “Too Much in Love to Care”, Krieger/Eyen’s “And I Am Telling You”