Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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As it had been for the past three days, the rain fell from the sky in a barely there drizzle. It was too much to keep sufficiently dry but not enough to justify staying home due to bad weather. Despite the small, empty shop John was currently using as a makeshift clinic being leak proof, the rain was still making his life hard. People trudged in, wet and miserable and more cranky than normal. He had to keep mopping up muddy puddles that dripped off his clients shoes because the last thing he needed was someone, who was malnourished, slipping over and breaking a bone. This wasn’t as easy as it sounded as he only had half a broom and, until the past hour or so, his ‘clinic’ had been busy with people needing medical aid.  

Finally, he was down to his last patient, which was good as his supplies were now practically non-existent. He was glad that his eyesight was good as the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling was dull and had started flickered every now and then as if reminding John that he had already been there too long. 

“I know it’s easier said than done, but try and keep it dry,” John instructed as he wrapped a bandage around the arm of his patient, secured it and pulled the man's sleeve over the dressing.

“Thanks, Doc” Justin replied looking anywhere but at John as he tugged at his sleeve, making sure his wrists, and the scars from the attempted suicide from two years ago were covered.  This then pulled the neck of his jumper down and he scrabbled to pull the item of clothing back up. It was too late, though. John saw the damaged skin he tried to hide. It didn’t come as a shock, though. It was common in the dankier part of London. Hell, no one would have needed to see John today if they didn’t have the very same markings on their neck. They’d be mad to be seen with anyone with that mark because if you were without a mark and you were seen consorting with the marked then you would earn yourself a 6 year jail sentence and then an identical mark of your own. 

“Don’t suppose you know of a dentist that works under the radar?” 

John looked up at Justin, who was finally looking at him, to see the tell tale bulge in his cheek, indicating that his tongue was worrying one of his back teeth. A small sigh left his lips. This system was fucked up. It was cruel and very fucked up. 

“What happened to Donna?” he asked, gently placing his hand to the side of the man's cheek. The man flinched before answering.

“No one has seen her. She was here one day and gone the next. We all thought she was coping,” the man replied. John frowned. Donna had been a strong woman. She had been living with the discarded for three years, offering limited dental services where she could, telling John that at least her former life could be of some use. It was being useful that kept her going. Of the many level 5’s that took their lives, Donna was not one that John would have guessed of doing so.

John comfortingly patted the man's shoulder. “I’m sure she’ll show up. In the meantime, take these, but only if it gets really bad” he said handing a red box to the man. He followed it up with a dull yellow box. “Take these, twice a day until they are all gone. It will clear up any infection.”

Justin nodded and placed the two boxes in his jacket pocket. “Thanks,” he said again and stood up. “When can I tell the others you’ll be doing rounds again?”  

John shrugged. “I can’t make any promises but I’ll aim for four weeks this time. Flu season is coming and I want to see if I can get a supply of vaccinations to dish out. When I know for certain, I’ll let Cindy know to get the word out on location.”

Again, Justin nodded and then turned and walked away, cradling his arm carefully against his side, not giving John a backwards glance. It was easier that way. The less people acknowledged a stranger on their turf, the easier it was not to acknowledge how shit their life truly was. 

John muttered a curse under his breath and then packed up his few remaining supplies and carefully made his way along the dimly lit backstreets, thanking whatever was out there that the rain had stopped. Everytime John came to these parts, it looked worse and worse. There were also more and more stories of death, suicide, mental breakdowns and just absolute despair. These parts of the streets stank and it was becoming more and more common to see rats dart out from their dank hiding spots and run past. Yet another problem that the poor bastards, condemned to this particular hell, had to deal with. Vermin. 

The rain started to drizzle again, just as the main road that would take him to a more respectable part of London came into sight and John pulled up the hood on his jacket and picked up his pace. He had already stayed out longer than he planned, but the Doctor side of him could not turn a patient away. Today, there had been over 200 of them. It was, by far, his busiest day yet.  

The rain once again stopped as he reached the tube station that would take him back to his own part of London. He didn’t bother pushing the hood down. In a few minutes the rain would start again. Plus, if he happened to be picked up on any CCTV cameras, he would be harder to identify.  

Only just, John made it onto the train, just as the doors were abo ut to slide shut. The second he was sitting down in the almost empty cart, a weight fell from his shoulders. He had escaped detection once more and was safe.

Unfortunately, the guilt wasn’t as easy to leave behind.

It wasn’t long before he arrived at his stop and once he was out of the station, he picked up his pace and headed towards his small bedsit. He would be happy to get home. It had been a long night.  

Earlier that morning, John had managed to smuggle three bags of supplies across London and into an abandoned shop. It had been tricky, trying to be inconspicuous, especially the nearer he drew to his destination, but he had managed. He was now returning, just after midnight with the bare minimum of a basic first aid kit, a crook in his shoulder and the beginnings of a monster headache.  

With a bit more determination, John weaved his way through the well lit part of London, keeping his head down and thought about the leftover curry that was in his fridge and the expensive bag of loose leaf tea Sarah had given him for Christmas last year. This made the trek home more bearable and before he knew it, he was climbing the stained green stairs to his small home and breathing out a huge sigh of relief that he had managed yet another trip to the otherside, undetected as he pushed his door open and shuffled inside.

Ignoring his usual, almost compulsory tidiness, John dropped his bag on the floor, and took his damp Jacket off, not caring that it fell off the hook and landed on the floor next to his bag.  He kicked his shoes off and made his way into the kitchen to prepare his late meal of left over takeaway and strong tea. In less than six minutes, he was sitting in the only armchair in the apartment, watching some late night gameshow and chewing on a piece of butter chicken. He was only a third of the way through his tea when he fell asleep in his chair, the host on the telly urging viewers to call in so they didn’t miss their chance at winning subpar prizes. 

~o~

“John, you wonderful talented doctor, the most handsome man in all of London.”

John looked up to see Sarah, standing in the door of his consulting room with a big, hopeful smile on her face.  “Only all of London this time.  It must only be a small favour you are after.”

“Tinsy weensy” she said, holding her fingers up to show just how small this favour definitely wasn’t going to be. John leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, not saying a thing. Sarah was generally very polite and waited for people to ask her what she needed rather than barraging a person with requests and demands. John wasn’t going to make it easy on her this time.  

The silence stretched and before ten seconds was up, she cracked. “I need you to pull a double shift tomorrow. Both Michael and Frankie are down with the latest stomach bug and I can’t find a locum.”

Already knowing he would say yes, John felt the need to let her stew, just a bit longer. “I don’t know, Sarah.  I’ve got a thing and…”

John didn’t get further as at that moment a patient gown was thrown at his head.  “You, John Watson, never have a thing,” Sarah laughed. “You’re just being horrible.”

John pulled the gown off of where it had landed on his shoulder, bundled it up and threw it in the dirty linen basket.  

“Sure,” he said, turning back to face Sarah. “But you owe me. This is what?  The third time this fortnight?”

Nervously, Sarah looked back over her shoulder, making sure no one was observing them  and then stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.  

“As tempting as that is,” John said, looking up at Sarah with a dirty smirk on his face, “we decided it would be best if we just kept things platonic.”

“Get your mind out of the gutter, Watson,” she said, a half-hearted scowl on her face. “I have an offer that would make you much happier.”

“There is only one thing that would make me happier than sex and I doubt…”  John stopped when he saw the look on his colleague’s face. It was unsure, yet positive. “You haven’t?”

“I have managed to get two extra boxes of vaccines,“ she told him, her voice almost a whisper. 

“How?” John practically stammered, not sure how else to react.

“John Watson, you have your secrets and I have mine” she replied, her smile growing a bit more.

John laughed as he stood up and swept the woman in front of him up in a big hug.  “You are wonderful” he cried happily, swinging her around.  Sarah laughed as she held onto John's shoulders, trying not to tumble over. 

“Stay back late tonight, be the last to leave and you can take them home with you. I will leave a bag in my room.  After that, I don’t want to hear about them.”

“I promise, no one will trace them back to you. You have my word. I’d tell them I stole them before I implemented you, you know that, don’t you?”

“I trust you with my life, John Watson. Now get back to your paperwork or you will be here all night and there won’t be any point in going home.”

With that, Sarah left and John went back to work, not caring a bit that he was already overworked and had a shit day lined up for tomorrow. Sarah had just given him the last lot of flu vaccines that were going to make a trip to the illicit part of London worthwhile. 

~o~

John slid the two boxes into the fridge, beside the other 14. Each box contained 12 vials of Influvac. That was almost 200 people he could vaccinate against the flu this year. It was almost double what he had managed last year. John knew it was a band aid solution to what the upcoming season would bring to the poor bastards left to rot on the streets, but it was better than nothing.  

John closed the fridge and then went to his linen press/supply cupboard to see if he had enough of everything else. Looking over his stock, he made a mental note to purchase more alcohol wipes, medical tape and paracetamol tablets in the next two days. Closing the cupboard he pulled his mobile out of his pocket and opened up a new message to one of the very few names in his address book.

Thursday.

Sunrise. 

Location 4.

He hit send and then deleted the message as soon as it had gone through. John didn’t expect a reply and he didn’t get one. He had met Cindy two years ago, when he had been depressed, bored, suicidal and absolutely wasted. He had stumbled across an old building that housed a number of discarded and thought that his life couldn’t possibly get any worse than what it was and had ungracefully passed out on the front steps. He didn’t remember much of what happened after that but when he woke up, a girl, no older than 18, had taken him somewhere dry and warm and had a cup of water waiting for him. She had told him that her name was Cindy. John didn’t believe it for a second, but didn’t pry. Instead he thanked her for her hospitality, used what little supplies she had on hand to clean and dress a wound that was on the back of her shoulder and then went home.  

Two weeks later he returned with more medical supplies, a few bottles of fresh water, some non-perishable foods, a mobile phone that was illegally registered to a fake user and a plan. He found Cindy, gave her everything he had on him and told her to keep the phone charged as he would let her know when he could come to offer medical aid to her and anyone else that needed it. He also told her to call him if she needed anything.  

So far he had texted her regularly to set up meetings. She hadn’t messaged or called him once. But she did get the message out to those around her that Doctor John was coming. This message wouldn’t be any different. In two days' time, John would be travelling to one of the many abandoned locations he rotated through, one more time to assist the people the rest of the world had shunned.

~o~

John had already used half of his vaccines and the steady flow of his customers didn’t seem to be slowing down any and it was only 9:15 in the morning. He turned to Harrison, a nurse who had been used and thrown away six months ago. His skills in the medical field had come in handy and John was thankful that he was on hand to help.  

“Keep going” John said to Harrison, who was cleaning up after the last patient. “I’m going out to triage. I’ll send those who need the shot the most through and take the others across the hall for any other medical attention they need.”

Harrison nodded. Since he had been marked, the man hadn’t spoken a word but he knew what he was doing and that was all John cared about. 

He stepped out to the front room and instantly noticed a few people that he could usher straight through. Two pregnant women, an elderly gentleman, a man who John knew was HIV positive, a stroke victim and a young girl who John suspected had CVID. John then had the shit job of informing the rest of the patients in the waiting room that there was not going to be enough vaccines for everyone.  

Most people understood this and a few even told him that they would be fine and thanked him all the same and left the makeshift clinic. Some shouted abuse and threatened to tell the cops about John in return for level 4 privileges. This was a laughing joke and even if they had been serious, none of the others would let them attempt it. John was too valuable. One man became violent. He started kicking over the minimal furniture that was in the room and punched a hole in one of the walls. It was when he was about to push another person out of the way when John manhandled him to the ground, kneeling on the back of his thighs and pinning his arm behind his back. 

“I get that this is shit, I get that this is unfair and I get that you are frustrated but I am one man doing all I can to help this unfair, shit situation. Trust me, if I could get the supplies to help every single person that had been discarded, I would but I can’t. I get that you are angry, but you do not get to lay a hand on another person just because you are frustrated, have I made myself clear?”

There was a few seconds of silence and then, making up his mind, the man nodded.  John released his grip and stood up.  Awkwardly, the man got to his feet as well.  

“Do you require any other medical attention?” John asked quietly.  The man didn’t look at John, just nodded his head. “Right, follow me, then.”

The two of them made their way to the other room John had been using for consults. Silently, the man pulled off the turtleneck sweater he was wearing.  John didn’t need to ask what the problem was, it was glaringly evident.  The burn on his neck, the one that had been used to erase his owner's mark, had become infected.  

“How long has it been like this?” John asked.  

“I was marked and discarded three weeks ago,” the man replied.  “A week after it happened I noticed the pain getting worse and then there was swelling and discolouration around the mark.”

John gently felt around the area and got a better look.  The man spoke again.

“I tried to go to a hospital to get help but the staff called the police and I was dumped back in this part of town and told that I was lucky I was able to walk back to whatever hovel I lived in.”

John believed it. Some cops hated the discarded, as they were colloquially named. They saw them as less than a cockroach, as the worst kind of criminal and since they didn’t have the law on their side, some cops felt the need to use the discarded as punching bags to either alleviate some relief or assert their dominance.  

John looked through his supply bag and found a sterilised dressing kit. He then proceeded to sanitise and cover the infected wound. “What did you do before you were owned?” John asked. Normally he didn’t probe, but this guy seemed to be having an unusually hard time adapting. Granted it had only been three weeks, but everyone knew that you didn’t try and get help from those who were free. It was a law that you had lost all rights once your mark was removed. It had been that way for centuries.  

The man was silent for a minute, as if deciding that trusting John with his story was a good idea. Something on John’s face must have made him seem trustworthy as the man opened up and told him his story.

“I was a level 2 citizen” he started off. “I worked as a model and a minor stage actor. I was going to make it big by the time I was 25. That was my goal and in order to succeed I made myself known around the level 1 social circles.”

John’s face showed nothing other than he was actively listening as he finished the dressing but inside he was cursing this man’s stupidity. No one in their right mind tried to get the attention of a level one. At least, not with the intention of getting owned. The man continued.

“Two years ago, I met a level 1. Her name was Naomi and she was older than me by 12 years and knew people in the industry. Big people, not just no-ones. Within a month, she had mateship of me and I knew my luck had changed. I started getting minor roles on screen and my modelling career expanded to bigger name brands. Four weeks ago, Naomi told me she had found someone younger and more interesting and that my mark removal was scheduled for three days time. Had I not been so naive, I would have used those three days to run, not to try and plead with her to change her mind.”

The man looked away from John, clearly ashamed of what had happened.  

“She gave you time to run? That’s unusual. Most people I have met didn’t know it was happening until they were at the removal facility.”

“I think she wanted to see me fall to pieces.  She laughed every time I asked her to reconsider. And there wasn’t…”

The man fell silent and his hand came up to the dressing.  

“There wasn’t what?” John asked quietly, gently pulling the man's hand away from the dressing. 

“There wasn’t a facility.” The man swallowed, hard and blinked back unshed tears that were in his eyes. 

John swore. He had heard of level 1’s, the truly sadistic ones, bringing people to burn the marks from home, rather than going to one of the facilities that did it professionally. There were no sterile conditions and there was no anesthetic, but he had never met a person who had been through it. Until now. 

John put together a kit that had spare dressings and antibiotics in it. He instructed the man what he needed to do and told him to keep an ear out for when John would be back.  

The man thanked John and left, leaving the doctor wondering how long he would last in this world. A world so different and much more cruel than the one he was used to.

~o~

It was nearly midnight. John had run out of vaccines just before lunch but there had still been so many other medical maladies that needed his attention. Finally, just as his supplies were dwindling down to nothing again, the last patient had left so John had sent Harrison home and started to clean up. It was always safest if he left as little evidence behind as possible. Less evidence that someone, who wasn’t supposed to be here, who was helping these poor bastards that had no one else. He was lucky that so far he hadn’t been caught and he put that down to his meticulous planning and taking all evidence of his activities with him. One slip up was all it would take for his little set-up to go tits up and then there would be no one to help them.  

It was just as he was zipping up his bag and heading for the light switch when he heard the door to the front room open. Cautiously, he made his way to the front of the house he had set up in, careful not to make a noise as he reached for the gun he had in a holster under his jumper.  

Slowly, peering around the door, John let out a relieved sigh and his shoulders relaxed, his hands dropping away from the concealed weapon.

“Kev,” John greeted the old man. Kevin looked up and gave John a sharp nod of his head.  

“Evening Doc” he said.  “I see you had a busy day again.”

John just gave a look that said ‘ wouldn’t you know it ’ and leaned back against the door frame. Kevin would either say only what he needed or talk your ear off for hours. It was always best just to get comfortable because you never knew what way it was going to go. 

“How’s the leg going?”

Kevin gave a tap of the cane he was holding - one very familiar to John - on the ground and then leaned into it, as if testing it for the first time.  

“Not too bad, but the weather has started to cool down, so I suppose it will be causing some grief soon. Good thing I got this cane here.”

John just gave him a smile. The cane had been John’s but once he started working with the discarded, he had found that his limp was making less and less of a show. Soon he didn’t need it at all. Kevin on the other hand, did. His leg had been broken, years ago and because he was discarded, he had no way to seek medical attention. The dodgy splint he had applied had left him with a noticeable limp. One that wasn’t psychosomatic.

“Everything else okay?”

Kevin gave a noncommittal shrug. “I’m gettin’ on,” he replied. “Things are bound to start falling apart.”

“Too true,” John agreed.  “Just let me know if there is anything that will help those things fall apart a bit more comfortably.”

Kevin gave another short nod. “Will do, Doc.  But that’s not why I came by tonight.”

John kept his gaze on Kevin and waited for him to go on.

“Just thought I’d let you know that someone from upper up was hanging around here the other day, looking for you.”

“Looking for me?” John asked, not sure whether to be worried or not.

“Yep, asked for Doctor John specifically. I think he was a cop. He kept asking questions and wanted to know what you looked like and when you’d be back.”

John was starting to think that worried was best, especially if they were asking for a description.

“Told him that you was a tall, skinny Chinese man and that you weren’t going to be here for another week or two. He seemed to buy it and I’ve been telling others to describe you the same way. Hopefully we’ll throw him off the scent.”

“Thanks,” John muttered. “And you’re definitely sure he was above a level 4?”

Kevin gave a very assured nod. “He tried to pass off as a level 5, even went to the trouble of putting a fake scar on his neck, but it wasn’t a real one. When you see them all day, you know a real one from a fake one. It’s a bloody disgrace that someone would think we didn’t know the difference.”  At this, his hand ran over his own scar. Kevin was one of the ones who had been demoted to a level 5, who was not ashamed of his scar. This was because he was never discarded. He was a J3 citizen and had eventually been caught, tried and not so surprisingly found guilty. His neck had been burned and he had been exiled to the streets with even less rights than the homeless. He was deemed a traitor and a terrorist.  

“Probably a level 2 or higher,” John said. “They all seem to think anyone under them has less than a nugget of intelligence. What did he look like?”

“Like a right tosser,” Kevin answered and John laughed.  “Dunno, younger than you, I’d say. Tall with dark hair. He had loose, baggy clothing on, but it was brand new. You could tell it hadn’t ever seen a night on the streets nor had his hands ever done a hard day's work in his life. Had nice teeth, though.”

“Right, so I’m looking for a young, tall tosser with nice teeth and smooth hands.” That described a good large percentage of anyone in London. 

Kevin nodded in confirmation, not realising that John was being glib. 

John let out a sigh. This was going to make things harder. If someone was snooping around, he was going to leave his next visit longer than he would have liked.  “Alright, thanks Kev.  I’ll be sure to keep an eye out and if anything important crops up, go see Cindy, yeah. She’ll get word to me.”

“Will do, Doc,” he said and then turned around and started limping out of the building.  Just before he got to the door he stopped and just turned his head.  “You haven’t seen Casey lately, have you?” 

Casey was a young lad who had been discarded six or so months ago. He was clever and quick and wasn’t one to lay idle doing nothing. The boy usually had one scheme on the go to make life better, if not more. But now that Kevin had mentioned him, John had trouble trying to think when he had seen him last  John shook his head.  “Not since two or three visits ago.  Why’s that?”

“Just haven’t seen him around for a while. Must have finally decided to up and leave for Glasgow. Silly fool, honestly believed life was better up there.”

“Some people need hope, Kev. Even if it’s false hope” John replied. 

Kevin let out a disgruntled hum. “S'pose so. I’ll catch you next time, Doctor John.”

John called out his own farewell and once the man was out of sight, he grabbed his gear and turned off all the lights, leaving the place as if he had never stepped foot inside of it. On the way home he kept an extra eye out for anyone who might be watching him.

~o~

Mike Stamford was a good man. He was a decent man. He helped people whenever he could and right now, he was looking at all the ways he could help John.  

“The doxycycline and the famciclovir shouldn’t be a problem. Judy has reps come in all the time dropping off free samples, not to mention stock that they toss because it has just gone out of date. I can get her to put some aside the next time they do a restock,” Mike said as he read the list John had given him. Thankfully, Mike’s wife, Judy was not only a pharmacist at the hospital but also a good and decent person who also liked to help people. “The Zidovudine is going to be a problem. I can’t make any promises on that, sorry.”

John took the list back from Mike and put it in his pocket. “Anything that will help,” John replied, truly grateful that Mike and Judy were willing to do even as much as they were. If it were ever discovered what they were doing, their lives as they knew it  would be over. They would be ripped away from their families, never to see their kids again. They would be left with nothing. No job, no cash, no housing, no rights. John was grateful that they were just willing to even consider helping John.  

“How was your run the other week?” Mike asked as John stood up from the bench stool he had been perched on. 

“Busy” he replied wearily. To be honest, he was still exhausted, but that could also be because Sarah kept asking him to pull double shifts and John was alway a sucker for big pleading eyes. “Had some poor bastard come in with a home-job mark removal.”

Mike inhaled a sharp breath “Infection?” John nodded in confirmation.

“Then one of my regulars tells me that someone has been asking about me.”

“A discarded? I thought they all would have known about you by now. You’ve been going out there, what?  Two years?”

John nodded and then shook his head.  “Wasn’t a discarded. It was someone from upper up posing as a discarded.”

Mike gave him a concerned look. “Promise you’re going to be careful, John. If you get caught, you’re not going to be of any help to anyone.”

“You know me Mike, I’m always fine,” John tried to reassure him, but he couldn’t help but feel that he was also trying to reassure himself. 

Mike's only response was to drop his gaze down to John’s shoulder. The left one that bore the mark of a  very well concealed sniper with unerring accuracy.

Subconsciously, John rolled his left shoulder and looked around the room before looking back at his friend with a small, weary smile.  “Yeah, well. We all get unlucky at least once.”

Mike shook his head, a sad look on his face and John knew that he worried about John’s verboten activities more than he let on.  John was about to reassure him, once more when Mike started talking again.  

“Are there any other supplies you need? Dressings, suture kits, thermometer covers, medical tape…”

“Thanks, Mike. It’s all good, I’m well stocked. You and Judy already do enough.”

“Just let me know if I can help. You know I'll do whatever I can, short of actually going out there with...”

It was just then that the door to the office, coming off of the lab opened and a small woman with mousy brown hair came out.  

“Molly,” Mike greeted in his signature jovial fashion, but to John’s ears it sounded a tad forced.  

Molly gave a small smile to Mike. “Hello, Mike. Haven’t seen you down here for a while.”  Her gaze then moved onto John and John wasn’t sure if he was being paranoid or not, but he could have sworn she looked at him in a disapproving manner. 

“Been a bit busy with the exam results and end of year wrap up” he said. 

There was silence as John watched Molly, watching him. Thankfully, Mike stepped in. “Molly, this is an old friend of mine, John Watson. We studied together and he worked here for a bit. Well before your time.”

“Hi” John said, politely, holding out his hand for Molly to shake. This seemed to be the right thing to do as the small woman in front of him seemed to instantly relax and gave John her own smile as she stepped forward to take his hand.  

“Molly is one of our pathologists, here,” Mike explained.

“It’s nice to meet you, Doctor Watson,'' Molly said as she let go of John’s hand and then placed her hands in her lab coat pockets.

“John, please and it is a pleasure to meet you also.”

Once again, Molly gave John and Mike a small smile. “Well, I must be off. I’ve already used half of my lunch break getting that information for Sherlock. If I don’t go now, I won’t eat until I get home later tonight.”

“It was good seeing you again, Molly, and if I don’t catch you beforehand, have a good Christmas,” Mike said as the woman started moving away from them.

“You too, Mike,” Molly said and then left the room.

John waited until the door had completely shut behind her before he turned to Mike, his smile gone and shoulders tense. “You don’t think she heard anything, do you?” he asked, a nervous feeling sitting in the pit of his stomach.

Mike gave him a reassuring look. “I doubt it. Molly would have been wrapped up in her work in there to even notice we were out here. Plus, even if she did, she wouldn't say anything. Her sister was taken by an elite seven or eight years ago, now. From what I can gather she was taken out of England and has never made contact with Molly again.” 

John nodded, aiming for sympathy but he was too distracted to know if he pulled it off. That had been a close call. He was usually better than that. He was going to have to be more vigilant about his surroundings. He couldn’t afford to make a mistake, not especially with someone from higher up on the lookout for him. 

~o~

John turned off of Choumert Road and walked briskly along the street, dodging the debris and dirty puddles as he made his way to the nearest train stop. This had been his second trip out since Kevin had told him of his little fan but so far, John hadn’t seen anything out of the usual and according to his patients, no one else had come looking for him. While this had left John feeling easier about the situation, he was still more careful about his actions. No longer did he carry his left over supplies home. Whatever remained after his makeshift clinics had ended for the day, he gave to Cindy, who either gave them out as needed or brought them to John’s next visit. This way, if he was pulled over, he wouldn't have to explain why he was carrying medical supplies across London. This just meant that he had to restock his own personal supplies more often. He was now also involving less people in sourcing his supplies. John had realised that over the past couple of years he had become too confident and had involved people when it wasn’t strictly necessary. He needed to be more self-resourceful, like he was at the beginning. If he were unlucky enough to get caught he didn’t want the police to be able to trace his actions back to anyone else. If he had to fall, he was going to fall on his own. 

John was just coming up to Blenheim Grove when movement out of the corner of his eye made him stop. Looking across the road, John saw a woman, walking parallel to him. She was tall, smartly dressed, light brown skin and a head of dark curls. She didn’t look at John, or even seem remotely interested in him but she certainly didn’t look like she belonged in this part of town either.  

John put his head down and kept walking, all the while keeping aware of the woman across the road from him. Eventually, she turned onto a side street and John released a heavy sigh of relief and made a vow then, to step up his safeguards. He couldn’t keep doing his job properly if he was constantly on the lookout for snitches or the police. If he started getting paranoid, he wouldn’t be any good out here. His clients would pick up on it and they would see him as a liability. One reason they came to him so easily was because of his easy, approachable demeanor.  

John looked up just as the train station came into view, thankful that his trip home was almost over, only what he saw made his steps falter.  

Standing in front of the station was a man, older than John and in a fairly simple yet practical suit. He had a head of silver grey hair and was looking right at John as John had rounded the bend. Seeing that this man also didn’t belong in this area, John knew something was up. He turned around, hoping to make a getaway up the street, but when he turned, he found himself face-to-face with the woman who had been walking down Choumert Grove. 

“Doctor John Watson,” she said, holding up a police badge. “You are under arrest for the illegal socialisation with level 5 citizens.”

John turned back around and made to run, but the woman was faster than he expected. Before he knew it, he was pushed up against a fence and had his hands wrenched behind his back. “You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you may later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

John didn’t say a word. Not a thing. As far as he knew, they had no evidence, apart from him being in the wrong part of town, to hold against him. He doubted it, since they knew his name, but until they showed their hand they were going to get nothing from him.  

The grey haired man walked up to where the woman had finished reading him his rights. “Dimmock is bringing the car around now,” he told her and then looked at John. John glared back. “I’m sorry, Doctor Watson. I really am.” The look that the Detective gave John made him almost believe that he was being sincere.

~o~

John sat in the interviewing room, looking at his reflection in the two-way mirror across from him. He had already been here for at least two, if not three hours and the cuffs around his wrists, anchoring him to the table in front of him were itching but he ignored it as best as possible. Several times the cop, Detective Inspector Lestrade, who had brought him in, had come in to offer him a cup of tea or coffee or water. Each time John had politely declined. The last time he had come in the DI had apologised for the hold-up in the interviewing process. They were waiting on a consultant to start the interview and the man had been detained. John had just shrugged. He couldn’t care one way or less. He was busy trying to find out where his careful planning had gone wrong. Obviously, someone had ratted on him. The police knew exactly what he looked like and knew his name and knew he was a doctor. They knew where he was going to be and what train station he was heading for and when. That wasn’t just good police work. That was having inside help. Somewhere along the way, a colleague of John’s had gone to the police and it can’t have been a level 5 because none of them knew his last name. He had made sure of that, so if anyone did talk, they wouldn’t be able to outright identify him. 

John thought back on everyone he knew. Harry had no idea what he did on a normal day, let alone what he did on the side. Mike and Judy would be in just as much trouble if they had outed him, so he doubted it was them. Sarah also had much to lose if she spoke out against him. Murray was in the same position as him, just in Wales, so he doubted he said anything and Jenny, from the chemist, thought he ran clinics for the homeless shelters (which he did occasionally with Sarah and Frankie to keep up his cover story) which explained his bulk purchases at her store.  

That didn’t leave anyone else. John’s social circle just wasn’t that large. It was a possibility that one of the other staff members at work had overheard something at work, but John very rarely spoke to Sarah about his outside work and when they did, it was in as little detail as possible.  Not to mention they always spoke in closed off rooms.  

John was running through all of the possible suspects in his head again when the door opened and a tall man in a ridiculous coat strode in. 

“Doctor Watson,” the man said, looking down on John.  “Sherlock Holmes, it is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Chapter Text

~~~~~~~~~~

John studied the man who had just waltzed in - expensive clothes, arrogant look on his face, pretentious name - he was an Elite and not worth John’s time. Judging by the fact that he had not listed his rank before his name and taking into account that it was unheard of for an Elite to take on a role suitable for a level 3, he doubted very much that this man was an officer of the law. More than likely the consultant (whatever the hell that meant) that DI Lestrade had mentioned earlier. He then looked back to the mirror in front of him and waited for the actual police to come back in and question him. Unfortunately, his view of not looking at the Elite was blocked by the man taking the seat directly in front of him.  

Sherlock looked at him for a few moments and then leaned forward, placing his clasped hands on the table in front of him. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked.  

John knew he didn’t conceal the slightly surprised look on his face as well as he had hoped but he still refused to answer the question. If Sherlock wanted to really know, he could pull up his file. 

“You, Doctor Watson, are an interesting man.”

“Hardly,” John replied and then cursed himself for answering as Sherlock’s lips ticked up in a small smile.  

“You somehow managed to stay off of my radar, as well as the British Government's radar. That is, as I am sure you are well aware of, quite the achievement.”

“I have no idea who you are so I wouldn’t know if it was an achievement and clearly, I didn’t stay off of your radar, as here we are.”

“How long?”  

“How long, what?” John asked, his patience was wearing thin. Where in the hell were the cops? Surely this wasn’t how interviews were conducted.

“How long, exactly, have you managed to stay off our radar?”

John wasn’t going to give this man the satisfaction of answering. “When are the police getting here?”

“I am the police,” Sherlock answered instantly.

“No. You’re a consultant. If the police want answers then the police can talk to me.”

At this, Sherlock just smiled as if something had tickled his fancy. “As I said, interesting.”

“Are the police coming in anytime soon?” John asked, ignoring Sherlock’s statement.  

“I am the police,” Sherlock repeated.

“Nope.” John was not going to play his game. 

“I am today. Why don’t you seem worried about being arrested? The charges that you are faced with are serious. Not even a murderer gets a long of a sentence as you could be facing.”

“Could I possibly speak to my arresting officers now?”

“Ah, yes, your arresting officers. I was supposed to be there for that. So sorry I missed it but apparently my annoying brother had other ideas.”

John was getting annoyed. He had no idea what game this man was playing, but if he wasn’t going to go and get Lestrade on his own then John would happily aggravate the man into action. After all, everyone knew it was easy to anger an elite. “Aren’t you a bit below your station here?” John asked, looking Sherlock in the eye.

“And how would you know what my station is?”

“You reek of Elite. It’s written all over you. The way you dress, the way you speak, the way you smell…”

“...The way I smell?”  The man looked offended but John didn’t miss the way he turned his head, just slightly, towards his shoulder and gave a small sniff. 

“Yes, only people who wouldn't know what it was like to live from paycheck to paycheck can afford that cologne. It is possible you are owned and well kept but then there is the way you look down on everyone.”

“And how would that be, Doctor Watson? Or should I say, Doctor John?”

It was then that John realised who he was looking at; a young, tall tosser with nice teeth and smooth hands.  

“You were the one asking after me.”

“Yes, not that it did any good. Your patients are very loyal and extremely good liars. Better than my own network of homeless people.”

“It’s easy to earn loyalty, you just need to show a bit of respect and compassion.”

“Or a bit of authority.”

“That’s not authority, it’s totalitarianism.  And it doesn’t inspire loyalty, it inspires fear.”

“Much of the same, both garner results now, please answer the question if you don’t mind. How exactly is it that I look down on people?”

“As if you are better than them, as if you own them.”

At this, a smirk hitched the corners of Sherlock’s lips as he looked down on John. “Funny you should say that.” 

John stared at the man sitting across from him, momentarily confused at his words. It must have been clear the moment John understood his meaning as Sherlock's smirk grew into a pleased grin.  

“Fantastic, you can be taught your place.”

“No,” John spat. “No way in hell.”

“Well, it’s a good thing we’re not going to hell then, isn’t it?”

With those words Sherlock stood up and walked around the table to where John was seated.

“I am not an object to be owned and even if I were, I’d rather die than be owned by the likes of you.”

“Well, unfortunately for you, you don’t have a say in the matter.” The taller man reached into his pocket and pulled out a key to what John assumed was the handcuffs holding him to the table.  

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” John growled, staring the Elite in the eye. 

“And why not?” Sherlock asked, a cocky look on his face.  

God, John would have absolute pleasure knocking that look off his face. “Because if you unhandcuff me with any intenttion other than letting me go or putting me in a holding cell, then I am going to fucking break your nose.”

Sherlock laughed. He actually laughed. “Doctor Watson, I am sure that you don’t need me to tell you that if you attack me, an Elite, I can take you to court. There is not a single judge in the country that will find any excuse for hitting me plausible and therefore you will end up either in jail or living with those people you care so much about.”

“You seem to think that I don’t think either of those would be the preferable option.” 

The man looked down at John, a mocking look of disapproval in his face. Clearly, he didn’t take Johns' threat seriously. More fool him. 

It took only a few seconds for Sherlock to uncuff John’s wrists. It only took half that time for John to bloody his nose. He got in one more punch before someone behind him yanked him back and restrained his arms behind his back.

“Doctor Watson, you will stand down,” yelled a familiar voice. John didn’t need to look over his shoulder to know that DI Lestrade was the one holding him back from inflicting more damage than a broken nose on the man before him, who was now huddled over, his hand cupped under his bleeding nose, glaring daggers at John.

“Are you alright, Sherlock?” Lestrade asked, his voice weary but his grip on John’s wrists unrelenting.

“Perfectly,” the man intoned mordantly.

A frustrated sigh sounded behind John before he heard Lestrade grudgingly ask “Are you going to press charges?”

Sherlock straightened up and looked down at John, his bloodied nose not distorting any of the arrogance on his face. “No, Lestrade, I will not be pressing charges. Continue on with the release papers. Doctor Watson will be coming home with me.”

“Like fuck I am.” John seethed as he struggled against Lestrade's hold.  

Sherlock just gave John an amused once over before turning and leaving the interview room, passing and ignoring another person who entered the room as he left. John looked from the retreating back of Sherlock Holmes to the person who had just entered. It was the woman who had arrested him.

“What happened to the freak?” she asked, turning from where Sherlock had been to where Lestrade was standing.

“He didn’t listen to Doctor Watson and can you not call him that please.”

The woman just shrugged and then turned her attention to John. It only took a quick glance at his bloodied knuckles and tiny drops of Sherlock’s blood on the sleeve of his jumper to discern what happened.  John was certain he saw something resembling glee show in her eyes.  

“Sally, can you sit with Doctor Watson while I organise his release?”

The gleeful look dropped instantly. “His release? But Gov, we’ve been tracking this for months.”

Lestrade sent John a pitying look. “He’s being released into Sherlock’s care,” he informed her gently.

The look on Sally’s face was of pure horror and John wondered just what it was exactly that he had managed to get himself into.

“With all due respect, Sir, wouldn’t it be kinder to…”

“...Sally.”  

The two officers considered each other and finally, Sally relented. “Fine,” she huffed and led John back over to the chair and gestured that he should sit. He did, knowing there was no point in fighting her. At least she too appeared to dislike Holmes. That was something that they had in common.  

Greg left the room, weariness showing in his posture, and shut the door behind him.

“You’re a lucky man,” Sally said after a few seconds of silently studying him. John didn’t feel lucky. Infact, he felt extremely unlucky. He told her so.

“You have no idea how long I have wanted to punch that arrogant twat in the mouth. Unlike you, though, I would find myself out on the streets. He must really like you.”

“Like you said, lucky me,” John replied dryly.

Sally let out a snort.  “Actually Doctor Watson, I would describe it as anything but lucky to have caught the attention of a Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, especially. The man’s a bloody psychopath,” she said and then the two of them descended into silence, once more while John waited for someone to come and collect him. 

~o~

Twenty or so minutes later, DI Gregory Lestrade personally escorted John out of New Scotland Yard, into an unmarked car and drove him to 221 B Baker Street. This was apparently going to be John’s new home.

The only reason that John didn’t try and run was because he had a feeling that Lestrade would suffer the consequences if John was not delivered to Sherlock and he didn’t want to see someone else suffer because of his actions. He would leave his escape to when the only person to blame was Sherlock Holmes. 

So John cooperated and got out of the car and followed the Detective Inspector up to the front door of the building. Nothing was said while they waited for someone to answer the ringing of the doorbell and John was thankful for it. The last thing he needed was reassuring that things weren’t going to be as bad as he thought. They were. No amount of reassurance or sugar coating was going to change that.  

Before long, the front door swung open and the two men were greeted by a small woman, in her sixties, possibly her early seventies, dressed in a purple floral dress.

“Detective Lestrade,” she greeted cheerfully and leaned in for a hug. Lestrade obliged and John saw what he believed to see the first genuine smile on the man’s face. 

“Good morning Mrs Hudson. How have you been?” he asked, smiling kindly at the older woman. 

“Oh, the hip’s playing up a bit, but I’ll get by. Are you here to see Sherlock?”

John only just managed not to sneer at the name, instead choosing to stand neutral.  

“Mrs Hudson, this is Doctor John Watson. He will be moving in with Sherlock,'' Lestrade introduced, turning slightly so John was at the centre of attention. John went to say exactly what he thought of that comment, but Lestrade threw him a look and an almost imperceptible shake of the head. 

“Oh, a flatmate, how lovely. That man does spend too much time on his own. It will be good for him to have some company. I assume you will be taking the top floor bedroom?”

“Not a flatmate, Mrs Hudson” Lestrade said and John was appalled that the woman looked delighted. Lestrade continued. “Sherlock has decided to take on a mate.”

At this, Mrs Hudson’s delighted look fell into one of confusion. “Sherlock? A mate? Are you sure?” At this her left hand flitted up to her neck and then slowly lowered again to rest still in her right hand.  It was then that John noticed it, barely visible through longer parts of her hair, but Mrs Hudson had a tattoo of her own, just under her left ear. Hers, by the looks of it though, had been tattooed over with one block colour. That meant that her owner had passed away and she had not been left to anyone in their will.

“Yes, Mrs Hudson. I am sure. I was instructed by Sherlock to deliver Doctor Watson to Baker Street. I assume he is home?.”

At this Mrs Hudson looked from Lestrade to John. “Well, yes. He got home about half an hour ago. Seemed to be in an unusually good mood.  But I’m sure it’s not...”

“Mrs Hudson, you have left our guests on the step for long enough, don’t you think you should let them in?” 

Everyone turned and looked up at the man standing halfway up the stairs.  John noted that the large coat and scarf had gone and in its place was a blue dressing gown, left open to show the expensive suit underneath. He also noted that dark bruising had already formed under both eyes and across his nose. John took some satisfaction in that.

Sherlock gave them all a once over and then turned and walked back up to what John assumed was his flat. 

“I guess we had better not keep him waiting,” Mrs Hudson sighed as she stepped aside. Greg stepped into the building, promptly followed by John.  “I’ll see you next time Detective Inspector and welcome, John,” and with that, Mrs Hudson turned and walked away towards a door at the back of the building.

“Mrs Hudson is Sherlock’s landlady,” Lestrade informed him. “She also acts a sort of mother figure, making sure the idiot upstairs actually ingests something other than tea. Be prepared to be bombarded with home cooked food on a daily basis.”

“He has a landlady?” John asked. It was unusual for Elites not to own their own place. Or several of them, if needed. It was rare that they rented off of someone. John had never heard of them renting off of a former mate. 

Lestrade stopped on the stairs and turned to look down at John. John looked up at him patiently. “Look, John I know you think you have every Elite figured out, but Sherlock’s not like anyone I’ve ever met before. Elite or not.”

“Yeah, but he is still applying for mateship of me. So that puts him in the same box of all the other Elites as far as I am concerned.”

Lestrade went to open his mouth to respond, but seemed to think better of it and instead turned around and continued up the stairs. John followed him. 

Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. Although, John thought he could have been concealed by something. The flat was small and it was a mess. The furniture was placed in a misshaped mis-matched way. There was junk everywhere. Just from the doorway John spotted three printers, a harpoon, an empty and dusty aquarium and a full-sized cardboard cutout of a headless man leaning on an umbrella. There was an arrow through his gut. There was a crochet hook hanging from a bookcase, several opened and half full boxes laying about, random used tea cups on various flat surfaces, stacks of magazines and papers shoved wherever they seemed to fit and a skull on the mantel. John could feel his fingers twitching. He hated clutter.  

“You’ll get used to it,” Lestrade muttered. John gave a short shake of his head.  

“Doubt it,” he answered. He didn’t say that he didn’t plan to be here long enough to get used to it. Lestrade didn’t need to know that. 

It was at that time, Sherlock came waltzing in from the door next to them. “Took you two long enough to get up the stairs. Have a nice chat about me?” 

“Do you always assume everything is about you?” John got in before Lestrade could placate the man. It seemed to be a full-time job for the DI. 

“Balance of probability, Watson.”

“Don’t call me Watson,” John snapped. His army mates had called him that. People who were on his side. People who he knew had his back. Not this man. This man could call him John or Doctor Watson.  

“My, my, Doctor Watson. We are touchy today.”

This time, Lestrade was faster than John. “Go easy, Sherlock.” Sherlock looked from John to Lestrade, his gaze narrowing.  “You may go now, Graham. Your services are no longer needed.”

“It’s Greg,” John and Lestrade said at the same time, one sounding angry and the other just resigned. 

Sherlock just waved their comments away and disappeared behind a stack of boxes, only the top of his curly hair visible as he pottered about.

“You’ll be fine,” Greg said to John and then slipped something into John’s hand. “Call me if you need anything.” With that, he turned and headed down the stairs. John looked down to see Greg’s business card in his hand. Carefully, he slid it into his pocket and then stood there, wondering if Sherlock would even notice if he slipped out the door and down the stairs.  

“I would let you get about two blocks away before I caught up with you, if you are actually serious about running. I know the streets of London better than anyone else and while your discarded network may be more loyal than my homeless network, there are no discarded in this part of town. If there are, they would be very few so my people would track you down and inform me before your network even knew you were there. But, please. Feel free to try.”

John turned from the doorway, where he had been contemplating the stairs, to face the man who had stepped out from behind the boxes. He hated this man more than he had ever hated anyone he had ever met and he had come face-to-face with a man who had killed children just because he thought their father was a traitor.

“Nice bruising you have around your eyes. I can make your jaw match if you like,” John stated and he took a great deal of satisfaction in the flinch that Sherlock was almost successful in hiding. 

“Right, a few house rules,” Sherlock announced loudly, punctuating it with a sharp clap of his hands, a tactless change of topic if John had ever seen one. “One, if I have experiments running, you don’t touch. Two, if I ask you to be somewhere at a certain time, you are to be there. I don’t care what other obligations you think you have. I am your number one obligation.  Three. Don’t. Dust. That one is important. Rule number four - If i don’t answer your question don’t keep asking me. I heard you, I chose not to answer. Five - If you decide to take your anger out on me again, there will be repercussions. You won’t like those repercussions, so I guess you control your anger. Rule six - If I ask you to do something, you do it. No questions asked. Rule number seven - you will behave, as is expected of a level 1 citizen, especially when in public or in the presence of other people, regardless of their level. Rule number eight - while I do not mind you seeing your old friends, there will be no dating. You are mine, you belong to me in every sense of the word.”

John had stood there, slowly getting more and more amused as Sherlock had listed off all of his rules, planning on how he could break every single one of them.  

“Your belongings are currently being packed up and should arrive here in approximately two hours. I have an appointment I need to get to so I won’t be here when the removalists arrive. While they are being delivered, you will direct the movers to put them all in my room, which is at the end of the hall, just past the bathroom.”

It seemed Sherlock had finally finished talking, so now John felt it imperative to lay down some of his own rules.  

“I chose to decline all of those requests.”

“They weren’t requests. They are rules. And you can’t decline. I own you.”

“No you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You may have put in an application for mateship but it has not yet been accepted. Therefore you do not own me. And if we are laying out rules, here are a few of mine. You don’t dictate where I go nor whom I go out with. You do not tell me what to do. You may ask and I will most certainly decline. If you expect me to stay here you will clean up this crap. You may want to live in utter filth but I do not, not that I plan on staying here long. Don’t piss me off and I won’t get angry with you. I will behave in any manner I see fit. My mother is no longer alive to tell me how to act and even if she were, I’m 38 years old - I don’t need a minder. You and I will never be anything resembling minor friends, let alone anything more physical. I will not be sleeping in your room nor will you lay a single finger on me. If you don’t like this, feel free to cancel your application and send me back to jail.”

“John, you will do well to remember that there is a fine line between being stubborn and being stupid. Make sure you don’t step over it.” With that said, Sherlock turned back and continued rifling through his boxes. “Tea would be lovely. Just don’t use the sugar in the blue sugar bowl.”

John stood there refusing to get angry. It would only cloud his mind and he would do something stupid. Instead, he went into the kitchen and made tea. He refused to acknowledge the three hands in the fridge and didn’t even want to think about what was in the blue sugar bowl, but within a few minutes he was walking back into the lounge room with a cup of tea. Nudging some random items out of the way, John managed to find a clear seat and sat down and sipped on his tea.  

It took only a few seconds for Sherlock to move in front of him. “Where is my tea?” he asked, his hands on his hips as he looked down at John.  

“In the kitchen, waiting for you to make it,” John replied.  

Sherlock threw one last glare at John and stomped into the kitchen, muttering the whole way. A few seconds later he called out “Why is the kettle empty?”  

John smiled and sipped more of his tea. “Because I used all the water in my cup.” As petty as it was, John was enjoying himself. If Sherlock wouldn’t cancel his application on his own, then John would force him to do it. John grew up with an older sister, he knew how to be petty.

“And it didn’t occur to you to boil enough for two?”

John didn’t answer. He just smiled as he heard the other man banging the kettle about as he refilled it and set it to boil. A few seconds later he heard a rather loud and angry sounding exhale. This was soon followed by measured footsteps coming back into the lounge room and before long, Sherlock was staring down at John again.

“There was almost a full litre of milk in there, not ten minutes ago. Would you please explain where it has all gone?”

“May have accidentally spilled it.”

“You spilled it?”

“Mmm. Down the sink. Good thing it happened after I made my cup of tea” and John raised his cup, just a bit, before taking another sip.

Sherlock let out another impatient huff and stomped back into the kitchen. “Fine, I’ll have coffee.”

It only took a few minutes for Sherlock to come back into the living room, carrying a large mug of what smelled like strong, black coffee. John waited for him to take a sip before he said “I hope you didn’t use sugar from the white sugar bowl.”

Sherlock just raised a questioning eyebrow and kept drinking.

“It’s just, I scooped some of the contents of the blue sugar bowl into the white one.” While John didn’t practically like being sprayed with coffee from someone else's mouth (or at all, really) he did think, that this time at least, it was worth it.

~o~

“Don’t try to go anywhere. I already have several people watching the house, all exits including windows, who will alert me the second you leave the building,” Sherlock instructed as he wrapped his scarf around his neck.  “When the removalists get here, you will direct everything to be moved into my room. If not, you will be hauling it all in there when I get home.”

“If you say so,” John replied, slowly perusing over the newspaper he was reading. It was from four months ago, but it was still better than listening to Sherlock trying to exert his dominance over him. 

“I won’t be long. Don’t touch anything while I am gone.”

John didn’t answer. Sherlock stood by the door as if waiting for a response, but John wasn’t budging. Slowly, he turned the page.

“God, it’s like having a child,” Sherlock grumbled and then finally left. 

John finally relaxed once he heard the downstairs door close. He was exhausted. He had been up since dawn the previous day and fighting Sherlock every step of the way was even more exhausting. He rested his head on the back of his arm chair and closed his eyes, just for a moment.  

He must have dozed off because he was woken up by Mrs Hudson shaking his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Doctor Watson, but there are some men here who say they have a delivery for you. It looks like quite a few boxes.”

John blinked the sleep out of his eyes as he focused on the woman’s words. He looked around and the memory of what had happened that morning, kicked in. He was at Baker Street, the home of Sherlock Holmes and he was supposed to be directing the removalists to move all of his stuff into Sherlock's room.  

“Thanks Mrs Hudson,” John said, standing up and rolling his shoulders. “I’ll take care of it.”

Following Mrs Hudson down the stairs, John found a man in brown coveralls  standing at the door. “You Dr J Watson?” he asked, looking down at the clipboard in his hand.  

John confirmed that he was indeed Dr J Watson.  

“Sign here” the man said, holding out the clipboard and John took it and signed on the dotted line. “Where would you like it all?” 

“Third floor bedroom” John instructed and stepped back to let the three men do their work.  

~o~

John stood in the middle of his bedroom and looked around. He had unpacked his sheets and made the single bed that was against the wall. He had put his clothes in the drawer and his books on the shelves. His medical bag was by the door, his laptop was sitting next to his bed, charging up and his toiletries sat neatly on his dressing table. Everything else (which wasn’t much) had been left in boxes and pushed to the side of the room, out of the way.  

Despite the fact that John didn’t plan on staying in Baker Street for very long and when he left he wouldn’t be able to take any of his stuff with him, he unpacked his things for two reasons. The first being for the few days he would be here, he needed to live and unpacking was far easier than living out of a bag. The second reason was for the much more hedonistic purpose of pissing Sherlock off. If the man was hellbent on keeping John a prisoner in the flat then John was going to make it as hard on him as possible. By the time the interview for the application process was due, Sherlock wouldn’t want him here anymore. John had spent the last couple of hours making sure Sherlock knew this. 

Not even a minute ago, John had heard Sherlock arrive home. He was now waiting quietly for the reaction. It didn’t take long to come. First the footsteps halted as the man downstairs walked into the lounge room. John had no doubt in his mind that Sherlock had noticed how all of the bookshelves and the mantel had been dusted. This was quickly followed by hurried footsteps into the kitchen where John heard the fridge being wrenched open. “Fucking bastard,” sounded up the stairs, almost drowned up by the fridge slamming shut. Even faster footsteps made their way up the hallway where they stopped at the bathroom door. “John!” Sherlock yelled angrily, more than likely as he noticed the bag on the bathroom sink, now devoid of cocaine. The banging of the door against the wall in his bedroom could actually be felt in John’s room before silence fell upon the flat. It was less than 20 seconds after that, that Sherlock made his way up and was standing, panting and furious in the middle of John's room, practically toe-to-toe and glaring down at the shorter man. 

“Where are the hands?” he seethed and John noticed small drops of saliva at the corners of his mouth.  

“I thought you would have been more concerned about the cocaine, actually but to answer your question, I had the delivery men dispose of them. I told them I was under strict instruction not to leave the flat and if they could find a big skip, far away from the flat to dispose of the bags, then I would be most grateful.”

“Do you know how long I have worked on those hands? Do you know what valuable information you have just erased? Lives could have depended on that information.”

At this, John laughed. It was only a short bark of a laugh , but it clearly enraged Sherlock even more as he leaned in so his face was right in front of John’s.

“Move your stuff downstairs. Now,” he growled.

“No” John responded, his tone and expression just as thunderous as the other man’s.  

“You are being purposely impossible.”

“Says the man who is claiming ownership of someone who doesn’t want it.” 

For several seconds, neither man moved nor spoke, both just glaring the other down, neither wanting to yield. Finally, probably knowing that he was fighting a losing battle, Sherlock broke the staredown and without another glance at John, stormed away, muttering about unreasonable army doctors.

Once Sherlock had started downstairs, John took a deep breath. He may have won the battle but this war was far from over. 

~o~

“The interview is in four days. I couldn’t get it any sooner.”

John didn’t look up from the book he was reading as he replied “Good-o.”

There was a rustle of paper as Sherlock put down the paper he was reading and looked up at John. “John, you will attend the interview and you will do it without a fight.”

Still, John didn’t look up from his book. Even if he did attend the interview, it was all going to be a waste of time. “You seem very confident about that,” he responded as he slowly turned the page in his book.

There was silence for a few more seconds and John could feel the other man's eyes boring into his head from across the room. Finally, he spoke. “Put it this way, John, if you don’t cooperate, a certain Doctor Sarah Sawyer will be having the inventory of all of her stock checked by the medical board. I hope she can account for all of her medication and supplies since you started working for her.”

At this, John did look up from his book. “You’re a fucking bastard.”

Sherlock didn’t reply. He didn’t move and his expression didn’t change from that haughty look he wore on an almost constant basis. John decided that he couldn’t stand the look of him anymore and stood up and went to his room. It was moments like this that he was sorry his gun was confiscated when they arrested him.

~o~

“Where do you think you’re off to?” John looked up to see Sherlock standing in the entrance between the kitchen and the living room, his hair sleep mussed, his dressing gown hastily tied and his unimpressed look marred by the crustied sleep look everyone has when they have just woken up.  

“Work” he replied, zipping up his jacket.  

“You work for me, now.” Sherlock seemed like he was trying for exacting but John was sure he could hear a hint of confusion in his tone.  

Slipping his wallet into his pocket, John looked up at Sherlock. “You don’t own me yet so I still work for Sarah Sawyer. You know the address of the clinic, feel free to have one of your vermin follow me if it makes you feel better,” and then, not waiting for a response, he walked out the door.

He wasn’t even two stairs down when Sherlock said, from the landing, “I can have you arrested.”

“Please do,” was John’s automatic response and he kept going down the stairs and out the door.  

John had felt someone following him all the way to the Tube. He didn’t look back. If it was a homeless person then John would have no hope in hell of picking them out from the throngs of people who also surrounded him. He didn’t care. He kept walking and got on the train.  

During the ride to work, he stood stock still, squashed between two non-descript businessmen who were also minding their own business. The clinic was only another 5 minute walk from the station.  

“Where in the hell have you been, Watson?” was what he was greeted with once he got to work.  

“Morning, Sarah. It’s lovely to see you too. Mind if we have a chat in your office?”

Sarah didn’t reply, only threw an unimpressed glare his way and turned to lead the way to her consulting room.  

“Start talking,” she said, once they were both securely shut behind closed doors.

John decided not to sugar coat anything. Sarah was a tough woman. She didn’t need coddling. “I got caught,” he explained, simply.  

“You got what, now?”

“Caught,” John repeated.  “Someone knew about me and informed the cops, they were waiting for me at the train station on my way home after my last lot of rounds. They knew what I looked like and my name.”

John could see the woman parsing the information over in her head until she came to a conclusion. “But, if you got caught how are you…”

“Unfortunately I have also been claimed.”

“Claimed?” John knew Sarah knew what he was talking about, she just didn’t want to admit it. No one ever wanted to admit it.  

“Yeah. Some posh twat who has some sway in the police department has decided that I’d make a better mate than criminal. The ownership interview is on Tuesday.”

John hated the pitying look that Sarah was throwing his way so he moved onto the next topic he needed to bring up with her.

“The arsehole I am currently living with has taken my phone, so I haven’t been able to contact you but there is something I need to discuss with you,” he said quickly. Sarah nodded and then sat in the chair across from him. John would rather she still be angry with him. Anger didn’t bother him but he hated pity.  

“He has threatened, if I don’t follow his instructions, to have the clinic audited by the medical board. I don’t plan on making this hard for you but I don’t trust him. You need to make sure everything, at least since I started working for you, is accounted for.”

Sarah reached out and took John’s hand in her own. “John, have I ever come across as stupid to you?”

John shook his head.  

“Everything I have given you has been sourced from people and places seperate from the clinic. They have been sourced through two other people before me. The medical board, or the cops, would have to have serial numbers of products to even begin tracing them back to me and even after that ,it would take some time. Please, don’t worry about me. Just focus on surviving this. Please.”

John knew what this meant to Sarah. Her brother was owned and discarded before John met her. He had killed himself five weeks after living on the streets. She had never forgiven the society that had caused her brother's death.   

“I will be breaking with my contacts, though, so thanks for the warning.”

John got up and hugged the woman in front of him. Without her, he would not have been able to be half as useful to the people out on the streets.  

Sarah gave him a tight squeeze and then stepped back. “Are you going to still be able to work here, I mean, after the interview? I really can’t afford to lose you.”

John shrugged. “If I have my way I’ll stay on, but I can’t make any promises. They guy who is claiming mateship is a colossal twat. But he doesn’t own me just yet, so feel free to work me overtime until Tuesday.”

“Will do,” Sarah agreed and John knew she would hold him to it. He didn’t mind. The less time spent at Baker Street, the better.  

“Just one thing,” Sarah asked as John was getting ready to leave the room. “Who is it that we are losing you to?”

“Sherlock Holmes. The biggest ponce I have ever...what?”  At the sound of Sherlock’s name, Sarah seemed to blanch.  

“Jesus, John. Trust you to attract one of the most well known families in the Elite circle.”

John was confused. Until the day before, he had never heard of the Holmes name.  

“Just, don’t do anything stupid, yeah” Sarah said. Before John could ask what she was talking about her phone rang and she waved him out of her office as she answered it.  

John made a note to ask her about it before he went home. Unfortunately, London’s most sick had other ideas. 

Chapter Text

~~~~~~~~~~

John didn’t say a word as he watched London fly by the taxi window. Between working double shifts at the clinic and then staying awake at night trying to figure out how to get away from Sherlock, he was exhausted. He was no longer worried about Sarah being implicated in him helping the discarded. She had reassured him multiple times over the last three days that there was no way that what she had sourced for John could possibly be traced back to her. While John wasn’t 100% convinced, it did make him feel a lot easier. John was also starting to suspect that Sherlock had just guessed at Sarah’s involvement since he hadn’t mentioned the Stamfords or Bill Murray. While this had made John feel better about how well he had been covering his tracks, it had also made him curse his initial reaction to Sherlock mentioning his boss. He should have trusted Sharah’s capabilities.  

This knowledge would make his job of leaving Sherlock easier though and he was pretty sure he had a foolproof plan sorted. Granted, it would mean he was going to live amongst the discarded, but John saw that as a win over being used against his will and then thrown away when he least expected it. This way, to a certain extent, he had a say in what happened with his life and when.

John had been awake and dressed, holding a cup of tea, when Sherlock had arisen. The other man had seen John ready to go out and incorrectly construed it as a good sign that John was finally cooperating. The morning had moved slowly and almost in silence. Sherlock had spoken to John a few times, mainly informing him of how the morning would proceed, but John had offered no verbal response. He felt he conveyed what he thought of Sherlock’s plans perfectly through facial expression alone. 

Now, next to him, Sherlock was tapping away on his mobile phone, with a rather formidable glare on his face.  John could have looked over to see what he was doing, but he just didn’t care. He was just happy that there was someone else out there making Sherlock's day unpleasant. Unbeknownst to the elite, the unpleasantness was just beginning.

In what John felt was no time at all, the taxi pulled up at the front of a tall, gaudy looking building. Four large stone pillars lined the large portico. A massive, heavy wooden door, adorned with heavy black finishings stood in the centre of the facade. Stained glass windows flocked either side of the door, both picturing the image of the Board of Mateship Registration - a Lion cupping it’s paws over a mouse - in the coloured glass. The three steps leading up to the  doors were a bright, polished Portland stone. John rolled his eyes. Of course it was over the top. The Elite couldn’t do anything that was simple or plain or decent. They had to show off. The problem was, it only ever impressed the few. This was one of those times. Even in this part of town, where the Elite clearly worked, the building was out of place in it’s absurd sense of opulence. 

Neither man spoke as they got out of the taxi and John made his way to lead them up the stairs - an unheard of action by anyone not of a level 1 status. They always walked behind. By the Elite’s side if they were truly valued, but never in front. When Sherlock caught up to him at the door, he threw John a glare, silently warning him to behave. John didn’t react, just waited for Sherlock to open the door and then stepped through before the Elite had a chance and continued to stride forward to the desk at the back of the receiving room. The gentleman at the front desk looked up at John and smiled.  

“Gentlemen, how may I help you today?” he asked as they approached the desk, his gaze focusing on John and not paying a whit of attention to the man, who John just knew was fuming, behind him.

“We have an appointment this morning for the application of Dr Watason, here, to become my mate.”
At this, the clerk's gaze shifted to Sherlock and his friendly smile dropped.  “Oh, is he not the Elite candidate?”

“Does he look like an Elite candidate?” Sherlock snarled and the poor man behind the counter suddenly became flustered as he tapped away at the keyboard in front of him, apologising for the mistake. John wanted to feel sorry for the man but due to the fact that he was clearly unmarked, he had a choice to work here and therefore, John disliked him immediately.  

“Let me see? Mister William Sherlock Scott Holmes…”

John snorted as the full name was read out.  Again, the clerk looked mortified.

“Did something amuse you, John?” Sherlock asked, his tone short.

“Of all the names you have, you go by Sherlock? Talk about ludicrous.”

“Yes well, I apologise for not being as boring as yourself.”

“If I’m so boring, then why are you…”

“Yes, I am Sherlock Holmes and I am applying for mateship of Doctor John Hamish Watson” Sherlock cut in, clearly not wanting to have this conversation again. “Our appointment is scheduled for eight forty-five.  I am assuming there is paperwork I am required to fill out.”

The clerk apologised again as he scrambled for the folder that had been prepared and a pen. He handed both over to Sherlock and politely instructed him to fill out the first page, sign the bottom of the following two pages and return the completed forms to the front desk. They were then directed to a waiting area, just across the hall. 

Without a word, Sherlock took the paperwork, spun around and headed towards the waiting room. John, instead of following, turned in the other direction and made to view a piece of pointless art that was on the walls. It was just a blur of deep blues and oranges. He couldn’t make heads nor tails of it’s meaning but came to the conclusion that it cost a small fortune.  He never got any more time to dwell over how much money spent on the painting could have gone to funding for the hospitals because a short, irritated sounding “John” was snapped from behind him, basically ordering him to follow Sherlock. Idly, John turned around and made his way to the waiting room, stopping at the desk on the way.  “Have you ever thought of baking?” John asked. “Or fruit picking. Maybe even dog grooming might be a better option.”

“JOHN.”

John sighed.  “Better not keep him waiting. He might need help spelling the words” he said to the speechless, mortified man in front of him and then he continued his way to the waiting room, whistling a random tune to where Sherlock was standing in the doorway, glaring daggers at John.  

“If your aim is to humiliate me, it won’t work. I couldn’t give a toss what other people think of me or my mate.”

“I was just offering some career advice to the man” John stated simply as he walked past Sherlock and sunk down into one of the very comfy chairs. “Plus, I’m not your mate.”

“Yet” Sherlock added snappily.

John wiggled his bum and slid down a bit until he found the perfect spot.  “Hmm, we’ll see.”

The rest of the wait was short and spent in silence. It took Sherlock only a minute to fill out the forms and sign on the dotted lines and almost immediately, as if the signing of the paperwork was some silent, magical summoning charm, another man joined them in the waiting room.

“Mr Holmes. I am Bernard Jefferies and I will be your official assessor today,” the man announced as he walked in the room. Sherlock stood up and the man's false cheer dropped at the sight of Sherlock’s face. He still had two heavily blackened eyes, although he had removed the strip of tape from his nose that was correcting the damage John had made to it. A few seconds later and a glower from Sherlock and the false, pleasant facade was back. He didn’t spare a glance at John. “If you would just like to follow me” he requested and then turned and walked away.  

Sherlock followed with a clear “Come along, John” and reluctantly, John got up and followed, swiping the ashtray on the way and putting it in his pocket. 

They were led into a large circular room that was just as ostentatious as the rest of the building. There was dark wood panelling, marble and parquet flooring. The windows didn’t have a speck of dust on them and the artwork was just as abstract and ridiculous as the piece John had observed in the foyer. 

The three of them took seats around the table that was in the middle of the room. Bernard was seated at one end, with Sherlock adjacent to him. John sat at the opposite end, putting as much distance between him and the other two men as possible. Neither man paid him any attention.

Bernard Jefferies shuffled through the papers and then looked up at Sherlock. “So, you are applying for mateship of Doctor John Hamish Watson,”the man stated.  

“Yes,” Sherlock replied.  

“Clearly, Doctor Watson is of legal age, so to your knowledge, does Doctor Watson have any immediate family members who have been demoted to a level 5 or is he married.”  

“Neither,” Sherlock answered.  

“Do you currently have a mate?”

“No.”

“Do you understand that if the board declines your application you have fourteen days to appeal. This appeal can only happen once. After that, if he is declined again, Doctor Watson will be automatically demoted to a level 5 status and discarded.”

“I am aware of what this application entails,” Sherlock told him.  

It wasn’t lost on John that, despite it being his life that was getting fucked up, he wasn’t included in the conversation.

“You understand that if you are successful in your application the mate you have chosen will become your responsibility and yours to do what you will with them. This does not include using them for illegal crimes nor are you allowed to inflict grievous bodily harm upon them.” 

Serious injury was fine, so long as it wasn’t grievous , John thought sourly. He had seen this many times in A&E when he worked the hospital floors.  

“I am aware of all the implications that come with being granted mateship over a mate,” Sherlock said, his annoyance becoming noticeable. John smiled, despite what was being said.  He didn’t normally derive pleasure from other people's suffering, but for Sherlock, he would change the rules.  

“You understand that if your application is granted, your mate will be placed in a tier. Each tier allows for different rights…”

“What part of ‘ I am aware of all the implications ’ did you not understand?” Sherlock asked, cutting the man off, his annoyance showing in full-force. “I am aware of how the system works. I am aware of what my rights and responsibilities are. I am aware of how the process works. I was emailed all of this information, plus more, when I put in for application four days ago now, can we please dispense with all the chit-chat and move onto the interview process, which is why we are here.”

For a very brief moment John noted the affronted look on Bernard’s face before it was quickly replaced with a calm look of indifference. After all, it would do him - clearly a level 2 citizen - no favours to piss off an Elite, lest he find himself owned or discarded.

“Of course, Mister Holmes. The interview should take approximately three hours. You will be able to pick-up your mate after that.”

At this news, a frown fell upon Sherlock’s face. “I’m not staying for the interview?”

“No,” Bernard said slowly. “The interview process was detailed on page eight, paragraph four of the application pamphlet you would have been emailed.”

John couldn’t control the snort of amusement that escaped and Sherlock turned his confused frown into one of outright fury and directed it at John. 

John ignored him and huffed out a small chuckle.

“You have the choice of either waiting out in the waiting room or you may come back when the interview is finished” Bernard Jefferies informed Sherlock, drawing his attention away from John.  “We can contact you close to its completion if it looks to be going over or under the estimated time.”

Sherlock looked from John, back to Bernard. There was silence while he decided how to go about this unexpected turn of events and then he must have decided that it wasn’t worth arguing as he stood up. “Fine,” he said, buttoning up his coat. “I shall return in three hours.”

Bernard Jefferies nodded his head once and also stood up. “I look forward to aiding your application, Mr Holmes. I assure you, your selected mate is in good hands.”

The two men shook hands and then Sherlock made to leave. On the way, he stopped by where John hadn’t risen from his seat. 

“Take this seriously, Doctor Watson” he said, looking down at John while pulling on his gloves. 

“I take everything seriously,'' John replied with mock seriousness.  

“Keep in mind, John, how you behave during this test will determine whether I let you live a life of luxury or a life of hell” was the warning John received from the Elite looming over him.

“I’m already living a life of hell.” There was not a hint of mocking in his tone any more. 

“Well, just think, if I am capable of that then I am capable of making it even worse. Take the test seriously,” Sherlock stated simply, a tight yet threatening smile hinting at  his mouth. At that moment, John hated Sherlock Holmes more than he had hated anyone in his life. He hated that he had ripped John’s freedom away, no matter how this turned out. He hated that he practically destroyed a good life that John had built up from nothing. He hated how he could make John feel like shit with only a few words. He hated that someone had that control over him. He decided he had had enough of Sherlock Holmes for now.
“Just leave already. I am capable of answering a few questions.”

“Three hours,” Sherlock said and then stalked out of the room, closing the door behind him. 

John didn’t watch him leave. Instead, he directed his most severe glare on Bernard Jefferies. He took some pleasure at the slight squirm and the heavy swallow the man gave before his haughty look was put back in place.  

“You, John Hamish Watson are here to apply for mateship with William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

“Nope.”

At this, the assessor seemed to splutter for a brief moment. “I beg your pardon?”

“I am not here to apply for anything. That would imply I had a say in the matter. I am forced here, like a slave, to answer some stupid questions which you will then use to decide if I fit into into your precious little group of people and if so, what privileges I will have.”

Again, Bernard Jerfferies swallowed and shuffled his papers around a bit before continuing.

“Moving on, I am to advise you that should you be granted mateship then Mr Sherlock Holmes will have complete ownership over you. Depending on what tier you are placed at will determine what rights you have within that mateship.

“If you are placed in Tier 1, the more desired tier then you may be considered family, if that is what the candidate elite so chooses.Naturally, being Their 1 does not entitle you to marry your elite. That is the only limitation your Elite has. You will be able to mingle with society and hold jobs in the Elite world, with permission of your mate, of course. Should you be entitled to, you may participate in sporting and hobby groups of  your choice. Keep in mind that your mate will  have all final say in this. At this tier, you may also have minimal and unsupervised visitations with previous family and friends.”

“Well, doesn’t that just sound wonderful” John added sarcastically.  Clearly, Bernard didn’t take it as so.

“Yes, it is definitely generous on behalf of your mate to allow you these privileges. If you are fortunate you will be placed in a tier 1 position and to hold such a position in the house of a Holmes, that would be a rather grand concession.”

That was the third time someone had referred to the Holmes family as if they were the elite of the Elite. He hadn’t gotten around to asking Sarah the other day and then it had slipped his mind because he had had no intentions of hanging around. If for some bizarre, unfortunate reason, John’s plan didn’t work, he was going to have to do some research into the family that were going to own him. 

Bernard continued.

“If you are to be placed into a Tier 2 position, you may socialise with select friends and family but it will be supervised. You will also be granted socialisation rights with select friends, family and acquaintances of your mate. You may hold a job that has been approved by, not only your mate but also the Board of Mateship Registration. The same stands for sports and hobbies, but you will only get one choice.”

By now, John wasn’t listening. He knew all of this. Everyone who had completed grade four at school knew all of this. John tipped his chair back and balanced on the back two legs. If he were lucky, they would snap and he would fall back, smacking his head on the cupboard behind him, leading to permanent brain damage. Anything was better than listening to this drivel.  

Bernard just eyed him sourly as he continued to read through a script that John was certain he knew by heart. 

“If you are selected and placed into a Tier 3 position, you are essentially there to be seen and not heard and to carry out your mates wishes. You may not hold a job and may not leave the house without your owner or an approved chaperone. Is all of this clear, Doctor Watson.”

“Perfectly” John replied, letting the two front legs of his chair drop down to the ground. “Should I be unfortunate enough to be accepted, my life can be lived at one of three levels of shit; horrible, terrible or fucking miserable.”

Bernard blinked seven times in the span of two seconds, clearly not sure how to react to John. Instead of reacting, he chose to power on. 

“If you are not successful in your application, you will be marked and have your ranking lowered to a level 5. If this occurs, you will not be eligible for mateship again. Do you understand?”

“Not only do I understand, but I look forward to it. Should we begin?”

“Doctor Watson, I don’t think you quite understand the seriousness of the situation, should you be rejected. Your rights, every single one of them, will be stripped. You will be living on the streets with less privileges than a homeless person. You will not be able to seek help or even communicate with anyone above a level 5 ranking. I think you need to take this seriously.”

“Trust me, I'm taking it very seriously, now, let's get a move on.”

The assessor just gave John one more look of uncertainty and then began the test.  

~o~

It was two and a half hours later when John finally exited the interview room and  it was to find a murderous looking Sherlock Holmes standing next to Lestrade who looked like he would rather be anywhere but where he was.

Within seconds, Sherlock was in front of him and John could practically see the steam coming out of his ears.

“Would you like to explain to me why I got a phone call advising me to have a police escort when I picked you up?”

John just shrugged. “No idea.”  

“Mr Holmes, if you don’t mind, I’d like a word with you in private,” came the rattled voice of Bernard Jefferies from behind them all. John turned to see that the man hadn’t stepped into the foyer, but instead, hovered in the interview room as if that were some safe sanctuary from some heinous evil lurking by.

“Sit and don’t move.” Sherlock growled, pointing to the waiting room.  

“Yes sir,” John barked, saluting the man, and turning around and marching to the waiting room.  

“Lestrade, don’t let him leave your sight,” John heard Sherlock tell Greg and in a few long strides, Greg was next to him while the other two men locked themselves away in the interview room.

There was an awkward silence in the room as Greg and John sat next to each other.  Well, John was perfectly at ease, but Greg didn’t seem to know where to look or where to put his hands. Eventually, he placed them in his jacket pocket.  

“So, did you watch the game the other night?” Greg asked, breaking the silence.

John had decided before now that he liked Greg. Greg was a good man doing a shit job that a self-entitled wanker ordered him to do. Because he liked Greg, it was easy to carry the conversation. “God, it was rubbish. Not sure why Tottenham bothered showing up to play. It was an appalling performance”

“Good for us Liverpool fans, though.”

John gave Lestrade a sideways glance. “And here I was thinking you might actually be a decent sort of fellow.”

Greg just gave a small chuckle and the silence that followed seemed to be a lot more comfortable. It didn’t last long.  

“He's been treating you okay?” The DI asked, nodding his head in the direction of the interview room.

“Like it matters how he treats me,” John answered with a half arsed shrug.  

Greg let out a sympathetic hum.  “Look, I know the situation isn't ideal” 

John huffed out an amused puff of air. That was the understatement of the century.

“But I know Sherlock, and I can talk to him if he is being a complete tosser.”

John looked at the closed door of the interview room.  “Thanks, but I’m pretty sure it’s not going to be a problem for much longer. Don’t think I passed the test.”

When he turned his attention back to Greg, it was to see a sad, pitying look on the older man’s face. 

John just smiled at him, conveying that it was all okay.  “It’s not a bad thing, Lestrade.”

“It may not have seemed that way when you had the option to come back to civilised society, but once you are stuck out there with no other option…”

John cut him off. He had thought this scenario over many times since he was discharged from the army.  “I have survived in worse conditions than what is out there and who says I will be stuck there?” John stated. “You may know about a couple of my networks and what you do know of may be monitored but there are other ways of seeking help if you know where to look for it and are willing enough to be patient. I’m stubborn and resourceful.”

Greg opened his mouth as if to say something but was cut off by the door opening. Sherlock stormed out, followed by the assessor who glared at John.

“John, we are going. Lestrade, your services are no longer needed.”

Both John and Greg stood up. Greg nodded out a farewell. “Remember, call if you need it,” he said and then left the building.  

“Let’s go, John,” Sherlock ordered and then stood to the side, waiting for John to lead. This was unusual for an Elite and John could only assume it was so Sherlock could keep an eye on him.  

“Laters,” John sang with a wave and a smile at the clerk, who had been not so discreetly messaging everything he saw on his phone, behind the desk.

As he past Bernard he gave him a cheeky wink “It was nice chatting, Bernie.”  The man only scowled harder.  

With a much lighter step than he had had on the way in, John left the building and took a deep breath of fresh air. He was halfway down the steps when Sherlock overtook him and hailed a taxi. Impressively, one pulled up straight away. 

“Get in,” Sherlock growled, holding the door open.  

“Nah, I’ll pass thanks. Think I’ll walk back to the flat.”

“Get. In.”

John walked past the taxi. He had no intentions of getting in the vehicle. He didn’t get far before he was grabbed by the back of the jacket and yanked back.

“John, I am in no mood for your childish games,” Sherlock quietly raged as he spun John around and pushed him towards the car.

This just angered John. He locked his legs and refused to go any further.  

“I am not getting in the car,” he seethed.

“John,” Sherlock warned and grabbed John’s wrist with all intents of pulling him into the car. That was John’s final straw. In one swift movement, John removed Sherlocks hand from his wrist and twisted it, pulling it down against its natural bend. 

“I can break every fucking bone in your body while naming them," John hissed close to Sherlock's ear. "Don’t touch me again.” With that, he let go of Sherlock’s hand and turned and walked away.

“If you leave, you will only be dragged back,” Sherlock yelled after him.

“That’s fine,” John called back and he continued to walk away.

~o~

John hadn’t gotten far, a couple of blocks if he was lucky, when he heard a car slow down behind him and trail him. John shook his head. If Sherlock wanted to wrack up an exorbitant taxi fare then John was going to go the long way back to Baker Street. He only got about another half a block or so before the car behind him sped up and pulled up further down the street. 

John frowned. It wasn’t a typical London cab, not at all like the one John had left Sherlock standing next to. This was a rather expensive, black and very shiny car. Something an Elite would own. Deciding that he didn’t want any part of what the driver of the car was getting at, John turned down a side street. A few moments later, the car drove past and pulled up against the kurb again. This time, there was nowhere to turn off, so keeping his head down, John walked past. As he did, there was the almost silent hum of the window sliding down. He decided to ignore it and kept walking until he reached the end of the street and turned right.  

A few moments later, the car drove past again and once more, stopped a few metres away from where John was. Deciding that ignoring it was still the best course of action, John kept his head down and walked past ignoring the quiet call of “Doctor Watson” as he passed the car again. 

The fourth time it happened, the driver got out of the car and approached John.  

“Doctor Watson,” the man said and John looked up to see a man in a plain black suit. The mark on the left side of his neck told John that he was not the owner of this car, but more than likely the personal driver of whoever owned it. “My employer requests that you  join him.”

John looked to the car, the back window was still rolled down, but John couldn’t see anyone in it.  

“That’s a hard pass from me,” John said, turning back to the man. No way in hell was he getting in a strange car with a strange man and his strange employer.  

“Then he insists,” the man answered, pulling his jacket back to show off the gun that was holstered at his right side.  

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” John said, frustration slowly inching into his mood.

“I assure you, my employer never kids. Please, get in the car.”

John weighed his options. He could run. He would most certainly get shot. He then weighed the chances of getting mildly wounded, killed or paralysed. He also had the option of fighting the man but if he was carrying a gun then it was also a possibility that his employer was carrying a gun. There was also the possibility that he got in the car and the all mysterious employer kidnapped him. All scenarios sounded more appealing than going back to Baker Street, so with a sigh of resignation, John turned around and got in the car. 

Inside was a man in a brown, pinstripe three piece suit, an umbrella and pocket watch and an oily smile. John was starting to wish he had wrestled the driver.  

“Doctor Watson,” the man greeted smoothly and the car pulled almost seamlessly into traffic. 

“Yes, and you are?” John asked, looking around the car. There was a small camera in the right hand corner and a not-completely-concealed weapon in the door next to the employer . A screen was up dividing the driver from the two occupants in the back of the car.

“That is of no importance. I am wondering what your intentions are with Sherlock Holmes.”

“If I had my way, it would involve a great deal of violence but as it is, I doubt I will get time. I have a feeling I will be vacating Baker Street by the end of the day.”

“Is that so?”

John didn’t really like the smile the man showed with that comment.  

“Fairly certain, yeah. Look, I don’t know who you are or what you want with Sherlock, but do me a favour and leave me out of it, would you.”

“It seems an odd attitude for someone who just sat an interview for mateship.”

“I think the correct term you are looking for is ownership and I had no say in that application. Now can you let me out. I think our conversation has come to an end.”

The mystery man didn’t order his driver to pull over. Instead, he pulled a small notebook out of his breast pocket and flipped it open.  

“Doesn’t trust easily” the man read out and John recognised those very notes from his therapy sessions. “So far, that sounds about right.”

“Where did you get that?” John asked, suddenly feeling sick. Those sessions had been held over a year ago. They were private, confidential notes. How the hell did this man have them and why?

The man ignored John’s question and kept talking. “Has a compulsive want to help those in need, especially medical need.” At this, the man looked up at John. “That doesn’t seem to fit with someone who broke a man’s nose, just for taking a pair of handcuffs off of him. Although, I must say, your reflexes are impressive if you were able to inflict that much damage on Sherlock Holmes after being seated and in cuffs for several hours. How much rage do you carry, Doctor Watson?”

“Enough to survive,” was John's stony reply.

The man seemed to consider John with what looked like curiosity for a few quick moments but then changed to indifference when the car pulled over.

“I do believe we are at our destination” he said and John turned to see that they had pulled up at Baker Street.  

“Fuck sake,” he grumbled and got out of the car, slamming the door closed a little bit harder than he meant to. If John had had any intention of not going into the building it was thwarted by the driver getting out of the car also and discreetly reminding John of the weapon he was carrying. 

John cursed under his breath again and stormed inside and up the stairs. To his surprise, the mystery employer followed.  John’s plans of storming all the way up to his room were stopped by a very smug looking Sherlock standing on the top landing and blocking his access to the stairs that led to the top floor so instead of making conversation with the man, John veered in through the kitchen door and set to making himself a cup of tea. Very strong tea.

“Tea would be lovely, John,” Sherlock requested as he walked past John and into the living room. The mystery man followed with “Milk and half a teaspoon of sugar, if you don’t mind.”  

John did mind. He minded very much. It was why he purposely did not make either of them a cup of tea and, once his was made, went into the living room and sat down on the couch.

“I have asked you not to interfere,” Sherlock was telling the man in a short clipped tone. “You will get your answers once I get mine. Until then, keep your big nose out of it.”

“It is taking too long. More have gone missing. If their project gets too much momentum, it will be almost impossible to stop.”

“Then stop slowing me down. Anyway, I have a new tool at my disposal so things should start moving along at a much more satisfactory pace.”

“Sherlock, what you are proposing takes time to get right. You can’t just barge in and assume it is going to go perfectly. I have seen your new tool. I can’t say I’m convinced.”

“Would you like to take over the project, Mycroft? Remember, you came to me.”

“Yes, to do a job.”

“Then let me do it!”

John watched the two men, Sherlock and Mycroft, argue back and forth, with no idea what was going on. He didn’t care. He enjoyed anything that got Sherlock angry.  

“Fine,” the other man said. “I want an update in no less than seven days, and don’t make me chase you down for it. Remember, Cats is coming to London.”

“I will have it to you in six” Sherlock replied and then turned away, only to turn back. “Do you have the paperwork I requested?” he asked, holding out his hand.  

Mycroft gave an impatient sigh and reached into his pocket, pulling out an expensive looking envelope. “Don’t lose it. I’m not getting you another copy,” and then he turned and left.  

Sherlock tucked the letter into his own pocket and then turned his attention on John. 

“Would you like to explain to me what transpired at the Board of Mateship Registration today?” he asked, his tone conveying that he was not in the mood for facetiousness.
“The lovely Bernard Jefferies asked me some questions, I answered them, end of story.” John then took a long, loud sip of his tea.

“And you think it went well, this interview?” Sherlock asked, walking over to the table and picking up a folder and walking back to John.

John slurped up more of his tea before replying “Very much so.”

“Then how do you explain this?” Sherlock said, anger evident in his voice as he dropped a copy of a very familiar looking document on the coffee table in front of John.

John looked down at a copy of his interview. “Wow, they must really like you if you got all that today” John said, not really caring. He knew exactly what was written in those pages, It was the script to his freedom. “That usually takes up to five working days to get delivered.”

“Mr Jeffereies was apparently concerned for my safety.”

“Smart man.”

“Idiot,” Sherlock sneered. “As are you for thinking that the little stunt you pulled today would actually work.”

“I don’t think it will work, I know it will,” John said.  “All you have to do is take a glance at the pages of that document to see that. I just have to wait for the board to come to an official decision and then I am out of here.”

“Is that what you think?” Sherlock asked.

“You’ve read the interview results. You know it as well as I do. I’m sorry Mr Holmes, but you have failed in your attempt to secure me as a mate.”  John couldn’t have felt more smug if he tried as he pushed the interview results back towards Sherlock. 

Chapter Text

~~~~~~~~~~

This interview consists of 10 sections. The assessor will discuss each section with the subject and then ask the subject to complete the written part of the tests (where applicable). The answers in this interview will help the Board of Mateship Registration learn details that are not on record about the subject wishing to become a mate of the Elite candidate requesting approval for mateshipship.  

The information garnered in this interview will be used in conjunction with what the assessor observes throughout the interview and further interviews with family members, friends, work colleagues and other peers in the subject’s life. Once everything has been considered then the Board of Mateship Registration will come to a decision about whether the subject is approved and as to what tier they will be entered into mateship. This generally takes up to five business days.

If the Elite candidate is not happy with the outcome, they have 14 days to appeal to the Board of Mateship Registration. After that, once a subject has been denied a second time (or in the case where the Elite candidate has not placed an appeal) the subject will be placed back into society as a level 5 citizen and will be ineligible for future considerations as a mate. 

These are the results of the mateship exam taken by John Hamish Watson on 2nd February 2010 concerning the application to become a mate of William Sherlock Scott Holmes. 

Personal Details of the Subject (to be filled out by Elite candidate)

Full Name:  John Hamish Watson

Gender: Male

Date of Birth: 6th May 1971

Place of Birth: London, United Kingdom

Level of Education: Kings College, London - BSc, MBBS - 1990 - 1998

Occupation: General Practitioner

The following is to be filled out by the subject, John Hamish Watson and then assessed by Bernard Jefferies.

Family

The subject’s family will be vetted before approval is granted to help the Board of Mateship Registration decide what tier of mateship the subject will be entered into. Keep in mind, if any immediate family is a level 5 then the subject may not rise higher than a tier 3 mate, if accepted at all. 

Please provide names, places and dates of birth, a brief summary and the status of each person listed below.

Father's Name: Jean-Bob Herentiuss. 

Date and Place of Birth: 4th May 1441 In a galaxy far, far away.

Brief Summary:  My father was a cynical rabi from the north-east isles of Greenwich. He suffered from kleptomania and had a penchant for licking cockroaches. He would drink and dance a polka and then claim that he was the first person to wear Wellington's. He would chase badgers and make tiny bamboo furniture for the mice in his spare time. 

Status: Suspended in a state of flux.

Mother’s name: Gunhild of Atlanta

Date and Place of Birth: In the year 6784. Atlanta, obviously. 

Brief Summary: A child of the ocean, my mother was often absent in my life since I lived in London for most of my life and she never liked rivers - said it made her feel claustrophobic. I understand, from my father and a few brief memories that I have, that she had a liking for seaweed and sounded like a dolphin. It was never said, but I inferred that she loved me from the dead fish I would receive every year for my birthday.

Status:  Not yet born.

Siblings - Name: Harry 

Date of Birth: A couple of years before mine.

Brief summary: A vegetarian by day and fucking lunatic by night. Harry is a person of hedonistic tendencies that bleed over to the creative and often taboo. Harry is a master of the purple nurple and should therefore not be trifled with, especially on the fourth Wednesday of the month. Must remember to purchase a birthday present on the way home and make sure it is definitely not a DIY candle making kit. Not after last year’s reaction.

Status: Pickled in a bottle somewhere.

Grandparents - Dead and not of importance.

Other Family: There are some but I don’t have the will nor the want to spend time listing them. With any luck, most of them will be level 5’s so I shan’t be worthy of approval.  

AN* Subject was asked to give serious answers. Subject then replied that he will give a serious answer when a) the government makes serious laws and b)when Mr Sherlock Holmes is dead.

Religion

The Board of Mateship Registration requests this information to help determine what tier the subject will be placed in if their application for mateship is approved.

What religion do you follow and what does your religion mean to you?

I am an avid follower of the Banana Cult and all it stands for. Basically, what this means to me is that it is perfectly acceptable to have lots of mind blowing sex in as many public places as possible. If we don’t, how will our bananas grow?

AN* While this cult does in fact exist it is my belief that Doctor Watson is not a member of said cult. We are officially noting that he does not follow any religion. If any evidence turns up in further investigations to dispute this belief, we shall alter the records accordingly.

Education

The level and success of education will help determine what tier of mateship the subject can be placed in if accepted by the Board of Mateship Registration. 

Please list all Educational Institutes you have attended including years attended and area and level of education reached.

Unfortunately, my entire primary schooling was spent at a rather standard and boring institution with a name that I can’t be bothered recalling. Most of it was wondering what happened to the owl that was surely sent to bring me my Hogwarts acceptance letter.  

When it was clear that the owl had clearly come to some gory and unfortunate end on its way to me, I decided I would focus my studies on witchcraft and disguised myself as a female so I could train at Aretuza. Thankfully, despite not making a pretty lady, I was never discovered and now have all the power and chaos in the world to wield as I will. I am thinking of using it to conjure the most painful and drawn out death that I can for Mr Sherlock Holmes.

AN* Get Doctor Watson’s academic records from Elite candidate.

Literacy and Numeracy Test

This test allows the Board of Mateship Registration to determine what tier of mateship the subject will be placed into if successful in their application. 

AN* The literacy test results were unusable as the subject answered all the questions in what we believe to be Pashto. We have been unable to get a translator. 

The numeracy test has been made null and void as the subject rewrote all the questions in sentence form using a person named Sergei and how many watermelons he had as an example.  He then answered all of his questions with the answer “None, Sergei has no hands or feet and lives in Siberia where watermelons don’t grow.”

If the elite candidate would like a full copy of these tests they can be requested by emailing [email protected] . Use your reference number as the subject line. The information can take up to five working days to be delivered.

Employment History

 This will help the Board of Mateship Registration determine what tier of mateship the subject may be entered into if their application is successful.

Please provide a linear list of your employment history along with a description of duties.

Lego Sculptor - I built stuff out of tiny coloured bricks.

Johnzilla - I knocked down buildings made out of tiny coloured bricks.

Professional Yodeler - I yodelled, professionally to perform at events such as 78th wedding anniversaries. I still have the lederhosen.

Leisure Operative - I did as little as possible.

Möbius Rubber Band Maker - It’s complicated and I wouldn’t want you to feel like your intelligence was being threatened so let’s just move onto the next one. 

Vampire Hunter - This one is pretty self explanatory and very short lived for obvious reasons.

Professional Harpist - This was also very short lived due to the fact that I can’t play the harp.

M Stamper - Stamped the M’s on the MnM’s at the MnM factory. Was fired for throwing away the orange MnM’s.

Elephant Circumciser - The pay wasn’t great but the tips were huge.

Organ Harvester - I specialise in pipe, electronic, reed and water organs.

AN* Will need to obtain an official CV from the Elite candidate.

Medical History

The subject’s medical History will help the Board of Mateship Registration determine if the subject is fit to be included into the Elite social circle and at what tier.

When I was three, I got a really bad case of Gastritis. While feeling like death, I was also awed that I could crap and vomit at the same time. Who knew?

When I was four, I fell over and skinned both of my knees. I was the most popular kid in kindergarten the following day because I told everyone it happened while I was doing a triple backwards flip on my bike. It was then I discovered I could lie like a pro.  

That same year, I got three cases of inflammation of the conjunctiva. That was great because I got to stay home from school and watch Jaws on our brand new VHS. I must admit, the Betamax was better than the VHS when it came to quality, but it was still a pretty good movie.  

When I was five, I had tinea, influenza, varicella, pharyngitis and a pretty bad headache.

The year I was seven I got yet another dose of influenza, and pharyngitis and another episode of inflamed conjunctiva.  

The year I turned eight I became a bit of a master of feigning medical ailments where there were none. This allowed me to have time off school when it suited me. It also stopped me from having to go to my sisters stupid birthday party with her even stupider friends.  

When I was nine, I got a severe case of constipation. This was more than likely due to my new found love of  astringent persimmons which I made a habit of eating several times a day.  

My tenth year was a right doozy. I’m surprised I came out of it alive at all. That was the year the aliens came. It happened on March 32nd. I had been riding my bike home from a friend's house when I was surrounded by a bright light and I passed out. When I woke up I was strapped to a vertically standing frame, naked and spread eagled. I don’t remember much but there was lasers burned into my eyes, electro shocks to my brain and anal probing. There was definitely anal probing. I know they left a tracking chip in me. No one has been able to find it, but it’s there. I can hear it!

When I was eleven I decided I wanted to be Jewish, like my friend Aharon. After much discussion and looking up the procedure in medical books Aharon’s uncle had in his home library we decided to give me a circum

AN* After observing what Doctor Watson had written, we removed the test from him as we felt he was not taking the subject seriously. We will obtain Doctor Watson’s medical history from his Elite candidate. 

Psychological Evaluation

This part of the process will help the Board of Mateship Registration determine the subjects psychological state of mind and whether they are fit to be a mate to a member of the Elite and if so, at what tier.

AN*  The subject displayed signs of multiple personality disorder and psychopathic/homicidal tendencies during this session of the interview, often referring to himself in the third person. He had several rather graphic depictions of the different ways he could murder his Elite candidate, each described by a different persona. He was also rather eager for the session to be over so he could, quote ‘ Go home and pack my meagre belongings into a single bag and start living my life as the lowest form of society on the streets of London . It’s great to have direction in life, isn’t it? ’

If the elite candidate would like a full copy of the transcript of this session they can be requested by emailing [email protected] . Use your reference number as the subject line. The information can take up to five working days to be delivered.

Rorschach Test

Subjects are shown 25 inkblot images and asked to identify what they initially see in each image. This will help the Board of Mateship Registration determine the subjects psychological state of mind and whether they are fit to be a mate to a member of the Elite and if so, at what tier.

• A mess - my life at the age of 17.

• A bigger mess - my life as of 72 hours ago.

• A pillow over the face of Mr Sherlock Holmes, placed and held there by myself as I listen to him slowly dying.

• The cyanide, I placed in the tea of Mr Sherlock Holmes before I watched him drink the entire cup.

• Me driving a blunt instrument through Mr Sherlock Holmes’ cold, frozen rock of heart.  It’ll take some effort, but I can be very resourceful and stubborn.

• A pair of testicles, previously belonging to Mr Sherlock Holmes after I removed them and turned them into Christmas tree ornaments.

• Freedom, I assume this is the last time I will ever see that again.

AN* We felt at this stage Doctor Watson was not taking this part of the assessment seriously and terminated any further testing in this aspect of the assessment.

Criminal History

This information is an extremely important factor in deciding whether the Board of Mateship Registration will approve a subject for mateship.  

Please list any criminal convictions you have, either past or pending.

When I was three I defaced all of my sister’s Judy Bloom books. I also drew on the wall. Twice.

When I was 8, I handed in a project that I plagiarised from my cousin (who is two years older than me) and passed it off as my own. 

I stole a Snickers Bar from Tesco when I was 12. I was hangry at the time and needed something to help me chill.

When I was 14 I drank alcohol in a public place. It was a light beer at Brockwell park. Well, half a beer. Toby had the other half.

Between the ages of 18 and 25 I stole multiple glasses from the pubs and clubs. I actually still have some of them.

I can’t even begin to count how many cigarette lighters I have stolen in my time. And I don’t even smoke!

When I was 31, I stabbed a guy. It was self-defence, but I better not leave anything out or you guys might actually consider accepting me.  

I have a compulsion to steal pens. Have had this problem since I was in my mid-teens. Don’t be surprised if you never see this pen again. It writes so well. It has a smooth glide, an even ink output, there has been no clumping at the nib and the colour is such a nice shade of blue. 

For three months of my life I patched up criminals for a living. And I actually mean decent, proper criminals, not the kind who think it is perfectly acceptable to tear someone away from their perfectly happy life, use them as they will, without care nor consent from the person and then throw them away to die a miserable and depressed death.

I verbally assaulted the doctor who told me I had to leave the army and then threw a bedpan at him. It hit him in the head and he had to have four stitches. Was totally worth it - he was a dickhead anyway.  

I paid a prostitute for a blow Job just ten months ago. It was nice, but definitely not worth the £40 I paid.

I frequently jaywalk. Always have, always will.

I have spent two years assisting the discarded with medical needs. I will continue doing this until I am physically unable to do so.

Four days ago I punched an elite in the face. If the cops hadn’t pulled me back, I would have broken more than his nose. 

I predict that in the next few months I will be able to add the attempted murder of Mister Sherlock Holmes to my record. If I am lucky, I will be able to add the pre-meditated murder of Mister Sherlock Holmes to my record. 

AN* Unsure if Doctor Watson is serious about some things or being purely facetious about everything. Will pull up official criminal records to assist in the final decision. Also, we are rather concerned for the safety of the Elite candidate wishing to mate with this subject.

Interpretation of the Social Ladder

This part of the interview will help the Board of Mateship Registration determine if the subject will need further education in what their role will be if they are accepted. 

Label the five sections of the social ladder, explain what you think each section’s role in society is and give at least three examples of people in each social section.

1.

The biggest scum on the face of the earth.  They are here to offer no form of benefit to society whatsoever. They have money - usually unfairly gained or extorted from anyone level 3 or below. They are a perfect example of a bully. I sincerely doubt any of them had a happy childhood or even know the benefits of a good old fashioned hug. Their roles are to be a complete and utter pain in the arse and to ruin the lives of perfectly innocent people for no reason other than their selfish desires and some sick form of entertainment.   

Some examples of level 1’s are high ranking members of the royal families, politicians, mummy’s boys and corrupt judges. Also, Sherlock Holmes.

2.

Arse Kissers - also known as brown nosers, bootlicker, suckholes and sycophants . Willing to do everything, including losing any form of self respect and dignity to make the biggest scum of the earth ‘happy’. (I use the term happy very loosely as who in their right mind needs to ruin someone's life in order to feel good about themselves.) Clearly, depression is an issue here.  Both level 1 and 2 need some serious counselling in order to help with their clearly debilitating issues surrounding their self-worth. I can make a few recommendations to some fantastic psychologists if needed.  

Some examples are bankers, wankers, crooked high ranking cops and military personnel and politicians who only have the position because daddy would be ashamed if anyone knew how useless they actually were. Also, people who work at the Board of Mateship  Registration.

3.

The everyday person. They get on with life, leave others alone and are happy with who they are without having to make others feel like crap in order to gain any feelings of worthiness. These people are usually gainfully employed and do not often get into trouble with the law. They make up a majority of the population. They like to have a good laugh at the expense of level 1’s and 2’s with their friends. The real type of friends, not the backstabbing lying shit stains that level 1’s and 2’s like to think of as ‘friends’.

Some examples of the everyday person are retail assistants, mechanics, doctors, nurses, paramedics, librarians, hairdressers, waiters, air hostesses, pilots, chefs, taxi drivers, pet groomers, gardeners, cops, fire fighters, builders, plumbers, soldiers, sailors, vets, cleaners, garbage truck drivers, teachers, baristas, phlebotomists, kitchen hands, upholsterers, removalists and the guy that sings a really good Neil Diamond at the Pimlico tube entrance.

4.

Social Welfare recipients . These people are often  mentally or physically disabled. Some are repeat offender criminals. Some are lazy bastards and some are just really down on their luck. A lot are elderly. Quite often under-educated and mostly unemployed. They are generally a good group of people though, most will go out of their way to help a complete stranger and they are generally quite supportive of each other.  

Some of these people include, low level drug dealers, prostitutes, single parents, my grandparents (when they were alive) the homeless, the handicapped, meth heads, illegal immigrants, Reality TV stars and that bastard that stole my wallet two months ago.

5.

Animals.   These can be domesticated, wild or strays.  In London, they typically consist of cats, dogs, bunnies, guinea pigs, horses, goldfish, an array of different kinds of birds, squirrels, swans (these are not birds, they are Satan spawn), spiders, mosquitoes, bees, ladybirds mice, rats and cockroaches.

These members of society are generally used as pets. They provide company, enjoyment, entertainment and comfort for their owners.  Some are service animals used for those with social or physical disabilities or used with level 3 members of society, such as the police. Some are integral parts of nature, such as bees and birds and some need to be completely eradicated such as cockroaches, swans and people who rank in the level 1 on the society scale. 

6.

The unfortunate and unfairly ostracised. These people did nothing wrong. At all. They were just unfortunate enough to be spotted, singled out, used and then thrown away by some useless bastard in the level 1 ranking. They are then prohibited (by a law made by the bastards in level 1) to socialise with anyone above their level in society. They are not provided healthcare or education. They are not allowed to find gainful employment. They have been visually marked in the cruellest fashion so that anyone above a level 6 can see that they are to be left alone, to be avoided as if they are highly contagious with a terminal and untreatable yet easily contracted disease. Anyone above a level six can be charged and jailed for offering assistance to level 6’s, (if caught). There are not many of these people as they tend to kill themselves within 5 months of being outcasted by the biggest saddists known to mankind. Those who don’t kill themselves generally die due to health related issues within 3 - 7 years. 

These people consist of anyone previously between level 2 and 5, but mainly consisting of previously level 3’s. I estimate that in under a fortnight, Doctor John Watson will be a level 6 but that is fine because it is much more appealing to be seen in the level 6 rankings than it would be to be seen with a level 1 lowlife.

AN* Doctor Watson requested the coloured pencils used to fill this part of the test out.  We initially declined but he refused to complete the assignment and used the original paper to fold a paper aeroplane.  He followed this up by flying it into the waste paper basket and commenting “Oh, look. There goes my life.”  He was granted a new question sheet and a packet of coloured pencils after this. As is evident, he also added an extra category on the social scale. The illustrations are rather interesting, to say the least.

References

This section will help the Board of Mateship Registration determine if they are fit to be accepted as a mate of the Elite candidate and at what tier they should be placed in. 

Please provide 12 references ( a mixture of educational, professional and personal) for us to contact and interview.

Arthur Dent: Definitely a Level 4. A previous patient of mine who loved travelling and came to me to get a worm pulled out of his ear. A bit odd, liked to wear a daggy looking dressing gown, but pleasant all the same. Said he would happily refer me to all the people he knew. Has a fantastic library full of Vogan poetry which I will have to borrow to help get me through my time with Mister Sherlock Holmes. 

Mike Priddle : Level 2 banker. He gave me a loan once. Said I had a good credit rating and fantastic money saving skills. I have a feeling he wasn’t quite right in the head as I had debt due to losing all of my money in strip poker with Murry, Toby and the little Italian guy that didn’t speak a word of English. Last I heard he (Priddle, not the Italian guy) went crazy after the birth of his deformed son killed his wife in labour and he shot himself, so probably not the best reference. Maybe I will have the same luck with my future ‘owner’.

Iain MacKelpie: Level 3 charismatic yet foul mouthed photographer from Scotland. Met during my final tour in Afghanistan and was, without a doubt, a much better shag than Mister Sherlock Holmes could ever be. Told me I was welcome to call him any time I was in the area.  

Hector Dixon : Level 3 sadistic, yet suave assassin. Fantastic work ethic, honest and has fantastic teeth. Met during my first tour when I saved his life. He said he owed me one. I will be cashing in on that favour to help eradicate my new problem.

Paul Maddens: Level 3 grade 4 teacher at St Bernadette's Catholic Primary School. Mr Maddens gave me a really good report and I got two gold stars for my effort in the end of year nativity concert. He had a habit of lying to impress people, suffered from depression, was unable to hold down a relationship and had little tolerance for other people but he is still a better prospect than Mister Sherlock Holmes and that’s even if he is not alive any more.

Bilbo Baggins: Level 3 but could easily pass off as a level 2 and at a push, a level 1. Bit of a prick but told wonderful stories and ate far too much food that was high in cholesterol. Met him on a trip to New Zealand with a previous girlfriend of mine and he let us stay at his place after we found a ring he had lost. Apparently it was very precious to him. He told me that I could call in on him anytime I was in the area as I was a handy and decent sort of bloke. Might possibly know of a good volcano I can throw myself into, which sounds much more appealing than what is to come after I have finished this pointless invasion into my privacy.

Sorry, but I don’t feel like exposing any more people to this ridiculous charade so I shall not be listing any more candidates for you to harass. If you haven’t gotten a rough idea of why I don’t agree to this fucking absurd and quite frankly pathetic circus act and why I would rather shit out of my mouth for the rest of my life than be a part of your narcicistic social circle, without the aid of other people to help you come to your conclusion, then you are not going to get it at all. Plus, I can't be bothered to think of anymore or write them down. You have already wasted enough of my time. Please, feel free to stamp me, right now, as unsuccessful and let me be on my way.  

AN** Upon further investigation, it has been found that these references do not, in fact, exist but are fictional characters from various different books and movies. 

AN* = Assessors Notes

Elite Candidate = The elite wishing to register for mateship  Must be a level 1.

Subject = The person applying to become a mate of the elite. Must be a level 2, 3, or 4.

Assessors Conclusion:

It is my opinion that Doctor John Hamnish Watson is not, nor ever will be fit for membership for Mr Sherlock Holmes or any other person of the Elite.  

While the subject has a presumed impressive academic record and employment record, the man has absolutely no regard for anyone on the higher rungs of the social scale and has demonstrated, several times, that he would happily perform acts of violence upon members of the Elite, specifically towards the candidate who is applying for mateship of the subject.

The subject has no respect, is a compulsive liar and is potentially dangerous. He has refused to cooperate in answering basic questions and has done nothing to provide further information to help with his application for mateship.  

The subject should feel privileged that an Elite has chosen him to join their ranks but is instead surly, boorish, preposterous and ornery. 

I feel that the subject would not fit into the Elite social standing and would cause nothing but trouble, shame and possibly physical harm to, not only the Elite candidate, but also any other person he comes into contact with.  I do not believe that the subject would conform to the set rules or behave in a way that is acceptable to the Elite way of life. I would personally recommend the subject’s Elite candidate to not appeal the decision, should it come back rejected, which I will be supporting.

Not only do I strongly suggest that the subject be instantly labelled a level 5 but I would also suggest that he instantly be turned over to the authorities for instant incarceration due to his many threats towards his Elite candidate and because he shows classic signs of a J3 citizen.  

Bernard Franklin Jefferies

Senior Assessor for BMR.

Chapter Text

~~~~~~~~~~

“You’ve read the interview results. You know it as well as I do. I’m sorry Mr Holmes, but you have failed in your attempt to secure me as a mate.”  John couldn’t have felt more smug if he tried as he pushed the interview results back towards Sherlock.  

John looked up at Sherlock, a determined look of finality on his face.  Sherlock looked back down at him, bored and unimpressed.

“I will admit, John, your plan was well thought out. Your answers were amusing to a point and the assessor, being a blithering idiot, actually believed that you were as amoral, violent and unintelligent as you portrayed yourself; enough to actually flunk the test. If it had been anyone else applying for mateship…”

“Ownership,” John corrected but was flat out ignored as Sherlock continued talking.

“...then it may well have worked, as Bernard Jefferies was in a right state of concern when I spoke to him but fortunately for you, I am not just your average, everyday Elite candidate.”

“No, I’d believe that, you’re definitely something special but still, I think my chances of getting out of here in the next week are looking pretty good.”

“Would you like a moment to rethink your conclusion?” Sherlock asked, pulling the envelope that the all mysterious Mycroft had given him, out of his pocket.

“Nah, I’m fairly certain that in five days, I’ll be packing my bags again.”  John placed his now empty mug on the side table next to his chair and settled back, slouching in a way that was comfortable now but would make him regret his decision later. 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Sherlock said, dropping the envelope on John’s lap and then going to sit in the armchair opposite him.  

John looked down at the letter in his lap. Sherlock's name and address were typed, in a standard sized font in the centre. In the top left hand corner was the logo for the Board of Mateship Registration.  

Frowning, he picked up the envelope and pulled out the letter, unfolded it and started reading.  

Dear Mr Holmes,  

It is with great pleasure that we inform you that your application for the Mateship of John Hamish Watson was successful. As of the 2nd February 2010, Mr Watson will be officially registered as a Tier 1 Mate of William Sherlock Scott Holmes. 

You have 7 days to have your mate marked with your personal insignia and return the attached form to the Board of Mateship Registration in order to receive your official certificate of Mateship. 

Congratulations on your success.

E. H. Willcombe.

Senior Director BMS

John re-read the letter three times, hoping that the time before he had read it wrong. This had to be some sort of sick joke.  

“This is impossible,” he finally said. “It takes a week, minimum, for the board to go over all of the evidence and make a decision.”

John didn’t have to look up from the letter in his hand, which he was re-reading for a fourth time, to know Sherlock was smirking. He could feel it from across the short distance between them. 

“The man you just met is more than likely the most dangerous man you will ever meet. He is the British government and if his brother wants to take on a certain candidate for matership then his brother gets that mate and at the highest ranking tier. No amount of petty, childlike behaviour will change that. The tattooist will be by later on today”

Finally, John looked up from the letter. “Well, sorry, I decline.” 

“You can’t.”

“Well, then I choose not to participate.”

“Then I choose to make your life harder than it needs to be.”

“You seem to think that I care.”

“You seem to think that your actions are some form of heroism. Why not just accept your new life and accept everything it has to offer. Embrace the privileges it has to offer.”

“Because I liked my old life. Very much. I liked the privilege of free will and not having to justify my every move to someone. I liked spending time with the company I enjoyed, not forced to spend time with people I loathe. I liked going to the darker parts of London and actually being useful, actually making a difference, to something that was important, not just being here to amuse the likes of you. So no, I will not accept my new life nor the privileges it has to offer because that life is no life at all and those privileges mean nothing when there is a price to go with them.”

“There is  a price for everything.”

“Yes, but normally, one gets to choose whether they pay that price or not. I have had my choice stripped away. For that, I will never accept you nor will I ever forgive you. You can have your brother drag me back here time and time again, but don’t think I am going to sit around and willingly be your plaything. If that is what you think then you have another thing coming, Mr Holmes.”

“It’s Sherlock.”

“Informal names are for friends and casual acquaintances. We are neither. You are my master - you have a piece of paper to prove it,” at this, John held up the letter that was now clutched in his closed fist. “ Mr Holmes it will be until you decide you have had enough of me. And as for your tattoo, don’t be surprised if you come home one day and I have removed it myself.”

With that, John turned around and walked out of the room. He could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him the whole way but he didn’t care. Not one little bit. The man could try to make John uncomfortable as much as he liked. John was not going to budge or bow down to his will. He was not going to become a walkover and he wasn’t going to take this quietly or obediently. If Sherlock wanted him as a mate then he was going to have to work for it - and what a pointless endeavour that would be.  

John made his way up the stairs and to his room. When he opened the door, he stopped suddenly as he looked around. John let out a loud curse when he found that it had been stripped bare. Nothing in the shelves or cupboards, no linens, even the curtains were gone. The bastard had gone and moved John into the downstairs bedroom while he had been out.  Well screw that - John wasn’t playing by Sherlock’s rules. He was playing by his own. John laid on the bare mattress and closed his eyes. Damned if they thought he was going to share Sherlock's room. Eventually he fell asleep. 

~o~

For someone who claimed to be intelligent, Sherlock Holmes was a fucking idiot. 

Anyone with half a brain would know that someone with PTSD would lash out at being woken up by having a stranger angling their head to get a better look at their neck. Knowing that John was not going into this without a fight should have meant that whatever arsehole had John’s chin in his hand, should have been prepared to have his wrist snapped. 

But clearly, Sherlock Holmes hadn’t factored that into his plans to have John branded like mere cattle and after the shouting had been replaced with pained moaning after a very audible snap, Sherlock had glared at John and then followed the almost sobbing tattooist back down the stairs.

John rubbed at his chin, where the stranger's hands had been, and cursed himself for not being more vigilant, more aware of what was going on around him.  Being asleep wasn’t an excuse. 

By the time he made his way down stairs, the tattooist had left the building and Sherlock was laid up on the couch, eyes closed and fingers templed under his chin. 

Good, he was in his mind palac e, or whatever the fuck he called his sulking. John would be happy of the silence it offered. 

He set about making himself a cup of tea and then sat down in what had apparently become his chair and continued reading the book he had started two days ago. 

After about ten minutes, he started to feel uncomfortable. He moved around until he found a spot that felt less tight. Another five minutes and the headache started. No fucking surprise there, what with all the stress he had been under. He closed the book and slid it back down the side of the chair and then picked up his cup of tea. It was half empty and cold, but he couldn’t be bothered getting up to make a fresh one. In fact, he felt extremely tired and very fuzzy headed. 

It took a minute or two of him trying to keep his eyes open before he realised that he had been drugged.

“You fucking bastard,” he managed to get out, sluggishly, before he slipped under. The sight of Sherlock standing up and taking the cup from his lax hands, the last thing he saw.

“You did this to yourself, John,” was the last thing he heard. 

~o~

There was pain. Not a terrible pain, like when he had been shot, but like the time he had gotten roaringly drunk and passed out in the bathtub, using the spout as a pillow. It was in the same spot as well, the left side of his neck.

He brought his hand up to rub at it and instead of skin, he found cloth. Rough gauze, held on with tape. 

The reality of what he was feeling hit him and his eyes snapped open. He was greeted by the site of unfamiliar pillows and blankets. Sitting up, he realised he was in a room he had never stepped foot in before, despite the dim light of the early evening. He didn’t need to question where he was. It reeked of the man’s overpriced cologne. He was in Sherlock Holmes’s bedroom. 

Aggressively kicking the blankets off, John swung his legs to the side of the mattress  and stood up. He regretted it instantly. He groaned as his head swum and he reached out a hand, leaning forward to brace himself on the bedside cupboard. 

“I am going to fucking kill him,” John murmured to himself, loathing and seething lacing every syllable. 

“Always so dramatic, John. Don’t you get tired of it?”

John inhaled slowly and then exhaled, before turning his head and glaring across the room. 

There, in an armchair, lodged in the corner of the room, was Sherlock Holmes. The man on the top of his ‘ To Murder ’ list. Since John had been tortured over in Afghanistan, that was quite an accomplishment for the arrogant twat that was casually scrolling through his phone as if the conversation between the two was over. 

Far from it.

“You fucking drugged me,” John growled.

“Well, you broke the wrist of the first man I had hired to tattoo you,” came the unenthused reply. The man didn’t even have the decency to look up at John as he spoke.

“And didn’t that tell you something?”
Finally, Sherlock stopped his scrolling and looked up at John. “Yes. That you are a very difficult man.”

At this statement, he slid the phone in his jacket pocket and then stood up and walked towards John. 

“As you’re a doctor, you probably know all this but I’ll tell you anyway,” at this, he reached out for John’s neck, his fingers poised to gently stroke the fabric on his neck. John jerked away before he could make contact.

“Leave the bandage on, clean with warm, not hot water and dry gently and don’t pick at the scabs. It should heal within two to three weeks.”

“Fuck you,” John spat.

“Not on my list of things for us to do, which I am sure you appreciate. There is ointment to put on it in the top drawer. Please don’t make me have to take you to the hospital to get an infection cleared up.”

With that, he strode out of the room as if John wasn’t brimming with hate for him. 

~o~

The rest of the day was, not surprisingly, strained. John refused to take the dressing off of the mark, refused to look at it. Refused to acknowledge it was there. 

He also refused to acknowledge the other man in the flat. Several times, Sherlock tried to engage him - ask for something or to get his opinion on something he was reading. He even went as far as chastising John for behaving like a small child - and each time John ignored him. 

John thought of leaving. He planned how it could be done. He sat and he plotted. He knew he couldn’t just walk out. Sherlock had warned him that there were eyes on the place, eyes that would follow his every move until he was dragged back, kicking and screaming. 

That night, John showered and then made his way back up to his room.

“There are no blankets,” Sherlock called to him as he made his way up. “You will freeze to death.” 

John ignored him. He had slept in worse conditions and survived to tell the tale. 

John stepped into his room and looked around again. There was almost nothing he could use as a blanket - even the windows had been stripped of their curtains. But the rug was still on the floor. It would be uncomfortable, but it would provide warmth. Dragging the threadbear mat from the floor, onto the bare mattress, John made himself as comfortable as possible between the two and fell into a fitful sleep. 

~o~

The following day was only slightly better because when John woke, Sherlock was gone. Where to, he honestly couldn’t have cared less. With any luck, he’d get hit by a speeding bus on the way. 

He was just contemplating whether he trusted the food in the cupboard, (being drugged in your own lodgings will, undoubtedly, make a person suspicious of the contents of their own cupboards), or go hungry, when there was a tap and a ‘ Woo hoo ’ at the door. 

John turned, just in time to see Mrs Hudson carrying a tray of scones and tea into the kitchen.

“I know what Sherlock is like with keeping the fridge stocked with anything edible,” she said, placing the tray down on the table. “And when I heard you moving about, I thought you’d appreciate something fresh and not…” she side-eyed the fridge with mild disgust and then turned her attention back to the tray she had just placed down. “…exposed to human organs.”

John was about to tell her that elbows weren’t organs and then decided against it. It’s not like it mattered and to be fair, there was possibly a human organ in the fridge the last time she looked. 

“Why do you do this for him?” John asked instead. “Why do you look after him?”

Mrs Hudson waved her hand, as if brushing his comment away, and set about pouring them both a cup of tea from the pot on the tray.

“Oh, he seems all aloof and superior, but the man is a teddy bear. You just need to get to know him.”

“I’d rather not, thanks all the same.” John replied, taking the offered cup from her. 

“But seriously, you were owned once. How can you possibly stand by and help someone else who would see ownership as a perfectly normal thing.”

“Sit down, young man,” Mrs Hudson instructed as she too pulled out a chair. “Eat something and I will tell you something.”

John did as he was told and Mrs Hudson started speaking as he broke open a fresh scone. 

“It is true, I was the mate of someone. Frank was a vicious man. A dangerous one and if it wasn’t for Sherlock, I’d still be his mate - or worse.”

John started eating, listening raptly as the woman across from him spoke. 

“I was taken as a mate and taken to Florida. For years, I was disconnected from anyone back here in England and then a friend of mine, Violet Garnier, sent her son to look for me. When he found me, I had no idea who he was as I hadn’t realised my friend had gotten married, let alone had children. 

“In the end, it didn’t matter. He managed to get my Elite, a level 1 citizen, sentenced to death for multiple crimes. It was unheard of, still is. The fact that it was a level 1 Citizen that managed it was most likely the winning factor, but I didn’t care. It released me from the horrors I was living.

“I wasn’t left to anyone in Frank’s will - I suppose he assumed I would pass before him - so I was free. I had nothing, but I was free. When we returned to England, my friend's son made sure that everything from Frank's estate, transferred over to me. I’m not sure how he managed it, but I wasn’t going to complain or question it.

“With that money, I bought a property in a nice part of London and when my friend's son needed a place to stay, I offered the top flat, free of charge. He agreed on the provision he would pay monthly rent. I agreed on the condition that I give him a subsidised rate.”

John chewed the food in his mouth and then swallowed. 

“Assuming I followed that story correctly, your friend - Violet - married a Holmes and the friend's son is Sherlock.”

Mrs Hudson smiled to acknowledge the fact and took a sip of her own tea.

“But what I don’t get,” John followed on, “Is why he was so willing to free you, but then take on someone else as a slave.”

Mrs Hudson frowned. “Oh, slave is such a harsh word. It’s not like he is working you to death.”

This time it was John’s turn to frown. “Slavery takes on many forms, Mrs Hudson, not just manual labour. And what would you say, if not slave, when someone is forced into a life they don’t want with someone they don’t want. Maybe captive…”

“Oh, hush, Doctor Watson. You are truly making this much worse than it is.”

An indignant splutter pushed its way through John's lips. He was about to argue, but the older woman got in first.

“Now, I can’t claim to know why Sherlock decided to take on a mate, but I am going to trust it was for a good reason, and you should be thankful that it is him that has taken you on and not some sadistic, vile reptile that would truly make your life miserable.”

“My god, you are all brainwashed, completely delusional!” John had to laugh at the absurdity of it all. It was that or go insane.

At this, Mrs Hudson stood up, clearly unimpressed with John’s behaviour. “If you wouldn’t mind bringing the tray back down when you have finished,” and then she turned and left John to his anger.

“Fucking hell” John roared and picked up the plate of scones and threw them across the room. The sound of shattering china was somewhat cathartic, but not enough. He still had rage welling up inside of him. 

He needed to get out of here, to get away from these people - Sherlock, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson -  who thought all of this was perfectly okay. But he couldn’t just leave. 

What he needed was a distraction. Something to take the focus off of him, just for ten or fifteen minutes.

As it turned out, John didn’t need to wait long, or devise something himself. 

Sherlock was kind enough to offer that and without any input from John.

~o~

The area was surrounded by fire engines, police cars and curious onlookers. 

John wasn’t sure what Sherlock had done to fill the apartment with noxious fumes, but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

With all the commotion, and Sherlock oscillating between consoling Mrs Hudson and trying not to yell at Sergeant Donovan, John found his chance and slipped into the crowd of onlookers. 

“Want a better jacket?” he asked someone who was clearly not that well off. He would have opted to trade with a homeless person, but he couldn’t discount that they were one of Sherlock’s friendly network. 

The man looked at Johns coat and then, suspiciously, asked “You fucking mad?”

John shrugged out of his jacket and held it out. “Last offer,” he said. “Just a swap, all I ask is that you don’t tell anyone where you got it from.”

The man seemed to consider John’s senility and sincerity and John was thinking it was taking too long. He only had so much time to waste, and this man was using all of it up. Looking over his shoulder and through the gap in the crowd of bystanders, he could make out Sherlock, now yelling at a fireman and clearly unaware of John’s movements. When he turned back, the man was still contemplating his offer. 

Just as John was about to pull the jacket back, the man nodded and started unzipping his jacket. 

“Alright,” he said and within seconds the exchange was made.

Walking as he put the jacket on, John tightened the scarf that he had wrapped around his neck on the way out of the flat and swiped a knitted cap from a bag as he carefully moved through the crowd. 

Pulling the cap down low, and keeping his head down, John waited until the crowd started thinning out towards the back and then slipped into an alleyway. 

He was halfway down the lane when he stopped and looked behind him. There was no one following. Picking up his pace, he followed the alley out through to a street, crossed the road and headed down another alley. 

This continued for some time, the whole time, he kept his head down and didn’t say a word to anyone. Every now and then he stopped to see if he was being followed, but if he was, it was by someone skilled in the art of staying concealed. 

Eventually, after several hours of walking and dodging CCTV, he made his way to Barking Park, just before the gates were about to shut. 

He casually walked his way through the grounds and found some cover to hide himself away. Several times, he cursed himself for not bringing food and a warmer jumper, but then he reminded himself that he hadn’t exactly had time to plan this particular escape. 

Listening to his stomach grumble, he reminded himself of how long he could go without food before it actually affected him and calculated that he would have enough time to get to the discarded part of the city before he starved to death. He was going an arse-about-face way of getting there, but trying to stay concealed usually meant not travelling the usual path. That, and his usual haunts would be the first place that Sherlock would look for him. 

Once night had properly fallen, he was sure that it was safe to walk about and all feeling had been lost in his toes, due to the cold, John decided that staying out in the open, with nothing even close to resembling warm enough, was a death sentence. He would need to find some sort of shelter to hole up in during the night. 

The search didn’t take long until he came upon a small structure, tucked away to the side. It didn’t look like much, and John assumed it wasn’t there for the general public. A caretaker's shed, more than likely. With any luck, it wasn’t alarmed.

As quiet as possible, John tried the door on the building. Unluckily for him, it was locked. Luckily for him though, the window wasn’t and after a bit of squeezing through a gap that was clearly not designed for a fully-grown man to fit through, he landed ungracefully on the floor with a soft thud.

John groaned as a dull pain flared through his shoulder. Of course he bloody-well landed on his bad one. That was just his luck lately. 

He sat up and gingerly rubbed his shoulder and looked around. The half-covered moon didn’t provide much light through the small window, but from what he could make out, he had been right. He was in a neat, well-stocked gardening shed. 

John repositioned himself and got comfortable, leaning against the door. He let his head fall back against the wood behind him and let his eyes close. God, he was tired. He was so, so tired. He hadn’t had a decent night sleep since the night the police took him in. Since before bloody Sherlock Holmes. Over the next couple of days he would have to zig-zag his way to the discarded area of town. He’d be safe there, but John had no doubt that Sherlock would have eyes there for the first few days. He just needed to keep moving and stay unseen until then, as John was well aware of the homeless support Sherlock had at his beck and call. He had seen them trailing him to and from work. He couldn’t rely on Sarah or Mike or anyone else to help him. Sherlock would have those places staked as well. That, and John didn’t want to drag them into this. This wasn’t their problem. 

John slowly opened his eyes as his stomach gave a loud growl. Food was something else he would need to find too. Nothing much, just something to keep him going for a couple of days. But that would have to wait until tomorrow. For now, John wanted to sleep. He needed it. Curling up in a tight ball against the door, John pulled his jacket around him tighter and let himself drift off to sleep. 

~o~

The hunger woke him first, growling and rolling uncomfortably through his stomach. The need to piss was what made him get moving. Carefully, ignoring all the aches and pains that had settled in his joint throughout the night, John stood up and stretched. There were a couple of popping noises that he ignored and then he picked up the stolen beanie and jammed it back on his head. 

Judging by the light in the shed, it was still early - too early for the general public to be milling about so he should be able to leave the shed unseen. John looked at the lock and was glad to see he was able to open the door from the inside, without the need of a key. Squeezing through a window in the dead of night was one thing. Doing it during daylight hours was a completely different matter. 

Slowly, john turned the lock and carefully unlocked the door. Instantly, he wished he hadn’t.

On the other side of the door was Lestrade, flanked by two uniformed police officers.

Several words were running through John’s head. Very colourful words all directed at himself (and maybe a few that were directed at Greg as well) but he didn’t think it was fair to actually direct them at the exhausted looking man in front of him.

Greg opened his mouth to speak, but it wasn’t his voice that spoke.

“Have a nice outing?”

At the sound of Sherlock’s voice, as he stepped into John's line of vision, John decided not to hold the words back anymore.

“Jesus fucking Christ! What the fuck did I do in a past life to deserve this fucking shit? Really? Because it must have been fucking horrible, like really fucking vile.”

The two uniformed police looked slightly alarmed and didn’t seem to know what to do with John and his tirade. John ignored them.

“And how the fuck did you even find me? I know you didn’t follow…Oh, my god, have you placed a tracker on my clothes? You have, haven’t you, you fucking sick piece of shit,” and with that, John started to pat down his clothing; his shirt collar and cuffs, his jeans, he was even about to take his shoes of and start studying them but Sherlock cut him off.

“Please, tracking devices are my brother's style. No, I didn’t have to find you, John, because I didn’t lose you. I saw you in the crowd swapping jackets with that idiot from Newham, and then followed you, for at least half an hour anyway. After that, I asked my homeless network to give me updates on when they saw you. It really wasn’t hard. I managed to keep tabs of you from the nice, warm comfort of the flat. Even managed a nice long sleep in a comfortable bed and read through the updates of your whereabouts over a hot cup of tea and freshly baked muffin this morning. I then had a nice long, hot shower before texting Lestrade and telling him where to meet me.”

John was seething. He didn’t want to give Sherlock the satisfaction of getting under his skin but he was tired, hungry and fed up. 

“Do be a good chap and come quietly,” Sherlock instructed pleasantly and then turned to walk away. 

That was it. That was the cue for John’s patience to finally give up. 

John lunged. He pushed past Lestrade and one of the cops and jumped onto Sherlock's back, wrapping his arm around the other man's neck, squeezing tight. 

John found immense satisfaction in hearing the choked wheezing coming from the man as Sherlock tried to pry his hand between his own neck and John’s arm. This only made John squeeze tighter. 

“I fucking hate you, Sherlock Holmes,” John spat venomously into Sherlock’s ear. “With every fibre of my body, I fucking hate you.”

John was yanked away just as Sherlock’s knees buckled and he sank to the ground, gasping and heaving as the two uniform officers struggled to get John into a pair of handcuffs. 

“Jesus, John,” Lestrade groaned, once he had stopped struggling. “You are going to get yourself discarded if you keep carrying on this way.”

John turned his glare, full of hate and violence onto Lestrade and was pleased to see the DI actually take a step back with what looked like trepidation on his face. 

“Where the fuck do you think I was going?” John snapped. “I am well aware that my life is over now, that I don’t have rights. I was willing to live the way I saw fit though, not under this bastard's thumb.” At the end of his rant, John ignored the sickened face of Lestrade and went to kick out at Sherlock again, who was still on all fours, spitting out bile onto the floor, and trying to get his breath back. It was only the two cops that still had a hold of him that stopped John from digging his boot into the soft flesh of Sherlock’s stomach, over and over again. 

“Take him in, boys” Lestrade instructed resignedly but as the officers started to steer John away, Sherlock spoke up.

“No, he is coming home with me.”

“Sherlock…” Lestrade started to caution as Sherlock unsteadily got to his feet. Sherlock cut him off.

“Geoff, I haven’t put in as much research as I have and spent this much time looking for a mate, plus gone to the trouble of going through that ridiculous rigmarole to register him, only for him to be arrested and returned to the streets the following day. 

“John is coming home with me. I don’t care what anyone else's opinion is.” He then turned to John, still in grasp of officer 1 and officer 2. 

“Either a taxi home with me, or a ride in the police car. Since you are acting like a child, they may even turn the lights on for you.”

It was not John’s usual defence, in fact he hated it, but at Sherlocks audacity to act annoyed at John’s antics, he felt anger consuming him again and since he couldn’t lash out with his fists, he spat in Sherlock's face.

“Police car it is, then,” Sherlock said angrily and then turned and walked away, angrily wiping John’s saliva off his face. 

They watched Sherlock leave in silence, and once he was out of sight, Lestrade turned to John. 

“Come on, then” he said, sounding like he’d rather be doing anything else. “We’d better get you back to Baker Street.”

John was about to refuse but Greg held up his hand to stop him before he could start.

“Please, John. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

John wanted to argue that it was easy for him, he was a free man, but Lestrade had turned around and had started walking. The cop on his left nudged him to get moving and, seeing as he was cuffed and being held up by two police officers, John had no choice but to go along.

John wasn’t placed in the police car. Instead, he was assisted into the back of Greg's car. As the car pulled away from the curb and into the quiet morning traffic, Greg spoke.

“John, I know this seems like a shit situation…”

“Seems like?”

“Please, just let me talk.”

John huffed and tried to get comfortable, a feat not easy when one's hands were cuffed together. But he let Greg talk.

“I know this seems like a shit situation, and I don’t for one second envy you but you need to give this a chance. I know you have got an image of what the Elite are like, and I’ll be honest, most of them are exactly like you think, but there are also some decent ones as well.”

John looked out the window, wanting to ignore the speech, but Greg's words still broke through.

“I have seen mates that have been beaten within an inch of their lives, raped, humiliated and treated like the way you would treat shit on the bottom of your shoe. I have seen them worked ruthlessly and denied social and medical privileges. 

“The Holmes’s aren’t like that. Treat Sherlock like you would a normal, level three person and I can guarantee that you will be living your life like you were before you met him. Well, almost - the man has some quirks that I am one hundred percent certain you wouldn't have experienced before, but that’s not the point.”

John stopped looking at the scenery driving by and turned to stare at the back of Greg’s head. 

“Why are you all so fine with this?” John asked, feeling horribly weary now that the anger was ebbing away. “You, Mrs Hudson…I don’t understand it. How can you sit back and think that this model, this way of life is fine just because there are some okay Elites. It’s bullshit.”

Greg stayed silent and John assumed that the conversation was over. As they pulled up in front of Baker Street, Greg cut the engine but made no move to get out of the car. It was here that he continued the conversation.

“Do you know what happens if I don’t go along with this?”

John knew the answer, but he didn’t voice it.

“I’ll be seen as making waves, so be labelled as a J3 citizen or mated to an Elite. I then no longer have a position in the police force because I can guarantee you that, if I was placed in a mateship, it wouldn’t be in a tier 1 and I wouldn’t be with someone who would let me continue working. It would be with someone who would make sure I stayed compliant.”

Silence fell within the car once more. John knew where Greg was coming from. It was shit. His hands were tied and he was doing all he could in order to keep being free.  

“Look, I’m risking a lot telling you what I am going to, but clearly, you need to hear it. The Holmes family are one of the most influential Elite families in Britain, but for the past three generations, none of them have taken on a mateship. Even before that, they were known to treat their mates well. There was probably the odd relative who didn’t follow the trend, but they would have been ignored. No one knows why they don’t take on mates, but despite bucking the trend there, they are still one of the most prominent families out there. You do not cross a Holmes. Not if you don’t want any titles you have stripped or any companies you owned sunk.

“Sherlock has taken you on as a mate, that is true. He has bucked family tradition and, as a result, has fallen out of favour with his parents, but believe me when I tell you that he has a perfectly valid reason for doing so.”

John went to open his mouth, to tell Greg that he didn’t care what his reasons were, but Greg held up a hand to stop him.

“I can’t tell you anymore than I have. If it is found out that I knew just this much, I’d be in trouble, but promise me that you will just give it a go. Three weeks and two days and if by then, you haven’t changed your mind, I will personally help you disappear.”

There was silence again while John thought it over. 

“Three weeks and two days” John confirmed. Greg nodded. “That’s a pretty specific time frame.”

Greg looked at John via the rearview mirror with a smirk on his face. “That’s how long it took me to warm up to the mad wanker up there” he said, pointing to the window, where the mad wanker in question was looking down at them from. 

John couldn’t help the small but weary smile that nudged at  the corners of his mouth. He liked Greg, despite being handcuffed in the back of his car. 

“Fine,” he said after a long, deep breath. “Three weeks and two days.”

Greg beamed. “And you have to genuinely try, John. Try to understand him. I promise you, you won’t regret it.”

John sighed. What harm could it do? It wouldn’t change anything. He’d still hate the man, but the constant fighting back was making John tired. 

He rested his head against the glass of the door and looked upwards. There was no longer a figure standing in the window. 

Making a decision, John sat back. “I promise,” John said, feeling some tension ease as he uttered those two words. “I will make a genuine effort.”

~o~

Greg didn’t follow John into the flat. He stopped on the first landing and bid his farewell to John there, reminding him to call if he needed anything. 

John agreed and then turned and trudged into the living room. 

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, legs pulled up and eyes closed. He didn’t acknowledge John at all. 

John took his jacket off and hung it up on the hook and then, taking one last glance at Sherlock, made his way into the kitchen. He opened the freezer and dug through containers of god knows what, before he found a gel pack. Wrapping it in a tea towel, he went back into the living room and stopped in front of Sherlock. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up at him.

“Wrap this around your neck. It will help reduce bruising and relieve any discomfort” he said, holding out the wrapped ice pack. 

Sherlock studied John’s face for a few moments before slowly reaching out and wordlessly taking the ice pack. 

John turned and made his way into the kitchen, where he made himself a cheese sandwich and a cup of tea. Downing those, he stood up and made his way into the bathroom, where he promptly ran the hot water and set to stripping off. 

The hot water, sluicing down his aching body was a welcome relief and a loud sigh  left his mouth as he let his head hang down, the water pounding on the back of his neck. The anger and frustration and desperation seemed to be melting away from his body as he stood under the hot spray. He knew it wouldn’t last, that within a day or maybe less, he would be angry once more, but for now, he was feeling better than he had in ages, locked away in this small room - away from everyone and everything. 

Unfortunately, the hot water had other ideas and after ten minutes or so, it started going cold. 

John turned off the tap and stood in the bathtub, waiting for nothing in particular as the heat from his shower slowly ebbed away. Soon, he started shivering and decided that it was time to get out and get dressed. 

As he ran the towel over his skin, he was reminded as the cloth passed across his neck, that he had been marked. Stepping up to the mirror, John used his hand to wipe the steam clear from the mirror. 

He stared at the massive white bandage covering his neck. Since it had been placed there, he had tried not to think about it. Tried to pretend that he hadn’t been marked against his will. 

Gently, John probed the dressing on his neck and peeled the corner back. He stopped and questioned whether he really wanted to see it or not. Closing his eyes, he slowly continued peeling the dressing back and didn’t stop until it was all the way off. For a few moments he stood there, eyes closed, used dressing in his hand and then slowly, he opened his eyes. 

The tattoo was still fresh, so still red and puffy. John studied the markings and noted that there didn’t appear to be any infection setting in. This was good. It was then that he looked at it as a whole, that he saw the entire picture, so to speak. 

On the left side of his neck, between his ear and his shoulder was a black circle, maybe 2 inches in diameter. Inside the circle was a black question mark. 

As far as these things went, it was simple. It didn’t have anything pretentious, such as the Holmes name or family crest on it, it didn’t have anything demeaning, such as a dog on a leash or anything ridiculous, like a ‘likeness’ of his owner's face. It was simple; basic; unobtrusive. 

And John hated it. The sight of it reminded him of where he was and why he was there. Suddenly angry again, John turned and stormed into the bedroom. He yanked open the drawer in the bedside cupboard and pulled out the ointment that he had been given to put on it. As much as he hated it, he didn’t want it getting infected. 

Once the wound was covered and he was dressed, John, still pissed off, went out to the kitchen and made himself another cup of tea. Not wanting to be in the same room as Sherlock, he sat at the kitchen table to drink it. 

Unfortunately, his solitude was not to last. He had barely taken his first sip of tea when Sherlock entered and sat in the chair across from him. John didn’t look at him or acknowledge him in any way. 

With an impatient sigh, Sherlock placed something on the table and pushed it into John's view before settling back in his chair. 

John looked at the item. He frowned.

“What’s this?” he asked, not touching the phone in front of him. 

“I have already deduced that you are not exactly tech savvy, but I thought even you would know a phone when you saw one.”

John frowned even more, ignoring the slight hoarseness of Sherlock's voice in favour of wondering what was going on. “I know it’s a phone, but what is it for?”

“You.”

John looked up from the phone, to Sherlock, his eyebrows now moving up in shock. “For me?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock was being very calm about all of this. It bothered John. He couldn’t see what he was angling for. 

“Why?” he asked slowly, not taking his eyes off Sherlock's face, looking for any sign of deception. 

Sherlock just rolled his eyes, as if John were being purposely oblivious, just to annoy him.

“Because, John, you insist on living your life the way it was before you met me and if that is going to be the case, I am going to need to get in contact with you. Hence, the phone.”

John looked back down at the phone. “You’ve put a tracker in it” he accused, looking back up at Sherlock. 

“I told you John, that’s not my style. There is no tracker, no recording devices, nothing on it that didn’t come with the standard model that is available to the entire public. Completely untampered with except for a couple of phone numbers I placed in the contacts.”

John eyed the phone suspiciously, still not touching it. “What’s the catch?”           

An irritated sigh came from across the table.  John looked up to see Sherlock staring at him, the aggravation causing the skin to wrinkle between his eyes as he frowned at the man across from him. “Is this really going to happen with every conversation we have, John?” he asked, exasperated. “Are you seriously going to second guess my every word, my every action, because if the answer is yes, then your time here is going to be unnecessarily unbearable.”   

John opened his mouth to tell Sherlock that being here was already a nonnecessity and also not at all pleasant, but Sherlock brushed his efforts away with a wave of his hands and continued to speak.
“I have given you the phone so that when I need you, I can contact you. I know you don’t want to be around me twenty-four seven and trust me when I tell you that I would also find that an inconvenience, but if I do need you, I expect you to stop whatever you are doing and come. Convenient or not. That, John, is the catch. Nothing sinister or humiliating or abusive. Just come when you are summoned.”

John looked from Sherlock to the phone. His promise to Greg echoed in his head. Slowly, he reached out and placed his hand over the phone and slid it close to him. It was bigger than his last phone, but slimmer - smoother. 

“What happened to my old phone?” John asked, picking the device up and looking it over. 

An unimpressed huff came from the other side of the table.   “John, my parents are in their sixties and seventies and even they have more up-to-date technology than you.” John pushed down the anger at having something else of his taken away and replaced with something he didn’t choose. Arguing about it wouldn’t get back his old phone. Instead, he let Sherlock talk. “ I will need you to use that phone and to do so effectively and efficiently. Not a task that was compatible with your old phone.”

And apparently that was the end of the discussion. Sherlock stood up from where he had seated himself and walked into the living area, leaving John turning the phone over in his hands and ignoring the voice in his head that told him that he got lucky - many mates were given no freedom, despite what tier they were put in - and telling himself that it was three more weeks and two days left of this arrangement. That was all. 

John was lost in his thoughts that it took him a while to realise that soft, soothing music was coming in from the living room. Leaning forward, he looked to see that Sherlock was standing at the window, his back to John and playing the violin. 

Both of them spent the rest of the morning that way, lost in their thoughts, soothed by the music and not saying another word to each other. 

Chapter Text

~~~~~~~~~~

The first time the phone vibrated, John was looking at Mrs Fernelli’s foot. She was convinced she had gout and half way through telling her that she didn’t, the device vibrated in his pocket, shocking him into a short silence.

John had had the phone for three days, and in that time it had not once gone off. It was easy to forget it existed, if he was being honest. But there it was, three days after being slid across the kitchen table at Baker Street, into John’s view, now vibrating in his pocket. 

After a couple of seconds to remind himself of what it was, John shook off the feeling of surprise and then continued to tell Mrs Fernelli that her foot was fine, apart from the bunion that was starting to form on her big toe. 

By the time he had a treatment plan for Mrs Fernelli sorted, and the woman on her way out of his consulting room, John had forgotten all about the message he had received on his phone. 

It was two patients later that his pocket vibrated once more. Due to the fact that he was telling a very teary sixteen year old that she was indeed pregnant, and listening to her wails of how her father was going to kill her, he ignored it. The phone went off two more times before John calmed the girl down enough and sent her out of his consulting room with pamphlets, phone numbers and an assurance (he hoped he could keep) that her father may yell and carry on, but would not actually kill her.  Again, he had forgotten all about the messages.

Just as John was feeling Mr Golders neck for any swelling, his phone vibrated with multiple incoming texts. 

“You need to check that?” the 73 year old man asked, obviously hearing the vibrations in the quiet room. 

“I’ll see to you first,” John replied, mentally cursing himself for not remembering to answer the first text, let alone all the others that followed, just as another three messages came in.

“Wife problems? Did you forget to take the bins out?” the old man joked and John wished it were that simple. 

“Just an annoying flatmate,” was John’s response as he continued his examination, hoping his overly friendly tone would convey how much John didn’t want to talk about it. 

Lucky for him, at that moment, a distraction came that prevented the conversation from progressing. Not so lucky for him, it was Sherlock that was the distraction.

“One rule, that was all I asked of you,” Sherlock practically growled, barging into the room, completely ignoring John’s shouts of protest. “Answer your phone. That was it. One little rule and you can’t even comply with that.”

“Sherlock,” John growled back, standing up from his chair and positioning himself between his patient and his owner. “I am with a patient.”

“What, for a whole hour and a quarter?” Sherlock spat sarcastically. 

It was just then that John noticed the receptionist in the doorway, wringing her hands nervously. “I do apologise, Doctor Watson,” she practically squeaked out. “I did try to get him to wait, but he…well…”

John sent her an understanding look. “Don’t stress about it, Merody. Could you maybe take Mr Golder to Dr Sawyer and have her finish the check up?”

Merody nodded a bit too enthusiastically and stood by the door while John helped the elderly gentleman out of the room.

“Probably should have answered your phone,” the man said sympathetically, gently patting John’s shoulder and then left with Merody, leaving a pissed off John with a very ropable Sherlock. 

“Sherlock, “John said firmly, shutting the door to his consulting room and turning to face the man on the other side of it. “You can’t just come barging in here.  I was in the middle of…”

“...Yes, yes, diagnosing Lupus,” Sherlock cut in.

“Cytomegalovirus, actually,” John corrected, but Sherlock just continued to speak over him. 

“But I needed you and that overrides anything else you are doing. Have I finally made myself clear?”

John glared at the man before him. He knew Sherlock had the power to take away his job if he made too much of a fuss.

Sherlock let out an impatient sigh. 

“John, you will yield, you will conform to your role.  When will you accept this?”

“Never is not just a crater on mars,” was John's flat reply.  It was true, John would do as little as possible to make his life easier for the next few weeks - just enough to keep his promise to Greg - but he refused to lie down and roll over every time this man demanded something.

A look of total confusion spread over Sherlock’s face and for an instant, John thought the man was having an absence seizure. “I don’t understand that reference,” he said finally.

“It was pretty self explanatory,” John said, not understanding how a man so intelligent could get derailed so easily.  “There is a crater on mars…”

“...Mars??”

John stopped and studied Sherlock for a moment. Surely he was taking the piss.  After convincing himself that the look of confusion was actually genuine, John continued explaining. “Yes, the fourth planet in the solar system…”

Sherlock’s look of confusion quickly faded with a roll of his eyes. “Deleted it,” he stated simply, as if it were a normal thing to delete common facts.

“Deleted?” John asked, his turn now to be confused. 

Sherlock points to his head. “This is my hard drive, and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful ... really useful.  Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?”

“You deleted the solar system?”

“Yes.”

“But, it’s primary school knowledge.”

“And…”

“And, everyone knows it.”

“And yet, how many people use it?”

John opened his mouth to snap out a retort but Sherlock waved him off. “If you had just answered your phone, I wouldn’t have had to come all the way down here and you could still be diagnosing your patients,” Sherlock said impatiently, wandering over to John's desk and picking up a demonstration model of the inner ear. 

When John didn’t respond Sherlock turned around, one eyebrow cocked as if waiting for something. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Look at your bloody phone.”

John pulled his phone out of his pocket and unlocked it. There were 10 text messages waiting to be read, all from Sherlock Holmes.

John opened the first one:

I need your medical opinion. What would cause these? SH

The second message was a photo. There was a bare shoulder, arm and left side of the upper torso. Red lines streaked up the torso and spread out under the armpit and down the arm.

The following messages were just a series of evidence that Sherlock was getting impatient.

Well? SH

John, I understand that you are not quick with technology, but surely even you don’t take this long to type a message. SH

Surely you could hazard a guess as to what the marks are? I was under the impression you were a competent doctor. SH

John, need I remind you of our arrangement? SH

My network informs me that you have not left the building, nor have any emergency vehicles arrived for any reason, so why are you not answering the phone. SH

John, if I need to come to you, there will be consequences. SH

Answer your phone, John. SH

Fine, we shall do it the hard way.SH

John looked from his phone to Sherlock. “Why didn’t you just call the surgery and get put through to me?”

Another impatient sigh left Sherlocks mouth. “I prefer to text, now, can you tell me what would leave those marks or not?”

John scrolled back up to the picture and enlarged it, tilting the phone to get a good look. 

“First guess, with nothing else to go on, would be sepsis.”

Sherlock’s attention moved away from John and settled on something distant and unseeing as he slowly lowered himself into the patient chair, bringing his hands up to steeple under his chin. 

“Yeah, sit down, take the weight off your cloven hooves,” John mumbled, looking back down at the picture on the phone. 

The photo didn’t show much more of the person, so John started noticing the other things in the photo. The person was lying on the ground. Mainly dirt with a smattering of grass. Just to the top corner, above the person’s shoulder, was one of those little numbered tabs that John had seen detectives use to mark out evidence in TV shows and documentaries. This made him look back at the arm in the photo. It was thin, but not malnourished. It looked like it belonged to a fairly young person, female if the lack of hair was anything to go by and it was pale. Very pale. 

“Hang on, am I looking at a crime scene here?” John asked, alarmed, his head snapping up to look at Sherlock who still seemed to be in his mind palace. 

“Are you even allowed to take photos, let alone share them around?” John asked, exasperated, after Sherlock ignored his first question.

At this, Sherlock frowned and, without moving any other part of his body, rolled his eyes in John’s direction. “As if you are one to talk about following rules,” he muttered, and then looked back ahead of him, his two index fingers slightly tapping together, looking at something John couldn’t see.

The next half hour was spent in silence. John sent a quick email to Sarah, explaining what he had observed with Mr Golder, and apologising for the current situation he was in and then continued catching up on paperwork, while Sherlock sat and thought. If John was being honest with himself, it wasn’t actually uncomfortable having Sherlock sit there quietly while John worked. At least his phone wasn’t going off every fifteen minutes. 

Just as John was emailing a list of supplies that needed replenishing to front reception, Sherlock suddenly stood up, startling John with a very excited exclamation of “Oh, that is good!”

He quickly rushed out the door calling out “Thank you Doctor Watson, your input has been very enlightening.” And that was the last that John heard from Sherlock for the next forty-eight hours.

~o~

John quietly made his way up the stairs to the flat, socks damp from the relenting rain and a bag of Vietnamese takeaway in his hand. Despite being cold, wet and hungry, John was in a surprisingly good mood. Well, at least in the best mood he had been in the past week and a half. 

Sarah had promised him the entire weekend off. Couple that with the fact that Sherlock had been blissfully absent the past day and John found himself actually, genuinely smiling as he plated up his food and grabbed a beer from the fridge.

When he stepped into the living room, ready to toe off his shoes, his smile dropped.

There, sitting on the couch,  was Mycroft.

“Ah, Doctor Watson,” the man drawled, looking at John with a tight smile on his face. “I see you are settling in.”

“Sherlock isn’t here,” John replied, determined not to let a Holmes ruin his first good day in a while and toed off his shoes, kicking them next to the door. 

Mycroft just threw him a tight smile. “Clearly.”

Ignoring Mycroft (as well as one can ignore a gaze as penetrating and cold as the one the other man was directing at him), John settled in his chair, placed his beer on the floor next to him and started eating. 

After a few moments of one of the most uncomfortable silences John had ever experienced, Mycroft spoke. 

“I notice you haven’t tried to leave, or injure Sherlock again. Does this mean that you have decided to accept the hand that fate has given you?”

John swiveled his eyes towards Mycroft as he finished chewing the food in his mouth and swallowed. “I’m fairly certain fate had nothing to do with it. And no, I made a promise to a friend and I am keeping it. For now.”

“A friend? How quaint. And what sort of friend would try and persuade you to stay with Sherlock?” Mycroft spoke as if he were entertaining a child's idea of an imaginary friend, mock amusement shining in his eyes and a false smile spread across his lips.

John turned his attention back to his meal. “I would try to explain, but I am fairly sure the notion of something as simple as friendship is far too advanced for your stunted, arrogant mindset.“

John didn’t need to see Mycroft to see that his mocking smile had dropped into something icy. He could practically feel the temperature in the room drop. 

“This, from the man who cannot assimilate into a simple social system that has been in place for centuries,” came Mycroft's cold, emotionless reply as he stood up from the couch. John went to protest that the system was outdated and flawed, but Mycroft beat him to it. “I do not wish to hear your feeble, tired-out arguments Doctor Watson, I have heard them all before. What you can do, though is tell my brother he has 24 hours to get the information to me or I pull the plug on this whole investigation.”

“Tell him yourself,” John called over his shoulder as Mycroft made for the door, umbrella in hand. 

“I would, would that I could find him. I dare say you will see him before I do. If he hasn’t figured out it was the butcher by now, he really is starting to slip.”

With that cryptic message, Mycroft closed the door behind him and left John in peace. 

Later that night, John tossed and turned in his bed. No matter what he tried, he couldn’t shut Mycroft's words out about the investigation being pulled. John had no idea what the investigation was, ánd initially, he had no intentions of passing on any message either from or to a Holmes, but something in John’s mind, something hiding in the shadows that couldn’t quite be seen, was telling him it was important. 

After an hour of not being able to sleep. He picked his phone up from the bedside cupboard and tapped out a message.

Your idiot brother wants info in 24 hours or he is pulling the investigation.

There was no reply. After a minute of waiting, he sent another one.

He also said you were a moron for not knowing it was the butcher.

Within seconds, there was a reply.

Next time you see my brother you may tell him he is the moron. It was the butcher’s son. SH

John smirked at how easy it was to get a rise out of his egotistical owner and put his phone down.  He was asleep within minutes.

~o~

The crowd was loud and the space was sparse, but John managed to squeeze in around the table that Sarah had booked for the evening for her employees to celebrate the end of a long and busy week, without spilling any of the drinks he was carrying. Unfortunately it just happened to be the same night as a hens night and two birthday parties. The Elephant & Wheelbarrow was a popular place. 

“God, I need this,” Sarah groaned appreciatively, taking one of the glasses of beer that had just been put in front of her. 

“Agreed,” John replied, sliding another glass over to Merody and pulling one close to himself. The week had been intense. One doctor was ill and another one quit. Locums were hard to get at his time of year and it seemed that every emergency that could come through their door, did. Thankfully, there had been no more interruptions from his owner barging in. In fact, John had hardly seen Sherlock since he came to the clinic five days ago. It had almost been easy to forget that he was owned. Almost. 

John sat back and lifted his glass to his lips, taking a much needed pull of the strong lager in his glass as he listened to his co workers chat around him. Merody was comfortably chatting with the new nurse that had come to work for the clinic while two of the doctors were arguing about the best way to win at darts. John would bet money that by the end of the next two rounds a game of darts would be started up. One of the other receptionists was talking to a nurse about some celebrity gossip or other. Sarah, like him, sat and listened to them all talk about anything that wasn’t medical related. It was all simple, bland chit chat and John couldn't have been happier of the banality of it if he tried. 

“I’ll admit, I am glad you came tonight,” Sarah said quietly enough not to attract the attention of any of the colleagues. “Surprised, but glad.”

“Surprised?” While it wasn’t guaranteed or even overly common for him to join in after work drinks, it also wasn’t that unusual for him to join either. 

“Well, yeah. I thought your… mate would have had you home and bound outside of work hours.”

John gave a half shrug as he took another drink of his beer. “To be honest, I hardly ever see him and he very rarely asks me to do anything,” he admitted, as much as he hated to do so. He was sure that his time spent at Baker Street was going to be hell, but honestly, nothing had changed. Other than Sherlock barging into his consult room, John had not been imposed on at all. Sure, he slept in Sherlock's room, but the only time he had woken up to find Sherlock in there as well, the Elite had been sleeping on a cot at the end of the bed. In one way, John was relieved. In another way, he was also waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“Jesus, you got lucky,” Sarah said, almost in awe. “Are you sure he’s not just lulling you into a false sense of security?”

Again, John shrugged. “I want to think so, so I don’t get too comfortable, but people keep telling me that he isn’t like other Elites.”

Sarah opened her mouth, about to say something and then closed it again, hiding whatever she was thinking behind her glass as she took another drink. 

John drained his glass and placed it on the table. “Whatever you want to say, Sarah, say it. You’re not going to hurt my feelings.”

Sarah let out a weary sigh, attracting the attention of the doctor sitting next to her who gave her a look to see if everything was alright. She smiled at him to indicate that all was well and he went back to his darts debate. 

“John, the Holmes’ are one of the most influential and brutal Elite families in England, possibly even further. The fact that they have not had a mate in generations and are now deciding to change that tradition seems like bad news. I just don’t want you to let your guard down.”

John gave Sarah a comforting smile and placed his hand over hers, giving a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “I promise. It’s going to be okay, one way or another. I know how to look after myself.”

It was at that moment that John’s phone vibrated in his pocket. And again. And again. 

“Speak of the devil, though,” John muttered as he pulled his phone out of his pocket. 

Need assistance. Come at once if convenient. SH

If inconvenient, come anyway. SH

279 Goodwood Ave, Hornchurch. SH

John considered ignoring the text, just to be annoying but quickly dismissed the idea for multiple reasons. One, being he didn’t want to expose his work colleagues to Sherlock, again, if he decided to come down and fetch John. The second reason was that he did promise Greg that he would try.

John then contemplated the benefits of a second drink before joining Sherlock with whatever he was up to but also dismissed this, knowing he would need to have as much of his wits about him to deal with the arrogant Elite currently summoning him.

With a sigh, he put his phone away and looked over at Sarah. She looked worried. John smiled to reassure her, but it did no good. “Gotta go,” he said and stood up.

“Will you be in on Tuesday?” she asked. John heard the underlying question. ‘Has your luck run out?’

John knew that if his luck had run out, then his time at Baker Street had also run out, so, keeping things positive, even if only for Sarah’s sake, he nodded. “Unless you need me sooner.”

This seemed to alleviate some of her worry and with a quick goodbye to everyone, John left the pub in search for a cab.

~o~

279 Goodwood Avenue turned out to be a small home in a somewhat quiet suburb. While the houses along the street were nothing exceptional, they were clean, tidy and gave an image of a happy, family community with kid's tricycles and collapsible football goals in the front yard. 

The house John was after was simple enough to find, seeing as it was cautioned off with bright yellow tape and surrounded by several white vans and panda cars with their lights offensively lighting up the night sky, reflecting off of the windows and facades in an almost binding display of attention seeking. 

Unsure about what he was actually doing at an active crime scene, John walked up to the crime scene and stopped when he reached the uniformed officer guarding the area from any unwanted thrill seekers or onlookers. 

“Sorry mate, you can't enter,” the officer told him, holding a hand up to caution John to not proceed. “This is an active crime scene. I’ll have to ask you to wait further back.”

“I’m after Sherlock Holmes,” John answered, not sure if that would mean anything to this man, or anyone really. “He sent asked me to meet him here. The name is John Watson.”

At Sherlocks name, the mans face fell. He pulled his walkie-talkie to the his mouth and half turned away from John. “There’s a John Watson here for the frea…for Holmes” he said into the device clipped to his high-vis vest. 

Within seconds, the device crackled back and a voice sounded out, briefly, before being cut off and a very familiar, arrogant voice sounded, as if being yelled across the room from the walkie-talkie, “He is with me. Send him through immediately.”

There was no further communication beyond that and the device fell silent. With a resigned sigh, the officer turned back to John and lifted the crime scene tape. 

“Head to the door, suit up in one of the blue forensic suits and don’t touch anything. He’s out back.”

John gave a tight, but thankful smile and with a nod, he ducked under the tape and headed towards the house, following the instructions issued by the police officer to suit up before entering the swarming crime scene. 

If John thought the front yard had been busy with action, he was not prepared for what was out the back. 

More people milled about, a man was taking photographs, people were searching in bushes and dusting surfaces, John presumed for finger prints. Sally Donovan was walking a man, who was clearly confused, back into the house. She gave him a solemn gaze as they passed each other, but that was as far as their interaction went. He knew, on a surface level how she felt about Sherlock, and he knew that she hadn’t approved of his actions that had seen him arrested nor of the fact that all charges had been dropped, despite his consequences being worse than jail time and a J3 label. 

At the moment, John didn’t care. Sally Donovan wasn’t the person that had summoned him from a warm pub, with good beer to the freezing back yard of a small family home. No, that person was currently yelling at a man with a weasel like face for being less equipped at this job than a Symbion Pandora.

The man, clearly offended at being compared to a useless organism, huffed, turned and stormed away, not noticing John as he stomped passed. 

“Good to see you effect everyone the same way,” John noted as he came to a halt next to his owner. Startled, Sherlock turned his head towards John, only to sneer as he took on the blue, paper coveralls covering his clothes. Sherlock, apparently, was immune to compromising crime scenes and didn’t deem it necessary to swap his ridiculous coat for practical forensic wear. 

“Oh, so you can follow instructions. Nice that you are finally learning,” the man snapped, turning back from John and walking towards a covered mound, that John immediately identified as a human body, laying on the ground only a few meters away from them.

“If I am so useless, I can leave again,” John shot back, standing stubbornly with his arms crossed in front of him. 

“Don’t be droll, John. It’s tiresome,” Sherlock stated in a bored tone as he squatted down next to the body and whipped back the sheet. “I need you to look at this.”

The stubborn, mule-headed part of John wanted to make him dig his heels in and say no. The police force had people who could do this. This wasn’t John’s problem and Sherlock could go stick what he needed John to do up his pert backside. 

But the danger addict in John’s head, the part that recognised that this wasn’t just a simple diagnosis but something much, much more was lighting up in his nervous system like a Christmas tree. 

It was this side, the side that had been itching for something to do, that won out and with that, he let his arms drop to his side and he marched towards the body on the ground, ignoring the smug smirk that pulled the corners of Sherlocks lips upwards. 

The body was illuminated by strategically placed spotlights, so it was easy enough to see and kneeling on the ground and leaning forward made it simple to notice the bluish tinge to the skin. 

“Anderson, the idiot, is set on Hypothermia,” Sherlock grumbled next to him, a childish pout replacing the smirk. 

“Let me guess, you, an untrained person, disagrees?” John’s reply was absent as he took in the body. It was face up on the ground. A woman in her late thirties, early forties. Eyes open, lips parted just a bit. She was dressed in night clothes,: flannelette pyjamas, bare feet. 

“Obviously.”

John picked up her hands and looked at her nails, her heel, her wrists. He gently placed the the arm back down. He looked in her mouth and raised her eyelids further to get a good look at her eyeballs. He leaned in closer to see if he could smell anything, other than the frigid earth below her body. He pulled up the hem of her pyjama top and studied the skin on her stomach and did the same to her lower legs and forearms. He felt around the back of her head and gently palpated her ribs and abdomen. 

He then stood up, Sherlock following his move and looking at him expectantly.

“I’d have to agree with you. Anderson is an idiot.”

The smile on Sherlocks face was one that John wouldn’t have believed that he was capable of producing. It was pure joy. It was a child, in a candy shop, on Christmas day. John’s words had just made Sherlock’s day. 

“Lestrade,” Sherlock yelled, not taking his eyes off John, his smile barely faltering around the shouted word and startling John with its unexpectedness and loudness. 

It only took a few seconds for the DI to join them and when he did, his shocked look when he saw John confirmed John’s suspicion that he wasn’t supposed to be there. 

With an exasperated sigh, Lestrade turned to Sherlock. “Sherlock, you can’t bring John…:

“John, please explain your findings to Lestrade here. He doesn’t believe me that Anderson is wrong and I am right.”

“Oi, “ Lestrade interjected. “I never said you were wrong, I said I needed something other than what our forensic analyst told us.”

Sherlock waved Lestrade's reasoning aside. “John, your findings.”

John looked from Greg, to Sherlock and back to Greg again. 

Greg let out another sigh, this one resigned. “Go on,” he relented.

“Well, despite it being below freezing temperatures the past couple of nights, one could be forgiven for confusing the cause of death to be hypothermia at a first glance.” At this, Sherlock snorted, but John ignored him, addressing his findings to Lestrade. 

“In the case of Hypothermia, the extremities; finger tips, ears, lips etcetera, would turn blue and the skin would go grey-whitish colour, sometimes even a yellow waxy texture to the skin. There would be, depending on the length of exposure to the cold, blisters and necrotic tissue. Not to mention that when a person dies of hypothermia, their body usually shuts down and their eyes close, as if they have gone to sleep. This is due to exhaustion from trying to keep the body warm, which is impossible in extreme temperatures.”

“So, not hypothermia then?” Lestrade looked tired, more so than before at this stage. 

“No, and due to the fact that there is no immediately noticeable evidence of trauma on the body, I am guessing she didn’t fall over and hit her head.”

Greg rubbed his hands over his face and looked forlornly down at the body at their feet.  In John’s medical opinion, the man needed to cut down on the coffee and cigarettes and take a very long break in a warm location that had lots of sun and no Sherlock Holmes. John kept his medical opinion to himself. 

“I don’t suppose you have a theory of what did kill her?” Greg finally asked, looking back up at John. 

“Nitrate poisoning,” John stated simply. 

“Nitrate poisoning?!” This came from two people. One was a confused question, the other was and exclamation of pure glee. 

“Care to elaborate?” Greg asked as Sherlock started pacing around the crime scene, a look of determination on his face. 

“Nitrates, essentially, deactivate hemoglobin which allows blood cells to carry oxygen around the body. Too much results in methemoglobinemia. This would explain the blue tinge to her skin, not just her lips and fingers and the look on her face. She was probably in pain, or at the very least very confused.”

John addressed this information to Greg, but his eyes didn’t leave the consulting pain in the arse in front of him, pacing back and forth, occasionally stopping to stare off at something unseeing to the ordinary person.

“If this is the case…” the humerous huff that left Sherlock's mouth was barely noticeable and ignored by both men. “...How would it get into her system?” 

John shrugged. “If the blood panels, that I am assuming you will have ordered, come back positive, then narrowing it down shouldn’t be too hard. Nitrates can be found in many day-to day items around the house - toothpaste, ice packs, fertilizer. But in order to die from them, a noticeable amount would need to be ingested. Other than that, it can be ordered online and is occasionally used as a form of suicide.”

“So this was a suicide?” Greg asked, confused. 

“Outside? In the cold? In her pyjamas? No wonder you need me,” Sherlock scoffed, finally rejoining in the conversation. 

“My guess would be medication,” John added, ignoring Sherlock, despite the location being an unlikely setting for a suicide. “Nitrates are used for treating conditions such as angina to anal fissures. It can even be used recreationally. Again, if I had to guess, I’d say this woman suffered from chest pains of some sort and has either accidentally overdosed or purposely been given the wrong dosage.”

Lestrade pulled out his phone and hit a button, speed dialing someone. “Yeah, Sally, can you discretely find out if the victim was on any type of medication. Yeah. Maybe. No, not looking like it. Yeah. Thanks.”

He disconnected the call. 

“She’s going to have one of the uniforms check through the medication cabinet and get back to me,” he informed the two other men.

“Wouldn’t it be quicker to just aske the husband, or whoever that was with her?” John asked.

“Not if he killed our unfortunate victim,” Sherlock drawled scrolling through something on his phone. 

“You think that man in there,” at this, John pointed to the house “Killed that woman?” he asked, pointing down to the body at their feet.

“Balance of probability,” Sherlock muttered frowning down at his phone as a he read a message that had just come in. “Either that or one of the kids.”

“They are 12 and 15,” Lestrade stated. 

“Younger have killed in worse ways,” Sherlock shot back as he viciously punched in a reply text to his phone. 

“Having troubles?” John asked, eyeing the way Sherlock shoved his phone back into his pocket and yanked his glove back on. 

“Yes, my idiot brother stopped me from accessing the NHS database. Again.”

“That’s because it’s illegal.”

“You can hack into the NHS?”

Sherlock shot a look at the two men before him and with a roll of the eyes stalked over to get a closer look at some scruff marks by the back porch.

“He is unbelievable,” John said with a shake of his head. 

“But he does get results,” Lestrade added sheepishly. 

It was just at that moment that Greg's phone vibrated in his hand. He opened up the text message and with a puzzled expression, said to John, “You might know more about this,” and handed over his phone. 

On it was a picture of a small, white medicine bottle with a label that read Isordil , made out to an Owen Warner. 

“Yeah, that’s a medication used to treat angina. Does have nitrate in it but they are not hers. Not unless her name is Owen.”

Sherlock was at their side in an instant, snatching the phone out of John’s hand. He tilted the phone, zoomed the picture in and out and then with a thoughtful look on his face, handed the phone back to Greg. 

“How many of these would be needed to kill a person?”

“Depends on the weight of a person, but about 20 grams of nitrate is generally the MLD. Especially if they didn’t need it. And quite quickly too.”

“Could it be administered unknowingly?”

John thought for a bit. “It’s dissolvable in liquids but it has a slightly bitter, saline sort of taste. I suppose in the right foods or liquids it would be undetectable.”

“Noticeable symptoms?”

“Headache, dizziness, nausea, cramping, disorientation, rapid pulse, vomiting - which can be smelled on her breath by the way -  lack of muscle control, cyanosis. There are more symptoms, but those are what comes to mind.”

“How long from onset of first symptoms to death?”

“Again, depends on the amount given and the weight of the person. But a few hours could do it. Or it could have been administered over several days so the process was slower and therefore less alarming.”

Sherlock turned from John to Greg. “Lestrade, bring the husband in for questioning. I doubt it will take much to get a confession out of him, especially if you bring up the affair his wife was having.”

With that, Sherlock strode off. “Come along, John.”

John looked to Lestrade. “Thanks, mate. You somehow made dealing with him much less stress inducing.”

John flinched. “That was less stress?”

Greg opened his mouth to reply but there came the sound of shouting from the house and then a crash, as if heavy furniture had been pushed over. 

Both Greg and John set off at a run to the house. When there, they found Sherlock on the floor, while an officer helped him out from under an upturned table and Owen Warner, backing out of the room with a large knife held tightly against Sally’s neck. 

“I will fucking kill her if anyone makes a move,” the man yelled as he turned into the hallway. 

“What the fuck…” was all John could get out before Sherlock spoke up. 

“Clearly he knew we were onto him. I didn’t even say anything this time.” He winced as he rubbed the back of his head, but no one seemed to care. They were all to busy gently following the hostage situation out of the house. 

It hadn’t taken long for Owen to drag Sally out onto the street. Every time an officer tried to approach them, he dug the knife in a bit harder. From the front porch, John could see a small trickle of blood run down the woman’s throat. 

“Everyone get inside and shut the door or I will kill her.”

No one moved. 

“NOW!” 

Quickly, Greg urged everyone inside, standing on the porch by himself, shutting the door. 

“Everyone,” John could hear shouted through the wood of the door. 

He strained his ears to hear what Greg said in response but was distracted by a tug at the sleeve of the forensic suit he still wore. He looked over his shoulder to see Sherlock motion with his head to follow him. Without thought, John did.

“That idiot isn’t going to kill a police officer. It is too confrontational and messy. He is going to push her down and run away.” Sherlock spoke a mile a minute as he lead John back through the house and out the back door. “I saw him listing towards the left as the front door shut. He’s going to run that way. If we hurry, we can cut him off.”

“We can?” John asked, finally questioning himself about what exactly it was he was doing with this man. 

“Yes, come along,” and with that, Sherlock took off at a run, through the back gate and into an alley way. 

John thought for a total of two seconds before running after him. 

It was as if Sherlock had orchestrated the next several minutes down to the last second. As he exited the mouth of the alley way, the taller man collided with the suspect, taking him down to the ground. Owen Warner kicked out, connecting with Sherlocks chest, sending the man into a foetal position, wheezing for breath. As Warner got up to run off again, John came out onto the street and tackled the man to the ground again, pinning his hands behind his back and sitting on his thighs. 

“I suggest you stop moving” John snarled as a particularly energised thrust almost threw him off of the other man. “Or else you are going to end up with a dislocated shoulder. I am a doctor, I know how to do that.”

With that, the man stopped thrashing about and started crying. 

“The bitch” he wailed to the sound of Sherlock taking long, wheezing breaths behind him and running feet coming around the corner. “The fucking bitch was sleeping with my best mate. They were going to leave me and take everything!”

Greg came to a stop next to John and the sobbing Mr Warner and helped John up. 

“Cuff him,” the DI said to a young officer who had come up behind them. 

“You all right?” Lestrade asked John, giving him a quick once over. 

John nodded. He didn’t think it was a good idea to tell Greg just how alright he felt. For the first time in what felt like ages, the adrenaline was coursing through his body in a good way. “Him on the other hand…” he tipped his head towards Sherlock who was still laying on the ground, gently rubbing a hand over his chest. “He might want to get medical treatment though.”

At this Greg snorted. “Yeah, unless he’s dying, that’s not gonna happen,” and with that he made his way over to Sherlock to help the other man off the ground. John turned and watched Owen Warner get led to and placed in a police car. All fight and sorrow had fled him and now he just stared vacantly down at his lap. 

“....how you knew where he was going, but I’m going to need to get your statements,” John heard Greg saying to Sherlock, then he turned to John. “Both of you.”

“Gavin, I’m not sure if you have noticed, but I’m not exactly up to…” 

“Tomorrow. No later than midday,” Greg cut him off, obviously knowing exactly where Sherlocks protests were about to go. “Now get out of here. I’ve got to go make sure Sally goes up to the hospital. She’s okay, though, since I know you were wondering.”

“Top of my mind,” Sherlock replied sarcastically and walked away from Greg and past John. “Come along, John” Sherlock called and headed towards the main road. 

“I’m glad she’s okay,” John said quietly to Greg. And it was true. He didn't see things the way Sally did, but she didn't deserve to die.

Greg nodded. “Everything alright at home?” He asked, just as quietly.

“Can’t complain” John answered. It was as honest as he could get. “Although, I’m not sure if this will change things. To be honest, I’m not even sure what just happened.”

Greg smiled. “When you figure it out, let me know. And make sure His Highness is at my desk before midday tomorrow. I mean it, I need both of your statements.”

John was about to tell Greg that he had no intentions of making Sherlock do anything when an impatient “John” sounded from up the street. John looked up to see Sherlock holding open a taxi door, still, gently rubbing a hand over his chest. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” John said to Greg and then jogged to catch up to Sherlock.

The cab ride home was quiet. John looked out the window, watching the lights flash by. Next to him, Sherlock fiddled with his phone. 

Finally, John couldn’t sit in the silence anymore. 

“What just happened back there?” he asked, not looking away from the scenery whirring past. 

“I solved a murder and then we chased down and apprehended the suspect. I thought that was fairly obvious.”

“Is this what you do then. Solve crimes with the police.”

“Obviously,” was Sherlocks short, bored reply.

“But, you’re not employed by the police. Never went through the training?”

“Nope.”

“So, you do this for kicks. Just rock up at a crime scene, say your bit and then chase dangerous people?”

“Something like that. Problem?

John thought about it and realised that the only problem he had with it was a mild sense of jealousy. What he had just done had made him feel alive, and what he wouldn’t give to feel like that regularly.

“We’re here,” barked the man in the front seat and John looked up to see that they were parked in front of Baker Street. Sherlock was already out of the cab and John grumbled as that meant he had to pay the cabbie. 

“Keep the change,” he said, handing the cabbie a few notes and he slid out of the car. By the time he got upstairs, Sherlock was in the  bathroom, the only evidence of him being home, the ridiculous coat hanging over the banister. 

Chapter Text

~~~~~~~~~~

John held the small, white business card in his hand. It was a bit tattered now, with creases and dog ears. There was a grey smudge in the bottom left corner and the right corner had been ripped off  at some stage. There was a blue line where he had placed a biro in his pocket without retracting the nib, and it had scored the cardboard in an almost perfectly straight line. 

None of that was of interest. What held John’s attention was the small print in the middle of the card. 

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade

New Scotland Yard - Homicide Division

07911 743110 - [email protected]

He tapped the smudged corner of the card on the table three times then put it down and picked up his phone.  He swiped the phone screen and tapped in his pass code, only to lay the phone on the table next to the card. 

It had been exactly three weeks and two days since he had promised Greg that he would give Sherlock a chance. 

Twenty-three days since Greg promised him he would help him disappear should he still feel the same way about Sherlock.

It was time to make a phone call.

~o~

John felt as if he had only just closed his eyes before the bedroom door opened, slamming against the wall and the lights were turned on.

“Come along John. We have a case.”

John rolled over and buried his face in the pillow, muttering curses in three languages. He had had a gruelling day at the clinic, as well as major delays on the Tube on the way home, only to come home to a sheep’s head in the kitchen sink. It was for science, apparently.

“I promise you, my parents were married when I was born, so no, your estimation of my character is incorrect but there is also the body of a 43 year old rabbi that is going to get incorrectly analysed by Anderson if you do not hurry up and get dressed. Quickly.”

And then the nightmare that was Sherlock Holmes was gone, leaving John awake, with more questions than anyone had a right to have when wearing their pyjamas. 

John sat up and rubbed his eyes. They felt gritty and dry and he was seriously considering just laying back down and going back to sleep, the dead rabbi be damned. That plan was put out to boot when Sherlock hollered from the other room “Now, John. I’ve never had a rabbi before and I don’t want Anderson to taint the experience.”

With a groan, John pushed the blankets off and stood up, looking for the jeans and jumper he had discarded only hours earlier. 

It had been three days since John had helped Sherlock tackle the man who had murdered his cheating wife. Since then, the incident had not been discussed and their life had carried on as if it hadn’t happened at all. John had assumed it was a one off. An anomaly. A brief, singular break in the monotony of John’s current life. 

Clearly he had been mistaken.

“According to Lestrade, the rabbi was supposed to be in France on some religious sabbatical or something asinine,” Sherlock gushed, handing John his jacket and pushing him towards the door the second he stepped foot into the kitchen. “But here he is, in the basement of a mall in Covent Gardens with his left hand removed and placed at his feet.”

“That’s nice and all,” John replied, still annoyed at being woken up. “But why do I need to know this?”

“I may need your expertise,” was the answer he got, as Sherlock pushed in front of him to open the door and step out into the frigid night air.

“My expertise?” John repeated dumbly as he blearily watched Sherlock hail a cab.
“Yes, your expertise. Please don’t make me repeat myself.” Sherlock replied while he texted something on his phone as a taxi pulled up next to him. “In my line of work, an accurate medical explanation is often needed. Having you around just means I don’t need to go and find a competent medical professional. It saves time and eliminates frustration.”

John huffed as he slid into the taxi next to Sherlock. “Frustration for you, maybe,” he grumbled. Sherlock ignored him and gave the address to the taxi driver.

“So, can I expect this a lot?” John asked, as they exited the cab and walked towards flashing lights and caution tape.

“Excitement and adrenaline?”

“No, getting woken up at god awful hours and dragged away from work and social gatherings.”

“I have you, I may as well get my money's worth.”

“Great, I’m a financial transaction.”

“Better than being in prison.”

“Is it though?” John replied as they stopped at the crime scene tape.  With a withered glare in John's direction, Sherlock held the tape up and indicated that John should step under it. 

Deciding that a murder scene was not the place to play petulant child, John acquiesced and headed towards the familiar figure of Sally Donovan, Sherlock catching up in one long stride. 

“Is this the new thing then?” Sally asked, clearly as annoyed at being up at an ungodly hour as what John was. “You bringing your new pet project to cases with you. How long before the poor bastard is condemned to exile because you got bored.” 

John was somewhat awed at Sally’s brazenness. One word from Sherlock in the right ear and the Sergeant would find herself with an owner. Clearly, being up in the middle of the night, wind cold enough to reach your bones, was putting her in a bad mood.

Or maybe it was just being in the presence of Sherlock Holmes.

“Lestrade messaged me. Said there was a body he wanted me to look at. Let him know we are here.”

“I’d like to let him know a few other things that I think about you,” she snapped back immediately. 

“Trust me, he already knows. Now, stop wasting time and call us through.”

With a glare that would wither lesser men, Sally brought her radio up to her lips and said “Freaks here, Gov.”

The radio crackled and a weary voice answered “Send him through.”

The two men were escorted through a service entrance to the mall, where John put on a paper suit (Sherlock just scoffed at the idea when John suggested he put one on) and then down to the basement of the store, where men and women in matching forensic suits were meandering around, doing whatever it was that they did. 

In the middle of the room, Lestrade stood over the body of a man talking to another person who was furiously taking down notes. 

“Lestrade,” Sherlock greeted, striding up and cutting off whatever information Greg was giving to the other man. 

“Sherlock,” Lestrade replied and then with a few short words, dismissed the other sergeant. When he turned back, his eyes fell on John. At first they widened in surprise and then closed in frustration. 

“Sherlock, I told you before, you can’t just bring other people to the crime scene, not that it’s not good to see you John,” he said as way of greeting the doctor.

“Do you want this solved or not?” was Sherlock’s reply.

“There are protocols to follow…I’m skirting rules just letting you in.”

“You had no qualms in letting him in at the last crime scene. In fact, he caught your killer if you remember.”

“Yes, and we were grateful for that, but…”

“Excellent, then shall we proceed?”

Lestrade sighed and John watched as resignation seemed to make the man's body droop a bit.

“Fine. We have 43 year old Daniel Cohen, his wallet was in his coat pocket, still with cash in it. He was found about an hour and a half ago by the janitor. The body hasn’t been moved, nor has his hand. Judging by the lack of blood, the hand was severed somewhere else and the body left here with the hand.”

As he spoke, Lestrade handed both John and Sherlock a set of rubber gloves. 

“We have already spoken to his brother, who was under the impression that Daniel was in Lyon at a conference for the church.”

“John.” Sherlock stated simply, as he snapped on the gloves. John stopped halfway through putting on his gloves and looked up at Sherlock. 

“What?”

An eyeroll that would have impressed 15 year old Harry proceeded his next words. “You're a doctor. Check the body.”

“A GP, not a bloody pathologist.”

This time, there was a sigh and momentary closing of the eyes. “John, look at the body and tell me what you see.” The instruction was delivered with very controlled patience. John wondered how far he could push it and then reminded himself of where he was.

“Fine,” he muttered and knelt down next to the body. As he did so, Sherlock moved to the severed hand and began studying it. 

John examined what he could of the body.  “Apart from the obvious, there are no signs of foul play. No wounds, no broken nails. His eyes and tongue are the correct colour, and he looked healthy for his age. Going by the temperature and state of rigor, I would say he has been dead for at least 6 hours, but the pathologist,” at this he sent a pointed look at Sherlock, who ignored him, “Could give you a more accurate answer. 

“As for the severance of the hand, that happened before death. It is a clean cut with a sharp instrument and judging by the tissue rejuvenation, I would say at least a week ago. It’s very minimal, but the healing process has started, although, why there are no sutures or dressings is another mystery to solve, I guess.”

“So the hand had nothing to do with his death?”

“Again, if you want an absolute answer you need to speak to a pathologist, but in my opinion, no, it didn’t.”

“And there are no other signs of injury.”

“Again, not that I can observe.”

Before Lestrade could fire off another question, Sherlock intervened with his own observation.

“The hand isn’t his.”

“What?” Lestrade practically spat the word out as his head snapped around to look at Sherlock.

Standing up and peeling off his gloves, Sherlock continued to speak. “I know the mattress in your spare room is not doing your sleep schedule any favours, Lestrade, but surely such a simple statement wasn’t that difficult to understand?”

“Jesus Christ,” John muttered under his breath at the bluntness of Sherlock's statement. Lestrade, on the other hand, didn’t seem to be fazed.

“How can you be certain?” The older man asked, taking a step towards the feet of the victim so he could peer down at the severed appendage.

“The finger nails,” was Sherlock's very simple answer.

Clearly, Lestrade found the statement just as unsimple as John did “The finger nails?” he asked and then, seeing the irritated look on Sherlock’s face, carried on with “Sorry…sorry, okay what about the fingernails?”

Sherlock gestured down at the hand with a wave of his own. “Two completely different shapes and sizes on the left hand to the right hand. Whilst whomever did this got the size and colour of the hand fairly well matched, they didn’t pay attention to the finger nails.”

John moved down to look at the severed hand. Noting that Sherlock was correct about the fingernails, he turned his attention to the wounded stump.

“There is no healing here. The cut was with a rough instrument, unlike the arm and it was done after death. Sherlock’s right. This hand doesn’t belong to the owner.”

“For crying out…” Lestrade muttered under his breath and then, in a loud voice, yelled “ANDERSON!”

Sherlock moved away from the body and, instinctively, John followed.

“What are your thoughts, John?”

“I have no fucking idea. I’m not even sure why I am here. I am certain you could have deduced all of that. It was child’s play.”

“Yet Anderson still missed the vital evidence. And I told you, you are here to make my life easier. They are less likely to argue with a medically trained professional than they are with my deductions.” 

“So glad I can make your life easier,” was John’s sarcastic reply, as he tried to block out the bollocking Anderson was getting behind them, for missing such obvious evidence. 

“I’m not sure we would take it that far,” Sherlock replied and then strode towards the exit, calling to Lestrade to let him know when the body was at the morgue.

With a quick farewell to Greg, John made his way out of the basement and out into the cold night air.

~o~

Four days later, John trudged up the stairs to the flat, tired, dirty, hungry and physically exhausted.  The rabbi's killer had been caught - a simple case of wrong place, wrong time for him, and the hand had been used as a decoy to throw off the actual crime. 

The whole thing had been exciting and non-stop and John had enjoyed every  minute of it. But now, the adrenaline was leaving his body and all he wanted was a shower and sleep. Food could wait. 

~o~

The next day was quiet. The complete opposite of what the last few days had been. John had called the clinic to see if there was any work but they had a rare case of being fully staffed. To be honest, he was glad to hear it as his body still ached from the actions of previous days. 

John had woken mid-morning to find a lightly snoring Sherlock, laid out on the cot at the end of the bed. John had made no extra effort to be quiet as he got out of bed and dug fresh clothes out of his drawer, but it hadn’t seemed to rouse the other man in the slightest. It was now past midday and Sherlock still hadn’t roused from his slumber. Of this, John was grateful for obvious reasons.

With nothing to occupy his morning, John had worried himself with minor domestic chores and a trip to Tesco to restock the fridge and cupboards. 

Once home, John flipped through the TV channels only to discover that there was nothing of interest on. With nothing better to do, he pulled out his laptop and opened it. It was a rarely used item his therapist had recommended he get on his return from the war. A means to catch up with local events, a tool for communication and a way to document his assimilation into civilian life. She had told him it would help. She had been wrong. 

But now, John found himself opening up his never used blog and adding notes about the case. How it started, how he had been useful and even small praise for Sherlock’s deductions that had solved the entire thing. By the time he was detailing tracking down the murderer, shuffling footsteps could be heard coming up the hallway. They stopped in the kitchen and the sounds of coffee being made could be heard and then the footsteps proceeded into the living room where a rumpled and unimpressed Sherlock Holmes dropped onto the couch, somehow without spilling a drop of coffee. 

“The word you want is elude with an E and one L, not an A,” he mumbled into his cup before taking a long drink. John looked at the computer screen and noted the word he had misspelled and then, just to be petty, double-checked the spelling on the internet. Sherlock was right, (no surprise there) and John changed it without even thinking about how the man had spotted a mistake in less than two seconds of seeing the screen.

It was then that the doorbell rang.

“Oh for god sake, what does he want?” Sherlock moaned, slumping further down on the couch.

“Who?” John asked, getting up to answer the door.

“Don’t bother yourself. He will let himself in.”

John sat back down. “Again, who?”

“Mycroft.” The name was spat with venom.

“Your brother?”

“Is there any other?”

“God, I hope not,” John said as the sound of the downstairs door opening sounded. “And how can you possibly know it is your brother.”

“The bell sounds arrogant when he rings it,” was Sherlock’s reply as he took another drink from his cup and then closed his eyes as if that would stop his brother from appearing. 

It didn’t. Within moments Mycroft Holmes was gracing their doorway, umbrella in hand and mildly disguised distaste on his face. 

“Good afternoon brother, Dr Watson.”

“Go away Mycroft,” Sherlock whined. John ignored both of them and opened his laptop back up.

“A cup of tea would be lovely, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft announced as he walked past John, towards the arm chair opposite.

“Hmmm, it would,” John replied. “Kitchen is in there,” He said, nodding his head back in the direction of the kitchen as he opened up his emails.

John ignored the sigh that came from Mycroft, but smirked at Sherlock’s “He’s right, you know. If you invite yourself over, make your own damn tea.”

Clearly, Mycroft wasn’t too in the mood for tea, as he dropped the subject.

“You haven’t read your messages,” the older man stated. John didn’t need to look in their direction to see that Sherlock would be sporting the most uninterested expression he could muster. John could practically hear it.

“If you had, you would have called me immediately.”

“Doubt it,” was Sherlock’s bored reply.

“All of the Blank Cheque files have been deleted. They are gone. Unrecoverable. As are the backup files.”

This, whatever it meant, got Sherlock's attention. John heard him sit up straight and the thankfully empty sounding cup fall to the floor, bouncing on the soft rug. 

“What do you mean they are gone. They are top secret files. Technically, they don’t even exist.”

“I am aware of this, Brother. I did set them up after all.”
“Then how in the hell did you lose them, brother.” John had never heard Sherlock so livid, and he was fairly certain he had come close to pushing all of the elites' buttons himself. 

Actually finding himself intrigued, John stopped with his emails and looked up at the two brothers.

“An investigation is underway. If you actually monitor your phone, and stop blocking my number, you will be informed of the progress.”

“Find them, Mycroft,” Sherlock demanded, seething, and stormed up to his room, slamming the door behind him.

Mycroft let out a weary sigh. “You are welcome, Doctor Watson.”

“I’m sorry? Welcome? You just put him in a worse mood than I have ever managed.”

A tight smile tugged on Mycroft’s lips. “Yes, years of practice. But you won’t see him for the rest of the day.” And with that, Mycroft made his way out of the living room, leaving John wondering what in the hell the Blank Cheque files were and why they meant so much to Sherlock. 

~o~

The next case came the following day. John walked into the flat, after a rather tame day at work to find six pictures of three separate men stuck up on the wall.

“Dating prospects?” John asked glibly as he hung up his jacket.

“Very funny. No, these men all died between four and six years ago.”

“They are looking pretty good for corpses.”

“Aren’t they just? Funny thing is, they have all been rather active for corpses as well. This one,” Sherlock said, pointing to a photo of a slim, young man with already greying hair and a forced smile. “A Danish man in his thirties,  was a curator at Moesgaard Museum in Aarhus, Denmark. The second one was an American 28 year old who taught at Vernon Hills Highschool in Illinois.” At this, Sherlock singled out a professional photo (probably taken at school) of a young red head with a beaming smile and a face full of faded freckles. Clearly a man who enjoyed life.  Next, he pointed to a photo of a middle-aged man, with messy hair and circular glasses perched on a nose that more resembled a beak than a nose. “And the third was a 45 year old man from Manchester who apparently liked to feed the birds and squirrels in Alexandra Park every day.”

“Doppplegangers?” John suggested, looking at the original photos and then the latest ones that were clearly taken without the subject's knowledge. 

“No - if you look closely you can see that they have scarring, moles etc that can’t be naturally replicated and this third man hasn’t changed at all. He even has the same haircut and the same repulsive looking glasses.”

“Twins?” John threw out half-heartedly. Even he knew twins didn’t develop identical moles and scarring, but it was worth the suggestion.

Clearly Sherlock didn’t think so. In fact, he sounded as if the idea was rather offensive, judging by the derisive tone he used in his response.

“It’s never twins, John.”

“Fine,” John said, now throwing out even more wild ideas. “What about witness protection?”

“Nope. I have looked into their backgrounds. None of them had a speeding ticket, let alone caught up in anything shady."

“Faked their deaths?”

At this suggestion, John wasn’t shot down. “It would seem so. But do you know how hard it actually is to successfully fake your own death for any reasonable amount of time?”

“I guess we wouldn’t actually know, since being successful would mean no one knowing you had been successful.”

“Only two people have ever done it,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

“You seem so sure about that.”

“I am so sure about that.”

John let the argument rest. No one was more arrogant in their assumptions being correct than Sherlock Holmes. So instead, he started asking questions of his own.

“So, why are we after them?”
“A retired detective brought them to my attention.”

“Because…”

“All of them are now in London,” Sherlock said, waving his hand to encompass all the people in the photos, as if John might be unsure of who he was talking about. 

“And he knows this, how? The retired detective, I mean?”

“He has seen them. He is the one who took the surveillance photographs.”

At this Sherlock pointed to the three clandestine photographs that were next to the ones that were clearly taken with the subject's knowledge.

“And he just happened to recognise three random dead people from around the world?” John asked unbelievingly. 

“The man never truly left the profession. He has been keeping track of cold cases from around the world, especially unsolved murders.”

“Oh, so these are all murder victims?”

“Of course they are,” Sherlock answered reprovingly.

“Of course they are,” John muttered incredulously under his breath. Then, directed at Sherlock, “ So, what does this retired detective want you to do?”

“Track them down and find out a )why they faked their own deaths and b) to see if they are doing anything illegal.”

“This all seems pretty straight forward. Why can’t this detective do it himself?” John asked, wondering why Sherlock was taking on what seemed to be a very simple task. Clearly, these men had already been located. It was just a chance of meeting them in whatever park this man frequented and going to speak to them.

“Retired detective,” Sherlock reminded him.

“Fine, why can’t this retired detective do it himself? It still seems pretty straightforward, without legal intervention needed. He should be able to do it himself.”

It was after a few seconds that John realised the silence that followed his question wasn’t from Sherlock contemplating the answer. By the look on his face, it was caused by Sherlock trying to think of a way not to answer the question at all. Clearly, there was going to be something here that John was not going to agree with.

“What is it, Sherlock?”

There was still hesitation from Sherlock before he muttered something unintelligible to John’s ear.

“I’m sorry, but your public school educated mouth is going to have to speak up and pronounce those words clearly.”

Sherlock let out a resigned sigh, and then, not looking at John as he spoke, answered with “His mate won’t let him do detective work anymore.”

“For fuck sake,” John groaned as Sherlock continued to talk over him. 

“In fact, he was running a risk coming to me.” He said this as if that made the situation all better.

“Jesus…but let me guess,” John practically seethed. He should have seen this coming after Sherlock’s hesitation. “You still don’t see a problem with this whole ‘mateship’ thing.”

Sherlock tugged at his hair in frustration and spun around to stalk over to the window. “This is why I didn’t want to tell you,” he practically shouted. And then, quieter, but no less frustrated, “Can we just focus on the case, John!” At this, his hands desperately gestured towards the six photos on the wall. “And maybe, just maybe do it without arguing the same old arguments over and over again?”

John wanted to tell him to fuck off, but instead decided that the men may need help or may need need stopping, depending on their motives for disappearing. 

“Fine. FINE.” John threw his hands up in the air and walked away, only to return a few steps later and look at the people in the pictures.

“Fine,” he repeated, much more calmly and crossed his arms over his chest and let his mind go to the task at hand. He could argue with Sherlock at another time. “So, what's our plan of action?”

Sherlock let out a small, relieved sigh and walked to stand next to John, where they both looked at the six pictures before them. 

“Dylan, the retired detective,” Sherlock ignored John's huff of indignation and continued “Says that they often frequent Hyde Park. So, we hang around for them to show up and then we have a quiet chat with them. Rather simple, really”

“Sounds like a straightforward plan,” John agreed, then asked, “If it’s such a simple case, why are you taking it on?”

“I was bored,” Sherlock replied. 

John didn’t believe the answer for a second but knew he would get nowhere arguing it.

~o~

John sat in the armchair and watched the man across from him digest the information he had just been given.

“So, none of them are in danger?” Dylan Friedrieckson asked, looking to Sherlock.

“Well, Mr Grahson does consume too much cholesterol, but other than that, nothing glaringly evident, no.”

“And they are not a threat to anyone else?”

“Only Mr Grahson threatening to overwork a nearby hospital with a heart attack in the near future, but no. No threats.”
Again, silence filled the room. 

John watched Dylan Friedrieckson; a man in his mid-thirties, a man who had a promising career as a homicide detective and a man who had had that ripped away because someone took a liking to him. He looked sad.

After a day of locating and questioning the men that Dylan had brought to Sherlock’s attention, nothing nefarious or even a little bit mischievous had been discovered. 

Mikkel Jensen, who was an elite from Denmark had lived under his parents rule his entire life. They had pressured him to study and work in a prominent career. They had pressured him to marry and have children.

When he did none of these, they started withholding finances and making his job as a museum curator hard. They had him blacklisted with real estate agents, and utility companies. They made him dependent on them. So he left. He gathered what money he could and paid someone to make it look like he had been murdered. They had used his blood at the set up crime scene and then given him fake documents to leave the country. He now lived, happily, as a level 4 antique shop owner with his partner of 3 years, Caleb Henderson. 

Derrick Brown, the school teacher from the States, had fled the country after their government talked about tightening the mateship laws. He had gone on a fishing trip and not returned. He had then travelled up to Canada, over to and through Europe before settling in London where he ran a dog grooming business and tutored kids who needed help with maths. 

Edward Gregson was an eccentric hippie who had had enough with his old life, so had just disappeared. He had wandered through the UK, sampling what life had to offer and lived a simple, unemployed life, staying off everyone's radar. Since none of his bank accounts had been touched, everyone assumed foul play had played a part in his disappearance. He was happy to keep it that way.

Dylan checked his watched. “Well,” he said looking back up to Sherlock and then to John. “I must thank both of you for putting in the effort to chase my silly leads. I apologise for wasting your time, but am thankful for it all the same."

Both John and Sherlock stood up, Dylan following their lead.
“Unfortunately, my mate and her husband will be home shortly and will be displeased if I have company. Again, thank you for following this up for me.”

Sherlock gave a curt nod and walked out the room. 

“You are welcome,” John said, extending his hand out to the ex-detective. The man took and shook.

“You are a lucky man, Mister Watson,” Dylan said quietly.

“How so?” John asked, as their hands released from the shake.

“You have managed to find a mate that lets you still live your life. That must be a relief of some sorts.”

John looked over his shoulder to the empty doorway. No doubt, Sherlock had made his way to the front door and was waiting impatiently for John to dispense with the pleasantries. 

“I guess I can’t complain,” he admitted, and was surprised to find that it didn’t leave that much of a bad taste in his mouth to do so. 

John said his farewells and caught up with Sherlock who was, as John predicted, tapping his foot and looking impatient. 

“You do know people won’t care if you just leave. You don’t have to say goodbye in every situation. Especially when you have essentially been dismissed.”

John just rolled his eyes and reached past to open the door to the front steps. “Chinese or Thai for dinner?” He asked.

“Thai,” Sherlock replied, following John out of the house. 

~o~

“That’s a gun.” John did hate to state the blatantly obvious but there was a gun on the coffee table and it hadn’t been there when he had gone to work this morning. 

“It’s your gun,” came the bored reply from the figure that was laid out on the couch in what the drama king called his thinking pose. 

“It really isn’t,” John replied, his eyes still on the gun on the table. It wasn’t even the same make as his old gun.  “I know my gun and that is not it. Plus, the cops confiscated my gun which was illegally obtained anyway”

“As is this one” Sherlock announced casually, his hand waving lazily in the direction of the coffee table. “Since handgun ownership in the UK is not legal. Even for the elite. But as of now, it is your gun.”

There was a lot to unpack in that statement. So many questions to be asked. The one John settled on, the one he thought most important of all was, “And you are giving it to me, why?”

At this, Sherlock stood up from his supine position on the couch and walked over to the desk. “Because we are dealing with this man?” He picked up a sheet of paper from the desk and handed it to John. 

John looked down at the paper, to find a printed photo of a man looking up at him. Mid - to late thirties, dark eyes, light hair. Fairly average looking and he meant nothing to John.

“And he is?”

“Ruben McCloud. A ruthless killer with so much dirt on higher ups he has gotten off every charge he has had put on him.” Sherlock announced this with mild flourish and went back to laying on the couch with his eyes closed. 

“And you are not concerned that I will use this to shoot you?” John pointed to the gun on the table.

At this Sherlock snorted out a short laugh. “Please. If you really wanted to kill me, you would have done so by now”

“Maybe I am waiting to really savour the moment.”

“Or maybe,” Sherlock stated, opening his eyes and looking at John, “You don’t actually want to kill me at all. After all, you are a doctor. Hippocratic oath and all.”

“I was also a soldier. Who had bad days,” John shot back, only feeling a twinge of resent for the man in front of him. It was true. John had had ample opportunities, especially in Sherlock’s sleeping period after a case. Somehow, the urge to actually want to cause the man harm had faded significantly, not that John was going to admit that out loud. 

“Well, I guess I am just going to have to take my chances. Now, are you ready to hear the details of the case, or would you like to try and convince yourself a bit more that you are a cold-blooded killer?”

“Fuck you.” John was starting to resent his lack of resentment and that wasn’t sitting well with him. 

“I thought as much.” With much more enthusiasm, now that John had essentially agreed to assist him again, Sherlock practically leaped up off of the couch and went back to the desk, grabbing a stack of files and dropping them onto the coffee table, next to the hand gun,  for John to read through. “So, in the last three weeks, four people have been found dead and left floating in the Thames.”

“Yeah, I saw that on the news. They said all four were  tragic accidents,” John answered as he opened the top file and started leafing through the first folder. It was full of cut outs from the local newspapers, reporting the deaths.

“Yes, because tragic accidents often have bullets in their kneecaps,” Sherlock rejoined sardonically.

“So, not so accidental.” Behind the newspaper articles were forensic reports. Each victim had indeed been shot and all had been dead before they hit the water. 

John dropped the first file back on the table and opened the third one. This one was all about Ruben McCloud. “ I guess they can all be traced back to each other?”

“In a convoluted way, yes.” Sherlock started pacing as he explained what he knew and John had to wonder how hard it had been for him to lay still on that couch, waiting for the go ahead from John, with all this pent up excitement and energy coursing through him. “And,” he continued, “All that convolution then leads us to Ruben McCloud. The way the bodies were dumped, as if he didn’t care if they were found or not, matches his arrogance and lack of compassion for the lives he took.”
“And how exactly do you think you are going to bring him down if all of London’s finest are too scared to touch him?” John asked, reading over the results of a devastatingly brutal hit and run.

“Easy - I don’t care if he exposes my flaws. And also, you have a gun - something the London police do not have.”

At this, John stopped perusing the file of the psychopathic killer in the folder and looked up at the clearly insane man in his flat. “So you want me to kill him?” He asked in sheer incredulity.

“Only if you are having an exceptionally bad day.” Sherlock's response was so blase’ that it took John a small moment to realise he was being serious.

“I’m not a hitman for hire, Sherlock. Taking a life isn’t exactly that easy.” John wasn’t sure he could inject any more gravity into his voice to get it through to Sherlock that he was not about to shoot a man just because he was an arsehole. The fact that he hadn’t shot Sherlock in these last twenty minutes was testament to that. 

“Did you know he raped and killed a fifteen year old girl two years ago.” Sherlock said this so easily, like he was telling John about an interesting yet insignificant fact. 

“I mean, admittedly,  some lives are more easily taken…” John's voice was a bit softer, a bit less urgent. But he still wasn't going to shoot anyone for Sherlock. 

“And,” Sherlock continued, in the same casual tone, “He physically assaulted an 82 year old woman in her own home after beating her husband to death with his own walking stick.”

“I mean,” John said, his left pointer finger twitching a bit, and his tone softer again, “Even though  some people aren’t even human…” He still wasn’t going to shoot anyone. Unless he had to. 

“And last year at least three people, level threes and fours, killed themselves because he threatened to have them put on the mateship program if they didn’t do what he asked.”

“Well,” John replied, almost as casually as Sherlock. “It has been a while since I fired a gun. Some target practice might be good actually.” Sometimes bad people get shot. 

“Yes, I think so too.” John knew he shouldn’t acknowledge Sherlock’s smile, but if his mouth mirrored the other man’s, even a bit, then who else was to know.

~o~

John followed Sherlock out of the lift and they both headed towards the labs. Just as they were nearing the room that Sherlock needed, a familiar figure rounded the corner, lost in something on his phone.

 “Hey Mike,” John called, pulling the other man’s attention away from the small device in his hand. 

 “John,” Mike replied, his surprise turning into genuine joy. “What are you doing here?” 

At this, Sherlock stopped and turned, looking between the two men, a look John had come to know as his deducing face on.

“You know John?” He finally asked.

“Yeah, me and Mike studied at Barts together,” John supplied, Mike nodding in agreement next to him.

 “And you automatically recognised him after, what? Twelve or so years?” Sherlock looked back between the two men and John knew he had to intervene before he made the leap between Mike and John’s trips out to the discarded. 

“People do keep in contact once university finishes. I met him after I came back from the army, he got me my job.  We meet up for a pint every now and then.” The story was easy to tell, since it was actually true. 

Sherlock seemed to consider the story John had told, which made John antsy. Clearly, it made Mike antsy too, as he suddenly blurted out, a bit too forcefully, “Anyway, so what are gentlemen here for today?”

Thankfully though, this seemed to work, as Sherlock put back on his no-nonsense face. “I need the lab equipment,” he stated and then turned abruptly and made his way to the lab. 

“Well, that’s him done for the afternoon,” Mike said once the elite was gone. “So, tell me, how do you know Sherlock?”

“Long story short, I got caught on my last trip to the discarded,” John stated, trying, and failing, to sound rather casual about it.

For a good five seconds Mike did nothing but stare at him, eyes wide and mouth agape, before suddenly coming to his senses. “Jesus John, how are you not in jail?”

“That’s where that idiot comes into it” John replied, his head nodding in the direction of the lab, where Sherlock was currently working. John then pulled his scarf off of his neck, revealing the tattoo that was now quite well healed.

Once more, Mike was silent.

“Turns out, Sherlock thought I’d be more useful as a mate than sitting in a jail cell.”

“Sherlock owns you?” John wished the other man hadn’t said that quite so loudly, so he answered in a much softer tone.

“Yep”

Mike clearly got the message, because the next words out of his mouth were whispered loudly “Sherlock Holmes? That Sherlock?” He accentuated the last question with a point of his finger in the direction of the lab.

“The very one,” John answered, bunching his scarf in his hand. He wanted to change the topic. He really didn’t like talking about what had happened to him.  Clearly, Mike still had questions.

“And your thoughts on the matter?” At least his tone was softer now, less disbelief and more…curious?

“I’d rather be in the jail cell,” John replied automatically, even though a voice in his head whispered "liar. You’ve been enjoying yourself too much”. He ignored that voice. 

“Bloody hell mate. I am so sorry. Is there anything I can do, well, probably not, but, well, bloody hell…”

“Yeah. Bloody hell,” John agreed.

Silence stretched between them for a good ten seconds before John cracked, not wanting to see the pitying look in Mike's eyes anymore. God, he really did hate people pitying him. 

“We should probably go and make sure he isn’t setting anything on fire or making anyone want to kill themselves,” he suggested, hoping to break the awkwardness between the two men. 

“Yeah. Probably.” And just like that, things were normal again as the two men walked towards the lab where Sherlock had entered only moments ago. 

“...I mean, if you haven’t eaten yet I could go and get you something, or you could, you know ,you could join me. I know a really, really good Italian place just around the corner. I mean, if you don’t want to eat you could just order coffee. They make really good coffee, if you want...”

The figure standing between the door the two men had just entered and the elite had their back to them. She seemed to be rambling to Sherlock, her hands going from her pockets to fiddling with her hair and back again and her voice went from shaky to squeaky and then flustered. 

Sherlock didn’t even look up from the computer screen in front of him. He just let out an unenthusiastic, “Hmmm, no,” and clicked open another document that seemed to be images of corpses. 

“Oh, okay, maybe…” The woman seemed to fade off when Sherlock got out of his seat and walked across the room to get a vial of something, completely cutting her efforts off. “Oh,” she muttered disappointedly.

“Morning Molly,” Mike said cheerfully, clearly sensing her disappointment and trying to cheer her up. Or diffuse the situation from getting even more awkward. Startled, the woman turned around, her hand up against her chest as if she had just had a fright. Once she laid on Mike, she seemed to relax and she gave a small, forced smile. “Oh, Hi Mike. I didn’t hear you come in?” and John instantly recognised her as the woman Mike had introduced to him after the new year.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to creep up,” Mike offered jovially, even though neither man had done anything that could be called creeping as they entered the room. In fact, John had noticed that the door had a bit of a squeak on the closing swing. 

“Oh, no. I was just talking to Sherlock here,” Molly offered, her hand indicating the seat that the man had been sitting in. She then looked from Mike towards John, as if only just noticing him. 

“Hi Molly,” John said sanguinely. A small frown appeared above her brow.

“Oh, hi…” Molly stuttered, confused. “I’m sorry, who are you?”  

“John. John Watson. We met just after Christmas. I was here with Mike.”

The look of confusion Molly’s eyes held as she scanned John was then replaced with one of familiarity before another confused frown resettled on her face once her eyes alighted on his neck, which was still uncovered.

“Oh, yes, yes. Sorry. I didn’t realise you were a mate.”

John gave a half-hearted shrug “I wasn’t then,” he replied.

Molly opened her mouth to say something else, but whatever it was, John never found out as at that moment, Sherlock spoke.

“John, I need my phone. It’s in my coat pocket,” he announced without looking up from the microscope in front of him.

“Then get up and get your phone,” John replied stubbornly. Surely the man could stop and take the half a dozen steps or so to retrieve his own phone.

Sherlock's response was to throw a withering glare over his shoulder, in John’s direction and John realised that, no. The man could not take the half a dozen or so steps to get his own damn phone. 

“Whatever…”John muttered, and strode over to the chair where Sherlock’s coat had been slung over and started rifling through his pockets until he found the phone. On the other side of the room, he could just make out Molly and Mike muttering amongst themselves.

“Oh, is he…did Sherlock get a mate?” Molly asked in a squeaked whisper, as John handed Sherlock his phone. The prick didn’t even thank him as he took it from John’s hand.

John stayed where he was, leaning back on the bench next to Sherlock and discretely observed the other two across the room. Mike was stood slightly hunched over, as he did when not much was going on, and Molly was leaning into his space, presumably so they could keep their voices low.

“Apparently,” was Mike's simple reply.

“And it’s him? John?” Molly sounded confused, as if unsure why anyone would want John as a mate. If he was being honest, he felt the same way. 

Another simple reply came from Mike. “Yeah, apparently so.” 

“But I thought he didn’t want…” Molly’s confusion seemed to have doubled, and John was certain her voice was wobbling, as if she was going to cry. But surely it was just due to their low mutterings that it sounded that way.

Mike let out a weary sigh. “I guess he changed his mind.”

“Oh. Right.”  Molly was no longer whispering. She had stood up straight, pulling herself back from Mike’s space and had stuck her hands back in her pocket. “Well, I guess I had, umm, I need to go,” and with that, Molly Hooper rushed from the room.

“She okay?” John asked, walking back over to Mike.

“I think she is a bit upset that Sherlock has taken a mate,” Mike replied, looking at the door that had just swung shut after the clearly upset woman.

“Not as upset as me.”

“I think it’s for different reasons than you, mate.”

It took John a few seconds to realise what Mike was saying. “You don’t mean to say that she wanted to be owned…I thought you said she hated the mateship program. Something about her brother or sister or something?”

An amused twinkle appeared in Mike's eyes. “I think she is just upset that he now has someone that he has to pay a modicum of attention to and it’s not her.”

Again, it took John far too long to realise what Mike was insinuating. “Are you telling me that Molly, that little thing that squeaks when she talks to Sherlock, has got the hots for him?”

A little chuckle left Mike’s mouth. “For quite a while now.”

There was a contemplative silence that fell over the room while John tried to take in what Mike had just told him.

“Has she actually ever heard the man talk?” He said after a few seconds, and Mike let out an ever deeper chuckle.

“Thrilled as I am to be the topic of such interesting conversation,” came Sherlock's deep voice, cutting through the men's good mood,  “But, John, if you could be so useful, I’d like a practical opinion on the cause of these wounds.”

Sherlock had moved back to the computer, with yet another picture of a corpse on the screen and if John didn’t know any better, he would say there was a ghost of amusement in the man's eyes.

~o~

John aimed the gun, but was unable to take the shot. It was too risky with the two men grappling with each other on the edge of a bloody rooftop. If he hit Ruben, he ran the risk of taking Sherlock over with him. If he missed Ruben, he ran the risk of hitting Sherlock, and while normally both scenarios were a win-win situation for John, he wasn’t thinking about himself at the moment. He was thinking about a sadistic murderer and blackmailer trying to kill an unarmed man. His conscience was overriding his own wants. 

“John, will you just…” Sherlock's voice was cut off by a left hook to the side of the jaw. In retaliation, Sherlock went to hit back, but in trying to block the swing, Ruben lost his footing and pitched sideways. In a fit of desperate survival, knowing his balance couldn’t be regained, he grabbed for the closest solid object he could reach, which happened to be Sherlock.

In the blink of an eye, both bodies lilted towards the edge of the building and both pitched over the side. 

John heard a scream and seconds later, a sickening thud as a body hit the ground, four floors down. Then there was silence, interrupted only by his own heavy breathing. 

Both men had gone over but there was only one scream. One body hitting the floor. 

“John…” gasped voice followed by scrabbling of fingers against the stone roof.

John slowly made his way to the edge and stared down. Sherlock was barely holding on to the edge of the building, the tension in his hands and arms from holding himself there, evident by the strained tendons in his hands and the way his arms looked bulked under his suit. 

“John, I can’t hold on for much longer.” At the words, one hand lost it’s grip and a shout came from Sherlock as he quickly swung his arm up to regain his hold onto the edge.

John looked down at Sherlock's frantic face and his conscience seemed to slip. This was his step to freedom. If Sherlock fell, John could just walk away. No one would look for him and if they did, he knew how to hide. He could probably make his way over to Wales or up to Scotland. 

“John…” Sherlock called out again, looking up into John’s face.

It was the sheer panic that did it. That and John realising that, despite the man below him being a colossal arsehole, he actually wasn’t a monster. Without another thought, John leaned forward and grabbed both of Sherlock's wrists, and with more than a bit of effort and a fair bit of grunting, pulled the man over the edge onto the safety of the rooftop.

For what seemed like an age Sherlock lay on his back, with John sitting next to him, both men panting in exertion. 

“For a minute, I thought you were going to let me fall,” Sherlock said, once he had got his breath back. He hadn’t moved from the prone position on his back, still staring up at the cloudy sky.

“For a minute, I did too,” John admitted.

At this, Sherlock turned his head and looked at John. John looked back. Sherlock didn’t seem upset or angry. He seemed curious. “What changed your mind?” He asked. 

“I didn’t want to risk being left to Mycroft in your will,” John bullshit, not wanting the man to know that it was actually to save Sherlock and for no other reason.

It was at these words, surprisingly, that Sherlock did look angry. “As if I’d ever leave that interfering, indulgent, prat anything, let alone something useful.”

“You think I’m useful?” John queried, surprised.

Sherlock sat up and brushed the rooftop random debris out of his hair. John assumed he wasn’t going to answer his question at all, until he stood up, brushing dust off his coat and tidying up his suit. “I wouldn’t have become your owner if you weren’t.”

“Oh, so now you agree that you do in fact own me,” John responded, standing up himself.

“I just know where the argument will go and find it easier and quicker and less tiresome to use your own words to placate you. I know how you do love hyperbole.”

John practically spluttered at this statement. “I love hyperbole?” he cried out. “Who was the one that destroyed all of our butter plates because the shop was out of lemon creams?”

“It was a science experiment on the effects of air resistance on….”Sherlock started, but John cut him right off.

“Bullshit. It was you throwing a tantrum.”

A brief silence sat between them before they both broke out in laughter.

“Fine,” Sherlock admitted. “Maybe we both have a bit of a dramatic flair.”

“One of us more than the other,” John added and Sherlock didn’t deny it. Instead, he walked towards the access door with a pleased look on his face and John followed.

~o~

John picked up his phone and typed in the number on the card. It was answered on the fourth ring.

“”Lestrade.”

“Hey Greg, it’s John here. John Watson.”

“Hey John. Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, yeah. Was just wondering if you were free tonight to catch up for a pint.”

There was a brief silence and then an agreeable “Yeah, sure. Seven O’Clock sound good?”

John nodded and then realised that Greg couldn’t see him. “Sounds great. The Baron’s Arms okay?”

“Yeah, it’s a good pub. I will see you at seven.”

“I’ll be there.”