Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sherlock remained stood tucking his shirt into his trousers. He’d been through quite an ordeal it seems. Coldness seemed to have taken over his tall form. Drugs had spent a large time manipulating Sherlock’s life, especially in the past few years. Work was all he had, much to his brothers concern. The addict’s eyes cast to the floor in an obvious attempt to avoid the elephant in the room. Mycroft watched his brother intently, continuously noting that his appearance was troublesome. Undernourished was the first thing that came to the political mind. His cheeks had hollowed making every word and expression dramatically jut out just as much as the detective’s collarbones. His hair was longer than usual and his pale complexion had changed to an ill unwashed yellow, no longer was there that moonlit glow dancing from his brother’s skin.

What was so once alive in his eyes was now gone. Once so magnetic, his gaze was now something of a distracted child’s, hovering over everything and not truly seeing. In need of something, constantly. The want of a fix was obvious. The tremors were beginning to show in his fingers and his speech was no longer demanding its usual attention. His eyes kept casting to the door, for on the other side Sherlock could return to his safe haven of the fix that would supposedly cure it all. Mycroft had waited for this moment for some time; in fact it’s all he could think about in recent months.
“Brother mine, I’m sending you to rehab.” Sherlock scoffed. A most expected response, but Mycroft was in a state of genuine concern, a joke was the last thing this could possibly be. One must look after ones own.
Sherlock not looking at his brother harshly replied, “You won’t send me to rehab Mycroft. Your little brother being exposed as a drug addict is a scandal you want to avoid.”

Mycroft let out a slight disappointed chuckle. “Isn’t it obvious you need it? Your intelligence is suffering from it Sherlock, you believe it aids it, somehow you’ve convinced yourself that it makes you work better, but a high does nothing but lie to you Sherlock. Before long your brain will be nothing but scrambled egg, and one day you’ll come to me like you did all those years before and ask me to end your life because you were too much of a coward to do it yourself. I didn’t do it then, and I will not do it now. I am not going to sit by and watch you become a vegetable, a goldfish, you are so much more than that brother.”

The upward curve of a smile on Mycroft’s face and the calm tone was deceived by the sadness of his eyes and the severity of his words. Brothers finally arrived at eye contact and Sherlock new he was in fact serious; this was no longer a game. In rivalry Sherlock really had lost the altruistic connection to his brother, yet Mycroft remained empathetic to his brother, always had and always will.
“Surprisingly, Sherlock my reputation is not more important than you.”
Sherlock sat in the seat opposite his brothers serious stare.

“Mycroft I was only a child, a confused and desperate child, please don’t use it against me like this. I accept that I often require some form of drug to stimulate something other, something unbeknown to me, it’s my head, it runs and runs and sometimes I need it to stop. You and I both know that. Work is all I need, I understand your concern, well actually admittedly I don’t, but you appear to possess it anyway, like the weak idiot you are. Rehab is for those who have nothing else. I have my work and if I leave, people will die and cases will remain unsolved. I cannot leave my work.”

Mycroft looked down at his manicured cuticles for he knew the next thing that needed to be said would not be received kindly. Once clearing his throat he said “I’ve told Lestrade that he is not permitted to give you any cases until you have successfully finished your treatment.”
Sherlock almost laughed, “You think Lestrade is the only detective I have wrapped round my finger? They’re all idiots! They all need me!”
“Of course not but I hoped it would be enough. Brother you know I have access to every CCTV camera in the city, all I have to do is get my pigeons to find you and whomever you’re working with and give them the same threat I gave Lestrade.”
Sherlock arched his eyebrows. “Threat?”

“Nothing you should concern yourself with. Are we clear?”
Sherlock slouched in his chair, not wanting to admit defeat however it seems that this game of chess had not gone to plan.
“Who am I to see then oh Mycroft the Conqueror?”
“Mother would not like your sarcasm.” Tutted Mycroft.
“It’s a private practice of course, I’ll pay for it all, and you won’t have to see anyone other than the Doctor you are assigned. He’s the best in his trade.”
“When?”
“Today of course Sherlock, do you think I’d let you go home to get another fix? A car awaits outside.”
Sherlock stood and marched off into the oncoming maelstrom away from the cold wash he’d just been given.

Chapter Text

“Mr. Holmes my name is Doctor Watson, I’ll be the one overseeing your treatment.” John’s outstretched hand hung in the awkward air and Sherlock did nothing but scowl at the sight of it. John put it back by his side and chuckled out an “I assume that this wasn’t your choice then. Don’t worry most people don’t have a choice. Then again you are not most people Mr. Holmes. Follow me if you will.”
The building was large, almost prehistoric with its layout. You can easily imagine this building being used as a temporary hospital during the Blitz. The large red brick walls encased a long corridor with private rooms divvied off of it. Most of the carved wooden doors were closed filled with secrets and personal stories of a troubled life pre-rehab. The only things modern about the place were the signs allocating the different sections of the rehabilitation facilities. Obnoxious and plastic they read things like ‘therapy room, Dr. Philbert’ or ‘MRI’ or ‘liver analysis ward.’ God it smelt awful. Smelt like sobriety.
Sherlock had his hands around his coat collar held close to the skin on his throat as if something was going to strike any second. He was attempting to make deductions about the place and Dr. Watson himself but he was currently on a bit of a come down and it was proving to make things rather difficult. His deductions were more like benign assumptions at this stage. They entered a room right at the end of the corridor to the left. The sign next to it read ‘Dr. John Watson, rehabilitation expert.’ Sherlock rolled his eyes. Books lined the walls on either side of the doorframe for at least two meters into the room. They were sectioned and alphabetized under certain categories. The first was all alcohol related, the next parts were all dedicated to different drugs, all of which Sherlock had tried. John caught Sherlock eyeing the shelves quite intently. “Ah so I see you’ve spotted my weakness Sherlock. Can I call you Sherlock?”
Sherlock responded without looking at the Doctor, still eyeing up the shelves.
“Call me the queen for all I care, I won’t be here long anyhow. Weakness?”
“Reading has ruined many of my relationships. I can’t ever seem to stop reading about my profession. I have an addiction it seems myself.”
“Except yours most likely won’t kill you.”

John allowed himself a brief chuckle. Sherlock didn’t see the humor in it.
“You can’t learn everything from books you know Dr. Watson. Or can I in fact call you John?” The sarcasm was clear and the laugh at this point it appears had left John. “Oh but you know that Doctor. I did some research on you John, in my prison car ride on the way over here and you appear to be fairly popular. Congratulations on the sickening blog by the way. You have been to war. You were blown up and shot at and lost colleagues, some of which undoubtedly despite all your efforts and reading and training could not save. And now here you sit in your OCD office in an Edwardian static building with nothing but your druggies and your books and your quaint chairs by the window. Is that why you limp? Because, you don’t have the imagination to return to war? Unfortunately Dr. Watson you are a goldfish in a tedious pond and I refuse to play.”

Sherlock plopped himself down in a chair like a triumphant cat. John remained standing and quiet for a moment. He headed over to the desk near the bookshelf and picked up a picture frame that stood on the desk. He smiled at it before bringing it to the table. He delicately sat down opposite Sherlock and placed the picture frame in front of him. “This is a picture of my grandmother, she was blind and was shot by some one in her own home over in Tottenham not far from here. Taped to her was a note that read ‘Sherlock Holmes did this.”
At John’s words Sherlock remembered the lady and the case she belonged to.
He looked up from his defiant stare out the window down at the picture. She was easily recognizable and Sherlock most definitely felt responsible for her death. John continued with his story.

“There was a big fuss and we were not allowed to bury her until the police figured out what the fuck was going on, and it wasn’t until you got involved that you figured out who killed her and why they killed her. I should be angry with you Mr. Holmes because ultimately my grandmother may still be alive, or in the least had died a peaceful and not terrifying death if you didn’t exist. But it happened, and I am glad that you existed to bring her murderer to justice. So first of all I forgive you but I also thank you. Don’t give me this bullshit about not caring by putting on some insensitive show because you read something about me online because Mr. Holmes, Sherlock, without even meeting you I know you care about solving things for people, important things like love, passion and death are commonplace to you. I know you are a man with addictive traits because you do nothing but solve murders, which are a fix itself; adrenaline is a dangerous chemical on its own. You are never-not in the papers being stereotyped, analysed and praised Sherlock. Your brother is a powerful man and I fear this just as much as you do.”
Sherlock swallowed. “I am not afraid.”
“Well Mr. Holmes you should be.”

Chapter Text

The first night in rehab was famously the worst. Cold turkey wasn’t easy. Sherlock was shown to the best room in the whole premises and Mycroft had sent over Sherlock’s necessities. Sherlock stripped off his clothes and climbed under the sheets almost glad to a small amount of privacy. Within half an hour he was shaking violently and the nausea was excruciating. Ten minutes after that his sheets were absolutely soaking from the volume of sweat that was leaving his pores. His body was working extremely hard to force out the toxins from his body. From that point on every fifteen minutes through the night an array of Doctors, including John would open the door just to ensure that Sherlock hadn’t done anything desperate. At around 1am John entered the room and came to take Sherlock’s temperature. Sherlock had already vomited into an assigned bucket by his bed several times and the exhaustion on his face was obvious.
“Please John can you give me something, anything, just something to get me through this.”
“Unfortunately we cannot give you any anti-sickness medicine as some patients do experience hallucinations as a side affect, we also don’t give out sleeping pills if a patient is vomiting in the first night, which you are, unless you have any ideas Sherlock? They say you are a genius.”
“God you’re cruel. Fuck you.”
John began to leave but a weak voice stopped him. “Please don’t go.”
John had a brief smile before turning back to his patient. He sat daintily on the end of the bed and said “whatever I can do Mr. Holmes just let me know.”
“What do you think of my brother?”
“Off record?” Sherlock nodded. “I think your brother, whilst an important man, he is a giant dickhead.”
Sherlock began to laugh, laugh the hardest he has laughed in a long time. In fact he couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed at all. John laughed with him, and was glad he could bring him some ease through the first of many difficult nights to come.

Chapter Text

Sherlock could barely eat anything the next morning. He was supposed to meet John in his office at 11am but he was so weak. So at ten minutes past the hour Dr. Watson appeared at the door. “I never expected Detective Sherlock Holmes to be a late man.”
“John I can’t do it, just tell my brother the dickhead that therapy went well, we have a lot of money he’ll buy you a yacht or something.”
“I’m sorry Mr. Holmes I don’t accept it, come on get up to the presumptuous chair we go.” John headed over to Sherlock’s bed and pulled back the covers in a purposefully dramatic fashion. Sherlock was very naked. Naked as the day he was born in fact. “Well doctor I didn’t think we would get to know each other this well this quickly.”
“I’m a soldier man, do you think I am not used to nakedness? I have had weirder patients than you, if you had to do therapy naked I would let you, anything that gets you to the chair I don’t give a flying fuck. Come on Detective Holmes, get to the chair, naked or not, your choice.” John left the room at that point and Sherlock struggled to put on a dressing gown before following after John to his office.

Sherlock sat down in front of John and what sat before him were a glass of water and an assortment of fruit.
“You should avoid dairy and processed foods for the time being. Natural sugars only Sherlock.”
“I don’t think I could eat a thing Watson.”
“You’ll thank me for it later. Just eat a banana and definitely drink the water. You would have lost a lot last night.”
Sherlock made an irritated face before begrudgingly eating the banana and taking a gulp of water.
“That wasn’t so difficult was it?”
“It may be vomited all over you in the next half an hour.”
“I’m quite used to vomit working in a rehab facility. Whatever you need.”
“So, how do we start this Watson?”
“Well, when did you first take drugs, and what kind was it?”
“I assume you mean the harder stuff, not cannabis which practically every simple minded person has taken. I took codeine pills to begin with, but the side affects were irritating and didn’t aid with my thinking, I began to experiment, meth was pedantic and unreliable, Diamorphine was good for a while but it relaxed me so much that I found myself unable to run around cases, Ketamine followed but the paralysis in the crash was in the least a nuisance, then I reached Cocaine.”
“Ah the old Charlie.”
“’Charlie’ what are you talking about John?”
“Sherlock it’s a nickname for… never mind, carry on.”
Sherlock took a sip of water and shuffled in his chair for a moment. “Cocaine gave me a hit unlike anything else, I have taken it in every form but straight into the veins gives the largest amount of focus. It’s like injecting petrol into a well-oiled engine. It makes me go without any quandary; I can focus entirely on the work and I can almost forget that I am as human as the police officers and the cadavers I work with.”
At this stage Sherlock was becoming animated, he was moving his hands and excitedly linking his words together. John smiled in surprise. “Sherlock I thought you’d be difficult, I thought it would take hours to get a genuine peep out of you.”
“I told you John, I shan’t be here long.”

Chapter Text

John went to his array of books and picked out a book called “Cocaine: A definitive history” by journalist Dominic Streatfield. Sherlock recognised it instantly. “I’ve already read that John.”
“Oh, well then you’ll know everything about Cocaine. I didn’t expect anything less Sherlock.”
“What has that to do with my treatment?”
“Well I guess understanding the drug your addicted to normally gives the feeling of being better than the drug, knowledge is power as they say.”
“I know all that already, John trust me on this, I am not a normal person, my mind is leagues above everyone else. Don’t take it personally. I think you should skip to nearing the end of what the program holds. Introduction is most unnecessary. What do I need to do to not be on cocaine again, give me the secret my brother has paid the fortune for. What is it?”
“Sherlock you need to conquer whatever is making you take the stuff in the first place.”
“What if I have nothing to conquer?”
“Everyone does. But if you genuinely feel that way, then I’m afraid you may as well walk out of here a lifer.”
“What is a ‘lifer’ in your terms exactly John?”
“Someone who will use until it kills them.”

Sherlock shuffled uncomfortably in his apparent near nakedness. Even though he hated to admit it, he did fear death. He knew that logically nothing lay beyond death; nothing awaited him once he was in his coffin. There was no enlightenment to find, he didn’t even fear the act of dying. It was the ceasing to exist, the nothing. The fact that his head would no longer run. Sometimes a non-spinning mind is what he has craved, which may be why he uses. But for it to never run ever again, no thinking or moving pieces around in his magical palace. No he wouldn’t die from overdose. That wouldn’t do. He’d die solving a case, drug free meaning his mind is fully functional. He’d die thinking about hard difficult things that normal people avoid with their meager distractions. When he dies his brain will be at 100%. No drugs it is.

“What makes you tick Sherlock?” John’s words brought Sherlock back to the room.
Sherlock cleared his throat as if he was preparing for his voice to run for a long while.
“Cases, murders. That is what I need. Otherwise I go stir crazy. I need something to understand, fix. I’ve never met anyone whose been able to keep up with the logic it takes to locate and solve all the moving parts a murder case dictates and demands. The police, they need me. It works because they are all useless. If any of them were good at their jobs they wouldn’t call on me so often.”
John interrupted “Are you glad to be needed like that?”
“Well, no, it’s an inherent need, I need cases more than I need food and water, and my brain needs something to focus on. If it doesn’t it crumbles and leads me to drugs. It always has, I need a stimulant continuously, and for example if we didn’t have this conversation in the present I’d be doing anything, an experiment most likely, just waiting for the next case. If the gap between cases gets too long, I need drugs just to pass the time eventually. So to answer your question, no I would solve puzzles even if I wasn’t needed making any positive emotion about being needed irrelevant. This can further be proven by the fact that most of the London metropolitan hate having me around, hence why the cases need me more than any emotion around want towards me is there or not.”

John sat back in his chair and folded his arms. He placed his right thumb to his lips as if the taste would provide him with the thoughts he needed. Once the correct thought hit him he placed both his hands face down on the table as if to give him some grip on their discussion. He took a deep breath before his words chimed from his voice box.
“Sherlock, thank you, what you have said has been indeed helpful. Would.. would you mind awfully if you showed me your forearms?”

Sherlock gave a curt nod and rolled back both his sleeves, left first followed by the right. They both watched Sherlock’s working hands as if the movement of his fingers was hypnotic. Once the task was completed, Sherlock rested his elbows then the rest of his arms right up to his fingertips like a wave on the table’s surface. John took hold of the left wrist using all of his ten digits and pulled the arm closer to him. It was delicate as if he had found a feather and feared that he would damage any of the minute structures it possessed. He looked at every inch of the skin until satisfied. He repeated the step on the right arm before gently informing Sherlock that it was okay for him to relax now. Sherlock retreated his arms like a snake would sneak off into its hide.
Once in his lap Sherlock almost hastily pushed the sleeves back down and swallowed any anxiety he felt. He looked back into John’s eyes before saying “Doctor’s opinion?”
John rubbed the back of his neck, smoothing down the stray hairs with his right palm. On his first word he leant forward and rested his elbows on the table and placed his conjoined hands of the table’s surface.

“Well, I would say that the scars on your arms tell me that you have in the least been methodical and almost clinical in which veins you have used, the repetitive scars are usually the worst, whereas you have many marks but they are all small and unnoticeable at a brief glance informing me that you have been trying to hide your drug use, either to your brother or the police or whomever. Doesn’t matter. The fact that you’ve been avoiding discovery tells me that you are aware that drugs are only a temporary part of your life otherwise you’d let the scars be worse than they are for accepting that drugs will damage your skin anyway so why bother maintaining there current state. This is a good first step, and by what you’re saying about your drug use being for your mind just means that we need to find more for you to do in those limbo points between cases. That sounds fair?”

Sherlock was almost impressed by the Doctor’s deductions. He cracked a content smile before saying calmly “fair.”
John sat back relaxed, smiling also, “Good. Do you play chess Sherlock?” 

Chapter Text

“Yes Dr. Watson I do, and I play mean. There is no benefit to letting people win.” The coy playfulness in Sherlock’s voice was unintentional, but John didn’t know that and the comment made him snicker.
“Well detective bring it on. I have spent many days playing chess and I too am competitive.” John rose from his chair and stroll to his desk that lay consumed by the left side of the extensive book collection. He bent over with one leg straight in the air in order to keep his balance, whilst pulling what appeared to be a large foldable chest set from under the desk; there must have been a hidden shelf under the initial wooden paneling, for he didn’t bend down low enough to enter one of the cupboards on the side or even to where it could have rested upon the light wooden panels on the floor.

It was only in this moment that Sherlock noticed that John was bare foot.
As he brought the box over, Sherlock brought his observation to light.
“Watson, do you always work bare foot?”
“If I’m comfortable with a patient like yourself then yes bare foot does suit me.”
“This isn’t a Tolkien story you know, the world has a certain level of expectations about feet John.”
John chuckled to himself and looked down at his hairy toes. “Yes but in here Sherlock, in this room I can just be. People in rehab have too many problems of their own to notice my hobbit feet, besides you are the first to actually notice, or at least to vocalize the fact.”
Sherlock huffed and folded his arms as if discontent, as John put the box on the table and sat he saw Sherlock go into himself all at once. His body language was all wrong and his eyes were once again gazed outside, but not, in actuality Sherlock wasn’t looking at anything at all. He was in his head. They were only discussing feet.

John attempted to bring him back. “Sherlock, what’s wrong? Was it something I said?” Without changing his gaze or his stature, Sherlock responded, “two things actually.”
John sat forward and scrunched his eyebrows together. Waiting patiently for Sherlock to finally speak.
Still unmoving Sherlock spoke, “John you said ‘just be.’ How can one ‘just be?’ That is a concept I will never be able to grasp. It’s like everyone can float without any trouble but I will always drown. How can I ‘just be?’” Sherlock getting visibly irritated now shifted his gaze and body simultaneously, to finally accept the eye contact John had been waiting for, “John you said ‘people in rehab,’ I am not and never will be people. I have never been easily categorized. Everyone ticks themselves in little boxes as easy as filling out a form, but I have never fitted into any of them. ANY of them. The fact that I noticed or bothered to say that you have no fucking socks on demonstrates all on its own that I am not ‘people.’”
Sherlock spat the word ‘people’ out as if it were an antagonizing black mass whose sole purpose was to question his whole purpose and existence.

John leant forward and said with a safe smile upon his lips, “Sherlock, you are one of the most intelligent and provocative people I have ever had the pleasure to meet. And I say people, because even if you don’t believe it or feel it, you are human. You care and you strive to benefit others because you need to. You have no idea why you need to, or why you are this way, yet you are. You just be Sherlock. You exist as much as everyone else, if not more for all you feel, or all you avoid to feel, you experience the darkness and the greatness of humanity with every death you look into.”

Sherlock was shaking slightly, it could have been from his body attempting to repair itself from its abuse, or just maybe, just maybe, it could have been from John’s words. His eyes were cast to his lap and his body was no longer tense.

“Sherlock, I don’t think this kind of sitting therapy is going to work for you, you need more, you are so much more. Your body needs a rest though, so I say stay here for a week or two, we need to get your weight up, during that time we can do whatever you like within these walls, we can talk, read, play chess whatever, but when I deem you physically fit, I think you should take me on a case.”

Immediately Sherlock lit up from longest toenail to the highest hair on his head. He looked John straight in the eye and just began to uncontrollable laugh. Laugh and laugh and laugh until the pair of them were keeled over on the floor unable to do anything other but be happy. Once they managed to catch their breath, on their backs like paralysed turtles, they attempted to keep it together. “John that may be the best thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“Well, Sherlock I believe your brother informed you I was the best in the business? Well he wasn’t wrong. You indeed won’t be in here long Detective Sherlock Holmes. Right where were we? Oh yeah chess.”

Chapter Text

Sherlock and John recomposed themselves and stood. They shook off their communal fits of giggling just as they shook the dust from their clothes. Once floor-dust free, they looked each other in the face and shared a mutual contented sigh.
“Sherlock, I believe I shall order us some lunch from the kitchens to be brought here, usually we are meant to go down to the dining area to socialize with like minded rehab people, but I think you couldn’t think of much worse. Am I right?”
Sherlock gave a curt nod, almost embarrassed by the realization that he was still in his dressing gown, he tightened its cord wrapped round his waist. John noticed, of course he did, he notices everything (much to the impressed surprise of Sherlock- another person who notices everything, finally!!)
“Sherlock, if you wish you could go and get changed whilst I order our food? Then we can begin our awaited chess match once you get back? We could play until our food arrives, oh it’s lasagna today by the way, the garlic bread with it is better than the pasta itself but it does the job.”

Once again Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to speak. On reflection of their laughing fit, Sherlock had never actually laughed, properly laughed to tears like that. It was like he’d gone into shock; he needed one of those orange blankets the police gave out to victims. The shock had made him quiet. John was maybe someone he should keep around. He could keep up with a case right? The fact that his words were ‘take me on a case.’ ME. He wants to go on a case. He is curious, everyone else has been scared of the work, not that Sherlock has ever made the offer, but everyone has grimaced in horror, apparently normal people cannot cope with death in any regard. But John, John has seen it all already; he’s an army doctor for fuck sake. If anything maybe he misses it. Maybe he needs it just as much as Sherlock. Sherlock should keep a hold of John. He might be the only shot of a friend he had.

On reaching his room Sherlock changed from his dressing gown to a purple shirt and suit trousers, not black but charcoal. Sherlock always thought presentation was a way of ensuring people didn’t know anything about you. It was a tool, a key to show whomever you meet that you are powerful. Sherlock thought dressing smart and rich was a way of intimidating and adding to his persona of a complete asexual intellectual. A man that you could trust with knowledge, but not with personal information that was unnecessary to logic. Logic that could have the potential to save lives. Often, Sherlock would be frustrated by the lack of information he could keep at the foremost of his thoughts. Hence why he created the conceptual Mind Palace. A practice that keeps logic to a computerized system; one that has a tested and proven success rate. If Sherlock were to dress like everyone else on a daily basis people may tell him useless information, things that will not add to saving people or providing true justice. Sherlock had to be good at what he did, he needed the work, if he wasn’t good at it, then he would not ever have access to it. That would definitively kill him. Now he was with John though, what he wore maybe wasn’t as important, especially if he wanted to work with John in the future. Sherlock looked at his bare feet and smiled.

Sherlock walked from his allocated room to John’s now welcoming office. He felt the cold floor press against the balls of his feet. It was almost liberating. He could see why John did it. On nearing the door Sherlock felt what seemed to be butterflies in the pit of his stomach. He was excited. Why was he excited? The questioning look on his face remained until he passed through the doorframe.
John was sitting in his window seat just as Sherlock had expected him to be.
John smiled on seeing Sherlock enter, “Ah Sherlock, I see you have gone sockless, very good choice. Quite freeing wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes John, you’d be right. I see you have already set up chess. You’ve chosen the black side, interesting. Why give me the advantage of starting first? Maybe you like the underdog. Or maybe you think you are good enough to win without the advantage.”
“You are correct on both accounts Detective.”
“Alright fine, have it your way.”
Sherlock sat on his side, with the white chess pieces stoically placed in front of him atop the piece of checkered wood.
“Well Dr. Watson, here we are. Let the mind games begin.”

Sherlock reached forwards with his left fingertips and moved a pawn piece from E2 to E4. “Do you know why chess was invented John?”
“No I’m afraid I don’t Sherlock but imagine you’ll tell me from your bank of wisdom.”
Ignoring the sarcasm Sherlock continued his line of thought whilst John moved his own pawn from E7 to E5 so that it was placed directly in front of Sherlock’s moved pawn. “War. The game originates from India; the translation of the original name translates as ‘four divisions’, as in of the military; infantry, cavalry, elephantry and chariotry.” As Sherlock spoke the four divisions he pointed to the various pieces on the board. John watched his fingers as they followed the words that soothed from his lips. “Humanity needs war just as much as chess requires a board. None of us know why we are here, yet we are driven by some innate purpose to do something. War gives people that purpose; it satisfies that burning question of why are we here."
Whilst Sherlock finished his talk he sat back in his chair and moved a second pawn from B2 to B4.

“Is that why you think I went to war Sherlock?”

Sherlock retracted a little, a tiny tremble, minor hesitation in his confidence, but definitely noticeable. He’d forgotten. How could he be so stupid and mention war when John had lived it. This was supposedly an opportunity for a new friend, the only friend and he had blundered it already.
“Forgive me John, I am not… I am not used to talking so freely. I must have forgotten my..”
“Sherlock stop, it’s okay, we can talk as plain as we like. We are not children. Please, it is interesting. Why do you think I went to war? Be as honest as possible.” John spoke calmly and stroked Sherlock’s nerves.
With slight relief Sherlock took an awaited inhale of breath and squandered over John’s question. “Well, John my estimate would be most likely escape.”
“From what?”
Just as Sherlock parted his lips and was about to respond, a rather old woman came around the corner with a trolley holding two plates containing lasagna and garlic bread. She had to have been nearing retirement, she shuffled with a slight limp and she was beyond caring about her personal appearance. She pushed the trolley over to the table and squeezed the plates alongside the in play chessboard.

“Thank you Marjorie” John chimed.
“Yes, thank you,” squeaked Sherlock.
Marjorie gave a semi-grunt before footling out of the room, closing the door behind her. Leaving the men in true privacy.

Chapter Text

“I must be honest Watson, the lasagna looks rather disappointing.” Said Sherlock whilst poking at it lamely with his fork.
“I did tell you that the garlic bread would be better.” John took a bite out of his bread and waved his hand to encourage Sherlock to eat.
“Well, what am I escaping from Detective?” he uttered mid-mouthful.
“Oh yes right, that, well I have established some deductions about you that let me see that escaping would be a more than likely option for yourself.”
“Oh?” John said post second bite.
Sherlock sat back and placed his fingertips so they connected and made his hands arch in front of his body. It was an intellectual pose, and made John understand why many thought him eccentric in person.

“You keep your nails short and your hair irrefutably in place, some may say it was the army that made you this way but the childhood pictures about this room tell me otherwise. Suggesting that you like things in a certain way, you need control, if there is no order in your life you spiral, a very human thing to do. You walk bare foot and you speak your mind, so you are confident and competent in all you attempt to do. I imagine on your signing up to the army there was no control in your life, everything was everywhere and there was nothing that could be done about it. A family death maybe, someone close to you was ill or maybe you were just too bogged down with the big questions no person can comprehend. Either way you needed escape, but it had to be specific, planned, nothing less than controlled. You may have considered other professions initially such as Doctor, hence why you are here right now, but it proved long hours and it didn’t satisfy the clear addiction to adrenaline you have yourself. So then the army, structured and a rush all at once. You feel the chase just as much as I do Watson, which is why coming on a case with me is a most splendid idea. Your move.”

John’s jaw had dropped the entire time, and whilst Sherlock’s hands moved continuously to match the flow of his words, John could look nowhere but his eyes. They had come alive once more; so different from when he first walked in.
Once Sherlock ended his speech John spluttered, “Sherlock that was amazing, you are amazing, yes! Yes to everything! What’s my move?”
“I do believe we are playing chess Dr. Watson.” Even though Sherlock said it like nothing had occurred, on the inside he felt ecstatic, John was the one, the only one he had ever met who he knew would definitively enjoy his cases. No longer would he have to do everything on his own, someone to discuss it all with, finally someone that could just keep up!! If Sherlock played his cards right, this could be the beginning of something life changing.

“Yes you’re right Sherlock I had completely forgotten. Whilst I ponder it, do have some garlic bread, remember I’m the one that has to deem you physically fit before we can go on a case.”
The corner of Sherlock’s lips turned upwards as he chewed his first piece of garlic bread. John wasn’t wrong it was rather nice. They were only three moves into the game but John still felt confident he could beat the genius opposite him.
John outstretched his left hand and dragged it hovering over the board, pondering his tactics. He went right across his pieces and then moved a pawn from H7 to H5 before sitting back in his seat.
“Interesting Watson, I see you play offensive, good.”
Immediately without hesitation Sherlock moved the pawn that was allocated in front of his King from D2 to D3. Now the space on the board was starting to free up. John felt a pang of excitement to see Sherlock’s king exposed.
John at this point had two options, either use his available castle in H8 or use his Queen who was admittedly a gamble.

John placed his right hand on the castle located on his left side, so that he was reaching over his body. He dramatically slid the piece from H8 to H6.

Now the game was on.

Sherlock had a bishop located in F1 that could come in handy at this point, however if he solely used the Bishop it would take two moves to reach the castle, which may be one more moves than he can afford. But Sherlock wanted to appear brave to John, he could choose an easy option and move his King directly behind the pawn at D3 making John’s using the castle to take the King impossible. But Sherlock was a gambler, he knew that playing safe in this world was boring anyhow. Sherlock silently moved his Bishop from F1 to E2. His Queen was protected but he now looked bold in his choices. John smiled at his option. It’s definitely not what he would have done, but it was good to learn that Sherlock didn’t play safe. John wished he could be more like that. So many times in his life he was avoided risk at the fear he’d lose control. Maybe that was something he could learn from Sherlock in the future. Now it was time for a really offensive move.

John moved his castle from H6 to D6. He picked the piece up off the board and sat it slightly cocky onto its resting place. On doing so he looked up at Sherlock and lifted one eyebrow whilst opening up his palms as if to say ‘come and get me.’ Sherlock was correct in the two moves behind assessment. He knew that John would move the castle and take the pawn at D3, but this is where his play had been decidedly clever on Sherlock’s part. Whilst John had been focused on the bishop taking the castle at the step behind, the bishop was also capable to take the castle at D3. The question is would John notice?

Chapter Text

Of course John would notice. Sherlock was secretly pleased. It was a test in any case. John smiled after he made his move, “Sherlock you bastard.” John began to laugh. “Well’s that plan A out of the window. Good move detective.”
Sherlock smirked before moving the bishop away from the potentially intrusive D3 to C5. The confusion on John’s face was a picture. His face was all scrunched up and he looked at Sherlock as if he was a drawing from a comic book.
“Sherlock… you do realize. Sherlock you just. Why would you…?”
“I was curious to see this plan A John.”
“What if I win now? You would have just given it all up.” John moved his hands vigorously as he spoke.
“Sometimes a better man deserves a win John.”
Now John looked even more confused. “No I’m sorry, I’m calling bullshit on that Sherlock. You spend you’re whole life ensuring people DON’T WIN. You are the good guy on that, meaning that YOU are the better man.” Sherlock gave a brief sigh.

“We haven’t even be on a case yet John and you already see me as a hero. You have so much to learn John. Someone once told me John that I am on the side of the angels. But I am no angel John, and I can tell you that you are the better man out of the two. On the simplest level to begin with, you are ex-military turned altruistic doctor. You have fought for your country and yet on return you refuse to lie down, despite an injury may I add, you endeavor to help those who made bad choices, non-judgmental and beneficial. Yet I am a high-functioning sociopath who solves crimes not out of generosity, but out of a sheer selfish need. You are the doctor, I am the addict. Thus making you naturally the better man.” Sherlock sat back in his chair and for the first time in their meeting, John was speechless.
John took a moment and too sat back. Both appeared deep in thought.

“I don’t accept that Sherlock, I am more than likely not as smart as you” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Yes alright, I am not as smart as you Sherlock, undoubtedly so, but I think I understand human emotion enough to call bollocks on this lonely persona you have created because you believe it will help you in your work. People protect people Sherlock, especially good people. I think you’re the one who has much to learn.” On John’s last word he leaned over and moved his offensive castle from D6 to D3, taking one of Sherlock’s pawns at D3.
John said post sigh “check-mate.”
Sherlock’s smiled. Plan A was direct, completely bold and deserving of a win.
“Sherlock your King is completely exposed, and it’s all your fault, why are you smiling?”
“I just like playing chess with you John. I’ve only ever played with my brother, and he is a bad sport. You on the other hand have expressed you want a fair game regardless of who your opponent is. You must have been an honorable soldier.”
“I tried to be anyway, thank you Sherlock.”

Sherlock was happy with his progress with John and to prove a point he moved his King one-step closer to its castle attacker, from D1 to D2. He felt no need to defend himself in any capacity with John, he knew they were on the same side, somehow even whilst playing chess. This was so different, so new to Sherlock, everyone has felt like his enemy up until this point. John has been the first he has felt safe with.
John made a little nervous giggle before taking Sherlock’s King, and thus winning their short game of chess.

John jokingly shook his head before placing out his hand in front of him to shake the hand of his opponent, just as he had the first time they met. Except Sherlock took his hand this time. Whilst mid-shake John said, “Well Sherlock we shouldn’t play chess ever again I don’t think.”
Sherlock began a chuckle before saying “Oh, I don’t know John I rather enjoyed it. We appear to have forgotten our lasagna, I imagine it is quite cold at this point.”
“It’s pretty gross anyway Sherlock.” John glanced down at his watch. “Gosh look at the time! We really haven’t followed your program, not even closely. There are these sheets that I need you to do. You will obviously find it tedious but would you mind doing them? It’s for paperwork purposes; I’m to send them to your brother to prove that you are in fact getting better…”
Sherlock huffed, “yes, alright fine.”
John stood for what felt like a too long a time, he stretched out his body and Sherlock noticed the slight painful twitch when John rotated his left shoulder. Must have been where he was shot. To take him out of the army it must have been pretty bad. The limp really was psychosomatic. Then something amazing happened. As John walked to get the papers he spoke of he didn’t limp. He walked straight and thorough.

In delight or shock or god knows what Sherlock jumped up from his seat to his bare feet “John, John! You’re not limping!”
John now stood at his desk and began to laugh. Laugh just as he had when Sherlock and he ended up laughing so hard they ended up on the floor. John began to walk about his office. He strutted and walked as if he was raised out of a wheelchair by some gospel miracle. “SHERLOCK I’M WALKING. I CAN’T BELIEVE I AM JUST WALKING LIKE A NORAML HUMAN BEING. God it has been years. My leg! My leg no longer hurts. What did YOU DO ShErLoCk?!!”

Sherlock himself was caught out by the mood, the atmosphere John was creating, it was a joy Sherlock had never personally experienced himself. “I didn’t do anything John, it can’t have been anything I did!”
John walked up to Sherlock and took both his forearms in his hands and squeezed gently. “It’s everything you did, I’ve never had a patient like you! No, never met anyone like you! You are incredible Sherlock. Just hearing you speak, being around you has made me feel younger, not just that either, it’s the best I’ve felt in years and what has it been two days?! Can I confess something?”
Of course, Sherlock wanted John to be in this moment for as long as possible, never before has he heard such praise.

“Yes John, please do.”

“I hate this job, day in day out people come in here smelling of alcohol or sheer uncleanliness because drugs have consumed them to the point that they don’t wash. And by the time we get to the bottom of it, the cause of all their troubles, it is always their parents, always! And then you, you Sherlock, you walk in, and it’s about your mind, the thing that runs the whole show, and I have never seen someone be so fine being taken off drugs, normally people are catatonic for a week, but one day in you are deducing these incredible things, if you are this way during cold turkey I can’t imagine what you will be like at one hundred percent! And you know what Sherlock, I want to see it! I want to see you running the streets of London solving murders. But most of all Sherlock I want to run with you! I want to see it all, I want to do things as important as what you do and you do it every day! Sherlock can I ask something of you? I completely understand if you say no…”

The two men stood facing each other unmoving throughout all of John’s words, and Sherlock could feel his heart in his mouth, this is all he had ever wanted.
“Sherlock will you let me join you on cases indefinitely? I mean we may need a tester period, you may not think I’m right for it but..”
Sherlock interrupted him immediately “John I can’t think of anything I’d want more.”
Both men resumed in their laughter they had shared the day before.

Chapter Text

12 days passed for both Doctor and patient.
They spent their days together, and even some nights, the nights that Sherlock was finding drug withdrawal particularly difficult, but during their days they would chat and do a bit of Sherlock's paperwork as fast as possible. They'd talk about everything, from the unimportant to the dark things. Sherlock’s worst case, John’s worst army experience, Childhood memories and what John was to expect in joining Sherlock on cases. On the eleventh day it was as if John and Sherlock had run out of things to discuss, so they sat and read. Mostly in silence but sometimes they’d read certain passages to each other which would lead to brief discussions, but mostly the silence was something they both thoroughly enjoyed.

On the twelfth day John handed in his leaving notice and said goodbye to all his colleagues and patients he checked on often. He had enough money for a while, as the severance package was pretty good. The main problem was that he lived at his job. The building had accommodation so he lived there, he was at work 24/7, or close to it. He had to be there for patients anyway, but where he would live for now, who knows? Sherlock put his book down at one point on the eleventh day because he’d had that same realization.

“John, where are you going to live?”
“I don’t know yet Sherlock, I have a sister who lives in Surrey so I may live with her for a while until I sort something out.”
“Oh no John that wouldn’t do, we need to be in London, both of us. The job, it’s instantaneous, we have to be in it, live it constantly. Especially when the heat of the chase is on. I have a spare room, stay there, there's already a bed and some furniture in there.”
John initially thought he was joking, then remembered Sherlock doesn’t joke about practicalities. “Sherlock we’ve only known each other a fortnight.”

“Oh John, don’t be a goldfish, you know fully well that doesn’t matter. Sitting in this room as we have all that time will be exactly the same in my flat. We enjoy each other’s company. We can speak honestly and fairly, we practically know everything about each other already, and we both accept everyone has flaws. There is enough space for us both, you’ve cared for me at probably the worst I have been in years, and you have already seen me naked. John, there is no issue.”

“Sherlock living together will have at least definitely some differences, and if we are also working together we will get sick of each other, especially if we may disagree on a case.”
“John stop, you are not trivial like this. If we argue, we argue, but the work is the most important thing John. It's the most important thing to me, and if I know you as I think I do, it will soon become the same for you, if not immediately. So 221b Baker Street?”
John sat and thought for a moment. He was right, things would change, and they would go through difficulties, it was unavoidable, but ultimately it would be worth it, and Sherlock was right, the job would consume almost everything, but that is what John wanted, at least for now.

“221b Baker Street sounds good Sherlock.”

“Good, glad we agree, move in in two days time Watson?”
“Yes in two days is fine by me.”
Sherlock brought his book back into his eye line and then almost immediately put it back down, “does that mean I am medically fit to be discharged doctor?”
“Well Sherlock, I think you have got through the worst of it, and if I am with you I can check signs and prevent you don’t use again as much as possible. I think having a doctor around will be good for you.”
“Good. That’s also good, better you than Mycroft making occasional drug busts with Lestrade." John shrugged and the men returned to their reading until both parted to bed.

On the thirteenth morning, both prepared to leave the rehabilitation center. Weirdly enough it wasn’t just Sherlock who felt like he had been rehabilitated. John himself was also different. He no longer limped and he felt the most optimistic he’d felt in years. John surprisingly didn’t have many possessions, apart from his books which he had organised to be sent over to in a big load in a few weeks time. Sherlock deduced the practice of minimalism in John’s life had something to do with his need for order and control. It wasn’t OCD, just preference. Sherlock was already planning how to use this to both of their advantages. The books even may be of use for their now joint profession. Sherlock only had his suitcase with some clothes that Mycroft had ‘lovingly’ sent over, travelling light had always suited him.

John said his final goodbyes on his way out and he had a definite spring in his step. Sherlock simply made courteous nods, and on exiting the building they walked to the next more populated street to ensure Sherlock could easily hail a black taxi.
On entering said Taxi Sherlock asked “John do you have any money on you?”
John giggled slightly and said, “I see we haven’t even lived together yet and you’re already taking advantage of me. Yes Sherlock I have cash.”
The driver didn’t bother turning road but looked in his rear view mirror whilst asking, “Where are you two lovebirds going then?”
As John went to protest, Sherlock completely ignored the wording and said “221b Baker Street, take the back roads, the cobbled ones, it takes seventeen minutes longer and my companion here is paying, and seeing as he has just left his job I don’t want to see him ripped off.”
In that moment, in Sherlock’s words it then all became very real. John felt a wave of butterflies deep in his gut and almost shuddered in disbelief. One thing he was sure of is that he most definitely wasn’t making a mistake. They were going on an adventure.

Chapter Text

On the journey home Sherlock could feel all his senses coming alive again, his deductions became quicker and more specific the longer the journey went on. And he had to admit, drug free all of it was easier, better. Both Mycroft and John were right. Drugs didn’t benefit his work at all. He would point out every adulterer, gambler, dealer, liar and more to John in that car. And once again John would just utter praise. Sherlock didn’t think he’d ever get used to it. People normally called him freak or something just as cruel. It had made a hard shell out of him. With everything John said he could feel parts of it chipping away, and it was nice, but mostly scary. Sherlock had never let his guard down to anyone before. Yet Sherlock trusted him, and he figured that if they trusted each other completely, with their lives even, the better they would work together. It may have only been two weeks but they were unbelievable together. If someone where to meet them it would appear that they had known each other since birth.

On arriving at 221b John commented on its prime location and other tattle that Sherlock generally ignored. He admired Speedy’s café and how it would be great for hangovers and such of that nature. Sherlock just gave the occasional ‘hmm’ whilst reminding John to pay, unpacking the car with their small number of possessions and finally unlocking the front door. The gold knocker was at it’s usual ajar, meaning that Mycroft wasn’t in, much to Sherlock’s relief. As John entered behind Sherlock grinning ear to ear, Sherlock called for Mrs. Hudson.
“Sherlock who’s Mrs. Hudson?”
“She is our landlady John, she has her flaws like all goldfish but she is a nice woman who understands my needs, and is never particularly bothered if the rent is paid late or not, I ensured her husband went to prison, something she was hugely grateful for,” Sherlock rolled off the knowledge at his normal demeanor.
For some reason John didn’t like the word ‘needs’ in that sentence. It haggled him a little bit, Sherlock didn’t have ‘needs’ right? Well he was soon to find out.

Mrs. Hudson opened her ground floor flat door and to John’s eyes she did look like an awfully kind woman.
“Sherlock!” She excitedly mused.
She kissed him on the cheek and then on noticing John her eyes practically exploded out of her head.
“Sherlock” she said cheekily whilst tapping him across the chest with the back of her right hand “well who is the boyfriend? Introduce me to the man you’ve obviously ran away with for the past two weeks.”

Once more John went to protest but found he was beaten to it, “he isn’t my boyfriend Mrs. Hudson, he is my doctor and I didn’t run away, Mycroft forced me into rehab. Which has resulted in John living with me for the foreseeable future, if not forever, I am going to skip all the questions and just assume you are okay with that. He will help with rent and he is incredibly tidy much to your joy I’m sure.” Sherlock gave a clearly forced smile, which made John have to bite his lip in an attempt to not laugh.

John put out his hand and said, “My name is Dr. John Watson, and I think Sherlock needs a doctor around what with his previous substance abuse and erm such.” They shook hands, and whilst they did so Sherlock dramatically mouthed to John behind Mrs. Hudson’s back “erm such?!” John semi shrugged in response and once again was trying not to laugh. It was all a bit surreal.

“Well Sherlock, John, can I call you John? Course I can, you are welcome to stay, and I am glad to have another pair of hands to keep Sherlock under control.”
Once again John didn’t quite agree with the phrasing, maybe he was looking into it all too much. He’d be fine once the excitement had normalized a tad.
John and Sherlock said farewell to Mrs. Hudson and made their way up the short flight of stairs to the, their, flat. John’s new home. In admission on arriving at the door he realised he really hadn’t thought this through very much. He just followed his gut like he had his whole life. It felt right. Once the door swung open and they both walked through the door, Sherlock didn’t say anything he just took his whooshy coat off and hung it up on the wooden coat stand before walking around and checking everything was in tact. He didn’t check round to see if John had scarpered, he just continued as he would if John wasn’t there, or rather as if John had always been there.

John still felt like this wasn’t his home and he asked almost shyly where his room was, when Sherlock mumbled that it was back up the stairwell to the one room allocated at the top of the house John nodded before practically retreating to the privacy of what had become his bedroom.
On reaching the room he felt a feeling of relief. He placed his things down on the old wooden floor and immediately removed his shoes and socks to feel the cold floor under his toes. He flexed those ten digits as if it was like taking a very deep satisfying breath. He took his jacket off and flung down on the bed before returning bare foot to where Sherlock waited in their living room, reading through a letter that had apparently been sitting on the living room floor pushed under the front door for all of five days.

Chapter Text

The letter was written on very nice paper, thick and embossed with a sort of eggshell tinge rather than that usual grey-white colour we know so well on the cheap printing paper that’s used in everyday life. This, this paper then obviously came from somewhere important. By the time Sherlock had read it John had returned from his room and on John’s entering Sherlock held out the letter, inviting John to read it’s hand written scrawl. Once John freed Sherlock of the paper, Sherlock lay down on the sofa and placed his pressed fingers upon his chin. The words required thought then.

It read

"Dear Sherlock Holmes,

I am writing to you anonymously with regards to a death. A relative of mine died all of two days ago and I am finding it hard to believe it was from natural causes. Her name was Eleanor Scott. She was 34 and I have knowledge that she was involved in some pretty shady business regarding illegal smuggling of an array of things, particularly from the East. Whoever she worked with paid her between £20’000 and £60’000 depending upon the item. After her death, I visited her apartment on Sycamore Avenue in Hampstead, to find the place looking practically ransacked. I think her death was a struggle. I don’t know if the police know she was murdered and are keeping it a secret, or if there is another explanation. Any help would be useful, I have a contact with Scotland Yard who will inform me of your progress. Any success will mean reward.

Kind regards,
Anonymous."

Sherlock spoke simply “thoughts Watson?”
“It almost doesn’t make sense.”
Sherlock sat up excitedly and swung his feet round to touch the floor so he could face John.
“Good, why?”
“What is the benefit of being anonymous?”
Sherlock lowered his hands and said, “The question is more what is there to lose if known?”
John began to pace with the letter placed behind his back.
“It must be a close relative, otherwise they wouldn’t know or care enough to think it a suspicious death.”
“Unless John, they are telling us they are a relative to throw us off the not-so-anonymous scent.”
John stroked his brow with the letter-free hand. “And what’s with all the ‘I have a contact with Scotland Yard?’ How can you even do that?”
“If they are telling the truth John, about all of it, then clearly he must be someone high up, maybe even someone in the public eye, with lots to lose.”
“He?!”
“Yes of course John look at the handwriting.”
“Some women have messy handwriting too.”
“Okay statistics alone John it is a man, and besides if you were going to write a letter to me about the death of someone you care enough about to write said letter, wouldn’t you be as neat as possible?!”
Sherlock was right, of course he was.

Sherlock gazed directly in front of him looking the most concentrated John had ever seen a person. He spoke as if alone, John wondered briefly if Sherlock did that alone, rolled off his ideas as if in a dialogue, even if he was alone. “The language also suggests that they are educated...” John shot a slightly confused look, Sherlock looked irritated about having to explain himself “regards, array, all of, knowledge, particularly, inform…”
“How the bloody hell did you remember all that?!”
Sherlock ignored John’s exclamation. “Educated backs up the fact that they may be in some powerful position, rewards also usually come from upper-class, middle if we’re lucky. So they are influential and rich. Potentially a politician who’s been hiding the fact they have a secret failure of a sister. Maybe a clergyman who has a daughter who left the church in a crime obsessed rage. Maybe a well-known actor with a bastard daughter that his wife doesn’t know about. Or maybe just a friend wanting to see justice for their murdered lover. Who knows!”
After Sherlock’s speech he stood and clapped once before grabbing his coat and running out the door and down the stairs.

John stood dumbfounded and had no clue what to do. He heard Sherlock run back up the stairs to practically shout like a child who had just heard an approaching ice cream van, “John! Come on, we have a murder to solve!”
Immediately he turned around and descended the stairs once more.
“The game is on Watson! The game is on!”

Chapter Text

John scrambled to find his shoes and coat. He hobbled down one set of stairs from his room trying to get his left shoe on and he hobbled down the next set of stairs in an attempt to get on the right. On reaching and shutting the front door of his new residence he turned to face Sherlock who was already holding a taxicab door open. Without any hesitation John jumped into the cab and thanked Sherlock, which Sherlock apparently ignored before defiantly informing the driver that they were going to “St. Barts, morgue entrance on the west side” before sitting back in his seat and staring out the window not facing John.

John just watched him through out all of this. Lips slightly parted and eyes with almost a film layer on the iris, John couldn’t take his eyes off the detective. Maybe he’d gone into shock. Maybe it had finally hit John at what he was doing. They barely new anything about each other. Sure they had recounted events, things that had happened to them, and even if they were personal whomever you tell the story to, they are completely and utterly detached from it.

They don’t understand how that has affected you, or they may not even be able to remotely empathize. Once John took himself out of his trance with his bad thoughts he felt himself panic. He began to over breathe and his blood turned from acid to alkaline. His eyes welled up and he felt the back of his throat tighten and it became incredibly difficult to breathe. His chest began to burn with every expansion and all he could think was ‘fuck fuck how could you be so stupid.’ This was Sherlock on a case; this is how he would be most of the time. Not the Sherlock John had got to know and like in the sanctity of his office, which was case free and in which Sherlock didn’t have a genuine worry.

They were wrapped up in cotton wool like a babe, and now they were in the real world, the cold harsh world with an immediate murder to investigate and the reality of who Sherlock Holmes really is. John thought that he didn’t like Sherlock like this, and that scared him, because this is who Sherlock was, he appeared inconsiderate to get the work done, or maybe he genuinely didn’t care. John for a second thought he didn’t want to find out.

The car stopped and this time Sherlock paid. They walked onto the pavement and John couldn’t bring himself to look upon Sherlock’s face any longer.
Sherlock watched as John headed for the entrance to St. Bart’s’ West wing. Sherlock had to practically run to catch up with his doctor. For Sherlock this is all he had ever wanted, a smart person to confide in about cases, to have some ideas that don’t have to rely to come from him. Sherlock really didn’t want to lose this, if this went awry and John left, Sherlock would feel even more lonely than before, and Sherlock would often feel so lonely he that he would sleep on the sofa in fear that he would go to bed and die in his sleep because his heart would fail from loneliness.

In fact Sherlock thought that he might just give up on life entirely if John were to leave. How could he have become so dependent on someone so quickly? Loneliness doesn’t depend on how little people you are surrounded by, it depends on how you feel when with other people. It’s a state of mind, not how little people you know or judged by how much time you spend alone. Someone can spend their whole life with one other person and not feel lonely. Sherlock would feel lonely no matter who or how many people he was with. Maybe John was this one person that didn’t make him feel lonely.

Now the doctor and the detective walked side by side, about a meter away from the door Sherlock pulled John back to face him. He hesitated slightly for in his apparent boldness he realised that he hadn’t actually thought through what he was going to say. “John, I just, erm, I simply wanted to say that I am glad you, well I am pleased that you, or rather I am happy to be in your company.”
John smiled, a genuine toothy smile. All of a sudden he could breathe again and his mind cleared of all that pessimism and panic. Sherlock would have his diamond moments it seems. Maybe John would just have to be a little patient and dig for them.
“I’m happy to be in your company too Sherlock.”
On that note John turned and they entered the Morgue in search of finding the body of Eleanor Scott.

Sherlock opened the double doors with both hands in naturally the most dramatic way imaginable. John shortly followed and even though he had a severe determined face, he also had a glint in his eyes. This was it. Him and Sherlock Holmes on a case, literally out to discover and solve the death of a complete stranger. John could practically whistle. They turned and walked down an adjoining corridor, John wondered how Sherlock new where he was going then realised at how stupid that thought was. Of course Sherlock knew where he was going, this is where the dead people went.

Chapter Text

“Now John, you’re going to meet an associate of mine, Molly Hooper, she works with cadavers. She is simple and is completely besotted with me, hence simple. The fact that she has affection for me however, proves very effective in time sensitive matters such as what we find ourselves in now.”

John felt a bit strange about the news, just for that initial moment when someone tells you some news that you expect to be indifferent about. Up until this moment Sherlock had been all Johns, they had just been with each other. But on meeting Mrs. Hudson, he didn’t feel his way? She knew Sherlock just as well as Molly imaginably, probably more. Was it the fact that she liked Sherlock? That she may have some kind of ‘claim’ on him? John needed to shake this off and accept that Sherlock clearly wasn’t as isolated as John had envisioned. He was never going to be the first. Was John needy? He hadn’t ever been needy in his relationships; his girlfriends had always complained that he was the opposite, too independent and distant.

This all flooded through John’s mind right up to the second he was in front of this ‘Molly Hooper.’ She was very pleasant. How could John judge so instantaneously? It seems John didn’t realize how bad his insecurity had become. He had admittedly in the past few years distanced himself from any form of human appraisal. He needed to get back in the habit of normal human comfort, maybe even enjoy it once more.

On seeing Sherlock enter Molly immediately brushed her hair behind her ears with her fingers. “Hi Sherlock” she said whilst her cheeks turned pink. On John’s entrance she became even shyer about the whole thing, her wide smile dimmed and worry got stuck in her eyes.
Sherlock ignored Molly before moving over to her filing cabinet, leaving John to stand awkwardly near the door. Molly tried to rectify the silence, “Sherlock, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”
Sherlock was now incredibly focused on the names of the files. John saw that for the foreseeable future he’d be introducing himself it seems. Didn’t bother him in all actuality. John strode over to Molly and confidently said “Doctor John Watson, I’m Sherlock’s doctor and it looks like I’ll be with him on this particular case.”
Sherlock seemed to zone back into the conversation, “and many cases to come John.”

This made John go a bit tingly, so much so that he stared down at his shoes rather than the faces around him. Molly seemed a bit uncomfortable about the idea, it seems she too was used to the idea that Sherlock was all hers. She attempted to shake herself out of it, “Well nice to meet you John, what, or who, I should say are you looking for?”
“We are looking for an Eleanor Scott,” said Sherlock as matter a fact as is possible. “Aha!” Sherlock pulled out the file labeling her name. He briefly read through some of the pages it encased.
Once finished he tossed the documents to John, “Doctor’s opinion. Molly where is her body?”

Molly ushered John and Sherlock to one of the metal encasements labeled ‘number 23.’
“She’s in here Sherlock.”
Molly then took a small key from her white lab coat left pocket and preceded to open up no.23. As her body was being pulled out on a metal sort of tray, John finished reading and announced, “by the sounds of it Sherlock the suspicion is justified. She has marks on her wrists, mouth and neck almost like she was bound. I think we should check her arms and jugular veins to check to see if something has been injected into her system. Has the toxicology report come back yet Molly?”
Molly nodded. “Yes it came back clean.”
Sherlock took some medicinal gloves out of his pocket and snapped them on with a ping. “Doesn’t mean anything, there are natural poisons out there that won’t come up on blood samples. John.” On hearing his name John looked up to witness a pair of the same gloves being flinged at him. He managed to successfully catch them without the papers flying absolutely everywhere. He handed the report to Molly and with a thank you nod to her, snapped on his own gloves.

John walked to stand opposite Sherlock so that the dead woman was in between them. It had been a while since John had seen a dead body, and he had to confess he’d never seen one this decayed before. The dead he’s been around had always been fresh, almost as if in sleep. Yet the woman before him had been dead for seven days, almost eight. Her jaw had started to hang loose, her skin was clearly dry and tight, and there was a definite aroma.

Sherlock meanwhile was understandably completely undeterred by the whole thing. He started off by assessing her fingernails, all ten of them. John just watched whilst Sherlock had his face about an inch away from her cold form. Sherlock then scanned up her arms and to her face, remaining very close to her body, almost as if he was going to kiss her on the cheek. He looked in her mouth and lifted her lids so that he could see the entire eyeball. Lastly he checked her entire scalp, almost as if hair-by-hair. He stood up straight and crossed his arms, careful not to let the gloves touch any of his clothing.

“Strange.”
“What’s that Sherlock?” John asked.
Sherlock began to pace, from Molly who stood maybe five feet away, back to Eleanor. Back and forth like a tiger in a zoo.
“She’s quite unmarked. One tooth is chipped, but it looks as if it broke of a long time ago, so cannot be to do with her death. Her nails are as if they have been freshly cut, but not filed. They are not smooth but would most definitely get caught on a piece of fabric. Her eyes are slightly yellow, could suggest a potential drug user, most likely nothing particularly harmful but definitely illegal. There are a few bumps on her head, but nothing to suggest enough violence to kill her. Now the bruising is obvious, clearly, she has been restricted in someway. Gagged also. Most likely all at her point of death. If she died whilst these restrictions where in place, but she wasn’t found with them then this is homicide, but it could have been accidental.”

John then almost jumped in excitement. “Sherlock as you say her body is unmarked, beside the bruising. So she has been tied up, then somehow died, and then the person who tied her up wanted her body to appear respectable to those who found her. She was found fully clothed in her bed right? But in the images of her body her hair looks like it has been recently brushed, and she has make up on. You could say she did this herself, but it’s unusual for someone to put makeup on just before going to bed. And it’s all definitely freshly applied; it doesn’t look as if it has been on her face the entire day. That suggests some emotion from the killer was there, adoration, respect, or something along those lines. In death they wanted her to look at her most beautiful. Bloody hell, that's twisted.”

Sherlock nodded and ended pacing on John’s final word, stopping at the body and looking down at her cold form. “Do you think she’s beautiful John?”
John thought for a second before answering, “I imagine in life she would have been someone who would definitely turn heads.”
“Didn’t answer my question, is she beautiful to you John.”
“No, no not really. Well yes she’s beautiful but I personally would never approach her.”
“Why John?”
“Clearly someone like myself wouldn’t be her type. Why?”
“Rejection then, John you’re such a goldfish, stop it. I don’t understand humanity in that way Watson. Just curious. Partially why I need you here.”

Sherlock sighed and waved a hand before pressing on with his deductions.
“The document says heart failure was the cause. For such a young age you were right to assume some kind of injection into the veins would have caused that Watson. But it isn’t that, it’s niggling at me. God! What was it that killed you Eleanor! What! Think think think.” Sherlock’s frustration was tied with his impatience.

“John what stops the heart, just reel them off.”
“Erm, right, loss of blood, high blood pressure, muscle weakness, anaemia, rhythm disturbance, overactive glands, err, heart failure could be hereditary, or heart attack caused by a many number of things, bad lifestyle, diet etcetera, again genetic likelihood again, or it could be caused by shock, or…”
“John that’s it. Shock.”

Sherlock began to become excitedly animated, which put smiles on both Molly and John’s faces. “Someone has broken into her home, they’ve bound and gagged her, and maybe they’ve told her something that was so destroying it stopped her heart. Or maybe it was the attacker itself that was the shock. Or the fear of impending pain or death was too much to bear. So could be an accidental death. Brilliant! John you’re brilliant!” With that Sherlock ripped off his gloves and began to practically sprint to the door, leaving John to once again rush after him, on the way out John too ripped off his unused gloves, threw them in a bin, and shouted a thanks to Molly.
Nearing the exit Sherlock shouted, “John I need a yellow pages, we need to know everything about the woman! Who she knew, who she worked with, who she loved, hated, all of it.” John breathily replied “Why are you running for a yellow pages?!”
"Because the chase is on Watson! We'll get access to one at Scotland Yard, we need to find the address for her, crime scene, it's just as informing as the body, Lestrade will tell us where she lived."

Chapter Text

John and Sherlock rushed about the bustling streets of London. When bumping into a stranger accidently Sherlock would ignore them, but John would give a hastily sorry in passing. Sherlock had a steely look on his face; nothing else mattered in his world but this case. John had no idea of the route they were taking. London was a big place, and even though John knew it well, at this speed, nothing looked familiar.

Everything was colour and blurred faces. Loud noises, strange smells and so many vehicles! Speeding buses, black taxis, bicycles, cars and even the London Underground shook the tarmac beneath your feet, This is how London should be seen. With purpose and pace.
On reaching Scotland Yard on 8-10 Broadway, John witnessed Sherlock rather gracefully propel himself over a fence. John moved with too much momentum to stop himself from attempting the same. He ended up awkwardly flipping himself over and landing on his back on the concrete. Sherlock turned just before reaching the front door to make a brief smirk before continuing through the spinning doors. He really did like John. John sighed on his back before jumping up and following after Sherlock. Thank god that limp was gone.

On seeing Sherlock, all of the staff they passed either audibly sighed or rolled their eyes. There was a collective ‘here comes trouble.’ Sherlock it seems had single handedly made the police of London work in a mutual understanding, all because they were less intelligent than he. And Sherlock wasn’t even getting paid for it, nor did he ever have the agenda to make the police work as a group without divide.

Lestrade sat at his desk with both his feet crossed atop his desk, a coffee in his right hand and a jam donut in the other. It made John lick his lips. On Sherlock’s entrance Lestrade nearly choked. Through a mouthful of dough and jam he scoffed “Sherlock you are not allowed to be here! Mycroft will kill me! And I mean actually kill me, dead as a door! There will be one of his sparrows here with a bullet with my name on it!”

Sherlock placed clenched fists on the desk and moved his whole form down to be eye level with Lestrade.
“Lestrade, I have finished my treatment and am clean.” Sherlock pointed one now open hand in John’s direction without breaking eye contact with Lestrade, “This is my doctor and new colleague Doctor John Watson. He is a military doctor and a man smarter than any of your officers. I have trust in him, so he is with me. I will not be without him from now on. Your concern with my brother is false, I am better, John will assert to that. Now Eleanor Scott...”

On hearing her name Lestrade immediately exclaimed ‘How do you know her name?! That’s our most secret case Sherlock!” Lestrade acted once more as if Sherlock had never been away. Always trusting Sherlock’s words it seemed.
Sherlock pulled out the letter from anonymous and handed it too Lestrade, who took it by his nails. On reading it Lestrade said, “well they are right of course.”
John jumped in as if he had always belonged, “about what?”

Lestrade looked up in surprise, hearing a new voice in such a familiar environment was strange. “All of it Doctor Watson.”
“Call me John please, and your first name is…”
“Greg.”
Sherlock practically scoffed and swiveled his head round so that his body was facing John but his eyes were on Lestrade.
“Greg?! Lestrade your name is not Greg, where the hell did Greg even come from?! Are you attempting to trick John, don’t lie to him, I promise you he is safe.”

Lestrade held onto the letter between one pair of fingers, and used his now free hand to smooth his brow. “Sherlock you have known me for over a decade and you didn’t know my first name?”
“I guess it never came up, now the letter can you run it for prints?”
“That is why I am holding it strange.”
Sherlock looked confused, almost as if Lestrade doing something intelligent was impossible. “Oh, I thought you had… finger cramp or something. Right were is the crime scene?”
Lestrade pushed a button on his phone and one of his flies wafted in and on following the order took the letter with plastic gloves even though it was now in a plastic bag. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the whole thing. Once this theatrics was done, Sherlock demanded “address?!”
“Yes right, yeah, as the letter says, it’s in Hampstead. Anderson will take you.”

The tantrum that Sherlock erupted into was like that child you see in the supermarket who is told by their mother to put the chocolate cereal back on the shelf. He was all like ‘oh god why’ and ‘no’ and ‘Anderson is the worst.’ Amongst all of this, John raised his hands in a questioning manner and asked a now stressed Lestrade “who’s Anderson?”

Lestrade placed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his noise, “Anderson is one of the detectives here. Sherlock and he don’t… they don’t agree on anything. Anderson is bitter because Sherlock is better at deducing than he is. It’s an endless cycle; you were Sherlock’s therapist right? Maybe you can make them work together, or at least civil? Just something to stop... this.”

John took one look at Sherlock who had now given up his protest and sat on a chair in Lestrades’ office. He looked like that aforementioned child in the supermarket who had now given up in his want. The cereal had been put back on the shelf and now they have sat on the floor in a stoop. Sherlock had put his knees up onto the chair so that they aligned with his chest. His eyes were angry and cast to the floor, he wanted nothing more than to punch someone but he clenched his fists. Maybe he'd fight Anderson later. John didn’t think it possible for a full grown adult to look so childish.

John sighed. “Come on Sherlock, he’ll just take us to the case and then you can out deduce him until he gives up and leaves?”
Sherlock got up off his chair and went to walk out the door, on which Anderson appeared at the door. They stood face-to-face, almost eye-to-eye and both said at as a form of hello a sly “Sherlock.”
“Anderson.”

Lestrade gave his orders and Anderson gave a slightly less dramatic protest but he submitted quickly, this was actually his job after all, and they both exited through the door without a farewell and in the almost the exact huff stroll. John raised his eyebrows and said a kind "nice to meet you Greg,” before departing to follow the two malicious detectives, one the lesser professional, one the unfathomable genius.

On catching up with Sherlock, John realised, "Sherlock what happened to the yellow pages?"
"Later, we'll do it at our flat. We need more about her first."
Our flat. John had practically forgotten. At the end of the day, and many days to come, John would return to 221b with Sherlock, his Sherlock. Their home.

Chapter Text

On arriving at Sycamore Avenue, Anderson got out the key to the front door before reaching the gate. The house was shrouded with hedges so you could only see the second story. It was a grand house, double fronted with big windows. Completely symmetrical. Almost gothic in its demeanor.

“Blimey Sherlock it’s ginormous.”

“Yes quite, she definitely had money, anonymous was right about that, bear in mind she only has an apartment in this building, but even a floor of that building is spacious.”

They walked through the gate stifled by the arched hedge and Watson admired the beauty of the garden. Flowers of such variety. It was well kept and clear that someone really cared about this garden. Maybe even a bit OCD about the whole thing. Near the building were three little white house shaped blocks. Slabs of concrete were placed under the quant huts, keeping them high and prominent above all else it seems. They looked secretive and suspicious all at the same time. When John pointed them out to Sherlock on route to the front door, the smile that spread across Sherlock’s face! It was unfathomable. He excitedly skipped over to the white blocks, with his hands emphatically reaching towards the boxes. “Oh Eleanor! You brilliant woman!”

John once again looked bemused for what could have been the fiftieth time today and Anderson just rolled his eyes whilst unlocking the door.

“What are they Sherlock?”

Sherlock at this point had his hands placed delicately around one of the white boxes with delight placed across his eyes. On John’s question Sherlock’s face turned into the tale-tale signs of shock mixed with confusion. He looked at John and spluttered, “John, you don’t know what these are?! You lead an even sadder existence than I even imagined.”

He stood and walked towards John, Sherlock put John’s face in between his hands and squeezed his cheeks together as if he were a little boy who had put something into his mouth that he wasn’t supposed to, like a piece of Lego or glue. “John, this is very important, these painted-white-to-be-pleasing devices are the source of my imagination for years, they are bee hives, the home of the intricate living that are bees. Their whole world exists in these boxes. Their hierarchy, matriarchy and work lay in these, and there are thousands of them in each box. These innocent in appearance containers bear something that is very dear to me, and at this point in time something that was also dear to Eleanor. If she kept bees, she was meticulous. Methodical. No victim John, but a player.”

Sherlock removed his hands from John’s face and swiftly walked into the building, almost pushing Anderson over as he went. John stood a bit dumbfounded before shaking it off and saying to no one other than himself “right.” He briefly rubbed his hands together, turned and entered into the building just after Anderson, shutting the door behind him.

Chapter Text

On entering the building Sherlock hesitated at the bottom of the stairs. It was a sort of hallway. Just a large set of stairs with a wooden door bearing a lock at the top of the stairs. At the bottom of the stairs lay checkered flooring and nothing but a cupboard under the stairs that would fit in the Harry Potter series, and another front door. It was a patterned glass that made looking through unclear. You would be able to see colours and movement but nothing specific. It was dark and dormant beyond the glass. No neighbours it seemed. There was a bicycle against the wall; it looks like it had been unused for a while, as it had nearly made a permanent imprint on the eggshell white wallpaper behind it. On making quick deductions about his surroundings Sherlock pointed up towards the top of the carpeted stairs. 

Anderson nodded before the three of them waddled up the stairs in a conga-esque line. Reaching the top Anderson unlocked the front door to what was Eleanor’s apartment. The door squeaked as it opened, and John felt a little bit naughty about the whole thing. This was 100% legitimate, they were on a case, and they were with a police officer for god’s sake. But they were entering a completely alien place. A place that didn’t belong to any of them. A place where a woman was potentially murdered.

There were still signs of police all over the apartment. There were numbered pointers everywhere, and yellow tape over some of the doors. Sherlock ignored all of it. He swooped around the place like a bat in its cave. Blind but able to see everything. He mainly used his eyes and this tiny pocket microscope, but Sherlock also did… weird stuff. He would sniff items occasionally and even lick some things about the room. He was like a tornado tearing around. Or Taz the devil. Whirling about, making deductions and decisions about the murder and the victim and the person’s life and the police involvement. He was a spider spinning a most elaborate web. Anderson would pretend to look busy, but really he wasn’t thinking about anything useful. John meanwhile was busy looking through the books upon the shelves. Sherlock eventually joined him once he’d given the room a once over.They stood side by side facing the shelves. Arms crossed, deep in thought. “Initial thoughts John?”

John placed a clenched fist to his chin. “Well read, intelligent, likes crime novels and photography. So potentially a bit of an adrenaline junkie?” 

“Or risk taker, interesting. Noticed the travel books?" 

“Errrrr” John looked once more briefly over the shelves.

“Yes, right the travel books, mainly in Asia, the East, what the letter from anonymous said.”

“Exactly, specifically there are most on Shanghai, business sector and upcoming international affairs corespondency site, there are also Chinese economy books. Eleanor was paying attention.” John thought briefly before turning his face to make eye contact with Sherlock. With a knitted brow he asked, “If she was so careful, how is she dead?" Sherlock smiled for only a flicker. This is better than he had imagined, someone with him every step of the way asking the right questions. With a slow soothing voice Sherlock replied, “she must have made a mistake, even in being careful mistakes can be made. ‘Between calculated risk and reckless decision-making lies the dividing line between profit and loss.’ Question is did she ever find the dividing line?” 

Sherlock walked away into the rest of the room away from their conversation. John gave an impressed huff and a shake of the head. Sherlock really was brilliant. “Who said that line Sherlock?”

Sherlock spun on the spot to once again face John, “which line?” John waved his hands around whilst trying to remember the quote. “Calculated risk, and profit and loss and…?”

“Author Charles Duhigg.”

John made a “hmm” noise before he began to rejoin Sherlock in the search for clues. They swept about the room and instead of the initial overlook they’d just given; they began to look at the minutia of the room. Admittedly Sherlock more emphatically than John, but that was simply in his puppy dog nature. 

He hopped about the room like one of Santa’s elves, getting down on his hands and knees to look at every hemstitch in the tartan rug placed under the wooden table located in the center of the room, then from the same position on all fours, he looked under all the furniture, and once he had done that he climbed the furniture, settling upon a table top (much to Anderson’s protest) to look at the top of the closets, cupboards and bookcase.

From this assessment he then looked down at the room as if he was a bat hanging by its claws from the ceiling. He decided on watching John for a while who at this stage was entirely focused on the job at hand. John was looking through a number of envelopes that were found piled up on the right armrest of one of the expensive sofas that was found in the large lounge multipurpose space.

Sherlock placed his hands behind his back and jumped down from the table with a surprisingly loud thud, the noise forced John from his concentrated state to look up from the envelopes to Sherlock who was now a mere foot in front of John. To the extreme that John had to crane his neck to look into Sherlock’s eyes.

“John why haven’t you opened them?” 

The suggestion made a fairly placid Anderson splutter. He walked towards Sherlock at a pace with one index finger pointing directly at Sherlock and his other hand in a clenched fist whilst demanding “Sherlock you can’t do that! That is police property! This is an open investigation and you can’t...” Sherlock rolled his eyes and took the letters off John whilst Anderson was making his charge. Anderson had said enough in Sherlock’s opinion so he impatiently interrupted, “Anderson what is in these letters?”

Anderson was now a meter away from the Detective and the Doctor, he paused in his chase and uttered “well I don’t know Sh…” Sherlock waved the letters around midair as if in mocking, “Do the police know?”

Anderson put his hands down by his sides and became a little child being told off at school in front of the whole class, “No they don’t.”

Sherlock began to pace, “So you are telling me Anderson that the police are investigating a murder and have failed to collect and inspect the dead woman’s recent correspondence through post? Something that is a clear way of finding out who she has been in touch with, the contents itself may even point us in the direction of not only who killed her but the motive behind it. You are all useless! No wonder you need me.”

Anderson attempted to locate some pride, “Well, it’s disrespectful, you can’t just go looking through a dead woman’s mail.” 

John began to laugh, unashamedly so, he could now completely understand why Sherlock thought Anderson was useless. After his giggle he said to Anderson “I think if Eleanor could hear that now she would tell us to open her bloody mail if it pointed in the direction of who killed her. And anyway, even if the contents were embarrassing she wouldn’t be affected because she’s dead.” Sherlock had to bite his tongue from wanting to say “Finally!” He couldn’t believe he had met someone who was on the same page as he was. Ironic that was all his brothers fault really. At this Sherlock handed half of the dozen or so letters to John and at the same time they opened the letters one by one, assessing the contents of each envelope. Anderson stood like a dumb animal unable to do anything but moan about the whole affair. By the fourth letter Sherlock just said “shut up Anderson,” which made John snort, much to Sherlock’s happiness. 

They placed the opened letters flat out on the table that Sherlock had recently stood atop, and the two men inspected the letters in front of them, hoping it would lead them to the justice Eleanor deserved.

Chapter Text

There were thirteen letters in total. Seven of them were useless, promotional letters from shops or well-known service companies. But the remaining six, they were decisively points of interest. Two were debit card bill expenditure's from the same bank corporation for the last six months, and the residual four were hand written letters. Two in English and two in Mandarin. John and Sherlock split the letters into three each, Sherlock slid the two English letters and one of the bank letters to John to which John spat “you can read Mandarin?!”

Sherlock replied whilst seating himself on the dead woman’s sofa with paper in hand “yes, and write it, speaking it is a different story though, I struggle with the linguistics.”

John followed Sherlock to the sofa and sat down next to him. Anderson at this stage may have not even been here. “When did you learn all that?!”

Sherlock focused on the pages in front of him, “Oh not sure just picked it up really.” John was so enthralled he couldn’t focus on anything but Sherlock’s face, “people just don’t ‘pick up’ Mandarin Sherlock!”

“Well I think we can already establish that I am not people John.”

John gave a wide smile and his response made Sherlock finally look at him, “no, and thank goodness you’re not.”

They gave a shy smile to one another before commencing their analysis.

They silently sat and read the letters, the only break of silence would have been when Sherlock went to find a piece of inconsequential pen and paper from somewhere in Eleanor’s apartment to make some form of note on what he may or may have not found. Besides that for a good twenty minutes the men worked silently next to one another. When John put the papers down, Sherlock looked over at him to find a John who could do nothing other than stare at the wall, lips tight shut in fear that the information he had just learned would somehow escape via his throat. Sherlock tried to coax it out of him, “What is it John?”

John swung his head around to face Sherlock in one swift movement; his words were slow and calculated like the words were as fragile as glass. “One letter is from her father, it’s trivial but insightful about character I suppose, and he is worried about her for sure, looks like she has had some dark times in the past. The second letter though, I think it’s from anonymous, the handwriting and the wording is similar, remember you pointed out the language used? It’s the same, but they are not a relative as they said in the letter sent to us, they are most definitely a lover in the letter in my hand.” Sherlock immediately took the letter in question out of John’s hand.

Whilst doing so he removed the anonymous letter from his inside jacket pocket and compared the handwriting. Sherlock scanned the words for a moment before consulting John. “The handwriting is definitively the same. Every nuance, every dot, use of comma and phrase. Either we have a liar or someone who is understandably ashamed, or both." John nodded and then every muscle in his face sprang into action, “You don’t think?! No surely not.”

Sherlock still eyed up the letters. “Happens more than you think John.”

“Well it is a theory Sherlock, but incest? I don’t know.”

“I reiterate; happens more than you think.” 

Sherlock placed both letters in his lap. John and he took a moment of pause to gather the new piece of information together and fit it all together on their mental map (or Sherlock’s palace.) John sighed and asked “what about your letters?” 

Sherlock shook himself out of his palace and said simply “business. It’s all about money. The earliest dated letter, only written days before the other, is arguing that Eleanor has been paid already and that she shouldn’t demand more money. Sounds as if she brought back a particularly risky item, worth a lot of money, more than usual, possibly she felt that she deserved more money for it and in asking caused a bit of trouble on the other end.”

“So they killed her?” 

“No she was too large an asset, a key to the Western black market. There is something else in the second letter, in between the first and the second letter I think she made a threat to leave, she was informed by the first letter that she was not going to be given more money, despite her request, so she replied saying something along the lines of if I’m not going to be treated as if I’m needed then I’ll take my illegal ways elsewhere, blah blah blah, then they sent this second letter, angry angry angry.” 

“What did they say exactly?”

“Well it’s a threat really, a dangerous one, it’s indirect but definitely something that would make Eleanor at least panic, it’s given us a motive, but tracing this back to the organization is not going to be easy to place. Funny normally you find who did it before you find the motive. Guess this one is the other way around.”

“Amazing” said John before chuckling. Sherlock smiled at his Doctor before turning to Anderson with a stern look, “Anderson is there a printer with a photocopier in here?” Anderson practically jumped out of his skin.

“Yes ther..”

“Good, John and I need copies of these letters, every page, corner to corner, make copies then take them straight to Lestrade to be fingerprinted.” 

Anderson went to protest but by the time he began to speak Sherlock had put all the papers into his arms. “Oh and Anderson, don’t be a complete idiot and forget to take the envelopes, they are just as likely to have prints as the letters do.” So Anderson made copies, whilst John and Sherlock discussed the bank statements. John still remained seating on the sofa and Sherlock paced the length of the sofa in front of him. “John what did you make of the account?” 

“Well this account looks like it was the input, they pumped her pay into this account, and it’s as anonymous said, between 20’000 and 60’000 pounds, always, bar one.” Sherlock placed his hands into the steeple position under his chin and continued to walk backwards and forwards. Then asking “regularity?”

“Excuse me?”

“How often are the payments made?”

“Oh right yes” John blushed slightly, “erm, they are fairly sporadic, I guess depends when she works.” Sherlock continued to pace, “And the anomaly?”

“It’s of £100’000, for around a month ago." Sherlock stopped pacing. “That’ll be just before the letters in Mandarin arrived here. That’s the big pay out. She wanted more than that. Is that the last pay out?”

“Yes it is.”

“So their co-operation ended there. As did her life.” Sherlock sighed and then concluded, "my statement was her everyday spendings, ate well, she travelled a lot understandably, mainly first class with British Airways, lots of currency exchanges, Yen obviously. It all matches up."   

Anderson hobbled through a doorframe from another room with a stack of papers in his hands looking admittedly dazzled. He gave them to John and Sherlock, Sherlock made no acknowledgment of Anderson’s efforts but John at least said thank you. Just before they all left Sherlock ensured Anderson had the originals, otherwise fingerprinting would be useless, when Sherlock was happy they departed in their normal manner and Sherlock hailed a taxi for John and he, with a step closer to the cause of Eleanor’s death. 

“221b Baker Street please.”

Chapter Text

 John and Sherlock pulled up to 221b and on thanking and paying the driver, John hastily followed after Sherlock who had already entered through both entrance doors to their flat and made himself comfortable on the sofa. Their sofa thought John. He had splayed out all of the information they had on paper; all five letters, all photocopies, two bank statements, both photocopies also and the notes Sherlock had been making. All in Mandarin of course. On seeing the script John thought ‘cocky shit.’ 

As soon as John sat down and made himself comfortable, Sherlock was up on his feet again, John threw his hands in the air and huffed. One day on a case they’d had together, one day, and John had already pretty much figured how it was going to be. Sherlock began collecting things from about the flat, paper, pens and most curiously what appeared to be a very old professor style blackboard on wheels. It had a wooden frame and the board flipped over 360 degrees on particularly squeaky hinges. Sherlock pushed the ancient beast from his bedroom, with arguably a dramatic effort, and placed it in front of the sofa where John sat. 

As soon as it was in place Sherlock leapt behind it again and back into his room where John could hear a great deal of noise of things being tossed around carelessly. Then there were several frustrated phrases along the lines of “where are they?” from Sherlock before John heard a hum of contentment only for him to reappear moments later with a stick of white chalk raised in his right hand.There was definitely never a dull moment with Sherlock. As if to focus, John slipped off his black jacket and undid the top button of his blue shirt, then untucked the shirt from his trousers. Sherlock reared around the great board and faced John much like a professor would to a student. He clasped both hands behind his back, chalk still in hand and began with their current findings, “now John, name of victim.”

“Eleanor Scott.”

Sherlock wrote her name on the top left hand corner of the board in a very messy scrawl, but John could just make out the letters. In a flamboyant set of ‘T’s’ Sherlock then resumed his questioning, “Age and theory of death?”

“She was thirty-four and she was bound by rope at the point of death, but it was removed after death.”

Sherlock went to write on the board but found himself hesitating, chalk only a centimeter from the board, still facing away from John he said “yes, but what killed her?”

“Heart failure, most likely caused by shock.” 

John had begun to sweat just a little bit, it wasn’t visible but he could definitely feel the perspiration on his upper lip. He needed to get used to this. Sherlock wrote John’s information on the board still at the top with a series of arrows, like a linear flow chart. The words now read ‘Eleanor Scott-->34-->bound by rope-->Shock.’ 

Sherlock drew a line under this first set of information before turning back to meet John’s gaze and say “players. Who’s involved?” John looked down at his entwined fingers, and spoke slowly with caution, “Anonymous, could be a relative or a lover or both, and, the Asian black market smugglers who wrote those letters in Mandarin.”

Sherlock asked “what about Michael?”

John was momentarily bemused, “Michael?”

“Michael Elliot Scott, Eleanor’s father, he signed his name at the bottom of the letter, odd considering it’s to his daughter, but maybe they weren’t as close as its content suggests. Could be habit, generational thing. John get the yellow pages.” 

Sherlock turned to the board and wrote down below his previous jottings, “Anon, Eastern Smugglers, Father.” By the time he’d done this John was still scrabbling around the flat looking for the book, to be fair to him he had only officially lived here for less than eight hours, and of those hours he’s spent 10 minutes in 221b itself. 

“Oh for god sake John, on top of the fridge.” Sherlock said it as if it was the most obvious place in the world. John sauntered over to the fridge and slid the pages off its surface, and it soon became clear that it had not been used nor cleaned in a while; John had to cough out the dust that commenced to enter his lungs. On handing Sherlock the thick yellow book John asked, “is that even the updated version?” 

Sherlock took it and began flicking through before replying, “even if it wasn’t people rarely change their numbers. Too much fuss apparently. Aha!”

Sherlock passed the book to John and pointed to a ‘Mr. Michael Elliot Scott, 14 Churchill Avenue, Woking, office number: 0204 896 521, mobile number 07643 377 901, ‘Scott’s Estate Agent.’

John spoke, “so he was in real estate?”

“Yes John, he was in property, a swindler just like his daughter then. Call him.”

John was so shocked by the request that he almost dropped the heavy book on his toes. “Sherlock it’s late! And it’s his daughter who had been murdered!”

“Exactly so he’ll be interested.”

 John just remained dumbfounded, jaw open with no intention of calling the grieving father. Sherlock curled his upper lip and grimaced an almost inaudible “Oh for gods sake” before getting his blackberry out his pocket and dialing the number from the yellow pages. It rang fifteen times before it was answered. 

The room was so quiet that John could hear every word from the other end of the phone, “Who the fuck is calling me at this time.”

Sherlock was intolerably calm in his response, “Mister Scott, I am a detective on your daughters case, I know it’s late, must be awful for you,” at this statement Sherlock rolled his eyes at John, which made John even angrier about the whole thing. “I just need to ask you some simple questions, were you aware of your daughters professional part of an international object smuggling corporation located somewhere in the East?” John was so furious and ashamed by the whole thing he went to grab the phone off Sherlock, of course Sherlock ignored and simply put the phone on speaker and held it high the air so John couldn’t reach. He tried; he really did, at one point John even jumped in his attempt to end this embarrassment. 

“What?!!! That’s not true, Eleanor was a Gardiner, she was a good girl! She would never do anything to break the law. How dare you! Who do you think you are?! My daughter just died and you are accusing her when she isn’t even here to defend herself! Fuck you, I’ll report you, detective on her case! I don’t believe it." 

Michael then hung up the phone, and John stopped trying to grab the phone off Sherlock. John rubbed his hands on his forehead in an attempt to calm himself down; it didn’t work. “Sherlock what the HELL are you doing?! His daughter was just murdered and you just called and told him all that! What if he goes round telling people?! And just, HIS DAUGHTER JUST DIED.” Sherlock had placed his phone back in his pocket and was now smoothing down the front of his suit jacket.

“John, sentiment is for the losing side, his daughter died, many people just died, we all die eventually, I told him that as a tactic, he wasn’t involved, his response suggests he genuinely didn’t know of her involvement, not even a clue, the pitch of his voice and the general tone and emotion fueled words tell us that, now we know for definite that he isn’t anonymous, and that more than likely he didn’t kill her. We can tick him off. See, John I’m working.” With that Sherlock picked up the chalk and crossed through Father.

 John stood speechless, he couldn’t argue with the logic, but he could argue with the action. So unusual, and wrong. I guess it reached its aim. Sherlock succeeded he supposed. Bold or stupidity either way what was done was done. John admitted defeat, shrugged his shoulders and put the kettle on. As he made Sherlock and he a cup of tea he asked “Sherlock how do you take it?”

“Drugs, usually by injection, John we’ve been through all this?”

“No Sherlock, your tea?”

“Oh, just milk.” 

As John proceeded to pour the milk, stir the tea and bring it over daintily to where Sherlock sat, Sherlock said something that nearly made John spill the boiling liquid all over them both.

 “John, we need to go to China.”

Chapter Text

Sherlock and John hustled through the terminal. Heathrow airport was always so busy. Deducing wise, Sherlock was in his element. On entering the terminal they stopped off at Starbucks to get some breakfast (it was far too early in the morning) and as they sat John would point out people and Sherlock would deduce anything he could. There was a nervous looking priest who was apparently cheating on his wife, with his third mistress, there was a nanny who was so terrible at her job that she had apparently lost three sets of children, on different occasions, there was a crack dealer, and far too many crack addicts, much to the doctors concern. There was a lawyer who was dying from most likely an inoperable tumor, there was a nun who had a black belt in karate, there was a millionaire with a cheap watch who wore it for sentimental reasons, most likely an heirloom, there were several wanted men on the run, there was a mother who was planning to murder her husband and there was most noticeably, a smuggler. 

Sherlock could tell all of this by the smallest of details. Even mannerisms. And the speed! Sherlock probably figured out the darkest secrets of around thirty people before he’d finished his Americano. They checked in and went through security with nothing noteworthy happening, and the people watching game continued even once the two men had taken their adjacent seats on the plane. 

John pointed out two men who were in the aisle ahead who were putting their baggage into the overhead lockers. “What about them?”

“Well John, one is a Doctor, the shorter one, you can tell by the tan lines on his wrists and the length of his tie, the other, the taller man, is a sociopath detective, you can tell by the curve of his nose and the crook of his brow.”

“That’s a joke right” John said playfully.

Sherlock put a thumb to his mouth and smiled cheekily. The two men then proceeded into fits of giggles. They couldn’t stop laughing until the plane began to make its ascent. They both wiped tears from their cheeks, and took several deep inhalations of breath, before the reality of the long flight and the enormity of the search that lay ahead kicked in. John looked over at his friend and asked “Sherlock what is our plan when we get there?”

“Talk to the police, find out general information on the smuggling game, locate them, find who knew Eleanor, and who wrote those letters, establish if they are likely to have killed her.”

“Sherlock that doesn’t sound easy.”

“Nothing is easy John.”  So the two men attempted to entertain themselves, or attempted to sleep mostly (to no avail,) for the next twelve hours of their flight. They talked about their intentions on arriving in Shanghai occasionally. Both companies did some reading about the locations and the economy of China. Research was always good. Preparation was important, and John especially liked feeling ready for whatever he was about to face. 

About six hours in neither were sleepy, even though it seemed the entire rest of the flight consisted of everyone asleep. They had to keep themselves occupied. “Sherlock have you ever been to China before?”

“No, you?”

“Nope.”

So that was that conversation over. The two men sighed and Sherlock could feel himself on the verge of needing to leap out of his seat and do something. Anything. He was feeling itchy. John was yet to see that side of him. That side they talked about in therapy. That need to be occupied. Even though Sherlock was clean, there was still a chance of relapse, and the best way to avoid that was to keep Sherlock busy, they both knew that. 

“Sherlock shall we play would you rather?”

In reality Sherlock thought this game pretty tedious, but he really was bored and antsy so he agreed to John’s game.

“Alright John, you start.”

John perked up a little in his seat, a game, good, this had the potential to pass at least an hour.

“Right so, would you rather always have to say everything on your mind or never be able to speak again?” Sherlock didn’t even have to take a breath.

“Easy, say everything on your mind. I do that anyway John. I have a new rule, every question asked we both have to answer.”

“Wait so there is no out? There should be a consequence if we want out?”

“Okay fine.”

 Sherlock reached up and pressed the little button with the image of a stick figure to call over a flight attendant. A striking looking woman approached and she made John practically blush. Sherlock didn’t even seem to notice her beauty. She was so pristine and every hair on her head was in its place. “How can I help you today?”

 “Can we get two large vodka and cokes please?”

John’s jaw dropped. He meant a consequence, but not this consequence! He hadn’t been drunk in god knows how long. Were they comfortable enough with each other to do this yet?! “Sherlock are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Every idea I have is a good idea John.”

To that the attendant brought over their drinks and even more alarming to John, Sherlock said “We’ll start a tab please. This won’t be our first.” The woman nodded and then left the men to their drinks.

John physically sunk into his seat and placed his hands over his mouth. “Oh John lighten up, this is what normal people do, that’s what you want right? To be like everyone else, or for me to be like everyone else or something. People drink on planes, you wanted a consequence we have a consequence. We have...”  Sherlock looked at his watch and said, “five hours and forty-five minutes left on this plane. Let’s not be boring. Now I believe you have a question to answer.” 

John took and deep breath and accepted what was happening, maybe it could be fun after all. He rose up from his position and sat up straight once more. “Right, erm I would, do the same as you, speak everything on my mind, everyone tells me I should speak more anyway.” 

“Agreed. Now my question John.” John didn’t know it but Sherlock very much wanted to win this game, and in his mind, him winning was for John to drink a lot more than him.

“Imagine a single train track that forks off into two separate tracks. On one of those tracks stands five people, five people you don’t know, and on the other stands one you love, an unmanned train comes speeding down the track and you are in control of the lever that moves the train between the two tracks ahead. Either you let it continue on its course and kill your loved one, or you change its direction, thus murdering those five strangers but saving the one you love. Which is it?” 

“Sherlock that isn’t would you rather.”

“Just answer it John.”

“Okay, okay, erm, gosh that is tricky. I would kill, erm, wow this is hard, I guess I would let it continue its course.”

Sherlock was surprised. Everyone always answered save their loved one. He was even more curious about John than ever before. “Can I ask why?” 

“Well even though those five people are strangers, that doesn’t make them any less important than my ‘loved’ one. Besides they might be parents with children, or a leading doctor whose death would cause hundreds of other people to die. Sure I would be sad, and the rest of my family and friends would most likely struggle to understand, if they knew. My life would be ruined, but that is one persons life rather than the potential hundreds associated with those five.” Sherlock nodded and there was a moment’s silence before John continued, rather shyly in his tone, “Besides it probably helps that I don’t have a particular someone to envision as that one person. It makes me more detached from the scenario I suppose.”

Sherlock nodded some more, “I am the same John, I wouldn’t pull the lever.” Again there was a brief pause and John said, “I think we should both drink to that.” So the two men picked up their plastic cups and knocked them gently together, before taking a mutual gulp. 

“John your question.”

Chapter Text

John and Sherlock made it through six vodka and cokes in an hour, and the questions became increasingly personal. They were all hypothetical innocent scenarios up until the fourth drink. And then they just at some point hit the fuck-it wall; by the eighth they could hardly string a coherent word together. In a slurred drunken manner John asked “best sex you’ve ever had?”

Sherlock’s entire body was swaying and you could tell he really had to try and concentrate on whatever John was saying, to the point where his mouth was agape with the effort. “The best sex, the best sex I’ve ever had, hm, I don’t know, somewhere, with someone. I’ll just drink John, coz’ honestly I cannot even, I just I mean.” Sherlock then proceeded to down his entire drink, which was practically full. The sight made a very drunk John chuckle. On finishing said drink, Sherlock put his plastic cup down on the moveable tray, wiped his mouth and said, “you John? What (* hiccup *) what about you?”

Sherlock poked John in the chest with his right forefinger to emphasise his words. The slight pressure of the finger-push made John almost fall backwards into the aisle. At this stage they were so drunk that they probably believed they were having a very serious conversation, when in reality they were just spouting utter shit. John took his next words as seriously as he could muster, he too put his drink down and licked his left forefinger before proceeding to smooth down both his eyebrows with the saliva atop his fingerprint. The action made Sherlock chuckle like a giddy schoolgirl.

“Well Sherlock I think you’ll find (* hiccup *) I am very good in the bedroom. Most memories I have of any sexual encounter are phenomenal to say the (* hiccup *) least.” When Sherlock went to reply, the same air-hostess who had been serving them their drinks the entire time wandered over and said, quite concerned, “Sirs, I have to tell you that we cannot legally provide you with anymore alcohol, drunken behaviour on arrival is an arrest-able offence. So…” She was interrupted by the eruption of laughter that came from the two drunken men. They could not stop laughing, to the point where John fell off his seat into the aisle, which made Sherlock and he laugh even more. Sherlock had his knees up to his chin in an effort to try and make himself breathe.It probably wasn't even her words, they just couldn't help it.

At this stage all of the flight attendants where trying to pick John up to get him back into his seat. Once they managed they buckled both he and Sherlock into their seats, as you would imagine a parent would buckle a small child in to reduce as much havoc as possible. They still hysterically laughed for the next eight minutes. Once they calmed down, wiped the tears from their cheeks for the second time in this flight, the female flight attendant informed them, “there is still four hours of this flight left, that is enough time to, erm, to sober up,” she laughed nervously, “if you could maybe pay your bill now?”

The two of them had drunk that much in only an hour and forty-five minutes, no wonder they were shit-faced. Sherlock still swaying and blushed from their laughing pulled the wallet out of his jacket, John went to protest but was too drunk to take any genuine action; he could barely lift his head from the head rest. Sherlock handed over one of his several cards to which John just uttered the word “money” as if drunk he had made an association and just had no other choice but to say the word. They paid for their drinks and by the time the woman went to hand back the card the two buckled in men were fast asleep. The lady smiled with relief and placed the card on the moveable tray in front of Sherlock for him to find when he woke up.

John and Sherlock awoke almost four hours later when it was announced that they would be landing soon. They both shot awake a tad startled by the loudness of the words that came out the speakers. “Good evening passengers, I hope you’ve had a pleasant flight, we will be arriving in Shanghai in just under twenty minutes.” John rubbed his eyes and Sherlock stretched out like a cat, both yawned simultaneously. "You alright Sherlock?" John asked in a rather croaky voice, Sherlock just hummed back.

Both of them were admittedly still quite drunk, however they were in between a good night out and being the most hung-over anyone has ever been. Which made the realization of what was to come resentful to say the least. John went to speak again but found his mouth immensely dry. Thank fully the woman who charged them for the drinks had seen ahead and placed two small bottles of water on their trays. John opened the bottle and downed the whole thing. Just the act made him realize how much he needed a wee.

He took the initiative to go just before they were about to descend meaning that he wouldn’t be allowed to move from his seat. John stood daintily and wobbled his way to the lavatory. In the loo mirror he took the courtesy to assess the damage. His eyes were a bit pink but aside from that he looked alright. Admittedly his arse was a bit sore, then he remembered that he fell out of his seat.

On John’s returning he asked Sherlock, “you not need to go?” to which his companion replied, “I went around an hour ago I think.” John hummed before realizing, “how’d you get out? You’re in the middle seat?!” Sherlock made a half shrug and said, “I just climbed over you, and you didn’t even flinch, I nearly fell into your lap at one point as well.” John was surprised at how that image didn’t even disturb him. He felt pretty comfortable with the idea actually. He shook his head as if to get the idea physically thrown out through his ears.

“Why were we laughing so hard?” John asked. Just the question alone made both parties giggle. The two men landed in Shanghai, on leaving the plane they sheepishly passed the 'thanking' stewards, well at least John did, Sherlock couldn't give a fuck. John even apologised to the air-hostess who served them all those drinks. But Shanghai, a place neither of them had ever stepped foot! John was so excited he felt the butterflies in his stomach rise right through his torso and make his brain contort. A month ago he could never have envisioned himself doing anything like this. His life was so mundane, so futile, yet now he had purpose and a new friend. A really really good friend. Sherlock could not remember ever feeling this comfortable with someone. He realized he never had been this close to someone. On stepping off the plane he made the assessment that he wanted to be friends like this with John for as long as possible, maybe even until one of them dropped dead.

They collected their bags from the oval shaped bag collection point and sauntered thorough the unfamiliar faces and environment with an unbelievable confidence. Maybe it was the remaining pangs of alcohol, but the confidence that surged through John was something he had never felt before. They entered the departures lounge looking as if they would fit in a James Bond film, and proceeded to look for a sign with their names on it. There was a Chinese man in a very suave suit and white ray ban sunglasses bearing an Ipad saying “Watson & Holmes.” They shook the mans’ hand and followed him to the Mercedes SLK limozine.

It was only on entering the vehicle and turning on the heated seats that made John make the assessment that Sherlock had money. He had never thought about it before, but clearly Sherlock had money. Serious money. It made sense with a fancy long name and a brother of such ministerial importance. So they had money. That is definitely something John could get used to. The car made him think of the hotel they were heading to. Imagine.

On driving to the hotel John could do nothing but stare out of the window in amazement of the diversity and huge skyscrapers that Shanghai had to offer. Half of it was new build, and they other half was more like what John expected, the Chinese style housing that you see on Television or in films. Slanted roofs, symmetrical windows and stairs leading up to the front door. It was as if two centuries had collided together. All Sherlock could do was watch John stare out of the window in amazement. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was, to meet someone like John. He had never wanted someone to approve of him before, but Sherlock wanted to impress John. He wanted to feel respected and liked by John. This case was peculiar, and definitely a good one for the new partners in crime to start on.

On pulling up to the hotel John’s jaw dropped. It was the nicest looking hotel he had ever seen in his life. It was called “Lotus” and resembled a palace that would befit any royal family. John could barely function until they got up to his room. Sherlock handled everything, he paid the driver, he checked them in, got their room keys, and led them to the lifts. All John could do was gape. He was even impressed by the elevator. Their rooms were on the top floor. They had two ensuites with an adjoining door, so it was more like an apartment really.

On entering John still hadn’t shut his mouth. He dropped his bag and the first thing he did was jump on the bed, and then he took off his shoes and coat and just lay in this most luxurious bed anyone could imagine. He stared out of window for a while, taking in the new city around him. Once he had calmed down he knocked on the joining door between the two rooms, to which Sherlock said immediately “Yes John.”

John opened the door and said “Sherlock this place is unbelievable! I simply won’t be able to afford it, any of it, I was so excited by the trip and focused on the case I forgot about the financial side of it all…” Sherlock stopped him there and said “John please this is for the case, I have an account set up for professional spending’s, we work together now, we just both use the account, if we make any money from the work we just feed it back into the account. We are here for the work, cost isn’t an issue but the case is. If we live we solve cases, so we simply pay to live and solve, that's all.” John nodded, it did make sense, and they would make money from this case, anonymous said so in their letter.

“Alright then” John accepted. It was very early in the morning at this stage, what with the length of the flight and the time difference, and the two men needed some rest. “Sherlock I am going for a quick nap, besides I think the hangover might be kicking in.” “Alright John, sleep well.” John waved to Sherlock before shutting the door to have the most blissful sleep he has had for as long as he can remember.

Chapter Text

“John wake up.”

Sherlock had entered John’s hotel room, which was adjoined to his own, and was now shaking him awake. John lackadaisically rubbed his eyes and stretched before he lifted his eyelids. The sight that greeted him was a shock. Panic spread through his body and he froze sitting up in his bed, unable to move.

“John it’s okay.” 

Sherlock now stood about a meter from the bed and he had both of his hands in the air in what could only be described as submission. At this point in time there were six people all in black, faces covered, pointing guns at both Sherlock and John. Sherlock was perfectly calm, or at least he appeared to be, and he continued to attempt to keep John calm, “John everything is going to be alright.” 

John’s breathing was erratic and audible. He wanted to hide, everything in him wanted to hide, pull the duvet cover over his head and be in the ignorant bliss of denial telling himself over and over 'this is all just a dream.' Instead he sat stock still like a wax work unable to make a noise. He went to stammer but was cut off by an obvious command from one of the gun swindlers. It was in Mandarin so John had no idea what was being said. “John, he’s told me to tell you to get some clothes on, and once you’ve done that get down on your knees in front of the bed.” 

John obeyed without question. He was wearing boxers and a t-shirt already, so to prevent any form of impatience he simply slipped on the jeans he threw on the ground before and went to kneel before another angry bark was heard from one of the six gunman. Sherlock spoke once more, “Shoes.” John nodded and slipped on some socks and shoes. It took him longer than usual because his hands were shaking so much. Then he knelt. 

Some more orders were given and to both John and Sherlock’s panic, John's hands were tied, his mouth was covered with thick silver tape and a black bag was put over his head. By the noises that ensued it sounded like Sherlock was given the same treatment and the knock of his elbow against John’s confirmed that for him.

The men were forced to stand at the same time and then they walked. John began to struggle, the fight or flight response had kicked in, but Sherlock nudged at John who stood next to him the whole way, which made him stop. The two men walked with guns at their temples and a stranger holding their arm for what felt like an age. 

At some point they were put into a back of some kind of a vehicle, most likely a car. They were forced to lie down in the fetus position, squashed next to one another with their heads to the floor. Somehow it seemed Sherlock had managed to get the tape away from his lips, admittedly it was still muffled and as quiet as breath but at least he could speak. The words almost made a completely terrified John jump out of skin. 

“ John, it’s a tactic, they won’t hurt us.”

These words did the opposite of calm. John was furious and all of a sudden he felt like he couldn’t breathe. He was suffocating and there was nothing he could do about anything. He started to wriggle; he needed to do something, anything to be able to breathe. “John, please, I promise it will be fine.” John wanted to scream at him. “How can this be fine?! How can anything possibly like this be fine?!!! What the fuck have we got ourselves into?! God I am such an idiot!!!” Alas he could do nothing but squirm.

And just like that the back doors of the car where opened and the two men where pulled to their feet. Then their ankles were tied together. If John felt stuck before this made everything ten times worse. The two men were then carried by what felt like three or four big men, before being forcefully sat down and tied to a chair. John didn’t know if he was with Sherlock anymore, he really hoped he was. 

The bag was lifted from his head and he was indeed very alone. His eyes adjusted to the light and he was in a small room with white walls and a concrete ceiling. Alarmingly there was a grate in the corner of the room and the floor sloped towards it as if blood needed to be easily cleaned from this floor. This room had clearly been designed for torture. John felt as if he was going to faint. Where was Sherlock? He said this was a tactic and they wouldn’t hurt him but it severely felt like the detective was wrong. If this was just a threat it was loaded and primed. His entire body shook with fear, and the two men encircled him, assessing his weak points. They spoke to each other in their foreign tongue, but even if it was in English there was no way John would be able to understand for the fear had ravaged his brain. John could only watch wide eyed and shaking like a baby deer trapped in a barbed wire fence. 

In one swift motion the tape was ripped from John’s face and he whimpered from the sting. The larger of the two men got very close to John’s face, eye to eye, and said in perfect English. “You are John Watson, and you are prying in something that is bigger than you and your albeit smart friend.” With the simple sentence, the two men walked out the room and shut the door with a bang. There were no windows in the room, the only thing John could call company was the CCTV camera that was placed over the door. It pointed paranoid, directly at John and on John noticing the camera it made him shrink into himself. He could do nothing other than weep. He was so clueless, he didn't even know what time of day it was and this country was supposed to bring clues and adventure, not this. The man was right, this was bigger than him. An ordeal such as this is something many couldn’t cope with. During the war, at the time when John was a soldier, this was what he feared the most. A scenario in which he was away from his comrades, alone, in the dark unknown with nothing but the doubt in mind and the fear in his body. Where was Sherlock? 

John sat attached to that chair for what felt like days. It more than likely was for all he knew. He was given water and food by the same man who would impatiently feed him with a spoon, in what was most likely twice a day by John’s calculations. After a few days of nothingness and numbness, a metal camp style bed was wheeled into the room and John was detached from the chair and instead attached to the bed. The mere two steps in between the chair and the bed had John wincing. He hadn’t stood for days. His backside hurt from the constant contact with the chair and his arms refused to move from the position they had been locked in for however long it had been. His entire body appeared to crack and he even treated himself to cracking his neck when he sat down on his new form of prison. The chair was wheeled out and once more he was alone besides the camera that’s light blinked constantly red, watching him deteriorate away, chip piece by piece. 

John moved from sitting to lying in a very awkward manner, and with one hand attached to the bed by cuffs he could do nothing but lay uncomfortably, but at least he was lying down. Almost instantly he crashed into a very deep sleep, for as of right now unconsciousness was all he craved, and he had not slept for a very long time.  

Chapter Text

"John.”

John sprang awake for the voice attached to that sound, was all he had wanted to hear for days and days and days. He was facing the wall when he awoke and when he turned around the site that greeted him was horrifying and relieving all at once. John sat up to be eye to eye with Sherlock, who looked more than worse for wear.  John was sad, really sad about everything. When he last was by Sherlock’s side he was angry with him. Now Sherlock sat in front of him, chained to a chair with dry blood over practically every piece of visible skin. With his free hand John reached in front of him to touch Sherlock’s cheek. The touch made Sherlock initially wince, before he nestled into it, soothed by the for once gentle touch.

John sounded the most concerned and sad anyone could muster, and regardless of the words, the true message was easy to find; sorry. John said only “Sherlock.” 

On hearing his name Sherlock looked into John’s tearing eyes. “I’m okay John, they just want to frighten us is all.”

John moved his hand to Sherlock’s neck to which he pressed two fingers on his pulse to make some form of health assessment. It was slower than he wanted, but it remained strong.

“Sherlock you don’t need to protect me, I’m just glad you’re here. Are you okay?”

Sherlock just nodded. It seems he wasn’t used to people caring about him. 

It was at his nod that six faceless individuals came into the room and preceded to forcefully walk John and Sherlock to a larger room and instead of attaching them to the seats they sat on, they were attached to one another. Hand cuff to hand cuff, wrist to wrist. John felt brave now, with Sherlock he felt like he needed to defend them, Sherlock was clearly weak and who, had obviously endured some horrific things. With this notion John even ignored those in front of him and looked into Sherlock’s eyes, “Sherlock, we are going to be okay.” 

A stout Chinese man wearing what was clearly an insanely expensive suit entered the room followed by one of the huge faceless men holding a chair. It was placed in front of John and Sherlock. The man sat and John didn’t shy away from him, he stared him right in the face whereas a very weak Sherlock could barely lift his head from staring at the floor. The man crossed his legs and spoke confidently, “John Watson, your friend has provided us with the information we need, and now we are going to let you both go. But when you leave this building, if we see you again, we will kill you.”

John simply twitched his nose and nodded. The men began to step towards John and Sherlock, but John went against the plan, “wait,” he said, without hesitance and with visible strength.

“The man you have just proceeded to torture, for god knows how long, is not only a dear friend of mine, he is also a man of huge influence.”

The man who ran the show interrupted him. “Mr. Watson, we are letting you go with your lives so don’t try and test my patience.”

“It’s Doctor Watson, and yes, I think I will, because for fucking god knows how many days I have been pent up in that little room wondering if this man is dead.”

John sat up straight and his face turned aggressive, like a pit-bull who just smelled fresh meat. “This man next to me, too weak to look me or you for that matter in the eye, his brother is THE British Government, without Britain your country would be nowhere, our trade and empire made your country what it is, if you kill us whether that be now or any point in the future, the British Government will ensure that each and everyone of you are stamped out with an efficiency that will terrify any sane man. So not only will you let us go and never harm us in the future, you will answer our questions.”

The boss, who was clearly impatient and deemed this a nuisance but a cigar to his lips, and one of his crows, lit it in an instant. On the first puff of smoke, he breathed it into Johns face, (to which he didn't blink nor move,) and rubbed his brow with his left hand. “We know you are here about Eleanor Scott. Do you play poker Doctor?”

 “No, but I know a bluff when I see one.” The unflinching manner and the growl John could feel in his belly was a strength he had no idea where it was coming from. But he had to admit, he liked it. The boss laughed and breathed through his cigar. “Well, we did not kill her Doctor.”

Immediately John took the bait, “who did?”

“We don’t know. She was an… important asset to our… trade if you can call it that. We wouldn’t kill her. Especially in the way she went. Very suspicious, don't you think? Hence why you're here.”

“But she wanted out?”

“No she wanted more. She, unlike you, did play poker. She was good too, I played her and she took almost one hundred thousand pounds off me. Clearly she didn’t spend it wisely, otherwise she wouldn’t want more, or maybe it was just greed, funny thing- the human heart.”

John ignored the games, “Hang on, ‘the way she went.’ How do you know how she died?”

“Doctor, this is getting tedious, please do try to entertain me.” 

John scowled, “Tell, me, how, you, know.” 

“Her step brother. He worked with us too. Now Doctor I really must be getting on, people to threat, games to play, that kind of thing.” At this stage John wasn’t even listening, he was thinking.

With that the boss spoke in his native language and the two men were walked to a car, had bags placed once more over their heads, but instead of being shoved in the boot, they were sat in the back of a van, still attached to one another. John was even still thinking at this stage as the vehicle bumped along and the darkness had still its grip on him. At least now he knew he wasn’t going to die in that place, and neither was Sherlock. “John.”

“Yes Sherlock.”

“That was immensely stupid.”

Chapter Text

They bumped along the road and just as if nothing had happened, they found themselves unmasked in John’s hotel room in the same spot from which they had been taken. The first thing John did was look at Sherlock; check he wasn’t an actual inch away from death. He was alive, but definitely in pain. John had never seen someone look so far from their normal self. To be in so much pain that you cannot think is definitely a feat that would temporarily change you. And that is what Sherlock is going through. He thought. He used his mind, constantly, without it what was he? 

The faceless men took the rope from their ankles, told them to do “nothing bold” before untying their hands. They held guns in their direction before all backing out of the room. The last words they received from this group were “pack and leave. We will have monitors at the airport, you have four hours.” The door was closed, and for the first time in god knows how long they were truly alone. No CCTV, no crows, nothing. John could have once more wept but it was not over yet. 

About ten seconds after the door closed Sherlock keeled over in pain. He rolled onto his back and moaned in agony. John became the army doctor again. No resources and a wounded soldier. This used to be what he lived for.

John unbuttoned the detective’s shirt as fast as his hands could move, and what he found underneath was more than alarming. The shirt had to be pealed away from the skin, all the blood and sweat had made a sort of glue between fabric and flesh. That action alone made Sherlock hiss through his teeth.

There were a series of sharp gashes, most likely caused by being beaten with some kind of cane; they were all across his torso and more than likely continued all across his back. Sherlock’s breathing had been wheezy ever since they had been reunited, and now John could see why. The left side of Sherlock’s ribcage was very disproportionate to the right. It had keeled in and Sherlock had most likely received several aimed hits, which had led to three, maybe four, crippled ribs. The wheezing may have been caused by a collapsed lung, which in turn was caused by pressure or puncture due to the broken ribs. Sherlock hadn’t coughed up any blood yet, and this either meant the lung was only bruised and not punctured, which was preferred, or this meant they were running out of time. 

John uttered an “Oh Sherlock” more to himself than to his patient before springing into action. John ran to the bathroom, grabbed a series of towels and placed them under Sherlock’s body, he wanted to slow bleeding that was leaving his back and he wanted to prevent infection where possible. On opening the small room fridge he took out the four bottles of water and the small glass alcohol bottles from the top, all containing vodka, of which there were three.

He brought his suitcase over from the chair it was left on and pulled out one of the casual tees he had packed. Leaping over the incapacitated Sherlock he went to the bathroom and grabbed one of those complimentary needle and thread kits hotels often have for no reason at all. Now there was a reason. On returning, he tore off a piece of material from the tee, then doused it in vodka before informing Sherlock that “this is going to hurt.” He then rubbed the alcohol over the wounds on Sherlock’s torso. It did in fact hurt.

Sherlock grabbed at the corners of the towel beneath him and clenched his whole body, his toes curled and his breathing became difficult. A hissing noise escaped from between his teeth and John told him to breathe. On the sting lessening tears still escaped from Sherlocks' eyes down to the floor beneath him. Throughout this process John had put some thread through the eye of the needle and waited for Sherlock to be ready. Some of the wounds didn’t need stitching; they would definitely scar but would heal on their own. But others, they would continue to bleed unless seen to. “Sherlock I need to do some stitching okay, this should not be as bad as the sanitizing.” Sherlock just winched out a “god” before painfully nodding. He squeezed his eyes shut whilst John did his work. After around 5 minutes had passed, John had done all he could see. With another piece of material from his tee he then cleaned the torso of blood, fresh and dry. The water was cold and it made Sherlock get goose bumps all over his arms and begin to shiver. Once he was clean on his front John grabbed another towel from the bathroom and wiped him dry, this would help with the coldness that had spread from the liquid to his core. 

“Okay Sherlock breathe for a moment.” Sherlock visibly relaxed and opened his eyes for the first time since John started stitching. “Sherlock look at me please.” Sherlock looked at his doctor and smiled for the first time since they were reunited in that godforsaken room. He looked sleepy but at some ease. John however would not smile yet. “Sherlock are there any significant wounds on your lower half?”

Sherlock shook his head with the same slight smile still upon his lips. “Sherlock this is going to hurt, and hurt a lot, but I need you to sit up, I need to do the same on your back as I have done on your front. I also want to check your skull.” The smile dipped back into tight lips and Sherlock, with John’s help, winced his way to an awkward seating position in which he was almost entirely propped by John. The sounds of pain that escaped Sherlock’s lips made John almost cry. Whilst he didn’t have the physical injuries Sherlock had, mentally, he was not at his strongest. He pealed the shirt off completely, slowly and carefully, and the back was even worse than the front. The lines etched across his back would most likely never leave.

John took a deep breath and repeated what he did at the front, he washed him down with alcohol, much to Sherlock's pain, stitched up what needed it and then wiped him clean, before finally drying him. He followed that up with an assessment on the spine and the head; both seemed okay and not in a crisis stage, his ribcage was another story, and John's mind turned to the concern of potential internal bleeding. Sherlock was now fairly clean, and from just looking at him, if fully clothed you probably wouldn’t be able to tell he had just endured torture if he didn't want to give it away.

With a lot of effort the two men tried to get Sherlock to stand. Together with John holding Sherlock’s entire weight, they shuffled their way to Sherlock’s hotel room through the adjoining door. John sat Sherlock on the bed and went into the pristinely packed suitcase sat in the rack by the door. He took out the most casual and loose things Sherlock had, which were another expensive shirt and surprisingly grey tracksuit bottoms. John gave Sherlock a questioning look before he winced out the quiet reply of “undercover.” John understood and nodded before asking, “Is there an ‘undercover’ shirt?”

“Front zip pocket.”

John shut the lid and unzipped the largest of the two pockets to find a plain grey cotton t-shirt. He brought them over to Sherlock and as carefully as possible slipped the top over Sherlock’s head and down his pale and gashed body. On the trouser front he now hesitated. “Erm…”

“John just…” Sherlock impatiently took the trackies’ off of John and told John to “turn around.”

“Are you sure?” 

Sherlock just gave a look and so John turned around. ”You realize Sherlock that I was in the army, I have seen a lot of naked men.” Sherlock completely ignored the comment and was in full focus of the task in front of him. He attempted with as few whimpers a possible to undo his belt and hover daintily to allow gravity to let the trousers slide down to his ankles. It was at his stage Sherlock was glad he went commando that day many days ago, taking underwear off would have been a nightmare. He did smell of dirt and the metallic smell of blood arose from his body but he would have to shower later. He definitely did not enjoy being unclean, but being alive felt better, even if he was alive in his own filth. At this point he could not help but whine like a puppy as he as quickly as possible pulled the bottoms over his long legs. On getting them to his waist he sighed in relief and told the back of John’s head, “We need to get out.”

Chapter Text

John smattered around both their hotel rooms, hastily trying to get all of their belongings together. He also attempted to clean up any of Sherlock’s blood, which some how seemed to be on everything. John was so caught up in what he was doing and the feeling of panic made him miss Sherlock’s initial efforts to try and catch his attention. “John” was all Sherlock could muster, he was quiet at first, but the more he felt himself spiraling the more he raised his voice. They were literally running out of time. They had now approximately just over three hours to be at the airport, en route of being out of the country. If they weren’t, they would most likely be recaptured by the gang and taken back to that god-forsaken place were they would definitely die. John really really really did not want to die there. 

It took the fourth yelp of “John!” before John stopped what he was doing to pay attention to Sherlock. “Sherlock we don’t have time!”

“John, the pain.” It was then that John saw what he was truly witnessing. Sherlock was sitting on the bed, exactly where John put him around ten minutes ago. He was looking the worst John had ever seen him (bearing in mind that John had sat with him through his nights of withdrawal) and his face was that of a child’s. Sherlock was slightly hunched over and he was using his left hand to clutch his collapsed in rib rage which sat on the right side of his body. His face was contorted with pain and his eyes were so full of tears John couldn’t understand how the water hadn’t reached its fill and breached to slip down his bruised cheeks, then roll over his dry lips before dropping from his chin to pool in his palms that lay beneath him. John took a deep breath and wandered over to Sherlock to kneel and take Sherlock’s free hand in his.

Looking him straight in the eye with an assurance that both of them knew could not honestly be given, “Sherlock we will get home. We will be back in 221b, we will get you fixed up and we will solve this case. These men who have done this to you, I will not stop until they are put behind bars. We must hurry, and the pain you feel now, it will not be forever, it’s only three hours Sherlock and then we are safe.”

Sherlock nodded and a tear finally did what it had no choice but to do; it flowed from his eye, frequenting the detectives cheek and lips before falling to dissipate on not his palm, but the back of John’s hand. They both looked at the water change from its significance to not being there at all before they allowed their hands to separate. 

John stood and once more visited the hotel fridge; he pulled out a small bottle of liqcorice-flavoured tequila. He loosened the cap before handing it to Sherlock, “here. Drink it quick, nasty stuff but it’ll ease the pain.” Even before John could finish his sentence Sherlock had downed the drink in one swift action. The vile taste made him painfully cough once he’d swallowed it all. John lightly patted Sherlock’s shoulder before finishing the collection he was on before his patient needed seen to. 

Once they were ready to go, the next mountain was just getting Sherlock to move. He was in a lot of pain, and the weakness in him was unavoidable despite his stubborn will power. John then had an idea. He picked up the landline phone and dialed to the hotel reception on the many floors below his feet. Before the unsuspecting employee had time to go through the whole script John said “Hello there, may we have a wheelchair taken up to room 506 please? Make it quick. Thank you.” John then hung up the phone and within three minutes of anxious pacing, on Johns part, there was a knock on the door. John practically ran to the door to find a very happy Chinese man with a wheelchair. John could have clapped. On seeing Sherlock the man was immediately concerned, on voicing his worry it became clear that his English was really not up to scratch. “Man, hurt, we, phone hospital.’” The last thing John wanted was more time wasted. “No no, really that is okay, he’s okay.” John got Sherlock’s wallet from the desk and forced some notes into the mans hand before practically man handling him out of the room, “thank you, thanks, okay bye now.” John shut the door and stood with his back touching the wood. He huffed and then walked over to a horrifically pale Sherlock. “Right Sherlock.” John wheeled the wheelchair to be right in front of his detective, a mere step away. John bent down and with Sherlock’s accommodating, he put his arm underneath Sherlock’s armpit on his good side to stretch around his back. With some huffing Sherlock was soon on his feet and he slowly sat in the chair with some painful hums. 

Immediately John grabbed the two suitcases, did one last sweep around the hotel rooms and then placed Sherlock’s smaller of the two suitcases on Sherlock’s lap. He then attached his own to the hook on the back of the wheelchair and fled the hotel room into the lobby. Once in the elevator, it seemed to take double the time to reach the ground floor. John felt like he had pushed the '0' button a thousand times before the doors finally closed. Watching the numbers count down was more daunting than it should have been. Ground floor arrived and John hastily pushed Sherlock over to the reception and said, “We’d like to pay and check out for rooms 506 and 507 please.”

The woman across from John typed something into a computer and with a confused look on her face said, “you are not supposed to be leaving until next week?”

“Right, yes well, we’d like to leave right now instead.”

“Is everything okay? Was there something wrong with your stay?”

At this point John was at his wits end and was on the verge of explosion, when to his surprise Sherlock spoke up in the voice that John knew and missed so much. “We have had a family emergency back at home, please if you could just pay for everything on this card and then we will be leaving as soon as the transaction is made.”

“Sir we will not be able to use your rooms for the next week as it was booked for all of that time, we will have to charge you for all of that booked time.”

Sherlock slid the card across the desk from his chair and said “fine.”

The woman typed for what felt like a most unnecessary amount of time. John kept looking at the door waiting for this mob to show up and lead him to his execution. Once the bill was paid for and the card was back to its owner, the woman went to speak but John didn’t wait. He wheeled Sherlock out of the door, and with a lot of serious pain, squeezed him into a back of a taxi before following him and saying “airport please.” 

The taxi driver turned around and said “which one?” to which John replied, “doesn’t matter. Just drive.”

Chapter Text

John and Sherlock now had less than two hours to get out of the country. On arriving at the airport John looked anxiously around to spot the ‘monitors’ the masked men had spoke of. So much so that he nearly forgot to pay the taxi driver. John uttered an apology and handed him over way too much and before the driver had time to question the amount, John had painfully placed Sherlock into the wheelchair and was essentially sprinting him into the terminal.

Sherlock was very weak at this stage, he needed some more professional medical attention and John was thinking of how to get it to him whilst scouting out for the right airline desk. He settled on British Airways, as they would definitely be able to associate with John’s sense of urgency. None of this lost in translation, time wasting bullshit. He wheeled Sherlock up to one of the front desks and said, rather out of breath, “hi, we need two tickets for the next flight to London please.” Once more John and Sherlock were left waiting for a woman to stop typing which seemed to go on for an age.

Sherlock looked incredibly pale and he experienced nausea shake through all his vital organs making him hunch over even more. John felt like he was flying back out to war, he sensed dread all throughout his belly and it felt as if he was some how never going to make it home. Finally the brunette perk of a woman asked, “Will you need the wheelchair?” John looked at Sherlock for a second before hesitantly suggesting, “just until we get to the gate.” She nodded and then went to type for god knows how long.

John wanted to jump over the counter and do it all himself. “Is it just carry on luggage you have with you today?” John replied with a fervent nod. She typed for another ninety seconds before declaring, “the next flight leaves in an hour, you’ll have to hurry, but we have two seats available, direct, the seats are not together, but they are only several rows apart, I see one of you is, erm potentially needing some form of erm, assistance, so it is necessity you sit with one another? If yes then we'll need to find another flight.” John could have jumped in the air, a fucking flight, a way out, but he kept it together and replied as calm as you like, “I am this mans friend and doctor and I can inform you that he is fit to travel without me being right by his side.” John let out a nervous laugh and Sherlock faked a smile and the woman nodded. It seemed they’d convinced her. “Passports please gentlemen.”

John and Sherlock rushed through the travel process as fast as possible. The flights were a huge expense, but it was worth their lives. They said a cheery as possible farewell to the BA desk lady before John practically bolted to security. Getting Sherlock to walk through security would have been comical in any other situation. He had to make aching noises just to function. On standing out of the chair, he eeked, with every step he made some kind of sigh, gah or coo. It was unavoidable. On returning to the fully scanned wheelchair, he could have vomited whilst sitting. He couldn’t remember the last time he was in this much pain, if ever.

John hurriedly got his life back together once security checks were over; he put on his belt, got his shoes back on, collected their things, and on pushing Sherlock in the departure lounge he definitely felt safer. Surely they couldn’t have monitors through security? If they went through security then the only way to leave is to fly? Right? The monitors would have seen them exit security, and gone back to their hive to inform mister clinically insane crime boss that they had gone and all was well. Or at least that is what John was telling himself.

John wheeled Sherlock up along side a row of chairs before seating himself down, and together they stared at the board, saying nothing. Waiting for their gate to come up. Their flight was due to leave soon, why was it not up yet? After eight minutes John was convinced something had happened, this was somehow a trick, a way to get them to believe they were finally going to definitely live before BAM! and the carpet would be ripped out from beneath them and they would be back in those cells and this time they would make John watch whilst they tortured Sherlock. Once more John was finding it exceedingly difficult to breathe.

John stood to pace but on his first step, there was a ping sound resounding amongst the many many people and a green number flashed next to their flight time. John and Sherlock both nearly strained their necks at the speed they went about focusing on the board. Gate number sixteen. It was all hands on deck and John was weaving Sherlock in between casual travelers, holidaymakers, all suitably relaxed, whilst John and Sherlock were fleeing for their lives. They reached gate number sixteen and John was covered from head to toe in sweat. He was breathing hard, the action of it made Sherlock painfully smile. Even Sherlock could begin to see a way out. He wouldn’t have been able to do any of it without John. He would have died hours ago without him. And even if he did some how survive, he never would have made it this far and he would be shipped back to that concrete room and been killed in god knows which way.

An extremely slow twenty minutes after arriving at the gate, they were called to board and due to the wheelchair, both Sherlock and John were allowed to board first. John could have cried with happiness when he saw that plane. They left the wheelchair at the bottom of the plane entrance steps and witnessed it be taken away by an employee of the airport whilst they ascended the steps. Sherlock nearly collapsed every other step, but by some miracle he made it to the top and even said a relieved ‘hello’ to the welcoming crewmembers on board. John could have kissed the pilots with their stupid fake tan white smiling faces. But in that moment they were Jesus coming to save John from hell itself. John saw Sherlock to his seat and did one final health check before he felt comfortable enough to go to his own seat a few rows ahead.

Whilst it was only three or four rows in front, John felt uneasy about not being able to see Sherlock. He was worried for his health, and arguably selfishly felt like he needed the company, needed Sherlock’s company more specifically. Sherlock was too focused on his survival to worry about seating arrangements. Once everyone was on board and the doors were closed John was still looking for some catch. Some one would jump out, yell surprise and shoot him in the head, or maybe the entire plane was in on it and they were just waiting for John to relax into his seat and give a contented sigh before all collectively trampling him to death. Even whilst the plane was taking off he couldn’t shake off the feeling that this wasn’t safety. It was only when the seatbelt lights went off that he began to truly believe that he wouldn’t die in China, and maybe, just maybe he would die at an old age in the comfort of his own bed. Just has he took a deep breath and undid his seatbelt did he hear a crunch and a loud gasp before someone shouted “is anyone a doctor?! This guy just collapsed!” He knew it was Sherlock.

Chapter Text

John leapt out of his seat and bolted down the aisle, shouting all the while “I’m a doctor and his friend!” On reaching Sherlock’s aisle the two people from his row had already left their seats and were standing in the aisle unsure of what to do with themselves. John sat down next to Sherlock who was hunched over with his head awkwardly squashed against the seat in front of him, and repeated his name over and over again in the tiny hope that consciousness was even an option. John pushed the same staff alert button that Sherlock had pushed over and over again to order drinks on the way here, then he gently lifted Sherlock’s head to reveal the last thing he wanted to see. John awkwardly held Sherlock’s head and panic rippled through his core. “Please! I need water! Please! And a straw!” John shouted for everyone to hear and that was the aim. 

Within a minute there was water and several straws placed in his lap. No questions asked. Sherlock had cut his head open with the force of his collapse against the thick plastic seat directly in front of him. The gash was large and deep at his hairline, he would need further stitching there now, as well as all the other make do stitching John had done back at the hotel. Most alarming however, was what John feared the most, had come true. Sherlock was bleeding from his mouth and his breathing was so slow and quiet John feared breathing would stop all together. This whole time since being reunited, Sherlock’s left lung had been slowly filling with blood and now it had reached its saturation point. It was forcing its way up his esophagus and had now reached his throat and was dripping out between his lips. He was dying from the inside out, John was aware that it was unlikely that he would bleed out if they got to a hospital quickly, the main concern was suffocation. He needed a tracheostomy, or a chest tube insertion, and he needed it now.

A flight attendant had arrived with a first aid kit and informed John that they would be emergency landing so he should get buckled in. One of the people whose seat he was currently in was now seated in his seat several rows ahead. The other person was told to follow the attendant to a seat right at the front. They were preparing to land. The captain of the plane spoke through the speaker as if nothing had remotely happened, “Ladies and Gentlemen we are having to make an emergency landing for a passenger, and we have been given the go ahead to land in Nanjing Airport in approximately eight minutes, I would ask you to allow the hospital staff onboard and off board without any interruptions as this will benefit the passenger that needs the assistance. Once the passenger is off board we will reassess and get back in the air as soon as possible. Thank you for your cooperation.” 

There really was not much John could do. He frantically buckled himself in, checked Sherlock was strapped in to, which he was, and then he bandaged his head in the most haphazard way possible, but it would do for now. All who could see were gawping at the near hysterical Doctor. Sherlock was still breathing but it was minimal, minute sort of hiccup breaths. He needed his throat unblocked and open as soon as possible. John looked into the tiny green box with the smallest amount of supplies. He could use a syringe, remove the needle and suck out the blood from the back of his throat, but on a plane that’s about to land such intricate work was dangerous. The straws could also be used as suction, somehow, (John had done something similar to this in Afghanistan, he saved a mans life with nothing other than a straw and a small knife.) But, again it was too delicate. Not only did he need his esophagus unblocked, he needed surgery to cease the internal bleeding and to let him breathe. John knew the surgery would be invasive and would mean that Sherlock would have to stay in hospital for a few days. For the remaining three minutes of the descent John did the best he could, watched Sherlock nervously and held his head so that there was no chance he’d choke on his own blood. 

The landing was fast and so abhorrent in its rush that John had to hold one hand out in front of him to stop him from getting the same gash as Sherlock had upon his scalp. Most of the other passengers had to do the same. Then everything but not enough happened all at once. Four people were on the plane in maybe around 120 seconds of the plane stopping. They had a canvas stretcher, so old fashioned that the sight of it made John nervous. As they all collectively tried to lift Sherlock, John couldn’t help from barking, “watch his head!” or “it’s his lungs, he needs surgery immediately!” They all just nodded and continued with their jobs, as if they had seen this all a thousand times, the hysterical friend or family member telling them how to do their jobs. John couldn’t help himself. What if Sherlock died, what if Sherlock, this brilliant new friend died; died on foreign soil for a case that no one really cared about. No one apart from Sherlock, and even John was on the case for a selfish thrill, but now it had ended up with Sherlock hurt, possibly even dead, John was invested. He wanted all those fuckers who did this to him dead. 

As Sherlock began to be carried down the aisle, with the whole plane gawking at him, John could not help but shout, “his head needs to be up! He’ll choke on his own blood! Keep it up!!” With no reply, John just watched his only friend in this whole fucking country get further and further away from him. Once he was satisfied that he would make it off this plane, John collected his and Sherlock’s possessions. Their two suitcases, both of whose contents had been practically untouched. He caught no ones eye and the whole plane was in silence. You could hear a pin drop. John then took a deep breath and as he walked down the aisle, closely following behind his bleeding friend, he was aware of every single set of eyes on him. 

People love to watch trauma. When humanity is stripped down to what really matters, death, love, sacrifice, gore, we cannot help but stare. It’s like witnessing a car crash, it’s horrible and we know that the whole time in that moment, yet we cannot peal our nosy little eyes away from it. We all want a piece of trauma because it is what we fear the most. John in this moment was the car crash. To everyone else on this plane, he may be the man who could not save his friend from death. To everyone staring at him, this man they see before them is about to lose everything. The man who never did enough. The people on this plane will never know the outcome of these two men’s story, but they will envision the worst. It is our nature. We envision the worst and stock it up in our long term memory in the hope that if this happens to us in the future, we will either do better, or at least cope better, but ultimately survive. To everyone else on this plane, John was just as dead as Sherlock. 

As both men departed the plane, one on his back and one on automatic, John could not help feel as if he was falling down a rabbit hole. So deep, that getting yourself out will require every ounce of your soul.

Chapter Text

Everything was a complete blur. John sat in the back of the ambulance, there were two people hovering over Sherlock, hooking him up to machines, slowing bleeding and preparing the hospital via phone of the what would be needed as soon as they arrived. Occasionally they asked John questions about how Sherlock came to be this way. John was too distraught to say anything of use. He would shake his head or just cast his eyes to the floor, unable to utter a syllable. Most of the time he tentatively watched Sherlock and the machine that monitored his breathing. Hoping that neither would stop. John more than anything just wanted Sherlock to open his eyes. To tell John that everything was okay and that he would make it through this. For Sherlock to promise that he wouldn’t leave. Sherlock always kept his promises. John knew that. They’d known each other maybe a month, and he knew that. He could not go back to what life was like before he met Sherlock. He couldn’t physically imagine it. As Sherlock was wheeled out of the ambulance and down a ramp to the tarmac, John couldn’t help but cry. His eyes stung and he wiped his face of water, he had to keep control for a little while longer. 

John was assisted in carrying their things and they entered the hospital building in a rush. It was horrid and concrete and the sight of it was intimidating. John didn’t feel good about this place. He shook it off and as they entered the building, John was stopped from following Sherlock through a set of double doors. He began to panic and say matter of fact “no I’m going with him.”

“He’s going to surgery you can’t go.” John tried to push his way past.

“No I’m going, I’m a doctor, and I have to be with him.”

John began to hyperventilate, and now he was being manhandled to stop him from passing through those doors. “I have to be with him!” Sherlock by this stage was long gone, and John after a lot of wasted effort, gave up. He threw his hands up in the hair and said “fine! Okay! Fine! Is their a viewing window?!” One of the nurses nodded and said, “come.” John said an angry thank you and followed her to god knows where. Once more he was on automatic. He realised that he was on his way to witness his friend being cut open. 

On coming up to the glass he was glad and both terrified that he couldn’t see Sherlock’s face. It was turned away, facing the furthest wall. He had tubes up his nose and blood was draining from his nostrils. He had an oxygen mask hovering over his face above all the tubes and the nonsense, but to John’s delight he could see Sherlock’s breath fogging up the plastic mask. They were about to start a chest tube insertion. Sherlock’s arm was pushed upwards so that his entire left flank was exposed. A small incision had been made and a tube had been entered just below his armpit not too far from the nipple. The tube was being funneled through to drain the lung of fluid. It appeared to be working to. Whilst this was going on another person was re-stitching the entire temporary stitches John had made back at the hotel that felt like forever ago, and simultaneously a further two people where making an incision into Sherlock’s front. Immediately John knew what they were doing and he was happy with their decision. With a hot piece of metal they then fused the broken lung tissue together to form a scar but a seal. It was Sherlock’s ribs that were the real mess. The two lowest ribs were completely shattered, and were just removed entirely. The two above those appeared to be fractured. John knew that only time would heal those. They re-stitched Sherlock up and now started preparing for post-op. Sherlock was okay. He was actually going to be okay. John had been standing there for what felt like five minutes, and when Sherlock was pushed out of the doors, once more out of view, John looked up at the large clock in the surgery beyond the glass, and in actuality he had been there for over three hours. 

It wasn’t a simple surgery then, but it was without its complications (thank fuck.) John felt himself take a real deep breath then. Sherlock wasn’t going to bleed out and he wasn’t going to suffocate. He was okay. They’d stitched him up, and he was as of now (besides the tube still in his side) blood free. Post-op and ready to become conscious once more. Now that Sherlock was going to be okay, John’s mind whirred; they hadn’t in fact got far from Shanghai, let alone out of the country, being so close to the smugglers hide made him feel nervous. What if they found out? What if they said it wasn’t good enough? Thought they had double-crossed them and took them back to kill them after all? John forced himself to relax. To be honest he just needed to sleep. He was exhausted. He hobbled his way back to the reception to find a very sweet and old Chinese woman who pointed John in the direction of his recovering friend. 

John followed the ladies words and opened the double doors at the end of some corridor to find Sherlock lying in a hospital bed, with so many wires and tubes funnelling his body with fluids and ensuring none of it could fail. He was still unconscious, and it appeared as if blood was still slowly making its way out of his lung through the tube into a sealed container, but it was only small amounts. John knew the tube would be removed in a few days once the blood literally stopped draining from the lung. They had to make sure nothing remained in the lung, as it could cause further health problems. John was almost glad that he had to stay in one place for a few days, he would most likely feel safer back in the familiar territory of London, but in such a public establishment as this, tracking and then removing Sherlock and John from the hospital without any attention being drawn was near impossible. 

John walked close to Sherlock, and admired the stitching across his scalp and across the rest of his visible skin. They had done a good job, John thought. He was pleased and impressed at their work. On this assessment he sat in the chair next to Sherlock’s bed, and though he did try to fight it, he fell asleep almost immediately.

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“John.”

John awoke by the sound of Sherlock’s voice for what felt like the hundredth time. Except this time something was different. The air itself tasted sweeter and everything appeared to be in abundance. The walls were whiter and the world felt pain free. The thing that actually made John open his eyes was the feeling of the breath upon his face. Sherlock was face to face with John, knelt down, in his hospital gown with barely an inch between their noses. “Sherlock!!”

John practically jumped up in excitement for Sherlock finally being awake!! But Sherlock quietly hushed him with “John, John it’s okay I’m fine, everything is going to be okay, I promise, thank you for everything.” Sherlock pushed John with his hands on his shoulders, stronger than John thought possible, back down to a near-enough relaxed seating position. Their heads remained close, and their bodies were parallel, as if mirroring and reading one another to be perfectly in tune. John smiled a toothy smile, happy that his man was awake. Sherlock was awake. Awake and well. Yet, there was something, a flicker, just in an instant, everything seemed to change. Sherlock’s eyes cast down to John’s… mouth? Yes definitely his mouth, and John, now self-conscious licked his lips. Sherlock without re-catching John’s gaze closed his own eyes and went in with the assurance of a deity, and their lips connected. 

Unsure but hard at first, out of sync, sudden, John was shocked. Soon though he ceased to fight it and let it happen, all his worries and fears washed away in an instant. They left his mind, his spirit, somewhere, fucking who cares where, everything and nothing mattered, he could feel this man who he had not known for long, yet knew all about, care. Really care. Sherlock wanted, no needed him. John felt the most adored he’d ever felt it was invigorating. Then there was a bang.

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The double doors of the hospital room had been flung open and John felt embarrassed to be walked in on like this, in such a personal moment. But wait, none of this made sense. Sherlock was in the bed, in the hospital bed, fast asleep, he can’t have moved that fast? And John was still in the chair?!

‘Fuck, FUCK!,’ was all John could think. ‘You fucking idiot! You were dreaming! That was a dream! You fucking idiot, you just dreamt you were kissing Sherlock, fucking kissing him. Lips, tongues, teeth the lot!! You wanted him! How could you want him? Oh god I love him, SHIT I have fallen for a sociopath who was my patient! John Hamish Watson, you can’t feel this way. Shut it down. Now.” On John’s insane thinking, a nurse came in, checked Sherlock’s vitals and then left, all the while John was having a heterosexual crisis, and he looked like he was on the verge of a heart attack. He paced, rubbed his brow, shook his head, every sign of internal meltdown, John was expressing. ‘John you’re straight. You don’t like men. But you want it, you do, fuck. Fuck!!’

Despite this, all John could conclude was that he wanted it; he wanted Sherlock, in his entirety. John’s final thought before casting his eyes down on his unconscious and un-kissed friend, ‘oh, why couldn’t that have been real.'

Chapter Text

Sherlock awoke maybe an hour after John awoke from his own disturbed slumber. In that whole time John paced anxiously, questioning whether his feelings where genuine compared to some sleep deprived or stress induced insanity. If they were, should he tell Sherlock? If it turns out not to be, should he tell him about his dream anyway? God this was all so confusing. When Sherlock woke up John just said, admittedly timid, "hello. How are you feeling?" Sherlock just groaned and said "what happened?" John took a cautious step closer to Sherlock's cheap hospital bed and said "you collapsed on the plane, we are in a hospital in Nanjing, they had to emergency land, it was all very dramatic, you would have loved it." A nervous laugh escaped from John's mouth. Sherlock was now fully out of the depths of sleep and went to prod around his chest.

He lifted up the sheet and stared down at his maimed body. He knew something was different. Before he had the chance to poke at what had changed John turned into Doctor mode and informed his friend, "they removed some ribs, they were irreparable, your left lung capacity may also be permanently smaller, they singed the lung tissue back together, you need to be careful until it fully scars. And you still have a tube in your side to drain the blood, you'll have to go back to surgery in a few days time to have it removed." Sherlock just nodded and painfully leant over to the machine next to him, John rushed round the other side to help Sherlock but Sherlock waved him off, "I'm fine John, just turning the morphine down."

"Sherlock, don't turn it down! You've just been in major surgery!" Sherlock turned the dial anyway and said "Morphine affects thinking John, we need to get on with this case, process it, you definitely aren't going to let me leave here for the next few days even though it was what I would prefer, so let's get on, we are still in the country, relatively close to our capturers, so still in danger, therefore we need to solve this." Sherlock's face turned to a wince as the lack of morphine took affect. John turned the dial back up and said "I'd rather you worked pain free for fuck sake." Sherlock went to turn the dial back to its previous position but John sternly said "leave it or so help me god." Sherlock admitted defeat and sat up as comfortably as possible. "It wasn't them, it wasn't them that killed Eleanor."

"How can you be sure? They were willing to put you in here, and I am still convinced they would kill us if they came across us." "They liked her, I think the boss may have even loved her, his pupils changed when he spoke of her, and they were comfortable enough with each other to not only play poker, but Eleanor was comfortable enough to beat him without feeling like there were consequences. He was fixated with her, all they asked me about was about her, why would they ask me that if they killed her. Easy, they didn't. They want to know who killed her just as much as us. So the smuggling gang had nothing to do with her death, so anonymous. The lover. The lover and relation, we don't know yet, but definitely lover. Unless their hand writing is exactly the same, which either means anonymous is the perfect scribe or they are the same person, the latter is more likely. Lover and Eleanor wrote letters to each other often, they didn't sign their name, meaning she just knew who it was, the lack of identity most likely means that the relationship was secret, which backs up the idea that they were related, there is shame or at least anxiety involved. We need to get in touch with Lestrade. Where's your phone? They gang most likely tapped mine, they took it off me then gave it back. Whereas yours was left behind, just in case you were going to ask why I need to use your phone. Hurry John. Please."

John briefly snickered. Sherlock was most definitely okay and returning to himself already. "Amazing Sherlock." In that moment, there was no doubt about it, John had feelings for Sherlock. Shit. He stood up and went and got his phone and its charger out his case. He located a plug and said as calmly as possible despite his affirmation, "we need to let it charge for a second." Sherlock nodded. Then after a moments silence Sherlock said quietly and without a whisper of emotion,"I'm sorry John, you wouldn't be here if it wasn't for me." John without looking at Sherlock and still looking at the phone in his hand said "I'm here on my own want, and, erm, I am glad you are okay." On Sherlock's question they finally looked at one another. "Did they hurt you?" John shook his head, "no. They just left me on my own is all'." Sherlock nodded once and then said, "you're not okay though. I can see it. People normally, want to, talk about these things. Feel free." Every utterance was awkward and unsure but John was glad it was said. John then left the phone by the socket it was attached to, walked over to the chair by Sherlock's bedside, sat and said "Well, I was mostly concerned about you, and your, whereabouts, I of course worried for my own life, but I was mostly worried about you. They told me nothing, you know, so my mind went to, as we can correctly see, dark places." There was a pause for breath when Sherlock crinkled his brow and said "There's something else."

John internally panicked, oh god he saw, Sherlock could see, he'd barely been conscious and he already saw straight to John's heart. John just swallowed and shook his head and said "no, nothing, there's nothing, else." Sherlock looked doubtful and did a series of deductions about his assistant, he did see it, he did in fact see it. Dilated pupils, hands closed in front of his body, legs crossed, defensive body language, he was chewing the inside of his lip, nervous, twitchy, overtired, quickened breathing, definite stress, he saw it all but he couldn't quite put it together. He decided that John probably wanted privacy, even though he knew the 'nothing' was a lie, he would realise it soon. He always did.

Chapter Text

Lestrade, John and I trapped in Nanjing. Smuggling gang didn't do it. Look into anonymous. What did you get from the letters? Fingerprints? -SH

Sherlock! Thank god, been dying to hear from you. Are you and John okay? What do you mean by trapped?! Those letters Anderson brought back are brilliant, the unsigned anonymous letter is the same as the lover, I assume you knew that already, the prints match on both letters, we are still trying to establish who wrote them, we are yet to find these prints in our system meaning that most likely they don't have a criminal record. But, we now know Eleanor had a half brother, guy called Henry, he's professional type, a lawyer, been away recently, on the phone he said with work but who knows. We should have him in for interview next week. Will you and John be back by then? Want you in on this even if no one else does. Lestrade

Tedious story, no time, we are fine. Partial incest then. John and I should be back for interview. Who other than the brother was family? There is her father Michael, but anyone else? And is Henry Michaels' son or someone else's? -SH

Henry is Michael's son, from second marriage. Eleanor was from the first. There is a six year difference between Eleanor and Henry. Yeah incest is possible unfortunately. We attempted to contact the mother but she's in a care home, early onset dementia. How can you be certain about the gang? Lestrade

The gang didn't do it. So James is 28. Married? -SH

Fine. Yeah, his wife is a nurse. They have two young kids, so Eleanor was their auntie, well technically half-auntie. Lestrade.

Find out what his handwriting looks like. We'll be back in a few days. -SH

On it. Lestrade

Chapter Text

So it was definite, John liked Sherlock. He liked liked him. He couldn't get over it, for hours and then days Sherlock just spoke from his hospital bed. Non-stop and even though John listened, he wasn't really listening. He would pace and pace and Sherlock thought he was listening, well not that it would have mattered, he would have spoken to himself if John wasn't present. But Sherlock knew something was wrong, the usual 'amazing' or 'fantastic' didn't escape John's lips when Sherlock finally strung together a deduction about the case. John would just pace and 'mmmm' about the whole thing. Unusually severe about even the supposed steps of progress. Sherlock would even practically scream "don't you see John! See and observe it John! Come on! It's all there!" It wasn't until Sherlock was due to go back into surgery to have the menacing blood draining tube removed from his side that Sherlock finally demanded "John!!"

Every inch of his being screamed 'John pay attention to me!' He had a point, John had barely looked at him since he had awoken from his unconscious terror. What was wrong with him? Sherlock was so focussed on the case of which the answer lay literally thousands of miles away (most likely) that he made the faulty, nay catastrophic assumption that John was just distressed of the isolation endured, if only he could string together all the signs of desire that lay behind John's, well everything.The body language, the blushing, the not so secret stares, everything. John turned and finally connected eyes with his detective. Those electric eyes, so full and enigmatic John wondered if it was even possible to not let your heart become totally lost in its misty waters. John said nothing and Sherlock waved his hands dramatically mid air as if to say 'What the actual fuck? You have not been yourself for daaaaaaaaaaaays, I need the actual you! The doctor, assistant, trusted companion, therapist, the lot! Get here NOW.' John got it, he had been waiting for this for days to be frank. 

"Sorry, yes, sorry Sherlock you're right, it's just, just the shock, yeah, yeesh, the shock of it all." John nodded as if to confirm his own shaky confession. Sherlock shook his head and said matter of fact, "once I get this tube removed I am coming over there and shaking you back into logic Doctor, Captain John Watson." John's face went from inadvertently pleased to assured and he just nodded as if the scenario hadn't been more than pleasing to him. If he was honest with himself just being called 'Captain' by Sherlock was arousing. He cast his eyes to the floor and his ears tingled, so much so that he walked to face the wall, anywhere as long as Sherlock couldn't have a chance of reading the want. He nodded, to himself really, and then just like that Sherlock was hailed off to surgery and once more John was plunged into surreal terror, except this time it was different. Now John's heart was at stake. Now all he wanted was for Sherlock to return. Conscious and talking. Whilst John watched through the glass and forced his way through the dejavu of it all, he realised that even if he was a plant or a moth, or even a hem on Sherlock's whooshy ridiculous coat, it wouldn't matter, because all that mattered was that he was with Sherlock, and able to understand, or at least hear, anything, all of it preferably uncontrollably pour from Sherlock's mind through that deep clattering vocal box and finally through those arched lips to rest upon the ears of John Watson. That's all John wanted. To hear him, to listen and learn from the man he had now chosen to spend time with. Not just as a colleague or even a friend, but more. John wanted to know everything about Sherlock. He wanted to know him as human, not just as a machine. God this was all so hard. John rubbed his brow whilst the surgeons delicately fed the tube from out of his lung tissue to take a gasp and rejoin the world. John knew it would all be okay, Sherlock, it had only been a few days from such a traumatic event and thousands of miles away at the crime scene he had already basically solved the case of smuggler and bee-keeper Eleanor Scott. Sherlock liked bee's, John made a mental note to find some of those hut-hive things Sherlock so adored. They definitely couldn't have them in 221b, but they could have them somewhere. Maybe Mrs. Hudson would let them keep a couple in unoccupied 221c.

The surgery was without a doubt a success, and once more John was impressed by the standards and ethical practice of this place. Everything about it was alien, practically no one here spoke English yet they knew the human body regardless of where it came like a children's maze. It was all easy, and completely unfazeable, it made John proud to call himself a doctor. He wished all doctors unanimously practiced this way on an international scale. Like clock work, nothing to worry about. As Sherlock departed the four walled surgery into no mans land, once more John returned to Sherlock's bedside awaiting his return. He decided that regardless of what was to happen, he had to ensure that no matter what he wanted to remain by Sherlock's beside, as only friend or more. Even then John didn't want to risk it, he wanted to be here with him, wherever here was he didn't care. As long as he was with him.    

When Sherlock awoke he rubbed his eyes, gathered his thoughts, and had a realisation that potentially changed everything. It is as if he had run full pelt into a brick wall. John sat in front of him as he had a few days previously, awaiting eagerly for him to say something, anything. Well maybe anything but this, "John I can't do this."

John was so concerned he felt his nasal passages burn and his eyes water, "what Sherlock?"

"This" was the only reply.

Chapter Text

"Sherlock you are scaring me, what is 'this'?" Sherlock squinted his brow as if the world around him was lopsided and no longer a place that was trying to understand him. "John, I am and have never been good at being someones friend, I see all of their flaws and secrets laid out in front of me as clearly as I can see them entering a room. Due to this, I constantly feel the need to fix and sort and compartmentalise everyone and everything about everyone." John leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows on his tired knees, "Sherlock I don't understand, you've lost me."

John's face contorted and Sherlock could see him receding further into himself away from Sherlock, from what he was hearing, even though there bodies were physically closer than they had been in days. "John I will always be a disappointment to you." John fell backwards in a slump so his back touched the chair and his entire form tightened into an obvious state of anger. As Sherlock continued to speak John could only look away from that mouth that spouted these words, "John listen to me, you like me now, you think you know me, you think I can be honest and present with you, but I cannot spare anyones feelings and you will get tired of both that and me, because knowledge and logic outwit all in my mind."

John was still not looking at Sherlock and he began to shake his head, lips quivering fighting the profanity that wanted to go from John's thoughts to become sound. "You think I see you as different John, you think I will adjourn my true opinions because I owe you something because you have helped me, and you have helped me, your company means much too me, but I will hurt you whether I like it or not. This job demands that of me. This job will spit you out John and I do not want to see that happen, you need to remain exactly as you are always John. I cannot let this work morph you into anything other than you are right now." As Sherlock spoke of John he raised his hands and his fingers were splayed and his palms faced John as if he was a piece of art to be admired and applauded over.

There was a brief pause and Sherlock lowered his hands to once more come into contact with his weak body that lay beneath the cheap sanitised blanket. John pushed his lips out and took an audible sigh, as his chest expanded in the next breath a single tear rolled down his cheek and Sherlock looked down at his own stomach as if the tear was not to be witnessed in fear of un-dignifying John some how. John wiped the tear from its tracks with his thumb. He cleared his throat and repositioned himself, palms now touching his thighs, he sat up straight, battle stations, then took several more breaths and looked back in Sherlock's direction to face whatever was coming. "So what you are saying Sherlock, is that, you don't think it is wise for us to work together anymore?"

Without looking at him, Sherlock gave one nod of the head. There was another brief pause.

"For the first time in your life Sherlock, you are going to hear these words and you are going to believe them. You. Are. Wrong." Sherlock looked up at his friend and their eyes joined for the first time during this conversation. Sherlock smiled, no one had ever fought for him before. John returned the same smile. He lifted up a hand and pointed at Sherlock as if accusing him of belligerence. "Sherlock you push everyone that cares about you away, I don't know why, I don't know if you are even aware of it, but if you are and you think it improves your work, you are wrong. People help people. Friends help friends. I Sherlock, me, I am not going anywhere. Even if I annoy the fuck out of you, I am not leaving. I have never felt so alive and so needed in my entire existence, and I served in the army for fuck sake!!" Both men shared a comforting laugh. "Yes you hurt people, your words hurt me just now Sherlock, but I am stronger than anyone you have ever met in your whole god damned life and you can say anything to drive me away and I promise I will only meet it with a stubborn nature and an unmoved mind. I will not walk away from this, from what we have created, I will not walk away from you."

The remnants of the smile remained on Sherlock's face, "okay."

John immediately relaxed and he replied with a toothy grin "okay."

Chapter Text

Much to Sherlock's annoyance, he was informed, in admittedly pained and broken English, that he needed to remain in hospital for a few more days. John giggled at Sherlock's reaction to this news. Sherlock moaned and dramatically sagged his body into the thin mattress beneath him. He rolled his eyes and scrunched his brow, but it was the aggressive fold of the arms that really caught John out. He huffed and puffed like a child who had just been told he was not allowed an ice cream. John told him so once the shy nurse had left, "you are such a child Sherlock, honestly it's fine." John returned to the foreign newspaper he was inspecting before the nurse had been the bearer of unfortunate news.

Sherlock's grumpy gaze slowly turned to meet John's unsympathetic stare, "John it is most certainly not fine, the case, have you completely forgotten about the case! We have been stuck in Nanjing for five days John, five! Think of all that may have gone on in all that time John! Five days! The murderer has probably fled from England at this point and Lestrade is as useless as always! How can he have not got the hand writing of the brother yet!" Sherlock's hands moved from their crossed position to be splayed in the air and waved about to match the obvious dramatist that splurged from his words.

"John, Lestrade is pulling Eleanor's brother in for interview, the potential murderer in for interview John! We have to be there! Lestrade will undoubtedly be outwitted, especially if he uses Donovan or heaven forbid Anderson, he'll let him leave and no charges will be pressed and then we'll arrive fresh from the airport, being chased out by gangsters may I add, looking like a pair of dogs chasing our own tails! John you are a doctor, convince them, I'm fine you know I'm healthy enough to fly."

John shook his head "Sherlock you were..."

"Yes I know, tortured, neglected, I was near pneumonia, malnutrition blah blah blah it doesn't make a difference! The case John, this is what I was saying, it defies all! Eleanor is dead and we need to solve her murder, it's our job."  

John looked up from the foreign paper and spoke hesitantly, "our...job?"

"Oh John for god sake don't become a feeling idiot in this moment." John just began to laugh, Sherlock had just made them a 'we.' He felt butterflies in his belly. "Sherlock Holmes just said our, I didn't think you were possible of the word." To John's further entertainment Sherlock once more crossed his arms like a six year old, "Oh honestly John you made such a fuss yesterday about not going anywhere I'm simply playing at your emotions to get what I want." John looked cockily back at the paper he couldn't understand a word of and said "that, or you are actually beginning to think that you need me." Even though Sherlock remained stiff lipped and the cross-armed-grump, there was a definite blush in his cheeks, and the change of colour made John beam behind the veil of the paper.

Once Sherlock's pulse had returned to a slower more controlled pace, he smoothed the hair that touched the back of his neck down with the palm of his hand and said, maybe even nervously, "John, please."

Without missing a beat John threw down the paper and stood up and went to leave the room, "John where are you going?"

"I'm going to tell the doctors that you are to be discharged today, I'm starting to miss London anyhow." With that John was out the door. Sherlock smiled from ear to ear, the grin could not be helped, he did need Doctor John Watson, he needed him and Sherlock knew it.

Chapter Text

Flying was something the detective and his assistant had experienced together (fully) once before. It was an agreeably messy experience, both parties became increasingly drunk and got to know arguably too much information about the other via a game of would you rather. It was a happy memory for them both, and whilst it was under a fortnight ago, it felt like a very distant one, if not a dream. As they boarded a plane in Nanjing, John thought of how ridiculous the last two and only flights he had been on with Sherlock. The first was one that was full of fun, excitement and the potential for adventure. Neither men had ever been to China before and it was to be a place of promise, and insight into their first case together. Instead they saw none of the country, or even city, that flight landed them in. Instead they both saw four grey walls and chains that suggested they may in fact never be free of. John was sad. It would have been nice to see some of it, any of it.

Whilst John was attached to the furniture of that room, he envisioned often what he and Sherlock may have been doing as of right now if the smugglers did not know anything about them. He imagined them in some Chinese tea house, John sipping some tea straight from the leaf, cross legged on the floor, whilst Sherlock talked excitedly about the progress of the case. He imagined the case leading them to the paddy fields of rural China, he could see Sherlock behind his eyelids knee deep in water talking to some local with ragged clothes across his back, in perfect Mandarin. Sherlock standing in his suit with his ridiculous coat, with the trousers rolled up, bare foot, talking to some local about a bunch of smugglers. An image like that was one that could make John feel like he had a escaped from those walls that echoed nothing but silence, even if for the briefest of moments. He also played through his mind the potential for small moments, dinner together, a camaraderie this case would have brought between them, the mad interviews, the heat of the chase, the coffee in one of their hotel rooms. John saw Tiananmen Square, the Great Wall and an ancient temple enshrouded in bamboo. All with Sherlock in mind, so alive and so active. John knew it was a coping mechanism, a way to be out of the reality of the situation he was truly in. However, he had thought constantly of those nagging feelings of admiration, pride and well, some kind of feeling John hadn't quite got to grips yet. 

As he had watched Sherlock in that surgery room (the first time,) and he felt those pangs of butterflies, and as Sherlock sat beside him now, relatively healthy, John could say there was definite attraction. John would even call him handsome; only to himself of course. For the most part, John had been in denial about the whole thing. There was the initial revelation, but John had put it down to the stress and possible trauma caused by the capture. Some need to be close to someone he knew in an alien place, or maybe the doctor side of him took hold of him, Sherlock was an ex-patient of his so it did make sense. And besides, John didn't think he was gay, was he gay? He still likes women anyway. Many women throughout this airport even were paying him a lot of attention for a blond head in China was a rare thing. It confirmed to him that he still liked the attention from women. Attention from Sherlock almost always ended in John blushing. Maybe that was a sign, of some sorts. Essentially John didn't know. He has been certain in the recent past, but in hindsight, as of that moment, waiting for the plane to take off to London, sitting next to his friend, flatmate and colleague he did not know. John was actually contented. For once, not knowing was comforting. All he knew was that Sherlock and he were still with one another, on their way home, to interview a murderer. Perfect.

Sherlock shook John out of his complicated thoughts with "Gee' and Tee' John?"

"Sherlock you are on a complicated combination of drugs we cannot let alcohol get in that mixture."

Sherlock pushed up his eyebrows as if offended by the idea that John had thought him so stupid, "cannot believe you think i'd never thought of such a thing, I took my  I-V out exactly 12 hours before leaving the hospital so my system is in fact clean."

John turned round his whole body to face his friend, his face was in anguish, "Sherlock that would have been too soon after your surgery! You silly bastard!"

"Whilst I was not in fact born out of wedlock, I am in fact silly" Sherlock held up a hand and said rather loudly, "Air hostess, two Gin and Tonics please!"

John scowled and Sherlock gave a non-chalent "relax Watson, relax, we are going home." He patted John thrice upon the knee and it made John smile. Sherlock knew him so well in such a short space of time. He was right, John told himself to relax and took a deep breath and with that a beverage was in his hand. Hopefully they'd make it home this time.

They both took a sip before Sherlock said "John we need to think tactics, brother in interview." John nodded enthusiastically and made several 'hmm' noises in agreement. Sherlock continued, "this is a man who has been involved in the smuggling lark, he knows partially what he is doing, also to have an incest relationship you need to be, well a particular kind of person." John interrupted "hm yes, bat shit crazy." Sherlock and he giggled once more, such a relief, to be giggling properly, together again. Sherlock and John were beginning to leave the stress behind them, it ebbed from their now clean skin (airport showers) and their words were much more freeing than the previous fortnight or so. What with the gangs threats looming over them and Sherlock's nonstop pain. That was all starting to be a part of the past, their past. Now it was on to better things, and both parties were more than pleased to be back on the case, especially with resolution to the case in sight.

"Not to mention a lawyer" John remarked, "yes so educated, just as I had deduced from the original letter" Sherlock rebutted. John rolled his eyes; always the smart aleck. John practically ignored him, "so good cop bad cop?"

Sherlock guffawed and laughed out loud then on realising John wasn't laughing with him, his face fell, "oh you're serious."

John extended his hands from one another, "what?! Are you telling me they don't actually do that?" Sherlock shook his head before considering this response "only the idiotic ones do." John nodded and ducked out his lips, "fair enough."

By this stage Sherlock had finished his drink and he took a piece of ice into his mouth on the last gulp and chewed on it loudly. John gave a surprised disapproving look, Sherlock pulled his head back, almost near enough to head butt the window behind him, "what?! The cold and the hardness of it helps me think." John giggled, "I have never met anyone who has eaten ice like that before."

"Well John, am I like anyone else you've ever met?"

A happy smile stretched across John's face, "no. No Sherlock I haven't."

Chapter Text

The landing was smooth. So much so that the two relaxed gentlemen barely even noticed the plane make contact with the tarmac. Such a knock better befitted a speed bump in a hummer. Both men actually slept for most of the long haul flight, so were strangely refreshed. Although the past two weeks had had a definitive strain. Less than a month on the job and John already felt like a holiday. They hastily collected their bags and Sherlock could not wipe the smile off his face. On walking through the automatic doors at 'arrivals' Sherlock even did a little twirl and said to John "breathe it in John! London!" John just laughed. He too was very relieved and did share Sherlock's excitement.

They knew Heathrow well and proceeded to swiftly exit the terminal, they entered Sherlock's favourite transport, the black taxi, their driver's card stuck to the perspex barrier informed them their driver was called Rajesh Pankhania. An excellent London name. One of the reasons why Sherlock loved London was just how multicultural it was. Every culture and creed was represented amongst it's winding streets. Every face was different and it made everything and everywhere in London interesting. Fascinating, secret and assuredly different from the rest of England, and many other cities around the world. Sherlock had several documents saved on his apple laptop awaiting at 221b Baker Street, all of which encapsulated Sherlock's love for London. He felt the essay in particular that assuredly described his feelings the most was entitled Why London is the Best City in Which to Prevent Crime: Cultural diversity and its benefits. All of these documents were password and encrypt protected. Sherlock never wanted anyone to read them, especially of which John. He knew the mockery that was likely to fly his way. 

"Hello Raj," Sherlock spoke confidently, "say hello John."

"Hello... Raj." John was really not quite as confident.

The cabbie nodded as if to be appreciated for a human being with his own identity rather than an essential organ of this transport. What happened next proved to both Sherlock and John that they were definitely back in London, and proved Sherlock's love for the city. Raj spoke with the thickest cockney accent the men had arguably ever heard. "Awight' lads, where ya awf' to today then?"

Sherlock and John smiled at one another and Sherlock replied whilst still looking at his Doctor, "Scotland Yard." John's mouth turned into an 'o' shape of surprise. "I thought we were going home, you need rest anyway, it's been a very long flight and you are still in recovery, and Sherlock I am very tired." John's stature sagged as he spoke. Sherlock interjected but still talked calmly "John you go back to Baker Street if you wish but I need to see Lestrade, I need to know how far this case has gone and where they are in this investigation. They may even be bringing the brother in for questioning this evening, but if you've had enough..." 

"No! no!" was all John could not help himself but utter.

"So chaps which is it? Baker Street or Scotland Yard?" asked Raj. Both passengers nodded at one another then spoke in unison "Scotland Yard." So the taxi pulled out the terminal and commenced it's fairly long journey to right at the heart of London. The case was spoken of the most and Sherlock asked Raj out of pure interest, much to John's amusement, "Raj do you like murder mysteries?"

"Why yes in fact I do. Sounds like you lads have got yourself caught up in one, don't mean to pry clearly, you work for the police?" Before Sherlock had even drawn a breath John spat, "yes." Sherlock shot him a darting look, Sherlock loved to tell people he's invented a job and that it was entirely unique. John just shrugged and rolled his eyes. "awight awight" was Raj's response. Sherlock continued his train of thought, "did you hear much of what we spoke of?" Raj all of a sudden shifted in his seat and sat up straight, he swallowed before replying.

"Erm nah nah nah, nah man I didn't."

"No Raj, it's fine, if you did, we did not mention any names with in the case, only circumstance so it is safe, I am simply curious, a third opinion never hurts Raj, especially a strangers opinion, helps ones mind tick, I have only had my... colleague here to speak too on this, what do you think?" Raj relaxed a little more and the previous boyish friendly grin reacquainted his face. "Well I dunno' all the facts right, but, it sounds like you lot fink' it's the half bruvva, but that's what everyone expects right? like it's the obvious one innit, so maybe look else where or sum'mit." Sherlock sat back in his seat and steepled his hands below his chin. Under his breath, audible to John alone Sherlock repeated the words, "some one else, some one else, some one else."

Before they knew it, they were outside of Scotland yard. "That'll be furty' squid mate." Sherlock handed over cash before John could make a fuss about expenses. Raj handed them their change whilst using the rhyming cockney slang, "yer' lady and yer' shrapnel lads." They thanked him and whilst exiting the taxi Raj said kindly, "hope you catch em' lads." They thanked him, John arguably a bit too over the top, but it was definitely appreciated. They walked over the concrete, suit cases wheeling behind their heels. Then they were through the famous spinning doors and were understandably forced to leave their luggage by the doors and searched at security. On a successful entrance they walked to where they knew where Lestrade would be. There were some stares as they walked around the large building, everyone here knew who Sherlock was. Everyone. 

Then just like that there he was. Down a corridor talking to someone in his department with some impatience. Files in hand. On seeing Sherlock and John he threw his arms in the air, wide as if he was trying to reach the corners of the room. Unashamedly he exclaimed "Thank God! Finally you bastards are here! You both look exhausted. Shit, you okay?" The two nodded, and John was happy to see Lestrade, he was always pleasant, or at least he had been so far. "The case..." Sherlock began, "we've reached a dead end here, we are going to get his hand writing when he comes in some how, but we haven't been able to do much without..." Lestrade went to say 'you' but stopped himself, especially in front of his colleagues, and well, Sherlock. Sherlock completely ignored what was being said and spoke hurriedly, "when are you bringing him in?" 

"He's coming in tomorrow morning, he wasn't happy about it, and a lawyer is coming in with him.." Sherlock began pacing and shouted "Oh God! What did you tell him?! He can't know anything we know, he can't know we are thinking he is a suspect, why would he believe he needed a lawyer unless we think him a suspect... unless..." Sherlock stopped in his tracks and John completed the thought out loud "unless he's guilty. He's a lawyer himself surely you'd think you could just rely upon your own knowledge." Sherlock looked at John, "he may be a terrible lawyer though, but I prefer the guilty hypothesis."

Lestrade added to the conversation, "I thought the same, he insisted even though I followed protocol in homicide and said it was just a 'chat' but he insisted, so he's bringing a fellow lawyer with him, a colleague actually, guy called Mark Warren."

Sherlock nodded and John could feel excitement rising in his chest, a real case interview. "Can you get us in?" was all Sherlock said, Lestrade nodded with a cheeky grin on his face. Sherlock uttered a child hood "yes!" as if he had finally been told he can have an ice cream. "Haven't got as far as an interview in ages!" Sherlock clapped once, "brilliant. John we need to head back to 221b to prepare." With that Sherlock whirled around and began to walk away, Sherlock was not one for goodbyes, John was still getting used to the social skills thing, so he had some how become Sherlock's mouth piece, or fake interpreter, something along those lines. "Erm, well Lestrade, Greg, thank you, see you in the morning, Sherlock will get him." They shook hands and Lestrade corrected him, "We'll get him, his ego is big enough." They shared a laugh before John hurried after his long legged friend. He could not wait for a cup of tea in his chair. It had been a long fortnight and even though the flat hadn't been his residence for long, it already felt like home. 

Chapter Text

John and Sherlock paced together in the 221b living room. Passing one another in a perpetual crossing as if two swings were to fling in alternate juxtaposition right next to one another. They looked like a Newton’s cradle. One metal ball bouncing onto another and the other at the opposite end taking it’s exact soar to then reconnect with it’s scientifically still partner. Constantly soaring and then hitting, soaring and hitting, soaring. Hitting. Soaring. The cycle was endless and one. What set off this walking cradle / swing set was the case of Miss Eleanor Scott. Smuggler, Bee Keeper, Gambler and altogether mystery.  Their mugs sat side-by-side on the kitchen table, one empty, and its twin full and now consequently cold with a skin over the top that would prove ugly to clean later on. It was a mug John would hold onto for a very long time as it bared a stain all the way around its rim, the same brown of the tea, lightened by time gone by and the failed attempts to remove its permanence, and it never ceased to remind him of their first case together. 

On returning to their home, John had taken the wishful liberty to take his shoes and socks off and walk bare foot amongst the changing floor of the London flat. Just as he had in his office when Sherlock and he barely knew one another a while ago. It felt like a whole other lifetime and as John flicked the switch and the kettle began to chime it’s hopeful tune, whistling as if breathing amongst the other wise silent kitchen, he thought of that first meeting. In the rehabilitation center he worked in unhappily and continuously like a dull drum or a wind turbine forced to keep turning by the moving air that makes such demands of it. An atmosphere that truly crushes the soul and weighs more and more upon the heart. Sherlock had ignored the initial handshake and John didn’t really think anything of it. John had seen many in denial and angry patients before, if anything it was a courteous experience in comparison. Better to be ignored than punched in the face or cursed at by a complete stranger, actually worse a future patient. The man had seen combat for gods sake, he could handle a single addicted piece of flesh. Sherlock was definitely different. John liked him instantaneously. Just as the world was a puzzle to Sherlock, John saw a puzzle in the man and he felt the need to explore and crack it, something he hadn’t felt the urge to do in years. A doctor without a motivation is a dead thing indeed. Sherlock breathed life into John immediately. As he handed Sherlock the mug in the present time, he looked at the man he already owed too much too. Sherlock didn’t even know it. He was thinking of the case and the case alone, something he had warned John of an array of times now. So the mug lay growing increasingly cold and it’s contents left un-drunk and placid. 

The two men together, pacing as they did was the living opposite of such a metaphor. They were drinking in everything constantly, digesting in their minds in a whir of spirit and need. Eleanor Scott, Eleanor Scott, Eleanor Scott. They must have passed one another a thousand times before a voice finally made it’s sound. It was Sherlock’s baritone that broke the only noise of the feet tapping and crossing and tapping and crossing. Four heels breaking the step, then the twenty toes thrumming against the floor in a well planned and executed pace as if they were waves finally lapping up against a shore. Sherlock’s voice only prevented the waves from receding back into the mass that was the unchartered and the unknown. 

“What are the facts dear Watson?” The change of sound made John stop his automatic pace, the men stood still, facing one another. Maybe a meter apart, Sherlock measured it to be three feet exactly. John took a single step, watching his feet as he did so, closing the gap to two feet now he took to looking his detective in the face. John took a deep breath, bare foot and now full of tea he was finally ready to crack this thing. “We have the initial letter from anonymous, full of details and clues itself, proved by the finance statements and letters in mandarin we found later, we think anonymous to be the half-brother, lawyer…”

Sherlock nodded and interrupted, “back to him later, do continue.” John nodded back and did just that, “the letter informed us of the death, the smuggling and some stuff about its author, next was the visit to the morgue, she had bruising in certain places, suggesting she was bound, we concluded she died of shock, her heart gave out, then we went to her house, nice, clean, full of books, and the beehives, she was dedicated, clever, then we found the other letters, from her father and one from whoever anonymous is, for the writing was the same…” Sherlock interrupted a second time, “looked the same,” John nodded again and carried on, “looked the same, and the, and the prints all match out, then we went to China” John paused for a quick but sharp in take of breath, “concluding that the smugglers group, whilst violent, and dramatic, they did not kill Eleanor, she was an asset, you think that the, the erm, boss guy may have even loved her, and erm I don’t know Sherlock I’m running out.” John rubbed his hands together nervously. Was that good enough? Was he good enough? 

Sherlock continued John’s voice full symphony and refused to let it neither end nor die out, “Brother Henry, potentially worked with the gang, I didn’t think, I know that the suit and tie boss loved Eleanor, he did not do it. Henry and Eleanor were more than likely lovers, suggests a dark and lonely past and something lacking in their collective present. Henry is married to a nurse, his family are young, two children, a stable job surrounding a law practice, he’s bringing in a Mark Warren to defend him, so he has friends, at work, and most likely outside of work. Keeping an incestuous relationship with a half sister, his children’s aunty is probably easier than most think, they could act close to one another without a worry of people making assumptions, Eleanor died of shock, maybe he threatened to call it off, maybe she loved him very much, she was clever, but still a gold fish. Love is a human error and maybe she made it. Maybe she tried to cut it off and he bound and raped her…” John’s face changed and it expressed a mixture of disgust and shock; it was an option he had never considered before. Sherlock continued, taking into account John’s expression, “it’s an option, we don’t know this man, he worked with the smugglers, clearly not someone too concerned about following what is right, especially in his own interest, in a moment of madness, or love, whatever the motives usually are in such scenarios, we have to consider it all John, no matter how grim it is.” 

John’s eyes moved from Sherlock’s face to the wall ahead, except he was most definitely not looking at the wall, but the horrid images that unwillingly played themselves in his head, he attempted to shake them out, he closed his eyes, lowered his head and shook it lightly from side to side only a few times. On rubbing his temples, he looked up to reconnect eyes with the detective, “will you ask him these kind of things tomorrow?” Sherlock gave a single solemn nod, “even if it is untrue his reaction may be vital.” John lowered his worried hand and put it on his hip, bodies very much a part of the conversation. Sherlock continued his roll of thoughts after one sharp breath between his teeth, “right, we find out about Mark Warren, we need details on him, we could crack him too whilst we are at it, why waste the opportunity, most lawyers are frightful beasts” Sherlock gave a playful smirk, “we need to get as much out of Henry as possible, play any potential weaknesses, his relationship with his father, the mother of Eleanor in the nursing home, his children, wife, his law practice, look up anything he may have been publicly or privately involved in in his profession, we need images of Eleanor, dead and alive, we need to have both those handwritten letters, and the bank statements and the smugglers letters, we need to ensure we discuss his connections personally with the smugglers, an embarrassment like that in front of a colleague like Mark may push him enough to abandon needing a lawyer, we need to understand the man, the drive for incest, murder and most importantly we need his handwriting. John, the chase is the most on it has been as of yet!” Sherlock clapped a single time, and both knowing what was needed done they spent most of the night researching, printing, preparing, noting, talking, pacing and thinking, before they knew it John’s morning alarm chimed. Looking at one another, there was a mutual nod and for battle they prepared. Coats on, down the stair and out the door. The interview room waited and it couldn’t be said who out of the two was looking forward to it the most.

Chapter Text

John and Sherlock walked determined. Lestrade met them at the door, hands deep in his pockets. Instead of a greeting, Sherlock noted, “Lestrade stop biting your lip, it shows weakness.” Lestrade rolled his eyes and John spoke softly, “morning Greg, don’t worry I’m nervous too, as is Sherlock but he would not dare admit it.” Sherlock was the next to roll his eyes. Lestrade and Watson shook hands, this seemed to be the way they would indefinitely greet one another. Professional but oddly intimate, it was a mutual way of indirectly letting the other know that they knew Sherlock was weird but they also both knew of his brilliance. Make sense? 

They both thought Sherlock was a good man, despite what the man in question and apparently the rest of the world said. They walked in silence to the interview rooms. There was a door along from Lestrades’ office, which looked perfectly bland; a secret disguise was created by its plainness. However on closer inspection there was an electronic tag system screwed to the wall on the left of the doors metal and curved handle; sticky with perspiration, from the previous person who opened it. Lestrade had to use a key card to gain access. And on opening the door, John noted a smell that reminded him of the library he used to go in as a child. A large ancient building, with its millions of recycled and mostly unwanted literature. It smelled like peppermint tea and old people. That is what the corridor to the interview rooms smelt like. Once the door squeaked close behind them, Lestrade gestured with an out stretched open palm towards a door on the right, at the very end of the corridor. This too also needed a key card to gain entrance. 

The room was very dark, almost pitch black but six eyes soon adjusted. The room was small, and the men had to stand within each other’s personal space, something that may have been a nuisance in other circumstances. However the individual gazes focused on only one wall in particular. This wall almost entirety consisted of a window. A one-sided window of which the other side was a mirror. Another disguise, brilliantly designed so that when the suspect was looking at you, with full knowledge that someone lay beyond the glass, they were forced to look at themselves. An introspective, self-conscious inducing target making anyone weaker than if they were being questioned anywhere else. “The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown” was the quote that sprang to Sherlock’s mind, Author H.P Lovecraft. The genius of it made Sherlock smirk. How fitting. 

The three men saw Henry and Mark sitting in the cheap chairs beyond the glass. Not speaking to one another, and doing all that they could to not look at the mirror-window that lay directly in front of them. They both knew exactly how this worked. Being lawyers is a definite advantage when being questioned in the name of the law. Lestrade, Holmes and Watson all stared at the hours that lay ahead of them in the faces of the two men in which only one side could see the other. John had been carrying a rucksack since leaving 221b. It was something Lestrade had failed to notice until John began to slide it awkwardly from his back. “What’s in there?” Lestrade asked whilst pointing at the black bag, Sherlock answered for them both, “evidence.” Lestrade followed up by asking, “anything I don’t know about?” Sherlock nodded once, still looking at the glass and not the men that surrounded him. Lestrade really did not like being out of the know, his job after all was to be in the know, and if the past decade of working with the worlds only consulting detective hadn’t taught him that Sherlock was one to actively keep him out of the know, then he truly was an idiot. He still couldn’t help himself but ask, “are you going to tell me or…” Sherlock folded his arms and rolled his eyes, he said one word and one word alone, “John.” 

John nodded and said, “erm right, Henry worked with the gang that Eleanor also worked with in Shanghai, if that isn’t enough as a threat we can also point out malpractices and weaknesses of his profession, if the incest isn’t enough, obviously,” John rolled his eyes and the mimic of his flat mate made Sherlock have to hide his giggling, John continued, “the crime boss loved Eleanor meaning that he’ll most likely try and kill whoever killed Eleanor if the police mishandle it, after all they may know something we do not, Mark is in the closet, and we have come up with a way to get Henry’s hand writing giving a viable way to take him to court.” With every fact Lestrade’s face became more and more telling. Each sector of his facial muscles contorting further to demonstrate the pace his brain was attempting to work at. As he went to speak it was like watching a computer reboot painfully slow, “How?!” 

Sherlock unfolded his arms and looked Lestrade close in the face to the point that the D.I could feel the breath on his face, “reasons.” With that Sherlock was out the door. John and Lestrade looked at one another and then simultaneously realised where Sherlock was heading. In a panic they lurched from their positions, John bag in hand and Lestrade close behind, and leapt at Sherlock, just in time to both grab him before he entered the interview room. In a semi-whisper, semi-shout, John said “Sherlock! You can’t just stroll in?! We need, we need a…” Sherlock replied cool as ever, “plan? Oh please John you know that is not what I do, besides we are more than prepared, why wait for the show to begin?” With that he released himself from John’s grip and opened the door using Lestrade’s key card. It seems he had pick pocketed the Detective Inspector whilst John was drilling off the necessity points. Lestrade reached for his pockets, utterly dumbfounded, John shrugged and immediately followed the spontaneous interviewer through the door, which closed immediately behind him. Lestrade remained watching unable to now open any door as he had been locked out of everything. He wasn’t even able to watch through the mirror-window. He had been left out in the dark. John and Sherlock were left with a potential murderer and his secretly gay lawyer, and it was 100% his fault, ‘if only Sherlock wasn’t such an arse’ he thought. With that he practically sprinted along the corridor, let himself out through the bland deceitful door and ran to his office. He had never been so happy to see Anderson in his whole life. “Anderson I need your key card!” The urgency had knocked Anderson off his feet, his face scrunched up and the speed was unbearable. “My key card, where’s yours?” Lestrade was visibly frustrated.

“Anderson just give it to me!” Anderson seemed offended by the instruction, as a retort he attempted to locate his card as slowly as possible, Lestrade screamed through gritted teeth, “Anderson!!!!”

Anderson practically jumped, “alright, alright.” He pulled it out his pocket and Lestrade grabbed it and sprinted back down the corridor, leaving Anderson bemused and the rest of Lestrade’s colleagues in humour but unconcerned.

Lestrade struggled with the scanners and the doors but he finally made it back to the window room at the very end and he found thankfully a very calm scene. He sighed in relief and exhausted. Fucking Sherlock. 

Whilst Lestrade was in terror, Sherlock and John entered as calm as anything. John followed Sherlock’s lead and he felt his heart racing, adrenalin coursing through his system. “Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock outstretched a hand with a sly smile; a twitchy looking Henry Scott stood and shook it abrasively, as did an understandably slightly calmer Mark Warren. They introduced themselves in an arguably unconventional manner, all that was said was “I guess you know who we are.” As Sherlock took a seat, John out stretched his own hand and answered the comment with confidence, “oh yes we do, Captain and Doctor John Watson, assistant to Mister Holmes.” The three remaining men shook hands and then all proceeded to take their own seats. Sherlock sat facing Mark, with his back to the mirror, and John sat facing the suspect, back to mirror also. John had never felt so cool in his life, and he was a soldier with a set of medical qualifications. He wanted to feel this way as much as possible, and by Sherlock’s side was the only way. Perfect. 

Sherlock started soft, “are you both comfortable gentlemen?” They both nodded and Sherlock flicked on the recorder that sat in every interview room, this is what was used in the courts and this is what would allow Greg behind the glass to hear ever word. There was additional CCTV in every corner of the room and John made a mental note that none of it was like how it is on TV. When the red light came a-glow Sherlock changed immediately, he sat forwards, resting his elbows on the table and his hands welded together in sheer dominance, looking not at Mark who sat directly opposite but at the accused. It was like watching a wild cat that had just spotted a deer just outside of the bush it hid in.

“How did Eleanor die Henry?” The shock was evident. This is most definitely not what Henry had suspected. Out of fear he glanced at the lawyer and colleague he had brought in, but to no avail, Sherlock didn’t miss a beat, he gave him no time to recollect or consider any options, “how did your sister die Henry?” Henry shook his head, “this isn’t proper.” John sat back, comfortable and his role was now clear, “just answer the question mister Scott, he doesn’t bite.” Sherlock liked John’s words. Looking down at the table Henry gave a sigh, rubbed his face then made eye contact with the detective, “we were told that it was of heart failure.” Sherlock again, did not miss a beat, “who is ‘we’?” Hands were spread across the table and Henry looked down at his cuticles, “my wife and I.” Sherlock nodded to John and John knew exactly what to do, they had talked about this and they were ready. 

John leant down and unzipped the black rucksack. He pulled out a large charcoal grey folder and heaved it up to then rest it upon the table. Due to its weight John opened it slowly and the first thing that was in the file were pictures of a dead woman. Eleanor. Cold and stiff, at both the scene of the crime and from images taken at the morgue, they were all pulled from the initial file Sherlock and John read through at St. Barts. All though they were upside down to the brother and his lawyer, they both grimaced and looked away. Mark spoke up, “is this really necessary?” Sherlock was clearly irritated, “we are trying to solve a murder not play tea and cake. This man was the brother of this woman, he of all people I’m sure wants to know who murdered her.” Henry looked up so fast he most likely would have pulled a muscle in his neck, “murdered her?!” This made Sherlock even more irritated, “don’t play games, look at her. Really look at her.” Mark spoke up once more, “this is outrageous,” and even John felt pretty shitty about what was happening, but he reminded himself that this might be the man who murdered the woman that was in these pictures.  Henry did look; he swallowed hard and then unwillingly gagged. Sherlock ignored the response, “see her wrists and her neck, round the mouth also, bruising and a lot of it meaning that she was bo…” Henry had had enough, “stop! Stop it! Alright, alright, of course I know, of course I do!” John felt a tingle go down his spine, they were getting somewhere. Henry straightened his suit and smoothed back his hair, he took a breath and said, “I wrote you the letter to pick up her case, I know your work well Mr. Holmes and I want to see justice done.” It appears they did not need the ‘hand-writing test’ they devised. It all seemed to be going rather well this interviewing criminal stuff. Sherlock spoke calmly once more, “John.” With that John turned the page of the file and what lay on the page was a photocopy of the letter that Henry spoke of. Lying directly next to it was the letter of the same type, the letter from that of a lover. John swiveled around the file so that Henry could see both letters. On quickly scanning both his eyes widened in absolute horror, “please, you can’t tell my wife.” 

John felt his stomach flip, he wanted to ask ‘fucking why?’ all this time he never truly appreciated the incest theorem yet now the man involved in the escapade of what takes two to tango sat in front of him, begging them to not tell his wife, it was all just sad really, not quite the final hurrah he had anticipated, Henry didn’t even look mean, he just looked weak and disappointingly normal, but John held his tongue and let Sherlock continue, “that you what? Say it, for the microphone and for your very confused lawyer.” Henry took a deep breath and said out loud for the first time in his life, “don’t tell my wife that I, that I, had relations of a sexual nature with Eleanor.” Mark looked disgusted, heinously repulsed, he couldn’t help himself, “Henry?! With Eleanor? Henry I can’t defend that! You told me I knew everything!” Sherlock thought this was all going very well; they were even more like gold fish than he had imagined. With every word Henry spoke to defend himself, Mark shrunk further and further away from him, “Mark I love her! I still love her! It wasn’t like that! She was a half sister! And we met when I was a teenager, and she was older! I love her Mark and someone killed her!” Mark had clearly decided enough was enough and he said “good day to you gentlemen” before leaving the room to then subsequently leave the building. Henry said “Mark?!” over and over again until he had left the room. Henry turned panic towards Holmes and Watson, he said limply, “you can’t question me without a lawyer, it is against the…” this time it was John that was irritated, “for gods sake mister Scott, be your own lawyer, you know this game, we, like you just want to be aware of what happened to your sister, clearly you want us to find out who did it otherwise you would never have given us this letter!” Then a light bulb went off in John’s head. 

Why would he send them a letter if he had done it? Guilt? Ego? Was he covering for someone? Why have someone you know is bloody good at his job investigate a murder you have part taken in? It didn’t make sense. John went through the logic and he couldn’t make sense of it. It was simple thinking he tried to brush it off but he had to follow his gut. Sherlock was in mid sentence about something to do with the smugglers when John interrupted, “mister Scott why did you write us a letter?” Sherlock looked offended and he shuffled his feet under the table to lightly tap his foot against his doctors, he was agitated, this was not what they had discussed. Henry looked tearful but bemused, “Mister Holmes is the best there is, and I knew he’d find out who killed her.” Then it hit Sherlock too, the nagging blaringly obvious fact he had missed all along, god did he hate when that happened, why would he send them a letter if he had done it? He’s been so dragged down by the horrid but true fact of the incest he’s missed the complete obvious. It was the forced morphine in Nanjing he blamed for such a misjudgment. 

John continued, “before reporting her death to the police did you move Eleanor from her place of death?” Henry hesitantly nodded, “did you dress her and apply make up to her face?” Another hesitantly nod, “did you brush her hair and place her in her bed?” Another nod. “How was she before you moved her?” Now it was Sherlock that was lying back and John that was leaning on his elbows. Henry spoke slow, soft and afraid, “I let myself in with my key to hers, she’d just got back from Shanghai, the trading’s I mentioned in my letter, she’d been with them, doing what she did, as soon as I found her, like that I blamed them, the gang, the smugglers, so after I wrote the letter and sent it to you I went out there, to confront them, they say it wasn’t them, they said they’d do anything to discover who it was, it seems I wasn’t the only one who loved her.” Now Henry took a sigh to truly answer John’s question. “She was naked, face down on the floor, she looked afraid, her eyes were really wide and her mouth open, I’d never seen bruises so fresh, she was still,” now a tear rolled down his cheek and he stuttered out the final words, “she was still warm. I debated calling the police immediately but she would have loathed to be found like that. So I couldn’t leave her as she was, so I did my best.” Sherlock said matter of fact, “you realise that your tampering makes it difficult to find a murderer don’t you?” He nodded and with a weak smile Henry added, “that’s why I contacted you mister Holmes, you’d be able to figure it out regardless.” Sherlock ignored the flattery and he had a burning question he needed an answer to, “why bring a lawyer in today if you didn’t do it?” Henry wiped his face of salt water and actually laughed, “Because ‘Sherlock Holmes’ is intimidating. I was afraid, that’s all, Mark is… was a friend.” The smile faded and the three of them sat for a while. It was probably ten seconds maximum but it felt like a millennia whilst they just sat there. Henry asked hesitantly, “So who did it?” Sherlock and John looked at one another, then back at Henry, then at the same moment both said, “We thought it was you.” Henry was appalled and exclaimed “me?! How could you think I did it?!” Sherlock rolled his eyes and said, “half brother lawyer cheating on his wife with his sister, also involved in the same smuggling gang as the victim, oh yeah such a difficult leap.” John loved it when Sherlock was sarcastic, in another circumstance he would have laughed. Then Sherlock did something strange, he repeated himself, something he detested doing, “half brother lawyer cheating on his wife with his sister, wife with his sister, wife with his sister.” Sherlock looked at John with wonder in his eye, then things happened very fast, he looked back at Henry and asked without really wanting an answer, “Henry, tea? Coffee? I’m dying for one myself, John let’s get coffee, we’ll be back soon Henry, it’s okay don’t panic we know it wasn’t you.” Sherlock pulled John, the folder and its contents from their seated positions to then be dragged out of the door. On the door closing, all John could say was “what the fuck was that! We fucked it up! Shit, jesus, who did it if not him oh god! We have no other leads!” Lestrade came out of the door with the one sided window in the same fashion, and the three men stood in the corridor, two only giving expletives and the other in deep thought. After a moment of loudness Sherlock said even louder, “shut up! Mind palace!” John and Sherlock had talked about the mind palace in therapy many moons ago but he was yet to see it in action. He ceased everything and stood completely still like a puppy who’s just been caught stealing from the cupboard. 

Sherlock stood tall, eyes tight shut, hands in the air at ear level, mind clearly whirring for if this was a cartoon his head would be literally spinning. Then within a minute his eyes burst open and he said, “yes! Brilliant yes! Of course!” John and Lestrade could have punched him, they really could, “what Sherlock?!” was all John could muster. Without looking at either of them Sherlock let himself back into the interview room and this time both Lestrade and John followed him in. Henry and Lestrade had already met so it was minor recognition of one another before they all sat down. John now sat next to Henry with Sherlock directly opposite; Lestrade sat opposite Henry with Sherlock by his side. The four of them all sat leaning in, close to one another, as if at a secret meeting no one must know of outside of that room. Sherlock spoke soft, “Henry, how did your wife and your sister get on?” John gave Sherlock a questioning look, once more he was confused, his eyes said ‘you think it’s the wife?’ Sherlock replied with a tiny tilt of the head understanding John’s mental question just by reading his face. Henry stuttered, “well I mean, they got on I suppose, she always thought Eleanor was great with the kids.” Sherlock was not satisfied, “did she know about you and Eleanor’s affair. Henry swallowed hard, the thought alone made his heart sink, “I don’t think so.” Whilst they had been talking, Sherlock had reached his hand down and removed his phone from his trouser pocket, without looking he typed a message out and on Henry’s answer, Lestrades’ phone buzzed. He knew it was Sherlock, he too grabbed his phone from his own inner coat pocket, he read the message in his lap. With that he nodded at Watson and Holmes and left the room. John knew Sherlock had just given an instruction and he wanted to know. It was an itch that needed scratched. He felt his heart quicken and he could hear his own heart beat racing in his head. Lestrade was off to get the murderer, and John knew it. He sat there thinking as to how it could have been the wife? Why would the wife have done it? She died of shock, your sister-in-law, now that would be shocking. If she knew about the incest and the cheating that does give a motive, jealousy? Rage? The desire for it to end. All of them. 

These thoughts raced through John, all in a mere moment of Lestrade leaving, Sherlock asked further, “did your wife know you smuggled just like your sister?” Henry went to exclaim but John spoke up before he had the chance, “we know, don’t waste time, we met the gang ourselves and they treated us very poorly but they told us things about you, just answer his question.” Henry’s game was up, he sighed heavy, “yes she knew, but only recently, we had no money and we didn’t know how we were going to afford the savings for the kids tuition fees for later in life, so Eleanor got me in, my wife found out after I had been lazy with the money installments.” Sherlock nodded and shuffled his position slightly, “was she upset about it.” Henry replied, “yes, she wanted me to stop immediately, she always knew Eleanor did it but she didn’t know I was involved. She wanted it over.” Then Henry’s eyes went wide and he erupted into a fit of tears. He’d seen it; he’d seen the realisation the detective he basically hired had had a single moment ago. Through a stream of tears he wretched, “that man is going to arrest my wife isn’t he?” Sherlock and John said nothing, Henry spoke with more urgency, “isn’t he?!!!” He curled himself up on his chair and wept into his knees. John nodded to Sherlock and they both stood to leave Henry alone. They solemnly walked out the room and retreated to the room next door with the mirror window. All they had to do was watch to ensure he did nothing to hurt himself and wait in silence for them to bring his wife and the mother of his children to be interviewed in the room further along the corridor.

John and Sherlock stood outside Scotland Yard, looking up at the spire of metal and glass. Sherlock wanted to buy cigarettes to celebrate but John would not let him. Instead they stood humbly outside the stress filled building. John looked to Sherlock and stated, “full confession.” Sherlock nodded. “I still don’t really understand the actual act it self?” Sherlock now looked down at his friend, “nurse wife wanted husband out of smuggling game that Eleanor dragged him into, she went round there to confront Eleanor to get him out of the game, Eleanor probably brought up the fact some way or another that they were sleeping together thinking that the wife knew the fact or it was a way to get back in the argument, wife was angry, understandably, acting out of anger and a way to completely scare Eleanor out of her life she probably made her submit, bound her, stripped her down, probably made certain threats and Eleanor died from fear itself. Weak heart, it’s probably genetic. She never meant to actually kill her, just terrorize her, so she panicked, left the body for someone else to find, ironic that it was the man that connected them.” John stepped back to now look at Sherlock straight rather than from the awkward side angle, “brilliant.” Sherlock smiled. “221b?” John nodded, “221b.” So a taxi was hailed and as they climbed in John said, "Sherlock I was thinking about Eleanor's bee hives."

"oh?"

"I think we should pick them up, put them in 221c, leave a window open a little bit, then you can have bees then?"

Sherlock smiled, "I like your thinking Doctor Watson." So with that, it was home ward bound for the crime solving duo to get onto the next case that lay ahead.

Chapter Text

The boys were pleased to receive the next case almost immediately. John and Sherlock had two days case free. John was very happy for the two days, and quite frankly he could have had a whole week, however Sherlock was desperate for something else to do after a mere six hours. He stumbled around the flat sometimes in silence and sometimes in loud babble; continuous nonsense that John didn't listen to. The second day mainly consisted of Sherlock playing his violin in a bed sheet. John could not stop laughing every time he saw Sherlock walk around in that sheet.

Then, an email.

The ping noise went off and Sherlock ignored it and continued to play Bach whilst pacing around his bed. "Sherlock? Another email's come in..." was the only extent John went to, who sat on the sofa with a steaming mug of tea. Sherlock rolled his eyes and said, "check it if you want to but I'm sure it'll be just as easy and boring as the other fifty-two I've received in the past thirty-six hours." John stood up with a teeny audible moan, put his mug down, and went to the open laptop on the rickety desk. John nudged it by waving a middle finger across the touch pad. The screen shone to life and the email was entitled, "Body on a beach." John clicked on it and began to read. After reading the first paragraph alone, he smiled. 'Sherlock would like this' he thought. John stood upright once more, and said loud enough, "Sherlock, you'll like this one." Bach stopped his melody. John heard Sherlock shuffle through his door frame and waddle through to meet John's side. Sherlock held onto both sides of the sheet and leant down to read.

Dear Mr. Holmes, 

My name is Detective Chalmers and I work for the Metropolitan branch located in Somerset, this morning a body washed up out of the water and landed upon our beautiful English beach. I'll be honest it is a mess and unpleasant site. I was promoted to this job position a mere fortnight ago and unfortunately this is not what I expected. Nothing is supposed to happen in Somerset. I thought I could handle it, however the man that washed up on the beach today turns out to be an American, an American named Reverend Paul Delaney.

Sherlock immediately knew that name, he continued reading eagerly. John was right, he did like this.

I will assume you know who this man was in life Mr.Holmes, meaning that you can most likely understand why I am out of my depth. If you could get onto the next train to Somerset that would be most helpful, the offices are located in West Somerset, coastal town of Minehead. You can find me there. If you are coming send me a reply. Thank you Mr. Holmes and I hope you choose to help.

Kind Regards, Detective Olivia Chalmers.

With that Sherlock hit the 'reply' arrow button and sent the single word 'coming.' John saw the word being written out and then sent and he felt butterflies in his belly. He rolled his fingers against his palms twice and watched the detective race to his room to assumedly finally get dressed. John saw clothes being thrown everywhere but not the detective actually dress. Without seeing Sherlock he asked, "who's Reverend Paul Delaney?" An admittedly out of breath Sherlock shouted back, "he was a governor for the state of Alabama." John made an audible gasp and he too raced to his own room to pack a bag. This was big. A case that spread internationally, even more so than their first and last case. John had a million questions immediately. Within another one-hundred and twenty seconds, the pair met in the kitchen prepared to go. Sherlock asked "ready?" John nodded and with that they were out the door headed to Kings Cross train station to go to the town of Minehead.

Another riddle to be cracked, another code to be broken, more people to meet and figure out. Sherlock could dance and John could sing. This is what they lived for.

Chapter Text

Sherlock and John arrived at Kings Cross at 3.46pm. On seeing the boards it became obvious that this station would not take them to were they wanted to go. Oyster cards in hand they took a very short tube ride to London Paddington. John loved the Underground. Unlike lots of people, the Underground made him feel safe. Its intricate series of tunnels and opposing streams of people made him feel oddly secure. Maybe he liked the anonymity about it. Becoming a soldier gave him a code and a position meaning that he was just a part of the thousands of other men that had signed up, important but minor all at once, the city did the same thing for John. London: the city that literally never sleeps. Millions of faces to be amongst and be a part of the beating heart of the place. The underground did this especially, he felt simultaneously at the centre of the world and insubstantial all at the same time. He asked Sherlock over the screech of the metal on metal that lay beneath them "why do we not use the Underground more?" Sherlock looked up from his free copy of the 'Evening Standard' that awaited him in the seat to look at his assistant. "Being above ground is more beneficial for the work. Looking out the window of a taxi you can see it all and the crime that may have or will occur, it allows me to really see London as it truly is. Underground only allows you to see people on platforms, who you share a seat with and the black innards of the tunnels, may sometimes be useful but, that's all it offers from a professional perspective." With that Sherlock fleshed out the paper with a single shake and continued to read a story about the drug abuse caused by a Surrey member of parliament. John just nodded, accepting the reasoning, he looked at the front of the paper and realised that tomorrows headlines would probably be about the man of which they were heading to investigate.

Arriving at Paddington forced Sherlock to cut his reading short. They ascended up the escalators two steps at a time and at the top John was even momentarily out of breath, Sherlock on the other hand bounced towards the screens. To Sherlock he had no preference when it came to train stations. He simply needed to get from A to B. A was a train terminal in London, irrelevant which one, B was the crime scene in Minehead, Somerset, South West of England. John on the other hand really preferred Kings Cross over Paddington. Kings Cross had recently been renovated, and it was brilliant. Clean, functional and well designed. The boards where huge and forced everyone to look in the same direction, like a herd who had been notified of an animalistic warning call, it was uniting. It was popular with the tourists, due to the brilliant Harry Potter series. They had a shop dedicated to it, and there was always a huge queue to get a picture taken at the trolley that was built into the wall with the Platform 9 & 3/4 sign directly above it. John thought it was fun, it was great that such a thing gave purpose to an entire generation. Paddington was just as historical due to that famous lost bear from Peru. However it was scattered, the boards where old and small and all over the place. So John had a favourite, however the thought of a case with Sherlock over rode his inhibitions. He didn't voice any of this to Sherlock, he'd probably call it trivial or something and mention his 'A to B' thought track.

The board's orange glow shaped letters informed the pair that their train was in thirteen minutes. Sherlock asked John to go and get their tickets, John asked "why me?  What are you doing that is so important?" Sherlock rolled his eyes, "John just get the tickets, here." Sherlock handed John a card from his wallet but John furrowed his brow, "no I'll get them." John began to walk away in a mild huff but Sherlock chased him and nudged his arm, "John it's the card for the joint account, the work account." Sherlock raised his eyebrows in a 'take it' suggestion. John sighed, he'd forgotten about the joint account. When he took the card he realised that he didn't know the pin number but Sherlock beat the question, he grabbed John's arm once more and put his mouth close to his ear. He breathed in John's ear, "1971," John felt the tingle of the breath move down his neck and shake his spine. Then he realised, this was the year of his own birth. Sherlock surely didn't create an account with him in mind, would he? John pulled his face away, both hands remained connected through the thin piece of plastic that made their cases a reality. John's confusion clearly showed, "yes John I'm aware that is the year of your birth, thought it would be easy for you to remember." With that Sherlock was away, heading back towards the boards or wherever he apparently needed to be. John could not move for a second, he really let his romantic side take over it seemed. He blushed and the heat in his face forced him to turn away from his friends general direction towards the ticket machines.

John struggled with the machines for a while, and on typing in the pin '1-9-7-1' that made his blush reappear, Sherlock all of a sudden bounded at his side, "John our train is in three minutes!" John practically jumped out of his skin. "Alright alright, they are printing now!" The tickets spat out into their allotted slot, making an electronic buzz as they arrived. "Sherlock I only got singles, don't know when we'll be back." It was clear John wanted some approval. Sherlock bit, "good idea John, now" Sherlock grabbed the tickets, seat reservations and receipts and looked John close in the face, "run!" With that Sherlock bolted like a cheetah. John spluttered an "oh!" before sprinting after his friend. Their platform was platform eight. Sherlock had figured out it took precisely one minute and forty-eight seconds to run to, they had exactly two minutes and nineteen seconds before the doors were supposed to close. On reaching platform eight Sherlock glanced at the board to check it was the right train and as he entered through the doors the bloke on the platform blew his whistle thrice. This signalled the train was ready to go. John was approximately six seconds behind Sherlock, after the whistle was blown Sherlock shouted impatiently "John come on!" Then when John jumped aboard the train doors slid shut immediately. They were breathing hard. Both leant over, hands upon knees, bent over huffing. As the train began to move both stood up and leant against the rocking transport, still breathing heavy. Then John began to laugh, "how ridiculous" was all he said. Sherlock joined in the laughter, he agreed "yes, quite ridiculous."

They then walked together in single line along the carriages in the aisle. Their allocated seats where in carriage D, they jumped on at carriage B so they had to amble along for a minute or two. To be honest John appreciated the walk, he was aware they would be sitting for the next four hours or so. 'Who knew it took so bloody long to get to Somerset' was what John thought at that initial look at the boards. On finding and taking their seats, which rather wonderfully were table seats*, Watson and Holmes sat facing one another. They settled in and the man with the trolley came along and Sherlock bought a coffee (which he deduced was terrible and told John so) and John bought a tea (which he informed Sherlock it was nice but over priced and tasted mostly of fake milk.) Half way through their beverages John asked "so Reverend Paul Delaney? What do we know about him?" Sherlock leant forward, which made John imitate, making the men close and secretive. "Don't say his name too loud, the news isn't out remember John, we don't want any unwanted questions." John nodded, "to avoid this I've written a list." Sherlock removed a small black notebook from his left pocket and slid it across the table. John opened it at the page of the marker, and written was a organised list. John had a slight giggle at the mess of the handwriting and on Sherlock asking "what?" John just replied that he was "excited." A little white lie but it didn't matter. The list went like this;

• Reverend Paul Delaney
• Patriot, American Christian Academy
• Accusation of KKK ties, reputed
• Doesn't have good relations with his gay son
• Divorced with three children
• Gave up clergy profession for politics   
• Distantly Related to DuPont family, accused of attempting to claim DuPont fortune at point of Schultz murder
• Potential drug/ alcohol addiction

John finished reading and looked up, once again confused, "how do you know all this?!" Sherlock sighed, threw his hands up in the air and dramatically heaved "does it matter?!" John nodded violently, "yes!" Sherlock sighed once more and he said in a hushed tone making John have to lean in further, "Whilst you were getting the tickets, I met with someone and paid them for information." John jumped back into his seat, "what? How?! We received the email like an hour ago!!" Sherlock didn't move and spoke calmly still, "John be quiet, people are looking, I have been in this work for a very long time, I know people, I'm connected. There are people out there in every city globally who will find out anything for you, at a price. Whilst you were packing, I wrote an email from my phone to one of these connections. It's vital to this work, especially when time is of the essence." John was aghast, London truly was more complicated than he ever imagined. John just said, "right yeah. How do they do it?" Sherlock finally sat back, "no idea." John made a mock surprise face which made Sherlock giggle, "Sherlock Holmes, no idea?! Well I say, I might ring the papers! Because frankly it truly is newsworthy." They then began to both properly laugh in unison. A case awaited, an interesting case with a shit ton of leads thanks to Sherlock's 'connections.' The game was on.

Chapter Text

John and Sherlock hopped off the train at Taunton Station. From here they would need to get a one hour bus to Minehead, their final stop. They talked a many number of potential theories on the train journey, who would kill an American Governor? Why? Sherlock made the crude comment of "who wouldn't kill an American Governor," which made John giggle. Most of what Sherlock said now was to either impress or humour John, it was a nice change to how he used to live. Speaking to other people was usually a bitter exchange. Everyone was so stupid and vacant. John was like no other, Sherlock could speak to him, really speak to him, and not only could he keep up but he would come up with things Sherlock wouldn't even think of. It was normally the human touch, the heart behind a motive. John had more humanity than anyone he had ever met. It made the illogical side of the cases more accessible to Sherlock. People are illogical, and John could see it, it was invaluable.

Walking along the platform, John realised that this was once again a new place. In the short month he had known Sherlock, he had been to a immeasurable number of places, more than he had done in arguably his whole life. Since coming back from Afghanistan, he became sort of stagnant. There were affects of course, that is inescapable, part of the job or whatever, but it meant that for years he just sat in that office feeling unsatisfied in anything, wanting simultaneously to go back to his glory days as a hero, being needed, but also never revisit them again for the fear it may revel. Then drugged up Sherlock arrived, reeling and pacing, both of them had met when they were at their lowest function it seemed. Yin and Yang on a collision course. Then that room, that office came alive again. The place where John at one stage could only get distracted in his books and his increase for knowledge in his field, often wanting to be anywhere but there. A bloody ridiculous curly haired detective changed all that. Immediately John was fascinated with Sherlock's world, not only did he want to see it, he wanted to be in it. And here he was.

Their second case together, on a platform in Somerset. John smiled, "what?" Sherlock asked with a quizzical grin, "erm nothing, just nice... platform, very, historical." was all John could muster. But Sherlock knew, he felt it too. Not to embarrass John he said an agreeing hum before informing John that "Steam trains ran through here originally, this station was built in 1842, it became popular fast due to its links to the opposing coasts, especially Penzance and Bath, Victorian gentry reeled in it their, and of course London, everybody loves London, trust no one who says they don't like London John, so it was not long until they had to build further platforms for the sheer demand of people using the trains from Taunton." John giggled. "How do you know so much shit, yet not know about our own royal family?" Sherlock waved his hands around as they exited the arguably in need of refurbishment station, "irrelevant unless to a case John." John shuddered as they departed through the doors and down the entrance steps, it was colder here than in the city. "Oh and the history of every English train station comes in handy does it?" John asked in clear mockery, Sherlock just said "yes" as confident as anything and John rolled his eyes.

They queued at the bus stop directly parallel to the train station. There were several older couples, and one crying infant strapped in a pram alongside a bedraggled and clearly exhausted mother. Apart from that they were quite alone. The bus pulled in a mere three minutes later and the pair clambered on with their small number of possessions, Sherlock showed his transfer ticket to the driver who had an utterly ridiculous curly moustache and huge mutton chops as grey and wiry as an ancient poodle, (something that both John and Sherlock would laugh about later) and John did the same with at least a "hello" and a "thank you," something Sherlock it seemed would never get the hang of. The bus was slow and people came and went from the large thunder of a vehicle. John and Sherlock mainly sat in silence. Sherlock had insisted that he needed an aisle seat and on John asking why Sherlock simply pointed at his legs, with an obvious face; wide eyed and urgent. 'Why did he have to be so bloody tall' John thought as he slithered in to sit at the tinted windows that were peeling at the corners.

It turned out alright in the end, John just watched the country whizz past him, and before he knew it, they were at the sea. It came around all at once. The vast expanse of the blue, merging in one moment with both the sky and the curvature of the earth. John didn't want to blink, it had been so long since he had been to the sea, he'd forgotten the feeling it provided. A reminder of how small our own self importance is and how enlightening that can be. Sherlock saw John sit up tall as soon as the water came into view and it was curious. He thought of small children and how they are when looking out of a window on a plane. Being so amazed by it all, all the life that goes on. Sherlock was envious of John in that moment, he wanted to know what that was like. To feel all of life all at once. Sherlock crossed his arms and asked in a quiet husk, "you like the sea John?"

John turned to face the detective, wonder in his eyes, "yes, quite Sherlock. Yes, I do like the sea." With that he turned to face the ever passing water once more. Sherlock was hesitant but he felt this niggling in his gums, he needed to know more, compute all this, learn all of John's humanity. He didn't need to feel all of life at once, because he could do it through John. "How so?" was all Sherlock managed, John turned around once again, Sherlock was interested, it made him feel wanted. It was, nice. John began to speak in the same manner, quiet as if he was conferring the most important secret of all, interweaving his inner most self with Sherlock's senses. "It reminds me of how small I am, no matter how important we think we are, it is nature that will win, the ocean could spew any of us with no consideration, it's the same feeling I get when I look at the stars, one day the sun will expand and then collapse in on itself, dragging us all and all that has ever been made here with it, to a planet millions of miles away it will just look like a tiny star has gone out, when a whole solar system has imploded into nothing, you and me and all of this" John gestured to the life outside himself, Sherlock watched his hands and interpreted their gravitas, and then John continued, Sherlock clawing at every syllable, "and all of it is joined at the seams, the perfect stitch, impossibly synced, the sun warms the water, the moon moves the waves, the sea moves the land, the land is where we must be. It controls everything, but it's just all so beautiful at the same time." With that John turned back to look at the waves, and they were even close enough now that John could see the white tips of the water as they rose and dipped, rose and dipped, rose and dipped. Sherlock meanwhile could do nothing other than look at John until the bus eventually stopped with a sputter. How could he see all of that by just looking at a large area of endless blue liquid? Sherlock, could not see it, he wanted to see it. Maybe he would, but for now he would just have to use John to guide him through this blindness.

They were the only two to leave the bus stop at Mine head, 'The Parade' to be exact. They wandered along, John drinking in his new surroundings, fortunately of which were most pleasing on the eye, and Sherlock thinking of the dead man that lay on the beach. On reaching Northfield road, only three streets closer to the sea, John spotted the blue and white metropolitan sign signalling that the police station bode here. "Sherlock" he said whilst pointing out the sign, Sherlock nodded and the two walked towards the doors. It was around 8pm, and there was only mild light left, enough to see but not enough to witness all that the land scape had to offer. John wondered for a moment if anyone would still be there, but detective Chalmers knew they were soon to arrive, and just like that someone sauntered through the double doors and she said "about bloody time Mister Holmes" as a form of introduction.

Chapter Text

Stopping in his tracks on the silent road all bar the whistle of the waves a mere hundred yards away, Sherlock placed his bag upon the floor, raised his heels in a polite bob and took the short walk to the stranger who so needed him here. Arm out stretched he said, "Detective Chalmers I take it? You know who I am," on finishing a short shake of hands, Sherlock gestured towards John and continued, "this is Doctor Watson, my assistant." John and Olivia shook hands and spoke a short polite 'hello' and a 'nice to meet you.' Olivia was very young, she was definitely not what John had expected, her accent was local and broad, and her youthful face made John feel very old indeed. It was understandable why she would ask for help. By the time that was all done Sherlock had already recollected his bag and had begun walking towards the beach, John and Olivia watched the detective make an increasing gap with long determined strides. Without turning around he instructed the pair of them still dawdling stoke still, "to the beach, an investigation must begin." Without question John half walked, half jogged, to catch up with his flat mate, Olivia took a second longer; clearly she had no idea of the protocol on this, and even if she did, it had evidently never begun like this before.

The three walked in a line, Sherlock in the middle, John to his left, closer to in-land, Olivia to the right, closer to the very waves that washed up the body and therefore closer to death itself. They walked parallel to the beach, looking at the full expanse of the westerly coastline in now largely a pale moonlight. It was only until the crunch of stones was beneath their shoes as they met the beach that Olivia began her prepared words, "Mister Holmes, and erm Doctor Watson, thank you so much for coming, we do have a small team here for this sort of thing, but they are all stumped, we are not used to this kind of work, any of it, you know, we deal with stolen bins and missing cats and that sort of thing, we just don't know what we are doing." She was clearly overwhelmed. Her nervous babbling progressed, "and this being so big and all, we only knew that this man was Paul Delaney because the lady that found him was a woman, Sandra, who had spent a lot of time in the states, she said this chap was a bit infamous, we haven't run no tests, or moved nothing." John did listen, and he did actually sympathise, but Sherlock did not hear a word, right then his sole focus was the little white tent that rested about half way up the beach maybe another two hundred metres away. The light reflecting off the moon, lit the tent like some kind of beacon, it's whiteness echoing along the sand. It stuck out like a smile at a funeral, and even John found himself very drawn to it, like a distant fire on a cold night. As they got closer both men picked up the pace, anxious to hone whatever was inside. Olivia did keep talking but even John now could not hear anything. He thought, 'i'm sure you are a very nice person but I really cannot focus on you right now.' Her mouth was moving and she was walking very fast to keep up but she was not a part of this duo.

The tent had a thin pole at each corner with which, police tape wrapped around the outside of the tent, Sherlock lifted it up and watched John and then Olivia slip underneath the temporary door he had made. Now that they had reached their destination, there was a slight pause, a hesitance most likely caused by some sort of preparation of what they are about to see, or maybe even the surrealism of the present alone was enough to justify such a moment. Maybe Olivia wasn't very good with silence, "there were lots of people here earlier, press and all, understandable seeing as not much happens here, we had to get the tent from another police department further in land, for most of the day the poor sod has been under a towel and behind a couple of wind breaks." With that Olivia walked through the little awning, moving the water proof plastic as she went to allow both John and then Sherlock to enter. There was a bit of a pang and John put his nose tight to his coat sleeve. That did not prevent from his eyes beginning to sting. Such smell evidently did not bother Sherlock, he was already down, expensive fabric upon his knees touching the damp dark sand that stretched out to meet with salt water. He reached into his bag and pulled out a full magnifying glass, if John knew he was bringing that he would definitely have laughed at a more suitable moment. It was an old thing, single lens, same magnification across both sides with a copper border and a patterned handle that looked like a tortoise shell that had been shaped and polished.

Sherlock caught John staring at the magnifier with a question in his eyes, Sherlock opened his arms and impatiently said, "what?! I knew he was a big man so we need a big magnifying glass!" John put his hands up in a don't-shoot-me manner as a way of saying 'I didn't say anything, carry on ya' big weirdo.' So Sherlock did, he bent lower and began scanning the prehistoric device along the corpse. With a groan John got on his own knees on the other side of the body to face the detective. He began to look in his own manner. "Sherlock did you bring gloves?" Without looking up or affecting his activity he said only "bag." So with a further moan John went to stand, but Olivia grabbed the bag and passed it to the doctor. He said a genuine thank you and remained on the ground. John unzipped the bag and found a large torch and clicked it own, hauntily illuminating the now forever eternally still flesh, taking a pair of plastic medical gloves he pinged them on, he tossed Sherlock a pair and he passed John the magnifying glass, with which John put away whilst Sherlock pinged on his own gloves. They both sat for maybe a minute staring down at the body in almost exact mirror positions. Moving only there head every now and then to focus on something different. Olivia definitely was not comfortable with silence, "so what do you think then?" was all she said but Sherlock shushed her immediately, John looked up in horror and scolded Sherlock for his behaviour, "Sherlock!" The detective replied in his exhausting dramatic manner, "What John?! I need to think, there's no time to answer stupid questions!" Sherlock was evidently back in case mode, John gave Sherlock the look before turning to Olivia and saying, "sorry, he's just over tired..."

"no I'm not" Sherlock interjected, John shot another look, if they were sitting at a table this would have been the moment that John would kick him under said table to encourage him to behave. John looked at Olivia once more with an apologetic face and said without any irony, "sorry he's just a massive dick." Olivia giggled nervously. Sherlock gave them both a disapproving look before they reassigned themselves to focus in silence once more. They were more active this time however, daintily John checked if anything lay in the victims trouser pockets whilst Sherlock checked the jacket. There was no jewellery besides a single thin gold chain that hung around the neck, out of sight behind the shirt collar. Sherlock made an assessment of it on the body and before taking any further action asked "Detective Chalmers have you taken pictures of the victim?" Olivia made an audible swallow before saying a quiet "yes, at several intervals." Sherlock gave a polite, if not assailable, "good," John offered a look of praise any how. With that Sherlock removed the chain from the victims neck and looked at it closely, then spoke to himself more than John, "the chain has lasted well in the water, meaning it's real gold, the stamp you would see to confirm this has been removed, suggesting an alteration or two, most likely in length, Delaney wanted a smaller chain, however instead of going out and buying a shorter chain he had this one resized, repurposed, meaning that he liked this chain, it was most likely a gift or a hand me down from a dead relative, or maybe it was just something he bought and really liked for it symboled a time of personal prosperity, American market, bought in East America, I would say at time of purchase a chain such as this was at least eight-hundred dollars, so at the time he had cash, serious cash, enough to justify spending" Sherlock stopped looking at the chain and looked down at the body once more, eyes scanning were jewellery would be, "no other jewellery, maybe he didn't like it, chain suggests otherwise, but there also isn't a watch, either he did not like things on his hands or wrists, thought it annoying, it's been lost at sea, or maybe he lost a lot of money and had to sell it all."

Sherlock looked to the chain once more, holding it up in the dimness of the tent, lit only from the torch that sat in John's lap. "But this chain, it was too important to get rid of," Sherlock looked from the aloft chain to connect eyes with John, "thoughts?" John took a big breath, elevating his shoulders as he did so, "right well, I have no idea about the jewellery, erm, but this man has been I, erm, suspect he's been dropped in the water not far off shore by someone else, his face is not the right colour for drowning, he would be purple, and his eyes would be erm, bulgier" John paused at that word, he did not like the fact he'd said that word, but he carried on, "a postmortem will obviously inform us if there is water in the larynx or the lungs and if it's a justifiable amount for cause of death, but I don't think it is, so he has been killed on land, or died on land, and dropped into the ocean by someone who was there or found him, dead, there is no clear way of death that I can see, no head wounds or informative bruising, no blood or lacerations, so I can't tell a cause." John looked up waiting for a reply, Sherlock leaned a little further in, "do you think he was murdered?" John cleared his throat and the emotion displayed on his face became a little more severe, "not that I can see of no I don't think so." Sherlock sighed a big sigh and slowly began to undo the victims shirt button by button from the neck down, he was a big man with a round belly and the shirt, although nearly dry, it was tight and awkward to do.

As soon as John went to ask what Sherlock was doing, it became clear what he was trying to tell him, at the fourth button the shirt was open enough to reveal something John had missed. There was a very thin looking cut maybe an inch long stretching from the gap between the rib gage down towards the belly button. John winced a little bit and there was an audible gasp from Olivia, as Sherlock endeavoured to continue to undo the rest of the buttons John looked away until the shirt was completely open. On returning to look at the body there were a further three marks of the same width and length varied around the gut region. John could not take his eyes away, "how? How could I have missed that?" Sherlock said a comforting, "it's alright, not easy to detect unless stumbled upon. You were right about one thing, he was killed on land, either bare chested at time of stabbing, or his shirt has been replaced once he has bled dry. The salt water would also have washed any remaining blood away from making contact with the fresh material fibres, it also helped that he has washed up on his back, meaning that if there are no wounds on the back the blood has no way of forcing itself out without a heart beat, however I think there is not really any blood left in this body meaning that he has been dead for at least twelve hours at the time of washing up and the shirt would have been put on or replaced a long while after death, most likely just before being dumped into the water judging by just how clean the shirt is, too difficult to do on a boat unless the boat was large, we need to know of any sitings of boats of a considerable size maybe three miles off shore, too risky further in and it can't be any further out than that other wise he would not have washed up at all, washed out to sea instead. He could have been dropped maybe eights miles along the coast line in juxtaposition for the tide and the time, this body is fresh, under twenty fours when taking in consideration the overall flexibility of the joints and the limbs, so not much more than that, so that is our search field, from those figures and judging by the condition of his skin, I would say he has been in the water for at least seven hours, either the murderer wanted his body to wash up for someone to find, or they are just a complete idiot who had no plan when murdering an American Politician, amateur, statistically I would hazard towards the latter. This means that we have a definite place of murder, to drag a body over board takes strength, could be more than one involved in the murder, place of murder means there would have been a lot of blood spilled, messy and hard to completely cover up, and we are looking for a fairly large knife with a sharp point. Olivia, he needs to be moved to where he can be fully inspected within the hour and we need to begin questioning people immediately, tell no one specific facts, only that there is a dead man on the beach, we also will need keys to access the dock, we need to inspect boats." With that Olivia exited the tent and she was soon heard talking on the phone to whoever could make all of those a reality. "Brilliant" was breathed out of John, genuine amazement written all over his form. Sherlock felt an internal jolt of delight, showed nothing, and then proceeded to pull the two sides of the shirt back together and put the central button through it's allotted counter part so that Paul was semi covered.

Sherlock began to stand and when John did the same, torch still in hand, he asked rather alarmed, "how the hell did you know that it was a stabbing?!" Sherlock removed his gloves, tossed them on the sand to be momentarily collected before doing up his own coat button and then pocketing the chain he'd inspected earlier. "Eliminate all other factors, and the one which remains must be the truth." Whilst very poetic, John was not satisfied, he forcefully ripped off his own gloves, threw them down and spat "Sherlock I want to know how." Sherlock gave a weak smile, now he really was starting to feel over tired, adrenaline starting to wain, he spoke calmly, "I went through improbable and probable options, it made sense is all, it is the only one that fitted." John was angry at his own feeling of stupidity but he he took the anger out towards Sherlock, "that's not good enough, I don't understand how you, how you do that, how you just see it!" Sherlock put his left hand through his curls feeling potentially a bit uncomfortable, "John, I don't understand how you can look at the sea and be so emotionally affected when I feel nothing at all." 

Chapter Text

Sherlock and John were let into the, albeit arguably going downhill, dock of Mine head. A police officer who must have been near retirement age was required to follow them around the duration of their deducing in the now pitch black boat harbour. He opened the gate that clearly protected nothing, with a key to a simple padlock. The padlock was so rusty John was convinced it would not open. The elderly key holder was very small, smaller than John, making Sherlock giggle on meeting him. Not only was he small, his back was also curved, and his glasses were so thick they made his yellowing eyes look ginormous, as if an owl had been assigned to watch them the entire evening. He was quiet, John attempted at small talk but unfortunately he did not rise to any of the questions, it seemed as if he wanted to go home, a dead man on a beach was evidently a nuisance to him rather than a point of fixation that the rest of the village had been engulfed it. The effort of opening the padlock and then the creaking gate left the old officer puffing and on John asking if he was okay, the gentlemen waved him off and said with his face turned to the ground in an effort to catch his breath, "you youngens' just go and get your work done." John was rather flattered to be called a 'youngen.' 

By the time John had taken his attention off the wheezing individual, Sherlock was already bounding around the pier like a Labrador looking for a tennis ball. The floor beyond the gate was thick concrete and at a calculated slope. Near the waters edge, algae clothed the grey manmade decline. A wooden bridge maybe a meter long was the breach between the land and the floating path system that connected and made all the boats accessible to their owners and detectives alike. Sherlock had the torch at this point, looking through boat windows with his face plastered against the panes. John could see fairly well, his eyesight was good and army training had involved a fair bit of night patrols. Night didn't scare him, as a child he feared the dark the most of all things, most people do, it is an inherent mutual fear we all possess at one point or another in our lives, however on Johns travel to Afghanistan the night watches were normally most welcome to him. The heat of the day had waned, and instead of hearing the orders from fellow soldiers, screaming or continuous gunfire, he could hear the buzz of the insects and hear himself breathe whilst everyone who had also killed a man was tucked in their beds, most likely dreaming of home, a hot meal or women. Sometimes attacks would be at nights, however the defenses at base camp were so much more advanced than the attack itself that the squabble was nearly almost always over in under an hour. It was considered a good fight if they lasted ninety minutes without retreating or all being cut down. When John returned to London from injury, he would often spend nights wandering the streets of London, fearing nothing and almost wanting a fight. It became more difficult when the limp came in, but the cold and black of the night did not bother him, war had trained him to find it a comfort from the blackness of the daylight. At least at night it was supposed to be dark. 

So standing on those docks with Sherlock scrambling around, and the old man on land, John mostly just stood, bobbing with the water only inches beneath him, and looked at the moon and its reflected light on the water. That is until Sherlock caught him out, "John you're doing that thing again." John put his hands in his coat pockets self consciously, "what's that?" Without looking at John, he replied, "liking the sea." John let out a 'ha' noise only as long as a breath. They looked at one another and both John and Sherlock shared one of those moments they seem to be having a lot lately. It's all so surreal but it feels so natural, as if it has already happened. Here they were, nearing midnight, on a floating pier surrounded by boats, one of which most likely belongs to a murderer of an American Governor. This morning they were case less and in London, and now a new mystery needed to be cracked and apparently the two of them were the only ones capable of doing it. Both parties felt this way, why is it happening to me? What have I done to deserve this? To deserve him? A friend and ally. A kindred spirit. How did I get so lucky? It did not need to be voiced. Sherlock smiled coyly and placed the torch in his mouth so he was hands-free; the back end of the torch between his teeth made his grin particularly infectious. 

John replied with a quiet chuckle, and with that Sherlock put on his leather gloves that were probably more expensive than anything John had ever owned, and clambered aboard a boat, arguably the largest in the marina. John had expected this of course, but he felt naughty, he was much more by the book still and he wanted to be a bit more like Sherlock in this way. Capable of not giving a fuck about anything and its consequences, especially in the midst of a case. So John stood on the floating pier and whispered nervously "Sherlock!" On Sherlock not even taking note, too enthralled in his new surroundings and what they may tell him, John looked back at the old man remaining on the concrete. He was sitting on a bollard with his chin touching his chest, his glasses resting on the end of his nose. The poor sod was fast asleep. They were off the hook. As John made his way to enter the boat, one leg was over the edge when Sherlock said, "don't touch anything!" The tone of his voice made John jump and he lost his footing. He felt head first, arms out stretched knocking Sherlock to the ground. They lay tangled in another for a second and the entire boat rocked. Once still it was clear that John had banged his knee rather hard on the way down and he was breathing hard through clamped teeth in attempt to reduce the pain. He clung onto it with both hands and rolled around for a second. 

On opening his eyes Sherlock lay beside him in no pain at all, but rather he was laughing so violently that no sound was actually coming out of his mouth. His whole body was just shaking and his knees were up at his chest because his laughing convulsions were so insistent. What made it funnier was the torch was still on but had been dropped in the kafuffle and now it rolled behind their heads, illuminating their shadows at their feet in a flurry of movement. John joined with a very high pitch giggle, which in turn made Sherlock noiselessly laugh even more. Sherlock rolled around and even clapped the deck of the boat with a leather-clad hand. John still clutching the bruised knee even snorted and Sherlock laughed so hard tears starting to leak from his eyes. Then their laughter was interrupted by the sound of the ancient police officer that had literally slept on the job. “Oi, you can’t be on there!” Their shenanigans had clearly awoken him. His rickety old voice in his broad accent did not cease the laughter of the duo, if anything it aided it. Being caught occasionally is funny it seems, it added to the entire ridiculous nature that had apparently become their lives. They continued to roll around and finally Sherlock’s laugh became full form, loud and bellowing. It was only when the old fella’ a while later said “I could lose my job!” was the point when Sherlock and John started to do that sighing thing that people do after a full blown laughing fit. A continuous effort began to take deep breaths and try to not descend into a moment of happy madness once more. Still trying to hold it in, Sherlock and John lay on their backs and they looked one another in the eye to finally tempt them back to reality.

They sat up in the same moment to face their wrinkled guard dog. As Sherlock wiped his cheeks and John prodded at his knee, their faces both still bearing the same smile, Sherlock said matter of fact, “there is a man dead on that beach and I believe this could be the boat on which he was killed, or at least ferried to be forever lost at sea, so if you don’t mind you would be really helping us out in looking, no one will know, neither of us will leave prints and if this is in fact the murderers boat and we can prove it, we have caught a murderer, on getting said confession therefore we’ll tell everyone in this tiny place that you helped in catching this blasphemous criminal that had momentarily thwarted the tourism that is Minehead, you will get a pat on the back and a congrats, they may even give you some extra money in retirement, so I suggest you go back to sleeping on the bollard, or even go home if you wish to allow us to get on with our work.” The purposeful well placed sarcasm and drama in Sherlock’s words made John smile even further. The owl man began to protest, “but…” Sherlock sighed now, smile fading, “how about this then, you go back to the police office, inform them all that we are trespassing and bring them back with whatever colossal mood that seems to have beset you, hmm? How does that sound?” With that the man was gone, muttering something about “unprofessionalism” as he went. Before he had even reached the adjoining bridge John was protesting as they both remained sitting on the swaying deck, “Sherlock! What did you do that for? They might kick us off the case!” As Sherlock stood he rolled his eyes and said from height, “oh please, you heard detective Chalmers, they need us.” 

John knew he was right of course, he went to place his hands on the ground in order to help himself stand but Sherlock stopped him, “no! We can’t have any fingerprints mixing with whatever could be on deck, I realize we have just rolled around but let’s not change anything more.” John nodded, then awkwardly tried to raise himself without using his hands, it proved tricky so Sherlock grabbed one of his arms and together they stood. They smiled at one another once more, still not quite over what hilarity had just passed. It was a memory both were to treasure for many years. 

Sherlock grabbed the now still torch and began to look around the deck and it’s contents. To John nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and if there was blood here recently it had been cleaned thoroughly, Sherlock attempted to enter the cabin but it was locked so he did the same thing as before. Using the torch he pressed his face up to the panes and shone the torch through the windows. To John’s utter surprise Sherlock exclaimed “shit!” and leaped off the boat. John followed despite his complaining knee and he proceeded to sprint after his much longer legged friend. They ran out along the swinging pier and literally leaped over the bridge, landing heavily on the concrete. John nearly slipped on that coating of algae he had seen prior, but regained his balance and together they sprinted out the useless gate and ran for about another two hundred meters up the beach before Sherlock collapsed onto the sand. John sat beside him and they both puffed in unison, attempting to catch their breath. Their bottoms touching the sand and their feet parallel John said between breaths, “what… the… fuck… was that.” Sherlock let out a small laugh and threw his head back to open his windpipe further in an attempt to get more air in. Lowering his head and looking level at John he said also between breaths, “people… in the… cabin.” John began to laugh again and then said “oh shit!” Sherlock giggled. 

Once their breath was vaguely back to normal they watched the water for a moment lap up against the beach, almost disbelieving that such a calm looking thing could bring up a body, all four of their cheeks pink from the exertion, and then Sherlock said, “and by the way they were definitely not the murderers.” John asked with a big grin in full knowledge the answer would be good, “how could you tell?” Sherlock shrugged his shoulders in jest and said, “they were both at least, hmm I don’t know, eighty five?” John half laughed half gasped in pure shame, “oh god we must have scared the shit out of them!” Sherlock nodded, fully aware of the matter.

Then he looked sad, just for a second but John saw it. He wasn’t there in that moment, his eyes were out at sea and his mind was gone, just for a breath. Maybe he was disappointed to have got something wrong. John tried to pull him back, “so the case? Was that helpful at all or…” Sherlock shook his head and looked at the sand between John and he, “none of the boats were big enough, and it wasn’t there.” Then he looked John in the eyes, clearly one hundred percent focused on what he wanted to sat, “new theory” John turned to face Sherlock more at his words, demonstrating nothing but appreciation and interest. “The murderer or murderers are no longer here.” John nodded but he knitted his brow, trying to weave together Sherlock’s thought process, “then where would they go? And you think with the boat?” Sherlock nodded and then back tracked to answer the first question, “you need a passport to travel far, and most boats now carry fuel, they cannot have asked for a huge amount of fuel for a long journey without subsequent reasoning or arousing suspicion.” John nodded and wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb, deep in thought, “so if they can’t go far, do you think they are still in England or…” Sherlock looked out to the water and spoke staring into its moonlit abyss, “no they would have to go further, Coast guards up the whole of Britain would record the siting and their where about, so I would guess, across the channel, to France, they could go off the radar, turn off any equipment that makes their travels traceable and easily make up some excuse at docking.”

John had another question and Sherlock looked back at him once it was asked, “excuse?” Sherlock nodded, understanding the actual question, “to enter into a country from sea you need a sort of docking permit, it’s like a passport for the boat, every boat has a unique name and code, but they could just say that they have traveled from very far, across the Atlantic for example and due to travel complications they did not manage to make their last stop in order to get a permit.” Sherlock paused, “usually that follows with a long series of questions, but if they are an avid sailor or two, I’m sure they could withstand it, especially with a murder charge behind them to spur them on to not, fuck up I suppose.” John nodded, glad of the information, “so we are looking for a large boat, still, with a highly skilled sailor, or a sailor and accomplices, who may also be well skilled sailors, who have a motive to murder and hide the evidence of a well known and controversial American Governor from Alabama, whose here for reasons we don’t know of, oh and not to mention a boat who is now potentially miles away in a large country across the sea with many docks and access to an entire continent.” Sherlock said with a laugh, “correct.” John made a mock frown, which made them both subsequently giggle. “Needle in a haystack” definitively continued John, then Sherlock went to stand and said “nothing we can’t handle Doctor Watson.” John stood too and as they shook the sand from their clothes, John said, “agreed Mister Holmes.” They friendly patted one another on the back; happy with the day’s events, they then sauntered up the beach to find somewhere where they may hopefully be able to sleep for tonight. 

Chapter Text

It was fast approaching one in the morning. The night was cold and both Sherlock and John wrapped their coats close around their goose bumped necks. They walked alone on the black streets that smelled always of the sea; all bar the decade old orange tinged streetlights. Some blinked menacingly, forever threatening to go out. They hummed and could be heard without being seen before one turned every corner. Once in view the moths that circled their potential paradise swatted around the lights in a manner that the planets orbited the sun. The single star, that has and continues to provide us with life and will ultimately take it from us. To the moths, this was their sun. Sherlock and John most definitely orbited each other. However, not in conventional polar order, they were more, elliptical. Working with one another they were at the closest point, it was rapid and electric. Without the work they weren’t in that place, not yet anyway, much slower, at least it was for now a continued orbit, always heading towards the next quick point. Gradually however, it was morphing from elliptical to polar. Closer and perfectly timed. In tune with the other, all signs read and acted on in the right way without threat of a mistake. But just like gravity, whilst liberating, it cannot be rushed or argued with. Yet, at the same time ‘because there is a law such as gravity, the universe can and will create itself from nothing.’  

Both were endeavoring to create in this case. They were heading to the police station they have frequented previously, albeit briefly. In between the borrowed tent and the dock they stopped off mainly to get keys, however there was an offering of leaving their possessions. The station was now closed and their bags sat outside by the door. Sherlock was irritated and voiced so, “how can they not still be here?! This is the most invigorating thing to hit this place! How can people be so dull John, How?!” To be honest John agreed with him however he was too exhausted so as they both lent down to grab their bags he just added an “I don’t know.” Now that the first job of collecting their own shit was done, they needed to find a place to sleep. “Sherlock where are we going to go for the night?” Sherlock had already begun walking in a certain direction before John asked the question. “The Langbury.” John felt himself getting agitated; he just attempted to reassure himself he just needed sleep, “the what?” Sherlock turned his head to face John but continued to walk forward, “it is a hotel up the hill, detective Chalmers booked us in, did I not tell you?” John made a scoffing sound and dragged his heels for a second, signs of irritation even Sherlock did not pick up on, and then said, “no, you didn’t.” So the pair walked in perpetual silence side by side, Sherlock thinking, John merely concentrating on placing one foot in front of the other with bed in mind. 

‘The Langbury’ was atop a hill facing out to sea. It was large and the white night lights made it much more intimidating that the orange mellow of the streets below. There were not even any moths flitting about in awe of the electronic beams. The door had been left open for the two of them, clearly someone knew they’d be in late or they were just extremely trusting hotel owners. A teenage lad sat at reception with his face squashed into his palm, eyes closed breathing heavy. Clearly John wasn’t the only one who wished for sleep. Without any consideration at all Sherlock pinged the bell and the boy awoke with a start and immediately went into job mode, “good evening, welcome to the Langbury where we offer exclusive services such as spa days and even tours of this historic town called mine head, how can I be of assistance today?” He said it all as if it were the same word. John was almost certain he was just sleeping talking, his eyes were so heavy and his head was slowly swaying. John knew how he felt. Sherlock spoke as if it was still midday, not a syllable dragged, “Rooms for Sherlock Holmes and John Watson please.” Then all of a sudden the receptionist sprang to life, he sat up straight and his eyes widened, “you are that detective bloke from London! It is a pleasure to meet you! I love a good crime story me, yeah, you must be here about the beach murder then? Who did it? Actually who is it, no one even knows that yet! Must be someone big if you are here!” He laughed nervously and Sherlock did nothing to ease it. Both Sherlock and John merely stared, not amused. John raised an eyebrow and spoke in a knackered drawl, “if you don’t mind it’s late and we have to be up early, so if we could just have the keys to our rooms…” 

This young man looked at John for what seemed to be the first time, “rooms? Oh no sir you just have the one room, we only got a call for the one room.” He frantically began to flick through the paper work that sat on the desk in front of him. Sherlock spoke up, “it’s fine, just give us the key, as you can see my friend here is tired.” Sherlock gave a weak smile and then received a fervent nod, John rubbed his eyes and blinked hard several times in the hope he wouldn’t collapse right there in the lobby. A cupboard on the wall was open and there were around sixty individual hooks, all numbered, some with keys hanging and some missing. The key removed for them was number thirty six and they began to head to the curved stair case left of the desk, the receptionist spoke to them anyhow, probably following protocol, “third floor, breakfast is from five thirty until ten.” Sherlock and John ignored him and headed to their room. Sherlock could feel an imminent crash. John could feel the ground beneath him with each step but he was paying no attention at all, one hundred percent autopilot. 

Sherlock placed the key in its place and fiddled for a moment before the positive click was heard, John and Sherlock shared a mutual hum of appreciation for no more complications. That was until they entered the room. A single double bed sat in front of them, plain and mocking. Worse of all it just looked so comfortable, all John wanted to do was to climb in and pass out, but some negotiations needed to be in order. John uttered an “oh god.” Both staring at it, bags still in hand, unable to continue with the next action, for the next ten seconds the duo just stared blankly at the sheets. Sherlock spoke hesitantly, “well I’m okay with it if you are John, in fact I am not bothered at all, I know you, you know me, and people share beds all the time, every day in fact.” John nodded, more to try to force Sherlock’s words into acceptance. Like beating a wolf into submission, he fought with the whole thing. “Yeah, sure, erm, yes I guess you are right Sherlock, and I am very tired.” At ‘very’ John stressed the word emphasizing how tired he truly was. So with that they stepped forward and both put their bags down, without looking at each other John informed Sherlock, “I’m just going for a wee.” Sherlock made no sound, and as John entered the bathroom, locked the door and whilst he was peeing, he all of sudden had a million questions. ‘What side of the bed will he want? Is this going to be weird? Will this make things awkward? That is not what I want. Does Sherlock feel awkward about this? Oh god! What if he sleeps naked?! Surely not with me in the bed, right? What if he kicks me in his sleep? Should we build one of those pillow walls they make in films? Why are you getting so worked up about this?! It is fine, it is fine, it’s all fine.” As John flushed the toilet and proceeded to wash his hands he looked himself in the mirror and puffed out his cheeks. He stood in his military stance to brace himself for whatever weird shit might occur, then he unlocked the door and on leaving the bathroom the sight internally freaked him the fuck out. Sherlock sat in the bed as straight as a rod, fully clothed, but in different clothes to earlier, on the furthest side nearer the window. John was so not prepared for the image. He looked so casual, like a different person, without that coat and that suit, and John had never really seen Sherlock look as exhausted as he did now. He looked younger. John gave a nervous “hi” followed by a little chuckle escaping the two of them. This was a bit weird, despite what they’d both agreed. John went and knelt by his bag, unzipping it to collect some clothes, he normally slept as naked as the day he was born so he didn’t have any pajamas per say, a t-shirt and his… “Sherlock do you mind if I sleep in my underwear? And erm and a top of course” he added hurriedly, “it’s just I don’t have pajamas is all.” In reply Sherlock lifted the duvet to reveal he himself was only in his underwear, they both laughed similar to before and Sherlock said evidently tired, “I too don’t have any John.” With that John stood and took off his jacket, even though his back was turned to Sherlock he felt very self conscious, he placed his jacket down and turned to the sleepy detective and said as confident as possible, “I’m just going to change in the bathroom.” Sherlock nodded, he dressed very quickly whilst John urinated in fear that he may be caught mid-change. 

Whilst he was changing in the bathroom he heard Sherlock say loudly “what happened to ‘I’ve been in the army Sherlock, I’ve seen lots of naked men,’ you said those exact words to me in Shanghai.” The imitation alone made John snicker, what a cheeky shit. He gave an honest reply through the door, “it’s different when it is you, and anyway that is not technically fair, we where under a lot of time pressure and you were very nearly dead.” Sherlock gave a playful “yeah yeah” before they resumed to quiet. Sherlock liked winding John up, it’s the only person he has ever been able to do it with without anyone misunderstanding or taking him to seriously or literally. Being funny was, pleasant. John stepped out, and even though he did have clothes on, he felt very very naked. Without saying a word to one another, John climbed in the bed as tentatively as possible. “We forgot to brush our teeth,” uttered John as he was making himself comfortable, Sherlock didn’t look up but said jokingly, “fuck it we’ll do it three times tomorrow.” John was grateful that that meant he didn’t have to do a damned thing but lie there. Sherlock was flicking through different newspaper sites on his phone, and once John was completely under the duvet he said, “the story has broke, they are saying ridiculous theories as expected, ‘The Sun’ here says that ‘Paul Delaney was an auspicious creep with an eye for the wrong women, he clearly picked the wrong mistress who then in turn took his life to bury him at sea like the goddess of the ocean herself say experts.’ What experts?!” On turning to John dramatically he continued, “I mean could it be more drab John? I don’t think so. For people who speculate for a living they could come up with some better speculations.” John giggled and tucked himself even further into the duvet, shimmying further down the bed. Sherlock continued to read out paper headlines and details, which apparently were all “so far from the obvious, they look but they don’t see John it is infuriating.” He looked at international news but it seemed that nothing had reached the states yet, or at least nothing was published. Sherlock continued to inform John of things but after a while he looked down to see John fast asleep. Breathing deeply, turned towards Sherlock with his head resting on only a single pillow when they were three available. Sherlock smiled, plugged in his phone and then turned off the light. “Good night John” was whispered into the dark.

Chapter Text

Sherlock and John had a very uneventful sleep. John talked in his sleep several times, however much to Sherlock's disappointment most of it was indiscernible. There was something about a bed, definitely a bed, and given the circumstances of unusually sharing a bed, such sleep talk was understandable. John was grateful to hear that Sherlock was in the shower on awakening. He did not particularly fancy that awkward encounter. What if he had bad breath? Worse! What if he had morning wood?! Oh god that would have been awful. Thankfully the hiss of the shower was bliss to John's ears. And even more than that, Sherlock was singing. Sherlock was singing in the shower. Really loud singing in the shower. Sherlock shower sings. John was learning more and more and he began to laugh so hard into his pillow that the force of it nearly made him fall out of the bed. John stood and tiptoed to stand with his ear pressed against the bathroom door to hear what it was he was singing. He appeared to be singing 'let it be' by The Beatles, rather enthusiastically actually. John was surprised by the quality of his voice, he supposed it made sense, his voice was a deep baritone always, so why not also in song? John was about to join in with Sherlock, but he stopped himself. It was going to be a funny way of making fun of Sherlock, John would have caught him out. Just as Sherlock had with John the night before about him changing in private. But this, this was different, much more personal. John did not want to make Sherlock self conscious in such a way. John wanted Sherlock to be comfortable enough to do anything he pleased in front of him, social deterrents were the opposite of what John wanted for his fast becoming dear Holmes. So he backed down, stepped away from the door and slid back into bed where he pretended to sleep. Eight minutes later, Sherlock walked out of the bathroom, wearing nothing but a robe. His hair sodden and droplets dripping from his hair to soak the towel like fabric hanging loosely from his shoulders. He saw John exactly where he left him, the sight of John in such peace made him smile and hum content. It was a shame to wake him up really.

Sherlock had woken John once before, in Shanghai, however that was at gun point. He wanted to do it right this time, pacifistic and at zero threat. John had heard Sherlock watching him this whole time. He knew Sherlock was looking at him for he could feel it, and he heard the detectives foot steps inch closer, making faking sleep increasingly difficult. He walked over and shook John's arm gently with an open hand. "John" he hushed. John took a deep inhale and opened his eyes as slowly and sleepily as he could muster. On breathing out a tired "morning" he think his acting passed. He felt he'd made the right decision in not embarrassing the detective. Sherlock mimicked a quiet "morning" before going about his routine. John rolled out of bed for the second time today and made his way into the bathroom and on shutting the door and undressing, Sherlock was doing the opposite. Sherlock heard the shower turn on and thus thought it safe to disrobe. The suit he was to wear today was one of his best. Savile Row, exact measurements with secret seam pockets and his favourite red thread to the collar button hole to match his Belstaff coat. It was a very dark grey, almost black at a vacant glance, but a trained eye would have spotted its true colouring. The shirt underneath was crisp white and he questioned whether to have two or three buttons undone before deciding upon two. And of course this suit meant that going commando was the only way forward.

He towelled his hair dry, careful not to dampen his suit, and left it to its own doing as per usual, and on sitting to tie his shoe laces, John exited the bathroom wearing the duplicate of the same robe Sherlock had worn moments before, except John's went down to his ankles, whereas for Sherlock it draped around his mid-shin bone. Likewise the sleeves essentially touched the base of his thumbs, whereas for Sherlock, they hung tightly around mid-forearm. The pair connected eyes for the first time today, and John cleared his throat before awkwardly uttering, "you, look, erm professional." Sherlock leant down to his toes and tied his left show laces without losing eye contact with his doctor, "you look like you could use some clothes." John laughed and agreed whilst remaining under the door frame. John then unzipped his bag and produced a bland grey t-shirt and his favourite sandy coloured woollen jumper, followed by some practical jeans. On re-entering the bathroom as he had the night before, he realised he had forgotten his underwear. After considering to wear the pair he'd slept in he decided against it and just went full blown commando instead. He secretly liked doing this and would always do it if he required a bit more confidence that day. A little inconsequential secret such as the fact that he's wearing no underwear for some reason made him more comfortable with himself, thus making him feel more able to face any problem. Maybe it was suitable for today after all.   

It was approaching nine in the morning, their included breakfast ended in an hour or so. On exiting the bathroom and pulling on his socks and shoes John said, "Sherlock we must be going, otherwise we'll be hungry," practically immediately after, his tummy rumbled, thus proving his point. "Yes doctor, fine fine, head down without me, I'll be straight behind" the detective spoke cooly as he still remained sat down, shoes now tied, flicking through his phone. John stood and thrummed his fingers upon his palms, anxious for Sherlock to change his mind, but he didn't so John grabbed his phone and coat and headed down for breakfast alone. At the floor lobby John decided to walk down the three flights of stairs rather than wait for the lift. On reaching ground floor, it was evident the place was busy, very busy. The place was teeming with people, all smartly dressed and eating quickly to get the day started. John didn't take much notice and met the young man who was seating guests at breakfast. "Name?" the stranger asked, John paused before saying, "Holmes," the man nodded before showing John to a bay window table, which had appropriately two seats. Once at the table the waiter asked if he'd like tea or coffee, John chose a very British option one. Milk only. Just as John sat down, a voice from behind him said, "I do apologise but did you say your name was Holmes?" John turned around to be greeted with a man he recognised immediately as someone from off of the telly, a reporter for Channel Four News if his memory was right, "erm actually no, but I am here with a Mister Holmes, he should be down any minute, anything I can help you with?" John asked politely. "Is it Sherlock Holmes by any chance?" John laughed and nodded alongside a nervous giggle, "is he here for the Delaney murder?" John hesitated, he should not have got involved, why the hell did he nod?! This man was a reporter, one with arguable influence over an international story such as this, he chose to protect his friend, not the professional, "who's that?" The reporter made a funny sigh before candidly saying, "maybe he just doesn't tell his boyfriend everything." John's face arched confused, "boyfriend?" The reporter visibly blushed, "oh I do apologise I just assumed...," now John realised in horror and reacted so, "no I'm not... we're not, I work with mister Holmes, it's not.." In his panic, John seemed to have put his foot in it, "work with him? So you are here for Delaney! So who murdered him?!" John deepened his foot print further, "what makes you think it's murder?!" The reporters face stretched out in pure joy, "so it is murder!"

John panicked, his eyes flickered to the door, waiting for Sherlock to float in and fix this mess he'd made himself, "no, no that's not what I said, don't quote me on any of this!" With that the reporter stood and walked triumphantly out of his seat and headed for the door. En route however, he met Sherlock who had heard enough of the conversation whilst walking towards the bustling breakfast room. "Good morning deceitful journalist, you can print Delaney was murdered and you can also print that Detective Sherlock Holmes and Captain Doctor John Watson are on the case, have a nice day" spoke Sherlock with not a shred of sincerity. John sighed with relief, he wasn't in trouble after all. Sherlock left the man standing in limbo before hurrying out of the room. As Sherlock sat at the table, John asked rather than providing a pleasant greeting, "why'd you do that?" A tea pot arrived and John thanked the smartly dressed gentlemen and as Sherlock began to pour them both a mugful he said, "with us involved, and confirmed involved, they are less likely to focus on the actual murder, but instead they'll focus on you and I, they'll most likely assume we're lovers, especially likely due to the fact that we did in fact share a bed last night, we live together, you were my doctor and you're a military man , several kinks many are attracted towards and to top it all off we do actually look like a couple that could work, it's brilliant, people John, gold fish are so distracted by gossip they can't actually focus on what matters. Milk?" John's jaw was practically scuffing against the table top. "Sherlock, I'm not sure if I want the public involved in my... our sex lives." Sherlock raised an eyebrow and said as a joke, "oh so we do have a sex life now?" They laughed before a waiter interrupted with "are you ready to order?" John shook off his slip up and said, "full english please," Sherlock said the "same" and the man asked how they like their eggs, at the same time both men said, "sunny side up" before sharing a surprised smile. As the gent walked away John wondered if that would be quoted in tomorrows papers.  

Chapter Text

The beach that stretched before them was arduous. Day brought the beach into new shape. The tide was put far at such an early moment of the day, white wash was at the horizon and it's blue lapped upon the rolled imprinted sand. Breakfast was more than agreeable to both Sherlock and John and gave them some much needed fuel for what lay ahead. Sherlock had considered several options on how to get to France. Without telling John of course. "John I've booked us to pick up a rental car at three o'clock to drive to Paris, so we have a few hours to kill. I suggest we..." John interrupted, "sorry Paris, and you want to drive?! I'm sorry Paris?" Sherlock stood on that beach with an 'of course' face and a whooshing coat, "yes Paris. The killers are obviously in Paris." John was bemused and stared out to sea in search of the answers, "But they went by boat? You said they went by boat, so if they did go to France most likely they'd have docked in somewhere like Calais, why then Paris? And why by car?! Surely flying is faster, you're all about speed and whatever and by car it'll take forever." Sherlock arched his brow, "eight and a half if there is no traffic." John rolled his eyes. "Why Paris Sherlock?" Sherlock placed his hands in his Belstaff pockets and took his time in his explanation, "if you had just murdered an American Governor and dumped his body in the ocean with a vessel at your disposal it's not safe to stay at sea. People would search the waters, because gold fish are boring and obvious. So they would go to land. On the water all you have to do is watch the horizon line until your target pops into view and then bam you've got them. On land however it's much trickier, not a straight line as you would in the water.There are other people and restrictions in your way." Sherlock spat the word 'people' like a bad memory, "Where are there the most restrictions and where are there the most people, easy, cities, we know they probably only took enough fuel to get them across the Channel, so they dumped the boat and boarded the train to Paris, why Paris? So you keep insistently asking. Time. The body only washed up yesterday morning and he was dead for between seven and twenty hours, most likely the lesser number, therefore by the time they reached France and left the boat and boarded a train to get to Paris, they cannot have got much further, they probably think they have bought themselves some time, we know they story is out. Look at the papers, that reporter. So you're in Paris, think you've got away with murder, then bang your victim washes up on a beach, what do you do?" John stared intently in the eyes of the detective, "run?" was John's guess. Sherlock scowled and raised his hands, finger tips clawing the sky line, "panic!" John's faced remained unchanged, "oh for christ sake John! If we panic we freeze, they stay where they are. Amid the sea of millions of faces it would offer comfort. Paris is romantic to normal stupid people, they'd stay and try to remain guilt free for as long as possible." With that Sherlock spun and began to walk along the beach towards where the body lay only mere hours ago. John was irritated. The amazingness was still there, but the delivery was starting to wain. John really needed to talk to Sherlock about his showing off. He paced after him, tight lipped before barking, "Sherlock that's all very well but your plan involves being in a car for over eight hours and you didn't even consult me." Sherlock swivelled in a quick whip, spitting sand around his heals, causing John to stumble, "John the car means we are only dependent upon ourselves, I imagine who we are looking for will run once they feel fear or know we are involved in tracking them down, and due to that reporter that will be imminent. Either you come or you don't, but I'd rather you were there." Sherlock spun once more and began to practically run up the beach in what appeared to be an attempt to run away from the very admission of apparent compassion he had just divulged. John remained dumbfounded, feet sinking into the wet sand second by second. Sherlock Holmes had finally admitted he needed him. A smile diffused upon his cheeks. He walked to Sherlock once more. "So what next?" was the only confirmation Sherlock needed to tell him that John was on board. "The police station and then the rocks near the end of the bay." John nodded and they walked in synchronistic poise all the way to the police station they had frequented only last night.

As they turned the street to the station there were approximately thirty or forty reporters alongside which were their camera crews and their equipment. They were all pacing and attempting to prepare themselves at the start line of the competitive race that was journalism. As a few saw Sherlock Holmes walking towards them they began their sprint. "Mister Holmes! Mister Holmes! Tell us about Delaney! Who did it? Any theories Mister Holmes? Mister Holmes, one comment please!" Sherlock said nothing and swiped passed them all without even a glance. John could barely see from all the cameras flashing and the noise was unbearable, John could hardly think. He was just glad no one was shouting his name. They rounded into the police station and were met with some relief. Detective Chalmers was particularly excitable and voiced so, "Thank god! They won't leave! Maybe tell them something so they go away, the noise is ridiculous." Sherlock didn't even say a morning before his questioning began, "anything new from the autopsy?" Everyone in the office, including the old owl eyed man who claimed that he was off to report them the last time they saw him. John gave an apology smile in his direction. It was met with a blank unremitting gaze. "Everything as you said Mister Holmes," chimed Olivia like a true professional, "it was amazingly one hundred percent accurate, everything you said, the stab wounds and the shirt still had detergent in the awkward places," Olivia blushed slightly, but it didn't avail her, "he had alcohol in his stomach, we don't know what kind, we have had no need for an autopsy here for over eighteen months, equipment for such things is therefore a waste of budget, but it smelt so and it was the only thing in his stomach, he had no bruising or other marks of any kind, here." Olivia produced a thin folder with images of the dead man resting on a metal table they had in the small hospital clinic not far off the beach. Sherlock didn't even look, he simply passed the folder onto John, of which John opened it and flicked through the grim stills. Olivia continued, "the doctor who inspected him believed he had been dead for only a day." Sherlock had what he needed so he moved it along, "and the interviews?" Olivia was confident in her swift reply and Sherlock acknowledged her as competent and therefore probably had a bright future, a rare conclusion from the allusive detective, "there were sightings of a boat, a fishing vessel saw a boat with the name 'Cleopatra,' of which we know was belonging to a James Williams, Mister Williams reported it missing around midday yesterday." Sherlock interjected, getting excited about the progress of such a case, "how big is it?" Olivia smiled, happy to bear good news, "it's one of the largest and finest boats in all of Minehead." With that she walked towards a board on the wall and pulled off an image of a boat, she placed it in Sherlocks hands. Deductions began bouncing around the detectives cranium. It was what's known as a Ketch sailboat. Two large white sails and one smaller sail at the back, making three sails total. It was forty-five foot long. Big enough for what had violently occurred, potentially not enough floor space for more than three living people. So two murderers, and the victim, most likely murdered on the boat, alcohol on an empty stomach would have made self defence difficult, even more so when against two sailors who stole the bloody boat in the first place. The mahogany planks to build the vessel informed Sherlock it was most likely built in ninteen-fifties Italy. 'Cleopatra' was written in a bold green paint along her flank, Sherlock imagined it may have been removed in an attempt at anonymity or precaution from the fleeing criminals. Shame. Sherlock admired it's artistic nature, a racing green with a white outline. Sherlock handed the print to Watson who raised his eyebrows and blew a short impressed whistle, which received a stare from everyone in the ageing office. Sherlock pushed up onto his toes before proceeding to inform all of the strangers, "right, we're off now, lovely case, thanks for the email." With that he headed for the door and John shrugged and followed, "wait Mister Holmes!" was all Olivia could muster, another officer followed suit, "you haven't solved the case? Where the bloody hell are you going?!" Sherlock spun around for the second time today, "we're going to catch the murderers." With that the two men were out the door, un-followed by the now stunned out of depth police team. John had files in hand and thankfully had placed the boat image behind the others, otherwise the reporters outside would have had a field day and it would have been a huge cue to the criminals to get a move on. The shouting continued just as before, "Mister Holmes! What did they tell you? What did you tell them? Mister Holmes, who killed Paul Delaney, is it anything to do with his racist connections? Fellow politician? Why was he here Mister Holmes?"

Soon reporters started to crowd round the pair, making an escape seem less and less plausible. "Keep walking John," Sherlock urged. They scrambled their way out of the maze of shouts and lenses, and left behind them professional sighs and audible frustrations. John was glad they were not followed and Watson and Holmes found themselves on the beach once more, one clue closer to finding their culprits. They headed towards the only rocky section of the beach, it sat beyond the the point of the bodies temporary resting place, which was still strangely marked out by a now empty white tent and police tape that no longer served a purpose. They obviously just hadn't got round to dealing with it yet. They walked past the tent and with it behind and out of sight it gave John shivers and the hair on the back of his neck began to stand, forcing him to turn around to glance at it's innocent frame whilst continuing to walk forward. The rocks met with the cliff face on two sides, water at another and out stretched sand for its final attachment. The cliff, sand and salt water all sat around the grounded rocks like estranged friends at a dinner table. As they descended upon the historic mass of stone John imagined a child Sherlock exploring similar stones, making deductions and seeing it all interweave together in one cause and ecosystem. At the same age as Sherlock would have done such things, John was probably doing what all normal British kids do. Catching crabs and placing them in a bucket full of salt water, the bigger the crab the better the feeling of inevitable success. Ogling at them the rest of the afternoon to just watch what they did, and how they interacted with one another. You'd maybe even place sand or seaweed in the bucket to make it feel 'homely,' even though essentially you'd cruelly imprisoned them when their natural habitat sat agonisingly behind the brightly coloured plastic. Then the sun would sink lower into the sea and mum would say, "release the crabs" and they would either be lobbed back into the ocean or lovingly returned back to the very rock pool they had been plucked from, dependent on character and time albeit. The nostalgia caught John out as they slipped amongst the stones, trying to not get their shoes too wet, "Sherlock have you ever caught a crab?" Without turning round Sherlock said bluntly, "what a ridiculous question." John laughed, he didn't expect any less of a reply. "Well that must be rectified immediately" he joked, "John we are looking for anything murderers may have dumped, and potentially washed ashore, like a murder weapon for example, it's a slim chance but..." John interjected in the same jovial manner he apparently didn't want to let go of. "Blah blah blah blah blah, Sherlock Holmes, I am not listening to anything you say until you catch a crab." Sherlock was beginning to admire the humorous stubbornness that was John Watson. Of course he'd never say that, "John what is the point in terrifying a defenceless crustacean to hold for a moment before releasing it back to Poseidon?!" John hopped from one stone to another so they stood side by side, facing one another before John spouted a genuine, "because it's fun."

Sherlock scoffed a laugh and John continued in the chase to further that merry noise, "it doesn't need to be big, it's not about size, a tiny cupid of a crab will do." Sherlock looked up from the rocks at his feet to catch eyes with the frankly ridiculous doctor he'd now proudly call a friend. He admitted defeat. "Alright John, you are clearly the expert, where do we start?" John smiled and excitedly tucked the file and photographs into his coat before zipping them in secure. He then rubbed his hands together before bending down to untie his laces. Head as close as possible to his feet John huffed out a "well, first of all, we simply must be bare foot." Sherlock rolled his eyes, pleasant at the humour this direction was continuing, "oh must we now" was sarcastically strung out from between his teeth. John with one foot now bare, removed sock shoved into its allocated shoe, a defiant "yes" brazenly reaped the sound waves. With that John bent down to remove his second shoe and sock whilst Sherlock followed, being purposefully slow which caused John to be bouncing impatiently on the flat ancient stone as he waited for the detective to also be barefoot. Once all twenty toes were free Sherlock placed his shoes next to Johns. "Follow me" John said with all the youth that befitted this activity, Sherlock followed, smile forcing its way upon his mouth. He led Sherlock to a rock pool maybe ten feet away from their abandoned foot wear, it was full of large stones that would require some determination to shift, but theoretically was possible. John dipped in a toe, the water was warm due its time apart from the tide, which was a good sign. There was seaweed around the edges, another good sign. Like a children's television presenter, John asked, "so Sherlock do you think this pool will hold us some crabs?" Sherlock began to laugh and said in a high pitched disbelieving voice, "oh for fucks sake John." This made John laugh now, alongside which he said, "shh! You'll scare the crabs away." Sherlock funnily cussed some more as John began his 'hunt.' He stepped daintily into the ankle deep water, the bottom of his jeans touched the waters surface, but he didn't care; this is what this was about.

John placed an index finger to his lips in a motion to make Sherlock quiet, he was joking of course, imitating a stone age stalker about to catch his dinner, Sherlock scoffed and continued to laugh, this was the most ridiculous he'd felt in years. "Sherlock shh! It's going to know we are here! Shh! This is very serious business!" The laughter continued, consistent and joyful. If someone stumbled across such a scene, two grown men looking for crabs, you'd never guess a body had washed up only just over a day ago a mere hundred yards down the beach. Tent or no tent. John leant down and indicated towards a pretty hefty stone that clearly hadn't been moved in an age. John placed two palms upon it before mouthing a comic 'one, two, three' to Sherlock before impressively rolling the stone to one side without any apparent effort. Sherlock watched the mud disperse in genuine fascination before it slowly began to settle as if untouched. Nothing. Not a thing moved. John shrugged and said, "when in doubt, turn over another stone." Sherlock giggled and said "John I think you just combined three sayings." John said, "well it still applies." Sherlock had to confess, this was fun. John waddled, careful not to slip, to another stone, smaller in size but closer to the seaweed layered edge. As he leant down he said, "I have a good feeling about this one, this is it! Get in here." Sherlock immediately did as he was told, except before stepping into the water he removed his coat and folded it neatly before placing it on the sand, he then with a flamboyant grace bent down and rolled up his trousers to ensure they wouldn't meet the same fate as John's jeans. John rolled his eyes but didn't complain. Sherlock waded in, gladly accepting it was warmer than he'd expected. John had to stop himself from laughing as he got closer. Such a deer like creature as Sherlock was, all limbs always covered in the finest of wear, yet some how John had got him crabbing. Fucking crabbing. Ankle deep in salt water looking for a crab for absolutely no purpose at all other than a childhood desire for entertainment. John liked his flat mate more and more. As they met close in the rock pool John asked "ready?" and on Sherlock nodding, John leant down and shifted the stone with ease, on resting against the edge it made a pleasant crack sound which reverberated against the shallow walls only geology could explain. Sherlock saw it, a blood orange crab an impressive two inches wide. It was using its claws in an attempt to dig itself under smaller stones, but Sherlock saw it. Without any fear he put his hands to it. He grabbed it by one leg and watched it flail mid air. John said an alarmed, "no not like that!" John placed his right thumb and its connected index finger apart and held the flailing crab from the air into a still position between his fingers. It was level and held its claws in the air ready for a fight. Clicking them together in a show of battle. Sherlock and John beamed, ogling at the defenceless creature of which they'd do no harm. On closer inspection it had only one eye, most likely lost in a fight not dissimilar to this but hopefully against its own kind. It also only had seven legs instead of eight and Sherlock envisioned it being carried off by some gull, but this veteran probably would cut off its own leg and happily fall from a great height before being taken by such a simple bird. It had a small limpet on its shell and John concluded that this crab had had one hell of a life so far. "What shall we name it?" he asked the happy detective. Without any hesitation Sherlock said in a comic tone, "Mycroft." John gave a belly laugh, which Sherlock replicated. Once the snicker was quiet, John said, "here put your hand out." Sherlock gave a confused look, it wasn't huge but it had some mean pincers. "Come on, trust me Holmes." So Sherlock flattened out his right palm at pectoral height, John placed the crab upon his palm, still ready for a fight. However, as it touched Sherlock's salty palm is tightened itself up and pretended to play dead. Sherlock let out an understanding "ah" and John nodded in contentment. It was bundled in tight into itself, and the pretending dead reminded Sherlock of a series of cases from a different life. A life pre-John. Seems impossible now. Sherlock copied John's tactic and picked it up by its shell using his thumb and finger. It still remained playing dead, fooling no one but itself. It was only once Sherlock had leant down and placed it into the water that it 'miraculously' came to life once more. It sank like a leaf would have fallen from a tree. From side to side until in reached the bottom, hitting the stones like a fellow pebble itself, it then stretched itself out full form and scurried away hurriedly until it vanished beneath the green curtain of seaweed that hid it from the world, and the two men who had just freed it.                                

Chapter Text

Whilst Sherlock and John found some much needed refuge amongst that tryst of rocks, they found no evidence of anything of case value being washed upon the shoreline. Still, with happy hearts at their childhood venture, both Doctor and Detective walked with their shoes in their hands. John still had the file of mostly photographs tucked securely in his jacket. Perfectly parallel to the other, walking in perfect synchronicity leaving footprints in the sand as unique to them as the genetic code that lay in their cells. It reminded Sherlock of that first morning he'd properly met John, in his office he'd noticed John bare foot and speaking as liberal and as fascinating as he pleased. He liked that about him instantly. Walking back to the nest of housing that sparked off into bone idle streets, it was clear that the borrowed white tent had now been taken down and removed from the sand. Unusual site now gone from the scene, any visitor may land upon these shores without any knowledge of the horror that was hidden from sight in that tent. John thought briefly that it may have now even been returned to the admittedly more prepared police unit who provided the privacy for the deceased white male. They walked in silence practically the whole walk of the beach, and it wasn't until the warm sand became cold concrete that words were exchanged. "We leave as soon as we get this car then?" John asked, paraphrasing in full knowledge that Sherlock would understand. John and Sherlock walked still holding their shoes until they reached the entrance to the premises of the bed and breakfast they'd shared a bed in last night. They hopped on the spot until socks and shoes where back on feet, irregardless of the fact that sand still hid between their toes. They collected their belongings, which had been left at reception on request. Sherlock paid using their work expenses account, and to both mens pleasant surprise, the rental sat outside, just over an hour early, for it was only twenty past two in the afternoon.  

The rental car was small, a dingy pearl pink nissan micra Sherlock had paid a fortune to 'borrow' for a 'few days' off the only certified rental company in the whole of Minehead. The only problem was that this car rental company was by day only. Unsurprising to John however, Sherlock had managed a deal. God knows how long they'd be away for. Cramped for the two men as it was, John was excited. He hadn't had a proper road trip of any capacity for as long as he could remember. And this was a long one. Drive from the west coast of England all the way across to get a ferry from Dover. Then most likely they'd stay in Calais and do some investigating, find the Cleopatra, and see where it led from there. From Sherlock's theory the next step would be Paris, and this was something John sincerely hoped for. Paris. Fucking Paris. It needed no explanation. Imagine Sherlock in Shitting EuroDisney. For the first half an hour of that car journey John thought of little other than finding an excuse to get Sherlock to Disneyland. He pictured him with a face of misery wearing Mickey Mouse Ears being dragged around the ride that insatiably sings 'it's a small world' over and over again. John would pay his entire army pension to see such a site. Since John had known Sherlock, his companion had remained almost entirely occupied and it was only in the short days between this case and the last, that John had seen a dangerously bored Sherlock. In therapy, Sherlock had confessed that it was his minds appetite that caused his drug taking. So when thirty five minutes into the car journey Sherlock professed he was 'bored,' John knew he was in for a long ride.

"How can you be bored already?! We have around eight hours at least left, I refuse to believe you're bored." John was driving, they'd agreed shifts but in easy dramatic fashion Sherlock slumped down in the passenger seat and gave the most almighty sigh. A sacred John persisted, "alright look, talk about the case, maybe you can use this time to solve this thing without us even having to go on this bloody drive." Sherlock now rolled his eyes and spoke intentionally slow, "John, we don't have any further information to go on, American politician on beach, four fatal stab wounds to abdomen, no murder weapon, its probably at the bottom of the ocean by now, unless the murderers are stupidly sentimental and on running away, or rather sailing away I very much doubt such an idle notion," Sherlock began to talk faster to simply get his reasoning out of the agonising way, "murderers are skilled sailors aboard the stolen Cleopatra, they go to France, please don't make me explain that one again, so what do we do? John, you and I, we go to France." Sherlock slumped even further in his seat to extend his confinement, John gripped the steering wheel tighter in an effort to not grind his teeth. "Sherlock you know you are the most sarcastic arse I think I've ever met." Sherlock didn't reply he just looked out the window like a bored six year old wanting anything, something to do. "Sherlock, okay there are some things which are unexplained, for example, why was he here?" Sherlock lolled his head to look at John's profile, "easy, his heritage is here, his mother is buried in Minehead cemetery." John opened his mouth and flailed his thumbs on the wheel, "how the hell do you know that." It was more an accusation rather than a question. Sherlock sighed once more, he'd never understand the normal mind, "whilst Delaney is an American name, Musgroves is not, that's a Somerset name. Mother's maiden name is guess what John, Musgroves. He was visiting his mothers grave, for probably the hundredth time since her death, last night whilst you slept I got up in the middle of the night and went to the grave yard, she's there, Sandra Delaney, buried alongside mummy and daddy Musgroves, I only had to leave the hotel room for fifteen minutes." John's face scrunched up in confusion, "then how come no one mentioned an anecdote or just the fact that they knew him personally?" Sherlock turned his shoulders so that he could really witness John respond to this, "John do you know which region of England is the most superstitious?" Now John gritted his teeth. "I'm assuming it's here Sherlock" he forced out between pursed lips. Sherlock spoke as if he was the human embodiment of sarcasm, "that's right John! The South West Coast of England buys the most bollocks there is, whether that is stones believed to own spiritual powers or just the simple idea that no one should speak ill of the dead." John ignored all of the increasingly less bearable tone and tried to shift focus on something else, "okay smart arse, so why kill him?" Now Sherlock crossed his arms, becoming less bored for the moment, John took a brief glance at the change in movement, pleased at the direction he'd enforced, "where's the motive?"

There was moment of silence, only the whirring road beneath could be heard until Sherlock said quietly, "seven deadly sins." John responded immediately, "sins?" Sherlock made a hum indicating a yes, before going through his thought process. "Lust, divorced with three children, marriage maybe fell apart from an affair, especially ironic as he was a reverend, there's a motive, Gluttony, you saw him with your own eyes, big fat self righteous man, could've just been a case that the murderers didn't like him, his stature or his character, people have been murdered for less, Greed, the gold chain alone suggested maybe he lost everything else gambling, long shot before you rub it in, there is also the accusation of trying to wrongly claim the Dupont fortune, the man liked money and lots of it, Sloth, again he was fat but he was also initially a clergyman, that's a lazy job if ever I've heard one, so again not a nice character, not easy to get along with, Wrath, we know he doesn't get along with gay son, so he's a homophobe and potentially an avid racist, if there isn't another kind of racist, KKK connections, so to not accept people as nature intended then suggests he's an angry sort, maybe there was an unforgivable incident of racism or homophobia which wildly escalated, Envy, the man tried to steal Dupont fortune and he is in politics, so he had an ego to feed, envy causes the worst in people, Pride, proud patriot, religious division, not forgetting the American Christian Academy he never shut up about. John to be honest I would guess that if you and I met him in life we'd probably want to kill him too." With that silence was achieved and they'd only managed to keep Sherlock occupied for six minutes after the initial announcement of boredom. John just said "right." They were in silence for another ten minutes before John asked, "Sherlock do you like car games?"  

Chapter Text

"Car games?" asked Sherlock, inevitably inquisitive at such a suggestion. John gave a slight nod and a slow "yes." Sherlock uncrossed his arms and sat up straight, preparing himself for whatever challenge John suggested. "What do you recommend?" he asked whilst staring determined at the flying tarmac. "Well most car games involve memory, which seems hardly fair as you remember every fact under the sun, so I believe it may be a fairer cop if we play 'name that tune.'" Sherlock immediately rolled his eyes, this would be dull. He had expectations of earth shattering Hawkins maths equations to take a crack at. "John I would rather read your emails." John pulled his head back in dismay, "my emails?!" Sherlock raised a half smile, "the ones to your sister are particularly fascinating." John was upset once more, "but that is password protected?!" Huffing consumed Sherlocks whole being, "easy, you are proud of your military career, Kandahar71, took me three attempts." John scoffed, he was impressed but what a dick-head. "Sherlock just please, just, we'll play one round and if it is really that unbearable then we'll do something else, we have like another eight hours of this so please just." Sherlock saw John grind his teeth, he didn't want to upset his only friend in this life. He wasn't used to having to control his behaviour, "fine John, you go first." John gave a relieved nod of the head, "thank you, right let me think." After a twenty second interval John said a "got it" before bracing himself to hum.

Sherlock knew it immediately, it only took four beats, "California Soul by Marlena Shaw." His face was like that of a proud peacock. "Right yes, yeah, your turn." Sherlock sat for a bit longer than twenty seconds but he gave a clearly nervous, "yes alright" before he began a very sweet hum. John tried not to laugh he really did, he bit his tongue and tried to focus on the road, as if he was intently trying to recognise the song in Sherlocks shaky hum. After maybe fifteen seconds of humming Sherlock stopped and said an impatient, "well?!" John shook his head violently from side to side with a very restrained smile. Every muscle in his face was aching from its constraint. He cleared his throat and said, "Sherlock I don't know I'm sorry." Sherlock huffed, "it was the original scooby doo theme song." John could not hold it any longer, he laughed so hard that he had to pull the car to a stop on the hard shoulder in fear of crashing. He folded himself over the steering wheel in an attempt to find gravity again but it was not there. He laughed until Sherlock got out of the car and stomped onto the grassy merge. Once John was able to put his ribcage straight again, he sat up and did feel genuine guilt. He could not have helped it. Then he looked out the left window and saw Sherlock sat in a huff at the small hills peak. The fact he looked so lost wiped the smile from John's face. He appeared so alone on that verge. John vowed there and then to not make fun of his friend, or at least persuade his friend to be comfortable enough around him to laugh along. John sighed, he so wanted this to be fun for them both. He was trying but Sherlock was so different to anyone he had ever met. He needed something other than this. Maybe he should buy him a crossword book at the next stop. John felt maybe he had not been very considerate of Sherlock, it wasn't his fault he got bored so easily, John felt he had been impatient in that stupid pink car.

John sighed and rubbed his eyes before pinching the top of his nose. John turned the hazard lights on and then took a deep breath and got out the car, slamming it shut. The motorway was loud and cars whizzed past completely ignorant of John and Sherlock. John climbed the boggy hill and on getting closer to Sherlock he noticed he was inspecting a tall piece of grass. Twiddling it in his fingers and watching the light bounce of it. John slumped down next to him, his hands resting in his pockets in an effort to not show their nervous twitch. Their arms rested in comfortable contact and they said nothing to one another for a moment. "European Beach Grass" Sherlock mumbled. "Sorry?" asked John, watching Sherlocks long fingers flick at the tiny seeds. They watched them float on the wind to wherever they may plant themselves to fulfil their small destiny. "Ammophila Arenaria, or European Beach Grass, strange for it to be here, it's a South Africa native." John turned his gaze to Sherlocks profile, "why's it called European then?" Sherlock giggled for a single syllable, "we claim to have found it, it was brought over and planted around Europe, but it's strange for it to be here, it's used to salt water and sand." John gave a polite hum. They were being so careful of one another, in fear the other might break. John looked out to the horizon blocked by concrete, "Sherlock, I'm sorry if I, that wasn't my intention to, I..." Sherlock interrupted him, "John, I'm, i'm not very good in social situations, I never have been, I envy you you know." John pulled back his body and finally met Sherlocks eyes. "Me?!" Sherlock nodded and gave a sad smile, "Of course, you are comfortable in every environment you come across, I find being in a morgue much easier than being in a bar or well, anywhere that requires what most call 'fun.'" Sherlock said 'fun' like it was a foreign language, "I don't know Sherlock, I mean we've had fun right? For example, what about my old office, we had fun then? Or the plane journeys, well, several of the plane journeys, not the one where you passed out, that, that was definitely not fun, and what about since coming here hey? The hotel room, breakfast, for fuck sake we went crabbing like six year olds this morning!" Sherlock smiled with teeth and really listened to John's words, "Yeah exactly that was fun, and just because you don't like bars or being surrounded by extroverted strangers doesn't make you any less enjoyable to be around," Sherlock could feel himself well up, it was like a big swell rising in his chest and he attempted to force it away by staring at his leather clad feet. John continued, he knew Sherlock needed this. "it is okay to be cautious about people, it took you a while to be used to me didn't it, and look at us now? Living together, working side by side, driving to France for christ sake," Sherlock laughed and John joined in, "Sherlock you are like no one I have ever met, and for once in your life believe that is a good thing, you are like no one else and that's good, so many people would be dead if you were more like me, and you know things like what this type of grass is, if you were more like me you'd just walk on it, but you have already seen it doesn't belong here and you want to know why, and that is great, like you have said to me before, never stop asking questions, you're the same, just a much more intellectual same." There was a brief pause, a moment for Sherlock to engrain these words to the inside of his self. "and Sherlock."

"Yes John?"

"These have been the best months of my life, and it's all because of you."

Chapter Text

The drive proved fairly arduous and mostly exhausting. Sherlock and John were now much more comfortable sharing this tight vehicular space after John's kind words atop the mound splayed at the side of the road. Eight hours and fifty five minutes dragged by before reaching an end point. There was traffic all the way to Dover, including dead stands at points on the motorways and several bouts of road rage from Sherlock (of which John was surprised by.) An agonising wait at the ferry port was particularly stressful. Most dull were the people that 'helped' them, to the point that for once John agreed utterly with every begrudging comment Sherlock made about the employees. They were sloths in neon jackets, flailing arms as way of direction advice and slurred sentence quips that resulted in nothing other than confusion and chaos. Eventually they were on the ferry, one of the last ones to leave dock. It was only then that both parties began to relax. John felt that initially excitement about an investigation across the channel seep back into his now tired bones.

Once parked up, they headed to the deck floor, John purchased two cups of average yet welcomed teas. Once the boiled liquids were paid for, John left the line to turn around and find that Sherlock had indeed fucked off. Typical. John bit his lip and flecked his eyes, he had to remain calm, it had been an incredibly long roller coaster of a day, and they were so near the end. Where would Sherlock go? John walked determined, hovering the steaming throw away cups as he went. Thankfully, it became clear that Sherlock had not strayed far, not that he could really, it was a pretty small boat. He was outside, arms resting across the banisters, staring back at the land they had just departed. The darkening evening was becoming storm tied and when John handed over the tea allocated for his companion, he used the free hand to pull his jacket collar closer to his exposed neck. "Cold?" was all Sherlock asked, "you know you are not very good at small talk right?" Sherlock smiled and watched the waves turn from unending blue to a curled shocking white foam.

John did too momentarily, but mainly he watched Sherlock. He blew on his tea several beats before taking a hesitant sip; it was still far to hot and his lips tingled more than his tongue. There was further silence, even though John felt like this case, their second case together, had brought them closer together there was still a niggle. A niggle that had bothered him practically his entire life. What is the point of any of it? It was a question that had bothered him from puberty. It was not a even why are we here or how are we here. The great debate, the true tragedy behind the hero that is Hamlet, "to be or not to be." Haunted by a debate that will never be answered. John had days like this moment, days when he would awake and have to accept that today he would not see the point behind any of it. He had it staring at the sea on that bus on the way to Minehead. Admittedly he had had less of these moments since meeting Sherlock, of course he had found new purpose, but it was never something that truly went away. Sometimes the question was so present in his thoughts he had to voice it, "Sherlock what are we doing?" Sherlock looked from the ever blackening water and turned to his flat mate, "we're on a boat heading to France." John didn't wait a moment, further plunging into whatever needed said, "no, what are we doing?" Sherlock expressed his confusion, "John I just told you, we are on a boat to France," John shuffled uncomfortably, feeling vulnerable that he was not being understood, Sherlock saw it and tried to rectify the situation, "John I thought you'd had a marginally good day, what's changed that? If you are tired you can sleep in the car and I will drive the rest of the way." John still stared at his feet and began hesitantly.

"I don't know, it's just, it is just that it is hard, I find living hard some times." Sherlock stood alarmed and ready for action, "no, no not like that! Sorry, no sorry I don't mean like that." Sherlock backed down relieved, and put a hand down on the railing, John sighed frustrated at his apparent lack of vocabulary, he squeezed the back of his neck with the free hand and tried again. "What is the point in all of this? Why are we trying to avenge this mans death by finding justice in any of it, this Paul Delaney character seems like the bad sort, and any way if something happened to you, or to me would some one investigate our deaths as much as we are with this mans? Why should this dead guy on a beach, why does his death matter?" John became more impassioned with ever syllable, Sherlock listened calmly but inside fear began to grip him. A tiny negative piece of his core, had been waiting for this moment, a shake in John's loyalty to this, a question as to why it was that Sherlock did this. He had an answer already prepared, he had for almost as long as John had had the question, justifying his work to all who breathe was a day he had mastered; he stood tall and stared his doctor in the eye.

"John we do this because we are curious in human nature, we do this because I for some reason was born with the capability to solve it, we do this because this man, regardless of his morals and actions had his life cut short by people who think they have the right to not only take the life but also the right to get away with it. I enjoy it John, of course I enjoy it, but who wouldn't when you are discovering every single day what humanity means, I for so long have believed that I am like no one else, as we have discussed even this very morning, and my chase for solving murders and mysteries is partially fuelled by wanting to understand human nature so I can be more a part of it, more a part of the pieces that truly matter John. If I had walked into your office a decade ago I was a shell of myself and we would undoubtedly have not got along, for I got along with no one, but in seeing the true matter in all things, the reality in death despite circumstance over and over again laid out bear, we break that barrier and we see what no one else sees, it is not about us John, well it is, of course it is, we are here for our own reasons, both collective and separate, but it is larger than us, and that more than all is what drives me to keep going, keep thinking and solving and learning and increasingly become better at what I do, at what we now do, together. If you ever lose faith remember that we are making a difference, even if that is to ourselves. I have never worked well with other people, and now you are here John and the world is opening up for me like a book, seeing through you is a tool I never realised I needed, and better than that I actually like you!" John laughed and swayed on his heels, bowled by Sherlock's soliloquy. "His death matters because time itself matters, we can ultimately make ourselves happy, and it is through this that makes me happy, whether that is caused by biology or nurture or a combination of the two, it is what makes me tick, it is the thing that satisfies that panicking part of your brain which screams every morning at you to want to exist despite all the odds. John, you are exactly where you need to be, you are on a boat to France and why the fuck would you want to be any where else." Something had been restored. 

With that, a well known shared smile spread and the beaches of Calais were coming into view.  

Chapter Text

It was getting particularly late at night, and by the time the pair had reached the port at Calais, the night air was already causing the flowers to shrink and the grass to glaciate. There would be definite dew when the sun made its reappearance. Floating vessel docked without problem, rather loudly maybe was the only criticism; it's complex pump system spluttered beneath the water and the boat shook its way into still as it bounced along the pier. As they disembarked from the crypt of the ferry, immediately it was only French voices that could be heard. Both Sherlock and John were exhausted; it had been a particularly long day. Sherlock drove them to their destination; it was a quaint bed and breakfast over looking the marina. Perfect when the hunt is for a boat. Both men, now on automatic, had several conversations with staff members before being shown up to their hotel rooms. (This time they did in fact have different rooms, unlike what they had in Minehead,) the pair said goodnight and so John dropped off his clothes, threw them in a pile and crashed into the bed, not acknowledging his surroundings one bit, he fell into a deep sleep.

Sherlock on the other hand, was a completely different story. As he entered his hotel room he did not even give himself time to close the door. He dropped his bag and was out again. He rubbed his eyes in the lift and shook his head in an attempt to wake himself up. He was in a case, of course sleep was not his priority. He waded out of the hotel he'd spent approximately six minutes in and ignored everyone around him. The marina was open to anyone to wander around and he took out his phone that held images of the missing Cleopatra he had been aptly given. He flicked through them and looked at the boats illuminated only by the infrequent lights along the floating dock. It was difficult to see every detail due to the lack of light, but sure enough there she was. A ketch sailboat, approximately forty-five feet long. Her sails were down, clearly not going anywhere any time soon. Much to the happiness of Sherlock, the glorious word 'Cleopatra' in its green and white glory remained along the impressive boats flank. He brushed his hand smoothly along the entire word, making it more real that he'd actually found the boat. Immediately he added to his image of the murderers, they had either been too lazy or cocky or stupid to remove the word, could have been all three. Or potentially they were short of time. The last idea gave Sherlock hope that this case may be closed soon. Hot on their heels, feeling the pressure, on the run from whatever storm they knew was headed their way. 'The east wind is coming.'  Sherlock smiled as the sentence breathed through his mind. John and Sherlock were that storm. And he was determined to make the run aways feel its chill. He snapped several photographs of the boat and sent the best image to John; 'Like to a vagabond flag upon the stream, Goes to, and back, lackeying the varying tide, To rot itself with motion. -SH'

It was a text that John would not see until he awoke early the next morning. He was pleased that they had taken the correct trail and that the drive had apparently been worth it. He had no bloody clue what the quote Sherlock had added to the image was though. It was too much his still asleep brain could take. He showered and excitedly headed down to breakfast. Sherlock was sat at a table with the Cleopatra sitting right outside the window. As John sat Sherlock merely pointed to it without looking up from his phone, John said "yeah, yeah I see it, so what now?" As Sherlock went to open his mouth a waiter arrived, they both impatiently ordered coffee and a croissant. He was gone in an instant and Sherlock began, "well the boat is here, we need to get on it somehow, created aliases or something to get on board, scout for any evidence and then judging by whatever is next, I still think Paris, but the boat may provide us with the next step as you say." Sherlock gave a smile; he was enjoying this. John still needed to wake up, so when the coffee arrived he was pleased for its presence. With bitter taste now on his tongue, John responded. “Right so, who do we pretend to be?” John placed his coffee back upon the table and rubbed his eyes with adjoining palms. “Police, obviously.” John slammed his hands on the white cloth and nearly knocked Sherlock’s coffee right out of his hands. “Sherlock! That’s a criminal offence! We could get up to…” Sherlock interrupted, “twelve months in prison, yes I know, but we don’t pretend to be French police, we are British police investigating, and that’s only a bend of a lie anyhow, honestly John, you and your morals.” John sat back now, smirk upon his lips. What a ridiculous man Holmes was. “At least having morals shows conscientiousness,” Sherlock made a mocking ‘ooo’ sound and pursed his lips, “big word for such an early time of the day John, I applaud you.” John giggled, now their croissants arrived, they were almond and tasted, as one would imagine if gold was made edible and sweet. When plates were collected and coffee refilled, John said a “merci” and Sherlock only hummed. “Do you have police documentation to prove us legitimate?” Sherlock beamed and leaned forward in his chair, “good John you’re getting in the spirit, of course I do,” Sherlock flashed two police ID cards, as this moment in time, with Lestrades face and details, before John could protest Sherlock answered, “I pick pocket him when he’s annoying.”

John wanted to shake him, another criminal offence to add to the pile, it was commendable however, and he supposed it was all for a good cause, right? “So what will our names be?” Sherlock had it all figured out, and between coffee sips he had it all explained, “you will be Detective super intendant Williams…” John interrupted, “why Williams?” Sherlock was quick, “sounds English,” John quibbled, “sounds suspicious,” Sherlock was getting impatient, “wait Watson! For the love of God! Wait, the next bit is better.” John sat back and folded his arms in expectance, Sherlock took a short deep breath and continued, “I will be Detective Williams.” John pulled his head back in the most confused expression Sherlock had ever seen a human face contort, He then proceeded to throw both hands in the air, adding further to the apparent comical drama of his bemusing, “we can’t both be Williams! That defeats the entire purpose of espionage?!” Sherlock beamed a toothy grin, “but this is were it gets good John, we,” Sherlock gestured his hands between them both, “we play a married couple,” Sherlock widened his smile and his hands, “huh, yeah, right?” were the only words to follow from Sherlock’s lips, John remained frozen, even more confused than before, he was shocked still and unable to compute. He needed a reboot and Sherlock was becoming more impatient by the second, how could John not see how ingenious this was.

“Hang on, so let me get this correct, you want me,” John pointed at himself and his words became increasingly quiet, “to pretend to be your husband?” Sherlock popped his lips and said simply, “yup.” John was still none the wiser, “and that would help the case and our disguise how exactly?” Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed, “The French love a gay couple, and we know that stereotypically the French are less likely to trust a British accent right? English even more in historical context, if we were to play husbands working together, they’d be so thrown about our personal stories of affection and meeting that they’d let us search the boat without asking the wrong questions.” John bought it immediately, it could work, “and right so we need to get fake uniforms, change the image and names on those ID cards, create an entire elaborate rehearsed back story about how we became husbands and find some wedding rings.”

“Simple,” chimed Sherlock.

“Speak for yourself, husband.”

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"Right, what do you think Holmes?" John had his arms outstretched and his fingers wrapped around the end of his jacket sleeves. It was too long for him, but at least it was a convincible British police uniform. Barbour, dark green, fit for a motorcycle it was that durable. Sherlock carried disguises with him as often as a case demanded it, or so it turned out. Underneath the fine coat were Johns smartest clothes, a white and blue gingham button up and some grey suit trousers. In comparison to Sherlock's dark grey suit with a burberry perfectly to size, it was admittedly plain. "You look good in disguise John, try it more often," was all Sherlock said without looking at his companion. It was only after Sherlock finished buttoning his cuffs that he rounded to face the shorter man. John puffed out his chest and took a deep breath to follow, he was extraordinarily nervous. What they were about to do was incredibly illegal. Imitating a police officer could buy twelve months imprisonment, longer in home territory. Maybe it was a good thing they were doing this in France. "John stop worrying, they won't know anything about our real selves." John nodded, maybe a little longer than necessary, but Sherlock's words for once were not only helping, but they were also well timed.

They faced the mirror, looking at each other and analysing themselves. "Name?" Sherlock asked, "Detective superintendent Joshua Williams, yours?" Sherlock whizzed the syllables off his tongue, "Detective Lewis Williams, aged thirty-seven, we met when I was twenty-eight and married only two years ago despite such a long relationship, our first date was at the Natural History Museum, you bought me a ridiculous hat and I threw a penny into the Thames on your behalf and made a wish that only you know of, our wedding was elaborate and took place in a tiny village not far from Lille, it was rocky in the beginning and we faced our trials and tribulations, especially considering the fact that you are bisexual, but we settled down and work together by happenstance, we met as police officers and have made are way up until we are almost in the same position, we adore France, we have been assigned this case because you have a masters degree in American social science and wrote of Karl Marx, and the relationship between American Governors and their relationship with money, I am on this case because I am an expert on boats, having sailed the world twice over alone, and a very good detective, that one is not a lie but it fits as we are in these positions we are able to do so."

John rolled his eyes, "I only asked for a name you cocky fucker." Sherlock made a face of mock offence and then became stoic in an instant, "please, I was just saving us time. You want to run anything over." John took out his fake identification card from his disguise coat pocket and checked all the details, then something struck him, "actually yeah, why am I the superintendent and you're only the detective?" Sherlock was clearly fazed by the question, this was something he evidently had not anticipated, "erm, you have a trusting face." John scrunched up his features and pulled back his head, "sorry, you gave my pseudo a fake better job over your pseudo because of my face?" Sherlock nodded as if it was the biggest fact the earth had ever known. "Doesn't that give you a complex or something?" Sherlock blinked aggressively, "oh for christ sake John! They're fake people, stop looking into it so much! Just act like my husband!" John put his hands in the air, finding it amusing that he had quite so successively riled Sherlock. "Ready to go?" John nodded, he didn't say anymore because it was evident Sherlock was getting fed up. As Sherlock opened the door he bounced on his toes, "Ah! We forgot something crucial John!" Sherlock reached into his trouser pocket, struggled for a second, before pulling out two gold rings, he tossed one to John who caught it awkwardly before slipping it onto his wedding finger on his left hand.

As they stepped out the hotel into the blazing French sunlight Sherlock took John's hand, John flinched initially, then remembered, shit they are supposed to pretend to be married for the rest of the day. He took Sherlock's hands and it felt bizarre. For a second John thought he wouldn't be able to do this, not because he had a problem with sexuality, he felt strong in that, but just because it was Sherlock. They had just got to the point were the lines of their friendship and professional life were set, and now the rules were being bent for a case, maybe Sherlock was right, he needed to stop over thinking it. So they pair walked arm in arm to the floating pier that all the boats alighted along. The 'Cleopatra' remained where it had sat since it had been abandoned by the suspected murderers. It appeared strangely eerie in the sharp light. Like an iceberg, it both felt close and as if it were unreachable. Stood on board were two people, a man smoking a long cigarette that hung from his thinly moustached lip, and a woman, who was at least ten years older than the fellow and she wore an unimpressed face and a incredibly short skirt. 

This meeting had been pre-arranged, these two were the owners of the dock and managed its daily comings and goings. Sherlock spoke to them as if he knew them well, "Bonjour, it is a pleasure to meet you," Sherlock let go of John's hand and removed his I-D card from his coat and flashed it in their direction, a little bit too flamboyantly John noted. John did the same, without such drama, the local pair leaned closer, making the boat creak, to inspect the cards, and in approval they nodded and handed them back. The chap took a long drag from his cigarette before saying a word, in albeit an incredibly strong accent, "Bonjour, oui, we know ooo you are, the er two agent de police from London non?" John nodded and spoke confidently, "yes, that is correct, we are investigating the murder of Paul Delaney? Heard of him?" Both shook their heads and Sherlock took the initiative, "he was a very important man and he was found dead merely days ago, we believe this to be the very boat the people who murdered him fled on," there was an awkward pause and the four of them stared as if in a wild western waiting for someone to break peace. Sherlock said in a painfully cheerful tone, "mind if we hop on deck?" If they weren't trying to be in disguise John would have undoubtedly wiped his brow and sighed until there was no more air in his lungs, instead he smiled so wide that his cheeks ached. Those already on board merely shrugged and Sherlock 'hopped on deck' and then went to great pains to help John on in the most touchy-feely manner imaginable. John could feel his ears go pink, Sherlock needed to reign it in. John gave Sherlock a stare that said it all before returning to his act. Sherlock cleared his throat and then began his deductions whilst John asked the questions, "can you describe the people who brought this boat to dock?" The woman finally spoke now, her voice much deeper than expected, "There were three, et they were all men, how'd you say, er, they were dressed far too smart to be sailors, ai-je pas dit que?" She asked the question to her french companion, who nodded in answer, "I said it to him at the time, alle, they all looked er similar, like they could sibling, pardon, could be brothers non," John intervened, honing in on something particular, "what did they look like?" She continued, "ah oui, all blonde, quite grande, big gentlemen, not gros, er, not fat, opposite," John was getting excited now, "what were their accents?" She was momentarily confused, he took another drag, "where did it sound like they were from?" She understood, "L'Americaine, for definitely, l'Americaine." John felt triumphant, they were getting somewhere, three Americans potentially related to one another, "did they say where they were going?" Before the lady could answer Sherlock shouted from inside the boat cabin, "John! I think I found something."

Chapter Text

"John?" The woman exclaimed, "I thought your name was Joshua? Like one of Moses' spies? Joshua," Sherlock appeared panicked at the cabin door, John went to speak, rather desperately in fact, but Sherlock beat him to it. "He prefers John, he always thought Josh was... effeminate," with an accompaniment of a shit eating grin and splay of his fingers, It would do. Well they knew something real about them now, no going back. Both the french man and woman stood taller, ready for action, distrusting in their manner but willing to let whatever this shambles would entail to continue, for now anyway, after all they said they were police. Now Sherlock resumed his excited manner and had to continue with a real name, "John, come!" Sherlock vanished into the blackness of the hold, John flashed an awkward smile to those he was about to turn his back on, before moving swiftly off deck, feeling like his shirt was tightening around his neck. At the boat cabin door he loosened it nervously with a finger to no avail. Initially the cabin was dark, and it proved seeing difficult, however after a second or so his eyes adjusted. At first there did not appear to be anything unexpected, it was a modern boat with all the furnishings, a breakfast bar now laden with decaying fruit, a small sink one would have to lean over to reach, a fold away bed and some books upon a shelf. Nothing untoward and John would have undoubtedly been completely lost if it was not for Sherlock pointing out his findings. 

There, previously tucked under the fold away was a open suitcase. It was most likely zipped on finding but of course Sherlock was not going to avoid hurting someones privacy in the name of a case, of this scale or any. John knelt down to Sherlock's level, his knees clicking as he did so, "what's in it?" Sherlock using his index and mid fingers pincered several items. "Mostly suits, suits for a large man," Sherlock raised an eyebrow in Johns direction, "there are some pin badges, bearing republican and american flags," Sherlocks sarcasm for the next item was evident, "charmingly there is also a badge bearing guns." John took this one from Sherlock and studied it intently, his tongue touching the roof of his mouth in concentration. Written along the two crossed fire-arms was the saying, "in god we trust." There were several bottles of Glenfiddich whisky and a hip flask, which Sherlock sniffed and practically gagged at. "Confirms alcoholism then," John commented, "just a bit" replied the detective. Sherlock sieved through the remainder of the contents, "socks, Hilfiger; expensive, a gift from someone he doesn't particularly like, given the holes and the smell, pair of shoes, cheap and old, unpolished; man did not care for his feet, a saint-James bible, despite drop in clericalism he clearly didn't completely drop beliefs and..." As Sherlock went to prod the next mundane item, the fabric on the bottom of the case slipped away, revealing a the corner of a large brown envelope. 

Sherlock flashed John a look, his brow now crinkled upright in excitement, John on the other hand wiped his top lip nervously and shifted on the balls of his feet, making his knees click once more. Dark curls leaned forward slowly, the boat shuddered as he did so, neither men believed in premonition, somehow though it felt as if the whole world was watching. Sherlock pinched the exposed corner and slipped it out, moving as slowly as if he was trying to detonate a live bomb. Labeled all along the rectangle card were the words 'fragile do not bend,' written in strong red, unwilling to be ignored and screaming for demands to be met. As long fingers began to pry the opening, John shifted nervously to check their onlookers were in fact preoccupied; no one was at the door nor helm, they were unwatched. John returned to watching Sherlock reveal the envelopes hidden contents. What was pulled out was a wad of crisp white paper. Stapled in a vary of manners making it obvious what was relevant to what. Sherlock skimmed them all, and after each one was assessed he passed it on to John to finalise his own findings. Most of it John could not make out, there was banal talk of percentages, shares and profits. How anti-climactic, something put at great pains of hiding and John could not understand any of it. He huffed, "I don't get it." Sherlock continued to look through his own stack, silent for a second, eyes moving frantically between words, webs interweaving in his mind palace, then all at once he was on his feet, laying the documents in an order. John followed, slower, Sherlock clicked his fingers and gestured to John's papers, unable to open his mouth through fear that his revelation would escape his head. John knew what he meant, and passed the sheets to his fake husband for the day.

Sherlock laid these out too, surrounding the central papers which appeared even more complicated. Once he was happy with their positioning, he stepped back to John's level of distance. He put a twitchy hand to rest on its opposing ribcage and resting his elbow on the now barred arm. He nibbled on his thumb and blinked hard in concentration, eyes never moving away from the papers. John just watched and waited patiently, patient for whatever bombshell was about to be brilliantly dropped.

Sherlock moved his hand from his mouth to point at the page furthest on the left in one swift movement, chin lowering in preparation. "See that one?" Sherlock practically whispered, John nodded a single nod, shuffling his feet in order to feel more ready. "It details a..." As Sherlock was just about to begin, the French man appeared at the door, a second cigarette smoking on lip, hands holding the frame in a tight grip, "venez, you going to be much more?" Sherlock lost it and his voice escalated to a loudness that would have made the wind change its course, "Yes we are, now go!" Normally John would have attempted to correct his behaviour, yet the game was on and all the mattered now was what was on those bloody pages. "Alle! Vous ne pouvez pas me parler comme ça!" He was evidently upset, Sherlock retorted back in perfect French, the deceit was over, "cela est une affaire de police si vous ne descendez pas ce putain de bateau, je vais vous jeter par-dessus bord, puis les autorités britanniques ont fermé votre quai bas pour toujours, tu comprends?" John had to stop himself from laughing, he had no idea what was just said but God it was fantastic. The man nodded fervently and his eyes spread wide like a rabbit caught in headlights, he left almost instantaneously. "You speak French?!" Sherlock rolled his eyes, "what the bloody hell did you say?" the taller man smiled now, "fuck off." John began laughing hysterically, the seriousness of before was all but gone and even Sherlock giggled momentarily.

Once laughter settled, the papers came back into mind and they turned their mutual attention to it once more, Sherlock pointed again to the aforementioned section, "it details a deal over Oil." John scrunched his face, still not there. "An Oil contract between the Bush government and Bahrain." John's eyes widened, this was big, bigger than he ever thought imaginable, John took a step back and crossed his arms, as if protecting himself from the paper itself. "Why would Delaney have these?" John said, Sherlock walked the short distance to the table and picked up the last piece of paper and walked close to John before handing it to him, John scanned it and it was a series of signatures, it seemed to be around thirty or more names. On even closer inspection things started to become clearer. There he was. Large and bold, Rev. Paul Delaney. John looked up to meet grey eyes, "did he put money towards the creation of this?" Sherlock nodded slow and concise. "Sherlock, he funded the beginning of war." Sherlock nodded gravely once more then spoke softly, "it appears obvious now why his life fell apart, left the church certain he'd get a huge chunk of that black gold, divorced when that didn't work out, joined politics to ensure his safety, I imagine once Barack came into presidency his views would be forced to scatter, he was on a path John, he managed to get his hands on this documentation once more and has fled with it, hoping it'll save him, maybe hoping to use it to black mail later on, the question is were his murderers aware of this, and if so were they assigned to him to end his life off American soil, and if yes, who by? Them leaving this all suggests no but he's too involved that it thwarts any other motives." John began to pace, paper still in hand, thinking so hard he felt a headache coming on. "There's more." With the younger mans words, John stopped pacing, and he inched closer to the pages once more. Sherlock pointed to one directly in the middle, John unafraid leaned down to study it. He understood this one, "the French government knew about it." Sherlock uttered a woeful "yes." John stood upright as comic as a meerkat.

"What if they paid these Americans to murder Delaney, say they were his bodyguards or something, if Parisian congress is involved, then they may have known of whatever Delaney's plans were, hell he may have been a flight risk from the start, walked round for the past fifteen years with a big red 'X' marked on his back, if they knew he was visiting England to visit his mothers grave they could have paid a big enough fee to persuade these Aryan Americans to kill him off, makes sense then that they've travelled to France, pick up their pay check" Sherlock listened all the while, "Sherlock you were right, they are headed to Paris."

Chapter Text

Driving into the Capital made Sherlock feel his wanderlust burn, after this case he simply wanted John to continue driving until London made her demands once more. Champs Elysees was sparkling under a midnight sky, late night shoppers waltzed romantically amidst the smell of meat cooking as it sizzled through the air from the moonlit entrepreneurs. John felt his eyes droop and his skin was tight on his knuckles, he needed rest. Paris of course, was exciting, he thought of his grandmothers words from when he was a boy, a change is as good as a rest. Paris was a change, hell Sherlock was a constant change. A good one. Sat at traffic lights he looked over at his passenger who had an elbow rested against the window and a chin sat atop a childish fist. His eyes were shifting quickly in their sockets, meaning it was clear that he was mid-deduction when John began to speak, "you realise you are still wearing your wedding band?" Sherlock shook himself out of whatever concentration he had been in and proceeded to extend his left arm and outstretch his hand as if it were the most alien thing he had ever seen, "oh, so I do." As fast as he had moved previously, Sherlock then ignored the gold encircle and pulled his knees up on his chest, resting his long limbs precariously entwined in a tight weave. "Aren't you going to take it off?" John persisted. He felt a rise of panic rise in his chest, had he missed something? Did Sherlock want to keep up the act? John felt the ring he had removed hours ago begin to burn a hole in his pocket. 

Sherlock felt his mind drain like a well, slowly and upwards out its gloomy pit. He had always felt his life was leading to something, in the present always he felt something like a tingling in his toes and a tension in his gut that meant something was going to happen, something large and enlightening. Even as a child he felt it, the weight of expectance on whatever his life was leading to. He decided there and then, in the surreal drive down Parisian cobbles that it had all along been to this. A conversation with John Watson that may be the most honest and open he has ever been. The tingling in his digits ceased, as did the twisted gut in one swooping breath. "John, I've always been very lonely." 

Hands shifted on the steering wheel and there was an audible swallow from the driver, Doctor Watson just stepped into the moving vehicle. John noted the strange contentment tone in his patients voice, there was no sadness nor malice behind such a consequential statement, acceptance made more sense. Therapist ears and tongue attached, it began. "Lonely, Sherlock?" There was a humble nod in reply, "what's made you want to talk about this?" There was a brief pause and the happiest tears welled with the words, "because John, as of right this very second, I don't feel lonely." John smiled large, and the ticking of the car indicator meant that they had indeed arrived at their destination. It was only once the car was at a stand still did the doctor give his diag-nonsense, facing one another as he did so. "That makes me very happy and proud to hear you say such a thing detective." Sherlock fiddled with the hem of his coat, "oh yeah?" Moments shared happiness was embellished with a question, "you want to talk about anything else?"

"I'm afraid, dear Watson, that you've quite opened the floodgates and so have no choice in the matter."

Chapter Text

The good thing about Paris in the height of the tourism period, was that everything was always open. 24 hours a day, Paris had its lights whether it was by the sun or the ever glow of the night. John and Sherlock checked in and did not bother heading up the stairs. A conversation had started that had no patience, there was nothing they could do about the bad guys they were chasing after until the sun rose, so they sat in the bar. It was nice, swanky sorta' place. Sherlock ordered two White Russians from the midnight barman, who seemed pleased that someone ordered an interesting cocktail for once. John was impressed at his perfect French for the second time that day. Sherlock told John to "go find a seat" whilst he watched the barman prepare the drinks with all the flourish of his training. John swivelled round to find the entire place deserted, all apart from two men in black suits sitting in an alcove. They looked like part of the furniture, blending in with the hushed light of the blackness outside. John pulled off his coat in a stretch of relief as he sat at a corner table with a wonky leg. It would do, and on sitting down John knew he did not want to move for a while.

Within a minute Sherlock was sauntering over with two of the most ridiculous drinks John had ever seen. They were a milky brown like hot chocolate, and like chocolat chaud topped with whipped cream that was at least two inches high. "What are you having me drink now?" Sherlock smirked and giggled wickedly, "it is called a White Russian, or a Russe Blanc in French, two parts coffee liquor, five parts vodka and cream, all poured over ice, it cannot be shaken otherwise the cream may curdle, stirred only" said Sherlock all whilst stirring his own drink with the provided spoons. "How the bloody hell are we supposed to get past all this?" John huffed, gesturing to the tower of whipped cream. "Improvise Watson" said Sherlock, who then proceeded to swab an index finger to the peak of the cream and then suck it off his finger. John did the same, and by god it was sweet. The room seemed to settle all of a sudden, a wave of steady washed about them and the boat no longer rocked. 

"So you wanted to talk," said John as more of a statement than a question, Sherlock nodded and then could not stop himself. "Yes, and not about the case, I always talk about the case over what I actually want to say, it's damn annoying, I've used the cases as a way of covering up myself, as if someone else has always talked over me when in reality I can speak for myself John, I fucking can, and I'm sick of pretending like I don't feel things, of course I do, and you know that, you are the only one who knows that, the only one who has actually bothered to get round my walls, I do feel things, but I know still that it will be different to the way other people feel, because I am different John, I see everything all the time, I had sussed this entire room and everyone one in it within a second, the things I could tell you about that barman John, fuck, I'm different to anyone I have ever met, but that is good, right? You have told me before it is good, at the side of the road that day, you told me that. I have learned so much from you John in our short time together, more than you know, I have never felt accepted before but with you I feel like I belong, this is a long haul case, I can feel it, it already has been, the amount of miles we have had to travel already, but I have never been so fucking happy, travelling around with you and deducing, it gives a whole new element to my existence I never thought I had, this case has been fun John, and I don't mean the kind of twisted fun I have when there is a corpse in the room, or a dangerous situation at hand, I mean a high from just being with another person, you are making me an extrovert John, a gold fish fucking extrovert, but only with you and it is fascinating, we need to make experiments around this John because how the fuck do you do this to me, we went crabbing for fuck sake, how do you make every zone a comfort zone, it is bizarre I feel like a new person, and I am so confused and slightly concerned by it but simultaneously I don't care, because as long as we work together I think I will be happy and I won't feel lonely. My whole life I have watched countless social interactions and seen how people fuck one another over time and time again and I never saw it, saw why people enjoy others company, and now you have come along and I see in my own life that I can, I can enjoy being with people, but maybe it is only you John, I don't think I could live with anyone else, it doesn't make sense for that to be needed, I feel I'm becoming dependent on you and I hope that is okay." 

Sherlock took a deep breath, the first intake he had taken for a very fast minute or so, John sat back, his mind whizzing. Sherlock did not like the silence. Had he said too much? He had definitely said a lot, it washed out of him like a river and John was the rock sat in the water unable to move despite the racing current that seethed about him. Maybe it was overbearing, oh fuck it was overbearing wasn't it. Fuck fuck fuck, Sherlock felt himself internally panic, his oesophagus tied it a knot in his throat and his breathing stifled. Then John said the best possible words, "well we have hours until the sun comes up, and clearly you've been thinking about this a lot, what kind of experiments do you suggest?"

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"Sociopaths typically emotionally destroy those that are close to them, we feel a sense of entitlement, of which normally comes from rage, a deep underlying psychological rage, it means we act in a way that nothing is off the cards, anything could happen when around a sociopath, especially a high functioning one, we are the pinnacle of Machiavellian nature and all we want is success John," Sherlock wrung his hands as he spoke, "usually sociopaths and kind, trusting people don't get along and find each others company a nuisance, so theory one, you are neither kind nor trusting," John rubbed his eyes as if temporary blindness would somehow make his sense of hearing better, "theory two, whilst unlikely, I am a selective sociopath, theory three, I am a sociopath, however, in the chase of a cure, in various studies it has been proven that whilst sociopaths do not respond to punishment, we do respond to incentives, and somehow you have provided me with such things, or you yourself are the incentive John."

Sherlock reached into his Belstaff coat and pulled out a carton of cigarettes, as he proceeded to light one, John plucked it between his grasp and snapped it clean in two before dropping it into his now empty cocktail glass, giving nothing but a disapproving stare. Sherlock simply went to pull another one, but John did the same, and again and again. Five cigarettes sat snapped in John's glass, the tower of unlit tobacco reached nearly the rim before Sherlock gave up and spoke, clearly frustrated. "Well you are definitely not kind." John smiled, the fish had taken the bait, now all he had to do was real it in, "No Sherlock, you are wrong, in me not allowing you to smoke those, I am being incredibly kind and maybe even saving your life." Sherlock rolled his eyes, "oh for gods sake," he breathed, John crossed his arms. He was getting tired. "One in four cigarettes cause cancerous cells to be produced, that brilliant head of yours could be concocting up a tumour right now and you wouldn't even know of it until you one day had a seizure and dropped dead." Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, "John we are getting off track, you need a whisky," John didn't even bother to actually respond to what was supposed to be a request, he knew by now he didn't have a choice once Sherlock had made a suggestion. "Deux Glann ar Mor s'il vous plait." 

The honey coloured drams were sat in front of them in no time at all, as Sherlock lifted it and sniffed at its contents, John downed the whole thing in one. "Another please" he gushed, turned out the barman spoke fluent English. A second dram sat in Johns hand whilst Sherlock swirled the first. Sherlock was right about one thing, John did indeed need whisky. "Your theories," John said, and it wasn't the whisky that was the only thing that was harsh, "they're all bollocks." 

Sherlock pulled his eyebrows into close collision with one another and pulled his head back like a confused dog, John explained himself immediately, "I'm sorry but for such a clever man you are thick." Sherlock pulled his head back even further now, completely unprepared for insult, "Theory four, you are not a sociopath." John said, imitating Sherlock as he did so, "that's not even remotely like me" Sherlock huffed. "That's not even remotely like me" John repeated in a very flourished fashion, making Sherlock go for a soft punch to Johns arm whilst telling him to "fuck off." John snickered, as he finished the second whisky, he felt the alcohol beginning to get to him. His fingertips seemed to hum under their nails and he felt the disconnection heading his way, "another two whiskies please" he half shouted. Again they were on the table in what felt like no effort at all. As John sniffed his fourth beverage of the night, Sherlock picked up his own whilst he watched his companion, "how could I not be a sociopath?"

John swallowed his gulp, "no matter how much you have informed me, from the day I have met you, I have always just seen you as human, not a high functioning sociopath, you have had no labels in my eyes, I've never put expectation or judgement on you or anything you do, I have just let you be you, of course I have helped, you haven't relapsed since we came out of my old place of work, which is great, you have had a lot of cases to deal with, which admittedly I am aware has kept you distracted, but for the most part, you've been good company, I like the work we do, it has given meaning to my life once more, an importance I haven't felt since I was in Afghanistan, you feel the way you do about me, about us, because the whole fucking world has a go at you for being smart, but I haven't, neither does Lestrade, Molly or Mrs Hudson interestingly, and I don't give a fly-ing-fuck what your theories are about it because your whole existence has shaped you to think up theories in the first place, don't be concerned by us and where we are heading, because it is all going in the right direction and is all going to be okay." Sherlock sat stumped, never had anyone been quite so direct with him, John downed the rest of his remaining drink and stood up, Sherlock simply stared at where John used to be, meaning his eyes gazed glued to the wall, John patted Sherlock on the chest with several light thuds before saying, "night, sleep well" and sauntering out, with a little drunken swagger the bartender admired. As he reached the doorway, he swivelled round and yelled to Sherlock, in an otherwise empty bar at three in the morning, "oh and Sherlock give the bartender a tip." And then he was gone.

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John breathed deep, the air smelt new, different, then he realised, he was in fucking Paris, he sat up quickly. For a moment, he was youthful and prepared for anything, then the twang of his head thwacked against his skull. It had been a heavy night, he knew it was a success though, he felt no anxiety, which was nice considering a hangover usually always twinned with regret. He rubbed his temple with his fingers as he threw off the covers. Almost immediately his phone buzzed, loud and inconsiderate, the screen read 'Sherlock' in big black letters. He was ringing which was unusual, he always preferred to text, John answered, "Sherlock I..." before John could say one more word he heard a voice that was definitely not Sherlock's, "we have your friend, we know you two are snooping, you've been following us, we have your friend, and we will give him back if you agree to stop following us, otherwise we will have to kill you." John was shunned into momentary silence, "where can we meet?" There was a pleased sigh at the other end, "meet at the catacombs in one hour, he will be by the heart made from skulls, don't be an idiot." The phone cut out and John was already down the stairs when it did. He ran out the hotel front doors and was in a Parisian taxi in seconds.

"Oui?"

"The Catacombs sil vous plait."

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John felt his stomach twist and contort beneath his clothes. Nausea rode up his oesophagus as the taxi veered through the city streets. It was a beautiful day, the weather was mild and the sky blue. It did not make enough of a merry distraction however. Sherlock was in a public place, he must look fine to not attract attention, so that meant he must be fine. On the other hand, he might not be there at all, this could so evidently be a trick, underground in a place filled with the actual remains of the dead. He would have no phone service, and if those they are dealing with are as powerful as they both think, then he was in big trouble. Sure it might be a public place, but if they were working with the French government then it could be closed for the day. Open only for John. Leading him down the rat trap like a lamb for slaughter. The more he thought about it, the more obvious it was that this had to be a trick. Why would they want him there for any purpose other than harm? Why let him have Sherlock back? But where was Sherlock otherwise? They had taken his phone for sure, so they had made physical contact. John thought back to the phone call, swelling the words over and over in the hope to better understand them. The car shuddering over a raised cobblestone made his brain jolt. They were American, absolutely American, so that made their theory still on track. Paid assassins travelling to collect their pay. They couldn't kill them too could they? Especially someone with a reputation like Sherlocks. It would blow the whole story open, people at the village in Minehead knew they would both be travelling to Paris to investigate Delaney's death, it would be a great risk for them to murder Sherlock and John. At least that is what John was trying to tell himself.

"Arrivée," spoke the driver nonchalantly, not realising the peril John felt himself under. "Ah right." John paid the man and left, without a thank you. After all the man may have just delivered him to his death. John tapped the button on his phone, awakening the screen. It had been half an hour since the call. "the heart made out of skulls" he uttered under his breath. Visiting here was always something John had wanted to do, something on his bucket list, never under these pretences did he think he'd be doing it. It was a small green building in an island of a ring road that John was headed for. There was a queue of maybe twenty people, all waiting in line to see one of Paris's top attractions. John faced the back of the line, checking his phone like a nervous tick. He grabbed a leaflet from someone handing them down the line by the entrance, it had several different languages, English sat underneath French; 'It is estimated that the remains of six million people lay down the catacombs.' It must be pretty big, two more would make no difference, thought John, as he entered a ticket booth. He paid his way and headed to the stairs marking the descent into the crypt. It was a long winding staircase, and the excitement of those around him made John feel like he was in some sick horror film. The deeper he found himself, the more ill he felt. At the bottom he felt his stomach flip and the darkness ahead did not help. For around twenty minutes John walked, down shallow and thin corridors made of stone, it was a mining shaft originally, the cause of which found the mountains of skeleton remains, John let people walk quickly away from him and he walked fast to get away from the previous group, suspicious they were after him. He was provided with small comfort by the fact that he now only had one choice; to go forward. His feet propelled in a crunch of stone, unafraid, however the rest of him wanted to turn and run.  

After what felt like an age, an arch lay ahead, above it read, 'l'empire de la mort.' John understood enough to know that that meant 'the empire of the dead.' As he stepped beneath it, he felt his blood run cold. He heard voices bounce around the walls, excited children fascinated by such a gruesome sight. John weaved around the underground maze, looking intently for the heart made out of skulls. What if he couldn't find it? Was this all just some rouse to get him out the way? But why? He checked his phone, the hour was minutes from being up, he picked up his pace. All of a sudden bones and skulls sat delicately stacked, high enough that they were taller than John himself, they seemed to go further back than the eye could see, enclosed in darkness. As a doctor he could name every one, femurs sat with femurs, tibias with tibias, fibulas, clavicles, humerus, ulnas, Radius, and skulls. So many skulls. John could feel the hollow eye sockets stare at nothing and only at him. All arranged in an immoral pattern for no reason other than morbid fascination and a need for space above ground. Checking the time, he was now officially late to supposedly rescue his friend. Or to die.

After more bones, darkness, more eyes, confused loss-inducing weaving, and more foul smell, there it was. The heart of skulls. Fourteen skulls shaped in the shape of a heart, it was darker than the rest of the surroundings, from around the corner someone spoke, "You're late Doctor Watson."

John continued to walk.

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Paul Delaney was never to stay

Sand between our toes

Of all men to be lost to the bay

And minds freed from woes

Stabbed in the chest and bled dry

Follow Cleopatra at High Tide

New shirt hole free floating by

No one can hide

Give everything

War begun set down on paper

To win in chess remove The King

Bargain to have 

A need to blur into vapour

Pluck out his heart and feed it to the birds

Until they Sing

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The boys were very happy to receive the next case almost immediately. John and Sherlock had two days case free. John was very happy for the two days, and quite frankly he could have had a whole week, however Sherlock on the other hand was desperate for something else to do after a mere six hours. He stumbled around the flat sometimes in silence and sometimes in nothing but loud babble. Continuous nonsense that John didn't even listen to. The second day mainly consisted of Sherlock playing his violin in nothing but a sheet. John could not stop laughing every time he saw Sherlock walk around in that sheet.

"Sherlock please, put. Something. On." With every stretched syllable John squeezed his eyes so hard they crinkled every part of his ageing face. "Oh please by the history on your laptop you are fixated by the human anatomy, and besides I'll only stop once you stop laughing, and even then I probably won't stop." Sherlock leaped onto the sofa, his knees bent then impressively straight in an instant, his behind bouncing until still upon the grey leather. He wrapped the sheet around his whole self, tucking his knees into the folds until he was nothing but a head with curly locks submerged in white cotton. John stood bemused, what was fast becoming a common part of his everyday. "Anyway you are only in a dressing gown." John scoffed, and Sherlock wriggled some more. There was an awkward pause, a moment of still in which they could only share the sounds that London had to offer. People, voices, footfall, sirens, music, trains, life. Then the sound of John's toes shuffling on the wood interrupted it all, somehow pushing the whole of London out with just his digits. "Tea?"

Sherlock nodded, soft and grateful at the offer, with that John went and set about one of his favourite routines- tea making. Gracefully darting from collecting mugs, to teabags, to a teaspoon, to milk; all whilst the kettle boiled obviously. As he poured he began to whistle, Amazing Grace for some unknown reason, just popped into his head from apparently no where. Lifting the kettle high and pleasantly watching the steaming water stream in a watergaw arch all the way to join the ever filling mug. The milk dispersed like that of an unfolding umbrella, and when stirred the cloud became one desirable brown colour. On returning to the living room with a smug face, John found Sherlock was not there to receive his tea. Maybe he'd gone to get dressed.

"I'm not getting dressed." John placed the mugs down on a crowded table, "I didn't even say anything." Sherlock's footsteps could be heard from his bedroom crossing between the wooden floor over the rug and onto the wooden floor again, "no, but you know I can hear you think." John sighed, they needed a case. It had been just over a day and already John, a trained man now understood why Sherlock needed his mind so focused. He was like a rabbit with epilepsy. Then the violin started up again. When the subject of moving in together first breached Sherlock had warned John about the violin, and sure mostly it was still charming, and he was very good, and watching the composing was bloody interesting, but when it was just Bach's Allegro Moderato over and over and over again, the ice was getting a bit thin. Hopefully the next case would be a long one. John felt a twist in his gut, what was that? As he took his first sip of his tea his face proved confused, was that guilt? Had he already become so banal to this stuff, so used to the pain this work came along with. Murder, crime, death, torture, exhaustion. Maybe he didn't want the next one to be long. Shit, what if he wasn't ready.

Then an email.

The ping noise went off and Sherlock ignored it and continued to play Bach whilst pacing around his bed. "Sherlock? Another email's come in..." was the only extent John went to, who sat on the sofa with a steaming mug of tea. Sherlock rolled his eyes and said, "check it if you want to but I'm sure it'll be just as easy and boring as the other fifty-two I've received in the past thirty-six hours." John stood up with a teeny audible moan, put his mug down, and went to the open laptop on the rickety desk. John nudged it to life by waving a middle finger across the touch pad. The screen shone to life and the email was entitled, "Body on a beach." John clicked on it and began to read. After reading the first paragraph alone, he smiled. 'Sherlock would like this' he thought. John stood upright once more, and said loud enough, "Sherlock, you'll like this one." Bach stopped his melody. John heard Sherlock shuffle through his door frame and waddle through to meet John's side. Sherlock held onto both sides of the sheet and leant down to read.

John watched Sherlock read, watched his face calm and unravel into a child who was awaiting christmas, and in that instant he felt ready. Maybe just being alone in that living room, even for a second made him question it all. Hesitance is not fruitful for this business. He had to throw himself at this, at this opportunity, even if it does bring pain and suffering. No matter what he decided he'd follow Sherlock Holmes to the ends of the earth. To the end if ever necessary.

With that Sherlock hit the 'reply' arrow button and sent the single word 'coming.' John saw the word being written out and then sent and he felt butterflies in his belly. He rolled his fingers against his palms twice and watched the detective race to his room to assumedly finally get dressed.

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THEre's no point in running

the end is fAstly coMing 

salt linEd gut

pRescribed forced cut

I will find my faCe in chalk 

bloodied by that hAwk

throw the rocks

go agaiNst the flockS

(and find what will you have left)

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                                                                                        My                            

                                                      Sherlock

                                                Please Watch 

                                           Out For Yourself 

                                       And Watch Out For

                                Me What If It's Too Late

                              And We Never Solve This

                     Case That Would Be A First For

                  You And A First For Me. We Have

                To Fight This, We Have To Win For

         The Victim And For the General Justice

We Want To See. Paul Delaney Is In His Grave

Next To His Mother 

Washed Up On That

Beach Is Not A Good

Way To End And That

Is Why, Sherlock, We 

Have To Survive This.

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"Dad where are we going?" Mycroft said, they were holding hands, striding down the long airport corridor towards their gate. Grey upon grey upon grey. Both children were dressed smart. Mycroft wore a dark green suit with a maroon tie. He was in need of a haircut, his hair irritatingly brushing his ears whenever he moved his head. Sherlock, much younger, wore a minute dark blue blazer befitting his age, it was new and measured to not get in the way of his childish fists. He wore soft spongy shoes and was being carried by his mother, it was arguable that he was too old to be carried, however the Holmes family were in a rush, the doors to the plane were to be shutting imminently, and Sherlock's little legs simply could not run fast enough.

"Where is Redbeard?" Sherlock asked for what felt like the one hundredth time that morning, "you know where he is darling, stop insinuating that we go get him, he's too big for the plane sweet heart" spoke his mother. Sherlock huffed and placed his squidgy face on her shoulder so as not to look at any of them. What he was able to see was the many people rushing about the airport terminal, trying their hardest to get to wherever they needed to be. All moved at the same pace, regardless of if their flight was to be off in seconds or not for many hours. "Where are we going?" Mycroft was speaking with some urgency now, and he was almost being dragged by his father by the sheer pace they were going. "Myc' you figured out where we were going before we booked the tickets, why are you asking?" Their father was kind, but impatience was getting the better of him. Mycroft's little palms were starting to get clammy, he was scared of flying, he had been since he could remember, but no one else ever knew this, he thought in acting dumb they'd worry and turn around, or at least pause. He confessed it was minute probability but he had not said anything dumb since he was Sherlock's age, maybe they'd just notice. "It's a very long flight" was his only manic reply.

Sherlock ignored the antics of his brother, most of which were to upset him anyway, but he didn't want to go either. It wasn't the flying, at least he didn't think it was. It wasn't the destination either. All he could feel was that he wanted to be with Redbeard, he wanted to sit with his friend and talk to him. Talk to him like he could no one else. Get grassy knees and a slobbery face. Why could he not come. Surely they could have let him on the plane somehow. Redbeard was better than most people Sherlock thought. As they turned the final corner to their gate, Sherlock felt hot tears well out his eyes and down onto his mothers cardigan. He wanted his puppy. They were the last ones to board, but they made it on. Mycroft was plopped into his seat and he shuffled uncomfortably until his freshly pressed trousers were creased. Sherlock angrily kicked the seat in front as soon as he was sat down. "Sherlock, stop. You know better, would you like it if someone was kicking your seat?" his mother asked. He stopped and let his feet dangle in the air. As all family members sat and buckled up, Sherlock was offered some comfort. "I know you want Redbeard sweetheart, I know you miss him, but he'll be fine, of course he will, he's a good boy, and we'll bring him something back, he'll be very pleased with you darling, hey?" She stroked her youngest sons head until he relaxed slightly. The plane started to move to its starting position when the crew addressed the flyers, Ladies and Gentlemen, good day to you I am Kanika, head of the crew aboard this flight, and this plane will arrive in Washington Dee-See at around midday local time, it's a fairly long flight so please get comfortable and our members of staff are always pleased to help, thank you for flying with us and enjoy your flight.

Sherlock rested his elbow on the armrest and looked out the window, what if he never saw Redbeard again. It was a thought that would not leave his brain the entire trip.

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Face to Chalk

Faux tanned unlike Afghanistan

It's it my eyes

It's on my tongue

Candlelight flickers stone

Miles below

Where is he

Where will he be

Why do they make me wait

How unfair a way

To find ones fate

Trapped beneath 

Stone

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"John, where the hell is my phone?" Sherlock said the words before he even made it into the hotel room, and he was upset on finding that John was not there. "John?" Sherlock spun in a circle and buzzed into the bathroom and back. He threw his arms in the air, exacerbated and headed down to the lobby, hoping to find his friend there. "Bonjour, avez-vous vu mon court ami à la stature de l'armée et le visage grincheux?" The chap behind the counter was momentarily taken aback with such a description, yet a wave of realisation washed across his face. "oui, il est entré dans un taxi ce matin." Sherlock responded baffled, "il est parti?" Fervent nod accompanied words, "Oui, il avait l'air inquiet." Sherlock walked away with concern rising in his belly, his head was racing with the multitude of possibilities. Why would he leave? Did he say something the night before? Shit, did John finally leave, had he had enough of the case? Enough of him? Despite all of his words and promises, of course he would leave. Sherlock placed his hands in his pockets and kicked his feet, swinging one after the other. Then his pockets felt empty. "The phone" he breathed to himself. 

He waded into the bar space from the night before, he headed over to the table at which they sat. A couple sat at this table now, munching upon breakfast, "move I need to go to my mind palace." Both looked as if Sherlock had just slapped their grandmothers and then taken his dick out, he used his hands in large exaggerated movements, "MOVE." Grabbing their croissants, they left frantic and terrified. Sherlock sat where he had only hours before. Where was his phone. He tapped his hands upon the crumbed table and felt the device spinning under his fingertips. It was here last, he was fidgeting with it. Then as he was leaving he put it in his belstaff pocket and tipped the barman. The bar. He leaped to its surface and was huddled over it in seconds, and by this point the entire breakfast buffet had become an audience. He ran his hands over its sticky plateau, skating to find where he had put the money. A sniff and a lick next to a beer mat confirmed where he had placed the blue euro note. He should not have drunk as much as he did. By the time he had left that room his phone was not in his pocket, and someone had removed it at the very spot he now stood. "Tu!" he bellowed to the same barman from the night before, "qui d'autre était ici hier soir?!" 

"Les Americaines."

"Shit. John."

He ran out and whistled as loud as he could.  

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That is correct I am alive. Did you miss me? 

Chapter Text

The taxi was hot. All Sherlock could do was think of John. Where was he. What had they done with him. He needed to figure this out and he needed to figure it out now. "Shut up and think" he said to the air. The taxi driver was concerned. This guy looked well dressed but was clearly a loon, he wanted to drop him off as soon as possible. Sherlock unaware of his drivers concern, shut his eyes hard and felt his mind race. Connecting the dots before he even could. The victim, Paul Delaney, he was arrogant, asking for too much. His pattern was greed and pride. The man went after what he wanted and felt like he would not be stopped. This was established. They had seen that back in England. Oh how Sherlock missed England. John WILL not die in France was his overall emotion. Stop. Stop thinking of John and solve this. He punched his leg hard and brought himself back. Back to the case. The case. Paul was a patriot. White supremacist with a Christian agenda. Homophobic. Divorced. The man was not likable. Rich, alcoholic, his face was purple. His stomach had nothing in it but drink. But who would kill him? Who. Think Sherlock. The DuPont fortune. Who else got that money. Who else.

Sherlock went to reach for his phone and realized it was not there. No googling today. That is how they must have got John out the hotel. Used Sherlock's Phone. Shit. Les Americaines. Why would 2 Americans want him dead. What was his history in America. Politics. Religion. KKK. Reverend. He was a reverend. He abandoned his flock. His sheep. That would have caused some upset. Sherlock looked back. Looked at the things he may have missed. The chain. On his neck. The one thing he hadn't got rid of. Family heirloom? Who would he pass that on to. Father of three. Two daughters. One Son outcast for being gay. The son. The son. The son. American. The two men in the bar last night. In suits. Two white men. Two men. The son and his partner. Could it be? Where could you hide anyone here. Where could you lure anyone. "excusez-moi, où voulez-vous aller?" The taxi driver was getting impatient. "I need to think." Sherlock hummed his thoughts out and thrummed his fingers on the seat. They must have realised that the detective would fast become aware that his phone was taken. It could be tracked. If they did not want to be found, where could you not track a phone to. Geo location is not possible underground. The subway? No, too public, too open. The Parisian Metro takes you all the way to Eurodisney. Then it hit him. THE CATACOMBS. "The catacombs! Take me there as soon as possible. I'll pay double." With that the driver was away. Sherlock had long abandoned his French. His friend was in need. They whizzed in and out of traffic and Sherlock tried not to think about John locked somewhere below the street they were on. He could not lose his only friend.

The taxi rounded to a halt and shocked Sherlock from his thoughts. "Nous sommes arrivés." Sherlock threw him about a hundred euros, it was all the notes he had, and left the taxi with purpose. He so hoped he was in the right place. Sherlock was not going to wait in that queue. He pushed his way to the front and used his fake ID that him and John had used on the docks to get aboard the Cleopatra. "British Police, my constable is in danger. And call the police!" He was allowed through and he moved as swiftly as he could down the windy staircase, shouting 'MOVE' as he went at the top of his lungs. There was an overweight tourist upset at the pace they was forced to go. Once in the catacombs, Sherlock did not take in his surroundings. He knew there was only one way through this maze, and it was from entrance to exit. All he could hear was John's name over and over again in his head, beating as fast as his heart. He moved through the maze of bones and forced his way past anyone dawdling. Where could someone hide here. Through a connecting corridor, he came across a striking sight. Skulls shaped into a heart. There were about four people snapping photographs of it. It made Sherlock's stomach churn. Something was telling him to stop. To the left of the mound of bones the skulls were formed in, there was a dark space, like a shallow gangway to somewhere else. Sherlock was pulled in. He had to duck to watch from banging his head. At the end of the darkness, was a barrier, a rope connected to each side of the wall. I guess this was a point that tourists were supposed to turn back. There was a light flickering further ahead, he could not tell if it was flame or electricity. He followed it and a pathway with the same dirt floor and stone walls led to an opening ahead. The floor was upset, recently disturbed and Sherlock felt the hairs on his neck stand. He could feel that what lay ahead was exactly where he was supposed to be. The doorway opened to a large circular room. Bones were piled in a circular fashion, like a column supporting the roof in the center.

On circling the pillar, a door was on the opposite wall. He could hear talking. It was quiet, and distant but he could hear it none the less. He braced himself and reached for the handle. It was old, brass, rusted. It would make noise for sure. He knew he needed to act fast. He took a deep breath and gripped. All in one motion, he twisted the handle and flung the door open.

"Sherlock!" There he was, John, seeming unharmed. Sherlock felt his gut untwist. Thank fuck he thought. "Hands up!" A gun appeared in Sherlock's peripheral vision. He did as they asked and walked calmly to John's side. "Very rude of you, I'm hear to retrieve my phone." It was flung at his feet, the screen smashed against the stone work. "Well this has been a waste of my time hasn't it." Sherlock loved this part. The talking to get them to give him some time to figure it out. There were two of them alright, both smartly dressed, but not overly so. One was blonde, died by the looks of it. He had manicured nails and was holding the gun with absolutely no confidence. His face was smooth, clean, and his eyes showed fear. He bared remarkable similarity to Paul Delaney. "What was the last thing you said to your father?" The gun shook more. "Shut up!" He barked with a bespoke American twang. "Sherlock" was uttered by John. He did not want them both shot. This could not be the end. The second assailant seemed stronger, less stressed. Less emotional. He was darker, tanned, his eyes spoke vengeance. Sherlock spoke to him directly, "you are the one that stabbed him aren't you? Your toy boy here couldn't hack it." His face became smug, confirming his guilt. "So what homophobic vengeance? It is so cliche. You wanted Daddy's money? You were cast out weren't you. Daddy never intended on paying into your college fund. Uh, I was hoping for something much more interesting." Sherlock looked at John, smug himself that he had figured it out. John grabbed Sherlock's wrist. It conveyed desperation. John wanted Sherlock to stop.

There was disturbance in the hall. Feet marching with purpose their way. "Voici la police! Bouge toi!" Several voices shouted and the two guilty parties looked at each other panicked. There was no way out. The gun was dropped and they hugged one another knowing it may be the last time. The police arrived batons up, "se tourner vers le mur!" The two Americans were pulled apart and cuffed. The gun was collected and placed in an evidence bag. One officer approached Sherlock and John, "qui êtes-vous deux?" Sherlock stepped forward with an outstretched hand, "I am Sherlock Holmes and this is Dr John Watson." The officer took it eagerly and shook his hand with excitement and spoke with a thick French accent, "Merde! Mr Holmes, it is a pleasure to meet you! Is this about the American man who was murdered in England?! Merde, well come wiv us to zee station and we will talk it all out. We can transfer these men to your jurisdiction no problem." With that Sherlock and John followed the troop of armed blokes back into public domain. John could almost taste the fish and chips they would be getting once back in Somerset. "Fuck Sherlock, the son, I didn't even think of that." Sherlock placed his hands behind his back like a proud peacock, "Ah John, remember that you must not make me full goldfish." John smiled, "I vow never to do that Sherlock."

They could see the light from up the windy stairs coming into view.