Fic: Rings and Other Things
Pairing: Sherlock/John, OMC/John
Rating: PG-13+
Warnings: abusive relationship, OOCness
AU in which John is one of Mrs Turner's 'married ones' next door, but there's something odd going on there ...
* * *
The little blond man from next-door was late this morning. Usually he left home at precisely half-past seven, but today it was nearly eight. Sherlock stood by the window and watched intently as the man limped down the street towards the Underground. He was leaning a bit more heavily on his cane today. Sherlock blew on his tea and carefully observed the man’s every movement until he disappeared from view.
It was a habit of his. He’d grown strangely attached to his new neighbour, though they’d never had a conversation. A few exchanged pleasantries, a smile from the man if they happened to cross each other on the street; that was the extent of their relationship.
He’d interrogated Mrs Hudson, who was friends with the landlady next door, as his curiosity steadily rose.
“He’s an army doctor,” Mrs Hudson had told him, when Sherlock saw her to pay his rent money. “The poor thing was shot in Afghanistan and had to go home. He lives with his husband. Apparently they met out there. He’s very polite.”
“Who?” Sherlock had asked. “John or the husband?”
“I’ve only spoken to John. The husband seems quite standoffish.”
Sherlock had never visited before. He usually preferred to admire from afar, but something was different this time.
* * *
One day, he made sure to run into John at the Underground, when he was coming home from work. John had recognised him and given his usual guarded smile. He was laden with groceries, and was doing a good job carrying them along with using his cane.
“Evening,” Sherlock had said.
John inclined his head. “Oh, hello Mr Holmes.”
“Sherlock, please,” he insisted, falling into step with the man and walking with him out of the station. “I realise we’re neighbours, but we’ve never really been introduced.”
“I’m John. John Watson.”
“Well, it’s a pleasure to finally be acquainted.”
“Likewise,” said John, his pace agonisingly slow compared to Sherlock’s long strides. He made the effort to slow down, not wanting to appear rude.
“Would you like help carrying your groceries? I understand it’s difficult considering-”
“I’m fine, thank you,” said John, tense. “You don’t understand a thing. You don’t know me, Mr Holmes.”
Obviously the limp was a sore spot. Interesting.
“You were in Afghanistan, less than a year ago. I would estimate 5 months, given the state of your tan. I was told you were shot, but it’s obviously not in the leg. That limp is clearly psychosomatic. Wounded in action, then.
“The way you hold yourself says you were in capacity as a soldier, not a doctor. High ranking. Skilled. You have pride, you’re punctual, you’re efficient and although you value routine you are adaptive.
“Your left shoulder is aching, you keep rolling it like it’s painful, but it’s a pain you’ve grown used to. That’s the injury, a shot to the left shoulder. Which debilitated you in the army, as you are left handed. But tell me, can you fire a gun with your right hand?”
John had come to a standstill, mouth gaping, nearly dropping his shopping. “How ..?”
Sherlock allowed himself to grin. John clamped his jaw shut and limped over to where Sherlock was waiting.
“Was I right?”
John looked at him in wonder. “Yes. About everything. How could you do that? It’s amazing.”
Sherlock stood straighter, proud. “It’s my job. I observe everything, and from my observations, I deduce everything.”
“What job is that?”
“Consulting detective.” Sherlock allowed himself to smile. “Now come along, Dr Watson, it’s getting cold and you’re behind schedule.”
John obediently started to follow along, then hesitated. “Schedule ..?” he said slowly.
“You’re usually home ten minutes ago. I apologise for distracting you.”
John frowned as they started walking again. “You watch when I come and go?”
“Watching you has been a bit of a … hobby, for me,” Sherlock admitted.
“Right,” said John, a slight smile on his face, and he looked at up Sherlock curiously.
When they got back home, they both paused on their respective doorsteps. “It was nice meeting you,” John said earnestly.
“You too,” said Sherlock. He paused, awkward, trying to get the right phrasing. “You can come over any time, if you want.”
John’s expression remained neutral. “Maybe.”
Sherlock watched him fiddle with his keys, and walk inside, flashing one last (slightly guilty?) look at Sherlock before shutting the door behind him.
He bounded up the stairs to his own flat, nearly knocking over Mrs Hudson who was coming down the other way. “Careful!” she exclaimed.
“Wait,” Sherlock said. “Come upstairs. Have tea. Tell me about John’s husband.”
* * *
“And it was a very romantic ceremony, apparently,” said Mrs Hudson, sipping at her Earl Grey. Sherlock poured her some more.
“And what does he do? I never see him leave.”
“He works late,” Mrs Hudson confided. “At an international freight company, for the night shift. He’s very clever, apparently. Does all this math in his head.”
Sherlock made a mental note to watch out for this mysterious husband at night.
He and Mrs Hudson chatted for a while after, and when she left, he turned out the lights and hovered by the window in patient anticipation. At 10 o’clock, a tall, dark haired man left the house and got into a waiting taxi. Irritatingly enough, he didn’t look back, so Sherlock couldn’t see what he looked like. He was dressed in a business suit; one of those off the rack ones that they sold in places like M&S. Sherlock wrinkled his nose.
The next day, he got up as usual to watch John leave for work. This time John looked up, and saw him, and nodded his head in greeting. Sherlock returned the gesture, watching him walk off as usual. The limp seemed off, like it wasn’t just psychosomatic anymore, which was odd.
He was disrupted in his musings by a knock on the door downstairs.
Mycroft.
Sherlock plastered an ugly scowl on as he heard Mycroft and Mrs Hudson exchange the usual small talk, and stalked over to his chair to pick up his violin.
“Morning, Sherlock,” said Mycroft, pretending to smile. Sherlock ignored him and scraped the bow over the violin in the most grating way he could manage without damaging it. Mycroft tutted and shook his head, eyes landing on the tea cooling by the window. “Spying on the neighbours again I see. Or should I say … the neighbour?”
Sherlock dragged the bow viciously downwards. “Piss. Off.”
“He’s married, Sherlock. It’s inappropriate. And it’s not like there aren’t other people who would be happy to have a chance with you.”
“I don’t know why you think it’s appropriate to lecture me about these sorts of things.”
Mycroft gave him a discerning look. “I want you to be happy.”
“I am happy. Especially when you leave me alone.”
“I’ve come about a case.”
Sherlock snorted, raising the violin again. “I’m busy. I have no time for your trivia.”
“Two people have died from a cocaine overdose. Somehow, a very potent mix of the stuff is being smuggled into the country.”
“Solve it yourself.”
“I would if I had the time. And had your particular … connections, with that group,” Mycroft said shrewdly, not looking Sherlock in the eye, with a knowing smirk on his face. Sherlock’s returning glare was deathly.
“What do I get?”
Mycroft raised his arms. “What would you like?”
“You to leave me alone for the rest of the year,” he snapped instantly. That would make it almost worth the tediousness.
Mycroft smiled thinly. Sherlock started up his violin playing as an indication that the conversation was over, and didn't look up as Mycroft left.
* * *
Sherlock started investigating. It was a hideously boring case, but the opportunity to get Mycroft off his back for a year was too great to be ignored. Unfortunetely, this left Sherlock with little time to watch his distracting neighbour anymore.
He’d just gotten back from interrogating an old dealer of his, and was racing back home when he quite literally ran into John. The man yelped in surprise as the bowl-sized Chinese vase he’d been carrying shattered on the ground. Sherlock froze.
“Oh my god,” John said, eyes wide. “Oh no, oh he’ll kill me!”
Sherlock watched him drop to his knees to pick up the pieces, cane awkward by his side. He crouched down too. “I … I’m sorry.”
John’s usually calm expression was gone. He looked horrified.
“Was it … valuable?”
“I’m not sure,” John said. “I was returning it. Jack borrowed it from a friend for something, I’m not sure what, he didn’t tell me. I-”
“Is Jack your husband?”
John glanced up at him. “Yes, but that’s not the point Sherlock. I broke this, and I don’t even own it.”
Sherlock stood, and offered a hand to John. “No, I broke it. And I’ll pay your friend back, if you take me to him.”
John stared, thinking. Then, after apparently coming to some sort of decision, he hesitantly took Sherlock’s gloved hand. Sherlock flashed the man a smile and pulled him to his feet. “Lead the way,” he said pleasantly, and the bewildered John obliged.
* * *
“How have you been, then?” asked Sherlock, slight uncomfortable because he wasn’t used to making small talk. John huffed along beside him, leaning a lot of his weight on the cane.
“Oh, you know. Bit of good, bit of bad.”
“You haven’t been going to work.”
John gave him a sharp look, then went back to concentrating on his walk. “I don’t need to. Jack makes enough money now, and to be honest I sort of, well, hated it.”
Sherlock nodded. “Must have been dull, after the war.”
“Yes,” said John simply. “It was.”
They’d been walking for a while. “Quite a way for him to send you,” Sherlock commented. “Couldn’t he drop it off himself?”
“He’s been … busy,” said John cautiously. His guard was up again, unfortunately.
“You been home alone then,” said Sherlock casually.
John gave him another one of those searching squints. “Yes,” he replied warily, not unfriendly but … suspicious. He looked up, pausing for breath, and pointed his cane at one of the houses. “There,” he said. “Number 56.”
They walked there together, and John rang the doorbell. There was the sound of dogs barking, and a cloudy figure was just visible through the frosted glass. “Coming, coming …” came a voice, and the door swung open to the extent of the chain. A wizened face peered out, tall and slightly overweight. “Ah, Mr Prendergast,” he said to John, and shut the door. The dogs were moved to another room, and the chain was released so the man could open the door fully.
“Watson, actually,” said John politely, when they were face to face again. “I kept my name.”
“Of course,” said the man, obviously not bothered. “Now, where’s the uhhh …”
His gaze fell on the blue glass held by Sherlock and his mood quickly soured. Sherlock attempted an embarrassed smile. “I broke your vase. Please accept my apologies.”
The man’s expression soured, and he snatched the pieces from him.
“I’ll be happy to pay you back-” Sherlock started, but the door was shut in his face. He looked at John, who shrugged.
“He’s an odd man.”
They decided to leave.
“Taxi?” asked Sherlock, mindful of John’s limp.
“I haven’t got any money on me,” said John self-consciously. Sherlock shook his head.
“I’ll pay. It’s the least I can do.”
And John smiled at him.
* * *
They saw each other more often, after that. John would pop around every so often, and he was useful in his own way. Very good to bounce ideas off of, too, and the skull on the mantelpiece was nowhere near as conversational or complimentary.
John started to confide in him. He had few friends in London.
“Well,” he had said, as Sherlock had asked after Jack, “We’re not doing to well.”
“Oh?” asked Sherlock, feigning disinterest as he did chemical tests in his kitchen laboratory. Mycroft was right, this cocaine was like nothing Sherlock had ever seen before.
“On the verge of splitting, to be honest.”
Sherlock looked at him. “He hasn’t looked after you.”
“I don’t need looking after,” John said, shaking his head.
“The way he ordered you about, especially with your leg-”
“No,” said John. “Forget it. Forget I said anything.”
Sherlock raised his head, eyes narrowed, then grudgingly acquiesced. He didn’t want to chase John off being nosy. He had deduced John’s marriage troubles anyway, with his reluctance to stay at home for too long, using any excuse to get out of the house. The fact that he didn’t want to talk about it spoke volumes in itself.
“He’s going to be home in approximately five minutes,” said Sherlock, peering into his conical flask and giving it a few swirls. No colour change. No obvious impurities.
“Shit,” exclaimed John, sitting bolt upright. “I better get back.”
“Why do you always have to be home before he is?”
“It’s a thing,” said John unhelpfully. He hobbled off, and Sherlock went back to his experiments.
* * *
“What you are doing is dangerous,” said Mycroft disdainfully, taking the reports from Sherlock. “You’re not exactly helping his marriage by encouraging him towards infidelity.”
“I’m doing no such thing. We’re friends.”
“Oh, come come now. You’re far too intelligent to keep deluding yourself this way.”
Sherlock refrained from answering.
He hadn’t seen John for a while anyway. The man no longer made his journey to and from work, and Sherlock never ran into him on the street anymore.
Bored, and having hit a metaphorical wall in his case, he decided to visit John at his home.
The tall, dark haired man answered the door. “You must be Sherlock,” he said perceptively. Sherlock sniffed. Up close, Jack Prendergast was good-looking in a rough sort of way, evidently an ex-army type like John. He had piercing green eyes and a day’s stubble, and there was a distinct impression of violence about his person, the way he held himself, the way he was sizing Sherlock up with that suspicious gaze.
“Obviously,” Sherlock replied.
“What do you want?”
Perhaps not so perceptive, or, more likely, deliberately obtuse. “I’d like to see John.”
“He’s ill,” said Jack.
“All the more reason for me to see him,” said Sherlock stubbornly.
Jack sighed. “It’s contagious.”
And he slammed the door in Sherlock’s face.
* * *
Sherlock brooded alone, wanting to see John and missing his company terribly. He threw himself back into the case with renewed vigour, exhausting himself in the process, but the truth was he was running on empty.
Just as he was tempted to take some of that damn cocaine for a little bit of boost, John Watson turned up at his door, smiling in that wary way of his. He was holding a roasting pot.
“What’s this?” asked Sherlock, taking it from him before the poor man dropped it.
“Jack didn’t come home, and I didn’t want to throw away dinner,” John said sheepishly. “And you never eat, Sherlock. I worry.”
Sherlock peered under the lid. “Slow-roasted chicken,” he said, replacing it. “You spoil me.”
“Shall I reheat it? It’s cooled a bit.”
“Just for a couple of minutes,” said Sherlock, moving to the kitchen. He gingerly placed the pot down in the small space where there was no lab equipment or clutter, and preheated the oven while John set the table.
“How have you been, then?” asked Sherlock, as they settled down to eat. John seemed relieved to sit down, resting his cane against his chair. He was thinner than Sherlock remembered, and seemed alarmingly frail, moving with slow, careful movements.
“Not too well,” said John. “But I’m better now.”
The door went downstairs, and John jumped.
“That’ll be my brother,” said Sherlock irritably, and sure enough, Mycroft breezed in a few seconds later.
“Ah, you must be John,” he said, with slow, creeping amusement. “How’s the leg? Not quite so psychosomatic today, is it?”
John was frozen in his seat. “I haven’t been well.”
“What do you want, Mycroft?” snapped Sherlock. He’d come to discuss the case, of course, but Sherlock was busy. The man didn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave, however.
“That smells delicious,” said Mycroft as he saw the pot roast, smile widening. “Would you mind terribly if I join you?”
Mycroft had an irritating habit of making unreasonable requests sound perfectly sensible, and John was easily swayed.
To Sherlock’s relief, Mycroft was gracious and impeccably well-mannered during dinner, and John seemed to relax again. They discussed politics, crime-solving and the morality of war, and when John had to excuse himself and go back home, Sherlock felt rejuvenated both physically and mentally.
“He’s delightful,” said Mycroft, stretched out in his chair like a lazy cat. “You may keep him around.”
“You are ruled by your stomach,” said Sherlock spitefully. “Constantly warning me to stay away, but all he has to do is feed you up and all of a sudden, adultery isn’t a problem.”
“Who said anything about adultery?” said Mycroft, airily waving a hand. “You’re projecting again.”
Sherlock slumped over to his sofa, thoroughly fed up.
“Oh, don’t sulk,” Mycroft nagged. “How is my case? There have been more deaths, Sherlock. It won’t do.”
“I am on the cusp of a breakthrough,” Sherlock lied. It had been endless dead ends, and he was beginning to see why Mycroft had come to him for help.
“Well, you’re running out of time.”
“Leave me,” Sherlock ordered. “I need to think.”
He pressed his palms together under his chin and watched Mycroft leave out of the corner of his eyes.
* * *
Sherlock was on his way out of the house to meet a contact, when his phone decided to stop working. As he stood at his doorstep trying to get the damn thing to turn on, he saw John walking slowly up the street, grocery bags in hand, and went to ask for help.
“John,” he said hurriedly, because damnit this was urgent, “I need to borrow your phone.”
To Sherlock’s relief, John didn’t blink stupidly, or ask questions, he obediently fished the thing out of his pocket and handed it over. Their hands brushed, and Sherlock saw …
… Sherlock saw the hint of a finger-shaped bruise on John’s wrist.
“John,” he said quietly, gripping John’s hand. “What is this?”
“It’s nothing,” said John, pulling his hand away, which said it all.
“John, talk to me,” insisted Sherlock.
“Can we not do this in public, please?” John said, pulling down his cuffs, intensely vulnerable in a way that didn’t suit him.
“Come back to mine, then.”
John gaped at him. “Sherlock, I can’t.”
Sherlock ignored that, and steered John to 221B.
“He doesn’t mean to,” John gabbled unconvincingly. “I just … I’m argumentative. I pretty much ask to be hit. And he doesn’t realise how strong he is sometimes-”
“He’s beating you,” Sherlock stated, leading a now unresisting John upstairs. “God, I’m such an idiot. How on earth could I have missed this?”
John said nothing. He sank into the red chair, cane resting over his knees, and stared blankly at the floor. Sherlock crouched next to him and gently rolled up his woollen sleeves, exposing bruises all up his forearm.
“This explains everything,” Sherlock muttered. “Your fear of going home, your modest clothes in hot weather, your constant ‘illnesses’ despite the fact that you’re a healthy man, your limp-”
“That is psychosomatic,” argued John bitterly.
“He hits you there so it doesn’t show,” countered Sherlock. “If I were, say, to have you take off more clothes, I’d find cleverly placed bruises all over you, wouldn’t I? He doesn’t hit your face, but even if he does, he just has you feign sickness for a few days until it fades. Am I right?”
John eventually nodded. “Yes,” he says, with a slight tremor in his voice. “About … everything.”
Sherlock paused, processing this. He hesitantly pressed a hand to John’s cheek, an attempt at comfort, and John leant gratefully into the touch.
“There’s something else I have to tell you,” John whispered, eyes shut.
“What?” Sherlock urged.
John swallowed. “Jack … he’s … the freight company he works for. He uses it as a cover. He’s the one smuggling the drugs.”
Sherlock stared at him in shock.
“And I … please don’t hate me Sherlock, but I told him about what you were doing. It’s why you haven’t found him. He was always … one step ahead.”
“You were scared,” Sherlock said. “I forgive you.”
“They smuggle it in mixed in a special, glass-like compound, then synthesise it on the other side. It’s bloody clever chemistry, actually, but-” John paused, shuddered, and covered his mouth with a shaking hand. “Oh my god, he’s going to kill me. He’s actually going to kill me.”
Sherlock placed his other hand on the other side of John’s head, and pressed their foreheads together. “John,” he said firmly, “Look at me.”
John’s blue-grey eyes flicked up, and held his gaze.
“I’m going to get him,” he promised, voice fierce, “And I am going to make him pay for what he’s put you through.”
And John’s hand came up, and pressed against Sherlock’s.
“Let me help,” he said, resolute, and Sherlock could tell from the look in his eyes that he wasn’t going to change this man’s mind.
He found he didn’t want to. John would make quite the ally.
He sat back on his heels, mind racing, and John stared right back. The game was on.
* * *
“You’re late,” Jack said tetchily as John walked in the front door, awkwardly juggling the shopping bags, his cane and the fiddly keys.
“Sorry,” John said, glancing curiously up into the living room. His husband was leaning casually against the wall in a dress shirt and jeans, and he wasn’t alone. A slightly dodgy acquaintance, the man with the vase that he’d introduced Sherlock to, was slumped on the sofa glowering at John, with a nearly burnt out cigarette clutched between his lazy fingers. John wrinkled his nose at the smell and wandered into the kitchen, shutting the door behind him.
He settled the bags on the countertop and started to put everything away. Through the door he could hear the muffled conversation coming to an end, as Jack moved his guest towards the front door.
There was a new vase next to the microwave. John brushed his fingers over the smooth surface. The translucent blue-glass was the ingenious precursor to a very pure cocaine. Unfortunately, the process to extract it left the structure slightly altered, and it became very easy to overdose on. Jack’s shipping business transported the blue-glass all over the world, and he was being paid a fortune.
Sometimes, John wondered who the maker was.
He jerked his fingers away as Jack burst into the kitchen, irritability written all over his features. “Where have you been all day?” he demanded. “I needed you.”
John swallowed. No answer would improve Jack’s mood, he’d learnt that from experience. “I’m sorry,” he said, standing a little straighter. Jack’s eyes swept over him, from the tips of his hair to his feet, then over to the vase. His gaze narrowed.
“I told you not to touch that, John.”
“I wasn’t-”
“John,” he said, voice ice cold. “Don’t lie.”
John’s forehead creased, and his fingers tensed around the handle of his cane as that damn leg threatened to give out completely. He made a move towards the living room, anything to get away, but Jack blocked his pathway.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” he said sharply, gripping John by his bad shoulder. John winced. “Don’t fuck off while I’m talking to you.”
“Jack, please.” John’s voice sounded pathetically shaky, even to his own ears. “Can we not do this?”
Hardened fingers touched John’s cheek, brushed over his jawline, in a manner that made his hair bristle at the back of his neck. He suppressed a shudder, not meeting his husband’s eyes. Jack stood far to close, and John could almost feel that intense scrutiny on his skin.
“You poor little cripple,” whispered Jack, breath warm.
He shoved John, violently, and sent him toppling to the kitchen floor. John yelped in surprise and fell awkwardly to his back, head smacking the tiles, and he gazed up bleary-eyed as Jack snatched his cane from the floor to store it up out of reach.
“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” he said matter-of-factly, crouching by John’s head. “Spending all your time with that Sherlock freak.”
“You told me to,” John hissed through gritted teeth.
Jack ran a hand through John’s hair and considered him, lips pursed. “Yet, recently, you haven’t been able to give me any new information on his investigation.”
“We’re not as close as you think,” John said tightly. “He doesn’t confide in me.”
“I told you not to lie,” Jack spat.
“I’m not lying!”
Jack paused, and regarded him carefully. He shook his head. “Of course not. You would never, would you?”
His hands pressed over John’s rapidly moving chest, skimmed his sides, the gentle stroke of a lover. John shook underneath, terrified. “I wouldn’t.”
He flinched as Jack grabbed him, but was merely pulled to his feet and left gripping Jack for support as his leg threatened to give up completely.
John despised depending on this man.
“Can I have my cane back?” he asked quietly, but Jack shook his head.
“You haven’t been good enough.”
'And you have?' John thought, but didn’t voice.
He’d fallen in love with this man five years ago, and married him not long after. On first meeting, Jack had been beautiful and dangerous, and apparently untameable according to gossip, so John had initially avoided his advances. But once they had started tentatively dating, Jack had been fiercely loyal, and John …
… John fell fast.
They lived a reckless, furious life, and it had been exhilarating. His best years, no doubt.
John was dependent on him after being medically discharged from the army.
Once short of cash, and burdened with a now useless partner, a new, uglier side to his husband had come to fruition.
It started off subtly, arguments over pointless things, verbal bullying, slowly chipping away at John’s already frail self-esteem. When he hit John, it was like he deserved it. He covered up for Jack without complaint, and never told a soul of what happened behind closed doors.
John supported his criminal activities after Jack guilt-tripped him with the cost of treatment for his shoulder, and psychiatrist fees for his disobedient limb. Whoever Jack’s boss was, he paid extremely well.
But people were dying.
Jack led him into the living room, John clinging tightly to his shoulders in an attempt to stay upright. Jack’s free hand skimmed his chest, brushing under his jacket. John wasn’t in the mood, but that never bothered Jack these days. He’d take what he wanted, and John would grudgingly oblige to get his cane back.
Sometimes, John hated what his life had become.
His friendship with Sherlock, meeting the man, their conversations … they were the only things he looked forward to these days.
“Haven’t you got work?” John muttered against Jack’s lips as the man pressed him to the wall, hands sliding up under John’s jumper to touch bare skin. Jack’s fingers dug into an old bruise (was it an accident? John could never tell) and he huffed softly in John’s ear.
“So eager to see me go?” he asked, apparently casual, but there was a hint of spite in his tone.
“I don’t want you to get in trouble.”
Jack smiled thinly, and pulled away. John gripped at the walls for balance, shifting his weight uncertainly. He stared as Jack pulled on his jacket, silently pleading, and then - “Jack?”
Jack looked over at him, questioning.
“My cane?”
“When I get back,” Jack promised, smirking as John slid slowly down the wall.
“Jack, please.”
But the man left without a second glance, slamming the door behind him.
* * *
John gave him five minutes, in case he had forgotten something and had to return. He counted down the time in his head, slowly.
The next part was the hardest.
John did his best to remember Sherlock’s reasoning. The limp wasn’t real. His leg was fine, indeed, more than fine. He should be able to run a marathon on it.
He remembered Sherlock leading him around his flat one warm afternoon, as though teaching a child to swim, stepping back as John shuffled forward. It had been an experiment, and a successful one too. He’d been able to walk and run by the end of the day, though the effects faded once he’d returned home. There was something about this place ...
But, damnit, if he could walk in 221B he could walk in his own living room.
John pushed himself onto his hands and knees, leaning his weight on his good leg and slowly, ever so slowly, letting weight onto the other.
Sherlock’s voice was loud in his memory.
Don’t overthink it, John. You've built the pain into a monster in your head. Direct your focus elsewhere. No, John, look at me, not at your feet.
Follow me.
John had a job to do. He thought of the rewards and consequences. He knew he had to do this.
He was on his feet, walking to the bookshelf and fishing behind a rather unremarkable ornament to lift out a small camera and voice recorder, aimed precisely at where Jack had his meetings with various acquaintances. He flicked them both off and pocketed them, looking wistfully around the living room for one last time.
He wouldn’t be coming back here if he could help it.
He walked out the front door, down the steps onto the street, over to Sherlock’s where the door was purposefully unlocked. He took the steps two at a time, feet thudding faithfully beneath him, and Sherlock was waiting for him at the top with pride glittering in his eyes. Behind him, in the living room, was a grey haired detective that John had been introduced to before their plan was put into place, and he nodded in John's direction.
But John had eyes only for Sherlock.
“Here,” he said, handing the evidence over. “That’s everything. You can arrest him on this.”
“John,” Sherlock breathed, hands clasped over his, clutching the camera and recorder between their palms. “You are incredible.”
John leaned into the touch. "Sherlock, I ... I don't want to go back there."
"Never again," Sherlock promised. "I'll look after you now."
And John believed him.
* * *
Things moved quickly after that.
John chose to avoid the trial, which had been built up into a massive media event, and only went in once to testify. He didn’t even look at Jack, who was quietly seething in an expensive suit with his expensive lawyer, his eyes never once leaving John's face.
John felt a twinge of guilt, but pushed it down. Jack was a stranger to him now, had been, really, for months.
His divorce was quickly rushed through after he’d said his piece. John suspected Mycroft’s personal involvement in that one.
His new landlady, Mrs Hudson, dropped by often.
“The verdict is today,” John replied to her question, one Saturday. “Sherlock’s gone down to watch for me. He should be back this afternoon.”
“I’m sure it’ll happen in your favour, love,” she reassured him. “He was a nasty piece of work, and there's all that evidence too. Mrs Turner couldn’t believe it.”
All the same, John was still nervous.
He hovered about all day, clock-watching, tidying things over and over.
At four, he saw caught a glimpse of Sherlock from out the window. The man waved to him, gesturing for him to come down.
John smiled, remembering seeing Sherlock stand in this very spot with a cup of tea, watching his journey to work with that hawk-like stare of his.
Still grinning at the memory, he turned away, running downstairs and out the front door. “What was it?” he asked desperately, grasping at Sherlock’s arm. Something of the panic must have shown on his face, because Sherlock's expression seemed to soften.
“Guilty, on all counts,” Sherlock said gently. “You won’t be seeing him again.”
He pulled John’s unresisting hand from his sleeve, and interlaced their fingers. John could feel the smile creeping up on his own face, and Sherlock quickly returned it.
“Now,” the detective said. “It’s a fine afternoon, Dr Watson. What do you say to a walk?”
“Sounds great,” John replied, briefly squeezing Sherlock’s gloved hand tighter.
They went down Baker Street together, strides matching step for step.
Rating: PG-13+
Warnings: abusive relationship, OOCness
AU in which John is one of Mrs Turner's 'married ones' next door, but there's something odd going on there ...
* * *
The little blond man from next-door was late this morning. Usually he left home at precisely half-past seven, but today it was nearly eight. Sherlock stood by the window and watched intently as the man limped down the street towards the Underground. He was leaning a bit more heavily on his cane today. Sherlock blew on his tea and carefully observed the man’s every movement until he disappeared from view.
It was a habit of his. He’d grown strangely attached to his new neighbour, though they’d never had a conversation. A few exchanged pleasantries, a smile from the man if they happened to cross each other on the street; that was the extent of their relationship.
He’d interrogated Mrs Hudson, who was friends with the landlady next door, as his curiosity steadily rose.
“He’s an army doctor,” Mrs Hudson had told him, when Sherlock saw her to pay his rent money. “The poor thing was shot in Afghanistan and had to go home. He lives with his husband. Apparently they met out there. He’s very polite.”
“Who?” Sherlock had asked. “John or the husband?”
“I’ve only spoken to John. The husband seems quite standoffish.”
Sherlock had never visited before. He usually preferred to admire from afar, but something was different this time.
* * *
One day, he made sure to run into John at the Underground, when he was coming home from work. John had recognised him and given his usual guarded smile. He was laden with groceries, and was doing a good job carrying them along with using his cane.
“Evening,” Sherlock had said.
John inclined his head. “Oh, hello Mr Holmes.”
“Sherlock, please,” he insisted, falling into step with the man and walking with him out of the station. “I realise we’re neighbours, but we’ve never really been introduced.”
“I’m John. John Watson.”
“Well, it’s a pleasure to finally be acquainted.”
“Likewise,” said John, his pace agonisingly slow compared to Sherlock’s long strides. He made the effort to slow down, not wanting to appear rude.
“Would you like help carrying your groceries? I understand it’s difficult considering-”
“I’m fine, thank you,” said John, tense. “You don’t understand a thing. You don’t know me, Mr Holmes.”
Obviously the limp was a sore spot. Interesting.
“You were in Afghanistan, less than a year ago. I would estimate 5 months, given the state of your tan. I was told you were shot, but it’s obviously not in the leg. That limp is clearly psychosomatic. Wounded in action, then.
“The way you hold yourself says you were in capacity as a soldier, not a doctor. High ranking. Skilled. You have pride, you’re punctual, you’re efficient and although you value routine you are adaptive.
“Your left shoulder is aching, you keep rolling it like it’s painful, but it’s a pain you’ve grown used to. That’s the injury, a shot to the left shoulder. Which debilitated you in the army, as you are left handed. But tell me, can you fire a gun with your right hand?”
John had come to a standstill, mouth gaping, nearly dropping his shopping. “How ..?”
Sherlock allowed himself to grin. John clamped his jaw shut and limped over to where Sherlock was waiting.
“Was I right?”
John looked at him in wonder. “Yes. About everything. How could you do that? It’s amazing.”
Sherlock stood straighter, proud. “It’s my job. I observe everything, and from my observations, I deduce everything.”
“What job is that?”
“Consulting detective.” Sherlock allowed himself to smile. “Now come along, Dr Watson, it’s getting cold and you’re behind schedule.”
John obediently started to follow along, then hesitated. “Schedule ..?” he said slowly.
“You’re usually home ten minutes ago. I apologise for distracting you.”
John frowned as they started walking again. “You watch when I come and go?”
“Watching you has been a bit of a … hobby, for me,” Sherlock admitted.
“Right,” said John, a slight smile on his face, and he looked at up Sherlock curiously.
When they got back home, they both paused on their respective doorsteps. “It was nice meeting you,” John said earnestly.
“You too,” said Sherlock. He paused, awkward, trying to get the right phrasing. “You can come over any time, if you want.”
John’s expression remained neutral. “Maybe.”
Sherlock watched him fiddle with his keys, and walk inside, flashing one last (slightly guilty?) look at Sherlock before shutting the door behind him.
He bounded up the stairs to his own flat, nearly knocking over Mrs Hudson who was coming down the other way. “Careful!” she exclaimed.
“Wait,” Sherlock said. “Come upstairs. Have tea. Tell me about John’s husband.”
* * *
“And it was a very romantic ceremony, apparently,” said Mrs Hudson, sipping at her Earl Grey. Sherlock poured her some more.
“And what does he do? I never see him leave.”
“He works late,” Mrs Hudson confided. “At an international freight company, for the night shift. He’s very clever, apparently. Does all this math in his head.”
Sherlock made a mental note to watch out for this mysterious husband at night.
He and Mrs Hudson chatted for a while after, and when she left, he turned out the lights and hovered by the window in patient anticipation. At 10 o’clock, a tall, dark haired man left the house and got into a waiting taxi. Irritatingly enough, he didn’t look back, so Sherlock couldn’t see what he looked like. He was dressed in a business suit; one of those off the rack ones that they sold in places like M&S. Sherlock wrinkled his nose.
The next day, he got up as usual to watch John leave for work. This time John looked up, and saw him, and nodded his head in greeting. Sherlock returned the gesture, watching him walk off as usual. The limp seemed off, like it wasn’t just psychosomatic anymore, which was odd.
He was disrupted in his musings by a knock on the door downstairs.
Mycroft.
Sherlock plastered an ugly scowl on as he heard Mycroft and Mrs Hudson exchange the usual small talk, and stalked over to his chair to pick up his violin.
“Morning, Sherlock,” said Mycroft, pretending to smile. Sherlock ignored him and scraped the bow over the violin in the most grating way he could manage without damaging it. Mycroft tutted and shook his head, eyes landing on the tea cooling by the window. “Spying on the neighbours again I see. Or should I say … the neighbour?”
Sherlock dragged the bow viciously downwards. “Piss. Off.”
“He’s married, Sherlock. It’s inappropriate. And it’s not like there aren’t other people who would be happy to have a chance with you.”
“I don’t know why you think it’s appropriate to lecture me about these sorts of things.”
Mycroft gave him a discerning look. “I want you to be happy.”
“I am happy. Especially when you leave me alone.”
“I’ve come about a case.”
Sherlock snorted, raising the violin again. “I’m busy. I have no time for your trivia.”
“Two people have died from a cocaine overdose. Somehow, a very potent mix of the stuff is being smuggled into the country.”
“Solve it yourself.”
“I would if I had the time. And had your particular … connections, with that group,” Mycroft said shrewdly, not looking Sherlock in the eye, with a knowing smirk on his face. Sherlock’s returning glare was deathly.
“What do I get?”
Mycroft raised his arms. “What would you like?”
“You to leave me alone for the rest of the year,” he snapped instantly. That would make it almost worth the tediousness.
Mycroft smiled thinly. Sherlock started up his violin playing as an indication that the conversation was over, and didn't look up as Mycroft left.
* * *
Sherlock started investigating. It was a hideously boring case, but the opportunity to get Mycroft off his back for a year was too great to be ignored. Unfortunetely, this left Sherlock with little time to watch his distracting neighbour anymore.
He’d just gotten back from interrogating an old dealer of his, and was racing back home when he quite literally ran into John. The man yelped in surprise as the bowl-sized Chinese vase he’d been carrying shattered on the ground. Sherlock froze.
“Oh my god,” John said, eyes wide. “Oh no, oh he’ll kill me!”
Sherlock watched him drop to his knees to pick up the pieces, cane awkward by his side. He crouched down too. “I … I’m sorry.”
John’s usually calm expression was gone. He looked horrified.
“Was it … valuable?”
“I’m not sure,” John said. “I was returning it. Jack borrowed it from a friend for something, I’m not sure what, he didn’t tell me. I-”
“Is Jack your husband?”
John glanced up at him. “Yes, but that’s not the point Sherlock. I broke this, and I don’t even own it.”
Sherlock stood, and offered a hand to John. “No, I broke it. And I’ll pay your friend back, if you take me to him.”
John stared, thinking. Then, after apparently coming to some sort of decision, he hesitantly took Sherlock’s gloved hand. Sherlock flashed the man a smile and pulled him to his feet. “Lead the way,” he said pleasantly, and the bewildered John obliged.
* * *
“How have you been, then?” asked Sherlock, slight uncomfortable because he wasn’t used to making small talk. John huffed along beside him, leaning a lot of his weight on the cane.
“Oh, you know. Bit of good, bit of bad.”
“You haven’t been going to work.”
John gave him a sharp look, then went back to concentrating on his walk. “I don’t need to. Jack makes enough money now, and to be honest I sort of, well, hated it.”
Sherlock nodded. “Must have been dull, after the war.”
“Yes,” said John simply. “It was.”
They’d been walking for a while. “Quite a way for him to send you,” Sherlock commented. “Couldn’t he drop it off himself?”
“He’s been … busy,” said John cautiously. His guard was up again, unfortunately.
“You been home alone then,” said Sherlock casually.
John gave him another one of those searching squints. “Yes,” he replied warily, not unfriendly but … suspicious. He looked up, pausing for breath, and pointed his cane at one of the houses. “There,” he said. “Number 56.”
They walked there together, and John rang the doorbell. There was the sound of dogs barking, and a cloudy figure was just visible through the frosted glass. “Coming, coming …” came a voice, and the door swung open to the extent of the chain. A wizened face peered out, tall and slightly overweight. “Ah, Mr Prendergast,” he said to John, and shut the door. The dogs were moved to another room, and the chain was released so the man could open the door fully.
“Watson, actually,” said John politely, when they were face to face again. “I kept my name.”
“Of course,” said the man, obviously not bothered. “Now, where’s the uhhh …”
His gaze fell on the blue glass held by Sherlock and his mood quickly soured. Sherlock attempted an embarrassed smile. “I broke your vase. Please accept my apologies.”
The man’s expression soured, and he snatched the pieces from him.
“I’ll be happy to pay you back-” Sherlock started, but the door was shut in his face. He looked at John, who shrugged.
“He’s an odd man.”
They decided to leave.
“Taxi?” asked Sherlock, mindful of John’s limp.
“I haven’t got any money on me,” said John self-consciously. Sherlock shook his head.
“I’ll pay. It’s the least I can do.”
And John smiled at him.
* * *
They saw each other more often, after that. John would pop around every so often, and he was useful in his own way. Very good to bounce ideas off of, too, and the skull on the mantelpiece was nowhere near as conversational or complimentary.
John started to confide in him. He had few friends in London.
“Well,” he had said, as Sherlock had asked after Jack, “We’re not doing to well.”
“Oh?” asked Sherlock, feigning disinterest as he did chemical tests in his kitchen laboratory. Mycroft was right, this cocaine was like nothing Sherlock had ever seen before.
“On the verge of splitting, to be honest.”
Sherlock looked at him. “He hasn’t looked after you.”
“I don’t need looking after,” John said, shaking his head.
“The way he ordered you about, especially with your leg-”
“No,” said John. “Forget it. Forget I said anything.”
Sherlock raised his head, eyes narrowed, then grudgingly acquiesced. He didn’t want to chase John off being nosy. He had deduced John’s marriage troubles anyway, with his reluctance to stay at home for too long, using any excuse to get out of the house. The fact that he didn’t want to talk about it spoke volumes in itself.
“He’s going to be home in approximately five minutes,” said Sherlock, peering into his conical flask and giving it a few swirls. No colour change. No obvious impurities.
“Shit,” exclaimed John, sitting bolt upright. “I better get back.”
“Why do you always have to be home before he is?”
“It’s a thing,” said John unhelpfully. He hobbled off, and Sherlock went back to his experiments.
* * *
“What you are doing is dangerous,” said Mycroft disdainfully, taking the reports from Sherlock. “You’re not exactly helping his marriage by encouraging him towards infidelity.”
“I’m doing no such thing. We’re friends.”
“Oh, come come now. You’re far too intelligent to keep deluding yourself this way.”
Sherlock refrained from answering.
He hadn’t seen John for a while anyway. The man no longer made his journey to and from work, and Sherlock never ran into him on the street anymore.
Bored, and having hit a metaphorical wall in his case, he decided to visit John at his home.
The tall, dark haired man answered the door. “You must be Sherlock,” he said perceptively. Sherlock sniffed. Up close, Jack Prendergast was good-looking in a rough sort of way, evidently an ex-army type like John. He had piercing green eyes and a day’s stubble, and there was a distinct impression of violence about his person, the way he held himself, the way he was sizing Sherlock up with that suspicious gaze.
“Obviously,” Sherlock replied.
“What do you want?”
Perhaps not so perceptive, or, more likely, deliberately obtuse. “I’d like to see John.”
“He’s ill,” said Jack.
“All the more reason for me to see him,” said Sherlock stubbornly.
Jack sighed. “It’s contagious.”
And he slammed the door in Sherlock’s face.
* * *
Sherlock brooded alone, wanting to see John and missing his company terribly. He threw himself back into the case with renewed vigour, exhausting himself in the process, but the truth was he was running on empty.
Just as he was tempted to take some of that damn cocaine for a little bit of boost, John Watson turned up at his door, smiling in that wary way of his. He was holding a roasting pot.
“What’s this?” asked Sherlock, taking it from him before the poor man dropped it.
“Jack didn’t come home, and I didn’t want to throw away dinner,” John said sheepishly. “And you never eat, Sherlock. I worry.”
Sherlock peered under the lid. “Slow-roasted chicken,” he said, replacing it. “You spoil me.”
“Shall I reheat it? It’s cooled a bit.”
“Just for a couple of minutes,” said Sherlock, moving to the kitchen. He gingerly placed the pot down in the small space where there was no lab equipment or clutter, and preheated the oven while John set the table.
“How have you been, then?” asked Sherlock, as they settled down to eat. John seemed relieved to sit down, resting his cane against his chair. He was thinner than Sherlock remembered, and seemed alarmingly frail, moving with slow, careful movements.
“Not too well,” said John. “But I’m better now.”
The door went downstairs, and John jumped.
“That’ll be my brother,” said Sherlock irritably, and sure enough, Mycroft breezed in a few seconds later.
“Ah, you must be John,” he said, with slow, creeping amusement. “How’s the leg? Not quite so psychosomatic today, is it?”
John was frozen in his seat. “I haven’t been well.”
“What do you want, Mycroft?” snapped Sherlock. He’d come to discuss the case, of course, but Sherlock was busy. The man didn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave, however.
“That smells delicious,” said Mycroft as he saw the pot roast, smile widening. “Would you mind terribly if I join you?”
Mycroft had an irritating habit of making unreasonable requests sound perfectly sensible, and John was easily swayed.
To Sherlock’s relief, Mycroft was gracious and impeccably well-mannered during dinner, and John seemed to relax again. They discussed politics, crime-solving and the morality of war, and when John had to excuse himself and go back home, Sherlock felt rejuvenated both physically and mentally.
“He’s delightful,” said Mycroft, stretched out in his chair like a lazy cat. “You may keep him around.”
“You are ruled by your stomach,” said Sherlock spitefully. “Constantly warning me to stay away, but all he has to do is feed you up and all of a sudden, adultery isn’t a problem.”
“Who said anything about adultery?” said Mycroft, airily waving a hand. “You’re projecting again.”
Sherlock slumped over to his sofa, thoroughly fed up.
“Oh, don’t sulk,” Mycroft nagged. “How is my case? There have been more deaths, Sherlock. It won’t do.”
“I am on the cusp of a breakthrough,” Sherlock lied. It had been endless dead ends, and he was beginning to see why Mycroft had come to him for help.
“Well, you’re running out of time.”
“Leave me,” Sherlock ordered. “I need to think.”
He pressed his palms together under his chin and watched Mycroft leave out of the corner of his eyes.
* * *
Sherlock was on his way out of the house to meet a contact, when his phone decided to stop working. As he stood at his doorstep trying to get the damn thing to turn on, he saw John walking slowly up the street, grocery bags in hand, and went to ask for help.
“John,” he said hurriedly, because damnit this was urgent, “I need to borrow your phone.”
To Sherlock’s relief, John didn’t blink stupidly, or ask questions, he obediently fished the thing out of his pocket and handed it over. Their hands brushed, and Sherlock saw …
… Sherlock saw the hint of a finger-shaped bruise on John’s wrist.
“John,” he said quietly, gripping John’s hand. “What is this?”
“It’s nothing,” said John, pulling his hand away, which said it all.
“John, talk to me,” insisted Sherlock.
“Can we not do this in public, please?” John said, pulling down his cuffs, intensely vulnerable in a way that didn’t suit him.
“Come back to mine, then.”
John gaped at him. “Sherlock, I can’t.”
Sherlock ignored that, and steered John to 221B.
“He doesn’t mean to,” John gabbled unconvincingly. “I just … I’m argumentative. I pretty much ask to be hit. And he doesn’t realise how strong he is sometimes-”
“He’s beating you,” Sherlock stated, leading a now unresisting John upstairs. “God, I’m such an idiot. How on earth could I have missed this?”
John said nothing. He sank into the red chair, cane resting over his knees, and stared blankly at the floor. Sherlock crouched next to him and gently rolled up his woollen sleeves, exposing bruises all up his forearm.
“This explains everything,” Sherlock muttered. “Your fear of going home, your modest clothes in hot weather, your constant ‘illnesses’ despite the fact that you’re a healthy man, your limp-”
“That is psychosomatic,” argued John bitterly.
“He hits you there so it doesn’t show,” countered Sherlock. “If I were, say, to have you take off more clothes, I’d find cleverly placed bruises all over you, wouldn’t I? He doesn’t hit your face, but even if he does, he just has you feign sickness for a few days until it fades. Am I right?”
John eventually nodded. “Yes,” he says, with a slight tremor in his voice. “About … everything.”
Sherlock paused, processing this. He hesitantly pressed a hand to John’s cheek, an attempt at comfort, and John leant gratefully into the touch.
“There’s something else I have to tell you,” John whispered, eyes shut.
“What?” Sherlock urged.
John swallowed. “Jack … he’s … the freight company he works for. He uses it as a cover. He’s the one smuggling the drugs.”
Sherlock stared at him in shock.
“And I … please don’t hate me Sherlock, but I told him about what you were doing. It’s why you haven’t found him. He was always … one step ahead.”
“You were scared,” Sherlock said. “I forgive you.”
“They smuggle it in mixed in a special, glass-like compound, then synthesise it on the other side. It’s bloody clever chemistry, actually, but-” John paused, shuddered, and covered his mouth with a shaking hand. “Oh my god, he’s going to kill me. He’s actually going to kill me.”
Sherlock placed his other hand on the other side of John’s head, and pressed their foreheads together. “John,” he said firmly, “Look at me.”
John’s blue-grey eyes flicked up, and held his gaze.
“I’m going to get him,” he promised, voice fierce, “And I am going to make him pay for what he’s put you through.”
And John’s hand came up, and pressed against Sherlock’s.
“Let me help,” he said, resolute, and Sherlock could tell from the look in his eyes that he wasn’t going to change this man’s mind.
He found he didn’t want to. John would make quite the ally.
He sat back on his heels, mind racing, and John stared right back. The game was on.
* * *
“You’re late,” Jack said tetchily as John walked in the front door, awkwardly juggling the shopping bags, his cane and the fiddly keys.
“Sorry,” John said, glancing curiously up into the living room. His husband was leaning casually against the wall in a dress shirt and jeans, and he wasn’t alone. A slightly dodgy acquaintance, the man with the vase that he’d introduced Sherlock to, was slumped on the sofa glowering at John, with a nearly burnt out cigarette clutched between his lazy fingers. John wrinkled his nose at the smell and wandered into the kitchen, shutting the door behind him.
He settled the bags on the countertop and started to put everything away. Through the door he could hear the muffled conversation coming to an end, as Jack moved his guest towards the front door.
There was a new vase next to the microwave. John brushed his fingers over the smooth surface. The translucent blue-glass was the ingenious precursor to a very pure cocaine. Unfortunately, the process to extract it left the structure slightly altered, and it became very easy to overdose on. Jack’s shipping business transported the blue-glass all over the world, and he was being paid a fortune.
Sometimes, John wondered who the maker was.
He jerked his fingers away as Jack burst into the kitchen, irritability written all over his features. “Where have you been all day?” he demanded. “I needed you.”
John swallowed. No answer would improve Jack’s mood, he’d learnt that from experience. “I’m sorry,” he said, standing a little straighter. Jack’s eyes swept over him, from the tips of his hair to his feet, then over to the vase. His gaze narrowed.
“I told you not to touch that, John.”
“I wasn’t-”
“John,” he said, voice ice cold. “Don’t lie.”
John’s forehead creased, and his fingers tensed around the handle of his cane as that damn leg threatened to give out completely. He made a move towards the living room, anything to get away, but Jack blocked his pathway.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” he said sharply, gripping John by his bad shoulder. John winced. “Don’t fuck off while I’m talking to you.”
“Jack, please.” John’s voice sounded pathetically shaky, even to his own ears. “Can we not do this?”
Hardened fingers touched John’s cheek, brushed over his jawline, in a manner that made his hair bristle at the back of his neck. He suppressed a shudder, not meeting his husband’s eyes. Jack stood far to close, and John could almost feel that intense scrutiny on his skin.
“You poor little cripple,” whispered Jack, breath warm.
He shoved John, violently, and sent him toppling to the kitchen floor. John yelped in surprise and fell awkwardly to his back, head smacking the tiles, and he gazed up bleary-eyed as Jack snatched his cane from the floor to store it up out of reach.
“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” he said matter-of-factly, crouching by John’s head. “Spending all your time with that Sherlock freak.”
“You told me to,” John hissed through gritted teeth.
Jack ran a hand through John’s hair and considered him, lips pursed. “Yet, recently, you haven’t been able to give me any new information on his investigation.”
“We’re not as close as you think,” John said tightly. “He doesn’t confide in me.”
“I told you not to lie,” Jack spat.
“I’m not lying!”
Jack paused, and regarded him carefully. He shook his head. “Of course not. You would never, would you?”
His hands pressed over John’s rapidly moving chest, skimmed his sides, the gentle stroke of a lover. John shook underneath, terrified. “I wouldn’t.”
He flinched as Jack grabbed him, but was merely pulled to his feet and left gripping Jack for support as his leg threatened to give up completely.
John despised depending on this man.
“Can I have my cane back?” he asked quietly, but Jack shook his head.
“You haven’t been good enough.”
'And you have?' John thought, but didn’t voice.
He’d fallen in love with this man five years ago, and married him not long after. On first meeting, Jack had been beautiful and dangerous, and apparently untameable according to gossip, so John had initially avoided his advances. But once they had started tentatively dating, Jack had been fiercely loyal, and John …
… John fell fast.
They lived a reckless, furious life, and it had been exhilarating. His best years, no doubt.
John was dependent on him after being medically discharged from the army.
Once short of cash, and burdened with a now useless partner, a new, uglier side to his husband had come to fruition.
It started off subtly, arguments over pointless things, verbal bullying, slowly chipping away at John’s already frail self-esteem. When he hit John, it was like he deserved it. He covered up for Jack without complaint, and never told a soul of what happened behind closed doors.
John supported his criminal activities after Jack guilt-tripped him with the cost of treatment for his shoulder, and psychiatrist fees for his disobedient limb. Whoever Jack’s boss was, he paid extremely well.
But people were dying.
Jack led him into the living room, John clinging tightly to his shoulders in an attempt to stay upright. Jack’s free hand skimmed his chest, brushing under his jacket. John wasn’t in the mood, but that never bothered Jack these days. He’d take what he wanted, and John would grudgingly oblige to get his cane back.
Sometimes, John hated what his life had become.
His friendship with Sherlock, meeting the man, their conversations … they were the only things he looked forward to these days.
“Haven’t you got work?” John muttered against Jack’s lips as the man pressed him to the wall, hands sliding up under John’s jumper to touch bare skin. Jack’s fingers dug into an old bruise (was it an accident? John could never tell) and he huffed softly in John’s ear.
“So eager to see me go?” he asked, apparently casual, but there was a hint of spite in his tone.
“I don’t want you to get in trouble.”
Jack smiled thinly, and pulled away. John gripped at the walls for balance, shifting his weight uncertainly. He stared as Jack pulled on his jacket, silently pleading, and then - “Jack?”
Jack looked over at him, questioning.
“My cane?”
“When I get back,” Jack promised, smirking as John slid slowly down the wall.
“Jack, please.”
But the man left without a second glance, slamming the door behind him.
* * *
John gave him five minutes, in case he had forgotten something and had to return. He counted down the time in his head, slowly.
The next part was the hardest.
John did his best to remember Sherlock’s reasoning. The limp wasn’t real. His leg was fine, indeed, more than fine. He should be able to run a marathon on it.
He remembered Sherlock leading him around his flat one warm afternoon, as though teaching a child to swim, stepping back as John shuffled forward. It had been an experiment, and a successful one too. He’d been able to walk and run by the end of the day, though the effects faded once he’d returned home. There was something about this place ...
But, damnit, if he could walk in 221B he could walk in his own living room.
John pushed himself onto his hands and knees, leaning his weight on his good leg and slowly, ever so slowly, letting weight onto the other.
Sherlock’s voice was loud in his memory.
Don’t overthink it, John. You've built the pain into a monster in your head. Direct your focus elsewhere. No, John, look at me, not at your feet.
Follow me.
John had a job to do. He thought of the rewards and consequences. He knew he had to do this.
He was on his feet, walking to the bookshelf and fishing behind a rather unremarkable ornament to lift out a small camera and voice recorder, aimed precisely at where Jack had his meetings with various acquaintances. He flicked them both off and pocketed them, looking wistfully around the living room for one last time.
He wouldn’t be coming back here if he could help it.
He walked out the front door, down the steps onto the street, over to Sherlock’s where the door was purposefully unlocked. He took the steps two at a time, feet thudding faithfully beneath him, and Sherlock was waiting for him at the top with pride glittering in his eyes. Behind him, in the living room, was a grey haired detective that John had been introduced to before their plan was put into place, and he nodded in John's direction.
But John had eyes only for Sherlock.
“Here,” he said, handing the evidence over. “That’s everything. You can arrest him on this.”
“John,” Sherlock breathed, hands clasped over his, clutching the camera and recorder between their palms. “You are incredible.”
John leaned into the touch. "Sherlock, I ... I don't want to go back there."
"Never again," Sherlock promised. "I'll look after you now."
And John believed him.
* * *
Things moved quickly after that.
John chose to avoid the trial, which had been built up into a massive media event, and only went in once to testify. He didn’t even look at Jack, who was quietly seething in an expensive suit with his expensive lawyer, his eyes never once leaving John's face.
John felt a twinge of guilt, but pushed it down. Jack was a stranger to him now, had been, really, for months.
His divorce was quickly rushed through after he’d said his piece. John suspected Mycroft’s personal involvement in that one.
His new landlady, Mrs Hudson, dropped by often.
“The verdict is today,” John replied to her question, one Saturday. “Sherlock’s gone down to watch for me. He should be back this afternoon.”
“I’m sure it’ll happen in your favour, love,” she reassured him. “He was a nasty piece of work, and there's all that evidence too. Mrs Turner couldn’t believe it.”
All the same, John was still nervous.
He hovered about all day, clock-watching, tidying things over and over.
At four, he saw caught a glimpse of Sherlock from out the window. The man waved to him, gesturing for him to come down.
John smiled, remembering seeing Sherlock stand in this very spot with a cup of tea, watching his journey to work with that hawk-like stare of his.
Still grinning at the memory, he turned away, running downstairs and out the front door. “What was it?” he asked desperately, grasping at Sherlock’s arm. Something of the panic must have shown on his face, because Sherlock's expression seemed to soften.
“Guilty, on all counts,” Sherlock said gently. “You won’t be seeing him again.”
He pulled John’s unresisting hand from his sleeve, and interlaced their fingers. John could feel the smile creeping up on his own face, and Sherlock quickly returned it.
“Now,” the detective said. “It’s a fine afternoon, Dr Watson. What do you say to a walk?”
“Sounds great,” John replied, briefly squeezing Sherlock’s gloved hand tighter.
They went down Baker Street together, strides matching step for step.