Still A Long Way To Go (Sherlock & John Friendship) NC-17 due to non-con
Title: Still A Long Way To Go
Fandom/ Pairing: Sherlock; Sherlock & John Friendship, background Anderson/Sherlock (non-con)
Rating: NC-17 for subject matter
Warnings: Non-con. Drug use.
Author's Notes: For the hc_bingo prompt, "sexual extortion: to keep a secret," so *please* heed the warnings.
The advent of the second man's body, stuffed into the boot of another car, was barely enough to get him out here, but Lestrade, at least, had finally stopped calling. Sherlock had nearly been forced to turn his ringer off.
Anderson was angry, emotional, and transparent enough that there was little mistaking what had brought it all on. For once, it wasn't Sherlock's presence, though his words were scathing enough to nearly convince him otherwise. Rather, it was Donovan's.
It was all in the eyes. Hers, avoiding his. His following her as she avoided him with a greater berth than she'd done in the past. The clench in his jaw when she spoke to everyone in the room but him. The near sneer at the corner of her lips whenever she heard his voice.
Admittedly, his voice was something horrid and grating, she couldn't entirely be blamed for the reaction.
The affair had ended, then, of her volition, not his. Recently, too, and badly- Donovan was making a point of being polite to Sherlock, or trying to, and it was all to spite Anderson. Better yet, it was working.
Sherlock turned back to the back seat of the car and dropped it from his mind. It was a distraction, didn't matter at all, and there was red fiber, there, caught in the seatbelt's cut edge, that looked an awful lot like the sweater Oliver Tyson, the first victim, had been found in.
---
Another case solved, another late dinner that could just as easily be called breakfast, it was late enough, especially by the time Sherlock's meandering discourse regarding the decline of the criminal mindset wound itself down, and he finally took pity on John. Taxi home, then, and immediate crashing into beds.
John slept until noon, but it wasn't until early that evening, when Sherlock staggered from his room and all the way out to the couch, that John discovered he'd even been in the apartment.
An argument with Mrs. Hudson over the mess, and twenty minutes watching Sherlock churlishly cleaning up the mess he'd made trying to determine the staining capabilities of different motor oils on neoprene, in an attempt to identify the source of the stain left on the third victim's laptop case.
John was about ready to turn in when Sherlock received a text, and from the looks of it, it wasn't good.
"What is it?" John asked, again, watching Sherlock thumb the phone off in agitation.
"Nothing," he said, a distracted, speculative look crossing his face before he shook himself, sitting down in the chair and reaching for his violin, already lost in thought.
"I'm off to bed, then," John shrugged, and headed towards the stairs to his room.
If Sherlock noticed him go, he said nothing. John waited for it, for a while, opening the novel he'd been slogging through, only realizing an hour later when the front door fell shut that he'd never heard Sherlock playing.
---
It occurred to Sherlock, far too late, that coming alone hadn't been the wisest decision he'd ever made.
Before him, crossing the basement's unfinished floor, Anderson was continuing his smug tirade.
"…and it's shame, really, for someone with such genius to bugger it all up so badly. Really. Talking about the man that your friend shot? While you're still at the crime scene?"
"Please don't waste my time with baseless accusations." Sherlock said, carefully bored.
"Of course not." Anderson shook his head in amusement. "Really, Holmes? For such a genius, I would've thought you'd have been less cavalier about your admissions while still on the crime scene."
"Where else would one discuss it? Should I bother the checkout girl at Tesco?"
"That depends. Did she shoot a man in the back as well, or does your friend Watson have the market cornered on that?"
"If you're so confident in your conclusions, why haven't you reported it?" He tried not to back up when Anderson stepped forward, but felt the wall against his back just the same.
"Do you honestly think you'd keep your place as Lestrade's little lapdog once this news was reported?"
"Ah. I see. And this delay, of course, means that you intend to blackmail me." Inside, his mind was reeling, trying already to find a way out, but Sherlock merely rolled his eyes. "Not the safest way to advance your career, in any case, and you're forgetting one thing. In order for blackmail to work, the intended victim must have some fear of their secret being revealed."
"That assumes I care about keeping my career, doesn't it?" There it was again, that mad, unsettling glint in Anderson's eye. "But how about this lovely headline? London Doctor Arrested for Murder?"
Sherlock couldn't stop himself from crossing his arms, though it didn't have to mean anything, and Anderson probably hadn't the sense to translate. To be on the safe side, Sherlock eased his shoulders back into a posture of annoyed disbelief, but did so a moment too late.
If he hadn't shifted at all, Anderson wouldn't have noticed the defensive posture that the new one displaced.
Anderson leered at him, leaning close. "So the question would be this. How many careers would you like to see destroyed?"
---
It was nearly seven when the door downstairs opened, and a moment later Sherlock was stepping into the kitchen, coat still on. "I fear that you may find tea in the green canister to be somewhat bitter," he said, a little distractedly. "And it will most likely kill you. Try the red tin."
"I do wish you'd keep your poisons out of the food preparation areas, or, you know. Label them, for those of us without your amazing talents of observation before we've properly woken up?"
"I concede the point," Sherlock rocked back on his heels for a moment, watching him make tea, shaking his head at the second cup that John retrieved from the dish rack.
"Out all night again?" John asked, immediately correcting himself. "Of course you were. Is there a case, or is this entire great city once again barren of interest?" John blew the steam off his cup and wandered out into the living room, only noticing Sherlock's lack of answer when he was reaching for his laptop. "Sherlock?"
"Ah. No. Another dull, horrid night," he confirmed, but the shake of the head that came with it was slow, distracted. He yawned, and stretched himself out on the couch without removing his coat.
"You should get some sleep," John pointed out, before turning his attention again to the computer, watching too many messages appearing on his screen. Seven of them were from Lestrade and one was from Mycroft's assistant's assistant. Only four had been sent from anyone he'd known for over two months.
It was a little depressing.
By the time he finished his tea and forwarded three-fourths of his email to Sherlock, he rose, quietly, so as not to wake him, but when John looked, he was staring out the window. On anyone else, John would've said his eyes were blank.
He didn't bother saying goodbye when he left. No sense interrupting him, even less in making him see sense.
----
Sherlock waited until the door downstairs closed, and sat up, catching sight of the smear of mud his boot had left on one of the couch cushions. He glanced down at the carpet and found more of the same, but it was barely noticeable.
He removed his boots, letting them drop to the floor, then set to unbuttoning his coat. The left sleeve still had a little more dust on it than the rest, and he brushed it off, firmly, before draping it over the chair.
---"One at a time," Anderson sneered, as if he imagined him eager and overexcited by this entire situation. He took the coat from him, tossed it onto the ground his eyes never straying from Sherlock for more than an instant.---
He rushed to the bathroom, where the nausea abated but didn't disappear.
It would be back, later. Again. It was so much more efficient to get rid of it now.
Taking a breath, he stuck his index finger down his throat, pressing at the back of his tongue, trying to force a gag reflex. It took a while, and when he threw up, the smell was indescribable. He purged himself empty.
He wondered if it would've been better for him, or much worse, if he'd choked, before.
---"Good. Now. You were so fascinated by Sally's knees," Anderson's hand went to the buckle of his trousers, as he stepped towards Sherlock, grabbing one shoulder and pushing him down. "How about you clean the floor?"---
His knees hurt when he stood, protesting the tile floor they'd been pressed into. He flushed the toilet and stepped sideways to regard himself in the mirror.
His lips were raw, but he'd already sensed as much, having spent most of the night wandering the streets in something of a panic, trying and failing to rub two thoughts together, but the mess of his hair was well within the realms of plausibility of a far less interesting night. There was a stain, small and flaky on the placket of his shirt that matched the one on the cuff of his sleeve.
--coughing, sputtering, his eyes squeezed shut as he wiped his mouth and chin with his arm, Anderson's laugh as he stepped back, saying, "good, good."
The sound of a zipper and the rustling of cloth, and Anderson was walking away, leaving him there on his knees. Sherlock heard the door open, and Anderson's footsteps stop. "Same time next week, then?"
Responding would have meant opening his mouth, and glaring would've entailed opening his eyes. Sherlock did neither. --
He turned the shower on and stripped himself of his clothes, not quickly enough to avoid noticing that the knees of his trousers were dirtier than Donovan's had been. Grabbing his toothbrush, he mostly stood under the water, trying to warm up, stop shivering, trying to eradicate the horrid taste from his mouth.
The heroin didn't help as much as he'd hoped it would, but he didn't care, any more.
---
Even at the outset, Sherlock had warned him about his boredom-induced despondency, and it was only three or four days before John had begun to read the emails from Lestrade a little more desperately, searching for something that would pique Sherlock's interest, dreading the fact that he'd most likely come up short.
Lestrade, for his part, seemed to have things well in hand, which should have been heartening. Because honestly, a society that required Sherlock's services so regularly was an unpleasant one, but a police force that needed him so often was nearly shameful.
But the thought that Sherlock needed it, too, so badly? John could deal, if only for his own peace of mind, and for Mrs. Hudson's.
---
"Sherlock, you really ought to come out with us," John hesitated at the top of the stairs as Sarah went ahead to catch a taxi. "I'm sure there will be enough unsavory characters lurking about the place, something unpleasant is bound to happen."
Pushing himself up from the couch, he stretched his arms over his head, mustering all the bored disinterest he could, being careful to maintain every intention of spending a Saturday night in.
"I could just as easily sit in Tesco's doorway and have ten times the opportunity for interest. Besides," he said, gesturing down at his pajamas and bathrobe, "I'm hardly dressed for it. Go, out with you. Have your fun, and I won't wait up. You can tell me about any murders of interest in the morning."
And finally, Sherlock was alone. As soon as the front door latched shut, he hurried to his room and changed his clothes.
Tesco's would be wonderful, right about now, he thought to himself as he made his way up the street. At the moment, though, it was the car park down the street that was his destination, and he was running late.
---
Anderson was waiting for him.
"So good of you to come," he said, as if this were a date, and led him into the alley.
He only wanted his hands, this time, and Sherlock wondered, in his relief, what Stockholm syndrome felt like. If this was it.
He hated himself, just a little more.
---
Going so long without a case, Sherlock's dwindling appetite was no surprise. John had been warned, after all, and he was beginning to become accustomed to the way his life looked now. Besides, the kitchen was usually filled with the detritus of Sherlock's attempts to pass the time, his experiments. Eyeballs in the microwave. Charming stuff.
He probably wasn't eating as much as he could've been, either, these days.
He restrained himself, mindful to keep what he thought of as providing necessary reminders, and what Sherlock probably considered to be nagging down to once a day. After all, half the restaurant proprietors in town seemed to owe him. There was a fairly good chance that Sherlock was stopping off somewhere on his late night jaunts. And he'd probably always been so rail-thin, anyhow.
Most of the time, with Sherlock's temper, it was easier to just shove a plate of toast in his general direction, hope for the best, and depart for the office as quickly as possible, where there were plenty of people ready and willing to listen to sound advice.
---
Mycroft's text message said simply, You're welcome. Now please do something about accepting one of the numerous job offers that you've received, or I'll have to bring my next charitable donation in person.
Three minutes later, Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs with a receipt for rent paid, asking whether he'd rather have it sent to his sponsor, and didn't even yell when he slammed the door in her face.
The irritation didn't fade until the needle was sliding into his arm, but the drugs didn't delete the feeling like they'd once done. It was getting harder to forget a lot of things, these days.
---
It had been weeks of emails back and forth, but Lestrade eventually called John at work, having long since given up on reaching Sherlock directly.
"Tell him no, in no uncertain terms, that this one is up his alley," Lestrade sounded grim. "We've got a decapitation on the edge of the Newington Causeway. If he's here within half an hour, he'll beat the medical examiners to it."
"Thank you," John said, hanging up the phone, checking his calendar, and picking up his phone once again. No appointments for the rest of the day, and if he was very lucky, Sherlock hadn't shot his arms full of holes yet again.
He considered calling, but it would be too easily ignored, so he messaged him instead.
There's been a beheading. I don't suppose you're interested? John stood up, setting his paperwork aside, and went for his coat. By the time he made it out the door, he'd already received a response.
John Watson, you have saved me. Meet you there.
---
It was a messy affair, spending all afternoon in a vain attempt to identify the exact sort of blade that cut through human flesh like that, but Sherlock felt a little better, afterwards, regardless.
---
As expected, the investigation helped immensely with regards Sherlock's mood, though John was busy enough, all week, with duties of his own at the surgery that he missed most of it. By Friday afternoon, he'd started to believe that maybe, this one time, he'd actually make it to dinner with Sarah.
So it was no real surprise that, as he ushered his last patient- Mr. Tanner, who'd come in complaining of back pains- out of the office, his phone vibrated in his pocket.
Bond Street Station. Another body, well, most of one. Fresher than the others. PLEASE COME.
It was the please that had John worried, more than anything. And that, truly, shouldn't have been his first concern.
He found Sarah and explained the situation, that he probably wouldn't be coming over tonight, but if she was available tomorrow night?
"Saturdays are better for me anyhow. I've got my own exciting double life to attend to this evening," she joked, waving him off, and John pulled out his phone as he left.
"John," Sherlock sounded relieved to hear him.
"What's going on, is everything alright?"
"Yes, it's merely. Lestrade has threatened to bring Anderson down to examine the remains, and it would be much less unpleasant an affair if you were to come down in his stead. Can you arrange it?"
"I'm already on my way. Ten, maybe twenty minutes."
There was a rush of breath on the other end of the line. From anyone else, it could've been mistaken for a relieved sigh, but Sherlock was probably blowing into the chill air, trying to test some relevant theory about air condensation given a particular temperature.
Or so John though, until he heard Sherlock's parting words, and he had to wonder. "Thank you. I'll be waiting, then."
---
He arrived at the station fifteen minutes later, and made his way through the police barricade, nodding grimly to Donovan.
"He's being extra creepy today," she warned. "Be careful," she pointed him down the escalator, where John found Sherlock and Lestrade surrounded by officers and nobody else. It was strange, to find the platform so empty this time of day.
On any other normal day, he shouldn't have been able to hear Sherlock at all.
"Shut up, shut up, I'm trying to think," Sherlock was hissing, one hand raking through his hair in frustration as he muttered to himself. "Saber or katana, saber or katana…"
"What, don't tell me the great Sherlock Holmes is unable to determine the weapon used in your basic, everyday dismemberment?" Lestrade joked, nodding to John, who felt compelled to smile back, if only for politeness' sake.
Sherlock finally seemed to notice John's presence, though his eyes darted beyond him, up towards the escalators as if he was waiting for unwanted company.
John was grimly certain, though he'd admit it to no one, that he was more unsettled by Sherlock's apparent lack of concentration than by the arm lying halfway across the platform from its previous owner, but as it turned out, he wasn't the only one.
"Anderson's not even here," Lestrade called over to Sherlock, "so you can't claim that as a distraction."
John had gotten better about noticing things. Right now he was noticing Sherlock's flinch, and the slight deviation in the path he took on his seventh circuit of the platform. But that wasn't why they were there. That wasn't why Sherlock had called him in.
"You want me to take a look?" he asked, warily.
"No, I want you to open a sweet shop!" Sherlock shouted, turning on his heel, but only a few moments later, he was leaning over John's shoulder, calm and patient, as John examined the torso.
"Well, it couldn't have happened here, for one," John said. "Which, of course, you already know. There's not enough blood. I'd say he's been dead for about three or four hours, tops?"
Sherlock nodded, looking up at Lestrade. "And since there were no reports, he would have been placed here sometime in the last two, as that was when the line was closed for repairs. Which means that however he came to be here, he would have met his end early this afternoon, from no more than two hours away.
John proceeded over to the arm, turning it over. "There's also ink on the back of his hand, a stamp maybe? I can't make it out."
And from there, they were off.
---
It was five in the morning when they finally caught a taxi home. Sherlock spent most of the trip listing off all the tests he needed to perform as soon as they got back to the apartment, because that blood spatter had looked a shade too light, didn't John think, and it was intriguing, really, because there'd been a case, eight years ago, that bore a striking resemblance-
"Promise me you'll get some sleep," John finally interrupted. "Tonight. You've repeated yourself three times, you're missing things. Another hour or two and you'll be as stupid as the rest of us sorry lot, and I don't think anyone will let you hear the end of it."
Sherlock snorted, but went quiet. After another few blocks, John glanced over, steeled to meet another sullen glare, but instead found his head falling forward towards his chest, resting against the window. The streetlights outside were throwing shadows over his face, and it still looked like he was moving.
John watched him and tried not to think about the other things he'd seen flashing across his face, earlier, and wondered what Sherlock would say if he caught him plastering assumptions all over him.
---
It was Saturday morning, and Sherlock was trying to scan through pages of images on his computer, his mood darkening by the keystroke.
"What's wrong?" John, fresh from the shower but not yet nearly awake enough to be of any use at all, inquired.
What, indeed?
"I can't concentrate!" he growled, looking up to glare at John, using the movement to hide a quick glance at the clock just past John's shoulder.
Just over twelve hours before he had to meet Anderson. Seven, maybe eight hours before he'd even know where he was supposed to be going.
John regarded him for a moment as if he had the ability to observe anything that wasn't spelled out for him, but eventually backed off and away. Unfortunately, he only wandered as far as the kitchen, calling out over his shoulder, "You eat anything yet?"
It really wasn't worth it. Any food eaten would inevitably be revisited later this evening.
"Yes, mother," he lied, before forcing a smile across his face. "So tell me, at what time are you going over to Sarah's tonight?"
"Sarah's?" John seemed confused that he'd asked. "Probably around seven, why? And before you answer, no. I wouldn't rather be looking at another corpse."
Inwardly, Sherlock was relieved, slightly. John wouldn't be there to see him leave, wouldn't see him returning with his tail between his legs, which was an aphorism that Sherlock did not need to consider too deeply, just now. Glancing at the clock again, though, it occurred to Sherlock that some distraction might actually help him focus.
"Oh. Well. It's of no consequence. I merely have a long day at the library ahead of me and was wondering if I might ask your assistance."
"Ask my assistance? Don't you mean order, cajole, whine or badger?"
"Would any of those guarantee me a greater result? I am flexible with regards to methodology."
"No need. Just let me find my shoes."
---
The afternoon was uneventful, though much progress was made, not only with regards to the plant seeds that had been recovered with the third body- a rare subfamily of the orchid family, which were only allowed into the country with a special import license, but also, finally, at the morgue, where the scimitar Sherlock had requested had finally appeared.
A few tests later, and they'd been able to confirm it.
John, for his part, hadn't been able to understand the usefulness of a scimitar in the modern day, but his bias in favor of firearms had not gone unnoticed. Not by Sherlock, and not by others.
He'd forgotten, for a while at least, but now, as they were pulling up at 221B, he remembered. All of it
--"Doctor John Watson, of London, was arrested under suspicion of murder," Anderson said, chanting his words in time with Sherlock's strokes. Over and over and over again, until he spilled wetly over Sherlock's hand. He laughed, then, breathing out the rest of his tirade in a low chuckle that sounded disgustingly fond. "Eyewitness accounts led to his arrest, but it was the ballistics report that provided the evidence for the arrest."
He stepped away from the alley wall, shoving Sherlock to the ground as he did so.
"Keep your phone on," he said, pulling up his zipper. "I'll see you around."--
Sherlock closed his eyes when, as they walked up the stairs, his phone vibrated. Behind him, John chucked. "What, it's Mycroft again? One of these days, you'll have to answer him, you know. If he's going to pay your share of the rent, the least you could do is thank him."
John read into his glare whatever he wanted to see, and wandered up towards his room without a second glance.
---
If Sarah hadn't misplaced her keys, they would've been gone by the time the knock came on the door, and John's date wouldn't have been cut abortively short by the invasion of Sarah's mother, who'd just popped down to London for a bit of shopping and then forgotten to pop out again.
So, another time it was, again, then. This time, at least, it was Sarah's call, and not John's. Well, Sarah's mother's, instead of Sherlock's, but it was all the same.
It wasn't even eight o'clock, yet, on a Saturday night, and he had nothing much to do with himself. Now that he stopped to think of it, a quiet early night sounded more appealing than anything else in the world, but he texted Sherlock anyway. Date rescheduled. Am free to help if you need me.
Less than thirty seconds, he got his reply.
No need, I'll be out informing my various and sundry irregulars of the game. Don't wait up.
---
The taxi out to the warehouse was uncomfortable, though the ride was surprisingly smooth. The lubricant he'd preemptively applied, per Anderson's instruction, felt wrong, horrid. Disgusting.
He tried to distract himself, turning over the facts of the case, the strange swordsman, the nightclub hand-stamps, the passenger manifests all made sense, but they didn't fit with the flyers for the orchid exhibit at the Garden Museum, not in the case of Miss Owens, not with her allergies.
The taxi turned, then, into Lambeth, and when he shifted against the movement, he remembered the slickness. Why it was there, what he was heading for.
He'd never felt doomed before, not really.
He wanted to run.
It was stupid to think about it, after all this time, but really? It would've been easier if he'd just taken the pill when he'd had the chance. Easier still if it had been the poisoned one.
---
As expected, Sherlock had gone before John arrived home, but it was only half past eleven that he returned, stalking up the stairs and into the bathroom with little more than a terse nod, looking positively beaten.
John turned back to the book in his hands, but only his eyes seemed to be at all involved in the reading. His mind kept wandering, waiting for Sherlock to emerge, to fill him in on the evening's events.
The shower ran for a long time. A very long time, and when he heard the sound of vomiting, afterwards, nothing was left in him but uneasiness.
When he noticed Sherlock skirting the wall as he hurried stiffly into his room, his robe wrapped tight around him, something horrible occurred to John.
Sometimes he fancied that it was Sherlock's influence that had caused him to start noticing things. Random and mostly useless details, to be honest, but it had gotten to the point where he couldn't look into an alley without trying to note the distribution of the garbage, or read a nurse's memo without his eyes catching the variances in handwriting. But this was different. This wasn't Sherlock's influence at all.
Unfortunately, it was John's medical training that was responsible for the certainty that his mind had latched onto. This, what he was seeing, was beyond Sherlock's usual mulishness. This wasn't just case-related obsession. This was something else entirely, and John had almost forgotten what it felt like, to have this much dread coiling in his gut.
---
Sherlock had read everything about every criminal endeavor ever perpetrated or imagined. He knew what this was, what to expect, that he should go get tested for diseases as soon as was practical. He knew, also, that it wasn't his fault. On this, all authors were in agreement.
Believing it, if his sources were to be trusted, would come later, if he tried. None of them mentioned opiates as a stopgap, but it had to be better than notthing.
--The extra lube Anderson applied did little against the fucking pain of it all, but it had been meant for Anderson's comfort, anyway, and-god- he could feel it, too deep, too fast, surely about to rupture something, rupture all of him, leave him bleeding internally, and all for-
John. All for John.
Sherlock wished he'd never met the man. Nobody was worth this.--
---
Sherlock been expecting John to come looking in on him ever since he arrived, he'd already shoved the needle back in the case, but it didn't mean he wanted the company. The only reason he allowed him into the room, when the knock inevitably came, was because of the knowledge that John, should he have chosen it, would have been able to force his way past the door's flimsy lock.
And yes, it was a classic case of transference, he knew it was, but right now, honestly, all he wanted to do was be the one to give permission, have that small modicum of control back. Some illusion of choice.
But the knowing only made it worse.
---
"What happened to you?" John asked, quietly, once he'd closed the door behind him and taken three cautious steps into the room. His question was met with a practiced shrug as Sherlock curled himself up on his bed, hurriedly dragging the blanket up to his shoulder, still not facing him.
"Nothing happens to me," he replied, his voice angry and quiet. "Foolish to think otherwise."
"Well, that's what I'm here for," John tried to joke, which was cut short when he noticed the bruising on the back of Sherlock's neck. He swallowed. "Making foolish, shot in the dark assumptions based on what I observe. Even if I miss half of it, for weeks on end."
"What do you mean?"
"It started about a month ago, correct?"
"Yes."
"I thought it was just, well. You, at loose ends, with nothing to occupy yourself with. You'd warned me about all of it, so that's what I saw."
"Until now?"
"I've worked-" trauma cases, his brain unhelpfully supplied. "In the field for some time, now. Some things, you don't forget how to recognize."
"So you think you know everything, then," Sherlock spat.
"I know that I know nothing at all, which is why I'm in here, asking you to tell me. Was it Moriarty?"
Sherlock laughed at that, into his pillow. "No, not in the slightest. Not even close."
John frowned. That leaves only… "It's not connected to these beheadings, then, is it?"
"No." Sherlock rolled over, careful to keep the blanket pulled up to his shoulder, but at least he was looking in John's general direction, now, even if he wouldn't raise his eyes. He then took a breath that sounded shaky enough that really, the only thing to do was ignore it.
Sherlock grimaced, though, and glared at John as if to say you asked for it. "It's Anderson."
"What?: John was stunned, but only for a second, before his mind locked on the word it's.
Is. Not was.
There were a thousand questions he wanted to ask, and all of them were the wrong ones. He went with the most obvious one anyway. "Why?"
"I believe he holds me responsible for Donovan taking her leave of him. And I know he's surmised the identity of our hidden sniper."
"What, me?" John knew he was staring dumbly, but his mind was reeling furiously. This is madness. It took him a moment to work through it, but he was aware that his conclusion was a guess, more than anything. "So he's been holding it over your head ever since, then. Wonderful. And you expect it continue?"
He hadn't been expecting to be right. Sherlock's face threatened to crumble until it was only the humiliated blush holding it in place, and then, almost worse, he nodded, eyes shut tight against the admission, against John's regard.
"Then we'll have to stop him. So be it," John decided, forcing himself to concentrate. Right now, a doctor was needed, the soldiering could wait. "In the meantime…"
"I am well aware of all of everything you are about to say, Doctor Watson," Sherlock spat, suddenly. "And am perfectly capable of handling this on my own."
"I know that," John sighed, rubbing at his sore leg. "I'm just saying. You don't have to, if you don't want to."
Sherlock pressed his face into the pillow, like he could block John, all of this out, if he only tried hard enough. It didn't work, not entirely.
He still heard John say, "I'm sorry," and the fact that he meant it was so much worse.
---
"I've got to get some sleep, but I'm upstairs if you need me," John had said, before finally leaving for his own room, but he was lying again.
Sherlock wasn't surprised to hear the pacing across the floor. Four steps to the window. Four back to the door. Two, then, and the slight squeak of springs as John got into bed. That squeak, again, a few minutes later as he rose again.
Four steps to the window. Four back to the door again, and a pause. The sound of a twisted doorknob being released, and a door never being opened. Four steps back to the window.
And so it went, all night, until nearly dawn.
Sherlock lay in bed, unmoving, even when the nausea surged again. He knew that if he moved, John would hear him, would come down to check on him, again. Ask him more questions that didn't need answers. Offer him more condolences. Look at him with pity in his eyes. Look at him at all.
---
"Yes, well. About the taxi driver. I'd like to add something to the report."
"What's that?"
"I am the one who shot him. I'm turning myself in."
Donovan was stunned. "You're kidding. No." At John's grim shake of the head, she snorted, shaking her head. "You know, I suspected you, ever since I heard you two joking about it as you were leaving-"
"About that," John interrupted, apologetically, "and then I promise I'll move on, tell you everything you need to know, but. Did you happen to mention your suspicions to Anderson?"
She thought about it for a minute, suspicion darkening her features. "Well, I told him I heard you two joking, though it might have been more of a rant, borne of frustration," she grimaced, confused. "Nothing personal, see. Why do you ask?"
"Just curious, is all." John drummed his fingers on his knees, wondering where they went from there. How, exactly, once went about confessing. He was pretty sure he should've been dragged into some harshly-lit interrogation cell by now.
"No, really. Why do you ask?"
"Because it seems- and I'm not sure, mind you, but it seems he may have mentioned as much to Sherlock."
"When?"
"I don't know. Sometime in the past few weeks?" John was dangerously close to admitting things he had no business admitting, and he knew it. "I'm sorry, I know the two of you were-"
"We're nothing," Donovan hissed, stopping herself short before going on. "That entire thing, it was unprofessional. I broke it off." Scratching her head, she looked at the clock and stood up. "Yeah, well. Lestrade should be done with his meeting. Come with me."
---
He'd pretended to sleep until he heard John's footsteps going down the stairs, but even after that, it took Sherlock an hour to force himself out of bed. Even then, he only made it to the couch. It would be another while, yet, before the files he'd requested from the Yard were ready, and frankly?
He didn't want to go in, sense the eyes on him. And it was foolish, this much he knew. There was literally nobody in that building capable of observing what was right in front of their face. As much as he could feel it in his body, as much as his horrible brain tried to convince him otherwise, it wasn't written across his face.
But then again- and this was harder to dismiss- he didn't want to turn down the hallway and catch Anderson lounging by the water cooler.
Not with so many witnesses walking past.
---
"Back so soon?" Sherlock was sprawled on the couch in what even John could read as deliberate relaxation. "Not even a cough or a fever to interest you today?"
"I didn't go to the office," John tossed the folder onto the table, playing for time. "I, ah. I was down at the Yard."
Sherlock's glance went from puzzled, to speculative, to horrified, and then absolutely blank again, but John wasn't fooled, seeing his knuckles curled into the leather of the sofa as if preparing for attack, or maybe bracing against one.
"John? What have you done?" he finally asked, voice tight and hesitant, asking for reassurance as much as anything else.
Sitting down on the coffee table, not too close, John forced himself to radiate all the calm he could muster, took a breath, and began.
"I promise, everything's fine. Long story short, they're in a unique position. Hardly any evidence at the scene. Any inclusion of my testimony will only serve to highlight the lack of professionalism on everyone's parts, yours, mine, Lestrade's, Donovan's. Anderson's too."
There was no response, one way or another, to the name, and John really wasn't sure why he'd been expecting one. He clapped his hands together once, and sighed, his eyes on the carpet. It needed hoovering, there was a spot of dried mud just next to the couch.
"Donovan should have detained us when she heard us joking at the crime scene. Instead, she told Anderson about it, later, under less than appropriate circumstances. Lestrade, for his part, should've given your description of the killer more consideration, false claims of shock aside." John smirked as he said this, without knowing why, really. Maybe it was to indicate he'd heard himself speak, because Sherlock seemed to be a thousand miles away again.
---
John wasn't telling him what he needed to know. The bastard was going to make him ask.
"What exactly did you tell them about Anderson?"
It was easier, once the words were out, to look at John, observe, under the guise of a glare, and watch his face for every last nuance. For a moment, John's eyes darted away. He was considering lying. Not a complete untruth, no, but he was going to try to be kind, soften the blow. He was searching for the right words.
Sherlock wanted to punch him in the mouth for his concern, wanted to startle the truth out of him.
"I said nothing at all about anything that happened after we left the scene," John admitted, suddenly, as if he'd sensed Sherlock's decision, but it was merely coincidence. "Not even the part where I was finally introduced to your charming archenemy."
John gave him more time than he needed to process the information, eventually continuing. "Lestrade's taking the opportunity to clean house. Since Donovan went to him as soon as she realized her mistake, most of the blame is on Anderson. He's being transferred to another office."
He's still going to be out there, was Sherlock's first thought, and his second involved being very, very sick.
John was still talking, though. "I know he deserves far worse, but. I didn't tell them everything. Lestrade doesn't know. If he were to find out, though…"
"No. No, that will not be necessary," Sherlock said, rubbing a hand over his face, wishing John would let the matter drop, already, and for a moment, it seemed the universe was willing to give him what he wanted. It didn't last.
"There is one thing Lestrade said, if it's any consolation" John was grinning ruefully when Sherlock forgot to not glance up. "It seems to him that, with all of this, he'd rather have you working with them than not."
Of course, Sherlock wasn't surprised at the truth of it, but he was taken aback, all the same, at actually hearing it. "But what then of you?"
The smirk, again. "Apparently I'm your answering service, not to mention personal security staff, and as such, they think it unwise to impede my freedom in any way."
You're off the hook, John was saying. He's got nothing on anyone, anymore. It's over.
It didn't mean Sherlock wanting to think about it, not right now, and probably not ever. He turned his attention to the folder on the table instead. "What's that?"
"This?" John glanced down, having evidently forgotten it was there. "More information on our scimitar-wielding friend." He handed it over. "Lestrade said you were waiting for it, I thought I'd save you the trip."
"Thank you," Sherlock said, and if John wanted to read more into his words, there was no harm done.
---
It wasn't as if John expected everything to get better right away, though Sherlock seemed to be playing along admirably well. For the most part, John let him.
True enough, Sherlock hadn't given him much of a choice. The first time he'd asked after Sherlock as he left the bathroom, once again unable to keep his dinner down, John had been met with such a furious glare that he'd thought, for an instant, to reach for a gun that was no longer at his hip.
It wasn't a response he'd been particularly proud of, and wasn't one he had an intention of experiencing, ever again. His attempt, the next morning, to talk Sherlock into taking some time off? It met with even less success.
Much easier, then, to quietly book the necessary appointments, taking advantage of professional connections to ease the way through waiting lists, cut through red tape.
And it was no real hardship at all to distract Sherlock, at a crime scene when something-John never knew what, exactly, and probably never would- caught his eye and sent him back to whatever memories he'd not yet managed to delete. A half-decent observation would work, once in a while, or more often, one bad enough that Sherlock's face would split into a grin as he corrected all the idiocies in John's deduction.
---
It was a relief when John went away to a conference in Manchester with Sarah, truth be told. His careful attention had become stifling, boring and dull. Pretending that it wasn't causing violent impulses was getting harder by the day.
Still, though, those annoyances were nothing in comparison to Mycroft dropping in on a Saturday morning, as if he'd been in the neighborhood and not, as the evidence suggested, in Sweden.
The surprise visit had John's fingerprints all over it, but not literally. Sherlock couldn't prove a thing.
"So, Sherlock," Mycroft had eventually said. "It surprises me, with all your thoroughness, that you haven't ever considered taking advantage of the full extent of resources available to you in your endeavors."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"
"Merely that it seems to me more expedient to watch for patterns of behavior, rather than waiting to cross paths with them." At Sherlock's unimpressed look, he continued. "I'm talking, of course, of surveillance. Of monitoring someone, a suspect, perhaps, or a person of interest electronically. GPS tracking, electronic tracking of transactions, facial recognition. They're all wonderful tools, you know."
"And if I had access to them, I would." Sherlock shrugged. "We don't all have your budgets, Mycroft."
"Yes, but. Not all of us need them," Mycroft pointed out, leaning back in his chair. "Don't you ever get curious, about a person? Don't you hate it when they move out of your reach? Though I suppose you'd never admit that could ever happen. But even so, in the unlikely event... forewarned is forearmed, after all. If you were to supply me names, then I could assist you."
"On what grounds?"
"On the grounds that if you consider them a person of interest, there is a very good chance that they are worth being concerned about."
Sherlock gave it some thought. "There's a man. His name is Moriarty. That's all I know."
Mycroft smirked. "Surely, he cannot be the only one, in this great country, to have aroused your suspicions."
Sherlock glared at the floor and thought about his next words, hard.
---
It only took a minute to access John's text messages online, later.
One, from the night before.
S would hate for me to tell you that there are persons who wish him harm, and I wonder if sometimes CCTV is deterrent enough. Talk to him? - JW
It took a lot longer to decide how to feel about it. Several days, in fact.
---
Most of the time, they danced around it.
The appointment at the doctor's office was in less than an hour, and though Sherlock hadn't said anything, John wasn't a complete fool. Not with the eyes darting, every so often, in his direction. The test results were due, today, and that would've been unsettling for anybody.
But Sherlock wasn't about to ask, and he was equally unlikely to accept a direct offer.
"We've got to get some groceries in," John tried, after considering it a while. "Cheaper if we share a taxi down to Oxford Street, don't you think?" It was better than nothing, after all. Better yet, it was plausible.
Sherlock shrugged, keeping his eyes trained on the computer screen. "I've actually been meaning to go over there myself." He rolled his neck. "I need to examine the cereal aisle."
"The cereal aisle," John repeated, disbelievingly, but not questioning it.
"The manufacturer has changed the packaging on their entire line, and it is a handy thing to know, for future reference."
John tried not to let on that he knew Sherlock was aware he was thinking it through. "This, I've got to see. You, investigating kitchen-based crimes that haven't existed yet." A brief pause, and then, "if you don't mind my lurking quietly in the waiting room over some month old magazines, that is. One less cab fare, at any rate."
Sherlock's shrug looked more like shoulders sagging in relief. "If you like," he said, casually. "Though I can't imagine the intricacies of bar code location will hold your attention for very long."
"I'm sure you'll be able to dazzle me with enough detail that I'll manage to keep my eyes open," John decided, glancing at the clock. It was nearly time. "Shall we go, then?"
---
It was inevitable, that a case would eventually take them this far out from Westminster. He'd long since known Anderson had been transferred out here. Even if Donovan hadn't mentioned it, the weekly email from Mycroft's assistant told him everything he needed to know. Where he went. What he purchased and who he talked to.
But the knowing made it worse. It always had.
--Staring at the clock, trying to ignore his phone, waiting for the message to arrive. The time, the place. Anderson's humiliating instructions. 'Don't be late,' always tagged on at the end.--
Lestrade was noticeable enough, pacing the sidewalk in front of the house, already flagging them down, but Sherlock couldn't waste his attention on him, not now. His eyes scanned the windows of the house, the open front door.
"You okay?" John asked, his hand hesitating before letting them out of the taxi.
"Does it matter?" Sherlock rolled his eyes, waved for him to open the door, hoping to avoid the impending fuss that John seemed likely to make. It wasn't as if his expertise had been called for, on this case. He'd invited himself along. As if his help was required.
"Well, if it helps, you've got more on him than he does on you, and he knows it. I wouldn't imagine he'll enjoy himself very much today, what with all of us mucking about and making him nervous." John snorted to himself. "Just promise me, if I do wind up shooting him, that we won't joke about it until we're safely at home, deal?"
Sherlock tore his eyes briefly from the house, finding himself already grinning as he gestured at the door. "Deal. Shall we?"
Fandom/ Pairing: Sherlock; Sherlock & John Friendship, background Anderson/Sherlock (non-con)
Rating: NC-17 for subject matter
Warnings: Non-con. Drug use.
Author's Notes: For the hc_bingo prompt, "sexual extortion: to keep a secret," so *please* heed the warnings.
The advent of the second man's body, stuffed into the boot of another car, was barely enough to get him out here, but Lestrade, at least, had finally stopped calling. Sherlock had nearly been forced to turn his ringer off.
Anderson was angry, emotional, and transparent enough that there was little mistaking what had brought it all on. For once, it wasn't Sherlock's presence, though his words were scathing enough to nearly convince him otherwise. Rather, it was Donovan's.
It was all in the eyes. Hers, avoiding his. His following her as she avoided him with a greater berth than she'd done in the past. The clench in his jaw when she spoke to everyone in the room but him. The near sneer at the corner of her lips whenever she heard his voice.
Admittedly, his voice was something horrid and grating, she couldn't entirely be blamed for the reaction.
The affair had ended, then, of her volition, not his. Recently, too, and badly- Donovan was making a point of being polite to Sherlock, or trying to, and it was all to spite Anderson. Better yet, it was working.
Sherlock turned back to the back seat of the car and dropped it from his mind. It was a distraction, didn't matter at all, and there was red fiber, there, caught in the seatbelt's cut edge, that looked an awful lot like the sweater Oliver Tyson, the first victim, had been found in.
---
Another case solved, another late dinner that could just as easily be called breakfast, it was late enough, especially by the time Sherlock's meandering discourse regarding the decline of the criminal mindset wound itself down, and he finally took pity on John. Taxi home, then, and immediate crashing into beds.
John slept until noon, but it wasn't until early that evening, when Sherlock staggered from his room and all the way out to the couch, that John discovered he'd even been in the apartment.
An argument with Mrs. Hudson over the mess, and twenty minutes watching Sherlock churlishly cleaning up the mess he'd made trying to determine the staining capabilities of different motor oils on neoprene, in an attempt to identify the source of the stain left on the third victim's laptop case.
John was about ready to turn in when Sherlock received a text, and from the looks of it, it wasn't good.
"What is it?" John asked, again, watching Sherlock thumb the phone off in agitation.
"Nothing," he said, a distracted, speculative look crossing his face before he shook himself, sitting down in the chair and reaching for his violin, already lost in thought.
"I'm off to bed, then," John shrugged, and headed towards the stairs to his room.
If Sherlock noticed him go, he said nothing. John waited for it, for a while, opening the novel he'd been slogging through, only realizing an hour later when the front door fell shut that he'd never heard Sherlock playing.
---
It occurred to Sherlock, far too late, that coming alone hadn't been the wisest decision he'd ever made.
Before him, crossing the basement's unfinished floor, Anderson was continuing his smug tirade.
"…and it's shame, really, for someone with such genius to bugger it all up so badly. Really. Talking about the man that your friend shot? While you're still at the crime scene?"
"Please don't waste my time with baseless accusations." Sherlock said, carefully bored.
"Of course not." Anderson shook his head in amusement. "Really, Holmes? For such a genius, I would've thought you'd have been less cavalier about your admissions while still on the crime scene."
"Where else would one discuss it? Should I bother the checkout girl at Tesco?"
"That depends. Did she shoot a man in the back as well, or does your friend Watson have the market cornered on that?"
"If you're so confident in your conclusions, why haven't you reported it?" He tried not to back up when Anderson stepped forward, but felt the wall against his back just the same.
"Do you honestly think you'd keep your place as Lestrade's little lapdog once this news was reported?"
"Ah. I see. And this delay, of course, means that you intend to blackmail me." Inside, his mind was reeling, trying already to find a way out, but Sherlock merely rolled his eyes. "Not the safest way to advance your career, in any case, and you're forgetting one thing. In order for blackmail to work, the intended victim must have some fear of their secret being revealed."
"That assumes I care about keeping my career, doesn't it?" There it was again, that mad, unsettling glint in Anderson's eye. "But how about this lovely headline? London Doctor Arrested for Murder?"
Sherlock couldn't stop himself from crossing his arms, though it didn't have to mean anything, and Anderson probably hadn't the sense to translate. To be on the safe side, Sherlock eased his shoulders back into a posture of annoyed disbelief, but did so a moment too late.
If he hadn't shifted at all, Anderson wouldn't have noticed the defensive posture that the new one displaced.
Anderson leered at him, leaning close. "So the question would be this. How many careers would you like to see destroyed?"
---
It was nearly seven when the door downstairs opened, and a moment later Sherlock was stepping into the kitchen, coat still on. "I fear that you may find tea in the green canister to be somewhat bitter," he said, a little distractedly. "And it will most likely kill you. Try the red tin."
"I do wish you'd keep your poisons out of the food preparation areas, or, you know. Label them, for those of us without your amazing talents of observation before we've properly woken up?"
"I concede the point," Sherlock rocked back on his heels for a moment, watching him make tea, shaking his head at the second cup that John retrieved from the dish rack.
"Out all night again?" John asked, immediately correcting himself. "Of course you were. Is there a case, or is this entire great city once again barren of interest?" John blew the steam off his cup and wandered out into the living room, only noticing Sherlock's lack of answer when he was reaching for his laptop. "Sherlock?"
"Ah. No. Another dull, horrid night," he confirmed, but the shake of the head that came with it was slow, distracted. He yawned, and stretched himself out on the couch without removing his coat.
"You should get some sleep," John pointed out, before turning his attention again to the computer, watching too many messages appearing on his screen. Seven of them were from Lestrade and one was from Mycroft's assistant's assistant. Only four had been sent from anyone he'd known for over two months.
It was a little depressing.
By the time he finished his tea and forwarded three-fourths of his email to Sherlock, he rose, quietly, so as not to wake him, but when John looked, he was staring out the window. On anyone else, John would've said his eyes were blank.
He didn't bother saying goodbye when he left. No sense interrupting him, even less in making him see sense.
----
Sherlock waited until the door downstairs closed, and sat up, catching sight of the smear of mud his boot had left on one of the couch cushions. He glanced down at the carpet and found more of the same, but it was barely noticeable.
He removed his boots, letting them drop to the floor, then set to unbuttoning his coat. The left sleeve still had a little more dust on it than the rest, and he brushed it off, firmly, before draping it over the chair.
---"One at a time," Anderson sneered, as if he imagined him eager and overexcited by this entire situation. He took the coat from him, tossed it onto the ground his eyes never straying from Sherlock for more than an instant.---
He rushed to the bathroom, where the nausea abated but didn't disappear.
It would be back, later. Again. It was so much more efficient to get rid of it now.
Taking a breath, he stuck his index finger down his throat, pressing at the back of his tongue, trying to force a gag reflex. It took a while, and when he threw up, the smell was indescribable. He purged himself empty.
He wondered if it would've been better for him, or much worse, if he'd choked, before.
---"Good. Now. You were so fascinated by Sally's knees," Anderson's hand went to the buckle of his trousers, as he stepped towards Sherlock, grabbing one shoulder and pushing him down. "How about you clean the floor?"---
His knees hurt when he stood, protesting the tile floor they'd been pressed into. He flushed the toilet and stepped sideways to regard himself in the mirror.
His lips were raw, but he'd already sensed as much, having spent most of the night wandering the streets in something of a panic, trying and failing to rub two thoughts together, but the mess of his hair was well within the realms of plausibility of a far less interesting night. There was a stain, small and flaky on the placket of his shirt that matched the one on the cuff of his sleeve.
--coughing, sputtering, his eyes squeezed shut as he wiped his mouth and chin with his arm, Anderson's laugh as he stepped back, saying, "good, good."
The sound of a zipper and the rustling of cloth, and Anderson was walking away, leaving him there on his knees. Sherlock heard the door open, and Anderson's footsteps stop. "Same time next week, then?"
Responding would have meant opening his mouth, and glaring would've entailed opening his eyes. Sherlock did neither. --
He turned the shower on and stripped himself of his clothes, not quickly enough to avoid noticing that the knees of his trousers were dirtier than Donovan's had been. Grabbing his toothbrush, he mostly stood under the water, trying to warm up, stop shivering, trying to eradicate the horrid taste from his mouth.
The heroin didn't help as much as he'd hoped it would, but he didn't care, any more.
---
Even at the outset, Sherlock had warned him about his boredom-induced despondency, and it was only three or four days before John had begun to read the emails from Lestrade a little more desperately, searching for something that would pique Sherlock's interest, dreading the fact that he'd most likely come up short.
Lestrade, for his part, seemed to have things well in hand, which should have been heartening. Because honestly, a society that required Sherlock's services so regularly was an unpleasant one, but a police force that needed him so often was nearly shameful.
But the thought that Sherlock needed it, too, so badly? John could deal, if only for his own peace of mind, and for Mrs. Hudson's.
---
"Sherlock, you really ought to come out with us," John hesitated at the top of the stairs as Sarah went ahead to catch a taxi. "I'm sure there will be enough unsavory characters lurking about the place, something unpleasant is bound to happen."
Pushing himself up from the couch, he stretched his arms over his head, mustering all the bored disinterest he could, being careful to maintain every intention of spending a Saturday night in.
"I could just as easily sit in Tesco's doorway and have ten times the opportunity for interest. Besides," he said, gesturing down at his pajamas and bathrobe, "I'm hardly dressed for it. Go, out with you. Have your fun, and I won't wait up. You can tell me about any murders of interest in the morning."
And finally, Sherlock was alone. As soon as the front door latched shut, he hurried to his room and changed his clothes.
Tesco's would be wonderful, right about now, he thought to himself as he made his way up the street. At the moment, though, it was the car park down the street that was his destination, and he was running late.
---
Anderson was waiting for him.
"So good of you to come," he said, as if this were a date, and led him into the alley.
He only wanted his hands, this time, and Sherlock wondered, in his relief, what Stockholm syndrome felt like. If this was it.
He hated himself, just a little more.
---
Going so long without a case, Sherlock's dwindling appetite was no surprise. John had been warned, after all, and he was beginning to become accustomed to the way his life looked now. Besides, the kitchen was usually filled with the detritus of Sherlock's attempts to pass the time, his experiments. Eyeballs in the microwave. Charming stuff.
He probably wasn't eating as much as he could've been, either, these days.
He restrained himself, mindful to keep what he thought of as providing necessary reminders, and what Sherlock probably considered to be nagging down to once a day. After all, half the restaurant proprietors in town seemed to owe him. There was a fairly good chance that Sherlock was stopping off somewhere on his late night jaunts. And he'd probably always been so rail-thin, anyhow.
Most of the time, with Sherlock's temper, it was easier to just shove a plate of toast in his general direction, hope for the best, and depart for the office as quickly as possible, where there were plenty of people ready and willing to listen to sound advice.
---
Mycroft's text message said simply, You're welcome. Now please do something about accepting one of the numerous job offers that you've received, or I'll have to bring my next charitable donation in person.
Three minutes later, Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs with a receipt for rent paid, asking whether he'd rather have it sent to his sponsor, and didn't even yell when he slammed the door in her face.
The irritation didn't fade until the needle was sliding into his arm, but the drugs didn't delete the feeling like they'd once done. It was getting harder to forget a lot of things, these days.
---
It had been weeks of emails back and forth, but Lestrade eventually called John at work, having long since given up on reaching Sherlock directly.
"Tell him no, in no uncertain terms, that this one is up his alley," Lestrade sounded grim. "We've got a decapitation on the edge of the Newington Causeway. If he's here within half an hour, he'll beat the medical examiners to it."
"Thank you," John said, hanging up the phone, checking his calendar, and picking up his phone once again. No appointments for the rest of the day, and if he was very lucky, Sherlock hadn't shot his arms full of holes yet again.
He considered calling, but it would be too easily ignored, so he messaged him instead.
There's been a beheading. I don't suppose you're interested? John stood up, setting his paperwork aside, and went for his coat. By the time he made it out the door, he'd already received a response.
John Watson, you have saved me. Meet you there.
---
It was a messy affair, spending all afternoon in a vain attempt to identify the exact sort of blade that cut through human flesh like that, but Sherlock felt a little better, afterwards, regardless.
---
As expected, the investigation helped immensely with regards Sherlock's mood, though John was busy enough, all week, with duties of his own at the surgery that he missed most of it. By Friday afternoon, he'd started to believe that maybe, this one time, he'd actually make it to dinner with Sarah.
So it was no real surprise that, as he ushered his last patient- Mr. Tanner, who'd come in complaining of back pains- out of the office, his phone vibrated in his pocket.
Bond Street Station. Another body, well, most of one. Fresher than the others. PLEASE COME.
It was the please that had John worried, more than anything. And that, truly, shouldn't have been his first concern.
He found Sarah and explained the situation, that he probably wouldn't be coming over tonight, but if she was available tomorrow night?
"Saturdays are better for me anyhow. I've got my own exciting double life to attend to this evening," she joked, waving him off, and John pulled out his phone as he left.
"John," Sherlock sounded relieved to hear him.
"What's going on, is everything alright?"
"Yes, it's merely. Lestrade has threatened to bring Anderson down to examine the remains, and it would be much less unpleasant an affair if you were to come down in his stead. Can you arrange it?"
"I'm already on my way. Ten, maybe twenty minutes."
There was a rush of breath on the other end of the line. From anyone else, it could've been mistaken for a relieved sigh, but Sherlock was probably blowing into the chill air, trying to test some relevant theory about air condensation given a particular temperature.
Or so John though, until he heard Sherlock's parting words, and he had to wonder. "Thank you. I'll be waiting, then."
---
He arrived at the station fifteen minutes later, and made his way through the police barricade, nodding grimly to Donovan.
"He's being extra creepy today," she warned. "Be careful," she pointed him down the escalator, where John found Sherlock and Lestrade surrounded by officers and nobody else. It was strange, to find the platform so empty this time of day.
On any other normal day, he shouldn't have been able to hear Sherlock at all.
"Shut up, shut up, I'm trying to think," Sherlock was hissing, one hand raking through his hair in frustration as he muttered to himself. "Saber or katana, saber or katana…"
"What, don't tell me the great Sherlock Holmes is unable to determine the weapon used in your basic, everyday dismemberment?" Lestrade joked, nodding to John, who felt compelled to smile back, if only for politeness' sake.
Sherlock finally seemed to notice John's presence, though his eyes darted beyond him, up towards the escalators as if he was waiting for unwanted company.
John was grimly certain, though he'd admit it to no one, that he was more unsettled by Sherlock's apparent lack of concentration than by the arm lying halfway across the platform from its previous owner, but as it turned out, he wasn't the only one.
"Anderson's not even here," Lestrade called over to Sherlock, "so you can't claim that as a distraction."
John had gotten better about noticing things. Right now he was noticing Sherlock's flinch, and the slight deviation in the path he took on his seventh circuit of the platform. But that wasn't why they were there. That wasn't why Sherlock had called him in.
"You want me to take a look?" he asked, warily.
"No, I want you to open a sweet shop!" Sherlock shouted, turning on his heel, but only a few moments later, he was leaning over John's shoulder, calm and patient, as John examined the torso.
"Well, it couldn't have happened here, for one," John said. "Which, of course, you already know. There's not enough blood. I'd say he's been dead for about three or four hours, tops?"
Sherlock nodded, looking up at Lestrade. "And since there were no reports, he would have been placed here sometime in the last two, as that was when the line was closed for repairs. Which means that however he came to be here, he would have met his end early this afternoon, from no more than two hours away.
John proceeded over to the arm, turning it over. "There's also ink on the back of his hand, a stamp maybe? I can't make it out."
And from there, they were off.
---
It was five in the morning when they finally caught a taxi home. Sherlock spent most of the trip listing off all the tests he needed to perform as soon as they got back to the apartment, because that blood spatter had looked a shade too light, didn't John think, and it was intriguing, really, because there'd been a case, eight years ago, that bore a striking resemblance-
"Promise me you'll get some sleep," John finally interrupted. "Tonight. You've repeated yourself three times, you're missing things. Another hour or two and you'll be as stupid as the rest of us sorry lot, and I don't think anyone will let you hear the end of it."
Sherlock snorted, but went quiet. After another few blocks, John glanced over, steeled to meet another sullen glare, but instead found his head falling forward towards his chest, resting against the window. The streetlights outside were throwing shadows over his face, and it still looked like he was moving.
John watched him and tried not to think about the other things he'd seen flashing across his face, earlier, and wondered what Sherlock would say if he caught him plastering assumptions all over him.
---
It was Saturday morning, and Sherlock was trying to scan through pages of images on his computer, his mood darkening by the keystroke.
"What's wrong?" John, fresh from the shower but not yet nearly awake enough to be of any use at all, inquired.
What, indeed?
"I can't concentrate!" he growled, looking up to glare at John, using the movement to hide a quick glance at the clock just past John's shoulder.
Just over twelve hours before he had to meet Anderson. Seven, maybe eight hours before he'd even know where he was supposed to be going.
John regarded him for a moment as if he had the ability to observe anything that wasn't spelled out for him, but eventually backed off and away. Unfortunately, he only wandered as far as the kitchen, calling out over his shoulder, "You eat anything yet?"
It really wasn't worth it. Any food eaten would inevitably be revisited later this evening.
"Yes, mother," he lied, before forcing a smile across his face. "So tell me, at what time are you going over to Sarah's tonight?"
"Sarah's?" John seemed confused that he'd asked. "Probably around seven, why? And before you answer, no. I wouldn't rather be looking at another corpse."
Inwardly, Sherlock was relieved, slightly. John wouldn't be there to see him leave, wouldn't see him returning with his tail between his legs, which was an aphorism that Sherlock did not need to consider too deeply, just now. Glancing at the clock again, though, it occurred to Sherlock that some distraction might actually help him focus.
"Oh. Well. It's of no consequence. I merely have a long day at the library ahead of me and was wondering if I might ask your assistance."
"Ask my assistance? Don't you mean order, cajole, whine or badger?"
"Would any of those guarantee me a greater result? I am flexible with regards to methodology."
"No need. Just let me find my shoes."
---
The afternoon was uneventful, though much progress was made, not only with regards to the plant seeds that had been recovered with the third body- a rare subfamily of the orchid family, which were only allowed into the country with a special import license, but also, finally, at the morgue, where the scimitar Sherlock had requested had finally appeared.
A few tests later, and they'd been able to confirm it.
John, for his part, hadn't been able to understand the usefulness of a scimitar in the modern day, but his bias in favor of firearms had not gone unnoticed. Not by Sherlock, and not by others.
He'd forgotten, for a while at least, but now, as they were pulling up at 221B, he remembered. All of it
--"Doctor John Watson, of London, was arrested under suspicion of murder," Anderson said, chanting his words in time with Sherlock's strokes. Over and over and over again, until he spilled wetly over Sherlock's hand. He laughed, then, breathing out the rest of his tirade in a low chuckle that sounded disgustingly fond. "Eyewitness accounts led to his arrest, but it was the ballistics report that provided the evidence for the arrest."
He stepped away from the alley wall, shoving Sherlock to the ground as he did so.
"Keep your phone on," he said, pulling up his zipper. "I'll see you around."--
Sherlock closed his eyes when, as they walked up the stairs, his phone vibrated. Behind him, John chucked. "What, it's Mycroft again? One of these days, you'll have to answer him, you know. If he's going to pay your share of the rent, the least you could do is thank him."
John read into his glare whatever he wanted to see, and wandered up towards his room without a second glance.
---
If Sarah hadn't misplaced her keys, they would've been gone by the time the knock came on the door, and John's date wouldn't have been cut abortively short by the invasion of Sarah's mother, who'd just popped down to London for a bit of shopping and then forgotten to pop out again.
So, another time it was, again, then. This time, at least, it was Sarah's call, and not John's. Well, Sarah's mother's, instead of Sherlock's, but it was all the same.
It wasn't even eight o'clock, yet, on a Saturday night, and he had nothing much to do with himself. Now that he stopped to think of it, a quiet early night sounded more appealing than anything else in the world, but he texted Sherlock anyway. Date rescheduled. Am free to help if you need me.
Less than thirty seconds, he got his reply.
No need, I'll be out informing my various and sundry irregulars of the game. Don't wait up.
---
The taxi out to the warehouse was uncomfortable, though the ride was surprisingly smooth. The lubricant he'd preemptively applied, per Anderson's instruction, felt wrong, horrid. Disgusting.
He tried to distract himself, turning over the facts of the case, the strange swordsman, the nightclub hand-stamps, the passenger manifests all made sense, but they didn't fit with the flyers for the orchid exhibit at the Garden Museum, not in the case of Miss Owens, not with her allergies.
The taxi turned, then, into Lambeth, and when he shifted against the movement, he remembered the slickness. Why it was there, what he was heading for.
He'd never felt doomed before, not really.
He wanted to run.
It was stupid to think about it, after all this time, but really? It would've been easier if he'd just taken the pill when he'd had the chance. Easier still if it had been the poisoned one.
---
As expected, Sherlock had gone before John arrived home, but it was only half past eleven that he returned, stalking up the stairs and into the bathroom with little more than a terse nod, looking positively beaten.
John turned back to the book in his hands, but only his eyes seemed to be at all involved in the reading. His mind kept wandering, waiting for Sherlock to emerge, to fill him in on the evening's events.
The shower ran for a long time. A very long time, and when he heard the sound of vomiting, afterwards, nothing was left in him but uneasiness.
When he noticed Sherlock skirting the wall as he hurried stiffly into his room, his robe wrapped tight around him, something horrible occurred to John.
Sometimes he fancied that it was Sherlock's influence that had caused him to start noticing things. Random and mostly useless details, to be honest, but it had gotten to the point where he couldn't look into an alley without trying to note the distribution of the garbage, or read a nurse's memo without his eyes catching the variances in handwriting. But this was different. This wasn't Sherlock's influence at all.
Unfortunately, it was John's medical training that was responsible for the certainty that his mind had latched onto. This, what he was seeing, was beyond Sherlock's usual mulishness. This wasn't just case-related obsession. This was something else entirely, and John had almost forgotten what it felt like, to have this much dread coiling in his gut.
---
Sherlock had read everything about every criminal endeavor ever perpetrated or imagined. He knew what this was, what to expect, that he should go get tested for diseases as soon as was practical. He knew, also, that it wasn't his fault. On this, all authors were in agreement.
Believing it, if his sources were to be trusted, would come later, if he tried. None of them mentioned opiates as a stopgap, but it had to be better than notthing.
--The extra lube Anderson applied did little against the fucking pain of it all, but it had been meant for Anderson's comfort, anyway, and-god- he could feel it, too deep, too fast, surely about to rupture something, rupture all of him, leave him bleeding internally, and all for-
John. All for John.
Sherlock wished he'd never met the man. Nobody was worth this.--
---
Sherlock been expecting John to come looking in on him ever since he arrived, he'd already shoved the needle back in the case, but it didn't mean he wanted the company. The only reason he allowed him into the room, when the knock inevitably came, was because of the knowledge that John, should he have chosen it, would have been able to force his way past the door's flimsy lock.
And yes, it was a classic case of transference, he knew it was, but right now, honestly, all he wanted to do was be the one to give permission, have that small modicum of control back. Some illusion of choice.
But the knowing only made it worse.
---
"What happened to you?" John asked, quietly, once he'd closed the door behind him and taken three cautious steps into the room. His question was met with a practiced shrug as Sherlock curled himself up on his bed, hurriedly dragging the blanket up to his shoulder, still not facing him.
"Nothing happens to me," he replied, his voice angry and quiet. "Foolish to think otherwise."
"Well, that's what I'm here for," John tried to joke, which was cut short when he noticed the bruising on the back of Sherlock's neck. He swallowed. "Making foolish, shot in the dark assumptions based on what I observe. Even if I miss half of it, for weeks on end."
"What do you mean?"
"It started about a month ago, correct?"
"Yes."
"I thought it was just, well. You, at loose ends, with nothing to occupy yourself with. You'd warned me about all of it, so that's what I saw."
"Until now?"
"I've worked-" trauma cases, his brain unhelpfully supplied. "In the field for some time, now. Some things, you don't forget how to recognize."
"So you think you know everything, then," Sherlock spat.
"I know that I know nothing at all, which is why I'm in here, asking you to tell me. Was it Moriarty?"
Sherlock laughed at that, into his pillow. "No, not in the slightest. Not even close."
John frowned. That leaves only… "It's not connected to these beheadings, then, is it?"
"No." Sherlock rolled over, careful to keep the blanket pulled up to his shoulder, but at least he was looking in John's general direction, now, even if he wouldn't raise his eyes. He then took a breath that sounded shaky enough that really, the only thing to do was ignore it.
Sherlock grimaced, though, and glared at John as if to say you asked for it. "It's Anderson."
"What?: John was stunned, but only for a second, before his mind locked on the word it's.
Is. Not was.
There were a thousand questions he wanted to ask, and all of them were the wrong ones. He went with the most obvious one anyway. "Why?"
"I believe he holds me responsible for Donovan taking her leave of him. And I know he's surmised the identity of our hidden sniper."
"What, me?" John knew he was staring dumbly, but his mind was reeling furiously. This is madness. It took him a moment to work through it, but he was aware that his conclusion was a guess, more than anything. "So he's been holding it over your head ever since, then. Wonderful. And you expect it continue?"
He hadn't been expecting to be right. Sherlock's face threatened to crumble until it was only the humiliated blush holding it in place, and then, almost worse, he nodded, eyes shut tight against the admission, against John's regard.
"Then we'll have to stop him. So be it," John decided, forcing himself to concentrate. Right now, a doctor was needed, the soldiering could wait. "In the meantime…"
"I am well aware of all of everything you are about to say, Doctor Watson," Sherlock spat, suddenly. "And am perfectly capable of handling this on my own."
"I know that," John sighed, rubbing at his sore leg. "I'm just saying. You don't have to, if you don't want to."
Sherlock pressed his face into the pillow, like he could block John, all of this out, if he only tried hard enough. It didn't work, not entirely.
He still heard John say, "I'm sorry," and the fact that he meant it was so much worse.
---
"I've got to get some sleep, but I'm upstairs if you need me," John had said, before finally leaving for his own room, but he was lying again.
Sherlock wasn't surprised to hear the pacing across the floor. Four steps to the window. Four back to the door. Two, then, and the slight squeak of springs as John got into bed. That squeak, again, a few minutes later as he rose again.
Four steps to the window. Four back to the door again, and a pause. The sound of a twisted doorknob being released, and a door never being opened. Four steps back to the window.
And so it went, all night, until nearly dawn.
Sherlock lay in bed, unmoving, even when the nausea surged again. He knew that if he moved, John would hear him, would come down to check on him, again. Ask him more questions that didn't need answers. Offer him more condolences. Look at him with pity in his eyes. Look at him at all.
---
"Yes, well. About the taxi driver. I'd like to add something to the report."
"What's that?"
"I am the one who shot him. I'm turning myself in."
Donovan was stunned. "You're kidding. No." At John's grim shake of the head, she snorted, shaking her head. "You know, I suspected you, ever since I heard you two joking about it as you were leaving-"
"About that," John interrupted, apologetically, "and then I promise I'll move on, tell you everything you need to know, but. Did you happen to mention your suspicions to Anderson?"
She thought about it for a minute, suspicion darkening her features. "Well, I told him I heard you two joking, though it might have been more of a rant, borne of frustration," she grimaced, confused. "Nothing personal, see. Why do you ask?"
"Just curious, is all." John drummed his fingers on his knees, wondering where they went from there. How, exactly, once went about confessing. He was pretty sure he should've been dragged into some harshly-lit interrogation cell by now.
"No, really. Why do you ask?"
"Because it seems- and I'm not sure, mind you, but it seems he may have mentioned as much to Sherlock."
"When?"
"I don't know. Sometime in the past few weeks?" John was dangerously close to admitting things he had no business admitting, and he knew it. "I'm sorry, I know the two of you were-"
"We're nothing," Donovan hissed, stopping herself short before going on. "That entire thing, it was unprofessional. I broke it off." Scratching her head, she looked at the clock and stood up. "Yeah, well. Lestrade should be done with his meeting. Come with me."
---
He'd pretended to sleep until he heard John's footsteps going down the stairs, but even after that, it took Sherlock an hour to force himself out of bed. Even then, he only made it to the couch. It would be another while, yet, before the files he'd requested from the Yard were ready, and frankly?
He didn't want to go in, sense the eyes on him. And it was foolish, this much he knew. There was literally nobody in that building capable of observing what was right in front of their face. As much as he could feel it in his body, as much as his horrible brain tried to convince him otherwise, it wasn't written across his face.
But then again- and this was harder to dismiss- he didn't want to turn down the hallway and catch Anderson lounging by the water cooler.
Not with so many witnesses walking past.
---
"Back so soon?" Sherlock was sprawled on the couch in what even John could read as deliberate relaxation. "Not even a cough or a fever to interest you today?"
"I didn't go to the office," John tossed the folder onto the table, playing for time. "I, ah. I was down at the Yard."
Sherlock's glance went from puzzled, to speculative, to horrified, and then absolutely blank again, but John wasn't fooled, seeing his knuckles curled into the leather of the sofa as if preparing for attack, or maybe bracing against one.
"John? What have you done?" he finally asked, voice tight and hesitant, asking for reassurance as much as anything else.
Sitting down on the coffee table, not too close, John forced himself to radiate all the calm he could muster, took a breath, and began.
"I promise, everything's fine. Long story short, they're in a unique position. Hardly any evidence at the scene. Any inclusion of my testimony will only serve to highlight the lack of professionalism on everyone's parts, yours, mine, Lestrade's, Donovan's. Anderson's too."
There was no response, one way or another, to the name, and John really wasn't sure why he'd been expecting one. He clapped his hands together once, and sighed, his eyes on the carpet. It needed hoovering, there was a spot of dried mud just next to the couch.
"Donovan should have detained us when she heard us joking at the crime scene. Instead, she told Anderson about it, later, under less than appropriate circumstances. Lestrade, for his part, should've given your description of the killer more consideration, false claims of shock aside." John smirked as he said this, without knowing why, really. Maybe it was to indicate he'd heard himself speak, because Sherlock seemed to be a thousand miles away again.
---
John wasn't telling him what he needed to know. The bastard was going to make him ask.
"What exactly did you tell them about Anderson?"
It was easier, once the words were out, to look at John, observe, under the guise of a glare, and watch his face for every last nuance. For a moment, John's eyes darted away. He was considering lying. Not a complete untruth, no, but he was going to try to be kind, soften the blow. He was searching for the right words.
Sherlock wanted to punch him in the mouth for his concern, wanted to startle the truth out of him.
"I said nothing at all about anything that happened after we left the scene," John admitted, suddenly, as if he'd sensed Sherlock's decision, but it was merely coincidence. "Not even the part where I was finally introduced to your charming archenemy."
John gave him more time than he needed to process the information, eventually continuing. "Lestrade's taking the opportunity to clean house. Since Donovan went to him as soon as she realized her mistake, most of the blame is on Anderson. He's being transferred to another office."
He's still going to be out there, was Sherlock's first thought, and his second involved being very, very sick.
John was still talking, though. "I know he deserves far worse, but. I didn't tell them everything. Lestrade doesn't know. If he were to find out, though…"
"No. No, that will not be necessary," Sherlock said, rubbing a hand over his face, wishing John would let the matter drop, already, and for a moment, it seemed the universe was willing to give him what he wanted. It didn't last.
"There is one thing Lestrade said, if it's any consolation" John was grinning ruefully when Sherlock forgot to not glance up. "It seems to him that, with all of this, he'd rather have you working with them than not."
Of course, Sherlock wasn't surprised at the truth of it, but he was taken aback, all the same, at actually hearing it. "But what then of you?"
The smirk, again. "Apparently I'm your answering service, not to mention personal security staff, and as such, they think it unwise to impede my freedom in any way."
You're off the hook, John was saying. He's got nothing on anyone, anymore. It's over.
It didn't mean Sherlock wanting to think about it, not right now, and probably not ever. He turned his attention to the folder on the table instead. "What's that?"
"This?" John glanced down, having evidently forgotten it was there. "More information on our scimitar-wielding friend." He handed it over. "Lestrade said you were waiting for it, I thought I'd save you the trip."
"Thank you," Sherlock said, and if John wanted to read more into his words, there was no harm done.
---
It wasn't as if John expected everything to get better right away, though Sherlock seemed to be playing along admirably well. For the most part, John let him.
True enough, Sherlock hadn't given him much of a choice. The first time he'd asked after Sherlock as he left the bathroom, once again unable to keep his dinner down, John had been met with such a furious glare that he'd thought, for an instant, to reach for a gun that was no longer at his hip.
It wasn't a response he'd been particularly proud of, and wasn't one he had an intention of experiencing, ever again. His attempt, the next morning, to talk Sherlock into taking some time off? It met with even less success.
Much easier, then, to quietly book the necessary appointments, taking advantage of professional connections to ease the way through waiting lists, cut through red tape.
And it was no real hardship at all to distract Sherlock, at a crime scene when something-John never knew what, exactly, and probably never would- caught his eye and sent him back to whatever memories he'd not yet managed to delete. A half-decent observation would work, once in a while, or more often, one bad enough that Sherlock's face would split into a grin as he corrected all the idiocies in John's deduction.
---
It was a relief when John went away to a conference in Manchester with Sarah, truth be told. His careful attention had become stifling, boring and dull. Pretending that it wasn't causing violent impulses was getting harder by the day.
Still, though, those annoyances were nothing in comparison to Mycroft dropping in on a Saturday morning, as if he'd been in the neighborhood and not, as the evidence suggested, in Sweden.
The surprise visit had John's fingerprints all over it, but not literally. Sherlock couldn't prove a thing.
"So, Sherlock," Mycroft had eventually said. "It surprises me, with all your thoroughness, that you haven't ever considered taking advantage of the full extent of resources available to you in your endeavors."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"
"Merely that it seems to me more expedient to watch for patterns of behavior, rather than waiting to cross paths with them." At Sherlock's unimpressed look, he continued. "I'm talking, of course, of surveillance. Of monitoring someone, a suspect, perhaps, or a person of interest electronically. GPS tracking, electronic tracking of transactions, facial recognition. They're all wonderful tools, you know."
"And if I had access to them, I would." Sherlock shrugged. "We don't all have your budgets, Mycroft."
"Yes, but. Not all of us need them," Mycroft pointed out, leaning back in his chair. "Don't you ever get curious, about a person? Don't you hate it when they move out of your reach? Though I suppose you'd never admit that could ever happen. But even so, in the unlikely event... forewarned is forearmed, after all. If you were to supply me names, then I could assist you."
"On what grounds?"
"On the grounds that if you consider them a person of interest, there is a very good chance that they are worth being concerned about."
Sherlock gave it some thought. "There's a man. His name is Moriarty. That's all I know."
Mycroft smirked. "Surely, he cannot be the only one, in this great country, to have aroused your suspicions."
Sherlock glared at the floor and thought about his next words, hard.
---
It only took a minute to access John's text messages online, later.
One, from the night before.
S would hate for me to tell you that there are persons who wish him harm, and I wonder if sometimes CCTV is deterrent enough. Talk to him? - JW
It took a lot longer to decide how to feel about it. Several days, in fact.
---
Most of the time, they danced around it.
The appointment at the doctor's office was in less than an hour, and though Sherlock hadn't said anything, John wasn't a complete fool. Not with the eyes darting, every so often, in his direction. The test results were due, today, and that would've been unsettling for anybody.
But Sherlock wasn't about to ask, and he was equally unlikely to accept a direct offer.
"We've got to get some groceries in," John tried, after considering it a while. "Cheaper if we share a taxi down to Oxford Street, don't you think?" It was better than nothing, after all. Better yet, it was plausible.
Sherlock shrugged, keeping his eyes trained on the computer screen. "I've actually been meaning to go over there myself." He rolled his neck. "I need to examine the cereal aisle."
"The cereal aisle," John repeated, disbelievingly, but not questioning it.
"The manufacturer has changed the packaging on their entire line, and it is a handy thing to know, for future reference."
John tried not to let on that he knew Sherlock was aware he was thinking it through. "This, I've got to see. You, investigating kitchen-based crimes that haven't existed yet." A brief pause, and then, "if you don't mind my lurking quietly in the waiting room over some month old magazines, that is. One less cab fare, at any rate."
Sherlock's shrug looked more like shoulders sagging in relief. "If you like," he said, casually. "Though I can't imagine the intricacies of bar code location will hold your attention for very long."
"I'm sure you'll be able to dazzle me with enough detail that I'll manage to keep my eyes open," John decided, glancing at the clock. It was nearly time. "Shall we go, then?"
---
It was inevitable, that a case would eventually take them this far out from Westminster. He'd long since known Anderson had been transferred out here. Even if Donovan hadn't mentioned it, the weekly email from Mycroft's assistant told him everything he needed to know. Where he went. What he purchased and who he talked to.
But the knowing made it worse. It always had.
--Staring at the clock, trying to ignore his phone, waiting for the message to arrive. The time, the place. Anderson's humiliating instructions. 'Don't be late,' always tagged on at the end.--
Lestrade was noticeable enough, pacing the sidewalk in front of the house, already flagging them down, but Sherlock couldn't waste his attention on him, not now. His eyes scanned the windows of the house, the open front door.
"You okay?" John asked, his hand hesitating before letting them out of the taxi.
"Does it matter?" Sherlock rolled his eyes, waved for him to open the door, hoping to avoid the impending fuss that John seemed likely to make. It wasn't as if his expertise had been called for, on this case. He'd invited himself along. As if his help was required.
"Well, if it helps, you've got more on him than he does on you, and he knows it. I wouldn't imagine he'll enjoy himself very much today, what with all of us mucking about and making him nervous." John snorted to himself. "Just promise me, if I do wind up shooting him, that we won't joke about it until we're safely at home, deal?"
Sherlock tore his eyes briefly from the house, finding himself already grinning as he gestured at the door. "Deal. Shall we?"