Wherein There Is a Case, Several Mysteries, John Coming to the Rescue, and an Old Folk Saying
Title: Wherein There Is a Case, Several Mysteries, John Coming to the Rescue, and an Old Folk Saying
Author: parsnips
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Warnings: Someone is drugged off-screen, and the word "peripatetic" is uttered in dialogue.
Spoilers: The first two episodes, but no mention of the third.
Summary: There are three mysteries to living with Sherlock Holmes.
Written for skyfyre, because she asked. (MP asked as well, and I felt I could not deny them both.)
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Wherein There Is a Case, Several Mysteries, John Coming to the Rescue, and an Old Folk Saying
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by parsnips
On the subject of compromises.
There are three mysteries to living with Sherlock Holmes -- this opposed to the dozens of compromises to be made living with Sherlock, "compromise" here being a loose term for "things John will just have to learn to put up with."
Do not expect Sherlock to make tea.
Do not anticipate food ever entering the cupboards by Sherlock's hand.
Do not even consider what Sherlock may have gotten on those hands within the last twenty-four hours, particularly in light of the gruesome photos of hacked-off body parts Sherlock's been texting in that same time frame.
Once John got his mind around the fact that Sherlock wasn't ever going to be a normal flatmate, it became startlingly easy to settle in at 221B. Living with Sherlock is a bit like living in a reality TV show, with all the guilty pleasure that entails. Periodically rating dips would demand that the house be set on fire, or an entire dead pig be found beneath John's bed, just to see what John would do, but otherwise it was just... fun. It's fun being Sherlock's flatmate, writing up blog posts about their cases, flying in the face of establishment and catching criminals at the same time.
However... there are the mysteries. Three of them. Three things that Sherlock will absolutely not talk about, or even allude to, which is so completely outside of Sherlock's normal modus operandi that it's starting to become something of an obsession with John, this wondering what in god's name Sherlock is trying to hide.
Regarding the mysteries.
1. When Sherlock bothers to go to the chemist, he always goes in person. Once a month, however, he will have something delivered.
Sherlock is massively secretive about this delivery. It's not drugs, and it's not poison, unless Sherlock is lying, though he's never bothered to lie about either one of those before. Sherlock's chemist is dodgy enough to supply either, so that doesn't narrow the field. Medication? Would imply a heretofore unmentioned illness -- unlikely. Condoms? Would imply a sex life -- so unlikely as to be ludicrous. And asking about this delivery gets absolutely nothing by way of a response, which is starting to drive John slightly mad.
2. There is a mold of uncertain origin in the sink, and Sherlock refuses to tell him the purpose of it.
Sherlock says it's a mold, anyway. The sink in the loo has had unsettling streaks of blueish-black in it from very nearly the beginning of their residence. Mrs. Hudson has complained. John has complained. Sherlock has attempted on several occasions to call it an experiment, but when pressed won't specify exactly what the experiment is in honor of.
It's more than a little disgusting, and it has a very odd smell.
The one time John tried to clean it out, he ruined a perfectly good sponge, and the mold just returned a few weeks later regardless.
3. John has no idea what the rest of the Holmes family looks like.
Mycroft is the exception to this, and if it weren't for Mycroft refusing to let Sherlock bully him out of sight, John suspects Sherlock would never have let on that Mycroft even existed. So far John knows that Sherlock has a mother (Mycroft alluded to her), and a father (because the presence of both Mycroft and Sherlock heavily depends on it) -- other relatives, though? More siblings? Nothing. There are no photos, no hints dropped, no terrible Christmas dinner stories to tell.
And when it comes down to it, John is not exactly certain of the verity of Mycroft in the great Holmes pantheon. Their brains are certainly similar enough, but in looks they're completely different. While they both have a vampiric skintone, Mycroft's can be attributed to his ginger hair. Sherlock has no such excuse, and anyway, is it even possible to have such dark hair with red-heads in the family?
John has no idea. He toys with asking this question, if only to discombobulate Sherlock enough to throw in a follow-up question about possible sisters. Perhaps in all the confusion, Sherlock will actually answer.
John thinks he might quite like to meet a female Holmes. Not the mater, obviously, but someone Sherlock's age or thereabouts. A female Sherlock, come to think of it, would be more than a little wonderful, particularly if she was actually interested in having sex any time in the future ever.
A female Mycroft does not enter into the picture.
John does not spend much time on the whys and wherefores of this train of thought.
Pertaining to the relationship.
One of the many compromises John has made, living with Sherlock, is in regard to his own sex life. It's just... difficult, trying to date other people while he's living with Sherlock. Sarah had been a prime example -- it just didn't seem possible to leave the flat, get some dinner, and end up anywhere approximating a bed without Sherlock appearing at some point during the proceedings. (The time that he had appeared in Sarah's bedroom was probably what put the final kibosh on that relationship.)
Subsequent relationships are as follows:
Tamsen: Sherlock had called her an idiot, and though he hadn't meant it, she took offense. Two days.
Jill: Had survived the initial onslaught, but had drawn the line with the dead pig. Three weeks.
Anthea: John had only ever mentioned that perhaps he'd be interested, and Sherlock had somehow aimed Mycroft at John and fired. An uncomfortable hour and a half.
Maggie: Sherlock had called her an idiot, and meant it. Offense was taken all around. Twenty minutes, and a very awkward cab ride.
John wonders whether he will ever, in fact, get to sleep with anyone ever again.
When it comes down to it, though -- and he will deny this vehemently if asked -- he wants to spend as much time as he can running with Sherlock. If that means giving up some of the more entertaining things he'd hoped to do after the war, well, that is a sacrifice he's willing to make. Because while women are great, Sherlock is fantastic.
John's not exactly sure what Sherlock's getting out this arrangement. Even John can admit that he is depressingly normal, and Sherlock is so completely not normal that John must seem the epitome of boring in comparison. John has learned by now that "boring" is synonymous with "the unutterable torments of the damned," and he is very concerned that perhaps Sherlock will look up one day, make a moue of distaste, and say something truly horrible to John.
Something like, "Please leave this flat and don't come back."
Or, "Don't bother coming with me for this case. Or the next. Or any others, ever again."
Or, "I've found someone else to live in this flat and come with me on cases and you were an idiot for ever thinking I would remain constant to something so absolutely mundane as yourself."
And he will mean it, and it won't be offensive, just an absolute truth. Sherlock is very good with absolute truths; he wields them like a knife. John will be left cut in a dozen places, and then he will leave, and he has no idea what he'll do with himself then.
No, John thinks he can forgo just about anything if it means another day by Sherlock's side. If that means no sex for a while, well, he's gone through worse. He's gone through a war, for god's sake. This is nothing.
Alluding to the mysteries again.
Mycroft has been known to pick John up from outside the clinic and drive him home. John thinks this is because Mycroft gets bored, and if he's anything like Sherlock, would rather torment John than start a minor land war just to have something to do. If Mycroft were more like Sherlock, he'd start the land war anyway -- John tries not to examine the news any more closely than usual on days Mycroft picks him up, but sometimes he does wonder.
Today Mycroft is sitting across from John, twirling his umbrella and smiling in John's general direction. He's saying nothing, but he's saying it loudly.
John sighs. "Yes?"
"Have you ever considered throwing aside this peripatetic life of yours and settling down to something more... steady?" Mycroft says.
"No," John says.
"My brother is fickle, you know, very prone to dropping his toys just as quickly as he picks them up."
"How flattering for both of us," John says. Mycroft's smile gets a little more benign. "Tell me," says John, "d'you have a sister?"
"How very amusing that you should ask that," Mycroft says. He examines the handle of his umbrella with all the attention of a scientist at a microscope. "Has Sherlock said anything about it?"
John looks out the window rather than answer. Mycroft clears his throat in a delicate manner. "No, John," he says, "the Holmes brothers number only two, and there are no sisters to complement the set. Whyever do you ask?"
Sometimes Mycroft speaks like he's from a different century. "I'm just... curious," says John.
"I suspect Sherlock just hasn't gotten around to telling you. There's no great secret about the family, John," Mycroft says. The car pulls up in front of 221B, and John's got his hand on the handle when Mycroft adds, "Well, perhaps one. Though I'd call that more Sherlock's dramatic inclinations interfering with life as usual than any sort of secret. Pay it no mind." He waves John out with one pale hand, and leaves John in front of the sandwich shop.
In the flat, Sherlock is typing on John's laptop. His hair looks like a dandelion gone to seed, suggesting that Sherlock has spent some amount of time in the last several hours rumpling it furiously. John considers the minor bad manners involved in breaking into his laptop, versus the major property damage of a bullet-riddled wall, and decides that if frustration is going to take any avenue for Sherlock, it might as well take the less destructive one.
John makes several more observations before he eventually rolls into bed, trying not to wonder too loudly whether Sherlock truly wants him around. Not all of these things are consciously observed, but they are all certainly affecting John's current state of mind.
Someone who isn't John has taken out the trash.
Sherlock has not said one single word to John for the last 34 hours.
The mold in the sink seems to have only gotten more sinister.
Sherlock has nevertheless solved two related drug crimes in those 34 hours, using only John's laptop and a yellow camera filter dredged from beneath the sofa.
Sherlock's laptop was not inaccessible during all this -- it was, in fact, beneath John's.
Mycroft is a bit of a bastard.
And, very deep down, John finds himself trying to guess what it would feel like to rumple Sherlock's hair.
Whereupon Sherlock goes missing.
It happens in this way: DI Lestrade calls at the flat for Sherlock. Sherlock is not there -- has not been there, in fact, for over a day, John's only communication from him being occasional text messages that are more confusing than reassuring. John inquires of DI Lestrade whether he might be of use. DI Lestrade thinks not. DI Lestrade leaves the flat, John stares at the floor, and quite coincidentally everyone receives a text message from Sherlock's number within two minutes of this meeting.
Patch test
(Neither John nor Lestrade are to know that this message was also sent -- accidentally -- to every major news organization in Britain. Lestrade finds out within a quarter hour, but doesn't bother to tell John. If he had, much of the following would not have occurred, so perhaps it is for the best.)
John thinks this is another of Sherlock's recent messages, except that DI Lestrade is pounding back up the stairs. "Do you have any idea what he's on about?" Lestrade demands.
Not usually, but John is willing to give it a go. "Patch tests," John says. "Used to determine allergens, among other things. Does that connect with the crime scene you wanted Sherlock to investigate?"
Lestrade eyes John. "Maybe," he says. He looks around the flat once more, as if Sherlock will magically unfold from the mantelpiece if he only waits long enough.
"I know quite a bit about Sherlock's methods," John says mildly. "While I'm no genius detective, I may be able to provide some assistance."
DI Lestrade looks skeptical, but he is also desperate for reasons that are not yet apparent, and John shortly finds himself in a first-story flat in Peckham, examining the face-up corpse of a man who... well. Is dressed exactly like Sherlock would be this time of year. Blue muffler, expensive coat, polished shoes, exquisite tailoring...
John kneels on one knee by the body. The tailoring is clearly bespoke, but the buttons on the shirt strain against the dead man's chest.
"You see why I wanted Sherlock for this one," Lestrade says over John's shoulder. "It's uncanny. We'll have the team ask after the clothing manufacturers, see if there are any records of purchases we can trace--"
"Not sure that's necessary, detective inspector," John says. He leans forward and sniffs at the blue scarf. There is a distinct smell of sulfur. He leans back, and his hand is twitching. "These clothes don't just look like Sherlock's -- they are Sherlock's."
"What?" Lestrade says, but he receives a phone call at that moment, and gestures for John to continue his observations without him.
Instead, John pulls out his mobile.
Where are you? -JW
That one goes to Sherlock.
Seen Sherlock? -JW
That one goes to Mycroft.
The text to Sherlock goes unanswered, but in less than a minute John receives a text from Anthea's number. Have been told to tell you that the Holmes brothers were often mistaken for one another in youth. Nothing further comes, not even when John actually calls Mycroft's number and only reaches the voicemail.
John stares down at the dead man, and contemplates many things. These things include: the gruesome photos of cut-off hands Sherlock sent him a week ago, the sink mold, Sherlock's mysterious text, the smell of sulfur, Anthea's equally mysterious text, Sherlock's monthly deliveries, rumpled hair, ginger hair, that case Sherlock solved with the yellow camera filter, and John's sudden and all-abiding wish that Sherlock was here.
After a moment he reaches out and with two fingers he touches the corpse's ears, first one side, then the other.
He stares some more.
As Lestrade comes back into the room, saying something horrifying about the fourth estate into his phone, John is calling Sherlock's regular chemist. He leaves a message on the company voicemail.
Hello. This is John Watson, I live at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes gets deliveries from you every last Thursday of the month. Where is he?
John hangs up without bothering to leave a number, and then looks up at Lestrade. John says, "The clothing is all Sherlock's, and they're clothes he's recently worn. The victim dressed himself, probably without Sherlock's input. The victim was made to look superficially like Sherlock, including hair color and makeup, but something went wrong. I don't think he was murdered; we should be more concerned about where Sherlock is than anything else."
Lestrade is looking at John very oddly. "Go on, then," he says after a long pause, during which John starts to feel a little stupid. "How do you figure?"
John points at the body as he lists his findings. "I know the clothing is not the victim's because the tailoring is too expensive to have been done poorly, and these clothes don't actually fit. It's not a matter of gaining weight, either, as this man's ribs would never have fit in so narrow a shirt.
"I know the clothing is Sherlock's in particular because I've been living with him for nine months now, and I am very familiar with the sorts of chemical burns he accrues." Now is not the time to mention that he also knows what Sherlock smells like. "I also recognize two different marks on his shoes and coat, both from the last week, which is how I know these are recent clothes and not just ones plucked out of the closet. And the cuffs on the shirt are unevenly buttoned, something that drives Sherlock round the bend, so I doubt Sherlock helped with this.
"The victim's wearing about as much pancake makeup as a single human can manage without it falling off, probably meant to mimic Sherlock's appearance. His hair has been dyed black, identical to Sherlock's shade, and recently. I suspect that is the cause of death, by the way, though I wouldn't argue it in court without an actual coroner's report in front of me."
John stands again and nods to himself. "Right. I have to go."
DI Lestrade clamps one very firm hand on John's shoulder. "I don't think so," he says. Lestrade does not look happy. "Did Sherlock tell you to say all that? What's going on here?"
John wishes he still had a cane. He could hit people with it. "What's going on is that Sherlock is missing, this man died of anaphylactic shock shortly after Sherlock's abduction, and Sherlock found a way to tell us all this using only two words and a missing signature."
"What?" Lestrade looks like how John feels most of the time, and John is suddenly acutely aware of what Sherlock's brain must be like on a regular basis.
"Patch test," John says, before stepping out of Lestrade's grip. "The man's dyed his hair recently, and the hairline is uneven -- probably did it at home. While not everyone follows the instructions on the box and does a patch test to see if they're allergic, this man did. Commonly people want to do the test out of sight, where the color won't look strange. Elbow or behind the ear are the ones I've seen when it goes wrong. For this man, the results didn't show up immediately, so he didn't realize what was about to happen. Sherlock was able to see what the man didn't, though -- you'll find a massive rash behind the man's left ear, and you'll probably find that some of the bloating in his face isn't just from the beginnings of decomposition."
Lestrade looks down at the body, and then back up at John. "But why would someone go to all the trouble?"
John shrugs helplessly. "I have no idea. That's where it stops being all medical stuff and knowing Sherlock, and starts being... genius madman territory."
He takes the stairs at a run.
During which John solves the case.
The door to the chemist's has a bell on it. Or it did, before John slammed the door wide and the bell broke off. John doesn't bother looking at any of the startled customers, but rather heads immediately for the back of the shop.
It's a very small chemist shop, independently owned, and if John was to guess he'd say that Sherlock's use of it is entirely based on the owner being an old client. This logic upsets John, because it means someone Sherlock had helped in the past has betrayed him now. Sherlock will be devastated -- he won't say he is, but he will be, because Sherlock is much easier to hurt than anyone suspects. He tends to act like a bastard because of it, but that doesn't mean the feeling isn't real.
There's no one at the register. There is the very rushed sound of someone dashing through the back rooms, though, and John feels the smallest tinge of relief to discover that he was right.
He jumps the counter and pushes through the door to the back, a supplies cupboard and break room all in one. There's a second door, swinging on its hinges, and he hears something slam on the other side. It takes the work of a moment to cross this room and enter the next.
The new room is completely empty. There are no windows, and there are no doors beyond the one he's just come through. The only light comes from the storage room behind him. There is no furniture, and the floor is a terrible laminate. The walls are plain white-painted plaster, the radiator is ill-placed, and the ceiling is no better than it should be.
John considers setting the whole building on fire, but decides that is probably not called for.
He could spend the next half hour tapping on the plaster and pulling up the frankly appalling floor, but he doesn't have time to be sensible, methodical, or anything like the person he generally pretends to be. Sherlock is in danger somewhere, and John is... displeased by this.
John reaches into his pocket and retrieves the yellow filter from Sherlock's email case, the cause of his delay in arriving here. He opens the door behind him as wide as it will go; light from the storage room hits the opposite wall, directly beside the ill-placed radiator. With the additional light, John can now see the scores of paint chipped off around the base of one radiator leg -- where a handcuff might have rubbed. More importantly, though, the wall itself -- yes -- there is a slight sheen there. John lifts the filter and stares through it.
PATCH TEST
OR
TEXTS
The letters are badly formed, but still recognizably Sherlock's handwriting. John's not sure what chemical he used to get the color contrast to work for the filter, but he did have an entire chemist shop to raid for supplies before getting locked up.
What he didn't have time for, apparently, was to come up with any sort of reasonable clue. "Patch test," John says to himself. "You insufferable git, you thought I might have missed it." The second part, though... he's not sure what that means. He hasn't received any new messages from Sherlock since the one that started him on this chase, and before that -- ah.
"Patch test," John breathes, pulling out his mobile and thumbing quickly through the last twenty-four hours worth of texts, "or patch texts."
51.496807,-0.145136
Drug cartel
Revenge
Framing
Murder/suicide
London eye
Patch test
The first set of numbers are coordinates, latitude and longitude. John can't be sure, but he's willing to bet that it's another direction to the chemist's. The rest of it... Drug cartel revenge framing murder/suicide London eye patch test. Words typed out quickly while a guard wasn't looking, just as the words on the wall had been written hurriedly before Sherlock was taken somewhere else. Not as careful as they should be, whoever they were -- or perhaps they felt they didn't have to be. Suggesting a large number of people, or a certain inevitability to their actions. Possibly both.
John does not have time to consider that Sherlock was texting him all this while, trying to get his help; he does not have time to think about how he'd ignored these texts, instead assuming that Sherlock was leaving John behind again, throwing John scraps from his case just to keep John appeased. He does not have the time to think about Sherlock leaving clue after clue, for hours, and not knowing whether John would ever catch on...
John has to tell himself very, very firmly that he doesn't have time for any of that.
Instead, he calls Lestrade.
Resolving all the mysteries, including one heretofore unmentioned.
The London Eye is in Lambeth, on the Southbank, and John has never been on it. It's ridiculous, really, that this should be as close as he's ever come to the overgrown ferris wheel, but he can't help it -- it looks like a target. In more ways than one.
The eleventh capsule, the one they've been waiting for, sweeps slowly into place, and the operators open the doors as quickly as they can. Passengers waiting to disembark find themselves pulled out quickly and replaced with half a dozen officers, all heading for the back end of it. The view from the back is of across the river, where the Ministry of Defense looms and where, perhaps, Mycroft has yet another office.
The officers find the last kidnapper holding up a nearly unconscious Sherlock, dressed in another man's clothes. Within moments they've brought the villain down, but Sherlock slips away and stumbles to his knees. His eyes are unfocused, and he opens and closes his mouth as if he's talking, but there are no words. He collapses forward onto his hands, and with his head hanging he wheezes out, "John."
Lestrade probably imagined he was doing a good job holding John back. This proves incorrect. John will have bruises to show for it later, of course, but this is more important. He kneels beside Sherlock and pulls him up. "I found you," he says. He hauls them both up to their feet. The EMS workers are heading for them, for Sherlock, thank god, because Sherlock is quite clearly drugged and most probably dying. "I've got you."
Sherlock lifts his head with visible effort and his cheek lands on John's shoulder. Sherlock's been gone for two days, and had no access to a razor -- for the first time in the many months John has known him, there is the very start of a beard coming in. A line at his jaw, made of a lighter shade than his hair. A considerably lighter shade.
As the paramedics pull him away, Sherlock's face scratches against John's neck, and John inhales sharply. Whether it's from the feel of Sherlock on him, that pass of heat and secrets, or from twice, twice in one day, being right... well. John doesn't think too hard about it.
Six hours later, John is sitting beside Sherlock's hospital bed reading a photocopy of Sherlock's suicide note.
John's read his fair share of suicide notes -- one generally does, when practicing medicine -- and this one just doesn't hold up.
I couldn't take it any more.
I've ruined too many lives.
Tell my family I love them.
John thinks about texting Mycroft with Sherlock's dying protestations of love and is giggling madly to himself when Sherlock wakes up.
Sherlock coughs, looks groggily around the room, and then focuses on John. He's more present than he was earlier, less near-death. His mouth curves into a smile, and his voice is very low. "How badly did they cock it up?"
John makes a valiant effort at subduing his laughter. It doesn't entirely work. "You love your family, and you're sorry you ruined so many lives."
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "They weren't even trying."
"No, I don't think they were," John says, and tucks the copy back into his pocket. His humor fades a little, and he settles back into his chair, watching Sherlock watch him.
Sherlock clears his throat again, and John belatedly offers him water. Sherlock accepts, and it's strange to be reaching a glass out to Sherlock, strange to see Sherlock suck on the straw, his cheeks hollowing, the shadows on his face looking new and different with the whiskers coming in. Sherlock's not meeting his eyes, which is stranger still, and John thinks he might know why.
Sherlock settles back again, and John puts back the water, and Sherlock says, "How?"
This may be the only time John gets to be Sherlock, gets to give the reveal. He folds his hands over his stomach and says, "You dye your hair."
Sherlock glares out from beneath black curls and sniffs. "I don't," he says, as if saying the words might make them true.
"You do," John says. "You absolutely do, you tit, and you've been passing off the stain in the sink as mold just to keep hiding the fact. You get your dye from a chemist that owes you a favor so you never have to pay for it, and you have it delivered so that you're never seen picking it up. And Mycroft's a bloody ginger, Sherlock, along with the rest of your family, and that's why I've never seen hide nor hair of them the entire time we've shared a flat."
"Mycroft told you," Sherlock mutters.
"No," John says, "he had Anthea tell me that the two of you were often mistaken for one another as children, but that was a reasonable -- well, Mycroftian -- response to a text I had sent him. The two of you look like night and day now, literally -- black and strawberry, there's no way you could be mistaken for one another. So something must have been different when you were children. It was just another clue, in the end."
"And your clues led you to discover my terrible secret," Sherlock says acidly, "how grand for you, how miraculous that you discovered Sherlock's vain little habit--"
"It led me to discover you," John says quietly, cutting Sherlock's rant off at the knees. "That, and your messages. Last week you sent me pictures of that murder case, the one with the hands cut off -- it upset me at the time, because I don't particularly like seeing body parts on my mobile. Then came the two emailed cases, but you wouldn't talk to me about them -- I didn't realize it at the time, but those were related to the bloody hands case, a case you thought would just make me unhappy to know about."
Sherlock says nothing.
John says, "Lestrade came to us because he found a body dressed as you. That's when we received your 'patch test' message, us and apparently every reporter you regularly harass when Lestrade annoys you." Sherlock winces slightly, but waves his hand for John to continue. John obliges. "When we found the body, it was obvious. You saw the man's reaction to the dye, dye which was an exact match for the color of your hair. You knew the man wouldn't be able to accomplish whatever crime he was hoping to frame you for -- murder, if your text is anything to go by. You were still missing, however, and the one connection I had was to that hair dye. Incidentally, it's making you smell of sulfur."
"I was hoping," Sherlock says, "that that could be attributed to my various chemical experiments."
John shrugs. "If it helps, that is what I thought until I saw the body. Your scarf smelled of it, but so did his hair. Things started happening a bit quickly, then, though I don't think DI Lestrade was really following. Why kidnap you now? Might have something to do with what you were working on recently. The only thing you'd been working on were the email cases and the bloody hands case, and I already knew I had to go to the chemist that supplied your hair dye -- who else would know your exact shade, after you'd been so secretive about it? I went to the flat first, and checked your emails -- you were still signed in on my computer. The cases were connected, all pointing to the drug cartel that apparently was being run out of the back of your dodgy chemist, and the yellow filter had been used to hide messages at the scene of the crime. When I went to the chemist, I found where you'd been kept, and found your message, and that led to the rest."
Sherlock looks at him out of the corner of his eye. "Your stories lack," he says.
"Shove off," John says cheerfully, because he did it, he was right, and this is wonderful.
"You're of course missing several key details," Sherlock starts, but John cuts him off again.
"I don't care," John says, and Sherlock frowns heavily. "I mean, you can tell me later, but-- I found you. You wanted me to find you, and I did. And you lived, and I am very, very glad of it."
Sherlock shakes his head. "You still haven't any real proof that I dye my hair," he says, trying one last time.
"No?" John stands and leans over Sherlock's hospital bed, one hand braced beside Sherlock's head. With his other hand, he reaches out and brushes his fingers across the arch of Sherlock's cheek. The unshaven skin drags across John's fingertips, catching, and Sherlock breathes out all at once. "There's a saying," John murmurs. "'Trust no man, though he be your brother, with hair one color and beard another.' Except I do trust you, you mad genius, so either the saying is wrong, or you dye your hair black for reasons that probably have to do with wanting to look imposing and older than you are and any number of ridiculous things."
John starts to pull away -- because this is Sherlock, and Sherlock is... he's not a girl, he's not interested, he's not John's -- but Sherlock takes hold of his wrist.
Very carefully, like he is trying to get the smallest drop of innuendo into the beaker of their conversation without changing the color of it entirely, Sherlock says, "I dye some of my hair."
John stops moving completely.
Some? Some?
His eyes flick involuntarily down the long stretch of Sherlock's body on the bed. He meets Sherlock's gaze again, and Sherlock gives a very slight, very real smile. "Yes," Sherlock says.
He says yes several more times before the nurses make their rounds again.
END
Author: parsnips
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Warnings: Someone is drugged off-screen, and the word "peripatetic" is uttered in dialogue.
Spoilers: The first two episodes, but no mention of the third.
Summary: There are three mysteries to living with Sherlock Holmes.
Written for skyfyre, because she asked. (MP asked as well, and I felt I could not deny them both.)
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Wherein There Is a Case, Several Mysteries, John Coming to the Rescue, and an Old Folk Saying
--
by parsnips
On the subject of compromises.
There are three mysteries to living with Sherlock Holmes -- this opposed to the dozens of compromises to be made living with Sherlock, "compromise" here being a loose term for "things John will just have to learn to put up with."
Do not expect Sherlock to make tea.
Do not anticipate food ever entering the cupboards by Sherlock's hand.
Do not even consider what Sherlock may have gotten on those hands within the last twenty-four hours, particularly in light of the gruesome photos of hacked-off body parts Sherlock's been texting in that same time frame.
Once John got his mind around the fact that Sherlock wasn't ever going to be a normal flatmate, it became startlingly easy to settle in at 221B. Living with Sherlock is a bit like living in a reality TV show, with all the guilty pleasure that entails. Periodically rating dips would demand that the house be set on fire, or an entire dead pig be found beneath John's bed, just to see what John would do, but otherwise it was just... fun. It's fun being Sherlock's flatmate, writing up blog posts about their cases, flying in the face of establishment and catching criminals at the same time.
However... there are the mysteries. Three of them. Three things that Sherlock will absolutely not talk about, or even allude to, which is so completely outside of Sherlock's normal modus operandi that it's starting to become something of an obsession with John, this wondering what in god's name Sherlock is trying to hide.
Regarding the mysteries.
1. When Sherlock bothers to go to the chemist, he always goes in person. Once a month, however, he will have something delivered.
Sherlock is massively secretive about this delivery. It's not drugs, and it's not poison, unless Sherlock is lying, though he's never bothered to lie about either one of those before. Sherlock's chemist is dodgy enough to supply either, so that doesn't narrow the field. Medication? Would imply a heretofore unmentioned illness -- unlikely. Condoms? Would imply a sex life -- so unlikely as to be ludicrous. And asking about this delivery gets absolutely nothing by way of a response, which is starting to drive John slightly mad.
2. There is a mold of uncertain origin in the sink, and Sherlock refuses to tell him the purpose of it.
Sherlock says it's a mold, anyway. The sink in the loo has had unsettling streaks of blueish-black in it from very nearly the beginning of their residence. Mrs. Hudson has complained. John has complained. Sherlock has attempted on several occasions to call it an experiment, but when pressed won't specify exactly what the experiment is in honor of.
It's more than a little disgusting, and it has a very odd smell.
The one time John tried to clean it out, he ruined a perfectly good sponge, and the mold just returned a few weeks later regardless.
3. John has no idea what the rest of the Holmes family looks like.
Mycroft is the exception to this, and if it weren't for Mycroft refusing to let Sherlock bully him out of sight, John suspects Sherlock would never have let on that Mycroft even existed. So far John knows that Sherlock has a mother (Mycroft alluded to her), and a father (because the presence of both Mycroft and Sherlock heavily depends on it) -- other relatives, though? More siblings? Nothing. There are no photos, no hints dropped, no terrible Christmas dinner stories to tell.
And when it comes down to it, John is not exactly certain of the verity of Mycroft in the great Holmes pantheon. Their brains are certainly similar enough, but in looks they're completely different. While they both have a vampiric skintone, Mycroft's can be attributed to his ginger hair. Sherlock has no such excuse, and anyway, is it even possible to have such dark hair with red-heads in the family?
John has no idea. He toys with asking this question, if only to discombobulate Sherlock enough to throw in a follow-up question about possible sisters. Perhaps in all the confusion, Sherlock will actually answer.
John thinks he might quite like to meet a female Holmes. Not the mater, obviously, but someone Sherlock's age or thereabouts. A female Sherlock, come to think of it, would be more than a little wonderful, particularly if she was actually interested in having sex any time in the future ever.
A female Mycroft does not enter into the picture.
John does not spend much time on the whys and wherefores of this train of thought.
Pertaining to the relationship.
One of the many compromises John has made, living with Sherlock, is in regard to his own sex life. It's just... difficult, trying to date other people while he's living with Sherlock. Sarah had been a prime example -- it just didn't seem possible to leave the flat, get some dinner, and end up anywhere approximating a bed without Sherlock appearing at some point during the proceedings. (The time that he had appeared in Sarah's bedroom was probably what put the final kibosh on that relationship.)
Subsequent relationships are as follows:
Tamsen: Sherlock had called her an idiot, and though he hadn't meant it, she took offense. Two days.
Jill: Had survived the initial onslaught, but had drawn the line with the dead pig. Three weeks.
Anthea: John had only ever mentioned that perhaps he'd be interested, and Sherlock had somehow aimed Mycroft at John and fired. An uncomfortable hour and a half.
Maggie: Sherlock had called her an idiot, and meant it. Offense was taken all around. Twenty minutes, and a very awkward cab ride.
John wonders whether he will ever, in fact, get to sleep with anyone ever again.
When it comes down to it, though -- and he will deny this vehemently if asked -- he wants to spend as much time as he can running with Sherlock. If that means giving up some of the more entertaining things he'd hoped to do after the war, well, that is a sacrifice he's willing to make. Because while women are great, Sherlock is fantastic.
John's not exactly sure what Sherlock's getting out this arrangement. Even John can admit that he is depressingly normal, and Sherlock is so completely not normal that John must seem the epitome of boring in comparison. John has learned by now that "boring" is synonymous with "the unutterable torments of the damned," and he is very concerned that perhaps Sherlock will look up one day, make a moue of distaste, and say something truly horrible to John.
Something like, "Please leave this flat and don't come back."
Or, "Don't bother coming with me for this case. Or the next. Or any others, ever again."
Or, "I've found someone else to live in this flat and come with me on cases and you were an idiot for ever thinking I would remain constant to something so absolutely mundane as yourself."
And he will mean it, and it won't be offensive, just an absolute truth. Sherlock is very good with absolute truths; he wields them like a knife. John will be left cut in a dozen places, and then he will leave, and he has no idea what he'll do with himself then.
No, John thinks he can forgo just about anything if it means another day by Sherlock's side. If that means no sex for a while, well, he's gone through worse. He's gone through a war, for god's sake. This is nothing.
Alluding to the mysteries again.
Mycroft has been known to pick John up from outside the clinic and drive him home. John thinks this is because Mycroft gets bored, and if he's anything like Sherlock, would rather torment John than start a minor land war just to have something to do. If Mycroft were more like Sherlock, he'd start the land war anyway -- John tries not to examine the news any more closely than usual on days Mycroft picks him up, but sometimes he does wonder.
Today Mycroft is sitting across from John, twirling his umbrella and smiling in John's general direction. He's saying nothing, but he's saying it loudly.
John sighs. "Yes?"
"Have you ever considered throwing aside this peripatetic life of yours and settling down to something more... steady?" Mycroft says.
"No," John says.
"My brother is fickle, you know, very prone to dropping his toys just as quickly as he picks them up."
"How flattering for both of us," John says. Mycroft's smile gets a little more benign. "Tell me," says John, "d'you have a sister?"
"How very amusing that you should ask that," Mycroft says. He examines the handle of his umbrella with all the attention of a scientist at a microscope. "Has Sherlock said anything about it?"
John looks out the window rather than answer. Mycroft clears his throat in a delicate manner. "No, John," he says, "the Holmes brothers number only two, and there are no sisters to complement the set. Whyever do you ask?"
Sometimes Mycroft speaks like he's from a different century. "I'm just... curious," says John.
"I suspect Sherlock just hasn't gotten around to telling you. There's no great secret about the family, John," Mycroft says. The car pulls up in front of 221B, and John's got his hand on the handle when Mycroft adds, "Well, perhaps one. Though I'd call that more Sherlock's dramatic inclinations interfering with life as usual than any sort of secret. Pay it no mind." He waves John out with one pale hand, and leaves John in front of the sandwich shop.
In the flat, Sherlock is typing on John's laptop. His hair looks like a dandelion gone to seed, suggesting that Sherlock has spent some amount of time in the last several hours rumpling it furiously. John considers the minor bad manners involved in breaking into his laptop, versus the major property damage of a bullet-riddled wall, and decides that if frustration is going to take any avenue for Sherlock, it might as well take the less destructive one.
John makes several more observations before he eventually rolls into bed, trying not to wonder too loudly whether Sherlock truly wants him around. Not all of these things are consciously observed, but they are all certainly affecting John's current state of mind.
Someone who isn't John has taken out the trash.
Sherlock has not said one single word to John for the last 34 hours.
The mold in the sink seems to have only gotten more sinister.
Sherlock has nevertheless solved two related drug crimes in those 34 hours, using only John's laptop and a yellow camera filter dredged from beneath the sofa.
Sherlock's laptop was not inaccessible during all this -- it was, in fact, beneath John's.
Mycroft is a bit of a bastard.
And, very deep down, John finds himself trying to guess what it would feel like to rumple Sherlock's hair.
Whereupon Sherlock goes missing.
It happens in this way: DI Lestrade calls at the flat for Sherlock. Sherlock is not there -- has not been there, in fact, for over a day, John's only communication from him being occasional text messages that are more confusing than reassuring. John inquires of DI Lestrade whether he might be of use. DI Lestrade thinks not. DI Lestrade leaves the flat, John stares at the floor, and quite coincidentally everyone receives a text message from Sherlock's number within two minutes of this meeting.
Patch test
(Neither John nor Lestrade are to know that this message was also sent -- accidentally -- to every major news organization in Britain. Lestrade finds out within a quarter hour, but doesn't bother to tell John. If he had, much of the following would not have occurred, so perhaps it is for the best.)
John thinks this is another of Sherlock's recent messages, except that DI Lestrade is pounding back up the stairs. "Do you have any idea what he's on about?" Lestrade demands.
Not usually, but John is willing to give it a go. "Patch tests," John says. "Used to determine allergens, among other things. Does that connect with the crime scene you wanted Sherlock to investigate?"
Lestrade eyes John. "Maybe," he says. He looks around the flat once more, as if Sherlock will magically unfold from the mantelpiece if he only waits long enough.
"I know quite a bit about Sherlock's methods," John says mildly. "While I'm no genius detective, I may be able to provide some assistance."
DI Lestrade looks skeptical, but he is also desperate for reasons that are not yet apparent, and John shortly finds himself in a first-story flat in Peckham, examining the face-up corpse of a man who... well. Is dressed exactly like Sherlock would be this time of year. Blue muffler, expensive coat, polished shoes, exquisite tailoring...
John kneels on one knee by the body. The tailoring is clearly bespoke, but the buttons on the shirt strain against the dead man's chest.
"You see why I wanted Sherlock for this one," Lestrade says over John's shoulder. "It's uncanny. We'll have the team ask after the clothing manufacturers, see if there are any records of purchases we can trace--"
"Not sure that's necessary, detective inspector," John says. He leans forward and sniffs at the blue scarf. There is a distinct smell of sulfur. He leans back, and his hand is twitching. "These clothes don't just look like Sherlock's -- they are Sherlock's."
"What?" Lestrade says, but he receives a phone call at that moment, and gestures for John to continue his observations without him.
Instead, John pulls out his mobile.
Where are you? -JW
That one goes to Sherlock.
Seen Sherlock? -JW
That one goes to Mycroft.
The text to Sherlock goes unanswered, but in less than a minute John receives a text from Anthea's number. Have been told to tell you that the Holmes brothers were often mistaken for one another in youth. Nothing further comes, not even when John actually calls Mycroft's number and only reaches the voicemail.
John stares down at the dead man, and contemplates many things. These things include: the gruesome photos of cut-off hands Sherlock sent him a week ago, the sink mold, Sherlock's mysterious text, the smell of sulfur, Anthea's equally mysterious text, Sherlock's monthly deliveries, rumpled hair, ginger hair, that case Sherlock solved with the yellow camera filter, and John's sudden and all-abiding wish that Sherlock was here.
After a moment he reaches out and with two fingers he touches the corpse's ears, first one side, then the other.
He stares some more.
As Lestrade comes back into the room, saying something horrifying about the fourth estate into his phone, John is calling Sherlock's regular chemist. He leaves a message on the company voicemail.
Hello. This is John Watson, I live at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes gets deliveries from you every last Thursday of the month. Where is he?
John hangs up without bothering to leave a number, and then looks up at Lestrade. John says, "The clothing is all Sherlock's, and they're clothes he's recently worn. The victim dressed himself, probably without Sherlock's input. The victim was made to look superficially like Sherlock, including hair color and makeup, but something went wrong. I don't think he was murdered; we should be more concerned about where Sherlock is than anything else."
Lestrade is looking at John very oddly. "Go on, then," he says after a long pause, during which John starts to feel a little stupid. "How do you figure?"
John points at the body as he lists his findings. "I know the clothing is not the victim's because the tailoring is too expensive to have been done poorly, and these clothes don't actually fit. It's not a matter of gaining weight, either, as this man's ribs would never have fit in so narrow a shirt.
"I know the clothing is Sherlock's in particular because I've been living with him for nine months now, and I am very familiar with the sorts of chemical burns he accrues." Now is not the time to mention that he also knows what Sherlock smells like. "I also recognize two different marks on his shoes and coat, both from the last week, which is how I know these are recent clothes and not just ones plucked out of the closet. And the cuffs on the shirt are unevenly buttoned, something that drives Sherlock round the bend, so I doubt Sherlock helped with this.
"The victim's wearing about as much pancake makeup as a single human can manage without it falling off, probably meant to mimic Sherlock's appearance. His hair has been dyed black, identical to Sherlock's shade, and recently. I suspect that is the cause of death, by the way, though I wouldn't argue it in court without an actual coroner's report in front of me."
John stands again and nods to himself. "Right. I have to go."
DI Lestrade clamps one very firm hand on John's shoulder. "I don't think so," he says. Lestrade does not look happy. "Did Sherlock tell you to say all that? What's going on here?"
John wishes he still had a cane. He could hit people with it. "What's going on is that Sherlock is missing, this man died of anaphylactic shock shortly after Sherlock's abduction, and Sherlock found a way to tell us all this using only two words and a missing signature."
"What?" Lestrade looks like how John feels most of the time, and John is suddenly acutely aware of what Sherlock's brain must be like on a regular basis.
"Patch test," John says, before stepping out of Lestrade's grip. "The man's dyed his hair recently, and the hairline is uneven -- probably did it at home. While not everyone follows the instructions on the box and does a patch test to see if they're allergic, this man did. Commonly people want to do the test out of sight, where the color won't look strange. Elbow or behind the ear are the ones I've seen when it goes wrong. For this man, the results didn't show up immediately, so he didn't realize what was about to happen. Sherlock was able to see what the man didn't, though -- you'll find a massive rash behind the man's left ear, and you'll probably find that some of the bloating in his face isn't just from the beginnings of decomposition."
Lestrade looks down at the body, and then back up at John. "But why would someone go to all the trouble?"
John shrugs helplessly. "I have no idea. That's where it stops being all medical stuff and knowing Sherlock, and starts being... genius madman territory."
He takes the stairs at a run.
During which John solves the case.
The door to the chemist's has a bell on it. Or it did, before John slammed the door wide and the bell broke off. John doesn't bother looking at any of the startled customers, but rather heads immediately for the back of the shop.
It's a very small chemist shop, independently owned, and if John was to guess he'd say that Sherlock's use of it is entirely based on the owner being an old client. This logic upsets John, because it means someone Sherlock had helped in the past has betrayed him now. Sherlock will be devastated -- he won't say he is, but he will be, because Sherlock is much easier to hurt than anyone suspects. He tends to act like a bastard because of it, but that doesn't mean the feeling isn't real.
There's no one at the register. There is the very rushed sound of someone dashing through the back rooms, though, and John feels the smallest tinge of relief to discover that he was right.
He jumps the counter and pushes through the door to the back, a supplies cupboard and break room all in one. There's a second door, swinging on its hinges, and he hears something slam on the other side. It takes the work of a moment to cross this room and enter the next.
The new room is completely empty. There are no windows, and there are no doors beyond the one he's just come through. The only light comes from the storage room behind him. There is no furniture, and the floor is a terrible laminate. The walls are plain white-painted plaster, the radiator is ill-placed, and the ceiling is no better than it should be.
John considers setting the whole building on fire, but decides that is probably not called for.
He could spend the next half hour tapping on the plaster and pulling up the frankly appalling floor, but he doesn't have time to be sensible, methodical, or anything like the person he generally pretends to be. Sherlock is in danger somewhere, and John is... displeased by this.
John reaches into his pocket and retrieves the yellow filter from Sherlock's email case, the cause of his delay in arriving here. He opens the door behind him as wide as it will go; light from the storage room hits the opposite wall, directly beside the ill-placed radiator. With the additional light, John can now see the scores of paint chipped off around the base of one radiator leg -- where a handcuff might have rubbed. More importantly, though, the wall itself -- yes -- there is a slight sheen there. John lifts the filter and stares through it.
PATCH TEST
OR
TEXTS
The letters are badly formed, but still recognizably Sherlock's handwriting. John's not sure what chemical he used to get the color contrast to work for the filter, but he did have an entire chemist shop to raid for supplies before getting locked up.
What he didn't have time for, apparently, was to come up with any sort of reasonable clue. "Patch test," John says to himself. "You insufferable git, you thought I might have missed it." The second part, though... he's not sure what that means. He hasn't received any new messages from Sherlock since the one that started him on this chase, and before that -- ah.
"Patch test," John breathes, pulling out his mobile and thumbing quickly through the last twenty-four hours worth of texts, "or patch texts."
51.496807,-0.145136
Drug cartel
Revenge
Framing
Murder/suicide
London eye
Patch test
The first set of numbers are coordinates, latitude and longitude. John can't be sure, but he's willing to bet that it's another direction to the chemist's. The rest of it... Drug cartel revenge framing murder/suicide London eye patch test. Words typed out quickly while a guard wasn't looking, just as the words on the wall had been written hurriedly before Sherlock was taken somewhere else. Not as careful as they should be, whoever they were -- or perhaps they felt they didn't have to be. Suggesting a large number of people, or a certain inevitability to their actions. Possibly both.
John does not have time to consider that Sherlock was texting him all this while, trying to get his help; he does not have time to think about how he'd ignored these texts, instead assuming that Sherlock was leaving John behind again, throwing John scraps from his case just to keep John appeased. He does not have the time to think about Sherlock leaving clue after clue, for hours, and not knowing whether John would ever catch on...
John has to tell himself very, very firmly that he doesn't have time for any of that.
Instead, he calls Lestrade.
Resolving all the mysteries, including one heretofore unmentioned.
The London Eye is in Lambeth, on the Southbank, and John has never been on it. It's ridiculous, really, that this should be as close as he's ever come to the overgrown ferris wheel, but he can't help it -- it looks like a target. In more ways than one.
The eleventh capsule, the one they've been waiting for, sweeps slowly into place, and the operators open the doors as quickly as they can. Passengers waiting to disembark find themselves pulled out quickly and replaced with half a dozen officers, all heading for the back end of it. The view from the back is of across the river, where the Ministry of Defense looms and where, perhaps, Mycroft has yet another office.
The officers find the last kidnapper holding up a nearly unconscious Sherlock, dressed in another man's clothes. Within moments they've brought the villain down, but Sherlock slips away and stumbles to his knees. His eyes are unfocused, and he opens and closes his mouth as if he's talking, but there are no words. He collapses forward onto his hands, and with his head hanging he wheezes out, "John."
Lestrade probably imagined he was doing a good job holding John back. This proves incorrect. John will have bruises to show for it later, of course, but this is more important. He kneels beside Sherlock and pulls him up. "I found you," he says. He hauls them both up to their feet. The EMS workers are heading for them, for Sherlock, thank god, because Sherlock is quite clearly drugged and most probably dying. "I've got you."
Sherlock lifts his head with visible effort and his cheek lands on John's shoulder. Sherlock's been gone for two days, and had no access to a razor -- for the first time in the many months John has known him, there is the very start of a beard coming in. A line at his jaw, made of a lighter shade than his hair. A considerably lighter shade.
As the paramedics pull him away, Sherlock's face scratches against John's neck, and John inhales sharply. Whether it's from the feel of Sherlock on him, that pass of heat and secrets, or from twice, twice in one day, being right... well. John doesn't think too hard about it.
Six hours later, John is sitting beside Sherlock's hospital bed reading a photocopy of Sherlock's suicide note.
John's read his fair share of suicide notes -- one generally does, when practicing medicine -- and this one just doesn't hold up.
I couldn't take it any more.
I've ruined too many lives.
Tell my family I love them.
John thinks about texting Mycroft with Sherlock's dying protestations of love and is giggling madly to himself when Sherlock wakes up.
Sherlock coughs, looks groggily around the room, and then focuses on John. He's more present than he was earlier, less near-death. His mouth curves into a smile, and his voice is very low. "How badly did they cock it up?"
John makes a valiant effort at subduing his laughter. It doesn't entirely work. "You love your family, and you're sorry you ruined so many lives."
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "They weren't even trying."
"No, I don't think they were," John says, and tucks the copy back into his pocket. His humor fades a little, and he settles back into his chair, watching Sherlock watch him.
Sherlock clears his throat again, and John belatedly offers him water. Sherlock accepts, and it's strange to be reaching a glass out to Sherlock, strange to see Sherlock suck on the straw, his cheeks hollowing, the shadows on his face looking new and different with the whiskers coming in. Sherlock's not meeting his eyes, which is stranger still, and John thinks he might know why.
Sherlock settles back again, and John puts back the water, and Sherlock says, "How?"
This may be the only time John gets to be Sherlock, gets to give the reveal. He folds his hands over his stomach and says, "You dye your hair."
Sherlock glares out from beneath black curls and sniffs. "I don't," he says, as if saying the words might make them true.
"You do," John says. "You absolutely do, you tit, and you've been passing off the stain in the sink as mold just to keep hiding the fact. You get your dye from a chemist that owes you a favor so you never have to pay for it, and you have it delivered so that you're never seen picking it up. And Mycroft's a bloody ginger, Sherlock, along with the rest of your family, and that's why I've never seen hide nor hair of them the entire time we've shared a flat."
"Mycroft told you," Sherlock mutters.
"No," John says, "he had Anthea tell me that the two of you were often mistaken for one another as children, but that was a reasonable -- well, Mycroftian -- response to a text I had sent him. The two of you look like night and day now, literally -- black and strawberry, there's no way you could be mistaken for one another. So something must have been different when you were children. It was just another clue, in the end."
"And your clues led you to discover my terrible secret," Sherlock says acidly, "how grand for you, how miraculous that you discovered Sherlock's vain little habit--"
"It led me to discover you," John says quietly, cutting Sherlock's rant off at the knees. "That, and your messages. Last week you sent me pictures of that murder case, the one with the hands cut off -- it upset me at the time, because I don't particularly like seeing body parts on my mobile. Then came the two emailed cases, but you wouldn't talk to me about them -- I didn't realize it at the time, but those were related to the bloody hands case, a case you thought would just make me unhappy to know about."
Sherlock says nothing.
John says, "Lestrade came to us because he found a body dressed as you. That's when we received your 'patch test' message, us and apparently every reporter you regularly harass when Lestrade annoys you." Sherlock winces slightly, but waves his hand for John to continue. John obliges. "When we found the body, it was obvious. You saw the man's reaction to the dye, dye which was an exact match for the color of your hair. You knew the man wouldn't be able to accomplish whatever crime he was hoping to frame you for -- murder, if your text is anything to go by. You were still missing, however, and the one connection I had was to that hair dye. Incidentally, it's making you smell of sulfur."
"I was hoping," Sherlock says, "that that could be attributed to my various chemical experiments."
John shrugs. "If it helps, that is what I thought until I saw the body. Your scarf smelled of it, but so did his hair. Things started happening a bit quickly, then, though I don't think DI Lestrade was really following. Why kidnap you now? Might have something to do with what you were working on recently. The only thing you'd been working on were the email cases and the bloody hands case, and I already knew I had to go to the chemist that supplied your hair dye -- who else would know your exact shade, after you'd been so secretive about it? I went to the flat first, and checked your emails -- you were still signed in on my computer. The cases were connected, all pointing to the drug cartel that apparently was being run out of the back of your dodgy chemist, and the yellow filter had been used to hide messages at the scene of the crime. When I went to the chemist, I found where you'd been kept, and found your message, and that led to the rest."
Sherlock looks at him out of the corner of his eye. "Your stories lack," he says.
"Shove off," John says cheerfully, because he did it, he was right, and this is wonderful.
"You're of course missing several key details," Sherlock starts, but John cuts him off again.
"I don't care," John says, and Sherlock frowns heavily. "I mean, you can tell me later, but-- I found you. You wanted me to find you, and I did. And you lived, and I am very, very glad of it."
Sherlock shakes his head. "You still haven't any real proof that I dye my hair," he says, trying one last time.
"No?" John stands and leans over Sherlock's hospital bed, one hand braced beside Sherlock's head. With his other hand, he reaches out and brushes his fingers across the arch of Sherlock's cheek. The unshaven skin drags across John's fingertips, catching, and Sherlock breathes out all at once. "There's a saying," John murmurs. "'Trust no man, though he be your brother, with hair one color and beard another.' Except I do trust you, you mad genius, so either the saying is wrong, or you dye your hair black for reasons that probably have to do with wanting to look imposing and older than you are and any number of ridiculous things."
John starts to pull away -- because this is Sherlock, and Sherlock is... he's not a girl, he's not interested, he's not John's -- but Sherlock takes hold of his wrist.
Very carefully, like he is trying to get the smallest drop of innuendo into the beaker of their conversation without changing the color of it entirely, Sherlock says, "I dye some of my hair."
John stops moving completely.
Some? Some?
His eyes flick involuntarily down the long stretch of Sherlock's body on the bed. He meets Sherlock's gaze again, and Sherlock gives a very slight, very real smile. "Yes," Sherlock says.
He says yes several more times before the nurses make their rounds again.
END