Sherlock Fic: Ashes to Ashes - Part One

[silkmoth101]

Please take a look at the warnings and notes in the MASTERPOST.

Ashes to Ashes
Sociopathy (Antisocial Personality Disorder)
[sō′sē•op′əthē]
Etymology: L, socius, companion; Gk, pathos, disease
A personality disorder characterised by a lack of social responsibility and failure to adapt to ethical and social standards of the community.

ANTI-SOCIAL PERSONALITY DISORDER DSM IV 301.70
EXPLANATION
Individuals with an Antisocial Personality Disorder show a lack of concern toward the expectations and rules of society and usually frequently become involved in at least minor violations of the rules of society and the rights of others. A popular term for this type of individual is "sociopath". Although the diagnosis is limited to those persons over eighteen years of age, it usually involves a history of antisocial behaviour before the age of fifteen. The individual often displays a pattern of lying, truancy, delinquency, substance abuse, running away from home and may have difficulty with the law. As an adult, the person often commits acts that are against the law and/or fails to live up to the requirements of a job, financial responsibility, or parenting responsibilities. They tend to have difficulty sustaining a long term marital relationship and frequently are involved in alcohol and drug abuse.

SYMPTOMS
The signs and symptoms include:
1. Lack of concern regarding society's rules and expectations.
2. Repeated violations of the rights of others.
3. Unlawful behaviour.
4. Lack of regard for the truth
5. In parents, neglect or abuse of children.
6. Lack of a steady job. Frequent job changes through quitting and/or being fired
7. Tendencies toward physical aggression and extreme irritability.
Usually the following circumstances are predisposed factors:
1. Absence of parental discipline.
2. Extreme poverty.
3. Removal from the home.
4. Growing up without parental figures of both sexes.
5. Erratic, inconsistent discipline.
6. Being "rescued" each time the person is in trouble and never having to suffer the consequences of his own behaviour.
7. Maternal deprivation and lack of an appropriate "attachment".
Childhood victimisation was a significant predictor of the number of lifetime symptoms of antisocial personality disorder and of a diagnosis of antisocial personality disorder, despite the fact that controls for demographic characteristics and arrest history were introduced. CONCLUSIONS: These findings suggest the importance of inquiring about a patient's childhood history of abuse and/or neglect when antisocial symptoms are evident. In addition to speculation about a possible saturation model for the consequences of childhood victimisation, these findings also reinforce a multiple causation model of antisocial personality disorder.

John stared at the screen of Sherlock's laptop.

A few minutes ago he had noticed his own was missing again, and he had come down to the living room, determined to wrest it away from Sherlock. Sadly, he had found out that said laptop was buried under a pillow and a head; Sherlock was lying on the sofa, asleep. Normally, this wouldn't have deterred John at all, but he knew the other man hadn't slept for days. He had just stood before the sofa, hands opening and closing almost spastically for a few moments, until he had rolled his eyes at himself and gone over to the desk, barely managing without tripping; the floor looked like a battlefield. As assumed, Sherlock's laptop had been exactly where it always was and, as also assumed, in standby mode, so John wouldn't have to worry about passwords. What he hadn't expected, though, was an open Word file on the matter of APD.

Scrolling down, John skimmed the next pages. They went on and on, partly looking like they had been copied from dissertations and medical journals, in other parts they sounded like complete and utter nonsense. One hundred fifty-three pages about a personality disorder not even specialists were too sure about. He threw a quick glance at Sherlock who still hadn't moved, then went back to reading the first page again.

Childhood victimisation was a significant predictor…

John swallowed hard; Sherlock was not a sociopath. After living with him for over two years and probably knowing him better than Sherlock might be aware of, the thought was simply ridiculous. Frowning, John skipped forward to the last page.

Validity of the Personality Diagnostic Questionnaire--revised: comparison with two structured interviews
SE Hyler, AE Skodol, HD Kellman, JM Oldham and L Rosnick
Department of Psychiatry, Columbia University College of Physicians and Surgeons, New York, New York.

John clicked on the embedded link, read quickly and finally leaned back on the chair. This looked strangely like a to-do-list. A thought crossed his mind and he checked the dates of the file; generated on March 1st, 1995, last amended on November 5th, 2012. He scrolled back to the first page, carefully placing the cursor exactly where it had been when he first had looked at the file, and then closed the laptop quietly. For a moment, he just sat there, unmoving. November 5th… three days ago. And three days ago, there had been that peculiar visit from Mycroft.

Finally John stood up, went into the kitchen and put the kettle on; every move he made a silent one. He put a teabag into his cup, waited for the water to boil hot enough for tea but not so hot it would wake the man sleeping on the sofa, then returned to the living room and sat down in his armchair.

Childhood victimisation was a significant predictor…

He remembered the night three days ago very well. Sherlock and he had been watching television when there had been a loud knock downstairs and only moments later someone running up the stairs. John had been surprised to see Mycroft entering; running wasn't really his style. He was infuriated, John thought, not angry or annoyed, infuriated. And a second later, Sherlock looked like he'd seen a ghost. He could practically feel how his own muscles had tensed all over; he had anticipated some sort of disaster waiting to happen, a case with immense impact on civilisation. Stupid thought, maybe, but the way both brothers had looked… But whatever John had inwardly prepared himself for, it hadn't happened. Mycroft and Sherlock had stared at each other for a few seconds, then Mycroft had turned to John and asked him to leave the room for a few minutes, asked him in such a painfully urbane and at the same time clipped tone that John had retreated immediately to his bedroom. Only after he had heard the front door banging closed -and now, when he thought about it, when had he ever heard Mycroft Holmes slamming a door before?- had John gone downstairs again… and that was the beginning of three days of living within the personal hell of the darkest mood Sherlock had ever been in.

John took a swallow of tea and looked again at Sherlock's back. Sherlock had been… well, impossible. He hadn't answered any question John had asked; he had been insulting, bristling, hissing and spitting. Not even Mrs Hudson had been able to brush it off, and John had been glad about his new job at Barts; glad about the feasibility of working overtime. But in his endeavour to avoid Sherlock as much as humanly possible, John hadn't thought the whole situation through. Considering Sherlock's mood, there was no case. But considering the state of their flat -no experiments, the strangely random mess on the floor, the clean fridge, the violin thrown carelessly into a corner- there was no boredom, either. So what…

Sherlock made a mewling sound and stretched his legs as far as possible; John tensed and then at once tried to relax his body and especially his face, praying it wouldn't give his thoughts away. By now, he was far better at being 'difficult to read', a fact that annoyed Sherlock to no end.

John sighed loudly, and Sherlock jumped. He jumped and his head whipped around, and now it took an immense effort keeping the vacant mask on. Sherlock never jumped.

"What is it?" John asked.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked back, annoyance already creeping into tone and face.

"I live here."

Sherlock sat up, looking him over; John knew he had to think quickly.

"Tea?" He asked, raising his cup.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"I would appreciate it if you stopped sleeping on my laptop," John continued.

"Then why didn't you just take it?" Sherlock hissed.

Good, John thought, Keep going. "You haven't slept for days; you look terrible. I didn't want to wake you." He didn't even have to fake the worried tone.

"Stop hovering," Sherlock snarled and turned over again, curling up into a familiar foetal position.

John was nonplussed; this had been far too easy. For a moment, he thought about poking the other man. Mouth already open to spit out the first of at least one hundred questions, he hesitated and then swallowed them down. No, that wasn't the way to learn anything. He had to outwait Sherlock. And given the tension of the body on the sofa, it shouldn't take too long.

John took another sip of tea.

Like a jack-in-the-box, Sherlock bounced up from one second to the next, stomped over the table and paused in front of John's chair, looming over him. John braced himself for the worst.

"I think we should change that," Sherlock said silently.

"Change what?"

"Your living here."

This is worse than the worst, John thought. Struggling to keep the hurt at bay, he looked closer at Sherlock's face. Oh, I was so wrong. He isn't in a bad mood, not at all. He is… scared. John blinked once.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

Sherlock stared down at him for a moment, and then, in a whirl of bathrobe, he left the room; John heard the door to Sherlock's bedroom close violently. Releasing the breath he held, John pursed his lips; he was torn. On one hand, he was relieved that Sherlock hadn't insisted on that nasty topic, on the other hand, John's worry about him had just increased tenfold. What the hell is going on here?

John glanced at the papers, letters and books lying in heaps on the floor; perhaps he could find out. And he could kill two birds with one stone; Sherlock might not mind the mess, but John surely did. He heaved himself out of the chair, looking around to decide where to start. Grinning, he went over to the desk and turned on the radio hidden under it; he was sure Sherlock would hear it and would maybe even be annoyed enough to come back out again.

About fifteen minutes later, John had cleaned the middle of the room and was now working himself forward around the table and the sofa. Suddenly, a letter that was ripped half-open caught his gaze. Cursing under his breath, he wretched it out from under a sofa leg. Damn the man! It was one thing to fling his own mail around the room but John drew a line when it came to his letters. This invitation for the upcoming medical congress was clearly meant for him; why anyone would have thought he was interested in cardiothoracic surgery was beyond him, though. Standing up, he tore the envelope open completely to take a look at the cover letter. A small rectangular plastic card fell out and bounced off the table; it was a visitor pass for the congress, issued to… Sherlock Holmes. John frowned. What the…? It would make sense if the congress were about Pathology or Forensics, but Cardiac Surgery? He scanned the letter but there was only the usual official babble from the organiser to read, so he drew out the programme. On the first page -of course- Professor George Wentwall, Director of Cardiology, Bartholomew's Hospital, London. Idiot. John turned the page and stared at the picture of a handsome man. He was older; in his sixties probably, sure, but still very impressive. Black hair with only a hint of grey, proud posture, lean, but the most striking features were his eyes; one a light grey, one a dark brown. Complete heterochromia iridum, John thought, fascinated. Then his gaze fell on the name beside the picture.

He sat down on the couch, very slowly.

Sir Richard Holmes, Professor and Director of Cardiothoracic Surgery at the New York-Presbyterian/Weill Cornell, Member of the Howard Gilman Institute for Valvular Heart Diseases - Main Speaker, scheduled for 10th of November, 2 p.m.

John looked back at the picture. Oh, now he could see the resemblance, of course. The long and slim face, the hair, even the colour of that one eye… but all of a sudden, John didn't think the man handsome anymore. The look on that face seemed to be cold, downright cruel.

Childhood victimisation was a significant predictor…

For a moment, John didn't move. Then he carefully put the contents back in the envelope; sadly, he couldn't repair it, but for the first time ever John didn't think that Sherlock would notice. He forced the letter back under the couch, exactly where he had found it, and then sat down on the floor, grabbing his mobile from the table. He dialled.

A few minutes later John put on his jacket and left for Barts.

***

"I went to boarding school when I was nine years old. Late, I know. My parents had a difficult time deciding between boarding and home-schooling, so I had a private tutor first. I was sent to Dulwich College in South London. I was the youngest one there; at that time, they only typically took on pupils who were at least twelve years old. Still, I managed. Since my parents lived in Wales, near the Brecon Beacons, it wasn't feasible to come home on the weekends. It was not requested, either. I did go home on holidays, at first. Later, after my mother… anyway, later I spent the holidays away from home; more often than not I was invited by schoolfellows so I didn't return home for long periods of time. My part of the blame."

***

On his way home, John made a little detour to the supermarket to buy groceries. He wasn't quite sure yet how, but he felt the overwhelming need to get a bit of food into Sherlock, somehow. He had just arrived at their front door, juggling the two bags in one hand and searching for his keys with the other, when he heard the sound of a loud voice above him. Looking up, he saw that -despite the cold- one of the windows of their living room was tilted and he recognised the voice. Mycroft. John listened hard for a moment but couldn't make out any words, which was a shame, really. He knew that the moment he unlocked the door there wouldn't be a thing to hear anymore. Ah well. He opened the door and, as he had known, was greeted by silence. Climbing up the stairs, he didn't enter the living room; instead he went directly into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Some of the groceries were perishable, after all, and John had the feeling that the moment he met up with the two brothers his priorities would change dramatically. Finally, the food was stored away and John ambled into the absolutely silent living room, a hopefully gentle smile on his face.

"Hello, John."

John wondered how Mycroft was able to speak at all given those clenched teeth. "Good evening, Mycroft." He threw a glance at Sherlock and immediately felt his pulse rate going up. Sherlock sat on the sofa, staring straight ahead at apparently nothing. His normally pale face looked waxen.

"John, I'm so sorry to inconvenience you, but would you mind giving us a few minutes?"

Tough luck. "I do mind," John answered, sitting down on his chair. By now, he was pretty sure the smile on his face looked creepy.

Mycroft raised both eyebrows, glared shortly at Sherlock who seemed to be in an almost catatonic state and then turned back to John. "I wasn't aware you knew."

"Knew what?" John asked softly.

Mycroft's expression became blank. "Never mind, Dr Watson," he said just as softly. He made one of his weird little half-turns with the aid of his umbrella and stalked over to the sofa. "Hand it over to me, Sherlock."

No answer.

"This is not the time for you to behave tenaciously!"

John barely managed to stay seated. He wondered why Mycroft couldn't see that Sherlock wasn't even noticing him anymore. And then he wondered if Sherlock was playing them, but almost immediately, he abandoned this theory; Sherlock was good, but not that good.

Mycroft sighed and leaned heavily on his umbrella; John was sure it would leave a dent in the wooden floor. "As you wish, Sherlock. Phone me when you change your mind." He bent down to pick up a familiar envelope from the table and put it into his briefcase. "Have a nice evening, Sherlock, Dr Watson."

John nodded absently at Mycroft, his whole attention on Sherlock. He waited until he heard Mycroft leaving the house, slamming the door again, then he stood up, closed the window and turned the heat on. Hesitating, he glanced once more at Sherlock who still didn't seem to have moved. On closer inspection, though, John could see a faint tremor running over the lean body in short intervals; he also noticed that Sherlock's hands were entwined, so tightly clenched that his knuckles had turned white. His left thumb was rubbing the right one so hard it had become fiercely red; John had never seen this nervous tick on him before.

Taking a deep breath, John discarded the idea of saying anything; he was sure Sherlock wasn't able to listen, let alone answer. Tea and chicken soup it was, then. But first things first; he had to make sure Sherlock wouldn't suddenly just leave. If Mycroft had told his brother one of the things John had found out this afternoon, there was genuine reason for concern. Keeping an eye on Sherlock, John locked the door to the entrance and put the key in his pocket. Sherlock didn't react, so John entered the kitchen and locked the door there, too, then he put on the kettle and got out two cups, a pan and the can with the soup.

Waiting for the water to boil, John stared at the kettle, lost in thought. He once again marvelled at the knowledge of what gossipers medical doctors were. He didn't have to call in any favours at Barts at all; everyone had been more than willing to share what they knew about Professor Richard Holmes. And those who were too young to know him from the time he had worked there had almost run to their phones to dig up more stuff. As rumour had it, he was a genius in his field of work; John hadn't expected anything less with that surname. But his reputation as a human being was… well, notorious, to say the least. One of his former senior physicians had actually called him an ogre. And sadly, as John had feared, Richard Holmes wasn't a distant uncle of Sherlock's; no, he was the husband of Galiena Holmes, father of two sons, Mycroft and Sherlock. Surprisingly enough, the couple wasn't divorced, never mind the fact Holmes had emigrated to the US over twenty years ago and his wife had stayed in England. His further personal life remained a mystery, though. John had heard some rumours about a scandal making Richard Holmes leave his home country but no one had known anything concrete.

John swallowed; he already had certain ideas about that scandal. As much as he tried not to jump to conclusions it was hard not to when faced with an almost erratically behaving Mycroft and with the state Sherlock was in right now. The most worrying news John had received was that Richard Holmes was already in London, for some days now. Swallowing again, John lowered his head and closed his eyes; he was out of his depth here. He didn't know how to approach Sherlock; he didn't know what to say if anything at all, he didn't know how to act around him. Not enough data, Sherlock would say. As if data would help anyone navigate safely through the psyche of this complicated man.

But data and deductions aren't your greatest gifts anyway, John's inner voice reminded him. You know him. Go with your instinct.

***

"When I was fifteen, I noticed something was amiss. But again, I made a mistake. I thought it had to do with what had happened to our mother. The benefit of hindsight… you know how it is. It was there for me to see if I had just looked closer. If I had shown more interest. I don't know. I do remember that I wondered about the extreme changes in his behaviour. The joyfulness was gone, as was the shyness that always had seemed so out of character in our family. But I thought he was growing up. Dear Lord. Can you believe that I thought this about an eight year old boy?"

***

Putting the two cups with tea on the table, John sat down on the sofa, close to Sherlock. He waited for a moment but Sherlock made no move to take one of them; he just continued the rubbing motion with his thumb. Very slowly, John raised his right hand and laid it over Sherlock's; he didn't say a word, he didn't even look at him. Under his palm, John felt the nervous movement stop at once. When no immediate explosion came, he moved his hand until it slipped between the entwined ones and finally took hold of Sherlock's left hand, pulling it away gently from the other, and rested their now clasped hands on Sherlock's knee. With his left hand, John took hold of one cup and brought it to Sherlock's right hand, close enough for the other man to feel the warmth emitting from the tea. When Sherlock took the cup and raised it to his lips, John suppressed a sigh of relief. He slowly started to let go of the hand in his, but then, for a split second, he felt the other hand cling to it. Sherlock immediately tried to withdraw again, too late; John had already tightened his grip. Thankfully, Sherlock continued to sip his tea, a bit mechanically, and John tried to keep his breathing regular and slow. Inwardly, he was scared, for more than one reason.

Tea finished, Sherlock put the cup back on the table. John thought about asking him if he wanted soup but decided against it. The silence was in a weird way tense and peaceful at the same time, and John didn't want to do anything that would break the mood they were suddenly in. He was very aware of the fact that Sherlock was letting him in, in a way he never had before; John didn't know why and didn't care. So when he felt Sherlock leaning slowly against him, he -again- said nothing, only returned the pressure with shoulder and thigh. For a moment, John felt Sherlock trembling once more, then he suddenly relaxed, trusting his whole weight on John, head falling forward, eyes closed. John took a chance and freed his right hand only to wrap it immediately around Sherlock's waist, tugging carefully. Sherlock went down willingly, taking John with him until they both lay on the sofa, Sherlock's head on John's chest. There really wasn't enough space for both of them, even with Sherlock pressed against the backrest and John dangling dangerously on the edge, but John told himself that it wasn't for a long time anyway; Sherlock surely would fall asleep soon and then he would find a blanket to cover the exhausted man. While John still mused about whether he could sleep on one of the chairs or not, he drifted off where he was.

***

"I was… nineteen years old, already three years at Oxford, I think, when I went home to get Sherlock for a visit with our mother and for the first time, he didn't want to accompany me. He didn't answer when I asked him why… it was strange. He didn't throw a tantrum, he was… cold in his refusal. He wouldn't comply, no matter what I tried. In the end, I yelled at him. I yelled at him and left him behind. I remember our father was home then the whole time… there was talk about a sabbatical, some time off for research. I did not see the connection."

***

John was running up a rocky mountain path, searching for Sherlock. He was sure he would find him behind one of the big rocks he could see ahead but had a hard time reaching them. Every time he came close, he slithered backwards a few steps. Finally, more on his hands and knees than on his feet, he surrounded the first one, only to come to a sudden halt. Before him stood a massive griffin, wings spread, beak open and hissing, lion tail lashing. John stared up at the beast, unable to move, until his neck hurt. He could see one of the giant paws rising, clearly intent on killing him, and still couldn't move. The paw came down, John flinched and ducked, and woke up.

The first thing he noticed was that his neck indeed hurt. The second thing was that he could smell something -sandalwood and moss- a smell he knew by heart. John slowly opened his eyes. He was still lying on the sofa, quite comfortably now except for his neck which was reclining on the armrest at a painful angle. His body was more comfortable because he was lying completely on the sofa, with Sherlock literally on top of him. Their legs were entwined; John's right arm was around Sherlock's back, while Sherlock's arms were wrapped around John's waist. And John's mouth and nose were buried in Sherlock's hair.

Jesus. Christ.

John told his body to calm down; his body told him to take his nose out of the soft, dark locks now. John wasn't able to; to the contrary, while he was helplessly watching his hand sliding slowly up over Sherlock's shoulder blade towards his neck, he pressed a kiss onto Sherlock's head.

Suddenly he saw movement out of the corner of his eye; his head whipped around. He first glanced at knees clad in expensive trousers, about eight inches short of John's face. His gaze wandered upwards.

Mycroft. Oh this is… delightful.

Mycroft Holmes was standing right in front of them, between table and sofa, looking down at John with a murderous glint in his eyes… not to mention his red, red face. Defensively, John covered Sherlock's ear with his hand, just in time.

"What is this?"

John blinked then asked, "How did you get in here?"

Mycroft continued staring down at him, not answering, he only became redder in the face. All right, it probably had been a stupid question. John was sure that Mycroft held keys to every house, flat, bower and bicycle in London. Maybe even throughout England.

Hand clenching the umbrella, Mycroft bowed down so far he was almost nose to nose with John, and snarled, "Answer me!"

John noticed he had to pee, quite urgently; Sherlock's hipbone was pressing against his bladder. He also noticed that he couldn't remember Mycroft's question; his brain was definitely offline… and the tiny part that wasn't was busy with processing the fact that Sherlock was still lying on top of him. "Uh…"

Mycroft's face came even closer, and John started to wonder what he wanted so close. In the next moment, though, Mycroft straightened up and backed off a step so quickly he almost fell backwards over the low table. Apparently, Sherlock hadn't been asleep at all. Head and upper body rising like a king cobra, he hissed, "Go home, Mycroft. You are not invited and not welcome."

John's gaze lingered a minute on Sherlock's bed hair, then he looked cautiously at Mycroft. Yes, as he had thought; the colour of the older man's face had not improved.

"You are a fool, Sherlock. How can you fall for something like this?" Mycroft turned to John. "I am disappointed, Dr Watson. Very disappointed. Obviously, I have misjudged you. I had never thought you would take advantage of this… situation."

John clenched his teeth but before he could start yelling, Sherlock's hand slapped on his chest, demanding silence. "You stay out of this! You are meddling enough as it is, Mycroft. Don't make me get up and throw you out!"

"I will not allow you to…"

Sherlock interrupted him, voice cold as ice. "How interesting, your choice of words. One last time, Mycroft: Get out."

Not entirely sure about why these words had such an impact on Mycroft, John watched the face above them becoming pale. Mycroft averted his eyes for a second but before he turned around and left, he threw one last glance at John. And John understood; Mycroft was far from being finished with him. Not that this mattered right now; John could feel Sherlock staring at him. Hesitantly, he returned the look and for a seemingly long time, they did just that, looking at each other with a really short distance between them. Say something! John had no idea what. Doesn't matter! Say something!

"I have to pee."

One corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched. "So do I."

Although the wheels in John's mind definitely had started to turn, he was not able yet to read the expression in Sherlock's eyes. He paused for a moment, then asked, "Let's go out for breakfast later?"

"My pleasure."

***

I was stupid. No, don't. I was. You know, our father never seemed interested in his children. He certainly was not interested in me. Sometimes I think we have too much in common. Not the nicest thought. Anyway, I believed he only sired us to please our mother. That's why I said, stupid. He wasn't interested in our mother either. I have no idea how he persuaded her to marry him; without doubt, she married below herself. But I digress. As I said, he was only interested in his work. I am still not completely sure why or when he focused on Sherlock. One reason might have been that Sherlock was very close to our mother. To her and to the fairy tales she told him.

***

The next morning, John woke up to the sound of violin playing, and his neck was killing him. Again. Of course he had now slept two nights in a row on that damned sofa. Sighing, he sat up and groaned loudly. He had the mother of all headaches. Leave it to Sherlock to find the seediest pub ever whose owner had obviously never heard anything about England's no-smoking laws. In John's opinion, the cigarillos Sherlock had smoked had been overkill; two deep breaths in that hole would have been more effective than six nicotine patches.

John ground his eyes with the heels of his hands and then looked around blearily. Sherlock's playing had stopped for now; John hoped he was indeed in his bedroom and John wasn't listening to something Sherlock had taped to use for certain occasions. Like vanishing and leaving John behind once again. As he had done about ten times the day before, John got his wallet out of his jeans pocket and looked for his visitor pass. It was in there, still not pick-pocketed by Sherlock. John sighed again. Although they hadn't spoken a word about what would happen today, John knew that Sherlock knew that John knew about Sherlock's father. That chain of thought made his headache explode, and John rubbed his temples mercilessly. The last day had been… exhausting.

John had used the bathroom first and when he had come down from his bedroom later, Sherlock had been ready to go, coat, scarf, gloves and mask on. John hadn't expected anything else. On their way to the café, when John had looked around and wished he had taken his gun with him, the only meaningful words had been spoken.

"Mycroft won't just shoot you, you know?"

"You're sure?"

"Very."

And that had been that. The rest of the day had flown by, with Sherlock brooding and John trying to think of a way to talk to the man beside him. Nothing had come to mind, not at Regent's Park, not at lunch, not at the antique book shop, not at dinner. The closest he had come to saying something had been at the pub, simply because the room there had been so overcrowded that Sherlock couldn't avoid him. But then, John had already been scared. Sherlock had been too agitated, too nervous, too condescending… and too cold. The man John had woken up with in the morning had vanished completely. When they finally came home, John had sunk down on the sofa and turned on the telly, while Sherlock had clicked away on his laptop. John must have fallen asleep while trying to concentrate on the TV and not on Sherlock.

Sherlock started playing again, a haunting and well-known piece, Bach's 'Ave Maria'. Listening intently, every hair on John's body stood up on end and he had to blink a few times. Finally, he raised his head. He didn't know what Sherlock had planned to keep him away from Dr Richard Holmes, but John would not let him succeed. He had no intention of allowing Sherlock to face his father alone. Standing up, John made his way upstairs, the music following him.

Dressed in fresh clothes -he had actually put yesterday's jeans and jumper into a plastic bag and thrown them out on the fire escape to keep the smell of old smoke out of his bedroom- John arrived in the kitchen to make tea. Surprised, he saw Sherlock, still dressed in pyjamas and dressing gown, already at work, kettle in hand.

"Morning."

"Good morning, John." Sherlock threw a glance over his shoulder; he looked awful. Beyond pale, red-rimmed eyes and an absolutely desolate expression on his face.

Worried, John took two steps forward and had his mouth open until he remembered with whom he was dealing here. He sat down at the table. "Are you all right?" John asked, outwardly friendly. Inwardly, he was on guard for anything. And still, he almost missed it.

While answering, "Yes, I am fine," in a totally sorrowful voice, Sherlock poured hot water in their cups, hands moving gracefully as ever, and dropped two pills in one of the cups. It was ironic. The only reason why John didn't miss it was his inability to not watch those hands.

I don't believe this. "Toast?" John asked, proud that his voice sounded normal as ever.

"Already done," Sherlock said, putting toast, butter, jam and tea on the table and sitting down opposite to John, smiling shyly. It was all John could do to not throw the jam right into his face. Tosser.

"I liked the music." John buttered his toast slowly.

"Mm." Sherlock pulled the tea bag out of his cup.

John prepared more toast, put both on a plate, took hold of his cup and stood up.

"Where are you going?"

"I have to finish a report," John answered calmly. He waited the precise amount of time, until continuing, "Or do you want company?" He could see thoughts racing through Sherlock's brain. Moron.

"No. No, of course not."

John turned around, then hesitated and looked back at Sherlock. "I should be done in an hour." Sherlock nodded, and John thought he saw a hint of remorse in his eyes. Wishful thinking, probably.

Upstairs, John managed to not bang the door closed behind him. He put the plate on the small desktop, opened his laptop and then sniffed at the tea. Nothing. He was tempted to taste a bit but he had no idea what kind of drug Sherlock had used. Could be something from the Fiji islands. Something hallucinogenic, very effective. I wouldn't put it past him. Suddenly he felt very tired.

John put the cup on the nightstand, sat down on the bed and looked at the clock. Eleven a.m. There was nothing for it; he had to wait until Sherlock left the house. And he had to suppress his feelings of disappointment and anger the best way he was able. The problem was that Sherlock's behaviour had felt, for the first time ever, like a personal attack. This was no mere trick, no avoidance, no playing Hide and Seek. Sherlock might have just as well knocked him out and tied him up.

I should be happy he didn't do that.

John had just settled down on the bed again with toast and laptop -there were indeed some reports he had to work on- when he heard Sherlock downstairs locking the door. Christ. Very effective. And then he heard Sherlock on the stairs… going upstairs.

For a second, John froze. Then he shoved laptop and plate to the side and grabbed the cup. He looked around frantically and finally opened a drawer and poured two thirds of the tea over his socks. Ignoring the voice in his head that was telling him they were behaving like children, he laid down quickly on the bed, face down on the pillows, trying to relax. And sure enough, the door to his bedroom opened. What he hadn't expected though was that Sherlock actually entered, closing the door behind him again.

What the hell was he doing?

John heard Sherlock crossing the room, moving the curtains and opening the window. He came back to the bed, covered John with the bedspread, pressed two fingers against John's neck, then he was gone. There was the sound of footsteps running downstairs on the ladder, and then silence.

John sat up slowly, pushed off the spread and stared unbelievingly at the open window. Brilliant. Odds are that Mycroft now has a picture of his brother leaving my bedroom via the window. He shook his head and jumped up, deliberately got the worst clothing out of his wardrobe -brown cord suit and a knitted tie- and dressed himself. Five minutes later he was out on the street, flagging down a cab.

***

"All of a sudden, no matter what I've tried, I could not reach him anymore. Ever."

***

Part Two