Fic: Too Close To Home
Rating: Mature
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Warnings: non-graphic description of crime scene, murder, homophobia, manly loving.
Words: ~11, 500
Beta: lady_t_220
Summary: Their latest case is too close for John's comfort.
*Part Three in the Hearts At Home series.*
****
Another day, another case. In the eight months that had passed since John had left the priesthood, Sherlock Holmes had become something of a minor celebrity, and his fame had brought with it a sharp increase in cases. Sherlock was ecstatic - except when the cases were judged too boring or too easy to waste time on. John was just happy there was some money coming in thanks to a few high-profile clients. Apart from a couple of hours a week volunteering at a local shelter, John never had got round to getting a 'proper' job. In all honesty, he enjoyed working with Sherlock too much anyway.
Their newest case had come from Scotland Yard, brought to their attention by a desperate Lestrade. Two men dead so far, with identical wounds and all the markings of a possible serial killer.
"Tell me about the first one," Sherlock demanded as they rode in the back of Lestrade's car, on their way to the second crime scene.
"Male, Caucasian, early thirties. No ID and no matching descriptions on the missing persons' database."
"Cause of death?" Sherlock asked.
"Strangulation. No murder weapon at the scene though."
Sherlock hummed and pressed his hands together, staring out of the window. John smiled fondly at the familiar sight and turned his attention back to Lestrade.
"What about this one?" John asked.
"Almost identical. Similar age, same cause of death. No ID again."
"Where were they found?"
"The first one in an alley. This one in an abandoned house."
They fell silent as Lestrade wound through the busy London streets. Sherlock was deep in thought, but when John laid a hand casually on his leg, Sherlock's lips twitched into a tiny smile.
Eventually they reached the scene, which was marked quite obviously by the heavy police presence. They got out of the car and made their way over to the house, Lestrade stopping at the door to consult with a constable there.
"Come on then," Lestrade said, turning to them. "He's in the front room."
They followed Lestrade into the house and waited for a moment as he waved the forensic team away. Once he had done so, Lestrade stopped in front of Sherlock.
"Five minutes, no more," Lestrade said.
"Fine," Sherlock answered shortly. It was obvious - at least to John - that all he was interested in now was getting a good look at the scene. Lestrade finally stepped aside and Sherlock moved into the room, John and Lestrade following behind.
The dead man was sprawled in the middle of the room, glassy eyes staring up at the ceiling. Without even thinking about it, John found himself stopping and making the sign of the cross. Sherlock headed straight for the body and John moved a little closer, but kept a reasonable distance; even after all this time, dead bodies still made him uneasy.
Sherlock dropped to a crouch beside the body, his eyes flicking over the man's clothes and settling on the bruising pattern on his neck.
"No murder weapon here either," Lestrade said, but Sherlock made no sign that he'd even heard.
After several long seconds of silence, Sherlock seemed to freeze and his eyes flew to John's.
"What is it?" John asked.
Sherlock looked back down at the body and then turned to Lestrade.
"This man was a priest."
John gave a little start and found Lestrade glancing in his direction, before turning back to Sherlock expectantly.
"Look at his clothes," Sherlock instructed, his gaze flicking momentarily to John again. "They're not new, but they're well looked after. He probably doesn't own that many clothes, so he looks after what he has. Now, the clothes themselves, they're fairly smart. Black trousers, black shirt. Pretty standard for a priest."
Sherlock glanced at John again and then gestured towards the shirt collar.
"The shirt's buttoned all the way up. Always is, you can tell by the wear on the top buttonhole. How many people wear their shirts like that? With no tie? And then, there's a tiny dent in the fabric just on one side, where his dog collar got caught as it was pulled off."
John let out a shaky breath as he looked at the man in this new light.
"Any ideas about the murder weapon?" Lestrade asked.
"John," Sherlock said, beckoning him closer.
John moved to the body and crouched down on the opposite side to Sherlock.
"Do you recognise the pattern?"
"Should I?" John asked with a frown.
"Ten small circles, then a larger one - right here to the side of the larynx - then ten small circles again..."
"Rosary beads," John breathed, feeling more than a little sick to the stomach. "He was strangled with a rosary."
"Probably his own. There's no sign of it."
John closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath. When he opened his eyes again, Sherlock was watching him with concern.
"Right," Lestrade spoke up. "So who kills a priest?"
"Good question," Sherlock murmured, attention turning back to the body.
"Sir," a female voice spoke up and when John looked up he saw Sergeant Sally Donovan in the doorway, holding a file out for Lestrade. "This just came through. Autopsy on the other one."
"And?" Lestrade asked, stepping forward to take the file.
"There was something written on his chest. They found it when they undressed him."
John rose to his feet as Lestrade thanked Sally and she left with a slight frown in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock got up as well and moved to Lestrade, snatching the file from him and provoking an exasperated huff.
Sherlock looked over the file for a brief second and then handed it to John as he moved back to the body. John opened it up, but was distracted as Sherlock started to unbutton the dead man's shirt.
"Sherlock!" Lestrade protested, but by that point it was too late.
In the centre of the man's chest, scrawled in black ink, were two numbers: 20 and 13. When John looked down at the file in his hands, the autopsy photos showed exactly the same thing on the other man.
"What does it mean?" Lestrade asked.
"I'm not sure..." Sherlock murmured, looking over the scrawled numbers. "A code of some kind, probably."
"I think it's a verse from the Bible," John said half to himself, his eyes fixed on the picture he held. "On this one, you can see a faint colon between the numbers. 20:13."
When John glanced up, Sherlock's eyes were fixed on him, bright with the thrill of the mystery.
"No indication of the book though," Sherlock said. "We'll need a Bible, Lestrade."
"It's from Leviticus," John said, before Lestrade could even move. "I think."
John glanced at both men and gave a sigh.
"If it's what I think it is, it's something I've seen before."
"Where?" Sherlock asked in breathless excitement.
"Hate mail," John said in a flat voice, watching the surprise register in Sherlock's expression. "Leviticus 20:13. 'If a man also lie with mankind, as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination: they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them.'"
The room fell silent as John finished and he held Sherlock's gaze, watching a myriad of emotions flash across his face.
"You never told me about any hate mail," Sherlock eventually said in a quiet voice.
"I just wanted to ignore it."
"Sorry, I'm a bit rusty on my Bible studies," Lestrade cut in. "What did all that mean?"
"It's the verse some conservative Christians like to use as so-called proof that homosexuality is wrong," Sherlock said sourly.
"So, this is some kind of hate crime?" Lestrade said.
"Seems like it," Sherlock said quietly. "We need to find out who these men are."
"There aren't that many priests in this part of London," John added. "Someone's probably already noticed that this man's missing. Or they will do soon enough. Someone might recognise the other man too, if he's a priest."
"Right," Lestrade said with a nod. "Thanks. We'll get pictures around the churches in the area, see what we can find out."
"Text me if you get anything," Sherlock said.
"Will do."
"Right then. We're done here," Sherlock announced.
"Yeah. Thanks," Lestrade said, already turning away and calling out to the nearest PC.
Sherlock and John made their way out of the house in silence and found a cab to take them back to Baker Street.
****
The cab ride passed in awkward silence. Watching Sherlock work himself up into a sulk was a little like watching a storm approach, John mused. You could see it coming from miles away but could never predict exactly when it was going to hit. In this instance, John had a pretty good idea what had got his partner so wound up, but he would have to wait for confirmation.
The evening dragged on just as quietly, the tension growing thicker every minute, and it wasn't until they were getting ready for bed that the first lightning bolt hit.
"Why didn't you tell me you'd been getting hate mail?" Sherlock asked, sitting on the bed in his pyjamas, arms crossed angrily over his chest. The intimidating tone Sherlock was going for was a little spoiled, John thought, on account of how adorable he looked curled up like a small boy, bare feet tucked under the edge of the covers.
"Sherlock," he sighed. "I told you, I just wanted to ignore it."
"But why you?" Sherlock asked with a frown, as if he couldn't possibly fathom why anyone would target John.
"I don't know," John said. "Maybe they'd seen the blog. Does it matter?"
"You still could have told me," Sherlock said after a moment's hesitation.
"It was nothing. Just angry zealots with nothing better to do with their time."
Sherlock scowled, bright eyes fixing on John.
"There's some other reason you didn't tell me."
"You know now. Can we just leave it?"
Sherlock gave him a hard look in reply and John heaved a sigh, settling on the edge of the bed and placing the pyjamas he had yet to change into on the covers next to him.
"Sherlock, I..." he trailed off and ran a hand through his hair. "You've never said anything... but I've seen the way you look at me sometimes. It's like you're waiting for me to turn around and say, 'no, actually, I made the wrong choice. I'm going back to the Church'. I was worried that if I told you, well..."
Every single time John had seen that look, it had made his heart ache, but Sherlock never said anything, so neither did John. If John was a little more affectionate afterwards, Sherlock never commented on that either.
"Can you blame me?" Sherlock asked softly, his eyes fixed on the bedspread. "I know you miss it."
John didn't really have an answer to that. It was true that he sometimes missed being a priest, but never enough to seriously consider going back on his decision.
"You crossed yourself at the scene earlier, did you realise?" Sherlock continued pointedly.
"That doesn't mean I'm thinking about going back to the Church, Sherlock," John said tiredly.
"Every Sunday you go for a walk," Sherlock continued. "You usually pass at least one church and you always stop. You don't go in, but you do stand outside for ten, sometimes fifteen, minutes."
"Jesus Christ, Sherlock," John got out in a tone of exasperation. He couldn't tell if Sherlock's observations were the result of deduction, or if he'd actually followed John, but it made him wearily angry.
"You might want to stop blaspheming if you're planning on rejoining the priesthood."
John took a deep breath and let it out slowly, clamping down on the urge to strangle his partner.
"Sherlock," he said softly, moving to sit next to the other man. "I'm not going back to the priesthood. I chose you, you idiot."
Sherlock still wouldn't look at him, but John could tell he was listening intently.
"I do miss it," John added. "Of course I do. It was my life for thirteen years. And, maybe one day, I might start going to Mass again."
John wasn't exactly sure what had kept him away from church for the last eight months. It wasn't that he had lost his faith - in fact, when he had the time, he found himself praying more than ever. He prayed for Sherlock, and for himself; for more cases when there were none; for a break in a particularly complex case. He'd thanked God on far too many occasions that he and Sherlock were still alive - and had asked that the next near-death experience not come too soon.
It was something else though, something he almost couldn't pinpoint, that was holding him back. It was a little like the end of any relationship, really. He still remembered what it was like to be part of something special; he remembered being happy and content, and the split had left a sour taste in his mouth. It still hurt that loving Sherlock apparently meant he couldn't love and serve God just as he always had.
"But," John said. "None of that changes how I feel about you."
Sherlock turned his head towards John, eyes still downcast.
"Sherlock," John coaxed, reaching out to brush his fingers over the back of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock leaned into the touch, and then shifted until he could rest his head against John's shoulder. John pressed a kiss to his hair, holding him close.
"I'd come with you, if you decided to go to Mass," Sherlock murmured. "For moral support."
"Thank you," John said with a huff of laughter. "Knowing how much you hate the 'ridiculous charade', that definitely means something."
Sherlock pulled back to give him a strange look.
"I was fifteen when I said that."
"You were," John said with a fond smile.
"You remembered that?"
"You were pretty memorable," John answered.
Sherlock stared at him for a long time, and then all of sudden he lurched forward, pressing his mouth to John's. John let out a muffled noise of surprise but let Sherlock push him to the bed, kissing him back, hands buried in Sherlock's hair.
"What was that for?" John got out, when Sherlock pulled away for breath.
"You always surprise me," Sherlock murmured, reaching down to work at the buttons of John's shirt. "Now get this off."
****
Sex with Sherlock was something John still couldn't get used to sometimes. Even after eight months together, it was the most intense thing he'd ever experienced. He was overwhelmed every single time by the intimacy of the act; by the sheer pleasure of seeing Sherlock as no-one else could.
Sherlock was beautiful like this. He spent so much of his time being carefully controlled, maintaining a facade for the outside world, but in the bedroom he would finally let it all go, and be all the more breathtaking for it. John craved the sight of him like this - flushed with pleasure, eyes heavy-lidded and dark.
The feel of Sherlock's body - the feel of being on him, under him, in him - was addictive. John could happily spend hours mapping the angles and curves of that lean body, learning every part of this man - and he had. In eight months, he had worshipped every inch of Sherlock, had made love to him a hundred times in a hundred ways and it was never anything less than awe-inspiring.
"John," Sherlock gasped, arching into him, head thrown back with pleasure.
The way he said John's name like that was intoxicating, and it made John do everything in his power to hear it again and again.
Sherlock moaned and John bent his head to capture the sound, sliding his open mouth over Sherlock's. Sherlock let out a stuttered noise and wrapped his long legs tightly around John's waist. John kissed him hard, moving against him, drowning in the taste of him.
A moment later, Sherlock was tensing underneath him and letting out a cry against John's mouth. Following him over the edge a beat later, John collapsed on top of him in a tangle of sweaty limbs.
John couldn't bear to move just yet, even as the sweat began to cool, and he pressed a kiss to Sherlock's shoulder.
"Anyone who thinks this is an abomination has no idea what they're talking about," John murmured against that pale skin.
He felt Sherlock give a silent huff of laughter under him and closed his eyes as long fingers trailed over his back and shoulders.
"Or they haven't seen you," John added with a smile.
Sherlock laughed out loud this time.
"Really, John..." Sherlock murmured, shifting so he could look at John. John smiled down at him and leaned in for a kiss.
"I love you," John murmured, pressing his forehead to Sherlock's.
"I love you too," Sherlock whispered, holding him close.
****
John was just on the verge of sleep when the sound of Sherlock's phone vibrating on the bedside table jolted him back awake. Sherlock rolled over and picked it up, the glow of the screen lighting up his features.
"Lestrade," Sherlock explained. "They've identified both men... As expected, they're both priests."
John's heart sank a little at the news. Sherlock's phone vibrated again and he flicked through the screen quickly.
"The first man, Father James Kenwood, was from out of town. Came down from Buckinghamshire yesterday."
"Probably a conference or something," John suggested, receiving only a hum in reply. "And the second one?"
Sherlock's phone vibrated again, signalling another message.
"Father Robert Lewis. London-based. In fact, he's from..."
Sherlock trailed off, turning towards John.
"He's from St. Mary's, in Brixton."
John felt all the breath leave him in a rush. It was the church he had called home before choosing to leave the priesthood.
"He must've been my replacement," John said quietly.
Sherlock said nothing, but he reached over to place his hand on John's arm.
"I should go and see Lawrence tomorrow," John said after a while.
"Of course," Sherlock agreed. "We'll need to question him. Find out what-"
"No," John interrupted. "Not yet. I'll go alone."
Sherlock looked like he wanted to protest, but he gave in with a small nod. John moved his hand to rest over Sherlock's, squeezing it against his arm. Sherlock shifted closer, pressing himself along John's side. John pulled him close as he let out a shaky breath. This whole case was hitting a little too close to home.
****
Part Two