Semantics by Meowser Hotchner

It all started with Sherlock reading the paper, the London Times, to be exact.

John was cooking something that he hoped could turn out to be dinner, as he didn't really have money for take-out at the moment, and blessing the normalness of life lately.

Well, normal for Sherlock. There'd been the usual cases, and John had gone with him on the ones he was needed. Nothing unusual (for Sherlock) had caught Sherlock's eye in the past six months since Sherlock had turned up on the doorstep of 221B...Not Dead.

John considered those things as he shook the frying pan in his hand, and finally had to pick up the turner because the chicken was sticking.

It had taken a long time to accept that Sherlock was a) back in his life to stay, because b) he wasn't dead, and c) their life had changed immeasurably since then. Or maybe it was measurable.

Because now, as John walked over with two bowls of badly done chicken stir fry, Sherlock stood up and greeted him with a kiss.

They were together, as they'd awkwardly explained to Molly, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, and none of the three seemed very surprised by the news. Mycroft, of course, got a very different notification, when Sherlock rather rudely blurted out that John and he were 'fucking now.'

Of course, John preferred to call it making love. But...semantics.

And neither cared what the other called it, as long as they kept on doing it.

So now John handed Sherlock the bowl, Sherlock's face turned into one filled with revulsion and the bowl was unceremoniously dumped onto the coffee table.

"Oh, come off it, Sherlock. It's not that bad."

"Yes, it is," Sherlock said silkily. "And you know it. Besides, I'm not hungry."

"When are you ever?" John said out loud, took Sherlock's bowl and dumped the contents into his own.

"Don't want to do that," Sherlock mumbled.

"Hmm?"

"You don't want to do that," Sherlock said, loud and clear. "You've already put on six pounds since I came back."

John pursed his lips, and decided to ignore Sherlock's words. "Oh well."

"I don't want to be walking around with you if you turn into a fat, middle-aged..."

"Don't say it," John said, handed Sherlock the bowl and Sherlock, rolling his eyes, dumped half of it back into his.

"I'm doing wonders for your diet, aren't I?" Sherlock muttered, viciously attacking the food.

"I'm not on a diet," John reminded, and Sherlock snorted.

"You can say that again."

"Stop it," John warned, and Sherlock shrugged.

"Anything in the Times?"

"The usual," Sherlock said. "Except one thing. Have you heard the name Leo North in the past few weeks?"

"Yeah, who hasn't?"

"Unfortunately, I only just did," Sherlock said.

"What about it interests you? He's a bloody pedophile."

"No, he isn't," Sherlock said, and John, startled, looked up from his stir fry.

"What do you mean? Do you know him?"

"No, I've never met him before in my life. But this man," Sherlock said, holding up the newspaper and punching the picture of Leo North, "Is innocent."

That was when John's life stopped being normal (for Sherlock) and turned into something of a whirling dervish. Again.

"All I am saying is that maybe you should meet him before hiring the best attorney Mycroft's money can buy!" John exclaimed.

Sherlock ignored the words. It was the next morning, or the day after, and Sherlock had already researched the Leo North case as much he could. Of course, according to Sherlock, he already knew the necessary things.

But here were the particulars, as John understood them:

1) Leo North was a pedophile.

2) There had been a nasty abduction of two nine year-old boys.

3) Upon recovering them, the two boys were so traumatized from their experiences, they could tell nothing about their experiences.

4) Investigators started searching for a man who fit the parameters of who'd do something like that, with help from the so-called Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI. Using the BAU's 'profile' they had caught a man who fit these parameters, and his name was Leo North. The Scotland Yard, aided with the information from the BAU, tried to nail Leo North, but Leo kept denying he did it, and so his case was going to trial. Obviously, the boys could give no identification.

5) Sherlock thought he was innocent. Sherlock could be a hurricane if he wished to be. And right now, John was thinking that he wished to be.

"Why should I? I can already tell enough, just from his picture. He is not a pedophile, and he was very attached to the fiance that dumped him when the first charges hit Leo."

"Alright, maybe, Sherl, but honestly, why do you care?"

"John! Don't you wish justice to be done?" Sherlock put on a scandalized face, and John scoffed.

"Don't give me that shite," John said. "Maybe I want justice done, but you usually don't care. Why, Sherlock?"

"Do I have to have a reason?" Sherlock said, hands braced on the edge of the kitchen table as he stared down at John, who was, in vain, trying to eat his cereal before it got soggy. Disgustingly so.

"Because it's you, yes," John said. "I need to go to my surgery today, and I'd like you to just try to meet with Leo North before drawing any more of your conclusions."

"John, why do you doubt me?" Sherlock asked, following John back into the bedroom, where John reached for the tie he planned to wear and Sherlock snatched it from him.

"I don't doubt you," John said, vainly trying to snatch the tie back. "I just don't understand why you are doing it, so naturally, I'm feeling a bit wary of the whole thing. For God's sake, Sherlock, give me that!"

He tried to snatch it, and they ended up snogging, until John pulled away and snatched the tie from Sherlock's now languid hand. "Thank you."

"That was cheating," Sherlock protested, now flat on the bed, and John shook his head.

"No, cheating is using your height as an unfair advantage." John stood over Sherlock, and pushed him down when he tried to sit up. "Just don't get into anything too deep while I'm gone," he warned. "Please."

Sherlock glared up at him, then yanked on John's tie to bring him down to kiss.

"This is cheating," John murmured, and finally untangled himself from Sherlock's suddenly octopus-like limbs.

"Yes, it was," Sherlock said, hopping from the bed to follow John down the hallway.

"Promise me," John said, putting his coat on and eyeballing Sherlock.

"Ugh, I promise," Sherlock said, putting air-quotes around the word that, strangely enough, did not reassure John.

"You can ask to see him, you can read up even more on the case, but please, don't do anything rash."

"Oh, I wouldn't dare," Sherlock said, tone dripping with sarcasm. John gave him the finger, before shutting the door behind him and hurrying down the stairs.

Sherlock strolled after him, watched him leave and then flew back into the bedroom, yanked off his robe and got dressed.

He had work to do, after all. John wasn't the only one with a job.

"I was going to say no, but then I realized I recognized your name," Leo North said, on the other side of the glass.

Sherlock shrugged. "Celebrity status is good for something, I see."

"So, why do you want to see me?" Leo asked, sinking into his seat. He was dressed in prison garb, he was very unshaven and his eyes had a sunken, dead look about them. His life was already over. Few men, if any, could recover from these types of charges.

"Because I believe you are innocent," Sherlock explained. "I saw the article the Times did about you, using that old interview as a template to further pin you. But seeing you just confirms my statement." He leaned forward, and Leo could see the sincerity in the other man's eyes.

"You are innocent, aren't you, Leo?"

"Yeah, but I don't think it even matters now. Not even my bloody solicitor believes I didn't do it."

"I believe, and I think you'll find that my belief is more than sufficient," Sherlock said. "When I leave here, I'm going to buy you the best solicitor my brother's money can buy. And I think you'll find it's worth it."

Leo blinked. "What, really?"

"Yeah, and I'm beginning to think this conversation is wasting my time. I'll get back to you on this," Sherlock said, hung up the phone, saluted North and left.

It took Sherlock all morning to find a proper solicitor for Leo. The first man, the one Mycroft recommended, had flatly laughed in his face before Sherlock even finished saying Leo North's name, told him that he was insane—not that he was surprised, he'd never really believed Sherlock wasn't a fake—and so Sherlock had retaliated by telling everyone in the immediate vicinity that their boss was having an affair with the janitor. The male janitor, and no, he hadn't come out of the closet yet.

Which was the cold truth, so Sherlock pretended that John wouldn't mind and waltzed from the office, relishing the horrified silence he left in his wake.

The second solicitor was someone 'passionate' and 'caring', or so it said on their website. Mirella James had turned out to be, yes, passionate and caring but that meant she took on far too many pro bono cases and was therefore too busy for something as delicate as Leo's case.

Sherlock, surveying her cluttered desk and frizzy hair, was tempted to make a donation, or something like that, but decided he'd wait.

The number three proved to be lucky, and Sherlock found himself being led down a brightly lit hallway to a Mr. Taylor's office.

"I'm sorry for the wait," his executive assistant, Vera, explained. "Mr. Taylor never intends to keep his clients waiting, but he is a busy man. Uh, we're going right, Mr. Tamblingson."

"Of course," Sherlock said, not feeling the least bit guilty about impersonating a different man. The woman had simply asked if he was the three o'clock and Sherlock had agreed. Well, it was three, wasn't it? And he was there and Mr. Tamblingson wasn't.

Sherlock bounced on the heels of his feet while he waited for Vera to finish announcing him, or whatever she was doing. She came out a few minutes too long later, a stack of files in her arms. "Mr. Taylor can see you now."

A medium-height brown haired man stood up from behind the desk. "Hello, um, Tim, is it? I'm Xavier Taylor, obviously. It's good to meet you. I believe you made this appointment to talk about..." he checked a sheet of paper on his desk, giving Sherlock the opportunity to interrupt.

"I think there's been a misunderstanding," he said smoothly, and Xavier looked up, surprised. "My name is Sherlock Holmes."

Xavier blinked a few times, then nodded. "All right, Mr. Holmes. So sorry we got your name wrong."

"You didn't, I mean, this isn't my appointment. Don't worry, though, I'm much more important that Tim Tamblingson and I can pay you on time."

"Um, well, good," Xavier said. "But if Mr. Tamblingson—"

"Listen to me. There is a man I know that I know is innocent. If he is convicted of his charge, his entire life will be ruined. You don't want to be the cause of that, now, do you?"

"Well, I—"

"Shut up," Sherlock said. "His name is Leo North and before you interrupt me, yes, he is innocent; I will pay £300 per hourif you promise to get him off."

It was then that Xavier Taylor won Sherlock's respect.

"Innocent, eh? All right. When would you like me to start?"

Sherlock left the building feeling highly satisfied with Mr. Taylor. He was professional, he was good-hearted. He was like a solicitor John. Well, not quite that good.

He went over the encounter again, and still felt satisfied, so he waved down a cab and went home, to 221B.

Where John was not supposed to be, and yet was. Upon seeing him, sitting in his chair, Sherlock stopped awkwardly in the doorway.

"John..."

"Hey, Sherl. Where were you?"

"...Out. What are you doing, back so early?"

"I've got a bad toothache," John said. "Called the dentist, and he can fit me in tomorrow, thank God. But my concentration was all off. I got someone to cover for me."

"Good, that's...good."

"Do anything more about Leo North?" John said, standing up and walking over to Sherlock, since Sherlock was obviously not going to walk to him. "Here, give me that."

Sherlock let John take his coat, because he still wasn't sure what he wanted to say. "I saw him," he said, abruptly putting an end to his internal turmoil.

"Who? Leo?"

"Yes, Leo. I thought that was who we were talking about." John took Sherlock's scarf as well, taking his time as he untied the knot. Sherlock watched his progress, and shivered when the material slid across his neck.

"Who cares about Leo?" Sherlock said, and that was the end of that conversation.

He had decided there were a few more important things to do right at that moment.

Like have sex with John.

John woke to hear a phone ringing, and started up from the bed. Thankfully, Sherlock's trousers were right next to the bed and he managed to fish the phone out before it stopped ringing. Looking at the name, he sighed.

"Mycroft, it's John."

"Why are you picking up my brother's phone?" Came Mycroft's cool voice.

"Yeah, um, he's sleeping," John said, trying to push Sherlock's naked legs off his own.

"Could you wake him up?"

"That's something I'd find to be impossible right now," John said, feeling uncomfortable talking to Mycroft when he didn't have any clothes on. Finally untangling himself, he got up from the bed and grabbed one of Sherlock's robes.

"I don't recall Sherlock being a heavy sleeper," Mycroft said, a frown in his voice.

"Yeah, not usually, but after we, um..."

"Never mind," Mycroft said, sighing. "I really don't think I want any more details. And I might as well talk to you."

Thanks, Mycroft. "What do you want?"

"Please tell me why my brother is wasting my hard earned money on a hopeless pedophile."

"I don't think it's an answer that can be told articulately," John said, and even as he said the words, realized they were true. When they'd made love, he'd somehow felt how important this was to Sherlock, even though he couldn't figure out why. "All I know is Sherlock says he's innocent and dived straight into the case...Wait a minute. What money?"

"He's engaged a solicitor," Mycroft said. "Surely you knew."

"Yeah, of course I knew. We talked about it. I just didn't realize he'd done it already." Sherlock, you bastard. "Mycroft, can I call you back? This is all I can tell you right now, but maybe after I talk to Sherlock..."

"Yes, all right," Mycroft sniffed. "Don't bother calling back tonight, just phone me in the morning."

"Okay," John said, and hung up. Standing, clutching one of Sherlock's robes around him, he glared at the man on the bed. "Sherlock," he said. "Why did you do it without saying anything?"

Sherlock ignored him, since he was sleeping like the dead as always.

John got back onto the bed, and shrieked when Sherlock's hand suddenly reached out and grabbed his leg. "Sherlock! I thought you were sleeping!"

"I am," Sherlock said. "Now make my dream come true."

An offer like that from Sherlock could never be passed up.

A/N: Not sure when I'll get back to this, but I will continue it. Sometime, and if people like it. And it will (eventually) crossover with the tv show Criminal Minds, but you don't need to be familiar with it at this point.