The Introduction
John Watson was sixteen when he saved his father's life.
Flashing lights. Policemen talking. Shards of glass littering the pavement. Harry and Mother crying.
He was sixteen, and although he had done some mild recreational readings of medical studies, he would later be told that something so trivial shouldn't have been enough to do the job.
(As it happened, those people heard only the public report of the incident, a mere shadow of what actually transpired, something that John himself had trouble believing sometimes).
Severe cranial damage. 3 Broken ribs. His father, at that time, was not in the prime of his youth. Rather, such injuries that a man of younger years could sustain would easily be enough to take his life.
The young John Watson, he had no idea how special he was, no idea that he had been born for a very specific purpose; something that he had began to discover, but would only truly unsheathe when his time was almost expired.
Everything was explained to him in a calm manner, the wounds being familiar ground, but the composed disposition something that he couldn't understand.
"What can I do to help?" His voice quaked dangerously, and he couldn't stop the thin stream of tears from racing down his face, to which the doctor could only shake his head sadly.
"I'm sorry, but we may already be too late. He's in a fragile state as it is, and if we attempt to move him, we may make matters worse."
He turned his back, and John was left to watch it all happen.
He said nothing at first, just observed through misted vision. "Be okay," He whispered as kneeled beside his fallen idol; not quite a prayer, not quite a wish, but perhaps a soft-spoken command. When no response came from him, John put his hands on his father's body, touching him only lightly. "Be okay," He repeated, and he shut his eyes tightly.
He couldn't explain what happened; couldn't explain the feeling that spread over him, like a gust of wind trapped inside his body. He couldn't explain how in that moment, he felt all of his father's wounds, felt them creeping onto himself, felt the warm shot of satisfaction of easing his pain mixed horribly with what the pain really was.
He could, however, easily explain the next part in the sequence.
Ten seconds it happened, the unexplainable thing, John's father awoke, and he screamed as his son lay passed out on top of him.
When John regained consciousness, it was with three cracked ribs and the worst headache he'd ever experienced. The hospital staff who had heard of the incident crowded him mercilessly, all clipboards and tape recorders, calling him a medical phenomenon. Harry, trying to lighten the mood, called him a freak and ruffled his hair as he tried to answer the barrage of questions thrust upon him. His father was brimming with tears, swelling with pride at being able to call John his son.
His mother called him an angel, although threw herself on him where he lay bed ridden, weeping, begging him to never do it again.
"But I don't even know what I did," he said.
"Please," was the only tearful response.
John merely nodded.
It seemed only natural that later in life, the adolescent wonder would mature to become Doctor John Watson of the British army; serving his country doing what he did best, and, more importantly, doing what he loved.
The promise he made had been difficult; it had been often that John felt the urge to do what he once did, to feel that torrent of wind inside of him, to experiment. But as a man, he was honor bound, and it was all that pent up want that he couldn't express that had made him hard-hearted.
(this wasn't to say that in tricky situations, situations that medical skill alone couldn't heal, he would maybe let something slip, but his mother was long gone by those times, and he had stopped believing in an afterlife soon after enlistment).
No one knew. No one could know.
So, as a precaution, he operated at a distance, which was okay. A secret so large as to make his bones creak was something he would rather keep to himself.
After his discharge, it was that same distance, the nightmares, and a sudden feeling of loss that led John right into the hands of fate, and, as it were, Baker Street.
The Flatmate
When John grew up, he was alone; family gone, sister estranged, friends overseas.
What he had upon his return, though, after several nights of aimless wandering, was a flatmate.
First impressions aside, Sherlock Holmes was a sight better to live with than most of the boys back in Afghanistan; he cleaned up after himself (most times), he was never too loud (unless he happened to mix firearms with boredom), and above all, he had kept out of John's business. It was an understatement to say that the war had hardened him, so days of uninterrupted silence and general nonchalance were ideal for John. For the first few weeks back home, it was, in a word, peaceful.
That is of course, until he started getting involved.
It was mid-afternoon when the first knock came at the door. John had started awake at the sound, but Sherlock, as per usual, remained stoic. He sat nearly statue-like, lying on the couch with his fingers tented below his chin.
"Ah," he said as John made his way to greet the unexpected caller, "Right on time."
"Where is he?" Upon opening the door, John was immediately assaulted by the question, all frantic voice and piercing eyes that darted this way and that, trying to get a good view beyond John, who stood bewildered.
"Sorry?" The man at the door appeared to have no patience on that day, and instead of explaining himself, repeated the question in a clipped tone.
"You heard me. This is police business. I don't have time for whatever game you're playing, so I'm going to ask again, and you're going to tell me: Where is he?"
John simply stepped back two paces, afraid this man was going to explode. He opened his mouth in attempt to respond, only to be interrupted by a bored drawl from the living room.
"Let him in, he's here for me."
At Sherlock's words, the intruder pushed past John rather roughly, only halfway through the flat before shouting once more.
"This," he exclaimed, slamming a copy of the London Times down on the coffee table, "Have you read this?"
It seemed to John as though it exhausted most of Sherlock's patience not to roll his eyes. "Formalities first, shall we?" He said, still unmoved from his position of rest. "Doctor Watson, this is my colleague and good friend, Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Normally, he's much more sociable, however today his mood seems to have taken a turn for the worst, due to…"
Lestrade's fist slammed against the table before John even had time to offer a greeting, having followed all of the commotion into the living room.
"Dammit, Sherlock, I don't have time for this today. Have you read this?" Sherlock glanced disdainfully in the direction of the wrinkled newspaper on the table before fixing his eyes once more on the wall.
"Of course I have, I probably read it before you did." His words seemed to upset the Detective even more, and John had to take a step back in order to avoid the outburst of anger.
"We're the fucking laughing stock of the city," he fumed, "and the more time we spend on this case, the larger the field day that the media hosts at our expense."
"Yes, your point? It hardly matters to me what the masses think of you, and you're well aware, so I would appreciate it if you didn't bore me with your ego problems." Sherlock's lazy reply would have probably cut deeper, had Lestrade come to listen.
"The point is, is that I contacted you a week ago, and so far I've gotten absolutely nothing. People are getting robbed, Sherlock, and if the population doesn't feel protected, there'll be riots." Lestrade seemed winded from all of his anger; he collapsed into the armchair opposite the couch, and buried his face in his palms.
Sherlock was still bored.
"It's a pity," He said, "That very able detectives such as yourselves should be so dependent upon one whom, in your opinion, merely plays guessing games and toys with hasty generalizations…" Lestrade looked up at him only to glare, "although your trust is rather endearing. To tell you the truth, the very simplicity of the problem was the reason that I hadn't gotten back to you sooner; it was rather far down on my list of things to accomplish."
Lestrade inhaled deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. One, two, three.
"If it's so simple, then why didn't you tell us immediately?"
"It must have slipped my mind."
Four, five six.
John's body tensed as he watched the exchange between the two, and the imminent danger that Sherlock was putting himself in by edging the detective inspector further and further towards uncontrollable rage. Lestrade spoke next through gritted teeth.
"So will you tell me now?"
"Give me a moment." Seven, eight, nine.
Inside of himself, John felt the familiar urge to help, to neutralize the situation. As Sherlock made no attempt to work hastily, and the detective's fuse was visibly shortening, John was forced to think fast, unsure of whether or not what he was about to do would work, however figuring that it couldn't hurt to try.
"What about now?" Lestrade forced with a patient façade, but Sherlock remained unhurried.
"Not quite."
An almost audible snap was heard. However, as Lestrade, fists clenched, moved to get up, John advanced and put his hands on the detective's shoulder's, stilling him.
And oh. Oh. It had been so long, he had almost forgotten what it was to be alive.
"Don't mind him, please," He said, "He's been in a mood for days now, I'm sure it's nothing personal." And just like that, John had proved himself capable once more; for as he pressed Lestrade back into the armchair, all semblance of anger seemed to drain from his face, replenishing now with an expression of contentment, if not vague confusion.
"Yes," He responded, "I suppose he does often have those moods…"
The price that John paid wasn't quite what he had expected, although this was just an experiment; just an instinct. His hands left Lestrade's shoulders, and he began to swell with anger directed towards his flatmate, his mood plummeting at an alarming pace.
"If the brother has a green ladder," Sherlock said finally, "arrest him." Lestrade nodded, exchanged pleasantries, and left quietly soon afterwards.
John said nothing, frozen with anger, and Sherlock looked to him, amused. His expression, his very presence, even, was suddenly enough to make John see red.
"Is something the matter, John?" But John couldn't reply. He shook his head curtly and turned on his heel to stalk towards his room, where he locked himself for the remainder of the day; not for his own sake, but for Sherlock's.
He would be damned if he had just saved the man from the detective's wrath, only to strike him with his own.
When Sherlock left the flat for the next couple of days (questionable business at best), it gave John an opportunity to think.
He wasn't quite sure of why the need to protect Sherlock had consumed him on the day of Lestrade's visit; rather, the whole incident confused him deeply, as he thought that his flatmate, through his arrogance, was asking for whatever the detective inspector was about to give him. Perhaps, John thought, it was something to do with his gift once more, which for his age, he still knew remarkably little about.
Sipping on a cup of tea (courtesy of Mrs. Hudson, who was not his housekeeper), he put the pieces together in his mind:
He had always helped people, all throughout his life. However, since his discharge, he had neglected to do anything except limp about the flat and yell at Sherlock to get the damn milk for once (which he still didn't). So, John reasoned, it was part of his biology: he had an impulse, a need, rather, to help other people when they were presented with danger. For all he knew, the repercussions could be great were he to deny himself the urge to do so.
And did it ever make him feel fantastic; which, given the situations, was not something that one would expect.
It started with a flatmate, and developed with a purpose. Maybe he could stand to help Sherlock more often.
Setting his cup down on the table after it had been finished, he reached into his pocket to dig out his phone and send a text:
Not that it's of grave importance to me, but where are you? You know how Mrs. Hudson worries and I'm not keen on listening to her crying much longer.
To which he received a swift reply:
Cardiff. Be back soon. Send her my best.
SH
John nodded to himself, smiling faintly.
Now, he waited.
As it happened, Sherlock returned early the next morning, waking John from his slumber on the couch with his quiet entrance.
"Ah. You're awake," He said as John's eyes snapped open, "I was hoping not to disturb you." John sighed, sitting up, and smiled politely.
"Just a cat nap."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "At 4:30 in the morning?"
"How was Cardiff?" Sherlock paused briefly before he responded, fixing John with a curious look. Deciding not to push matters, he shrugged off his coat and hung it up before responding.
"Fine. Just touching base with someone of my contacts. Have to keep information up to date, especially when working with the homeless; they're always moving around."
"The homeless?"
"Yes, indeed. Dead useful for casework, my eyes and ears all over the city."
"And what about London?" Sherlock sat down across from John in the armchair, carefully picking up his violin from its case on the floor.
"If you're questioning why I went to Cardiff instead of stepping out of my own front door," He said, "You'll be relieved to know that I'd already corresponded with everyone I needed to last week. Which, granted, wasn't a lot of people, since I know London better than most, and that's if I'm being modest." John nodded as Sherlock began to pluck at the strings of his instrument, his face adopting a familiar, distant expression.
"Well that's…good." Sherlock's plucking stopped abruptly.
"Why?" He asked bluntly.
"Why what?"
"We've been living together for nearly a month, and this is the first time you've taken an interest in my work. I would say you have some sort of agenda, although having lived with you, I can safely assume that you're not the type of person that hides much, finding no time nor value in doing so." John stared at him, his mouth pressed into a thin line. "So, what is it?"
"Do you always take a little casual interest as somebody trying to murder you?"
"Depends. Are you the type that always deflects a question with a question whilst trying to avoid it?"
"Depends. Are you?"
Sherlock's face broke into a mischievous grin, and John exhaled a breath that he wasn't aware that he was holding. "Well played, doctor."
John forced a smile. Sherlock's phone buzzed and he took it out of his pocket, reading it with a bored expression before flipping it shut.
"It seems," He said as he got up, "that the police are in need of my assistance once more. Murdered girl, downtown London."
John could only nod again, afraid that he would undoubtedly say something stupid were he to speak, a nagging feeling with which he would eventually become acquainted. Sherlock began to rise from his chair, picking up the coat which he had taken off not five minutes prior and shrugging it back on.
"Well," He said as John made no moves to follow him, "I hope you don't require a formal invitation." Sherlock gave him another grin as he fastened his scarf carefully around his neck.
"Sorry?"
"Obvious, isn't it? With your new interest, a brand new case, and your skill in the medical field, it only makes sense that you should accompany me to the scene of the crime."
John seemed to hardly even contemplate his decision before his coat was on and he was out the door. Although he would never admit it, Sherlock Holmes was a decidedly fascinating character, and any excuse to get out of the flat was one that he would take.
"Don't you want to catch a cab?" John was already tired of looking at his breath not ten paces into the darkened London streets. "It's bloody cold, you'll catch your death out here."
Sherlock only laughed. "But the cold is exhilarating, isn't it? Keeps your senses sharp. Police work is often dull, Doctor Watson, especially when you're me, so it's important to always have something to keep you…awake."
John laughed breathlessly in return, finding it difficult to match Sherlock's long strides and fast pace. Perhaps, he observed, especially if the incident with Lestrade was anything to go by, keeping this man out of trouble would be quite a task for anyone; especially if one wished to keep him safe from himself.
It didn't take John especially long to find his niche in London. He had a good amount of friends with whom he had reconnected after the war, and plenty of times he could have chosen to be social although he was just feeling a bit under the weather, but maybe next week, thanks.
(He found that he had preferred to have a night in with Sherlock, anyway; they ordered in and watched horrid films when Sherlock wasn't doing some crazy experiment, and he always had the most fascinating commentary. However, it stood to be rather irritating when he would guess the end of a mystery film about four minutes into the plot, complete with descriptions of why the criminal was a complete moron and how the case wasn't even worthy of the Yard's time, which was really saying quite a bit).
John found himself a nice job ("Boring") volunteering at the hospital ("Boring") and even a nice girl that he took a bit of an interest in ("Boring"). For all intents and purposes, John Watson was a perfectly normal man with perhaps just a bit of an extraordinary talent. He also happened to live with the one man he believed to be the farthest thing from normal.
After John had taken the job at the hospital, he was left with less and less time to accompany Sherlock on his crime expeditions, which, admittedly, he had grown accustomed to being on for the past week or two. Up until all hours of the night, traversing the city, always in the way of the police, with only the occasional shots from criminals fired at their heads; this was the world that John had been brought into.
At least he could never say that he was bored.
However, despite the lack of time that John had found himself with (which was all well and good, because he definitely wasn't beginning to feel any sort of attachment), when an opportunity presented itself and he had a spare moment or two, who was he to refuse?
"Truly a fascinating case, you should really see the blood spatter for this one. As a medical professional, it would be nice to get your opinion…"
Somehow, Sherlock had a knack for having him tag along on cases; so often, in fact, that John barely even needed to nod when passing security at headquarters, much to the chagrin of Anderson (as always). But he was really only going along to make sure that Sherlock kept himself out of trouble. It was, after all, in his nature to keep a close eye on people that were his…
Walking home after the last day of his third week at his new job, John discovered that he didn't actually know what Sherlock was to him.
Acquaintance? No, they lived together. Too informal.
Friend? Sherlock didn't seem the type.
Colleague? Maybe so.
Whatever it was, it wasn't of very much concern to John, of course; after his return to London, it was decided that all he wanted was a normal life amongst all the chaos of the city.
"Doctor Watson?" John stopped suddenly, mid stride.
He was met face to face with a tall man, sharply dressed and wearing a polite smile that seemed to hide a lifetime of secrets. The crinkle of his eyes accompanying the upturn of his lips seemed to John eerily reminiscent of someone, although whilst trying to figure out whom, the stranger spoke once more.
"Would you mind coming with me?"
John looked confused, and took a small step back; it was now that he noticed that the strange man was leaning against an official looking black car, tinted windows, inconspicuous enough. As John speculated, the man's eyes merely followed him, his facial expression revealing nothing.
"Who are you?" John asked cautiously, and his eyes darted to the streets, counting the number of people that passed them by, just to make sure.
The stranger laughed, "Now, John, there's no reason to assume the worst of me, after all, we've only just met. I only want a little chat, and then you can be on your way back to…" He pulled his phone out of his pocket to check the screen briefly, "221B Baker Street, is it?"
John felt his whole body go rigid. "How do you know all of that?"
"Oh, but I know more than just that. I also know what you are, doctor, what you can do. I know about your special talent."
John's blood seemed to freeze, and he could feel the color drain from his face. "You can't possibly," he said quietly, but the stranger's coy smile never faltered. At John's bewildered introjections, he stepped away from the car, opening the door and motioning inside.
"Do you really want to debate with me what I do and do not know, or would you like me to tell what I think I know to some authorities I am certain will be very interested? Trust me, once we talk, your irrational fears of being kidnapped and murdered will disappear; I'm really harmless, I assure you."
But even as John reluctantly got into the car and strapped himself in the seat with sweaty palms, he was almost positive that the last thing this man was, was harmless.
The Brother
Mycroft Holmes was a lot of things: He was a man, taller than average height with thinning hair, much to his discontent; he was an entrepreneur, a founder of several small businesses as a side project while he attended university; he was a scholar, an art fan, and he held a minor position in the British government. But at the moment when he found out that Sherlock had actually found someone he tolerated (and in turn, someone who tolerated him) enough to find a flatshare, he was a very concerned older brother.
Additionally, when Mycroft did some poking around and discovered more about this ex army doctor who was to be living with his brother, he was a man who saw an opportunity, and he was never one to leave knocking guests waiting at the door.
"So, now that we've had proper introductions, why don't you tell me more about yourself?" Mycroft really tried to be as pleasant as possible, however John, who sat beside him in the back of his work-issued cab, was having none of it, rather choosing to take to the offensive.
"You haven't introduced yourself at all. Who are you and what do you want with me?"
Assertive. Rather defensive. Mycroft chuckled. "No reason to be so hostile; I only wanted to ask a favor of you, if you wouldn't mind."
"So blackmailing me is your method of earning favors?"
Sharp tongue. Hot-headed. Mycroft could easily see why Sherlock kept him around. However, time was short, and he didn't have enough of it for any dances around the subject for which he had approached John.
"I'll level with you, Doctor Watson: my name is Mycroft Holmes. You're currently living with my younger brother, with whom I haven't the greatest relationship, and this fact is confirmed by the errant look of surprise on your face when I told you my name just now." He cleared his throat, giving John time to readjust himself, "despite our differences, however, I still care for him deeply."
John looked puzzled, slightly amazed (although he kept this internal after Mycroft's observation) at the fact that Sherlock had a family to begin with; he seemed the type that simply wasn't, until one day he was.
Beside the point.
"So," John started, "you want me to help fix the relationship?"
Mycroft smiled sadly. "Alas, I wish that's what this was about, however I know my brother, and am fully aware that there won't ever be a day in which his stubbornness doesn't prevail among simple common sense." He sighed wistfully as the car made a rather wide turn and John saw that he didn't recognize the scenery passing by outside of the window. For some reason, it didn't worry him. "No," Mycroft continued, "I need you not to fix anything between us." Another pause, "You're special, John Watson. You have a gift that no one else in the known universe has, and although my brother doesn't know it, it's what drew you two together, and it's why he needs you. It's fate."
"Fate doesn't exist."
"Come talk to me in a week."
It seemed to take John a few seconds to process, but he only ended up running himself in circles. He decided to press on, regardless of how he felt about the "supernatural" aspect of all of this. "Sherlock…needs me? How do you figure?" Mycroft made a sort of clicking noise with his tongue and shook his head.
"It's obvious by the amount of time you took to respond that you've already thought this through. Yes, you're used to people needing you, but now that you've met my brother, you think you may have come upon the single person in the world who doesn't need anyone You tell yourself you're fine with it, correct? After the war, I'm sure you've had enough of looking after other people. I've come to tell you that you're wrong, John, and my brother is no more independent than you are willing to give up your place in life of being one whom people can trust to heal them, even if they don't fully appreciate that fact themselves."
Yes, John thought, you could definitely see the family resemblance.
"Yes, okay," John said, flinching under Mycroft's penetrating gaze, "Get the point, I suppose. So, you want me to…what?" The taller man smiled appreciatively.
"Simply do what I cannot, and protect him. It's what you're meant to do, after all." The words stung John, somehow, left a ringing in his ears that he somehow couldn't refute.
"And what will his reaction be when I tell him that his brother's ordered him a watch dog?"
Mycroft chuckled, "Not me, John. I'm just carrying out orders."
"Orders? Orders from who?"
But Mycroft was already pushing him away, "And remember, you're not to tell my brother anything."
In hindsight, John wasn't at all sure what it was that made him ultimately accept the older Holmes's proposition, especially seeing that he was receiving nothing in return for it.
("And what's in it for me?
Mycroft smiled that secret smile that John thought one day would drive him mad, "Satisfaction, perhaps a sense of, what's the word…purpose.")
In either case, John had been given an offer that he quite literally couldn't refuse (lest the power of the British government be set upon him) and he left Mycroft's car on that day, it having come full circle to return to Baker street, preparing to see it through until the end.
The Mission
John observed his flatmate carefully over the following days, after deciding it was best not to tell him about the confrontation with his brother.
He didn't simply watch his extremely adept abilities of perception and staggering ignorance concerning how to conduct oneself in a social situation; rather, with his task given, he paid special attention to his sleeping and eating habits, as well.
Or, really, the lack thereof.
Not long after his first glimpse into the life of Sherlock Holmes, John noticed one very important, terribly worrying thing.
"You don't sleep." Sherlock seemed taken aback by the accusation. Having had no calls that day, the two of them had decided to stay home, with John tidying up the living room while Sherlock lounged about in his dressing gown, occasionally sounding a note or two on his violin.
"Of course I sleep."
"You don't eat, either."
"Now that's just preposterous." Sherlock hopped off of his perch on the armrest of the couch, and walked with purpose over to his laptop on the desk.
"I haven't seen you eat more than a piece of bread ever since I started living here." John said, and he paused his stacking of Sherlock's books to stand and look at his flatmate, who had stubbornly turned his back, focused on whatever internet article currently held his interest.
"Well, perhaps you're not looking hard enough. You see, Watson, but you simply don't observe. I do indeed partake in the basic human functions, although admittedly not more than absolutely necessary."
John scoffed. "Do you know how unhealthy that is?" He asked incredulously. Sherlock seemed to pay no mind.
"I'm in perfectly fine health. I function well enough to apply the appropriate brain power to my case work and get adequate sleep and sustenance to keep me from being irritable. Additionally, I don't see why it should be of any interest to you. Honestly, you're beginning to sound like my brother." John exhaled loudly, annoyed.
"I just don't want you dropping dead." And for the first time, Sherlock stopped what he was doing in order to get a better look at John. He stared at him for what seemed like some time with a scrutinizing look, until John flushed an unsightly color. "What?"
A wry grin broke Sherlock's face before he turned back to his screen. "Interesting," was all he said, and then the swift clicking of keys filled the room. "You may be the first."
"The first to what?"
"To not want me to drop dead." The clicking continued, and somehow, that was the end of that.
"So, Freak really has got himself a friend, eh?"
"Seems more like a pet to me."
"Maybe someone was finally hired to keep a leash on him." John's face went several shades of red, and he was suddenly thankful for the cloak of night in which he, Sherlock, and the rest of the Yard working this particular case were engulfed. Sherlock didn't seem to pay any mind to the comments.
On this particular night (which John had definitely not called in sick to work for), Anderson (flat-faced, seemingly permanent expression of disgust and annoyance) and Sally (dark-skinned, attractive if not for the look of derisive pleasure she wore at Sherlock's expense) were in particularly bad spirits. Sherlock and John (SherlockAndJohn) had been called in by Lestrade, who stood by stony faced as ever to lead them into the apartment complex, no details given. Or, if they were, Sherlock didn't care to divulge them. John knew that normally, a client would have to present every detail in order to try to appeal to Sherlock's fickle interest; however, when it was the Detective Inspector calling, he seldom needed more than a time and place.
If Sherlock thought highly of anyone (or simply didn't think them an idiot), it was Lestrade.
"Why him?" John would ask. Sherlock would shrug in response.
"He is, in my opinion, while one of the dullest men I've ever encountered, the only one among them that has any clue as to what he's doing."
As John would soon learn, as far as Sherlock Holmes was concerned, he might as well have given the detective a gold medal.
The crime scene, once they passed all the necessary obstacles, wasn't at all how John was used to. Instead of policemen going about their usual work, groups of people chatting, plain clothed civilians being asked questions, there was absolutely no one in sight. The complex rang empty, the dim hallways filled only with footsteps and a wintry chill from outside. Lestrade said nothing as he walked ahead of them, and John and Sherlock were left only to follow.
"You're wondering about the nature of this case, and whether or not there is a body." John was snapped out of his thoughts by Sherlock's very obvious assumption.
"I – well, I,"
"Don't worry, I don't really know the nature of it myself, but I was assured there would be a body; just to hold our interest." He finished his words and added a dark chuckle to the end of it. "I take two types of cases, John, those that are particularly fascinating, or those that are favors. While this happens to be the latter scenario, which are traditionally less interesting, I've been assured by the good detective that this is finally going to be the case to, as he put it 'take me down a peg'". John raised his eyebrows and turned to Sherlock as they approached a closed door at the end of the hallway, adorned with the appropriate crime scene tape and eerie atmosphere.
"Do you think it will be?" Sherlock smiled broadly, and he put his hand on the doorknob.
"I guess there's only one way to find out."
During the past weeks, it seemed to a growingly exasperated John that he had stupidly chosen to live with the one person on the planet that very well could be invincible.
John watched Sherlock carefully at crime scenes (having ignored hundreds of warnings to "stay away from him"), unable to contain his amazement as he put on a flawless macabre performance for every incident. If John had not known better, he would have thought Sherlock's mannerisms theatrical; that is, until he realized that it was just Sherlock, and perhaps Sherlock wasn't the actor, but the character that all the actors aspired to be.
The man, without even seeming to notice it, caught and trapped everyone's attention from the time he entered a room to the time he left it. Perhaps it was because of his height and unique bone structure, or perhaps the intelligence and grace with which he spoke, but Sherlock thrived on the very ambiance that he created as soon as he stepped past the yellow tape.
His deductions were constantly accurate, his passion and enthusiasm unparalleled, but to John, as well and good as it was for Sherlock, it was rather annoying; for as high energy as Sherlock was, his excitement and façade of livelihood were directly betrayed by the shadows under his eyes, shadows that told stories of thoughts that never ceased and the world as a battle field in which one must always watch their step. John knew it was only a matter of time before his flatmate would break from the weight of the life that he was living, but the doctor was finding it difficult to make good on his promise to Mycroft, his promise to his mother left in the dust.
Regarding that, there existed a certain problem which John discovered fairly quickly, the problem of physical touching. There had been, of course, the little touches; the touches that sufficed to take away a semblance of weariness from the detective, small blows that John took on his behalf. It would be simple, really, a pat on the back, or maybe a touch on the shoulder in order to make his way into the kitchen in front of which Sherlock was pacing. But soon, it became evident that the small things weren't enough, and John needed an opportunity, a grand one, in order to simply keep Sherlock standing on two feet.
It was for the good of the both of them, the good of Sherlock's older brother, and most of all, probably, for the good of Scotland Yard to have their best (and only) consulting detective working at full speed.
Sherlock was utterly impossible, as it were.
"Does something about me interest you, John?" John's sphere of thought was suddenly perforated, and when his eyes focused on Sherlock, he realized with discontent that he must have been staring.
"Sorry. Just thinking." John had to clench his fists on the arms of his chair in order to resist the itch that seemed to be slowly burning him from the inside-out. He had to find a way.
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "Thinking. About anything in particular?"
"Nothing that would interest you." Sherlock just looked so tired, so frail, wearing himself thin with long days and endless nights. John could help. His thoughts flashed briefly to that first incident, his father lying motionless in the street, remembering how badly he wanted to prove that medic wrong.
"Well, perhaps you should tell me anyway, if releasing the thought from your mind would cause you to stop retreating from reality so often." Sherlock Holmes seemed an impossible case; unsociable, unapproachable, invincible. "John?"
John said nothing, sighed, and picked up a paper from the floor to stare at that, instead. However, Sherlock wasn't the type to let things go so easily.
"If you're sulking about the fact that all your efforts to attempt to keep me healthy, socially and otherwise, have thus far failed, then I wouldn't take that too hard; I've been reliably informed that it's an impossible task. I've noticed your concern, and while it's quite…endearing, I'm afraid it's also rather alarming, seeing as my well-being is my business, and my business only. You're not the first one who has tried to rectify my belief on that."
For reasons beyond his control, John began to fume, his ears growing hot. He sucked in a breath and exhaled slowly, attempting to keep calm. Sherlock continued with his monologue. "Or perhaps your mood has something to do with your meeting with my brother, and the impossible task that he set you on?"
John's eyes snapped up and his voice was quiet as he spoke, "How could you possibly -"
Sherlock waved his hand nonchalantly, "John, don't be silly, it's obvious. A few days ago, you'll remember, I had mentioned Mycroft briefly as I stated that you were beginning to sound like him. You gave no hint of surprise that I had a brother, something which I had not told you, us being rather…at odds. So, I could easily conclude that you two have met." John could hardly believe what he was hearing, but he found he couldn't stop listening. For as much as he wanted to deck Sherlock sometimes, his logic was consistently infallible.
He continued, "As for your getting an assignment from my dear brother, that deduction took a little more thought, and also a shot in the dark. Good one, though, yes? Going by the fact that you never disputed it and the rather red state of your ears now. Since I've concluded that you've met my brother, indeed, I had only to think of a reason for it; Mycroft never does things without a purpose, you see. Reason yet unknown, I've been noticing your behavior changing recently, for instance, you becoming slightly more distant, more secretive, always on the lookout for something. He has that effect on people, generally, making them paranoid, and he also has a knack for forcing people to do things. So, the conclusion that you were asked to do something, most likely under coercion if your bitten nails are any indication, was only natural."
John sat, dumbstruck. "I…"
"So, now that we've had this little confrontation, will you do me the kindness of telling me what it is that he's sent you out to do? It appears to be causing you great stress, and I need you in a clear state of mind if you're going to be of any use to me on cases in the future."
It was at these words that John drew his line. He threw the paper back down onto the floor and looked Sherlock square in the face. "You," he said, "Are absolutely bloody ridiculous."
"How so?"
"Is that really all I am to you? A help on your cases? Another set of eyes from which to gather data? I'm supposed to help you pay the rent, do you really think it's all fun and games for me like it is to you, constantly being a bother to everyone and their mothers?" Sherlock seemed rather taken aback by John's outburst, although the latter found that he couldn't contain his feelings any longer. Despite everything, he had apparently been naïve enough to start to think that he and Sherlock had become close.
"John, really, this is -"
"Don't you dare try to tell me that this is all completely unfounded and utterly foolish, or some other tripe you'd try to send everyone else's way. I'm not everyone else, Sherlock, you of all people should have bloody deduced it by now, and you should treat me with some respect, because like you said, I may be the only one on the damn planet remaining that cares what happens to you."
Sherlock, for what John assumed was the first time in his life, was stunned into silence. John looked at him and his face fell for a moment. He hurriedly left the room before the full guilt set in and he was forced to apologize for his actions.
"I think I need to go out for a while," He murmured under his breath.
When Sherlock had opened the door to what Lestrade had deemed "the impossible case", it wasn't quite what John had expected; and, furthermore, judging by the look on Sherlock's face, not what he had foreseen, either.
"There's no blood." The first three words out of his mouth were spoken with unadulterated astonishment.
The woman that John was seeing went by the name of Sarah.
She was pretty. Agreeable. Nice. She was just the match for him, too: calm, quiet, somewhat reserved, although never one to refuse a fun night out on the town.
Normal. Something that John needed in his life, something to contrast the extended adrenaline rush that was sharing a flat with Sherlock Holmes.
John reasoned with himself as he packed an overnight back that his presence in Sherlock's life wasn't so prevalent, anyway, as he had proven; why should he be so vain as to think that the man would fall apart should John stay a few nights with Sarah in order to clear his thoughts a little?
Sherlock didn't ask where John was going or when he would be back. Rather, he fixed his friend with a few moody glances and sulked about the flat in his dressing gown that John associated less with an article of clothing and more with a warning sign.
John sighed as he was about to leave. "I'll be back soon. There are just some things that I obviously need to sort out. You too, for that matter."
Sherlock sniffed, but made no further attempts to bid farewell.
On the third day of his stay (on the couch, of course, wouldn't want to upset her delicate tendencies), Sarah approached John.
"Has he done something wrong? She asked, and John looked up quizzically from his Times.
"Who?" He asked lightly, content to further feign that Sherlock Holmes, that insufferable being, was the last thing on his mind.
Sarah rolled her eyes. "You know very well who. Maybe you should just talk to him, John."
John just shook his head. "He's fine." That's the problem, he thought. How did Mycroft expect him to keep up with his natural disaster of a brother, let alone be his bloody housekeeper?
Sarah tsk'd. "Dear, I've seen you two together, you know."
"Yeah?"
"Yes. You two have a really positive dynamic going on. I think Mr. Holmes needs you, or someone like you, in his life." John huffed, as this seemed to be the general consensus.
"Yeah, well, he doesn't want me, anyway."
Sarah walked over to put a hand on his shoulder lovingly. "Will you please at least try to talk to him?" And as John looked into her eyes, sparkling with innocence and the desire only to do right by him, he couldn't refuse. John mumbled something of acquiescence, then something else about a shower, and left the room as quickly as he could.
The Impossible
When he opened the door to 221B, suffice it to say that the surprise that came to him was unpleasant.
"Sherlock?"
The flat was a mess. Clothes and parts of experiments and other miscellaneous items littered the floor, leaving the once respectable looking room in complete disarray. The kitchen looked as though it had suffered through several explosions, part of the couch was ripped up, and John found it rather difficult to move around.
Sherlock was nowhere to be found.
"Sherlock!" John called once more, as the silence of the flat was beginning to unsettle him. As he was about to start looking, however, he was pushed aside by a very frantic Mrs. Hudson.
"Sorry, dear," She said breathlessly, "Got to get past." John stared after her as she made her way to Sherlock's room, opened the door, and stepped inside.
John's brow furrowed in confusion, and he followed her cautiously, wondering what the bloody hell kind of experiment his flatmate was doing now, and he damn well better not have pulled their landlady into it or, or…
No. As John edged to the door, mindful of all of the clutter (he must have put a whole rainforest out of commission in order to get this many books), he was hit with yet another surprise.
Sherlock was sick; bed ridden, in fact, and as Mrs. Hudson set a cup of tea by his bedside, John had to pinch himself in order to believe that it was real, filled with a secret sort of pleasure that the invincible, incorrigible Sherlock Holmes had finally met his match.
That is, until he really looked at him, at which point a familiar feeling of dread began to creep throughout his entire body.
Sherlock lay deathly still on the bed. His eyes were closed, his chest making only faint movement that signified breathing, and black tufts of hair were stuck to his pale face by a thin film of sweat.
"Mrs. Hudson," John started quietly, and the woman turned to him with a preoccupied frown.
"I know, dear, you don't need to say it; he looks dreadful. Oh, John, I'm so glad that you've come back. I wasn't sure how much longer he would make it." She turned to Sherlock with sadness marring her normally soft features, "Stupid, stupid boy…"
"Mrs. Hudson, why isn't he in a hospital?" John had to practice great control in order to remain calm. He approached Sherlock's dormant form, picked up a limp wrist, and checked his pulse. Barely living, as far as John could tell, and by the looks of it, his condition was only getting worse.
A hand to the forehead; burning up. Other vital signs not looking optimistic. As John touched Sherlock brusquely in order to gauge how much life was left in him, he felt himself begin to absorb whatever it was that was harming him, trying to get him into a stable position. Still, he threw questions at their landlady, like throwing daggers.
"Why isn't he at a bloody hospital?" John repeated, voice rising slightly. "How did this happen? When?" Mrs. Hudson shrank back against the wall as John started to move more frantically. "Sherlock?" He said, and he leaned in close, keeping two fingers on the pulse point on his wrist, "Sherlock, can you hear me? Are you awake?"
"I'm sorry," Mrs. Hudson said, "I tried to get him to go see a doctor, but he wouldn't do it. He looked terrible, kept muttering something about how you're his doctor, and he didn't need to see anyone else." John winced as Sherlock stirred. He could feel his own body weakening as his flatmate's pulse began to pick up. "I think it was the drugs that did him in, though I- it must have been a bad reaction…"
"Drugs?" John snapped quickly, growing urgent, "What drugs?" Sherlock mumbled something incoherent, and John had to catch his breath as he turned to Mrs. Hudson. "What drugs did he take?"
"I don't…I don't…" She stammered, her eyes brimming with tears, "He didn't tell me, he just mentioned something about –"
"Mrs. Hudson," John interrupted, keeping careful control of his emotions, "It's okay. Thank you for all your help, but I've got it from here." His voice was cold, determined. Mrs. Hudson didn't protest, only nodded briefly and left with the warning that if John didn't do right by the poor man, then there would be much more to pay than the rent.
John forced a smile as she closed the door behind her, "You have my word."
When the two were finally alone, John addressed the situation in his mind:
Sherlock was about half past dead. He had a fever, abnormally high, shallow breath, visible chills. He was pale, sweaty; advanced case of the flu perhaps? John couldn't know for sure. What he did know, however, was that Sherlock's immune system was not handling the intrusion well. Tissues littered the room, and Sherlock was wearing the same dress robe he had sported when John left. He wondered vaguely if he had showered or changed at all, but quickly shifted his thoughts to more important matters.
Sherlock was in a serious condition. Under normal circumstances, John wouldn't even question hauling him out of bed and dragging him to a hospital, where he could be taken care of properly. However, Mrs. Hudson had mentioned him taking drugs, and no matter how much of a prat his flatmate was, John didn't fancy getting him arrested if some of those drugs in his system were "unconventional", which he definitely didn't put past him.
Additionally, when had anything involving Sherlock Holmes been likened to "normal"?
There also remained the matter that John hadn't relieved someone of an ailment this severe in years.
And years.
And years.
Sure, there had been some special cases during his service, things from which he still had scars, although those had been very extreme sacrifices for people that had made very extreme sacrifices for him in return.
The question ran unexpectedly through his mind: Should he?
"John?" Sherlock seemed to have mustered enough strength in order to call John back to reality.
This was what he had been waiting for, wasn't it? A chance to prove himself to the only person that seemed to matter anymore.
"You bloody idiot," He said to the detective as he kneeled by his bedside, "You had better thank me for this someday."
Everything faded to black.
When John awoke, Sherlock's bright, healthy face was the first thing that he saw. It wasn't just his normal scrutinizing look, though. It was…
Accusatory?
Before John even had time to ask, Sherlock spoke. "They found drugs in your system."
John sighed. He should have expected that one.
"Crazy night, I guess." Sherlock's eyes narrowed.
"The same drugs I had put into my system. Home made. Not distributed."
"So?"
"I knew it was something, I just didn't know that it was…something quite like this."
John's head spun, and he surveyed his surroundings:
White. White walls with white sheets and white machinery, making the blue of Sherlock's eyes, intense and laser-like, become even more prominent.
"What are you talking about?"
"What makes you special, obviously," The detective said, beginning to pace around the room, "What makes you unique, what makes you an interest to the British government, what makes you…John Watson." John shifted uncomfortably. There wasn't any getting out of this one, although he tried to keep his face as blank as possible as Sherlock continued to pontificate.
"I'm not sure about the conclusion I've drawn. Well, I shouldn't say that, I'm completely sure of the conclusion itself, however the way that I feel about it is yet undetermined." He turned his back to John, and for some reason, John felt a surge of relief, finally able to relax his aching muscles. He wondered vaguely how long he had been unconscious.
"I woke up this morning feeling absolutely fine. Strange, isn't it? When I was previously on the brink of death with a nasty virus. Stranger still, was how I found you: passed out by my bedside, pale as a sheet with a fever of 104, chills, shallow breaths…" John winced. "A coincidence? Highly unlikely if at all, so I decided to test a theory already forming. I took you here, they drew your blood. Drugs were found your system, identical to the ones I had taken. The results came back just a few moments ago, in fact…"
John couldn't stand the palpable tension in the room any longer. "Yes, well, you've found me out. Great deduction, well done."
Sherlock turned to face John rather abruptly, his eyes alight with intrigue, fascination, and…confusion?
"Why did you save my life?"
John was taken aback. "What?"
Sherlock sighed impatiently. "It's the only thing I can't figure out. What was your reasoning?"
John opened and closed his mouth a few times, attempting to form words.
"Well, I, uh, I care about you, Sherlock," He said, "we're…well, you're my flatmate and I'd like to think that we're also…er…" Again, John was faced with that question, while the detective looked on intensely, somewhat apprehensively.
John huffed, making an attempt to collect his thoughts.
"Well, I can't pay the rent by myself, can I?" But Sherlock had already seen past his armor. They smiled at one another, John's expression rather embarrassed while Sherlock's was that same wry quirk of the lips.
Sherlock trusted him.
"It seems to me, doctor," He said after a silence, "that for the next few weeks, our roles are to be switched."
Sherlock cared about him.
John swallowed, his throat suddenly constricted at the almost vulnerable sight of Sherlock Holmes, humbled, like a fallen angel in the fluorescent light of the hospital room.
He wasn't quite sure what to feel about that.
"Who was that on the phone?" John called from his place in front of the telly. Sherlock had been having what appeared to be a rather serious conversation for the past few minutes, and John couldn't help but wonder. After all, daytime programming was notoriously awful.
"Don't' worry about it."
"Was it Lestrade? Does he have any updates about the case?"
The case (the series of them, really); the case that was currently driving the Yard mad, keeping London's citizens carefully stored away in their nests. As for Sherlock Holmes, a string of crimes so horrendous and…purely immoral was a stimulant that went unparalleled.
The first had been upon John and Sherlock's first "adventure", as some would later call it:
Woman. Eight months pregnant. Unborn baby ripped brutally from stomach, placed ceremoniously in arms. Her eyes and mouth were opened wide, her features combining to create a look of terror, her last feeling forever etched upon her face as her heart stilled forever. The body of her unborn child rested in her arms; small, feeble, looking entirely too inhuman to be what every human inherently advances from.
No blood. No blood. That was what Sherlock was drawn to, what made the case interesting enough to necessitate his presence. The edges of the wound looked dry, discolored, almost frayed at the edges, and the woman's lips were blue with breaths not taken and screams not heard.
John had vomited on the spot. Lestrade, already having seen the whole thing, had chosen wisely to stay on the other side of the closed door. Sherlock though: Sherlock stared at the massacre like one would a math problem. He didn't see the woman or the baby or the tragedy; he simply saw the puzzle, a mosaic of a linear progression of events that shattered on the floor, waiting for the detective to put them in order.
"I said not to worry about it. How are you feeling?"
John sighed, flipping channels idly. "The same as the last twelve times you've asked. Sherlock, while I appreciate everything you're doing, don't you think this is a bit excessive? It's been a week, I feel fine."
"Tea will be ready shortly. How's the lightheadedness?" John swore that over ninety percent of their conversations were Sherlock not-so-subtly avoiding questions that John had asked.
John did feel fine, though, and even if he didn't, he would pretend, granted that meant that Sherlock would stop fussing over him. It's not that it wasn't flattering; it was more a matter of Sherlock being bloody awful at it.
Sherlock Holmes had many skills. However, the more time that passed, the more John realized that none of these skills were conducive to what most other people would identify as "normal living". He was quite limited, really, for being a genius.
Here's what Sherlock could do: Play the violin at completely inappropriate hours of the night; win a sword fight; tell a person's life story within a minute of meeting them; go days without eating or sleeping.
Here's what Sherlock couldn't do: Make soup; hear when John called (too deep in thought); take advice from a professional ("I have my own methods of treatment, he'll be fine"); check a temperature properly (refusal to use any of his own thermometers – "contamination" – coupled with the fact that his hand was bloody cold, and John would be damned if he'd be subject to that unless absolutely necessary).
Sherlock brought the tea, and John sipped it tentatively; lukewarm, average at best.
To his endless credit, though, Sherlock was trying, and trying rather hard, which was evident in the way that his face would sometimes flush momentarily when John would critique him here or there, or how his eyes would cast downward when he had made the tea too hot, instead, and John's tongue would burn with hot liquid and a slew of expletives.
John appreciated it, he truly did. However, he had been on house arrest and was currently itching for any news from the outside.
"No."
"What?"
Sherlock scribbled something down in a notebook, "You were going to ask about the case again. The answer is no."
"But Sherlock–"
"John, you're recovering, and while you're recovering, it's important that your stress levels remain as low as possible." To this, John rolled his eyes, exasperated.
"Oh, so is that why I've lost my phone, computer, and civilization privileges?"
Sherlock remained unfazed. "More people, more variables, a higher risk of a relapse back into illness due to stress." He looked at John then, calculating. John could see the cogs whirring behind his eyes and wished in that moment to simply take him apart and look inside.
He pushed away the thoughts quickly in order to retaliate.
"You do know that you're the main cause of my stress, right?"
"Not much longer, John. You're recovering better than anyone thought." Another unanswered question.
John closed his eyes and attempted to sleep his irritation away.
The second murder was even more atrocious than the first, although more people were being allowed clearance to the scene; something, to Sherlock, which was abominable, although not for the reasons that one would expect from someone.
"You need to get them out of here," He said quietly to Lestrade, and the look that he was met with, to his almost tangible frustration, was one of sympathy.
"I know, Sherlock, it's horribly disrespectful, but there's nothing that I can do. We need all of the eyes on this that we can get in order to catch the maniac who did it."
Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and fore finger, taking a deep breath. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, detective inspector, although my concerns don't lie so much with the level of respect for the deceased than they do with my ability to concentrate. The noise and utter sentimentality is dreadful, and you let Anderson in. You know how much he puts me off."
Lestrade's expression turned quickly to incredulous. "You're saying that you don't care about this bloke at all? You don't care that a real, human life was taken like this?"
John observed the scene from a few feet away, torn between disappointment and anger toward his friend.
"Sherlock…" He said quietly. He shook his head and frowned, keeping a safe distance.
The body in question had been lying there, as John was asked to report, for at least three days. The stench was horrid, putrid; enough to warrant masks. The scene was a blood bath, sticky by now, a dull rusted color staining the walls and floors of the modest flat of the old man.
Veteran. Dressed in uniform, highly decorated, gaping hole in his aged face, creating something of a broken, jagged smile.
For weeks, John would be haunted by this image, moreso the uniform than anything else. Was it possible that he could fall to the same fate?
There was a careful silence that shrouded the area, everyone going about their business quietly. Everyone, of course, except Sherlock Holmes, whose complaints and sheer insensitivity could be heard from across the room.
Even Anderson seemed to be surprised at his lack of grace, although he indicated otherwise. "I'm not surprised," he said to John under his breath. "You two may be pals, but all of us here already know the worst. It's why we keep away, you know?" He worked quickly, collecting evidence, seemingly inconsequential items from the flat, a man's life reduced to a few plastic baggies full of shit.
"He's just…detached." John tried to justify Sherlock's actions without knowing why. Anderson only scoffed.
"Yeah, that's what we all tried to tell ourselves, too, when he started showing up," he said, "but you'll learn, just like we did." He stood up straight and looked John solemnly in the eye. "I can tell you're an alright bloke, Doctor Watson, but trust me on this: Sherlock Holmes is a classic case of 'what you see is what you get'; if it looks like he doesn't have a heart, that's because it's true."
John grimaced, and his eyes flickered from Anderson, unmoving in his resentment, to Lestrade, unsettled with disappointment, and finally to Sherlock, utterly unconcerned.
Anderson left the doctor to his thoughts.
The Idiots
"I never thanked you," Sherlock said suddenly. The telly was off, and John, unable to actually do so, had been content in pretending to sleep for the past half an hour while Sherlock's quiet yet rhythmic typing filled the room at 221B.
John was slightly taken aback by his words, for a moment believing that he had finally fallen asleep and Sherlock's thanks was a mere dream.
A minute passed.
"John, I know you're awake. It's in the way you breathe." John sighed.
"Fine. You never thanked me. So?"
"So, what if I want to?"
John frowned, his stomach churning unpleasantly. What was he supposed to say? That he had to think twice before saving his flatmate's life? That if it wasn't for John having an insatiable need to prove his worth, Sherlock wouldn't be alive at all? The realization dawned upon him that he didn't deserve to be thanked, especially by Sherlock: Sherlock, who was taking care of him, Sherlock who trusted him, Sherlock who let him break the dam.
"Don't," Was all he said, and he crossed his arms defensively.
The look was all that Sherlock needed, though, and he could read the whole thing, read John like an open book; all of his little ticks and habits acting as punctuation, as adjectives and as a sincere retelling of regret. Shame.
Sherlock clucked his tongue, an action in which he normally partook when trying to convey his boredom.
"John," He said, "Don't be naïve. Even if you had to think twice, I'm still grateful that you did it at all. I realize how much of a challenge it was, given the promise you made to your mother, and I wanted to let you know that your actions haven't gone…unnoticed."
John's heart sank so deep into his chest that it was questionable whether or not it had deflated altogether. He didn't even try to question his companion as to how he knew the bit about his mum.
"Sherlock, I–"
"Your guilt is unfounded. You saved a man's life, doctor, and it's only appropriate for me to thank you."
John turned his head to look at his friend – yes – and all Sherlock did was smile. It was a different smile than all of the others, though, more tight lipped, akin to those he reserved for people and situations that…
Well, that weren't John.
"Sherlock," He said again, trying to explain himself, but the detective merely went about business as usual.
"Got an e-mail from Lestrade," He said quickly, and John knew that nothing that he could have said would have been of any help; because in figuring out that the only person who thought he was better off in the world had experienced second thoughts about letting him die…
Suffice it to say that John felt as if he had finally broken through and touched Sherlock, albeit it in the worst possible way.
Anderson's words from weeks ago still rang menacingly in his ears:
Sherlock Holmes doesn't have a heart. The statement wasn't as true as he would have liked it to be in that moment.
"Is it about the case?" John asked, although Sherlock, now more than ever, second by second, seemed to be setting himself at a distance.
"Yes. There's been a fourth. Seems like this one has my name on it, literally."
John's eyebrows shot up, and he moved to get off of the couch. Before he could move a foot, though, he looked up at Sherlock, whose eyes flashed dangerously.
"You're still recovering, John. Stay home, I'll have Mrs. Hudson make something for you."
"But honestly, Sherlock, I'm fine, I just–"
"John." Sherlock's tone was nearly sharp enough to slice the overt tension between them, and was more than enough to convey the message that John wasn't welcome on this one.
And if not John, then whom?
"Rest," Sherlock said as John resumed his position, "I'll get the milk on my way back."
And how long will that be? Hours? Days? Just like the beginning? All the questions ran through John's mind like gunfire; questions that he knew wouldn't be answered anyway, even if asked.
"Don't get shot at without me."
A small smile, somewhat crippled, and Sherlock closed the door behind him.
By the third time around, it was obvious that the killings were linked. It wasn't obvious because of any specific marking or style, but because of the sheer brutality and carelessness with which the victims were executed.
By the third time around, no one was really used to it, although it was by that time that the song became rather familiar: it was suddenly protocol to have officers sick, to have inspectors start to cry or even have to leave and take the rest of the day off. It was routine to constantly be shocked, to be horrified by the malignant nature of the crimes.
It was also a recognized fact by this point that Sherlock Holmes didn't care about any of it one bit, sans the deducing, the casework.
"None of this actually concerns you, does it? None of these people?" In the third round, John finally indulged his curiosity, taking advantage of a moment where nobody could stand to be around the body for any longer.
"Would caring help me save them?"
"Well, no, but–"
"Then that's that. I'm detached, John, a disposition that most other people would probably find beneficial if given the chance to experience it." He sighed, weary, as if he had already explained it a thousand times. "Emotions never get in my way. I look at facts, I look at events, I look at logic – that's what helps, and if that makes me 'cold' or 'heartless', then so be it. Frankly, no, you're right, I don't care about these people, but don't you try to tell me that that fact makes me any less effective in my work."
John remained silent for a long time. "Have you ever truly cared about anyone, then?" He asked after a while. Sherlock shot him a look that he couldn't decipher.
"Let's hope that the next one harbors some kind of clue that we can dig into."
John's own question was cast to the back of his mind at Sherlock's words. "What, a next one? How can you be certain there'll be another?"
Sherlock smiled devilishly, "It's simple, really. With all this," he gestured vaguely towards the crime scene, "He's just showing us his hand, what he's able to do. Next, he's going to want us to play along, which invariably means giving us some sort of indication as to who he is or how to beat him."
"Why would he do that?"
Sherlock's smile faded momentarily, although the sheer amusement at the whole situation was still evident. "Some people handle boredom much worse than I do, John."
"This sure is a turn up, isn't it, Sherlock?"
John didn't know how it happened, when it happened, why it happened. All he knew was that not long after Sherlock left, it did happen, and he never saw his face or got to protest, but now his bomb was strapped to John's chest and his voice was in John's ear, telling him what to say.
Sherlock was stunned, to say the least; his face, normally so composed, so neutral, was a mixture of disbelief and betrayal. "John?"
"Bet you never saw this coming."
Jim Moriarty. Jim from IT, the same Jim that was dating Molly from Bart's, sweet, naïve Molly, the same Jim that Sherlock had pronounced gay upon first sight, in passing one day on the job. "All according to plan".
"Now, undo the jacket. Let him see what I've got in store for us." His voice was quiet, gleeful, and John's stomach churned horribly with every syllable. As he obeyed, Sherlock's expression shed its betrayal and replaced it with something that John could only recognize as fear.
"Do you like it, then, Sherlock?" Moriarty's words tasted bitter on John's tongue.
Sherlock's face twisted into a sneer. "What? Do I like it that you've kidnapped my flatmate and strapped a bomb to his chest? I'm going to have to answer no to that one, if it's not of any offense to you."
Moriarty laughed in John's ear, "Trust you to be stuck on the tiny details. No, Sherlock, I meant do you like it, all of it, the whole grand scheme? It's all for you, you know. It's to prove a point."
"And what point is that?"
"That we were made for each other." John's voice was a determined monotone, but he didn't doubt that Sherlock could sense Jim's animated voice in the undertones, wouldn't even be surprised if it was in his ear, too; this man was a virus, a snake, his presence in and around them, infecting them, invisible and oh so deadly.
"I know you, Sherlock," he continued, "I know you better than you know yourself, perhaps, which is why I chose you to play this game with. Think about it – what sets you apart. While all the little ants at the crime scenes were concerned with emotion and sentiment, you cared about what really mattered: the facts. You don't let anything get in your way, and that makes us very similar."
Sherlock didn't even seem to calculate his response, "So you brutally murdered all of those people to, what, prove to me that I'm different?"
"No, no, no, we all knew that, didn't we? I had those people killed because I wanted to let you know that you can't coexist, not with these people, these idiots. You're above all of that, and I wanted to bring you one step higher, to make you realize it."
The words coming out of John's mouth were almost too much; he could feel his face heating and his heart palpitating, his knees going weak. Sherlock seemed to look right through him, addressing Moriarty directly.
"I don't…I don't understand."
"You can't coexist with them," Moriarty repeated, "But you can with me." Sherlock looked shocked, his mouth pressing into a thin line, "Come and work with me, Sherlock Holmes, and we can rid the world of idiocy."
The silence screamed, the empty ringing that awaited Sherlock's reply growing louder by the second. John locked eyes with his friend, and suddenly their feuds, their fights, everything they were became so small in comparison to what they were up against together this time.
Sherlock's eyes said that he had a plan, and it was John's turn to trust him on this one.
"I just need time," He said, and Moriarty's voice chuckled in John's ear; he heard the disconnect, an acquiescence, and then the clock began to tick.
The bomb was off of John in seconds and they both fell to the floor with the weight of the world on their shoulders.
Everything that happened after that was a blur.
They saw him emerge, the man himself, they saw Westwood, a threat, red dots covering Sherlock as John tried to defend him, and in return, Moriarty saw Sherlock's refusal, met it with a frown that said Disappointed. He left the room and for a couple of seconds, they were safe, they could go home, they could forget all of this, and then…
There was noise after that. "I never like to get my hands dirty". Explosions; John managed to duck and cover, but Sherlock, no, the sniper was trigger happy, and even if he had gotten out of the way of the explosion…
John was kneeling at the side of his comrade, the fallen angel, and the prat was smiling up at him.
He said, "You don't have to think twice about this one, doctor. If he doesn't kill me now, he'll find some way to do so in the future."
And John replied, "You bloody idiot."
And as John started to absorb it, absorb all of Sherlock's pain and injury and hurt, his face became haggard, worn, defeated; his eyes dimmed and started to close as he put his hands on his colleague, and Sherlock's own eyes widened with no, you can't, not now, but it was John's turn to smile and John's turn to redeem himself, that horrible and somehow wonderful feeling capturing him for the third time; because he thought twice about saving his friend last time, but he didn't think at all this time, and he thought in that moment that Mycroft would be rather proud of him, if he could see.
For the umpteenth time, blackness wrapped John in a startling embrace.
The Goodbye
John didn't see white when his senses came back to him. In fact, John didn't see anything at all. He could hear though, and he heard everything:
He heard the beeping of the monitor, and footsteps shuffling in and out. He heard flowers and cards being left on the bedside table.
He heard Detective Inspector Lestrade, his gruff voice laden with sadness and regret. "I'm sorry we couldn't figure it out, John," He said, "We were just too late. We couldn't stop him."
He heard Anderson, a rueful, "Told you so," With no real spite attached to the words. John thought this curious, as Anderson had always left room for a little pig-headedness in his comments, but he decided not to think anything more of it.
Sniffling. He heard Molly. Sarah. Mrs. Hudson; heard but not seen, but hearing was enough. Apologies, enough with apologies.
Mycroft was there, briefly. "Thank you," was what he said, and he gave John a pat on his shoulder that he could hear but not feel. He could imagine pretty well, though; he could almost see Mycroft's sad smile, a crack in the stiff foundation of the British government itself. He could hear all the words that he wasn't saying about fate and destiny and all that, but Moriarty's plan was enough, and he knew that in this state, John didn't want to hear it.
He respected that.
Of all the people thus far, he wished that he could say goodbye to Mycroft. But John remained still. He let all these things pass. That is, of course, until Sherlock.
Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock was angry.
"I'm the idiot?" He shouted incredulously, "You, John, you're the…no, don't you dare do this to me. You've proven your point, I accept your apology, but what I won't accept is you dying for me. A bit melodramatic, don't you think? Come on, John, you're better than this."
Sherlock was in denial.
"This isn't real. You aren't serious. This is just one of Mycroft's games, isn't it? Or is it Anderson? Donovan, perhaps? It's stopped being funny, John, and this case isn't over yet.
Sherlock was disappointed.
"I thought you were stronger," He was about to say, and John could hear the words echo solemnly in his head, but his companion swallowed them quickly, deciding that they were better directed at himself.
And then, of course, Sherlock was angry again.
He punched walls, he wrecked machinery, he lashed out.
"You're dying for me, John, are you happy about that? Well I hope you are, because no one here is thanking you."
John heard him sit down at his bedside, heard the delicate rustle of his clothes as he shook his head.
Sherlock was defeated.
"Especially not me."
The End
It was always in John's nature, from his very beginning, to help people who needed it, even if they were as reluctant and impossible as the only consulting detective in the world.
As it were, it seemed that they couldn't properly coexist after all; but Sherlock would always remember him as the greatest flatshare, best friend, and most impossible military man that had ever tried to do so.