The Sign of Four Is Just the Sign of One Thing
A Sherlock Holmes Fanfiction
Summary: Set after 'a Scandal in Belgravia'. After the whole ordeal with 'the Woman', things have become a bit more complicated. Sherlock's drug habits are getting out of control, and John is faced with questions to which he has no answers. Mary Morstan's appearance makes things simple . . . for a short while, and then things get so complicated that even Sherlock couldn't have anticipated them.
A/N: I was trying to have a psychoanalytical criticism of "The Sign of Four' when this story popped into my head, and I just HAD TO write it. Warning for lots of plot twists, angst and kinky sexual themes in the future chapters.
All the grammatical and spelling mistakes are mine, unfortunately. If you're interested in being a beta, please send me a message, and I'll owe you forever. 8)
Any sort of feedback and criticism is appreciated. Happy reading.
Chapter One
John put all the bags down on kitchen floor with a huff and chose to ignore all the test tubes on the kitchen table and the smell of acid that was coming from God-only-knew where. At this point in his shared life with Sherlock Holmes, there was no point in fussing about the state of the house. He had learned to live with it, and to be perfectly honest, Sherlock was trying to tidy things up, that is, only for five minutes before he got bored and decided to find out about the right temperature to blow up John's cans of beer instead.
It's the effort that counts, and there haven't been many body parts lying around lately. That's a good sign . . . or a very bad one.
He could hear Mrs. Hudson from downstairs, softly singing an old tune, and let himself smile a bit. After the Woman's case and his little unpleasant talk with Mycroft about Sherlock, and subsequently having to lie to Sherlock about one of the rare things that seemed to emotionally matter to the analytical prick, it was the first day John felt like he could be at ease again, and going shopping sounded like a fantastic start for a relatively normal day at Baker street. He put the milk cartons in the fridge, coffee and tea in the cupboard and stretched a bit before walking to the living room. The florescent light was flickering on and off. He had to do something about that later.
He knew Sherlock was at home even before seeing him on the sofa. Not because of his leather shoes at the doorway or his scarf hanging on the crown hook. Not because of the open laptop – John's laptop, mind you. God forbid the detective ever used his - on the messy table in the sitting room or the half empty cup of tea next to it. No, that kind of observation was Sherlock's business, Sherlock's way of seeing the world. John knew Sherlock was home because the home felt vibrant and alive whenever he was in it. There was no scientific way of explaining it. It was something that happened after knowing someone well for years – granted, they'd been living together for almost a year, but the days didn't count the standard way when Sherlock was involved. Nothing was normal when Sherlock was involved - and John supposed it was a good thing, – the word good had to be used with caution when it came to the mad detective – a good thing that there were things he could rely on in their, otherwise, quite unpredictable way of living.
Sherlock sitting languidly on the sofa and not uttering a word was something he was fairly used to, and even appreciated at times, well, most of the times, but Sherlock sitting erect with a hypodermic syringe in his right hand and aiming at his left forearm which, john hated to admit, was decorated with innumerable puncture marks was something he was not used to at all. In fact, even though he was perfectly aware of the idiot's drug use, he had been lucky enough not to witness it happen right in front of his eyes.
My luck just ran out. Was about time.
If Sherlock noticed his presence - of course he did; that bastard always noticed everything. Always – he didn't do anything about it. John watched with bathed breath and hands tightly gripping the headrest of the armchair in front of him as the needle slipped in. Sherlock bit his lower lip for a moment or two, pushed the piston with great precision – the kind of precision he dedicated to everything he liked or cared for - swallowed, took the needle out in an agonizingly slow motion, fisted those long, pale fingers and opened them, threw the needle on the coffee table – right next to the fruit basket - sank back on the leather sofa, stretched his long legs and sighed in pleasure.
John stood motionless where he was; not knowing what to do, say or even think. It was almost as if he had just witnessed a traumatic event he would never be able to forget. It certainly felt like one.
It took ages, or maybe just a few seconds, for Sherlock to open his eyes and glance at him. It was the first time he was seeing Sherlock with dazed eyes that were so out of focus, and he just didn't know what to do. So he kept standing still, like a soldier at attention.
"Ah, John." Sherlock greeted him with the sleeve of his dressing gown still rolled up, handing lying limply on his side. His voice was a bit slurred, not enough for strangers to take notice of, but John had heard the voice enough times, had heard him ramble, babble, mock, jeer, hiss, huff, laugh and scream, to know the difference, and he stepped back, only noticing now that he'd been gripping the bloody armchair the whole time, his knuckles white, fingertips tingling.
John didn't trust himself to open his mouth, lest he scream and cry out the stupidest words. His fingers were itching. He felt like grabbing some vase, plate or glass, anything breakable really, and smash them to tiny, little pieces, or even grab that long, slender neck and squeeze it, and keep squeezing it until there was no air left for Sherlock to breathe. Perhaps the worst thing in this whole ordeal was that John didn't know why the hell he was having such a strong reaction, as though it was him who had taken the bloody cocaine, the god-damn seven percent solution that the great Sherlock Holmes was so fond of.
"Right," John muttered as he took one step back, and another, took a deep breath as if he'd run for miles and miles, then turned around and left the flat as fast as his shaking legs could muster.
It was almost around noon when John finally stopped walking aimlessly around the park and sat on a bench covered with snow. It was an unpleasant feeling, but John was too tired to care. He had certainly endured much worse in Afghanistan. Wet jeans were the least of his problems at the moment anyway.
The truth was that John H. Watson wasn't an introspective man; he wasn't even a thinking man. As a doctor, it had never been a good idea to analyze all the sickness and death that came out of nowhere and took lives for no reason. That was really when he'd learnt that why wasn't the big question; how was. As a soldier, his ideology was further reinforced. One hour of deep thinking, and john wasn't sure he'd been able to stay on that hot land, watch bombs go off, kids die, women die, soldiers die and keep doing what he was doing. When living with Sherlock, any sort of analysis was downright a stupid idea. Half the times, Sherlock did things for no apparent reasons – or at least reasons nobody else could make sense of – the other half the reasons were so blatantly inhuman that it was best to leave them untouched.
And then there were rare instances like Irene Adler's case that made John wonder about the eccentric man without really wanting to do so. Cases like this made him wonder what Sherlock was really made of. He had emotions. John was absolutely certain of it, and in cases like this, John wondered if Sherlock maybe had too muchemotion, responded to everything too strongly, and this detached façade was his way of dealing with life, and drugs were helping him ease the pain.
John was no psychologist though, and like all other things concerning Sherlock, there was no use in coming to definite conclusions, and it wasn't the reason why John had been going round the park all day anyway, but then again, when it came to Sherlock, everything mingled together; life and work, thought and emotion, living and dreaming. It really was no surprise then that he'd started the walk by being furious at Sherlock, then being concerned over the possibility of drug addiction and the idiot's mental health, then furious at Mycroft for not doing anything about the whole thing, then livid at Irene Adler for getting herself killed just when Sherlock was showing tiny signs of emotional growth.
God damn that woman. All thoughts end to her these days.
His annoyance toward Irene Adler had little to do with the fact that she had hurt Sherlock by pretending to be dead, flirting at him, taking advantage of his intelligence and, in a very bizarre way, innocence. Not that these weren't contributing factors, but John's real source of irritation was her words to him. At first John thought she wanted to rile him up – telling things like 'somebody loves you or you are a couple or look at us both' - but then, John might have taken a look at Sherlock's phone – no, he wasn't proud of what he'd done. He really shouldn't have been ashamed, considering Sherlock's thoughts on privacy, but he was trying to be the good man here, damn it! And, anyway, he had expected the great Sherlock Holmes' phone to have a code, and if by some miracle he managed to open it, he really had expected for all the messages to be deleted, but surprise, surprise. There was no code and the messages were all there. All the bloody 59 of them. It seemed Irene Adler wasn't playing games and making fun of John after all. Worse, she really did believe that John was in love with Sherlock. 'I think he likes you more than I do. You do know that he suits you?'
John scoffed loudly and leaned back on the bench, not paying attention to the two young girls who turned around to see who had made the unholy noise.
The dominatrix playing the match maker. How much more ridiculous can it get?
The most puzzling thing was why John found this to be bothering him so much. She wasn't the first to make such assumptions. John only had to add her to the list consisting of Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft Holmes, Greg Lestrade, Donavan, Anderson, Angelo and all the waiters working for Angelo, Harry, Mike Stamford, half of Sherlock's clients and even bloody Jim Moriarty. 'How does it feel to have Sherlock fucking Holmes in love with you?' He'd asked right before fastening the bombs to him.
Not a very good time to think about Moriarty.
John rested his elbows on his knees and shook the snow out of his hair with his frozen fingers. In his haste to get out of the house, he'd forgotten about his gloves. Bloody Sherlock. Just one syringe of that blasted drug, and here he was and thinking about, well, he didn't even know what exactly it was that he was thinking about: Himself, Sherlock, their . . . whatever it was that they had, life, philosophy, morality, etc, etc. John had never been in such position in his thirty odd years of living. His life had always been pretty straight forward, no pun intended. Questions like this had never come up. Harry was gay, and she was quite dramatic about it, but John had never minded. Not her string of lovers, not her ex-wife, whom he incidentally thought to find quite lovely. John Watson was a man who took life as it came and didn't turn back. Yet these recent incidents were really putting him off.
Why did I come here in the first place? Oh, yes.
The seven percent solution.
There was no point in further thought. Irene Adler was gone. Sherlock was not going to give up on his precious cocaine, despite the hints John had made at the long time side effects on his more precious mind and analytical reasoning, and life at 221B was going to go its normal way, as normal as things could be considering Sherlock. He had just been caught off-guard. That was all. Everything was fine.
John stood up, took a deep breath, shook the snow off his jeans and walked back to Baker Street.
Enough of useless thinking. Back to the real life.
Back in the flat, Sherlock was already showing signs of withdrawal. John could easily tell by Sherlock pacing back and forth in the flat frantically and biting his nails without mercy. The laptop was open and from what John could see, Sherlock had been checking John's blog, probably looking for an interesting case with no success. The Times and the Daily Express were lying scattered on the floor; some old books were open under the sofa. It even seemed Sherlock had given Poirot and Mrs. Marple a go, judging by the DVDs next to the dusty books.
Yes, definitely in withdrawal.
Sherlock turned around with a theatrical swirl of his red dressing gown and pointed an accusing – and shaking – finger at him.
"Where have you been all morning? I'm bored. Bored!"
Sherlock definitely knew where he'd been all morning. He'd probably had it figured out by the dust on his shoes or the melted snow on his shoulders or something equally ridiculous. So the question was aimed at aggravating him. It was almost funny how John was used to this side of Sherlock, which happened more often than he cared to admit. So, he did what he always did in situations like this: answered Sherlock patiently. (It was ironical and a little bit funny how it felt like he was dealing with a child sometimes.)
"Went for a walk."
Sherlock scoffed and sat down on the armchair, throwing the union Jack pillow on the other side of the room as he drummed his fingers on the arm rest in an arrhythmic pattern.
"Sherlock," John said carefully as he walked towards the pale, shivering man. It was almost like approaching a wounded wild animal. One wrong move and John could have his head cut off. Thankfully, he was quite experienced at this. If he ever stopped working with Sherlock, he was pretty sure he could find job at a circus.
"Would you like a –" He was cut off by one short ringing of the bell and watched as Sherlock jumped out of his seat, eyes already glued to the door as if he waiting for Santa Claus.
"A case, John. A case!"
John sighed in relief and sagged down on the armchair. If Sherlock noticed the sigh, he didn't say anything about it, probably too busy trying to figure out the case by the sound of the footsteps or something already. Whoever was coming up to their flat was an angel.
The door opened with a creak – yes, it definitely needed oiling up – and a blonde hair popped in.
An angel indeed.
John had stood up without realizing it and was staring - yes, openly staring - at the pretty woman with the shy smile upon her lips.
"The lady downstairs told me to come up." She said as she carefully stepped inside. Since Sherlock was not going to say a word, John hurriedly went to the corner of the room, dragged the wooden chair to the middle, and turned to the lady with, what he hoped was a nice smile on his lips. "Yes, yes, this is Sherlock Holmes and I'm -"
"Doctor Watson. I recognized you from your blog."
Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, most probably compliment her on her sharp observing skills, but John beat him to it. "Yes, of course, please have a seat." The young lady nodded her thanks and sat on the chair, putting her bag next to the leg of the chair.
Sherlock, please behave. Please.
"Well?" Sherlock asked as he clasped his hands behind his back and looked at her with narrowed eyes.
"I'm sure you'll find this case interesting." She said with a smile, apparently aware of Sherlock's obsession with all things interesting.
"That remains to be seen." Sherlock replied in his most monotonous tone, expression neutral, but he was rubbing his hands together, and John knew what that meant.
"My father . . ."
John was a bit embarrassed to find out that he really wasn't listening to what she was saying. He had no doubt Sherlock would later mock him for not remembering some silly detail, but he really couldn't help but to stare at her.
She's really pretty.
She was dressed nicely in simple clothes, her blonde hair resting on her petite shoulders; her eyes blue and full of promises of sympathy and compassion. She seemed like a little angel. John could tell by the way she was avoiding looking at the skull on the mantelpiece or the bloody hand on the desk, as though the mere sight of them would give her a fright, and he couldn't help but love her a bit for it. His life had become too much pumped with adrenaline these days.
John blamed all this on Sherlock. If he hadn't, for the lack of a better word, cockblocked him all the time, he wouldn't be sitting here, obsessing over some young woman he barely knew. In his defense, the woman, who had just introduced herself as Mary Morstan – Mary, what a beautiful name – turned her head to give him a disarming smile every now and then, and all John could do was to smile back. To all this, Sherlock seemed entirely oblivious, only obsessing over the missing father, and the jewelry sent by the anonymous person.
Great, we're both getting something out of this . . . which doesn't often happen.
The case was, indeed, quite interesting. Sherlock was already making 'hmm' sounds and narrowing his eyes in concentration. John could tell it wasn't easy for Mary to talk about Captain Morstan who'd been missing for ten years, and was torn between comforting her and staying silent for the fear of his and Mary's life. Interrupting Sherlock's thoughts was a dreadful and dangerous business.
"Would you like to see the jewelry?" She asked. Sherlock wordlessly stretched his hands, took the necklace and ring from her and gave darting glances to both.
"Can I keep these for now?"
"Yes,"
"Excellent." Sherlock said as he stood up and walked to the kitchen table. "Come back here at six. We have places to go" John and Mary heard him say and looked at each other with raised eyebrows.
"That's my cue to live then." She said but didn't look offended at all.
John quickly stood up. "Would you like a cuppa?"
"Very kind of you, doctor –"
"Call me John."
"Right, John. I'd like to, but I must get going." She said as she walked to the door, John following her and saying goodbye as she descended the stairs. Once back in the flat, he went to the window and watched her cross the street and disappear in the corner.
"She was really nice." He didn't really expect Sherlock to reply to that, and Sherlock didn't; too busy staring at the jewelry and looking things up on the internet.
John sat on the armchair and turned on the reading lamp without knowing why. Sherlock already looked better, the tremor gone from his fingers, The color back on his face, the gleam back in his eyes, and perhaps the best part of the case was that he felt like he was already a little bit in love. The day was already looking up.
The bottles of cocaine lay in the corner of the bookcase, forgotten.
To Be Continued . . .