Disclaimer: Not mine. All respects paid to Sir Doyle, the BBC, and writers Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss.

A/N: This fic is a stand-alone sequel to "First Impressions" and takes place during the first season, between the middle of "A Study in Pink" and the beginning of "The Great Game". Despite the beginning two chapters, there is much more original material in this piece than the first one. Clearly, any dialogue you recognize is from the series.

Second Glances

John

Human.

They hit the front of the cab, Sherlock nearly rolling off it. "Police! Open up!" He yanked the door open and John found himself looking into—

—the completely bewildered face of a man with a dark complexion and confused brow. "No." Sherlock was already shaking his head, disappointment evident. "Teeth, tan, what – Californian?" Sherlock glanced down, and must have seen something to give him a clue. "L.A, Santa Monica. Just arrived."

"How can you possibly know that?" John wheezed breathlessly behind him, trying to keep himself upright instead of doubled over. He hadn't run like that in…far too long.

"The luggage," Sherlock answered brusquely, clearly piqued at not having bagged their quarry. Leaning around him, John could, indeed, see the large bag and make out the LAX / LHR routing tag.

"Probably your first trip to London, right? Going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you."

"Sorry…are you guys the police?" Definitely an American. And he just as obviously doubted them. So would John – plain-clothes coppers were doubtless a great deal suaver than this.

"Yeah." Sherlock flashed an ID of some kind, up and gone so quickly it could have been anything. John fought the urge to grin massively. No wonder Sherlock was used to getting his way – he rolled over people with such supreme confidence they didn't stand a chance of objecting. He hitched a friendly expression onto his face. "Everything all right?"

The American's face was a study in incredulity as he replied, "Yeah."

"Welcome to London," the consulting detective answered blithely, seemingly completely unaware of how weird that sounded given that Sherlock had jumped in front of his cab in a great hurry for what now seemed like no particular reason whatsoever.

And then he was off, not even closing the door. John rolled his eyes. "I worry about him. Constantly," the arch-enemy had said this afternoon. The doctor seriously doubted that the cold man posturing with an umbrella had been thinking of the small things in life – such as shutting the cab door after impersonating a cop and finding out he'd nabbed the wrong man – but John had the feeling that Sherlock missed much of the fine print in human social interaction.

He had the unshakable feeling that he was going to be regularly haring off after the man, and he'd better get used to smoothing that over.

"Any problems, just let us know," he added in what he hoped passed for a calm, official voice. He shut the door firmly and started after his friend.

So…Sherlock Holmes, brilliant though he was, was capable of making mistakes.

"Basically just a cab that happened to slow down," he said, drawing level with Sherlock some twenty meters on.

"Basically." And capable of admitting them. John felt a flare of relief at discovering this that he didn't trouble himself to feel guilty about. He had a strong hunch that Sherlock was seldom wrong, and as a consequence would have the hatred all true genius' possessed of being outmaneuvered.

"Not the murderer."

"Not the murderer, no," the taller man replied irritably.

"Wrong country, good alibi." John hoped he sounded intelligent, instead of just completely winded, which he still was.

"As they go." At least Sherlock was breathing hard, too.

The wallet the detective had flashed at the American was still in his hand. Without thinking, John reached for it. "Hey, where did you get this?" His chilly fingers wrapped around Sherlock's warm ones as the consulting detective surrendered it, penetrating eyes still scanning the street for something they'd missed. John flipped it open. "Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"Yeah. I pickpocket him when he's annoying. You can keep that one, I've got plenty at the flat."

"I've got plenty at the flat." As if they were trophies. As if it weren't illegal to steal someone else's identification, much less a copper's. John started to laugh. "What?"

He shook his head. "You're an army doctor. Any good?" "He's with me." "You were right. The police don't consult amateurs." There was entirely too much going on his brain to explain it at all coherently. He pulled out the first explanation that presented itself. "Nothing, just… 'Welcome to London'."

At that, his flat mate grinned too, and, though he had seen Sherlock ecstatic about being invited to the crime scene, this was the quieter smile of some shared amusement. It seemed to be another small plank laid on the bridge they'd begun building during the cab ride where the younger man had dissected his life.

A real policeman had approached the cab, and the American was out, clearly pointing at them. "Got your breath back?" Sherlock asked, the same spark of mischief that had danced in his eyes with "Wanna see some more?"

John wasn't quite ready to admit it to himself yet, but he would follow that kind of look anywhere. "Ready when you are."

888

The door slammed behind them. Between Sherlock's intimate knowledge of London and John's willingness to follow him over rooftops – and how many years had it been since he'd jumped from gutter to ledge to fire escape? – they had easily outstripped the police, who hadn't gotten a solid look at them.

And what would have happened if they had? How much trouble would the detective who solved all the baffling cases be in for such a stunt?

"Okay, that was ridiculous," John gasped, leaning against the wall. "That was the most ridiculous thing I've done…in a long time."

"And you invaded Afghanistan," Sherlock quipped beside him, equally out of breath and grinning. Unable to help himself, John started to giggle.

A baritone laugh joined him, and he glanced at Sherlock, startled. John was glad that his laughter covered his (pleased) surprise. Sherlock could laugh. This strange, brilliant, serious, flat mate of his could genuinely laugh. At nothing.

"That wasn't just me," John replied, still laughing. "Why aren't we back at the restaurant?"

"They can keep an eye out," Sherlock waved it off, pulling deep breaths to regain equilibrium. "It was a long shot anyway."

"So what were we doing there?"

"Just passing the time." Sherlock glanced at him sidelong. "And proving a point."

"What point?"

"You. Mrs. Hudson! Dr. Watson will take the room upstairs!" he called into 221A.

The room upstairs? Up two flights? No…no, not with his leg. What could the other man be thinking? "Says who?"

Sherlock tilted his chin. "Says the man at the door." A knock instantly followed on his words, and there was that smile again – not the eager, challenging one for Lestrade's cases – but the smile from the cab "What do they usually say?" "Piss off." The smile that invited him to share.

He opened the door and there stood Angelo. "Sherlock texted me. He said you forgot this."

In his hands was John's cane. The cane he'd gone nowhere without since awakening in the makeshift hospital in Kabul. The only thing he'd ever owned aside from his medical kit that felt as much a part of him as his own limbs.

The cane he'd left behind in a heart beat, without a second glance, a thought, or a twinge in his leg, as he had hurtled across London after the man behind him, climbed narrow staircases and leapt from rooftops to drainpipes to ladders.

At least partly psychosomatic.

Had Angelo not returned it, how long would he have gone without it before he'd noticed?

"Uh…" He twisted, and there was Sherlock, still inside the door, and that sharing smile was still there. It wasn't as gloating as an I told you so. It was more like a See? John's hand closed around the cane. "Thank you. Thank you." He was facing Angelo, but the words were for both.

For all his furious-paced, astonishing intellect, Sherlock was human. He laughed, he made mistakes, he shared John's love – addiction – to the adrenaline rush…and he cared.

Why he had decided to care about John, the doctor wasn't sure he would ever know. But he did. And that was good enough.

888

As always, please review and let me know what you think!