A/N: Inspired by Sherlock's dialog in A Study in Pink.
Sherlock: "Shut up."
Lestrade: "I didn't say anything."
Sherlock: "You were thinking. It's annoying."
And later, Sherlock yells, "Shut up, everybody! Shut up! Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe! I'm trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You're putting me off."
In a world where almost a tenth of the population are born gifted, psychics and nulls live side-by-side, without fear or prejudice.
Children are tested in their late teens. Those who are gifted are trained in the safe use of their gifts. After training, they are tattooed with the mark of their gift, proudly displayed for all to see.
Throughout history, the most feared serial killers and mass murderers have been multis: psychics born with multiple gifts. To be a multi is to be fated for a lifetime of incarceration for the good of society.
There is no way to hide a psychic gift — no way to escape detection.
Unless you're Sherlock Holmes.
It was Sunday, John's usual day to clean and do the washing, but a last-minute date had interrupted his routine. Under normal circumstances, John would be in the kitchen, sorting lights from darks, asking about dinner. Tonight, though, he'd soon be gone, but that was all right. It would make the theft easy for Sherlock.
After changing, John came downstairs to get his coat, called out a farewell, and left in a rush. Sherlock listened for the door and then waited ten more minutes. When he was certain that John wouldn't be back, Sherlock retrieved a woollen bundle from under the pillow and silently went upstairs.
John's room was neat as always, with the laundry basket at the bottom of the closet. Last week had been cold. John had worn his blue jumper twice, for fifteen hours total. Hands tingling with sense-impressions of John's consciousness imprinted in the laundry, Sherlock dug through the basket until he found it and pulled it free of the rest of the clothes. He put it aside quickly, not wanting to contaminate the psychic imprint with his own touch. Yet.
He picked up the sand-colored jumper he'd stolen two weeks ago. The lingering imprint of John's psyche was muted, like the soggy remnants of tea leaves at the bottom of an emptied cup. Sherlock quickly hid the returned jumper in the basket. He'd been doing this for months, yet John never noticed. For a soldier, he was amazingly unobservant.
Sherlock lifted his new prize between two fingers, minimising the physical contact between bare skin and sensory-charged wool. He hurried to his bedroom and threw the stolen jumper onto the bed.
Almost dizzy with anticipation, he pulled off his clothes and got under the blanket. The sheets were polyester; artificial fibers tended to mute transmit psychic impressions. Accustomed to wearing only natural fibers, Sherlock found the sheets unpleasantly scratchy and warm, but he needed the sense of isolation they created.
He pulled the jumper under the blanket with him and wrapped his arms around it, curling up on his side so he could bury his face in the springy wool. Then, carefully, he stripped away every last one of his mental shields, and let his mind fill with thoughts of John.
"Strong emotions — very strong," Anderson said, fingers running over the dead woman's arm. His hands were encased in natural latex gloves, allowing impressions to flow freely without contaminating any trace physical evidence. The stylized hand tattooed on his forehead, marking him as a psychometrist, distorted as he frowned in concentration. "She was depressed. Suicide, definitely."
Lestrade sighed. "The press will have a field day."
"Anderson, you're an idiot. You're all idiots," Sherlock spat, unable to hold back for another second.
"Sherlock," Lestrade protested, but his heart wasn't in it. Besides, it was too late. Sherlock was already heading for the bed, his sheer presence driving Anderson away, leaving the victim clear for a proper examination — by Sherlock.
He ignored the ghost lurking near the corpse. A suicide's ghost would have quit the area as soon as its life-tether was broken. Only the ghosts of the reluctant dead hung about, as if they could find some path back into their bodies and resume the lives that had been unfairly cut short.
True deathsight was one of the rarest of all psychic gifts, considered a myth by most, which was why there were no deathsight-gifted forensics investigators. Instead, the MET used investigators with more conventional, proven gifts. Forensic psychometrists gathered psychic impressions through touch. Diviners uncovered hidden evidence. Empaths determined when suspects were lying during interrogation. Forensic psychic evidence was generally considered to be more reliable than any other type, including DNA.
And at one time or another, Sherlock had proven every one of Scotland Yard's forensic psychics wrong.
"Out, Anderson. You're contaminating the air," Sherlock ordered as he crouched beside the bed, hiding what he was doing.
Sherlock heard Lestrade order Anderson away before he pushed the distraction out of his mind, along with everything else. Stripping off his leather gloves, he grounded himself not to the earth but to his own body, opening up a psychic feedback loop that would have disoriented any other psychic. Not him, though. Grounding to himself kept him safe and isolated without muting his powers — the powers no one else knew he had.
The instant he touched the corpse with a fingertip, impressions flowed to him in a violent rush: handsome bored fuck not more please biggest fan so tired HELP.
He jerked his hand back. The woman — some sort of famous pop singer — had picked up the wrong lover for the night. The killer had been a strong psychic, strong enough to erase most traces of his presence — enough to fool Anderson, at least. Obviously not Sherlock, but it wasn't as if he could say that.
He'd need physical evidence.
So he searched, careful not to touch the corpse again, instead using his magnifier and purely physical senses. He could smell a hint of white wine on her lips, under the fresher scent of the glossy lipstick. Painted on after death? Yes. The line of eyeshadow was clumsily smudged in place and the blusher had been applied with too heavy a hand. The killer's work, then.
"Search the room for her cosmetics. Compare whatever you find to what she's wearing. The killer made her up after death. See how modestly she's covered by the sheet?" Sherlock said, already sweeping towards the door.
An empathic surge of hope spiked from Lestrade's untrained mind, powerful enough that Sherlock could feel the desperate emotional surge without touch. This case would come under the worst sort of scrutiny, both from the department and the press. One mistake could ruin Lestrade's career.
None of that was important to Sherlock, though. What mattered was that Lestrade believed in Sherlock — trusted his judgement.
Despite that, Lestrade was loyal to his team, so he asked, "The killer? But Anderson —"
"Is an idiot. Come along, John," he summoned, and left the hotel room.
"The killer?" John asked calmly in the lift travelling down from the penthouse suite. His presence at Sherlock's side was soothing, a balm to the strain of shielding tightly enough that none of the Yard's psychics would sense his unregistered powers. Brave, steady John was better than any earth-ground for keeping Sherlock in check.
So he explained, without a hint of his usual condescension, "After sex, she took a sleeping pill, and it was enough to compromise her mental state. The killer got her to take another, followed by the rest of the bottle, making it look like suicide. Then he touched up her makeup, got her into bed, and left, taking the physical evidence with him."
"Why kill her? Who was he?"
It was a classic case of fan-turned-stalker, but Sherlock couldn't say that. He didn't have the physical evidence to back that up yet. So he said, "We'll know more when we find him. He'll be here. If he fits the profile of an obsessed fan, he'll want to see the reaction, to revel in the chaos he caused."
And chaos it was down in the lobby, full of press snapping photos and police trying to contain the mess and harried hotel staff struggling to avoid losing revenue as legitimate customers were put off by the circus. The thought of finding one person in this crowd was daunting even to Sherlock.
In this sort of emotional storm, Sherlock didn't dare extend his mind to search for the killer. He reinforced his shielding as best he could until every non-physical sense was swathed in damping layers. It was disorienting and exhausting, but he could sustain it for a little while. Long enough to catch the killer.
"Are you going to tell me who we're looking for?" John asked mildly.
"He'll be tall, handsome, the type of man to catch her eye," Sherlock said derisively. Then, because John needed to be warned, Sherlock added, "He may be an unregistered psychic."
John's eyes went wide. "Shit. All right," he said in the focussed, intent tone of voice that told Sherlock he was concentrating on the task at hand.
John was perfect for him. Not for the first time, Sherlock had to struggle to hide the affectionate smile that threatened to show itself. He didn't dare let John get that close, though really, that was no longer a danger. Whatever attraction John had once felt for Sherlock must have long since banked to embers. They were friends, nothing more, because that was all they ever could be.
"Do you know what discipline? Just so I know what to watch out for," John said a minute later as they blended into the crowd of curious onlookers.
"Psychometrist," Sherlock said first, because he knew that was how the killer had erased his trace impressions. "Empath as well. Dream-walker —"
"As well?" John asked, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. He stopped in his tracks, looking up at Sherlock in horror. "He's a multi?"
Sherlock nodded, motioning for John to get moving again. "Most likely, yes. It fits the profile. Obsessed fan, kills her so no one else will have her, manipulates the trace psychometric evidence to match the sleeping pills they'll find in her stomach. But he took the wine, the glasses, and the cosmetics. They were things she touched, and he wanted to keep them for the psychic impressions," Sherlock said, all in a rush, caught up in the mental ecstasy of being right, of once again proving his mind was stronger than his psychic abilities.
Unfortunately, the revelation distracted him from the crowd around them. The reporters were all roaring out questions, and he realised that they'd spotted someone important — Lestrade, probably — over by the lifts. The mass of people shifted abruptly, jostling him, and the physical contact cracked his straining shields.
His sensitivity to outside emotions was unusually strong, which was why his shields were so critical, especially in this environment. Even that one little crack was enough to nearly overwhelm him under the tide of excitement-alarm-grief-anticipation — but not enough to drown out the thread of shadowy, oily satisfaction and sated lust.
He wanted to grab for John's arm, but he didn't dare. Null or not, John was a doctor, trained to recognise psychic surges. He'd know.
So he focussed as best he could. He saw two marked psychics, both with the forehead-tattoos of telekinetics, probably employed as technicians for the press. As specialists in purely physical movement, they would be unaffected by the rush of emotions surrounding them.
Finally, he spotted a tall, handsome man at the back of the crowd. His face was turned in the direction of the impromptu press conference, but he was positioned off to the side, where he could observe everything. Where he could gloat, knowing that he had caused the chaos.
Sherlock pointed, catching John's eye. "There! Him!"
John — loyal, courageous John — never hesitated. He broke from Sherlock's side and rushed at the killer, leaving Sherlock to crash along in his wake, struggling to get his shields back in place. With every step, Sherlock had to push people out of the way, until finally, finally they were out in the open, the killer flushed like a startled fox before a pack of hounds.
Once Sherlock was free of the crowd, his shields snapped back into place. He gasped in a breath and took off after John, who was surprisingly fast for a man who'd walked with a cane only months before.
Their target reached the hotel exit only steps ahead of John. At the valet stand, John caught the killer's jacket, lost his grip, and caught it again. Desperately, the killer lashed out with a tangible surge of nauseating terror, sending John staggering back, throwing his hands up to his forehead.
John was a null, his mind vulnerable and unshielded. All the courage in the world couldn't fight off an attack like this. The edges of the attack spread like a noxious cloud, driving people away, screaming and stumbling in terror.
As a supposed null, Sherlock should have reacted similarly — would have, and had done in the past, faking the effects of a psychic attack — but all he could see was John, hurting and vulnerable, and something in him snapped.
He rushed right into the thick of the power, grabbed the back of John's black jacket, and pulled him protectively back, putting himself in the killer's line-of-sight. The multi had just enough time to look up at Sherlock's unmarked forehead before Sherlock's very physical punch sent him reeling.
The follow-up roundhouse kick knocked the killer unconscious.
"How'd you manage to stay on your feet?" Lestrade asked, attention fixed on Sherlock. Paramedics and police still swarmed the area, dealing with the aftereffects of the killer's attack and subsequent capture at Sherlock's hands.
"No idea," Sherlock said, keeping his gaze unfocussed. "I just... I saw John go down, and I coudn't think. I just reacted."
Lestrade let out a suspicious grunt, but the explanation was credible — barely. It was proven that a null could withstand some types of psychic attack or manifest gifts under extreme conditions. The classic story of a null-mother spontaneously using telekinesis to move a car off her child was the most popular example. Of course, it was a stretch to believe that Sherlock's emotions had enabled him to hold off the psychic assault, given how carefully he'd crafted his sociopathic persona, but it was possible. Highly unlikely, but possible.
The paramedic rescued Sherlock by offering a pill and a bottle of water. Because Lestrade was still watching, Sherlock tensed his biceps, making his hand visibly tremble as he accepted both. The pill was standard post-event treatment, used to stimulate the production of certain neurotransmitters that would dampen any lingering psychic sensitivity inflicted on nulls. Taking the pill could be damaging for a psychic, and lethal to one with Sherlock's strength and abilities.
A twitch of the fingers sent the pill into Sherlock's sleeve. He made a show of swallowing a mouthful of water before he rose from the kerb where they'd made him sit down to recover.
Apparently satisfied by the explanation, Lestrade smirked at Sherlock, saying, "Not such a heartless bastard after all, huh?"
Sherlock sneered back at him. "You have your suspect, Lestrade. Go construct your case and leave me alone. And while you're at it, fire Anderson," he said, unable to resist the parting shot.
He went to where John was seated on the back step of an ambulance, holding a bottle of water between trembling hands, head hanging down. Despite his own shock, he looked worriedly up at Sherlock and got to his feet, asking, "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine." Sherlock wanted to push John back down — he really was in no condition to be standing — but Sherlock didn't dare touch. Instead, he pushed his hands into his pocket to retrieve his gloves. The motion allowed him to drop the pill out of his sleeve; he'd flush it down the toilet later.
"Good." John smiled at him, knowing better than to expect Sherlock to ask how he was doing. Instead, he glanced in the direction of the police, asking, "Do they need us?"
"No."
"Home, then? I could use a cup of tea and some quiet."
Back in the safety of the flat, John asked, "Hungry?"
"No," Sherlock answered, tucking his gloves into his coat pocket. As he did, his fingers retrieved the neurostim pill, concealing it against his palm. "Just tea. Be right back."
John nodded, took one step towards the kitchen, and then turned at just the right moment, while Sherlock was off-balance, preparing to go for the bathroom to dispose of the pill. John moved so quickly and unexpectedly that Sherlock had no chance to respond before he found himself being slammed back against the wall, John's hand on his chest, pinning him in place, with only thin cotton fabric separating skin from skin.
For months, Sherlock had avoided all but the most cursory of touches from John. Now, this touch overloaded his already battered shields. The flood of emotions was dizzying, stealing away his breath, plunging the world into a fog that left only John in focus. He bit the inside of his cheek hard, hoping the pain would distract him from the sudden, desperate urge to kiss John.
With his free hand, John took hold of Sherlock's wrist and lifted. He released Sherlock's chest and pried open his fingers, exposing the pill.
"You idiot," John snapped, snatching the pill away. Abruptly, he let go of Sherlock and threw the pill hard across the room. It hit the far wall, bounced, and rolled under a pile of file boxes.
"John, I'm fine —"
John turned back on him, hands coming up to clench the fabric of his shirt, slamming his shoulders into the wall hard enough to rattle the painting nearby. "That could have killed you!"
The lie died on Sherlock's lips.
He knows, he realized in horror, and his fear spiked violently. His shields started to break apart.
A moment later, John let out a pained grunt and shook his head in a futile attempt to push away the surge of Sherlock's emotions. Hastily, Sherlock rebuilt his crumbling mental shields, trying to find some distance.
"Jesus," John whispered, blinking up at him. He took a deep breath, straightening up, and rubbed at the back of his neck. "Christ, Sherlock, how strong are you?"
Sherlock could still stop this. He was strong, far stronger than John could imagine. He could strip the memory of the last few minutes out of John's mind, leaving no trace for even the best forensic telepath to find.
Or he could speak, and his words in John's memory would constitute admissible evidence that would get Sherlock locked away forever.
"Aggregate seven on the Darrow scale," he finally admitted, looking into John's eyes.
"Aggregate — You're a multi," he said, his voice gone tense with fear that scratched against Sherlock's shields like nails on a chalkboard. But he didn't back away.
"Psychometry nine point eight. Empathy nine point one, though only up to about three feet. Those are the strongest. Everything else is between four and six, except for telekinesis at two point one. And no one's determined a measurement scale for deathsight. It's binary — either you can or —"
John lifted a hand, interrupting him. "Sherlock..." He shook his head and touched again, his hand resting lightly on Sherlock's chest. The contact was like fire, scorching right through Sherlock's shields and down into the hidden core of emotion that he didn't dare express. "How, Sherlock?"
Sherlock stared at him, amazed at how calm John was. It wasn't an act, either — he really was... fine. Sherlock licked his lips and took a steadying breath, trying to keep from touching John.
"Mycroft. He knew. Or maybe he guessed. I was thirteen. He... he brought in a rogue to teach me shielding."
"God," John whispered, shaking his head. Then, abruptly, he drew back his left hand and smacked Sherlock's shoulder hard enough to sting. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"
"Ow! John!"
"You with your showing off and outdoing Anderson and the others! Christ, Sherlock, Lestrade's not an idiot! He's got to suspect!"
Sherlock stared at him, reading the meaning behind his words. "You're not — You're not going to report me?" he asked, baffled. "John, this isn't something trivial, like your gun."
John barked out a laugh. "Only you could call an illegal handgun 'trivial'. And no. I'm not," he said calmly, stepping back. The sudden absence of touch felt like a canyon had opened between them, making Sherlock want to grab him and pull him close again.
But he was already turning away, going for the kitchen, calling back over his shoulder, "Do you want that tea?"
I want you, Sherlock thought numbly. Finally, though, he nodded and said, "Black, three sugars."
They drank tea. They ate reheated leftovers from the Chinese takeaway they'd ordered two nights earlier. Through it all, John was silent and calm, except for a repressed excitement that he was controlling admirably, for a null.
When Sherlock put down his chopsticks, John looked over at him and asked, "Will you play for me?"
That wasn't an unusual request, but right now, it felt... surreal. Here they were, a null and an unregistered, unconfined multi, and John's only request was this?
He couldn't refuse. He rarely had before today, and now, apparently, was no different. He retrieved his violin and tuned it with care, letting the familiar motions soothe his worries.
Once Sherlock was satisfied, he turned to the window, looking out into the London night. He took a breath to steady himself before he carefully began to unwind the shields from around his mind. With his empathy locked away, he had never dared to express himself except through his music, but that made the violin both an outlet and a vulnerability. Shielded, his playing was technically excellent but heartless and cold, which was why he'd never tried to turn his music into a career.
Now, for the first time in years, he freed his emotions to follow the music, losing himself not in the challenge of a difficult piece but in the composer's intent. He felt, and though his fingers stumbled in places and his bowing was off, it was the type of performance he'd remember forever because it was real. It was his gift to John, the only way he could ever express his gratitude and awe at John's loyalty and courage and willingness to be a part of Sherlock's life.
As Sherlock drew out the last note, he felt a touch on his back that startled him into jarring the bow against the string. The discordant sound made him flinch and twist back, surprised. How had John managed to sneak up without him feeling it? He scrambled to put his shields back up, refusing to give in to temptation, instead choosing to respect John's right to mental and emotional privacy.
"I knew," John said quietly, his hand coming to rest naturally in the small of Sherlock's back. Tingles crept up Sherlock's spine, and heat spread through him from that point of contact. They'd touched more today than they ever had before, and it stole Sherlock's breath away. "You can pretend not to have emotion, but hearing you play like that... I know better."
"It's been twenty years," Sherlock said tightly. He lowered the violin and bow as he turned back to the window, unable to look into John's eyes. "I can't change who I am. You know what will happen."
"I'm not going to let anyone take you," he promised quietly.
Sherlock let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "You couldn't stop them. Even Mycroft, for all his power in the government — he couldn't stop them. If they find out, I'll —"
"They won't," John interrupted. He curved a hand over Sherlock's shoulder and turned him back around. "Sherlock, I'm a doctor. I'm your doctor. I promise, if anyone even suspects, I'll handle it."
Shocked, he met John's eyes, seeing the truth of his words. Aiding a renegade multi was one of the few crimes with an automatic sentence of life imprisonment.
"Why?" he whispered.
"Before I answer that, tell me one thing."
It was only fair. "Anything," he said softly.
"Is this — No. Never mind. It's not important." John shook his head and backed off. He started to gather up the takeaway cartons from their dinner, saying firmly, "I'm your friend, Sherlock. I'll always be your friend, no matter what. And I don't care if you're a multi. I'm not scared of you, and I won't let anyone lock you away."
Sherlock watched him, wanting him, but he didn't have the words to express his feelings. He'd never thought he'd need them, so he'd never let himself think of how he'd tell John the truth. But he had to try, so he set down his violin and bow. "John. Come with me."
John looked up from the dishes. "Where?"
"Please." He clenched his fists at his sides to keep from reaching for John's hand, and instead went to his bedroom. He opened the door and looked back at John.
After a moment, John nodded, piling everything on the table beside his chair. Then he followed, stopping in the doorway, but that was fine.
Sherlock dug into his nest of blankets and sheets until he found the dark blue jumper that was shoved up against his pillow. Wordlessly, he extended it to John. This time, he wasn't faking the tremor in his hand.
"Is this — Is this my jumper?" John took it, turning it in his hands, staring at it in confusion. "You're sleeping with —"
He cut off, his eyes going wide as he looked from the jumper to Sherlock.
"My psychometry..." Sherlock faltered. "I wanted —"
"Don't you think this is just a little stalker-ish?"
Sherlock flinched until he caught sight of the little smile playing on John's lips.
Slowly, John crossed to where Sherlock was standing. He was a null and Sherlock's training had been superb, but his mere presence threatened to crack Sherlock's already battered shields.
"Wouldn't you rather have the real thing?" he asked, sliding one hand to the back of Sherlock's neck.
Shying away like a startled horse, he tried to break the contact, but John kept his hand tight against his skin. "You don't have shields," Sherlock protested. "I'd know everything —"
"Sherlock," he snapped, glaring up at him. "For a genius, you can be incredibly stupid."
"John!"
"I'm a doctor. I know what those levels mean, Sherlock. And I'm still here." His expression softened as he added, "I don't need shields with you. I've never wanted to hide how I feel. So go ahead. Look."
Slowly, Sherlock let his shields fall away, allowing his other-senses to flood his mind with information. He'd always been cautious, aware that he was so strongly empathic that he risked being overwhelmed, but now he didn't filter anything. He took it all in, John's frustration and nervousness and self-consciousness; his loyalty and dedication; his unquestioning friendship; the incredible depth of love, like nothing Sherlock had ever felt.
Then the contact was dulled, and John's hands were on his shoulders, distanced by thin cotton fabric that was just enough to clear Sherlock's thoughts. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, still a touch dizzy from the empathic read.
"Sherlock? What's wrong?" John asked, bending over him, holding him steady, as always.
There were no words for this, but he didn't need words — not with John. He reached up to cover John's hands with his own and opened himself through their touch. Projective empathy wasn't one of his strengths, but he could manage this, giving John a glimpse of how deeply Sherlock had hidden away his own love.
John let out a startled gasp. "Oh, love," he whispered, leaning down to press his lips to Sherlock's forehead. "You were suppressing all that?"
Sherlock nodded, spreading his fingers to trap John's between them before he closed them tight. "I didn't want you afraid of me."
John's soft laugh stirred Sherlock's hair, sending shivers down his spine. "Multi or not, I'm still more scared of you setting fire to the flat with your experiments than of you having any sort of uncontrolled psychic event."
The tension building in Sherlock spilled away. He let go of John's hands and dared to wrap his arms around John's waist, pulling him closer. "God, John," he said softly. "I... I do love you."
John moved his hands to Sherlock's jaw, cupping it gently, tilting his face up. Their first kiss was soft and brief, no more than a touch of lips that made Sherlock laugh in sheer joy.
John watched him with a fond smile. "First I find you cheating on me, and now you laugh when I kiss you? Not doing much for my ego here, Sherlock."
"Cheat — What?"
Grinning, John glanced at his jumper on the floor. "Do you want me to leave you two alone for a while?"
Sherlock wasn't a strong telekinetic, but it was a jumper, not a car. He pushed and sent it skittering across the floor to land against the baseboard.
John watched without a hint of fear in his expression or his emotions. When he turned back to Sherlock, his smile had gentled, though his mind had taken on definitely intense overtones. "Is this your choice, love?"
"For as long as you want me, yes."