Imperfection - A JohnLock fic. (Rated M for eventual smut)
As long as John Watson had known his odd detective friend, he'd always considered him perfect. Of course he had flaws, but they were pushed aside by his unbelievable intelligence, his breathtaking looks, and his strong sense of friendship. John remembered how much time the detective had taken from him, and how he never dared or had an urge to complain. He gladly accompanied him as a doctor and partner in justice, even in the most outlandish murder cases, from Blackwood to Moriarty,they'd handled it all. It had been around 3 months since John had proposed to Mary, and in that time, his friend had grown distant. Of course, John had never understood why. He was dense, as most are in comparison to...
"Holmes?" John asked groggily as he heard his bedside phone ring. He'd let it ring exactly twice, once to sit there dumbly and realize where he was, and another to muster enough anger to answer, wondering who the bloody hell would be calling him at 3 AM, and only one name came to mind.
"Watson, you sound positively awful, it's morning why aren't you awake yet?" he asked as if he had called at noon to find John was still asleep.
"Dear, who is it?" Mary asked just as covered in sleep, yawning. John gave her a glance and she sighed knowingly. "Good morning Holmes." she called into the phone. There was a pause on the other line, and John could see Sherlock twitch and sniff, uninterested. "He said Morning, darling." John assured, Mary allowing a convincing smile. "John, I need you over at Riley street as soon as possible. I believe I'll need assistance from the only doctor I trust." John contained his grin. He was so glad, the man was acting as though nothing had happened. He wouldn't, Sherlock wasn't the awkward type. John ushered himself out of the bed, bracing his feet for the cold flooring. He hissed and found his slippers, walking off to the shower. "You know, you don't have to leave John." Mary almost whined. "Yes, but I do miss it." he hummed, remniescing. He showered and dressed in an oxford, trousers, heavy coat and scarf, slipping on gloves and his bowler hat. Of course Sherlock had to pick the coldest bloody day in months to drag him out to a murder scene. He walked as briskly as his limp would allow, on his way to Riley street and on his way to Holmes. Holmes was dressed innaproptiately for the weather, slacks, an oxford, slippers, he was relatively certain. John sighed and shook his head. Holmes was staring at the iced ground, hands splayed about over his lips, knees shaking in thought. Watson looked down at the man who was sitting on the steps of asmall flat, waiting for him. Sherlock didn't need the sight of feet or the sound of voice to know it was John. However, he took his time trailing his eyes up past a cane, jacket, and up to the familiar face he hadn't seen in months. "Holmes, what the hell are you doing out here, you'll catch your death." he said. "I would've been warmer if you'd been awake, it's obviously your fault." he retorted, teeth chattering. He gripped his jaw to stop the sign of weakness. John rolled his eyes. "Yes. Forgive me for being daft. Now, shall we, before I have to defrost your carcass?" he asked. Holmes nodded and stood swiftly, walking up the the stairs with measured steps. John knew he did this to humor his veteran knee, it was a poor attempt at sympathy, but he welcomed it all the same. They entered the flat, the body covered in a white sheet, this meant Sherlock hadn't touched or looked at it yet. John blinked, "Sherlock, why do you need my help?" he asked, if Sherlock hadn't even assesed the damage, what was the point? The policeman looked at John. "Because the man under this sheet is someone important." he managed to say. He looked at Holmes, whose eyes shifted rapidly from the body to other things, his mind obviously trying to piece together who he knew that would be under the sheet. John understood now, he was there for moral support. The policeman bent down with a grunt to reach the sheet. "No." Sherlock said sharply. "If you'd please exit the room officer. I assure you nothing will be disturbed." the tall, wirey man breathed. The officer blinked and nodded, going off to a coffee shop. Sherlock paced, holding his mouth, ringing his hands. "We have to soon Sherlock-"
"Yes. I know." Sherlock cut him off, eyes intense. He finally bent down and quickly pulled off the sheet, hoping the shock would wear off quickly. The rugged man's eyes widened with memory and pain. John noticed, "Holmes? W-who?" Sherlock shook his head. He couldn't answer, not yet. He just sat there, frozen, his eyes analyzing and trying to put all the crumpling peices together. He abruptly stopped and reached for a card, peeking out of his breast pocket over his heart. It was, ironically enough, the king of hearts. "Sherlock, WHO?" John demanded, worrying over the man's incredulous face. "Kenneth Tate." he managed after a while. "Kenneth Tate." he repeated, the name flowing off his lips in an affectionate tone, a tone John had never heard escape Holmes' mouth. Sherlock bent down and stroked the side of the handsome man's face. This was insane, Sherlock craved personal space, this whole situation was completely preposterous. Sherlock stood, jaw tight. "John, cause of death?" he asked softly, gently. John raised an eyebrow, "Shouldn't you know that already Holmes?" he asked and he slowly bent down on his not injured knee to check for bruising, entrance wounds, etc, being exceedingly careful of course. John sat up. "Well, no signs of trauma from the outside, "I'm willing to wager..." John began and turned to see Sherlock holding a vial. He looked positively tortured, looking from the playing card to the poison, back and forth, perspiration beginning to form. John seethed as he stood, gripping his cane. "I hate to sound terribly rude but, what was this man's signifigance to you? A good friend? Family? Co worker?" he asked, knowing none were likely. Sherlock's eyes flickered to Watson. "An aquaintance." he said softly, showing restraint. The vial in Holmes' hand still had a bit of fluid inside. He pondered for a moment, then turned the playing card over and placed a little of the liquid onto the card and spread it by sloshing it around, sure to not place fingerprints on the surface. Sure enough, in elegant script, words formed. A letter, for Sherlock.
'Dear Mr. Holmes,
I really must admit I am quite an avid fan of yours, I've watched you work wonders on every case you've ever touched. And I must say, I am increasingly pleased to be your next subject of intrest. Who I am is of no great importance at the moment. However, who 'this' is (The man currently lying at your feet, dead) has a great deal of your attention. Doesn't he?' the letter inquired, causing Sherlock to grit his teeth, dip more poison onto the letter and rub. 'Does this strike a chord Holmes? Shed some light? Perhaps it even touches your heart. I sure hope so.'
It was unsigned. Sherlock read it and anger, sadness, and despair flickered over his stoney features. John took the letter and read. "Odd. Unsigned, no trace, no fingerprints, what does it mean Holmes?" John asked. "It means, our killer is not entirely finished with me." he said simply. "Sherlock, tell me who this man is." John said. "Tate was... Simply another student. The star of the highschool drama department and on through University." he began. "I suppose it'd be accurate to call him, my first 'crush'." he said, "At least the first person beside my own limited family who I felt any form of admiration for. He was Romeo in the last production I saw him in. The posion, I suppose makes sense. Clever." he spat. John's eyes softened. He couldn't picture a young Sherlock at all, let alone a young Sherlock who fawned over this man like a school girl. "Sherlock, t-that's awful." he said softly. Holmes sniffed, looking around, playing off 'unaffected'. John shook his head. "You're quite the actor yourself Holmes. You are truly positively depressed." he observed. Sherlock remained strong and just stared. John went beside him and put an arm on his shoulder. Sherlock ignored the man beside him, but took the warmth and comfort the touch gave him. "Well, now what?" John asked. "Well we very well can't go on and wait for him to strike..." Sherlock began, "He's going after people who are influential in my life. And he's using playing cards." he gathered, "He has a thing for 'puns', and is apparently a fan of me." he finished, pondering. "Well, that's all good and well, but how could he have figured out about you and Tate? Surely you didn't tell anyone?" he asked, "No. But I'm sure it could be observed." he said, remembering his lovesick expressions as a younger man. "Or perhaps," John began, "He's just as good of a deducer as you, Holmes." he said.