Mad Preoccupation
Chapter 1
Sherlock frowned very slightly, anything more and John might notice. This particular frown could easily be over a piece of music giving him a particularly hard time, or a recently remembered case that hadn't gone as smoothly as expected. In all actuality this small quirk of his lip downwards was because the tremor in his John's left hand had made an unexpected return.
He drew the bow carefully over the strings of his near priceless violin as he watched the doctor bustle about their small, shared kitchen and remembered the first time since he thought the psychosomatic issue had been resolved that it had made a reappearance.
John had been writing his usual post-case blog entry and Sherlock, had caught sight of a few things that were odd. John was writing about him, his appearance, and he had used the phrase 'eyes like granite'. This was odd because the color of Sherlock's eyes changed regularly, as John well knew if he was the least bit observant. Sherlock leaned over the back of the chair, his face suddenly inches from John's and pointed at the words. "Inaccurate John, my eyes are rarely the same color for more than a moment in the sun, the reflection of light changes the hue." He had asserted flatly.
John had immediately jumped and whipped his head around to look at Sherlock incredulously. "Artistic license Sherlock. It's my writing." He muttered, trying to lean away from the slender man invading his personal space. Sherlock had thought that this behavior was strange considering the fact that he always invaded John's space, almost on a daily basis. In the interest of science Sherlock had thought it prudent to place his hand on John's shoulder and that was when his eyes caught the slight trembling of those confidant hands.
John had looked distinctly embarrassed and ducked the hand under the table, steadying it with the right one. Sherlock had relented to digest the new information and study John from a far. He had sprawled out on the couch, long legs draping over the armrest and thought about what could have triggered this relapse. He came up with far too many variables and decided that he would simply have to systematically remove each variable until there was only one left, or John cracked under the stress of having the whole of Sherlock Holmes' attention and told his flatmate what was wrong.
This task was proving increasingly difficult due to the fact that the tremor didn't make the slightest sense. It would show up at the strangest times and not show hide nor hair when Sherlock tried to coax it out of him. Sherlock had gone into John's room at two thirty six in the morning and discharged a firearm into the wall three times, raising an eyebrow when John leapt out of bed but his hand remained frustratingly still, thus stress, danger, and fear were ruled out as possible causes.
The next day Sherlock left a human head on the dining room table and proceeded to pluck every hair off of the scalp muttering about experiments and how he was studying the postmortem removal of hair's effect on the follicles. John had seemed disgusted and properly irritated and yet still the hand had not moved ruling out disgust, irritation, and frustration. Later that evening, Sherlock found to his frustration, that as they sat on the couch watching some terrible show on the telly that night that John's hand was shaking again despite the lack of stimuli. The show they were watching wasn't even that engrossing.
Which lead to Sherlock harping away on his violin drowning out the noise of the busy world outside his head as he ruminated on the issue. With a final frustrated huff Sherlock dropped the instrument in his usual chair and went to stand unnervingly close to John in order to gain his attention. The doctor of course knew that Sherlock was there, his time as a soldier had taught him to at least be that aware, it might not be as impressive as Sherlock's perceptive abilities but it was something.
John turned and realized that he had made a slight miscalculation about how very close Sherlock was. At the moment the lanky detective was reaching towards the counter tops on either side of him, effectively trapping him between Sherlock's arms and right in the path of that piercing gaze.
"Tell me John, why has your left hand been trembling again? I thought we had solved that." The man demanded coldly, his eyes searching that face for tells, micro-expressions that might indicate lies. John locked eyes with that intelligent gaze for a moment before bashfully looking away and pulling his already trembling hand behind his back, effectively sandwiching it between his lower back and the counter. Sherlock flicked his gaze toward the movement, clearly frustrated and confused.
"Sherlock I'd like to go... get some air now." He stuttered, far too close to the detective for his own good. "No, not until you a answer me." Sherlock quipped self righteously, watching John's face still, chasing any sign of emotion. "Sherlock Holmes move now." John reiterated, standing straight, prepared to move the man physically if necessary. "No..." The word had hardly left his mouth when his sweet, emotional, John Watson kicked his feet out from under him and simultaneously caught his hands as he fell, twisting Sherlock around until he was lying on his stomach on the ground with his hands caught behind his back in John's strong grip.
As quickly as they were there the hands were gone and John was slamming the door behind him. Sherlock slowly pulled himself into a sitting position, mind racing with possibilities. Clearly in his next endeavor he needed to factor in that John was stronger than him physically.
John steamed as he walked to the park, Sherlock was certainly taking liberties these days. It was terrifyingly close to how he acted when he had caught a particularly interesting case that he could not let go. If Sherlock knew, if he found out... John had no idea how that conversation would go, or the repercussions. 'Oh yes mate, I'm actually intensely attracted to you and my hand shakes when you get near me, would you like a nice cuppa?' John snorted. Right, the asexual jerk that was currently occupying the flat would probably mutter some quip about sentiment being silly and for ordinary people and promptly kick him out.
John growled, this was absolutely ridiculous. Sherlock was his friend, his flatmate, nothing more and it was counterproductive to his state of mind to entertain any thoughts that might make it feel otherwise. Picturing him naked was at the top of the list of 'thoughts that make it feel otherwise' and it would eventually get him caught if his bloody hand didn't do the job first.
The soldier squared his shoulders, turning on his heel, and headed back toward 221B Baker street. He would get this madness under control. The friendship that he shared with the eccentric man was just that, a friendship and it was far too valuable to ruin with the feelings running through his brain.
John crept up the stairs, hoping that Sherlock had finally gone to sleep, not that there was much hope of that considering the man's sleep schedule, or lack thereof. Sherlock was still sitting where John had lain him down 'platonic friendship John, you didn't lay him down that way' fingers resting lightly against his lips as he apparently thought something through. He didn't glance up when John entered the room, or when he, attempting to be quiet shuffled through to the stairs, pausing on his way up. John turned his head slightly towards the brooding man on the floor.
"Sherlock, let it go mate, it's nothing. I'm not upset. Sorry I... err... you know." He muttered, waving his hand in the direction of the counter. Sherlock grunted in response, not looking up and John knew that the man would never let it go. Not until he knew. John frowned and headed up the stairs, exhausted from the stress of hiding his current condition.
Just as John settled into bed he heard Sherlock begin messing about on the violin again and chuckled quietly. Some things would just never change. And so John slept and Sherlock thought. The mad genius downstairs chasing his thoughts in circles trying to pinpoint the change in his friend's behavior and seeming mental injury.
John woke groggily to a surprising silence pervading the flat. Typically Sherlock's noisy nature would not allow for this. The ex-military man drug himself out of the bed and shuffled down the stairs to meet a strange sight. Sherlock was making tea, seemingly confused about how to proceed as he stared at the boiling water and the large array of tea containers before him. John cracked a small smile and walked over to help. He plucked one of his favorites and another that Sherlock seemed to drink more often when John made it and shooed the lanky man into a chair.
This was clearly his attempt to apologize, ill-equipped to actually do it though he was, John found the effort nothing short of adorable before shaking his head and beginning his mantra for today. 'Platonic friends. Platonic friends. Platonic friends John. Nothing more'.
Sherlock was looking at him. Oh right, he was making tea. A small flush spread across his cheeks at being caught and he fumbled to retrieve the milk and sugar. Soon enough though he had both cups set at the table and Sherlock claimed his with some relief that he wouldn't have to drink his own concoction.
"What's on the agenda for today Sherlock?" John asked tentatively. Apparently this was the correct query because Sherlock broke into one of those sneaky smirks that belied the happiness beneath and launched into an explanation of a case that Lestrade had called him about at some obscene time of the morning while John was sleeping.
Sherlock was up and pacing, waiting for John to shrug into his coat and as soon as the smaller man had appropriately secured all of his necessary items it was off they went, John trailing faithfully behind that swishing coat as he seemingly always would.
As the two men stepped out of the black cab, a mode of transportation that Sherlock simply would not give up, they were immediately confronted with what was obviously the crime scene, swarming with uniformed officers, surprisingly enough right in front of the Yard. It was a disorganized mess and nobody seemed to know exactly how to proceed. Sherlock was unable to keep a pleased grin from his face as he observed the officers confusion. He seemed to revel in it for a moment before stepping up commandingly and nudging that rat faced excuse for a crime scene investigator out of the way.
Anderson grimaced and started in with the taunts, "Ah, freak, I see you've brought your sniffer dog along again. Careful, one might begin to wonder exactly how close you two are." He sneered, eyes jumping from Sherlock to John as they pushed their way through the obnoxious and steadily growing crowd to begin the examination.
Sherlock gleefully stopped and began quipping about the supposedly obvious relationship between
Detective Donavan and the married Anderson. "Oh Anderson, you may want to lay off the bottle, it seems that Donavan is a little disappointed with your performance... or rather lack there of based on the looks she keeps shooting you and the serious hangover face you're sporting. TELL ME ANDERSON HAVE YOU HEARD THE PHENOMENON CALLED WHISKEY DIC..." Sherlock had begun shouting enjoying the look on Anderson's miserable looking face as his headache grew worse and the panic as he realized what Sherlock intended to shout.
"Sherlock, might we continue?" John cut in cleanly over the shouting, effectively stopping the words from coming out of the consulting detective's mouth. Sherlock pouted for a moment, looking thoroughly put out before proceeding to the area quartered off by the yellow tape.
Carefully ducking under the police tape and between the crowd control officers John knelt next to the deceased, looking over the body and dictating aloud. "White male, mid to late thirties, close cropped blond hair, military tattoo on the left forearm. Why is he naked though?" He muttered to himself. He searched the body for a cause of death, grunting with effort as he lifted the man's torso into a sitting position and ran a gloved hand along his back, searching for any kind of marks or anomalies that might hint at a cause of death. His fingers ran across two burn marks the size of thumb tacks on the back of the neck and he recognized that the COD was likely electrocution due to a particularly large surge of electricity so very near the brain stem. It would leave no other outward effects than the two points of connection and if the killer hadn't used such an excessive voltage there might not even have been the burn marks.
"Cause of death seems to be severe brain trauma. Most likely a massive electric shock of some sort." John rattled off, laying the man back down and straightening up to get Sherlock's assessment of the situation. The tall detective was currently standing with his back to the crowd, staring intently at the whole picture, the naked dead man leaned up against the outside wall of the Yard and the spectacle that it was creating. Those eyes were darting quickly back and forth most likely cataloging thousands of tiny details which were seemingly irrelevant to anyone who wasn't Sherlock Holmes.
John came to the realization that his hand was trembling again and held it still with his right hand, both clasped in front of him in hopes that Sherlock would be distracted with the crime scene and not see the flush that flooded his face and the fact that he was gripping his hand as though it had done him a personal disservice. Sherlock's glance sideways told John that this was not missed and he carefully knelt to prod the body. After about five minutes Sherlock stood and seemed ready to declare his conclusions.
"His name is Martin Hewitt according to the engraving on his wedding ring. He was married, young wife and possibly one child. Military, I'd say infantry judging by the rifle burns. Closet homosexual and serial cheater." Sherlock rattled off gleefully.
For a moment silence reigned, then John's face lost all color. In place of his usual expressions of amazement and awe he adopted a stony countenance. "Sherlock. This man served with me in Afghanistan. I should have recognized him but he wasn't in my unit. I knew Martin Hewitt." He delivered calmly. Sherlock's eyes widened slightly and he quickly assessed John's reaction before asking that question.
"Alright?" It came out a little more emphatic than he had intended but he went with it and raised his eyebrows as John pulled on his military training and relaxed his features, disconnecting the man he knew from the body on the ground.
"Yes. Where to now?" John asked tersely. "To Baker street obviously, I know who the victim is but I've got to think for a bit on the perpetrator." Sherlock said as he took John by the shoulders and shuffled him into the cab waiting for them.
"Lestrade, text me with any developments." He tossed over his shoulder. The Detective Inspector grumbled something angrily and waved them off as Sherlock slid into the cab next to John who was sitting completely straight looking unseeingly forward with his hands tensely folded in his lap.
The two men rode in silence back to the house where for once Sherlock paid and John walked mechanically into the house, making a cup of tea and slumping into one of the well worn kitchen chairs. A few moments later Sherlock came bounding up the stairs, throwing the door open and whipping off his coat as per usual.
John stared into his tea unseeingly as his mind worked through what he had seen today. Hewitt had been a good soldier as far as John had known, he had always been there when he was needed and if John's spotty memory of Afghanistan stood he had not been squeamish about being in the infirmary when he was assigned there.
So why him? Sherlock claimed that he was an accomplished philanderer and a closet homosexual and as much as John knew that Sherlock was correct nine times out of ten he found it difficult to believe. The man he had known was spoken well of by his unit and performed his duties with precision.
"Sherlock, are you sure?" He asked softly, his eyes closed, not wanting to see the look on his flatmate's face as he doubted his deductions.
"Yes John. I'm sure." He muttered in return, knowing exactly what John was questioning and worrying about John's unusual reaction to this man.
"Alright then. Let me know what's next." John said, resigned. The smaller man stood and set his untouched tea on the table, setting his head in his hands. Sherlock looked at him strangely for a moment and proceeded to pull his feet up onto the couch, setting his fingers against his lips in his typical thinking pose.
After nearly an hour of silence John moved to his armchair and plucked a novel from the side table, cozying up to wait for Sherlock's silence to break. Sherlock remained in the same position for nearly three hours and John was thoroughly engrossed in his book by the time the lanky man leapt to his feet and began digging through the copious amounts of papers and books on the desk in front of the window.
"John, where has my roster gone?" He questioned frantically digging for said item.
"Sorry, what roster?" John replied, tiredly setting his book face down to preserve his page.
"Active and recently retired military, come on John, I asked you for it weeks ago when we were investigating that case with the woman you know, the woman with the military boyfriend." Sherlock asserted irritably.
"Oh, possibly under that stack just there." John replied, pointing at a sloppy stack of papers with a laminated report near the bottom. Sherlock yanked it out with a flourish, disregarding the flurry of papers that ensued and looked at it as though it held the secrets he sought.
Sherlock scanned the roster, standing stock still for a moment and until John thought he might be in for another hour of silence before shouting excitedly.
"John we have a pattern." He proclaimed as he thrust the thick bound papers into John's face, fairly bouncing with excitement. John squinted at the papers for a moment before deciding that they held something significant only to Sherlock and shaking his head in defeat and handing the papers back to the curly haired man bouncing on the balls of his feet like a child about to receive a sweet.
"Sherlock I don't see it. You'll have to explain." He said tiredly rubbing his eyes.
"They were all military men John, in the past year there have been exactly four murders of this nature, M.O. was different of course but this makes number five giving us a pattern, military men, and a serial killer. John a serial killer! We've got one!" He exclaimed grinning like a mad man.
John stared at him blankly for a moment. "Hurray." He uttered sarcastically. It was lost on the man in front of him as he fervently looked through the roster again, trying to see if he had missed something which he hadn't of course but it was still worth a look, or so he said.
John glanced at the clock which read a little after two am and realized that he had been up all night with Sherlock, entranced by the man even as he sat brooding. He frowned, realizing that if he didn't sleep now he wouldn't get the chance to later and despite the fact that Sherlock's body seemed to run on pure adrenaline and nothing else he would regret it if he didn't at least get some sleep.
"Right then, wake me when you've got a course of action." He quipped as he heaved himself out of the armchair and stumbled sleepily to his room. John's bed was a warm and comfortable as it ever was and soon enough he was resting fitfully, hoping somewhere in the back of his mind that Sherlock would not awaken him with gunshots this time.
Sherlock was pacing a hole in the floor as his mind attempted to puzzle out two mysteries at once. One being the murder at hand and the fact that he had a solid lead. Two being what he had begun to refer to in his head as the 'John problem' in reference to his friend's seemingly nonsensical tremor.
The first was almost easy as compared to the second. Clearly the killer had a grudge against military men fresh out of the service. Possibly he could use John as bait to draw them out and capture them in the act. Not that he would actually let his blogger be hurt but it was a solid enough plan and with the boys at the yard to back him up John's safety would never be in any danger.
The second was a bit more complicated. Today at the crime scene he had seen out of the corner of his eye that John's hand had begun to tremble as he worked out his ideas about the crime scene. So it seemed that the psychosomatic shake had something to do with Sherlock himself. This was worrisome because he couldn't have John faltering in their line of business and in their line of business they were nearly always together.
Sherlock frowned, flopping onto the couch and drawing his feet up in front of him. This was troubling. He didn't want John to be nervous around him. They were friends weren't they? Why was he so upset about this? He made plenty of people nervous, he had even been told to his face that his countenance and his intense stare were unsettling but John had never been anything but mildly amused and sometimes slightly irritated with his scrutiny.
So why now? Why was John so very flustered by his presence? Slowly an idea began to take shape. It was... odd. John couldn't actually... could he? Slowly a wicked grin spread across Sherlock's face, he could have some fun with this. It might be amusing
Upstairs John jumped into wakefulness as a loud peal of laughter broke the silence of 221B Baker St. With a feeling of dread John turned over and went back to sleep hoping that Sherlock had not irreparably damaged any of his favorite items in the house.
Notes:
As a side note, to anyone who read this before I realized that I had formatting issues, I'm very sorry that you had to see that garbled mess. This is the intended content. Thank you for your understanding.