The characters and situations in this story belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC, the no doubt vastly irritated shade of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any. All other characters belong to me, and if you want to play with them you have to ask me first.
Just an idea I decided to run with. I'm sure it's been done already.
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The devil was always in the details.
In his own defence, Sherlock thought later, noticing everything brought its own hazards. True, one altered habit or oddly phrased text message might be the key on which everything turned, but one generally had to have a puzzle to hang it on. Clues were only clues when they connected to something.
So when John had to go out of town without warning to tend to family business, and Sherlock already knew all the relevant details of his uncle's placement in nursing care and the man's impending demise-emphysema, and despite their mutual loathing of him John and Harry had a strong family feeling-he wasted no more attention upon the matter.
Besides, the serial thefts in Islington were far more interesting. Sherlock missed John's presence on the case, since the police were far less amenable to being sent on the essential little errands of investigative work, but he would simply have to wait until his blogger returned from Hampshire.
The crime scene was nothing unusual, a slightly shabby, well-lived-in home. The only odd thing about it was that only one thing had been taken: an antique wedding portrait, in good condition but of value to no one but the owners.
"What's green and smells like paint?" Sherlock muttered as he looked over the shelf where the family treasure had once rested.
"I don't believe it." Lestrade's voice was half gloating, half disappointment, and Sherlock barely spared him a sneer as he pulled out his pocket glass. "You don't have a theory?"
Sherlock squinted through the tool, frowning absently at the pattern in the disturbed dust. "Contrary to popular belief and John's puerile write-ups, Inspector, I don't solve every case I take on." He straightened, snapping the glass shut and thrusting it into his pocket. "As you well know, many cases may amass a mountain of evidence, yet go nowhere."
"That's true," Lestrade allowed, hands in pockets as he watched. Sherlock thought about ordering him out, then dismissed the idea. He was no John, but he did listen...usually.
"And I didn't say I don't have a theory. I have several," Sherlock added before Lestrade could blather on. "But I want another look at the first scene before I advance them."
Lestrade's puff of breath was both frustration and agreement. "Fair enough. Oi, Tipparaju," he called to one of the lurking uniforms. "You're on escort duty."
Sherlock ignored both the assignment and the officer's eye-roll, and strode out. It wasn't his affair if the man couldn't keep up.
He kept his eyes closed during the ride, one part of his mind sifting through the clues he'd garnered from the crime scenes-unusually small for a thief, either a short man or a woman; white, no more than thirty-five; short hair; in good condition; quite probably delusional to a degree-while another catalogued the chatter on the police radio. Crime followed incident followed alert, all the chaos and accident of a sprawling city; from pickpocketing and car crashes, through assault and arson, to kidnapping and murder. The latest details of the slasher deaths in Portsmouth competed with reports of prostitution and vandalism, all in the crisp verbal shorthand and codes law enforcement loved to use. He sorted through it all automatically, setting the vast majority aside as of no interest.
There were so few good puzzles any more.
Family business kept John away for a week longer than he'd planned, and Sherlock tried to keep a grip on his patience. The thefts were easy to wrap up, once he had all the relevant data, and for once Sherlock let Lestrade's incompetent crew run down the suspect, too bored to bother.
It just wasn't as much fun without John.
He knew the moment his friend returned, of course. Even if he hadn't heard the man banging through the door, or Mrs. Hudson's voluble greetings, the very air changed when someone else was in the flat, and John's day's worth of travel sweat and his unexceptional cologne slotted into the atmosphere exactly as they should.
"Look at you, so pale, you're worn out," Mrs. Hudson fussed, following John in. Sherlock let the edge of his paper drop just enough to observe John's complete inability to fend the woman off.
"Yes, well, it was a funeral," he said wearily, reflexively kind. "A relief to see the old bastard into the ground at last, but it still wasn't easy." He raised his brows at Sherlock in abbreviated greeting.
Sherlock cocked his head and raised the paper once more. "I'm sure John could do with a restorative cup of tea, Mrs. Hudson," he suggested from behind it, and smirked at the twin snorts.
Fifteen minutes later John had stowed his kit in his room-military habits still prevailed-and was slumped in his favourite armchair, tea in one hand. Sherlock tossed the paper aside and tented his hands, examining his friend with a cool eye. "Do you want to talk about it?"
John snickered, squinting tiredly at him. "Are you seriously offering to listen? You?"
"Not at all, but if you wish to talk, by all means do so." He smirked again at John's grin.
"I'm sure you know it all already." John inhaled the steam from his cup, face going almost wistful.
"Of course." Sherlock leaned back, letting his gaze go unfocused. "You and Harriet banded together to deal with your uncle's death despite the fact that you both detested him; your absurd sense of family honour demanded it. Settling his affairs proved complicated-easily deduced by the extra time you remained in Hampshire-and judging by the hotel key in your jacket pocket you chose lodgings separately from your sister, a little further away from the hospital but the inconvenience was outweighed by the desire to keep some distance between you."
John rolled his eyes. "And there's the reason I haven't brought her by. Three words out of your mouth and she'd never forgive me."
"Because your sister prefers to ignore certain facts."
John set his cup aside. "She prefers to deny them. Even I figured that out eventually." He exhaled, a soft sound of resignation. "Why do you think she's divorced?"
Sherlock inhaled, and John shot him a glare. "Don't answer that."
It didn't take long for John to settle back in, though again-and later Sherlock damned himself for ignoring it-something was subtly off. John insisted it was just a touch of the 'flu, compounded by his switch to nightshift at the clinic, and he was the doctor, so Sherlock let it go.
Let it go, because the last person he expected to lie to him was his only friend.
In retrospect, he didn't know why it should surprise him. Everyone lied, at one time or another, and the closer they were the more egregious the falsehood. His brother, after all, lied to him all the time.
It was one reason he didn't let people close. It was so tiresome calling them out.
So it went, and it was good to have John back on cases with him, though Mrs. Hudson fussed about wearing a sick man out and Lestrade made poor jokes about hangovers at the sight of John's new oversized sunglasses. But despite his fatigue John was John, stolid and dependable and drily witty, interfacing between Sherlock and the thick-skulled public, listening ear and valuable check and the simple comfort of someone who actually understood, though his brain might labour several steps behind.
So Sherlock erred, and didn't think much of the little differences...not until they piled up too high to ignore. The pallor beneath the souvenir tan of Afghanistan, the cups of tea set aside almost full, the increase in grip strength and the improved hearing; the way John's nostrils flared not at the scent of old blood but at the sight of an open collar. The reports of animal corpses found in the neighbourhood, and the uneasy rumours among the streetwalkers and the homeless.
The conclusion, when it came, was inescapable.
Mycroft would scoff, Sherlock was certain, but he wasn't to know. Mycroft had never understood John, though he thought he did, and Sherlock had never been good at sharing. Nor would he understand the situation.
Sherlock did. He observed John's increasing restlessness, his pacing, the covert research on the laptop and the sentences half-started and then discarded. He thought carefully about the implications, and about his work and choices. The loss of John would be a bad blow, but he could survive it.
He'd always made up his own mind about such things.
So when John finally got around to that sentence, Sherlock was there before him.
"Sherlock...I'm sorry to have to say this, but-"
"-You have to move out." Sherlock straightened from his examination of a boot on the kitchen table and regarded his friend coolly. "I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to bring it up."
John looked stricken. He had his hands stuffed in his pockets, and his eyes were tired and sad in a face that was thinner than it had been two months prior. "Yes...well."
Moving deliberately, Sherlock unbuttoned his cuffs. "Have you found a flat?"
John's shoulders hunched. "You're not even going to ask why?" he said, sounding stung.
"No." Sherlock rolled up his sleeves neatly. "Because you wouldn't tell me if I did." He lifted his head and met his friend's gaze. John had always been the giving one in their relationship, and that had been right, because Sherlock had needed his gifts. But now, it was John who required something.
This, too, was right.
He held out one arm, palm up, wrist exposed. John's eyes widened, and his gaze flicked up, from hand to throat to face. A denial moved his lips, but no sound came forth, and Sherlock could see the terrible hunger, the sorrow, the sudden light of understanding.
Sherlock's fingers were steady as he lifted his other hand and opened his collar wider. "Come here," he said.
With slow steps, John obeyed.
End.