Disclaimer: I do not own the title Sherlock or any of the characters, places, or objects associated with it. All rights to BBC and other respective companies and or persons.
Chapter 1
The ebony sky hung low over the landscape. The wind blew heavily throughout the night, howling and biting like an animal that could only exist in the darkness of the late hours. Concrete structures groaned in the powerful gusts. Dim streetlights flickered, flooding the concrete pathways in an odd rusted light. The alabaster form of the urban city suddenly interrupted the black sky. The traffic lights flashed angry colors onto the blackened pavement; the headlights of cars bleached the dark silhouettes of the pedestrians in their wake and the lustrous energy of the department stores swallowed the traffic on the streets, taking in the shuffling bodies in staggering quantities. Even then, more and more of the population flowed out of the buildings and stores. Bodies pushed against bodies. Shoulders ground together. High heels and metal boots and plastic soles trampled over the rough concrete pathways that compiled the crisscrossing streets of central London.
A small skirmish appeared abruptly in the crowd, interrupting the city's natural flow.
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" A feminine voice cried out. A tanned hand stretched out in an apologetic manner slightly brushing the clothed shoulder of her accidental assailant. As if in a futile and unnecessary attempt to balance her as well, the man performed the same action, though his movement was rushed and slightly unnatural.
"It's fine", he consoled the woman he had unintentionally collided with on one of London's crowded sidewalks. " You're obviously a tourist here."
The woman gave him a queer glance, shuffling away from her invader as if he had assaulted her with a deadly weapon instead of just the hard bone of his shoulder.
The man offered her a wolfish smile; noting her suitcase and passport as well as her flabbergasted and somewhat disturbed expression. It was a pity really. He had expected at least a tinge of appreciation, maybe even to go so far as to expect curiosity. Either way, he shrugged his thin shoulders and continued on his way. Weaving through the heavy-footed traffic, the man tediously arrived at his destination. He threw open the glossy black door, his woolen pea coat flapping gracefully behind his advancing frame, and, without casting a glance back at the urban landscape of London, he slammed the door on the hollow chimes of Big Ben.
"Sherlock!"
Mrs. Hudson staggered out of her flat, donning her usual attire. She flitted about, straining her neck to watch one of her only tenants advance at a fretfully fast pace up the stairs. His long stride allowed him to consume the rough steps in pairs, though he still managed to keep his gait smooth and undisturbed.
Fiddling with her apron, Mrs. Hudson shook her head in exhaustion, still studying her tenant's advancing form.
"Sherlock!"
The footsteps and ancient sounding creaks ceased. An annoyed scoff resonated from down the thin staircase. Heavy boots ground against the rough wood of the aging stairs. After several more terrible complaints from the woodwork, Mrs. Hudson's tenant appeared on the second to last step, his expression compensating for his lack of voice. His eyes were open wide and his black brows were raised as if he were expecting something from her. His posture resembled that of someone with a great deal of patience. His overall expression would say otherwise.
"You have a date tomorrow, Mrs. Hudson? Who's the lucky man?"
The question was genuine but the tenant had managed to slip just a tinge of sarcasm and utter disturbance into his tone. It shook Mrs. Hudson to her soft and patient core.
He was always causing trouble. No one else had to deal with rowdy, relentless, and all together merciless tenants. Albeit, they were considered by the habitual society to be, if she would dare say, normal, Mrs. Hudson would categorize her tenant in an entirely different category.
Sherlock may have seemed normal to outsiders as he sidled his way around London, but the moment the detective opened his mouth, individuals were all too keen to discover the tall and slim detective's ruse. His companion John would fall under the category labeled as the norm; Sherlock was anything but.
She didn't know what to think of him and his so called hobbies. It was only the goodwill and hard kept patience of his flat mate, John that kept Sherlock from all together doing something outlandish and utterly illegal. And with the little leverage that John provided, Sherlock still managed to misbehave on several considerable occasions.
Mrs. Hudson was returned to her conscious self as she heard the unmistakable tapping of Sherlock's scuffed dress shoe against the step. He had become uninterested in her presence, instead choosing to study the patterned wallpaper that decorated most of the building. As she fiddled with the wrinkled cloth of her apron, twisting the thin fabric around her delicate fingertips, She noticed Sherlock registering the movement, his bright blue eyes compulsively squinting, the action causing his weathered brow to furrow.
"Oh, what was it this time, Sherlock?" She restlessly played with her curls, watching as Sherlock made note of the motion yet again.
Odd behavior was like a bone to Sherlock and he was a hound, in every sense of the word.
"You were fretting, Mrs. Hudson, playing with everything in sight as a way to distract your subconscious from thinking about your future outing with whomever you take romantic interest in. The way that you play with your apron and hair; you're doing it to appeal to your sense of nervousness and urgency." He smiled. "He must have caught more than just your usual attention."
"Sherlock!"
He was taking obvious delight in the lecture. John would accuse him of showing off again. She smirked, feeling a growing sense of pride in her tenant's abilities. She had, of course, handed him yet another juicy bone, marrow and all.
"There's no need to worry, though." He explained, resorting to studying the patterns on the wall to alleviate his boredom with the subject. "Every one does it."
He turned, anticipating the long advance up the stairs to the decaying door of his flat. However, he twisted back, playing with the cuffs of the shirt that was being held prisoner under the heavy body of his coat. "Everyone except me, of course."
He twisted, only to repeat the action once more.
"Would that be all now, Mrs. Hudson?"
"Oh," She threw her hands in the air, noticing that Sherlock's deductions had caught her off guard and distracted her from her main priority. " Just don't slam the door, Sherlock. It's not nice."
Sherlock uttered some combination of a chuckle and a scoff. Mrs. Hudson couldn't discern between the two but before she could comment on the matter Sherlock was gone with another horrifying slam of his door.
Mrs. Hudson threw her hands in the air, once more, dismissing Sherlock's rebellious behavior. She made the tedious decision to follow Sherlock's advance up the stairs, entering into the hound's living quarters.
"You'll have to forgive his brooding, Mrs. Hudson. He's restless. We haven't had an interesting case in weeks."
Sherlock's flat mate sat comfortably in one of the Victorian armchairs positioned in the large common room. His bulky, black computer lay, purring, in his lap. Apparently, the lack of cases had affected him as well. His usually bright blue eyes were distant and bloodshot. A tight fist was pressed against his lips and his forehead was paying homage to several creases.
"If I couldn't handle his behavior I wouldn't have put up with it this long, Dr. Watson."
The doctor only offered a meager grunt as a response. He had some kind of intimate connection with his computer at the moment; he seemed to be studying it with an intense curiosity.
Sherlock suddenly appeared in the room. He held a steaming cup of tea while supporting himself on the wooden archway. He'd discarded his shoes rather quickly and Mrs. Hudson figured that he was harboring an intense longing for his silk robe and dressing gown. She decided she'd be better off not overstaying her welcome.
"John has an intimate outing tomorrow as well, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock smirked. He somehow always anticipated when he was about to strike a nerve. He strolled casually behind John's resting place, leaning back to study the doctor's laptop. "You all should go out together; you and . . . Imogene. That might be the oddest name you've collected so far, my honorable Doctor Watson."
"Sherlock, do you not even have a tinge of respect for people's personal lives?" John shut his laptop in a bout of annoyance, staring as angrily as he could in his flat mates general direction.
"Really now, Sherlock. Dr. Watson wouldn't want to pair up with the likes of me. I'm so old and fragile." Mrs. Hudson cut in, fretting with her hair again.
"Oh, don't beat down on yourself, Mrs. Hudson. I'm sure you have a ton of fun on your outings."
Dr. Watson's comment caused a flush of red to adorn her cheeks. He always loved to pick people off the ground. Sherlock, however, was intolerable when it came to supporting people. He'd outlive anyone trying to insult them time and time, again. As John had always said, Sherlock always craved the last word.
"Oh yes." Sherlock said, sipping his tea ceremoniously. " I'm sure that the designer perfume your wearing will drive him mad."
He smiled, eyeing Mrs. Hudson's disconcerted expression with immense pleasure.
John gawked at Sherlock in disbelief.
"Oh, please, Dr. Watson. It's obviously a mere stab at humor. Mrs. Hudson is completely capable of handling my animosity."
Mrs. Hudson nodded, donning a faint smile on her flushed face. John was able to study their connection for just a sparse moment in time. He had been aware that Sherlock had been Mrs. Hudson's tenant for some time. What he hadn't been aware of was that their connection ran much deeper than he had formerly believed. This was the most saturation of feeling that John had felt between them in a long while.
"Well then, if that's all the torture that I'll have to endure tonight, I'll be off." Mrs. Hudson scurried off, shutting the door to the flat softly behind her, leaving Sherlock and John alone.
"That was something." John commented.
Sherlock didn't respond. He sipped his tea, sauntering into his room, only to return without the cup and donning his usual bedtime attire.
"Not really," Sherlock humbly threw himself onto the couch, facing toward John in an odd, somewhat exasperated manner. His black curls were somewhat knotted and his blue eyes were shut in a pensive manner. He brought his palms up in the stereotypical prayer posture, pressing his fingers against his pursed lips.
"I'm sure you're familiar with odd relationships and connections. Everyone has connections with everyone else. People see but they just don't choose-"
"To observe," John finished his sentence for him. He nodded, reminiscing about Sherlock's former cases.
"How's the dating game going?" Sherlock smiled as John noticed his obvious attempts at hitting a heartstring or, quite more possibly, a nerve.
John, tucking his bulky laptop under his arm, proceeded into his bedroom, offering only a curt goodnight before shutting the door. Sherlock merely smiled. John was always an unlimited resource for a bit of humor.
The next morning Sherlock awoke to the succulent smell of sizzling bacon. He rolled over on the soft cushions of the couch, catching only a glimpse of John's bare feet scurrying around the kitchen floor, before rolling back over with a moan, burying his face in the cushions.
"Sherlock!"
The scent grew stronger, suggesting that John had drawn nearer with the savory substance. Sherlock grumbled, throwing his robe over his body in a disgruntled manner. He wasn't going to be lured out of sleep so easily.
"Sherlock. It's nearly ten. I need to get to work and you", John grunted in a feeble effort to pry the blanket off Sherlock's slumbering form, "need to get up!"
His attempts were futile at best and resulted in Sherlock rolling, in the lumbering fashion of a crocodile, into the exposed blanket, wrapping his form even tighter in the knitted fabric and prying the excess leverage out of John's straining hands.
John scoffed, throwing his hands in the air in a mute surrender.
"Fine!" He muttered, angrily, "But you have no right to complain about being bored when all of your potential cases are passing you by because you sleep all day!"
Just as John was about to make his last, and most desperate, attempt to pull Sherlock off the couch, the detective sat up in an angry manner and, grabbing John's plate of bacon and his rolled up newspaper, made his way into the kitchen.
John heard a purposeful huff as Sherlock sat down at the table, clearing off some of his experiments to make room for the crisp pages of the London Times strewn across the table's surface. He was still donning his crocheted blanket around his body when John came in to compensate for the meal that Sherlock had so easily stolen.
He stood over Sherlock, examining the detective's paper.
"Sherlock, are you reading the obituaries?" He exclaimed, using the distraction as a chance to steal a piece of crisp bacon off of Sherlock's plate. He popped it playfully into his mouth, making a show of outdoing his flat mate in a rare instance.
Sherlock merely pretended not to notice John's impeding reach, instead he flipped up the paper, flattening the crisp pages of the paper as to aid John's point of view.
"Yes, John. I am reading the obituaries. If there's any hint of murder, it will be in here."
"How can you possibly determine if someone's been murdered by reading their obituary? The writers don't include that in their columns."
"As much as I would enjoy it if they did, I'm looking for missing facts. It's in the details, John. The details!" Sherlock slapped the paper in a bout of enthusiasm, bending down closer as if he could pick up the very scent of something fishy in the printed column of words.
John didn't make an attempt to understand Sherlock's diluted ways of finding potential cases. Grabbing his coat off the rack, he finished brushing his teeth and grooming himself before finally setting off to work, leaving Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table, still enraptured with the disappointing tales of the dead.
Work was excruciatingly monotonous with hardly any interesting patients calling for the clinic's services. There was a small child who'd been bit by his dog, a women who'd scraped up her forelimbs surprisingly well while trimming her rose bushes; nothing out of the ordinary.
However, John did have something to look forward to. The famous Imogene, the woman John had been courting for a matter of weeks now, was the receptionist at the desk and had an abundance of potential and was extremely charismatic in John's taste. He somehow saw this relationship turning out much better than the others. He felt a spark of hope, possibly an arousing feeling of desire. It was nice to be around her, all in all. She made work very interesting. Especially since she was a new recruit. John had been helping her along; mostly aiding her in the memorization of clients and staff in the habitually small work area. She'd been fairing rather well, though she was suffering from a severe case of shyness; a symptom that the clinic didn't have a known cure for.
After the clinic hours were finished, John collected his coat from the rack and coolly sauntered over to the receptionist desk, waiting patiently on the other side of the marble countertop.
"Hello there, John" Imogene smiled, turning to see John leaning against the polished countertop. "Any interesting cases, today?"
John had a habit of sharing his adventures with Sherlock in the office. Despite the horrors of working with a high-functioning sociopath, John found that his adventures were renowned by many. Especially since Sherlock had been ousted out of the shadows of their usual environment and thrust into the spotlight of the media, many people would question John on the most recent scandal, the most horrifying murder, even if a simple individual went missing someone found a way to hound John for answers. He'd learned to deal with the attention that came with his habit of moonlighting and he actually found that many more people were interested in the gory deeds of criminals than one would expect. Even some of the timid women in the clinic would occasionally pop in for a question.
John bit his lip, remembering Sherlock in his heated morning routine, bent over the paper, his nose nearly touching the printed ink, trying to decipher some clue from the obituaries. John could see why Donovan and Anderson pegged Sherlock as a future troublemaker. When Sherlock was emaciated and looking for a crime to solve, he would do anything to alleviate his starvation, such as resorting to taking apart newsprint word by word.
"Nothing has come up recently. Sherlock has his eye out for trouble though." John smiled, still conjuring up mental images of Sherlock snooping about in the varying landscapes of London. "He's looking. He's always looking."
John shivered as he realized how ominous he had just sounded. Imogene didn't seem to mind, though. She propped herself up on her elbows, her glossy fingernails delicately cupping her rosy cheek.
"It's so interesting how you can just sniff out a clue and then weave it back into a crime. It's like some intricate web!" She exclaimed.
John felt himself grow red, nervously scratching the hairs on the back of his neck that tended to stand up when he was nervous or felt threatened. He'd discovered several of his body's secret antics that it used to deal with fear after meeting Sherlock. The hair on his neck would stand up, his military training kicked in, and the wound where he had been shot during the war would tingle as if it too could remember the adrenaline of the battlefield. John, in the bleakest of moments, craved the rush of power that the army had so dearly supplied him with. Maybe he had only been a doctor, but he loved it so. Sherlock was his drug and John was Sherlock's way of abstaining from such substances.
"Gosh, it's getting late! Look how long we've been sitting here, chatting away."
John was pulled out of his reveries by the sight of the blonde haired receptionist, twirling her locks and now donning her heavy coat.
Her head was cocked in curiosity and patience. John continued to look ahead, smiling nervously.
"Did you need something?" Imogene questioned.
"I just thought . . . Since we work together y'know . . ." He stumbled for words, his cheeks flushing red until the receptionist thrust a piece of paper into his palm.
"Here" She explained, "call me tonight. We can make dinner plans."
John stood in awe as she made her way to the front of the clinic, resting her palms against the door handle.
"Goodbye, John." She twiddled her fingers at him, obviously admiring how easily she had gotten under his skin.
John simply waved, still rooted to the spot.
When he returned to the flat, Sherlock was pacing the wooden floor in a frantic tizzy, his phone pressed to his ear as if it were a lifeline.
"No, no, no! Lestrade, why can't you see it? It's right there in front of you, just look!" Sherlock threw his hands in the air, his face contorted into an angry snarl as he snapped at Lestrade through the phone. "What do you mean you don't see anything? She was strangled wasn't she?" He continued to pace, clutching his forehead in obvious displeasure. Finally, he turned sharply upon his heel and gave an exasperated sigh. "Dear god, just put me on speaker phone or put Molly on the line!"
John ventured into the kitchen after setting down his coat and bypassing a very angry Sherlock who failed to notice his presence. The newspaper from earlier that morning lay flattened out on the kitchen table and John could clearly see from only a few feet away that Sherlock had completely taken apart one of the articles bit by bit, circling sections, marking others out, and writing questions off to the side. John sighed heavily. From his vantage point, he could also see that Sherlock had penned in giant red letters next to a picture of a young woman, "murdered".
