Disclaimer: Sherlock and its characters belong to the BBC, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just play with them a bit.
A/N: Set an indefinite amount of time after The Great Game and once the new series starts, will obviously turn out as AU. If Sherlock seems a bit OOC at the end, he is meant to be a bit but hopefully he isn't massively so.
It's quite short but it should be updated over the next week or so.
Please read and review, any constructive criticism is very much welcomed and I accept anonymous reviews (as a matter of fact, I didn't realise it was an option not to.)
Italics are flashbacks including the final line but that is also actually a line from the show (A Study In Pink), I'm not claiming it as mine.
"Oh honestly, Lestrade!" Sherlock exclaimed as he strode through the door into the living room to find Lestrade and his team already there.
"Tell me what I want to hear," Lestrade said reasonably, shrugging. "Tell me what you know, and we'll all get out your way."
Sherlock made a strangled noise somewhere between a laugh and a snarl before throwing himself down onto the sofa and crossing his arms defiantly. Lestrade rolled his eyes, nodding at his team to continue.
"Thanks for helping." John muttered at Sherlock as he trudged up the stairs, heavily laden with shopping bags. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow but otherwise ignored him. Shaking his head, John deposited the bags onto the kitchen counter. "Drugs bust?" He inquired cheerfully of Lestrade who nodded once.
They both smiled exasperatedly as Sherlock sighed in frustration and hurled himself over to the other end of the sofa so that he could watch the officers currently taking apart their flat, still glaring mutinously at Lestrade. After fidgeting restlessly for barely a minute, Sherlock leapt up and strode out of the room.
"Right, well…cup of tea?" John suggested, clapping his hands together and strolling into the kitchen as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world to have a senior member of Scotland Yard as well as several of his team rooting around for his flatmate's drug stash.
John and DI Lestrade were sat in companionable silence, drinking tea as the officers searched the flat with somewhat alarming enthusiasm when Sherlock returned to the room.
"Still here, Anderson? You must be exhausted." Sherlock commented condescendingly as he nearly collided with the man, walking through the door. The man scowled at him but took the bait.
"Why?" John shook his head at the stupidity of the man for asking; there were times when Sherlock deliberately bated Anderson but sometimes, the man really did walk into it.
"Good night was it, Sally?" Sherlock called through to the kitchen, still smiling coldly at Anderson. "There's lipstick on your collar," he informed him. "You could at least try to be interesting, Anderson," he turned and added to John in a disgusted voice "don't you think it's all a little cliché? It's so…boring – so mundane – shagging the woman you work with. It's all so – "
"Yeah, all right, Sherlock. That's enough." Lestrade cut in, shooting him a reprimanding look.
Ignoring him, Sherlock continued, "I mean, really Anderson, you – "
"Sherlock! Behave!" John commanded, not even looking up from his newspaper, although even Lestrade could see the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement. Sherlock huffed and gave John a look that could only be considered a pout. "Just…come and sit down." John advised with a sigh.
Sherlock obeyed, perching on the back of the sofa with his feet on the cushion. John glanced up, frowning and was met with a look he had seen most-often directed at Mycroft. Sherlock gave him a defiant look that clearly said "problem?" Shaking his head and murmuring something that sounded suspiciously like "…living with a child", John returned his gaze to his paper.
Half an hour later, when he looked up again, he found Sherlock had moved to sit cross-legged at one end of the sofa, glaring furiously at Lestrade. The DI sat at the opposite end, studiously avoiding Sherlock's gaze.
"You could just tell us, you know." He announced suddenly. Sherlock gave no indication of having heard him.
John found himself suddenly concerned. Lestrade allowed Sherlock free reign over a particularly difficult case (and his officers) and Sherlock got a kick out proving how much cleverer he was than the rest of them. On the rare occasions when Sherlock withheld his findings or removed evidence (which happened more often than John felt comfortable with), Lestrade staged one of his 'pretend' drugs-busts and Sherlock would yield and eventually return whatever it was or disclose his findings – that was just how it worked. John (and, he suspected, Lestrade) was confident that there were no drugs to be found and that Sherlock's uncharacteristic compliance was caused more by his discomfort at having so many people in his space and touching his things than because he was worried about being caught with drugs on the premises. So it struck him as odd that after so many similar situations, that Sherlock had not caved and told Lestrade whatever it was he wanted to know. True, it was the first bust Lestrade had felt necessary since John's first case with Sherlock but still...
John observed Sherlock observing Lestrade, he wondered if he was imagining it but he fancied there was something different about the expression gracing his flatmate's features. Last time, Sherlock had seemed defiant, exasperated, furious even, but now? Sherlock still looked furious but there was something off about it that John couldn't put his finger on – it was reminiscent of how Sherlock had looked during 'The Pool Incident' as John had taken to thinking of it. That night, Sherlock had been outwitted, made to feel powerless and that had made him angry and, though he had never said as much to John, frightened. John flattered himself to think a good part of that anger and fear had been because he, John, had been in danger and Sherlock, for all his intelligence, was completely helpless to stop it. In one of his sedative and pain relief-induced moments of honesty, Sherlock had confided in John (though John had not mentioned it again as he was fairly certain Sherlock did not recall the conversation) that he felt guilty over the incident.
"It was my fault, John," Sherlock had admitted despondently, his gaze glassed over but not just from the sedatives or whatever was in the IV. "I 'played the game', and I – we – lost. I wasn't…I just wasn't clever enough. I'm sorry."
John had tried to convince him otherwise, but part of him knew it was true. He didn't blame Sherlock for it, by any means, but the fact was that Sherlock had been the only one with any real chance of outwitting Moriarty. He was the only one capable of seeing a person and knowing what they would do in any given circumstance, and the only one who could see a situation and know almost instantly every outcome but he hadn't found the one that would lead them out of it without Moriarty escaping and them very nearly dying.
"There was nothing you could do, you couldn't have known." John had finally said, squeezing Sherlock's hand. Sherlock had shot him an offended look at which John smiled sympathetically, squeezing his hand again. Finally, Sherlock had nodded begrudgingly, a stray tear leaking out as he did so then closed his eyes and given into sleep.
"You don't know, do you?" John asked gently, quietly.
Lestrade frowned in confusion. "What do you mean he doesn't know? 'Course he bloody well knows!" He snapped frustrated.
John ignored him, watching Sherlock intently. Sherlock gazed angrily at the sofa cushion then slowly raised his gaze to meet John's. He didn't need to say it. John could tell just by the look of hurt and hopelessness on his friend's face. Sherlock held his gaze for a few seconds then dropped it back to the sofa, shame radiating off him. If the officers and Lestrade, or perhaps even just the officers had not been there, John rather suspected he would have flown to Sherlock and hugged him senseless. As it was, he stood up and placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, squeezing tightly.
"Get out. He won't tell you because he doesn't have anything to tell you." John ordered quietly, so that only he, Lestrade and Sherlock could hear. From the look of astonishment and disappointment that crossed the DI's face, one would never have guessed that Lestrade was a perfectly competent detective even without Sherlock's help. In fact, although there were times when cases genuinely seemed impossible without Sherlock's assistance, there were times when John suspected Lestrade of passing Sherlock the interesting or difficult cases just to annoy his team and keep the younger man entertained. This was actually not such a case, and John was therefore sympathetic to the DI's plight – he had gained something of a reputation for solving the truly difficult cases thanks to Sherlock's assistance and it was not going to look good on Lestrade if this one continued much longer. In fact, to say Lestrade looked disappointed was putting it mildly, the man looked like a child who'd just been told there was no Father Christmas.
"But – "
"Lestrade, just piss off, will you?" Sherlock's voice was very tight – choked – even Lestrade looked concerned. He and John shared a look over Sherlock's head.
"Just go, Greg," John said, "you're not going to find anything anyway." He felt Sherlock tense under his hand as he spoke. Frowning, he glanced down at the younger man and suddenly everything clicked. "No, Sherlock." He breathed.
As if on queue, Anderson and Donavan's voices floated out from the kitchen.
"Ergh! Are these human eyeballs? What kind of psychopath keeps human eyeballs in his kitchen cupboards? I can't believe you – "
"Sir!"
Again, Lestrade and John's eyes met.
"It stops being pretend if we find anything."