Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes belong to Sir ACD and in this reincarnation Moffat, Gatiss and the BBC. We own nothing and are only writing this for fun.
Warning: Violence, murders sexual tensions and relationships between males. Angst, and sexual happenings eventually.
AN: So, here's another Sherlock story from us. This is actually the first multi-chaptered Sherlock fic we wrote but we're only getting around to post it now.
It was a blast to write and we hope you like it.
Please enjoy...
Tales of a Feather.
Chapter One.
Sharp, changeably colored eyes studied the two men talking and laughing about flies and sand and ungodly heat while elegant, long fingers plucked at violin strings and occasionally drew the bow across in a deliberate screech in an attempt to draw attention. The only shift or change he saw when he did so however, was the ever so slight twitch of annoyance at the corner of his flatmate's mouth. He was being studiously ignored by John and casually ignored by the man who'd 'dropped by' to visit.
He'd already gathered the relationship of their visitor to John in the first few seconds after he'd stepped into the flat. Tanned, in the same way John had been when they'd first met, no stiffness of limbs, limping, or obvious scars so no major injuries. Wore his dog tags outside his shirt, plainly visible to everyone so proud of them and what they represented. Greeted John warmly and received warmth in return, brief moment of commentary on how much better John looked since the last time they'd seen each other so an old comrade who'd been there when John had been injured, a member of the same unit.
Jeans were well worn, frayed at the back ends so just a bit too long for his legs, off the rack then and never bothered to be hemmed up so no tailor, button up shirt, cuffs rolled to his elbows, enjoying the cool weather, scuffed and battered military boots, he didn't bother to change to civilian shoes on his return to England, pride in being a soldier again but also showing no need to replace military for civilian footwear, he'll be going back soon. Very soon as there were still grains of sand and residue from Heathrow on his boots so he'd come directly from the airport.
To see John first, a very close friend then. Sherlock wasn't certain he liked that. He was used to seeing John just be polite, maybe a bit closed off even, with everyone but himself and he wasn't entirely sure he approved of someone else getting truly warm smiles from John while he was being ignored. So he was making himself as much of an annoyance of himself as he could, rather unsuccessfully at that which didn't help his temper.
John was very much aware of his flatmate, it was hard not to when the man set out to be as annoying as he could be. He was nearly up to the standard he set when Mycroft came to lurk. Usually he would do his best to defuse any pouting or dark moods but right now he was not in the mood for it. He hadn't seen Bill since he'd left Afghanistan, still doped up and bandaged from being shot. Why didn't Sherlock go and do some experiments or something, he had a very nice foot in the fridge just waiting for his poking.
Trying his best to put the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes out of his mind, John laughed happily at the story Bill was telling him, picturing it happening easily.
"Then Rag, of course had to try it. He turned three shades of purple and up it came, along with breakfast."
Sherlock plucked again at the jovial tone. Really, what was so humorous or interesting about someone being foolish enough to eat a raw, wriggling beetle larvae on some odd bet then vomiting it as soon as they swallowed? It was incomprehensible. Were these the sort of things John had done to alleviate boredom in Afghanistan and if so could he really blame Sherlock for occasionally shooting the woodwork?
Bill grinned at his old friend, "Course things got right dull without Three Continents Watson there."
Sherlock paused before drawing his bow across the strings again. Three Continents Watson? A nickname obviously, but what from?
"Shut up you silly bugger, no one uses that name." It was said fondly but John shot a quick look Sherlock's way as the top of his ears turned slightly red. "And I doubt very much it got dull in a warzone. All I did anyway was patch your sorry arses up when you'd been out being stupid." John stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. "Rag and Sam are bound to have kept you entertained, with their utterly moronic ways if nothing else."
"Yeah a bit. And Macy uses the name, loud when cursing the new medic especially," he grinned at John and waggled his brows, "She misses your 'light touch' she says," he laughed at the kick John gave him. "And she's not the only one I imagine. Masses of girls the world over lament Johnny-boy living at home now."
Sherlock quirked a brow as John's ears got redder and the blush spread over his cheeks. That was an interesting reaction, embarrassment over having a few encounters with the fairer sex?
"You are so full of it Billy, always have been. Why I even like you I don't know." John was blushing and chuckling at the same time, remembering Macy and their cupboard encounters fondly. "Besides, living at home isn't so bad, it has its moments." Being a locum was not exciting, not after having dug out bullets with his bare hands and patched up chest wounds with nothing but tape. Living with Sherlock Holmes was another thing entirely; it certainly fed his need for action and his search for an adrenaline kick.
"Yeah I know. All of us read your blog when we can. Wild stuff mate," he glanced over at where Sherlock was sitting, violin still in hand, staring at them then angled his head that way, "He uh, he really do that stuff? Figuring everything out about someone like that?"
"You're on a brief leave from your unit, came straight from Heathrow airport in a rented car which you parked a block and a half away, on the plane you drank only water and turned down the peanuts because you're allergic to them, you're not just proud of being a soldier you like to advertise the fact that you are because it makes picking up women easier, you come from money but you don't like the company your family keeps, likely because they look down on your military service, and your hearing is partially damaged in your right ear." Sherlock ended his rapid fire deduction and looked out the window, leaving John's friend to gape at him before turning a questioning look to John.
John just raised an eyebrow, feeling strangely proud of Sherlock. "Yes, as you can see he really does that stuff, he also has excellent hearing and can answer perfectly for himself without having to be spoken about in third person." John's lips quirked upwards. "He nearly got everything right too didn't he? Nearly." He knew the nearly would grate on Sherlock but he felt allowed the satisfaction of teasing his genius a little. Wait? What? His? Where the bloody, buggering hell did that come from?
Sherlock twitched at the nearly, though the brief confusion that flicked through John's normally stoic expression was curious, and proceeded to pluck at his violin again and ponder what he might have missed.
Bill nodded, "Yeah pretty much. Bit freaky."
As if that was a unique sentiment. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the predictable reaction to his deductions. To date John was still the only one who'd not expressed that exact or a similar opinion.
"Come on Billy, it's not freaky, it's fantastic. You have to admit that. You're only pissy because you consider yourself a mystery man, something for the boys and girls to ponder as you sweep them off their feet, or up against a wall, whatever is closer." How had the conversation turned to the subject of Sherlock? It always did since the man owned every room he stepped into but it still baffled him a little.
Sherlock's lips twitched just a bit at the quiet defense though he certainly didn't need it. Still it did something, warmed something within him, as it always did. He also registered the 'boys' as well as girls in John's statement so that was what he'd gotten wrong. Not just women he picked up then.
Bill lifted his hands, "Didn't mean it in a bad way. Sides most people like to think they've a secret or two and for the record Johnny you swept plenty a skirt off her feet, least twice as much as me."
John Watson? Promiscuous ladies man? Sherlock pondered that. It was a bit odd really considering John's apparent celibacy since moving in with him. Or it would be if John wasn't chasing the women who were the relationship type. Rather difficult to have a relationship long enough to fall into bed if you and your dates were continually shot at. He didn't bother to stifle the smug satisfaction that gave him. John deserved better than some wilting violet who'd never understand him anyway.
"Yes well, everyone has a past and we've all done some wild things in our youth." John wasn't in the habit of lying so he couldn't deny what Bill had said. Besides he wasn't really ashamed of it. John liked girls, he liked sex and he seemed to be good at it. He still liked sex, he just didn't have any these days. All his time was spent trailing Sherlock through the London streets and loving every moment of it, almost every moment at least. He could do without some of the insults and experiments. And he definitely could do without Anderson, the man was just repelling in every way.
"Right," Bill chuckled, "Want to join me for a pint then? See if I've still got it with the native birds and blokes? Play my wingman?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes again. Ugh, dull. How could John stand it? There were so many better things to do than sit in a pub catching up on old war stories and prowling for an easy sexual encounter.
"Sure, why not? I could wet my throat. Just don't go all cranky when all your preferred lovelies go for me instead." John smirked, actually looking forward to a night out. They didn't have a case at the moment and staying inside with Sherlock's eye-rolling did not seem all that tempting. Especially not with all the weird thoughts he'd been having lately. A pub night with a good friend who understood the soldier side of him might just be what he needed.
"Oh a challenge," Bill rose to his feet and glanced over at Sherlock before offering in polite awkwardness, "Er I don't suppose you-"
"No," Sherlock started tuning his violin in preparation for some real playing, "I don't find merit in frequenting pubs or drinking." Not unless it involved a case or unless he would be able to pick apart the people in the pub to John and for some reason John wasn't as appreciative of his skills when he did that.
"Right then," John got up as well, rolling his shoulder a little to loosen it up after having bit sitting still for quite a bit. "No shooting the walls, no burning the flat down and no blood or body parts in the kettle." He gave Sherlock a stern look. "I've got my phone so if there's anything just text me okay."
Sherlock only made an acknowledging hum and continued to fiddle with his violin until John and his friend had left. Then he began to play, his fingers moving on autopilot while he let his mind whir and sort and file things away.
He greatly disliked John's friend, the same way he disliked the women John dated. The reason was simple and he understood himself well. He didn't like them taking John's attention away from him. As far as he was concerned John had been [i]his[/i] since the very first 'amazing' had fallen from his lips. Not in a completely sexual way, at least certainly not at first, but just in the way of someone having found something special and not wanting to share.
John was special. There truly was no one like him. Who else, upon having their life so brutally and effectively dissected and then spread out before them in concise words, would have called it 'amazing' or 'extraordinary'? Who else would have killed a man for someone he'd only known for a day and a half? For that matter who else could even put up with Sherlock for as long as John had without resentment or judgment? He knew just how trying he was to others, knew, in a vague manner, that some of his experiments were far from what even the most stalwart could stomach. He knew it, he simply didn't care. It was who he was and how he operated and he was not about to change just to conform to some ridiculous societal standard.
And to date only John H. Watson not only managed to live with it without trying to change him but had also managed to slide in to fit with his own patterns and quirks. John didn't try to change him like many others nor did he try to control him like Mycroft. He was simply a steady, supportive presence with a gift of saying just the right thing at the right time to clear the fog away and make everything turn crystal clear. John was also a guide to him in the moments when he wanted to step...softer. John didn't tell him that he should or should not do this or that but he let him know, in gentle, non-condemnatory ways, that he'd stepped over some social line. John didn't poke fun at him maliciously and he only ever truly insulted him when he'd done something hurtful to John.
So John was special, precious to him in a way that nothing and no one else was or would ever be. He was also quite attractive if Sherlock were to be honest. The strong, broad body moved with easy efficiency, no wasted energy or motions, and always with purpose. Even under the jumpers the observant could tell that John was very fit and now, with the comments on his sexual conquests, Sherlock found himself wondering if John brought the efficiency and purpose from his everyday life into bed with him.
That thought made him pause for half a moment as he let it sink in to his mind and then he resumed playing, the music slipping unconsciously into a gypsy aire that spoke to passion and heat. He didn't hear the music as he played unless he hit a sour note, what helped him to think was the movement, translating his thoughts into something tangible.
Willfully ignorant of social situations as he was, he'd not noticed his own admiration of John changing from simply valuing his faithful companionship and appreciation to something deeper until he'd seen him strapped with enough explosives to level a city block. That had brought into sharp relief that he [i]cared[/i] about John. He no longer just valued what John did for him but he cared about the man himself, so much it had hurt in those breathless moments when he'd thought he might lose the other man, in one way or another.
Once aware of that it had been a natural progression to being physically attracted to John though that had gotten muddled up in the mess with The Woman. Ridiculous now that he had time and distance from Irene Adler to sort it all out. Never had been about the woman, no it had been the mystery of her and the intrigue of someone getting the upper hand on him that had turned his head so badly. Mycroft, loathe though he was to admit it even in the privacy of his own thoughts, had been right. He had played the fool in that affair and set any progress of changing the status quo with John to something more intimate back to square one.
And today did not help matters. Once again he had an outside source telling him of John's rampant heterosexuality. 'Girls the world over' indeed. If only there were some way of getting John to take the Kinsey test without him realizing what it was a test about. Unfortunately John was not a fool, he'd recognize the questions as being part of a test on sexuality and Sherlock was not interested in the questions that would inevitably follow from the man.
He flowed from gypsy music into some intense Vivaldi then into Scottish reels, time losing meaning in the flow of movement and the wash of notes as he played and waited for John to return.
oOoOoOo
Even though smoking had been forbidden inside pubs, clubs and dance floors the place still smelled faintly of smoke, beer, perfume and hidden sweat. It was comforting in a way that certain things didn't change. John watched Bill move through the room, eyes on a sweet looking blonde girl with amusement as he lipped at his second pint lazily. He'd offered Bill to kip on their couch if he didn't have a place to stay but as it looked now, Billy would get lucky with his blonde.
John'd had his eyes on a girl too, a pretty redhead, he'd always have a fondness for redheads but as the evening progressed her hair hadn't been wild or curly enough and her smile was too sweet so John had let her go, let her get swept up by a man that could offer her more than he could as he'd had another internal panic attack.
It wasn't being attracted to a man that had him reeling, he'd grown up with a lesbian sister after all and he was more than confident in himself to recognize beauty in the male form as well as the female. No, it was being attracted to Sherlock that scared the life out of him. The detective had made it perfectly clear that first dinner that he was married to his work and more than that, he was the most important person in John's life. The one that had saved him from bone weary loneliness, his best friend. John did not want to risk what they had. He couldn't lose Sherlock, that would destroy him so it was better to keep looking at girls and savor the friendship he did have with the other man.
John finished his second pint, it was time to pack it in and go home. He never drank much, he knew firsthand what too much alcohol did to a person. He stood from his chair and looked around for Billy, wanting to tell him that he was going home.
Bill looked up from flirting with the blond at a tap on his shoulder and grinned, "Hey Johnny, Lyssa this is my old army mate who patched me up." He tilted his head, remembering that John wasn't one for getting smashed, "You headed back to your place then?"
"I am yes." John nodded even as he automatically flashed a smile in the blonde...Lyssa's direction. "If you have time then call me before you head off again. Other than that you just play nice." His smile grew a little wider. "I'm off then."
Bill gave him a salute, "Alright. I'll ring you up and I always play nice Dr. Watson. Watch yourself on the way home mate."
"You know me; I am Mr. cautious and careful. It was a pleasure meeting you Miss Lyssa." He nodded his head in greeting and walked out of the pub. Since it wasn't very far to Baker Street, John decided to walk and save himself the cab fare.
Mrs. Hudson poked her head out almost as soon as John had opened the door, "Did you two have a row dear? He's been doing that," she waved to indicate the violin music floating down from the flat and filling the stairwell, "since you left with your old friend."
John tilted his head and listened to the notes filling the air. "No row Mrs. Hudson. My friend and I just went to the pub. You know that's not Sherlock's preferred venue. He's probably just thinking and waiting for Lestrade to call." He took his jacket off and hung it over his arm, one foot on the stairs. "And how are you Mrs. Hudson? I hope the hip isn't acting up too much."
"Not at all dear. Well you go on up and see to Sherlock and I'll go back to my telly."
"You do that and have a nice evening; I'll try to keep things from getting too loud upstairs." John smiled to himself as he walked up the stairs. Go on up and see Sherlock...Not, go on up home. Well that said a lot about his life he supposed. Shaking his head slightly he opened the door, the music sounding louder as he hung his jacket neatly on a hook and moved in to the living room, watching Sherlock stand in front of the window playing.
Sherlock had, by now, worked his way out of fast, passionate pieces as his thoughts drove him further inward, the problem of John Watson weighing heavy on his mind and his music had taken on a sad, heart-breakingly lonely tone. It was actually a piece he'd played many times as a child when he'd felt particularly estranged from the rest of his peers and, before John entered his life, it had often jumped from his fingers after a particularly nasty run in with Donovan and Anderson once he'd played out the temper it ignited anyway.
The sad notes made John's heart clench and he wondered not for the first time what really went on in that massively brilliant mind. Sherlock must be lost in his own head as he didn't seem to have noticed that John was home. Watching his flatmate for a few moments longer, John walked to the kitchen to flick the kettle on. He very much doubted that Sherlock had made his own tea or eaten anything while he was away.
It was the smell of the kettle heating on the stove that brought Sherlock out of him head and back to reality. One long slow blink and then he was setting the violin down and shifting his position in the room so that he could see John's back as he made tea. "I presume your friend found a conquest for the evening."
"Yup, you knew he would or you would have been much crankier about me offering him the couch." John's voice was calm as he looked through the fridge and cupboards, working his way around something yellowish green in a bowl and the severed foot. "Pasta or eggs? You are going to eat something so what do you want? The pasta or the eggs are the only thing we have that looks somewhat safe." John knew better than to ask about the music choice, even though he was curious about it.
"Your insistence on feeding me remains oddly baffling," Sherlock picked up a book, flipping through the pages as his foot tapped and wiggled, "Eggs, less work."
"You're nearly skinny enough to break in half and no matter that it is only a transport the body still needs fuel. Eggs it is then." He brought the eggs out and placed them on the counter before reaching for a pan, deciding on scrambled eggs. John felt oddly tense, and his mind was lightly buzzed, even from two pints. Gods, he really was a light weight these days.
Sherlock studied John's back for a moment, "So how did you save his life?"
"Hm?" Sherlock's words didn't really register at first. Cooking was calming, everything happening in turn. "Oh, what makes you think I saved him? I didn't do anymore than any other soldier in the unit. There was an ambush on the way from one camp to another, if you don't watch the backs of your comrades you'll end up with a bullet in yours, it's that simple."
"He came, directly from the airport, to see you. Not even a stop off for food when he would have been very hungry, not having eaten anything on the plane. That means you stuck out in his mind more sharply than anything else. Even among comrades that's a different sort of...connection, something more to it. He wasn't badly injured, not recently, no twitches or problems moving, no scars, so it wouldn't have been seeking company of a friend who had been badly hurt. So you did something to stick out in his mind as the first person he wanted to see, to talk to once back in London. So you obviously saved him, possibly at greater risk to yourself than was wise." Sherlock's gaze stayed on John, absorbing the body language and movements. He knew John didn't like to speak of his service so he'd let it drop if he brushed it off again as John was one of the rare people who's feelings mattered to him.
"Ambush, running, landmine. I only did what friends do for each other." John made sure the pan was hot before he added the eggs to scramble. "It's like a different world over there, not sure I could explain even if I wanted to. Now get off that scrawny bum and get the tea ready while I finish the eggs." He waved the spatula in Sherlock's direction.
"Lean." Sherlock set his book aside, "My frame and musculature are lean John." He pondered simply staying where he was, getting the tea ready was not something he did, but then he chose to do as 'requested' as he knew John would have borderline hysterics if the tea was ruined because he'd let it sit too long. John could be very militant about his tea. Of course that was somewhat of a lie to himself. He did as asked because he wanted to be near John, to assure himself in some silent way that John was still his.
"Scrawny is scrawny." John's lips quirked up in surprise as Sherlock actually got up and walked over to the kettle, he hadn't expected that. John always nagged on him to do things and Sherlock always ignored him.
Sherlock poured the steaming hot water into the mugs holding the teabags and met John's gaze as he set the kettle back down on a cold burner, "What?"
"You feeling okay?" John's brows furrowed as looked Sherlock over, trying to see if anything was off physically with his friend. He plucked plates down and loaded them up with eggs and some bacon strips. "Here, eat."
Sherlock, of course, ignored the eggs in favor of concentrating on John's question. His head tilted and he examined John, "I am perfectly well John of course." He was not acting too far out of the norm so as to set up warning flags for his flatmate was he? Then again, if it made John look closer at him perhaps he should act out of character?
John slid into a seat, still watching Sherlock closely. "Okay." He couldn't say what it was but something felt...Different but if Sherlock said he was fine then there wasn't much he could do. Of course Sherlock would say he was fine even if he was bleeding out but without an actual physical wound to treat then John was out of his depth. "You are going to eat though, not on a case so there's absolutely no excuse not to."
"I feel certain I could manufacture a plausible reason." Sherlock poked a bit at the eggs. He knew they would taste good, John's cooking did, and that once he took one bite others would follow easily enough but that first bite always seemed to take a herculean amount of effort.
"I have no doubt that you could but you won't. You will eat." John picked up his own fork and took a bite. He wasn't really very hungry but he had eaten enough meals on his own to know eating alone was almost worse than not eating at all. He tore his eyes from Sherlock to glare at his hand when he heard the fork clatter lightly against the china of the plate as he put it down. Damned tremor, another effect of two pints...And no life threatening cases.
Sherlock reached across the small distance of the table and gently pressed at a nerve cluster in John's arm. He did hope that John had fired his therapist as the tremor was obviously not brought on by PTSD but rather because of the nerve damage that had been caused by the bullet that John had taken in his shoulder. When he'd deduced that, Sherlock had found himself studying the methods behind acupuncture unconsciously looking for a way to help John.
John's eyes widened, both at the touch, Sherlock was not big on touch of any kind, and the fact that it helped, the tremors stopped. "Right...um...thank you."
"Clearly the criminal element of London needs to resume service," Sherlock released John, wondering what had possessed him to do that. Yes he wanted to help John, to show that he...cared but that had obviously made him uncomfortable. He picked up his fork and stabbed a fluffy bite of egg, popping it into his mouth, eyes turning a stormy color as he considered his actions and what drove them.
When he hit on the answer he nearly dropped his own fork. Jealousy. He knew that he was possessive of John but jealousy was so much more. It was another of those schema altering moments, same as seeing John strapped to a bomb, and it sent his mind into a stuttering halt just as it had done in that one breathless moment he'd thought John had been the one playing him.
John watched emotions flitter across his friend's face and of course he worried. The ones who said that Sherlock Holmes was unfeeling were complete idiots; Sherlock felt emotions more strongly than most people. John just didn't know what had brought on the near panicked expression a little while ago. "Are the eggs bad?"
A blink, "What?" Sherlock's mind began moving again, "No, they're...fine."
"Don't worry; there will be some horrid, gruesome murder for you to sink your teeth into soon enough." John couldn't think of any other reason for Sherlock's strange behavior than that he needed a case, something to challenge that amazing brain of his.
"Hmm one can hope it won't be a boring one at least," Sherlock ate a bit more before he found himself staring into space, the end of the utensil rubbing back and forth across his lower lip. Another layer added to his relationship with John, unfortunately not the one he rather would prefer exploring. He had to wonder if he would ever be allowed to explore that layer honestly as John was oblivious.
Oh God, Sherlock wasn't allowed to do that. John was barely able to tear his eyes away from the handle of the fork rubbing back and forward over that plush, sweet bottom lip. He wanted to slap himself; John could not keep thinking like this, he would do something that would damage the relationship he cared about most. He cleared his throat and looked down at his own half eaten eggs, not looking back up at that tempting mouth. "Ah, I am sure something will entertain you, if nothing else you can pick apart Anderson's floundering at the crime scene."
Sherlock paused having noticed the way John had [i]stared[/i] at his mouth and the way he was now determined to eye his eggs into movement. Well. Perhaps he could get to that layer more easily than previously considered. He knew he was attractive to others and knew, both from his own observations on people's reactions to him and from what others had 'gushed' over telling him, exactly how to use it. Since John was now refusing to look at him, he'd have to use his voice. He purposely dropped it an octave, watching John carefully for reaction as he very nearly purred, "Yes, that is always fun."
John shivered, that low burr was illegal, or at least it should be. He automatically shoved some more eggs into his mouth, not tasting anything. There was no way this would end well; he needed to control himself better than this. John lived with the king of deduction, these feelings, this need to reach out and touch had to go away or at least be buried inside as deep as could be. "See," He cleared his throat again and reached for his tea. "No need to get bored then."
Sherlock's eyes were almost boring a hole into John's face, "Did I say I was?"
"No, I was, I was talking about the hypothetical case of the future...That it not be boring." John sounded like a twat, stumbling over his words and he could feel the tip of his ears go red again.
"You're looking decidedly uncomfortable John, are you feeling hot?"
"No it's fine, I'm fine." John licked his lips nervously, finally looking back up at Sherlock. John might be an idiot but he wasn't a coward, never had been. "It's just been an intense day, with Billy and a few pints and everything."
"Everything?" Sherlock leaned minutely closer, his eyes sweeping over John, taking in every detail, "What is included in that everyth-" his mobile phone chimed, interrupting him.
John exhaled in relief; it was terrifying, having all of Sherlock's focus on you. It made John want to tell him anything and everything. He hoped whatever text Sherlock had gotten would be enough to derail his interest.
Sherlock glanced at his phone, brows knitting, "It's from Lestrade, he has a case for us." For once he was not particularly excited about a case as this interrupted his attempt to see if John was perhaps more open to the possibility of them growing closer than previously thought. "Half a block from The Cock in Splendor." he stood up from the table already moving toward his coat.
"What?" John's brows drew tight over his the bridge of his nose. He was already up from his chair too and the plates were in the sink. He hurried after Sherlock. "The Cock in Splendor? That was where Bill and I were." He grabbed his jacket and shrugged into it even as Sherlock was already on his way down the stairs.
Mind already on the case at hand, despite his disappointment in the interruption, Sherlock merely called back over his shoulder, "Good, perhaps you or your friend spotted something." He opened the door, turning to see that John was right behind him, "Not that I expect either of you would have noticed even if you had."
John fell into step with Sherlock again once they were out on the street. "As long as it's not Billy that the case is about then I really don't give much of a buggering fuck what we saw or not." Despite everything, despite the worry in his gut, John already felt the adrenaline pumping.
Sherlock hailed a taxi and got in, John following and soon they were at the crime scene, Donovan as usual 'guarding' the taped off area. He swept out of the taxi and headed for her, rules of engagement required her knowledge of his presence after all.
"Should have known you were coming, can't have any peace from you Freak." Sally reluctantly stood still as Sherlock and his steady companion lifted the tape and walked inside the crime scene area. "Well enjoy it while you can, one day soon someone on the force is going to find out you do more harm than good." Having been proved wrong about her accusations of Sherlock had not softened her attitude toward him one bit. In fact once Sherlock returned from the dead and were cleared of all charges of being a fake, Sally only liked him less and she wasn't shy about voicing her dislike.
John glared at her, she might be a tolerably good police officer but she was a thoroughly unpleasant woman. After Sherlock's fall he hadn't been able to look at her without wanting to punch her in the face and he still felt that way now. "If that is the case than maybe the Yard should stop calling him when they are stuck. Until then maybe you should keep your mouth shut and your mind on the actual case, isn't that what you are paid to do?"
Sherlock halted and almost stumbled in mid-step, turning to stare at John in shock, gratingly similar to the way Donovan was doing. John hadn't done that before, struck out at either Donovan or Anderson like that. Normally he made his distaste with their pettiness quite clear without saying a word. "I would imagine Sally here is merely disappointed that her plans for the evening were interrupted," he met the woman's glare, "so it goes to reason that Anderson will likely be more bumbling than usual as well. Is his wife away for long?" He gave Sally a smirk.
It was easy to tell that Donovan wanted to tear into Sherlock Holmes but with the exception of her glare intensifying and her back tensing she didn't say anything.
"I don't care about her sexual frustration. She was rude, she 'is' wrong and she knows it." John was not in the mood to put up with the way Donovan or anyone really put Sherlock down. No fuck that, it was time to take a stand.
"No need to concern yourself with tiny minds and their problems when there's a case to be solved John." That curl of warmth unfurled stronger than before as he and John made their way into the alley, passing a very pale Anderson who, oddly enough, just glanced up, twitched a bit, the proceeded to ignore them. Sherlock's attention sharpened. Bad then, to have Anderson cowed. He looked up as Lestrade came out of the darker part of the alley, blood soaking into the anti-contamination slip-covers on his feet and the knees of the blue suit, grim eyes with banked anger behind them, Lestrade always got so angry when someone was murdered in London. It was a good quality for a police officer so long as it remained controlled.
"Sherlock."
"Victim's name?"
"William Murray, age thirty-five on leave from military service in Afghanistan," Lestrade stopped speaking when he saw John's face, "John?"
"No!" It couldn't be Bill, John could not accept that, Bill loved life, had survived war. He couldn't have come home just to die like this. He couldn't. "He was fine, a little tipsy, pulled a pretty girl. I just saw him. No..."
'Lestrade reached out, gripping John's arm, "Look maybe you should go sit outside the tape with-"
"Like hell." John shook Lestrade's hand off of him and walked toward the alley with purpose. He was not going to sit this out. If it really was Bill who was gone then John was going to be right there, find out who had done it and put a bullet in their brain. It was as easy as that.
Sherlock swept up behind John before he could enter the alley and caught him round the shoulders, pulling him back against him so he could murmur in his ear, "John I need you to calm down."
"I'm calm, perfectly calm." John protested. "Look, entirely steady." He held both his hands out so Sherlock could see. Normally he would have loved feeling the length of Sherlock's body pressed along his back but not now. Now Sherlock was keeping him back. "I'm not going to be some poor sad sod on the sidelines. I was his commanding officer you know, he was under my watch and did not do a good job of watching him here did I?"
"This is what I mean John. This isn't Afghanistan, it's not your responsibility to watch over a man you've served with here and you can't take that on. Not now." His hand squeezed the shoulder it was gripping, "I'm going to need you John. I'm going to need you to be steady to help me because if you aren't then Lestrade will keep [i]both[/i] of us out. Not that we'd go but it's easier to be here with his consent."
Every single muscle in John's body was coiled tight; even his teeth were clenched so hard he was already getting a headache from it. He heard what Sherlock was saying, he did, he was just not sure he was willing to hear it. Bill had been one of his best friends, more of a brother than Harry had ever been a sister. John would always be responsible, no matter what anyone else said. "Fine, I won't charge in. I'll play nice but I will kill them Sherlock, not even you are going to stop me from doing that."
"Keep your voice down," it was quiet, a sort of homage to the first case they worked together, as well as a simple statement that he wouldn't stop John from his course if that was what he wanted. He slowly let him go and stepped back, glancing at Lestrade and nodding.
The DI walked back in ahead of them, there wasn't any way to keep John out, not if this was someone he'd served with, "Alright, it's not pretty and the first sign of a problem I'm taking you out of here." He nodded at the others of the forensic team to move and felt his gorge rise again at the sight of the man fixed to the fire escape, arms stretched wide, blood covering his chest from the marks carved into it, poured down his face from his missing eyes. "Anderson thinks it's a failed med-student."
"Yes well, how often is Anderson right?" Sherlock looked briefly at Lestrade and then began to pace around the dangling corpse, putting the latex gloves on. Still clothed from the waist down though the belt buckle was undone, interrupted in the middle of an assignation? He leaned close to get a better look at the marks carved into his chest, too wide for a scalpel though well executed to be so precise. No hesitation marks on the chest or round the eyes so whoever had done this had no problem with carving a design into a living person's body or cutting out their eyes.
John was a little later to watch the body since he wasn't Sherlock Holmes and had to don the coveralls before he walked close. He'd promised to play nice after all. Oh Bill. John remained stony faced even though his heart was hurting so badly inside him.
"This is not the work of a failed med-student, even I can see that. Just because Anderson is one doesn't mean every other moron is." John nearly reached out to touch the caduceus carved into his friend's chest. "First rule, do no harm." It was just a murmur under his breath. "Where are his dog tags? He never took them off, never." John looked around on the ground but he couldn't see them anywhere.
Lestrade let John's comment pass, mainly because he agreed that Anderson was obscenely wrong about the med student. "We'll have the team looking for them."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "No, not a medical student, not any sort of experience with medical training at all. There aren't hesitation marks but the eye sockets have deep gouges into the side, the killer didn't know how to remove them, it wouldn't surprise me if the medical examiner finds vitreous fluid mixed in with the blood. This wasn't done with a scalpel, the marks are too wide," he narrowed his eyes and turned the victim's head to see a tiny peacock feather tattooed just behind his ear, "This is fresh."
John leaned in to look, nodding when he saw the tattoo. "Bill never liked tattoos, he never even got a military one and he was so very proud to be serving his country. Also you are very much right, though that's not exactly news. I was very handy with a scalpel once and this is not made by one. I would say box-cutter; you know the large industrial ones." If calm and steady was what Sherlock needed him to be to figure this out then John could do that. It would allow him to punish the guilty party that much sooner.
"Or a similar blade," Sherlock's voice was low as he reached up to inspect what bound the man to the fire escape. Shackles, old style, with lilies stamped on the metal, silver leaf embossing them.
Lestrade looked up at one of the forensic team, "Find the tags?"
"No sir, we'll do another sweep but-"
"You won't find them," Sherlock stepped back and began striding toward the mouth of the alley, "She took them."
"She?" John immediately got a picture of the sweet looking blonde in his head but he couldn't jump to conclusions. He gave his long time friend another glance. "I am so sorry Billy, so fucking sorry."
He bowed his head before following Sherlock, rushing to catch up with the tall man. "Where did she keep the shackles? It had to be planned, that she would meet someone because those shackles aren't exactly the kind you can walk around with in your purse."
"Oi hold on!," Lestrade made to cut them off, "I have to ask John some questions, not to mention you need to explain the 'she' bit Sherlock."
Sherlock felt irritation rise but he paused in his step and half turned, moving closer to John automatically, as if to protect him.
John heaved a sigh and turned to meet the DI's gaze. "You still have work to do here detective inspector and it is not as if you don't know how to find me. I'll answer all of your questions, you know I will but for now, please Greg, please let Sherlock do what he does."
"He can go on ahead but you're a witness after a fashion so I have to question you now John. There are rules can't be broken in this job and that's one of them." He made to take John's arm to guide him to a more private corner of the alley, out of view of the body, then found himself staring as Sherlock subtly intercepted him and nudged John over to the shadowed corner he'd been about to pull him to.
Sherlock met Lestrade's eyes briefly then leaned on the wall, letting his mind pick and sift through all the evidence so far.
It was surprising, a little bit startling. Also it was more comforting than John would like to admit, still this was not how Sherlock usually behaved, John had been left behind at enough crime scenes to know that. Still he felt a bone deep gratitude that Sherlock was still there.
"Go on then detective inspector, ask your questions." John had silently slipped into his Captain persona. Back straight, speech short and to the point, it was all he could do right now not to shatter.
Lestrade sighed, he hated questioning people he knew but he bloody well wouldn't leave this to Donovan, "How long ago did you last see Mr. Murray?"
Sherlock tuned the simple, boring questions and answers out. It was all roughly things he already knew or could deduce. He paid closer attention when Lestrade asked for a description of the woman.
John closed his eyes for a moment, trying to bring up the image of the inside of the pub, of Bill and of the woman in question. "Blonde woman, around mid to late twenties. Hair was swept up, out of her face and twisted into a braid that kept it back. Some sort of silver flower earrings. White top, blue skirt, about my height. Bill introduced her as Lyssa. She didn't seem daring or vulgar or anything like that, a sweet young woman out to have a good time."
"Right," Lestrade scribbled down in a notepad, "We'll see if the CCTV cameras got a good shot of her face but if they didn't I might have to get you to the Met later, sit down with a sketch artist." He gave Sherlock a nearly demanding look, "Now you wanna share why you think it's a she?"
Sherlock gave him a small smirk, "Hera."
"What?"
He rolled his eyes, "Honestly did you skip the classical Greek portion of your education? Hera. Queen of the gods."
"Of course." John's eyes widened as he really took in what Sherlock said. "The peacock feather, the white top, it all makes sense." Well that part made sense, nothing else did, he still was having a rough time accepting that Bill was gone. "If that is the case though, Hera worshippers then I don't think this would be the first death."
"No certainly not but not all of them would be the same sort of murder," Sherlock began walking off.
"Hey hold on! You've got to give me more than th-"
"Try reading Lestrade. God knows there's more than enough material on Hera and the punishments she meted out anywhere you choose to look."
"He's right, google it." John was tracking Sherlock's retreating back. "Are we quite done now? I have answered your questions." John didn't wait for Lestrade's answer before he started to follow Sherlock, already pulling at the blue coveralls, wanting them off as quickly as possible.
Lestrade's mouth flattened. There were times he wondered if it was worth it, dealing with those two.
Sherlock hailed another cab and waited for John to catch up. He was already picking apart the best way to solve this case. He needed to make sure first that it was a cult or find out if it was one woman who took worship to homicidal levels.
As always, John was a few scant steps behind Sherlock and he was at the cab before the taller man folded himself into it. "Where to?" He could see Sherlock's mind working and he wanted to do what he could to aid and help. Also it was better to keep busy, think of this as a case as any other and not think about what it really was, what it really meant.
"Museum," Sherlock had his phone out and was texting as the cabbie began to drive.
"Okay." John left it at that and looked out the window at the London streets passing by. If they were going to a museum then there was a reason for it. Where Sherlock led, John would always follow.
~to be continued...~