Title: All Because of You
Rated: M for later chapters
Summary: When the usual murders turn out to be the friends and family of their loved ones, John and Sherlock must solve the case before the killer strikes again. But the killer may be closer than they think, especially when the his DNA results match one Dr. John Watson. Johnlock. M for later chapters.
A/N: So this is my first (published) attempt at a long fic (or medium, depending on what you usually read). Also first (published) Johnlock. I'm going to attempt to update once a week, but with the semester coming to a close, work will be difficult. I don't know yet how long this will be; I have the outline, but as most of you know, sometimes the characters take off and you just have to follow. To all who stay with me- thank you. You are appreciated.
All Because of You
Chapter One
"So... how's work?" Sherlock drew out the 'k' of work.
Mycroft's nose twitched almost imperceptibly. "It's fine. Don't change the subject, this is a matter of national importance."
"Everything is, isn't it?" Sherlock muttered behind his steepled hands. "Something's wrong at work, don't you change the subject. Something... technical."
Mycroft stared at his brother for a beat, no doubt thinking of a way to annoy Sherlock in a more pointed way than straightening the knocker again. "Our computer system has been shut down, if you must know," he said nonchalantly. "I have my best men working to get it back up."
A corner of Sherlock's lip pulled up. "A few days of peace for me then?" He glanced sideways at the mantel over the fireplace, where one of Mycroft's many cameras was hidden. Sherlock attempted to get rid of them before, but they always reappeared, watching.
Mycroft's smile didn't reach his eyes as he murmured a little, "Hmm."
The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs caught Sherlock's attention. He would know that foot pattern anywhere. His blogger was coming to save him. John burst in the door, breathing heavily. "John," Mycroft greeted him.
John nodded to Mycroft and turned back to Sherlock, a warm feeling spreading through the consulting detective at the blue-eyed man's intense gaze. "Lestrade's been calling and you haven't picked up."
"My phone's across the room, I couldn't be bothered." Sherlock took a moment- John's breathing was elevated, as well as his heart rate judging by the slight movement in his external jugular vein. A thin sheen of sweat covered his forehead, but not any part of his clothing. He must have run from a cab. His brow was furrowed, but there was a small gleam of excitement in his eyes. That, coupled with multiple missed calls from the DI could only mean one thing: there's been a murder.
"There's been a murder," John announced, and Sherlock broke into a grin.
"I believe our conversation has come to an end," Sherlock threw back at Mycroft, bounding to the coatrack. His black coat and scarf were donned in such a hurry that he nearly missed what Mycroft murmured as he left.
"Think about what I said," his voice was low. "The case and the previous talk." Sherlock stiffened. He loathed the talks Mycroft insisted upon having- the ones about John. Of course Mycroft would be the only one perceptive enough to see straight away the sentiment Sherlock held for his friend.
John's voice shook the detective out of his thoughts. "Sherlock. Murder. Come on!"
The murder, yes. With one last tug on his scarf, Sherlock followed John down the stairs and into a waiting cab.
The yellow tape disappeared behind Sherlock as he strode purposefully into the crime scene. "Where's Greg?" John tugged on Sherlock's coat sleeve. The detective ignored the warmth that momentarily blossomed.
"Who?" he asked, though he knew perfectly well who Greg was.
"Lestrade," John rolled his eyes. "He's usually first on the scene."
Sherlock glanced around at the many policemen and various medical examiners standing between him and his crime scene. With a motion to John, he brushed passed the small crowd and examined the body before him.
It was hung gruesomely from a fire escape with what appeared to be a bed sheet. The man was somewhat short- five foot eight, if Sherlock was correct. His feet dangled inches above the damp ground. The detective was tall enough to move around the body and see everything. The marks around the man's neck hidden under the tight bed sheet appeared crisp and purple, no bruising around the edges. He was hung postmortem. Sherlock slipped behind the body. Obvious- a blood-soaked tear in the back of his blue dress shirt indicated a wound, specifically a kitchen knife from the size and shape. Stabbed then hung. There was a small tear in the fabric of the dress shirt, near the armpit. With a step back, he saw that there were small thatch-pattern creases in the shirt from under the arm to the top of the shoulder and back. Tied with rope then, and- yes, dragged to the scene, from the small bits of dirt on the body's lower back that couldn't be brushed off. The man wasn't big, so the killer must be relatively small or weak. Sherlock inspected the nails. Yes! Bits of hair under three of the nails, most likely the killers, if he put up a fight.
"Still amazing," John muttered.
Sherlock looked back at him. "Pardon?"
"You did all that so quickly, it's just... it's still amazing after all these years of it." Small traces of embarrassment crossed John's features. Sherlock hadn't even noticed he'd been muttering out loud.
"Yes, well." The detective let his words hang in the air, and willed himself not to blush. He was amazed that John still found his deductions astounding.
Something popped into his head, though, and he turned back to the body. Thin lips, prematurely gray hair, large ears, stocky build... this body was familiar. Not minutes later, Lestrade dragged himself over to the two, and Sherlock saw it.
"Family member," he said softly. "My condolences."
"Yeah, cousin," Greg cleared his throat, looking anywhere but the body. "Arthur Lestrade. Lawyer for Linstromm and Dewitt Industries."
"Any known enemies?" John asked.
Lestrade sighed. "Maybe those he won cases against, but he worked mostly small stuff. Nothing worthy of," he shuddered, "murder."
"You'll be happy to know, then, that you have the killer right here," Sherlock picked up the dead man's hand, indicating the small hairs under his fingernails. "As soon as you get a DNA match, have the man brought in for questioning. We'll get a confession out of him."
"How do you know it's a 'he'?" The DI asked.
Sherlock tugged a tiny gray-blonde hair out of Arthur's nail. "There aren't many women with a buzz cut around here. The odds point to a man, perhaps small or weak. Either way, analyze that." With that, Sherlock strode off, the doctor following close behind.
Back at Baker Street, John made tea for the fourth time. He did that when he was anxious. It was peppermint this time, which was only about a six on the worry scale. The sun was sinking under the horizon and Sherlock stared at the shadows it left on the wall. What would prompt someone to kill Arthur Lestrade? He had an average, happy marriage of nine years with his wife. No kids. Nothing in his case history suggested anything of enemies. Sherlock's current theory was that the body was meant for Greg Lestrade, who had a laundry list of enemies angry enough to murder. The next step would be analyzing Lestrade's background, all his previous busts and arrests, the ones in and out of jail-
"Tea?" John asked, setting a cup next to Sherlock's chair without waiting for an answer.
"Who hates George Lestrade most in the world?" Sherlock asked, pressing his fingers together in front of his lips.
"Greg," John reminded him. Sherlock waved his hand and John sighed. "I don't know. He's a Detective Inspector, he must have loads of enemies."
"I thought so too," Sherlock muttered, reaching precisely thirteen inches to his left. The larger-than-normal mug hit his fingers and toppled to the floor with a muted thump.
John quickly grabbed a rag and bent down to mop up the spilled tea. Sherlock jumped up from his chair to help. "I'm sorry, John, I-" he leaned in a little too far and their heads bumped together.
John hissed and put his hand to his forehead, no doubt covering a growing red spot. When Sherlock looked up to apologize again, their faces were mere centimeters apart. The emotions converged in his mind, and he tried to force the smell of peppermint and aftershave and musk that was John out of his nose. He knew he should get up, be more helpful, but Sherlock relished in the tiny moments when he could be so close to his friend. John always seemed completely ignorant of the detective's feelings, and Sherlock took advantage of that to find excuses to be close to him. Like this one.
"Right," John muttered, pulling away after a few precious seconds. "I'm going to get some ice and drop by the store for some biscuits." He shook his head and rose, turning towards the door. "I trust you can manage without me for an hour?"
Something twisted in Sherlock's gut, but he pushed it down and settled into his emotionless state. "I always do." John chuckled to himself and exited the flat moments later. As soon as the door shut, Sherlock flopped face-first onto the floor in frustration.
Sentiment. He hated it. He hated himself, for having so much sentiment which he could barely control. He was sure that he made John uncomfortable with these close encounters; the shorter man usually just excused himself from the area, showing no signs of attraction or even discomfort. Sherlock believed John really was straight, there was no evidence otherwise. He had tried so very hard to go back to showing no feeling whatsoever, to before John Watson entered his life. It didn't work.
John returned to the flat several hours later, looking worn out. Sherlock lay on the couch pretending to sleep so he could observe his flatmate. He didn't go to see a woman, he didn't go to a bar. There was a faint smell of coffee and something Sherlock could only associate with London air about him. John set the small box of biscuits down quietly on the table. Good, he believed Sherlock was asleep. He hesitated, and as if on a whim, John approached Sherlock and tucked his blanket more securely around him.
Sherlock wished so badly that he could open his eyes and see what John's face had to tell him, but it would shatter this little bubble of quiet affection, and Sherlock couldn't bear to do that. John's soft footfalls faded as he ascended the stairs, but his scent remained behind, peppermint and musk and a little hint of coffee now. With that wrapping around his mind like the blanket John tucked him in, Sherlock dozed off.
Loud ringing startled Sherlock out of his sleep. For a moment, he debated not answering his phone, but then he remembered the not-yet-closed case and glanced at the caller id. Molly Hooper is said. Good, maybe the DNA analysis was done.
"Molly," he said groggily over the phone. "Is this about the case?"
"Yes, uh, it is." She sounded nervous and... careful. Like she was talking down a madman with a gun. This woke Sherlock quickly, and he sat up.
"Molly, what is it?" he demanded.
"Sherlock. The DNA... it's John's."