A/N: Hey everybody! Blue Eyed Deamon here with my wonderful co-writer scarves-n-converse!

Hallo, everyone! Be sure to R&R, my duckies!

Duckies?

Problem, Deamon?

No, it's just a bit different.

Oh, Deamon. I AM different. You should know this by now.

I know, I know, cousin dearest. :3

We are darling, aren't we?

Very. We're getting a bit off track. Real quick disclaimer. We don't own Sherlock, no matter how much we wish we did. Also, this is a Tailorshop AU, so the characters will not act the same as in the show, and a good chunk of this story will not be canon, so hold your temper or "This isn't canon!" comments, please.

Have fun, my lovelies! ;) -SnC

Apologies for the long A/N and I hope you enjoy this crazy 2am RP turned fanfic! -Deamon

-x-

It had been a couple weeks since John messed up an order at the family's tailor shop, which Harry ran now. She hadn't done anything before now, but she seemed to be angrier about it now than ever before.

"John. I need to talk you about that mix up with the order. That mix up added on to your poor attendance … I'm going to have to fire you."

"What? But you can't fire me! I'm your best tailor and your brother!"

"Don't try to pull the family card on me, mister," Harry said as she began leading her brother to the door of the shop.

"But-" John never finished his sentence as Harry shoved him into the rainy London weather. Pushing himself to his feet, he grumbled about his ex-boss and sister.

"Blasted siblings... You think the trouble all ends at adulthood." John rolled his eyes. "Hah!"

The man was caught up in his thoughts, but then a running man bumped into him as he sped by.

John exclaimed. "Oi, watch it ma-" The arm of the man who'd run into him wrapped around John's neck, and pulled him straining into the nearest alley.

The tailor was caught completely off guard; the next thing he felt was a wall against his back and a gun's barrel against his head.

The masked man before him growled with a low and obviously-disguised voice, "Hand over your wallet, and I put the gun away."

John gulped, and nodded nervously. "Y-yes, yes, okay, here's my wallet." The man drew his leather wallet from his back pocket and shakily held it out. "Go on, t-take it."

The robber, gun still held out, took the wallet in his hand, sliding it into his own pocket. "Thanks."

John was prepared to run (possibly to the police), but before he could take a step, another man grabbed him, pinned his arms behind his back, and muffled John's exclaimed cries with a leather-gloved hand. "And now we take a trip to the bank."

"I don't believe you will, gentlemen," a new voice came from the shadows. "You will give him back his belongings and leave."

The robber that had first robbed John turned around, startled. As soon as he turned to face the shadow, an "oh crap" escaped his lips, and he slowly backed away.

The man holding John also turned, hostage still in tow, and blinked at the silhouette towering only feet away. "You..."

What are they so afraid of? Should I be? John thought.

"Did you not hear me?" The voice's tone raised. "Release him, and give him his possessions."

The armed robber slowly nodded, retrieving John's wallet from his pocket.

"Now then, give it to him."

"Oh, I'll give it to him." The robber suddenly pressed his gun barrel against John's head. "Unless you hit the road."

The silhouette sighed. "Idiot."

The man stepped from the shadows and quickly disarmed and took down the muggers, throwing punches and kicks like a master of martial arts. After he had finished his job, the tall man retrieved John's wallet from the concrete, handed it to him, and said simply, "Keep up if you want to survive."

John looked to the wallet in his hands, then to his rescuer. "Huh- W-what?"

The tall figure frustratedly rolled his eyes. "Follow me if you want to live. Unless you want to fight on your own."

John nodded firmly, and the mysterious man started to run. The tailor followed suit, hearing his two attackers rising up from behind.

They ran through many winding alleys, to many to track. After a few minutes, the pair popped out onto a well-known street- Baker Street. Home of one of the greatest detectives ever. The gears in John's head began to turn in overdrive, piecing together the information he observed.

So this man knows his way through every alley and street, well known... Wait, he couldn't be... Could he?

"Yes, I am Sherlock Holmes."

"Hm?" John blinked and turned to his rescuer. "How did you know I was wonde-"

Sherlock smirked and looked away. "I've seen that expression many a time before."

"But, you're a detective, not a superhe-"

Sherlock laughed as he opened the door labeled "221B" and stepped inside. "Please, that facade's just to scare the idiots on the streets at night." The door closed, but then opened right back up to John. "Oh, and get home. Those men will probably be looking for you." The door shut once again, this time remaining closed.

Well that was odd... Best get back home like he said. Harry must be worried sick. He began to walk.

The door to Harry's house opened up as thunder cracked outside. The woman turned to the door. "Excuse me?"

John rubbed the back if his head, sighing. "Harry, I-"

"I kicked you out."

"I was robbed and held at gunpoint."

"Sure you were. And I have shops all around the world."

"I... I'm not lying!" John laughed a bit, surprised at Harry's refusal to him in.

"Sure you're not."

"This is still about that order!"

"I'm not giving you your job back!"

John raised his arms to the skies in frustration. "I'm sorry, Harry! Okay?"

"You could've cost me the shop!"

John's voice now raised to a bellow. "I... Am... Human!"

"I know!" Harry yelled back. "But this tailor shop is everything! My living! The same shop that belonged to our parents!"

John's fists were clenched so tight he was sure they'd break. After a deep breath, the man softly- but deeply- uttered a last reply. "Then run it yourself." And he was gone.

John was furious. He stormed away from the flat, fists clenched, needing to blow off some steam.

He didn't care anymore. About Harry, about those robbers, about...

The man he'd just bumped into? "Oof!" The tall figure exclaimed.

"Sorry, mate. Wasn't paying attention." John mumbled.

"You're a tailor."

John's eyebrows furrowed at the strange statement. And then he saw who'd he'd bumped into. After a blink for a reality check, John nodded. "Y-yeah, yes. I am."

"Good." Sherlock waved his hand for the man to follow. "Come with me."

"Um... pardon?"

Sherlock's expression remained stoic. "I need a tailor. You need a place to stay." The detective started to walk away. "Now come on."

John's eyebrow raised. "How'd you know I needed a place to stay...?"

"John, dozens of men are kicked out of their homes every day. I know."

"Even by their only family?"

Sherlock just laughed.

"I'll take that as a yes then."

"Stop talking. Keep walking."

"Being followed?" John asked.

"No. You're asking too many questions. I don't like too many questions. It's annoying." John could feel Sherlock's smirk, even though the lanky man had his back turned to him.

"Of course. Though, unlike you, I can't pick everything up at a glance. ...If your reputation isn't some joke."

Sherlock's tone now turned irritated. "Not many can. Now please, John, do shut up."

John reluctantly kept quiet, questions still running through his head, like how does he know my name? The only source other than someone telling him would be my ID.

Suddenly, John found himself right before the door of 221B Baker Street. How long had they been walking?

Sherlock opened the door, and stepped inside. "Come on in."

"Okay.." John's mind was whirling, still trying to get past the fact that he fought with Harry one moment, then was told to follow the best detective in the world the next.

"Your bedroom is over there." Sherlock pointed to a small room in the hallway of the flat. John peeked inside, finding an already-fully-furnished room. How the bloody would Sherlock have already prepared a room for me? We only met tonight!

Maybe he knew what would happen with his special deducing skills. John sneered at himself. How can I be thinking down on him? He just took me in and now I'm his tailor. That was unexpected, but nice nonetheless.

"I'll make some tea in the morning tomorrow. I'd advise being up by seven if you want it not too hot, not too cold. Six thirty if you want it scalding." Sherlock yawned shortly, and started to exit the room. "I'll show you the sewing room tomorrow." And he was gone.

"Okay..?" John replied, slightly confused. But he shook it off. He was going to have to get used to a little confusion around someone like Sherlock Holmes.

So John settled in for the night, trying to sort out the day in his head.

It was a surprisingly restful night. Perhaps it was the temperature, or the general atmosphere. But John slept like a log. His secure feeling slightly concerned him.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was being his usual, restless self.

Was this a good idea? Sherlock smiled at himself and chuckled quietly. Doubting yourself, Sherlock? What have you come to? The detective rested the back of his head on folded hands as he reclined in his living room.

Suddenly, he felt the vibration of his mobile against his right thigh. Sherlock smirked. Oh, thank God. I was getting so bored.

By morning, John felt more well rested than ever.

He rose from the bed he'd slept on and looked at the clock on the stand by the bed. 6:45. Hm... Tea. The tea would still be hot.

John exited his room and headed toward the living room. To his surprise, he found not Sherlock, but an older woman fixing tea in Sherlock's kitchen.

"Uh..."

"Hm? Oh, you must be the tailor Sherlock said he brought in. I'm the landlady, Mrs. Hudson."

John politely waved, though still a bit perplexed that a man's landlady would be making tea in his kitchen. "H-hullo."

"Made some tea for us, dear. I'll pour you a cuppa."

John nodded, and made his way to the kitchen.

"Sugar?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Don't expect this every day, dear. I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper."

"Of course."

John thanked the woman for his tea, and sipped it. Then, a question popped into his head. "By the way, where is Sherlock?"

"Most likely out on another one of those cases of his."

"Ah." John laughed slightly. "Does he do this often?"

"Whenever the Yard calls. Tends to be often, sometimes not."

"Wait." John set down his cup. "The police comes to him?"

"Yes. He calls himself a consulting detective. Odd name, I must admit, but he made up the job himself."

The tailor smiled and shook his head. "So much still to learn about the great Sherlock Holmes."

Suddenly, John heard a certain baritone ask from behind him, "What's this about me?"

The man jumped and turned around behind him. He threw an expression to Mrs. Hudson that screamed, how did he get...?

The landlady returned a knowing look.

"Curious as to why I was out, judging by your expression. I solve crimes for New Scotland Yard when they're out of their depth, which is all the time. Had a case this morning. Wasn't all that hard to crack. They shouldn't have needed me. But then again, they're all idiots."

"I don't believe this," John laughed. "You really are as arrogant as they say."

"I've been told," Sherlock mentioned boredly.

"So, what was this 'easy' case?"

"Double murder. Wife was having an affair because her marriage wasn't going well, husband let emotions take over and shot the two. Easy."

The tailor smirked . Hm... Not all that impressive yet.

"Trust me, I usually get more exciting cases. It's not always this boring."

John gave up. "Can you read my mind, or something?"

"Not precisely. Your thoughts just show themselves very clearly on your face." Sherlock yawned. "Oh, by the way, John, how fast do you do Belstaffs?"

"What?"

Sherlock shed his coat to reveal several holes in the backside. Bullet and/or knife, John presumed.

"Well... I haven't made one in a long while. Maybe two years..."

"I need a number."

"Um... Three, four days? Hard to tell since I haven't made one in a while."

"It'll have to do."

"You make it sound like that's a slow time to make a whole coat."

"It's slower than I'm used to, is all. That and my Belstaffs don't last very long, as you can see."

"Hm." John folded his arms. "I'll need material."

"The sewing room should have enough."

"Fair enough." The tailor rose from his chair. "I'll start today."

"Right now."

John raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

Sherlock did the same. "Who's hiring you?"

"Alright, alright. I'll get started. Need new measurements? Or are there current ones written down somewhere...?"

"Everything's prepared for you."

"Alright." It's like he knew this would happen. Like he even had a tailor before me… Wouldn't be surprised if he did.

John continued thinking as he walked to the sewing room. Maybe he did have a tailor before me.. I wonder why they're not working for him anymore..?

John walks into the sewing room. What he sees is a mini tailor shop right inside the flat.

The man smiled. "This is... cute."

"Cute? Not the word I would have used..."

"Different perceptions of the word then."

Suddenly, the doorbell rang. Both men turned, and into the flat walked another man, with grey hair and a serious air.

"What do you want Lestrade?" Sherlock asked annoyedly.

"There's been a crime."

"Really?" Sherlock sarcastically raised his eyebrows. Lestrade paid him no mind.

"A kidnapping. The owner of Watson Tailor Shop."

John perked up and stopped his examination of the sewing machine in his room. "Did you say Watson Tailor Shop?"

"Yes, I did. Why, you know the owner?"

"The owner is my sister, Harry."

Sherlock snorted to himself. "Parents did a great job on that one."

John's fists tensed. "Short for Harriet, mind you."

"Sorry."

"No you're not."

Lestrade could only awkwardly stand between the two men before he decided to speak up. "So, Sherlock, are we going..."

The detective coughed. "Ah, yes. Let's go."

"I'm coming too," John piped up.

"No, you're not." Sherlock said.

"Yes, I am. She's my sister, Sherlock. I. Am. Coming. Along."

Sherlock buried his face in the palm of his hand. "He's not going to let up unless I let him come, is he?"

Lestrade only tried to hide a smile.

"Gah. Fine. But if you slow me up, you can save your own behind from any robbers."

"Alright." The group headed out.

When they arrived at the shop and stepped inside, John froze. The shop was in shambles. Shelves tipped over, cloth strewn everywhere, machines broken.

"My gosh..." The tailor could barely believe his eyes. He wandered over to a damaged object over in the corner and gingerly set his hand on it.

Sherlock walked over. "Are you going to stroke all the sewing machines in this shop?"

"This was my mother's."

"Passed down through the generations."

"Exactly. It was her last gift to us before she died."

Sherlock mumbled to himself. "It's always the last gift before they die. Why is it always the last gift before they die?"

"I don't know why, Sherlock."

"Well, while you're over here moping, I'm going to go investigate. Toodles."

Sherlock went to investigate the rest of the shop.

John sighed. I wonder where Harry's at. Maybe I was too hard on her last night. If only I knew she'd...

"John! Is this familiar? It doesn't look well used or like anything you or your sister would have."

John turned to look at the object in Sherlock's hands. "What...?"

"Th.. That's the locket that the owner of the rival shop wears all the time. He always tries to gain possession of our shop. Harry always quarrels with him."

Sherlock slipped the locket into a plastic bag. "Then we have our first clue."

Lestrade cocked his head. "Don't you mean suspect?"

"Of course not. Obviously Harriet's kidnapper dropped this locket off at the scene to frame the owner of the rival shop. Don't be an idiot, Gary."

"It's Greg."

"Whatever."

"But why take Harry?"

Sherlock stroked his clean-shaven chin. "Significant others."

"What?"

"Give me the names of Harry's boyfriends, girlfriends, lovers."

John lists about three people, none of whom know about, work at or are affiliated with anyone at the rival shop.

"Does Harry know any secrets? Have any connections with government, agencies, anything?"

"None that she's told me about."

"Then we're stuck." Lestrade shook his head.

"Or..." Sherlock's eyebrows raised in amusement.

"Or..?" Greg folded his arms.

John blinked. "Or?"

"Or someone wanted to get at you."

"At me? But there's nothing special about me."

"True." Sherlock looked all about John, making the man a bit uncomfortable. "But someone seems to think there is."

"I can't imagine who."

"There's got to be someone. Anyone. Think, John, rise above normal humanity and THINK for once!"

Suddenly, several bullets soared through the door of the shop. Sherlock screamed, "Get down!" Lestrade and John obeyed.

A tall man walked into the shop. He was clad in black from head to toe, and ski goggles covering his face.

"Who are you?" Sherlock demanded from behind an overturned table.

The intruder grabbed John from the floor and pinned his arms behind his back with one hand. "You will not follow me, Sherlock Holmes."

John struggled against his captor. "Sherlock..." But an oxygen mask was pressed over his face, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head as he passed out.

The kidnapper simply exited, John in tow.

"Great. Another tailor gone."

"Is that all John is to you Sherlock? A tailor?" Lestrade snapped. "Do you not even consider him a friend or at least another human being?"

Sherlock looked to Greg. Not with a sarcastic or jokingly-serious look, but just a solemn look.

"Of course I do." Then he, too, exited the shop.

The world was blurry. John's head was spinning as he stirred to consciousness. "Mm?" Dark room. No windows that he could see. Only black walls. Only him and the chair he was tied to. His arms were strapped down to armrests, and his bare feet were duct taped to the chair's legs. More tape graced his lips.

Well, if "graced" meant tightly strapped onto nearly to the point of pain, that is.

A voice that sounds vaguely familiar sounds throughout the room John's in. "So, John Hamish Watson, we meet again, but perhaps this time in a different light."

John growled from under the duct tape on his mouth.

"Come now, no need to growl. Your precious sister is safe and unharmed."

The kidnapper tore the tape off of John's face.

"Who are you? What have you done with me? What did you do to Ha- gmph!" The tape was replaced, and John could feel his abductor roll his eyes.

"Too many questions, too many QUESTIONS. All will be answered in due time, Mr. Watson. I just came to check on you. And now I will be taking my leave." The man exited the room.

John glared. Great. Just great. But then the man spied something on the floor a few yards from him.

It was the small fabric cutter he used on Sherlock's coat. I wonder… John summoned all of his strength together, and heaved his whole body.

The chair toppled over, crashing onto the floor.

Now to just get that cutter...

The sharp tool was still feet away. And John's arms were held with strong leather, not tape, so hands were out of the question.

But feet...

John tried and mostly succeeded with cutting the duct tape around his ankles. He then- quite masterfully, he would add- kicked the cutter to his face, and he maneuvered the device through the duct tape on his lips, and eventually was able to grasp it with his teeth. Now how to get to my-

"Hey!" The door opened, and John's kidnapper entered.

Fantastic. Just... fantastic.

The black-clothed man proceeded to set John's chair upright and faced him. John proceeded to kick him where the sun doesn't shine.

"Oof!" The kidnapper exclaimed, doubling over in pain.

John bent over, trying to cut the leather on one arm with his cutter, but it was no use. Maybe I can... John wriggled his arm with all of his strength. It burned- a lot.

But he kept going. His kidnapper had started to recover, but John had already freed one arm and was cutting the other strap.

John tackled his kidnapper to the floor, holding the cutter to his throat.

The kidnapper coughed. "Well... Done."

"What?"

John's abductor pulled the ski goggles and good off of his head to reveal a forest of dark curls.

"What the- Sherlock?!"

Sherlock gave a sheepish smile. "Hullo."

"What... What's the meaning of this?" John got off of Sherlock's back, and both men stood.

"I was testing you. Wanted to see if you were good enough for me. So I kidnapped your sister- she's watching telly in the room next door, by the way. I knew you'd want to come along with me to investigate. Then I got a buddy of mine to kidnap you." Sherlock patted John on the back.

"Congratulations, John. You passed. I said earlier that, obviously, someone saw something special in you. That was me, John. I was testing a theory. And you pa-"

John's fist planted into Sherlock's jaw.

"Ngh. Well, that was well deserved." Sherlock winced as he checked his jaw.

"So," John rubbed his aching fist. "This whole little adventure of ours was just a test to see if I could be your tailor?"

"And partner." Sherlock added somewhat quietly.

"Sorry, and what?"

"Partner. Coming along on cases, etcetera."

John blinked. "I... Thought I was just your tailor. Your flatmate tailor. I make you clothes and help you pay the rent."

"You mean, you were." Sherlock smiled, folded his hands behind his back, and started to pace. "You just expected a normal life with me, eh? Didn't you, John? Well, let me tell you one thing."

John folded his arms.

"When you're involved with me, normal does not exist."

John smirked. "Never cared for normal."

Sherlock returned a smile. "Normal's boring, anyways."

"But," John raised his index finger. "Don't think I forgive you for kidnapping me."

Sherlock laughed a little. "I wouldn't expect you to. Not many people would."

"This is all very touching..." Another voice joined the two in the room. "But could I go home now?"

"Yes, there's car waiting out front for you, if you wish to leave right now."

"Thanks. Good day, Sherlock." Harry turned to leave, but froze in her tracks. "...John."

"Harry." John said, spite lining his tone.

Harry left the room without another word.

"How long has it been like that?"

John tilted his head at Sherlock. "What do you mean?"

"Don't play dumb, John. Estrangement is very easy to pick up."

John sighed. "Years, I guess. Things were never the same between us after our parents died in the car accident." John looked down, fighting the memories.

Sherlock frowned, almost sympathetically. "Well, let's head back to the flat."

"S-sure, yeah." John poked Sherlock in the chest. "But you still owe me for gassing me and tying me up."

"Fine."

As the two entered the cab they called over, John found that he simply couldn't stop staring at Sherlock.

He's so arrogant. Rude. Blunt. He's psychotic...

And yet, I can't help but like him somehow.