This is the first fic I've ever posted! I'm pretty proud of it, but I'm always open for constructive criticism.
I don't own any of this. Characters are originally Arthur Conan Doyle's; BBC versions belong to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. Enjoy!
Enough
Sherlock swiftly entered the office building, his coat fluttering behind him like a cape, with Watson just behind him, power walking to keep up. Watson's eyes darted around the lobby, taking everything in, while Sherlock's gaze was focused straight ahead.
He blew right past the secretary, who started to say something then faltered. John, a step behind Sherlock, gave her an apologetic nod and wave as they continued past the front desk down a long, high-ceilinged hallway.
Sherlock came to an abrupt halt at a row of elevators and pressed the up button for one of them. John pulled up next to him and gave him a questioning look.
"You couldn't have at least signed in?" he asked the detective.
"This is too important."
"What if he's not here?"
"He'll be here."
"How do you know?" John knew there had to be a reason. Sherlock would never waste the time going to talk to someone if he wasn't absolutely sure that that person would be there.
"Unless someone else stole his parking spot, I believe that Lamborghini was his."
John tilted his head back contemplatively, trying to recall when on earth they had passed a Lamborghini. Seeming to read his thoughts, as he often did, Sherlock gave further explanation.
"It was in the third closest spot to the building with a special marker designating it as for Mr. Ronald Markham, CEO – the man we are going to see. It was silver and had been cleaned recently…not by him, of course."
John nodded. A ding echoed in the hall as an elevator arrived for them. Sherlock entered in two long strides and John joined him. Once inside, Sherlock immediately pressed the button for the 20th floor.
"How do you know which floor he's on?" John inquired, secretly wishing that he had figured it out on his own and didn't need to ask so many questions.
"He's a CEO. Higher position means a higher floor."
"And how do you plan on finding his office?"
"When we spoke on the phone he said that he gets good reception, meaning his office has windows, which narrows it down. I could hear a train in the background meaning his windows face out over the train station. That leaves only the offices on the east side of the building."
There was a pause. A smile briefly flickered over Sherlock's face.
"That, and his name will be on the door."
John could have smacked himself in the forehead, and smacked his companion while he was at it. Instead he sighed and waited in silence as the elevator rose past seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, and finally with another ding, reached twenty.
They exited at the same quick pace with which they had entered the building, Sherlock looking determined. Probably determined to get this over with, John thought.
Lestrade had come to them with the case the day before. Two teenage boys were found dead in their basement, a gun between them, empty beer bottles on the table, and two handwritten suicide notes. They were depressed, outcasts. Both boys' fingerprints were on the gun. All the signs pointed to a double suicide. Yet Sherlock wasn't buying it and, after viewing the crime scene earlier that morning, he had insisted on visiting a certain Mr. Ronald Markham, the father of one of the boys. The detective had called him using John's phone and pretending to be a telemarketer. It wasn't until later that John realized the reason for this: to figure out where his office was located, so he wouldn't have to go through the trouble of asking.
Markham was the CEO of a marketing firm and, according to Lestrade, had found out about his son's death on the news while working late the previous night. John found it a little strange that, given the current situation, the man was not with his family or the police or making arrangements, but at work as if it was an ordinary day. But perhaps, John considered, he was in shock or denial? Maybe his work was his way of maintaining some sort of normality. John believed in the good in humans, despite his many experiences with the bad, and chose to believe this theory, at least for the time being.
Sherlock darted past confused employees, sharply turning around corners, heading toward the east side of the building until he came upon a row of doors. Some were closed, some were cracked slightly, and only one or two were wide open. All had a shiny nameplate beside the door. Sherlock hardly paused a second before heading down the hallway, glancing at each nameplate before finally stopping at a shut door. John followed, not quite sure what they were going to say to the man.
Sherlock gave the door three sharp knocks. Seconds later, they heard a muffled "come in," and they entered.
Markham's office looked like the quintessential CEO's office – minimal furniture, perfectly clean floors, bare walls, two misleadingly soft-looking chairs facing a shiny black desk. On the desk was a clock, a laptop, a pen beside a blank tablet, a telephone, and a single picture in a silver frame of Markham with his wife and three children. Behind the desk was Markham himself, sitting in a tall, black, wheeled chair that rose up just above his head. He was a petite man yet his dignified air made him seem much taller. He was the sort of man who looked you right in the eye from the moment you entered his vision to the moment you left it. His clothes were expensive, clean, probably even new. His dark, sleek hair was parted at the side and swept over his head. He wore a gold watch and, upon further observation, the two men noticed that he had a small dot on his ear; a remnant of an old piercing.
He greeted them with the false smile and enthusiasm of an experienced businessman, and not at all of a man who had just lost his son.
"Mr. Holmes! What brings you to my office? Have a seat! Who's your friend?"
As they walked to the chairs, John mumbled to Sherlock.
"You didn't mention that you knew him."
"Didn't I?"
They sat down. The chairs were, in fact, much less comfortable than they looked. Markham leaned forward, elbows on his desk, and gave them an appraising look.
"This is Dr. John Watson," Sherlock said, "my…colleague."
He had started to say friend but, remembering how he was corrected the last time, chose the safer route. Besides, they really were just colleagues, right? Flat mates at most.
Markham nodded to Watson.
"I don't suppose Sherlock has mentioned me?"
"Can't say he has," John replied, glancing at his…colleague, he supposed.
Markham looked half disappointed.
"Shame. Well, believe it or not, used to work together. We were old pals, weren't we?"
At this, John felt genuinely shocked. Sherlock had friends? He never mentioned them. He'd had a job other than consulting detective? John couldn't imagine him doing anything else. Then again, he never spoke much about his past. John wasn't even sure where his flat mate had grown up. He glanced over to see a slight hint of disgust on Sherlock's face. However, John's astonishment quickly fizzled with Markham's next statement, accompanied by a cruel gleam in his eye.
"Well, pals might be a stretch. Actually, I couldn't stand him. A regular nutjob, this one."
Out of the corner of his eye, John noticed Sherlock tense up, but the motion was so slight that had John blinked he would have missed it. Perhaps he had even imagined it, but something told him otherwise. Frowning at Markham, Sherlock attempted to change the subject.
"We're here to talk about your dead son," he said, the last two words particularly biting.
Markham's smile fled.
"What business do you have asking me about that?"
"I happen to be working with the police on the case," Sherlock replied.
Markham snorted.
"They've really lowered their standards, haven't they?" He paused. "Well what are you doing here, then? Shouldn't you be out finding the killer?"
"We thought you may be able to help us, Mr. Markham," John quickly responded, trying to ease the tension in the air.
Markham responded with the same pleasant smile he had greeted them with earlier.
"Please, just call me Robert."
It could have really just been his imagination this time, but John could have sworn he saw Sherlock's eye twitch just slightly. He spoke, raising his voice.
"Where were you the night your son was murdered?"
Markham turned to glare at Sherlock.
"I was here, in my office."
Sherlock's face immediately changed to one of curiosity, and John knew that it meant he had noticed something.
"Oh, were you?" the detective asked, "are you completely sure?"
"Of course I'm sure!" Markham snapped. "Listen, you freak, if you've come here to give me trouble I will gladly have security remove you."
John found himself resenting it any time anyone called Sherlock "freak", which was quite a lot. He didn't know why, and he never said anything about it, but it bothered him. Sherlock, on the other hand, was always so indifferent that John couldn't tell whether or not he minded.
"I only came here to ask you questions, and it would be nice if you would allow me to do so," Sherlock replied calmly but sternly.
"What questions could you possibly have? And what exactly do you think I have to do with it?"
"Do you want to know what I think?" Sherlock's voice was frighteningly low and calm this time.
"Yes." Markham leaned back in his chair and placed his arms on its armrests. "Let's hear it. What does the brilliant Sherlock Holmes have to say?"
Sherlock's mouth twitched as if he wanted to smile, but he didn't. He took a deep breath before beginning to speak.
"You didn't even question it when I said that your son was murdered. Am I incorrect, or didn't the police tell you it was suicide? Odd. That aside, take the photo on your desk. Your children are all over eighteen now, are they not? Your son was twenty when he died. Yet in that picture, none of them could be over ten years old. A man who is involved with his family would have a more up to date photograph, wouldn't he? And then there's your son's less than squeaky clean record. Vandalism, theft, breaking and entering. Not exactly a father's pride and joy. Especially not when that first child, that boy, ruined your own rampant youth. Ah, yes, that, I know about that from the not-quite-gone piercing in your ear and the way you're so drawn to sports cars, young women, anything to make you forget the years that have passed, the lines on your face. And that boy, he was a reminder of it all, wasn't he? So you want to know what I think, Ronald? I think that there was much more to the boy's death than suicide and I think you know it."
Sherlock finished as abruptly as he'd started, leaving John gaping at him and Markham staring calmly, though his hands clenching the armrests and the dangerous look in his eye hinted at a bomb about to explode within. He paused, taking slow, deliberate breaths, then answered very carefully.
"And would you like to know what I think?"
"Gladly."
Markham leaned forward again, folding his hands together and looking at Sherlock as if he was a pest.
"I think that your sick, twisted little mind made that whole load of bollocks up, and do you know why I think that? I think that you're jealous."
Sherlock actually looked surprised.
"Jealous? Why on earth…"
Markham cut him off.
"Yes, jealous! Jealous that I had a girl, jealous that everyone liked me better; that I, with intellect that was clearly inferior to yours, got promoted three times and you didn't, not even once! And you were jealous that I had a family, though then again, family never seemed to suit you. In fact, of the two of us, you're more of the type I can see killing one's own flesh and blood for laughs."
That angered John. He glanced at Sherlock, who was, as usual, impassive and silent. He saw no reason to argue, to defend himself. Why? John had never considered it, but Sherlock rarely refuted the claims people made about him, aside from perhaps "psychopath".
"But most of all," Markham continued, poison dripping from his every word, "I think that you're looking for something you're never going to find, and that's for some other poor sap to see the world the way you do. Well here's a news flash, old pal, but who would want to see through the eyes of a freak."
There was that word again.
"No one will ever want to be like you and certainly no one will ever like you. I'm sure your colleague here must agree…"
"ENOUGH!"
Before he even knew what he was doing, John found himself standing, leaning forward toward Markham, his hand slammed down on the desk, his eyes shooting bullets at the man. Markham looked shocked, but not nearly as shocked as Sherlock.
"If you say one more thing about him, I'll throw that expensive laptop out the window, and then you'll be sorry!"
There was a long, tense silence. Slowly realizing what he had just done, John slowly straightened up, adjusted his jumper, and cleared his throat.
"Er…sorry about that…"
Snapping out of his daze, Markham swiftly punched a button on his telephone.
"Security!"
"That won't be necessary." Sherlock stood. "We're leaving."
He walked quickly toward the door and John followed. They left without another word and within seconds, heard the office door slam shut behind them.
Both men were silent on the walk to the elevator, during the trip down, and on their way out of the building. John was so lost in replaying what he had done in his mind that he didn't even think to wave goodbye to the confused secretary. They left the building and hailed a cab. They were silent the whole ride back to 221B Baker Street.
Upon arriving home, Sherlock immediately went to his chair and stared out the window. John stood in the doorway for a moment, half hoping that the detective might say something, but still, silence. John wondered if perhaps Sherlock was angry with him for ruining his chance to get answers, a chance that he would certainly never get again. It all seemed like such a waste of time now.
With a sigh, John went to make tea, the one thing he could almost always guarantee they'd have. While it was brewing, he sat at the kitchen table and put his head in his hands. His own voice echoed in his head..."ENOUGH!"
What had he been thinking? That was no way to act when they were trying to get answers out of the man. And yet, John couldn't quite regret it. He felt sorry for ruining their chance, but not for defending Sherlock. It was about time someone did. If Sherlock wouldn't do it then, John decided, he would. After all, they were colleagues…
No. John thought after a pause. Friends. Regardless of what I said or what he said. Friends.
John found that he was okay with this conclusion. It felt right somehow. After all, they knew each other well enough, spent enough time together. Why shouldn't they be friends?
So deep was he in his thought that he didn't even hear Sherlock get up and walk to the kitchen and stand in the doorway, watching the distressed man with a mix of curiosity and, though he didn't realize it himself, adoration. Sherlock couldn't remember if anyone had ever stood up for him the way John just had. When they were children, Mycroft occasionally shooed away mean children who didn't understand bright young Sherlock, but nothing like this. Never anything, anyone like John. Would it really be so bad to call him a friend?
"John." Sherlock finally spoke, his voice soft so as not to startle the doctor. It was more of a statement than an address.
It startled him anyway and John jumped a little, looking up at his flat mate.
"Y-yes?" he stuttered, a little surprised to see Sherlock facing him this soon.
Sherlock stood still and silent, watching him. The teapot began to whistle, breaking the silence, and John shot up to pour them both a cup.
"I'm uh…sorry for what happened. You didn't get anything out of him because of me. I…"
"What you did was…"
"I was out of line."
"You were brilliant."
John looked up, startled. Brilliant? Why?
"I…was I?"
Sherlock's mouth twitched. Then curved up just slightly. Then spread into a full on grin, the kind that he only ever let John see. John gave him a puzzled look and handed him his tea.
"What're you so happy about?"
Sherlock set his tea down on a cluttered shelf beside him and reached his arm out toward the doctor. At first it looked to John as if Sherlock was about to brush something off of John's jumper. Instead, however, John felt a firm hand pat his shoulder, then grasp it. He looked up to see Sherlock, now serious, looking at him with what John suddenly realized was gratitude. Their eyes locked and understanding passed silently between them. So Sherlock had been upset by Markham's words after all, though he hid it so well. He wasn't angry with John; he was thrilled with him.
After a long moment, the hand slid away from John's shoulder back to Sherlock's side. John grinned at his friend, who briefly smiled back.
"Drink your damn tea," John said.
"Only if you'll join me."
So he did.