Hey there, this is just a oneshot that I wrote, trying out different persepectives of writing. Really though, it is just for fun :-)
I don't own anything you recognise.
Summary: Lestrade and the other policemen/women didn't believe Sherlock had a friend. Too bad he actually has a boyfriend. NOT cannon, John already knew Sherlock before leaving to fight in Afghanistan. Slash; Sherlock/John. Please read and review!
Enjoy!
Lestrade
It was with great reluctance that he contacted Sherlock for his help. The Consulting Detective turned up, announced his deductions, asked Lestrade if that was all and upon receiving his answer, left.
The next case the man came to help went much the same. The man turned up, explained his deductions, didn't say a single snarky thing to Donovan and left.
The third time in a row this happened, Lestrade stopped Sherlock from leaving, took him to the side and asked what was up.
"Look, I'm not saying go back to being rude and snarky, but what's up? You've been acting nice to us all, for you, and it's actually kind of creeping me out." Lestrade told him.
"What makes you think something is wrong? Can I not be polite and happy?" Sherlock asked, deflecting the question skilfully.
"Sherlock." Lestrade sighed, skillfully deflected, but not well enough.
Sherlock sighed and seemed reluctant to answer, but spoke anyway, "I'm happier, because I recently spoke with an old friend of mine, who before now was unable to contact me. Is that enough of an answer?"
Lestrade wanted to say no, and demand answers. Who was this old friend? Where was he? Why hadn't Sherlock spoken about him before? But Lestrade noticed the man's agitated state, and reluctance to talk and realised that Sherlock didn't want to share the information with the DI. "As long as you're OK, and not, you know, using again or anything, it's all fine."
Sherlock gave him the weirdest look, almost like the Consulting Detective was shocked Lestrade said that and reminded him of something, but Lestrade mentally shook himself, Sherlock was never shocked by anything, and he certainly never showed any kind of emotion.
"OK, bye." Sherlock turned and left, his coat flying out behind him.
The next crime scene they needed help with, Sherlock flat out refused. When Lestrade went around to ask him why, he found the detective sitting on the couch, laptop on his lap, just waiting.
"I can't help, not tonight. Text me tomorrow if you still need help." Sherlock had told him. Lestrade sighed and left, knowing he would get nothing more out of the man.
The next day, when Sherlock turned up to help and Lestrade asked him what was so important last night, he was not expecting the answer he received.
"I was waiting for a call from my friend, he can only call on Wednesday nights, and not all of the time. I had to be prepared to receive the call, in case last night he could call." Sherlock explained, sitting down at Lestrade's desk and reading the case report.
"Right." Lestrade spoke slowly.
Sherlock looked up at the man, a flicker of what could've been mistaken as pain crossed the man's face, but Lestrade knew the consulting detective, and knew it was most likely annoyance at his stupidity or something. "His name is John, he is currently overseas, and getting a connection can be difficult. Now, if you will excuse me, if the gardener has a green ladder, he is the killer." With that, the detective left.
Lestrade sighed as he heard Anderson, Donovan and Sherlock snapping at each other at the crime scene, in another room of the victim's house. He didn't make out the words being said, but he jumped to suddenly find Sherlock leaving the house and walking down the street, completely ignoring Lestrade's calls. Lestrade stared after the man. He thought he had seen tears collecting in Sherlock's eyes, but the DI dismissed that thought. Sherlock didn't cry.
"What was that about?" Lestrade asked Donovan as he walked into the room with the body.
"Nothing, we were talking and he just stormed out, sulking like a child." Anderson grumbled.
Donovan turned away from the two men, but Lestrade caught the look on her face; guilt and shock. "Donovan, what happened?"
"We took it a step too far, we'll apologise to him next time we see him." she explained, ignoring Anderson's cry of outrage and disagreement. Lestrade watched his two officers bicker about apologising before staring out at the street after Sherlock. He would check on him tomorrow.
Upon walking into 221B Baker Street, Lestrade walked right into the middle of a staring competition between the two Holmes brothers.
"You know something. Tell me." Sherlock demanded.
"I cannot, I promised I wouldn't. Do not worry Sherlock, he is fine." Mycroft sighed, looking away first.
"Tell me what happened! He was meant to call wednesday, and he didn't. Where is he?" Sherlock ordered, hands balled up in a tight fist.
"I can't, he has asked me not to." Mycroft repeated. "Now, Lestrade needs your help, and I have another commitment. Goodbye, my dear brother." Mycroft left, almost cowardly but not quite.
"What was that all about?" Lestrade asked the Consulting Detective.
The man in question collapsed on the couch and curled over to face the back of the furniture. "Nothing that concerns you. Now go."
"I need your help with the murder."
"Boring."
"Sherlock."
"Boring."
"Sherlock!"
Lestrade left fuming when he received no response.
They caught the killer, the best friend, a day before the first suicide victim was found. After the fourth one, and still no leads, Lestrade knew he had to turn to Sherlock. It was only after the fifth one, when the woman had left a note, that Sherlock stopped sulking and turned up. He deduced everything about the woman, before running down the stairs, going on about serial killers, mistakes and pink.
"You realise he will find evidence and withhold it, yeah?" Donovan pointed out.
"Yeah, I know." Lestrade watched as the man climbed into a cab. "Gather volunteers, we have an impromptu drugs bust tonight."
"Yes sir."
Mrs Hudson let them up to the flat, and while she protested them looking without Sherlock there, she didn't stop them. "He won't like you going through his stuff without him here." She warned.
"Where is he then?"
"I don't know, I only just got back from tea myself, I went and visited Mrs Turner down the road." She explained.
"Right, Donovan, search the bedroom. Anderson, you and Smith take the kitchen. Kelly, you and I will start in here."
There were varying noises of 'yes sir' or acceptance, and everyone moved off to the different rooms. Lestrade had just started looking through the boxes by the fireplace when Donovan's cursing caused him to be down the hall and in the doorway in seconds. "Holy fuck, Lestrade!"
Lestrade stared in shock with Donovan at the bare-chested, bare-foot, middle-aged, bandaged, blonde man standing at Sherlock's bed, obviously just woken up from a nap. "What? Who the hell are you?" Lestrade demanded, shocked Sherlock would have someone in his bed.
"Me?" the man repeated, "Who are you and why are you going through Sherlock's stuff?"
Donovan
Everyone knew the Consulting Detective was acting strangely, and when he didn't turn up to the crime scene with Lestrade, everyone wanted to know what was going on. Donovan was the only one brave enough to ask Lestrade the next day.
"So, what's up with the fre- Holmes?" Donovan corrected herself, knowing Lestrade would chew her out for calling him that.
He sighed at her near slip-up but ignored it. "He was expecting a phone call from an old friend. Couldn't miss it. Now get back to work, we've got to catch this guy."
Back at her desk, Anderson was waiting. "What'd he say?"
"Had a phone call with a friend." Donovan shrugged.
"The freak has a friend? One who wants to talk to him?" Anderson asked, disbelief in his voice.
"I know, I don't believe it either."
At the second victim, when Sherlock turned up, Donovan asked him about it. "I heard you were talking to a friend the other night which is why you skipped the crime scene." She commented.
"He can only call some Wednesdays, I was unsure if he would call or not, so I had to be prepared for the possibility despite the fact he didn't call." Sherlock muttered, distracted by the body. He crouched over the woman, studying her clothing, fingers and hair.
"Maybe he just didn't want to talk to you?" Anderson commented, "After all, who'd want to be friends with you?"
Sherlock, unsurprisingly stood upright and glared at Anderson, "Who'd want to be around you? certainly not your wife, judging by how often she is away for 'business'."
Anderson glared at him, "I don't believe you have a 'friend', why haven't we met him?"
"He is overseas at the moment." Sherlock sniffed disdainfully at the shorter man.
"Couldn't get further away from you if he tried." Donovan sneered, defending Anderson.
"Unless he died." Anderson added.
Sherlock froze and stared at the pair with an unreadable face. He silently turned and walked out of the door and away from the crime scene.
"That was uncalled for Anderson." Donovan growled, realising the man had taken it too far. When Lestrade came over to question them, she didn't hesitate to confess and promise to apologise. The consulting detective had kept his emotions hidden well, but she had still seen the hurt and pain that had flickered across his face, along with fear. She didn't know if this friend was real or not, or if they were just 'business acquaintances' but she did know Anderson had taken it too far, and whatever situation this friend was in, meant he was risking his life, and implying the man wanted to die, whether on purpose or not, was not good. Not good at all.
Donovan didn't think anything of the messy flat, used dishes in the sink and laptop left on. It was Holmes, she was surprised the flat was still liveable after all this time, let alone this neat. She ignored Mrs Hudson's chatter, and moved to the bedroom as directed from her boss. She always got given this job. Now, after all this time, she knew it was because she knew the good hiding spots in the room, but still, she did not enjoy going through the freak's sock and undie draw.
She pushed the door open, and stopped, shocked at the sight in front of her. There was a man. There was a man in Holmes' room. There was a man in Holmes' room half naked. There was a man in Holmes' room half naked and clearly just woken up.
"Hello, and you are?" the man asked, a polite smile on his face.
"Holy fuck, Lestrade!" Sally shrieked. She had no excuse for it, other than the fact that for this man to be in the freak's room and half naked meant they were in some kind of relationship, and that thought alone was enough to give her nightmares.
Sherlock
"Sherlock?"
"Mmm?"
"I've only got a few minutes, a friend of mine gave me his calling privileges. I miss you."
"And I you."
"Promise me you'll not just sit about doing nothing until next call or next visit."
"I promise, but I may not keep it."
"Sherlock, just promise me if you get a case from your brother or something, and you've nothing better to do, you'll take it. I know you, I don't want you to let your brain rot away with boredom because there's only 10 months until I can come home."
"I promise."
"Love you."
"And I you."
9 months, 3 weeks, 4 days, 14 hours, 53 minutes and 19 seconds. 18 seconds. 17 seconds. 16 seconds.
A beep alerted the man of the arrival of a text.
Sherlock rolled over on the couch, glanced at his phone and saw it was Lestrade. He was immediately up, out of the flat and in a cab on the way to the crime scene.
The next text he received asking for help, he sighed but still got up and went to solve the crime before returning to laying on the couch, staying at the ceiling, counting down.
The third time, Lestrade questioned him, but he avoided giving away details. "I recently spoke with an old friend of mine, who before now was unable to contact me. Is that enough of an answer?"
Sherlock knew the DI had questions, you didn't need to be a genius to figure that out. But Sherlock also knew he didn't want to answer any questions. To the consulting detective's surprise (not that he would admit to that), Lestrade dropped the subject with a shrug and casual comment, "As long as you're OK, and not, you know, using again or anything, it's all fine."
Lestrade's words 'It's all fine' echoed in his head, mixing with his words as well. Sherlock blinked and pushed back his rush of worry, fear and anticipation. He'd been home soon. "OK, bye."
When the call hadn't come through by 11 o'clock, Sherlock knew John wasn't calling. He shoved the worry and fear aside and just told himself that it was due to the man being selfless and letting someone else use his calling time. He spent all night at the laptop, and only when it reached the next day did the man move. He showered, dressed and stalked into Lestrade's office.
"I'm here to help."
"Why couldn't you help yesterday at the actual crime scene?" Lestrade asked, handing the report and photos over for the man to study.
"I was waiting for a call from my friend, he can only call on Wednesday nights, and not all of the time. I had to be prepared to receive the call, in case last night he could call." Sherlock explained, sitting down at Lestrade's desk and reading the case report.
"Right."
Sherlock could hear the disbelief hidden in his tone, and see it in his body language. He felt the sudden urge to scream at the DI, demanding to know why that was so unbelievable, but he didn't. He did, however, defend John. "His name is John, he is currently overseas and getting a connection can be difficult. Now, if you will excuse me, if the gardener has a green ladder, he is the killer." Sherlock threw the folder back on the desk, and walked out of the office.
He hated talking to the idiots in the police force. Not because what they said affected him, but just because they lowered the average IQ of the room and consequently, his. What they do say around him doesn't normally bother him, but when Anderson and Donovan were snapping at him and implied John wanted to die to get away from him, he was unable to stop the agonising cold rush of dread and fear as all the possibilities of John dying, and all the chances of him being injured rushed through his head.
He turned and left. It was the only rational response. He was either about to break down and scream and rant, or turn into an emotional wreck (for the sociopathic man) and creep everyone out.
Serial killer through suicide. It was like christmas for the Consulting Detective. What would make it perfect was John being home but that was improbable, so Sherlock would make do with the serial killer.
He had gone dumpster diving and found the case. Mycroft had sent a car and instructions to go home. The older Holmes knew what was going on with John, which made Sherlock consider the options. Listen to his brother and see what was going on, or ignore him, possibly miss out on talking to John and that was unacceptable. He climbed into the car, dropped the case off at Scotland Yard, leaving it with the new evidence worker who looked terrified of Sherlock and was back at the flat in ten minutes.
Lestrade was there, and a few other policemen, having parked outside the flat. Their cars were lined up along the street, along with a taxi, waiting for someone next door. When he went up, he met Mrs Hudson on her way down the stairs.
"Oh Sherlock, Detective Inspector Lestrade is having another drugs raid, I tried to get them to wait for you, but they were adamant, and they just started."
"Thank you Mrs Hudson." Sherlock quickly passed her, running up the stairs two at a time. If John was going to call, then he needed to be at his laptop, whether the police were there or not.
"Holy fuck, Lestrade!" Donovan's voice echoed through the flat.
Sherlock frowned, he was certain there was nothing for the police to find, yet she was clearly shocked by something.
"What? Who the hell are you?" That was Lestrade. Sherlock was now in the flat, shoving his way past Anderson and the other two police officers who were standing at the door to his bedroom. Donovan and Lestrade were standing inside staring at something or someone.
Sherlock noticed the duffel bag by the door and grinned, just as the man the police were staring at asked, "Me?" the man repeated, "Who are you and why are you going through Sherlock's stuff?"
Sherlock shoved past them all. "John!" He grinned at the man, going to hug the man. He stopped at the sight of the bandages. "What happened?"
"What do you think Sherlock?" John asked, grinning at the man. He dropped his cane onto the bed and reached out with his good arm. Sherlock stepped forward and wrapped his arms around John's waist, stooping slightly to allow the shorter man to wrap his one arm around the brunette's neck.
"How long are you on medical leave?" Sherlock asked the blonde, not pulling away from the embrace.
"Honourably discharged on medical grounds. I won't regain full mobility in my shoulder, and have a tremor. It's my left, so I can't really be a surgeon, now can I? And there is a large chance that I will have a permanent limp once my thigh heals, but that we just have to wait and see."
"You were shot twice?"
"Shot in the shoulder, shrapnel from a bomb hit my thigh."
Lestrade cleared his throat, causing Sherlock to reluctantly release John, and step to the side to stand next to the blonde, facing the police, but he slipped an arm around John's waist, subtly pushing the cane away to force the man to lean on him for support.
"What's going on Sherlock?" Lestrade demanded.
"This is Dr John Watson, my partner. The one none of you believed existed or thought wouldn't want to be around me." Sherlock introduced. "John, these are Scotland Yard's finest officers."
"Nice to meet you all." John grinned, "Now, why are you all here?"
John
He hated planes. That's all there was to it. The cramped spaces, no leg room, even for a short arse like him, overweight men breathing heavily in his ear, the woman chatting non-stop in his other, the babies crying, the uncomfortable chairs and the lack of ability to manoeuvre his leg or shoulder into a more comfortable position.
John stared at the screen as the distance to go, time taken, time until arrival and the distance travelled ran across the bottom. 2 hours and 31 minutes left. He turned to study the sleeping man, desperate to get up, stretch his aching and throbbing thigh and to use the toilet. The overweight businessman was fast asleep, and he was in the aisle seat, meaning John was stuck in the middle of the three seats.
"Excuse me sir, would you like anything to drink or eat?" the hostess asked him, he looked past the man to the woman as she smiled politely at him.
"Some water please." John decided on talking loudly in a hope of waking the man up. Something must have shown on his face when it didn't work, as the hostess grinned a little less politely and more amusedly.
"Do you need to get up?" she asked.
John grinned back at her, "Is it that obvious?"
"Hold on, I'll wake him." The hostess locked the trolley with a well-placed foot and gently shook the man awake. "Excuse me sir, sorry for waking you, do you want a drink or anything to eat?"
"A glass of whiskey." The man yawned, annoyance at being woken up evident on his face.
John waited until the woman had moved further down the aisle before turning to the man who was gulping down the alcohol and asking, "Sorry mate, do you mind letting me up?"
The man sighed, and John repressed the urge to punch the man. The man heaved himself up and shuffled backwards, blocking the path to the toilet. John shuffled along in his seat, awkwardly hobbling out from behind the other ones to clutch at the backs of the seats, as the man sat back down. Once the massive man was out of the way, John limped along the length of the plane, leaning on the backs of the seats, ignoring the ache in his leg as he did so.
A few minutes later, after he had gone to the toilet, he stood at the back of the plane, trying to talk himself into cramping himself back into the tiny space and giving his leg even more of a reason to ache. His shoulder had begun to throb in time with his thigh, and despite the sling holding his arm in place, whenever John moved, the motion jarred his wound.
"Excuse me sir," the hostess from before had walked up to him, having noticed his delay. "Are you alright?"
"Yeah, just enjoying the room before squeezing myself back into the seat." John grinned at the woman, having appreciated her waking the man and helping him out.
The woman smiled back, before her eyes dropped to his shoulder and then his leg. "I don't mean to be rude, but I saw you limping earlier and was wondering if you wanted me to ask someone in the bulk head seats to swap with you?"
"Oh no, I couldn't do that, there's only two hours or so left, I'll be fine." John shook his head.
"Are you sure? I'm sure somebody won't mind swapping, especially as you are injuried."
"No, I'm fine, thank you though."
He should've swapped. The plane had landed, and the moment his aisle was empty, he had shifted across to the middle, to allow the woman by the window on his other side and the rest of the passengers to leave the plane. John gritted his teeth and breathed through his nose as his thigh seized up and his shoulder throbbed. He slid over and pushed himself up using his right hand and an arm rest. His leg gave out from under him and he dropped back down with a muffled curse. The last few passengers left, and he was left with an empty aisle and throbbing pain radiating from his thigh and shoulder.
"Excuse me sir, I believe this is yours?" the hostess from before offered John his cane, and stood back a little as John attempted to get up again. He stood shakily on his two feet and cane, and began shuffling down the aisle.
"Thank you for getting my cane." John spoke over his shoulder as the hostess followed his slow progress out of the plane.
"No problem, will you be OK to get into the terminal?"
"Yeah, I'm just stiff from sitting down, I'll be fine. Thank you." John grinned at the woman once more, before leaving the plane and surpressing a sigh at the sight of the steps. He leaned heavily on his cane as he shuffled down the steps, one at a time. At the bottom, he went to walk towards the terminal, but was stopped by the sight of a black car sitting on the tarmac. The door opened as he approached and he climbed in, suppressing a groan at his aching thigh and insistent pain in his shoulder.
"Mycroft, fancy seeing you here." John grinned tiredly at the man.
"John, I do not know why you did not accept my offer of an upgrade to business class, and willingly put yourself through pain and discomfort. We have your luggage in the boot." Mycroft greeted.
John shrugged his right shoulder, his left held in place with the sling. "I'm fine with economy, don't waste the money on a flight that I wasn't going to enjoy either way."
"Sherlock will believe I didn't offer and blame me for your injuries hurting you."
"He'll be happy I didn't accept your charity."
"If he truly feels like that, then he is less emotionally developed then I thought."
"He's your brother."
"He's your fiancé."
John grinned at the childish reply and beamed wider as Mycroft held out a velvet box. "Not yet. And don't you dare tell him." John flicked the box open and stared at the silver band with a simple stone set in the band. "Thank you for picking it up."
"I wouldn't dare tell him before you ask him, and you're welcome. He will figure it out though."
"I know. Is he at the flat?"
"No, at a crime scene. We can go there or the flat, it is up to you."
"I'll wait at the flat."
"Very well."
John knew Sherlock could be hours, or minutes, so he didn't plan on expecting him any time soon. He also knew that there wouldn't be any edible food in the flat, even if it did look untouched. He had Mycroft stop the car outside a chinese takeaway place a block before Baker street and picked up some noodles. He felt silly getting a ride to the flat for one block, but knew that the stairs up to the flat would be hard enough to get up, let alone on top of a walk, however short it would be.
Mycroft dropped him off with a pointed look and a promise of a future celebratory dinner which John responded to by shrugging one arm.
Before he could even begin to climb the steps, a cab stopped outside and the cabbie rolled down the window to ask, "You know where Sherlock Holmes is?"
"Nah mate, I don't think he's in at the moment." John replied, turning to the man.
"Really? He booked a cab." the cabbie frowned.
"He might be here in a minute or two then, but I don't know, sorry." John grinned apologetically before turning back to the house. He unlocked the flat, and began hobbling up the steps, duffel bag over his good shoulder, plastic bag in his bad hand, cane clutched in his good hand and when Mrs Hudson didn't come out to investigate, he knew she was away. Up at the flat, the place was a mess, there were dishes in the sink that had something growing on them, papers were all over, clothes were thrown around the lounge room and bedroom. John ate a few mouthful of the noodles, and then put the rest in the fridge. He hadn't been hungry at all for a while, since he was shot, and while he knew he should eat, any food over a few mouthfuls made him nauseous. He left his duffel bag by the bedroom door and stripped down to his underwear. He pulled the sling off, but left the white bandages around his body on. Leaving the sling and cane by the side of the bed, he climbed into the bed and under the covers, resting his head on Sherlock's pillow and quickly drifting off to sleep to the smell of his partner.
He woke to sounds of talking and rummaging in the lounge room. Mrs Hudson's voice stood out from the general noise, so John knew they weren't intruders, but neither were the voices Sherlock.
"Donovan, check the bedroom, yeah?" a voice spoke louder than the rest.
John sat up slowly, careful of his shoulder and avoiding putting pressure on his arm. He pushed the covers back, and sat on the edge of the bed, one hand clutching his sore thigh as the other grabbed his jeans and slipped them on his good leg. He eased them up his bad leg as 'Donovan' approached the bedroom door. He had them pulled up and zipped up, just as the person pushed the door open, and he stood up straight, leaning on his cane, ignoring the throb of pain from his shoulder and thigh, just as a woman stepped in and stared at him. John stared back, keeping his face polite but serious.
"Hello," John spoke, "And you are?"
"Holy fuck, Lestrade!" the woman responded.
Another man rushed into the bedroom, took in John with one look and said, "What? Who the hell are you?"
John frowned at the man, confused as to why they were demanding his presence when they were the ones breaking in basically. "Me? Who are you and why are you going through Sherlock's stuff?"
The man opened his mouth to respond, but was rudely shoved to the side.
"John!" Sherlock grinned, rushing into the room to hug the man. The consulting detective stopped at the sight of John's bandages, and John suppressed a sigh. "What happened?"
"What do you think Sherlock?" John asked, stepping forward. He threw his cane away and reached out to hug his boyfriend with his good arm, mentally cursing his immobile shoulder. Sherlock automatically responded, hugging back and stooping slightly to allow John to reach around his neck.
"How long are you on medical leave?" Sherlock asked into the top of his head.
"Honourably discharged on medical grounds." John told him. It was surprisingly harder than he thought it would be to continue explaining, "I won't regain full mobility in my shoulder, and have a tremor. It's my left, so I can't really be a surgeon, now can I? And there is a large chance that I will have a permanent limp once my thigh heals, but that we just have to wait and see."
"You were shot twice?"
"Shot in the shoulder, shrapnel from a bomb hit my thigh."
Sherlock was going to say something, probably in an awkward attempt that was pure Sherlockian to comfort the blonde, but there was a cough that interrupted them. John let go of Sherlock, letting the man step to the side to face the intruders. John hid a grin as Sherlock nudged the cane further away from the bed and slipped an arm around the blonde's waist to help him stand.
"What's going on Sherlock?" the man who coughed demanded.
"This is Dr John Watson, my partner. The one none of you believed existed or thought wouldn't want to be around me." Sherlock introduced. John mentally frowned at that comment, knowing it would've hurt Sherlock under his deep layers of protective skin but kept a polite smile on his face. "John, these are Scotland Yard's finest officers."
"Nice to meet you all." John grinned, "Now, why are you all here?"
"Drugs bust." the man answered.
"Even though Sherlock's been clean for over four years now?" John frowned, confused as to why the police were wasting their time here.
"They're looking for evidence they believe I am withholding. The victim's case, I believe, is what they were expecting to find." Sherlock sighed. He grabbed John's top, sling and cane and helped the doctor slip the shirt on. He then gently tied the sling around his neck and handed the cane over.
"You may not have the case but you did find it." John pointed out.
"And I dropped it off at Scotland Yard's. Even handed it to the officer on duty." Sherlock shrugged. "I did send a text to her phone though, so the murderer will get it, but it said to meet -"
"Is the murderer a cabbie?" John spoke up.
Everyone turned to stare at him.
"I've been hearing about it on the news, no one has seen them get into any cars with strangers or anything, and they aren't linked so they can't all know the killer, so is it a taxi they're getting into and is the driver a murderer?" John explained.
"That's brilliant, how did I not see that?" Sherlock breathed, before letting out a laugh and turning to kiss John.
John pulled away, "No, Sherlock, wait," Sherlock pulled away slightly, "There was a cabbie downstairs waiting for you when Mycroft dropped me off, about an hour ago."
Sherlock blinked, then said, "Lestrade, you might want to go down and arrest the cab driver waiting downstairs for me."
"Right. Let's go."
They'd confronted him, and Sherlock had gone off about the cabbie, telling his life story when the man pulled a gun and pointed it at Sherlock. The police all stood, ready to fight but with their weapons down so the cabbie wasn't threatened and felt the need to pull the trigger, but John stepped forward and pulled a gun on the cabbie.
"We both know your gun is fake, mine is not. I suggest giving yourself up to the police because the moment you even so much as twitch, I'll shoot." John told him.
Needless to say the cabbie lowered the gun and let himself get handcuffed.
"You'll never know Holmes," the cabbie began, "How I got them to kill themselves. I didn't do it, they took the pills themselves, completely willing too. You'll never know now."
Sherlock stared at the cabbie, and shrugged. "Boring." Sherlock announced, before turning away from the cabbie's shocked face. "Lestrade, if you don't mind leaving now, the drugs bust is obviously complete, as the intention was to take whatever evidence you thought I was withholding, and not only is there none, I also helped you get the killer." Sherlock spoke quickly.
Lestrade and the police left rather quickly after that. Lestrade being one of the last ones to leave. He turned on the car engine and glanced back at the door of 221 Baker Street, only to see the Consulting Detective and blonde man in an embrace. Lestrade could see in the street lamp lights the look on Sherlock's face, and was surprised to find it full of easily read emotion. John held out a small box to the man, who took it, opened it and slipped what could only have been a ring on. The pair then kissed and turned to go inside. Lestrade drove off, grinning to himself. He better be invited to the wedding.
The End
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