DISCLAIMER: I have no affiliation whatsoever with Moffat, Gattis, or the estates of Arthur Conan Doyle or T.S. Eliot, to whom all the credit for this universe belongs. Aside from the fun I had writing it, I have not and will not profit from this story in any way.
They have just turned to leave when, from where she is squatting in the dirt, she reaches out an imploring hand to stop them. "Wait," she says, and John watches the wind move through Sherlock's black curls as he drops back into a crouching position beside her.
"What is it?" he asks, voice a low rumble, barely distinguishable from the cars passing overhead.
Her lips part like a moth's wings, and she speaks. "Who is the third who walks always beside you?"
John Watson feels the back of his neck prickle. The banks of the Thames lie behind him, the grimy supports of the bridge suspended above, and he knows this, and he does not turn around to look. His Browning is a cold weight tucked into the back of his trousers but he feels a fool for remembering it in this moment.
Sherlock leans forward, tilting his chin and meeting her eyes directly, calmly, as if what she's said is the most ordinary thing in the world, and for her part, she stares back with demanding defiance.
"What did you say?" he asks, and his voice is surprisingly gentle.
"Who is it?" she repeats, setting her teeth and staring, grey into grey. "The third one. With the brown cape. The hood."
Unbidden, John feels a reaction beginning to twitch its way across his face but he stoically swallows it down before it can take root. Still, his eyes feel wild and he fights to keep them fixed on his scuffed shoes in the dirt, the pale curve of Sherlock's neck.
"Man or woman?" Sherlock asks, and John knows that they haven't been followed – Sherlock would have noticed, he always knows. It is damp under the bridge, and chilly. John tries to separate the lapping of the waters from the cars whizzing past overhead from the blood that's now rushing in his ears.
She shakes her head. "Don't know," she replies, and Sherlock nods, waits a beat before reaching into his pocket for his wallet. She makes a negating noise and raises a hand to stop him. "Can't tell," she adds, and Sherlock acknowledges this with a raise of his eyebrows.
She's never been an especially talkative one (though John has the distinct feeling that something about him puts her particularly ill at ease), but she has a tendency to be there when things happen, to see what's going on. She has a knack for trouble – some people are just like that – and she remembers, or at least she does when things are good. And when they aren't, she doesn't lie to them. Sherlock listens to her, values her input.
He's still nodding away, the picture of compassion and validation (though John knows that all the while, he must be cataloguing her shabby clothes and the smell of urine, checking for track marks and dilated pupils), but he ignores her protest and presses another note into her hand. "For the next time you see it," he says. "Tell me what you can."
She breathes out and pockets the bill without a word. Her eyes dart to John, who presses his gloved hands into his pockets, and then back to Sherlock. "When I count..." she says, reaching out one hand, swallowing, "…it's only you and him together." Her voice is quiet, and John strains to hear. "But when I look ahead up the white road... there's always another one walking beside you."
Sherlock's nostrils flare at this, but his gaze does not break. He waits expectantly, but she appears to have finished; she falls silent and rocks slightly in place, remaking a double set of footprints in the dirt.
"The white road?" prompts Sherlock, but she offers no further comment, her lips clamping shut as she pulls her knees closer.
Sherlock gives a short huff of breath through his nostrils. "All right," he says mildly. "Next time, then. Watch closely, for me." He rises gracefully to his feet and turns briskly. "John," he says, and abruptly, John remembers that he is part of this conversation, too. And just for a second, Sherlock is looking at him in a certain way, a mixture of pity and amusement, and – oh. John makes an effort to slouch, banishing the stiff military posture he had unconsciously adopted, and the corners of Sherlock's mouth turn wryly upward, blink and you'd miss it.
John swallows. "Ready?" His throat still feels dry and his voice unsteady, but Sherlock gives no indication that he has noticed; he just nods, and they're off to find a cab, off in pursuit of the next link in the chain, the detective and his blogger.
When they've crested the hill and are standing by the side of the road, John looks to Sherlock, and clears his throat again. Usually, the sound alone is enough to win him an answer to his question, or at least a dismissive pejorative, but this time Sherlock says nothing. The sky is grey above them, so overcast that it could be any time of day, and even as they leave the river behind them, a wet chill hangs in the air.
John runs his tongue across his teeth. "Do you think...?" he begins, but can't seem to find a likely finish for the question; nothing seems to quite articulate this vague, misty feeling of meaning obscured.
Sherlock's eyes flick in John's direction and his pale face is a mask, revealing nothing, but his response is just a second too slow. "Honestly, John," he says, blinking, and as he raises his arm upward like a praying mantis, a cab slows in front of them. "Don't be daft."
But he doesn't meet John's eyes in the rearview mirror, nor does he say anything when John leaves the light on in the stairwell when he turns in that night – just like how John doesn't say anything the next morning when he goes to check the weather and Google suggests "white road" as soon as he hits the W key.
He considers mentioning the incident to Ella, hoping that getting it off his chest will alleviate his unease, but she has enough concerns about this new friendship already. There are a lot of things that people carry with them, John knows, and he eventually decides to just let this be one of them. It's not as if one more will make a difference to him, not at this point. And since John Watson is nothing if not a practical man, it's not long before the feeling has faded almost entirely.
But sometimes, without really grasping why, he finds himself looking at the space behind Sherlock, waiting, expecting – and there are times when he thinks Sherlock is doing the same to him. And from time to time, when the sun casts their shadows on the pavement before them, or when he catches sight of their images, side by side, in a reflective surface, John finds himself counting
(one, two – one, two)
and wondering why it seems to steady him.
NOTES:
Nothing makes your questionable writing feel better than stealing from a legitimate genius. Here are the lines that inspired this fic.
"Who is the third who walks always beside you?
When I count, there are only you and I together
But when I look ahead up the white road
There is always another one walking beside you
Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
I do not know whether a man or a woman
—But who is that on the other side of you?"
I'm doing these short prompts as an exercise to improve my writing, so feedback is very much appreciated 3