A/N: This is a special Valentine-themed fic for all my readers and for my bestie Abe, to thank you all for your continued support and all the love you've given me this past year.
For those who know me well, of course I couldn't do a traditional, fluffy Valentine fic, but who doesn't love a nice bloody murder on Valentine's day?
The story is complete and will be posted over the next four days. Enjoy! 3
ooo
Sherlock pushed himself away from the chimney with a triumphant grin and flipped his phone in the air, catching it easily with his off-hand before stashing it back in his pocket in one fluid motion. John was sure Sherlock would be doing a little jig, too, if he hadn't been sitting there to witness it.
"Greg finally found you an interesting case, I take it?" John asked, feigning indifference while he pecked away at his keyboard with his two index fingers.
"Who?" Sherlock asked, then shook his head, not waiting for an answer. "No, John. That was Lestrade. He's begging for my help. Says Anderson was crying at the crime scene because of the lack of evidence. Hurry."
John abandoned what he was doing in a heartbeat to follow Sherlock, mainly because he quite liked the idea of seeing Anderson bawling like a baby. He'd snap a picture, too, if he could. For posterity. Served the berk right for all the name-calling he inflicted on Sherlock whenever they showed up at a crime scene to help. Bloody ungrateful is what he was.
By the time John stumbled out of 221B, Sherlock was holding the door of the cab open, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. So impatient. Admittedly, it had been a long time since anything interesting had come their way, and Sherlock had become rather restless in the last couple of days. John had even caught himself hoping that Moriarty, of all people, would show up again to entertain his flatmate before the man drove him up the walls with his restlessness, but then again, John still recalled too vividly how the creep had pawed at him as he forced a semtex vest on him, how he had teased John about his relationship with Sherlock and mocked him for being so dull. John still had nightmares about that day, as if the ones from Afghanistan weren't enough already.
"John?" Sherlock called with an impatient huff, dragging him out of his thoughts..
Sherlock had already bounded out of the cab and was now waiting for him to pay the cabbie before he could swoop away to the enticing crime scene with its alluring yellow tape, flashing blue and red lights, spectators milling about murmuring to one another… all that was like an amusement park to Sherlock. He was positively giddy at the prospect of a good murder, and Mrs Hudson was right, it was not decent, but John supposed he should be grateful Sherlock had not only invited him along but had not forgotten him in the cab.
A house full of police activity came into view just as Donovan stepped out, but she didn't greet Sherlock with her usual curt "Freak," for once. Instead, she hurried away on unsteady legs, one hand over her mouth, looking positively green in the face.
"Oh, this must be good," Sherlock enthused, rubbing his hands together like some stereotypical villain.
John, on the other hand, was worried. Donovan might be a conceited bitch at times, but she was a good copper, with years of experience, and he knew she'd already seen some pretty gruesome murders, so, for her to be in that state…
See, Sherlock, I can make deductions too.
Even if John was a doctor, even if he had been a soldier, he steeled himself to see something truly gruesome. He only wished Sherlock did not look so happy about it. He'd crossed indecent into disturbing. He tended to forget the victims had been real people at some point, only seeing the puzzle to solve.
Greg spotted them and ushered them in, leading them all the way to the back of the house into a brightly lit kitchen. He looked worn out, but that was rather par for the course for the detective inspector. He was fidgeting a lot more than usual though, which could either mean the murder had affected even him, or that he badly needed a nicotine patch. Sherlock could probably tell the difference but John couldn't.
And then there was Anderson, throwing a tantrum as he bellowed orders to his SOCO team. Contradictory orders. John scowled at him. Anderson was being more of an ass than usual, which he wouldn't have thought possible, and John didn't give him long before his Scene Of Crime Officers succumbed to the urge of stuffing their evidence bags and latex gloves down his throat.
"Anderson! Leave!" Sherlock snapped, his voice booming in the tiled kitchen and startling more than one officer. "There's only so much stupid I can take in one day."
Fortunately, Greg swooped in and pushed Anderson out of the kitchen, muttering urgently into his ear. John looked at Sherlock, already bent over the victim, and chanced a peek over his shoulder, which turned out to be a terrible idea when curry he'd had for lunch lurched halfway up his throat before he got himself back under control. Sherlock would never let him live it down if he got sick at a crime scene, however grisly it was. John felt someone give him a small pat on the back and turned to find Greg had returned and was offering a small, understanding smile that John promptly returned.
John knew he'd never forget this crime scene anytime soon. It was so bizarre and macabre. The victim was a male, in his forties, sprawled naked, slumped, against the kitchen wall in a large puddle of his own blood and other bodily fluids released after death. The stench was terrible, but the sight much worse. If his first case with Sherlock had been called A Study in Pink, and rightly so, this one definitively deserved to be called A Study in Red. The victim had been cut up in all the ways imaginable: small slashes, larges gouges, puncture wounds, and even flailed in places and disemboweled, presenting them with a sinister tableau straight out of the Dark Ages. In fact, the body looked nothing more than a huge lump of unappetizing minced meat. All except for the head that had been left carefully unblemished of even a single bruise or scrape, and was somehow holding up, staring at them with very dead eyes and a slightly horrified, gaping mouth. Curiosity got the better of him and John approached. Sherlock pointed at a single thin line of fishing rope circling his neck and fastened to the sturdy plumbing behind him.
"Only for show," Sherlock pointed out, snapping his magnifying glass shut. "He fought against the restraint but not too hard and not for long. See here, there's hardly any bruising and the skin is only lightly chafed."
John nodded and checked the victim's wrists and ankles, but he could find no other evidence that he had been restrained. It was impossible: the man had been tortured, had bled out from almost every single wound inflicted on him, so it had taken the poor sod a very long time to die. Surely, if he hadn't been tied down, he would have fought back. Unless… Sherlock was looking at him expectantly.
"Drugged?" John asked.
Sherlock nodded.
"Wouldn't that be counter-productive to torture?" John wondered and Sherlock smiled this time. A devilish, proud, smile. Greg looked a bit sick at the display.
"Exactly. I'm thinking a drug that affects the body but not the mind could have come into play here. Lestrade you might want your pathologist to look more deeply into their screening tests than usual. It might be very important in helping find our killer," Sherlock pointed out and Greg dutifully noted it down.
"It seemed very important for the murderer that the head be left intact. Sending a message, I imagine. Well, obviously sending a message," Sherlock corrected and John sighed, he had lost Sherlock's train of thought again.
"Why obviously?" he asked.
Sherlock scoffed and returned to his examination of the body, not deigning to answer him. Greg took pity on him though, his left hand turning John's head a quarter counterclockwise without a word.
"Oh!" John exclaimed.
How could he have missed that? No wonder Sherlock had ignored him. On the wall directly opposite the corpse, the dead eyes fixed on them, were painted three words. Well, he said "painted", but given the colour, texture and the way it dripped down the tiles, it had been written with the victim's own blood and… bits.
ROSES ARE RED
John's mind stalled. What the bloody hell? What? Why? That phrase was so much out of context that a couple of minutes later, he was still staring dumbly at it when a huff escaped Sherlock. His friend scoffed, shouted and even giggled at crimes scenes, but he never huffed, even though he did it quite a lot at home.
"So Anderson is not a complete incompetent, then?" Greg asked smugly.
"Of course he is," Sherlock snapped. "What do you know of the victim?"
"Nicholas Brawley, 42, divorced, two kids. Looks like he ran some shady business involving drugs so we're looking into that. Could be a turf war hit, sending a message to a rival group. Those are usually pretty gruesome."
"Doesn't really make sense with that message," Sherlock pointed out, a finger directed at the bloody poem.
"No, not really," Greg admitted, raking a hand through his silver hair. "Which is why I called you. I got nothing on this: no clues, no leads, no suspects…"
"Brawley?" John muttered. That name stirred his memory. A patient, a soldier, a client? "Brawley… Nick Brawley?"
John spun around and looked back at the head that had been left intact, ignoring the rest of the body. He kneeled before it again, inspecting it carefully. The skin was very white given the loss of blood, the eyes starting to become murky after death, the expression of horror wasn't helping either… but there was something familiar there.
"John?" Sherlock called.
John shushed him, waving his hand irritably at his friend as he strived to remember. Nick Brawley. He'd know a Nick Brawley a very long time ago, when he was just a kid, but this could be him. Dark green eyes, dark reddish hair, brutish expression and heavily built. He'd been the very stereotype of the school bully and John had been his favorite picking at the time. An easy target, really.
John felt nausea wash over him again as the certainty of his discovery settled in. You'd think a former bullied would love to see his former bully reaping what he sowed. You'd be wrong. Not like this. This was sick. John abruptly stood up. He couldn't look into those dead eyes anymore.
"John?" Sherlock asked, more softly this time.
John turned around. Sherlock's hand hovered in mid-air as if he didn't know how to reach out to him. John shook himself out of his stupor and managed a smile. Or maybe not. Sherlock didn't look convinced, but he had at least let his hand drop back to his side.
"You know him?" Greg asked, eyebrows arching high.
John recalled what he'd said about the victim and his shady activities and snorted. No wonder Greg looked so surprised.
"Knew him? Yes, I guess you could say that, but I haven't seen him since I was a kid. If I recall correctly, the last time was when he shoved me in a trash can and kicked it down the slope after school," John answered and pretended not to see some of the officers snigger.
"School bully?" Greg asked sympathetically, to which John nodded.
"You must have been particularly small to fit in a trash can," Sherlock observed, eliciting more snickers, quite involuntarily.
John looked at him incredulously before getting the topic back on track.
"So who found him? Not one of his kids, I hope?" John had hated the guy but he wouldn't wish that on his kids.
"No, his ex-wife took the kids far away from him a few years ago. He was a bit of a violent drunk from what I got out of our police records, so I wouldn't be surprised if that happened at home too. No, strangely enough it was an anonymous tip off that got us here."
This got Sherlock's interest and he grilled Greg to get every little detail out of the anonymous call that led them to Brawley's corpse, which wasn't much but Greg promised to send a copy of the recording to Baker Street.
"You think it's the murderer?" Greg asked.
"Unlikely. Our killer is very smart. He hasn't made one error to give any clue as to who he is and given the slaughter it turned out to be, that's quite a feat. But I can't dismiss such a clue out of hand."
Greg seemed even more put out than before they'd arrived.
"So you got nothing for me? Absolutely nothing?"
"Not much," Sherlock admitted to everyone's surprise. "You're looking for a professional, obviously, but this was a personal hit somehow, and one meant to send a personal message which is probably why that idiocy doesn't make any sense to us."
Sherlock glared at the message painted in blood on the wall as if the three words were a personal insult.
"I'd advise you to look into the people he might have personally insulted but I imagine he must have done that to everyone he's ever met in his life."
Greg grunted but thanked them nonetheless, and John followed Sherlock out of the house, glad to be away from the gruesome sight. He paused on the kerb to take deep, refreshing breaths while Sherlock hailed a taxi.
"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked once they were on their way back home.
"Yes. Yes, fine," John answered quickly, not wanting to reminisce about his connection to the victim again. It was one thing to investigate complete strangers, but he didn't like the personal dimension this case was taking. "How about you? It's rare for you not to get more out of a crime scene."
"No, it's actually a nice change of pace. Solving cases in a matter of minutes becomes tedious after a while."
The way Sherlock said that, picking off imaginary lint from his impeccable suit, was so haughty that John dissolved into laughter. Judging by Sherlock's pleased expression, that had been his goal all along and John nudged his shoulder in thanks.
Later that day, Sherlock received a very disgruntled call from Greg informing him that the recording of the tip-off had mysteriously disappeared. Sherlock seemed torn between being exasperated at the Yard for being so very incompetent, and thrilled that the killer was so very clever.
ooo
"There's been another," Sherlock shouted up the stairs one week later.
John dressed in record time, yelling down the staircase: "Another what?"
He could practically hear his friend rolling his eyes. They only had one open case at the moment: the murder of Nick Brawley. They hadn't made any progress whatsoever towards solving it, but neither had the Yard.
As they made their way to the crime scene, Sherlock was fidgeting on the car seat, as if he'd been waiting for another murder all along and couldn't hold it in any more. John hadn't. He still shuddered at the mere thought of the last crime scene, and not only because he'd known the victim.
"There you are," Greg groused as they stepped out of the cab in front of a small restaurant. "Follow me."
John was a bit surprised at the inspector's irascible welcome. It was very unlike him. Even when he was under a lot of pressure and had to put up with Anderson and Sherlock bickering, he always had a smile to spare them upon arrival. John wondered if maybe Sherlock had pinched his badge again, but his friend seemed just as surprised as he was.
They were led into a back room off the kitchen and into a big walk in freezer. John cursed. The weather had been kind lately and he wasn't dressed for a prolonged visit to the freezer, so he found himself tucking his hands deep in his pockets and jumping from one foot to the other while his breath fogged the air in front of him.
This crime scene looked nothing like the last, mostly because of the lack of red blood everywhere, and the victim was not cut up at all, but very blue in the face which wasn't surprising given where they were standing. He'd probably frozen to death, John concluded after a cursory examination of the body.
He almost asked the stupid question of why Greg thought this murder was linked to the last since they were clearly nothing alike, but he decided to look around first and was rewarded with the three words carved into the wall facing the body:
VIOLETS ARE BLUE
This was completely ridiculous. What kind of nutjob murdered people and left bad poetry behind?
"The victim is Alistair Cornwall," Greg stated but didn't offer more information.
John felt the blood drain from his face because no two people could have such a ridiculous name. Suddenly, John wasn't feeling the cold anymore, only a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach.
"What?" John squeaked, needing to hear a different name, a stranger's name.
His eyes flicked from Greg who looked defeated, to the victim, whose face was familiar now that he could put a name to it.
"You know him?" Sherlock asked sharply, rounding on him.
"I hoped it was another John Watson when I pulled up the police records," Greg said. "Come on, I'd better get you out of here."
Greg grabbed his elbow and spun him around, making John backtrack all the way to his unmarked police car, doing his best to keep up with Greg's longer strides.
"You're arresting me?" John asked, aghast.
"Of course not," Greg muttered. "But you have to put yourself in my place, John. You knew both victims and they were not exactly your friends, were they? I have to at least take you in for a statement."
"And check my alibis?" John asked, irritated.
Greg looked like a puppy that had just chewed out his master's favourite shoe and was now being lectured.
"All right, all right. I get it. I'm not happy about it, mind, but I understand," John told the inspector who finally let out the breath he'd been holding, which made him wonder if Greg would have arrested him if he hadn't complied.
It wasn't his fault, he was just doing his job. God knew John hated when his patients started shouting abuse at him when they didn't like his advice. This was the same, kind of. Sherlock strode over, pushing constables out of his way. He planted himself in front of Greg. John was relieved to see him. For a moment, he'd feared Sherlock was so engrossed in the crime scene that he would let him get swept off to Scotland Yard without so much as a good-bye.
"I'm coming too," he announced and climbed into the back of the car, surprising both of them.
Greg shrugged and motioned for John to get in before he got up front and started the car.
ooo
It was awkward, walking into Scotland yard as a suspect. John couldn't be more grateful that Greg had not put him into handcuffs. Being friends with a DI did come with a few perks. Unfortunately, they still had to use one of the interrogation rooms instead of Greg's more familiar office, which was enough to raise a few eyebrows amongst the more familiar Yarders, although most of them were probably suspecting Sherlock to be the one being interrogated. But it had to be official, up to the recording of the interview and the presence of another officer, which, fortunately, was not Donovan. He didn't think he could stomach her snide remarks right now.
John had to go over how he knew the first victim and when he'd last seen him again. When Greg asked for an alibi for the estimated time of death however, John could only say he was in their flat at Baker Street, fast asleep. He remembered that much because it had been Valentine's Day and he hadn't bothered finding a date this year.
"Alone?" Greg pressed, his eyes glancing for an instant at Sherlock who sat stoically at John's side.
"Of course, alone!" John snapped.
"Sherlock, I know you don't sleep much. Can you at least confirm John didn't leave the flat," Greg pressed, sheepishly avoiding John's glare.
Sherlock hesitated and John understood his dilemma.
"No," John intervened before his flatmate decided to lie for him. "Sherlock was out all night, at St Bart's, I think."
It would have been stupid to lie. Any number of people could have seen Sherlock that night, especially since he had a date on Valentine's day, with body parts, but still, he was more successful that John.
"Molly called. She had a few interesting specimens she thought I might be interested in. I spent the night in the morgue," Sherlock added apologetically and John squeezed his knee under the table.
He had no reason to be sorry, or to lie for him. John was innocent after all, he didn't need an alibi.
"Okay," Greg said uncertainly. "Alistair Cornwall, the second victim. How do you know him?"
John sighed. This was all so stupid.
"I was on leave during my my second tour. I went to the pub to drink with a couple of friends, got drunk, got into a fight about a girl, the usual. I wouldn't even know the guy's name if he hadn't been such a dick, insisting on pressing charges against me. He was just as drunk and just as much in the wrong as I was. Charges were dropped in the end, case closed."
"So you hadn't seen him since?" Greg clarified.
"Of course not," John replied and became very anxious as he realized what the next question would be. He turned wide eyes towards Sherlock who cursed. Sherlock had been out all night yesterday, staking out Brawley's suppliers in the hopes to get a lead. John didn't like leaving Sherlock on his own but he had a long day at the clinic on top of everything else.
"No alibi," John confessed before Sherlock could think up a lie. Sherlock would lie for him, he could see it in his eyes, but many in Scotland Yard would jump at the first excuse to have him convicted for it, and when that fell through, as it undoubtedly would, all the Yarders Sherlock had ever insulted would do their best to get him barred from being called on as a consulting detective ever again. John couldn't do that to him. Sherlock lived for those cases, and if he was deprived of it, who knew what demons he'd return to?
"Urgh," Greg groaned. "You're not helping your case, John."
"Well, next time I need an alibi, why don't you warn me in advance?" John snapped. "Are you arresting me or not?"
"No," Greg said. "You're the only link between the victims but there's no hard evidence against you. Thank God," the inspector added under his breath. "Did you find anything on the second crime scene, Sherlock?"
"No. Just as clean as the first. Anderson will tell you as much. Definitely the same person, despite the change in MO." Sherlock muttered. "Come on, John. Let's leave before this lot decide you should be arrested for sleeping in your bed and being idiotically honest."
John glanced at Greg who gave him a sharp nod. It looked like he wanted to say more but his eyes slid to the officer next to him and he just waved them off. John felt like he had been hit by a battering ram. His whole body felt heavy and his mind numb. Just what was going on? How was it that he, John Watson, found himself in the middle of this mess?
ooo
"Did you really find nothing at the crime scene?" John asked Sherlock once they were back behind closed doors at Baker Street.
"I didn't find anything," Sherlock scolded, his voice haughty as if he'd just insulted him. "Unlike Anderson, I don't just stumble around blindly hoping to fall upon evidence."
John rolled his eyes.
"Fine. What have you deduced from the crime scene, then? Is that better?"
"Somewhat," Sherlock said before throwing himself into his armchair and inviting John to do the same. He'd rather have tea first, but something about his Sherlock's expression was bothering him. "You've seen the messages: the first one was painted quite high, but blood is so easy to apply and the killer could be of small stature and have written it with his arm fully extended, or tall and written at chest height. Both are equally probable. The second message on the other hand was scratched into the metallic walls with a broad blade, it would be much more difficult to do."
John tried to conjure the image of the second message left in the walk-in freezer but Greg had quickly whisked him out of there once he had dropped the victim's name. Had it been at eye-level? No, just a little higher, just where John would have written it. Sherlock would write it that much higher.
"Oh, great. So the killer just happens to be exactly my height?" John grumbled.
"Afraid so, or it's just a clever way of incriminating you even more. Either way, the chances Anderson picks that up are very slim."
John sagged back in his chair, feeling everything was spinning out of control and fearing it was only the beginning.
"This is not the end," Sherlock told him as if he had read his thoughts. "That...poem has four lines, I believe?"
John nodded.
"Roses are red, Violets are blue, Sugar is sweet, And so are you," John recited bitterly. "That's the most common version, but there are a number of others. So... what? Should we expect two more murders? One killed by sugar… How do you even kill someone with sugar? Choke him with the stuff? And then the last-"
And so are you.
"Me?" John breathed out. "I'm the fourth victim?"
"As if I'd let him get to you," Sherlock scoffed dismissively, replacing the cold dread that had just washed over John with a warm glow. "But first, we have the third target to consider. Any ideas?"
"You want a list of all the people who've beaten me up?" John laughed. "That might be rather long. I was a small, skinny kid that made an ideal target and then I was in the army, remember? We tend to be a rowdy folk, especially when we're bored, or under a lot of stress."
"So during your whole time in Afghanistan, then," Sherlock concluded.
"That would be correct. And that's not taking into account all the bad guys we've been chasing around London in the last year. In fact, if I'd had to choose two targets, it wouldn't have been those two, I hardly even remembered them."
Sherlock hummed, his fingers steepling against his chin in his thinking pose. Sorting facts, John decided, so he waited patiently, his own thoughts pulling him into wild theories: he had a split personality and his evil half was killing off his former foes, he had killed them while sleep-walking… Ridiculous. John was feeling guilty because it seemed they had been killed because of their connection to him, true, but that didn't mean he was the one who'd killed them. The victims had just been unfortunate enough to pick on John Watson at some point during their life, but that didn't make him responsible for their deaths. The murderer was responsible and only him. The knot in the pit of his stomach told him he wasn't convincing even himself.
The message, on the other hand, was clearly addressed to him, but John didn't get it. It hardly sounded like a warning. It was just the kind of bad poetry you found in Valentine's cards, minus the corpses. And who would think it was a good idea to woo you with the mutilated bodies of your enemies? Except that he would be the fourth victim, wouldn't he?
And so are you.
So someone was toying with him? Yes, that made much more sense. But why? What would be the point? He was nobody special, just an ex-army doctor who followed Sherlock around on his cases. So was this all for Sherlock's benefit? But then why didn't they go around killing Sherlock's foes? And God knows he had a load more of them than John did.
John huffed. He was getting nowhere and Sherlock was scowling, so he must be stuck too.
"Not enough data," his friend concluded. "Too many theories."
John nodded in understanding and got up from his seat.
"I'm not all that hungry, there's left-overs in the fridge if you want," John told him as he shuffled towards the stairs to his bedroom.
"Where do you think you're going?" Sherlock asked.
"To bed, Sherlock. I'm exhausted. This whole day was a mess," he ground out, trying not to lose his temper because Sherlock wasn't responsible for his foul mood for once. On the contrary, he'd been surprisingly supportive. That didn't stop him from hoping Sherlock didn't have plans of dragging him along on a wild goose chase around London tonight because he couldn't deal with that right now.
"No. I mean, I'm not letting you out of my sight," Sherlock told him. "Since you're so set on not letting me lie a little to Lestrade to give you an alibi, the next time it happens, you're bloody well going to have an iron-clad one."
John stared at Sherlock in disbelief but settled with:
"There's no such thing as a little lie, Sherlock. I'm sure we've discussed this already, especially where the Yard is concerned." He sighed at his friend's unrepentant look. "Where am I supposed to sleep, then?"
John glanced at the sofa but knew his shoulder would be killing him if he spent even a single night sleeping on it. Sherlock was going a bit overboard with this. He only needed to make sure he didn't leave the flat. Of course, John could technically sneak out unawares by leaving through the fire escape next to his bedroom window and Sherlock had undoubtedly taken that into consideration. Maybe he could drag his mattress down?
"Just take my bed," Sherlock muttered. "And leave the door open so I can see you."
"You need to sleep too, you know," John argued.
"Not while I'm on a case," Sherlock countered with the same old argument.
John sighed and accepted, thanking Sherlock after making sure he didn't, in fact, have any experiments hidden in or under the bed. After getting in his pajamas and brushing his teeth, John let himself fall heavily into the soft mattress. A bit too soft for his taste but he could get used to it, his shoulder certainly appreciated the change. John turned and fluffed up the pillow, overwhelmed for an instant by Sherlock's scent but it was nice, it made him feel safe and in the next moment, he was fast asleep.
John shuffled into the kitchen the next morning to find Sherlock with his nose buried in a petri dish full of… no, he didn't actually want to know, not this early in the morning. He averted his gaze, trying to locate the kettle instead because Sherlock had a tendency to push it out of his way when he needed more room doing… whatever he was doing and that he was definitely not trying to guess at.
"Mornin'" he mumbled before preparing breakfast.
Two mugs of tea, no sugar for him, two for Sherlock. Two and a half toasts for him, half a toast for Sherlock.
"Any news?" he asked after his first sip of tea.
"Nope," Sherlock answered, poking at something with a scalpel.
John wince as it squeaked. What the hell was that? Had Sherlock found an alien lifeform? Or created one of his own? He decided he'd rather not know.
"Sleep well?" Sherlock asked, still bent over his petri-dish.
John startled. Sherlock never asked him that.
"Why? What did I do?" John couldn't remember having a nightmare. Had he just been snoring louder than usual?
Sherlock wouldn't answer though, just stared at him with a knowing smile.
"Twat," John groused, hiding behind the newspaper Mrs Hudson must have brought up earlier.
Wait, what time was it? John looked at the oven's clock and found he'd overslept by two hours. Good thing he wasn't working at the clinic today because Sherlock would never have thought to wake him up. John pointedly ignored Sherlock's amused gaze and deliberately smeared raspberry jam on his flatmate's dry half-toast, knowing how much he hated it. John didn't believe so much in the saying "pick your battles" as he did in using swift retaliation. Of course, Sherlock then made a point of eating the whole piece of toast, even if his sour face diminished his triumphant look. Maybe Mycroft had a point and they really were behaving like two kids, but John didn't care, he liked things this way.
Admitting defeat, John returned his attention to the newspaper and groaned when he read the headline adorning the front page:
GRISLY MURDERS OF
THE VALENTINE KILLER
John had to check the contents of the article to verify that they were actually talking about the Brawley and Cornwall murders.
"That is seriously such a lame name. Are the journalists trying to provoke him on purpose?" John snarled in disgust, throwing the paper away.
"Someone at Scotland Yard visibly let slip something about the little messages left behind. It's going to make Lestrade's job a lot more difficult," Sherlock said off handedly. "If I were him, I'd expect a few copycats to crop up in the next few days."
"You'd better not let me out of your sight then. Greg might be coming with handcuffs next time around."
Sherlock smiled and assured him he didn't intend to.
John was surprised to learn Sherlock was waiting for a client in an hour. He didn't usually take a new client when a case as interesting as - John absolutely refused to call them the Valentine murders - the present one was ongoing, but Sherlock insisted there was nothing he could do until the murderer slipped up and that he was, as a result, bored.
Their client came to them about the theft of his niece's violin. He had gone to Scotland Yard to report it, which made Sherlock chuckle and make a disparaging comment about the chances of the Yard finding it, not to mention know what it was they should be looking for and return it to him in one piece. John sympathized with their client, but it hardly seemed worth the bother to hire a private detective to get a kid's violin back.
"The violin is insured, I assume?" Sherlock asked.
Their client looked affronted.
"Of course it bloody well is. It's only a Ruggieri, but it's still worth several thousand pounds and their sales rate keeps shooting up with every auction, which is probably why it was stolen in the first place!"
John knew nothing about instruments but Sherlock was nodding along. Maybe he wanted to take this case to save a violin from an uncertain fate? He glanced at Sherlock's own violin, sitting against its case in the corner by the window. He had no idea if it was rare or how much it was worth, but considering how Sherlock sometimes tortured the poor thing, he hoped it wasn't anything like their client's precious instrument.
"But it's not only because of its value I want it back. I could just cash in the insurance and buy Lily a new one," the client finished pleading his case.
"It's more about the sentimental value," Sherlock said.
The client nodded sadly explaining it had long been in the family. Sherlock accepted the case and pushed their guest out the door with a promise to contact him as soon as he got his violin back.
"You're a big softy, you know that?" John teased when Sherlock turned around and he would have sworn Sherlock had blushed, but, of course, he huffed and flounced away.
ooo
The Ruggieri case turned out to be much more time-consuming and interesting than either of them could have imagined. It had them running all over London for four days, crashing posh parties, sneaking into concerts, private auctions and collections, until they found a group specialized in the theft and resale of antiques on the black market abroad. They traced the violin back to a storage warehouse near the docks, and, as a bonus, found the one who had stolen the violin from the poor defenceless little girl. Unfortunately, they hadn't planned such a meeting, it was pure chance they found themselves there at the same time, and their culprit was a big brute of a man who could have snapped either of them in two in one of his meaty paws. They would have been at a serious disadvantage without his gun, but Sherlock calmly took it in stride, as usual, looking for all the world like he'd planned this meeting.
"Where is the Ruggieri?" Sherlock questioned while John watched his back, pistol at the ready.
John scanned the warehouse but there were so many shadows everywhere… He could have sworn he heard-
"Get down!" he shouted, throwing himself at Sherlock's back and pinning him to the ground while a couple more bullets whizzed above them.
The bastard must have had an accomplice sneak up on them while they talked, and he used the diversion to scramble to his feet and kick John right in the face. The shock made him lose the grip on his pistol but before he could snatch it up again, the brute dropped dead next to them, a dark bullet hole through the forehead and a surprised expression on his face. The pistol shots suddenly stopped and they heard another body fall to the floor with a meaty thud.
Sherlock helped John up when no one else seemed to be either shooting or dropping dead, and he quickly snatched his pistol back from under the dead man.
"What the bloody hell happened?" John asked, wincing as pain shot through his face.
It felt like he had split his lip and bruised half his face. He'd bet he would soon have the clear imprint of a boot on his face.
Sherlock flashed his torchlight around, examining the two bodies and not finding anymore, or anyone else, lurking around.
"I'm not sure. It looks like those two were executed. One bullet to the head. Clean shot, probably a sniper."
"Rivals? Customers?" John asked but couldn't quite believe it.
Sherlock didn't know, which worried John more than anything else. But what was worse was that they now had to call in Greg for the two dead bodies they had on their hands, which was a bit not good since the inspector probably wanted John, in particular, to keep his nose out of any more murders.
It pained John to see Greg being civil, but cooler than he usually was with them, and the terrible duo, Anderson and Donovan, made it clear that they thought John was just as much a psychopath as Sherlock now.
The silver lining in all that debacle was that they eventually managed to find their client's violin and John snapped a picture of Sherlock being hugged to death by the twelve year old niece when he handed the instrument back to her. John would have that adorable picture framed and nailed to the wall. He should probably give one to Mrs Hudson too, if only for safekeeping.
ooo
"Ouch! Be careful!" John exclaimed, squirming out of Sherlock's grip. "Jesus, no wonder you never became a doctor. You're about as careful as a gorilla doing needlework."
"How can you be so sensitive to pain? You were a soldier, for God's sake," Sherlock snapped, dabbing the antiseptic-doused cotton viciously at his split lip again.
"Wait till you need patching up again, Sherlock," John warned. "I might lose my touch."
"You wouldn't," Sherlock replied but his touch suddenly became softer and John sighed in relief, leaning back into his hand.
The doorbell rang and John hurried down to get the food they'd ordered for dinner because Sherlock clearly had no intention of doing so himself.
"Uhm, curry," John moaned when he opened the cardboard box and a puff of steam warmed his battered face. He then tossed a couple of chopsticks at the other man's head but he caught them mid-air. "You eat too, Sherlock. No excuses, we closed a case tonight and you're well overdue for some feeding."
Sherlock grumbled but snatched the box of dumplings away. John knew he wouldn't have any of those himself tonight but it was for a good cause. Sherlock needed the food more than he did. But in the end, John had hardly eaten half his portion before he felt completely exhausted. He wasn't even sure he'd make it to the bed and was sure as hell he wouldn't bother with changing into his pajamas.
To his surprise, Sherlock followed him too, looking just as sleepy given the way he was dragging his feet, but it had been a long, tiring case after all. John made a vague gesture at the bed to ask which side he usually slept on but Sherlock shrugged and let himself fall forward, sticking his arm out to drag John down with his and they both giggled like the two overgrown kids they apparently were. John yawned, Sherlock sighed, sounding content, and then… nothing.