John's Piece of the Puzzle
A/N: for the Johnlock red pants fiction contest
There has always been something about John Watson that he could not quite understand. True enough, he had been able to deduce most of the man's life story from the off – though he had made that small mistake with regards to Harry, something that still galled him – but it was as if there was a piece of the puzzle missing, some clue that he had not been given. Whatever it was, it was the thing that made John describe him as brilliant rather than telling him to piss off; it was the thing that allowed them to live together, in relative peace; and it was the thing that made him enjoy John's company rather than anyone else's. In short, it was what made John, John, and Sherlock had been trying secretly for some time to figure out just what it was.
Even though they had been both living and working together for a while now (though he supposed that John saw his other job, his actual job, as his work), he still had not managed to find that elusive clue, and it was something that both frustrated and amused him. He could not bear to think that he might be missing something so important, that a being as simple as John Watson could fool him, and yet at the same time it was this mysterious missing piece that made him like spending time in John's company all the more. He could study him when there were no cases on, trying to find what he was looking for; and while even that became a little dull after several months, it was an enigma to which his mind would always return.
Now, though, there was no time for that. There was a case afoot, and Sherlock could not allow himself to get distracted by any other puzzles until this one was done with – something that he was sure would take no more than a matter of days, particularly once certain parts of the events he anticipated had played out. They were dealing with a maniac, of course, that much was obvious, and he even knew who it was; but that irritating Lestrade kept saying that the police needed proof, and that Sherlock was not to consider the case solved until he had it. Otherwise, Lestrade said, he might as well be picking names out of the air to dangle in front of them with nothing to show he was right. Anderson, of course, agreed, and so Sherlock had been driven into telling him that he would have their proof. And he would have their proof, all right.
He knew it was dangerous, reckless even, but he did not care much. After all, there was only one way to really prove a serial killer: catch him in the act. And so, knowing that the man was afraid of him and that he would do anything to stop the world's first consulting detective from carrying on with the case, he had logged on to John's blog that morning and posted a fake conversation between himself and his house mate, switching between their accounts easily to make it look as though the two of them were discussing something.
He reread his work again, with half a smile on his face. John had not noticed yet, of course, and really he saw no point in telling him yet. He was the type to try and get Lestrade here first or call the whole thing off, and Sherlock was having none of that. He had captured the laptop since John's return home earlier and now kept it prisoner in his reach, pretending to lay back on the couch and research something so that the good doctor could not so much as suspect what he had done. The trap was a simple one: all he had to do was make the killer believe that he was going to be vulnerable, and alone.
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John, what time are you getting home today?
Sherlock Holmes 29 April 12:45
I'm out all night, actually. Why?
John Watson 29 April 12:52
I didn't sleep thanks to the case. Mrs Hudson is forcing me to take some sleeping tablets and waste the rest of the day while she goes out to visit a friend. Just warning you that the lock on the front door is broken.
Sherlock Holmes 29 April 12:53
What?! What did you do to it?
John Watson 29 April 12:59
Just an experiment. Night, John!
Sherlock Holmes 29 April 13:01
Just like that, everything was in place. The killer thought that Sherlock would be alone at home, asleep under the heavy influence of drugs, with not so much as Mrs Hudson to either save him or become a witness. He also had easy entry to the house – and meanwhile, Sherlock had actually called John home early, telling him that he had had a marvellous breakthrough which required his presence immediately. Of course, now he did have to deal with the fact that John was sulking.
'Sherlock, are you going to tell me what's going on, or are we just going to sit here in silence?' John demanded finally from an armchair, where he had been stubbornly pretending to read the newspaper.
'I've told you, I have to figure this out first. Stop interrupting my thoughts,' Sherlock snapped, doing his best to sound irritated whilst also holding back a grin. This was all going to work out perfectly, and he just could not wait.
'This is ridiculous. I'm supposed to be at work, Sherlock. I know you don't take that very seriously, but some of us actually do, so if you could just - '
Sherlock held up a finger and hushed him quickly, his face changing to an expression of severe concentration as he raised his head a little from the sofa. He had heard something, and if it was what he thought it was, there was no time to lose.
A second rattle confirmed it: someone was trying surreptitiously to find out whether or not the door was locked. Sherlock sat up rapidly, dropping the laptop on the sofa and closing the lid smoothly, while with the other hand he reached forwards to grab John's sleeve.
'Come with me. Now. No noise,' he ordered in a whisper, tugging John after him so that he could not argue or fall behind.
'Where are we going...?' John whispered back, scrambling to his feet quickly and setting the newspaper aside to avoid having his arm wrenched in the wrong direction.
'No noise. If you don't want to get shot – again – then don't make a sound when he comes into the house.' Sherlock replied impatiently, dragging John into his own bedroom. He kept the lights off and swung the door closed until only a small gap remained between it and the frame, just enough to look out by. 'He's going to go to my room and try and kill me.'
'Who is?' John demanded, seemingly exasperated. In truth, Sherlock knew that he was probably more than a little bit afraid – at the idea of violence, of being shot again, yes, but also at the fact that there was danger here, in his own home, a place that he considered a safe haven.
'The killer, John, don't you pay any attention?' Sherlock replied, sounding bored, as he pulled his phone out of his pocket and pressed a few buttons. While John pressed his eye to the thin sliver of space the door allowed, he sent a text he had written hours ago, to Lestrade.
Killer at 221B. Coming to attack me. Hurry. – S
'Christ,' John swore under his breath, as a mechanical sound downstairs and a slow creak indicated that their man had, indeed, entered the house. 'Top drawer of my dresser.'
Top drawer of his...? Ah yes, Sherlock mused; the ex soldier would not go undefended. It was most likely the place where he stored a weapon of some sort. He stealthily opened the drawer, knowing to avoid the squeak that the hinges at one side made whenever John opened it with a slight bias in that direction, and thrust his hand into the opening. It was full of soft things – different materials – underwear? – and, yes, there, the cold metal of a gun. Sherlock drew it out, and, knowing his own limits, passed the gun over to John.
He stepped forward and to the side of the door, managing with his superior height to see enough of the dim stairwell over John's head, and both watched with keen eyes as a shadowy figure moved up them. There was light coming in from the windows at the other side of the room, though Sherlock had closed most of the curtains earlier to give the impression of a house that slept (telling John he was having a nicotine headache, and if he was going to insist on opening the curtains, then yes, he was going to have to insist on going and buying some cigarettes), and as the man turned they could both see who it was that surveyed the rooms. Sherlock smiled to himself; he had known all along that he would be right.
Sherlock's room, on the other hand, was well lit; a flickering candle placed beside his bed lured the killer right in, as the webcam that he had set up all the while captured his every move. The cunning arrangement of blankets under the covers had taken him hours to achieve in order to create the real shape of his own body, something realistic and convincing, with a wig bought some days before to top off the whole effect. By the time that the man brought his knife down into an empty bed and realised that he had been tricked, Lestrade was already bursting into the flat with an army of officers behind him, and a reluctant Sally Donovan even had to admit that Sherlock had provided them with the perfect proof – if not of the murders themselves, then at least of the attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes, something which most of the team had dreamed of at one time or another judging by the expressions on their faces.
It was only later, with the lights all on, that Sherlock noticed the gun lying on the kitchen table – after John had already retreated to the comfort of his own space – and thought to return it to its rightful place. A curt knock at the door was more something that he knew he was supposed to do than an actual mark of courtesy, and he walked in without waiting for an answer; it was John's owlish and surprised look, peeking over the top of his reclaimed laptop from where he sat on the bed, that made him realise most people did not appreciate Sherlock Holmes walking with no announcements into their space, and John was probably not yet an exception.
He simply shrugged it off, and in a matter of seconds was rewarded with John's expression fading back into that old, slightly weary expression that suggested he expected nothing less and was actually sort of used to it by now. Stepping over to the drawer to deposit the gun, he opened it: and in what could only be described as an unusual occurrence, he felt a moment's genuine surprise at what he saw there. Neatly arranged in rows so that one could simply take the next pair from the front whenever they were needed, and with a gun-shaped gap that had upset the order somewhat in the middle of the drawer from under one of the rows, were an abundance of red pants. He looked at John with one eyebrow quirked, as if to frame any number of questions that could result from that sight.
'... Ah,' John said, having the decency to look a little embarrassed.
And, oh, thought Sherlock, staring at those rows of red pants in the drawer, and realising what it was that he had been missing for all of this time. He looked back up at John, and smiled wolfishly. Yes. Of course.