Danger Night

Summary: Set after Sherlock identifies Irene Adler's body at the morgue. There had been danger nights before, but never had they involved someone's death. John Watson finds himself unsure of how to proceed, while Sherlock Holmes focuses solely on escape.
Setting/spoilers: Season 2, episode 1, "A Scandal in Belgravia."
Rating: T for language.
Author's Note: Thanks to Ariane DeVere's livejournal transcripts of Sherlock, which proved valuable for dialogue from the episode.

Chapter 1

"Are you sure tonight's a danger night?"
"No, but then I never am. You have to stay with him, John."

Never mind it was Christmas. Never mind that he had plans. John could have refused Mycroft, he knew it, but he didn't. Of course he didn't. And an hour later he was sitting in his chair, waiting, trying to look inconspicuous to the man who could pick out the smallest of lies before Pinocchio's nose even thought to grow.

When he wanted to, at least.

After Sherlock had returned (only to immediately disappear into his room), John remained on his chair, holding the book he had been pretending to read, and staring at the wall. He hadn't been sure how to properly prepare for tonight. There'd been danger nights before, but mostly only due to lack of a case or too much time indoors or maybe Mercury being in retrograde (John didn't subscribe to astrology, but Sherlock's fluctuating moods were enough to make him Google it just to make sure). Never for someone's death.

He heard the bedroom door open again, Sherlock go into the bathroom, and the shower turn on. John stood and went into the kitchen, on the pretense of hunting down leftovers from the party. He reckoned he could be in the kitchen when Sherlock came out, and that way if the younger man wanted to talk…but he stopped the thought there. Sherlock wanting to talk? Even thinking it sounded ridiculous.

Ten minutes or so later, with John worrying he was spoiling the food by standing with the fridge door ajar, the bathroom door opened. John walked backwards from the refrigerator, catching a glimpse of his flatmate ghosting towards his room, dressing gown tied tight, black hair damp.

"All right, mate?" John called.

Sherlock turned his head only slightly. "Going to bed," he replied tersely.

"Goodni—" the bedroom door latching cut John off midway. He shrugged to himself and went back to the fridge, this time to actually seek food rather than just pretend. Well, what do you say to him? John asked himself. They weren't really lovers, but they were…something. And now she's dead. And who the hell knows how he's taking it.

The only indications that things were a bit not good were the call from Mycroft and the text from Molly, after Sherlock had identified Irene's body.

He recognized her when I removed the entire sheet, she had written. Why only when he saw her whole body?

It's complicated, John had replied. Now, he thought back to Sherlock's remark as he didn't look at a nude Irene Adler upon their first meeting: "If I wanted to look at naked women I'd borrow John's laptop."

"But you did look at her, apparently," John muttered. Then he paused for a moment, glancing over at the desk where said laptop lay. He narrowed his eyes, then threw his glance back at his flatmate's door. Closed. No noise from within. John wasn't stupid enough to actually believe Sherlock was sleeping, but clearly he wasn't planning on coming out any time soon.

John abandoned the food, retrieved the laptop, and retired to the sofa. He couldn't go anywhere for the night, and he was newly single, so…fuck it.

Sherlock had no intention of going to sleep. It was not because it was Christmas. It was not because he had seen Irene Adler laid out on a gurney. It was not because she had left him her camera phone before…well, before whatever happened to her. It was not because he knew John was still in the sitting room, babysitting him. It was just another night, and he rarely slept anyway, so why start now?

Since he had banished himself to his room, however, it limited his activities. His experiments were laid out in every other part of the flat. His violin was in the sitting room. John's laptop…well, Sherlock had left John alone for the night, so he didn't want to think what was happening with the laptop currently.

"Mind palace it is," he muttered, arranging himself comfortably on his bed. He closed his eyes and steadied his breathing. Despite the fact that he now possessed the camera phone, it was still locked: Sherlock had checked it himself. Now he had to figure out the passcode, and that might pass the time as well as anything else.

He was walking down the hall to the room where he kept his information on Irene, when without warning, there she was. She was wearing nothing but his coat, which made no sense, except he looked down and saw he wasn't wearing it. Sherlock jumped, both internally and physically, at the sight of her, and she smiled seductively, and was opening her mouth to say something and—

"No!" Sherlock shook himself back to reality. He was disturbed to find his heart rate had increased, his breathing quickened. But it wasn't arousal. It was something else, something…not good. He breathed deeply, trying to get himself under control. He hadn't consciously thought of The Woman, so why did she appear in his Mind Palace?

It took some time to clear the image from his mind, but with patience Sherlock could close his eyes without seeing Irene's likeness. It was a fluke, that was all. It wouldn't happen again. Sherlock was sure of it. Now calm, he closed his eyes and returned to the room…only to find The Woman there, again. And this time she spoke, her voice somehow smooth and throaty all at once: "I'm not hungry. Let's have dinner." Sherlock froze and Irene walked closer, reaching for his face like she had before and—

"NO!" Sherlock opened his eyes, and this time his physical reaction was worse. He was sweating and his chest felt tight, like something was drawing up inside him. His thoughts, which he could usually slow when needed, were racing. He jumped off his bed and began to pace, keeping speed with his mind, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to quell the rising tide of panic.

But it was no use. It was out of control, everything, and Sherlock couldn't reign it back in. It wasn't because of Irene, though, it was not because of her. It was because of the nicotine earlier, probably, he'd gone too long without it and he had low tolerance now and it made him jumpy. Or it was because it was Christmas after all, and everyone had been at Baker Street and out of their ordinary worlds with Lestrade at the Yard and Molly at Bart's. It was like Carnival, with everything upside down, and he did better with things as they should be. Or maybe he had eaten too much, or even been poisoned or—

Sherlock stopped, breathing heavily. It didn't matter, in the end, why it was happening. It had happened before. He knew what would fix it, and knew he just had to get out the door and only a few streets down, and he could shut everything up and out, and when he came back to himself some hours or days later it would be over.

He only needed to get out of the flat.