The relationship of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson was certainly an unorthodox one, especially to those around them. Roommates, colleagues, friends, partners, lovers – their relationship was not defined as anything. At least, they offered no explanation for the trust and closeness between them, leaving all that encountered them to their own imagination, specifically Scotland Yard. It was often one of the main topics of interest around the break room and in between big cases. It was decided they must have some kind of sexual relationship, a bond or a form of love between them, when news reached them of the arrival of Carmen Anne Holmes.
Carmen was the perfect description of a child, exactly what you would imagine in both looks and personality. Lestrade believed she resembled a china doll with her angular features and pale skin. She was happy, hyperactive and a genuine joy to be around. She even made the likes of Anderson crack a smile in her presence. As she aged, it became clear that having a parent such as Sherlock was rubbing off on her.
"A child shouldn't be able to rationalise that easily," Lestrade had once commented as he watched the five year old and her father argue about the motivation behind the affair of a character on daytime television. John had only smiled proudly.
It was clear to everyone that both parents loved that little girl with every ounce of their being. She had them wrapped around her little finger. With one pleading look, it was possible to convince Sherlock to buy her a show horse (she had tried it once and had almost succeed if it wasn't for John's reminder of the amount of money and time a horse would need, something neither of them and undoubtedly the toddler had).
The day that Carmen was taken was the saddest day many had experienced in a long time. It was almost as if a dark, heavy rain cloud had surrounded and smothered them, taking away all the light and happiness that the sun brought with them. It was also the first time that anyone had seen Sherlock and John so broken; so lost.
The couple had been about half an hour late to pick her up, but had called the school saying that they would be late. The shocked look on the receptionists face when she told the men, in a shaky breath, that someone – a man - had been by to pick her up, not to long ago, sent a wave of fear crashing across their beings.
Sherlock slammed his hands down on the front of the desk, his eyes flashing with anger and horror, and loomed over the terrified woman. "You let a stranger come in and take my daughter! What the fuck were you thinking?"
"H-He told us he was with Scotland Yard and had been asked to take her to you…" she stammered awkwardly, "He had an I.D and everything…"
John rested a hand in the crook of Sherlock's arm and raised his eyes to level with the school workers, his gaze cold. "What did he look like?"
"Ah, um, d-dark hair; dark eyes; white; sort of short, maybe 5ft5…oh, and he wore a Westwood suit!"
Blood ran cold – only one person they knew would wear a Westwood suit…
Jim Moriarty had been a plaguing nightmare for almost a year. At the beginning, it was just a game for Sherlock to play; to cure him of the boredom he had been experiencing for the past weeks where no interesting cases had been found. He was like a virus – something that they couldn't seem to get rid of. He would disappear for a few weeks, months even, but it was certain that he would return and, when he did, the results would be ten times more devastating than the last time.
And how he had Carmen.
The first thing they had done was go the distance to Scotland Yard. Sherlock had entered the room at a rushed, furious pace. Doors slammed behind him, papers flew around his arm span, and his coat billowed behind him. There was a determined look on his face, a look that was terrifying on his normally neutral or condescending face. Not even Donovan made a sound as he pushed past her, merely watched him with wide eyes.
Lestrade looked up in surprise from the paperwork that littered his desk, when the door to his office was forcefully swung open, hitting the wall behind it with a deafening smack. "Sherlock? What's…?"
"He has Carmen. He took Carmen."
"Carmen?" the Detective Inspector repeated, his voice suddenly becoming serious, "Who has Carmen?"
"Moriarty!" He snapped.
Lestrade stood up sharply, moving to the front of his desk. "Sherlock, are you sure it was Moriarty?"
"Of course I'm fucking sure! He posed as a member of Scotland Yard and took her from her school! He wanted me to know that he had her…he wanted me to know…" Sherlock finished pathetically, his eyes becoming downcast, as he collapsed into one of the chair positioned carefully in the office. He dropped his face into his hands, his shoulders shaking, "He wanted me to know…"
Silently, John moved to Sherlock's side, almost instinctively holding the man close to his chest, resting his chin on the crown of the man's dark locks. Sherlock clung to his partner tightly, taking comfort in his hold.
Lestrade felt himself sag against the front of his desk, running his hand through his hair and sighing deeply. "Shit…"
There was always one thing that was predictable about Moriarty. Following his appearance on the scene, there would always be a phone call. They think he liked it, having the terrified, crying people that had been snatched from their ordinary lives and forced into a dangerous play that would most likely end in their deaths. So many ideas, so many possibilities, of where that man had put their daughter ran through their minds.
Sherlock had placed his mobile phone at the back of Lestrade's desk upon orders with no arguments. A tense, nervous silence circulated the room as each and every person had their eyes zeroed in on the portable machine, just willing for it to ring.
John jumped when the noise started suddenly, moving on the table slightly, and Sherlock snapped up the phone before Lestrade had a chance.
"…Hello?"
"Hi Daddy!" Carmen's cheery voice greeted him. It was as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders and he sighed in relief. At least she was okay. "I hope you enjoyed the little…the little…I can't read it, what does it say? Oh, the little startle we gave you. We have to get your atten…atten…attention."
"You have it. What do you want me to do?"
"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but the love of a child will live on." Carmen continued to read, "Page nine of the Telegraph will tell you want you need to know. Are you up for the chall…puzzle? Good luck Daddy!"
…beep…
"Was that her? How is she – is she okay?" John questioned, worry in his voice, moving to Sherlock's side and gripping his upper arm.
Sherlock's hand rose to cover his partners. "Yes it was her. She sounded fine; he has not hurt her – but that is not to say he will not." He turned his attention to Lestrade, "Today's Telegraph; page nine."
"Excuse me?"
"It's another puzzle," Sherlock spoke with a forced politeness, "Now, get me the damn Telegraph!"
"Run down the street and get today's Telegraph," Lestrade ordered at Anderson, his tone and the expression on his face saying there was no time for arguments. Although the forensic scientist did not look happy at the demand, he complied without hesitation.
"What else did he say?" Lestrade levelled his gaze.
Sherlock paused for a moment, looking deep in thought. "'Sticks and stones may break my bones, but the love of a child will live on'."
Carmen sat on the chair in the small room which she had been placed a few hours previous. It was dark and dank – obvious intended to scare her – with a heavy metal door; a bulky lock kept stopped her from escaping. It was a strange place, she decided, like from those horror movies she had seen (well, she had seen them from the crack in her door when she was supposed to be asleep). She had realised soon enough that, whoever this man was, he was not a member of Scotland Yard nor was he a friend of her Papa and Daddy.
The door clicked open and she watched as he entered the room with a sinister smile on his face. It shut with a loud, booming slam announcing the rooms descend into silence.
"So you're the daughter of the famous Sherlock Holmes and his faithful lap-dog John Watson..." he stated, amused.
She furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. "Papa isn't a lap-dog. He's more of a bulldog, or a Rottweiler – he can be scary when we don't tidy up after ourselves, or when Daddy keeps body parts in the fridge."
The look on his face became strained. "Oh really? I suppose you're wondering who I am..."
She scanned him with scrutiny. She wrinkled her nose. "Short?"
His shoulders tensed and his expression darkened. "No, not short."
"But you are short."
"I am not. I am the average size for a man my age."
"How old is that?"
His nostrils flared. "Didn't your Daddy ever teach you to respect your elders?"
"But...my elders are tall. You're short."
"I'm not short!"
"You are short. It's not a bad thing. I'm short but Papa says when I grow up, I'll be taller. Are you going to get taller?"
"No, I'm going to stay exactly as I am."
"Oh..." Carmen looked thoughtful for a moment, "Have you tried watering yourself? Plants grow when you water them. Maybe it will work for you too."
Ethan Markus Jones was six years old when he was found dead, poisoned with toilet bleach. The newspapers were saying that Elizabeth Connors, the child's babysitter, was to blame because she was supposed to be watching the boy when he climbed into the cupboard with the cleaning supplies – assuming that it was an accident. Ethan was not a popular child, often suffering at the hands of bullies at his primary school, but that did not stop him from being a happy child. His father, Richard Jones, told the reporters with tears in his eyes, that his late wife and his son's mother, had told their son repeated, "Sticks and stones may break your bones, but love will always go on".
The encounter between Mrs. Stella Jones, Ethan's stepmother, and Sherlock Holmes was one that would entice nightmares in all who had the misfortune of seeing it. It seemed to John that Sherlock's reputation had preceded him – the involvement of the Consulting Detective in any case always seemed to end up in disaster.
"I am not sure why you are here, Mr. Holmes," Stella spoke stiffly.
He raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Uh-huh…don't you usually work on murder cases, something that involves some kind of a puzzle?" She commented, "Not to disrespect the death of a child, but this was an accident, merely a mistake that ended up fatal."
"Um, you are right about one thing at least," Sherlock muttered, glancing around the living room with alert eyes, "You see, through some rather painful experiences, I have found myself here and I cannot leave until I discover the truth."
"The truth about what?"
He scoffed. "The death of Ethan Jones, of course."
"It was an accident, not a murder. There is no puzzle to solve here," She repeated, her voice cold, "Now, if you are done bring up the unfortunate death of my husband's child, I think you should leave…"
"Why do you not call Ethan your son?" Sherlock wondered, cocking his head to the side with interest.
"Huh?"
"When you married your husband, you took on the position of his mother. Legally, he is your son, yet you have called him 'a child' and 'my husband's child'. Why – did you not get on?"
"Of course we got on," Stella snapped, sounded offended.
Sherlock looked mildly surprised and disbelieving. "Really?"
"Yes..."
"Hmm..."
Richard looked, slightly awkward, being his second wife and the consulting detective. He glanced at John out of the corner of his eye, looking for some kind of answer in the doctor's presence. He shook his head, warning him not to ask. Richard cleared his throat and drew the attention of the two. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, but how can you help us? It was an accident...wasn't it?"
"Back onto the accident idea, huh?" he scoffed in disbelief, "I would not come here for an accident – how incredible boring."
Richard sat up straight, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "You...you think this was murder? You think that someone murdered my son...why?"
Sherlock hummed in thought. "...Someone who was out to get something. In situations like this, there are only two opinions: an accident, or..." he snapped his fingers and pointed at the couple, making them both jump, "Show me Ethan's eating utensils."
"Why?" Stella questioned.
"The boy ingested the powerful bleach that killed him. If it was murder, a discreet way of hiding the substance would be in a cup, something where liquid would blend in..." his eyes narrowed when he saw the lack of movement from the child's parents, "Oh, don't just sit there – hurry up!"
"Don't talk to us like that," Stella snapped.
John sighed and raised his voice over the bickering. "No, we haven't got time for this!" he turned to Richard pleadingly, who watched him with wide eyes, "Look, I'm sorry to intrude like this and I know you want some time to grieve over your son – I understand – but this is important. The life of our daughter rested on whether or not Sherlock can solve this...so please, could you do as he asks?"
Richard looked at John for a moment with a blank expression before he nodded sharply. "Of course, no more children should die..." He turned his attention to Sherlock, who watched him solemnly, "All his stuff has been put up in his room, including his cutlery..."
The low spoken thank you was lost in the blow his coat caused as he moved out of the room and up the stairs, bounding up the stairs three steps at a time.
Stella turned outraged to her husband. "You let that madman loose around my house?"
She stormed out of the room, rushing up the stairs to the bedroom of Ethan; John and Richard followed behind at a slower pace, both lost in their own thoughts of their young children.
In the blue room, the walls covered in posters from Transformers and Bayblade, Sherlock was crouched in front of an array of cardboard boxes, which had been careless opened and rifled through, until the utensils were found. He had then, rather strangely and dangerously, licked the surface of the plates, the metal plates of the knifes, and the inside of the Sippy cups. Stella watched aghast from the doorway.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she shrieked, her eyes ablaze, "Those are a child's things, you sick freak!"
Richard placed a hand on his wives shoulder to hold her back, despite her (very loud and high pitched) objection to the action, while John slide past the couple and approached his roommate cautiously, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
"Um, Sherlock?" he questioned, "What are you, uh, doing?"
Sherlock looked at him like he was the most clueless man imaginable. "If the boy was murdered, the quickest and safest way to ensure he ingested the bleach is to put it in a cup, or on a plate that he would touch." He narrowed his eyes, "Haven't I explained this to you before?"
"Yes, but why are you licking them?" John asked patiently.
He rolled his eyes. "John, I do not have access to a chemical laboratory, therefore I must rely on my own palette. Bleach leaves a usual burning sensation in the mouth. It is likely that, if Ethan was poisoned, the murder would have cleaned the decoy vigorously. If that was the case, there would still be some kind of residue left behind – bleach is one of the hardest chemicals to get rid of."
"...But couldn't that kill you?"
He shrugged, licked the end of a fork and looked thoughtful for a moment, before dropping it and picking up the next object. "It is possible."
John opened his mouth and closed it sharply.
There was no point arguing with him.
The room watched in silence as the unusual man ran his tongue along the plastic appliances in search of the invisible substance. There were a couple of times where he would stop, look thoughtful – making those around him raise up on their heels slightly in interest – before shaking his head and adding to the pile of 'clean' items. To John, it was beginning to seem like Sherlock was wrong for once in his life. It also seemed to him that soon Richard was going to forcibly remove them from his home, probably followed by a well-worded call to the police about the respecting of his deceased son's items. Stella, on the other hand, looked mildly smug through her anger at the consulting detective – a look he had seen on many of the people he had encountered with Sherlock since they had met.
Sherlock, suddenly feeling bored at the repetitive movements but determined to continue, dragged the tip of his tongue along the raised section of the Sippy cup. His nose wrinkled in disgust at the strong taste that simmered on his taste buds. His eyes widened a fraction and he shot onto his feet, holding the Sippy cup out in front of him.
"You found something?" Richard wondered.
"Bleach on the inside of this cup – god, it tastes disgusting!" He mumbled.
"That was Ethan's favourite cup," he pointed out with wide eyes.
"Is there anyone you know who would be able to get their hands on his cup?" John urged, "Anyone at all?"
Sherlock scoffed. "John, the answer to that is obvious. There are only two people that could do that. One of the suspects could not do it, no matter that the circumstance, while the other has motive, time and intention."
"Well that must be that babysitter, Eliza Connor or something," Stella interjected, arms folded across her chest, "She was the one there when the boy died."
"Not necessarily," John said slowly, eyebrows furrowed in thought, "Although Ethan died during the time that his babysitter was present, it doesn't mean she killed him. Chemicals, like bleach, could have been in his system for hours before his death."
"But can you prove that?" Stella countered.
"Not until an autopsy is done."
Sherlock sighed over exaggeratedly, rolling his eyes. "Oh, stop being so stupid. The answer is simple when you look at it. It had to be the new wife."
"What?" Richard stated shocked.
"You're accusing me?" Stella gapped, "I could never do such a thing!"
"Think about it: new wife, young, doesn't want a child to have to look after but, with her new husband at work most of the day and her without a job, it is left up to her be the child's carer. Judging by the way you dress, even on a day you are to be mourning, you are vain and selfish; you like attention and having a child diverts that attention from you. Bleach is a household appliance, easy to get a hold of, so there would be no suspicion about the order with the shopping, I'm guessing. You are also the only person who would have had access to the boy before he died, access to the boy's drinks, and conveniently had a massage booked for the exact day and time that the boy died, putting the blame on the young babysitter."
Silence followed his deduction.
"Well done Daddy, good work." Carmen read cheerfully, "That seemed almost too easy for you. Maybe I should give you another puzzle..."
"Where is my daughter?" Sherlock spoke shortly, gripping his phone tightly.
"Very well. I take it you know the 'Gherkin' very well, Daddy?"
"The Swiss Re building?"
"The very same. Top floor, room six. Let's see if you can get there in time..." there was a pause, "...Mr. Short, get there in time for what?"
...beep...
Sherlock cursed loudly and slammed his phone back down on the table, spinning on his heel to face Lestrade and John, who were watching him closely.
"The Swiss Re Building? Carmen's at the Gherkin?" John repeated, confused.
He nodded stiffly, pacing the length of the office thoughtfully. "Apparently so."
"What's he planning?" Lestrade wondered.
"We don't have time for that! We need to get to the top floor as soon as possible. I don't know how long we can wait..." he paused for a moment, "Judging from what I heard, our little girl is aggravating Moriarty. He doesn't exactly have the patience for children..."
John had paled dramatically. "Then we need to leave. Now."
Neither John nor Sherlock knew what to expect when they reached the top floor of the Swiss Re Building, but they were certain it was not a fuming Moriarity standing before a giggling Carmen, who was discussing how amazing it must be to fly over the city of London with her face pressed against one of the huge windows. Judging by the adult male's reaction, she had been nattering nonsense for ages now and he had no more restraint.
Carmen paused when the door to the floor opened and her eyes brightened instantly at the sight of her, abet breathless, parents. "Daddy! Papa!" she made to run towards them before her wrist was caught tightly in Moriarty's grip, dragging her backwards. Her eyes narrowed with confusion, she tugged at the grip. He gritted his teeth and held on tighter. She whimpered. "Let go of me – it hurts!"
Sherlock clenched his fists in frustration.
Moriarty closed his eyes and forced himself to relax, clicking his neck. He gave the two parents a mocking look. "Sherlock, really, how do you live with this thing? It doesn't shut up..."
He did not say anything, just levelled his gaze darkly.
"Aw, are you not talking to me now?" Moriarty cooed, "Come on, don't be like that. If you think about it positively, I'm doing you a favour - one less stress to worry about." He chuckled, "How should I do it? Knife's too slow; guns too quick...Or maybe, as you well know, I have a let's say favouritism towards explosives."
"Leave her alone..."
"Look at it this way, at least she'll end her life with a bang."
Carmen whimpered fearfully, tears welling up in her eyes, as she struggled to escape although it seemed futile. The clasp on her was just too tight, and she had no power to fight against him.
John's eyes flashed. "Leave her alone! What's wrong with you? She's a fucking child, a little girl. She's done nothing to you. If you have something to say, say it to us but leave her out of it!"
Moriarty turned his gaze to John and smirked. "Ah yes, his little angels 'Papa', showing nothing more than a mediocre attempt to protect his child." He glanced at Sherlock, "That's the only difference between us Sherlock. You surround yourself with...mediocrity, relish it, don't you? You can do so much better yet you continue to allow yourself to wallow with the dogs."
Carmen's eyes narrowed, her tears blurring her vision. "Papa's not a dog!"
"So you keep telling me," Moriarty spat at her, "However, I'm finding that hard to believe."
With one sharp movement, he brought his hand crashing down against the side of her vulnerable face. A cry lodged in her throat, tears burned her cheeks, as her small body was sent flying behind them, leaving her slumped against the ground. Sherlock and John let out a cry of outrage and moved to step forward.
Jim Moriarty had quick reflexes and, from somewhere in his pockets, he clasped a thin tube, his thumb poised above it the top. The two paused, frozen, at the sight of the detonator that threatened both them and their child's life. He laughed teasingly. "Really, Sherlock, did you not think I'd have something up my sleeve?"
"What do you want?" Sherlock hissed.
"I thought that would be obvious."
"Why are you doing this?"
"Because it's a game, my game. The key to running a convincing bluff is everyone and awhile you need to be holding all the cards," Moriarty recited before gesturing towards her, "You see your daughter? She's my winning card."
"Do you really think I'll leave with you?" Sherlock sneered darkly, "When you've threatened my child's life."
He laughed. "Oh, Sherlock, it's cute you still think you have a choice in this situation. That you have control."
John clenched his fists tightly, his eyes focusing on his unmoving child and fought every instinct he had to stop himself from helping her. He knew that if he took one wrong move, the little bastard would take no regret in activating the bomb and killing them all. The door in the back opened silently, drawing his attention. He tensed, ready for more of Moriarty's men, and felt his body sag with confusion when he saw the nervous, scrawny form of Anderson creeping past the doorframe.
What's he's doing here, he wondered.
"You should know, you relinquished all control you had over me when you got yourself a damn child," Moriarty spat as if the word disgusted him, "A child, of all things. I could understand the dog; they are good company after all, but a child, a weakness? What were you thinking Sherlock?"
Sherlock laughed mockingly, his eyes narrowed. "This isn't about weakness Moriarty. This is my destroying their plan. You say we're so alike, intelligent men with a love of solitude and a hatred for everyone else around him. You wanted to feel as if you weren't the only person in the world with the same disposition, and admittedly I was that person…"
Anderson, a nervous look on his face, tip-toed across the hardwood floor, being extra careful not to make even the slightest of noises, in case in alerted the attention of the Westwood wearing, British terrorist. For a moment, John wondered if Moriarty had any men surrounding them like before but, after he casually checked his allies for red dots, he decided he had probably come alone. At least, there was no one in the close vicinity.
Anderson never took his eyes off their enemy as he, silently, moved closer to the stagnant form of the five year old girl.
"…But I changed. I became domestic. I became the family man, with the life partner and daughter, as well as the consulting detective with the society strange hobbies." Sherlock smirked, almost knowingly, taunting the tense looking Moriarty, "I proved you wrong, cheated the system as it were. The exception to the rule…and you can't stand it."
"This isn't you!" He snapped angrily, the tendons in his neck straining, "We are the same, Sherlock, and I will not let this…phase of normality stand in the way of us!"
"Us? What us?"
"The greatest enemy and the greatest hero," Moriarty stepped forward, gazing up at Sherlock's lithe form with something that resembled pity, "You are so blinded by wanting to be wanted, loved by this…plebe that you've turned into something you're not."
Anderson, very gently, crouched and slid his arms under the girl's slumped form, hoisting her up against his shoulder. He glanced over at the exchange the three men were having, an uncomfortable expression on his face. He met John's gaze and nodded once. Making sure to keep his grip on the child, he speedily exited the room, the door sliding closed quietly behind him.
"He's not a plebe…" Sherlock answered quietly, his expression completely neutral and serious, "and this isn't about me being wanted, or loved, or any of that fucking shit you're coming out with. This is because you're a pathetic, lonely, cynical and astringent little man with no friends, and you don't want to admit that it is all you're fault."
Moriarty's face twisted into something monstrous and sinister. "You should pick you're words more carefully Sherlock," he replied threateningly, raising the hand with the detonator in it once more, "Especially with the life of your precious baby girl in my hands."
A smile teased Sherlock's lips. "You really should pay more attention Moriarty. Even if I was blindfolded with plugs in my ears, I wouldn't miss the putrid stench of Scotland Yard's Forensic Scientist's after shave anywhere."
Moriarty had a look of shock and pure anger as he spun on his heel, seeing nothing by a small puddle of blood, drying, where the unconscious body of Carmen Holmes used to be. He turned back to Sherlock, who had been joined by John, and was smirked with feat.
"You're daughter may be safe, Sherlock," Moriarty spoke clearly, smirking as he straightened out his back with confidence, "But that doesn't mean you are…or your little lap dog…"
There was a moment of silence just before the explosion threw Sherlock and John apart from each other and darkness consumed their vision…
Two months later…
Sherlock supported John into their flat, Carmen dancing at their heels with the excitement of finally having her Papa back home with them. It had been two months since their daughter had been taken; two months since the explosion at the Swiss Re Building in London; two months since John had jumped in front of Sherlock to shield him from the blast. The Army doctor had been in a coma for just over a month, with a concussion, serve burns on his upper and lower body, and a broken leg.
During the time that John laid in that hospital bed had to have been the worse months of Sherlock's life – and he had been to Sweden with Mycroft as a child. Nothing could compare to the heartache he felt at being the cause for the man's injures, although he has not told him that. Instead, the moment it was announced he was awake, he blurted out a panicked, angry speech of how reckless and irresponsible John had been. The man had merely smiled through his split lip and told him how much he loved him.
John dropped with an oomph onto the recliner armchair that was usually Sherlock's favourite haunt. Letting out a sigh of relief, he leant back into the cushions on the chair, his muscles relaxing instantly with the contact. He tilted his head into the side of the chair, he smiled slightly up at his small family who were watching him closely.
"Are you okay Papa?" Carmen asked once more, laying her hand over his uninjured knee and resting her chin upon the knuckles.
"Perfect honey," John commented, reaching out to run a hand through her free locks, "So what have you been up to while Mrs. Hudson was watching you?"
The toddler's face brightened instantly. "I drew a picture for Anderson! Do you want to see?"
"Of course," He answered, struggling not to laugh at the dark scowl that now covered Sherlock's face.
Since Anderson's rescue of their daughter, things had been more than awkward between the Forensic Scientist and Consulting Detective. Anderson was not holding up well under the attention Carmen was showing her saviour and in turn, Sherlock was having trouble acting, admitted begrudgingly, nice to the man. John could see the internal battle every time the men were in the same room together. Although he had never really been approving of Sherlock's blatant dislike for Anderson, he had to admit it was hilarious to watch as a spectator.
"Hey," John spoke, reaching out to grasp his partner's hand. Lovingly, he caressed the back of the skin until the striking green eyes finally lowered to his own murky brown ones, "At least she's safe."
A slight twitch of his lips showed that Sherlock was smiling, his eyes suddenly much lighter than before. His sharp features eased into something much more loving, almost awed. "Yes, I suppose you're right…"