A/N: Pointless author's note is pointless. Anyway, awkward Johnlock is awkward until both parties realize what's going on, so be ready for the "slow bloom of affection," and cookies to anyone who gets that reference. Also, just to let you know, there'll be a bit of a trade-off between parts from here on out, going back and forth between the brothers and their situations, as well as chapters where they spend time together mixed in. I'll try to keep my pace up, but feel free to remind me if you get anxious and I haven't added a chapter quickly enough for your liking! Now, I'm done rambling... Enjoy!
The unfortunate thing about having followed Mycroft's advice to woo John was, of course, rather obvious. Sherlock had no idea how to flirt, and what he did know, he knew from watching murderers—clearly not the tact he wanted to take—or victims—also, very not good. This left him with a dilemma. He could continue treating John as his friend, as he always had, but getting more meant acting differently, and he wasn't quite sure how to approach it.
And though a crime scene was probably not the best place to be attempting to figure that out, he realized that if he didn't work with what he had, he might lose John to one of his brainless, immoral conquests who would never see the true value of the army doctor. That thought was untenable, and so he decided to begin, in his own way, and see if he might not be able to manage something that resembled flirting.
As he got out of the car, he noticed the momentary change of expression on both John and Lestrade's faces—as if they couldn't believe that Mycroft was at the crime scene, having brought Sherlock there, and neither of them were so much as bruised—and it would have amused him if he wasn't so uncertain about what to do about John. He'd spent the entire drive contemplating how to put his, admittedly tentative, plan into action, and had come up with nothing. And the worst part was that the only person he could conceivably ask about the whole mess, really, was John.
So he was going to have to fake it. Well, he'd proven good enough at that over the years, hadn't he? He was an accomplished liar and actor, and he'd solved many a case by pretending to have figured it all out and watching people trip over themselves to obfuscate the truth. No one knew that particular little secret of his trade, but it was what made him so good. Not only was he adept at seeing physical evidence, but he was also quite talented at observing people, and the ways they acted and reacted.
He was counting on this gift for reading people just as much as the ability to pretend he knew what he was doing, as he stepped just a bit too close to his loyal blogger and offered him a brisk nod, just slightly more acknowledgment than he usually gave before bending over and studying the body rather than crouching… so that his posterior was pointed toward the good doctor, in hopes that he might decide to admire Sherlock's rather plush bum. It was, he'd always been told, one of his better features, and even better, it was an attribute typically characterized as feminine, which could only be in his favor if he was going to seduce someone who had thought himself straight all his life.
And then he tuned everything out, observing the way the light caught on the faint sprinkling of something that glittered on the man's fingertips, smudged there with some sort of liquid. He looked closer, and realized that the flecks were, in fact, gold. Rising abruptly, all plans not related to the crime scene forgotten entirely for the moment, Sherlock prowled into the bar beside which the victim had been slain, searching the entire place… there.
He crossed the room in several swift steps, seeing what he was looking for on one of the tables toward the edge of the room, near the loo. He impatiently gestured for a crime scene tech, only to realize none had followed him inside. Sherlock very nearly cursed before John was at his elbow, having helpfully asked one of the poor newbies to follow him on the assumption that Sherlock had figured something out. He gestured triumphantly at the glass.
"The woman you're looking for will have left her prints on this glass, probably helpfully preserved by the fact that the rather intoxicated victim slopped some over the side when he brought it to their table." Sherlock went outside without another word, repeating this explanation to Lestrade and, after a little prompting, continuing the story.
"After indulging in a fast shag in the loo, he asked for her number when he realized he wasn't going to get her to come home with him for a repeat of their… exploits. He was so drunk he didn't even realize that she nicked him with the corner of the business card she handed him, releasing a toxin into his bloodstream. The reason your people didn't find it on him is that, after he stumbled outside feeling more ill than expected due to the amount of alcohol he consumed, another man came along and, offering to help him, took advantage of his inebriation and pickpocketed his wallet while supposedly trying to help him home.
"When he began to experience seizure-like symptoms, his supposed new friend ran off with his wallet, and the card, and half your evidence. Unfortunately, the chances are high that, when he attempts to clean out the wallet, he will also perish due to whatever's left of the poison. It was the victim's ex-girlfriend, returned for one night and one night only despite the fact that he'd cheated on her. She'd gotten a new number, as she'd had it changed after breaking up with him a month ago. A very simple case of revenge, complicated by the fact that he was an alcoholic and drug addict, and she, a chemist with a skill for whipping up illegal substances for sale and personal use. Her rather lucrative side business is how they could afford alcohol with gold flecks inside it, and when you arrive at their flat, be very careful when you raid the basement, as that is where she is carrying on the bulk of the operation."
Sherlock paused here, as if debating whether or not there was more he wanted to say. Then he shrugged, deciding to try his hand at being… kind. It was something he wouldn't normally have cared for, but he was willing to do virtually anything to score more of his own personal fix, praise from John. Or maybe the doctor himself was the fix, these days; it was increasingly difficult to tell, when so much of who he was revolved around the way he seemed to consider Sherlock both a hero and an ally.
"Another reason for removing him from the picture was that this man was about to blow the whistle on her operations. He wanted to get clean and turn his life around, and he did genuinely love her. He was under the mistaken impression that she would be happy to leave that world behind and stay with him if he became a better person, as he was the one who led her down that road in the first place as far as he knew, but she never had any intention of changing. I suppose it's… sad, really." That was the most empathy Sherlock was capable of showing for the man, but he actually did sympathize, somewhat, with his plight.
He wasn't sure, sometimes, what would have become of him had he not been given multiple good reasons to leave the drugs behind and commit himself to a better life, but he knew the courage, and strength, it took to commit to the idea of getting better. There was no way of knowing that he would have succeeded—it was actually quite likely he'd have failed—but now, he would never have the chance to prove himself weak or strong, either way.
As Sherlock had once told John, caring wasn't an advantage in their line of work because it wouldn't help him save the victims, but looking at the expression on John's face, he decided that that statement hadn't been quite true. Perhaps there was no statistical advantage regarding the solving of crimes, and perhaps his understanding did nothing for the man lying face down in a puddle of rain and myriad human waste, but if it could earn John's respect, it was certainly good for something.
"Brilliant. Sad, but amazing." There was the usual awe in John's voice when he complimented Sherlock's deductions, but there was also something softer written all over his face, and whatever it was made Sherlock want to ignore propriety, and logic, and lean down to kiss him. It was only the fact that the action was quite likely to send the smaller man running for the hills, never to return, that held him back, and instead he offered a tiny, shy smile, deciding to acknowledge the compliments in a way he frequently saw done rather than ignoring them as usual because he wasn't quite sure what to say.
"That really was quite… I'd never have gotten that from a paper cut on his thumb, gold flecks, and a missing wallet. Do you happen to know where that pickpocket will be, though?" Lestrade knew that he probably sounded just as callous as Sherlock usually did, but he'd gotten barely four hours of sleep the night before, when he'd been promised the weekend off after a particularly grueling case that had wrapped up only two days prior. But instead, he'd been called back out to the streets, and he very much wanted to wrap it all up in a neat, tidy package, hand it off to the crown prosecutors, and head home to crash.
Warring with that desire was the presence of Mycroft Holmes, who stood looking delicious and unapproachable all at once in his clearly bespoke suit and shined up shoes, tapping his umbrella on the ground and observing the proceedings with an almost bored expression on his aristocratic face. Trying to get a hold on his thoughts before they betrayed him to one or both of the brothers, Greg studiously ignored his presence after a first awkward statement, at least until he spoke up.
"I believe I can help with that, Detective Inspector. One moment, please." Mycroft quickly dialed a number on his phone, and while he was doing that, Sherlock walked back over to look at the body again, just in case there was anything he'd missed. John followed him.
"Do you think the poor bloke could have done it? Gotten free of it all, I mean." As usual, John's capacity for caring caused something in Sherlock's heart to lurch uncomfortably. He had grown used to it, as much as anyone could get used to extraordinary kindness in a world of such cruelty and hatred, but it still made him marvel at the puzzle that was John Watson every time he opened his mouth and something simultaneously naïve and world-weary escaped him.
"I haven't any idea, I'm sure. I didn't know him, and although I can observe the fact that he was quite drunk in response to the idea of seeing his girlfriend tonight, I cannot gauge how successful he was in his endeavors before tonight, or how well he'd have fared after. I only know that she never meant for him to survive last night and she got her wish."
John seemed startled when he glanced at his watch and realized that it was, in fact, already the next day, and he grinned at Sherlock ruefully.
"Well, fancy that. I got your call just when I was about to head to Angelo's for his vegetarian lasagna, but I hadn't even realized until now that I never managed to eat dinner. We were completely lost here before you showed up to save the day, you know. The way your mind works… it's incredible, Sherlock. Truly. You leave me awed every time. Now, though, do you reckon you could deduce our way to a restaurant that's open this time of night? I doubt you've eaten, without me to nag you all weekend, and I feel too awake to possibly go home and sleep now anyway."
"Actually, John, I rang Angelo on our way here, after hanging up with you. He said he'd be more than happy to keep the place open for us." Before John could open his mouth to object, Sherlock held his hand up. "But I asked that he simply have one of his delivery boys swing by 221B and drop off our usual, as I wasn't sure how you would feel or how long the case would take, and I knew you wouldn't want him having to stay there until some ungodly hour of the morning just to serve us food."
John blinked at Sherlock, then chuckled a little, a puzzled grin taking over his face for a moment.
"Who are you, and what've you done with Sherlock Holmes? I've never known you to be this thoughtful, in any way. You seemed almost sympathetic in regards to this poor man, and for you to consider someone else's needs above your own… Are you feeling all right?"
John didn't seem suspicious, so Sherlock decided to push his luck just the slightest bit and try for some honesty, which would likely go over his companion's head. They headed for a taxi, which Sherlock managed to flag down instantly, and he tossed his comment out as if it was a casual statement, rather than a declaration of his heart.
"Well, perhaps I've simply found a reason to employ a more human outlook on the world." And if the sentiment in his voice was just a bit obvious to anyone who was paying attention—namely Mycroft and Lestrade, who'd been watching the two men after a conversation of their own—John was oblivious, his mind already tuned toward thoughts of warm food and a warmer bed afterward.