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A Study in Human Nature

Pt. 2

John found out that the girl's name was Anthea. Or, at least, the name she was choosing to use was Anthea, for she told him in much the same offhand, careless way that a child would when divulging the identity of their imaginary friend.

"Any point in asking where I'm going?" John wondered aloud.

Anthea glanced sideways at him, an amused grin pulling the corners of her lips up. If it had been any other circumstance (i.e. – not getting abducted) he would have found her attractive. As it was, when she tossed him a light "None at all, John" in answer to his question, most of her allure vanished.

"Right," said John calmly. He tapped his fingers against his leg. He glanced at Anthea again.

"You have lovely eyes," he said, quietly, and for the first time that night she actually looked up, startled, and made eye contact with him. Before she could look away he continued with, "They remind me of my sister's." He tried to inflect all of the childhood warmth he had at one point felt for Harry into his voice.

Anthea stared at him as if no one had ever complimented her eyes before, and they really were quite lovely, though honestly a slightly different shade of blue than Harry's and definitely larger. But John smiled at her just as he would have smiled at Harry in their youth, a soft, joyful smile, and Anthea, quite clearly unaccustomed to having her prisoners smile and compliment her, returned the gesture tentatively. Her eyes went slightly glassy, as if she was remembering something from long ago, and John took his chance.

He looked down at her mobile phone, which had fallen slightly toward him in that single moment when Anthea's hands, distracted from their task, relaxed. It was a BlackBerry, newer model, but the screen was bright and facing him and he took just a moment to glance… and then his heart sort of jumped and deflated all at once.

Russian. Of course her phone would be programed in Russian.

Even if her phone were to fall into enemy hands (and it didn't feel at all strange to John that Anthea should have enemies, or even that he was now including himself in the People Who Are Anthea's Enemies category) they wouldn't be able to read it. Luckily for John, however, he had once performed a very complicated surgery on a Russian man who had been unable to utter even a single dot of English. His only traveling companion was his wife, who spoke even less than a single dot of English. John had stayed up all night teaching himself the Cyrillic alphabet so that he could at least try to communicate – albeit very slowly – with the man and his wife during recovery.

John could speak only a few words of Russian, most of them medical terms or body parts. He could read only a little more than he could speak. But he had stayed up all night learning the alphabet, and if there was one thing John had always liked about himself, it was his ability to function after an all-nighter while retaining the information he had been cramming for in the first place. Thank you, medical school.

By the time Anthea's eyes focused and she brought the BlackBerry back up to her nose, John thought he had something to work with.

"Thank you, John," she said softly, "but I'm still not telling where you're going."

John smiled easily and tapped on his leg some more. "That's quite alright," he informed her. "I know we're going to see Mycroft."

He hoped he had pronounced it correctly. He thought it must be a name, and not a place, and when Anthea's head swung around and pinned him with a stare that suddenly wasn't so amused or friendly, he thought he had gotten it right. A mere second later her face had relaxed, she smiled at him as if he'd told her a very funny joke, and simply went back to her phone. She was obviously trained very well. But John had managed to surprise her, and her (really quite lovely) eyes had given her away.

Neither of them said anything, but Anthea was texting very quickly on her phone, and when they pulled into the large empty warehouse, John got out of the car and limped toward the man leaning on the umbrella without any fear.

"Hello, Mycroft," said John easily as he approached.

The man who must be Mycroft smiled blandly and nodded, as if greeting an old friend. "John, please sit."

John didn't even look at the chair. "No, thank you."

"Very well," said Mycroft.

John looked around. "This is all very impressive," he declared, "very clever, but you could have just phoned me, Mycroft. You know… on my phone."

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place."

John chuckled, just the tiniest bit, because he'd only known Sherlock Holmes for somewhere around one day, but it was enough to know that this man was probably correct.

"You don't seem very afraid," stated Mycroft.

John looked at him squarely. "You don't seem very frightening."

Mycroft looked just the tiniest bit put out. His face took on an expression of decided exasperation, his shoulders rolled minutely forward, almost as if they wanted to slump, and his lower lip stuck out just a fraction. In one of those sudden burst of inspiration moments, John recognized all of those mannerisms, and knew, without a doubt, that Mycroft and Sherlock must be related. He suddenly felt much more at ease.

Mycroft, on the other hand, had to visibly pull himself back together just to glare lightly at John. "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"I don't have one," replied John pleasantly. "I barely know him." He had, of course, admitted to Sally Donovan that they were colleagues just a short time ago, but Mycroft didn't need to know that. Unless he knew already.

Mycroft tapped his umbrella against the ground impatiently and raised an eyebrow. "And yet, since yesterday you've moved in together and are now solving crimes. Might I expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

John didn't rise to the bait. "Why so interested, Mycroft?"

"Because I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having," said Mycroft. "And since you've known him for such a short time, I don't expect you to know yet that Sherlock Holmes does not have friends."

John tilted his head. "Right," he said. "Now I'm confused. Are you giving me the obligatory hurt-him-and-die speech? Or is this something else? Because all I'm getting so far is that both of you err on the side of dramatic."

Mycroft blinked. And then sighed noisily. "Good Lord," he grumbled. "Fine. I was going to offer you money to inform me of my baby brother's goings on, but I can see now that it will be entirely lost on you. So instead, let me offer you a bit of advice."

Brothers. Yes, John could see that. He settled his cane in front of himself and leaned on it with both hands, but just then his mobile emitted the soft cry of an alert. Without waiting for Mycroft's permission he pulled out his phone and opened his text to see,

Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH

Mycroft arched his neck. "Ah, you're being summoned."

John had to keep himself from rolling his eyes as he slipped the phone back into his pocket. "Right, so, advice?"

Mycroft nodded. "Ah, yes." He stopped and cleared his throat. "Most people blunder round this city, John, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. But when you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield."

John sniffed. "I've seen that already," he said, although that had been rather poetic.

"Yes," said Mycroft with that sort of hidden excitement that meant they had finally reached the point of… whatever all of this was. "I know."

John's phone made a noise. He pulled it out, ignoring Mycroft's tiny pout at being interrupted.

If inconvenient, come anyway. SH

"Are we done, then?" asked John.

Mycroft was the one to roll his eyes this time. "I'll advise you to note that the intermittent tremor in your left hand hasn't made an appearance at all since you've been here, Dr. Watson," said Mycroft. "I would think about what that means."

His phone again.

Could be dangerous. SH

"What do you mean?" asked John, as he slipped his phone away and looked at his hand curiously. It wasn't shaking at all. He hadn't noticed till now. When had it stopped shaking?

"Just that you're better suited for the battlefield than you think," answered Mycroft. "You haven't really left the war, after all. And it's time to pick a side, John." He tipped his head. "Do give my brother my regards. And tell him that it greatly reduces the fun of kidnappings when he gives away the surprise beforehand."

"Cheers," said John, and limped back to the car where Anthea was waiting.

"I need to stop off somewhere before Baker Street," he told her.

He was never going anywhere without his Browning ever again.

SH-SH-SH

Sherlock had his right hand pressed over the underside of his left forearm when he heard John knock at the door downstairs. He gasped lightly, staring up at the ceiling with wide eyes, and then melted boneless into the cushions beneath him. John's footsteps came slowly up the stairs.

"What are you doing?" came John's voice a moment later.

Sherlock held up his arm. "Nicotine patch. Helps me think."

John's face was suddenly looming over him, blocking the view of the ceiling. "Is that three patches?"

"Hmmmm," Sherlock hummed. "It's a three-patch problem. Impossible to maintain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brainwork."

John's face left his field of vision and Sherlock was momentarily startled by the empty space left behind.

"Good news for breathing, I expect," said John's voice from a short distance away.

"Breathing's overrated," retorted Sherlock immediately.

For a moment the flat was quiet. Sherlock could hear his own heart in his ears and his arm throbbed lightly, a slight itch under his skin.

"Well?" asked John.

Sherlock's nose crinkled. "Hmmm?"

"You asked me to come," continued John. "I'm assuming it's important."

"Oh, yes," said Sherlock. "Could I borrow your phone?"

Silence.

Normally the silence would mean nothing to Sherlock. He would prefer it. But for some reason, this silence was loud and he did not like it at all and felt compelled to continue speaking.

"It's just," he said quietly, "I need to send a text. My number might be recognized since it's on the website and I tried shouting for Mrs. Hudson but she's downstairs and didn't hear me and I don't have anyone else to ask and I thought that perhaps –"

John's phone dropped lightly onto his chest and the last word left his mouth as a noisy exhalation and his fingers curled around the mobile and he glanced up at John, who was blocking his view of the ceiling again and had a strange half smile on his face.

"Is this about the case?"

Casecasecasecasecase yes the case yes "Her case," he murmured softly.

"Her case?" John repeated, a question at the end of his voice.

"Her case, yes, obviously," said Sherlock. "The murderer took her case. His first big mistake."

John just looked at him and said nothing.

"There's no other way. We'll have to risk it." He held out the phone. "John, I'd like you to send a text. There's a number on my desk."

"You brought me all the way round from the other side of London just to send a text?" asked John, and there was the soft, incredulous tone that he had first used in Bart's.

"Text, yes," said Sherlock. "The number on my desk."

There was a beat of silence before the phone disappeared from his hand, but John's footsteps moved toward the window instead of the desk, and Sherlock braced his feet against the arm of the couch and arched his neck back to peer at John upside down.

"What's wrong?" he asked as he watched John look down at the street from the window.

"I just met a friend of yours," John replied.

Friend?

"Friend?" asked Sherlock.

"Or, an enemy, rather."

"Oh," said Sherlock, relaxing. "Which one?"

"Your brother."

Sherlock sat up so quickly his head actually spun, and he took a moment to wonder about visual impairment and lack of oxygen to the brain and nicotine patches until he saw that John was looking at him with amusement and he felt something catch in his throat and when he spoke his voice came out lower and softer than he meant it to but he asked all the same.

"Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Not exactly."

Sherlock brought his hands together. "Tell me everything."

And John did. And Sherlock was absolutely, genuinely, one hundred percent surprised, because he had never expected that John could speak Russian – "I can't speak Russian, Sherlock, just a few words" – or that John could manage to startle Anthea – "She was good at hiding it" – or that John would speak to Mycroft like an old friend – "Honestly, what kind of name is Mycroft, anyway" – or that John would figure out they were brothers without being told – "It's all in the mannerisms" – or that John could actually get the upper hand over Mycroft – "What can I say, he underestimated me" – or that John would actually inadvertently convince Mycroft that Sherlock had somehow planned the whole ordeal in the first place and wasn't that just the funniest, most brilliant most astounding thing he'd heard all day? Maybe even all week? And Sherlock fell back into the couch and listened to John finish his story and felt a fierce spike of pleasure deep in his stomach that this man, this small endearing intelligent fascinating interesting surprising unassuming man had gotten the better of his brother and he actually laughed. He laughed out loud and it felt like it came from his toes and traveled through his body and got to his mouth and just burst out of him and it was unlike anything he'd ever experienced.

He stood up and grabbed John's face between his hands. "John," he breathed. "You brilliant, brilliant man."

John looked slightly bewildered. His eyes were very dark – due in part to his blown pupils – and distinctly not-vacant. Sherlock realized that he was holding John's face between his palms and that this might not actually be acceptable. But when his fingers slipped, just slightly and without John's notice, down to his neck, to the fluttering pulse that was evidence of his wildly beating heart, Sherlock couldn't quite bring himself to care.

"Did you want me to text someone?" asked John quietly, after an eternity had passed in silence.

"Yes," said Sherlock. He released John's face and stepped back. "There's a number. On my desk."

John picked up the number and entered it into his phone before looking at Sherlock expectantly.

"Text this message exactly," said Sherlock, closing his eyes. "'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come.'"

John began typing in the text.

"Have you done it?" asked Sherlock.

"Give me a moment," replied John. "There. Now, why did I just text Jennifer Wilson? Isn't she the dead lady? The pink one?

Sherlock didn't answer. He opened his eyes and looked toward the kitchen where he had earlier placed Jennifer Wilson's lost case. In one smooth motion he stepped up onto and over the coffee table to retrieve the case. John watched him with his mouth slightly open as he unzipped the pink monstrosity.

"That's her case," remarked John.

"Obviously," said Sherlock, and then looked around at the doctor. "I didn't kill her."

John blinked. "I never said you did. Do people usually assume that you're the murderer?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Now and then, yes."

John just looked at him before nodding. "Okay," he said, and turned and sat down in the armchair with the Union Jack pillow. "How did you find it?"

Sherlock fell gracefully into the armchair opposite John's and pulled his feet up under himself till he was perched in that purgatory between movement and rest. His hands came up, fingertip to fingertip, almost thoughtlessly. "It was all a matter of looking in the right place," he said and told John how he'd found the case.

"You got all of that just because you knew her case had to be pink?" asked John.

Sherlock lifted his chin. "Obviously it had to be pink. Did you not see her?"

John had the workings of a slow smile on his face. "Amazing," he murmured, and Sherlock felt that strange sensation in his chest again, the one that made his face feel abnormally warm and that gave him the strong urge to do something ridiculous like stutter and rub the back of his neck.

Luckily, John didn't seem to notice. He was staring at Jennifer Wilson's case and then at his phone and then at the case again.

"Sherlock," he said slowly. "Why did I just text Jennifer Wilson? Where is her mobile phone?"

"Ah, very good, John!" cried Sherlock happily. "Where is her phone indeed?"

John looked at him doubtfully. "She could have left it at home?"

But Sherlock was shaking his head before John had even finished speaking. "She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it. She would never leave her phone at home. Try again."

John appeared cross for a moment, but only before his eyebrows bunched together and he looked at Sherlock as if he'd gone slightly mad. "You think the murderer's got it. I just texted the murderer, didn't I?"

As if his words had summoned the murderer into being, John's phone began to ring. Sherlock knew by his face as he glanced at the Caller I.D. that the number was unknown.

"The balance of probability is the murderer has her phone," Sherlock told John. "Imagine receiving a text from the woman you'd killed a few hours after you'd killed her. Anyone else would just ignore a text like that. But the murderer would panic."

The phone stopped ringing. John finally looked up at Sherlock. His face was expressionless. "Have you talked to the police?"

Sherlock snapped the lid to the pink case closed and stood up. He moved to retrieve his jacket. "Four people are dead, John. There's no time to talk to the police."

"Then why are you talking to me?"

Sherlock paused. He looked at the mantel and then looked at John. "Mrs. Hudson took my skull."

John smiled. "So, I'm filling in for your skull?"

"Don't worry you're doing fine," said Sherlock carelessly. He pulled on his greatcoat and then looked at John seriously. "You're my assistant now, John. It's all around more helpful if you know what I know. Although, if you're unhappy with this arrangement, I can certainly find –"

John stood up. "No, it's fine," he said. "It's all fine."

Sherlock nodded. "Excellent. Let's go, then."

John blinked. "Go where?"

"Out," replied Sherlock.

John studied him. "Sally Donovan told me you get off on this. Any truth in that?"

Sherlock waved his hand impatiently. "And I said "dangerous" and here you are," he answered. "Are you coming or not?"

Without waiting for an answer he turned and descended the stairs. Behind him he heard John curse and then his slow light steps on the landing.

SH-SH-SH

"Where are we going?" asked John as they headed out into the night.

"Northumberland Street's not far from here," responded Sherlock. "A five minute walk at most."

Sherlock walked quickly. John had to ignore his limp and the slight twinge in his leg to keep up. "Do you really think the murderer will be stupid enough to show up?"

Sherlock huffed a laugh. "No. I think he'll be brilliant enough to show up. I love the brilliant ones. They're always so eager to get caught."

"Why is that?" asked John.

"Appreciation! Applause! At long last the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius, John: it needs an audience."

"Hmmm," hummed John. He kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock but the detective seemed oblivious (seemed oblivious. He probably wasn't). Suddenly Sherlock's startled pride at John's compliments made perfect sense.

Sherlock spun in a slow circle, his arms wide and gesturing. "This is his hunting ground, right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go."

John watched as Sherlock raised his hands to either side of his face. For all that he was standing on a public road, he might as well have been completely alone.

"Nobody saw them go," Sherlock repeated. "Now think. Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

John paused. Up until this point, he had never quite thought of a serial killer in such a way. He had seen men senselessly kill each other in war, but he had never stopped to consider that somewhere in the world, somebody did it for fun. Hunted people. He gazed at Sherlock with a new, tentative light in his eyes. "I don't know, Sherlock. Who?"

Sherlock shot him a considering glance. But then he smiled. "Haven't the faintest. Hungry?"

Without waiting for John to answer he strode quickly away, and John once again had to hurry to catch up. They entered a small restaurant called Angelo's, and Sherlock seemed to personally know the young waiter at the door, who showed them to a reserved booth right in the front window. Sherlock slid onto the bench by the wall after removing his coat, and John hesitated only briefly before he scooted in on the bench in the window. He never liked putting his back to a crowd. All those people right outside, and they could see him though he couldn't see them.

"Alright?" asked Sherlock.

John was surprised to see that Sherlock was looking right at him. He removed his coat and tried to make himself appear as unaffected as possible. "Fine," he said.

Those pale, slanting eyes really saw too much. Sherlock looked as if he was mere seconds away from an "Ah!" moment, but luckily John was saved by the appearance of a large man who seemed pleased to see Sherlock. They shook hands and everything.

"John, this is Angelo."

John nodded and listened in amusement to the story of how Sherlock had saved Angelo's life by proving he had simply committed a break-in, not a murder.

"Anything off the menu you want, it's free!" boomed Angelo pleasantly. "On the house, for you and your date!"

John blinked. "Oh, um," he stammered, glancing at Sherlock, who had his hands steepled under his chin and was looking at John in a way that he thought probably wasn't meant to make him uncomfortable, but that certainly was doing so. "I'm not his date."

He might as well have not said it for all that Angelo heard him.

"I'll bring a candle for the table, too, more romantic."

John cleared his throat. "Not his date."

But a candle appeared anyway, and Angelo really looked very satisfied with the whole thing, and Sherlock was still staring at him.

Oh, screw it.

"Thanks," said John.

"Eat if you want to," said Sherlock. His long fingers splayed on a menu and slid it closer to John. "We might have a while to wait."

"For what?" asked John.

Sherlock nodded toward the window. "Twenty-two Northumberland Street."

John twisted around and looked out at the street. "Do you really think he'll show up?"

But Sherlock didn't answer. He seemed entirely focused on the goings on outside the window.

John fiddled with the menu without really looking at it. "Your brother seemed a bit dramatic."

Sherlock snorted.

John hid a smile behind his hand. "Right. Well, he told me he's the closest thing to a friend you've got."

Sherlock finally looked at him. "Mycroft is not my friend."

John held up a hand peacefully. He was thinking about Sally Donovan, and her claim that Sherlock Holmes had no one, no one in his life to consider a friend. "Have you got any others? Friends, I mean."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Does it matter?" Without giving John a chance to answer he continued. "Perhaps normal people have friends and acquaintances, boyfriends, girlfriends, lovers, whatever they want. But I have never been normal, John."

He said it pointedly, as if to remind John that his own friends list was alarmingly thin.

"So you haven't got a girlfriend, then?"

And blast it all, why was that the question that had to come out of his mouth? Now Sherlock was looking at him again.

"Girlfriend?" repeated Sherlock slowly. "No. Not really my area."

John kept his face expressionless. "Right. Boyfriend, then?"

And now he really didn't like the way Sherlock was staring at him with those unforgivably perfect eyes, because it made him remember those long fingers clasped around his face.

"No," said Sherlock. "I consider myself married to my work." He seemed to hesitate. "While I do feel flattered by the occasional attempt at interest, I have not yet felt inclined to –"

"Sherlock," interrupted John, and the other man quit babbling. "I'm just saying, it's all fine."

Sherlock's eyes flickered rapidly across John's face for a moment before he nodded and looked back out the window. John breathed out noiselessly.

"John," said Sherlock, and the low quiet intensity of his voice made John look up at once. "Look."

John looked out the window. "What am I meant to be seeing?"

"Taxi," said Sherlock.

"It's just idling there," said John once he'd spotted it. "Why is it idling?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He was muttering to himself and rapping his fingers very quickly on the tabletop. "Oh, a taxi, that's clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?"

"That's him?" asked John quietly, even though the taxi was far away and outside and John knew he couldn't be overheard.

"Don't stare," snapped Sherlock.

"You told me to look!"

"We can't both look!"

Sherlock stood up in a flurry and flung his coat back around his shoulders. He wrapped his blue scarf around his neck en route to the door. "Hurry, John!" he called as he disappeared outside.

John bolted to his feet and pulled on his own jacket and threw himself through the door after Sherlock, who stood for a moment staring at the taxi before stepping out into traffic.

"Sherlock!" yelled John.

But the detective didn't listen. He weaved between cars and then slid across the bonnet of one that didn't quite stop in time. Without thinking John sprinted after him, using his strong right hand to leap over the bonnet of the car.

"Sorry!" he said to the driver as he dashed after Sherlock.

Sherlock had come to a stop several yards ahead. John skidded to a halt beside him.

"Trying to get yourself killed?" he asked conversationally.

But Sherlock had his hands up on either side of his face and was muttering very quickly and quietly to himself about traffic and detours and John didn't have enough time to ask what he was doing before Sherlock said, "This way, hurry!" and took off at a run.

John followed without a thought. Sherlock was very quick, due in part to his long legs (really not fair, that) and what John perceived as an omniscient knowledge of London's streets and side alleys. John was forced to sprint once again just to keep up with Sherlock, but his old breathing habits returned quickly. He felt a rush of heady adrenaline as he followed Sherlock up and down stairs, through halls and windows, down fire escapes, and even across rooftops. The last time he'd felt so alive, he'd been overseas, performing emergency surgeries in the middle of open warfare. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft had said, you see the battlefield.

And John was happy to be back.

They ran for what felt like a long time, though John knew it was only minutes. When they caught the taxi, John wasn't surprised. What was surprising, however, was the completely average American man sitting in the backseat, just arrived from LA, and obviously not the murderer they were looking for. After offhandedly welcoming the man to London, Sherlock walked rapidly away, leaving John to follow him.

"What's that?" asked John when he caught up to Sherlock and noticed him fiddling with something.

Sherlock handed over an identification card. "Detective Inspector Lestrade," read John.

"I pickpocket him when he's annoying," said Sherlock absently.

"Of course," said John.

"Keep that one," said Sherlock. "I've got plenty of others."

John looked at the ID and felt something working in his throat. He laughed quietly, shaking his head.

Sherlock glanced at him, confused. "What?"

John laughed again. "Nothing, it's nothing, just: Welcome to London."

Sherlock's eyes crinkled slightly and John watched in shock as the detective actually giggled. The sight and sound of his laughter made John's stomach feel warm, and he once again recalled those hands on his face. He couldn't help himself from laughing along.

"Got your breath back?" asked Sherlock after a moment, and John saw that he was staring at the taxi, which had stopped by actual policemen. The American was pointing at them.

"Never lost it," said John, and took off at a run after Sherlock.

SH-SH-SH

They made it to the flat out of breath and sweating, and Sherlock felt high on adrenaline and nicotine patches and London air and the chase.

And John, who hadn't noticed that he'd left his cane at Angelo's and who looked at Sherlock in a way that no one had ever looked at him before.

They stood panting and laughing in the hall at the foot of the stairs, and Sherlock couldn't remember the last time a case had thrilled him this much. And as he stood there laughing (laughter, such a strange, unnecessary bodily function, symbolic of happiness, joy, etc. and previously considered a waste of time) he wasn't sure if it was because it was a serial killer or if it was because it was John.

Their shoulders bumped as they stood there breathlessly, a quick static brush that had Sherlock feeling warm and frozen simultaneously.

"That was the most ridiculous things I've ever done," stated John suddenly, his voice a little raw and raspy from the run.

Sherlock quirked a quick smile at him. "And you invaded Afghanistan."

John grumbled good-naturedly. "What were we doing there?"

"Oh, just passing the time," said Sherlock. He narrowed his eyes and looked slyly at John. "And proving a point."

"Oh?" asked John. "What point is that?"

"You," said Sherlock, and was gratified by the widening of John's eyes and the slight hitch in his breathing. "Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called before John could say anything. "Doctor Watson will be taking the room upstairs."

"Says who?" asked John.

"Says the man at the door," responded Sherlock, and right on time three quick knocks sounded.

John looked bewildered.

"Better get that," suggested Sherlock, and watched quietly as John walked to the door and spoke briefly with Angelo and took back his cane.

As John reentered the hall, looking at his cane like he'd never seen it before, a euphoric shine in his eyes, Sherlock decided that he would do just about anything, anything to keep John looking like that.

"How'd you…?" asked John quietly, standing next to Sherlock against the wall.

"I told you it was psychosomatic," Sherlock quietly replied. "You said earlier that when you met Mycroft your hands stopped shaking. When you're on the case with me you get this look like you enjoy the danger. And your profession was a medical surgeon in the army. You thrive in stressful, potentially life-threatening situations. I knew with just the right push you'd forget all about your limp."

John's head bumped back against the wall and he closed his eyes. "Thank you," he whispered, and his head turned slightly in Sherlock's direction, and Sherlock could see his quickly beating pulse on the exposed column of his throat, and it would take just a couple of inches, a quick dip of his head to taste the adrenaline on that fluttering pulse. He was sure it would be a better feeling than the drugs had ever been. He actually did begin to lower his head a bit before he realized that John's eyes had opened and that he was staring at Sherlock calmly but curiously, waiting to see what Sherlock would do next.

Sherlock's body moved away from the wall without his permission and he stood in front of John and raised his left hand to the wall next to John's head and with his other hand took hold of the (now useless) cane and leaned it against the bannister and then paused a moment to see if John would stop him but John hadn't moved and appeared to not even be breathing so Sherlock lowered his head and shook dark curls out of his eyes and watched as John's pupils swallowed any remaining color and

"Sherlock! What have you done?"

He pushed away from the wall and from John and looked at his landlady. "Mrs. Hudson?" he asked.

"Upstairs," she said, and Sherlock didn't wait to hear more.

He bounded up the stairs three at a time and heard John close behind him and flung open the door to their flat and felt the heat drain from his limbs at the sight of Lestrade and an entire team of officers ripping through his things.

Lestrade looked up and smiled. "Hello, Sherlock."