Author's Note: This fic that takes place in Xanthe's BDSM universe. Her fiction can be found at www-xanthe-org (replace the dashes with dots). She is also in my favorite authors as Xanthe2 (a lot of good works even though none of her BDSM fics are here). She gave me permission to play in this particular sandbox a while ago. I hope you enjoy it!

Many thanks to my corrupter and best friend, Keara, for the title.

For those of you who are wondering: This is more from the unaired pilot than the episode "A Study in Pink", but you will see elements of both.

Entwined

Part Two

The next evening, Sherlock was pleasantly surprised by John Watson when his cab passed the former soldier when it pulled up to 221B. He stepped out of the cab and fought a smile when John held out a hand.

"Mr. Holmes!"

Sherlock took the hand and shook it firmly. "Sherlock, please." He motioned to the building. "Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, owes me a favor. Several years ago, I helped her out when her sub was going to be put into prison."

John seemed impressed. "And you helped free him?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. I made sure he got a life sentence without parole." He smiled when the woman in question opened the door.

"Sherlock!" She pulled him into a warm hug. Something only his mother had ever done.

He smiled at her. "Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson." He felt like hopping with impatience as the two exchanged pleasantries and went ahead up to the flat. He couldn't understand why he was so anxious for this top to agree to living arrangements. He was pleased when John nodded in satisfaction, but experienced an odd twinge of embarassment when John commented on the mess.

Mrs. Hudson came in. "What do you think Doctor Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing it."

John seemed bewildered. "Of course we'll be needing it. What are you implying?"

The kind landlady chuckled. "Oh no worries, dear. We have all sorts around here. Mrs. Turner, next door, has a monosexual couple living with her." She went into the kitchen and sighed softly. "Oh, Sherlock! Look at the mess you've made."

Sherlock felt at wincing at the disappointment in her voice, but fought it.

John spoke up from where he had taken a seat. "I looked you up last night." He tapped his cane on the floor. "I found your website, the Science of Deduction."

"Oh!" Sherlock felt himself fill with pride that John had gone through the trouble. "What did you think?" He deflated when John gave him a look.

"You said you could tell someone who liked pain by the kind of tie they wore and an airline pilot by his left thumb." He sounded distinctly skeptical.

Sherlock sighed. "And I could tell your military background in your face and your leg and your brother's drinking habits on your mobile phone." When John asked how, Sherlock couldn't stop from smirking.

Mrs. Hudson came in, still tidying up. She picked up a newspaper and looked at it. "What about these suicides, Sherlock? I thought it'd be right up your street."

Sherlock shrugged. Lestrade hadn't contacted him, and he wasn't about to volunteer. He got enough hassle when he was invited to crime scenes. He walked to the window as she commented that there had been three identical suicides. He saw a police car pull up in front and almost regretted putting his new address on his website. Almost, but not quite. "Four. There's been a fourth, and there's something different this time." He turned as he heard someone coming upstairs and saw Lestrade making an appearance. "What's new about this one? There has to be something different, or you wouldn't have come to get me."

Lestrade nodded. "This one left a note. Will you come?"

A note! Sherlock always delighted in these little mysteries. He managed to contain himself. "Who's doing the forensics?" He groaned when he saw the look on Lestrade's face. "Please don't tell me it's Anderson. He won't work with me, you know that."

Lestrade let out an exhasperated breath. "It's not like he'll be your assistant!"

"But I need an assistant!" He had tried, really tried, to tolerate the people who worked the crime scenes. Their stupidity, and their pure ignorance, just tried on his nerves. It was the main reason he no longer volunteered his aid, and waited for Lestrade to ask him.

Lestrade shook his head. "Will you come?"

Sherlock wanted to say no, but the prospect of a mystery was too much temptation. "Not in a police car. I'll take a cab and meet you there." He watched the Detective Inspector leave and then jumped up. "YES! Four suicides and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" He dashed over to get his coat. "Mrs. Hudson, I might need something to eat when I get back."

The older woman clucked her tongue at him. "I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper!"

Sherlock went past John to grab his scarf. "Something cold will do! Don't wait up! John, make yourself comfortable and have some tea." He trotted down the stairs and wrapped his scarf around his neck. His hand was on the door knob when he heard something from upstairs.

"DAMN MY LEG!" John sounded distressed.

Sherlock played with the idea of just going anyway, but he did need an assistant. Someone who would take notes since he tended to talk quickly and he so hated repeating himself. He turned and returned to the flat. He regarded John for a second before speaking as he pulled his gloves out of his coat. "You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor."

John blinked at him, and stood up with the 'help' of his cane. "Yes."

Sherlock tilted his head. "Any good?"

John nodded. "Very good." Was that hope in the doctor's eyes?

Sherlock put his gloves on. "Seen a lot of injuries, then? A lot of violent deaths?"

Another nod. "Yes."

As he approached, he felt a connection with this top like he had never experienced before. Something about this man with his psychosomatic limp and calm demeanor called to Sherlock. "Bit of trouble too, I bet?"

"Yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

There was something there that John wasn't saying. "Want to see some more?"

There! John's pupils dilated and there was a faint hitching of his breath. "GOD, Yes!"

Sherlock had to smile. "Come on, then!" He ran back downstairs, not paying attention as John told Mrs. Hudson they were heading out other than to kiss her cheek, then he hailed a taxi.

They got in and Sherlock divided his attention between the passing scenery and the texts on his phone, but he could feel John glancing at him every so often. It soon became annoying, so he let out a slight huff. "Well? You have questions?"

John looked puzzled. "Right! Where are we going?"

Sherlock turned to him and gave him a look. "Crime scene." He almost gave into the childish impulse to add a 'duh' to the end of that statement. "Next question."

John nodded. "Right! What is it that you do?"

Sherlock smirked at him. "What do you think?"

The other man shrugged. "I would say private detective, but police don't go to private detectives."

Sherlock puffed up with pride. "I'm a consulting detective. I'm the only one in the world because I invented the job."

"Right! What does that mean, exactly?"

Sherlock glanced at John. "It means that when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they call me."

John nodded, but still looked puzzled. "Police don't consult amateurs."

Amateurs? AMATEURS? Sherlock clenched his teeth at the word and gave John a look before speaking. "When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said Afghanistan or Iraq, you looked surprised." He turned away to look out the window.

"Yes, how did you know?"

Now to put what he talked about on his website to use. "I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. And your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Barts, so army doctor, obvious." He took a breath before he continued. "Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists. So you've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp is really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic, wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan that means you were in Afghanistan or Iraq."

John furrowed his brows. "You said I have a therapist."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You've got a psychosomatic limp. Of course you've got a therapist." He turned back to the doctor. "Then there's your brother."

"Hmm?" John had been looking out of his window and then turned back to Sherlock.

Sherlock did a partial shrug. A child could have figured this part out. "Your phone. It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, and you're looking for a flatshare. You wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then." He held out his hand and was pleased when John handed the phone to him again. No one had put up with him getting so personal before. He turned it over. "Scratches. Not one, but many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You should know it already."

John nodded. "The engraving."

There was hope for this man yet. "Harry Watson. Clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father. This is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, not one that you're close to anyway, so brother it is." He handed the phone back. "Now Clara. Who is Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife not girlfriend. Probably his sub from the postscript saying 'always yours.' She must have given it to him recently. This model is only six months old. Their marriage is in trouble, then. Six months on, he's just given it away. If she'd relinquished her collar, he would have kept it. People do. Sentiment. No, he wanted rid of it, he uncollared her. He gave the phone to you. That says he wants you to stay in touch." He looked back at John. "You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to him for help." That was something he had in common with John. Mycroft had offered him a spare room, but he'd rather die than take it. He brushed that thought aside and continued. "That says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you don't like his drinking."

John's voice was incredulous. "How can you possibly know about the drinking?"

Hah! He was right. "Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection, tiny little scuffmarks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge, but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, you never see a drunk's without them." He handed the phone back. "There. You see? You were right about me!"

John sounded puzzled. "I was right? Right about what?"

Sherlock sighed. "The police don't consult amateurs." He turned back to the window. Now it would come. The scorn he'd lived with all his life.

John spoke again, and said something Sherlock had never heard before in his life. "That ... was amazing."

Sherlock turned to the older man in shock. "Do you think so?"

John nodded, though he wasn't looking at Sherlock. "Yes, it was. Extraordinary, it was quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say."

John made a soft hum. "What do people normally say?"

Sherlock gave him a smile. "Piss off."

To his delight, John returned the smile before turning back to the window.

Things suddenly looked much brighter.