Chapter Three:
The lecture hall was quiet apart from the rustling of paper and scratching of pens. There had been the musical interruption of a mobile at the beginning of the exam. John had sighed, sending a disappointed frown at the student. Other students had furtively checked their mobiles to ensure they would not suffer the same interruption. Every minute counted. John bit the end of his pencil, his brow furrowing as he continued grading another research paper. He was being lulled into boredom by faulty logic and bad grammar. His own mobile lit up with a silent indication that a text message had been received. John frowned at it, debating whether or not to check it. He knew who it had to be from. Sherlock had taken to texting him intermittently throughout the day. Random facts and bits. Sometimes about Sam's housekeeping habits. He's cleaning AGAIN, John. I can't think with all his hoovering. Or You have red pants? That had been returned with a clear threat to Sherlock's laptop privileges if John's pant drawer was not left alone immediately. There had been the highly hilarious I'm out of the closet, if you care to know. Of course, Sherlock had meant it literally, but John had taken the opportunity to make a few quips. All over Sherlock's head, but amusing nonetheless.
John managed a brief smile at the student turning in an exam. His gaze returned to his phone. His fingers itched with the overwhelming desire to check his mobile. It was that same anticipation he remembered from before. Secretly, he had missed it. With a steady hand, he took the mobile in hand, navigating to his texts.
In your office. Hurry.
The final ten minutes took years to pass. John quickly gathered up all the papers and his cane. He barely used it, completely focused on reaching his small office. He slid inside, and immediately stopped. Sherlock sat at his desk, feet resting on the top as his fingers moved quick across his phone screen. It wasn't Sherlock's appearance that surprised John, but rather his hair. Sherlock's dark hair now resembled more of Mycroft's lighter auburn color. Sherlock scratched at his chin sporting the latest attempt at a beard, glancing briefly at John before returning his attention to his phone.
"Someone could have seen you." John pushed the shoes off his desk, placing the load of papers in their place.
"Doubtful," Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Still, you have to—" John knew he wasn't fooled by a hair color change and facial hair.
"I know how to move around unseen, John," Sherlock interrupted, and then drew his mouth together tightly.
It was deathly silent in the room. Hurried footsteps echoed past them outside the door like marching ghosts. John maintained eye contact with Sherlock before looking away and tucking his chin towards his chest. He let out a breath, feeling his fingers tap the desk twice.
"Right. Sure. Why are you here?" he asked.
"I didn't intend to spend my afternoon in the closet again." John cleared his throat to offset his laugh.
"You wouldn't have to stay in my closet if you had your own rooms," he replied.
Sherlock sighed theatrically, acting as if John had said something incredibly stupid.
"No, too risky. Someone might see me." Sherlock leaned back in the chair, gazing at the wall with a scowl.
John closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. His head leaned back and he focused on the ceiling.
"I have to grade papers, Sherlock."
Sherlock blinked twice and then snagged the top paper off the pile. He flipped through it quickly.
"Copied. Every word."
John frowned, picking it up and looking over his markings. He'd spent the better portion of the exam reading this particular essay. Well-written and researched, he had given it top marks.
"Copied? How?"
"Look at the first letter of some of the sentences. Different font. Could be a mistake, but given the frequency, it is more logical to believe that the text was copied and pasted from a website," Sherlock replied quickly.
John quickly verified Sherlock's observation.
"Amazing," he muttered, glancing at Sherlock.
Sherlock's slow smile warmed John. John found himself unconsciously returning it, part of his chest aching at the familiarity. A loud laugh outside the door caused them both to look away. By the time John returned his attention to Sherlock, the man stood close to him. John tilted his head, fighting the urge to step back.
"As always, John, you see, but you do not—"
"Observe, yes, Sherlock. I haven't forgotten," John breathed with a laugh.
"Good, that's," Sherlock paused. "Good."
"Well, now that that's sorted. Dinner?" John checked his watch. "We have a good hour before Sam returns to the flat."
Sherlock's eyes lit up.
"I know just the place."
The place ended up being across the street from a crime scene. John paused on the sidewalk, catching sight of many familiar faces. Panic shot through him at the thought of anyone recognizing the man with him. He put his head down in an attempt to slip inside the diner unseen.
"John?" Lestrade stood near a patrol unit.
John turned his head slightly, but Sherlock had disappeared. Well, no use trying to blend in now.
"Greg." John pushed forward.
He hated the way Lestrade's gaze lingered on the cane, hated the pity that tried to hide in the Detective Inspector's eyes. This was why they'd stopped going for drinks. It was why he had stopped talking to his sister. He didn't need pity; he was fine. Now.
"Never thought I'd see you at a crime scene," Lestrade pushed his hands into his pockets.
Again. The word was left unsaid, but it lingered palpable in the air. Lestrade shifted on his heels, offering John a brief smile.
"Didn't expect to choose a take-out across from a crime scene. What happened?" John replied.
"Murder. Forensics is in there now," Lestrade said, and then looked thoughtful. He lifted up the yellow tape. "Come over."
John glanced over his shoulder again, scanning the faces nearby. No sign of Sherlock, but John knew he had to be close. John limped under the tape, quickly following Lestrade towards some officers.
"Dr. Watson?" Donovan stood guard at the door.
John didn't return the pleasantry. Lestrade cleared his throat, motioning someone over.
"Ah, Dr. Watson, this is Sergeant Davies," Lestrade said quietly.
John nodded quickly to the man, holding out his hand. Dark haired and easily forgettable, something about him irked John.
"Hello," Davies took his hand firmly. "I used to read your blog."
John caught the tensing of both Donovan and Lestrade at the mention of the past. He forced a smile, and then felt the vibration in his pocket. John instinctively pulled it out.
Right or left handed?
Davies wore his watch on the right wrist. Left he typed back, and then apologetically smiled at Lestrade.
"Sorry. Flatmate," he explained, lifting the phone with a shrug.
Donovan just shook her head and looked away. Davies seemed curious.
"If you're done, I'll take you inside," Lestrade replied.
"Sir?" Both Donovan and Davies looked surprised.
"He's a civilian, sir," Davies began.
"My call, Sergeant," Lestrade interrupted sharply before continuing in a quieter tone. "This is the fourth one like this in a week. We'll be crushed if the press gets wind of this."
"With all due respect, sir," Donovan tried.
"I'd stop there." Lestrade opened the door, motioning John ahead of him.
Another vibration. John sighed and pulled out his phone, reading as he followed Lestrade down the hall.
Not fair.
John could hear the petulance in the words.
"Chatty flatmate, eh?" Lestrade held out a pair of gloves.
"He has his days," John replied.
When Lestrade turned towards a room, John quickly put in a call to Sherlock's mobile and put the phone back in his pocket upside down. Hopefully Sherlock would be able to hear everything. This could hopefully keep Sherlock from dismantling the hoover and letting John grade his papers in peace. Or so he could hope.
It was an hour before John emerged from the crime scene. John rubbed his face and checked his watch with a sigh. His thoughts immediately returned to Sherlock. Was he still there? If so, where? John began looking over the passing faces.
"Dr. Watson, Lestrade asked me to drive you home." Davies fell into step beside him.
"Thanks, but I'll just get a cab," John replied dismissively.
He caught sight of an auburn head. Maybe? It was too far for him to be sure.
"Think it's best if I drive you," Davies persisted. John's phone vibrated. "I don't think you should answer that."
"Why?" John bristled.
It was then he realized the change in movement of the officers. No one was near them. Davies shifted closer to John, an understated threat in the squeeze of John's shoulder. John tried to pull away, but Davies' thumb worked its way into the dip of John's scar and pushed. John grunted at the sudden pain.
"Come along, Dr. Watson. Let's get you home." Davies guided John towards a car.
The don't get in that patrol car text went unread.
