August faded and with it went the heat, turning into cooler September temperatures. Schools started up again and John began the usual fall routine of dealing with colds that didn't really need a doctor's visit, but it was difficult to argue with parents sometimes, particularly when their child's health was concerned. He counselled patience for the most part, which he knew from experience was not an easy course to take.
Sherlock caught a cold, probably from something John had brought home but that the doctor himself hadn't succumbed to. The detective moaned about the flat, being a general nuisance, acting as though he were going to die, until John reminded him that he'd survived much worse than this, and recently, and that a cold was scarcely fatal. Sherlock took to the couch and sulked, surrounded by tissue boxes and throat lozenges. John finally took pity on him and made him soup and tea, and rang Lestrade, asking for some more cold cases to be sent over. The detective inspector complied and John consented to snuggle with Sherlock on the couch while the younger man pored through some of the files. He was hard pressed not to snicker when Sherlock dozed off in the middle of reading, his head slumping on John's chest, his lips parted so he could breathe since his nose was too stuffed up. John enjoyed the sensation though, and at least Sherlock couldn't complain when he was asleep.
Sherlock got over the cold and John welcomed back a friend from Afghanistan, Tricia Remsen, another doctor he'd worked with. She wasn't the first to come back to England after he'd been sent home, but the one he'd been looking forward to the most. He had been antsy about it in the weeks leading up to her return, but didn't want to mention it, worried he might jinx it somehow. He'd had more than one colleague or friend return in a coffin, or less than whole. But Tricia had simply been there one day, grinning at him ear to ear, blue eyes bright, calling him "Johnny", which she knew drove him mad, and eyeing Sherlock very appreciatively before congratulating John on such a catch. John enjoyed seeing his husband so discomfited; he usually didn't pay much attention to women and was not at all used to such frank admiration from them, although John suspected if he had ever been inclined to look, he'd find it a lot more often.
She settled into a job in a maternity hospital, saying she was tired of seeing young people die and would much rather see people being born. John was glad to have her in the city, since many of those who came back drifted back to their old homes, but Tricia had been born and raised in London. She insisted on seeing his shoulder, admonished him for having it injured a second time, then charged Sherlock with ensuring that John "bloody well keep doing his physio stretches, even if he says he feels fine". Briefly, but not seriously, John worried he was losing an ally to his husband's camp. Sherlock seemed to like her, which pleased John; the man needed more friends. And Tricia was not bothered by the possibility that someone may be more intelligent than she. John knew full well that kind of attitude, that defensiveness, was what set Sherlock off. It fairly radiated from people like Anderson and Donovan.
For a few short weeks, John actually felt like he was leading a normal life. He even thought that Sherlock was starting to lose interest in the Sam Waters puzzle. Not forget about it completely, but at least letting it die down in his mind.
Then a well-connected banker died, under circumstances that Lestrade said looked simple but smelled bad, and Sherlock went back to work.
John resigned himself to the madness that ensued, including being dragged to and fro across London, phone calls at all hours from his husband, and losing his bedmate, at least for a few days. When Sherlock was at home at night, he was either working or too wound up to sleep, so John kicked him out of the bed and tried to ignore the sounds of his husband prowling about the flat, searching for a physical outlet for the manic energy in his mind.
One evening, a Saturday, Sherlock rang to tell him they'd got it – one of the old man's sons-in-law, an anaesthesiologist, who had used carbon monoxide to make it look like a natural death. John was disgusted – he wasn't shocked that someone in the medical profession would be so callous, but it was still disappointing, and anaesthesiologists were always in short supply. Losing one was always a blow. But he was glad the case had been wrapped up and Sherlock was on his way home. John was let down a few minutes later when Sherlock texted him to say that Mycroft had sent a car for him, for whatever reason his brother deemed it necessary to see him. John wished Mycroft would learn the value of an appointments calendar, or at least call ahead. He disliked the disruption, and made a mental note to tell Sherlock to refuse any unannounced visits from now on. He was certain that would make Sherlock happy, too.
He went out to a pub with Tricia and some other bloke she knew, whom she may or may not have been dating. John wasn't certain, because when he asked her about it, she confessed to being unsure herself. It was difficult, they had both agreed, to get back into the pace of regular life, but John thought Henry seemed a decent enough fellow, if a bit dull. But he also suspected his own perceptions were skewed now by almost two years of having been in a relationship with Sherlock.
When he arrived home shortly before midnight, Sherlock still wasn't home, and John muttered darkly to himself about Mycroft's habits. He changed and went to bed, wishing he weren't alone, but fell asleep nonetheless.
Around five in the morning, he woke up unexpectedly, then realized that the chill in the bed beside him was what had disturbed him. John sat up, blinking away sleep, and then listened for any signs of movement in the flat. Hearing nothing, he got up and put on his old bathrobe that Sherlock had somehow inherited. It smelled like the detective, and that was comforting. John padded out into the livingroom, which was silent and dark, then checked the bathroom, then the upstairs bedroom. He was alone, which annoyed him.
He went back to the bedroom and dialled up Mycroft's number. One of his people answered.
"John Watson for Mycroft," the doctor said.
"Just a moment, Doctor Watson," was the reply. It irritated John that they all knew who he was, but he didn't know who any of them were. Vaguely, he wondered if there were eyes on his flat tonight.
A minute or so later, Mycroft was on the line.
"John, what is it?" he asked, sounding concerned and not at all tired. Did the man ever sleep? Knowing his brother, probably not.
"Would you be so good as to return my husband now?" John snapped.
There was a pause.
"What do you mean?"
"What do you mean, what do I mean? It's five in the bleeding morning, Mycroft. Send him home."
"Why do you think he's here?"
"Because he texted me to tell me you'd sent someone round to get him and wanted to see him."
Another pause, and John was starting to feel a heavy weight settling into his stomach.
"No," Mycroft said carefully. "I did not."
John's free hand closed into a fist on the sheets.
"Then where is he?" he asked, knowing it was a useless question – if Mycroft didn't know, it was not a good sign. He was suddenly aware of how still it was in the flat, how dark, and how lonely.
"I don't know," Mycroft said. "But I'll find out."
John closed his eyes, fighting off a stab of fear. A sudden noise from outside the room made him start, then he placed the sound as a key turning in the lock.
"Just a moment," he hissed into the phone and crossed the bedroom quickly, standing with his back against the wall by the door, lowering the phone so he could concentrate on the sound in the livingroom. The door eased open and then shut, and the lock was thrown back into place. John could hear Mycroft's voice faintly on the other end of the line, but ignored it. The shuffling from the livingroom sounded familiar and John let out a deep breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, then made a more audible noise. He heard a pause, then Sherlock's voice calling his name quietly.
"Nevermind," John said, raising the phone again and cutting Mycroft off in mid-question. "He just got in." He hung up without preamble and went into the livingroom, where Sherlock had turned on one lamp on its lowest setting and was shucking his coat. John thought he'd never been quite so relieved to see Sherlock just standing there. Before he could say anything, Sherlock held up both hands as if to ward off any attacks. He was moving stiffly; his leg was bothering him, which meant he was in need of sleep.
"I'm sorry," he said, which made John pause, because those certainly weren't words he heard very often. "I did think it was Mycroft. I wasn't lying to you."
John let out another deep breath, slow and controlled. He inhaled and caught something, a quick whiff of an acrid tang that snagged in his throat. Sherlock must have seen the expression on John's face, because he shook his head.
"It wasn't me," he assured John, unlocking and opening the door again and unceremoniously dumping his coat, which smelled of cigarette smoke, into the landing. John managed to nod.
"Are you all right?" he asked, picking the one question that was not accusatory from all of the ones that lined up on his tongue. Sherlock nodded, looking tired and worn.
"I am," he answered in a way that made John believe it. "I'll tell you what happened, but you won't like it."
Lestrade let him go early enough that he could avoid paperwork and likely be home in time to enjoy dinner with John, if not at least a drink. A pub, he thought, would be nice. He was going to need sleep; his body had its own opinions about that, which had been ignored for the past several days but were ready to pounce. The twinges in his lower leg were more insistent now. He'd asked John once how long it would take for this to go away, and hadn't like the doctor's reply. Even a break, not a soft tissue injury, could be sensitive for the rest of his life. Sherlock was not at all pleased by the prospect of carrying this reminder of Moriarty with him.
When he left the Yard into the cool September evening, it was already almost dark and the city was lighting up with its myriad street lamps, signs, and vehicle headlights. Sherlock glanced at his watch and wondered about catching a cab at this hour, or if he should take the tube. He pulled his phone out of his coat pocket to check the traffic reports and the Underground status, but was forestalled when he saw a dark car pulled up in front of the station. A woman about his age, perhaps a year or two older, was waiting outside the vehicle, wrapped in a black trench coat that fell to mid-thigh, a black skirt, and black heels. Her hair, equally as dark, particularly in the night, gleamed in the reflection of the street lamps. She watched him impassively and Sherlock repressed a growl, approaching her.
"Your brother would like to see you," she said in a smooth voice with subtle French accent. Sherlock glowered at her, shaking his head.
"I didn't know my brother was employing French citizens now," he commented.
"Yes, well," she said, as if that explained anything. Sherlock let out an abrupt sigh, considering his options. He hated it when Mycroft did this, but he had to admit, it happened less often now and usually Mycroft had good reason. Although Sherlock would never had said so to his brother.
For a moment, he thought perhaps something had happened to John, but no, he'd just spoken to his husband moments ago, having hung up on his way out of the building. If something had happened, and Mycroft had found out and had someone here within the space of a few heartbeats, Sherlock was not giving him enough credit.
"Right then," he said, unlocking his phone and sending John a quick text message to alert him that he would be late. He knew John would be disappointed, but the following day was Sunday, which John always had off, and now Sherlock did, too. The thought of lying in bed all day was appealing.
He followed the woman into the car and settled into the back seat beside her. She seemed unconcerned by his presence. Sherlock had always found women somewhat baffling; Molly's attention had gone unnoticed, but he had been saddened when she died, not least because of the circumstances. Tricia Remsen, John's old friend, enjoyed teasing him and seemed to genuinely appreciate his company, which was not common for Sherlock. This woman seemed bored, and he wondered if it was a disaffected attitude she was adopting, or if she disliked being Mycroft's errand girl, fetching his errant younger brother for him.
The car pulled out smoothly, the driver's face obscured by shadows, his presence removed from them by smoky glass.
The French woman lit a cigarette.
Sherlock stiffened without intending to and she misread his movement, perhaps deliberately.
"Would you like one?" she enquired.
"Always," Sherlock said. "But no. It's been three years."
She nodded vaguely, as if this information didn't matter, and did not put it out. They drove for ten minutes in silence, Sherlock keeping close track of where they were. In that time, she smoked two cigarettes, but he wasn't certain how, because she seemed to do so languidly, as if this also bored her.
They stopped abruptly on a side street just south of Burgess Park. Sherlock wondered why the cloak and dagger. Usually when Mycroft wanted to see him, he was taken to his brother's place or he visited the Baker Street Flat.
"Other side of the street, three cars down. He's waiting," she commented in the same bored, smooth tone. Sherlock got out quickly, taking a deep breath of the cool night air, both relieved and regretful to be out of the cigarette smoke. He was going to charge Mycroft to dry clean the jacket, because the smell was going to drive him mad, and John was going to have a fit.
He followed the woman's direction and found the car. Another driver stepped out smoothly and opened the back door for him. Sherlock shifted himself inside, keeping a wince to himself as his leg protested again. The driver closed the door noiselessly and got back in and Sherlock turned to see a man who was most definitely not Mycroft.
The younger man leaned forward, green eyes glinting momentarily in the light from a street lamp above. Sherlock noted the other car passing them down the street and then their car began to move, heading south.
Sam Waters looked different and smelled different. Rigid, more tense. Sherlock picked up the subtle scent of sweat; the man was not at all at ease, which was worrying. Each time Sherlock had seen him at the Yard after Mycroft had told him to stand down, the young constable had seemed utterly normal. Sherlock considered that Sam was an extremely gifted actor and was probably wasted in police life. He had missed his calling on the stage. But now that mask had dropped away somewhat, although the younger man's voice held steady when he spoke.
"Detective Holmes, I am sorry about this," he said. A small smile touched his lips. "You've upset quite a lot of people, accessing my file the way you did and having your brother check up on me. I've been wanting to speak to you for a while, but it took longer than I thought to get permission. And I apologize for the accommodations, I know they aren't the best, but they're the safest for me. If you give me some time, I can explain."