And When I Say 'Friend'

by GVBW

John's new life makes him long for his old and Sherlock's new beau makes John just...jealous! Takes place in a possible future universe after John and Mary's baby has arrived.

3. Chapter 3

"And When I Say 'Friend'..." Part 3

By GE Waldo

Rating: Mature but with some humour.

Pairing: John/Mary and Sherlock/OMC and eventually Johnlock.

Summary: John's new life makes him long for his old and Sherlock's new beau makes John just...jealous! Takes place in a possible future universe after John and Mary's baby has arrived.

Warning! Secondary character death!

Disclaimer: Not mine but a fantasy never hurt anyone.

Again - hastily edited. Forgive!

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH~!~!~!~!~!~!~SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

"Sherlock, what are we doing here?"

Sherlock had urged Anthony to wear a warm coat due to the weather forecast. He had explained the basics to him but, much like John, Anthony required details. "The case I told you about -"

"The one where the guy was running drugs out of his wife's hair salon?"

"Yes. Lestrade doubts my observations in this instance because the husband has been exceptionally careful not to arouse his naive wife's suspicions. As far as she understands it, he is a night watchman at a highly guarded government facility and has thus far kept her in the dark."

"So we're here in the dark to catch him in the act?" Anthony thought that was a bit dangerous. Criminals were likely to have guns and would not be too pleased to have their operation exposed.

As though Sherlock had read his thoughts, the sleuth added "We are here to observe and note the goings on. All I need is proof that Gerald Easby is moving product in and out of 'Mister Mario's' and it'll be enough for a warrant."

"Where's he hiding them, the drugs I mean?"

"These older establishments often have draughty basements the entrances usually boarded up. It would not have been too difficult for Gerald to have availed himself of the un-used storage area. In this case, I studied the original building plans and this one's basement has remained un-used since after its construction in the 1890's. His wife would be unlikely to venture into a damp outdated lower floor that was no doubt infested with rats." Sherlock raised a hand in warning. A small van without its headlamps shining approached the rear entrance across from which they were concealed behind a dust bin – the large industrial kind. Three figures could be seen exiting the vehicle carrying several small boxes each. Sherlock whispered "It is unlikely Missus Easby would have her salon chemicals delivered at such an hour but the locals would not know that." He pointed to a decal on the side of the white, mud-stained van. "You see?" Anthony's eye followed Sherlock's finger to a sign that read: 'Salon Surplus Inc.'

Sherlock whispered. "What could be simpler? Make or acquire a decal with such a generic name - certainly enough to fool the local residents into believing nothing usual was going on. Child's play! That is most definitely Gerald Easby and his partners-in-crime delivering his own product to his wife's salon in preparation for dealing. He may even have a small drug operation in there. The salon's own hair chemicals such as the ammonium thioglycolate and hydrogen peroxides used in the so-called 'permanents' would be sufficient to cover up any additional odor from a small cook."

"Really? How long does it take to make a street drug?"

"In as little as four hours. Plenty of time to cook, package the product and clean up well before his wife arrives to open the salon."

"Jesus." Anthony felt sweat break out on his forehead. It was both nerve-wracking and thrilling, being where they were, skulking around an alleyway waiting to catch a criminal red-handed. "But how are we going to prove it."

"We wait until they are all inside and busy, then we search the van for evidence."

"Don't we need a warrant?"

"Probably."

"What if they lock the van?"

Sherlock's lips turned up in one of his self confident smiles. Anthony thought there was little else in the world sexier than those lips. "Not to worry." Sherlock assured him.

Sherlock waited exactly eight minutes after the last of the three men had disappeared inside the salon's rear entrance before slipping out from his hiding place and making his way quickly to the van's side door, his right hand clasped in Anthony's left coat sleeve, urging him along. It was another four minutes before Sherlock managed to trip the door lock. Using a small pen-torch Sherlock began to rummage around inside the van's untidy interior. Momentarily in a hushed whisper - "Ha!" he exclaimed holding up a small bottle of chemical which label Anthony was unable to read in the narrow beam of the torch

The alleyway was suddenly lit up like an arena when other lights came on and someone shouted. "Hold it right there. You're all under arrest!"

Both Sherlock and Anthony spun, Anthony's heart in his throat, to confront a row of four figures standing in the dark beyond the blinding lights not twenty feet away. Then one of the figures stepped forward. "Oh bloody hell. Sherlock!"

Lestrade stepped closer, returning his issue weapon to his shoulder holster and waving at the others to do the same. In the over-bright beams of the officer's torches, the man Anthony now knew as DI Greg Lestrade. Sherlock frequently called him either 'Gavin' or 'Grant' (which was not the only name Sherlock tended to mix up – even people he proclaimed to know well. Once Anthony had asked him if he'd ever met Elizabeth II and Sherlock had looked at him as though he were a puzzle. "Who?" Sherlock had answered). He really did have an awful time with common names and places. Even things like holidays and public figures. It was a quirk of the genius detective Anthony found as endearing as it was surprising.

Lestrade, oblivious to Anthony's fond feelings over anything relating to the frustrating Sherlock Holmes, now appeared not only haggard but fuming! He threw up his arms in a grand gesture of futility. "What the bloody hell, Holmes?"

~!~!~

Anthony climbed the stairs to 221B after Sherlock. Closing the door to the sitting room, Anthony plopped down in the fabric chair by the hearth. "Wow, was he ever mad."

Sherlock poured them each two generous fingers of whiskey and handed one of the tumblers to Anthony. He sipped, shrugging. "He often is."

Sherlock's collection method, that had made the one bottle of crucial chemical liquid in the van in-admissible into evidence, did not seem to bother the sleuth. "But they won't be able to use it in court." Anthony insisted.

"How was I to know there would only be one bottle in the van? Besides Lestrade's team can take forensic scrapings from the carpet; fibers, prints, hair and DNA samples and so on. One would hope his team is competent enough for that."

Anthony swallowed down his whiskey. "Well, I'll say one thing, Sherlock Holmes - that was the most fun I've had in years."

Sherlock looked pleased.

Anthony fetched the whiskey bottle off the mantel and re-poured for each of them. "I have an idea. What do you say you and I go on a little holiday?"

Sherlock started. Speaking as though the concept was entirely new to him - "Holiday?" He asked. Then, as if needing to test out the word like it was foreign on his tongue and a stranger to his senses. "What sort of...holiday?"

"A trip." Anthony said, quite innocently believing that was enough clarification. He retook his seat but sitting forward, sipping his drink with enthusiasm. "Yeah. Maybe, I dunno', out to some resort area somewhere. Isn't Brighton supposed to be pretty this time of year?"

Sherlock was not enthusiastic. "You mean in the country?" Sherlock's face made it plain he considered it a ghastly idea. "It's November twenty-seventh, nothing in Britain is pretty this time of year. Brighton will be mostly mud."

"But if we find a nice little hotel somewhere, or an Inn, we don't have to spend our time outdoors. You know - good drink, good food, room with a fireplace and nice thick rug on the floor, big, soft bed..."

Sherlock stared. Oh. Anthony was suggesting a get-away. A romantic weekend. Not one where you were required to go traipsing up and down rain-soaked hills and admiring the fog shrouded cliffs but one where they would share...things. Where it would be just them. The two of them.

Together.

Romantically.

Kissing.

Fondling.

Most likely having sex.

Oh... Sherlock's brain did a flash freeze and then took another moment to consider the idea. It might be...interesting, actually, to spend time with Anthony in such a setting. Sherlock was even willing to use the word captivating. He had already experienced Anthony's kissing method, which was quite good. How might it be to experience other things with him? The thought of divesting himself of all his clothes and actually having full, very intimate, very physical sex with someone, left Sherlock a little breathless and tense.

Yet there was also anticipation, intrigue and...and...

His body suddenly provided its own answer to the idea with a sharp spike of heat low in his belly. A hot swell somewhere inside him that was separate from rational thought and the cool, precise rooms of his mind palace. A place inside him that was still wild and raw. "I think...well...that sounds acceptab –um - good. Yes...I - good."

Yes, just that. Quite good.

Lovely in fact. "But what about your business?" Sherlock held his breath, hoping Anthony would respond in the way he hoped he would.

Anthony ran a small, mildly profitable coffee shop in a middle class but still fashionable part of London. Anthony was hardly ever at the shop, leaving the running of it to his capable staff. Anthony was, in fact, semi-retired, which was agreeable since that afforded him plenty of free time to focus on Sherlock. Left him quite a lot of time which he used to visit Sherlock in his home, accompany him on cases whenever they proved interesting enough to leave the flat, have drinks with him after, or dinner as the mood struck and, more and more frequently, snog each other on the sofa for a good hour or so afterward. These facts did not displease Sherlock.

Sherlock hoped his question of practicalities had not derailed Anthony's idea. Please say we're still going. Pleasepleaseplease...

Anthony dismissed his coffee shop business with a wave of his hand. "It'll be fine Sherlock. I'm thinking of putting it up for sale anyway. Whaddya' say?"

With a feeling of enormous relief, Sherlock drained his glass. This trip would provide him with much more snogging, an activity at which Anthony excelled. Plus Anthony had promised him 'no pressure', though Sherlock wondered, and worried, quite regularly, when Anthony's patience in that regard might run out. Two months and three weeks of snogging and little else would have discouraged a lesser man, Sherlock thought. But Anthony was proving to be a rather exceptional one. Not quite as intriguing as Watson had been in their earlier acquaintance-ship, but certainly more willing to explore Sherlock's world than most others had ever been. 'Most' consisting of Victor in Uni and one other boy years prior to that. Neither had lasted beyond six weeks. But Anthony seemed not only to be sticking around, he wanted even more of Sherlock than anyone else had ever desired, including Watson.

As stupidly emotional as it was, it made him feel...warm. It made him feel good. About himself. "Yes. Let's do that."

Anthony's next words were not spoken but he made his meaning plain with his lips against Sherlock's.

And Sherlock understood perfectly.

~!~!~

Mary shifted the few groceries, milk and butter, bread and jam, coffee and a small bag of apples, in her right hand while she struggled to carry Elicia in her left. They hadn't yet managed to get a pram so for now she made do. Besides Elicia had been an angel in Tesco's and it was only a few blocks to the shop and back. All in all it was a pleasant day, too, for November so it was fine.

What was not fine was Mycroft's bloody black Bentley suddenly creeping alongside to her left. "Oh God, what does he want?" Personally she was not fond of Sherlock's older brother. Mycroft Holmes was a pompous arse. Plus whenever she was around him, she felt a little nervous. Sherlock had not told his older brother who has shot him and Mycroft had ceased to push him about it. He probably thinks he'll figure it out himself anyway she thought. Still, she didn't like to be reminded that she was on thin ice as far as her present life was concerned. If Mycroft Holmes found out it had been her...

That was not a comforting thought. She had, not intentionally but still it had resulted in it all the same, killed his little brother. Sherlock's heart had stopped. He had been dead and Mycroft Holmes was not a man to let the perpetrators of such an event lie. Had he figured it out? She'd likely already have a bullet in the brain if that were the case.

The car stopped and the door opened. Rolling her eyes, Mary stepped over to the darkened window. May as well find out what the posh buggar wants. The door opened and Mary climbed in.

~!~!~

Anthony inserted the key in the lock and turned it. Sherlock had given him a key to 221B just the previous week. It was like a badge of honour that. He felt a bit of pride that Sherlock trusted him to that extent.

Divesting himself of his coat - and shoes just to take the pressure off. New shoes. Not broken in yet. He should have worn his trainers instead of these polished leather, bloody hundred pound Dune Alex Lace-ups. What had he been thinking?

Anthony shook his head at himself. He'd been thinking that Sherlock always looked so well put together that he'd wanted to dress himself up a bit for him. Clearly and simply he'd wanted Sherlock to be pleased at his somewhat plain and ordinary boyfriend's change of attire. Idiotic of course but there it was. He should have been practical and settled for a good pair of brown brogues.

But no matter, it felt good to be home, well, here. Racing around the city with Sherlock was a grand time, no doubt about it, but he was pushing his mid-forties and that sort of thing was a younger man's game. Not that he was old. Not precisely. Just in need of a good night's sleep and a proper breakfast tomorrow and Sherlock had promised him both, insisting he stay at the more central flat while he wrapped up yet another investigation at the Yard, where he'd be most of the night.

Anthony was looking forward to sleeping in Sherlock's bed, even if Sherlock was not also going to be in it. He wondered what it smelled like? Undoubtedly like vanilla shampoo and expensive cologne and dry cleaned, freshly pressed suits. It would smell like Sherlock.

One decent sleep and he can resume running all over London with the charismatic and sexy Sherlock Holmes. His boyfriend. He had not mentioned the word to Sherlock of course (the detective was still a little nervous over the idea, like a spooked buck). Anthony chuckled to himself. He was not an impatient man and knew a good thing when he saw it, and Sherlock Holmes was a very good thing. Good for him. And he liked to think that he was good for Sherlock too. Sherlock needed someone to watch his back (and to stroke his front whenever possible).

The previous night but one he'd taken Sherlock in hand and spoke to him about it. Anthony suspected that Sherlock had grown so used to living in isolation that the idea of being touched made his skin crawl a little. Or that possibly Sherlock was a bit on the spectrum. He'd read a bit about that. Sherlock seemed to dislike a touch that as too tentative, too soft. But Anthony had noticed that if his hands were firm against his skin, if he held Sherlock tightly then the sleuth had all but melted beneath his fingers. It had been a terrifically satisfying revelation. Sex was not going to be a problem if he took the lead and did it in a steadfast way; without hesitation or doubt. Because he was convinced that Sherlock would be able to pick up on any vacillation in an instant.

The trip to Brighton was going to be fabulous.

Anthony stooped to stir the coals in the fire but the blaze they'd had the previous afternoon was, of course, now stone cold in the grate. A small creak, like a foot on a stairwell, made him turn his head.

Once he got over the surprise of seeing a stranger in Sherlock's sitting room, Anthony began to observe as Sherlock had been teaching him. She was dressed in grey joggers and a terrycloth jumper. Her hair was pulled back from her face in a tight bun and she wore dark glasses. Too dark for indoors. How could she see anything in the dim sitting room of 221B? The curtains were drawn. There was only a single lamp on in the corner. He could make out no facial features at all although she seemed a bit...familiar? A pale woman, perhaps five foot four or so. She had a scarf covering her hair. And she wore trainers. Black trainers.

One of Sherlock's clients? Or one of the street people Sherlock often talked about? "May I help you?" He offered, not knowing what else to say. May as well be courteous.

"Oh shit. Goddamn bloody shit." She whispered.

Her cheeks shone wet in the dusk of the room. She'd been crying. Anthony was about to ask her what she meant and what was wrong and why she was there when she raised her arm, pointing it straight at him.

In her hand was a gun. Small caliber. Not a loud weapon. Meant for an up close and personal kill. She breathed out a long sigh and said "I'm sorry. Truly I am."

And fired.

~!~!~

John bounded up the stairs and, rounding the landing, almost ran directly into Lestrade. He was barking instructions into his phone and his face was a bit thunderous because the person on the other end wasn't listening as closely as the DI would like. 'No. I said send me O'Neil – because he bloody doesn't trade insults. Yes, now."

Lestrade hung up and motioned John to stand aside as two Ambulance Techs manoeuvred a stretcher up the stairs. "John. Did Sherlock call you?"

He shook his head. "Mrs. Hudson."

Lestrade nodded. "Yeah, she found the body."

"Is Sherlock upstairs?"

"Yeah. He's insisting on helping and I've already explained to him that he can't."

John nodded, anxious to get to Sherlock but wanting to be brought at least partly up to speed before he did. "What happened?"

"She found him. Was looking for Sherlock to give him something; baking I think. Called 999 and then me. I called Sherlock."

"Shitty."

Lestrade nodded. It was, again, a late evening for the Deputy Inspector, and he looked strung out. "Was he and Sherlock -?"

"I think so." John nodded again. They Were. "Yeah."

"Shit." Lestrade climbed the steps and John followed. Greg jerked a thumb down the hall towards Sherlock's bedroom. "He's in there."

John knocked softly on the door and opened it, not waiting for a reply. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock spun on him. He was not to any appearances grieving, although with Sherlock, that could be a deception. His large hands in fists and thrust deeply into trouser pockets - "John!" he exclaimed when he saw him. "Good. You're here." He nodded a profoundly unhappy sneer in the direction of the sitting room. "Perhaps you can talk some sense into these imbeciles. I'm the perfect man to solve this. I knew Anthony. Who better to catch his killer than the one who knew him best?"

John had no argument to that but he also knew it was not going to happen. "Lestrade's hands are tied Sherlock. Anthony was your - you can't be involved."

Sherlock shrugged off the words that had already been repeated to him a half dozen different ways by a rumpled Lestrade. "I don't need their permission. I can look into it on my own. I will."

John blew out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding. "Can we, um, can we sit down please?"

Sherlock stared at the edge of the bed as though it were an alien object. "If you must," He sniffed.

John took Sherlock's elbow and walked him to the bed with mere finger pressure. "Please, Sherlock. Come on - just sit down for a moment please."

Sherlock let out a heavy sigh and did as asked. "Is this where you tell me that it's okay to cry or some such sentiment?"

John rolled his eyes. "No, this is where we sit and talk about what you're going to do, and not going to do, over the next few days. And you are not going to interfere with this investigation."

"This was an execution. Someone put a gun to Anthony's head and fired. Point blank. A shot to the centre of his forehead, John. It was a calculated, deliberate execution. And he saw. He knew." Sherlock's voice got louder as he spoke. "He knew who it was. I'm sure of it. Anthony -" It was then his words faltered and he swallowed hard, several times before continuing. "He did not deserve this. He was..." Swallow. "He was a non-violent man." Again his voice-box went dry. A hard lump had lodged itself deep inside and would not shift.

John stared sadly at his friend. "I know he was a good man."

Sherlock whispered, not convinced. "Ridiculous. You hardly knew him."

"But he was still a good man."

Sherlock looked at the dusty wood flooring. At his hands and his shoes. Not at John sitting next to him. "How could you possible know that?"

"Because I know you." John hesitated but then decided to ask. He had speculated about it. "You loved him, yes?"

Sherlock snorted. A scoff but not yet a denial. Finally after a moment he shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. He...we...I've never..." A smaller shrug and he shook his head a bit. "Maybe..."

"I'm very sorry Sherlock." John looked around at the unmade bed. He noticed an unfamiliar coat hung on the hook beside Sherlock's bedroom door. Brown suede with sheepskin lining. Anthony's. Had to be. It was not one of John's old forgotten ones left behind when he'd moved out and not at all Sherlock' style. "I'd like to stay here, overnight, if that's all right?"

Sherlock nodded. "You don't have to ask, John. You don't ever have to ask."

~!~!~

Later, once the room had been cleared (despite John's insistence that Sherlock not be in the room when they placed Anthony's body in a bag and hauled it down the stairs into the waiting ambulance, Sherlock was present for every moment. John worried that Sherlock was trying to glean what details he could from the scene before it was made useless), John poured each of them four fingers of single malt and urged Sherlock to sit in front of the fire. Sherlock joked about an orange blanket and why wasn't John wrapping him head to foot in one.

"Whether you're willing to admit it or not, Sherlock, you've just had a serious shock. Now do what your doctor orders and drink that."

Sherlock stared into his glass. "We were going to go to Brighton."

John swallowed hard. Yes, he'd thought as much. Not that he'd known about Brighton exactly, simply that Sherlock and Anthony had grown much closer of late. John had hardly seen either of them. Not for weeks. And Sherlock, the few times they'd spoken, had sounded good. Even happy. As news went, plans for Brighton, a holiday together, wasn't all that surprising. "Oh?" He did not know what to say or how to phrase his curiosity without seeming morbid or nosey so he feigned ignorance. "You were?"

Just the barest fraction of a nod. "Yes, he and I, we...he booked it last week." Sherlock's face twisted a little at that and John knew the walls were falling. Still what a silent tumbling it was, the crumbling of his friend's defenses rolled gently to the earth, stirring up hardly any dust at all. Orderly. Controlled, even in this. Even in sorrow, as ever he was, poised. Elegant.

John wondered if he walked those few feet between their chairs and took him in his arms, would Sherlock allow it? Would John be able to put his arms around him and hold fast? "I'm here, Sherlock, for whatever you need."

Sherlock finished his drink and for a moment stared at John's kind face across the few feet of dust-filled air. Then he placed his glass on the arm of his chair, muttered goodnight and retired to his room, closing the door behind him.

In his room, Sherlock divested himself of his suit jacket, shirt and trousers. Then his eye fell upon Anthony's favorite winter coat and he took it down, meaning to thrust it into the back of his closet on the floor, willing himself to forget about it. He would get rid of it later.

Instead he sat on the edge of his bed and buried his nose in it. It still smelled of him. It smelled of running through the streets of London. It smelled of Anthony's mid-priced after-shave and his sweat. It smelled of laughter and kissing and hope. It smelled of a life particular to Anthony Orest Williams. A good life. A life he almost got to share. One that had almost been theirs.

Theirs. Almost, almost...

~!~

John sat up for a while and then quietly walked to Sherlock's bedroom door in his socked feet. Silently, in case Sherlock was asleep. The light was not on beneath the door crack but John heard something. A high pitched whine interlaced with soft gasps and all heavily muffled by something, as though Sherlock was breathing into a pillow, stifling his noises. Still, it was clear.

Sherlock was crying.

John leaned his head against the door, wishing he had the courage to let himself in. But he had no idea how Sherlock might react. And he deserved his privacy, didn't he? If that's what he wanted.

I'm so sorry, my friend. I'm so, so very sorry...

~!~!~!~!~