I'm glad you guys like it so far. Here's chapter three!
John thought there had to be something wrong with the way he looked at Sherlock. It felt like a voice in his head told him to keep staring, to keep watching him move. Sherlock moved like a dancer; he moved like there was music playing in his head, something only Sherlock could hear, but everyone noticed. Or, John hoped they didn't notice. He wanted this all to himself, and how sad was that? Eventually, some horrible day that John hoped was far in the future, he'd bury this man.
When Sherlock finally flew out of the crime scene, John sighed in relief. He shouldn't feel this way about just another job.
He didn't bother catching a cab; the flat was close enough that he could walk without too much discomfort. John had some leftover adrenaline from rushing to the crime scene. From the bottom of his heart, John hoped he didn't bump into anyone he knew. He couldn't face them, not like this.
The first sign of something strange was when all the phones he passed began to ring. A man inside a bakery picked one up, but there wasn't any answer. John had heard of things like this; Moriarty talked about one of his dear friends who kidnapped people in black cars after threatening them over the phone. It sounded as if Moriarty enjoyed this person, but whenever he told the story, he hugged John close and reassured him that he would always be Moriarty's favorite. It ate away at John, he knew it. Little gestures like that would take John away forever.
He wondered if Moriarty's obsession with him would ever subside. He also wondered if his obsession with Moriarty would go. John tended to laugh after thinking about this.
When the phone box next to him rang, the fifth phone in a row, John stepped inside the red box and answered it. "Hello?"
The mysterious person didn't reply, so he tried again. "Hello?"
"Dr. John Watson. Captain."
"That's me. Who are you and what do you want with me?"
"Get into the car, John. I don't think I need to make my request any clearer." The truth was that John really was just curious. If his boss thought that much of this friend of his, John wanted to see him. His voice was smooth and almost oily, a far cry from Sherlock's wonky accent. He hung up the phone as the car drove up. Black.
The woman inside wouldn't give him a second glance, so John just shrugged and stayed silent through the remainder of the drive. Of course, the mysterious bloke wanted to meet in an abandoned warehouse. Ooh, so scary. He was practically trembling in his boots. Having Moriarty as a regular addition to his social life made him immune to this sort of thing. It was boring, overdone, and frankly, this man could do better.
The man leaned against a chair, a smirk flitting briefly across his face as John exited the car. "So, this is what Moriarty's pet looks like. I have to say I'm impressed."
John snorted. "I'm not. A warehouse, really? James used to have taste."
With a look like he'd stepped in shit, the man raised an eyebrow. "And you're any more tasteful than I am? You, John Watson, are effectively an addict that Moriarty keeps around for the exact purpose of using for his dirty work. Since you get paid for it, you're more of a cheap whore than anything else."
"And what are you? You look to me like one of those higher-ups with the intent of scorning people not like yourself, but when you need someone like me, you come on your hands and knees, begging me with money and prestige. You're no better than I am, dear." John never let his gaze leave the other man's. He decided that he liked being Moriarty's favorite, since it kept him away from people like this. He'd known people exactly the same as this guy in the army; he'd hated them then, and he hated them now.
"If you have nothing more to say to me, I'd appreciate it if you drove me home." John started walking back to the car, not looking back for anything.
"I do actually have more to say to you." The man seemed to have gotten over his momentary lapse in speech.
It was John's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Do tell. Are you going to insult me more?"
"I don't believe so, unless you particularly deserve it." The man took a breath and glanced over at a small pocketbook that had materialized in his hand. "You've acquired a new residence, if I'm not mistaken."
"What's it to you? Is James worried about me again?" John smirked. He loved how he could take control of situations that other couldn't. This man probably scared the living shit out of people, but honestly, John was having a grand old time right here.
"No. Actually, the worry is directed toward your flatmate, a Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
John stiffened. "What about him?"
"You just met, didn't you?"
"Yes, we met maybe a day and a half ago."
"And now you're moving in together? Should James and I be expecting a happy announcement by the end of the week?"
John shook his head. "It's nothing like that. He and I had a mutual need for a new place to live, and I quite enjoy spending time with the bloke."
A corner of the man's lip turned up in derision. "You really are a cheap whore." He put away his pocketbook and opened his umbrella, which John had catalogued a few minutes ago as a potential weapon. "You can go home now, John. I've had enough of you to last a lifetime, and it's a shame that Moriarty likes you, otherwise you'd be a splotch on the concrete. Enjoy your time with Sherlock Holmes." He waved cheerfully and walked away, straight out of the warehouse without looking back.
John rolled his eyes. They all had to be so dramatic. Of course, he could be observing that to draw his attention away from the way the man had looked at him in reference to Sherlock. The idea that he would use Sherlock like that was disgusting, but John knew that was what he'd end up doing. He'd use Sherlock, and then he'd be gone. And John would have the money and missing soul to prove it.
The black car and the woman inside of it drove off after dropping John off at the flat that he already thought of as home. He climbed the steps, and not hearing anything from inside, opened the door to 221B quietly. Sherlock might have been asleep.
But he wasn't. Sherlock had neatly sprawled himself over the couch, hands poised under his chin like he was praying. His eyes were closed and his breathing was quiet, but there were nicotine patches on his arm, so John knew he had to be awake.
"Sherlock? I met a friend of yours, well, an enemy of yours."
"Did he offer you money?" he asked back, still not opening his eyes.
John thought for a moment. "No, he didn't offer me money. He actually seemed to dislike the idea of giving me money."
Sherlock flashed open the eye closest to John, but then shut it again. "That's strange. He must be changing tactics."
"So, this happens a lot then?" John could imagine that. The man was known for kidnapping in Moriarty's circle.
"Every person I meet, it happens. It's a shame though; if you had said yes to the money, we'd have an easier time paying the rent."
"Well, next time I see him, I'll ask for cash. How's that?" John smiled at Sherlock.
Sherlock opened both eyes and sat up quickly, focusing on John's pocket. "I need to borrow your phone."
"Again?"
The other man glared at him. "Yes, again. Now, give me it before I steal it. I am quite adept at stealing things."
John smirked, pulling the phone from his pocket and handing to Sherlock. "That doesn't surprise me."
While Sherlock tapped away on his keyboard, John drifted into the kitchen to make tea. He found a lot of strange things in the cupboards, namely eyeballs, pickled something-or-other, chocolate biscuits, and finally, some chamomile tea. John tried to pull the box down, but the height was just unfortunate enough that he couldn't reach it. He looked around for a stepstool or possibly a chair, but the only chairs were in the sitting room. John huffed and turned around to find Sherlock standing just behind him, perhaps only a few centimeters away. He took in a quick breath, then settled and asked, "The tea up there. Could you get it for me, please?"
Sherlock wordlessly reached up over John's head and grabbed the box of tea, never straying from John's gaze. The two of them were so close, and John hated this because it meant...well, it meant things he didn't want to think about. He could hear James laughing at them both in the background.
"Thank you," John managed to say. They looked at each other for a little while longer, but then the moment was broken.
"I texted the killer with your phone, you know."
John jumped, nearly dropping the box. "Damn it! Couldn't you have used your own phone for that?"
"My number is on my website, and possibly could be recognized." Sherlock just wouldn't back down, would he? John definitely liked that.
"Fine then. Are you and I and he or she going to have it out in a pub then? Or perhaps we're going to fight all civilized, like in a park or something." John had killed someone in a park once. Nice guy, bit of a nervous habit with his ring. John buried him under a bench there, careful to use gloves like Moriarty taught him. The digging of the grave gave him blisters for weeks.
"No. Actually we're not meeting him at all. He's going to be across the street from us." Sherlock folded his arms. "If you want to keep making tea, you're welcome to, but I'm going."
John just stood there with the tea in one hand and the teapot in the other for a few seconds, and then swore, grabbing his gun and dropping everything he had been previously holding.
Before the killer showed up, John got a phone call, loudly and in the middle of the restaurant. He looked at the ID and shivered. James could really pick the times, couldn't he?
"Hey. This is a bad time, I'm super busy." John motioned to Sherlock that he'd be outside to finish the call, and he just continued picking at the food John had ordered for him. He could barely believe Sherlock didn't eat while on a case. It was ridiculous, and frankly, a fair bit stupid.
"I know you are, darling. That's why I'll make this fast." James paused. "Mikey doesn't like you at all, but I don't like him, so I applaud you." He laughed happily. "It normally takes so much to piss him off, but you're a natural!"
"Was it your idea for us to meet?" John asked quietly.
"Lord, no. I despise that man. And he called you a whore." Suddenly Moriarty's voice went dangerously soft. "I'm sorry he did that. I'll make him really pay, just you wait."
"You don't have to, James. I think I scarred him enough for one day." John's smile was back.
"Indeed you did! I've never seen anything like it in all the years we've done business."
John whispered, "Does he know about the mission?"
"Darling, of course not. Only you and I know about the mission," James reassured, and his Irish accent drew its fingers silkily over John's jawline. He could feel them.
He waited a little while before saying his goodbye, and James didn't hang up first, which was a change John didn't think he welcomed. John headed back inside the restaurant feeling no less uneasy than he did walking out. Sherlock looked as though he hadn't moved a muscle, but John knew he had to have.
"Sorry about that." John knew not to add any more details, because Sherlock would pick his lies apart as quickly as Moran did jobs.
"It's alright. The killer won't be here for another six and a half minutes, after all." Offering no explanation as to how he knew that, Sherlock fell silent, staring out the window. It was then that the enthusiastic server came back to the table, holding another candle.
"We really don't need that," John said. He didn't want Sherlock to freak out on him and leave.
The server didn't even argue, but he left the candle when he took Sherlock's plate. "I tried telling him we're not on a date, but he won't listen to me," John told Sherlock apologetically.
"I don't mind."
John did a double take. "You don't mind?"
"I don't mind. I haven't been on a date in a long time."
"No girlfriend, then?"
"Not really my area."
"Boyfriend?"
Sherlock stared through him like he could see John's fragmented soul. But that was irrational. "I'm flattered by your interest, John, really I am, however..." he trailed off, and those piercing eyes focused on a cab outside the window. "The killer is right there, and we have to catch him." And he ran from the restaurant, John barely keeping up behind him.
True, John thought to himself, the killer is right here, but you don't see him.
I would love reviews, guys. Seriously, I would.
