Waking up was a lot more pleasant than falling asleep. It seemed that his brain had gotten a little more used to the new connections while he was resting, and his agonizing headache had lessened to a mild pain by the time he got out of bed. But that didn't make him any happier. Sherlock threw his dressing gown around himself and stalked out of his room, planning to yell at John for using such an underhanded trick to get him into bed before sulking for a while to make sure his point was truly taken. He stopped short, however, when he saw who was sitting in the room with his soul mate and instead groaned audibly.
"Isn't it customary to wait for an invitation before dropping in on the newly bonded?" he demanded.
"Yes, but in your case that invitation would never come," said Mycroft, sipping at a cup of tea.
Why did you give him tea? Sherlock whined mentally, glaring at his brother. Now we'll never get rid of him.
John sighed. Be nice, Sherlock. He and Lestrade were concerned about you.
Mycroft glanced back and forth between them, clearly sensing that a silent conversation was going on. He looked fascinated. Sherlock glared at him harder and threw himself down in his chair, curling up like a little kid. Already it was evident that he and John shared a stronger bond than most soul mates. Some of them couldn't even sense emotions, much less actually speak mentally. Lestrade and Mycroft could talk mentally, but they had to be within a certain distance of each other. It would be an interesting experiment to test how far his and John's connection could stretch, but that would have to be put aside until later.
I don't want him here, John. My head hurts. He bit his lip. It wasn't entirely a lie. The sunlight pouring in through the window was making his eyes ache, which was setting off a painful, dull throbbing in his temples.
Sherlock... John looked at him carefully and then winced as some of Sherlock's pain began spilling over. "Alright, Mycroft, you can see that Sherlock and I are both fine. If you want to have a social visit, it's going to have to wait for another day. We're both very tired."
Against John's pleasant but firm dismissal, Mycroft had no argument. He'd gotten what he had come for, after all. "I'll be on my way, then. Sherlock, I'd like to speak with you later."
"Piss off," Sherlock muttered into his dressing robe.
He heard Mycroft leave and then John began puttering around. A phantom pain bloomed in Sherlock's thigh and shoulder and he realized that John's injury and psychosomatic limp must have been acting up. John sighed at the thought and then drew the curtains across the windows, shrouding the room in more comfortable darkness. Moments later, warm hands touched Sherlock's head, rubbing gently at his scalp. It was something John had never done for him and he was surprised at how much it helped, soothing the building tension and forcing his tense muscles to relax.
"I am a doctor, you know," John said, sounding amused. "I know about these kinds of things. Besides, I read that the touch of your... your mate can help with pain." He stuttered ever so slightly in saying the word. "Sherlock, we need to talk about this."
"No, we don't."
"Yes, we do."
"Fine, let's talk about you making me sleep," Sherlock snapped, lifting his head. "Aren't there rules about that kind of thing?"
John's mouth twitched. He kept his hands on Sherlock's head, though the soothing rubbing stopped. Sherlock pouted and couldn't resist tilting his head a little, trying to get John to resume. When a thought from John that he was acting like a kitten slipped into Sherlock's head, he started to pull back, but John cupped the back of his neck to prevent him.
Don't. Don't, Sherlock. You don't need to hide anything from me. This changes nothing. I was always going to stay with you even before this happened. I need you, you great git. It was easier to say those kinds of things mentally than out loud. I know this isn't what you were intending. It'll be hard. I'm sure some days I'm going to want to punch you. But I'm not going anywhere. So don't pull away from me, okay?
I make no promises, Sherlock replied grudgingly, but he allowed the massage to continue.
Lestrade called on them the next morning. Neither of them had left the flat the previous day and Sherlock could feel John's apprehensiveness like an annoying itch at the back of his mind as Lestrade took the stairs two at a time. He drew his bow over the top of his violin and didn't bother to turn around as Lestrade appeared in the doorway.
"Good morning, John," Lestrade said. "Sherlock."
"Inspector," John replied. "Would you like a cup of tea?"
"No time. Sherlock, there's been another one."
Another one. Interesting. Sherlock twisted, taking Lestrade in calmly. The man's suit was ruffled (he hadn't been home in a while, possibly two to three days). The skin around his ring was agitated from twisting (Mycroft was annoyed). There was mud on the bottom of his trousers (the scene was on the west side of London where it had rained for exactly twenty-two minutes this morning). He was looking anxiously at Sherlock...
"Anderson again?" Sherlock complained. "You know he doesn't work well with me."
Lestrade sighed. "I'm not even going to pretend to know how you know that. Please, Sherlock. I know it's customary to give newly bonded a few days in peace but we desperately need your help with this. This is the fourth body in as many days and I really don't want to wake up to number five tomorrow."
Concern radiated from John as he walked back out of the kitchen balancing three cups of tea. Though he didn't know Lestrade that well, he'd come to the conclusion that the man was a friend of Sherlock's - acquaintance, John - and thus an ally. "You don't have anything to go on?"
"No. Crime Scene's doing what they can, but..." Lestrade accepted the tea with fingers that shook (caffeine and nicotine withdrawal). "Sherlock, will you come?"
"We'll follow," Sherlock said, turning back to the window. There was no need to ask where the scene was. He recognized the colour of the mud smeared on Lestrade's pants, could narrow it down to a fairly specific area, and from there the crime scene would be evident. John's eyes flicked towards him as those rapid-fire thoughts shot through both of their heads and there was a swelling of amazement. Sherlock drew his bow across his violin a touch too harshly.
"Thank you. Oh, and congratulations," Lestrade added with a small smile, downing the too hot tea in one gulp. He grimaced and set the cup down before hurrying out of the apartment.
Have you got anything yet? John inquired, moving to pick up the empty cup.
"No," Sherlock muttered. What little he'd been able to observe of the previous scene had been nearly wiped out in the wake of the agony of new connections forming. Fortunate that it would only ever happen once; it was such an annoyance.
John gave him a fondly exasperated look and shook his head. "If it helps, you're not quite what I had imagined, either."
"Why would that help?"
He chuckled. "Come on, Sherlock. Let's go before Lestrade comes back."
Sherlock frowned but set his violin down as John tossed him his coat. He still wasn't sure how he felt about John being able to hear his every thought or feel what he was feeling. It certainly threw a wrench into his carefully constructed high-functioning sociopath guise. Humanity as a whole tended to believe there was something inherently wrong with those who didn't have soul mates, especially those who had stopped searching. He'd built upon that belief for years, using it to add layers to keep people away. Now it was falling apart and that was... something entirely unexpected.
John was entirely unexpected.
The two of them went down the stairs and past Mrs Hudson's door. John turned to look back and Sherlock knew what was coming before he'd even asked.
"She and her husband were soul mates but the connection between them was very frayed," he said bluntly, raising a hand to summon a cab. "When the man was executed, it caused her some pain but not enough to cause death."
"I figured," John muttered. "I saw a few cases like that in medical school. I always wondered what it meant, that their connections could be so worn." His head rose and their eyes met, and for a moment, the same thought rang between them. What would happen if one of them died?
Sherlock looked away first, unable to deal with the flood of bewildering terror and panic, and climbed into the cab without looking back.
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