Break the Silence and Tell

by NeueHaasGrotesk

John, ex-magical researcher thought he had left it all behind when he was rendered a mute by an experiment, but a letter from a man named Sherlock Holmes changes all of that. With impossible potions and an impossible man, what else comes next? AU.

4. An Impossible Man

Chapter Three: An impossible man

Title: Break the Silence and Tell
Pairing: Eventual Sherlock/John, Mycroft/John and Mycroft/Moriarty
Rating: PG-13 ( Eventual NC-17 )
Genre: AU, Drama, Angst, Fantasy
Warning: Eventual emotional abuse
Word Count: 7755

Beta: ice-evanesco

Summary: John, ex-magical researcher thought he had left it all behind when he was rendered a mute by an experiment, but a letter from a man named Sherlock Holmes changes all of that. An impossible potion, an equally impossible man, and the man who rules Related Londons - what else could be next?

Disclaimer: Do not own Sherlock. It belongs to the lovely ACD and Moftiss.

A/N: I've been having a rather difficult week, so I apologize for disparities and bad writing. Fairly long chapter ahead, I also had fun coming up with the theories about the fishies and peg behavior. It was also real difficult pinning down every little move Sherlock does. He moves too much when he's thinking. And Sherlock you sneaky man don't tease your potions master. Things should be progressing a little fast from here onwards, but Chapter 4 will also be another highly difficult chapter to write. Reviews would be much appreciated. GERONIMO.

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"It has been two weeks, three days, seven hours and twenty-six minutes since I first contracted you for this, and all you have to show for it is three bottles, some notes and a melted cauldron. It's dismal. What do you have to say for yourself?"

John gaped, his grip tightening on the vial that held his Airfish before remembering how to breathe, drawing in much needed oxygen in a silent gasp, his heart hammering away in his ribcage from the shock of having someone appear so suddenly in his living room that hadn't had a visitor in years. Stupidly, he looked at the door, then at the stranger, who narrowed his piercing eyes at him, and tilted his head back a little, just enough to look disdainful, his lips pressed together in a straight thin line.

"I have exactly seven more minutes before I have to leave. I would be immensely indebted to you if you would choose to speak any time within these seven minutes." The stranger said coldly, watching John, who was busy spluttering soundlessly at him, and gesturing with his free hand now and then, before he looked at the vial in his hand, and set it down, before pointing to the door with a finger, expression furious. If anything, the stranger seemed to look even more scornful, his lips twisting into a sneer. "Your attempts at protecting your property are dismal at best. The lock on the door is hardly secure enough for a person living in this area of town. The ward is almost non-existent and likely didn't function, considering that I entered your house twelve minutes before you returned." he paused, eyes sweeping over the living room area. "Fortunately for you, there is hardly anything of value in your possession."

John reddened, knowing what it must look like, and turned back into the kitchen to grab the notepad and pen that he kept in there for writing up the weekly grocery lists and stomped back, scribbling on the paper furiously, the nib of the pen almost tearing it, before ripping it off and brandishing it into the stranger's face.

Sherlock's eyes nearly crossed looking at the paper that was a mere inch from his eyes, and he leaned back a little to read the words. "I am your employer, obviously. Sherlock Holmes. 'Get out of my house?' No, I will not leave until I have some explanation for your thus unsatisfactory performance."

John couldn't help but splutter once more at the stranger- no, Sherlock Holmes, standing in the middle of his shabby living room, looking as incongruous as a giraffe in an English garden, and yet as arrogant as a man could be. He was tall, almost gawky, all legs and sharp elbows and elegant wrists with his ankles and long arms. The monochromic black of his outfit eased the awkwardness somewhat, however, a light blue scarf around his throat completing the get-up, setting off his light blue eyes giving an illusion of them having an almost ethereal piercing glow. However awkward he had first seemed to be, the fluid grace and ease in his every slightest movement banished it away. He looked almost impossible, fae and ethereal, like a changeling dropped into his life complete with striking cheekbones and curly jet black hair.

Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock bloody Holmes, an impossible name to match the equally impossible person that stood before him. He was pacing now, back and forth and only a few steps in between, not that there was much space that the living room had on offer for pacing. "Well?" he demanded, impatiently.

The blonde potions master continued to splutter at him for a few seconds more before he caught himself, a pained expression flashing briefly across his face, and looking tired and exasperated now, scribbled another line across his note pad, and turned it out to Holmes for him to read. I sent you the progress updates only just yesterday.

"If you call that progress, I don't know what your definition of procrastination is, Watson." Holmes rolled his eyes, and folded his arms across his chest, drawing himself up taller. "Surely that isn't the sort of pace you use for your research work. Three vials and a five page report isn't enough. I said I needed it urgently and I do mean urgently."

There was the sound of a cheap ball point scratching across equally cheap paper. If you know just what the average amount of time that is needed to create a new potion, one that the market has never heard or seen of before, much less one as complicated as that you have requested and so urgently need, then you will know that it may take at least months, and even up to years to complete. Of course, if you wish to employ someone else, that is entirely up to you, but this is exactly what I am offering you, and I have the confidence that I am able to produce the results that you want.

The man sucked in a deep breath, looking as though he was drawing on patience that John was pretty certain was as scarce as water in a desert. "I was assured of your speed by My- by a most reliable source," he said carefully. "I expected it to be done within weeks or days. It cannot be months or years, for your potion will be used in an important court case. I want- I need you to put aside all other work and make this your top priority above all else. I will reimburse you for any losses that you incur due to this request, of course."

John gave him an indescribable look, a frown furrowing his brow, and touched the pen to the note pad again. He hated communicating with people this way, unable to put down everything that he wanted to say on paper in the short time that people would patiently wait for a reply from him. Coupled with the fact that Holmes had also caught him yelling at him voicelessly to get out, he wanted him gone as soon it was politely possible. Don't be ridiculous. Potions need time. They aren't just slapped together and put over a fire to [ hastily crossed out scribbles ] need testing [ more strikes across indecipherable scribbles ]The earliest possible time that it would be ready would be another month more, maybe two, and that is with good progress without hindrance or complications.

Consideration came into Holmes' face, the man turning away briefly, before focusing back on John once more. "A month," he said finally, quietly. "A month is acceptable, but two would be pushing it. Beyond that and the court will treat it as a cold case and discard it and that is simply not acceptable."

John nodded, and raised the note pad again. A month, then, if we continue to be optimistic about progress. More data would help, too. I need more data than just PTSD to continue if I need to fine tune the potion to suit the sort of memory that we are trying to retrieve. You're welcome to drop by to check on it so long as you not pick my lock again. This was the best he could offer Holmes. Of course, he was still welcome to seek out others for the job, though he was very certain that no one else could provide the expertise that he could, or the dedication. If Holmes wanted a job half-arsed, then by all means.

Holmes nodded curtly, drawing out a pocket watch from one the pockets in his sleek black coat, flipping the silver lid inscribed with words open, frowning at it. "Very well, I will furnish you with the specifics of the situation on the next visit," he said, snapping it closed, and slipping it back into his pocket, and straightened, drawing himself up taller. "I really must leave. Two minutes and thirty-seven seconds behind time. Try to be more time efficient in the future, Mr. Watson." And with a rather undecipherable parting look, he was out of John's living room with a brisk swirl of his black coat, leaving John blinking at the sudden vacated space in the middle of it, a sentence half finished on his notepad, the man having left as suddenly as he had come. He stood there in silence for a second or two, before crumpling up all the paper that he had written on into little balls, and tossed them into the air with a sharp angled gesture, setting them on fire, unable to decide between being indignant or amused, and settled on feeling rather confused.

Considerably riled, John put his Airfish back onto its shelf where it was safe from the danger of being dropped and smashed with the terrifying notion of losing an alphabet or two, before picking up his new copper cauldron and moving it into his potions lab, quietly puffing. Before, he had been aiming for a quiet day away from Holmes' potion problem, but it seemed that was impossible now. He had wanted some space to perhaps gain a new vantage on the solution, but he didn't need that now, not after the whole affair of Holmes breaking into his house in a flurry of sharp words and sentences, all of them uninvited. The man was swift and merciless with his words, and probably used to getting his own way, if his attitude was any indication to go by. The man posed a challenge in himself, but not entirely unreasonable if John was willing to overlook the intrusion into his house. He never had anyone break into his house to tell him that he was doing a rather shoddy job before, but then he also never had anyone contact him to create a new, complicated potion before. First times for everything, John thought to himself, lighting the fire beneath the cauldron and pouring in one of his pre-brewed potions. If incompetence was what Holmes was challenging him with, well, he simply just had to show him, and it was with this newfound determination that John continued his work in his potions lab for the rest of the day as well as most of the next.

The second time Sherlock Holmes visited, he did not even have the decency to stick to the normal daytime visiting hours that most people would abide to - either in the afternoon, or the early evening. Instead, he strode down the darkened streets, collar turned up to keep out the damp fingers of the fog that swirled heavily before him hours after midnight, a dramatic figure dressed in black. He paused before John's door, a pale hand slipping into his pocket to retrieve his trusty paper clip, before pausing, giving the door and the dark windows a considering look, and tapped quietly on the door. When thirty seconds had gone by and there was no answering sound from within, he bent down and swiftly made quick work of the lock once more, whispering softly once, and slipped unseen into the welcoming warmth of Watson's home.

It was dark inside, and it took his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the darkness as he quietly shut the door behind him. The living room was considerably more cluttered than the last time, and he took a second or two taking in the details, before treading forwards noiselessly, careful not to bump into any furniture. As expected, John Watson was sleeping, his figure lying still on his couch, Sherlock arching an elegant brow at the disheveled state that he was in. A pencil was still loosely clutched in the potions master's hand, a pile of notes lying scattered on the floor next to him, having slid off his lap when he had fallen asleep along with a faded blue blanket that was half on the floor and half draped over his legs. Sharp eyes took in the new potion stains on the man's rough hands and his sleeves, the tired lines around his eyes, and the rumpled state of his clothes, before his lips quirked into a smile. With a crook and a pinch of his fingers, he drew the notes from the floor and from the sleeping man's lap, the papers rustling quietly as they floated into the air and into his hands. Leaning over and plucking the pencil from the man's hand, lifted it to his lips, hissing a Word between his teeth, the sound sharp and harsh in the silence and the quiet snuffling of the sleeping John Watson, and flicked the remnants of ash away from the now sharp pencil. John's hand twitched once when the pencil was taken from him, and Sherlock stilled, his head tilting to the right just slightly, and only moved again when he was certain that John wasn't going to wake up.

More or less satisfied, Sherlock began to skim through the pages of neatly written notes and research, wincing at the occasional hastily crossed out lines and little scribbles and arrows along the side margins, before correcting his notes in a precise hand with the pencil, and summoning a piece of blank paper, started to pen down the specific conditions of the victim that John was brewing the potion for, a mixture of PTSD and minor brain damage that inhibited recall and memory storage.

Meanwhile, the Airfish that had been sleepily swimming and hovering near the leg of the table had by now made its way noiselessly over to hover near Sherlock's leg, seemingly lethargic, though Holmes was certain that it was highly alert from the way that its eyes had never once left him. John's Airfish, then, he thought, inwardly amused as it swum lazily in figures of eight beside his left leg. Magical creatures took on the characteristics of their creator's magic, connected intimately to the individuals themselves, a reflection of their emotions and baser instincts, a truer reflection of a man's character than anything else. Most people kept theirs away when they weren't in need of their help, so it was rather curious that John Watson allowed his to freely swim around the house at night while he was asleep, especially since it had no purpose. Nevertheless, it was a graceful and beautiful creature, and he absently ran a finger lightly along its fin, a smile lighting his eyes briefly when the fish stilled beneath his hand, feeling the soothing hum of magic, and knew that he had passed some sort of test when it pressed closer to him, allowing itself to be touched, subtly preening. Chuckling quietly, Sherlock obliged, running a hand from its head to its tail, marveling at the silky coolness of it before returning to putting down his notes for John.

The fish continued to watch him, tail moving slowly through the air, before it rolled over lazily onto its back, revealing rather unsubtly a mouth full of needle sharp teeth, and sank back down towards the floor, hovering a mere inch or two above it, its favorite position for resting, or sleeping, if it did sleep at all. Sherlock gave another quiet chuckle at that, thoroughly amused, and finished his writing with a flourish on the last alphabet. The Airfish left no doubts as to what would have happened had he any ill intentions towards its creator, or if he were a threat to John Watson's safety. Docile and friendly and with a mouth full of sharp teeth that could maim and kill, Sherlock mused, allowing the papers to float in the air above John Watson where they stayed suspended, as though held up by invisible strings. What does that say about the man himself, then, potions master, ex-researcher, bachelor John Watson? He studied the man in question before him for a moment or two, before turning on his heel and striding out through the door into the foggy night with a swish of his black coat and a gust of cold air that stirred the hovering papers, and the room was silent once more, content and still for the rest of the night with the soft, slow sound of breathing.

Morning crept in slowly through the windows, the shadows slowly dissipating away into the corners of the house, color and warmth slowly seeping back into the black and grey monotones of the night. John woke up to the strange sight of sheets of paper floating quite a few inches above his head when he opened his eyes, and frowned, rubbing at his eyes. When they continued to remain floating before him, he reached up and pulled the nearest piece of paper towards him, frowning at the familiar elegant handwriting in pencil.

JW, you have made several incorrect assumptions towards the nature of the potions. I must point out to you that your failure so far is due to your inability to note that several components of your potions are in fact contradictory. Seagull feather does not go with ostrich shell, as the former is of an air element, while the latter is grounding. The lavender is incompatible with the stimulant effects of mandrake root, and the addition of poppy produces a trinity that is sure to cause hallucinations at best, and a ever-lasting coma at worst. I am aware that you have not handled anything other than the most basic herbs for a period of time, but this is appalling work, and you need to be updated with the most recent research. Contact me upon waking. SH

Oh bloody- John cursed viciously in his head, plucking the rest of the floating papers back down from the air. They were his notes, but he noted the addition of Holmes' handwriting all over it, and forced himself to take a deep breath. It was too early, much too early in the morning to deal with Sherlock Holmes, John decided, and tapped the papers into a neat pile, setting it aside, before getting up from the couch, stretching out a kink in his back, groaning silently when it popped. His neck felt rather stiff, and he did his best to work it out, padding into the kitchen to brew himself some morning tea, splashing cold water onto his face. Trust bloody Sherlock Holmes to not only break into his house not once but twice, and also at night, breaking in while he was asleep. He put the kettle on, trying his best to stay calm. The man was insane at the same time that he was brilliant; there really was no other explanation for it. He imagined Holmes, tall and dark in that coat of his, standing in the living room over his sleeping form on the couch, scribbling all over his damn notes, and watching him sleep, entirely unaware of his presence, and swallowed, banishing the image from his mind, instead turning his thoughts to Holmes' note. His work might have been a little sloppy, but it certainly did not deserve to be termed 'appalling', he thought irritably. But Holmes was right, he was falling a little behind on the latest research, and he wasn't one to turn away good help when he sensed it, as much help as Holmes could be if he wasn't busy insulting him and his lumpy couch and everything else in sight. Lips pressed tightly together, he carried his tea back out, his Airfish brushing against his calf on the way in a silent morning greeting.

It was a minute past ten when his front door opened on its own accord. John did not turn around, or look up from his tea. It was somewhat unsurprising when Sherlock's voice spoke from behind him, a note too cheery for him to deal with right now. Nevertheless, John still nearly upset his tea when the deep baritone voice sounded from right behind him.

"Finally, Watson! One would think that you would spend most of your life sleeping it away." Holmes seemed to be in a rather disgustingly good mood this morning, if good moods ever had anything to do with this man. As usual, everything he did all had bad timing, and this was one of them as well. He arched a brow at the scalding look that the potions master leveled at him, hands in his pockets. "Well? Let's get started!"

John calmly sipped his tea once more, letting the familiar taste sooth him, feeling the heat slip down his throat and warming his stomach. He hadn't had anything to eat last night before falling asleep on the couch for the entire night, so breakfast was probably a good idea. Setting his teacup carefully down onto its saucer, he summoned his notepad over. Breakfast. I can't deal with you before breakfast.

Holmes merely blinked a few times, to John's irritation, as though he didn't understand the purpose of something as mundane as breakfast. Though, of course, for someone like him who barged into people's houses on a regular basis regardless of the time of the day, he probably saw eating as being beneath him. "Well," Holmes waved a hand vaguely. "Get on with it then, if you must." He wrinkled his nose, and John had a rather sudden impulse to want to upend his tea over the infuriating man's head, if just to see him slip up. He settled for glaring, in the end, deciding that getting up and upending a cup of perfectly good tea over Holmes' head took too much trouble. Not that Holmes would appreciate the tea, either, from the way his fingers were twitching, impatient for John to get on with his mundane morning duties so that they could start on his 'appalling' work. His Airfish stirred from where it had been studying a rather interesting spider in the corner to make its way over to Holmes' shoulder, and swam in a small little delightful circle, tail nearly brushing Holmes' cheek, its customary language for a greeting. John frowned disapprovingly. The last thing he wanted was for Holmes to start thinking that he was welcome to start breaking into his house anytime, any day, and it was rather strange to see his fish getting that close and friendly to a stranger.

Holmes merely smiled, however, and patted it carefully on the head with a finger, fishing into his pocket for a bar of chocolate. "Do you have the same practice of having breakfast like Watson, too?" He offered the foil wrapped bar of candy to the fish, which gave it a sideways look, mostly because the light was reflecting off the foil and it was attracted to the shine. "It's chocolate. I don't imagine you eat but... " He peeled off a corner of the thin foil to reveal a small bit of the milk chocolate to the creature, who was taking a stronger interest in it now that the shiny object could be eaten. Holmes waved the bar around for a bit, before looking up to see John Watson's horrified expression, gaping at him in aghast, with just the slight bit of fascination. He offered the shocked man a smile, before stroking the fish from head to tail, and Watson quickly startled out of his stunned state and fled into the kitchen with a rather loud chink of teacup on china.

What. Was. The man. Doing?

John had fled into the relative safety of his kitchen when the paralysis that had gripped him from the moment when Holmes had touched his fish released him, his mind reeling. No one touched another's magical creature without permission, mostly due to the fact that their creatures were created with what their creators were constructed of, their emotions and their magic, their basic instincts and their personalities, despite the magical creatures also possessed an individual, independent mind. They were considered to be almost an honest representation of the individuals themselves, and so touching them would signify coming into a rather indirect intimate contact with its creator, and that was just not good. Not to mention that magic could always read magic, and contact signified an exchange on a much deeper and complex level with the creatures themselves, and indirectly their creators. It was a pretty good thing, John thought with a twist to his gut while setting his frying pan with a little too much force on his stove, that he did not have a constant linking bond with his fish. He really did not need to know exactly what getting its fins stroked felt like, or what Holmes' magic would feel like. He clung onto his anger, simple and burning and clean, even though it was already slipping away in the shock and confusion, his thoughts tumbling over each other in the manner of newborn kittens, trying rather unsuccessfully to untangle them and to sort them out.

Sherlock, meanwhile, had figured out that Watson's Airfish did eat, and was busy feeding the elegant creature little bits of broken off chocolate from his hand, watching it through half lidded eyes. "I've never met one that ate," he was saying quietly, though no doubt Watson would be able to hear him from where he was in the kitchen. A needlessly dramatic reaction, really. "Interesting. You're an obedient little fellow, aren't you? Good boy." The fish seemed to preen, and there was the rather suspicious sound of banging pots and pans, and the loud clatter of something falling to the ground. Sherlock's lips quirked up into a smile again, a softer, more genuine smile than the strange one that never seemed to sit right on his face from before. "Your Airfish is a perfectly amicable creature, Watson. I don't see a problem." he called to the direction of the kitchen.

There was then the loud clash of heavy metal hitting floor, possibly a pan or a pot, before the potions master stormed out of the kitchen, looking rather ruffled and red around the ears, marching right up to Sherlock and brandishing a notepad much like one would a knife into his face.

Would you please mind not doing that, Holmes

He did not miss the shakier than usual handwriting, and lack of correct punctuation, and opted to smile innocently instead. "Why not? It enjoys the attention," he murmured, and ran a finger rather deliberately down the fish's spine, which swam a little closer to his hand. "While it is your magical creature it certainly isn't slave to your whims."

Watson's only reply was to scribble madly on his notepad, getting increasingly red in the face, and shoved the notepad at him again.

Stop that. Whatever your'e doing, stop God HOLMES KEEP YOUR HANDS TO YOURSELF

This time, the sentence was also accompanied with garbled scribbles and crossed out words, the pen leaving deep grooves in the thin paper. Undeterred, Sherlock continued to stroke the Airfish, delighting quietly in the sensation against the pad of his fingers. "It seems perfectly happy to have my attention." He gave Watson another smile, knowing that it would rile the shorter man up further.

John certainly didn't disappoint him. You don't go around touching - without permission. His lips were moving now, though no sound emerged, his hands waving around his head, finger stabbing at the notepad for emphasis. Look if you can keep your hands to yourself I'll fix you breakfast. He threw the notepad into Sherlock's face.

The tall man caught the notepad deftly, glancing down at the untidy scrawl over the paper. "I'm not hungry. Eating reduces the time that I have left to do... important things," he said, tearing off the sheets of used paper from the pad, and folding them all neatly into halves before lighting fire to them with a soft whisper. Watson's hands clenched and unclenched, his eyes squeezed close, making an obvious effort to calm himself through the rather dull method of taking in deep breaths, before turning and stomping stiffly back into the kitchen. "Your creator is very temperamental," Sherlock told the Airfish, who was serenely watching him, tail flicking slowly.

Eventually, there was the sound of food frying in oil, and the smell of cooking wafting from the kitchen, domestic sounds that Sherlock had long since deleted from his head. John emerged later, with plates and cutlery in his hands, gathering up the scattered notes on the table and clearing out space, setting the table for two. By the time the scrambled eggs and rashers of bacon were slid onto the two plates, Sherlock had already vanished into John's potions lab, again without permission, his Airfish hovering alone near the window now, the neatly stacked notes that he had left on the couch now missing. As expected, Sherlock was tinkering around in his shelves and cupboards where he stored his components, and he grabbed him, pulling him out of it, jerking a thumb towards the breakfast laid out on the table, piping hot and steaming, a silent message for him to eat. The man obviously could not be trusted to be left on his own, even for a few seconds, but this was all becoming rather predictable now, and John could barely find it in himself to be furious, exasperated and irritated instead.

Sherlock blinked, a look of surprise in his eyes at being dragged out by his lapels, a vial of one of John's experimental Words in his hand, and then frowned at the shorter man for bothering him for something this mundane. "I'm not hungry, Watson. Can we start?"

The look John gave him was decidedly poisonous, though the man's hands were steady this time when he reached for the notepad, gesturing for his pencil wherever he had last left it. Breakfast. Or you can always come back tomorrow.

Sherlock searched John's face briefly, noting the glint in the other's dark blue eyes, before something in his expression gave slightly. "You drive a hard bargain, Watson," he murmured, sitting down before one of the plates, and picking up the cutlery, looking down at the food as though it had displeased him in some manner. John ignored him, settling down into his chair, and began to eat.

Breakfast was conducted mostly in a comfortable silence. John calmed considerably after a while, feeding his fish that was hovering near his elbow bits from his plate now and then. Sherlock found himself eating, and more surprisingly, enjoying the food just slightly, much more than usual. "I must say," he said finally, breaking the delicate silence between them. "Your cooking supersedes your potion skills by quite a fair distance."

John glared at him, though with less venom than before, considering, and said nothing over his forkful of eggs, before writing on his notepad again, the pad thinning out rather quickly. How did you get it to do that? Not that I am giving you permission to touch it anyway again, of course.

"Natural charm. Obviously." Sherlock's lips twisted into a wry smile, realizing the irony of the sentence when applied to himself.

John gave him a strange look, and bit into his bacon. The pencil was only picked up once more when the plates were clear of food, Sherlock watching him over his teacup, and picked up the offered note. I understand that you are highly impatient for results, and that my work is... not satisfactory, but that does not mean that you are allowed to break into my house at any time that you like and destroying my lock. Particularly last night. Whatever was that for?

Sherlock sighed inwardly, and gave the potions master a long suffering look. "I am not breaking into your house. Nothing is broken, and nothing has been stolen. Your locks are all intact. I knocked, as well. It isn't my fault that you were asleep."

There was a rather stern and serious look. I would rather it not happen ever again. This is after all still my house, and not a public area free and open to public access, regardless of whether you are my employer or not. I will continue to regularly update you, and you are welcome to visit so long as you do so normally within reasonable hours and without bypassing my wards and locks.

Sherlock drew in a breath, and inclined his head slightly. "Well, Watson, I suppose I could concede that," he said reluctantly, the tips of his fingers pressed lightly together, returning John's searching stern look. John studied him, before seeming to believe his words, his expression relaxing into something slightly more friendly. See that you do. And it's John.

Sherlock nodded once, an inclination of his head. "Call me Sherlock," he offered.

John smiled, and got up, bringing the dishes to the kitchen sink, before moving into the lab, glancing at Sherlock. His Airfish had settled down comfortably near the window sill to sleep again, probably lethargic after all the food it had consumed. So what is wrong with my research?

Sherlock turned, picking up John's corrected notes off the desk and handing them to him. "Everything. You need to be updated with the latest research. All your information is old and outdated and quite literally useless. This is only slow down progress in a project where time is of essence." He seemed to be getting agitated again, pacing around the tight space in the lab.

I'm afraid you have to be a little more specific.

Sherlock sighed, his eyes closed, seeming to be summoning whatever patience that he had in him. "Everything was wrong. I've written a comprehensive list within your notes, but I've come to realize that your gap in knowledge may run further and wider than I might know."

John shuffled through his notes, squinting at the new notes that Sherlock had put down beside his own, taking in the new information, and hissed silently between his teeth. It was true that it had been quite a few years, and he had known that there were probably disparities between his knowledge and the latest research now, but he hadn't expected it to be such a huge chasm. He laid his notes back down, smoothing out the pages with a hand that was shaking slightly, a strange feeling of hurt in his chest that even knowledge was leaving him behind now, and picked up his pencil. Would you give me a hand in helping me, then? Since, you obviously know much more than I do that is more up to date.

"I have." Sharp grey-blue eyes did not miss the way John's lips tightened, or the slight tremor in the man's hand. He reached into his coat, and drew out a card, and held it out with two fingers. "That's why I've gotten this for you. I can't be here all the time." He watched John, saw disbelief in the slight widening of those eyes, and could pin point the exact second that the man began to hope again after Sherlock had shot him down for being incompetent and outdated.

How? John mouthed silently, eyes riveted on the card, a hand reaching out, but not daring to touch, still as though holding his breath. Sherlock nearly wrinkled his nose. It was just a card, though it was understandable if the man felt a little overwhelmed in owning one again after having his previous one forcibly taken from him and destroyed, but this was bordering on a little overdramatic. "Take it, it's yours," Sherlock said gruffly, dropping it into John's hands, who quickly caught it.

The card was made of metal, lightweight and thin, rounded at the corners and smooth to the touch. A row of small holes in symbols were punched across the length of it near the top, and a serial number to the bottom of it. Letters and numbers swirled maddeningly across its surface, until John touched it, and they quickly settled down in a flurry across the card's metallic surface, the trapped words becoming etched into the card.

John Watson

Potions Master

Clearance B

John ran a finger over the punched code that stood for the Library, hardly daring to breathe, his heart thudding away madly in the middle of his chest, his own name staring back at him silently. He paused, finger brushing over the end of the code, and sucked in a sharp breath, feeling giddy again. The code was different from back in his days. This was a lifetime research permit, and not a temporary one, or the sort that required renewal subject to approval from the board, and one with his own name on it. The library in Little London was a highly restricted area, located in the heart of Little London, and required high security clearance to enter, and it wasn't easy to obtain a research permit. Contained under the highest security and beneath the most powerful locks of Related London, the information contained within was highly classified. Clearance was checked and checked again, and even then obtaining any information from it was a hassle and time consuming. John should know, having gone to many pains to obtain his researcher's permit in the past and working his life off to keep it. To be able to obtain one in so short a time... John looked up at man before him. Who are you?

Sherlock had a rather pleased look on his face. "I trust you will put it to good use."

John scrabbled for his notepad. It's a lifetime permit. How did you-? He waved it in front of Sherlock's pleased face, then looked at it himself, and crumpled it up, knowing that the man before him would not divulge a single word, and it did not matter so long as it was authentic, which he knew it was.

It didn't surprise him when Sherlock cocked his head, just so. "I have my ways," he said, still smiling. John nodded, taking his word for it, and stroked the card gently once, before keeping it.

So- do we visit the Library now? Is that why you're here this early?

"No, not now. Obviously. That's time that we cannot afford to waste today," Sherlock tapped John's notes with a knuckle. "I have retrieved the necessary information for you, saving you a trip, so we can work with that today, and re-evaluate everything that you have done so far."

It turned out that Sherlock had taken notes for John at the library, as well. How he managed it, John supposed that he shouldn't bother with asking, and didn't, the two men busying themselves with going over the discarded theories and components once more, one rattling off facts, the other using the information to form new ideas with pencil and paper, a rather strange pair together.

Sherlock Holmes was, John had to admit, a bloody brilliant man despite of his eccentricities and his disregard of any other human beings and society's conformities. He was rude, his tongue sharp and cruel, the words that spilled from his lips scathing and burning, causing John to engage in more than a silent glaring contest with him, which Sherlock would always win since John could hardly hold up to the intensity of Sherlock's sharp grey-blue stare, and the way that he would frown, and gesture sharply with a harsh "Well?" and watch him, waiting for him to get on with his work. John stopped questioning him the second time in, instead trying his best to catch up to whatever new track Sherlock had on his mind at the moment, forcing himself to overturn old theories and consider new ones. Sherlock, for his part, would often stare accusingly at John, hands often preoccupied with John's old notes that were irrelevant to the matter at hand. He supposed that if one was as brilliant as Sherlock Holmes, one could probably be excused for his snobbish and rude mannerisms. His mind worked in a way that John was unable to fathom, the man murmuring to himself when he was on a roll, his hands seldom still, darting from word to idea to concept all in one leap and a split of a second, and before John himself could catch on, he would have examined the idea from top to bottom and would have critically picked out all the flaws in it before John could have done so himself before latching onto a new idea all over again. John, for his part, would take down any and all ideas that Sherlock rattled off for examination later, having bought a few more notepads and pencils so that he could communicate with Sherlock.

Slowly, the two men found themselves working together in camaraderie. Sherlock had taken to staying over at John's place, taking over his couch occasionally in the day time, and his lab during the night time when John was asleep, doing heaven-knew-what since it was quite obvious that he wasn't as adept at brewing as compared to John, his efforts slightly clumsy, relying heavily on instructions and mechanical movements, purely clinical. After causing a rather spectacular explosion on his own when John had looked away for a minute, John had forbidden him from touching his cauldron ever again. Thoroughly consumed with his work, John did not bother trying to chase Sherlock out, and had long since given up on complaining when the man strolled into his house as though he owned the place itself. Occasionally, pegs would zip into the house through his window, smacking Sherlock on the back of his curly head, to which he would rip them off with a snarl, skimming through the message before gathering up his scarf and coat and dashing out the house with hastily snapped out instructions for John.

Most of this John tolerated, his mind concentrating mostly at solving the problems before him, slowly but steadily perfecting the base potion that they had both agreed and narrowed down on, referring again and again to his and Sherlock's notes. A quarter of the time were usually spent deciphering Sherlock's notes which had no obvious link from one to the other on his own when Sherlock was absent, but John wasn't as stupid as Sherlock might have thought him to be and managed rather well on his own.

It wasn't too bad a partnership, all things considered. Their relationship remained purely professional, a sort of strange friendship forming between the two.

Which was until Sherlock decided to probe a little into John's personal life.

"Have you always been mute?"

He watched as John fumbled and dropped an entire handful of powdered horn into the potion minutes before he should have in reaction to his crude questioning, the shorter man cursing silently, lips moving viciously as he grabbed the Vanishing to clear up the muddy brown sludge bubbling in it now, before snatching up his notepad.

No.

"So what happened?" Sherlock was unfazed by the way the words were ground into the notepad, the grooves clearly visible where the pencil had pressed in too hard.

John gave him a hard stare, tense shoulders hunched defensively, before he swallowed, touching his throat, expression turning resigned. Trust Sherlock to be curious about something that people would normally politely ignore and overlook in order to be civil.

Accident. Was experimenting. Can we not talk about this?

"Ah." Sherlock didn't look quite satisfied with the answer, but he nodded either way, glancing critically at John's throat again. "Interesting."

John did not bother with a reply, stiffly going about starting a new potion again, irritated at his own reaction that caused him to botch the last one up when they were so close to getting it perfect, and also at the twinge in his chest at the reminder of the loss of his voice. No one asked him about it, but God he missed being able to talk, what with Sherlock being constantly in his lab. Sherlock seldom ignored his written notes, but when he did, nothing could compare to the frustration that John felt at not being able to get through to someone that he wanted to talk to, at the fact that he could be easily brushed aside and dismissed because he didn't have a voice.

An awkward silence stretched between the two, thrumming, the Airfish quietly watching them from its corner, seeming to go on forever with neither of them willing to give in first until a peg zipped in and plastered itself onto Sherlock's face, 'Top Priority' in capital letters across the top of the note in dark green ink. Sherlock ripped it off, tearing the peg off the note before tossing it aside in revenge before reading the note. John turned back to crushing his seeds for the potion, knowing that Sherlock would run off to whatever it was in the note as he always did, probably only returning late in the evening and giving him some time to himself. That would be a nice change, perhaps, having Sherlock not crowd at him with his deductions and theories and hovering dark presence that took over any and all space that he was in...

He certainly did not expect for Sherlock to toss his own jacket into his face, while shrugging into his own coat and scarf.

"It appears I have something that I could use your professional opinion with," Sherlock was saying. "You might want to take a look at it. You aren't squeamish, are you? Didn't think so."

John gestured to the cauldron, bewildered. What about the potion?

"Oh for God- leave the potion. This is urgent," Sherlock insisted, his eyes bright with barely suppressed glee. "I need you to help me with this."

John had stood stock still for a moment, torn between staying and going with Sherlock Holmes, but in the end he had his answer when he was pulling on his jacket without even meaning to and following in the strides of Sherlock Holmes as he strode out of the door without waiting to see if John was following.

Of course John was following him.

The bloody bastard probably already figured out that he would, anyway, John thought sullenly, quickening his pace to catch up. First a dig into old wounds, and now pulling him away from his 'top priority' work at the summons of a note to a rather rude peg. Whatever it was, it had better be good. He had no idea of what could baffle Holmes that he could help with, though he suspected that it had to do with potions. With his 'outdated and horrendously incorrect knowledge about the subject that he should be the specialist in'.

Bloody Holmes.