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Despite the adrenaline rush the night before, John slept well.
After thirty minutes of listening to Sherlock interrogate Jane, he had handed Sherlock the penlight and a short list of the warning signs of cranial hemorrhage, telling him to wake up Jane every two hours with whatever questions he liked. He told Jane that he trusted her to tell Sherlock if her headache or dizziness returned, or if she felt nauseous. Both of them were instructed to let him be, please, unless it was a true medical emergency or his life was in danger.
They hadn't. He'd read for an hour or so—the new Sir Arthur Conan Doyle biography Harry had given him for Christmas—before falling asleep and staying there until his alarm clock woke him. For once, he didn't feel like smashing it against the wall or resetting it for fifteen more minutes.
So this was what setting boundaries felt like . . .
The bathroom was empty, so he took full advantage of his early rising and had a long hot shower and a careful shave. It occurred to him as he brushed his teeth that he should be worried about what two geniuses might have done to the rest of the flat in nine hours, but it was far too late for second thoughts.
The living room, he was glad to see, looked like it always did, except Sherlock Holmes was neither sprawled in his chair nor cocooned in blankets on the couch. John thought about checking on Jane, but if they were both there, Sherlock would no doubt resent the implication that he couldn't follow simple directions, and if they'd gone off somewhere, there was nothing to do but wait. Instead, he went in search of breakfast.
Whatever else they'd done during the night, they'd spent some time clearing away the distillery from the kitchen table. Jane, fully dressed, sat at one end with a mug of what looked like instant coffee in front of her and a half-eaten piece of toast on a plate near her elbow. Her expression did not indicate that mornings were her favorite time of day.
"Good morning," he said, deciding not to mention the caffeine. One cup wouldn't do her much harm at this point, anyway. "How do you feel?"
"Mmmph." She swirled the contents of the mug with her spoon. "You tell me."
He peered at her eyes, checked her bump, which had shrunk a bit, asked her a few questions to which he received terse but satisfactory answers, and pronounced her out of danger. "Can I get you anything more to eat?"
"No. Thank you. You should rent your fridge out as a weight loss program."
He winced. "Sorry, I meant to leave a note."
"Shouldn't that have been your roommate's responsibility?"
"He doesn't believe in warnings, I'm afraid. I'm surprised you're still sitting here—or anywhere else in the flat. I don't know what Sarah would do if she ever had a look." It was one of his recurring worries, though she didn't visit as a rule. Yesterday had been a rare exception, and he doubted it would be repeated soon.
"Former people, or pieces of them, don't frighten me," said Jane. "At least not when they're in context. But that's not a food-safe arrangement. "
"The top two drawers are reserved for actual food," he said, checking the kettle. "Apart from the milk, which is Sherlock's look out." He found the bread and looked around for the knife. "What sort of context should former people have?"
"Morgues, funerals, teaching hospitals, horror movies." She took a sip of coffee and grimaced. "Ugh. Crime scenes. And now detectives' kitchens, I guess." She chuckled. "To be honest, it was a shock, but once my heart started beating again, I reasoned that you wouldn't live with a Jeffrey Dahmer or a Sweeney Todd. Has that been a problem?"
He grinned as he sawed a few thick slices from the loaf. "What, not sharing a flat with Sweeney Todd? I have no complaints."
She made an impatient sound. "With Sarah. She doesn't seem to type to accept most of this." She gestured to the surfaces covered in tubing.
"She knows a lot already—she was caught in the middle of a case on our first date." He thought about it as he kept an eye on the toaster oven—Sherlock had done something to it months ago and it didn't shut itself off any more. "But, you're right. She wouldn't understand. Who could?"
"You seem to."
He chuckled. "I don't pretend to understand all the things he does, no, but I trust that there's a point to it all. And if I ask, he'll tell me if he can. Most of the time."
"His work is that important?"
"Well, yeah. He's helped a lot of people, spared the police a lot of overtime, and saved lives—mine included. And it's certainly the most important thing in his life."
"Is it?" She changed the subject. "When are we due at the police station?"
"They said any time this morning. If we leave in an hour, we'll have plenty of time."
She nodded. "Should I be worried if my prints aren't on file or if they are?" Her eyes lit up. "What if I'm a criminal?"
"The idea doesn't seem to bother you," said Sherlock, from the doorway. He was dressed in his usual nightwear of tee-shirt, pyjama bottoms and silk bathrobe, with his curls going every which way and his silvery eyes heavy with sleep.
"I'm not,' she said. "Interesting. Should I be worried about that?"
Sherlock dropped into his habitual chair and scratched at his chest. "Only common criminals allow themselves to be fingerprinted."
She raised her eyebrows. "I see. Now I am worried."
"Where were you hiding?" asked John. "I thought I'd find you snoring away in the living room."
"In bed," said Sherlock, through a yawn. "Obviously. Is there any more coffee? I used up the milk. Oh, instant, never mind."
"Obviously?" repeated John. "In bed?"
"Yes. It seemed logical to stay close by our houseguest instead of plodding back and forth all night. And you know how cold it gets. There was plenty of room," he added. "Jane didn't mind."
"Not at all," she said. "He does snore though."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "So do you."
"Do I? I'd forgotten. John, your toast. John!"
"What?" John spun around just in time to see his breakfast go up in smoke.
oooooOOOOOooooo
As they walked past the famous revolving sign and into New Scotland Yard, John was still upset. And even more upset about being upset.
He'd told Sherlock that he was fine with "whatever," during that painfully awkward conversation soon after they'd met. And he'd meant it—any homophobic tendencies he might have had didn't survive his sister's not entirely unexpected teenaged announcement. Even in the Army, anyone displaying that particular kind of ignorance or using careless insults within earshot of Captain Watson soon learned that he wasn't as mild mannered or easygoing as he might appear.
They stopped to sign in. There was a short delay while Jane's lack of identification was dealt with, leaving John more time to brood.
No, he honestly didn't care if Sherlock preferred men, women, both, or nothing at all. But apparently he did want him to be consistent about it—and he didn't have any idea why.
"Are you all right, John?" asked Jane as they waited for the elevator car to empty. "You look confused."
He waited until they entered and pressed the button for the correct floor. "I am confused. Sherlock is . . . he told me that women weren't his, ah, area . . . and then you and he . . ."
"Slept together," she said, helpfully. "As in sleeping, two hours at a stretch, with bright lights and strange questions in between. Nothing else happened." Her expression was patient. "He made it very clear that nothing would and I made it very clear that he was right."
He exhaled, embarrassed at himself. "It's really none of my business."
"If you say so."
They rode in silence for three seconds.
"But why would he want to—to sleep with a complete stranger? No offense," he added, realizing he'd spoken aloud. "But it doesn't seem like him at all."
"None taken." She shrugged. "Maybe a complete stranger is the safest person to ask when you need nonjudgmental human contact. Plus it was obviously a dig at you for not allowing him to have things all his own way. He's not used to that, is he?"
"Not really, no." He thought about this. Nonjudgmental human contact? "But I didn't think Sherlock liked to be touched." He'd barely tolerated John putting a plaster on his elbow last night.
"I think he's just very cautious. He's not a true sociopath, John, or he wouldn't have chosen the work that he has. He's more like Mark Twain's cat."
"Sorry?"
She closed her eyes. "We should be careful to get out of an experience all the wisdom that is in it — not like the cat that sits on a hot stove lid. She will never sit down on a hot lid again — and that is well; but also she will never sit down on a cold one anymore." She looked at him. "He's excellent at extracting knowledge from everything he experiences, but I'll bet you anything that some of those experiences left severe burn marks. Especially when it comes to intimacy—not sex," she said impatiently, as he made a sound in shocked protest. "Sex is easy—it's all mechanics and nerve endings. It's the closeness that's risky, especially with people who are too important to him to lose." She smiled. "Thus endeth the lesson."
"Maybe you really are a therapist," he said, when he could. He didn't know what else to say, or to think, but he had the sinking feeling he'd let Sherlock down, somehow.
She shrugged. "Could be. But maybe I'm just another cat." The door opened. She paused before stepping out into the bustling office. "It was comforting to have someone there in the dark, stranger or not. And he's good at cuddling, your Sherlock, once he relaxes." She dropped him a wink and walked away, leaving him staring at her back until the door started to close.
oooooOOOOOooooo
Jane met with Lestrade, exchanged pleasantries, and was escorted away to be fingerprinted, photographed, interviewed, described, and searched for in every database in the UK, including customs records.
"How was it?" asked Lestrade, sitting back down behind his desk. "Flat still standing?"
"And marginally cleaner," said John, taking the chair opposite.
"Know anything more about your Jane Doe?"
John wondered where to start and decided he didn't have to. "Sherlock might. He was the one who stayed with her—stayed up with her—last night."
Lestrade raised his eyebrows but didn't comment. "I just sent him e-mail about the victim. Janet Cross, she was. Thirty-two, married, housewife—if that's what you call a woman with a housekeeper and a gardener. No children, thank God. Husband has money, some kind of troubleshooter for a computer company."
"So she wasn't a prostitute?"
"Oh, she was. Quite in demand, too, it seems." Lestrade leaned back and fiddled with a pencil. "The husband travels a lot. And when the cat's away, the mouse tricks herself up as a "sophisticated escort" to pick up some extra pocket money and some forbidden thrills."
"Does he know about her? The husband?"
Lestrade sighed. "He does now. But he's got an alibi—he was in Switzerland at the time. Still, now that she's not just another dead doxy, we'll be allowed to dig a little more."
"One of her clients?"
"Probably. But we still don't know where your houseguest comes into it."
"About that . . . " John told him about the car incident, leaving out the Browning but little else.
The other man wrote it all down. "You didn't report it?" He shook his head. "No, of course you didn't."
"I have part of the plate number," said John.
The other man jotted it in his notes. "Paint on the building, you said?"
"That's right. They could have been aiming for Sherlock instead of Jane, though. He has enemies of his own."
"You don't say." Lestrade sighed. "I'll let you know if anything comes of this." He glanced at his watch. "She shouldn't be too much longer. There's a bench out there."
John obediently stood. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it," said Lestrade. "Oh, one more thing: you will keep that gun of yours—which I know nothing about—handy, won't you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Good."
John went to the bench and sat. At the far end of the room, he saw Sally Donovan working on a stack of papers. She looked discontented, and he remembered what Jane had said about her.
After a few minutes, he got up and threaded his way to her desk. "Good morning," he said.
"Oh, lovely," she said, frowning. "Where's your partner in psychopathy?"
"Not here," he said. "I brought in your witness and had a chat with Lestrade."
Her gaze sharpened. "Does she really have amnesia?"
"I believe so, yes."
"Oh. Well, if that's all, I'm very busy." She looked at her pile of forms with loathing. "Paperless office, my arse," she muttered.
John hesitated. "May I ask you a question?"
She sighed. "If it's quick."
"Have you ever thought about your career?"
"My career? You mean, here?"
He leaned on the corner of her desk. "Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I have it on good authority that you could outrank Lestrade in five years if you put your mind to it."
"Who told you that, the freak?" She rammed a handful of papers into her outbox. "Nice joke."
"No,' said John. "Not Sherlock. Someone else." He let his gaze slide to Lestrade's office. She sat up, and he smiled, knowing what she'd infer. Jane would be proud of him.
A fierce longing shone in Sally's eyes, before it faded. "Yeah, sure. As if the powers that be would let a woman, a black woman, climb that high." She snorted. "Anderson says there's no chance. "
"Anderson," mused John, picking up her stapler and examining it. "You'd outrank him as well, wouldn't you, with one more promotion? And if you'd want to go further than that, you'd probably have to end it with him. Unless he finally sues for divorce."
She opened her mouth, but he held up a conciliatory finger. "I don't like him, that's no secret, so you can dismiss this if you'd like. But I can't help thinking that any man who had your best interests at heart would be encouraging you to take on the powers that be instead of telling you to give up. And you might want to think about that, too."
He saw her try to form an argument. "Why are you telling me all this?"
John shrugged. "We may disagree about consulting detectives and a few other things, Sergeant Donovan, but I know you're a damn good detective, smart and strong. What you'll fight for, you'll get. So, the question is," he said, handing her the stapler, "what do you really want?" He smiled at her and wandered back to his bench.
A few minutes later, he watched Anderson saunter up to Sally, a smile on his face. She started talking, looking hesitant. She glanced at John, and Anderson did, too. John heard Anderson's bark of laughter, and saw Sally slump back. Anderson squeezed her shoulder.
John sighed. It looked like Jane was right.
But then she shrugged off his hand and jumped to her feet. She shoved past Anderson and strode away, her face tight and grim, but she looked at John as she passed and nodded.
He nodded back.
"What was that all about?" asked Jane, looking none the worse for wear.
"Just testing your theory about Sally," he said, feeling his mood lighten a little. "She may surprise you."
"If she doesn't let the rabbit stop her," she said, glancing at Anderson, who was scowling at them both.
They walked to the elevator. "Why a rabbit?" he asked. "Why not a ferret or a weasel?"
"Because rabbits only think of one thing," she said, rolling her eyes. "Plus, ferrets can be useful and even weasels are efficient at something. Rabbits are useless and ineffectual. And they bite."
"Sounds like you might have had one, once."
"Yes," she said, stepping onto the elevator. "A lop-eared monster named Andy. He used to chew through his cage and I'd get in trouble for the mess—Oh!" She looked at him. "Damn, thought about it too hard." She jabbed at the button and the door closed. "Why can't I ever remember anything useful?"
"At least you know that your memories aren't gone," he said. "They're coming back, piece by piece. And you gave Anderson a nickname that will haunt him the rest of his days. Sherlock and I will see to it."
She smiled. "There is that," she said.
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