I wanted to thank 'Electryone' personally for giving me a review that made me smile a lot. I appreciate all of the story subscriptions, and I hope I haven't disappointed anyone so far. There are a few more John/Sherlock hints in this chapter. I'm sorry that it's going to take a while to really get into that, but the theme of John's notes will continue through the next few chapters with a climactic result. However I need to make sure that the loose ends get tied up and that relations with the main characers involved in his and John's life are included. Hurray for Mycroft! Next chapter will have more of him too, with a little bit of Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson thrown in for good measure. Then we start getting to the mushy stuff, I promise.
The Return of Sherlock Holmes 4; Absolute Zero
The clinic might not have been the most exciting place for John to work, especially when things were so awkward between him and Sarah, but he needed the money, especially now that he'd no doubt be feeding Sherlock for a while – unless Mrs Hudson was planning on taking him in. The doctor doubted that she actually knew anything about it, but then again, Molly did, so it wouldn't be too much of a stretch for their landlady to be in the loop. The thought of it made his blood boil, it felt like a betrayal, he couldn't be trusted to keep his best friend come love interest's secret. But John knew that was ridiculous, the detective had done it to protect him and the others, to defeat Moriarty and buy himself time to clear his name, and surely the blonde couldn't condemn him for that? Maybe he shouldn't, but he would try.
He wondered how far his companion had gotten with the task he'd been set. John had made the clues to the notes' locations very simple; simple enough for someone who wasn't Sherlock to understand. The aim of the game wasn't to make the brunette think, or test him; it was to get him to take notice and to revisit places where something important and life-changing for John had happened, all thanks to the detective's presence alongside him.
Glancing at the clock the ex-soldier mustered a sigh, he should be picking up the second note about now; provided there wasn't a big fuss with Mrs Hudson.
It had been fairly easy to discern where the next letter would be. Of course the doctor would send Sherlock to their old flat, where else was better for something like that? The detective had reasoned that the notes had been written from when he 'died', as John's way of coping with the loss – things he hadn't said while the brunette was there were being written down on paper in the hopes that maybe it would alleviate some of the guilt or regret. His pace quickened at this thought, steps passing him two at a time while his old landlady chastised him from the bottom, things like 'is it safe for you to be here yet', 'are you listening to me', and 'have you spoken to John'. There was no attention paid to her; there seldom was. He wasn't sure exactly why the thought of the doctor's emotional anguish incurred such haste in him, but it did, and the detective felt heat rise to his face, his breaths shortening and an aching sensation in his chest – he must be ill from standing out in the rain.
There! Lo and behold, another letter, this one – Sherlock assumed – must have been passed to Mrs Hudson for safekeeping, and she was told to place it on the table tucked under the edge of a stock bottle of acid if news of the detective ever reached her. How he hadn't noticed it before was beyond him, though he had been focused on a more pressing matter.
Fervently he tore open the envelope, hands shaking for an inexplicable, unidentifiable reason.
Sherlock,
The newspapers finally stopped printing stories about you today. I know because I can read them again without having to try and get past the front page. They still show documentaries on the TV sometimes; I don't watch the TV anymore.
I miss you.
I had to move out of 221B, Mrs Hudson wanted me to stay but sleeping in another man's bed is only so good as long as it still reminds you of them in a positive way. I kept your coat, but I never wear it, it seems like a bit of a sin really. Rebecca noticed the way I look at it when I'm thinking back on the adventures we shared, she complained about how much I still talk about you – but how am I supposed to deal with it if I pretend none of it ever happened? She doesn't call me anymore.
Sometimes when it comes to you I think I... Never mind.
John
This time the clue read 'It's the snail.'
Sherlock chuckled, it was just like John to make the clues so obvious, and clearly trying to make the detective work for it wasn't on his agenda. The notes were so heartfelt, and it pained him severely. As much as people told him that he didn't have a heart, that he was a monster without a care for a single other person in the world, Sherlock knew they were wrong. He did care for another person, for one other person, for John Watson. Exactly how deep his feelings ran, he didn't know, he couldn't figure it out – too many variables; it was detestable.
Mrs Hudson had just reached the top of the stairs to question the detective further about why he'd come barging back into 221B without any kind of warning, and ask him if he wanted to get himself killed for real this time, when he span around and practically flew down the stairs and out of the door; leaving the poor woman to simply stare.
It was lunch time; John always visited the crime scene at lunch time, so that he could try his best to continue the investigation. Lestrade had kindly enough allowed him free reign even though by now there were hardly ever any officers around. He leant against one of the white pillars making up the ornate frontage of the house, next to the grand oak doors which – although plain – were crafted with obvious care and precision. It was cold, but at least it wasn't raining like it had been for most of the morning, and there, on time as ever, Sherlock came storming through the main gates up to the house. He was in such a hurry that John half expected some other more interesting crime to have occurred somewhere.
"John!" he shouted a little too eagerly, a little too hastily, and he reminded himself to approach the situation with professionalism. "Why did you call me out here? No, don't answer that, we're here to solve the case. Simple enough really, but I assume you need me to persuade the 'big dogs' that your line of enquiry is worth their precious time and effort."
It was said with that usual distain and bitterness that the detective seemed to hold for all officers of the law bar Greg. A smile played on Doctor Watson's lips, it was his Sherlock, and he was back. It was almost enough to make him forget the entirety of the last 2 years; almost, but not quite.
"Well done, of course that's why you're here idiot." He grinned at the brunette, who offered a similar expression in return. Only John ever called him stupid with such conviction, it was amusing and endearing. "Look, we need to sort this thing out so I can go back to sitting in a canteen drinking tea on my lunch breaks."
Sherlock took the liberty of looking around swiftly, there was no sight of anything particularly suspicious, and he doubted that Moran would want to risk exposing himself any more than he already had by killing him in broad daylight at a crime scene. So with a nod they headed inside.
"No sign of Lestrade?" he asked as they walked, though it was a bit more of a statement than a question.
"Yeah he's not coming up today, the place is empty for the next couple of hours apart from us and the superintendant who I asked to meet us here so that we could piss him off personally, rather than have him hear it from someone else."
They rounded several corridors, and up a large grand staircase with matching smiles plastered on their faces, until they reached the room where Peter Miles had been found dead.
No sooner had they entered than the superintendant – a plump, balding man with glasses and a serious need for a stronger deodorant – made to shoot Sherlock down, the detective however cut him off with a 'shush' and pointed at the pine bed-side table.
"The tickets were from a holiday to Fiji, he took a friend as you can tell by the number of tickets – not enough for him to be taking his family, no it was a 'business' trip. His partner in all of his extortions, Sebastian Moran, was to go with him." Swivelling himself around quickly, next he gestured to the table that the superintendant was leaning against. "The doctor's notes say explicitly that he shouldn't venture into the sea due to his allergies to several poisonous animals, including the Marbled Cone Snail. Moran was a bit of an enthusiast when it came to marine animals, he would have been able to acquire one such snail on his trip." Next was the aquarium. "That tank requires constant attention, you can see by how new the filter is that he recently changed it to cater for salt-water creatures – that is Moran, Miles could never do it himself, he was disabled and his family knew little about this sort of thing. So, a few weeks after their trip Miles reaches into the tank to remove the mollusc creatures into a bucket for cleaning purposes when he gets a nasty sting from one of the sea-snails. Symptoms of Cone poisoning include numbness, tingling, swelling, paralysis and ultimately inability to breathe." He smiled, winking at the large man stood in front of him, who simply gaped in disbelief. "You'd never find evidence of the poison if you didn't look for it specifically. Quite clever, but also quite a slip-up on Moran's part – he didn't count on John piecing things together, and he definitely didn't count on my return."
The superintendant said nothing, and John tried his best to hide a smirk, the overweight man simply nodded and muttered a gruff 'right then, I'll tell forensics' before he was on his way. He left the room, and Sherlock turned to face his companion curtly and bowed slightly.
"Seems you haven't lost your touch then." The doctor noted fondly.
"Ah, but you have improved a great deal John." The compliment was unexpected and had the ex-soldier a bit taken aback. "You had the right idea, you solved it, but you just lacked that little bit of extra information and how to explain it in a way the police would listen to." The brunette looked into the blonde's eyes with an intensity neither had met before in their lives; the power of the tide met the unmoveable mountain as blue locked on grey.
They stayed like that for a while, neither one saying anything to the other, and the distance between them somehow becoming more and more intolerable. It was as though the heat in the room just kept on rising, far past feverish, far past breaking point – that would explain why both of them were so red in the face, right? That would have to be the reason; someone was messing with the heating, changing the temperature in this one little micro-climate. It wasn't clear when it happened, but they had somehow reached a point where they were stood close together, almost touching, close enough to hear each breath, to maybe even count the hairs on each eyebrow. It seemed as if neither of them wanted to break the comfortable silence, and the anticipation, but Sherlock uttered a low whisper, as though to speak at normal volume would dispel whatever magic was at work.
"John I –
He couldn't finish his sentence before they were interrupted, the click of expensive shoes on the wooden floor of the corridor came to a stop outside of the room and the door was swung almost from its hinges, a black umbrella was glimpsed first, and the form of Mycroft Holmes sauntered in. The temperature immediately dropped, they were talking somewhere along the lines of -273 Kelvin; absolute zero. Somehow they had leapt back from each other in an instant, from where they had been so close before, to several feet apart.
"Mycroft." Sighed Sherlock, feigning his usual disinterest in anything that had to do with his brother.
"Sherlock." Replied Mycroft, his trademark satisfied half-smirk on his face. It was irritating at the best of times, now even more so it would seem. "You neglected to tell your own brother of your survival? Shame on you, mummy was quite distraught."
"I'm sure." The detective didn't even look at his brother and was cold in his responses, John shuffled his feet around in agitation, what had the brunette been about to say? It must have been important, and the doctor thought he might still be having palpitations from all of the positively filthy thoughts that had been running through his mind only moments ago.
"Come now, Sherly, you don't want to keep her waiting do you?"
The blonde practically snorted at this use of nickname, it was definitely worth all the times Sherlock had blamed his sister's shortening of Harriet to 'Henry' for mistaking her for a man. Wait, keep her waiting? Was Mycroft saying that he was taking Sherlock off to see his mother? The doctor wasn't sure he could deal with having the detective torn from his side for any length of time right now.
"I didn't tell you brother, because I've been reliably informed that if it weren't for you, things wouldn't have been such a struggle for me."
There was silence for a while, John felt his cheeks burning, he didn't want to be the fuel for another family feud – those things were bad enough as it was in the Holmes household.
"She demands to see you Sherlock. There is no negotiation to be had here."
It was odd, how they were brothers and yet Mycroft reacted to Sherlock's return with less intensity of emotion than John had done, the blonde pondered this, but he realised that to the Holmes' it really was a bit of a sin to display affection in that manner. Maybe Mycroft was secretly overjoyed, and happy he could feel a little less guilty – though why he should be allowed to the doctor would never know.
"Fine." Sherlock's response was short, but it seemed that even he wouldn't refuse his mother's wishes. "However John comes with us."
The ex-soldier's eyes widened and he looked frantically back and forth between the two men.
"Wait what? No he doesn't mean me! Do you Sherlock? Oh God you mean me, I don't think I –
He wasn't allowed to finish before the older Holmes brother interjected.
"I wouldn't have it any other way I assure you."
Before any more protests could be made, the Holmes' made to leave, and Sherlock grabbed John by the arm as he passed, making it perfectly clear that the doctor would be accompanying them.
What kind of hell was he in for?
