CHAPTER 4: ANTICIPATE, DEFLECT, DEFEND

-A-

John was wrong. As he pushed his way past Sherlock to enter the Yard first, taking point as he might in combat, he could see that the office, at 7pm, was a hopping place. There were lots of people around – even Donovan and Anderson. But that wasn't the worst of it. No, it got much, much worse. It took a second for him to realize what he was seeing, but the golden tones and, well, flesh, made it unmistakable.

All the computer monitors in the office had that picture up as a screen saver. All of them. And like in some zombie horror movie, John and Sherlock had only just strode into the room when every head, every eye, turned to look - at John.

John thought that he had to be having a lucid nightmare. This was worse than any worst case scenario he could possibly have imagined. This could not be his life.

John had always been able to trust his body to detach from fear and react quickly in a crisis situation. And now it served him well. He was a few steps ahead of Sherlock. The moment the screensavers registered, he leapt into action. He sensed the exact position of Sherlock's great lanky frame behind him, did a half-spin and stomped, hard, on Sherlock's foot.

"Ow!" Sherlock howled in pain, bending over to grab his shoe. "What are you doing?"

"Oh, Christ, Sorry!" John grabbed Sherlock's arm and, positioning himself in front of Sherlock's face to block the view, pulled – well, half-dragged, really - the hopping, bent-over detective towards Lestrade's office.

"John, what! My foot! Stop it! I need to-"

"You need to sit down, Sherlock. I'm a doctor. I know these things."

"But I—"

John pulled him past Donovan and Anderson, both grinning at him like smugly evil Cheshire cats. Of course, they'd sent out the screensaver. One day, oh, one day….

John yanked his friend through the office, as quickly as he was able. There was no mistaking the soft cat calls that wafted up around him. "Mmmm." and "August is hot, isnt' it?" and "Lord, I do love a man in uniform – especially when he's shucked it." One younger guy, John had no clue who he was, held up a hand-written sign that had a hastily drawn sun on it and a beach umbrella and empty towel. The word AUGUST was written over the top. He winked.

John refused to acknowledge any of them.

They made it to Lestrade's office and John practically threw Sherlock inside and slammed the door. He looked around quickly, braced for signs of it, but no. Lestrade's monitor might or might not be displaying John's extra special goodness, but it was turned away from them. There was only Lestrade himself, eyes amused, mouth quirked in a knowing smile, just… watching. He leaned back further in his chair and put both hands behind his head with a deeply satisfied grunt, as if settling in for a show.

"Lestrade! I-" Sherlock began. John noticed that one monitor was still visible out the window in Lestrade's door, and Sherlock could see it if he was standing. Sherlock's words turned to a muffled "oomph!" as John pushed him roughly into a chair.

"Sherlock's hurt his foot," John explained calmly to Lestrade.

John took a couple of rapid breaths, glanced around some more, and, satisfied that nothing was visible that shouldn't be, finally looked down at Sherlock.

"Stay off that," John said with what he hoped was a worried look. "For at least an hour. Make that two."

Sherlock was glaring up at him with a murderous scowl, both hands clenched on the arms of the chair and his hurt foot straight out to the side.

"Is that your vaulted bedside manner, doctor, or are you trying to get your bulldozer license?" Sherlock spat out at him.

His voice was scathing, but John couldn't have been more relieved. Sherlock hadn't seen it. Mission fucking accomplished. Now John just had to figure out how to get him out of the Yard again. There had to be a power fuse box around here somewhere. He could shut down all the computers in the precinct. There was also Lestrade's window. There had to be some excuse he could come up with for exiting that way.

Donovan slipped through the door. "Thought I'd take notes for you, Sir," she said with a cream-eating smile.

"Oh, by all means," Lestrade said, waving her to a chair.

John folded his arms and glowered at Lestrade. I'm warning you. Not one word. Hair trigger here. I fucking mean it.

"Oh, for god's sake!" Sherlock said, sitting up and pulling his lapels down to collect himself. "What is wrong with you people today? Did it rain hallucinogens last night and I missed my dose? Really, Lestrade! We have a killer to catch. Now I need you to pull records for me. We're looking for an ex-con, most likely a house burglar, but you should pull pickpockets as well. He's definitely light-fingered – on the right at least. He has a missing left hand which lets him get away with it. People don't suspect. And gum disease, advanced. Prison records might show that…"

As Sherlock went on – and on, John slumped with relief. His flatmate's mind was focused on the case. Thank god.

Still, John remained on defensive maneuver at the back of the room, watching for any more funny business. A nude streaker with "JOHN" painted on them going past Lestrade's window, perhaps. An announcement over the P.A. A fucking light show over the Thames.

But nothing was forthcoming – except Donovan. She had slanted in her chair so her back was resting against the arm of it. She held the tip of a pen between her teeth and was nibbling at it as her eyes gazing steadily into John's.

Christ. She had an amused glint in her eye that said she meant it mockingly, was just trying to work him up. And yet… not. Uh… really not. And oh god, for about twenty seconds, he considered it. She wasn't a bad looking woman, after all. And it had been awhile. Then he came to his senses. Donovan. The woman who insulted his best friend at every turn. Jesus, he was such an unrepentant horn dog.

John realized that Sherlock has stopped speaking about the case. John sucked in his lips guiltily, as if caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and looked at his flatmate. Sherlock's eyes were fixed on Donovan.

"Donovan, why precisely are you doing rude things to that pen while looking at John?" Sherlock asked in a cutting tone.

Donovan didn't shift her gaze. In fact, she ran her eyes up and down John's body lasciviously, egging Sherlock on. "Never would have guessed what was under those jumpers and baggy jeans. You have better taste than I thought, Freak."

"We're not—" John started, and then thought to himself, fuck it, because really, having Donovan imply they were a couple was not the worst thing that could happen right now.

John fixed his eyes up at the ceiling and felt a sense of impending doom. She was going to give it away. Any second now, the floor might just as well open and swallow him up.

Fortunately, this was Donovan. And Sherlock would rather be plummeted with a truckload of green tomatoes than admit to her that he didn't know anything that she knew, much less mutter the words "What?" or "I don't get it?" in front of her.

So Sherlock just snarled in a wilting tone, "Oh goodie, you approve. I'll take out an advert in Times, shall I?," and went back to discussing the case with Lestrade.

Unfortunately, Lestrade was not much better. He was pretending to listen to Sherlock, even doing a fairly good job of putting questions out there once in a while, albeit dumb ones. But his gaze kept sliding to John and he'd occasionally let the mask slip and an expression of amusement or... seriously?... baffled arousal would flicker on his face.

Oh for Christ sake, people, John wanted to shout. Are you all sexually deprived or what? It's just a bloody photograph!

Lestrade's gaze lingered on John a bit too long and Sherlock reached his limit. He suddenly leapt from his chair and slammed his fist down on Lestrade's desk. "Pay attention!" he shouted, with as livid and belligerent a voice as John had ever heard emerge from his lips. "Lestrade, send that request down to records NOW and Donovan, get us two coffees and clear off that table. DO IT!"

Donovan and Lestrade hopped to, and within minutes John and Sherlock where going through ex-con record files on the table in Lestrade's office. Neither Donovan nor Lestrade dared to look at John again.

By the time they'd found the killer's records, and left the building, it was past midnight and the office was empty, machines turned off for the day.

Crisis averted. For now.

-NOTE

I promise you guys, the reveal of the actual photo (with a detailed description) is coming. Anticipa...tion.