Hey everyone. Thank you so much for sticking with me. Here is chapter two. Huge thanks to my reviewers and especially to Jodi2011 for pointing out my embarrassing mistake in Chapter one. Obviously it's not dawn, it's dusk. Hello, traps of the English language, meet my brain. If you find any typos or grammar mistakes or whatever in this, please tell me.
Also, here's something else. Seeing as I am stuck in Germany, and BBC is obviously not German, can any of you help me? I want to watch the new season asap. I have no idea how long it will take the fans to upload the episodes online so that I can watch it (ignore how illegal all that is, thanks). But any day of delay would be a day too long I guess. So does any of you want to open their living rooms for me? I'd find a way to come to England, by God I would. It's not that far after all. Or do you have suggestions, or know how to watch BBC in Germany or whateverireallydontcare? PLEASE. I'M DYING OVER HERE AND IT HURTS.

Quote: John Watson has rapidly become the unknown, completely unexpected variable who never varies in the universe known as Holmes. (Skyfullofstars: There But For The Grace Of John Watson)
Song: Verraten (Betrayed) By Kettcar

Chapter Two_Misinformed

Even after all that had already happened, deep inside he had still believed that there was time.

Sherlock wakes with the first sunbeams stroking his face through the bedroom window. More out of habit than anything else he keeps his eyes closed and continues his deep breathing while he analyzes his surroundings (he has made too many bad experiences in his eventful life). He is lying on something soft: Sofa or bed. The air smells of mint (shampoo) and dust (dust): His room, so his bed. Bright light burns right through his closed eyelids: It is early morning (the sunlight isn't warm yet) and he forgot to draw the curtains the night before. Conclusion: He's at home. He is safe.

For now silence reigns in his head; his mind is still fogged with sleep. He relishes the quiet for a full six seconds, the absolute calm before the storm that is his omniscient brain. Then it gets boring. He reaches blindly for the blackberry on his nightstand and cracks one eye open just enough to glance at the display. 0 new messages, 0 new e-mails. Irritated, he opens the other eye as well. 0 missed calls. Nothing. The phone shows full reception, too. If anyone had sent him anything last night, it'd be here right now.

Neither Mycroft nor Lestrade have answered him.

Fine. If they want to behave like little children, this is a game he knows just fine.

He types out a quick text to John, while his thoughts circle back to yesterday's message. It is obviously Moriarty's doing, as much as Sherlock would love to believe otherwise. This not only means that one of the most dangerous men of the century is back in action; it also shows said man to be most begrudging. And still after Sherlock. After Sherlock... After Sherlock?

Your lackeys, your audience, your toys.

This means something. Has to mean something, but he can't quite grasp it yet. He presses his balled fists against his temples and tries to rub some sense into his brain. It is no use, sleep is still too close and his thoughts are sluggish. He is interrupted when the phone in his hand chimes softly. At the same time, the headboards above him creak in protest at movement from John. He answered then.

idiot dyou know what time it is

Now this is little help. Lost in thought, Sherlock taps the phone against his chin and throws a quick glance at the clock radio next to the bed. 06:22. It seems to be an acceptable time for getting up, even for a late riser like John. (Sherlock never really understood how an ex-soldier and doctor can sleep like this. Shouldn't the early rise be a part of his being by now?) Maybe it's Sunday. John makes some kind of difference between Sundays and the other days of the week, though Sherlock can't fathom why. (Society, Bible, day of rest, sigh...) He makes a frustrated sound and punches the keys with more force than absolutely neccessary.

06:22 a.m. Meet me in the living room. I need your phone.

He sends the message and slowly proceeds to roll onto his stomach, face pressed into the pillow. (Or was John's question a rhetorical one? Well, he'll find out soon enough.) With as little effort as possible he uses the slight bank of the mattress (storage of files below the bed inadequate, find other solution) and slumps down to the floor, where he stays for a moment to take a deep breath before he shuffles into the living area. He feels strange, unwell somehow, but then again this is hardly surprising. (He never sleeps during a case. He hates what it does to his brain, and it lowers his emotional defenses, and it's a waste of time in general.) He does sure hope for a tea John-style with milk and sugar and the solution to his information gathering problem. (Plan B: Use John's phone. People like John.) The blackberry going off in his hand destroys both hopes with uncanny precision. John's reply explains in perfect grammar and with alarming love for detail just what Sherlock can do with himself for all he cares. (Sherlock files the nastier vocabulary away for later use. It is interesting, this tired John.)

A little disappointed the detective flops down on the sofa and lets his naked feet dangle over the armrest. John and his sleep are always a delicate topic, and he is clever enough to leave the man to his slumber for now. Especially since the explosion. Sleep and not enough sleep and unconsciousness-is-not-the-same are a bigger topic since the explosion.

I will burn the heart out of you.

Nonononono. Bad thought. John is right here. Right here in the flat, two and a half metres above him and four metres to the left. John is fine. John, he thinks with a sudden urgency, John is fine.

I will take them from you.

Them. Not him. Not it. Them. Sherlock feels suddenly and inexplicably cold. His fingers are strangely stiff when he angles for his blackberry and opens the text menu. For a moment they stay there, hovering over the keys indecisively. Then, at 06:25 a.m. on the sofa in his living room, Sherlock throws all his cautions to the wind, dials a number and presses the phone to his ear with a sudden urge of something (big, dark, looming, not logical in the slightest).

It dials. Someone picks up. A grunt, sleepy and annoyed and definitely alive. (Up to this point he hadn't known what to expect, but now his knees wobble with sudden relief.)

"Lestrade?"

The silence continues on, stretches too far. Sherlock is admittedly not an expert in social niceties (high-functioning sociopath, thank you very much) but it shouldn't take the man this long to reply. Finally, after what feels like an eternity (and what does that say about him when he knows exactly that the gap only lasted for thirtyfour seconds precisely) the voice of the D.I. can be heard on the line.

"Sherlock."

There is no anger in this voice, no sleepy haze, but another kind of tiredness- of exhaustion- that Sherlock can't quite place. (John could, he thinks. John can. But John is asleep.) This is not the voice that asks for his help with a case, that can sum up the facts better than anyone else at the NSY, and that explains to curious journalists that they are working on it. This voice (and it is Lestrade's, that yes, but it is not Lestrade) is flat and empty and dead. Lestrade never lacks emotion, not even when he should be. Especially not when he is thrown out of bed inthe morning by a certain consulting detective. Worked up, possibly. Worried, likely. Pissed, true. But not empty. It is, Sherlock thinks with sudden consternation, as if the inspector had been dangerously mad for a while and then... then he just stopped caring.

Sherlock hangs up. He puts the phone down on his chest, presses his head back into the pillows, takes a deep breath and... runs. Up the stairs and further, harassed, driven by this alien Something inside of him that scares him so, he dashes through the door upstairs and falls over a chair. He lands on the bed, a thin thing so unlike his own, and thus unavoidably on top of John.

And John, being the soldier he was trained to be (because despite all the debate about his sleeping habits he is still a fighter, is still dangerous), John bolts upright, all senses on high alert in split seconds, lands in a fighting stance next to the bed, hands into fists, eyes wild and sharp. And it would be an impossible picture, impressive and proud and redoubtable. Too bad his leg remembers just then that it is supposed to be limp (it has been worse since the explosion, much worse and only slowly better), and he stumbles and falls. Were this an attempted murder, he'd be doomed. But this isn't an enemy, not a hostile soldier, no deadly assassin, it's just Sherlock...

"Sherlock?"

This one-word-question, this mention of his name wrapped into a heap of emotion (and be they confusion and annoyance and the shaky shock of adrenaline leaving the body) have the detective's hands shaking. He is crouched on the slim mattress and claws at scratchy blankets and stiff sheets and tries desperately to sort his racing thoughts. Priorities. What are your priorities, Sherlock Holmes?

"What day is it?"

Maybe it is his expression (confused, frightened in a new and painfully essential way, hair wild and unbrushed); maybe it's his breathing (too fast and too low), or his hands in the sheets. Maybe it's just that John is John and does what John does. In any case the man gets up, and none of his movements betrays his pain and the exertion behind it. He puts a gentle hand on Sherlock's shoulder (warm, calming, soothing) and looks right into his eyes (no one ever does that, no one but John) and says: "Thursday. It's thursday, Sherlock."

Thursday. A random, normal day of the week that John doesn't have to work on. The hospital doesn't need him today, he's no head of department; he doesn't play an irreplacable part in the neverending parade of life and death (though Sherlock would never say that aloud). But there is someone who is all that, who is important and a leader and who should be anywhere in London on a normal thursday at half past six, anywhere at all, but in bed. Anywhere but where he is right now.

Captured by his own racing thoughts he mutters to himself, but John catches the words and is faster, disappearing downstairs for a moment (Johnjohnjohn) and then he is back again, pressing something into Sherlock's hands. He smells cheap paper and printing ink and rain. The paper. The Times, to be precise. News.

Detective Inspector Lestrade should be at the Yard right now. When this routine breaks, then something is fundamentally wrong in London. And when something is wrong in London, the press knows about it. Politics. Economy. Sports. Local News.

Scotland Yard In Trouble
An anonymous call yesterday evening lead
to the temporary suspension of NSY's head
of forensics, A.
A heated debate with some reporters lead
to palpabilities, resulting in the suspense of
other policemen and Co-workers, including
a D.I. Gregory L.
According to our latest information, the core
of the matter was a case of adultery. From
what we've heard so far, the hint came in
from a Londoner private detective earlier...

Sherlock drops the paper on the ground and frowns. This does not make sense. Head of forensics A., that's Anderson without a doubt. Adultery- that would be his affair with Donovan. It would also explain the mentioned palpabilities- Donovan has always had a bit of a temper. And of course Lestrade would step in and take the blame. Temporary suspense, right. He gives headquarters a day, two at most, before everyone is back at the job. The Yard can't take the loss of one of its few competent D.I.s. No, the problem is elsewhere. Lodoner private detective, he thinks. His thoughts are thick and slow like syrup. Londoner private detectives don't work like this. Bad work ethics. And who would pay one for this? Anderson's wive? She's out of country at the moment (or so Donovan's knees tell him). So why would a private detective... A private detective?

Oh.

Oh.

Of course. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Obvious. And so simple, too. All that's needed is a couple of pictures (ridiculously easy to get) and a call from a small, anonymous phone booth. In the name of a private detective. In his name. It'd be untypical for Sherlock Holmes, of course, but for the public? Good fodder. Lestrade should know that, of course. He should know that Sherlock would never- he couldn't possibly believe that, and what reason would there be- surely the D.I. is cleverer than that? Right?

(The room remains silent, breathless, and he feels the sudden urge to scream and scare the answer out of its hiding place: RIGHT?)

"Sherlock", John whispers and his voice is strained. He turned on the bedside lamp and scanned the article in question, and his eyes are hard when they meet Sherlock's. "Promise me- swear by your brain and your violin, that this is not your doing."

He is speechless. More so, he is at a loss of words (words have left him, from one second to the next and it is hard and unforgiving and motionless and it hurts). Everything stops. Time itself seems to stutter, to pause for a second before it races on. Sherlock can only stare. Misty grey eyes and deep blue chasms fight without mercy, and then John finds what he is looking for, because his features soften at once and lose their strain while the cold fury in the corners of his mouth takes on a different quality, aimed at someone else. Now he sinks down next to Sherlock and tears his hair. Their shoulders touch when he moves. Sherlock doesn't like body contact, but right now he doesn't mind. This is John. John is different. (Or so he thought anyway.)

"I am sorry", the doctor says softly and he means it. (Is this man even able to lie? Sherlock doesn't really believe it.) And the taller man presses his shoulder a little more against his friend's. New silence settles, but a different kind, eloquent and warm.

"Of course you wouldn't do something like this", he continues eventually. "It's just.. why would anyone? Who would?" He is talking to himself, in half-sentences, and it should annoy Sherlock but it doesn't. (When did that happen? A small part of his finally active brain wonders. He doesn't have an answer. Maybe John has always been the one big exception to his rules. Maybe there never were rules to begin with. How very confusing.) The questions John is asking he can answer. Those are easy. The answer isn't. It is fleeting like London autumn fog and just as unfathomable, and it makes him sick.

"Moriarty, of course."

John doesn't flinch at the mention of the name. He doesn't start either and his eyes don't widen and he doesn't grind his teeth. No, he just nods, sighs- a deep, long sigh full of humility and exhaustion-, sits up straight, ruffles his hair once more and calls Lestrade.

"Hey. Yeah, it's me. John. John Watson? Doctor, Sidekick, drinking pal? Just the one, man. No. No, wait, listen- listen, Greg- yes. As soon as possible. Of course you need to, yes, it's neccessary. Today. Sure, just- yes, I know, but you have to- okay, either you're coming over or we are. Your choice. Yes, I mean it. No, Greg, Greg, for the love of God, calm down. Look, why don't you sleep some more, God knows you need it, and then..."

The call goes like this for some time, with John alternating between soothing tones and annoyance, while Sherlock sits next to him and arranges his hair bach into its natural form (the strands are all ruffled and wrong, spiky, and John should get a haircut, but Sherlock likes it like this and it looks like they could grow out into curls and the thought amuses him). Somewhere in the middle of the call the tone changes into something rougher and friendlier, and John leans a little more into Sherlock's hands and smiles while he talks. He manages to convince Lestrade of a private conversation in 221b. Relief fills the air (and what, what had he been afraid of?). They will talk and sort it out and if this doesn't go spectacularily wrong, then it will all be fine by the end of the day.

Somehow Sherlock can't shake the feeling that Moriarty miscalculated somewhere.

He isn't sure if that is a success.