Chapter Three

John stared at Sherlock, feeling the questions bubble to his lips,

'Do you feel them too? Please say you can feel the wings… Did you see how you changed, going from dark to such a cold light? Could you feel the tremor that shook me to my core when we met eyes?'

"Okay, you've got questions,"

"Yeah, where are we going?"

"Crime scene. Next?"

"Who are you? What do you do?" John clenched his fists on his knees. 'What ARE you? What are you doing to me?' He would do anything to find out just why he was drawn to this dark, icy man who leaped for joy at the prospect of death.

"What do you think?"

"…I'd say private detective…"

"But…?"

"The police don't go to private detectives,"

"I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world-I invented the job," There was such a haughty pride in Sherlock's voice that John was struck with a surge of protectiveness and… fond sentiment.

"What does that mean?" indulgence flowed through John's soul.

"It means when the when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me,"

"The police don't consult amateurs," It was like he had physically attacked the taller man. John watched, eyes slowly opening wider in bemused shock at the utterly juvenile display of intellect that burst forth. But even more he watched the air. Bent and curved by Sherlock's lips, the air between them in the cab became electrified with midnight blue sparks and the silvered eddies of words. He almost missed the rapid fire explanation he was so astounded by the effect Sherlock was having on John's he was so astounded by the effect Sherlock was having on John's world.

As the cab sped through the night Sherlock's voice created pathways between people and things. John, for an instant at the stoplight, could clearly see how one man's misaligned coat buttons and askew hat revealed that he was stumbling away from not a drunken night at the bar, but away from the destruction of his marriage from finding his wife in bed with the poolboy. He saw that a precariously perched sign in the window of a shop would come crashing to the ground in the next big storm, bludgeoning whoever happened to be in the alleyway at the time and leaving a wound that would baffle the police for its similarity to an axe before being cast into the storm drain by the rain.

"That was… amazing,"

Of course it's amazing. John saw it in Sherlock's eyes; they were the eyes of some wise, sage beast. One who saw but didn't necessarily care. John knew that Sherlock could see things that he would never be able to, because to him a scratch was a scratch. Coincidences existed. Accidents happened.

Accidents always happen… John had rubbed at his knee while Sherlock explained to him just how obvious it was that a soldier returned home on injury with a psychosomatic limps would have a therapist. His leg actually didn't hurt that much, sitting there next to Sherlock's dark and solemnly folded form. The man sat like a gargoyle, proud and perfectly arranged in his seat. It was almost like he was showing off for him, which was a ludicrous idea and John banished it immediately. A positively obscene glee flowed across Sherlock's face,

"Do you think so?"

"Of course. It was extraordinary. Quite extraordinary,"

"That's not what people normally say,"

John inclined his head, "What do people normally say?" How can they not just stand in awe of this angel walking through their lives? How can't they hang on Sherlock's words, words that tie around you like quicksilver cables; thin like a spider's web and the color of moonglow and oh so secure around John's heart.

'Heart?' John shook himself mentally, it wasn't his heart that Sherlock's words were twining around… was it?

Warmth, irritating warmth that felt like it was annoyed with him-the hand of an exasperated caregiver-settled over his back and rippled along his body till he began to grin, helpless against the happiness.

"'Piss off'," They grin at each other, John feeling the warmth at his back pulse in approval… and drag against a cool force emanating from the other side of the cab. It was like he waved his fire-warmed hand toward a brick of ice. He toyed with the feeling the rest of the cab ride, testing it, pushing toward Sherlock with his mind just enough to feel that welcoming coolness push back.

As they walked toward the crime scene John enjoyed the sensation of height his imaginary wings gave him. He felt tall, important, more like he had in the Army when he was the highest ranking officer in an area. He felt like he had wings trailing behind him, glowing and fiery, and he arched them in his mind, feeling the ghosts of them flex against his back and point skyward. He imagined his feathers… gold feathers-that sounds right, he imagined his feathers ruffling with self-satisfied pleasure at Sherlock's anger over Harry being his sister. It was juvenile on his part, to take so much liking at Sherlock's error, so he tried to get them back on track.

"No, seriously, what am I doing here?"

"Hello Freak," It was like someone had shot John. Again. He was not a stranger to cold rage, but this was different. It was like he'd suddenly been filled with lava that seethed at the very sight of that woman with the beautiful head of hair. He wanted to… to… to smite her, whatever the hell that meant. Every single fiber of his being wanted to jump at her in defense of Sherlock, and with each passing word from Sherlock's gritted teeth and her obnoxiously superior smirk he boiled hotter.

"Would it be better if I just waited and…" 'Set this Donovan woman straight?'

"No," John followed Sherlock under the tape, feeling like that by crossing under that thin, delicate membrane of police defiance, he was being called into a different world. It certainly was different to him, to follow so willingly into the purple haze of confusion and blindness that was the unknown; but he'd do anything to wipe the sneer from Donovan's lovely face.

As John walked forward enveloped in the feather light and almost black ring of Sherlock's presence another man exited the building wearing coroner's crime scene scrubs. Sherlock stiffens and the feeling of enclosure surrounding John squeezes too. It's like Sherlock is trying to protect John from the barbs of these police officers, when all John wants to do is rise and erupt in defense of his consulting detective.

His? The sudden and dangerous possessive feeling stalls John enough so that they're clear inside and talking to DI Lestrade again before he realizes that Sherlock hasn't donned the coveralls. Sherlock is hunched over the body like a raven inspecting something shiny. All of the man's impressive attention is trained on the poor woman in blinding pink, and John can see it.

There's a cloud swirling around the body, like moths circling a flame or dust being swept up by the swirl of heavy skirts. He can see Sherlock's eyes flickering, dancing, his mind grasping tiny things and stringing them together. By the time Sherlock replaces the woman's ring, John can see the electricity snaking through the air like a roadmap and he knows Sherlock's noticed something and broken the mystery. It was like Sherlock's thoughts were mapped upon the air in front of him, aligned like a hologram from some futuristic scifi movie.

John moves closer with Lestrade's permission, and his knee screams as he kneels next to the dead woman. He doesn't know what he could possibly offer to Sherlock that the man hadn't already seen in that brilliant lightshow from a few second ago, but he'll do his level best. The cloud is still there, still animated and prodded by Sherlock's line of sight, but there's now a layer of golden light just under it, sticking close to the body. John watches it, leaning closer to inspect the pearlescent sheen. He can taste something in his mouth, and when he leans closer he can smell vomit. Years of medical training is highlighted but this gold wash, and everything he's been trained to look for stands out in eyesmarting brightness. He feels the woman's hand for good measure, wanting to trust his mind and not this trick of the light, but everything clicks into place.

"Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs," Why does he say drugs? This woman doesn't look like any coked out hoodlum that he's ever seen. She doesn't even look like she could take a hit of marijuana. Drugs shouldn't have even come to mind, but the word is there, gleaming like a new minted coin and he feels Sherlock smile inwardly at his suggestion.

John struggles back to his feet, feeling oddly proud that the Detective was happy with his professional, medical opinion, but he felt that happiness sour as Sherlock had to painstakingly explain his throught process to Lestrade. When Sherlock finished all John could muster was a heartfelt and awed,

"That's brilliant!"

Sherlock's head snapped around and John felt the cool presence the man exuded slam back into his own bubble of space, like his voice had brought Sherlock back to earth.

"Sorry," He hadn't meant to disrupt that dazzling thought process. In fact, John was sure he could watch it all day and never tire.

"Cardiff?" Lestrade looked less amazed by the deductions, but none the less impressed.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Sherlock looked at John.

"It's not obvious to me," John felt his wings droop admitting it.

Another whirlwind explanation left John dazzled,

"That's fantastic!"

"You do know you do that aloud?"

"Sorry… I'll shut up," John was embarrassed being the subject of so much scrutiny in that gaze. It was like Sherlock was searching for a hidden motive behind John's praise, looking for a crack. It felt like a bucket of sea water poured over his head only to slick away from his skin by some invisible force. A tiny smile quirked Sherlock's lips as he found no ulterior meanings,

"No, it's… fine,"

Then the suitcase. Sherlock lifted himself to his full height, interest spiked so high that he was positively vibrating at the edges. Quick as a flash the man was at the door, then leaning over the railing to scream to the other police officers,

"Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?"

"Sherlock! There was no case!" Lestrade fumes, irritated that Sherlock is apparently obsession over something unimportant.

John skitters after Lestrade, stumbling a bit as he tries to keep up with Sherlock's deductions.

"We've got ourselves a serial killer. I love those. There's always something to look forward to,"

"Why are you saying that?" Lestrade sounds like he's repeating a familiar and loosing argument, and John can barely look at the harsh light bouncing up the stairs from Sherlock's glee. If John really believed he had wings, he would have leaped over the railing to follow the detective and his radiant mind.

John tried to slow Sherlock down, his leg making him fall behind and he was terrified of falling behind. He never wanted to fall behind again, he wanted to be next to Sherlock watching as the man solved mystery after mystery.

"She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there,"

The utter detail that Sherlock's mind picked up was staggering to John. He had looked at the woman, and had seen a normal, if nauseatingly poshly dressed lady. For some reason he was able to see the health defects she carried, like her high cholesterol and the arthritis beginning in her knees, but he was certain he'd never have been able to see that she was a serial adulterer from her ever loving ring.

"Oh."

The light was cold and brilliant coming up the stairs.

"Oh!"

"Sherlock?"

John has a fleeting moment of joy as Sherlock locks eyes with him; he can feel that Sherlock is about to ask him to follow again, that Sherlock needs his help. John is ready to reply and his chest is full with pride and an emotion he hasn't felt since the war when he was saving peoples' lives under heavy fire. He's needed and it feels like his soul is opening back up under the cool rain of a midnight storm. The terrible scorch on his mind left behind by Afghanistan is being washed away by Sherlock's pull.

Until,

"PINK!"

And just like that he's gone. John stumbles, holding onto the railing and blinking owlishly into the suddenly dark stairwell. He's just gone. Disappeared like the moon behind a winter storm cloud. John looks around himself. He's been forgotten, again. Just like coming home from the war. He's been cast aside after his use was up and it fucking hurt. Feeling stupid for letting himself think Sherlock of all people would need boring old him in his life other than to make rent, John hobbled down the stairs. His leg screamed from the effort each step he went and the clearer it became that Sherlock had truly left him behind.

Left him behind in a part of London he didn't know.

Even the other police officers ignore him, shunting him to the side in their haste to follow Lestrade's orders. The light outside makes him blink, but even the sun makes him feel more alone and disused. Its warmth is a lie, diffused through the pollution of London and the smog that follows everyone in the damn city. John wanted Afghanistan back. The air may have been filled with gunpowder and symtex but at least the sun was strong and the people were real there.

"He's gone,"

It was Donovan, and despite Sherlock's clear dismissal of him John was still mildly offended by her presence and didn't like the look of knowing and haughty pity on her lovely face.

"Who, Sherlock Holmes?" Even the man's name had lost some of its flavor, reminding him instead that of course no-one would want a psychologically broken ex-army doctor for a companion.

"Yeah, he just took off. He does that,"

"Is he coming back?"

"Didn't look like it,"

"Right," Right. Of course the genius would abandon him here. He was useless after having made Sherlock's point.

"Sorry, where am I?" and now he was reduced to asking for directions… a child left in the amusement park looking for home.

"Brixton,"

"Right, do you know where I could hail a cab? It's just… er, well, my leg," damn his leg…

"Er…" Even this woman who looks so scornfully at Sherlock can muster nothing but an awkward face and the barest of polite help for John, "Try the main road,"

"Thanks,"

"But you're not his friend,"

John stopped cold and turns to look back at the peculiar seargent.

"He doesn't have friends. So who are you?"

"I'm…" I thought I was at least useful… "I'm nobody, I just met him,"

"Okay, but of advice then: Stay away from that guy,"

"Why?" even as his soul is cooling, John can muster a bit of indignation on Sherlock's behalf against such hostility.

"You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes'll be the one that put it there,"

A disturbing chill raced through John, bristling the feathers on wings that seemed to rematerialize behind him,

"Why would he do that?"

"Because he's a psychopath. And psychopaths get bored," It was in this woman's callous shrug that John felt his ire reignite. Sherlock was important. And as for leaving them around a body of his doing… That queer shudder didn't feel like Sherlock was a murderer. It felt more protective. And John was nothing without his mission.

"Stay away from Sherlock Holmes!" She called back to him, not noticing the resolve steel in his eyes.

He would not heed the woman's advice, heartfelt though caustic it may be. He was here to protect Sherlock Holmes. And he was fine with that mission. He was going to protect that cool collection of chaos wrapped in deep eyes and a blue scarf, or he was going to die doing it.

John limped down toward the main road, fully intending to catch a taxi back to the flat and figure out where Sherlock had gone. For the first time in weeks his side itched where his sidearm holster should have been. His fingers tensed like he was wearing armor and slogging through the lines toward his men. His blood raced and his resolve was strong.

The first phone ringing didn't register much, the second is harder to ignore.

"Hello?"

"There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?"

"Who is this? Who's speaking?" It sounded like one of his old Cos, older, more used to ordering troops than doing the work themselves. But the voice sounded like it was used to being obeyed, and that just raised John's hackles.

"Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson?"

"Yeah, I see it,"

It moved.

The one on the building opposite also turned away, then the higher one to his right. Suddenly the adrenaline was back, and John felt like smiling. This was getting interesting.

"How are you doing this?" A normal man would be scared. John should be scared. But he isn't. He's excited.

"Get in the car Doctor Watson. I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you,"

Crystal. John makes a fist and relishes in how alive he feels. So he gets in the car.

'An empty warehouse of all places? Is this guy serious?' John walked through the dank air, feeling his wings spread out behind him like the cape of a Roman general heading into a war meeting. He liked the feeling. It was the same as back in the war where his medkit was a beacon on his back, reminding him that his purpose was of utmost importance and that he couldn't fail. And if this imposing set up of suited man and straight backed chair wasn't leading to a conflict…

"Have a seat, John,"

Even strides. Don't show weakness, "You know, I've got a phone. I mean… very clever and all that, but er… you could just phone me. On my phone," Don't give ground, make sure you present like you're in control.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place,"

The man motions at the chair again, angling for the position of power, "The leg must be hurting you. Sit down,"

"I don't wanna sit down,"

"You don't seem very afraid,"

Good. "You don't seem very frightening," It's not true, the man is terrifying. But John isn't afraid.

"A yes. The bravery of a soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?"

Was that a bloody reprimand? John cannot believe this arrogant sod, and sets his shoulders back farther.

"What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

There is is… "I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him… yesterday," 'Such a short amount of time… and I'm standing unarmed in a bloody warehouse with some crazy suit. For what? Someone who left me in the middle of Brixton without a fare?' John smirks despite himself as the man comments that they'll be having a happy announcement after a week of crime solving.

"Who are you?"

"An interested party,"

"Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends," at least the man isn't like Donovan or Anderson.

"You've met him. How many friends do you think he has?" It doesn't sound like an insult… sadder, "I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having,"

Why does the man sound so sad and hopeful at the same time?

"And what's that?"

"An enemy."

"An Enemy?"

"In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic," Familiar fondness, and exasperation. But John snorts at that.

"Well, thank God you're above all that,"

Beep.

His phone? Who would be texting him?

Baker Street.

Come at once if convenient.

SH.

Those two initials filled John with a sense of such excitement John forgot momentarily that he was engaged in a possibly dangerous dance with a potentially hostile enemy. ARCH-enemy to be exact.

"I hope I'm not distracting you,"

"Not distracting me at all…"

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"

Continue it? If he walked away now, he could leave behind the danger of criminals and serial killers and the obnoxious faces of the police. If he left now, he could still find a cheap flat share, maybe with some nice woman who would enjoy quiet nights with a mug of tea. If he left now… he would be giving up the excitement and the wings and the colors and the sensation of the earth hurtling around him. Right now, John was the exact tip of a whirling top, visibly motionless but orchestrating an entire crescendo of life around himself.

"I could be wrong… but I think that's none of your business,"

"It could be,"

"It really couldn't," John felt like he was being interrogated a prom date's father.

When the man reaches into his inside pocket John's entire world goes black and white and he tenses, ready for the gun, but when he pulls out a notebook it's almost a letdown.

"If you do move into, um… two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way,"

'Um…?' "Why?" The fight was trickling away. And John was almost sad-he'd been looking for a fight, an argument, SOMETHING other than a melodramatic suit attempting to bribe him.

"Because you're not a wealthy man,"

Now John was annoyed. "In exchange for what?"

"Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel… uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to,"

Annoyed and so confused.

"Why?"

"I worry about him. Constantly,"

"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a… difficult relationship,"

Annoyed, confused, and most bafflingly-jealous.

Beep. John's heart leapt into his throat,

If inconvenient, Come anyway.

SH.

"No." Loyalty would always come first. It had come first in the Army, and it would come first now.

"But I havn't mentioned a figure,"

'And please don't… I don't want to know just how stupid I'm being,' his phone is a comfortable weight in his pocket, still warm from his hand and the text is still on the screen. John is wanted, needed. He has someone to protect and this is his first hurtle, "Don't bother,"

"You're very loyal, very quickly,"

"No, I'm not. I'm just not interested,"

That stupid little book again, "'Trust issues' it says here,"

There's a hint of alarm in John's mind. Like a single ice chip evaporating against the nape of his neck, "What's that?"

"Could it be… that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?"

Don't say it like that, goddamn you. He's not some disease, not a freak. And yes, I do!

"Who says I trust him?"

"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily,"

Damnit, he'd lost the high ground somehow. It was like this man knew something about both him and Sherlock and was amused that John didn't know it.

"Are we done?"

"You tell me. I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen,"

Time sort of freezes for John. This infuriating man is toying with him.

"My… what?"

"Show me," John stares the man down, knowing that of the bloke wants to play these games, he's very well going to come to him. He gets a smile and the man strolls forward, unperturbed and goes to grab John's hand.

"Don't." But under that level, somewhat disinterested gaze, John folded just once and allowed him to take his hand and examine it.

"Remarkable," It sounds too reverent and John snatches his suddenly too hot hand away.

"What is?"

"Most people blunder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. You've seen it already, haven't you?"

It was terrifying, how true this man had guessed.

"What's wrong with my hand?"

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks its post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service," John barely covers a flinch. It makes him sound broken, worthless.

"Who the HELL are you? How do you know that?" It was different when Sherlock stripped his life bare… this man was stripping his soul to the bone. The cracked… weakened bone…

"You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson… you miss it,"

John meets the man's eyes, uncomfortable but fascinated by the murmur of truth echoing inside his core. The man' words were like stones dropped into the still pool of John's heart. Once the surface tension was broken, the desire, the need for chaos rippled out until it consumed him. He was right, he was addicted to the fight and to the excitement. And Sherlock had been a hit of it, sweeter than any morphine or drug on earth, and John was addicted.

"Welcome back," When John' phone beeps this time, he doesn't immediately check it, he's still breathless from the burning realization that he's back in the field. Not just a protector, but a fighter.

"Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson," and the man is gone, replaced by the inattentive blackberry user.

Beep.

Could be dangerous.

SH.

'Oh god yes,' "Two two one B Baker Sstreet. But I need to stop off somewhere first,"

In a darkened apartment John checks the clip of his gun. Feeling the cold metal warm in his hands, John smiles, knowing that this is the first time in weeks that he's held it and not wanted to taste the copper sheathing of the bullets inside.

He was going to protect Himself, and Sherlock.

Charge.