Chapter Four written by heretherebefandom
It was sitting on the front porch when he got home from his shift at the surgery. Unassuming, really. Standard packaging, postal stamps, Sherlock's name on the front. In fact, if it weren't for the lack of return address, John would have guessed it was from a client. It wasn't unusual for Sherlock to receive gifts from satisfied customers. Something about it kept John from simply picking it up, taking it inside, and cracking it open-possibly even keeping the contents for himself if it was something Sherlock would likely ignore-like he would have on any other day. No, this package was different.
Maybe it was because of the string of puzzles from Moriarty a few weeks back, but John had been cautious with presents that wound up on his doorstep ever since. And this package would be no exception.
It was no surprise that Sherlock had watched his arrival from the window of their flat, so when he showed up at the door, swinging it wide and staring down at the package alongside him, no words were needed. Just an occasional glance between them that said, "So what should we do with it?" Eventually, Sherlock nodded, bending down to scoop the package into his arms and rush back into the flat without warning, leaving John to follow blindly and half stunned.
"You're just going to open it?" John gaped, watching in mute horror as Sherlock took a knife from the cutting block and started slicing away at the edges of the box, cutting through the packing tape with elegant flicks of his wrist. Even John could tell he was too intrigued too care. Hell, one could even say he was enjoying himself.
"We'll never know why Moriarty sent it if we don't open it." Sherlock muttered, working on the last edge with a hint more restraint.
"We'll also greatly increase our chances of not dying." John frowned, doing well to put a good twenty feet between him and the box in case it was something set to blow up. Or one of those cakes on a jack-in-the-box spring like in the cartoons. Both seemed well up Moriarty's alley. "How are you even sure it's from him?"
"Handwriting."
"Of course. Because you guys have been keeping up correspondence all this time." John rolled his eyes.
"Only occasionally." Sherlock answered offhandedly, John's brow furrowing in confusion before raising in what could only be described as a disgusted sort of shock. Before John could begin the much needed argument, however, Sherlock cut through the last of the tape with a breathy, excited, "Ah." Gingerly, Sherlock hooked the tips of his fingers beneath the cardboard and opened the box. John winced, waiting for something, anything, to explode and kill them both, but he was met with only the sound of Sherlock reaching inside and pulling something out, a handful of packing peanuts falling silently to the floor in the process.
"Another box." John raised an eyebrow at it, finally deciding it was safe enough to inspect it from closer range. Sherlock turned it over in his hands. It was wrapped in the gaudiest shade of neon green John had ever seen, an elaborate and overzealous pink bow fashioned on top like one would a Christmas present for a drag queen.
"A cigar box." Sherlock deduced. John didn't even bother to ask how he knew. Once the wrapping had been torn away, the bow discarded, John could see the brand and make written along the sides of it, an island scenery painted on the front underneath a piece of paper that said simply, "For Sherlock's Nimble Fingers Only." Yup. Definitely from Moriarty.
"Alright then." John went on when it looked like Sherlock might spend hours alone just staring at the handwriting on the tag, analyzing it, looking for hints in the stroke of the pen, the blot of the ink. Sherlock pulled the note away by the tape, a small, square piece of white cardboard about no bigger than an inch falling to the floor. When John made to pick it up, Sherlock grabbed him by the arm, yanking him back upright with a shake of his head.
"My hands only, remember?" The look in his eyes was indifferent, but John knew him well enough to see the caution in them, the very real concern just behind his stoic tone that said if something went wrong it would go very, very wrong. John cleared his throat and nodded in understanding, letting Sherlock pick it up instead, a red exclamation point hand painted on one side like a bleeding cut.
"Pretty sure it was "nimble fingers" though, yeah?" John tried to tease, but it was halfhearted at best, and Sherlock was beyond joking, already wrapped up in this latest distraction Moriarty had quite literally tied up in a bow for him.
Sherlock placed the square in the pocket of his dressing gown and returned his focus to the cigar box, tilting it from side to side, listening to the sound of something-or rather many little somethings-sliding about from end to end. And when Sherlock finally cracked it open, inching the top of the box up slowly and peeking inside, the little somethings turned out to be, "Puzzle pieces?"
Sherlock shook the box a bit, the pieces moving about on top of each other. "Two hundred and forty three of them, to be exact." Sherlock smirked.
John stifled a groan. He hated that smirk, that "I Just Figured Something Out and Find It Amusing but You'll Never Understand Unless You Ask Me" smirk. It was almost as bad as "The Look."
"Is that important? That there're two hundred and forty-three of them?" John asked, albeit reluctantly. Sherlock just shook his head.
"Cigar box, John." Sherlock did all but roll his eyes in disappointment. "He's saying he's been to my website."
"Oh, the two hundred and forty-three different kinds of tobacco ash thing?" John asked, taking Sherlock's silence as explanation. "So it's what? A joke?" Sherlock managed to narrow his eyes at him, to which John threw a glare right back. "First the puzzles, now inside jokes? I'm surprised he hasn't asked Mrs. Hudson permission to court you yet." This time, Sherlock actually did roll his eyes, taking the box out of the kitchen and into the living room, pouring the contents onto the coffee table and taking a seat on the floor in front of it. John plowed on, refusing to be left in the dust again. Not when it came to one of Moriarty's ploys. Even if it meant strangling information out of him, John would not be ill-informed. Being useless meant being a liability. "And what's it got to do with the puzzle pieces then?"
"Nothing yet," Sherlock mumbled, absently, picking up a few pieces and putting them back down. "Maybe nothing at all. I won't know until I put it together."
John raised an eyebrow at him. "As in literally?" The Great Sherlock Holmes, The World's Only Consulting Detective… doing a jigsaw puzzle?
"Obviously," Sherlock replied, not even bothering to look at him. He was already separating the pieces into six groups, though what he could see beyond pieces with edges and pieces without was beyond John.
"Alright then," John nodded, taking a seat on the other side of the coffee table. "I'll help."
"No," Sherlock continued moving pieces around the table, though he stopped long enough to point a stern frown in John's direction. "You can't touch them."
"Right, right, fine," John sighed again. "Then what else can I do? There's got to be something."
But Sherlock was already consumed, offering no more words on the matter. And when the silence stretched on long enough to be uncomfortable, John got back to his feet, dusting off his trousers and grabbing his coat.
"I'm going out then." He said. "Call me if you need anything." He didn't get a response, but he wasn't expecting one.
Not to say that it was beyond his abilities by any means, but Sherlock never realized how difficult the actual assembly of a solid white jigsaw puzzle could actually be. Once the pieces had been organized into six various groupings that determined edge and non-edge, placement of the surrounding teeth, corner, etc., the rest should have been simple. Find the pieces that fit in relation to their corresponding groups. But even with his eidetic memory, all the pieces looked too similar, each section of the slowly forming puzzle taking on average about three attempts per connection.
And it didn't help that, within the first five minutes, the tedium had become almost unbearable. It was almost physically grating. How anyone could find enjoyment in the redundancy, the monotony of the jigsaw puzzle, Sherlock would never understand. But Moriarty had left this for him, had made it very clear that Sherlock was the only one allowed to take part, and after the incident by the swimming pool… Sherlock shook his head, eyes closing for a moment. Never again. He'd never put John in danger like that again, not if he could help it. No, this one was on him. He would solve it on his own, alone, and leave John out of harm's way.
Sherlock reopened his eyes, scanning the holes in the puzzle anew, a few of the missing pieces sticking out around the already formed border. Sherlock put them in their proper places and paused.
Eyebrows furrowing, Sherlock slowly inhaled, trying to recapture that sudden and brief aroma that had passed beneath his nose. There was nothing. But he'd smellt it, he knew he had. And when it came to Moriarty, everything was important.
Silently, Sherlock cursed himself for not examining each piece more carefully before getting to work on the puzzle. It would be counterproductive now to take it apart, but he could still test what was left, see if, by statistical average and probability, each piece was of an identical makeup. Sherlock crawled over to the far end of the table, resting his cheek against the wood. Each piece was smoothed, painted over in what appeared to be thick, white acrylic, sprayed over that with a layer of matte. It had been done by hand, the brush strokes visible and inconsistent. Intentionally so, a pattern of switching diagonal strokes on one row of completed pieces, and then horizontal and vertical strokes on the row beneath it. With his cheek still resting on the table, Sherlock inhaled again. And there it was.
The smell was faint and sweet, barely noticeable under the scents of 221B, but familiar nonetheless. It was a common fact that the strongest memories were triggered by olfaction, and yet Sherlock couldn't seem to place it. It just lingered under his nose and itched at the back of his mind, chipping away at a memory that Sherlock couldn't place. Which meant the smell was either similar to something else that Sherlock's mind was attempting to make an irrelevant connection to-highly unlikely-or the smell was something he'd made no point to recognise, something that had crossed his senses without his knowledge, in passing, making a home for itself out of reflex and not necessity-more likely, but hardly helpful.
Eventually, Sherlock sat up, snagging a handful of pieces and heading to the kitchen, already working through a mental list of possible tests, the solutions mixed and setting within minutes, a few slides put aside and waiting for their turn beneath the microscope. Of course, this was only part one, the rest of the puzzle staring at him impatiently from the living room, waiting for him to put the rest of it together, something he knew would need doing before any true conclusions could be made. But that didn't mean he had to like it.
"And you're sure it's him?" Lestrade asked carefully, thumb working the handle of his pint glass hard enough that John thought it might break off. He didn't blame Lestrade for being on edge. It had been on his back when the man wasn't caught after the bombings. John felt for him. Moriarty wasn't an easy catch. Maybe that's why he'd called Lestrade up, asked him if he'd meet him at the pub for a chat and a pint. They both knew what Moriarty was capable of. Which meant they both understood the danger Sherlock was in.
John nodded, raising his own pint to his lips and tipping his head back, letting a good few swallows burn their way down his throat, warming his belly. "Unfortunately." He raised the glass in mock toast and Lestrade shook his head, doing the same before taking a few long swallows of his own.
"And the package?" He asked once his beer was half drained. John just shrugged.
"A jigsaw puzzle for Sherlock to put together," John frowned. "Everything's a fucking game to that bastard. I wouldn't be surprised if the whole thing was set to turn to acid upon completion or something."
"Or blow up," Lestrade offered. John smirked, eyes dark.
"Yeah. Or blow up." He finished off the last of his beer in one go, slamming it down on the bar a bit harder than intended. "Or spontaneously combust and light the whole of Baker street on fire."
Lestrade chuckled, the sort of deep, broken laugh that people laughed right before the world was about to end, the sort of laugh of the hopeless who had nothing left but a bad joke to keep them company. "Maybe after the last piece is added, the whole puzzle will transform into some sort of monster and attack all of London."
"Like Godzilla?" John scoffed, waving at the bartender for another round.
"I was thinking more King Kong." Lestrade said in faux seriousness. "Or like a Dalek or something."
"A Dalek?" John laughed openly this time. "I didn't realise you watched Doctor Who."
Lestrade shrugged, smirking. "Who doesn't?"
"Right," John was legitimately smiling now, if not a bit softly. "So, our theory so far is that the puzzle's gonna turn into a Dalek then?"
"Makes the most sense to me," Lestrade nodded, full out grinning now. "And very Moriarty to have one of the most frightening beings in all time and space at his disposal."
"Oh yeah," John nodded sardonically. "Nothing scarier than the business end of a plunger."
"Hey now!" Lestrade nudged John hard with his elbow, laughing. "Don't knock the Daleks. They used to give me nightmares when I was kid."
"Sorry, sorry," John sniffed, still giggling. "Right, so if it's not the most frightening being in the universe, then what?" There was still a humorous edge to his voice, but it was fading, dying out casually to be replaced once again with the disgust attached to anything Moriarty got his hands on. Especially when it involved Sherlock. "I mean… It could be anything, right?" John sighed. "Those puzzle pieces could have a recipe for Banoffi Pie on it for all we know, and Moriarty's just doing this to distract him from something more important, something that'll probably result in the deaths of thousands, ourselves included." John ran a hand over his face. "And all I can do is just sit here, wondering what's happening and feeling useless." John took another swallow of beer, his throat suddenly dry. Scratchy even. He was talking too much.
He heard the sound of Lestrade's phone going off but it didn't quite register, John's eyes locked on the rim of his glass. He cleared his throat, tried to swallow, but for some reason his mouth wouldn't cooperate with him, his tongue thick and heavy in his mouth. Lestrade was saying something. Listening, focusing, it was all so hard. Why was it hard?
"-in the alley outside the station." He was saying. "The woman died before the ambulance arrived. The man's in critical condition. They're saying-" John blanked out for a second, heard the words passing through him like listening to the voice on the other end of someone's phone conversation. He shook his head, blinking hard, forcing his mind to focus. "-gone wrong, but the timing's all off, and autopsy on the wife-" Again, focusing becoming nearly impossible now, John's hand shaking on the handle of the glass. His hands never shook. Why were his hands shaking? "-poison your wife and yourself in an alley outside of Scotland Yard? It doesn't make sense, so we're… John?"
Turning his head at the sound of his name. It was purely reflexive, but the room spun away from him before he could even catch Lestrade's gaze, all attempts at hearing words completely lost now, just the concerned tone left behind. And yelling. Why was there yelling? God, it was painful, ringing in his ears, making it hard to breath. No, no wait. It was hard to breathe because his face was pressed against something, tight and heavy and uncomfortable. The bar? No, he was almost inhumanly aware of every pain in his body, including the pounding in his head from colliding with the floor and the throbbing in his nose and left cheekbone from slamming into the bar on the way down. But why had he fallen in the first place? What the bloody fuck was going on?
"-hear me? John? John, stay with-"
He tried to respond, but his throat felt disconnected from his body, his mouth too heavy to open. It was a wonder he was even breathing. Was he breathing? He tried not to think about it. At some point he must have closed his eyes. Either that or gone blind. Preferably not the latter. He heard Lestrade saying his name again, but this time it was too distant, all vowels, whispering in the back of his mind alongside the image of white puzzle pieces and two words: Poison and Sherlock.
He almost didn't answer his phone, assumed that Lestrade had a case for him and he was much, much too busy for that. But for some reason he answered it anyway, half paying attention, half refocusing the microscope to see if maybe there was something he'd missed at higher magnification.
"Sorry, can't talk, too-" Sherlock started, but before he could get any further, Lestrade's voice was loud and persistent in his ear, cutting him off with words like poison and unconscious and John. Sherlock stood up, all of his attention on Lestrade. "Where are you now? Is he all right?"
"We don't know," Lestrade sighed deeply, panic easily heard beneath the façade he'd worked up all his years on the force. "There was another couple, an hour or so ago, the wife was found dead at the scene. Poisoned. The husband's still in hospital. We're thinking he was poisoned, too." Lestrade's voice got lower. "The paramedic said he was acting just like John when they brought him in."
Sherlock hung up the phone, already halfway to his coat before he realized what he was doing. As much as he wanted, no needed to see if John was okay, he couldn't afford to go. Not if this puzzle and John's sudden illness had anything to do with each other. And with Moriarty involved, there was no such thing as coincidence. So, swallowing down a groan of frustration, Sherlock called Lestrade back and took to pacing the flat instead. Infuriatingly, Lestrade answered on the third ring.
"Tell me everything. What are his symptoms? Where is he being kept? Where were you both when this happened? Quickly, Lestrade. We hardly have time to waste." Lestrade paused a total of 2.7 seconds before answering, explaining in as much detail as he could manage exactly what he recalled from the pub. Which, of course, wasn't nearly enough detail at all. "Did you see anyone slip something into his drink? Was there anything out of the ordinary about the bartender? Come on!"
"No, nothing." Lestrade replied, voice tight. "One minute everything was completely normal, and the next-No wait." Lestrade stopped, as if going over something in his head first. Sherlock openly groaned. "When I first got there, sat next to him, I mean… Well, I thought he was wearing some sort of new cologne at first. But I ignored it."
"And? What did it smell like?"
"Um… I don't know really. Floral maybe? Kind of… fruity? That's why I thought it seemed strange. It was almost like a woman's shampoo or something."
Sherlock hung up again, rushing back to the coffee table and lowering his nose to the puzzle pieces, nearly touching them as he breathed in. That was it. That borderline, floral scent. Something that had clung to John's skin after coming home from one of his many dates. A perfume maybe? Something that, to Sherlock, would have been otherwise ignored. Something that could have been sprayed onto the skin. Or into a jacket. Something that would stick for weeks in the leather, slowly working its way into John's system, the scent fading from the jacket but still occasionally released from his pores.
And something that could have been sprayed on a handful of puzzle pieces by the same "woman", the scent mostly fading by the time the post arrived.
Sherlock redialed, barely allowing for Lestrade to answer. "I have a sample of the poison. When I find out what it is, I'll contact you. Don't bother me until then." He made to hang up, thumb freezing over the disconnect button, but instead, he held it back to his ear. "Actually," he cleared his throat. "Will you be there? At the hospital with him?"
"Of course," Lestrade replied without hesitation. Sherlock nodded to himself.
"Then… Text me if anything changes." He hung up. For some reason, his face felt hot, his heart hammering painfully against his chest. For a second, he thought maybe the poison on the puzzle pieces was finally taking effect, but that wasn't it at all. No. He was angry. Uncharacteristically, insurmountably angry. He'd been angry before, furious even. But this, this was a desperate, all-consuming anger inside of him, one that fueled him back in front of the puzzle with new-found determination not just to beat Moriarty's depraved game, but to save John. And he would. With time to spare. Especially now that he had another important clue:
Why wasn't the poison killing him?
Either it simply hadn't worked its way into his system yet-which was unlikely considering his work with the puzzle pieces and how much time he spent in close proximity to John-or somehow, Sherlock had come across a sort of antidote, something that John wouldn't have come in contact with. Something John wouldn't have eaten, smelled, touched-
Sherlock's fingers had been diligently piecing together as much of the puzzle as quickly as he could, but something in his train of thought had halted them. What though? There was something important, something clever there waiting for him to recognise it, but what was it? What had he uncovered? Sherlock went over his exact thought in his head once, twice, eyes scanning the puzzle simultaneously, the pieces fitting together as if by sheer will.
Some sort of antidote… Something John wouldn't have come in contact with…
There were only a few pieces left now, a few new details coming together just like they would in a case, each fragment of information pulled to eventually form a complete thought, a complete solution. And here, as the pieces began forming a solid white square, Sherlock could look at it afresh, objectively, notice what may not have been available to notice before: the brush strokes differing at the bottom left corner of the mostly completed piece, the light catching on the white acrylic to show a new solvent layered in places atop the matte spray. And most importantly, the missing bottom left corner of the completed puzzle, no more pieces to be found. Just a vacant square of empty space.
Some sort of antidote… Something John wouldn't have eaten, smelled, touched…
Sherlock's mind was whirling, as it always was when he was on the brink of discovery: uncovering never before seen chemical compounds, making that final connection in a case that had the whole thing unraveling before him like one of John's poorly made sweaters. It was as though he could see everything at once, an ever growing web of facts and truths and answers, stretching out in front of him like a map, like the collages he tacked up above the mantle, tied together, linked by lengths of string and information. Connected. Everything was connected, and he could see it all, could practically touch it, could feel the conclusion as though it was already within his grasp.
Some sort of antidote…
Sherlock ran his fingers lightly over the bottom left hand corner, across the pieces with the unique brush strokes and on to where the puzzle ended in empty space. An inch by inch of empty space.
Something only my hands would have touched.
Sherlock stood up abruptly, nearly knocking the table back in the process. "Oh. Oh, oh, oh!" He shoved his hand in the pocket of his dressing gown, scrambling for the inch by inch square of white cardboard and holding it up to the light, the red exclamation point staring at him purposely, practically saying, "What took you so long?" Sherlock grinned, falling back to his knees and placing the square in the empty spot, another gear falling into place. Punctuation then. But what was it punctuating? The words had to be written in some sort of invisible ink leading up to the exclamation point, some clue that would bring an end to this, and hopefully reveal the antidote that would save John. Sherlock took the exclamation back into hand, holding it at the points between his thumb and forefinger. Something on this piece had saved him.
And now that he knew that, he could compare the two, figure out the poison based on the negating properties of the square. But first.
Sherlock leaned back against the foot of the couch, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. Hands clasped and fingertips pressed against his lips, he began going through each test he'd done on the puzzle pieces, mentally categorizing each compound, each component. Acrylic, cardboard, paper, remnants of silicone from the brush, the unidentified poison, and on a few pieces, something more. Something natural and out of place. Something he'd completely overlooked as he did whenever it popped up. Because he was in the kitchen.
"Sodium Bicarbonate." Baking Soda. Which was one of the few natural solvents that would only show up… Sherlock grinned, jumping to his feet. "It wouldn't have been simple, of course not. The common substances in invisible ink would have been completely avoided, anything that would reveal under black light too, probably. And heating would have been the obvious second choice." He spun around once, clapping his hands together. "So clearly, that only leaves development by chemical reaction."
He raced to the kitchen, opening the fridge door hard enough for it to swing back as he dug haphazardly through the few unspoiled groceries. "And what reveals sodium bicarbonate?" There, in the very back of the fridge, the final remnants from a pack John had brought back from Tesco a few months ago, was a half empty can of, "Grape soda." A little on a paper towel dabbed lightly across the bottom left of the puzzle and the sodium bicarbonate residue began to darken, slowly, too slowly, forming the words:
WELL DONE!
Sherlock blinked. "That's it?" It was like being slapped in the face, his jaw dropping in the sort of shock he would never get used to. And never admit. "No. No, that can't be it… All two-hundred and forty-three pieces… for a pat on the back…?" Sherlock closed his eyes, pinched this side of painfully at the bridge of his nose. And then, without thinking, he swiped his hands across the table, sending the pieces scattering across the floor. "Well done!" He yelled. "That's all you're going to give me?!" The rage flared hot before simmering, pounding in his blood, but just under the surface, his mind already racing. "Fine. I have all I need. I can do it on my own." He turned back towards the kitchen. He had the tests, he had the pieces, he just needed to compare and contrast. Time might be an unknown variable, but he would do it in time. He couldn't afford not to.
As if on cue, one of the puzzle pieces caught his eye, a dark scribble on the brown backing where the grape soda had bled through the cracks. Sherlock was on the floor in an instant, flipping over every scattered piece and gathering them together in a pile. Just to be certain, he dabbed each strip of cardboard with soda and waited, seeing if it was a single piece, a fluke, another distraction, but no. After a too long moment, on five separate pieces appeared a word each, this time spelling out: It Was You Or Peanuts.
Sherlock all but jumped for joy.
Coming to was like trying to swim through molasses, everything heavy and hard to move past, breathing difficult and sometimes impossible, vision fading in and out as his focus wavered. John Watson was all too familiar with the discombobulating feeling of blacking out and struggling back into consciousness. It was a common occurrence in the war and surprisingly more common when working with Sherlock. But this was different. This was like trying to break down a whole wall with a chisel. Eventually, he managed to get a decent visual on his surroundings, not too surprised to find he was in a hospital, the white walls and lights bright enough to force his eyes closed again giving it away. He tried to sit up, his chest squeezing painfully. No sitting yet. Alright. Full regiment then: neck-sore but fine, shoulders-stiff but moveable, arms, hands, and fingers-all fine if not in a considerable amount of pain, legs… John stiffened. His legs weren't moving. That's alright. Don't jump to conclusions, just breathe. Lower then. John wiggled his toes easily, a breath of relief escaping him. So then his legs. He tried one more time, feeling a slight shift and a heavy pressure. With some effort, John opened his eyes, raising his head as much as the angle of the hospital bed would allow, and looked down at his legs. Now that was a surprise.
Folded over his knees, keeping his legs almost completely immobile, was the obvious, dark coated form of a sleeping Sherlock. John felt his chest squeeze in a way that was completely unrelated to whatever had put him in the hospital. He swallowed. How long had Sherlock been here? Why wasn't he back in the flat, pining over Moriarty's puzzle? Was the case over?
"Sher-" John tried to wake the man, but the name got caught in his throat, a sudden bout of coughing causing Sherlock to jerk to his feet, at John's side almost instantaneously.
"John," He was saying, one hand on John's shoulder, keeping him pressed back against the pillow, the other pouring him a glass of water. "John, breathe. It's alright, just drink this." He handed John the water who tipped it back slowly, letting the liquid wet his throat, breathing becoming substantially less difficult. "You've been out for three days. Dry throat is one of the few remaining effects of the poison."
"So it was poison." John croaked. "The puzzle pieces?" A look of rage flashed across Sherlock's face before falling back into his normal, calm façade.
"Before that. Leading up to it," Sherlock explained. "You were the final clue."
John frowned, not quite following. Or maybe choosing not to. "You used me to solve the case?"
"Moriarty did." Sherlock sat back down next to John's bed. "He knew I would work faster, try harder to figure it out if…" He cleared his throat, sitting up a bit straighter, not quite looking at John anymore. "Well, he's always known I only have one weakness."
John stared at Sherlock for a long while after that. Surely that was the morphine talking. Surely he had to be dreaming. Because if he wasn't… "And what weakness might that be?" John all but whispered. Sherlock just looked at him and rolled his eyes. John smirked. "So, Moriarty poisoned me."
Sherlock smirked back. "So to speak."
"So to speak?"
"The chemical he used altered the makeup of your allergenic pattern."
John frowned. "So all of this was an allergic reaction? Moriarty made me allergic to something?"
"Over time. He sprayed the chemical into your jacket at the restaurant a few weeks ago."
"What am I allergic to then?"
Sherlock looked like he was trying not to blush. "Me."
John's eyes widened. "I'm allergic to you?"
"Used to be." Sherlock leaned back in his chair, eyes shining with the facts of the case. "And not me exactly, but something about me. My cologne, my shampoo. We share enough at the flat that it could have been anything." John felt himself flush, though he had no idea why. Thankfully, Sherlock was on too much of a roll to notice. "The only reason I had no reaction was the antidote Moriarty left for me."
"On the puzzle pieces?"
"Well, one of them, but basically yes." Sherlock held up a hand. "My nimble fingers only, remember?"
John narrowed his eyes and let out a breath. It was all so complicated, wasn't it. Just to keep the geniuses distracted. And this time it had almost killed him. "Sherlock," John forced himself to sit up, cringing at the way his body tried to refuse him. The look of concern on Sherlock's face was involuntary, but John caught it. It warmed him somehow, made him feel safe. But he wasn't safe, was he? "Sherlock, I almost died. Didn't I?"
Sherlock's face fell, lips tightening into a hard line. "I wouldn't have let that happen."
"And next time? He's not going to stop, Sherlock. Moriarty's bat shit insane, and he's never going to stop. Not until we're both institutionalized or dead or, or-"
"Worse?" Sherlock offered. John smirked.
"Yeah. Or worse."
There was a silence then, one that lingered not quite uncomfortably, but tense enough for Sherlock to feel the need to break it, which was unexpected. Though not as much as the look in his eyes, an expression John wasn't used to seeing: panic. As if to cover it up, Sherlock looked away from John, past him and out the window at the back of the hospital room.
"So, then the best thing to do would be for you to find yourself a safer living environment."
John paled. "Excuse me?"
"I can keep tabs on Moriarty," Sherlock kept on.
John ran a hand over his face. "Wait…" But Sherlock was persistent.
"I'll find a way to make sure he doesn't involve you from here on out."
"Sherlock, I-"
"And that way you can-"
"Jesus, Sherlock! Hang on!" John cut him off, Sherlock's eyes widening in surprise. "Are you trying to get rid of me or something?"
"No!" The response was instant, without hesitation. And John couldn't help but take a sick sort of satisfaction that Sherlock was this riled up. Over him. "Of course not… I only thought… I just don't want you to-"
"What makes you think I'd even want to go anywhere else?" John continued, adding almost to himself, "Or that I could." Before he could stop himself, John grabbed Sherlock's hand. "What I'm saying, Sherlock, is that as long as he's around, no one is safe. You especially. And I refuse to just sit back and wait for something to happen to you."
"John?" Sherlock was looking at him now with a stare so intense it was hard not to look away. But John kept his gaze locked on his flatmate, his friend, brown eyes on bluish grey that could be so cold and so warm all at the same time. John felt Sherlock's hand turn beneath his, holding on, tightening, a sort of electricity racing up John's arm and into his chest. Whether it went beyond platonic, John was too in pain and too focused to think on just yet. All he knew for sure was that he would die to protect Sherlock, and if that meant going head to head with Moriarty, then so be it. For Sherlock Holmes, it was worth it.
"What I'm saying," John repeated, tightening Sherlock's hand right back, a look of determination on his face. "Is that we have to stop waiting. We need to find him and take him down."
It was only days after John got out of the hospital that the first of Moriarty's letters arrived.