7. Problems
Sherlock and John had just left the hotel when an ambulance and two police cars arrived. 'You deal with them,' Sherlock told John and after he shot him a last smile, he walked away.
'Hey! Sherlock?' John called after him in surprise. He wanted to follow his friend but a hand on his shoulder stopped him from doing so. 'Morning, sir.'
John turned around and faced a policeman he'd never seen before. The man was much younger than John.
'Good morning,' he replied with raised eyebrows.
Sherlock in the meanwhile, had gone looking for people from his Homeless Network. It didn't take him long to find a girl and an old man sitting next to the Hotel's rubbish bins. The girl held the man's shaking hands in her own and seemed genuinely worried about him. They both wore big, warm coats and their faces were covered in dirt. The old man noticed Sherlock first, jerked his right hand out of the girl's grasp and pointed it at the consulting detective. The girl turned and Sherlock could now see the rest of her face, which was also covered in filth. Her grey eyes examined Sherlock and rested on his face. 'You're not passing by,' she stated and Sherlock shook his head in response.
The old man, still pointing, frowned in surprise and his eyes grew big, with what seemed like fear. 'It's okay,' the girl whispered, 'he won't harm us, Jack.' She was foreign, Sherlock judged by her accent, probably from somewhere near Russia.
Jack was clearly not convinced and hid behind the girl. She rolled her eyes and asked Sherlock what he wanted, her voice brisk and raw.
'My name's Sherlock Holmes,' he said and before he could continue, the girl gasped.
'Oh, I'm so sorry, I did not know,' she muttered, 'How can I help?'
'I need you to tell me whether you witnessed an abduction here, a few days ago. There were probably five men involved, one of them was the victim, another the leader.'
'The victim,' the girl began, 'could that have been… a detective inspector?'
Sherlock nodded, glad to hear that the girl knew who Lestrade was.
'Yes, yes, they came here. The detective was unconscious, three men carried him inside. The other, erhm… criminal, their boss, he was…'
The girl had trouble finding the right words in the English language.
'Describe him to me. What did he look like?'
The girl frowned and closed her eyes, desperately trying to remember what Moran looked like. 'He had blonde hair, not long, not short either. A small…'
The gestured at her own chin and then pointed at Jack's bushy beard.
'Oh, a beard?'
The girl nodded, 'yes, a beard! A small, blonde beard. He was muscular. Big strong arms. He had a scar, right here.' She pointed at her eyebrow. There was a short silence before she got up from the ground and stepped towards Sherlock. She studied his face and then mumbled, 'Will you find him?'
Sherlock shrugged. 'I don't know. I'll find him when Moriarty wants him to be found.'
'Moriarty?' the girl recognised the name immediately. 'The blonde man mentioned him a few times.'
'Did he fear the name?'
The girl frowned and shook her head. 'No, but the other men clearly did.'
'Jesus! We only shot him because he was trying to shoot us! It was merely self-defence!' John shouted at the cop.
'Sir, please calm down.'
'Calm down? Who do you think you are? Telling me what to and what not to do. How old are you?'
'Sir, would you please calm down? If you don't lower your voice right now, I'm going to have to take you to the station.'
John rolled his eyes and sighed impatiently. He tried to prevent himself from yelling again, but he simply couldn't; 'Lives are at stake here and you're seriously considering to lock me up?'
'I never said anything about locking you up, sir, it's just I…'
'OH COME ON!'
'Exactly; come on. We've got a lab to visit.' John immediately recognised Sherlock's voice and turned around to see his friend smiling at him. He didn't smile back, though. 'Where have you been?' he bellowed.
'I'll tell you in the cab,' Sherlock replied, clearly a bit taken aback by John's shouting. John gave the young policeman a final nasty look and then followed his friend. Still pissed off, he muttered; 'Who do they think they are? We are the ones catching the criminals for them, and then they come to arrest us. It's insane.'
'He didn't arrest you,' Sherlock answered him.
'Really, Sherlock? Not helping.'
There was a strange silence in the cab. John and Sherlock had had small fights like this before, but not while being in a relationship. John wondered whether it would be any different now. He hoped not. He already regretted shouting at him and he didn't want Sherlock to be angry with him. John frowned, he wasn't even sure whether Sherlock was upset. He probably wasn't, though he had seemed hurt after John yelled at him.
'So, are you going to tell me where you were?' John asked eventually. The question came out a bit more bold than he had wanted it to.
'Homeless Network,' he simply replied.
'Are you going to tell me what you found out?' John asked, raising his voice once more. Sherlock meant to give John an angry look, but as soon as he saw John's face he couldn't help but giggle. He secretly enjoyed it when John was pissed off with him, especially when he looked at him like that.
He knew that John could never be angry for long, so he couldn't take it too seriously.
John had trouble not joining in with Sherlock's laughter, and Sherlock obviously noticed right away, which made him chuckle even harder.
'Oh sod this,' John said as he started to laugh as well.
The duo entered the lab only moments later. John had forgotten all about the police officer. Instead his head was now filled with the sound of Sherlock's low rumble, a sound he loved so much and made it impossible to think of anything bad. Sherlock, no longer laughing, sat down on a chair and fumbled with the microscope in front of him. He asked John for Greg's blood samples and the doctor handed the evidence bag over quickly.
John, who never understood much about Sherlock's research, started pacing around the empty lab. It was a modern place, very structured, he didn't like it much. The doctor didn't want to disturb his friend so he tried to keep himself as quiet as he could, nevertheless he couldn't resist asking, 'Is it Lestrade's?'
Sherlock nodded and looked up from the microscope. John flinched but recovered himself rather quickly.
'I hate this, Sherlock,' he admitted, 'and I hate Moriarty for doing this!'
Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly as John mentioned his archenemy's name. 'He knows we care about him, he knows it affects us, and that's exactly what he wants.'
John saw the hatred towards Moriarty in his friends' eyes and walked over to him.
'Take your coat off,' he whispered and then added, 'That's an order.'
Sherlock chuckled, 'an order?'
'I was in the army, remember?'
Sherlock laughed but listened to the shorter man anyway. His coat fell to the floor and John immediately put his arms around Sherlock, who appeared to be wearing his tight, purple shirt. The taller man's hands shot up to John's faced and followed his jaw line. John looked at Sherlock. Now that he had taken his coat off, John noticed how the man was both skinny and muscular at the same time. He liked his body – very much even. Sherlock lowered his head and his perfectly shaped lips curled into a smile before they touched John's. It was a passionate kiss and both men were taken up in the action. Their hands were all over each other. John stroked Sherlock's cheekbones and his fingers ran through his soft curls as Sherlock shifted his weight and John stumbled backwards. His back thudded against a cupboard, which wobbled dangerously. 'Careful!'
The two men chuckled a few seconds. John breathed in Sherlock's neck, which made the other man shiver. Sherlock loved the warmth of the doctor so much and, without thinking about it, pressed his own lips against John's for a second time. John was pushed against the cupboard again, and this time definitely knocked something in there over, but he didn't care. He wouldn't let go of Sherlock if the ceiling came down. Sherlock pulled away and gasped for breath. He didn't get too much time, for John pulled him back by the neck, his grip too strong for Sherlock to get away, but the detective didn't mind – at all. Neither of them knew how much longer they had kissed when eventually Sherlock's lips let go of John's.
They stared into each other's eyes for a long while and John scanned every inch of Sherlock's. He still wasn't sure what colour they were, partly green and partly blue, but they were beautiful that he knew for sure. And then of course there were his long eyelashes, which completed his already perfect eyes.
Without taking his eyes off John, Sherlock walked back towards his microscope. He sighed when he looked in it again. John simply watched him, he liked Sherlock behind his microscope. So incredibly concentrated, comparing samples with other samples.
It took him no more than five minutes to figure out that the blood probably came from a big head wound, serious enough to hurt Lestrade and possibly knock him out. He could also tell that the wound was caused by an iron, blunt object, probably the back of a gun, by looking at the pictures from the tub that forensics took. He could even tell that there had been a struggle, which indicated that Greg had been conscious in the hotel room. At least for a while before the men knocked him out for a second time that night. 'None of this even matters!' Sherlock exclaimed desperately, 'It doesn't tell us anything about where Lestrade is now.'
He fished Caroline's mobile phone out of his pocket and looked at the screen. 'Why hasn't he called yet?' Sherlock muttered.
John shrugged. 'I don't know, but we might as well wait a little longer. There's nothing else we can do anyway.'
'I know!' Sherlock bellowed, obviously frustrated by the lack of criminal masterminds calling him. 'It's not helping…' he muttered. 'I made a mistake… a stupid, stupid mistake…'
'What mistake?' John asked, instantly remembering Sherlock hadn't even told him everything about what he'd found out from the Homeless Network. He became irritated by the tall, handsome man he had kissed so passionately only moments before.
'Caring!' Sherlock shouted. John jumped backwards at the loud sound of his low voice.
'Caring,' Sherlock repeated, 'makes you more desperate. Caring is what makes the average mind so easily influenced. I made the mistake of caring about Lestrade.'
'Honestly, Sherlock? Caring is bad?' John couldn't believe what he was hearing – at first. Then he remembered he was arguing with Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock Holmes never changed. They might be in a relationship now, but that didn't mean Sherlock's mind changed, even if his heart did.
'What about me?' John asked eventually. Sherlock tensed – it was easily visible in his tight, purple shirt, John noticed, but he was too anxious to feel attracted by it. 'Caring about me, do you think that is a mistake, as well?' John wasn't sure he wanted to know, but he had to ask.
Sherlock didn't answer. He was just fumbling with his microscope, avoiding eye contact.
It was as if John's heart dropped. His vision blurred, because of the tears that started to fill the corners of his eyes.
John didn't know that Sherlock was actually thinking very hard about that last question. He cared about John, he really did – but was it a mistake? How could it be? He even loved him. Sherlock closed his eyes and ran his hands through his hair in desperation.
Loving John – caring about him – wasn't a mistake, he was sure of it.
Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up, but John was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. John was gone, he left.
The tears that had also threatened Sherlock's eyes finally broke through. He sat down again, his shoulders slumping downwards. What had he done?
John walked through the long, empty hallways of the hospital, barely able to keep himself from crying. He wanted to keep as much distance between him and Sherlock. Sherlock, the man he loved. Sherlock, the man who didn't care – about anything.
Nothing had changed, after all. The only thing was that they had kissed. And that you're in love, a nagging voice in the back of his head whispered.
'SHUT UP!' John shouted. Several people looked in his direction; he was already standing in the middle of the pavement.
Not feeling the slightest hint of embarrassment, John signalled a cab, wiping his wet cheeks with the sleeve of his other arm.
'Baker Street,' he told the cabbie and he got in the back of the car.
Where do we go from now? he asked himself. Would he even want to stay with me? Would I want to stay with him? The last thought went along with a sharp pain in his chest. There was no doubt about it. He would never leave Sherlock, he wouldn't be able to. Sherlock might be a strange person with strange morals, but John was the only person in the world who really understood him.
Sherlock sat alone in the lab for what seemed like hours. Molly passed by several times, but Sherlock ignored her – if he even saw her. His thoughts were entirely focused on John.
He was thinking about what to say to him. I'm sorry, John, I should have known – no, that wasn't good, it wasn't even true. I apologise, John, for what I said, I wasn't thinking… That didn't work, either. He was always thinking. Sherlock sighed. It was going to be much harder than he'd expected.
Suddenly, he jumped up, reaching a decision. Because he had been sitting in the same position for over three hours, his whole body felt stiff. He stretched his arms, noticing his shirt was a bit tight. Maybe I should buy a new one, he thought.
But there were more urgent things on his mind. He picked up his coat, which was still on the floor – he remembered their passionate kiss from earlier that afternoon and his need to see John intensified.
Like John, he signalled a cab and told the driver to go to 221B Baker Street. The entire ride, Sherlock was agitated. He was tapping complex rhythms with his fingers and blinking nervously.
'Are you in a hurry, sir?' the driver said. Sherlock looked up, startled by the sound.
'Yes,' he whispered, after a moment of thought.
He arrived at 221B Baker Street a few hours after John. He almost forgot to pay the cab driver before he bolted up the stairs.
'John?' he called nervously. No response came, and Sherlock was petrified he was gone. What if he moved out?
He was relieved to find John sitting in his chair, his back to him. Sherlock leaned to the wall for one moment, letting out a huge sigh. He hadn't realised how fast he had run up the stairs.
'John,' he started over. 'I wanted to talk to you about… this afternoon…'
'Answer my question,' John said, not looking around. 'Please. Do you think caring about me is a mistake?'
'No, John, of course not.' Sherlock moved over to where John was, taking off his coat as he went.
'Then what the hell was it all about, this afternoon? I don't get it, Sherlock, so please explain.' John looked angry, hurt.
'I'm sorry, I don't even know where it came from. I was frustrated, because this investigation is not going how I planned…' Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to find the right words.
'I understand you're frustrated, Sherlock – '
'John, I love you, you have to believe me. I never doubted that caring about you is a mistake… I just thought, at that moment, caring for Lestrade wouldn't help me. I was angry at myself for letting it get this far – but then I thought, it isn't so bad. It doesn't matter, it only makes me want to find him faster. It only makes me want you more.' Sherlock took a deep breath; he wanted to say it all as fast as he could, before he forgot the words.
John opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He closed it, eventually, cleared his throat and smiled, a small smile, but sincere.
Sherlock was too relieved to stay where he was. He laughed out loud, and John couldn't help but join in when he heard Sherlock's amazingly low voice. Sherlock took John's hands, pulled him out of the chair and put his arms around him. They both teared up a little, but their laughter was stronger.
Through Sherlock's shirt, John could feel every muscle move. He lifted his hands and put them on Sherlock's back, enjoying the feel of his skin through the thin fabric.
'This shirt is getting rather tight,' Sherlock muttered, remembering his earlier thoughts. 'Maybe I should throw it away…'
'Don't do that,' John said, just a bit louder than he would have liked. Instinctively, he took a tiny step closer to the taller man.
'What? Why not?' Sherlock asked, confused by John's reluctance.
John blushed, and Sherlock pulled back a little to look at him. Why was he blushing over his shirt?
'Because…' John frowned. 'Oh, what the hell. Because of this…' John pulled Sherlock as close to him as possible, rubbing his back and his shoulders, causing Sherlock's skin to tingle. Finally, he put his hands on Sherlock's chest and looked up at him.
Sherlock still frowned, but as comprehension hit him, he started to chuckle.
'Oh, so that's why I've got to keep the shirt?' he murmured, leaning in. He breathed in John's neck for a moment, pulling himself together, before pressing his still smiling lips to John's.
John moved his hands from Sherlock's chest to his neck, pulling him close. He loved the brief moment before the kiss, when Sherlock always breathed in his neck. He loved the feel of Sherlock's warm lips on his, opened slightly, so he could feel every breath he took. He loved Sherlock's warm hands, his long fingers, which touched him lightly, as if he wasn't sure of how to do it properly.
Finally, Sherlock let go, but kept his arms around John. He didn't want to be separated from John in any way. John rested his head on Sherlock's chest, and closed his eyes.
'So, are you going to tell me what those homeless people told you?' John asked, still with closed eyes. When Sherlock began to speak, he felt the vibration of his voice and almost forgot to listen.
'They had seen five men in total. Lestrade, Moran and the kidnappers. They gave me a brief description of Moran…' he repeated what the homeless girl told him, remembering exactly what she had said. 'They were talking about Moriarty, as well. Moran wasn't afraid of him, but the three men were. I hoped it would be more, but this will have to do.'
'Well, at least we know what he looks like,' John said, glad Sherlock told him everything he knew. Their argument seemed stupid, now. How could he have doubted Sherlock, who was standing so close to him, apparently reluctant to let him go?
'You've been thinking, haven't you?' John asked, knowing exactly how Sherlock felt about the case, and doing nothing wasn't like him.
'I have…' Sherlock sniggered, letting John go. He started pacing around the apartment, and John watched him with an amused smile.
'They only brought Lestrade there for "safekeeping", right? Before they could transport him to a safer place? Sebastian Moran's house, for example. Then why make it so important for me to show up, but leaving only one person on the lookout? Clearly, they didn't know there would be two of us, or they weren't sure whether we would have guns with us. I want to have a word with that man – he said he'd get money from his boss if he delivered me dead. Why would they want me dead?' Sherlock was pacing faster, staring into space. 'Maybe they didn't tell him everything – I know I wouldn't. If I were a criminal mastermind, I wouldn't tell my security guards everything. But that still doesn't explain why they would want me dead…'
'Well, Moriarty wanted you dead, right? Why not now, why not this way? He knows he's not getting information from you – he wouldn't even be interested, I think. It's a game, between the two of you.' John was thinking, not coming to a conclusion. Sherlock was right, he wondered about the right things.
'No, that wouldn't make sense,' Sherlock said. 'He wouldn't want to kill me like that… Oh… Of course… that's brilliant.' Sherlock grinned. 'He knew we would defend ourselves in the hotel. He doesn't care about the lives of his henchmen. He is playing a game with us, he knows we will meet again, in the end. Well, I can't say I'm looking forward to that meeting…'
'So… our visit to the hotel was entirely useless?' John walked over to the kitchen, getting himself something to eat. There would probably be no dinner that evening.
'No, not entirely… We found Lestrade's blood,' Sherlock suggested. 'I know it's not much to go on, but we now know he is hurt, but that he does know how to break free.'
'Break free? Sorry, Sherlock, have I missed something?'
'Obviously he was trying to, why else would the blood stain have been on the wall behind the bath tub, like a proper horror film? No, I think he got loose and tried to escape, but his abductors noticed and hit him with a gun. His head hit the wall, and he was probably knocked unconscious. I examined the blood, and I came to the conclusion it probably happened two days ago. That means they were staying in that hotel for at least a few days, since Lestrade's gone missing about five days ago. Perhaps they were expecting me already, perhaps there were some complications…'
Sherlock stood still in the middle of the living area, his hands in front of his chin, his fingers pointed upwards in his familiar deducing way. John looked at him, smiling to himself when he saw Sherlock like that. Some things never changed.
Suddenly, Sherlock noticed John staring. 'What is it?' he asked, frowning.
'Nothing. Just… you. I love how you can focus on a case completely, and you always have a distinct look when you do it.'
Sherlock smiled and walked up to John, stopping just an inch before him. 'And what about now, do I have a distinct look when I do this?' He closed the small gap between them and put his hands around John's face. He looked at him a bit longer, still smiling, before pressing his lips to the shorter man's.
Unconsciously, John reached forward, trying to reach the soft curls that were just out of reach. 'Very distinct,' John whispered, his skin tingling where Sherlock touched him with his careful fingers.
Sherlock lost himself entirely in the moment, highly aware of John's presence, and only of him. His hands still on John's cheeks, he stepped sideways, his shoulder brushing the wall between the kitchen and the living area. He leaned against it, allowing John to put his arms on either side of him, so that no escape would be possible. Not that he wanted to, of course.
'John…' he muttered, though he had nothing in particular in mind to say. So he said nothing and continued kissing the other man, who was standing so close to him he could hardly breathe – in good way. If not breathing was ever good. He tried to push John back a little, but the ex-army doctor was too strong for him at the moment. John did feel his muscles tense, though, and relaxed his grip on the taller man. Sherlock chuckled and put his arms around him, trying to feel all of him, brushing his lips against John's ear.
'I'm tired,' Sherlock sighed, putting his hands on John's neck. 'Let's go and get some sleep.'
John just nodded, feeling the fatigue flow over him as Sherlock directed him to his bedroom. After a quick change into their pyjamas, they crawled under the sheets together once more.
They continued kissing as if there had been no interruption. John loved the feel of Sherlock's bare arms for once, instead of either his coat, his jacket or his ever so delightful purple shirt. Not conscious of his own strength, he pulled Sherlock closer to him, more on top of him than next to him. He remembered how much he had actually loved Sherlock's weight on him on the sofa from that morning.
Sherlock chuckled, enjoying John's eagerness and strength with which he had pulled him on top of him. John loved how Sherlock's chest moved up and down when he chuckled, and smiled. Sherlock gave John another kiss, with the remaining energy he still had. Usually, he was never tired – but their argument had completely drained him. Even though they were in bed, Sherlock was still taller that John, and John's toes touched his calves, which left a tingling feeling spreading over his legs.
Sherlock moved beside John once more and held him in his familiar way, and after a few small kisses, they fell asleep, pressed tightly to the other.
It was in the middle of the night when John woke up. For a second, he thought he was back in Afghanistan while Sherlock was held captured by some terrorists, but then he remembered it had all been a dream. Relieved to find Sherlock still next to him, his arm across his chest, John sighed and lay down on his pillow again, securing Sherlock's arm without waking him.
Intrigued, John looked sideways. He had never seen Sherlock sleep before – he had never even thought about it. He was never tired, or so it seemed, and he was always up before him.
He looked peaceful. He lay on his left side, his face to John. The frown lines that were always on his face were smoothed out, as if he'd just solved a case. But, John recalled, smiling to himself, those frown lines returned only seconds after that, looking for a new case. His perfectly shaped lips were half open, like they were when he kissed him, but there was something different. They were relaxed, and they looked softer than ever.
His outstretched right arm, which lay across John's chest, was relaxed as well. His entire body was relaxed, his skinny, but muscular body. John loved Sherlock's body, how it could be skinny and muscular at the same time. That was why he loved the purple shirt so much, even though he was a little embarrassed to actually say it. But, Sherlock had understood. Obviously.
John moved closer to Sherlock, noticing it was cold in the room. Heavy rain was pounding on the windows and most of the sheets had fallen off the bed. Removing Sherlock's arm carefully, he bent over to pick them up.
He gave Sherlock a small kiss on his soft lips before crawling as close to him as possible, putting his arm where had been moments before. He put his own hand around Sherlock's neck and fell asleep instantly, dreaming something entirely different.
8. Homeless and Hospital
Sherlock woke early, as usual, though a bit later than most days. I must have been really tired yesterday, he thought. He felt a warm hand on his neck and his whole body immediately seemed to glow with happiness.
He looked sideways and noticed John had snuggled close. He had probably woken up in the middle of the night, Sherlock thought, because he barely moves in his sleep. He smiled delightedly when he realised why John had crawled so close to him – because he loved him and wanted to be near him.
Sherlock didn't even know why he had been angry the night before. He had been frustrated because the investigation wasn't going well, and Lestrade's life was on the line. I had no reason to get mad at John like that… Sherlock closed his eyes and hugged the sleeping man beside him, feeling immensely grateful they were still together.
It took a while for John to wake up, but Sherlock didn't mind closing his own eyes and holding John for two more hours.
John was pleased Sherlock hadn't left the bed since the first morning he had woken up in his bed. He loved waking up in Sherlock's warm embrace, and looked up at him with a smile.
'Good morning, John… How was your night?' Sherlock asked, lightly patting John's arm. John had a feeling Sherlock knew about him waking up in the middle of the night.
'It was… good,' John grinned. 'Yours?'
'It was all right, yes. I had a dream about you.' Sherlock blushed a little bit, which surprised John. Sherlock never blushed.
'About me?' John started to sit up, but Sherlock pushed him down beside him and stoked his hair.
'Hmmm…' Sherlock replied. 'It was nice. Nothing we haven't already done, but it was still nice.' He grinned.
'I had a dream, too. About us,' John said. 'Two, in fact. Though one of them was horrible – that's why I woke up in the middle of the night. I assume you already know about that. I was back in Afghanistan and you were about to be killed by some terrorists. The other one was nice, though. It was here, in Baker Street, and we were… you know…' John looked down, half smiling.
Sherlock tilted his chin up with his right hand. 'What were we doing?' he asked teasingly. John grinned, looking into the other man's perfect eyes.
'This,' John whispered, leaning forward and kissing Sherlock enthusiastically. Sherlock, caught off guard by John's uncharacteristic strength, fell backwards on his back, John's lips still on his. He didn't care, though, and responded immediately by pressing his hands to John's back, forcing him to stay where he was.
They continued their energetic kiss for a few minutes before remembering their investigation. Sherlock pushed John away carefully, with a knowing look on his face, and got out of bed fast. He dressed quickly, leaving the last button of his shirt open, like he always did. He put his light blue one on, reluctantly throwing his purple one in the laundry bin.
John got dressed, too, and followed Sherlock to the kitchen. While he made himself a sandwich, Sherlock was already on the case, trying to figure out where to go from here.
'Yesterday, at the hotel, we found a blood stain. The blood belonged to Lestrade; he's been knocked unconscious twice, now. We
have to find him – he could have serious head trauma and he's lost more blood than I would like. I hope they're taking care of him properly… We know they've been in that hotel for at least two days, probably because something in their planning went wrong. They've transported Lestrade to a safer place, probably Moran's house…' Sherlock looked up. 'Get your coat,' he ordered. 'We're going to talk to the homeless girl again. She hasn't told us everything.'
'How do you know?' John asked, stuffing his sandwich in his mouth, hurrying over to his coat.
'She seemed frightened. They may have seen her, threatened her and her companion. I will try and extract as much information as possible. There is no reason for a criminal master villain like Moran or Moriarty to threaten homeless people because they happened to overhear them. They are insignificant to them.'
'But not to us,' John assumed.
'Naturally not,' Sherlock replied, turning his coat collar up and dashing off the stairs.
They approached the hotel from the back, knowing it was closer to the rubbish bins – the place where the girl and Jack lived.
Sherlock extended his arm and blocked John's way, telling him to stay where he was for a moment. He remembered the girl had been very frightened.
Sherlock started walking towards the place where he had seen the girl and Jack, holding his hands in the air as a sign of peace.
When he walked around the corner, he found the girl bent over a body – Jack's body. She was crying, shaking heavily. Sherlock knew she was in shock.
'John!' he called, knowing they both needed a doctor. He approached the girl, clearing his throat to announce his presence.
The girl muttered something in Russian, obviously because Sherlock startled her. Then, she remembered who he was and turned her attention to Jack again. At that moment, John came running around the corner, looking for Sherlock.
Sherlock saw him and beckoned him closer. 'They need a doctor,' he said.
'No… not Jack. He already passed away,' the girl sniffed.
Sherlock looked at John, nodding towards the man, giving him permission to examine him. John moved over, and Sherlock told the girl it was all right, that John was a doctor and that he meant no harm.
'What is your name, exactly?' Sherlock asked, trying to be friendly.
'Viktoria,' the girl answered, not looking away from Jack.
'What happened to Jack?' Sherlock asked next, dropping to his knees beside John, looking into the girl's grey eyes.
'He got shot,' the girl said. 'Those men, those four men who came here a few days ago, the ones you asked me about… they shot him…' Viktoria began to cry again, remembering everything.
'Why did they shoot him?' Sherlock was curious. This wasn't entirely the way Moriarty or even Moran would act. 'Was it one of those three men? The ones who dragged the unconscious body of detective inspector Lestrade?'
Viktoria nodded. 'They came around that corner.' She pointed to the spot where Sherlock and John had just come from. 'I was afraid – they sounded… dangerous.' The girl was struggling to find the right words in English. 'At first, they didn't see us. I tried to be… still?' Sherlock nodded encouragingly. 'They were talking about where to go after the stop at the hotel. The boss, the blonde one, he was… angry. He was yelling at the other men, they had made a mistake.'
'What mistake?' Sherlock asked, knowing he had been right. There had been a hole in the plan, that's why they had to stay here a few more hours. It was a dangerous risk.
'I do not know, exactly. They had forgotten to… get a car, so they had to stay at this hotel longer than they thought. The boss was scared someone called… Sherlock Holmes,' she looked up at Sherlock, 'might come.'
So they didn't want me to come. They only wanted to lead me to this place, after they had already gone. It is a game, Sherlock thought, and not one I'm willing to play.
'At that moment,' Viktoria continued, 'Jack made a sound. It was probably a…' she frowned. She made a snoring sound, searching for a word to go with it.
'A snore?' John suggested.
Viktoria nodded. 'A snore, yes. One of the big men, the one who wasn't dragging the smaller man, he got out his gun and…and…' She couldn't finish – it was too hard for her.
It makes sense, Sherlock thought. Moran or Moriarty wouldn't have bothered killing insignificant people like them, but one of the three men wouldn't have thought about that.
'Did they mention an address? A place to bring the victim – detective inspector Lestrade – after they had arranged a car?' Sherlock was sure even someone like Moran wouldn't have been so stupid to mention such an important address out loud, even when there seemed to be no one around, but he had to try.
Viktoria shook her head, and Sherlock smiled. 'Thank you,' he said, standing up. 'We'll call an ambulance to pick you up, and Jack. The paramedics will get you something for shock. I probably know some other people around town you can live with – then you won't have to be alone.'
The girl nodded, unsure how to handle all the information. John looked at Sherlock, hardly able to believe what he had just said. Sherlock had been friendly to a person he didn't know.
They waited for the ambulance to arrive, asking for a ride to the hospital along with them. I took a while to convince them, but they finally arranged something.
'Why are we going to the hospital, too?' John asked. Surely Sherlock wasn't that concerned about Viktoria?
'We are going to have a chat with the man we shot,' Sherlock grinned. 'He was the one who shot Jack. He probably knows where they took Lestrade next.'
'Wait, how do you know he was the one who shot Jack?' John frowned, though he was used to Sherlock knowing everything about something just by looking at it.
'They shot Jack from very close. I was able to find the shell case of the bullet he fired, and I'm sure it belongs to the gun he was pointing at us when we were in the hotel. They knew we would be investigating their room, so they sent him there as a punishment, though he didn't know that.'
'A punishment?'
'Yes, obviously. He made a mistake by shooting Jack. It would lead us right to Lestrade's whereabouts. There is one thing they didn't think about, though.' Sherlock grinned, delighted with this new information.
'Which is?' John was thinking along the same lines. Their case had made an interesting turn.
'We did shoot him, but we didn't kill him. He will give us that information anyway.'
St. Bart's hospital contained plenty of memories for both Sherlock and John, however neither of them had ever visited an injured person there. It didn't take Sherlock long to find out where the criminal's room was. John would've preferred it if they had found him by simply asking one of the nurses, but Sherlock thought that would only result in 'tricky arguments'. They weren't supposed to visit people they didn't really know.
With John running behind him Sherlock quickly passed through the halls, once in a while taking a turn. After no more than ten minutes they arrived at room 7, in the intensive care department. Without knocking, the duo entered the room.
There were two beds there, one of which was empty. In the other one there was a man, sleeping and snoring loudly.
'That's him,' John whispered.
'We should wake him up,' Sherlock replied, not talking any softer than usual.
But John laid a finger on his lips and shook his head. 'No,' he stated, 'We'll only scare him. Don't forget that we shot him, even for a criminal that should be quite traumatising.'
Sherlock shrugged. 'You're the doctor,' he sighed, though this time he wasn't speaking as loud as before. John smiled and stepped a little closer to Sherlock. He just liked standing close to him, it made him feel happy and safe inside. Sherlock immediately noticed John's move and brushed his arms against the other man's. He regretted that they were in the hospital, a public space, in which they probably shouldn't kiss. Not with a wounded criminal in the same room anyway – sleeping or not.
They had been waiting for over half an hour in complete silence, when John suggested buying some food. Sherlock passed, but John went down to the cafeteria anyway. When they had arrived at the hospital he had noticed some lovely jam sandwiches and chocolate biscuits. He had decided that they would make a terrific lunch.
While John was gone, Sherlock was still waiting. He studied the man's face and noticed that it was extremely clean. His arm was in a sling, and his leg was rested on a blue, hospital pillow. All of a sudden the man started to move and Sherlock's eyes shot back up to his face. The man flinched and sat up immediately when he saw Sherlock sitting at the end of his bed. The sudden movements obviously hurt him, because his face cramped in pain. Sherlock didn't show any emotion and just stared at the man for a few seconds. Somehow, that seemed to calm the criminal down.
'W-w-what are you doin' 'ere?' he stammered after a short while.
'I'm here to ask you a few questions,' Sherlock answered truthfully. 'What's your name?'
The man wasn't sure what to say, he didn't trust Sherlock at all and was clearly very scared of him. Sherlock repeated his question, something he didn't like to do, and this time the man did answer him.
'M-m-max. Max Samuels.'
'You tried to shoot me. Why?'
Samuels frowned and shook his head.
'You might as well tell me, I already know the answer anyway,' Sherlock said.
'Then why ask me?' Samuels raised his voice, but quickly looked away and muttered an apology as Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
'You work for Sebastian Moran. He wanted you to wait in the hotel, he told you to wait for a man named Sherlock Holmes, and told you to shoot him. He'd even pay you for it, so you decided to stay. What a mistake that was…' Sherlock stated, a tiny smile on his lips. Max Samuels nodded in agreement but added, 'He never said there'd be two of you.'
'No, he didn't, but let me tell you, Max, he did know that John would also come. He set you up.'
'Nah, he'd never do tha',' Samuels replied, but he didn't seem so certain.
'That's where you are wrong,' Sherlock said, slightly annoyed by the man's lack of proper speech, 'You shot Jack, something you didn't need to do. Your boss wasn't happy about that, and you know what he decided? He decided to punish you. He thought we'd kill you in the hotel…'
'But ye couldn't.'
Sherlock rolled his eyes. Obviously he and John could've finished the man off, if they had wanted to. However, Sherlock figured it wouldn't be important to point that out to Samuels. He didn't really care what the criminal thought; all he needed from him were answers.
'How much do you know about Moran?'
'Nothin' much 't all. An' I won't tell you wha' I do know.'
'Oh, yes you will,' Sherlock said, his voice raised. He got up from the small chair he'd been sitting on and walked closer to Samuels' bed. The man looked absolutely terrified, but still shook his head and it became clear to Sherlock that he wasn't going to spill any useful information like this.
'I'll ask you one more time,' he threatened with his finger pointed towards Samuels' face, 'What do you know about Moran?'
Max Samuels hesitated, but shrugged eventually and stared the detective in the eye. 'No. It's none o' you're bloody business.'
'IT IS MY BUSINESS!' Sherlock bellowed, moving closer to Samuels' bed and staring at him with penetrating eyes. The criminal jumped but still shook his head. Sherlock clenched his hand into a fist and his knuckles turned white, he didn't want to punch the man but he was making it very difficult for him. 'Tell me what you know!' he repeated. Samuels noticed Sherlock's fist and started shaking, but still didn't give in.
At that point John came rushing in, immediately aware of the fact that Sherlock was about to lose his temper. 'Sherlock, don't!' He warned as his friend lifted his fist, ready to punch. The consulting detective turned around and realised what he had nearly done, he muttered an apology to John and stepped back a bit.
Max Samuels seemed less afraid now that John had arrived, but it didn't take long before he started to panic again. John, who was holding the last of his chocolate biscuits, couldn't really blame him. He tried to calm him down before asking him, in a calm voice, what he knew about Moran.
Samuels trusted John more than he trusted Sherlock, but didn't want to tell him either. 'Why can't you just tell us?' John asked.
''Cause, I told 'im that I wouldn't. Tha's why.'
John sighed and looked Samuels in the eye as he told him, 'Moran betrayed you, he set you up. He didn't care whether you lived! He even knew you wouldn't be strong enough to kill us both. He knew you'd get shot, and he thought you'd die.'
In the silence that followed you could hear a pin drop. Eventually Max Samuels sighed. He looked at Sherlock, then turned his face back to John and started to speak.
'Sebastian Moran is the most dangerous man I've ever met. He used to be in the army, he's seen bad stuff, ye know? He's tough and ruthless, but he knows wha' he's talkin' 'bout.'
'Do you know where he lives?' John asked curiously. He glanced at Sherlock, who nodded, clearly approving of John's questioning. That was something that made the doctor smile a little.
Samuels nodded, 'Yeah, I do. D'you know Russel Square?'
Both the detective and the doctor nodded. They lived in London; of course they knew Russel Square.
'Sebastian lives on Herbrand Street,' Samuels explained, 'Ever been there?'
John shrugged, he wasn't quite sure, but Sherlock nodded right away. He remembered what the street looked like; not too crowded, lots of apartments and a bit… nasty. It was the kind of street you didn't want to visit at night, because you never knew who might live there. Sherlock now knew who lived there, and he was extremely glad he had never passed by at night…
John had Samuels write down the exact address, while Sherlock asked the criminal his final question. 'Did they take Lestrade to Moran's home?'
Samuels shrugged, 'I don't know, but I think so.'
Sherlock got up, ready to leave but John wasn't done yet. 'Are you afraid of him?'
It took some time before the man answered; 'He's… intimidating, tha's all. But he's quite thick, I'd say. Y'know wha' I think? I think he don't make the plans… I think he's not the genius behind all this…'
Sherlock rolled his eyes at this. He hated people telling him stuff he already knew. 'Come on, John.'
John jumped up and followed his friend out of the room. Just before they left, Samuels called after them, telling them to wait. Both men turned around and faced the wounded criminal one last time. 'I'm sorry,' he muttered, ''bout everything.'
'Everything?' The detective asked, 'How do you mean? Is there more to apologise for?'
'I-I-I was one of them. One of the snipers. Moran told me to shoot him,' he pointed at John, 'if you didn' jump. I'm sorry.'
Sherlock immediately realised that Moran had been working for Moriarty for a long time. Moran was his wing man, and the detective knew that they'd have to get to Moran in order to get to Moriarty.
'Come on John,' he said for a second time, 'we're done here.'
They left the hospital in a cab. On their way to Baker Street they discussed Max Samuels. 'He was lying, wasn't he?' John asked.
Sherlock frowned, 'Lying? About what?'
'He does fear Moran. I could tell by the look on his face.'
Sherlock shrugged at this comment, he didn't really care. 'Look,' he told John, 'it doesn't matter whether he's afraid of Sebastian Moran or not, he told us all we needed to know, that was why we came here in the first place.'
John nodded, he knew Sherlock was right.
'Are we going to Moran's house soon?' John asked.
'Tonight.'
It was seven o'clock when they entered their living room. 'Nap for a while if you like,' Sherlock muttered, 'You won't be getting much sleep tonight.'
John giggled, though he knew that Sherlock meant that they'd be working on the case this night – nothing else. The shorter man lay down on the couch, staring at the ceiling. He wasn't really tired. In the meantime Sherlock took his coat off and sat down in his chair, staring at John. He enjoyed looking at him, especially when John didn't notice. He liked how there was always a certain smile on his face, he looked happy and satisfied. 'John,' he whispered in his low voice.
'Hmmm?'
Sherlock hadn't realised that he had said John's name out loud for no reason at all. It confused him. Wherever he went, or whatever he did, John was always on his mind. He didn't care, though. 'Nothing. It's nothing.'
'Come here.' John's voice sounded softer and sweeter than ever before. Sherlock was really fond of John's voice – it was soothing. Sherlock slowly got up and walked up to the couch. The shorter man reached for his face, and Sherlock had to kneel down next to the couch for John to kiss him. Their lips brushed and Sherlock immediately felt happy. He was no longer aware of anything else in the room – in the world for that matter. He felt John's strong hands on his waist, pulling him on top of him. Sherlock leaned on his left arm, next to John's warm body, while he used his right to stroke his face. John's hands brushed through his hair, and then pulled him even closer. For a few seconds they stopped their kiss, because they needed to breathe, but then continued it, even more energetically than before.
John held Sherlock's shirt by the back, compelling the taller man to stay in the same position. Shivers ran down his spine as he felt Sherlock's warm lips brush against his neck. He moved one of his hands towards Sherlock's head, touching his soft, dark curls. 'John,' Sherlock breathed in John's neck, muttering the doctor's name for a second time. John suppressed a small giggle and sat up, pushing Sherlock over. Sherlock, caught by surprise, fell from the couch. He stayed there, lying on his back, laughing loudly. John, who was still sitting on the sofa muttered a small; 'Oops, sorry.'
But the detective didn't even hear him over his own laughter. He stretched his arm out, and pulled John from the sofa as well. The doctor landed on top of Sherlock with a small thud. John didn't care how ridiculous it was, they continued their kiss on the floor. Sherlock held John close in his arms, with no intention of ever letting him go. John rested his body on Sherlock's, who didn't even seem to notice the weight. He felt every muscle in the detective's body, he lowered his head and kissed him, breathing heavily and once again he realised how much he loved him and his touch. Sherlock's hands all of a sudden let go of John's face and back. They both got up from the floor when they realised they were no longer alone. 'Oh, dear, so sorry to interrupt you two!' Mrs Hudson had entered the room. 'I know I should've knocked now that you two are… oh well, I'm here now anyway.' She walked into the kitchen as if nothing had happened.
'Erhm… Mrs Hudson? What are you doing here?' John asked, both confused and embarrassed.
'Well, dearie, I was just about to show Mrs Norris from across the street this magazine, when I realised I didn't have my glasses on me. Without glasses it's harder for me to read, you see. I'm getting old.'
'Old? You, Mrs Hudson? Never.' Sherlock said in his hoarse voice.
'Oh, Sherlock, you can be so charming at times. I understand what John sees in you, you know,' Mrs Hudson said as she left the kitchen, waving her glasses in her hand. 'Found them. I'll leave you two to your… well…'
As she closed the door behind herself, John and Sherlock exchanged a meaningful look. They both knew the moment was over. There was a short silence before Sherlock, his voice still a bit hoarse, asked, 'Dinner?'
'Starving.'