And we're back! Back to John and back to all-important plot movement!

I had an absolute blast writing this chapter. The Yardies are surprisingly fun to write for (oh Anderson, you insufferable git, you) and the final scene in 221B...well, I'll leave it to you guys to tell me what you liked about it, because I like pretty much every syllable!

And we also have several lovely canon references and allusions, which are so much fun to throw in.

Enjoy! Review! Tell your friends! :-)

Manzy

Chapter 5 – Sidekicks and Hard Hats

The Tube ride to the Yard was fairly short. After hitting, in quick succession, the currency exchange and the bank (no more losing rows with chip and pin machines, he had thought to himself, wryly) John had texted Lestrade on his way over, announcing his imminent arrival, so the Detective Inspector was waiting for him at the front desk to show him past security.

"It's not more on Moriarty, is it? Has Sherlock found something?" Lestrade asked as the lift brought them up to the fourth floor and his primary offices. Lestrade was one of the only Yardies that knew even a little about Moriarty, and though the case had been officially taken up by the Secret Service, John knew he still clamored for information about it.

"No, no, sorry," John said. "We actually need a background check run on someone. Sherlock's got a private case on."

Lestrade stared at him. "Doctor, I know I owe that man all manner of favors, but seriously, he can't expect the police to run background checks for him at public expense for all of his private cases."

John blinked. Oh, right. He was so used to the police jumping when Sherlock said jump that he'd failed to even consider that the jumping usually happened due to official police business. But their client, Ormstein, had been avoiding going to the police, so John asking for police help was dancing dangerously close to breaking some kind of law, he was sure of it.

Seeing the confusion on John's face, Lestrade sighed. "Oh don't worry, I don't blame you. It's a bit of a relief, actually. Usually he comes himself and then I have to listen to him and Anderson squawk at each other while I run the reports."

John smiled at that as the men exited the lift. Lestrade continued as they made their way to his desk.

"I suppose I'll regret asking, but what's he got on?"

"Blackmail case. Well, we think it's a blackmail case. But the suspect hasn't actually done any blackmailing, yet." John continued, "So technically, there hasn't been a crime."

"And so technically, you're not breaking any laws by withholding the case from me," Lestrade offered with a smile. "And further technically, I'm only breaking minor police protocols by helping you."

They had reached his office. Lestrade took a seat at his computer and began typing away. John stood for a moment and looked out the window. Lestrade had a nice view of Westminster from his window—the towers of Westminster Abbey were clearly visible, with a partial view of Big Ben itself.

"Name?" Lestrade asked.

"Hmm? Oh, Adler, Irene Adler?"

"British National?"

"No, American."

Lestrade sighed. "So Interpol will have to be pulled as well. Damn that man."

John smiled. Even without being present, Sherlock had the ability to make people do what he wanted. He laughed a little at that, then realized that here he was halfway across London, doing what Sherlock wanted. He was surprised at how little that bothered him.

"Geoff," a familiar voice rang out behind John, and he turned. Oh bloody hell—Anderson. "Geoff, I finally got the evidence kits from that attempted rape in Covent Garden. It should only be a few hours and then we'll—" Anderson stopped when he saw John at the window. "Oh, Dr. Watson, hello. Finally turning your flatmate in for illegal possession? Or maybe evidence tampering?"

He said the words with a smile, almost like he was joking—almost like he was joking with John, that John was supposed to join in the fun of saying these things about Sherlock. The familiar pang shot through his chest again and he repressed the urge to grab Anderson and fling him out the window. Instead, he forced a return smile.

"No, Anderson, just asking Lestrade for a hand with something."

"And you're helping, Geoff? You know this has something to do with the Freak and his private practice—his illegal, off the books practice, if you recall? Why any of us should make any effort for the likes of that psychopath—"

"That psychopath—" Lestrade interrupted, "—is responsible for our solving six of the last eight cold cases that came through this office, Anderson." Lestrade looked worn, like he'd had this conversation before. "And he probably would have done all eight if he didn't object to your presence at crime scenes."

"I'm the bloody police officer, not him. I can be there if I like."

John, who had been watching this whole exchange with the pang in his chest growing into outright anger, finally spoke up. "He's not a psychopath."

Both officers turned their heads to him. Anderson spoke. "Psychopath, sociopath, whatever word he wants to use for it, he's still a freak and he's still not an officer of the law. I don't know why any of us waste any breath on him at all."

"I'll thank you to watch your tone, Anderson, please." John noticed, with some amusement, that Anderson used Lestrade's first name but Lestrade did not use his. Apparently Sherlock wasn't the only person he knew who harbored some negativity toward the forensics expert.

"What? Oh, fine, Geoff, fine." Anderson sighed and turned to go, lingering for a moment on John. "Sorry for you, Dr. Watson, having to pop all over London for your sodding flatmate. Why you let him order you about I'll never know…"

John's whole body tensed. "I'm sorry?"

"Well, you're here because of him, right? Because he told you to come? Seems like he takes advantage, is all I'm saying."

John tried to relax his hands, which, he realized, he had balled into fists. Suddenly the nice, not-bothered feeling from a moment ago was a distant memory. "When I want your opinion, I'll ask for it, Anderson."

Anderson sighed. "Oh here we go, Dr. Watson in faithful-dog mode. Really, doctor, find a new flat before we lose all hope for you."

"Enough!" Lestrade interrupted. "From both of you," he emphasized, casting a glance over at John. "Anderson, if you have evidence kits to work on, I think you'd best be off to do that. Doctor, come here, I think I have what you were looking for." Anderson swept out of the room, shaking his head. John took a deep breath, shook himself out, and moved toward Lestrade's desk.

"Yep, here we go. Adler, Irene. 28 years old, from New Brunswick, New Jersey. Has lived in New York, California, Ohio, Maryland, now in London. Went to Oberlin for uni…worked for the Baltimore Opera for a time…" Lestrade finished scanning. "That's it."

John took a step back. "That's it?"

"Well, unless you need her credit score, that's all I've got. No criminal record, no convictions, not even an arrest. I don't think she's gotten so much as a speeding ticket." He placed his hands behind his head. "Seems like a nice lady. Are we sure she's a blackmailer?"

"Pretty sure…" John answered, but his mind was elsewhere. Anderson was a git, of course, but something in his words—something about the way he had sneered find a new flat before we lose all hope for you made John tense and oddly self-conscious. Just what exactly did people around here think of him?

"Sorry, doctor," Lestrade finished. "Looks like your errand was for nothing."

"Yeah, nothing." John moved to leave the office. "I'll show myself out, OK?"

"No problem, and Doctor?" Lestrade called after him. John stopped. "Do let me know if he gets into anything over his head, OK?"

John nodded and left, carrying his tense feelings with him all the way out of the building.

XXX

John returned to 221B to find it empty, which was just as well. His row with Anderson had gotten him worked up and he needed some time to come down from that. Hanging up his jacket and pouring himself a glass of water, John settled into his favorite chair, placed the Union Jack pillow on his lap, and thought.

Why you let him order you about I'll never know…

Despite himself, John had to admit that the words set him off not because they were wrong but because, in many ways, they were right. He did let Sherlock order him about, and he, too, didn't know why most of the time. He told himself it was out of admiration for Sherlock's gifts, something he'd never bothered trying to conceal, or maybe out of his deep connection to the man who refused to run when John had given him the chance, the man who would rather have stayed and died with John than ran and lived without him. John knew very well the kinds of bonds forged on the battlefield, and the loyalty that ran thick in a soldier's veins.

And yet, he wasn't sharing rooms with any old military friends. He barely kept in touch with them, actually. And he certainly wasn't flitting about London at their beck and call. These things he reserved only for Sherlock.

John shifted in his chair as other, more painful, memories bubbled up.

People do get so sentimental about their pets…

Your little doggie all placed-in-mortal-peril…

It was an experiment, Rover…

John Watson was no one's pet. Neither was he a sidekick, a crony, a peon, or an accomplice. Occasionally he'd let Sherlock get away with the term assistant, but that was only because John knew how Sherlock defined assistant: the one person on the planet who can actually understand him.

But if all of John's spirit rebelled against Anderson's words and, certainly, Moriarty's words, why did he find himself repeatedly acting like…acting like…well, acting like a faithful dog?

It didn't make sense. He knew Sherlock had a charisma about him that he could turn up at a moment's notice when it suited him. He could manipulate witnesses, run riot over the detective squad, make Molly Hooper jump with a wave of his hand…

Ugh, blimey. The last person John wanted to be comparing himself to was Molly bloody Hooper.

And he didn't think Sherlock was manipulating him. If anything, Sherlock was more straightforward, more transparent with John than with anyone else.

So it came down to the only explanation—John did these things because he wanted to. And not just the dangerous things, the ones that steadied his hand and focused his vision—the little things too. Popping down to the Yard when Sherlock was needed elsewhere. Picking up the shopping, even when it wasn't his turn, because Sherlock was in the middle of something. Returning to Baker Street from the other side of London at the chirp of a text.

But why John wanted to—why Sherlock made him want to, even without doing a thing—well, that he just couldn't fathom. An answer seemed to float along the edges of his mind, but he couldn't pin it down and identify it.

John looked down and realized that he'd been clutching the Union Jack pillow to his chest for most of his reverie. He jolted out of it and relaxed his arms, leaving the pillow on his lap, and took a sip of water. Sherlock may have deduced everything about John from his haircut and his mobile, but John would probably be better off, he thought, not attempting to deduce anything about Sherlock. The remote was only a few inches away, and after the day he'd been having, a few hours of crap telly seemed just the thing…

XXX

John hadn't realized he'd fallen asleep until he was woken up. Someone was banging, rather insistently, on the front door to 221B. Sleepily, John eyed the telly—the Sunday evening news, meaning it was past 6. Who was bothering him at suppertime?

He groaned and sat up. "Mrs. Hudson?"

No answer except for more banging. John stood, letting the pillow fall to the floor, and lumbered downstairs. Leave it to Mrs. Hudson to always be around when she wasn't needed and never around when she was.

"All right, all right, I'm coming," John shouted at the door. He swung the front door wide and came face-to-face with a tall, burly construction worker.

"Evenin', mate," the construction worker offered from under his bright orange hard hat, "we've had some reports o' gas leaks in the area. Mind if I pop up for a tic, test the air in the flat?"

John stared at the man, took in his long beard, beady eyes, thick shoulders. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Right-o, then I'll just be headin' up," the construction worker said, pushing past John into the hallway.

"H-Hang on," John said, starting to wake up, "shouldn't you take this up with my landlady? Honestly, my name's not even on the lease, I really think—" He followed the construction worker upstairs, noticing with dismay the muddy mess the other man was leaving from his large work boots.

"Won't be a moment, won't be a moment, two shakes to check the atmosphere, and Bob's yer uncle."

"No, listen, really, the flat's not in any state for—" Suddenly John froze. Sherlock was out, Mrs. Hudson was out, Moriarty was at large, and he'd just let a complete stranger, a much larger complete stranger, into his flat with relatively little protest.

Oh John Watson, you are an idiot.

"Now see here," John said in a much different voice. The construction worker turned and stared at him. "I don't know who you are or what you want, but I am telling you to leave my flat right now, or there will be consequences."

"Whaddayer mean, consequences?" The construction worker's tone was difficult to read.

John took a breath. "I have a revolver in my sitting room. More to the point, I happen to share rooms with one of the most dangerous men in London. A brilliant detective and a first-class fighter. Black belt in, um, something, baritsu or something. Anyway, that's not the point." John glared into the construction worker's grey eyes, determined not to lose steam. "If you don't leave now, if you do anything to hurt me or the flat, or anything against my express wishes, you will have to deal with not only me, but also Sherlock Holmes."

The construction worker nodded. "Well, when ya put it that way…" He reached up and pulled off his hard hat.

John nearly fell over. "S-h-Sherlock? It's you?"

Sure enough, with the hard hat off, John was greeted to the familiar sight of a head full of black curls. This, plus the now-obvious twinkle in the other man's no-longer-beady grey eyes, made the real identity of the construction worker painfully clear.

Sherlock broke into a grin. "Evening, John. Remind me to make a note of how kind you are to unexpected guests."

"Hang on, what's all this about? Why on earth are you dressed like…like…like Bob the Bloody Builder?"

Sherlock shrugged off his orange construction worker's vest to reveal a flannel shirt and—John could barely fathom it—overalls underneath. "The art of disguise, John. You know my methods. I've been spending all day at a construction site across the street from Irene Adler's London address."

John blinked. "That's where you've been?"

Sherlock unbuttoned his flannel and John realized that he was wearing padding on his arms and chest to look more muscular than he was. "Of course. I told you I'd be going to see her flat. You didn't think I'd just ring the doorbell, did you?"

"The thought had crossed my mind."

"Yes John, but only an idiot opens the door to a complete stranger."

John paused for a beat, then rolled his eyes. "Oh sod off, Sherlock." Despite himself, he smiled. "So did you learn anything, Construction Worker Bob?"

"I'd been going by Andy all day, but yes, I learned quite a bit." Sherlock continued to remove his disguise, picking up a washrag and wiping his face. When he pulled it away, the beard, the fake beard, came with it. John shook his head. Stage makeup. "I learned that Irene Adler is a very attractive woman, and that anyone who lives within a five-block radius of her knows it. I learned that she's often seen coming home at odd hours, on the arms of different men each time, and from the way the others were talking, it's not their arms that she's ultimately interested in."

John raised his eyebrows in respect. He'd never have thought to gather data on a suspect this way, but now that he listened to Sherlock's rundown, this was all information that any bawdy group of working men would have access to, especially about an attractive foreign lady.

"It also," Sherlock continued, "seems she's an accomplished singer—they can hear her when she leaves her windows open and the jackhammers aren't going. Word on the site is that she's trying to go professional, singing at London clubs to make a name for herself. Ridiculous, of course—not the singing but the making a name. If Adler wanted notoriety, being the former lover of William Ormstein would do it for her. So she's not singing for money, but for pleasure, probably several different kinds of pleasure given her reputation around the site. And I have a pretty good idea of where she'll be singing tomorrow night." Sherlock dug into a pocket and pulled out an advertisement for a club in Soho. "Open mic, every Monday, not far from Adler's address. The clientele more than matches the description of the men she's seen coming home with, and the operating hours would explain her coming and going at odd times. Irene Adler will be at this club tomorrow night. That's when we strike."

"Excellent!" John breathed.

"Elementary," said Sherlock, scoffing a little but a pleasant pinkness rising to his cheeks nonetheless. "I'm almost afraid to ask, but did you learn anything at the Yard?"

John shook himself and remembered what he'd been doing all day. "No, sorry. Lestrade ran a background check, searched for her in the police records. She's clean, or at least, if she's not clean she hasn't been caught for anything yet."

"Definitely the latter. I'm certain this woman is on an entirely different level than the common criminal classes." He looked at John. "Make sure you're not doing anything tomorrow night. I'll need your assistance in this matter."

John took one slow blink—there was that word again, assistant—but let it slide. If this was what it meant to be Shelock's assistant, to go on mad adventures around London, in disguise for heaven's sake, then everyone else could think what they wanted.

"You know it, Sherlock."

The two men regarded each other for a moment. Suddenly, John broke into an infectious giggle. Sherlock, puzzled but amiable, began to smile in return.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing, nothing, just…'Bob's yer uncle'?" He met Sherlock's gaze, mirth in his eyes as the ridiculousness of Sherlock's disguise, and his reaction to it, finally sunk in.

Sherlock grinned back. "'Now see here'?"

"'Right-o'?"

"'Baritsu'?" Both men were laughing outright now, John with his hands on his knees to steady himself from the giggles. "What was that supposed to be?"

"Oh bloody hell, Sherlock, I can't keep these things straight. What is it, again?"

"Jiu jitsu, John, I have a black belt in jiu jitsu. Really now. Baritsu. Who'd make such a mistake?"

"You definitely called it baritsu, once."

"I never did."

"Did so."

"Best not to argue with me, John. I have it on good authority that I am one of the most dangerous men in London."

"Sod off, Sherlock."

John Watson was no one's sidekick. For tonight, though, he was perfectly content to be someone's comedic foil, as long as that someone was his extraordinary flatmate. And if he laughed a little harder than he normally would at Sherlock's bad jokes, he dismissed it as nothing more than the product of a very long day, the energy of having a new case, and the absurdity of seeing Sherlock in a hard hat and overalls.