Chapter 6
"John, I—"
"Sherlock—"
Again, they spoke together. John motioned for his friend to continue.
"I have to get off the street."
"What?"
"Something's gone wrong, obviously."
"But you're alive!"
"I was just attacked! I was on my way home, finally, and someone attacked me!"
John bit his lip. "Yes, right, I get it."
"I need to get away from here now."
"Well, come—"
Sherlock shook his head. "No. Not the flat. I'm dead, remember. Nobody is supposed to know I'm here. Nobody was supposed to know that I'm alive, but somebody does." Suddenly Sherlock was staring at him intently again. "John. If we're going to get out of this, you have to do exactly what I say, and we don't have time for questions and explanations. Agreed?"
John pressed his hands to his face. So, he was on a need-to-know basis. Again. And apparently he didn't need to know anything. As usual. Only Sherlock would have the audacity to rise from the dead and expect John to simply fall in line behind him like a good little soldier. He felt like laughing at the absurdity of the situation. Probably the effects of the emotional whiplash.
"Fine," he said, meeting his friend's gaze again and narrowing his eyes in such a way as to convey that he would be demanding answers at the earliest opportunity. Sherlock nodded.
"Go home and tell nobody, not a single person, that you've seen me." John's eyes widened and he suddenly felt cold. They were separating? But he hadn't even— "We'll meet later and plan the next steps," Sherlock continued. "But for now your routine must remain as normal. If anyone asks what you were doing here, you helped a homeless youth who was injured." John nodded. "Now, where I can stay out of sight and you can come without arousing suspicion?"
"My office?"
"It'll have to do."
John gave him the address and removed the key from his key ring. "Just stay in my office, none of the other staff will go in there. You'll have to shut off and then re-arm the alarm. It's a four-digit code—"
"Don't tell me. 221B?"
John rolled his eyes. Time was of the essence, except if Sherlock spotted an opportunity to show off. "No. As a matter of fact it is not 221B."
"Fine. What is it then?"
"221D."
Their eyes met and they burst into laughter. But Sherlock's giddiness quickly turned to uncontrollable shaking.
"Switch clothes with me," John ordered. "Come on, you're soaking wet." He stood and stripped off his T-shirt and jumper. Sherlock looked up at him a bit dubiously but got to his feet, pulled off the grimy sweatshirt and ragged shirt underneath and exchanged them for John's clothes. John shuddered as the cold garments touched his skin but as he folded back the sleeves, he saw with satisfaction that Sherlock rubbed the clump of John's clothes over his chest and arms before putting them on.
Sherlock looked ridiculous and about twenty years old in the too-small shirt and jumper along with jeans and trainers. John couldn't tear his eyes away. He stepped forward, hand outstretched, just to touch his friend's arm, feel the living body again. But Sherlock ducked his head and turned away. "See you soon," he called over his shoulder.
"Yes, soon," John answered. He watched him walk away, but Sherlock didn't look back again, so John turned and headed for home.
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