:7: Rodents
Three weeks later, when there's a lull between five cases that seem to have sprung up simultaneously out of nowhere like some macabre tidal wave of homicide, John wakes up to a bright morning, the sun through his haphazardly closed blind gently caressing the side of his face as if glad he exists in the universe. He smiles a little, thankful for a day where he can lounge about and maybe get to read the entire newspaper for a change. Not that he doesn't enjoy being whisked out of the house at a second's notice on a half-cup of tea and a quarter piece of toast; quite the opposite, really. Everyone needs a down day now and again.
He whips himself up a full English and adds extra rashers when the Cat deigns to get up from where he's been curled in the seat of John's chair since they got in at three o'clock this morning.
:You've got to be hungry by now.: John flips the bacon over with a fork in his left hand and pushes down the handle on the toaster with his right.
The Cat sits down on his haunches by John's feet, blinks up at him and purrs loudly, whiskers twitching. He opens his mouth in order to make a delicate 'miaow.'
:I'll take that as a resounding 'yes' then.: John Sends as he returns his attention back to the hot skillet. There's a nudge above his ankle as the Cat turns and pads almost silently from the kitchen, his tail held straight up in the air behind him.
As John's sliding their plates onto the table, Sherlock effortlessly drops into his chair and John can't help but enjoy the sight of disheveled curls begging to be petted and the dressing gown slightly open, showcasing the smooth skin on display. John pulls his own chair out, and, after letting his fingers brush over the nape of Sherlock's neck, sets to replacing all the calories he's lost traipsing all over London the past few days. Sherlock eats the majority of his breakfast, then disappears into the sitting room.
John fixes himself another cuppa and, after taking note that the Cat has returned to his curled-up state on John's chair, this time with a full belly, he allows his mind to wander.
He has to admit that over the past twenty-one days he's began feeling lighter and less guilt-ridden about his past. Sherlock's words did not grant him absolution, yet they gave him the peace he hadn't realized he'd been craving. The overwhelming acceptance that Sherlock and to a smaller extent, Molly, has shown him in the meantime has gone a long way to helping. It's almost as if a heavy layer of fog has been blown away; he catches himself smiling more often, and not only because of this. There's been more times than he can count over the past weeks where he's flat out noticed himself noticing Sherlock: the way he moves, the way his eyes alight on the most worthless-looking piece of evidence, instantly making sense of it, the way his entire being lights up as the pieces of the puzzle fall into place.
The Link between them has grown stronger and today John is shocked to find that for the first time comparing Toby to Sherlock doesn't feel as if there are knives being shoved into his chest. It's not as if she would want him to be miserable, surely quite the opposite would be true. Granted, the two shifters couldn't be much different physically, but their temperaments and even the pull of their animalistic natures are very similar.
Even before they were together, there were times when Toby had no choice but to shift, to be able to run free without the restraints and demands of humanity collaring her: Sherlock is much the same.
Of this aspect of Shifters in general, the need to spend time in their other skins just being themselves, John has no doubts whatsoever, because there's something else he's been picking up over the Link: a subtle shift in Sherlock's temperament the longer he goes without changing. Until they are a week into their third case, John has been unsure whether the detective was even aware of the deeply-seated irritation with life in general that he's Projecting; after that, it was no longer a difficult subject to tackle anymore.
John leans rests the back of his head on his chair, his arms relaxed on the arms, then closes his eyes and thinks about the past weeks. It's an effort to remember as much detail as he can for the blog, as well as an exercise in organizing his own thoughts. It's no mind palace, of course, but he's learned that the practice is worth the effort, especially during those times when Sherlock begins a conversation right smack in the middle.
:-:
In the work area of what Sherlock insists on calling "Molly's Morgue," John is watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye as the detective is flitting between the two bodies laid out on the stainless steel tables on either side of him. Their smooth caramel-and-cream skin has taken the washed-out, bruised-looking hue of the not-so-recently dead. Every so often, his green eyes glaze over a little bit—not enough that most people would even notice it, but along with each pause comes an accompanying feeling of restlessness down their Link.
It is then that John finds himself beginning the comparisons between Sherlock and Toby and realizes that his heart has already made a decision on the question his brain has been asking since he pulled the trigger and sent a bullet through two sets of windows.
John shrugs and picks up a page from the file lying on the bench next to where he's seated on a stool close enough to hand Sherlock things, but far enough out of range of anything he doesn't particularly want on his clothes. One of the victims is a thirty-nine-year old male Were, Roger Trundle, originally from Barbados.
According to the victim's background report that John is holding, Roger's shift was an Agouti. Frowning because he's not all that familiar with rodents other than rats and mice, John pulls the file closer to him and shuffles through it until he finds a photograph of a rather large rodent with fur almost the same color as Roger's hair. Each individual hair on its coat is banded with a range of browns and blacks, alternating light and dark. The animal has a short, rounded ears and a stubby tail that John would be unable to see except that the photo is taken from the side and the Agouti is trotting.
John slides the paper back into the file.
:John, look at the other one.: Sherlock Sends.
John looks up to see Sherlock's rear end facing in his direction from where the detective is bent at the waist inspecting some tiny piece of evidence on the other body. John does his best not to seem too interested in that particular piece of Sherlock's anatomy and goes back to the file to do as he's bid.
The second report of paper outlines Roger's sister, a thirty-seven year old female named Maya. Maya was also a Were, her shift was a Capybara, another large rodent found in the Caribbean and South America.
:Is this a real trend or am I looking for patterns where there are none?: John Asks.
Out loud, Sherlock commands "Look at this."
John joins him, his eyes following the shape Sherlock is tracing on Maya's left collarbone. There's a long, thin cut there that doesn't look like any knife wound he's ever seen. He leans down, unconsciously mimicking Sherlock's earlier movement, and takes in the ragged edges and the depth of the injury that makes a line from Maya's collar back towards her shoulder.
"It goes around from there," Sherlock points, gently rolling Maya to her side with gloved hands, "to there." He stops, allowing John to soak it in. "On both of them."
The nasty wound runs parallel to Maya's spine, getting deeper at the jut of a vertebrae, leading to the reason she's lying here before them: her spinal cord is severed cleanly.
"This didn't happen while she was in her human form," John wisely deduces. He pulls on a glove and carefully prods the torn edges of the slice. "No healing, either. She shifted back after she died." He swallows hard, making a valiant effort not to think too much about the particulars.
Sherlock nods in agreement. "Correct."
Their eyes lock for a moment and John feels himself being drawn in as if he's a magnet and Sherlock is north. He realizes they are actually leaning in towards one another when there's a surprised squeak from the doorway.
"Oh!" Molly says, her hands covering her mouth. "I didn't know there were…" she trails off, her eyes following the line of the nasty wound. She pales a little.
"Molly, you need to have Simon fired. I cannot work with him," Sherlock drawls as if his word is law as he takes a step backwards, pulling off the latex gloves.
John watches every single movement of his hands, his concentration broken when Molly sighs and crosses her arms over chest. She's not yet wearing her lab coat over her russet jumper and khaki trousers, since her shift technically doesn't start for another thirty minutes or so. John offers her a smile, hoping to soothe ruffled fur.
"Really, Molly, the type of riff-raff they hire to attempt to do your job when you aren't here…" Sherlock mutters loudly. He's stuffing the papers back into the file.
Molly only frowns at the odd compliment. John chuckles under his breath when she actually rolls her eyes.
:You know how he is.: John allows.
Molly raises her eyebrows and nods in acknowledgement but otherwise doesn't answer, causing John to wonder if her Mind Voice is weak from disuse or she simply prefers not to communicate that way. He's sure she can Hear him, especially after the quarrel he and Sherlock had here not too long ago.
"Molly, I'll leave you to complete the preliminary investigations…" Sherlock is saying as he makes to push past her towards the door, clutching the brown file folder.
Molly stops him simply by not moving and holds out a hand. He stares at it. Behind him, John huffs.
"Give her the file, Sherlock."
Sherlock shrugs as if he doesn't need the information in it and Molly moves aside.
"If it helps, I can have copies uploaded to you by this evening," Molly offers to Sherlock's retreating form.
The detective doesn't answer and John doesn't particularly like the heightened and annoyed sensations that their Link is giving off, so he thanks her and tells her how much that would be appreciated and quickens his steps to catch up with Sherlock before he disappears from view in the most polite manner he can pull off.
:-:
"Sherlock!" John calls out at the retreating figure ahead of him, his voice echoing down the sterile corridor. Sherlock's restless energy is growing by leaps and bounds; John feels like he needs to offer his help.
Sherlock waits for him to catch up, foot bouncing against the shiny tile, one hand rubbing the back of his neck, eyes hooded. His entire countenance is screaming 'exhausted.'
John wants to help. Instead of touching him, however, he holds out both hands. "Go on. Change. I'll take you home." He opens his channels wide, allowing Sherlock to See.
Sherlock regards John warily, mutely. :You can tell, then.:
"Obviously," John grins.
Sherlock nods sharply, the decision made. It's as close to admitting his own uncertainty as John has ever seen. "Not here," he says, pointing towards the door to the broom cupboard at the end of the corridor.
"Yes, go on." In less than two minutes, he's opening the cupboard and retrieving Sherlock's clothes which he folds over his arm. He leans down and gathers up the Cat, who is purring before John stands.
:Thank you, John.: Sherlock Sends a strong feeling of Relief down their Link. John rubs his silky ears and the top of his head. No one even gives them a second glance as they step out onto the pavement.
John knows none of the taxis will pick them up, as most do not allow animals, so he relaxes and prepares himself for a long walk until one of Mycroft's glossy black sedans pulls up alongside them. John ignores it for a couple of blocks.
:Doctor Watson, wouldn't it be expedient to ride instead of walk?:
:Ugh.: John Thinks. :Now your brother's in my head.:
There's a sort of mental shrug and a slight tugging on their Link. :I would like to go home, John. Whatever makes that happen faster.:
John is only partially surprised to find that Sherlock Sounds exhausted. Without a second thought, he stops then climbs into the backseat after putting Sherlock down gently on the leather. Instantly the Cat becomes alert and swivels his ears towards his brother, who is impeccably dressed and watching him closely.
As John closes the door, there's a tearing sound and when he looks, there's a neat scratch right down the middle of the back seat. The Cat sits up and starts cleaning himself. Mycroft doesn't quite groan, but the strangled sound under his breath is close enough for John to call it.
"I'd say sorry, but…" John states with a shrug.
"No harm done, Doctor Watson. I'm heading in the same direction, so I thought we could share. I'm positive Detective Inspector Lestrade is eagerly awaiting Sherlock's opinion on this case." Mycroft continues to watch the Cat through narrowed eyes, though his expression is bland.
"Thank you, but we are actually going home." John pets the Cat's back almost absently.
Mycroft's fingers twitch only once before he speaks, but John doesn't miss it. "Ah," he says, "I see."
They don't speak again until the car pulls to a stop in front of Speedy's. John gathers the Cat in his arms, cradling paws with extended claws on his palms so that the nice leather of Mycroft's car doesn't fall victim to any more territory-marking behavior.
:You take away all my fun.: Sherlock Sends, laying his ears back.
" 'ts not your car, Sherlock," John admonishes, unlocking the door and starting up the steps. "Since it's after seven, you want to do a takeaway?"
Instead of answering, Sherlock gracefully leaps from John's arms as they enter their flat. He stops in the center of the sitting room before John can get the door closed and changes. John hopes his eyes don't really bug out the way it feels like they do as the now-very-naked detective turns to look at John over his shoulder. He does a little hip wiggle and strides towards his bedroom, disappearing into the shadows behind.
"Sherlock…" John tries, only to be answered by a deep giggle.
Once he's out of sight, John takes a deep breath and attempts to steady himself before calling for food. He wants to rush in behind Sherlock and tackle the flirty git to the mattress; ah, but there's the rub: he's still unsure where their boundaries lie. John shakes his head and dials the number to Lan's. He's interrupted several times in the midst of ordering by a pleasant warmth seeping down their Link until it's gone and Sherlock is cruising towards the kitchen, dressing gown billowing out behind him.
"Tea, John?" he calls.
John finishes making their order and goes to make the tea. They start discussing the case and he puts his former thoughts on the back burner to be discussed at a later date. Right now, the dead Were siblings have priority over their personal lives, and John is comfortable with that.
