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Chapter Summary: Back in London, John and Sherlock settle down to start the hunt for Simone's body
15th April
It was good to be back in London. All that fresh air and open space had become unnervingly dull after a while. It was all so constantly similar: the people, the landscape, the gossip.
Give him London any day of the week.
Ava, however, was still sulking. Probably because there had been a park near the B&B with an ice-cream van parked right next to it that she had adored and had constantly bribed John to buy her treats from.
"When can we go again?" Ava asked within five minutes of being back at the flat.
"Would you not want to try somewhere different next time?" John asked, flipping on the kettle.
Ava flopped down on the sofa next to Sherlock. He glanced at her, slightly surprised at her proximity. "Have you got another case?" she asked eagerly, almost crawling onto his lap to see the laptop screen.
Exactly when had she decided that his lap was a place to sit?
"No," he replied. He willed himself to relax and not open his emails; her reading was getting far too quick to risk that.
Her little shoulders dropped in disappointment and she turned to him a little, curling into his chest in a slight sulk again.
"You'll see your friends soon," John's voice sounded from the kitchen.
"At school," Ava whined and looked up at Sherlock so beseechingly that he snapped his gaze back to the screen.
"School is necessary," he replied after a moment, feeling as if he should say something.
Against his chest Ava nodded, her hair tickling his chin. "Daddy says I have to go if I want to be as smart as you."
Sherlock glared at John as he walked in with the tea. John shot him an innocent look that was quickly replaced with a delighted smile at the sight of Ava and Sherlock. No matter how many times it had happened on holiday, John still seemed to take an extraordinary amount of pleasure in seeing the pair of them together.
Giving in, Sherlock rearranged Ava a little and rested his chin on her hair as he put the laptop onto the arm of the sofa, ensuring that her back was to the screen before he started scanning his emails. John sat on the other side of the sofa, and then Sherlock suppressed an eye roll as John started testing Ava's addition skills. Ava, still curled up on his lap, raised her head slightly to look at Sherlock before letting out along sigh and shifted even closer to sleepily answer the questions.
It didn't take long for John to declare that she was ready for bed. Sherlock momentarily tightened his grip before releasing it, not wanting John to see. She curled into him briefly as she muttered 'good night' to him. He felt a nagging urge to go up with John to put her to sleep.
John was the primary caregiver. That was his job, not Sherlock's.
16th April
The folder arrived while John was dropping Ava off at school (and apparently taking his sweet time in returning). It was hand-delivered by one of Mycroft's lackey's, which explained why the man looked like he had put on weight recently if he was using staff when he was perfectly capable of dropping the documents round himself.
Sherlock placed it on a side table, dragged into the middle of the room, and then circled it warily, trying to predict John's reaction to this.
He would be upset. That much was obvious. It would likely increase the guilt he felt and haunt John as details formed a clearer image of the woman. It seemed highly probable that this would restart the nightmares that John had just about been cured of Sherlock had left all those years ago. It was also possible John would attempt to withdraw again, though Sherlock would not allow that plan to succeed.
"Sherlock? Bloody traffic, I swear I am coming round to Ava's notion of living in-" John trailed off as he entered the flat. "Is that-"
Sherlock looked up from the file to John, who was standing almost directly opposite him in the doorway. John looked pale and was slowly taking off his coat, as if any sudden movement might cause the file to leap up at him.
"Have you read it?" John asked quietly.
"No." Sherlock shook his head. "I was thinking."
"About?"
"You," Sherlock replied honestly.
"I'm not made of glass," John muttered, taking a step forward. "I can manage this."
"She had a baby at home."
John froze for a fraction of a second, then glared fiercely at him. "No, she didn't."
"How do you know that?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head curiously.
"I know you," John huffed, "and I know when you're lying," he added, walking into the kitchen. "And I especially know when you're lying to provoke a reaction to prove your point," he said in a waspish tone as he dumped his things in their room.
That was unfortunate. Sherlock stared at the file for a moment. "It could be true," he called back.
"No, it couldn't, or else you wouldn't have used it," John replied, his voice still muffled by the distance.
Sherlock twisted the folder around in his hands as he sat, frowning. "How long have you been able to spot when I'm lying?" he asked, placing the file on the table again.
John appeared and sat opposite him. "A while," he said evasively.
Put out, Sherlock settled back in the chair and observed the way John braced himself before reaching forward with deliberate movements and picking the file up. There was a flicker of a glance in Sherlock's direction, as if daring him to say anything.
"You don't always know when I'm lying," Sherlock muttered.
An almost smile tugged at John's lips. "No," he agreed, "but I can usually tell when you're trying to distract me."
Accepting the pointed comment, Sherlock tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. "Do you wish me to continue?" he asked plainly.
John managed a smile at that. "I'm fine," he said with a little too much earnestness in his voice to be believed.
It was almost possible to read what the file said from John's expressions. Logic dictated that Simone's (or Lianne's, as he supposed she should be called) folder should begin with her early history, and John's jaw remained tightly clenched for the first few minutes of reading. A bad childhood if his sympathetic wince was anything to go by…probably worse than John's from the way John sucked in a breath at one point. She'd been abused or deprived in some way – that was a typical background for agents, as it ensured high pain threshold and less of an enquiry should a mission go wrong, as indeed it had.
John had believed that she had originated from Eastbourne, as reported on the news, but it had been part of her cover identity - which begged an interesting question as to which identity Moriarty would have used in this game. It seemed more likely that Moriarty would have wanted to draw Sherlock's attention by creating a mystery, but it was hard to tell which identity Moriarty would have thought more interesting to play with.
And just how much Moriarty had known about her true identity…
Perhaps the riddle was here, deciding which path to follow. Making a choice at the very start, taking a gamble.
It would probably amuse Moriarty to force Sherlock into such a decision.
Ah, a military background! Sherlock couldn't miss the way John relaxed slightly and the way his eyes sped over the words with ease and familiarity. He was reading briefings, military jargon, and Sherlock was willing to bet his current experiment that if he asked John a question the reply would be clipped and brisk, using broken sentences and quick, clear vocabulary.
Military…if Moriarty had known that, he might have used her original identity as it would form some link with John.
She would have been discharged in some way, or seduced out by the government in some form. The twitch of disapproval in John's nose told Sherlock it was the latter.
Then the reading slowed as John was faced with governmental reports of a different nature. Training would mean John would read it all properly, whereas most people's eyes would glaze over and they would start to skim.
Not his soldier.
It took almost sixteen minutes for John to start skipping as a thought suddenly occurred to him.
"Ireland," Sherlock said into the heavy silence that had permeated the flat. "I met her in Ireland."
John looked up sharply, his mouth opened to question how Sherlock had known what he was looking for. But looking up seemed to break the spell and John ended up just tossing the whole folder back on the table and leaned forward, looking unsure.
"What was her military history?" Sherlock asked after a moment.
"I thought you said you hadn't read it?" John muttered.
"I haven't, you have. Hence the question."
John looked confused at that, but seemed to shake it off. "Pretty standard," he said, scratching at his head briefly. "She was very good with the locals, always had a knack at fitting in wherever she went. It was a skill the government wanted to use."
"Would you have crossed paths with her?" Sherlock asked.
"No." John looked utterly blindsided by the question. "Well…I never met her if that's what-"
"Could Moriarty have engineered a situation that would look as if you had?"
Comprehension dawned, sickly pale on John's face as he stared down at the closed file. "I…maybe…I'd have to compare our files."
There was a part of him that brightened at the idea of finally, finally, getting his hands on John's full files and all the reports on him, but he managed to restrain his glee at the idea. Thankfully, John still seemed distracted by the file.
Then John looked up.
He was afraid. The realisation came to Sherlock in a rush. Of course, seeing suddenly how Moriarty could link Lianne/Simone's death in a far more solid and utterly fabricated way would be a shock. John had been under the impression it would be a simple case of it looking as if he had randomly poisoned someone, but Moriarty would have put far more planning into it than that.
Mentally, Sherlock huffed; if he had known John had been labouring under that false impression, he would have gone about the whole situation very differently.
Feeling slightly panicked himself with the thought of dealing with John, afraid, Sherlock said the first thing that came into his head.
"Make me tea."
John blinked at him, startled. "What?"
"Tea, John; if I have to spot everything you missed from the file, I will need a rather serious amount of caffeine."
Dazed, John nodded and stood.
Like hell could the man tell when he was being distracted.
Thank God.
17th April
John's file came the following day. Sherlock suspected it was bad form to read it without John's permission so it sat, mocking him on the kitchen table, as John went for a check- up.
John came back nearly an hour after it arrived. Sherlock barely moved as John walked up the stairs and paused, before finally coming to a stop behind where Sherlock sat at the table.
"How long has it been there?"
"Fifty-three minutes," Sherlock replied.
He could feel John nod behind him. "And have you deduced anything from the cover?"
There was a definite possibility that John was mocking him. "No. Other than the last person to read it spilt coffee on a pile yours was in."
John sighed and stepped past him, sliding the file to Sherlock. "Just read the damned thing," he muttered. "Perfect strangers can and do."
Sherlock pulled it the rest of the way towards him. "You have no stipulations?"
John shrugged. "Couldn't care less," he huffed before stalking into his room.
Sherlock had the cover half open and stared at the tempting cream page beneath.
Damn it!
Sulking, he closed the file and wondered when he'd become so adept at this sentimentality business. Clearly, he couldn't open it until John calmed down and explained his issues.
Still, it didn't stop him from almost opening it five times before John came back out.
"I won the story award," Ava announced proudly as she entered.
"Fantastic," Sherlock replied monotonously as he stared at John's file. Then was very aware he was being glared at by an irate five-year-old. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why did you win?" Sherlock asked.
"I don't know," Ava muttered. "But I did."
Sherlock swung himself out of the seat suddenly, unwilling to be found near the file again when John came upstairs. Instead he headed for his violin, intent on playing out his frustrations.
He tortured the violin for a few minutes, glaring out at the passers-by below the window. A little more relaxed, he paused and searched his mind for a composition to focus on.
"What's aboose mean?" Ava asked
"No such-" Sherlock stopped the automatic reply and spun around as he suddenly worked out what word she could be trying to pronounce.
Ava was sitting at the table with John's folder.
Open.
Darting a quick look at the door and listening intently for footsteps on the stairs, Sherlock took a step forward.
"Close that now," he said precisely.
All he got in return was a rather stubborn look as Ava jutted out her chin. "It's about my Daddy," she argued.
"Ava-" Sherlock began striding over.
But the belligerent child slid the folder off the table and hugged it to her protectively. "I want to read it," she implored sulkily, as if he were being utterly unreasonable.
So do I!
How was he meant to get the folder back? Ava had never been especially difficult before.
It was with a mixture of relief and trepidation that he heard John start to climb the stairs.
"She has your file and won't give it back," Sherlock announced to John as he walked in the door. He gestured fiercely with his hand at her, directing John to do something about it.
But John glared at him and looked past Sherlock to the other file still sitting on the desk. "Did you not think it might be an idea to move them?" he snapped. "Especially that one!" he added, pointing at Simone/Lianne's file.
"I wanted to talk to you about it," Sherlock muttered.
John looked like he was counting to ten mentally. After twenty seconds of silence, John turned to Ava.
"Ava, give me that now," he said, sounding almost calm.
To Sherlock's surprise, Ava seemed to waver, clearly not wanting to disobey John, but at the same time still desperately curious. "But it's a story about you," she complained, tightening her hold.
"I tell you stories about me," John replied with a faked ease. "Believe me. They're far more interesting than that file."
Ava seemed to mull that over. "What does aboose mean?" she asked. "Sherlock got weird when I asked him."
John looked lost. Utterly lost.
"Abuse," Sherlock corrected, "means getting hurt by people who aren't meant to hurt you."
It was almost funny the way John turned to him in startled surprise and his mouth gaped slightly.
Biting her lip, Ava put the file down, then flew over to John and wrapped her arms around his waist in what Sherlock assumed was meant to be a hug.
John, however, was still staring at Sherlock.
"What? She asked a few minutes ago, I had ample time to think of an explanation," Sherlock replied starting to feel uncomfortable.
"Yeah but…" John glanced down and slightly rearranged Ava. "That was…a suitable explanation."
"I've seen you do it often enough." Sherlock darted forward ad retrieved the file. "Deal with that and I will relocate these."
John raised an eyebrow and bent to pick Ava up into a proper hug.
That night, John came into the living room armed with a beer.
"Should you be drinking that?" Sherlock asked, tracking his movements.
John nodded. "Think I'm gonna need it," he muttered as he sat.
"That's probably an attitude you could have let die with your sister," Sherlock snapped.
The bottle froze halfway to John's lips and he let out a long breath before he started to chuckle darkly. "Are you trying to pick an argument?" he hissed.
"No." Unfamiliar with the frankly miserable feeling wobbling through him, Sherlock stared at the carpet.
There was a noisy sound of John taking a swig from the bottle. "Why aren't you opening my file?"
"Why don't you want me to?" Sherlock asked.
"Don't do that; don't answer my question with another question," John muttered.
Sherlock dragged his eyes from the carpet and studied the beer John had in his hand. He'd already gone through half of it. "You are uncomfortable with me reading it. That is why I haven't."
"I…" John, when Sherlock risked looking at his face, seemed stunned. "Really?"
Nodding, Sherlock looked out the window.
Glass chinked against wood as John put the bottle down and footsteps came closer. A firm kiss was pressed into Sherlock's hair and he closed his eyes in some relief.
He'd gotten it right.
John dragged the desk chair over and sat in front of him. "I…" He scratched at the back of his neck as Sherlock turned his head to look at him. "I don't know what it says," he admitted. "I don't know whether…whether it's good or bad."
Keeping eye contact with John, Sherlock reached out for the file and opened it deliberately. Over the top of what he was reading he could see John swallow nervously and reach for the beer again.
Medical history…John had glossed over the previous time he had been injured by his step family and certainly hadn't mentioned Harry's attempted suicide when he was a young teen. There was a social worker's report that supported Darren Watson's custody battle for his two children and then a psychologist's report documenting the one time the Watson siblings had turned up for a session after their father's death.
"Social worker's report?" John guessed.
Sherlock shook his head. "Psychologist's notes. Such as they were back then."
"Christ, forgot we'd even gone to that," John muttered. "Scary old bat. She wanted to blame everything on Harry's coming out. Cow."
Sherlock allowed a half-hearted smile before he refocused.
"You went into the army first," he muttered with some surprise.
John shrugged. "Yeah…came back to do uni but…" He frowned at Sherlock. "Did I never tell you that?"
Sherlock shook his head.
"I was crap!" John sighed with a self-deprecating grin. "I barely made it through basic training. But there was a guy who was a shit doctor there and I found myself thinking of the ones I'd met and how different it was when you had a good doctor on hand. So I left, went to uni, trained up and went back to it."
"You wanted to be useful," Sherlock muttered, reading the reports that matched up to what John was saying. The word "potential" had been used a lot by his trainers.
John nodded. "I needed to feel as if I was useful, as if I had some skill set. I didn't do well starting at the bottom; I felt like a burden."
"You couldn't manage that if you tried," Sherlock replied, distracted by the university transcripts and repressing the amusement at the two cautions John had received for being drunk and disorderly. "You relaxed at university," he muttered.
There was silence and Sherlock glanced up to see a blushing John Watson. "What?"
But John shook his head, looking oddly pleased. "Nothing…"
"You were cautioned?" Sherlock prodded, letting it go.
"You know medical students." John shrugged. "I vaguely remember someone wrapping my arm into a plaster cast while we were drunk. That was a bloody pain to wake up to."
"You jumped canal boats?" Sherlock blinked at the report.
John shifted. "Sort of," he said sheepishly.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"Angela Grayson was watching." John was almost squirming. "I couldn't back down from a bet."
"Perhaps it's good we didn't meet when we were younger," Sherlock said after giving him a disapproving look.
"Why, would I have been a bad influence?" John teased.
"We'll compare cautions sheets one day, " Sherlock sighed. "Then you can deduce who would have been the bad influence on whom."
When he looked up John was watching him fondly. "Caution sheets mean nothing," John declared suddenly. "Just means you got caught more than I did!"
Amused, Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You'll lose," he warned.
"I once switched the slides on a uni lecture to cartoon sketches of porn." John took a sip.
I once did three types of class A drugs in two nights, Sherlock wanted to say, but he doubted it would be in the spirit of what John was saying. "I stole a cadaver," Sherlock replied instead. "My roommate was not amused."
"So did I."
Fascinated, Sherlock sat back. "You? You who refused to have heads in the fridge?"
John shrugged. "We needed something scary for Halloween!"
Sherlock scanned his face before he started to chuckle. "Did it work?"
"I don't think we really thought it through," John admitted. "We managed to get it into the hallway before rethinking the plan."
"So you didn't really steal it then," Sherlock pointed out.
"Fine, you win," John huffed.
Sherlock shook his head and started reading again. Army reports, then training again…
Everything about him stiffened with fury when he realised that one of the reports on John had been written by Moran.
Reassigned position…great asset to my unit…proficient with weaponry…calm under fire…
Then later, colder and without interest. It would have been easy for Moran to have caused problems for John, but he hadn't.
There were the documents detailing John's promotion, mission debriefs, medical reports. There were a few court martials that John had been involved in, including the incident involving Hammonds.
Then John had been shot. There were medical reports, psychologist's notes, honourable discharge. A brief discussion about his use to the government and an agreement to keep distant until John recovered and was bored enough to be desperate for any sort of action.
It was a slight surprise to see Mycroft had stepped in at some point. Though his name was never mentioned, Sherlock could see his fingerprints all over the situation. John would have been approached three weeks after they had moved in together but a memo simply instructed to leave John Watson alone.
After that John's name was rarely mentioned without his own. Sherlock's more delicate cases were documented as was a discussion about the security breach that could have been John's blog. To Sherlock's amazement there were screen caps and printouts of the damned thing; it seemed there had been constant checks to ensure state secrets remained secret.
There was even the report on Sherlock's guilt after the Moriarty incident, and his apparent suicide. John had been in danger of being recruited then but his status as a single parent had deterred the government once again.
"So?"
"You should read it." Sherlock closed the file up. "It appears you have been in high demand."
John pulled a face. "I meant about the link to Simone," he said, all traces of his earlier humour gone.
"There are possible links…I'll narrow it down." In truth there were nineteen possible times when John and Simone's names could have been linked.
Sherlock needed to narrow it down further.
They continued on with the file throughout the night and then into the next one, always when Ava went to bed.
By the time three nights had passed, Sherlock was quietly starting to worry.
There was far too much to work through, far too much to guess.
He hated guessing.
Especially when so much counted on getting the right answer.
