Author's note: Sorry if this seems rushed, I didn't have much time, but I wanted to upload a chapter today – you've all been so great at reviewing.
And I've even got more followers!
I don't own anything, please review.
John told Sherlock everything, realizing while he was talking that the story didn't really show him to be the best of men; after all, it seemed like he was a desperate adrenaline junkie, looking for any kind of action – and, he had to admit, that was exactly what he was. He couldn't change it, and while he didn't think Sherlock would be disgusted or shocked – the man hunted down killers for a living, after all – he somehow didn't like the thought that the consulting detective could think less of him after being told everything that had happened.
Sherlock didn't show any reaction to his story, just kept piercing John with his gaze.
Just once, when John was describing the torture of the man the night Jim had told him and Sebastian about the game, did he look away.
His gaze returned to John a moment later; in fact, his reaction was so quick that John probably shouldn't have noticed it, but for some reason, he did.
So he stopped talking and waited.
Sherlock realized as soon as John told him about the man – mid-forties, almost bald, but athletic – who it had been. But he didn't want to ask for confirmation; he was sure, after all, and being sentimental wouldn't help them in their endeavour to capture (though, he had to admit, after all John had told him, it seemed unlikely that he would let himself be taken alive) Moriarty.
But John surprised Sherlock once again and stopped talking. The doctor must have noticed something in his expression – until now, only Mycroft had been able to read him so well, and Sherlock was confused that it didn't bother him.
Knowing that it would be useless to ask John to continue – the doctor had risked his life to come to him, so he would definitely want to know what was going on inside his head while he was telling his story – he took a deep breath and asked, careful not to let anything seep into his voice, "Do you happen to know the name of the man Moran was torturing?"
John frowned, trying to remember. "It was a rather weird name – his first name, at least. I believe his surname was something like – Johnson? Was that it? Yes, I think so".
"Shinwell?" Sherlock inquired.
John's eyes widened. "Yes! That was his first name! How did you know..." he trailed off, studying Sherlock's face. "Did you know him?"
"He was my best informant on the streets" Sherlock replied, shrugging his shoulders. "He'd been working for me for a few years. He knew almost everything that was going on in this great city".
John bit his lip and looked at the floor. "I'm sorry".
"What for? Sherlock asked.
John looked up, confused. "For your friend. I should have – "
"Moriarty would have killed you" Sherlock interrupted him. "And he wasn't my friend. I don't have friends. He was my employee, if you will."
He would miss Shinwell, that much was true, but simply because now he'd have to find another informant – and he doubted anyone would be as good.
He looked at John, who was frowning, obviously trying to find something like regret or sorrow in his face, which Sherlock knew he wouldn't. There was no reason to allow sentiment to get in the way, not even if he had felt anything concerning Shinwell's death.
John clenched his left hand, and Sherlock remembered something about an intermittent tremor in the file of his therapist. Something must be troubling him.
John swallowed. He had thought that Sherlock wasn't like Jim, and in a way, and, he had to be honest with himself, he still didn't think so, but this... this non-reaction to the murder of someone he'd known for several years...
But wait. He had reacted. He had looked away when John had described the torture, and he'd asked the doctor after the name of the man immediately, so it must have been troubling him, if just a little. He wasn't as indifferent as he appeared, or tried to appear, to be.
He unclenched his left hand, not remembering clenching it in the first place, and took a deep breath.
"Still, I'm sorry. You'd known him, after all, for several years. It can't be easy to hear about his death like that".
"No, I suppose not" Sherlock replied, obviously taken aback, and, just for a moment, John saw what he'd been looking for. Sherlock cared. He just didn't want to. So he tried to convince everyone, probably including himself, that he didn't.
John smiled and continued with his story, and Sherlock was confused. Why had his posture suddenly relaxed? Why had he smiled? Shinwell was dead, and the doctor seemed to care more about it than Sherlock did (naturally, since Sherlock didn't care for anyone), and then, all of a sudden, he smiled, and continued talking?
Ordinary people could sometimes be unpredictable, he remembered. Though he was beginning to suspect that John Watson was anything but ordinary.
And he couldn't deny that his presence had a certain reassuring quality to it; at least he felt comfortable when around him, something that didn't usually happen. Really, the only people he allowed to get close to him were Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and Mycroft (because he had to, in the case of his brother). And now and then Mike Stamford (because the teacher was anything but threatening, and seemed to think of Sherlock as a friend, and there was no harm done when Sherlock forced himself to appear interested in the mundane stories of Mike's life from time to time) and Molly (she was the one with access to the morgue and body parts, after all).
But with John...
Sherlock trusted him, there was denying that, not anymore. And not knowing the reason for this trust made him nervous.
So he forced himself to listen to the rest of John's story, and he had to admit that the doctor had at least done a good job at covering his tracks, although Moriarty's words about his "worry" were a little bit disconcerting.
He said "So you made it to my flat without anyone noticing. There might be a problem, however."
John looked at him. "A problem?"
"Moriarty will know, probably he already does, that I spend quite a lot of time here, experimenting and working on cases. He is, after all, the one wanting to "play a game", and he'll definitely collect all the information he needs. That's why he kidnapped Shinwell, I imagine".
John nodded. "So..."
"So, before long, he is going to ask you whether you saw me in the building, and if you could get yourself introduced to me".
John swallowed. "You mean, he is going to try..."
"To have you spy on me. Yes."
Then, John thought of something. "I could tell him that I could get Mike to introduce us. Because he told me about you and I was curious about the "consulting detective"".
"That could work."
Suddenly, John chuckled.
"That could actually have happened. Just imagine if I'd simply run into Mike one day..."
Against his will, Sherlock's lips twitched. Normally, he wasn't one for pondering alternate scenarios – what happened, happened – but having met John in a different way, he didn't think it unlikely that they would have been useful to one another. "We could have solved crimes together". Or, Sherlock could have solved them, and John could have been his assistant. "Although Mycroft probably wouldn't have liked it."
"Mycroft?"
"My older brother. Annoying."
"Is there any other kind of sibling?"
They smiled at each other and then Sherlock cleared his throat, realizing that, somehow, they'd started to talk like – like friends, and he didn't have friends, and it was useless anyway, since John had met Moran instead of him and was now working for Moriarty. He was only there because he felt guilty, Sherlock reminded himself. Nobody liked him, and John certainly didn't either.
"Good. Here is the plan. You are to keep your eyes and ears open when around Moriarty, and to warn me of any developments. We communicate through the phone, and we'll meet during your breaks, here. Is that clear?"
"Yes" John answered, taken aback. A few moments ago, Sherlock had seemed... open, somehow. He'd even smiled. Now, he was the calculating consulting detective again, showing nothing of the heart that John was sure had to be in there somewhere. He actually thought they could have become friends, or whatever Sherlock had instead of friends, if they'd only met differently.
They were accomplices, at least, and he agreed to Sherlock's plan, before hurrying to get a sandwich from the cafeteria, before his lunch break was over.
Sherlock was looking at the door, letting everything that happened go through his head once more, when he got a text.
I still don't think that is a good idea.
M
He sighed – of course Mycroft would now keep an even better eye on him – and typed his response.
I'll ask for your opinion, should I happen to want it.
S
That doesn't mean you don't need it.
M
They left it at that, and Sherlock started going through the evidence of a case Lestrade had consulted him on a few days ago.
John, after an unexciting day at work, came home only to find a car already waiting for him. He sighed. He should have known that today of all days he'd be forced to clean the wounds of another poor tortured man. But, as it turned out, he wasn't.
Jim was waiting for him when he got out of the car, and waved cheerfully. "Johnny, I have a very special assignment for you."
"Yes?" John asked, fearing the worst and feeling Sebastian's jealous glare in his back.
"You work at St Bart's, correct?"
"Yes" John repeated, a shiver running down his spine. Jim grinned, although he already knew where John worked, had known from the beginning.
"Wonderful! Sherlock Holmes spends a lot of time there, and you, Johnny dear, are to get yourself introduced to him and be my little favourite spy."
Sebastian must have worn a dangerous expression, because Jim sent a very obviously fake affectionate glance his way. "You will always be my favourite little sniper, Sebby."
"So" he added, "do you think you can do that? Spy on Sherlock Holmes for me?"
John had the feeling that "No" wasn't an acceptable answer, so he said "Of course".
Jim clapped his hands. "Excellent! Now, come with me. One of my associates had the misfortune to find himself on the wrong side of a Browning..."
John followed, realizing at the same time that Sherlock had been right and that his life had once again become more dangerous.
Author's note: So, yeah, shorter chapter (about the same length as yesterday) and rushed... And it's later than yesterday... And nothing big happened, I fear. Sorry.
And, see, I didn't kill a character of a Sir Arthur Conan Doyle story for nothing! Awkward moment resulting in bonding! Wuhu!
I hope you liked it, please review.
