A/N: Biscuits for kate221b :)


He arrived at the bank to find Sally standing outside the front door, looking at her watch.

"Sorry I'm a bit late. The queue for coffee was longer than I anticipated," he apologized, extending the second cup.

Sally looked at him with surprise.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked. "First the passwords, then the storage unit, now this? And coffee?"

"The coffee is because I needed some, and it doesn't take any longer to stand in line for two than it does for one. And the swill in the machines at the Yard is worse than the dreck in hospital, and not something I would wish on my worst enemies."

She snorted agreement and accepted the cup.

"I have never been your enemy, Sally. I was just his friend."

"He didn't have friends," she muttered.

"Nope," John agreed, almost smiling. "Just one. Shall we?"

John turned and began climbing the last steps to the door of the bank.

"But why the rest, John?" Sally asked, joining him. "Why give us access to the computers and his storage unit?"

"Because I believe in him," John answered. "And you'd have gotten access anyway, through the courts. This saves time, and it gives my faith in him an outlet. This is not about proving you wrong, Sally. It's about proving me right."

John saw her reflection in the glass door as he opened it for her. Her expression was a study in puzzled insolence. She caught him looking and pursed her lips. He just tilted his head, then followed.

"May I see your ID, please?" the clerk asked politely.

John opened his wallet and pulled out his ID. He handed it over, along with a copy of Sherlock's will and a copy of his death certificate.

The clerk examined the documents, matching the name on the certificate with the will, then matching the name of the beneficiary with John's ID, before glancing up to make sure the photo matched.

"I'm afraid I'll also need ..." the clerk began.

"... to see this," Sally interjected, pulling her NSY ID card out to flash the clerk.

"Oh. I see," the clerk said with a jerky nod. He opened flipped open a ledger and turned it to face John. "If you'll just sign here, I'll go get the box."

"Do that," John agreed pleasantly, signing the indicated line. "Leave the ledger. The Detective Sergeant will be needing to see how often the box has been accessed, when, and by whom. If you can also bring in the origination documents on the box, that would be appreciated."

"You have a ..."

"Warrant?" Sally asked, laying a folded document on the table.

"I'll just go get the box," the clerk said hastily, leaving John and Sally at the table with the open ledger in front of them.

"You came prepared," John commented, indicating the warrant as he flipped back through the ledger.

"Contrary to what the Fre - he said, I do know how to do my job," Sally responded. "You are willing to give our investigation access to the contents of the box, and I am grateful not to have to fight you for it, but you have no authority to divulge the bank's records."

John nodded, sipping his coffee. He had not found anything in the ledger to indicate that Sherlock had been to visit the box in months. He felt Sally watching over his shoulder as he flipped back through the pages. John was sure that she would have caught anything he'd missed as they looked over the signatures.

"Here," he said, finally, pointing to a line bearing Sherlock's scrawl. It was dated February 14th.

"That's the same date on the addendum," John noted, showing her the second page of the will.

Sally took a quick photo of the ledger page using her camera phone. When she nodded, John continued to turn the pages to look for earlier instances of Sherlock coming to view the contents of the box. He reached the first page, dating back to the first of the year, without finding further evidence that Sherlock had been in.

"Oh, here" Sally said, fumbling in her pocket and pulling out a key. "For the storage unit in Sussex."

"Find anything?" John asked, taking the key and slipping it into his pocket.

"Beekeeping equipment."

"What? Really?"

"You didn't know?"

"That he was interested in bees? I suppose I did know that. Or, I should have observed. He had a couple books about bees and beekeeping in the flat, I think. And a print of an electron microscope scan of a bee in his bedroom. But he I don't think he ever talked about it," John answered, trying to remember if Sherlock had ever mentioned bees. He shook his head. "If you mean, did I really not know what was in the locker – no, I didn't. I didn't even know it existed until Mycroft brought me a copy of the will and the keys."

"And you just handed the keys to Dimmock," Sally murmured.

"And I'm just meeting you here," John agreed.

"What do you think is in it?" she asked.

"No idea. He wasn't sentimental, so I doubt it's some inherited trinket, or keepsakes from school or friends. Or mementos from cases. I'm the one who kept those. But I do know what we won't find."

"What's that?"

"Evidence that he was a fraud."

"You're so certain," she said, almost disconcerted.

"I am," John agreed. "He was brilliant. He could have used his mind – his skills at deduction – to do anything he wanted to. He used them to help."

"His skills at deduction," Sally murmured, shaking her head.

"You know those were real, Sally. Whether you believe he committed crimes or not, you know that was absolutely genuine."

"He could have known those details because he planned the crimes," she protested, though there was no heat in her tone.

"I suppose he could have. But what about the things he knew that didn't relate to crimes? He knew about you and Anderson."

He had touched a nerve. He saw the anger flicker in her eyes.

"Someone could have told him."

"Because your colleagues were so chummy with him that they spent hours sitting around gossiping about the state of Anderson's marriage, and his wife's travel plans," John retorted. "When I met him, Sherlock was waiting to be called in on that serial suicide case. He'd clearly been left out of the investigation until Lestrade came to ask him to see the last body. Lestrade was the only person on the force he spoke to before we met you at the crime scene."

"Lestrade ..."

"Didn't tell him. Because he didn't know, did he?" John asked harshly. "You had twice the reason to keep it secret from him. Not only would he frown on your … association … as your boss, but you knew how he'd feel about it given that his wife was cheating on him."

John looked at Sally with a sort of grim calmness, ignoring her murderous glare. Before either of them could say anything more, the clerk returned with a slim file folder, a few forms, and a flat drawer, cover down and locked in place.

"Here you are, Doctor Watson. You have the key?"

"I do," John said, pulling the item from his pocket, along with a pair of purple nitrile gloves.

"Very good, sir. I've taken the liberty of bringing in change of ownership forms for you ..."

"I'll deal with that after we've had a chance to look at the contents," John interrupted, handing the clerk the ledger. "We're finished with this, I believe. If we can see the one from last year?"

"Oh, that won't be necessary," the clerk replied, opening the file folder and bringing out the box's documentation. "Mr. Holmes opened the box on 14th February. All his visits to the box would have been this year, so this is the only ledger that applies."

"I see," John said, glancing at Sally, who nodded, taking photos of the origination paperwork in the file.

"Well, I'll just leave you to open the box. Just let me know when you're done and we can deal with the ownership forms."

"Yes, thanks."

When the door closed, John pulled the gloves on. The snap to his right indicated that Sally was doing the same. He glanced over at her as he picked up the key. The eyes that met his were angry, and curious, and almost desperate. Looking back to the box, John inserted the key into the lock, and turned it until they heard the faint click of the tumbler.

John lifted the lid, and smiled.

Inside the box were pages of sheet music. Sherlock's scrawl at the top of the page was at odds with the meticulously neat notations of the music he'd composed.

"Tea?" Sally asked, reaching for the pages of music.

"Who knows," John responded with a shrug. He had no idea why Sherlock would have given the piece that title, nor why that piece was worthy of being kept in a safety deposit box. "What's this, then?" he asked, looking at the item that had been hidden under the paper.

John pulled the cheap mobile phone out of the drawer and turned it over in his hands. It was the sort of phone one could get from a street vendor for about 20 quid, including a 5 quid credit for making calls. John pressed the power button, but nothing happened.

"Battery's dead. He didn't leave the charge cord."

"We'll be able to charge it at the Yard," Sally said, handing him an evidence bag.

John nodded, slipping the mobile into the bag and sealing it. He picked up the pen the clerk had left on the desk and made the appropriate notation on the bag before handing it back to Sally. She had bagged the sheaf of papers as well, and slid both into her bag.

John looked in the drawer again, running his gloved hands around the edges to be sure they hadn't missed anything. There was nothing else.

"Well, that was rather anticlimactic," Sally muttered.

"I did warn you," John replied, ripping the gloves off and tossing them in the bin.

Sally grunted in response, sliding her bag up over her shoulder and standing. John leaned back in the chair, suddenly intensely curious. Her expression became guarded, her shoulders tensing.

"What?" she demanded.

"The thing with Anderson – it was going on before we met that night? Before the woman in pink?"

"How you can possibly think that's any of your business ..." Sally began heatedly.

"It's not, Sally. It's really not. And I honestly don't care one way or the other, except that I think you could do better," John replied, putting up a hand to placate her. "But – was that the first time you'd worked a case with Sherlock since the thing with Anderson started?"

She glared at him for a moment, then shook her head once. No.

"Had it been going on for long?"

"Long enough. What is your point?"

"He would have known. Before that night. You know he would have. But he hadn't said anything about it before, had he? I find that just a bit … curious, don't you?"

She frowned at him. "Go on, then. You've got a theory."

"Not really."

"Yes, really."

John sighed. He didn't have a theory. Not about this. But he'd never asked Sherlock about the animosity between the consulting detective and the Detective Sergeant. Sherlock had never been shy with his verbal abuse, but with Sally, and Anderson, it had been vitriolic.

"I never asked him why his interactions with you were so different from the way he worked with Lestrade. I just assumed that the first time you met he showed you up and you resented it. It's easy to understand – I'm sure he called you an idiot and belittled your skills from the moment he met you. But that's just his way of saying hello, and you know it," John mused. "So, what was it? When did he go from treating you as just another idiot, to sneering at you, personally? Was it before or after you saddled yourself with a relationship with Anderson? Was it before or after you attacked him with the label 'Freak'?"

Sally was spluttering.

"I never attacked him ..."

"You did. Every time you opened your mouth to call him a freak it was a very personal attack. That name falls from your lips so easily, it's clear you've been using it for quite some time. And he had ammunition to fire back at you, revealing your involvement with Anderson, but he didn't. You don't find that odd?"

John stood up and picked up his coffee, ignoring Sally as he walked to the door. Hand on the door knob, he stopped and turned back to meet her angry, confused glare.

"I do. I find it exceedingly peculiar that he didn't expose you until you tried to embarrass him in front of a stranger, and then insulted that stranger merely for being in his company. Interesting course of action for a psychopath, don't you think?"

"You're mental."

"That doesn't mean I'm not right," John said mildly, opening the door. "Have a good day, Detective Sergeant. See if you can get these items back to me faster than the property you took from the flat, won't you?"

John threw his fist at the heavy bag in front of him, feeling his knuckles impact the black leather and ignoring the sting in his skin and the ache that radiated through his hand and wrist, up to his shoulder. Another punch, and another, then he attacked with knees and feet, before swinging around to slam his fist into the bag again. He stepped away, breathing hard.

He was blindingly angry.

John launched himself at the heavy bag again, pummeling and kicking it until he was almost too exhausted to stand. He knew that there were other people in the gym, could feel them watching him. He didn't care.

Steadying the bag, he stood, resting his head against it and breathing raggedly. After a moment he pulled himself upright and moved away, tearing at the tape across his hands, peeling it off as he staggered through to the showers. The others in the room stood aside to let him pass. He didn't bother looking at them.

In the locker room John stripped, indifferent about his nudity as only a man who has spent time in the Army could be, and tossed the sweat-stained clothing on a bench as he reached in to start the shower. John stepped into the warm spray and pulled the cheap curtain across the alcove, letting the water wash over him. He didn't have any soap or shampoo, so he did what he can with just water and his hands. He didn't turn the water off when he finally decided he was clean, though, continuing to let the jet of water pound into his left shoulder while he tried to think.

His hands will be bruised, tomorrow. His patients will undoubtedly notice. He can't be arsed to care.

His mind shied away from thinking about the appointment with Ella that he'd had this afternoon. Allowing any of that encounter to occupy his thoughts would drive him back to the bag, pounding on it until his knuckles were split and bloody. Instead, he thought about Sarah, and the emptiness of 221B that had driven him to abuse her concern for him. That couldn't happen again. He couldn't let the stress of going home to the empty flat push him to take unethical actions.

If he couldn't take going home to the empty flat, John thought, perhaps he shouldn't.

John rolled that thought around, considering. He didn't like it.

He wanted to stay at Baker Street. He knew that Mrs. Hudson wanted him to stay. The thought of causing that woman further pain – having her lose the other of 'her boys', made his chest ache. And Sherlock wanted – would have wanted – him to stay. Otherwise he wouldn't have made sure that John had that option.

But, perhaps, for now, leaving would be for the best. Not permanently. Just until he could … could what? He didn't know. But not until he found a safer outlet for the tension than sex, and got some of it out of his system. Maybe then the emptiness of the flat wouldn't be so absolutely crushing.

He snorted at the thought. The next breath he drew in sounded suspiciously like a sob, but his grief remained locked inside. He scrubbed at his face and sighed heavily.

John rotated his shoulder, feeling it already stiffening, but the exertion had done him good.

He'd stormed out of Ella's office, glared a fellow traveler into ceding a cab he'd just hailed, leaving the man standing in the rain without an umbrella, and ordered the driver to take him to Greg's gym. Inside, he'd located Greg's locker and appropriated the other man's workout clothing. The track pants were too long for him, but could be cinched tightly enough around the waist. John had pulled them on, tugged the worn tee shirt over his head, and threw his own clothing into the locker before stalking out to the receptionist to demand the use of her scissors. He'd handed them back a moment later, along with two-thirds of the length of the track pant legs. He asked her to point him in the direction of the boxing equipment, and stalked in that direction in surprisingly serviceable workout shorts.

The entire extent of his warm up before he'd attacked the heavy bag was swinging his arms back and forth across his torso, twice, after he'd taped up his hands. He'd have to do better, next time.

There would be a next time. Of course there would.

John shook his head, and reached to turn off the water. He wiped as much of the water off as he could, then pushed the shower curtain open and stepped out. He snorted to himself as he watched the other men in the locker room studiously avoiding looking in his direction, as they ignored one another. He scooped up his pants and Greg's tee and mangled shorts, grimacing at their dampness.

Crossing the room, he opened Greg's locker and pulled out his clothes. He wriggled his wet legs into his jeans, mindful of his commando state, and pulled on his shirt. Shrugging into his jacket, John closed the empty locker, folded the dirty clothes into a compact bundle, and strode out of the locker room.

He nodded briefly to the man now staffing the reception desk, and headed outside. Flagging down a cab, John gave him the address and sighed. He was going to move out of 221B. He didn't want to, but for now, he needed to. He'd find some thing small, something he could afford on just his pension, so that he could use his salary from the surgery to continue to pay Mrs. Hudson. Because he would be coming back.

"God damn it, Sherlock," he muttered.

A moment later John pulled his phone out of his pocket and sent a quick text.

I owe you a pair of track pants. Sorry. And thanks. - JW