CHAPTER TEN: YET ANOTHER COAT

John pulls his jacket close to him against the cold. They've just walked out of a tube station, and now they're strolling down the long ramp toward the dirty Hackney streets.

"Address?" Sherlock prompts.

"Right here." John reaches into his pocket and pulls out the scrap of paper Lestrade gave him. "Are you sure you can read it?"

Sherlock scoffs. "John, please. I am more than capable of deciphering your handwriting."

"Right. Sorry." It gets a little hard to think when it's this cold and all you have is what basically amounts to a windbreaker. "It's just, I was writing a bit fast. Excited and all that."

Sherlock nods. They turn the corner and pass some generic internationally available restaurants – Subway, McDonalds – and the ever-present and overpriced Pret A Manger. John looks around at the gum splattered sidewalks with a very strong sense of "almost". Before Sherlock, he'd been looking at a tiny flat in Hackney, not far from here. It wasn't too bad, but it was all he could afford. It almost physically hurts to think of living anywhere but 221B these days; nowhere else has ever had such a strong feeling of home.

They turn another corner.

It's a while before John's aware of Sherlock clearing his throat. He turns his head, but Sherlock's already looking away from him.

"That was… good, by the way," he says quietly. He clears his throat again and refuses to look John in the eye. "Your… deductions. Very impressive."

John stops walking altogether, and stares. After another step, Sherlock realizes that John's stopped, so he stops as well, and turns.

"What?" he asks.

"I…" John begins, but falters. "I… just supposed, I mean, I thought you'd be sort of upset that I figured it out before you did."

Sherlock stands up straighter. "Of course not, don't be ridiculous," he says, creasing his eyebrows defensively. "It's my own habits rubbing off on you, no doubt, so it seems perfectly fair to conclude that you learned it all from me. I'm not completely lacking in credit."

John shakes his head in disbelief. "You're an arse," he comments, walking forward again. Sherlock walks beside him – John can feel him smiling.

Without thinking, he reaches out a hand and takes Sherlock's gloved one in his fingers. He gives it a squeeze.

Thank you, he thinks.

A moment passes, and Sherlock lets his thumb slide over John's palm, a smooth brush of soft leather.

You're welcome.

Both let go of the other's hand, and they walk in silence until they reach Lucy Heralds' flat, only two blocks away.

•••

After a few minutes of standing in silence, they ring up the flat just above Heralds'.

A middle-aged man answers. "Tyler Sommer. Yes?"

"Hi," Sherlock says, his face transforming into a silly smile. John laughs silently at the sight – he already used this tactic, back during The Blind Banker. "Erm, I'm looking for Lucy, but I can't seem to–"

"Are you with the police?" Mr Sommer demands.

Sherlock stops, unsure. John answers for him. "Yes, we are."

There's a pause from the other end. "Third floor," the voice says, and there's a buzzing as the lock clicks open.

•••

"How long has it been?" Sherlock strides around the flat, taking in every detail.

Mr Sommer is short, shorter than John, and much rounder. Hasn't shaved in days, possibly hasn't bathed in just as long. Still, he's got a very fatherly air about him, which may explain why he's still standing in the corner, wringing his hands. "About a week since I last saw her," he says, his voice beginning to tremble. "Haven't heard from anyone about her since."

Sherlock's pinprick eyes dart back and forth. "She didn't say anything before she disappeared? She wasn't going anywhere?"

Wringing, back and forth. "She left like she usually does, for work. She's got this project going on, at a big theater downtown. The Uptown Theater, she said it was called. Putting on a big show or something. You know how she was with cosmetics, she was doing the makeup. Who are you two, again?"

Sherlock doesn't answer, so John steps forward and holds out his hand; Mr. Sommer takes it. "Dr. John Watson," he says, and then gestures towards the tall figure in the background. "And this is Sherlock Holmes."

Mr. Sommer nods, his eyes flicking between the two. "And you're with the police?"

Before John can answer, Sherlock interrupts, without turning around. "Is anything missing from her flat?"

Mr Sommer shakes his head, looking more miserable by the second. "She was… such a nice girl," he says, his lip trembling and his voice coming out half-choked. "Always so nice to me. I'm just an old man, Mr Holmes. I was lonely; she took such nice care of me. Made me dinner when I wasn't feeling well… I'm sick, you know."

John nods sympathetically to make up for Sherlock's complete apathy. One of them has to be the emotional one, and that responsibility always ends up on John's shoulders. Mr Sommer starts fumbling around for a tissue, knocking over some stacks of books in the process.

"Be careful!" Sherlock snaps, looking at the old man as if he's lost his mind.

"Sorry, sorry…" Mr Sommer gives up on the tissues, and just snorts it all up instead. "It's just been so much of a shock, you know. Can you bring her back, Mr Holmes? Please, can you make sure she's safe?"

After a moment, Sherlock decides to say nothing. He takes out his phone and starts doing whatever it is he does when he's on the bloody thing.

John turns to Mr Sommer and gives him his most sympathetic smile. "We'll do our best," he assures him. The man nods tearfully.

"She was a good tenant," he sniffs. "Never left too much of a mess, made too much noise…"

"Well!" Sherlock shouts, so suddenly that John practically jumps. "We've got everything we needed here. Come along, John."

Before John can say anything, Sherlock's already out the door.

John shoves his hands in his pockets and looks around. "Alright, erm, if you hear anything from her, anything at all," he tells Mr Sommer, "just let us know."

"Alright," says Mr Sommer, and John walks away to go catch his flatmate, now sauntering down the stairs.

•••

"What did you see?"

They're walking down the street at a relaxed but still speedy pace. John's hands are clenching and unclenching in his pocket, his teeth bared against the chilly wind. Sherlock's collar is up, which gives John a clue as to what's going on in his mind.

Sherlock smiles. "I didn't see anything. I heard."

"Okay, what?"

In answer, he pulls out his phone. "Uptown Theater," he says. "Went out of business a few years ago, but it was sold to a new owner. Little place, not too successful. Herald's said that she was doing a large scale production there, but ever since the place changed ownership, they've only done very small, almost impromptu concerts."

"What? So she lied?"

"Possibly." Sherlock flips through the screen of his mobile, and shows it to John. "There are numerous reviews of different shows they've done. However, the earliest a show's ever been advertised before it actually goes on is two months. Most of them are only announced a week or two before they go on. Furthermore, although people report to having been to the shows, there is nowhere on the website or any other site where you can buy tickets."

"That…" John shivers at a particularly cold gust, and shakes it off. "That does seem strange, doesn't it?"

"Want to go take a look?"

"Yeah." He walks for another moment or so before deciding that now would be as good as any time to bring it up. "Erm, there was something else. About the flat."

Sherlock peers over at him. "What was that?"

"It was…" Another shiver. "Warm. The whole room was warm, the lith kind of tingly warm feeling, but it wasn't coming from you or Sommer. It was just sort of… floating about, random little bits of warmth everywhere." He closes his eyes and remembers. "Like a thousand tiny lith strands just floating everywhere, detached."

Sherlock pauses. "Is that unusual?"

"Yes. Very."

He thinks, quietly, still walking at his usual pace. John hugs his arms around himself. "We might need to give someone a call," Sherlock says, after a moment. "As much as it pains me to do so."

"Who?" They turn a corner.

Sherlock doesn't answer, but starts to compose a text on his mobile. After a few moments, he stops typing, stops walking, and stares at John like he's just remembered something.

"What?" John says, rubbing his arms up and down.

Without another word, Sherlock shoves the phone in his trouser pockets, and starts to pull off his coat. When he's stripped down to his crisp black jacket, he hands the mass of wool to John.

Shocked, John shakes his head. "No, Sherlock, that's your–"

–coat, he finishes in his head, because he's too surprised to speak when Sherlock lifts up his arms and starts stuffing them into the folds of the Belstaff. By the time John's able to form cohesive thoughts again, his arms are wrapped in too-long sleeves that dangle past his fingertips, and he's cloaked in a familiar coat that's long enough to be a dress and smells like everything Sherlock smells like.

Sherlock continues to walk, his scarf looking a little out of place without a huge woolen collar to nestle itself into. He doesn't shiver, but his breath is coming out a little shaky – John can see it in the little puffs of moisture that hang in the air – and his hands take up temporary residence in his trouser pockets.

For another block, John can only stare at him. Too many things are rushing through his mind, too many questions, too many answers, all of it drowned out by this nice warmth that's beginning to seep from his skin and remain trapped under the extra layer of expensive wool. He's starting to get very warm, warm in the nice way, and it really isn't the coat, although the coat's helping.

Sherlock finishes sending the text somewhere along the next block or so.

When they reach the tube and board their train, Sherlock offers John the only available seat, but John refuses to move until Sherlock himself sits down, which he does, after a moment or two. They spend the rest of the tube ride talking about ordinary things, or at least as ordinary as things get with Sherlock Holmes, and by the time they've reached arguing about whether or not they should start renting 221C and turn it into a full-time laboratory complete with a private mortuary, John's wings hurt so little that he doesn't even know if they're there anymore.

•••

Her phone chirps from her pocket.

She reaches her hand for it, decides against it, and ignores it.

A few moments later, it chirps again.

"Sorry, just a moment," she says over-apologetically. She retrieves her mobile and flips it open, only to find a few texts from him. She stops walking altogether, and her colleagues shrug and move on without her.

He never texts me. Why's he texting me now?

She reads the texts over and over again until her brain hurts, and she finally dials a number she hasn't dialed in a while and holds the receiver to her ear.

The phone rings and rings, three, four times, five and a half times before there's a click and the static of another part of London's white noise being filtered through phone lines. There's a pause.

"I prefer to text, Molly," says Sherlock coldly.

She shivers involuntarily, and instantly blushes. Oh god, why does he have to have a voice like that…

"I…" She shakes her head, and holds her ground. "What's going on? I got your texts but I didn't… I don't really know–"

"You said that you can see them?" He interrupts. It sounds like he's in a tube station, from what she can hear. Sounds like he's walking, too. She waits for him to finish his thought, but he seems to be waiting for her response.

She looks around, as if someone's listening in – no one is, of course. "The. Um. The Golden, you mean?"

"The lith, yes."

Softly, she nods, and then remembers that he can't see her. "Yes. All the time."

"We might need you in a little while." He mumbles something – probably to John. "We're going to the address I sent you. Can you meet us there?"

Molly swallows. It's all too much. "I've got work. I'm still at work."

Sherlock scoffs. "You get off in ten minutes, for god's sake. I know your schedule. It shouldn't be too far from Bart's, just take the tube. We'll be there."

"I…" she swallows again, defeated. She can't get out of this and she knows it – she's also not entirely sure she wants to. "I'll do my best."

Sherlock hangs up the phone first, and when she hangs up her own mobile she feels a bit like she's floating. It's not the first time he's ever asked for her help – oh, she'll never forget that one experiment with the liquid nitrogen – but it's the first time he's ever needed it.

He needs me, she thinks to herself. She stares at the text with address as she walks down the hall – somewhere called the Uptown Theater. I'm not just an extra pair of hands. I've got a skill that he hasn't got and now he needs me.

Perhaps that's why she's smiling when she rams into someone who was leaning against the wall, causing a massive stack of papers to cascade onto the ground.

"Oh!" she squeaks, putting the phone back in her pocket. Immediately, she's on the ground, reaching out to gather as many papers as she can. "I'm… I'm so sorry, I…"

"No no, it's fine," says a voice. She pauses. I've heard that voice before.

She looks behind her and finds herself staring into a pair of soft brown eyes.

"Hi," says the man, who's also frozen.

She swallows, and picks up a few more papers. "Hi," she mutters, feeling her face beginning to flush. Oh my god, he's cute. He's really cute. Stop being so stupid, Molly.

"Sorry…" she mumbles again, scooping up the pile into her arms and handing them over. The man chuckles, embarrassed and flustered, still crouching over in his v-neck t-shirt and skinny jeans.

"No, it was my bad," he murmurs, looking up and meeting her eyes and laughing a little again. "I'll just… here, I'll…"

"No, here, let me…"

When they've both picked up all the papers, they stand up in tandem. Molly gets a good look at him and oh god she can feel her face getting pink as she hands him her stack. He holds all the papers in lean, pale arms that remind her just the littlest bit of – you're such an idiot, Molly.

"Um," she says, because she's not good at this at all.

"Hi," the man says again.

"Hi," she giggles in response. She coughs awkwardly.

"I should… thanks," he says, gesturing down the hallway.

"No problem," Molly answers.

He opens his mouth to speak again, but a piercing yell rings down the hallway for everyone to hear:

"HOOPER!"

Molly's heart jerks as she turns on her heels and looks down the hospital hallway. Mr. Dailey is sticking his balding head out of her room, the door ajar. She feels her palms beginning to grow sweaty.

"Get in here!" he yells, and she manages to spare a glance over her shoulder while she runs down the hallway – but the man with the paper stack is already gone.

•••

John scoffs, feeling a tad too pretentious as he does so. "Not much of a theater, is it?"

"Mm, no," Sherlock agrees, walking briskly back and forth to hid his slight shivering. John watches him. He stopped trying to give the coat back a few blocks ago after several failed attempts – bloody hell, the man can be determined when he wants to be.

John shakes his head, and looks back at the Uptown Theater. "Bit shabby," he comments, stepping forward towards the door. Instantly, he's hit with a wave of warmth, seeming to emanate from the cracks in the hinges; it tingles every bit of him, akin to the opening of the door to a car that's been sitting in the sun for too long.

"My god," he mutters, stepping back. "Sherlock, the warmth… it's here, too. Coming from inside."

Sherlock creases his brow, and starts to walk around the side of the building. John follows, but they're not even around the corner before Sherlock's phone starts ringing.

He picks it out of his pocket as if it's a dead rat – which, knowing Sherlock, might not be too far fetched a thing to theorize about finding in his trouser pockets – and slowly presses the talk key.

"What?" he mutters.

Someone's talking on the other end – only a moment passes before Sherlock's face transforms. It looks as though he's being lit from within, as if the furthest reaches of his face are waking up; that little smile starts to creep across his face, sliding up his right cheek into a perfectly sideways smirk, and it's that smirk, the one that even now is injecting little bits of adrenaline into John's blood. The chase, whatever it is, is beginning.

"Come as quickly as you can," Sherlock says, and he hangs up the mobile. He starts around the building again, moving more quickly than before.

"What is it? Who was that?" John runs a bit to keep up with him.

"Molly," Sherlock says, grinning. "It's the bodies, Hamilton and Mason."

"So… what about them?"

Sherlock looks over his shoulder, the gleam in his eye shining brighter than the streetlights around them. "They've been stolen," he grins, turning into the darkness and out of sight.

•••

Molly's hands are shaking when she pulls on her coat and hat. It's got pom-poms on it, a gift from her mother – not exactly the type of thing to wear to a potential crime scene, but it is really cold outside.

She swallows, and starts to walk down the hallway. All the years she's known Sherlock, helping here and there with the bodies, and this is the first time she's ever stepped into the fray. It's exhilarating, and terrifying all at once.

She turns a corner, and stops just before she runs into someone. She gasps, shakes herself, and looks up. Her breath hitches.

"Oh, um, hi," says the man.

She can feel her face growing hot. "Hello."

"I, um, was looking for you," he says nervously. "I… er, I've… seen you around? I'm new here, and…"

"Oh!" Molly remembers – she has seen him around, just around the hospital and sometimes in the morgue. "Yes, I think… I think I've seen you."

"Yeah." He laughs nervously, and gestures to where he came from. "I, um… I've been wanting to talk to you for a while, I…"

Molly's heart quickens. "Oh, um, really?"

He nods. "Yeah, I… you always seemed so nice and I didn't really know anyone, so…"

Molly stand stock still, fingering one of the buttons on her coat. She really should be going – whatever Sherlock's doing, it's most likely very important. Still, all of this… this independence, this – flirting, is this flirting? – is very nice. For god's sake, Sherlock doesn't own her.

"Erm, I just…" he gestures behind himself, like he should be getting somewhere. "You've got a cute nose, you know. I've wanted to say so for a while."

Something inside her flutters. Oh gosh.

It all comes crashing down when her phones buzzes in her pocket, and she remembers Sherlock waiting for her. She finishes buttoning up her coat.

"Thanks, I've… I've got to go," she mumbles, pushing past him and making her way to the door.

"Wait!" he calls after her. She turns around, and oh wow, he really does look cute standing like that, against the doorframe.

"What?" she asks.

"You're… Molly, right?"

She nods.

He nods back, and turns as if he's going to leave. "I'm Jim, by the way," he says. "I work in IT. See you round sometime?"

She pauses, then nods, and turns and walks out, and she can feel him staring at her as she does so – and she's not entirely sure that's a bad thing.

•••

Note: There might be a little hiatus until the next chapter, 'cause I'm in a musical and I'm the lead and wow it's really time consuming. So yes. I might not update for a little while, probably three weeks at most. Thanks for reading, everyone!