Disclaimer: Nothing mine of course. A.N. This month is John's turn, since he missed last update. Hopefully we'll go back to normal from next month.
John never thought anyone would read his blog. I mean, Ella maybe, but she makes her job out of not judging people, and Harry, probably, the odd moments she is sober enough, looking for something to tease him with. That should be all. Which is why he hasn't thought twice before talking about Sherlock or revealing his failings.
He's still calling him 'the madman' or 'my flatmate' or ' S. Holmes' on the blog because he's not ready to face Harry thinking he's found * his * Sherlock and trying to explain to her that no, he has not, really, for crying out loud. (And that he's still not mentioned the name would tell her all she needs to know if she were sober long enough.) He didn't think he was slandering the sleuth.
But it seems that the yarders are a nosy bunch and they know perfectly well who John's flatmate is and apparently the juicy info about Sherlock's shortcomings was all they were waiting for in their life. John has never felt as bad as when Sally bloody Donovan dared to laugh at his brilliant flatmate, but he shuts up. He has certainly done enough already. Anything on his part could only worsen the situation.
He resolves to apologise to his flatmate later on, when they have a moment of peace. And to add a link to Sherlock's own blog on his own. Harry won't bother to follow it, hopefully, but since his blog has more readers than he credited himself with maybe one of them will do so and offer Sherlock a case. That would be pleasurable enough to make his flatmate forgive him – maybe.
Well, all that will come after this case. He can't believe that one of his readers is guilty, but evidence seems to point at things being indeed like that. Does this mean that everything that happened – everything that will happen – wouldn't have if John hadn't chosen to talk about Sherlock and being involved in a case? (But how could he not talk about the first thing that has made him feel finally alive since he's been shipped home?)
It's a horrifying thought. The explosion could have killed Sherlock. For one dreadful moment of panic, this morning, he'd thought it had, and felt absolutely sick with it. Thankfully, adrenaline had taken over then and rushed him back home, to find him without a single scratch. The sleuth must have one utterly capable guardian angel – or the greatest amount of luck John has ever seen. (The doctor is so very grateful for that.)
Now Sherlock is leading them back home. So the threatened flat is close to their home, too? What does this unknown bomber want? Destroy everything close before zeroing in 221B? It irks John. Why doesn't she (she? Really? He thought graphology was a pseudoscience) try to attack them openly? John would know how to counteract being assaulted. He would be able to protect his flatmate.
(Then again, considering how bored Sherlock was just yesterday, a criminal vying for his attention like this should be a dream come true. The detective will probably try to face it on his own – and John won't let him, of course.)
Then finally they're home and Sherlock clamours for their landlady and the key to the basement. John wasn't even aware that they had a basement (not that he has anything to store there – his worldly possessions aren't that bulky).
Mrs. Hudson is her usual, nattering self, bemoaning the damp of the place that stopped her from being able to rent it. The fact that someone opened the lock to it unbeknownst to her doesn't seem to scare their landlady half as much as it should. "It can't be," she protests. She really should know better than dispute the sleuth's words.
John is glad when Lestrade shuts the door on her chatter. (Has their criminal come this close already? Fuck!) Finally, they see the same room that was in that mysterious photo. It is, indeed, their basement. Unmistakably so. There's one single difference from the photo they received – and it's such an incongruous, ridiculous thing that John has to point it out. "Shoes." Someone broke in their basement to leave there a single pair of shoes. That's quite…anticlimactic, isn't it? And mildly deranged. And just…odd. But maybe…
When Sherlock beelines towards the foreign object, John holds out a hand to stop him. "He's a bomber, remember," he reminds him quietly. The area seems clear, but explosives are so easy to hide nowadays, and that's obvious bait and John's instincts are flaring. This seems absurd – almost a practical joke (a joke involving bombs) – but it's not the time to relax.
Thankfully the detective heeds his warning, stopping and then moving more slowly and carefully. Better. It appeases Captain Watson who's remembering all the people he's seen rent apart by explosives – those he managed to put back together and those he couldn't – and isn't at all keen on witnessing more of the same. (If one explosion occurs, he hopes it's big. One that would take out all of them. If he has to see one more person – if he has to see Sherlock – taken out by some sort of mine, he's not sure that his sanity will hold.)
Still, when he crouches down to examine the trainers and his phone – the pink phone – rings loudly, John's nerves shake, even if he doesn't show it at all. Sherlock puts it on speakerphone, and John is glad. He doesn't think that he would stand the suspense of trying to deduce the other side of conversation from the sleuth's answers. (Not that he would be able to do so. And not just because this particular discussion turns out to be…peculiar to say the least).
The doctor exchange a deeply puzzled look with the DI, because who in their right mind would deliver, "Hello, sexy," while sobbing her heart out. Nothing matches. Nothing makes sense. And Sherlock's caught in the middle of it.
"I've sent a little puzzle just to say hi," the same tearful voice adds. So it's really their bomber. One who knows Sherlock well, if she tempts him with explosives and puzzles. But why is she crying? Isn't this what she wants to do? The detective asks her, too, the reason of her tears, as well as who's talking.
One never gets answered, but the reply to the other chills John to the bone. "I'm not crying, I'm typing, and this stupid bitch is reading it out." What is their bomber doing? Explosives, kidnapping an innocent woman – all for the sake of 'saying hi' to his flatmate? If the coward wasn't such a coward – if he (probably a he, John decides, despite the calligraphy and the choice of speaker – not many women are that comfortable with bombs) dared to face them, John would settle things with remarkable swiftness, in the DI's presence or not.
And then his flatmate shocks him, because oh-so-softly Sherlock remarks, "The curtain rises."
"What?" John queries sharply. That poor woman is terrified, and crying, and this is not – not some sort of show. This is a madman who hasn't killed anyone still only for sheer lucky chance, and such a trend is too good to hold for long.
Sherlock tries to deny his words having any importance, but John won't let him. "No, what did you mean?" he insists. He needs to know whatever his flatmate is thinking. How can he even work with the man if he doesn't know what is going through his head - how he's likely to act.
"I've been expecting this for some time," the sleuth confesses. Has he now? A word of warning would have been nice. Does this mean that Sherlock knows who their criminal is? Can they catch him then? John loves working cases with Sherlock, but this rubs him in all the wrong ways. He wishes it would already be behind them.
With a deadline and a half-childish, half-seductive line, the call ends. Sherlock takes the trainers. "Come on, John!" he calls. He's enthusiastic over the case – the puzzle – as always but this time John can't help but think that he's too happy. Bomber stalkers shouldn't make people happy. But this is Sherlock they're talking about – he probably thinks that this is a clever way to get his attention. John doesn't say anything, but he's irked.
With their prize, they get to St. Bart's, commandeering the use of the labs. Sherlock starts running a whole battery of tests on the shoes, because there must be some clue – some intentional clue, in all probability.
While they're waiting for the results to come up, needing to see his flatmate invested not only in…the game, John queries, "So, who do you suppose it was?"
Sherlock makes a vague noise, still clearly focused on the tests.
"The woman on the phone – the crying woman," the doctor elaborates. It's haunting him – that someone would kidnap a poor woman to 'play' with his crush. What sort of person would do that?
"Oh, she doesn't matter. She's just a hostage. No lead there," the sleuth dismisses his words.
Why does John even bother asking? Hoping to see him care for the innocent victim? What is to him if Sherlock is a cold-hearted bastard? And above all, why does he feel in his bones that the truth is different? (He's probably wrong, at that. He has no evidence for his hunch, and Sherlock would blame him to no end for entertaining baseless beliefs.)
"You're not going to be much use to her," the detective scolds him. Well, doesn't he know? He would love being able to do something, but until they find her what is John supposed to do? He's not the genius. But sure as hell he wouldn't play in their stalker's hands if they'd ask him. Not that they do. He's just the tag along.
Desperate to know that something is being done to foul the bomber's plan, instead of going along with it, he asks if they're at least tracing the call, but Sherlock states nonchalantly that their criminal is 'too smart' for that. It might be true, but hearing him complimenting the bomber irks John.
And then Sherlock is his usual unbelievable self. His mobile phone keeps giving text alert after text alert, and he says, "Pass me my phone." Which John has no problem doing. Only that the phone is in the sleuth's own jacket which he's wearing.
Now, if it was anyone else, John would take it as a flirting move – a sort of, "Please put your hands on me," message, and would react accordingly with much gusto. Only this is Mr. Married-to-my-work now in the midst of said work and certainly not looking for a fling (he's not, and you don't even want him to, so John stop that line of thought this instant).
He's considering himself a surgeon and you're his nurse there to pass him things. Just that. Irritated with his metaphorical demotion, the bloody git's incredible laziness and his own confused feelings, John is rougher in his handling of Sherlock (of the jacket, that is) than he would normally be, and the detective scolds him sharply. Without even bothering to look up.
John would love to tell him that he's not his bloody nurse, but instead he informs the sleuth that the texts come from Mycroft. Considering the relationship between the brothers, it's perhaps a better way to annoy Sherlock. Case in point, the detective orders him to delete them.
The doctor's reluctant. He remembers the elder Holmes insisting that it was a matter of national importance, and after all, anything that would distract Sherlock from doing what his stalker (as John privately terms it) wants from him seems like a good thing. You don't just give into what these kind of people ask – but Sherlock seems only too glad to do so. In fact, his only comment is, "Why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?"
John burns with something – not jealousy, he firmly tells himself. Still, he's almost nauseous with the distaste. "Try and remember that there's a woman here who might die," he scolds. This 'delightfully interesting' person is evil, Sherlock, for the love of God. You can't like him! He doesn't say this, but it's clearly implied.
The sleuth's only reaction is to sneer at him for caring, deeming it useless. He's wilfully misunderstanding him, too. John doesn't want him to get emotional – he's been a surgeon in war, he knows everything about not letting your emotions get in the way of your work – but caring about the lives in the balance is different. Caring about people motivates you. Doesn't Sherlock know? John wants to believe he does. That he's not as unfeeling as he wants to pretend to be. Before he can object, or tell him that pretending not to care won't help him or anyone, their test results finally come, effectively ending the conversation.
Molly comes in at that moment too, finding Sherlock enthusiastic about his results, and hot on her trail is a new face. "Jim" seems embarrassed and would love nothing better than slip away, but Molly doesn't let him. She introduces him to Sherlock, and at least the man seems suitably impressed. It's clear that Molly told him what a genius the sleuth is. John finds himself privately betting how long it will be before said genius will say something that upsets the man and he'll have to step in to smooth things over. After all, very few people are able to withstand Sherlock's nature (he's pretty proud, honestly, of being one of the lucky few).
…And then John has to introduce himself because Molly has apparently forgotten his name. This day just keeps getting better. (As if Sherlock being so responsive to his bloody bomber/stalker wasn't enough to put him in a mood.)
Jim gravitates towards the detective like a moth in the presence of a brilliant, brilliant flame, and the doctor gives him way before the man inadvertently runs him over. After all, he understands the feeling. It's quite natural. And then, Sherlock spares the man a glance and carelessly pronounces him gay. Wait, gay? Molly's boyfriend? (On a different note, Sherlock just upset someone – just not Jim, who seems to show no reaction to just having been outed – if that's even true. John usually wouldn't dream to doubt the sleuth, but Jim seems such a nice, normal bloke.)
Oddly for him, at Molly's outraged reaction, instead of pointing out the evidence only he can see, Sherlock retreats and tries to be behave – be polite to the man, though it's so false it hurts John to watch. Jim is still in full fanboy mode despite the accusation, smiling and awkward.
So awkward that he upsets the things on the table, making a metal dish fall to the floor. John facepalms for him. Shouldn't Molly's boyfriend know how to behave on a laboratory? Thank God that the thing wasn't breakable at least. Still, the man is confirming his friend's deep-seated conviction that everyone is an idiot. Some more than others, John guesses.
The doctor can't help but be relieved when the man announces his leaving. This whole interlude has been a mix of ridiculous and uncomfortable that John is eager to see end. Only that it seems Sherlock has exhausted his quota of politeness for the day, because when Jim tells him goodbye the sleuth, entirely engrossed in the analysis of some specimen or another, does not look up or respond or show to have noticed him in any other way. The usual Sherlock, then, but Jim is not accustomed to his habits and is lingering in the room. A painfully embarrassing silence stretches, until John takes it on himself to answer on Sherlock's stead. It's his purpose, isn't it? Or part of it. To smooth things over for the detective. Jim blinks at him, like he'd forgotten his existence, but finally leaves.
As soon as he's out of the door, Molly goes back to questioning the very important (to her at least) matter of her boyfriend's sexual orientation. And the sleuth's first reaction is to tell her that she's put on weight. John can't help but wonder if Sherlock is in a mood because he doesn't like the results he found and hence wants to upset her.
When Molly tries to defend herself and Sherlock insists on his (probably right, to be honest) assessment of her weight gain, John tries to warn him. The detective might be secretly irritated at the moment, but John is sure that he will regret hurting Molly later. After all, she's a friend. And she really doesn't deserve any of this.
And then, finally, Sherlock gives into what he must have been itching to do all this time and declares the evidence for his 'gay' diagnose. To which John actually tries to object, because saying Jim's grooming makes him gay is going along with ridiculous stereotypes, isn't it? He really expected better from the detective. John conditions his hair, but that doesn't make him gay. (His own flatmate might be making him a little bi, if anything, but better not to indulge in these thoughts before Sherlock reads it off him – the man has the uncanny ability to read his thoughts sometimes).
But the sleuth insists on his evaluation of the man, because apparently the brand of Jim's underwear is telling. And just what would make his married-to-my-work friend research brands of underwear, John ponders idly. Past case? Or does Sherlock occasionally cheat on the Work? It doesn't matter, he reminds himself briskly, because he's decided not to follow the lure of the Right Name, no matter how tempting it is…but it could matter. Oh, it could matter. In a different universe, maybe.
Before either Molly or John can question his underwear knowledge, the detective plays his ace. Jim wasn't painfully awkward before. He was, in fact, quite clever (not enough for Sherlock to cheat during a case, but afterwards…who knows). While upsetting the dish, with a move worthy of a conjurer, he's left his number to the sleuth. You can't really object to that kind of prove. Understandably upset, Molly runs away, near tears. And Sherlock has the gall to look startled by it. Really, the man.
John can't contain one sarcastic, "Well done," because that's what Sherlock wanted right? To make her cry? Only John learns that he very much didn't mean to – he wasn't even irritated and searching an outlet as the doctor had surmised. The sleuth thought he was being 'kind'. It would be worse if she knew after (because) some other bloke had accepted Jim's avances, surely. The blogger educates his apparently clueless flatmate (that's what he's for). "No, no, Sherlock. That wasn't kind." Such dismissive, clinical, cruel words can't be termed 'kind' by any stretch of the imagination.
He really hopes Sherlock will take the lesson to heart but there's little chance of it. Instead of saying he'd apologize to Molly, or acknowledge it in any way, the sleuth changes topic entirely. Asking John to deduce the bloody trainers, of all things. Of course, the doctor refuses to. He might be demoted to nurse, but he won't be demoted to plaything. He can only make a fool of himself – he doesn't have Sherlock's abilities, shoes are just shoes to him, what the hell is he even supposed to say.
With the way Sherlock treats Anderson and any not genius involved in the investigations, it's clear that he would scoff at John's attempt, cut him down with a few choice words (did he want to make Molly cry after all? Does he want to upset John too?).
But Sherlock's asking for a 'second opinion', insisting that it'd be 'very useful' (as if) and as always when the man is involved, John caves in eventually. He's so punching the man if the sleuth tries to insult him at the end though. To be fair, the detective is very kind, coaxing him with praises all throughout it.
John desperately wants to please. He wants to show the man that he can be, if not very useful, at least not an idiot. Good for more than passing things (and maybe if he proves himself Sherlock will heed some of his suggestions). Each murmured word of approval encourages him to make more hypotheses, (he's not even sure his can be termed deductions) until, sadly, he's obligated to admit that he's reached his limit. There's nothing more he can glean from the bloody shoes. "How did I do?" he queries, worried like he'd only been by the strictest of teachers.
"Well, John, really well," Sherlock reassures him, before going on to say, "I mean, you missed almost everything of importance, but, um, you know –"
Exactly what John expected (the reason he hadn't wanted to do this in the first place) but at least Sherlock's acknowledging that he's trying and not humiliating him for the sake of humiliating. He seems almost sorry that he has to disparage John's efforts.
John doesn't see the point of this. I mean, didn't Sherlock know he would have botched this? What did he expect from him? He can't possibly imagine that John is at his level, does he? That would be incredibly flattering, but it's simply impossible. So what was the point of this? Is he training John? (Which would be an honour, but out of character for him. Sherlock doesn't bother with idiots.)
John lets his worries go because he's treated to deduction-show again (though how Sherlock can possibly know how many things the laces have been changed is beyond him – well, all of Sherlock's deductions are beyond him). He doesn't expect the sleuth to say that the shoes are twenty years old. They seem new. Someone had them perfectly preserved. Sherlock tells him a story about a Sussex-born kid coming to London and leaving behind his favourite trainers. Even while he asks what happened to the boy, John knows the answer. This kind of care for something that's not even your own shoes – to have them in perfect condition twenty years later – means that they're a trophy. They're dealing with a bomber, kidnapper…child kidnapper? Or worse? John doesn't want to think of murdered children.
Then Sherlock seems to have a sort of revelation, because he softly utters a name. The owner of the trainers? It can't possibly be – not even Sherlock can deduce bloody names, surely. He failed to know that Harry was a nickname, at least. But his friend is definitely onto something, and John wants to know what. His friend's only explanation is, "It's where I began." Which doesn't explain anything, and only wets John's appetite for information. Where Sherlock began what? His detective career? There's definitely a story behind this. One he wants to know.
So he asks. And asks again. He's interested in Sherlock's first experiences (first cases, that is). Until, in the back of a cab, the sleuth finally caves in and tells him. Nineteen eighty-nine, tragic swimming accident at a sports tournament. Drowning. A swimming champion. No surprise that Sherlock thought something was fishy about it. The disappeared trainers might have something to do with the killing method.
Unsurprising, too, that the police didn't hear out Sherlock at the time. He would have been…what, eight years old? An extraordinarily clever eight years old, for sure, but the police wouldn't have a way to know that.
The sleuth says he 'made a fuss' and John can just imagine him. A curly haired, bright eyed kid, going over to Scotland Yard to make his point, yelling and whining and insulting the inspector in charge of the case. And Mycroft scolded for not having minded his brother and having let him sneak off to Scotland Yard in the first place when their parents got the call saying to come take back their wayward child before they throw him in a cell to teach him some manners.
Sherlock is sure that these missing shoes have resurfaced now. Since their bomber already hinted at past cases with the pink phone, his friend's hypothesis might very well be true. But that'd mean that his stalker is stalking the sleuth since decades ago. Or that he found the killer of Carl Powers and bought the trophy out of him. Both are creepy thoughts.
Once they get at the flat, the sleuth is still concentrated on Carl Powers, and John feels more useless than ever. "Can I help?" he queries. He wouldn't mind passing things now. Anything but watching his flatmate and feeling utterly useless. John's never reacted well to being useless. "I want to help," he insists. He's not begging for something to do, but he's dangerously close to it. Really, the best thing he can probably do is shut up and let Sherlock think, but he wants to feel as if he's doing at least something beyond staring.
And then he gets distracted by Mycroft's texts. On his own mobile phone this time. (How did Mycroft find out his number? Oh, who's he kidding, the man controls the bloody cctv, finding a number is nothing at all). Still, what does Mycroft want from him? It's not like he can influence Sherlock. Especially when he's in case mode. Still… "He did say 'national importance'," he remarks. It's not even that he wants to distract Sherlock from his stalker bomber. He's just worried. Over everything. If Mycroft came to Sherlock, normal MI6 probably won't be able to do anything.
The sleuth disparages him for his concerns (that's not old-fashioned; of course John will worry about what could endanger the whole nation), but then promises him, "I'm not ignoring it. Putting my best man on it right now."
"Good," John breathes in relief. But then one harrowing doubt eats at him. "Who's that?" he queries. He sure hopes that's not Raz. The kid would be wholly inadequate to deal with the matter, and it's the only man he's seen Sherlock collaborate with to date.
"My esteemed colleague," Sherlock replies.
Oh God, there are more consulting detectives? John is mildly scared by the prospect. What kind of man could that be? "And his name is?" he queries softly.
Sherlock looks at him like he does to people that are being purposefully obtuse – that is, with total despise. "Have you already forgotten the Blind Banker, as you titled it?"
It's not really Raz, is it? Because he didn't collaborate with anyone else then… "Tell me it's not the kid," he begs.
"It's the man who claimed to be my colleague. In front of our client, may I add," Sherlock bits back, levelling him with a look.
"…You want me to solve the case? The one of national importance Mycroft's insisting about?" It comes out rather more like a squeak than John would like.
"I'm sure that you'll be fully capable to handle it, John. I trust you."
Oh bugger. He's done for. He would do anything not to have Sherlock obliged to retract such a statement.
First things first, he needs more data, like Sherlock would say. He can't solve a case he doesn't know about, can he? So that's how he finds himself in an empty office (Sherlock did tell him where to go if he wanted to bother Mycroft at least), having made it past a secretary that clearly judged him underdressed without saying a word. He hasn't tried to flirt with this one.
Now he only needs to persuade Mycroft that he's indeed Sherlock's esteemed colleague, and as such it's perfectly normal for him to be sent to collect facts. While Sherlock is already working eagerly on the case, he assures. Which is not a lie at all. He just lets him assume that the case he mentions is the one of national importance.
To be honest, Mycroft probably knows better, but he does not challenge him. He lets John fumble with his words and be uncomfortable (either not reading or not caring about the true reason) and does agree to explaining the case to him. Does he really believe that pitiful pretence that John is trying to put up? (If he does, how in the hell did he manage to get a job in politics?) Is he honestly convinced that John has taken to heart this case and will ultimately manage to sway Sherlock's attention towards it? (As if the detective would heed his word.) Or…does he, maybe…trust John, too? (Of course not, John, let's not be fanciful now.) Sherlock's trust is more than enough, anyway. And now that he has his facts, it's time for John to work at earning it.