The clever beta Caroline has solved the problem of a late night semicolon deficiency and thus Chapter 11 is presented for your viewing pleasure. Feel free to come and hang out with me at .com where I don't make a lot of sense and I can a lot of things that are vaguely embarrassing, but updates on my fic are given. I also randomly offer to write people stories, but I usually don't get many responses. Don't be afraid of commenting and questions. I'm nice. Hope you enjoy!
-John was preparing the petri dish while Sherlock leaned back, staring off into space. He ignored Sherlock's detachment, the way he pulled out the pink phone and laid it carefully on the table, out of John's immediate sight, but close enough a careful flick of the eyes could revel it in full view. Once the tech had come in with the blood sample and Sherlock had placed his portable chemistry kit, looking like something out of a Victorian special, on the table. He tapped one nail absently against the vial he wanted John to use as all the instruction he seemed to be willing to give and began to stare into space. John's mind, having spun the Moriarty wheel loose and momentarily harmless jumped to the second source of his worry. Dimmock had said he would be back soon, but the nips of humour he usually pinned into his texts, like bits of grass breaking through the tumbling weight of snowy despair, were missing. Dimmock wasn't like what Sherlock was to him. Or Lestrade or Molly or the others.
Dimmock treated him his own age, shoulder to shoulder, dirty jokes, comparing stories, assumptions of maturity.
Well, he needed Sherlock to be safe, needed… But he wanted Dimmock to be safe too, back and sitting on the roof of 221 plotting the demise of Grendel.
"John," Sherlock said once and John's attention snapped back sharply just as Sherlock's phone rang. He tilted his head to the side, a quick little move like that of a little hawk. That wasn't the sound of Sherlock's phone. Sherlock picked up the pink phone ignoring the military line of John's spine, the perfect triangular flare of his shoulder blades. The under skin fervency like something out of a children's story, all just held back lightning and thunder and power still and steady with anguish and control.
John never knew Sherlock had this conversation, another bit of information he hadn't felt the need to share with John. "Hello."
John placed his palms flat on the table like he was waiting for his knuckles to be rapped.
Sherlock curled John's little fingers sideways, loosely so they lay like brackets, almost relaxed while he said, "Why would you give me a clue?" His face curled soft, pleased, intrigued off into the distance while John watched. A softer tone of voice than he even used with John, or rather Mrs. Hudson; it wasn't like John expected, or needed any gentleness from Sherlock. After a pause, during which Sherlock's fingers tapped absently over John's, he said, "Then talk to me in your own voice."
He then made a face like someone had told him to be polite.
Manners were, in John's understanding, something that Sherlock believed were something designed solely to pad the way for idiots instead of forcing them to accept the reality of the world. And Sherlock was very much into forcing people to see realities.
"I don't think that really any of your concern," Sherlock said absently, but his hand tightened around John's, long fingers spidering down and around so John had to hold back a hiss behind his curled in lips. "Oh," Sherlock oozed charm and public school blasé, "if you insist." Breathing slowly in and out of his nose, John, rolling his lips out from between his teeth, watched Sherlock's face drop its charm and fade again to china doll blankness.
"He's playing with you," John said mildly. The hand that had knotted itself inescapably around his skittered away like a frightened animal.
"Hmm," Sherlock smirked, not believing John, or not believing he could be played with. That tightness flexed once around the corners of his mouth, like an overworked muscle before relaxing again as smooth as a summer's morning. Long fingers picking up the petri dish as his mouth curled in victory so that all the happy brackets normally kept hidden showed themselves crisply. He drew his mobile out of his inside pocket and handed it to John. "Call Lestrade and tell him to meet us at the evidence garage. He'll want to hear your voice, he does worry," he said in the same way some might say, he does lick shoes found in bins.
"Not worrying. How can he stand himself? Caring about people, awful stuff," John said drily so that Sherlock gave him a look that was as perfectly defined as a question mark. "That was sarcasm," he elucidated primly.
"Thank you," Sherlock snipped. "I got that."
Lestrade was very happy to hear from John, wanted to ask how he was doing, which Sherlock must have deduced from his answers if the way he was rolling his eyes as if pained was an indication. The gentle rumble of Lestrade's voice familiar (and strangely reminding him of late night Dimmock; he wondered if it was a Yard thing). "Sherlock wants to meet at the garage," he said before Sherlock could fracture something in his head making irritated faces. "He's solved it."
Sherlock tapped a pair of fingertips against the back of Sherlock's hand to guide John's hand away from his ear. "And bring curry. John missed tea."
"Ooh, no," John said quickly, grinning. "Dim sum! Please!"
Lestrade sighed, "Anything else Your Majesties?"
"That should do it," Sherlock's voice clearly carried the weight of his precious time wasted on inane questions over where they were sharing the phone.
"Ta!" John grinned. "If you drop Sherlock's name at the Chinese by the Yard you'll get it for free."
Lestrade's rumbling laugh bloomed in spite of itself, "Fine, lazy, but this is the last time."
Sherlock grinned, as he rung off, and slid his phone back in his inside pocket, "It won't be. Off we go, the tech needs practice cleaning up anyway, he can't get in the habit of leaving everything to Molly."
The floor of the evidence garage, once they got to it, was wet and shiny as a marble folder. There were rows of blocked in square tents made from hanging plastic sheets that gave the place the look of being either a particularly neat construction site maze, or a strangely conceived fairy camp site. Everything washed blue and grey and black, even the standup police lights which John knows is really one of the lemoniest yellows in existence. When John saw Lestrade step out from the farthest fairy tent (although a decidedly macabre lot), looking vaguely stressed but smiling lopsidedly with a brown paper sack that had takeout written all over it John grinned at him, moving forward to take the dim sum when Sherlock let go of his hand.
"To the car Lestrade," he said, watching Lestrade absently ruffle John's hair. "This won't take long."
"Your statement?"
"Can be given later," he tilted his head elegantly at Lestrade. "You don't want John's rumbly tummy on your conscience, do you?"
Both Lestrade and John made a face at the phrase rumbly tummy, John, because he didn't look anything like a stuffed bear and Lestrade at Sherlock saying rumbly tummy. Sherlock swung the door open. "How much blood was on that seat would you say?"
"How much? About a pint."
"Not about a pint, a pint exactly, their first mistake. The next was delivery; John what's strange about the blood?"
"Um," John said, holding onto his dim sum with both arms, eight year old bodies made that a necessity. "No splatter or bullet holes conclusive to gunshots, no splatter conclusive to a slit throat either, that tends to-" he made a vague bursting gesture around the area of his neck that made Lestrade look vaguely uneasy. "It could be a side or gut wound, but those take time to bleed that much and there aren't any bloody handprints that would be there if Mr. Monkford had tried to flee."
Lestrade looked vaguely ill from where he was looking down through the car windows at John, "What do you mean? How do you know?"
When John stumbled at a believable explanation, Sherlock stepped in with, "Unimportant. John, continue."
"It's the natural human instinct to cup a gut wound, he could get away with driving with one hand, but he'd need to shift eventually. And there was no phone call, also means that Monkford wasn't running with a bleeding wound."
"Thank you John," Sherlock nodded and moved on, "We know the blood's Ian Monkford but it's been frozen."
"Frozen?" Lestrade looked up suddenly.
"There are clear signs. I think Ian Monkford gave a pint of his blood some time ago and that's what they spread on the seats. Obviously someone who's seen more crime scene dramas than crime scenes or there would have been more effort at realism. Although they may have been relying on the idiocy of the Yard."
"Who's they?" Lestrade said longsuffering.
"Janus Cars. The clue's in the name."
"The god with two faces," John explained helpfully, and then when that got a blank look. "Roman mythology."
"They provide a special service. If you have any kind of a trouble, bad marriage, issues with the law, financial difficulties, Janus Car will get you out. I'm guessing Ian Monkford's trouble was financial, he's a banker, couldn't see a way out but if the car he hired was found with his blood all over it, well, it's a moot point then isn't it?"
"So where is he now?" John asked over the top of his dim sum bag. Not that he didn't know, it was just a good idea to draw Sherlock forward so he didn't wander off muttering about thumbs.
"Haven't you guessed already?"
He just gave Sherlock a steady look.
Letting out a put off sigh, Sherlock closed the car door heavily, "We still need to work on your fine deduction skills. Columbia." Fingers hovering expectantly in the air until they came in contact with John's shoulder, Sherlock began to lead him out, pulling him close to his warm wool side.
"Columbia?" Lestrade said in his you've gone too far voice.
"Mr. Hewett, of Janus Cars, had a twenty thousand Columbian peso note in his pocket, quite a bit of change too. He also said he hadn't been abroad recently, but when I asked him about the cars I could see his tan line. You don't wear a shirt on a sunbed. That plus his arm."
"His arm?"
"He kept scratching it, it was irritated and obviously bleeding, and this John should have caught although I can understand the others," he said with a gentle little squeeze that was more about a nod to tell John to make a mental note than a way of cushioning the blow. "Because he had just had a booster jab before traveling abroad. Difficult to tell what at that distance, although if John had been paying attention he probably could have told you. Conclusion: he had just come back from settling Ian Monkford in, in his new life in Columbia. Mrs. Monkford gets the life insurance and splits it with Janus Cars. It's not the first time they've done this by half, Hewett's secretary has German sweets in her candy dish, remarkable if only because he seems the only man in England with the exclusion of my brother who gives personalized gifts to his secretarial staff without having an affair with them first. The two of them probably bonded over their ridiculous devotion to their respective spouses."
At John's faint questioning noise Sherlock smiled, "Did you see the size and state of his wedding band? He tends it like a baby."
Lestrade made a face; partially John was sure at the steady stream of data Sherlock was pouring forth, not to mention the mention of the rather sore topic of adultery, "Great, lovely, that's good for the case. It's always lovely when the wife is involved."
"Go and arrest them Inspector, that's what you do best, we need let our friendly bomber know the case is solved." They started to walk away, Sherlock strumming with energy, "I am on FIRE!" He said, lifting his hand briefly from John's shoulder to check his watch.
"Sherlock!" Lestrade said quickly. "Sherlock wait a second."
"What?" Sherlock said before his face abruptly shifted. "No. We don't have a moment to spare. We really must dash."
The sigh, when Lestrade let it out, was slow and longsuffering and as grey as Lestrade, soft sweet silver on the outside, iron within. "Fine, but you're not escaping this discussion."
"Oh, I'm sure you'll keep with it," Sherlock said with false cheer that made John head-butt Sherlock in the hip. "John really must eat dinner, after you were so kind to pick it up for him."
"Fine," Lestrade said again. "You're on fire. You're amazing off you go."
Sherlock swept John out of there before John could ask Lestrade what he was about and once they got into the taxi Sherlock ordered him to eat before he got any smaller.
"I can't actually shrink," he said with a dumpling halfway to his mouth. "That's not actually a thing."
"Isn't it?" Sherlock said, studiously texting someone.
After giving Sherlock a long stare, he said cautiously, "Are you being sentimental?"
Ruffling up like an offended bird, Sherlock managed a small quirk of his lips, "Sentiment is for the weak; that is what was called positive socialization."
He knew it.
He smiled around his dumpling. Really it was a blessing and a curse. Before he neither needed, wanted or received squeezes on his shoulders, studious reminders to eat or his teasing tinged with something almost tender instead of the tips of a cat's batting claws. Playful, yes, and hardly mean-spirited, but with a sharpness that could catch if one wasn't careful. It wasn't that he was treasuring the cool and caustic way Sherlock could be that always cut him to the quick. But he couldn't let himself get into the habit of letting people treat him as a child.
Then they were inside 221B and Sherlock was up the stairs without bothering to take off his coat and was clicking and open things on his laptop while John came slower behind him. It was about this time that some switch flipped and his body, like a stoked train engine which had suddenly found itself sans coal. But it was different tonight; something under his skin was still vibrating, even as he felt his body try to ease down to rest. He watched the cool blankness of Sherlock's face change into the well-bracketed smile of victory.
He leaned his shoulder against the table while the voice of a young man biting back tears begged to be saved, his face pulled serious, his mouth pressed into a small pout. "See John," Sherlock said, grinning his victory grin. "It all worked out. Go sit down, I'll be right over."
They situated themselves on the sofa. Or rather Sherlock situated himself there and John's legs were achy so wanted to stretch them out. Once he'd had all the dumplings he could dumple he let himself drift sideways to the dulcet tones of The X Factor which had Sherlock hissing and rumbling to himself in offense. They sat for a while, the smell of old books, chemicals and the feel of the cold sneaking through the plastic on their windows and the dark line of Sherlock to his side as he let himself slide sideways drowsily. There was a ring of the doorbell downstairs and John sat up straight, again, they looked at each other a moment before John nodded his head toward the door. "Quick before they wake up Mrs. Hudson."
There was the sound of the door opening, and an irritated fluster followed by the low rumble of Lestrade's voice, and his soft sure tread following Sherlock up the stairs.
"Don't you have your own children to harass?" Sherlock hissed as sharp as a razor in their doorway.
"Bit not good," John said by relax where he was almost writhing to get to sleep on the sofa.
Sherlock's feet stuttered on nothing before snapping his eyes nearly apologetically, as close as he could manage, and then away.
"My eldest is watching them; you didn't meet him. I just had something I wanted to talk to you, before this got any farther."
"John's trying to sleep," Sherlock said in the tone of a man willing to get mean to protect his right to denial.
John waved him off, "I'm fine." With a curl of his limbs he set about thoroughly ignoring the two men standing in the middle of the living room. He was starting to doze, would almost be asleep and as soon as he would decide to get up and go to his room he would be wide awake again. The seventh time he went through the cycle he made an annoyed cubbish whine, felt like kicking something if his joints weren't so heavy.
"John," Lestrade said with the voice of experience, interrupting the conversation he was having with Sherlock. "Do your bones hurt?"
John shook his head, face twisted on the edge of a right temper. Sherlock loomed above him, just as much on the edge of a strop from not knowing what to do. "I'm just achy."
Nodding sagely, Lestrade motioned toward the sofa while picking of the union jack pillow from John's chair. "Sit down Sherlock; he's too tired to sleep."
Sherlock sat, awkwardly and Lestrade propped the pillow against Sherlock's leg, helped John wiggle to get his head on it. Showed Sherlock how to rub to ache out of his bones. "It happens sometimes with kids; they're caught right on the edge of their second wind."
"I can take care of him," Sherlock said with short quick twitches of his fingers down into the muscles of john's back, trying to bunch and pull.
"I never said otherwise," Lestrade said gently.
The three of them fell into silence; Sherlock was so warm, his hand warm and knocking away at the knotting, aching muscle trying to clump under John's skin. Breath evening out, John pressed his weary face to the pillow, curling up tightly.
"Don't you think this is a little dangerous?" Lestrade asked, cutting a line through the silence as Sherlock rested one large hand on John's head warm and so very calming. John snuffled from where he curled around Sherlock's knee. "Running around with him? He's so… small."
"I am exceptionally careful of him," Sherlock said.
Lestrade sighed, "Being a father…"
"Oh, not now," John could hear Sherlock roll his eyes from where he was drowsing. He tried to move his arm, but all he could manage was a twitching finger.
"No, listen. I love my kids; I want them to be safe, to be happy. You don't know how much it kills me that they're with her, growing up with her because I can't give them all the time they need. I know you adore John, you want to spend time with him, he's brilliant, I get that. But sometimes being a father means having your kids away for you for a little while until things are safer. Settled."
Sherlock flexed his fingers tensely, moving his hand to rest on John's shoulder, and then back up again. "Don't go calling Child Services yet Detective Inspector. I'm not… alone in this as I appear. John's father is a person of some… influence and power and he keeps an eye on John and I."
"He's not Mycroft's is he?" Lestrade sounded appalled and Sherlock shuddered in sympathy.
"No, no as of yet Mycroft has not perpetuated his genetic material. Probably for the best all things told."
"I don't know; he's rather smart isn't he? That's good right?"
"Depends on who you ask," Sherlock replied and both men lapsed into silence.
"So John's dad watches the two of you all the time? Why doesn't he visit or something?"
"If you can't figure that out you don't deserve to have it explained," Sherlock said with snark full on. "And John's also a test, to see how clever I am." His thumb moved gently over John's ear. John wanted to tell him that was wrong, that wasn't what this was at all, but he was too close to sleep.
"What sort of Dad would do something like that?" he heard Lestrade say before turning fully into sleep to the feel Sherlock go stiff with surprise. Fading away to Sherlock's haughty tones.
"One much more intelligent than-" Sherlock paused, feeling John's last breath before he tipped into deeper, surer breath underneath the breadth of his hand.
"You'll get used to it," Lestrade said, something decidedly sentimental in his eyes.
"Really?" Sherlock asked, not really caring.
"No," Lestrade said. "They'll find new ways to remind you, you can't keep them safe every day."
Norton – need help Denmark 2 London by tomorrow, will take boat & paddle. Grendel trouble. – Dimmock
Timmy, I think I know what a guy in France wants, possible chopper. Call u by 6. 3 GN