Strangely, the touch was nice. Usually, Sherlock only liked touching when he initiated it or tolerated it when he could see it coming. He would hug Mrs. Hudson when he wanted to and he would tolerate a slap on the back from Angelo because he knew it would happen, but this was different. He had neither initiated this nor saw it coming and it was still nice and nicer than anything so plain should be.

It was only a crossing of fingers. It should not make him feel much of anything, but it made him feel a surprisingly large spectrum of things. Though really he should stop being surprised; nothing with John ever went as expected. John was more than a person, more than Sherlock ever thought anyone would be.

John was what was created by the opposite of everything Sherlock knew and the opposite of those opposites.

John was more than a person, but not in the way that Mycroft was with his government influence or Moriarty with his own, although somewhat different in nature, set of connections, which is to say that it was certainly not because John was above it all and pulled the strings. John let himself be pulled, but not the way some people let life make choices for them so they never had to take responsibility for the mess. No, John knew what he was doing. John was what was made in the absence of control and the absence of passivity. John was what was created in a vacancy.

John was beyond a person, beyond the ranks of people-who-were-not-people. Sherlock knew that all people were actually people, obviously. Even so, while the forms that milled about outside his window looked like people and sounded like people, they still seemed to be shells with vacant insides while inside him were heavy organs and ricocheting thoughts. He looked like one of these people and his voice sounded like one of these people, but when Sherlock tried to make contact, the facades of these people would topple over like Matryoshka dolls with their thoughts dispersing like mist from their empty insides as if they were never really there, an illusion of a connection that would never come to pass. He would wade through these dolls set up like people and find them all to be lacking.

Sometimes what Sherlock found in the dolls' places would not fade quite so quickly, the mirage of humanity being a little more solid but a mirage nonetheless. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and surprisingly emotionally insightful and thus useful Molly, even with their gaseous insides, were an intriguing and beneficial in between group. They looked like people and sounded like people and when Sherlock reached out, he came back with a little substance in his hands, which was an improvement, but still not enough. Their mirages seemed to be standing the test of time, though Sherlock was never sure how long that would last. They were too much like the people outside the window, something beyond the barrier of what he could really and fully understand and have. He valued them, sure, but their smoky insides would always seem liable to drift away.

Alternatively, Moriarty had been refreshingly solid on the inside and Sherlock admitted that he missed having another person who was actually a person, someone who did not disappear as soon as Sherlock got close. Though the enjoyment was tainted and short-lived. Moriarty had to be eliminated in the name of preservation, so eventually his insides did burn to dust. This was a similar case to that of The Woman, who was another example of a genuine solid person and another example of a genuine solid person disappearing. Sherlock had saved her life, another solid person could not be lost, could not be wasted, but still she receded back into oblivion. These two people who found him and were like him like fellows in a species teased him with the feeling of companionship only to disappear.

There was only one solid person who had stayed and continued to stay and might always stay.

Sherlock thought John would be the same as the non-people and at first he was. He sat with Lestrade in their flat and they were both vacant without even a hint of something solid, while Sherlock's tightly bottled-up thoughts pinged and pounded in his insides. In that moment, to Sherlock, John had toppled over just the same as the others and while a smile slide to Sherlock's face with his pride for being so miraculously clever, a disappointment struck him once more with the knowledge that his miraculousness would always single him out far beyond the others. He would always be several steps ahead and even when the others caught up, he would still be the only one with these heavy insides.

But, he had underestimated good old Doctor Watson. He had been right that John would always be several steps behind him, but wrong about how many comprised "several" and he was wrong about who John Watson might be and what he might be willing to do when he caught up. He never thought that good old Doctor Watson would shoot a man and especially never thought that this Doctor Watson would be so gracefully and solidly collected not an hour later. John may blend in better with the dolls and he may have a little bit of smoke and he may not be quite so miraculous as Sherlock, but John was miraculous in his own way.

John caught on to things, to Sherlock, in ways that the non-people did not and stayed in ways that the other solid people did not seem to. John was created in vacancy, in the absence of things, in the paradoxes, and his insides were filled with something, though Sherlock was still trying to figure out what that something was and, as he investigated the consistency of John's insides, Sherlock's bottled-up thoughts were leaking out.

In fact, just as he could sense a significant trickle now, the panic was only mercifully tamed as it came with a little hint at John's insides: something warm.

Sitting beside John with their fingers still interlaced, with his thoughts leaking out, and with this little serenity of a hint, Sherlock knew better than to say anything that might ruin it. In this silence, they pulled up to the victim's flat once more and once the car pulled to the curb and stopped, it was time for work again and Sherlock slide out of one side of the car with John shuffling out the other.

Sherlock had to admit that his being in public was probably a bad idea. After all, the whole reason why he postponed going abroad was to wait out the media coverage and let his face fade from public memory. With his face on newsstands and telly, people were more likely to recognize him if he were to try to mingle. It was best to wait until visual memory declined in his favor. Admittedly, this plan was cast aside, but in its wake it seemed apt to form a new plan and this new plan banked on the time already passed. Of course, he was right about people not seeing what they did not expect to; it happens all the time. He had said it over and over but it seemed to change nothing; they still see but they do not observe. Time was just insurance, necessary insurance, but when that insurance seemed to cost him what he was trying to protect, it was obsolete. Anyway, after six months, he was just a typo on a page and everyone was too busy scanning and misguidedly believing in their brilliance to see the letters still out of place.

Even if someone were to shock Sherlock and begin to observe, he would still be weaving through the alleyways and checking skips with John Watson because frankly he could not force himself to feel like it was a particularly great risk. Nothing felt like much of a risk anymore, not since he returned. That was a risk, a monumental risk, and he had done it in a second and there was no undoing it. So, now, everything else felt so small. He would take precautions like donning a costume and using Mycroft's car because he did still worry about John and his safety, but nothing could stop him now from doing what he could to get back to normal. He had given Mycroft the information he needed and now there was nothing else for Sherlock to do with that regard. However, with John there was still much to do and so he would do it. He was miraculous. He could do it.

Sherlock raced around the dark and dirty back alleys with tiny magnifying glass in hand and with John Watson at varying distances behind him. So far, Sherlock had not motivated John to abandon his cane; though, he had not really begun trying yet. Maybe this was because he was still wondering what caused the break in using the cane between his funeral and when Sherlock saw John and Mrs. Hudson visiting his grave, and then what brought the cane back. To his great annoyance, he had not figured out these elusive variables yet. But, once he deduced these details, he was sure he would then have an easier time replicating whatever it was that got rid of the cane in his absence and making it stick this time. This seemed like the only option; it was unlikely John would fall for the same trick he did the first time.

So, this was how it was going to be for now and Sherlock could handle that. Especially when the case was leading to a wonderfully puzzling dead end; though, John probably will not like that this will likely actually end with someone being dead. Anyhow, it was interesting for now and that was what counted. Plus, he needed to find the empty shell of the non-person before thinking about how disappointed in him John would be for not seeing the victim as full of something thicker than mist.

Alley after alley, Sherlock looked at every skip with as much scrutiny as was possible with only moonlight and dull streetlamps, while John huffed beside him and occasionally quipped. Sherlock said little or nothing to these little comments, but at least hummed or grunted so that John knew that he was at least still somewhat paying attention. Though, after a while John was getting less clever and more clearly exhausted.

Somewhat luckily for John, Sherlock found a splash of dried blood with an angle that matched what might be created by a rough throw of a bludgeoned body into a metal skip. Though, this was not the best part of this skip for Sherlock. The best part was the splash of blood that indicated the body being jerked back out. Someone had put it in for a bit of storage and then pulled it back out again.

"Oh! John! This is brilliant!" Sherlock exclaimed.

John gave him his look; the look that says that he is still confused, but also knows that he will likely disapprove of the explanation to follow.

"No surprise, but we are going to need to do some further investigating to find the victim-"

"Len Bannister," John interrupts.

"Sure, Len Bannister," Sherlock concedes. "He is not here, not that I thought he would be, but I had to know why no one had discovered him. One usually hopes that people are not so stupid as to miss a body in a skip." This received a sigh that lacked the seriousness it usually earned because a bit of a smile tugged at its end; though, this was quickly covered up when sentiment was taken over once more by the seriousness of the issue. "Anyway, the only way to find him has always been through his attacker, but I wanted a little information going into the interrogation so I could easily get the confession without the negotiation nonsense and, with what I've found, we can certainly get the most out of a nice chat. Of course, we will have to see if his attacker was stupid enough to stay in his apartment or even go back to class. Likely, he did both. This seems to be an exceptionally stupid man as far as I can tell and that's saying something. So, I'll look at the mud and you should call the professor and get a class roster. Oh, also, you probably should not mention that he is likely dead."

"Sherlock," John chided far more sadly than Sherlock thought was immediately warranted, prompting Sherlock to look up from his crouch where he was snapping pictures of the blood with his phone. John refused to make eye-contact, staring determinedly at his shoes.

"John?"

John shook his head and took a deep breath before looking back up, with the little traces of melancholy resting in John's eyes betraying the sentiments he was trying to pretend did not exist.

"Shall we go, then?" John asked with a strained voice.

"Yes, let's."

They walked back to the car in silence, John's head bowed, looking once more at his shoes as they stepped across the cracked asphalt and with his available hand shoved and fidgeting in his coat jacket.

Sherlock could not help but steal glances at him; his own hands hanging down by his side, uncomfortably in limbo between wanting to have something to do and having nothing. The elation of discovery was wearing off pathetically quickly; like any drug, it wore off faster and faster each time he got a hit. Even a seeming dead end and a criminal who came back to fetch his victim were not enough to quiet the buzz in his head; especially, it seemed, when the thoughts that swarmed were those of sentiment, current and past, new and long repressed. He thought of those useless hands and finally decided what to do with them.

In one quick motion, he slipped his hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out a cigarette and a lighter, not faltering even slightly in his step to bring the former to his lips or to use the latter to light it. John, in his distracted state, barely had time to register the movements before Sherlock took a gratifyingly deep breath. This was the kind of smoke-filled Sherlock could be and he had to admit that it was rather nice.

"Care to share?" John asserted, after Sherlock had a few long drags and blew them each out in one smooth stream perfected by years of practice.

Sherlock looked at John with a slight turn of his head, eyebrows arching inquisitively and cigarette poised in his hand.

"I've smoked before; don't be so surprised," John said shortly, stopping on the sidewalk just feet from the idling car and standing solidly, determinedly.

Wordlessly, Sherlock twisted his wrist, to which John roughly yanked the cigarette out of his hand and stuck it between his lips. John breathed in heavily, his eyes closed and forehead wrinkled in consternation, before simply opening his mouth and letting the smoke drift out. He slumped his shoulders slightly and relaxed his brow as the smoke wafted around his face, waiting until it all disappeared before returning the cigarette to his lips again.

With John's second round, Sherlock realized that he thoroughly did not like John being more smoke-filled than normal, especially when he was just getting to know John's solid insides. So, with that thought and only that thought, he tipped down, placed his lips over John's and drew all of the smoke out in one deep breath before pulling back to blow it out, but not in a smooth stream like the others, but quickly and recklessly. It did not deserve the elegance of order. It ought to be spit out.

"Well, then," John mumbled, punctuated by the telling pair of short coughs he usually unknowingly did in uncomfortable situations.

Rather surprisingly, John did not seem to want to talk beyond that and simply dropped the cigarette to the ground and put it out beneath his shoe. There was some tension in how John turned towards the car, but nonetheless he steadily reached with his left hand to open the car door and clamber inside.

Besides being surprising, it was also rather perfect that John did not ask Sherlock to explain himself; that he allowed both of them to revel in the relative serenity of silence, because Sherlock would have nothing to say. He could not explain the smoke and dolls to John and he could not explain to himself exactly why, seemingly suddenly, actions, such as sucking the air out of John's mouth with his own, did not seem so inconceivable and, in fact, seemed quite instinctive. All he knew was that the mirages of smoke, determined trickles of sentiment, and hints of just what John was made up of, all had intertwined to set things in motion, unprecedented things, and there seemed nothing to stop them.

As Sherlock and John stared at each other throughout the drive back to Baker Street, Sherlock could see the thoughts as they roamed across John's features: the tiniest hint of lingering sadness in his eyes, confusion in the slight squint, and the acceptance in the slackening of John's lips, though interrupted slightly by the rough shakiness of forced deep breaths. He saw all of these things without John having to say a single word. He wished he could say that his face conveyed nothing, but Molly proved that no matter how hard he tried to hide it, his emotions betrayed him and showed through. He wondered what John could see on him.