"Why don't you go to bed?"

Sherlock's voice jolted John from the light doze he had fallen into and he shifted awkwardly. His armchair seemed to be progressing from 'comfortable' to 'crippling' as time went by.

"I'm fine. You carry on."

"Carry on what? I'm lying on the sofa, trying to think through the distraction of your spine creaking."

"Sorry." John sat forward and rolled his shoulders, yawning widely.

Sherlock sighed and swung his legs around to sit up. "Look, I appreciate what you're doing but you're going to be a wreck tomorrow at this rate. It's very unlikely that the killer will strike again so soon."

John's mouth tightened stubbornly. "You said the rules were changing."

"It really bothers you, doesn't it?" Sherlock regarded him curiously. "Even such a small lie, it's sitting on your conscience like a lead weight."

"I don't regret it," John promised. "But yes, I'd prefer to be able to answer truthfully next time. God forbid there is a next time," he added.

Sherlock stared at him for a minute. "Fine." He got to his feet and headed for his bedroom, from where various banging and clattering noises soon emerged. After a few minutes he called out, "Come on, then."

"What?" John's head was still rather fuzzy but he recognised a summons when he heard one and ambled towards Sherlock's room, stopping in the open doorway to find him pulling off his shirt. "What?" he repeated, running an automatic eye over Sherlock's slim figure and relieved to find him not quite as gaunt as he had feared - it seemed all the sneak feeding efforts were paying off after all.

Sherlock grabbed a T-shirt from the wardrobe and pulled it on before changing into pyjama trousers. He waved a hand towards the bed, which was now miraculously free of clutter. "I can think just as well in here," he said. "Make yourself comfortable."

John briefly considered propriety but the concept seemed alien to Sherlock and, after the army, just sharing a room was a trivial matter. He flopped down on the right hand side of the bed and Sherlock wrapped up in his dressing gown then stretched out beside him. After a moment, John reached out a hand. "This is pointless if you can leave without disturbing me," he observed. "May I?" He closed his fingers around Sherlock's wrist.

He heard the movement as Sherlock turned his head. "I was debating offering handcuffs," he said. "Your fingers will relax when you fall asleep."

John smiled into the semi-darkness, remembering long nights spent armed and ready for trouble. "No, they won't."

It was several hours later when he woke to find himself lying on his side, pressed up against Sherlock and with one leg thrown out pinning him down. Sherlock was trying to tug his wrist away and John let go immediately, rolling onto his back. "Sorry."

"Let's just pretend that was your gun, shall we?" Sherlock's voice sounded constrained.

"What?" John was confused, then realisation dawned and he snorted. "That's my phone, you idiot." He pulled it out of his jeans pocket and waved it under Sherlock's nose.

"Oh, thank God."

John dissolved into giggles and, after a moment, Sherlock's deep chuckle joined in.

Eventually they calmed and Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, his eyes still slightly crinkled in amusement. "You know, I think you're the only person who can make me laugh at myself," he said.

John turned his head. "It's because you know I'm laughing at the joke and not at you," he explained, something about the situation allowing thoughts to escape which he would normally internalise. "You're aware that a lot of popular references go over your head, and it's not as if you care, but it can make you defensive. Sometimes you rebuff people because you're afraid they're taking the piss, when they might not be at all."

He watched as Sherlock's face smoothed out. "Laugh lines," John said. "They can be my gift to you - what you get out of this relationship." He gave a rueful smile. "While I get bags under my eyes and a perennially worried expression."

They lay in silence for a while, then Sherlock spoke again. "Relationship?"

John closed his eyes, feeling sleep creeping back to claim him. "Well, whatever you want to call it."

"The alibi you gave me was rather ambiguous," Sherlock commented. "Especially once Mrs Hudson chipped in."

"Hmm."

"And you can't take it back, even once the case is solved. I tried to limit the gossip, but people will talk."

John gave a half shrug. "Who cares what people think? They can think what they like. They do anyway." He yawned and stretched his hand out across the bed. "Best give me your wrist back before I nod off. Just shove me if I start crowding you again."

Sherlock hesitated. "So it's not something you... I mean, I did accept the alibi, so one could argue that I have a duty... no, that's not the word - I mean, I should perhaps offer..." He trailed off.

John rolled onto his side and peered through the gloom. "What on earth are you going on about?"

There was an audible swallow from his left, then Sherlock took his hand, but this time lacing their fingers together.

John froze, abruptly wide awake as understanding dawned. He tightened his grip for a moment to remove any sting of rejection, then gently pulled his hand free.

"But you don't want that," he said. "And neither do I."

He could see Sherlock's relief in the angle of his neck as he exhaled.

"You can read every expression that crosses my face - why would you even think...?" John frowned in confusion.

"I didn't," Sherlock said, still looking up at the ceiling. "At least, not since our first conversation at Angelo's all those months ago," he added. "But I... You seem to... care. And I am not accustomed to analysing affection when it is directed towards myself. It occurred to me that I may have misinterpreted..." He shifted awkwardly. "As I said - not really my area."

John wasn't sure what to make of this strange offer, but the pomposity of Sherlock's speech suggested a high level of uncertainty. It seemed like a good time for some clarity and plain talking.

"Sherlock - pay attention, all right, because I'm only going to say this once." He waited until Sherlock rolled over to face him. "I... well..." He gritted his teeth, for once regretting being so damnably English. "I love you, OK?" he got out at last. "In a completely platonic and non-sexual way. You're my best friend."

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it again.

"What?" John asked.

"You corrected me when I said that. You told Seb 'colleague'."

John gaped at him. "Bloody hell, that was ages ago! I thought you deleted trivia so as not to clutter up your hard drive?"

Sherlock huffed. "You can hardly be classed as 'trivia'," he pointed out. "I live with you."

"So... what? You remember every little thing I've ever said? That's ridiculous."

Sherlock didn't reply and John sighed. "Look, I didn't mean anything by it. The thing with Seb - who was a complete tool, by the way - I just wanted to make it clear that I was there to help... to work, not just to..."

"Look pretty?" suggested Sherlock, who was smirking at the 'tool' comment.

"Shut up." John remembered how careful Sherlock had been with his introductions ever since and wondered if that one casual correction had actually bothered him all this time. "Has that bothered you all this time?"

The pause while Sherlock debated his response was short but still long enough to make any other answer an obvious lie. "Yes."

"Well bloody well ask in future, OK?" John demanded. "God! We're friends, all right? I won't think any less of you if you occasionally ask about the one per cent of information that you can't deduce for yourself."

Sherlock rolled onto his back again, but the smile was clear in his voice. "So, we're fine."

"We're fine."

"Good. That's good."

There was silence for a while, then Sherlock sighed. "You can ask," he said. "You'll never get to sleep while you're thinking so loudly."

"Sorry," John apologised. "But you kind of threw me for a loop there, I didn't think you even... I mean, I've been here ten months and there's not been anybody, I figured you just weren't interested in... that kind of thing."

"I'm not," Sherlock confirmed. "Doesn't mean I'm incapable."

"Right."

"It's just... messy, unnecessary - I don't need it." He glanced quickly at John, then away again. "Especially now."

"Why especially now?" John asked, never afraid of posing the obvious question.

Sherlock raised both arms and rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Am I actually talking about this?"

"You don't have to," John reassured him. "I mean, I can't deny that I'm curious, but I won't push if you're uncomfortable." He watched as Sherlock lay there, looking unusually vulnerable. "But... you don't talk to anybody, do you? I mean... you can trust me. If you want to."

Sherlock barked out a laugh as he dropped his hands. "The English gift for understatement," he said. "John Watson can be trusted by Sherlock Holmes." He turned his head. "I do know this."

John had to take a deep breath to contain his pride and Sherlock smiled at him, then shook his head.

"What is this?" he asked. "We don't talk like this normally."

John smiled back. "It's the middle of the night," he pointed out. "It's dark. We're in your bedroom, in an oddly intimate situation which has arisen purely circumstantially. Things don't feel entirely real."

"Interesting," Sherlock acknowledged. He turned back onto his side, tucking a hand beneath his cheek. "The couple of occasions when I tried to be..." he scrunched his face up a little, "more normal," he disclosed the word like a shameful secret, "I... it wasn't..."

"It wasn't what you wanted?" John guessed.

"I... No," Sherlock admitted. "I put on an act, because I wanted them to accept me... to like me." His lip curled in self-disgust. "But the more easily they were fooled, the less their opinion mattered, until I didn't care enough to bother any more."

"Was one of them married?" John asked. "Just something you said about being a guilty secret," he explained, at Sherlock's look.

"Not my proudest moment," he admitted.

"And this was what you were offering me, was it?" John asked, trying to keep the hurt out of his voice. "Membership to the exclusive club of people you've shagged, then grown to despise?"

"No!" Sherlock looked startled. "You're not... No. Never. I just meant that I could do that, if it was what you wanted. I mean, I'm not some innocent or anything, it wouldn't necessarily be a big deal to me. When I was using, there were... I mean..." He shrugged, looking away. "I've deleted most of it."

John was frowning. "But, you're so prickly and... hands-offy," he said. "You nearly jumped a mile when I hugged you the other day."

Sherlock looked uncomfortable. "I wasn't ready," he said. "You hugged me, not... I wasn't prepared for it."

"Prepared..." John echoed, honing in on the key word with his usual acumen. "How do you prepare?" There was no response. "Do you mean you... switch yourself off, somehow? Distance yourself?"

Sherlock's eyelids flickered. "Distance is a good word for it," he acknowledged. "I'm there, but I'm essentially absent - I deal with pain the same way. Anything physically unpleasant."

John stared at him. "Don't you ever do that with me," he instructed fiercely. "You don't have to hug me if you don't want to, or touch me at all. You be yourself, do you hear me? Completely and absolutely yourself. I don't want half a Sherlock." He reached out instinctively, then quickly pulled his arm back. "Promise me," he insisted.

"I promise." The deep voice sounded a little dazed.

"Good."

"Don't you want to categorise me?" Sherlock asked. "Asexual, celibate, gay, straight - you haven't even asked about the two people I..."

John was shaking his head. "Labels are for people you don't know," he replied. "Useful for statistics, or clinical diagnoses. Friends don't fit in boxes." He smiled. "You are Sherlock, you are unique, and you're just fine the way you are." He paused "Better than fine. Although you look tired." His eyes narrowed as 'doctor-mode' clicked on. "Why don't you sleep for a couple of hours?"

"I might," Sherlock conceded. He reached out and picked up John's hand, closing the fingers around his own wrist. "Don't worry - I'll still be here when you wake up."

John stifled a yawn, flexing his fingers. "Is this OK?" he asked.

"It's fine."

John's eyes drifted shut, but then he popped one open again. "You are still here?" he checked. "I mean... not absent?"

"I am completely here."

"Good."

"Goodnight, John."

oOo

"Are you going to tell them about the wig now?" John asked the next morning, as they walked into Scotland Yard.

"No point." Sherlock shook his head. "All I got off it were a couple of my own hairs snagged into the lining, as is no doubt only to be expected since the killer intended it to be found."

"He must be really pissed off that you haven't been arrested," John reasoned. "I bet he thought that was in the bag, after the ID and the wig."

"Exactly," agreed Sherlock. "Hence removing Mrs Hudson, as he seems focused on me. Let's hope his anger leads to mistakes."

John's feet faltered on the stairs. "Is that why you haven't complained about my shadowing you?" he asked abruptly. "Am I protecting you or are you watching over me?"

"Can't we do both?" asked Sherlock, over his shoulder. "Come along, John," he prompted, descending a step and grabbing John's upper arm, tugging until he started moving again. "Two birds with one stone - what's the problem?"

John stumped after him. "I don't want to be a bloody bird," he grumbled. "I'd rather be the stone."

"We're both birds," Sherlock pointed out as he swung open the stairwell door.

On the other side, Lestrade looked startled by the announcement but clearly decided not to ask.

"Right, good morning," he said. "I was just coming to meet you." He waved them towards his office, indicating the file in his hand. "We've been checking on criminals who might have a grudge against you, other than Moriarty. Come and see what you think."

"Waste of time," said Sherlock.

"What?" Lestrade glanced round, distracted by John's sudden cough.

"I said 'That's fine'."

They were half way across the room when Sherlock abruptly stopped and rounded on two women who were chatting by the water cooler. "What did you say?" he demanded of the taller one, who started in alarm.

"I... nothing! We weren't even talking about you!" she defended. "Were we, Linda?"

Linda shook her head as John and Lestrade glanced at each other.

Sherlock waved the excuse away. "Repeat your words," he insisted.

"Go on, Heidi." Lestrade nodded at her.

"We were just talking about the next Quiz night," Heidi told them. "This is the second time Sally's ducked out of organising it. It's her turn and there's no sign of her."

Sherlock was pulling out his phone. "Would she normally be in by now?" He turned to Lestrade, who checked his watch.

"Well... usually," he acknowledged. "But she might be working on something; she might be down in filing..."

Sherlock was pressing keys, then raised the phone to his ear. His expression was serious and Lestrade took an abrupt pace backwards, then turned to face the room.

"Has anyone seen Sergeant Donovan this morning?" He spoke loudly and heads turned in their direction, but no one nodded. "Sally Donovan," he repeated, once the room was quiet. "Anyone seen or heard from Sally?" Blank faces surrounded him and he turned back to Sherlock, who shook his head.

"Her phone is off," he reported. Lestrade paled.

"She might just be busy," John suggested. "Driving, or something. Or forgotten to turn her phone on this morning?"

"Sally never turns her phone off," Sherlock and Lestrade answered together. They looked at each other.

"Give me five minutes." Lestrade held up a hand, then moved into his office and reached for the landline.

"Send the nearest car round to her flat," Sherlock called after him. "Now."

John frowned. "Er... isn't it a bit premature to be panicking?" he asked. "She could be anywhere."

Sherlock looked at him. "Sally never turns her phone off," he repeated. "You must have heard Anderson complaining about it?" He started pacing up and down as Linda and Heidi hurried away, promising to check with other colleagues.

"That's why I texted her instead of ringing, back in September," he added. "She always forgets to put it on silent and she'd gone to check out a lead. I didn't want to risk calling attention to her when she might be in a compromising situation." He swirled round again, muttering to himself.

"But... hang on a minute," John was struggling to catch up. "That's the reason you didn't phone? Why the hell did you never say anything?" He stared in disbelief. "You let them ban you!"

Sherlock waved his arm dismissively. "It would have made no difference," he said. " I blame her; she blames me - the family are still dead. Anyway, it's irrelevant now." He stopped walking and stood still for a moment. "Why did I not anticipate this?" he demanded, raising a hand to his temple. "As soon as I heard those women talking it clicked. Stupid. Stupid!"

"Hey," soothed John, quite startled by his agitation. "She's probably fine. OK, so she doesn't normally switch her phone off, but things have been very hectic lately - maybe she forgot to put it on charge? Or maybe she... I don't know, dropped it in the loo, or something?"

"No, no... it all fits." Sherlock turned away again to glare through the glass wall of Lestrade's office and tapped his watch pointedly. Lestrade was still on the phone but he nodded and held up a finger in a 'just a minute' gesture.

"Who has been the most outspoken against me these last couple of months?" Sherlock questioned rhetorically. "Who could easily have been seen visiting and heard shouting last Friday? The most obvious thorn in my side - whose death would spur the police into immediate retaliation." He shook his head. "She even fits the damned victim profile thanks to that blasted incompetent she can't seem to shake off." He strode over and banged on Lestrade's window. "Come ON!"

Lestrade emerged moments later. "Right, she was here quite late last night," he advised. "Went home around eight, but took some work with her. No one's heard from her since, although I've not yet got hold of Anderson. A car should reach her flat in around ten minutes, but I think we..."

"Let's go," agreed Sherlock.

They were just crossing the main foyer when Anderson bolted out of the lift. "What's happened?" he demanded. "Someone said Sally had disappeared - is that true?"

"We don't know anything yet." Lestrade made calming gestures with his hands. "We're going to check her place now. When did you last see her?"

"Not since Friday," he replied anxiously. "I was off yesterday and away for the day, then at weekends... well, we don't generally..." He trailed off. "Have you called her?"

"Her phone is off," said Lestrade.

"I'm coming with you."

oOo

There were two uniformed officers on the doorstep of Sally's flat, but no other signs of activity. "There's no answer, Sir," they reported, as Lestrade's group approached. "And the door's pretty solid - we'll have to get a ram if you want to break it."

Lestrade looked at Sherlock. "I don't suppose you could..." He looked embarrassed as he indicated the door.

"Well, I could," replied Sherlock. "But it seems pointless when Anderson probably has a key." He stood to the side as Anderson jumped to attention and started patting his pockets, eventually coming up with a result.

"Give me five minutes before your lot trample any evidence?" Sherlock suggested, his gaze sweeping over the hallway as the door swung open, but Lestrade shook his head.

"After what happened yesterday? I'm not letting you out of my sight in this flat - and it's for your own sake too, so don't give me that look." He followed closely as Sherlock stepped through the doorway. "The rest of you wait here," he instructed over his shoulder.

They found nothing: no Sally, no indication of a struggle or disturbance - in fact nothing to indicate that anyone else had been there at all. When Lestrade gave the all clear, the others trooped in, Anderson looking around in disbelief as if he expected her to appear at any moment.

"This is your fault," he accused Sherlock suddenly. "If anything happens to Sally, it will be because she's your enemy."

Sherlock curled his lip. "Sally is not my 'enemy', you unutterable fool!" He turned to Lestrade. "Get hold of her phone records."

"Already on it." Lestrade moved to the sofa, picking up the stack of notes Sally had clearly brought home to work on. "These are current, so she definitely made it home last night," he reported. "I've requested a record of journeys made using her Oyster card, but that will take a while to come through."

John watched as Sherlock started pacing up and down, virtually fizzing with tension and... something like outrage. "So, you think the killer has taken Sally?" he prompted. "How would he do that? I mean, Sally's no pushover." He thought about it. "Still, I suppose if someone came to the door with a gun..."

"No, no," Sherlock shook his head. "Didn't you see the safety chain? She wouldn't have opened the door to a stranger. And no one's been in here - the carpet in the hallway has a deep pile, you can even see which way she vacuums it. The only footmarks showing before we came in were size six and if the killer is my height there's no way..." He turned and paced in the other direction.

"No, she came home," he looked towards the door, "put her work down on the sofa..." His eyes were tracking the route he described, as if he were picturing Sally's movements. "The files were on the middle cushion and the end seems to be her customary seat..." He glanced at Anderson, who nodded.

"So she goes and makes a drink," Sherlock continued, eyeing a coaster on the end table which bore a ring mark, "kicks off her shoes," he looked at the carpet, perhaps recalling scuff marks since trodden over, "then curls up and starts going through her work..."

He stepped back, bringing his palms together in a familiar move. "And at some point she goes out... and doesn't return." Anderson made a choked noise, but Sherlock ignored him. "There's no sign of the clothes she was wearing yesterday, either in her room or in the laundry basket, so she didn't get changed, which suggests last night rather than this morning. No indication of food preparation or takeaway boxes in the kitchen, so probably sooner rather than later."

"So, she went to him?" John asked. "Why would she do that?"

"And why would she go anywhere without back up, without even calling in?" added Lestrade from the sofa. His mobile rang and he pulled out a notepad and pen as he answered.

"Yes, go ahead." He looked up and mouthed 'phone records', then started jotting down times and numbers.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder as he wrote, and immediately jabbed a finger against the first entry.

"Hold on," Lestrade spoke into the phone, then looked up. "What is it?"

"That's a redirect number," Sherlock indicated the 070 code which headed the list. "That's the last number she dialled?"

Lestrade nodded.

"I'm sorry - what's a redirect number?" asked John.

"A phone number which cloaks your details," explained Lestrade. "Calls to it are automatically transferred on but the caller has no way to discover the real number. Sally called this one at nine-fifteen last night and was on the line for just under four minutes." He looked at Sherlock, who was dialling the number.

"Disconnected," he reported.

Lestrade spoke into his phone again. "Get on to the cloaking company for that 070 number," he instructed. "Find out where it was redirecting to." He hung up, then grimaced. "It won't be quick."

"Unlikely to be helpful anyway," said Sherlock. "It's just a delaying tactic - he probably used a disposable mobile."

"So you think that was the killer?" John queried. "She phoned the killer and he... what? Convinced her to go out somehow, on her own, without telling anyone - then snatched her?" He frowned. "Aside from anything else, how did she get the number?"

"Exactly," Sherlock agreed, then turned to Lestrade. "Is there a list of messages in there?" He indicated the pile of Sally's notes. "Calls to be returned?"

Lestrade checked through the pile. "No, and that's a little odd," he acknowledged. "I would have expected there to be."

"She might have..." Anderson broke off as everyone turned to him. "If it was just a sheet of paper, and she was holding it while walking up and down, talking on the phone - you know the way she does..." Everyone nodded as he swallowed. "Sometimes she puts things behind the clock," he finished.

Sherlock was at the mantelpiece in two long strides and produced a handful of documents which he quickly flicked through and then promptly replaced, shaking his head.

"Nothing," he said. "She probably took it with her."

"But as John said," Lestrade spoke up, "why on earth would she go? What the hell could he have said to her?"

Sherlock glanced at Anderson, who was now staring miserably into space. "Possibly something to do with me," he suggested, his mouth tightening. "If someone claimed to have evidence against me - proof that I'd lied, or been somewhere I shouldn't - Sally would have jumped at it. Particularly after the search yesterday."

"And she wouldn't have wanted me to find out, as I'd specifically ordered her to drop it," acknowledged Lestrade. "Not until she had something definite, anyway. But surely she would have told somebody?"

Everyone looked at Anderson, who seemed to snap back into awareness. "What?" he asked, not having followed the conversation at all.

"Are you sure Sally didn't phone you last night?" Lestrade asked him. "Or send a message of any kind?"

He shook his head. "No, I took my wife out for the day and we got back late. Sally knew not to call."

Lestrade got to his feet and looked at Sherlock. "Right, so we don't know where she went and we don't know who's taken her, but can you have a stab at..." He broke off as everyone flinched at the phrase. "I mean, why? OK, I suppose she does fit the victim profile," he didn't look at Anderson, "but everything else is wrong - it's not the weekend, they're not in her home, he didn't come here... what's going on?"

"The rules have changed," murmured John, and Lestrade's head snapped round to him.

"I'm afraid the killer may have moved on to his end game," Sherlock said.

"What are you thinking?" asked Lestrade.

Sherlock grimaced. "I'm thinking that if the idea is to murder Sally and frame me for the crime, then either she's safe for as long as I'm publicly visible, or..."

"Or?"

"Or she's already dead."


Artwork for this chapter (Links on my profile page):

Platonic and BroLuv, both by xxKabus