(A/N: As usual, thank you so much for your wonderful support. As I said, I'll be focusing on the development of plot more so than individual cases. Obviously there's going to be more written about the pool scene and leading into it than the Blind Banker because Moriarty, but most of it will be glossed over. I'm not sure how many chapters this story is going to be, but I've got a good portion of the plot written out, but I haven't figured how to end it. But, in any case, thank you so much for reading this far and I hope you enjoy this next installment. :3)
John sat at his laptop, slowly pecking at the keys in front of him. He'd taken to writing up his and Sherlock's cases as a way to fill his blog and scratch that odd creative side that itched at John occasionally. He had not been the most artistic of students, but John had always found joy in writing out his thoughts. In fact, before he decided to be an army doctor, John was planning on either being a creative writer or teaching literature.
Rereading over what he'd written, John couldn't fight a smile as he saw his experiences and thoughts spelled out so fluently. Maybe posting it on my blog will bring in clients, John mused for a moment, but quickly perished the thought. There was no way anyone would care to read about a broken ex-army doctor's personal life. At least Ella will finally get off my arse about the damn thing. John suspected that Ella had already read the first two cases John had posted and was trying to decide whether to admonish John for participating in such a dangerous activity or congratulate the previously depressed man on fighting his sickness and coming out on top.
John grinned, thinking about the cases that followed the first few. As impressive as a serial killer was, living with Sherlock made excitement easy to come by and John had already been on a few cases that topped Hope's. It definitely helped that his favourite cases were ones in which Sherlock's life was not threatened. But there were still plenty where it had been.
John didn't always have to save Sherlock's sorry butt, in fact there were a few times that Sherlock came to John's rescue, however it was frequently enough that John has had to seek out a nighttime companion to help ease the stress. Sarah didn't really go anywhere after everything that happened on their first date, but she was a good friend and a very understanding boss. John's most recent prospect was Allison, a girl he kinda fancied in uni and happened to run into a week back. They'd had several dates and enjoyed their each other's company for multiple nights already. John didn't think she was "The One" and he didn't love her yet, but they haven't had any fights yet, so she would probably be around for at least a month.
Thinking about Allison left John's fingers buzzing, his magic welling up and collecting. It was a trick he learned halfway through his first year of Sixth form. Some men might call using one's magic to help pleasure a lady as cheating, but John saw it as using his natural born talents, not that he was lacking in other divisions. In any case, John was happy with his magical levels at the moment, despite having been inactive for the last day or so. Running after Sherlock, subtly accelerating the healing process for both his patients at work and the one at home, and the occasional incognito magical save have kept John's magic well exercised and sated.
But not everything in 221B was cases and secret magic. There were a lot of domestic moments, more than John could count using both hands, that left the doctor feeling relaxed and content. Life with Sherlock was an almost perfect balance of excitement and calm. And John wouldn't have it any other way.
The only moment that almost pushed John away from the whole life occurred after the second case. John had instinctively killed the pedophile shot at Sherlock. There was a good bit of distance between him and the bastard, so it wasn't as if the man was missing half a face, but it was obvious what killed him. John was worried what Lestrade would do with the evidence, despite the fact his gun was unregistered and Sherlock's insistence that nothing would happen. Then the next day, Lestrade had come 'round and confronted the two of them.
"It's rather odd that the man you two were hunting died of a frankly amazing headshot," he'd began. "We have an idea of what kind of gun killed him, but there's obviously a missing piece." Lestrade had then paused, giving Sherlock a look that said, I'm not half as stupid as you think. "If either of you have any information on the shooter please inform us." John froze. Lestrade knew he'd shot the man down. John certainly didn't regret it, but he didn't want to lose what he'd just found. So John shook his head, trying to look nonplussed, and looked up at Sherlock.
Sherlock had sighed then bowed his head. "I must confess, Lestrade, I wanted to come to you after what happened to Hope, but I wanted to have more evidence first." John's heart felt like it was going to crawl out of his throat. "I have a guardian angel who follows me around and kills anyone who dares lay a finger on me." Sherlock had said it with such sincerity that for one torturous moment, John thought he knew and, from the look on Lestrade's face, the detective inspector believed him. Then Sherlock snorted and broke the spell.
"I have no earthly idea who killed Hope or the pedophile. And as his intent seems to be prolonging my own existence, I'm not going to pry." Sherlock then sent a smirk John's way. "Anyways, it was probably one of Mycroft's men, meddling arse he is." And that was that. But John still spent the following week being extra careful to do any and all magic outside of 221B and Sherlock's general vicinity.
So now John sat, staring at the very white computer screen and scrubbing his forehead as he tried to remember everything that had happened the week before. Notes only helped so much. Loud banging announced Sherlock's return to the flat and John saved the post he was working on and quickly closed his laptop, pulling open the nearby newspaper. Seconds later Sherlock came through the door, haphazardly throwing his coat and accessories onto the empty couch before throwing himself into his favorite leather chair.
"You were writing up more of our cases for your blog," Sherlock sneered without looking at John. "So don't bother pretending you weren't." John frowned and folded down the top of the newspaper to glare at Sherlock.
"Who shoved that monumental branch up your arse this time Sherlock?" John tried for nonchalance, but his consonants were a bit too biting to be convincing.
Sherlock let his head loll back so he could glare back at John. "Where is the last pip, John? Why hasn't he sent us anything? No message, no image, no pip, no NOTHING!" Sherlock lurched to his feet and began pacing. "My brain is beginning to rot and there's nothing that can satiate its hunger."
"You do realise that there are people's lives at stake with every pip, right Sherlock?" John got a little louder. "One old woman actually exploded because of these little 'brain teasers,'" it was John's turn to sneer. "People are dying."
Sherlock snorted. "Nothing matters but the work. Caring for a person won't actually help keep them alive, will it?" John swallowed thickly and Sherlock took his silence as affirmation. "So I will continue not to make that mistake. In any case, everybody dies eventually." Sherlock waved away John's concerns then thrust his hand into his hair, tugging at the curls. "I need the stimulation or my brain will rot," he repeated. John felt blindsided, a cool rage settling over him.
He'd been living with Sherlock for a little over a month now and he'd already seen the man in dark moods, but none as destructive as this. John could see the tension within Sherlock, turning his normally bright purple into something dark and heavy. Sherlock was exaggerating only a little. He'd survived the wait for the final pip this long, he could afford to wait longer. However, constant rest did upset Sherlock's more unnatural sensibilities and the quiet the criminal class was presenting left Sherlock itching for something stronger than tobacco. John knew and understand this, but couldn't remain quiet on the matter of terrified hostages that came with the pips.
"So you care nothing about others?" John finally spat, still seated at the table by the window. Mycroft's cleaning crew had taken care of Hope's… mess quickly and efficiently; there wasn't even a lingering smell. Sherlock sat up from where he curled on the couch. "Any interaction with them, any sort of kindness or care you've shown for another human being, was nothing more than a means to an end? Just a matter of furthering your own selfish desires?" With each question, John's quiet rage grew more intense and, as a result, his voice grew softer.
Sherlock stared at him for a minute, John's questions hanging in the air between them. Then, tossing his head slightly and rolling his eyes, Sherlock responded, "Mmmmmm-yes," before flopping back down onto the couch.
John flinched. Part of his anger slipped away and turned into something akin to hurt. So all those times Sherlock's saved me, it was because he needed me for his own purposes, not because he cares for me? The question came unbidden to John and he shook his head, dispelling the doubt. He'd seen Sherlock in black moods. This was a piece of them, the cruel words and uncaring attitude. As much as Sherlock tried to hide it, he was just as human as the next person.
Still, John couldn't help the cold rage that coursed within him, causing his magic to collect in his hands and fall to his feet. Standing unceremoniously, John strode across the room and snatched his jacket off the peg. As he passed the couch, Sherlock had the audacity to lurch upwards again, gaze at John, and ask, "Where are you going?"
"Out," John snapped, clenching his teeth and not even throwing the great prick a glance. "Probably to Allison's. I might not be back tonight." John added the last bit to be spiteful. He knew Sherlock didn't approve of his dating and girlfriends. Anything that took John away from the all-important detective was no good, if not pure evil. He probably would go to Allison's but not for anything more than an escape.
Not waiting for Sherlock to respond, John slammed the door behind him and tramped down the stairs. He ignored Mrs. Hudson calling after him and ran out into the night with a huff. Pulling out his phone, John texts Allison to see if she was available. The response was immediate and disheartening. John would have to return to 221B sooner than expected with Sherlock knowing he didn't even get to see Allison like he'd threatened.
Pulling his jacket closer to his body and shoving his hands under his arms, John began to mull over Sherlock's current case. About two weeks ago, the flat across the street exploded in what was said to have been a gas leak. John had almost believed it… until he returned to Baker Street to see if Sherlock was unharmed. Glancing at the demolished lower level, John had quickly noticed a ruddy brown shimmering in the air around the entire flat. Whatever caused the explosion, it certainly wasn't gas, John had thought. And he was more than right. In the following week, Sherlock had managed to convince this mysterious bomber to not blow up three people and the resulting area, one of which was a child, through no means other than puzzle solving.
But one woman was detonated. An older woman who'd lost use of her eyesight and therefore had to be dictated through audio instead of the electronic directions the other victims had. The crone tried to talk about the bomber's voice and ended up paying for it with her life and dozens of others. And while the whole case would be enough to put anyone, rather any normal person, off, that wasn't what really bothered John about the case.
For every bomb, there was a victim. And every victim, every single one, was a powerful witch or warlock. The first woman had a tongue of pure silver that could have been used towards politics or lawyering, but instead was used in the name of ministry and charity. The second was a natural at mechanics and helping enhance everyday machinery to work at double capacity on a bad day. The old woman, as it turned out, hadn't lost use of her eyesight so much as never had it. At least, not presently. She was a powerful seer who used to have her own morning show. John wasn't sure why she would try to speak when she knew she would die, but his only thought was perhaps she was trying to help him and Saw that her death led to a better future than her silence.
And John saw the remains of her building. The same dried blood colour lingered in the air, this time accompanied with a darkness that curled John's stomach.
The child, the fourth pip, was something of a prodigy. He could pick up any instrument and know its history and make and how to play it better than a professional who had been training on it for years. It was during the return from one of his recitals that the child was stolen. Thankfully Sherlock was able to come through, even if it was at the literal last second.
Despite each of the victims having a specialty, there are basic spells and tricks everyone is able to do, several of which would have resulted in their escape. And yet, none of them did. During one of the interviews that followed every success, John waited by the door to get a chance to talk with Lestrade. He couldn't help overhear the poor victim insisting they'd tried everything they could to escape on their own, but nothing would take. No matter how much power they put into their spells, the bombs simply took the magic without so much as a minor malfunction. Magic was useless.
So there sat John, a very powerful warlock who spent a good portion of his time saving Sherlock, with the knowledge that if Sherlock was somehow strapped to a bomb, he would have no way of saving him. And that terrified John. It literally drove him to the point of distraction at work. Even as he strode down the sidewalk, getting ready to turn back toward Baker Street, John was distracted by thoughts of how to protect or save Sherlock.
Maybe that's why he didn't hear the van slow to a stop next to him. Maybe that's why he didn't hear the three men get out and jog to catch up. Maybe that's why he didn't know he was in danger till one of the men knocked him unconscious.
(A/N: Also, in forewarning, school has begun once again and GOOD NEWS: I have decided on majoring in English Writing and Rhetoric and having a minor in Film. :D so now I have direction. Unfortunately, that also means my output will slow. I know what you're thinking. "How could she possibly be slower" but it is possible. Earlier I wasn't able to write because of block and I'm a mixture of lazy and incapable of focusing, but now I'm busy with school and work and I might actually put out more as the result of procrastinating on other important stuff. :3 Who knows. But thank you for sticking it out this far. Guest reviews to follow.
Guest 1: -u- thank you. I'm glad you enjoyed it enough to leave a review. Hopefully you have some way of notifying you when I post a new chapter because your wish is granted! Voila!
Guest 2: Thank you so much. -/- And while I appreciate the gesture, I would have to decline the offer of a kiss. I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as the last. :)
Again, thank you, everyone who reads my stories, whether you leave a review or not. I love you all so much. :3 Till next time)