Author's note: I'm so glad that people keep following this story, especially since writing a younger Sherlock isn't that easy. I'm having a lot of fun, though, so the response to this fic makes me very happy indeed.
I don't own anything.
Langdale Pike indeed sat at the same window in the same club; he must have done so ever since he had finished his degree. John had never figured out what he was doing for a living, and he had never asked, but he certainly couldn't work long hours.
When he'd seen the door of the familiar club and realized they would have to get in somehow, Sherlock had once again realized what he was thinking and quickly explained that he'd visited Langdale a few times in the past and that the porter was used to him. John had not asked (and it was starting to worry him, that there was so much this Sherlock and he didn't talk about) but he was rather sure that he'd asked Langdale for money at some point.
As Sherlock had predicted, they got in the door without any questions asked; and while John could feel the porter's inquisitive gaze on his back, the man didn't say anything. Sherlock quickly went over to Langdale's seat where he was reading his paper, just like any other time John had seen him.
"Langdale" Sherlock nodded.
The other man looked up and laid his paper on the seat beside him.
"Sherlock". He gave them both a polite smile, while his eyes travelled slowly up and down John's body; he didn't even try to hide his curiosity.
"This is John Watson" Sherlock introduced him and hesitated before adding, "my colleague".
"Friend" John corrected, automatically, because it had been a long time since he had cared about what other people might think if he called himself Sherlock's friend in front of them; and he had to admit that hearing Sherlock refer to him as "colleague" had given him a sting.
Langdale replied "I see" although it wasn't quite clear what he meant. He shot John a rather hostile look, and since the doctor found he didn't like his past self more than his future self, and Langdale had never been fond of him either, it was comforting to find that some things didn't change.
And Langdale certainly hadn't changed much; he wouldn't even gain weight in the years to come, and the last time John had seen him in the future, his hair hadn't even started to go gray. There was a slight but still noticeable difference, however; Langdale was easier to read. Until now, John hadn't been able to say what he was thinking or feeling; now –
Langdale didn't dislike him because he thought he was boring or not a good source for gossip. Langdale didn't like him because, just as Sherlock had said, he'd always been isolated and had found a kindred spirit in Sherlock Holmes. Before John had come along and Sherlock had found a friend.
He cleared his throat and said, more politely than he would have done before this realization, "Nice to meet you. Sherlock said you could help us".
"Help you?" It was clear that Langdale didn't know what to think; he had probably expected Sherlock to ask for money and was confused as to why he would bring John with him.
"We need information" Sherlock replied matter-of-factly.
"Information?" Langdale repeated, his surprise evident, and John looked at Sherlock to see a flash of hurt in his eyes. He wanted to say something, to explain, but told himself now wasn't the time or the place. This was Sherlock's informant (somehow, he still couldn't bring himself to think "friend") and Langdale would answer Sherlock's questions much more enthusiastic than John's, anyway.
"Have you ever heard about Jim Moriarty?"
Langdale flinched; it was the first time John had seen him uncomfortable.
"You have" Sherlock stated.
"Sherlock..." Langdale answered earnestly. "Believe me: this isn't a fight you want to take on. I've only heard rumours, here and there, not more than a whisper of his name, really; but it was enough to realize that he is the most dangerous man in London, or will be soon." He looked at John. "Was it you who put the idea in his head?"
John was about to answer that he hadn't when he realized he didn't want to lie. And then he didn't know what to say. Especially since it seemed that Langdale was worried about Sherlock and John could understand him all too well.
"Nobody puts any ideas in my head". Sherlock sounded insulted, and John couldn't help the small smile that spread over his face. Langdale must have seen it, because his eyes narrowed and he once again mustered the two, convinced that there was something going on he didn't know about. John had never doubted that he was intelligent, and this was another proof.
"How did you even..." Langdale trailed off, apparently wondering which question to ask first. John couldn't blame him; he was sure that, if he had been in the same situation, he would have quite a few questions himself.
"How did you cross Moriarty's path?" was what the other man finally decided on. John wondered if he simply hadn't dared to ask the question he was obviously most interested in – how Sherlock and John had met, and why they were going after Moriarty to begin with – or if this was truly his primary concern.
"He killed an acquaintance of mine" Sherlock answered, and John realized with a jolt that the young man hadn't even questioned his theory that Moriarty had killed Victor or had had him killed before accepting it as the only logical solution. It was a strange feeling, and John couldn't say whether this was a good or a bad development. He wanted, needed Sherlock to become the consulting detective he would meet; and if there was something Sherlock Holmes had always been, it was self-sufficient. Most of the time, John suspected that he didn't need him as a "conductor of light" but simply liked having him around, and he was fine, in fact more than fine, with it.
This Sherlock – he was able to deduce people, but he wasn't used to doing it to solve murders, to do anything with it.
"I am not surprised, if what I have heard is true" he replied.
He paused so long that Sherlock, impatiently, asked, "And?"
Langdale sighed.
"Sherlock, we both know I have never given you advice. I never give anyone advice. I will, however, do it now. We both know you won't follow it." He was earnest, worried (Sherlock apparently didn't realize it, but for John it was clear as day) and the doctor decided that he would try and be more polite to him the next time they met.
"Don't try to find him. He is dangerous, and you are – " He stopped abruptly, and John saw Sherlock's eyes harden. He appreciated what Langdale was trying to do, but the young addict wouldn't listen to him, not after this unfinished sentence. Sherlock only acted like he didn't care what other people thought about him, but in truth...
John didn't like the implication much, either, but he had to admit Langdale had a point.
The other man sighed, realizing that he had made a mistake, and continued as if he had never given Sherlock his well-meant but ineffective advice, "Fenchurch Street. I hear that's where he has his... office".
Moriarty hadn't had an office before, or rather, John had never heard about him having an office before. This wasn't the consulting criminal he knew yet, albeit dangerous enough, and it probably had made sense to him to have an office where people could reach him when he'd started out. He had hired Victor Trevor as an informant, after all, and the man had bragged about his job when he was high. Even someone like Moriarty had had to learn a few things, apparently.
"His office?"
"People who want to use... who need his special kind of service need to find him somewhere, Sherlock".
Right, John reminded himself. Few people had mobile phones yet. It was easy to forget that he was in the past when he was on a case with Sherlock, even if Sherlock wasn't the consulting detective yet.
They didn't stay long after that; Sherlock said goodbye and turned around, once again leaving John to thank Langdale.
He didn't say anything but gave him a look that John interpreted as "look after him."
He would. It was all he'd done since they had met. And he wouldn't have it any other way.
"So..." John said, slowly, "Fenchurch Street".
"I know – "
"Yes, Sherlock, you know every street in London. I was merely repeating it to myself" John interrupted him and smiled a weak smile.
"I forgot" Sherlock replied, shrugging his shoulders, and the doctor tried to understand that of course Sherlock would forget that he was his best friend from the future from time to time, how could he not? It was simply too incredible.
"What now?" the young man asked. "I presume we are not going to simply knock on his door".
"No" John said, "definitely not". Although it was tempting to try to kill the consulting criminal – make sure he and Sherlock would never meet at all – there was too much that could go wrong. While John would gladly die to keep his best friend safe, there was every reason to suppose this Sherlock would follow him even if he told him to stay away, and this could bring him into all kinds of danger. Not to forget that he still didn't know if he wasn't causing enough ripples in the web of time already to have it eventually collapse.
He was never reading another Science fiction novel or watching a tv show again, that was for sure.
Once he returned. If he returned.
John shook the thought away and added, "If anything, we want to prove that he's responsible for Victor's murder – in whatever capacity – and I doubt that an interview would help us in any way. He is not going to confess."
He realized he was starting to sound like Sherlock, his Sherlock, and closed his mouth.
He had hoped to avoid lying to the police again – and especially going someplace where there was a chance he would run into even more people he knew – but he realized that he wouldn't be able to. They had to work on the case, and looking at the evidence was the next step.
"We need to see the evidence" he announced, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"While I do appreciate that we have to cover every possibility, I do not think that there was much evidence at the crime scene. Plus, the police are hardly going to appreciate our efforts."
Sherlock wasn't as thorough as he would eventually come to be, and John shouldn't have been surprised, but for some reason, he was. He didn't live for crime-solving yet.
And then the doctor realized that the young man was shivering again, and it wasn't just from the cold.
"For God's sake" he spat, unable to keep it in, "and if I promise we stop so you can buy drugs on the way?"
He hadn't meant to say it; he hadn't meant to almost shout at Sherlock. But seeing his best friend like this hurt, hurt more than John ever cared to admit.
He regretted it immediately when Sherlock's face became a blank mask.
"I am sure you can do it alone, since you are so experienced" he answered and would have left, but John quickly grabbed him.
"Sherlock, I am concerned about you, and I don't like seeing you like this. Please. I'm sorry".
The young man stared at him as if no one had ever told him they were concerned about him before. Most likely because no one had. He nodded stiffly and let out a deep breath.
"Don't worry about it. Let's go to St. Bart's, then". John wasn't surprised that he knew where the evidence would be.
"And we should definitely make a stop on the way" Sherlock added, and John could have sworn there was this twinge of shame in his voice again.
He clung to it as he stood in the entrance of a dark alleyway, making sure no one saw Sherlock buying cocaine.
Author's note: At least they are working on the case... This story has its own way of going somewhere. Oh well.
I hope you liked it, please review.