A.N.: My apologies for the wait - I thought I would be able to update earlier. But here it is! Hope you enjoy :)
This chapter was kindly betaed by Wingatron.
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221B PAW STORIES
«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»
Chapter 20
Rats and mice will have their choice
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"Well, that was–"
"–informative," Sherlock finished, though that wasn't exactly what John had in mind.
But he had, after all, a lot on his mind, and even he wasn't sure whether he should be wasting his breath on the case when he had much more important things to discuss with Sherlock. Maybe this was neither the time nor the place for such a conversation, but still John wanted to make sure they would get time later for such a talk. Before he could think too much about it and let his courage deflate, John turned to his friend.
"Look, Sherlock, I think we should–"
Sherlock wasn't listening. Was the case that fascinating? He kept walking to cross the street.
John saw the car going right through the lights and straight at Sherlock before he even stepped on the road.
His body reacted automatically, moving fast and long before John found his voice to shout:
"Sherlock!"
Sherlock turned slightly towards him and John caught a glimpse of puzzlement on his face before he dived in, pushed him out of the way, and tackled him to the ground. Well. More precisely, hugged the daylights out of him, as John had wrapped his arms around his friend and thrown himself out of the car's way as well. His soldier reflexes included self-preservation, thank you very much.
Ignoring the hustle around them, John swiftly switched back to doctor mode and moved the hand that had been cradling Sherlock skull. He tried to look his friend in the eye, checking for any signs of concussion. But Sherlock seemed just fine. In fact, his gaze was fixed on the road, his expression calculating. John let out a sigh he didn't know he'd been holding. Sherlock looked back at him.
"Are you all right?" they asked in unison.
John blushed and scrambled to his feet, letting go of the body he'd been holding a little too closely perhaps.
"Stand up slowly," he said. Sherlock arched an eyebrow, still sprawled in the middle of the road as if he owned the place, and John had to fight the urge to join him again and kiss him senseless. He held out a hand instead.
"I'm fine, John," Sherlock retorted, standing up without taking the offered hand and with a lot more grace than the doctor. John was too busy admiring him to resent him for it. If he resented Sherlock for everything he did better than him, there wouldn't be an end to his resentment. Not that resentment was even close to what John was feeling right now. He swallowed.
"John? Are you all right? You seem a little... dazed."
"I'm good," John said rather thickly, averting his gaze. Suddenly the noises around them seemed to rush back into the realm of his perception and he was assaulted by the fuss people were making.
"Dear God, are you okay?"
"Should I call an ambulance?"
"I'm a doctor, let me–"
Sherlock simply ignored them and walked straight on to the crossroads, where he hailed a cab as if one had just been waiting for him to raise his arm. John shook his head, threw a "We're all right, thank you! And I'm a doctor too" to their fellow citizens who were, after all, just doing their duty, and hurried after his friend. He slipped into the car next to him and shut the door just as Sherlock announced:
"221B Baker Street."
John gave him another once-over to confirm that he hadn't been hurt. It had been close.
"So. Did you get the car number?"
"Of course."
John rolled his eyes. Of course. Why had he even bothered to ask?
«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»
"Thanks, Greg. Yes, I'll tell him. Right. Thank you."
John hung up and sighed.
"Stolen car. They're trying to find out who was driving it but–"
"The driver was wearing a hood."
John turned to his flatmate, who was currently lying on the couch, eyes locked on the ceiling. Thinking.
"How could you possibly know that?"
"Seven eye-witnesses said he was, and not one contradicted them," Sherlock replied in a bored tone.
"You were actually listening to them?"
Sherlock snorted. "I just picked it up. Only the useful information." Then, as an afterthought, "They were quite loud."
At this, John shook his head and smiled. Unwittingly, he walked up closer to his friend, until he realised what he was doing and came to a halt about three steps away from the couch. He cleared his throat and started pacing the room.
"I don't think Greg believes it, but nothing proves this was related to Henry's disappearance. You do have a lot of enemies. As a D.I., he needs more evidence. Or rather, any kind of evidence at all."
"Is that what Lestrade said you should tell me?"
John, a little surprised by the question, stopped to glance at Sherlock.
"No. He said you should stop investigating the matter and trust the police to do their job for once."
Another snort. "Right."
"He has a point," John noted aloud.
He could feel Sherlock's dumbfounded gaze on him before he even looked up to meet it.
"He has a point?" Sherlock repeated.
"Clearly someone wants you to stop nosing around. It's only natural that–"
"Only natural that I stop investigating because there has been an attempt against my life?" Sherlock cut in, and John shivered at the iciness in his voice.
"Sherlock, two days ago you almost blew up along with Brad's house, and now someone wants you to back off enough to run into you with a car! What's so strange about Greg telling you not to push it?"
"Is that what you think too?"
"What? No!"
Sherlock remained motionless on the couch, tight-lipped. John blinked. What in the...
"Sherlock. What were we talking about just now?" Sherlock remained stubbornly silent. John continued cautiously: "Because I thought we were talking about Greg's reaction to–"
"You said he had a point."
"Sherlock, you almost died! Yes, it happens often enough, but Greg cares about you. He just doesn't want you dead. What's wrong with that?"
"I assume you don't want me dead either."
"I hope there's no hidden question in there," John said rather coldly, beginning to feel some anger himself.
Sherlock's lips twitched slightly. John took a step towards him.
"Yet you are not asking me to drop the case," Sherlock went on, and there was definitely a question in that statement.
"Why would I?"
John was genuinely confused by the turn their conversation had taken. Another step. Sherlock's gaze was still fixed on the ceiling. Pointedly. He looked like a kid who thought he was bound to be denied a treat and has already decided he would take it anyway.
John's eyes widened as realisation dawned on him. Of course. God, only Sherlock. John was unprepared for the wave of tenderness that hit him, hard. He didn't care.
"You thought I was asking you to drop the case. Seriously, Sherlock?"
There was no trace of question there. John's face broke into a smile. He reached out and put his palm on Sherlock's forehead before pushing back the curls and running his fingers through his hair. He didn't stop to think about the intimacy of the gesture. In fact, he was not inclined to stop at all.
"Are you sure you didn't get concussed?" he asked half-jokingly, wondering how in the world Sherlock could've thought for one moment that John of all people would ask him to turn away from danger.
The consulting detective didn't say a word, but blinked up at his flatmate. If he had been dumbfounded before, he now looked absolutely bamboozled. John felt his smile widen, and stroked Sherlock's brow with his thumb.
"You're an idiot," he said softly.
Something flickered in Sherlock's eyes, and he brought up his hand to his face before putting it on John's. John froze, unsure of what he meant by the gesture. He couldn't read anything in his gaze.
He heard the door open and close downstairs. But he was so preoccupied with Sherlock's hand on his that he paid it no heed. Only when he heard the steps creak did he snap back to reality; he was not quick enough to react. Their door was opened before he could step back or disentangle his fingers from Sherlock's hair. John looked up reluctantly.
The elder Holmes was standing in the doorway, arching an eyebrow smugly.
«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»
"Am I interrupting?"
Sherlock let out a dramatic sigh, unsurprised to hear his brother's voice.
"In fact, you are," he said as he sat back up and turned to glare at him.
Mycroft looked decidedly unimpressed.
"May I come in?" he asked politely, as if he'd never broken into their flat or come in uninvited.
"Make yourself at home," John said derisively, and Sherlock shared a private smile with him.
"You've been ignoring my calls," Mycroft said as he walked in.
"Phone on silence mode," his brother replied dismissively, lying back down on the couch.
"Well, as long as it didn't end up crushed with you under a car."
Sherlock cast him a sidelong glance, and caught John smirking at Mycroft.
"So that's why you came," he said, somewhat relieved that it wasn't about their relationship. John didn't want to discuss this again with Mycroft before he had a chance to do so with Sherlock – if ever, really. "See, everybody worries about you, Sherlock."
John gave him a smile, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. Yet somehow, John's presence in the room made Mycroft's a lot more bearable.
"I'll make us some tea," John offered, putting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and squeezing on the way. Sherlock watched him as he went into the kitchen, startled. John was acting... strangely. Not in a negative way, but he had never been so tactile with him when neither of them was a feline.
He looked away and met Mycroft's pointed gaze, which he shrugged off. It struck him that, perhaps, he wasn't the only one who found that John's presence made their interaction easier.
"The American Mafia, Sherlock? Really? I thought you had learned your lesson after last time."
"I have," Sherlock quipped. "John posted a picture of us on his blog."
Mycroft arched an eyebrow. Sherlock did not develop, knowing his brother got his meaning perfectly and was only taunting him.
"The Mafia?" John said from the kitchen. "So it really is–"
Sherlock's phone rang, and he picked it up immediately, standing up. "Yes, Angelo."
"Silence mode, was it?" Mycroft remarked.
John simply smiled, then remembered their conversation and refocused his attention on the elder Holmes.
"Did you come because the Mafia is involved?"
"I came because my brother was almost killed twice in this case, and I would like him to solve it quickly, and, ideally, remain in one piece."
"You can say that again," John nodded, coming back with two mugs of tea and handing one to Mycroft, who took it as gracefully as if it were china and didn't have "Half" printed on it next to a half watermelon. A client who had assumed they were a couple had given them two matching mugs to thank Sherlock for proving her husband had not been killed by her lover, but by his mistress. The other mug also had a half watermelon printed on it, but it said "Better". They never used both at the same time. In fact, they hardly ever used either, since John had his own In Arduis Fidelis mug and Sherlock had some nondescript grey one.
Funny how everyone had assumed they were together almost from day one. John hated to prove them right, but then again...
"John?"
"Yes. Sorry. So what's the Mafia got to do with–"
"Brad and Helena were hitmen," Sherlock replied as he hung up, apparently satisfied that he got the information before his brother could give it to him.
"Indeed," Mycroft confirmed, handing John a file. He went through it quickly, his eyes widening.
"That's–"
"They often worked for the Californian branch of the Cosa Nostra," Sherlock went on, regally ignoring the file. "I assume that is how they met."
"You assume?" Mycroft echoed in what could only be teasing, and John wondered, not for the first time, whether both men enjoyed antagonizing each other or if they just did it out of habit.
"Brad Campbell was born in Buffalo, and first started to work for the Buffalo crime family," John interrupted before they could go on bickering, reading out the file. "Helena Whittaker was born in Los Angeles, and got some contracts with the Los Angeles crime family."
"She even has cousins and uncles who are part of it," Sherlock put in, annoyed that John was reading Mycroft's file instead of listening to him, "the Venucci."
"So, what? Helena killed her husband and called her uncles to help?" John asked, disbelieving.
"Although put in a rather crude way, I believe you have expressed the general idea," Mycroft told him. Sherlock scowled. Perhaps he thought that insulting John's intellect was his prerogative, John mused, and somehow he wasn't as offended as he should have been.
"Thank you for your input, Mycroft," Sherlock said. "Was there anything else?"
Mycroft nodded and turned to John.
"Thank you for taking care of my brother," he said solemnly, and John could only stare. What he wanted to say was "I'm not his keeper," but somehow what came out was:
"It's a two-way thing."
Again, he fell the weight of Sherlock's eyes fixed on him, and wondered since when he had developed this sense. He turned away abruptly and walked into the kitchen to get Sherlock's steaming mug, came back, handed it to him. Sherlock's gaze was still on him and John forced himself to look up and hold it. Their fingers brushed as Sherlock took the mug, and his voice was quiet when he said:
"Thank you."
Mycroft cleared his throat. John resumed breathing and turned to their guest automatically, but Sherlock didn't move.
"I will leave you to it, then," the elder Holmes said, and John nodded voicelessly, whatever "it" was. From the look of amusement Mycroft had on his face as he left, he certainly had some idea.
«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»
Sherlock had been playing the violin for the rest of the day. John hadn't wanted to interrupt, although he didn't see what got the consulting detective so bothered. Wasn't the case solved, as it was?
When after eight o'clock Sherlock still hadn't stopped playing, John decided it was time to distract him, for the sake his own nerves and that of the neighbours. Sherlock's music was beautiful. John might have been a little biased; at any rate, he enjoyed listening to his playing. But even he got tired of hearing the same melody for three hours.
Sherlock started when John put his hand on his shoulder, and gave him an inquiring look.
"Dinner," John stated, holding out a plate with his flatmate's regular order at their Chinese take-away.
"I'm not hungry. When did we order?"
"I did. Half an hour ago. You weren't paying attention to me."
"I'm on a case, John."
"Yes. You're still eating."
Sherlock looked at him for a moment longer before finally putting the violin back in its case and taking the plate and the pair of chopsticks.
"I'm not hungry," he repeated.
"I heard you the first time."
John walked back to the kitchen and sat down at the experiment-free corner of the table with his own plate. Sherlock briefly wondered whether John was upset with him for not spending more time "paying attention" to him, or whatever it was couples did, and joined him at the table.
"So," John began, and Sherlock stiffened imperceptibly, fearing what their conversation might be like. He still remembered the pointless exchange between George and Helena when he had caught them in the kitchen. "Tell me again why the information Angelo and Mycroft gave you isn't enough to get Helena arrested?"
Sherlock blinked, twice. John tilted his head to the side and returned his stare. He didn't seem to be expecting Sherlock to make small talk; he wanted to talk about the case. Sherlock wasn't sure why he thought the way they spoke to each other should change — he shouldn't have been surprised. After all, they mostly talked about cases. Why should it change?
Clearing his throat, he replied eventually:
"The fact that she was a hitwoman is enough to get her arrested, but not to prove that she killed Brad. And it wouldn't help us find Henry."
"Couldn't the police interrogate her?"
"The Met doesn't torture people, John. That woman will deny everything. And we don't have a motive."
John frowned.
"What do you mean we don't have a motive? He divorced her and left her for a young man. George said she'd felt abandoned and betrayed."
"And the therapist said Brad had felt betrayed as well when he found out she was still working as a hitwoman and had kept in touch with the Los Angeles crime family through her cousins. But she blew up the house, John! Not every spurned ex-wife does that."
"Didn't you say she could've had access to Brad's and Henry's file at Dr. Barnicot's?"
"Yes."
"And the police believes Henry is the culprit because it all seemed so 'crazy', right? The way it was done. The notes. The bomb."
"Yes, yes."
"So wasn't she just trying to blame it on him?"
"Of course she was trying to blame it on him. But she didn't need to blow up the house to do that!"
John shrugged.
"I don't know. If she was trying to make it look like Brad wanted to die and Henry was the one to help him, she would've gone for the dramatic. Eat your food, Sherlock."
"She's a professional. If she went through the trouble of setting a bomb, there must be a reason."
"Something she wanted to destroy in the house?"
"Yes, but what?"
Sherlock's eyes were burning. John found himself transfixed for a moment, then snapped out of it.
"How would I know? Your food, Sherlock."
Sherlock groaned and stopped picking at the contents of his plate. He took a reluctant mouthful, then another.
"Happy?"
"Another thirty like that and I will be."
Sherlock looked at him askance. "Five."
"Twenty-five."
"Ten."
"Twenty."
"Fifteen," Sherlock said almost triumphantly — evidently the number he had been aiming for from the beginning. John rolled his eyes.
"Fine. You'll finish the rest tomorrow."
Sherlock thought it wiser not to reply to that. They finished eating in silence, Sherlock not quite daring to leave the table even after he'd had his fifteen mouthfuls. He settled for watching John eat absent-mindedly, still trying to find the missing piece to the puzzle. The murder had been premeditated. Revenge was one thing, but why would she kill Brad and not Henry? Why not both? Well. Perhaps both, the consulting detective thought grimly. But no. Not yet. They hadn't found a body. Why blow up the house? If she had wanted to destroy one thing in particular, she could have easily done it when she went in to kill Brad and set the bomb. There must be something he was missing.
"—and then the dog sprung wings and flew out into the sunset."
Sherlock blinked. "...what?"
John's eyes managed to be sparkling both with amusement and irritation. "You weren't listening."
"Why would I listen to you talking nonsense?" Sherlock countered rather weakly. He tried to find any signs of reproach in John's demeanour, but didn't see any. His voice had been fond.
"It wasn't nonsense at the beginning."
"I see."
John scoffed. "We need to talk."
"We've been talking."
"I meant, not about the case."
Sherlock tensed up again. Oh. So John did need small talk.
"How was your day?" he asked tentatively.
"What?"
Sherlock stilled himself. Sherlock Holmes did not fidget. Wasn't asking about his day the thing to do? He had no idea what else he could ask about.
"At the clinic?"
Now John looked clearly dismayed. Sherlock had no clue about what he should say to make it better.
"Sherlock, I don't know why you're trying to avoid the conversation, but I need to know—"
"I'm not avoiding the conversation!" he protested promptly.
"Oh come on! The clinic? Please. That was a very poor way to change the subject."
"I wasn't trying to change the subject," Sherlock snapped. John didn't seem convinced. "I was just trying..."
He fell silent. This was stupid.
"Trying to what, Sherlock?" John asked a lot more softly, leaning towards him.
Sherlock looked away. He hated this. He hated John for making him feel so inadequate, and not doing anything about it.
"I don't know how to make small talk," he let out at last.
Sherlock was looking everywhere but at John, whose eyes widened as he understood what was going on with a pang of guilt.
"Right. See, this is what we need to talk about."
Sherlock's gaze snapped back to his flatmate in alarm. John swallowed.
"I... Sherlock. What do you want?"
Something close to panic flashed in Sherlock's eyes, and for a second he looked like a trapped animal. John felt even worse.
"That's a rather vague question," Sherlock answered.
"I realised today that I hadn't actually asked you what you wanted at all. You said it was 'good', but that's rather vague too. So I'm asking you now. What do you want, Sherlock?"
"From what, John? With what?"
"Us," John said bluntly, and straightened up a bit. The military stance, Sherlock thought. He blinked. Something suddenly occurred to him.
"Did Mycroft ask you to propose to me?"
John was glad he hadn't been eating or drinking, or he would've choked.
"What? No! Where the hell did you get such an idea?"
"I don't know!" Sherlock said defensively. He was starting to become quite irritated with the whole thing. "In fact, I don't know what you're talking about."
"Us. Our relationship."
"Oh." Sherlock fell silent again. This was... good. If John was truly willing to discuss things, it should be... good. "What did you want to talk about?"
"What I just said. About what you want."
"Fine. Well," Sherlock began. He wasn't sure how to put this diplomatically. He caught John's eye. Non-diplomatic would have to do, then. "I'm glad that you stated how you felt and am amenable to an adaptation of the parameters of our partnership. But I'm not exactly satisfied with how you've been handling, or rather, failed to, things so far."
John gaped. He couldn't think of anything to do but gape. His mind was having a hard time wrapping itself around everything that Sherlock had just said, and was stuck on "not satisfied" and "failed to".
"John. Stop."
"What?"
"Thinking whatever you were just thinking."
"I—"
"You're wrong."
"How can you say that when you don't even know what—"
"John. We each have our own areas of expertise. Correct?"
"Correct," John said numbly.
"And relationships isn't one of mine, John! You know that. You've always known that."
"Sherlock, I am so sor—"
"Stop it! Do you regret so much loving me?"
Sherlock froze. He hadn't meant to say that. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
"What? Sherlock—"
"Forget that last part."
"But—"
"It doesn't matter."
"Sherlock—"
"Let's just discuss—"
"Sherlock! Will you let me speak?!"
Sherlock looked almost... sheepish. He averted his gaze, pursed his lips, and sulked. Or so John thought, anyway. He stood up, walked around the table, and squatted down in front of his friend, putting his hands on his knees.
"All right. I think we've been speaking at cross-purposes. I... Sherlock, that's why I need to know what you want."
"And what do you want, John?"
"I don't want to lose your friendship."
"That doesn't answer my question."
"I want to stay with you."
"Good. Then we do have a common goal. This shouldn't be so difficult." He clicked his tongue. "Why is this so difficult?"
John gave him a weak smile.
"Relationships," he said.
"I see." Well, he didn't, not really. But from the look on John's face, he knew, and so Sherlock did not expand on the matter. He'd admitted to enough of his shortcomings for one day. Or one week.
"You're right," John resumed, "I haven't been handling things properly. In fact, I haven't been handling them at all. But Sherlock, you've got to understand, this..." John waved his hand uncertainly. "...this is so far from anything I've known. It doesn't fall under any of the usual relationship parameters."
"And that's bad?"
John shook his head with a smile.
"No, Sherlock. It just is. And if you want my opinion, I think it's good. God, more than good." His hands tightened around his friend's knees. "I... This is new for me too, okay? So you'll have to put up with me. And Sherlock, you must promise me something."
Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "Yes?"
"You must promise me not to do anything you don't want to do. I'm not leaving, so I... If you wanted it to remain just as—"
"John," Sherlock interrupted somewhat curtly, not wanting to go there again. "We've always found compromises. We've both adapted ourselves to each other's needs and habits. I know I am not the easiest person to live with. But we've managed until now. There's no reason we shouldn't be able to manage further."
John didn't want this step to be a "compromise", but nodded nonetheless. "All right. I still want your word. It's important that you tell me if—"
"You have it," he cut in. "You have my word. Happy?"
John's face broke into a smirk as he stood back up. "Very."
"I expect reciprocity," Sherlock pointed out. John looked lost, so he felt compelled to develop: "You too will have to tell me when you want something or do not want something."
"Right. Of course."
Sherlock repressed a sigh. That had been a lie, if he'd ever heard any. He considered for a second calling John on it, then changed his mind. He stood up, picked up his violin, and resumed playing.
He didn't stop until a few hours later. The flat was quiet. John must have gone to bed.
Sherlock went into the bathroom to shower, and could smell John's shampoo. He hadn't noticed that he had taken a shower tonight. In fact, he had no idea how John had spent his evening. It was rather ironic, considering Sherlock himself had been thinking as much about John as about the case. He had come to the conclusion that the problem between them wasn't just about sex, but about feelings too. John had seemed persuaded enough that Sherlock indeed wanted them to remain together, so that was at least something. But if he had to be completely honest, Sherlock did not care much in what respect they remained together, as long as John remained his friend and flatmate and colleague; as long as they shared quarters, went on cases together, and remained in each other's presence more often than not. The rest was just technicalities.
Having come to a decision, Sherlock turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. He realised as he dried himself that he had used John's shampoo — probably because he had been so engrossed thinking about him. Oh well. John probably wouldn't mind. Sherlock walked back to the living-room, switched on John's laptop, and ordered something via the internet. He erased all traces of his search, turned the laptop off, and went to his bedroom.
John wasn't there. Surprised, Sherlock walked quietly up to John's room. The light wasn't on, but the door had been left opened. Sherlock smiled unwittingly and stepped in.
His face broke into a full grin when he saw that the shape under the sheets wasn't that of a man. He probably should've felt guilty about making John feel abandoned enough that he transformed into a manul, but all he felt as he lay down next to him and gathered him into his arms was glee. He couldn't help himself.
"John," he called, scratching the cat between the ears. "John. You're a manul. John."
Finally, the cat opened one sleepy eye and nuzzled him groggily. Sherlock smirked.
"So much for telling me what you wanted," he remarked.
John blinked. Sherlock wondered just how awake he was.
"Not that I'm complaining," he murmured, and cuddled his friend comfortably. He felt the muscles in his own body relax as the manul snuggled up closer to his chest, purring softly. His last thought before falling asleep was: yes. They would manage.
«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»
"John."
Soft and warm. John was never one to linger in bed in the morning. He enjoyed taking his time at breakfast, reading the paper with a cup of tea.
"John."
But procrastinating in bed, unless he was in good company for some specific physical activities, wasn't something he indulged in. And John certainly did not remember having gone to bed with a woman last night.
"John."
Plus, that was Sherlock's voice. John smiled in his half-asleep state. If Sherlock was here, it meant he was home. In his own bed. With Sherlock. John could get used to that kind of morning. He snuggled up closer to the source of warmth.
"John."
There was a whiny quality to the voice now. Why was Sherlock annoyed? Was he not as comfortable as John? Maybe he needed some kind of vocal acknowledgement.
"John."
"Mmmm."
There.
"Get up. I think I know where Henry is."
Henry? Who was Henry? Didn't matter. Sherlock's voice had taken an edge of pride and pleasure. Remotely. Still, that was progress from the annoyance. John nuzzled up closer to his friend, not quite sure what he was nuzzling – Sherlock was flat and angular no matter the limb.
"John. Get up. Let's go."
Now, that wasn't something John felt very inclined to do. At all. He groped for something to grab and stroke and possibly kiss, hoping to convince Sherlock that getting up wasn't necessary. Not just yet. His hand met silky curls and he smiled. He brought Sherlock's head closer to his and caressed his hair down to his ear, massaging the soft skin behind it, continuing down to the nape of his neck – and pressed a kiss to what was probably his chin. John heard a groan.
"Oh for goodness' sake... John! We have a case!"
Sherlock was really being difficult.
"John. You are naked and wrapped around me. Also, I believe you have an erection."
The words "naked" and "erection" in Sherlock's mouth just sounded wrong. John's eyes snapped open. Sherlock was fully clothed, looking as pristine as ever. Obviously he had been awake for a little while. He did not seem flushed in the slightest, simply giving John a pointed look. John closed his eyes again.
"Oh God."
"No, it's just me."
John groaned and buried his face into the pillow.
"John! We don't have time for this. Come on, get up."
He himself stood up from the bed, then stopped at the door.
"Or do you need help with anything?"
John raised his head and gave his friend an inquiring look. Sherlock simply glanced at his crotch under the sheet – well, technically, at his bum, since John was lying on his stomach, but the message was clear. John sat up abruptly and pressed the heels of his palms to his face, rubbing away the last shreds of sleep from his eyes.
"Are you serious?" He chanced a quick look at his friend. "God, you're serious. Okay Sherlock, look, I'm not having this conversation first thing in the morning."
"I thought that was an affliction specific to the morning," Sherlock stated as if they weren't talking about John being hard right now. John took a deep breath.
"Just... give me five minutes. I'll be down in five."
Sherlock seemed about to remark on the redundancy of his statement, but appeared to think better of it, and nodded instead.
"I'll be waiting for you in the cab."
"How did you find where Henry was?"
Sherlock grinned, not helping his friend's "affliction".
"Visiting friends from California, John!"
And with those brilliantly unhelpful words, he was out of the room. John sighed.
«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»
"So where are we going?" John asked as they got out of the cab somewhere in Helena's neighbourdhood.
"To the house we wanted to move in."
"What?"
Before he even explained to John what was going on, Sherlock walked up to the door of a house and rang the bell. John came to stand beside him.
"And who are we today?" he said.
The door opened and a plump woman in her forties blinked up at them.
"How may I help you?"
Her Italian accent somehow didn't have the friendliness of Angelo's. Sherlock took out a badge as a man appeared behind her.
"Lucretia, what is it?"
"Inspector Dimmock," Sherlock introduced himself. "May we come in?"
The man stepped in front of the woman, a frown on his face. Definitely not as friendly as Angelo.
"What is this all about?" he demanded.
Sherlock had just opened his mouth to answer when John's phone rang. The consulting detective gave him a rather miffed look, and John grumbled an apology as he picked up.
"Yes, Inspector Lestrade?"
"John? What's with the title? No, don't answer that. Are you with Sherlock?"
"Yes."
"We are investigating a murder," Sherlock was telling the couple, "and a disappearance."
"What does that have to do with us?" the man asked.
"We've found Henry's body," Lestrade said.
John's hand tightened around his phone.
"What?"
"We'd just like to ask you some questions. Can we come in?" Sherlock said.
"He was found earlier this morning in the Epping Forest. He shot himself with the same gun that killed Brad."
"We don't have anything to do with a murder," the man said.
John grabbed Sherlock's arm, earning himself a glare.
"It's Greg," he said gravely. "They've found Henry's body."
"What?" Sherlock and the man said at once.
"Thanks Greg. I'll call you back."
"Wait, John, where–"
John hung up.
"Epping forest. This morning. He shot himself with the same weapon that was used to kill Brad."
Sherlock's features had become tense. John could see he was both dismayed and already thinking ahead. He must've counted on Henry to get some of the answers.
"Someone else is dead?" the man asked. He had the decency to sound calmer now.
Since it didn't look like Sherlock would answer any time soon, lost in thought as he was, John nodded. The woman brought her hand to her mouth and shook her head.
"Bless his soul!" she said.
Sherlock looked at her like she had just brought him a serial-killing case on a platter.
"Yes... his soul!"
The woman blinked at him, and John just eyed him warily. Sherlock was on fire again.
"Thank you very much for your time, and my apologies for having disturbed you so early in the day. Since our prime suspect was just found dead, I believe our case is closed. Have a wonderful day!"
And just like that he turned and left. John just nodded a goodbye and ran after him.
"What the hell was that about?"
"Call Lestrade. Tell him to arrest Helena Whittaker and the Venuccis."
"Who?"
"The Venuccis, John! The couple, just now."
"Oh. Wait, what?"
"Just call him! We're going to Henry's flat."
John groaned, but still dialled Greg's number.
"Why are we going?"
Sherlock smiled.
"I think I know why she blew up the house."
«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»
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tbc
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