Sherlock was acting strange. Greg was acting strange. John wasn't sure what exactly was going on between the two of them but he sometimes felt like banging their heads together just to get some peace and quiet. Greg had been cold upon Sherlock's return and Sherlock had been absolutely awful while Greg investigated the last crime scene for them, but then… something must have happened to Greg, because he, at least, was back to his old self, sweet and funny and flashing that infectious grin of his. John wondered if maybe it had nothing to do with Sherlock after all. That Greg had simply never been suspended before and had not taken it well. John could understand that. He'd been all sorts of angry and sullen when he'd been kicked out of the army himself, except that unlike Greg, he would never get to go back. Not that he would want to now, but he was glad for Greg.
He wasn't sure how to deal with Sherlock though. He was… different. It wasn't that John didn't remember him right after all this time, or that he'd put him on a pedestal and idealized him when he'd believed him dead, far from it, because John had always been fascinated by Sherlock's flaws as much as by his genius. No, it was definitely coming from Sherlock. He was apologetic which was already a miracle unto itself, and he was… nice? Or something approaching. It was a bit creepy, to be honest, and not at all like Sherlock. John chalked it up to his friend trying too hard to be forgiven, and it might just work at that, which made him wonder just how insincere his act was.
John chuckled to himself, realizing he'd already forgiven Sherlock for what he'd done. Not that he'd tell the berk. Not yet. A little payback was in order after all he'd put him through.
"Should I be worried you seem to find torture amusing?" Greg asked with a quirk to his lips that belied the gravity of his tone.
"Just imagining Sherlock as the victim," John quipped.
"Uhm, I see how that would be appealing."
"You do realize I'm sitting right here, of course," Sherlock snapped. "Could we get on with the case now, or should we wait for the body count to rise? So, as I was saying, we can sort the Furies murders in two piles: the decoys," Sherlock's left hand came to rest on one pile of files. "And the targets."
Sherlock's right hand landed on the second pile, which was just as high as the first. You'd think you'd need a larger forest to hide that many trees but since the Furies had duped everyone before Sherlock came along, John had to admit their diversion had been a success.
The decoys were Sommers, their very first victim, although John had no doubt Ben had relished having him put down, and he still couldn't find it in him to condemn that murder, not even now; then there was the widow and the drug-dealer whose fridge they'd been locked in. The real targets were the old financial crook, the drugs-cook, the big drug importer and their last victim whom they didn't know much about yet but who was "obviously" a target and not a decoy since he'd been tortured for information.
"Oh, right," John exclaimed suddenly with a snap of his fingers and leaped out of his seat.
He dug into a pile of papers and took out a copy of the file Sherlock had shown him earlier, wondering why he hadn't given it to Greg himself upon his return.
"The real target," John announced, handing it over then throwing himself back in his seat. "Their endgame, so to speak."
After all this time, they finally knew the whole truth about the Furies. This was the last piece of the puzzle, the cornerstone that gave sense to the whole enigma. He watched fondly as Greg eagerly opened the folder like a kid opened a present on Christmas morning. His dark eyes took in the picture of the mugshot and read the information attached. To think the man who had started all this madness was just some petty criminal, a mere drug dealer who'd gotten in too deep and shot a cop when he found himself cornered. That policeman's name was Georges Atkins, Freddie's twin brother, Jenny's husband. His murderer had been easily apprehended, but then got off the hook on some technicality during his arrest. Sherlock thought he must have been paid and hidden away by the people the Furies had targeted to shut up and not implicate them, burying the whole sordid affair. Greg whistled in dismay.
"Wow, can't believe I didn't remember this. It's not my division, and I didn't know the bloke, but still…"
John nodded. It's not everyday a copper got shot, even here in London.
"You do realize you could have solved this case days ago if you'd bothered to use your tiny little brain, Lestrade."
John turned incredulous eyes towards Sherlock. First, that was not on, second, was he implying-
"You could have prevented-"
He was, the prick!
"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, appalled.
He glanced at Greg who was biting down hard on his bottom lip, but wasn't trying to defend himself. If anything, he looked guilty.
"What? I'm just pointing out the obvious," Sherlock replied. "He knows I'm right."
"No! I can't remember all my patients and colleagues names, and certainly not when they're as common as Atkins. Not everyone can compete with your massive intellect!" John all but shouted in his face.
His sarcasm was quite lost on Sherlock though.
"So you admit he's stupid?" he asked, pointing at Greg, quite besides the point he was trying to make.
John threw his arms in the air. He gave up. Whatever the hell was wrong with Sherlock, he wished he'd just cut it out and get on with the case.
"No, we're all idiots to you, remember? And what has that to do with anything? We need to find this-" he glanced at the file lying open in Greg's limp hands. "Tom Stubbins fellow before Jenny does."
Greg and Sherlock were glaring at one another again.
"Oi! Cut it out you two! Where do we start?"
She might strike tonight. Did they not realize the urgency of the situation?
"He's hiding at 49D Lower Clapton street."
"What?" John echoed, not sure he'd heard him right.
"Who?" Greg added, equally as confused.
"Stubbins."
"You're telling me," Greg said, looking like he might just implode from the sheer frustration that was Sherlock Holmes. "That you knew all along where the probable target of a very determined serial killer was hiding and you didn't think of sharing that information?"
"I wouldn't say all along…" Sherlock trailed off, fiddling with the phone in his hands and seeming confused by their anger.
"Right, I'm sending a squad to collect him," Greg muttered and left the room, presumably to call the Yard, but maybe to look for some rat poison to add to Sherlock's tea. Not that he'd blame him.
John sighed and looked at Sherlock. Directly, eye to eye. No more hiding.
"What are you trying to do, Sherlock?"
"Nothing."
"Stop being so childish."
"Stop being so oblivious."
"Me? I'm the one being oblivious?"
"Obviously."
John sputtered, unable to think or come up with a reply to that.
"Oblivious to what? As far as I can see, I'm the only one here who has not been acting like a total lunatic. Greg, I can understand, but you… What is the matter with you?"
"I…" Sherlock swallowed, his eyes grew wide as he repeated: "I…"
If John didn't know better, he'd think he had just broken Sherlock Holmes, or that he was choking on his inflated ego, but John knew his friend well and he wasn't in need of the Heimlich maneuver, merely of the right words to explain what he dreaded most: emotions. Was it because he was being too harsh on him? Because he hadn't told him he was forgiven? Was Sherlock… worried? Surely he knew him better than that? John had always been quick to anger, like every other Watson in his family tree, but he wasn't known for holding a grudge.
"Don't worry, Sherlock," John said once it was clear his friend was stuck in a one-word loop. He leaned towards him and patted his arm. "I understand."
"You...do?" Sherlock asked with his right eyebrow raised at a skeptical angle.
Ah. Still in monosyllabic-hell.
"Of course. I'm not stupid. Or oblivious, thank you very much. I know it must be difficult for you, to adjust, seeing we got on with our lives, while you were stuck hiding God knows where and, well, we weren't exactly welcoming so… I'm sorry."
"You're...sorry?" Sherlock parroted back one more, but they had moved on to two syllable-words so there was progress..
"Yes. I'm sorry for hitting you and for being mad at you, so you can stop… being weird. More than usual I mean. I didn't understand, but now I do, you were just trying to protect us. I still think you could have found another way to include us in your mad scheme, but…"
John shrugged. It actually felt good to let go of his anger and he grinned widely at Sherlock. He didn't look as relieved as he thought he would given how hard he'd been trying to earn his forgiveness. Had he read the situation wrong?
"Was there something else?" John asked.
"No," Sherlock finally replied.
A derisive snort drew their attention. Greg had returned.
"You're sure, Sherlock? Cause now is a good time to speak up."
Sherlock's expression was akin to one he had seen only once before and never since, that night on the moor, in the hallucinogenic fog: pure unadulterated terror.
"Sherlock?"
The man shook his curls frantically, his jaw firmly clenched, so John turned to his boyfriend.
"Greg?"
He shrugged.
"It's not my place to say."
John huffed. Apparently, he was blind. He'd get it out of one of them, eventually. Greg had no idea of the wicked ways he had at his disposal to make him talk, poor man.
"On another note," Greg added more seriously. "Stubbins is safe and sound. He'll be kept at the Yard until we apprehend Jenny. Any idea of where to find her, Sherlock? Or is that another tidbit of information you're keeping to yourself?"
Sherlock huffed.
"No, Lestrade. Now that you've confiscated my bait, I have to think of another way to lure her in. She's a sneaky one."
"Your bait? He's a-"
"Oh, please! Don't tell me you're defending him. It's bad enough that...Oh!"
John shared a glance with Greg. They both knew that I-just-had-an-epiphany face. Any second now he was going to… Yep, there was the smirk.
"If I was smart and desperate enough, I would still go for it. And succeed, of course."
"You don't mean she's just going to walk into Scotland Yard?" Greg scoffed.
"And why not? She knows the Yard like the back of her hand, so she's already at a huge advantage, plus she would have the element of surprise. She doesn't even care about making it out alive, it's just a question of revenge, so that's one less worry for her. She could even go in with guns blazing for all we know. All she wants is Stubbins and damn the consequences."
John and Greg stared at him. It sounded insane, and yet, it seemed all too plausible.
"How sure are you of this?" Greg asked.
"If I was seeking revenge for…" Sherlock clearly his thrust, avoiding eye contact with anyone. "Someone dear to me, it's what I'd do."
Greg nodded sharply.
"So should we hide Stubbins elsewhere?" he asked.
"I couldn't care less, as long as you do it discreetly. If you want to catch Jenny Atkins, this is our best chance, so it's of the utmost importance everyone believes Stubbins is still there in Scotland Yard."
Greg grimaced. The Yard's red tape would make sure that was not possible. He couldn't just transfer a witness under their protection all by himself and hope to get away with it. He'd get suspended, again, if he was found out, and worse if anything happened to Stubbins. It would be the end of his career. But maybe he could… misplace him?
"You could just shove Stubbins in a broom cupboard," John said. "I'll take his place, if I hide my face and lower the lights, no one will think twice about it and just assume I'm Stubbins. You and Sherlock just need to stop Jenny before she gets to me."
John refrained from adding a "ta-da!" to his idea and waited for their reactions. He thought it was as good a plan as any if they finally wanted to put this case behind them.
"You're insane…" Greg said just as Sherlock exclaimed: "...brilliant!"
The two men glared at each other. John was a bit miffed by Greg's answer, but the DI talked over their protests to explain himself.
"There's no way I'm letting you take such a risk."
"He won't be taking any risk. We will stop her well before she even sets eyes on John. He'll be acting as a decoy for your colleagues more than for our Fury, and as our insurance in the unlikely event she makes it past us." Sherlock argued.
"And just how do you imagine you can waltz into Scotland Yard, Mister look-at-me-I'm-not-dead?" Greg shot back.
"The same way Mrs Atkins will, I suppose. I shall wear a disguise."