ASiB was great but if this story wasn't already an AU it certainly is now!
Also, RIP Sarah... we barely knew ye.
Lots of thanks to purpleflames, House Calls, 88dragon06, C'estMoiLiz, itsbeautiful9, TheDoctorsMistress, emmablk1, Aimee, coconuts-are-funny-27, PennyParrish, Bookwormiie, kaittybee, LolaWants, Noirreigne, and MORE for reviewing!
Sorry for the delay but I hope you enjoy...
Chapter 25:
As soon as it shut behind him, John pressed his ear against the hard wood of the door. The fact that Sherlock had asked him to leave both surprised and worried him. What was so secretive, so important, that he couldn't be in the room when it was said? He quickly dismissed the idea that it was something personal. Neither seemed particularly comfortable talking about the past, especially with each other.
His head turned slightly, straining for signs of life from the other room. What could they be saying? Maybe Sherlock wanted to give Alex a much belated "telling off" and didn't want to embarrass her further by doing so in front of John.
He shook his head. No, that wasn't right. He'd never seen his friend consider anyone's feelings but his own… Of course he'd never seen him snogging anyone either, but he doubted even that afforded the recipient special Sherlock privileges.
John smiled.
Special Sherlock privileges like having the detective actually acknowledge your presence. There was probably a list of people who qualified somewhere. It would be extremely short but he'd like to think he was on it…
"WHAT?"
John started and pushed away from the door.
"No way! Absolutely not Sherlock!" Alex continued from the other room after a short span in which he assumed his friend had been speaking, too quietly for him to hear.
He must have spoken again because Alex went quiet for a moment and John leaned closer to the door.
"Why?"
He could hear the suspicion in her voice, slightly lowered now that her initial shock at whatever he'd said had waned. There was a long stretch of silence that made him want to fling open the door, but he soon heard Alex scoff and his hand stilled on the knob.
"You won't even tell me why. What am I supposed to think?"
Tell her why? Why what exactly?
John was pulled from his thoughts by the light trill of Sherlock's generic ring tone. The muffled sound was coming from the bed and he rummaged through the duvet, cursing under his breath when the phone stopped ringing. About thirty seconds later it beeped and he recognized the text alert noise. He pulled it out from under a pillow triumphantly and read the screen: one missed call and a text from Lestrade. He didn't even hesitate before opening the text.
Answer your bloody phone…
John grinned and continued reading.
Done with your flat. Nothing new. Inspector says you can go home tomorrow morning.
Try to stay out of trouble…
GL
He walked the short distance to the door with the phone clutched in his hand and pressed his ear against it again.
Nothing…
After one more quick glance at the phone, John made his decision and knocked twice. Without waiting for an answer he opened the door and entered Alex's hotel room, secretly grateful to Lestrade for giving him an excuse.
He was momentarily puzzled when he found the room empty but a quite shuffling from the en-suite caught his attention and he peered through the open door.
Sherlock was leaning with his hips against the sink, a clump of bloodied toilet paper pressed to his cheek. He glared at Alex, who was sat on the closed lid of the toilet, arms crossed over her chest sullenly.
John took in the odd scene before him and cleared his throat. He took a hesitant step into the room as both pairs of eyes found him.
"I didn't hit him," Alex spoke up quickly, her tone and posture defensive.
"I never thought you did." Untrue. It had been his first thought and, from the sharp way his tall friend was watching him, he was certain Sherlock knew what he'd been thinking. John waited to see if he was going to tell her as much.
"What happened?" he asked, when Sherlock didn't speak, but he was promptly ignored.
Instead Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he looked John up and down, ending on the mobile still held tightly in his hand.
"What does Lestrade want now?"
John shuffled forward, sighing as he handed over the phone. He pulled Sherlock's hand away from his cheek so he could get a better look at the injury before answering.
"We can go back to Baker Street tomorrow… you should have come and gotten me when it started bleeding again," he said with growing annoyance.
The toilet paper had broken off in places, stuck to his face with drying blood like he'd cut himself shaving. Sherlock didn't even flinch when John began prodding the tender skin around the laceration. It was deeper than he'd originally thought, straight through the dermis and into the subcutaneous fat. In his haste he'd assumed Sherlock wouldn't need stitches. Now he wasn't so sure.
"Alright," John began seriously as he took a step back, "come on, my bag's in the other room."
"No, not until I have an answer."
Alex's arms tensed against her chest as she looked up at Sherlock. "I've given you an answer."
"Then let me rephrase… not until I have the answer I want."
"An answer to what?" John spoke up, suddenly remembering they'd been arguing about something. "Why did you ask me to leave?" He turned on the water and washed the small amount of blood from his hands while he waited for one of them to answer.
"He wants my permission…"
"Legal permission!" Sherlock interrupted. "I don't actually need your personal permission."
"Legal permission," Alex continued, scrunching her face in annoyance, "to defile Charlie's grave! And he won't tell me why, he just expects me to agree, no questions asked!"
John dried his hands on his trousers and stared at his friend in surprise.
"Sherlock, that's ridiculous! You can't expect her to allow that without knowing why."
"And that's exactly why I didn't want you here when I asked, I knew you'd take her side," he mumbled. "She's just being stubborn."
"No she's being respectful Sherlock, there's a difference you know. I'm sure if you just told her why you think it's important…" he tried to reason but the detective cut him off with an angry huff.
"Fine! Firstly; his parents died in a car accident. I read the report. Hit and run. They found the other car abandoned a few streets away. They never found the person operating the vehicle. Two weeks prior to the accident their home and their son's old office had been broken into. Both were ransacked but nothing was taken. So what were they looking for? It obviously wasn't in either place…"
Alex stared at him, aghast. "You can't mean to suggest that whatever it is, it's buried with…?"
Sherlock shook his head and spoke quickly. "I'm not finished." He turned to the Doctor, who's mouth was open, poised to speak. "And before you ask John, no, they never caught the housebreaker." He paused, took a breath and held up two fingers. "Secondly; I told you John Smythe's been out of the country. What I didn't tell you is he's in hiding. Not very well I'm afraid, it took me less than ten minutes to find him."
"Why?" John asked.
"Well, to start, the idiot didn't even think to use an alias…"
"No Sherlock," he spoke quickly, slightly exasperated. "Why's he in hiding?"
"Oh. There's been an attempt on his life as well."
Alex's eyes widened with shock and Sherlock turned to her.
"He seems to think he was attacked by a business rival who's interested in taking over the company, which, you were quite right, is a front. It's part of the reason he's got solicitors working around the clock to obtain full ownership and, I believe, why he hasn't contacted you directly." He paused when her expression changed to one of confusion. "When I told him you'd been targeted as well he assumed it was for the same reason. He thinks if he can prove he has sole ownership they'll leave you alone. Guilt can be a powerful motivator."
She sat in stunned silence for a moment, considering. When she spoke again, the hopefulness in her voice surprised her.
"Do you think…"
"No," Sherlock answered quickly, inwardly cringing when her face fell again. "It's nowhere near that simple. I expect it's less to do with the company, more to do with the man."
"John Smythe?"
"No. Charles Claymore."
He watched the emotions play over her face in rapid succession. Confusion, surprise, anger, and disbelief before finally settling on the worst of all; grief. She still missed him. She still loved him. That was going to make what he had to say next all the more hard.
"And thirdly, since we're being honest," he sighed bitterly, "I'm not entirely convinced he's actually dead."
The small room went deathly quiet and John held his breath, waiting to see how she would react. Her expression hadn't changed but a slight tremor began in her shoulders and her gaze fell to the floor. When she finally spoke, he could barely hear her.
"Get out."
He glanced at Sherlock but the detective appeared unmoved as he watched her curiously. Clearly he'd get no help there.
"Alex…"
"Get out," she repeated louder. She looked up when no one moved and John could see the pain and fury fighting for dominance in her eyes.
"This isn't the time for…" Sherlock stopped when Alex sprang up from her seat.
"Get out!" she shouted and pushed him back, towards the door.
His expression shifted slightly and he couldn't stop himself from wincing as she pressed harder against his chest but he made no move to stop her. John watched them impassively for a few seconds before grabbing a handful of his friend's shirt and pulling him from the room. The door banged shut behind them and he heard the lock slide into place with a click.
Sherlock wrenched his shirt from the other man's grasp and John watched the mild alarm that had graced his features only seconds before fade into indignation.
"Do you see why I thought it best she didn't know?" he spat quietly.
John pressed his lips together tightly and herded Sherlock through the door and into his own hotel room. After a quick stop at the desk to retrieve his bag, he ushered the taller man into the bathroom. He remained silent as he sat Sherlock on the edge of the tub and scrubbed the blood and bits of paper from his face. It wasn't until he stood in front of Sherlock, a tapered needle in one hand and suture thread in the other, that he allowed himself to speak.
"You can't honestly believe…"
"Someone's been accessing his accounts John," Sherlock said seriously, wary eyes on the needle. "Private accounts that only he and Smythe knew about and Smythe hasn't touched them."
John's hand came forward, pushing the needle and thread through the soft tissue of his cheek. "Accounts can be hacked Sherlock."
Sherlock shook his head slightly, cringing when the movement upset the Doctor's quick, precise strokes.
"Hacking leaves evidence. But there was nothing. No signs of forced entry, no altered computer code. Nothing."
"That still doesn't mean…
"His hospital records were destroyed in a fire John… a fire… a month before this all started. That's quite the coincidence, if they're unrelated."
John finished after only five small stitches and set the needle on the counter. "Those will need to come out in four days."
"Are you listening? A fire!"
"Yes Sherlock, I heard you."
"Well?"
"You're right, it's an awfully big coincidence but… are you sure you're not just seeing things because you want to see them?"
Sherlock inhaled sharply and stared at him with such stunned contempt that he immediately wished it unsaid.
John opened his mouth to apologize but the other man stopped him with a raised hand.
"I'd prefer you didn't speak if it's going to lower my good opinion of you. You'll forgive me if I pretend you didn't say anything."
John stepped back until he could lean against the wall. "I'm sorry, it's just… why didn't you tell me what you'd found? Why am I hearing all of this for the first time?"
Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Because I knew you'd feel obligated to tell her when, in truth, the less she knows the better."
"If I didn't know any better," John began slowly, "I'd think you were actually trying to be nice."
"Oh please…" Sherlock's eyes narrowed and his lip curled in derision.
"No really. I think you didn't want to tell her because you knew it would upset her."
"This is why you're not the detective John," he sighed dramatically. "If I withheld information it was only because I don't need a hysterical woman underfoot while I solve this."
John cocked his head to the side and regarded him curiously. "If you say so."
He started slightly when Sherlock bounded up in a fit of pique.
"I do say so!"
He marched past John and into the main room, and the Doctor recognized the beginnings of what was sure to be an epic sulk. With a sigh, he followed.
Sherlock fell backwards onto the bed, one arm thrown up to cover his eyes and John had to fight the urge to roll his own. Without saying anything, he slipped back into the other hotel room quietly to check on Alex but the door to the en-suite was still closed. Sherlock was still in the same position when he returned.
"Alright then, I'm off."
"You're leaving?" Sherlock asked with forced nonchalance.
"I told Sarah I'd come back if I could and you'll be fine as long as you take it easy."
He slipped into his coat, shuffling his medical bag between hands. "I'll meet you here tomorrow morning and we'll go back to the flat."
John watched him thoughtfully, waiting for any sign that he'd heard, but Sherlock gave none. He shuffled his feet, suddenly reconsidering his decision to leave.
"Sherlock…"
"Go John."
"Right…" He hesitated near the door and turned back. "You should try giving her the benefit of the doubt sometime Sherlock, she might surprise you."
The door shut softly behind John and Sherlock found himself addressing the empty room.
"Nothing ever surprises me."
The sky grew dark and the afternoon gave way to evening in the blink of an eye, but still Sherlock didn't move from the bed. It was several hours later, closer to midnight, when the need to relieve himself finally forced him up. He went grudgingly, cursing the weakness of the human body. When he finished he returned to the bed, detouring slightly to lock the door and switch off the lights.
He laid back down, still fully dressed in his trousers and blood-stained button-up, and covered himself with the duvet.
As usual, sleep eluded him.
He didn't know how long he remained still, staring blankly into the darkness, a million different thoughts chasing each other through his head, each one making less sense than the one before.
It wasn't until he heard the slow creak of the door separating the two rooms that it occurred to him; he hadn't made sure it was locked.
He heard her stop just inside the room and turned his head. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness hours ago and he could easily see her outlined against the wall. He waited for her to speak, to announce herself, to shout, anything… but nothing came.
"Alex…"
"Do you know what pancreatic cancer does to a person?" she said as soon as she heard him speak, her voice a whisper in the dark room.
"I…"
"It sits there, deep in your belly, and grows so quietly you don't even know it's happening."
Alex stepped away from the wall with slow, determined movements. "The cancer grows and spreads and eats away at you until there's nothing left."
She paused at the side of the bed and stared down at Sherlock's dark shape. He didn't try to stop her when she placed first one hand, then the other on the mattress and eased herself up.
"You're emaciated. You're skin turns yellow and you want to scream and peel it away, it itches so badly. You're weak and tired and every move is a new pain, somehow worse than the last."
Alex lifted the duvet and stretched out next to Sherlock cautiously, moving closer with every word that passed through her lips.
"And if you're strong and you can beat the exhaustion, if you can fight it… the chemo's there to smack you back down and put you in your place. By the end you barely resemble a person… You're just a husk."
Alex exhaled shakily and pressed her forehead against his shoulder, ignoring the way it tensed beneath her. She waited quietly until she felt him begin to relax and let her arm settle across his chest.
"You can do it, but don't try to tell me he isn't dead," she whispered finally. "I watched it happen."
"Okay."
She sighed and her breath was warm against his neck. Sherlock closed his eyes and fought the urge to squirm. Instead he shifted slightly, forcing her head to his chest and sparing him the torment of her breath on his bare skin.
Time got away from him again, and he had no idea how long they lay there, not sleeping. At some point his hand found its way to her back and she burrowed closer, one leg tangling with his own.
It was familiar, so familiar. Her scent, the way she felt against him. As though no time had passed.
It was comforting and reassuring and wonderfully deceptive.
When she spoke again her quiet voice cut through the silence like a knife and he knew exactly what she was going to say.
"I think I should talk to Lestrade about going into protective custody…"
"… okay."
We're coming to the end folks... Thanks for reading and, as always, please take the time to leave a review!