Disclaimer: The characters of Sherlock are not mine, nor is the story, nor are the characters from the original stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I make no monetary profit from this.

The Seduction of John S. Willoughby

Part Twenty-Six

What happened was that John Watson pottered reluctantly out of the kitchen. He paused in the doorway for just a heartbeat, and lingered for maybe just a little too long when he handed Sherlock his coffee, even after Sherlock had said a pointed 'thank you.' It was stupid, he knew, but he couldn't help it: he was striving too hard for normality, and was much too aware of the fact, so what came out was a stilted, highly affected mockery of the real thing. (Sherlock – damn it – could probably tell what was going on anyway, he didn't know why he bothered.)

He dallied over his tea, stirring it far more than was strictly necessary. What would he usually be doing at this point in the morning? Frying up bacon and eggs? Reading the paper? (There was no paper yet, bugger and blast.) Typing up a blog entry? ("Dear blog, last night we robbed a man and then we saw him get killed and then I kissed my flatmate and now I'm all flustered and confused, help" – he could see why that wouldn't work today even if that was part of the normal routine.) As it was, he sipped at his tea, made a face (too sweet, he'd made it too sweet), and started looking through the pile of DVDs that was still cluttering up the floor for the sake of doing anything at all. He popped Monty Python and the Holy Grail into the player – Sherlock didn't mind, or at least he didn't say anything properly committal when John asked if he'd mind – and sat back, not really paying attention to the film, as his flatmate proceeded to attack the balaclavas from last night with a large pair of scissors.

This is all wrong, he thought, watching Sherlock cut at the black wool like it had done him some deep, personal offence.

He didn't want to address the issue, he really didn't. He actually felt that he'd prefer doing something slightly less hazardous – like stepping out of their sitting room window, that wouldn't be fatal – to opening up talks on the subject, but it simply wasn't in him to stand this sham of what passed for normal at 221B. It was, well, it wasn't the right thing to do, this metaphorical sweeping of kisses under the rug (accompanied, in this case it seemed, by a metaphorical shoving of heavy items of furniture over the ensuing lump and a metaphorical innocent whistling). And John Watson, as far as he was able, tried to Do the Right Thing – a trait was hard-wired into him somewhere between the crack marksmanship and the predilection for jumpers.

Trying to pretend that nothing had happened was unfair on him, and it was unfair on Sherlock, and it didn't look like Sherlock was going to do anything but cut balaclavas at him. So it was up to John then.

Also, on an entirely different level altogether, Sherlock's systematic destruction of evidence was starting to drive him up the wall. The man was about to start on his gloves.

John opened his mouth, determined to Do the Right Thing or die trying. "Do you really have to do that?" No, that wasn't it. He tried again. "I like those gloves." Still not what he was aiming for, but at least he seemed to be getting somewhere.

"You'd ruin them anyway, if you tried to get the blood off properly. Get new ones."

"I don't see you wrecking your coat. Or your gloves."

"I didn't get Milverton's blood on mine." Sherlock punctuated this with an unrepentant snicker-snack of his scissors. "Would you rather leave evidence lying around?"

"Come off it, Sherlock, what are the chances-"

"Shush." Quite suddenly, he froze, listening, holding up a hand to silence John.

There were steps coming from downstairs that were quickly turning into steps going upstairs. They were, John thought, too heavy and too brisk to be Mrs. Hudson, and whoever it was hadn't bothered to knock or ring the doorbell, which suggested either a shocking brazenness or an appalling familiarity.

"Lestrade," said Sherlock. "He always skips the bottom step."

"Christ!"

Warm tea sloshed onto the table as John dropped his mug to help Sherlock shove the bits of balaclava into the pillowcase. They cleared the table before the D.I. made it to the first landing; John zipped the case shut as he made the right turn to the second half of the staircase; and Sherlock snatched it from his flatmate and tossed it onto John's armchair just in time to turn the motion into snapping around to greet Lestrade with a sharp "What is it?" as the man stepped through the doorway of their sitting room.

"Murder," he said, far too used to Sherlock to be taken aback by the lack of social niceties. He nodded a 'good morning' at John though, and the doctor put on what he hoped was a frank, open grin in response, which was a bit of a job since he was trying to surreptitiously inch his way to the armchair – the blasted pillow had landed on top of the Union Jack cushion and was looking damnably conspicuous where it was. "Have you seen the papers today?"

Sherlock shook his head, and took the newspaper Lestrade held out to him. John could see the story GOSSIP MAN MILVERTON SHOT, KILLED IN HOME INVASION featured prominently on the front page, accompanied by a photo of the house wreathed in blue-and-white crime scene tape side by side with one of Milverton alive in an astrakhan coat and looking down his nose at whoever was taking the picture through gold-rimmed glasses.

"The death of a gossip colmunist?" Sherlock frowned at the periodical, barely glancing at the article before throwing the paper down with a casual flick of his wrist, neatly, John noticed, covering the hammer and scissors he'd been using. "Not interested."

"It's a pretty high profile case. We've had the media swarming all over us since they got found out. They've already gotten to Milverton's PA and his driver."

"You know that doesn't matter to me. It seems straightforward enough given the man's profession. Find out who he's pissed off, they probably did it."

"We're doing that, thanks-"

"Astounding. Good to know the police are doing their job." The consulting detective treated the official one to one of his more condescending smiles. "You can just carry on then."

John gave Lestrade points for not actually rolling his eyes. "It wasn't just murder, Sherlock." And he did roll his eyes at the wide-eyed, 'no, really now?' look Sherlock was giving him. "There was a security camera in the room-"

"What are you doing here, in that case? Surely even Anderson has eyes."

"You can't see who did it. The angle's all wrong. The most you can make out of them is a bit of their arm. What you can see is the two blokes who came to empty Milverton's safe – hey, are you okay?"

This last was addressed to John, who had fallen heavily onto the chair with the pillow on it. He'd fallen much more heavily than he intended – he'd been aiming for a subtle sort of downward motion but the news that there was a video of their robbery had caught him halfway through it and wrecked the effect. Sherlock had mentioned security cameras last night, he remembered that, but knowledge of the fact and being faced with the reality of it were two very different things.

"Yes, fine," he said, which was true largely because Lestrade seemed not to have noticed the distinctly un-cushionlike sounds he had made on his way down. "My leg. Happens. Sometimes." He endeavored to cultivate a look of concerned interest. "So, um, burglars, you said? Are you sure?"

"They emptied his safe," repeated Lestrade. "Stuffed everything into one of the throw pillows, if you can believe that."

"Unlucky man," quipped Sherlock. John settled more firmly into his chair, determinedly thinking non-pillow thoughts at the D.I.

"You could say that." Lestrade drew a breath before going on. "It was mostly files that they took – papers, memory sticks, that sort of thing. Look, between you and me, Milverton was being watched for blackmail-"

"I know."

"You know?"

"I know. I also know you don't think the robbers had anything to do with the murder, going by the way you've been talking about them – two discreet incidents, and you might even be right, I suppose it can happen, much as I dislike believing in coincidence. The emphasis you've been placing on them, though, that makes them witnesses, or you think they've taken something that could lead you to the killer, highly likely once you factor in what they took and the blackmail allegation, and the desperation wafting off of you says they're your only solid lead. They've either destroyed the files by now, or sold them, and if it's the latter, we'll all hear about it in a few days. Or today, if they're particularly efficient. Utterly simple." Sherlock faced the window, hands in his pockets, and stared stolidly at nothing in particular. "I. Won't. Do it."

"Could you just-?"

"No."

"I've got a still from the camera footage. Will you at least take a look?"

John saw Sherlock's lip curl in a sneer, demonstrating exactly what he thought of that idea, and he found himself agreeing wholeheartedly. Nevertheless his flatmate gave Lestrade a terse "Show me," and extended an expectant hand without even bothering to turn around.

"Thank you," said Lestrade feelingly as he handed over the print-out.

And Sherlock looked at it for all of two seconds before he exploded. "What the Hell is this?"

"Yeah, well, I know it's not exactly CSI. There's only so much you can actually do with a crappy image."

"That could be anybody!" Sherlock held the photo up to the light, and grimaced, striking a (thankfully, thought John) grainy figure in the picture with the back of his hand. "Look, that one there, that could even be John!" He thrust the print-out back at Lestrade. "Come back when you've got something better. Or, no, don't bother. My sympathies are entirely with the criminals on this one."

"Sherlock."

"No, no, it's no use arguing with me. Consulting detective, remember? One of the beauties of not being on the police force is that you can't actually make me take a case. I knew Milverton – knew of him, I should say – and he was easily one of the most dangerous men in London. He had it coming, and I know you think the same, so you can't make me think otherwise."

Lestrade looked at John, almost imploringly. John, very keenly feeling the sharp bits poking into his back and very much aware of the fact that those sharp bits had come from Milverton's house, gave him a don't-ask-me-I'm-just-the-flatmate shrug.

"Well, it was worth a shot," said Lestrade, taking back the photograph and peering closely at it as he walked to the door. "Come to think of it, that does look like it could be you, John. If I didn't know better…" He turned on his heel and fixed Sherlock with a searching glare. "Tell me you didn't have anything to do with this."

"Whatever gave you that idea?"

And they stood – or, in John's case, sat – there radiating innocence and blamelessness until they heard the front door close behind the D.I.

Note: And I thank you kindly for reading, and for your patience, and it'll take just a little bit longer now. Thank you!