"You should eat," John commented, feeling like he was sliding back into old habits before the words fully left his lips.
"I never eat on a case," Sherlock said, leaning an elbow on the vinyl-covered table and John snorted.
"Yes, you do. On long ones like this," John argued and Sherlock looked back at him, his gaze flickering over his face for longer than usual. Pondering something.
"I'll have what you're having," he said finally and John wished he knew what had changed the man's mind. Sherlock returned to studying the night outside the filthy window.
"So, Janine. That went well, looked like," John started, not wanting to sit in silence. Sherlock didn't respond. "Well, except for the mugs, or the books…or the kettle," John admitted, wondering when his idea of 'gone well' had become so dramatically skewed. "No bullets," he summarized and Sherlock huffed out a laugh and turned away from the window.
~~/~~
'You should eat,' John had said and Sherlock answered automatically. He wanted to kiss John. He wanted more than that, he was certain, if he'd let his brain go that far. That was a problem. It was too soon to even think about such a move. Sherlock forced himself to calculate the tire pressure of the cars going by, but it didn't distract him enough.
This was his chance to win John back, he knew it. Something like their old friendship, more careful than the one before. He could do that. If he could just stop thinking about the muscles in John's chest and concentrate on the things John liked: the case, dry humor, greasy food. He turned back to face the man again, gathering his control.
"I'll have what you're having," he promised and John looked pleased. John was worried about him; that was good. It felt good. But thanking him would be uncomfortable so Sherlock didn't know what to say.
I like your scars.
That definitely wasn't appropriate.
"So Janine, that went well," John prompted and Sherlock nodded, pushing his brain to think about the case. He needed to include John in the case, his partner in full or not at all. That shouldn't be difficult, this time. John had already simplified the Janine solution beautifully. He was starting to think he should just picture John shirtless next time they were in Magnussen's presence; that was sure to make him look incompetent enough. He'd waited too long, thinking. John was looking at him queerly now, wanting a response, and he still had nothing to say.
~~/~~
"I need to look incompetent. Surely that's something you can help me with," Sherlock said, as the waiter arrived. The waiter hesitated and John smiled tightly, thinking about the time he'd sent a bullet through the cabby's skull. Incompetent, really? Sherlock swallowed heavily, his eyes wide, and John knew the man had not meant the comment as it'd sounded. He was a genius that needed to sound normal. John's brain was mostly still normal. John rolled his eyes, hoping that would put Sherlock back at ease.
"Can I get you something to drink?" the waiter asked, already half-turned to move away from them. Strangers tended to react to Sherlock this way. John smiled at him as reassuringly as he could.
"Just water, please, but we're ready to order. Two chicken tika marsalas, please," he said. The waiter smiled at them, still looking uncertain, but finally walked away.
"So we need to make him think he's fooled you?" John asked, to truly calm Sherlock down, and the genius finally leaned back in his chair.
"Yes. Something he thinks he's being clever about," Sherlock replied, spinning a knife between his fingers.
"Other than peeing in our living room?" John complained and Sherlock's mouth twitched, threatening one of his rare smiles.
"Something a tad more subtle, I think. Presumably he expected us to notice that," he replied. John tipped his head, acknowledging the point. Sherlock's mouth lifted in a subtle smile. "Something that legitimately fooled you," he concluded, his eyes suddenly focusing on John's like a hawk spotting prey. "Tell me what you know about Magnussen," he ordered and John wanted to laugh. They were doing this again. After so much hell, the game was back on. He leaned forward to start listing his amateur deductions.
Then he just felt paralyzed, trapped in his seat. They couldn't do this again. He couldn't do this agin, strapped on Mike's chair, on his hook, waiting for a nail to heat up again. He could smell flesh for a moment and held his breath, his stomach tightening like it was preparing to hurl. He couldn't risk himself again. Sherlock watched him steadily, waiting for his answer, and John inhaled through his nose. He needed to answer him. They couldn't not do this again, he couldn't not live again, or he'd be better off going to his bedsit shower with a gun, like he'd thought of so many times. He had to live. He had to bring down Magnussen.
But more, he realized, he had to become him: get access to his vault, get access to the secrets of Jim Moriarty and every person Magnussen had ever met. Finally they'd have answers to who stopped Moriarty from shooting Sherlock at the pool, who pulled Irene Adler's strings. And they'd have that power over every other 'archenemy' that wanted to come after them. A pressure point, on all of the western world.
Two years ago, he'd have wanted nothing more than to shoot Magnussen and go home. Now, he understood Sherlock's reasoning, lying to Janine. He'd have considered doing it himself: just the one time, hurt one girl, and no one would dare come after them again. Safety from the big criminals and he and Sherlock could go after whoever they wanted. Never be tied down again.
John swallowed, getting control of his stomach. This wouldn't change his bathtub, the panic attacks, or the night terrors. But it'd answer the real fears.
It was a damn good thing for Janine he had not figured this out until after he'd found a new solution. He met Sherlock's gaze and Sherlock nodded, surely having seen his fear and his answer to it. Once more it was an incredible relief to have his mind known without having to form the words.
"He clearly needs to show off to everyone looking at him. And he needs to feel like he could make anyone look at him. Like an emperor at court in the bloody subway," John commented and Sherlock nodded, knowing he was warming up with the easy things. They'd done this before. "He's about forty or fifty years old. Has incompetent bodyguards, more for show and as an audience than any real security. Probably because he always feels safe, a threat to match anyone who'd be after him. He's probably a skilled hand fighter. You can tell from the way he walks; he's trained to balance well if nothing else, and it explains his shitty security. He dresses well. He doesn't wear a wedding ring, not that he'd be likely to give away details of his family," John continued, knowing from how Sherlock's gaze stayed on him that they hadn't found anything suitable yet. Either John was correct about everything - doubtful - or just not well enough fooled. For once Sherlock didn't give any indication of whether or not John was right in his conclusions - it didn't much matter this time and Sherlock wasn't trying to train him to observe. Sherlock stayed motionless, waiting, when John stopped to think. Their food arrived and they both ate, and John decided he wouldn't say anything until Sherlock had at least some food in his belly. It was moot anyway; he didn't think of anything useful to say until they'd nearly finished their plates and Sherlock paid the bill.
John was just pulling on his jacket when he remembered.
"Reading. He did this weird thing, interrupting you, saying he was reading," John said. Sherlock paused, only one arm in his coat sleeve, the rest of the peacoat dangling awkwardly.
"And what did you conclude from that?" he asked.
"He adjusted his glasses, when he said that. I was thinking, perhaps they're something like Google Glass? A projection," John offered, trying to ignore that they were going through this exercise because his deductions would make Sherlock look inherently stupid. A fact made lightly more palatable by the way Sherlock's face broke into a triumphant grin.
"Brilliant, John!" he shouted, shoving his arm in the other half of his coat. John zipped up his own, watching as the other patrons looked over in annoyance only to recognize them and start to pull out their phones. "Let's go, John!" Sherlock exclaimed and John was just as happy to run out after him.
~~/~~
They went to 221B, which made all of the rushing look fairly superfluous. Still, Sherlock threw himself into the couch and tore at his hair like the were still halfway through this puzzle and not at the end of it. John sat at the desk, unsure where else to go.
"So, what's wrong then?" he asked and Sherlock pulled his hands out of his hair enough to turn his head.
"We need Christmas," he growled. John blinked rapidly, wondering if he should bother asking. Sherlock started tearing at his hair again.
"What?" John asked finally, thoroughly lost.
"It's the only way to get the police into Appledore," Sherlock replied, rubbing his hands over his face.
When was the last time he'd slept? John wondered, thinking back to the drug den. Surely Sherlock had not been stupid enough to actually sleep there. Then again, Sherlock had always acted like he was invincible.
"I still don't follow. Christmas?" John prompted. Sherlock inhaled slowly, like he was bracing himself for something, and sat up from the couch. "It's the only time Mycroft's laptop is ever in my presence without his usual surveillance measures. Mother wouldn't stand for it," Sherlock explained. John frowned, no less certain that Sherlock hadn't finally gone mad. "Christmas! We need a warrant. Don't you see? Any evidence will have to get tossed out if there's not a reason for entry," Sherlock exclaimed, gesturing madly with his hands. Getting frustrated, John noted, but he understood now.
He'd never seen Sherlock care about legal arrests before; Sherlock must have had the same thought he had - probably long before. Magnussen - if he could be arrested with his collection intact - could keep them safe for the rest of their lives. John stared at Sherlock, blown away.
"That's why you're going after Magnussen. That's why the cocaine and… Janine. You thought of this from the start - Magnussen will protect us," John concluded. Sherlock sighed, the urgency falling out of his movements.
"I discovered his influence during my attack on Moriarty. It'd keep you safe, no matter what else happens," Sherlock admitted, dropping his face into his hands. "A trump card on all of the Western World."
John nodded slowly, his resolve settling. They could do this, fix all that they still had to be fixed, and then they could see what they had left.
"But we need a warrant. Okay. What's your plan then?" John asked and Sherlock groaned.
"We poison my family, take the laptop while they're temporarily incapacitated, go to Appledore, wait until my brother sends in the cavalry to arrest Magnussen for possession of his laptop, and we reveal the Appledore vaults to Mycroft, solidifying his power doing whatever it is he does," Sherlock listed, sounding like the plan had already collapsed. John rubbed at his nose, wondering how, after so much time, he could still get shocked by Sherlock's insanity.
"So what's the problem then?" he asked. Christmas was three weeks away; that sounded perfect. This time it was his turn to surprise Sherlock. The man stared at him, apparently dumbstruck.
"I say 'let's poison my parents' and you ask 'what's the problem?" he asked.
John cleared his throat, unsure what more to say. Surely Sherlock did not think he'd undergone ten days of torture without having any of his innocence stripped from him? He looked down at his hands, thinking he'd quietly become a worse person without anyone noticing, when Lestrade had hoped so much that Sherlock would quietly become a better one.
They would never face Moriarty without a recourse ever again. Or they could spare a family a single overdose of a soporific. He'd had his answer before the question was fully formulated. Sherlock rubbed a hand down his pants, looking uncomfortable and sad, and John gratefully deduced he didn't have to put the change in words.
"Well, to be fair, all I heard was 'lets poison Mycroft'," John joked. They would have to trust Mycroft in this; he knew that. Trust Mycroft with their lives or hand Sherlock Appledore and let him try to use it, surely less effectively. No, they needed total protection, a kind of legal and criminal immunity. Only Mycroft could manage that.
"Yes, that is a perk," Sherlock replied, standing up from the couch and grabbing his laptop, apparently done with the conversation. He started toward the kitchen and John stood up from the desk.
"But we tell Mycroft," he ordered. Sherlock paused, halfway into the kitchen. "Total honesty," John demanded. Sherlock continued into his kitchen without a word and started setting up his microscope.
He didn't like it, but he'd do it, John concluded, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Sherlock pulled out something vaguely flesh shaped from the freezer drawer and sawed off a sliver with what used to be their bread knife. He pushed the flesh back into the freezer and settled down at the kitchen table with his sample to study. Cataloguing the effect of frost on something, John guessed, and did not ask.
It was time for him to leave, he knew that. The case was pushed forward, Janine had agreed to help as he'd suggested. He'd done his part, and now Sherlock had to focus on the tiny mental machinations that would lead Magnussen into their trap. There was nothing more he could do. Still, John did not want to spend the evening in the cold solitude of his bedsit and he did not want to have to manufacture an excuse to get back here, to see the next development.
He crunched across the broken mugs and scattered books and lay down on the couch without a word. Sherlock noticed it, he could see that from the tiny way Sherlock's shoulders relaxed back into his seat, but neither of them mentioned it. Finally, Sherlock got up to go to the light switch, flipped off the lights, and sat back down at the kitchen table. The microscope lit up Sherlock's face, throwing the angles in his cheeks in sharp relief. He looked sickly, too hungry and too pale. John doubted he looked any better himself. They'd gone through too much in the last year, John thought. It was time for some quiet. This time, however, he did not want to leave.
~~/~~
Three weeks, Sherlock reflected, staring at the crystallized flesh beneath his microscope. Three weeks until Christmas and he had no idea what to do with them. He couldn't even figure out why John was still in the flat, lying on the couch like he planned to stay the night. Sherlock adjusted the magnetization focus, noting that he needed to oil the dial again. He needed John to stay. And for that he needed Magnussen. 'So what's the problem then?' John had asked, like he hadn't seen it. John would leave the flat the next morning, go to his infested bedsit and remember that he didn't even have a job to occupy him - Sarah had fired him, that was obvious. That, at least, was to Sherlock's advantage. John was miserable everywhere; 221B couldn't be that much worse. Sherlock just had to give him a reason to stay, to get used to it again, rediscover whatever it was that'd made him stay the first time, beyond the need for adventure. John didn't want to be so very adventurous anymore. That was obvious from the way he tensed with every suggestion of it. But perhaps there was a chance, however minute, that if Sherlock could just make him laugh again..
Sherlock pushed himself away from the microscope, disgusted with himself. The flesh had thawed without his having watched it. He didn't have a reason for John to stay. And in three weeks it'd be Christmas and their last case would be over all the same.
