John got upstairs to see Sherlock leaning over the couch, surrounded by laptops.
Where are those from? John wondered but didn't bother asking. Probably stolen from the neighbors. 'Obvious, John', he thought and wandered up to stand by his friend's shoulder.
"Not you, not you, not you," Sherlock was muttering, closing down windows on each of the computers without any seeming order. He was in a bunch of chatrooms, from what John could see.
"Gail," he muttered, for a chatroom's BlackWidow98. The chat didn't even have any words in it, much less a name, but John trusted Sherlock's information. 'Gail' it was. Then Sherlock switched to another window on another laptop. He quickly googled another screenname HorseR1DEr and started sifting through online surveys, facebook likes, and neighborhoods, until he was running a background check on a Charlotte Windsor.
John watched him work, fascinated, as Sherlock discovered names and addresses and occupations before he'd even greeted these online clients. Then he confirmed their names, ignoring when they lied, and got started.
How did you meet? Sherlock typed, to only four of them. He looked puzzled by their answers and leaned down to type again.
Name? He asked. Gail's laptop screen chimed in first.
Told you, she answered and Sherlock scoffed.
His name, he corrected and John noticed that Sherlock hadn't drunk his tea. Sherlock kept his eyes glued to the screen, apparently unbothered by the hangover still plaguing John.
"Four women in four nights. He must have something special," Sherlock muttered, still typing.
"You okay?" John asked and Sherlock's hands froze. "Let your tea go cold," he pointed out and Sherlock scoffed.
"Not now, John," Sherlock growled and unbuttoned his coat to sit down at the desk. "Different names, different addresses," he muttered again and John stole his tea. He'd make the idiot more when his own headache subsided. "He's stealing the identity of corpses, getting their names from the obituary columns. ALl single men. He's using the dead man's flat under the assumption it'll be empty for awhile. Free love nest," he muttered. Another laptop chimed and Sherlock perked up and moved to answer it, smiling with pleasure. "He's not a ghost, John. He's a mayfly. He only lives for a day," Sherlock corrected loudly, as if John had spoken. John smiled, watching him, remembering how unsettled he'd been to learn that Sherlock spoke to him when he wasn't around. Now if felt like something important had slid back into place.
Then Sherlock was moving from computer to computer, typing in a familiarly frantic way, only to stop short; a disappointing answer. Then all the laptops were making the whistling sound of a screenname logging off and Sherlock was shouting.
"Why? Why would he date all of these women and not return their calls?"
John glanced at the laptops, embarrassed for him.
"You're missing the obvious, mate," he pointed out and Sherlock stopped slamming laptop lids shut to stand up and face him.
"Am I?" he asked, sounding unconvinced, and went back to closing laptops. "Why would he change his identity?" he growled. John shrugged. That didn't sound like a difficult puzzle.
"Eh, maybe he's married," John suggested and Sherlock stood up again, slower now, his eyes wide open as realization struck.
"Oh," he said and John smirked. Well, that hadn't exactly been the best case in months. Sherlock stayed still, obviously unsure what to do with himself. John's smile faded, worry about the genius's ego seeping in, but Sherlock started to smile. "Case closed. Brilliant," he said, snapping his own laptop shut and John relaxed. Sherlock turned on him then, that same inscrutable look of wonder in his eyes. John smiled softly, focusing on that look, until Sherlock finally cleared his throat and turned away.
"Brilliant," he muttered again and John finished off his tea and went to go put the kettle on again.
~~/~~
Sherlock followed John into the kitchen, feeling out of sorts. That was supposed to be the perfect case, a good puzzle to send them on a dynamic hunt. Instead they'd found evidence of a creative adulterer and no legal action to take if they bothered catching him. Still, Sherlock had seen John take pleasure in solving this one, knew what it meant to see John take pleasure in solving this one, knew what it meant to see John's spine straighten that infinitesimal degree, and that was worth an empty hunt. Perfect, probably. And John was making tea and not even glancing at the door.
It'd occurred to Sherlock before that John could be avoiding leaving, avoiding some unrevealed evil somewhere else. But he'd had no reason to think John wanted to stay, that anything had changed from the day he'd left. Except that Sherlock had proven that he'd go back to drugs without provocation, should he have no reason not to. Hardly a revelation that would encourage John Watson to stay. Sherlock hissed to himself, frustrated.
He pulled out the last two beer mugs for their tea and set them by the stove in front of John. John raised his eyebrows like he was expecting something more and Sherlock frowned. There didn't seem to be any pressing need to speak but apparently he'd missed something.
"We should buy more mugs," he blurted.
Stupid. They'd yet to sweep the floor; surely John was as often reminded of their need as he was. Then again, John was not trained in observation. Sure enough, John glanced down at the pottery around them as if surprised. He met Sherlock's eyes then, like something important had just occurred and smiled softly, that lopsided smile he used when emotional and awkward about it. Sherlock did his best to mirror it, as if he understood and John nodded.
"I'll buy more online. Free delivery coupon came this week," John replied and Sherlock inhaled, finally catching up. John would buy mugs because they'd both need them, if not living alone. Subtle. But John was staying. Or thinking about staying. Thinking about being around enough to need mugs.
Happiness. Too much happiness. Sherlock broke his gaze away unable to handle the emotions pouring into his brain. Relief and something a little like pain. Love, maybe. He didn't know. He didn't want to be touched. Or to talk. He wasn't going to talk anymore.
"I'll hoover," he announced sharply, heading downstairs to steal Mrs. Hudson's. Clever of him, surely. Vacuums were loud.
~~/~~
John did his best to sweep up the loose glass before Sherlock sucked it up in the hoover tubes and tore them to shreds. Sherlock arrived in the kitchen while he was binning the last of it, holding up a hoover like he'd figured out the perfect response to John's offer to stay. Still, it meant John didn't have to clean up the remnants of their mugs. So he didn't mention it. Then Sherlock began hoovering the kitchen floor and John went into the living room to find something to read. He'd barely cracked open one of Sherlock's London history books when Sherlock got bored and left the house, shutting the door behind himself without a word.
It was time for him to go home, John knew. It was that or start cracking open more of the clothing boxes upstairs and he'd already decided not to move in.
He wouldn't live with Sherlock Holmes, left behind and lied to; he'd decided that. Now John hesitated, idling in the living room.
I would rather let Moriarty live to watch me die, would rather break every bone in my body and see you live to hate me, than see you shot in the skull. A mistake, I grant you, given your very twisted priorities, general desire for living on the edge of death and inability to move on from mine. A state of mind I was apparently supposed to deduce from the moment you grabbed Moriarty to your wired chest and told me to run, a year before and significantly before you ever felt you loved me.
I told you! I gave you the blueprints, plans, Janine and Magnussen in person. Every detail I have to give!
I made a mistake and learned from it.
John exhaled, something in his heart untwisting. A lasting bit of hate he'd never gotten out. He picked around the room's worn furniture, dragging his hand over the dusty mantel and noticing scratches in the bookcase he'd never seen. There was something vital in this place, something he hadn't been able to leave despite all his fury. A fury that was settling, now. Losing its edge.
~~/~~
Sally Donovan's address was written on her personnel file. And, as far as Sherlock could tell, approaching the ill-kept townhouse, it was still accurate. Broken blinds hung in the undressed windows lit from behind. Lights were on. The second story had deep blue curtains and windowboxes; a very different tenant. A rental then, and Sherlock guessed Donovan lived on the bottom floor.
He knocked and waited. She was home; he could hear her approach the door and saw her peer at him through the slit in the broken blinds. He knocked again, to show he would. Sure enough, Donovan jerked the door open, wearing only a robe and a towel twisted in her hair.
"There better be a corpse," she growled. Sherlock blinked, unsettled, and she slammed the door again. He stiffed the air. Sex. He knocked again.
Donovan ripped the door open.
"You are such an asshole," she complained but stepped aside to let him in. Target acquired. That technique did tend to work. Sherlock stepped onto the dirt and hair covered floor, looking for any evidence of who was here. Short blond hairs on the back of the couch. Could be a cat's, but they looked thin for that.
The flat door opened into a small living room and kitchen without a dining table. There was dust on the countertops and to-go boxes in the paper recycling bags by the trash. She didn't cook. Ate at the T.V., judging by the crumbs. One hook by the door, no room for extra coats. Lived alone, planned on continuing doing so. Large shoes by the door, bigger than Donovan's. Smaller than Anderson's. Man definitely still here. Sherlock noted that; he could mock her with that, if she was unhelpful. She'd be less useful in the future if she hated him again. Probably unwise.
"Want a beer?" she asked, turning her back on him to head toward the fridge. Sherlock accepted, to see if she was serious, and Sally led him into the kitchen. She handed him a lager, almost friendlily, and leaned against the counter. Probably guessing he knew she'd just had sex on the couch and wouldn't want to touch it. Sherlock nodded, grateful. "How's John?" she asked, cutting straight to the bone and Sherlock cracked open his beer though he didn't want to drink it.
"Better. Less angry. Pretending to be more stable than he is. Possibly a good thing, psychology is a subjective field fraught with untried guesses and over generalizations. Nothings obvious about what he'll do next. Too many options," Sherlock complained, leaning against the counter to mirror her body language. She relaxed a bit, listening now, like she didn't have a man currently hiding in her bedroom. Good. "Buying mugs," he added and Donovan raised her eyebrows at him as if that didn't make sense. Sherlock ignored her.
"Staying with you then?" she asked and Sherlock had to remember what she knew. She'd seen him search for John, seen him find John, gave him an idea so John would stay.
"What the hell is Parcheesy?" he growled and Donovan stared at him. Too quick a change of topic; she was wondering if he were crazy, probably. "Yes, staying with me," Sherlock corrected sharply. "Probably. Again," he added more accurately. Donovan raised her eyebrows.
"Probably again," she repeated dully and Sherlock rolled his eyes. Talking to people was always so slow. Shame Mycroft had to be a useless twat.
"He left, came back," he explained, frustrated. Sally frowned. Surely that wasn't too complicated for her excuse for a brain?
"Why?" she asked. Sherlock grimaced.
"I'm a miserable man, Sherlock. All I want from you is for you to be miserable, to regret your stupid plan leaving me behind to mourn you, and to regret so thoroughly lying to me," Sherlock quoted, doing his best to get John's inflection right. Sally's eyes widened.
"What'd you say to that?" she asked. Sherlock hesitated. He didn't like sharing. But he needed help.
"I told him I'd lost everything," he replied and Donovan's eyebrows rose even further. In disbelief, by the look of it. "He said he didn't want me to be miserable. I told him he just didn't want to watch," Sherlock added, feeling his shoulders fall with the memory. Broken pride, he acknowledged, watching her frown at him. The kitchen was quiet, just the hum of the refrigerator interrupting them. The man in the bedroom was probably listening.
"Why'd he come back?" she asked finally.
"I did drugs, gave him a case that'd likely get us killed, took his chair, and introduced him to my girlfriend," he summarized. Donovan took a gulp of her beer, processing that.
"Girlfriend?" she asked first, sounding concerned, and Sherlock brushed away the topic with a flick of his hand.
"Using her for a case," he whispered, aware of their probable eavesdropper.
"But that's-" she started, looking disgusted.
"Over. John," Sherlock interrupted, not wanting to have that whole damn conversation twice.
"And you did drugs and took his chair," Donovan repeated, fortunately moving past the 'girlfriend' thing. Sherlock took a sip of his beer to look like he was enjoying it. Unhelpful choice of beverage when he wanted to think but at least it gave him a fairly trapped audience.
"Not an intentional scheme to lure him out but in retrospect an effective one," Sherlock agreed. Sally rubbed at her forehead.
"You're so fucked up, Sherlock," she commented. Sherlock ignored her. Certainly information he already had.
"He makes excuses and sleeps on the couch. Ergo, he wants to stay," Sherlock summarized. Donovan nodded slowly and sipped at her beer.
"So what's the problem?" she asked. Sherlock leaned his head against her kitchen cabinets, thinking he shouldn't have come. Pathetic. A lost cause, anyway.
"It is relevant because it renders your obvious attraction towards me inconsequential. You are leaving, ergo it does not matter what state your penis is in when I touch your hair," Sherlock quoted, trying to ignore how his face tingled in a developing blush. Donovan opened her mouth as if to speak, only to wait and think with her face agape. She closed her mouth finally, apparently understanding something, and bit her lip.
"And now he's not leaving," she summarized and Sherlock lifted his head to knock it lightly against her cabinets. "And you came here to ask me what you should do about John Watson's erections," she added and Sherlock closed his eyes. Pathetic. He opened his eyes to see Donovan gulping down the last of her beer. He sipped at his so she couldn't kick him out. "Do you have to do anything?" she asked and he stared at her, baffled. She sighed heavily and tried again. "Do you want to do anything with his erections again?"
'Again'. She still thought they'd been together before. Irrelevant. Did he want to touch John? Not all the time. But sometimes he felt the irrational need to grip onto John and hold tight, when his penis would lengthen and harden and he'd want to feel John's face, his chest. Smell him.
"On occasion," he answered uncomfortably and Donovan smirked, tossing her bottle into the full bag by the sink.
"And from that massively disturbing hair quote, I take it he wants you?" she asked, straightening. Sherlock swallowed. He could remember moments, before he jumped, when John would watch him, his pulse rising and his legs crossing to conceal his penis. And his whispered confessions in the hospital, hair-raising pleas that he wanted Sherlock once, had wanted Sherlock Holmes's touch. Could remember John's erection in the bath, his embarrassment confessing that it'd happen again.
He heard someone rustling in the bedroom, the clink of a belt. Getting dressed, maybe.
"On occasion," Sherlock answered. Donovan approached him quickly.
"Easy. Then spend a lot of time looking into his eyes, watch him when you want to, and wait," she said, pulling the beer from his hands and tossing it loudly into the sink to spill down the drain.
"Wait for what?" Sherlock asked, reaching to save his beer.
"No idea. It'll happen or it won't. His call. Nope," she protested, pulling him away from the kitchen. "That's the best advice I've got. You're leaving," she said, pushing him now. Sherlock obeyed to keep her from touching him again. She stopped him by the door with a hand on his arm, defeating the purpose. Sherlock noted not to bother obeying next time. "Best advice I've got. Really," she repeated.
"Wait," he mocked, snarling. He hated waiting. Sally nodded.
"Yup. And meet his eyes a lot," she agreed and Sherlock growled. "Bye bye," she insisted and ushered him out of the door. She shut it in his face and Sherlock had started back home, wondering how much eye-staring constituted 'a lot', when his phone buzzed with a text.
:Bug landed:
Janine.
~~/~~