Wednesday, March 23rd, 2011

It was not a good day.

Tedious, in point of fact. Sherlock supposed he'd better entertain himself. John was out buying groceries. Probably just as well.

Sherlock had scarcely glanced at the client since Mrs. Hudson had let him in, her eyes round at the odd dress the man was costumed in.

Costume, thought Sherlock, being the key here. He sat in his chair, eyes half-lidded as the client postured by the fireplace, stepping back and forth and gesticulating. His accent had the cadences of a native from the Indian sub-continent, but if he'd really wanted to convince Sherlock that he hailed from Jharkhand state, he ought to have avoided using the open-mid front unrounded vowel sounds of a person from North India. He sighed inwardly.

"Will you take the case, Mr. Holmes?" asked the impostor.

"No," said Sherlock.

"Why not?" demanded the swathed figure. "The Jharia diamond rightly belongs to my people! Our heritage has been stolen! We must have justice! If -"

"Enough," said Sherlock. "I am not about to waste my time on an overblown actor who wishes to use my services - not to find a fabled diamond, but gain access to certain papers and photos pertaining to his adulterous affairs kept under lock and key by his wife. You wish to employ me as some kind of dupe. You are wasting my time; the door is just behind you."

There was a charged silence. Dark eyes glared at Sherlock from over the striped scarf swathing the man's lower face.

"Explain yourself, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock raised a brow. Oh, very good. Bait taken. "If you insist. Shall we start with your clothes? The turban is only a cap with a long piece attached and wound 'round a few times. The kurta and churidar - not obviously wrong but the textile of the waist wrapping is more Indonesian than Indian." He stood and moved closer, noting the man's clenched hands and tense shoulders. "And what do you call this?" He flapped a hand at the man's sleeveless over-robe.

"You tell me."

"Well, a Bedouin aba made with Indian Khadi cotton? All wrong." He wrinkled his nose. "Coupled with the dark contact lenses and the high quality reproduction Talwar sabre hidden under that loose outer robe? Obvious." Feigning disinterest, he made his way into the kitchen to fill the kettle and plug it in.

The actor followed him, blustering in his faux accent. "What do you mean, obvious! What's obvious? I was told, I was assured by certain people that you were the best -"

Sherlock turned back, hands shoved into pockets. "I am the best. You want to know why I won't take your case? Fine. First, there's your sword."

"What of it, it has been in my family for generations!"

"Been in a prop department, more like. Curved blades over fifty centimetres are prohibited by law, except in certain cases, such as in private collections - or theatrical productions. You are wearing a colourful but inaccurate Indian costume. You are trying to pass yourself off as a Sikh warrior from a state where Sikhs make up a mere three percent of the population. You are utterly failing at both dressing and acting the part. Insulting, really."

"I am no actor!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That much is true. Be that as it may, you scowled at my old copy of The Sun when you entered, which happens to depict a certain woman rumoured to keep company with an actor who has a wandering eye. Said actor has a wife that celebrity gossip sites claim is in the process of filing for divorce while she 'stays with friends.' Considering the aforementioned actor's last two productions were financial and artistic flops, this man stands to lose his vaunted lifestyle. In short, I find your little attempt at deception distasteful and your presence tedious, Mr. James Ashton."

With a certain satisfaction Sherlock watched the tell-tale signs of fury stiffening the man's body, the way the man's head dropped lower as though preparing to charge. Perfect. "It's not a surprise your career is on a downward spiral if this is representative of your talent - I received a much more convincing plea just this morning in an email from a certain Nigerian oil company. Congratulate me, Mr. Ashton - I am due to receive 47 million U.S. dollars."

Sherlock rolled out the last phrase with a certain relish. The temptation to practice disarming a foe was irresistible. He'd have a nice go-round with the tiresome Mr. Ashton and clear him off before John returned. He smiled at the enraged man, and the tipping point was reached.

Mr. James Ashton did not disappoint. The tussle was brief but satisfying, though Ashton's theatrical combat training tempered any actual murderous threat. An uppercut, and the actor was down. Satisfied, Sherlock watched the ersatz Indian slide boneless to the floor. Well. Time to remove the rubbish. The bins behind Speedy's were due to be emptied. He'd need to use the back door, which meant there was only one thing to be done. Sherlock rubbed his knuckles and sighed.

"Mrs. Hudson!"

Wrestling the limp man down the stairs and out the back door of 221A was a chore. Sherlock swiped at his forehead as he and his landlady looked at the groaning man lying amongst the bins.

"Is that James Ashton?" Mrs. Hudson asked. Sherlock nodded and she made a moue of disgust. "I heard he's having a fling with that young thing from that music band." She sniffed. "No wonder his wife is leaving him. He'd have been better off just confessing the whole to his wife. He's handsome enough to get away with it if he would just beg forgiveness."

Sherlock's mouth twisted slightly at her words. "Yes," he replied in a low tone.

Mrs. Hudson patted his sleeve. "No matter, dear. We don't want his type hanging around here. Though..." She brightened and smiled. "Sherlock, would you be a dear and use your phone to take a photo? I'd love to send it to Mrs. Turner, she reads all the gossip papers."

Sherlock grinned and squeezed her shoulders. "Anything you like, Mrs. Hudson."

It was not a good day.

'Card not authorised. Please use an alternative method of payment.'

Great. Just great.

The idiot machine warbled. John gave up. This, on top of everything else - job hunt stalled, dwindling finances, no girlfriend. Not even any dates; his lips tightened at the thought.

'Card not authorised...'

"Yes, all right!" he snapped. Someone sighed behind him. Right. That was it, he'd had quite enough.

The other shoppers watched with expression that varied between amusement and relief as he marched from the store. Bested by a supermarket chip and pin machine - and he'd invaded Afghanistan. His strides were brisk, shoes hitting the pavement hard enough to jar his body. An elderly lady dragged her Yorkie out of his path as though afraid he would punt the shivering thing. John snorted and slowed.

He ought to see the humour in it - a shouting match with an automaton that only told him the hard truth: his card would not work because he was skint. He yelled, it didn't listen and in return told him he was doing everything wrong. Bit like dealing with Sherlock. John's brows drew together.

I AM an idiot, he thought. Everyone thinks Sherlock's the mad one, but I'm the one touched in the head. What am I doing?

The strange misery of his life, the ache of Sherlock's apparent indifference, and John's frustration welled up again. He turned the key in the lock of 221 so hard his fingers slipped off. He grunted and rubbed his stinging forefinger.

Not a good day.

John is not going to be best pleased at the worse-than-usual state of the flat. As Sherlock thanked Mrs. Hudson for her help and climbed the stairs, his lips pressed together, considering the problem of John.

John the anomaly. John was not behaving in predicted patterns. Irony of ironies - after all, Sherlock had shouted at the police often enough about the folly of making assumptions. Yet here he was, and John was the one who had put him there, all bland expression, squashy jumpers and wry smiles... Stop. Sherlock had done and was still doing what he'd promised himself.

/ let him know that you recognise him / show him who you are / OBSERVE / John must choose to acknowledge their previous connection / All else must follow from that /John must decide the course of their association /

Idiot. What kind of moron makes a promise like that? Sherlock grimly shoved the kitchen table into position. And what kind of being was John that he had not yet, despite all provocation, turned to Sherlock and said, "Game's up, Hugh. I knew all along. Now, explain yourself." It was unnatural. Curiosity alone should have precipitated an interrogation on John's part.

Assistant. Flatmate. Friend. Preoccupied, Sherlock restored the items that had been knocked askew on the table back to their original positions. He knew that beyond their first contact via phone, John and he had forged a friendship. The real problem was that he, Sherlock Holmes, was never satisfied. That dark addictive part of him had found a thing that satisfied something within him, and now he wanted more, needed it all. Wanted to drink John down, all the depths of him. Stop it, he warned himself. Not productive of anything.

He shoved a kitchen chair back in its place and stalked into the living room, pulling the sofa away from the wall. Hmm. Dent in the plaster. Hopefully John wouldn't see, he'd been quite exercised over the acid and worktop incident.

Hadn't Sherlock done everything right? Wasn't he including John in his work? They were partners, they meshed perfectly! John's walking stick was gathering dust in the corner; he had fewer nightmares. And then there were the other times between cases and police consultations - the jokes, the ridiculous way John pecked at his laptop as though afraid the keys would nip his finger tips. Sherlock had even learned to tolerate the rubbish telly programs John liked.

It was perfect. John was matchless. Sherlock could do this, he would -

-What will happen when sheryl_28 finally tells her flatmate she's had a crush after all this time? He'll run - like, five hundred miles LOL-

Sherlock nipped off that line of thought. No time to think of that misbegotten website. Where was John? It never took him more than thirty five minutes to do the shopping, he should have been back. I should text him.

Stop. Was he really considering texting John just to find his location? It was absurd. No, he was absurd.

He dragged his chair back into its usual position and kicked the sabre underneath, dropping into the sagging leather with a thump. Scrubbing his face, he groaned. The situation was untenable. How had it come to this? Something had to give, this couldn't go on. John must do something or Sherlock would go mad.

A clunk at the front door had Sherlock scrabbling for a book and slouching back in a position of assumed ease as John stepped in, irritation radiating like waves of heat. Perhaps it was ill-advised, but Sherlock couldn't help commenting, "You took your time."

"I didn't get the shopping," said John.

"What? Why not?" Sherlock's brows drew together.

Like an blow torch to powdered magnesium, the question lit John's temper. Fast-burning and bright. Spectacular while it lasts. Sherlock took care to smooth his expression out whilst listening to John's tirade against chip-and-pin machines and offered a conciliatory sop. "Take my card." Endearing, the way John's face scrunched up and his ears reddened when he shouted. But if John's card wasn't working... Sherlock's mind began to turn over the problem.

John began to move towards the kitchen but turned back, irate. "You know, you could always go yourself!"

Sherlock ignored the irrelevancy, the small issue tumbling through his mind like a pebble in a stream.

/ John / requires food / card problem / worried / so tedious / my card has money / just take it /

He was only peripherally aware as John rubbed a finger over the scratch in the table and shot him an accusing look before exiting on a heavy exhalation. More damage we can't afford to pay, Sherlock! the sigh said.

Money.

Sherlock slouched deeper in his chair. How the banality of monetary matters bored him. But if John was bothered, then Sherlock must be concerned as well. He now regretted disposing of the James Ashton infidelity case – it would have been a significant payment, particularly if he'd requested non-disclosure money. He had no compunction about making such a man disgorge extortionate fees. Ah, well.

He slapped his hands on the arms of the chair and propelled himself up, stooping to snatch up the sword and shoving it behind a stack of books. He seated himself at the desk and flipped open John's laptop. Password circumvented, he opened a browser, hissing a breath of discontent. Looking for work. Hateful. No wonder John was so downcast these past few weeks.

Twelve minutes later he had the answer to John's monetary concerns. But he didn't like it.

"'How're things, buddy?'" he read aloud. "'Buddy.' Appalling semblance of casual acquaintance. 'Been a long time.'" He pressed his finger tips together and half-closed his eyes, quashing his reaction. Not long enough.

John thumped up the stairs, still in a strop. It was small-minded to be irritated with Sherlock merely because his card worked in the chip-and-pin machine and John's didn't - but the whole thing made him feel useless. Flatmate? More like put-upon stay-at-home housewife. With no benefits. Not even a lie-back-and-think-of-England.

"Don't worry about me, I can manage," he said, testing how the phrase fitted his role. Too well, for his peace of mind. Sherlock didn't look 'round as he dumped the bags on the table. Of course, never mind me, Sherlock. Sherlock - who had hijacked his laptop. Again.

"Is that my computer?" he asked, hating himself for stating the obvious even as he did so. Sherlock answered without looking 'round, long fingers flying over the keyboard. John's jaw clamped, hearing the unspoken subtext in a smooth baritone even as Sherlock insulted his password choice. I needed a computer, yours was closest, is this not self evident? Don't be simple, John.

Hell with that, John thought. He reached over to take his laptop back, nearly catching Sherlock's fingers as he snapped the lid down. Petty, but he was not in the mood. Sherlock only folded his hands together, ignoring the reclamation of the laptop. Fine, be like that.

John fell back into his favoured chair. With a sigh, he picked the mail. Bills, some of them overdue. He was uncomfortably aware that he was getting behind with his share of the rent. And the groceries. And the other day-to-day expenses of living in London. "I've got to get a job," he said for what felt like the hundredth time. Sherlock responded with his usual sniff of disdain.

John looked at Sherlock from beneath lowered brows. This fucking day. He felt the dark yawning of some pit inside - anger? No, humiliation. Bloody Sherlock with his bloody posh suits, what did he have to worry about? John was never more aware of the differences between them as he screwed himself up to ask, "Listen, um... if you'd be able to lend me some... " He paused, the word getting stuck in his throat. Sherlock was statue-still, eyes distant. Could this be any worse? "Sherlock, you listening?"

Sherlock's head lifted. "I need to go to the bank."

John blinked as Sherlock grabbed his coat from the door and flung it on. Realisation struck and he leapt up to get his own jacket. Oh, thank God for mind-reading genius flatmates. He wasn't sure he could bring himself to ask Sherlock again. Just a loan until he was able to get some kind of position, that's all he needed. Puzzled, he followed Sherlock into the Tube station.

"Sherlock, isn't your bank just around the corner?"

Sherlock handed John his spare Oyster card. "Not the bank we need."

Bishopsgate, Tower 42? John might have known better.

He looked about as Sherlock led the way into the gleaming glass and metal structure, neck muscles tightening. Go to the bank? Ha. John felt out of place here in his jeans amongst the sharp suits and hard-faced traders. Damned if he'd let it show, though. He straightened his shoulders, lifting his chin. Sherlock looked more the thing in his long coat. Of course he does, thought John. If he wasn't such a misanthrope, Sherlock would fit right in.

I hope a small loan of money makes an appearance soon, John thought. And then he could make his escape back to the shabby comfort of Baker Street. He set his teeth as a personal assistant guided them through the anthill of financial activity to a large private office. John glanced at the door plate.

Oh, grand. They were only meeting the Director of the Trading Floor. Bad enough John had swallowed his pride to ask for money. Not that Sherlock had dignified it with a spoken response. But this place? John would have loved a moment just to tuck his shirt in in order to look presentable. Bloody typical of Sherlock to just walk out, expecting John to follow.

Be fair, John. It's not Sherlock's fault you've been sucked into his wake again.

But what are we doing here, really?

Damn Sebastian.Sherlock refused to call him by his old familiar nickname. Any other day and he would have deleted the email without a second thought.

/ high likelihood of Sebastian using position::history::clout in attempt at intimidation / futile / defense?/ John / solve the case / accept the money / John has the moral satisfaction of money for work / I have satisfaction of confounding Sebastian's expectations /

Sherlock cast a quick glance at John. At least he had a friend with him. Satisfied, Sherlock gave his name to the receptionist. With John at his side, something that was jangling within him was calmed. Prosaic, sensible John was a touchstone, grounding Sherlock in this horrible place full of the blind worship of empty numbers.

As they waited, Sherlock was conscious of a sense of gratitude that John wasn't distracting him with questions. Bad enough they had to meet Sebastian under these circumstances at all. Unpleasant, having John ask him for money. Must be more aware of finances in the future.

And then there was Sebastian. Sherlock held himself erect, arms folded behind in studied nonchalance with his back to the door.

Be polite. You are here for John, and with John. Yet he still felt the curl of distaste in his belly as he turned and greeted Sebastian Wilkes with a handshake. Eight years, nine months, and twenty three days it had been since their last encounter.

Sebastian looked much the same, he noted. Floppy hair, well-groomed (electric razor), fit (personal trainer but infrequent sessions), expensively clothed (hm, new watch). Sherlock's lips stretched in a rictus. Observe: the sartorial splendour of the cochliomyia hominivorax larva.

In his peripheral vision, he could see John's eyes going back and forth between Sebastian and himself, his expressive mouth flattening out.

Seb smiled broadly, grasping Sherlock's wrist with his left as they shook hands. The familiar possessive touch was unpleasant in its associations. "How's it going, buddy?" Sebastian asked, all affability. Sherlock's expression became mask like.

/ again with the 'buddy!' / we fucked / said I had no proper emotions / understand nothing / know this /

"This is my friend, John Watson," Sherlock said with deliberation. You are a maggot next to him, do you see this? John Watson is with me. Your past assertions have been proven wrong.

Sidelined, John watched. Sherlock was oddly effusive in his greeting to the trader. Old boy network. Some kind of business meeting then. Christ. Why had Sherlock let him come along? This was not his area, not at all. Then Sherlock drew the man's attention to John, and introduced him.

"This is my friend. John Watson."

Oh, God, thought John. No. Don't say that, not in front of this man, for God's sake! Sebastian's brows lifted and his mouth twitched as he looked sidelong at John.

Fuck.

"Colleague," asserted John, and then tried to cover his brusqueness with a smile. Oh God. He'd just made it worse. Damn it, Sherlock! he thought. No one brings their 'friend' to business meetings! God, what he must be thinking... But the damage was done as Sebastian shook John's hand and gave Sherlock a disbelieving smirk. John felt ill. He cast Sherlock a quick fulminating glance as they seated themselves.

Perfect. He, Doctor John H. Watson, was an assistant when they were at crime scenes. At Baker street he was a jobless errand boy sponging off his flat-mate. And in the priciest real estate in London, he was the tag-along friend - or whatever - when they were meeting executives wearing ties that would probably cost the equivalent of one of his pension cheques. He was an embarrassment. The back of John's neck felt hot. Thank you. Thank you so much, Sherlock, for letting me know how important I am. I know your work means everything to you, and I thought I was part of that.

And now John had just been demoted in front of Sherlock's FTSE 100 associate to 'friend.'

Colleague. Sherlock's mind froze for a minuscule amount of time, long enough to set his thoughts skittering and sliding. John had corrected him. John said he was a colleague. Yes, of course he assisted Sherlock, but that wasn't all it was. Was it? He tried wrench his mind back.

/ colleague / irrelevant / there's a case / old lover-enemy / John's not - / terminate /

As was his wont, Sherlock withdrew - he pulled the old familiar scarred armour on and began to do what he did best. He felt the cold creep up and over his thoughts, tamping down the roil within. In a biting tone he began to draw conclusions about Sebastian's recent travels. He felt John's questioning look, but Sherlock kept his face turned away, expression hidden.

However, Sebastian was well up for the direct attack and came back with his own riposte. He threw John a sly glance, speaking in a confiding tone as though Sherlock weren't right there.

"We hated him. You'd come down to breakfast in the formal hall and this freak would know who you'd been shagging the previous night."

Ah, Sebastian. Still able to find those ancient cracks in his defences and prise them open. Sherlock felt the shaft strike home and shifted tactics. Retreat - but only for a moment as Sebastian smiled and smiled and mocked him in front of John.

Sherlock's gaze dropped away. As Sebastian returned fire with derisive comments about ketchup and mud, Sherlock saw John bite the inside of his cheek and turn away - but not enough to hide his small smile.

Sebastian's smile was predator-white as he watched Sherlock, waiting for the storm to break.

Sherlock drew a shallow breath. "I was chatting to your secretary outside," he said. It was almost worth conceding the skirmish to see the derision slide from Sebastian's face. John's brows drew together. Prevaricate. It didn't matter any more what Sebastian. Or John. Why was he here?

A case. That was the reason, all else was chaff. Just get through this. Sherlock didn't need the money but now he was committed. His life was the work.

Sebastian looked uncertain for a moment, then roared with laughter. Sherlock flicked a smile so patently false that John again looked uncertain. Confused, John? Unsurprising. Sherlock drew the mental shutters down more firmly. Focus. Finish this.

In the unused office, John stood back with arms crossed as Sherlock examined a portrait of a portly business man that was much improved by a surrealist streak of yellow spray over the eyes. So - they were here on a case. A locked room mystery of security and vandalism. So much for his hopes of a loan. There was some strange undercurrent between Sebastian and Sherlock.

John had been startled when Sherlock had lied about his deductions. Normally the detective would take pleasure in battering down his victim with 'obvious facts.' Sherlock's reaction was out of character, and thus unsettling. John regretted his brief satisfaction at how Sebastian had done the unthinkable and taken Sherlock down a peg.

Sherlock was intent on the strange graffiti, ignoring his companions. Sebastian watched Sherlock, and John watched Sebastian. Odd, Sebastian's expression. Smug. There was something... what was it? John's mind began to click over, remembering a conversation from a few months back. About people who called Sherlock a freak. Heartless and cold. About 'Hugh's' university lover, some prat called...

"Seb," murmured John. The man himself spared him a glance before herding Sherlock towards the front desk. John trailed in their wake, listening with half-attention.

..

(-I don't do relationships.

-Must have been one hell of a break-up.

-It was a long time ago. It's not important.)

..

Of course it wasn't, John thought. Sebastian held out a pre-printed cheque. Sherlock's face grew cold; he made no move to touch it.

Right. John's chin went up. This was meant to be work, not a favour for an old university mate using his school connections. But taking that cheque, produced so negligently from someone of Sebastian Wilkes' ilk? No. John understood about bullies and their petty tyrannies. This was Sherlock's work, but it was also Sebastian scoring off his ex-boyfriend by making him a subordinate.

Principles. This worm had gotten to Sherlock, and was still getting at him. The thought sent a flicker of anger through John. Well, he could still pay. John watched until Sherlock's dark form was well away and turned to Sebastian without his most innocent look. He could do this for Sherlock, at least.

He nipped the cheque away from the distracted Sebastian and sucked in a theatrical breath at the number of zeroes. Sebastian raised a brow and John employed a meaningless smile.

Think what you like. Sherlock will solve your mystery and show you up as the fat-headed prat you are. He won't take the money from the likes of you, but I will. For him. Fuck you very much.

Somehow failing to say good bye, he followed Sherlock.

As they left Shad Sanderson, Sherlock made sure he kept a stride ahead of John. A wintry smile crossed his face as John asked about Sebastian's watch. Well, that was something - John still thought his observations were clever. But he still felt the prick of John's casual correction.

Colleague.

Of course John assisted him with the work, it was one of the things that made him perfect. Sherlock's lifestyle was not for the faint of heart, and John fit into it. He wanted John with him, had taken on this hideous job for John. Well, on that head, at least John had the money he needed now.

Was that not what friends did, helped each other?

He threw a look over his shoulder. John was keeping pace, as always. John. Must at least maintain the status quo. But how? He was stymied. The more Sherlock involved him with the work, the more it felt John was slipping away somehow. Horrible to think that the dating-site denizens were right. How could he admit that he was Hugh, after all this time? Sherlock pictured John's angry face - no, worse. John's blank face as he shut down his reactions, pulled away, further and further, horribly polite as he told Sherlock he'd be moving out of Baker Street as soon as he could find a suitable place.

But maintaining this façade between them was wearing, Sherlock could feel the thin spots in his shields. If they broke... That wouldn't happen. He couldn't let it, he'd promised. For the time being there was this tedious case, and the absent Van Coon to question. Hardly worth my while. Sherlock called for a taxi and they both got in.

Silence hung thick as they rode, broken only by the click of keys on Sherlock's mobile. He felt John's gaze upon him and exhaled.

"You have more questions."

"You've known him for eight years? Old friend?" John's tone was tentative.

Eight years, two hundred ninety four days and far too long. "I was acquainted with him at uni. Lacking evidence to the contrary, I assume he managed to continue to exist in the absence of my attention since that time, yes. Obviously." He thrust his mobile back into a pocket, not meeting John's eyes. "I wouldn't say I know him."

"Oh." A pause. "All right then. Guess that's why you didn't seem too keen to see him again."

..

(-Oh come on, Sherlock. Don't be like that. It's not like you've any feelings to hurt. Can you blame me?)

..

"Do you really think he's the kind of person I would stay in touch with?" Sherlock wished the words back as soon as they left his lips. That had come out less caustic than he'd wanted.

John gave a short laugh. "Well, if one went by appearances, you seem to be one of his kind."

John, if only you knew. Or do you? "Is this one of your keen observations, then? That Sebastian and I have the superficial appearance of being -"

"Good background. Posh suits. Public school accent. And you both part your hair the same way."

Sherlock immediately resolved to get a haircut. "Well done you."

"But there was at least one difference."

"Just one?"

"You might be unbearable sometimes, but he's a complete wanker," said John, and it was Sherlock's turn to give a real smile.

"That talk about shagging at the breakfast table," John continued. "Nice story. Must have quite a history. Not any of my business, can't think why he wanted to bring it up except to embarrass you in front of me."

History. Yes. Sherlock's eyes flickered. Some things too pernicious to be erased, etched like acid into metal and badly covered since then. He despised the memory, hated that younger, softer version of himself and its flawed defenses. Always a mistake to care.

..

(-You fucking idiot! What the hell is wrong with you?

-You're upset, Seb? Shouldn't I be the one angry, being the wronged party here?

-You didn't have to announce to the entire year that I'd been at Clive's last night!

-The stubble abrasions and contusions not entirely covered by the neck of your shirt made it obvious. And if I may correct your erroneous declaration, it wasn't last night. Not only last night. Or the week before. Or only Clive.

-So? And what about it?

-I'd say you were a fool, then. First, for thinking I wouldn't notice, not that you took much effort in hiding it. I suppose I may take from that circumstance your true opinion of me. Second, that I would put up with it for the pleasure of your company. Did you really think I had no self-respect?

-You. You think I'm the stupid one? Let me tell you something, Sherlock -

-Go on, enlighten me, Seb.

-If you thought that announcing that I fucked around - that I cheated on you is going to make anyone think less of me, much less take your side, you are wrong! They are laughing at you, do you understand that? Can you get that into your thick head? We can't stand you!

-...

-Say something, you twat! Don't just sit there with that face! You don't even care, do you. You're not capable of real feelings, you are a fucking inhuman robot! And no one else could or ever will stomach you, you freak.

-That's not true.

-We're finished. Maybe one day if I'm feeling generous, I'll give you a call. You're a good shag, for a freak. It's why I put up with you for so long.)

..

"It didn't embarrass me. I would have to care for the opinions of others in order for that to happen." Trying not have an interest in what you think, John. Failing. Sherlock twitched up the collar of his coat, then forced his hands to be still on his legs when he saw John taking in the nervous movement.

"Yes. I can see that," John said, turning his face away again. "Should I break his kneecaps for you, then? Or would he ask for the cheque back?"

Sherlock stared. Was that a joke? Would he ever understand this John? "Tempting. But no." 'Colleagues' don't attack clients. He tuned out the inner voice telling him to consider the reasons John might make such an offer. John understood too much. "Not worth the trouble."

John chuckled. "Oh, I don't know. Might be worth giving up five figures."

At that an irrational swell of fury rose within Sherlock. It would have been beyond price, he thought, not to have been put in the position of taking money from Sebastian Wilkes. Never mind that it wasn't John's fault for being jobless. Or that John had his oh-so-ordinary need for regular amounts of sustenance. Or that before John entered his life, Sherlock wouldn't have even been bothered about money, but now he was, because John was. And it was just one more piece of detritus grinding in the wheels of his mind right now, spinning and sparking and it was intolerable.

Now Sherlock was having trouble deleting the sweat-hot remembrance of Sebastian's hand cuffing his wrist (let go / holding too long), the scent of Sebastian's coffee on his breath overlain with mouthwash as he leaned in towards Sherlock (close / too close / revolting /). The jackal-sharp smirk as his ex-lover looked John over and the sour taste in Sherlock's throat as John denied being anything more than his assistant.

He rapped on the glass. "Here, driver." He got out and shut the door before John could give more than a startled bleat about the fare.

John's ears burned as he used Sherlock's card to pay the cab driver. So much for empathy. He'd tried, really he had.

Within a few minutes Sherlock had engineered their entry into the building and dropped on to Van Coon's balcony from the apartment above. As John stood outside the door, he wondered why he even bothered. "Sherlock? You okay?" Left out like a unwanted dog. Again.

"Any time you feel like letting me in!"

John grimaced at his words. Sherlock never let him in, in any sense of the phrase. He raised his hand to press the buzzer again when Sherlock opened the door, his face impassive. John glared. "What did I say about running off?"

Sherlock only nodded over his shoulder. "Come on." John followed him through the bland flat to the bedroom. At the sight of the man, John's anger drained away, leaving only vague pity. Poor bastard. One would think wealth and a pricey suit would save one from the demons within. John knew better. Van Coon stared sightlessly, looking vulnerable with his hands turned up on the bed covers. Drops of blood shone like dark glass beads at the man's temple, the only colour in this room of bland tones.

It was all too familiar. John knew this place. He swallowed. Could have been me, once. Nearly was. He looked at Sherlock. Not any more. "Did you call Lestrade?"

"Yes. The police will be here shortly. Don't disturb anything, we have some time." Sherlock was already moving, magnifying glass clicking open as he bent over the bed. "Gloves?"

"Last pair we have." John reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small plastic packet, ripping it open and holding them at the ready.

"Make doubly sure you don't touch anything, then."

"Shall I add them to the shopping list?"

"Yes." Sherlock was sniffing at the man's face. The magnifier was snapped closed and he flapped a hand at John, who passed over the gloves. John blinked hard as a wave of displacement washed over him.

"How is this my life?" he wondered aloud.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder and flashed a brief mad smile. "Isn't it brilliant?" he said.

It's a measurement of how screwed up my life is, John thought even as he marveled at the brilliance of that smile, that I can't tell if Sherlock is answering the question or making a comment about the fresh body. He scrubbed his face and sighed. Either way, one thing was clear - the simple case of the vandalised banker had just become Sherlock's number one priority.

Resignation with a dash of self pity washed away the rebellious flame of attraction. And everything else, including my life, is put on hold. Sherlock called his name, and he turned back to the work.

Riding high on the cocktail of his confrontation with D.I. Dimmock (how Scotland Yard's standards have fallen!), vindication and an interesting murder, Sherlock rather enjoyed embarrassing Sebastian at his business lunch. Discomfitted, Sebastian excused himself from the table. Sherlock was aware of the eyes following them as Sebastian led the way to the Gent's, and a manic grin spread across his face. Tit-for-tat for lunch? A meal to be savoured.

He started as John touched his elbow.

"You're overdoing it again, Sherlock," said John sotto voce. "I mean, I'm here for a reason, right? Let me do the talking." He dropped his hand, but the pressure of John's fingers seemed to linger.

Sherlock dipped his chin and John exhaled. In relief? But John was right. Sebastian's presence ruined his equilibrium. Obviously he needed to work harder on maintaining an emotional distance - it wasn't good for his mental processes. John was good at talking to people.

Sebastian held open the door to the toilets and John led the way within.

In the taxi back to Baker Street, John looked out the window at the darkening sky, jaw clenched. Sherlock had managed to curl up tight enough to get his shoes on the seat despite the cabby's protests, and was staring straight ahead in one of his thinking poses, arms wound around his shins. He hadn't uttered a word since Sebastian had shut him down with a sneer, "I hired you to do a job. Don't get sidetracked."

John had tried, taking over the questioning - in part, to make up for his earlier bad mood. But knowing some of the history between Sebastian and Sherlock, he'd also wanted to be the colleague he'd claimed to be. No, that wasn't quite it. He'd tried to be a friend, and keep Sherlock from having to deal with the slimy Seb. For all the good it had done.

When Sebastian had got that text from his chairman and dismissed all of Sherlock's conclusions, Sherlock had tried to argue. The tone of Sherlock's voice, uttering "Seb...!" like an angry child that couldn't understand why others didn't believe him, had made John's hands tighten into fists.

John looked over at his flatmate and grimaced. So many taxi rides they'd had since that first one together, when Sherlock had surprised him and he'd challenged Sherlock in return. It seemed very long ago, that night when John had begun this ridiculous game of 'strangers meeting for the first time.'

The tight curl of Sherlock's body indicated more sulking then hurt, but John knew. He knew the Sherlock of old, 'Hugh' had told him enough details, and right now John was rigid with repressing the need to just... what? Touch Sherlock's shoulder. Grasp his wrist where the repellent man had touched him and reassure him somehow. Sherlock doesn't want that, doesn't want you like that. Fuck it. Fuck it, this had to stop sometime, Sherlock had to say something.

"Sherlock."

No response, other than a tightening of Sherlock's face. John cleared his throat and tried again. "Sherlock, that business between you and Sebastian. I -"

"I'll thank you not to mention his name again, John. As you heard, I have work to do, and I won't be distracted with your pointless maundering on matters which are utterly irrelevant to the case." The tone was brittle.

John swallowed back the rest of his words - I know all about it, I think I know what you must be feeling, you told me the story once, Sherlock. Hugh. "Right. Sorry. I'll just let you... I'll just let you work, then." He leaned forward and rapped sharply on the divider. "Here, pull over."

Sherlock's legs thumped down. "John." The taxi pulled over and John was out, fastening his coat against the breeze. "John, what are you doing?"

"Isn't it obvious?" John's face felt so stiff that the smile felt as though it were cracking it. "I'm getting out. I'll just... look, here's your card. I need to get out. That's all."

Something flickered over Sherlock's expression. He made no move to take the proffered card. "I'll see you back at the flat." The tone was almost a question. Almost. John's eyes closed a moment, before he nodded.

But Sherlock was sequestered in his bedroom when John came in chilled and hungry from his long walk, and the flat was silent. And anyway, what was there to say? Nothing. What could John do? Hammer on that door, shout through it that Hardwin wanted to talk? Drag the stubborn arse from his room, press him down on that sofa and give in to the urge to taste the curve of that pink upper lip? Chase after him from crime scene to crime scene, just an acolyte blindly devoted the foremost priest of the The Work? Impossible.

John plonked a handful of spaghetti noodles into a pot of boiling water and gave them a quick stir. Sighing, he rubbed the heel of his hand over the aching scar in his shoulder, then over his breastbone. No. He wasn't going to lose himself. He was his own person, damn it, and he still had his pride. And Sherlock isn't interested anyway.

There was an ache beneath the bone his fingers pressed, a sense of being stretched so tight that the least thing would snap him, that a limit had been reached.

No more. I can't. I stop here.

Whatever his life was, however it had improved, this thing between Sherlock and himself was not good. John tried to recall what normal life was, this healthy Utopian thing that his therapist told him he was meant to achieve, and choked a small laugh. Would he even recognise it if he saw it?

In the dim living room he sat alone at the desk, dinner plate and face lit by the glow cast by his opened laptop. Looking blankly at the blinking cursor on his blog, he began to eat. Have to try.

And so, the next morning, when the bright-eyed woman that sat across from him in a slightly dingy surgery office smiled at him (me!) in spite of his weak jests and offered him a part-time position (money, a job, independence oh thank god) he smiled back.

"Looking forward to it," said Sarah.

"Thank you," said John, holding her hand a fraction too long. "I really appreciate this."

Wish I could say that there were good reasons for the long delay, but really, excuses never sound good. The Blind Banker was kicking my ass, I needed lots and lots of time to sort motivations and character's heads out! That's about it. Sometimes inspiration flows. Sometimes it has the consistency of molasses in seb-zero weather.

I thought I'd get the Blind Banker (and the story) done with in two more chapters. That's what I said, did I not?

It is to laugh. Hopefully I'll get the Blind Banker done in the next chapter, AND then denouement, and we all know what that means in fics. Yes. With extra helpings of epilogue, I think.

Slow burn is very slow. And I have not quite done make them suffer, but in fic-time they have only five more days of angst, because that is how long TBB went for. It should be enough.

Sorry again for the lack of speed!