"And that one?" John muttered on the tube back home, gesturing subtly at a woman reading on a kindle in the bench opposite.
"Reading porn. Look how small she's set the font," Sherlock whispered back, leaning over to speak into his ear. His hand grazed John's leg, pulling away, and Sherlock met his eyes. It was like the man had lost something behind John's cornea and thought staring at him with every opportunity would return it to him. John felt like prey in the glare of headlights. He searched for another victim to refocus Sherlock's mind, until he replayed Sherlock's last sentence.
"How can you see her font?" he hissed. Too loudly, apparently, for the woman blushed and pressed on her screen, likely searching for tamer literature.
"The reflection," Sherlock replied at his normal volume now that discretion was futile. John blushed. The woman glared at them and returned to her book. "Man with the stroller," Sherlock directed, leaning to whisper in John's ear again. The man could not know how distracting that was, John decided, trying to think of anything but erections. Sherlock would definitely notice that.
"Well, he's got a baby," John started, familiar with the sensation of looking incompetent in Sherlock's cutting observation. "Looks a bit homeless, really," he added, noting the man's ragged clothing and the severe diabetes rash on his hand. "Smells bad, like something's rotting - untreated diabetes. A smoker, on and off. Got a cup with him, probably a beggar," John filled in. "Spends a lot of time in the sun," he added, noting that he was only repeating 'homeless' over and over but Sherlock nodded sagely like he was doing well. "Probably always on the run from child services," he added.
Poor kid.
"What else?" Sherlock muttered. John squinted, looking for track marks, athleticism, anything more he could spot beside the ragged clothing and much-cleaner blankets.
"What else is there?" he gave up finally.
"That's not a baby," Sherlock hummed and John jerked his head around to observe the homeless man again. Not even close to subtle, he regretted immediately, when the homeless man flashed two fingers at him.
There were a bunch of blankets in the carriage, nothing more. No face poking out, no moving hands. Just a ploy. John laughed quietly.
"It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts," Sherlock lectured and John grinned, inured to it. The homeless man snarled at them.
"Got milk?" he barked and John stared. An American homeless man. That was even more odd. Surely Sherlock had noticed some tiny detail, revealing that.
"Uh, no sir," John answered awkwardly and looked away. Sherlock was laughing at him. John shook his head, baffled, and Sherlock only appeared more self-satisfied.
"Hello Martin," he greeted and the homeless man shrugged heavily.
" 'Lock Holmes," he grunted back, pretending to tip a nonexistent hat. Was that what he thought the British were like? Sherlock would know how long the man had lived in the country, from his accent alone.
"Shall we?" Sherlock asked, standing up and lifting the heavy bag of books onto his shoulder. John waited until the tube carriage slowed and got to his feet. Sherlock met his eyes again, holding his gaze until the carriage stopped and the doors opened.
~~/~~
There wasn't always something to cause it. Sometimes he could wake up in his bed in a peaceful room and panic.
John pushed himself into the far back of his room, sucking in air. Fuck but he couldn't get it to stop. He was in his old bedroom in 221B. There was no one coming here, no one that could be expected to check on him, find him missing.
I can lose. The innocence that'd kept him brave was shattered. He could lose, thoroughly, and Sherlock might never find him. John tried to get his breathing under control but he was failing and apparently he was going to cower here until he passed out or something changed.
He heard footsteps coming up the stairs, which did not help at all, but Sherlock's voice followed, murmuring something unintelligible that sounded like a question. The doorhandle turned and John focused on releasing his grip on the chairleg he'd ripped off for a weapon. He'd owe Mrs. Hudson for that. He doubted she'd care. The chair tilted on its stump beside his bed, barely upright. Sherlock pushed the door open slowly and poked his head around it to see him. John stared back at him in the dark, wheezing. He wasn't going to try to hide it from Sherlock. It wasn't worth the effort with a man who'd seen close-up photos of him naked and covered in his own blood and urine. Sherlock slipped inside and sat down against the door. He closed his eyes as if preparing to fall asleep while he waited, wrapped only in a sheet.
Black patches bloomed in front of John's eyes, blocking his sight, but he ignored them, knowing there was nothing he could do about his breathing that he hadn't already tried. That thought gave him control, knowing he was just going to wait, and his painful gasps began to slow.
He stayed quiet, focusing on relaxing the muscles in his feet. Sherlock stayed still, a bit of frozen company, and the sun slowly diffused the room with light. His teeth ached in his jaw but he ignored that too, focusing on getting his heart to calm.
Sherlock was, without a doubt, the best friend he had left in the world. John reflected on that while they waited for his body to release control of itself back to his brain. Dead friends and old lovers, times in the war when he'd thought he couldn't mourn harder, only to have another IED explode, another three comrades lost and one maimed beyond repair. He would never be a soldier again, not with his shoulder and his trauma. He didn't mind that anymore.
"What time is it?" John asked finally and Sherlock opened his eyes, as alert and aware as if he'd spent the whole night awake and listening for him to speak.
He probably did.
"Eight," Sherlock answered. John nodded. They both knew he was now significantly late for his interview at City Medical - West End. They sat, ignoring that together, until John could breathe and think again.
Sherlock watched him getting dressed and John didn't ask him to leave. Nothing left to hide from each other. John liked that. He stripped his pants, thankfully unsoiled, and grabbed his towel knowing his hair was stiff with dried sweat.
He stepped out of the shower to find Sherlock in the kitchen, making toast, still dressed in only a sheet tucked around his waist, his chest bare to the cold air.
"Toast?" Sherlock offered, holding out the plate and a half empty jar of strawberry jam, likely long since expired. John took it, securing his towel with one hand and noting that Sherlock had just made him food.
I just got an erection from toast.
And of course, when John noticed Sherlock did. John swallowed heavily, unsure what to say.
"I don't mind," Sherlock reassured him softly.
"Splendid," John replied, hurrying out of the room with his toast and his jam to get dressed. They'd have to deal with that later, if he was going to get to the interview at all. Probably, they'd just let his attraction stand there, understood and unacknowledged, until he found someone else. Getting out of the flat had a striking affect on his fraying emotions. The air smelled thick with petrol and road salt, crisp against his face, and the day finally smoothed out again. He rushed to the subway and made plans to stay out late that night at whatever bar Lestrade chose. He wasn't sure if Greg responded out of interest or friendship but by the time he'd finally gotten his tense jaw to unlock he didn't much care.
For once, Sherlock's text came when John was already leaving the interview and had the day free. It was curt, as always.
:Incoming:
Magnussen. He had to check the letters. He ducked into a Wi-Fi cafe with his laptop and pulled up the GPS tracking map. The letters were exactly as they'd always been, somewhere in Magnussen's office building. The GPS couldn't determine height. How long would it take Sherlock to convince the blackmailer he was a fraud and an idiot? And how long would it take Magnussen to send the letters off for storage?
He paid for a drink he couldn't afford and settled into a corner to wait. They'd better get friggin paid for this one.
~~/~~
"Shouldn't you be at home? Isn't that dear doctor waiting for you?" Magnussen drawled as he approached the table. Obviously deducing what had happened upstairs from the dirt on Sherlock's arms from the bedroom floor. Sherlock ignored the jibe. Magnussen was dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, his hair perfectly in place.
"I am at home. This is the kitchen," Sherlock replied, to point out that this time Magnussen came to him. Like that was a point of pride, when Magnussen had been willing to come up to the flat just to pee in the fireplace. Sherlock considered asking if Magnussen planned to urinate here but decided not to antagonize him. He was supposed to be acting affected by that. Frightened, probably.
"Is it?" Magnussen asked sharply, as if to say he knew Sherlock didn't eat here often, that this breakfast had been a ruse to draw him out and he'd accepted. Damn. No - wait - probably good. Magnussen was 'winning'. That was better. He was supposed to lose until Magnussen lost interest.
What would have happened if Sherlock had refused to fight Moriarty on the small things, early on, as John had told him to? If he'd accepted Moriarty's disappointment? Would the man have left to find a better target? That was painful to think about and too late to change. Sherlock pushed the thought away, all but its conclusion.
Trust John.
"In my opinion, yes," Sherlock answered meaninglessly. "Have a seat," he said. He was supposed to be an idiot fighting for control.
"Thank you," Magnussen replied magnanimously, like he was above such power plays.
"I've been thinking about you," Sherlock purred. He was trying for a child's version of menace but it came out a bit overly sincere. Magnussen frowned, genuinely surprised. Did that sound like he was flirting? Sherlock had to blush and look away.
"I've been thinking about you," Charles cooed back to mock him, his voice soft like they were courting.
"Really?" Sherlock said, hoping to regain the somber tone they'd shared before. Magnussen smiled tightly, seeing right through it. This was going well. A good time to push too hard. "I want to see Appledore. Where you keep all the secrets, all the files, everything you've got on everyone. I want you to invite me."
"What makes you think I'd be so careless?" Magnussen asked. He looked alert, maybe even nervous. The opposite of what they were shooting for. Perhaps he shouldn't have mentioned Appledore by name. Too late now; he had to go for the 'cocky and inquisitive but effectively incompetent' role. John had been indispensable in designing it.
Stop thinking about him.
"Oh, I think you're a lot more careless than you let on," Sherlock drawled, giving the word a slow inflection like it meant so much more than was obvious. Magnussen shifted. Interested, now. Maybe nervous - more likely expertly faking it. No man could rise so far as Magnussen had done if he were that easily manipulated.
"Am I?" Charles drawled. Probing, only. Sherlock met his eyes. He needed to look intense, prideful, confident. He thought of Mike, hanging by his neck, most of his head splattered on the concrete behind him. He could imagine the scene perfectly. The paramedics had barely managed to keep the head attached in their clumsy attempts to get the corpse on the gurney. Almost nothing could take down John Watson. Certainly not Magnussen.
"It's the dead-eye stare that gives it away," Sherlock said. His voice rumbled deep in his throat. "Except it's not dead-eyed, is it? You're reading." He removed the man's glasses from his face, giving it as much drama as he could. This was humiliating.
Magnussen wasn't reading. But he was certainly accessing incredible troves of information at a moment's notice. More than even a brilliant mind could withhold without intensive training. A mind-palace, but with something truly interesting inside - a delivery speed Sherlock lacked, a fault Sherlock resolved with the use of his smart phone and a search engine. Had Magnussen developed a better technique, a brain…search engine? Truly perfect recall? Sherlock moved slowly, stalling and hoping it'd look like melodrama. "Portable Appledore," he breathed, some of his true admiration slipping through. "How does it work?" he asked, wishing Magnussen would answer his true question.
Careful. He dove further into his character. "A built-in flash drive? 4G wireless?" he asked inanely and donned the spectacles. Charles Magnussen appeared far more cocksure now. Perfect. Sherlock fiddled with the glasses, inspecting them, letting false confusion take over his countenance. Mortification next. "They're just ordinary spectacles."
"Yes, they are," Magnussen said, triumph leaking into his tone. He starting picking at Sherlock's long-finished chips, getting ketchup on his fingers. "You underestimate me, Mr. Holmes," he announced. He sucked ketchup off his fingers and rinsed them in Sherlock's water glass. Sherlock buried a flash of disappointment in pretending to look at the glasses one last time. Another rude power grab? Boring. Magnusses snatched his glasses back.
"Impress me then. Show me Appledore," Sherlock goaded. That was hardly a motivation for the tycoon.
"Everything is available for a price. You making an offer?" Magnussen said. Predictable again.
"A Christmas present," Sherlock said to imply he was giving more than Magnussen had to give.
Your downfall.
Amusement stole over Magnussen's face, hidden too late. Magnussen had read that thought off his face. Sherlock didn't regret it; he could watch Magnussen grow more confident, now that an ulterior motive was identified and labeled.
You're foolhardy. He let Magnussen see that too.
"Then what are you giving me for Christmas, Mr. Holmes?" Magnussen asked. Sherlock allowed himself to look as self-pleased as he felt.
"My brother," he announced and Magnussen's eyebrows jumped up. No subterfuge there. Pure ambition. So he didn't have Mycroft in his pocket yet. Perfect.
"His computer, in return for the location of your vaults. I will never be your equal, for I can never learn all that's within them, but give me access and in return, you can take Mycroft down. We will be the most powerful men in the world," Sherlock offered. Magnussen's mouth twitched. Political dominance, if he could defeat Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. He was going to accept.
"I'll have a helicopter meet you then. Christmas. How very quaint," Magnussen agreed. Already planning to betray them and leave them without an exit.
"Meet me where?" Sherlock pressed, as if he still hadn't learned that lesson. Magnussen sneered. He was probably laying it on a little thick. "Happy Christmas," Sherlock added, smirking like the last sentence had been some shared joke. Magnussen smiled again. Better.
"Yes," the man replied and stole another cold chip for his way out, likely just to show he could.
~~/~~
John tracked the letters on their path, writing down where the GPS movement paused and when it restarted. It made logical progress for a car moving through traffic, steadying out as it exited the city and drove down the curving roads of the English suburbia, into the countryside. At that point, there was little reason for John to follow it, for there was nothing he could do if it did blip out, but still he watched it until it stopped. The tracking became intermittent then, blipping in and out of service only long enough to confirm its location. The same, over and over. John watched it for hours, a task which occupied his brain enough to keep the shadows at bay in the public cafe. He couldn't be bored. He was learning that. There was always that nail at his back, waiting for him to notice it. When the tracker finally disappeared for too long and his skin began to crawl, John escaped to meet Greg at the bar.
They met by Lestrade's flat for once. Lestrade was already there when he arrived, sitting in his work suit in a corner booth. They could both sit with a wall at their back. The bar was starting to fill with the after-work crowd of well-dressed people that would drink and socialize and leave after a few hours. It was a well-lit place, discouraging heavy drinking and hookups but there were a few couples well on their way to both. Greg waved him over to his booth and John joined him. Greg pushed a beer across the table for him. John lifted it in thanks.
"It's good to see you," Greg said in way of greeting, a bit too sincere.
"How are things?" John asked so Greg couldn't. Lestrade grunted and shifted in his seat. The table was sticky. Lestrade rubbed at his lips, apparently discomfited by the question.
"Got a girl on my mind," he confessed, not sounding particularly happy about it. John took a sip of his beer, waiting. Greg's lips twisted. Wasn't sure he wanted to talk about it, maybe. He sighed finally, like John had battered him into it. "Molly Hooper, from the morgue laboratory. She's a good woman. Sweet. If socially…uncomfortable." Lestrade shrugged in his suit jacket. "Doesn't lie. That's the thing with cops. We're just waiting for everyone to lie."
John nodded slowly. He could understand that. Sherlock was constantly scanning people while they talked, just waiting for the deception.
"She refused you?" he guessed, judging from the detective's dejected demeanor. To his surprise, Greg shook his head.
"No. It's never a good time. I didn't ask her while the force was out searching for you because I thought 'wanna catch a bite while our mate's getting filleted' lacked something of romance in a pickup line," he explained into his drink, looking up only long enough to smile apologetically. John huffed out a laugh at the description, appreciative of the dark humour that left trauma out of the conversation. It was the way of soldiers - the only war stories that were real were the ones not talked about in anything but jokes. "Then, when I called she thought it was just to catch her up on you and Sherlock…" Greg continued and John groaned, sharing his embarrassment.
"And now?" he asked when Greg stayed silent for too long. Greg rubbed at his neck ruefully.
"Now… I don't call her," he replied. John snorted as Greg took a hearty gulp of his drink.
"Call her anyway," he suggested and took a drink of his own. Greg nodded. Predicting that advice, probably.
"It's not that simple," he protested and John raised his eyebrows doubtfully.
"You want to be together?" he asked and Greg didn't answer. Probably knowing where he was going with that. "She want you?" John pressed and Greg started sliding his beer glass back and forth between his palms.
"I've gotten that impression," he hedged.
"Ask her," John ordered. "Then it's on her to figure out what she wants." Greg paused at that and huffed to himself.
"Just to stop fucking around about it?" he asked. That logic seemed to appeal to him. John stayed silent, watching him think about it for a moment more only to pull out his phone. Molly's number was apparently the last one called.
"Molly! Hi, it's Greg. I was wondering - would you like to have dinner with me sometime?" he asked smoothly. John smiled into his drink, hearing Molly's squeal from the phone speaker, followed by apologetical babble. "A date, yes," Greg confirmed and John had to be careful not to laugh before he swallowed. Greg's face lit up. "Thursday?" he suggested and Molly squealed again. "Goodnight," Greg said, only to look at his phone. Apparently Molly had already hung up. "That's going to drive me crazy," he confided, shoving his phone back into his pocket.
"Brave," John congratulated him and he relaxed into his seat.
"Thanks," he said, clearly for more than the compliment. John raised his glass in a toast and Greg joined him. John did his best to look happy for them. He failed, evidently, for Greg sobered. "How're things?" he asked and John didn't know where to start. "With Sherlock," Greg clarified. John blew out a breath. That was almost an equally loaded question.
"I have no idea," he said, leaning back in his seat. That wasn't entirely true. He knew they were calmer. The hate was gone. Their friendship was starting to shine through the mud of it all. That something more was there too, somewhere in that 'maybe' they'd so drunkenly shared. "We're friends," he added. That part was certain. Greg looked impressed.
"Then what's uncertain?" he asked. John didn't know how to answer that. Apparently his hesitation answered for him. Greg's eyebrows shot up. "Right," he said slowly, giving John time to deny it. John stayed quiet, fighting off a brief wave of embarrassment. After so many years of denying any attraction, to admit he'd been full of shit… but he'd been full of shit for years. For all he knew Greg had heard everything he'd screamed in that hospital too. John didn't have any secrets left; it was time to get used to it. "He's not interested?" Greg asked, looking doubtful even as the words left his lips. John drank his beer to hide. Sherlock had never indicated he was interested. The most he'd ever said about John touching him was the overwhelming 'I don't mind' and their enigmatic 'maybe'. That hardly stood as a definitive declaration. But there was something in his eyes, something that'd always been in his eyes… Greg snorted.
"Yeah, I knew it too," he commented. John shook his head, still uncertain.
"He's never said it," he pointed out. Greg snorted again.
"He's never told me he cares about you either, but you couldn't tell me shit against it." Greg leaned back in his chair, getting more comfortable. John shook his head.
"Hence uncertain," he replied and Greg tipped his head, acknowledging the point.
"Ask him," he shot back, smirking at the turn around. John sighed. He should have seen that coming.
"We've been through so much. I don't want to add more to it, mixing sex in," he admitted. Greg grimaced. He'd apparently managed to go through the whole conversation without thinking about anal sex yet. John smirked and Greg took another gulp of beer.
"Sex has a way of sneaking up on you," Greg grunted. "If you don't talk about it, it'll come up anyway."
"I'm not a teenager," John protested. Greg looked doubtful.
And I don't like being touched.
"Good luck with that," Greg joked. John nodded gratefully and finished his beer. Following his lead, Greg drained his own. They'd barely sat down yet but Greg didn't protest. John was grateful. He couldn't abide silence and he couldn't be bored. It'd take awhile, before he'd be able to sit down for more than a beer. That would come in time. For now, Greg waved down a waiter and closed his tab without complaint.
"Have a good date," John said. He picked up his laptop with a pained grunt and Greg glanced at it meaningfully. Guessing he was going to Sherlock's now? John couldn't see how but Greg smiled knowingly and shoved his wallet into his pocket.
"You too," he said. John decided not to grace that with an answer.
~~/~~