Finishing Touches

Guys I'm so sorry this is late I've been working like mad I've had like 57 hours this week my brain is off and my legs are killing me

So here have two chapters I'm so sorry I am a horrible person


John sat next to Simon, who was rubbing his wrists ruefully and sniffing slightly - not that John judged him. John would have cried, too, but the army tended to beat the ability to cry out of you. Not because they judged you - his old army mates would have punched a man if he'd dared to comment on how Simon had handled himself - but rather because you cried so much that after a while you got - numb.

John felt that numbness now.

Simon had proved himself. He'd insisted on looking over Sherlock's throat, and then John's wrist (sprained). And then John had taken over and inspected Simon's wrists, seething inwardly at the bruises, and feeling a tightness in his throat when he looked at Sherlock's.

Not that Sherlock had stuck around for John's inspection, of course. She'd whirled off to fill Dimmock in, claiming that one doctor was enough, ta. John suspected the only reason she let Simon examine her was because it made John feel better, and when John felt better he behaved and didn't set corpses on fire, and John very, very much wanted to set Zhi-Zhu's corpse on fire.

"I really don't know what could make this night worse," Simon said after a moment, then looked over at him, worried. "Sorry, John. No offense meant."

John shook his head, cleared his throat, then winced, and looked down at himself, vomit-splattered, dirty from the floor of the tunnel. "None taken. I'm a shit date."

Simon smiled at him strangely, then barked out a laugh. "You are a shit date," he agreed, leaning next to John. "You're a good friend, though."

John looked up as the tension in his chest eased a bit. "Not really. Good friends actually get the take-away." He offered a rueful smile.

Simon tilted his head, feigning thought. "Eh, good friends keep other friends from being shot." He took a deep breath. "All the same, I think I need a bed. And about three paracetamol."

John nodded. "I'll pay for the cab."

"You don't have to," said Simon, but John brushed him off.

"I've been a crap date, I'm paying your cab. Here," he said, and rummaged through his wallet. He studiously ignored Sherlock's card and the cheque, instead pulling out the few notes he had left of his own. "Here," he said again, pressing the notes into Simon's hands. "Please."

"Right." Simon looked at him a moment, then leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek quickly. "Thanks." He walked away briskly, talking briefly with a policeman guarding the caution tape before being allowed off the scene.

"Mycroft called them, when he saw I was leaving the flat," Sherlock's voice said from behind John. "Dimmock's satisfied. I told him to keep our names off the reports - means we don't have to go in the morning. I detest paperwork."

"I did wonder how they got here," John said, then turned around, still holding his wallet. "Here," he said, holding out her card and the cheque. "These are yours."

Sherlock looked at them, one raised eyebrow showing her surprise. "Where'd the piece of paper come from?"

"Wilkes," he said slightly uncomfortably, as her eyes snapped to his. "I felt - he owed you, he was a jerk."

Sherlock rolled her eyes, but she took the cheque.

"Besides," John said lamely as he shifted on his feet, "You'll end up having to pay more than your half of the rent if this keeps up. I'm pretty certain I just lost my job."

Again, that eye-roll. "Of course not, John. If anything, this has cemented that you will be able to keep your job even if you show up late or not at all, as Simon will be incredibly sympathetic to whatever excuses you make. Which is convenient."

"Right." John followed Sherlock off the crime scene, hoping that she wasn't planning on abusing Simon's kindness, and knowing the hope was misplaced.

"I'll pay for the cab," Sherlock said as she lifted an arm to hail one. John figured Mycroft had a deal with a cab service so there was always one following Sherlock. It was the only explanation for how they popped up.

It was when they were comfortably seated that John remembered. "Why did you come out? I mean, you don't normally do that."

Sherlock narrowed her eyes at him, and he shifted on the seat, sitting on his hands and wishing he'd bitten his tongue. But then she looked out the window again.

"Because you were there already," she said. John turned that over in his head.

"For someone who solves mysteries, you do a very good job of being one," he muttered, and heard Sherlock snort next to him.