Chapter 20
Malice
Bored. He was bored. The day was boring. It couldn't have been a duller day. He picked up his gun and aimed it at the wall. Mrs. Hudson would not appreciate holes in the wall. Mycroft could afford the repairs. His finger started to squeeze the trigger when the door opened.
"Ah..Sherlock?"
He sat up on the sofa, robe hanging loosely about his thin frame. Shoving the gun beneath a pillow, he stood. John was here. John was carrying bags. He'd come back.
"I could still get in. Hope you don't mind."
"Are you staying?"
Sherlock hid the wince for his abrupt nature in a beat. Too direct. John reprimanded him for rudeness when he tried to save people time and hardship. It wasn't good. Right. Try to be good.
"Er, if it's okay?"
He strolled forward and grabbed the suitcase and bags, marching them to John's old room. It was bare of his belongings but left prepared for someone to use. John was still stood by the open door and Sherlock closed it, moving him farther inside by the elbow.
"Where are the boxes?"
John seemed surprised but the look faded and he answered, "..Someone will have them delivered tomorrow morning."
Their gazes met and they both knew who the person was scheduling the delivery. John averted his eyes first, not shame but uncertainty playing on his face. He wandered to his chair and sat in it. Sherlock smiled and sat in his own chair, watching his friend. He wanted to live with him again. This might just be happiness.
John glanced at his gaze studying him up and down. Sherlock was excited but concealing it well. This had always been their flat. No amount of time or choices changed that for him.
"Don't scan me."
He halted his study. He always kept him in line, kept him presentable even when his mind was focused on more interesting things. Observations were his specialty and John was frequently impressed but also frequently embarrassed and scolding. His interminable companion through this sometimes fascinating life. They fit. They just did.
"Thank you."
John looked at him funny. He recalled how John would put on the tea for them or want a snack when he came home. Properly tying his robe about him, he went into the kitchen. Glancing in the fridge, he winced again, realizing he had an experiment in the fridge. It wasn't a body part but it wouldn't be proper.
John stood in the doorway. "What are you doing?"
"Food. Drink." He scrambled to straighten his mind. "Would you like me to prepare something?"
"Uh. It's late."
"Tea?"
He sighed. "Sure. Tea would be lovely."
Pleased, he busied himself putting the kettle on while John sat in his chair. Opening the cupboard, he located John's favorite tea and set it on the table. Lestrade asked him to look into a case tomorrow. They could go together, investigate a crime like they used to.
"You haven't been doing drugs, have you?"
Sherlock poked his head and the upper half of his body through the doorway. "Absolutely not."
"You've been sleeping?"
He poked his head back out after returning into the kitchen when he thought John was finished talking. "Some."
This time he lingered hanging through the doorway and John was standing, lifting the pillow to see the gun. His eyes lifted to the smooth wall and the pillow dropped back on top. He glanced at Sherlock who scanned to identify he was well-rested, relaxed with no limp or curling fist.
John turned to face him. "I told you not to scan me."
"Sorry, uh, not kind, right?"
He frowned but lightened the look, glancing between the chair and sofa. A chuckle spilled out. Sherlock glanced to the kettle and straightened his posture, head held high.
John smiled. "Remember how you didn't know the Earth revolved around the sun?"
He released a long-suffering sigh. "This is my hard drive, John. I only have room for what's useful. The stuff that matters."
It was the other man's turn to sigh, glancing toward the floor. "Ordinary people and their rubbish."
Sherlock disagreed. "You're in there, John. You're not rubbish."
He shut off the stove and poured the water in two cups. Dipping tea bags in, he put them on a tray and carried them into the room. He'd angled the handle leftward so it was easy for him to take in hand. Settling back in the chair, John regarded him as he sat in his own chair with his own cup of tea.
"I suppose you've worked it all out, but I'll say it anyway. Mary and I are separated. Our marriage is over."
"Hm. Yes. I heard." He lowered the cup before he could sip, peering past the rim. That was insensitive. "Sorry to hear. What happened?"
"I didn't love her how a husband should love his wife."
"Oh?" He feigned mild interest while being very interested to hear more.
"I love someone else. It just wasn't right stringing her along."
Did he mean Moriarty? He thought John liked him but he couldn't be sure. Then he and Moriarty stayed together after the marriage was over. He didn't come home because..? Sherlock preferred acting on the right information. In lieu of the correct answer, he would linger on what was wrong here.
"You're spectacularly foolhardy of late."
John lowered the cup. "Beg pardon?"
Be kind. Not to the point. Not saving time if saving time hurt those inconvenient feelings. People were ridiculous creatures at times.
"For a second, baffling time."
"No no." He sipped the tea to avoid saying something regrettable. Sherlock's eyes were on him reading everything.
"I'm not stupid," he mumbled into the cup.
"Of course you're not stupid. You married a woman to avoid me. A gaffe would be the proper term."
"So you are calling me stupid. You think me a fool."
He bobbed his head side to side, not wanting to lie. John put the tea on the side table, throwing up his arms. "Hang on a minute."
He did.
"Who is this about?"
Sherlock made a show of relaxing into the chair and bringing the tea up to his lips. "You want to talk about your wife, or your ex-wife, yes?"
He got something wrong by the smile not reaching John's eyes growing on his face.
John drank the tea, frowning. "Why don't we talk about what you want?"
"Whatever you need," he said dismissively. "We don't have to talk at all."
The other man nearly rolled his eyes, putting the cup down again. "You have something you want to say."
Sherlock didn't want to talk about Moriarty. That man's presence was already inside their home and it wasn't okay. He was a criminal, a villain. He hurt them and John went to him anyway. Very rarely did he truly understand people and John and Moriarty's relationship was one he could not understand no matter how long he dwelled on it. He wouldn't dwell on it.
"No, nothing. This time is whatever you need."
John did not appreciate his understanding and kindness. Maybe he was mistaking how to be kind here. His friend folded his hands in his lap, meeting Sherlock's eyes.
"Right." He stared at his hands, peeking to his abandoned cup. "You talk around and you talk around and-"
"John." Had his friend broken a neural pathway?
"You want to talk about him!"
Right then. They were being upfront about James Moriarty's involvement in their lives. Much preferred. His lips thinned, an eyebrow raising, tea cup held below his chin.
He started simple. "You're displeased."
John laughed but there was no humor in it. "Yes, Sherlock. I'm displeased. Speak!"
"You asked for it." He set aside his tea and John was looking confrontational, leaning forward in his seat. "He strapped you in a bomb vest, tried to have us both killed on several occasions, hired a sniper to kill you if I wouldn't jump off the roof let's not forget."
"Aren't you forgetting something?" John appeared to be enjoying this in an upset manner. Odd.
Yes yes. They knew what else Moriarty did to him. No need to voice it. He gave a subtle shake of his head. It would do to go from there in his questioning, however.
"Why do you care for him?"
"I don't."
He narrowed his eyes. The response came too quick to be convincing. "You're lying."
"I'm not!"
"Oh, you're in denial. That's so much better."
"I'm not. I don't care. I left him because he's bad. I know."
He scoffed. "You left because it's what a person is supposed to do. How ordinary of you." He tilted his head, examining John's blank expression. "Why isn't right, no, how can you like him?"
The man relented. "I give people chances to be different. In the military, someone hands me a gun and gives me permission to kill, it becomes okay. What is considered okay is determined by society and it's always changing. People can change."
Sherlock stared, sensing he wasn't done. John took a breath and continued. "I missed danger when I returned from Afghanistan. No one understood it. They judged me."
He went on staring. John seemed to prefer his silent listening.
"If you did something bad, really bad, like murder, I'd still care about you."
Shifting in his seat, he sat comfortably in the chair. "I believe you."
"I don't want to judge a person on their worst decisions. I'm willing to hope a person can and will change. That's a person I can care for. They deserve a chance."
This seemed exceedingly unwise even for John. "Oh the cliché of a person trying to change another. It doesn't work. You can't change people."
"I know that. People can change themselves. That's all I'm expecting. Isn't that what everyone does?"
"I don't."
"Now who's in denial?"
"I am not!"
"You want everyone in your life to tolerate you, accept you the way you are. We change to do that because we care for you. And you change enough that we can stand it."
Well..he knew he could be difficult. His bouts of depression, lack of attention to details he deemed unnecessary, and a mind thinking so many things it was tearing him up sometimes. The people he chose to be around were deliberate and John helped him out with the others. He made him better. He'd do what he could not to lose that.
"Do you need to punch me in the face?"
John gave him a look. "I'm knackered. Going to bed. Thank you for the tea."
He watched him bring his cup to the kitchen sink, dutifully tossing the bag and rinsing the cup. Strolling down the hall to the bedrooms, he paused and turned partially back. Their eyes locked.
"I think I'm a bit gay, just so you know."
John disappeared into his room, the door closing behind him. He stood motionless, eyebrows raised, recalling all the times he said, "Not gay," or "I'm not his date". The irritation whenever anyone questioned his sexuality. Their living together at their age could bring questions, as absurd as that was.
His friend liked women too, so gay wouldn't be the proper category to store him in. He spun on his heel and removed the violin from its case. He was in a somber mood despite the fact his best friend was back home and within reach. People often didn't say what they mean. Did John mean anything?
/
Sherlock breezed by while John politely greeted Lestrade and Donovan. Anderson was lurking in the back of the room, the useless tosser. Hands in the pockets of his long coat, he stood tall, observing the crime scene.
"Forty-five-year-old male," Donovan explained to him. "Appears someone gave him a push down the stairs."
John came to stand beside her. "You don't think it was an accident then?"
"Can't say for sure. Everything's speculation until-"
"Oh shut it, wanker."
"Sherlock..."
Ugh. It was such effort to care. It mattered to John, always did. He doesn't want to disappoint him, so try he would.
"Oh shut it, Anderson. Go with your suspicion and investigate. It's your job."
"Why is he here?" he snarled. "We don't need his help."
"Time is sensitive here," Lestrade huffed, turning his attention onto Sherlock. "Consult, please."
Sherlock sneered in Anderson's direction and his gaze flickered to John. He winked and focused on scanning the stairwell in the tall hotel building. Well, Anderson was once again completely wrong. There was nothing to see here. A man fell down the steps with force enough to throw him off his feet. He tumbled and smacked his head hard enough to crack it open bloody.
"Boring."
His eyes caught a few things and he shifted to Lestrade. "Right. Where are the people who might want him dead?"
John groaned. Oh it wasn't that bad. He could behave in parts. Sherlock was still going to be to the point, especially when a case was this simple to solve. Donovan motioned for him to follow and led him up a floor.
Sherlock checked John was close behind him before refocusing. Police stood outside one of the rooms. The female of the two opened the ajar door at their approach. Donovan stepped to the wall and he strode past to enter the room with John. Lestrade followed a few paces behind to stand near the door.
He scanned the man and woman in their late forties seated in chairs near the bed. They wore sad expressions, the man's eyes rimmed red with unshed tears. They both wore nice clothing, the woman's outfit form-fitting and not a crease in sight. The red and beige colors suited her skin, eyes, and hair. Jewelry on her left wrist, finger, and neck. Expensive. She reminded him of Irene Adler. By appearances only.
The woman opened her mouth. "Who are you?"
"Sherlock Holmes, I'm sure you've heard of me."
Her face said she hadn't. He looked to the man. He hadn't either.
"Ah. From out of town, of course." They could be forgiven for not being in the loop on his fame, the good and bad.
She nodded, glancing to the man. "Er, yes. We were visiting Jerry's, my husband's family."
He interrupted. "His brother's the victim."
Lestrade spoke up. "Jerry and Isla Stevens. The victim's name is Oliver Stevens."
Noting the scuff on the heel of a certain someone's shoe, he hummed. "Fun."
"What do you do for a living, Jerry Stevens? Something that pays well but not well enough, hm?"
"Uh." He finally spat it out. "Banker. I do well."
"Not well enough. Look at the disdain she holds for you. She can barely stand sitting beside you."
"What? What are you talking about?" The man stood. "Don't speak ill of Isla, you-!"
Sherlock stared in her eyes and didn't look away. "Your brother-in-law was a convicted criminal, yes? What did he go to prison for?"
The man sputtered, "How could you know?"
"Wha? Hah? I-"
His eyes flickered to the man. "He spent his life doing petty crime and he did something bad enough to get him put away for more than ten years."
"You? How?"
"The stiff manner of plain dress, the tattoo on his left wrist marking the years, shaved hair. And so on. What did he do?"
The man swallowed, all nerves. "He murdered a man."
"He left prison a different man," the woman insisted. "He was changing his life."
Her husband shook his head, wiping at his wet eyes. "He was a screw-up. He's my brother but he could never do anything right."
"He was really becoming someone," Isla Stevens insisted.
John cleared his throat and it dampened his enthusiasm. "Problem?"
"It's fine. It's all fine."
Sherlock grinned at him. He was standing with his arms behind his back and a smile on his face. He hoped for him to be respectful but he was enjoying the show.
Now to confirm. "No children. Troubles conceiving?"
The man glared, jabbing a finger at his chest. "That's none of your damn business."
"Obviously. So, troubles?"
He relented. "Yes. We were going to adopt but the agency didn't accept us yet. It's been hard. We've always wanted..."
Sherlock tuned him out. "Lestrade, we've got our man. She's a psychopath. Manipulated your most hated husband to kill his brother. Oh, and the adoption agency? They called her, Jerry. She turned them down because psychopaths rarely want the burden of raising dependent humans. Never told you to keep you happy."
Lestrade had his cuffs out but he hesitated as he'd been approaching the woman. "Wait. He did it?"
"Yes, weren't you listening? She's the monster and he's the murderer."
"Um."
"Can't arrest someone for having no morals. Jerry Stevens is your man. He killed his brother. She tricked him into doing it."
Lestrade gawked. "Why?"
"So he would go to prison and she could divorce to do as she pleases."
John was shaking his head. He softened the accusatory tone declaring the police's idiocy.
"Fine. I didn't break the law," the woman said with a cold smile. "I've used him all up and am bored now."
Donovan was standing in the doorway. "Evidence, Sherlock Holmes?"
Ever the picture of annoyance when he was around. "There's a scuff mark from his shoe on the wall where he pushed poor Oliver. Fingerprints on the shirt he was wearing where he shoved him is likely as well. Jerry eats lots of greasy foods, don't you, Oliver?"
"I-I-I!"
Lestrade blinked and rattled the handcuffs. "Let's get you to the station, Mr. Stevens."
"Isla! I'm sorry. He was no good. He would mess up again. Make our lives miserable. I was trying to make you feel safe and-"
"Oh stop, Jerry. You're a worthless human being." Her smirk altered into a nasty smile. "I liked him better than you."
Sherlock cheerfully marched out of the room. "A confession. Case closed."
"How terrible. He did that out of love. Killed his own brother for his wife."
He slowed his stroll, looking to John who appeared on his left with a troubled expression. "She gets everything she wants and it's not fair. Is this what bothers you?"
John stared ahead, thinking. "He'll mourn his brother and feel regret. She'll never think about either of them once the papers are signed. Like I said, terrible."
Humming, he hit the lift button. "Affinity and malice. They destroyed each other. She no longer holds malice and he won't hold affinity, unless he's a complete dunce."
"Let's find the nearest pub."
They stepped into the lift. He smiled at John who was visibly trying to shake off the crime. The personal ones were what affected him. This was actually an impersonal personal crime bothering him. It wasn't the man who murdered his own brother. It was the woman who betrayed her own spouse to cause it to happen.
Psychopaths without feelings. What John didn't like. Sherlock might play the role of a psychopath while not being one, but James Moriarty was one or an acting one anyway. Showing affinity where he once showed malice. Or not quite. The malice was all for him, not John. John was the means to the end. John was Sherlock's heart. What was John to him?
"I'll be drinking far too much tonight."
"I'll join you on that," he replied with a slight smile.
Sherlock looked forward to not irritate John with too much staring. He would relish getting out of his own mind.