A/N: Tell me again, how did this get to part seven, and I'll tell you why this instalment has taken so long. Hopefully someone still remembers what's going on. (Sorry.) -csf


7.

Either the bottom third of the door handle, or the potted cloves on the upstairs window sill, something has foretold Sherlock this bistro was a great place for a fry-up to satisfy John's hunger. The blond doctor has to admit Sherlock was once again spot on. While he dutifully eats, as a doctor recognising common sense, the detective tackles his own plate of food with intent and talks through a mouth full about all and everything under the sun. John allows the quiet, enduring companionship settle his wiry senses, and to fall into a more relaxed frame of mind. For some stolen moments, he allows himself to relax a bit, drop his guards, lean back on the rackety chair and just take in Sherlock's all absorbing presence as the universe's conversion point.

This intelligent, articulate and devious man is pale as the moonlight fritting through a cloudless night, carrying along the promise of intrigue, excitement and a hint of danger. His hands are nimble, his digits are long and incredibly precise, the tips are the calloused but soft, with the precision and sensitivity of a violinist. He waves his hands about, he twiddles with the objects at his grasp, he's filled with a restless, potential energy that is reflective quicksilver and essentially pure. Sherlock entrances John with his deductions, his comments, his endless talk. He is the beacon of light in John's tempestuous dark moods at times like these. And John will always follow this light, this life, this promise of incredible things yet to come; he will always follow Sherlock.

He is, therefore, allowing Sherlock to commandeer the moment and the surroundings, and absolutely jumps off his skin as a cold hand is laid on his left shoulder.

John is more than a little bit embarrassed by what happens next, it's a bit of a blur. He comes to his senses, standing up, panting slightly, towering over a familiar face with a bloody nose. John looks down at his fist; did he really just deck DI Lestrade? His shoulder pangs subtly, apparently he has. Why didn't Sherlock show any surprise for the newcomer sneaking in on them from behind John? Well, this is Sherlock, maybe he was unsurprised because he deduced the unannounced visit during this morning's shower. What's more, why is Greg Lestrade here? Well, not here on the floor, John knows exactly why that is and hurries to help the other man up, but here in town?

'Greg, I'm so sorry, mate, I—'

With a nasally congested voice, the good inspector tries to settle John: 'No 'arm done, noffing's broken.' He quickly tries to settle John back to his chair, and grabs a nearby chair, triangulating it with the two friends' seats with the practiced ease of an enduring companionship.

The bistro owner eyes them uncomfortably from the other side of the room, called in by a waiter, and Lestrade flashes him his Scotland Yard ID, to limited success in easing the man's discomfort.

'Jeez, John! What was that for?' Lestrade rubs his nose as if trying to ensure it isn't about to fall off. The small doctor packs a mean punch. 'Has Sherlock been giving you hallucinogens in your coffee again?'

Sherlock is little amused, that John actually glances at him in dread and suspicion for half a second before ruling it away.

'No, it's hmm, hmm, me. Just me. All me. Hmm. What are you doing in these parts then?'

'Came to find you two.' Lestrade smiles, that I'm-so-clever smile that infuriates Sherlock, because he uses it when he's being actually cleverer than Sherlock, reading some social or emotional circumstance with an ease that eludes the detective. As if Lestrade knows something they don't, about them, and is just sitting about, wiggling his thumbs and humming a tune, smugly waiting for the penny to drop on Sherlock and John. 'Mrs Hudson told me where to find you. So you grew up around here, John?'

Perhaps the inspector thinks it best to proceed with caution around John. He's got reasons, after all.

'Among other places', the affable doctor responds in absolute politeness. Sherlock takes one glance at him and mentally berates the inspector, who has just undone all the work done. John is so quick to seamlessly fit into the portrait of a quiet, expectant and polite urban man, sitting at a local eatery, glad to be of assistance to the DI. In other words, John has got all his guard layers up again. He's sitting at the other side of the table from Sherlock, but he's as unreachable as if he were ice skating in the cold rings of Saturn.

The inspector recognises nothing amiss, and insists, 'Go on, what's the case? Our boy Sherlock wouldn't stick around this long without a good case!'

John allows his cobalt blue eyes to travel towards the pull of Sherlock's iced blue ones. 'No case, we just ran into some trouble. I hope Mrs Hudson isn't worrying about us.'

Sherlock kicks under the table the vicinity of John's ankle. Lestrade yelps. Missed target. Oh, does it matter? A vindictive streak in Sherlock congratulates itself.

Greg squints at them. 'Do you two need a minute to coordinate your stories?'

'Yes', Sherlock retorts, and

'No!' John reacts at the same time.

Greg smiles, this time a different type of amusement behind it, a bit of a fatherly overtone to it, even if he's not much older than them.

'Come on, John, you know you can trust me!'

John swallows drily. It was never about distrust, it was about limiting the number of spectators to his personal drama. But trust Greg Lestrade he does, and he starts feeling bad about his distance and deception.

'Blimey, is it that bad?' Lestrade reads into him, from clues Sherlock himself could spend the rest of his life searching for with his magnifying lens and never finding.

'Possibly', John admits, sitting up straighter, as much of a military stance as he can sitting down. 'It's certainly not looking rosy.'

'Is it too early for a pint?' Lestrade suggests with the practiced ease of a good listener.

Sherlock watches in absolute horror as the detective inspector coaxes the story out of John, the same story that has taken the best friend days to put together through the blond doctor's sheer stubbornness and desire to protect his grandfather's name.

It isn't until a natural pause in John's tale that the shorter man looks towards Sherlock with a thankful smile, and Sherlock understands that John is unloading to Lestrade because he has found safety in Sherlock's earlier acceptance, and not because Lestrade is better at befriending John.

The insecure consulting detective feels appeased, leans back in his chair, and allows himself to read the micro tells in John as he recounts his tale once again, looking for the hints and secrets that John may keep even from himself. He is a bit surprised as Lestrade nods at him through John's exposé, as if giving Sherlock the thumbs up over a job well handled. Sherlock decides he will kick Lestrade's ankle again, and claim he was just shifting position in his chair.

.

The property where John Watson left his grandfather's most perturbed echoes is still up for sale, it too stuck in a time warp, standing as a direct window to a gutted past where all meaningful links have been excised and mysteriously taken away to unknown places. The trio has decided to approach the location once again, apparently hoping the addition of a detective inspector will bring new insights. One can only hope.

Sherlock notices that John is standing up straighter, way too straight, as if he was competing to be the tallest man of the trio. Little change, if that; biology has done a dirty trick on John.

Although not according to Sherlock, who appreciates thoroughly the compact, sturdy built of the short man. Stealthy in assault, lightweight when climbing London's rooftops, trimmed and fit as ever, John is also the precise fit for the red armchair in 221B or the precise weight to elicit a B sharp crackling sound from the creaky step at the turn of the stairs.

Sherlock himself is all gangly limbs as thin, wiry appendages as he lounges on the sofa on a bout if ennui. His discordant arms and legs a harsh composition of artistic disarray, a materialisation of internal disorder.

John fits the length of the sofa just right, with his head on a cushion and tucking his sock cladded feet under the opposite side cushion (if he thinks Sherlock won't ever know, Sherlock knows, he just doesn't care). A taller doctor would be cringed and compromised to be so homely.

Sherlock will dress the folds of his scarf as he watches his reflection on the fireplace mirror, towering above the mantelpiece skull. John looks at the skull on even terms, often commenting on its good dental health.

Sherlock stretches to reach the books on the living room's top shelves, where John has stored his medicine books, away from a client's prying eyes, but all accessible to Sherlock's investigative needs. John demands reparative justice every time Sherlock places his tea packets too high up on the kitchen cupboards; which Sherlock will pettilly do whenever John picks up extra shifts at the surgery, John is yet to notice the causality.

John is also the right size to hide, with his gun at the ready, behind one of the living room's curtains when a fake client is pre-deduced to be a mobster, or the perfect size to fit the empty area of the floor rug while Sherlock draws around him in chalk because he needs an outline to study over an impossibly staged crime scene, or the correct size to fit snuggly against his friend in a heartfelt, warm hug as the world is at its darkest (something that both are too proud to admit, and will vehemently deny happening to any unforeseen witnesses, with the exception of Mrs Hudson).

Today John is paradoxically taller than he is, all the while the wrong height for himself. The sharp consulting detective notices this as he keeps an eye on the greying blonde.

'Blimey, John! Why didn't you ask for help with this ages ago?' Lestrade comments ruefully, to keep himself in check. He knows John will be spooked by a direct show of empathy right now. Keep if light, keep it moving, Greg knows, is the way to go.

John fakes a dismissive shrug, and the consequent shoulder twinge it provokes. 'Sherlock insisted I took a couple of days off work at the surgery. I wouldn't want him getting bored.'

Sherlock hums approvingly, by his side. Bored he's yet to be.

'And who are these guys after you? Why would they be after you for something that happened when you were a child?'

'I really don't know, Greg.'

John's honest face carries all the tells of honesty, mingled with some genuine bewilderment.

'We're here', Sherlock announces briefly. He glances at John, who sets his jaw taking in the house, and at Lestrade, who analyses the place as if trying to deduce it like Sherlock would. It's little surprise that the inspector too would itch to know John better, falling into the easy fallacy of genetic lineage theories.

Sherlock suspects John is an entity of his own, the universe's mystery unfolding in human form, and that a different childhood would have given meaningless detail changes to the man at his side, incapable of altering the light source that is John Watson. He can't picture John being different from the John he trusts so well.

Lestrade sniggers nearly silently and Sherlock surfaces to that annoying I-know-something-about-you-that-you-don't smugness in the inspector. He glares him a death ray stare.

John just rolls his eyes with secret amusement, and lets those two fight their ego battles at their leisure, stepping forward towards the dark derelict shed in an abandoned garden.

.

'This grandfather of yours, he was well known in the local area, I take it.' The detective inspector resorts to asking basic background questions, as if building up a police report, John notices.

Somehow this aggravates John. His grandfather wasn't a criminal, not as far as John knows.

But that's it, isn't it? He doesn't know. He can't know. This person that shaped him in indelible ways is actually a stranger when submitted to a deeper scrutiny than a child would ever have done. All those tensions between his grandfather and father, if one was right it follows logically that the other one was wrong. Even as an adult he feels ashamed for splitting loyalties and bringing up disrepute. This is a game where someone in his childhood will come out deeply tarnished, and John feels despicable for doing this to his own kin. And for what? A few medication side-effects nightmares that stirred up deep and buried memories from his past.

If it wasn't for Sherlock and his endless dedication, John would summon all his demons and marshal them straight into the deeper recesses of his mind, where he'd keep them in chains and a constant watch. If only he could. But Sherlock is on the scent now. And Sherlock is only too clever, he knows that John would never free himself of his demons if he doesn't face them head on. John doesn't want Sherlock to ever think him as the coward that he is, at times like this. He respects Sherlock and their friendship too much to risk ever losing them. He desperately clings to these as the reason to explore past murky waters and plunge into those depths, whatever that may bring. So he breathes deeply and says: 'There might be more, actually.'

Both men scrutinise him back. John sighs and persuades himself it's for the best. He finds himself biting his lower lip before he can help himself. When he talks, he catapults his words with haste, as if released prisoners in an unstable cease fire.

'I found something in my granddad's medical valise, something I think you should know.'

Sherlock is silently appraising his blond doctor, Greg is the one who eagerly leans forward and supplies a thick line of questioning.

'What is it, John? Why didn't you tell us? What do you think is going on?'

John cringes, feeling the exhaustion from the last days creeping up on him. Damn his shoulder, it still hurts, but he won't accept it as a valid distraction to cop out on the case, on the investigation of granddad Hamish and his cursed life. John sits up straighter and recalls from decades ago:

'When I started my studies in medicine, that's when I got it. Some relative had kept it for us, along with some bits of memorabilia, the sort of thing people collect from lost relatives because it reminds you of them and you can't quite throw that stuff away. Even when you clearly don't need to have nine different tea strainers; I keep telling Harry that much... Unlike our father's wristwatch', and here John rubs a hand over his wrist, encompassing the scratched, navy blue, square dial piece that he keeps wearing, 'that Harry still wants to claim for herself. She got mum's pearls, and that's really not Harry's style. Nor mine,' he adds impishly, 'so I won't swap.'

Sherlock gently inserts: 'John, you're dawdling.'

'Right. So. My granddad's leather valise. It had his stethoscope still, and iodine, and mercurial taints, and camphor ointments. It carried a couple of rusted scalpels, tweezers, ligature scissors, and that kind of first aid stuff. It had one of those things you use to look inside people's ears, and tongue depressors, and a little hammer to test reflexes on the knee, that kind of thing.'

Greg cuts in: 'How can you not know the name of the ears thing?'

John shrugs. 'It's not important in this context. Not as important as the chloroform bottle, the wrist restraints, and the formaldehyde. Taken together, they're quite—' disturbing.

'Neat', Sherlock completes, with a bright boyish smile.

'Sherlock!' The inspector admonishes.

John just smiles. There's a certain relief to his demeanour now, suddenly deflated to his proper smaller size, and to his easy going nature.

'I'm afraid I just freaked out when I first saw that. Got rid of that then and there, before you ask to see it.

Naturally, Sherlock thinks. John Watson would help Sherlock dispose of a body by acid in a bathtub, with only marginal complaints about the tub being out of commission for the time it took the thicker bones to dissolve.

'What do you think it means?' Lestrade asks, with a sombre face.

'It looks like he committed murder for hire along with his house calls', John admits straightforwardly.

London's own consulting detective notices: 'A murderous doctor? He'd be efficient and very, very deadly. He'd have the choice of swift, economic death or long suffering, symbolic torture. He'd carry around the tools of his trade and use them to both extinguish and save lives. He'd be virtually undetectable.'

John glances up to the detective, nodding curtly. He feels properly appreciated.

Greg looks slightly uncomfortable, and tries to change the magnetically charged topic of conversation: 'Can we find a cabbie to get us back to your lodgings, after we're done here?'

No, better not think of cabbies either. Greg has long nurtured a sneaky suspicion about that second time he's met John, and a murderous cabbie had just been shot from nowhere to stop Sherlock trying his luck in a Russian roulette game with two identical pills.

He's desperately hunting for another cover-up change of topic when Sherlock cuts in, at a great time:

'John, that rhododendron bush is very prejudiced over your grandfather's innocence. Care to find a shovel?'

John shudders, a whole body affair. He clears his throat and barks:

'I definitely heard you say you'd dig next time, mate.'

'Nonsense, it doesn't sound like me at all! Come along, John.'

.

TBC