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John can't believe what he's heard. Sherlock's too brilliant – too great – to be a junkie, surely. Why would he debase himself so? But the detective has confirmed it for him, though not in so many words. There is no misunderstanding him. It scares him for a moment, because what if Sherlock is his Sherlock and a junkie, too? Can he help him? He didn't feel strong enough to help Harry overcome her addiction. Can he save this wonderful man from himself?
A moment later, Sherlock says sharply that his fondness for drugs is a thing of days past, and John breathes easier, even while he feels mildly guilty about his own utter relief at not having to deal with this. So Sherlock has made mistakes in his past – pretty spectacular mistakes, at that. What matters is that he's gotten better. And really, that's no excuse to bully him now. (After how long? Who knows.)
Because that's what it's happening. Anderson, Donovan, the whole lot of them – they're snooping and judging and sneering at him. Volunteers, indeed. It's not surprising that Sherlock is upset. Anderson accuses him of being the murderer, for God's sake. How idiotic can the man get? John feels a rush of protectiveness towards his flatmate, but quells it. The last thing Sherlock needs now is someone else yet acting like he should have a minder, or claiming that role.
When Sherlock claims to be a sociopath, a quote from George Martin flashes through John's mind. "Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you." So sociopath is the label armoured himself with to protect himself from all the 'psycho' people hurled at him. But is it even true, he wonders?
Then Sherlock wonders about why a woman would think about her stillborn in her final moments, and John tries to be helpful. Maybe that had some bearing on how she was persuaded to suicide. But Sherlock apparently doesn't get why that would upset her fourteen years later. He stares at Sherlock incredulously, like the rest of them. The detective asks him, "Not good?" and John can only confirm it for him. "Bit not good, yeah." Fine, so sociopath or not, at the very least his overly brilliant flatmate has the emotional awareness of a brick wall. John is starting to see what his role as Sherlock's assistant could be in the long run.
Sherlock looks at him with an intensity that startles John (he shouldn't like that; he should be thinking about the case), and asking about his last words. But apparently he's too pedestrian, because his dying words don't satisfy Sherlock.
"Oh, use your imagination!" the detective prompts irritatedly.
"I don't need too," John reminds him quietly. Sherlock doesn't apologize – not in so many words – but he pauses and blinks and shifts his feet, and even if John doesn't know him much he knows that pausing tornado Sherlock mid-investigation is momentous indeed.
The following moments only confirm that, as Sherlock grows more and more agitated, pacing and shouting and requiring people to stop *breathing*. It worries John a bit, but he doesn't want to be distracting. Sherlock needs to be at ease to be brilliant, clearly, and all the bedlam in his home can't help. And if he manages to bully Anderson back a bit in the process, John smiles and cheers him on in his mind.
Then, finally, Sherlock figures it out, and he lights up. Literally. He's still on the agitated side, and he insults them all like it's a sport and he's aiming for the gold medal, but John doesn't have it in him to be angry. He demands explanations, though. He wants to understand what makes him so enthusiastic (fine, so the victim was quite clever). Sherlock does explain it for them. They have the way to locate the phone, which the murderer has.
The case is coming to a close, and even if he doesn't show it, John is infected by the enthusiasm and adrenaline. Which will go nowhere, the police will take care of their murderer once they do find it, but telling himself doesn't help. And really, Lestrade complaining that they'd have a place and not a name? Sherlock will soon have found him a serial killer whose existence the inspector didn't even suspect. He could try being grateful.
But then things suddenly make no sense. John points it out quietly to his flatmate. "Sherlock...It's here. It's in two two one Baker Street." Lestrade thinks they simply missed the phone, and it would be reasonable – no matter Sherlock's outrage at the idea of himself missing anything – if only they didn't have evidence to the contrary. "Anyway, we texted him and he called back," John remarks. The murderer certainly had the phone then; how did he plant it in their home after that? It's a scary idea.
Sherlock is still thinking out loud, trying to figure it out, and John would love to have answers for him, but he has none. Then the detective is leaving, suddenly, and he seems as if he's forgotten everything about the people present. Forgotten about the case, even, and that's what scares John. He doesn't know Sherlock, not properly, but he's sure that he doesn't simply get distracted from the hunt. He doesn't just nonchalantly 'pop down' because he remembered that they need jam for tomorrow's breakfast. Not when they need to figure out the truth so desperately. If Sherlock doesn't, after all, who will? So John asks, "Sherlock, you okay?"
"What? Yeah, yeah, I – I'm fine," the sleuth replies, but it doesn't persuade John at all.
He's still evidently absent-minded, and so the doctor tries to help him focus asking, "So, how can the phone be here?"
It doesn't seem to work. Sherlock leaves for a bit of fresh air, or so he claims. John doesn't like the sound of this at all, and he frowns. Is Sherlock feeling short of breath? The symptom can mean a number of things. At least some of them his flatmate decidedly shouldn't face alone. What if he passes out? John's the doctor. He should really tag along. But the sleuth insists that he's fine, and he won't like John being clingy if it's really nothing. He doesn't look like the man who might enjoy others mother henning him.
Fine. John will let him go. (Why the hell has Sherlock taken a cab? Where does he need to go so urgently?) The doctor will call him later, he decides. Just to check he is alright as he claims. Running from the chance to catch a serial killer? John has his doubts about Sherlock's condition, even knowing him as little as he does. Until then, they still have a phone to find.
He does the most obvious thing – he calls it, and it rings, so it's not here after all. Nobody hears it. John tries to check the gps again, but the policemen don't seem to be interested in it anymore and leave. Don't they trust Sherlock's deductions? He's their consultant. And what he said before makes sense. No matter how odd his behaviour is (and how could John have answers for the inspector? He doesn't know Sherlock yet, though he's ensnared by him). John wonders loudly, "So why do you put up with him?" If you don't trust him, nor like him, and believe he'll disappoint you goes unsaid. But it's a riddle, isn't it?
"Because I'm desperate, that's why. And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one," is the inspector's parting shot. Well, that's stupid. Sherlock is a peculiar man, an odd man, but John is pretty sure that he is a good man already, too. Despite having annoying habits (especially this disappearing act of his). But he's done what John's therapist couldn't, he's gotten rid of John's cane for him, if for a time (the thing is lying around, and John takes it – best not to forget it, he fears he'll need it soon) and the least John can do is be properly grateful – and believe in him. Sherlock didn't exactly need an assistant – John has done nothing much – but he's involved John, and in so doing he's briefly healed him, a complete stranger, and people still doubt him. It's unfair.
Then the computer beeps, commandeering John's attention and showing how the blasted phone – their victim's phone – has moved from 221B, and is still moving. For a moment, John experiences a moment of abrupt clarity where he understands absolutely everything, all connects, much like it does for Sherlock, he suspects. And what he sees terrifies him. The taxi they've chased before. The taxi that was down 221B – hadn't Mrs. Hudson mentioned it? The taxi Sherlock took. Who can hunt in the midst of a crowd? Whom do we automatically trust? The cabbie. There's a bloody serial killer cabbie in London and Sherlock – aware of it or not (would he have followed him if he had figured it out?) – is with him.
The policemen have all gone away, so what can John do? He can't leave Sherlock to face a murderer on his own. He doesn't abandon a comrade to be killed. He takes the computer and runs down, searching for a cab of his own. If he'd figured it out sooner he could have said, "Follow that car," like in a movie. He'll have to give the cabbie instructions progressively. The serial killer won't murder without stopping first, will he? They're safe as long as the dot keeps moving. Once again, John's cane lays forgotten.
Finally, they arrive at destination. Roland-Kerr college, as the pc helpfully informs John. But it refuses to do what John needs him to do – locate his bloody flatmate (and his wannabe murderer). There's nothing more than the address – the one they've arrived to now. Only that there are two buildings, goddamn it! Where is Sherlock? Now, if Sherlock was his Sherlock, and the fairytales were true (of course they aren't – but it'd be so useful), John could have a telepathic connection with him and just ask him. But now there's no time to dillydally. Now John needs to find him. Whether it is his Sherlock or not doesn't matter – the detective's brilliance can't be allowed to disappear from this world. It'd be a mortal sin. John picks a building at random and races into it, calling the name of his soulmate.
Then finally John sees him, through the window, and it figures that John's chosen the wrong building, he's always had the rottenest luck. He's holding something and facing their serial killer and what if he's talked into suicide too? John can't let that happen. It doesn't matter whether this unique man is his Sherlock or someone else's. John won't stand by and look while he offs himself. He calls to him with all his soul. "Sherlock!" Don't, please, he wants to continue.
But it's not enough. John's not heard. He's too far. He can't do anything. Well, that's not entirely true, is it? He has his gun. If he can't save Sherlock, if he has to look on his death, he bloody well can avenge him. And maybe, just maybe...
When the gunshot rings, Sherlock is startled. He drops the poison. And he doesn't seem interested in retrieving it to kill himself. The serial killer's persuasion skills don't run that deep, thank God. Sherlock is safe. Across from him, John lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. This marvellous whatever he has with the consulting detective won't be cut short just yet.
Sherlock is not in shock. Why would anyone think that he should be? Because someone just got killed before his eyes? Ridiculous. The dead man was a serial killer. It's not like he's just lost a friend (not that he has one to lose, but still – you get the point). Or a family member (not that losing Mycroft would be a shock, he tells himself; more of a liberation).
The orange blanket is hideous and the way it rustles against him gives Sherlock the shivers and he wants to get rid of it. But Lestrade is coaxing him to keep it on, so he gives in. The man has just lost the chance to arrest a serial killer – through his own idiocy, of course, nobody was stopping him to realize things at the same time Sherlock had. Still, antagonizing him now is useless. Not when Sherlock wants information from him. The detective limits himself to rolling his eyes. "So, the shooter. No sign?" he queries.
Someone has just been killed before his very eyes. He's not in shock, of course not. But he wants to solve this. He didn't get to beat the cabbie at his own game and he's lost his only lead on someone who sponsors serial killers and someone thought he could kill with Sherlock right there and get away scot free. Of course he wants to solve this case.
Lestrade is being his usual, blind, unhelpful self, saying that they have nothing to go on. The sleuth levels him with a look. "Oh, I wouldn't say that," he bits back. Why is everyone but him blind deaf and dimwitted? It's so disappointing, even when he knows to expect it.
Lestrade takes the bait, of course he does, even if he rolls his eyes at Sherlock's attitude, and asks for everything the sleuth can tell him.
The detective starts automatically deducing, lightning quick as always. Halfway through his exposition, Sherlock notices his flatmate – John – at the edge of the crime scene-keep out sign. It's an epiphany. John is here, and he fits the profile Sherlock has been sketching so very much that it would be absurd for two such people to be around the same time in the same area. Sherlock's voice trails off.
John has done this for him, but it's absurd, isn't it? The doctor might like 221B Baker Street a lot, but is it really enough to kill for him? To protect him? Only he clearly has. Sherlock's not used to people wanting to safeguard him, beyond Mycroft, who has to do it or fail at his self-imposed mission. But while his brother's attempts to take care of him irk him, John's act warms his unacknowledged heart. John didn't have to, but he chose to, and that makes all the difference in the world. John wants to keep him around. It's unprecedented. And Sherlock yearns for him to stay, too, and hence he isn't going to rat him out to Lestrade. Obviously.
"Ignore all of that. It's just the, er, the shock talking," he says. Not his more smooth lie, but he's still reeling – confused – from the discovery of John's care for him. He beelines towards his flatmate. They need to discuss things. John has to explain what possessed him to decide defending Sherlock was a good idea.
"I just need to talk about the – the rent," he tells the baffled Lestrade. Still stumbling over his words. Of course the inspector protests. This is not the usual, case-driven, masterful Sherlock. But maybe it's just that – beyond the bloody orange blanket he now uses as evidence – to convince the DI that Sherlock is in shock (and maybe he is, a bit) and should be allowed to go.
John is pretending to be utterly ordinary, when he's anything but. Sherlock is not about to let him do that. A honest compliment, "Good shot," and then he's talking of removing powder burns and making his flatmate nervous in the process. Right, maybe they're not exactly entirely out of earshot of the police. But nobody observes; and nobody pays attention to what happens around them.
"Are you all right?" he queries, looking at John intently. Is John only reasonably nervous or upset? Has what he's done – for Sherlock – caused him to go into shock, maybe? He did kill a man. It would make sense if he was highly perturbed. Yes, he was a soldier. But nobody ordered him to kill Hope.
But apparently John is justifying his actions to himself enough not to see it as murder (not that Sherlock sees it as such; it was done to save him) and will rest easy tonight. The serial killer moral failings are enough to deserve it, though John is particularly inarticulate about it (not very nice? Oh, John.)
Until the doctor says, "And frankly a bloody awful cabbie," and Sherlock can't help himself. He chuckles, then piles it on with the joke, and John starts giggling. They're laughing together once again, and it's simply delightful. Sherlock doesn't want this to ever stop, but apparently John has objections because of their surroundings. Crime scenes are not the place to laugh. Whoever decided that?
Sherlock leads them away, to comply with his flatmate's ideas of propriety. He usually simply disregards such silly preconceptions, but he'll make an exception for John. They're so happy together, there's no reason to purposefully irk him. When John apologizes for their giggling to sergeant Donovan, blaming it all on nerves, Sherlock says sorry to her too.
He apologized. To Donovan. And he let her think that crime scenes – or at least crimes happening in his presence – made him nervous. He hopes that John realizes how huge a concession he's given to him. (And yes, Sherlock implied the same to Lestrade claiming shock, but the DI doesn't hate his guts.)
Not to mention that John is implying that crime scenes might make him nervous – he wasn't present at the murder (not that Donovan knows), and if that makes the sergeant object even more to his presence at the next crime scene Sherlock will have to put her in her place. He most surely will ensure that John keeps following him on cases.
But John's still talking, reproaching in fact, "You were gonna take that damned pill, weren't you?"
Sherlock should reply that's it's not his business, only caring for him enough to kill for him clearly John made it his business, so the detective fibs unashamedly, "Course I wasn't. Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up."
Sadly, John sees right through him. "No you didn't. It's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever."
"Why would I do that?" Sherlock challenges.
"Because you're an idiot. And a bit selfish. Someone out there is waiting to meet you. You'd be stealing away their happiness, too. You might not be searching, but you never know. You still might meet him, or her," John comments.
Sherlock almost smiled at the start, but John's following words irk him. He shows his disappointment. "I didn't peg you as a hypocrite, John. Need I remind you that you invaded Afghanistan, risking your life?"
"Ah, but it's different for me. I was so sure that I'd never find her. And I was right about that." Despite the sad statement, John manages a soft smile.
So John had a female alien name. And he lost her since, Sherlock deduces, but for once he keeps it to himself. It's good that John can smile about it. He doesn't want to renew the hurt. Not my John? Teen Sherlock queries dejectedly from his exile. It can't be.
"Not so different. I don't search because finding him would be a useless endeavour." He knows that he's wilfully misleading John. Letting him think that Sherlock's soulmate is already dead, too. But the lie won't ever be discovered, because it's partly true. Nobody likes Sherlock, with maybe the exception of this John (who is evidently – now – not his soulmate). The sleuth won't ever find the John who completes him. Who loves him. It's fine. That would only distract him from the Work. And he has now someone who cares for him, if a bit. That's more than Sherlock ever expected.
"But let's not dwell on that. Dinner?" the sleuth proposes.
"Starving," John agrees heartily. His easy acceptance warms Sherlock's long-hushed heart. Not even Mycroft's arrival can entirely kill his good mood, though it does dampen it considerably.
John points his brother out to him, thinking it may constitute a threat instead of a mere annoyance. Mycroft and he banter a bit, with the eldest affecting to be reasonable and polite and 'on his side' (as if that'd ever happen). Then his brother utters something he really should know better than say. "Mummy would be so upset by this petty feud between us if she could see it."
"Don't you dare drag her into this, Mycroft. One, she's dead, and two, if she wasn't she wouldn't agree with your way of doing things, I'm sure," Sherlock' hisses venomously, barely keeping himself from attacking him.
Which reveals to John their kinship, and his flatmate cutting in the conversation manages to calm down the rage in Sherlock's soul instantly. He can limit himself to disparaging comments about his brother. John seems like he would like to comment, "Are the two of you for real?" but he keeps it to himself. (He does call Mycroft a criminal mastermind to his face. Sherlock is taken by a deep cheerfulness he hasn't felt in a while...one he only seems to find around John.)
Then Mycroft is saying goodbye, and they're free to get to that dinner. Chinese. On the way, Sherlock can't stop himself from smiling. He's just happy. No reason. John notices it, and he questions it, and Sherlock lies unashamedly. "Moriarty," he says.
It's a new puzzle. A mystery. Who in their right mind would sponsor a serial killer? (Then again, in their right mind is an assumption; but mad people should be met with interdiction and not have the funds to sponsor anyone). It's something Sherlock now should be excited over.
Or he should be coming down from the case high and start feeling the well-known emptiness he used to fight with drugs. Instead he's still pleasantly buzzing, and downright happy. John is the only new variable, so in some way must be his doing. Who knew that company could have this effect. It used to only irk Sherlock outright. Maybe it's like this always for other people? Is this why they search each other's presence in such a mindless fashion?
At least John is smiling too. He enjoys Sherlock's companionship. Usually people despise him as soon as he opens his mouth. John willingly saved him. What possessed him? That needs careful enquiry. Not tonight though, he reconsiders against his earlier decision. Tonight he enjoys himself.
When they're brought the fortune cookies, John grins at him. "You claimed that you can predict them. Or almost. So go on, genius. Prognosticate."
"Happiness might be under your nose,"Sherlock drawls. He's confessing, under the guise of foretelling. John won't understand it, which is fine. Perfect, actually. Because letting him know the power he apparently has over Sherlock's moods is risky at the very least, and not the kind of danger the sleuth welcomes.
He then opens his cookie. It says, "The best way to predict the future is to create it," instead. Which doesn't seem like a bad suggestion, either. But what kind of future should he aim for?
"So? Did you get it?" John queries excitedly.
"Almost," the detective replies, pocketing his slip without showing it.
"Do mine, then," the doctor goads with another grin.
"Your smile lights up someone else's day," the detective utters daringly. It can't be just him, either. John's smile is infectious.
His flatmate opens his cookie. "Wish it was something so nice," he remarks.
"Why? What does it say?"
"It may be difficult, but it will be worth it in the end,"John reads aloud. "Not that I doubt it, you know. That's generally true."
P.S. Sherlock's predictions and the cookies' text are taken from the virtual fortune cookies on horoscope. com