Disclaimer: Nothing at all mine. A.N. I apologize because there's no John this month but Sherlock started to talk and talk and I realized that I had to either make you wait two months (my writing rhytms are what they are) and make you face an overly long chapter or I had to split the points of view. I preferred this way, I hope you will agree with me.
It's not that he's back to that silly experiment about keeping John and work separated and see their respective effects. But John has commitments – all of which seem to involve dr. Sarah Sawyer one way or another – and he didn't even consider coming with Sherlock all the way to Minsk, Belarus, for a case who might or might not even be interesting. The sleuth didn't ask him to, to be fair, but if John had been interested – he'd only need a word. Or two, as it were. "Want company?"
The answer would obviously have been yes. Not, "God yes!" – Sherlock wouldn't let him glance that deep into his own neediness. He can't let John know that the Work – which used to be his life (all Sherlock had ever wanted) – doesn't taste the same now, after he knows what Work together with John is like. He's been ruined entirely. Now it's not just about the mystery – or even the adrenaline. He misses his flatmate/colleague (apparently not even friend – much less his John).
"Pitiful, Sherlock." That's what Mycroft would say, without a doubt – if he was informed of his little brother's ridiculous weakness. That's what he tells himself, through his mind-palace brother's likeness. "You have to stop this now, 'Lock. Be reasonable for once," Mycroft's shadow orders. He's never been too inclined to obey his brother – much less now, when he simply can't do so. It's not like he meant to get so very attached. It just sort of happened. He finds – scarily – that he can't control it.
So he's testy with the prospective client. He accepted to come because it would bring him away from John-and-Sarah, who irk him for some reason (though John has every right to make a life for himself after losing his soulmate – of course he has, and the sleuth has no say in it at all). Now that he's far from them, though, he's even angrier – for no reason at all. Well, with his 'client' for wasting his time. Sherlock can't – he won't – help a confessed criminal. What is he supposed to investigate? He's not a lawyer.
But the sleuth could have inquired that before leaving London. Instead no, he took any excuse to leave London and 221B, which felt stifling. And now he aches for home and his flatmate's presence. It's entirely unreasonable. He hurries back, leaving the shocked murderer to yell insults after him.
Once at home, he decides he's just bored. Bored seems a safe option, and reasonable – he hasn't had a decent case in what feels like forever, even if it's in truth no more than four days. Definitely better than 'I'm in a dark mood because I want my flatmate to pay attention to me," or "with nothing to focus on I keep having unreasonable urges," and how he is supposed to explain that?
He pilfers John's gun (not because he wants something to feel closer to John by, God no; he just always wanted one – and that's true too). The wall had it coming anyway. That it makes John ask about him is just an added bonus – there's no way the soldier will ignore shots being fired. True, his exact words are, "What the hell are you doing?"…not exactly, "How are you feeling?" but he wouldn't be able to answer that honestly anyway.
He proclaims his boredom loudly, frustrated, hoping and terrified at the same time that John will see through the façade, but John simply takes him in stride (but still takes away his gun – not that Sherlock expected him not to).
His flatmate inquires after the "Russian" case then. To which Sherlock can't really help but point out that it was "Belarus," then proceeding to complain about how useless his trip was. Domestic murder. No mystery at all. The doctor's reply could be sympathetic if not for the sarcasm dripping from his voice. If he'd been called on a home visit for a cold he would complain though, Sherlock is sure. Why can't John understand?
The detective can't sit still – keeps changing position, but nothing feels comfortable. (If only John would touch him again…now where did that thought come from? He's not a dog, to ask to be petted!)
Instead of empathising with him, the doctor moves to the kitchen, as he's hungry. And he's met with Sherlock's newest experiment. Well, experiments. The disembodied head in the fridge serves many purposes at once. There's, of course, the one he'll admit to – studying the coagulation of saliva post-mortem.
But he's analysing his flatmate too. Will John now suspect him of murder, believing Donovan's claims? Will this finally make him run for the metaphorical hills (or, more simply, to Sarah – hopefully definitely this time)? It would better, if John decided he wants to live together with his girlfriend instead. He would have no power of Sherlock's moods anymore.
Well, for a time he would still, even in his absence, the sleuth suspects – but if he has to go cold turkey from John Watson he should really start early rather than later. John is surely going to leave someday, doesn't he? Everyone does.
It seems, though, that the severed head in the fridge won't, after all, be his flatmate's breaking point. He protests, of course, but once Sherlock starts heaping his own justifications (especially the very reasonable, "Where else was I supposed to keep it?") he makes no move to call the police or throw the experiment away. He doesn't even call Sherlock freak, which would be fully justified. He plays nice, but why? What does he get out of it? And above all, why is his behaviour so inconsistent?
He's not been nice when he wrote up their first case. Not nice at all. Sherlock decides to call him out on it. He mentions it airily, as if it doesn't matter (it shouldn't). "I see you've written up the taxi driver case." John agrees vaguely.
"A study in pink. Nice!" It's obvious sarcasm, but the word is on his mind a lot now. The case of his flatmate's randomly disappearing and reappearing niceness.
John defends his choice, saying there was a lot pink in the case. There was, Sherlock supposes, but surely there were more important elements to focus on for an elegant exposition of what happened. You could almost make a theorem out of it. And now it's been wasted that way. Asked if he liked the post, the sleuth can only be honest. "Erm, not." A tiny part of him still hesitates to displease his flatmate. (He shouldn't care about it.) But truth is truth.
John doesn't get it. He thinks the detective should be "flattered". But of course. What better way to flatter someone than to call them "spectacularly ignorant"? Sherlock quotes back the blog angrily. Does really John need to humiliate him publicly? They might not be friends (that quip to Wilkes will never stop smarting) but even as flatmates they might hold a degree to politeness toward each other (not Sherlock, and not now – he wants John out of his life…but not really; that's his problem).
The doctor tries to defend himself, but his position is indefensible. The sleuth has an extensive experience in insulting other people. He recognizes one when he reads it. (He shouldn't have bothered to read the blog – he shouldn't care what the man thinks.)
Not for the first time, they fight over astronomy. It might be primary school, but it will not help Sherlock solve his cases. Why should he allocate precious brain space for useless information that will only clutter it? Politics (he's not Mycroft), gossip, and yes, astronomy are all useless. When he is asked to consult in outer space he will look something up…but the chances of that happening are practically non-existent. Of course he's deleted space. He needs chemistry at hand; his 243 tobacco ash types. Not what we orbit around (and anyway, anyone moves in his own private orbit under the sun).
He explains his theory – people would be much smarter and more efficient if they followed his example (why doesn't John? Sherlock would be amenable to teach him) – and ends with, "All that matters to me is the Work." That used to be true. Why oh why can't it still be like in these golden times?
"Without that, my brain rots. Put that in your blog. Or better yet, stop inflicting your opinions on the world," he suggests angrily. And that will be his last word on the matter. To emphasise it, he turns his back to the world (to John) and shields himself with the dressing gown, curling in a ball of misery.
Now would be the right time for his flatmate to apologize, say he didn't mean to humiliate Sherlock publicly (though obviously he did) and promise to emend his ways. Instead he leaves. He has the gall to leave. For 'air'. He could be honest and say, "I'm going to Sarah to complain about you not appreciating adequately my literary prowess just because I insulted you a bit – which you deserve."
He gets the mad urge to call him back, apologize, anything. What if this is what drives him out? Isn't it a bit…trivial compared to what John puts up with? Well, and what if it is? Doesn't Sherlock want the obnoxious flatmate out of his life? (He does, but he doesn't. He very much doesn't. That's the root of the problem – the whole reason he bothered to acknowledge that John thought ill of him.) He's right though, John insulted him without reason first and on the bloody web (things never disappear from there, he'll be 'spectacularly ignorant' forever), so he quashes the urge ruthlessly. He can't help feeling bereft, though. (He hates John…No, he doesn't.)
He's just curled up in an even tighter little ball against all these blasted feelings when Mrs. Hudson invades the sitting room. As much as he loves the woman, who is sort of a mother figure he's found way too late in his life (then again, as a kid he would be helpless to deal with Mr. Hudson), she sometimes has the worst timing.
"Have you two had a little domestic?" she queries.
Sherlock can't answer, "I wish, because that'd mean we'd be in a relationship, and really, I'd love to. I'd love if he didn't scorn me, honestly – that'd be enough," as that would be quite more openness than Mrs. H. – or anyone really – needs from him. So he doesn't.
Since the one who hurt his feelings is gone, though, it's useless to give a cold shoulder to the world – so he gives into instinct and gets to the window, wondering if that's the last he'll see of his flatmate.
Their landlady mum keeps nattering, showing she's already adopted John too. "Bit too soon, Mrs. Hudson, you might be disappointed now," but again the sleuth doesn't say it. What he says is, "Look at that, Mrs. Hudson." He's left he's left he's left he's left and it's my fault, of course it is.
He gazes at the empty street without really seeing it, and remarks, "Quiet, calm, peaceful." Everything feels hollow. Inside and outside the flat. He can't help but grimace in distaste, and draws a long breath to chase away horror and a tiny, stubborn edge of panic. "Isn't it hateful?" he whines.
"Oh, I'm sure something'll turn up, Sherlock. A nice murder – that'll cheer you up," the ever-understanding Mrs. Hudson reassures him, chuckling slightly.
"Can't come too soon," the sleuth replies wistfully. A nice murder. That would cheer him up all right. Or at least distract him. And if he's very, very lucky, and the murder is nice enough, it might tempt adrenaline addict John back to his abode and to the Work and Sherlock won't be miserable anymore. (For a time. Until John leaves again. Where had his resolve to chase him away gone? Already melted away. He's pitiful.)
Then Mrs. Hudson isn't at all understanding anymore, getting angry about the bullet holes in the wall and storming off. Why does she even care about the wall? It's not like it is about to complain. Really, it seems he can only upset people today. And for the silliest of reasons. He makes himself grin at the smiley face he's shot not long ago. There's nothing to be depressed about. Nothing at all. The attempt to persuade himself of it dies on the spot, and he sighs wearily. Why does no one like him? Just then the distraction from his own misery comes in the form of a powerful explosion. Just what he needed. (Or not. Gas leak, they say when he inquires about it. Boring. Useless.)
The following morning, the door opens without anyone ringing the bell, and for a moment Sherlock hopes it's John. He's abandoned the dressing gown and the sulks and he's quite dashing in the purple shirt, if he can say so himself, and maybe that will let John know how eager he is for their silly row to be over without him having to say it. Instead, it's his damned brother. "You're fine, I see. I trust your flatmate is, too?" he says as opening line.
"John's more than fine. He wasn't even here when it happened." Sherlock would love to be unreadable to Mycroft, but the fat git will observe and correctly deduce the cause of his brother's bitterness. If he's not spying on them.
"Driven him away already, have you, Sherlock? And here I had such hopes for him." The elder Holmes shakes his head in disappointment even while he gives his brother the smirk that means that he knows something Sherlock doesn't and he'll share if he's begged prettily enough (the sleuth never did; he'd rather deduce it on his own or go without that sliver of data).
Sherlock doesn't reply to that, only replying with glare n. 53.
Mycroft seats himself very deliberately in John's chair – and Sherlock turns the glare up a notch and goes to retrieve his violin (a powerful weapon of retaliation). He can't protest because he's not supposed to care. Not about his flatmate, not about his leaving and surely not about how wrong anyone else in that chair feels (it's like an itch). "I have a job for you," the elder one announces.
Just then, John rushes in – calling his name since the stairs with something like panic. Why? Does he care? Why does he care so much (it's evident in his voice)? Doesn't he despise his flatmate? "John," the detective says, acknowledging his presence. He looks at his doctor (he needs to back up the auditory files with more data to deduce from, to solve the puzzle of John caring).
"I saw it on the telly. Are you okay?" John queries, still anxious.
"Hmm? What?" The only reason he could be not okay is their row – or Mycroft's meddling – and he's pretty sure neither were on tv. Then he takes a look around and remembers the disappointing explosion of yesterday. "Fine. Gas leak, apparently." Wish he had a case to involve John in.
He can't spare any more attention for John then, because there's his brother to deal with – to chase away. He says he's too busy, to which the self-important git obviously replies blabbering about 'national importance' and how nothing Sherlock's doing can possibly compare. And when Sherlock decides to needle him, his brother ignores it and tries to involve John instead, who is surprised by it.
Sherlock is too – they never used to involve strangers in their banter. What makes Mycroft think that John has any sway over which cases he accepts? Nobody influences him. (That's what he needs to show, even if apparently his brother has already read through him. It's hateful.)
Mycroft keeps blabbering, saying he can't work it out himself because he does indeed have much more important things, which he only adumbrates. Show off. Is he trying to impress John, or what? (Even if he ends up admitting he's simply too lazy for that.)
To distract John, and remind him why he liked Sherlock enough to room with him in the first place, the sleuth deduces him. And of course, upset as he is, misses his mark slightly. And Mycroft corrects him.
Mycroft's always been the smarter brother, and now even John knows it. He's just made a fool of himself. What a wonderful day. At least, John doesn't inquires about the elder Holmes' deductions like he does with Sherlock's, but shrugs them off. Sherlock would love to point that out, but before he can, his brother is all clearly set in winning John over like he couldn't during their first case. He offers one of his ambiguous compliments and then tries to bond over hating Sherlock, of all things. "What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine," he states.
But John is in his nice phase, because he replies, "I'm never bored." Right. Mycroft is very boring. And he can't have John. He just can't. Sherlock won't let him. What would Mycroft do with John anyway? He doesn't need more minions. He has plenty. Sherlock has just John (and he doesn't even have him, not really) and he needs him.
Mycroft decides to ignore Sherlock's glare to discuss the case with John, who lets himself be involved way too easily. He wants a case too, after all, doesn't he? He's gagging for it. He can't take jobs from Mycroft nonetheless. And Sherlock's not going to do so.
Not even because his brother threatens to order him. He could try it, and then there'd be reason to laugh. He can't control Sherlock. It's years that he can't make the sleuth do anything he doesn't wish to. With a last "Think it over," thrown to him, Mycroft leaves…but he makes a point a point to shake John's hand, tell him a polite 'goodbye' and add a half-suggestive, half-creepy, entirely disquieting, "See you very soon."
Why would he? What does Mycroft want from John? He doesn't care for ordinary people like John, he never has. He must want to take away the one person Sherlock has found that makes him happy (when John's not busy making his life miserable). Maybe he thinks to be protecting his younger brother, taking away the one person that can influence his moods (that's a dangerous power the doctor has over him). What right does he have? The detective expresses his sharp displeasure with a cluster of angry, jarring notes, repeating them over and over until his brother finally is out of the house.
Afterwards, John asks why he's lied to Mycroft, claiming to be busy when he's instead supremely idle – dangerously idle, considering the kind of pastimes he's up to, he could even say, but he doesn't. "Why shouldn't I?" Sherlock bites back. If Mycroft can't deduce when he's lied to, he should retire. He's helping keeping his older brother's mind fit. The elder Holmes insisted so much exactly because he knew perfectly well that Sherlock has nothing to do, so he feels no compuction at all about bothering him to take the case.
"Oh!" John nods. "I see." Well, he sees what? The doctor might be bright on his own right, but he's not the type to deduce. Sherlock certainly hopes he's not suddenly developed the ability to see through Sherlock's masks, because that would be catastrophic and entirely embarrassing almost all the time. (He has way worst secrets to hold than his not-relationship with Mycroft).
"Sibling rivalry. Now we're getting somewhere," John diagnoses.
Before Sherlock can deny that his reasons are so…petty, his mobile phone rings. Lestrade! Lestrade with a case, Lestrade who knows him and won't bother him for domestic murder. The sleuth can't say yes soon enough. A case is exactly what he needs now. "I've been summoned. Coming?" he queries, hating the mix of incertitude, hope and fear that John will, after all, say no. Say that working with Sherlock is not something he enjoys (he's an adrenaline addict, of course he enjoys it, but…).
"If you want me to," John replies – polite, but hopeful, oh hopeful for a good case, no less than him.
"Of course," the sleuth assures, and he really means to stop there. But then, once again, unreasonable, reckless, dangerously close to surface these days Teen Sherlock hijacks control (he keeps doing so since he's met John – this has to stop!) and confesses, "I'd be lost without my blogger." Any attempt to retract the statement would only draw attention to it, and so Sherlock lets it go – and adds a mental note to add a few planks nailed above the attic's door as soon as he has the free time to do so.
At Scotland Yard, Lestrade promises one "funny, surprising," case. If only that could be true. It seems he did well, instinctively inquiring about that 'gas leak' yesterday, because someone wants him involved in it. Very much so. In a strong box on the site of the explosion, they've found an envelope. Addressed to him. They scanned it for traps, but haven't dared to open it. Why haven't they? Did they feel how wrong all this is too?
Who the hell uses Scotland Yard as the postman? Someone insane. Someone daring. Someone interesting. Oh, he's not going to sit this one out. John will love it, too. More than anything Sarah can offer.
Sherlock throws away his hesitation, the feeling that the envelope might bite him despite being apparently safe (but if it held…germs, for example, they wouldn't show up on the x ray) and examines it. Bohemian stationery, fine pen…his suitor (now where did that idea come from?) – obviously a woman, and a refined one at that – pulled all the stops to impress him.
Now, what does she want to tell him? Only one way to know. He carefully opens the envelope and finds…an iPhone. A pink one, at that. Not what he expected, he'll have to admit. His mouth opens in surprise but he manages to rein in any sound. It wouldn't do.
John's not as quiet. "But that's – that's the phone, the pink phone," he blurts out. Now please let's move on from the obvious.
Then Lestrade chimes in with what Sherlock would have never expected. "What, from the Study in pink?"
The sleuth tries to move past the stupid suppositions, stating, "Well, obviously it's not the same phone," (he hopes at least to be the only one helping himself to filed evidence) "but it's supposed to look like…". Then his mind suddenly backtracks and realizes what the inspector's words mean. With a sense of dread, he queries, "The study in pink? You read his blog?"
"Course I read his blog! We all do," The DI claims. Oh joy. And then, of course…"Do you really not know that the Earth goes round the sun?" Well, what does it matter? Donovan, who must have been eavesdropping because she came in with clearly an excuse the moment a study in bloody pink got mentioned, sniggers loudly. And Sherlock chooses to glare at her instead of glaring at one John Watson, even if this is all his fault. But of course, he should be flattered by the blog. Flattered that 'spectacularly ignorant' is now added to 'freak' and 'psycho' and whatever else his coworkers like to throw at him. (Not that their opinion matters. It's never mattered. But John's…with his 'amazing' and 'brilliant'…he's spoiled Sherlock. Well, that's when truth comes out.)
Donovan, having had his fill of laughter, leaves the room, and the sleuth chooses not to answer Lestrade's baffled query at all. It's not worth of his attention. Instead, he continues working the case. Though he can't help himself from throwing one accusatory look at his flatmate when he declares, "Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like the same phone, which means your blog has a far wider readership." And look what has come out of John's blog. People laughing at him. People stalking him (that's what this case fallen so neatly into his lap is). And John wondered why he wasn't more grateful to be mentioned.
Sherlock switches the phone on, and immediately a voice alert pops up. The Greenwhich pips. Well, the pips minus one short signal. That might be relevant. Or not.
John's unimpressed. "Is that it?" he queries.
There is more. A photo. A photo of a place Sherlock knows very, very well. Stalker, indeed. And one that has already hit closer that the sleuth is comfortable with. One with bombing tendencies. Well, he wanted a case, didn't he? Now he's got one. One he can't afford not to solve.
Of course. Lestrade misses everything of importance, and complains of being entirely lost. But that's expected of him. Sherlock explains it for the dimwitted. "It's a warning."
"A warning?" Apparently, the dimwitted include John. Sherlock doesn't know why he'd expected him to realize. Probably because he expected the soldier to have a sixth sense for coming danger. All this is putting the detective on edge, and he thought John would be, too.
"Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that. Five pips. They're warning us it's gonna happen again," the detective reveals. Lestrade at least should have known that. A bit of knowledge about criminal history would do him good. Nothing's ever new. "And I've seen this place before," he adds. Of course he has. It's close – too close. They wouldn't have harmed Mrs. Hudson while he's been following this trail, would they? They can't. It's worth checking on her, though.
He's already moving to leave, when John – even while following – interrupts his inner worrying. "Hang on," the doctor stammers, seeming uneasy (catching up finally, John?) "what's gonna happen again?"
Well, what can that mean? Do they really have to wonder about it? Why is everyone so slow? Of course, there's only one thing that can be coming. "Boom!" Sherlock replies. Is that clear enough for the moronic lot he's been saddled with? They have to move before Mrs. H. gets blown apart.