Disclaimer: I own nothing. A.N. Remember English is my second language and I wrote this when it was boiling hot, so if I messed grammar in Sherlock's section forgive me please?
John doesn't understand his flatmate. Yesterday he seemed upset over the deaths (as he very well should be, and John – now in private – would happily comfort him). Instead, he discusses the situation so coldly this morning. Has he deleted his feelings about the matter? Is that even possible? (And why should he choose to do so? Doesn't he know that being sad over lost lives is perfectly fine?)
John can't believe his ears. Their bomber arranged all the crimes? Explosives, murders, vanishing… and whatever else is coming. That's not the worst, though. The worst is that Sherlock is enchanted by the idea (his friend's soulmate is dead, right?). John would almost say he admires the undoubtedly very resourceful criminal. "Do you think he wants to be caught?" he inquires, hopeful. An even unconscious guilt could bring the madman to commit some error and be arrested sooner rather than later.
"I think he wants to be distracted," the sleuth counters, while complaining that he's taking longer than usual to come up with a new challenge – a new game.
John can't help it. "He might not be your soulmate, but I'm starting to think that you two'll be very happy together," he mutters.
And then Sherlock turns on him – as if John is the one who's at fault here. "Don't be ridiculous," he bits back sharply. "I don't fancy him – or anyone." There's a small pause before hurryingly tacking on the these last two words whose significance is entirely lost on John.
"Could have fooled me," the doctor grumbles. Really, what's he doing? Having a jealous strop now because the game has become the much yearned highlight of the sleuth's day? No, it's not like that at all, he tells himself. The only problem is that today, Sherlock is treating it like a game, while there are actual lives at stake. Lives lost already. He reminds his friend sharply of that little detail. Exasperated, he queries why the sleuth doesn't care about them anymore.
"I never cared about them, John," the detective replies coldly. This is bull, John was there yesterday, but he's too irritated to call it. Instead, he asks "Why not?"
Sherlock answers him with a question of his own, asking if caring will help save Moriarty's victims. John has to say the truth, and as much as he'd like to answer that with a resounding yes, he admits instead that it won't.
"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake," the detective states, glacial.
'Mistake? Where did you heard it is?' John wants to enquire, or maybe even yell, 'Stop pretending, Christ!' but he only grinds out, "I need air," moving to leave.
"Fleeing from disappointment? How mature. How caring of you, when we could have news about the case at any time – I could need you to solve it, but don't let it stop you, John. Go," Sherlock says, stopping him on the doorstep, of course.
"I'm useless to cases, and you know that perfectly well," the doctor replies bitterly.
"You're not! I need your assistance, really." the sleuth exclaims vehemently, sounding perfectly sincere – but he's always been a very good actor, hasn't he? "I don't care if you're disappointed in me, John. Keep being disappointed – and please don't make me better than I am, you know I'm not a caring person – but stay."
Just then the pink phone pings with a new message. "See? We have a case! Come on, John!" Sherlock exclaims enthusiastically.
"Come where?" the doctor asks, resigning himself to following the man forever – or as long as his flatmate wants it.
"Give me a moment and I'll know."
It takes him more than a moment – and the actual collaboration of Lestrade, because this isn't as immediate to pinpoint as the previous ones – but finally they're going to the Thames, and there's a body for John to examine. He's afraid that the washed up body can't offer much clues, even to Sherlock, who seems more worried about the lack of call from Moriarty (anything breaking the pattern is obviously cause of disquiet – John understands it) than about not being able to solve this one.
Well, John should have more faith in his genius friend, because with one of his usual perfectly logical but utterly mysterious-looking leaps, they go from murder to art forgery. He supposes it relates to what the sleuth has been researching on his phone.
From forgery they leap again, to horror stories of all things, but before John can became seriously lost Sherlock explains he's simply talking of a hitman's alias. He already has the name of the murderer they should be searching – the detective sometimes feels like a veritable human archive, better than anything Scotland Yard can offer.
Apparently it's a famous assassin, the one they're facing now, and not one John would like to meet unarmed. Being strangled to death seems a particularly unpleasant death, and despite his army training. John doesn't particularly fancy meeting this one.
The doctor can't help but wonder what this poor bloke did to deserve having an assassin hired against him – he looks like an ordinary bloke. And that's as far as his deductions – or his lack of them, to be honest – go.
But once Sherlock starts taking them through his deductions (after a bit of gentle prodding on John's part, because he's apparently exasperated at their blindness – for which the doctor can't even fault him) he guesses right. Better than Lestrade, and doesn't this make him insanely proud, even if Sherlock doesn't praise him much. Though he'd not noticed the one-and-hundred clues that Sherlock brings to back up this hypothesis. (Well, but for the hook for the walkie talkie, which he suddenly observed and that gave him the idea in the first place). It would be normal for a guard to be killed by a thief, or something such. But someone commissioning his death? What would prompt anyone to do so?
Sherlock goes on with his explanation, giving evidence for the art forgery – a thirty million worth forgery, which might certainly be worth commissioning a murder or two to keep hidden – and as always, John can't help himself. "Fantastic," he breathes, awed by his friend. He'll never get tired of praising Sherlock.
Instead, the sleuth replies, "Meretricious," and John wonders. What is "showy but false"? The bomber's new plot? A fake so valuable might be termed as such, probably (it would be the first time the detective doesn't appreciate his stalker's "gifts" – which is a good thing). Or…he wasn't referring to John's compliments, was he? He's too smart to believe that his flatmate's appreciation isn't entirely sincere, surely?
Lestrade adds his own sarcastic two cents, but knowing Sherlock's never wrong, he plans to look for the Golem. The detective doesn't have any faith in him, though, and declares happily he'll find the man himself. And probably get half killed in the process. Oh joy. But if he had to be entirely honest with himself, John would have to confess his own blood is singing at the prospect of a fight with an internationally renowned murderer. Missing war, indeed.
They get into a taxi, and John expects them to follow the lead to the art gallery involved in the forgery. Or have they simply been duped too? Some experts they have. Then again, this painting is not even their usual type of art, so why would they get involved in the first place…no, something sounds definitely fishy even if there wasn't the guard's murder to back that theory up. And their favourite bomber (well, Sherlock's favourite) knows of (maybe organized, if the sleuth's right and people go to him with their criminal needs, no matter how odd that sounds) the fake.
But then the sleuth stops their cab…to go to talk to a homeless beggar? Has he been taken by a sudden surge of compassion? Not that John would really object to that, but he can't help but think it's a very out of character action for his friend. Sherlock isn't famous for his empathy. And that's not all. He's seen the note Sherlock handed her, and well…that was a lot of money.
The sleuth assures him (because John can't help the protest automatically on his lips) that he's 'investing', and John can only hope that such an investment is case-related. Because the other dealings John can imagine that woman being involved in would definitely not be legal. But Sherlock said he's clean, and he wouldn't start using mid-case. If nothing else, he's much too busy now to even think of that.
So, John doesn't even mind much that he's now stuck with cab fare, since apparently Sherlock just 'invested' everything he bloody had on his person. He wonders idly what would happen if he didn't have money, either. Would they make a run for it here and now? Call Mycroft? Ask someone else for a ride and/or a loan? Really, Sherlock trusts him too much to handle life sometimes. One day John won't be able to help and it will come bite the detective in the ass.
When they arrive at the gallery, and Sherlock doesn't allow him to follow, John can't help but be deeply disappointed. Are they already at the point where Sherlock doesn't want him around for his investigations?
Apparently no, he's just aiming to gain time by sending him to gather data at their victim's flat, but after what happened with Connie Prince, John can't help to wonder why. Does he like internally laughing at John's suppositions? (At least he doesn't mock him outright…yet.)
As always, unable to deny Sherlock anything (he really has to learn that, preferably soon), John moves to the victim's home, and is welcomed by the flatmate, a woman, who feels the need to point out right at the start that they were just flatmates – nothing like that. Is it a case of excusatio non petita, accusatio manifesta? Or did she get insinuations as often as Sherlock and he do? The detective would know – from her shoes, or something equally random.
He tries nonetheless to understand the character of their victim, in hope of finding some sort of clue to offer to the sleuth. The man was clearly a man with a passion – for the stars – and John can't help but think what would he have thought of Sherlock if he'd met him when he was alive. Mr. 'I deleted the solar system as useless' faced with the stars lover. Now that would be one amusing meeting.
The flatmate says the guard wasn't interested in art beyond his job, though, and had no particular knowledge about it. So how could he have discovered a forgery that some experts were ready to authenticate?
The break in is further evidence that the man knew something, or had something (would the flatmate even notice if whatever constituted their evidence was gone?) and how is John supposed to discover what it was? Or Sherlock for the matter?
In a bid to retrace the victim's steps and understand, he's allowed to hear out the last message for him. A professor Cairns. Maybe an art expert that he had consulted once he's started to doubt the painting was a fake? But what made him doubt? It's maddening. And Sherlock won't be pleased by his lack of results. Well, maybe the detective will manage to find Cairns, and they can learn something that way.
Talking of Sherlock, what is he doing? John hopes he'll be in a sharing mood later. The doctor can't help but think that he shouldn't have left him go on his own – there's an obsessed bomber on the loose and he hasn't called yet and oh God what if they kidnap Sherlock and strap him to a bomb? It would change the rules of the game midway, sure, but since when do criminals care about that?
That's it, he's done here anyway, now he's getting back to Sherlock's side. Someone needs to protect that absurdly brilliant man, and clearly the sleuth thinks that the MET isn't qualified enough for that job. And he hates Mycroft and his minions, so who else is there?
Thinking about Mycroft seems to have evoked him. He texts (why does he texts? He hates texting as much as – or because – Sherlock loves it) asking how far the investigation is along. You know, the one of national importance, with the secret plans. The one Sherlock delegated entirely to him, because he won't do boring work when someone is trying so delightfully to court him. Maybe going back to Sherlock will have to wait a bit. Disappointing both Holmes brothers in this matter is really not advisable. He can go talk to the persons involved at least. Gather data. And then maybe he'll only have to report the facts back to them for either Holmes to figure things out on his own.
So instead of heading home he's interrogating the victim-slash-traitor's fiancée, and fighting hard his urge to comfort her instead. If she wasn't – and he wasn't – what they respectively are at the moment he'd probably cheer her up with a bit of tasteful flirting. Make her feel that life continues – and can be nice.
As it is, he can only suggest tea to calm her down, which doesn't work too well. Because she's upset by his suspects, but these are Mycroft assumptions, and John has learned never to question a Holmes' word. At least she's smart enough to understand that he's not expressing a personal view, but "the bosses' opinion." Though their traitor would have had motive – he had debts, the fiancée is adamant that he would never do so. How well did she know him, John can't help but wonder.
Anyway, he inquires about the happenings of the victim's last night (he better think of him as the victim rather than the traitor – the girl is perceptive and won't like if he keeps insinuating such things.)
There's precious little to know, though. She doesn't know what could really put them on the right trail to find the people responsible – and to perhaps exonerate her fiancé from every accusation. Who did the man go to meet? And how can John discover it? There's got to be some clue – but he's not Sherlock.
"He wouldn't have," the woman insists. "How do I know? Because we were soulmates, that's why, and I would never betray my country."
John can't help but hope that she's wrong, that she found one of the many homonyms, because dying so young because your soulmate has been killed is nothing short of tragedy. Hearing from everyone that it was his fault in the first place, for being a traitor, on top of that…he can see why she clings to her trust in the man so strongly.
"I'm sure you're right," he says placatingly, "you knew him. And if you remember anything that could help bring his murderers to justice – any fact at all, no matter how apparently menial, please call me."
He's glad to know that she has a brother that will look out for her – if the victim was her soulmate, and even if she'll have to face the fact he wasn't. Even if he gets insulted in the process. But it's natural that the investigation is going slow. Still, he can't help but feel guilty about that. (But there's no persuading Sherlock to deal with the simple theft plus murder now that he has the mad bomber on his hands.)
At the gallery, Sherlock's soul is divided. Of course he sent away John, he had to. He needs to work, not try to impress. And somehow, he always tries to impress his friend whenever he's in the room. Not to mention that John doesn't know how to act, and would ruin his little joke. A joke that might possibly cause the guilty party to confess. It probably won't, to be honest, but it's worth a try. It would solve things so much quicker, and Moriarty would finally call (the lack of the customary call is unnerving him more that knowing any victim could do). But still, he misses his friend's presence. For a second, he remains watching the cab sped away with John in it and wishes things could be different.
The actual act goes remarkably smoothly. He needs only a few words to a friend's of their victim, informing them of what's happened and promising to solve it quickly, to find himself in possession of a uniform. (Of course he's solving this quickly – he doesn't know the deadline, and when not knowing, always assume the worst. He has to solve this the fastest that he's ever been.) Now, it's show-time.
He goes to have a good look at the painting. Maybe he'll gather enough data to solve this case right away. True, he's not an art expert – but he uses his brain, contrarily to most of humanity. There must be a clue somewhere. After all, the bloody security guard figured it out. The man wasn't an art critic – the solution must be rather obvious. Strangely, he finds no deduction is possible. He can't have been surpassed by the dead man. A finer observer than him? Mycroft, maybe…but if their victim had such high talents he wouldn't have remained as a low-wage security guard, surely? He's irritated with himself. As a result (not only to try to wrong-foot her) he's particularly snippy in his accusations to the museum's director. Sadly, she doesn't admit anything or try to outright threaten his life (of course – she needs the Golem for that). He supposes that was indeed too much to hope for. After seeing the woman, at least he's sure she's involved in the forgery and is not a victim too. She wouldn't be defensive if she was – she would have wanted to go to the bottom of the question and understand if the accusations might possibly be true. She already knows they are true – and is not going to let another stupid guard get in the way of her plan. She must be having deja vus now. He does give her his name. Let her set the Golem on him. If his homeless network doesn't find him, it'll be the assassin to find them. He's not scared. He has John to protect him.
He can't help but be disappointed when he reaches 221B and finds that John is not already there. Why isn't he? Investigating the victim shouldn't require all this time. He was a boring security guard (despite his unexpected brilliance in recognizing forgery), how many things there can be to inquire about?
And above all, who is supposed to make Sherlock's tea? Not Mrs. Hudson, she might even agree, but she won't get it right. Nobody makes tea like John. No one. Not their landlady, not his mummy, and no matter if he observes John preparing his magical tea, Sherlock can't even start to replicate the quality of his brew. "Because it's prepared with love," teen!Sherlock chimes in unexpectedly, and Sherlock is brusquely reminded of why Mycroft has always deemed him his 'stupid little brother'.
"Shut up, you!" he says out loud, irritated – thankfully there's no one here to take that comment the wrong way, only Billy the skull who is as always looking at him serenely, unfazed by the detective's antics. If Billy reacted in any way…well, there's the day Sherlock would have to be committed. Again. "Ssshh! Don't tell John what happened when Mycroft decided he couldn't deal with our weirdness anymore," teen Sherlock whispers conspiratorially, and his adult self, this time, agrees wholeheartedly. He's been discharged eventually, and that's all that matters. Most of what happened has been either deleted or bolted away, and it doesn't bother Sherlock anymore. Honest.
The point is – he has to go without tea now. And without John. And both are menial sacrifices, to be sure, but he's allowed to be a bit sulky over it. Especially because there's no one to notice and wonder exactly what has put him into a mood.
And then John is arriving (finally) and one of his homeless network is, too, and it's to talk to her that Sherlock leaves home. Not to go welcome John at the door like a good little wife, of course – he doesn't even care about the man, he's going about his business, solving the case. And if that means he doesn't have to wait even the minute of John coming up the seventeen steps to be in his company, to have him at his side, falling into easy step with him and reporting back what he's found, well that's a bonus, and Sherlock doesn't look needy and it's all fine.
So yes, maybe he's a bit rude with John, but his report is quite pithy for someone who's been out so long (though Sherlock suspects he's worked more than one case). But whatever John has found out now doesn't even matter, because his homeless network works, and now they have a place. They can go catch Lestrade a murderer, a hired assassin that will tell them who's his client (though Sherlock knows already) but with that evidence they can interrogate her and solve the case and save the life (maybe – assuming someone's in danger now even without a call to prove it). They take the same cab John came home with, and here they are, once again on a killer's track, just the two of them. It's wonderful.
It feels so good, indeed, that for a moment he lets himself be distracted by the majestic beauty of the night sky. John at his side, a nice stroll in search of a murderer and the stars twinkling benevolently at them. What more could a man wish for? (Yes, well, something, but let's not go down that avenue. It's bolted – on both their sides, actually. Even the prospect makes John defensively angry, and Sherlock's not looking to ruin his mood tonight.)
He utters a casual remark, and he is faced with John's surprise. It stings. Why are they always talking about who…sorry, what…revolves around which? Is he not allowed to enjoy the stars without knowing the details, just like people do about pretty much anything? Oh, no matter now – they're on the hunt. The stars matter nothing.
He's looking around, thrumming with adrenaline – there must be the Golem around here, the Homeless Network knows better than to fail him – and explaining to John how his information acquiring works. And John calls him clever. Oh, yes. John's praise never fails to make him all warm with pleasure. He wishes he could praise back, and make John just as happy, but this is not the moment to get a full report and compliment him on a job (hopefully) well done. Now, where could the Golem be hiding? From what he knows of the man, he's too big to disappear easily.
Or so he'd thought, at least. He finally spots the man – it's exactly like the description he's gleaned from Interpol, this must be the Golem (he's a fearsome vision, Sherlock has to admit). Now, to catch him and serve him on a silver platter to Lestrade, who will certainly grumble about being left out of the action but there's John with him, so the DI won't be able to complain that Sherlock got into danger without backup and risked his life. (Lestrade, Mycroft, and now John are all obsessed with the detective's need for backup. He's not a child, he's perfectly able to deal with criminals on his own. Though now John's presence while tracking a murderer is a very welcome addition.)
Before they can apprehend him, though, the Golem gets a ride from a nondescript car. Someone requires his services – and he's escaped them. Sherlock hates failing. Especially failing when someone else is going to die soon because of that. But then – oh, John. Brilliant John. Lifesaving John. There's someone who was in contact with their victim about the man's suspects of forgery, and it's obvious that this person is the one whoever saw the dead man as a threat would want to ensure does not share further their discoveries. They only need to get to Professor Cairns. Teen!Sherlock insists that the adequate way to thank John for being so good is to kiss him, but Sherlock won't give into the impulse. The last thing he needs now is John balking at his shameful attitude. They have someone to save (hopefully at least).
Instead, they arrive too late. Being disturbed in his strangling, the Golem easily snaps the poor professor's neck. If Sherlock had paid more attention to John's report…if he had deduced that, being in the know, the professor was the natural next victim and come here earlier, ambushing the Golem… But no, he had to behave as if he still had no partner in his work and follow the Homeless Network's suggestion.
Truth is, it was worse than dismissing John because he's not used to having a colleague at his side. This was him try to show off for John, once again – his network's efficiency, his ability to track people down. He couldn't show off if he asked for his friend's input. And that has cost them a few minutes and professor Cairns her life. Sherlock won't ever forgive himself for that. And he's not going to show off anymore. Not once. (Oh, who is he kidding? Trying to impress John – trying to gain his praise – is natural like breathing to him. He doesn't even realise he's doing it until after the fact.)
If they can't save the life, they are going to see the murderer brought to justice, though. Golem is not escaping them again. Now, if only the lightning wasn't so awful, things would go considerably better. Sherlock rushes in against his enemy, and discovers soon that someone who's used to killing people with his own bare hands isn't the kind of person you really want to face unarmed. In a few moments he's being suffocated, too (this has become a habit lately) but then John is saying, "Let him go or I will kill you," steadfastly aiming his gun at their foe, ice in his voice, and Sherlock thinks that might be stealing his breath more than Golem's overly large hands. Is this how John was like when he shot the cabbie? Why, oh why has he lost that spectacle then?
Golem lets him go, but only to attack John. Well, that can't be allowed. (Though John, with his military training, fares very well against someone thrice his size). They team up against Golem, though not in a very coordinate fashion (they must really work on that)…and to Sherlock's frustration, that's still not enough. Once again, the Golem does indeed escape them, despite their efforts. (Sherlock will blame missing his mark when he tries to shoot Golem on the awful lighting giving him a headache).
There's no presenting him to Lestrade to be interrogated. And time is running (they don't have a deadline, this time – no, the truth is they don't know the deadline, which is a thousand times worse). They go back to Baker Street with metaphorical tails between their legs, and not even John's tea manages to cheer Sherlock up.
If they had warned Lestrade in advance, like the man always insists they should…he'd probably arrive too late anyway. But Sherlock can't help running what ifs and scolding himself for every error in his head, and he's really botched this and allowed someone to die once again and he doesn't know how they forged the painting, or how the security guard figured that out, and that random dead guard is still better than Sherlock at the moment. What happens if he fails once again? (Someone will die, obvious, but who – where – so many questions, and no answers. The bomber will be very disappointed in Sherlock once he wins this round. And maybe he will forego the next one, disgusted by how easy it is to defeat the sleuth.)
The detective stays up all night, trying to figure out at least some of the answers, but it is all in vain. Well, then…they have someone to interrogate. The woman who commissioned the forgery and the murders. This time, Sherlock meets her with Lestrade at his side (and John of course – always John). She's less than pleased to see him again, refuting sharply his accuses. But he's sure. If there was no crime involved, the bomber would not have directed them here. Of course the painting is false. Nothing makes sense otherwise – there'd be no motive for the murders.
When the pink phone finally rings (he's been on edge since the start of this case, waiting for it – waiting to know who he's fighting for this time) that's what he says. Even if the faint breathing irks him. No tease this time? No challenge? Just creepy breaths and waiting for him to prove himself?
He tries to cheat (fine, he admits that it'd be cheating – a bit). He offers the solution, but tries to shirk from proving it. Leave to Lestrade the duty to find evidence that would hold in court. He has to solve the puzzle – not put the culprit behind bars.
That's evidently not good enough – their bomber is still silent, waiting for him to show his usual brilliant self. To deduce. If he can't even understand what the security guard figured out, what sort of sleuth is he? (Mycroft would know instantly, as much as it pains Sherlock to admit this, if only to his own self. He's taken possession of the mind palace and berating Sherlock for being an idiot child who'll get yet other people killed and generally being distracting. Sherlock orders him rather tersely to shut up.)
Well, then, what is his deadline? He has a right to know, doesn't he? He asks for time…and receives ten seconds. Which is a great show of trust in his abilities, of course, but it means, too, that the answer is staring him in the face. Well, what does he know? The victims weren't art expert. They were astronomy experts.
Fuck astronomy. Is their bomber taking the piss at him for not knowing about the solar system? Can't someone give the bloody thing a rest? He's always maintained that stars were useless for cases… and Moriarty managed to fabricate one for him where a life hangs in the balance – a child's life, even how scared must he be strapped to a bomb and in the hands of a madman – and it all depends on bloody stars (there's no planet in the background of the painting, so stars it must be.)
He's so frustrated with it – and so very, very aware of his shortcomings – that he almost asks for a confession…before abruptly remembering what this will lead to. He already has Cairns he couldn't save this round. Adding more to his body count this round is not something he looks forward to.
Thank God that he hasn't managed to delete the details of yesterday's failure, because some odd notions of astronomy are still floating in his brain. He realizes it at four seconds. So obvious. So egregious an oversight of the forger. So…elegant a solution. He utters his appreciation, much to Lestrade and John's consternation. But Moriarty will like it better if it's solved at the last second – like an action movie – and the tease worked out well in the end, so Sherlock can forgive it (but he'll really need to have a word with John about announcing his weaknesses to the world).
P.S. Excusatio non petita accusatio manifesta is Latin for "Excuse not requested, obvious accusation" meaning if you try to justify yourself pre-emptively for something when no one asked you to is because you've done something wrong.