Disclaimer: still nothing mine. Obviously.
Every day more, John is tempted to seek out Mycroft and punch his living daylights out. If he hadn't involved his little brother in the goddamned case out of sheer laziness, they would be happy now. He would be allowed to feed his friend freely – take advantage of the holidays to put a bit of meat on these bones. Maybe he could convince Sherlock to go out and deduce all the passer-by's, and they would be having a grand time.
It's not like Mycroft fucking Holmes couldn't handle the Woman by himself. Even if he didn't trust his own men, if the elder brother wasn't so horribly lazy, or unwilling to deal with the effing CIA, he could just go and take the stupid phone himself. Why, Mycroft probably wouldn't even have to smoke it out.
Sherlock wouldn't have ever landed eyes on her maddening self, and now he wouldn't be mourning what never was. John hopes nothing ever happened, at least. He's not with the detective 24/7. They could have met. Maybe it did. Maybe that's why her death hit his friend that hard.
Which brings him back to the physical need to punch Mycroft. Maybe that would garner a smile out of the consulting detective. Then again, the effing British government might easily make him disappear if John rearranges the man's features to his own satisfaction. Staying in 221B and taking care of his friend takes precedence over venting his feelings.
The week the detective has requested, to…mourn? Deal with his feelings, whatever they were, for the deceased dominatrix? leaks slowly. The sleuth survives mostly on honey, but every few days John slips into Captain Watson mode. If he's stern enough, there is an 85% chance that his flatmate will comply. Of course, during his army days he'd never had to order someone to 'finish this plate, now," but whatever works.
The first day seems to have set the mood for the grieving sleuth. It seems working his feelings out in silence – or at least without words – is Sherlock's choice. Of course, the flat isn't entirely quiet – there's violin haunting (that's the right verb for the music) the rooms at all hours. But no tears, or screams (unless it's at trash telly that John puts on and his friend does not object to), or sobs, or really any words.
Really, the blogger should be happy for that. Relieved. If his flatmate did any of that, it would certainly be supremely awkward and uncomfortable for all parties involved. John might be more well-adjusted as far as emotions went (but was he? God knows, he's a mess), but he still doesn't find easy to talk about them. It's not how he's been brought up.
And yet, he finds himself wishing Sherlock would rant, rage at the cruelness of fate…vent it out. He has no idea what he could say at that, but he knows he would push past his own embarrassment and uneasiness to comfort. In some way. Any way. Anything more significant than a cup of honeyed tea, anyway.
Maybe a hug? Would the sleuth even like a hug? John can't randomly cuddle people who just go quietly about their business. It's not done. So, as long as Sherlock keeps his mourning confined to long, silent sulks and heart-rending violin solo, the doctor doesn't have a chance to spring physical contact on him. Even when he finds his arms aching with the desire to do so. Oh fuck. It's all Sherlock's goddamn name's fault, is it? John has never had it this bad before. Not with any friend or previous partner.
The week his friend had requested for his mourning is finally at the end. Last day of the year. Tomorrow, he will be authorized to feed his flatmate properly – unless he tries to weasel out of the bet again. If he does, John will probably let him.
The doctor just hopes that the silent period will finally come to an end. True, the consulting detective still yells at the telly – the reason they watched more trash shows this week that in the month before, because John can't stand not hearing his friend's voice for a full day, apparently. But they've not had a conversation since Christmas, and while they've always been comfortable in companionable silence, the blogger finds he misses the simple things. Even deciding if they're eating Italian or Chinese.
He's managed not to cuddle his flatmate to an inch of his life, in this long, long week – the longest week of his life since these never-ending days between his discharge and meeting Sherlock. He longs for this purgatory to end. Tomorrow…maybe – but feelings don't work that way, do they? Not even the world's only consulting detective can decide to process grief for a week and then delete it, or bolt it in some dungeon of the mind palace.
John knows. He's intimate with grief – losing people. He keeps dreaming of all the comrades he couldn't save. Now less often – he supposes saving Sherlock's reckless hide, again and again and again, sort of makes up for that, in his subconscious – but still, some nights he'll wake trembling… and usually be lulled to sleep by a restless violin.
Luckily, today is looking up – Sherlock is still not eating and breaking their heart via his music, but he will make small talk. Well, small talk…reply to a concerned Mrs. Hudson, at least. John is grateful for the old woman's presence in their lives. With both of them – presumably, who hell knows anything about the detective – having lost their parents, the doting landlady is a true blessing.
The doctor has mixed feelings, though. Oh, he loves her – he adores her, truly. The one thing the detective has eaten this week is her baking, perhaps not to hurt her feelings, and that would be enough for him to be so grateful to the dear lady. On another note, she makes him feel guilty. Because she thinks they're more than what they actually are, no matter his protests, and – consequently – that John has much more influence on his friend than he truly has. Which is why, when the blogger is unable to help with the consulting detective's mood, her quiet disapproval is patent. As if he's not trying hard enough.
Something catches Sherlock's attention suddenly. The doctor's stuck blog counter. He hasn't even noticed – this week he hasn't felt like updating, and even if he's been on the computer a lot, he hasn't opened his blog. Not that he can write a post about a grieving flatmate and him missing someone who's just by his side, anyway, his readers aren't here for that sort of content – but for Ella, maybe, she would probably have a field day with that.
The sleuth dashes to the damned gift that ruined their Christmas – the blasted phone – and tries the number on it before deflating when it doesn't work. John's heart pangs in sympathy. A message beyond death itself? Would the Woman have bothered with it? Fine, the doctor might be ready to think the worst of her, but to think that his friend still yearns for a connection to the manipulative creature is galling. And then he silently scolds himself for his lack of pity towards a victim of murder.
Still, there's a limit to the amount of sadness he can take when he's helpless to help. So, John mumbles an excuse and leaves. Maybe he'll come across something that might distract Sherlock from his grief, if for a minute or two.
He goes to say goodbye to their landlady – there's always the chance that she needs an errand run – and whispers his concerns about his friend. If anyone is on his side in this, it's her. She knows the man since…he's not certain since when, actually, but longer than him. And the dear lady certainly has shown to care about the sleuth's relationships, cooing about them since day one. If anyone knows the consulting detective's sentimental record (Mycroft notwithstanding) it should be her. Hopefully she knows what – beside a murder the doctor doesn't feel like committing – could make his friend forget the Woman.
Uselessly, it appears. Mrs. Hudson sighs deeply and claims she knows nothing of any past lovers or, broadly speaking, relationship the man might have had. The sleuth's heart is an enigma. If he doesn't confide in their putative mum, there's no way John can read through him, or know what would help him best. And helping is all he wants to do, really. Hopefully he'll come across a way.
It seems somebody agrees that it is time to do something to lift Sherlock's mood. There's a black car on their threshold, and John isn't even surprised. If anyone knows about his friend's past relationships and how to help him deal with heartbreak, it's Big Brother. And Mycroft is nosy enough to decide it's time for an intervention.
Apparently, he's changed the behaviour code for his assistants, though. This one is downright flirty. Maybe the elder Holmes has decided that he owes John a compensation after ruining his Christmas eve date and ultimately causing him to breakup. Honestly, the doctor should jump at the occasion – and he automatically flirts back – but something in the back of his brain itches. A sense of wrongness.
He tells himself it's because he doesn't want people, when there's even a shadow of a doubt they might have been ordered to seduce him. He has standards, and he's not that desperate.
It's not because he doesn't want to flaunt a new girl in front of a heartbroken detective. Or because he's getting tired of girls assuming he's Sherlock's unfaithful soulmate. It has nothing to do with his flatmate at all. Sherlock doesn't rule his sentimental life.
Still, while the pretty brunette tries to butter him up, he makes a point to mention Mycroft, multiple times. Bring the conversation back to work – her work. He makes a point to criticise her boss, too. Groan about Mycroft's stupidly huge power complex, which leads to 'kidnappings' and empty buildings rather than a phone call or a conversation in front of a cup of tea or a pint like human beings. They could be private meetings all the same – it's not like his flatmate tails him all the time.
If nothing else, the elder Holmes has suddenly developed a sense of humour, since he's led to the most stupidly huge power complex in the area. That should have been his first hint that something was wrong, he supposes. Mycroft laughs – well, more like sneers – at many things, but the arrogant prick had still to show any hint of self-irony. Even if he'd suspected the elder Holmes was not behind this offer of a lift, he would have never in a lifetime guessed the true mind of this kidnapping. But at least, he wouldn't have started discussing his flatmate's "symptoms" – his private life – before even seeing who was there.
He has accidentally betrayed the man in the worst possible way, offering a weapon against him to one of the only people John had ever truly hated – and this includes the fucking Talibans. Then again, when the sleuth says someone is dead, his blogger believes him.
The doctor blinks at the should-be zombie in front of him. Maybe he's been drugged? But why would he hallucinate her out of everyone he's ever met? No – she's true. She somehow managed to dupe the world's only consulting detective – and break his heart in the process. How dares she?
She has the gall to greet him. Casually. As if she's a patient and they've just met in a café. At least, this time she's dressed. And why wouldn't she? He's not Sherlock. She doesn't need to fry his brain. What does she need from him, at that?
Actually, it doesn't matter. He snaps at her to rectify the sleuth's misconception, posthaste. She might be used to dominate every interaction, but he's channelling Captain Watson at his sterner, implying, 'you better obey me yesterday'.
Irene has the gall to raise an eyebrow at him. Challenging. As if she outranks him. She has no sense of danger, has she? How did she survive till now? Well, running and faking, clearly. Revealing herself entirely ruins that tactic, though. "He would come after me," she states, as if it explains everything.
Well, of course. That's the point. The sleuth will know, and be able to decide if he wanted to pursue her in a sentimental capacity or in a working capacity. His blogger hopes that being duped will make him realise that a jail cell, courtesy of Mycroft, is the best option for her, but if he wants her in his bed, that's his choice. At least he will stop moping.
"If you don't, I will come after you," the former soldier declares, smiling his most dangerous smile. Because if she doesn't care about breaking Sherlock's heart, if she wants him to suffer… well, John has disliked her from the start, and you can't go to jail for killing an officially dead woman, can you?
"You truly would, wouldn't you?" she inquires, and for the first time he sees in her eyes something like respect.
He nods brusquely. "I am glad we understand each other. By the way, how did you manage to pull the wool over Sherlock's eyes?"
"Even he would believe a DNA test. And these are only as good as the records you keep. And I knew what the record-keeper liked. But never mind that. I gave him something, and I need it back. And you will get it back for me. Be a dear and fetch, will you?" she purrs, lips stretching in a predatory smile.
"What is it with you people? I'm not a dog!" he growls – which, in retrospect, might not be the most brilliant way to deliver such a line.
"Not mine, certainly," she agrees, with a small nod. "Pity, really. If I could have you both, you'd make a luscious pair of pets. I would spoil you rotten, you know. Kate would be so jealous!"
The more she talks, the more he's tempted to murder her and then give a call to Mycroft. He would clean up the crime scene for him, the doctor is pretty sure. Why, he could even get a reward.
She seems to read it in his eyes, because she immediately changes tack. "Look, the thing I gave him… I'm not the only one after it. He's in danger as long as he holds onto it. If you'd just get it back for me, you'd be acting for his safety."
"I am," he bits back simply, "if I can get you to tell him you're alive. You want it back? Ask him yourself." And he is – this would certainly pull Sherlock out of his current mood. Whatever happens afterwards, it's not John's business. Angry, happy, both… at least his friend won't try his level best to waste away anymore.
"I'm not going to," she declares. Stubborn, uh? Just like someone John knows. Well, he's done all he could.
"Then I'll have to. Fine. I suppose this means I don't get a lift back?" he quips. Mycroft would offer him one anyway, but she's not Mycroft. He just hopes she's not deluded enough to think she can stop him.
The Woman frowns, and mutters something he would swear is, "So obstinate!" Pot, kettle, much? Then she relaxes her stance, accepting defeat with as much grace as she can muster. "Fine," the dominatrix sighs, "What do you want me to tell him?"
"You've never lacked things to chat about. Again and again. I'm sure you'll find something to discuss without my input," the blogger points out bitterly.
Irene sighs, as if utterly put upon, and then whips out a mobile phone and starts reading – well, not all the fifty-seven texts, but a selection wide enough to give him a very clear idea of the tone of their conversation. Their very flirty conversation. Why would she do that at all? Fine, Sherlock goes through his mails to his girlfriends, but if this is the Woman's idea of allowing him to even the score, he's never asked for it.
He scowls darkly at her, accusing, "You flirted with him." That's beyond cruel. The one thing that John, for all of his scarce interactions with the woman, is certain of, is that – like the detective – she plans at least seven steps ahead of anyone else. That she's been stringing the sleuth along recently, even after she certainly decided the 'fake her death' plan, is nothing short of unforgivable.
"At him," she remarks, pouting, "he didn't reply a single time. Rude, if you ask me." A breath, and she adds, "Asking for punishment."
John swallows the reply that was already on his lips. Sherlock answers – he always answers, has a practically compulsive need to have the last word. He was ready to call bull on her declaration, but… what if she's right? What if he's liked the taste of her whip a little too much and was trying to rile her into getting physical instead of continuing to text? He's not in his flatmate's head – nobody can be, but for a handful of geniuses…and she might just belong in that bunch. The idea still leaves a bad taste in his mouth. The sleuth tried to play with her so she messed right back with his emotions, did she? God, he despises her so much.
"Pity he's not mine to set straight…ah, but that wouldn't be the right word, would it? Not from me, at least. I'm sure Kate would have some serious complaint if I took him on full time, and anything less wouldn't do for him. People like him need a firm hand… but one they can lean on, whenever the need arises. You can't plan when he'll get in a mood and make an appointment, can you? Not with your cases," the Woman continues, chuckling throatily.
If magic were real, John's glare would already have turned her to ashes.
"But I suppose this is a pleasure reserved for the consulting detective's soulmate," she concludes, shrugging.
"Luckily for him, his soulmate is already dead," the doctor quips, and he really means it. If Sherlock's soulmate was supposed to be as manipulative and sadistic as Irene seems to be so sure, having never met him is a blessing. It might be blasphemy to think so, but John is very, very relieved that he's not come across his friend's soulmate, if the dominatrix's diagnosis is true. The result would not have been pretty.
"He told you that?" she inquires, head tilting like a puzzled dog, and an eyebrow raising in scorn. How does she manage two expressions at once?
"Obviously," the blogger quips, defensive, not even realising he's stealing one of the sleuth's favourite words.
"And you never tried to check? Sneak a peek? You do live together. I would have thought that for someone so invested in your… flatmate's… life, it would be the first thing you'd do," Irene teases.
"Unlike someone, I respect people's privacy," John grouses, glaring even more.
"Unlike, indeed. As soon as he was out of it, I *had* to see who the lucky one was. And sadly, it wasn't me. Then again, Kate wouldn't be pleased about having competition for that, too," the Woman remarks, with a lopsided smile.
The doctor can only gape, shocked. "You already have your soulmate… and you checked him anyway? Why in God's name would you do that?""
"Well, nothing was stopping him from having a one-sided soulmate relationship… a girl can hope! Owning him would be so good," Irene replies nonchalantly, as if she's not admitting to being an absolutely awful human being. A one-sided soulmate is not something you wish one anyone. "You can relax, though, Sherlock is not like that. I'm not sharing who his soulmate is, though," she adds, with a playful smirk.
"No, I'm not asking," John hurries to deny. Whether he wants to share his name or not, it's Sherlock's choice and no one else. He's just ended this thought, that he contradicts himself, by querying, "Just… please tell me it isn't Jim."
The Woman's look is one the blogger has seen many, many times on his flatmate's face. The "I'm utterly disappointed and oh so tired at the nth proof of ordinary people's foolishness" look. She doesn't pretend to ignore what he's talking about, though. Someone who's spent so long flirting with Sherlock would obviously have checked John's blog, for additional gossip, and he's sketched the events surrounding the bloody game. "Let me create new and inventive crimes for you to solve, so we can both have fun? Is that what you think Sherlock Holmes' other half would be?" she quips, with a tiny sigh.
"I don't know," he admits truthfully. And what he would give to know. True, Moriarty seemed to despise the very idea of soulmates, to want the consulting detective 'just because'. But nothing Moriarty does is ever straightforward. It's all games and pretences and God knows what. If John could read through him, he would be a sleuth himself… and he's not eager to know the depths of wickedness inside the consulting criminal, either. "But you haven't seen him playing the game," the doctor concludes bitterly.
"No, you're right," the dominatrix agrees, with a little smirk, "but I have seen his name. And it's not Jim. Or James, Jamie, or any other variation of it."
John sighs in relief.
"I'm still not saying who is," Irene teases, with a playful wink.
"And as I said, I'm not asking. I'm honestly not asking. He has a right to his privacy."
"You wish he'd be yours, though," the dominatrix states. Not hypothesize, or wonder.
This should be John's cue for one of his usual denials, but she's good at reading people. So instead he redirects the conversation. "His name has no bearing here. You already know the only thing I demand of you," the blogger replies sternly.
"You're no fun at all," the Woman pouts. But she caves in, and shows him the proof of her big reveal – fittingly, via text. Whatever happens, the ball is in Sherlock's court, now. As it should always have been.
A sound that John knows all too well echoes faintly. Oh God oh God. No, of course it's not that. This is a big… empty… thing. Maybe some very eager couple decided it was a hiding spot as good as any other for a quickie. A moan is a moan, after all.
Oh, whom was he kidding? Sherlock has tailed him. Probably recognised it wasn't Mycroft's car (from what?) and worried that John was going to end in another pool. Still, shadowing your flatmate is a bit not good. They might need to talk about it, if the doctor can ever gain enough bravery to face what happened here.
Or what did not happen. His lack of denial could be enough for an average observant person to smell something fishy. The world's only consulting detective? He's going to know about John's feelings – he already does, in all probability. It could be that the sleuth's lie stems from having a different soulname, despite bearing John's rather unique name, and not wanting to be burdened by John's one-sided or misguided feelings. Or possibly the detective scorns the soulmate institution in itself, or simply John – damaged as he is – and the lie was a convenient way not to start a fight over it.
Said consulting detective, in the meantime, is blushing furiously, utterly relieved that, at least, he's hidden in a spot where the conversing couple cannot possibly see him. He's been so careful to pick that. And still, while he scuttles away with all the hurry his long legs allow him, he berates himself furiously. John utterly ruined him, just as he always knew the man would. He's going to have to retire and give up the Work, too. He's clearly unfit anymore.
Not even Anderson would have made such a rookie mistake. When you tail someone, your own mobile phone has to be muted. Even a random passerby without any knowledge of investigation would know that. Especially when one's text ringtone is so very… distinctive. John had grumbled so much over it (Mrs. Hudson, too), and he'd refused to change it simply because his soulmate's jealousy, as puzzling and illogical as it was, made him feel… treasured, somehow. A bit.
That the same ringtone would out him and his stalkerish ways (but with his blogger accepting lifts from any black car, what could he do?) is due payback, he supposes. When his flat(soul)mate gets home, he will undoubtedly want to have a conversation about boundaries and privacy and A Bit Not Good behaviour.
Sherlock aches for him. His wrist condemn him to it, really. If he had a choice, he would hate the doctor, like he does the rest of humanity. (Lie, teen!Sherlock, rebukes from his hideout, but the sleuth has long since learned to ignore the silly boy.) So the odd shadowing is honestly methadone to his addicted soul, wanting John (his – but clearly upset about it – John) 24/7.
Still, the man never ceases to puzzle him. He pretended not to know. Why would he? The sleuth's name is unique enough. Irene might just suspect, at the moment, but there's no way that his soulmate is unaware of his own status. So what was the goal, talking about Moriarty? Is John ashamed that someone – even the Woman, whom does not exactly belong to his circle – would know about their bond? Simple misdirection?
Or does his blogger (that, at least) truly, earnestly feel that whatever causes the names to appear in the first place has made a terrible error? That Sherlock would be best suited to a consortium with the one consulting criminal? He's disappointed John. He's well aware of this. But he didn't think that he'd be judged on par with Jim effing Moriarty. He might be a bit not good sometimes… fine, let's admit it, rather often… but he doesn't go around blowing people up for the heck of it. Has John finally decided to believe Donovan's bitter accusations? And if that is what he truly thinks of him, why would he stay in the flat? (Is he going to move out after this conversation? Oh please let him stay!)
Lost in his worries, the detective has managed to somehow walk back home – thank God that his mental GPS works without conscious effort, or he could have walked himself into the Thames, so inwardly focused he was. At the door, though, he snaps out of his misery. He wants nothing more than get on the couch and have a good sulk, but the door of the building has obviously been forced. Someone broke in their home.
His mind flees once again to Moriarty, the only one to violate their abode until now. "Has John's quip conjured him?" wonders his terrified teen self, bolting his own door more thoroughly from the inside. He scolds himself sharply and walks in. If anything, Moriarty is the one who's not responsible for this. The last time, he managed to leave his little gift without offering any additional clue.
The more he sees, the more he wishes people would have at least standards. They touched Mrs. Hudson. Scared her, dragged her. An old, sweet, entirely too motherly lady. How dare they? Even if these people have business with him, or John, or Irene, or maybe all three…why would they deduce that his landlady would be involved in whatever they are after? For crying out loud, she didn't even get involved with her own husband's drug cartel beside a bit of typing!
A quick warning left for John, Lestrade or whomever might happen upon his home while he's busy, and he's off like a bullet. They're going to pay. He's been hurt, and frustrated, for so long and without a way to vent that would not raise eyebrows about why he's so cranky. At least these people will be good for working out a few negative emotions. They've attacked first. He's protecting his home and his elderly, threatened lessor. Certainly the use of force is justified? Never mind Mycroft's help to make charges disappear. None of his acquaintances would marvel if he should maim whomever broke in.
He enters his flat affecting nonchalance, but he knows already what he'll find, and he's spoiling for a fight. Sure enough, it's trouble that Irene attracted. The CIA idiot and two random goons. Three burly men to threaten and terrify a sweet (surprisingly resilient, which is the thing that will save their lives) old lady. Way too many for that, and still too few to handle him and John if they were both home. If they researched the least bit, they'd know that he has a number of martial arts qualifications from his uni days, and John…well, his army past is no secret, and only an idiot would underestimate him.
Mrs. Hudson turns up the whimpering upon seeing him, and he shushes her up. Distracting her captors might be a good idea, but it's not what he's after now. Another look, to categorise exactly what has been done to her and who is the responsible. They drew blood! It makes his blood boil, and for once every last inch of him is in accord, and clamouring for murder. Fine, maybe not murder, Mycroft would ask too many favours to sweep that under a rug – and after all, if he does kill them their suffering will be cut short. A line he could have sworn he'd deleted flits through his head. "In my dominion death is a boon to pray for." He starts scanning for targets. Everything he can damage to bring the man as close to death and in as much pain without actually finishing him. Soon. Very soon.
The CIA operative (still for a short while) demands sternly what he wants, keeping his words vague. Since he says that they have interrogated Mrs. Hudson, for whose sake he's being inexplicit is a mystery.
It's a pity that John hasn't yet come back. (And worrying, a voice inside of him whimpers, what if he's so angry at being followed that he's leaving?) Slamming a door on the nervous wreck inside of him, he works to take care alone of the present situation. He can solve his own problems by himself. He always did.
Still, taking on three probably armed people would be too much for him, no matter his martial arts certificates. Knowing one's limits is part of a good strategy. Which is why he demands the boss (the idiot one who touched Mrs. Hudson) to send his men away.
He has the upper hand, after all. For all they know, he's the only one knowing the location of the blasted phone. And as careless with research as they've been, the sleuth doesn't doubt that they've been ordered to solve this with a minimum of fuss, and not torture him. Mycroft does have contacts in the CIA, and he'll have warned them not to go too far with his annoying little brother.
He could probably take two on, but he's being merciful and sparing the ones who just followed orders and didn't touch his landlady. Still, he's snippy and arrogant and aims to humiliate and anger his opponents. Upset people make stupid errors.
Case in point, once he obtains compliance for his first demand, the remaining retard's lack of imagination. He's pitifully easy to take out, honestly. Not considering the chance of non-conventional weapons? Who does that? Just because one does not have a gun, it doesn't make them any less potentially dangerous.
No matter how much energy he burns into subduing the man, it's over too quickly to be satisfying. He wants more of a workout. He might even issue a complaint to the man's superiors. For the leader of a unit, the man is definitely subpar. How does the CIA get anything done? Maybe that's the reason they're involving Mycroft. His brother wouldn't stand for such sloppiness in his men. He throws a last spiteful insult to the prone form of the not-so-operative anymore. It's well deserved, after all.
Now, priorities. Once the man can't object or intervene anymore (at least for a handful of minutes, the sleuth doesn't need to bind him), it's time to take care of his not-housekeeper (really, his second mum). She's been scared – if for herself or for him, he wouldn't be able to determine. "For both, obviously," the brother in his mind remarks snidely.
Even if Donovan wouldn't believe this, he knows how to be kind. Even tender, with people who deserve it, and his second mum definitely does. Once he's sure that she knows she's safe now, and that she's not been scarred by the experience, he turns to his prisoner. He's lucky. The sleuth's landlady might be stronger than most, but if she'd been scarred by the experience – if Sherlock had to move out, because she didn't feel safe living one floor from a man who attracts such visits on a semi-regular basis – the CIA agent would not survive their encounter.
Before he can decide what the man has garnered with his actions, his musings are interrupted by his flatmate's return. John has seen the warning, of course, and comes clearly prepared to fight. But one word – their enemy is subdued, trapped already, no help needed – and he switches to Caring Doctor mode immediately. Something in Sherlock aches. He knows that, if he were the one hurt, John would be patching him up with no less swiftness or tenderness. His flat(soul)mate has proved it time and time again. It's entirely nonsensical to be jealous of the attention their landlady is getting, when he himself showered her with care a minute ago. He needs to pull himself together.
To do so, the easiest thing is to shift his focus. Box these daft feelings down in the basement and convey all his psychic trouble through sheer rage. He shoos the both of them away – after all, Mrs. Hudson will certainly be most comfortable in her own flat, and John needs to assess her condition further. She looked mostly fine to the sleuth, but he isn't a doctor. He might, theoretically, have missed something (not that he believes he did).
With the distraction out of the way, it's time to finally deal properly with Mr. CIA agent. Seriously, Mycroft should have taken measures to either warn him from the start or at least protect Mrs. Hudson; his brother is useless.
Well, not entirely useless, no. He has at least taught his little brother how to best manipulate people and their feelings, even not counting sharing the mind palace technique – Sherlock maintains that he would have figured that on his own anyways. The consulting detective can make people sympathise with him. Wish to cooperate with him. But this is not what he needs now.
No, he knows that fear of pain is a kind of pain in itself – when one panics, but (trapped as his prisoner is) cannot defend himself. And the bastard deserves every bit of terror for how he's treated Mrs. Hudson. The secret agent (secret - ah! as if what he is wasn't painfully obvious; it's ridiculous, really) thought nothing of the sweet old lady fear and pain. Well, the sleuth is going to teach him how it feels on the other side. Scared and helpless and, soon, in agony. Not that it will be nearly enough – the man should be trained to withstand this and worse, if their cousins haven't entirely lost their minds.
Still – even if it will give him a shorter time for a proper workout – the detective feels a sick pleasure detailing to Lestrade the injuries the man can expect in a few minutes. He stares at his prisoner with disdain. Not funny being the victim, is it?
A thought almost distracts him. The detective inspector sounded way too alarmed by the news of the break in, as if he cared particularly about Baker Street, 221's dwellers. That can't be. Lestrade just uses Sherlock, doesn't he? As anyone else. Oh well. Maybe he was concerned about losing his most sharp tool. Yes, that must be it.
Now, about his prisoner… the house's arrangement is particularly fitting. Because the window is just above the bins, and he's dealing with human garbage, so he's just doing what John and Mrs. Hudson bug him about every so often, really. Taking out the trash. In the most efficient way – which does not include taking the stairs. Not on the way there, at least.
Lestrade comes himself to Baker Street. The sleuth always knew that there was hope for the man as a detective yet. He hasn't asked for the DI's presence. He required 'his least irritating officer'. After all, Sherlock is not his brother. He can't summon people with a snap of his fingers – and sending a 'persuasive' means of transport.
The inspector could have sent anyone at all. But everyone else in his team – hell, probably everyone else in the Yard – refuses to show the consulting detective a minimum of respect while he's doing their job for them… and for free. Imagine if Sergeant Donovan came over and found this particular crime scene.
The sleuth is in a bad enough mood today that he would be very much tempted to have her join the intruder in the bins, if she tried to put him behind bars for defending himself and Mrs. Hudson. No, Lestrade is smart in his own way. He's waited long enough to answer his call to give his occasional colleague time to blow off some steam. Bless him.
Of course, he still has to do his work. Take a sort of a statement, at least. Which includes the details of the 'fight'. The man is no medical professional, but he has seen enough crime scenes to know that one single fall from the window does not break a man apart like that.
True, the whole 'lawful self-defence' scenario cracks a bit once you drag an intruder back inside to throw him from the window again, and again. Still, they both know that a) Mycroft won't let him go to jail if he can help it and b) nobody is going to press charges anyway, because the CIA doesn't want to let it be known that they break in people's homes and harass old ladies… only for their agents to end up totally trashed. Bad for their reputation.
Which is why the detective waves Lestrade away with a vague answer, and why the officer actually accepts it. If anything, the lesson of the day is "You do not touch Mrs. Hudson," and that's something that Sherlock doesn't mind spreading around.
With the CIA agent carted away and Lestrade off into the sunset – well, early night, actually – he has to face his flat(soul)mate and landlady (mum) again. So here he is, wiping his feet, because he's already failed her and the last thing he wants is to invoke her wrath. He should have been protecting her, and instead he went tailing John even if he knows the man can take care of himself, because… well, because he wants to be close to the man All. The. Damn. Time. Sure, Mrs. Hudson is strong and resourceful – she survived her husband for years before they met – still, he should have been there.
John is still in full Caring Mode, not that the sleuth can object to that. If anyone deserves to be the object of the gentlest of the doctor's attention, it's the just as kind Mrs. Hudson. Only, it appears that John doesn't know her. He's severely underestimating her strength, which is frankly insulting for the dear woman.
Sherlock discovers suddenly that he's peckish, and he just serves himself from her fridge, sure that there will be no objection. Well, he's peckish and he needs something to occupy his mouth before he goes and puts his mouth in it, like usual. There are things that are not his to share – not even with John, whom Mrs. Hudson regards as a second adopted son.
Groaning that she's not in shock over a couple of scratches, of course not, because she survived beatings, and she didn't seek anyone's protection then, not until Sherlock stumbled on her porch, pretending to be looking for a dose but actually on the tail of a few interestingly mangled bodies. And even then, she didn't play damsel in distress.
So imagining that she won't dare to sleep alone tonight – or that, for her health and peace of mind, she might need to seek refuge out of London at all, with her sister, is simply ridiculous. She can't stand her sister on a good day, it's obvious even if she never said it explicitly. Does John want to annoy her?
He needs to intervene promptly before his flat(soul)mate gets in Mrs. Hudson's bad book. She's perfectly capable of raising the rent if she thinks they're belittling her. So, of course, he makes a random quip, and subjects himself to a kind, teasing lecture about what does not embody a secure hiding place.
Why would his dressing gown be a bad place? Does nobody know the principle of hiding in plain sight? Finding one mobile phone in one's pocket, would you assume the owner of said pocket to be a third, unrelated party? Really. It was all planned.
Instead of arguing his point, though, he's very happy to let be brought to light the expected revelation that their landlady sneaked Irene's phone out of said pocket and hid it on herself while having a fake crying fit. She's been having John on – understandable, really, the urge to play up on the good doctor's caring instincts is very near irrepressible for anyone – and he hasn't noticed.
Seriously, they need to have the man taking lessons from the dear woman too. His blogger has seen the sleuth turn on the waterworks like a tap for one investigation. Where did he think Sherlock had learned? Did he blame that on the sociopathy? Oh, please. The stage lost a brilliant actress when Martha Hillwood was swept away from the dazzling Mr. Hudson.
"At least my monogram didn't change," she sighed once, "It made filling the bottom drawer much easier."
Now, though, is not the moment to start going down memory lane. Mostly because if they do, they'll be there all night. The dear lady had a blessedly long life, and so many interesting anecdotes to share when she gets in the mood. (Obviously, sometimes they rate 'interesting' differently – she seems to have a rather hazy recollection of moments that would take whole rooms of his mind palace.)
So instead he praises Mrs. Hudson extravagantly, because her happiness is paramount, and besides, someone deserves to be happy today. Besides, it's not entirely unwarranted – England depends on Mycroft to run smoothly, and the dear woman's presence in Baker Street means that his annoying brother doesn't have to put any of his energy into micromanaging his riotous sibling's life. Being distracted by Sherlock's sulks – that she never fails to at least try to soothe – would be disastrous for the British Government.
She insists to spoil them a bit, perhaps half in apology for duping John so fully, and they indulge her happily. Is John as afraid of being alone in the flat – no, not alone, with only his company – as he is? Breaking and entering has worked as a fine distraction, but what now? Do they need to confront their status? Will John bring up the matter of soulmates? Of why he thinks Jim fucking Moriarty is a better fit for him? Of what a sad error fate or God or the space particles or whatever is involved committed when they paired them up?
When they are forced to leave 221A ("Sorry, boys, nowadays I don't really stay up until midnight… but you have fun!" with a too obvious smile), Sherlock can't take it. He uses the excuse of having to keep the stupid phone safe to leave John on the threshold. Keeping it inside their home has only attracted their unwanted visitors. Very obviously leaving, he leads the people that are certainly still observing him in a merry chase around the city, offering them at last a dozen possible hiding places (and bringing it back with himself, because on his own person is clearly the only safe place for it at the moment).
He thinks for a moment of spending the night in a bolthole. But that would be useless. If John wants to have A Talk, they'll eventually have a talk. Prolonging the inevitable will only ruin his nerves further.
When he gets home, John is nursing a drink, which is rare for him – what with his family history – but not unheard of. Still, if the man needs liquid courage, perhaps Sherlock should have taken advantage of his trip to stack on some of his addictive substance of choice.
Mercifully, John doesn't start attacking him immediately. He makes… almost small talk, about the much coveted phone. The sleuth is vague enough not to invite further questioning, and decides to try and stave off The Talk with noise. Music, in this particular case. His violin is helpful for more than thinking aid.
To his surprise, (John always wrongfoots him; it's scary – and delightful), instead of starting the Soulmates and Why it is A Bit Not Good, the blond inquires about 'their' feelings about the Woman's survival. Feelings? What feelings? He's … happy she isn't dead (it would be a waste of a decent brain), frustrated that she felt the need to stir still waters (what business is it of hers?), but honestly, these are trifles. Almost all his feelings are busy rotating around John, obviously. And what does their even mean? Is John asking him to deduce his own feelings about her survival? Why would he need to?
Thankfully, the midnight sounds just then, so instead of facing a reply that could only prove unsatisfactory, the sleuth wishes him happy new year. People do that, don't they?
His blogger apparently doesn't feel the need to press the matter, the lack of answer an answer in itself. He has more thing to ask, though. If the sleuth will see her again. More and more puzzling. What is this obsession with the Woman? And what does John want him to answer? (He shouldn't care about that – he can't help doing so.)
Once again, he opts to sidestep talking about it. It is lucky that Auld Lang Syne is the traditional new year melody. He can pretend he's being festive (as if he has any reason to be, but plausible deniability has long since become the linchpin of his existence), but truly, the lyrics should let John know all he needs to know. He doesn't sing them. Of course not. That would be going too far – being too open. There is a chance that John misremembers them, and frankly, at the moment Sherlock is too confused to know if he wants to be understood or just shrugged off. This whole year has been too intense, too much and not enough, and he mildly wonders how he even survived the whole of it.
At last, John stops his questioning and ensconces in his chair. It is a relief, and really, that the mere, peaceful presence of the man can unwind every tense line in the consulting detective's body and soul is a trick of biology he should be angry about if he wasn't half-high on a sudden rush of endorphins now. He continues playing, swaying lightly, feeling suddenly very, very light.