Disclaimer: Nothing mine. A.N. Thanks to the anonymous guest who reassured me I've not botched last chapter, and to SV who doesn't mind even if they don't agree with my reasoning. I'm glad I've not entirely ruined the story for everyone!
For a while, Sherlock is paranoid. If Moriarty is indeed back – and Irene didn't look like she was lying – certainly chatting about them with his clients is not the only thing he has planned. Will he kidnap John again? Murder someone and dangle them as a nice bait for the consulting detective to bite into? Ask him out on a 'date' via the order victims will be dumped?
He awaits the madman's next move, pestering Lestrade daily – or even more often, the more days go on without a sign. Finally the inspector snaps that he will not let work the sleuth consult anymore if he's not left alone to do his 'boring job' – and he's quoting.
In the meantime, Sherlock shadows his blogger everywhere, taking great pains to be unnoticed. He doesn't want John to become angry with him too, after all. There's no way that the former soldier would accept his visceral need to protect. An army captain can take care of himself, thank you very much. Which would be true in any other circumstance, but against Moriarty's planning and resources, there's no way the detective can let his soulmate, no matter how unwilling to bear such a title, out of his sight.
It's after ten days, with Sherlock unable to sleep for the last four, certain that Jim will hit the very second he will loosen his obsessive focus, that his blogger takes action. The sleuth is marching along the sitting room, obsessively checking his mobile phone for messages (there have been none, not from Irene nor from Jim) and practically vibrating out of his skin.
When his circuit brings him next to the armchairs, the former soldier blocks his path. Before the detective can circumvent him, John catches him bodily, lifts him up – just a few inches, but enough for Sherlock to be shocked and wrongfooted, not feeling the floor under him anymore – and drops him off on his armchair with a little grunt, blocking his path so the consulting detective can't even dream of going back to pacing.
"You're doing exactly what Moriarty wants you too, don't you realise? He doesn't need to play with you – he can take a bloody vacation from consulting criminally! You're obsessing over him all the same. He's the only one in your head, and the case he was – marginally, by the way – involved with is already over!" the former captain snaps, frustrated.
The consulting detective swallows his automatic angry reply and starts to think. John is… right. If Jim has cameras on him (and knowing him, it wouldn't surprise Sherlock if the man had them, indeed), Moriarty gets to see him gagging for news, even if it's born out of fear and not desire. What more could his ego want?
Why is John right? It's annoying. The sleuth grumbles, "Then what do we do?" He doesn't even notice that, while the doctor used 'you', he's using 'us', treating them as an unit, no matter how much his reluctant soulmate might want to maintain distance between them.
"Sleep, for a start. You have a bedroom, even if it seems you might have deleted the notion. Sleeping is actually needed to ensure the brain's optimal functioning. As for tomorrow…we'll figure something out," his doctor (Sherlock's brain insists to tack the possessive in the privacy of his own mind) declares. Appealing to science is always the best bet with the man.
The detective wants to listen to him – a part of his soul so very willing to just do whatever his soulmate suggests – but obeying all his instructions seems too complicate. If he does allow himself to give into exhaustion, getting up from his armchair and reaching the bed might be too taxing a feat. He starts blinking furiously, trying to stay awake long enough to decide what to do.
John's soft smile dazzles his mind between blinks. "Need me to carry you to bed?" the blond asks, and there's nothing of the mocking or the despise Sherlock would expect from anyone else uttering such a sentence in his tone.
Well, that decides it. With such a proposition on the table, he can only shake his head energetically, to clear the cobwebs from his mind, and scuttle into his room with as much haste as he can muster. The temptation is too much – if he indulges, the sleuth knows his addled brain will do something he'll sorely regret later.
Sherlock does follow his blogger's suggestion. When he wakes up – sixteen hours later – he forgets about Moriarty. If Jim wants his attention, he'll have to send a message. The consulting criminal has his number, and God knows that he's able to attract attention when he wants to. Mycroft is keeping an eye on them anyway, and as annoying as the detective usually finds this, he'll trust his brother to – if not intervene to protect John – at least track him and warn his brother.
John smiles at him often, these days – slow, domestic ones, he had no idea he could come to love so much. Sherlock basks in it, and still spends hours trying to puzzle out their relationship, without success. John likes him, he seems, and cares for him – insists he's rested, fed, and as healthy as he can ever be. Still, the blogger doesn't want to be his soulmate, perhaps even repulsed by the idea, and does not mind the anguish this causes him. True, for as much as he sulks, he hasn't ever complained openly about it. Never asked, "What's wrong with me?" afraid of the possible lengthy reply. But the doctor can't really think he's fine with the women parading inside the flat, can he?
While Sherlock is still trying to figure out the contradiction, during John's work hours – damn the man for making him obsessed even while he's absent – he receives another of Irene's loud, crude texts. Hasn't the Woman stopped playing with him, and moved to more interesting – for her – games? He's tempted to ignore her, but as always, curiosity wins out.
Need help. Want to outshine Jim Moriarty? It's you I'm asking for help, Sherlock. An address follows – in Pakistan. She can never make things easy, can she? He should just ignore this text like he did all the previous ones, she obviously wants to use him some more. Still, it could be his occasion – to understand.
I might, if you give me something in repayment. SH is his reply, and sure enough, she writes back in a flash.
Finally hungry? xox appears on his screen.
Obviously not, don't be dull. I want knowledge. SH he retorts, stopping himself from sending an eye-rolling emoticon because it's too childish.
She does give into him at that. Might be for Kate, might be sheer self-interest, but Irene has finally realised that trying to strong-arm him into sex simply will not work. Too late, honestly, for someone who's supposed to be moderately clever.
When John comes back, he mentions vaguely a request of consultation from India. Not Pakistan, because the former soldier would perk up and insist to accompany him, given the dangerous surroundings – or at least so Sherlock hopes. If not to protect him, to sneak a visit to relocated former comrades, maybe. Given the conversation he's looking forward to, his reluctant soulmate's presence would ruin everything.
His blogger accepts his choice not to explain all the details. He declares, though, that he'll want a thorough report once the detective is back. The sleuth accepts easily, already planning his lie in his mind, and even asks if John wants him to bring something back from India. Spices, maybe? The quality will obviously be different from the ones that are found at Tesco.
His thoughtfulness seems to startle John. But it is not so odd for him to want to please John, is it? He might have forgotten to offer when he went to Minsk, but he was in a mood back then. Now his soulmate might have puzzling double standards, but Sherlock is certainly not looking forward to punish him.
The consulting detective needs to pull the wool over both Mycroft's and Jim Moriarty's eyes, which is an interesting challenge. His brother would certainly be annoyed at him for putting his own thirst for knowledge over concern for the royal family. As for the consulting criminal, Irene might have hinted that she preferred him as saviour, as if she had any choice about it. What little Sherlock knows of his nemesis makes clear that either she has outlasted her usefulness for the consulting criminal, or finally understood (again, rather too late for an intelligent woman) that any further requests would put her forever under Moriarty's thumb.
Keeping his movements a secret, or – well – redirecting people's attention (that's the only thing that works with Mycroft, and John believing his lies makes it considerably easier) is the part that requires actual effort. Infiltrating a terrorist cell is easy for him. Either Irene got himself caught by a shamefully amateurish group, or it is a wonder how Mycroft's men have not yet made short work of them.
And fine, not giving Irene the slightest sign he's here is not so much due to staying in character as to his love for drama and desire to get back at her for all the liberties she's taken with him. (You don't drug recovering addicts, seriously, no matter how light or nonaddictive it is).
Sherlock can't help but miss his soulmate. Fighting down and escaping from furious terrorists? His own blood is singing, and he just knows that John would love being here. Also, his gun – and his perfect aim, the detective really needs to ask him for some lessons – would be more than welcome here. Oh well. One can't have everything.
Irene is better than one'd suspect at this, or maybe it's just the adrenaline burst that will turn even the meekest of people (which she certainly isn't) into a vicious fighter. One hour later, they're ensconced in a not entirely wild cave. It's equipped for a short stay, and looks untouched enough from the outside that they should have a night's rest. Their bike – the best the sleuth managed t procure on short notice – is carefully hidden at a certain distance, so that even if it was found people would not locate them immediately.
As soon as they're out of sight, the Woman starts hurriedly disrobing. "I said no dinner, Irene!" the detective yelps (he'll deny he made that sound till his death, but what's true it's true).
She rolls her eyes. "We did. And I don't care about it, I'd never meant to follow through. My teasing was nothing more than wanting to make you lose that pretty head. But people will still be after me, and being a woman in this place anyway is a nightmare. Get out of your garments, Junior, we're swapping. You can deal with the harassment," she snaps.
"Oh," Sherlock sighs in relief, looking around helplessly for a place that might allow him a modicum of privacy.
"You don't have anything I'm interested in, Sherly. Or anything I've not seen before – not that I'd touch one. Just get on with it, if you still want your answers," the Woman urges sternly. She grumbles under her breath something that might be, "Bloody virgin."
Apparently, that's the right thing to say. "I do want answers!" he retorts, 'getting on with it'. "Don't you dare to go back on your word!"
"I won't," Irene assures. "Ask away." She ignores him, picking up the clothes to be ready as soon as possible.
"You have found your soulmate," the detective states – not asks. This is something he will not let her deny. There's enough denial going on with John already. "And you hurt her."
"I thought you had questions," the woman mocks, raising an eyebrow.
"Why? I mean… I assume you love her, what with being soulmate. So why would you purposefully hurt her?" Sherlock queries, frowning in puzzlement.
"To be blunt, dear, I do that because it makes her cum harder than she ever did in her life before she met me," the Woman declares, with a predatory grin.
"I thought…what you did was about the dominant one's pleasure," he mumbles, not looking at her. He researched – though he didn't have the patience or heart to do so for long, and certainly couldn't determine how good his source was as usual.
"If you're a lousy Domme, sure," Irene sneers, pacing in frustration at the supposed genius' idiocy. "I would love to think I'm better than that with everyone, and much more so with my soulmate."
"But you still play with others. You found her, and you still work. Isn't this hurting her in a way that is in no way conducive to orgasms?" the detective objects.
"Kate is not hurt by my work," the Woman declares, stopping to glare at him. His insinuations are insulting.
"Been there, done that. Believe me, she might not dare say it, but she is," Sherlock retorts, glaring back. He needs to understand – the why and how and all the details – and letting her cling to false ideas will not help either of them.
"That's your problem, Junior. Not dare say it? I'd break it off with Kate if I thought she was too scared to talk things out with me, for her sake. We had a good long discussion once I met her, and she agreed that with so many people tragically never finding their soulmate, and their needs being…peculiar, she didn't mind if I helped some poor lost souls out. She'd gone through a number of dominants before finding me, so she sympathised. But if she'd told me my working with others wounded her, I would have found another work. Store clerk, if necessary," she asserts, eyebrows shooting up at his statement. "You need to talk it out with John."
"I can't," the sleuth admits, looking down. "He would leave me, and I can't risk that. He clearly doesn't want to be my soulmate, and pushing things can only blow up in my face. I'll take the lesser hurt, no matter how agonising it feels, thank you."
"Sherlock Holmes, you are an idiot," Irene proclaims, fists against her hips. "And I can't beat some sense into you now. I lack the equipment, and beating people in anger and frustration is just not done. I'll keep you updated though, and if you ever want a session as encouragement to open that pretty mouth, you'll know where to find me."
He doesn't react at all, his brain already miles away. He'd so hoped this could give him the key to understanding John, and hence how to deal with him, but it appears she doesn't understand. Sherlock is the only one in the world whose soulmate despises him. He should have expected it.
John has done his best not to be envious. Someone needs to be the sensible one, and he does have a job – for now. It's bad enough all the times he ditches the hospital for an 'emergency' – aka a case – here in London. Christ, Harry is an alcoholic, and he wouldn't dream to request half the time for her that he has done for his flatmate.
Then again, Harry is so used to alcohol abuse, the chances that she'll actually die in a gutter are not that high – she knows what to do. A case usually means someone will be swinging a metal pipe at the sleuth, strangling him, or if they're unlucky downright shooting at him. And no matter how good a fighter his friend is, or how observant, he still doesn't have eyes on the back of his head. Backup is literally lifesaving in such circumstances, which is the reason the blogger will put forth if anyone asks.
This doesn't mean that John can follow him everywhere. They're not actually joined at the hip. It would look more than a bit weird. And the world's only consulting detective can certainly hold his own. He did for five years until John came along, after all.
But the doctor's heart is not in his office, with the patients complaining of flu and upset stomach and "I've checked internet, I'm going to die, ain't I?' which usually means they have nothing at all. He's mentally tracking his flatmate, which is a ridiculous endeavour given the few details about the case he knows, but he can't control his mind. After all, trying not to think about Sherlock would make John think about him all the time instead that every now and then (fine, too often).
When Sherlock comes back, his blogger looks forward to having him back. Empty, the flat is just frustrating (not that he can admit as much). Christ, at times he feels like a puppy left behind and wagging his tail madly when his owner returns. It's shameful, and ridiculous, and it makes John angry at himself. Whether Sherlock is a homonym or refuses to have anything to do with him sentimentally doesn't matter; he should have better control of his feelings.
The fact that the case has clearly been disappointing, not worth getting out of their sitting room, much less a trip to a different continent, annoys John too. He was hoping for an exciting tale, even if possibly one he couldn't share on the blog. Instead, at his, "How did it go, then?" the detective groans wordlessly and plops himself on the couch, back to the world. "That bad, uh?" John remarks, and moves to cheer him up. The consulting detective would normally rant and rave about the idiocy of criminals, police forces, forensics and people in general. That he's too blue to do even that means things are bad indeed.
Tea seems to help – at least it gets Sherlock to turn around to drink it, even if not to report about what happened. The doctor is surprised by a nod toward his friend's baggage, and more so – when he starts rooting through it – by finding the promised spices. With the case being a letdown, he would have expected his flatmate to forget his offer entirely. "I have the right ingredients. What do you say about making that Afghan chicken recipe with these spices?" he asks, smiling.
"The one with peas?" the sleuth retorts, and well, at least he's talking. John nods. He's promised himself not to use it too often, because it might lose efficacy in the long run, but going from lack of Sherlock to sulky Sherlock without any good times in between is something more than he can stand.
He smiles to himself while cooking, tempted to whistle, even. Thank God that for all his talk of 'just transport' and 'mind over matter' the consulting detective still has favourite dishes one can use to cheer him up like any human being.
The detective still does not talk about his case, but the dish elicits some soft, almost mewling sounds that John can be proud of all the same (and that might require him to retire early today, Christ). If the investigation was so very frustrating, better for Sherlock to delete it entirely than for John to ask about it and then have to soothe him all over again. (He certainly wouldn't mind some more of these sounds, but for his sanity, it's better not to tempt fate.)
The following day, Sherlock is sleeping in – par for the course for post-case crash – and so John gets to work without a worry. Whatever mood his friend will be in, they can deal with it in the evening. Hopefully the sleuth will not feel awful again, maybe someone will be murdered in an interesting way for a change – oh God, what is John becoming?
Getting back from work, the doctor gets caught by a downpour because of course he does, but never mind. The distance between the tube and Baker Street does not justify buying an umbrella. He's looking forward to getting home and drinking a cup of tea, though…only he gets derailed.
By Mycroft. Who doesn't even have the courtesy to send a car to kidnap him this time (doesn't want to drench the seats, maybe?), preferring to ambush him at Speedy's. Of course, the British Government has an umbrella. John would bet a paltry sum that Mycroft lives for the times he gets to be the only one with a brolly during a sudden rain so he can give the "I'm always prepared," look to every poor sod who doesn't. Seriously, was Mycroft a boy scout as a child? Is he looking for a medal?
John squashes the smile that last thought evokes, mentions the fact the man is smoking (if Sherlock's struggle with nicotine is due to admiring his big brother, he'll have words with the both of them), and then – obviously – accepts the offer of tea. Never mind if cafés are not Mycroft's milieu. The smug bastard can be uncomfortable too, there's no way that John's leading him home when yesterday Sherlock's mood was already fluctuating.
(Only Mycroft had never meant to visit 221B, because of course the universe follows his whims). Apparently, John deserves the preview about Irene's fate. Why does anyone think he'd be interested? If she's in America – without being hounded by the CIA, but cooperating, for a change (not that he'd trust her, but he's not the one who has to) – he can't care less. And if Sherlock won't see her anymore, his first reaction is a vicious, "Good," which he barely suppresses.
Instead, he waves away the whole subject, or tries to. After all, his flatmate should not care about it – not after he's been deceived and used for so long, or at least John sincerely hopes. The blogger himself cares even less – it's not like his readers are clamouring to know the destiny of the dominatrix, and the less she's mentioned, the better he'll feel – so what is Mycroft's point in coming around to see this? The British Government should be too busy for meaningless chats.
Oh, wait, apparently Mycroft's goal is just to tease him, implying his little brother is still very much invested in Irene's fate, even when he won't mention her name anymore. Is he doing it to rile John up? Or is he seriously concerned (always worrying) about Sherlock and – in this case – his love life? That's beyond even his usual level of creepy, isn't it? I mean, if Sherlock decides to up and leave for the States to live with Irene and have wild kinky sex three times a day, it's not any of their business, is it? He might have to move, but he hopes his flatmate would at least be considerate enough to warn him in time to seek other accommodations.
Helpless to rebuke the man as he should when his brain is derailing at top speed towards a bleaker and bleaker future, John soothes himself – and unsubtly probes Mycroft – mentioning Sherlock's flaunted lack of feelings. Sociopaths don't fall in love – at the very least not with anyone but their soulmate, if even that – John is pretty sure. And while he's doubted his friend's self-diagnosis many times, it is something he wants to cling on to, right now.
Mycroft deflects his request of details on his brother's sentimental history by purposefully (John bets) mistaking and talking about career choices…and inviting him to deduce. It's a low blow. Yep, he's not a genius like the Holmes siblings. He has barely any idea about his own heart, so much confusion and doubt swirling in his head about what these feelings are, what they're caused by, and how to deal with them. How can he be expected to read through the at best mercurial consulting detective?
Mycroft might have sensed the quickly coming, 'How the fuck do you expect me to?" and defuses the situation with an admission of ignorance and a quip about his brother's childhood. The claim to have no idea about Sherlock's feelings John doesn't believe for a second. After all, Harry and he might be on less than great terms, but he knows her, and always will – Mycroft raised Sherlock, there's no way he can't read the man. The childhood memory, though, is too delightful not to make John smile reflexively. He can just imagine a curly-haired child descending upon a younger Mycroft's room to plunder it, and probably coming away with a book as treasure.
And then, of course, the British Government has to go and ruin all by being awful. Couldn't he leave John in his conviction about Irene's fate and use him as pawn to report it? But no, he has to make the doctor an accomplice in deceiving his own brother, letting him know the Woman is definitely, absolutely dead. Or was she?
Technically, Sherlock might have been at hand – rushed from India to Karachi, and saved her life. It's not unfeasible. It does seem to clash with the sleuth's current mood, though. If he had just saved her love's life, and was looking forward to secret dates and wild sex, he wouldn't be so disappointed. Oh Christ. What if the detective tried to…and failed? If he was too late, or not clever enough, or…no wonder he came back in a wordless mood!
Of course, Mycroft doesn't need to know any of that. And Sherlock does not need to know – or, more exactly, needs to never ever realise – what John suspects. Which leaves him only with the option to feed his flatmate the lie his brother concocted. If the detective thinks John believes Irene is in America, he won't suspect any of his actions to be out of pity. Which they wouldn't be; sympathy is not pity; but try to explain that to the consulting detective.
The consulting detective reads him on sight, of course – or at least, reads that he has something to report, which worries him. The blogger wishes that the man could read Mycroft's lies off him, too, but the sleuth's mind is on a case he's been called for this morning (and how happy had John been receiving the 'Going to crime scene. Probably a 4. SH' text). So John needs to breach the Irene subject by himself. He's never been so uncomfortable in his life.
Because he's confused, mostly. If he knew for sure that his Sherlock loves (loved?) her, or that the detective hated her, or anything, he would know what to do. But like this? What is he supposed to do to soften the blow? (Is it even a blow?)
He almost backtracks in his thoughts, scolding himself, but yep, his Sherlock, why not. After all, the question is simple. Either their soulmate bond is one-sided on John's side, and the detective's soulmate is off somewhere and Sherlock said they were dead just because he didn't want to hear, "why don't you look for him/deduce where he is." (Possible.) But, given the uniqueness of the name, John suspects his flatmate is his soulmate…but prefers to ignore it, because John is an idiot. Why bond with someone who's been cast off so many times?
He remembers the best advice the detective gave him a long time ago – lies have details – so he keeps the whole Irene history as vague as he's heard it from Mycroft. Sherlock's impassive face is not helping him to mould his own behaviour. You'd think that they are discussing the weather instead of a (possible) love interest's fate.
Or not, John wonders with a hidden sigh of relief. After all, his friend points out that he has no reason to wish to see Irene anymore, and refuses to look over her file. It doesn't sound like someone whose thoughts are full of someone. …Or it is, but having just failed her, the sleuth can't even make himself go along with the lie – fake an interest in 'what happened' to a woman he might have buried days ago. How stupid can John be? And why does Sherlock's behaviour have so many contrasting explanations? What the fuck is John supposed to do of that?
That's it. He's going to ask. He's going to ask about Sherlock's feelings – for Irene, for his soulmate, for him (in the remote case they're not the same person); about the detective's plans. About everything.
And then the consulting detective holds his hand out and asks for her phone. A whim? A memento of a case where he's been manipulated, so not to fall for that trick anymore? …A keepsake of a loved one he's lost?
The doubts keep swirling inside John's head, and he really, really would like to ask, but the detective is polite about it. Polite. Twice. (Please and thank you.) That takes all wind out of his blogger's sails. What more does he need as evidence that yep, there is (was?) love there. Not so long ago he'd been determined to lie to spare his friend's feelings, and now he thought it was a good idea to corner him and ask about everything? Temporary insanity, truly. Did Mycroft have Speedy put anything in his tea?
John gives the phone up, obviously. Sherlock being polite is bad enough. God forbid that he makes his friend beg for it. (Not about her – never about her.) Besides, it's empty. It's not like it will attract more people who would hurt Mrs. Hudson, or anyone else. Its value is purely…sentimental. Something that makes John want to rant and rave, about "how can you love someone who used you, no matter how gorgeous and brilliant, for fuck's sake!", but he doesn't.
Sherlock is clearly feeling…fragile, and it's killing John that he would let the fucking whore affect him so deeply. And really, this isn't even about her profession, it's just John's anger and what he learned from his dad – he usually tries to do the exact opposite, but it's hard to remember when he wishes her death was slow for how she played with his friend's feelings, again and again.
He's sensible enough not to say any of it, of course, that'd be more than a bit not good. He better remove himself quickly, actually, before he accidentally blurts out anything he really shouldn't. Still, they're on the subject of the Woman, and practically everything John has are his own hypotheses. At the very least, he'd like to know if Sherlock knows – whether because he failed to save her or not – what really happened to her.
So – still awkward, so much, someone stop him – he asks whether she texted him more. Not that he wants to update his mental headcount of their texts, he's not that insane, just…has she kept inviting him to dinner? Requested his help, maybe? Would the sleuth even say if she did?
What his friend admits to is receiving a goodbye. Of course, a goodbye can mean many things, but Sherlock being Sherlock, he's probably deduced the truth. Would it be better or worse having been asked for help and failed to deliver in time or discovering she was hunted and killed and didn't think he would help her?
Stop it, John. Stop. He can spend decades wondering about his flatnate's feelings – what he does and does not feel, what is better or worse. He needs a breather. Otherwise he won't be able to help if his Sherlock has an emotional breakdown. (Can he even? John's afraid he's about to discover it.)