Disclaimer: I don't own a thing, obviously A.N. To the kind guest reviewer who begged for quick resolution…sorry, I'm a sadist ;-)
Sherlock hates his life. He agreed to John's request – because he's in love with the man, has no choice but to be, honestly – without even trying to barter more favourable conditions. After all, this is one of the few obvious demonstrations that his doctor (still his, Teen!Sherlock insists, even when he doesn't want to be) cares for him.
Love might be asking too much, but affection, fondness…oh God, he's turning into a human thesaurus like John…are not out of the question. If John envisions them together, even in an unspoken, platonic way, long after the detective should start worrying about his lungs' damage, acting out to drive him away sooner is too terrifying a prospect to contemplate.
But the sleuth's personality has always been terribly addictive. He can – eventually – give up one of his vices, but it's always when he's found one – or even several – thing to replace that with. He could throw the cigarettes away – forever, and in a moment. But he needs something in its place. John would be easily a perfect substitute, satisfying every urge and itch in his brain…but only if Sherlock could indulge in his deepest yearnings.
Not…physical ones, mind you, not the most lewd ones, at least. But a chance at a cuddle not stolen, not passed off as 'accidental contact' or 'just fell asleep next to him on the sofa and leant on him'. The detective really believes that if he could have that, he'd forget about tobacco altogether, his veins singing with the sweet melody of acceptance. As it is, he has nothing, absolutely nothing, and it's intolerable.
So if he's a nuisance – purposefully so – who can blame him? He's just making a point. That he can't be the only one giving up – nor only giving up, without receiving anything back – if they want him to behave. John seems to worry needlessly about things like 'decency' and what will the neighbours think'. Possibly to endear himself to Mrs. Hudson, who has the same hung-ups about the public opinion, though in private she won't bat an eyelid to anything (Sherlock blames her education).
It's with a grim satisfaction that he starts his experiment on how much strength is needed to stab someone all the way through with a harpoon. Well, stabbing a pig, which is the closest thing he can get his hands on. Pig and humans are really very close, how anyone who met his brother would have no trouble believing. Even Molly, no matter how partial to him she is, won't lend him a body fresh enough for the data to be comparable to these of a live one. Not that he can blame her.
The result is impressive enough all the same…but today's kids have clearly been brain damaged. The adults – either the cabbies speeding past and glaring at me, or the people in the Tube visibly recoiling – showed common sense when faced with a bloody, armed stranger. For all they knew, I came from a spree killing. But a group of unsupervised teenagers (with most people being stupid, these are guaranteed to be idiots squared) approach him…no, *surround* him, like the pack animals they are.
Then the apparent leader – who'd still get only to Sherlock's chest if he was standing, and looks unarmed – whistles low and asks, in a weird mix of admiration and spite, "That costume is rad, dude. How did you get it to look so lifelike? Still, isn't it a bit early for Halloween?"
"The fact that you could live until this age unable to recognise fake blood from true makes me despair for the human race. Please, avoid passing on your clearly defective genes" the sleuth retorts, glaring at them all indistinctly. Honestly. It's like they've never seen actual blood. Even if they didn't experiment, one'd think that they would have had enough scrapes to recognise the difference.
The other kids snicker, but the one who talked to him hisses angrily, "How did I know you were a freak?" before turning angrily on his heels, his friends – after a moment – following him. The detective is tempted to call after them that having eyes should be sufficient, but keeps it to himself. The other people in the crowded car are already eyeing him suspiciously, and if he looks like he's trying to provoke them, someone will call the police about the possible murderer who's still looking for a fight. Everything would be explained away eventually, of course, but Lestrade will be angry if he's called away from actual work because Sherlock decides to make a scene.
Sadly, his wish to cause a scene at home goes unanswered. John's eyes widen, but he doesn't even get up - not in worry, not in anger, not even to ensure his mad flatmate doesn't drip blood all over Mrs. Hudson's nice floors. A mild enquiry, and it's all. Well, maybe the detective shouldn't have lamented how boring his day had been – if his doctor had even one moment of worry, that certainly settles it. Sherlock is unhurt, just acting out…and the other man knows that making a fuss when children do that only fuels them, hence why he's unflappably back to his newspaper. He's having a bit of light reading, when the sleuth is ready to vibrate out of his skin with nerves. It's hateful. Well, if it won't garner him any attention, he might as well shower. It might be remarkably close to the human's, for scientific purposes, but Sherlock doesn't really enjoy being covered in pig blood like a butcher who forgot an apron.
Once he feels more like a human being, it doesn't stop him from being jittery. He needs something – anything. A case, a smoke, a cuddle, even a hit. If he's going to be considered a disappointment, he might as well do so fully. Maybe all of them. He feels as if he's going to vibrate out of his skin for lack of…it all, really. He's holding on to the harpoon still, because it is a small point of grounding – a physical contact if other kinds of it aren't going to be allowed. It helps that it could be a pirate's weapon. If he's not going to be allowed to be a soulmate, nor a consulting detective, he can still go back to his childhood dreams and pretend to be a pirate. One would not let himself be constrained in any way. Much less about something as stupid as which substances he's allowed to put in his own body. He'd kidnap his soulmate, maybe, if he was this reluctant, and win him over with his bravery and cleverness. For which he needs a case.
And instead of providing him one, so he can prove himself, John keeps reading that stupid newspaper, chattering about politics and boring news. True, his blogger is encouraging – in his soft-spoken way, as if he could placate the frazzled nerves of his companion by sheer osmosis – but it's not enough. It will never be enough, until he's enough. Which is why he tries to bargain his way through it. The sleuth won't ever demand aloud acknowledgment of their bond, but he will ask and barter in the most outlandish way for his lesser prize. In vain. Oh well, he really should have expected it. John and his bloody morals.
It's then that he remembers that, when he's given all his tobacco reserves, he didn't technically do so. There should still be his emergency supply. It's not that he was intentionally holding back. It's just that it didn't occur to him that these even existed, until he's been desperate for it. Technically, this qualifies as emergency, doesn't it? He tries not to think of his secret stashes (for tobacco and…other things) until they become relevant. Not considering them ensures that he never falls into an emergency situation in the first place.
They're gone. All gone. John has no idea these supplies even existed, the sleuth is sure, so he wouldn't have looked for them. Which means that it is… "Mrs. Hudson!"
She appears very quickly…clearly she has been expecting his call. Good. This should go swiftly, then. Only it doesn't, because she denies what she has obviously done with the most brazen face, looking so deeply innocent. She might have been a dancer in her youth, but she dissimulates well enough that Hollywood obviously lost a first rate star when the late Mr. Hudson swept her off her feet and away from the scenes.
Well, lying won't save her now. Oh, no, Sherlock is not going to hit his dear old landlady – he'd rather cut one of his limbs – but he needs, and nobody seems to care (of course she'd take John's side, despite her still using 'soothers'… everyone always takes John's side). So if he deduces the most painful and embarrassing things he can find (at least in recent days – her old hurts need no dredging up), well, hopefully that'll teach her not to touch his things.
Besides, he might be snappish, but part of him believes he's being helpful. She wouldn't want to be even more deeply involved with a bastard that already has two wives, and seems intent on making her number three, would she? No matter how well he bakes or how charming he is. Honestly, at her age, she should be able to pick better. Why would she deny that she started a little tryst, when it's so obvious that she's been 'enjoying' the man's company, he has no idea.
That finally garners him a reaction of some sort. An angry one, of course, because neither of them can see the kindness for what it is, but at least he's not ignored anymore. Mrs. Hudson storms away in a huff, hopefully to redirect some of that fury on her treacherous paramour. It's not like it's the sleuth's fault that the man can't stand being alone…or that his conscience insists that there's no trouble, as long as he's serious with each of his lovers. Why, in comparison with Mr. Hudson, this is a step up in the relationship department. Mr. Chatterjee wouldn't hurt physically his landlady…and unless she discovered his other wives (which the detective firmly believes she eventually would, because she's clever) possibly not even emotionally.
John stops snubbing him, too, if only to lecture him and ordering him around. Now, in any other circumstance, the former captain issuing orders would make Sherlock melt and scramble to obey. But as it is, his frustrations boil over, and he growls back, insulting the man like he's done to Anderson at his worst…Immediately afterwards, remorseful he tries to explain his situation, how his nerves are about to flitter out of his skin, with a metaphor that John, with his passion for bad scifi, might hopefully understand. Only he doesn't sound much remorseful, still frustrated beyond belief…
So, instead of receiving some form of sympathy, John reacts only with more – understandable – anger and scorn, when the consulting detective insists he needs a case now. He needs cases continuously, because he can't have anything bloody else. Is it that hard to conceive? John's blog is supposed to get him cases, according to his arrogant claims. Instead, the only thing in his inbox is a child asking about a disappeared pet. Well, a disappeared fairy pet, to make it worse. Honestly, is there any lower for a detective, consulting or not, to stoop?
Thankfully, a client comes to save them from murdering each other (he was seriously considering Cluedo a moment ago!)…now, if only he wasn't such an idiot. He comes with a fucking DVD. Is he expecting them to just watch it? Why didn't he mail it, then? A man who believes he's superfluous…perfect. Probably he's right, at that.
Honestly, he hoped for a client, not someone intent on telling them a ghost tale. It's not even Halloween. Demoniac creatures? Wild genetic experiments? What is this absurdity? The dark and grimy version of little Kirsty and her fairy pet. Why does no one with a functioning brain come his way?
If not for the evidence of a smoking habit, he would have kicked the man out already. He is honestly distressed, which seems to be the one good thing about him – he's not come to involve him in some sort of advertising move. Well, not consciously. The consulting detective wouldn't be surprised to discover that the young, pitiful man has been manoeuvred or brainwashed into it somehow.
John seems to have all his caretaker instincts awakened by the young, upset man. Sherlock instead, has no patience for fools – today less than ever (and no, he's not jealous about it). Maybe he can use the man to his advantage, though. He won't be the first nor the last, unless his aspiring client learns to deal with things somehow. And to teach him (see? He's being helpful) first order is to rip away his shields. Off with the DVD.
Secondly, deduce the hell out of the man. It won't let him hide behind whatever lies he's been fed or convinced himself of. And hopefully earn Sherlock a few more 'amazing'…who knows, if the detective manages to anger him enough, John might be forced to protect him, though it's truly improbable.
Oh no – it's all going topsy-turvy! John looks annoyed by his deductions rather than that it? Has his brain already lost his appeal? If so, no wonder that his blogger has ignored their bond – that's about the one selling point Sherlock has. Henry instead is…impressed? That breaks patterns. And for some reason, that doesn't warm his heart at all. Oh well. He can get one good thing out of the whole debacle.
Second hand smoke. Not as good as having a cigarette himself, but he's displeasing John enough as it is, but downright breaking their agreement is not a responsibility he doesn't want. It must be the doctor's choice. Doesn't mean he won't bend the rules.
No actual facts in the case exposition, though. Just more horror tales. Oh well. The sleuth won't bother with it. He's not a ghostbuster, nor a shrink. Not his area. Until…wait. This is weird. And he lives for weird things. For all his nightmare-filled head, Henry Knight isn't a literary-inclined man. Not one who would add random details just for the effect on his audience. Even his most flowery sentences are rather cliché, not elaborated in order to enchant. So, why hound?
He suddenly wants this. True. John seemed bored by his deductions before, but these were plain. Solving a twenty year old case with a demonic hound will win him over again, won't it? (It has to). This doesn't mean that he can't manipulate his reluctant soulmate. If conforming doesn't gain him what he needs, why not start denying his doctor what he wants? A sharp word, a stupid pretence, and his cigarettes are back in his pocket. (He doesn't smoke at the moment. He's annoyed John enough – Sherlock doesn't want to alienate him entirely.
John has no idea what to do with his consulting detective. Yep, his, he's settled on it – he lied to himself long enough, but with Irene's revelations and hints, it's…well, about 98% probable that Sherlock is his Sherlock. He doesn't want to be, and the doctor can't blame him. If they met ten years before, maybe…but by the time they met, John was already the farthest from 'a catch' one could be. This doesn't mean that he can't claim the man inside his own brain. At least not until the sleuth surpasses deducing and slips right into mind-reading…which wouldn't surprise the blogger one jot, honestly. Still, he's probably safe for now.
John is acting in conformity with his resolutions, as always, no matter what life and his reasonably (logically even) unwilling partner throw at him. He's given up on the long string of girlfriends, that now make him a bit ashamed. Oh, not all of them, he doesn't suddenly hold himself up to sainthood standards...but the ones since he met the detective.
Part of him always knew. That was the reason for the lies, the covering of his Name with any sort of pretext, and eventually the breakups. He supposes that the fact that he's been lying to himself all this time, too, could make it better in the eyes of some people (and possibly worse in the opinion of others).
The fact that he's accepted his lot in life – and really, it's not that bad, no matter how much vilified the sleuth is by the most idiotic of his acquaintances…rather, it's utterly brilliant most of the time – doesn't mean that he has suddenly learned to deal with every mood swing. True, he's been warned, and with Sherlock in the process of quitting one type of addiction, mild as it is, the doctor can hardly blame him.
That's the problem, mostly, he suspects. Give him broken bones, gunshot wounds, assorted violent injuries, he's in his element, and will set you right even working in the most unfavourable conditions. Addiction? That's a battle he always, always loses. Mostly because it's not his to fight, he could say. Which is true, of course, but it still leaves him with a bitter taste in his mouth.
How is he supposed to help when Sherlock looks like he can't stand him at times – like he needs to keep himself continuously occupied with a case, every single second of the day, or he'd break apart? It wasn't like this before. They'd have quiet evenings, 'educational' (John's word, of course) Bond marathons, and the odd day where the most challenging thing was the crossword. But of course, the detective had nicotine then.
The doctor wonders if Irene lied to him, after all (for what purpose? Could she gain anything from it?) and the consulting detective's soulmate is truly dead. Because if he's the one, John has to wonder about this whole matching process. Like everyone else, he's grown idealising the idea of destined lovers, even if – perhaps more so because – he suspected Harry was right and he would never find his own. Soulmates are supposed to be perfect for each other, and each time there's spousal abuse, or even just divorce, or betrayal, people automatically assume the one they found, no matter how smitten they were at first, is just another homonym.
That's what John told himself for the longest time, too, despite the…peculiar name of his soulmate. But what if they're truly random spots? Not dictating your love life any more than your zodiacal sign or any other such rubbish? Sherlock literally saved his life, true. But if they were fated, shouldn't John be able to help him through such a minor thing as quitting smoking? And instead, here he is, giving up. And feeling guilty.
But the idea of the sleuth passing on a case he's been gagging for, simply because he sees his flat(soul?)mate as a jailer, sickens John. If Sherlock doesn't want to be in the same room as him, preferring (no doubt) getting to Heathrow if necessary to have his nicotine dose, and entertaining himself with escaped, fairy rabbits in the meantime…well, his blogger is many things, but not a warden.
He hasn't managed to play sobriety enforcer to Harry, who really needs one – he's not about to do so for Sherlock. Not that his sister would let him if he tried, they were more likely to get into a scuffle at some point…and he refuses to get into a physical fight with her. He would have to consciously restrain himself from using his military training, terrified to hurt her accidentally. And if he didn't…Harry has always fought dirty. Survival technique. No, best to get out of Harry's company.
He needs to stop grousing now, though. how has he left his thoughts get so dark while packing for a short stay? Sherlock is on the phone, no doubt making reservations on Mycroft's credit card, but in a minute or two he'll bound up yelling at him to hurry. They have a demonic hound to unearth.
The actual trip is long…or maybe it feels that way only to John because he's bloody uncomfortable with his own thoughts, half expecting the detective to yell at him to stop thinking already. His friend hasn't even asked when, after a quiet train trip, they found a rented car to wait for them, putting himself at the wheel.
Has he deduced that John has never learned to drive? There was decent public transport before, and after…yep, he's been laughed at in Afganistan, but *they* never learned to patch people up and save lives, spending literal years of their lives to be able to help. They carted him around. He sewed them back. It was a fair deal, in the captain's mind. Win-win.
Though maybe the sleuth has no need to deduce. If Mycroft can acquire his therapist's notes, the older brother can definitely check his lack of driving license…and of course he would inform his little brother of his minion's flaws. (Yep, minion. Mycroft probably calls him that. or simply, Sherlock is hoping John will heed the 'do not talk to the driver' rule. Not wanting to be distracted. Just like he went mute on the train (concentrating? Revising Henry's statement?). If only Baskerville wasn't in such a godforsaken place, they would need no car to begin with.
Anyway, John is dutifully quiet, leaving the volatile consulting detective to his own thoughts, and wondering if they're really going to investigate genetic experiments escaped from a secret military research base (how?). Can that even happen? He has a rather solid scientific preparation, though he's no geneticist specifically, and he understands the needs of war…but why even make a murderous superdog (mini-wolf?). The dogs they already have work well enough. And if anything, you want keener senses, so they can better detect explosives and/or drugs. Not more aggression, or bigger size. A pet you can't control stops being a companion and becomes a liability. Are people stupid enough not to see that?
At least Sherlock does not charge headlong first into Baskerville, as his blogger dreads. He stops the car somewhere in the midst of bloody nothing to scout the place. Imprint it in his mind palace, probably. The contrast with London can't be more stark, and if the sleuth can navigate them flawlessly and quickly in his city, John doesn't want to imagine what would happen if they got lost hear. Possibly while chasing (or worse, being chased) by a murderous beast. Especially with a minefield not too far.
He's the one with the map (a paper one, of course), and the reversal – the detective asking him what are the places they can see, instead of being the one leading and explaining – feels good. Now, if only this could go further and – at least in this case – Sherlock could keep from being reckless, that would be awesome. The doctor doesn't want to admit it, but the horror movie descriptions by their young client have him on edge.
Murderers? Par for the course. Serial killers? Even better. But these are men. You can understand their reasoning. You can, in rare occasions, talk them into surrendering (a gun helps with that). A vicious, feral dog can't be reasoned with, or scared with anything but brute force. And with senses many times sharper than a human's, you can't exactly take them by surprise, unlike some dumb criminals. It's not often that John hopes that a client might be insane, and there might be no case at all, despite how furious that would make Sherlock. Maybe Henry Knight's dad just slipped, hit his head and the kid freaked out? Anything at all – a faraway howl, a shadow – could have set the boy off, if he was as nervous then as he seems now.
It's sad how these thoughts, and many more (the consulting detective can tell him his brain is slow all he wants, but sometimes his blogger's brain is just fevered) are only distractions. Not from the case, of course. He's considering the case. No, he's distracting himself from the figure of Sherlock, who's thought best to climber on a rock to broaden his horizon…and with his coat, he looks like he would not be out of place in a superhero comic.
When they're finally at Grimpen, they are immediately greeted by the commercial, tacky side of having a local monster, and John has to try really hard not to roll his eyes. For their client's sake, they should at least give the story the benefit of the doubt.
What he really can't help but glower at is the detective popping his collar to maximise sex appeal. Oh, not to pull, of course. Even if he was, John frankly doubts that in this quaint little place there would someone fitting his undoubtedly exacting standards. To manipulate anyone they might meet, because the human being who can resist him when he's oh-so-casually ravishing is not born yet. And from his unconvincing defensive remark, Sherlock knows it. It's not that John has any right to complain about his being seductive, of course. It's the manipulation he objects to.
In the inn – vegetarian, because they need to eat healthier, if he can manage to make the detective eat anything at all – of course, Sherlock can't be bothered with the dull necessity of checking in. But that's okay. It's unlikely that he will find any clues in the pub, but it wouldn't do to miss them.
The only question is…why does everyone assume they're together, and refuses to accept his denial? Isn't it obvious that they're not? That they're too mismatched (whatever fate or God or chance think) to ever fit together? Never mind that they save each other (Sherlock did from the start without even trying, and John has been trying to repay him ever since). There can't be anything sexual between them. Obviously.
The blogger does his best to redirect conversation, and thankfully, the manager seems eager to chat about anything. Baskerville and its minefield, Knigh's demon hound…he's frank about it being a blessing for his affairs, and careful to warn of the actual dangers. A tourist blown up by a mine would give the place a rather bad rap. While chatting, John tries to observe, too – and he might have just stumbled on a clue. Or anyway a sign things are not as obvious as they appear. What is a vegetarian place doing with a bill for meat?
The owner is soon joined by the cook, but John does not call him out on his newly discovered incongruence. He'll let Sherlock know about it first. He can't help the stab of envy, though. The two men are obviously soulmates, and the easy banter and unashamed affection they share makes John feel his own inadequacy and messed up situation even more. People like these are the ones appearing on cheesy romance movies, and feeding the soulmate ideal. That they can't see how screwed – sadly not in the literal sense – his relationship with Sherlock is, is half flattering and half frustrating. The doctor can only evade questions again, and run out, looking for his wayward partner.
…And he ends in a ploy to get whatever solid evidence the local 'tour guide' has, if anything. Thank God that he's used to blindly backing Sherlock's schemes, so he doesn't miss a beat. He even gracefully loses fifty pounds on it. Not that it matters, with Sherlock lending him his card at need before he even asks most times. No, the money doesn't matter. The problem is that there is evidence of a gigantic hound. Or someone went out of their way to fabricate a paw print. Which is the most logical option, but…well, John knows very well mad scientists are not necessarily movie characters. After all, he lives with one.