Disclaimer: still nothing mine. Obviously.
John marches his way out of the inn. What the fuck just happened? Sherlock having a meltdown, and being all 'oh look at me, I'm having an emotion and no idea what to do with it – first time it happened in my life'. He's been influenced by the atmosphere, and Henry at his side blabbering spooky stories into his ears. Must have been.
If there was a hellhound out there, the former soldier somehow doubts that he would have stayed put when the two of them retreated – Henry quite more swiftly than the sleuth. Dogs give chase. It's what they do. Dogs bred for fighting or hunting, even more so. He would either have seen – and shot – the beast, or he would have found both men dead (and probably not survived it).
With anyone else, John would have patted them, maybe offered a hug – possibly helped them through controlled breathing. But it wasn't anyone else. It was Sherlock, and as much as the man doesn't mind the occasional touch, the doctor isn't sure that – with his brilliant brain already in overdrive – such an approach wouldn't have felt overwhelming instead. Fact is, he has no idea of how the detective's brain works. Not like everyone else's, that's for sure. But the doctor has not enough data to hazard a diagnosis, either.
That's why he'd tried the 'rational' approach. He really hoped it was what the sleuth would have wanted. To be reminded of himself, helped just through words to recalibrate his brain, a sort of 'oh yes – that is how the world is supposed to be' little reminder. But of course it blew in his fucking face.
After all, John is not good enough for him. Never been enough and never will be. And Sherlock just made it as clear as possible without physically slapping him. (Actually, that would have hurt a lot less. Trust John. He knows. Well, not about Sherlock, obviously, but the point stands.) The doctor has not pulled the "I care for you because I am, oh, let's see, just your fucking soulmate, so maybe listen to me for once, hm?" card, of course he hasn't, he didn't want to cause a row. But friends – he'd thought it was safe to claim they were friends by now.
The denial had hurt. Of course it had. it also explained some things, maybe – if Sherlock thought so little of him, the occasional carelessness was more than justified. John had wanted to lash out, then. But John Watson is not the kind of person who attacks people who hurt him (if you attack someone he cares about, though, you're toast). Possibly because he's damn well used to being hurt.
All he does is walk, fuming…and that's when he sees the blinking lights again. Morse? Signals? What is that? There's activity on the moor anyhow. And that's when the idea forms. Why not investigate? He's never got around to explain what he noticed to the sleuth, and that means that he's never been shot down, been told that it's obvious what these flickering lights imply, and that it's pointless to pursue them. (At this point, it wouldn't surprise him if the consulting detective would tell him that, because he expects to be considered useless.)
He might not be the detective of the pair, but he has eyes and a brain, functioning legs and the ability to make choices. And if it is Baskerville's men conducting nightly experiments, he has enough experience with the military to know how to behave – at the very least, to avoid being shot. It would serve Sherlock right if he could go back to the inn and casually mention that he's followed a clue the other was too busy snarling at him to notice, and now he's solved the case. It is a daydream (well, at night...which makes it a bit ridiculous), but it gives him a direction.
He's not aimlessly wandering just to burn off excess energy anymore. He has a goal, and with the irritation still fuelling his steps, it's not too long before he arrives at the heart of his private mystery. Because Murphy's law is never wrong, instead of being able to go back all smug about having solved the mystery, all John wants for a second is for the earth to swallow him.
It's not an experiment site. It's not a code. It's the favourite place of all exhibitionists in town – and possibly farther. Not that they would mind too much his popping in to investigate, but it's the point of his certainly not seeking that. And the fact that, since he's stopped lying to himself about the soulmate thing and one-sidedly decided to stop going out (not that Sherlock ever has, so that's the one thing he can't accuse his obviously very much unwilling soulmate of), he's gone through a dry spell that makes the show doubly frustrating.
John is seriously considering if he should go back or actually dig a hole in which to bury himself. The mix of embarrassment, hurt, anger and disappointment – these last two aimed only at himself, after the latest blunder – make the prospect suddenly seem reasonable and desirable, even.
The text from Sherlock is unexpected – what can the man need, and why would he even reach to John? The inn's owners should be able to provide all that he himself can provide, because at the moment he has just proven that he's not good for much more than fetcher of phones and occasional cook.
The sleuth idly gossiping about who's there surprises the blogger – is the "don't be boring, and don't state the obvious" policy gone with his…flatmate's (that, at least, nobody tries to deny) peace of mind? It's not like John has asked to see their client's therapist. He has his own – well, had, despite everything that went on he's stopped seeing Ella, as long as his psychological issues don't cross into physical ones he'd rather ignore it all.
That the detective wants him to investigate, shocks him even more. Sherlock can't be more than a few feet away from her. Why doesn't he deduce her, or interrogate her, or something? Is he still that upset? …Doesn't he know that even a lobotomized Holmes would be a better option than a fully functioning John Watson? (After the too-recent blunder, he doesn't really feel reliable as partner in detection). The consulting detective's lack of esteem for him has been expressed all too loudly not so long ago. So why should John be involved at all?
He doesn't ponder it – he just asks. And receives no answer, obviously. Well, not one in words. Just a photo. And yes, Henry's shrink is young and surprisingly pretty. A few months ago, John would have sweet-talked her into giving him a chance (and hopefully into bed after that).
Well, at this point he has a choice. Ignore her, Sherlock, the case and everything else, and just walk some more until he doesn't feel like shit. Or head back, talk to a pretty woman, and puzzle later if his…mate (details undecided) asked him because he thinks John is a decent detective in his own right, as a backhanded "You might be my soulmate but I like it better when you're out shagging someone else, you're less insufferable afterwards".
And John is an idiot and he knows it, because he picks the investigation…no, let's be honest, he picks the woman. Because if he's nothing – absolutely nothing – to Sherlock (which is understandable, even, he's never been anything much) why should he stay faithful to the man like he'd vowed to himself to do instead of getting a leg over?
Soon, he's back at the inn, and she's there, sipping a drink and making small talk with the owners. Target pinpointed. He pretends to have no idea who she is, of course, it wouldn't do to have her suspect his intentions. A stupid pickup line, and here she is, laughing. A different type of woman would have rolled her eyes, maybe, but after listening all day to other people's paranoia, a laugh is exactly what the doctor ordered.
He steers her away from the owners, who are silently glaring at him because apparently they suspect him of brazenly cheating on his boyfriend. He wonders silently for a second if they would be more surprised by being proven in no uncertain terms that the sleuth, despite their bond, wants nothing to do with him, or by reading his texts and discovering that Sherlock is the one who put him up to it.
To keep her smiling, he even shares some of Sherlock's deductions about the other patrons, and earns himself a very promising giggle and a scolding without any heat at all. For a moment, he's tempted to disregard the investigation part of his mission and just flirt her pants off her. He knows he can do that. It wouldn't be the first time.
But the prospect of the consulting detective's further disappointment is something he can't tolerate. He tells himself he does it for Henry, who's a good lad and needs help, but the truth is – he's the detective's puppet. Or at least it's how he feels this very second, which – if faced with his own shrink – he would be forced to admit is a not very good day.
And that's the very reason he flounders, probably. If he wasn't reeling from feeling like a failure already, he might have enough common sense to concoct a believable excuse for his enquiries right off the bat. As it is, his pitiful attempts to prod her about Henry's tendency to hallucinate (and his dad's paranoia, since they're at it) only serve to make her suspicious. With Henry turning up on a show, she must have her share of journalists trying to approach her, more or less covertly. He's news, even if local news. And she has every right to be bloody tired of it by now.
That said, he's finally found an idea that works, thanks to Sherlock's frankly alarming – and absolutely genuine, since he had no reason to fake it – earlier mental breakdown. Whether out of the sheer medical compulsion to help, or hoping for a new client, she's ready to open up. It's in the lines on her face.
…And that's exactly when Frankland (when has he come in?) pops in. John wonders flightily how the man is still alive, because his overly cheerful, permanently joking manner – or so it appears – does get on one's nerves when they're busy. On second thought, he should probably murder Ella. He knew her blog idea was sheer bullshit. Look what it's brought them – unwanted attention on all sides. Donovan's jeering being well grounded for a change, Jim bloody Moriarty, (yep, that escalated quickly)…everyone would have benefitted from him shutting the fuck up on the web. At another time, with more ease of mind, he'd acknowledge that all the clients his blog brought on saved both their sanity, but not now.
Of course doctor Mortimer clams up after that. Fucking Frankland (it's a surprise that that is not his first name, really) managed to make him sound like a snoop worse than any journalist and gay. Seriously, live-in PA? What's wrong with flatmate, friend, or even colleague? The idiot hasn't said anything John can reasonably pummel him for, more's the pity, despite his black mood. But he's ensured that Henry's therapist will feel deceived and used in the most humiliating way. John doesn't blame her for getting away in a huff. He just dreads having to face Sherlock – tomorrow, if he's sulking in his room as usual…small mercies – and admitting he's been completely useless.
Well, what is he going to do now? At home, he would probably slip downstairs and watch crap telly with Mrs. Hudson. She's awesome at being supportive while pretending to ignore whatever issue you're having. He somehow doubts that bad telly on its own, all alone in his room, is going to do the trick, though. and he certainly can't face Sherlock now. He's already tried outrunning his problems, and look where his stroll brought him. As much as he hates doing it, he'll just face the disapproving owners and have a drink. Not too much, though, no matter how tempting it looks. They're investigating. He can't allow to be hungover tomorrow. His soulmate will think badly enough of him as it is.
Sherlock, for all his famed cleverness, wouldn't guess (wildly so, this time) his partner's reasoning and feelings correctly if both their lives depended on it – which is about the strongest stimulus you can offer him. Then again, it's no surprise, with the drug still coursing faintly in his bloodstream, and a befuddling buzz from the alcohol he's ingested, and which Mycroft would undoubtedly be outraged about. Not for his recourse to mind-altering substances to deal with the harshness of life, but because the liquor is not up to his brother's (and the Diogenes club's) exacting standards.
After having his feelings and health so blatantly disregarded – or at least that's how his impaired brain sees the recent events – the consulting detective gives himself a monster headache trying to figure out what a proper reaction would be.
Teen Sherlock, huddled against the door of his attic, mumbles it has to be their fault. Hasn't it always been, since before he came to be, ever? The only reasonable behaviour is to please John anyway they can.
Tipsy and slightly high Sherlock, stumbling out of his corner, growls that he's angry of being always blamed for everything. He might be a genius, in comparison with most other people, but taking responsibility for every bad thing in the world (and working his ass off to ensure that everything runs smoothly) is how Mycroft got where he is. Sure, everyone agrees his big brother is more successful and better adjusted, but he should remember that becoming Mycroft is about as far from his own life goals as one can get without dying in a ditch.
Why should he bend backwards for his uncaring soulmate, once again? Why not give him a taste of being used for one's self-interest, the way John trails after him for his adrenaline fix? Maybe they really deserve each other. Two junkies looking for the next dose, his doctor ensuring that he does not drop dead mid-case and the sleuth providing the excitement that the blogger obviously needs for his mental health.
Rational Sherlock is usually the one shutting everyone up and taking the decisions. But unfortunately, he's nowhere to be found right now. Which is why, instead of both being forcibly shut up and at least a token attempt at analysing the situation, teen Sherlock wins for a moment when he hisses, "What if John leaves? Permanently?"
Only, his brain's finally collective efforts to make John happy seem to come empty. What does John like? He doesn't have a mad chase to offer…when a very pretty woman walks in. For a moment, the sleuth tastes bile in his mouth. Of course. For some reason, John has not dated as much lately. He probably just needs to get off, to be in a better mood. No matter how much the very idea of it makes the detective itch. Then again, after so many ruined dates, he somehow doubts that John would take his suggestions.
He wanders over to the owners again, that seem to like him for some reason, despite the semi -cene he's caused before. The sleuth nods towards her and asks who she is, with the oldest excuse in the book – saying she looks remarkably like someone he used to know.
Oh – perfect. Someone they need to investigate. Well, that's great (horrible). Give John a rational excuse to talk to any female, and he'll have her in bed by the end of the night. He tells the owners he's wrong, after all, and retires to his bedroom. He's done his best to put John in a happy disposition. It doesn't mean that he should stay and watch him flirt. See everything he wants showered on any random stranger just because she owns a pair of boobs.
Left alone, in the literal dark – there's no need to turn on the light, it's not like anything in the room, however cosy it is, that deserves his attention – his thoughts find no rest. He can't work on the case – at least not for a while yet, he needs to be sure that his senses will not deceive him again. Unable to know what exactly he's been dosed with, or how much he's taken, it's better to wait a bit longer, despite his uncommonly high resistance to too many drugs for most people's tastes.
About that: when and how he's been drugged? Something both Henry and he have done that John didn't…The sleuth squashes a rush of envy. If John had been drugged too, he wouldn't have been so dismissive afterwards. Then again, you don't want the one with the gun to see things that aren't there…He really should be thankful.
Sherlock retraces everything that happened since Henry walked into their flat. Something…something…there must be an easy way to justify only the two of them being drugged. Finally, he has the easiest – ridiculously so – way figured out. The sugar! If someone wants to ensure that his client will keep seeing demons in the moor, earning an invite and somehow swapping the boy's sugar reserve with a tainted one could be the simplest thing, what with the young man living alone, plus his being, at his core, a kind, if stupid, person. For one man whose sanity would have actually profited from being a stuck up prick, looking down to everyone else and not admitting anyone in his mansion, he had to be a decent lad instead.
Of course, he's not a hundred percent sure. They have a few more things in common…way too many for his tastes, at that. The sleuth can't help but remember again John's solicitude towards Henry not hours before. Soulmate or not (after all, it's obvious that his blogger doesn't like the idea at all), what if John decides he prefers Henry fucking Knight as companion?
Sherlock shakes his head violently. No, no. For one, Henry too is the wrong gender to charm his doctor. And John is not so shallow to be dazzled by sheer money. He would have accepted Mycroft's offer back then, if he was the type. Henry's helpless attitude, though, might win him points since it's coupled with such a friendly disposition. John is born to be a hero (that's no surprise at all) and a damsel in – mostly medical – distress will appeal to him…especially one who knows how to be properly grateful. It's obvious.
Well, what is he supposed to do in the meantime? Enjoy the companionship while it lasts? Give up the case and drag John back home, away from seductive therapists and clients too nice for their own good? Tempting, so tempting…
No, no. He needs to stop. He shouldn't be dependent on his unwilling soulmate. After all, he's lived most of his life without knowing him and he was perfectly fine. Yes. Fine. Tipsy Sherlock gets angry at Teen Sherlock's giggles when the thought flits through his head.
He's the world's only consulting detective, damn, and that's what he'll still be when he's discarded. He needs to stop obsessing over John Watson, and work on his case. He'll just analyse the sugar tomorrow and then figure out who's swapped them. With Frankland vouching for them, the people at Baskerville shouldn't put up too much of a fuss if he asks them to loan him the use of a lab for an hour or so. Of course, if anyone inside is responsible for that, they won't be too happy, but protesting openly would make them suspect, so he doesn't expect any objection. And the Major – after the mess up – won't dare to deny them anything.
His shaky brain doesn't seem able to really leave behind the John matter, though. Tipsy Sherlock, who's still angry and hurt, insists that he needs a deeper understanding of the drug's working, and hence he should be allowed to observe it when his own brain is not impaired by it.
Their visit made it all too clear that no one at Baskerville will question the ethical standards of his project. Not even when the drug requires obviously a human test subject (you can't interrogate a monkey about its hallucinations). Now, who could be an untainted person to serve as guinea pig?
He doesn't even pretend that he's not thinking of his blogger. It's not like it's not habit. Frankly, as soon as drug involvement became obvious, John should have started expecting it to pop up in his cup. After the way his own turmoil has been dismissed, it's entirely deserved. Possibly, after being made to see the hound from hell himself, John will start to understand how intolerable, "Just be rational," sounds. Seriously, isn't his doctor supposed to be the empathic one?
Truthfully, Teen Sherlock tries to object to the plan. "I thought we wanted to keep John happy," he points out, sounding concerned. With Rational Sherlock still not fully functional, to value the weight of every argument, though, his younger self is definitely drowned out by the oldest excuse in the detective's book. "It's for the case." And John knows perfectly well – or he should, unless he forgets it, dazzled by his amatory pursuits – that they're not here on holiday.
Anything goes, to solve a case. Even a case that is not technically on a strict deadline. If nobody bothered to solve the murder of their client's father for twenty years, and Henry's life isn't technically in danger… After Moriarty's countdowns, or even simple kidnappings, where the victims might be killed at anytime, now there's certainly not the same sense of urgency. But the detective certainly doesn't want to dillydally here, either. The less time they spend in this godforsaken place, the more chances that his blogger will follow him back home and forget about everyone involved.
What John won't forget, hopefully, is the lesson he's about to receive. Making too obvious you resent the relationship they share, and that you're just in it for the thrill, will make people use you right back. It's not like Sherlock could help what they are, after all, or ask for it. He didn't pick his soulmate.
Even if, in a tragic display of cliché, he would have picked John over anyone else to share his life. While the reverse is obviously not true. Oh well. He might not have gained the partner he'd dreamed of, when he was young and stupid (why does Mycroft to always be right with his warnings? Sherlock hates that), but at least he has a guinea pig that can fill a questionnaire. One needs to accept whatever silver lining a situation offers. Usually, they're even less convenient than this.
He doesn't believe in this entirely, of course. But at least half of the night is gone (unless the drug scrambled his internal clock, too, which he can't exclude), and he really can't do anything else of importance about the case until the morrow. And he certainly isn't going to try and find John now. It's not like they have anything to speak of anyway. Actions speak louder than words…especially because most people don't care enough to fake them also, in order to maintain whatever image they wish to project.
He takes his phone and shoots a quick email at Baskerville, asking for what he needs. Of course he doesn't expect an immediate reply, anyone on the clock will be reluctant to wake the Major to make the necessary arrangement. But at least, by the time John is back from his not exactly date, he expects everything to be worked out.
With nothing better to do, he might as well try to sleep. He only prays that both John and the base personnel stay out of his dreams. In such a situation, a nightmare would be preferable to his imagination leaping along such a painful, humiliating dead end. Hopefully, the drug will help steer his dreamscape to the dark side, instead of simply rousing illusions from his mind. The truth is painful enough. He doesn't need his wish-fulfilment to make the difference feel all the starker.