Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A.N. I apologise so much for this short-ish chapter. It seems that my Muse is still not entirely persuaded to work on this story. That said, given the situation I'm now planning a similar chapter for next month as well. Better not to push until she figures out what is blocking the flow.
Once home, they both pretend that the unfortunate Dartmoor case never happened. John doesn't hold being poisoned over the detective, and doesn't even stop accepting food or drink from him altogether – even if he'll insist they be tailored to his tastes. It's not that Sherlock couldn't drug him every other day, if he wanted to. He'll just have to find bitter poisons for bitter drinks. And no, despite the fleeting temptation after watching a Poirot episode, he's not going to dose his partner with just a bit of strychnine. For mithridatising purposes, you see.
For one, it could make Donovan right if he's not overly careful. For another, the sheer fact that they're not mentioning Baskerville means that his blogger has accepted the poisoning for what it was – a strung out brain's idea of retaliation for constantly having their bond denied. They can move on from that.
When Sherlock's mind works as it should, he can see how stupid he's been. How he has only given his soulmate more reasons to hate him. Reasons to abandon him, maybe – any sane person would do so. But he still has his trump card, which he can exploit to keep the other at his side. John's adrenaline addiction. Left out of cases, the former soldier would go back to a bouncing ball of frustration, literally jittery with the need for action. Until the man manages to find a viable alternative, Sherlock can keep him tied to himself. John would probably consider this more than a bit not good, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
Which is how he ends up being even more insufferable than usual, honestly, because he needs cases like he needs air (like he needs John to stick around), so during the inevitable lulls he'll make damn sure that everyone else is as miserable as he is. Dealing with a teen!Sherlock prone to panicking and assuming his soulmate will leave any second now if they don't find a case, and a good case, an interesting case that John will like and want to write up and be proud of isn't easy. Surely his…his John (not his, and that's the crux of the problem) deserves to have to weather the fallout, too.
Thank the inexistent God (just in case), some interesting cases do come around. Oddly, not just interesting to John, Lestrade, or himself (who else should care about fascinating crimes, really?). John's readership seems to explode with every passing day, and he hasn't even shared the implicit endorsement from the Queen. And that brings in the high-profile private clients. Ones that do not go through Mycroft – which would be reason enough to refuse them unless their problems are actually brilliant.
Though technically he should thank Moriarty – not that he ever will. Apparently having a consulting *criminal* in town is a great thing for anyone craving good cases. Why people looking him up always find shore at John's blog instead of the Science of Deduction is a mystery above even his powers of deduction, though.
For some reason, his cases start attracting the media, too. Which is honestly something that annoys him to no end, he doesn't need anyone else's praise but his soulmate's . There's a reason he used to let Lestrade have the glory of solving all their joined cases. It's not like he's going to be promoted, and just having access to the crime scenes is more than enough.
But John seems to be proud of their accomplishments, so the detective will grit his teeth and submit himself to the odd press conference. Now, if only everyone didn't insist on treating him like a performing seal, that would help his sanity. His specialty has never been interacting with the public. He's never cared for the public. Even with his clients, he does his level best to be as uninvolved towards their troubles as he can, because 'caring' can very much be a hindrance to solving their case. It's not empathy people seek from him – and rightfully so.
This kind of insincere graciousness everyone seems to suddenly feel it's paramount he adopt is maddening. He'd much rather face a frustrated Donovan spitting at him "Freak", and "Arsehole," than a room full of people expecting him to behave. That didn't work for Mummy while she was alive, nor his brother later, and it's really asking too much to want him to do so now. Mind Shezza snickers from his basement cell that he should just have made a contract with his brother, so that Mycroft would impersonate him in these occasions. His big brother always was such a good child, and he grew into an adjusted (mostly), smooth-talking adult.
Then again, that would mean surely taking all the most boring cases his brother ever felt like throwing his way… Or worse, maybe Lestrade would decide that Mycroft makes a better consultant. One that doesn't evoke hatred on sight. True, his sibling's laziness would ensure that such an offer would be rejected. But what if his brother decides a goldfish is not a bad idea, after all?
No, no. He needs to stop whining, even inside his own mind. That won't do anyone any good. What he needs is focus. And another case. At least they'll be entertained for the duration. Honestly, the art theft that started the media hounding him hasn't been as engaging as he'd hoped. It turns out that, outside of the movies John makes him sit through, stealing even the most famous works of art is ridiculously easy. There's a reason every now and then someone will just up and leave with the Mona Lisa or another masterpiece.
Seriously, if the person behind the theft had not wanted to be completely sure that no one could ever track it back to them, all they had to do was to go to the museum and take the Turner by themselves. No need of involving anyone else, much less Moriarty. And even Jim – despite doing his best – couldn't make good on his promise.
Sherlock wonders if the consulting criminal does return fees when his plans are eventually foiled. The idea makes him snicker at the kitchen table, and even John joins in the laugh, when he shares the thought. (Of course John asks what's up when what looks like a mostly harmless experiment leads to mad giggling. For all he knows, his flatmate has just synthesized laughing gas…or worse.)
One of the most ridiculous customs these press conferences seem to like to push on him (the sleuth suspects that one needs a peculiar kind of mixed idiocy and sadism to become a journalist) is the 'recompense' scene. Grateful clients will always add some kind of gift to their compliments.
Now, maybe Sherlock has been spoiled by Mycroft. Having a sibling/parenting figure as skilled as him in deductions meant that his gifts were always perfectly tailored to what the younger one wanted, without the need to speak of it. Or, barring it, what he needed, and while that might be slightly disappointing, even as a child Sherlock could recognise the usefulness of his present.
They never had much contact with extended relatives (if there are any currently still living, the consulting detective deleted them a while ago) and so he's not used to accepting graciously the most unwanted tokens of distant aunts and other people he's never seen all year. Then again, why grateful people cannot bother to observe him is a mystery. Sure, most people are as good as blind, but isn't pleasing the receiver the point of giving a present? Is it really impossible to make an effort?
And if not, wouldn't it be easier to just not offer anything? It's not like either John or he are interested in any extra. It's since Wilkes' case that people keep trying to compensate (it feels more like a late bribe) him to take their cases somehow. How they can't see that he would happily pay to be allowed to solve them, as tolerable cases are so very fewer than his own demand, it's honestly part ridiculous and part insulting.
They think he'll be happy to be paid (and even happier for any extra) for his work. If he was in it for the money, he would have joined Scotland Yard, and tolerated being ordered about by the likes of Dimmock to ensure a regular revenue. His chosen profession has enough of the art for it to benefit from his violin the rare times he's stuck. Gran-gran (-gran? Or something, the man is quite a few generations removed, and he's never bothered to listen too carefully when Mycroft listed all the successful people in their family – mostly in the context of complaining about Sherlock's latest exploit –) Horace, the famous painter, would approve of his considering it a vocation too.
At least the next case is more gripping. Kidnapped banker, and while the most sensible thing to do in these situation is just to pay up, who's the consulting detective to deny a distraught family, well, consultation? Especially since, according to John, it's not the best policy to point out that they could as well pay since they certainly don't lack the funds. Even less polite, apparently, is remarking that a good portion of said funds are not entirely legally acquired. Well, not quite Van Coon's level of dishonesty, but still enough that nobody in the world would cry if the family was forcibly separated from a chunk of their possessions.
Then again, the kidnapper is as far from Robin Hood as one can be. His police record is probably longer than Anderson's resume. And if the buzz around the recuperated Turner convinced the wife that she can't live unless Sherlock personally takes the case…well, as annoying as she can be, it will still be better than the last time he took a case in the finances milieu.
To be honest, he can't be bothered to conduct as extended an investigation as Lestrade probably should, but it's obviously not an accident that the mafia decided this particular man needed to pay up or pay up, not being too fussy if in money or in blood.
But it gives John a chance to show off, and frankly, that is what both the flatmates in Baker Street like best. Once the detective locates the people who kidnapped the victim, his companion's military past ensures that the criminals are as well as cuffed already. Of course, Sherlock helps out – since for an operation as big as that is, more than just a couple of thugs are protecting the goose supposed to lay plenty of golden eggs. But in a fight, he unconsciously defer to the former soldier's higher experience. And if, between adrenaline and…other hormones…he's all too happy for his usual attire when the hostage is finally freed, well, nobody is supposed to know.
Receiving useless gifts when he will never have the true recompense he'd want for his successes (and he really needs to avoid the thought lest him be swallowed by bitterness), though, is maddening. And that's when they're not entirely out of spite. Oh, no, not from former clients perhaps looking for some publicity. (If you really are so grateful, you can offer your recompense in the privacy of your own home).
It's Scotland Yard looking to harass him every way they can. Just because he does their job for them. Is it his fault if they can't manage to get a hold of a criminal for decades, despite the fact that he lives in London? He moved two decades ago, according to his fake identity's papers, and very possibly always stayed in the city but for the short 'vacations' when he organised his most notorious international crimes.
He would love not being mentioned at all. But apparently Lestrade decided to pay his dues (even if nobody asked him)…and of course Donovan exploits the occasion to mock him with the damnable hat. Her smirk leaves no doubt. If he'd known what was going to happen, he would have grabbed a bridal veil, or anything else obnoxious enough that nobody sane would expect him to stick to it. Why is he not allowed to feed the hat to anyone pushing it on him, again? …Oh. John would say it's a bit not good, no doubt.
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