"I'm a suspect for murder, John."
The word Murder seemed to echo, seeming overly loud, blocking out everything else, even though Sherlock had said it softly.
John swallowed hard; unable to do anything but stare at the man he thought he knew. Was this even remotely possible? John had questioned Sherlock's ethics in the past, but would have never suspected him of being capable of going that far.
"That's ridiculous." John found himself saying, the words just bubbling out of him. And once verbalized, seemed to click as true.
Sherlock's green eyes widened slightly in surprise, and then John could see the tension unwinding from him. He hadn't been sure of the reception he would get from John, but he had still knocked on his door despite that, looking for help. It said a lot about his other friends and family.
With the tension lessening in Sherlock, he seemed to slump slightly, and John grabbed his arm to push him back onto a chair. He was clearly exhausted from everything he had been though today.
John went to fill the kettle. "I'm making some tea and heating up some soup. You need to keep your energy up."
Sherlock tried to dissuade him, but John overrode his objections. The way the man quickly ate the soup showed how long since he had eaten last. Afterwards, John guided him to the washroom.
"Have a shower while I look for some clothes for you to sleep in." John said as he closed the door, slumping against the doorframe when he was alone.
His mind was whirling a thousand directions, with thousands of questions. But he could tell Sherlock was in no condition to answer them tonight. They could wait until morning. Luckily it was the weekend, and he didn't have any big plans.
He found an old t-shirt and some pajama bottoms, and softly knocked on the washroom door before leaving them on the edge of the sink. Sherlock's body behind the opaque shower curtain sending a reminder to John of just what he was getting into.
It was even worse when he went into his bedroom, looking down at the double bed. After all the hours they had spent in Sherlock's bed, they had never slept together. But there really wasn't another option. His small living room area only had a couple single person loungers that weren't good for sleeping on. Plus, it would be strange to turn Sherlock away from his bed after everything they had shared already, wouldn't it?
Hearing the washroom door opening shook John from his contemplation. He went out of the bedroom to see Sherlock dressed in his old clothes, everything slightly short. He looked lost and a little young, like a teenager who had just had a recent growth spurt.
"Come on..." John gestured to him to follow and stepped back into the bedroom. When Sherlock followed him, the room seemed impossibly smaller. Awareness of this man thrummed along John's veins, but not in a purely sexual way like it had before.
Sherlock's eyes seemed large and dark in the dim light of the bedroom, his vulnerability so close to the surface John couldn't help but respond to it. Pulling back the covers, John crawled in, and then held his arms open for Sherlock.
There was a jerk of surprise there before Sherlock scrambled into the bed, diving into his arms, as John pulled the covers back over them. They shifted until comfortable, ending up with John on his back, Sherlock draped over his chest and resting his head on his right shoulder.
It felt strangely right, holding this man, stroking a soothing hand over his back as he settled even more, sinking with a bone-weary exhaustion into John.
"John, you must have questions..." A sleepy baritone whisper seemed loud in the quiet room.
Moving his hand upwards, John ran his fingers through his slightly damp curls. "Tomorrow, Sherlock. They will keep until then. Sleep now."
As the tall berk's breathing slowed, John kept running his hand lightly over his hair or down his back. Soothing motions until he could feel him fall asleep, and then after that just for himself.
Questions kept John from dropping off into sleep. Why had he let Sherlock in? Why had he let him stay? Why did he just instinctively reject the idea that Sherlock was a murderer? Why had he felt so compelled to just take care of the man, feeding and comforting him?
Was it simply pay back for Sherlock taking care of him when he was attacked after the funeral? Brothers in arms, connected against external foes? Did it just stem from their physical relationship? It seemed odd, since they hadn't talked about their personal lives or really cuddled before this.
Perhaps it was simply Sherlock choosing to turn to John in his hour of need, and John being incapable of rejecting him when he was so vulnerable. So alone.
John knew what it was to feel like that, no family he could turn to when he returned to England, injured and weak. Alone and unsure of his future.
It must have been hours before he finally dropped on off to sleep, still holding Sherlock secure in his arms.
...
John woke up to Sherlock nuzzling against his neck, the slight scratch of his whiskers against him making his skin prickle with sensation. Slow kisses moved up his neck, latching onto that spot near his ear Sherlock knew so well.
Wrapping his arms around Sherlock, John rolled him onto his back, pulling back to look at him. His hair was messy, a bit flattened on one side, and curls going a bit frizzy, sticking up in all directions. The soft morning light in the bedroom seemed to make his pale skin glow, scruff along his jawline. His gaze was clear and direct, the dark edge of his irises contrasting with the lighter flecks of blue, green and gold. Simply beautiful.
Sherlock's eyes flicked down to John's mouth, a quick warning of his intentions before he lifted his head to kiss him. It started soft, but grew when John returned it with a small moan.
The familiarity of Sherlock's wonderful kisses almost had John sinking into it, but something held him back. He shifted to the side, already breathing faster, and shook his head as he sat up on the side of the bed. "I'm going to have a shower. We will talk after breakfast."
He got up without looking back, knowing seeing Sherlock so deliciously rumpled in his bed would be too tempting to resist.
When he finished in the bathroom, he dressed and got busy in the kitchen. Soon he had a meal on the table and was sipping some tea. Sherlock came out of the bedroom, his hair tamed and wearing his trousers and wrinkled dress shirt, looking more himself. His eyes were guarded as he sat down.
John poured him some tea, and dug into his breakfast.
Sherlock added honey to his drink before taking a sip. He glanced down at the bowl in front of him skeptically. "What is this?"
"Oatmeal with some dried currants and hazelnuts. Feel free to add honey or milk if you want." John shrugged, waving his spoon at the containers on the table. He took his with a bit of milk.
Taking his spoon, Sherlock lifted a scoop of the hot cereal, examining it closely, and then tipping the utensil so the thick mixture slid back into the bowl.
Chuckling at his antics, John could only grin. "Haven't you ever had oatmeal before?"
"It's not that." Sherlock looked up at John. "This isn't just oatmeal, is it?"
Rolling his eyes, John took another bite. "It's the oatmeal you get everywhere now. Normal LOC mix."
Sherlock's mouth curled into one of disgust. He pushed the bowl away and picked up an apple from the bowl on the table. "I'll stick to this and the tea."
"Suit yourself." John finished off his breakfast, and grabbed his tablet, scrolling through a couple news websites as he ate. "I don't see anything in the news about you."
Pouring himself another mug of tea, Sherlock got up to move to the living room. "Not yet." He sighed as he lowered himself onto one of the upholstered chairs.
John's stomach clenched with nerves, knowing it was time to hear the whole story, and afraid what he would find out about this man. Would it forever change how he saw him? Would he be kicking him out of the apartment, telling him to never darken his doorstep again?
He left the dishes for later, pouring another cup of tea before he sat in the living room. Trying to keep a neutral expression as he faced Sherlock, not letting his feelings show.
Sherlock had his head turned away, looking out of the window. He seemed to be collecting his thoughts, and John didn't rush him.
When he eventually looked back at John, his eyes seemed shuttered and dull. "When you finish reviewing the autopsy report, you will see that Paolo Baresi died of a heart attack, something quite rare for an active man in his early thirties. Although there are no drugs in his system at unusually high levels, his blood does reveal something amiss. His hematocrit level was above 60."
John sighed. "That is very high. Thick blood like that would have been hard on his heart to pump."
"Exactly." Sherlock steepled his fingers together, and rested his chin on top of them.
After a few moments of silence, John made an exasperated noise. "Was there more in the report? Was that all?"
Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "Does there need to be more? It was widely known that Paolo was a client of mine, and his blood work shows the results of my work."
"So the report doesn't directly reference you? You haven't been actually contacted by anyone?" John looked at Sherlock in confusion.
Jumping up, Sherlock strode around the room. "His fans want an explanation for his death and it won't take much to point the finger my direction."
Watching Sherlock made John's tension worsen, and he regretted his breakfast now, sitting like a brick in his stomach. "High hematocrit can be caused by many things, Sherlock."
Shaking his head, Sherlock continued his pacing. "The public won't care. I'm a convenient person to blame, and they will pressure the police to charge me. I have no hope that Scotland Yard will research other possible causes."
John wanted to deny it could happen that way, but it was sadly realistic. The DADT league was still controversial, and many people would love to use a case like this to argue against its validity. Rabid sports fans weren't exactly known for calm, rational thought.
"So, you left your flat and came here before they could come for you? What is the plan? Try to get out of the country?" This seemed just too unreal to John. Could Sherlock really evade the police if they wanted him?
Sherlock ran his hands through his hair with a frustrated growl. "I need time, John. Time to figure out what could have happened. If I made a mistake and caused his death, I will face it. Turn myself in. But I won't be their sacrificial lamb to serve up to the public."
"Time? How much time?" John dreaded hearing the answer. The longer Sherlock stayed at John's, the higher the risk of him being found here. Could he really risk so much for a man he didn't know that long or that well?
Sherlock must have seen his expression, as he walked to John and dropped to his knees in front of his chair. "John, I know it is a lot to ask, but please let me stay here. I need time to figure out the deeper facts, figure out the real cause of his heart attack. If I can give the cops the real killer, or the real cause, it will be much stronger than surrendering myself to them now. I won't be able to research anything from jail."
John could see Sherlock's side, but he was still scared. "I understand what you are saying, but how will you be able to investigate this if they are looking for you? Will anyone even talk to you about Paolo?"
Sherlock shrugged, the motion jerky, so different from his normally smooth manner. "I have to find a way to do it. I'll disguise myself, pull in some favours, I don't know..."
Biting his lip, John looked down at Sherlock as he thought it all over. The man had come to him desperate last night, and now he was on his knees begging John for a chance to search for the truth.
If Sherlock was right about how the public would tear apart the autopsy report and point the finger at him, John's involvement would be questioned if he was found here. His reputation and career were on the line.
Sherlock was on his knees, silently begging for a chance to keep his life, his work. John couldn't help but relate to his desperation. He had returned to England all those years ago, lost and confused at how much things had changed while he was away. Poor, hurting, and uncertain of his future. Kind strangers had helped him through that low patch, until he had recovered and adapted enough to figure out what was next.
It had taken years to train to be a surgeon, to establish his business, to get to the top. Now he often turned away rich athletes, wanting to work with the people who needed him more. But if his good name was linked to Sherlock, it wouldn't take much to ruin it.
As much as he didn't agree with Sherlock's work, he knew the man well enough now to respect his intelligence. He was not a man to endanger a client by letting his hematocrit get so dangerously high. There must have been something else that contributed to or caused Paolo's death, and John thought it was honouring Paolo to make sure the truth was known.
John stood up, feet planted shoulder width apart. Sherlock looked up at him, his face blank, like he was afraid that John was going to kick him out. Preparing for the worst.
Looking at him levelly, John knew what he needed to say. "You can stay here a few days, Sherlock, and I will help you investigate Paolo's death as much as I can. He was a client of mine as well, and the people he left behind deserve to know the truth about what happened to him."
Sherlock looked shocked, and then stood up, clasping John's upper arms. "Thank you, John. Thank you. I was thinking we could go down to the stadium to-"
"I wasn't finished, Sherlock." John interrupted, stepping back from Sherlock to break from his hold. "We will need a plan for how to explain you staying with me. Something inconspicuous."
Dropping on to his chair, Sherlock took a sip of his tea. "Can't I simply be a visiting friend? Will we really be questioned that closely?"
John sat down as well, chuckling as he sipped his tea. This whole situation was quite surreal. "I know my neighbours well, and they will think it odd for you to be staying here. We are bound to run into people as we come and go, and it will be best if we have a good cover story."
Rolling his eyes a little, Sherlock let out a small huff. "Fine. I am from Cambridge and I'm staying with you for a few days. We met online, and hit it off, and now we are seeing if things go well in person. That should cover any gaps of knowledge we have about each other."
It seemed uncomfortably close to the truth. "Couldn't you be a distant cousin or something?"
"The best lies are things that have an element of truth to them. More believable that way."
John nodded, letting Sherlock have his way. The story would be easy to remember and it would be reasonable when Sherlock left. John could explain that he had gone home, and things hadn't worked out as well as they had hoped.
"What name will you go by? Sherlock is too distinctive."
Sherlock shrugged. "How about Frank? You are used to calling me that already."
John looked away, the mention of Frank bringing up memories of those hot, sexual sessions they had last month. John panting the name, confessing deep secret fantasies and being so uninhibited with the online stranger. It still seemed strange, matching all those times with the Sherlock he had come to know.
"Fine. We will have to seem normal in the building, and I'll still go to work. If people start looking for you, I don't want anyone to think Frank is you." John was still nervous, but thought this could work. "You mentioned a disguise before..."
He looked Sherlock over, and knew none of his own clothes would work. Getting up, he checked that he had his phone and his keys. "I'll be back in a few minutes. Stay in the flat."
Before Sherlock could object, he zipped out of the door. Twenty minutes later, he returned with his arms full of clothing.
Dropping the pile on his chair, he picked up a pair of beige hemp blend trousers, shaking them out. "Try these on. I think they should be a good fit."
Looking unimpressed, Sherlock took the item and stripped, slipping the clothes on as John passed them over. The materials were all soft, medium tones; the beige trousers, a brown tunic, wool cardigan and a medium blue scarf around his neck.
He baulked at the hat John passed to him though. "No way, John." He tossed it back on the chair.
John picked it up, fingering a soft wool pom pom hanging from an ear flap. "Why not? You will be less recognizable if you cover up your hair."
"I refuse to wear the hat of an anxious sentimental unfit creature of habit with appalling halitosis." He turned with a look of distaste, tugging on the strange clothing.
Dropping the hat, John went to his closet and dug around. He came out with a smile of success. "Fine, if you wear these instead."
Sherlock took the items, and put them on. The dark brown plaid newsboy cap covered his hair quite well, and the large dark rimmed glasses made him look less himself.
John led him over to the bathroom mirror to see the final result. "The glasses are from a fancy dress party I went to a few years ago, so the lenses won't bother your eyes."
It took a few minutes, Sherlock running his hands along the unfamiliar clothing, tugging it into place, pulling the cap down low over his brow. Eventually, he gave a resigned sigh, and turned back to John.
He held out his hand, giving a warm smile. "Hi, I'm Frank Krause." His posture, his expression and even the tone of his voice were friendly and open, such a different manner than his normal distant one. It suited the disguise perfectly.
Smirking slightly, John shook his hand. Even his grasp was warm, the contact quick before Sherlock let go.
This could work, really work. He really looked and acted like a completely different person. Part of John felt relieved, knowing he could be out in public with Sherlock more safely if people didn't recognize him, if they believed his fake persona. A small part of John was disturbed by how convincing Sherlock was in the role. How well did John really know this man? Was he acting a part around John as well, the aloof scientist he had been fucking around with for a few weeks? Who was Sherlock really?
...
-A/N: Thanks for reading this strange story so far... things will really get cooking in the next few chapters, with lots of things explained.