John was sitting in Lestrade's office, his hands folded in his lap. It had been two hours since his pretend fight with Sherlock, and the detective had yet to show his face. Normally his flat-mates sporadic timing was aggravating at the most, but this time it felt ominous. The silence of the room forced his mind to over compensate, and the doctor groaned as the events of the day unfolded before him. As his days go it had been fairly uneventful. No one had tried to kill him, or abduct him. No bombs had been planted on him. Just a few dead bodies and an attempt at espionage.
He rattled the pieces of the day together in his mind, trying to see what was making him so edgy. Was it the fact that there was another serial killer at large? No, such things had become painfully normal for him in the past year. Maybe it's the fact that someone had attempted to bug the flat. But even that worry felt wrong. Mycroft listened in on everything that he and Sherlock did, and that didn't bother him so bad.
Sherlock.
John leaned forward in his chair, his hands cradling his head. That was it. His whole day had been thrown of kilter by none other than Sherlock Holmes. All day he had been plagued by the man. Not his actions, but the doctor's own reactions to him. It wasn't a new thing. He had felt something akin to attraction to Sherlock before. But today it was if the entirety of those feelings were shifting painfully into focus. They were overpowering his carefully constructed walls of denial, and flooding through his list of assurances. The doctor sat up, his eyes widened with fear.
"Bloody hell," he whispered, as realization slammed into him with more force than any bullet ever had.
He had fallen in love with Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock had left the bug on the kitchen table, knowing that the person watching would assume that it was still safely hidden and totally unnoticed.
Idiot.
He practically ran to Scotland Yard, already concerned about the amount of time that had passed. As much as he hated to admit it, he was concerned for his flat mate, even more so now that their usual means of communication had been compromised. As if by habit he checked his phone again. Knowing that it would have no new information for him. He stormed into the building. Not one officer paying him any mind as he marched to Lestrade's office.
There he is, he's ok, Sherlock thought, but then stopped. No he isn't, look at him.
The detective frowned. John's eyes were tired, and his head drooped slightly. He looked like a man who had lost a battle. The doctor caught sight of the detective, and some of the fatigue left his features.
"Took you long enough," the doctor muttered, standing from his seat. Sherlock suppressed a smirk.
"I took the liberty of actually discovering who, exactly was attempting to listen in on us."
"You managed that in two hours' time?"
The detective rolled his eyes. "I managed that in twenty minutes. The rest of the time was spent feeding it false information and doing some research on our case."
"You never cease to amaze me," John said, shaking his head.
The detective felt a rush of warmth spread through him. "Yea, well. You'll be happy to know that we will not need to interview the families of the victims."
"Good. That's good. No need to make this any harder on them then."
"What are you two doing here?" Lestrade huffed, walking in and stopping short in front of the two men. He had a stack of papers in his arms, and a baffled expression graced his features.
"John has been here for the past two hours waiting on me while I worked to find your murder. What have you been doing?"
Lestrade tossed the packet of papers onto his desk, and turned.
"Interviewing the families of the victims. None of them had any idea that their child was part of any sort of cult. They all had seemed perfectly normal before the beginning of this session."
"That's because they were perfectly normal. The factors that led to this event were only introduced in the past month. Well, the past three weeks and four days. That is when these started popping up in student emails and on the walls of dormitories at King's College."
The detective pulled a printout from his coat pocket. Lestrade squinted down at it.
"Bodau o Olau," John looked up. "Beings of light."
The DI looked over at the doctor, startled.
"It's Welsh." Sherlock nodded, his earlier sense of pride rekindling for his blogger.
"This is the cult that those kids were part of? Beings of Light? This looks so-"
"Obvious? Yes, if it were being marketed as a cult. But read the description below." Both Lestrade and John leaned in towards the proffered paper.
"Helping to spread the light of literacy to the peoples of the London area." The doctor shook his head In dismay. "How does a volunteer group turn into a cult that ends with a mass murder?"
Sherlock shrugged and pulled his phone out once more. "I have a theory, but it needs more data. Until then: Lestrade, would you please bring these gentlemen in for questioning?"
He pressed a button on his phone , sending the detective inspector a list of names.
"Are these all of your suspects?"
Sherlock looked up, confused, but then shook his head.
"No, these are the people who the Bodau o Diau were slated to help. I doubt that any of them are your murder, but my thought is that one of them may know which body is missing."
Lestrade nodded, glancing down at his phone. "Is there any reason that Anderson's name is on this list?"
The detective simply turned and left, with John failing to surprise his smirk as he followed. They had nearly made it outside before John noticed.
"Are we not going to interview the people that Lestrade is bringing in?" The detective paused in his walking enough to get the door for the doctor.
"No. I'm sure that he can fissure it out on his own."
John looked around suspiciously, before tapping the detective lightly on the shoulder.
"So, what are we doing? Should we even still be seen together? Am I not still being watched?" Sherlock smirked.
"At this very moment it looks like we are attempting to make up after our little spat." The detective leaned into the doctor, their faces barely a breath apart. John felt the blood rushing to his cheeks at the sudden closeness of his flat mate. He thought, for a second, what it would be like to move. Just that fraction of an inch and he would be kissing him. He would finally be kissing Sherlock Holmes.
The detective pulled back, his eyes searching the doctors once more. He had been tempted to kiss the doctor. Far too tempted. It was only the knowledge that they were being watched that gave him the will to pull away. It wasn't that he was embarrassed by the thought of kissing John. It was the fact that such an act was dangerous. If people started to discover just how much he was growing to care for the doctor, then both of their lives would be needlessly put in danger. No, he would not make a public affair of this. Sherlock blinked back into focus. Aware that he had been silent for far too long.
"There? See? We're settled. Now hand me your phone." The doctor did as he was told, giving the device to the detective. He watched in horror as Sherlock tossed it over his shoulder and into the road. Where the evening traffic made quick work of it.
"Sherlock!" The detective grimaced at the mess in the road, before clucking his tongue.
"Had to be done."
John stopped.
"Had to be done? Had to be done! Please tell me. Why did it "have to be done?"
Sherlock looked at his doctor, barely ruffled by his rebukes.
"They were tracking you by it, as well as monitoring all of your calls and messages. It was a compromised device. Even after we deal with this round, the door was open for anyone to come around and take a peek into your personal things. I just saved you another utterly embarrassing moment of someone seeing one of your emails to a date."
The doctor paled. He really had not considered that.
"What am I supposed to do now? What if Sarah needs me at work?"
There was a twitch there, in Sherlock's features. A modicum of jealousy that wormed its way to the front. It didn't vanish, instead opting to sit there, in plain view. John noticed it, but saw it as the fact that the detective was always vying for his attention. Sherlock pulled a phone from his pocket and passed it to the doctor.
"Here. Use this one." John examined the phone carefully. It was silver and sleek, obviously new and expensive.
"Where did this come from? Did you buy this?"
Sherlock scoffed. "Don't be absurd John. It's Lestrade's. You can give it back when we finish these cases."
The doctor sighed, pocketing the stolen phone.
"Now it appears that I've given you a gift in apology. Can we get back to work now, or do we need to kiss for the audience?"
John felt his mouth go dry at the thought. He wanted to say yes. Oh God, did he want to say yes, but he still had a strand of dignity left.
Somewhere.
omewhere.