Author's Note: I just wanted to thank my wonderful beta AmaranthineRedamancy for putting up with my horrible grammatic and syntactical errors. Without her, this story would completely indecipherable and infuriating to read. Please offer your thanks and-for the Whovians- check her out.
They made their way down the street in silence. Both lost in their own thoughts. Sherlock could feel the subtle shift in his companions demeanor, but chose not to question it. They had work to do, and could not afford to be distracted. Their path finally led them to a nondescript high-rise. John looked over at Sherlock curiously, but said nothing. A short man in a porter's uniform hobbled out, his hat crooked and his smile clearly false.
"Hello gentlemen, is their anything I can help you with?" Sherlock plastered on his most charming smile.
"Why yea, actually. We're in town for the week on Holiday, and we thought we would pop in on an old friend. Is Dorothy Jenkins in?" The doorman smiled glanced between the two of them suspiciously.
"How do you know Miss Jenkins?" John felt Sherlock falter, and picked up the charade.
"I used to go to school wither her. We were good friends, and I thought it'd be nice for her to finally meet the Mister." To punctuate his point John took Sherlock's hand, Another Jolt of electricity rippling between them. The detective smiled nervously, for cover or out of confusion he had no idea. The doorman just huffed and waved them to the door.
"Fifth floor Apartment 13D. I'll ring her and let her know that you two are coming up." Sherlock recovered himself enough to stop the man.
"That won't be necessary. Thank you though." The man simply nodded at them, and turned his attention back to the street. They entered the building together, John having forgotten about taking Sherlock's hand. The detective glanced down at their intertwined fingers. It was a gesture that they had shared dozens of times, yet this was so much more. Sherlock made no move to reclaim his hand, and simply let John hold it until they were on the lift. Nor did he remove it as they walked down the hallway to Apartment 13D. Only when he went to knock on the door did he relinquish his grip on the doctor's hand.
"That was a clever bit you added there. Introducing the mister. I'll have to remember that." John's blush deepened.
"He didn't look too happy about it." Sherlock shrugged, knocking on the door once more.
"Some people just need to reevaluate their parameters for what love can be. Attraction is nearly undefinable." John glanced up at Sherlock with a smirk.
"I thought that you didn't believe in love." The detective gave him one of his patented you-should-no-better looks, before pulling a lock pick from his sleeve. With the deftness of a trained thief, he picked and opened the door. The sight held within equal parts revolting and fascinating. The Walls of the flat were a map. Pictures and clippings pinned to the walls, with an intricate web of string woven between them.
John traced his fingers over them in wonder. The first picture was of him, n his army uniform, pressed and fresh on his day. A little red string trailed from there down to an article written about him. Another over his heroic acts. A picture from his honoring ceremony. A few more grainier pictures of him meandering about. Suddenly a blue lined met his pin, and the picture oh his leaving St. Bart's was right next to Sherlock's. He could see it now, the web of blue that took up a considerably larger portion of wall space. He hadn't realized just how much Sherlock had accomplished.
The detective too, seemed enamored by the display. It was obvious that it had only been complied recently, signaling a sudden obsessive curiosity. Her ability to find these obscure pictures and articles was intriguing, but hardly noteworthy. What fascinated him was the was how intricately she had coded the paths.
John was red, Sherlock blue. What they did together was purple. Green was Lestrade, black was the "Unknown" That Sherlock knew was Mycroft. There was white thread that seemed to stand for any third party help, and yellow thread for whatever "villain" had committed the crime. There was a soft rustling sound, and John turned to face it. Is breath caught in his throat.
"Sherlock.". The detective's eyes never left the wall.
"What?" John was standing stock still, his eyes trained before him.
"You may want to turn around now." The detective groaned and spun.
"Whatever for-oh."