It was a wild, tempestuous day, and the wind furiously rattled the windows of 221B Baker Street. Outside, only a few raincoat-clad figures battled through the rain, and even cars were minimal. Sherlock stood by the window and watched the downpour. Good day for the criminals, he thought, Nature itself will clean away the evidence of most crimes, if Scotland Yard doesn't do it first.
Deep down, he rather hoped he would get called out on some bizarre errand. It had been a somewhat dull week since their visit to Sherrinford. Clients were boring, John was busy with work, Rosie slept a lot, and Sherlock still couldn't make head or tail of Yardley Oliver's case. He had grudgingly admitted that John was right; there was no connection between Irene Adler and James' murder. It was simply a coincidence. However, he still couldn't shake the feeling that something was off about the whole thing. Hadn't he said it himself? The universe is rarely so lazy.
Irene Adler had dropped by a few times to talk about the case. For some reason, whenever she visited, she made sure that John wasn't around. Sherlock had almost come to regard her as an acquaintance now. Neither of them talked about Eurus or Sherrinford, but he would often get a bad taste in his mouth, and an overwhelming need to apologize.
"Sherlock. Listen to me."
Sherlock turned around to find John staring at him, frowning slightly.
"You have got to stop blaming yourself for what Eurus did." John said.
Uncanny, thought Sherlock, almost like he read my mind. "I'm at least partially the reason why she's in Sherrinford in the first place."
"No, you aren't. You've seen what she can do. Nothing justifies cold-blooded murder. She killed a boy when she was just a child herself."
"I haven't forgiven her for that, but she was lonely. If I hadn't neglected her so much - "
"- she would still have turned out the same. What happened to her is not your fault. It's in her biology. There are other ways to deal with loneliness, and murder is not one of them." John stood up and joined him at the window. "I never thought I'd say this to you, but you're letting emotion cloud your judgement. Eurus is dangerous. Even Mycroft sees it. Why can't you?"
"I don't deny the fact that she's dangerous. But with proper care - "
"There's no fixing her, Sherlock. She's twisted beyond measure. You can play your duets and baby her, but that's not going to change the fact that if you remove that glass, bad things are going to happen. She's bottling up years of isolation and resentment, and she's too clever."
Sherlock watched John out of the corner of his eye. He thought back to their meeting with Eurus, to the way John had reacted when she brought up the well…
"You really hate her."
"I don't. I just see her for what she really is."
"That well…" he hesitated, "Why has it traumatized you to this extent? Surely you've seen worse."
John laughed bitterly. "Oh, it runs much deeper than a stupid well."
John's face was an inscrutable mask, and Sherlock got the distinct feeling that he was hiding some deep, dark secret. He would ask, but he could see that John needed some time to sort through whatever he was feeling. After all, John hadn't forced him to open up about Irene Adler in front of the fireplace that night. This brought him back the original problem: how badly he wanted to cuddle with John again, to settle his head in the crook of John's neck and fall asleep like that.
Sherlock wondered if John knew how much courage it had taken just to put his head on his shoulder that night. He was still terrified that he might go too far and John would cut himself off, and he couldn't let that happen. He just couldn't. John was too precious to lose. He was the only one who Sherlock laughed with, rather than at. He put up with all of Sherlock's tantrums and eccentricity, and somehow still loved him for it. He even made lazy days at Baker Street bearable.
To his frustration, his phone rang. He pulled it out and strode away from John. "Yes, Lestrade?"
"There's been another break-in."
"Why is it yellow?" Sherlock muttered.
John and Sherlock were standing outside the flat, waiting for someone to open the door, which had a giant yellow 4 painted on it. The small nameplate on the door said Upton Adams.
John shrugged. "I dunno, traffic lights?"
"As always, Watson, your intellect never fails to amaze me."
Lestrade opened the door and led them into the dingy house, filling them in on the details as he did so. "No murder or robbery this time. Just a break-in. Upton's sister Bertha died a week ago. Last night, he heard noises from the living room, so he came out to check. It turned out to be Bertha. He scrambled to his bedroom, locked the door from the inside and when he came out, she was gone."
"Another visit from beyond the gravestones, I see." John said, "How did she get in?"
"He leaves the living room window open when he sleeps." Lestrade said, "She climbed in. It's only the ground floor."
Sherlock whipped out his magnifying lens and began examining every inch of the living room. "How did she die? Ah, nevermind. Drug overdose. Think there's still some cocaine lying around?"
"Sherlock, behave. Sorry, Lestrade, go on."
"Yes, drug overdose. In case you were wondering, Upton's staying at a hotel for now. He's a nervous wreck. There's no chance of you talking to him."
"Hm. He evidently called a priest before calling the police, so I highly doubt he'll have anything substantial to tell us."
Meanwhile, John had drifted over to the photos hanging on the wall. There was one in particular which caught his eye. It was clearly more recent than the rest; the colours were sharp and the corners only slightly ragged. It was a photo of a sullen old woman, and John had the distinct feeling that they'd met.
"This woman, I've seen her before." he said.
"To be fair, John, you've seen a lot of women." Sherlock said, "Although this one looks to be a little out of your age range."
"That's the dead sister." Lestrade said, "Try to remember where you've seen her."
Sherlock grabbed both sides of John's head and spun him around, the way he always did when he was trying to get John to remember something. But all John could think about was how he irresistibly close Sherlock's face was, and how warm his hands were -
"Nope, I can't remember." he said.
"Well, Lestrade, I've got what I wanted." Sherlock said. As they left the flat and hailed a cab, he muttered, "I've been a fool, an utter fool. I was focusing on James Oliver's murder, when I should've been focusing on the break-in."
"You're sure they're connected?"
"Obviously. There's been no media coverage about the break-in at Oliver's, so this definitely isn't some sort of fad. No, the same person is behind them. I need to find a connection between the two crimes. John, try to remember where you've seen Bertha Adams. It could help."
"I'll try." John said, as they got into the cab. "Right, how did you know about the drug overdose?"
Sherlock ignored him.
"Come on." John prompted, playing on Sherlock's obvious weakness for praise, "I know you like this part. Show off for me, detective."
As he had expected, a slight blush spread across Sherlock's cheeks. "The knives were all stowed well out of reach. This is mostly done for the benefit of two categories of people: infants and the habitually inebriated. The state of the carpet showed that her brother often had to drag her to her room, presumably when she was too intoxicated to move."
"So she could be a drunkard or a drug addict."
"There were bottles of liquor kept in plain sight in a glass cabinet. Tell me, if you were trying to wean Harry off of the alcohol, would you keep it where she could see it?"
"No. Drug addict, then. How did you know about the priest?"
"Random drops of 'holy' water and bunches of garlic everywhere. I suppose that was obvious?"
John just smiled and shook his head. Dozens of crimes, and Sherlock's skills still awed him.
"Brilliant." he muttered to himself.
No connection.
Sherlock had spent the last three days delving deep into the Adams siblings' background, but he couldn't find much information. There was definitely nothing to link them with Yardley Oliver and his family. The only similarity between the crimes was the fact that both Bertha and Susan had died recently, so that their death was still fresh in their families' minds. He had tried to think of a motive to explain the break-in, but there was none. Nothing had been stolen, nobody murdered, no lasting harm done - except to Upton's psychology. He would have to assume terrorizing him to be the prime motive, then.
After giving his initial statement to the police, Adams had specifically said that he didn't want to be contacted unless absolutely necessary, and then barricaded himself in his hotel room. Try as he might, Sherlock couldn't find a chance to talk to him. The giant yellow 4 on the door irked him, too. It was obviously a countdown for the number of crimes, but he had no idea where the next one would take place.
"No action is ever random." he said to John's empty chair. "Why paint it yellow and not red, then? If yellow, then why particularly yellow?" His head snapped up as the door opened and John stumbled in, coat slung over his back. He staggered to the sofa, took off his shoes, and lay down.
"You came back earlier than I deduced you would." Sherlock said, amused, "And just as drunk, if not more."
"Git." John muttered sleepily, and promptly rolled off the sofa. He hit the floor with a thump and lay there, shifting his head to rest it more comfortably.
"All right, John, come on." he said softly, "Let's get you sorted out. You're in no state to sleep on the sofa tonight."
He leant down and helped John up, slinging John's arm around his shoulders. He half-carried, half-dragged him to his bedroom and gently dumped him on the bed.
"Where's Rosie?" John asked.
"Spending the night with Molly. Even I can't take care of two babies at once. I'll be in the kitchen if you need anything." He turned to go.
"No." John said, sitting up, "Don't go, please. Stay here."
"Told you you should've taken the graduated cylinders." said Sherlock.
"That didn't work so well on the stag night, did it?"
They both chuckled. "No, I suppose not."
Sherlock sighed; there was no way he could resist John's puppy face, so he lay down on the opposite end of the bed. As if on a sudden impulse, John shifted closer, putting his head on Sherlock's chest and draping an arm over his stomach. As Sherlock let his hand softly graze John's hair, he desperately tried to remember how to breathe. He turned his head and met John's eyes, suddenly aware of how much he wanted to reach out and touch the crinkles by his eyes. Find out where they began, where they stopped, how deep they were…
"I told Mike you said you were sorry you missed his birthday." John said.
"I'm not."
"I know. That's why we both laughed for ten minutes straight." John said. "How did you know I'd get drunk tonight?"
"The restaurant."
"Oh. Right. The one where you made your grand re-entry into life and I almost proposed to Mary."
Sherlock closed his eyes and held John tighter, trying to etch the memory in his mind. John smelt like a mixture of mint, baby powder, and something else he couldn't quite place…
"I miss Mary. She had nice….eyes." John said quietly. He paused. "You know who else has nice eyes?"
"No?"
"You do."
"No, I don't know."
"No, you twat, you have nice eyes." John said, "Only I can never figure out what colour they are. They keep changing; green, blue, who knows?"
Sherlock couldn't help but smile. "Oh. Thank you. You're very drunk."
John buried his head deeper in Sherlock's shirt. "Heterochromia iridis." he said after a while, "It's the medical term for your condition. That's why your eyes change colour, depending on the light."
Sherlock scoffed. Trust John Watson to diagnose me when he's drunk.
"Sherlock."
"Yes?"
"Do you think I'm pretty?"
Dear god, he's completely drunk. He probably won't even remember any of this tomorrow. "Beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences and -"
"Yes, yes, I've heard it before. But am I pretty?"
"Yes." Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "Of course you are. The prettiest."
"Good." John said, cuddling a little closer, making Sherlock's breath hitch in his throat. If they could spend every night like this, he'd make sure John's room never got renovated. How he wished John wasn't drunk…
"John."
"Hm."
"Friends don't do...this. What we're doing."
John traced his finger up Sherlock's arm, hand finally resting somewhere at the nape of his neck.
"No shit, Sherlock."
A/N: I can't believe it's been 4 seasons and Martin Sass Freeman still hasn't said "No shit, Sherlock."
Also, in Arthur Conan Doyle's novels, John writes, and I quote: "My companion flushed up with pleasure at my words, and the earnest way in which I uttered them. I had already observed that he was as sensitive to flattery on the score of his art as any girl could be of her beauty." John is fully aware of the effect of his praise has on Sherlock, and he continues doing it in every single case :') So yes, Sherlock's praise kink is cannon.
Next update, next Wednesday!