John Watson didn't want to get out of bed.
The first thing he noticed when he woke up was that he was practically sleeping on top of Sherlock. His head gave a painful throb and he mentally cursed himself. He hadn't gotten this drunk since the stag night, but all the memories from that damn hotel…
What happened last night? he asked himself. He had a vague remembrance of Sherlock carrying him to bed, of asking him to stay, and of Sherlock's fingers running through his hair. Had he forced Sherlock to call him...pretty?
John wondered why everything was so complicated and he couldn't just tell Sherlock how he felt. Was he still grieving Mary? Partially. Was he still trying to build up the courage to apologize to Sherlock? Definitely. Was he afraid of rejection? Absolutely. Sherlock was still such an amateur when it came to understanding emotions. He probably thought that holding hands and cuddling and killing for each other were things people just did when they cared. He didn't want to scare Sherlock away with some sort of unrequited love confession. He just couldn't. Sherlock was too precious to lose. Underneath the brilliance and the sociopathy, he was the warmest, kindest and most selfless person that John knew.
John would gladly have lain there forever, with Sherlock's breath gently brushing the top of his head, but he was painfully aware of how parched his throat was. He groaned internally when he realized that it was Monday. He couldn't skip work again, obviously; he liked to save his sick days for when he was very ill, or if he had to solve a case with Sherlock. He reluctantly slid out of bed and made his way to the kitchen, cringing with every step.
"Good morning, John." Mrs Hudson said warmly. "Molly's just dropped Rosie off. I thought I'd make you boys a cup of tea."
"Er, thanks, Mrs Hudson." John said, sitting down at the kitchen table. He had a full-blown headache now. "Listen, could you make us a spot of breakfast? I'm really not up to the task of cooking and Sherlock - you know how he gets when he's on a case. He'll set the kitchen on fire."
"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper."
"Okay, just some paracetamol then."
Mrs Hudson smiled to herself as she set the kettle on the table. "So the couch hasn't been slept on and your room is still out-of-sorts. You and Sherlock shared a bed, didn't you?" When John didn't answer, she turned to face him and smiled widely. "Well?" she demanded. "I'll officiate the wedding."
"What? No! Mrs Hudson, it wasn't like that. We just fell asleep in the same room, that's all."
Mrs Hudson just grinned wider and left the room. As she busied herself looking for paracetamol and frying bacon for the boys, she mentally patted herself on the back. Her plan had been successful, at least partially.
Nobody needs to know that I told the workers to fix John's room as slowly as possible.
The steady beep beep beep of the phone infuriated Mycroft. He had called Sherlock several times in the past hour, only to be ignored each time. Sherlock rarely ignored his calls - he usually just picked up, said "not now" and hung up. He was probably on a case, but Mycroft had urgent business with him. Since it was already late evening, he decided to head to Baker Street and wait for Sherlock anyway.
A while later, Mrs Hudson led him up the stairs, seeming unnaturally elated. The door was opened by John Watson, who quickly ushered him in. To his utter surprise, John handed Rosie to him and bustled off to the kitchen, saying "Hold her for a minute, will you?"
Mycroft held her at arm's length, confused. He would never understand why people decided to have...these. Rosie stopped crying and surveyed him with equal parts interest and wariness. Finally, she happily reached out and tweaked his nose. "Ta." she declared. He just held her even further, unsure about what to do. He hadn't dealt with babies since Sherlock and Eurus, and he remembered all too well how that had ended.
John returned. "Er, does it - sorry, she - normally speak?" Mycroft asked him.
"She just makes sounds right now. She should say her first word soon." he said. He held his arms out for Rosie, but she clung on to Mycroft. "Do sit down, Mycroft."
"What do I do with her?" Mycroft asked, bewildered.
"Just put her on your lap. She doesn't bite. Not usually."
Mycroft sat down and precariously balanced Rosie on his knee. "Where's - are you taking a photo?"
John smiled, clearly trying hard to suppress a giggle. "I'm sorry, I can't help it. Ah, Sherlock's going to love this." He finally composed himself and sat down.
"Where is Sherlock? It's important."
"He's gone out to get some paracetamol, but he's been gone for quite some time, so I suppose he ran into a robbery on the way. Yes, I know it's a little surprising. Sherlock leaving the flat for something as mundane as getting medicine for his flatmate."
Mycroft surveyed him with surprise. Did John really not know? If he didn't have a little more self-control, he would've bopped John with his umbrella and said he's in love with you, you utterly moronic goldfish. Take a hint.
"Doctor Watson, a few months ago, my brother killed a man for your sake. So I'd say I'm really not so surprised that he went out to buy you painkillers." He handed Rosie to John and rose to leave. "Do let him know that I stopped by, and remind him to pick up Mummy's birthday gift tomorrow."
John nodded. "Say bye to Uncle Mycroft, Rosie!"
As Mycroft left the room, he glimpsed Rosie smiling gleefully and waving at him.
Uncle Mycroft. He thanked his lucky stars that Sherlock wasn't around.
Sherlock rolled his eyes at the straightened knocker. Mycroft had obviously dropped by. He half-ran, half-climbed up the stairs, feeling only slightly guilty about taking so long to buy John's medicine. "I've got it." he announced, setting the heavy shopping bag down.
"About time. What took you so - what the hell?"
Sherlock touched the rapidly throbbing bruise on his cheek. Compared to some of the other injuries he had amassed over time, it hardly bothered him, but he had expected John to overreact about it.
"Oh, this? Occupational hazard." he said carelessly, but it was in vain. John was already wrapping up some ice, hangover forgotten.
"Lie down and put your head on my lap." he commanded Sherlock, sitting down on the sofa.
Sherlock was pretty sure that bruise first-aid didn't really require him to lie down, but he wasn't foolish enough to pass up a chance like this, so he obeyed. When John placed one hand in his curls, Sherlock seriously debated his decision. It was a good idea to keep the bruised area elevated to reduce blood flow, and he was about 99% sure that he was blushing scarlet.
"So, who punched you this time?"
"Upton Adams. I broke into his hotel room." Sherlock said casually.
John chuckled. "Oh god, seriously?"
"Found out where he was staying, got the keys to the adjoining room and jumped over from the balcony. I had to see him, John. The victim's narrative often contains leading clues - ones which Lestrade would surely have overlooked in his interrogation. Remember Henry Knight? Remember how him saying hound and not dog eventually led to us solving the case?"
"Yea, 'course I remember the Baskervilles. You tried to drug me and locked me in a cage for your experiment. Good times. By all means, do go on."
"Right. I tried to get Adams to talk about the case, but - for god's sake, John, be gentler with that ice pack! Are you trying to heal my face or bruise it further? - all he said was that he had already given his statement to the police. Told me that he's had enough of dead sisters rising and is leaving for a monastery in Tibet tomorrow morning."
"That's strange. Oliver was more than happy to have as many people as possible on the case. He's very involved. Come to think of it, if Harry's ghost visited me, I'd want to see it solved, too."
"Exactly. His clandestine behaviour was what tipped me off. He doesn't want to deal with the police more than strictly necessary. John," Sherlock's voice rose to a dramatic crescendo, "His entire identity's a fake!"
John frowned and ruffled Sherlock's hair. "That's a little far-fetched. Are you sure you don't have a concussion?"
"No, I'm sure. It was merely a whim at first, but I confronted him and he completely panicked - that's when he punched me and called security. If I dig around a little, I can probably find the real Upton and Bertha Adams somewhere."
"First Irene Adler, now this guy." John commented. "It's frankly a little alarming how easy it is to fake identities now."
"But if he's really leaving for Tibet tomorrow, how on earth am I supposed to find out who he really is?"
"Oh, calm down. You'll figure it out. Besides, it's not like finding the Woman's real identity helped us with the previous case." He soothingly rubbed Sherlock's forehead with his thumb, "Stop thinking. We need to reduce blood flow to your face."
Sherlock scoffed. As if you touching my face is going to help that. He was convinced that all the affectionate gestures were going to make him spontaneously combust. John's concerned face loomed above him, legs shifting slightly so that Sherlock could rest his head better. Just for a second, John's thumb slipped out and touched the scar on Sherlock's lower lip, guilt flashing across his face. Before he could do something stupid like kiss John's finger, he sat up abruptly.
"Clothes." he said automatically, and hurried off to his room. When he came back, John was rifling through the shopping bag.
"I send you off to buy paracetamol, and you come back with a bruised face, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a stuffed bumblebee toy, and - are these eyeballs? Well, at least you got the medicine - oh, wait." He turned around to face Sherlock, accusingly dangling the packet of cigarettes in front of him.
"But the case, John!" Sherlock protested, dramatically flopping down on the sofa, dressing gown settling around him a cloud of blue silk. "I need to think. They help me."
"You can think perfectly fine without them. As your doctor, I am officially confiscating these. Are there any hidden stashes of drugs I should be worrying about?"
Sherlock blinked and looked away. "I only need drugs when you're not around." he said quietly, but not quiet enough. Now I've done it. Now I've said something to tip him off, Sherlock thought miserably.
There was a moment of silence, then to his utter surprise, John sighed resignedly and enveloped him in a warm hug.
John was at the clinic when he remembered.
He haphazardly packed up his things and hurried out, gracing the new receptionist with a "Sorry, gotta run! Let Sarah know." He was halfway to Baker Street when he realized that he could've just texted or even called Sherlock. But no, this was far too important. In any case, he had no more appointments for the day. He burst into the sitting room, panting for breath.
"You're early." Sherlock said casually. The two-day-old bruise on his face was now blue, and John reminded himself to apply the ice pack again later. Sherlock frowned at him, half-rising from the armchair. "What's wrong? John?"
"Bertha Adams - I've - she was here, talking to Mrs Hudson."
"How long ago?"
"The night of your date with Irene Adler. I met her when I came back."
"That was...three days before she died, if I'm not mistaken."
"Exactly. Three days after she meets Mrs Hudson, who used to run a drug cartel, she dies of a drug overdose."
"It was her husband's cartel, she was just typing." Sherlock said automatically, "But I do see what you're driving at."
"Do you have a plan, then?"
"Yes. We talk to Mrs Hudson."
They found Mrs Hudson scrubbing dishes in the kitchen.
"Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said tonelessly, "Bertha Adams is dead."
The effect was surprising and instantaneous. Mrs Hudson dropped her plate into the sink, muttered "Oh, dear." and promptly fainted.
"Nicely put, Sherlock." John muttered, as they dragged her to the kitchen table. "You stay with her, I'll make the tea."
A few minutes later, she finally came to. "When?" she asked faintly.
"Exactly eleven days ago. Drug overdose. There, there, Hudders." Sherlock said soothingly, rubbing her shoulders.
She took a sip from the cup John had offered and grimaced slightly. "Not as good as mine, but it'll have to do, I'm afraid. Well, you two certainly have questions. I suppose it's no use trying to hide anything. Ask away."