"Who's Bertha? I mean, who is she really?" John asked.
"I can't tell you her real name, boys, sorry." Mrs Hudson said, "She was in the inner ring of my husband's drug cartel. Her brother, too, but he wasn't too keen on it. He tried to get out multiple times. After my husband's execution, the cartel collapsed, they both changed their identities, and I never heard from them again."
"Until Bertha turned up at your doorstep three days before her death."
"Yes. I didn't want to let her in; I thought that drug thing was gone and done with! But she insisted."
"What did you talk about?"
Mrs Hudson took another gulp of tea. "She told me that she'd been receiving anonymous threats. Someone was prepared to put all the information about her past with the cartel straight into the hands of the police. I suppose she thought I was being threatened, too."
"Were you?"
She swallowed. "I was, for a little while. Nothing I can't handle. Just a few letters, saying clandestine things like 'I know what you did', snippets from a file, 'I could go to the police'. No, you can't have them, I've already burnt them. They stopped within a few days."
Sherlock was quiet. The very thought that anyone would want to hurt Mrs Hudson made his blood boil. "You should've told us earlier, Mrs Hudson. I would've tracked this reptile down. I would've made them pay."
"Yea, remember that time when an American attacked you and Sherlock threw him out of the window?" John added, "I was right there when she visited. You could've told me. We wouldn't let any harm come your way, you know that."
Mrs Hudson smiled warmly at them. "Yes, of course I do. I just didn't want that dreadful business catching up with me again. Now, off you pop. I have work to do."
John and Sherlock shared an uneasy glance. Neither felt like letting Mrs Hudson off the hook so easily, but she could be uncannily stubborn when she wanted. They hesitantly rose to leave.
"Oh, one more thing," Mrs Hudson said, "John, I do believe I know someone who would be interested in buying your house."
"Why would I want to sell my house?"
"Oh, dear. Me and my big mouth. It was supposed to be a surprise."
"What was?"
"I've been drawing up my will. I don't intend to die anytime soon, of course, but what with bombs upstairs, one can never be too careful." She shot them a stern look, but it quickly melted. "I'm leaving 221B Baker Street to the two of you. Oh, don't look so shocked. This is your home, and it always has been."
She reached out and lovingly squeezed their shoulders.
"After all, you're my Baker Street Boys."
Sherlock sighed impatiently, closed his eyes and leaned his head back. He was bored. After spending the past two days unsuccessfully hounding Mrs Hudson for more information, he'd hit yet another dead end. At this point, he felt like a sitting duck - just waiting for the next crime, the next move on the chessboard. He recognized John's gait on the stairs - still limps very, very slightly - and had to try hard not to smile. It was Friday, which meant he would get John all to himself for two entire days. The door opened and then slammed - oooh, repressed anger - but Sherlock didn't bother opening his eyes.
"So, Irene Adler's been here again." John asked.
"However did you deduce that?"
"Met her at the door. Er, whatever it is that you two do in the seclusion of the flat - I would request you to control yourself around Rosie."
"For god's sake, John, we were talking about the case."
"Yes, okay. Not that I care, but yes. Fine. Okay."
Sherlock opened one eye, wishing that John would stop blundering around under the delusion that he was interested in the Woman, or any women. He was preparing to rebuke John for the millionth time, when Billy Wiggins appeared in the doorway. His mood immediately lightened. He'd had Billy and the homeless network hunting out the Golem for weeks, and this visit could only mean something important.
"How's the little 'un?" Billy asked John.
"Perfectly fine, thank you, Billy. You still visiting that drug den?"
"Nah. Living there now. Working for Sherlock got meself enough bucks to rent a room."
"And if you want me to keep paying, you'd better cut to the chase." Sherlock interrupted.
Billy didn't disappoint him - he quickly came over and whispered a few words in his ear. Sherlock smiled and handed him some money, and he left, pleased.
"Should you be encouraging his drug habit?" John asked.
"Oh, he's clean. Seeing me while I was hunting down Culverton apparently completely turned him off drugs. He just couldn't afford a room anywhere else."
"So what'd he say?"
"Oscar Dzundza's going to kill tonight. I vaguely know the time and location. You coming?"
John smiled and zipped up his jacket. "A hunt for one of the deadliest assassins in the world? Of course I'm coming."
As they stood in the cold winter air, waiting for a taxi, Sherlock noticed that John was resting more of his weight on one leg. He noticed that John's jacket no longer filled out completely, and his belt was buckled a notch tighter. Sherlock hadn't been paying much attention to his own meals lately, but he suddenly realized that neither had John. John never ate much at work and he hadn't eaten anything since he'd come back. Since they'd visited Sherrinford, the nightmares and thrashing about on the couch had increased, too. He wondered if it had anything to do with whatever the hell it was that John was so intent on hiding from everyone.
His PTSD's getting worse again, he thought, as he pulled out his phone and texted Billy.
Change of plans. I'll be at the fish place. Signal me.
-SH
He looked up and met John's curious gaze.
"I know a place barely a block from the murder spot. Excellent fish and chips, and the owner always gives me extra portions. Hungry?"
"Not really."
"Good. We have enough time to grab a bite."
A huge plate of fish and chips later - none of which Sherlock ate, opting instead to watch John happily dig in - and Billy still hadn't signalled. Sherlock sighed and shifted his gaze from the window to the waitress, who was flirting shamelessly with John. His John. He'd endured it for the entire meal, but even Sherlock Holmes had limits, which had certainly been broached.
"I suggest you tell your boyfriend sooner rather than later that you're only with him for his money." he told her, gaze sliding over her expensive locket and shabby shoes. "In fact, I think he already knows."
"Just ignore him." John said, but she had already drifted away. "Sherlock, that was a bit not good."
"Must you flirt with every woman you see?"
"Wha- you've got a dominatrix on speed dial!"
"Yes, but it doesn't matter, I'm gay." He spotted something on the street, got up abruptly and pulled John with him, hurriedly putting some money on the table as he went. "That's our signal. Let's go."
"Wait - you're gay?" John asked, as they began walking down the street, Sherlock still pulling him along like an excited child at a fair.
"Of course I'm gay. You're even blinder than I thought. Now, here's the plan-"
"By the way, I wasn't flirting. The last woman I tried that with turned out to be your crazy sister."
"Yes, John, very good. You've brought your gun, I hope? If my sources are correct, we should be in time to stop a murder tonight. But we have to find out who he's working for - so remember, don't shoot him unless it's absolutely necessary."
They were now walking down a narrow lane in a distinctly desolate part of town; derelict buildings loomed on either side. Most of them had broken windows and wobbly doors, and John felt positive that save black and grey, all colour had leached out of the world. The area was almost completely deserted, but light shone in a few windows. Sherlock paused in front of a door, gently pushed it open and whispered, "This is the one. Let's head upstairs, we'll ambush him, quietly now - "
He was cut off by a scream of agony from one of the upper floors. They barely took in their surroundings as they rushed in and bounded up the stairs, which seemed to spiral up endlessly. Finally, they sighted the Golem disappearing at the top of the stairs, and came out onto a landing where a girl lay sprawled and helpless.
"Go after him, I'll do what I can for her!" John said, and Sherlock sped off again.
John knelt down next to her, and although he had known it was hopeless from the moment he set eyes on her, he took her pulse and checked her heartbeat. Silence. She couldn't be older than twenty-one, and she was still warm. If they had just turned up a little earlier, they could've stopped the Golem…the Golem! Sherlock was alone with him, right now, on the roof. John would never be comfortable with Sherlock being on a roof ever again. Pulling out his gun, he climbed up the last few stairs.
The Golem's back was to John, and he had Sherlock in a headlock, too close to the edge. John could hear Sherlock gasping for breath and clawing unsuccessfully at his captor's strong arms. He tried not to panic as he buried his gun in the back of the Golem's head, feeling a strange sense of deja vu.
"Let him go, Dzundza." he said as calmly as he could, "Or I will kill you. You know I will."
The Golem heard the deadly intent in his voice and turned around, and John had to suppress a shiver. He'd seen the Golem before, but that didn't make his nightmarish face or milk-white skin any less haunting. He released Sherlock, hit out and knocked the gun out of John's hand, grinning. While John grappled with him, Sherlock recovered and picked up the gun. Between the two of them, they finally managed to pin the Golem down - John holding down his legs while Sherlock restrained his arms.
"Tell me who you're working for, Dzundza." Sherlock threatened, jamming the gun into his forehead. "Or I'll shoot. Better yet, I'll call the police."
The Golem just stared at them in silence, struggling to get out of their grasp. Finally, he calmed down and spat in Sherlock's face, narrowly missing it. John had to restrain himself from punching him.
"Very well, then." Sherlock said with dignity. He loosened his hold for a moment to shoot the air. John could hear the police sirens getting closer, and he knew that Lestrade would've been awaiting the signal.
"There's no escape now. We're surrounded. I can still help you get away - but only if you tell me who hired you to kill James Oliver."
Silence, apart from the sounds of car doors opening and closing down the street. Running footsteps on the stairs.
"The police have their own methods of extracting the truth, you know. I doubt they show much mercy to assassins." he added.
As he accepted his predicament, something akin to hopelessness came over the Golem's face, only to be replaced by hard resolve. With a sudden burst of energy, he wrestled the gun from Sherlock's hand - and shot himself through the mouth.
No matter how much he scrubbed, Sherlock couldn't get the metallic smell of blood off his face, or the vision out of his eyes. When the Golem had shot himself, a fair amount of blood had splattered on Sherlock, and although he'd cleaned off most of it then and there, he still felt dirty. John had finally dragged him back home, and he was now standing alone in the bathroom, rubbing his face raw, too spooked to change out of his bloodstained clothes. It was one thing to watch someone's brains blow out - he'd seen Moriarty do it, done it to Magnussen himself - and quite another to have them splatter all over your face.
The door opened and John peeked in. "Try Rosie's wipes. They're pretty effective - oh, Sherlock, you're shaking. Here, let me do it."
Sherlock wasn't exactly in a position to argue, so he just shrugged and let John take over, deft doctors' fingers dabbing carefully at his face with a scented wipe.
"Breathe." John said softly. "You need to calm down. Focus on my face. It's a better world without him."
"I am calm." Sherlock said indignantly. "The girl. We could've saved her, if we had just been a little quicker…"
John sighed heavily, like he knew that there was no point in denying what they were both thinking. They'd gone out to prevent a death and witnessed two. He dropped the wipes and took Sherlock's hand, massaging it softly, and Sherlock suddenly felt a lot calmer. Treated this way by anyone else, he would've felt patronized, but he didn't mind John. John always pieced him back together after a case - physically and sometimes emotionally. Although he didn't get attached to clients, he did try his best to save innocent lives. If a death happened when he could've prevented it, he considered it failure of the worst kind.
Suddenly unbearably weary, he closed his eyes and leaned his forehead lightly against John's, resisting the urge to lean in even closer. He was tempted to check John's pulse for a reaction - but what if isn't elevated? - and decided against it. Even without the pulse, he could gauge the effect he was having - John's head tilting slightly upwards, the almost imperceptible increase in the pressure on his hand - but they were interrupted by Rosie's angry scream at being neglected for so long.
John drew away. "Better get back to her. Take a hot shower. I'll be outside if you need me."
Not quite trusting himself to look up, Sherlock just nodded.
A/N: I don't know if I mentioned this before, but they haven't received Mary's 'Baker Street Boys' CD yet. Not trying to Mary-bash or anything, but if anyone deserves to call them her Baker Street Boys, it's Hudders. 3