A/N: Hello, people! This story has been added to three communities already! Thanks! ;)
I don't own Sherlock. Quotes from the show aren't mine.
I have no beta.
ENJOY!
John Hamish Watson was greeted by the sound of a gun being shot, when he opened the door of 221B and he paled instantly, coming to the wrong conclusion immediately. Someone had shot off a gun upstairs and either Sherlock was in danger or he was a fighting for his life. Either way, John couldn't just dilly dally if there was a chance that Sherlock's life was in jeopardy.
John took the steps three at a time and stopped in the doorway of the flat to see Sherlock spread out in his chosen chair, left arm out with John's gun aimed at the wall. There were three bullet holes decorating the wallpaper. John huffed and rolled his eyes. All that worrying and for no apparent reason, Sherlock might just be the death of him.
"What the hell are you doing?!"
Sherlock, dressed in his pyjamas and robe, mumbled a low, "Bored."
"What?"
Sherlock jumped off the chair and aimed at the wall again. He fired. BANG! "Bored!" Arm behind the back this time and fired once more. BANG! "Bored!"
John rushed forward and ripped the weapon from the bored consulting detective's hands. He proceeded to unload the clip, which only had one bullet left. Sherlock wasted an entire round of bullets. Bloody hell!
The dark-haired man stomped over to the sofa and threw himself down on it, huffing childishly. "John, I'm bored."
"I heard you the first time!"
"Mah! I'm bored!"
"So you take it out on the wall?"
"Oh, the wall had it coming."
John removed his jacket and slipped the firearm into the right pocket once the safety was on. "What about that Russian case?"
"Open and shut domestic murder. Not...worth...my...time."
"All though you have all the time in the world and are currently wasting it by whining."
"But it's not the same! There is no challenge for me!"
"Don't whine, Sherlock. Lesser mortals whine but not the great William Sherlock Scott Holmes, the world's only consulting detective."
"But John-"
"No buts!"
"Hmph."
"Act your age. What do you fancy for your evening repast?"
"That thing you made that time."
"Oh! You mean with the ingredients that I bought from that store?!"
"Yes."
"Okay!"
To anyone else, their conversation would seem very satire filled and rude but in truth, John actually knew what dish Sherlock was referring to. Lobster Bisque. Sherlock had fine tastes.
Slipping his jacket back on he murmured, "I'm going to the store. Anything you need?"
"Three, 2-imperial-pints of Dairy Crest. One large bottle of Hydrogen Peroxide. A lot of Sodium Chloride. If you can get your hands on some Potassium Cyanide, that'd be grand."
John snorted, "Next you'll ask me to lasso the moon for you. I'll be back soon."
When John returned to the flat an hour and a half later, he stopped at the police tape blocking his way. A look upwards, showed that there was an explosion across the street. The backlash had blown out the windows in his and Sherlock's flat.
He rushed under the tape, ignoring the warnings of the officers and entered 221B.
Sherlock was sitting in his chair, with Mycroft of all people sitting across from him. Sherlock was plucking the strings of his violin and John knew why. It annoyed Mycroft immensely. Sherlock always refused to play when Mycroft was around.
Sherlock did not look injured, which was good.
"Are you alright, Sherlock?"
"Just fine. Gas leak apparently."
That wasn't enough for the doctor. John placed the groceries on the available spot on the table and marched on over to Sherlock, checking his head and his eyes for possible concussion, abrasions or contusions and anything else that could signify that he was injured.
"John, I'm fine. The blast only knocked me for a few feet."
"Like that's okay," John scoffed but moved away when he was able to assess that Sherlock was indeed unharmed.
He then turned to Mycroft and asked, "Will you be staying for supper? We're having Lobster Bisque."
He could see the interest in the man's gaze but Mycroft had already decided not to accept the veiled invitation.
"No, thank you."
The doctor shrugged and moved to put away the groceries and to prepare the meal.
Sherlock and Mycroft continued to argue about a case of some sort. Mycroft needed a chip and he threatened to get an official order for Sherlock in order to force him to comply.
Sherlock lied and said that he was too busy.
John scoffed from the kitchen, "No you aren't. You haven't left the flat in a week and he hasn't caught you on any CCTV cameras. You even used a whole round of bullets on the wall. Besides, he has the living area bugged and can see you lying on the sofa at all hours, whining about being 'bored'."
"You're not supposed to take his side, John!"
"This is an interesting case and you said very clearly that you wanted something challenging. Well here you go. A challenge for you. Unless you're willing to admit that Sherlock Holmes cannot indeed do everything."
"I'll think about it."
Mycroft stood and nodded his head toward Sherlock, before moving into the kitchen to shake John's hand. "I'll be seeing you soon, John. Do watch over my brother, he becomes too excited for his own good."
"Don't I know it."
The man swiftly departed and Sherlock appeared by the table, pouting.
"Stop it."
Sherlock's brows furrowed, "Stop what?"
"That pouting thing you do."
"I don't pout."
"You most certainly do, with those cheekbones and those...lips of yours."
A slow, deliberate smirk spread across Sherlock's lips. "You like me."
"Obviously. In more ways than one."
"So the way to get what I want is to play on your interests."
"You can flaunt your perfection all you want but I was a soldier. I have nerves of steel and can very easily ignore the attraction I feel for you. Remember that, Sherlock."
There came that pout again.
"Iceberg or Romaine?"
"Both."
Sherlock stood in the archway of the kitchen, while John went about the cooking.
John slid the bag full of Sherlock's requested items across the table and heterochromatic blue orbs lightened considerably. "Thank you!"
He skipped from the room to go to his own. John didn't even bother to ask what he needed them for. So long as Sherlock didn't put cyanide in his food or drink, he was good. Being a doctor and former Brigadier General had its perks.
A few hours later, John caught Sherlock going through his blog, on his laptop.
"Can't you use your own laptop?"
"Yours is closer."
"Please explain how mine - which was upstairs - compared to yours which is on the coffee table right now, was closer?"
"It just is."
"You just like using my laptop for some reason."
"I like to edit your blog, which needs to be done from your laptop."
"You couldn't just hack my account on your own laptop?"
"No. I don't want to. Anyway, Grammar was obviously not your strong point in school."
"Most people wouldn't notice a Grammar error, Sherlock."
"True, but there are those who will and I'd prefer that my personal blogger didn't seem uneducated because he misused modifiers and forgot a prepositional phrase."
"Your 'personal blogger'?"
"Yes."
John wasn't expecting to be hounded the next morning when he went to make his morning cuppa.
Sherlock jumped right off the sofa and over the coffee table in front of it in one leap. He latched onto John and proceeded to spin him around.
"Lestrade called half an hour ago with a case, John!"
"And you actually let me sleep?" John asked in astonishment.
Sherlock gave him a bland look, "I am capable of kindness, John. However, I would only do such a thing for you of all people. Everyone else can suffer. Besides, you awaken at eight every morning and I knew there was no point in rousing you half an hour early, especially since you become grumpy if you don't get precisely eight hours of slumber."
John's eyes narrowed, "You're pushing it, Mr. Holmes."
"I'm stating fact. You are absolutely horrid when you are somnolent."
"And just for that, I'm not cooking your favorite meal tonight."
"What?! You'd prefer me to lie to you?"
John sighed, "Fine, you great git. But stop giving me those eyes."
Sherlock jumped up excitedly, hands above his head.
"Please eat quickly, Lestrade wants us there before ten."
"Yes, your majesty."
An hour later found John showered and dressed appropriately, sitting in the back of a hack with Sherlock, who was positively bouncing with internal glee. Whatever the case was, it had him happy.
Into New Scotland Yard and up to Lestrade's floor, Sherlock stalked though the halls.
"You love all the strange cases."
Sherlock nodded along with Lestrade's assessment. "Of course I do."
"Well, that explosion-"
"Gas leak, yes?"
"No."
"No?" Sherlock's face scrunched up in confusion.
"No, it was made to look like one. Nothing left of the place except a strong box. A very strong box, with this inside."
"You haven't opened it yet."
"No, it's addressed to you. But we've x-rayed it and there are no boobytraps."
"How reassuring," quipped Sherlock.
Sherlock took up the envelope on the desk, carefully. He slipped it under the light and proceeded to inform them of where the stationary came from. What sort of pen it was written in and that a young woman wrote it. He applied light pressure to the letter opener and peeked inside. He rolled his eyes and slipped the pink phone that was inside, into his open palm.
John's mouth dropped. "That's the woman's pink phone!"
Lestrade's eyes popped open and asked, "From 'A Study in Pink'?"
"No, it's not the same phone, it's supposed to look like-"
Sherlock spun around after cutting himself off and gave Lestrade a look. "'A Study in Pink'? You read his blog?"
"Of course I read his blog, we all do."
John flushed and looked away from Sherlock's penetrating stare. It was embarrassing that he had all of Scotland Yard, reading his blog about his and Sherlock's lives.
"Do you really not know that the Earth goes around the sun?"
John snorted and promptly ignored Sherlock gaze, when Donovan also snorted.
Sherlock leaned in slightly and murmured, "You owe me my favorite meal for that. Donovan is laughing at me."
"I thought that you didn't care about what people thought about you," John whispered back.
"I normally don't but I really don't want to give Madam Always-Cleans-Anderson's-Floors-With-Her-Knees-When-His-Wife-Is-Away, to have any sort of substantial ammunition against me," the consulting detective whispered back.
"Sorry! I didn't know that all of New Scotland Yard read my blog."
"Of course they'd read it. You're an army veteran who walks like he means serious business and has a very presence that demands respect - as is your bailiwick - spending time and living with someone whom they all know is exceedingly more perspicacious than them and you blog about us and the cases we undertake. Our lives are better than daytime drama to them."
"Okay then, you'll be compensated for your 'suffering'."
"Good."
He looked back to the phone in his hands, "This isn't the same phone, it's brand new. Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like the same phone, however. Which means, John, that your blog has a far wider readership than you presumed."
John huffed and rolled his eyes.
You have 1 new message.
The phone beeped five times and showed a picture of a fireplace?
Lestrade and John both gave Sherlock expectant looks, not knowing what was going on.
"Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds or pits. Five pits, just like that. It's a warning that it's going to happen again."
Sherlock looked out the window for a second, before turning for the door, "I've seen this place before."
John followed quickly, "Do you mean to tell me that there's going to be another explosion?"
Sherlock looked back, giving John a bright smile, "That's exactly what it means, John!"
Half an hour later, they were standing before 221C, right above 221B on Baker Street and Sherlock was waiting for Mrs. Hudson to open the room for them. John murmured a 'thank you' to her as they entered.
Inside, was the very same fireplace in the picture on the phone. The only thing in the room, was a pair of blue and yellow trainers. They looked to be in perfect condition, except for the dried mud on the bottom.
Sherlock moved to approach them, but John grabbed his arm. "Remember, this person is a bomber."
Sherlock nodded and slowly approached the shoes. John knew he'd never admit it but when a sudden ringing of the phone cut through the air, Sherlock had jumped about an inch. Lestrade didn't notice, but John did. The look Sherlock sent him was enough to get him not to mention it.
Sherlock answered the call with a low, "Hello?"
He stood there for several minutes, asking what seemed to be random questions and apparently not getting any good answers.
When the call ended, Sherlock slipped on a pair of rubber gloves - he literally carried a box in his coat - and picked the trainers up. "I need to go to Bart's."
Once there, John was made his official laboratory assistant, following every order Sherlock came up with. Prepare the slides, look into the microscope and determine what was exposed. Clean the crucibles and the petri dishes. He couldn't help but answer each order with a, 'Yes Master Holmes'. Sherlock simply rolled his eyes.
Sherlock eyes kept moving from the computer screen to the microscope.
"Pass me my phone, please?"
He actually said 'please'. Wow.
"Where is it?" John asked, looking around.
"Jacket."
John stared at him in silence, before nodding and moving around the long counter, walking right up to Sherlock. He placed a hand on Sherlock's chest and deliberately took his time, fetching the phone from his breast pocket, making sure to slowly run his other hand down the man's stiffening back.
When the mobile device was successfully retrieved, he handed it over and smirked, "If you don't want to be fondled next time, get it yourself."
Meanwhile mentally, John was hoping beyond all hope that Sherlock forgot.
"Y-you-"
"Hm?"
"Why did you do that?"
"Why shouldn't I do it? I like touching you."
"But you never do it like that."
"Doesn't mean I don't want to. And you finally gave me a valid reason to do it without being creepy. Good show."
Sherlock straightened his shoulders and cracked his neck before clearing his throat. "Well then, thank you for getting my phone. Will you check it?"
John looked down, "A text from your brother."
"Delete it."
RE: Bruce-Partington Plans
Any progress on Andrew
West's death?
Mycroft
John scroll through the list, "It must be important if he texted eight times."
"If it was so important, why didn't he cancel his dental appointment?"
That gave John pause and he nodded slowly, "Good point. He only texts when he's at the dentist."
"Yes. Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them and got his head smashed in for his pains. End of story. The only mystery is this. Why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?"
"I don't know, because he's an older sibling and it's the job of the eldest to tease the youngest."
"Dull."
"Annoying more like."
"Dull."
"Shut up and look at your microscope."
DING!
"Yes!" Sherlock cheered, looking to the computer which had finally found a match for what he was searching for.
Molly Hooper entered the room then, smiling brightly for Sherlock. John felt bad, because she was head over heels and Sherlock knew it and exploited it to his advantage. He didn't care about her in that way, however. Sad.
A man entered the room right after she did and John made the mistake of looking him in the eye. He could only give thanks for having his sunglasses on, because what he saw, would have given his expression away completely.
Thankfully the glasses were rather large and blocked his eyes and half of his cheeks, leaving the tip of his nose, mouth and chin visible. His mouth had dropped at what he'd seen and he gasped.
Sherlock turned to him immediately, asking if he was well.
"I just thought of the best name for this case."
Sherlock's eyes rolled and he turned back to the microscope, "Let me guess. 'Eruption of Clues' or maybe 'All Tied Up'."
John paused in the process of pulling up a document to write in on his laptop which he was glad he had brought with him. He then looked at Sherlock and his head moved a bit, "Do you have something against the names I choose for our cases?"
"Not all of them. Just some are a bit lackluster, that's all."
John leaned into the high functioning sociopath's personal space and lowered his glasses down his nose in order to make proper eyes contact. Sherlock met his penetrating stare easily and John could see that he meant no insult in his comment. He was attempting humor.
John smiled fondly and patted Sherlock's cheek. "You shouldn't try so hard, Sher. Just be yourself, I understand your brand of humor just fine."
Sherlock was giving him a puzzled look as he pulled away.
"John, you're flirting again."
Molly choked suddenly and the man, Jim Moriarty, patted her back. John didn't look away from his friend and just nodded, "I guess I am. Don't expect it to stop." He winked, before pushing his glasses back up, shielding his eyes from the world.
He successfully opened a new file and proceeded to speed type everything he had seen in Moriarty's mind, while surreptitiously looking the man in the eye as he attempted to 'flirt' with Sherlock. Sherlock knew what he was doing easily and brushed his 'advances' aside.
Moriarty, was a very bad man. A very very bad man and when he left, Sherlock was getting an earful.
He was already on the fourth page of information and was still going strong.
"John, you're typing pretty hard there."
He barely registered Sherlock standing to his left until an incredibly pale and temptingly familiar thin hand, tried to grab the laptop from his hands.
He jerked back, hugging the laptop close and angling it away from Sherlock's grabbing hands. "No! You can't see it yet you git! You'll start correcting my 'poor Grammar'!"
"I just want to see what has you so enraptured."
"No!"
"John."
"No!"
"John," his voice came out low, like a rumble.
"You'll just have to wait, Sherlock. What are you doing?! Don't you dare back me up against the bloody - this is so unfair!"
Sherlock had him pinned, front to front, against the counter, trying to peer around the side of the laptop to see what he had been typing. While he was doing this, John was trying to get more information out of Moriarty's who was currently unhappy with his proximity to Sherlock. A crush.
"John, must you be so damn difficult?"
"Yes! I was almost finished anyhow. Could you wait until I'm done, at least?"
Sherlock's perfect curls bounced as his head tilted in contemplation, "Very well then."
He did a perfect about-face then and moved back to his seat.
"Thank you," John answered gratefully. He opened the laptop and continued to where he left off, hoping that Sherlock managed to drag Moriarty's monologue out. He was coming to an end and would prefer to have all the information before the man left.
Molly made awkward conversation with Sherlock with her 'boyfriend' intervening a few times. She was very...lost.
John sighed in relief when he had everything down and slumped slightly, waiting for it to save into the hard drive.
Moriarty left a moment later and Molly remained.
Sherlock mentioned about Moriarty being gay and Molly tried to deny it but the consulting detective gave facts and showed her the tissue Moriarty gave him, holding his number. She huffed for several seconds, before turning around abruptly and stomping from the room.
Sherlock's congenial smile morphed into a confused frown and he turned to John in question. "I don't understand. I just didn't want her to find out when it was too late."
John winced slightly and nodded, "Which is very sweet of you, to think about her feelings like that but you went about it all wrong. It's the whole sentiment thing again. She's very hung up on you and thinks that world of you but you're not interested and she feels that the most amazing person in the world doesn't find her important and it lowers her ego and view of her self-worth. So she constantly seeks out men who are similar to you in appearance in hopes that you'll express jealousy and when you don't and end up deducing them to hell and back about how they aren't good for her and how she can do better, she feels lost and offended, because that so called 'better' doesn't want her. She's frustrated, mildly hurt and overemotional. Also, pointing out that she gained weight is not good. Women do not appreciate that, Sherlock. If she wasn't so infatuated with you, you'd be sporting a bruised cheek and downed ego right now."
Sherlock glanced at the door and then back to John, "So my using her feelings to get what I want, is not good?"
"No, it isn't. She's recently begun to understand what you've been doing and is taking her anger out on herself for not noticing earlier."
Sherlock's shoulders slumped slightly.
"Can I see what you typed, now?"
That got John back on track and he motioned for the man to come over.
"This is important and I'm going to need Mycroft's assistance, in exchange for my ability. There's no way he'll help unless he gets something good out of it after all."
Sherlock froze. "You weren't typing about the case," he stated.
"Not at all. Molly's 'boyfriend' is more than he seems and I don't just mean because he's gay."
John turned the laptop around, for Sherlock to read the six pages he managed to type up.
1. JAMES 'JIM' MORIARTY. 34 YoA.
2. Born 10 August 1976.
3. Black hair/Brown Eyes.
4. 5' 9".
5. 10 Stone.
6. Works as a 'consulting criminal'.
7. Has an obsession with Sherlock Holmes.
8. Responsible for the murder of Carl Powers, in 1989. Kept his trainers for twenty years and is using them against Sherlock Holmes currently.
9. Sponsored Jeff Hope(cabbie) in his little games.
10. Responsible(as the informant) for successfully smuggling the Black Lotus into Britain. Had General Shan shot by one of his personal snipers when it got back to him that her assassin had failed in killing Soo Lin Yao and that the police are now aware of the Black Lotus.
11. Current mastermind behind 'the game' in which Sherlock Holmes must solve riddles and clues in a limited time frame in order to save the hostages.
12. Pretending to be Molly Hooper's boyfriend in order to get close to Sherlock Holmes.
13. Is gay, though is good at acting as though he isn't. Deliberately acted 'feminine' to make Sherlock Holmes assume that he was gay so that he could rub it in his face later that he was so easily fooled, when in truth, he's actually gay.
14. Master of terrorist techniques and intimidation strategies.
15. Could be a twin of one Sherlock Holmes if judging by intelligence, but is also immature to an extent of using a childish voice and skipping around. Very sadistic and has a no-remorse attitude. With few differences, could be an equal of Sherlock's.
Those were just the first fifteen. He had four more pages of information for Sherlock to read.
He waited patiently and sighed once Sherlock finished.
"This isn't good."
"Yeah, a bit not good."
"What do you need from Mycroft?"
"I have all the addresses for where those hostages are at and I need a sniper rifle, immediately and expeditiously. We're going to need top of the line bullet proof under armor if we're going into this. Moriarty has no problem with using snipers to get what he wants. Apparently, when we were at New Scotland Yard and you received the picture message, he had a sniper trained on you right then."
"And you're going to tell Mycroft about your ability? And offer him your services?"
"Basically, if I want it done now."
Sherlock sighed, "You have all the answers to the riddles too. You know, Moriarty was the word Hope had given me when I demanded to know who he worked with. I wish I had seen this ahead of time. Are you really going to snipe a sniper?"
"Yes."
"You know how to use a Sniper Rifle?"
"Precisely."
"Then I'll call Mycroft."
The 'British Government' was waiting in their flat by the time they returned. He was sitting imperiously in John's chosen chair, umbrella lying across his crossed knee.
"What can you both possibly offer me, in exchange for these items?" he asked when they walked into the flat. His arm gestured to Sherlock's chair, which was adorned with weapons and other materials.
Sherlock looked to John to lead and the doctor sighed.
"Mycroft, do you ever wonder why I haven't gotten fed up with Sherlock and left yet?"
The man nodded slowly, "I assumed it was the money speaking."
"I don't care about money. Ever wonder how I knew you were Sherlock's brother, how I knew you wanted to pay me to spy on him and how I knew he referred to you as his archenemy? Without him telling anything?"
Yes.
That word flitted through Mycroft's mind, like a text message. Sherlock had a mental piece of parchment with fancy script that appeared as his thoughts played out. Mycroft had a cell phone with messages. The Holmes brothers were an odd bunch.
John knelt before them, until they were eye to eye. Looking into Mycroft's deep blue eyes, he proceeded to read the very words being typed in the man's mind, out loud.
"I wonder what he's on about."
"How did he do that?"
"There is no logical way that he can do it."
"Is it even possible?"
"Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch."***
John even managed that last word with a perfect Welsh accent, making Mycroft's eyebrows raise in shock.
"Impressive."
"John, can you read my mind?"
"Yes," the doctor answered in positive.
"How?"
"Haven't the foggiest. Been able to since I was a child. Now, unlike with you and Sherlock and a couple of other people, I can't seen what everyone is thinking at the moment. I'd have to have seen their lives completely up until around this time in their lives, to be good enough to see their immediate thoughts. Mostly I just get information or pictures and it happens so fast. I wear these glasses to make people think I'm still looking at them. I was raised to believe that eye contact is respectful when speaking to people but if every time I look someone in the eye, I see their pasts and lives, is it worth it? I can't control it, sorry."
Mycroft looked to Sherlock, who was smirking imperiously as he leaned against the doorway.
"You knew?"
"Found out about it ten months ago."
John could see that Sherlock was proud of knowing something so 'amazing', before his brother. That sibling rivalry to the highest level.
"Well, I'll admit that it could be useful. What exactly are you offering?"
"Any ten times you want my assistance in this regard, no matter what I am doing, I will help. If I decide to help beyond the offered ten, which most likely I will, you won't owe me anything in return."
Mycroft stared at John and asked, "How do you see our thoughts?"
"Your mind is pretty well put together and organized, like a filing cabinet. Your immediate thoughts come across on a mental cell phone like text messages. Sherlock on the other hand, has a Mind Palace. A literal palace modeled after Japanese shiros, which rests at the top of a high hill and at the bottom, is a river of useless information that he doesn't want, but can retrieve through dexterous means. He has detail upon detail, with separate wings and floors and while the main building is definitely a shiro, he has added western pieces like battlements, courtyards, towers, a barbican and best of all, an extremely detailed viaduct carved out of granite. He even has an entire wing dedicated to learning about me. His immediate thoughts appear on a never ending sheet of parchment with beautiful script. A sort of mix of calligraphy and cursive."
Sherlock obviously liked the sound of his mind. Detailed and much better than Mycroft's by far.
The 'British Government' was silent, but John could already see that he wasn't going to let such a thing slip.
"We have an accord."
"Yes!" came from both flatmates.
John shifted his mobile on his shoulder, "You have him in your sights?"
"Yes," Sherlock responded over the line.
"Good. I'll call you when he's safe to approach."
John hung up and stationed himself properly in the shadows of the rooftop. His target was exactly 2,500 yards away, stationed on another rooftop about three hundred yards from his intended target.
He adjusted himself on his stomach - since he was currently in Prone Position - and moved the scope a little before shifting the bipod in place. When he had everything lined up in the scope, he looked for his target and took a deep breath. Just like the old days.
He fired. The sniper collapsed, knocking their own weapon over, John Hamish Watson had successfully sniped a sniper. Bloody hell he was awesome.
He got to his knees and called Sherlock, who answered on the first ring.
"You can help him. Moriarty isn't actually watching them, content with the knowledge that his snipers will do their jobs."
"Well done, John."
"Thank you. I'll meet you at the next location, okay?"
"Yes."
John jumped to his feet and brushed himself off. He felt tingly from all the praise. Is that was it felt like for Sherlock when John always complimented him? If so, he could understand why the man always flushed. It felt good.
The next victim was a woman, sitting in a car in a parking lot. She looked ready to faint at any moment.
Unfortunately, for this one there were two snipers. This would require dexterity and expedience. Luckily though, they were positioned right next to each other. Just a small shift in the bipod and he'd be able to hit both of them within a ten second time frame.
Taking a deep breath, he texted Sherlock the details and then put the phone on silent.
John got into the zone again and proceeded to calmly dispatch of the first one and moved the bipod quickly enough to shoot the second one, before they could shoot the victim. Luckily the second one had jumped and looked over, giving John all the time he needed to do away with him.
He messaged Sherlock to move in and get the woman out.
He packed his bag again and climbed down the fire escape in order to hail another hack.
The next victim was an old woman who was blind. She actually didn't have snipers on her, just two men with guns pointed at her threateningly. Still, John was going to snipe them in return.
The poor woman was strapped to her recliner chair. Through the open window - foolish action by the way - he could see the two men standing side by side. The scope saw a far distance. If he hit the one and waited a couple of seconds for him to drop, he should be able to hit the other without a problem.
Sherlock was outside the door now, he sent a text.
John took aim and fired once. Then fired just as the second man went down.
He texted Sherlock back and told him to help her out.
Good work, John.
His cheeks warmed suddenly and he felt giddy. He impressed Sherlock Holmes. That was damn near impossible thing to accomplish.
He put the weapon away and got back down to the street, catching a cab to take him to Sherlock.
The man smiled excitedly as he got in the cab, semtex stashed in a paper bag. "Mycroft's people are with her and calming her down."
John smiled and gave the cabbie their address. It was all good now.
Mycroft was waiting at their apartment. Sherlock handed over the large paper bag full of semtex. "Do with them what you will."
"Of course."
John sighed and removed his glasses. The light from the kitchen caused a momentary pain to shoot across his eyes, but it faded pretty quickly.
Mycroft was staring at him and he stared back. And then he saw it.
"Mycroft, you hired a man not even two hours ago."
"Yes. Why is that important?"
"His name isn't Richard Brook, it's James Moriarty. He's the one who strapped all those people to bombs and had snipers on them. He was behind the cabbie that was killing people. He's responsible for smuggling the Black Lotus into the country. He needs to be put down and quickly. Think of Sherlock, but to a morbid extreme with a delirious enjoyment of torturing people."
Mycroft's blue eyes went wide and he pulled out his phone and proceeded to call his name confused assistant.
Sherlock was smirking, "Though I don't appreciate being compared to a psychopath, I will have to admit that he is interesting."
"Yes. Heaven forbid someone confuse psychotic tendencies with those of a sociopath," John answered sarcastically, rolling his eyes.
"Exactly."
Mycroft ended his call and regarded them carefully, "Thank you for your assistance, John."
"Just a civic duty of sorts," he shrugged.
"Yes, well don't let take up any more of your evening, James Moriarty will be taken care of instantly. Find that memory stick, Sherlock. Good evening to you."
He picked up the duffel bag John had been using to tote the rifle around in and departed from the flat hastily.
John took a deep breath before turning to Sherlock and asking, "Would you like some tea?"
"Yes."
Sherlock removed his coat and muffler as John made his way into the kitchen. The soft sound of the violin filled the flat and the two men were finally able to rest after a long day of running all about the city.
They shared a small grin.
Sherlock and John stood at the train tracks, staring at where the body of Andrew West had been. John looked around, wondering where all the blood could be.
The man who found him stated that there wasn't much at all. But if he'd been hit by a train or even brushed slightly, there would be a lot of blood. Meaning there was only one conclusion.
"He was on top of the train but fell off."
Sherlock nodded and smiled. "Very good. Now, Mycroft has sent the information to me. West has a potential brother-in-law who lives not too far from here. In fact, it's this way and overlooks the tracks."
Sherlock started off, leaving John to follow hastily.
Down a long street of brick houses, the doctor followed Sherlock, until he was taken up some stairs and Sherlock began tampering with a door.
"You do break into houses on a regular basis!" John accused in a whisper.
"I said I don't 'break'."
John scoffed. "Exactly who owns this flat?"
"Joe Harrison."
The door popped open with little resistance and Sherlock strode in like nothing was wrong. Like he wasn't just strolling into someone's home, unannounced.
"What if someone was home?"
"There isn't. Not like that would stop me."
John's eyes rolled. Of course it wouldn't.
Sherlock made his way to the first floor where the living area was. He pulled the curtain aside and huffed a laugh. He knelt down and pulled out his carry along magnifier. John leaned in and swore.
"Blood. Why'd he do it?"
The sound of the lock on the door alerted them to someone entering the house.
"We're about to find out. Let's ask him."
John's breath lowered instantly. His hand shifted to his holster and he withdrew his Browning very slowly. Approaching the doorway of the room, he stepped lightly.
Angling himself better, he slipped into the hallway slowly and managed three steps when the man by the door looked up and lifted the bicycle in his arms threateningly. John in turn, whipped out his gun and said, "Don't even think about it."
The man froze, eyes going wide.
John stepped aside and gestured for him to go into the living area.
"Sit on the sofa, hands where they can be seen at all times."
The man shakily complied.
Sherlock was still standing by the window, watching John with amusement.
Joe went on a whole spiel about how he didn't mean it. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And yet stealing the missile plans wasn't."
Joe explained that he had gotten into drug dealing and was in way over his head. How he and West had been out at a pub when the man opened up about the plans when he got too pissed to hold himself back. West showed him the memory stick, waved it in his face apparently. And all Joe could think about was using it to get out of debt.
He slipped it from the man easily. Took him home, but left with the plans in his pocket.
They saw each other a few days later and West knew that it was Joe who had taken the plans. A small scuffle outside the door, lead to West being pushed down the stairs. Joe didn't want to get into trouble so he lugged his soon to be brother-in-law up to his flat and out the window and onto the train that was right below it.
Sherlock 'asked' for the memory stick and Joe went fetch it for him.
While Joe went about his business, John and Sherlock shared a very long silent conversation full of Sherlock's internal questions and John's head either nodding or shaking in answer to them.
Is he really getting the memory stick?
Nod.
Should we tell Lestrade?
Forceful nod.
Okay, okay. I'm just thinking, he may bring up the memory stick.
John had to vocally answer for that. "Government given mission."
Sherlock nodded. "That works."
Mycroft was glad to have the plans back. He gave them a very generous payment for it, which Sherlock stated should go for extra purposes.
John didn't really care what it was for. Though they did need groceries.
Sherlock was bundled on the couch, actually watching the telly.
"No, no NO! Of course he's not the boy's father! Look at the turn-ups on his jeans!"
John ambled on over to see the screen, his head resting on the back of the chair, beside Sherlock's own head. "Can you please tell me how the turn-ups mean anything in the equation?"
Sherlock turned to look at him, aghast. "Isn't it obvious?"
"No."
The consulting detective sighed in a very put upon manner.
John rolled his eyes, knowing what was coming. "I knew I shouldn't have gotten you into crap telly."
"Uh….Sherlock?"
"Yes?"
"You are aware that you are wearing a sheet, right?"
"Yes."
"Are you wearing any pants?"
"No."
"Okay then. Just a suggestion from one friend to another, but perhaps you should put some on, like right now."
"Why would I do that? I prefer to be free of such constricting clothing on my day of rest."
"Well yes, but you need to have some consideration for your bisexual roommate whom you know is attracted to you and currently wishes to remove said sheet and bend you over the sofa armrest."
…
…
...
"You wouldn't."
"Sherlock I have experience with virgins. You wouldn't be the first and since I know you on a more personal level, I can easily spot what makes you aroused. Easily determine what would make you want it. Such as praise. You enjoy it when I compliment you. But just me, no one else matters to you. Now imagine if I were to mix the praise with sex talk and dirty language...you'd be done for. So if you don't want to lose it on the couch, I suggest you at least go put some pajamas on in order to hide that aesthetically appealing figure from my wandering and greedy eyes."
"..."
Sherlock mouth dropped open and he turned from his - John's - laptop to give the doctor a shocked look.
"I highly doubt you'd-"
"Sherlock."
The consulting detective was off the couch and waddling back to his room, sheet falling as he went. By the time he close the door, John had gotten a nice view of two perfect globes of pale flesh. He sighed, running a hand through his short hair. Sherlock was a bloody tease, even if he didn't know it.
"You...are amazing."
Sherlock flushed at the praise and nodded slightly.
"Thai or Chinese takeaway?" John asked, pulling out his phone.
Sherlock mumbled, "Thai."
"Good. That's actually what I wanted."
"Then why didn't you just order it instead of asking?"
John paused in his dialing and gave Sherlock the look. The one that Sherlock always gave people when they asked particularly stupid questions. "Sher, you'll be eating too you know. Your opinion does matter in this. And if you had wanted Chinese, I wouldn't have said a thing. We had what I wanted last night. Tonight is your choice."
Sherlock settled into his seat and gave John a calculating look. "That's why you ask every other day what I'd like for supper."
John didn't answer, since it was pretty obvious. He placed their order, knowing exactly how Sherlock liked his food to be cooked and since they ordered so many times in the last year and a half, the people in the restaurant knew their preferences which had yet to change.
"It should be there just as we arrive," he said, ending the call.
It was.
As Sherlock paid the cabbie, John paid for the food and together, they trudged up the stairs to 221B. Sherlock opened the door, John set the food on the kitchen table. Sherlock actually assisted in fetching the plates and after a few moments, they settled down for supper.
Sherlock had John's laptop on the table and was currently attempting to crack the pass code of the day.
After several minutes of typing and clicking, he finally looked up and said, "You took away the hint. I want a hint."
John smirked, "The great consulting detective can't deduce without a hint?"
"This is no time to be avoidant, John."
"It's something I care about."
John let his eyes linger a little longer, before returning to his food.
He could feel those heterochromatic eyes watching him. Deducing his every movement. There was a some typing and a click. Some more typing and another click. Sherlock was seriously exhausting everything he knew that John liked but was missing the most obvious of all things.
Sherlock let out an annoyed huff and glared at John. "Please?"
John paused in his chewing and looked up in shock. Sherlock was pouting, that same cute one he always used to get what he wanted out of John. He also asked nicely. Wow.
"Sherlock."
"Please."
"Sherlock."
"Please!"
"No! I'm saying that it's 'Sherlock'. Bloody hell mate, pay attention."
Sherlock got that rare clueless look on his face. "But you said it was something that you car-"
"And I care about you. Now hop to it."
John continued to eat, even as Sherlock finally shook himself off and got to whatever he was trying to do as he struggled for the past ten minutes.
He finished his food rather quickly and snorted as he thought about Sherlock. He could be quite obtuse sometimes.
"Stop laughing at me."
"I'm not laughing at you. I'm facing the other way and laughing at the thought of you."
"Hmph."
"You do know you type mostly about me in that, correct?"
"Yes. You basically do everything, unless there is something that I happen to know more of, you need my skills as a doctor or you need my ability. Besides, how do you think we are getting so many clients?"
"I have a website."
"Yes, where you enumerate two hundred and forty-three types of tobacco ash. Sherlock, I reset this counter at nine. That was three hours ago. It's noon now and so far already five thousand seven hundred and two people have visited the blog and since the last update which was yesterday, over fifty-six comments have been made, none of them being me, you or Mrs. Hudson.
Though it may not seem kind, your site is boring. No hint of color, no pictures to grab attention. You haven't even chosen a good font. Seriously, only two to three hundred people actually visit it and don't you dare think that I haven't checked what people say about it. 'Drab' and 'dull', need I say more?"
A glance at Sherlock showed flushed cheeks and the pout.
"Don't tell me you're embarrassed!"
Sherlock turned away and fiddled with his violin, plucking the strings in a firm, staccato rhythm.
"Sherlock?"
He was ignored.
John sighed and moved over to the man's side as he stared out the window, still pouting.
"Sherlock?"
John huffed and place his hand on the man's arm, forcing his attention from the street below, to John. Two different pairs of blue eyes met and John could see Sherlock's thoughts. The neat parchment was currently a mess with scrawled words. Words pertaining to John, embarrassment, blushing and so forth.
John reached up and petted the taller man's curls lightly. "Sherlock, I'm not saying it's bad. For you and the very very few people somewhat like you, it's perfect. But people with your level of intelligence are few and far between. You're in the minority and always will be. So of course we normal people aren't going to be pulled by theory and explanations of the inner machinations of subconscious thought and how people with proclivities toward scouts work tend to become homicidal maniacs. I seriously don't understand that by the way.
Listen, the human eye is drawn to color. Unless you are deliberately searching, your eyes will pass right by a shadow or a dark area. Whereas colors, tend to make you want to look. To satiate your curiosity. That's why construction workers wear bright orange and why traffic cones are orange. It's why the constables wear neon yellow and green.
It's why advertising is so important. Presentation is everything.
If I didn't know you personally and I had looked at your site, I would have assumed you to be a dreadfully boring individual, no lie. It's fine for you, but if you're trying to reach clients, your site as it is won't cut it.
I don't want you to feel like you aren't good enough, though. You are amazing. I tell that you nearly every day with many different synonyms to add to it. Don't let one mistake over something as silly as a website, get you down. You have so many spectacular qualities that the site is miniscule in comparison. Okay?"
And then Sherlock was smiling. That smile that was small, but spoke of how touched he truly was. Sherlock only ever gave that smile to John. John could see the words that Sherlock wanted to see but was unsure of how to phrase them correctly without feeling embarrassment, flashing through his mind.
Thank you. You make me happy. What would I do without you John?
The doctor smiled gently and carded his fingers through those unruly curls one more time, before going back to his laptop.
Sherlock was still smiling.
"John, I must protest to your choice of title. 'The Geek Interpreter'? Really?"
"Sherlock, other people like the names. What would you call it?"
"'The Linguistic Buffoon Who Knows Not His Head From His Arse'."
John snorted and smiled at his flatmate. Both pairs of blue eyes twinkling.
"As hilarious as that is, it is not going to endear people to your services. I'll stick with my name but thanks for the input."
"Hmph."
John smiled at the blue eyed man sitting across from him.
"Sherlock, you do realize that some people just don't have what it takes?"
"Nonsense. Everyone has 'what it takes'. Whether they have the drive to accomplish it, makes all the difference."
"Oh yeah, silly me for not understanding."
"You are forgiven."
John rolled his eyes halfheartedly. "Sher, you are something else."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing bad, believe me," John smiled.
"You're flirting again."
"We've established that pretty much everything I do concerning you is flirting, Sher. You don't have to bring it up all the time. Unless you like to point it out."
No response.
"Sherlock likes to be flirted with," John crooned softly. Teasingly.
Sherlock scoffed, "Hardly."
"Sherlock likes it when John flirts with him!"
"Hmph."
"That's not denial I'm hearing."
…
…
…
…
…
When it became obvious that Sherlock wasn't going to respond, John chuckled slightly and continued to read his paper.
Sherlock was never going to be boring.
Never.
A/N: Another one done! *Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch- is the name of a train station in Whales.
Remember, this is BAMF John. He's awesome.
Check out my cute little, John/Sherlock O/S. 'According to You, I am Beautiful'. Sherlock reflects on his feelings for John. Fluffy.
How was it? Let me know in a constructive, respectful manner please? If you are rude or you flame me, do not expect a good response. Treat others how you wish to be treated. Assholes don't deserve kindness, remember that.
See ya! :D