Somehow, John knew such a life couldn't carry on. Not even Sherlock- fucking- Holmes could prevent that.
All of it went to shit one dreary late afternoon. Shopping bag in one hand, and a newspaper improvising as a brolly in the other, John ran through puddles the size of Lake Michigan trying desperately to get out of the rain. A part of her didn't know why she'd bothered with the newspaper as she was already soaked to the bone.
"Sherlock?" John called up the stairs upon entering the flat. She received no answer as she pulled off her soaked socks and shoes. "Are you here?"
She trudged up the stairs, tossing aside the pulply newspaper, feeling a little guilty she was leaving Mr. Hudson to clean that up. She opened the door to an empty 221B, and noticed right away, a white and pink colored box sitting in the middle of the living room table.
John started at it curiously. It was such an odd sight, not at all belonging in a flat full of dark colors and dull pastels. There was even pink bow on top, elaborate and beautifully done.
She didn't open it at first. She wanted a shower, a chance to change clothes and switch out her breast bindings. Half an hour later, Sherlock still wasn't home and the box was still there.
Was it from Mycroft? It wouldn't be the first time a strange, unusual gift ended up in their flat. On Sherlock's birthday, his older brother sent him a skull-shaped cake. Sherlock wouldn't say it out loud, but John knew he enjoyed it.
There was no card.
Shrugging, John gave into her curiosity and pulled the box top off.
The little gleeful feeling of discovery suddenly shifted to mute horror as the box top slipped out of John's fingers.
Inside was a silver dress. Shoes and a purse. Jewelry.
Harry had enjoyed the nicer things in life, and John grew up knowing the names of high fashion. From one glance at the dress and accessories, she knew all of this together was well over a thousand pounds. Not including the diamond necklace, bracelet, and earrings.
John picked up the box top, and covered the 'gift.' She had to take a couple slow breaths to calm herself.
Who?
John's first thought was Sherlock. But he said, he promised he wouldn't reveal her secret. Besides, Sherlock couldn't be arsed to remember John's actual birthday. He wouldn't go so far as to buy her extravagant gifts like this. They had sex all but once. And that was over two weeks ago and neither of them have talked about it since. Though there had been the occasional knowing smile, shared over morning tea.
Mycroft, maybe? Made sense, he could afford it. Then what was the message here? There wasn't a note inside the box, John noticed after a quick search. The man liked to be vague, but after being friends with his little brother for so long, Mycroft became… less vague in his language. He would've left a note.
John pulled out her mobile, sent one quick text to Sherlock.
GOING TO BE HOME SOON?
His reply: SOON.
HURRY UP, John hissed, pocketing her phone.
Even though she was alone, John felt naked in a roomful of eyes.
()
Sherlock said, 'soon.' He came home nearly two hours after that text was sent.
Upon his entering the flat, John pointed to the pink box. "What the hell is this?"
"It's a box," Sherlock said simply, taking off his coat and scarf. "I know your deductive prowess is way below mine, John, but I think it's rather obvious what that is."
He grinned at her, because it was funny and not at all malicious. In fact, he was rather proud he made such a light hearted joke.
The grin slowly melted off his face when he saw John was not laughing, not grinning, but had her arms crossed, still pointing rather heatedly at the box. "Did you do this, or did Mycroft sent it?"
"It wasn't me," Sherlock insisted, walking over. He opened the box. He frowned. "No," he said, pulling the dress up. John hadn't even touched it yet, and she watched as the beautiful long silver dress glittered in the light. "Mycroft wouldn't send such a thing, even if he knew."
"So he doesn't know I'm…?"
"No," Sherlock said, dropping the dress. "This is not his style."
"Then who would send this?" John resisted the urge to pull her arms closer to her body. "I haven't revealed myself to anyone."
"Of course you have," he was now inspecting the jewelry. "Your doctor friends. Can you guarantee everyone you went to in the beginning are dead?"
Dread filled John's stomach.
"Oh God," she cursed, turning away. There were only three men John had turned to when the world went to shit. Adding Sherlock, that made only four people in the known world who knew what laid between her legs. "It's been years. How did they even track me down?"
"I don't think they did. Looking for you would be like looking for a needle in a stack of needles. Pointless, fruitless, and involves more pain than needed. It is, however, quite possible they shared your secret with others. Look at this," Sherlock held up the jewelry. "This necklace alone costs five thousand pounds. Who is willing to drop that much money?"
The whole box was a veiled threat, possibly a cruel joke. And John only knew one person who was willing to lose so much money, simply to put a smile on his own face.
"Moriarty," she said. A sharp tingle ran down her back, clenching every muscle tightly.
John was in her own home, in her own clothes, her gun not far away and Sherlock was more than ready to help her. Despite so many reassurances, John hadn't felt this much in danger since the first months of the Gendercide. She thought she would never experience fear on that level ever again.
She was shaking. "You think Moriarty talked to one of the doctors I visited?"
"It's a possibility. He has lay lines everywhere. Perhaps one of your doctor friends said something to someone and eventually information was passed around. If you hadn't been living with me, Moriarty might've treated such information as mere rumors. But…" he shrugged. "I guess you deserved a little more attention."