AN: Hi everybody, thank you for your alerts and favourites but ESPECIALLY reviews! There are probably going to be only a few more chapters of this particular story arc (eleven total? not sure), so keep reading!
I'm walking home. See you there. Don't do anything rash.
JW
Sherlock waits another eleven minutes while uniformed officers prowl at the behest of Lestrade, and they finally taper off, giving Sherlock the chance to flit away unseen. Once out of the vicinity of the apartment block, he throws the knit cap into a bin and winds his scarf back around his throat, very pleased with himself.
Your faith in me is duly noted, John. Are there any bangers left?
SH
John pulls out his phone, worriedly glancing at Mrs. Hudson. She has insisted that he wait downstairs with her until Sherlock gets back, after he requests breakfast for the two of them. She thinks that the idea is quaint, and "So darling of you!" which John quietly tolerates. It isn't worth it to try to deny her her assumptions.
Mrs. Hudson wants me to wait for you so we can eat upstairs together.
JW
John's less-than-amused tone is evident in the text.
Mrs. Hudson comes out, beaming, with a small platter of food for them, talking on and on about nothing he is listening to. "Thanks, yeah. I'm sure we'll both love it." He tries to smile a little at least and heads upstairs, closing the door behind him with a shoulder before putting the food down. Sherlock will be any minute, so he gets out plates.
Sherlock is grinning, and once he remembers John isn't there to see it, he extinguishes it and cracks off another text.
How domestic. You may start without me. ETA two minutes.
SH
He pockets his phone, gives a quick look for any uniforms prowling the streets, and gives a single nonchalant hop-skip in the direction of Baker Street.
John makes a face, crossing his arms and waiting, leans against the counter. Damned if Sherlock was going to control him. He stares down the food and is just moving to take and fill his plate when he hears Sherlock open the main front door.
Sherlock hangs his coat up by the door, listens for movement and once he seems satisfied, Sherlock takes the stairs two at a time and peers directly into the kitchen from the landing. His eyes fall on the food, then on John. "I told you that you should start without me. It's been three hours without food for you, and you're going to start shouting at me if you don't eat something."
"I'd be fine." John comments offhandedly, finishing serving himself and wandering out to the living room where he knows Sherlock will end up sitting to eat. "But where did you go to lose them, anyway?"
Sherlock helps himself, though his own serving looks meager, leaning on the doorway to the sitting room. "Not far." He pokes around at his food before getting his first bite. "It took a bit of acrobatics on my part, but I managed a little niche on the roof, in the shadow of a larger building." He doesn't sit, glances over at John. "No trouble for you?"
A short pause. "None. No company. Why do you think they showed up, to investigate what you said?" John takes a bite or two of eggs, waiting for the inevitable deductions.
"Possible. Lestrade listens, occasionally, when I tell him he's wrong. If that's the case, they'll have Rice's flat staked out in usual obtrusive fashion." He takes a moment for another bite. "I doubt they followed us there, or else they would have come looking for you. Or have sent someone here to intercept us."
He swirls his eggs around on his plate. "John, the thought has occurred to me that McCallister was only Rice's first victim, and it was only chance that he was the man I'd assaulted. It has absolutely nothing to do with me and everything to do with you. And her last remaining lover."
John looks confused. "You don't think.. Rice is really the killer? He's not even in town, I..." The pieces start to fit in his mind now, as they had in Sherlock's seconds after he saw the photographs in Rice's room. "Do you think Beatrice knows...?"
Sherlock is looking furiously at his place. "Hard to tell. I haven't spoken to her since she hit me. Likely not, but she may begin to get the hint if another man shows up dead." He sighs through his nose.
John feels a little relieved that Sherlock thinks Beatrice at least to be innocent. Why he still cares? He doesn't know. He supposes they had been dating for a few months. The veteran tries to smile. "So what's planned for the rest of the day?" He asks dryly, picking at his food.
Sherlock finally looks up and he's blinking at John as if he's the biggest idiot he's ever met. "Avoiding the machinations of a murderer, if it's not too much trouble for you, John."
John gives a faint smile. He, oddly enough, doesn't feel too nervous. "Won't you get bored, Sherlock?"
Sherlock gives up and utters a light laugh. "Oh, no. Finish up." He sets his unfinished plate down indiscriminately. "We're heading out. Bring a duffel bag."
"Where are we going?" John does so, looking chipper. His brightly colored vest might not have been the best choice for the hiding they had to do earlier, but it certainly complements his expressions.
"Diogenes Club," Sherlock says with slight distaste. "I know London backward and forward, but my brother can make it safe. And safe, while dull, is what you need to be." He throws John's coat in his direction.
John's expression drops. "Sherlock, I am in no more danger than you are on a usual day. Honestly." He catches the coat, putting it down as he stands to do away with his plate. "There is no need for me to 'hide out'."
Sherlock rounds on him, looking extremely displeased. He strides into the kitchen to meet him, staring him down. "I know you're hard to kill, John, and I'm very hard to fool. But the man is smart enough to use me as a decoy, and jealousy is a very strong motivator." And he frowns strongly. "I'd be very cross if he did manage to kill you."
John frowns, finishing cleaning up. "Well, I still don't think that my hiding out indefinitely is going to help anything. Honestly Sherlock. I'm not some sort of easily-amused.." He tries to think of something. "..rabbit."
Sherlock tries very hard not to smirk at the image, and he does very well, only flickering amusement in his eyes. "Well, you're the man of action. What would you do? Lure him into the open with some selfless act? It's very soldierly of you, John."
John fixes Sherlock with what passes for a glare. "Well, I wouldn't hide in a hole and hope it all goes away."
Sherlock could bite back, and they'd back to their routine, but this wasn't the time for petty arguments. So Sherlock takes a step back, pulls a small frown. "All right."
John frowns further, perhaps confused. "Well, good. So have you deduced where Rice would have gone?" He figures that this was a pretty obvious question to ask.
Sherlock's looking at his feet, leans back so he's sitting on the kitchen table, and shakes his head. "I haven't been thinking about it."
John narrows his eyes, peering at Sherlock. "You alright?" he leans against the opposing wall, crossing his arms across sweatered chest. It's sort of a stupid question as far as Sherlock goes, but oh well. He dismally tries to think of things Sherlock likes to do. With another person. "We could.. go out to the park, or... play chess, or something later."
Sherlock pulls himself together quickly with a sharp intake of breath. "Fine. I don't want to stay here. If Rice is looking for you, this is the first place he'll go."
John looks quizzical. "Then why not let him find us? Better to choose the location ourselves." Easy military logic. His face seeks reassurance from Sherlock.
Sherlock looks extremely unsure, though about what is not completely evident. Then, in a quieter voice, looking to the window, he says, "We should tell Mrs. Hudson to clear off, then. Don't want her getting mixed up in this."
John silently agrees, starting to see that this situation, being personal to one of them, is more precarious than the usual cases Sherlock takes. "Yeah. D'you want to go down and tell her.. something?" He knows that Sherlock probably has something plausible in his head already.
Sherlock gives a brief huff of derision and at last shoves off from the table. "Yes, all right. Get your gun." He lopes off for the door to the stairwell, at least halfway tense.
John doesn't move; he already has it on him. Probably wasn't the best choice, having been at the police station, but oh well. It's habit. He watches Sherlock leave for downstairs and wonders if his flatmate is normally this... stiff. Letting out a small sigh, John collapses into an armchair. This is one long morning. He closes his eyes and tries to listen downstairs.
Sherlock knocks politely on Mrs. Hudson's door, and once she's answered he makes up a tale about Mrs. Turner next door asking for her help with a stew (less of a lie than it should be; he could smell the stew when he was walking up Baker Street. She kindly thanks him and bundles out the door presently.
The detective lingers downstairs for a while longer, getting his wits about him. It certainly does no help to John to get overly involved. Treat it as though it's just another idiot under threat from a vengeful boyfriend. That certainly helps.
John remains slouched in the chair, but as he hears the door shut- Mrs. Hudson leaving, he guesses- his eyes open and he stares at the ceiling. Sherlock will be back up soon, he figures. Just then he hears a dull thud from somewhere on the next floor up. Maybe something fell in Sherlock's room... John is occupied thinking about other things. He can still hardly believe that Beatrice would.. would do this.
Sherlock makes it back up the stairs, and he certainly looks less stiff and awkward, but he's still not smirking. He hardly acknowledges John, taking a quick look around the flat for any points of entry. "John, could you put the kettle on?"
"Mm." John answers, bored and unprotesting. He gets up and wanders into the kitchen, retrieving a usable kettle from under the sink. The last one has gone the way of the trash since Sherlock "tried" to use it. "How long will she be gone?" He calls back over his shoulder, turned away from the doorway.
Neither of them knows it, but a man of about Sherlock's height is silently coming down the hallway, having descended the stairs already. He is holding a bit of cloth.
"The current untruth will likely keep for several hours, but not all day. She will undoubtedly find something inane to converse with Mrs. Turner about, that could give us a few more. But it's not forever, John." Sherlock is staring concernedly out the windows, and is considering checking their rooms for sign of intrusion.
He has turned the water on, slightly raising his voice over the noise of it flowing into the kettle. "Well, what would you recommend doing?"
The intruder, Rice, has backed his way down the hallway, sequestering himself away in a little junk-filled nook that probably neither Sherlock nor John ever thinks about. The only way into it is from that hallway, of course. Not even a window. He crouches, listening for the taller man to finally leave.
Sherlock checks over his shoulder to be sure John is still in the kitchen, then runs two frustrated hands through his hair. "I don't know," he says, and it's clipped. "I'm checking upstairs. And locking your window." He moves brusquely for the stairs, wanting to be quick.
John turns briefly, shooting a worried look toward the sitting room. "Alright, I'll be here." He carries the kettle over to the stove round, and turns it on, letting out another sigh as he stands there for a moment and stares out the window, looking down on the bustling streets of a fog-filled, ten AM London. John reaches to get them a couple of mugs to use.
He barely hears a sound out of the ordinary when suddenly someone is behind him, an arm is around his neck. He is about to shout, struggling for his concealed gun, when a hand claps over his mouth and nose, holding some sort of smelly cloth. Chloroform? Too classic... His body crumples into the arms of his assailant, whom he briefly sees through foggy eyes- tall, with black hair. Sherlock? No.. it must be.. Rice.
Sherlock hears the door close as he locks John's window, and he pauses in the air for a long moment with his ears suddenly perked. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson came back? John wouldn't be going anywhere. There are no footsteps, and suddenly Sherlock feels very ill-at-ease.
"John?" He calls from the top of the stairs. Hearing nothing, Sherlock thunders quickly down and skids into the kitchen, taking it all in supremely quick. Open cupboard, tea set out, kettle ready and hot. John's gun on the floor. Sherlock's fingers reach out for it tentatively, half-confusedly, and he picks it up. Why was it on the floor?
Panic hits him in the chest once, and his head jerks up and he shouts: "JOHN?"
He doesn't wait, vaulting down the stairs to ground floor, grabbing his coat and stumbling into it, bursting out into the street.
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