Chapter Twenty

Sherlock dug out a coat from somewhere, but it just didn't look right. John had never seen him without his usual coat in winter. In summer, he'd still wear his jacket, and, occasionally, when it was really warm, just a shirt. Now he looked slightly different, but just as comfortable with himself as always. John walked next to him hands buried in his pockets. It was far below zero degrees and their breath curled around them in white clouds.

The snow was still quite tick, covering the ground about three inches high, making everything seem quiet and calm. "I love this," John said.

"It's snow, John."

"Exactly, I love snow."

Sherlock just gave him a look.

"Come on, don't tell me you don't find this beautiful?"

"John, you could just go and stick your head into our freezer. I'm sure you'd find some snow there."

"Sherlock!"

He couldn't help himself. He knew he was being silly, but he couldn't resist the urge. When Sherlock realised John had stopped, he turned around, only to be hit by a snowball that John had aimed directly at his chest. John giggled at the look on his face. He could see that Sherlock was trying to look unimpressed, but he didn't quite succeed.

With a sigh he turned back around, patting away on his chest to remove the snow from his coat. John threw another one, this time at his back. A bit of snow got into his collar and got stuck in his hair.

"John Watson." He sounded dangerous, having stopped in mid step.

John was positively beaming at him, swaying back and forth on his feet, ready to go down and form another snow ball. When Sherlock turned around, he could see the barely hidden smirk.

"How old are you?" He still sounded rather unperturbed, but the glimmer in his eyes gave him away.

"It's snow, for Christ's sake! Come on, don't tell me you never get into snow fights."

"I don't. I have better things to do."

John got down, scooping up another handful of snow.

"Don't you dare!" Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he watched calmly as John formed a ball in his hands, his fingers red, his face flushed with cold and happiness.

When he threw the snowball, nonplussed by Sherlock's threats, Sherlock moved quickly, avoiding being hit again and instead got down on one knee in one single fluid movement and scooped up some snow himself, halfheartedly forming a ball and throwing it at John.

John couldn't look away. He had never considered martial arts to be a legal technique in a snow fight. Apparently, Sherlock had never heard of such a rule. Almost calmly he threw the snow straight at John, hitting him above his chest so that most of the snow actually made its way into his clothes. John cursed at the icy cold that spread over his chest. He started to shake his clothes out in order to get rid of the snow. It was rather unsuccessful and just as he leaned down to grab more snow himself, another load it him so hard on his right shoulder that he lost balance and fell on his arse into the snow.

This time it was Sherlock who was grinning gleefully.

"That's not fair."

"It's perfectly fair. Not only did I warn you, but I also let you know by way of behavior and eye contact that I would have no mercy on you."

"Your eyes didn't say that," John protested.

Sherlock chuckled and moved closer, eventually extending his gloved hand. "I forgive you."

John pouted but took hold of his hand and let himself be pulled back to his feet.

"Do you ever do anything just for the sake of doing it?"

Sherlock turned to him, his hand still in his, and he was suddenly so impossibly close, his cheeks and nose adorably reddened by the cold, his eyes full of laughter and his mouth set in a small smile. John swallowed hard.

"I do." Sherlock leaned in closer, and for a moment John thought of turning away, but he couldn't bring himself to. His breath caught in his throat and he stared at his friend.

Sherlock let go of his hand and gently pulled a bit of snow out of his hair, still looking at him. "There."

Then he moved away, and John felt it again, this emptiness that he left in him when he moved away after being so close. He shook his head and followed him in the safe distance of three feet.

They reached the library rather quickly, and, even though the glass front was not replaced yet but merely covered with a plastic foil, it seemed as if it was business as usual. The library was full of people, but getting closer they noticed quite a few police men standing around, observing the buzz around them.

"You okay?"

John had been lost in thought and had almost forgotten what it would mean to go back in. He looked at Sherlock for confirmation that he was okay with it and then nodded.

They entered the building and Sherlock moved to the first level right away. The floor had been cleaned and the exhibition seemed unchanged, except for the missing piece of the time line. The showcase in front of the secret door held the finches again. John rubbed his hand over his face, forcing down the memories that came flooding back. Then he turned to his right and gasped. The unpublished document was sitting in the case with no trace of blood or misuse. Sherlock stood next to him and smiled. "She's good."

"Hmm?" John looked at him, his face a question mark.

"She made a copy. A good one, but a copy."

"So you mean that Moriarty doesn't have the original?"

"That's exactly what it means. And I'm sure he didn't take any of the others either." He walked away towards the information desk. It was obvious that something had happened and he was sure that the staff would happily inform the readers that no important documents had been stolen.

"Sorry, can I ask you a question?" John watched from a safe distance. "I saw on the telly that a few originals were stolen from here last night when there was a bomb threat. Is that true?"

The lady at the desk looked at him sharply but calmly. "No, that is false information. Nothing was stolen from here last night."

"But someone tried to, am I right?" He leaned in closer, speaking lower as not to attract the attention of other visitors. "They managed to get their hands on quite a collection and just happened to leave it when they knew there was no way of getting out of here with it."

The lady frowned and grabbed the phone. Sherlock merely smiled. "In any case, I already informed the staff here a while ago that the security system is not sufficient for the kind of treasures you have here. I would like to take a look at the system downstairs."

The women dialled a number and leaned back, regarding him with a cold look. "Yes, hello, Sherlock Holmes is back and he wants to come down." She seemed surprised at the answer. "Okay, alright, I'll bring him down." She put down the phone slowly, regarding him with a look of sheer mistrust. Sherlock still smiled at her, but his eyes were much colder now.

John watched as she let herself out of the cubicle and stalked away without saying anything else. Sherlock followed her, and passing John, grinned. "Come on, then."

"Why are we going down there?" John was rather confused and did not feel the immediate need to also become a personal enemy of the entire BL staff.

"My coat, John. I want my coat back."

"You could just buy a new one, you know?"

"My phone is in my coat."

"And?"

"I need my phone."

"You could…"

"John."

"What?"

"Shut up, okay?"

John gave him a look but Sherlock seemed unwilling to take this conversation further. They walked through the staff entrance that Miss Romanov had used when she had taken him to her office. This time, however, they walked down two sets of stairs, ending up in a large room filled with old books. In the middle stood a huge table and on it lay the duffle bag and about ten staff members sat around it, sorting the manuscripts that had been stuffed in there. When they approached, all of them leaned over as to cover the papers they were working on, apparently afraid that Sherlock might make an observation that would eradicate the worth of any of the pieces of writing.

John felt suddenly very sorry for Sherlock. It was similar to what he felt when Sherlock was called in for a case and constantly regarded with derogatory terms and contemptuous looks by everyone but Lestrade. Sherlock did not deserve that. Well, sometimes he asked for it, but how else should Sherlock react when he was regarded to be a freak by almost everyone in the police force. He moved closer to him, putting his hand on his back. Sherlock looked at him and he must have read his thoughts on his face because he nodded shortly, his face softening.

"Here you are." The woman stopped in front of a door. "This is where we found them."

"No, this is where they were left."

"And where we found them." The lady was unwilling to let Sherlock have the last word.

He nodded at her and knocked on the door, more to test its strength than to actually knock, John gathered. They were still called inside and found the director of the British Library sitting on a table that was also covered with manuscripts, however, these were distinctively older than those outside.

The man looked up when Sherlock and John entered, sighing heavily as if he had been dreading this moment but knew that he had to face it anyway. "Good day, Mr Holmes."

"Hi." Sherlock's greeting seemed out of place, but John understood that he was not particularly welcome here and there was only very little he could lose.

"As you doubtlessly already know, there was a break in last night."

"Wrong." Sherlock seemed to be in the mood for a game. "All the doors were open and the only thing that was broken in was the window in the front, and that was the police. So it's even more embarrassing. Your staff was involved."

The man sighed again, letting Sherlock take over. "Tell me."

"You had several people planning this right under your eyes. One of them works in the manuscript room. Doubtlessly, she handed in her resignation yesterday? The other one was working at the Darwin exhibition, probably also the one who caused the death of Mr Chamberlain, the old curator. That was the man who was shot two days ago."

The director looked only mildly surprised and John wondered if Sherlock had actually helped him before.

"The whole project was put into action by a criminal mastermind who found the prospect of stealing manuscripts from right under your nose rather amusing. He either paid or blackmailed your two employees to work for him, but when one was shot, the other fled. Easy as that! They both had keys and could move completely unnoticed in between rooms. Obviously, your staff members had already taken out quite a few manuscripts for supposed restoration, and all they had to do was put the bundles into the bag and disappear. Luckily enough, the woman did not have the heart to risk being killed, which she doubtlessly would have been, had she not come down here to hide, then left everything in this room and happened to show up for work yesterday to hand in her resignation due to personal reasons. However, nobody noticed that she had already been here all night."

The director nodded wearily. "I'm afraid you're right. What do you propose?"

"Morale."

"Pardon me?"

"Before you let people work for you, check their background for aspects such as loyalty, passion for their work and personal interest in preservation of national treasures. And finally install some proper cameras and a working alarm system."

"Okay, Mr Holmes. What was your part in all of this? And don't tell me you knew about the plan and tried to prevent it."

John looked carefully at Sherlock, but he did not seem surprised by the fact that the director knew that Sherlock had been involved somehow. Lestrade had probably told him.

"I did not know about the entire plan, yes, but I knew that something would happen and I knew I could prevent it."

By getting yourself and me killed, John though, bitterly. Sherlock moved closer to him as if he had heard him speak his mind aloud.

"Things didn't go quite as planned, but nothing ended up being stolen, so the anticipated result was achieved."

"Right." The director seemed slightly annoyed, but John did not understand why. "Thank you."

Sherlock smiled and turned to John. "Ready to go?"

John frowned as he looked at him. What was he playing at?

"Mr Holmes." Sherlock smirked at John before turning around to the director, looking entirely serious again. "I believe we found your coat."

"Did you?" He pretended to be surprised.

"We did indeed. You can pick it up at the wardrobe."

"Thank you."

They left without a further word and when they walked past the table, the reaction was exactly the same as it had been when they had come in. John forced himself to stay calm.

Then, very quietly and yet audible, someone whispered: "Freak."

Before Sherlock could stop him, John spun around and walked back to the table. He was furious, his hands shaking. "What do you even know? This man is the sole reason why you still have your job and he is the reason why those manuscripts are not being sold on the black market right now. He knows more about them than you ever will, and you probably spent years at university and you're still blind to the obvious. He is not a freak, he is a genius, and you better sit down and shut the fuck up before he gets you all fired." He was red in the face and he knew it, but he was used to giving orders and there was still quite a bit of his army attitude left in him. Everyone on the table stared at him white faced. He did not enjoy the small triumph but turned around and stormed away, grabbing Sherlock's arm as he passed him, dragging him along.

Outside, John exhaled, flexing his fingers. "Jesus Christ!" he grunted. "Fucking idiots!"

"John?" Sherlock looked surprised and amused at the same time. "John, you didn't need to…"

John looked up at him, shoulders squared. "Yes! Yes, I needed to. They can't do this to you. You don't deserve their contempt. They have no idea what you are capable of and just because you are so much smarter than them, they have no right to speak to you like that just so they can feel better about themselves." He was still mad, still overflowing with emotions, and Sherlock was just there, right there, and nobody was around and it would be so easy to just lean in and…. He stepped back, staring at Sherlock. "I'm sorry." He felt the anger drain out of him and he was left feeling tired. "I just hate when they do that."

"Okay." Sherlock had blushed, lightly, but visibly. He was not used to others to stand up for him. God, how was that possible. How could people not see how vulnerable he was sometimes, how things people said affected him, even if he did not let it show?

"Let's go and find your coat." John moved away, and Sherlock followed him after a while, staying slightly behind him. John wondered if Sherlock was actually embarrassed by his behavior, but then again, Sherlock never really was embarrassed by anything.

A.N. so, I did manage to get online :) hope you like this chapter. x