TITLE: The Other One
CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Two/ What's In a Face
RATING: T (violence/language)
A/N: This story is heavily from John's viewpoint as I wanted a sort of unbiased mediator between the brothers to share the story. Also, it gives it a bit closer feel to how the original stories were told from his perspective. Title is a play on the line "What's in a name?" from Romeo and Juliet.
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Chapter Two: What's In a Face
Sherlock and John were unofficially working a low profile case for Lestrade when everything in their world pitched sideways. Sherlock had only recently made his privately dramatic return to the land of the living and they weren't exactly keen on informing the media, and the world, of his grand re-entrance. With Moriarty's web cut down it was now safe, but evidence was just now coming to light that proved Moriarty himself was real and cleared the consulting detective's name. Just as they had done so so eagerly those years prior, the media jumped on the juicy news like vultures, seemingly not remembering, or not caring, that it was the blasted birds that had helped fuel the criminal mastermind's flames back then. The same reporters that had ridiculed the "fake genius" now honored him.
John was pretty positive he would have been pissed enough to punch a few of the "two faced bastards" - his own words – had Sherlock not been sitting next to him watching the same news report, very much alive.
Still, his name continued to carry some dirt stains from being dragged so deep in the mud. Mycroft wished to wait out the media storm before creating another one. That way, he could control it this time. The vultures were already in the middle of a feeding frenzy. Throwing them the fact that the man they were putting up a pedestal postmortem was actually living and breathing in London, wasn't exactly a good plan. So, Sherlock had begrudgingly – John was pretty sure the man had actually been kicking and screaming like a child – agreed to remain below the radar. Going out wasn't much of a problem, as the detective wasn't a stranger to costumes. Unless there was a case, though, Sherlock mostly stayed in, shuffling irritably around 221B and conducting fairly corrosive experiments to match his mood.
Sherlock and John didn't exactly have a picture perfect, running towards each other in a Hollywood film worthy embrace, reunion. There was fighting, both of the physical and verbal variety, there were tears – which both of them would later deny. And, eventually, there was forgiveness.
Things weren't entirely peachy on Baker Street, but anything, they both silently agreed, was better than the past two years apart.
Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were given the news the day after John. Mrs. Hudson had broke one of her favorite tea cups throwing it at the imagined intruder. Lestrade had nearly broken Sherlock's windpipe in a neck grabbing hug.
Nearly two weeks later and Sherlock had finally convinced Greg to throw him a bone. Literally, a bone. And a proper crime and case right along with it. No one at the Yard was to discover the dead detective's assistance, though. No one in London, really, to be more precise.
Which was why, after dark, Sherlock and John were slinking through the shadowed streets like criminals themselves. Sherlock held no fear in revealing himself to his homeless network. They were a surprisingly loyal bunch. And, as Sherlock explained to John, even if they did tell anyone of import, no one would believe a street bum. That had earned Sherlock a very long overdue eye roll.
Say whatever insulting things he liked about the homeless of London, John knew the man secretly was quite fond of his raggedy crew. He was just as loyal to them as they were to him. He may have turned his nose up at their stench, made sure to wash his hands after contact, and degraded their lifestyle, but there was always something there when he spoke to one of them.
John could never envision Sherlock Holmes having children. And yet there was something almost, well, paternal wasn't the right word. He did watch out for them though. Talked to them. Even giving them the time of day was more than he granted most. And there was that unique warmness to his gaze whenever he was with them, even when he was glaring at them for their incompetence. John never asked about it and Sherlock never shared.
"Thank you, Levi," Sherlock finished with one of the boys and made to turn away, to send another member off on another task for the case.
"Hey," Levi called out. "You wanna stay around for a bit? We were playin' cards. You could join in."
"I believe I have more pressing matters to attend to then a game of cards," Sherlock sneered, but still stopped.
"Oi, we bust our bums to help you help you solve all them cases," a man with raggedy ginger stained hair piped up.
"'Those cases," Sherlock corrected on reflex before replying, without missing a beat. "And you are paid for your services."
"Money don't buy company, mate," a scruffy teenager that reminded the detective more of a canine than a human reminded him.
"Now that ain't true," the man with the carrot colored hair puffed his small chest with laughter as he slapped the boy on the back.
"Come on, Sherlock," the canine chuckled. "Only company we get 'round here is each other 'n coppers." He paused and glanced around. "Just a couple 'a games."
"What's the point?" Sherlock almost couldn't help the shadow of a small smile that was playing at the corners of his upturned lips. "You know I will always beat all of you."
"Still is fun," Levi shrugged, "and you might just get beaten one 'a these times, ya never know."
"I always know," Sherlock smirked.
"That so?" The redhead grinned. "I'd wager our new guy could beat you. He's beatin' all 'a us."
"That isn't saying much," Sherlock teased.
"Really," Levi urged. "You should meet 'em. He's real good. Maybe better than you."
"Doubtful." Sherlock sniffed and turned in the direction Levi was shrugging his thumb.
Sherlock peered across the alley and found himself staring down at a head of unruly raven hair. The younger man was laughing with a sort of magical mirth as he watched him. His clothes were torn and his skin was dirty and his face was even a bit sickly looking, and yet, he appeared, happy. John was always amazed by those few souls that could endure such hardship and still carry such, well, innocence wasn't the proper word. Anyone living on London's streets had outgrown innocence long ago. Perhaps, youthful joy, was a more accurate description. John wanted to smile himself, until he turned and saw Sherlock.
Sherlock, who was definitely, not smiling.
Sherlock, who was not moving.
The detective had practically turned to stone. Another person might have staggered to a stop. Not Sherlock. His back stretched stiffly straight, his shoulders rolled high and back. He looked as though he had just been submerged in salt water, ran out of air, and taken in a painful swallow.
John hadn't heard the gasp, but he could plainly see that Sherlock had stopped breathing.
"Sherlock?"
Even though he had lost two years, Sherlock knew just about every homeless person in London by now and he was certainly not one to forget a face.
Especially not this face.