One: Everything Changes
Sherlock's eyes snap open and in the first three seconds of consciousness, he deduces several things without ever having to avert his gaze from the ceiling. First, he is thrilled to find himself alive and well and, quite remarkably, residing at 221B Baker Street, in spite of the rather lucid dream he'd been suffering through which had involved his own funeral, however cliche.
Second, he allows himself to tune his senses in to the flat and find John-whose funeral had also been included in that damned dream-and the smell of breakfast tea, toast, and warm butter mixed with strawberry jam flood him, letting him know that John is quite better than alright.
And in the third second of Sherlock's waking, he allows himself to run through the events of the previous day for anything he may have forgotten (unlikely) or overlooked (less likely), just in case. Of course, there is nothing new there, as he expected, so he sits up and lets his feet slip from the couch end to the floor for just a moment before standing up and stepping over the coffee table.
He straightens out his trousers and realizes that he is still wearing his suit from the day before. Curious.
"Good morning," John says from the kitchen. "Thank you for labeling the jam jars. It was... very courteous of you."
Sherlock smirks, sensing just a bit of hostility behind John's words. Well, what else was he meant to put his samples in? It wasn't every day (or every week, or even month) that one is presented with the opportunity to study a suicide victim's brain matter after a gunshot to the left temple. He'd had to hurry. Did John expect him to put brain matter in plastic containers? Surely not. Glass was much less breathable.
The doctor's thanks should have been entirely sincere.
John offers him a piece of toast as he enters the living room and heads for his laptop on the messy table. Sherlock is far too ready to begin the day to slow himself down by eating toast. He'd managed to tuck in just under two hours of sleep. He had at least 36 hours in him now.
He doesn't bother shaking his head at John. The other man was merely offering out of politeness. He knows Sherlock detests breakfast.
"I think I'll have a shower," he announces. His clothes from yesterday are making him feel entirely wrinkled. A scalding shower and a fresh suit will surely iron him out and ensure that Sherlock Holmes is perfectly aerodynamic for any of the day's activities. "Could you text Lestrade and tell him I've got a good feeling about the victim's brother's cat sitter? Tell him, expressly, that if the woman has a stainless steel cat box but a plastic scooper, arrest her."
Sherlock turns on his heel and heads for the bath, but he doesn't miss the sigh that escapes John's lips or the telltale sound of the toast hitting the plate as John's fingers neglect it in favor of his cell phone.
As he towels at his hair precisely eight minutes later, Sherlock feels an uncomfortable jab in his neck, as if someone is pressing a gun to his jugular. He swallows and presses his hand to the tightened muscle and feels the strain fading away beneath his fingers. In the mirror, his neck almost looks contorted with the way he has twisted away from the pain. He's been experiencing minor aches like this since that night at the swimming pool-the night everything in his life had seemed to change at once.
Split-second decisions had always been something of an area for Sherlock Holmes, but when the world's only consulting detective doesn't only have his own arse to look out for, things get a mite more complicated.
That complication's name is John Watson.
A welcome addition in his life, of course he was, albeit slightly begrudging in the beginning. They still have their qualms about each other, but in that moment at the pool, Sherlock had been sure that they were in complete agreement for the first time: If one of us goes, the other does, too. This isn't one or the other.
It got complicated, Sherlock notes as he buttons his his suit jacket four minutes later, because he wasn't sure if he would ever be able to just be Sherlock again. The question had been eating at him for weeks. John was the one Lestrade called when he wanted to bring Sherlock in on a case. Mycroft frequently went through John as if the doctor was his secretary. Even Mrs. Hudson had taken to speaking to John first about any and all matters regarding the flat (except damage-John had explicitly told Mrs. Hudson that all property damage was Sherlock's fault, which, while generally accurate, was quite an unfair assumption).
And yet, for all the times Sherlock had dared to think of John Watson as something of an assistant, he was slowly finding that the other man was much more than that. Friend? Sherlock had never been a fan of the world. Perhaps more of a steady fixture with friendly attributes and a kind face.
More data. He needed more data. But thinking about a life without John wasn't something he liked to do. It wasn't an experiment he was willing to risk, which was something new altogether.
"Lestrade says you're barking mad," John says, not looking up from his laptop when Sherlock enters the room. "But he also sends his thanks."
"If he could string the facts together himself, he wouldn't feel so inadequate when I solved his cases, would he?" Sherlock sits down across from John and unfolds the morning paper with a snap. His eyes scan over the front page quickly-political scandals involving American presidential candidates who have less brain cells than the jam jar in his fridge, an ad that tells Sherlock that the male lead will die halfway through from the film poster alone, and pointless overgrown headlines all try to drag him in with useless blabber and catch words.
"Bored," he says, flipping over to the next page. Still nothing exciting. The obituaries will surely give him something to ponder. Suspicious deaths happening in London, maybe. There are always suspicious deaths somewhere. Then again, Lestrade hadn't immediately offered a new case, which means he thinks his department can handle whatever they've got on their plate. Oh, it'd be like Christmas if Sherlock would find something they missed. And in the paper, no less.
His eyes wander over the carefully written death notices, jumping from pictures of the deceased to their funeral arrangements. Heart attack. Survived by three daughters and five grandchildren. Leaves behind his loving wife. Stroke. Send flowers to... Old age. Leaves behind sixteen cats: Buttons, Mr. Darcy, Frederick, Emille... Bored.
"Mycroft is stopping by," John announces, still looking down at his computer screen. He takes a casual sip of his coffee as if he hasn't just announced that the devil is coming to call.
"Then we're going out." Sherlock stands and heads for the door, pulling his coat and scarf from where they're set over the back of the wooden chair at the table. Almost as if he can sense his brother attempting to flee the premises, Mycroft Holmes enters like an actor taking his cues. "Or perhaps not." The younger Holmes steps back into the flat, letting his shoulders drop almost undetectably and sagging into the armchair behind John at the table, listening as Mycroft walks up the stairs, entering the flat as though he owns it.
Which he might, considering Sherlock isn't actually paying any rent and Mrs. Hudson has never asked him for money. He has to assume Mycroft has some dirty dealings going on, he's just never asked.
"Good morning, Dr. Watson. Sherlock, good to see you." Mycroft inclines his head toward the chair across from his brother, clearly asking for permission that they both know he'll ignore either way. After a moment of humoring Sherlock's ignorance, he sits down and addresses his dark-haired brother. "I presume you're getting along well since the Moriarty incident."
The Moriarty incident. Sherlock wants to tell the man in front of him that it was quite a bit more than an incident, but he simply responds, "Quite well, thank you. I see your diet isn't faring quite so favorably. Three pounds up, yes?"
Mycroft leans back in the slightly threadbare armchair and regards Sherlock through a sheer mask that seems meant to imply that his brother isn't getting to him. John has finally managed to tear himself away from his computer-he was simply reading some article about how to deal with problematic flatmates, anyway. Useless and Sherlock plans to tell him later. Now, of course, the doctor is keen on observing the power play between the Holmes brothers.
"Sherlock, a man of your mindset surely knows I'm not here to talk about pastry recipes. I'm here about your very own well-being, which could be compromised in the near future by a certain James Moriarty."
This, of course, piques Sherlock's interest in the conversation, and he begins to notice things. His brother's posture has not changed, even though he has just delivered information that he knows is valuable to everyone in the room. There is a slight change in the light of his eyes, as if he knows there are going to be questions he cannot answer. Somewhere to his left, John has leaned forward in his seat, and his breath caught at the mention of the man's name. Sherlock, still completely capable of bodily functions, finds his teeth set on edge by the admission.
"If I recall correctly-and I do-your men told me he was dead. Guaranteed it, in fact."
"It was presumed at the time, though we now know wrongly so, because it was miracle enough that the two of you survived the blast-"
"Damn it, Mycroft, since when do your people presume anything?" Sherlock is standing now, though for the life of him he isn't sure when this happened. It is a curious thing, surely, for one's mind to move so quickly and to spin so out of control that bodily motion is needed in order to keep it from bouncing away entirely. Everything is telling him he souldn't have trusted Mycroft and his men to begin with. He should not have let himself be carted off to the hospital like some invalid. Minor flesh wounds were not reason enough-his mind had been perfectly adequate and, had he been permitted to stay behind, he was sure he would have been the one to realize that Moriarty was still among the living.
The signs, the signs. There had to be signs. Everything needed to piece together-but what were the signs?
Mycroft remains perfectly calm, as he has always been wont to do, and twirls the tip of his umbrella against the floorboards. "We have always operated in such a way that would give us sure results. For the last nine weeks, my men have been going through the wreckage expecting to find Moriarty stowed away beneath a pile of concrete. There was no reason to believe he had survived, Sherlock. There were no signs of life in the aftermath except the two of you, and even that should have been impossible." He pauses and looks between John and Sherlock before shrugging as if he hasn't just opened a whole new can of worms. "The gunmen were crushed and we operated on the believe that Moriarty had been, as well."
Sherlock can feel John's eyes on him and it wouldn't be so distracting if those eyes weren't so expectant. The doctor wanted, no, needed him to have a plan-one that would involve the two of them going off and finding Moriarty right now and finishing this once and for all. Tearing the man limb from limb with their bare hands because he was stupid enough to cross Sherlock bloody Holmes and think he'd get away with it. Let's go now, we can do this right now. He can almost hear John's thoughts. Let's end this.
But that isn't how Moriarty works.
First, this has to get dirty.
Bloody.
It's going to be a mess, and Sherlock knows it.
And not even a fun mess.
Sherlock closes his eyes and takes a breath. This had all been fun when it had been a game that was about him. The thrill of it all had been an endorphin rush like no other-the countdown, the cases handed to him like gift-wrapped presents, the way he could always rely on some new puzzle...
But this is different entirely.
Sherlock stretches out his neck and cocks his head, feeling a thick tension rising in his throat like something burning.
I will burn the heart out of you.
When he opens his eyes a moment later, it is entirely to meet John's. He will never admit that the other man's stare can make time slow down the way it does, but the way their eyes hold in that moment seems to stretch out with the mutual understanding that this isn't going to be like last time.
Nine weeks ago, it had all been about Moriarty's game with Sherlock.
Now, it is about the both of them; a game of cat and mouse that is far too personal.