Silent Meanings

Book 1

'Sherlock'

To say the least, Sherlock was obsessively interested by the mysterious circumstances John had appeared. Not, per say, in John himself, but how it was possible for him to fall from nothing and make a five foot crater in solid earth.

But that would change. Not right away, but Sherlock would eventually care more for John than for his mystery.

But now, on May 7th, Sherlock invited John to his flat only so he could speak to him alone and possibly crack this impossible cipher.

John didn't speak in the cab. He just stared out of the window; his breathing slightly labored in the heated car and looked almost wistfully to the sky. Sherlock watched him inventively for periodic intervals, then looked out of his window and scrolled through his phone for one thing or another.

John eventually let out a long suffering sigh, then turned towards Sherlock and said, "You have questions. If you want to know something, then ask, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked at him with a slightly surprised flicker in his eyes. Not that John could see it, but he knew.

"That's something I usually say," he said, as if musing. "I tend not to ask pointless questions, John."

"Then don't make them pointless."

Sherlock's lip curled up for a moment in something close to a smile. "Later."

They reached Bakker Street and Sherlock paid the cabbie, and John watched as he strode into the house and hung up his coat on the railing. An old woman came bustling out and fretted over Sherlock until she noticed the older man.

"Oh!" she sounded delighted. "Are you one of those police officers, or a friend of Sherlock's?"

John smiled at her but Sherlock replied before he could. "Mrs. Hudson, this is Dr. John Watson. He'll be staying with me for a few days."

John looked up at him, his face confused and surprised. "I am?"

"Splendid!" Mrs. Hudson squeaked. "Oh, Dr. Watson, Sherlock is a good boy, he really is—it's just those police officers who make him seem worse than he is, truly."

Sherlock, by this point, had climbed the stairs and shouted down to them. "Mrs. Hudson!"

Mrs. Hudson giggled and gently smacked John's back as he climbed the stairs. "Give him a chance, Dr. Watson."

"Of course, Mrs. Hudson," John smiled at her, though his back was aching slightly. He climbed the stairs slowly and was not very happy to find the air was warm in the flat.

Sherlock was curled up on the couch, laptop on his knees and he was viscously typing. The wallpapers and the colors of the rooms made it feel warm, and there were papers and books strewn across the small table and the floor, boxes piled against the walls and scientific beakers and things covering the kitchen table.

Sherlock closed his laptop, looked up at John and stood, not taking his eyes off of him. He watched John's eyes, noticing his eyes didn't waver or flick away.

"John," he said, very slowly, "Who are you?"

An ordinary person would have said, "I'm [insert name here], I told you that!" but as we've already established, John is no ordinary person. He knew what Sherlock was asking and knew he wouldn't stop trying to figure it out.

John simply smiled. He had his hands clasped behind his back and didn't look away from Sherlock's searching eyes. "I'm exactly who you think I am, Sherlock."

Sherlock found he couldn't look away from John's watery blue eyes. "I'm not quite sure what to think of you, John."

The doctor smiled. "You know, sometimes I don't either."

-Fallen Angel-

To answer your questions, yes, John did move in with Sherlock. Not that day, but the next. John had no belongings, so he simply moved Sherlock's stuff out of the upper bedroom and he became Sherlock's flat mate.

Mrs. Hudson was ecstatic, to say the least. She wasn't sure if it was one of Sherlock's 'friends', who sold him those horrible drugs, but she liked John. It was surprising. It seemed no one, from the DI to Sherlock couldn't not like him.

John found out about the drugs the day he moved in. He found a vial of liquid cocaine under his mattress—not a very original hiding place, sure, but it was so obvious it wasn't—and poured it down the toilet.

He found Sherlock on the couch one day, holding a syringe in his hands, looking like he was contemplating sticking it in his arm. John didn't gasp, run, yell, rip it out of his hands, or call for help. He blinked, walked calmly to Sherlock and sat next to him.

In the silence, they had a conversation. It went something like this:

Sherlock twitched his fingers. I'm an addict.

John clasped his hands. I know.

Sherlock blinked twice and bit his lip. This could be disastrous.

John let out a wheezy sort of breath. Yes, that's probable.

Sherlock closed his eyes. They keep me sane.

John glanced at his face. That's one way of looking at it, yes.

Sherlock's hands clenched around the syringe. I don't want to be an addict anymore.

John let his hand open, palm up. Then don't be.

Sherlock glanced at him, then from the syringe to his open hand. He swallowed and put the syringe in his hand, then tightly clasped his hands in his lap. I trust you.

John smiled at him, very slightly. Not pitying, but thankful almost. I know. Are there any more?

Sherlock nodded this time, the first ordinary answer in their conversation. Yes.

John nodded back, stood up and walked to the kitchen and slowly poured the drug down the drain. He turned to look at the detective. "You get the others."

Sherlock nodded and stood, and slowly went to collect his hoard of drugs. He came back with several vials, packets of white powder and two more syringes. He carefully handed them over and John got rid of all of them.

When John found Sherlock again, he was lying with his back to the world on the couch. John smiled when he saw that Sherlock was asleep.

-Fallen Angel-

Oh, and just for reference, the murderer of the two campers was found. He was in that forest, the night John fell from the sky. He hadn't the iron will Sherlock and Lestrade had, and went raving mad after he heard those hellish sounds. Lestrade's men found him on the fringe of that forest, ranting about demons and devils and he was put into the care of a hospital for the mentally ill. He died there three weeks later.

In the first month that John lived with Sherlock, he had no cases. But he never went for drugs, strangely, after John got rid of all of them. He didn't go searching for more, and found himself not craving the stimulation. He was focused on cracking the puzzle of John.

He observed him constantly. The way he walked (shuffled, almost, awkwardly and in pain. Not quite a limp, but like he had broken his legs and they hadn't healed properly), the way he breathed (harshly, wheezing, except in cold air), what he ate (he didn't like takeout at first, but seemed to get used to it. He didn't drink a lot, but when he did it was water), his habits (regular sleeper, went to bed at ten and woke at nine. Ate at regular intervals, didn't go out often, sat with his window open in his room and sat by it, breathing in cold morning air), everything. Sherlock could only link any kind of injuries from the fall with his awkward gait, but when he was asked, John said he had had a childhood accident that hurt his legs permanently. Sherlock wasn't quite sure if he believed him.

John, on that note, was constantly aware of his scrutiny and said nothing, nor did any of his habits differently. He was even aware of the times Sherlock stood at his bedside and watched him sleep.

He, at those times, was sleeping. He didn't wake and suddenly become aware of Sherlock. He was dead in sleep and knew he was being watched by his flat mate, but found he didn't mind.

In the middle of June, Sherlock got a case and dragged John along. Lestrade was not amused, but found that Sherlock was more thoughtful than usual and John seemed to only spur him on. Anderson was flabbergasted, and struck verbally at both Sherlock and John. Sherlock ignored him, John simply smiled and said, "And a good day to you, Mr. Anderson."

Sherlock was internally seething when he heard Anderson lash out at John, and found himself still angry when John said that. But he would pay Anderson back for that, in time.

Sergeant Donavon was angry. She told off Sherlock and told John to run before Sherlock could corrupt him. John, instead of getting angry, laughed and said, "Consider myself corrupted, then, Sergeant. Good day."

Sherlock rattled off his list of deductions, as usual, but none of the officers or him knew the victim's name. He was young, maybe twenty five, with dusty blonde hair, short and lean. He was killed by several stab wounds in his chest.

As the detective turned around, to look at John, he saw the good doctor's eyes flare a bright, electric blue as he looked at the corpse. Not a false, neon blue, but an electric cobalt blue. For only a moment, then they faded back to their diluted blue color and then John interrupted Lestrade's lecture with, "His name is Jeremy. Jeremy Earal."

All the noise stopped and everyone turned to John, openmouthed. Only Sherlock and Lestrade knew how he fell from the sky, but it was still astonishing to the others.

"How do you know that?" That was Lestrade.

"What made you remember?" That was Sherlock.

John blinked and looked up at them, noticing every pair of eyes was on him. A blush crept up his neck. "I just…know. It seemed right, you know? He looks like a Jeremy Earal."

Sherlock contemplated that. "He looks more like a David Jeffries, but I can go with that. Good! So, Lestrade, look for Jeremy Earal's friends and relatives. Most likely a restaurant owner, like I said."

"John, do you remember him? Do you know him?" Lestrade somewhat ignored Sherlock's orders as he asked.

John pursed his lips; face still a bit tinted by a pretty pink. "A bit, I guess. I know…remember…him. He works in the Green Dragon. Well, worked, I suppose." A beat passed, and then he frowned. "I…never mind."

Sherlock saw the internal struggle, and decided to bring this dull but informative little exercise to a stop. "You should be able to find him with all of that, Lestrade. Come along, John, I know a good Chinese place around the corner."

With that, our boys were off, and the trap was set. The gears were in motion. The end would come.

Book 1 is coming to a close, I'd say. Not sure, though, but I believe I can make book 1 end in the next chapter, possibly. But even though book 1 would end, book 2 will start! Yay!

There are probably a few mistakes in here, but it's hard for me to catch my own mistakes, because I know what I wanted to write and so I see what I think I wrote. Tell me if there's anything I missed. Like I said before, the style I started with is very hard to continually write. I'm trying, but finding myself slipping to my normal style.

Oh, and the line before the first breaker, I couldn't put 'John' or even 'the good doctor', but I had to write 'the doctor'. Reference! =D Geronimo!

Also leave a review, if you like it or hate it, if you have suggestions or thoughts on what should happen or predictions on what could happen. New ideas spur the mind.

Stay Happy,

Spirit