A/N: Oh my god, I am so so sorry this took so long and I just want to thank everyone who messaged me to check up on things. You really helped me to work through the writer's block. Okay this one is a biggie so I am going to have to split it into two parts. Hope you all like this one and I just want to apologise again. Thank you for all the reviews!
"Tut tut love. We have been busy haven't we."
Moriarty stepped into the light with a very large, very shiny gun pressed against the back of John's head. He was wearing an expensive looking black suit and an open necked shirt. His skin was more tanned than usual and there were almost invisibly light marks where he had been wearing sunglasses, the slightly paler skin around his eyes making them seem all that darker as they glittered in Sherlocks direction. The man smirked and slid a hand through his hair, shaking his head with a soft laugh.
"Sherlock, so sorry for dropping in like this."
The detective tried his best to act natural and waved a hand in an almost flirtatious manner. "No no, not at all." He was careful to use just his peripheral vision to check on John, the doctor wearing a blank expression but with quick eyes that glanced Sherlock up and down and there, the barest twitch of his lips to let the detective know he was unhurt. Sherlock never looked away from Moriartys eyes and the odd two man tandem walked fully into the light. John was pushed towards the detective. So close and yet...
"I believe congratulations are in order?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow but said nothing. His rival gave him a scathing look and sighed. "Oh come now, you really didn't expect news of your nuptials to reach me? Naive." Again he said nothing. He had expected it. (But then, he expected Moriarty to be fully clued up on everything Sherlock got up to. After all, he had been receiving reports from Mycroft about the other man for months.) Moriartys false smile dropped and he sniffed, pushing John roughly in the back of the head with the gun prompting him to jog away. The gun was still pointed at them and Moriartys finger was coiled in waiting on the trigger.
But for now at least, John was not in direct danger.
Sherlock didn't look at the doctor as he walked backwards to the desk. John's gun was in there. Unsurprisingly his actions were noticed by the gunman and those dark glittering eyes flickered from Sherlocks face to the doctors' outstretched fingers and back again. After a second Moriarty moved his own weapon, lifting to aim directly at the doctor's chest. "Move. Away." Each word poised and direct, an order. John froze for a second, a brief second in which nobody took a breath in anticipation for what he was to do next.
Would John dare to not move?
The moment seemed to slow until all action appeared to be in such a distant future Sherlock felt it would never happen. His heart thundered in his chest and he licked his lips unconsciously, cursing himself for giving away his discomfort, his emotion. He could only hope that his nemesis had been focussed on John, oh John. Sherlock was careful not move his gaze too quickly and he tried to focus, tried to wait out that fierce moment. John looked at Moran for moment before stepping away from the desk, side stepping his way to the sofa with his palms up. Sherlock felt his fiancé's weight rest beside him and then the warmth of a thigh against the detectives. He sighed and leant into it only a tiny bit, just enough to garner a response from John but not enough for anybody else to notice. Moriarty looked away from them and for the first time he looked at Sebastian.
Sherlock watched his face intently for any sign of emotion for any indication that he cared for the man. His skin was pricking and his face felt hot. Sherlock was terrified, horrified all of sudden at the idea that the monster could love. He was furious with himself, for allowing his perfectly focussed mind to be so swamped with emotion, with a hundred different sentiments which whizzed and popped behind his eyes filling his throat until he could barely swallow.
Moriartys face remained as still and cold as marble and when he walked towards Moran, reaching out to slide his hands into the man's hair Sherlock took a shivery breath. Moran reacted instantly to his bosses touch, titling his head and pressing towards his master's palm like an attention starved kitten. Moriartys eyes didn't change but his mouth curled in a smug grin and then an eyebrow rose as he (Surprisingly.) gently tilted the man's head, running a thumb over his eye socket and examining his wounds. Moran was staring at him with such reverence, such desperation that Sherlock had to look away.
It was frightening to see what could become of strong men who give way to their emotions.
His mind began a mad scramble, would Sherlock, could Sherlock fall that far? Would he be devastated by his love for John, would it consume him too leaving him weak, pathetic, petty like Moran? He shuddered at the thought and Moriarty sighed dragging his hand back to grasp the lovesick mans hair tightly, yanking his head back. "You know, I am very disappointed in you. There I was just coming back from a short...holiday-" His eyes slipped to Sherlocks and he smirked for a second before returning his gaze to the captive. Sherlock didn't speak but he noticed the almost manic glint in Moriartys eyes when he looked at Sherlock. His gaze would come alive when he looked at the detective, retuning to a blank empty mask when he looked down at the man so desperately striving for his attention. "-Expecting to find my second in command waiting faithfully at the exit lounge. What do I find instead? A message that you have taken the opportunity my...excursion... lent you, to cavort with some pathetic wannabe?"
Moran's face dropped and he shifted in his chair, his eyes pleading and panicked. "But you said, you said you admired initiative. That was what I was doing I was just trying...recruitment. New methods of disposal! That was all."
Moriarty licked his lips and paused for a second, John taking the opportunity to tense his muscles, perhaps about to make a run for the weapon? Sherlock tensed too, there was no way he could tell him to stop without the gun man seeing so it was better he prepared for action too. But he did see them, eyes not moving from his second-in-command's face as he waggled the gun and pointed it at Johns head.
"Ah ah ah, stay where you are doctor."
John cursed under his breath and Moriarty leant down a little dragging his fingers over Moran's chest lazily as he peered intently at the man's face. "Now Seb, I know you. Remember? I found you; I discovered what you are, who you are. You were lost weren't you?"
"Yes. I was I was so lost without you."
"That's right, and when everyone else looked at you and saw a ruthless killer, a mindless tool to be used I saw what you really were, I stopped you from turning your hunger on them didn't I? Stopped you becoming the weapon they would come to regret, they would call a monster."
Sherlock kept his face still as the smirking mans gaze slid over his features, watching his lips form the word he hated so intensely. Monster. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and forced himself to clear his mind. Moriarty returned his attention to his serf and lifted an eyebrow expectantly. Moran almost fell over himself to answer. "Yes you saved me. You helped me get out."
"I did so, tell me, what in god's green earth makes you think that you could lie to me?"
Moran had began to smile, nodding along as Moriarty stared at him, grinning and patting his chest but that smile dropped instantly and now he looked terrified, ashamed and his gaze flickered to the right, to Sherlock. It was quick but it was unmistakable. The detective knew he wasn't the only one who caught it and Moriarty reached up grabbing Moran's chin to turn his head to look at him. The normally cold man's gaze flickered for a second as his eyes made contact with Moran again and he all but danced around the chair to stand imposing almost straddling his followers' legs. He leant in, his eyes searching the wounds in front of him and Sherlock couldn't breathe because he could have sworn (And he certainly wasn't a expert at spotting these things.) that if only for a second there was an air of tenderness between the two men before Moriarty swung backwards and yanked the desk drawer open, reaching in for Johns gun. Sherlock felt an irrational jolt of disgust as the weapon was handled by his rival and felt his fiancé tense beside him.
"Doctor, please release him." John didn't move and the gunman raised an eyebrow waggling his weapon in the air and tilting his head. "Release Sebastian now."
John got up and walked to the chair, pulling the handcuff key from his shirt pocket and releasing Moran without taking his eyes off of the gun.
"Excellent. Thank you."
Moran stood up and looked down rubbing his wrist before strutting up to his boss and sliding his hand around his waist. The gunman smirked and looked to Sherlock as if expecting some sort of reaction from him, his eyes narrowed when Sherlocks face didn't change. He seemed almost disappointed and licked his lips as Moran pulled a second gun from the back of Moriartys waistband. John stayed stock still in his position at the back of the chair as Moriarty walked around to him twirling on his heels to stand behind him, arm sliding too slowly, too languorously around Sherlocks fiancés neck. He forced himself to relax; he didn't want to give his rival the pleasure of seeing him worried about John.
Not again, not like last time.
He tugged and Moran walked lazily after the two man tandem as they backed towards the stairs, Sherlock finally got to his feet and followed them. There was a scrape of boots on wood and a thump and Sherlock rounded the corner to watch Moriarty and John hobble backwards out of 221B closely followed by Moran who sneered as he stepped over the crumpled body of Becker. Sherlock could see the commander's gun kicked far down the hall under the small unit Mrs. Hudson used to store her magazines and the unconscious man had a growing lump on his forehead as well as a obviously broken nose. Sherlock followed them out into the street, losing the will to stop himself from running down the last few stairs and across the pavement. On the other side of the road Moran had climbed into the back of a heavy looking black saloon car leaving Sherlocks rival to wait alone.
Sherlock froze as Moriarty smirked at him, twisting the gun against the doctor's neck. "It's a shame Sherlock. This was not how I intended things to end."
He was fiddling with something behind Johns back; Sherlock couldn't see and when he tried to inch towards them a little more the car window rolled down to reveal the driver. He was enormous with curly black hair and surprisingly warm brown eyes that twinkled in the streetlights as he pointed his own gun directly at Sherlocks heart. The detective didn't move, he didn't know what Moriarty had planned and he didn't know how those plans had changed and he was furious. He should've been able to work this out, he knew Moriarty better than anyone, perhaps better than the man knew himself and yet he couldn't think. The pounding of his heart was so loud it almost seemed to echo in the empty street, darkness closed in around them and the air was cold, heavy with the smell of damp as though the rain was just aching to pour.
He couldn't think because John was stood in the arms of Jim Moriarty, the one that got away.
There was the sound of sirens in the distance and Moriarty sighed before pushing John roughly in the back propelling him across the road and disappearing inside the car all in one swift movement. Sherlock barely heard the screech of the tires on the tarmac before the drivers gun dropped from view, the window came back up and almost as though teleported the car vanished. John was back at his side in an instant and he didn't think before he grabbed the doctor's arm and yanked him forwards. John's breath was hot and rushed out in short fast pants against Sherlock's neck as he pulled him in as tightly as he could, he wanted to claim him back from the teasing, taunting hands of his rival. They only had minutes before Becker woke up, mere minutes before his mind would begin to run again hard and fast and he would no longer be able to stop the thoughts that terrified him. So he clung to John and his warm hands that slid up his back, the heat pushing through Sherlocks thin shirt and the slightly sweaty scent of the skin of his neck as Sherlock pressed his lips to the strong pulse beneath and to John's rough mouth as he kissed his mind blank.
It didn't last though and before long Becker had called in reinforcements and Sherlock was forced to sit through an angry speech by Lestrade unable to bring himself to care enough to even listen to the words being shouted at him from the furious pacing detective.
It all just seemed to mesh into one big incomprehensible noise that made Sherlocks head ache and the blank 'soldier' face John had on was making his stomach turn so he stared at his nails, picking at his cuticles until Lestrade stormed out. For a long time after the DI left he stayed where he was. He contemplated moving but the mere action involved seemed like too much; almost as if the recent events were weighing him down, pushing him back into the sofa and numbing his skin like a torrent of ice cold rain. So he stayed, for two days he stayed, he didn't eat, he didn't sleep, he was simply paralysed by his mind. Nothing else mattered but what he had seen, no matter how much he tried to force himself to think about the facts and the case and about finding Moriarty again, keeping John safe or even the details of his upcoming wedding (After all he was becoming desperate at this point.) nothing, nothing could stop that one tender moment between Moran and Sherlocks rival from bursting through, the change in that mans cold marble face and the utter joy in his serf's eyes sent a chill through him that he couldn't forget.
Those two days went by in a blur; people came and went in the flat, Mummy visited for an hour just staring at her son when he didn't answer her questions barely touching the tea John made for her. Although, Sherlock did notice the strange expression they both wore when she asked how long he had been on the sofa and Mummy's almost affectionate smile when John explained that he wouldn't let it go too far. He had been momentarily distracted from his disturbing thoughts to try and remember any time when Mummy had looked at him like that. In the end and after hundreds of exasperated glances and almost constant air of irritation John finally stamped towards him, reaching out and wrapping strong fingers around Sherlocks arms and yanking them to break the detectives gaze.
"Hey, hey look at me."
So he did. John looked tired, purple streaks below his eyes and his lips were pressed together tightly and Sherlock fought to remember if John had slept at all. He wasn't sure, he had been so occupied by his owns thoughts.
"Look, I know this is what you do and that's fine but we still don't know what happened back there or why and-"
Sherlock had opened his mouth to express his theories but John clamped one hand over his lips, fingers still tightly circling his other wrist. "No, don't speak. I need you to get up now, you need to eat you need to sleep and most of all you need to shower. Get up."
He just stared and stared and stared unable to stop and break his own gaze on John's eyes. He couldn't look away from the train wreck of the pain in them; the way his pupils dilated as he tipped his head down and the tightness on the edges. Finally the doctor broke and threw Sherlocks own wrists at him, spinning on his heel and standing with his back to the detective, hands on hips but shoulders slumped. Sherlock didn't move.
"Dammit Sherlock." Johns voice was oddly low almost a whisper and as he walked away the doctor shook his head.
He got up and rubbed his hands on his legs, waiting for the doctor to look back but after a few minutes of silence he knew that was not going to happen. He wasn't sure what to do so he decided that the best option was to leave John alone. After all Lestrade always told him that 'space' was important in relationships. (It definitely had nothing to do with his desire to run away from ever having to talk about what had happened.) So he walked past John, hesitating as he walked through the door standing there just long enough for John to glance his way and the look in his lover's eyes made him jolt his gaze away in unexpected panic.
It was almost as though John knew what he was thinking about.
He walked shakily forwards and up the stairs and into the bathroom carefully stripping himself of his clothes before stepping into the shower. The water poured down his neck and chest and he stared in the hideous beige tiles at his own reflection. He was pale, eyes wild and dark against his sodden hair and as he looked back at himself it was almost as if he could remove his mind from his body and he thought about the look in John's eyes and he frowned because it was almost like meeting him for the first time all over again except there was no warmth, no spark of interest, of recognition. He had looked at John and had seen the cold disapproval he received so often from strangers. Sherlock frowned and turned his back on his own image, soaping his hair and closing his eyes. He remembered how easily John had been able to read what Sherlock was planning or the meaning behind his words. It was one of the doctor's traits that drew Sherlock to him, that made him feel such intense love for him.
He could pinpoint the moment the thought first popped into his head.
He couldn't remember exactly how he had got there but he was stood in the living room, dripping water and suds on the bare floorboards as John blinked back at him from the kitchen doorway. It barely registered that the new curtains John had picked out were still sealed in plastic packaging somewhere on the desk so his naked body would be clearly visible from across the street, or even that it had begun to rain the quiet consistent rushing noise and the chilled breeze pushing through the open windows. Sherlocks skin goose pimpled and he hunched over a little, almost caveman in his posture as he stared at John knowing he couldn't escape the nightmares anymore.
"It was never over."
John's eyebrows dropped in confusion and he tilted his head taking a short step forwards to reach a hand towards his fiancé. Sherlock sucked in a breath and suddenly he was back, he was in focus. The detective cocked his hip an crossed one arm over his chest resting the elbow of his other arm on top, finger to his lips as he began to strut back and forth, pacing to the throbbing beat of his mind.
"Sherlock? What...what are you tal-"
"Weren't you listening! It was never over! Isn't it obvious? I had allowed myself to run from this for too long John, well no more, I have accepted it as the truth."
"What truth? What are you on about? Jesus Christ Sherlock will you put on some pants and sit down for a second, you're scaring me."
Sherlock snorted and flicked the wet hair from his face. "What, more than usual?"
John almost smiled and approached the detective slowly gently prodding him towards the sofa. Sherlock sat and John grabbed the hideous patchwork quilt from his chair, throwing it over the still damp man. He gestured vaguely and Sherlock sniffed, the chill from his damp skin finally making some impact. He began to shiver.
"John, I know who was working with Moran, who was trying to kill us."
John stared for a moment and then looked down at his hands his voice nothing more than a whisper. "It's Bossley isn't it."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows, he had been so wrapped up in his own fears he hadn't even considered that John had also made the connection between the mad man that had plagued them and the attempts of their lives. "How long have you known?"
"I have suspected it is him for a while but I was hoping you would tell me it was some other psychotic murderer you had put away years ago or something."
Sherlock felt...angry. He could feel indignant rage building in his chest like a chef slaving over a starter for a feast only to find that nobody had even tried the dish. It wasn't fair. He looked at John and tried to assess his state of mind. The doctors scrunched up face told him only that John was angry too, that John loathed that they couldn't avoid this anymore. "What are we going to do?" Sherlock didn't know how to answer that.
Mycroft appeared at the flat the next day, insistent on pushing along plans for the wedding almost as though if everyone focussed on that one day then they would forget that a seemingly omnipresent if ineffective assassin was still haunting the couple. He perched in Sherlocks chair with his umbrella resting on the red rug, constantly twitching hands forming a staccato beat that resonated dully across the floor to where Sherlock lay stretched out on the floorboards, expertly throwing darts up at the ceiling and catching them when gravity finally wrenched them loose.
Truth be told the older Holmes brother was sulking after Sherlock had pointed out that he was clearly more stressed about the situation than he would like them to believe as evidenced by him failing at his diet. He had tried to gloss over Sherlocks observations and had begun to pout when the detective pointed out the distinctive red bags from the pastries sold at Speedys (The small bakery downstairs. Delicious coffee.) that poked surreptitiously from the corner of his coat pocket and the crumbs on his collar only emphasising his guilt.
Sherlock smirked and sat up when John placed a mug next to his head. "So, before Sherlock interrupted you were saying something about suits?"
"Oh yes, obviously we already have your measurements but I will need Sherlocks best man's numbers..."
There was a long pause. Sherlock hadn't thought of that. He had forgotten John was taking Lestrade. He desperately didn't want to resort to Mycroft. Suddenly the answer appeared in the doorway with medical tape peppering his face, holding his broken nose straight and only accentuating the bruises around his eyes. What fantastic timing the man had. "Commander, what are your measurements?"
Mycroft raised an eyebrow and turned to look at an equally surprised Becker. "I believe they are already on file sir."
Sherlock sniffed and nodded. "There Mycroft, they are already on file."
"You asked your bodyguard to be your best man."
"You have a problem with that?"
Mycroft eyed his brother suspiciously for a moment before lifting his drink to his lips and shaking his head to indicate he didn't. Beckers confused eyebrows rose and he grinned walking further into the room. He bent down and reached for Sherlocks mug, "Do you mind?" Sherlock shook his head and the commander plopped down on the sofa, taking a sip of his tea.
He was still smiling.
There was a beep and Mycroft slid his phone from his pocket staring blankly at the screen for a moment before swishing to his feet. As his brother was apologising to John, blathering on about important issues he needed to take care of Sherlock titled his head to covertly listen to Becker as the commander leant forwards to whisper nervously to him. "Are you sure about this? I mean...I am honoured and everything but...you barely know me."
"Nonsense I know a lot about you. In fact-"
They were interrupted by a thump of Mycroft umbrella wincingly close to Sherlocks bare feet. "Since we already have the measurements you can entertain Mummy this afternoon. I had intended to take her to see a show but as business has gotten in the way, perhaps you would like to."
Sherlock scowled. He would not like, not at all.
"Actually I have a therapist's appointment and Sherlock said he would come too."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow; Sherlock fought the urge to do the same. John had no appointments and he certainly wouldn't have wanted Sherlock to go with him if he did. "Really? Whatever for?"
John crossed his arms and raised his chin, his eyes drifting to his fiancé for a brief moment. "For moral support not that it is any of your business."
Mycroft let out a puff of air, almost a snort and tilted his head. "Odd, this appointment isn't in my records..." He spoke almost as if to himself and he banged his umbrella one more time. "No matter, I am sure Mummy will be fine with Antheas company."
(Sherlock sniffed at the slightly softened tone his brother always used when talking about his assistant. It didn't suit his sibling.) He was still pondering why Mycroft had let John lie so blatantly to him like that...perhaps this was also part of the distraction plan? He was pulled away from his train of thought by the floor reverberating from Mycrofts exit and he looked to John. The doctor sighed and put his hands on his hips. "Right well, you'd better get dressed." Sherlock frowned for a fraction of a second before he caught up. Mycroft would be expecting them to leave for John's therapist.
It was still bitterly cold out and Sherlock pushed his hands further into his pockets as he waited outside the coffee shop for John. They had managed to lose the black saloon car and Becker had agreed to give them time, (Although only with the promise that they would be extremely careful not be killed and that John would update him every hour on the hour on their whereabouts.) time to talk about the Bossley situation, time to discuss Sherlocks 'mood'.
There was a quiet cough and John pressed a large tea into Sherlocks blue hands and they walked together, wandering aimlessly in silence. They walked a few blocks, Sherlock trying to think what to say. Did he tell John about his fears of his resemblance to Moriarty or did he keep it strictly to what they were going to do about Bossley? He didn't know, so instead he said nothing. "Right." John had stopped, throwing his empty cup into a nearby bin before putting his hands on his hips and lifting his chin. "Right." Sherlock kept silent. "Right." John appeared to be stuck in some sort of endless loop so Sherlock flicked his hair from his eyes and leant in closer to his fiancé.
"John, you still in there?"
The doctor almost smiled, it was there for a fraction of a second but the detective saw it and he felt a odd sort of triumph in his chest and took a sip of his almost cold tea to stifle the unexpected grin. "Right Tell me honestly how much of a threat right now is Bossley? What do you think his next move is?"
Sherlock thought about it. "Well if I was him I'd be running."
"Running from... you?"
"Don't be ridiculous. No, he is running from Moriarty. You saw how furious he was, how disgusted. Yes if I was Moriarty I would be hunting him down because he is ruining the plan. He is ruining the thrill of the chase, the game." John had his eyebrows raised, his lips pulled tightly together. He almost looked...jealous. Sherlock decided not to dwell on it. "So, if he is smart which he almost defiantly is, Bossley will be running for now."
"So we can consider ourselves safe?"
"Well, as safe as we ever get. Yes."
John actually smiled this time and slid his arm through Sherlocks arm before tugging him further down the street. "Good."
He listened to the soft ticking noise, it was beating in time to his heart and if Sherlock really concentrated he could slow his own heart beat and the clock would lose its place. "It is your time you are wasting here." Sherlock screwed up his face, it was almost like being back at school, back in the corner of some classroom with his head buried in his desk as he slept off a night of wandering the woods alone, looking for animals tracks and noting down the different plant species and their uses.
"I have absolutely no problem with that."
He could hear Barrows puff out a sigh through his hideous moustache. "You came to me for help and I can't help you if you won't co-operate. I thought you wanted to talk Sherlock."
There was a long pause almost as if he was expecting an answer. The detective sniffed and crossed his arms keeping his eyes closed. John was waiting outside in the car with Becker; they were probably going over Mummys napkin plans or something equally ludicrous. "I sense something has happened to make you withdraw like this." Witchcraft. Or had Mycroft been sending sneaky letters again.
"I am not withdrawn."
"Would you like to talk about what happened when Moriarty broke into your flat?"
Sherlock opened his eyes and flung his feet off the sofa, spiralling around to stare at his therapist. He knew it! "I knew it! My brother has been in contact hasn't he? Told you how I have been in one of my moods again has he? Well, it was a dead loss for him, I am not talking about Moriarty or Moran or Bossley or any of that."
Barrows said nothing he simply raised his palms at the detective, lowering his chin and looking down in a submissive motion. He seemed to think for a moment as though reconsidering his approach."You don't have to; I am here for you Sherlock. I am just a tool for you to use when things get a little bit too much, I am not here to force this on you."
Sherlock snorted. That was a lie, and the detective crossed his arms swiftly resuming his previous position. Since he and John had decided that Bossley was not an issue at the moment Sherlock had managed to force his fears and memories of Moriartys little visit out of his head but hearing his therapist spout the name with such concern brought it all back. He rubbed his thighs nervously but remained staring up at the ceiling. Barrows had helped before, somewhat...not that he would ever admit that in public but he would not be able to help here. Not with this. (He was deftly ignoring the real reason was that he didn't want to talk about the possibility that he was like Moriarty. After all he had never expressed many of the strange dark thoughts he had and this method seemed to be working for him thus far. )
He didn't know what to do, he could mention the moment that scared him so, the all too familiar dread of Bossley or even the oddness of Mycrofts concern in a family where emotion as not...favoured. He did none of these things.
"Come to my wedding."
Barrows eyebrows rose and he leant forwards in his seat with a tiny smile on his face, all but hidden by the vile moustache. "It is very flattering to be asked. Thank you, I would love to come." Sherlock just nodded and looked out of the window. "Do you want to talk about the wedding?" Sherlock didn't say anything; he just rubbed his thighs again and sniffed. "Is there something about it that is frightening you?" Sherlock licked his lips. Truth be told he was certain, absolutely certain, that something terrible would happen on that day be it Bossley, Moriarty or simply John leaving him standing at the altar. He paused for a moment before the words began to bubble in his throat and push against his tongue until they tumbled from his lips.
"I am not frightened. I just-"
Suddenly Sherlocks phone rang and he stopped mid sentence to tear it from his pocket. Saved by the bell. "Sherlock Holmes."
"Sherlock? Oh dear, there are two strange men here at the front door and they asked me about you. Mycroft did tell me not to let anybody in but I can't just leave them out there in this weather!"
Sherlock sighed she sounded concerned, motherly. "Mrs Hudson calm down, tell me what they look like."
He could hear her dithering over the phone and then the click of the door as she pulled it open a little to peer out at the men for a long moment before the door closed again. "One of them is very tall with dark hair and the other is short with blonde hair."
Sherlock frowned. They did not sound familiar. "Ask them what they want."
He could hear her polite twittering for only a moment before a deeper gruffer voice interjected and another unfamiliar voice filtered through his mobile. "Is this Sherlock Holmes?"
"Who wants to know?"
"My name is commander Alex Waverley. I am here with my partner attempting to track down a serial murderer and I have been informed that if I want to find someone in London you're the man I need to talk to."
Sherlock grinned. "Please pass the phone back to Mrs. Hudson." He waited a few seconds as the phone was passed back. "Mrs Hudson please let the men in. Also, put the kettle on, we will be home sooner than anticipated."
John and Becker had shared a look when Sherlock had burst out of his therapist's office, striding past them without a word. They talked over him as he slumped in the back of the cab, staring out at the dull grey sky and the people outside battling against the harsh winds that swirled through the city streets with enough force to turn any umbrella inside out. Finally, a case to take his mind back to his work. Thank god. A serial murderer? Fantastic. As they pulled up at the flat Becker jumped out first holding the door open for John as the doctor clamoured out leaving his fiancé sat alone in the back of the cab. Sherlock hadn't moved, he was stuck staring down the road at the entrance to Baker street tube station. He could have sworn for just a mere moment he had seen a well turned heel and a wicked grin before he had glanced away. Well he wasn't looking away now, no he was staring and staring just daring for even a passing resemblance to the face he saw so often in his dreams to pass his view.
But he didn't and the minutes dragged on and on and on until John's concerned face was peering in at him and he vaguely heard his name being called. Everything snapped back into focus and the detective slipped out quickly, not looking John in the face as he brushed past him and jogged up the stairs. He managed to keep his face blank and breezed into the flat storing that odd moment away in the back of his mind as he hung his scarf and coat up, giving himself a moment to breathe before he turned and focussed on the two strangers in his home.
The taller one got to his feet leaving his much shorter partner sitting on the sofa and stuck out his hand as if to prompt Sherlock to shake. He did reluctantly and swept across the room to sit in his chair. He decided that the taller one was Alex, he was after all clearly former military with his stern haircut and stiff posture, and his voice had been tinged slightly with an accent Sherlock couldn't quite place over the phone. He suspected it was somewhere other than Britain's temperate climate as the man had a tan and was wearing a t-shirt a jumper a jacket and a coat as well as a pair of dark jeans and large heavy tan coloured boots and so obviously wasn't used to the weather. His partner remained seated but was clearly much much shorter than Alex with a long face, scruffy five o'clock shadow and dyed blonde hair that swept back over his head in a slick wave; he grinned shyly at Sherlock and twitched his lips in greeting. (Obviously the least serious of the pair.) He was wearing a much more sensible jumper rolled up to his elbows with a tie poking up at his collar and sensible black shoes. He probably originated from somewhere colder than his partner.
"Sherlock Holmes?"
Sherlock lifted his chin in recognition as John and Becker caught up, bursting into the room and blinking at their guests. John spoke first. "Uh, I'll just put the kettle on." Becker just made a hand signal indicating he was going back downstairs to make a call. The kitchen doors slid open as John reached them, revealing a very high spirited Mrs. Hudson carrying an almost comically large tea tray heavy laden with an enormous black teapot and a plate piled high with biscuits. Straight away the shorter man got to his feet and helped her place the burden on the table, snaffling a handful of custard creams on his way back to the sofa.
Mrs Hudson fussed around pouring tea and handing out mugs apologising for her apparently limited selection of biscuits. It allowed Sherlock to observe the men and the manila folder that lay on the table. He picked it up and flicked through the notes inside, sniffing at the man's rap sheet and the grainy CCTV shot of his face. He had peculiar features, a long pointed nose and protruding teeth. He looked like a rat. She bent down next to the detective, glancing the partners way as they argued over the biscuits and then back to Sherlock. "I do wish you would bring such handsome young men home more often." She grinned and winked at the detective and for once Sherlock felt compelled to put up a front and quietly whispered back to her.
"I will try my best."
She chuckled softly tilting her head and looked if only for moment like she wanted to say something else, concern shimmering in her eyes, before turning away and hurriedly trotting out of the room with a blush and a smile at the Americans.
"I wish we had one of those." Alex gestured with his cup at Mrs. Hudson's retreating back, "Back home we have to get our own coffee."
"Ha! You mean I have to get our coffee. You know, he hasn't once bought me a drink in the morning. Not once, and we've been partners for over a year."
"Oh come on babe, you know that getting the coffee is your job."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows as the men proceeded to have an extended argument whilst John perched on the arm of the detectives chair and took the tea from his hands where it had been threatening to tip over, spilling scalding tea onto his lap. He handed the file over and listened to the doctors humming and haaing as he looked over the details before dropping the file onto the coffee table. It silenced the men and Sherlock placed his fingers in a pyramid looking over at them as the shorter one spoke. He had an interesting sort of swagger, crossing his arms and tilting his head back. Sherlock surmised that this was a habit that had developed to deal with the man's short stature.
"So, do you think you can help us?"
John answered for him. "Absolutely."
Sherlock had left the two American detectives back at the flat in the care of Mrs. Hudson whilst he and John went to consult the homeless network, this time meeting a refugee named Henry in alleyway. John had stood at the entrance casually chatting to a couple of war vets while they smoked and drank weak tea from thin polystyrene cups, huddled together against the cold. The detective had been on his way back to the doctor when Henry spoke up.
"I'd be careful if I were you." He stopped and spun on his heel. "Ghosts can kill you know."
He walked back towards the man, a huddled figured wrapped in tartan blankets and beaten 80's trainers. "Ghosts?"
"There is a lot to be seen when you look closely Sherlock. The walls see things, not just what you want them to see. They see everything. But that doesn't mean they tell you. The walls talk to each others, to the gutters and the benches and they are all talking about you Sherlock."
The detective frowned; Henry had a habit of confusing himself and other homeless people with being actual living conduits of the city. He decided to run with it. "So, what are the walls saying?"
"That you can't run from ghosts. They always find you."
"Do you know where I can find the ghosts?"
"They always find you, they find you. Sherlock, the walls know that the ghosts will find you. Find you." He began rocking slightly on his filthy heels and Sherlock dropped another £20 at his feet before joining his fiancé at the alleyway entrance.
John acknowledged his presence with a raised eyebrow. "That took a while." Sherlock didn't say anything, he just walked onwards. The doctor froze behind for a second before jogging to catch up and sliding his arm through Sherlocks elbow. They walked in silence for a moment not that the detective noticed, he was too focussed on what Henry had said. He knew that choosing to ignore Bossley was only going to work for a short while, that it would probably be something that came back to bite him on the arse (A phrase John used a lot. It sounded better coming out of the doctors' mouth.) and that Moriarty was still out there, not even starting on the image that was burned to his mind of the monster and the man and that tender moment and what it could all mean. He grumbled under his breath and could almost feel the concern washing off of John and his furrowed brow and the wrinkles around his eyes and it was all becoming too much and he felt that urge deep in his gut to find the nearest dealer and just lose himself but John was there pulling on his arm and grounding him again and so he looked to the doctor and John continued to frown and John John John.
There was a moment where he didn't know what to do but thankfully the doctor pulled him down into a soft kiss and Sherlock used the sensation to force himself to focus, sliding his ice cold fingers up into Johns sleeve to feel the soft hair on his arms, the other hand slipping under the edge of the doctors sweater rubbing over his soft cotton t-shirt and for once he let his eyes close and just lost himself in the warmth and comfort. It was brief, no more than ten seconds but it was enough to dull the drag in his stomach and to clear his head a little bit and when John tried a hesitant smile he managed to return the gesture by turning the corners of his mouth up a little and narrowing his eyes and John rested his head on Sherlock shoulder for a moment before coughing deep in his throat, flushing a interesting cherry red colour and tugging Sherlock back into walking, his eyes darting around the few people also out in the drab weather.
They walked back to the flat, normally they would have called a cab but John didn't stop walking and didn't even look up to suggest they get one. The detective had a sneaking suspicion that this was some sort of coping technique as John was staring dead ahead and moving at a constant speed. Most people sped up or slowed down if only by a little while they walked as they noticed things that took their interest and sped up to see them or things that embarrassed or frightened them and slowed down as if to avoid the situation but John was moving at a steady pace and Sherlock decided he was probably reciting a march in his head. (Sherlock had found John repeatedly climbing the stairs in the middle of the night a few weeks after they met, muttering a chant under his breath and staring into the far distance. John had told him it helped to calm him down after a nightmare.) This also meant that John was worried too. The detective looked away from his fiancés face and sniffed, trying and failing to ignore the sadness that only added to the panic in his chest.
When they arrived back at the flat they unlocked the door to find that Becker was not in his chair by the door although a empty mug of tea and half of what must have been a heart attack inducing pile of biscuits remained on the side table. John's eyebrow twitched and he tensed. If Becker wasn't at his post and hadn't called them to tell them why then it was because of two reasons. He was busy upstairs in the flat or...or he was unable to contact them. John took his arm from Sherlock and twitched to his side sliding his gun from the holster Becker had given him. (Since Bossley's return John had decided to wear his gun with him everywhere. It was one of the safety measures Becker insisted upon.)
He signalled to Sherlock to be quiet and crouched slightly, his shoulders tense as he crept slowly up the flat stairs. Sherlock stayed in the hallway for a moment, listening to his own heartbeat thundering in his chest before following, his footsteps effortlessly light and silent. When they rounded the corners John paused and walked even slower peering over the edge, Sherlock could see him baring his teeth and yet the pulse in the doctor's neck was steady. He was not afraid. Sherlock cursed inwardly, if John could be brave then why was Sherlock so frightened ? Why was his stomach churning? Why did his knees turn to jelly? He was furious with himself and with the world and not for the first time he felt a pang of loss for his life before John, before he was 'human'. The door to the flat was closed and he jogged quickly up the stairs leaning at one side of the doorframe with his hand on the handle. Sherlock ran up and leant on the other side as John pointed his gun at the door. There were sounds of scuffle inside, a muffled shout and a loud thump and John didn't hesitate, eyes flickering to Sherlock for a mere second before he threw the door open, flying in with his gun pointed down at Becker on the floor underneath his attacker.