Runaway Home

Chp 12

Looooong chapter, last parts not edited yet, hope you like it!

John wasn't one for complaining, but on that day he'd felt like shouting. He could still picture with perfect clarity the patronizing look on the officer's faces. Sherlock hadn't noticed, or if he had he didn't care, but they were all mocking him. One even had the bullocks to ask if it was 'bring your kid to work' day. It took every ounce of strength and will power in him not to strike one of their smug faces. Sherlock acted surprised with his annoyed attitude, he'd asked the boy to check the man's suit case, like he was there to do as the detective ordered. If he'd gone and riffled through the man's underpants and other items it probably would have resulted in some cruel sneer from the on looking men and women. Needless to say he'd been happy when they'd left.

From there Sherlock invested an exuberant amount of pounds in his homeless network to retrieve any information regarding the spray paint being left for the murder victim. John had insisted he knew a mate of his who tagged buildings somewhat 'professionally'. The detective had scoffed and told the boy not to waste his time or effort; that this friend of his would likely be of little use. Most people would have listened, not bothered their mate, just let it go. John was not most people, and he did not like people ordering him about. That said, he was also quite stubborn and convinced his mate might have some valuable insight, so he'd asked for his help anyway.

One aspect of this case he found himself enjoying particularly was that Sherlock seemed to finally be taking off the training wheels so to speak. He hadn't allowed John to do much else but review case files previously, but now he was in the field! The next man to be killed the next night had been a journalist, and Sherlock had taken him to that crime scene as well. It all seemed very aggravating to be around the officers again until Sherlock announced that he'd need help in tracking down leads. Sherlock was going to investigate Vancoon's activities before the murder and he wanted John to look into what the journalist had been up to. The portly man had left behind a date book of sorts which was a fantastic aide and John dove in immediately.

After a half hour spent going through the journal and drinking a cuppa at a coffee house near the crime scene that was not nearly as good as Mrs. Hudson's, he decided it was time to get on the move. He'd looked over everything the man had done in the week before his death and one event from the day after is trip from china stuck out in particular. He had visited a shop called 'the lucky cat'. The man had underlined the time and place multiple times indicating it being something of great importance. John didn't even begin to fathom why, but knew it was as good a place as any to start searching. So he hopped in a tube and made his way down. He thought idly about how odd it was to be in the tube. Sherlock didn't like it; he didn't like being 'surrounded by that much stupid'. The detective much preferred the solitude of a cab drive. John shook his head and cleared his mind of any thoughts about the detective as he exited the train. Luckily the station wasn't far from the store from what the date book said. It had an address written in smudged letters and while John strained his eyes to ensure that the last number was in fact a three and not an eight, he bumped into someone far taller than himself. He recovered quickly and started to blurt out an apology when he realized just who he'd run into.

"Sherlock?"

The detective looked at him curiously for a moment but soon turned his gaze back out on the street.

"It has to be around here somewhere, some place that the man would have gone to drop off his package."

The man rambled as John merely looked back down to the journal. Package, Vancoon had had a package? Did that mean the journalist did as well? The journal had made no mention of a package, though if it were the kind that would lead to his death it may have been for the best. John looked about quickly and realized they were standing exactly opposite of the destination in the journalists date book.

"Where!"

Sherlock was fuming now, furious that the answer wasn't just popping up in front of him. The boy gave a soft sigh and reached forward to hold the taller man still. The detective looked down at him truly perplexed as to why he was being forced to stand still. John removed one hand to point towards the lucky cat store across the street.

"That store, there."

He stated confidently. Sherlock followed the boy's indicated direction then turned an inquiring eye back to the blonde.

"How do you know?"

John smiled and waved the book in front of the detective.

"The journalist went there too, wrote it down."

"Oh."

Sherlock breathed in quite admission, as if to say 'why didn't I think of that?'. The detective spared no time in crossing the street to enter the store. John followed close behind, silently cursing the man for walking so fast; didn't he realize that John practically had to jog just to keep up? The shop was filled with miscellaneous nick-nacks of all sorts which Sherlock took to studying each one with his calculating glare. John milled about for a moment trying to observe what he could. He'd lived with the detective for over a year now and had picked a up a few tricks. As he glanced over the number of varying items he came upon a small cat figurine. It seemed hardly of any importance but he found it held his interest. There was a small scratch on the side and he could tell that the mold that was used to create the cats had been damaged in some way because this one looked just a bit different. The ears seemed slightly elongated and the eyes just a tad too narrow, the nose was sharper as well. In an odd way it sort of reminded the boy of Sherlock.

"Lucky cat ten pound, very nice! Your boyfriend I think he will like!"

The older woman behind the counter insisted.

"Boyfriend…?"

John's eyes went as wide as dinner plates and he brought his hand up to wave in front of his face as if to ward off her words.

"No, no, he's not my-we're not-"

"Boyfriends?"

Sherlock chimed in cutting John's ramblings short.

"Exactly."

John sighed looking back at the detective. To the blonde's surprise the man had some far off look to his eyes that almost resembled hurt.

"I would have thought…after all this time…you don't consider me a friend John?"

Sherlock's eyes were full of pain now and the detective looked as though he'd been crushed. John felt a pang of guilt for causing his flat mate such distress, but couldn't help but also feel a small smile grow on his face. Sherlock could be so innocent at times, So much so that John often thought of the man as a peer rather than an adult (his tantrums helped with that as well).

"Of course I do, that's just not what the term 'boyfriend' means. You're my mate, my best mate, just not someone I'd want to-um-uh, shag."

The boy blushed a bit and had to look away from the detective to hide his embarrassment. A small part of him worried that Sherlock would be able to deduce the truth right then and there, realize how hard John had been trying not to want to shag him, and just how miserably he was failing.

"Oh…"

With that the tall man turned around and went back to staring down a small box of origami paper. John looked back towards the old woman who had a broad smile on her face.

"Ten pound, ten pound!"

She urged. The boy looked back down at the cat in his hand and considered it. It wasn't the greatest thing in the world, but he liked that it reminded him of Sherlock. As he turned it in his hand considering the amount of pounds in his pocket and how much he needed to get back to the flat he noticed something. On the bottom of the figurine there was a symbol just like the ones they'd found waiting for the victims.

"Sherlock."

John called and the man was behind him in seconds. He pointed out the symbol and the detective took in a sharp inhalation of breath.

"Good John, very good."

The blonde smiled and felt pride swelling up in his chest, he liked impressing Sherlock. John decided to buy the cat after all and chased after the detective as he bustled out of the shop. John listened intently as Sherlock rambled on about numbers and ciphers and all the possible meanings. He was listening so closely in fact that he didn't notice when the man came to an abrupt stop in front of himself causing him to crash into the back of the man.

"Pay attention John."

He chided.

"Sorry."

John huffed.

"John…when was the last time it rained?"

The boy scrunched up his face. The last time it rained? That was an odd question.

"I don't know, a couple of weeks, why?"

He turned to see Sherlock examining a damp telephone book on the door step of a small town house. The detective remained there for a moment then brought himself back up with an envelope in hand. Sherlock opened it without hesitation and pulled out a thin piece of paper.

"This is from the museum."

He mused aloud and John looked down at his watch.

"The museum will be closed by now. If you're thinking that's our next stop it'll have to wait till morning."

Sherlock nodded his head but made no comment.

"Perhaps we should grab some dinner or-Sherlock?"

Without a word the detective had already been ducking into the ally beside the town house. John chased after him with a slight huff of annoyance. As he made his way back Sherlock was already pulling down the ladder to the fire escape, his spindly limbs making fast work of climbing up the thing, he was up the ladder before John made it all the way in.

"I have to get inside that flat."

Sherlock shouted down simply. The ladder lifted up just as John reached out to grasp hold. The detective didn't make any indication that he planned on helping the boy up and John scoffed.

"I'll wait down here for you then? Let you do the real work. Perhaps you have some mindless errand you'd like to send me on as you do so?"
John didn't bother hiding the contempt in his tone, he was used to being left out, but some how it was worse now, he'd gotten the impression that he was becoming something more than a simple errand boy. Sherlock paused just as he was about to enter through the window.

"Mindless?"

John rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, mindless. You're always sending me off to do the boring stuff."

"Boring?"

Sherlock's voice seemed more distressed now and the boy wondered if his snide remark had actually affected the man.

"Well yeah, you're off having all the adventure while I'm left to just pick up whatever it is you need, it's boring."

Not completely true. John actually loved going about town with a task in hand, the feeling of accomplishing a goal and aiding in the discovery process. However, he really did want to do more.

"You make a valid point John."

Sherlock said far too quickly descending down the ladder at a rapid pace.

"Let's do a little exercise shall we?"

He said hopping down but holding the latter firmly in place.

"You go in first, make your deductions, then come around to the front and let me in. Then I can tell you if you've missed anything, but the initial discoveries will be all yours, how's that? Sound adventurous enough for you?"

John grinned widely and nodded is head vigorously. As if afraid the detective would recant his statement he rushed up the latter at lightning speed. When he entered through the window a near by vase fell and he nearly let it crash. With a slight shake he realized the vase was completely devoid of water. The spot beside the table it sat on was wet however.

"I think someone else has been here."

John called out loudly. He didn't hear a response but continued on. There was a smell of something foul and John tentatively moved to open the refrigerator.

"Oh, gross!"

He said with a start, shutting the door forcefully.

"Whoever it is that lives here has definitely been away a while."

John mumbled to himself as he wandered through the house. As he stepped into the living room however he got the distinct impression that he was not alone. A shiver ran through his body as he remembered the spilt vase.

"Shit"

He exclaimed in a harsh tone. Tossing his head side to side he could see no other signs of the intruder's possible location. He could hear Sherlock knocking on the door down the stairs and began moving towards it rapidly. If this were some sort of criminal, possibly the one who had murdered those two men (maybe whoever it was that lived here as well) then he did not want to stick around. As he drew closer to the stair well he could hear the detective calling out his name.

"John? Are you ready to let me in now? I think I've waited long enough don't you?"

"Sher-"

He hadn't made it down two steps before he felt the fabric wrap tightly around his throat, affectively cutting off his air supply. He floundered for a moment, hoping to grab hold of the murderer, but it was proving useless. He was lying on the stairs beneath the man and didn't have the proper leverage.

"John?"

The detective's voice was concerned and John wished desperately to call out to him. His vision was beginning to blur and somewhere in the back of his mind a voice reminded him to stop struggling, to try and hold onto the last precious amounts of oxygen still in his body. So he let his form go limp and tried to keep his eyes focused on the blank ceiling above him, his mind clinging hopelessly to his last moments of consciousness.

"John!"

Sherlock called out again, this time frantic and accompanied by a loud pounding on the door. It was all very far away from the boy though, as he drifted away.

"It's not up for debate John."

The detective spit.

"You're being unreasonable! Mrs. Hudson, please, tell him he's being unfair!"

Mrs. Hudson remained silent for a moment and John just looked between the two adults in front of him. Sherlock hadn't said a word the whole ride other than to ask if he was ok when the detective initially found him in the house. Once they'd gotten back to the flat however, he seemed to have found his voice. According to him the strangling incident was proof that it was too dangerous for John to continue helping with the investigation. Mrs. Hudson had come up because of the shouting and Sherlock filled her in, explaining the situation quite clearly and using the red and now bruising mark on John's throat as evidence. The older woman regarded the boy with a look of despair.

"Oh, I'm sorry love. I don't say this often, but I'm afraid I have to agree with Sherlock. This is dangerous business; I don't even like the idea of Sherlock doing it to be honest."

John stared at the two of them incredulously.

"It's not like I don't know how to take a hit! I've been strangled before! In case you have forgotten, I ran away from my father for a reason! I'm not some fragile china doll; I can take care of myself. The guy snuck up on me is all, it won't happen again."

John barked out more towards the detective than his landlady.

"You cannot be sure that it won't happen again, and this wasn't some middle class drunkard you were dealing withm, it was a trained assassin. If he'd wanted you dead, you would have been! Do you realize what a close call that was? How worried I'd been? I heard you get cut short and it took me all of thirty seconds to finally come to the conclusion that you needed my help. He could have affectively killed you and made his escape in that time."

Sherlock yelled back at him taking a few calculating steps closer.

"You don't know that. He could have just been some burglar who didn't want to be caught. We have no way of knowing-"

"In all your time in knowing me have I ever made a claim I didn't have sufficient evidence to back? There was an origami black lotus flower placed on your chest. The same one that had been on the bodies of both our victims. You could have been killed John."

Sherlock's voice was rough and thrumming with ferocity. Some small part of John knew he should feel scared, that an assassin coming so close to murdering you should be frightening. He wasn't though, he was just angry, he didn't want to go back to the way things had been before this case. He'd had a taste of adventure and he wanted more.

"I don't care."

John growled and Mrs. Hudson gasped in horror, as if the words had caused her physical pain. Sherlock's lip twitched and his gaze moved from Mrs. Hudson then back to John.

"I know, and that's why you can't be allowed to continue. You won't take the necessary precautions. You're a liability, and not one I'm willing to take on."

The detective declared darkly, crossing his arms against his chest as a means to showing that this conversation was over.

"John-"

Mrs. Hudson began but John was no longer in the mood. He wasn't a child; he didn't need to be treated like one. He rushed between the two of them, bumping into the taller man's shoulder roughly as he went, and made his way up the stairs to his room. With a loud slam he shut the door behind himself. He was pissed and didn't care who knew it. They were talking, he could hear them through his door, but he didn't really care to listen. Instead he pulled the cat figurine from his pocket and threw it on his bed with great force.

"It's not fair."

He snarled at the cat, as if it could listen then promptly threw himself on the bed next to it.

"Who's he to decide? I'm responsible, I can make decisions for myself. Hell! I'm ten times as responsible as him! He doesn't even eat, sleep, or shower properly without me bothering him."

The cat stared back him blankly, as most inanimate objects do and the boy let out a frustrated sigh. Talking to himself wasn't going to help matters in the slightest. He lay there for a few hours, and a couple times even thought about going down to try and reason with the detective. It was a lost cause though, he knew how stubborn Sherlock could be, he'd need some new scrap of evidence to prove that John could help him. It seemed Sherlock had been having similar thoughts though, as he heard the man make it half way up the stairs a few times before going back down. It had been quite for a while now, and sun had gone down almost a half hour ago. His stomach growled and he regretted not grabbing something to eat on his way up. Ever since he'd moved into 221b he'd made a habit of not missing dinner as he so frequently did before.

Then, in a twist of fate, the boy's phone rang. He reached into his pocket to retrieve his mobile and observed the screen with minimal interest. On discovering the originator of the text he shot up like a light. It was from none other than Danny McCrae, his spray paint enthusiast. He opened the message hastily and let out a gasp of excitement. He'd seen the spray paint, his favor had paid off. He jumped off his bed to run and tell Sherlock before he remembered that he wasn't allowed on the case anymore. He stopped dead in his tracks. Without realizing it, John stood there and let the gears in his head turn, as he came to a conclusion that would once again ensure that a boring picket fence would never be in his future. In a moments time he'd come to the decision that he would look into the spray paint by himself. When he came back with the valuable information the detective would have no choice but to allow him to help, he'd prove how useful he could be. So he quickly shot off a text in reply.

Thanks mate! Where was it?

After a few moments of staring intently at his phone it rang again.

Down by a popular tagging spot, but don't bother there. You're going to want to go by the train tracks near by, that's where most people go if they've got something important to say. I'm guessing by the sounds of this case it'd be pretty important. Try not to get mugged though. Sending you directions now.

John smiled widely.

Don't plan to, thanks again; you've been loads of help!

John shoved his phone back into his pocket and charged into his closet. While he couldn't go down stairs to grab his jacket it was still summer (although the autumn chill was beginning to set in) and wouldn't need much. So he grabbed a warm jumper and threw it over his shirt. After a bit of rummaging he found a torch buried under some piles of paper. He then carefully opened his window so as to not make a sound and slipped out onto the fire escape. With the precision of a soldier he avoided the CCTV cameras he knew to be hidden around the surrounding buildings. The last thing he needed was Mycroft squealing.

Once he was out of view he took out his phone to review the directions. Good, it wasn't too far, about a ten minute tube trip. He hopped the next train he could and made his way down to the tracks. His torch wasn't very bright as he stumbled about but it did the job. There was a lot of ground to cover and John wished that he could have gone to Sherlock for help because it was a lot for one person. Ironically John's phone rung out at that moment, and who should be texting him but the very same man he'd just been thinking of.

John, did you really think the world's only consulting detective wouldn't realize you'd left? I know you haven't run away because you've left the majority of your things, so I can only assume you've decided either to 'get some air' or to go chasing after something related to this case. Whichever it is you should return home regardless as it is now dark and you've had one attempt on your life today already. If you don't return immediately I will be forced to have Mycroft track the GPS chip in your phone.

John sneered in the dark. Of course Sherlock had figured him out in less than an hour, he shouldn't have expected any different.

I will be home shortly. I'm on to something important.

John texted back picking up his pace. He'd need to find this paint soon if he wanted to get it before the detective sent the British government after him.

I don't care if it's important you shouldn't have left the flat without me or Mrs. Hudson's knowledge! Nor should you have done so in search of something that could possibly result in your death!

He was jogging now, hoping something would pop out at him. He didn't bother texting the detective back; it wouldn't do him any good. So instead he continued on until he came upon some familiar paint on the lines. Yes! He cast his torch upward and began looking at the surrounding area for walls anything really someone could have scrawled out a message. His phone rang again and he reluctantly looked down to see it was another text from Sherlock.

I'm calling Mycroft now. I'm sure he's probably already located you though as I'm sure his people spotted you on the CCTV cameras.

John scoffed. What little faith, John may not have been the brightest but he knew how to hide. Just a yard further and John found what he was looking for. A large message written out in the cipher. Part of him felt like doing a dance, but if he had any hopes of making it home before Mycroft's men got him he'd have to move fast. He lifted his phone and took a picture of the wall and for once thought that the high tech gizmo had come in rather handy. He'd never seen the use in getting something so needlessly expensive but the picture was marvelous, you could see all the numbers clearly. On his way back towards the tube his phone ran out another time.

You avoided the cameras, clever, but your phone will still lead us to you.

John snorted, it was impressive to see Sherlock compliment him in a normal situation let alone when they were fighting.

Go ahead. I'm on my way home anyway, got what I needed, and even managed to stay alive.

The trip back didn't seem to take nearly as long and he didn't receive one message or even see any black Lincolns roaming in the shadows. So when he walked up to his flat he assumed that Sherlock had taken his word for it and was waiting for him. Which, of course, he was right. Within a second of John opening the door Sherlock was on him.

"Where the hell did you go?"

He asked in a dangerously low voice. John straightened himself out so he was looking the man directly in the eye.

"I had a lead."

The silence following was palpable.

"You don't have leads. You don't have cases. Remember?"

Sherlock said after few minutes. John narrowed his eyes for the briefest of seconds before pulling out his phone. He pulled up the image of the cipher and held it up for the detective to see.

"My friend saw the paint; I needed to go see if they'd left a message. They have."

Sherlock glared at the screen for a long time before letting out a deep sigh releasing a great deal of his tension.

"You're almost as bad as me. What have I created?"

John's face soften considerably, it seemed his work had paid off.

"You? I got this way all on my own thank you, you don't get any credit."

He smirked at the taller man began smiling back after a moment.

"I suppose I should have known better then to try and hold you back…but I just don't want to see you get hurt John, can't you see the logic in that?"

Sherlock asked quietly. John nodded because, yes, yes he could. He knew Sherlock had his reasons, they were just not well founded, John could take care of himself.

"Alright…if you're going to be allowed to continue, we're going to have to set some ground rules."