A sudden stillness falls throughout the flat. Sherlock closes his eyes, knows John has found the discarded cane he abandoned in his room in a burst of adrenaline. He can almost feel John considering the precise ramifications of this particular turn of events.
Minutes drag out like hours, but Sherlock keeps his vigil. He barely breathes for fear of -
Fear of what? That John won't want him? Romantically or platonically, John will always want him, surely. Look where it's gotten him already. While it may take him some time to decide what he'll ultimately do, he'll remain at Baker Street and he will continue to be indispensable.
God, Sherlock, listen to yourself. You've known the man for a matter of days and you're already -
He hears footsteps above, John rattling around his bedroom, the second one he'd said of course they'd need. Not pacing, no, the steps aren't measured enough. It sounds as though he's taking a few steps towards the cane, then away, then more towards, then back to the door. Sherlock's eyes begin to move with the sound, tracing a visual path to match the aural. When he's standing exactly next to the window, Sherlock's heart stops, wondering, but then he hears a well-executed military turn, confident steps across the floorboards.
Moments later, John appears at the bottom of the stairs, cane in hand, no sign of a limp. Sherlock represses a grin when John places the cane gently on top of the mantle along with the skull. He then beats a hasty retreat to the kitchen, where he loudly makes tea and hopes Sherlock won't want to discuss The Cane Incident anytime soon. Obviously Sherlock understood the message, but he's certain HE doesn't want to discuss any potential underlying meanings, and Sherlock probably doesn't have any emotional investment in him beyond as a flatmate and perhaps an occasional partner in crime solving.
But what about that moment...
A phone ringing blessedly stops that thought before it goes any further. Sherlock's deep voice answering steadies him, and he pours the tea with hands that don't shake. He sits in what he now considers his chair while Sherlock listens to whomever is on the other end of the phone. If he notices that Sherlock hasn't taken his eyes off of him since he re-entered the living room, he doesn't dwell on it.
"We're on our way." Sherlock snaps into the phone, just as John takes his first sip of tea. "Come on, John, Lestrade has a lead."
John looks at him incredulously, holding out the teacup, but Sherlock is already donning his coat and winding his scarf around his pale neck. At the look on John's face, one side of his mouth quirks up in what could be described as a smile. "Drink up - the game's afoot." He vanishes down the stairs towards the front door, probably to hail at taxi. Blinking, John tries to gulp down the rest of his tea while putting on his coat. Succeeding with only a couple of drops down his front, he hurtles down the seventeen steps to the front door, where Sherlock is holding a taxi door open for him. John grins, and revels in the harsh intake of breath he hears when he brushes closer to Sherlock than usual when entering the car.
Lestrade calls again on their way to Scotland Yard and tells them to meet him elsewhere - Donovan seems to think she's found something. Sherlock does not even try to hold back a snort of derision at that, but he relays the address to the driver nonetheless. He settles back into the seat, grumbling. John chuckles, patting Sherlock's thigh soothingly before he can stop himself. At the touch, Sherlock stiffens, but relaxes almost instantly. John leaves his hand there for a moment longer than is strictly proper for just friends, but the taxi is pulling up to the address and there's no time to think about it, much less discuss it.
They stand on the sidewalk outside a large brick house while Sherlock gazes around, eyes narrowed, deducing, observing. John looks around as well, searching for Lestrade. For what could be a crime scene, it's quiet. The neighborhood is hushed, children already in bed, parents in living rooms, luxuriating in the silence. Windows glow with light from TVs, illuminating well-kept lawns and gardens.
"Incoming." Sherlock mutters, and John's attention snaps back to the house in front of them, out of which Lestrade and Donovan emerge. Tension radiates off of Sherlock, and it's not Lestrade that's causing it, so it must be the woman. John wishes he could touch Sherlock to help calm him, aches to do it, in fact. Instead, he shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket and wonders if Sherlock would be able to figure what he was thinking.
"Well?" Sherlock bites out when Lestrade and Donovan are within hearing distance.
"A girl was kidnapped from here earlier today." Lestrade begins, and when Sherlock tries to intervene, holds up a hand. "I realize girls are kidnapped every day, but this one seems different. The family was told to get in touch with you. They didn't, I know. I spoke to them. They said when they called the police, a man answered. Wouldn't take any information, just said to get in touch with Sherlock Holmes. Young man, Irish accent."
Both John and Sherlock jerk like an electric shock went through them.
"Him."
"How?"
"Never mind how. What else, Lestrade?"
"That's it. Just gave the parents your number and hung up. When they called back, they got to us."
"And what does Donovan think she's found?"
"Wait, Sherlock. Are we supposed to be finding the girl or is there something else we should be looking into? That's how it's been before. Then he'll tell us where she is when we - well, you - figure it out." John puts a restraining hand on Sherlock's arm before he goes barreling into the house to scour it for leads. Sherlock looks down at John, a calculating gaze, as if seeing something there for the first time.
"Yes, yes exactly, John. He's using a child because its loss appeals to a baser instinct to protect. The search for the child will throw us off the actual case he wants solved so we are unable to solve it in the time allotted. But what is the real puzzle?" Sherlock's not talking to anyone else in the group; it's all for John.
"All the rest of the cases have been less than sensational. Should be looking for something - " John starts, but The Phone pings with an incoming message. Sherlock quickly extracts it from one of the pockets of his long coat, unlocks it, and brings it down to a level where he and John can both look. Unseen by either, Lestrade's eyebrows shoot up into his hair at this selfless act. Donovan rolls her eyes, bored.
There's a text message - "Wrong!" - and a picture message of a man lying in what looked to be a ditch, several bloody gashes on his head. His face was not obscured, so he could easily be identified. That, of course, is not the mystery. First, they have to figure out where he is. Sherlock enlarges the picture, drags it so he can look at the dirt and the grass around the body. Within moments he has a location.
"Lestrade, your keys."
"Then how are we supposed to get back?"
"There are two cars here, I assume they belong to you and Donovan?" Sherlock speaks slowly, as if to a child, and quirks a saucy eyebrow, holding out a hand. Lestrade flushes, grumbles at being caught out in something so obvious while John covers a laugh with a bit of a cough. With a jingle of keys and a swish of Sherlock's coat, John and Sherlock are ensconced in Lestrade's Audi and off into the night.
The drive is mostly silent, both men deep in thought. It's not a long trip, but it's companionable, intimate. Sherlock pulls the car off the road just outside of the city. It's mostly fields and lovely rolling hills out here, with copses of trees sprouting every so often. John hasn't the slightest idea how Sherlock knew they'd find the body here, but after only a minimal amount of searching they find it, cleverly hidden away from the road where only someone who was actually looking for it would check. John holds the flashlight while Sherlock looks over the body. He does a quick sweep of the body, finds some flecks of blood, hums to himself. After a few minutes his hands still, and he looks up into the distance.
"No, Sherlock, we can't take that to Bart's." Sherlock looks at him sharply. John shrugs. "It's Lestrade's car."
Sherlock huffs out a laugh, straightens, and pulls out his phone to call Lestrade. "Yes we found the body; we need to get it back to Bart's."
John shines the flashlight around the general area, looking for footprints, dropped wallet, anything. Though he's not so lucky, he does find a good deal of flattened grass. He grabs Sherlock's hand to pull him over to see if he could make anything of it. Though Sherlock is still on the phone, his eyes flick over the ground, trying to see a pattern. As he's ending the call, he finds something. Crouching down, he beckons for the flashlight. John is immediately next to him, and he sees the heel print in the swiftly hardening mud.
"Could it be -"
"Doubtful. He doesn't seem like the type to get his hands dirty." Sherlock is trying to get a good picture of the ground in the full dark. "Could you..."
John crouches down next to Sherlock, knees bumping together. He hopes the same darkness keeping Sherlock from getting a good photo hides the blush that rushes up his cheeks at the contact. God, he's acting like a horny schoolboy. He leans forward, backlighting the print, then holding the light directly over it. Eventually Sherlock puts his phone away, satisfied. He stands, then holds out a hand to help John to his feet. Grateful, John grabs it and pulls himself up, where he finds himself very, very close to Sherlock. Looking up, he finds Sherlock peering at him like a science project. His eyes travel over every inch of John's face, and there's a vulnerability, a softness, in them that makes John's stomach clench. Unconsciously, he licks his lips and a new expression comes over Sherlock's face - hunger. He drops his gaze to John's lips, and John is suddenly extremely aware that their hands are still entwined.
"John, I -" Sherlock's heads drops inexorably down towards John's. Instead of their lips meeting, Sherlock rests his forehead against John's. "I don't understand what I'm feeling." he breathes. John raises the hand not holding Sherlock's and brushes his thumb gently against one of those extraordinary cheekbones.
"I know. It's okay." He pulls Sherlock's head down into the crook of his neck and hugs him. Sherlock relaxes against John's body, breathing out a sigh of - well, John's not sure what it is, but it feels like it comes from the bottom of his soul. They hear a car coming along the road and break apart slowly, gently. Before Sherlock releases John's hand, he squeezes, and says, "At home."
And it's enough.