Chapter 8

Sherlock studied John's face for a long moment,

"You look worried … about me?"

"I am,"

"Why?"

"I've read your medical history for a start,"

"And you're still here but then you do love a challenge … or is it more than that?"

"I don't know what you . . . "

"Come now John – we all know you're brave and smart – a doctor; patriotic and honourable serving in the army how could you not be. Tolerant too: with an out and by all accounts openly proud lesbian sister. Her drinking problem coupled with you joining the army so young and no mention of any family all point to a troubled childhood."

"But there's something else . . ." Sherlock stared intently at John making him uncomfortable.

"You seem to know enough about me," John said wondering if Mycroft had been speaking to him,

"I'm missing something … something important,"

John was stood almost to attention, staring into the wall above Sherlock until Sherlock jerked forward and tried to sit up,

"Of … ow … course,"

John grabbed his shoulders and gently lowered him back into his pillow. All the while Sherlock was talking,

"I should have seen it in the hospital. Something happened when you got injured. You feel guilty about something. I should have seen it! Guilt is causing you to exaggerate your injuries probably even punish yourself. That's why you limp when you walk but easily stand to attention. That's also why you're here babysitting me. Even a sentimental fool like you wouldn't suffer my company just to help a sister you don't much like."

There were so many things wrong (and right) with Sherlock's conclusion John could only stare down at his earnest eyes. Possible responses fluttered around his brain and were lost as others formed.

Down in Mycroft's office James Moriarty laughed out loud. He thought Sherlock's speech was deliciously self-deprecating and vulnerable; all necessary ingredients for a malleable Sherlock. Putting his feet back on the desk he relaxed now he knew Sherlock wouldn't risk warning John about his true career. He laughed aloud again as he reflected how easy it was to manipulate people; even intellectuals like Sherlock and Mycroft. And weren't they just the best to control: challenging like no others but still not too taxing for his own greater mind. Sherlock used to strut all over the place – a precocious, outspoken brat but now he cowered in his room and hid behind his computer: using drugs to escape the fear of Moriarty.

As for Mycroft … when Jim decided on a whim he wanted to intrude further on Sherlock's actions less than a week later Mycroft had put cameras in his brothers' bedroom; A quick talk to mummy Holmes about Sherlock never meeting boys his own age and a spoilt teen gets an invite to a consular gathering. A word in his ear on the night about a free spirit serving girl and Sherlock's curiosity would do the rest. Of course Moriarty wasn't going to allow them to touch Sherlock – a broken teenager was no use to him. A murmur of concern to mummy Holmes and she was racing to the rescue.

"You're quite extraordinary … I did make a mistake while in Afghanistan … several actually. And one did cause these injuries. I do feel g…guilty and I have a need to help my sister but me being here, helping you isn't some sort of punishment I'm inflecting on myself."

"No of course not how silly of me …" Sherlock cleared his throat then hurried on,

"Could you pass me a book, I'm bored just lying here,"

"We're talking Sherlock,"

"Yes and it's boring me so if you don't want me getting up . . ."

"Here knock your … enjoy,"

"You don't have to censer your words from me John … I don't have anything to knock myself out with," Sherlock grinned,

"I'm tempted to tell you to use the wall but I'm afraid you actually might," John said seriously,

"I'm not a masochist John," Sherlock stopped smiling and scowled,

"Could have fooled me," John silenced Sherlock's attempted protests by continuing,

"Read your medical file remember?"

"I'm fairly sure it doesn't say anything about hurting myself,"

"Taking drugs, smoking, risking your life is close enough,"

"H'um," Sherlock ignored him turning instead to the book John had passed to him. John watched him for a moment before shaking his head and after grabbing a book for himself he sat back down on the desk chair.

Despite all Mycrofts' government connections to get the best security Moriarty had easily found someone able to hack the video feed straight to Moriarty's personal computer. This meant that he didn't need to wait for Mycroft's permission to spy on his brother. It also meant when he was asked to do so by Mycroft he didn't need to stay in the elder brother's office. Unfortunately Miranda caught him one night but always quick on his feet Moriarty had spun a tail of worry and the silly girl been extra appreciative that night.

Moriarty's phone rang … his official one (the one he used for his real job was on vibrate).

'Mycroft Calling'

"Yes Sir,"

"James … is everything alright?"

"Your brother is fine sir,"

"You know me too well … my assistant is coming over for dinner could you let Mrs Hudson know?"

"Of course sir,"

"Thank you James see you later … no Benjamin the American . . ." Mycroft's voice faded out. Moriarty pondered the phone call while keeping one eye on Sherlock and John ignore each other.

Mycroft trusted Moriarty with a lot of things he really shouldn't (his brother for example) but he took his oath to his country very seriously and didn't discuss everything with him. That is not to say Moriarty didn't know any of his secrets. Or that he couldn't deduce some. Anthea coming to dinner wasn't unusual but it usually preceded a crisis and there were a lot of opportunities for a man like Moriarty in predicting those.

After half an hour Moriarty had made a mental list of twenty-three possibilities (ranked in probability order) and decided on profitable actions for each. After checking Sherlock and John and seeing them in exactly the same positions Moriarty left to find the stupid housekeeper to tell her about their guest.

Three minutes after Moriarty stopped watching them, John suddenly turned to Sherlock,

"Miranda explained why your brother put cameras in your bedroom."

"Oh?"

"She also said in a couple of weeks I'll be wanting to leave,"

"Did she?"

Sherlock sounded non-committal but he wasn't looking at John so the doctor couldn't judge the effect of his words,

"She called you a liar,"

Sherlock flinched but otherwise didn't react … at all.

"Are you?"

"Another stupid question John,"

"My favourite kind," John replied easily and Sherlock sighed realising John was not going to give up without some kind of answer,

"Everyone lies sometimes,"

John thought back about what Miranda had said … 'he's a criminal'. She had sounded so personally scandalised the 'he' could only be referring to her boyfriend the butler James. John didn't make snap judgements about people but he had taken an instant disliking to the man and he had learnt to trust his instincts (for the most part).

"Were you lying when you called James a criminal?" Sherlock flinched again at the question and looked past John to where the camera hung on the wall. As he answered coolly he turned to look John in the eye,

"Mycroft wouldn't have employed him if he thought he was a criminal,"

"That's not what I asked,"

"He's never been arrested," Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his bed,

"Still not what I a . . . "

"You're infuriating … persistent … like a dog with a bone …" Sherlock pressed himself back into his bed, squeezed his eyes closed and tensed as he rambled,

"Sherlock … hey … hey it's ok … relax that's got to be hurting … Sherlock, its ok," John jumped to his feet and moved closer to Sherlock's bedside but he didn't try and reach out,

"It's this drug John … it makes it so … hard to think," Sherlock muttered still taunt with tension. He opened his eyes like they were stuck together and gazed up at John through the narrowest of gaps,

"You don't have to think now, ok? … Are you hungry?" As Sherlock registered the question and change in topic he relaxed; seeming to grow confident and become bigger and stronger … well a little less small anyway.

"No … maybe a little … what time is it?"

John looked at his watch and was surprised to see it was nearly five. When he told Sherlock the teen frowned,

"Could I have some more crisps?" he asked tentatively,

"Sure … um …" John had knocked the open crisp packet onto the floor when he got up.

"I'll go up to the kitchen and get you another pack, what's your favourite?"

"I don't know … any will do,"

"Alright then, stay in bed yeah?"

"I promise," Sherlock sounded sincere but John hurried anyway.

Keeping an eye on his door Sherlock pulled a laptop out from under his bed covers and was soon typing away at it. He knew Mycroft well enough to guess today's password. Pulling up the security log he deleted the last ten minutes. If Moriarty had seen it John was already in trouble but if there was a chance he hadn't Sherlock wasn't going to miss it.

Sitting back Sherlock took a moment to analyse how he felt. The drugs were still making it hard to concentrate but if he focused he could keep his mind on track; back was nicely numb, head ached, eyes were dry and scratchy, arms and hands were clammy and yes he was defiantly hungry … what a new and interesting sensation.

Before Sherlock could properly examine the feeling, something popped up on his screen. Despite being a self-taught computer hack he had taken to it fairly well: he couldn't get into any of Mycroft's government files (and yes he had tried), but he had set up internet monitoring programmes coded to find key words used by Moriarty's organisation. It seemed as though Moriarty was having a package sent from Cape Verde, Africa to Santa Rosa, Argentina. A few clicks and Sherlock smirked as he had the package re-routed to one Sergeant Lestrade, Scotland Yard, London. He pondered what it could be for a minute but then his eyes blurred and his head ached and he soon gave up. Instead he remembered his first and so far only meeting seven days ago with the Sergeant.

The policeman had found him and kept him company until the ambulance arrived. Sherlock hadn't been able to focus on him properly but he'd felt warmth and comfort and that was enough for him to take an interest (he supposed that was why he had taken notice of John). Mycroft had keep away any police since then that might have wanted to take his statement so Sherlock didn't know if the man truly cared or if he was just doing his job. Sherlock knew Moriarty had spies everywhere, including the police … what if Lestrade worked for him? Now that wasn't a happy thought

Before Sherlock could get too worked up about that idea he heard the lift ding and hurried put his computer back under the covers. Mycroft only barely tolerated him having a computer he would not approve of him using it while injured and Sherlock wasn't going to risk John feeling the same way.

"You're kitchen is filled with all my favourite foods." John said opening the door with his back and carrying a tray.

"And you've brought it all to show me?" Sherlock questioned with a frown looking at all the food John had piled onto a rather large tray; four bags of crisps, two cheese sandwiches, two apples, two bananas, two mars bars, two cups of tea and two large slices of steaming apple pie.

"Miranda was gone but your house keeper was there and when she heard you were hungry she insisted."

"Of course she did,"

"Let's start with the hot stuff shall we?"

"I don't like apple pie,"

"Great more for me … what crisps did you want?"

"I don't know," Sherlock was wrong-footed by John's easy acceptance to his refusal and felt strangely helpless being faced with all that food and choices,

"Ready Salted, Salt and Vinegar, Chicken or Cheese and Onion?"

"Whatever one you don't want,"

"Sherlock …"

"I don't really know,"

"Ok how about I put them all in a bowl and we can help ourselves?"

"Fine,"

"Alright here," John put the tray on the desk and grabbed a blank piece of paper; he ripped it half way through the shorter side, formed a cone shape and then stuck it together with tape. He handed it to Sherlock, opened the four packs of crisps and poured each of them in.

"Clever," Sherlock commented,

"I have my moments," John smiled as he sat back down, quickly tucking into his apple pie.

"'um," John quietly murmured in appreciation.

Sherlock slowly ate a crisp watching him with wide eyes,

"Y'um … oh," The genius would have picked up the doctors obvious exaggerations if he had been able to properly focus.

"Can't b…yum…believe you don't like this Sherloc…" he trailed off with a groan,

Sherlock licked salty lips and looked down at his crisps then over at where his portion of pie sat on the tray: steam still rising from it.

"Perhaps …"

"…" John hid a smirk as Sherlock leaned ever-so-slightly forward,

"Perhaps I'd like it now … taste buds change over time after all,"

"They do," Sherlock missed John's knowing grin as the doctor got up to collect it,

"Let me know if you still don't like it I'll be happy for some more," Sherlock put the paper bowl against his leg and took the plate of pie slowly. Something about John's words twitched a brain cell,

"Mrs Hudson would no doubt offer you more . . ." he said as a thought half-formed in his head but his stomach suddenly struck and rumbled: the smell right under his nose overriding his brilliance for possibly the first time in years.

"Oh!" he exclaimed after his first bite.

"Slow down Sherlock no need to inhale . . . that's disgusting!" the pie was demolished in four very large bites. Sherlock smiled at John before swallowing the last bit. The good doctor was obviously forgetting how he used to eat (and that Harry used to say the same thing to him).

Sherlock started picking at the crisps as John turned back to his own (Very Nice) pie.

"Ooooh salty," Sherlock said happily licking his fingers. To this bad habit John merely smiled fondly.

"Yuck what flavour is this one?" Sherlock asked holding a half-eaten crisp out to John, who rolled his eyes as he took and smelt it,

"Cheese and Onion,"

"Don't like those ones,"

The pair suddenly realised the flaw in mixing them all together,

"Oh … sorry Sherlock I'll go get you another pack if you . . ."

"Don't bother John I can smell the difference,"

"If you're sure?"

"Quite certain,"

"Ok then,"

For a little while the only sound in a comfortable silence was munching. Sherlock was lying back against three large pillows with his eyes closed; picking a crisp from the cone and after smelling either ate or dropped it on the floor. John was slowly finishing his portion of pie. When he was done he slowly got to his feet and picked up the original overturned crisp packet. Then he shuffled over to the bedside and started picking up the mess by its side.

"Are you tidying up after me?" Sherlock asked without opening his eyes,

"Seems someone has too,"

"We have a maid and house keeper to do that,"

John frowned but didn't answer,

"John?"

Still the doctor said nothing,

"Do you disapprove?" Sherlock finally opened his eyes to look at John,

"Does it matter if I do?"

"Not really,"

"Guess you asked a stupid question then," Sherlock frowned at his tone,

"I don't think I like that," he said without thinking,

"What?"

"Don't know … ignore me I'm tired," Sherlock closed his eyes again,

"Sleep then,"

"Mycroft's drugs must be wearing off,"

"Good."

"I agree … harder to sleep though,"

"Try to stop talking,"

"Something is on my mind . . ."

John was fairly sure something was always on Sherlock's mind,

"Something . . . Oh you didn't eat everything,"

"Mrs Hudson told me your parents expect me at dinner tonight apparently Mycroft and a guest will be there,"

"A guest?"

"Someone he works with,"

"Oh Anthea … wonder what ... the cr … crisis is … this ... time . . ." Sherlock didn't have time to think about it though as he drifted into sleep. John finished collecting the crisps and put then in what he thought was a bin. Sitting back down he felt nervous about dining with Mycroft but vowed not to act it.

Two hours later he forgot about being nervous as Mycroft's assistant joined him at the very fancy diner table.

WC – 2,896