The Game Is On - Chapter 7

John wasn't upset with Sherlock. A little annoyed that the detective kept so many secrets from him, but not upset. In fact, if he was to label his feelings, he'd have to admit to being impressed. Sherlock was growing, and was growing to show sympathy. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he had compassion, and John nearly beamed at this. It was nice to see Sherlock so human. Little acts of compassion were what John needed, to remind him that Sherlock could in fact feel love. Because they reminded himself how much he loved his best friend.

He was, however, wary of Irene Adler's sudden reappearance. "Sherlock, I'm not upset that you saved her, because it was the right thing to do. I'm just concerned as to what her sudden reappearance could mean for us."

Sherlock raised his hung head to look at John. "You're not..."

"No, I'm not. Now stop moping and start thinking already. Dammit, you're getting soft."

A grin cracked across Sherlock's face, prompting a smile on John's, and the two friends laughed. John clapped a hand on Sherlock's shoulder in reassurance. "The game is on," he said.

That made Sherlock's smile even wider. The game was on.

"Hi... Harry?" John said into his cell. "I'd like to apologize for the other day. Sherlock can be quite a handful at times." To this Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disdain. "Anyways, we'd like to make it up to you. How about lunch at Speedy's Café? Good? Okay, we'll see you there!" He closed the phone and turned towards Sherlock.

"Ground rules. Don't do anything extreme."

"Extreme?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I never do anything extreme. Christ, John, it's not like I jump off buildings or pretend a bomb's going to blow us up underground."

John playfully shoved Sherlock with mock annoyance, but was unable to hold back his laugh. Sherlock smiled in response, silently grateful that John was not close enough to hear the quickened pace of his heart at the touch or see how his lips quivered slightly. In his head he scolded himself for reacting to a simple touch that meant completely different things to the involved parties.

John held the door open as Harry walked through. She stopped briefly on the threshold to whisper into his ear: "You aren't in a relationship with this Sherlock fellow, are you?" to which John pursed his lips together and informed her that no, he was not also gay.

"You know, you could tell me," Harry whispered. "Look at me. I obviously wouldn't judge."

Sherlock pretended to not hear the conversation but Irene snickered and walked past the men, grabbing her fiancée's arm and heading for a table. "I guess we all like girls here," she announced. "Well, at least three of us do." She tossed her head back to eye Sherlock, who replied, "I have no interest in relationships, only my work." He regretted how much effort the statement took to say in front of John when it had been so simple to toss it around in the past.

Sherlock held Lucy in his arms as he walked through the door, glad for her company. It was easy to love a baby, and for a baby to love someone back. He made faces for her as they settled down at the table. Part of it was because he genuinely enjoyed seeing her toothless grin. Part of it was because he wanted to prove to John that he could care for a baby. Better than any long-lost sister could, at least.

Harry and Irene sat on one side of the table while John and Sherlock sat on the other with Lucy. Sherlock noted the size of the table, wishing it was larger to put more space between him and Irene. He had been so fond of her mind. But it had disappointed him in the end, when it was molded by the works of Jim Moriarty. He had enough respect for her intelligence to save her life, but not to forgive her entirely for putting John at risk. Now he had to be cautious, more alert than ever before, as Moriarty's efforts caved in on Baker Street.

As everyone looked at their menus Lucy grew restless and began to cry. John sighed and took her from Sherlock's arms. "Probably hungry. I forgot to bring a bottle. Care to get one with me, Harry?"

"Sure," she said, getting up from the table with John and following him out the door. Sherlock watched as John asked his sister if she wanted to hold her niece and she carefully took Lucy out of his arms. She made a remark that made John laugh, and Sherlock admired the way the corners of his eyes crinkled before turning to face Irene.

"Not quite dinner, is it?" she said, breaking the silence. "But I'll take a lunch."

"What are you doing with John's sister?" Sherlock asked bluntly.

Irene smirked. "I'd tell you, but I don't think you'd understand."

"I understand a lot. More than most people."

"They still call you the virgin, you know. I don't think you'd understand this."

Sherlock could feel his face flame. "That's not what I was alluding to and you know it. Did Moriarty send you again?"

Irene placed her menu on the table and leaned forward. "Tell me, why are you so convinced I'm guilty of something?"

"You disappear for years and show up again at my house with a new name and John's sister, around the same time Moriarty begins his strike once again."

"You know if he really wanted you dead, you would be already," she said, leaning back in the chair. "You call yourself a genius. You miss so much, Mr. Holmes."

"Are you telling me this is an innocent charade?"

"You gave me a second shot at life, Mr. Holmes. I started over, changed my name. Found a woman. Fell in love. And the only one who cannot fathom that is you, Sherlock. Why? Because your mind is so defunct when it really comes down to the understanding of emotions. You know science, figures, numbers. You don't know the heart. And you sure as hell don't know how to read someone once they're ruled by their heart, not their head."

"I do know that in the past you were willing to hand over the man you supposedly loved to a psychopath intent on his destruction."

Irene let out a genuine laugh. "Oh dear, you are too much to handle. In love? With you? Never. I am a lesbian, Mr. Holmes. Do I need to expand your vocabulary?"

"I know what a lesbian is. And I read your signs to know that you were in love with me."

"Never," she laughed. "Infatuated with your mind, yes. I'll admit, I was impressed. It's hard to find anyone who can rival my intelligence. But in love with you, no."

"But the lock on your phone..."

"Was quite witty, don't you think? What can I say, I'm a sucker for corny things. And free dinners." She grinned as she watched Sherlock slowly come undone, questioning everything that had happened in his mind.

"I do give you props though for your acting, Mr. Holmes. You're almost as good as me."

"What acting?"

"To begin with, that little scene in your room the other night. Playing the madman. I'm sure that wasn't much of a stretch for you. And the little dance you put on to have this conversation, to get me away from Harry. Creative."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply when he heard the door open and John's laughter as he returned with Harry and Lucy. Irene smiled warmly as Harry rejoined her. As John sat down, he cast a wondering look at the stoic Sherlock, who gave nothing away.

"I'm thinking of some steak and chips," Irene said, showing the menu to Harry and pointing, ultimately cutting off Sherlock from any more prying questions.

"What did you find out?" John asked expectantly once he and Sherlock were alone at home.

"Nothing," he admitted, then relayed the conversation to John.

"Nothing? How did you find out nothing?"

"I don't know John. Maybe it's a coincidence."

"Do you even believe in coincidences?"

"Do you have a better explanation than the one she gave?"

"No," John said, holding his head in his hands.

Sherlock's phone rang, breaking the tension of the room. He glanced at it. "Lestrade. Another beheaded victim. Ready to check it out this time?"

"The game is on," John shrugged, grabbing his coat and giving Mrs. Hudson instructions to feed Lucy at a certain time.

"We need to figure this out, fast," Lestrade said as he led John and Sherlock towards the crime scene. His face was ashen and the wrinkles more pronounced. "John, I'm not sure you want to see this one."

"I was in a war, Lestrade. I've seen a lot of bodies."

"This one's different," he nearly whispered, slipping under the police tape.

Sherlock scanned the area for a body, but all he could see was a huddled team of forensics investigators. "Where is it?" he asked.

Lestrade nodded in the direction of the forensics, and Sherlock walked up to them, parting the crowd with John at his tail. When he saw the body, he stepped back in shock.

"Oh. Oh, fuck," John whispered, then hunched over and gagged.

"What the fuck is going on," Sherlock demanded, staring down Lestrade.

"That's why you're here, isn't it?"

"What were the ID's of the others?"

"Shirley Jones, 78. Malcolm Smith, 45. Evan Peters, 33. Willa Fitzgerald, 31. Lance Fisher, 32. Michelle Parker, 34."

"Variety of ages, genders... where's the pattern?" Sherlock thought aloud.

"This is fucking wrong. This is so fucking wrong," John said, still hunched over.

"Does she have a name?" Sherlock whispered.

"There's nothing. We have nothing on her. We think she was an abandoned baby who had the misfortune of being found by our serial beheader."

"Fuck," was all Sherlock could say before John heaved onto the pavement.

John had insisted on drinks, and Sherlock could feel himself gradually losing control as the alcohol seeped into his bloodstream. He turned a wobbly head over to John, who was also obviously intoxicated. Sherlock grinned at his friend.

"Did I ever tell you," he slurred, "that you're my best friend?"

John raised his eyebrows. "Am I? You're my best friend too!"

"Oh, that's great!" Sherlock exclaimed, slamming his glass down on the counter. He swiveled to face John.

"John," he said softly.

John turned to face him back. "Why are we whispering?" he asked, his head swaying slightly.

"Because it's important, John," Sherlock replied. "John, I have to tell you something important."

"Well what is it?"

"I'm not good at explaining this stuff," Sherlock said, grasping the bar as the world turned around him. "Can... can I show you?"

"Go ahead," John rumbled, waving a drunken hand.

Sherlock took in a breath and let it out slowly. Suddenly he leaned forward, caressing John's face with one hand, steadying himself against the bar with the other, and planted his lips against his friend's. He waited briefly as his stomach churned, aching for John to press back.

Sherlock slowly pulled away. "I... um..." he stuttered, unsure what to say.

John tilted his head, clearly confused. "Sherlock? Did you just kiss me?"

"Yes," Sherlock admitted.

"Oh. That's not how you do it," he answered, and leaned forward, pressing his lips against Sherlock's before parting them with his tongue. Sherlock clasped a hand on John's shoulder to steady himself as the force of the kiss took him in.

"That's how you kiss," John said when he broke away. "Didn't Janine teach you anything?"

Sherlock grinned. "I wasn't really trying then," he said.

John turned back to his glass, tipping it forward to see how much was left. "Well now you know for the next time you use a girl. What did you want to tell me?"

"I don't remember," Sherlock answered, his stomach sinking. He downed his drink and asked for another, waiting for his memory and feelings to fade.

John walked to the table where Sherlock sat, grimacing as he held his head.

"I made you some coffee," Sherlock said, sipping some from his own cup.

"Thank god," John replied, collapsing into a chair. "What happened last night?"

"I don't remember," Sherlock lied.

"Guess we drank too much," John said, rubbing his temples. "Everything's so foggy. Was Harry there?"

"No," Sherlock replied. "She was at lunch. This was later."

"Well, remind me not to drink so much again," he said, then got up to turn off the light above the table. "Better," he sighed as he sunk into the chair again.

Sherlock fiddled with his mug, wincing from the memories that hurt more than the hangover.