Hey there! I am currently sitting at home on my own, with no family in the house. What should I have done? Had a party? Gone out with friends? Why would I do that when I have FanFiction and the Sherlock DVD? Rock and Roll. Some teenager I am.
Thank you to anyone who's read or reviewed this story, you people are fantastic. Love you x
5:30pm
A million different possibilities of links between Edwards and Ionescu floated somewhere in the deep recesses of Sherlock Holmes's mind. He didn't know how he was expected to know who the next victim was if he had nothing to go on.
He listed the things he knew:
Edwards was a heroin addicted drummer who Moriarty supplied.
Ionescu was a student, who suffered from hay fever, just trying to pay for his education.
Moriarty was killing people every 48 hours. This meant he had 1 day and 6 and a half hours to solve the case.
This connected with Christmas somehow.
He had no-one to tell this to as John wasn't around, and the rest of the police force irritated him too much to be of any help.
The present was intriguing. What had Moriarty meant?
Was it just a reference to the time of year, or something else entirely?
Sherlock wasn't sure. And it wasn't becoming any clearer.
7:30pm
The restaurant was more than he could afford, John knew that. But it was classy, and he knew that he'd neglected Sarah recently. And hopefully, if all went well, he'd be rewarded for his efforts later that night. It wasn't like Sherlock was going to be in.
The thought of Sherlock distracted him from Sarah's anecdote. Somehow, inexplicably, he wasn't enjoying himself. He was on a date with an attractive woman who was very funny, very intelligent and very kind, but all he could think about was the bloody case. What was Moriarty doing? And whatever it was, could Sherlock stop it on his own? Did he need John's help? Or was he imagining himself to be much more important to Sherlock's detecting ability than he was?
"So we were running away from Melanie's when we realised we'd left the keys in house!"
John snapped back to reality. He laughed obediently, and engaged in further small talk with Sarah, but his mind was on autopilot. Something, perhaps his need for adventure and excitement, maybe his disturbing obsession with the macabre, was diverting his attention from his early supper with Sarah.
9pm
The phone rang, and woke Sherlock. His face still stuck to various pieces of paperwork, he scrabbled for the mobile, desperate to pick up.
"Hello?"
"My my, Sherlock. Someone's happy to see me." Moriarty's irritating drawl offended Sherlock's still sensitive ears. Contrary to popular belief, he needed to sleep occasionally, and it was coming up to his bi-monthly nap. Sherlock scowled.
"What is it you want, Moriarty?"
"You know my name, Sherlock. Say my name."
"No," said Sherlock coldly. "I don't respect you enough for that. Now tell me why you called."
"I'm guessing you don't believe that this was merely a social call? Quite rightly too. I rang to see how you're doing."
"What do you mean?" said Sherlock, annoyed. "I have no idea, because you haven't given me any clues."
"Oh how the mighty have fallen! The great Sherlock Holmes, stumped by a puzzle from little old me?" Moriarty giggled. "How disappointing."
"I'll figure it out for midnight tomorrow, Moriarty. Don't you worry."
"Aren't you going to beg me for a clue? A hint? The tiniest morsel of information?" Sherlock remained silent. "Too much pride?" Moriarty continued. "You simply must learn when to accept my help, Sherlock."
"You're not going to tell me, so why bother asking?"
"Oh contraire! I've told you before Sherlock, I'm so changeable!"
"Your only weakness," said Sherlock dryly.
"Exactly. Unlike you, Sherlock. You have so many, I'm getting bored of counting. That damn heart of yours will be your end."
"Sociopath, remember?"
"Must we continue to argue about this?" Moriarty spat, his anger beginning to show. "I know that you care more about others than you pretend to, and so do you. Back to business. Have you found the link?"
"No, for God's sake, I've told you before!" The rage bubbling under the surface of Sherlock overflowed suddenly, threatening to engulf him. He bit back the fury, air hissing through his bared teeth.
Moriarty found this hilarious. "Sherlock! Someone's got issues. Calm down, will you?" His chirping, musical tones only made Sherlock angrier. "Well, think about the time of year. I'm a great fan of Christmas Sherlock."
"So they've all got a Christmas link?"
"Yes. But you never celebrated Christmas, did you? All alone in that house, with only your brother for company?"
"John will know. I'll ask him."
"But is there time? Better have that epiphany soon. Tick tock, Sherlock." Moriarty hung up. Sherlock glanced at the clock on the wall- 10 past 9. Time was running out. He held his head in his hands, his eyes screwed up tightly to focus his mind.
Christmas. Holiday. Presents. Food. Laughing. Alcohol. Hangovers. Money. Shopping. Decorations. Jumpers. John. Sarah. Lestrade. Mycroft. Moriarty.
That was the last thing he thought before he slipped into a deep and dark sleep.
10pm
The sharp, cold light blinded Sherlock as he woke. Groaning from the overwhelming glow, Sherlock sat up, suddenly aware of the sofa he had been lying on, eyes once again shut tight.
"Where am I?"
"In my office." He recognised Lestrade's voice.
Sherlock opened his eyes suddenly. "What time is it?" he said sharply.
"10. Why?"
"Shit." Sherlock struggled into his coat, which had been thrown over him as a makeshift blanket.
"Woah! Woah! What's the hurry? Sherlock, you haven't slept in weeks, I can tell. Lie back down."
"I am perfectly fine." Sherlock got up, before feeling incredibly lightheaded. He staggered, gripping the arm of the sofa for support.
"Sherlock," said Lestrade bluntly. "You are going home. Now."
"I'm…I'm…" Sherlock stared into space; eyes glazed over and fixated on something that Lestrade couldn't see.
"Sherlock?"
He snapped out of his trance. "Yes?" He said, breathless, the ghost of a smile on his face.
"What's wrong?"
Sherlock grinned. "Nothing's wrong." He laughed heartily. "In fact I'm brilliant. Even more brilliant than usual. I've had an epiphany."
"Are you going to tell me or stand there and gloat?"
"He's basing this on the Twelve Days of Christmas. Twelve victims, each corresponding to the lines of the song."
"So Edwards was-"
"Twelve drummers drumming. Obviously, as he was the drummer in that god awful band."
"And Ionescu-"
"Eleven pipers piping. The Nai I found in his apartment, the ancient pan pipes."
"But surely he can't base his murders on something as simple as that? That's just senseless violence!"
Sherlock looked at Lestrade disparagingly. "And this surprises you? This is Moriarty we're talking about. He gave me a clue to figure it out- Epiphany. The feast of Epiphany, traditionally celebrated at the end of the Twelve Days. Some call it Twelfth Night."
"Er, Sherlock, I thought you didn't do Christmas. How did you know?"
"Not important. Now, we need to use this to figure out the next victim. The next line is "Ten Lords a Leaping". What could that mean? Look for a possible connection between Ionescu and anyone who could fit that description."
"Fine. But you have to go home Sherlock."
Sherlock blinked. "What? Why?"
"Sleep for a while. You're no good to me if you're going to faint every time you try and move." Sherlock made a small growl in the back of his throat, irritated at Lestrade's insolence. "I mean it Sherlock. Go, now. Sleep, or I'll have you chucked out."
Usually Sherlock would either casually throw out some deeply cutting remark or skilfully ignore him, but Sherlock knew he was right. Sleep now, he told himself, and come back later. "Ugh, fine."
10:30pm
Sherlock finally arrived home, exhausted, after a frustratingly long cab drive. The driver had taken a route so long that Sherlock probably could have walked there faster, his knowledge of London's streets far superior even to the best cabbie. He paid the driver, then staggered up the stairs to his flat. He told himself that if he went to sleep quickly, he could get back to work sooner. That thought appeased him. Just as he was about to walk into the flat however, he heard the low murmur of conversation. Peeking around the for some reason open door, he heard John's voice, and then Sarah's.
Shit.
He'd forgotten John was on a date. Crap. He'd just have to wait until Sarah left. He turned to exit, about to head down the stairs to Mrs Hudson's, when his curiosity suddenly flared. Silently creeping to the front door, he waited, listening to their conversation.
He heard the familiar sounds of John making tea, and he laughed at a joke Sarah had told him. It was John's fake laugh, the one he made when Mycroft said something horribly creepy when trying to make a joke. He was always so unfailingly polite.
Sarah laughed too, and Sherlock began to peek through the small gap in the doorway. She tossed back her hair, allowing her hand to brush across her neck. Oh please. How obvious was she going to be?
"So did you like the film?" Sarah asked him, still smiling.
"Yeah," said John. Liar. You allowed her to pick, and she chose a romantic comedy. Not your scene.
"I really loved Jennifer Aniston when she was in Friends, didn't you?"
"Oh yeah, she was my favourite." Lying again. You've never watched it.
Sarah finished her tea quickly. She smiled at John, her eyes moving down from his face and lingering at John's chest. Even from across the room, Sherlock could see John's ears flush a deep red. A blush crept up the back of his flat mate's neck.
"I had a really great time tonight, John," said Sarah softly. Her hand brushed his, and John gripped hers.
"Me too." John was smiling but his voice was unsteady. This was unlike anything Sherlock had ever seen before. A nervous John Watson? It seemed absurd. But quickly, Sherlock's attentions were distracted by Sarah leaning in towards John and kissing him suddenly, taking both himself and John by surprise.
Somewhere, deep in the depths of Sherlock's soul, a primal, animal part of him screamed. He wasn't sure of why, but for some reason with all his heart, with every fibre of his being, he wanted to rip the two apart, to stop them, to end the kiss. He wanted to tear her limb from limb for ever daring to touch John. John was not hers. He was Sherlock's.
Sherlock realised he was panting. Luckily the two were still unaware of his presence, deeply engrossed in, well, each other.
What was wrong with him? John wasn't his. John was Sarah's. But even saying Sarah's name left a bitter taste in Sherlock's mouth- the name of the woman who had taken John away from him. The way she looked at him, so arrogant, so confident of John's continued adoration. What he wouldn't give for John to look at him like that.
Sherlock shook his head frantically. He was just tired. That was all. Occasionally he wanted a bit of human contact when he was exhausted. But it began to dawn on Sherlock that he didn't just want John, he needed him. He craved the man, like a drowning man needed oxygen; he ached for him, yearned for him, longed for him-
Lusted for him. Sherlock thought of John, all the times he'd seen him coming out of his bedroom in only those stripy pyjama bottoms. He found himself blushing like a sunset, feeling a little too hot to be perfectly normal. Oh God. He had a crush on his room mate.
Sherlock's thoughts were broken by the sound of John's jacket falling to the floor. It pierced him like a knife, sharp and cruel. Sherlock moaned inwardly. What was he going to do?
He was so deep in thought about a way to get out of there that he didn't notice that he was leaning against the open door. Falling backwards through the doorframe, he landed on the floor of 221B with an almighty crash. John and Sarah broke apart, looking flushed, sitting up from their position on the sofa. Sherlock also sat up abruptly, desperately embarrassed.
"Sherlock!" said John quickly. "I thought you were at Scotland Yard!"
"Er, yes," said Sherlock, hastily smoothing down his hair. "I was. But I came home." He scowled awkwardly, before scolding himself. Stop acting like a lovesick teenager. For God's sake!
"Oh," said John, still a little flustered. "Well, er-"
"I'd best be going," said Sarah apologetically. "I'll see you later, John." She kissed him lightly, and then slid carefully off the sofa. She smiled at Sherlock brightly before leaving, but he did nothing. If looks could kill, Sherlock's would have burned holes in Sarah's head. John looked stunned.
"What're you doing here?" he said dazedly, still stunned by the odd turn of events. "I said I had a date."
"I forgot."
John sighed, looking deeply frustrated. "Right. How come you fell over anyway?"
Sherlock invented badly. "I was tying my shoe, and then I leant on the door and then it was open and then I fell and then I saw you two-"
"Yeah, I was there for that bit." John sounded angry. At him. Sherlock felt awful.
"I-"
"Don't worry about it, Sherlock. Just go to bed will you? You must be shattered." The words were kind but felt cruel. Sherlock couldn't stand that John was mad at him.
"… Are you coming tomorrow?" Thankfully, John wasn't looking at him. If he had, he would have seen the bitter tears in Sherlock's eyes. He managed to stop his voice from cracking.
"Yeah, yeah, sure." John got up, buttoning up his shirt once more. Sherlock was ashamed to find himself staring at the area where the flesh had previously been exposed. He span around quickly so John wouldn't notice.
"I'll go then. See you… later." Sherlock walked quickly to his bedroom and shut the door a little harder than he had intended to. The door rattled on its hinges. Sherlock crawled onto his bed and under the covers, huddling into a ball and praying for sleep. Praying to find out that this was all some crazy dream.
But that night he did dream, and he dreamed of John. And only John.
So I was watching The Other Boleyn Girl earlier, and experiencing some supreme Scarlet Johansson envy. Why on earth would you fall in love with a king when you have Benedict Cumberbatch playing your onscreen husband? As if she doesn't have enough already *pouts* So I decided to introduce the Sherlock/John UST with jealous Sherlock (a personal favourite of mine).
Also, apologies to anyone where I rather ruined the 'link' between the murders by telling them. It became rather more of a plot issue that I had intended.
Reviews make a Sherlock fan girl happy! :D