Here is betad chap 2! dear librarianmum also pointed at my plot holes and together we fixed them ^_^
Warnings: AU!, spoilers to season 1
John stood in the doorway surveying the room. Windows, doors, furniture arrangement. Holmes was right, that was a habit that he could not get rid of and also saw no point of doing so. What he had already seen atBaker Streetand in the room where he was standing right now was not consistent with his expectations. John couldn't envisage Holmes as the type of man who would want to live in such a place, or even have an office here. However, he liked Mrs Hudson – a pleasant woman who immediately offered him a cup of tea, which he was forced to refuse. Watson really didn't know how his conversation with the man would turn out and how long it would take.
He tried not to stare at the whole disaster or the human skull on the mantelpiece. There were a lot of suspicious flakes on the kitchen table and it strongly resembled a table surface in the laboratory at Barts.
Holmes was lying down on the couch, and took no notice of John or paid any attention to his appearance. John had not come immediately after he'd decided to take part in this crazy adventure. For the rest of the evening he had weighed the consequences of the decision in his mind while searching for all the information he could find about the man. And now, the intuition that had saved his life at war more than once, appealed to him to turn around and not go even close to the harmless-looking house with a simple dark door and the plate 221 B.
When he reached out to knock, the door was opened unexpectedly. So he became acquainted with Mrs. Hudson, refused her invitation for tea and went upstairs to be greeted with complete indifference.
"Good evening," said John hesitantly. He looked around once more, noticing an old armchair in front of the window, into which he was not averse to dipping. After long hours of walking, his leg was bothering him a bit.
"I looked you up online. Found your site – The Science of Deduction," he said brightly, hoping to make reasonable conversation.
Holmes only slightly shook his head in acknowledgment of his words and returned to his contemplation of the ceiling. John frowned, he could perfectly imagine why this man might need a "nanny" to look after him, if his strange behaviour and rude manners were any hint.
Realizing that in this house he was never likely to be asked to sit down, John allowed himself to choose a chair beside the couch, and not the chair that he had noticed at first, and wearily sat down. From his sitting place John got a better view of all the strange things in this flat. After a more detailed examination, the apartment didn't seem miserable and gloomy, just a bit dark and cluttered. And elementary cleaning might did the trick. Watson remembered his own room – small and empty, and if you got rid of his few things – absolutely faceless. And the pink suitcase was the second bizarre thing after the skull.
"Hmm, nice case. Not sure it goes with the decor though."
A loud sigh made John shudder involuntarily. He found himself looking in bewilderment at Holmes's profile and dark hair scattered in the cheaply upholstered sofa and mentally asking himself the same question again and again: what was he still doing here?
"I know why you need all the money you can get." This was the first thing he had heard from Holmes this evening.
"But…" John took a deep breath and asked calmly, "And why do I need money?"
"Gambling," and after a short pause, he added, "Give me your cane."
"What about my cane?"
Holmes abruptly sat up and became still, holding out a hand to John. And John had no choice but to put his cane on the outstretched palm.
"Your cane. It…" The beginning monologue was interrupted by hasty steps.
Holmes fell silent and looked angrily in the direction of the open door. Surprisingly John knew the visitor. Due to the specifics of his current work, he had once been involved with Detective Inspector Lestrade.
"Hello, Greg," he said, shaking hands with undisguised amazement.
"Sherlock, you don't answer my calls." Lestrade sighed wearily and threw an eloquent glance at John. "Did you find anything?"
"Not yet." A clearly irritated Holmes waved in the direction of the DI with a dismissive gesture, clearly denoting the end of the discussion.
Lestrade ruffled his short hair in annoyance and sighed again:
"If you find something, call me. Please."
John had no choice but to silently watch this interaction. After Greg's departure, a tense silence hung between them.
"You have questions."
"Police don't consult amateurs." It was really hard for him to imagine how one could determine that a person works as a programmer by his tie, or could calculate the pilot by the thumb of his left hand. DI Lestrade, in his opinion, was a man who knew his work. And he had only just read about Holmes as a detective a few hours ago. But just now in front of his eyes Greg had humbly asked Holmes for help.
"Your cane. Not of bad quality, comfortable and cheap. You wouldn't be sorry to leave or to lose it. Scratches and dents eloquently speak about the fact that this cane is used not only as a mobility aid, but also as a defensive weapon. If you really needed a cane in daily life, you would choose a more reliable and probably more expensive one. But back to the dent. As an underground doctor you don't need to fight back especially from your patients. But as someone who constantly seeks adrenaline, besides trying to look inconspicuous and innocuous as possible, this thing can be really very helpful. Especially in the places where you are used to spending your free time. You love excitement and risk, and hence gambling. The marks of numbers above the wrist on your right hand show it as clear as day. I don't think you are lucky often. Hence, a constant need of money."
John angrily pursed his lips and frowned. His passion for gambling often became a problem. And although in the Army he had somehow managed to control himself, his return toLondonhad set him off again. It was hard to stop when you were involved in the underground world of gambling and betting, and you did not have the desire or incentive to resist…
"Your familiarity with Lestrade indicates that you have crossed each other before, either as an informer or a witness. The latter is more likely. The area where you are, so to speak, working, doesn't apply to his responsibility. The DI has his own informants. I think you met during some case as a witness. After that I suppose he called you to work as forensic surgeon. Psychosomatic pain in the leg and a slight tremor in your hand put an end to your career as a doctor, and even there you'd have to expect to be only an assistant. You can do better and therefore refused. In addition, the pay there is not much, in contrast to the underground doctors' pay."
With a confident gesture, Holmes threw the cane somewhere behind the sofa.
"There - you see you were right."
"I was right? Right about what?"
"Police don't consult amateurs. When they are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."
John could barely suppress the urge to jump to his feet and start walking in circles around the room. Holmes was right about almost everything.
"That was… extraordinary," he repeated to himself. John was still trying to figure out what he was feeling more – surprise or anger, but Holmes's conclusions were really amazing. "And brilliant."
"You know that you say that out loud."
"Sorry. I won't do that."
"No... It's all right. That's not what people usually say."
"And what do they usually say?"
"Piss off."
John smiled, he could well imagine why that might be.
Holmes settled again on the couch, flipping through some police reports and muttering something about someone's phone. John thought he would be ignored again. But it seemed the detective had plans for him.
"On my desk. There is a number. I want you to send a text." He didn't even bother to look in the direction of John, who carefully got up and walked to the table. The paper with the needed number was lying in plain view, as if waiting only for him.
"These words exactly. What happened atLauristonGardens? I must have blacked out.22 Northumberland Street. Please come."
John barely managed to handle his mobile which he had not learned to use properly.
"You doing it?... Done?"
"Hang on," he muttered still typing text. After a minute, he responded with relief, "Done."
This time, John decided to wait in the chair in front of the window. It was really as comfortable as it seemed. Having nothing better to do he picked up the newspaper so invitingly lying in the armrest. The headline screamed at him about strange suicides.
"Hmmm… Strange" John flipped through the pages. He had vaguely heard about suicides disturbing London, but only now had he time to carefully study all the available information given by the press.
"Mm?" Holmes was paying attention to him after all.
"I don't think it's that simple. Sounds to me like murders. Twisted, genius, but still murders. "
"Good, very good. John," purred Holmes.
"Do you live here?" he hastily decided to change the topic. If he didn't, the detective certainly seemed to spend lot of time here. John found it to be rather strange choice for an office. Although, given what he'd managed to learn about Holmes during their brief acquaintance, not a surprise. Dull and routine were hardly words to associate with this man.
"Noooo…. But I consider it an option."
John was prepared to wait. He vaguely wondered for what exactly. But what he knew best was how to wait. In this he was a master. In his thirty-eight years he had honed this skill to perfection. And learned to accept calmly everything that happened around and to him.
Holmes noisily pushed a police report aside, stood up suddenly and walked towards John across the coffee table, stepping on it in the process.
"As you have already realized, I want us to work together."
John shuddered. Now all he needed to understand was what was left unsaid. He could hardly imagine what Holmes might want from him. What kind of help might be needed by a detective?
"I won't break the law for you."
"You are breaking it for yourself. And you are a doctor. Good?"
"Very good."
"We would be amazing together."
Holmes was looming over him with his hand pressed against the chair near John's head. The sleeve of his expensive shirt tickled the bare skin of John's neck. But John did not dare to move to get rid of the touch to his sensitive skin. He could only stare in amazement into the cold gray eyes.
"So will I be some kind of assistant?"
"I seek a partnership."
"Is this some kind of joke?"
"Do I sound like I am joking?"
John was staring in wonder at the face with high cheekbones and sensual lips, when he was rather unceremoniously forced out of the chair and then pushed in the direction of the exit.
"Wait a second! Where are you taking me?"
"We are leaving." Holmes sighed dramatically, expressing dissatisfaction with John's evident lack of intelligence.
"Wait! Let's clear some things up first. What do you mean by a partner? And what do you want me to do? We haven't even discussed working conditions!"
The detective stopped short, then walked thoughtfully around him, his hands in his pockets. With a strange expression in his cold eyes, Holmes looked him from the bottom-up to finally stop at his lips.
"Mrs. Hudson!" he shouted suddenly. "Mrs. Huuudson!"
"What's the matter, Sherlock?" the woman panted, a little out of breath. John glanced reproachfully in the direction of Holmes, but was ignored.
"Mrs. Hudson, this is Dr. John Watson. From now on he will be your second tenant."
"What?"
"Of course, Sherlock. As you say."
"It's more convenient this way. You'll always be here, if I need you," Holmes declared, brushing away potential objections from John, who tried with little-to-no success to get a word in edgeways as the detective and his landlady discussed a second set of keys and his moving arrangements.
"But you said that you are not living here."
"I will from now on."
"Yeah, and for a start it wouldn't hurt to throw out all this stuff. Is this a human skull?"
"I can clean up a bit. And yes. My friend." Holmes walked around the room, pausing briefly by the mentioned skull.
"What do you think, Dr. Watson?" Mrs Hudson approached him. "There's a second bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing separate ones."
"Of course, we'll need separate bedrooms." John frowned, already mentally resigned to move in. He suddenly realized that he would have had to start looking for a flatmate in the near future. He had always wanted to live inLondon, but without a flat share, he very soon would not have been able to afford it. And, of course, he had imagined that his likely flatmate would have been a completely different person from Holmes. But it seemed no one was going to be interested in his opinion.
"Don't worry, there's all sorts round here." She leaned forward and whispered confidentially: "My neighbour Mrs. Turner's got married ones!"
John did not believe his ears. The lovely woman even winked at him. Maybe something had escaped his attention, something important. He tried to burn holes in Holmes with his glare, but the detective ignored him while busying himself with putting stacks of paper in different places.
"We're going out, Mrs. Hudson. We'll be late. Don't wait up."
"Has it something to do with those three suicides?"
"Four! Four improbable suicides," the pleased detective assured his landlady. "And there is no point in sitting at home when finally there's something fun going on!"
"Look at you, so happy. It's not decent," laughed Mrs. Hudson.
"Who cares about propriety." Holmes hurried to the front door. "The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!"
After this strange statement, they leftBaker Streetand hurried off through the busyLondonstreets. John was puzzled. He hadn't managed to get much clarity about his so-quickly changed status.
Looking at the back in a dark coat in front of him, John sadly pondered over what exactly Holmes might expect of him. There were enough skilled professionals in the police force to be a mere consultant for Holmes. Watson did not understand how his skills in treating living patients might help a detective in the disclosure of cases where the victims, with rare exceptions, tended to be already dead. And what were these experiments on which he worked in his spare time?
"Where are we heading?" He decided it was time to find out. If he was going to be at least somehow helpful, he had to know what was going on in the detective's life.
"Northumberland Streetis a five minute walk from here. Are you hungry?"
Comprehensive response. John had had no time to adjust to the sweeping step of Holmes before they walked in a small cozy café. Very normal, with the usual clientele. He would have chosen this place if he wanted to eat. The waiter pointed them to a table by the window.
"Thank you, Billy." Everything in Holmes' behaviour screamed regular customer. And yes, he even had a favourite table. John looked around. He took off his jacket and forced himself to sit down with his back to the window.
"Sherlock! Anything on the menu, whatever you want – free. On the house for you and your date." They were greeted by a big man with a pleasant appearance. For some reason, John imagined that the owner of such an establishment must look exactly like this man.
"Do you want something to eat?"
"I'm not his date."
"This man got me off a murder charge," the man began, excitedly, not paying any attention to his words. This earned him a pleased smile from Holmes. He even found it necessary to introduce him to John:
"This is Angelo. Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade that during a triple murder, Angelo was in a completely different part of the town housebreaking."
They exchanged a firm handshake.
"I will get a candle for this table. It's more romantic."
When Angelo walked away from their table, John bent over to Holmes and whispered angrily:
"Everyone thinks we are a couple. Don't you have a girlfriend?"
"Girlfriend…. No, not really my area."
"Do you have a boyfriend? Which is completely fine, by the way," he added, hastily.
Holmes frowned. "I know it's fine."
"Do you have one?"
"No."
Angelo brought a candle. John only pursed his lips with displeasure and stared at the menu. He decided to use the offer of a free dinner and chose pasta with bacon and mushrooms. If not for Holmes' strange behaviour he would have mistaken this for a date.
"Let's be clear…"
"What else don't you understand?" The detective sounded almost exasperated.
John frowned and folded his hands in front of him on the table.
"Well excuse me, but I can't work out what you expect from me? Why do we have to live together if I'm to be only a hired worker? By the way, my status as a wage-worker…."
He did not understand how it happened. By a steady hand he was pulled by his neck close, very close to the other man's face:
"600 pounds per week plus living atBaker Streetat my expense, I hope, will save me from your further doubts."
They practically lay on the table, staring into each other's eyes. For a moment it seemed to John he would be kissed. And when Holmes, with smile in the corners of his mouth, took his hand away from John's neck and returned to the observation of the street outside the window, John did not know exactly what he felt to a greater extent: surprise or relief.
"I can't stay with you day and night, but I hope we can find a compromise." He did not understand what just happened between them, but John Watson was able to pull himself together. And the sum compensated for any inconvenience.
"What are your thoughts about these murders?"
From the scraps of heard conversations and news, he realised that he knew very little even after reading the paper. Holmes didn't even turn his head in his direction, so John had nothing to do but to go over all the information at his disposal. Suddenly, he froze.
"I texted a killer. At your request I texted a killer. Now he has my number."
"It doesn't matter."
"Doesn't matter?" John was beside himself with indignation. "And hiding evidence from the police also doesn't matter now? Or will you assert that that pink bag is really yours, and you just love a flashy appearance?"
He fiercely poked his pasta with a fork and tried to decide what he was going to do. There was at least one thing that he could do. He surreptitiously sent a message to Lestrade and returned to his supper. Holmes didn't seem to notice.
The feeling that he was being closely watched was getting familiar to him. It was impossible to ignore. Especially from a man with such a piercing gaze.
"What?" John met Holmes's gaze and for the first time he felt truly out of his depth. He did not know what he had done or said to deserve such attention, but the detective's focus had definitely shifted from the street to him.
"You think he is stupid enough to turn up?" John shrugged.
"Nooo…. I think he is clever. He is brilliant enough. I love the brilliant ones. They are so desperate to get caught."
"Why?"
"Appreciation. Applause. The chance to get in the spotlight, in the end. It's a fault of geniuses, John. They need an audience."
"Yes." John's eyes narrowed. He wondered why Holmes has decided that he would be an appropriate audience for him. Perhaps he shouldn't be so openly impressed by the detective's words. But all the deductions were really amazing. The logical chain presented in short clear sentences and he could see the complete result of the work of a brilliant mind. John suspected that Holmes had not shared even half of what he had found out about him at their first meeting.
"Here he is hunting around. Right here in the heart of this city. Now we know that his victims were abducted and that changes everything. And all of them disappeared from busy streets, crowded places. And nobody saw… Who do we trust even if we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of the crowd?"
"Who?" Maybe if John asked leading questions, it would help to send the detective's thought process in the right direction. Although he did not really believe that he could be helpful.
Holmes went back to his contemplation of the street and passers-by.
"Taxi. Stopped. Nobody going in. Nobody going out… Why taxi? Ohh, that's clever."
"Is it him?" John quickly scanned the street for a suspicious taxi. His attention was immediately drawn by one. Indeed, now it seemed odd that he had not thought of it himself.
Holmes had already pulled on his coat, and John was left with no choice but to quickly grab his jacket and run after the detective.
"I know the car number and can contact Lestrade…" John, while running, was trying to get his phone from his pocket. Holmes grabbed his hand and pulled hard.
"We don't need to."
And they ran.
He liked to feel the wind abruptly slashing his cheeks, liked to see the dark gaps under his feet. Liked the feeling of falling, the moment when his legs were out from a stable surface, and he flew towards the next wall.
Adrenaline made his blood run faster through the veins; sharpened his eyesight and hearing, and John enjoyed every second of their chase. He was stuck by how thoroughly Holmes knew all the gateways and alleys ofLondon. With every unexpected turn, the detective showed him the city from a new angle.
And John had not felt so alive for so long.
Their suspect was an Asian male, who could not be their killer. John had no time to calm his heartbeat as Holmes had already pulled him into another run. And only in the dark corridor on the first floor ofBaker Street, he was able to catch his breath.
While looking through the missed calls on his mobile, he laughed softly. He did not even remember the last time he had so much fun. After being shot, a painful recovery and returning home, he hadn't had much reason to be really happy.
"That was really good." John leaned heavily against the wall. "That was the craziest thing I've ever done."
Oops, he'd forgotten that he didn't want to inflate Holmes' bloated ego.
"You invadedAfghanistan."
"It wasn't just me."
John was surprised to see Holmes' smile. Before that he had beheld only smirks and half-smiles. Now it was a real smile. He even felt embarrassed for his stupid laugh and sudden desire to smile as openly in return. So he hastened to hide his embarrassment by studying his phone.
All missed calls were important and he should not been ignoring them, but John was well aware that it was not in his power to zigzag through the dark streets and carry on a conversation at the same time.
"Sherlock, what have you done?" Mrs. Hudson looked really upset, nodding toward the stairs.
John looked away guiltily; he had forgotten that he had texted Lestrade about the pink bag. Back then, he was angry with Holmes, but even now he had almost no compunction. Detectives should not have to hide important clues from the police.
His phone rang again on the stairs. He stayed behind, watching as Holmes threw open the door in a rage and disappeared from sight. The next thing he heard was an indignant exclamation, but he had no time for that.
"What's happened?" An excited voice on the other end was shouting at him. John closed his eyes wearily, unconsciously trying to isolate himself from the other man's words. "I don't know when I can come. What do you mean only me?... Got it. I'll come as soon as I can."
John cautiously peered into the doorway. People in police uniforms were looking for something all over the flat. Some of them he knew personally. Lestrade, looking very pleased with himself, was sitting in a chair and watching Holmes throw a tantrum.
"What's going on here?" John asked, innocently.
"Drugs bust," Greg explained, politely.
"Seriously?" John was instantly suspicious. He had been absolutely sure that Mycroft Holmes had told him the truth. He tried not to feel disappointed, but felt a bitter taste in his mouth.
"John-," The pale-gray eyes looked at him with a strange expression. "–I'm clean."
"If you say so, if you say so," replied John, very quietly and with much less confidence.