The chapter is betad by TeapotInATempest. Thank you so much!
Thanks to everyone taking the time to read my story. I'm very grateful. Please review. Let me know what you like, what you dislike ... You can also PM me of course.
Chapter six
When Sherlock returned at dinnertime his face was very grave.
"You're back early. Is everything alright?" John asked him worried. He closed the laptop on his legs and turned his undivided attention to his friend.
The detective hung up his coat on the door and flung himself onto his usual seat. "This is a more serious matter than I had expected. It is fair to tell you so, though I know it will be only an additional reason for you to run into danger. I should know you by now. But there is danger, and you should know it."
"Well it's not the first we have shared that. I hope it will not be the last," John replied. "What is so peculiarly dangerous this time?"
"I've been down to see Lestrade at the Yard. There may be an occasional want of imaginative intuition down there but they lead the world for thoroughness and method," Sherlock explained, putting his fingertips together under his chin. "I told you I believed this murder to be the work of a serial killer?"
"You hinted at it," John admitted. Sherlock always took his time before explaining a case. He had learned through the years that the detective would share the details with John when he found the time was right to do so.
"Well, I believe it is safe to start with it as a working hypothesis. You know one should never theorize before having all the evidence. It biases the judgment."
John sighed. "Yes, you've told me so…several times." In fact, there had been no case during which he had failed to say this.
"It occurred to me immediately that this case might be related to the London Hotel murder two years ago. There were some parallels," Sherlock explained. "Not that the Yard makes any connection of the kind."
"How do you know that?" John asked curiously.
"You know that I always catalogue crimes," Sherlock replied.
John nodded. "Yes."
"I went to the Yard to verify some of my ideas about this case. I had an idea that we might get on the track of our friend in their records. Sure enough, I've been able to gather some pieces of circumstantial evidence of a connection. However, there have been more murders in the last five years that might be connected with the Aldershot murder. Some very nasty killings, John. I'm not easy in my mind about it."
"It's not our first serial killer, Sherlock."
"No, John. But this is one who has been able to evade the law for several years without the police even knowing they have a serial killer on the loose. This one's clever."
"You like them clever."
"I do. But it is an ugly, dangerous business, and the more I see of it the less I like it," Sherlock replied. He leaned forward and his eyes glinted with excitement as they always did when he was keenly interested. "I have to admit though that this is a unique chance to lay our hands on him. Mr. and Mrs. Smith took part in a marriage education workshop which is taking place over three weekends. They were murdered on the first. The murderer must either be one of the staff or one of the participants. We can take the Smiths' place to investigate, and our murderer has no idea that we're on his trail. But I give you my word that I shall be very glad to have us both back safe and sound at home once more."
"Have you told Greg about it?" John wanted to know.
"No," Sherlock answered, hesitating.
"No? Why not?" John asked worried.
"I have no proof yet, John." Sherlock looked at him intensely. "Besides, he had other things on his mind," he added carefully.
"Like what?"
Sherlock took an envelope out of his pocket and handed it wordlessly to John.
"What is that?" John asked suspiciously.
"The best wishes of the Force for our engagement," Sherlock explained, grimacing.
John looked at Sherlock with disbelief. "Greg told them?"
"I don't think he got the chance to. His officers apparently spread the news before he was even back at the headquarters."
"That's unbelievable!" John cried. "Everyone has signed the card. Is there no one left who doesn't know?"
"I don't think so. And since everyone already knew about it, Lestrade obviously thought it was a good idea to send their regards."
"How very thoughtful of him!" John groaned. "What did you say to him? Please, tell me you behaved."
"I did, sort of. I might have said something to Anderson and Donovan," Sherlock admitted with an expression of guilt on his face.
"That doesn't count." It really didn't since he always said something to the one or the other of them. John had simply accepted that any improvement of Sherlock's manners would not include the two.
"I knew you wouldn't mind," Sherlock answered, relieved. "Besides, I had little time to say anything, because Gregson came in and they got involved in an argument. I sneaked away. Good you weren't with me. The congratulations were quite embarrassing."
John really didn't want to think of the Yarders' joy. He knew the relationship gave them great pleasure. The pool could be paid out at last.
"Speaking about embarrassment. There are more cards," John replied and pointed towards the sideboard.
Sherlock made a face. "From whom?"
"From Harry and Mary, for example."
"Mary? What can she have to say?" Sherlock asked, surprised.
"Harry and she are still in contact. She must have told her. Mary wishes us all the very best."
Sherlock watched John insecure. "Not good?"
"Bit not good," John replied miserably.
"Explain."
"I had arguments with her about you and me. Being together. I always denied it. This engagement is like a confession."
"Do you want her back?" Sherlock asked alerted.
"No. Why would I want her back?" John looked at Sherlock with surprise.
"What's the problem then?"
John lifted up an eyebrow. "You can't be serious? Everybody thinks I am a liar, Sherlock. That's the problem."
Sherlock hunched his shoulders in response. "She'll get over it. As for your reputation, I believe that no one of importance will think ill of you."
John was too tired to argue with Sherlock. He knew that his friend couldn't be bothered with what others thought of him. So he decided to drop the subject. "By the way, what became of your interview with David Jones?"
"Ah, I forgot I had not told you. You're rubbing off on me. I'm adopting your involved habit of telling a story backwards," Sherlock declared with some dramatic hand gestures.
"I assure you I always find your stories very clear and enlightening," John sneered.
Sherlock was too much absorbed with his own thoughts to give any immediate reply to John's remark.
"David Jones seems to be well educated, with good manners and rational behavior. But also very unobservant. I really do not see what Victor sees in him. He's quite boring", Sherlock said thoughtfully, grimacing. "Actually, he wasn't very helpful over the case. He has absolutely no idea what happened or how it could have happened. He didn't actually give the workshop himself but has only given the introductory course. So he had only a passing acquaintance with the Smiths. Jones confirmed that nothing unusual happened at the clinic. That leaves us with my findings at the Yard and our forthcoming undercover operation."
"Victor seems to be very worried about David. I believe he cares a great deal about him. We cannot all meet your high standards, Sherlock," John replied, smiling despite himself. Sherlock obviously felt a pang of jealousy. "Maybe Victor says the same about me?" John teased him.
"Why would he do that? You're not unobservant; at least not as unobservant as the rest. You know what I mean," he added quickly, watching John, whose eyebrows were high on his forehead. "I guess love and understanding are seldom found together."
"Well, love is where you find it, Sherlock." In Sherlock's case one couldn't go by the saying that the way to a man's heart was through his stomach. The way to his heart was through his head, obviously.
"Love is blind, obviously. Anyway….what were you doing in my absence?" Sherlock apparently had decided to change the subject before John could make any further inquiries.
"Sending invitations for the Christmas party. It was about time."
"What's the point anyway? To my mind, it is a waste of time," Sherlock replied smugly.
"Undoubtedly. But that will not get you out of it. You will get them proper gifts and be nice," John said severely.
"Obviously, since you leave me no choice." The detective was sulking again.
"You needed to put a ring on my finger, remember?"
"I'm hungry, John. Have you already had dinner?" Sherlock suddenly asked, ignoring John's comment.
John watched his friend in disbelief. "Huh? You? Hungry? You had breakfast this morning."
"You always say that an empty bag cannot stand upright."
"Usually, you don't listen to me."
"Now I am. Let's go out!" Sherlock jumped up and strode towards the door.
"Where to?"
"Angelo's."
"He'll bring candles," John protested weakly, but stood up and grabbed his jacket all the same.
"Well, we haven't had time yet to celebrate our engagement," Sherlock declared.
"I celebrate it on a daily basis, you know…..Never mind," John mumbled as he closed the door behind them.
When he stepped outside, John inhaled deeply. The air was fresh and it had started snowing again. Baker Street was slowly turning white. "Wouldn't it be nice to have a white Christmas for once?" John asked enthusiastically. "We haven't had one in years."
Unsurprisingly, Sherlock didn't react but continued his way, lost in thought. They were walking close to each other. Their arms were touching unintentionally. Every touch sent a shiver down John's back. They took the same route they took on their very first case together, and which they had taken often ever since. It was a fifteen minute walk from their flat to the restaurant in Soho. When they arrived, Sherlock held the door for John, who decided not to mention it.
"Sherlock! I haven't seen you in a month, mate. Thought you've found another place to date your boyfriend." They were greeted delightfully by the tall owner of their favourite restaurant.
The detective sighed and feigned a smile. "He isn't my boyfriend."
John looked up at Sherlock, relieved.
"He is my fiancé," Sherlock added dryly.
John's face fell and closed his eyes. Mentally he braced himself for the flood of enthusiasm and joy that would undoubtedly follow. Because everybody reacted like that.
"Oh my goodness! That's great! Please choose a seat. I'll bring the candles. We'll have live music tonight. Francesca will play something on the violin for you."
"That's really not necessary….," John started, alarmed, eyes wide open.
"But of course it is, mate. You've hit the jackpot. He is one of the most illustrious men in the country."
John couldn't answer. His moth was dry. He decided it might be the safest way to reply through a silent smile. The most illustrious men in the country. Great.
"Come, John. We'll take the table at the window," Sherlock decided and dragged John along.
It was their usual table. They remained silent for a while. Partly, because John still had to think about the comment on their relationship, partly because Francesca decided to play some soppy love songs in front of their table while they were waiting for their food. She played dreadfully. Sherlock didn't trouble to hide his disgust. John kicked him under the table to prevent him from saying anything against her. It was John's way of making him pay for his smug "He's my fiancé" earlier. Unfortunately, he was also paying. John wasn't an expert on music but this was really bad. Both men sighed with relief when Francesca stopped playing and joined the owner in the kitchen.
"Why did you kick me? That hurt," Sherlock complained.
"You wanted to insult her," John replied flatly.
"She deserved it for what she was doing to the violin," Sherlock pouted.
"You will behave when I am with you."
Sherlock only growled as a reply.
When their food came, they started to eat in silence. John cast a glance towards his friend who seemed thoughtful again. John knew better than to ask him what he was thinking about. He would tell him when he made up his mind.
Sherlock suddenly looked up at John and reached slowly towards his hand on the table. "John?" His voice was soft, his tone gentle. Apparently he made his mind up very quickly this time.
"Yes?" John was startled by the touch but didn't move his hand away.
"Err….I think you should know that Victor was a nice bloke…back then," Sherlock said low voiced, looking uncomfortable.
"I see."
"He and I….well…we were…it was….," Sherlock stammered. Usually, he was never at a loss for words. Normally his mind raced and the words left him at speed of light.
"I know," John replied in a reassuring tone.
Sherlock was surprised. "You do?"
"I may not be a master of deduction, but I'm not blind either," John answered with a knowing smile.
"Oh."
"So…..What are you going to do about him? Will you keep seeing him when this is over?"
Sherlock looked at him in confusion. "No, why would I?"
"I don't know. Maybe because you like him? Maybe because you share something?" John tried.
"Whatever it was, it's over now. Victor and I wouldn't have worked. He wouldn't have appreciated my work. He is more the domestic kind of guy." Sherlock emphasized the word "domestic" with a tone in his voice that made his dislike very clear.
"Probably." John also couldn't really picture Victor Trevor chasing after criminals down dark, narrow alleys in the middle of the night.
"He would have grown weary of making me eat and sleep and being patient when I am bored," Sherlock continued and smiled playfully.
"Don't forget the body parts and experiments," John added deadpan.
Both men chuckled and Sherlock removed his hand. The tension was broken and John was thankful for it. He still had to get used to this new part of Sherlock. The question was, which part of it was real and which part was play?
"Sherlock?"
"Hmmm."
"I'm sorry for what I said earlier. The things I said in counseling about Moriarty. I know it's difficult for you and I know that you didn't like him. I really shouldn't have said that," John apologized.
"Don't make yourself uneasy. It's nothing. I know you didn't mean it like that," Sherlock replied.
"Tough day wasn't it?"
"Yeah."
"I don't like counseling," Sherlock chuckled.
"Neither do I," John couldn't resist laughing. "I bet you would have loved to tell her your deductions to her face."
"Indeed."
"Tell me."
Sherlock shook his head. "No."
"Why not?"
"Because we'll stay in therapy with her and I don't want you to be distracted by what I might have told you about her."
John sighed. "Since when are you so reasonable?"
"Since you've spoiled me," Sherlock answered seriously. His eyes lingered on John with a look that John would have described as "haunted", if asked.
John was under the impression that Sherlock wanted to say something else, but the detective averted his gaze from him after a moment and turned his attention back to his dinner.
Later in bed, John couldn't fall asleep. He heard the detective downstairs, playing the violin. Listening to the music, John recognized the melody as one of the songs Francesca had played for them that evening. Unlike Francesca, Sherlock played it flawlessly of course.
When they returned from the restaurant they had caught Mrs. Hudson decorating the flat with garlands and balloons. John suspected Mrs. Turner was involved too. She had overdone it by far. There were garlands with red and white hearts, balloons in the shape of hearts everywhere, and a big banner saying "Congratulations" in front of the mirror above the chimney. Since Mrs. Hudson had taken such delight in her decorations, the men did not have the heart to take them down.
John was weary after his counseling adventure of that day. Considering the events of the day one could even say that he just had had an official date with Sherlock, even if latter had only jokingly told him they were going to have dinner in order to celebrate the engagement. A date. Holding hands. Kissing cheeks. An engagement. Strange things were happening these days in Baker Street. To make things worse he apparently had already gotten used to the detective's presence in his bedroom, because the bed felt strangely empty and he couldn't fall asleep.
Sherlock Holmes was a man, however, who, when he had an unsolved problem on his mind, would go for days, and even for a week, without rest, turning it over, rearranging his facts, looking at it from every point of view until he had either fathomed it or convinced himself that his data were insufficient. John was afraid that he was now preparing to sit up all night, or worse, play the violin.
Come to bed. J
Why? S
Because it's late. J
I'm not tired. S
But I am. J
Why aren't you sleeping then? S
Can't fall asleep. J
Come downstairs. S
No. Come upstairs. J
Why are we having this conversation? S
Because I can't sleep. J
No wonder if you keep texting me. S
The bed is cold. J
Do you miss me in your bed? S
Interesting. S
JUST COME UPSTAIRS WILL YOU? J
NOW. J
John didn't receive another text but heard the detective coming upstairs some minutes later. When he opened the door John could see his tall, slim figure in the dim light that was shining upon him from the street lamps.
"Here I am," the detective announced.
"I can see that. And I appreciate that very much, Sherlock. Will you just lay down now and go to sleep, please? I'm exhausted," John replied.
Wordlessly, Sherlock closed the door and laid down on his side of the bed. Suddenly John felt Sherlock slowly moving closer, until he could feel his breath.
"I appreciate very much that you appreciate this very much," Sherlock whispered in John's ear in a flirtatious tone.
John startled and felt his muscles tensing. Sherlock's deep baritone voice and the feeling of his breath against his neck gave John goose bumps. He blushed and was thankful that it was too dark to be seen.