"Sherlock's run off to chase down some clue then, has he?"
John looked up to see Sally Donovan walking toward him, her dark eyes flickering from the view of Doe's hospital room to meet his gaze.
"No," John sighed. "He's not working this case. You know that."
"Then why are you here? My constables tell me you've been here every night this week."
"Yeah," John said. "I just thought he'd like some company."
"You're making friends with a man with no memory?"
John pursed his lips, giving her a tight little smile.
"Found out who he is yet?"
"We're looking!" Donovan snapped back. She pursed her lips, suddenly looking tired. "He's like a ghost."
John glanced at the sleeping figure; he'd been much more tired today, complaining of a headache, leaving John to carry most of the conversation.
"We can't find anyone looking for him and he doesn't know anything about himself."
"He knows more than you think he does," John replied. Donovan shot him a sharp, mistrustful look and he shook his head hastily. "I don't mean that – he's not lying to you or anything. Just – if you took the time to really talk to him, you'd see."
"John, I don't have time to really talk to him," Donovan sighed. "He's not my only case."
"I know." He hesitated, debating with himself for a second but withdrew his notebook from his pocket and passed it to her. "Have a look at that."
Donovan skimmed the pages quickly, her frown deepening. When she was finished, she read it again.
"This is good," she admitted. "Nothing we can use to ID him but still… very good. I thought– well, I don't know much about how amnesia works."
"The brain is complex," John said. "But these are all good signs, Sergeant–" She shot him a look. "Sorry, Inspector," he corrected when she shot him a look. Donovan's lips twitched into a small smile and John relaxed.
"Can I keep this?" she asked.
"You can make photocopies," John said. Donovan looked as though she were about to argue but relented, nodding instead. She gave the notebook to the constable guarding the door and sent him off, assuring him she'd stand watch until he returned.
"Have you put him on the news yet?" John asked. "He hasn't said anything about it, but I don't know if you would have told him."
"Yes, of course we would," she said. "But no, we haven't."
"Why not?"
Donovan sighed, crossing her arms.
"First off, have you seen him?"
"Yeah, okay, but you should be able to get a sketch artist to do a decent job now that he's not all bruises and bandages."
"It's not that," Donovan said. "You had it with the bruises and bandages. Someone did that to him, John. That kind of thing doesn't just happen by accident – someone wanted him hurt."
"A mugging gone bad? He didn't have a wallet or phone."
"Could be. Could be personal, too. I don't really want to start advertising the fact that he's here."
"You have a constable on guard already."
"I do," Donovan agreed. "And if I put him at risk, I need to be sure it's my only option. Secondly, you have no idea how many false leads a tip line gets. Given that it might only endanger him for no good reason, I'm not ready to waste dozens of man hours chasing down dead ends. We're still going through missing person's reports in the UK and looking through CCTV footage for the day he came in. I'm not –" She hesitated, then shook her head. "I don't want to muck it up, not if it means someone coming back for him."
"What about if someone's looking for him?"
"You say that like I don't think it a hundred times a day," Donovan said, a slight edge in her voice. "I know it's the holidays and I know someone's probably out there wondering where he is. I'm not trying to be cruel, John."
John nodded.
"No, I know. Sorry."
"I need to keep him safe just as much as I need to find out who he is."
The constable returned with the photocopies for Donovan, who accepted them with a murmured thanks.
"You've got much more out of him than we have," she said.
"I have time for it."
Donovan gave a distracted nod, focused on the notes. When she looked up, her expression had softened from the strained patience he was used to into something approaching warmth.
"You're a good man, John," she said. Coming from her, the compliment was so unexpected it struck him into momentary silence and he cleared his throat to cover his shock.
"I try to be."
"A lot of people don't try at all," Donovan sighed. "How many other people would take the time to visit a complete stranger in the hospital – especially one with amnesia? Can't be easy to talk to him."
"It's not that hard," John countered. "I just talk. He asks me questions, I asks him some. He's not a stupid man, Sally. He wants to know things."
"So do I," Donovan murmured, half to herself.
"I'd be lonely, if it were me," John said.
Donovan's lips twitched into a full-fledged, if brief, smile.
"John, if it were you, Sherlock would have found you within about five minutes."
Despite himself, John grinned.
"That's true."
"I have absolutely no worries about you ever disappearing," she said offhandedly.
"What? You've thought about that?"
"You're married to Sherlock Holmes, of course I've thought about that. It's something I'd prefer to avoid – I don't need the city going up in flames."
It was probably the closest thing to an admission of respect for Sherlock's abilities that John was ever likely to hear from Sally Donovan. He entertained the idea of telling Sherlock but the detective wouldn't care – from almost anyone else, he would have been secretly pleased. Not with her.
"Don't get all doe-eyed," she warned. "Not having him around makes my job a hell of a lot easier."
"I'd have said solving cases for you makes your job easier."
"I didn't say he doesn't get results," Donovan replied. "Thanks for this. Do you mind sending me anything else you might get?"
John hesitated, then nodded.
"I don't mind," he answered.
"Thanks," Donovan said.
They said their goodbyes and John headed for the lift, thoughts of home nudging for his attention, debating a cab versus the tube. Each visit with Doe only seemed to reinforce what home meant – the chaos, the mess, the warmth, the companionship, the security of knowing where he belonged and who he belonged with.
"John?"
John paused and turned back, meeting Donovan's waiting gaze again.
"Like I said, you're a good man. You tend to see that same good in people. But – not everyone is good."
"What?"
"I've seen a lot of victims in my time, John. Something like that – yeah, you're right, could have just been a vicious mugging, could have been just a random attack. But it could be someone thinks he deserves it."
"You can't pin a twelve year old murder on him just because his fingerprint might partially match one found at the scene, even if you're desperate for leads. It's not even circumstantial."
"Doesn't mean he didn't do it," Donovan replied.
"When did you become so suspicious, Inspector?"
"When did you become to trusting?" she asked in return.
"The twenty-ninth of January, 2010," John answered.
"Yeah well, you picked a strange person to pin your trust on. I'm a cop, John. I know enough to be realistic."
"Seems like a sad way to live."
"Not if it helps me catch the bad guys."
John sighed, shrugging slightly.
"Good night, Sally."
"Oh, good, you're home. So nice of you to join us."
John heard the taut edge in Sherlock's voice and found the source immediately – Mycroft was sitting in the doctor's chair, his relaxed and amiable expression in stark contrast to the tight tension on Sherlock's face. John wondered how long his brother-in-law had been there – it could have been anywhere from an hour to a few minutes. Sherlock's reaction to his brother was pretty much the same no matter the length of time.
He closed the door and saw Sherlock's nostrils flare – clearly his husband had been hoping the open door would be a signal for Mycroft to leave. He removed his coat and scarf, eyes flickering to the Christmas tree that had been set up in the corner next to one of the bookshelves.
"A bribe," Sherlock said and John's eyes moved back to him.
Mycroft sighed.
"A gift," he countered. "I thought you might appreciate one less chore to do, John."
"Thanks," John said, settling on the arm of Sherlock's chair. The detective snaked an arm around his waist, resting his left hand on John's hip in a gesture that was both possessive and defensive, claiming John as his and asserting that John would take his side no matter what. This was generally true, especially with Mycroft, but the doctor at least wanted to get some idea of what was going on.
"Are you planning on retiring then? Buying a small cottage in the country and keeping bees?" Mycroft asked and John felt Sherlock stiffen. "Turning down a case for Inspector Lestrade and then this one? You have no cases from your website, Sherlock. Things must be getting a bit... dull."
"I'm quite capable of entertaining myself," Sherlock snapped and John rolled his eyes, aware that Mycroft had noted it.
"Ah, so it's work at the morgue."
"Your case is boring and trivial, Mycroft. You're well aware that I'm not busy but I'm not going to leap at the first thing you dangle in front of me simply because you think I'm bored. I'm not some child excited by shiny things."
Mycroft raised his eyebrows and John repressed a sigh. Following the explosion, they'd actually got on reasonably well for a few months – but John had suspected it wouldn't last. The immediate impact of Sibyl's death and the attempt on Mycroft's life had lessened and Sherlock, at least, wouldn't feel the same sort of urgency for his brother's company.
"It's a delicate matter, Sherlock. I have a… colleague who would appreciate both your efforts and discretion."
"A significant pause colleague?" Sherlock asked. "What would Angela make of that, I wonder?"
"I imagine she is capable of determining when someone is reading far too much into a statement," Mycroft snapped back. John was surprised at the sudden defensiveness in his brother-in-law's voice. Judging by the way Sherlock's hand stiffened slightly on John's hip, he was, too. John drew a deep breath and wondered how often Sherlock was going to make pointed remarks about Angela in Mycroft's presence now. He reached down and interlaced their fingers, squeezing lightly, silently asking for calm. He knew Sherlock liked Angela – if 'liked' was the right word – but he also knew Sherlock wouldn't pass up any opportunity to get under Mycroft's skin.
"Right," John said before Sherlock could reply – he could see the snarky remarks lining up on the detective's tongue. "Both of you can stop acting like three year olds right now."
He felt the full weight of the Holmes' brothers gazes on him.
"Mycroft, if Sherlock doesn't want to take your case, too bad for you. Sherlock– just– enough."
Sherlock dropped his hand from John's hip but didn't withdraw his arm and John took it as a good indicator that he wasn't going to be in for one of Sherlock's massive sulks later.
Silence settled over them again for too long a moment and John resisted the urge to shift, knowing it would be interpreted as discomfort. He held his tongue through long years of training – both military and personal – and Mycroft finally nodded.
"Very well," he agreed. "But do call if you change your mind."
Sherlock only grunted noncommittally. John sighed inwardly, pushing himself to his feet as his brother-in-law rose. There was a moment where John waited to see if Mycroft would find his balance properly and he knew it had been noted, although the elder Holmes showed not outward reaction. He was probably tired of John checking but never deigned to comment. His limp was less noticeable now but it had been long enough that if Mycroft were going to recover completely by now, he'd have already done so. It was the only visible sign of the injuries he'd sustained in the bomb blast in August, but John also knew the ringing in his ears had never abated.
"So good of you to stop by," Sherlock drawled and ignored the glare John shot him. "Please don't hesitate not to do so again."
"Sherlock," John sighed. "Good night, Mycroft. Thank you for the tree."
"You're quite welcome, John," his brother-in-law replied as he slipped into his coat. "It's always nice to have a bit of a festive feeling in the air, isn't it?"
"It is," John agreed, holding the door open for Mycroft, who gave him a thin smile of thanks. He was pushing it closed when Mycroft glanced back from the top of the stairs, a familiar knowing look on his face.
"Do let me know when you need help with your non-person," he said. John could only manage an abrupt, startled sigh.
"The police have it all in hand," he said.
"Oh yes," Mycroft replied. "I'm quite confident they do."
"Good night, Mycroft," John said and shut the door firmly.