Summary:
"John couldn't stop staring at the swirling coat and the floppy curls that bounced up and down. He had dreamed about this image more times than he was comfortable with. It hit close to home. It felt like being in the best dream; trapped in the worst nightmare."
CHAPTER 12
John crouched and leaned back on the wall, trying to catch his breath. It was hard with all the giggling he was trying to suppress. Sherlock was standing beside him, also leaning on the wall.
Sherlock had led them to the warehouse they were in now, after deducing the dead man had been victim of his male partner. The dirt on a pair of boots in their house had told Sherlock where to find the murderer. They were now trying to capture him.
Or they would be if they hadn't been so busy amusing themselves running after him, in the first place.
John was sure Sherlock could have got to the man at least half an hour before, but he had preferred to play tricks on him, scaring him almost out of his mind in the darkness.
That was surely more than a bit not good, but John was too caught up in Sherlock's happiness to care at the moment. The man had killed his partner out of jealousy, so maybe he deserved a bit of suffering.
"Who the hell is that? Show yourself right now!" The murderer shouted from the other side of warehouse.
John squeezed his mouth shut to stop himself from laughing again. As long as Sherlock remained safe, it was fun to feel his blood pumping with adrenaline.
He looked sideways at the tall man and tried to make his features in the dark. He was probably looking for something to throw against the opposite wall. They had been doing that for the past fifteen minutes, trying to get the suspect out of his hiding place. It was childish and ridiculous, but John couldn't run from the desire of to be part of it.
Sherlock threw a hubcap on the wall, and they heard the suspect curse loudly.
John knew that any time now the detective would get tired of the dog chase and would confront the guy with his straight face and acid tongue.
And John would be right there by his side to prevent any misadventure. He asked himself how mad of person he was for maybe wishing that something happened just to be useful again.
Sherlock thrusted something in John's hand.
Cold metal fitted perfectly inside his left palm, as if designed to him. John felt the familiar weight and swore he could taste the gun oil in his teeth. He frowned, forgetting for a moment that Sherlock couldn't see him in the dark. Well, he could probably deduce John was frowning. "Is that my–"
"Of course not," Sherlock murmured back. John would bet money that he was rolling his eyes. "Do you think I went to your house and stole your gun?"
John smiled widely, thanking the darkness for the concealment. "I wouldn't doubt that."
Sherlock snorted. John thought he could sense the other man's body vibrating next to him. Or maybe it was his own heart. He asked himself If Sherlock could hear the smile in his voice. John hoped he could.
"I didn't," Sherlock said. He paused and John didn't know why. "I bought this one."
John held the gun more tightly and caressed it with his thumb. Had Sherlock really thought about discarding John in such a way that he had to buy a gun for himself? The possibility felt even more cruel in a moment of such joy as that.
He felt Sherlock's hand tug his coat sleeve. "It was...familiar," the tall man said, after some time.
John nodded numbly. It didn't matter that he couldn't see Sherlock's face, he thought he understood. Maybe Sherlock had bought that to try to recreate his home wherever he was. Just like when John caught himself uselessly buying the newspapers, and nicotine patches.
"Marmalade," John said. He had bought it for months after leaving Baker Street. He liked to have it in his cupboard, to pretend that Sherlock would pop in the kitchen and demand breakfast at any random day.
Well, he had almost done just that. John snorted at the memory. For a split of second he could actually laugh at it.
Sherlock had died and now he was right there, beside him.
If anyone would be able to do that, it would be Sherlock Holmes.
"Yes," Sherlock said, and his breathing sounded heavy to John. "Marmalade and British Browning."
That nonsensical statement had a world of meaning in it.
"So, Sherlock Holmes," John smiled – he could swear his cheeks were getting sore – "What's the plan?"
"The plan, Doctor Watson," Sherlock mimicked him, "is I jump in front of him and you have my back," he finished, and started to walk slowly to the other side of the warehouse.
Typical Sherlock, John thought.
At least this time he had bloody warned John first. That was an improvement.
John had their suspect trapped under his left knee. Sherlock paced madly up and about waiting for Scotland Yard to arrive. The guy was fidgeting so much that John considered knocking him out just to give himself a break.
Sherlock groaned once more and mumbled something under his breath. Probably insulting all Lestrade's team and ancestry. John couldn't stop staring at the swirling coat and the floppy curls that bounced up and down. He had dreamed about this image more times than he was comfortable with. It hit close to home. It felt like being in the best dream; trapped in the worst nightmare. Like being haunted by something warm and fuzzy – John didn't even know if that made sense.
He smiled a small smile and turned his attention back to the guy on the floor. He manoeuvred him until he was sitting on the floor. Sherlock and John hadn't brought handcuffs, so John had to hold the suspect's hands behind his back.
"They are always like that at first," the suspect said, apropos of nothing.
"What was that?" John asked. Sherlock had walked a bit far away, so John knew the man was talking to him.
"They trap us with their skin and easy talk, but then stomp all over us," the man fidgeted.
"Stay still, mate, or I'll knock you out in a second," John told him. His shoulder was complaining after what had been more exercise than John could remember doing in a long time.
"Hey, don't blame the messenger. You should listen to me. Stay away from him," the suspect said, and motioned his head in Sherlock's direction.
It suddenly hit John what the guy was talking about. He was torn between denying and laughing it off.
He snorted mechanically. "Yeah, whatever you say, mate. Just stop struggling," John held him more tightly, just for the sake of it.
But the guy couldn't shut up. He wasn't talking to John anymore, he was just babbling to himself.
"Guys like us, they don't get guys like that. My Pete was like that, all sharp shapes and smooth skin. I should have known–"
It was making John highly uncomfortable. Apparently their suspect was developing a crush on Sherlock. And blaming his cheekbones for the fact that his former partner had cheated on him. It didn't make any sense.
"You are like me, I can tell," the guy nodded to himself.
It reminded John of Sméagol and his endless mumbling. Well, they were in a dark place. Maybe he had a ring or something–
"Guys like that one destroy us. You should know that," Sméagol continue to talk.
John wanted to laugh at his face, but the guy seemed so distressed. John wasn't a cruel person.
And Sherlock had, in fact, almost destroyed him–
"Take everything and give nothing back."
John could swear the guy had started tearing up and – by god – that might be the most awkward moment in his crime fighting life.
Sherlock walked back to them, holding his phone in his left hand. Sméagol stared at him like a dog stares at a juicy piece of meat. John wanted to kick him for it.
"Lestrade is near. Finally."
At this moment, John's phone rang. The darkness and the general silence around them made the sound even more disruptive. John hated it. He told himself to forget it, but it didn't stop ringing and it was driving him up the wall.
He fidgeted, holding the suspect and mentally willing his phone to shut up.
John didn't know how it happened, but the suspect managed to free himself from John's hold and was at Sherlock's neck in a second.
At least his phone stopped ringing.
John recovered quickly, but not before seeing Sherlock's astonished eyes.
"It's all your fault!" Sméagol shouted at the detective. Their faces weren't more than three inches apart.
John grabbed his arms and pulled him off Sherlock, telling him to be quiet and stop struggling. The guy kept shouting at Sherlock, who was gasping for air with a look of completely shock on his face.
John's phone rang again and he cursed under his breath. Without needing to be told, Sherlock walked over John and took the phone out his trouser pocket.
"Turn this damn thing off, for Christ's sake," John said.
Sherlock looked uneasy; he clutched the ringing phone and cleared his throat. "Maybe you should get this."
John thought Sherlock must be mad. "I don't know if you have noticed, but I am a bit busy at the moment!"
Sherlock cleared his throat. "It's Mary."
Oh.
Well, he was busy. And that ring was making him mad.
"I don't care, turn this bloody thing off, I can't even think with this guy babbling and this sodding phone ringing! I'll call her later!"
Sherlock lifted his chin stubbornly and answered the phone himself. "Hi, Mary. Yeah, he is here."
John was sure his own expression was comical. He was flabbergasted. He shook his head at Sherlock. He was holding a murderer, for god's sake, he didn't want to talk on the phone right now.
"He's got his hands full with a criminal at the moment," he heard Sherlock say and snorted despite of himself. The situation was getting more and more ridiculous by the seconds.
John grabbed the suspect's neck and took him as far from Sherlock he could.
"I will tell you just once, so hear me out," John said, shaking the guy to mark his words. "If you get anywhere near him again, I will knock you out. If you say anything about him, I will break your nose. If you as much as look his way, I will break your leg. Got it?"
"Oh, mate, just listen to yourself! And you are the one playing him!"
John kneed his lower back. "Did. you. get. it?"
The guy grunted, but nodded.
"Good, now shut the fuck up."
"He discovered his partner's infidelity on the internet," Sherlock was telling Lestrade. "Honestly, people nowadays can't even cover their own tracks anymore. Any idiot with a Facebook password can discover everything about anyone else's life. It's disgusting," he said.
It wasn't lost on John how ironically it was Sherlock talking about privacy again.
Well, he was still concealing things from John, like manila envelopes and the cause of broken bones. He was very private when it suited him. When it was about leaving John out of his life, he was the King of Privacy.
John's eyes landed on Sméagol – Ian something or other, his brain provided uselessly. He was sitting in the back of Lestrade's car, looking intently at Sherlock. John placed his body in his line of sight and stared back angrily at the guy, who shrunk in his seat, but didn't lower his eyes.
John couldn't stop thinking that the guy had thought he and Sherlock were...together. He was used to it, of course, but why the hell everyone always thought they were boyfriends was unknown to John.
Sherlock had never denied it. Sherlock Mr-I-have-an-answer-to-everything Holmes always left to John to clarify that they were just mates. It was as if the idea was so absurd to him that it didn't even show on his radar. And it was fine, of course.
John focused his eyes on Ian again. He was still trying to get a look of Sherlock. It was a bit pitiful the way Sherlock's figure affected him, and yet he still couldn't stop looking.
John turned back to look at Sherlock. The detective was still talking to Lestrade, more quietly than he had been minutes before. His coat wavered around him, moved by the wind which kissed his figure, making his curls flap around in disarray.
He was an imposing figure, John supposed. Sharp but soft around the edges.
Or maybe sharp all over, John wouldn't know.
He felt his face getting hot and shook off those types of thoughts. Sméagol was probably getting to him. John looked at Ian again and sure enough, there he was, trying to swallow Sherlock with his predator eyes.
John clenched his jaw. It made him want to rip the guy's head off to know he was probably thinking about taking Sherlock and then killing him with his bare hands. John wished he would just get out of the car and make a move on Sherlock so John would have the perfect excuse to shoot him right there and get that over with.
John closed his eyes and let the fatigue wash over him. It was probably affecting his mental stability.
He hadn't done that much exercise in a while. He was getting old.
He looked at Sherlock. Majestic Sherlock who looked exactly the same as two and a half years ago, young and beautiful.
Yes, well, beautiful. John supposed he was beautiful. He didn't know.
Beauty is a concept based entirely on personal impressions, Sherlock would probably tell him. John snorted. Yeah, it was just like him to say something like that.
John doubted there was another person in the world who had stronger personal impressions about Sherlock than him.
John smiled a bit looking at his feet. How could his life be such an emotional roller coaster that now he felt like the luckiest son of a bitch on planet Earth was beyond him.
His phone started ringing again and the sound brought John out of his thoughts.
Sherlock appeared beside him. "Here," he said, handing over John's phone that had stayed with him.
"Hi, Mary," John said. His eyes had landed on Sherlock's neck and he asked himself if Ian had left any marks there. "I'm sorry, I was holding a murderer, I couldn't pick up the phone," he answered.
John's fingers worked on their own accord. Sherlock seemed a bit surprised at first, but he stood still and let John take his scarf off and exam his throat. John noticed the taller man was averting his eyes. He tried to think about that, but Mary's voice was an insistent presence in his ear.
"Yes, Sherlock is a good answering machine," he snorted and Sherlock scowled at him.
"Where are you? I was bloody worried, John! It's past 1 am!" Mary didn't sound angry, just worried.
John looked around a bit, realizing that, indeed, he had left Baker Street more than five hours ago. He had lost track of time. It wasn't unusual considering he was with Sherlock. "I hadn't noticed," he said honestly, while turning Sherlock's neck so it could be backlit by the light coming from the police car.
The police car with Ian in it.
John was too tired to divide his attention between Mary's worry, Sherlock's neck and Ian's sickening smirking.
He closed his eyes a bit and took a deep breath. Mary was telling him that he had to work tomorrow.
"I know," he answered. Honestly, he did know, he didn't need reminder. He would go home as soon as they were free to go. "I'll be home as soon as I can, okay?" He told her, trying to manoeuvre Sherlock as to hide his neck from Ian's line of sight. He held the phone with his shoulder.
"The light was better before," Sherlock told him, uselessly.
John ignored him. He couldn't say 'Well, yes, but I don't want him drooling over your neck.' He didn't have any strength left to explain to Sherlock that their suspect had developed an obsession with him in the last hour.
John examined Sherlock's neck as well as he could in the dim light. "Does it hurt?" He asked, pressing his fingers lightly on it.
"Does what hurt?" Mary asked, and she sounded amused.
Sherlock just shrugged his shoulders.
"Look, I have to go, okay? Sherlock got a bit choked and I have to exam him," John said, a bit peeved, letting his hand fall along his body.
"Oh, okay, I'm sorry! Take care of him," she said.
They hung up and John noticed Sherlock was putting on his scarf again. He was ready to argue that he hadn't finished the examination, but one look at Ian and he was glad that Sherlock was almost entirely covered.
For the first time after the whole ordeal had happened, John looked attentively at Sherlock. The detective seemed a bit grim.
"You can take the cab," Sherlock said, pointing to the street. Sure enough there was a cab pulling over.
"Are you producing cabs out of thin air now?" John asked him.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I obviously called for this one, as you so very observant didn't notice. And I used your phone."
John laughed. "All right. Let's go then. It can take you first and then leave me at mine."
"No," Sherlock said, sounding strained. "I'm going back to Scotland Yard."
"Oh," John let out, trying not to sound grumpy. He could just get in the cab and go home. "Why?"
"Lestrade has some information about another case we're working on," he shrugged.
"It's 1 am," John said, fruitlessly. Sherlock was a grown man, he didn't have a curfew for god's sake.
"I'm not sleepy," the detective said, but he smirked.
John smiled back, but it didn't come off naturally. He thought Sherlock would have an adrenaline crash soon enough and would need nourishment and sleep.
He then promptly chastised himself for thinking about Sherlock as a baby bird or something just as helpless. Sherlock was anything but helpless. He didn't need John to tell him any of that.
"Okay, so it can take you to Scotland Yard and leave me at mine," John said. It didn't make any sense, he knew. There were three cars heading to the station, he could bloody well get in the cab and go home.
"Lestrade will give me a ride, you go," Sherlock insisted.
I don't want to, John thought.
That was the simple fact. He didn't want to leave Sherlock there. He looked at Ian again who didn't take his eyes off Sherlock for a second and made up his mind.
"So we will take this cab and we will go to Scotland Yard."
Not in a billion years John would let Sherlock ride in the same car as Ian.
Sherlock looked like he could argue, so John raised an eyebrow at him, defying him to say something.
The detective squinted his eyes right back at John.
Sherlock finally smiled at John. "Come on, then," he said, walking to the cab.
To say it was strange to step out of the elevator and into Scotland Yard's corridors would have been an understatement.
The last time John had been there he had been clutching a bloodied coat for dear life while his head had pounded like grenades in the scalding desert. It was impossible to look at those walls and those people and not remember that day.
That day that was a blur, but at the same time had biting edges that gutted John constantly.
He took deep breaths and kept walking, closing his hands in fists and trying to soothe himself. They would be out of there soon enough, he repeated mentally.
Before they could go much further across the station, a known figure made John almost trip over his feet. He had mostly forgot that Sally Donovan still worked with Lestrade.
Honestly, he wished she had been shipped off to Siberia.
"Oh, hello, you two," she said, with a taunting smile on her lips. John didn't think she was doing on purpose, she was just naturally hateful to him.
John gave her a short nod and wished her away. It was too much for him to deal with the Yard's building and with Sally at the same time. He was glad he was so tired that his body seemed too numb to have any radical reaction to the triggers.
Sherlock looked sideways to him, but didn't let out a word.
A few minutes after that, they were heading to Lestrade's office.
"It's good to have you back, John," Lestrade said, sipping an apparently horrible cup of coffee, judging by the face he was making.
"Well, it's good to be back," he replied, honestly. It was. Never mind the terrifying effect those walls had on his memory. Never mind that his body was exhausted.
Sherlock was there again, and John was there by his side.
It was good to be back.
"Yes, yes, everyone is happy," Sherlock made a dismissive gesture. "Now, Lestrade. About that friend of ours..."
"Oh, yes. There isn't anything new about him. Another dead end, that one. About the last one, though, the one who left the new envelope–"
"Oh, I know all about that," Sherlock interrupted him, and he sounded agitated.
John frowned. He had tried to pay attention to what Greg was saying, but the truth was that he was drained, barely capable of being awake.
Envelope? Manila envelope?, he asked himself.
Greg was frowning at Sherlock too, squinting his eyes. John couldn't see Sherlock's face, since the detective had his back turned to him, facing the DI.
"What?" John asked.
Greg looked at him and smiled awkwardly. "Apparently we were all being idiots, John, and Sherlock already knows everything I could tell him."
"Of course," Sherlock turned to John. "Why did I ever dare to hope otherwise?"
"Let's hear it again, then," John insisted. He didn't know what the hell was going on, and felt angry about his own body's limitations. He wanted to be wide awake. He thought vaguely that the next day would be fucking peachy, what with several cases of running noses and food poisoning.
"Oh, it's just this stalking case," Greg said. "Celebrity stalking. She's been receiving some funny letters."
John hummed. "Sounds interesting."
"Oh, her family is a pain in the arse to work with, I'll tell you that," Greg said. John heard Sherlock snort.
"Who is the celebrity?" John asked.
A loud, clear erotic moan echoed in the room.
Its sound waves hit the wall and crashed into John like an angry sea.
It was a sound John didn't think he would hear ever again. It suspended his brain and threw it against the walls of his skull.
Greg widened his eyes. "I know that sound," he said.
John saw Sherlock turn to him immediately with a pained expression.
John could see everything in slow motion. He could hear Irene's song in his head; her lying on Sherlock's bed without being invited there.
Hadn't she been invited, though? John asked himself, uselessly.
He didn't need any explanation. He already knew Sherlock left much to be desired when it came to explanations.
John started to laugh. It sounded hysterical even in his own ears.
He was so stupid. He was bloody idiotic.
Mycroft had said as much. It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool them about Irene's death.
John would bet his left hand that she had helped Sherlock too. Maybe they had founded that club, after all. It suddenly made sense why it had taken Sherlock two years to come back.
Why had he bothered, really? That didn't make any sense.
John figured the talk with Greg was over, so he stretched his neck, still laughing, got his coat, and got out of that office before he passed out from shock and sleep deprivation. He knew he was having an adrenaline crash and that moan hadn't helped his body to adjust to any of it.
He could still hear it perfectly in his ears.
How many times had that sound invaded Sherlock's mind while John suffered thinking he was dead?
"John!" Sherlock walked fast after him, but tried to talk through his clenched teeth.
John smiled looking ahead at the grey wall. He hated those walls. He hated everything, really. He took a deep breath and kept smiling.
He was good at that, at smiling when he was angry.
"Yes?"
"That was her secret to tell, not mine," Sherlock told him, infuriatingly calm, as was to be expected.
"Of course," John snorted. "It doesn't matter, Sherlock, okay?" John pressed the button and willed the elevator to get the fuck on with it. "One more lie, what difference does it make?" He muttered.
"You were the one who lied to me about her!" Sherlock's voice reverberated on John's skull.
"Yes!" John shouted right back at him and cleared his throat, remembering he was at the fucking police station. He schooled his tone. "Because that was the exact same thing you two did to all of us, absolutely the same. I left everybody suffering thinking I was dead because I'm a fucking liar, a selfish bastard who doesn't care about anyone else, exactly like you two."
John couldn't tell when it had become about Sherlock and John and not about Sherlock and Irene. It didn't matter.
Sherlock had a hurt expression. John loathed it. It made him want to punch him in the face again. He had absolutely no right of looking like that since he had been the one doing the leaving.
He and Irene were good at that. At leaving.
John was the pathetic kind of guy who stuck with whom he loved.
Maybe Irene and Sherlock were like that too. They probably loved each other, so they had stuck together.
All of a sudden it hit John how much sense that made. Maybe Sherlock and Irene were like Bonnie and Clyde or something.
The thought made John sick.
"John?"
"Look," John said, forcing himself to turn fully to Sherlock. "It's alright," he tried to smile.
"John–"
"It's your business, your life," John said, pressing the button for the thousandth time. "Your girlfriend, or whatever," the word disgusted him and he asked himself why. It made him feel bad. Sherlock had the right to pursuit whomever the hell he wanted.
"What are you talking about?" Sherlock looked at him as if he was mad.
John himself felt like a mad person. He tried to quiet down. He breathed deeply and clenched and unclenched his hands.
He was so fucking tired. Physically and mentally. He just wanted to go home and sleep. The torrent of unresolved emotional damage was still going to be there on the following day. John just wanted to rest for now.
The elevator finally arrived and John and Sherlock got in. The air was so thick with everything they weren't saying that John could swear he was being choked.
"You should go after her, if that's what you want," John said. He had absolutely no idea what the hell he was doing. Sherlock should bloody well stay in London because that's where he belonged. "Or go back to her, if that's where you've been all this time."
Sherlock snorted; the sound made John's heart sink.
"You, John, are a complete idiot," the detective said, and it sounded a bit angry. "I'll go wherever I want," the tall man said, stubbornly.
"I know that!"
"No, you don't," Sherlock looked at him intently. "Don't you see?" He asked, opening his arms widely, showing what was around him. "I'm exactly where I want!" He shouted, and the sound was so unexpected that it stroke John like a blow to the head.
Sherlock's breath seemed ragged and he leaned on the wall. His eyes never left John's. "And you are exactly where you want."
Am I?, John asked himself staring back at Sherlock, but without really seeing him.
He didn't know. He stopped for a moment and realized he had absolutely no idea where the hell he wanted to be.
Or where the hell all that joy he had felt all night had gone. That simple text alert had brought John back to his initial level of resentment.
The elevator arrived downstairs and the pair got out of the building. The silence embraced them in a heavy fog.
John hated that everything had gone sour.
"I'm sorry, all right? I'm still angry."
"Really? I hadn't noticed," Sherlock said, but he had a small smile on his lips. John thought it looked a bit sad.
He thought he deserved that much.
"It's fine, John," Sherlock shrugged.
How far could he go until Sherlock turned his back on him permanently instead of being bullied all the time because of what he had done?
Both of them heard a car pull over in front of them.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but walked over to the window.
"Really, Mycroft, did you think we wouldn't notice you are not a cab?"
"No," Mycroft said from inside the car. "John will take the cab behind, you will come with me."
John waited for Sherlock's protests over being told what to do, but they never came. Something in Mycroft's tone or some brotherly secret made Sherlock turn to John and point to the cab that was, indeed, pulling over behind Mycroft's car.
"I'll see you tomorrow, then?" Sherlock asked, a bit awkwardly.
John had no memory of having arranged to meet Sherlock.
"Yes, see you tomorrow."
He watched as Sherlock got inside the black car and disappeared into the London night.
As ever, I have to thank Archie for all the help she gives me with this story.
Thank you all for being so supportive and leaving such great reviews! It means a lot to me. (:
I am very, very sorry for posting this so late! I'm really terribly sorry.
I won't be posting next week either cause we're having this really long holiday here in Brazil and I'm going to travel to see some friends (yay me!). Don't hate me.
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