Summary:

"The doctor looked around him. His new house, his living room, his new life. And then looked at Sherlock standing in front of his door. He wanted Sherlock to come in and erase the line between one thing and the other. It was still too early for John to think too deeply about that. "Come on in," he called again."

CHAPTER 18

"John!"

The ringing in his ears was loud and piercing. He sat up in bed, panting.

John could not remember exactly what the nightmare had been about, he could only hear Sherlock's unmistakable voice reverberating inside his skull.

After a moment, he was awake enough to realise there was another noise, one that was not originated in his dreams, but was, instead, a very real doorbell. His own insufferable doorbell, which didn't seem to stop bloody ringing!

"What the hell?" He muttered to himself, standing up as quickly as he could while still half-asleep. He put on his dressing gown and rushed to the living room, rubbing his face to force himself to wake up properly.

"John!"

Shit, Sherlock.

Dread hit him straight in the gut. What could be happening, for Christ's sake?

He fumbled with the key and opened the door. Sure enough, there was Sherlock in all his coat-scarf-gloves glory, holding a cup of coffee in his left hand and his mobile in his right one.

"Oh, good, you're awake," he said nonchalantly, typing something on his phone. He didn't bother looking up from the screen.

Bugger.

"I guess one could say that now, yes. What happened?" John could see that nothing serious had happened – at least not anything life threatening. It was just Sherlock being Sherlock. He was torn between punching him in the face and being really glad.

The detective thrust the cup of coffee in John's general direction so he could type properly on his phone. "They are bringing Michael Pearson for questioning at any moment now, I thought you would like to–" He dragged his eyes from the screen for a second, and met John's for the first time that morning. His voice faltered for some reason.

John leaned on the door frame fighting the remnants of sleep. His brain was going online again and he couldn't forget that there was a child missing. Without too much thought, he brought the cup of coffee to his lips. It was hot and bitter, exactly how he liked.

He realised that the coffee must have been meant for him all along. Sherlock had brought him coffee. Was it poisoned? He asked himself vaguely while still sipping the liquid.

Sherlock didn't say anything else, so John frowned, fixing his blurry eyes on the man in front of him. Sherlock was staring back at him wide-eyed. His lips parted slightly, but he didn't let out a word. He was looking at John as if he didn't recognize him. It was a bit unnerving.

The detective stammered – actually stammered – and cleared his throat awkwardly. John instinctively stood taller, straightening his shoulders and back.

"What's wrong?" John asked, giving a step forward. His free hand hovered Sherlock's frame without John having given it any permission to do so. Old habits died hard, he supposed.

Sherlock gave a step back. That seemed to bring him out of his stupor, whatever the hell that might have been about. "I–" he fidgeted with the collar of his coat, "Nothing happened, of course."

John brought his hand down and nodded. He had no idea what had happened. Sherlock just stood there staring at him as if John was some kind of ghost.

"So, the questioning–" John prompted.

"Yes, the questioning," Sherlock let out a ragged breath. "You coming?"

John signed. He did want to. "I have to go to work, Sherlock," he cracked his neck. "I don't even know the time of my first patient," he reasoned wearily. The truth was that he would be much too worried about the missing girl to go to the surgery anyway.

"Not in the first hour, judging by the fact that you were still sleeping," Sherlock informed him. "It takes you approximately half an hour to get ready to work, but you like to arrive there twenty minutes before the first appointment on your schedule. It takes you twenty minutes to cycle to the surgery, more fifteen minutes to take a shower and change, so if your next patient was early in the day, you would have woken up at–"

"All right, all right," John help up his hands. "Jesus, just give me a moment!" It was too early for this.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. "Come on, John!"

John might as well give in at once. He had absolutely no chance of resisting a day that started with Sherlock trying to knock his door down. "Come on in, then. I'll be ready in twenty-three and a half minutes, you just wait and see."

John turned back and waited for Sherlock to follow him.

Only Sherlock was not doing that at all. He could bloody well be a tree for all the moving he was doing, standing exactly where he had stopped after stepping away from John minutes ago. He had that odd expression on his face again, his eyes fixed on John, but his mind lost.

Gradually, his glassy eyes refocused themselves, holding a sudden intensity that John didn't recognize – or maybe he did, but chose to forget. He felt his chest cavity vibrate, could feel his heartbeat in his fingertips.

Whatever Sherlock was doing to him – consciously or not – it had to stop.

"Are you coming?" John mimicked Sherlock's question. His voice sounded too loud in his own ears.

"I– No," Sherlock said, putting his hands inside his pockets. His eyes wandered somewhere behind John.

The doctor looked around him. His new house, his living room, his new life. And then looked at Sherlock standing in front of his door. He wanted Sherlock to come in and erase the line between one thing and the other. It was still too early for John to think too deeply about that. "Come on in," he called again.

"I'll be on the street," Sherlock said, his jaw line sat stubbornly. But deep in his eyes John could still see traces of the foreign emotion he had seen earlier. He tried to get nearer Sherlock again, but the detective stepped away once more.

"You just woke me to drag me along and now you won't come in? Why?" John's voice came out softer than he had expected and he was glad for it. He didn't want to spook Sherlock.

"I have to make some calls."

"No, you don't," John smiled gently, despite himself. "You hate talking on the phone. You will text, and you can do that from my living room," John countered, fighting against the will to hold his hand out for the man in front of him. For God's sake, they weren't school boys. John didn't know what was happening to them.

"Oh, hello, Doctor Watson!" Mrs Martin, John's neighbour, called to him from across the fence.

John waved his hand and forced a smile, but turned back quickly to look at Sherlock.

It was already too late. The simple interference had dissipated whatever dark cloud that had threatened to burst over their heads.

Sherlock turned abruptly and walked in the direction of the gate. "I'll be waiting, so get on with it, will you?"

The cab ride to Scotland Yard was silent. Sherlock kept stealing sideways glances at John, making him fidget in his seat.

He couldn't shake off the foreboding feeling that threatened to strangle him every time he sensed Sherlock was hiding something from him.

Michael Pearson was already being questioned when they got there, which didn't improve Sherlock's dark mood.

Lestrade had the business man and his two lawyers in one of the interrogation rooms. The suspect's speech was the expected: he couldn't understand why the police were harassing him when they should be trying to find Lily.

Lily, the poor six year old who could now be dead by the orders of that very man.

Sally Donovan was watching from behind the glass window in the other room when John and Sherlock joined her.

"I told him not to start without me!" Sherlock complained.

"Did you think you would get in there?" Sally scoffed. "Those lawyers arrived here demanding that their client talk only to the D. I. in charge of the case. I'm surprised they didn't ask for the Chief Superintendent himself," she continued, not looking pleased about it either. "Money, freak, it can grant you almost anything."

John stuck his hands in his coat pockets to hide his fists. He would never get used to anyone calling Sherlock a freak. And in John's opinion, Sally still owned them all an apology.

Sherlock's ears were still intent on what was going on in the interrogation room, but he glanced at John for just a moment and it was enough to calm John. They had more pressing matters to worry about.

"I already told you, I had no idea Lily was still in England! Margaret told everyone she was going to a boarding school in France," Pearson told Lestrade, exasperatedly.

"Tell me again where you were last night," the D. I. said.

"How many times does my client have to tell you that he was in a meeting?" One of the lawyers, a beautiful woman in a well cut suit, replied. "We have provided you with CCTV images of him arriving at his office and leaving late at night."

Lestrade smiled charmingly. "We only need your help, Mr Pearson. I'm sure you understand, the victim being your deceased best friend's widow and all.

Michale Pearson seemed suspicious. "And what is that supposed to mean? I already gave all the help I could. You should be doing your job."

Sherlock grew even more restless, pacing up and down the room. He let out a groan and turned to Sally sharply. "Come on, Sally, I can see the idea of him walking free is eating you up," he said knowingly. "Let me speak to him."

Sally eyed Sherlock warily, but didn't deny it. John suspected that she wanted nothing more than to let Sherlock get on with it, first so they could solve the case and second so that they would leave her alone.

In the other room, the questioning didn't seem to be going anywhere.

"What was your relationship with the victim?" Lestrade asked.

"Look, Charles was my best mate at school and at college. We started the company together. My only relationship with Margaret was that she was the widow of my dearest friend," the man replied, slowly. It sounded rehearsed somehow and John noticed that Sherlock seemed to have picked up on something in the speech.

"So you met her through Charles?" Lestrade asked, unconvinced.

"Of course!" Pearson exclaimed. "I was his best man, I frequented their house while they were married and that was about it," he said. The looks he kept giving his lawyers spoke of a very different truth.

John had expected the man to be a better liar than that. He had no doubt that he would crack soon or later, but they didn't have any time to waste waiting for it. The missing girl could not wait.

By his side, Sherlock hissed. "For Christ's sake, Sally, he is lying, can't you see?"

John looked at Sally at the other side of the room, and the Sergeant seemed to agree. She had a pained expression on her face, he could see the conflict pouring out of her. After all this time, she had to give it to Sherlock that he was the most sodding brilliant detective around. John liked the feeling.

"What do you know?" She asked Sherlock, still watching intently what was going on in the other room.

"Oh, I know many things. Most important of all, I know how to make him tell us the truth he is so pathetically trying to hide," Sherlock replied mischievously.

John stepped up. "There's a child missing, Sergeant Donovan. Let him do his job!" He said, angrily. He remembered quite vividly that last time he was on a case with Donovan, she seemed so eager to catch the responsible for the children's kidnapping that she had seen fit to accuse Sherlock.

Sally sighed, but John could see she was already convinced. "I'm going to the loo," she told them, slowly. "It would be a pity if you just barged in before I could stop you, wouldn't it?"

"Indeed," Sherlock smiled, but kept his eyes on the other room. He nodded to John once and went out of the room, waiting for Sally to clear out before he could barge in, as she had said.

"I wasn't close to Lily–" Michael Pearson was saying as Sherlock swept inside the interrogation room and dragged a chair so he could sit beside Lestrade.

"Oh, weren't you?" Sherlock asked, rolling his eyes at Pearson.

He seemed so sure of himself that it took the lawyers a moment or two to get their voices back. John felt warm by the image. It was nice not being the only one caught off guard by Sherlock. He couldn't suppress the small smile that fought its way across his lips.

Nutter. Brilliant nutter.

Sherlock didn't give them the time to recover. He took some papers out of his pocket. John frowned at the gesture. It wasn't like Sherlock to bring papers to confrontations with suspects.

"Please, Mr. Pearson, can you tell us about the affair you and Margaret had seven years ago?" Sherlock asked.

"I–"

"You don't have to answer anything, Michael," one of the lawyers said, harshly.

Pearson crunched his face in confusion, but he wasn't denying it. John could almost seeall the lies he wanted to tell them die in his throat.

Good luck trying to escape Sherlock's power of observation.

"I have no idea of what you're talking about," Pearson squealed. His voice that had once sounded so authoritative was now barely more than a whisper.

"Oh," Sherlock tutted, ironically. "I beg to differ." He unfolded the papers he had with him and put them on the table. "Can you explain to us why you are the biological father of your best friend's daughter?"

John's jaw dropped. What the hell? He prayed to God that Michael Pearson hadn't kidnapped his daughter on purpose. And by the face the guy was making, John thought he really didn't.

"That's– It's impossible!" Pearson shouted, after restoring some of his voice. He stared at the papers on the table, squirming in his chair. John could now see that they were pictures of Pearson and Lily.

"It isn't," Sherlock told him. "You see, I talked to a friend of yours and Charles Mills – a friend of yours from Eton," he inclined his head. John thought he looked a bit manic. "You knew Margaret before Charles. You two had a history. You couldn't let her simply marry your best friend, could you? Did it hurt when she chose him?"

John groaned. Surely Sherlock needn't be such a prick. It simply came naturally to him.

With trembling hands, Pearson ran a hand through his hair. "You have no idea of what you are talking about."

Sherlock crossed his legs and smiled dangerously. John knew Michael Pearson had absolutely no chance of escaping now. He braced himself for whatever bomb Sherlock was going to throw at the man.

"I already know you are behind the kidnapping, Michael, so, listen to me before going on making a fool of yourself," the detective said, raising a finger to stop the interruption of one of the lawyers. "You have been pretending since you got here. Your manners are clearly the ones of a man used to wealth and to being obeyed, but your suit is a year old, your shoes are worn off and your watch is a counterfeit. All the articles about you going bankrupt, they are right. So what would be a neat idea of making money – stealing it from your own company without leaving traces? Kidnapping the daughter of your dead partner and keeping the ransom the company would have to pay," Sherlock rambled. He was probably loving to show off. "And if you found yourself a bit avenged in the meantime, oh, that was just the icing on the cake, wasn't it?"

"No!" Pearson exclaimed.

"My only doubt was if you were cold enough to kidnap your own child. Affairs of the heart, you see, always manage to make the best motives for the most gruesome crimes," the detective eyed the man intently for a moment, then seemed to understand something else. "You didn't know, did you?"

Pearson had rested his forehead on the metal table and was shaking his head vehemently. "I– I didn't do anything," he whimpered. "Meg would have told me. Lily can't be...," he trailed off.

Sherlock groaned, pointing at the pictures. "Bone structure, the cleft chin, her fingernails. They are all genetic traces of you. Now stop being a coward and tell us who has your daughter! Do you want Lily's death to be on you as well? The last symbol of the love story you and Meg shared?"

Pearson had paled noticeably. John could see that the man had himself poorly under control. As ever, Sherlock had stroke a nerve.

"I–" he gulped. "I never imagined..." he trailed off. He asked for a glass of water and John could see Sherlock getting even more restless. The lawyers had ordered their client not to say anything else, but he seemed a very different man from who he had been when John first saw him in that interrogation room.

John didn't know if he truly regretted what he did, or if the prospect of being responsible for one more death – and the death of his daughter – had been too much on him.

"I will give you their names– anything. Just bring Lily back, please," he said between sobs. "I didn't want Margaret's death, it was just about the money!"

John could see in Sherlock's face that the detective was pleased about the outcome, but conflicted about showing it at the moment. He turned his head to the fake mirror and his lips turned up slightly. John smiled back and nodded, even knowing that Sherlock couldn't see him.

Lestrade convinced Michael Pearson to set up a meeting with the kidnappers for that same night – just as it was previously arranged between them.

They were outside the house that served as the captivity for Lily. Thermal imaging had shown five men inside the building, so the operation was as discrete as possible. They had set Pearson up with a wire and as soon as he got a glimpse of Lily and she was safe with the police, they would proceed with the arrests.

It seemed a reasonable plan. John kept out of the guys' way, keeping one eye on Pearson and the other on Sherlock, who had already started pacing up and down the street, as if it physically pained him to keep his distance. For once, John was confident in letting the police to its job.

They watched the procedures apprehensively, however. John had become more and more aware of the gun stuck in the back of his jeans. It was a reassurance that whatever the hell might occur, he still had a chance of saving those people around him. He kept close to Sherlock, who grew even more turbulent and started looking for an escape route. John knew him well enough to see that the detective wouldn't give up so easily.

As soon as Sherlock saw himself free from Lestrade's eyes, he slipped through a side street, apparently to try to get to the back door of the building. John thought it was a terrible plan, but they couldn't draw attention to themselves, so he followed Sherlock silently, cursing him in his mind.

Damn git. He was putting himself in the middle of a child's rescue.

"Sherlock," John whispered, walking fast after Sherlock while he made his way down the street.

Sherlock didn't show any signs of having heard. Of course. He sped up.

Bloody long legs.

Sherlock stopped abruptly in the middle of the street, and looked intently at wall on his left. His eyes lit up and pointed at it.

John walked over to the wall and squinted his eyes to see what Sherlock had been pointing, instantly understanding what it had been about. The bastard had found a third way to get into the house.

John sighed, his back going rigid and alert. The small window was already broken, and there was no way John would be able to convince Sherlock to resist that kind of temptation.

They would do it, all right.

John grabbed a handful of Sherlock's coat, keeping a firm grip on the man and lowered his voice the best he could. "I have no illusion of you seeing this for the stupid idea it is, so we are going in," he said, taking a deep breath. His captain self had already taken over. He knew that Sherlock was listening to every single word. And he would know very well that John wasn't joking. "But we are doing this my way. And you won't fight me on this. Okay?" The curly haired head gave a stiff nod. "Do you have your gun with you?"

The git had the balls to snort. John understood it for what it was. Obviously.

"Good," John replied. "You will stay behind be anyway." He felt Sherlock's instance change immediately, as he prepared himself to argue. "No," John said shortly, still kipping a firm grip on Sherlock's coat, not letting the detective step more then a few inches away from him.

John could feel their bodies brushing lightly, his front to Sherlock's back. He chose to ignore it.

"You will do as I say, and you will stay behind me, at least while I check on this cellar, or whatever the hell it is. I will go in first and if it is clear, then you will get in."

John's heart was jumping up his throat. They had been in a million dangerous situations, but the latest revelations about Sherlock's time away were now floating inside his head. It was just impossible for him not to try to keep Sherlock safe in whatever way he could.

Although visibly vexed, Sherlock acquiesced, and stepped aside, letting John get a clear view of the small broken window. The cellar was completely dark, it was impossible to know how it was connected to the rest of the building. John picked his flash light from his coat pocket and surveyed the room carefully before squeezing himself through the small passage.

He jumped to his feet on the wooden floor. The room smelled old and humid. John walked about it, casting the light in every direction, but keeping it pointed to the floor. It wouldn't do to call attention to themselves. After a few minutes of reconnaissance, John was pleased to know the room was clear. He had found the stairs that led to the levels above, but there wasn't anyone coming down.

Sherlock got in seconds after John gave him his okay. Voices called their attention to the floor above their heads and John kept still, breathing as quietly as he could so the room was silent. The distinct sound of a child's cry made John curse under his breath.

"Calm down," Sherlock said, hurriedly. "It's time, look," he pointed to his wrist watch, using his own flash light. "Pearson will be getting to their front door any moment."

John chose to accept the little reassurance. Lily was alive, at least. They would get to her on time. That was what mattered.

Sherlock walked up the stairs, silently. He turned to John that was following closely. "Skip the next step, it is squeaky."

John didn't know how Sherlock knew that, but he duly complied.

He took the lead before they stepped through the entrance that led to the floor above. They crouched behind the door, squinting at the movements on the living room. John had a clear view of Lily, sat in a high stool at the other side of the room. Her chin was wobbling and her eyes were shiny with tears. She looked tired and scared – which was perfectly normal in her situation, but he was glad to notice she didn't show any sign of being injured.

Loud voices carried and Sherlock pressed his front against John's back in his urge to listen. John was hyperaware of the detective's breaths near his left ear, but gave himself a shake and concentrated on what was being said instead.

He could hear Pearson's voice now and could see half of him. He carried the briefcase with the money, looking paler than ever. His strong voice had turned into mere stammers. John could feel the room turn tenser.

Lily jumped out of her stool and in Michael's arms in a heartbeat. John's breath got caught on his throat when he noticed all the men in the room instinctively reach for their guns.

"It's okay, baby, it's going to be okay," Michael said, holding her in his arms. John cursed him for being a bastard. It was all his fault in the first place.

One of the members of the gang had grabbed the case that contained the money and was apparently counting his profits.

Michael had his back turned to the men in the room – an amateur mistake for which they were all about to pay.

"Kill them," the leader of the gang said with a smirk.

And promptly, all the hell broke loose.

Thank you all for the support!

Let me know what you think about this chapter. Tell me your thoughts about Sherlock. I miss him, writing John's POV makes my heart break for Sherlock.