I'm so sorry! My life got crazy with my family and school but here it is! Chapter 5! I've started posting this on Ao3 also in case you're interested. Please leave me feedback on this, including my Sherlock. I'm still getting down Sherlock speak! Thank you so much!
John was staring that the shoes, dumbfounded. It was ridiculous, really. He could have simply dreamt the pink lady and substituted her face once he'd read the newspaper. He could have imagined everything else. But this, this was exactly as he'd dreamt it. The wallpaper was a ghastly orangey brown star pattern on white and the carpet seemed to be the color of mold. It probably hid the mold that was in it. The single small window let a beam of light shine in, but beyond that it was dark and dank. No wonder no one lived here.
Sherlock stepped towards the shoes. John heard the well-dressed man caution Sherlock, something about a bomb. In the back of his mind, John remembered the news story that had even prompted him to come to the flat. So it hadn't been a gas explosion? Sherlock was on his hands and knees now, staring at the shoes. It reminded John of the way he'd seen Sherlock examine the pink lady in his dream. He watched as Sherlock stared at the shoes, but didn't touch them. He treated the shoes like a body. John was getting the feeling that Sherlock really didn't see a difference between the shoes and the body.
"What's he-" John began but was silenced by a harsh shushing sound from Sherlock's lips. John looked to the brother who shrugged as sympathetically as could be done without changing one's facial expression. The room remained silent after that.
Suddenly, Sherlock jumped to his feet and rushed at John, crossing back to the edge of the room in a few quick strides.
"You know what I would advise," his brother drawled lazily. The man didn't seem to care and yet, he was still commanding. John couldn't decide whether it frustrated him or intrigued him that he could sound so disinterested and concerned at the same time.
"Calling Lestrade and asking about all cases involving a pair of trainers? Yes that will go brilliantly Mycroft." Sherlock replied quickly. His voice wasn't terribly sarcastic. In fact, it was rather monotone, but somehow, John could feel the sarcasm rolling off of the man in waves. Even so, Sherlock pulled out his phone and pressed a few buttons. Too many for emergency, but too few for an actual number. Who was Lestrade?
"Yes, we've had a break through with the explosion, no I won't explain it over the phone. Just bring any case files involving a pair of trainers and a few officers." A pause, finally. John made a mental note never to call Sherlock. "Yes, the man's right here. No we won't let him leave." Sherlock hung up the phone, his eyes never leaving John's face throughout the conversation. Even baring his deepest childhood secrets to Ella would have felt less uncomfortable and invasive than Sherlock's gaze. Those piercing blue eyes were penetrating him everywhere, finding his weaknesses, taking him apart. He was so engrossed in the stare that it took him a few moments to fully comprehend what Sherlock had said. The man's right here…
"What, me?" John spluttered.
"You know, I am rather disappointed. So enigmatic. Were you afraid I wouldn't get it and thought you'd give me a helpful hint?" John tried to defend himself but he was silenced by the torrent of words issuing from the man's mouth. "Don't insult me with your lies. You saw me in a dream, really? I suppose you want me to believe you have no idea how to rid a gas main to explode or how to pick a lock or that I'm the only consulting detective in the world or that you're not Moriarty and you haven't been planting little puzzles for me for months now. You must think you're clever. You'd have to be to pull this off. The phone, those plans. You've had your finger in a lot of pies. I've been circling around you, picking up the little pieces of your crimes. We could ask your taxi driver friend for proof if he hadn't been shot, and by someone with military training. Awfully convenient that. But he told me about you. They didn't want to tell me, but I know. You arrange their lives, give them goals. Direction. Help even, but never directly involved. You think yourself a genius, and I'll admit you had me going for a moment, although your execution was less than original."
Sherlock was still speaking, but now John was panicking. Criminal, him? He'd never done anything criminal in his life. He didn't even understand what was going on. He found himself sputtering, but nothing was coming out and that face, that pale angular face was in front of his, looking down on him. And those eyes, those impossible to draw eyes, they were so displeased. It would be going too far to describe them as angry, because that was nowhere near the emotion they displayed. And Sherlock was far too calm for anger. No, those eyes seemed… disappointed, in a way. As if John's imagined crime was not what he had hoped for. The thought scared John. What kind of detective would be disappointed in a crime?
"I suppose you thought you were clever, showing up like this, out of breath, confused. The limp was a nice touch and the tan as well. Very thorough. But you forgot that I am Sherlock Holmes and I can see through you and everyone and I-"
"Sherlock!" Mycroft said sharply and loudly. John hadn't heard Mycroft trying to cut his brother off throughout most of the tirade, but he was grateful. He took a few deep breaths as Sherlock turned away from him and walked towards his brother, a menacing expression on his face. Whether that was directed at him or Mycroft he couldn't tell. What kind of man was he dealing with? Was he even a man?
John was breathing hard, like he'd run a mile after eating too many biscuits. What was going on? If the man really was a detective, and judging by everything John had experienced up to that point he was, then why had he seemed so disappointed? Mycroft was whispering harshly at his brother in the corner where they had convened. Sherlock's replies sounded rather angry. John had to show strength. He couldn't let these strange men set him up. He instinctively reached to steady the tremor in his hand, but it was already still. He held the hand up before his eyes; there was nothing. Perfectly still.
"Not possible," he muttered. Sherlock didn't even turn as he corrected,
"Not probable. It stopped the moment we set off for the basement. Your therapist is an idiot."
"Sherlock!" Mycroft hissed. John blinked a few times, unsure of how one should react to having personal details shared with complete strangers, by another complete stranger.
"How could you have known about my therapist?" John said, halting every few words. There were too many questions all trying to force their way out. This one just seemed most obvious.
"Anyone with a psychosomatic limp recently returned from combat has a therapist. Don't insult me." Sherlock responded, then returned to his hushed conversation. If anything, Sherlock's answer had just raised more questions in John's mind.
"Who the hell are you?" John said loudly and without thinking. The two brothers turned to face him, and John found himself under two eerily similar microscopic glances.
"You see my point?" Mycroft said quietly, almost smugly. Sherlock nodded, still staring.
"Upstairs." Sherlock said. He didn't wait to see if the pair would follow him as he started back up the stairs. John went last, using his cane and a steadying hand on the railing to help himself up. He couldn't for the life of him remember how he had gotten down those stairs to begin with. His labor was rewarded with the memory that he had yet more stairs to climb before he would reach Sherlock's flat. He cursed his leg under his breath and kept on hobbling.
When he reentered the main room, the scene was nearly identical to his first entrance, except Sherlock had set down his violin and the woman who had let him in was standing in the doorway of what looked like the kitchen.
"Ah, doctor, you made it." Mycroft declared. "Come, have a seat." John looked around. The only seat left unoccupied was beside Sherlock and covered in rubble. He wasn't sure which was more unappealing. He shook his head. He could have sworn he heard Sherlock mutter the word psychosomatic under his breath, but it could have just been a cough. Right. Instead of pursuing the matter, he leaned against the doorway, cane in hand.
"So you mentioned a dream?" Sherlock broke the silence, all business.
"Yea, a couple actually." John cleared his throat.
"Tell me." This guy's lack of manners was really starting to get to John, but he took a breath to start anyway. As he opened his mouth, the doorbell rang.
"It's Lestrade and his boys hoping to arrest someone." Mycroft stood as he spoke. "I'll take care of it. I have business to attend to anyway. And so do you Sherlock. Don't forget, national security and all." Mycroft started out of the room.
"Get them to leave the case files!" Sherlock called out after him. Mycroft didn't respond, but John could hear him telling whoever was at the door that the windows weren't what they used to be and to drop the files at the top of the stairs. Sherlock's face twitched into a nearly imperceptible smile that John was slowly learning to recognize. Everything the man did was small, but telling.
"So, dream?" Sherlock said impatiently. John limped across the room to take the chair Mycroft had vacated.
"No." he said. Sherlock looked up from his steepled hands, studying John. The twitching smile was gone. "You answer some of my questions first." Sherlock remained still for a moment, then nodded.
"One for one. You first." The man didn't speak much. Still, John would take what he could get and chose his first question.
"Who are you? I mean, how can you have the police on speed dial? Why would you even need that?"
"Technically, it's not the police, it's Lestrade, a particularly inept Scotland Yard detective. I help him out occasionally. As for me, I'm Sherlock Holmes." He said it as if that was supposed to mean something to John. John shrugged, trying to convey without words the fact that the man's name meant close to nothing. "The world's only consulting detective." Sherlock finally supplied. "My turn." He leaned forward, staring intently at John. Sherlock was much taller. Even seated and leaning over he seemed intimidating. John straightened himself to meet the gaze. "First dream. When and what?" Sherlock's eyes were alive. They focused directly on John's face but he could practically feel those eyes reading him like a book, gauging and recording his every movement.
"Well, it started about a month ago. You were in a morgue. I think it was Saint Bart's, but I wasn't sure. And… there was this woman… and there was a body…" John wasn't straining to remember; he was trying to avoid the riding crop. He wasn't uncomfortable. He just didn't find it appropriate conversation for a first meeting. Then again, Ella and his limp had come up several times already so really the man had brought this upon himself. "And you were beating it. With a riding crop. Something about bruises." John had expected some sort of reaction from the man, perhaps shame? Instead, he withdrew back into his seat. He said nothing, but his eyes had changed. They were calculating now. John remembered the whole point of the game and settled upon his second question.
"How did you know all those things about me? About what El- my therapist said about my leg? And the war?" It was perhaps the largest question looming in his mind currently behind "Why am I dreaming you?".
"I observed." Sherlock replied simply. "And the second dream? When was that?" Sherlock had a habit of looking around as he talked, as if John had not yet earned his full attention. It rankled him, along with the lack of a proper answer to his question.
"Wait hold on?" John said, frustrated. "You don't just get to do that, give two word answers." The man was staring blankly back at him, as if he'd never been told anything he'd done was inadequate. At least John now had his attention. "Answer the question the right way or I'm leaving." John was surprised to find that he meant it. Sherlock Holmes was a rude man, nothing like the personality John had concocted for him from his dreams. Part of John wished Sherlock wouldn't answer so he could return to his quiet normal life that didn't involve anything remotely newsworthy. But a part of John hoped he would answer. For better or for worse, he was fascinated by the man, unhealthily so.
They stared, John refusing to back down the intensity of his gaze. He stared at those eyes, the bright eyes he couldn't get right, then sighed and stirred to begin leaving. He found he was more disappointed than relieved.
"When you came, you stood. You didn't ask for a chair. Like you didn't notice your leg, telling it's psychosomatic. As for why the coloration of your skin is slightly different on your hands and face from under your collar so sun exposure. You held yourself together, presented yourself for examination. Obviously military. Your jacket is old, worn out, due for replacing but you haven't but it's not because you're fond of it because your razor needs replacing as well. Laziness? Not from a military man. So it's money. Obviously back from combat looking for a place but haven't the money. Shall I keep going or have I provided a satisfactory answer for you?" Sherlock talked quickly, barely pausing for breath. His words flew from his mouth almost inhumanly fast. John found himself lost in the speed of them.
"That was… brilliant," he said, clearing his throat. Sherlock almost looked surprised.
"That's not what people normally say." He said, his voice deep. How could a monotone express so much emotion?
"What do they normally say?" John asked.
"Piss off." Sherlock replied simply, the words catching in his throat.
John could feel something at those words, tugging in the back of his mind. Some kind of familiarity or remembrance. But how could it be possible? This was the first time he'd met the man. There was something familiar, though, like they'd had this conversation. Déjà vu, that was the phrase.
John shook the feeling away and settled back into the armchair. It wasn't rational, but conversation felt familiar with Sherlock. He was thinking that word a lot, familiar. He felt at home, almost. That wasn't a feeling he had in any place, not even his own home at Christmas time. He'd give the man one more chance.
"There's a spare bedroom that way. I get a discount on the rent because I gave Mrs. Hudson a hand with her husband, so it's affordable. If you go now you can have your belongings moved in here within the hour. I'll begin going through the files." John stared at Sherlock in disbelief. Did the man even realize what he was offering? Just as he was getting ready to respectfully decline, Sherlock interrupted, "We both know any protest you make will be entirely for show. It's in your moral code, not to accept charity. The door will be unlocked. We can continue this discussion upon your return." As John headed out of the room muttering thanks, he vaguely realized Sherlock had never asked if he wanted to move in with him. He had just assumed the answer would be yes. What concerned him was that he couldn't tell if he minded or not.