Authors Note:Oh my goodness, I am so sorry for how long it's been since I've updated this! I got caught up in my other story and work and then life. Plus I had to seriously reconsider the plot I'd written out back in April as it was far too complicated and unrealistic I think. Hopefully an update here and two chapter for my other story will ease your way.
Sherlock's P.O.V
Buzzing.
What was that buzzing?
Is it tinnitus? No, John hasn't yelled at me recently- probably out of pity as usually he loves yelling. Can't be that, what then? The flat doesn't buzz, I know the flat. Second step on the stairs creaks as does the fifteenth if the visitor is over 14 stone. The door handle is a touch rusty and makes that horrible scratching sound but John gets mad if I just leave it open. Chair in the kitchen is wobbly, kettle whistles in a rather flat note, fridge does a dull thud when closed, shower in the bathroom has a spray that favours the left side and makes the water hit the wall more loudly, my violin only makes noise when I touch it, same with John unless he's having a nightmare which he doesn't think I can hear and which he isn't having now as I can see he's awake. What buzzes? Traffic, no metaphorical and that's a stretch in London. Bees. Bees buzz. Well, bees are capable of moving their wing muscles and thorax to collect pollen from flowers which the human hear interprets as a buzzing. Only those cut roses for flowers though, doubtful presence of bees as the bouquet obviously came from a high end shop owed by a women recently divorced with three cats one of which is sick from eating flowers all the time. How can John think with this noise? How is he unaffected? Buzz. Buzzed. Buzzing. He must hear it, as soon as he gave me the file all I've bee-
Ah of course. Obvious really, he'd have a good laugh about how pathetically long it took him to work it out.
The buzzing was in Sherlock Holmes' head, the name attached to the manila folder in his hand causing the rest of the world to sound as though it had been plunged underwater while the detective hadn't been looking. John had been quick to run down to the Yard, getting the brunette copies of all the evidence that had been gathered from the scene. Sherlock had been pained to stay behind, muttering darkly straight up until John had come back through the door about the clear ineptitude of the officers who had no doubt missed everything of importance and not in the adorable way John Watson did. So he'd been far from prepared for what the typed up notes from Forensics had told him was the subject of the murder investigation.
Oliver Moriarty in neat typed 12.5 Times New Roman.
For one of the very few times in his life, Sherlock was rendered speechless.
What were the other times? Mycroft telling me the elderly often lost the keen edge of their minds, playing the violin for the first time, Father dying, overdose, overdose, John Watson Staying. Never because of a case, I've always got answers for the work A name no one says.
Yet this was the second time he was hearing it.
Not that John, or anyone at the Yard for that matter, would know. That was a secret kept only for consulting detectives. Sherlock just happened to be the only one in the world, hardly his fault no one had been clever enough to follow in his footsteps yet. It was only a teensy tiny secret; embarrassingly he hadn't put much thought into whether John Watson ought to know. Would the good doctor want to know the last word screamed by a deadman only because Sherlock forced it out of him? A deadman, it should be noted, who was only dying because of a certain ex-army doctor whose basis for shooting the man had been a)threatening Sherlock and b)not being a very nice man. No, it had been logical that John would not be interested in the cabbie's so called sponsor.
But now.
Who would be a fan of Sherlock Holmes? the cabbie's hideously accented voice snarled down a corridor of the Mind Palace.
John Hamish Watson would. The short man with his galaxies and his blood diseases and his metal bits for killing. He would be a fan of Sherlock Holmes.
And something told the detective that the other man wouldn't take kindly to being told the fanbase was growing. John's P.O.V
John wanted to say he was surprised. Wanted to say he was shocked, dazed, unable to comprehend was happening.
Instead he felt tired and proved right.
As the first thing Sherlock seemed to consciously do was struggle in a manner not fit for feeling stitches in order to pry himself off the mattress.
Not that this was the very first thing the detective had done once the shorter man had reluctantly handed over the case files.
No, first had been what would be as close to a lead pipe-bumble bee look as Sherlock's elegant features would ever be. It was the second time John had seen the man struggle to fit the pieces together, to find a solution to an impossible puzzle. The first was when the ex-army doctor had forced Sherlock to listen when John had basically said he would want to be the ash preserved with the brunette's should a volcano wipe London out that very second, if the taller man would allow it. Nothing about that folder should have caused the world's only great consulting detective to look so doubtful. "What is it Sherlock?"
The sound, not the words themselves, seemed to bring the too-bright too-large grey eyes back into focus on the doctor. John's heart leapt into his throat out of habit and a bit because of the flash of worry he caught in his favourite irises.
"Sherlock," he repeated, more Captain Watson leaking into the command.
"You should've showed me this sooner. Stupid thing to wait for, stitches how boring," the taller man mumbled after quickly looking anywhere but John himself.
"Once again, not getting yourself sent to A/E is not boring," John grumbled in return, though he did have enough sense to wait for further explanation. The case was the second of its kind so the doctor could understand that it was somewhat time sensitive but any case they received was always going to be. Time sensitive had to be ignored for the sake of Sherlock, who John would not allow to suffer as long as he was there to intervene.
There was a long pause, where the detective seemed to be contemplating something carefully. When John realized what was being contemplated was the choice of words, his guard was instantly up. Sherlock may be a fan of getting the last word, god knows that's true, but he didn't usually put active thought into what he said. The man was intelligent without effort and once you factored in that he didn't care how people reacted, it was easy to see why saying the first thing that came to mind had become a habit.
"I…maybe have heard this name before," was the gently admitted terms the brunette ended up offering.
"Which one?"
"Moriarty," it was difficult to ignore the way Sherlock said the name like a softly spoken prayer, like it offered salvation.
"What do you mean, heard it before?," John pressed, having crossed his arms over his chest without noticing that was what he'd done.
"I mean it's come up, my sense of hearing being intact I was aware when someone mentioned it to me previously," the detective hissed back in what was truly a good imitation of his annoyed this is obvious even for you imbeciles voice but John Hamish Watson knew a deflection when he saw one.
"And when was this previous occurrence?," he asked sternly, levelling Sherlock with a look meant to inform him at all experiments in the flat would not be safe until John got answers.
"Shortly after meeting you," was the airy response that grated against the ex-army doctor's nerves.
"How shortly after," honestly, it was like pulling teeth.
"Within twenty four hours," Sherlock told his fingernails, which he was apparently busy inspecting as closely as a crime scene.
Twenty four hours? All we did the first day was the case with the ca-
John closed his eyes and felt his hands clench into fists while he busied himself with remembering how lovely he normally thought Sherlock was. How very glad he was that the other man had not died in that alley.
Didn't die so that I could throttle him properly his brain supplied.
"Sherlock."
The name was a warning.
Sherlock's P.O.V
Oh John. Don't look that that, it's like even your lacrimal bone is furious with me. How do you manage it? Stop looking like that. Take that mandible and look at me like I'm nothing but good again. He attempted to keep his squirming dignified under the harsh gaze of an ex-army doctor.
"Was it the bloody cabby who told you?," John asked in a clipped tone through a clenched jaw.
"He…may have been the source of the data. I was gathering information if you remember," the detective started to defend, being cut off by a rather unnecessary snort of disbelief from the shorter man.
"Trust me Sherlock, I'll never forget how thick you can be trying to prove how clever you are."
"I have already explained this John, I simply had to know what he was saying to convince his victims to kill themselves and playing the game was the only way to do this. I wasn't going to take his pill, good or bad," Sherlock retorted with a sniff, pointedly looking away again.
It wouldn't do for John to know that wasn't…exactly the whole truth.
I can't be the only one who gets bored. And it was so very boring before you came John. No one else gave me blood diseases and everything was calm. It was hateful. And I didn't know about you or your gun. That thing is an extension of your arm, did you know? Thrilling. I couldn't have known you'd be thrilling and his game was at least interesting. I wouldn't play now, but I wanted very much to play then. I hadn't seen starlight yet.
"Why didn't you tell me about this Moriarty then, if you were only interested in how he did it?"
"It didn't seem relevant. He was no longer a threat and all I had was a name. Not enough to narrow the field."
There was a surprising amount of blood, you are a very good shot John. He died quickly but there was still time to hurt him. Who sponsors a serial killer? You would be abusing your lovely zygomatic bones if you frowned at me so often. I'm not an exotic house plant and I'll hurt a dying serial killer if it is the logical thing to do. It didn't seem relevant because I'd only just found out you were thrilling. Stupid of me.
"Sherlock, he killed people. He wanted to kill you. Everything he said would have been relevant."
"Why?" surely John didn't want to know every single word a murderer ever said to him, it would take even Sherlock quite a while to finish such a list.
"Because wanting to kill you matters to me!," John screeched back, apparently failing at keeping his anger at bay.
"It didn't matter to you then, nobody would have been interested at the time," Sherlock replied quietly, yelling being a much rarer thing for him than His John. Which was all fine, the detective was teaching himself to stop flinching so badly each time.
John seemed to soften a bit then and the great brain in Sherlock's skull practically purred with the thought of how it did love when the good doctor looked soft and comforting like the hideous jumpers the same brain tried so desperately to destroy without leaving evidence.
"I need to know these things now Sherlock. I can't…I can't be thinking there are things you aren't telling me that could get you into danger. The alley was bad enough, I don't want to go through that again. I can't even begin to explain how it felt when I thought I might…l-lose you," John stammered out, looking terribly sad and somehow commanding at the same time. The strange flutter in his digestive system flashed again and if Sherlock Holmes was more certain he had a heart it would have been cracking.
Do not say things like that John. I have the blood disease, not you. I'm dangerous and you like dangerous. You like guns and crime scenes and me so stop looking so improbable this very instant.
Dangerous is just a game, dying is just losing.
If he thought back on it though, to that fuzzy night in the alley, Sherlock could remember all the things he had almost not ever said. Perhaps he wasn't particularly eager to leave John behind either.
"Yes. Yes, alright John. I promise. I'll… tell you when anyone is threatening me. Only proper threats though, at least an eight. Anything less would just be ridiculous, I'd never tell you anything else."
John smiled that precious Just-for-me smile and Sherlock felt a little less like he was cracking.
"Tell me the rest of it then. What did he say?"
"The man was a serial killer, you know that, he was quick to confess that much. When he was explaining the…thing with the pills, I deduced that it all had something to do with his children. He told me that he had a…sponsor of sorts, for each time he killed."
"Who would sponsor a serial killer?," John questioned in a disbelieving tone, and the detective did his best not look too pleased that John was starting to ask the right questions without being prompted these days.
"Who indeed. He said it was my fan, a fan of Sherlock Holmes," the man himself repeated in a voice replicating the dreadful sounding cabbie's.
"It's a bit creepy when you do that, why would someone who says they're a fan of you want to send a serial killer after you?"
"Well it's not as if I've got a very large fan club John, I sincerely doubt enjoying my work limits the pool to only lovely sane people."
John paused and seemed to consider his words before agreeing with a small tilt of his head.
"So he said it was Moriarty then? This was the man paying for you to take that idiotic pill?"
"The cabbie told me it was a name no one said, I forced him to tell me but that was as far as I got before your bullet made him less inclined to talk," Sherlock told him wryly.
John had the decency to blush the slightest bit.
"What's the plan then? Tell Lestrade you want off the case?"
"Of course not, don't be so obvious John. I need to speak with Mycroft, actually a text should be more than enough, then we're going to go over every detail of this file until we find our next Hallohan.
Sherlock was going to start a research project on safely limiting the amount of oxygen one set of lungs could expel at any given moment.
What information have you gather on one Moriarty? – SH
We've been observing one person of such a name. Runs numerous crime rings. The case you received this morning is not him. – MH
Would the death I'm investigating be linked? – SH
Brothers. – MH
Tedious as always, you could have just said. –SH
You could have just called, you know how I hate texting. – MH
Trying to increase physical activity wherever possible. All that cake. –SH
Rude to ignore people Mycroft. – SH
"Where are we going?"
"We aren't going anywhere. I need to go observe the body and gather what data hasn't been ruined by the likes of Anderson. You are going to interview Sebastian Moran again. Hop to it John, we haven't all day."
"'Why, exactly, am I doing this?"
"Brothers John, seems I'm not the only one who can't shake them."
Authors Note: Please let me know what you thought! I know it's mostly plot but I swear the details are important! Another update should be within the week!