Sherlock got home to find John conspicuously absent. He had a moment of lurching panic before he heard John on the stairs and dashed to his computer to boot it up and pretend he hadn't noticed the man was missing.
John moved toward the kitchen, presumably to start more tea, and Sherlock started on writing his email, a grin starting across his face.
Tell John, he remembered, almost too late. He had to wait for John. It sounded like a soul-crushing restriction but he found himself excited. Perhaps John could come with him.
"The tracking device is planted. Now to convince Magnussen I'm a fraud as well as an addict," Sherlock announced as grandly as he could. John set a beer glass of tea by his hand and sipped at the last mug.
"Shouldn't be tough," he commented. Sherlock looked up at the snark but John looked only darkly amused. He was attractive. Distracting.
"I should meet with him alone," Sherlock decided aloud. John shifted uncomfortably, clearly trying to determine why. Sherlock tried to think of something better to tell him than 'I like looking at your thighs'. "I'll need someone to track the letters. And, if the GPS cuts out, to check it out," he realized. There, that was actually true. John nodded easily. Sherlock tried to think of something normal to do to take his pulse and see if John was prepared to track a man alone.
He grabbed John's free hand quickly, almost sloshing tea out of the other. People held hands. John frowned at him but didn't tug his hand away. Only slightly elevated pulse. Under control. Rising now, actually. And John's eyes were just starting to dilate. Attraction. Right. He knew that. He let go. John's eyebrows rose but he couldn't determine if that meant John had understood his intention or not. It didn't much matter, probably.
"I'll challenge him then. Tell him he has something I want and I know something he needs to hide. His Modus Operandi; he won't be able to resist showing me who's boss," Sherlock explained, as if he hadn't already written the email, and hit 'send'. Now they just had to wait. Again. John was rubbing at his wrist, still holding his tea. Thinking about their touch. Sherlock blushed, unsettled, and looked around for a distraction.
"So, you haven't panicked today," he said, the way Molly usually tried to start a conversation. John put down his empty mug, not even trying to engage with that. Sherlock couldn't blame him.
So that…didn't work. He'd tried the conversation style of a woman who'd once walked up to an intern and asked So how's your dead Mum? Of course it hadn't worked, damn him.
Ask a question. He knew that. People liked talking about themselves.
"How's your back? Arms? Shoulders?" Sherlock asked, waving a hand to indicate the majority of John's injuries. And John looked touched by that. He smiled crookedly that way he did when quietly pleased, and answered.
"The new skin still itches, but the leg graft spot has healed fully so that's a damn relief. Shoulders have returned to seventy five percent mobility with very little lifting strength. I'll start on small weights soon," he summarized casually. To Sherlock's relief, this was easy to respond to. It was relevant.
"How much weight can you handle now?" he asked and John looked even more pleased. He sat on the arm of Sherlock's chair.
"My gun but not milk," he answered and smiled ruefully. "And I shouldn't fire it," he added. Sherlock winced, picturing the shoulder ripping itself out of its socket all too vividly. "Speaking of, I was hoping to get to the library. Books don't tend to have kickback," John put in. Was that a request to go with him? John never told anyone where he was going. Libraries were quiet and books weighed more than a pistol.
"May I join you?" Sherlock asked, just in case, and John relaxed. Yes, a request then. Sherlock's email dinged, cutting off the moment. Sherlock barely needed to turn; he knew what it'd say.
No subject, just the words 'we'll meet'.
Perfect.
"So… that's the worst way to set up an appointment," John complained over his shoulder.
"He'll be watching me. He'll show up when I don't expect it," Sherlock explained.
"So… we wait?" John asked and Sherlock smirked.
"No, we pretend not to understand," he answered and typed out when and where into the email. John snorted but didn't protest and Sherlock sent it out.
~~/~~
"Now what?" John asked and Sherlock huffed out a frustrated breath.
"Now you contact my brother to ask permission to put his laptop in the hands of Charles Augustus Magnussen," Sherlock growled, pushing himself back from the desk.
And thus jeopardize the entire operation, John heard, swallowing heavily. The only case that could so thoroughly protect them, protect Sherlock.
He'd never be in that parking garage again. He thought now he'd be capable of anything to avoid that. His cowardice screamed to agree. The cut of a knife, pulling burned skin from his barely-healed back. If it all returned? He'd pray for death. Pray for anything.
God. He felt choked at the thought. So he'd drug Sherlock's family?
Yes. What relationship could they have then? John cursed under his breath, looking out the window, pretending Sherlock was not watching him. The answer was clear; it was always going to be obvious what he should do. Morality dictated. He must ask for Mycroft's consent.
That didn't mean he would. For the first time in his memory, as soldier and doctor, he believed he'd turn his back.
There was a burning nail at his back. There always would be. He needed to know no one could so pin them down again. They'd have the upper hand. They'd be safe.
John walked past Sherlock to lean against the window frame, looking down on the crowd loading onto the bus below. John Hamish Watson. A good man. He'd never thought anything was a important to him as standing by his word, by his obligations. He gripped the wood frame too tightly, hating feeling Sherlock behind him but unwilling to turn and reassure himself.
There'd always be a burning nail at his back. John felt like he was collapsing, realizing what drugging Mycroft would do to him. He'd be running from that fear, would know he'd always do anything to run from it. The last bit of his prideful innocence, stripped away. John Watson - a broken man. He didn't think he'd recover from that. But he didn't think he could avoid it.
To risk having no great weapon, no Appledore to keep them ahead.
Goodbye, Mycroft.
Violin notes dragged behind him, near the other window. John relaxed, hearing where Sherlock had gone in the room. Not music, just the same notes, back and forth. Sherlock was still watching him, his mind too focused to play. John sagged, knowing Sherlock would see his answer as soon as he turned around. Would pretend to rejoice in his acquiescence, would never mention it.
He couldn't watch. John closed his eyes, feeling trapped by the window. He would feel ridiculous, backing his way to the door, keeping Sherlock out of his sight. And then what? Running home? Leaving Sherlock to do the rest with Magnussen. Picking up a gun.
That urge wasn't gone. John heard the window frame crack beneath his grip but didn't release it. Let the wood snap - Sherlock would never care. John turned around, made himself meet Sherlock's eyes. That cool gray gazed back, waiting. Nothing but curiosity in his eyes, waiting to discover who John Watson had become, not judging it. John inhaled softly.
"I'll call him," he said simply and Sherlock nodded, something dark in his eyes.
~~/~~
I love this man. Sherlock stared at the short, stocky doctor who'd so captured him. The bravest man he'd ever met and the best by far. A moral compass like none other. He'd never yield. Sherlock smiled, hoping his thoughts didn't show themselves too keenly. John still had one foot out the door. But he knew, with a staidness he didn't know he could feel, that he'd found the best human London could produce, and he wanted him for himself. To have and to hold, until some idiot criminal shot them.
~~/~~
God he makes me better. John stared at Sherlock, unable to look away. It was unintuitive for such an unstable man. Sherlock Holmes, the amoral madman who kept John Watson whole.
I could do anything for you. In Sherlock's eyes he could find his life again. He needed to be the man he was with Sherlock. Needed to laugh and breathe and fight whatever evil plagued them. Solve silly puzzles and take huge risks. Show Sherlock a moral way and know it for himself. It was what had kept John stuck here, one foot in the door, come hell and grief.
I love this man.
The realization fell with a crushing weight. He looked away. So much pain had hit them. So much more threatened. He met Sherlock's soft eyes again, unsure what he was looking for but finding it immediately. That excited, easy calm of a man who would figure it all out in time. And John would be a good man. A healed man. And hopefully Sherlock would never know how close it'd come, but he probably would. Probably already knew, and didn't have a damn clue how vital he'd been in it. John exhaled slowly and stole Sherlock's phone off the desk. Mycroft was on speed-dial, not that Sherlock would ever admit it.
"Don't!" Sherlock cried out sharply and John jerked. "Magnussen will know," Sherlock warned. John froze, realizing what that meant - he'd never had any choice to warn Mycroft? Another experiment? His fist tightened, ready to break the phone, and Sherlock held out his hand for it. "We'll meet for Christmas, no drugs," he said and John relaxed.
I'll trust him again, he promised himself and Sherlock smiled apologetically, taking the phone.
"So, now we wait?" John grumbled and Sherlock nodded.
"Yes," he said, for once not complaining of the tedium of such cases.
"Christmas," John grumbled, secretly glad he didn't have to plan some type of holiday.
"The best," Sherlock grinned, clearly excited at the coming showdown. John snorted. Excitement would come for him when they won, he figured. Sherlock moved to grab his coat and scarf, thoroughly confusing him.
"I thought you said we wait?" he asked and Sherlock tied his scarf around his neck, looking extremely self-pleased.
"We're looking for novels with very little kickback, are we not?" he announced and John grabbed his wallet, surprised and grateful. "Not the military library then, I'm thinking. Oddly concentrated collection of violent tomes, I've found."
John followed him.
~~/~~