Chapter Seven: Coffee, Confessions and Chaos
7A
It should be enough, John thinks, to have the ability to sit across this ridiculously small table and watch Sherlock's borderline aggressive expression as his fingers fly over the keyboard of his mobile. He knows better than to ask who he's communicating with, because there's only one living being that brings out this particular level of irritation. Over the past few weeks, John has discovered how much he enjoys watching Sherlock work, even as the consulting psychic took the reins of John's own cases and not any of the credit. And that is why this should be enough; after all the help he's given John, perhaps it seems a bit ungrateful to be mentally lusting after anything more.
John sighs under his breath.
Doing someone else's job and not taking any sort of kudos for it is one of the things John has been meaning to talk to him about. Mike and Dale seem to be of the belief that some sort of latent power buried deep in John's psyche has been set free and he sure he won't be able to keep up that lie much longer. Eventually, something big is going to crop up and there's no way he'll be able to deliver and being alone and penniless in London right now would be a very bad idea.
Relaxing his too firm grip from around the steaming paper cup in his hand and taking a deep breath, John mentally prepares himself to have some sort of heart-to-heart discussion with Sherlock that he secretly hopes can be both of those things without being either of them. As per the usual, though, Sherlock beats him to the punch.
"John, I don't always take credit for all the cases I solve. It keeps my mind from stagnating, from dwelling on those things I cannot solve. Surely you already knew that?"
John takes a sip of his coffee, winces and sets the cup out of the way. He rests his elbows on the table then laces his fingers together and offers what he hopes is a relatively benign expression in Sherlock's direction.
"Are you ill?" Sherlock asks, narrowing his eyes.
"What? No. God, no!" John drops his hands into his lap.
Sherlock hums and turns back to his phone when it pings. Finally, after two minutes, he thrusts it into his pocket with a rumbly growl. Reaching for his coffee, he sips it, frowns and gently replaces it, casually sliding it to the farthest edge of the table.
"Terrible," he mutters.
John could easily be offended, but there's no point in it really, especially when he agrees with Sherlock's assessment. "Well, then…" he starts just as Sherlock clears his throat.
"Allegedly, a woman named Mrs. Hudson is being haunted by the ghosts of her murderous dead husband's victims. Since you don't have anything on at the moment, are you still interested in coming with me?"
John nods, letting all the other things he'd wished to say filter to the back of his mind. "Tell me about it?"
"I don't have too much to tell you, other than Daniel Hudson was fifty five when he was executed in Florida for the brutal stabbings of four university-age females."
"That's bad enough."
"Indeed." Sherlock answers, tilting his head slightly, eyes flashing. "He was extradited to America after killing his last two victims here in London. As much as it pains me to admit it, my brother, not me, was responsible, in part, for apprehending Daniel and ensuring his subsequent execution. Mrs. Hudson lives over on Baker Street."
"Alright then, after you." Still unable to take his eyes from Sherlock's, John stands and pushes his chair in, using one hand to make a sweeping gesture towards the exit. Sherlock shoots him half a grin and follows suit.
They leave together and John turns to make his way to the Tube, though Sherlock redirects him towards a waiting taxi with a hand on his shoulder. He takes note of a distinct feeling of loss when that hand is taken away as he slides across the back seat to make room for Sherlock's legs.
Sherlock rattles off the address to the cabbie who agrees without a word and John does his best to ignore the heat pouring off the lean body next to him. Soon enough, they pull up in front of a restaurant called Speedy's and Sherlock pays the driver. John joins him on the stoop in front of a glossy black door and can't stop himself from smiling back when Sherlock beams at him.
"Well, here we are, two twenty one Baker Street."