Disclaimer: I still own nothing.
A.N. If you want to see Sherlock's house, the crime scene house, and know what colour is exactly New York Pink, check my tumblr: imnova . tumblr. com (remove spaces – I had to put them or the site wouldn't show it). For Sherlock's house, the address I was thinking about while writing is 128 East 93rd Street, Upper East Side, New York City. Do check it out – it's lovely. Also, genderbent Donovan because I always suspected that there's a bit of scorned aspiring lover in her hate.
Episode 2: A study in (New York) pink
John – he needed to get used fast to this new name, as he hoped to keep it for a long time – followed Sherlock to his new home, a light blue, wooden Victorian house in Carnegie Hill, ten minutes from Central Park by foot. It held such an old-fashioned charm that John barely kept from gushing over it – but he was pretty sure that it was out of his price range, no matter how much he'd managed to amass with his thefts. Only he didn't have a choice, did he? Sherlock wanted to keep an eye on him. And why was she working at all if she had the money for this instead of worrying about her next party? John had no idea how his dilemma could be solved.
A sweet-looking elderly lady welcomed them at the door. "Oh Sherlock, and who is this fine man?" she queried, nosy but well disposed.
"This, Mrs Hudson, is John Watson. He's going to live with me from now on. His previous apartment has developed a serious mould problem, you see," the detective replied matter-of-factly.
"Oh, is he, now?" the old woman remarked with an incredulous look that made John suspect that she had read through the sleuth's charade. "Of course he will, we can't leave him there, can we? Mould is really dreadful – almost impossible to get rid of entirely," she added, apparently friendly. But after a breath, she sighed, "I do hope that you know what you're getting into, my dear." She might be talking to either of them, but John had the feeling that this was for her first tenant – that this woman was protective of her. Well, it was good to know.
"And this, John, is the mother hen we have as a landlady. Mrs Martha Hudson. She used to run a drug cartel until I got her husband executed. Which is why we get a special deal on the rent," Sherlock informed him casually.
"It's the least I could do after all. I am really deeply grateful, my dear. Frank was downright awful. And Florida way too hot and humid for my taste," Mrs Hudson replied, clearly deeply fond of the sleuth.
John didn't bat an eyelid at the information. So Sherlock made a habit out of redeeming people, did she? He was glad he'd been picked, too – and not just because he wasn't inside a cell right now. "Do not worry about a thing, Mrs Hudson. I'm a British gentleman and an almost model tenant…and Sherlock could probably kick my ass if I annoyed her," he said, laughing.
"Oh, I don't know. With your military training, I think we'd be evenly matched," the sleuth pointed out airily.
Mrs Hudson gave her a very pointed look that meant, "Military? Are you sure you want him in the house, young lady?" A soldier – or ex-soldier, whatever – meant that he could seriously hurt her if he got angry. After what she'd suffered from Frank, she didn't want Sherlock to risk the same. Of course, this lad seemed very charming – but Frank had been too.
To her wordless question, the detective answered with a minute nod that told, "Very sure. Trust me." Oh well. She always had to get her way, didn't she? Mrs Hudson would allow this. And be on the lookout in case anything untoward happened.
"Also, I was wondering if you might help us, Mrs Hudson?" John wondered loudly. He'd gotten an idea who might be worth trying.
"I'm your landlady, not my housekeeper, my dear," she answered automatically. It seemed something she had to repeat often.
"What? No, not about that. I meant, I think clients find so hard to take Sherlock seriously because they automatically assume that she's just my secretary, what with her being a woman – most people are such idiots, sadly. If we had a secretary already though – we'd pay you, of course – I think they might see her more easily as my colleague. You ran a cartel, it'd be a breeze to keep track of our appointments," John explained, smiling. He seemed to smile quite a lot. Sherlock decided that she liked his smile.
"You already pay me rent, young man. Well, you will. I will be glad to help Sherlock in any way I can," Mrs Hudson said, with a wide, approving grin. This stranger might be a good idea, after all. "But don't stay chatting with an old lady – go on, see your room. You must be anxious to set in."
John knew that whatever doubt the landlady had had on him, he had just passed her exam – with flying colours.
When they entered the flat, John looked around before pronouncing, "Not what I was expecting, but very nice indeed," in a carefully neutral voice.
"What were you expecting?" the sleuth couldn't help but ask.
"Less mess, more doilies," the man admitted honestly.
The detective made a face at the idea of doilies in her house, but she made a (very half-hearted) attempt to straighten things out. She had a flatmate now. A useful flatmate who thought about how to make people recognise her as a proper investigator. She'd never considered the need for a secretary from a client's psychological standpoint. She needed to make allowances. "But don't think I'll be doing all the house chores simply because I'm a woman," she warned sternly.
"I wouldn't dream of it," John assured seriously. Especially if this was the result of Sherlock's feminine touch. A more organised man's touch might indeed be needed. And doing his share of chores had never been a problem for the former army doctor. "So which is my chair?" he queried.
"What?" Sherlock countered, apparently not expecting that turn of conversation.
"You said you receive clients here, there are two chairs just asking for people having a serious conversation. I suppose it's one each. And I thought you'd have your favourite," John explained. Caring about her preferences automatically, instead of feeling entitled to whatever he wanted. Sherlock liked him.
"Oh yes, well, I suppose you can have client's chair, the point is for you to be present for that. They can sit anywhere else," the sleuth replied, nodding toward one.
John sat down and broke in an approving grin. "This and cases. I could get used to this. Tea?" he offered.
"How British of you. I'm more of a coffee person myself, but I suppose I could try it. There should be a couple of teabags around, if you rummage," she teased, shrugging.
That lead to John's explorations of the kitchen – with relative interesting discoveries which he chose not to comment upon diplomatically. One thing, though, needed to be mentioned. "Don't you eat? You only have a packet of biscuits and a stale leftover from a Chinese restaurant. That's it. I'm going to the shop. Anything you want?" he proclaimed, mildly shocked, shaking his head. "I would be very grateful if in the meantime you could move from my room anything that you don't want me to see or that should really not be slept with. I'm sure you've set it up as an additional lab, or storage, or something. But I'll need to live there."
"These are cookies, John. Could you get more of them? Also, maybe grapefruit juice?" Sherlock asked, shrugging. John was very thoughtful and caring, instead of immediately behaving as if he owned the place (the reason she'd never hired an actor before). She had picked well.
"Sure," her new flatmate agreed, though he barely restrained from rolling his eyes at the lack of nutritious food on her list. He'd have to take care of that. Oh, and of tea. He couldn't unearth the spare teabags Sherlock believed should be in the kitchen from the mix of chemicals and lab equipment in there.
When he came back from shopping (with lots of actual food, beside Sherlock's juice and cookies – and a British flag pillow as a silly impulse buy), he found his flatmate watching the telly – some sort of press conference – and furiously texting. "Is my room liveable in?" he queried, putting away the groceries. Sherlock, engrossed in whatever she was doing, hadn't moved to help him at all.
"Of course. Upstairs. But now we have much better things to do. A serial killer, John! And Lestrade doesn't even know that he's got one!" she replied excitedly.
"Really?" he inquired, sounding almost as enthusiastic. Hunting down a serial killer sounded thrilling. And he'd even do the right thing, for once. He knew he'd done the right choice when he had accepted the sleuth's offer.
"Really. Lestrade will arrive soon, for sure. Ready for the show, boss?" the detective inquired, with a wide grin.
"I've been born ready," he assured, nodding vigorously.
When the police captain arrived, a whole hour and half later, they were ensconced in their respective chairs with tea. John had insisted, saying it couldn't hurt – privately thinking that it would calm her overexcited nerves – and John had soon discovered that it wasn't disgustingly mild as she remembered, but delightful (though that might be only John's tea). True to her new secretary duties, Mrs Hudson showed Lestrade in.
"I didn't know that you were with a client, Sherlock," the policeman said, looking half embarrassed at interrupting and half determined to steal his consulting detective away anyhow.
"She's not," John said, getting up and offering his hand to shake. "John Watson. It is a pleasure to finally meet you, captain."
Lestrade blinked once in surprise, though he automatically shook the proffered hand, eyeing him somehow suspiciously. "John Watson, uh?" he asked, a bit incredulous.
Had the detective's little deception been seen through by way more people than she expected? That'd be a big problem for John. He simply nodded. No sense adding some loud, wordy confirmation. It would be even more suspect.
"You said he was older than you," the policeman told Sherlock.
"And I am – by three whole years," John confirmed with a smile, without missing a beat.
"From the way she talked about you, I just thought it'd be a lot more," Lestrade admitted, shrugging.
"Sherlock – have you been badmouthing me?" the blond queried, mock-severe but clearly good-natured.
"You were always too busy or too lazy to come to crime scenes. I had to find you an excuse, old man," the sleuth bit back, with a teasing pout.
"Well then that changes now. We have a crime scene to get to, yes?" John declared, trying to hide his enthusiastic eagerness.
"5A Carmine Street, in the West Village. An empty house, up for sale – that's where we found the victim. This one left a note – none of the others did," Lestrade stated, accepting the new addition to his crime scenes. John Watson seemed a good-natured bloke. And if Sherlock had accepted him as a boss he had to be bloody brilliant, too. "See you soon there." He'd learned the hard way not to offer Sherlock a ride on a police car.
When they arrived at the crime scene, half an hour later, a policeman guarding it greeted them
With a smile that was more of a sneer and a, "Hello, Freak, and who's there with you?"
"John Watson," he replied in a clipped tone, not letting Sherlock do the introductions.
"Really? Wow, the Invisible Man finally deigns our crime scene. We were all starting to think you were a myth. Who could stand her royal bitchiness after all?" the sergeant bit back arrogantly, clearly expecting John to agree with him. Instead, John glared at him.
Sherlock smoothly interjected, "Just because you have to resort to prostitutes to have any sort of company it doesn't mean I'm the same. I'm not just talking about romantically, though that's obvious. Your so called 'friends' barely stand you, which doesn't surprise me at all, and are now shirking your company. How sad is it to pay people just to chat? Or is it that you can't get it up anymore?"
"What – you – how dare you!" the man spluttered.
"How? Do you really want me to go into the details, Sam Donovan?" the sleuth replied, smirking.
One of the witnesses of the scene, one of the scientific squad judging by his attire, protested loudly, "So? You're her boss, bring her to heel! Don't you have anything to say?"
"Oh yes," John stated, a gleam in his eyes. "Sherlock, I have to scold you – you didn't tell me you were bullied by the idiots whose job you have to do for them. If it's a regular thing, like it seems, I think that there might be enough to file an official complaint. Also, I admire your restraint – personally, I'd just have punched him."
At the first word, a betrayed, angry look had painted itself on the consulting detective's face, though she had not objected out loud, while a satisfied look settled on the onlookers, eager to see Sherlock brought down a peg or two. At the end, though, their expressions had switched.
"But – but –" the man from the scientific squad had stammered, outraged.
"Now, if you'll forgive us, we have a crime scene to get to," John said, grinning.
"Also, being so eager to see me punished for that particular statement is a clue that it is applicable to you as well, Anderson," Sherlock pointed out in a Parthian shot that left the other man red-faced and stammering for a moment.
"Don't you ruin my crime scene!" Anderson called after them, surly, once he got his bearings back.
Lestrade greeted them much more agreeably, showing them the body. At an imperceptible nod from Sherlock, and under the police captain's expectant eyes, John examined the body. He was a doctor, he could do this. After sharing a few conclusions, he got up and said, "Now, Sherlock, why don't you tell us what you get from this? Prove me I've taught you well." He felt terribly arrogant telling that, but he needed an excuse to get the sleuth to talk. If Lestrade was surprised from the request when the supposed 'boss' was there, he didn't protest – he knew what the consulting detective could do.
Sherlock started deducing a mile a minute, and John couldn't contain himself. He breathed, "Brilliant." She was such a sight like this. The compliment actually gave her pause. "I mean, you ain't missing anything so far. Go on," he urged smiling, eager for more of the show.
After a while, once again the doctor added, "Amazing." He was surprised that Lestrade didn't, honestly. When she blushed and stopped again, he pointed out, "You know me. I believe in giving due praise."
What John had not expected from this crime scene was for her to conclude the exposition by blurting out, "Pink!" and running away as if possessed. Shrugging at Lestrade, he gave chase. Only for Anderson, who was getting back to his crime scene, to trip him. Because he hadn't publicly humiliated Sherlock? How petty could the man be? "What the hell!" John growled, annoyed.
"Oh. Sorry. I didn't see you," the man replied, with the fakest polite smile in the world.
He'd lost no more than a minute, but when John got to the street Sherlock – bullet-fast that he'd been – was already nowhere in sight. Oh bugger. There was no sense asking Donovan – he'd send John the wrong way just because he could, if he was anything like Anderson (and maybe he was worse).
"I do hope that that psycho kills you when she snaps," the sergeant called grumbling after him.
"She's not a murderer, but if she was, I'd start worrying about myself were I in your shoes," the doctor replied without even looking back at him. It would be useless searching for Sherlock. Now, to find a cab.
Or not. John's blood sang with enthusiasm when he was kindly but firmly – and very creepily – offered a ride by some sort of evil mastermind. For all that he'd been a criminal himself, he thought these things only happened in movies (not that he objected).
In the end, a sharply dressed man with an incongruous umbrella waited for him in a bloody empty warehouse. "Welcome, Mr…"
"Watson. John Watson. But you already know, of course. I doubt that you offer rides to random strangers," he replied, with a collected smile.
"If you say so," the man countered, a sneer playing on his lips. "Now, doctor Watson, how long is it that you've hired Sherlock Holmes? Five years?"
Uh-oh, trick question. John had no doubt that the man knew perfectly how many years ago Sherlock had created her boss' persona – while he had no idea. "For this kind of questions you should have kidnapped my secretary," he answered boldly. "I'm shit at remembering anniversaries, as any of my girlfriends could tell you, and frankly it feels as if I've known Sherlock since forever." He was surprised to discover he was telling the truth.
"But the cohabitation is a recent development. Is your partnership branching out from the strictly professional realm?" umbrella man queried.
"Not yet. Not that it concerns you," John retorted sternly.
"But it could. Since the consultations with the police are free of charge – such an admirable civic-mindedness, that – and cases are never as frequent as one'd hope, I could cushion your bank account," the stranger offered.
"For what?" John countered, distrustful.
"Information about Sherlock Holmes. Whatever you'd feel comfortable sharing. You'll know more about her than you'd ever wish too soon, I imagine," the other man stated, oily.
"No," the doctor bit back curtly.
"I haven't mentioned a figure yet," umbrella man pointed out, insinuating.
"Don't bother. Now will you get me a ride home or do I need to fight my way back?" John asked.
The creepy man smirked. "No need for violence now…no matter how much you might wish for it."
When he arrived back home, Sherlock welcomed him with a, "You're late." After taking a sharp look at him, she added, "Oh right. You've met the president."
"Which one?" John queried. Was that the nickname of a mafia boss? Was this what the mysterious kidnapper was? It would not surprise him.
"The US one," the sleuth replied, sounding bored.
"Ummm…no. I think I'd have noticed," he pointed out reasonably.
"You met my brother, which amounts to the same thing. Or do you really expect our idiot politicians not to have someone telling them what to do? The world would be up in flames without Mycroft. He's never entered elections only because there's no way that he's relinquishing power after eight measly years," she stated matter-of-factly. As if that made perfect sense.
"That was your brother? He wanted to pay me to spy on you!" the doctor blurted out, shocked.
"And will you?" the detective queried, without batting an eyelid at the news.
"No!" John yelled. "I thought he was a criminal mastermind," he added less loudly, embarrassed. He was feeling so stupid now. Where had his smart and smooth persona gone? The Holmes family was all crazy and they would be the end of his sanity too. But Sherlock needed a Watson to stand up not for, but with her – and he'd be damned if he let her alone with the bullies she had around her.
"Close enough," she remarked, quirking a smile. Whatever embarrassment John was feeling fled and he laughed with her. "Never mind that now. We have work to do. Here we have the victim's case – it was in a skip near the crime scene. Colour coordinated with her clothes and make-up, as I expected. All in New York Pink. Do you think that if she went to UK she'd dress in London Smoke grey?" Sherlock scoffed. "Anyway, I need you to send a text."
To the murderer, it turned out. Not that John objected. Especially since it landed him in a cosy Italian restaurant. With Sherlock. And with an owner intent on making things more romantic for them. Not wanting to make Sherlock uncomfortable, and vividly remembering that she'd reacted violently at his sex joke, he opened his mouth to say, "No, we're not…"
Before he could add, "dating," Sherlock interrupted him, "Angelo, this is John Watson." Which gained him a bear hug from Angelo, because the boss of his saviour was his saviour too, apparently – for setting Sherlock on the case. The restaurant owner scolded him, saying that he'd started to think he didn't like Italian cuisine – what with never having come before.
"Heresy," John assured him, earning a grin, and promised that things would change – he'd come around much more often. Satisfied, Angelo left.
"So? Have you brought a lot of dates here before?" the doctor asked, made curious by the man's automatic assumption.
"No one," Sherlock replied simply.
"It was probably a smart move, Angelo can be a bit overwhelming," he countered, smiling. "But since we're on the subject: any jealous boyfriends who might be seriously put out by our flat-sharing?"
"No boyfriends. I wouldn't have a Watson vacancy, would I?" she pointed out shrugging.
He laughed. (And really, why was his laugh such a lovely sound? It sidetracked Sherlock's thoughts with irritation. This was a business partnership, she wasn't supposed to be charmed. Gods, no!) "Right. Sorry," John admitted. "A girlfriend then, maybe? It's all fine."
"I know it's fine, but no. Neither, John," she huffed. What did her inability to form significant romantic attachments matter anyway?
"Free like a bird then. Like me. Good," he remarked, licking his lips.
Oh. So that's why it mattered. She couldn't – she didn't – she… "I'm very flattered, John, but I'm married to my work," she blurted out automatically.
He laughed again. "Not the smartest rejection line to use on your boss," he teased with a boyish grin.
The sleuth blushed. "I meant –" she said sternly, going immediately rigid and defensive.
"Relax, I know what you meant. And I can assure you that I've never molested a woman in my life and I have definitely no intention to start now. Besides, I've never had to," the doctor interjected, serious and placating.
"Because they all fell to your feet swooning?" she quipped. The sad thing was, she could believe it.
"You said so," John replied, with a winsome smile.
Before they could banter more, Sherlock suddenly led him to chase a cab which might have contained their murderer. On foot. And yet they reached it, thanks to her knowledge of the city. Detective work was exhilarating, John decided – even when it ended in nothing, like tonight. They shared giggles all the way home.
Only for their good mood to be bashed by more police bullying. That really needed to stop, John decided. "You definitely have the wrong flat," he growled, hearing of the drugs bust. He wouldn't vouch for Mrs Hudson's, though. Old habits die hard. But Sherlock? Sherlock wasn't – was she? Was that why she'd picked Mrs H. as a landlady? She definitely didn't look like a druggie, but better not stress how clean she was too loud, in case he was wrong. It would bust his I've known her for years cover.
Neither he or Sherlock would stand for silly accuses of murder or general sneering, though. "We found the evidence where you would have if you'd only known to look for it. we were going to bring it in soon. Really, Lestrade," he snapped. The police captain looked unconvinced. Apparently Sherlock had a habit of keeping evidence to herself.
With both of the flatmates fighting to rein in their 'esteemed' police (he couldn't blame Sherlock for being angry – he was, too) finally things calmed down enough for the sleuth to be able to hear her own thoughts and start figuring things out, gorgeous as ever. John really needed to remember not to use that particular adjective when praising her – he doubted she'd appreciate it much. And if once again it didn't amount to anything (but how could the phone be here when it didn't ring? How odd), it wasn't her fault.
Though John had to admit it. The detective might have been right in this particular instance – the name was indeed a password – but that she didn't understand how an abortion might be a long-standing trauma for a woman surprised him. But it was only a quirk more. He could work around it. And that she automatically searched for his help and guidance (only because he was supposed to be his boss? He hoped not) made him proud. He was careful not to be scornful towards her, but only briefly point out what was needed.
What didn't surprise him was the sleuth taking the chance to flee his invaded home, despite the cab probably having the wrong address, or the policemen leaving as soon as their favourite victim wasn't around anymore. Prats.
Hence why no one was there when he suddenly figured things out. The cab. The bloody cab they'd chased! His absurdly reckless colleague had run away with a murderer – and John bet she knew it, too. That's why she'd seemed so absentminded. Getting mentally ready for the upcoming confrontation, no doubt. If she wanted to do it without police, fine, but not without him. Weren't they a team? Hadn't the detective promised him his share of adrenaline?
Another cab, and he was after her in a second. Like hell he'd leave her alone to face this. But the layout of the empty college he was ultimately led to by the gps was bloody confusing, and he couldn't manage to find her. Fuck. Bloody triple fuck.
Then John finally noticed her from a window – on the brink of taking a no doubt poisoned pill. Oh no, miss! Don't you dare! Not on his watch, surely. He had his gun – and a bloody good aim, if he said so himself. The murderer was taken down – and the pill went rolling somewhere, falling from Sherlock's shocked hands.
The detective didn't expect the shoot. She very much didn't expect to realise John Watson had saved her. He could have let her die and gone back to his previous work. But no, he'd saved her. Why had he saved her? He couldn't possibly care for her. She had to ask.
She went over to him, shrugging off Lestrade who'd finally arrived – when everything had ended, as usual. "Good shot," she remarked.
"Well, yes. He must have been," John countered, playing innocent most perfectly if it wasn't for the grin on his lips.
"I don't suppose you'd go to jail for that, but best be careful. Have you been?" she asked directly, not allowing him to play around.
"Do not worry. There's a time for daring and there's a time for caution, and a wise man understands which is called for. John Keating."
"And who is that?" she asked.
"Robin Williams? Dead Poets Society, 1989?" the doctor replied. She blinked owlishly. He sighed. "Sherlock, we really need to have that movie night." To his surprise, she nodded.
"And do this again, too. Soon. Are all cases like this?" he queried, like an eager child.
"Only the best, John. Only the best."