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Given the text he'd just got, John was somewhat surprised to find Crenshaw (or Eric, rather - first name basis still felt a bit odd, but the man had insisted so he supposed he'd best make the effort) sat in one of the armchairs. He'd acquired a pair of reading glasses from somewhere and appeared to be using Sherlock's laptop to catch up on work. In his hand was a half-full mug of tea, which he'd just taken a sip of when John walked in.

"Cheers," the bloke offered politely, tipping his mug towards him. John furrowed his brow in confusion.

"What are you doing?"

"Er… reviewing monthly budget reports?" the man replied, equally confused. He gestured vaguely to the laptop screen. In the reflection off his spectacles it did indeed look to be open to the stark white of a spreadsheet.

"No, I mean why aren't you with Sherlock?"

Eric raised a brow. "Because I've no interest whatsoever in visiting a morgue."

"Oh. Well. Sherlock's just texted me," John held up his mobile to illustrate, then stowed it in his pocket as he went to fetch his coat. "Says he's found a lead and to meet up with him at King's Cross."

"Alright," Eric replied blankly. "Have fun?"

In any other circumstance, perhaps, John would have dismissed the bloke's lack of interest and moved on. Now, though, he was baffled - he and Mrs Hudson had looked through the photos (and handful of videos, though none as interesting as the chatting-on-the-stairs one) and seen dozens of snapshots of a younger version of this bloke behaving like a regular teenaged hooligan alongside an adolescent Sherlock. Drink, drugs, mischief… and now he was, what, choosing to look at spreadsheets?

Obviously John understood that normal people — those not like himself and Sherlock — would prefer not to throw themselves into dangerous situations on a whim. How anyone could be content living that way he'd no idea, but he could accept the fact for what it was. This man, however? The only person John had ever seen Sherlock treat with implicit trust? He couldn't be normal. There had to be something more to him than spreadsheets.

"It's… an investigation," he explained, thinking perhaps Eric just didn't fully understand what they were up to. "You know- searching for clues, solving mysteries, possibly fighting dangerous criminals. You're sure you don't want to go?"

Eric had begun to look rather perturbed. "Er, no thanks. That sounds awful."

They stood at a stalemate for a few beats - John trying to process how a bloke capable of romancing Sherlock Holmes could possibly be this dull, and Eric looking like he'd quite like for John to leave already so he could get back to his budget report.

A tinny burst of some classical song startled the both of them. Eric scrambled a bit to dig out his phone, caught sight of the screen, then rolled his eyes before answering.

"I'm not interested," he snapped as soon as he'd brought the device to his ear. John could just make out the distinct timbre of Sherlock's voice on the other end, but not clearly enough to catch any words. "... it doesn't matter what you want. I'm busy." A pause, another eye roll. "The 'stupid spreadsheets' controlling a dozen peoples' livelihoods, yes." He shot a flat look to John as he listened to the next bit, but then his expression quite suddenly shifted to a mix of offended and… concerned, somehow? "You've need of a bleedin' what?" His accent had slipped a few notches with the outburst - he was glaring at the wall now but seemed almost unsure whether to be angry or not. "Oi, no, don't y'dare leave off on that you fuckin' cu- ah, fuck's sake."

He took the phone from his ear and scowled at the screen, which seemed to imply Sherlock had hung up.

"Everything alright?"

Eric huffed and tucked his mobile away. "Wants me to go with you. Said he has need of a bleedin' cockney translator ."

John made a valiant effort to keep his expression neutral. "Ah. Well that's… certainly an ask."

Eric sat for a few seconds fixing a glower on the laptop screen. Then, with an air of profound reluctance, he closed the computer, set it aside and got to his feet. He rubbed a hand down his face and seemed to take stock of his clothing - pyjamas, more or less, and Sherlock's housecoat.

"Hang on a moment, I'll find some proper trousers," he grumbled as he shucked off the housecoat.

John was baffled again, but didn't get a chance to ask about the sudden change of opinion before Eric had disappeared into Sherlock's bedroom. When he emerged a few minutes later he was wearing most of one of Sherlock's typical outfits, though he'd left off the button-up in favour of a t-shirt with yet another band logo. John had to do a double-take - he was forced to assume the shirt was one of Sherlock's, but trying to imagine him buying that …

Eric had stopped off to set his tea mug in the sink, then strode over to grab his peacoat from the hook. As he did so he seemed to realise John was giving his attire a very odd look and smiled down at the shirt.

"It's great, right? He's got loads of these old band shirts. Said he used to wear 'em to briefings to annoy people."

"Is that… Judas Priest?"

"Yeah!" Eric grinned, apparently pleased John had recognised the design. "Are you a fan?"

"Ah, sure. On occasion." In truth John wasn't much of a casual music-listening sort of person, but he'd been known to throw on a pair of headphones during downtime while on tour. Mainly to drown out a range of unpleasant background noises. Louder the better, in that regard, so he'd at one point taken to cycling through various rock and metal CDs. Wasn't sure he'd appreciate hearing any of that these days, though. Not least for the mental associations he'd inadvertently created.

His wrong-footedness must have been obvious, because Eric gave him a lopsided smile as they left the flat.

"I just want you to know I continue to find it absolutely hilarious how boring you think he is."

"I definitely don't think he's boring." Fought the urge to point out that he'd just been thinking Eric, in fact, was the boring one. Bit rude. A beat later though he realised the man couldn't possibly be the sort of person who cared about politeness. "Actually, just now, with the spreadsheets and all, I'd been thinking how bizarre it is that you're quite boring."

Eric raised a brow at him, amused. "Sorry to disappoint, mate."

"I'm just saying it's odd," John went on without really knowing why - felt awkward, he supposed, having seen all those photos the other day. Wanted to fill the space between them with idle surface chatter to avoid thinking too deeply on the darker implications of some of those images. "If I had to pick a personality type I thought Sherlock would go for, it wouldn't be…"

"Someone's very dull boss?" Eric supplied when John trailed off.

"That, yeah."

Eric smiled sidelong at him - there was an odd spark of mischief in the expression. "Have you considered the possibility that I'm coming off that way intentionally?"

The shift in tone was jarring. John shot a vaguely alarmed look his way, struck by the sudden absurd thought that they'd been fooled by some criminal mastermind playing a role to get close to Sherlock. Quickly realised that made no sense. The two of them had been sleeping together - surely Sherlock would've caught on to any nefarious intent by now.

"How do you mean?" he decided to ask instead.

All he got in answer was a cheeky little wink, before the man turned his attention to his mobile screen as if he'd nothing further to say. John stared flabbergasted for a few beats before it finally clicked. Bloke was messing with him.

"Oh god. You're as manipulative as he is."

Eric was scrolling through some sort of document on his phone, and hardly looked up as he replied with a bland, "I'll take that to mean he's improved his social skills."

They'd come upon the Tube station now, so John hadn't much chance to reply until they'd got to the platform. And at that point Eric beat him to the punch by speaking first.

"I would like to note that I have, actually, put down my spreadsheets to go off on this little adventure with you. So I can't be that dull," he remarked. He'd finally slipped his mobile back in his pocket after appearing to have been checking his email.

"Fair enough," John conceded. "What changed your mind on that, if you don't mind my asking?"

Eric gave him a vaguely confused look. "He said something completely stupid."

He said this in a tone as if it should have been obvious how this was related, but of course John had no idea what the connection should be and conveyed this by his expression.

"He doesn't do that with you?" Eric asked, rubbing at the back of his neck and grimacing slightly. "It's, er… I guess it's that I know he must have a good reason for asking me to come, because he's given me a very stupid reason instead. If that makes any sense."

"Um… no, that doesn't really make sense at all."

Eric sighed to himself. "Yeah, alright, it doesn't. Entirely possible I'm just gullible, then."

The train arrived, and the ensuing short ride to King's Cross was spent in the usual state of polite silence reserved for public transport. Eric had returned to his mobile and was reading emails again. He did that rather a lot, John had noticed - always busy with some sort of work-related administrative task. Made sense; bloke was the head of a school, after all. Such diligence just seemed like yet another odd trait to pair with Sherlock's general state of irresponsible chaos.

Soon enough they got to their destination. John started to look about for the familiar greatcoat as they emerged into the square. A squawk of surprise behind him nearly made him whip out his firearm right there in public. Thankfully he spun round to assess first - found Eric giving a very disgruntled look to Sherlock, who'd somehow appeared directly beside him.

"Took you long enough."

"Excuse me?" Eric snapped, which rather ruined Sherlock's attempt to seem cavalier. He blinked and looked to his not-exactly-boyfriend.

"What?"

"Don't drag me out here, grab my arse and just say 'took you long enough', christ." As he spoke Eric began to stalk off in the direction Sherlock seemed to have appeared from, forcing the both of them to have to jog a bit to catch up.

"I just thought it would be a cool line," Sherlock explained as he fell into step with his not-partner, causing John to snort to himself behind them. Nice to hear the overdramatic lunatic admit to such a thing for once.

"Guess it was, a bit. Could've said it without giving me a heart attack, though."

"Not my fault you weren't paying attention."

Eric took a hand from his pocket and gently shoved the man's head to the side.

Sherlock didn't react to the shove aside from giving his hair a quick shake to resettle it. Would have been bizarre had John not spent the past few days watching the two of them fall to doing such things on a near-constant basis. They'd quickly become almost literally inseparable - never more than a foot or two apart unless one or the other was away on business. A long-standing habit, apparently, as it had been a detail Mrs Hudson pointed out in the files they'd looked through together. That in every single scene where they appeared together the boys were always touching, usually pressed right up next to one another. This held true even in pictures where they were only seen in the background, which would imply the photographer hadn't just been after particular favoured shots. Seemed they'd just been that sort of teenaged couple.

And were set to be that sort of adult couple as well, evidently. Because of course the two men had now fallen into close enough proximity to be brushing shoulders as they walked. John wondered if they'd even realised they were doing it.

"So were you meaning to actually explain what's going on?" Eric asked, interrupting John's pondering. "Or is this some stupid mystery game?"

"Uh… it's a stupid mystery game," Sherlock replied offhandedly. Eric must have given him a look (John was a few steps behind the two of them, not having the benefit of matched leg length) because he elaborated with, "Sort of. You'll see."

They seemed to be heading for a side street, which they turned down, and then hooked another turn into an alley. John spotted the man tagging a wall down the other end of it and tensed before realising it was just one of Sherlock's street contacts - the vandal bloke who knew all the kinds of paint. Couldn't imagine what on Earth they needed him for.

"Piss off, fu- oh! Hey. Back already?"

Sherlock stopped, looking to Eric, and swept an arm grandly at the vandal as if presenting him. Eric gave him a puzzled look. Shifted focus back to the younger man, who was scrutinising him in return. John came up on Sherlock's other side just as the tagger barked out a sharp laugh of recognition.

"Holy fucking shit! Is that Eric?"

"What… Rhys!?" Eric exclaimed. He gave Sherlock a quick shove to the side of the arm, as if to say 'you sly bastard' , then jogged up to meet the other bloke halfway down the alley where the two of them met with a crushing hug and a rush of fast-paced chatter. John could hardly make out individual words for how thick both their accents had gone.

He glanced over to Sherlock. Found the man watching on with a quiet little smile.

"You've known that tagger since you were nineteen?" John asked, guessing at what was going on here.

"Twenty," Sherlock corrected.

He offered no further explanation, but then none was really needed. Sherlock hadn't, it seemed, always been quite so alone as he insisted.

"Another bloke who doesn't count as a 'friend', then?"

Sherlock snorted in amusement. "Rhys? God, no. More like a persistent menace."

"Eric seems happy enough to see him." John punctuated this by nodding down the alley, where the young man was showing Eric the graffiti he'd been working on.

"Yes, well Eric actually made an effort to play mentor to the little delinquent. I was just after free labour."

John gave him the disgruntled look he'd no doubt been fishing for, which Sherlock met with a bland stare.

"I was purifying drugs. We worked for a distribution ring. Rhys was a fourteen year-old runaway I coerced into playing lab assistant in exchange for a warm place to sleep."

Ah. Well. That clarified some things. John could tell Sherlock was trying to make himself out to be some sort of soulless ghoul, as he was occasionally wont to do. But his attempt fell rather flat given he appeared to have gone to significant effort to ensure Eric got a chance to reunite with the boy.

Wouldn't do much good to call attention to such things, though. Decided getting back to the matter at hand would be a better use of time.

"Were you serious about having found a lead?"

"Yep." Sherlock flipped a plastic baggie out of his pocket and handed it to John without looking. "Shard of red ceramic embedded in the left palm. Victim's workplace is just down the road there. Texted you on the way and then happened to run into Rhys."

As he spoke Sherlock had retrieved his mobile and sent a text. Eric down the other end of the alley took his own phone out his pocket, looked at it, then flipped them a little wave and a smile. Sherlock slipped his phone back into his pocket and turned on his heel to stride off with John in tow.

"Eric's not coming with?" John asked, glancing back over his shoulder.

"Don't think he's really the 'investigation' sort."

John chuckled. "Can't imagine what the two of you did to pass the time, then."

"Drugs, mainly."

"Ah. Walked right into that one."

"You really did."

They walked a few minutes in companionable silence. John was happy enough with this - off on another adventure. By a sidelong glance he noticed Sherlock seemed a bit ruminative, however. Understandable. An entire chunk of the bloke's past had encroached upon his present overnight. Not an easy thing to process.

At least he seemed rather calmer than one might expect. Effect of getting laid, probably. Oh god, now he'd gone and pictured it again. He'd been trying to avoid thinking about that topic ever since overhearing their conversation that first morning. Wasn't the act itself that bothered him - lord knew he'd seen plenty enough in the military to get used to the idea. It was just the sheer mental strain of trying to imagine how intimacy could possibly work between a murder-obsessed lunatic and the sort of bloke who answered emails on the tube.

Out of nowhere Sherlock spoke again.

"Actually, that's not quite true."

John blinked from his uncomfortable thoughts. "Sorry?"

"What we did to pass the time. It wasn't always drugs. We also played video games, watched stupid films, listened to whatever strange music we found on the internet. He taught me guitar and I taught him chemistry. It was… fun. For the most part."

John hesitated, unsure how to respond to this. Finally he gave up and just went for the obvious. "Sounds like you were happy."

The rare sliver of openness vanished again as Sherlock scoffed. "Hardly. It was a drugs den, we were all just waiting to die."

John stared into the middle distance - old memories bubbled up. Afghanistan, the frigid moonlit night, mortars blazing overhead and the ringing crack of gunfire and he and his mates howling with laughter over a morbid joke.

"Happiest I've ever been was when I was being shot at in a war zone."

He felt eyes on him, and looked over to meet Sherlock's questioning gaze. Squared his shoulders and set his jaw against the discomfort of admitting such a sentiment. Daring the other man to call attention.

Sherlock didn't, though. Instead he took up a thoughtful, faraway look and turned his focus back ahead.

"The best and worst memories of your life, all crammed together into one brief stretch of chaos?"

A short silence as John contemplated what he was actually asking - whether they'd more in common than they'd realised. If the experiences of a soldier on a tour of duty might resemble, however distantly, those of a burnout junkie caught up in the city's criminal underworld.

Perhaps they'd both been chasing that same intoxicating rush of feeling alive.

"Yeah," he decided. "Think that about sums it up."

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