A/N: Looking forward to a future time when we can resume some normality in our lives. We have all been heroes in our own right, because we have united, in the best of our abilities, to come this far, to do our part the best we can. We can't drop the ball now. Keep safe. Keep strong. -csf


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'Sherlock, your phone is ringing.'

The detective reading old medical journals on his armchair looks down on the nagging apparatus resting on the side table, and notes: 'So it is, John.'

I was on my way to a fresh cup of tea, but this more interesting.

'Not picking up calls today then?' I insist.

Sherlock shrugs it off. 'It's detective inspector Lestrade. He's got a case for me.'

I grin at once. 'Just like the old days? That's great! You need to take that call, mate. Do you want me to take your call and hint to Greg he needs to beg you to take the case, for old times' sake?'

The detective rolls his eyes. 'He knows that much.'

'So what's wrong?'

Sherlock huffs as he puts down the crinkled pages of the medical journal.

'But it's not like old times, is it? I can't properly go out and look for clues, I can't tackle a running away criminal... The question, John', he sums up, taking up those papers as a cellulosic barrier wall between us, 'is whether I accept to be a limited consulting detective.'

I take a few steps to shorten the distance between us.

'You're scared you lost your touch', I deduce. I know.

'Nonsense, John! You don't stop being yourself because you take an enforced break, obviously.'

'Then you're scared you won't have enough investigative strategies on hand, and if you fail because of that, and Scotland Yard might think you lost your touch.'

Sherlock scrunched the journal, balling it into a release of fury, swings it at me. It obviously causes me no harm. He never intended to.

'Sherlock...'

'It's my name, don't wear it out', he says, testily, huffing as he rearranged his seating position away from me.

'I'll help you, mate. And I have full faith in you.'

He grudgingly thanks me:

'Obviously, John.'

Eye rolling so hard now that I wonder if he'll make himself dizzy.

.

John Watson, the smallish doctor I keep about Baker Street, is looking very adamant as he hands me a pair of nitrile gloves. I take them hesitantly. May keep me from experiencing full tactile sensitivity and impair dexterity while on The Work.

On the other hand, I wouldn't have had a bad night after poisoning myself with 98% nicotine solution left on The Crimson Road Bodies – title chosen by John, evident from its gaudiness. Luckily, my assistant deduced my state at the sight of my first chills, nausea, wide pupils and heart arrhythmia. The first minutes were quite satisfactory as a recompense for feeling the decaying muscular tone of a 12 hours old dead body, it was the night at the A&E that ruined the whole thing for me.

'Gloves', I accept them at last, snapping them from John's hands. He very nearly flinches. I'm feeling grudging enough to enjoy that. Nearly.

Not really. John is not quite himself. That I should make him flinch is preposterous.

Ah, there it is. Reflexes 0.2 seconds delayed from his frankly impressive personal average (one of the pillars of his incredible marksmanship). John is tired, but alert.

Must keep an eye on him. As usual.

The quiet doctor then hands me a mask. Hell, no! It's going to mess with my developed olfactory sense! John, must you numb each of my senses in turn? That is a bad habit of yours, by the way, and I will tolerate it no longer!

He grabs my arm before I storm out of the room. He's deadly serious as he intimates, his warm pressing fingers causing goose bumps on my skin:

'The dead body could have the virus. You'll wear that mask.'

It's a flat toned command. I won't listen.

'It will muffle my brilliance once I tell the Yarders how it's been done!' There, John will never have that.

He flashes me an affectionate smile and I feel a good part of my self-righteousness melt away.

'They'll drink your every word, Sherlock, trust me. Every word', he assures me. Not for the first time I secretly wonder how he came to trust me this much. Seems unwarranted. A heavy burden. An inconsistency most grievous. An allowance that slows me every time.

A necessity now.

How much I trust this little soldier is beyond my comprehension.

'Yes, John.'

'And you can stop rolling your eyes at me!' he snaps, aggravated. 'I'm trying to keep you safe, Sherlock.'

I know.

'What next, John?' I say instead, dispassionately. 'You'd wrap me up in cotton wool?'

His honest blue eyes narrow. I miss the vast blue expanse at once, as if it had been taken away from me in a snatch grab. It's near criminal.

'If only I could wrap you up in cotton wool, sometimes I wanted to', he admits, stepping closer. One step, tense muscles, alert senses, he looks two feet taller already. 'But I can't, so I guess I'll have to trust you. Trust your common sense, that is – god help me!'

I smirk. His antics a cover up for emotions he can't yet face.

Unlike John's belief, I know how to recognise and navigate a fair range of emotions. I trained myself for that. I just choose to abstain, to avoid being ruled by irrational fluctuations of hormone levels and basal instincts. I leave those to John, they fill his honest and expressive face. I watch a myriad of micro-expressions animate his facial tendons under the skin, releasing and compressing, tightening the jaw here, gathering in wrinkled layers at the corner of the eyes, marring the forehead with incoming lines like ocean waves abating over sandy beaches. John's face is a superb stage for a constant upheaval of emotions, a downpour of caring, worrying and bossing around – yes, he tries – when it comes to me. I enjoy its frankness, its alluring charm. Unlike the Holmes family unit, John is transparent. He can barely hide a secret from me I cannot deduce. All his truth I can feel under my fingertips as I brush them against his temple, feeling the sharp staccato rhythm of his heart beating, reverberating against his skull.

There is enough sensitivity in these gloves, I decide. Possibly an upgrade from the leather ones, in fact.

'Oi!' John rebels, stepping back, severing our shared gaze. 'None of that wacky mind reading act. A man's gotta have some privacy, mate!'

He's clearing his throat, and shrugging his shoulders, looking away. Clearly uncomfortable, and I take those 0.2 seconds to smirk without him noticing. A bit too late for that now, John.

But little should he worry. I like what I see when I look into the depths of his ocean blue eyes.

'I mean it, Sherlock! It's hardly fair! You can read me like a book, and you are inscrutable as a riddle.'

I let it pass, will not heed his request. Not this one. This is caring, John. You are taught me how, after years of ignoring it in me as a flaw I couldn't fix. You must always suffer the spell that links us now.

'A riddle, you say?' I smirk to his face. 'A man becomes one with his act, I suppose.'

John shakes his head, amused by me. Crisis averted. It's so rare that I get a chance to deduce John now. He simply fears it. Hates that I may find some hidden truth in him that he is not yet ready to face.

'Mask, gloves. What other sensible precautions must I take?'

I hope I have derided the word "sensible" enough. John seems to notice. John always notices. He seems to be waiting for these moments. Must never disappoint.

'Keep generally away from people', the doctor says.

'A silver lining, at last!'

'I mean sensible distancing from people, Sherlock.'

'Sensible, there's that word again!'

'Tell me if you develop a fever, a cough... Hell, tell me if you get any symptoms at all!'

Again he tenses up facing the insurmountable task of caring for me, seeing me as a patient.

He seems oblivious to how much I fear the same thing when it comes to him.

Caring, again. I pinch my thigh through the pocket's fabric of my trousers, stop it.

'Did you just pinch yourself?' John's blue eyes open wide.

Damn it. Caught. Do not fess up.

'Sudden itch, had to scratch. Not a symptom.' Diversion manoeuvre engaged. 'Why were you looking at my crotch, John? Is there a stain there from this morning's buttered toast?' Keep cool, fool.

It's delightful to see the swirls of a furious blush dancing in tandem with a drastic pallor in John's face. He still believes me to think he's attracted to me. It's fun to mess with him. I know better. I know the truth.

John's eyes sharpen suddenly and my breath catches as a reaction. Suddenly I'm the prey. The truth is too fluid to grasp. I store that thought away for the moment, my mind processes too overwhelmed to persist but in the most basic conversation level.

'We do your work, then we come home, Sherlock.'

Wrong, John.

'Our work.' Please.

He nods in unspoken agreement. I realise I had held my breath. Stupid face mask. It'll be the end of me if I forget to breathe. It's imposing on my autonomic responses now.

'Lestrade will be there, Sherlock. He's overworked and tired. Keep your show offing to the bare minimum or he might not allow you back into a crime scene for ten years to come.'

'I'll be on my best behaviour, John.'

'A bit more may be required', he stares, coolly. Ah, the captain is taking over. Hands behind his back. He foresees mutiny and disobedience. Fun. I must not disappoint John, if that's what he expects from me.

I grab my suit jacket and shake my head mournfully. 'It's sort of a minty green, John.' The doctor looks preciously lost now. 'The face mask you got me, John. It clashes with my shirt now.'

His gaze falls on the purple fabric and he dry swallows. He's taking me seriously.

Sherlock takes the lead. And now for the home run...

'Will you wait while I change?'

John's eyebrows knit painfully together as he stares at me. Brilliant.

.

It's been a while. Half of the lot gathering at the edges of the crime scene I don't recognise. Some newbies, with apparent nervousness as they bumble about trying to act like coppers from the movies, and some faintly familiar faces transferred from other precincts. It strikes me as odd, that the world is not exactly as I left it, it has moved on, ruthlessly, as Sherlock and I have taken a break from The Work.

Some familiar faces too, I notice with some relief, as DI Lestrade comes up to the white and blue stripped tape that delineates the scene. He's squinting as he takes in the sight of us both, with masks and gloves; an upgrade over old times.

Only he looks tired, worn out. I suppose I do too. Only Sherlock is truly eager to be set free, to go on his life's calling. There's a coiled, thrumming energy vibrating from the detective's core, as an engine rearing to start, full gas, foot on the pedal, clinging on desperately for the green light is go.

'Lestrade', Sherlock drawls, suitably bored.

He didn't quite fool any of us. He's got to tweak his act. Return to routine.

'Good to see ya, sunshine! I see John hooked you up with some protective equipment at last. I owe him a tenner, never thought you'd do it! Come on in, you must be desperate for a fresh case... Guys, give us five!'

The detective inspector directs the swarming investigators with practised ease, making way for the consulting detective. That's loyalty and trust, and I hope Sherlock is not too wonder lusted by the gruesome corpse on display to notice the kindness and act accordingly.

'You'll like this one, Sherlock. Young female, no identification yet, deep laceration to the back of her head by a blunt instrument. We're having a search in the alley, but we could be looking for a number of discarded items littering the place, we're in for a good while searching yet. Drag marks on the pavement, from where she was brought here from a primary crime scene. Any other trace evidence on this sea of dirt and rubbish is near impossible to discern. We don't know a thing about who she is or why she died.'

The younger detective raises a curious eyebrow at the end of the DI's introduction. The next second he glances at me as his captive audience, before finally diving fluidly to the ground. Bloody flexible like a cat, my knees would give out in protest if tried doing that. Sherlock, on the other hand, looks as if going down on his knees was the most normal thing to do. Like he hasn't lost his touch yet.

I wonder if yoga is part of his fitness routine when I leave him alone in Baker Street, going to work at the hospital.

Sherlock snaps his magnifying lenses open, extracting it from its routine holding coat pocket, and, crouching on the dirty alley cobble stones, leans forward, over the young woman's body.

There are more elegant investigative moves as Sherlock nearly wraps his own body over the corpse to better reach the hints of clues he's finding in the mysterious murder.

I start wondering if this is as safe as I though. They are barely an inch apart from a romantic entanglement. Somehow that makes me uncomfortable, even if I can tell the virus was not the victim's direct cause of death, but a much more pernicious lethal blow to the head.

'Glad to finally see you in person, John', the inspector distracts me as we wait for Sherlock to do his work and dazzle us with the solution. I glance at the friendly inspector as if I had been far away in my head and didn't quite recognise him yet.

Feels like I've been weeks away, not far away, I correct myself. Feels like decades have stormed past and yet it's still as familiar as breathing. I may have forgotten some officers' names (Sherlock will gloat) and my responses are still a bit rusty, but it's still an embedded part of my life.

'Yes, sorry again, Greg, for that video conference call when Sherlock spilled his acid bottle all over the table and I had to get up from it dripping on me, and you saw I had no trousers on. Sherlock assures me he was just clumsy, it was an accident. I made him clean up.'

'Yeah, about that. Why were you in the kitchen in your shirt and underwear? That's not much like you.'

'That was the second acid bottle Sherlock spilled all over the table that day. Turns out sulphuric acid will dissolve polyester blends into a giant round hole.'

Greg smirks. 'So, how was it? Being stuck with the big headed genius boy all this time? Drove you nuts?'

I look onto my best friend, now sniffing the victim's hair harder, impeded from the finer whiffs of fragrance by the face mask. Eau de mort.

'Not at all. It was a privilege, Greg. I owe him dearly.'

The old inspector embarks in a near eye roll. He really can't imagine my luck. Before I can set the record straight, Sherlock straightened up above the victim. He turns straight to me, demanding my attention, ignoring everyone else. I uncross my arms, letting them fall limply at my sides.

Those brilliant grey-green eyes are alight like exploding supernovas. Feline shaped, made the more sticking by the chromatic compliment of the fabric covering half his features, they are the sole fulcrum of his senses, the anchoring of my attention, as his melodic voice explains in an uninterrupted stream of deductions relay:

'The victim is 35 to 39 years old. Natural brunette, stopped dyeing her hair blonde when lockdown began, decided to keep it that way now. Big change for a woman who has kept herself fit, groomed and made up with thick foundation as if she were half her age. Big appearance shifts are significant. An outward sign of changes she wanted to make in her own personal life, a visual reminder of sorts. Brought up in a conventional household, single child of a middle class family, boring office job she lived by with. No children, no close relatives left, but a man in her life for whom she kept her make-up routine. Bilingual judging by her frown lines, liked puzzles going by the frequent pen ink spots in her fingers from frequent pauses, was a bad cook as he presents multiple burn marks on her hands and forearms in multiple stages of healing. Her hands tell us much more than that, though. She's been practising for a musical bands competition, brass bands I'd say. She clearly plays the trumpet. Enlarged ribcage from continuous strain to her lungs and torso muscles, flattened fingertips on both hands, calluses too. Trumpet players have very distinct fingertips. She was studious but that's exactly how she was murdered. She was hit with the trumpet's mute. You can just about make out the shape and dimension of the mute, and trace evidence on her hair will confirm the metal's alloy.'

Lestrade interrupts: 'A trumpet? How do you know by looking at her fingers?'

The detective is also a good musician and he glares at the oblivious inspector. Frequent strain and repetitive effort, they leave a mark on the body, changing it to suit the personality inhabiting it, I'd explain it.

'There are no ongoing competitions', I say.

Sherlock quietens a bit. 'Good point, also answers the question of how she ended up in this alley, known to be a hotspot in trading illegal black market computer supplies, freshly nicked from unfortunate victims. She was brought here to acquire recording material to share her performances online. Unfortunately that was not the only supply she needed. Her right hand smells of petrol. Troubles with the car. They both got off, she tried to lift the hood and fix the engine. No good. She won't buy the webcam now, or the mic, or whatever else he thought would propel her to some online fame, making her good money he intended to sponge off her. They argue. He gets aggravated, grabs the mute from the car and whacks her from behind. He kills her. Most first blood seeps into the car boot, or the back seat. Can't leave her there, he drags her into the alley. No witnesses, as the old lady across the street naps every mid morning and the single father if two working from home next door home-schools his kids till lunchtime. You can tell with a glance to their front gardens alone. Going by the trace paint in the victim's clothes, the car is a smallish city car, compact, bad suspension. Like that one parked across the alley, empty, keys still in the ignition, noticed it the moment John and I got here. Go find out who owns that car, Lestrade, and you have your murderer before sunrise. Watch out, he's got a mean right hook...'

'Sherlock, it's the middle of the day.'

'Force of habit. You'll have your murderer by sundown.'

The detective inspector smiles and nods. 'That's great, Sherlock. Really good job, saved us a long afternoon. Guys, you heard the master, get the car and the mute!'

The crime scene resumes a buzzing energy as the investigators return to work. I hold out my left hand to help Sherlock from his stance legs wide over the dead body. He uses it too gently, attentive to my shoulder, because I used my left hand.

I look down on his hand in mine. The nitrile glove feels weird. It will take some getting used to.

'My apologies, John.'

'Sorry?' I look up to his face.

'Not you apologising to me, I meant the other way around, although I do appreciate how quickly you obliged there, John. No, I did you wrong by not calling you to study the corpse.'

I blink. 'The head is bashed in. Anyone can see she's dead and staying dead.'

His eyes glisten in shared morbid humour.

'Ah, good! You followed.'

'Brilliant deductions, by the way. You clearly have not lost your touch, and everyone here knows that now.'

'Elementary, my dear John', he minimises, in an affected manner. His eyes shinning bright are the full force of expression needed in his angular face. He's happy, content, wild – and it is addictive to watch.

'No one else saw it, no one else deduced it.'

'Let it be noted I'm not the one saying everyone else is an idiot.'

'Don't get clever! You must know you were amazing.'

'Was I?' He looks away. Calming down, sedated, satiated. 'Just drop it, John.'

'You don't think so?'

He sighs audibly, eyes trailed on the body bag being zipped shut.

'It doesn't feel enough, John. It never does...' Then catching sight of the inspector, 'Lestrade, give me another active case, you need my help!' He makes similar demands aloud over my shoulder and walks past me, leaving me behind. I shake my head as the two detectives lock heads. It feels a bit like old times. It's all changed; it's still the same.

It will take time getting used to.

But I'm glad we've come out this side, we get to try.

.