A/N: On which a devious detective inspector is now taking full advantage of a competitive consulting detective, and a detective's assistant is too tired to see straight.

Still not British, a writer, or a medical person. -csf


5.

Sherlock Holmes is standing outside the only hospital in London he really cares about today. He has walked for miles, hoping to clear his mood.

A strategy that has yet to work.

Sherlock really cannot fathom why John often decides to "get some air" when they are bickering at the flat. Sherlock wonders if it works so little for John too; and in that case why can't John find them both a better outlet for pent up–

'Sh-Sherlock? Everything alright?'

It's John, and the consulting detective hastily called back to Earth hates that he was caught off guard. His senses numbed and overpowered by the constraints of his wait. Wait for John, wait for work, wait for the world to return to some semblance of the more manageable past.

The detective is about to spat a tirade that matches the vitriol clogging his veins, when his permanently analytical gaze finds the signs of exhaustion in the eager, honest face of the doctor.

It's this man, this humble saviour, who refuses to bathe in the glory that defines him in his every day choices, that derails the detective's warped, toxic thoughts. This short, stocky soldier, who is more concerned about Sherlock than his own exhaustion; an exhaustion that makes his body tilt slightly in an awkward angle to the left, his weak side. A marionette with his strings cut short on one damaged side, holding himself up through sheer stubbornness and bravery. Still, more concerned about Sherlock than himself.

Perhaps seeking evasion in his authentic need to care for Sherlock, as no one quite ever cared for the lanky detective all his life. Mycroft came close, his stalking persona well equipped for the job, but whereas Mycroft has a technological advantage, his gadgetry cannot make up for John's pure instinct. John's honest blue gaze has the insight of Mycroft's vast network of CCTV cameras combined. And he watches on in calm swift analysis as no one ever did to Sherlock. And somehow it just feels ultimately natural to Sherlock, for he trusts John, more than he trusts his own brother.

It still baffles John, how Sherlock can start conversations with John when John is not even in the room. The doctor thinks his friend acquired this habit from years of loneliness; he couldn't be more wrong. John makes Sherlock feel understood – and that's never a given to a sociopathic genius – and John's presence lingers in the flat long after he's gone out for milk or down for a chat with the landlady. When John returns, he always overacts, rolls his eyes, pretends he can't quite, from a mere glance at the genius, do his own swift deductions and slot back into Sherlock's world seamlessly. John can, John does.

In Sherlock's one sided conversations with John, the doctor's answers aren't strictly needed. The talks are brilliant methods of slowing down Sherlock's over processing mind back into attainable speeds. John is brilliant at focusing Sherlock, even when he's not actually there.

And when he is... John may not be the fastest thinker or the cleverest man in London. But he reads Sherlock Holmes with an open minded insight that often thrills the genius, engaging him immediately with the danger of intoxicating overexposure.

Sherlock looks away first. Something of his anger has softened at the sight of John, and Sherlock lets go of a shuddering breath before replying:

'Came to pick you up, John.'

The doctor looks around, amused. 'Where's the car?'

'I walked here.'

'Good thing I have a motorcycle parked in the NHS lot, huh?'

'I suppose so', Sherlock retorts, looking away as if bored in a villainously sterile world.

'Come along, you nutter, I can borrow an extra helmet for you. And I really need to thank—'

'Don't say it, John!' Sherlock talks over the small doctor, his voice echoing in the parking lot vast space. Lower he adds: 'Words are treacherous betrayals of factual actions and meanings where there is a clear understanding between parties.'

John stops short, making Sherlock nearly bump into his back. Sherlock frowns in distaste; since when is he following the doctor and not the other way around?

'A clear understanding—' the smallish doctor repeats, thinking hard. 'You mean "you're welcome".'

Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically. 'I do abhor repetition, John.'

John's grin is a thousand sunshines, glaring in the dark clouded, suffocating sky that is London and its inhabitants.

'Ha! You're admitting I'm right!'

Sherlock's resolve falters. John's grin is infectious and makes Sherlock forget what ground he was standing.

'If you wish to see it that way, so be it.'

The cocky doctor pats Sherlock's arm and guides him another few yards in the parking lot. This time Sherlock's independent mind forgets to protest over being led.

John stops them by the motorcycle and squints. 'Okay, I'm really happy about this and all, but you still don't quite look like yourself, and I'm going to start freaking out soon. Sherlock, you look guilty. What did you do now?'

The detective shrugs. 'Blew up the microwave.'

Instead of anger, John's blue eyes only show concern. 'Was it that bad?' Sherlock looks away. 'Anything else?'

'Nothing that cannot be repaired.'

'Alright then, hop on. Let's go see what science experiments you can do with the late microwave's spare parts, you nutter.'

Sherlock feels the last remnants of his carefully crafted front crumble at the doctor's ease. He finally hesitates.

'John, can I drive?'

The doctor smiles deviously. 'Yeah, sure, I'll let you. Just, mind you, no riding through Piccadilly, and absolutely no jumping through the water arches of either fountain.'

Sherlock looks fondly on John. 'But I can drive through the Underground tunnels by carefully exacting the right times not to get us hit by the carriages?'

John seems thoughtful. 'Going down on the mechanic or regular stairs?'

'Regular, John. There's always someone not quite standing to the right on the mechanical stairs.'

'True. That annoys me too', the very British doctor acknowledges, getting his helmet on, and strapping it easily under the chin with all the deftness of a former soldier.

.

Sherlock and John are currently blurry. Very blurry.

That would be because they are multi coloured specks zooming at high speed in the motorway.

It seems Sherlock has not deleted how to ride a motorcycle, and John is not too shy to hold on really tight to the leading detective's ribcage for fear of losing momentum, being blown backwards, left behind in the dazzling trail of brilliance with which Sherlock does everything, including riding hot bikes.

Home is still the end of the road, the arrival, and the goal. John's eyelids grow heavy, he leans his exhausted body forward to the dark expanse of his friend's back and nuzzles the wool. It smells of rain, forest, tea and the forbidden hint of tobacco.

'Sherlock, have you been smoking?' John asks loudly, trying to overpower the roaring wind in his ears. His question trailing behind them as they weave through the traffic.

The doctor feels tensing back muscles in retort. Busted, he thinks.

'No, John, just electrocuting Lestrade's office plant. Hence the smoky cellulose scent.'

John almost chuckles at Sherlock's nonsense. The detective feels the vague tremors against his ribcage. He never had the idea that John's silences could be so musically eloquent, a steady rhythmic beat that resounds inside Sherlock in a pleasant way.

Sherlock takes one gloved hand from the handle and places it over where John clutches his two hands together atop the detective's stomach. Sherlock's gloved hand nearly encompasses the whole of John's interlinked hands, guarding them, as Sherlock turns the handle and the whole motorcycle tilts to accommodate the gentle curve of the road.

No time to show off, John is so exhausted he's soon to nod off on the back of the bike, while Sherlock is doing vertiginous speeds to get them home.

.

The cracked wooden step creaks under DI Lestrade's weight. The inspector always seems to forget that faulty step until he hits it. Or perhaps he confuses that step with the other steps; all dull, dusty, bowled down in the middle from over a century of wear and tear. John once tried to help by pointing out it's the third step from the top. Sherlock also tried to single out that step to Lestrade. It's the one that has a faded Chinese character imprint from an ancient, priceless artefact that they dropped carelessly and stepped on before realising what they had done. It's the same step that has a persistent haemoglobin stain dabbed in by a meat cleaver once embedded on the edge. It's the one which, strangely, has the least amount of iodine stains of all the top steps. Yet Lestrade always misses it until he steps on this step, and it creaks like old wood, announcing his incoming visit to 221B.

John isn't bothered. Contrarily, Sherlock gets possessed, as if Lestrade insisted on missing a secret passcode for admittance into 221B's intimate circle.

'You hit the step again', Sherlock drawls with a scowl from the kitchen table. He seems absorbed by the ficus plant, to which he is connecting small electrodes on each surviving leave.

'Keeping busy, I see. And John, is he home?'

'Sleeping on the sofa', Sherlock replies, glancing at his wristwatch. 'I anticipate another three hours before his neck and shoulder get stiff and it wakes him from his much needed rest.'

Lestrade's fatherly check in the living room won't be noticed by John, too deep asleep, but Sherlock offers more information. 'Took off his shoes, made himself and me a cuppa, and turned on the telly. He was asleep before he even took a sip. Mmm, he'd be displeased to miss this high quality beverage if he couldn't reproduce it every time.' Sherlock comes behind Lestrade and grabs the abandoned tea mug by the sofa, appropriating it. 'Lestrade, you know how to operate the kettle if you want to make yourself tea.'

Greg smirks and heads back to the kitchen with Sherlock.

'You're not too upset by that French consulting detective business, are you?'

Sherlock plumps himself on the hardwood chair by his experiment. 'I assure you, Lestrade, it leaves me completely indifferent.' Then looking up with very green eyes, he demands: 'Came over to bring me a message from Lupin?'

'Not at all. Official business only. Need you to sign off your testimonies on the battered fish case. I edited out John's slips of foul language regarding the time he spent boxed inside a crate, and your posh words as the prosecutor didn't like having to use the dictionary so often that last time.'

Sherlock shrugs, plugging another crocodile clip onto the electric toaster's exposed circuitry.

'Leave the paperwork somewhere. John can forge my signature, when he signs for himself.'

'Why can't you do it now?'

'I'm busy, Lestrade. Can't you see?' Sherlock grimaces as if Science itself was at stake.

'Is this going on your science blog, mate? Are you trying to compete with Lupin on wacky scientific researches?'

'No competition just yet. I am still studying my adversary. He is competent, that is a refreshing change. I don't think I care much about his assistant, though, and as such I am willing to be sympathetic to his handicap. You see, I've got John.'

'Yeah. And me', Lestrade points out.

Sherlock shrugs, indifferent at that.

'The guys at work told me about the motorcycle, mate. Spinning figure eights around Piccadilly's fountains was a bit hard to miss. I have no idea how you convinced John to go along with that. Anyway, trying to outdo Lupin, were you?'

'Of course not, don't be ridiculous!'

'Good for ya, cause I just heard Lupin is getting the keys to the city of Paris for services rendered solving cases alongside the French police.'

They cross gazes for a moment.

The detective stiffens in his chair. 'And why would you think that interests me, Lestrade? I already have several keys to the city of London.'

The inspector shrugs. 'That was a while ago. How do you know they haven't changed the lock since?

The detective plugs the toaster to the socket and poses his long fingers over the toaster lever menacingly.

'I'll let in on the secret, there is no actual lock. I searched everywhere.'

'Again, how can you be sure that is still the case?' the inspector sniggers as he turns to leave. 'I'll catch you later, when you have solved those cold cases, mate. Take care!'

Greg scurries away quickly, once more forgetting to bypass that creaky step.

Sherlock pulls down the lever on his demented science experiment, as he chilling sound of sizzling green leaves zaps the kitchen, right before the whole Baker Street block is plunged into electric darkness.

What's best, John will sleep through the long hours of technical repairs needed to being back the power to the neighbourhood. Sherlock will use John's charged laptop to write up his blog on plant leaves electrical conductivity in vegetation draught conditions.

He'll follow it up with the more devastating wet soil conditions as soon as the power is restored.

.

Lestrade walks down the street to his car (managed to park the car some six streets away, damn Sherlock's prime location pad), wondering what is going on with the streetlamps being late to turn on in this part of the city, when he hears the unmistakable sound of slow moving tyres crushing the road's grit salt clumps. He feels the first signs of perspiration on his collar as he looks over his shoulder. The familiar black car, of the black tinted windows limousine persuasion, sooths his apprehension at once.

Big brother Holmes.

Greg guesses the game is over, and he's about to be called out for treason and exposed as Sherlock's French pen pal.

He tries very hard not to look as queasy as he feels. The passenger window roles down, revealing the perfectly shaven chin and broad forehead of Sherlock's big brother.

'Ah, inspector Lestrade. I trust I'm not interrupting anything important?' The suave interpolation is not what the DI was expecting. Greg notices himself standing up, as if to attention, on the street pavement, as Mycroft adopts a superior officer's stance, princely keeping to his leather seat on the back of an expensive ride, likely kitted out as a ambulant office for the road.

'You tell me, Mr Holmes, you seem to know what goes on in my life better than I do.'

'Now, now, just want a quick word!' Mycroft pacifies. 'We can go to a secluded location, or be quick out here, Gregory.'

'The name's Lestrade. Or Inspector.'

'Well, then... Inspector Lestrade... I'll be brief. You've been conning my baby brother with a fictional character of your creation in order to extricate work from his lazy backside. I commend your infantile criativity, of course. Now, I can either denounce you – and John will sock you right on the nose, I'd wager – or we can work together exploring my baby brother.'

'What d'ya mean, work together?' Lestrade is bewildered. He always assumed Mycroft Holmes was one of those Orwellian secret characters running the country. Why would he need a tired police inspector to leverage Sherlock?

Anyway, he's way too deep in his deceit now. John would definitely sock him, in a best case scenario. It's probably best if neither John or Sherlock find out, much in the least through Mycroft.

'What do you want from Sherlock?'

'I've got cases for my brother's highly exclusive perusal', Mycroft announces.

'Well, give'em to him. That man is practically having withdrawal symptoms! It'd be nice of you to help him!'

'These are... how shall I put this? Boring.'

Lestrade's heart sinks. 'I don't care if you send me to the vast corner of the Commonwealth, can't make Sherlock take a boring one.' The inspector scratches the back of his head. Is he going to be demoted back to bobby on the beat?

'No, I don't think you can', Mycroft concedes. 'But Lupin? He can.'

Greg blinks. Then extends his hand to the file the young good looking secretary stepping out of the car is handing him. He thumbs the thick file in his hand.

'Just so we're clear, this is blackmail, Mycroft.'

Then he catches himself. In his shock, he just addressed a potential world dictator by his given name. Is he going to be exiled from Great Britain?

The scary big brother smiles creepily, the assistant is climbing back inside the car, by the driver's side.

'No need to make a note on your calendar, for I'll come to find you when I need you. I shall be seeing you again very soon, Gregory.'

Right on cue the car drives off, the tinted window still rolling up.

Lestrade tries to gulp down with a very dry throat.

.

TBC