Chapter 1
Sitting in the dimly lit restaurant, Sherlock felt entirely at ease. The comforting smell of Italian in the air, the low chatter of the other patrons reaching his ears, and good company ensured that.
Across from him, John was animatedly telling him about a time during their separation in which he had made the acquaintance of a man who fancied himself an artist but was anything but. It was an amusing tale, but Sherlock would be lying if he said it was in any way more captivating than John himself as he told it.
After their rocky reunion, the two had taken their second - or maybe it was now their third - chance seriously. They had started over entirely as if this were a brand new relationship that they were slowly rebuilding from the ground up.
It was tricky at times, to ignore their history together - a history that had more than a few bitter feelings and memories attached - but for the most part, the two of them forged ahead. They didn't forget the past, but they didn't allow it to dictate their current relationship either which is something they hadn't managed to do before.
And for the past few months, it had been bliss. With the opportunity to be more open than in previous years, the two of them went out together on dates - finally able to show each other the affection they felt was long deserved - and created new, happier memories together.
That didn't mean everything was smooth sailing, mind. The two of them still argued occasionally, but they weren't nearly as explosive or detrimental as they had once been. They also slept in separate bedrooms - though admittedly, that wasn't all too much of a hardship seeing as they hadn't done that regularly in the past either. All the same, those few short weeks after reuniting had been a glimpse into the prospects of what could be, and Sherlock found he sorely missed having the ability to wake up in the morning beside John and fall asleep with him at night.
Still, taking into account everything they had been through, this was truly the best they could have hoped for.
And so Sherlock wasn't going to complain. He was more than happy to be able to be sitting here across from his partner and listen to him expound upon an artist more familiar with modern-day graffiti than anything Renaissance-level that had been typical of their time.
"You should have seen what he scratched into those walls, Sherlock. You would have had a laugh, that's for sure. Right after you were done berating the town for being at all baffled by who could be the culprit of - oh, thank you." Surprised by John's story cutting off suddenly, Sherlock blinks back to reality in time to see their waiter drop off the check. John was quick to pay, bidding a good night to the waiter as they walked off.
"Ready to go?" John asks him next, and while he really doesn't want to, he nods regardless and stands. As the two step out of the restaurant, Sherlock offers his arm to John who takes it with ease and a smile.
At first, he had teased Sherlock for the gesture and its old-fashionedness, but Sherlock had retorted that they were old-fashioned and, unable to disagree, John had dropped the subject with a fond look.
Besides, Sherlock much preferred this to hand-holding when they were walking long distances. Hands became sweaty and uncomfortable quite quickly, and this method allowed them to remain close without any unwanted discomfort.
Which isn't to say holding hands doesn't have its time and place. He actually quite enjoys it when they're lying together on the sofa or waiting around for Lestrade and his team to finish their boring paperwork.
Still, when walking, linking arms is far superior.
"What are you thinking about, then?" John asks with an amused look as he nudges carefully at Sherlock with their linked arms.
"You, of course. Us." Sherlock answers without hesitation as they continue at a steady pace down the street.
"Of course. Good things?" His partner asks next, to which Sherlock rolls his eyes.
As if it would be anything else.
It seems the answer was clear enough to John as he laughs again, pleased despite the lack of verbal confirmation.
"Just making sure. Who knows, you might still be holding a grudge about that experiment I tossed last week." The doctor reminds, which is a fair point as Sherlock's face pinches into a scowl at the memory.
"It was at its most vital stage, John." He all but whinges, not for the first time.
"It was stinking up the flat, Sherlock." John retorts. The doctor doesn't seem to be grasping the seriousness of this conversation though if the light teasing and mocking in his tone is anything to go by. Because of this, Sherlock lets out a huff and faces forward. John only seems to find this all the more amusing as he laughs yet again. Once it dies down, they continue their walk together in comfortable silence.
"It's like a dream," John says eventually, his voice gone soft and reverent. He's still not looking at Sherlock, but he's addressing him all the same as they turn onto Baker Street.
Looking questioningly toward his partner, Sherlock waits for him to elaborate.
"Back when we were first together, I never thought that something like this could be possible. Cars, computers, x-rays. Science. That's not to mention same-sex relationships becoming acceptable practice. Sometimes I think I'm going to wake up back in the 1140s, working day and night just to get a few scraps for my family, and then I open my eyes and see you sitting in our kitchen..." His words drop off as he glances at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye.
Sherlock swallows, sharing the sentiment.
There had been many times when he would wake up and, as John had said, expected to get back to another day of ostracising himself and growing madder by the second in such a narrow-minded village. Not to mention, throughout their separation, Sherlock had thought there would never be a time when he would ever see John again, much less be able to have this sort of relationship with him.
So yes, it was very much like a dream, to have all he had ever wished for and more come true.
"Some would argue that the most unrealistic quality of all would be that we do not die," Sherlock says finally once he feels he's got his bearings. They've finally reached 221 and he unlinks their arms to pull out his keys.
"Probably, yeah. What's it say about me that it's not?" The doctor asks as he follows Sherlock into the building.
"It says you have been through rather a lot." The words are said earnestly, and it seems John understands the sentiment being shared as he nods heavily. The ascent up the stairs and into 221B is done silently, but once the door is shut behind them, John turns and wraps his arms around Sherlock tight.
"I think that could be said about the both of us at this point." He murmurs into Sherlock's shoulder. Breathing deeply, Sherlock nods and rests his chin on the top of John's head.
For a while, they stand there and hold each other, breathing deeply and unwilling to part with one another despite the lateness of the hour creeping in.
"Stay down here with me for the night," Sherlock says in a soft puff of air, barely loud enough for anyone to hear, but John shifting in his hold tells him that he heard all the same.
"Are you sure?" He asks, words muffled still by Sherlock's shoulder.
"Yes. Just for this night, at least." The detective clarifies. While he would love for John to return to his bedroom - to make it their bedroom once again - he doesn't want to rush into that step until he's entirely positive it is the right move to be making.
They're going slow this time, and he won't jeopardise their progress because of his own impatience and longing. He's gone 500 years without John, he can last more than a few months without him in his bed.
"If you're positive. I'm gonna go up and change. Meet you there?" The doctor asks, giving Sherlock another chance to change his mind. He doesn't, though, and instead nods in assent before turning to go get changed himself.
He makes quick work of it; changing out of his shirt and trousers and pulling on pyjamas. In minutes he's off to the loo to brush his teeth, and then he's sliding under the covers and staring at the ceiling, listening to the muffled thumps above him as John gets ready for bed as well. Eventually, the thumps travel down the stairs, into the kitchen, down the hall, and then turn off into the loo. The sound of running water is muffled but audible all the same and Sherlock keeps his eyes glued to the ceiling, anticipation rising in his chest.
Anticipating what, exactly, he isn't sure.
He knows what he is expecting to happen - or, at least, what should be expected to happen - but the growing tightness in his chest warns of the possibilities of what could be. It's one of the many faults of a mind like his; always thinking, always predicting outcomes, attempting to know every possibility before it has the chance of occurring. Sometimes, it leaves Sherlock with the overwhelming feeling of not knowing what outcome he should be expecting. He becomes blind in the face of so many options.
He's so caught up in his racing thoughts that he doesn't even notice that the water is no longer running until the adjoining bathroom door is opening, revealing John in pyjamas of his own and the bearings of a man walking into battle.
And if there's one thing John does best, it's that.
Shuffling into a more upright position, he leans back against the headboard and watches silently as John makes his way to the empty space beside Sherlock, sliding in without hesitation. It's almost awkward, which is strange in itself.
It's not like they haven't done this before. It's not like this is a new experience for them. They have both shared a bed - not only since reuniting but a handful of times in the past as well when it was safe to do so.
And yet, as John adjusts himself in much the same position as Sherlock - leaning against the headboard, close enough that their arms are pushed against each other, but not quite close enough for their sides to touch - the air is thick with tension and the two of them can hardly look each other in the eye.
It's maddening and infuriating and it's ruining what had been an exemplary night.
Determined to salvage this moment, Sherlock shifts down on the bed and moves ever closer. Grabbing John's hand, he moves it, wrapping it around Sherlock's shoulders to allow the detective to rest his head partially on the doctor's shoulder and partially on his chest. This act, it seems, is enough to release the tension as John lets out a breath and squeezes the arm wrapped around Sherlock before he too settles down on the bed in a more comfortable position.
"Mary and I never shared a bed," Sherlock doesn't quite know how he feels about this being the topic brought up so unexpectedly. He doesn't think he likes the implications of it either; of John's first thoughts when joining Sherlock being that of his long-dead wife.
Of course, John had reassured him many times since mentioning her that he and Mary had only ever been friends - entirely platonic - and Sherlock believed him. Still, it was an odd thing to say given the circumstances and he was sure to express this as he turned his head to look up at John with a cautious expression.
"But, there was one time we were lying on the floor-"
"Why the floor?" Sherlock can't help but interrupt, wondering why on Earth John would do such a thing. Especially given the time period, where English society expected men and women to be at their best at all times and exhibit superb manners.
John doesn't seem to mind Sherlock's interruption as he smiles and begins moving his thumb repetitively over Sherlock's shoulder.
"Sometimes we would talk, at night. About whatever we felt we couldn't say during the day. About her being a witch or my being immortal. Sometimes I would mention you. She quite liked the stories I would tell her about you." His words take on a wistful nature to them as he gazes unseeingly at the ceiling, much like Sherlock had when waiting for John earlier.
"I think she would have liked you. And you might have liked her too. No, I'm sure you would have. She was... she was like..." It seems he doesn't quite know how to finish that sentence, but Sherlock feels that he understands all the same and makes a grab for John's free hand.
"We were talking one night and she was telling me about how she used to make shadow puppets, on the ceiling, you know? We lit a fire and were lying together on the floor and she was showing me all the different animals she could do, like dogs and swans. She even knew how to do a rabbit - and not just the head and ears, but the whole body and everything." Turning more fully onto his side, Sherlock moves John's hand closer to his face and watches it carefully as he listens.
"I guess we drifted off though, cause the next thing I know I was waking up and my arm was numb. She had fallen asleep on me, much like the way we are now." Again, Sherlock struggles to figure out what John's reasoning is for bringing this up. Frowning at the hand he was still holding in front of his face, Sherlock swipes his thumb across it in mimicry of how John was stroking Sherlock's shoulder.
"Are you trying to tell me I chose a bad position?" He asks, slightly put out at the implication that he had gotten something so simple wrong. Still, John's firm grip around him halts Sherlock's attempt to shift out of the position though, leading him to believe that this isn't the case.
"No, I- no. What I'm trying to say is that I woke up with a numb arm and Mary laying there and I... it felt... It felt like something was missing. You were missing. I knew that if it had been you there instead, it would have been entirely different. I would have felt entirely different." Listening to those words, Sherlock thinks he understands the sentiment - though he admits that sentiment has never been his strong suit. It calms him and the frown slowly leaves his face as he resumes his thumb's movement on the back of John's hand.
"I used to fear that my relationship with Mary was inevitably going to become something more; something possibly romantic. I worried that one day I would be just lonely enough, just fed up enough with everything that had happened, that I would move on from you. After that, though, I didn't worry anymore. Because no one else is like you. No one else could ever match what you are to me, no matter how lonely or upset I am." As declarations go, it was roundabout and most certainly long-winded, but it soothes Sherlock nevertheless. It puts him at ease finally and allows him to settle fully onto John as he releases his hand and wraps his arm around the man's waist.
"I never had a Mary, but I think I understand what you mean nonetheless." He says quietly. John tightens his hold briefly at those words and then there's the press of lips on the top of Sherlock's head.
"This is all I ever wanted. All I ever looked forward to." John whispers, to which Sherlock hums softly in agreement.
He doesn't think he's ever fallen asleep so easily before.
0-0-0-0-0
When he wakes up the next morning, Sherlock is still wrapped around John. Head on his chest, arm slung around his waist and legs tangled together, it's everything Sherlock hadn't known he'd wanted.
Beneath him, John is breathing deeply, clearly still asleep which is just as well. It gives Sherlock the opportunity to commit this moment to memory so that he can think about it again later when he's alone once more.
The greedy part of him wants to push; wants to make this permanent. To tell John to stay here with him every night. The rational part disagrees with this plan of action though, reiterating the fact that something like that was a step that should be taken under further consideration. He's growing tired of this constant battle of what is too much too soon and what is alright to move ahead with - especially given this is a 500-year-plus relationship that he's treating as if they're merely blushing teenagers - but with what is at stake, he pushes through and only hopes John will appreciate how hard Sherlock is working to fight for this relationship of theirs.
Drifting, Sherlock soaks in the peaceful atmosphere and wonders if this is what things will be like all the time in the future. Sharing a bed, sharing space, unashamed in their feelings for one another. Blissful and untroubled and happy.
Time passes, and eventually, Sherlock feels John shift beneath him as he slowly rises into consciousness. As pleased as he is that John will finally be awake with him, he also mourns the loss of the solitude he'd had, knowing that now they'll be getting out of bed and getting on with their day.
"Mm. G'morning." John mumbles, eyes not even open yet as he speaks. The doctor's arm tightens briefly where it's wrapped around Sherlock and the detective lets out a pleased hum as he moves ever closer, tightening his own hold on John's undershirt.
"Morning." He answers in a voice rough with disuse. Finally, John peeks an eye open and smiles when he catches a glimpse of Sherlock, which he returns in an instant.
"We don't have anything on, do we?" John asks, and as much as Sherlock wants to say no, to tell John that all they're going to be doing is lying in this bed together indefinitely, he knows he shouldn't.
"You're going to the clinic. And Lestrade wanted me to come in about that robbery from last week." He answers regretfully. John seems to share the sentiment as he groans and lets his head fall back against the pillow.
"We should skive off today. I'd much rather be doing this than diagnosing colds all day." John bemoans.
"It's your own fault; choosing boring clinic work. You prefer surgery and the risks it entails. It doesn't give you time to think, only to act." Sherlock tells him as he settles his head back on John's chest from where he'd raised it to get a better look at the doctor's face.
"There'd be no time to help on cases if I was in surgery all the time," John says with a sigh. They go quiet for a moment after that, but then John lets out a heavier sigh and moves to press a kiss to Sherlock's head before sitting up. This dislodges Sherlock from his position and he lets out a huff as he rolls onto the empty side of the bed that is cold and decidedly not where he wants to be.
"Sorry, but you're right. It's already half past. If I want any shot at being on time I need to get up." John says apologetically as he makes his way to the door that leads to the loo.
"You should quit instead. There'd be plenty of time to join me on cases then." Sherlock tells him, watching as his partner disappears into the loo with a laugh.
"Yeah, and no money for the bills!" John calls.
"Not true." He replies petulantly. Walking back into the room with a toothbrush in his mouth, John raises an eyebrow.
"I get paid for my cases. Not to mention all we have saved up." Sherlock elaborates which gets an eye roll in response and John takes the toothbrush out of his mouth to respond.
"Sherlock, you're notoriously picky about the cases you take. You hardly take any that aren't from the Yard." John reminds, which is a fair point seeing as the cases Sherlock does get paid for are the ones from his or John's websites. While the Yard provides a stable, steady caseload, they don't provide payment for them and as such John has a bit of a leg to stand on.
"It's hardly my fault there aren't any interesting cases about. Besides, that work of fiction that you write is drumming up more business than ever." Sherlock says with a flippant wave of his hand to distract from the pout forming on his face.
"You mean my blog? You didn't even take that one about the invisible man from last month."
"Well maybe if there had actually been an invisible man, I would have. It was obvious that this 'invisible man' was merely a crush trying to get the girl's attention. He was too shy, however, and as such he would hide whenever she would look his way. Simple." Sherlock explains. There's a beat of silence and then John is smiling and shaking his head.
"Brilliant. Bit creepy of the kid, but understandable I guess. Still, you're only proving my point." As pleased as Sherlock had been by the praise, he's immediately just as disheartened that John was still holding firm on this work nonsense.
"We are in no way under financial strain, John. We could go centuries without any sort of income and be just fine. You're being ridiculous." Sherlock reminds, but John just shakes his head and goes back into the bathroom.
"That's because we work to keep it that way. You never know when there'll be an emergency and we have to take out of those savings." It's practical just as much as it's unnecessary, which is a fair assessment of John himself, Sherlock thinks.
"What emergency will require us to spend millions?" Sherlock mutters to himself as he curls up in the bed to sulk. He listens to the sound of the running water in the sink, then the sound of the toilet flushing, and then the shower starting up after that.
Eventually, that shuts off as well. Sherlock tracks John's progress as he makes his way back up to his room to get ready for the day before deciding that maybe he should get up as well.
After all, if John's not in bed with him, there's nothing keeping him here.
Before he knows it, he's showered and dressed and stepping into the kitchen where John is drinking slightly-too-hot tea and pulling out toast from the toaster.
"Ow! Christ," John mutters to himself as he drops the toast onto a plate and waves his burned fingers in the air.
"If you would listen to me about the positives of ignoring your hunger, you wouldn't have burned yourself," Sherlock notes as he sits at his microscope and assesses where he left off in his latest experiment.
"If I listened to you about my nutrition I would look like a skeleton. I don't think that would give my patients the best impression." John replies with a well-meaning smile as he sits across from the detective.
Sniffing indifferently, Sherlock looks into his eyepiece and notes the changes that have occurred since the night before.
"I'm not in for the full day today so I should be back by lunch. Let me know if you're going to be at the Yard long. I might do some shopping." John says conversationally, making quick work of his toast.
"You and your shopping. Transport, John! You're allowing it to rule you." Sherlock reiterates. John merely smiles fondly at this as he goes to put his jacket and shoes on. Within seconds he's back at Sherlock's side and bending to give him a kiss.
"I'll see you later."
And with that, he's out the door and rushing down the stairs, leaving Sherlock alone and unable to mention the fact that John has left his mobile behind.
0-0-0-0-0
Sherlock didn't see the point of coming in for something that Lestrade already had all the facts on. Sometimes it seemed the DI expected Sherlock to continue pulling evidence out of a hat like some predictable side-show magician.
How much more could he want though? He had his culprit, he had the damning evidence that tied them to each and every robbery, and he had the getaway vehicle that was - idiotically - registered to said culprit and still had their kit left within it.
Incriminating as it was, Sherlock felt his presence was redundant and unneeded, but Lestrade started going on about procedure and paperwork and blah blah blah until Sherlock felt that cooperation might get him out of this faster than irritation and so he subjected himself to the inane questions and the tedious forms.
Which, in the end, turned out to work in his favour.
As he filled form after form and answered each question, Sherlock was relieved from the monotony when Donovan entered suddenly with the look of a new case on her face.
And from the looks of things, it was going to be a good one. Or, at most, it was certainly going to be more interesting than writing down his observation on these boring forms when he'd already told them to Lestrade countless times.
"No." A frown quickly replaced the growing look of eagerness on Sherlock's face at the rejection but he wasn't deterred.
"There is a high probability that, based on Donovan's expression when she walked in, you will be needing my help. It would be faster and more convenient for everyone if we skipped the formality of you putting up a fight." Sherlock demands with his head high and shoulders relaxed.
It's not as if he were going to be missing out. Either Lestrade held on to his pride and told Sherlock to stay and finish his forms, only to later realise his mistake in not bringing the consultant and calling him to come regardless, or Lestrade gave in and allowed Sherlock's help from the start.
And Sherlock had no doubt that his help would be needed.
"We don't need you coming along to every case, freak. We can get things done on our own, you know." Donovan snarks, but Sherlock pays her no mind. She wasn't going to be making the decision, and her words didn't affect Sherlock in any way. Overall, Donovan was the most unnoteworthy person in the room at the moment.
"What's the case, Donovan?" Lestrade asks with a reluctant sigh, already close to swaying in Sherlock's favour. There's a brief moment where Donovan looks as if she wants to protest further, but with thinned lips, she explains the case.
"A 23-year-old male was reported dead in a block of flats that were under construction. One of the construction workers reported that they were opening one of the flats to check if everything had been done to code only to find the man lying in one of the empty rooms." She reads from the paper she had with notes taken on it of the case.
"Well, that doesn't seem all that interesting," Lestrade says to Sherlock who rolls his eyes.
"That alone? No, it doesn't. However, Donovan isn't finished, is she?" Sherlock asks expectantly. The sergeant's lips thin even further as she glances back to her notes and begrudgingly continues.
"Not only was the flat locked, but the room he was found in as well. However, the victim himself seems to have just dropped dead. No blood, no obvious bruises. The only thing in the room was a card in the victim's hand with the letter M on it. They're holding the scene for us. That's it." She finishes, chancing a glare Sherlock's way before turning her eyes to Lestrade.
"Still, that doesn't seem like something you would pounce on," Lestrade says as he gathers his belongings, getting ready to head out. Standing, Sherlock feels the beginnings of excitement spreading throughout his body.
"I never said it was an eight, I merely said that you would be needing my help. You can accept it now while I'm still amenable or risk losing my interest at all by having me stay here." Sherlock warns, and while it shouldn't be a threat - the police should be able to handle these cases without him - it is.
"Alright, fine, come on." Sherlock is delighted. Donovan, not so much.
As the three of them head out, Lestrade gives Sherlock the address - which he first gets from Donovan - and the immortal flags a cab down to take him there. There's a moment where he takes out his mobile, remembering John's request to inform him should he go running off anywhere else but the Yard, but then Sherlock also remembers that John's mobile is lying alone in their flat and decides against it.
In all likelihood, this case will be nothing but a four and he'll be home just as John is returning to the flat.
0-0-0-0-0
That isn't what happens at all.
Instead, Sherlock, Lestrade and Donovan reach the crime scene and in an instant, Sherlock can see that he had been wrong.
Well, not entirely wrong.
He was certainly right in thinking that the police would be out of their depth taking on this case and would eventually call him in, but he had been wrong to think this was a simple four.
Upon entering the newly constructed flat, Sherlock scans the rooms in search of anything out of the ordinary but is pleased to find that, if not for the dead body in what is meant to be a bedroom, it's as if nothing has gone awry at all. And even then, the room housing the body doesn't look out of place either. Everything is pristine, with only a bit of plaster dust on the floor that had yet to be cleaned.
And when it came to the body - face down, arms bent up at either side of his head, likely to protect himself when he fell forward - even that didn't seem so strange. Except, that fact itself made it very strange indeed.
At first glance, it appeared as if the man had merely dropped dead on the spot, but closer inspection led Sherlock to believe it had actually been asphyxiation that caused his death. The tricky part was determining how that asphyxiation took place.
"Anything?" Lestrade asks, his eyebrows furrowed as he looks around for any type of clue for him to go on.
"Asphyxiation," Sherlock says simply as he uses his gloved fingers to pry open an eye. It's bloodshot, and when combined with the swollen lips it lends itself to the asphyxiation theory quite well.
"Likely suffocation." Anderson's nasally voice adds where he stands impatiently off to the side, arms crossed over his chest.
"Likely, you're wrong," Sherlock says, standing from his crouched position to turn to Lestrade.
"How do you know that?" Anderson asks despite Sherlock having turned his back to him, and while Sherlock wants to ignore him altogether he can't deny that he always enjoys proving the man wrong.
"He's lying face-down." It should be answer enough, but when everyone in the room merely blinks, he groans.
"Face down! Do I have to do all of the thinking?" From the blank looks he receives from that statement, it seems he does and so he continues. "When you suffocate someone, you press something over their face. A pillow, or even your hands. You push against their face to block their airways, which in turn would lead our victim against a wall or to the ground - on his back. Seeing as he is in the middle of the room with his head closest to that wall there, we can deduce that he was likely standing here - away from the wall - when he choked. He then fell to his knees and tried to protect his face with his arms when he fell forward. Thus, he was likely choked rather than suffocated." Finished with the monologue, Sherlock stops in place where he had been spinning and gesturing and waits for the rest to catch up.
"But there aren't any marks consistent with someone squeezing the life out of them." Donovan points out, to which Sherlock nods in acknowledgement.
"Correct. But I hypothesised asphyxiation, not strangulation, because of that very same reason. There are no bruises or red marks that would indicate someone used their hands or rope to strangle him. Instead, there are red scratch marks matching with the dried blood beneath his fingernails that tell us our victim was clawing at his throat. As if something were lodged within it." Sherlock says as he turns the victim's head aside so they can see the marks.
"There isn't anything obvious in their mouth that is visible to us now. Only an autopsy will show us if something got lodged further down." The consulting detective finishes.
"And what about the card, then?" Lestrade asks, pointing to the business card that was entirely blank sans the big bold capital M on it.
"Calling card. So far so obvious." He responds as he leaves the bedroom to get a better look at the front room.
"From the killer? You don't think that's a sign he's done this sort of thing before, do you? And do you have any idea why this guy might be here? Or who he is?" Lestrade asks as he follows Sherlock out, thankfully leaving Donovan and Anderson behind.
"Not at the moment, no. Chances are, though, that he was chased here by whoever killed him. As for the chances of this killer being or becoming a serial killer, I'd say they're highly likely." He answers as he pulls the front door away from the wall where it was resting as police came in and out.
"What makes you say that?" The DI asks, pen poised and at the ready on his notepad to jot whatever came out of Sherlock's mouth.
"This dent here. These flats are newly constructed, but this door recently was opened with enough force to hit this wall and dent it. Most likely, our victim was running here to get away from his attacker. Probably thought it was a good place to hide. As for the killer being a potential serial killer, the card is indicative of a planned kill. They wanted us to know this was his work. They went through the process of having that card created. Not to mention the kill itself is all rather professional. If there hasn't been any in the past, there will certainly be more in the future." And isn't that just the cherry on top? A serial killer!
"Great. Anything else?" Lestrade asks dryly with a sigh, already anticipating all of the work and trouble this case is likely to bring.
"Not at the moment no. Let me know when the autopsy is done." Without waiting for a response, Sherlock slips out of the flat and makes his way to the street, mind racing as he begins organising this newest case.
By the time he's made it back to Baker Street, he's only just sorted out what he knows about the victim's wounds - or the lack thereof - and has moved on to anything that can identify their victim. Lestrade and his team should be able to do so on their own, but it may be helpful if he can figure it out for himself now so that he can work on determining what the chances are that the killer was someone their victim knew or whether it was a random act.
Walking into 221, he makes his way up the stairs lost in his thoughts, only to be abruptly dragged out of them when he steps into the flat and sees John there.
"I told you to text me if you were running off somewhere else." John admonishes right away, though Sherlock is quick to note that there doesn't seem to be any actual heat to the words.
Not angry then. Good. Sherlock had worked hard to keep John happy. It would have been annoying to move backwards over a simple miscommunication. Or, well, a lack of.
"You forgot your mobile. You wouldn't have received the text anyway." Sherlock points out as he shucks his coat aside and strides over to his chair. He watches John who is stood in the kitchen reheating his leftovers from last night and making tea.
"True, but I would have seen it when I came home. I would have known that I should eat leftovers instead of waiting to get something with you." John tells him as the microwave beeps at him and the kettle boils.
"You know I wouldn't have eaten in either case. It's why you felt confident in making your leftovers despite me not being here." There's a huff of laughter from John, and then, with food and tea in hand, he's joining Sherlock in the sitting room where he takes a seat in his chair across from Sherlock.
"Still, would have been nice to know." The doctor emphasises with a pointed look that Sherlock recognises as one of those strange things that John expects Sherlock to understand. Those unspoken rules and expectations, such as Sherlock labelling experiments or keeping at least one space in the kitchen clear for cooking - even though neither of them cook.
"Yes. Right." He appeases, which elicits more laughter from John as he begins to eat.
"So, where'd you go then?" He asks curiously, which puts Sherlock back on track.
"Case. Could be a good one." Sherlock says hopefully, steepling his fingers and pressing them to his lips as he allows his thoughts to stray back to said case.
"Oh yeah? That's nice. Better than my day, but then, there's no surprise there. Most interesting thing I dealt with was some guy who was something of a germaphobe. Thought he had everything in the book and then some." John said with a shake of his head.
"Unlikely," Sherlock says distantly, still more focused on his case.
"You don't have to tell me that. Still, the guy wouldn't hear it. Wanted me to run every test until I found something. I finally told him he had the flu just to get him out." Sherlock scoffs, which John seems to find amusing if the smile on his face is anything to go by, and they dissolve into a comfortable silence. By the time John is finishing his food and tea, it's late and the doctor is yawning.
"I think I might turn in. Thankfully I don't have to go in tomorrow, so I'll be free to help you with whatever this case is then. That is unless you don't figure it out by tonight." John says as he stands and stretches. Sherlock hums in response but doesn't say anything more, still staring into the middle distance with his fingers pressed to his lips.
"Right then. Goodnight Sherlock." John says, coming over to place a kiss on Sherlock's head.
"Goodnight John." Sherlock makes sure to answer, though he doesn't move his gaze.
Another chuckle, and then Sherlock is alone in the sitting room. His thoughts stutter away from the case for a moment to recognise that John has gone upstairs, back to his own room rather than returning to Sherlock's room where he'd slept last night.
It makes sense, seeing as Sherlock had asked for just the night, and John had given him that. Sherlock hadn't had the guts to ask for more, and so John had assumed he shouldn't make sleeping with Sherlock a permanent thing.
Not that Sherlock was going to be sleeping tonight anyway. Still, it was rather disheartening, but relieving all the same. Sherlock still wasn't sure whether he was ready for John to make his room their room. It wasn't that big a distinction - especially seeing as they already shared a flat together, as well as the entirety of their lives - but it was still significant to him.
He wanted to be entirely sure that it was the right move when he asked John to move into his room permanently.
Focusing back on the case, Sherlock tries to determine why the man's hand had stood out to him.
0-0-0-0-0
By the next morning, Sherlock is cursing himself for being so unobservant.
Obviously, the hand had stood out to him because there was a stamp on it. It wasn't easily visible, to be fair - one of those invisible ones that light up under blacklights - but it was noticeable regardless due to the slight shimmer of the skin in that area.
Thankfully, he would have a chance to look it over when he went to Barts about the autopsy.
With that matter solved, Sherlock had tried to figure out the likelihood that their killer had killed before and had determined it was highly possible with how clean and professional the flat had been. There hadn't been even a speck of evidence suggesting there had been another person in the room other than the calling card left behind.
"Get anywhere then?" John asks as he steps into the kitchen. Sherlock blinks at the sudden appearance of someone else and hums.
"Possibly." He admits.
"Have you even moved since last night? You're exactly where I left you." John mentions. Sherlock occupies himself momentarily with watching his partner fumble groggily around the kitchen for eggs and bread before coming back to himself.
"Why would I need to move? That would have been a waste of energy." Sherlock tells him before realising that this position he's in - and has been in all night - is actually quite uncomfortable. Because of this, he tries to stretch his limbs, hiding the wince at how stiff they are.
"That's why," John says with a nod to the detective's legs, apparently having caught Sherlock's wince.
"Anyway, tell me about this case then. Must be something if it kept you in one place this long." The doctor says good-naturedly. For a moment, Sherlock has the childish inclination to sulk rather than give an answer, but he inevitably decides that he'd rather have John working with him sooner rather than later on this mystery and so decides against it.
"A man was most probably asphyxiated to death in a block of newly constructed flats. The room, as well as the flat he was found in, were locked from the outside and there was a calling card left in the victim's hand. There aren't any marks consistent with strangulation, but the bloodshot eyes and swollen lips lend to asphyxiation being the cause of death. I believe the man choked on something - but whether that was something small enough to get lodged further down the throat, or something large enough that the killer took with them afterwards I won't know until the autopsy report comes back." Sherlock relays, falling more comfortably back in his chair as he recites the facts.
"Certainly sounds up your alley. Locked room and all." John says amiably, carrying a plate of food to the kitchen table along with a cuppa that he sits from. There's the rustle of yesterdays newspaper as John picks it up to read and a crunch as he takes a bite out of his toast.
"Quite. The killer has most certainly killed before, or less likely, was well-versed before committing to their first killing." The detective continues, wondering when he can call Lestrade about the autopsy report without worrying about him becoming upset by the early hour.
"Why's that?" John asks, seemingly distracted as he reads through the front page news, but Sherlock knows better by now. John loves the cases just as much - if not more - than Sherlock does. He loves the thrill of them, and he especially loves watching as Sherlock unravels the threads from their confusing tangle and ties them neatly back together at the ends. Sherlock knows without a shadow of a doubt that John is paying more attention to him at this moment than to dull current events.
"The room was pristine. There wasn't any indication that anyone other than the victim had been there. Not to mention, there wasn't a scratch on the victim that wasn't self-inflicted. The killer managed to shove something down his throat without leaving so much as a bruise." John hums in understanding, glancing briefly his way.
"Rather difficult, that. People don't normally take too kindly to strangers shoving something down their throat." The doctor agrees.
"Precisely. How did he do it then? The victim clawed at their throat at the end, so they certainly knew there was something blocking their airway. Why not take it out? Or better yet fight back? Why try ripping your own throat out?" Sherlock asks softly, more to himself than to John as he attempts to puzzle it out.
To get the object down the victim's throat, surely the killer had to get close enough to do so. Close enough for the victim to fight back. Clearly, the victim was willing to struggle. To fight. But he hadn't done so. he'd allowed the object to choke him to death. If he'd struggled, surely the killer would have had to use force - hold the victim down, grip his throat, head, shoulder, arm, something!
But he hadn't.
"Want me to come along?" John's question drags Sherlock from his thoughts.
"Hm?" He hums in question. He's only slightly surprised to see John standing beside him, the detective's mobile in his hand which he holds in the air.
"To Bart's. Lestrade says the autopsy's done." John says - likely repeated if the fond look on his face is anything to go by.
"Why didn't you say so sooner?!"
0-0-0-0-0
The autopsy had been both enlightening and not at all helpful.
Turns out, it looked as if nothing had been lodged in the victim's - Brian Walsh, Lestrade informed him - throat. There wasn't anything within his oesophagus, nor his stomach to suggest something had gotten shoved or stuck there, nor were there any signs that something had been there. No throat irritation or damage.
So how had the man choked?
It was as infuriating as it was fascinating. It lit a fire under Sherlock and sparked his interest tenfold.
This four was quickly becoming an eight. Maybe even a nine.
After stopping at Barts, Sherlock had dragged John to the club that Sherlock deduced Brian had been at shortly before being chased to the empty flats - as evidenced by the stamp he'd gotten a closer look at. There wasn't much to be found there either, but it was worth the stop to track what was likely the route Brian ran to avoid his killer.
Perplexed, Sherlock and John stopped for lunch in which John ate his fill while Sherlock pondered how in the world something like this was possible.
It couldn't have been a liquid that Brian choked on or else they'd have found excessive liquid in his stomach content, but all that had been there was what seemed to be an average night at a club - a few alcoholic drinks and some chips. Not enough quantity of either to result in his choking to death.
"What about the card that was left behind then?" John asks suddenly from where he's sat across the table, picking at the last few bites of a sandwich.
"What about it?" Sherlock asks, snagging a slice of tomato that had been about to fall out of the sandwich and eating it.
"Are there any other cases where it's been left behind? It's rather distinctive, right? A big M." John tells him at the same time that he swats Sherlock's hand away from stealing any more bits from his sandwich.
"If there are, Lestrade has neglected to mention them. As far as I'm aware, this is the first instance in which this particular calling card was left behind." The detective answers with a scowl as John continues swatting at him.
"Aren't you always going on about my eating habits?" Sherlock asks petulantly with a glare.
"And aren't you always telling me not to let my transport rule me? If you wanted something you should have ordered it yourself." John quips back at the same time that he shoves the last bit of sandwich into his mouth. Sherlock's scowl deepens at the sight and he huffs, but otherwise doesn't deign to reply.
"Oh, come off it. If you're really that hungry I can go get you something." John says though he's smiling now which rather defeats the point Sherlock had been trying to make.
John was supposed to understand the error of his ways in denying Sherlock some of his meal; not find it amusing.
"You had your chance. Are we done here?" He asks. Without waiting for a response, Sherlock stands and stalks for the door, leaving John to scramble to catch up.
"So back to Baker Street?" John asks once they're on the pavement and striding back toward home.
"For now. I must be missing something, I just don't know what." Sherlock says emphatically. He'd yet to reach any true frustration so early in the case, but the perplexing nature of this whole ordeal was certainly aggravating. Whenever he felt certain about something, it turned out that it led to a dead end rather than any significant break in the case, and while that may normally be frustrating for him, in this case, it was fascinating.
He was loving this.
"Right. Well, at least it's keeping you on your toes. I don't have to worry about bullets in walls that way." John remarks as he slides his arm in and around Sherlock's.
And then there was John; always infinitely more interesting than any case could hope to be. Despite everything they've been through - everything Sherlock has put him through - John has remained at his side. The same could surely be said of Sherlock, but then, Sherlock wasn't sure if there would ever be a scenario in which he willingly left John.
Even when they were at their worst, he had struggled with the idea of leaving, despite it having been the obvious course of action. The right course of action.
He should have left. He should have demanded John treat him better. He should have demanded John pack his things and leave. The thought though, even hypothetical, made his stomach churn unpleasantly, and so he avoided that line of thinking entirely.
Instead, he relishes in the feeling of John's arm linked with his and allows himself to feel at ease with where his life is at currently.
For an immortal being, he was positive this was as close to Heaven as he was ever going to get.
"That's not very accurate. If anything, there's a higher chance of us encountering bullets in walls on a case rather than off one." Sherlock points out, which causes John to laugh bright and loud.
"Yeah, I suppose you're right." The doctor admits as he bumps gently into Sherlock's shoulder with his own.
"My dear John, when will you learn that I always am?"
Hello again everybody! It's been a couple of years - just past two exactly, actually - but here is another instalment of my Immortal AU!
Ever since I finished the last instalment, I've been hard at work on this one and future ones. I chipped away at it whenever I could, and I'm proud to say that I've finally finished it! The only thing left to do is polish them and get them posted. My goal is for weekly updates, but we'll see how that goes with my busy schedule.
I hope you enjoy what is to come!