A/N: Hello, people! The first chapter of an idea I got! John is more awesome in this with a lot more skills and abilities.
I don't own Sherlock. Quotes from the show aren't mine.
I have no beta.
*****NOTE*****I've changed John's ranking in the military. I checked the British Armed Forces ranking list and I'd prefer him to be a Brigadier General. Higher up on the power level I guess you can say. I tried to find out if the RAMC has Brigadier Generals that are Army Doctors, but I'm still not sure, so I'm just going with that. If it doesn't work that way, I'm not changing it, this is fanfiction. If you do know how it works and know I did it wrong, please inform me in a kind manner and I 'may' fix it.*****NOTE*****
John Hamish Watson stared at the wooden floor of his small apartment room in the bedsit. He'd been sitting in the same place for several hours, just trying to clear his mind of everything and anything.
Ever since being invalided from Afghanistan, he'd stayed in this small room more often than not. Going into public and seeing people, wasn't really his thing anymore.
He hated meeting the eyes of people, because he saw things he didn't want to see. He saw their lives. Their feelings. The best and the worst they have ever done. Nothing was shielded from John and he hated it. Certain things weren't meant to be public knowledge and unfortunately, John suffered with this odd ability, seeing things he really wished that he didn't.
He didn't know what it was called. Frankly, it was disturbing. Meeting someone's gaze always lead to poor John being pulled into them. Even for a split second, he would know everything there was to know about them, the good and the bad. He hated it. Invading privacy, though not deliberately, made him uncomfortable. And no one knew he could do it. Like he'd ever tell anyone.
That's what made him such a good soldier and it was just easier to be around people you already knew and saw on a daily basis.
John had been a Brigadier General as well as a Doctor, Biologist, Microbioligist and Medical Support Officer in the 'd spent years in the same place, with the same people. He'd come to terms with everything about them. There was no new information to be had. It was peaceful for his mind. But then he was injured on the field and was sent home. People everywhere! It was terrible!
He took to wearing sunglasses and hiding his vision from people. Besides, they shielded his gaze and made people think he was looking right at them when really he had closed his eyes just to be sure.
Still, there were times he couldn't not look or he'd catch himself staring at people. It was enough to give him horrible headaches. The influx of information was hard to handle. It was just too much. It made his eyes hurt.
Tension headaches and migraines became the norm for him. He tried not to leave the apartment. Tried really hard to remain unmoving and would always stretch the last of his groceries, not wanting to venture into public more than necessary.
It was also hard to walk with a limp, though psychosomatic. A cane left him with only one hand to carry things with. It was the stress from the constantly appearing information. He'd come to really hate eyes. There was a saying, that 'eyes are the windows to the soul' and he couldn't agree more. Eyes were the things that made him see into people. They were the reasons he was so stressed.
Fuck eyes and their annoying windowness.
John was going to need a better apartment soon. His therapist concurred. His pension wasn't enough and he knew he'd need a flatmate at least if he wanted a better place and an easier time getting food. Which meant he'd have to meet people. Which meant looking at them. Which meant seeing their eyes. Ugh.
John got up stiffly, now that the sun had risen. He'd been sitting like that for five hours. Nightmares of the war keeping him up all through the night.
He had severe PTSD and with his sister's marriage destroyed and she drinking herself into oblivion, plus the memories of the war and the shouts, explosions, training and the things he'd seen in the eyes of his fellows, he couldn't keep it all in. He suffered from everything.
John went about his morning routine and decided after a good cuppa, that he'd go for a walk. Maybe fresh air would help. Or maybe he was just setting himself up for a fall through someone's memories or past.
Bugger it, he was going.
It was a nice morning and not many people were out and about at such and early time in the day. By lunch he had decided to actually go into a little café and order a good cuppa. Nothing like good tea to relax you.
He sat here for a good while, until he was finished.
Then it was time to trek back to the apartment, he cut through a local park.
"John? John Watson?"
He froze in stride and look around, recognizing someone from years past.
"Stamford. Mike Stamford.
"Mike? Oh, yes, Mike, how are you?"
"Oh I know, I've gotten fat."
"Not at all."
And still he did not meet the man's gaze, though Mike didn't need to know that.
Some small talk and John eventually revealed that he'd been shot and invalided. They sat together on a park bench and for several moments, they passed the time with meaningless chatter.
The subject of needing a better apartment came up and Mike suggested flat-sharing. Though John knew that was what he needed, he was still skeptical.
"Who'd want me for a flatmate?"
Mike mentioned someone he knew needing a flatmate just earlier that morning. He was grinning as he said it.
And so John Watson followed Mike Stamford to Barts.
John looked around and nodded. He hadn't seen the inside in ten years. It had changed a lot.
"You sure you don't want to take your sunglasses off? The lighting still isn't so great and it may be harder for you to see."
John shrugged off his worry. "I'm fine. I have a bad migraine and the light is the last thing I want right now."
Mike pushed the door ahead of them open and let John hobble in first.
He looked around, eyes barely paying the man in the back of the room any mind. He'd gotten good at ignoring people.
"A bit different from my day," he mumbled, looking around at the obvious changes.
The man in the back spoke up, "Mike can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."
"What's wrong with the land-line?"
"I prefer to text."
John's attention was captured and he couldn't help but look the man over. Tailored suit, clean and shaven appearance, hands on the microscope. Obviously an intelligent man with money. Deep voice, pale skin. He wasn't brave enough to check the eyes yet.
"Sorry, it's in my coat."
John couldn't stop himself from offering up his own phone for the man to use quickly.
He was already holding it out when the man did a double take and John nearly gasped. Blue, heterochromatic eyes, full of knowledge. Intelligence. A long past, even though the man who possessed them wasn't even thirty yet. A few months to go for him.
He was frozen in place even as the man smirked lightly, "Oh. Thank you."
He was stiff as a board. All that information at once. His head throbbed, Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. One of the most intelligent minds John had ever dipped into. Genius observational skills. So many cases solved by him. Emotionally broken and lost on 'sentiment'. Mind Palace full of information. Amazing organizational skills.
He distantly heard Mike introduce him to the man.
Sherlock paused in typing and asked, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"
John froze minutely. So Sherlock was that good at what he did?
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Which one was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" he said, looking at John again.
The ex-soldier was enraptured. He had to know how Sherlock did it.
The door to the room opened and in stepped a young woman in a lab coat. In her hands was a mug of potent smelling coffee. She handed it to Sherlock who thanked her and then inquired about her lipstick.
She was obviously smitten and he knew it, but wasn't interested. John would so far as to say that he was manipulating the poor woman.
"How do you feel about the violin?"
John's attention was drawn again, "Sorry, what?"
"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on...end. Will that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."
John stared. How could he have known that? He glanced at Mike, who was just grinning like he was expecting this to happen. Which meant that it was usual occurrence when Sherlock was concerned.
"Who said anything about flatmates?" asked, fishing for the information he wanted. Sherlock had to explain.
"I did! I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap."
As he spoke, he slipped on a large trench coat and a dark navy muffler. He was smirking.
"How did you know about Afghanistan?" John asked, wanting Sherlock to elaborate what he had deduced. This was interesting.
"I've got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening at seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash, I left my riding crop in the mortuary." He grinned and slipped John's phone back into his hand and moved toward the door.
John didn't want to leave it at that, He didn't have enough information. Sure he had pretty much seen all of Sherlock's life in one glance, but it wasn't completely detailed. He wanted to see these deductions skills at their best.
"Is that it?"
Sherlock paused and turned. "Is that what?"
"We only just met and we're going to go look at a flat?"
Come on, come on. Live up to your self-named title, Sherlock.
John once again glanced in Mike's direction, who was still smiling.
"We don't know a thing about each other," he lied easily. "I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name."
Sherlock was suddenly very stiff, even as a wider smirk spread across his lips. "I know you're an Army doctor, and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife, and I know your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic - quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"
John was smirking in return and he could see Sherlock tense. Apparently that wasn't an expected reaction to when Sherlock deduced someone.
Blue eyes lightened and the consulting detective looked around a little before asking, "Really?"
"Yes. Extraordinary. How do you do that?"
"Thank you," he looked hesitant. "I'm a consulting detective. I invented the job. Whenever the police are out of their depth -which is always - they consult me."
John frowned and pointed out, "The police don't consult amateurs."
Sherlock's mouth tightened. "When I asked you what war you participated in, you seemed surprised."
"Yes," he admitted. "How did you know?"
"I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. The conversation as you entered the room - said trained at Bart's, so army doctor. Obvious. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists - you've been abroad but not sunbathing. The limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That suggests the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic - wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan - Afghanistan or Iraq."
John nodded. Pretty simple deductions, if one knew to pay attention. "You said I had a therapist." He wanted to know how far Sherlock Holmes' skill went.
"You've got a psychosomatic limp. Of course you've got a therapist. Then there's your brother. Your phone - it's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player. But you're looking for a flat-share, you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratches - not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man standing before me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. The next bit's easy, you know it already."
He gestured to the phone, still in John's hand. "Turn it over."
John did so, seeing the gold writing.
To: Harry Watson
"Harry Watson - clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father - this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara - who's Clara? Three kisses says romantic attachment. Expensive phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must've given it to him recently - this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then - six months on, and already he's giving it away? If she'd left him, he would've kept it. People do, sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it - he left her. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to stay in touch."
John was nodding, letting Sherlock go on.
"You're looking for cheap accommodation and you're not going to your brother for help? That says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you don't like his drinking."
"How can you possibly know about the drinking?" John asked.
"Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection - tiny little scuff marks around the edge. Every night he goes to plug it in and charge but his hands are shaky. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them. There you go, you see? You were right."
"Generally, I am about a myriad of things, but about what in particular?"
Sherlock paused and a small knowing smile lit up his face as he said, "The police don't consult amateurs."
"Well I should think not, otherwise I'd worry for the city. Good to know you aren't simple. And once again, that was amazing."
Sherlock glance down for a second, "Thank you. The address is 221B Baker Street, John Watson. I'll see you tomorrow."
He gave a quick wink and trialed off for the door.
John looked over to Mike and smiled, "Thank you for the introduction, Mike. I'm looking forward to this."
Mike gave a salute. "No problem, John."
William Sherlock Scott Holmes was unlike anyone John had ever met. His Mind Palace was amazing. Unlike the pain John usually felt from looking someone in the eye, he didn't feel pain with Sherlock, though the man had a lot of information stored in his brain. But it was organized and not chaotic. Sherlock obviously knew his own mind.
The 'method of loci' was nearly impossible for people to master and it was impressive that he had managed it. His command over himself was amazing. Truly, his past, present, mind, thoughts and many other things were just spectacular. John wouldn't mind being a flatmate of that man. Just to see the random things going on in his life.
And then there was the fact that Sherlock didn't give him a roaring migraine like everyone else did.
This could very well work out.
So the next evening, he met the tall man in front of 221B on Baker Street and Sherlock offered him an easy smile.
John had never hated his cane so much before. It got in the way of his bloody walking and people kept assuming he was an official invalid. It was just a reaction to stress. If he wasn't stressed, he wouldn't need it. But people giving him all these kinds of pitying looks and comments was really grating on his nerves.
Mrs. Hudson was a kind old woman and she owned 221B Baker Street. The landlady. She kept making comments about his leg and how she had a bad hip. How she understood his pain. He hated feeling useless.
Mrs. Hudson had a rather simple life with nothing too hard to sort through. Her mind was safe. Not headache inducing in the least. He liked her kind nature and willingness to help everyone. She was an amazing little old lady.
The flat was amazing and fully furnished, and Sherlock had it filled with...things.
Experiments, was the words that flashed through his mind. Yes, Sherlock Holmes liked to experiment, he remembered seeing that yesterday.
Though he should be disgusted, he wasn't. Eyeballs, body parts that shouldn't be in certain places, a human skull above the fireplace and probably many other things hiding around the flat. They didn't bother him. He was a doctor after all.
"It's very lovely," John told the old woman.
She smiled, "Thank you dear. It has two bedrooms, that is, if you need two?"
John looked over to Sherlock, whose back was turned. Did she mean…? She meant it, didn't she?
"Of course we'll need the two rooms."
"It's okay dearie, we have all sorts of things around here."
She thought that they were a gay couple. Well then. Sherlock understood where she was going, but he didn't say anything. Why not?
"It isn't really like that, Mrs. Hudson. We've only met yesterday. I still don't know much about him, though he has a strange fixation on tobacco ash."
Thank God he had on sunglasses, because he felt like dying then and there. He hadn't meant to let that slip. It was just a brief thing he'd seen in Sherlock's Mind Palace. He shouldn't have said it out loud! Bugger!
Sherlock spun around suddenly, "You read my blog."
Thankful for the glasses that hid his eyes, he shrugged, trying to play it off. "I have nothing better to do." He did not admit to reading the man's blog, though his words could be construed as such. That he did it because he had nothing better to do. Hopefully, Sherlock did not pick up the fact that he was lying.
The glint in the younger man's eyes told him that he, in fact, did.
Sherlock did not say a thing though. Why?
John fixed Mrs. Hudson with his attention and they began to devise a payment plan and how much it would cost to rent half the flat every month. Sherlock got a text while they spoke and jumped from the sofa to put his coat and muffler on.
"A case, Mrs. Hudson! Don't wait up!"
She just smiled and moved into the kitchen.
John looked around, liking how nice the interior of the room was. Very nice indeed.
He jerked to the side when he caught sight of Sherlock standing in the doorway, staring at him.
"Can I help you?"
"You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor."
"Great way at stating the obvious," he couldn't help but answer.
Sherlock wasn't offended at least. "Any good?"
"I'm more than just a doctor you know. But I am good at all titles I hold."
Sherlock looked intrigued, but didn't question him. "Seen a lot of injuries and violent deaths?"
"Trouble on the field possibly?"
"Yes. Far too much to be comfortable with remembering."
"Want to see some more?"
John's head tilted and he considered it. "Yes."
Sherlock was already out the door and down the stairs and John moved to follow him. He forgot about his leg and when he took a step he felt no pain. He stared at his cane for a second, wondering why he suddenly didn't feel like he needed it.
He did a test hop and then a few steps and decided to just leave the cane propped against the wall. Apparently, he didn't need it.
Sherlock's eyes went a little wide when John came down the stairs without the cane. "Feeling better?"
"I don't understand it either. I could suddenly move without pain or awkwardness."
Technically, he had a feeling that simpleness around Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock were what made him less stressed. Being around them on a daily basis wouldn't leave him as stressed as before. If that was all it took, where had Sherlock been the last few months?
The cab ride was silent, until Sherlock asked suddenly, "Did I get it all right?"
"About your brother and why you don't go to him for help and his marriage?"
"Harry and I do not get on and Harry walked out on Clara, devastated her dearly. Harry has been drinking for years and is violent because of it. Clara was tolerant but when Harry made an irreversible mistake, she had enough."
Sherlock nodded and looked out the window. "Spot on then. I must admit, I didn't expect to be right about everything."
John smirked and chuckled, drawing Sherlock's attention. "What?" the consulting detective asked.
"Harry is short for 'Harriet'."
The dark-haired man's left eye twitched. "Harry's your sister," he stated. "A sister! There's always something," he mumbled with an eye roll.
"You had everything else perfectly though. And one mistake doesn't make you any less extraordinary."
Sherlock was not a person who was used to compliments, because he flushed for the third time after hearing John's kind words and murmured his gratitude, softly.
The rest of the ride was passed in silence and when they arrived at the scene that Sherlock was looking for, there were police cars everywhere.
A dark-skinned woman approached them when they came close enough and greeted Sherlock in a very rude manner. She called him a 'freak', which John did not appreciate. Sherlock called her by last name. Against his better judgement, he found himself looking into her eyes to see what had caused her to become such a spiteful bitch. Nothing at all really. Sally Donovan. She was just born that way. Pity. She was jealous of how much better Sherlock was at doing her job. Pathetic. Although he did find out that she was having an affair with one of her fellow members on the force. Anderson, who was married.
As though he were called, a man with a severely long, pointed and flattish nose, dressed in a blue scrub like uniform, appeared by the woman's side and joined in on the insults. Anderson, married, wife was away on a business trip. He was having an affair with the woman standing next to him. If his rumpled hair and the indentation from kneeling on a carpet which was still on her knees were enough to go by in just physical facts. Never mind what disturbing things he'd seen in their heads.
"It's a crime scene. Do not contaminate it, freak."
Before he could even think of holding back, John was speaking.
"I don't think Sherlock is the one you need to worry about when it comes to making a mess of things. Coincidentally, does your wife know about the mess you two made earlier?"
"What?!" both snapped, though he could see worry in their eyes.
John shrugged, almost nonchalant, "I mean, what else could you both have been doing alone in his house while his wife is away?"
He turned to Sherlock to say something, but remembered what else he wanted to add and turned to Donovan and quickly stated, "At least you chose a carpet this time. Hardwood flooring is bad on the knees, you know."
He then gave Sherlock his full attention, "Shall we?"
Sherlock was looking at him in shock, but nodded slowly and gestured for him to follow.
"How did you know about their affair?" he asked lowly when they were far enough away.
"Their appearances speak volumes. She was also wearing his deodorant."
"Quite right," Sherlock nodded. "Impressive. Maybe I've misjudged you, John Watson."
"Maybe you shouldn't judge people before you get to know them."
Into the house they went. John met DI Lestrade. Hard working and relatively intelligent. Early forties, liked Sherlock, helped him out of a drug abuse situation a few years prior. Generally the only person in the force who actually liked Sherlock and appreciated his help, no matter how caustic the consulting detective could be.
Sherlock proceeded to amaze John for what seemed to be the millionth time.
He couldn't hold back the low, "That's fantastic."
Sherlock turned to him and leaned in to whisper, "You do that out loud. You do know that, right?"
John flushed, "I'll stop."
"No, it's…..fine," Sherlock smiled a little.
Sherlock was a young man subconsciously starved for praise. Easy to see, if one bothered to even look.
The man muttered to himself and John caught his eyes on one turn of the pacing. Sherlock was intending to leave instantly and take a cab to find the woman's bag, which he had somehow deduced she had. This was a normal Sherlock reaction, not telling people about his plans and just waltzing out.
Sherlock disappeared in a moment and John stayed behind to speak with Lestrade about a few things concerning Sherlock.'
Lestrade had full confidence in Sherlock. Lestrade knew Sherlock would solve everything by the morning. He thought of Sherlock as a little brother, though would never tell the man that. He also asked if John was going to be coming with Sherlock more often. He couldn't give a straight answer, because Sherlock had asked him on a whim.
When their talk was finished, John made his way from the building.
Donovan couldn't help but make a snarky remark about Sherlock leaving him behind.
"I know. Sherlock is on to something and he needs absolute silence to completely put the facts together." This was truth. John had seen it in his mind. "Perhaps you should get to know him before assuming, it makes you look foolish."
"Okay look, John-"
"That is Brigadier General John H. Watson, to you, Sergeant Donovan," he interrupted in his most authoritative voice. Her eyes went wide suddenly and he was sure her dark skin paled. Pulling rank was always fun on new recruits and though he was retired from military service indefinitely, he still had the presence of an army man and knew how to use it.
"Good evening to you."
He turned and made his way to the main road in order to catch a cab. He needed to get his cane. Good thing he didn't have many possessions. It should only take one bag. Maybe he wouldn't need a cane after all.
As he walked, he noticed a black car had begun to follow him. He sighed, knowing where this was going and wanting to get it over with quickly. He paused in his stride and turned around to approach the now stopped vehicle.
He tapped on the glass and sighed when it moved down, "Either you tell me what you want, young lady or piss off."
She was a mildly attractive, though he'd seen better. She was also very offended by his lack in manners when addressing her. There was a Blackberry in her hand, obviously used often from how the keypad was barely visible. She worked for a man named Mycroft Holmes, who was Sherlock's older brother by seven years. She was ordered to bring John to a secluded location where Mycroft would then badger him for information about his relationship with his younger brother. An unconventional way of going about it, but a way nonetheless.
He sighed again, "Just unlock the door so we can get this over with. Your boss should really just ask Sherlock himself what's going on in his life."
Wide eyes again.
He got in the car and they made their way to their destination silently.
The man waiting for him was every bit of British that other people would assume Brits should be. And he had an umbrella.
"You could have just phoned me or something, instead of assigning the assistant to shadow me for five blocks."
Mycroft Holmes is creepier in person than in memory. He's dark and willing to do anything for his brother and his country. Sherlock calls him, 'the British Government' and it isn't a joking matter. Mycroft basically is, the government. He's hard and a much more strict version of Sherlock, but not as brilliant in the deduction department. Though he could deduce easily enough, he always had knowledge on the people he was picking apart, whereas Sherlock went in blind every time.
"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes one needs to be discreet. Why don't you take a seat, I know you have a leg problem."
"I'm fine with standing as you can clearly see, Mr. Holmes."
Blue eyes, not quite like Sherlock's, narrow minutely. "You don't seem very afraid," he commented.
"You aren't frightening. Creepy and a bit of a stalker, but not frightening."
Mycroft let out a strained laugh, which John easily noticed. "Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier."
The doctor shook his head, "No not bravery. Knowledge of facts. I've trained for years in combat, whereas you prefer to sit behind a desk all day. I am stronger and faster than you. I could kill you in three intricately different ways before your assistant or the driver can pull their weapons on me. That is why you aren't a threat, Mycroft Holmes."
John could see it. Even with the advanced darkness from his glasses, he could see the fear in those eyes. Mycroft was brilliant at keeping a straight face, yes, but his eyes spoke everything about him and he was truly afraid.
"What is your connection to Sherlock?"
"I'm moving in with him."
"You only met him yesterday and now you're moving in with him. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"
"If you're so interested, ask your brother. Though I'm not too sure he'd tell you or even want his archenemy's presence in his life."
"So clearly he trusts you enough to take you with him on cases and tell you about his life."
"Not exactly. I can't do what Sherlock does, but I have my own method of learning about people. You're rather like an open book."
"I can see the attraction. Just like Sherlock, you love to be dramatic."
John's eyes rolled as he glanced around meaningfully, "Well thank God, you're above all that."
His mobile beeped and he looked at the text, from Sherlock. Why did Sherlock have his number? Did he check for it yesterday?
Come at once
"Do hope I'm not distracting you," Mycroft sneered, pleasant tone gone.
"Well, your hope is dashed, you are. So, should I agree to tell you about Sherlock's day-to-day life or not? That is the question here."
Mycroft did not voice his question, but John knew he was confused on how he could know. Very few times did John enjoy using his odd ability to wind people up. But this was hilarious.
"You and your little brother did not have a good childhood when you were together and while you do care about him, you have an odd way of showing it. Though I don't understand why you even need my assistance when you have connections beyond what most could imagine."
"Will you agree to watch Sherlock for me and give me weekly updates about his behavior and whereabouts, or not?"
John though about what he learned about Sherlock by meeting his eyes. A lot really. Sherlock wouldn't be offended by such a thing, because he could see the financial gain from it. Using that money for something necessary like the rent would be beneficial and save both of them money. And it would count because it would be information on Sherlock being passed through John. Both of them at once really. Yes, that could work.
"Fine. I'll just use it for rent. I don't need extra money but it would be better than to waste it on trivial objects. And really, all for watching your brother like a sitter. Your suggested payment plan?"
John appeared in 221B about an hour later, after stopping at his apartment to pick up his gun first, to find Sherlock lounging on the sofa with his hands folded on his chest.
"Your brother needs a better hobby," he comment as he walked through the open doorway.
Sherlock sat up instantly, looking at John with intrigued eyes. "Mycroft told you who he was?"
"No. I'm just smarter than people give me credit for. Not only did I shock him, I terrified all at the same time."
Blue eyes narrowed, "You managed to strike fear into Mycroft?"
"Yes. He seemed to think that his position makes him indestructible, but he was poorly mistaken. He commented on my lack of fear of the situation and when I told him that he wasn't frightening in the least, he scoffed and called it 'soldier's bravery'," John's eyes rolled at the immediate memory. "I simply reminded him that he was only a foot away from a man who was a member of the armed forces for more than a decade. I reminded him that I had seen combat several times and came out alive each time. I also pointed out that while I am disadvantaged because of height, I'm stronger and faster than him and could kill him in three intricate ways before the assistant or driver could react. He's good at keeping his face controlled, but eyes are the windows to the soul and he was terrified to realize such a grievous miscalculation."
Sherlock's interest was caught. John could see it in his eyes. An entire list of questions was drawn up instantly and Sherlock was busy searching for which one to ask first.
"Did he threaten you?"
"He didn't get to. I took up most of his time by reminding him that if he tried anything, I could kill him. I'd even use his umbrella to do it."
"What did he want besides that?"
John could see that Sherlock already knew and decided on no lying.
"He's paying me to weekly tell him about how you're doing. I figured this could be used for rent instead of our own cash," he said, producing an envelope with the funds inside. "More than enough if paid four times a month, to handle the money for the flat monthly, plus any possible problems that could occur."
"Most people would assume I would be offended and deny such a thing. Why not you?"
John shrugged and placed the money on the coffee table. "I can't Sherlock people like you do, but I have my own way to pick them apart. You wouldn't be offended because you would be able to see the economic value unlike others. Sentiment isn't your thing and that is why you aren't currently offended that I accepted his offer."
Sherlock's head was tilted to the side and he was giving John a very thorough once over. Cataloging everything about him. John could see it all flashing through the man's eyes. Everything he had taken note of, on an extremely long piece of mental parchment, written in perfect script. John nearly sighed a how lovely Sherlock's mind was. Why couldn't everyone be so well-coordinated?
Sherlock shook himself off and stood. "I found something when I disappeared suddenly. You weren't too offended, correct?"
"Do you actually care about whether or not I was offended or whether or not you'll hear me whining about it in the future?" John countered, making the taller man freeze, with his hand dangling over the side of the seat.
Sherlock locked eyes with him and said, "Much more observant than I predicted."
He fished out the pink case from the side of the chair and placed it on the table between them.
"Let me guess, you found it in an alley or a rubbish chute of some sort?"
Sherlock stared and nodded slowly, "That's all you have to say? Perhaps I should mention, I didn't kill her."
"You gave this whole list of things to explain about her. Even going so far to explain how she was wet, had a trunk of her own, walked through mud and the like. None of this applies to you. You are clean and the creases in your clothing explain you've worn them for several hours- so you couldn't have changed quickly - and she was only dead for a couple of hours. You are dry everywhere, your clothing is perfectly clean, no mud. You said she was in Cardiff but you were at Barts all day, you still smell of the lab if you were wondering. It couldn't have been you."
Sherlock's mind produced a sudden need. He wanted to see John's eyes.
"Remove your glasses."
John shrugged and did so, blinking in the light as it affected the cornea.
"Your eyesight is fine, but you choose to wear protective coverings such as Ballistic Eyewear, U.S. Army APEL version. Expensive. Probably the most expensive thing you've ever purchased for yourself. You use them not for the fact that you're expecting possible low damage near your eyes, but because they come with a clip on shade. You told Mike you get migraines, meaning you block out the light with your fancy glasses and no other reason. But why do you even get migraines in the first place?"
John's brow arched and he smiled, "Stress. So much stress and useless information just adding on to my everyday life. It's annoying. I'm so used to wearing them, I just don't take them off, ever. It's been months. Besides sleeping and cleansing, I don't remove them and I see no need to."
He placed them back on, sliding them up the bridge of his nose, until they reached their usual place.
Mismatched blue eyes narrowed, but Sherlock didn't question him.
"You are a strange one. Others wouldn't be taking everything so lightly."
"Well, I'm not 'others'." John then smirked, "Besides, I've been out to war. You can see some very fucked up things in a foxhole, the barracks or even in a simple bunk. You never know what will happen. What you do, compared to what I used to do, doesn't phase me in the least."
Sherlock was looking the bag over. "Why was an army doctor out on the field anyway?"
"Why not be out on the field? Being a doctor doesn't excuse me from the hard work. I was also a Medical Support Officer. I forced my way into learning what the others did. I couldn't just sit back in the much safer environment while others were out there, risking their lives. I learned to fight, to shoot, to dig a foxhole and many other things. I've been on raids, been nearly blown apart by suicide bombers and even traveled through a minefield on foot without detonating a thing. And I wouldn't think of taking any of it back, because my actions were a great help. And all of my men came back alive."
He was sure and resolute. He knew most doctors wouldn't bother learning about how to shoot a proper firearm or even leave the 'safety' of their tent, but he wasn't them. He couldn't just sit back. So he doubled his studies and training, so that he could be a help no matter where he was. That was how he made it so high in the military.
"Strong sense of morals and loyalty. Rare to find such, even in a military man. I have a feeling that this arrangement between us will go a lot better than I assumed."
John could see what Sherlock was thinking. He'd created an entire room in his Mind Palace, completely dedicated to John Watson and finding out everything about him. Sherlock's interest was caught on John and he intended to spend his free time just observing John and his actions. Okay then, John could handle that.
"So what have you found out about this horribly pink bag?"
"On my desk, there's a number. I need you to send a text with your mobile."
John frowned, "And who is this text going to?"
Sherlock didn't answer.
"You think the murderer has the phone."
"How is it that you can understand the meaning in my words when I give no clues and yet all of Scotland Yard are at a loss even when the answer is blaring in their faces?"
"Because most people take everything for face value and don't bother to look underneath the underneath."
John fetched the number and message and sent the text with a sigh.
Sherlock nodded and continued to search the trunk. "I checked every back alley within a five-minute radius of the woman's body. Every one big enough for a small car to fit through of course. Then all of the places where someone could get rid of something easily without being noticed. A trunk like this could easily draw attention and it could only have taken the killer up to five minutes to realize he had it."
Sherlock's eyes were wide as he stared at the case. "Do you see what is missing?"
John looked at the tag quickly and then regretfully ruffled through the case itself. "The phone isn't in here." It was a guess, but really, what else did he have to go on? He wasn't Sherlock.
"You paid attention." This was said with a certain level of shock and awe that had John looking at the younger man questioningly.
"Yes, it's only polite."
Sherlock scoffed, "Niceties bore me and are so trivial. But you noticed that there is no phone. And that is why I had you send the text, because the murderer has the phone somehow. She planted it on him."
John looked from the case to Sherlock and back a few times, before shaking his head and saying simply, "Fascinating."
Another flush from the world's only consulting detective.
Sherlock jumped to his feet and began mumbling to himself. He then grinned and reached for his coat.
"You aren't about to go and do something stupid now, are you?" John asked, standing.
"I never do stupid things, John. Do keep up."
"Have you bothered to tell DI Lestrade about any of this or have you just laid there thinking all this through and doing nothing about it?"
Sherlock paused in putting on his coat and gave John a look and in those heterochromatic eyes, John could see the man reevaluating his earlier assessment of John being an idiot.
"No need to question my intelligence, like that. It would just be more prudent for you to inform the man as soon as possible, unless they take your need to work this out on your own, the wrong way. Withholding this trunk from the authorities could get you into unnecessary trouble and I don't believe your brother will be thrilled about having to bail you out."
Sherlock's mad thoughts suddenly came to halt and he appraised John intensely. "While you have a good point, four people are dead and I don't have time to regale to Lestrade all the gory details. You coming?"
"Yes. You'll do something stupid, whether you'll acknowledge it as foolish or not, means nothing. You're the kind of person to chase danger blindly because it's on whim and not realize what you've gotten into until things get egregious and dangerous."
The offended look that overcame Sherlock's face was priceless, but John wasn't going to take his words back. From what he had seen in Sherlock's mind and his past, this was something he did often and got into deadly situations often. John wasn't one to let someone go into danger by themselves. If he managed to bring an entire brigade back alive, he could definitely keep Sherlock Holmes safe, right?
"Well then, alright."
Sherlock stalked from the room and John hurried after him, making sure to close the door as he did.
Sherlock did not hail a hack and chose to just walk. The destination he had John text to the woman's phone, was where they were headed it seemed.
"Do you like Italian?"
"As in the language, the food, the nationality, throw me a bone here."
"Food," Sherlock smirked lightly.
A little more walking and Sherlock led him into a very small restaurant with a clear view of a three-way intersection.
John situated himself in the seat near the window, with his back against the side of the sill, not actually facing the window. It wasn't a good thing to leave such an opening in a place he had never been before.
His left leg came up to rest on the seat slightly, bent over his right which was on the floor. Sherlock noticed what he was doing and smiled approvingly.
A man appeared by their table, tall and a little heavy-set. John didn't look him in the eye, but could tell from his smile that he was happy to see Sherlock.
"Sherlock, anything you want, it's on the house. Free for you and your date."
John looked up at the man and then at Sherlock and said, "We're not on a date."
He was ignored, though he did notice that Sherlock didn't make a comment about it.
"John, this is Angelo, the owner. Angelo, this is Dr. John Watson, my new flatmate."
The man smiled, "This man got me off a murder charge. I owe him everything."
Sherlock shrugged and continued to look out the window, "Three years ago, triple murder and the facts 'apparently' pointed to Angelo when truly, he was all the way across the city, break and entering. I wasn't him."
Angelo was grinning and handed John a menu. "Just holler when you need something."
John waited a second before asking, "Are you homosexual or asexual?"
Sherlock did a double take and looked at John in confusion. "What?"
"He assumed that we are on a date and you did nothing to dissuade his assumptions. So, either you're gay and have nothing against people knowing, you don't care at all, or you're asexual. I can tell from how you act that women don't appeal to you in the least, so which one is it? It's okay to be homosexual by the way."
"I know it's fine," Sherlock stated. "Women aren't really my area. I haven't considered men in the least. You should know that I consider myself married to my work and though I am flattered at your apparent interest, I-"
"I'm not gay, Sherlock."
"All the signs point to-"
"Then you're reading them incorrectly. I am not gay, I am however, bisexual. Anyway, my question stems from the fact that if I start seeing a bloke some time in the future, I don't want it to make anything awkward between us."
Sherlock was frozen in his seat and said, "So, you aren't trying to pick me up?"
"Not in the least."
John could see the faint flicker of doubt and uncertainty in Sherlock's gaze. The man was also a little disheartened, which gave John the answer he needed. Sherlock Holmes was attracted to blokes, though he had never been with one. John admitting to not thinking of him like that, made his ego die a little.
"Not that you aren't attractive or anything, but we don't know each other well enough for me to attempt to flirt with you. Give it a month and maybe."
Hope kindled in those blue eyes. Though Sherlock didn't want to admit to feeling anything that related to sentiment, he was actually a very emotional and self doubting person. And the whole, starved for attention thing fed in with it.
"Well then, okay."
Sherlock turned back to the window and John ordered a simple cuppa, not wanting to eat anything heavy at such a time in the evening. It was dark out and technically, he'd have been in bed by that time. He didn't want to break his habit.
After a few moment, Sherlock motioned to the window. "There. A taxi has stopped, but nobody is getting out. Why a taxi?"
John glanced back one and turned to face his cup again. If this had any significance in Sherlock's case, it wouldn't do good for both of them to stare. That drew attention. In the field, such things were bad ideas and with a serial killer on the loose, it was still a bad idea.
"That's clever," Sherlock stated suddenly, head beginning to move from side to side in minuscule twitches. John knew it wasn't anything bad, the younger man was just excited at the prospect of finding the killer. Still, he looked positively barmy, moving like that.
"Is he clever? Why is he clever?"
John shrugged and finished his tea in time to catch up with Sherlock, who had grabbed his coat and was already out he door. John followed soundlessly.
Just as Sherlock fixed his collar, the taxi began to pull away and he leapt forward.
John registered Sherlock jumping high enough to slid across the bonnet of an oncoming car and landing safely in order to break into a run. John had been right behind him the whole way, easy vaulting over the vehicle with an extra spring from placing his hand on the hot bonnet. He too landed just fine and sprinted after the consulting detective.
As the hack got away, he filed the numbers away for later.
"I've got the cab number," he said as he stopped beside Sherlock, who was holding his heads tightly.
He then looked up suddenly and began running again, "This way!"
John followed easy and couldn't help but be impressed with how Sherlock had memorized the streets of London. It was amazing and he had to bite his lip to keep from giving another compliment. Not when Sherlock was so into his zone of things.
Through alleys and up and down fire escapes. Across rooftops. Sherlock was like a bloody circus performer with all the leaps and how easily he scaled the fences.
It was like advanced Parkour. John was pretty good at it, even at the age of thirty-three. Sherlock was amazing though. He wasn't even winded and he was a civilian. John was a soldier, so it was easy to explain why he wasn't huffing, but Sherlock had impressed him with his physical fitness.
When they finally caught up to the vehicle, it turned out that the man wasn't anyone special and was new to the city and Sherlock was particularly angry about being wrong.
When they were a safe distance from the cab, John turned to Sherlock and asked, "Where did you get that?" He motioned to the card the man had flashed while explaining to the man who he supposedly was.
"I picked Lestrade's pockets. I do it when he's annoying me. You can keep it, I have plenty at the flat."
John looked down at the card and couldn't help but snort. Sherlock was one hell of a funny bloke. He just picks people's pockets when they annoy him and admits to it like there's nothing wrong.
"Nothing. You're so intriguing though."
Before Sherlock could comment, they both hear a door open and see the man from the cab talking to a real officer.
"We should probably get out of here," John suggested.
"Exactly as I was thinking."
They ran for it.
Making it back to 221B wasn't a problem and both men were giggling like school girls when they made it to the entryway.
"Besides charging an excessively armed enemy with only a fishing knife, that was the second most ridiculous thing I have ever done," he breathed, leaning against the wall for support.
Sherlock snorted, "Only the second? Invading Afghanistan doesn't factor in there anywhere?"
More giggles. "It wasn't just me."
Mrs. Hudson appeared while they were still getting over the adrenaline high of running through the city.
She looked worried and Sherlock called her name inquiringly. She motioned to the stairs and simply said, "Upstairs."
The men shared a look and Sherlock took the steps two at a time.
Sherlock was angry as he slammed open the door to reveal Lestrade and his men, going through his flat.
"Why did you break into my flat?" he asked in a low, dangerous tone.,
"Drugs bust," Lestrade shrugged.
John couldn't let that one go and had to step in when he saw something in Lestrade's eyes. "Have you proper clearance to enter someone's home without permission?"
Lestrade's face went blank suddenly and Donovan appeared from the kitchen and sneered, "We're the police, we don't need permission."
John huffed an humorless laugh, "Actually, being part of the local authorities does not give you the right to do whatever you want whenever you want. Unless you have the proper form of affidavit given by a licensed magistrate, you have no right to be here and this is considered breaking an entering. You do not have a Police Dog with you and all of you here do not work in the department that specializes in doing drug busts. You are breaking and entering and if you don't explain why you are here, we have the right to report you, request the assistance of a solicitor and institute legal proceedings that could very well lead to many of you becoming impoverished.
I tell you now. I fought for my country and was injured in the line of duty. I do not appreciate this for all of my efforts and the efforts of my men."
Lestrade floundered and apparently couldn't respond. He had no clue what to say.
"You can't do that, Watson," Donovan snapped, though he could see she looked worried.
"Sergeant Donovan, you will refer to me as Brigadier General Watson, are we clear?!"
His tone left room for no argument and he enjoyed how she jumped and stiffened. Her eyes moved around frantically, looking for something to change subject. A picture of the money envelope he got from Mycroft earlier, entered her mind.
"What about that huh? That much money doesn't just appear and the Freak doesn't have any other jobs?"
"That is mine."
Lestrade finally came to his senses and asked, "Why would it be here?"
"I live here."
The man paled, "Since when?"
"Since earlier this evening. Before I even met you. I had already signed the lease. You're invading the official home of an army veteran."
"That doesn't explain where that much money came from!" Donovan insisted.
John rolled his eyes and removed his glasses so the woman could see the glare he was giving her. "Not that it's any of your business but I am doing some side jobs for Sherlock's older brother. He's what you would consider a selective participant in certain issues."
Sherlock, who had remained silent, in complete awe of John, snorted suddenly. "I wish you'd say that to his face. No one has ever called him 'lazy' in such a way."
John smirked in response, before turning back to Donovan. "You'd be surprised how many rights normal civilians hold. You'd also be surprised at how many civilians don't know their basic rights. I however, know my rights very well and I will do everything I have listed if one of you does not speak. Oh, and as you concede to my demands, you will also be cleaning up the mess you made and replacing anything destroyed because Anderson and Donovan obviously get off on destroying people's property. The rest of you, will make sure this flat in clean."
Lestrade was gaping at him, but did not refute his claims or orders. The surrounding officers were looking at John in horror.
"So, do I call my solicitor or are you going to answer me?"
The DI's hands went up and he motioned to his people, "Begin cleaning! Anderson, Donovan, taking inventory of what you have destroyed, it's coming out of your paychecks!"
There were grumblings and cursings, but he yelled for them to start and they scrambled to follow orders.
"I knew Sherlock would find the case and I needed a reason to get to it."
"You couldn't even get a warrant? You just assumed that he wouldn't know about his basic rights? You think that because people are so blind to what's in front of them, you have a right to do what you want without repercussions?"
The man didn't answer.
"I won't start a lawsuit, just because you are the only person in the force who seems to appreciate was Sherlock does for you."
Just as Lestrade was sighing in relief, he added, "I will however, file a formal complaint under my military status to make a point."
Anderson decided to butt in then. "None of this matters, we found the case and according to someone, the murderer has the case and we found it in the flat of our favorite psychopath!"
"I'm not a psychopath, Anderson, I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research!"
With an amused smile, John gestured to Sherlock and let him take over the questioning.
Sherlock was like the bad cop in old movies. No good cop at all. He was swift in responding and even faster at putting people down.
Mrs. Hudson came in and mentioned that the cab they had called for, the one with the number that John had memorized, was outside. Sherlock ignored her. John decided to explain why the police were even there.
Sherlock was arguing with Lestrade about what 'Rachel' could mean. The DI explained that Rachel was the woman's daughter who never had a chance to be born. Sherlock expressed confusion over why it would bother her now, fourteen years down the road.
Everyone looked at him in worry. Everyone but John. He at least understood why Sherlock didn't understand it.
The consulting detective looked around warily and leaned into John to ask lowly, "Not good?"
"A bit not good. Sentiment," he said, like that explained everything and for Sherlock, it did.
John slipped his glasses back on and waited out Sherlock's moment of talking to himself. He then froze in place and demanded that everyone shut up because he needed to think.
"Anderson, face the other way, you're putting me off!"
John snorted. Obviously Sherlock was capable of getting revenge for the rude behavior just well on his own.
Anderson was ordered to turn around and Sherlock began to mumble, holding his head much like he had done when searching his mind for a way to intercept the cab.
"Oh! She was clever! John, do you know why she was clever?"
Even John couldn't come up with something. "She left a hint scratched on the floor with her nails?" he guessed.
"Yes! I'm surprised that you where I was going. Good show! It's Rachel! John, check the trunk and tell me the email address."
As John fumbled to do so, Sherlock looked around a gave a laugh, "Look at you all, you're so vacant. God what is it like in your silly little brains? It must be so boring, not being me!"
John read off the email and Sherlock grinned and sat in his chair, pulling up a site on his open laptop.
Sherlock explained that the woman had a smartphone and by accessing her email, which had the password set to, 'Rachel' they could use the GPS in the phone to track the killer because whoever it was, had it on them.
Sherlock stood to get his coat on, while he waited for the map to come up. Lestrade was trying to get how Sherlock someone found the information, but the younger man was being obtuse.
John took a seat in the now vacant chair and his brows drew together when it showed where the phone currently was.
"Sherlock?" he called slowly.
He repeated the word again, until Sherlock appeared by his side.
"It's here. It says it's right here at 221B, but how?"
Mrs. Hudson reminded them of the cab that was still waiting downstairs.
Anderson made a snide remark, Sherlock told him to cease speaking because he lowered the IQ of the entire block that way. John had to give Sherlock points for originality.
When no sound came from the man, John turned to see Sherlock gazing vacantly into the stairwell, past Mrs. Hudson.
"I need to get some air to clear my mind. Try to keep the noise to a dull roar at least."
Sherlock flounder from the flat with a purposeful stride.
Mrs. Hudson followed him after a wave at John.
"Why does he need air?" Lestrade asked rhetorically.
John shrugged, "Maybe Anderson put him off again."
Said man did not appreciate his snide humor and he could care less.
A few minutes of force members still cleaning the flat, passed. John smirked in their direction, causing them to scowl.
There was beep from the laptop and John looked over to see the marker suddenly moving. The phone was moving away from Baker Street and had just turned a corner. The bloody hell?
Mrs. Hudson appeared, "I think Sherlock went for a ride. He took the cab! He seemed to know the cabbie quite well too."
It hit John suddenly he cursed aloud, scaring the wits out of everyone.
"Sherlock figured it out!"
"What?" Lestrade asked looking lost.
"As we were out walking earlier, he narrowed it down to a person who is constantly in the public eye, but is easily overlooked. Someone you'd trust even though you've never met or seen them before. We shadowed a cab and I even memorized the number and we called for that cab to come here. It's the one that was waiting outside. Sherlock pulled up the GPS on the phone and it said it was here at 221B, but now Sherlock has gone away, in a cab, and the phone is moving away from Baker Street at a speed faster than most can run. A person you wouldn't pay attention to who can easily pick up victims and get away with them without people noticing. It's the cabbie and Sherlock's so bloody stupid and full of his observational abilities,he went with the man willingly!"
"Are you serious?" Lestrade asked, mouth agape.
"This isn't a joking matter. The idiot wants to learn how it's done, so he went willingly."
Lestrade began calling out orders and the officers rushed from the building and John rushed after, grabbing the laptop on his way.
He had never sat in the front seat of a cop car before and with Lestrade's driving, he hoped he never had to ever again.
They stopped at two identical buildings with no indication of which they had entered. The cab was parked between them.
"I'll take the one on the right," John said, pulling out his gun. "And I'm licensed to carry, so don't worry."
He was in before Lestrade could respond, stalking the halls like a panther. A familiar ease came over him, like he'd done it before, and he had. Retrieval missions were always the most interesting. Like James Bond on steroids and absolutely no getting caught allowed.
He went from room to room. Checking carefully, until he came upon a room on the fourth floor, with a large window in the back, that gave perfect view to the window in the other building. Where in a semi lit room, stood an old cabbie and Sherlock. Both were holding something small in their hands and Sherlock looked ready to swallow whatever it was.
John approached the window cautiously. Sherlock's back was to him, but the old man would be able to see him just fine. He'd have to be fast. Thank God he was an expert marksman.
Sherlock's hand moved and John couldn't take it. He slipped from the side of the wall, took aim and fired. The bullet went right through the window and into the other, sailing over Sherlock's right shoulder and hitting the old cabbie right in the left shoulder, a little above the heart.
Sherlock jumped and spun around, getting close to the window to peer through the small hole the bullet had created.
John waved happily from his place and motioned downstairs with his hand. Sherlock looked back at the man and then to John and nodded.
Outside, Sherlock was immediately hailed by EMTs and John explained to Lestrade about why he had to shoot the cabbie. Sherlock and the cabbie were about to swallow some unknown substance and he couldn't take the chance. The man didn't blame him.
Sherlock sat on the back of the ambulance, pouting. Over his shoulders was a bright range shock blanket. Lestrade and John moved closer and he glared at the DI, "Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting this blanket on me!"
"It's for shock," the cop explained.
"I'm not in shock!"
"Yeah, some of the guys want to take photographs," Lestrade smirked.
"Care to explain why you went off on your own?"
Sherlock's eyes went a little wide and he looked up at John for a second, before looking back t the DI and saying, "I'm not really feeling up to it at the moment."
"What? I've got questions for you!"
"And I've got a blanket, which means that I'm in shock!"
John had to bit his lips to refrain from laughing to the look on Lestrade's face.
"Fine. But you're coming by the station tomorrow to give a testimony."
Sherlock stood and nodded. "Glad that we're on the same page. Come, John."
He flounced away, obviously expecting John to follow.
"Are you hungry?" Sherlock asked.
"There's a good Chinese restaurant a block from 221B that stays open until two in the morning. We can go there."
"Sure. Your brother is here."
"Of course he is."
Mycroft Holmes and his assistant stood by a black car, both waiting patiently.
"Well look at you two. Just moving in an already solving crimes together!"
John cleared his throat, "Sherlock did all the solving. I just stopped him from being an idiot."
"It was a calculated risk," Sherlock insisted.
"A fancy way for saying foolish."
Mycroft looked back and forth between the grinning men. His brows were drawn together.
"So friendly, you are."
"Life or death situations do that for you," John pointed out casually.
"Yes," Mycroft sneered. "Leg work isn't really my forte."
"Selective participant," John coughed into his fist, refusing to look at the man.
Sherlock giggled into his hand and fixed his brother a smug look. "At least my assistant is interesting. I can't say the same about yours."
"It's this sort of attitude that upsets Mummy."
Sherlock was overcome with offense. "'Upsets'? I'm not the one who upsets her! At least I answer her calls and if I don't, it's because of a case! You're the one who ignores her and she knows it!"
Mycroft's eyes rolled, "You simply don't understand the position I am in."
"Yes, the sitting-behind-your-desk-all-day position must be exhausting for you. Please, do cry me a river, Mycroft."
They bickered like children and John laughed lightly. "You two are something else. Much like my sister and I. We hide our feelings for one another with arguing."
"'Feelings'," Mycroft shuddered.
"Sentiment," Sherlock's nose wrinkled.
"You both care and you know it."
"Caring is not an advantage," Mycroft said quickly and John understood that it was most likely something he had repeated in the past. Many times over.
"If so then neither is, 'worrying', which is a form of caring, for your little brother, an advantage."
He didn't respond.
Sherlock hummed and started walking away, "Good evening, Mycroft. Come, John!"
John followed after and smiled when Sherlock finally removed the shock blanket.
"You can have it. Heavy duty and all," he said, shoving it into John's arms.
"A gift for your flatmate, how sentimental of you, Sherlock!"
"Oh, shut it."
John smirked and shook his head.
If every day with Sherlock Holmes would be like this, he wouldn't have a problem from that day forward.
Let the fun begin.
A/N: First one is done.
How was it? Let me know in a constructive , respectful manner please? If you are rude or you flame me, do not expect a good response. Treat others how you wish to be treated. Assholes don't deserve kindness, remember that.