Chapter Text
At exactly 7:45 that night, a black cab deposits John onto the pavement outside 221B Baker Street. It’s a crisp December night, and he shivers, breath fogging as he pockets his change and makes his way up the building’s front steps.
John glances at his watch, then up at the sleek brass knocker with ‘221’ stamped in neat gold lettering above it. He squares his shoulders, raises a hand to knock, and pauses, struck by a sudden swooping feeling in his stomach that has absolutely nothing to do with the cold. Is he too early? Too eager, perhaps?
John examines his minute reflection in the brass, and squints at the smear of bright red-green he can see trailing from his jacket. What on earth? He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his work apron – a seasonal one Mike had specially made for December, complete with tinsel trimming – and grimaces, hurriedly stuffing it back. He must’ve forgotten to hang it up before leaving the coffeehouse.
A glance up and down the street tells him there’s a small, non-descript café by the name of Speedy’s not too far away. Perhaps he should just nip in there for a quick cuppa, gather himself a bit before–
“Why, hello dear, you must be John!”
John blinks at the suddenly opened door, hand still poised to knock.
A woman in her sixties is standing in the doorway, wearing a smile and an apron over her magenta dress.
“Er – yes, hi,” John says, letting his arm fall awkwardly to his side.
“Well, come in, come in!” She holds the door open for John to step into the hallway. “Sherlock told me you’d be dithering on the doorstep.”
“He – did?”
“Ooh, this is so exciting,” she says, completely sidestepping his question, her eyes twinkling as she leads John up a slightly rickety staircase, “You must be quite something, dear. I’ve never seen him so –”
But just what precisely Sherlock has been so, John never finds out, because at that moment the door to what must be the first floor apartment flies open and Sherlock barges onto the landing, cheeks flushed, a blue silk dressing gown slipping off one shoulder as he brandishes a laptop in his hands. For a split second John’s mind wanders, and he thinks of all the possible scenarios that could have culminated in a sweaty, flushed Sherlock, before he’s brought back to the present by the man himself, and the whirlwind of activity that appears to orbit him.
“Excellent, John, I see you’ve met Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock says, an air of palpable excitement about him as he takes John by the shoulders and spins him firmly around to face the stairs he’s just come up, “We should really get going – we wouldn’t want to be late now, would we?”
“Late – where?” John allows himself to be propelled halfway down the stairs before a thought strikes him. “You’re not seriously going outside in that?”
“What – oh.” Sherlock pauses, frowning down at his dressing gown in the bemused manner of one who doesn’t quite remember donning it in the first place. He tugs irritably at the silk belt around his waist before discarding both gown and laptop in one fell swoop onto the staircase. John realises he isn’t even surprised to find that the man has on a tailored three-piece Dolce & Gabbana suit on underneath. John is suddenly painfully aware of his own outfit – cable knit jumper, jeans and Barbour jacket – which he haphazardly threw on this morning before heading to the cafe.
“Oh, you boys have fun tonight, won’t you?” the lady – Mrs Hudson – says excitedly, as John finally reaches the ground floor, having made it past the veritable obstacle course Sherlock’s left behind him.
“John!” Sherlock shouts from the foyer, somehow throwing on an overcoat and looping a scarf around his neck at the same time. “Do come along, we’ve a schedule to keep!”
“Er – nice meeting you,” John says, and before Mrs Hudson has a chance to reply he finds himself being tugged onto the street and into the back of a black cab – which evidently Sherlock summoned out of thin air.
“Embankment,” Sherlock says to the cabbie, then leans back in his seat and crosses his legs, seeming perfectly content to sit in silence as Marylebone passes them by.
John quite frankly doesn’t remember the last time he’s had so many things he wants to say in his life. Just exactly why he’s currently en route to Embankment, what tight schedule are they supposedly on, and who the hell does Sherlock think he is anyway, asking him over just to drag him across town, on a Friday night no less – these all seem perfectly good places to start. But for some reason John’s brain-to-mouth synapses appear to be firing just a bit less tonight, and none of these concerns are voiced.
As if on cue, however, Sherlock turns to him, gloved fingers (and when did he have time to put gloves on?) steepling under his chin. “Right, you’ve got questions.”
John nods, rather jerkily. “What am I doing here, Sherlock?”
Sherlock frowns. “I would have thought that rather obvious, John.”
“No, no it’s not.” John surprises himself by saying this rather loudly (the cabbie glances back at him in the rearview mirror). “You – you invite me over, you don’t even stop to say how d’you do and you just – rush me out the door and now you’re dragging me halfway across the city to keep some prior engagement you’ve made and I think it’s about time I got a straight bloody answer for once tonight.”
Sherlock, the git, has the nerve to arch an eyebrow at him in amusement. John is equal parts torn between wanting him to shut up and wanting to shut him up by other, vastly more creative means.
John’s wandering mind is recalled to the present as Sherlock says, matter-of-factly, “You’re here to help me work the case, of course.”
“The case?”
Sherlock flaps a hand impatiently. “Yes, the case. Do keep up, John. The one you overheard the other week, when you were pretending to load the coffee grinder. Michaels is our guy, and I do think tonight will be our chance to catch him in flagrante.”
John snorts, his annoyance evaporating in an instant.
“What?” Sherlock says, unsteepling his fingers and looking peeved.
“It’s just –” John says, suddenly overcome with a fit of giggles, “I don’t think I’ve heard anyone in real life use the term in flagrante, ever.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes, but stares pointedly out the window as he says, “So – will you help me?”
“Well, I hardly have a choice now, do I, what with you kidnapping me in a cab and all.”
“Just answer the question, John.”
There’s an oddly weighted quality to the way Sherlock says this that has John thinking his answer matters a lot more to the man than he’s letting on.
“…Yes, course I will,” John says, and he doesn’t even care how insane he sounds, or how utterly bonkers this whole evening is turning out to be, never mind the fact that he has absolutely no clue what he’s getting himself into here with this self-proclaimed consulting detective who’s done nothing but patronize him all night and who is still currently gazing intently out the window, the contours of his face backlit by the glow of a passing streetlamp – though something warm pools in the region of John’s chest as he watches the corners of Sherlock’s lips curve upwards at his answer, almost imperceptibly, but there nevertheless. John doesn’t have long to savour the moment, however.
“We’re here.”
The cab stops abruptly, and in seconds they find themselves shivering, bracing against strong, sharp gusts of wind cutting across the Thames.
Sherlock turns up his coat collar and John shoves his hands deep into his jacket pockets, hurrying to keep up with the other’s long strides as Sherlock makes a beeline for the pier.
They pass the next few minutes in silence, Sherlock walking with purpose along the riverbank, stopping every now and then to check his phone. As Sherlock pulls out his phone for what must be the fifth or sixth check, he stops dead in his tracks and John, having spent the last few hundred feet thinking about how cold his feet are becoming, collides bodily with him.
“Ah, sorry,” he says, but Sherlock, staring rapt with concentration at his screen (on which he’s pulled up maps), doesn’t seem to have noticed.
“Over here,” Sherlock finally says, and beckons John over to a large tree. By its trunk is nestled a park bench, which Sherlock folds himself gracefully into.
John takes a seat next to him, grimacing at the metal slates pressing against his legs, the cold seeping through his jeans. He glances over at his companion, the question what am I doing here burning on his lips, but falls silent at the look on Sherlock’s face. He’s leaned back on the bench and is looking out over the river, at the London skyline, with a light in his eyes and it strikes John just how at peace Sherlock looks in this moment. Come to think of it, he’s never seen the man slow down for longer than strictly necessary, and to see him just sitting here, savouring the night, brings unbidden a smile of fondness to John’s face.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Sherlock murmurs, after a beat, eyes fixed on the glimmering lights across the river.
“Yes,” John says, still watching Sherlock.
It takes Sherlock perhaps three seconds to realise John isn’t talking about the Thames or the city lights. John watches, amused, as the consulting detective turns sharply to meet his gaze.
“Oh,” Sherlock says, cheeks flushing from what must be the cold, as his tongue darts out to wet slightly chapped lips and his right hand makes an abortive gesture, as if to reach for John’s arm.
And John leans in, because he doesn’t think there’s ever been a moment that’s so readily presented itself as the one now, but next thing he knows his personal space is bereft of Sherlock and he’s being pulled to his feet and behind the trunk of the tree.
“That’s him,” Sherlock whispers, pointing a gloved hand at a shadowy figure that John can just about make out at the edge of the dock. “That’s Michaels.”
Johns peers out through a gap in the branches, feeling the thrill of something that has decidedly more to do with excitement than nerves shoot through his body. “How did you know he’d be here?”
“Hacked his phone and got into his messages,” Sherlock says, in the off-hand manner one usually associates with commentary on the weather. “He’s meeting his supplier and, if I’m not mistaken, our murderer.”
Just then a speedboat slows to a halt by the pier, its engine puttering off. As they watch, a man disembarks and makes his way up the stairs to the dock, an evidently heavy sack slung over his shoulder. He reaches Michaels and the two shake hands, conversing in low voices that are impossible to catch over the wind and the sounds of water slapping gently against the pier.
“Should we go closer maybe?” John asks, turning to look at his companion.
But Sherlock’s attention is focussed solely on his phone, on which he’s attempting to type something with apparent difficulty, probably because he’s failed to take off his gloves beforehand.
With a sigh of great exasperation, Sherlock thrusts the phone at John. “I need you to type something for me. Now.”
“But what about the –”
“Now, John, hurry,” Sherlock snaps, eyes trained on Michaels and the speedboat man once more.
“Okay, okay, fine,” John says, sensing this to be an argument he can’t win as he takes the phone. The screen displays a blank message to an unsaved contact.
“These exact words: Where are you? I’ve been waiting on the dock for half an hour.”
John types as quickly as his cold hands will permit, not helped along by Sherlock, who literally stands next to him and breathes down his neck, huffing impatiently and tsking whenever John makes a typo and has to backspace. John is torn between rolling his eyes and asking Sherlock to just do it himself, and taking a step backwards into the welcoming warmth of Sherlock’s (admittedly scratchy) wool overcoat. Wanting to do the latter has nothing at all to do with the fact that this close, he can smell the heady cologne the other is wearing.
“Hurry up and send it,” Sherlock says lowly, with his mouth far too close to John’s ear, who shivers with cold and anticipation – of what, he doesn’t want to dwell overly long on.
“Okay, I’ve sent it.”
“Excellent,” Sherlock rubs his hands together, sounding positively gleeful as he turns his attention back to the men on the dock, one of whom has just pulled out a phone to check something. “Let’s see what happens now, shall we?”
“Sherlock…” John says slowly, wondering how the hell his brain didn’t connect the dots half a minute sooner. “Who did I just text?”
Suddenly preoccupied with flicking off some imaginary lint on his lapel, Sherlock doesn’t answer.
“Sherlock, did I just text a bloody murderer?”
As Sherlock opens his mouth to answer, shouts are heard from the pier – John turns to find Michaels and his companion standing feet apart, each pointing a gun at the other.
And before John can tell him otherwise, Sherlock takes off like a shot, his coattails flapping after him in the wind as he runs straight towards the altercation.
“Shit,” John says, perhaps more emphatically than he’s ever done so in his life, as he hares after the Sherlock, the utter berk.
They reach the dock at the same time, and as if by some unspoken consent that passes between them, Sherlock tackles Michaels from the side whilst John lunges at the Supplier-Murderer, as he’s now known in John’s head.
It’s perhaps only a credit to the monumentally stupid nature of what they’ve just done that gives them an edge over the two men (who are armed, John’s brain helpfully points out) – who both seem too shocked to do anything other than stand there, open-mouthed, their guns held slackly, as Sherlock and John make their attack.
Their element of surprise lasts all of two seconds, which is enough time for Sherlock to knock Michaels to the ground and pin him, still struggling, the gun clattering uselessly to the side. John, however, is not quite so lucky. Supplier-Murderer guy quickly recovers, throwing out an elbow that catches John hard in the ribs and sends him to his knees. Reeling, John barely has time to catch his breath before he’s dealt another swift blow to the temple, and from the resounding smack that makes him taste concrete and see stars, he acknowledges vaguely that he’s just been hit with the barrel of the gun.
“John!”
He hears an agonised shout from far, far away, as a choir of angels serenade him. John frowns; one of the angels has picked up a deadly looking harp, and is holding it like a crossbow, aiming it at Sherlock’s back.
Sherlock. John’s vision swims back into bleary focus to find his assailant standing feet away, pointing both guns at Sherlock, who’s slowly getting to his feet, both hands in the air. Michaels’ prone body lies somewhere to his right, apparently knocked out cold.
“…get away from him, alright?” Sherlock is saying, a note of desperation in his voice.
The man standing over John laughs, a sharp, biting sound, and re-adjusts his grip to point one of the guns at John, directly over his heart. He turns back to sneer at Sherlock. “What is he, your boyfriend or something?”
Sherlock swears, meeting John’s eyes for the briefest of moments. His eyes are frenzied and he looks utterly helpless; more out of his depth than John’s ever seen him. Sherlock’s helplessness is what finally galvanizes John into action.
John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, the taste of blood metallic on his tongue as he reaches into his coat pocket and steels himself to do the second most colossally stupid thing he’s done tonight, praying his attacker’s distracted enough that this will work.
His hand closes around the ties of his Christmas-themed work apron and in one fluid motion he springs to his feet and flings himself forwards, looping the ties around the man’s neck from behind and yanking until he chokes, the guns clattering to the ground as his hands come up to scramble for purchase. Just as John’s beginning to worry that he’s getting dangerously close to asphyxiating the man, Sherlock resolves the problem by picking up one of the guns and knocking him out with the flat of it.
John steps back and they both watch as the man crumples to the ground like a puppet with cut strings.
There’s a beat of silence as they both survey the scene before them: the two prone figures on the floor, the discarded gun, and the abandoned duffel bag their assailant was carrying which, when Sherlock bends down to open it, is chock-full of –
“Cocaine,” Sherlock murmurs, an appreciative glint in his eye (John’ll have to remember to ask him about that later) as he inspects the dozens upon dozens of neatly arranged packets.
“Sherlock,” John says, and there’s a roaring in his ears which has nothing to do with the still-smarting blow he took to the side of his head.
And Sherlock turns to look at him, a question in his eyes that John answers with his lips. The kiss is electric and bruising, and as John slides a hand up the nape of Sherlock’s neck and yanks at the other’s curls he feels Sherlock shudder and practically melt against him.
“You –” John breaks away to rest his forehead against Sherlock’s, both of them flushed and out of breath, “You’re the most impossible fucking prat I’ve ever known.”
Sherlock blinks, looking dazed and unsure of himself, though he makes no move to pull away. “John, I –”
“I’m not done,” John cuts in, cupping the back of Sherlock’s neck. His thumb brushes against Sherlock’s pulse point, which he’s gratified to find is fluttering madly under his touch. “You dragged me halfway across London tonight, on some hare-brained rendezvous with a crook and a murderer, didn’t even bother calling any of your pals at the Yard for back-up and just recklessly endangered both our lives on a fucking hunch you had and yet for some reason I still think this is the best first date I’ve ever been on.”
At that, Sherlock glances up in a manner that can only accurately be described as shy and asks hopefully, “Does this mean you’ll let me buy you a drink?”
John grins, his heart fuller than it has been in a long time. “Only if it means you’re not the one making it. I’ve seen the ungodly amounts of sugar you add to all your drinks.”
Sherlock’s answering smile is soft, and he looks at John like he sees the London skyline and more in his eyes. “I promise, John. And I always keep my promises.”