Chapter Text
Sherlock’s mobile phone rings while he brushes his teeth. He walks through the interconnecting door into his bedroom, looks at the display, wants to find out if it’s worth to pick up.
It is.
“’lo”, Sherlock mumbles into the speaker, toothbrush clenched between his teeth, foam running down his chin.
“Morning. It’s Lestrade. We need you.”
“Whea?”
“Is everything alright?”
“Yeff, buffing teef.”
”Well, whatever’s going on, we need you at a crime scene.”
“Hoo fap wap befoa.”
“Er, Sherlock? I guess it’s a bad connection. I’ll send you the address. Hope to see you soon.” Detective Inspector Lestrade ends the call.
A few seconds later Sherlock’s mobile beeps, indicates an incoming message.
Regent’s Park
ZSL London Zoo
Penguin Beach
Murder. Right inside the compound.
A murder! Finally!
“Yeff!” Sherlock jumps in the air, foam sprinkles out of his mouth. He runs into the living room.
“Wohm! We haff a murbar ap Wondon foo!”
John looks up from his newspaper. “I don’t know what you said, but because of your excitement I guess there is a crime scene that awaits us.”
But Sherlock is already back in the bathroom, rushes to finish brushing his teeth.
He looks at the text message again and his enthusiasm blunts a bit.
Penguin Beach. Penguin. Pen-guin.
He has to try to avoid this word somehow.
On their way to the zoo, Sherlock’s anticipation is nearly gone and he even strolls, his steps small and slow instead of eager and fast.
John notices. “Is something wrong?”
“Everything’s alright. A murder, John! What a wonderful day! It’s been four weeks since Lestrade needed me. Four weeks! Can you imagine? I nearly thought he was dead himself.”
Sherlock babbles and gabbles and John knows that something is wrong. “Any details yet?”, he wants to know. But the detective isn’t at his side anymore. He turns around. Sherlock stands under a magnolia tree, its flowers slightly wilting, stares at something.
“What is it?”, John asks.
“Bees.”
Bees, obviously, John thinks and sighs. But he isn’t mad. Just interested in why his flatmate dawdles when there is the first crime scene in a month. There is definitely something going on, and John is sure to find out.
Finally Sherlock closes up to him. Still not walking faster. They arrive twenty minutes later than predicted.
“Where exactly do we have to go?”, John asks when they enter the zoo. A policeman welcomes them.
“Pewn beach”, Sherlock mumbles.
“What?”
“Beach.”
“Penguin beach?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not too far. We have to turn left. Wasn’t at the zoo in ages.”
Sherlock follows John, a tingling sensation inside him.
Pen-guin. Pen-guin. Pen-guin. Pen-guin.
George Gavin Greg Lestrade awaits them. He lifts the crime scene tape and hands John a cup of coffee. “Sorry, just got one left.” He looks at Sherlock apologetically. Sherlock shrugs.
“Male, white, 40 years, has been floating in the water. The keeper has found him in the morning when he wanted to feed the penguins”, Lestrade explains. “It’s the iceman. He has his booth near the birds.”
“Name?”, Sherlock asks, kneels down to take a closer look at the corpse.
“Jimmy Fink. See the wound on his forehead? Someone hit him with a spade. Cause of death.”
“No.”
“No?”
“John, come here.”
Lestrade shares a look with John.
“Yeah, bit bossy, again”, John whispers.
“I heard that”, Sherlock interrupts.
“Of course you did.” John sighs and leans over the corpse.
Sherlock points at the area between ring and middle finger of the left hand. “See that?”
John blinks a few times. “What is it?”
Sherlock groans. Annoyed. “Gloves”, he orders. Lestrade hands him a pair. Sherlock puts them on.
“It was Anderson again, right? Did he examine the body? Oh, why do I ask? Of course it was him! Just an idiot can ignore it.” Furiously he grabs the hand, nearly hits John in the face with it. “Look!”
“Don’t yell at me.”
“Look!” Sherlock shakes the hand now.
“I do look. What is it, for God’s sake?”
“A bite, John! A bite! Did you turn stupid over night?” Sherlock lets go of the hand which makes a funny noise when it hits the asphalt. He jumps to his feet, removes the gloves, tosses them on the ground. Stomps away. He is angry with himself. He didn’t mean to be so rude to John. But there is a sensation inside him that makes him anxious.
Pen-guin.
Sherlock walks out of the compound. Angry about Anderson’s incompetence, angry about John’s slowness of uptake. But mostly he is mad about himself. Because this case reminds him of a failure. A mistake he can’t correct, although he tried for years and years.
System error.
It’s easy to avoid it in everyday life. Usually. But today it broke through the surface like a worm that eats its way through an apple.
He kicks at a pebble stone.
There is a crescent in his chest, the opening turned downward, facing his entrails. He feels sorry. Because he has snapped at John. It’s not like that he hasn’t done this before. But he doesn’t want to behave that way towards John anymore.
Because John matters.
Sherlock stops walking. The zoo lays behind him. But going back isn’t an option. And going home isn’t too. So he just sinks down on a bench in Regent’s Park. In between.
“I’m sorry”, John says to Greg.
“You don’t have to be. We all know he throws a tantrum every now and then.”
“At least he is right. There are two tiny bloody spots between the fingers. I guess we have to wait for a toxicity analysis to know more.”
Greg sighs. “He is always right. That’s why I have to call him.”
No, John thinks, Sherlock is not always right.
“Did something happen between you two?” Greg knits his brows, waits for an answer.
John licks his lips. Thinks of how he wants Sherlock’s head between his thighs. He turns hard, just a little bit, just enough that he has to move his leg to feel comfortable again.
John blinks. “What? No, nothing happened between us. What do you have in mind?”
“What do you have in mind?”, Greg responds.
John stares at him for a moment. “I guess I am done here, aren’t I?”, he then says. Without Sherlock he doesn’t really know what else to do. It’s always the consulting detective who tells him what to do on a crime scene. But in another life it was John who gave orders and was in control of the situation. For half a year it was just nice to follow someone around, spending no thoughts on which way to go. But since a few days John feels a nervous trembling inside him, telling him to become the one in charge again. Commanding Sherlock certain things. Commanding Sherlock to kneel down, look up, open his mouth.
“Tell Sherlock to call me. This case isn’t solved yet”, Greg says.
“I’ll do”, John promises. He nods a goodbye, turns around.
When he leaves the zoo and enters Regent’s Park John finds Sherlock sitting on a bench, drawing circles with the tip of his shoe in the gravel beneath.
John plants himself in front of his flatmate. He feels anger inside him.
Sherlock doesn’t look up.
John coughs slightly.
“What?”, Sherlock asks, his glance focused on the dusty circles.
“That was quite a show in there.”
“Come on, it’s not my fault you are all too dumb.”
The anger spreads through his body now, makes him clench his teeth.
“Maybe you need glasses, you know. Those bites were obvious to the eye. At least to mine”, Sherlock continues.
John’s fingers form into a fist. He tenses up, his muscles tremble.
Bastard boy!
He can’t let Sherlock talk to him like that. Imprudent, dismissive. A low growl leaves his throat.
“Don’t turn into a dragon”, Sherlock sneers, still looking down.
A shiver of rage runs down John’s spine. He has been Captain Watson for a great part of his life, 112 soldiers were under his command. And not a single one of them ever dared to contradict him. So now it is definitely not the time to allow such an insecure and insolent child like Sherlock Holmes, who thinks of himself as a genius, such pubescent behaviour.
John shoots out, grabs Sherlock by his wrists, squeezes them roughly.
Finally Sherlock looks up, his bright eyes widely opened in surprise. His lips form a silent “Oh”. He is taken aback. Flinches. Wants to cover his face with his hands, expects to be hit, searches for protection. But he can’t move, John is too strong.
In a split second Captain Watson stares right into the boys heart, recognises the vulnerability. Childlike innocence. For a moment he is appalled. Still, he doesn’t soften his grip.
“You hurt me”, Sherlock whispers. As if he is too afraid to speak up.
Captain Watson leans towards him. “Don’t you ever dare to speak to me like that again, do you understand?” His voice is low, hoarse. There is still fury rushing through his body. But also a soft tickle.
“Let me go, please”, Sherlock begs.
But Captain Watson has to stay in role. Has to make his point clear. He likes the confusion in Sherlock’s eyes. Wishes he wore his uniform right now to turn little Sherlock into an aroused mess. His cock twitches.
“John, what are you doing?”
Eventually John lets go of Sherlock’s wrists. They have turned red and will be bruised by tomorrow. He takes a step back, breathes heavily.
Sherlock pulls his legs to his chest, hugs himself. Hides his face.
John’s heart turns liquid while his cock is still hard.
Sherlock’s shoulders shiver ever so slightly. John is worried. Wants to touch him. Reaches out. His hand lingers in the air.
“Are you okay?”, he asks. His voice soft and quiet now.
Sherlock doesn’t give an answer. Sobs instead.
“Are you crying?” John’s legs grow weak.
Sherlock looks up, his eyes read, tears stream down his cheeks. “Go away, leave me alone.”
“Sherl, I never wanted to hurt you. I was just upset…”
“Leave me alone! You scare me!”
The words are a sting in John’s heart.
“I am sorry, Sherlock. Please, listen to me, I…”
“Leave! Me! Alone!”
People look at them but turn around as soon as they spot the crying detective. Sherlock doesn’t care, he can’t stop the tears from falling, chokes on them. John wants to pull him in an embrace, doesn’t do it. He is too scared.
“Go away!”, Sherlock yells.
And John turns around. Desperate. Devastated.
What has he done?