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Chapter Text

Sometimes John wished he were more Gifted. He had heard numerous times in the news that this Gifted person or that had cured someone miraculously, and frankly he couldn’t help but be jealous. His mum had always told him that he was a natural born Healer, but it was hard to believe when he felt his patients die under his hands.

When he was younger, he’d always rescue injured animals (he’d been especially fond of saving turtles) and he seemed to have a knack for knowing what was wrong. It was never miraculous, but he put a lot of time and effort into helping animals and so it always seemed like he had a Gift. Of course, it must have been a low level Gift, but he was thankful all the same. He never showed off at school (it wasn’t like there was a lot to show off anyway) and was always kind of the wallflower as a couple of his classmates turned into bats or showed off their X-Ray vision. His sister, Harry, liked to show off too. She had been normal for most of her younger years, until suddenly she got their dad’s Gift of woodworking. She’d build something new every day to show off in class, producing miraculous pieces of art.

All in all though, John stayed off the radar. He always had a lot of friends, was overall liked, joined the rugby team and had a satisfactory childhood. Harry had bullied him a bit for his underdeveloped Gift, and they never really got along, but she still had tears in her eyes when he announced he was about to be deployed to Afghanistan.

“When do you leave?” his mum had asked him. He’d always been closer to her, confiding in her first before making any decisions, and she had known well in advance of his future. His mum claimed to never have been Gifted, though personally John thought that was a lie. It was impossible to be so caring and tolerant without a Gift.

“Tomorrow,” he answered, smiling slightly. He was a bit nervous, excited, scared, and filled with anticipation. He could sense his mum’s hidden distress, which she was trying to suppress.

“My Johnny, off to be a Healer,” she said proudly, tears in her eyes.

“Proud of you, son,” his dad had said a bit gruffly. “Sorry Harry couldn’t be here, but you know how she is.” There was really no love lost between John and Harry.

And with that, he was off to sandy deserts.

“Watson, you’re needed,” a gruff voice called him from his sleep. John woke up quickly, putting on his medic’s uniform with not a shred of embarrassment. “A couple miles from here a squad was gassed, not sure what it was, seems hallucinogenic… the chopper should be here in ten minutes.”

John nodded, and followed the sergeant out to the medical area. “Any special cases I should know about?” You never knew if you had to take into account that your patient could grow wings at a moment’s notice (which had actually happened to him one time, which is why he always asked that question now).

“One of them, Captain Cho, has a light sensitivity issue… useful for nighttime stealth attacks, but otherwise inconvenient.”

“Anything else?” John asked.

The sergeant grunted a negative and left him at the doors of the medical area. John nodded and set his mouth in a firm line, anticipating the chaos that would unfold in the next couple of minutes. He opened the doors and Alex, the other army doctor, came up to him, looking tired and harried.

“John, they’ll be here soon. There were shooters on the ground so the helicopter is damaged and may not make the landing.”

“What’s the damage?” he asked calmly.

“Broken limbs, damage to the lungs from gas inhalation… the medics on board are also hurt, but trying their best to keep everyone alive. No one documented as Gifted, except for the night-vision guy, but he shouldn’t pose too much trouble…” he hesitated. “They’ve been gassed with something, and it’s making them violent.” The soldier looked dead on his feet, but they were understaffed enough as it was.

“Beds ready?”

“Check.” Alex smiled grimly. “Ready?”

Just then, the outer doors burst through with soldiers carrying in the patients. As if a switch had been turned on, the medical area became frenzied. There were soldiers dashing to and fro, fetching medical kits, getting patients on beds, quickly cleaning wounds and diagnosing injuries. John’s patient was conscious and screaming. John strapped on the safety ties, effectively immobilizing the soldier. Except he hadn’t immobilized the head and torso yet and the soldier rose up and bit a large chunk of flesh from John’s shoulder.

“What the fuck!” John swore, and strapped down the rest of the body, blood dripping from his shoulder. “Alex, I’m afraid I’ll have to clock out of this one,” he said. His clenched his teeth, his right hand pressing against his wound. God, that soldier must’ve been an unregistered something or other. Something with fangs.

No one was available to help him, so he got out some gauze and quickly wrapped his shoulder before finally passing out from blood loss. Goddamn he hated his job sometimes.

God, I’m beat.

I wonder if Martha would say yes if I asked her out.

John needs to wake up. There’s no way the blood loss affected him this much.

I’m so tired though… when is the next shift? Another half hour? Ridiculous. John doesn’t even need me here, he’s bloody unconscious! I suppose I could take a little nap… wouldn’t do any harm…

With a start, John opened his eyes. Squinting slightly at the sudden brightness, he found himself lying in one of the hospital beds, hooked up to an IV. John tried to speak, God, but his mouth was dry. “Alex?” he asked hoarsely. He looked to his side and saw his friend asleep on the chair beside him. He cleared his throat a little. “Alex?”

Alex woke up slowly, smiling sheepishly at John. “Sorry for falling asleep on you there, mate. I’ve been working double with you lying in bed all day.”

“How long have I been here? The guys who were gassed, they’re all okay?” John looked around belatedly, but he seemed to be the only patient.

How is John so awake right now? He’s been in a coma for the past, what is it, four days? God, I need a break. Thank the lord John’s awake, I’ll be able to actually get sleep now. That other medic is shite. What’s her name? Susan, right? Martha is so much better. Wait, fuck, wasn’t John asking me something?

John frowned. Was he hallucinating? Alex’s mouth hadn’t been moving. Alex rubbed a hand over his face. “Actually... That guy who bit you really put some strange shit into your bloodstream. Never seen the likes before. He started convulsing too, afterwards. He died, but everyone else is okay. I think Lauren is gonna have a limp for a while, but that’s about it. We’re mostly worried about you, mate. You’ve been out for four days.”

John frowned, taken aback. So he hadn’t hallucinated? And four days? For blood loss? It wasn’t even acute blood loss, barely enough to pass out over, though he must’ve been injected with something from the fangs. God, sometimes he hated the Gifted. “So what kind of Gift did my patient have? Must’ve been some sort of vampire hybrid, yeah?”

“Well,” Alex shrugged. “We don’t really know. His teeth retracted by the time we noticed you were passed out and he was thrashing… yeah. Your shoulder isn’t really healing either… it’s not infected, thank God, but the skin isn’t knitting together as quickly as it should. What’d his teeth look like, anyway?”

“Dunno, didn’t see them…” John trailed off. Great. So he’d have bloody teeth marks on his shoulder forever. “So when’ll I be fit for duty?”

I hope John doesn’t live up to the stereotype that doctors make shit patients. So far he seems a bit antsy and disoriented, but to be fair he’s been unconscious for four days.

“Soon as you can stand, really.” Alex grinned. “The stitches should come out by next week, but really you’re fine. It was just the fact that you were knocked out for so long that gets me concerned.”

“Did you ever figure out what the gas was?” John asked, trying to distract himself from the second voice he was hearing. Maybe his Gift had been augmented? Weird, though. He’d been a good enough healer who had a knack for knowing what was wrong, but it was never anything near … mind reading? And another thing… four days? He didn’t get why he’d been out for so long.

Again, Alex shrugged. “Remember the guy with the night-vision thing? His name’s Alfred. He said it suppressed it for a bit, which was a bit surreal for him. But by the time he got in the chopper, his senses were in overdrive and it was almost like he could see through things. Gave his Gift a boost, I guess.”

Why’s John staring at me? He looks a bit freaked out. Weird, since he’s normally so calm.

“How’s he now?”

“Who, Alfred?” John nodded. “Oh, I get him to check in with me daily. But it seems he’s got XRay vision now, which is unheard of. I’m sure the government’d kill for super gas like that…”

John gave out a short laugh, then instantly regretted it when he felt the skin on his shoulder protesting. He winced slightly. “Mind if I take a shower?” he felt rubbish. He knew, of course, that all blood had been cleaned, but he just felt the grime of lying still for so long all over him. Uncomfortable was an understatement. He also hoped the water would cleanse his mind, and maybe the solitude would help him figure out his mental thing.

“Do I need to remind you to be careful with your injury?” Alex asked sarcastically.

“Yeah sure, and while you’re at it could you tell me again how to take off a bandage?” John asked jokingly. Alex laughed and poked him in his side. “Oh, fuck off, Al.”

“I think there are a couple shooters in that section over there,” Captain Watson told his soldiers. After his shoulder injury, his ability to read minds hadn’t gone away. He hadn’t confided in anyone yet, since it was entirely mad. Still, it was useful since at long distance he could sense the living. Certainly handy for missions like this.

It’s funny that no one questions him anymore. He’s become something of a legend, so much so that some people call him psychic. It’s absolute bullshit to them, but it’s sort of true, really. John tries not to read people’s minds and invade their privacy, his mother taught him better.

“I’ll go ahead, Erikkson, you cover my back,” he ordered, marching toward the seemingly abandoned shack. There were tons of shacks to be found in the desert, some filled with explosives, others with corpses. There was rarely anything nice to be found within one. Still, he found that he loved the desert. The stars, shining so brightly at night you could almost see by them. The desert sand contrasting with the bright blue sky. It was so beautiful here, and it broke his heart to see it torn apart by land mines and families broken by violence.

John heard the thoughts of the person in the shack. Unfortunately, he wasn’t proficient in languages, and his Pashto was rudimentary at best. He couldn’t tell what the potential enemy was thinking.

It was windy today, which never boded well. Sand in the eye really lowered your accuracy, which was vital for survival. Nodding to Erikkson, John tore down the door of the shack, his gun raised pre-emptively. He blinked at a stray grain of sand and found himself lying on the ground. What? Did I get shot? My bloody leg is KILLING me!  But no, Erikkson had pulled him down and shot the person hiding in the shack. Oh God, and it was only a young boy.

No, he couldn’t do this anymore. He wouldn’t be signing on to another tour. This would be the last.

Chapter Text

After that mission, John spent a lot of his time thinking. Was it really worth being out here, shooting innocent people? Sure, he wasn’t the one shooting them, but in the end, wasn’t it on him? He knew his tour was ending in a couple weeks, and he’d probably be in the med bay for the remainder of his time here. God, he couldn’t stand himself sometimes.

And the goddamn mind-reading sucked too. He was literally never alone. It was crowded enough before at night, hearing soldiers wanking next door or screaming in their sleep. Now he lived their nightmares. There was no escape. Working in the medical area helped though, since he could focus his thoughts and most of his patients were so high on medication he couldn’t hear their minds screaming. 

“Mate, I don’t think I can do this anymore,” he confessed one day to Alex. It had come out of the blue; normally he kept things easy and cheery between himself and the other med workers. Having happy people around him made ignoring them easier. But honestly, this job was so disheartening. Sure, he saved a couple lives but then he went out and killed people. God save the bloody Queen.

“What do you mean, John?”

What’s up with you, John? Are you actually finally going to tell me what’s wrong? I don’t think I’ve seen you eat in over a week.

“I just… I can’t handle this. I saw an innocent boy die, Alex. Worse still, I fucking led my team to kill him. I..” his voice caught. John closed his eyes and looked away. God, this was brutal. “And that’s not even a one-time thing. Sometimes I wonder how many people I’ve killed, innocent people, and I can’t…”

Alex nodded sympathetically. “I guess you’re not going to return after the end of your tour, then. I don’t blame you for it… you haven’t been okay for a while now. Do you want me to recommend you to a psychiatrist? That’d be sure to get you sent home quicker…”

John’s mouth twisted into a funny sort of smile. “And get honourable discharge for being a mental fuck up?”

Alex grimaced. “Well… yeah.”

John sat down on one of the beds and sighed. “Might as well.”

--

--

John soon regretted his decision to get a psychiatrist. Not that Ella wasn’t great, but he just didn’t feel comfortable exposing her to the harsh realities of the army. At least that’s what he told himself. It was impossible to describe his simultaneous hatred and love for Afghanistan.

God, but John missed Afghanistan. It was so grey in London. And he could barely afford a flat with the army pension. The home-sit he was staying at now was about as thrilling as his life was… he was pretty sure at least two people had overdosed in the past week alone. He didn’t blame them; this place was depressing. Especially since he was sure his night terrors could be heard every night.

He had left his resume with a couple nearby clinics… not nearly as exciting as his time in the medical area in Afghanistan, but what could he say, he was broke. And he didn’t want to end up living with Harry… it hurt him enough to talk to her on the phone. He knew Watsons tended towards addiction, and he doubted he could live with Harry’s alcoholism, what with his newfound telepathy.

It was easier to ignore the telepathy when he went out in crowds. It just sort of became a dull roar, mindless chatter to distract him from his dreary life. Besides, most of people’s thoughts were the same. The looks he got in the subway were always followed by oh I wonder what happened to that poor man. Such a shame he has a cane.

He was walking one day, after briefly contemplating shooting himself for the hell of it. But anyway. He was walking through a park, making sure it was amply busy so he wouldn’t have to have someone’s thoughts rammed down his throat (figuratively speaking, of course).

Hey, was that.. oh, what’s his name again? I know him… where do I know him from? Oh my God! It’s John Watson!

John frowned and turned around. Sure, there must be a bunch of John Watsons currently living in London, but still.

“John… John Watson?” the man called from where he sat on the bench. Well, wouldn’t you know. It was his old mate, Mike Stamford.

They had grabbed coffees and sat for a while together. It was rather tedious for John, seeing as he heard everything twice, but he managed to keep a placid smile on his face.

John grinned, “Who’d want me for a flatmate?”

Strange, I think Sherlock just said that. Well. Ish. What were his words? Something like ‘Until the moon’s bated breath doth speak, A roommate shall I have not meek…’ maybe? God, I used to have a better memory.

“Funny you say that,” Mike grimaced. “You’re the second person today to say that to me. Sort of.”

John and Mike headed to St Bart’s hospital, John reminiscing about his time learning about the human body. All the while, he did his best to pay attention to Mike whilst tuning his mental babble out.

“My, Bart’s has changed since I was here,” John mentioned as they walked through a door to a high tech lab.  What he saw in the lab gave him a double take. The man was crouching on a stool and surprisingly not falling over. He had impossibly high cheekbones and a head of ebony hair. The bloke probably had some sort of vampire Gift with skin as pale as that.

Mike clenched his teeth and smiled. “Er, this is John Watson…”

“A phone for texting would suffice, else a life is cast to dice,” the man said, wincing slightly on his perch.

Please, please, let Mike not be too dull. I need to use a bloody phone now.

Mike laughed and looked at John.

“What’d he say?” John asked, keeping up pretences.

“Bugger if I knew,” Mike said with a smile.

John frowned a bit and gave the man his phone. “Here you go. You must be Sherlock, right?”

Wait, did he understand me? How would he have known to give me his phone? What is this man hiding…

The man gave no response and texted on John’s phone. He hit send and gave him his phone back.

Limp while walking but seemingly forgets it when standing. Psychosomatic. Of a medical background, said he remembered Bart’s previously. Presumably a doctor. Straight posture indicates military. Hair short, grown out recently. Tan on hands and face, but not past wrists or neck. Conclusion: was in a warm location, but not on holiday. Where is the military currently posted? Afghanistan or Iraq.

“The desert doctor was hurt before, and continued to be shot once more. The uninjured leg curiously remains sore, and in his head he’s still at war,” he rattled off his deductions, making uncomfortable eye contact with John.

A short silence filled the room as John looked at the stranger, impressed. “That was extraordinary.”

Extraordinary? Curious. How does he know what I am saying? I barely understand my prose. Ridiculous speech impediment. Perhaps he seems in awe of the unknown. Either way. Bizarre.

“Yeah, that’s Sherlock,” Mike held back his laughter.

This man must be my new flat-mate. Adequate. Now I have to get to the crime scene before Anderson mucks it up and accuses the wrong person.

“As said before a life’s at stake, I must be gone, the accused is fake. A flat-share arrangement, that we will see, the address is 221B. Baker Street is the location, 9am tomorrow, no hesitation.” Sherlock winked and headed out the door.

“Is he always like that?” John asked.

Mike shrugged. “Cryptic? Yeah… must be some sort of Gift gone wrong, I reckon. Gets bloody annoying quickly. Still, he wouldn’t be horrible as a flatmate.”

Oh, John. You’re going to hate me. I bet I’ll be getting a call from you in the next two days, when the flat’s been set on fire for the second time this week.

John raised his eyebrows. “Should be interesting.”

As promised, John got out of the cab at 9AM at 221B Baker Street. It was a rather nice neighbourhood, and pretty close to the clinics he’d applied to, to boot. He knocked on the door and was greeted by an old lady wearing a rather strange shade of purple.

“Oh, hello dear, Sherlock’s just upstairs. I’m the landlady, Ms. Hudson.”

Oh my, well he’s quite handsome. Sherlock’s done well for himself.

John pursed his lips and tried not to blush too much. “John Watson.”

“Sherlock’s told me all about you,” she clasped her hands together. “Will you be needing another bedroom?”

Oh I do hope they aren’t too noisy. Mrs. Turner has married ones, and she says the nighttime racket is ridiculous.

“Oh, uh, of course…” John looked away, wincing at the mental image. “Mind if I go up?”

“Go ahead, dear,” Ms. Hudson replied as she bustled off.

Second floor. Right. Stairs would get annoying after a while, what with his cane and all. He made his way up and opened the door to… well, a disaster of a flat. The walls were covered in different patterns of wallpaper, there were files and papers stacked up all over the room, and there were some frankly… alternative pieces of art hanging on the wall. Ignoring the skull (a real human one?!) John’s eye caught the bull skull wearing headphones. Well. Certainly whimsical.

Hm, John’s here. That psychosomatic limp has got to go if he wants to stay here for a long period of time. But how to fix it? Hm, better make an appearance then.

“Hello, Sherlock,” John smiled and turned around.

How did he do that? Ah, probably has a Gift in hearing.

Sherlock seemed caught off-guard, exactly as John had wanted. He was about to speak when John interrupted.

“So what’s the deal with your speech pattern? Is it like a Gift or something? That’s what Mike was saying…” John trailed off.

Sherlock snorted. Ha. A Gift. A bloody inconvenience, more like. I’d kill to get my father back… he knew what it was like. Mycroft’s such a tosser about it. Thinks he’s special, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking all the time. Just because he’s the tiniest bit psychic, doesn’t mean he knows me.

John held back a laugh. Wouldn’t do to reveal his mindreading talent so soon in the game. “Have you always had it, or…?”

Sherlock took his phone out and pretended to research something, frowning in fake concentration. Perhaps if I ignore him he’ll stop talking. Doubtful.

John rolled his eyes and walked about the flat, getting familiar with it. “It’s nice, a bit crowded. But I’m sure it’ll be fine once we get our stuff moved in. Speaking of us, I don’t know a bloody thing about you,” he pointed out. “We should probably get to know one another before moving in.”

Sherlock smirked slightly. If he finds this messy, he’ll have a fun time living when the rest of my boxes are unpacked. Well. He doesn’t need to know everything here is mine. Ah, but it appears we’re at an impasse. He wishes to know about me, yet won’t understand when I speak to him.

Just then, a grey-haired man came in. “There’s been another one at Brixton, Lauriston Gardens,” he announced gravely. He looked away from Sherlock and noticed John. “Oh, hello. I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade. Who’re you?”

Who has the loony kidnapped now? I hope I won’t have to charge Sherlock on something this suspicious. Perhaps it’s a relative of Ms. Hudson? Lauriston Gardens. No direct transit routes found within a  five minute walk. Fairly posh neighbourhood. Close to a couple restaurants and a tailor. There was a tailor at the previous-

John blinked a couple times. God, he hated being in a room with two people. The thoughts overlapped and were difficult to tune out in such concentrated doses. “Er, sorry there,” he caught himself. “I spaced out. Um, yeah, hi, I’m John Watson. I’m looking at the flat here…”

Good luck to you, mate. Why did John lose focus? Is he hallucinating? Surely he must suffer PTSD, and that is one of the common symptoms. His eyes didn’t focus on anything, though. Perhaps he needs glasses? No, it wouldn’t come in bursts like that. He lost focus briefly during our meeting at Bart’s too. More data needed.

Strangely enough, Sherlock’s thoughts seemed to crowd the room, overtaking the Lestrade’s thoughts. John had never experienced that before. It was unique.

“Sherlock, this one left a note. Better hurry,” Lestrade nodded and left. “Bye, John!”

John frowned. It was strange how Lestrade spoke to Sherlock. “Why don’t people… talk to you? They just kind of talk at you.”

Sherlock gave John a look. Ah. Right. Probably didn’t understand a thing he was saying. Sherlock went silently to grab his coat, popping the collar like he was cool.

Oh this is Christmas! Four murders and a note! I haven’t gotten something this exciting in months.

“A mystery’s afoot, I must run, will see you later John, the game has begun!” Sherlock grinned like a Cheshire cat and swept out of the flat. I should get going before Anderson mucks everything up. But perhaps John would like to come? If he says no, he certainly won’t be staying in Baker Street long. He poked his head back in. “The desert doctor has seen the war, enough for a lifetime… fancy  more?”

“Oh God, yes.” John was still wearing his coat. There was no way in hell he’d miss this fun.

Chapter Text

They headed out of 221B, bright smiles on their faces. Sherlock hailed a cab with ridiculous ease (it usually took John a good five minutes before cab drivers would notice him… damn his slightly-below-average height). They spent a good portion of the cab ride in silence, Sherlock, thinking about the case, and John, attempting to ignore the cab driver and Sherlock’s thoughts. Once again, though, Sherlock’s thoughts seemed to fill the cab, almost muting the cab driver. John was surprised not to have noticed this sooner… in retrospect Sherlock had muted Mike’s thoughts as well.

Sherlock’s thoughts were brilliant to witness, seeing the rapid-fire reasoning from scant pieces of information. Even with John’s psychic ability, he reckoned he’d never be able to do the same. It was a bit difficult to pretend to be oblivious the whole time, though. He reckoned he’d have to tell Sherlock soon.

John’s been awfully quiet, and he’s hunched his shoulders. There is a slight frown on his face… conclusion: regretting his decision to join me.

“So… crime scene. What is it that you do? I get that you’re brilliant… so what, you help the police? I’d call you a detective, but you don’t seem to have a title and you seem rather solitary.” John paused. “But the police don’t consult amateurs. So what are you?”

Sherlock hesitated. How do I phrase this? I can’t answer his question. I can only ask questions or do that stupid rhyming prose. Might as well. He seems to understand. “You’ll find my business card says ‘consulting detective’, though arrogant prat I’m called as well, it is subjective.” There, that should do. God that rhyme was horrible.

John snorted. “Yeah, you’re a bit of a tosser. Brilliant, though. Extraordinary. A consulting detective. Never heard of it. You probably made it up, didn’t you.” Sherlock didn’t answer, smiling slightly as he faced the window.

If he really wants to be impressed, I’ll tell him about his rocky relationship with his alcoholic brother. That should deter him. And if he leaves, he’ll never have to meet Mycroft, the lucky bastard.

“A wounded soldier has no home in which to tarry, methinks a whiskey-on-rocks relationship with brother Harry,” Sherlock winced. God, he almost sounded Shakespearean that time.

John raised his eyebrows. “You’re just showing off now, aren’t you? Bit wrong, though. Yeah, Harry and I don’t get along, and Harry’s an alcoholic… but she’s my sister. Not my brother.”

Sherlock frowned and looked away. Damn it. There’s always something.

They got out of the car, John paying the cabbie (Sherlock, the arrogant prat, had stridden out and was waiting expectantly by the police tape for John to hurry up). Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John’s cane but held up the police tape for him.

“Who’re you?” A policewoman snapped at John.

God, since when does Freak bring his drug buddies around crime scenes? Lestrade’s gonna have a cow about this.

“Sherlock’s er… colleague. Friend, of a sort. Um…” John looked to Sherlock for help, but Sherlock had gone ahead only to be stopped by another police officer.

God, why did Lestrade invite this tosser here again? All he does is insult me through poetry. I think. And he ruins the crime scene, and says I’ve been inadequate.

“Anderson was visited last night by Donovan, she wears the deodorant of a man. Spare me the details, if you please, I know what happened by the state of her knees.” Sherlock shone his teeth and swept into the house, leaving the two police officers (presumably Donovan and Anderson) more than disgruntled. John just shook his head and followed him inside.

Sherlock raced up the stairs and John sighed. Having a psychosomatic limp was shite. It only really started showing itself when he had returned to London. Thank God, he’d hate to imagine the old man jokes he would’ve heard on base.

Ella said it was caused by memories from his injury from the vampire Gifted hybrid, but he knew the cause. The boy. The boy whom he’d led his team to kill. He’d thought that the boy had shot his leg but it had been Erikkson who had tackled him so he wouldn’t get hurt. He knew he wasn’t hurt now, of course, but apparently his leg didn’t know that.

John sighed again and worked his way upstairs. After making it to the landing, he smiled at Lestrade. The DI gestured into the room. “He’s in there, doing his thing. Can I trust you to make sure he doesn’t… oh, I don’t know, steal the body?” Lestrade chuckled grimly.

Sometimes I wish that bloody man came with a translator… or at least a dictionary. Writing down his prose is bad enough, but deciphering it? Ridiculous.

John went ahead in and found Sherlock inspecting the dead body. It was a woman, wearing a bright pink raincoat and pink shoes. An awful lot of pink, really. Pink nail polish, pink lipstick.

Anderson came up the stair as Sherlock whipped out his pocket magnifier. Of course he’d have one.

The inside of her ring is shiny, but the outside is dirty and dull, the style is over 10 years old. Conclusion: unhappy marriage, 10 years. The outside of her coat is wet, from where she folded it up against the wind. There’s a splatter on her left leg, so she must have a small suitcase, Lestrade probably has it.

“Rache,” Anderson said gutturally, over John’s shoulder. “Means ‘revenge’ in German. Her last word to ever write down. We’re thinking it’s a clue to who the murderer is.” He nodded sagely. The whole ‘smart’ look he was going for was definitely hampered by the bright blue plastic suit he had to wear to protect the crime scene.

Surely Sherlock will be impressed. He can’t be fluent in German, I mean French for sure, but German? And his research skills suck so there’s no way he’d be able to decipher the message. This should show Lestrade I’m loads cleverer than Sherlock. Then maybe Donovan and I can have some celebratory sex. That’d be nice. She’s so damn flexible…

John grimaced.

Sherlock snorted. “Your thought process has decelerated, your input was greatly appreciated,” with a sarcastic smile he shut the door in Anderson’s face. John let out an audible sigh of relief.

Unhappy marriage, short travel time. String of lovers. Must be organized. Smartphone. Probably pink.

“Her name’s Jennifer Wilson, we’re still researching,” Lestrade said. “Have anything?”

I better get my notepad out to write down this bastard’s poem. It’s gonna be hell to translate, but useful.

I need research. I can’t type in an adequate search string that will give me answers to places in England that have rained during the past five hours.

The consulting detective sighed, and spoke. “A string of lovers, an unhappy marriage, there’s more to find within her… carriage.” Sherlock frowned. I meant suitcase. Damn. Hopefully Lestrade will figure that out. “Rachel is the name she tried to write; look at her nails, it was a fight. She was in heavy rain two to three hours ago, more data in her suitcase, until then, I don’t know.”

Lestrade was frantically writing down what Sherlock had said. Damn it, what did he say after carriage?

“Rachel is the name she tried to write,” John supplied helpfully.

Lestrade smiled. “Right, thanks. Sorry, Sherlock? You said there would be more information in the suitcase, but.. there wasn’t any suitcase found with the body. Or a phone.” The DI pointed out, reading over the prose.

No suitcase? Impossible. Well. Improbable. Which means that this woman left it. She was clever, she kept a string of lovers and maintained a marriage. So she must mean something by ‘Rachel’. Perhaps the killer’s name? Statistically unlikely. Perhaps Rachel has her suitcase. But if Rachel is a friend, Jennifer would have had time to touch up her makeup. So the suitcase must be with the killer! And the phone. Judging by her affinity for pink, I’d bet the suitcase is pink as well. The killer must have realized his mistake and needed to hide the suitcase somewhere. Probably kept the phone, though.

Sherlock’s eyes lit up as he opened the door to go out. “A mistake the killer has doth made, I must be gone before the memory doth fade. Pink is important, pink is key, John go find Rachel and then tell me!” With that, Sherlock left in a whirl of black coat, and fled down the stairs.

Lestrade frowned and looked at John. “Sorry, missed that. What?”

John furrowed his brow and smiled. “Ah,” he hesitated, looking out the door. “I, um, yeah I should probably follow him. Can I get your number so I can send you the details? Yeah, thanks.”

Blimey this bloke is nuts. Him and Sherlock? Made for each other.

With a nod, he chased after his flatmate, pausing when he heard Sergeant Donovan thinking at him. He stopped and turned around to look at her.

“He’s a freak, you know. He’s not paid to come here. He gets off on it. Blood. Murder. He’s a complete psychopath.” Donovan’s lip curled in disgust. “One of these days we’ll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes is gonna be the one that put it there. Look, I’ll do you a favour. Go now, and never come back. Trust me, whatever life you have now is much better than whatever you’ll get pandering to Sherlock.”

John frowned and cocked his head. “Er, right. Well. I’ll be off. Uh, where am I?”

“Brixton.” God this bloody fool won’t give up.

“Right… ah, yes. Okay. Um. Any idea where I could get a cab? It’s just, ah, my leg…” he trailed off.

“Try the main road up ahead.”

“Ta,” John nodded and went on his way, leaning heavily into his cane. Well. This was certainly a new experience. Bit of an eye-opener. Seemed like no one really liked Sherlock at all, not that the bloke himself cared at all.

Walking along the main road, a phone rang beside him. Strange. He didn’t know payphones could be called. He walked by it and another public phone rang. Okay. Coincidence? Unlikely, but John craved a bit of normal right now, and went on to ignore the phone call.

And then of course another phone rang. “Fine,” he sighed aloud. Reluctantly he picked it up. “Hello?”

“There is a security camera on your left, do you see it?” A man’s voice spoke. He had a posh accent, not unlike Sherlock’s.

He looked up at the camera and saw it swivel away. Right. Like that wasn’t intimidating. His military instincts kicked in, putting him on high alert. Unconsciously, he straightened his spine and tensed his muscles, giving the appearance of being bigger than he actually was. “This is a bit melodramatic, isn’t it? Who are you, by the way?”

“Now look at the camera on the building to your right.” It swivelled away. “And finally, the camera on the building opposite to you.” And that one faced away as well. Right.

“Okay. You have my attention. What do you want? Why are you doing this?” God, but it was annoying being on his phone. Especially in a threatening situation like this. He couldn’t use his telepathy at all. He didn’t’ realize how much he relied upon it until it was taken away.

“I would make some sort of threat, but I’m sure your situation is clear to you.” A black car pulled up beside him.

“Lovely. I needed a ride anyway,” John’s chuckle was slightly forced.

“Get in the car, Doctor Watson.”

Well it was certainly convenient that he had his gun in the waist band of his jeans. He opened the door, noting that his hand wasn’t trembling at all. Inside the car was, well, a rather attractive lady typing on her smart phone.

Subject has entered the car. Staring at me, seems relatively unfazed. Probably his military background, like it said in his case file. Low-level healing Gift, nothing special. Strange subject for the director to invite. Will surely be interesting. He’s not going to hit on me, is he?

John tried not to laugh at her internal commentary, and acted as normal as possible, given the situation. “Hello,” he smiled.

He’s certainly going to flirt. Well he does have a reputation, though why the director needs to know that is beyond me.

“Hi.”

“What’s your name then?”

He seems to be getting uncomfortable. Well, if he sticks around he might learn my name, but as it is, might as well go with… hm…  “Anthea.”

“Is that your real name?”

Oh. Surprisingly astute. Perhaps that’s why the director wants to see him. “No.”

“I’m John.”

“Yes.”

“Any point in asking where I’m going?”

Anthea smiled. “None at all.”

O00oo0o0o0o0

John found himself facing a man in an abandoned warehouse. Right. Because that wasn’t a stereotypical place to take someone hostage. John felt the strangest urge to laugh, which was ridiculous and probably wouldn’t help the situation whatsoever.

The man across from him was wearing a rather expensive looking suit, even more expensive than the stuff Sherlock was wearing. He was leaning against an umbrella, and had a very very quiet inner voice. Or thoughts. Or whatever. It was like he was whispering. John really had to strain his… well, he guessed it was useless to strain his ears because he didn’t think he was literally hearing thoughts. Anyway.

The man gestured to a chair in front of him. “Have a seat, John.”

Oh. That was unsettling. Then again, Anthea had known his name too.

Ah, look, his tremor has stopped. What’s his Gift? His file implies a low level Healer, and the facts support that, but why on Earth would Sherlock let him live with him at Baker Street? His inner voice is rather quiet, but seems rather mundane.

Oh bugger. This man was a mind reader too. Okay, John, think boring thoughts. Panic about your situation.

“You know, I’ve got a phone,” John frowned. This man was so dramatic. Bit like Sherlock, to be honest. “I mean, very clever and all that, but you could just phone me. On my phone.” There. That was mundane enough.

Perhaps revealing how much I might know will threaten him. He’s entirely too calm. “The leg must be hurting you. Sit down.” The man gestured towards the chair again.

“I don’t want to sit down.” This guy was getting pushy. John blocked the man’s thoughts, so much as he was able.

“You don’t seem very afraid.”

“You don’t seem very frightening.”

The man chuckled. “Ah yes, the bravery of a soldier. Bravery is a kinder word for stupidity, don’t you think?” the man paused and narrowed his eyes. “What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

And the shoe drops. Of course this bastard would want to know about his crazy flatmate. This was so beyond normal it almost made sense.

John shrugged. “I don’t have one. I met him…” John thought for a moment. Had it only been a day that Sherlock had come into his life? Seemed like forever. “Yesterday.”

“Yes, and since you’ve met him you’ve moved in with him and now you’re solving crimes together. Might we be expecting a happy announcement by the end of the week?”

“Oh piss off. Who are you?”

The man smirked. God. Who in God’s name actually smirked? That was more of a movie villain trait than anything. “An interested party.”

“Interested in Sherlock? Why? I doubt you’re his friend. I don’t think he has many.”

“Well. You’ve met him. I’m the closest thing to a friend Sherlock Holmes is capable of having. We’re…. enemies. He might even be dramatic enough to call me his arch-enemy.”

Just then, John’s phone went off. To Baker Street, be obedient. Come at once, if convenient.

“I hate to distract you, John, but I think I’m the priority here. If you plan on continuing your association with Sherlock, and I’m quite certain you are, I’d be happy to pay a meaningful sum of money for some… information.”

John was taken aback. Seriously, that was it? “Not to be rude, but… I think that’s none of your business.”

“Hm… your psychiatrist is wrong you know. Your hand is entirely still, and you are exceedingly loyal to someone you only just met. She’s wrong about your hand. You’re not broken from the war… you miss it. Well then, Doctor Watson. Welcome back to the battlefield.”

John rolled his eyes. His phone beeped again. Regardless if it’s an inconvenience, come anyway, I need your allegiance.

“So that was a no to the money?”

“I won’t tell you anything about Sherlock.” John turned away and left. His phone pinged. Dangerous it could be, make haste and you will see. John snorted. Anthea followed him out.

The battlefield, indeed.

Chapter Text

John climbed the stairs of 221B cautiously, an illicit gun stowed in the waistband of his jeans. Sherlock had warned of danger, whether the danger was immediate or not, John was about to find out.

This case has been ransacked. It bears a certain semblance of disorder, and Jennifer Wilson was anything but disorderly. Think, think, THINK! What am I missing? Oh, that’s John on the stairs, forgotten his cane again. He’s been away for a while, went to his flat? Perhaps. He’s walking cautiously, is he tired, wary, afraid? Unsure, need more data.

Sherlock’s mind seemed at ease, rattling off deductions as seemed to be his usual state of mind. Right, so no imminent threat. John relaxed a bit and opened the door, finding his soon-to-be flatmate lying on the sofa.

How to tell John to pass me the phone. Hm… what rhymes with phone? Home, loan, cone, shown, mown, clone, moan…?

Sherlock held out his hand and gestured towards the phone wordlessly. Silent gestures should do it, or John is immensely stupid.

John held back a frown and gave Sherlock the phone. No, you idiot, I need YOU to send the message, otherwise it’ll come out in rhyming prose and sound ridiculous. Sherlock gave the phone back to John after typing in a number.

“A text please, will you write, ‘Lauriston Gardens, was there a fight? I think I must have blacked out last night.’ Reword it please, if you might.” Sherlock stared at the ceiling, his hands returned into a prayer position under his chin.

John smiled and tapped away. “I’m texting the murderer, aren’t I?”

Sherlock grinned.

“So I met… someone today. He said he knew you. Wanted to pay me to spy on you actually,” John laughed a bit. “Not entirely sure if I was abducted, but a pretty intimidating bloke to say the least. You know him?” Sherlock snorted softly.

Ah, yes, I was wondering when Mycroft would visit. John is shockingly calm about the matter. Perhaps Mycroft didn’t delve too deeply into his mind. That always disconcerts people.

 “Mycroft?” John asked. “That’s quite a name. Then again, you being Sherlock and all, I reckon it makes sense.”

Ah, so you are a mind reader.

John pursed his lips. “Ah. Yes, sorry. Um. I can block it somewhat… don’t mean to pry or anything. Um. Yeah, if you don’t feel comfortable…. Um. I suppose I can just, er, head home then? I’m sorry,” John grimaced.

Sherlock looked affronted, like John had made some serious faux-pas. “John don’t be an idiot, can’t you see, this situation works well for you and me.” Sherlock winced. “This allows me not to rhyme, as you can translate and we’ll save time.”

Interesting. Well this certainly makes things easier. Yes, I think you’ll be the perfect flatmate. Rather convenient really, you’re around my age (it’d be embarrassing to have an elderly flatmate following me around, to be quite honest) you’ve seen the battlefield and you’re very empathetic, you’re trained in fighting, you’re a healer, and you’re really handsome. Well. I mean.

Sherlock blushed momentarily and cleared his throat.

I’m used to talking to someone constantly anyway, though usually it’s a skull. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson didn’t approve, though.

John pursed his lips. “A skull? Am... Did you just say I’m replacing a skull?”

Anyway, the Jennifer Wilson case is unique. I’ve never seen anything of its caliber. On the table over there is her suitcase-

John held up a finger. “Wait, hold on, I may be a mind reader but I’m not getting everything here. Where’d the case come from?”

Oh don’t be dull. When we saw the body she had a distinct pattern on her left leg indicating a splatter left by a case. It only hit her left leg because she held it in her left hand, probably while texting with her right. Lestrade said there wasn’t a case found with the body, which means the case is somewhere else. It’s not at her hotel, she would have touched up her makeup. So obviously she planted it with the killer. Jennifer Wilson is smart, smart enough for a string of lovers. The killer probably found the suitcase quite quickly, and I’d assume the case is pink judging by the rest of her attire, quite obviously incongruent with the killer’s appearance. Statistically, the killer is male. He would have wanted to stash the case somewhere close, an abandoned alley way, for example. I searched within a one-mile radius from the crime scene for a pink suitcase and lo-and-behold, it was there.

“Brilliant,” John breathed.

So would you like to go eat? You’re hungry, you haven’t eaten in quite a few hours, and I need to observe the front of 221B.

“You think the killer will come to our door?” John asked, looking out of the front window at the street below.

‘Our door’, looks like John is definitely moving in. Wonderful. Mummy will be so thrilled. She’s always been asking after me whether I’ve found someone to be with me and now look, a doctor! An army doctor at that, what could be better? Protection and care and… he can read my thoughts. Ah. Sherlock opened his mouth. “J-“

“So, dinner?” John asked, picking up his coat.

Sherlock shut his mouth and nodded. Sherlock’s inner monologue was oddly… dim. Quiet? Hushed? John didn’t know how to describe it, but he couldn’t get what Sherlock was saying, just felt a general sense of embarrassment.

Sherlock led them to a restaurant around the corner, briefly explaining how he knew the owner. The kindly older man greeted them cheerfully and brought them to, well, a rather romantic booth complete with dim lighting and, yep, a candle.

“Anything you want, anything on the menu, free,” the owner said with a clap on the back. So glad to see Sherlock’s brought a date. Must have a Gift for patience, this one.

“Er, thanks,” John nodded. “I’ll have the er…” he looked down at the menu and picked one at random. “Sherlock, what did you want?” The consulting detective snorted and shook his head, his curly hair bouncing slightly.

Angelo nodded and bustled away, talking to diners as he went.

“Not eating?”

Pointless exercise, slows me down. It’s all just transport, John. Slows down the brain entirely.

John gave a lopsided smile. “That’s one way of looking at it. Probably should eat soon, though, since you brain needs food to run…”

Dull. Sherlock looked out the window facing 221B. Not that cab driver. No, not that one either. Which one will stop?

A waiter came by with John’s meal and John tried his best to ignore Sherlock’s endless tirade. “Sherlock, silly question, but you sleep every night, right?” It’d be awful to go to bed to such racket.

Part vampire Gift, John. Hence why I don’t eat much nor do I sleep often.

John snorted. “You do not have a vampire Gift. Your brother isn’t part vampire, and I can hear you lying,” he smiled sweetly. “Nice try, though.”

Sherlock pouted. I bet I can silence my thoughts, if I really try, if you think you won’t sleep.

“How did you guess that I wouldn’t be able to sleep?” It was crazy enough that John was psychic; it just wasn’t fair if Sherlock was psychic too. The man was too brilliant to be trusted with a Gift like that.

I’m not an idiot, John. Now, if I just go into my mind palace a couple levels, perhaps it’ll quiet.

John ate his ravioli and stared in wonder as Sherlock’s overwhelming voice dulled to naught but a whisper.

“Wow, it… I can hear you a bit, if I really try, but it’s virtually silent.” John smiled. He could actually hear the other patrons in the restaurant, though even then they were a dull roar. “Incredible.”

John frowned in concentration to focus on Sherlock’s inner monologue. It got louder, the harder he tried. Finally, he could hear it clearly, and burst out laughing. “Are you reciting the different types of tobacco ash?”

Sherlock blinked, and his thoughts came in full force. I was indeed. Problem?

John just shook his head in awe. “You don’t need to block yourself constantly, you know. Unless you want to…”

Good.

“So, you don’t have a girlfriend, then?”

What makes you say that?

John shrugged. “Well, I dunno. You didn’t mention one, and you’re looking for a flatshare. Your… brother, well he didn’t say in so many words, but I got the general feeling that you don’t get along with many people. Anderson and Donovan and Lestrade pretty much thought the same as well…”

Sherlock got a faraway look on his face. Not really my area… that cabbie has waited around for over a minute now.

John raised an eyebrow. “Um, so you don’t have a boyfriend, then, either? Which is fine, by the way.”

John don’t be an idiot, I may not be a mind-reader but please cease your flirtations. I have a killer to catch.

“Oh, erm,” John blushed. “…Sorry.”

I am… not averse to your interest, though… just the wrong time. After the case, perhaps. That’s him. That’s the killer. Come on, John. Sherlock stood up and raced out the door, pausing slightly for John to catch up. The good doctor had the social grace to turn around and nod quickly in thanks at the restaurant owner, then dashed off after Sherlock.

Faster, John, I’m losing sight of the taxi. We need to take an alternative route, perhaps through that alleyway, no the lights will be turning red in a moment so the cabbie should stop soon though there’s a chance the cabbie will run the red but it’s unlikely…

John tuned out Sherlock’s thoughts and enjoyed the run.

*****

They got to the front of 221B on an adrenaline high, laughing to each other.

“I can’t believe we just chased down a tourist! Is life always this fantastic with you?” John asked, between pants and fits of laughter.

Sherlock, luckily, didn’t even have to use his vocal chords to communicate. He caught his breath whilst thinking, You don’t have your cane. The detective smirked.

“Oh piss off,” John replied, smiling up at Sherlock. They were awfully close to each other. John heard the thought in Sherlock’s mind before it happened, and cut to the chase, kissing Sherlock on the nose.

“You said to wait until after the case,” John smiled cheekily.

Sherlock frowned and opened the door, climbing the stairs in a huff. John shook his head and laughed, hearing Sherlock’s inner frustration clearly.

Sherlock opened the door to 221B to pause momentarily, then flop onto the couch. John, just a warning, there’s a few visitors in the flat. John was confused, until he walked inside and saw the crew, including the DI they had met earlier that day. (Was it only that day? Time moved quickly, John supposed.) The DI was joined by a small crew of three, all in uniform.

“Uh, what’s going on?”

“Drugs bust,” Lestrade said sharply, looking around the room. Well, I didn’t think this daft bloke would last more than an hour… strange. So where’s Sherlock hidden the evidence? I’m sure he’s found something, obviously without informing me. I’m sure Anderson will find something here, though, but I hope for Sherlock’s sake he doesn’t find any cocaine… wouldn’t be the first time…

John had to strain his Gift to hear Lestrade; Sherlock’s inner monologue was deafening. He ignored it as best as he could.

“Um, I don’t…” he paused, looking towards Sherlock. John, shut up. They’re valid. They have a warrant. This place is clean, just so you know, but… it hasn’t been in the past… I’ll leave it at that. John looked away from Sherlock. “Um, yeah, okay, go for it.”

Lestrade frowned. “What, no rhyming insult from you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock shrugged wordlessly.

“Right,” Lestrade looked away.

“Is that a real skull?” Anderson said in a disgusted tone, picking the skull up with gloved fingers. “That’s awful.”

“Why are there human eyes in the microwave?” Anderson said from the kitchen.

John could feel Sherlock feel violated and almost flinched at the force of it. “Um, that’s important, er, could you put that back please?”

“So we’ve found Rachel,” Lestrade mentioned, his eyes roaming the flat.

“Oh?”

“The daughter of Jennifer Wilson.”

What did Rachel say about her mother? She probably knows about her mother’s string of lovers, ask Lestrade, John.

“What’d Rachel say?” John asked, mentally noting that he shouldn’t talk for Sherlock frequently lest he be caught for his mental Gift.

Lestrade grimaced. “She’s the stillborn child Jennifer Wilson had, fourteen years ago.”

Why would Jennifer Wilson mention Rachel in her last seconds, then?

John coughed slightly. “Sentiment,” he mumbled.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Jennifer Wilson was clever, cleverer than Anderson and she’s dead!

“So, Lestrade, the case is right here. And according to some psychopath we know, the killer has the case. Need I say more?” Anderson looked pointedly at Sherlock.

Sherlock merely rolled his eyes and looked at John.

“Er, Sherlock’s not the killer, he found the case while rooting through some bins near the crime scene.” John pointed out helpfully.

So if Rachel isn’t someone we should talk to, it must be something else important. Think, think, THINK!

Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs. “Sherlock, dear, the taxi you ordered is here.”

“He didn’t order a taxi,” John answered.

JOHN! Get everyone to shut up, they’re distracting. Get Anderson to face the other way, he’s putting me off.

“Wait, everyone, quiet, I think Sherlock just figured something out,” John interrupted the ruckus. Anderson and Donovan stopped bickering and started arguing with John. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, however, blessedly stayed quiet.

Jennifer Wilson was smart, smarter than most of us, what would she do in her last seconds? John what would you do in the last minutes of your life?

“I’d say ‘Please God, let me live.’” John said quietly. Sherlock stared at him.

The consulting detective went silent for a moment. Well. He had been silent, technically, for the better portion of the evening, but his mind quietened for a moment.

….Sorry. But not everyone would have that response. Jennifer Wilson certainly wouldn’t.

She knew she was dying, had probably heard of the other deaths, so she’d want to stop the killer from killing again. So what does she do? Plant the suitcase on the killer. The killer dumps that quickly, though. She knows the killer has her phone. Her smartphone. Email enabled, likely. With GPS tracking. Oh, stupid, STUPID. It’s a password!

Sherlock took out the laptop and quickly typed in the phone number and password into a cell-phone tracking website. It… it shows that it’s here. How can it be here? OH!

“Sherlock, dear, the cabbie’s waiting….” Mrs. Hudson fretted.

“Thank you Mrs. Hudson, please do not worry, the game is on, I’m in a hurry,” he dashed out the door, then popped his head back in. “The game is on, it is a thriller, goodbye John, I’m off to catch the killer.” Sherlock winked and headed out the door, his mind a frenzy of thought and deduction.

John frowned and turned around to the laptop, refreshing the page. The phone was moving.

“Explain to me what just happened?” Lestrade asked, putting his detective ego aside.

“Um, in a minute,” John refreshed the page again. The phone was further away now. “I just need to check something.” The phone was stopped at a building and didn’t move. Sherlock was definitely in danger if he had just followed a serial killer into what seemed to be an abandoned building. He looked up at the police officers which were regarding him incredulously. He needed to get to Sherlock, and fast, preferably without the attention of the DI and his officers.

“Listen, this is all a bit crazy for me… I don’t know how you guys can do this. I, um, I think I’ll just be heading to my own flat now. Sherlock is… I can’t handle this.” He made sure he trembled his voice a little, biting his lip slightly. He nodded as he heard their thoughts (no suspicions, God, Sherlock was right. They weren’t the brightest of the bunch.) Lestrade nodded back.

“Be careful, alright?” Lestrade called out as John left the flat. Lestrade followed him down the stairs for a moment. “I hope you know, John, that I have a Gift for sensing liars. Just don’t get hurt.”

**

Oh God. There were two identical buildings. He could hear at the periphery of his mind a faint susurration that was Sherlock’s mind, but he couldn’t tell from which building it came.

He took out his gun, praying he wouldn’t have to use it.

Of course he chose the wrong building.

He heard the killer’s thoughts, and the welcoming flood of Sherlock overwhelming John momentarily.

Sherlock wasn’t actually about to poison himself, was he? The daft idiot, he was going to, of course he was. Because he’s Sherlock Holmes and he’s a bloody idiot.

John took the shot.

***

John left the crime scene to leave his gun in 221B then came back. He found Sherlock sitting in the back of an ambulance with a shock blanket around his shoulders, talking to Lestrade. Sherlock was perched on the edge, almost in a crouch, in a frankly uncomfortable looking position. Then again, he’d been perching like that when John had first met him at Bart’s…. yesterday?

“Acclimatized to violence, though perhaps that’s past tense. A military background, since the shot was so sound.” Sherlock grimaced. Why won’t Lestrade just go away? The killer fled, could be anyone. Could be John Watson, for all we know. Actually… Sherlock looked around and spotted him. Hm, I hope Lestrade doesn’t make that connection. Better muddy the waters a bit. “A newbie assassin I’m willing to bet, not morally bound, Lestrade I’m in shock, go get.”

John snorted slightly as he saw Lestrade sigh and leave to talk to some other police officers (who, blessedly, weren’t Donovan or Anderson).

Nice shot. Your hands are clean, I assume you’ve washed them. Where’d you stash the gun? You didn’t travel far, though I’d be shocked if you took a cab. You took a bloody cab, didn’t you? Well, statistically, it’s fair to say our chances of getting another murderous cabbie tonight are very low.

John gave a noncommittal grunt.

How are you faring? You did just kill someone. That’s supposed to have some sort of damaging effect on the psyche, from what I’ve read.

John shrugged. “You were going to take the pill, weren’t you?”

I was right! The cabbie was rather clever, to be certain. He has a brain aneurysm and was contacted to take up a serial killing spree-

“Sherlock, your life was in danger!”

Not really. He had a gun, to make sure his victims wouldn’t run off, but it was fake. There was never really any danger, John.

“Yeah, but you’re a bloody idiot who was going to take the pill. Don’t lie to me, I heard what you were thinking,” John argued, crossing his arms. God, what did he get himself into? Why would Sherlock do that? It was for his own enjoyment… God, no wonder the man had been a junkie in the past.

Are you alright?

“Well, yes… why? I wasn’t the one killing himself!”

As I said, you did just kill someone.

“Well, I mean, he wasn’t a very nice person.” John smiled.

No, not really.

“And a bloody awful cabbie.” They giggled quietly together. “We shouldn’t be giggling like school girls at a crime scene,” John pointed out.

School girls giggle at crime scenes?

“Oh, shut up, you berk.”

I never said anything.

“Another case cracked,” Mycroft interrupted suddenly. John sobered, straightening his spine. “How very public spirited of you, brother. Though that’s never been your motivation, has it?” he looked pointedly at John.

John frowned. “Piss off. Sherlock was nearly killed today, and you’re, what, teasing him? He’s my patient; he’s in shock. He needs to get home, so whatever you have to say, don’t.” John ignored Sherlock’s mental tirade against his brother and underlying tone of awe directed at him.

“Hm… shockingly loyal. Sherlock? Not going to say anything?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “No? How very telling. I’m concerned, brother dearest, and Mummy is ever so worried about you.”

“Sherlock agrees,” John said, a bit too loudly. He cleared his throat, mildly embarrassed. “He says ‘Piss off, Mycroft.’”

“Does he, now? And how would you know?” Mycroft tried hearing John’s thoughts, though it was a rather weak attempt.

“ESP. I dunno, probably because he’s been frowning at you for the past couple minutes? Or can you not see that?” John smiled, almost predatorily. “I’ll see you later, Mycroft. Perhaps we’ll have tea. And you can try to invade my thoughts and my privacy again, in a more comfortable setting.”

Mycroft raised his head slightly and nodded. He turned on the spot and left.

Dinner? Sherlock smirked lazily.

“The case is over,” John pointed out.

Excellent. Sherlock stood, towering over John. A faint smell of gunpowder, ashes and adventure encompassed them as they met in the middle, noses bumping into each other.

John giggled. “Your nose is enormous.”

Yeah, well, you’re a dwarf. Sherlock lifted his head haughtily.

“Chinese?”

Starving. You know I can tell the quality of a Chinese restaurant by the bottom of the door handle.

“Fascinating,” John said dryly.

I can predict the fortune cookies, too.

“Liar.”