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Chapter Text

London was drenched, as per usual, noted a tired and wet John Watson. It was amazing how easily time spent in warmer climes could make one forget how soggy Britain really was. He felt a little like a tourist in his own country, which struck him as eerily appropriate.

Not that it really was his country, anymore, anyway, but that was beside the point. The point was that it was raining far too hard, and the bus was taking its sweet time crawling up the street to save him. The point was that, as soon as he hopped on, the rain suddenly stopped. He glared at the sky, wondering if it had done that just to be cruel. The point was, as he watched an old lady with some hideously tiny dog in her arms steal a handicapped seat from a pregnant mother with two children on her lap, that he missed having a cane and sympathy on days like these. The point was that he didn't know how much of his flat would be left when he got home.

Maybe there wasn't a point after all. That, too, struck him as eerily appropriate.

He ignored the persistent buzz of his mobile (Sherlock again; maybe three-quarters is a bit hopeful) in favour of watching the other passengers; he supposed he should feel like a creep, but he felt he almost lost the right when he started spending extended periods of time with Sherlock Holmes, the world's only professional creeper. At least John was normal enough to surreptitiously watch as the big young man in the corner talked to his girlfriend. He was trying to move his jaw as little as possible; maybe he injured it in sport? Kicked in the face? No, wait, his knuckles were bandaged. Maybe he got in a fight, then. It looked like his girlfriend had bruises on her wrists, too. Finger tips? Maybe she got jumped by some blokes and he tried to fend them off. Seemed like the type to do that.

God help him, John was turning into a creeper. Not that he had anything better to do. For a man who'd accomplished more by forty than most did by eighty, there was surprisingly little he was needed for. Was there nothing for him to do? He glared at the wet window as if expecting an answer. He didn't get one, of course, but he did get jostled by the woman behind him as the bus stopped and she teetered, bracing herself against his back with her bare hands. He couldn't stop himself from flinching visibly at the sudden breach of his personal space. His grip tightened on the handrail as he tried to stop himself from whipping around and reaching for a gun or knife that wasn't there to fend off a masked adversary in a warm and dry place thousands of miles away where the sand burned his skin and he felt so very alive ---

The bus halted at his stop and he was in a cold and wet place that wasn’t home and made him feel just a little dead inside. He shoved his way out of the claustrophobic bus (so many adversaries) and landed on the pavement at the exact moment that the rain started again.

The point was that the London bus system and the sky had conspired to make him, miserable and soaked and paranoid and useless John Watson, suffer interminably.

Chapter Text

"Bo-ring."

"Mr Holmes, please!"

"Absolutely not. My time is too precious to waste upon petty complaints. I'll only be bored."

"My complaints are not petty! That damn girl just thinks she can--”

"Mrs Warren, I am currently entertaining a case involving some rather important ancient artefacts and really, really, can't spare the time for you or your uncooperative guest."

"She's not bloody 'uncooperative'! She thinks I'm her servant!"

"Well, that's no business of mine.”

"I thought you were supposed to be helping people, Mr Holmes-- "

"Already bored."

"-- I'd read about all the help you gave Dr Huxtable when his student disappeared and I thought--"

"Still bored."

"And then Freddie Hobbs told me about--”

"Oh, that! That was boring too."

"I'm at my wit's end!"

"Boring, boring, bored, bored--"

"SHERLOCK!"

Two heads snapped around and stared at John, standing awkwardly in the doorway and dripping water all over Mrs Hudson's carpet. Sherlock was ensconced in his armchair, arms crossed like a stubborn child, already on his way to a spectacular pout. Mrs Warren, a pleasant-looking woman with silvery hair and chocolate-tinted skin around Mrs Hudson's age, was perched on the sofa, looking very upset.

"Oh, John, thank god--”

"No, you shut up. New rule: no abusing your clients." John pointed a chastising finger at the tangle of limbs and dark hair protruding from the cushions, and turned to the sofa. "Mrs, er, Warren? Right. What's going on here? What's the trouble? I'm Doctor Watson, Sherlock's colleague. Pay him no mind, he's being a git."

"I am not! You're treating me like a child, John."

John ignored him, crossing to her side. "Mrs Warren, please. Tell me what's wrong."

The poor lady had gotten so worked up conversing with Sherlock that she didn't know quite where to begin. John tried his best to appear pleasant and to ignore the irate grumbling from the chair, waiting as she took a breath and started to talk. John whipped out his moleskine.

"Well, Doctor... you see, my daughter and I have been running a youth hostel for some time -- an independent one, you understand -- in Bloomsbury, in Great Ormond Street. We're a small place, with only one private room, and have quite a bit of competition from the big hostels nearby.

"Well, anyhow, about two weeks ago this girl comes in -- couldn't have been more than thirty, probably younger -- asking about the private room. Everything was well enough until she started asking for these weird things -- she wanted her door to remain closed and locked at absolutely all times, she wanted to stay completely undisturbed, and she wanted us to accept notes from under the door about things she wanted. Well, I wouldn't have had any of that, but Abby -- that's my daughter -- said it was okay and let the girl have the room. She went in immediately, closing and locking the door. As far as we know, she hasn't left."

"Excuse me, Mrs Warren," John was scribbling in his notebook, "but do you use key cards? Can't you check that, or something?"

She snorted. "Key cards? Us? No, Doctor, no."

"Okay then. Go on."

John never noticed Sherlock's face, surprised and pleased that John asked such a piercing question so quickly.

"Well, Doctor, on the second night the notes started appearing under the door, the first one asking for the password for our Wi-Fi network -- nothing unusual -- and the second one asking for soap. The third one, though, was a take-away order for the nearest Indian. It seemed obvious to me the girl hadn't a clue how hostels work, and I was ready to go in there and kick her out, but Abby stopped me. Abby was willing to run down and fill the order, and since then she's gone and gotten the girl's food every single night without the slightest complaint. If the girl were a man, I'd think Abby had a crush for all she's indulged her.

"That's not all, though. We've tried to get the girl to come out and do her chores -- all the lodgers at our hostel have to pitch in with the cleaning, you know --- or at the very least socialise with the other lodgers, but she won't budge. It's been absolutely ridiculous. I keep trying to go have a word with her, but Abby won't let me kick her out and I can't stand to say no to my Abby. It's been almost two weeks, though -- the maximum amount of time a lodger can stay on in our hostel -- and the girl's showing no signs of leaving. I've already had to turn away several people looking to stay in the private room by now and I'm sick of having to deal with this girl. I don't even know why she won't come out or help out or just acknowledge my presence. I don't know what's going on with her."

"Mm-hmm," John was writing at a furious pace, "okay. So this woman is staying in your hostel, ignoring typical hostel etiquette, and is generally giving you a headache?"

"Exactly, Doctor."

"And you want to know what her deal is and how to make her leave at the appointed time?" John clarified.

"Yes."

"But why come to me?" Sherlock groused, forgotten by now, from the chair, "Why on earth would you think I'm the one to deal with some difficult customer? I solve murders, puzzles, mysteries; I don't negotiate agreements with impertinent hostel guests!"

"I couldn't very well go to the police, could I?" Mrs Warren's tone took on the same irritability it'd had before John interrupted their consultation.

"No, I suppose not, but you could have--"

"But why won't she come out? It's a mystery to me. You said you solved mysteries!"

"Only interesting ones, Mrs Warren. Yours is simply not mysterious enough."

"Oh, come on!"

"It's okay, Mrs Warren," John cut in, rereading his notes, "I'll take the case."

There was a moment of dead silence. Even the pigeon on the window ledge outside spared a moment to gape at John.

"You?" The incredulity in Sherlock's voice dripped and froze into enormous icicles, which broke off to embed themselves deep in John's skin.

John responded in kind. "I appreciate your unerring faith in me, Sherlock."

"How could you possibly--"

"If the case really is too banal for you, it shouldn't be too hard for an idiot like me, now should it?"

"I never said you were an idiot, John."

"You just did. Fuck you, Sherlock, I'm taking the case. Sorry," he added to his new client.

"It's quite all right, Doctor Watson -- my Abby swears like a sailor." She seemed relieved at finally getting her case accepted. "And thank you," she beamed.

"Yes, er," he swallowed, suddenly nervous under the combined gazes of Sherlock and Mrs Warren -- who, he only just noticed, reminded him of the paternal great-aunt who had pinned him with her one good eye when he was seven and told him that he'd only succeed at the things he hadn't intended to do. He took a breath, "It seems to me that there's no pressing... well, she has paid all her expenses, right?"

"Of course."

"And when is her two weeks up?"

"Saturday." It was Wednesday.

"So there's no pressing need to get her out of there or anything."

"Not really, no."

"Would it be alright if I came 'round tomorrow, get some more details and such?"

"Of course. I want to show you the notes, anyway."

He'd forgotten about those. "Yes, right. How's one o'clock?"

"Perfect. Here's my address." She gave him her address on a slip, did her goodbyes, and refused John's offer for help to the door. She left full of confidence that her problems would be solved by the nice doctor with the deranged colleague.

As soon as the door closed, John crumpled onto the sofa with his arm over his face.

"What do you think the chances are that I'll actually solve this case?" he asked after a moment.

"Do you really want me to answer that?" Sherlock addressed to his mobile (when did that come out?), fingers tapping at an inhuman speed.

"God no."

Sherlock offered him an apologetic quirk of his mouth.

"You think I'm crazy, don't you?" John's mouth was lost somewhere in his armpit and his voice came out muffled.

"I think you're too easily guilt-tripped into helping little old ladies. Tell me, do you get their cats out of the trees, too?"

"Fuck you, she needs help. And this girl sounds pretty weird to me."

"You've said the same about me countless times, John."

"What, that you need help?" John's tone was deceptively innocent.

"No--- " Sherlock couldn't resist a chuckle. "No, no, the 'weird' thing. You call me 'weird' all the time. And variations upon it, only a few of which I would feel comfortable repeating."

"Yes, well, you are ‘weird’ and all its synonyms," John jumped up, stretching and yawning his way to the kettle, "And you need help."

"That's what you're here for," Sherlock smiled.

"Maybe, though I can't be much if I really am such an idiot."

"Why do you still go on about that?"

"Why am I displeased that you seem convinced that I'm useless and a moron? I can't imagine why." His tone was sarcastic and not without bitterness.

"But I'm not, John, I only said--”

"It's why you won't let me work on cases, because I'm useless." He turned away from the sitting room, his eyes on the sink, "It's why no-one will let me do anything. I'm useless."

If Sherlock heard that last comment, he didn't address it.

"I'm doing it, Sherlock. I'm really going to do it." He turned with his back straight and his head up, hoping he looked more like John Watson the soldier than John Watson the depressed bachelor beginning to enter his midlife crisis.

Sherlock regarded him sharply for a moment, his face held impassive but with something inscrutable hanging over it like a veil, before it bloomed into his best encouraging smile.

Chapter Text

John didn't get to bed until well past two o'clock in the morning. First there had been Sherlock to forcibly feed, then a blog post to make, and then an exploding experiment to wipe up and a wound to suture. John sat there for the better part of an hour, holding Sherlock's wriggling forearm in an iron grip and meticulously stitching the skin back up again. Really, with the locum work and Sherlock's propensity for accidents, John was getting plenty of practice dealing with minor injuries. He'd never disinfected so many paper cuts or prescribed so many painkillers in his life. Which was fine.

It was all fine.

He was a doctor, after all. It was what he did; he wasn't expected to enjoy it.

And yet, when there were horrific injuries, when lives were on the line and John was the one saving them, he did enjoy it. He felt like a bastard for admitting it, but true mortal peril was what made him feel alive. The feeling of saving a life, of making such a tangible difference, was exhilarating.

The moment last May when he'd found Sherlock bleeding and suffocating under a pile of rubbish in a skip had been the most terrifying and thrilling of his life.

Terrifying because it was likely that Sherlock would die, and thrilling because there was a chance he wouldn't.

He didn't, and it was John that made the difference.

Both Sherlock and John knew that John was only sticking around for the excitement; Sherlock's explosive, precarious, dangerous existence was almost as good as the battlefields John had left behind. And yet, John was still very much a hanger-on, running in Sherlock's mad shadow and keeping the detective alive. He was always the second one to enter the fray.

John slept fitfully that night, woken at odd hours by the screeching of an out-of-tune violin. No matter how many times he complained to Sherlock about the noise, there'd always be violin in the middle of the night. Sherlock said he needed it to think, and nothing was more important than thinking, not even John's much-needed sleep.

It was just one of the ways Sherlock showed he didn't care.

John rolled over, tugging his phone off the nightstand to check the time. It was almost six. He cursed the army for instilling a need to be up at first light in his internal clock, no matter how hard he tried to sleep late.

The violin shrieked as if he weren't there, and he resigned himself to a caffeine-fuelled day. Fucking Sherlock.

He lay there in the dark, dwelling on always being second, the back-up, expendable, the assistant, always running in after the deed was done, and wondering how long it'd be before he arrived too late.

______________________________________________________________________________

At half-eleven Thursday morning, in 221b’s sitting-room, Sherlock and Lestrade were poring over a folder of evidence, full of photos of twisted and charred goose corpses and bloody knives, when an unexpected declaration was made.

"John wants to solve a case all by himself now!"

John felt all the heat in his body rush right to his face. He'd spent the better part of last night discussing his decision with Sherlock, who had gone straight from being absolutely incredulous to disturbingly ambivalent about the whole thing. As he watched the policeman gape a little at the complete non sequitur, it occurred to John that Sherlock was acting an awful lot like a mother duck, watching with apprehension as her ducklings took their first few futile flaps into the air, ready to catch them when their little wings gave out. Stupid little ducklings.

"I don't want to be a fucking duckling, Sherlock."

"What?"

"Nothing. Nothing."

"Did you say---"

"I didn't say anything! Did I, Inspector?"

"Er, sure. Whatever." Lestrade shook his head to clear it. "So you're solving a case? That's... new."

"He gets cats out of trees, too."

"What?"

"Sherlock."

"Mrs Warren certainly appeals to the good doctor's fondness for little old ladies."

"Sherlock!"

"What's this about cats and old ladies, Sherlock? I thought we were talking about---"

"We were talking," John cut in, eager to bring this uncomfortable exchange to an end, "about these geese... things. What do you think, Sherlock?" He gave the pile of photographs a light pat.

"Oh, those. It was the cook, obviously."

"'Obviously.'"

"The cook?"

"Of course. He's a cultist. These carcasses are the product of one of his ritualistic sacrifices."

"Oh, so now we're talking about sacrifices, are we?"

"Must I repeat myself?" The consultant gave a little sniff. "The whole household is mad; it was obvious from this blood pattern here what was going on. Simple, but outlandish. Nice addition for your blog, John. Far more interesting than that little hostel affair you so gallantly picked up. Waste of time for me, but it's not as if you have anything more important to do." Sherlock stood in one graceful motion, readjusting the lapels of his hideously expensive jacket. John glared up at him, sitting quite still.

It's not as if you have anything more important to do.

He felt as if Sherlock had suddenly tossed seven months of stewing depression and uselessness into a boiling pot, pushing his temper over the edge. "Will you stop teasing me about it, Sherlock? Nothing you say is going to deter me from doing the case." His voice was very low and very tense.

"I'm not trying to deter you, John! I was trying to be encouraging."

"Well, you'd be more successful if you didn't insult me constantly!" John didn't even realise he was shouting.

Sherlock stared at him uncomprehendingly. Typical Sherlock, not understanding that verbal abuse was general considered, what else, abusive.

"John, I'm not... I'm not 'insulting' you, I'm just telling the truth. The truth has never bothered you before."

John could have hit him. He could have, but he wasn't that sort of man. Instead, he took a breath. "I don't know how I put up with you, Sherlock. You are an absolutely insufferable git."

"You always call me that!"

And that's when John completely lost it.

"Because you are one! Fuck it, Sherlock, first you insult me, then you laugh about it, then you insult me again, and then you act all innocent, and fuck! Do you realise all the bullshit you get away with your high-fucking-functioning sociopath rubbish---"

"I'm not trying to deter you or be insulting or whatever it is you think I'm doing wrong!" Sherlock was suddenly hysterical, throwing his hands in the air, "You're always saying I'm doing things wrong, as if there's a right way to do them! I don't know what the right way is! Why do you think I have that diagnosis, for fun?"

"Maybe. But maybe it's just an excuse to abuse everyone."

"I'm not trying to abuse you! I'm trying to be encouraging, John, because I know you well enough to know why you're so desperate to do something yourself, but I'm also trying to be realistic! And now you've gone and convinced Mrs Warren that you'll be able to solve her case and I'll never live it down if you don't---"

"And what if I do?"

"You won't! Not without my help! Which is why---"

"I will never accept your help, Sherlock. I'd die of fucking shame."

The pair were on their feet, and Sherlock was shaking. John's mouth was pressed into a very tense line, and his whole body looked coiled to spring. The detective inspector, forgotten in the corner, swept his files back into their folder and made to leave the two flatmates behind.

"I'll call later, if you want to see the constable who saw---"

"Waste of time." Sherlock's eyes didn't stray from John's face. The two of them hardly blinked as Lestrade took the stairs two at a time and left them in utter silence. "John---"

"No, no, Sherlock," John stepped right into Sherlock's personal space. "We're not doing this." He was too angry to wonder what "this" was. "You're going to go deal with your geese or your Egyptian artefacts or whatever is apparently so fucking important, and I'm going to go see Mrs Warren and not waste my time because apparently mine isn't worth anything anyway."

"Why are you so... John, I'm s---" John was already leaving the room. "John, it's not even noon yet! What are you going to do for the next hour and a half?"

"Something unimportant, I'm sure!" He pounded up the stairs to get his moleskine and mobile, and ran back down to the ground floor quicker than he'd ever run in his life.

He slammed the door on his way out.

Chapter Text

He didn't even know why he'd gotten so angry; it wasn't as if Sherlock had said anything he hadn't said before. Sherlock was a git, he was insensitive, he insulted purely out of habit -- John knew all these things. And yet, somehow, it was all much worse now. Somehow, taking a case on his own out of sheer desperation and boredom made all of Sherlock's usual barbs sting a thousand times worse. Or maybe it wasn't about Sherlock at all. Maybe he was just waiting for an excuse to boil over. Then the whole thing had escalated so quickly, and before he knew it he was shouting and swearing, and Sherlock---

God. Poor Sherlock, John lamented, scrubbing a hand over his weary face. He could tell just from Sherlock's face that the man had absolutely no idea why John was so upset. Sherlock was genuinely trying to encourage John, did recognise that John needed to do this case, for his own sanity if for nothing else, and wanted to help John as much as he could.

It seemed that tact was far beyond him, though.

Was that why John was angry? That wasn't why he was angry. Why was he angry?

John ended up spending about forty minutes pacing in Regent's Park, blowing off steam and regret, before giving up and catching the Tube to Russell Square. He was almost an hour early, but it didn't seem to perturb Mrs Warren, who ushered him in with a radiant smile and plied him with tea and biscuits. He had worried that she'd want to see him in the common area of the hostel, but it turned out that she had a separate sitting-room that protected him from the stares of her unwashed backpackers. She had some plastic packets in her lap, and it took John a few minutes to realise what was in them.

The notes. And probably whatever other odds and ends she'd collected from her strange guest. She wanted John to deduce things about them.

John thought of a pair of ancient trainers and cringed.

"I asked her if she was planning on leaving, Dr Watson," she said over her floral teacup.

"Oh?" He was suddenly very interested in his teacup, which could have been out of awkwardness, but could also be because it had a blue cartoon train on its base.

"Do you want to know what she said?"

"Of course."

"Nothing. She wouldn't answer. I wasn't surprised."

"No, I don't suppose you would be," he offered, forcing a small chuckle. "Now, Mrs Warren---"

"Yes, of course, the notes." She made to take them out of their packet.

"Er, first, if you could, I have some questions..." He realised he'd never been more afraid of a bit of plastic in his life. It was going to be the end of him, he knew it.

"Oh, of course."

"Okay, er... first, can you describe this woman?"

"Well, let's see... she was young, as I said, between twenty-five and thirty, rather plump, about Abby's size..."

"How tall is that?"

"Abby's 1.63 meters."

"So, average size. Okay, go on."

"Pretty, with long hair. She looked sort of Indian."

"Okay..." John's tongue was caught between his teeth as he wrote, "what was she wearing?"

"Normal clothes, I think. Nothing mem... oh, wait, she had ballet flats on. I think they were sparkly? I remember because they were hideous."

"So, unremarkable outfit, except for the shoes. Average size, pretty, young. Did she give a name?"

"She said she was 'Emily M'," the woman sighed.

"No surname?"

"No, just an initial."

"That's... that's odd. Coupled with the never-coming-out business..." John was starting to get a picture of the situation. A young woman trying to remain anonymous, never coming out of her room, seemed either paranoid or... in hiding. Who was she hiding from?

"Has anyone come 'round asking after her?"

"No, no-one."

"No friends."

"No."

"No home address?'

"No --- no personal information of any sort. No address, no phone number, nothing."

"And, as far as you know, she hasn't left her room once."

"Yes."

"But you have talked to her."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You... you said you asked her if she was going to leave..."

"I slipped a note under her door. That's what I always do."

That was even weirder. "So, aside from these notes, you haven't had any contact with her since she took the room?"

"None whatsoever."

"Haven't even heard her voice?"

"No."

She was hiding from everyone, apparently. But why go to the trouble of hiding from Mrs Warren when they'd already met? Her cover was already blown...

"Who else met her, the first time? Just you and your daughter?"

"I assume so."

"Did she seem especially secretive around you? Unwilling to see you?"

"No, not really. I guess you could say she was nervous, but apart from that..."

"So she wasn't trying to sneak in or anything."

She snorted, and John could suddenly feel a great deal of tension breaking. "You make this whole thing sound like a film, Doctor, like she's a secret agent or something."

He gave a short laugh. "Sorry, Mrs Warren, I'm just..."

"No, it's fine. I suppose it’s all sort of surreal. At least for me."

"Yeah... not the worst, though."

"Sorry?"

"Not the most... surreal. I guess I've sort of lost touch with reality. I mean, sometimes I do feel like my life's a film; I live with the world's only consulting detective, after all..."

"Yes, I hear you two get up to all sorts of adventures."

"Yeah, I guess we do." And Christ, he lived for them.

She smiled at him, and he smiled back, and they sat there in silence for some moments.

He really did like her.

______________________________________________________________________________

He never did get a chance to meet Mrs Warren's daughter, but he was sure he'd have to return to Great Ormond Street the next day so he didn't concern himself with that quite yet. Instead, he let the hostel-owner give him a brief tour of her establishment. He wasn't sure what good it'd do him to see the private lockers or the loo, but he didn't want to upset Mrs Warren by saying so.

"Do all the rest of your lodgers leave for the day?" he asked, stepping over a stray rucksack strap.

"Usually. Most of them are out-of-towners, you know, kids on holiday. Usually go sight-seeing. Everyone's back by six or so, though --- no clubbers here!"

"Huh. So you're alone in here with 'Emily M' most of the time?"

"Yes. You understand why she makes me uneasy."

"I guess. Is that her room?" He pointed to a locked door on the opposite side of the common area.

"Mm-hmm," she called back, fussing with some cushions on a sofa. "You can knock, if you want -- she won't come out."

"No... no I don't think I will." It occurred to him that keeping his existence a secret could prove to be a tactical advantage.

God help him, he was going on about "tactical advantages" as if he were back in a war zone!

Of course, with the life he was leading now, thinking about war zones made him think about battlefields, which made him think about deserted car parks, which made him think about Sherlock. He repressed a sigh. Sherlock. He needed to go home and apologise.

As far as his case was concerned, he knew he still had work to do. Sherlock had been right, though: this certainly wasn't the most complicated case Sherlock -- they -- had ever gotten. It was obvious by now that 'Emily' was running away from someone, maybe even a group of people, of whom she was deathly afraid. Ever exiting the hostel could mean capture by her pursuers. What didn't fit, though, was why she refused to leave her room or speak to anyone when at least two people in the hostel had already met and spoken to her. There wasn't much point in hiding from people who knew she was in there. Besides, she could still exit her room and be safe, just as long as she didn't leave the building; so why wouldn't she come out? There was something he was missing. He bit his lip, looking between the door and the packet in his hand. What did Sherlock do when he was missing a piece? He went home, sat with his evidence for several hours, and ruminated.

Two birds with one stone, then, if he went home: deal with the case, and deal with Sherlock.

"Er, Mrs... Mrs Warren?"

"Yes, dear?"

"I think I should be getting back. If... if it's alright with you, I'll take these notes with me..."

"They're all yours, Doctor. Will you be back tomorrow?"

"I expect so. Dunno what time, though."

"Well, I'll be here all day, Doctor."

"Yeah. Alright," he called as he went to the door, his mind full of runaways and apology speeches and blue cartoon trains.

Chapter Text

Sherlock was alone. Solitude didn't normally bother him, but nothing right now was normal. Right now, he was huddled in his chair, clutching his violin, and feeling very lonely. He had given up on his artefact case hours ago, knowing immediately that his mind was too wrapped up in other things to be of any use to him for some time.

His whole brain, the whole brilliant, electric, superhuman expanse of his intellect was wrapped around one problem, one which he knew was far more important than any artefacts or murderers or sacrificial geese. The problem: John.

John.

John was such a puzzling individual. He put up with Sherlock, lived with him for god's sake, and was actually, sort of, maybe, hopefully, his friend. Most of the time, it seemed John cared very little what Sherlock thought of him. This was good: he was relatively intelligent by normal standards, but by Sherlock's standards he was hopelessly dull. He always said so. John got used to it.

But now, suddenly, John was depressed, and he was taking cases, and he was insulted and furious at Sherlock for speaking his mind. He had only said what he thought: that when John turned to him with his back straight and desperation in his eyes it was clear what he needed, and yet Sherlock didn't hold out much hope for a successful completion of the case. Detective work was just something John couldn't do. Sherlock wasn't about to say no (seeing John mope was the second most painful thing he'd ever experienced), but he didn't want to say yes, either. He certainly tried: he smiled, he happily told Lestrade about it, he tried to offer some words of encouragement. He thought those were all positive things.

And now John was angry with him.

Sherlock had tried to do good things, but apparently they were bad things, and he didn't know why they were bad now and had been... well, maybe a bit not good before but at least okay and that certainly wasn't the same as bad not unless someone had changed the rules of social interaction without telling him about it---

It was almost as if John didn't think Sherlock cared.

But no, that was a silly thought. How couldn't he know? He had to.

Didn't change the fact he was still angry, though.

Sherlock suspected that John might have some other, underlying gripe with him, but what it was he couldn't even begin to fathom.

John was so confusing.

Sherlock looked at his watch.

It was gone five, and John wasn't back yet. Sherlock didn't let himself wonder if John would ever be back.

It was gone five, and John was still angry with him.

It was gone five, and Sherlock still didn't know what he'd done wrong.

It was gone five, and John wasn't here. He couldn't think without John here.

It was gone five, and Sherlock was getting his coat and practically running down the stairs to go and look for him.

It was gone five, and he opened the front door.

It was gone five, and he ran straight into John.

"Sherlock!"

"John!"

They stumbled into each other, bracing themselves against each other's shoulders and teetering upon the front step. They stood for one bemused moment.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"You were gone and I... I was worried and I... I wanted to... John, I'm s--"

His emotions must have read on his face, for John took his shoulders lightly and pushed him inside."No, no... Sherlock, please don't apologise. I've been just having a rough time of it recently and I was already angry and really tired. It had nothing to do with you; you didn't do anything wrong. You were just being you, which I should be used to by now. I'm sorry."

"Why are you apologising? I thought I was the one..."

"Now you're just trying to blame yourself and it doesn't fit on you at all." Sherlock didn't really understand how something like that could "fit" on one, but he didn't comment upon it. "I'm sorry I blew up at you, and I'm sorry for what I said, but I think you just rubbed me the wrong way and I shouldn't have lost my temper. Okay? We good?"

Sherlock took a moment to consider. They were squashed together in the narrow front hall in rather compromising positions, but John was back and wasn't angry anymore. All in all, he seemed to have come out on top. "We good."

"Great." John began disentangling himself from Sherlock's long limbs, the tension ebbing out of his joints like water vapour. Sherlock realised that John must have been wound up, too. Funny how hard they tried to please each other, each of them trying to take the blame. So much effort put into making their relationship work.

Relationship. Friendship? Hopefully. The thought made him smile awkwardly. John responded with a much more confident one of his own.

John's smile always put him at ease.

"So, how's your case going? If you don't mind me asking," Sherlock asked once they were on the stairs.

John chuckled and ducked into the kitchen. "It's going just fine, Sherlock."

John's tone was certainly encouraging; he wasn't completely confused, at any rate. "So, what's your theory, Doctor?" Sherlock asked, leaning against the doorframe, watching John root around for tea.

"Not telling."

"What? Why not?"

"It's a secret."

"A secret? Since when do we keep secrets in this household, John?"

"Since forever, Sherlock. Half the time I don't know who we're chasing or why."

Sherlock could feel You wouldn't have that problem if you weren't so hopelessly dull! on the tip of his tongue, but he let it go. "What, so now you're begrudging me my reticence and... and punishing me by keeping me in the dark about your new case? Is that what's going on here?"

John turned around, a tin of beans in one hand and a jar of diced pig liver in the other. "That is exactly what's going on here. Now, would you mind being not reticent for just a moment and telling me why there is a jar of diced whatever in our cupboard?"

"It's pig liver. And it's an experiment."

"Obviously?" John asked in his best imitation of Sherlock's drawl.

"But of course."

"Uh-huh. What for?"

"My artefact case; it's about canopic jars," Did John know about canopic jars? Was that a thing people were supposed to know? John knew about a lot of things Sherlock didn't, "and I wanted some more recent specimens. I've got that, and the intestines..."

"What intestines?"

"Oh, I didn't tell you? I have a small intestine in my room."

John blanched. "Oh, god, tell me it's not on your bed or something horrid like that."

"Of course not," Sherlock scoffed, "not useful to put it there."

"Sherlock," John asked very slowly, as if speaking to a child, "where did you put it?"

"I hung it from the ceiling."

John brought the jar of liver to his face and held it there against his forehead, eyes closed in the very picture of eternal vexation. He stood like that for some time. "I don't know how I lived before I met you, Sherlock. I can't imagine ever having lived a sane life."

"Oh, god, you never want to do anything remotely 'sane', John! 'Sane' is so boring."

John laughed.

They were okay.

Chapter Text

John sat down with an entire pot of fresh tea and prepared for another sleepless night. In several hours it would be quite too late for him to still be awake, and he doubted he'd have some miraculous, Sherlock-like epiphany before that time. The contents of Mrs Warren's plastic packet were spread out neatly on the coffee table, mocking him with their inscrutability. He'd been glaring at them for an hour already and there was yet to be any light in the darkness.

He could have asked Sherlock's help. He knew he could have. Despite everything --- despite the fact that he'd snapped at Sherlock again not an hour ago, despite the fact that Sherlock only half-accepted John's immediate apology, despite the fact that Sherlock had slinked off to his room to poke at his intestines and left John utterly alone, despite John's pride --- Sherlock would have helped him. He would have taken one look at these notes and solved the whole case in a moment. Would have solved John's case. John's case.

John didn't ask for Sherlock's help, because it wasn't Sherlock's case.

John felt his leg beginning to fall asleep under him and shifted uncomfortably. He knew that there was something off, something he wasn't getting, something he had overlooked. He rifled through the pile again. Take-away receipt, note, note, note, receipt... he picked up the next note and looked at it closely.

Soap, it said in a very neat hand. He couldn't tell what it was written with, but if he had to guess he'd say a soft pencil. The letters were purplish, but he didn't know how that helped him at all. The sheet was small, about the size of a card, but wasn't as thick or stiff. It seemed it had been very carefully folded and ripped, not entirely successfully -- one side was jagged. He'd guess it had been a normal sheet of white A4, but as always he couldn't be certain. He picked up another note (Same, it said; he assumed it meant the same take-away as the previous night) and compared the two. Did they fit? No, they didn't fit. Wait, this other one did -- he held it up against Soap's irregular side. Both of them ripped from the same sheet; it was probably A4.

Nothing weird about that, though. Nothing that helped him. Sighing, he arranged them in what he thought was chronological order: What's you're Wi-Fi password?, Soap, Number 15 at Vidyas', Number 24, Same, Same, Same, Tooth-paste, Same...

The only things out of the ordinary about these notes were the occasional grammatical errors ("you're", "Vidyas'"), but plenty of people made mistakes, a fact that vexed Sherlock no end, so that didn't tell him much. Though, for someone with such perfect handwriting, it was a little odd that she'd make such basic errors... he hadn't seen handwriting this perfect for years, though since he'd spent the second half of his life in the company of doctors or soldiers his data was probably skewed.

He sighed and reached for his tea. So, where was he now? There was a girl in a room, writing grammatically incorrect notes in freakishly perfect handwriting. Fat lot of good that did him.

The problem was that he didn't know what to look for. He knew something was off with his whole case, but he had no idea what it was or how some notes were supposed to help him figure it out. He couldn't look at the handwriting or the quality of the paper and instantly know everything there was to know about the owner. They were just some fucking notes. He supposed they weren't quite what he was expecting, but he still wasn't sure what he had been expecting anyway. Anything. Anything useful, he supposed.

He rubbed his eyes. Christ, was he tired. He poured himself more tea and knocked it back completely black. It was strong and bitter and tasted like the army (where he'd learned to drink it without milk) and reminded him of waking up the morning after the fight and still breathing, so he savoured the opportunity to think about something other than how stupid he was for just that one moment, because for that moment, he was alive.

Funny how a caffeine rush was almost as good as an adrenalin high.

John shifted again and reached for his moleskine. He was making sure to write down everything, even if a lot of things didn't end up being useful; he found writing made his thoughts come out clearer and he liked having all his facts laid out. So he wrote what he'd just learned:

Re: notes
perfect handwriting - looks like a font
some grammatical errors - you're vs your, Vidyas' vs Vidya's
- standard errors, but careless
- penmanship vs grammar - disparity
- peculiar?
pencil on standard A4 paper, ripped up, roughly A6 size now
pencil sort of purplish?
take-away - has a usual order
always the same Indian place - little odd
- Mrs Warren said she looked Indian, but doesn't mean she has to eat Indian every night
- closer take-away places than this one Indian

He paused for a moment and chewed on the end of his pen pensively. He knew the girl's ethnicity wasn't important, and it was possible that Mrs Warren had been wrong anyway, but he couldn't help thinking that it wasn't a coincidence. It also occurred to him that he could just be looking for clues where there were none, and he felt a little racist for ever concentrating on it at all. He crossed out his last three bullet points with his ears burning.

"I wish you would tell me about your case," said a deep voice from the doorway.

John jumped. Standing there in his dressing-gown and bare feet was Sherlock, watching him. John prided himself on his alertness, but he had to admit that Sherlock's presence had surprised him. What surprised him more, though, was the look on Sherlock's face.

There wasn't one. That was what was so surprising. John was usually highly tuned in to people's expressions, even Sherlock's bizarre ones, but right now he had no expression that John could identify. Not a muscle moved in the man's whole body. Instead, Sherlock stared at him, wide-eyed, with a deep look that seemed to penetrate John's soul. He found himself recoiling instinctively from a look so invasive, so intent, so concentrated upon him. It was like a laser beam honed in on John's head.

It was actually one of Sherlock's more terrifying moments. And Sherlock was usually rather terrifying.

"Your face is terrifying." John was never one to mince his words.

"I'm watching you think."

If John had wondered if it was possible to speak without moving a muscle, he was sure now.

"Well, can you watch me think and be... not... terrifying? Or not watch me think at all? Maybe that's better. Can you just not watch me think?"

"But I like watching you think."

Sherlock was getting substantially more terrifying with each passing moment. Apparently, that was possible, too.

"Well, I can't think with you watching me. So you'll have to stop."

"But John --"

"No." Sherlock looked honest-to-god crushed, and John felt guilty for a moment. Then, something occurred to him. "Wait, what are you even doing sauntering around in your pyjamas, anyway?"

"I don't 'saunter'!"

"Sherlock, have you even eaten yet? You haven't eaten, have you."

Sherlock crossed to his chair and flopped into it. "Well, you haven't fed me."

John's hand flew to his forehead almost involuntarily, out of habit rather than intention. "Sherlock. I am going to say this very carefully, because apparently it's very difficult for you to grasp: you are almost thirty-five years old. I shouldn't have to feed you."

"But I don't know how to cook!"

"You don't need to be a culinary expert to make beans on toast. I did try to teach you, remember?"

"Pah. It's all so very complicated and so very dull. Why should I try to remember how to cook when you can just do it for me?"

"Beans on toast is complicated?"

"And dull."

John snorted. "This is a first! Sherlock Holmes, with all his vast intellect, his infinite knowledge---"

"John."

"--has finally been conquered by the most unassuming of foes, the common bachelor diet!"

"This must be the stupidest conversation we've ever had."

"Tell me about it. Sherlock, this is really all very simple." John swiped a note from the pile and held it up. "This is a tin of beans."

"No, that's a piece of paper."

"Fuck it, just work with me here! Okay, so you have your beans. Now you have a pot," he drew a pot in the air, "which you put on the stove," he mimed the action, "and put your beans into. Then you cook the beans -- I know this is all very confusing but just bear with me -- and, when they're done, you put them on a piece of toast, like this." He ladled imaginary beans out of his imaginary pot and onto his imaginary toast and watched, amused, as Sherlock's expression morphed from merely "irritated" to "has a piece of rotting grapefruit in his mouth and is waiting to spit it out".

"I hate you."

John laughed and realised that he still had the note in his hand. He made to put it back with its fellows, giving it the most cursory of glances. Its perfect, purple letters were laid out in the middle of the scrap of paper, spelling a one-word request.

Soap.

And it was just like that.

Because suddenly, something happened.

He had no idea what it was, exactly, but he knew that something had changed. Like a spark, a flash of light, a bolt of lightning skidding across his mind, synapses had fired and suddenly, everything had changed.

Because the person in Mrs Warren's room was not Emily M. There was an entirely different person in that locked room.

What was more, that person wasn't even a fugitive, or a criminal, or any of the things one would expect from someone who had taken a room under someone else's name.

That person was a kid. He suspected it was Emily's child.

He stared at the note, stared at the perfect formation of those four letters, stared at the overhang on the "a" that no-one ever wrote, save those trying to replicate a handwriting chart or a font. Someone who was still just learning how to write.

Someone who would form perfect letters but still make grammatical errors.

Someone who would try to fold and rip a piece of paper perfectly and get it a little wrong.

Someone who would gravitate towards the food they were used to with when in an unfamiliar place.

It seemed silly to assume so much from so little, but he knew he wasn't assuming. He knew he was right. It all fit: of course the kid wouldn't come out, of course they wouldn't talk, of course they didn't know how hostels worked ---

This child couldn't have been over seven, especially considering how young Emily was. But a kid, that young, all alone? He almost couldn't believe it, but a glance at the receipts again told him that there simply wasn't enough food for both of them. In fact, there was hardly enough food for just Emily, but a perfect amount for a small child; it was all so obvious now, why didn't he just think before it all made so much sense now was this how Sherlock felt when he solved cases because this was amazing and bizarre and John knew he was right and he just couldn't get over it his case was solved and he felt alive again --

John looked over at Sherlock, who had his terrifying look again, and smiled dementedly and breathlessly.

"It all makes so much sense."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment. "You solved it."

"I solved it. Most of it, anyway."

They were silent for some moments, watching each other from opposite ends of the room, revelling in the moment and the electric charge John's sudden epiphany had left behind. Sherlock was still staring at him in his frightening way, but John found it didn't bother him anymore. He sat under the laser-like gaze, a bemused and thrilled smile still lingering on his face, and simply breathed and wondered at how complicated it had seemed before and how simple it all was now. He didn't know what to think or feel, or what to say or what to do now, and he didn't care. What happened next would happen next. Right now, he had solved his case, shed light into the darkness, and his heart was racing and he felt he could have done anything in the whole world in that one radiant moment. He wasn't just helping. He was accomplishing.

He was alive.

Sherlock was still watching him, but his wooden expression was beginning to fall apart. He looked concerned and confused and floored all at the same time. "How did you solve it? You just looked at that piece of paper and suddenly your whole face changed -- "

"I don't know how I solved it. It solved itself. It just... it just was. I just suddenly knew."

"You just knew."

"Yeah."

"And... and you're sure?"

"Absolutely."

Something in John's tone must have touched him, for Sherlock suddenly straightened in his chair oddly. His face relaxed, his gaze flitted away, and all the intensity in his eyes melted away into an uncertain, clouded look. John blinked. His flatmate looked almost... upset? No, that wasn't it at all. Sherlock was a git but he'd never be upset at John for solving a case. For not the first time that evening, John hadn't the faintest what was going on in that deranged mind.

John didn't get to dwell on Sherlock's inscrutability for long, though. Quite suddenly, a faint noise came from the kitchen, and John recognised it as Sherlock's ringtone. Someone was calling Sherlock at almost ten at night? What for? Sherlock got up and shuffled over to answer it, and John hoped he wouldn't be roped into a harebrained chase at this time of night (though, of course, he'd never say no, not in a million fucking years). He bit his lip as Sherlock picked it up.

"Sherlock Holmes?"

"Mr Holmes? Oh, my god!" The voice on the other end was practically screaming; even from the other room, it was perfectly audible and John recognised it as Mrs Warren's shrill tone. He was up and in the kitchen before he even knew it. Sherlock turned and they exchanged a glance. "Is Dr Watson there?"

"Dr Watson?" Sherlock repeated, as if he'd misunderstood. Or couldn't believe that someone would call for Dr Watson. Or was still in abject shock at everything that had happened so quickly.

"Yes! Yes! Is Dr Watson there? I need to speak to him! I don't have his number but yours is on your site... Is he there? Oh, oh my god..."

Sherlock made no move to hand the phone over, so John snatched it from him with a glare. "Mrs Warren? Hello? This is Dr Watson."

"DR WATSON!" she shrieked right into his ear. "Dr Watson, thank goodness! It's terrible, oh my god it's just terrible--"

"Terrible? What's terrible? Mrs Warren, what's happened?"

"It's Abby! Oh, this is horrible--"

"Abby? Your daughter? Is she alright? Has something happened to her?" John and Sherlock exchanged another glance.

"Doctor, oh my god... you have to come, Doctor!"

"What has happened? Tell me what's happened!"

"She's been attacked! Oh my god, Dr Watson, Abby's been attacked! My Abby's been attacked!"

Chapter Text

"Miss Warren... can you tell me what happened?"

It was nine AM and soft rays of sunlight were coming through the hospital blinds. Miss Abigail Warren, a woman of about twenty-five, was propped up on a clean white bed, looking shaken and bruised but without any lasting injuries. Her mother was clinging onto her hand and pretending not to cry. John wished she weren't so distraught -- her daughter would be fine, after all -- but couldn't deny that suddenly, everything had turned upside down for these two women.

"Miss Warren?"

She took a breath. "I, er, last night... last night, at about nine fifteen, or so, I left to get our lodger some food. I think Mum told you how I always go and get her take-away? Yeah. I do. There was no note then, which was a little weird, but she always gets the same thing so I figured she just forgot or something. So, er, I was going to get it -- it's, like, a fifteen minute walk -- and I think I'd gotten to Orde Hall Street when suddenly... suddenly somebody picked me up. From behind. And then there was a whole lot of these big men, and I couldn't really see their faces. I tried to get away, and they started hitting me... and then there was a car... I couldn't really see straight anymore 'cause they kept hitting me. And then they were trying to get me into the car, and I didn't want to go in, and then I think they dropped me 'cause I remember hitting the kerb. And one of them says, 'Oi, it's not her. It's a different one,' and another one says, 'What're you on about?' and the first one says something I can't understand, and then one of them is swearing a lot, and before I knew it the tyres were skidding right by my head and the car and the whole lot of them were gone. It was dark, and I couldn't move much... everything ached and I felt like jelly. I think I was bleeding... at a certain point I must have passed out because the next thing I remember was this old man shaking me, and there were some other people who went and got Mum, and Mum was screaming... and I must have passed out again. I'm sorry, I don't remember much. There were some blokes, and they thought I was someone else... that's all."

She breathed deeply and winced; it was obvious she had injured some ribs in the attack. Her mother rubbed at her arm in what was supposed to be a soothing way, but Mrs Warren's whole body was shaking with rage and the effect was rather dampened. She seemed ready to go kill someone. John could tell that the woman had drawn her own conclusions as to what was going on, and he dreaded having to explain everything when they were still both so raw. He knew they had very little time before the thugs were back, so he licked his lips and began to speak.

"Miss, Mrs Warren... I'm sure you both already suspect why this happened. Your mysterious lodger is hiding from someone, and --"

"And they mistook Abby for her. Same age, same size, coming out of the same building... probably followed her from the start -- oh, we should have never let that girl in at all, and now look what's happened --"

"Mum..."

"-- couldn't be bothered to get her own damned food, always making you do it, poor baby, for so long, and then it turns out she was going to leave anyway --"

"Mum!" Abby's face grew pink.

John had a fleeting suspicion about something entirely unrelated, but he was distracted by Mrs Warren's announcement. "What did you say? Did you say she was leaving?"

The woman sighed. "There was no note until after Abby left, and it was one saying the girl was going to leave that night. She didn't though, because once I left the note disappeared and I could hear her still in there. There was a lot of commotion about Abby and I suppose the girl got scared off." She looked away for a moment before suddenly slapping her palm on the bed's arm rail. "Damn her! If she’d put that note out earlier, if she'd just left--"

"Mum, then she'd have been abducted!"

"Better than you!"

"That's a horrible thing to say, Mum!"

"I don't care! I've had enough of her and her bloody games, if she's hiding it's her own bloody busin --"

"Mrs Warren," John broke in with a commanding tone, "I understand you're angry, and I am too, but I'm afraid it may be much more complicated than that." He inhaled, preparing for the worst reaction possible. "This is going to seem mad, but I don't think the person in that room is 'Emily M' at all."

Mrs Warren blinked and stared at him, still panting from her outburst. She seemed shell-shocked. "A different person? But how?"

"You said you couldn't tell if the door had ever been opened. It would have been easy for someone to switch places after dark without your knowledge. I think Miss M's child is in there instead."

Abby's eyes grew wide. "A child?"

"Alone?"

"Yeah," John nodded gravely, "the notes were written with some grammar mistakes, but nearly perfect penmanship. I doubt many adults nowadays have such perfect handwriting, but a kid still learning how to write would probably still refer to a handwriting chart, or maybe reference from a font. It's obvious the kid has a laptop; they wanted to use the Wi-Fi network, so they probably have Word or an online dictionary that helps with their spelling, but won't stop them from making these basic errors. The kid's probably no older than seven, judging by the amount of food they ate every night. I'm sort of assuming it's Miss M's kid, because I don't know why she'd put anyone else's kid in there instead. They're probably running from someone with the ability to find them almost anywhere; hence the age-old ‘splitting up’ strategy. They communicate via email -- the first thing the kid wanted was internet access, probably due to separation anxiety. If they are, then it's possible that your attackers somehow got a hold of their emails and knew they were planning to leave that night. I suspect Miss M will be back tonight or tomorrow night to get her kid out of there. I suspect those thugs will, too. I know it's all kind of silly, but I'm pretty sure about this. You should be glad, Miss Warren, that it seems Miss M and her kid are wanted alive." John had said that almost entirely on one breath and he drew another one, deep and luxurious. Then he let it go in shock.

The two Warrens were gaping at him.

John felt very uncomfortable. Was he just mad? Were they going to say he was full of shit? He was substantially less sure of himself now than he'd been last night, after he'd had hours of lurking around Great Ormond Street and then the hospital to ruminate upon his supposed revelation. Maybe he was full of shit. He probably was full of shit. They were gaping because he was absolutely full of shit, he was sure of it. Abby opened her mouth, and he knew what was going to come out.

"That's brilliant," she breathed.

For a split second, John was on the left side of a black cab, his throat raw from a string of complicated deductions, and his potential flatmate had said what people don't normally say.

He was stunned for a moment. Then he rallied and got back into the conversation. He was an idiot, of course he was right, he'd been sure before. Of course. That was just stupid, didn't he have any confidence?

"Er, thanks?"

Abby watched him with open admiration. "So, you think someone hacked our internet?"

"It's possible. They certainly seemed to know what was going to happen. Anyway, we need to figure out what we're going to do..."

"About tonight?"

"Do you really think they'll try again so soon, Doctor? So soon after Abby..."

"Well, we certainly don't want to let our guard down tonight just because it's 'too soon'. Anything could happen."

The mother and daughter shared a glance. Then Abby turned and nodded. "Okay. What should we do?"

"First, you two are staying in the whole evening."

"Obviously. I don't think I'm going anywhere for a while, what with my ribs and stuff."

"What about our other lodgers? Should we make them stay in, Doctor?"

"No, only because I don't think you want to have to explain to all of them about the fugitive mother who locked her kid in your one private room and was partially responsible for your daughter getting beaten, Mrs Warren." Abby looked amused and John was proud to have made her smile. "You said they're all back early, anyway, so I wouldn't worry. Just, if any of them look too much like these two then maybe..."

"There's one who looks like Abby, but I think she's leaving in the afternoon. Should I --"

"Well, either make her leave or keep her inside tonight. We don't want to take any chances."

"And what if nothing happens tonight?"

"Then we get ready for tomorrow."

Abby nodded, already preparing herself for whatever would happen over the next two days. Mrs Warren, looking scared, turned to him. "And you, Doctor? What are you going to do?"

"Did I tell you I was in the Army?" They both shook their heads. "Well, I was. Don't worry, I'll be there. I'll make sure it turns out alright." He'd sit by the window with his gun all night if he had to, he was going to make sure that kid made it out of there safely. He didn't care what Emily M had done to warrant such a search; he would protect her child with his life. No-one in that building was getting hurt, but those thugs would get what they deserved for poor Abby's sake. "It's going to be fine."

The two Warrens looked at him and believed him so absolutely that it hurt inside.

Chapter Text

Everything after that point happened so quickly. Abby was let out of hospital at half two and Mrs Warren took her home. John went to Baker Street to retrieve and load his gun (Sherlock nowhere in sight, but that was hardly a surprise) before going back to meet them at the hostel. Mrs Warren had managed to get rid of her other look-alike lodger and informed the rest that there might be a bit of a commotion that evening or the next. His gun heavy against his back, John avoided the eyes of the worried backpackers and tried to come up with some sort of plan with his client. The sky was growing steadily darker through the lacy curtains and John watched it dim, feeling his stomach flutter and his heart thunder as the day flew by.

He glanced at his hand. It was perfectly steady.

They knew it was unlikely that the child would come out before evening, even if John revealed everything he knew. Most likely, such intimate knowledge of the case would only convince the kid he was the enemy, which was the last thing he wanted. Should he have to play doctor at any point (though God forbid it), he needed the child's trust. So he left the door untouched, the kid inside undisturbed, and instead let a frightened Mrs Warren feed him a jacket potato at dusk. He was helping her with the washing up when his mobile buzzed in his pocket.

Text Received at 19.27 from [Sherlock]
Where are you?

Text Received at 19.27 from [Sherlock]
You've been out all day.

Text Sent at 19.29 to [Sherlock]
at Mrs Warren's

Text Received at 19.29 from [Sherlock]
Why?

Text Sent at 19.30 to [Sherlock]
case

Text Received at 19.30 from [Sherlock]
Obviously. When will you be home?

Text Sent at 19.31 to [Sherlock]
in the morning

Text Received at 19.31 from [Sherlock]
What? You're staying the night? Why? Is something happening?

Text Sent at 19.32 to [Sherlock]
tell you later

Text Sent at 19.32 to [Sherlock]
see you

Text Received at 19.32 from [Sherlock]
John, tell me what's going on!

Text Received at 19.33 from [Sherlock]
John?!

John pocketed his mobile with a huff and turned to his ashen host. She was leaning against the worktop, looking a little ill.

"Are you alright?'

"Hmm? Oh, yes. I'm just... er, just nervous."

"Right, yeah. I don't blame you."

"Mmm. Was that... was that Mr Holmes?"

"Sorry?"

"Was that Mr Holmes texting you?"

"Yeah. I think I just worried him, but I'm not going to start explaining everything to him now. I'll talk to him later."

She nodded silently and glanced out the window. It wasn't quite dark yet, and he could see the unfinished building across the street, tinged with deep blue in the twilight. She wrung her hands a bit and he placed a palm on her shoulder.

"It's going to be okay, you'll see." He would never stop being amazed at how little of his own fear ever came through in his speech. He was very glad of it now, and so was she; she didn't believe the fearlessness in his voice for a second but she appreciated the illusion all the same.

Because he was very worried. He still didn't know who was chasing Emily M and her child, why they were chasing them, or what would be done with the two of them should they be captured. They were wanted alive, sure, but for how long? Where would they be taken? Who was responsible for all of this? Abby had said she'd been attacked by a gang of masked thugs, presumably ones for hire. Who had hired them? More importantly, could John take them? He was just one short man against multiple giants; even with his military training, he couldn't subdue a gang of heavies all at once. His hand flew back to the gun in his waistband and he licked his lips. He remembered the feeling of being alive in a fight and forced himself to let come what may.

"Mum?"

John and Mrs Warren, both standing in front of the narrow window, turned. Abby was by the door, canting to one side and holding her abdomen in pain. A note was held in her extended hand.

"Miss Warren, what are you doing walking about?" John's doctor instincts flared up. He strode over and took her under her arm, guiding her out of the kitchen and back to her room. He barely noticed as the girl's mother took the note from her.

"Doctor Watson!" the woman called. Having reinstalled Abby safely into her bed, he emerged to find a note waved in front of his face. He took it and stared at the words printed on it.

Leaving tonight half eight

He looked up again and locked gazes with Mrs Warren.

"Tonight," he said, his tongue unwilling to form the word.

"Tonight."

"Half eight."

"What time is it?"

"Twenty 'til."

"Oh, my god."

"No, don't -- don't. We talked about this. You're going to stay in the kitchen, by the window, and no-one is to go anywhere. Okay?"

"Okay." Her voice was small and wavering and she looked away. He didn't like seeing her so frightened, so unsure.

"Mrs Warren," he looked her in the eye, "do you trust me?"

Her gaze snapped back up. "Of course."

"Do you trust me when I say it'll be okay?" He didn't want to know if he even trusted himself when he did.

"Of course." She tried to smile.

He straightened. "Right. Is there, er, is there a place I can keep a lookout from? Anywhere? A window or something?'

Within five minutes, Mrs Warren had found him a hard chair and set it beside the large front window in the sitting room, a little to the side so that he could easily see but not be seen. She drew the curtains halfway on his side, too, just to be safe. He checked his watch, and settled down in the chair with his gun drawn and his eyes on the street outside. John and Mrs Warren turned and locked eyes again, and he nodded slowly. She turned out the light and hurried out of the room and back into the warm kitchen, leaving John in the darkness.

He breathed deeply, trying to calm his heart. He was equal parts excited and frightened and adrenalin was already making him jittery. He held himself perfectly still, though, peering out from the darkness. Outside, the pavement was illuminated by a bright streetlamp, and the occasional pedestrians still flitted about. After some time, he checked his watch again. Five to eight.

He waited.

Two to eight.

He waited.

Three minutes past eight.

At six past, his mobile buzzed. He swore and dragged it out to shut it off for good.

Text Received at 20.06 from [Sherlock]
Lestrade called. Murder in Clapham. Body drawn and quartered.

John clicked the phone off. He didn't know if Sherlock was trying to entice him off to a crime scene or was merely informing John of his movements; at that moment, John couldn't be arsed to care. He stuffed the phone back into his pocket and continued his silent vigil by the window, his body tense, his hands on his gun. He continued to wait.

He waited.

He checked again after some time: it was quarter past. Just fifteen more minutes...

He waited.

Eight twenty.

Ten minutes.

He wasn't even jittery any more. He was as still as a statue, as still as a tiger waiting for its prey. He was hardly even breathing. Just ten minutes...

Eight twenty- five.

He flipped the safety off.

Eight twenty-six.

Eight twenty-seven.

Eight twen--

His breath caught in his throat.

What was that??

The building across the street was still under construction, and looked utterly deserted; so then why was there a light in one of the windows?

It was the window directly across from the kid's. He didn't want to lean forward to see if the kid was there for fear of revealing himself, so instead he stared at the light and waited for something to happen.

It was a torch, he could tell. And it was getting closer and closer to the window until it was almost pressed up against it. Vaguely outlined behind its glare was the shape of a person, and John realised in an instant that it was Emily's. She had come back for her child.

Slowly, she started to pass the light back and forth across the window, passing her hand over it with each motion. He could tell it was supposed to be a code, but it wasn't Morse and whatever else it was he couldn't begin to guess. It evidently made some sense to the mother and child, though, because after about a minute John heard the stair in the hall squeak.

The kid was leaving. John peered out into the street again. No thugs in sight, but that didn't mean they weren't nearby. He'd just crack the window open a little, just in case... he'd played sniper once before, after all...

But then, just then, John stopped with his hand on the window frame. The light in the opposite window had suddenly disappeared, and there was muffled sound from somewhere outside that could have been a scream. And then... and then there was a shot. Two shots. Three.

Oh no.

He was already up and running out of the dark room, gun in hand and no plan in mind. They'd found her, they must have, dear god... did the kid...? No, dammit, no! No!

"Don't open the door!" He bellowed at the child, a small boy, who jumped with his hand on the doorknob and turned to stare at John, terrified. Before John could speak to him, the door was wrenched open from outside and the boy staggered. Three enormous, masked figures were outside, already waiting for the little boy. He screamed shrilly, and the largest of the hitmen reached out a muscular arm and grabbed the boy by his tiny neck.

For a moment, John stood stock still. For a moment, he did nothing. For a moment, he just watched as a small child was dragged, choking, by an enormous thug into the black and cold night. For a moment, all the ex-soldier could see were masked killers with blind rage in their eyes. For a moment, all he could feel was the sand upon his stinging skin, all he could hear were his comrade's death cries, all he could taste was blood upon his tongue, and all he could smell was the viscera on his fingers where he'd let so many lives just pass right through, fall in pieces through his shaking, useless doctor's fingers that couldn't keep them alive--

For a moment, John Watson had let so many people die.

For another moment, John Watson wasn't going to let any more slip him by.

His feet moved of their own accord, taking him out of the building and into the street, where he threw himself at the boy's attackers and tried to pull them away. The biggest one snarled in surprise and whirled to attack him, but John got him across the jaw with a powerful fist that left the larger man reeling. Then another one was upon John in an instant. John got the man in the ear with an elbow, and twisted out of his grip. The man pounced again, ripping the skin along John’s temple, but John delivered a mad flying kick that knocked him away. John fell back onto the pavement and felt his muscles admonish him for the sudden strain. He pushed himself up with a groan. Then the first one was on him, twisting John’s arms behind his back and lifting him straight off the ground. The second one was rushing him again and, pinned as he was, John had no choice but to kick the second one again, this time getting him right in the mouth and probably dislocating his jaw. He crumpled. The first one roared and threw John back to the ground roughly. John felt the back of his head hit the pavement with a crack as the man landed on him, putting pressure on John’s ribs; his vision swimming, John brought his knee up between the attacker's legs with incredible speed and relished the answering whimper. Then he rolled away onto his hands and knees, gun still in hand, just in time to see a black estate car pull up and thrust open its doors in welcome for the little boy, kicking and screaming and held high off the ground by the third man and a fourth one in waiting for them in the car.

John surged up from the ground only to be knocked down again. The biggest man stood over him for a moment, deciding whether or not to kick John to death, before stepping out of the way with a foreboding grin. He raced back to the car, pushing himself in after the little screaming boy. The doors slammed. John was on all fours, his head pounding, and in the direct path of the car.

The tyres sang his death-song as the car shot right for him.

Later, he'd never be able to remember quite what happened next. He'd remember the tyres, squealing with delight as they rushed for him, he’d remember feeling his heart shudder in his throat, he’d remember the pain in his abdomen and legs and head. Then the next thing he knew, he was flat against the opposite kerb with his gun outstretched and the car was sitting smashed against a lamppost not 50 metres away.

"Dr Watson! Doctor, are you alright?? DOCTOR WATSON!" Mrs Warren screamed, running out of the building with her hands waving wildly. John pushed himself up, scrambling past the terrified hostel-owner and heading for the wrecked car. What had even happened?

Sagging against the car and panting, John groped for the door handle. He pulled the driver's door open, and saw, to his shock, that the man had a bloody hole right through his forehead. In the passenger seat, another one was bleeding out from a shot to his upper chest. Had John...? He wrenched open the back seat door and jumped back as a body slumped right out of the car and onto the road. He'd shot all three of the remaining hitmen, and the driver. All four were kill-shots. Bloody hell.

In the back seat, squashed between two bloody bodies, the little boy had given up on screaming. Instead, he was shivering violently, staring silently at John in the door with pure shock in his eyes. John was just as confused as he was, but he let his army doctor instincts take over from all the confusion in his head. He reached forward, lugging the dead man's legs away from the boy, and smiled.

"Hey. Are you alright?" The boy nodded. "I'm Doctor Watson, I'm here to help. Let me get you out of there." The boy hesitated for a moment before scrambling into John's arms. He lifted the child out of the vehicle lightly and carried him back into Mrs Warren's house, rubbing the trembling, clammy body soothingly. "Your mum was in the other window, right? I need to go find her. I'm going to hand you over to Mrs Warren, she'll look after you."

Mrs Warren followed them, baffled tears streaming down her face, and helped John lay the boy down in the sitting-room. "He's probably in shock," he told her quickly, "you have to keep him warm and put his feet up. Give him a blanket, but no tea or water. I'll be back."

"Are you alright, Doctor? Your head --"

"I'm fine!" he called back as he ran back out into the street. The windows all along the block were alight, and people were coming out to gawk at the smashed car in the middle of the road and the bloody bodies inside, and John was staggering across the street towards the unfinished building with blood on his face and hands and mind.

Chapter Text

So rare to find a murder so deliciously gruesome, Sherlock smiled. Often, he'd get called in to look at bodies the rest of the Yard thought disgusting, and Sherlock would be lying if he said some of them didn't turn his stomach even just a little. But normally the gore was the aftermath, the consequence of a violent death and subsequent decomposition. In this instance, it was the intention. Four severed extremities lay in a neat circle around a bare torso, split down the middle and oozing with all the dead man's insides. They had yet to recover the head, but Sherlock knew where it was and wasn't going to tell anyone until he'd had a chance to study it himself.

As he inspected the scene, Sherlock couldn't help but wonder why anyone would do this. The victim was a nobody, no enemies, no sordid entanglements, no family problems. He was the sort of upstanding citizen Sherlock so rarely encountered in his work. Why, then, would someone murder him? And why in such an ostentatious manner? If Sherlock had been a murderer, this would have been the sort of thing he'd do, but most murderers were not like him. Most murderers just stabbed a man until he fell over and dispensed with any elaborate torture. Most murderers did not draw and quarter a completely innocent man. Most murderers left some sort of trace, mark, DNA evidence upon a dead body. This one? No. Nothing. Sherlock had nothing.

It was a horrible scene, and it excited Sherlock immeasurably. Why did this man die? The whole affair was so abnormal. Though he insisted that the most bizarre cases were usually the easiest to crack, he really did enjoy a dose of surrealism now and then. He knelt down by one of the arms and poked at it with a gloved hand, barely containing his smirk at seeing Donovan's nauseous face in the corner of his eye.

"Well?" Lestrade stood a little way back, not looking too closely at the scene.

Sherlock ignored him, traipsing back to the torso and inspecting the split insides. What a messy form of dissection, he decided. He would have done a much better job than this (Of course, he would never have dissected a living person: imagine how upset John would be!). Upon a whim, he thrust his hand into the bloody mass and laughed a little at Donovan's muffled cry.

His face was wiped clean of any amusement when his hand came upon something sharp... and papery. He grasped it carefully and pulled it out. It was an envelope, soaked in blood and acid and strings of muscle and already falling apart. Even so, he could make out the inscription on the front and felt a peculiar twisting sensation in his gut.

Sherlock Holmes

He simply stared at the sodden thing for a few breathless moments, not sure quite what to think.

Moriarty. Again? Moriarty again. Another message. Different writer this time (male, early forties, heavy smoker), but similar stationery. What was inside? The envelope was still flat; unlikely it was another phone. He'd gotten rid of the first one, ever since he'd let it lure him to a dark pool where John had almost met his end. So what was it? A note? Could a note still kill John? From Moriarty, anything was possible...

He almost didn't want to open it.

"Sherlock...?"

"It's addressed to me."

"To you?"

"Look." He held it up even as he prised it open.

"Just like..."

"Just like the envelope with the pink phone, yes."

He tossed aside the ragged envelope and read the note (written on a thick card and dictated to the smoking man) inside.

Hello gorgeous

You like my present? I know you love a good murder just as much as I do, and what murder could be better than this one? Unfortunately I'm not the original artist of this one -- we have our own good Mother England circa 1350 to thank for this pretty little number!

I bet you're just delighted to hear from me -- didn't expect me back so soon, did you? Silly Sherlock. I'll always be there for you, honey. Anyway, Mister Misra -- yes, that one -- wrote me a while back and he was just ever so sweet, going on about his adorable little boy and pretty little wife the way he did, wanting to know where they'd gone. So what could I do? I fixed it all up for him in a nice little bow. Sorry you had to get involved, sweetheart, but I can't stop little old ladies from being little old ladies, c'est la vie. Don't worry, darling: by the time you get there it'll be all over, so just don't bother. Talk to you soon!

All my love, M

Lestrade leaned over Sherlock's shoulder and read along with him. "What the hell is all this, Sherlock? Who's 'Mister Misra'?"

Sherlock looked at the note blankly, a thousand different ridiculous explanations spinning in his head. "I have no idea. Apparently, Moriarty expects me to know."

"So this means this murder was just to get your attention? Again?” Donovan asked from a distance.

"No, no... it's more than that." Sherlock spoke mostly to himself. "He's distracting me. But how can he distract me from something I don't even know about? It doesn't make any sense..." Lestrade's mobile beeped suddenly, and he ducked away from the body to answer it. "Where am I even supposed to go? I don't --"

"What? What did you say?" The detective inspector asked into his phone.

"He thought I was involved, but I wasn't... it could have been a case I turned down, but I've turned down hundreds just this past week, so how will I know --"

"A shooting? In Bloomsbury?"

"...how...?"

"Great Ormond Street?"

Sherlock's head snapped up so quickly his neck cracked. "What?"

Lestrade placed his hand on the mobile's microphone. "Sorry?"

"Shooting in Great Ormond Street?" Sherlock's heart was suddenly racing.

"Yeah, but what... hold on," he turned back to the phone, "a car crash? A shooting and a car crash?"

"A car crash??" Sherlock leapt to his feet.

"Wait, Sherlock, what the hell -- where are you going? Sherlock? SHERLOCK!"

But Sherlock was already racing away from the crime scene, Moriarty forgotten, his thoughts mad and jumbled, a great big cloud of white punctuated by a single set of words:

Shooting.

Car crash.

John.

Oh, god.

Chapter Text

The door was locked.

John gave it another shove, but it wouldn't budge. He sighed and rubbed his bleeding forehead; the building wasn't even finished, and already it had a fully functioning lock. There was only one thing for it. The door was new, but the hinges were old, recycled ones: he figured it shouldn't prove much of an obstacle. He took several steps back, braced himself, and kicked in the door.

It crashed back into the dark foyer, raising a small cloud of dust from the wooden floor. The impact had shaken the walls, but no-one inside the building was stirring. Either that was very good or that was very bad, he couldn't tell. Hoping it was good, he stepped inside and quietly cocked his gun.

Parts of the walls were still bare, and others weren't even walls yet, with insulation puffing out from bare wooden beams and interior rooms visible beyond. He peeked through the holes carefully, making sure no-one was lying in ambush within them. At the end of the hall, a bare wooden staircase led up to the next floor. He began to ascend quietly, his heart in his throat.

There was a faint scent of mould and -- he swallowed -- blood.

Few of the walls on the first floor even had insulation, being nothing but sets of vertical beams yet. He scanned the area and saw no-one. He estimated that the window he was looking for was on the far left side, in the corner of the building. As he approached, he found that the rooms on that end were more finished, until finally he came to a closed door and a complete wall.

He tested his balance and brought his gun to bear. Then he opened the door.

He gasped. On the carpetless floor, illuminated by light from the street, there lay a fresh track of blood. Footprints. The red steps pointed their bloody toes towards him, outlining a path leading away from a closed interior door. He stood and stared at them for a moment, surprise keeping him still. Then he followed them back to whence they came, gripping the doorknob and bursting into the offending room.

He figured himself desensitised to gore, but this was an awful sight.

On the floor in the corner, next to a window, was the body of a large man, young and with a face contorted in such a picture of agony as John had only seen in war. He was crumpled, with staring eyes and bloodless skin, his form repulsive in death where he had once been handsome in life. The top of his head was smashed in, hit repeatedly with the butt of a gun, the final blow being so powerful that the gun was actually still protruding in his skull. From the hole leaked quarts and quarts of blood and fluid that dripped down his face and to the floor. A long, dark streak on the wall behind him bridged the gap between his head and the window, which was so completely and utterly drenched in blood that it tinged the light from outside a dark crimson tone.

John couldn't breathe for the overpowering stench of death.

He wondered if he might vomit. Though that might just be because he was concussed.

He didn't know long he stood there, torn between absolute horror and wondering who the man was. This was not the scene he was expecting; he had been expecting either some sort of ambush, or a hostage situation, or the body of the fugitive mother. Instead, he had found a man he'd never seen before, whose existence was never mentioned. Eventually, he walked further into the room, still maintaining a distance from the corpse, and bent to look at the bloody footprints closer than he had before. The shoes were small, and, if he had to guess, flat-heeled.

He suddenly remembered Emily's hideous ballet flats and thought he knew what happened. This man had snuck up on her somehow by the window, attacked her, fired off a shot (and probably missed). She fought back and ended up killing him in self-defence, and ran away. Must have discarded the shoes somewhere along the hall.

He leaned against the wall heavily and closed his eyes. So much had happened tonight, and he still didn't know why. The little boy could probably tell him, but that would require going back downstairs...

"John! John Watson! Has anyone seen John Watson?" a familiar voice roared outside, hysteria on its edges. "Has anyone seen Doctor John Watson? John!"

John's whole body was aching and he was barely standing upright. In here, Sherlock...

"Doctor Watson! Where is he?"

"Mr Holmes?"

"Mrs Warren!" Sherlock's voice shook with relief, "Where -- where's John? Where is he? Is he okay?"

"Oh, Mr Holmes, it's terrible... he's in that building over there but I don't think he's well... there was a whole fight and he almost got hit by a car --"

"Hit by a car?! John! John!" John could hear him running across the street and barrelling straight into the building, crashing around on the ground floor. John was already sitting against the wall, all the night's adrenalin leaking out of him.

"John! John, are you in here? Can you hear me? John!"

John brought his gun arm up heavily and whacked the piece of metal on the floor. It wasn't much, but it was probably the most noise he could make at the moment. He knew Sherlock had heard it, for all the strangled cries of his name stopped for a moment before a set of hurried feet were on the stairs.

"John? John! What --" Sherlock skidded to a halt in the outer doorway, shocked by the sight of the bloody footprints. "Oh..." He followed them into the inner room, staring for a moment at the bloody corpse and window.

"Sherlock."

"John? Oh, John, thank god." Sherlock crouched beside him. "What happened to you? You look awful..." he wiped at the blood on John's cheek. "Are you alright? Are you alright?"

"No, I think... I think I have a concussion..."

Sherlock was fussing, inspecting John's split knuckles and powder-burned fingers. "Lestrade is coming, I think, with an ambulance... we were down in Clapham, and we heard... a shooting? Was that you? And Mrs Warren said --"

Sherlock was positively babbling. "Sherlock, cal -- calm down," John tried to pat his hand and failed miserably, earning himself a worried look. Before John could either soothe or terrify his frantic flatmate further, police sirens wailed outside and an ambulance pulled up. He let Sherlock pull him to his feet and take him back outside, to where a horde of policemen were fretting and Lestrade was waiting for someone to explain what was going on.

Chapter Text

John sat in the open back of the ambulance and allowed the paramedic to look him over. He'd had a rough night, and he felt like blood was leaking from his every orifice; he'd pulled a slew of muscles, had some cuts and scrapes, and his bad shoulder was felt raw and sore. The cut above his eye was beginning to swell and he held some ice to it, looking at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. The man was practically hovering over him, watching him in that intense way that made John a little nervous, and giving the poor paramedic barely enough room to work. She flashed a pen light in John's eye and told him he wasn't actually concussed, which surprised him a little; then again, as his head still felt sore he wasn't sure if he was in any condition to be diagnosing himself. She decided he didn't need a trip to hospital, to his relief. Someone handed him a blanket instead and he wrapped himself into it, still holding the ice to his head.

"How are you now?" Sherlock asked, his voice almost inaudible.

"Still woozy and sore. I'll have to take it easy for a while, so you'll have to reschedule all your regular foot chases for next week." John knew his joke was feeble, but it managed to elicit a small smile (a relieved one?) from Sherlock, so it wasn't a complete failure. "You okay?"

"Me? Am I okay?"

"Yeah."

Sherlock cocked his head a little, and thought about his answer. "Tonight, I lost all contact with my frie -- colleague for over an hour. The next thing I heard, there had been a shooting and a car crash in the very street in which he was to spend the night. I was on the other side of town. Once I got there, I heard that he'd nearly been run over and wasn't well at all. I finally found him lying alone in a room completely covered in blood. It was... it ... the experience worried me. Greatly. Should I be okay?" He asked this last as a genuine question, as if seeking permission to be ruffled by the events of that night. John smiled and reached out his free hand, gripping Sherlock's arm.

"I think you will be."

And then Sherlock smiled, too.

Lestrade chose that moment to come out of the unfinished building, by now swarming with his crime scene crew, looking haggard and flustered. He crossed to their ambulance. "Sherlock", he started, with a great deal of irritation in his tone, "do you care to explain anytime soon?"

"It's not a matter of 'caring' to explain, Inspector. It's a matter of being able to explain."

"How do you mean?"

"I mean that I don't know any more about what's going on here than you do, but I think --"

"What? But I thought --"

"You thought I would know. Not so. But, unless I'm very mistaken, John does."

Lestrade just looked at John blankly. Then he looked back at Sherlock. "Doctor Watson knows?"

"John?" Sherlock watched John with an expectant face. Sensing that something was happening, a small crowd was starting to congregate around the ambulance, including Donovan, Anderson, and some other familiar faces whose names John didn't know. He lowered his ice pack and took a deep breath. This was going to be a long one.

He told them absolutely everything. He explained about finding Mrs Warren in their flat and taking the case in Sherlock's stead, about going to visit her and beginning to cultivate a hypothesis, about looking at the note out of the corner of his eye and suddenly realising everything. He took out his little dog-eared notebook for the hundredth time and listed off all of his facts and deductions, how he realised exactly who was in that room. Then he described Abby's sudden assault and camping out in Mrs Warren's house, ready for another attack and finally getting it at exactly half-past eight o'clock. He skimmed over most of the fight, but described in detail the car racing towards him and the sudden bout of amnesia, blacking out his entire memory of killing the hitmen. His eyes lingered on Sherlock for a moment, who looked equal parts anxious and proud. Then he told them about finding the young man's body in the other house and not knowing where Emily M had gone. He finally finished and started coughing, his throat dry. Someone inside the ambulance gave him water and he took it with all the greed of a man alone in the desert. Then he turned back to his audience.

The crowd had gotten quite large by now and there was absolute silence for several minutes. Lestrade seemed mildly surprised, and stood still with his eyebrows raised. The rest of the Yard, though, looked, for lack of a better word, flabbergasted. Donovan's mouth was hanging open, and Anderon's eyes were bulging in a way that made him look like an epileptic fish. John didn't know whether to gloat or hide. Sherlock, however, was still standing at his side, his eyes hidden in a poorly-suppressed smile and his whole body glowing in glee and fondness and pride.

Well, this was awkward. John Watson solving a case for the Yard and Sherlock Holmes staring at him happily.

"You figured all that out?"

"And Holmes didn't know about any of it?"

"Wow."

"Are you sure you're all right in the head, Dr Watson?"

“I guess his boyfriend is rubbing off on him some.”

“No, we’re not -- it’s not like that -- ”

“Oh, come on!”

"So, Doctor Watson, you think she killed him?" Lestrade broke in loudly, silencing his tittering team.

"Yeah. Dunno why. I mean, obviously it's self-defence, but... I need to talk to the kid to know the whole story. Where is he?"

"Paramedics are with him. He's in shock and doesn't want to let anyone bring him out of the house, not even the medical team."

"Bloody hell. Maybe I should --" John started to stand. Almost immediately, Sherlock pushed him back down.

"No."

"Sherlock..."

"No. You're hurt."

There wasn't any arguing with that, so John settled down again. Talking to the kid would have to wait, he supposed. His terrifying crowd was already starting to disperse, the show over, but Donovan was still hanging around. Suddenly, with a concussive wail, another set of police cars turned onto the street. Reinforcements, it would seem. They did have something roughly equalling three crime scenes, here.

“She’s here!” Lestrade cried, sprinting over to them. DI Gregson, several years his senior, was already jumping out as he quickly apprised her of the situation. Watching them from afar, it took John some time to realise that he and Sherlock were quite alone again.

“Er, John...”

“Hm?”

“You... um.” Sherlock looked away, suddenly abashed. “I, um.” Then something seemed to occur to him. He started digging in his pockets. “I, er, I found this at the crime scene. The one in Clapham. You remember? Yeah, I found this note, and, er... where did I -- oh, here.” He pulled it out. It was slightly yellowed and damp, and John got the distinct impression he didn’t want to know why. The light was poor and his eyesight not as good as it used to be, but Sherlock whipped out his mobile and shined the light from its screen onto the note’s surface.

John read it and knew he would have paled had he any blood in his face to begin with. Moriarty, yet again, for Christ’s sake. And who was ‘Mister Misra’ ...?

Oh. Of course.

“John? John, do you know what this means?”

John looked back up at Sherlock, peering through the thin rain that was starting to fall. “Mister Misra...”

“You said the mother’s initial was ‘M’...”

“Emily Misra.”

“Does this mean...?”

“The man? Probably. He was certainly young enough.”

“How young?”

“Younger than you. Probably thirty.”

“And did he look like the...?”

“I think so. He probably will when he grows up. I think they have the same nose...”

“Did they run away? It would seem Moriarty was helping reel them back in --”

“I think I’ll ask the kid myself.” John looked past Sherlock and nodded. Wavering on Mrs Warren’s front step was the little boy, an orange shock blanket draped from his shoulders, being gently prodded out of the house by Mrs Warren and several paramedics. Sherlock turned and stepped back slightly. The boy looked out into the darkness, expecting another gang to swoop upon him, before his eyes suddenly alighted on John, sitting battered and bruised in the back of an ambulance with a blanket and an ice pack. The boy’s eyes widened. John smiled a little and waved. The boy hesitated, still worried, before he smiled back and shuffled to John’s side eagerly. John helped him up into the ambulance, and the boy sat down next to him, feeling finally safe close to the man who saved his life.

“Hi.” John turned a little to look at him more directly.

“Hi,” the boy answered in a soft voice.

“I’m Doctor Watson, remember? What’s your name? I never got the chance to ask.”

“Jeremy.”

“Jeremy Misra?”

He nodded and snuggled a little further into his blanket.

“How are you, Jeremy?”

“I’m okay.”

“Scared?”

“A little, yeah. Lots of things are scary.”

John certainly knew all about that. “You’ve been in that room all by yourself for two weeks now, right?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Was that scary?”

“Yeah.”

“I think most people would be scared. You did a good job, though. Mrs Warren had no idea it wasn’t your mum in there.”

“Really?”

“Not at all. That’s why she came and got me; she wanted to know what your mum was doing in there the whole time. I helped her out, found out you were in there instead.”

“Are you a detective?”

“Er, sort of --”

“Yes.” Sherlock said quite suddenly. Jeremy jumped a little at the noise.

John had no answer to that, so he just ploughed on. “That’s Sherlock. He’s, er, a little weird. Don’t mind him.” Sherlock frowned. “Jeremy, there was one thing I couldn’t figure out.”

“What?”

“Why... why were you and your mum hiding? Who were you running from?”

Jeremy swallowed and fidgeted a little. They were getting into things he didn’t want to talk about, John knew, but he felt this couldn’t wait, certainly not if Moriarty were involved.

“We, um... Mummy doesn’t like Daddy all that much, and, er... and Daddy’s not nice to Mummy, not really. Mummy always says you shouldn’t be mean to people, but... but Daddy’s mean. Normally just to Mummy, but when Daddy’s mean to Mummy it makes me hurt, too. So Mummy decided he wasn’t going to be mean to us anymore.”

John could feel Sherlock watching them and knew they’d both reached the same conclusion.

“ We left, but then... but then Daddy found us. He tried to get us to go home, but we didn’t want to. So we ran away and Mummy said we had to split up. She gave me her computer so I could talk to her, but she wouldn’t come because she didn’t want Daddy to find us. Then she said she was coming to get me, but someone was hurt outside and I didn’t want to leave, there were so many people around. So I didn’t. But then tonight -- and Mummy -- ” he started to cry.

“Shh, it’s okay. You don’t have to tell me about tonight.” John put an arm on the boy’s back. “I was there. It’s alright. Are you okay?” Jeremy nodded through his tears. “I’m sorry, Jeremy, but... I just have one more question. What does your Daddy look like?”

“He, um, he’s big and Mummy always called him handsome. She says I have his nose.”

John turned back to Sherlock for a moment and they shared a look.

“Jeremy... there’re some things I have to tell you. Is that okay?”

“Okay.”

“Right. First, er, we don’t know where your Mummy is. After she disappeared in the window, I mean.”

Jeremy’s eyes were enormous and brimming with water.

“Second, we know where your Daddy is.”

“Where?”

“Jeremy... he’s dead.”

John had expected the worst. He had expected confusion, and tears, and terror. Instead, he got an enormous smile from the little boy and a relieved laugh. “Was it Mummy? Did Mummy get him?”

“Er, yes, I think so. I found him by the window across from yours, and the footprints-- ”

“Mummy got him! Mummy got him!” He kicked his little legs happily. “He’ll never be mean to us anymore!” John thought it told a great deal about what an abusive father this poor boy had that he was gleeful at the news of his death.

“What’s this?” Lestrade asked, called back by the sound of the boy’s laughter.

“Mummy got him!”

“Sorry?”

“The ‘Mister Misra’ in the note was an abusive and probably controlling father,” Sherlock said from John’s other side, “and drove his wife and son away. He refused to accept their departure, and hired Moriarty to track them down again at all costs, caring little for what condition they were brought back in. He came personally tonight and assaulted his wife in that window, and they fought. The body belongs to this boy’s father.”

Lestrade blinked, looking between Sherlock and the happy little boy nuzzling into John’s side.

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.” John said.

“Then what was with the other body...?”

“Given Moriarty’s note and distance between Clapham and Bloomsbury, it would seem the other body was to serve as a distraction; it was meant to draw me away from the scene of the Misra’s recapture. With me at least twenty minutes away by car I was quite incapable of doing anything. However, John --”

“So,” John asked, “you mean that he thought you were solving the case, and not me? So he sliced up some poor sod in Clapham to distract you?”

“It would seem so. Once he knew Mrs Warren had approached me and that her case had been accepted, he assumed that I was the one solving it. Quite stupid, really.”

“Stupid? How is that stupid? If someone comes to you with a case, and it gets picked up, wouldn’t it make sense-- ”

“But John was the one who picked it up, and only an utter fool would think John incapable of solving a case on his own.” Sherlock’s face was pink and he wouldn’t meet John’s eye.

For a moment, John couldn’t breathe. In the next, his face hurt from a smile a thousand miles wide.

Chapter Text

The next week was strange for John. He found he was pretty much confined to his flat, which was fine. He puttered around gingerly, mostly back and forth between the kettle and the telly. For once, he didn’t find any body parts lurking in unsightly places. He confronted Sherlock about it, but they just ended up dissolving into laughter, because really: John was suspicious at the sudden lack of dismembered limbs in their flat, what was wrong with him? What was wrong with both of them?

John had some visitors, first some young policeman named Hopkins who wanted to gush over John’s display of deductive logic, and then Mrs Warren. She said Abby was getting better, and that things were returning to normal at the hostel. She was sorry he’d gotten himself banged up, but John told her he’d had far worse. She was confused and he ended up having to explain to her about his war wound. After that, she fawned over him, and she insisted he come by for tea with her friends so they could meet “her brave soldier friend”. He found himself already plotting a complicated escape strategy involving Sherlock and a dead warthog, but he was very glad she wanted to keep in touch with him all the same. As she was leaving, he couldn’t help but ask her one last question.

“Mrs Warren?”

“Oh, honey, please -- call me Moriah. We’re friends now.”

“Al-alright. Mrs – Moriah. Do you remember, at the beginning, when you wondered why your daughter was so indulgent of Miss Misra?”

“Yes?” She asked, pulling on her fluffy scarf.

“Abby has a crush.”

“On Emily? On another -- oh, do you mean Abby’s... after all this time-- ”

“I’m just saying,” he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, “she does. Remember,” he added, unsure of her stance on homosexuality, “it’s all fine.”

Mrs Moriah Warren left that day a little confused and very happy.

A few days later, the Misras themselves called. Emily had come out of hiding after Lestrade made it clear he wasn’t going to prosecute her. Jeremy was happy to see John, even in his limpy state, and Emily couldn’t contain her gratitude for John saving her son’s life. John was embarrassed, and the whole interview was awkward and they all knew it. Finally, much to his surprise, Emily informed him that Abby, having been assured of her mother’s approval, had begun making romantic advances towards Emily. When he asked years later, he found that they were still together. John hadn’t expected to end up as a matchmaker, but stranger things had happened in his life.

The next time he went to a crime scene with Sherlock, the second Monday after, people were still looking at him oddly. John tried to ignore them, but Sherlock was encouraging him to get more involved in the case, standing by the dead man’s glove and beckoning John impatiently. He sighed and went towards him. As he passed, Donovan leaned over and whispered in his ear.

“I see you’re been promoted.”

“What?”

“Promoted. You -- you mean you haven’t seen...?”

“Seen what?”

She smirked. “His website. He updated it. Check it tonight.” Then she walked away, leaving him alone under Sherlock’s suspicious glare.

That night, he sat on his bed with his computer in his lap. Sherlock’s site was bookmarked, but he didn’t go to it too often: Sherlock was very lazy about updates, so if he’d changed something....

The front page loaded and John blinked.

The header banner read thus: The Science of Deduction: Holmes & Watson Detecting Agency.

John wasn’t sure whether to be chuffed at their equal status or annoyed that Sherlock had put his name first anyway.

______________________________________________________________________________

Chaos.

That was what was in John’s head.

Chaos and blood.

He dreamt of masked attackers. He dreamt of sand. He dreamt of abusive fathers and of Moriarty and of Moriarty in the sand. He dreamt of abusive fathers, and of his own. He dreamt of viscera, of not saving so many, of following bloody footprints and finding Sherlock’s body in the corner. He dreamt of rainy London days, and rainy London nights. He dreamt of a black estate car ripping him to shreds. He dreamt of comrades’ screams, and comrades’ tears, and of comrades’ deaths. He dreamt of blood. He dreamt of the window. He dreamt of red.

He woke with a gasp and a sob. His shoulder was stiff and aching, and he was covered in sweat.

More nightmares... and he’d been doing so well... fuck, fuck all of it... he hated these fucking nightmares... he buried his face in his pillow. He wasn’t going to cry. He wasn’t going to have any more fucking nightmares, never any more nightmares...

“John?”

Immediately, he flipped to face the door, and found his gun in his hand. He reacted so quickly that Sherlock gasped.

Sherlock had opened John’s door somewhat and was standing awkwardly, halfway inside, silhouetted against the light on the landing. John dropped his gun, embarrassed to have pulled it on Sherlock, who was more a danger to himself than he was to anyone else on the planet. John could barely make out Sherlock’s face, but it looked like Sherlock was carrying something, something flat and square. Sherlock saw him peering at it and looked away.

“You had a nightmare.” Sherlock explained.

“I know that.”

Sherlock swallowed. “You... you always have some tea and digestives after bad nightmares. And... this one was bad. So, er,” he looked back at his burden, which John could now tell was a tea-tray, “I made you some. Tea. And brought digestives.” He stood for a moment, embarrassed by John’s stunned silence. “I thought... I’m sorry, I’ll just-- ”

“No!” John jumped up and stopped him from running away. “No, it’s fine.” Fine? That’s all he had? “This is good.” Sherlock was rubbing off on him; he couldn’t just say what he felt anymore. “This is more than good.” This was amazing. “Thanks.” Sherlock was amazing.

Sherlock looked relieved. “You’re welcome.” He handed over the tray. The two of them stood there, right by the doorjamb, both unable to express themselves as fully as they wanted. “I thought... Well, this is a thing friends do, right?”

“Yeah. Real ones, anyway. Real friends.”

“And... are we real friends?” Sherlock’s voice was small.

John’s face erupted into a grin. “The most real of them all, Sherlock.”

Sherlock had never looked happier in all his life.

John had never felt better in all of his.

______________________________________________________________________________

The next morning, John padded downstairs with a yawn and glanced at the windows. It was pouring rain yet again, and the whole flat was tinged with an unpleasant greyish colour. He sighed and rolled his shoulder a little bit. He ducked into the kitchen and saw that Sherlock had a new client with him, a young man with unruly hair and massive acne scars on his face. Sherlock was listening to the man talk in a low tone: something about a theatre, and a locked room? John began to sort out some tea for himself, but at that very moment, Sherlock’s eyes alighted upon him and the consulting detective jumped to his feet.

“Aha!”

The young man, his story interrupted, stared at him with some confusion. “What?”

“Brilliant! Brilliant, John!”

“Sherlock, what --?”

“It’s perfect, it’s just perfect --”

“What is, Sherlock?”

Sherlock paused with a demented gleam in his eye. John swallowed.

“It’s perfect! I’ve found you your next case, John!”

And John felt alive.