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296 4 28
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189 1 13
262 2 1-ow
It was nestled between the advert for a digestives sale in Tesco and the announcement of a new pound shop outside the M5.
Neither interested John but months sharing a flat with the world's only consulting detective (a distinction he thought should qualify Sherlock a Parliament protection act or at the very least a special narrated by Sir Attenborough because the reckless idiot was constantly pushing himself towards the extinction list) has schooled the habit of perusing even the most innocuous of details.
Of course, there was nothing more innocent than the advert pages in the London Times, certainly nothing as salacious as those among the Daily Mail.
Normally.
The bordered box of numbers would be unremarkable to a bloke searching for used saloon cars and cheap flatshares, but John has the unfortunate distinction of having made the acquaintance of murderous Chinese acrobats who were fond of strangulation, kidnapping and cryptology.
John reviewed the numbers, his mouth pursed as he considered the contents. Automatically, his eyes went to the blue and white spine of the London AZ Sherlock had purchased. In reality, John had purchased it because the irate German tourists Sherlock snatched it from pounded at their door the following day. John had to pay £10 for the bloody thing even though it was only worth half that price.
It irked John that Sherlock had placed it on the third shelf, centered, in a seat of honor next to Dreisbach's Book of Poisons. Sherlock declared the smuggler's code would never be used again but the book served as a reminder. To what, John was never told.
With a grunt, John levered out of the armchair. Cold weather now bothered his no longer psychosomatic knee ever since their last case that involved a bomb, a shotgun and a disillusioned sergeant from Yard.
Muttering under his breath, John hobbled over and retrieved the book. He heaved a sigh as he looked at the soft cover book in his grip. The urge to toss the guidebook out the window, bin it in the kitchen trash or have it start a fire in the hearth was unsurprisingly overwhelming.
It only took minutes.
John leaned back into his chair and stared at the scratchings he made on the paper's margins. His jaw clenched and the back of his throat soured with a rage he hadn't felt in a very, very long time crouched in sandy trenches, surrounded by people dying in other people's countries.
"Moriarty," John hissed between his teeth. Saying it out loud didn't dispel the blackness around the name like it should. But John said the name out loud because he refused to wallow in some childish notion that leaving it unspoken would keep him safe.
No, John knew they weren't safe even though he and Sherlock left the pool house alive with no bodies found in their wake. John knew they weren't safe even when Sherlock finally stopped staring out the window for hours, almost daring anyone who may be watching.
No, if that bastard was still out there, making riddles with bodies, taunting them in print, they were never safe.
Sherlock wasn't safe.
The well of anger and resolute in John surprised him. And yet staring at the mocking message, it felt apt to feel the outrage at the thought of his colleague (friend) in danger.
John crumpled the advert page with a white knuckled fist. With the book, he tossed the lot into the hearth. He watched with grim satisfaction as both the Times and the AZ burned, red hot as if the embers of hell surged up to condemn them. John went to his room, retrieved his Browning and sat down in the armchair to watch the fire eat it all away with a tight smile.
Hours later, smelling sour and dank from the sewers, the alleys and whatever bowels of London Sherlock had managed to find, Sherlock strode in, unwound his scarf and tossed it over the hook behind the door with a smug, "Obvious."
"Course it was," John murmured as he thumbed through the paper to read the review on the Proms in Albert Hall. He didn't look up. He fought not to wiggle his toes inside his socks, missing the fire that had tickled his feet. He ignored the knot in his belly that unraveled the moment Sherlock had arrived with all the flurry of a storm. "Was it the colonel in the library with the candlestick?"
"What the devil are you talking about?"
John bit back a snicker; only Sherlock could manage to sound baffled, annoyed and curious all at the same time. He lifted his head and frowned at the drenched form drinking his tea and making a face because it was too hot and because John always put too much milk and sugar in his darjeeling.
"The kettle's still hot." John nodded to the kitchen behind him.
"Just milk, one sugar for me," Sherlock murmured as he studied the table, one long fine-boned finger rubbing at its scarred surface.
John sighed and obliged. It took less effort than to argue. John picked his wars these days because he couldn't before.
"I would have gone with you," John reminded him as he set the cup down with the large, dry flannel he set aside the moment he saw the rain outside their window. "Would have been easier to search with both of us."
"Damp," Sherlock said succinctly. His eyes flicked down to John's right knee. So John forgave him when Sherlock nicked the last Hob Nob from his plate.
"Was there anything interesting in the paper today, John?" Sherlock said absentmindedly as he sipped his tea. "You were reading it for a long time."
"Dry off before you catch another cold," John advised as he eased back into his armchair. "And what you mean?"
"There's ink on the sleeve of your jumper. Your arm pressed across the paper as you were reading it hunched over." Dark eyes, no longer distracted, skewered him.
John could feel the cool metal of his gun burning the small of his back. John shrugged. "Tesco's having a sale."
"Ah." Sherlock busied himself with removing his coat. "Nothing else?"
John stared at the ash in the hearth. His mouth set into a thin line.
"No," John said firmly as he pressed into the chair, feel the gun digging into his spine.
"Nothing else."
If the gun tucked in his waistband felt reassuring against his skin, John chose not to think about it.