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Sherlock, dear, take off 'em shoes, will you?" Mrs Hudson chimed in with her usual, sweet tone. God knew she had just cleaned up and was not in the mood to do it again. And, Mr Holmes, as he is, just walked in wearing some old rain boots leaving puddles of blood as he walked.
"A tea would be nice, Mrs Hudson" he responded. He needed nothing else but that warm, calming tea that, at the bottom of his heart, he adored, even though he wouldn't in a lifetime admit it. It was not only a part of the English tradition he was fond of, but it also made his mind relax after a case that had gone... Indeed unusual and annoying.
"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper", the woman replied, but at this point, she could not care less. She was used to this — doing small things for Sherlock, out of pure care towards him. Now that he was a celebrity, it made her feel special. Indeed, a man like that could spice up your day, if you knew him. Only she could know. Her, and... Yes, the doctor who fell in the middle of the chaos of fame against his will, alongside his best friend.
"John?" The detective asked nonchalantly, throwing his boots carelessly in the kitchen sink. The dark red blood was dropping on the counter.
"Off to work, he is." Mrs Hudson smiled and left to make the tea for her tenant.
---
Sherlock was deep in thought, as always. Trying to make sense of whatever happened to him today. A man, faking his own death, then getting murdered, for real this time. He was found beaten up in a slaughterhouse, with a lot of animal blood. Today's was a single mission for Sherlock, an easy little adventure he solved alone in no time at all. Since the papers were all about him, these small cases dropped in more often. And he was bored. Really bored.
"Thought ye boys would want to drink tea together. John is going to be home in no time" the landlady put down the tray on the wooden table, next to Sherlock. The man didn't even look up, nor did he react at all. He just stared. Probably he didn't even think about today's case anymore. But obviously, something was on his mind. "You doing your mind-palace-thing again? Oh, Sherlock, your tea will get cold!" She nudged, but after she realised it was impossible to get Sherlock back in reality, Mrs Hudson hurried down the stairs, leaving the man alone.
---
Didn't take much time for John to get home from the Medical office. He had a tiring day, and honestly, he didn't really like this job. He was the kind of man who saved other people by getting himself in danger, and old Mr Garrison's prostate problems were a whole different thing to do. It had been his pleasure for a long time, even in Afghanistan. He was an empath, and certainly didn't like to see people die, but what he enjoyed was the thrill. The excitement was just like a roulette — will tomorrow bring life or death? That was a rather extraordinary thing, and probably that made him the only person who could survive living with Sherlock Holmes.
John walked up the stairs, not even surprised by the blood staining everything wherever he stepped. He knew it was Sherlock, and he, in fact, didn't mind. He wasn't going to clean it, anyway. The doctor took off his coat and put it on the hanger. He didn't say a word, just slowly walked to the armchair and sat down next to the table.
Sherlock picked up his head. "John?" He looked at his friend at the opposite end of the round table. The Mind Palace, all his thoughts about today, all the confusion in his head vanished. He had a John now.
"Not quite fond of the Papers," John mumbled after glancing at his friend. As Sherlock didn't respond, the doctor poured some tea for both of them. Luckily, it was still warm. "You know." He began, again, raising his eyebrows "People are... Talking"
"That's what they do," stated Sherlock, then continued "As that is a generally accepted way of verbal communication, we shan't be surprised."
John sighed. He noticed how Sherlock loved to show off his big words, even if they were in no need of a speech. "That's.. not what I meant." He sipped from his tea, and as he realised it wasn't so hot, he took a braver sip. What a shame he had no time for another one.
"Yoo-hoo!" The soft voice was heard from the door, alongside a quick double knock. Mrs Hudson sneaked in, though not wanting to be invisible, nor did the man following her. "A man here looking for you, boys, I'll leave you to it!" She explained with excitement. She always loved it when there was a new story, a new gossip, and a new opportunity for the Baker Street Boys to actually work together.
"Mrs Hudson, I don't think-" started John, but he was interrupted by Sherlock's voice.
"As you suspect, your wife is cheating, probably because he couldn't put up with your Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder" he looked the man in the eye, who seemed uncomfortable, based on the way he shifted from one leg to another.
"Aware," the stranger answered shortly. "That's not what brought me to you, Mr Holmes."
"Sherlock!" John tried to remind his friend that he was being a bit inappropriate again.
"It was obvious from his left middle finger!" Sherlock opposed. He hoped his friend was going to ask how, as he really wanted to show off, but their guest was quicker.
"Do tell" he asked slowly.
"You're left-handed, I knew immediately because of the foot you were standing on more, it was the left. I knew I had to look for the dominant hand, it tells everything. Nearly kept nails, must be for something or someone. Your ring is removed, but it was cleaned recently, acid, I would say, you cleaned it, and your skin is not happy about it. You've been married for... Around five years, and it's all visible just from one finger. Also, you've travelled quite a time, got dusty, and went to a public bathroom to get cleaned, because you are obsessed with cleansing. Tried to dry it as well, quite unsuccessfully, and when you saw the bottom of your trousers was still dirty, you had a breakdown, scrubbed until the material faded, that's why the red hands. That is why the ring got removed. About your wife... Take that part as a joke. As an awful coincidence of truth and speculation."
The other two looked at each other. John shrugged as the other man stared at him as if asking 'How'. "That is indeed quite precise, Mr Holmes" The man sat down as the doctor gestured towards the sofa. "The matter I am looking forward to your help with is quite different from some family drama. It is about... Burglary."
"Boring." Sherlock States immediately.
"Listen, I knew you would be saying that, Mr Holmes. It's not just my house. Every single one in the village, every one of them! Eventually, at least." The man protested, trying to convince the detective.
"Boring!" Sherlock said again, a little louder and more forcefully this time. "Why not call the police? They are working with petty crimes, as far as I know." He stood up and walked towards the window, picking up the violin. John looked after him.
"They're not stealing anything. They're leaving a body part in each house they're in." The man added, which made Sherlock stop right before the bow touched the string.
"Say that again."
---
The two men roamed the streets of Cranleigh. Their steps in total sync, even when they stopped in front of a cosy building, bearing the name 'Cranleigh Inn'. John looked at the taller, reading his expression. Obvious excitement. They are really doing this. The game is on.
Inside the inn, a short, fat man welcomed the two, looking between them. "Oh, good afternoon, sirs", he greeted them in quite a friendly manner. "So a room for ye two, is that right?"
"Yes, please," Watson replied, ignoring the fact that Sherlock was off already, looking around in the lounge. "Name's... Y'know what, it is John Watson."
"Oh, alright, we have got one room for ye two", the innkeeper smiled sweetly, "vacation?"
"Well..." John took a deep breath while signing the papers "Quite like." Sherlock was back at his side by now.
"Oh, I see, yes, two are quite a sweet pair, I shall say," the man smirked at Sherlock, then back at John.
"Wha- oh God, no, we are not a couple..." The blonde protested obnoxiously. He did not like being mistaken for Sherlock's boyfriend. Actually, it happened quite a lot. "Sherlock, tell him."
Sherlock gave a half smile to the innkeeper and picked up the key, walking towards the room instantly, but yet as if considering every step. John decided to follow, not hearing the half-mumbled words of the innkeeper "Then ye two will have some problems."
Opening the door, the manner of these mentioned problems dawned upon them, as well. The bed, as if in some clichè love story, was king-sized. And singular. "Oh my Lord." John gasped. The annoyance he felt was getting to him at this point.
Sherlock, on the other hand did not bother. He placed his own luggage on the floor, next to the cheap desk and hurried to the restroom with a paper in hand. God knows what he was up to, all that was left behind was a baffled John Watson at the doorstep.
---
"So, this was the first house" John stated, looking at the owner, an old, short woman. Sherlock, in the meantime did a little looking around, taking in every detail.
"Yes, it was." He didn't even stop his investigation to talk "But not his first. Precise work indeed. Got in through the door, no pick, it was unlocked."
"But how? I never leave my door open!" The old lady protested.
"No, you do not, miss. I believe you. Does anyone else have a key to your house though, Mrs Collen?" Watson asked kindly.
"No, none of I know, I have no family, I do everything myself." Mrs Collen said slowly. John jotted it down in his notebook, then looked at his friend. Sherlock was deep in thought. He held the cut-off thumb in his hand, looking closely, then stormed out of the house.
"Well, thank you for your services, Mrs Collen." John smiled at the woman, then hurried after the detective, who was already a good twenty yards away with his long legs. Does he fly, or what?
---
The night fell upon Cranleigh. After a nice warm onion soup, what had been served in the inn for dinner, every guest, including our heroes, returned to their accommodations. John went off to the bathroom, to get himself ready for the night. He stopped in front of the mirror, sighing. Sherlock is caught up in something again. Five burglaries, so far, one every night. Each time a body part was left in the house. Nothing valuable taken, just some little things. Once, a bag of sugar, then a half-used candle.
John knew his friend was really interested in this case, but he'd also noticed that there had been something bothering Sherlock lately. Probably the lack of actually interesting cases, it is. Or he could hardly cope with the fame coming with the successes. No one knows, really. No sense in asking, no. Sherlock would never confess his moments of weakness. Let alone talk about 'emotions', which, according to him, were non-existent. He deleted it, whatever it means.
I could never, John thought while washing his face. He imagined what it would be like not to have emotions. Or feelings. What would it be like if he were nonchalant towards Sherlock? He quickly pushed the thought away. No, he could never. Sherlock was his best friend, and vice versa. He refused to believe, too, that Holmes thought about him nonchalantly, either. He had feelings, oh how much he had. Even though he would have never admitted it.
John stepped out of the bathroom, wearing only his underwear, ready to sleep, when a rather unusual sight caught his eye. Sherlock was lying on the floor, next to the large bed, a pillow under his head. His body was covered by nothing but his underwear and a thin, short-sleeved T-shirt.
John was indeed surprised. Sherlock, asleep already? And why like this? Before he could think of anything else, he noticed his mobile was left on the bedside table. Throwing himself on the bed, he picked up the device for his eyes to read a message.
"You were disappointed about the bed. Hope you will enjoy this way. I might fall asleep. -SH"
John stared at the message in total confusion. Then, he remembered. "Oh my Lord", he exclaimed earlier, when the two stepped into the room, seeing the king-sized bed.
Closing his eyes, he had to let out a soft breath of holding which he was barely aware of. His eyes wandered to the tall, slender figure curled up on the floor. It was late October, and John worried about his friend. Yes, again, he couldn't stop pushing his feelings away. He would be a terrible Sherlock.
"Bloody hell." He groaned, climbing off the bed, grabbing the singular, but huge duvet and the pillow left for him. He let them fall on the floor from his arms, lying down next to Sherlock, yet keeping a distance out of respect. John threw the duvet over them, then turned away from Sherlock, facing the wall. "Goodnight, Sherlock" he whispered, knowing the other wouldn't hear. Why'd he do that in the first place?
—
"So... We have a thumb, an eye, and a pointing finger. And a brain, a skull, and tonight a liver." John furrowed his brow as he read back his notes.
"Makes no sense. This man breaks into houses, stealing meaningless items, leaving body parts behind, and I still haven't found any logic behind his acts." Sherlock mumbled, staring in front of himself.
Neither of them talked about how they slept last night. Sherlock was the first one to wake up and left for a walk so quietly that John didn't even stir. Later on, when they met, none of them brought that up. Both know they were better off this way.
"So... Since when do we know he is a man?" John looked at Sherlock, already expecting a thorough explanation.
"The fourth house. Number sixteen. That day it was raining. Shoemarks left on the dust. I estimated him to be around 185 centimetres tall, 180 pounds, so based on that we could bravely say it was a man."
John just smiled. He knew Sherlock could deduce anything from the smallest details. It was funny to watch, and even sweeter to listen to. "So, do you have any ideas, Sherlock?"
"Twenty-three, so far. But let us not jump to conclusions just yet. It is the grave pit of logic. A man, working so neatly, not leaving any sign or clue of himself behind, not stealing anything valuable, must be laughing in my face right now that I cannot find out what he is doing and why." Sherlock explained, yet more to himself than to John.
"What about the footprints? Don't they give away anything about him?" John tried to help, reflecting on some of the information he had.
"Nothing. Thoroughly cleaned, I'm afraid. The size of our killer is not helping, quite usual amongst men."
"Killer?" John furrowed his brows "Smuggler, I thought."
"Of course you did, but where is he getting the bodies from? Stealing one from an autopsy room is not so subtle, is it? I sent the thumb for analysis. I'm only waiting for the results from Lestrade"
John nodded. Of course, but when did Sherlock plan on telling him all this? Why do it all without him? He was getting confused about his friend and the way he'd been acting. Weird as usual, but... Even weirder, if that makes sense.
—
Sherlock was sitting in the room, looking at John's notes, which he had taken while inspecting every single house where the burglaries had happened. Number 53, a thumb. Number 6, an eye. Number 92, a pointing finger, Number 16, a brain. Number 1, a skull. And last night number 20, a liver. It makes no sense, there is no logic behind it. The detective closed his eyes, his hands on each side of his head, trying to approach his Mind Palace. He relaxed his muscles, stepping into the infinite system of information. He hadn't even made a step, but already bumped into something.
A colour, eye colour, probably, some dark, greenish blue, usual hair pairings... Must be... Yes, indeed it was blonde, probably really light brown... A face a face... John Watson.
Sherlock had to open his eyes. No, this wasn't the information he was looking for, what just happened? He immediately looked down at the notes again, then closed his eyes once more. A system of numbers, possibly. An order... Binary? No... Fibonacci... No, no it isn't... The pictures, words and numbers kept spinning in his mind. No. Nothing makes sense. He opened his eyes again, baffled. What is keeping him away from the truth? He closed his eyes again, but the only thing he could remember was a name. John Watson.
"John!" He called out, not expecting an answer. Yet, it arrived, from right next to him, as the other man was sitting a few centimetres away, on the bed.
"Yes, Sherlock? Everything alright?”
“Yes, yes of course, what would not be?” Sherlock asked, still surprised that John was there, right next to him. The blonde stared at him for a few bare seconds, then decided not to push further.
Out of the blue, Sherlock jumped up and walked towards the door, from where she looked back to see John's surprised face. "Are you not coming to dinner?" The tall man asked in an unusually soft voice. John didn't bother questioning; he just followed him.
"Lestrade called." The doctor said, while tasting the stew, which, at first sight wasn't so promising, but actually tasted acceptable. "Molly run the tests on DNA."
The detective looked up at his friend "Did she?"
"Yes indeed. If everything is well, we are receiving the carton of our corpse," John said slowly, "and she ran the tests on all of the body parts you sent them. All of them are from different people's bodies, missing people from all around the village. But all parts are slightly damaged by acid."
Sherlock scoffed "A serial killer! How brilliant! My dearest John, you know what this means? He killed all these people with acid, keeping only certain parts left that he would need for this action! He is brilliant, I tell you. Brilliant." He seemed really happy about it. Finally, John saw his smile. Even if it was because he realised how brutally and frequently someone murdered.
"Happy you're happy. Yet, this means someone else has to die for tonight's burglary." John's empathetic side appeared. He wasn't so fond of the idea of people being murdered by acid only because someone wanted a part of them to smuggle it into houses.
—
This night, still no audible agreement, the boys decided to sleep on the bed, both. Of course, they stubbornly kept themselves on the two edges of the bed, just so they would give each other enough space. John yawned. He had been talking to people all day, running around for any valuable clues with his detective friend, and not being as excited about this all as the other was, it had worn him out.
Sherlock, on the other hand could hardly sleep. The wheels in his mind were spinning so fast and nonstop, it was almost set on fire.
—
John looked around. The place was somehow familiar, even though he knew he'd never been there before. Slow steps, one after another. He walked through the steep meadow, feeling the soft grass underneath his boots. His eyes roamed over the surroundings. Everything was so calm. He looked to his side, somehow expecting Sherlock to be there, but he wasn't. He smiled to himself, his mind filled with only one thing. "Sherlock is my best friend. He is... Everything." He closed his eyes slowly, breathing in the fresh air.
Boom. The sound made him coax his head. As he opened his eyes, he saw it. Everything. The wires, the trenches, explosions all around him. His instincts were still there. Run. He told himself, and he acted on it. His legs quickly hit the ground, which had no signs of grass anymore. Bodies, instead. He ran as fast as he could, yet not fast enough. A soldier ran after him, his rifle shooting towards the doctor nonstop. As he looked back, he didn't notice that he got stuck up in some wires. Trying to move, the metal ripped his trenchcoat, then the skin underneath. He cried out, asking for help, then looked at the soldier, standing bare three yards away from him, his rifle aimed at John's head. "Please..." John begged. He never did that on the battlefield. Not because he didn't want to live. Because he had nothing to stay for. This was his first time actually caring. Because of something so simple as a friend. Yet, this friend gave him meaning.
It was no use, though. The man with a smug grin on his face shot his weapon. A millisecond, before the tiny bullet could have hit and made its small but painful way through John's skull, a note was heard. Not for the others, he believed, only for John. As he recognised the violin, he gasped.
Sherlock played the violin beautifully. It was a melodic one, not cheerful, not sad, but rather cosy. John looked at his friend, panting. He felt the bedsheets under his body were wet from his sweat that still covered his whole body. Oh thank Lord, it was just a dream. John's eyes were still upon Sherlock, who himself looked quite tired, but played a perfect piece on his old, but well-kept violin.
The detective looked at his friend just for a brief second. Then back on the violin. He continued playing, not saying a word. John's breathing got a little steadier, and the wrinkles of his forehead slowly left his face.
He knew what this was about. Sherlock didn't play his violin to concentrate on something about the case. Nor did he do it because he was bored. He noticed that John had one of those nightmares again. Sherlock often noticed, even though they got much less frequent since they moved in together. Yet, sometimes the nightmares happened. Sherlock played to calm John down. And the doctor couldn't be any happier about it. He offered a little smile to his tall friend, then wrapped the duvet around his body, listening to the beautiful composition.
—
"New burglary, number seven. And we have got a foot this time" a man stated. Sherlock turned his head towards the new arrival, seeing that it was a cop, he sighed in disappointment.
"I do not work with the police" Sherlock mumbled. Just then, the man handed him an envelope over his shoulder. 'Mr Holmes', it was written on the thin white package. Grabbing his small pocket knife, Sherlock opened it, to find a small paper inside, full of cutout newspaper letters, organised in a short text that read "Two nights left, Mr Holmes".
---
The Baker Street Boys took each step next to each other. The detective seemed pretty deep in thought, about the case, probably. Meantime, John was thinking about something else. Why was Sherlock so different those days?
"Hey, Sherlock..." He gathered the courage to speak up. His friend didn't notice it, though. "Sherlock!" John tried again, a little more forcefully, which caused the mentioned man to jump out of his thoughts and look at the shorter.
"Yes, John?" He asked, smiling at the other. Kind of an unusual reaction to get from the great Sherlock Holmes, when someone is dragging him away from his thoughts. It almost scared the doctor.
"I... I couldn't help but notice..." But he was interrupted. An old lady approached them and offered homemade goods.
"Darlings, you are so adorable together! Worry not, we are progressive here! Well, since those burglaries are happening everyone's heart needs a little warmth. Like ye, lovers, how sweet you two are! May I offer ye some biscuits? Freshly made, it was my grandmother's recipe back in time."
"Oh... We are not... He's..." John began to explain what he'd had to, a thousand times. And for some reason, Sherlock never helped. On the other hand, the idea of homemade biscuits was quite heartwarming indeed.
"Oh, you don't have to deny, son!" The old lady smiled at John, grabbing his hand. Meanwhile, Sherlock wandered off to inspect the trees. A little habit of his, whatsoever. "I can see how he is looking at you, that man is head over heels for you!"
"Ah... Come on, he is... He is a loner. Sherlock never loves anyone, he doesn't even have friends, according to him." John tried to get away from the situation. Then, he remembered to state the fact which he called obvious. "And I am not gay!"
"Oh, darling, you know it best. But I tell you, even if his rule is not to love anyone, he broke it for you." The lady smiled at John as if he was her favourite grandson, then chuckled a little. "Here, take these and feed your man. He is too thin; he might be blown away by the wind."
"Oh, thank you, you are... Really kind." John responded slowly, then took the bag of biscuits and hid it in the sleeves of his light brown, cable-knit sweater. "Have a nice day" he mumbled, already turning towards Sherlock. Would he actually break those rules for him?
“So, did you want to say something, John?” Sherlock asked. His hands were in the pockets of his long coat, apparently finished with the inspection.
"Oh, it's just... Lestrade called, and you were right. All bodies were from a different individual, apparently all freshly murdered with acid, just before the placing of the body parts."
The detective's face lit up "That's it! I knew it! Yet who would have enough acid to kill 9 different people with it?"
"Nine? I thought we had seven so far." John furrowed his brow.
"Oh right, I got this letter this morning." He said, rummaging through his pocket and handing it over to John. He read the cutout letters, then looked upon his friend.
"And didn't you want to tell me, Sherlock?" He burst out, "Aren't I in this just as much as you are?"
"Not as much", Sherlock chuckled, which made John lose his mind.
"What does that supposed to mean, Sherlock? Aren't we both here solving this? Am I not your partner? Just tell me and I'll be gone. You are not telling me anything, as if you wanted to solve everything alone, with your brilliant mind! Alright, I'll leave you to it! You and your genius brain!" John yelled, even though he was surprised by how upset he got. But he didn't have so much time to think about it. His legs were faster than his mind. All Sherlock saw was the short, angry figure storming away. The detective didn't understand a thing about it.
—
"Do you work with acid here?" Sherlock asked the pharmacist, a short man with round glasses.
"Yes, we do, not with a lot though. Just the amount we really need, probably around 3 litres at a time. Hydrochloric acid, mostly."
Sherlock furrowed his brow "And where are you getting it from?"
"From a website strictly for pharmacies. You have to send in your ID and all." Thean explained.
"Are you aware of anyone else working with acids here excluding the pharmacy?"
"I would not say so. Except for general use. Like cleaning." Sherlock was slightly unsatisfied with the answer he got.
It was already 9 o'clock in the evening, but he didn't want to go back to the inn. He'd never felt so uncomfortable. A weird feeling near his throat he couldn't wrap his fingers around. John was upset and it was his fault. Well, technically, it was John's for getting angry so easily. But still, it was Sherlock, who said that stupid, stupid thing. 'Not as much', as if John couldn't participate in the case. Yes, he wasn't as smart as Sherlock himself, but at least he was aware of what people felt like. Sometimes that was useful though. Not only in the cases, but... Yes, for Sherlock, too. When he was annoyed because he couldn't figure out the next step of a case, John would sit down next to him, or bring him tea to calm him down, or he would even touch his shoulder, making his thoughts vanish. Sherlock never understood how John knew what he needed in his bad moments. Yet somehow, he did.
And now, this John is upset because of him. What was this feeling again? People call it somewhat as... Guilt? No, that cannot be it. Why is John feeling like this anyway? Not as if Sherlock kept him away from the cases or something. He'd just felt weird around John lately. Suddenly, he seemed a lot smarter and a lot closer to Sherlock, too. Oh, the detective's mind had been so full of his friend lately that he could barely focus on this case. At this point, he felt like there were some things more important than solving a mystery.
—
John's mind couldn't stop rushing. Around the cookies, the old lady, Sherlock, and his words. As if he heard 'You are not enough' echoing in his head. It was the morning after their argument, and the night he spent alone in the inn room. It was eerily quiet, only his own thoughts echoing. Total silence, until...
The door creaked as it was opened, slowly caressing the oak planks covering the floor of the cosy room. A familiar, tall figure appeared in the doorway, with a mug in his hand. "Thought you might want some coffee. Without sugar, as you like it." Sherlock said, with an unfamiliar edge to his voice that almost sounded like... Regret?
"I don't want it" John turned his back childishly.
"It was a double, this night." Sherlock stated, "It's our last chance tonight. And I might be on something. But..." He got ready in his mind for the next few words he was going to say, "...I cannot do it without my Doctor."
John's eyes widened. He hadn't heard Sherlock saying 'us' in a long time, and never in a lifetime had he heard the detective call him 'his Doctor'. John slowly stood up, making his way to Sherlock. He stopped a yard away to meet those icy blue eyes that stared at his own. Reaching out for the cup he gently brushed his hand against Sherlock's, in a reassuring gesture. He took the coffee and lifted the mug to his lips. After a small sip, he looked back at his friend.
"Then, you shall tell about it to your doctor."
—
"So, I wonder what kind of people can work with acids," Sherlock asked, sitting next to John on the sofa.
"Pharmacists?" John responded in the most obvious manner "Or cleaning ladies, food manufacturers?"
"Yes, but the amount and pH that is enough for someone to kill. I visited the pharmacy, as well as a few dining places, yesterday. But none seemed to be having that kind of acid we are looking for." Sherlock mumbled "It gets on my nerves"
"Bomb makers" John added, staring at the fireplace.
"What?" Sherlock looked at John instantly.
"Bomb makers. We had them in Afghanistan. Some weapons were transported from the west, but it's certainly easier to make them on the spot. They did use acid, indeed. They use it in chemical weapons or even simple bottle bombs."
"John, you are a genius!" Sherlock grabbed his friend by the two sides of his head and pressed an enthusiastic kiss on his hair "So this man must know chemistry. Probably he is actually building bombs! That's genius... Oh wait. What an idiot, I am! John, give me your notes!"
John, though confused, and baffled by Sherlock's gesture, passed over the notes he had made.
"Yes, this might be it! Periodic table! The burglaries! Number 53, Iodine. 6, Carbon. 92... Uranium! Are you taking notes, John? 16, Sulfur. 1, Hydrogen. 20, Calcium. 7, Nitrogen. And the double one tonight... 39 is... Yttrium. 8 is Oxygen."
John stared at his notes as he wrote down the shortened form of each element. "I C U S H. Ca N Y O" he said slowly "I see you, Sherlock Holmes. Can yo".
Sherlock gasped in satisfaction. "Obviously! How could I be so dumb? He is going to finish his message today. It is going to be U. Number 92, again! He is going to be there and we are going to catch him! Oh, my dearest Watson!" Sherlock jumped up and almost started to dance around in happiness.
John chuckled as he saw his friend, then something dawned on him. "Sherlock, wait..."
He grabbed the detective's arm and pulled him back down next to himself "If he really is making bombs, won't he want to use them?”
Sherlock barely even heard Watson's words, as he rushed towards house 92, his friend following every step. The iconic long coat hung off his shoulders as he buttoned it, mid-rushing. Just about to wrap his scarf around his neck too, when he stumbled into a young woman walking her two dogs. Through the momentary stop, he noticed that John ran after him in nothing but his thin sweater and pyjama trousers. Sherlock wrapped his scarf around his friend without a word, smiling a little uncharacteristically, then continued on running towards the house, leaving John confused and flustered.
House ninety-two was owned by the man, Mr Hanford, who visited the boys in London. When Sherlock burst in through the front door, he expected him to be home, but instead, a machine crossed his eyesight.
"Sherlock! What is that?" John asked, even though he was aware of the answer. There was no sense in trying to cover up his fear, he stayed behind Sherlock, touching his back in support.
The detective rushed to the bomb, which was counting back and had 4 hours and 13 minutes left, according to the little screen. There was, again, a little envelope. Sherlock opened it without hesitation.
"I have a hostage, Mr Holmes. Come and find me. If you touch that bomb, it explodes instantly. The same thing happens if you call the police. The only way out is you, finding me. Come alone. Good luck, Mr Holmes."
Sherlock stared blankly at the paper. John stood behind him, reading the text too. Oh dear lord, what is going to happen?
"Alright Sherlock, what have you known so far?" The detective asked himself, hitting his head. It broke John's heart to see. "A bomb maker, it is, has to keep people somewhere, has to kill them somewhere, and acid is indeed painful, they're screaming, somewhere isolated..." He mumbled, trying to make sense of it.
"A farm probably?" John tried to help, his nerves obvious from his shaky voice.
"A farm, or a barn, or a remote factory... Near here, for sure, and still far enough so nothing would be audible." Sherlock was already browsing on his mobile "That's it. Must be it. Darlington Factory. Abandoned about twenty years ago."
"Sherlock, do you think it's a good idea to go there alone?" John whispered, his voice giving his scepticism away, "You might get yourself into big trouble."
That was all Sherlock needed. He grabbed his friend by the head and turned him towards himself, so he would pay full attention. "John, either I go, or all of us will explode in here. I need you to promise me that no matter what, you will stay here and watch if the timer stops. If it does, stay still; bombers have a tendency to change their minds. If it doesn't stop and reaches 60 minutes, you go and tell the mayor to evacuate the village and send everyone beyond the borders. Then, not waiting for them, you get yourself a car, a cab, anything, and you get out of here. Will you promise me that, John?”
"Sherlock, don't-"
"Will you, John?" Sherlock asked again, interrupting the doctor.
"I do," said John, yet the words rolled off his tongue painfully. He didn't want to promise that he would leave Sherlock behind. In danger, nevertheless. But he nodded and repeated. "I do. I promise."
Sherlock rose to his feet from next to the bomb and stood up straight. He felt this was going to end in a way he didn't want it to end. And he was worried about John. He grabbed the other man's right hand and shook it tightly.
The gesture made John want to cry. He wanted to hug Sherlock, he wanted to say a lot of things, but he knew the other wouldn't like that. It was right. Let's keep things eerily professional.
Sherlock walked out of the house, turning away for one more time at the doorstep, then hurried away. He knew it was his only way to get to the abandoned building — alone, on his two feet.
—
"Took you long" a voice was heard. The man, sitting in an old chair. Bearded, around 45, matching the measurements predicted, a clean freak, as the building was surprisingly clean, injured on his side... Sherlock already knew a lot. And it wasn't his first time seeing this man.
"I still have time." Sherlock hissed.
"Indeed you do," said the man, taking a deep breath, shifting in his chair, “though not so much."
"Mr Hanford. Should have thought earlier. The marks on your hand. Not from cleaning, but from working with acid." Sherlock's face was troubled. He rarely missed when it came to deduction.
"Hm. Smart. What a shame it came too late." The man chuckled.
"What do you mean, I still have a lot of time. And I found you. You can stop the bomb now, it's over, I am here."
"Oh, Mr Holmes is confused... The art of 'deduction', you call it. Still, you have no idea what I want you to do. Isn't it obvious, Mr Holmes?"
Sherlock looked around. The man was sitting next to a table. It had another chair besides and a cup on it. The detective sighed. He knew what the delicious cocktail in it must have been made of.
"Why?" He asked, not reflecting on anything just yet.
"Because, Mr Holmes, my sponsor doesn't like you being around." The man smiled maliciously.
"I meant, why would you break into every house? Why leave body parts everywhere? Why kill people for those body parts you leave around? Why did he ask you?" Sherlock seemed to get upset. Of course, Moriarty was behind this case. And he played another fool like a puppet. Out of pure enjoyment.
---
One hour, fifty-two minutes. John stared at the countdown and his body twitched with every second passing. Sherlock forced him to stay with the bomb, instead of accompanying him. Watson knew this was essential to save the people, but at this point, he couldn't care less about them. Sherlock Holmes was in danger, and John Hamish Watson was away from him, not knowing what his friend was up to, not being able to save him if it was needed. Oh, only if you had an idea what to do, John... You idiot. He cried out. The annoyance and fear he felt was too much, so was the adrenaline it all pumped in his veins. He picked up his mobile, constantly checking his notifications to see if his friend had texted. Yet, no signs. What are you going to do now, John?
---
"It's easy, really. Mysterious burglaries, no valuables gone, getting in through every door, leaving body parts everywhere... It would attract someone who is trying to prove his genius so desperately. Like you, Mr Sherlock Holmes. Someone like you appreciates a good crime, and of course, a good psychopath. You were the only one who looked for a system in the order of burglaries. And you found it, bravo. What a shame that the time is ticking and the decision is only yours to make."
"So either I drink the acid, or the village blows up." Sherlock clarified.
"Indeed, quite precisely. The best part is if you weren't so curious, I didn't have to blow up the whole village with your little friend in it, too." Hanford chuckled again. It really got to Sherlock.
"You killed all those people because you like the sight of people dying. And then came to me. All this for attention? No, I believe it's something more." The detective's eyes roamed upon the man "Not money, you are not interested in that. It is a pleasure, but if it were simply that, you would have avoided coming up to London. It was Moriarty's will, so I would be working on this one. But why did you accept? You would get locked up for the rest of your life. Is that it? You wouldn't live for long anyway."
"Stomach cancer. You know, I am rotting from the inside, Mr Holmes. And how much I loved those people doing the same." Hanford said, staring in front of himself, still with a half smile on his face.
Sherlock sat at the table, staring at the acid. He knew that he had two choices and that the man was armed. Time ticking by slowly made him want to punch the wall. If he could get the man to drink the acid... Oh, it wouldn't work. Only Hanford knows the code for the bomb and only he could stop it.
"If the bomb explodes," Sherlock spoke up, his eyes fixated on the cup "I die anyway."
"Yes, you will. And not only you. But everyone, every single person currently in the village. Me, old women, the kids... Including your darling John Watson. So? Are you dying for him?"
Sherlock looked at Hanford. He rarely felt anything towards anyone, but this time, pure hate was eating him from the inside. "And how do I know you will not let the village explode when I die?" He asked coldly.
"Why would I want them to explode if you are already dead?" The man put a small screen in front of Sherlock. Twelve minutes left, apparently. Sherlock trusted Watson with all his heart and knew. By now, he is over the border, with all the people. He didn't have to worry about him anymore. Now it was really up to him, how he wanted to die. He closed his eyes, then eventually opened them, looking at Hanford.
"Is it possible I send a text message?" He asked finally.
"Sure, go ahead. Oh, and don't bother sending them out of the village. It is locked down. I assure you." Good. Then no one is over the border. John is here, still. Somewhere. Worried. Exhausted. All because of him.
"Thank you," Sherlock said and picked up his mobile. He opened his messages, selecting the one name that mattered the most in his life. "It has always been you, John Watson. The man I love. Apparently, fear is only overruled by knowing you will not be afraid anymore. Vatican Cameo. And this time I will not let it be you." As he finished typing up the message, he put his phone on the table, then picked up the cup. Played with the contents for a while, mostly to calm himself, because he obviously knew what was going to happen when the acid touches his insights. Taking a deep breath, he lifted the cup to his lips and closed his eyes to savour his last moments.
Ding. A faint sound coursed through Sherlock's brain. He stopped his hand mid-air. Is it...?
"Sherlock!" John yelled as loud as he could, running towards his friend, pushing the cup out of his hand. "Are you out of your mind?" He was on the edge of sobbing, at this point.
Hanford was baffled for a second, which Sherlock knew exactly how to use. He grabbed the gun and tossed it over to John, who shot immediately. Hanford fell off his chair like a piece of meat, grabbing his side, where John's bullet hit him. He was whining, but no one cared. Watson rushed to Sherlock who was looking for the bomb's control panel.
"Sherlock..." John panted, handing a small device over "This was on the bottom of his chair."
Sherlock grabbed the device that still counted back. Only 53 seconds left. It was enough, even more than that. Because the detective knew someone so proud of their divinely arranged work would reuse it. The house numbers. 53-6-92 20-7-39-8-92. 'I C U, SH. CaN YOU' Sherlock's long fingers moved precisely on the numbers; 53207. 'I CaN'.
---
The police had already inspected the scene by the time the Baker Street Boys arrived back at the Inn. Though the citizens hadn't known what Sherlock Holmes and John Watson did for them, they already felt the weight of the situation. The innkeeper, who himself had just returned from the failed evacuation plan, smiled at the two men.
"Oh, back to your room, s'ppose."
"Yes, quite." Watson smiled back softly. "I feel like we are checking out."
"Well, if I give further thoughts", Sherlock began, "I tend to like this place. Why not stay for one more night?"
The request surprised John. They never really stayed out of town; it wasn't so Sherlock not to run back to London and look for new cases. Yet, he didn't mind. He had to talk about something with his friend; also, the fact that he was still wearing his pyjama bottoms didn't make the situation any better.
"In that case, Mr Holmes, would I get the opportunity to be accompanied by you for dinner tonight?" He asked, his tone half-mocking, half-serious.
"The pleasure would be mine" answered Sherlock.
The two decided to return to their room, leaving the smirking innkeeper behind. "Well," he sighed, "that bed was going to be put to good use, sooner or later."
---
"So, 'the man I'm in love with'?" John questioned, trying to keep a straight face. On the other hand, Sherlock wasn't in the mood for jokes.
"In that moment I felt some internal urge to let you know all I think about you." He said, cutting up a piece of meat on his plate.
"Think about me? Sherlock, you basically confessed your love for me." John chuckled "That is far from thoughts. Those are feelings, Sherlock. Sentiments." He looked at his friend who suddenly got really interested in the meat he was eating. When John realised it might be a little too much for Sherlock, he tried to approach the topic differently. "Never thought you would feel that way."
"Because you are an idiot," Sherlock responded immediately. John was used to it and had to laugh at Sherlock's weirdness.
"In fact, I never thought you would feel that way towards anyone, Sherlock." The answer came.
"Because you are an idiot," he repeated. "Remember when we first met? Our first dinner together. You asked if I had a girlfriend. I told you it wasn't my area. Then, you asked me about boyfriends, and instead of saying the same I just said I knew it was okay, but I didn't have one. If you weren't an idiot you would have realised the obvious."
"Unless I am mistaken," John's eyebrows ran up on his forehead "you also stated you considered yourself married to your job."
"Right. Because I have not known you yet." Sherlock stated calmly, but the way he wiped his mouth with a napkin to cover up his excitement, gave him away.
"Were you not alarmed when I stayed a thousand times that I was not gay?" John asked, because that was the question that bothered him the most.
"I never believed you were. I know you are not. I just wanted you to know. I am quite aware that it wouldn't have helped my situation. In fact, I have never felt such an urge to tell anyone anything. And I await no response or even reflection from you. We shall forget about it." Sherlock said, his voice was as if he was talking about the most general information, yet his eyes were slightly tearful, which alarmed John. He placed a hand softly on his friend's.
"Sherlock, I am not gay, and I will never be." He said slowly. The addressed man wanted to speak up, just to get interrupted immediately "However, I feel things I have never felt for a man, and now I feel them towards you. Which is confusing, Sherlock, really confusing, this is something you wouldn't necessarily understand. Yet, I want you to know, alright?"
Sherlock put down the napkin and stared at John in awe. "Does that mean-"
"Yes, Sherlock, I'm in love with you, you idiot." John chuckled, tears filling his eyes.
"John... Why are you crying? Did I do something wrong? Is this a bad thing?" The detective asked, seemingly worried about his friend.
"No, no, it is not a bad thing. It is a really good thing," John sobbed, "I just cannot believe I almost lost you today." Sherlock had a hard time comprehending. He stood up, letting go of the other's hand for a second, to move his chair next to the other one. He pulled John closer, letting him cry himself out.
—
"Hey, Sherlock, are you done?" John called out to his friend, who was occupied in the restroom, doing his evening routine. The tall man soon appeared in his sleeping shirt and underwear.
"Yes, my dear John?" His expression was surprisingly tender. This was a new side of him, and Watson secretly hoped he would have a lot of time to explore this Sherlock.
"Well, if you desire biscuits, we got some from this old lady in the park yesterday." Sherlock slowly walked up to the bed, sitting down next to John, this time not bothering to leave any space between them. He gently grabbed the blonde's free hand, which didn't have the bag of biscuits in it and planted a gentle kiss on his knuckles.
"I desire quite a range of things right now. Some I haven't ever thought of." He said, phrasing each word carefully, "You opened my eyes, John."
"Then close them," the other smiled.
"Oh, so you can put a biscuit in my mouth?" Sherlock asked. He seemed slightly confused, but of course, he was aware of some gestures like this.
"Just give the taste a little test." Watson smiled.
The detective was still a little confused and unaware, but finally closed his eyes. John then planted a soft kiss on Sherlock's lips. How can someone be so smart and clueless at the same time?