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It was a warm summer day in the south of England as George D. Shooter was hustled away by a pair of police officers. John and Sherlock watched from a distance before heading out to the point where the South Foreland Lighthouse stood.
“One advantage to this work,” said John. “Free admission.”
“It’s not exactly free admission,” Sherlock said.
“Shut up and let me enjoy a view that most people have to pay money to see.”
“People say that as if there were any other way to pay to – ”
“Sherlock. Please.”
The two of them stood on the green grass and watched the waves crash against the jagged coast, the sound drowning out Sherlock’s giggling at getting a rise out of John. After letting his mind wander for a while, John turned to Sherlock.
“You ready to go?” he asked. Sherlock nodded.
The headed back towards the car, where Lestrade was waiting. They were just about to get in when John sneezed.
“Bless you,” said Lestrade. “Maybe you spent too much time in the wind.”
“He’s sneezed several times today,” Sherlock replied. “Four times more than in a typical day.”
“You count my sneezes?” John asked in surprise.
“Will you be able to drive with atypical sneezing patterns?” Lestrade interjected jokingly. John shot him a less-than-impressed glare.
“Of course I can,” he said. “I think we’d better go.”
Lestrade said his brief goodbyes and then the two got in the car to start the two-hour drive back to London.
“Maybe I am coming down with something,” John murmured as he remembered Sherlock’s words. By the time they arrived back at Baker Street after returning their rental car, John was even more certain that he was coming down with something, his nose much more stuffed up than before.
“Finally home,” John said as he and Sherlock entered through the front door to the flat. John slipped out of his shoes and plopped himself down, practically falling, into the sofa. Sherlock soon joined him.
“Better not get too close,” John said. “I don’t want to get you sick, too.”
“I’m not worried,” Sherlock whispered into his ear. “But I’ll be cautious for now.” He kissed John’s cheek. John hummed quietly and squeezed Sherlock’s knee before getting up.
“I’m going to bed.”
When John woke up the next morning, he could barely breathe through his nose and even if he did not feel much like sleeping he did not feel like getting out of bed. He forced himself up and lumbered down to the kitchen. It took him twice as long to put on the tea and make the toast than it usually did since he was slowed down by sneezing and his watering eyes.
“Good morning, John,” Sherlock said, entering the kitchen just as John had finished.
“Good morning, Sherlock” John replied. “I’m glad the case is finished. I’m not up for going anywhere today.”
They ate breakfast quietly, neither of them having much to say. Even if he wasn’t sick himself, Sherlock still seemed to be fatigued from the case they had solved the day before. It had lasted several months and had seemed endless. An erratic serial killer who leaves his victims in the lobbies of upscale hotels may not necessarily seem like the most secretive of murderers, but it was a case that proved hard to crack. The fact that it led them to a lighthouse at the end was just another oddity of it all.
After they had both finished breakfast, Sherlock got up and put his hand on John’s shoulder.
“Let’s go back to bed,” he said. Sherlock took his hand and helped him up from his chair. Both knew that he did not really need to be helped with such an action, but John appreciated the gesture. They each lay on one side of the bed and began to snooze.
They had been there for about ten minutes when Sherlock’s phone pinged. He sat up and picked it up from the bedside table. He read the message and then let out a sigh.
“It’s Lestrade,” he said disappointedly. “He’s got a new case for me.”
John began to stir but Sherlock stopped him. “Stay here,” he said.
John drowsily listened to the sound of clothes shuffling as Sherlock got dressed and left the flat before he fell asleep again.
When John woke up again it was just past noon. He was not particularly hungry but he figured he should eat something, even if it was not much, so he forced himself out of bed and put the kettle on. He contemplated what to eat, but he did not have the energy to make toast, so he just grabbed an apple.
By the time he finished, he was too tired to go all the way back to bed, so instead he settled down on the sofa and put on some television programme to mindlessly watch.
Sherlock returned to the flat that afternoon with Lestrade. The two of them were sweat-drenched and out of breath.
“I take it there was a chase?” John asked when he saw them.
“Yeah,” Lestrade panted.
“Lost him, though,” Sherlock added, wiping his brow.
“Sit down,” John said, waving weakly to the chairs and sitting up from his lounging position. “Sorry for taking up so much space.”
“It’s fine, John.”
“Do you have company?” Mrs. Hudson’s voice called from the stairwell as she climbed up to 221B.
“Just Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock replied when she appeared at the door. Lestrade shot him a look.
“I’ll make you some lemonade, dears,” she said. “You two look like you’ve had quite the afternoon.”
“Quite the afternoon, maybe,” Sherlock said, “but not a successful one.”
“I’m sure you’ll have better luck next time,” Mrs. Hudson replied from the kitchen.
“If we get this done soon, I might be able to have a summer holiday,” Lestrade said. “But knowing this job, I don’t know if that’s even possible.”
As exhausted as Lestrade and Sherlock looked, John wished he could have gone with them. Even if it was a hot summer, he did not like being stuck at home sick with no energy to do anything. He always thought getting sick in the summer was the worst.
Mrs. Hudson was bringing out the lemonade when Sherlock’s phone sounded.
“It’s my brother,” Sherlock said when he looked at the screen. “For once he’s actually cooperating and not calling me instead.”
“What did he say?” John asked.
“He says he’s concerned about the fact that I left Baker Street on my own this morning and he’s coming to check on me,” Sherlock grumbled. “Because that’s never happened before now, apparently.” He rolled his eyes.
Mycroft arrived ten minutes later.
“Good afternoon,” Mycroft said as he entered. He looked over each of the faces in the room before he saw John. “Ah! Dr. Watson. It’s good to see you alive.”
“What?” John asked. Mycroft did not respond, instead changing the subject to his brother.
“I can see you’ve been unsuccessful, Sherlock,” he said. “I haven’t seen you this sweaty from a chase since the Monopoly murders.” Mycroft then turned back to John. “He couldn’t solve it right away because he didn’t know the rules of Monopoly.”
“You never played it when you were a kid?” Lestrade asked.
“I remembered playing it but by then I had deleted the rules,” Sherlock said. “I thought the details were impertinent.”
“Deleting memories,” Mycroft teased. “I don’t need to delete things, though since I would win most of the time it doesn’t surprise me that you would want to erase those memories. Anything to try to forget that I’m the smart one.”
“Who needs to play a game to solve murders?”
“You are the one who says ‘The game is on.’”
“Shut up, Mycroft!”
“Anyway,” Mycroft continued, “the real reason I’m here is to bring you this.” He opened his briefcase and pulled out a fairly thick folder. “I think you will find this document of use to you.”
“What is it?” Lestrade asked as Sherlock took the folder and opened it to peruse the contents.
“Just some documents from the government library that should help you with your investigation,” he replied. “You are very close to cracking it, but there’s something you’re missing.”
“How do you know all this? Are you saying we just chased the wrong man halfway across London?” Lestrade asked incredulously.
“Not exactly,” Mycroft said. “Just read them, Sherlock.” He left Lestrade’s first question unanswered.
“So nice of you to help, Mycroft,” Mrs. Hudson said, handing him a glass of lemonade. Nobody had realised she was still there.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Mycroft replied smugly before taking a sip.
John stopped paying attention to the conversation for a while after that, his gaze wandering over to the window. He could not see the street from where he was sitting, but he could see that there were flower boxes full of brightly-coloured blooms on a few of the windows of the building across from theirs. It was actually a sunny day and he wished he had the energy to go out and enjoy it, even if it was to chase a murder suspect.
“I must be going now,” Mycroft said, bringing John back to the situation in the room. “Good luck with the case, brother mine.”
Sherlock did not say anything in response.
Lestrade left soon after, but not before he took a look at what was in the folder that Mycroft had brought.
There were two documents, which they decided to split between the two of them. They conferred for a little while before Lestrade had to get going.
Sherlock sat down next to John on the sofa with the document Mycroft had brought on his lap.
“Any better?” he asked John.
“Not really,” John replied.
Sherlock then got to reading the dry, but moderately informative, text. John watched Sherlock’s concentrated face as his eyes scanned the pages. He wondered what was going on in that brilliant mind of his.
After a while he noticed Sherlock’s shoulders getting hunched and reached his arm out to rub them. Sherlock slowly straightened and emitted a short hum when he felt the presence of John’s hand.
Mrs. Hudson quietly came up the stairs, unheard by the residents of 221B, who were much too focused to notice her quiet footsteps. She arrived at the door and was about to ask if Sherlock was going out again that evening, but stopped herself when she saw the scene in the living room. She admired it for a few moments before descending.
When Sherlock had finished reading, he let out a sigh.
“Was it any help?” John asked him quietly.
“I just need to think,” Sherlock said, getting up from his seat.
John got up, too, and made himself a meagre meal before heading to bed. Even though he had been feeling tired all day and it had only become worse as the evening went on, he could not fall asleep. He knew it was partly because his nose kept getting stuffed up, but he had slept the night before, so he did not know why this time was any different. After he had tossed and turned for a few hours, he gave up and went downstairs to the kitchen for a glass of water.
When he got down, Sherlock was pacing in front of the window.
“Have you slept at all?” John asked him. He knew that Sherlock didn’t always sleep very much on a case, wanting to spend as much time possible thinking things over, but he was still a human being.
“About two hours,” Sherlock mumbled, clearly still lost in his thoughts. “Lestrade texted me a briefing of the rest of the document, now I just need to work things out.”
“I’m sure you’re almost there,” John said before going to the kitchen. When he brought his glass of water with him and sat down on the sofa, Sherlock had not moved. John assumed he was deep in thought about the case when Sherlock turned around to face him.
“Can’t sleep?” Sherlock asked.
“No,” John sighed.
Sherlock then walked across the room. He opened his violin case, tuned up, and began to play.
John loved the peaceful look that Sherlock’s face had when he played, his posture as he held the instrument, and the smoothness of his arm guiding the bow over the strings. Those alone were relaxing, but combined with the sound of the violin itself Sherlock nearly sent John to another state of being. The notes of Bach, though a little sad, made John feel completely at peace.
John did not hear Sherlock stop playing and emit an “Oh!” of realisation. When Sherlock turned back around to face him and tell him what he had worked out about the case, he saw that John was fast asleep.
The next morning, Sherlock had already left when John woke up, feeling well-rested and that he was getting better. He made himself a better breakfast since he actually felt he had an appetite. His phone buzzed when he was finished.
Found both murderers. Case solved. Will be back this afternoon. -SH
John smiled to himself, not only happy that Sherlock had had the breakthrough he needed, but because he knew that Sherlock would not enjoy dealing with the paperwork at the end of a case that he usually handed off to John.
Make sure you actually accept the money this time was John’s only reply to the message that he felt was necessary. Just because he wasn’t there to do the paperwork didn’t mean that he was going to let Sherlock complete the case without accepting money, no matter what his tendency was.
John was sitting on the sofa watching television when Sherlock got home, which he turned off as soon as Sherlock greeted him. It was clearly still very hot outside, since not only was Sherlock not wearing a jacket, but he had rolled up his shirt sleeves.
“I have a question for you,” John said after Sherlock had joined him on the sofa. “What were these Monopoly murders that Mycroft mentioned when he was here?”
“It was a case from a few years ago,” Sherlock explained as he sat down and leaned back in the sofa, practically sinking into it. “A serial killer left the bodies around a specific area of London, leaving only silver pieces – which I later realised were silver recreations of Monopoly pawns – as a clue to the pattern of the bodies, which was of a Monopoly game. He would pass ‘Go,’ a designated location, and kill someone else.
“While looking at a past unsolved case, I found the unsolved case of the Cluedo murderer, who left Cluedo character pieces with his victim and recreated the death of Mr. Body as described in the game. Making some connections between the two, I determined that these crimes were all committed by the same person. It helped that there was a silversmith in the immediate vicinity of the so-called ‘Monopoly murders.’ The silversmith’s products were of excellent quality.”
Hearing about the silversmith, John wondered if he would ever have a ring from such a place. He knew Sherlock would find such gestures superfluous and unnecessary, but he began to imagine what Sherlock could be like, asking someone he loved to marry him. He imagined that he would stumble over the words at some point, even if they were rehearsed, likely going off-script at some point, which would end up being much more heartfelt. Sherlock would not be the best at speeches, or at least not perfect.
Knowing Sherlock, though, John didn’t care about that.
“It turned out to be sloppy on the murderer’s part,” Sherlock continued, taking John out of his ponderings. “We were able to trace the items to that silversmith fairly easily, and once that was done it was not too long before we found him through the information we obtained from our visit to the shop.”
“Must have had a flair for the dramatic,” John said, “leaving items at the crime scenes and going to the trouble of orchestrating a formation that replicated a game. It almost makes you want to admire the man on some level…oh, god, I’m starting to sound like you!”
Sherlock smirked. “It comes from proximity,” he said. John smiled back at him. Sherlock took his hand and stroked it lovingly with his thumb. “Feeling better today?” he asked.
“Getting there,” John said.
“What do you want to eat tonight?” Sherlock asked.
“Takeaway is fine,” John said. “I actually have an appetite now.”
“Right,” Sherlock said. “Takeaway it will be. And then early to bed.”
“Sounds lovely.”
They ate their food and by then John was ready to go to sleep. He started to head towards the stairs to go up to his bedroom, but Sherlock stopped him by putting a hand on his shoulder. The two of them went to Sherlock’s bedroom. The warmth of having Sherlock next to him made it easy to fall asleep.
---
It was a beautiful sunny day that Saturday. It had been a few days since Sherlock had solved the case and John was feeling completely recovered. Sherlock had not yet been given another case. Maybe the murderers were on summer holiday, too, for once.
The flat was a bit too warm for their liking, so they went to the library to take a break from the heat. Sherlock found a book he had been thinking of reading and John flipped through a magazine for a little while before looking out the window next to the table where they were sitting.
“Days like this make me think of when I was a kid,” John said as he looking out and recalled day trips in the family car. “Do you want to go anywhere today?”
“What do you have in mind?” Sherlock asked, looking up from the pages of this book.
“Well,” John began, “as funny as it might sound, I’ve never visited the Tower Bridge.”
“Certainly you must have seen it,” Sherlock said. “You’ve been living in London with me for over two years.”
“I have, but I’ve never actually visited it. I’ve always wanted to; it feels like there’s something I’m missing. Do you want to go today?”
“I don’t see why not,” Sherlock replied, getting up from his chair and putting the book down.
“You seem rather eager,” John said, chuckling at Sherlock’s quick reaction to the outing. “Have you not been there before, either?”
“Of course I have,” Sherlock scoffed, before shifting his eyes. “Just not since I was ten.”
John smiled.
They started with the viewing area and its big windows, then went back down to where they could stand by the railing in the open air as they looked out over the Thames.
John snapped some photos with his phone camera, including one of Sherlock as he took everything in. After taking about a dozen, John put his phone back in his pocket and stood next to Sherlock, who placed his hand on top of John’s on the railing, to contentedly enjoy the view as the sun reflected off the water.
When John turned his head to look up at Sherlock, Sherlock was already looking down at him, his mouth turned up in a smile.
“What are you looking at?” John teased lovingly, smiling back.
“You,” Sherlock said. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Rhetorical question.”
Sherlock leaned in and the two of them kissed as the sun shone down on a perfect summer day.