Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

'The ties that bind us are sometimes impossible to explain. They connect us even after it seems like the ties should be broken. Some bonds defy distance and time and logic; because some ties are simply meant to be.' (Meredith Grey)

___

Prologue

“Did anything happen yesterday?”

“Of course nothing happened between us. John is... he is –“

“Your person,” Mrs. Hudson says.

“He’s much more than that.”

Sherlock starts to think about the way John cares for his patients, about how he treats victims’ bereaved with a kindness Sherlock could never imitate, how he saved Sherlock’s life over and over again, risking his own in the process, how he’s the only person in the world willing to accept Sherlock for who he truly is. Words don’t seem to do him justice, but Sherlock tries anyway.

“He’s the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I’ve ever been fortunate enough to meet. He’s the best man I’ve ever known,” he concludes.

“Oh Sherlock!”

“He’s also married.”

“I know. But there’s one thing I want you to remember, dear. A bond between souls is ancient, older than the planet. It dissolves the difference between the person we want to be with and the person we are meant to be with and unites them in one.” Mrs. Hudson looks at him expectantly.

“I don’t know what you’re hinting at,” Sherlock has to admit.

“Some day you will.” His landlady smiles at him. “And I hope I will live to see it.”

___

January 2010

“I’ve told you that I won’t be at home tonight, haven’t I?” John asks, taking a bite from his buttered toast.

“I don’t think you have,” Mary replies. She turns over the page of the paper she’s currently reading before taking a sip of her coffee.

It has become a routine of theirs, reading the newspaper during breakfast. For lunch, they’re both at work most of the time, and during dinner they usually watch whatever’s on the telly. Mary looks up from the local news with a raised eyebrow.

“I haven’t? I’m meeting an old friend from Bart’s. I ran into him the other day and he asked me about getting a drink after work sometime. I thought I’d said.”

“Oh, that’s fine. I wanted to spend the evening finishing my book, anyway.”

John nods, then gets up quickly with a glance at his watch. They usually leave for the clinic together, but on Fridays Mary’s got her day off.

“We’ll see how it goes, hopefully there won’t be any embarrassing silences,” John says while placing his mug into the sink. He picks up his lunch bag, crosses the kitchen to where Mary is still reading and presses a light kiss onto her temple.

“I’ll see you tonight,” she calls after him, not looking up.

John closes the door without replying and immediately shivers. It has started to rain outside, and the cold winter air leaves the free skin of his neck in goose-bumps. He quickly turns the coat collar up against the wind and heads for the railway station. In summer he often cycles to work, but the British winter weather has made that unbearable a couple of months ago. The closeness to work was one of the reasons why he and Mary decided to buy the house in 2006, not even half a year after their first encounter. When she was introduced as the new nurse at his clinic, something between them had just clicked. They started dating in October of 2006 and got married after a rushed engagement in the summer of the following year. The only down-side to their otherwise perfect suburban London life is the fact that they’re not each other’s persons – their souls are not bonded by fate.

Finding your soulmate is something most people longed for growing-up in John’s infancy, making it specifically hard for young teenage boys to encounter a meaningless love-affair. John grew up with only a few persons in his immediate environment – neither his parents nor his grandparents were soulmates – and he didn’t feel like he was missing out. By the time he joined the army, the Western world’s perception of love had already changed significantly. Less and less people found their significant others, leaving them lonely and depressed until they decided to screw the universe and find someone suitable off their own bat. Trying to stop a major wave of depression, the government finally declared that two people who aren’t soulmates can get married without the previously obligatory psychological consultancy, basing their change in course on a scientific study from 1986. The new law caused a flood of marriages between non-persons who finally found the convincing reason to unite in spite of not being told so by the universe. After that, cases of soulmates kept getting rarer and rarer, despite the efforts of several “old-fashioned” online dating sites proclaiming to be able to find your person within fourty-eight hours.

For John, none of that mattered. He was glad to be away from London for a while, enjoying the thrill of danger and the knowledge of doing life-saving work in Afghanistan. He had a string of meaningless lovers during high school as well as during his time at Bart’s, but he never longed to find his soulmate in the ocean of lost souls in the world. For some reason John always despised the idea that some higher power should dictate whom he’s supposed to love. That is, until he got shot and forced to return home.

The months following his invalidity were the hardest of his life. He sought a purpose in the dull routine of his existence, failing to return back from the war with his body and soul alike. Only when he started working as a doctor again he felt useful, if only for the sake of his patients. He started thinking that his person would give him a purpose in life, and even signed up to one of the bloody websites. It was in that time when he wished to find his person for the first time in his life that he met Mary, instead. Upon first laying eyes on her, he wished to feel the sensation of their souls bounding when he shook her hand – but nothing happened. After a couple of weeks of consideration, he decided to take matters into his own hands. How likely was it that he ever found his person, anyway? Wasn’t he too old already? Did he really want to remain lonely for the rest of his life because of a childhood fairy-tale?

He once heard word of a couple in Brighton who met in their late 70s, when their first spouses had already deceased. They found out because the man helped the woman out of the bus offering her his hand. Albeit being an inspiring love story, John refused to believe that the same would happen to him anytime soon. He started dating Mary, and they got along great. She made him laugh more than anyone and tried to understand the struggle of returning to civilian life after a period of war and danger. Gradually, they fell in love, not caring about the universe having different plans for their future. They only mentioned the fact that they’re non-persons once in their blossoming relationship, and never talked of it again.

Jogging down the stairs to catch his train as if it were any other Friday, John cannot know that this day will be the beginning of more than just the weekend.

___

Sherlock runs his hands through his hair, tucking at the curls in frustration. He hasn’t been having the best day when Mike Stamford enters the lab at six in the evening. He unsuccessfully tried to convince Lestrade that the series of suicides threatening the dull idyll of crime-free London is, instead, a series of cold-blooded, well-planned murders. However, Scotland Yard’s incompetence has once again succeeded Sherlock’s already low expectations, leaving him sulking in his lab with a couple of unimportant experiments to pass the time, waiting for the next strike of the killer.

Even though he doesn’t take his eyes off the microscope in front of him, he can feel Stamford staring at him.

“What’s the matter, Mike?” Sherlock sighs audibly. “Don’t you see that I’m busy?”

“Er, yes, I’m sorry, Sherlock,” the doctor stammers. “I’ll be gone in a minute. You see, I’m meeting an old friend of mine, whom I haven’t seen in ages, but...”

“Please,” Sherlock interrupts, “Skip forward to your point.”

He looks up briefly to see the round face in front of him reddening. Whether it’s because of anger or embarrassment, Sherlock can’t tell. It’s not like he doesn’t like Stamford – on the contrary – he considers him one of the least annoying professors at Bart’s, but being rude to the wrong people has always been one of Sherlock’s strong suits.

“Yes, anyway... I wanted to ask whether you still need that slide of my presentation from last week? You said you needed if for your work, so I put it on a flash drive.” He places a metal-grey flash drive onto the lab table, smiling quickly before turning away.

There’s a brief stab of guilt somewhere in Sherlock’s abdomen. He already forgot about the presentation in light of his more interesting, officially-not-his-case case. “Thank you, I think I can get good use out of it.”

He puts the drive into his pockets and returns his attention to the petri dish in front of him, when a knock on the door and a man entering makes Sherlock look up and forget his string of thoughts completely.

He walks in carefully, as if unsure whether he’s allowed to. His short blond-greyish hair forms a visual contrast to his black jacket and dark trousers, and he starts scanning the lab with his deep blue eyes. Sherlock doesn’t recall seeing him at Bart’s before, or anywhere else in London, for that matter. The man has something about him that Sherlock doesn’t think he’d forget.

“Hey, Mike. Are you ready?” He quickly glances at Sherlock and their eyes meet. “Or should I wait outside?”

“No, it’s fine, John. I’m sorry, I was just about to come pick you up,” Mike replies. He turns towards the stranger, not making amends to introduce him to Sherlock.

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine,” Sherlock hears himself say.

Stamford, obviously surprised to be asked a favour by Sherlock, starts searching his pockets. “Sorry, it’s in my coat.”

“Here, use mine,” the man named John says. He comes closer to the table, fishes his phone out of his pocket and stretches it out in his hand. Sherlock mutters a quick ‘Thank you’ while walking over to accept the mobile phone, his eyes glued to the its owner. When he takes the phone there’s a spark of electricity in the air, but it’s gone before the other man notices.

“This is the friend I just mentioned, Dr. John Watson. John, this is Sherlock Holmes, a colleague of mine.”

Sherlock quickly types away a message into the phone while simultaneously deducing the man in front of him. The words fly across Dr. Watson’s body and Sherlock reads them with practiced ease.

Ex-army doctor. Invalided home. Works at a clinic. Married. Non-persons. Alcoholic brother. Doubtful about the forthcoming evening’s success.

“Nice to meet you,” Mike’s friend says while stretching out his right hand. Something holds Sherlock back from taking it, so he places the phone into the offered hand, instead. Dr. Watson clears his throat, his other hand briefly clenches into a fist, and retrieves the phone back into his pocket.

“Are you a chemist?” he asks.

Sherlock, surprised at the sudden interest in his field of work, finds that he doesn’t want the doctor to think he’s merely a chemist.

“I studied chemistry, yes. But my work is more...” he searches for the right term, “practical.”

“Seems quite theoretical to me,” Dr. Watson replies, shrugging his shoulders and looking around the lab once more.

“Well, I cannot say that I have the experiences of an army doctor in my vitae, but this is mere pastime. I’m waiting for an important call.”

He can see the look of confusion on the other man’s face, an expression he’s gotten to know quite well ever since he started deducing people out loud. The lie about the call is only half-false; he’s sure that Lestrade will call for his help any minute.

“Oh, Mike told you about me?”

Stamford shakes his head slightly, his lips twisting up into a smile Sherlock doesn’t miss.
“Not a word.”

“Then how do you know about –“

They are interrupted by Molly bringing Sherlock coffee. He comments on her lipstick and the momentary lack thereof, all the while watching Dr. Watson from the corner of his eyes. Once she has left, Mike and his friend make amends of leaving as well.

“Have fun at the pub,” Sherlock can’t stop himself from saying. He’s still looking at the ex-army doctor. There’s something about this man that he finds intriguing, something he can’t seem to deduce – more like an intuition.

“Thanks,” Dr. Watson replies, the confusion still present in his features. The two of them head out, leaving Sherlock with an unknown sensation of having missed an important opportunity. He stays in the lab watching the door, waiting for something to happen, until the coffee Molly brought has gone cold.

___

John gulps down the rest of his beer, trying to overplay the silence stretching between him and his former friend. Even though he and Mike used to be pretty good friends in their twenties, the different directions of their careers and the resulting long time apart caused their friendship to find its end years ago. Now he wishes he had stayed at home with Mary, watching an old Western over dinner or finishing one of his James Bond novels. Instead, he met a strange young man with a pretty rude attitude and ridiculous cheekbones who has been stuck in his head for the last hour. John lets out a quiet sigh and looks down at the empty glass of Guinness in front of him, trying to come up with a topic for the slow-going conversation with Mike.

“How long have you been back from Afghanistan?” Mike asks.

“Oh, that must have been almost four years ago. I’m sorry I didn’t call, I was a bit…out at first, you know? Getting back on track took me a while and when I finally did I had a full-time job and Mary to keep me busy.”

It’s a lame excuse for not phoning his friend but going by their current situation he wouldn’t have minded dragging out their encounter even further. John feels guilty at the realisation but having small talk and trying to break the ice with acquaintances is something he never enjoyed attempting.

“The clinic I work at is actually not too far from Bart’s, you just take the tube from...”

John lets the sentence trail off when something in the corner of his eyes catches his attention. From his seat close to the window he has a good view of the other side of the street, where several police cars are currently parking in front of one of the houses. One of the officers is securing police tape in front of the pavement, closing it off from the public. The chaotic scene of people running around, carrying boxes full of supplies from each car to the building is not what makes John pause, though. It’s the back of a tall, curly-haired man in a long coat, apparently arguing with one of the officers. Mr. Holmes lifts his hands up in frustration before ruffling them through his hair. For some reason John’s mouth twitches up at the gesture.

“John?” Mike’s concerned voice brings John back to this side of the road.

“Sorry, Mike. I was just... I know someone who lives in that building over there. I think I should better check out if they’re okay.” John doesn’t know why the lie came so easy from his lips.

“Oh, of course. Do you want me to accompany you?” Mike smiles at him, and John feels another stab of guilt.

“No, no it’s fine. Maybe we can repeat this some other time? I’ll call you,” he says while getting back into his jacket. He pulls a couple of bills from his purse and gives Mike a reassuring nod before leaving the dusty pub.

When John arrives on the other side of the street, he realises this might not have been his best idea yet. Upon approaching the police tape, one of the officers looks at him questioningly and starts coming closer. He’s followed by Mr. Holmes who appeared from out of nowhere, a look of surprise on his face that only lasts briefly before returning to a blank expression. John awaits them from the other side of the tape, desperately trying to come up with a suitable reason for his presence.

“I’m sorry, mate, no civilians today,” the officer says. His grey hair is sticking out in several directions and John figures that he’s probably got better things to do right now, but his voice is polite nonetheless.

“Er, I was just...”

“He’s with me,” Mr. Holmes interrupts. Both John and the officer give him astonished looks.

“You know him, Sherlock?”

“Yes, this is Dr. John Watson. Dr. Watson, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade.” John briefly shakes the man’s hand from across the tape – at least he’s got the manners to do so.

“I asked him to meet me here for assistance. He’s a doctor. Don’t give me that look, Lestrade, you know Anderson won’t work with me.”

“You can’t just bring people yourself, Sherlock. We’ve got a qualified team here!”

“Do you need me or not?” Mr. Holmes replies, sharing a look with the DI that tells John that they both know the answer already.

“Fine, but you need to fill out some paperwork later,” the man tells John before pacing towards the building behind them.

“What was that?” John can’t help asking. He doesn’t even know what happened at the crime scene. Does Mr. Holmes really expect him to help? Is he some sort of inspector himself?

“Just play along, I’ll fill you in later.”

Mr. Holmes lifts the police tape, and before even having consciously made the decision John suddenly finds himself on the other side of the tape, following the large steps of a man he literally just met to a crime scene he doesn’t know anything about.

They are stopped in front of the entrance by a man with a ferret-looking face in a coverall.

“Ah, Anderson. Here we are again,” Mr. Holmes says. It’s obvious from his tone that he’s not particularly fond of the officer.

“It’s a crime scene, I don’t want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?” the man asks in a nasal voice. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and visibly lengthens his spine, trying to make himself look taller.

Mr. Holmes takes a deep breath before replying: “Quite clear. And is your wife away for long?”

The expression on the other man’s face shifts to blatant anger. “Oh don’t pretend you worked that out, somebody told you that.”

“Your deodorant told me that. It’s for men.”

John furrows his brows at the contradictory statement and turns his attention from one man to the other whilst they continue their uncomfortable conversation about Mr. Anderson’s infidelity with one of the female sergeants. John feels like an intruder, but the two men don’t seem to care about his presence, shooting insults back and forth without a second thought.

“And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees,” Mr. Holmes concludes before passing the officer whose face has gone white.

John, still too confused to add anything of importance, follows him inside. Inside the hallway, they are offered matching coveralls, which Mr. Holmes declines with a dismissive wave of his hand. John shrugs and takes one of the coveralls from an eye-rolling inspector. Once he and Mr. Holmes are alone on the staircase, he sees his chance at getting a quick overview of the ridiculous situation he finds himself in.

“Mr. Holmes, a word.”

“Sherlock, please.” The tall man turns around, looking down at him from his position three steps higher.

“Yes, Sherlock. What do you want me to do up there? I don’t even know what kind of a crime has been committed.”

“Murder, of course,” he states matter-of-factly. “Have you been following the news lately? There has been a string of ‘suicides’ in London, at least according to the police and the public. Even though Scotland Yard tried their best to shut their eyes from the truth, it has been clear to me from the start that they are dealing with homicides. With this one there was found a note, apparently, and that’s why we’re here. So, will you help me?”

John nods. “Yeah, sure. I’ll do my best.”

Before he can ask anything else, Sherlock is already heading up the remaining stairs. John follows his fluttering coat upstairs, wondering about the last time his body was so filled with the anticipation of adrenaline.

___

His fingers are dribbling on the table, a clear sign of impatience and nervousness. Even though he knows there’s objectively no reason to be any of said things, Sherlock can’t get himself to stop. He keeps checking Angelo’s front door, waiting for the small bell to make its distinct sound, but for now John Watson is nowhere to be seen. After the quite successful evening he shared with the doctor yesterday, Sherlock was eager to include him further on solving the case. John’s attitude towards shooting out compliments seems to be one of the reasons why Sherlock decided to keep him around. He hasn’t figured out the remaining reasons, yet.

After John’s departure at the crime scene the other night, Sherlock managed to find the missing (pink) suitcase within a couple of hours. Obviously, none of Scotland Yard’s officers were of any help, but that didn’t keep Sherlock from strolling around the nearest area of the crime scene by himself. Once he found the suitcase, he immediately sent out two texts; one to the potential serial killer and one to John, asking him to meet him at Angelo’s tonight. Getting John’s number was ridiculously easy, but when John didn’t respond, he added a short Could be dangerous, Sh based on his assumption about John’s attraction to danger. The reply came within minutes.

When the ringing finally resounds with the door, Sherlock oddly feels something twist in chest.

“Hey, Sherlock. Sorry I kept you waiting,” John says while taking off his jacket to reveal a hideous grey jumper. He sits down on the bench seat next to Sherlock, causing a cloud of a different cologne than yesterday to enhance the air.

“It’s fine, I’ve only been here a couple of minutes,” Sherlock reassures him.

“So, what’s your plan?”

Sherlock briefly explains about finding the suitcase and his subsequent text message to Jennifer’s missing phone.

“So we’ve basically got a date with the murderer?”

“Well, I don’t want to get caught up on technicalities, but yes.”

“But the killer isn’t just gonna ring the doorbell, is he? He’d need to be mad.”

“He has killed four people,” Sherlock replies.

Their conversation is interrupted by Angelo, offering them anything on the menu for free. “On the house, for you and your date,” he adds.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Obviously not many people share his skills of deduction, but even Angelo should be able to see the gold wedding band on John’s finger that’s notable in its absence on Sherlock’s.

“Do you want to eat?” he asks John.

John, however, feels the need to correct the manager. Sherlock introduces the two of them, but Angelo continues to ignore John’s denial by bringing them a tea-light to the table. After John has finally decided on the most boring dish on the menu, he starts questioning Sherlock further.

“Well, Sherlock. I don’t recall you telling me what you do?”

For a moment, Sherlock is confused by the nature of the question, before he realises John is asking about his profession. He tries to ignore the fact that his name sounds strangely different from John’s lips and shifts in his seat.

“What do you think?”

“Well, you’re definitely not a police inspector, that much I can tell. I’d say private detective, but the police don’t go to private detectives.”

He’s smarter than he looks, Sherlock thinks.

“I’m a consulting detective. The only one in the world, I invented the job.”

“You invented it?”

“Yes. You see, my mind rebels at stagnation. I abhor the dull routine of existence; I crave for mental exaltation. That’s why I’ve created my own particular profession.” He watches John’s face light up.

“And what does ‘consulting’ detective mean?”

“It means when the police are out of their depth – which is always – they consult me,” Sherlock concludes.

“I’d say the police don’t consult amateurs, but I saw what you were able to do yesterday...”

“Mmh, that’s quite correct.” For some reason Sherlock feels heat rising to his cheeks. Maybe Angelo should regulate the restaurant’s heating every once in a while.

They continue their conversation about Sherlock’s profession, but shift to John’s after a while. He tells him about his army days and his work at the clinic. He also briefly mentions his wife, Mary, whom he met at the clinic a couple of years ago. Sherlock finds it harder and harder to focus on 22 Northumberland Street, since the man next to him appears to be so much more interesting. Once John’s pasta has arrived, he asks Sherlock about his (non-existent) romantic life.

“So you aren’t with your person, then?” It sounds more like a statement than a question.

“No. I don’t even think I have one,” Sherlock admits.

“Well, technically everyone does.” John clears his throat. “Most just fail to find each other.” Sherlock can tell that it bothers the married man more than he’d like to admit that he hasn’t found his, either.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” John continues.

“Girlfriend? No, not really my area,” Sherlock replies and turns towards the window.

“Mmh. Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way?” John asks after a short pause.

“I know it’s fine.” Sherlock isn’t sure where this conversation is heading.

“So you’ve got a boyfriend then?” John asks while doing a very distracting gesture involving his lips.

“No. You see, I’m not looking for any sort of relationship; I consider myself married to my work.”

“Oh, so you’re unattached? That’s good.”

Sherlock doesn’t know what to add to that. He’s spared any further questions once he catches sight of a yellow car approaching the opposite side of the road. He gives John a knowing look before he starts to wind his scarf back around his neck. John looks at him, then outside, then at him again.

“Sherlock, is that...?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, his body already glowing with anticipation. “The game is on.”

___

“Okay, that was ridiculous,” John pants, still trying to catch his breath. He leans back further against the cold wall of Sherlock’s flat at 221B Baker Street. His tall companion is right next to him, his breath still heightened as well.

“That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

“And you invaded Afghanistan”

John can’t help himself, he starts to giggle. Sherlock, quite surprisingly, joins him and together they laugh about the wild run across London they just shared.

Even though the cab was a false lead, John enjoyed the thrill of the chase, the adrenaline rushing through his veins again after so many years. How is it even possible to feel so comfortable around someone you’ve only known for a day? John tries to think back to the day he met Mary, but it was all fussy for him then. He isn’t even sure he remembers everything correctly.

“That wasn’t just me,” he tells Sherlock.

They’re still leaning against the wall, both panting and giggling and enjoying each other’s company, when John’s phone buzzes. He fishes it out of his trousers, and quickly scans Mary’s text asking him when he’ll be home.

He types back with slow fingers, silently cursing himself for never learning it properly.

“I should probably get going now,” he says to Sherlock and starts turning away slightly.

He’s stopped by Sherlock’s right hand grabbing his wrist. “You should probably w– “ but Sherlock doesn’t get to finish whatever he was about to say.

The moment their hands touch, everything happens at once. John feels a tingling in his wrist slowly spreading through his whole body. Once it reaches his heart, John is certain that it will jump out of his chest. His heart is suddenly filled with an ocean of emotions he doesn’t yet realise aren’t only his. His phone drops to the floor. For a moment he’s sure to hear Sherlock’s heartbeat as clearly as his own, beating in the exact same rhythm. He turns towards Sherlock and looks up at him; into his light, green eyes, and he doesn’t see anything else. There’s a bond growing between them, stronger and more intimate than anything John has ever felt.

The moment only lasts a couple of seconds, but it could’ve just as well been a lifetime.

After too many (or not enough) seconds, it’s over. Realisation hits John earlier than Sherlock, who’s still staring at him with rapidly blinking eyes. John pulls his hand away from Sherlock’s and kneels down to pick up his phone.

Bloody hell. Bloody hell!

“Jesus! What just happened? Sherlock, was that...?”

He can see the detective’s mind slowly returning to the present. “Y... yes, John. I felt it, too. That was – “

John feels Sherlock’s eyes on him for a second, and he can hear the shifting of his voice before he continues.

“– interesting.”

John closes his eyes, unable to fully comprehend what just happened. His ears are ringing and his fingers feel numb. Suddenly his knees turn weak and for a moment he’s sure he’s going to faint, so he takes a couple of deep breaths. This can’t be true. His person cannot be the man next to him; a self-proclaimed consulting detective living in London with him this entire time; an arrogant, probably-mad, clever and fascinating man who’s certainly not his wife.

Oh god, his wife!

“I, I gotta go. I gotta go to Mary,” John manages to get out, opening his eyes to see the expression of shock and confusion on Sherlock’s face before he manages to conceal it.

“John, please. Stay.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, I can’t do this...” John turns towards the door, trying to ignore the feeling in his gut that wants him to stay. He opens the door with a shaking hand, and leaves.

He doesn’t look back.

___

February 2010

For a reason Sherlock doesn’t quite understand, he finds himself facing a serial killer with a toy gun and two bottles at Roland-Kerr College two days after finding out he’s been wrong about one thing all his life. Two days since he last saw John in the hallway of Mrs. Hudson’s flat. He’s been trying to tell himself that it’s for the best that John doesn’t want to see or talk to him anymore. At least this way Sherlock can continue The Work without anyone interfering or stopping him from doing potentially dangerous things.

Like following a murderer to an abandoned building without telling anyone.

“I bet you get bored, don’t you? I know you do. A man like you...” the cabbie says. He’s looking at Sherlock intensely, his eyes glowing. “... so clever. But what’s the point in being clever if you can’t prove it? Still the addict.”

Sherlock starts unscrewing the lid of the bottle he knows contains the right pill. He takes out the capsule and examines it more closely. Yep, this is definitely the right one; it has to be.

“You’d do anything, anything at all to stop being bored,” the man continues.

Sherlock is only half listening. Maybe he should take the damn pill just to get the cabbie to shut up. And it would prove his point, wouldn’t it?

“You’re not bored now, are you? Innit good?”

Sherlock brings the pill closer to his mouth, watching the man mirror his movement with the other one. The second before the pill touches Sherlock’s lips, a gunshot fills the air. The bullet hits the cabbie right in the chest, too close to his heart to be curable. He falls back onto the floor, a look of surprise on his face. Sherlock drops the pill immediately and hurries over to the window, seeking the shooter that might have saved his life. The window of the opposite room is wide open, but there’s no one to be seen.

Outside, approximately eleven minutes later, Sherlock is sitting in the back of an ambulance and talking to Lestrade. Someone, probably one of the paramedics, has thrown a red blanket across his shoulders – a ridiculous attempt at comfort.

“So, no sign of the shooter?” he asks the DI.

“Cleared off before we got here. Unfortunately, we’ve got nothing to go on.”

Sherlock sighs audibly. Of course Lestrade would think that.

“Oh I wouldn’t say that.” He starts shooting out deductions about the man who killed the murderer a couple of minutes ago.

“... You’re looking for a man probably with a history of military service and nerves of steel –“ he trails off when something, or rather someone, catches his attention. He can feel his presence a fraction before he sees him. Dr. John Watson is standing behind the police tape, looking innocently at him, just like he did four days ago. Sherlock’s mood brightens instantly, and he briefly wonders whether John feels the same. For a moment their eyes meet, then John looks away.

Oh.

“Actually, do you know what? Ignore me,” he says to Lestrade.

“Sorry?”

“Ignore all of that. It’s just the, er, the shock talking.” He slowly gets up and starts walking over towards the tape. His feet move automatically, as if he were magically drawn to the man on the other side.

“I’ve still got questions for you,” Lestrade shouts after him.

“Oh, what now? I’m in shock! Look, I’ve got a blanket. And I just caught you a serial killer... more or less.”

The DI doesn’t look convinced. “Okay, we’ll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go.”

Sherlock, already on his way, throws the blanket into one of the police cars. Once he’s reached John, however, he doesn’t know what to say. His heart is beating a little faster, but he blames it on the shock.

“Hey, Sherlock. Sergeant Donavan’s just been explaining everything to me. Two pills, how dreadful.”

“What are you doing here? I thought you didn’t want to see me again,” Sherlock blurts out.

“I don’t,” John says. The words hurt Sherlock more than he expected.

“Look, Sherlock, I hope you understand that this, er, thing between us isn’t easy for me. I’m a married man and I haven’t even told my wife what happened the other day. I think it’s best if we don’t see each other again and forget about the whole thing. But an hour ago I was on my way back from work when I suddenly felt –“.

John stops and clears his throat. “– God, this is gonna sound ridiculous.”

“No, please continue.”

“I felt that you were in danger. I can’t really explain how, but I just knew where you were and that someone was threatening you.”

Sherlock shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He hasn’t heard of any similar occurrences, but then again he hasn’t really had a reason to research the whole soulmate topic. Until now.

“I came over to the college as soon as possible, but somehow I ended up on the wrong side of the building,” John continues.

“I figured. Are you alright?”

“Yes, of course I’m alright.”

“Well, you have just killed a man,” Sherlock explains. It’s not the only reason why he asks, but he doesn’t know what else to say.

“Yes, I have, haven’t I?” John pauses, the words apparently sinking in. “I... I did it to save you. And he wasn’t a very nice man.”

“No, no he wasn’t.”

Sherlock looks away, unsure how to react. He’s moved by John’s words, but he knows he shouldn’t be. It’s better for him not to develop any sort of feelings for John – be it sympathy or others. John, albeit being his person, is married. And even if he weren’t, sentiment is a dangerous disadvantage found on the losing side.

“And frankly a bloody awful cabbie,” John replies.

Sherlock has to chuckle. “That’s true. He was a bad cabbie. Should’ve seen the route he took us to get here!”

John starts to giggle, and Sherlock wishes he could bottle up the sound and get drunk on it.

“Stop! Stop, we can’t giggle, it’s a crime scene. Stop it,” John says but the smile is still wide across his face.

“You’re the one who shot him. Don’t blame me.”

“Keep your voice down.” He continues in a more serious tone. “You were gonna take that damned pill, weren`t you?”

“Course I wasn’t. Biding my time. I knew the police would turn up.”

“No you didn’t. It’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it? You risk your life to prove you’re clever.”

Apparently his person can read him like an open book. Sherlock isn’t sure if he likes it.

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re an idiot.”

Again, Sherlock can’t keep himself from smiling. They’ve started walking away from the crime scene, still facing each other. There’s nothing Sherlock would like to do more than to ask John to join him for dinner, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stops at the corner of the street where his and John’s paths part ways.

“So, I guess that’s it, then.”

“Yeah.”

“Next time I’m in danger, you don’t have to rescue me. It’s part of the occupational hazard.”

John smirks while raising an eyebrow. “Fine. But if you do get killed, don’t come back to haunt me.”

“Are you sure? I imagine I’d be great ghost company. I could give you lectures about the three hundred-and-forty-three different types of tobacco ash whenever you’re bored at work.”

“I’ll think about the offer,” John replies. “Goodbye, Sherlock”, he adds.

“Goodbye John.”

This time it’s Sherlock who offers his hand. John hesitates half a second before taking it, unlike Sherlock did at Bart’s. He can once again feel the tingling in his fingers; the sensation of finally having found the place where his hands belong. Once he lets go, the feeling remains like an echo. He tries to study John’s features as best as he can – the smile on his lips, the blue eyes, the grey stubble and the creases on his forehead – and stores the image in his mind palace, before he turns around and leaves.

___

John opens the door as quietly as possible, trying not to wake Mary. He can hear her breathe evenly in the darkness of their bedroom. The incident with Sherlock made him return home unusually late, and his wife was already asleep when he arrived. He slowly changes into his pajamas, but once he lifts the blanket in order to get under the covers on his side of the bed, he can feel Mary shifting next to him.

“John?”

“Yes, love?”

“Wher’ve you been?” she whispers, her voice thick with sleep.

“I, er, had to help someone.”

“What? Were you with a patient?”

She pushes herself up onto her elbow and turns on the yellow lamp on her night stand. Her hair is sticking out messily and her eyes are still small from sleeping, but she smiles at John and leans forward to give him a quick kiss nonetheless. It’s then that John realises he needs to tell her. She’d find out sooner or later, anyway.

“Mary, look, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Is everything alright?”

“Yes, I mean no. It’s just...” He pinches the back of his nose. “You know that I love you, right?”

She looks back at him worriedly. “Okay, what’s going on?”

“You remember that four days ago I met this man called Sherlock Holmes, right? The one from Bart’s who took me along to a crime scene?”

“Yes, of course. Isn’t he the one you went out to dinner with the other night?”

“Yeah, exactly. You see, that night two days ago I found out that we’re... that he’s my – person.” Saying it out loud for the first time makes it so much more real. There’s no way to take it back now; to let it rest in the peace of oblivion.

John’s stomach sinks to the floor once he dares to look at Mary. Her expression is one of horror, shock, hurt, sadness and disappointment all at once, but she tries to conceal it immediately.

“I’m so, so sorry, Mary. Finding out was an accident. I couldn’t get myself to tell you sooner because I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“I understand,” his wife replies. “But I guess I need some time to process it.”

“Of course, love.”

They stare at their shadows on the cover for a while, both lost in their own thoughts. Mary rubs her hands through her face, and John can’t shake the feeling that he didn’t say everything he wanted to, needed to.

“Mary? Please believe me when I say I’m not going to see him again. I love you, and I’m not –“

She cuts him off. “John, it’s okay.”

“What?”

“I mean I obviously don’t like it, but it’s not your fault. We both knew this could happen some day. As long as we don’t let it affect our marriage, it’s going to be okay.”

The relief washing through John makes him exhale deeply. “It won’t, I’m sure of it.”

He leans forward and pulls his wife into a close embrace. The knot in John’s chest finally seems to unravel a bit. Everything will be alright; they will be able to get past this. “You’re amazing,” he whispers in her ear.

When they part, there’s a small smile on Mary’s lips.

“There’s one thing I’d like to know, though. How did it feel?”

John knows exactly what she’s talking about. He takes her hand and stares at the bed sheets for a moment, not sure if telling his wife about his bond to another person is a good idea.

“Er, I don’t know... it was strange, to say the least. I felt a tingling in my fingers once he reached for my hand, but that’s pretty much it. To be honest, I don’t really know why everyone’s making such a fuzz over it.” He shrugs his shoulders. Lying to Mary wasn’t his intention, but it’s probably better to spare her from the truth.

“Oh, okay.” She seems surprised, but mainly relieved. “And you helped him earlier? How come?”

John opens his mouth; he completely forgot about mentioning his help to Sherlock before. He settles on telling her the truth.

“Well, there seems to be some sort of connection between us. I knew he was in danger – it turned out he was about to take a damn pill that could’ve killed him – so I went to where he was and… saved his life. ”

He looks up at Mary, her expression unfathomable.

“We already agreed that it was a one-time thing, though,” he adds quickly.

“Too bad that we’re not... that sounds like a useful thing,” she finally replies.

“I know, but I won’t see him again. I don’t even want to.”

They lie down next to each other; Mary’s back curled against John’s torso. He nuzzles into her hair, taking deep breaths and inhaling her scent to calm himself. Frankly, he doesn’t recall the last time they lay together like this.

John silently tells himself that everything will be fine; surely he’ll stop thinking about Sherlock when he stops seeing him and eventually move past this bloody mess. There’s no reason why anything in his life should change. As he slowly drifts off to sleep, John wonders why he doesn’t fully believe himself.

His last thought before falling asleep is Sherlock, and he will be his first thought upon waking.

___

March 2010

He turns his coat collar up and pushes his hands into the pockets of the Belstaff, rolling his eyes even though there’s no one around to see it.

This cannot be true; the gardener cannot have killed Mr. Scott. It shouldn’t be possible, at least not according to his deductions. Lestrade is mad at him, but that doesn’t bother Sherlock. Sergeant Donovan made fun of him for having lost his ‘creepy superpower’, but that doesn’t bother him either. What does bother him is the fear residing inside him that she might be right. It wasn’t the first time this week that he led the whole of Scotland Yard on a wrong track.

Things have changed in the last couple of weeks – in the last six weeks, to be precise. Sherlock has been distracted by his own thoughts, almost unable to focus at crime scenes. He keeps hearing muffled words like amazing and fantastic during his deductions, but whenever he turns around only the same boring faces stare at him with doubt in their eyes. It seems like the one thing that used to be the sole focus of his attention, the only purpose in his life, isn’t enough anymore. And it’s driving him insane.

Up until a couple of weeks ago, Sherlock despised the idea of having a soulmate. It just isn’t logical; it doesn’t make sense from a scientific point of view. How can two people be destined to be together, be pulled towards each other like magnets? It’s ludicrous. Yet here Sherlock is, unable to forget the person his soul is bonded to, as if he were just an ordinary man with ordinary human emotions. From early on in his life, Sherlock – much like his brother Mycroft – always thought he was above outbursts of human emotions. He didn’t need love or friendship, didn’t need companionship or significant others. But for some reason, on the 30th of January (or maybe even the day before) he realised that he could potentially need those things.

At first, he thought he could get past it, that after a couple of days he’d have already forgotten the blue-eyed army doctor. He spent much of the beginning of February involving himself in any crime-related opportunity that arose, annoying Lestrade even more than usual. The few remaining nights were filled with a number of experiments, some of which might have included analysing a sample of every perfume currently available on the market. But even though he used to be able to rely on The Work distracting him from anything and everything, John Watson crept in on his mind more often than not. He tried locking the door to the newly-built room in his mind palace, even tried to delete the man in question completely, but nothing worked. Now he remains cursed with the knowledge that his soulmate is out in London enjoying his life whilst Sherlock is slowly turning into a shadow of himself.

Sherlock increases his pace, stamping his foot on the ground with each step. He wants to get home and sulk on the couch as quickly as possible.

Once the black door of 221B comes in sight, he notices a woman waiting in front of it. Curly blond hairs are framing her face from underneath a red hat, and her blue eyes scan her environment continuously. Sherlock freezes in his movements when he sees a golden wedding band on her left hand. Could it be her? Balance of probability suggests that 50,6% of women her age are married, 72% of which wear a golden ring. The chances are still in Sherlock’s favour. When the woman sees him, she passes the remaining distance between them and stretches out her hand. The smile on her face doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Hello, Mr. Holmes. I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Excuse me, do we know each other?” Please be a client, please be a client.

“Not exactly,” she pauses. “I’m Mary, Mary Watson.”

Sherlock’s heart flutters involuntarily. What is she doing here?

“I should explain why I’m here. Could we maybe take this inside?” she asks.

Sherlock awakes from his rigidity. “Yes, yes, absolutely. Please follow me.”
He leads her into the flat, telling her to make herself comfortable while preparing tea. From the corner of his eyes he can see her examining the living room. Sherlock wonders what she might be thinking. He already deduced that John told her about him, yet he can’t figure out how she’s feeling. Is she jealous of him? Does she think John deserves better, someone who might not be as messy as Sherlock? Does it bother her that he’s a man?

Once the tea is prepared, they sit down on the two armchairs facing each other. Sherlock realises that John hasn’t even seen the flat, yet. And he never will, he reminds himself.

Mary takes a sip from her cup before continuing.

“I know that this situation is... unusual. I’m here because of John.”

“I assure you I haven’t been in contact with him.”

“Yes, I’m aware, that’s why I’m here. I want you to contact him.”

Sherlock opens his mouth, then closes it again. Out of all the things he would’ve expected her to say, this definitely wasn’t one of them.

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I understand?”

“It sounds crazy, I know.” She settles her mug on the small table next to her and rests her palms on her lap. “The problem is... John hasn’t really been himself, lately. He has issues concentrating at work and he’s constantly in a bad mood. He’d never mention anything to me, but I know him. He’s miserable. And I think it’s because of his current situation with you.”

Sherlock has to blink several times, trying to let the words sink in. The last six weeks were a torture for him, but all this time he thought John had already forgotten him. The only comforting thought was that he was doing what John wanted, what was best for him. Knowing that he was unhappy as well makes it all so much worse.

“What can I do to change that, Mrs. Watson?”

“It’s Mary, please. You see, we both know that as his person, you’re meant to... spend time together. I know that being apart can cause distress and even sickness, and I don’t want to risk that happening to my husband. Therefore I think it’d be best if you two would see each other again. Maybe you’ll become friends – I’ve once heard of a similar case in Boston.”

Her expression is honest when she adds: “I only want what’s best for John.”

So they do have something in common, at least. Sherlock can tell that she means what she says. It must cost her a lot to seek out her husband’s soulmate, to ask him to start a friendship with him.

It would be much easier to hate Mary, Sherlock thinks. He could blame her for his misery and everything would be fine. But how can he hate someone who puts John’s happiness above her own? How can he hate someone who loves John that much?

“I guess it could work.”

In the end, he doesn’t even have to think twice about the proposal. He’ll be able to spend time with John, get to know him better, maybe even get him to help on cases again. It’s more than he ever thought he’d have.

“Wonderful.” Mary tells him the name and address of John’s clinic – as if Sherlock doesn’t know already. “He usually finishes work at 5 pm on Fridays. Maybe you could pick him up.”

They say their goodbyes in the hallway, yet halfway down the stairs Mary turns around again.

“Oh, there’s one more thing. Do you think we could keep this conversation to ourselves?”

“Yes, absolutely. And Mary?” he calls after her. “Thank you.”

She laughs and for a second Sherlock can see the tiredness behind her eyes. “Believe me, I’m not doing this for you.”

Once she has left, Sherlock slams the living room door shut. Yes, it would definitely be easier to hate her.

___

“Mrs. Blanchard I can assure you that your son does not have yellow fever,” John sighs. He knows he comes across as rude, but he can’t help it. Somehow his patients have gotten a lot more annoying lately.

When the worried woman in front of him opens her mouth to protest, John lifts a hand to interrupt. “I’m sure because he’s never been to Africa or South America, and neither has anyone in his immediate environment. He hasn’t left England in the last decade; he doesn’t show any indication of jaundice. And, most importantly, his blood work came back this morning – all clear. Justin has got a regular flu. I recommend a symptomatic medication and he should be fine by next week.”

John tries to give her his best assuring doctor look. Finally, she seems convinced.

“Well, fine then. Thank you, Dr. Watson.”

“You’re welcome. Please send him my regards and best wishes. Ice cream can help reduce the fever.”

Once the concerned mother has left, John stretches his legs. Maybe he should start jogging again; it might help clear his head. He absent-mindedly stares at the clock, failing to register the time. A careful knock on the door helps him out of his day dream.

“Dr. Watson, Mrs. Blanchard was the last patient for today. Do you want to stay and do the paper work?”

It’s Nancy, one of the nurses. Leaning against the door frame slightly, she suppresses a yawn. She works part-time like her husband, allowing them to take care of their two kids in turn. John knows she’d rather be home sooner than later; and frankly he feels the same.

“Thanks, Nancy. I guess we’ll call it an early weekend and finish the rest on Monday morning. You’re free to go.”

There’s a quick smile on her lips before she closes the door. John picks up his phone from the desk to text Mary that he’ll be home soon. Due to her part-time employment, she had the day off. Maybe they can watch and old Western over dinner, if John manages to concentrate this time. He already feels tired at the prospect of his couch waiting for him.

Done for the day, I’ll be home at 6.

Slipping the phone back into his pocket, John gathers his things and heads out without waiting for a reply. The warm evening air already hints at the arrival of spring, causing John to leave his jacket unzipped and his scarf open. Outside, his thoughts start to wander again. Without focusing on the street, he practically runs into the tall man in his dark coat.

“Outch! Excuse m – Sherlock?! What are you doing here?”

The surprise and joy of seeing him are quickly replaced by concern. Scanning Sherlock from head to toe, John notices that the detective looks miserable, much like a mirror of John. He’s got dark under-eye circles and seems even thinner than the last time. John wonders whether he eats sufficiently; Sherlock already told him about his unhealthy relationship with food and ‘transport’ when they were at that restaurant in January.

“Oh, hey John,” Sherlock replies, seeming genuinely surprised. “I’m on my way to a crime scene. What are you doing here?”

“I work here,” John says gesturing towards the building behind them. It really shouldn’t bother him that Sherlock doesn’t know where he works, but for some reason it does.

“You do? What a marvelous coincidence! I could use your help on this case. Lestrade found an abandoned car with the owner’s blood smeared all over the front seats. No sign of the body, though. Will you come along?”

I’d love to. “I don’t know, Sherlock. This might not be a good idea.”

“Okay. Yes. You’re right. I’ll see you around, then.”

Sherlock is already halfway around the corner when John catches up. “Wait! I’ll just have to make a quick call... someone’s expecting me.”

Sherlock nods understandingly and waits for John to call Mary. After their nightly conversation in February, they didn’t talk about the incident further. John didn’t mention Sherlock, and Mary didn’t ask any more questions, either. The last six weeks might have been hard for John, but he swore to himself that he wouldn’t burden Mary with it. He promised her that he wasn’t going to spend more time with Sherlock; that he didn’t want to. Now, not even two months later, he’s already breaking that promise.

Waves of guilt are stirring up inside him, but then his wife answers the phone and it’s too late to draw back. John stammers incohesive words of proposition that Mary understands surprisingly well. She even tells him to have fun with the corpses.

“Thanks. I’ll be home soon. Love you,” John says before hanging up. Returning his attention to Sherlock, he notices a peculiar expression on his face.

“So, where are we heading?”

“To the crime scene, obviously. Let’s hurry, I’m late already.”

They arrive just in time. John greets the officers he knows from last time, while Sherlock purposefully ignores them. DI Lestrade only nods towards John without so much as a second glance, making John wonder whether he and Sherlock had a little chat about his presence at crime scenes.

The forensics team is already working on the car Sherlock mentioned. With Sherlock by his side, they walk over to the crime scene, and John realises again how natural it feels to be in the tall man’s company. Sherlock demands for a blood sample to be sent to the lab before starting to analyse every inch of the car. John stays next to him with crossed arms, eager to watch the forthcoming deductions. He’s had the pleasure of witnessing Sherlock deduce a crime scene once before, back in January. His ability to read people and situations like open books fascinated John from the very first minute. The way his long body moves over the items presented to him reminds John of a curious gazelle. Sherlock must be able to see things that nobody else does; his mind working like an ever-going engine. Watching Sherlock deduce, John wonders not for the first time what it must be like to see the world through his eyes.

After the inspection, Sherlock walks over to the victim’s wife, transforming into a completely different person – a tearful, understanding man who morns his friend’s early decease. Once he has gotten the answer he was looking for, he changes back to himself just as quickly. John has no idea what that answer may be.

“Why did you lie to her?” he asks Sherlock while he’s (again) ducking under the police tape Sherlock holds up for him.

Sherlock, wiping a tear from his eye (can he actually cry on command?!) replies, “People don’t like telling you things, but they love to contradict you. Past tense, did you notice? I referred to her husband in the past tense. She joined in – bit premature, they’ve only just found the car.”

“You think she murdered her husband?”

“Oh no. They were non-persons, but even so – that’s not a mistake a murderer would make.”

“I see.... No I don’t. What am I seeing?”

They are passing the sergeant John distantly remembers. She gives them a side glance, staring angrily after Sherlock. Apparently she’s still mad at his accusations.

“What’s the plan now?” John asks.

Sherlock hands him a business card that says Janus Cars.

“Unfortunately, they’re closed already but we – I’ll go there tomorrow and check them out. Found it in the glove compartment.”

“Okay,” John replies before an awkward silence stretches between them. Should he leave now? Technically, they’re done with the crime scene for today – even though John isn’t sure that his “help” was required – but they haven’t been out for a long time, yet. He could still accompany Sherlock home, maybe check out his flat to ease his curiosity. He isn’t sure whether Sherlock wants him to, though.

“My landlady Mrs. Hudson would love to meet you. She’s been annoying me with questions and I would very much like her to stop. That is, if you don’t mind.”

“Yeah, sure. I’d love to get to know her.”

John has already been to Sherlock’s flat once before, in that life-changing night in January, but he hasn’t made it further than what he now realises to be the landlady’s hallway. Mrs. Hudson, a very friendly lady who reminds John strongly of his grandmother, was pleased to get to know the man “Sherlock’s been talking about non-stop”. Even though John doubts the truth of this statement, he likes Mrs. Hudson already. The fact that he saw Sherlock slightly blushing only encourages the sympathy he feels for the lady who could just as well be Sherlock’s mother. After a cup of tea in her cozy kitchen, they finally enter Sherlock’s flat.

It’s like entering a different world; there are stacks of magazines on the coffee table, Petri dishes in the sink, notebooks all over the floor and a skull on the mantelpiece. The wallpaper has an old-fashioned black and white print on one side and a reddish-brown print on the other. When Sherlock offers him tea and opens the fridge in order to get milk John catches sight of a box of – according to his anatomical knowledge – human thumbs lying right next to a can of soup.

The place should feel strange, messy and probably also a bit disgusting to John, but it doesn’t. It simply feels like home.

Sitting down on a comfy red armchair in the living room, John feels ashamed of himself and his thoughts. Is it his fault he feels that way about this flat? He takes the tea from Sherlock, who has taken a seat on the black leather chair opposite of him.

“So, what shall we do now?” he asks, failing to ignore Sherlock blowing on his tea.

“We could go over the case again. Or you could help me solve a cold case from 1895. I’ve been working on it for weeks but there’s a small detail I seem to be missing.”

John laughs, causing Sherlock to raise an eyebrow at him. “Is there a problem?”

“No, not at all. It’s just not something people normally suggest.”

“Then what do people normally suggest?”

“Mmmh, let’s see. They have dinner, go out for a pint, maybe go to the movies. Something like that,” John replies with a smirk on his face. He leans back further in the chair and takes a sip of his earl grey.

“Sounds boring.”

“Not if you do it with the right person.” John immediately regrets his choice of words. What is he thinking, mentioning the word person in his person’s presence? Sherlock doesn’t seem to care, though, as he replies right away.

“Fine. Are you hungry?”

“Well, yes, actually. Do you have something in?” Remembering the thumbs in the fridge, John quickly adds: “Or should we get take-out?”

“Take-out seems reasonable. There’s a Chinese restaurant around the corner whose owner still owes me a favour.”

“Did you help him off a murder charge?”

“Not precisely. I helped him install an Ikea shelf.”

They start giggling simultaneously. John, unwilling to keep a straight face, pushes aside the lacking memory of when he last laughed as much with Mary.

“Chinese sounds perfect.”

Once they are settled with boxes of delicious duck and rice half an hour later, Sherlock mentions the 19th century case again. He tells John why he hasn’t been able to solve it yet, the reluctance of admitting his failure clearly audible in his tone. John promises to look into the medical records of malaria cases in late 19th century Brighton, to which Sherlock replies with a content smile. They also go through the Monkford case again. John takes notes on one of the empty notebooks he picked up from the floor, almost forgetting his boxes of food completely. He slips the notebook into his pocket afterwards and quickly finishes his dinner.

When his phone buzzes, it’s already close to midnight.

Will you come home today? ;)

“Bloody hell! Sherlock, I’m sorry but I completely forgot the time. I should be heading home now.”

“Yes, of course. Please give my apologies to Mary for keeping you occupied that long.” There’s an unknown expression on Sherlock’s face, one John doesn’t know to interpret yet, but it’s gone before he has the chance to.

“It’s fine, really. It was my fault.”

Reluctantly, John gets up from the kitchen table. Ignoring the fact that he doesn’t want to leave, he picks up his coat from the mantelpiece before turning around once more. “I would love to know what you find out at Janus Cars, though. Would you mind if I came along tomorrow?”

“Course I don’t mind. We’ll meet there ten o’clock?”

John could have sworn to see Sherlock’s face brighten up, but he might be mistaken. It’s not like he was a huge help on today’s case, for that matter, but Sherlock seems to be looking forward to his company nonetheless.

They make their way downstairs, Sherlock accompanying him to the front door.

“So, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” John says.

“Do you like to point out the obvious?”

“No, I don’t. Otherwise I’d say that you’re being a prat.”

“Lucky me, then. I hope you enjoy spending your Saturday with a prat.”

“There’s nothing I’d rather do.”

John opens the door and heads out into the dark night, unable to see the smile briefly appearing on Sherlock’s face.

___

May 2010

Sherlock has been following the mysterious man for the past twenty minutes. He has taken a zigzag route to what seems to be an abandoned warehouse, looking over his shoulder every now and then. Luckily, Sherlock manages to increase the distance between them without losing sight. If everything goes according to plan, the man he’s been following will turn out to be Sebastian Miller, the psychopathic serial killer he and John have been trying to find for the last four weeks. Given the suspicious outward appearance, combined with his earlobes and the way his shoes are tied, Sherlock is 99% certain.

When Sherlock finally put together the pieces of the case, he didn’t call John as he normally would, but instead decided to shadow Miller on his own. It’s not like John wouldn’t have been helpful, but Sherlock didn’t want him to get involved in what could be a very dangerous, possibly life-threatening situation. They have dealt with psychopaths before, with serial killers who turned Sherlock’s stomach thinking about them, but Miller seems to be the most dangerous one yet, mainly because of his unpredictability.

The man takes a left turn and opens a side door leading into the warehouse. He looks left and right before entering the building, not closing the door completely. Sherlock follows him without a second thought. If his calculations are correct, he should find Miller torturing yet another female victim inside the building.

Inside, pitch black darkness embraces Sherlock. He has to blink several times to adjust his vision before slowly moving forward. He tries to deduce everything he can – no lights, no screams or cry indicating a potential victim, no sign of any human being in his immediate environment. He stays still, waiting for what he knows is going to come.

Miller takes him by surprise anyway, putting a well-fired gunshot through Sherlock’s right leg from behind that sends him to his knees. He grabs Sherlock by the head before stepping in front of him, painfully pulling on Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock tries to fight, to stand back up, but then Miller lunges forward and crashes his knee into Sherlock’s chest, which causes all air to escape his lungs. Sherlock distantly hears himself making embarrassing sounds of pain before he’s finally able to breathe again. H’s still on the floor, only managing to hold himself up on one hand. He lets out a groan and tries to free himself from Miller’s grip, but his legs still aren’t of any use. There’s a puddle of blood thickening underneath his limbs.

Miller pulls out a remote and presses a button, causing several lights to turn on. Sherlock closes his eyes against the white lights, but quickly reopens them to scan his attacker. He watches Sherlock from above, a frantic grin on his face. How preposterous. Instead of saying anything, he takes Sherlock’s hands and cuffs them together, then does the same with his feet. Sherlock loses balance and jolts forward, causing him to be on all fours in front of the maniac grin.

“So I see you’ve expected me?” Sherlock asks. His voice echoes from the walls.

“That’s right, Mr. Holmes. And I hope I’ve given you a proper welcome.”

“I guess there’s room for improvement,” Sherlock replies, feeling wet lines of red running down either sides of his bended leg. His hands and feet are tied together, making it unable for him to move expect for maybe fall to the side, which obviously isn’t an option.

“I know, but then again I didn’t really have much time to prepare. You see, I always know when I’m being followed. So there really was no use in your charade.”

“It was worth a try. Now tell me, is this where you killed five women in the last four weeks, Mr. Miller?”

“Well, yes of course. I like the dramatic touch of the location, don’t you agree?” He didn’t object to the name, so at least Sherlock knows who he’s dealing with.

“Yes, very dramatic. And how did you do it?” Sherlock tries to bide his time while simultaneously thinking about an escape plan. For some reason his brilliant mind decided to leave him at this very moment.

“No, no, no, Mr. Holmes, you’re not the one allowed to ask questions here. I’d say you should’ve brought your pet. What’s his name again? Dr. Watson, if I remember correctly from the papers. You and your person got yourselves a reputation.”

Sherlock shifts at the mention of John. Miller seems to know a great deal more than the public, seeing as John and Sherlock kept the nature of their relation private.

“And why is that?” he manages to get out.

“Because he could’ve helped you, or, in this case, die with you. But I know you, Mr. Holmes. You and I are quite alike. We’re both lonely wolves, wandering through the night. We don’t need dogs following us around, slobbering us with their words of praise. We’re better off alone.”

The words cut deeper than the wound in Sherlock’s leg. Miller has a point. Up until a couple of months ago, Sherlock always felt superior to everyone and everything. He didn’t need a companion for his work nor for his life. Since he met John, much of his old views have changed. In this case, however, he’s glad he didn’t bring John.

“I don’t need your advice on human interaction. And you and me are not alike,” Sherlock lets the last plosive pop for emphasis.

“I’d humbly disagree, but I think we don’t have much time for chatting now. I’d like to introduce you to something, anyway.” He violently pulls Sherlock up to his feet, which sends a jolting pain through his leg.

Up to his full length, Sherlock can see the giant metal tank in the middle of the room, connected to a water pipe. A couple of stairs are leading up to the roof of the tank, and the sides consist of glass, giving view of the rushing water inside.

“And what’s that?” Sherlock asks through gritted teeth. He barely manages to stand.

“Your death,” Miller replies and pushes Sherlock towards the tank.

So much for the dramatic touch, Sherlock thinks. He can’t help rolling his eyes.

Once they’ve reached the metal giant, Miller forcefully pushes Sherlock up the tiny stairs. With his feet still tied together, Sherlock practically has to jump up each step, which hurts like hell. The tight grip on Sherlock’s arm doesn’t help, either. Closer now, Sherlock can hear the rushing sound of water filling up inside. Once they are on top of the tank, Miller opens the heavy screw to reveal a flood of water. The entrance is small enough for a single person and Sherlock desperately tries to think of a way to push Miller inside, who still has him in his grip.

“Happy drowning! I will be watching from the port whole outside,” Miller says, pointing to the long stripe of glass right underneath them.

Sherlock doesn’t even have a chance to reply when Miller pushes him inside.

The cold water hits him like stone, numbing his body within seconds. Luckily it’s not salt water, but his wound hurts nonetheless. Sherlock tries to keep his head above water with his hands and feet still tied together, which already costs him more energy than he has left. He swallows a large gulp of water whilst cursing before he manages to keep up.

If Mycroft knew about Sherlock’s inability to defend himself, he’d never hear the end of it. Maybe drowning is the better option.

After Miller’s descend down the stairs he watches Sherlock from the glass front, his eyes dark and his expression filled with madness and lust. The water keeps rising and rising and Miller’s grin keeps increasing, until Sherlock cannot hold his head up anymore. He takes one last deep breath, still trying to free his hands from the handcuffs.

The only thought comforting him is that he didn’t bring John. No matter what that psychopath tried telling him, there’s no way in the world Sherlock would want John to be drowning in this tank with him. Is that ugly grin really the last thing on earth Sherlock shall see? With the water blurring his vision it’s harder to see Miller, but then Sherlock notices a figure approaching from behind. Miller, still enjoying the show, doesn’t seem to notice. For a second Sherlock is sure to see the person his mind is clinging onto, but he hopes it’s just his hallucination.

He blinks one last time before losing consciousness.

___

John slowly takes the gun out of his back pocket and shoots the man right into his thigh. He’s an easy enough target, standing still in the middle of the room with his back turned to John, completely unaware of his presence. With a heart-rending cry he drops to the floor. John quickly runs over to him.

“You bastard!” the man shouts while waves of blood flood out of his upper leg.

“You are damn lucky I didn’t shoot you in the head!”

He continues his cursing, but John has already turned around to the giant tank. His heart skips a beat.

Sherlock.

All logic and reasonable thoughts of calling the police first leave John’s mind. He can see Sherlock’s tall body floating inside, his eyes closed. John practically jumps up the stairs and unscrews the lid. The water is already reaching the top of the tank, so all John has to do is jump in head first.

Inside, it’s colder than he expected, and it takes him a moment to adjust his vision. He can barely see Sherlock anymore, so he swims downward blindly. Once he reaches two white hands, he realises how pale Sherlock already is. He takes him by the arm and pushes them both upwards with all the force he can manage, desperately holding onto Sherlock. The water pushed aside from Sherlock’s body is turning an alarming shade of red. The way back up feels like an eternity, but finally he can see a shimmer of light from above. He pushes Sherlock through the little whole, hoping that he regains his consciousness sooner than later. From within the water, without any ground to support him, John can’t push Sherlock out of the way for him to exit, so all he can do is wait for Sherlock to do it on his own. Maybe he should have thought about this before jumping, but the prospect of dying wouldn’t have changed his actions either way.

Only when John feels like he’s about to run out of air, he can see Sherlock’s feet moving outside of the tank. The tied hands come back in immediately and pull John out. John takes a deep, life-saving breath of air and spits out some water before turning towards Sherlock, who’s lying on the cold metal ground next to him.

“Sherlock, are you alright?” John quickly robs over to his friend and starts examining him.

“I’m... fine.” But John hears the effort it takes him to breathe evenly. He can sense that Sherlock is nowhere near to being fine.

“No, you’re not fine. What were you thinking?!”

John scans his friend’s body frantically, taking off his own wet shirt to put pressure on Sherlock’s leg. The bleeding stops after a couple of seconds – luckily the bullet isn’t inside the flesh anymore. Apart from the leg wound, Sherlock’s got red wrists and feet where the cuffs are still rubbing against his white skin – nothing a bit of healing salve can’t fix. John relaxes a bit. He can’t help anger rushing past the relief of seeing Sherlock alive.

“Me? What were you... thinking? I was doing fine!” Sherlock replies angrily.

“I saved your life, you sod! Is this the way of thanking me?”

He can’t believe this arrogant git, risking his life again and again without saying a word. John feels like throwing up when he thinks about what could have happened to Sherlock.

Sherlock coughs a couple of times in response.

John helps Sherlock into a seating position in order to pad him on his back. They’re very close on the small tank and John can see water drops falling from Sherlock’s curls. For a moment he’s mesmerised by it and blends out his surroundings completely. He doesn’t hear the rushing of the water anymore, the cries of the killer or Sherlock’s heavy breathing. He doesn’t care that he’s mad at Sherlock, or that he’s lying bare-chested in a freezing warehouse. All he can do is fight the urge to lean forward and touch those dark, wet curls.

“I had it all... under control,” Sherlock replies, ripping him out of his trance.

“You call this ‘under control’? You could’ve died, Sherlock!”

“I told you in January that you didn’t need to save me anymore. Why did you even do that? You could’ve... died jumping into the tank,” Sherlock’s voice is softer now, filled with concern for John’s life – after almost drowning himself.

“Not saving you isn’t debatable. I would do it again in a heartbeat, and nothing you say will change that, Sherlock. That’s what friends do,” John replies.

Sherlock remains silent but his expression shifts.

“What?”

Sherlock clears his throat, obviously embarrassed. “It’s just... no one’s ever been willing to do this for me before.”

The sadness in his voice is almost killing John. But how could he know?

“Well get used to it,” is all John can say. He smiles up at Sherlock, but any further words are interrupted by the shout of the serial killer.

“Can somebody shoot me please? This is unbearable!”

___

July 2010

Walking up to the giant Victorian building, Sherlock feels confident. His leg is much better now, almost healed from the welcome-gift Miller gave him back in May. The warm July sun has made his Belstaff unnecessary a couple of weeks ago, but Sherlock wouldn’t want to miss the feeling of the fluttering fabric around his torso. John is right next to him, grinning like an idiot after the fight they’ve just had. Of course he didn’t understand the only fool-proof way of entering the dominatrix’ flat was with the right disguise. When Sherlock asked him to punch him in the face, he seemed pretty reluctant at first, but an initiation from Sherlock’s side made him eager to return the favour.

Thankfully, the disguises work, and they find themselves inside the house after a couple of minutes of explaining. While John heads towards the kitchen to grab a first aid kit, i.e. check out potential fire alarms, Sherlock waits for the suspect in the luxurious living room.

Everything goes according to plan – Sherlock is confident he’ll have the photos within half an hour – when a middle-aged, good-looking woman with dark hair and red lips enters, stark naked.

“Oh, it’s hard to remember an alias when you’ve had a fright, isn’t it?”

Sherlock doesn’t know what to reply. For the first time in his life, he finds himself unable to deduce even the smallest detail about the person in front of him. The woman walks into the room, her high heels clicking on the floor, and stops in front of Sherlock. With a quick motion of her hand she pulls Sherlock’s white collar from his shirt.

“There now, we’re both defrocked. Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Miss Adler, I presume.” Sherlock changes back into his normal voice. There’s no need for the disguise anymore.

“Look at those cheekbones. I could cut myself slapping that face. Would you like me to try?” Miss Adler narrows her eyes down at him before taking the white collar to her mouth and biting down onto its edges. Her red lipstick leaves a print on the fabric. Sherlock stares at her in confusion until he sees John in the corner of his eyes.

“Right, this should do it,” John says before stopping abruptly. Sherlock can see his eyes widening and one of his brows furrowing upwards as John stares from him to Miss Adler and back.

“I’ve missed something, haven’t I?”

Miss Adler offers John to take a seat before she sits down in an armchair and crosses her legs, folding her arms to obscure the view of her chest.

“Oh, if you’d like some tea I can call the maid,” she tells Sherlock.

“I had some at the Palace.”

“I know.”

“Clearly,” Sherlock replies and resumes his attempt at deducing her. Without the clothes and with the additional make-up, it’s harder than he ever thought it could be.

“I had a tea, too, at the Palace. If anyone’s interested,” John says into the silence. If Sherlock didn’t know any better, he could’ve sworn to hear a fraction of jealousy in John’s voice. He dismisses the thought immediately.

“Do you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes?” Miss Adler resumes. “However hard you try, it’s always a self-portrait.”

“You think I’m a vicar with a bleeding face?”

“No, I think you’re damaged, delusional and believe in a higher power. In your case, it’s yourself.”

Sherlock smirks at the arrogance of this dominatrix. She might have a point, though.

“And somebody loves you. If I had to punch that face, I’d avoid your nose and teeth, too.”

Sherlock doesn’t miss the quick glance Miss Adler gives John, which causes a strange feeling spreading through his chest.

John forces a laugh, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. Sherlock can practically hear his mind swirling. “Could you put something on, please? Er, anything at all. A napkin.”

“Why? Are you feeling exposed?”

“I don’t think John knows where to look,” Sherlock replies for him, handing Miss Adler his coat.

“No I think he knows exactly where. I’m not so sure about you.”

It’s a topic Sherlock wouldn’t like to dwell on any further, especially not with a stranger, so he tells John to man the door while giving him a significant look. Plan Amadeus is go. In order to distract Miss Adler from the fact that John is currently setting up a fire in her house, Sherlock tells her about one of his recent cases.

Once the fire alarm finally tells Sherlock the location of the phone, they are interrupted by three armed Americans. One of them is aiming his gun at John, who has returned to the living room, his hands over his head. Sherlock’s stomach sinks to the floor at the sight.

The leader of the trio, clearly a dim-witted man from the Southern states with a bad temper, demands Sherlock to open the safe. He keeps up a polite charade, but when that doesn’t work, he turns to stronger measures.

“Mr. Archer, at the count of three, shoot Dr. Watson.”

Panic rises up in Sherlock. Up until now, everything involving The Work has always been fun for him, even the danger. He gladly accepted the fights, the broken noses and the loaded guns; he even enjoyed the threat to his life. It was the legal way of getting high without going through the trouble of having to purchase cocaine first. But that was before John. Or rather, before one of said guns was directed at John.

“I don’t have the code.” He tries it with logic.

“One.”

“I don’t know the code,” Sherlock emphasises.

“Two.”

“She didn’t tell me. I don’t know it!” Sherlock is yelling now. If anything happens to John, it will be his fault. In desperation he looks over to Miss Adler, begging her for help with his eyes. She lowers her gaze downwards.

“Three.”

“No, stop!”

Sherlock, making sure that Mr. Archer stops, slowly turns towards the safe. His mind works frantically with John’s life at stake. He enters the – hopefully correct – code and looks back at the dominatrix, who gives him another vital sign. Before opening the safe, Sherlock shouts ‘Vatican Cameos’ and hopes for John to get the hint.

It all goes down very quickly. Within seconds, the three men are lying on the ground – two guns pointed at them; one of them dead. Miss Adler, however, can’t keep her mouth shut.

“Thank you. You were very observant.”

“Observant?” John asks.

“I’m flattered,” she continues.

Sherlock can’t believe that this woman, whom he assumed to be of above-average intelligence, really thinks there’s a reason to be flattered. “Don’t be.”

“Flattered?” John asks again.

Sherlock doesn’t respond. He wonders why he doesn’t want John to figure it out. He also wonders since when John became so inquisitive.

___

August 2010

I need your help.

It’s urgent.

Come at once, if convenient.

If inconvenient, come anyway. SH

John rolls his eyes at his phone, before slipping it back into his pocket. He looks up at Mary, who has just prepared his favourite pasta for lunch, and bites his lips. Usually, he’s able to ignore these sorts of texts from Sherlock quite well, but after the woman’s death two weeks ago John wants to be there for him as much as possible.

“Is it another case?” Mary asks.

“I don’t know… but I think I should go and check whether everything’s okay. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, John.”

“Really? Do you want to… come along?”

He knows the answer before she shakes her head. “I’m not feeling like leaving the house today.”

John gets up from his chair and nods understandingly. “I’ll try to be home as soon as possible.”

“I know.”

He leaves the house feeling guilty, as usual. Mary wanted them to spend the day together, just the two of them, because they haven’t done that properly in a very long time. He had been looking forward to it, too. But the thing with Sherlock is, you never know what he’s up to. He might be doing a crossword puzzle on the couch and waiting for John to fetch him a pen, or he might be in the middle of a fight with a Chinese undercover ninja.

If Sherlock isn’t at least fighting for his life, John will make sure he has to.

At 221B, John arrives to find Mrs. Hudson in front of the door, struggling to carry her groceries inside. He helps her and asks whether she knows what’s going on with Sherlock, but she just shrugs her shoulders and says that she never really does.

John jogs up the stairs and opens the living room door, but Sherlock is nowhere to be seen.

“John?”

He follows the voice to Sherlock’s bedroom, and finds his friend lying in bed – a quite unusual sight, especially for this time of day.

“Sherlock, what are you doing here? Is everything alright?”

“No, John, of course not,” Sherlock replies. His voice sounds hoarse and even deeper than usual, and only then does John notice the pile of tissues on the floor and the redness around Sherlock’s nose and eyes. A navy-blue dressing gown is covering his otherwise bare chest, and he’s staring up at John with watery eyes.

“Are you – sick?”

“Very good, John. Brilliant deduction.”

“Oh come on! You really called me because of a simple cold?!” John can’t stop himself from chuckling. For some reason he wouldn’t have expected Sherlock to be sickly, or whiny.

“A simple cold? John, you are a doctor – you should know better. My nose is blocked, my throat is sore, I have a headache as well as a fever, and spasm in my lungs.” He loos up at John with a very serious expression.

John’s chuckles quickly turn into a proper laugh. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, but this is just too funny.”

“I don’t know what’s supposed to be funny about my misery.”

“It’s just… I thought you were above these things,” John gestures into the air.

“I am! But my body’s betraying me,” Sherlock says before coughing out loud. “Please, John, I’m in agony!”

“I can tell,” John replies with a smirk. “Fine, I’ll take care of you for a while, but then I need to get back home.”

Sherlock nods, then looks up at John expectantly. John takes a hand to Sherlock’s forehead and feels the slightly elevated temperature. He goes into the bathroom and returns with a wet towel he places on Sherlock’s head.

“You should put on something warmer,” he says with a quick glance at Sherlock’s chest.

“But it’s so hot,” Sherlock complains.

“If you want to get better, you need warmth – especially around your throat. Where do you keep your jumpers?”

This time it’s Sherlock who laughs out loud. “You don’t really expect me to own anything close to a jumper, do you?”

John lets out a puff of air. “Well you’re not gonna lay there in one of your suits.”

He thinks about his options. Going out to buy a jumper for Sherlock seems like a waste – considering Sherlock would only wear it once. Calling Mary to bring one of John’s jumpers doesn’t seem like a good idea, either, because she’d probably think him mad for taking care of Sherlock’s cold. The only option suitable enough is offering his own jumper to Sherlock, but how would that come across? Besides, it probably wouldn’t even fit.

“A shirt and my scarf will make do,” Sherlock interrupts his thought process.

John isn’t convinced, but he can’t think of anything better at the moment. Sherlock’s closet reveals a number of colour-coordinated shirts, and John picks out the purple one Sherlock once wore. He throws it over to the bed, but Sherlock gives him a questioning look.

“Really, John? That doesn’t even remotely match the dressing gown.”

“I don’t bloody care, Sherlock, just put it on!”

Once Sherlock starts opening the dressing gown, John realises too late that he doesn’t intend on waiting for him to get out of the room first. For a reason John definitely doesn’t want to investigate further, he feels heat rising to his ears and face. He quickly returns his attention to the closet, as if the clothing items inside were the most interesting things he’s ever seen.

“Can you fetch me my scarf, please?” Sherlock asks.

John feels it safe to look, and finds Sherlock fully dressed, to his relief. He walks over to the chair and unwinds the blue scarf from its back, before handing it to Sherlock and going into the kitchen. He finds Sherlock’s tea and even a canny soup that’s non-perishable, and prepares both before returning to the bedroom.

Sherlock is lying on his back, with the scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, but he sits up straight when he sees the tray in John’s hands.

“Eat this, it should make you feel better,” John says, placing the tray onto the small bedside table.

“Thank you, John.”

“That’s okay. Where do you keep your pain killers? If you’ve got ibuprofen it’ll help with the fever.”

“I don’t think I have any,” Sherlock replies.

“Really? Then I’ll get you some, later.” John looks around the room. “Do you need anything else?”

“No, I’m fine.”

John doesn’t know what to do, so he just stands next to the bed awkwardly, watching Sherlock eat his soup. Maybe he should just leave.

“I guess I should be go–“

“Can you stay for a while?” Sherlock interrupts. “Just to keep me company.”

“Yeah, sure.” John isn’t sure why he feels relieved. He retrieves the chair from the corner of the room and sits down next to Sherlock’s bed. He figures he might stay until Sherlock has finished the soup, and then leave when he wants to go back to sleep. He won’t even be gone for more than two hours, at maximum. Surely Mary won’t mind.

He lets his back rest against the chair and listens to Sherlock telling him about the last time he was sick. He ends up staying the rest of the day, and only leaves after watching Sherlock sleep for half an hour.

___

September 2010

When John enters Sherlock’s flat with the key Sherlock gave him months ago, he hears two voices mumbling upstairs. One of them is the sweet, honey-thick voice of Irene Adler, who magically returned from the dead a week ago; the other is a deep sonorant male voice John would recognise everywhere. He closes the door as quietly as possible and looks for Mrs. Hudson, but she’s apparently still at her sister’s house.

Mary is off on a shopping spree with her girlfriends today, so John decided to spend the afternoon with Sherlock. After the evening in March where Sherlock accidentally bumped into him at the clinic, John has been helping Sherlock on most of his cases, even starting a blog about all the cases they solved together. Even though they both thought that the case of Irene Adler was solved two months ago, she appeared in Sherlock’s bed last Wednesday, wearing one of his dressing gowns. The sight bothered John more than he’d ever admit out loud.

Hearing their quiet voices makes John furious. Can’t Irene just go stay at a hotel, or something? Why does she have to bother Sherlock with her presence? All John wanted was a peaceful afternoon with his friend, but now he’ll have to listen to her riddles and admiration for Sherlock.

Slowly, he ascends the stairs until the voices become more distinct. He can hear Sherlock asking for him.

“...John? I was just talking to him.”

“He said you do that. He hasn’t even been here today, yet.”

A silence stretches between them. John feels bad for eves-dropping, but he can’t bring himself to enter. He hopes that Sherlock can’t feel his presence, yet.

“Have you ever had anyone?” Irene asks.

“Sorry?”

“And when I say ‘had’, I’m being indelicate,” she purrs.

Is she flirting with Sherlock Holmes?!

John, unable to hear Sherlock’s quiet answer, takes another step forward. His face is almost touching the door.

There’s a shifting when one of them leaves their chair. “Well, I’ll be delicate then. Let’s have dinner.”

“Why?”

“Might be hungry.”

“I’m not.”

For some reason, the knot in John’s chest seems to loosen at that response. He peers through the half open living room door and the knot returns immediately. Irene Adler is on the floor in front of Sherlock’s armchair, her back facing John. They appear to be mere centimetres apart. Sherlock is staring at her, apparently not noticing John’s presence.

Great.

“Why would I want to have dinner if I wasn’t hungry?”

“Oh, Mr. Holmes,” Irene replies. She leans into him even further. Are they holding hands?! “... if it was the end of the world, if this was the very last night, would you have dinner with me?”

John decides that he’s heard enough and practically storms into the room. Irene backs off of Sherlock immediately, who stares up at John in surprise, but doesn’t seem embarrassed in the slightest. There’s no reason to be, John reminds himself. Sherlock Holmes can flirt with whomever he wants to; it’s not like John had any claim on him as his person.

“Too late,” Irene whispers loud enough for them to hear.

“That’s not the end of the world; that’s John,” Sherlock states matter-of-factly.

“Yes, it is,” John replies a bit too loud. “I thought we could hang out,” he adds.

They both look over at Irene.

“Alright, I’ll be going, then. I have important business to attend, anyway. And I wouldn’t want to be in the way of two bonded souls,” she winks at John before leaving.

John rolls his eyes. Of course she bloody knows.

Once she’s gone, John sinks down into the armchair he always considered his; the one Irene Adler sat in a couple of minutes ago spreading her odour. Sherlock is still in his chair, his hands draped underneath his chin. He’s wearing a black suit with a white shirt, instead of one of his dressing gowns. John wonders whether he doesn’t wear them around Irene or whether it’s just a coincidence.

“Now what was that about?!”

“What was what about?”

“Irene – she flirted with you! Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”

There’s a small smile on Sherlock’s lips before he responds. “So what? It didn’t mean anything.”

“It certainly did to her.”

“Why does it bother you?”

“It doesn’t bother me. “John realises the lie once the words are out. It does bother him. He’s just not sure why. He has Mary, for god’s sake, and Sherlock has never shown any sign of bothering or complaint about her.

“You don’t have to look out for me. I can handle a bit of flirting, John,” Sherlock interrupts his thought process.

He leans forward in his chair until John can see the brown spot in his right eye. His voice is deep when he continues. “Besides, it’s not like I’ve never done it before.”

John clears his throat. What the hell is he supposed to say to that? When he can’t think of a reply, he stays silent, focusing on Sherlock’s eyes instead. It was probably meant as a joke, but now that John returns his gaze, Sherlock doesn’t speak, either. His eyes lay on John. All of a sudden, there’s that sort of electricity in the air John only sensed once before – when he first touched Sherlock’s hand. This time they’re not even touching, but the tension is almost palpable.

They must’ve been staring at each other for a while when the door flies open to reveal Mrs. Hudson.

“Huhu! Sherlock, there’s a m– “

John pushes back into his chair – he hasn’t even realised leaning forward – and quickly stands up.

“Sorry, boys, I didn’t mean to interrupt...”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock says. He stands up as well, closing the buttons on his suit jacket. “Where is he?”

John has no idea who Sherlock is talking about, but he follows him and Mrs. Hudson downstairs nonetheless. The man waiting for them looks suspiciously like he’s working for the Palace, again.

“Have you come to take us away again?” Sherlock asks him.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. And I don’t think you’ll decline.” He hands Sherlock an envelope that contains two Business Class boarding passes for Sherlock and John for the flight number 007 to Baltimore.

Sherlock looks up from the envelope. With one quick nod of agreement their evening plans are settled. John, who intended to spend a quiet night with Sherlock chatting and maybe getting revenge on Cluedo, feels the adrenaline in his veins. The weight of the sig rests reassuringly in his coat pocket. The game is on.

___

December 2010

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, but Mary wants us to spend Christmas with her friends in Edinburgh. She says we might even have snow on Christmas Eve,” John says, walking straight up to the sofa at 221B and sinking into it with a long sigh.

“It’s fine, really. I wanted to work on the carpet experiment anyway.”

Sherlock tries to sound convincing. The least he wants is to make John feel obligated to spend time with him. Sherlock knows John feels torn between spending his free time with Mary and him; and he hates it. He doesn’t want to be a burden; an obligation for John just because they happen to be bonded by fait.

They tried spending time together, all three of them, but for some reason it didn’t quite work out. That reason being that Mary hates Sherlock, understandingly. Whenever he’s with her, Sherlock can feel her eyes on him – and not in a good way. So far her love for John has kept her from saying or doing anything about it, but Sherlock knows she’s furious inside, probably burning with jealousy.

“Are you sure? Maybe I could come back on the 26th and we could –“

“John, spend Christmas with your wife. I told you I’m fine!” The words come out harsher than Sherlock meant to. He takes off his scarf and throws it onto the black armchair.

“Oh, okay.” John leans back further into the sofa. His eyes are small from sleep-deprivation and he blinks several times.

They just got back from a particularly long, yet boring case. John has spent the last couple of days more or less living at 221B, only returning home for sleep and showers – not that Sherlock would mind. He enjoyed the company, and a very selfish part of him wishes that John could stay. He wonders again what their lives would look like had he met John prior to Mary.

“You should get some rest,” he says to John, whose eyes are already closing in an increased frequency.

“I know, Mary’s gonna pick me up in a couple of hours. I’m just gonna lay down for a bit, if that’s okay.”

“Sure.”

Sherlock turns his attention to the petri dishes stacked in the kitchen – he should probably clean the room soon – and starts examining the liquids on potential coli bacteria.

After a while he goes back into the living room to find John asleep. He’s lying on his side, his head draped underneath a small cushion. His lips are slightly parted and his left arm is hanging down, almost touching the floor. Sherlock decides to throw a blanket over him and gives his arm a light squeeze while doing so. Suddenly John shifts in his sleep until he’s more on his back, causing Sherlock to freeze in his movement.

From this angle, he can see every shadow on John’s face. His eyes are closed but Sherlock knows their distinguishing colour of grey-blue by heart. He hovers over John, staring at his silvery hair, his grey stubble and the creases on John’s forehead, thinking about that distinct smile of John’s that makes Sherlock feel like he’s the only person in the world, when all of a sudden he just knows. It feels like being hit by a stone wall; it feels like falling off the edge of a cliff.

He steps back abruptly, making sure to be as quiet as possible. This is absolutely not good.

Frantically, he runs his hands through his hair and starts pacing the flat back and forth. Has the only constancy in his life, the one thing he was sure would never happen to him, finally come to pass? Did he really do something as ludicrous and predictable and ordinary as fall in love with his person, his married person?

Trying to think back, he doesn’t even remember the exact moment he fell in love. Was it when John pulled him from a tank and saved his life? Or when he spilled his soup and giggled for four minutes straight after Sherlock told him the victim had committed suicide during one of their Cluedo nights? Was it even one distinct moment, or the culmination of their time spent together?

Sherlock has always been aware of the fact that he wants John around him constantly, that he wants to be the sole focus of John’s attention. But so far, he assumed that it was the nature of a deep friendship, combined with the fact that John is his person, that drove him to these impulses. Right from the beginning of their acquaintance, Sherlock has been intrigued by John. The ex-army doctor was by far the most interesting man he met in a long time, if not ever. Something between them just clicked, and Sherlock never knew anyone whose company he so deeply appreciated, even longed for. After their initial time apart, John became his colleague, then friend, then best friend. The more he got to know him, the more he remained a mystery to Sherlock. Realising that his person wasn’t just a good-looking doctor, but in fact a kind and incredibly brave man, made Sherlock’s chest feel oddly warm inside. Now, after almost a year of knowing him, Sherlock finds that there are still more parts of John he’d like to discover. Being his best friend – even being his person – doesn’t seem enough anymore.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. John loves Mary, obviously, so nothing’s going to change. Besides, he’s entering dangerous territory – of disadvantages and chemical defects, as he claimed himself a couple of months ago.

But just because Sherlock knows that they cannot be together, doesn’t mean he can choose not to love John.

John, unaware of Sherlock’s revelation and subsequent panic attack, wakes up. Sherlock quickly sits down in his armchair and steeples his hands underneath his chin, trying to appear deep in thought. He watches John putting aside the blanket with a confused look and stretching his arms.

Sherlock takes another shaky breath. Everything is fine; nothing has changed.

John clears his throat, and then asks in a husky voice, “How long was I asleep?”

“I don’t know, John, it’s not like I’ve been watching you.”

“Still a bit grumpy, are we? Don’t worry; you’ll be rid of me in half an hour.”

I don’t want to be rid of you.

“We’ll exchange presents after Christmas, then?”

“Yes. I can’t wait for you to see mine,” John replies with a smirk. Sherlock doesn’t have the heart to tell him he already deduced it three weeks ago.

They spend the remaining time in companionable silence, John watching television and Sherlock reading a scientific article on urban bee-keeping; an attempt to calm himself. He still can’t help enjoying this flicker of domesticity. It feels comfortable; it feels right for John to be here. The cruel laws of nature make time fly by, and after what feels like a couple of minutes, Mrs. Hudson announces Mary’s arrival. She’s wearing a red coat, her cheeks flushed from the cold outside. She walks into the living room to give John a quick kiss while Sherlock tries to look away. She then walks over to him and awkwardly shakes his hand.

“We better get going, honey, the traffic is horrible,” she tells John.

“Yes, you’re right.”

Sherlock realises that John wants to hug him before leaving, so he quickly extends his hand in order for John to shake it, instead.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock. I’ll see you between the years.”

“Merry Christmas. To both of you,” Sherlock adds with a look over John’s shoulder. There’s a smile on Mary’s face that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

When John turns around to leave, Mary tells him she’ll be right behind. Sherlock’s stomach swirls – did she notice anything? Are his emotions written all over his face? Finally, after the downstairs door is slammed shut, she returns her attention to him.

“Sherlock, do you remember when I asked you to spend time with John because it made him feel better?”

“Of course I do. Why?”

“Because now I’m asking you to do the opposite.”

Sherlock isn’t sure he understands her request correctly. Surely she can’t mean that. When he doesn’t reply, Mary continues.

“Keep your distance; leave John alone. Tell him you don’t enjoy his company anymore.”

For the first time since he’s known her, Sherlock is sure to see pure hatred in Mary’s expression, without her trying to conceal it.

“And why would I do that?”

“For John’s sake, of course. You obviously don’t know him as well as I do, so trust me when I say it’s best for him. He’s been quite depressed lately.”

Sherlock blinks a couple of times. What is this woman talking about? Whenever John’s with him, he has shown nothing but content and happiness. Maybe that’s exactly the point.

“I don’t think he’s – “

“He is,” Mary interrupts. “Will you just keep your distance, then?”

She looks up at Sherlock and for a moment he feels sorry for her. Maybe it’s selfish; maybe it’s completely wrong – but he can’t give her the answer she wants to hear.

“You know I can’t. Not unless he asks me to.”

Mary doesn’t reply.

___

New Year’s Eve 2010

He rings the doorbell. Sherlock isn’t expecting him so he doesn’t want to intrude. The woman who opens the door smiles at him, revealing a couple of dimples around her mouth and wrinkles around her eyes.

“Oh, dear, is everything all right?” Mrs. Hudson greets him after seeing the look on his face.

Trust the lady to deduce emotions better than anyone.

“I’m afraid not, Mrs. H., but don’t mind me. Aren’t you off to your sister’s?”

“I was just packing up everything, John. Would you like a cup of tea? I’m afraid I’m a bit late already but I could...”

“Oh no, thank you, I’m fine. I was just looking for –“

“He’s upstairs.” She squeezes his hand and lets him pass through the door. John is thankful for the landlady’s understanding. He tries to conjure a smile and wishes her a good start into the New Year.

Upstairs, John knocks on the living room door, knowing that Sherlock tends to ignore any sounds similar to door bells, and waits for him to answer. A couple of seconds later, the door flies open. Sherlock is wearing his whine-coloured dressing gown – one of John’s favourites – and has his violin tucked under his arm. He seems surprised to see John.

“John, I wasn’t expecting you,” he says while taking a step aside to let John enter.

“I know... I’m sorry. Are you busy?”

“No,” Sherlock replies quickly. He walks back into the living room and takes a seat in his chair, then points the violin bow to the empty chair opposite of him.

“What brings you here three hours before the New Year starts? I thought you and Mary were celebrating with friends.” He emphasises the last word as if it were an insult.

John sits down slowly, taking a deep breath. “Mary and I had a fight and now she’s spending New Year’s Eve with her friend Laura, so I thought I could spend it with you?”

He knows it’s a bit not good that he ran off to the one person his wife just asked him to see less of, but he can’t help it. After Mary stormed off, he briefly considered calling Harry or Mike, but they probably both had other plans. He didn’t want to start the New Year with the telly and self-pity either, and his feet brought him to the comfort of Baker Street almost automatically. Besides, prior to their conversation he was going to ask Mary if they could invite Sherlock anyway. And now, after one of the biggest fights in his marriage so far, he needs his best friend.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sherlock asks while placing his violin onto the small table next to him.

John pauses. Does he want to tell Sherlock how they fought because of him? How Mary freaked out when John mentioned something Sherlock said during dinner? How she tried to force him to break off their contact? How he told his wife that he doesn’t want to stop spending time with his person?

“No, I don’t think I want to.” Sherlock probably deduced it already. The thought makes John even more miserable.

“I brought booze,” he adds and shows Sherlock the whiskey bottle in his bag. It’s a sad attempt at drowning his problems in alcohol. His sister would be proud of him, John thinks. The whole issue is that Mary made up her mind too late. Had she told him that the thought of him and Sherlock together made her uncomfortable after a couple of weeks, he would’ve understood. He was surprised by her openness towards their friendship, anyway. She even encouraged him to spend time with Sherlock when John still felt too guilty. So why did she change her mind now, when Sherlock already took a spot in John’s heart, when not seeing him anymore just isn’t an option? Why does she try to forbid their contact now that they’re such good friends? What made her change her mind?

Deep down John knows that he can’t only blame Mary for the fight. He should’ve been more understanding, but then what? The hard truth is that he’s not willing to sacrifice his friendship with Sherlock for Mary. So what else is he supposed to do?

Sherlock interrupts his thoughts by holding two empty glasses in front of his face. John takes them and fills them with the golden liquor. He hands one of them two Sherlock who touches his glass against John’s. John doesn’t think they ever shared a bottle of whiskey before.

“To what are we toasting?” he asks.

“To 2011, of course. And to me finally getting rid of that ridiculous hat,” Sherlock says pointing over towards the greyish hat hanging on the hall-stand.

John laughs. “It’s a deer stalker, and you won’t be getting rid of it as long as I’m around.”

The deer stalker started out as one of Sherlock’s disguises. Ever since John started his blog, Sherlock has been getting more and more public attention, making his undercover work harder to fulfill. The deer stalker somehow turned into his signature piece. John knows that Sherlock hates it, so naturally he would never tell Sherlock that he finds it endearing.

“Then maybe I should stop having you around,” Sherlock replies. It’s meant as a joke but Sherlock is unaware that he’s hit a sore spot. John falls silent. Would it be better that way? Certainly easier, but not better.

“Er, maybe I should clarify that I was joking.”

“I know. Sorry I was just thinking about Mary.”

Sherlock leans forward slightly, studying John’s face for a while, making John self-conscious. “You don’t want to think of her right now, do you?”

“No.”

“Why don’t you just stop, then?”

John has to laugh. “It’s not that easy for me. I don’t have a mind palace to go to and just… delete things.”

“I could try to take your mind off it.”

John almost spills his whiskey. He stares at Sherlock, who takes another sip of his drink, apparently unaware of the innuendo.

“What would you suggest?”

Instead of a reply, Sherlock rushes out of his chair with a flexibility that shouldn’t be allowed at his age anymore and picks up his violin. After fixing the tune he turns towards the window, facing away from John, and starts playing. Upon the first couple of notes, John starts to relax. He shifts deeper into his chair and watches Sherlock’s back slightly moving with the rhythm of the music.

John has never been much interested in classic music. He was astonished by Sherlock’s knowledge of all the major European composers of the last three hundred centuries, but it’s not like he could name more than a handful of them himself. He only heard Sherlock play a complete piece once before, on Mrs. Hudson’s birthday. All the other times when he found Sherlock with his violin he was only playing a couple of notes or lightly tucking the strings whilst being deep in thought. Now Sherlock is playing complete songs – or is it one very long piece? – from a probably famous composer who John doesn’t recognise. It’s the most fascinating melody John has ever heard. He’s sure his enjoyment doesn’t solely come from the composer’s abilities but from Sherlock’s brilliance. In another life, he could’ve definitely been an orchestra musician.

Sherlock turns around slightly, causing John to see his long fingers flying over the violin, almost too fast for his eyes to see. His head is tilted in order to hold the instrument in place, his long arm moves up and down with the bow in hand. Sherlock’s eyes are closed, and the expression on his face is of pure relaxation. It’s different from his mind-palace face, less stressed but also more focused, and suddenly John thinks that Sherlock has never looked more beautiful. He wishes he could take a picture of this moment and frame it in his mind.
After a small eternity, Sherlock stops playing and opens his eyes. John quickly looks away and clears his throat, trying to conceal the fact that he spent the last couple of minutes staring at Sherlock.

Sherlock places the violin back in its case before sitting down. He takes the whiskey in hand and raises an eyebrow at the already half empty bottle. John must’ve been drinking unconsciously while listening. His head feels slightly dizzy at the realisation.

“Sorry, that was me.” He grins at Sherlock.

Sherlock pours himself another glass. “Did it work?”

John has to think about what Sherlock means for a second before nodding enthusiastically. “Yeah, definitely. Who was that?”

“That was me playing but I don’t blame you for not remembering, given the amount of alcohol you just consumed in the last half hour.”

John laughs. “I meant the composer.” His tongue feels thick in his mouth.

“Bach’s violin concerto in A minor. I usually prefer Mendelssohn but his music is a bit too cheerful for the occasion.”

Sherlock continues to tell John the differences between Bach and Mendelssohn. He speaks just as passionately about the two musicians as if he were talking about a triple homicide. That’s one of the things that John has always found intriguing about him – the man has the most specific and encyclopedic knowledge of possible bruising after death, yet he doesn’t know anything about the solar system. John listens intently whilst drinking, even though he already feels way too tipsy.

When Sherlock has finished the open discussion with himself, it’s close to midnight. John proposes they go out to watch the fireworks, so they wrap themselves up in their coats and leave the flat. Outside, the streets are already crowded with people.

Sherlock bends close to him and says: “I think I know where we could watch in peace.”

John nods but raises an eyebrow when Sherlock turns back around to 221B. He follows his friend upstairs again until they are in the hallway. Sherlock opens a wooden door in the ceiling that somehow John never noticed before and lets John pass through. The stairs are shaky and tiny and John is thankful for Sherlock right behind him, but he manages eventually and finds himself in the cold once more.

On the roof of the building, they are rewarded with an astonishing view. The air is crispy cold so John tucks his hands into his coat pockets. He feels Sherlock’s presence right behind him.

“We should keep our distance from the edge.”

John realises that Sherlock might be a bit tipsy, too. They decide to sit down on a small step leading down from the chimney and wait for the New Year to begin. From their position, they have a clear view over the London sky. They keep talking quietly, their breaths mingling in the winter air, filling it with the smell of smoky, peat whiskey. The noises from the street underneath are still audible.

Once people start shouting a count-down, John turns to Sherlock thinking there’s no one he’d rather start the New Year with. When the fireworks start, the sky turns into a spectacle of lights and colours, giving John chills. He smiles upwards, forgetting his worries and enjoying the moment instead.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he asks.

“Yes.”

When he turns to Sherlock, he can see that he’s not looking at the sky; he’s staring at him. Their eyes meet and for a moment John forgets the fireworks completely. Sherlock is the first to look away.

“Happy New Year, John,” he says, his gaze now locked to the sky.

“Happy New Year,” John replies, but it doesn’t feel like the right thing to say.