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Sherlock won’t meet John’s eyes as they both stumble into the hallway. “Sherlock!” John says. His chest heaves, the unspent frustration still coursing through him. “You can’t just say things like that.”
Sherlock treads up the stairs. “I was right!” he snaps. Sherlock bangs open the door to their flat. “If they had not been so insistent and stubborn the MET would have saved that officer a lot sooner.”
John rubs his forehead. “You still don’t understand this, do you?” John clenches his fist in frustration. “You can’t just imply treason-”
“It is not my fault that they insisted on a illogical solution, especially when-”
“-among the ranks without expecting some kind of backlash.”
“-their most imbecilic officers choose to retaliate with personal attacks about the hypothetical nature of our relationship instead of focusing on the data.”
John groans. “Oh god not this again.” Sherlock turns, blinks. Sherlock’s limbs are stiff as he sits down on their sofa.
“Sherlock, there was no reason you had to visibly dissect Sally Donovan in front of everyone. There was no reason you had to do that, at all.” Sherlock looks away, flops over on the couch. “I don’t know what’s going on but that was clearly unprofessional.” Sherlock covers his face with a forearm, groans.
“John,” he rumbles. “If you saw someone making the same mistake twice would you let them repeat their mistake or would you correct them?”
“What?” John frowns. “Sherlock, that has nothing to do with the case.”
“It has everything to do with the case!” Sherlock sits up, takes off his jacket and throws it on the armchair. “The pattern was completely obvious and if they would just really look for once instead of insisting on flawed human sentiment and inconsistent bonds of loyalty-”
“Sherlock, you’re missing the point.” John paces into the kitchen and starts going through the motions of making tea, because goddamn it he needs something to calm down or he’ll end up punching Sherlock in the face again.
“You have no point!” Sherlock snipes. “If you would have let me finish my earlier sentence you would already have understood that I was trying to protect her. What is so unclear or cruel about that?”
“Protect her?” John pauses, puts the teabags down on the counter. “Sherlock that was not protecting her. That was embarrassing her in front of her colleagues so that you could satisfy your massive ego and prove that yet again you are smarter than the MET.”
“I am smarter than the MET,” mumbles Sherlock. “And you agree with me on that point too.”
John sighs. He pours water into the kettle and starts boiling the water. “You’re not listening.”
“I pointed out a pattern in the killings and she overreacted.” Sherlock’s voice tenses. “I maintain that if we had acted sooner they would have gotten the killer in custody.”
“That’s not it.” John pulls the mugs from the cabinet. “There was no reason for you to imply that she was collaborating with the killer or that she used to collaborate with the previous killer.”
Sherlock groans. “The case is over!” He stands up. “I don’t see why you are harping on these redundancies.”
“Sherlock!” Sherlock turns to stare at John, giving him the most bored look possible. “Your implications could have ruined her career. How do you not understand?” Sherlock blinks.
“You don’t even like her but you’re upset,” Sherlock says, bewildered. “I solved the case.”
John grimaces. “This is more than just a case.” The kettle boils. John pours out the water and starts the second round of boiling. “You almost ruined her standing and career because you felt defensive.”
“I didn’t feel anything,” Sherlock retorts. “It is clear you are not capable of making any coherent sense after such an exhausting adventure. I’m going to bed.”
John watched as his consulting detective flounced upstairs. God help me.
When John finally crawled into bed (alone), he refused to let himself dwell on the absence of soothing violin music serenading him into sleep.
Sherlock refused to meet John’s eyes over the breakfast table. “Sherlock?” John asked. He rubbed his hands over his face, yesterday’s exhaustion still gnawing at his bones. Sherlock rustled the morning’s newspaper, frowned, and held it in front of his face. John sighed.
“Sometimes, I’m not sure why I bother,” he muttered. He stood up and pulled a heel of bread out of the breadbox. “You need to eat,” John said. He sliced four slices, spreading marmalade on two of them. “I’m using your favorite flavor, so us both a favor and eat your goddamn toast.” He used plum jam on the two for Sherlock, and put them on a separate plate.
The bell for downstairs rang shrilly. John rolled his eyes and placed the plum toast in front of Sherlock. “These better be gone when I get back,” he said.
John trooped downstairs and opened the door. His eyes widened. “Hullo, Greg,” he said, and frowned. “We were going to give our statements later. I was just making sure Sherlock had eaten breakfast first.”
Greg shook his head, eyes looking bloodshot. “We can’t find him,” the detective inspector said. Greg sighed and tilted his head. “We need you two to find him before he hurts himself or anyone else. He’s desperate, one of our own; we need someone who won’t think like us so he can’t anticipate it.”
John blinked and stepped back, holding the door open.
“Thanks,” said Greg. He nodded and ran up the stairs. John followed, anxiety crawling up his spine.
“You’re not answering your phone,” Greg accused. “Fine way to stay in touch.” Sherlock lowered the newspaper.
Sherlock’s cool voice echoed through the room. “Why good morning, Inspector. Sleep well?” Sherlock turned his head. “Still haven’t caught the suspect after I handed his location to you on a silver platter?”
Greg said, “Sherlock.” John stepped past Greg Lestrade, heading for his own toast. “Look he scarpered, all right?” Greg’s voice sounded just shy of pleading. “It’s not done yet and we need someone to finish the job.”
Sherlock said, “I assure you I have done everything I can to assist you, Detective Inspector.” John sighed and sat down in his chair; Sherlock still hadn’t touched his toast. “At any rate, I doubt I shall be welcome after the disastrous breakdown in professionalism last night.”
“You’re the one who deduced first, remember?” Greg tucked his hands into his pockets, straightening his back. “Besides, doesn’t count as a solved case for us if we don’t have the perp in custody.”
Sherlock groaned and glared at the toast. “I figured out who it was. I’ve solved it!” John rolled his eyes and chewed on his own toast. For once, there was actually a glass of milk to go with his breakfast.
“Not good enough, and you know it,” Greg said. “He was last seen at his home. You’ve been there, you know the address. You better be there within an hour or I’ll let Anderson go through the evidence first.”
Sherlock scowled with his eyes and jammed a piece of toast in his mouth. John looked up at Lestrade and gave a pacifying smile. “I’ll get him there,” John said. “See you in a bit.”
Greg sighed and shook his head, eyes drooping shut. “God, I need coffee,” he said. The detective inspector blinked forcefully. “Right. One hour, or Anderson gets there first.” He nodded at John and let himself out of the flat.
The sounds of chewing toast filled the room. Sherlock’s face took on a i’m-thinking-don’t-bother-me-unless-you-want-me-to-verbally-eviscerate-you look. John sighed and got up to boil tea. They both were going to need the caffeine soon.
The kettle began to bubble when John finally worked up the courage to break the silence.
“So,” he said. Sherlock blinked, the walled off expression melting off his face. “Your phone.”
“Charger wasn’t working properly,” Sherlock muttered. He made puppy eyes at John. “Can I borrow yours?”
John flinched. “Stop that, it’s creepy.” Sherlock settled back into his sulk. The water boiled and John set the tea out on the counter. “If anything I’m more tempted to say you can’t borrow it so you’ll be forced to actually stick around, instead of running off all the time like you usually do.”
“It’s not my fault people can’t keep up,” Sherlock said. He jammed the second slice of toast into his mouth and rolled his eyeballs. John poured the hot water into the mug, emptied the mug. Sherlock swallowed loudly and added, “You’re being disappointingly repetitive and redundant.”
“Don’t do it again, Sherlock,” John said. “No, don’t make that face at me.” Sherlock stopped scowling and sighed. “The MET need you to not get kicked off this case so god help me, behave.” Sherlock looked away and got up from the table, dressing gown swirling dramatically around his ankles.
“Of course.” Sherlock gave John his blandest smile. “If you’ll excuse me.” He sweeps out of the room.
Persuading a taxicab to go outside of the city is dreadfully annoying.
Sherlock bursts out of the cab like water from a broken dam. “How many people have been here? Has anyone touched anything? Who discovered that the suspect left?” explode out of Sherlock’s mouth in short succession.
Greg rubs his forehead. “Geezus, I thought that was toast, not coffee.” He ticks items off with his fingers. “His missus, couple of squad forensics but no one’s touched anything. Just pictures and basic marking out of significant objects.” Sherlock scoffs. “Neighbor, and yes, you can talk to her if you promise not to interrogate her too strongly.” Greg points a finger at Sherlock. “I don’t want a repeat of yesterday so for gods sake hold your tongue.”
Sherlock gives a brisk nod. John sheepishly smiles at Greg. “Who else knows he’s gone?” John asks quietly. The last thing they need is a department mutiny or a witchhunt.
Greg shrugs. Sherlock strides ahead and begins gazing around the outside of the house. Greg says quietly, “Who knows? Everyone’s been keeping a side eye on this case. People talk.” Donnovan comes up beside them. “One of our own’s gone rogue, that’s not something we can take lightly.”
“John,” she says. John gives her the politest inoffensive smile in his arsenal. “Why did you let him get away with that?” Her eyes are bloodshot too; her hair is mussed and her shirt is wrinkled and creased.
John glances over to where Sherlock is pacing around the driveway and doorway. He replies quietly, “I didn’t, if that’s what you’re wondering.” John clasps his arms behind him, unconsciously settling into parade rest. “Look I know the two of you don’t get along but can we just... catch the bloke and then go our separate ways, yeah?”
Sherlock turns and beckons John, before stepping inside the house. “I’m sorry,” John says. “I really am.”
Donovan nods, eyes wary. “Sorry won’t be good enough one day.” She flashes a teeth only smile. “I’m not trying to be mean, mind, but he hurts you too, don’t you see? You’re not bad, John. Take care before Sherlock uses you all up.” John nods politely and follows Sherlock inside.
She means well. John stares as Sherlock whirls around the room, pointing at random objects and making strange hand gestures. That’s probably why her words are so hard to swallow.
“Does he have a computer?” Sherlock asks. “He packed quickly, can’t have gone far. If he’d bought tickets you would have caught an electronic trace, so he must still be in the city.” Sherlock flaps his hands. “No work contacts, maybe a friends house but unlikely.” Sherlock paces into the bedroom. “Hotel?” Sherlock pokes his head back out. He yells, “Check the computer history! Credit cards, shouldn’t you lot have run those before I even got here?”
John walks up to Sherlock. He mutters, “They’re on edge, mind.” He nudges Sherlock into the bedroom. “I warned you, don’t push your luck.”
Watching Sherlock reel out deductions is always amazing. John forgets for a second that he wants to strangle his detective and bows to the sharpness of that mind.
Donovan stands in the doorway. “That’s it?” She nods at the computer the techs are huddled over. “That’s all you’ve got for us?”
“At the moment.” Sherlock gives her the look-I-am-a-polite-human-being smile. “I would volunteer to do more legwork but it seems like you’ve got this one covered, for once.”
“It’s not over ‘till we catch him, you know that.”
“Yes. I have been quite strongly informed of the fact.”
“Good.” Lestrade gives Donovan a side glance as she strides out of the room.
Sherlock pulls out his phone and begins typing rapidly. Lestrade rolls his head on his neck. “Your brother, the one with the CCTV. Have you heard anything from him?”
Sherlock grimaces and tucks the phone away. “Nothing yet, Detective Inspector. I am sure he will make a point to contact you soon.” He nods politely at Lestrade “Come along, John.”
John sighs and uncrosses his arms. “Good luck, Greg,” he murmurs. “See you in a bit.”
Sherlock sits closer to John in the cab by a few inches. It’s not forgiveness, not even a truce. John will take what he can get.
Sherlock won’t speak to John; he walks upstairs and flops over the couch, closes his eyes, settles his hands into thinking pose. John knows from experience he won’t be able to call Sherlock out of this mood and settles for catching up on the blog.
Somehow the silence cuts at him more than the sharp words from earlier.
Mycroft phones them after two hours. “He’s been spotted checking into a hotel. I’ve texted Sherlock and Lestrade the address. Do proceed with haste.”
“Thank you, Mycroft.” John says it because Sherlock never will. “Appreciate it.” Mycroft hangs upon on him first, as usual.
Sherlock opens his eyes and stares at John. “Insufferable prat,” he mumbles. “Come along.” Sherlock gathers himself with alarming speed and flounces down the stairs.
John watches the sea of Londoners sweep past through the cab window.
Sherlock cracks open the silence with a petulant, “Why?”
John swivels his head to stare at his consulting detective. “Why what?”
“You’re upset.” Sherlock leans against the side of the cab. “I cannot work out why.”
John sighs. “Sherlock, if you haven’t figured it out by now I’m sure you wouldn’t understood even I explained it to you.”
“The only logical explanation I could think of is that you experienced a similar accusation and was reminded, but that doesn’t fit.”
“Fit what?”
“You trusted me.” Sherlock turns to at John; John shivers under the lazer gaze. “Quickly. If you had experienced a betrayal of that depth recent it is highly unlikely you would have been able to trust me that quickly as a brother in arms.”
John looks away, unable to meet the scrutiny in Sherlock’s eyes. The side of his mouth twitches. “It’s not that simple, Sherlock.”
Sherlock sighs. “Obviously.” Sherlock pulls his phone out of his pocket, turns it over in his fingers, puts it away again.
The cabbie slows as a line of yellow tape blocks off the street. “Sorry, can’t go any further!” she says.
“It’s fine,” John says, and tips her an extra pound for driving quickly.
Greg is already there. “What took the two of you so bloody long?” he shouts. Sherlock doesn’t say anything, pulls out his phone and checks something.
“We came as soon as we could,” John says, holding his hands up in a pacifying gesture.
“He’s dead then,” Sherlock says. He looks up from his phone. “Mycroft will be displeased.”
Greg’s eyes widen in alarm. “How did you-” He shakes his head and groans. “Nevermind. But yes. And it’s very clearly a suicide with a note explaining everything so you can stop babbling about your criminal conspiracies and go back bloody home to do.” Greg flaps his hands awkwardly. “Whatever you were originally doing.”
John doesn’t bother rolling his eyes this time. Sherlock does.
Sherlock demands, “Are we at least allowed to see?” Greg blinks in confusion. “The body!”
“Sherlock.” John places a restraining hand on Sherlock’s elbow. “Not now.”
Sherlock swivels to gaze at John. “But-”
“No.” John squeezes. “Let them mourn a bit, yeah?” Sherlock deflates. “To them it’s not just a body.”
Sherlock keeps staring at John, and John can practically hear the gears turning.
“Well fancy that,” Sally Donovan says. “Freak couldn’t resist not sticking his nose into this one.” She crosses her arms, leans her weight on one leg. “Can’t wait to point out to us how he died even though we all know.” If John didn’t hate the Freak nickname so much, he’d be handing her a box of tissues right now.
Sherlock says coldly, “It is not my fault Tobias Gregson, your former boss, committed suicide out of shame.”
The blood drains out of Sally’s face. “Okay that’s it,” John says. “We’re out of here.” He bodily drags Sherlock out of the crime scene and shoves him into a cab.
Sherlock doesn’t say anything in the cab, which is good. John doesn’t think he will be able to stop himself from punching Sherlock once the silence cracks.
They both tread quietly up the stairs. Sherlock hangs his scarf and jacket on the hook and walks into the kitchen.
John pushes past him to yank the tea kettle out of the cupboard. Sherlock sits down at the kitchen table, then slowly begins pushing his experiments aside, clearing a space in the center of the table.
Water splashes, the gas stove hisses, the mugs clink on the counter. They breathe, they don’t speak.
Sherlock slides stolen lab reports and borrowed photographs into neat folders and wedges them between a test tube rack and the mislabeled salt/sugar shakers. The test tubes are scooped out and emptied into the biohazardous waste bin next to the sink. John leans on the counter next to the stove and grips the edge tightly with both hands to prevent them from trembling.
The kettle whistles. They both flinch.
Sherlock circles aimlessly in the kitchen and walks into the living room. He picks up the violin, settles into his armchair and begins to tune the instrument softly.
John sighs and finishes making the tea. Pour water into mug, pour water out, add teabag, add water, stir, carry mug over to armchair. Sit, sip, stare. Sherlock looks like a frozen statue, stiff limbs hovering above the strings.
“So.” Sherlock at least has the decency to look confused instead of smug. John sets his mug down on the little table.
“What the hell was that.”
Sherlock grimaces, drawing his gangly limbs in on himself. “I stated an observation that caused significant emotional distress, upsetting several police officers and by proxy, yourself.” He plays a few sharp notes. “Despite the fact my observations are not out of the norm, the context was altered enough that the observation was interpreted as an attack.” Sherlock loudly exhales and taps the violin’s bow on his head. “If you are expecting me to apologize, I would like to point out my original observation was not malicious in intent and therefore I am not responsible for the sentimental and emotional damage caused by my statement.”
Sherlock’s eyes flicker over to John. His baritone voice rumbles, “I was not aware of the strength of your empathetic response, John. I did not intend to hurt you.”
“It doesn’t bloody work that way, Sherlock.” Fucking hell. John swallows tightly, clenches and unclenches his fist. “If you ever intend to be able to walk onto a crime scene again, you better fucking apologize and I’m not doing it for you.”
Sherlock looks away, plucks out a dissonant chord.
“You know something? I don’t understand why you don’t understand this, and it’s not that I’m expecting you to have some miracle and magically figure out how people work and everything, because you’re frankly pants at it, but I just don’t understand. You can observe everything else, but you can’t observe this.” John stands up, waves his hand at his chest. “You didn’t just take a sideswipe at them the way you normally do, you fucking stabbed them when we all made a point to tell you that they were already bleeding.” John forces himself to take a deep breath. “That was cruel, Sherlock. What you said was intolerabley cruel and it’s more than a case and you have to understand if you do not apologize, they will leave you and you will have no more work.” John paces towards the skull on the mantlepiece, stops, does about face. “Sure there will be clients but you need them, you need their cases and you royally fucked up this time so for once in your life would it kill you to try and solve your own problems for once instead of waiting for me or Mycroft to step in and fix it for you.”
Sherlock doesn’t say anything; he looks at the floor and taps his foot against the rug.
John shakes his head. “Sod this, sod everything, I’m going out.”
“John.” Sherlock stands up, puts down his violin. “Don’t leave.” Christ, are Sherlock’s hands trembling?
“That’s not enough, Sherlock. It’s not that damn complicated.” John turns and walks out of the living room, yanks on his coat. Sherlock follows John, hovering.
“John,” Sherlock repeats. “Don’t go. Please.”
John says tightly, “Try not to get the flat exploded while I’m out.” He pats his pocket, phone shaped lump still there. “Oh wait, that was the least boring thing that happened to you all week.”
He doesn’t regret slamming the door on the way out.