Chapter Text
John walked back to 221B from the clinic with atypically ground-eating strides, noticing little of anyone or anything around him. He barely even noticed the cold, or the route he was taking. Angry thoughts buzzed around his head like hornets disturbed from their nest.
She had been calling him for weeks. Weeks! And he - it would have looked like he was simply ignoring her calls. Sherlock had made him look like an utter, complete, wholly unredeemable cock. No wonder she had been avoiding him.
Worse than that - well, perhaps not worse, but certainly deserving of consideration - she might have actually needed him. Living alone, in London - emergencies happen, and you have to be able to rely on your friends. Suppose she had needed him, and couldn't get in touch? Sherlock hadn't considered that... No, he simply did not give a good damn about that, John fumed. Sarah was merely an obstacle. That's how Sherlock thought of people; objects to be used or to be moved out of the way. John Watson was an object that was useful for sexual gratification. Sarah was an obstacle in the way of that aim. And so Sherlock had dealt with both.
Sherlock's door was closed when John arrived back at 221B. That was for the best; John absolutely did not want to see him. The words of anger would come out all wrong, and Sherlock would ridicule and snark and simply not understand, as trust and betrayal were abstract concepts, for him - nothing to take seriously in his own life.
John ran up the stairs to his room, pulled out his bag, and started to pack it. A few shirts, a few pairs of trousers, fresh socks and pants. Trainers; he was wearing his good shoes. Laptop in its slipcase. Phone charger and laptop cord. Gun in the jacket. He left behind the one he had gotten from the thug; Sherlock could deal with that. He zipped up the bag, thundered down the stairs, and grabbed his toothbrush and razor from the bathroom.
He paused in the middle of the main room. Should he leave a note?
No, why bother? Sherlock Holmes, master detective, could damn well deduce it all on his own.
Sherlock ran up the stairs, the front door slamming behind him. "Avocados," he yelled, noting that the door to John's room was open. He threw his coat and scarf on the sofa, heading into the kitchen with quick, eager steps. He frowned as he noted telltale scuffmarks on the carpet, left behind by someone in a hurry, wearing dress shoes. Sherlock filed the fact away for later - if it was important, John would have texted him about it, and of course, there would have been other signs. More pressing matters were at hand - early refrigeration was vital, or the entire experiment would be ruined.
"We need exactly 21.45 pounds of ripe avocados," he added, when there was no reply. Possibly 22 pounds would do, but part of him wanted to see if John would actually get him the precise number. A silly indulgence, perhaps, but there was something exhilarating about seeing John do what he asked. People usually did what Sherlock asked, of course; manipulating the average person was so ridiculously easy that it had long since ceased to interest him. John, however, did what Sherlock asked because he wanted to. Seeing it in action was a little bit like what he imagined a magic act must be like for other people; you knew there was a trick to it, but you just couldn't figure out what.
And part of you was afraid that if you figured it out, it would stop happening.
There was room in the freezer compartment, but still no reply from John. Sherlock closed the fridge with a frown. Come to that, the flat was unusually quiet.
"John?"
The shower was not running, and though John would have ignored him if he was using the bathroom for any other purpose, there was a marked difference to the quality of the silence. John kept his shoes and coat in his room, but this silence gave potential new meaning to those scuffmarks...
On his way back into the lounge, Sherlock paused. Dress shoes. John only wore those to work; they were a slightly bad fit, and he hated shoe shopping, and so had not replaced them even after he'd started making more money. He took them off the moment he got back from work, which would have been hours ago no matter what hours he'd worked - the clinic closed early on Wednesdays. Now he'd gone straight back out in them again?
Cautiously, Sherlock made his way up the stairs. Something made him not look in John's room first, and head towards the bathroom. The sink was directly opposite the door, lit mirror above it; toothpaste and a single toothbrush below it. Sherlock stared for a moment, then closed the door.
All right. There was the crime. What about the motive?
He remembered John leaving for work this morning, chattering on about something as he ate his breakfast, Sherlock scanning though the morning papers next to him. Paper editions were always different from the online versions; he liked to compare the two, laptop perched on his knees as he read. The chattering had been happy, surely? There was a distinct impression, in Sherlock's mind, of smiles and laughter, and he definitely remembered the kiss. Wet and soft and slightly salty, tasting of eggs on toast.
What had happened between then and now? Work. But work didn't make John unhappy; if they were on a case, it made him tired; if they were not, it energized him, making him feel useful and wanted. Then what? What was there about work that agitate John to the point where...
...oh.
Well, it had only been a matter of time.
Sherlock walked back down the stairs, then down again to the front door. He opened it and walked out, not really feeling the gusty wind. You only felt it if it mattered, and it did not now, particularly. Fishing in his pocket, he found a fifty-pound note, handing it to the scruffy-looking woman standing under the roof of the closed sandwich shop. She took it, looking up with what stupid people might have considered surprisingly clear brown eyes.
"Thought you'd given that up, Mister Holmes."
Sherlock shrugged, walking back inside. "Nothing lasts forever."
John's shoes were making themselves known as he trudged down the pavement of the streets of Richmond - but no matter, he would be at his destination shortly. The houses stood back from the street, a token patch of green in front, displaying all of the individuality of soldiers at attention. The quiet was eerie, without the bustle of humanity and traffic that filled downtown London. He had only been here once before. It really wasn't a difficult journey from Baker Street, but he never had felt much motivation to take it.
He stopped outside of one house, not massively distinct from any other on the street. He didn't have to ring the bell; he had only been standing on the porch for a second or two when the door opened, and a woman who (he had been informed) bore a somewhat disturbing resemblance to him stepped out. She did not, he was a little surprised to note, have a glass in her hand. "John!" Harry said, her face a mask of concern. "I got your text - what's wrong?"
Rather than waiting for an answer - which suited John just fine - she pulled him inside. The house's interior look was different from what it had been when Clara had lived there. it had obviously been refurnished professionally; it bore no sign of anything Harry would choose for herself. The cleanliness was also not of her; she must have a maid over regularly. She grabbed John's bag, while he toed out of his shoes with a grateful sigh. "I'll just drop this in the spare bedroom. You can stay there as long as you need... How long do you think you need?"
John shrugged. "I don't know. Some days, perhaps." It would be difficult to find a place downtown - the deal with 221B had been, certainly, too good to be true - and he needed a little time to decompress, to let the anger and disappointment congeal into a vile sludge that would be more easily expelled.
Harry tossed his bag into a room off of the main corridor, then walked back and grabbed his arms. She was shorter than he, but still had a way of making it seem that she was looking down at him. "Poor John... You don't look yourself at all. I know what to do. Let's go for a walk down by the water, then I'll take you out to dinner later. Yes?"
It was unexpected for Harry to be so uninquisitive about what had brought him out there, and John was grateful for it. Perhaps some deeply-buried sisterly instincts had emerged; she was certainly filling the role to perfection. She was energetic and jovial, walking quickly and making sure he did the same, wearing him out just enough to ensure he didn't have time and energy to mope.
Later that evening, they rented some bad movies, and - yes, Harry opened up the drinks cabinet. John wasn't typically one for hard liquor, but it seemed apropos, and so they drank copiously, laughing and crying with the mercurial swings common to both the soused and the betrayed. Drunkenness made John's predicament feel noble, almost tragic, and he luxuriated in the self-indulgence. Harry happily fed (and watered) that feeling, and when John eventually went to bed, the night seemed lofty, and the cloud-streaked moon shining through the window told him softly that he should be very proud of himself.
He woke the next morning feeling like a twat, but that was to be expected.
A knock on the door. Part of Sherlock wanted to ignore it, but that would be doubly pointless. The key was in the ignition; now he had to follow through and actually drive. So to speak - he'd never sat behind a wheel.
The boy outside looked either 70 or 17 depending on how the light, which was sparse on this December evening, hit his face. He was grinning, hands stuffed in his pockets. Sherlock had seen him before, of course, but the name escaped him, which meant it wasn't important enough to know.
"Yes?" Sherlock said, when the grinning just kept going with nothing to follow it up.
Finally, the boy nodded. "Delivery for ya."
"Oh, good."
A small, transparent plastic bag was proffered. Sherlock looked at it in dismay.
"Packaging is evidence," he muttered, tearing it open to grab the contents and stuffing the debris in the bewildered boy's pockets.
"Oi!"
"You'll remember, next time." With that, he slammed the door - he had gotten a text, which should not be read in public. Not that particular type of public, anyway.
Not that it was from John. Not coming back. These things would take time. Won't speak to you again.
Sherlock leaned against the front door, suddenly feeling light-headed. A headache was coming on. Sighing, he opened his palm, revealing a flat, round tablet. He should go upstairs. To be alone. He very definitely should not be hanging around here - he should go up, read the text. Alone. And perhaps later, he could order out; he hadn't eaten in quite a... doesn't matter anymore. Sherlock swallowed. Then he swallowed the pill. Belatedly, he looked at his phone.
His eyes grew wide.
John sat in a chair that was far too hard and far too coarse, rubbing his forehead.
Work had been surprisingly temperate. Sarah had been more understanding than he had expected (not that his expectations had been high). Then again, she had met Sherlock, and likely had concluded he was indeed capable of doing what John said he had done.
The searching look she had given him when all of this became clear (or as clear as it was going to get) was disturbing on other levels.
He might well have salvaged her friendship, which was a blessing, but would likely require work to keep in good standing. This was enough, already, to put his brain in a tender state for the Tube ride back to Harry's place. Harry, in turn, was behaving more like she normally did - which was not helping John's brain at all.
"Oh, you can tell me!" Her voice interrupted his reverie. She swirled her glass of cranberry juice and vodka ("Less caloric than beer," she had told him proudly), the clinking noise of the ice scraping his spine. "You two were shagging, right? I always told you you'd like men, if you tried. Was he the first?"
"I don't want to talk about any of this," he sighed.
"You'll feel better if you talk about it!" she announced. "Really, trust me. How is he? I know he's cute... isn't it always the cute ones who fuck someone else behind your back?" She laughed loudly. "Does he have a big cock? I can't stand them myself, but I bet you like them, eh? A package arrived for you today, by the way. Hey, is that Sarah girl single now? She is hot..."
John wished he could just say "Leave me the fuck alone," but it wasn't in his nature. Instead, he mumbled something about fresh air and left.
He stepped outside, sucking in a lungful of ice-cold air. His jumper was not up to the task of securing bodily warmth against the midwinter air, but the biting wind cleared his mind. He shivered. Inside, he could hear Harry on the telephone, her voice too loud, her laughter too coarse. Still, he was grateful that she had someone else to talk to, someone with an ear that was amenable to being talked off.
He leaned against the outside wall, scanning the neighborhood with disinterest. A couple hurried down the pavement, holding their coats tightly closed. A cat raced across the lawn of the house next door. A cab pulled quietly to the curb. Little movements punctuating a long, crushing quiet - nothing like the heady bustle of London. This was a terrible idea... he couldn't stay here.
Someone was shouting... his name? The taxi - was that Sherlock stepping out of it? John sighed, burying his face in his palm. Maybe this wasn't the last thing he needed - he could leave that space for a colonoscopy, or a bullet in the head - but it was certainly near the bottom.
Sherlock stumbled out, the sheer amount of concentration needed for the simple task of thinking making him sweat. Burning. A very long-seeming street, and... John. Oh, John. Sherlock ran towards him, struggling with the gate that inexplicably appeared out of thin air, finally just jumping over it when it refused to budge. John! And, oh yes, the package... there it was! Had to get that away; keep John - John - from touching it... Sherlock kicked it away with his foot. It skittered a few inches away, rather like poorly batted cricket ball.
"What the hell are you doing here?" John hissed.
The voice startled Sherlock; the tone so sharp and piercing, though really, it was John, and there he was; John was there! Sherlock turned towards him, eyes wide. "John!" There were other words, probably, but none seemed more important.
Something was out of place. The bemused, repetitive way he was speaking, the disorientation, the sweat... John looked at Sherlock's eyes. A small, thin ring of iris surrounded a massively engorged pupil. "Are you high?"
Sherlock swallowed. He couldn't look at John without tearing up; after all, here John was, quite simply, when he was not at home. How could he be here, so simply, when he was gone? No, that was unimportant. The package; he had to explain the package! With effort, Sherlock forced his thoughts into some semblance of order. "John," he managed, "this is very important."
John sighed. So Sherlock had gotten high on one of his play-drugs (oh, how naive he had been when Lestrade had raided the flat) and decided that coming over to talk to John would be a fantastic idea. "I know social niceties aren't your thing. But would you please have the common decency to fuck off for a few weeks?"
Shaking his head was something of a challenge, but Sherlock gave it his all. "No time. They sent it this time, which means you need to be dead."
Sherlock was babbling, now. "Go home." John turned around. He wasn't looking forward to facing Harry, but he would take her over Sherlock right now.
No, no, no, No!! Wrong, all wrong; they had to make it right; had to fix it, and why wouldn't John help?! "Don't you understand; why do you never understand? They'll kill you!"
What was this, some kind of ridiculous threat? John turned back, anger starting to grab hold of him. "If you don't leave, I'm going to kill you." He glanced back at the house, hoping that Harry hadn't taken note of the disturbance.
The words struck like a whiplash. Kill. Yes, this was Sherlock's fault after all, wasn't it? Really, it was only right. "Yes." Sherlock took a few steps to the left, where the parcel had landed, and picked it up, as carefully as he could manage.
"Leave that alone," John sighed. It was obviously one of Harry's.
"No, you have a point," Sherlock mumbled, holding it carefully as he turned to leave. It was not John's risk to take; he was right. Sherlock; it should be Sherlock doing this. Dying. Not John. John shouldn't die, that was very important... there was a gate here, again; what was with these constantly appearing gates?
John walked over, pulling the box away. He'd never seen Sherlock like this, acting so infantile; it must be the drugs. "Don't steal my sister's shite. Go home."
"No!" Exasperated, Sherlock could do nothing to stop John from taking the parcel out of his grasp, and desperation caught him in an icy grip. "It will kill you." Maybe John had not understood? He looked so... God, he was gorgeous...
John tucked the box under his arm. He actually felt calmer, better able to deal with Sherlock, now that he realized it was just the drugs talking. "Sleep it off, you'll feel better."
"Please, put it down," Sherlock pleaded, feeling utterly helpless. Could he do nothing to prevent this? John would die; John couldn't die! Or should he be dead already? Vague ideas, plans he only barely had time to formulate, earlier, swirling in incomprehensible patterns in his mind, just out of reach.
John looked at the package, and frowned. It had his name on it, in careful, formal writing - "Dr. John Watson, MD" - with his sister's address. Wait, hadn't Harry mentioned something about a package for him? It had been lost in the stream of things he did not want to hear. "Is it from you?"
Sherlock shook his head again, trying to express with it what he could not get across in words. He had to concentrate! "They want to hurt me," he managed, squeezing his eyes shut, "through you. That's why they tested..." Tested, yes; the eBay package and the trainers and note, and what it had proven - Sherlock made the mistake of opening his eyes, and was instantly lost in John's angry stare. He was everything; John was everything; why would anyone have the need to test that? With serious effort, Sherlock shook it off, scrambling to maintain some semblance of a focus. "I didn't think they'd actually do it."
John realized he was wasting his breath trying to communicate, even to get a simple question answered. "You're as high as the fucking Concorde, and you're making no sense."
"The..." He could do this; it was just a matter of effort... serious effort, "people. Trainers. I thought you were dead, but you weren't." Loss. The emotion, remembered, cut through Sherlock like razor wire. And John was lost to him now too, wasn't he? Yet again. Again and again. Sherlock tried to keep their eyes locked, holding on to that small token. They were so blue, those eyes. So so blue...
"The eBay package?" A small bit of John started to wonder if this all fit into a poorly-expressed, but still coherent pattern. A larger part of him looked at Sherlock icily. Sherlock nodded, his mouth falling open a little. "So - you thought I had received a dangerous package in the mail from an enemy that thought he could get to you by harming me." If this were the case - well, this was even worse, wasn't it?
"Don't think," Sherlock mumbled. "I know." It was all too much. He looked away.
"So, instead of texting me or calling me, you came over, supporting the idea that you can be 'gotten to' through me, and dragging my sister into it, too." John jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the house.
It was a little easier, Sherlock found, when he was not actually looking at John. "They already knew." Surely John did not think Sherlock would put him in danger, intentionally? Put his family in danger? Sherlock forced himself to look back, carefully. "Please, put it down. Call the police, if you like. Won't help, but if you'd rather." If John would not listen; if Sherlock could not make him, perhaps he would at least take some basic precautions. Against... against... Sherlock found his hands were twitching, moving towards John a fraction, then halting. He should not touch. He could not touch.
"How can I believe you," John sighed. It was more of a statement than a question. Sherlock was distraught and high, babbling... was John making more out of what he was saying than he should? If anyone could speak convincing nonsense, it would be Sherlock.
Sherlock sighed, deeply, putting all of his frustration and defeat into it. Momentarily, it felt like relief. "You don't have to." It was impossible, he found, not to look at John entirely, but Sherlock could no longer meet his eyes. "Call a doctor if you open it. I'll... fix the rest." He had to leave. Sherlock knew that, but he was no longer ruled by any semblance of rationality, and could not tear himself away. Did not, could not, would not...
"Tell me what's in it."
"Don't know. Poison. Wouldn't tell me this time, won't be the same, too easy."
John sighed again. "Look, if it will get you out of here, I promise I'll take it to work and open it in a biosafety cabinet, all right?"
Sherlock nodded, slowly, still looking. Knowing that John would be safe, he let himself go, falling back into a fog of confused, intense emotion. Soon, he could only vaguely remember where he was, or why he was there. "All... right."
John nodded back. The look in Sherlock's eyes... he was definitely out of it. Yes, it was clear. Sherlock just needed to go home and sleep it off. "You'll go home?"
"Yes," Sherlock croaked. Home. Meaningless word. John stood before him, strong and forceful, so irate there seemed to be a halo about him - he was bathed in golden light. His eyes were shining; so, so blue... Sherlock sighed, sadness mixing uncomfortably with lust. "You are absolutely gorgeous."
"Don't start with that... please." Yes, this only reinforced the idea that Sherlock had just come here as an excuse to see John, to try to drag him back, making up any old story. It wasn't right.
Sherlock sighed again, almost moaning. He was hard, just from the sight of the man. From hearing his voice. "Keep safe." With his back turned, he could still feel residual warmth; that radiance, no doubt. John was some sort of... something. And then there was the gate, again, and the taxi, and wherever it would take him to.
John stood outside with the box under his arm, watching Sherlock leave. He couldn't hear the instructions Sherlock gave the cabbie, but at least he could make sure the man left the area.
He watched for a good ten minutes after the cab disappeared, then headed back indoors, shivering from the cold. What to do with that blasted box...
There were stairs. Those were familiar. The difficulty of coats, and how to remove them - then something of an interlude in the lounge, when Sherlock realized how smooth and shiny the texture of the sofa was, and how it felt against the skin of different parts of his body - then the kitchen, where he found, eventually, that he had been staring at the fridge for an unknown period of time, as it was now dark outside, and that generally took several hours, as far as he could remember.
Then, the bedroom, where he spent himself helplessly over the duvet, rutting against it and remembering John's scent which no longer could be on it, of course, but so much of the olfactory system was in the brain, and despite current appearances, Sherlock did have that, in spades.
He woke, sticky and malcontent, in the grey morning light of far too early, turning away and back into sleep to keep the headache he knew was inevitable at bay just a little longer.
He would have to get up eventually, of course, but there were pills for that, too.