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When John Watson first came home from Afghanistan, depressed and without direction, he decided to give therapy a try. Within two months it had proven fruitless, so he fired his therapist. He did, however, take one of her suggestions to heart, and that was to start a blog.
At first writing anything in it was like pulling teeth. There was just nothing to write *about*. Hence his first post being all of one sentence: “Nothing happens to me.”
He found himself going stir crazy after awhile; there were only so many walks in the park he could go on, after all. So he amused himself by writing stories. He wrote about adventures that he wished he were part of, and experienced them vicariously through fictional characters. Wherever he went he took a notebook and pen with him, so that whenever inspiration struck he would be ready. On any given evening he would turn on his laptop, pull up his blog, and transfer whatever he’d written that day from paper to screen.
It was a bit of a guilty pleasure, but it provided a taste of what he was missing and still craved.
He continued writing even after he landed a part-time job. In the back of his mind he nursed the idea of someday turning this hobby into a profession. It may have been a pipe dream, but it wouldn’t hurt to hone his skills in the meantime. Plus he enjoyed it, so even if it never went anywhere it still served a purpose.
It was due in no small part to this activity that John no longer harboured a simmering rage towards his circumstances like he once did. If what happened next had taken place six months earlier, it would have been a completely different story.
***
“John! John Watson!”
John turned, scanning Barts cafeteria for the source of the greeting. He spied a bespectacled brunette seated near a window, waving in his direction. John didn’t recognise him, although he looked vaguely familiar. With ease born of practice, he balanced his lunch tray with one hand as he used the hated cane to limp his way over.
John peered at the man as he approached, trying to place him. He knew the face, but he looked so different, could it be… could it be his old university roommate?
John set his tray down and looked at the other man expectantly. The man - plump yet with a healthy glow about him - stood up and extended a hand. A smile blossomed across his face as John gave it a hearty pump.
“Mike Stamford,” John exclaimed. “As I live and breathe.”
“Yeah, I know… I got fat!”
John shook his head as he sat down, setting his cane to the side. “Nah, neither of us are as fit as we used to be.”
“Isn’t that the truth?” Mike said jovially. “So what are you doing with yourself these days? I heard you were abroad getting shot at. What happened?”
“I got shot,” John replied, raising his shoulders in a self-deprecating shrug.
Mike ploughed right on over his faux pas, as he had always tended to do. “Well, you look good. Go on, catch me up.”
“Not much to tell. I’m working a locum job at a clinic near my place. I can’t be a surgeon anymore - nerve damage - but at least it pays enough along with my pension to keep me in London. Not enough for me to move out of my awful bedsit, though.”
John grimaced at the thought. Something had to be done about that, and soon, or he would end up shooting the walls with his illegal handgun. At least he no longer felt the urge to put that gun in his mouth so that he didn’t have to face the unending bleakness of his days. He counted his lucky stars that there didn’t seem to be anything physically wrong with his leg. Although that meant that it was all in his head, which was really not something you wanted to tell people.
“That’s why I’m here, actually,” he continued. “Had an interview for a job. Full time, better pay. It’ll help me afford something more centrally located.”
“Well, in the meantime maybe you could get a flatshare or something?”
John laughed. “Yeah, right. You’ve lived with me before, Mike; you know I’m not the easiest person to get along with.”
Mike shrugged. “There’s somebody for everyone, that’s what I always say. Speaking of which, I’m getting married in two months! An autumn wedding.” He beamed. “Remember April? Ten years after breaking up, we got back together again! Just last year it was.”
John was happy to see that Mike hadn’t changed a bit; he was still the same old easy-going guy who had helped them both get through organic chem labs.
“Congratulations, mate. Truly, it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”
“What about you?” Mike took a sip of his coffee. “Anyone special?”
John shook his head. “Not anymore. I was seeing my supervisor for a while, but that wasn’t going anywhere. She’s nice, she just - “ John shrugged his shoulders, “isn’t the one.” John was too kind to voice his thought of She’s dull and boring.
Mike smirked. “You old dog. Who knew you even believed in ‘the one’.”
“Hey, I’m not that jaded,” John rejoined good-naturedly. “It’ll happen when it happens.”
“Well, in the meantime, keep October 1st open, yeah? That’s my wedding. Free food and drink, and you never know.” Mike winked. “You might just meet someone special.”
John smiled. “I’ll put it on my calendar.”
***
A week before the wedding, John received a desperate phone call from Mike. One of his groomsmen had a family emergency and needed to fly to Australia; would John be willing to step in on short notice? All he needed to do was show up for a morning suit fitting, and to be at the church one hour before the service on Saturday. Feeling unaccountably charitable, John said sure, why not? He had never been in a wedding party before. Could be fun. Could be mind-numbingly tedious as well. He had actually been planning to blow the whole thing off, but at least it gave him something to do on a weekend.
October 1st dawned crisp and clear, the temperature mild and expected to hold that way. The venue was located about thirty miles outside of London. John arrived exactly one hour before the ceremony, as instructed and per his military habits. Mike led him to the room where he changed into his morning suit, then led him outside to show him the church grounds.
“So did you hear anything about that job at Barts?” Mike asked.
John shook his head. “I went in for a second interview, but a week later they called to let me know the position was being put on hold for the time being. Funding issues, apparently.”
Mike grimaced. “Bad luck. Sorry, mate.”
As they stepped out into the morning light, a rich baritone resonated, “Mike, can I borrow your phone? I’m getting no signal out here. Why on earth did you choose such an isolated location?”
Mike and John both turned towards the voice. Leaning against the side of the building just outside the entrance was a tall, lean man with a mop of dark, unruly curls atop his head. He held a lit cigarette in one hand, and he was scowling at a phone in the other. His suit matched John’s exactly, except of course for the larger size.
Mike laughed. “This is my bride’s hometown; of course it’s where we’re going to have our wedding. And it’s not that isolated, Sherlock. Just because it’s not smack dab in the middle of London doesn’t mean - “
“Yes, yes,” the man said. John watched, mouth slightly open, as Sherlock took a drag of his cigarette and expelled the smoke with a languid sigh. John’s eyes darted between his mouth and his hands. “Your phone?”
“Sorry, I don’t have mine on me.”
“Here, use mine.” John found himself stepping forward and offering his mobile. The man looked up, his gaze flicking over John from head to toe. John froze as a pair of striking blue eyes locked on his own, making him feel like a butterfly pinned to a board.
“Oh,” the man rumbled, and John swore he could feel the vibrations roll through him. “Thank you.” He walked forward and plucked the phone from John’s fingers.
“John, this is Sherlock Holmes, another groomsman, obviously. Sherlock -- John Watson, an old friend of mine.”
“Pleasure,” Sherlock drawled, attention now riveted on his texting.
“Honestly, Sherlock, can’t you take the day off? Surely whatever it is you’re working on can wait until tomorrow.”
“It really can’t. A woman’s alibi depends on it.”
“Are you a policeman?” John asked.
Sherlock scoffed. His eyes remained glued to the phone as his thumb swept across the keys. “Hardly. I’m the one the police come to when they’re out of their depth, which is always.”
“Private detective?”
“Consulting detective. The only one in the world; I invented the job.” Sherlock looked up from his typing and handed the phone back to John. He smiled tightly. “Thank you.”
John was not put off by Sherlock’s arrogance at all. In fact, he found the man’s confidence refreshing. There were enough bumbling fools in the world that any time he ran across self-possession and competence, he was attracted to it straight away.
“You’re welcome.” John smiled, hoping to elicit some warmth in response. But Sherlock didn’t seem interested in idle chatter.
“I’ll see you two back in the choir room shortly. I have to visit my mind palace.” Sherlock turned on his heel and disappeared around the corner of the church, intent on his mission.
John looked at Mike, eyebrow raised. Mike shrugged. “Yeah. He’s always like that.”
***
The wedding ceremony was just like every other one John had ever attended: long and boring. The pastor’s speech was dry and rambling, riddled with every romantic cliche there was. It did all make a pretty picture, though.
The bride was suitably lovely; April didn’t seem to have aged a bit in the ten years since John had last seen her. Her long blonde hair framed her heart-shaped face beautifully, and her vivid blue eyes sparkled with joy. The bridesmaids’ dresses were hunter green, appropriate to the season. Mike’s brother Harold, a gregarious flame-haired beanpole who towered over even Sherlock, stood as best man.The flowers and decorative ribbons were tastefully arranged, festive without crossing over into gaudy. The music was nice, the vows were nice.
It all suited Mike, who had always had a blandly benign personality. The whole marriage and family thing fit him like a glove. Nothing would ever happen to him, and he would be content to have it so.
John shivered at the thought. My worst nightmare. And he had lived through war and being shot.
Sherlock glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. He lifted one stark eyebrow and smirked. John flushed. Get a grip, Watson, he chided himself. It’s not like the man can read minds.
And what would it matter if he could? It wasn’t as if John had been admiring his backside, the cut of his suit, the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck. Or the way the sun shining through the stained glass windows bathed his head in such a way that auburn highlights shone through the glossy strands, giving them a sheen that looked almost artificial.
No, John wasn’t thinking those kind of thoughts at all. He was just letting his mind wander to keep himself from fidgeting and feeling the stiffness creep into his limbs. How much longer was this going to go on?
Finally the service ended, and everyone was able to escape the stuffy confines of the church. After enduring the receiving line for another age, the wedding party was free to wander and mingle for a time in the beautiful garden outside. John wasn’t interested in chatting with anybody besides Sherlock. Brainy certainly was the new sexy, and John wanted to get more acquainted with that beautiful mind.
He found Sherlock standing under a grove of oak trees, surveying the milling crowd. John sucked in a breath, screwed up his courage, and limped across the grass with as much dignity as possible. The two men nodded at each other, and John stepped to Sherlock’s side, joining him in looking out upon the throng.
“Lovely ceremony, yeah? How did you and Mike become acquainted? I don’t imagine that your skillset overlaps with his much.”
Sherlock frowned. “I really have no idea why he asked me. We don’t interact that much, apart from Barts.”
John looked at him in surprise. “Barts? But you work with the police, you said.”
“Yes, I do, and sometimes my work involves running scientific experiments in order to solve a case. I’m not just a detective; I’m also a graduate chemist. Mike’s in charge of the lab there, and for some reason he likes me well enough to grant me access now and then.”
John gaped at him. “Seriously? But doesn’t Scotland Yard have their own forensics facilities?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Of course they do, but they’re run by idiots. I run my analyses independent of theirs. Not only are mine more accurate, but they get done in a timely manner. No red tape or bureaucracy to slow me down. I get results faster, and criminals are caught before they can strike again.”
John shook his head. “Wow. That’s -- amazing. Truly extraordinary.”
Sherlock blinked at him in surprise. “You think so?”
“Of course I do. Who wouldn’t?”
“Lots of people,” Sherlock mumbled, looking at the ground. A blush spread across his cheeks, making him even more attractive than he already was.
“Well, ‘lots of people’ are wrong, then,” John said, indignant. “They’re most likely jealous because they don’t have your talent.”
Sherlock’s lips quirked in a half smile.
John felt bolder than he had in a long time. Part of him wanted to just come right out and ask if Sherlock wanted to have dinner with him sometime. No beating around the bush. But he decided he needed more information before he assumed the wrong thing and embarrassed himself.
“So,” John said. He nudged Sherlock’s shoulder with his own. “How about that chief bridesmaid? Cute, yeah? Planning on doing the traditional thing? You could stand in for the best man, since he’s married and all.”
Sherlock frowned. He lifted his eyes to John’s, brow furrowed. “What tradition?”
“You know… Best man, bridesmaid…” Sherlock continued to look at him with confusion.
John sighed. “Sex, Sherlock. Pulling. Getting it on. Don’t look so scared! It’s traditional, not obligatory.”
“Oh.” Sherlock’s face smoothed out into indifference. “No. Women aren’t really my area. Although the chief bridesmaid -- Molly -- she has a bit of a crush on me. Has for some time now. I’m trying to nudge her in the direction of a certain detective inspector I work with. Not sure if it’s working, she seems quite fond of me.”
“Well, that’s understandable. I mean, look at you.”
Sherlock scowled. “Yes, look at me. It’s just transport, John. My mind’s the only thing that matters. That and the work. Anything else is so much baggage, useless and trivial.”
“I see,” John said, heart sinking. Just his luck that he would be smitten with the most handsome asexual in England. He could take a hint, though. Maybe if he played his cards right, the day wouldn’t be a total wash. “Okay, then, why don’t you make yourself useful, Mr Detective? Use your skills to help me find someone compatible here. You know, just for a one-off type thing.”
“All right. If that’s the sort of thing you’re looking for, there are several possibilities. Let’s start with that woman over there talking to the bride, the one in lilac…”
***
As it turned out, John continued to be more taken with the detective than with any of the potential partners Sherlock pointed out. Sherlock didn’t limit his choices for John to one gender either, which went a long way towards winning John’s respect. John wasn’t exactly in the closet -- those who knew him well knew that he played for both teams. But to have a stranger look at him and come to a certain conclusion without drawing explicit attention to it -- that was a skill to be admired.
The ensuing meal in the reception hall across the street was delicious. Mike and his bride certainly had good taste when it came to food. But John attributed his enjoyment just as much to the man he was seated next to as to the food, perhaps even more. Within the first ten minutes of being seated Sherlock proclaimed that John had been an army doctor, that he had recently returned from conflict in the Middle East, that he currently worked as a GP and that his limp was psychosomatic. Sherlock then segued into animated explanations of what he regarded as his most challenging cases, words pouring out of him at a mile a minute.
John stared at him in between mouthfuls, entranced but at the same time bewildered. Half of what he was trying to describe flew over John’s head. He couldn’t help but be enthralled with the man’s extensive knowledge and his brilliant leaps of logic, yet he kept losing the main thread of the conversation.
“Take this most recent case,” Sherlock was saying after taking a long swallow of water. “My extensive research on the 243 types of tobacco ash led me to the identification of the killer, because the chemical composition of the substance found on the soles of his shoes indicated - “
John laughed. “Sherlock.”
Sherlock stopped. He looked at John in confusion. “What?”
“It’s fascinating; really, it is. But you lost me about ten sentences ago.”
Sherlock looked affronted. “But how? I deduced that you were a man of above average intelligence the moment I laid eyes on you. How could you not follow a simple chain of logic -”
“It’s not that. I think you just need to add in the human interest aspect of it.”
“Why? That part’s not important. What’s important is how I arrived at my conclusion. Collect the evidence, observe the data. Run tests, interpret results, make deductions. It’s important to lay it all out in a systematic and orderly fashion. You can find all of my analyses on my website, The Science of Deduction. It explains it all beautifully.”
John smiled. “I’m sure it does, and I’m sure it’s an interesting read. Do you have many followers?”
Sherlock frowned. “Well.. a few? No one really engages, though. I’m rethinking the value of it, quite honestly. I was hoping it would help me pull in some private clients to help offset some of the cost of my new flat, but it doesn’t seem to be attracting much traffic. I don’t understand it. Is nobody interested in the application of science and pure reason?”
“Well… not exclusively, no. You have to make it interesting. You have to have a hook of some kind.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you have to get readers to care about the people that you’re writing about. If you’re writing up a case, you need to appeal to the reader’s emotions somehow. That’s where the human interest aspect comes into play. Treat the case like a drama of sorts, or a play. You can’t just spout off facts and details; you need to tie it all in with the characters involved. The victims, the witnesses… the police. You.”
Sherlock frowned at him. “Characters?”
“Er… people.”
Sherlock grimaced. “You’re talking about embellishment for the sake of storytelling. That’s not what I do. I solve puzzles. People come to me with their problems and I fix them. I don’t have time for all the rest.”
“Don’t have time, or don’t have the patience?”
Sherlock glared at him. “I don’t have the patience to spend time on unnecessary twaddle.”
“I see.” John was more amused than offended at Sherlock’s attitude. He was just starting to get to know the man, and found the information he was gathering endlessly fascinating. John had never met anyone quite like him. Even though they’d only been conversing for a grand total of less than two hours, John felt something stirring in his chest. The longer he spent in Sherlock’s company, the stronger it became. Was it a connection of some sort? Recognition? Whatever it was, John wanted to pursue it and see where it led.
If Sherlock let him.
Sherlock lowered his voice and leaned in close. “Have you read about the serial suicides?”
John was momentarily distracted by the smell of Sherlock’s cologne and the feel of his breath against his cheek. He swallowed his mouthful of potatoes and replied, “Yes, of course. What are there, eight of them now?”
“Nine. The last occurred just two days ago, hasn’t made it to the papers yet. Happened in this very town. This is the farthest from London he’s ever hit.”
“He?”
“Statistically more likely. Lestrade only came to me after the sixth one, idiot.”
“Who’s Lestrade?”
“The detective inspector I work with. Well, he’s the only one who’ll work with me.”
John looked surprised. “Why’s that? Surely they’re all clamouring for your expertise.”
Sherlock scoffed. “One would think, but no. At any rate Lestrade is the best of the mediocre bunch; I’d rather work with him than any other. I told him that by happy chance I was going to be in the very town of the latest murder, so I’d keep an eye out for anything suspicious.”
“Wait, murder? I thought they were suicides.”
“You’d think wrong then.”
“So have you? Seen anything suspicious?”
Sherlock looked at him, and winked. “Not yet, but before the night is over I’m certain we will.”
John felt his heart rate kick up a notch and his breathing accelerate. Before he could respond, someone announced “Pray silence for the best man,” and their conversation was delayed.
***
“Can I tell you a secret?” Sherlock’s low voice rumbled in his ear.
“Sure,” John replied. The two of them were standing outside, enjoying the fresh air and staring up at the emerging stars. John’s leg hadn’t been acting up much throughout the course of the day, but he still kept his cane close by. He was currently leaning on it as he took in the sights, both before and beside him. Sherlock was on his second cigarette of the evening. He claimed it was his last, that he had just used it as an excuse to get out of setting up the dance hall.
“I love dancing. I’ve always loved it.”
“Really?” John grinned.
“Yep. I live in hope of the right case.”
“Why do you have to wait for that? Just do it because you enjoy it. A wedding reception is the perfect opportunity.”
Sherlock side-eyed him. “I have a reputation to maintain.”
John laughed. “No you don’t. Besides, don’t you have to dance at least one dance with a bridesmaid?”
“Do I? I’m not aware of the protocol.”
“Right,” John smirked. “Just like you weren’t aware of the traditional wedding hookup.”
“I wasn’t.”
“All right, don’t get your knickers in a twist. So were you going to tell me what you’ve observed regarding the case?”
Sherlock glanced around before dipping his head and lowering his voice. “The killer seems to be targeting those who, in his eyes at least, lack a certain moral character. Adultery, homosexuality, drunkenness, drug addiction, domestic abuse - that sort of thing.”
“Okay,” John breathed, caught up in Sherlock’s excitement.
“The murder two nights ago -- the victim was a parish priest who had been fighting rumours of paedophilia.”
“Oh god.”
“Unproven rumours, but once that particular horse has bolted it’s hard to get it back in the barn.”
“Wow, your metaphors are kind of - “
“Shut up. My point is, he’s moving up the ladder. The supposed ‘sins’ of his victims are becoming more serious with each one. What would be the next rung up after paedophilia, do you suppose?”
John’s eyes widened. “Murder.”
Sherlock’s eyes glittered. He nodded in approval. “Exactly.”
“He’s going after a murderer by murdering them.”
“That’s my theory, yes.”
“So what… he’s targeting a particular person who’s here tonight?”
“I think that’s his Plan A. If he can’t get to that specific person, then what better hunting ground than a party involving drinks and dancing? He can find cheaters, drinkers, junkies… even dancing could be considered ‘immoral’ in his mind. Whoever he chooses will have certainly indulged in one of those things, at least.”
“But how does he do it? The papers said the victims were all found in isolated areas where they had no reason to be.”
“It’s been established that his victims were abducted, always from busy streets or crowded places, but nobody saw them go. Who do we trust, John, even though we don’t know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?”
John figured Sherlock was asking the question so that he could triumphantly reveal his answer in a dramatic fashion. “Don’t know, who?”
Sherlock shrugged. “I have no idea.”
John’s shoulders slumped. “Then what do we do?”
“We keep an eye out for anything suspicious, anyone sticking out. A man, most likely, as I’ve said.”
“Well, that really narrows it down.”
“Think of it as a challenge. If it were too easy to figure out, it wouldn’t be as much fun.”
John blanched. “Fun? There’s a life at stake here, Sherlock.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Most likely a murderer’s life, but I take your point. That’s where we come in. Tonight we catch a killer, John!” Sherlock’s eyes sparkled and his voice rose in pitch. His whole body seemed to vibrate with energy. His enthusiasm was infectious, and John felt his excitement rise.
At that moment the sound system blared out a catchy beat from inside the dance hall. “Testing!” a voice called out.
Sherlock inclined his head and grinned. “In the meantime, I do believe there’s some dancing to be getting on with.”
***
The next few hours flew by. John’s senses were on high alert as he kept an eye out for a would-be killer at the same time that he threw himself unreservedly into dancing the night away. At first it was just slow dances with the bridesmaids. Then as the night wore on, and he became increasingly more loose with alcohol and the music’s tempo picked up, he found himself accepting offers from both genders to hit the dance floor. He hadn’t had so much fun in a long, long time.
John tried to keep Sherlock within eyesight at all times. After dancing the obligatory dances with the bridal party, Sherlock at first just stood against the wall next to their table, eyes flicking between the guests and his phone. But after a bit of prompting from Molly, Sherlock grudgingly joined in some fast moving group dances. As time passed and Sherlock allowed himself to loosen up, he broke out into some moves that were, quite frankly, a sight to behold.
Sherlock’s lithe body was fluid and graceful. Sweat glistened on his brow and he kept his eyes closed as he raised his arms above his head and pumped his fists in time with the beat, synchronised with the movement of his gyrating hips. His feet did a complicated thing that John wouldn’t have been able to duplicate in a hundred years.
Then Sherlock did the moonwalk to Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean”, and that’s when John’s eyes popped out of his head. A small crowd gravitated over to watch, and soon John’s view was blocked. He laughed out loud. Seriously, how talented could one person possibly be? Detective, chemist, dancer -- and that was without mentioning how physically attractive the man was. It was all very sexy and arousing.
John shook his head and tried to get back to the business of the evening. He focussed on observing like Sherlock had asked him to do, so he took a short stroll around the fringes of the dance floor and poked around some of the other hallways and rooms. He didn’t notice anything that he would determine as out of the ordinary.
John was on his way to the bar when a waltz started playing. He found his way blocked when a six-foot consulting detective stepped in his path. John looked up, puzzled.
“John, may I have this dance?”
John’s face reddened. He stammered, “I - I don’t know how to waltz, Sherlock.”
“Nonsense. Just follow my lead.” Before John could protest further, Sherlock placed both their hands in the appropriate positions and swept them both onto the dance floor. John gasped, tightening his grip.
“Sherlock,” he hissed. “What are you doing?”
“Proving a point,” Sherlock replied.
“What point?”
“Where’s your cane, John?”
John opened his mouth, then shut it. “Erm - leaning against our table, I think?”
“Yes. And how long has it been since you’ve been back to that table?”
John grinned. “A couple hours, give or take. Okay, your point has been made, you mad bastard.”
“It’s also an opportunity to ask if you’ve seen anything regarding our killer.”
John frowned. “Actually, no. Have you?’
“Not yet. The bride and groom just left, so the party will be wrapping up soon. I have a suspicion, but I need to test it. Will you help?”
“Of course I will! Anything to stop a serial killer, right?”
Sherlock smiled. “I knew I could count on you, Captain.”
“How did you know - “
“Obvious.”
John laughed. “Of course.”
Sherlock’s eyes twinkled, and John’s grin slid away from his face. He wasn’t aware of how his feet moved or whether their movements matched the music. All he could focus on was Sherlock - the glitter of his eyes, the curve of his mouth, the stray curl hanging over his forehead. His tie was nowhere to be seen and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone. He smelled like sweat and adrenaline and excitement.
Damn it. He really did not need this distraction at all.
“You’re a really good dancer,” he blurted.
“I should be. Eight years of lessons.”
“Wow. That’s a lot.”
“Standard.”
“Um.”
“John.”
“What?”
Sherlock leaned down until his mouth was right next to John’s ear. John sucked in a breath.
“After the next dance ends, meet me out front. We have some observing to do.”
John jerked his head away. “Observing? I thought we were meant to catch a killer.”
“Keep your voice down,” Sherlock hissed. “I told you I had to test my suspicions first.”
“So, what, we have to catch him in the act?”
“Exactly. How else are we meant to stop him?”
“I don’t know - you’re the detective! Aren’t you meant to be preventing crime?”
“I solve crimes and catch criminals. That’s what I’m meant to do.”
“And the victims? What about them?”
“Incidental. Look, I’ve researched as much as I can on the guests, and I couldn’t come up with any likely contenders for murder, not even an accidental killing, so I haven’t been able to narrow the victim pool down -”
“Great.” John stopped dancing and stepped out of Sherlock’s arms. He felt the loss immediately. “Do what you need to do then. I need some air.” He turned around and strode off the dance floor into the night.
“John! Wait!” Sherlock called, but John didn’t stop. He found the rear entrance to the building and stepped out into the cool night air.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He didn’t understand his own strong reaction to Sherlock’s attitude. He had only met the man that day. Sure, Sherlock was attractive, and smart, and exciting to be around. But that was just surface stuff. The traits that were really important went far deeper than that, and they were apparently ones that Sherlock lacked. Good to know that now instead of sometime further down the line, after he was well and truly hooked.
He also didn’t want to admit that it hurt to learn that Sherlock knew all that about him because he researched him beforehand, not because he was a deductive genius and found John interesting.
John opened his eyes to the sound of tyres on gravel. A black cab rolled to a stop.
“Taxi for Dr John Watson?”
“I didn’t order a taxi.”
“Doesn’t mean you don’t need one.”
John huffed out a laugh. Then he froze as he remembered what Sherlock had asked him earlier.
“It’s been established that his victims were abducted, always from busy streets or crowded places, but nobody saw them go. Who do we trust, even though we don’t know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?”
John made a split-second decision. He willed his heart rate to slow and his face to betray no emotion. “Perfect timing.”
He didn’t remember until he was already seated and the cab was pulling away that he hadn’t brought his gun with him.
Sherlock fumed as he stood outside the main entrance, foot tapping while he periodically craned his neck to look for a wayward army doctor. He was certain he knew who the killer was posing as, now he just had to wait for him to make his move. There must have been some guests who ordered cabs, but none had arrived as of yet. Surely he would strike soon, and when he did Sherlock needed John by his side.
Honestly, why did people pick the worst times to act all morally superior? Results were what mattered, why couldn’t people see that? Why couldn’t people just think?
Sherlock blinked as a black cab pulled out from behind the building and turned right onto the main road. He could just make out John’s form in the back seat.
Of course! Stupid, stupid… John was a doctor, but he had also been a soldier. Of course he had killed people.
And was about to become the serial killer’s tenth victim.
Sherlock’s spine straightened and his jaw clenched.
Not on his watch.
“Hey!” Sherlock yelled as he sprinted after the cab. He was able to get a good look at the licence plate number before the car sped up and left him in the dust.
“Damn it!” Sherlock ran towards another cab that had conveniently just pulled in, probably meant for another guest, and wrenched the back door open.
“Follow that taxi!” he ordered as he threw himself into the back seat.
The driver squinted at him in the rearview mirror. “You’re joking, right, mate?”
“Not at all.” Sherlock whipped out one of Lestrade’s badges. “Police emergency.”
“Right,” the man grumbled as he moved to comply. “This is way above my pay grade.”
“Backup’s on the way,” Sherlock said. He unlocked his phone. Calling Lestrade would do no good, this was not his jurisdiction. Sherlock would have to trust that the local police knew their job and wouldn’t cock things up too badly.
***
Sherlock burst into the unlocked church (a church, really?) and threw himself down the basement stairs. “Police! You’re surrounded! Don’t even think about - “
He skidded to a halt when presented with the tableau in front of him. John was sitting serenely at a table across from the slumped body of an older man with wire-rim glasses and a flat cap. Between the two sat two pill containers, along with a fake gun. John’s eyes widened at the sight of Sherlock, followed by a look of exasperation.
“Really, Sherlock? What did you think you were going to do, barging in here with no weapon? Overwhelm him with your Jedi mind powers?”
“What? Oh - of course not, don’t be ridiculous.”
“Well? What was your plan?”
“I - it doesn’t really matter now, does it?” Sherlock waved his hand at the body. “What did you do?”
“My guess is his aneurysm finally burst, but I’d have to do an autopsy to be sure.”
“Aneurysm?” Why was nothing making any sense?
“Yep. We had time for a nice little chat before you arrived. Care to hear the story, or should I wait for the police to arrive so I don’t have to repeat myself?”
Sherlock strode over and placed two fingers on the cabbie’s neck, confirming his death. Breathlessly, he turned to John. “Tell me now.” Sherlock pulled up a chair and waited with bated breath.
John rolled his eyes. “Yes, your majesty.”
***
“I wonder who this ‘sponsor’ of his is.”
Sherlock was thinking out loud. He stood next to John, who was seated in the back of an ambulance with an orange shock blanket draped across his shoulders. John managed to look like a disgruntled hedgehog.
“I’m not in shock,” John complained. “They have our statements, why can’t we leave?”
“They’re just verifying everything before they let us go,” Sherlock explained. “Lestrade knows me. As soon as they’ve contacted him we’ll both be cleared.”
John heaved a sigh. “I don’t know who he was referring to. He refused to mention a name; he just managed to sound needlessly ominous, in my opinion. A big, bad criminal mastermind, apparently.”
“Yes,” Sherlock breathed. “Fascinating.”
John frowned. “I’m glad you think so. Maybe if you do enough research you can find out who it is without even leaving your flat.”
The way John spit out the word ‘research’ made Sherlock look at him more closely. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Of course I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Well, you were just abducted by a serial killer.”
John’s mouth twitched. “I was a willing captive.”
“You what?”
John laughed mirthlessly. “I didn’t need a taxi, Sherlock. I wasn’t ready to leave yet; if nothing else my regular clothes are still at the other church.”
“But… then why did you - “
“I figured out who we were looking for, from what you told me earlier. So I decided it would be better for him to take me than someone else. Plus he mentioned me by name. I was the murderer he was looking for.”
“So you just decided - what? To put yourself in harm’s way for no reason at all?”
“Not for no reason. To catch a serial killer.”
“That was completely unacceptable and unnecessary - “
“You mean just like you running after me without any backup or way to defend yourself?”
“I called backup!”
“But you didn’t wait for them! You barged in after us alone with no idea what you would be facing!”
“That’s right! I didn’t want to wait and take the chance that in the end there would be two dead bodies instead of one!”
“What difference would it make? The case would be solved, the killer stopped. Isn’t that the result you care about?”
“I care about you!”
By this time John was standing up and the two of them were facing each other, chests heaving and faces red. Sherlock’s exclamation caught them both off guard. The silence stretched out for several seconds with their loud breathing the only sound to be heard.
Sherlock grabbed the ends of the shock blanket and yanked John forward, bringing their mouths together in a bruising kiss. John’s eyes widened, his hands fluttering uselessly. Recovering quickly, he clasped Sherlock’s face between his hands and gave as good as he got. The kiss went on and on, the two of them oblivious to the emergency personnel milling around them, until the feel of their teeth clacking together brought Sherlock back to himself. He pulled away and looked at John, unable to read his eyes in the darkness.
“I… don’t know what’s happening,” Sherlock whispered. “There’s something about you, something I’ve never encountered before. I don’t like people, John, I don’t care about people. Then I meet you and - “
“Bullshit.” John rested his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. “You care, I know you do. And I get it. Why you have to distance yourself when you’re on a case. It’s like a doctor who has to operate on a dying patient. You can’t let the possibility of the worst case outcome distract you from focussing on the task at hand.” John put one of his hands on Sherlock’s cheek. His eyes turned sad.
“But knowing that you knew all that about me before I even met you - I don’t know, it gave me a funny feeling. Like you were manipulating me into believing you could read all that about me just by observing me. Were you even meant to be a groomsman, or were you basically undercover and everything was a setup?”
Sherlock’s eyes fluttered as he leaned into John’s touch. “Oh, the research - no, John, I didn’t do any of that until after the dance started. That’s when my phone started working again and that’s when I looked people up. In between the dance numbers. As much as it pains me to admit it, it truly was just a coincidence that I happened to be here at the same time the killer struck. A happy accident, as it were. As was meeting you.”
John smiled. He stroked his thumb along Sherlock’s cheekbone, sending shivers that had nothing to do with the autumn chill running down his spine.
“As to why Mike asked me to be in the wedding party…” Sherlock shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. People in general don’t like me, but Mike has always tolerated me better than most. Not sure why.”
John leaned forward and left a chaste kiss on Sherlock’s mouth. The look on his face when he pulled back was amused and fond. “It’s no mystery to me. From what I’ve observed in the short time I’ve known you, you’re more likeable than you think you are. No, I mean it! I know Mike; he wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t genuinely like you. Molly obviously adores you. At least everyone in the wedding party seemed to enjoy your company. Give yourself a little credit. Sure, you’re a little rough around the edges, and a right twat sometimes. But so am I, quite honestly.”
John’s face did something complicated; then he chuckled.
“What?” Sherlock asked. “What is it?”
“Tell me, Sherlock. Who was the groomsman that I replaced? The one who had to cancel at the last minute.”
Sherlock frowned. “There was no one else. You were a replacement?”
John grinned. “You may have not been set up, but I certainly was. Didn’t you wonder why I wasn’t there for the rehearsal or for the stag night?”
“We were told you were dealing with a family emergency.”
“That dog.” John stared into the distance as he continued talking. “Running into me was a coincidence, and inviting me may have been an afterthought, but he must have thought that you and I would hit it off. Asking me to fill in as a favour at the last minute would guarantee that I didn’t decline or just not show. Plus it would ensure that we would be seated next to each other for dinner. That dog.”
Sherlock blinked. “That... was more clever than I would have ever given him credit for.”
John laughed. “Indeed. So what now?”
“Mr Holmes? Dr Watson?” The detective who had spoken to them earlier ambled over. He was lowering a mobile from his ear. Sherlock and John stepped away from each other as they faced the policeman.
“Just got off the phone with DI Lestrade. You’re both free to go.”
Sherlock nodded and turned back to John dismissively. John gave him a look, and called out, “Thank you, Inspector.”
Sherlock reached out and slipped the blanket off John’s shoulders. He wadded it up and threw it in the back of the ambulance.
“Did Mike book you a room in town?” Sherlock asked as they strode away from the scene.
“No. I wasn’t planning on spending the night; I was going to catch a cab to the train station and go back to London.”
“Why don’t you come back to mine? It’s past midnight, the last train has already left. Actually, Mike was telling me about a good Chinese place that’s open late, if you happen to be hungry again. We could go there first.”
“Are there two beds in your room?”
“No.”
John smiled. “All right. I’ll take you up on that offer.”
“Okay. Tomorrow we can discuss the flatmate situation.”
“Who said anything about flatmates?”
“I did. You’re looking to move out of your awful bedsit to a place more centrally located, and I need someone to help share the rent. But I have to warn you, I play the violin when I’m thinking. I also sometimes don’t talk for days on end.”
“Hmm. Well, I really don’t have nightmares anymore, but I do have a short fuse at times. Also, I’m a bit of a neat freak.”
“I have an older brother who likes to stick his nose in my business. He may kidnap you from time to time and ask you to spy on me. If he does, accept the offer and we’ll split the fee.”
John giggled. “Oh god, we’re horrible. This is a crime scene, we can’t be giggling!”
“Also -- you could be useful by adding the human interest aspects you’re so fascinated by to my case accounts. In fact, you could write this one up on your own blog, if you wish.”
“Wait -- how do you know about my blog?”
“Found it earlier when I was looking everybody up. Not bad prose, although a bit fanciful. Your characterisations are a bit -- off. I can help with that.”
John blanched. “You found my fanfiction??”
Sherlock threw his head back and laughed. “Honestly John, if you were worried about that you should have marked it ‘private’ or ‘draft’.
“... I did.”
“Oh. Well, in that case… dinner?”
THE END. And they lived….. Excitedly ever after?