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It was dark, so dark. John looked around but it was too murky to see a thing. The air was cold, with a hint of dampness that made his skin clammy. His fingers tingled and tendrils of panic crept up his spine. He didn’t know where he was, but he knew he needed to get out of there. Now.
Wait. There was something. He picked up the gentle lapping of water. Water?
In the background, he could hear music. Softly at first, then louder.
Well now, I get low and I get high
And if I get either, I really try
Then he smelled it. Chlorine. Strong, so strong. The scent covered him, clogged his nose, and made him choke.
You know it’s alright, it’s okay
I’ll live to see another day
Oh god, he knew this song. The water, the chlorine… He knew where he was. In his ear, a voice he never wanted to hear again. “Hiii…”
The music soared suddenly, shocking him into movement. He took one step back, then another, anything to get away from that voice and that smell. A third step and there was nothing under him, just air. His arms flailed, but there was nothing to grab hold of. Before he could fully register what was happening, he hit the water and began to sink down, down, down.
That dreadful voice followed him. “I’ll burn…the heart out of you…”
John gasped as he jerked awake. Next to him, the clock radio was blaring.
Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive
John slapped the alarm off and rolled over onto his back, breathing hard. He looked around the room, orienting himself. He was okay. He was in his warm bed at Baker Street, not wrapped up like a deadly present with a murderer's voice in his ear. He clutched at his chest and willed his racing heart to slow down.
Fucking Moriarty. He used to love that song. Now it was about to give him a goddamn heart attack.
It had been nearly a month since John and Sherlock’s poolside confrontation with Moriarty, but right now he felt as if he had just been plucked off the street by goons with guns and tossed not so gently into the back of a windowless van.
The phantom weight of the bomb vest bore down.
John ran his hands over his face. His nightmares were getting worse, a bad sign. He took a few deep breaths and wished he could bury himself in the warmth of another body. He was tired of waking up alone, in a bed that felt too wide. There was nothing for it, though, and he extracted himself from the twisted sheets. It was time to get up and get on with it.
Another empty Saturday loomed.
Sherlock was nowhere to be seen when John finally made it downstairs. The shower was running, so he knew the man wasn’t out. Besides, he didn’t think Sherlock had left Baker Street in weeks. If he wasn’t in his room, he was curled up in his chair or stretched out on the sofa. John was fairly sure the farthest Sherlock went these days went was downstairs to Mrs Hudson’s to root around for biscuits. That he tended to do that when John was home was just a coincidence, surely.
There had been no cases since the pool.
Knowing he wasn’t the only one struggling in the aftermath of Moriarty’s deadly games, John made a handful of attempts to draw Sherlock out. All were in vain. John didn’t have the energy (courage) to push it, but God knew he wasn’t exactly forthcoming himself either. Instead, they retreated to separate corners to lick their proverbial wounds in silence.
They couldn’t go on like this much longer. Something had to give.
An hour later, John was in the kitchen washing up from a light breakfast when Sherlock finally emerged from his room. He was back in the same ratty tee and threadbare pyjama bottoms he’d been wearing for days. He didn’t say anything, just walked past John and snatched up a dressing gown hanging over one of the kitchen chairs.
“Looks like you’re ready for another exciting weekend,” John said over his shoulder. “Got anything on?” He knew the answer—it was the same one every day—but he kept asking anyway.
“Nope,” grunted Sherlock in response. John supposed he should be lucky to get even that from the man. After all, Sherlock did warn him right from the very start that he was prone to silence. Still, he wondered when they last had a real conversation. Or any conversation at all, really.
He finished up the dishes and glanced over at the table, covered with dusty test tubes, empty beakers, and dirty slides. He couldn’t remember the last time he saw Sherlock bent over his microscope, pipette in hand, ranting about spleens or ears or a particular dust pattern. He sighed. A bit not good, all of it.
Breakfast over, clean-up done, and with no more excuses not to, John wandered into the sitting room. He was restless these days, unable to unwind and relax. No reading, no crap telly, not even a pint down at his local. He worked as many shifts at the clinic as he was offered. He took long walks in the city. He roamed aimlessly about the flat. After the whirlwind of his first few months with Sherlock, this extended period of quiet was unnerving. Too reminiscent of his early days back in London, rotting in his depressing bedsit.
He needed something, anything, anyone (no…someone) to grab him and settle him down.
Sherlock was on the sofa, wrapped up in a tatty blanket he nicked from Mrs Hudson. His laptop was next to him but closed. He watched as John sifted through the stack of mail on the mantel and then moved over to the window.
John felt the weight of his stare. He wanted to ask Sherlock why he wasn’t taking cases, why he was ignoring Lestrade’s calls, and about the dozens of emails he knew were sitting unanswered.
He wanted to ask Sherlock if he had nightmares about Moriarty. (Did his bed feel too wide as well?)
Instead, John rested his hip against the worn window frame and looked out, hoping for distraction. The window was closed against the spring chill but the muffled sounds of Baker Street traffic filtered through.
He narrowed his eyes as he took in the scene on the street below.
“Sherlock, there’s a woman pacing outside the flat.” John leaned forward until his forehead touched the cool windowpane.
The blanket-covered lump on the sofa sighed rather dramatically. “Fascinating, I’m sure.”
“Git,” John said absently, too focused on the woman to properly snark back. “She’s really going in circles down there. Wonder why?”
“Oscillation on the pavement always means there’s a love affair.” Another sigh. “Boring.”
“Not to her, I’m sure.” John watched as the young woman moved down past Speedy’s and then back again. She appeared to be in her 20s. She was in a cream coat and thick scarf, but her wringing hands were bare. “She keeps looking over at our door. I think she might be a client.” The possibility of a case thrilled him.
“Not expecting anyone,” Sherlock muttered.
“Now that I can believe. You’re clearly in the middle of a critical experiment on becoming one with the sofa.”
“Hilarious, John, truly.”
John, still looking out the window, smiled to himself. This felt a bit like before. It felt good. Then the smile fell off his face. “I guess she’s not a client after all. She just went around the corner.” Dammit.
Sherlock reached out from under the blanket and snatched up a glass of water John was pretty sure had been on the table for the last three days. “Wrong!” he sang before taking a sip.
“Oh? Please, do enlighten me.” John moved away from the window and tried not to stomp over to his chair like a teenager in a strop. He stopped just short of throwing himself down in it and stood behind it instead, gripping the back with clenched fists. He knew he was being ridiculous, but he didn’t care. He needed something to happen.
“She’s undecided, thinks she wants the truth about her doomed relationship, but she isn’t ready for it. She has decided for the time being that ignorance is bliss, hence the walking away. She’ll be back. Tedious.”
“How the hell can you tell that?”
“It’s obvious.” Clearly not in the mood for conversation, Sherlock put down his glass of manky water and pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders.
“’It’s obvious,’” John repeated. “Of course it is.”
“I’ve seen it before, John.” He shrugged.
John stepped back from his chair and laughed, somewhat bitterly. “Look at me, I can’t stop moving either. What does oscillation in the sitting room mean, eh Sherlock?”
Sherlock gaped.
The buzzing of the doorbell startled them both.
Downstairs, John heard Mrs Hudson answer the door.
“Are you sure you’re not expecting someone?” John moved to sit down in his chair. The last person in their flat other than Mrs Hudson had been Mycroft, who wanted the real story of what happened with Moriarty- not the watered-down version that was given to the Yard. Between Sherlock’s fire and Mycroft’s ice, it had not been a pleasant visit. Mycroft hadn't returned since.
“Nope.” Sherlock tilted his head towards the door, clearly trying to overhear the voices below. “Ah, that was sooner than I expected. I do believe our mystery pacer is back. If so, disappointment awaits her, sorry to say. I’m not remotely interested in her tale of romantic woe. It’s boring. Romantic entanglements are boring. She can take it elsewhere or take care of it herself.”
His dismissiveness grated on John. “Don’t be a dick, Sherlock.”
The man scoffed.
“I mean it. If it really is her, if it’s really a client, then she’s here because she trusts that you can help her. Believe it or not, it’s not the end of the world to ask someone for help. She’s braver than a lot of others out there.” John knew his own resentment coloured his words, but he couldn’t help it.
Sherlock gaze turned sharper, a look John recognised as one that Sherlock gave just before he let loose some deeply personal—and usually quite unwelcomed—observation. John steadied himself for the onslaught but was saved by Mrs Hudson’s knock on their door.
“Yoo hoo, boys!” The door opened enough for Mrs Hudson to stick her head in. “There’s a woman downstairs who seems rather anxious. She said she doesn’t have an appointment but hopes you can see her.”
Sherlock made a face at John as if to say, I told you so.
John rolled his eyes right back at him.
“No clients, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock told her. “You know that.”
“I did try to tell her you’re not taking cases right now and suggested she leave her name, but she is most insistent I ask.”
“No. Clients.”
“She says you and she have a mutual acquaintance.”
“I highly doubt that.” Sherlock looked faintly scandalised at the thought.
“What was the name…oh! Sebastian Wilkes.”
John raised his eyebrows. Now that was a name he didn’t expect (never wanted) to hear again. He looked over at Sherlock, whose demeanor changed from casual indifference to outright hostility.
“If Sebastian Wilkes if a friend of hers, I’m afraid she needs to look elsewhere.” Sherlock’s lip curled.
“She thought you might say that and is asking for you please hear her out.” Mrs Hudson persisted, unfazed as always by Sherlock’s rapid fire mood changes.
“Absolutely not.”
“Sherlock, come on.” John stood straighter. “What else do you have going on? Nothing. We have nothing. Let’s talk to her, find out why she’s come to you.”
“I’m not interested, John. I already told you relationship issues are tedious. I don’t care to unravel whatever mess she’s gotten herself in, especially if Sebastian Wilkes is involved.”
“Yeah, you’ve made your feelings on romance quite clear. Hurrah for you. I do care, and I want to hear what she has to say.”
“This isn’t your decision to make. She didn’t come to see you.”
“She has a story she needs to tell and I want to hear it. I’d say that’s good enough.” John turned to Mrs Hudson. “Please tell her to come on up, we’ll be happy to see her.”
“We…” jeered Sherlock. He tugged a hand through his mussed hair, agitated.
Mrs Hudson nodded. “Sherlock dear, a case will do you good. I’ll send her up in just a minute; you need a bit of time to make yourself presentable.” She threw a pointed look at Sherlock and retreated before he could respond, shutting the door behind her.
John turned back to Sherlock. “It’s your choice. Stay or don’t. Mrs Hudson’s right, though, and if you do decide to grace us with your presence, go put some actual clothes on. Preferably something you haven’t slept in. I’m going to put the kettle on.”
Sherlock glared and didn’t move.
John just shook his head and went into the kitchen. At least the flat was reasonably clean, given the lack of case materials strewn about and the absence of foul-smelling experiments bubbling away in the corner. That was something. He filled the kettle and took out three mugs. He made a point of setting each one down on the counter firmly, knowing Sherlock would pick up on the third one.
Sure enough, a few seconds later there was rustling in the sitting room as Sherlock got up and marched down the hall. His bedroom door shut just short of a slam. John trusted it was a good sign.
Some minutes later, there was a soft knock at the door.
John turned on the kettle. Here goes, he thought. He might be on his own for this once. He hoped not.
He opened the door to find the same woman who had been pacing outside the flat. She was taller than John, but slouched as if she wanted to take up less space. Her smile was tentative. In her hand was a half-eaten biscuit. Mrs Hudson to the rescue, again.
The woman looked at John closely. “You’re not Sherlock Holmes,” she said.
“God forbid,” he said, sticking out his hand. “John Watson.”
“Oh god, that was rude of me.” She took it and gave his hand a quick, but firm, squeeze. “I’m sorry! I do know who you are. I’m Maya Sutherland.”
“I’m glad to meet you. Come in, please, Sherlock will be along shortly.” He hoped he wasn’t lying. He stood aside and motioned her in.
Maya Sutherland looked around as she entered, clearly curious.
John saw her gaze land on the skull on the mantel and wondered what she was thinking. He pulled out a chair and put it between his and Sherlock’s. “Please, have a seat. Let me take your coat.”
She removed her coat and handed it to John before sitting down. She pointed at the skull and smiled. “That’s an interesting decoration.”
John had an unexpected flashback to his first time in the flat and smiled back. “Just one of the many curiosities around here, for sure. Tea? The kettle is about to boil.”
“Oh! Yes, please. That’s kind of you.”
Before John could ask if she wanted milk or sugar, Sherlock’s door opened. He braced himself; he had no idea which version of the man would make an appearance, but hoped it was the one he had missed very much in the past few weeks.
Sherlock strolled into the room. He was fully dressed, black suit perfectly pressed and crisp white (tight) shirt opened just so at the collar. Those poor buttons, John thought. He licked his lips before he caught himself.
“Sherlock, this is Maya Sutherland.”
Sherlock lowered himself gracefully into his chair. “Ms Sutherland.”
“Please, call me Maya.”
John nodded. “Right, good. I’ll get the tea. Maya, do you take milk and sugar?”
“Just black, thank you.”
John quickly prepared the three mugs of tea, not wanting to be gone too long in case he needed to run interference. The two of them were silent, Sherlock likely sizing the young woman up.
Sherlock was looking intently at Maya when John came back into the room, hands full with mugs of tea. She twisted her hands in her lap but was otherwise stoic in the face of his intense stare.
John handed her a cup and had a sudden vision of Molly when he first met her at Bart’s, a strange blend of bravado and insecurity. He wondered if Sherlock noticed that as well.
When he held out a cup for Sherlock, he raised an eyebrow at the man, as if to say, well, are we good? A corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up in response.
Maya took a sip of tea, then turned to Sherlock. “Mr Holmes, I hope you forgive my boldness for showing up uninvited.” Her tone was determined, if slightly nervous.
“I’ve been told you and I have a mutual acquaintance.” Sherlock’s tone was sharp.
“Yes,” nodded Maya. She took another sip and put down her cup. “I know that’s the only reason you’ve agreed to see me. I did email you, but never heard back. I had to try something else.”
“What is your connection with Sebastian Wilkes?” Sherlock cut right to it.
“He’s my stepfather, has been for almost three years.”
“Your stepfather?” John blurted. He couldn’t imagine it.
“I know how that must sound, but yes. He’s much younger than my mum.” She briefly grimaced. “He has no idea I’m here, if that matters. I just used his name because I hoped it would mean something to you. He has nothing to with this, Mr Holmes.”
Sherlock relaxed. It was minutely, but John picked up on it clear as day. He felt better as well, now that they knew Maya was not there because of or on behalf of Sebastian Wilkes.
“Call me Sherlock, please.” His earlier imperviousness was gone. He wasn’t entirely warm, but no longer frosty. “What is it you are hoping I can do for you?”
“I need you to find someone for me.”
“A missing person? Surely that is a case more suited for the Yard.”
“Oh no, I can’t go to the police, not with this.” She bit her lip. “I don’t think they’d take me seriously.”
“I know someone who will take you seriously and handle your inquiry with discretion. I can give you a name.”
Maya shook her head. “I appreciate that, I do, but I just can’t. I’ve read how you’ve helped people who have nowhere else to go. His blog—” she pointed at John—”is full of those stories.”
John bit back a grin. His blog was a constant source of irritation (and pride) for Sherlock, but even Sherlock couldn’t deny how many cases it brought to his door.
“Noted.” Sherlock sat back and steepled his hands under his chin. “Please, tell me everything from the start. Leave nothing out, even if you think it’s meaningless. Even the smallest detail can be of utmost importance.”
“Okay, um.” Maya hesitated. “I don’t know where to start.”
“How about a name? That’s always good.” There was a hint of impatience in Sherlock’s voice.
“His name is Hosmer. Hosmer Angel.”
Sherlock nodded, as if to say go on and hurry up about it.
Maya looked as if she was on the verge of some horribly dark confession. “We met three months ago. Online.” She blushed. “I’ve never been good at meeting people. Absolute pants at chatting up strangers. So, I signed up with a couple of dating websites and hoped maybe I’d have better luck that way.”
John hummed in encouragement before Sherlock said anything cutting. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with online dating, Maya. It’s worked well for lots of people.”
“That’s what I kept telling myself.” Her face brightened. “It didn’t go well at first, I wasn’t having much luck and was about to give up, but then I was matched with Hosmer. It felt like…I don’t know, fate or something.”
Sherlock coughed. John cut a look at him, silently willing him to keep his mouth shut.
“It did take a little while for us to really connect though. He was nice, but he didn’t seem super interested at first. He would send some flirty messages and then I wouldn’t hear from him for a while. It was fun getting those messages and flirting back. I wasn’t very good at it, but he definitely was.” She gave a self-deprecating laugh.
“It didn’t seem like it was going anywhere, but I felt like I needed to give him more time before I gave up. Then I had a low moment one night and just sort of ranted at him. I still live at home, see, and sometimes things are…not easy. He had sent another flirty message earlier that day and I don’t know, I thought he might listen. I needed that, someone to listen to me. After that, it was like a switch was flipped.”
Sherlock cleared his throat, but John spoke up first. “What do you mean a switch was flipped?”
“He finally seemed interested in getting to know me. Up to then, all our messages had been through the dating app, but then we exchanged emails. That’s when it got serious, pretty quickly. He was so easy to talk to, to confide in.”
“And then you met in person, I assume?” John didn’t want to rush Maya, but he knew Sherlock’s limited patience would only last so long.
Maya hesitated and her cheeks flushed with sudden embarrassment. “Um, we’ve not met in person yet. We haven’t even talked on the phone, just emails.”
“No phone calls?” Sherlock finally spoke up.
Maya looked down and twisted her hands some more. “No, he said he hated talking on the phone. It’s been a little disappointing, but I don’t like making calls either. I get anxious, so I understand.”
“Did you talk about meeting up?” John asked.
“We did make plans, about a month ago. He suggested Gasfitters, in Leicester Square. I hadn’t told him, but it’s one of the few pubs I do like to go out to. I took it as another sign we were a good match. I was excited! Nervous too, but happy to see him. I just knew we’d get along as well in person as we did online.
“I was early, I’m always early. I didn’t want to seem too eager, but at this point we’d become quite close—or so I thought—and yeah…I was excited. I waited outside, but he didn’t show up. I thought maybe he’d gotten there early too and was already inside waiting for me, so I went in to look for him.”
“I take it you didn’t find him,” said John, gently. He knew the answer. So did Sherlock, given the look on his face.
“I walked around probably three times at least. I’m sure I looked like a creep, staring at every man in there, but it was dark. I wasn’t sure if I’d recognise him from his photo, since the only one I had was sort of blurry. I didn’t see him.” She sighed. “I haven’t heard from him since. No messages, no emails. I can’t imagine him just disappearing without an explanation. Something must have happened.”
Sherlock had been quiet for most of Maya’s story, letting John take the lead questioning her, but now he leaned forward. “I assume you still have his photo. Show it to me, please.”
“Oh, okay.” Maya pulled her phone out of her handbag. After a few moments, she handed it over to Sherlock. “This is the only photo I have. It's from his profile.”
Sherlock took her phone. His gaze narrowed as he studied the photo. With the slightest shake of his head, he handed it back to Maya. “How do you know Hosmer is who he says he is? He gave you a blurry photo, wouldn’t talk to you on the phone or meet you in person. Did you look him up? Where does he work? Did he say where he lived?”
Maya blinked at the barrage of questions. “He does a lot of temporary work, was at a shop on Leadenhall Street. He told me he’s been staying with friends.”
“Internet relationships are often built on lies. It sounds like that is likely the case here, which is unfortunate for you. What are you wanting me to do, hunt him down and give him a scolding for standing you up?”
“Sherlock!” hissed John.
Maya’s eyes filled with unshed tears. “He’s real, he is! The things he said, I know he means them. I just want to be sure he’s okay, that nothing terrible happened to make him disappear so suddenly.”
Sherlock shook his head. “No. You’ve left something out, Maya. Something rather important. What is it?”
“Oh god. How can you tell?”
“It’s what I do,” said Sherlock, more gently. “I can’t help you if I don’t know everything.”
Maya tilted her head back and closed her eyes. “You won’t understand.”
“What did you do, Maya?” John leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
“I gave him money. He owed large personal debt and was in a state over it. He was so thankful and said that I helped him out of a really bad situation. I was happy to do it, honestly I was! I just wanted him to be safe.”
“How many times did you send him money?” Sherlock didn’t hide his incredulity.
“Just the once,” she said, her voice tinged with defiance.
“And then what happened?”
“We made those plans to meet, but I already told you about that. He stopped emailing, hasn’t responded to my messages.”
John was afraid to ask. “How much money did you give him?”
She swallowed, visibly distressed. “You must understand, I had it to give. There’s a trust from my uncle. I get a small amount every month, have done for years.”
Sherlock repeated John’s question. “How much did you give Hosmer?”
“£5,000.”
John’s eyes widened.
“You don’t have to say it, I can see it all over both of your faces. Oh god. I don’t even care about the money, that’s the least of it. I’ll save it up again. I just want to know that he’s real, that he’s okay, and that he really cares about me.” She deflated. “That he cared.”
“Out of curiosity, the night you said everything changed, do you remember what you told him?”
Maya blinked at Sherlock’s sudden change of subject. So did John, but he was curious as well.
“I’d had an ugly fight with my mum, so I vented to him about it.”
“What was the fight about?”
“I told mum I wanted to take an advance against the trust so that I could move out. I’ve been saving for ages, but it’s taking so long to have enough for a deposit. Most of the interest income I get from the trust goes to mum and Sebastian for room and board. I also do data entry for an insurance company, but the pay isn’t that much.”
“What was her response?” Sherlock asked.
“She wasn’t happy at all, said that I wasn’t ready to move out if I didn’t already have the money. She even got Sebastian involved, since he knows about these things. He agreed with her. Told me it would be a poor financial move and that I needed to leave the trust alone. I thought it was ridiculous of them. I mean, don’t they want me out of their house? I told Hosmer that I felt trapped, that I was being treated like a child and wasn’t ever going to get out on my own.”
“Did you mention your trust?”
“I did. Didn’t think anything of it.”
John cut a glance at Sherlock and wondered where he was going with his questions. He looked back at Maya. “How did your mom and Sebastian meet?”
“My father owned a plumbing business and did quite well with it. When he passed four years ago, mum had a lot to sort out with his estate. I think her attorney knew Sebastian and referred her to him; he convinced her to sell her share of the business and invest it. She agreed and he managed all of that for her. I suppose they fell in love at some point; they got married about three years ago.”
“How did you feel about all that at the time?” John had his own thoughts but wanted to know Maya’s.
“It was all quite soon after father died. Maybe too soon. She was lonely though, I know, and used to having someone take care of her. He’s 15 years younger than her. Only five years older than me. It’s all a bit weird, to be honest, but I just want her to be happy.”
“You’ve been paying them rent?” Sherlock asked.
“Yes, Sebastian insisted. I don’t mind, really. I should contribute if I’m living there.”
“How do you and Sebastian get along?”
“Um, okay, I guess.” Maya paused for a moment. “He left me alone for a long time; it’s awkward, being so close in age, but over the past year he’s been more involved, has a lot more opinions about how I should live my life. He’s been most insistent that I am needed more at home.”
“Your money certainly is,” muttered Sherlock.
“What?” Maya looked at Sherlock, confused.
Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. “Do your mother and Sebastian know about Hosmer?”
“Not much. I mentioned trying online dating to mum and she thought it was silly, said I was fooling myself if I thought I’d meet someone that way. She told Sebastian and he thought I was wasting my time too.”
Sherlock sat forward in his chair. “How did you learn of my connection with Sebastian?”
“It was about a month ago. There was a story on the news that got him all worked up, something about a smuggling ring and a jade pin? He was bragging that he knew all about the real story and how it was all because he had hired you.” She faltered. “He was bragging, really. Said that you never could say no to him and that you needed the money. I looked you up after that.”
John flushed and bit his lip. He had suspected his own money worries were a big part of why Sherlock agreed to help Sebastian.
Sherlock looked over at John, seemingly aware of what he was thinking. He quirked a smile at him and then said to Maya, “I’ll take the case.”
Maya lit up. “You will? Oh, that’s lovely. Thank you!”
“I need a copy of that photo. His email address, as well. I’d also like to know exactly what he said when he asked for money and how you sent it to him. I trust you still have my email.”
“I’ll send all of that to you when I get back home.”
“Do your mother and Sebastian know you were going to contact me?”
“No, I didn’t want to say anything after they laughed about Hosmer.”
“Good, don’t tell them. I’ll be in touch shortly.” At that, Sherlock stood and walked out of the room, leaving Maya looking a bit dazed.
“Yeah, he’s always like that.” John stood as well and brought Maya’s coat to her.
"He's really going to find Hosmer?" Her eyes welled up again.
“Try not to worry; you’re in good hands now. Come on, I’ll show you out.”
John came back into the sitting room a few minutes later to find Sherlock back on the couch and typing on his laptop. He was still in his trousers and white shirt, but had traded his jacket for his dressing gown.
Sherlock turned to John and pulled a face. “Hosmer? Really?”
John snorted. “Oh, do go on, Sherlock.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s a made-up name. For a made-up person. Obviously.”
“’Obviously.’” John cheeked. “Solved it already, then? That might be a record even for you.”
Sherlock continued to type. “Well, I am brilliant, as you are quite fond of pointing out. However, it doesn’t take genius to know there’s nothing real about Hosmer Angel. Even Anderson would realise that.” He looked up. “Or maybe not.”
“You surprised me,” said John.
“And how did I do that?”
“You took the case.”
“I’m a consulting detective, that’s what I do. I take cases. You’ve been rather vocal as of late about the lack of them.”
“That’s right, I have. Because you’ve not been taking cases. None. In weeks. So why this one? It’s barely a 2 on your scale.”
“Like you said, I’ve had nothing on. So why not.”
“But online dating fraud? Lestrade has been after you for weeks- probably has a nice murder or two for you. Have you even checked your email?” John knew he was getting louder, his pent-up irritation finally leaking out.
“I was checking them. Some, anyway. None had any features of interest.” Sherlock set aside his laptop. “What’s this all about, John?”
“Why haven’t you been taking cases, Sherlock? You can’t even be bothered to leave the flat. You’ve just been rotting on the sofa. Has everything really been that boring now that Moriarty has fucked off into the shadows?”
There was a flash of hurt across Sherlock’s face. John felt a fleeting stab of regret but pressed on. “I specifically recall you saying just before Maya walked through the door that romantic entanglements are tedious and a waste of your time. So yes, I want to know why this case and why now.”
“Why not? You should be happy that I care.” Sherlock’s expression was cool.
Fuck. John knew he needed to back off. “Did you know Sebastian was married?”
Sherlock looked as if there was more he wanted to say, but he acquiesced to the change of subject. “I wondered. He wasn’t wearing a ring, but then he never was one for outward displays of commitment. Well, commitment in general.” He scoffed. “He did have what looked like a small, dusty wedding photo tucked away on a shelf and partially obscured by a dead plant. There were no other photos that I saw. I assumed if he was married, it wasn’t happily.”
“He didn’t strike me as the family type either.”
Sherlock huffed out a small laugh. “No, Seb was never one to settle down. His first loyalty has always been to himself.”
“Now that I can believe.” If Sebastian was this much of a prick now, John could only imagine what he was like back in uni. He wanted to ask Sherlock about those days but wasn’t sure Sherlock would be receptive. Still, there was no harm in trying.
“How did you two even become friends? I’m having a hard time picturing that.”
“Despite accusations to the contrary, I have been capable of making friends.”
“You berk, you know that’s not what I meant.”
“We were both in the fencing club.” Sherlock fiddled with the loose belt of his dressing gown. “He was quite good, actually. I was impressed. At first, anyway.”
“Fencing? Why am I not surprised, posh boy.” He shook his head and smiled. “Now that I would pay good money to see, you and Sebastian trying to stab each other.” The uniform would just be a bonus.
Sherlock snickered, then turned serious, the brief walk down memory lane plainly over. “How do you feel about meeting up with Sebastian?”
“Why the hell would I do that?”
“You really don’t like him, do you?”
“Wilkes? No, Sherlock, I really don’t.” John inwardly sighed. This was something else they’d never talked about, Sebastian’s smug superiority when they first met. He was condescending to them both, despite his veneer of false charm, but he was especially vicious to Sherlock. John wouldn’t forget that, no.
Sherlock pursed his lips. “Well, get over it. I’d like you to meet him.”
“Ugh, Sherlock. I don’t want to.” John wondered if he should stamp his foot for emphasis.
“Tell him you’re looking to write up the case for your blog and want to follow up on some details.”
“If there’s something you want to get out of him, you’ll be better at it than me.”
“You are more than capable of obtaining information. You’ll be fine.”
“But why me? He barely acknowledged my presence.”
“Oh, he noticed you.”
John raised an eyebrow. “Not sure I buy that. He said less than a dozen words to me over three visits.”
“Believe me, he sized you up. If he had any sense at all—which he doesn’t—he’d have found himself lacking.”
John laughed. “Oh my god, Sherlock. The man makes at least five times what I do as a GP. I have nothing on him.”
“Only integrity, strength of conviction, and a moral standard not rooted below ground.”
John had no idea how to respond to that, so he didn’t. “But why meet him? What’s the point?”
“Consider it reconnaissance, more than tangentially related to our case.”
Our case. John liked the sound of that. But still. Spending time with Sebastian, ugh.
“So you’ll throw me to the wolves here?”
“He’ll be more relaxed around you, more likely to let his guard down. He assumes you’re not as clever as I am. He’s right, of course, but you are more perceptive than he knows.”
“Nice, thanks for that.”
“I put his back up too much. If it’s me, he won’t divulge much of interest. He’ll know I’m not there to chat and will suspect it’s for something else. He’ll try to distract me by rehashing our time at uni, and I’m absolutely not interested in that.”
John pointed at Sherlock. “I know that look. You’re not telling me something I should know. What does he have to do with the case? What are you thinking here?”
Sherlock ignored his questions. “Will you get in touch with him, set something up?”
“You know I will, Sherlock, even if I don’t understand why.”
“Good.” He paused. “Thank you, John. I do have my reasons.”
“Fine, Sherlock. Fucking hell. You owe me. So much.”
Sherlock smiled, his real one with the chins that John secretly adored. “I know, John. Thank you. Truly.”
Two day later, John found himself in front of a pub near the Shad Sanderson offices. It wasn’t one he’d been to before, and based on first impressions, not one he’d be coming back to. It was clearly a bar for bankers and businessmen and those more concerned with making a deal than taking a break, nothing like the cosy workaday pubs he preferred.
Needs must. At the very least, he’d get a pint out of it.
Taking a deep breath for fortification, John pulled the glass and metal door open. Inside, it was sleek and shiny, everything from the lights fixtures down to the floor in shades of metal grey. Monotonous. Boring, as Sherlock liked to say.
It was happy hour and the pub was packed with young professionals in fancy suits that likely cost more than he made in three months. He’d come straight from the clinic and his own work outfit of cardigan and trousers probably looked shabby in comparison. He wasn’t bothered; there was no one here he cared to impress. If it meant another excuse for Wilkes to underestimate him, well that was even better.
John scanned the sea of dark suits and glossy hair for Sebastian, hoping he had the good sense to grab a spot along the edge of the noisy throng. After a minute, he spotted him seated at the bar on the far side of the pub. Sebastian was focused on a young woman sitting a few seats down at the bar. John could see him lift his drink in her direction as the bartender put down a drink in front of her.
John clenched his jaw. Lovely. The things he did for Sherlock Holmes. He weaved his way through the post-work crowd and stopped next to the empty stool by Sebastian. He was curious how long it would take the man to notice him.
It didn’t take long; moments after John arrived at the bar, a young man brushed by him and pulled up in front of the woman. They kissed and he wrapped a proprietary arm around her. She gave Sebastian a slight shrug and one more bright smile, then turned to her companion.
Sebastian smiled in feigned resignation when he finally saw John. “Ah well, you win some and you lose some, right?” He stuck out his hand. “Good to see you again, John.”
John highly doubted that but shook his hand. “Sebastian.”
“Sit, sit!” Sebastian gestured at the empty stool. “Come have a drink with me. I know you’re here on official business, but there’s always time for a drink, yes?”
John hoisted himself up on the stool. He ordered a pint of bitter from the bartender, hoping it would make this ridiculous situation easier. “I appreciate you making time for me. I know you’re a busy man.”
“Anytime, anytime. Thanks for agreeing to meet here instead of at my office. More relaxing, right?” Sebastian’s eyes cut back over to the woman he was making eyes at earlier. “I gotta say, John, I’m a little confused why you wanted to meet. I’m not sure what more I can tell you about the break-in or Eddie Van Coon.”
“Just cleaning up some odds and ends, making sure I have all the details down right.”
“Oh yeah, you’ve got that little blog thing you do, yeah?”
John grit his teeth, his smile strained. “Yeah, that little blog thing.”
“I checked that out, you know. Wanted to see what you and Sherlock have been up to. He’s got a good gig going on with his detective stuff, doesn’t he?”
John nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He willed the bartender to pour his pint faster.
“I have to say, I find it rather strange that you two are roommates.”
“Why’s that?” John nodded at the bartender as he set down a pint. He took a sip to keep his mouth and hands occupied from doing something that could get him tossed out.
“Didn’t I read you’re a doctor? Maybe that doesn’t pay as much as I thought. Are you a surgeon?”
“GP, actually, and quite good at it.” John sniffed.
“Only a GP? Ahh, I see. Think about it, though! Two grown men living as flatmates?”
“Not sure what the problem is here.”
“I dunno, mate. It’s a bit weird if you ask me.”
“Well, mate, it’s worked out well so far. It’s been a long time since you’ve known him.”
“I think I know him pretty well. Back in the day, he was impossible. Always sniffing something out, our Sherlock. Could never be still either, you know? The way he was bobbing up and down all over the office, the boys are still talking about it. Tell me, how the fuck do you live with that every day?”
“Come again?” John’s smile verged on dangerous. Sebastian didn’t clock it (Sherlock would have). He took another long swallow of bitter.
“Living with someone who doesn’t let you keep a goddamn thing to yourself. His little party tricks…always having to throw someone’s deepest secrets back in their face.”
“Yeah, you mentioned that when we first met. I take it you didn’t like his ‘party tricks’ back then.”
“Oh god no. I mean, sometimes there was a juicy bit of gossip to chew on with the lads but mostly he was a total mood killer.”
John drained the last of his pint. That was quick. He wasn’t sure how much more he could handle.
“Another one?” Sebastian tilted his empty pint glass towards John’s. “
John nodded. He didn’t know exactly what Sherlock wanted him to get from Sebastian, but he knew it wasn’t what he’d heard so far. Just petty insults on his profession and living situation. He didn’t want to spend a second more in Sebastian’s presence but didn’t want to leave until he knew he had what he came for.
He thought back to meeting Sebastian for the first time, how transparent the man was in his disdain and how he tried to get John on his side from the start. He needed to change his approach. Antagonising Sebastian wasn’t going to get him anywhere but playing on the man’s ego just might. Time for a bit of gumption on his part.
“Well, like I said earlier, I really could use your help.” John pulled his fresh pint in and leaned closer to Sebastian. “You seem like a man who knows a lot about human nature, yeah?”
Sebastian puffed up at the flattery. “I like to think I am very good with people. Have to be, in my line of work. Money and emotions are hard to separate for most people.”
Well, that was true. John had to give him a point for that.
“It’s all an act, though, isn’t it? Knowing how to play people, finding the right persona to get what you want from them.” Sebastian threw a conspiratorial grin at John.
Hmm. Sherlock did the same but in pursuit of the truth, not self gain. So, nope. No point for Sebastian after all. Still, John forged ahead.
“That’s exactly why I was hoping to chat with you about that case. I want to write it up for my blog, but I’m having a hard time filling out the human angle. You know how Sherlock is; people are just puzzles for him to solve. He’s of no use when it comes to the personal side of things. Too focused on his…party tricks.”
“Damn straight he is. Glad you’re not completely dazzled by him.” He polished off his beer and motioned at the bartender for yet another round.
“Me? Nah. I mean, he’s brilliant, no question. Just not always easy to be around.” Now that was the truth, but not the way Sebastian was likely to take it. “Enough about Sherlock, though. You’re the man I need to hear from. What can you tell me about Edward Van Coon?”
“Eds was up to some shady stuff, the sly dog. He was a smart one, wheeling and dealing like he did. I was impressed! Thought maybe he’d let me in on his secret.” He started to gesticulate a bit more, the beer loosening him up. “Good old Eddie.”
John schooled his expression into one of sympathy. “What a shame, that whole business. I assume his role in the smuggling ring came as a shock.”
“Oh, I don’t think it was to everyone.” He covered his hand in an exaggerated show of dismay. “I’ve said too much already, haven’t I? Official Secrets Act and all. He was a great bloke though, always up for a good time.”
John nodded in commiseration. “I understand. Wouldn’t want to get you in trouble now, would I?”
A shadow of guilt flashed over Sebastian’s face. Before John could say more, however, Sebastian loudly ordered more pints. John had barely touched his last one, but Sebastian didn’t seem to care.
“She’s cute, eh?” John lifted his chin in the direction of the woman Sebastian had been ogling earlier.
“She is, she is. This place is always good for the scenery,” Sebastian chuckled.
“Yeah? I take it you come here often then. Any luck?”
Sebastian shrugged, going for sheepish but landing on smug.
“Looking to get settled down, are you?”
“Heh,” he wriggled his left hand in the air. “Can’t tell, but I’m a married man. Got to be careful now, don’t I?
“Married, huh? Guess that makes you off the market then.”
“Now, now, I always like to keep a hand in. Can’t get too rusty, can I?”
John forced out a chummy laugh. “How long now?”
“Going on three years. The wife is a bit older, doesn’t like to go out as much. Good thing she’s rich, eh?”
“God forbid you stay in together, right?”
“There’s no fun in that. I’m still young, you know. Still plenty virile. Can’t let that go to waste,” he leered.
“Shudder to think! I take it you have your diversions?” John tried his best to look interested, not disgusted. He continued to sip at his beer.
“The internet is a marvelous thing! You can meet a lot of interesting people that way.” He winked at John.
“Oh? That’s worked for you, then?”
“There are tons of apps out there. Tinder, Match…if you’re looking for an easy hookup, that’s the way to go. Most women will believe anything you tell them. Even give you money if the story’s good enough.”
John made a point of looking at his phone. “What do you know, it’s time for me to go!”
Sebastian didn’t look too disappointed; in fact, he was already looking around the pub. Whether for a fellow banker or another available woman, John didn’t care. They were all marks to him.
He finally understood why Sherlock wanted him to meet with Sebastian. Time for his parting shot.
“Oh, that reminds me! Sherlock’s not the only mutual acquaintance we have. We met your stepdaughter recently. Small world, eh?”
Sebastian jerked and some of his drink spilled over. He coughed. “Maya? You know Maya Sutherland?”
“That’s the one!” John pointed at Sebastian in emphasis. “She came by Baker Street the other day and convinced Sherlock to take her case. Something about a man she met online. She even gave him money, can you believe it? Like you said, some women will fall for any story.”
Sebastian swallowed hard. “Oh, I think I know what this is about. What a silly woman. She’s all worked up about some guy from the internet who stood her up. A waste of time, I told her, and she’s made it a waste of yours.”
Stood her up. Interesting, thought John. Maya hadn't told her mum and Sebastian about that. “Sherlock doesn’t agree, thinks there’s something there to dig his teeth into. He was especially keen when he saw the man’s photo.” John shrugged. “You know how he is with secrets; he won’t let go until he gets to the bottom of one. It’s amazing to watch. He’s amazing, yeah?”
John tipped his glass at Sebastian and drank down the last of his bitter. He slid off his stool and smoothed out his jacket. “Thanks again for the drinks. They were…illuminating.” He threw a mock salute and left Sebastian staring after him as he walked out of the pub.
Fucking wanker.
Mrs Hudson was dusting in the hallway when John came home. “Hullo, dear! Don’t mind me, I meant to take care of this before now, but the day got away from me.”
“I know how that goes. Don’t do too much tonight, though. It’ll be there tomorrow.”
“It always is,” she said with a good-natured smile. “Did you have a nice time out at the pubs?”
John blinked. “Don’t tell me you have Sherlock’s powers of observation now, Mrs Hudson. I don’t think the world can handle two deductive geniuses!”
She giggled and straightened her apron. “Oh, I agree. One is plenty enough.” She shook out her dust rag. “No, he told me when I brought up some scones earlier. Said you were out, helping him on that young woman’s case. He was quite pleased, too! I was happy to hear it, she sounded desperate for help and he’s been so melancholy with nothing to do.”
“It’s been quiet, yeah.”
“It’s good to see you two on a case again, especially after all that nasty business with James Moriarty. Sherlock relies on you so.”
John nodded. “I’m glad to be of use.”
“You always are, you know. Himself might not say it, but I will.”
“Sometimes—well, a lot of the time, really—I don’t feel like I do a damn thing except run errands he can’t be bothered to.”
“No, no…that’s not true at all. He’s been out of sorts lately, both of you have. Neither one of you does well when you’re not working together. It’ll get better now and don’t you tell me any different, John Watson. I might not be Sherlock Holmes, but I see more than you know.”
“You’re a gem, Mrs Hudson.”
She touched his arm lightly. “Go on up, now. You look tired.”
John laid his hand on top of hers for a moment and then turned to go up the stairs. Mrs Hudson was right. Between his shift at the clinic and his conversation with Sebastian Wilkes, he was exhausted.
The flat was dark when he entered. He flipped on a lamp and saw Sherlock’s laptop on the coffee table, but the man himself was not in the flat. He took off his coat and shivered. A fire was called for, maybe another drink as well. He hoped Sherlock would be back soon.
John was in his chair nursing a tumbler of whisky when Sherlock came home an hour later. The light was muted, the room lit by only a lamp and the crackling fire.
Sherlock was quiet when he came in, his usual whirlwind of activity when he was in the middle of a case nowhere to be seen. He didn’t say anything as he hung up his coat or when he took his keys and wallet out of his pocket and placed them on the little table near the door.
He walked over to the fireplace and stood there for a moment. He stuck his hands out closer to the flames and rubbed them together for warmth.
“Cold out there?” John put down his drink.
Sherlock nodded and looked over at John. “Pour me one?”
“Sure. Sit down, take it easy.” He pointed at Sherlock’s chair. “You left the flat. That has to take a toll.”
Sherlock flipped two fingers at John, who laughed and got up to get him a drink.
When he came back into the sitting room, Sherlock was in his chair, staring at the fire. A mirror image of John earlier.
“I can’t remember the last time you went out.” John handed Sherlock a glass with a generous pour and settled back into his chair.
“Haven’t had any reason too.” Sherlock sipped his drink and made a face. “Cheap. Your lack of discernment concerns me.”
“Better than no whisky, I’ll remind you.”
Sherlock huffed a laugh.
“How was the outside world, other than cold? What were you up to?”
“Following up on some things.” Sherlock stretched out his legs and toed off his shoes. “Took a long walk too.”
John nodded, but Sherlock didn’t elaborate.
The warmth of the fire and the whisky lulled them both into silence.
Sherlock ran his finger around the rim of his tumbler as he watched the fire. John took advantage of the rare opportunity to stare freely at him. He watched the flicker of flames dance across Sherlock’s sharp cheekbones and highlight his dark curls. That face. He never imagined becoming so attached to another person, especially in a few short months, but here he was. An almost overwhelming rush of fondness (desire) washed over him. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift.
He was about to doze off when Sherlock spoke up.
“How was dear Seb? In fine form as usual, I would guess.”
The question startled John awake. He stretched out his arms and cracked his neck. “You never guess.”
Sherlock hummed and took another swallow of whisky. “I never guess.”
“He was trying to pick up a young woman when I got there, if that tells you anything.”
“Same old Seb.”
“You were right, though. He really doesn’t think much of me.”
“Did he insult you?”
“Not directly, but I could read between the lines. He doesn’t have the highest opinion of a GP with a flatmate.”
Sherlock barked out a laugh. “You don’t want to be someone he’s impressed with, trust me.”
“I am more than happy to agree with you on that. So.” John slouched back in his chair. “Tell me what made you suspect Sebastian is Hosmer?”
Sherlock’s shock made something burn deep in John’s belly.
“I mean, that’s where this is going, right? Because it was obvious to me after seeing him tonight, but you knew it could be him right from the start.”
A slow grin spread across Sherlock’s face. “Obvious?”
John grinned back. “Obvious. Dazzle me, genius.”
Sherlock set down his drink and leaned towards John, who couldn’t help but sit up and lean towards him too. The game was back on.
“Maya’s photo of Hosmer. He’s got a flat cap and sunglasses on, and the photo is taken directly in the sunlight. It’s overexposed, blurry. It doesn’t strike me as the type of photo you give out if you’re on the pull for real.”
“Okay, but that could have been a random photo pulled off the internet.”
Sherlock pulled out his phone. He pulled up the photo and held it out to John. “The nose says otherwise. Tell me, though, what do you see on his jacket?”
John took the phone and held it closer. “Hard to tell, but looks like a pin of some sort.”
“Look at the next photo.”
John swiped. It appeared to be a drawing of some sort of creature on a blue background and outlined in white. “What is that…a dragon?”
“It’s a lion, actually. The symbol for the Cambridge Amateur Dramatic Club. Take another look at Hosmer’s photo.”
John swiped back. “It could be the same pin.”
“I believe it is. Sebastian was very involved with the group. As good as he was at fencing, he even better in theatre. Comedy, drama, improve…he excelled at all of it.”
“But that doesn’t prove the photo is him.” He handed the phone back to Sherlock.
“No, it doesn’t, but it made me question the rest of Maya’s story.” He set his phone aside. “She is matched with Hosmer, who—‘flirty’ messages aside—doesn’t give her the time of day. Not until she has a moment of weakness—“
“Vulnerability,” John interjected.
Sherlock waved that away. “A moment, and tells Hosmer about the fight with her mum and stepdad. About wanting to move out. About her trust funds. It’s at that point he takes real notice of her for the first time and the act begins. He uses the information he has to effectively court her, like knowing her favorite pub without her saying anything. Maya just happened to be naïve enough and gullible enough to fall for his well-practised bullshit. He’s able to play on her emotions so successfully that she depletes her own savings to help him and doesn’t question it. When he stands her up, her first thought is concern for him, not anger over what he’s done to her.”
John grimaced. “What I don’t understand is why he would do something so awful to his own stepdaughter.”
“He didn’t know it was her at first. If he is true to form, Sebastian has several accounts with various dating sites. He was always on the prowl back at uni. If he wasn’t looking online, he was trawling the clubs. Honing his acting skills on anyone who would give him a second glance. Getting them to buy him drinks…even give him money.” Sherlock looked away. “It’s funny the things you agree to when you’re flattered enough.”
John’s eyes narrowed at that. “There’s a story there. You and Sebastian. I’m not asking you to tell me now, but someday I’d like to hear it. Besides, I did say you owed me big time for making me spend any amount of time in that arsehole’s presence.”
“Noted, John. I won’t forget.” Sherlock tilted his head in acknowledgment (relief) for the reprieve.
John circled back to the case. “So why would he keep it going? Why not just walk away once he realised who Maya was?”
“You heard what she said, she’s been turning over the majority of her money every month to her mother and Sebastian. In fact, the amount went up once he came into the picture. He and her mother must be relying on that trust money more than she knows. By convincing her to give him money as Hosmer, he effectively kneecapped her efforts to move out.”
“What a bastard,” muttered John.
“Of course, none of this can be completely proven. I’ve made some inquiries, however, and learned today that Seb was demoted just after the discovery of the smuggling ring. Shad Sanderson couldn’t prove he was involved, but apparently there was evidence of other errant behaviour and there,” Sherlock snapped his fingers, “went the fancy office.”
“Makes more sense now why he didn’t want to meet at the office.” John toyed with his tumbler, now empty.
“I assume the demotion came with a significant drop in pay as well. Maya didn’t mention it, so she must be unaware. It’s just more motivation for him—and possibly her mother—to get as much money from her as he can, all the while keeping up a façade and preserving his ego.” Sherlock tossed his own empty glass from hand to hand, then stood.
“God, what a mess. What are you going to tell Maya?” He watched Sherlock go into the kitchen to grab the bottle of whisky on the counter.
“The truth. She can do with it what she will. I’ll also pass along the name of a solicitor who works with trusts, as well as that of an estate agent. Both owe me favours. Naivety aside, Maya is a smart woman. She’ll make the right decisions for herself.”
Sherlock came out with the whisky and poured John a fresh drink. He put the bottle on the floor next to his chair when he sat back down.
“Ta,” he said as he took a sip. “That’s good of you, Sherlock. I guess that means the case is officially over, then.”
“Are you disappointed? You sound disappointed. Why are you disappointed?” Sherlock reached out and tapped his shoeless foot against John’s knee. “We solved the case!”
“But I didn’t get to punch Sebastian out,“ John whined, only half joking.
Sherlock cackled. “While I understand the sentiment, I thought you’d appreciate the lack of physical violence, especially after…everything.”
“Hmmm, true, true.”
Sherlock cocked his head. “All is not lost. You did tell Sebastian you are writing up the case for your blog, yes?” He paused, then continued at John’s nod. “Well, I do believe you have a good story to share. Explicitly. In great detail.”
John snickered. “I’m sure I can work the demotion in somehow.”
“I trust you’ll find a way, John.” Sherlock’s smile was fond. “You always do.”
“I only wish I could be a fly on the wall when Maya reads your email. Poor girl. I wonder if she’ll give online dating another try.”
“Chances are she won’t run into another Hosmer.”
“Perish the thought! I doubt she’ll be rushing to make another love match anytime soon.”
“What about you?" Sherlock rested his chin in his hand. "Think you might try your hand at it?”
“What, online dating? Oh God no. I wouldn’t even know where to start. Besides, I don’t photograph well. Can never find my best side.” He drank some more whisky. “Oh, maybe I could trouble Sebastian for some tips, possibly borrow his cap?”
Sherlock snorted. “I think ‘Three Continents’ Watson would have more than enough success without any outside assistance.”
“Ugh, stop. I’ll never forgive Murray for telling you about that stupid nickname. But seriously, no. I’m not interested in that, in looking online. I think…I think I’d like to pursue options a little closer to home.” He braved a look at Sherlock and found him, for lack of a better word, gazing at him.
He took in Sherlock’s expression, softened by the alcohol and the glow from the fire. And affection. There was clear affection. That sudden wave of emotion from earlier was back and stronger this time.
"Closer to home? Could be dangerous..." Sherlock's voice was gentle, tentative.
John coughed. Partly out of surprise at hearing those familiar words, but mostly to keep himself from blurting out anything else. He didn't want to give away too much. Not just yet.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow as if he could read John’s mind. “Okay there?”
“Yeah, yeah. Put another log on the fire, will you? It’s starting to die down.”
“Not ready to call it a night?” Sherlock did as John asked and added wood to the fire.
“I’m not. This has been nice. I’ve missed this, hashing out our cases and just…talking.”
“We have been talking, John. Quite a lot, in fact.”
“Prat. You know what I mean. This is the most we’ve said to each other in weeks. Weeks, Sherlock.”
“I did tell you I could go days on end without talking.” Sherlock wouldn’t tear his gaze away from the fire.”
“Nope, that’s not what this was, and you know it. What was this past month all about? The lack of cases, the lack of…anything, really?”
“I was tired. You even said it at one point, that we had been going nonstop and had barely stopped to take a breath. Well, I decided to stop. To breathe.” He rubbed his temple. “I thought you would be happy about that.”
“Happy to take a break? Of course I was! I was exhausted too. But it was more than that, wasn’t it? You stopped everything. Taking cases, leaving the flat, getting dressed…treating me like anything other than an irritation.” He bit the inside of his cheek to stop from saying more.
“You’ve been having nightmares again.”
John blinked. Leave it to Sherlock to cut right to the chase.
“You had them when you first moved in, but they eventually stopped. They didn’t come back until Moriarty strapped you in Semtex and paraded you out like a trophy.” He sucked in a breath. “It was all my fault.”
“What?” John sat forward. “No, Sherlock, no. That was all on Moriarty.”
“But it was. You were there because of me.” He shook his head. “So, I thought that all it would take for them to go away again, just a good break. From the cases, even from me.”
“God, Sherlock. I wish you would have said something sooner.”
Sherlock scowled. “Don’t put this all on me, John Watson. You could have said something too, you know.”
“I did try.” He threw his hands up in placation at Sherlock’s glare. “All right, stop. I know. I didn’t try very hard. I’m shite at this sort of thing.”
They glared at each other for a few moments until John broke down and laughed. “Jesus, we’re such a mess.”
“You think?” Sherlock was both amused and confused. He tapped John's knee with his foot once again, but this time left it resting there. “What do you propose, then?
John thought about the past month, of how he and Sherlock had wrapped themselves in a cocoon of restlessness and fear and misunderstanding that they were only beginning to shed. He thought of Maya Sutherland, trapped by her own timidity and meekness but soon to be armed with the tools to help her break free. Beautiful transformations awaited if they were brave enough to make them. Sherlock would scoff at the romanticism (and blame it on the alcohol, for which he wouldn’t exactly be wrong), but that was fine.
It was all fine.
They were going to be fine.
John beamed. He laid his hand on top of Sherlock's foot and gave it a soft squeeze. "There’s nothing to it. We just move forward and see what happens.”