Holmes Is Where The Heart Is 9/9

Mar 07, 2011 18:40




Sherlock couldn't get Harriet Watson out of his flat quickly enough. The woman seemed desperate for comfort; she kept asking Sherlock 'how long will it take' and 'do you have any idea of what may've happened' and 'Mr. Holmes, please tell me you think he's all right'.

Sherlock gave non-committal answers to each of her questions: 'I can't say for certain how long it will take, but I promise you that I'll give it my best efforts. I have numerous ideas of what may have happened to him; the problem now is finding the right one.'

"Miss Watson," Sherlock said, then cleared his throat. "Is it possible that your brother doesn't want to be found?"

Harriet looked appalled at the very notion. As she shook her head, she said, "No, Mr. Holmes. That isn't possible. He's a kind, caring man. He would never put our family through the hell that we're in right now. At least, not if he had a choice."

Sherlock nodded and tried to keep his face impassive. He handed Harriet a business card. "Very well. If you'll be so kind as to write your number on this, I'll contact you as soon as I get some information."

Harriet scribbled her phone number down on the card and handed it back to Sherlock, who stood up. She followed his lead. "So that's it?" she asked him. "But don't you-don't you want the names of his superior officers? The other men in his-"

Sherlock waved his hand to silence her. "That won't be necessary. I didn't become the world's only consulting detective for nothing. Thank you, Miss Watson. I'll be in touch."

The woman finally left. Sherlock slammed the door shut behind her and locked it, lest Mycroft try to make another house call. His eyes darted around the room for Phree. She wasn't in the living room, but no matter, he knew exactly where she'd be. He went into his room and picked up the black and white lump that had made his pillow her favorite spot in the house. Whenever he slept-it was a rare occurrence, he'd give her that-he had to brush the cat hair off his pillow.

Holding her in one arm, he carried the cat into the kitchen. He set her on the counter and pulled a dental pick out of one of the drawers. Gently, he lifted her front right paw and scraped at the small pink pad on the bottom of it.

A dusting of dirt settled onto the countertop. Sherlock did the same with the cat's other three paws, until there was a visible layer of dirt on the counter. He gently set Phree onto the floor and, with a knife, brushed the dirt into a glass vial and corked it. After pushing it carefully into his pocket, Sherlock wrapped his scarf around his neck and pulled his coat on over his shoulders. It wasn't currently snowing outside, but the newspaper had announced bitterly cold temperatures. Gloves, where were his gloves? He pat his coat pockets and found them, then pulled them onto his long, pale fingers.

He spun around and let his gaze skirt over the living room, just in case there was something blatantly obvious that he was forgetting-a rare occurrence, of course, but this was too important to take any chances.

He locked eyes with his skull. It stared up at him, as if telling him the obvious and immediate solution to his conundrum-call Mycroft.

"I'm not calling Mycroft," Sherlock retorted. "I won't give him the satisfaction."

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock was in the basement lab at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, bent over the lab counter. He was staring intently at the computer screen. He shook the mouse with more force than was necessary. Did it always take this long for the computer to load up? Was it frozen? His eyes darted around the room, despite the fact that he was well aware it was the only computer there.

"Not a good time to break on me, old friend," he said aloud, his soft, baritone voice impassive. "Come on, come on." He gave a small sigh of relief when the computer beeped and the login box appeared. "User ID, M Hooper sixteen. Password, kitten lover sixteen." He rolled his eyes; he had never, ever been able to accept the juvenility that surrounded Molly Hooper. She was a perfectly nice girl, intelligent, eager to help him in his cases, but also childish in some ways and madly in love with him.

Oh well. A smile and a wink, and she would give him whatever he asked for, whenever he asked for it.

"Hacking into the hospital computers now? You really have hit a new low."

Sherlock's hands clenched into tight fists. He didn't look up from the computer screen. "Twice in one day, Mycroft?" he spat. "You didn't get fired, did you?"

Gallingly, his older brother chuckled. Sherlock heard him coming towards him, the familiar shuffling of feet and the clicking of his umbrella against the tiled floor. He stood only a few inches behind Sherlock, just close enough to make it annoying, but didn't say or do anything. He just stood.

"Can I help you with something?" Sherlock asked, twisting around on his stool. "To be frank, I'm sick of you showing up, and on top of that, I'm sick of you. What do you want?"

Mycroft's lips were turned slightly downwards into a frown, and his face looked as serious and his eyes as alert as ever. "I want you to get off that computer and come with me," he told Sherlock.

Sherlock snorted. "I think not."

He heard Mycroft move, but he had turned back to the computer and couldn't tell exactly what he was doing, until a folded up piece of paper was held out to him.

"We'll see how you feel after you take a look at that."

Sherlock snatched the piece of paper out of Mycroft's hand, hoping to convey with the action how pissed off he was. His attitude soon changed, though, as he unfolded the paper and felt his stomach clench.

On the paper was a black and white picture of John, lying on the ground in the snow, his eyes closed and blackened, knees drawn up almost to his chest, his arms crossed. There were dark smudges on his face, either bruises or dirt; Sherlock couldn't tell.

"What…what is this?"

Now it was Mycroft's turn to be exasperated. "I know your skills of deduction are rubbish compared to mine, brother, but even you should be able to tell that it's John."

Sherlock slammed his fist onto the keyboard and lurched himself off the stool. "Take me to him," he demanded, locking eyes with his brother. He tried to ignore the anger that was now surging through his veins, and instead tried to focus on John. When Mycroft didn't move instantly, Sherlock barked, "NOW, Mycroft!"

Mycroft cocked his head coolly. "You're sure you don't want to find his location yourself?"

Sherlock pushed him out of the way and stormed out of the lab. He could hear Mycroft following behind him. There would be a car parked out front, he was sure of it, and that would be Mycroft's.

"What happened?"

Mycroft frowned. "He was attacked. By three hooligans."

"Why did you let it happen?" Sherlock snapped. "Why didn't you stop it?"

"I cannot keep track of every single camera in the circuit," Mycroft retorted as he closed the distance between Sherlock and himself. "I told the man to keep his eye on John, and he did."

"Fire him."

Mycroft shook his head. "I told him specifically not to interfere. How do you think John would have taken it if he knew that we were watching him?"

"He knows about the cameras, Mycroft."

"I meant watching him specifically."

The brothers were outside now. Sherlock heard the anticipated black car roar to life as they approached it. A woman stepped out of the front and opened the back door for them. Sherlock had seen her before, Marlene. At least, that was the name she'd given him. Mycroft, he noticed, called her Becky.

"You should have sent someone to him," Sherlock continued, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "I am revolted with your behavior."

Mycroft chuckled, again, and Sherlock felt his anger rising. "What?"

"You have always had a glorified impression of me," Mycroft said, staring hard at his brother. "Saying I am the British government, saying that I got Mum and Dad back together, saying that-"

"Your point, please," Sherlock interrupted. He said please, but there was nothing well-mannered about his tone.

"My point is that I'm already putting my arse on the line by having my men watch John on the cameras."

"So don't," Sherlock said with a shrug. "If you're not going to intervene when he's in trouble, why have them watch in the first place?"

"Do you really think John would have accepted help?" Mycroft asked. Before Sherlock could answer, he said, "Of course not. Of course not! Not from my men, and not from me. But he just might from you."

"Then why are you doing this? Watching him? If your whole purpose of it was just so that you could get me to spring to his rescue when he's in trouble, you've wasted your time."

I would have done it anyway.

/break\

John's head was spinning. Or was it the street? He couldn't tell. He wanted to stand up, but he couldn't even begin to remember how. His body was heavy, numb. He could still feel the world moving around him. He likened it to his childhood when he would spend the day at the amusement park riding on roller coasters, then go home that night and lie in bed and still feel the lurching motions every time he closed his eyes.

He wanted so badly to take a deep breath, but he couldn't. He was breathing shallowly now, and that was enough strain on his chest. Every breath felt like an iron rod was being shoved into his side. He closed his eyes and let his head limply drop to the ground, uninhibited.

Look at you now, Soldier Boy. You're finally going to get your greatest wish. You're finally going to get to die.

"John! John!"

"Doctor Watson!"

John wanted to laugh. Angels, he thought to himself. The fucking angels are here for me. Well it's about fucking time.

He felt two hands on his body, one on his bicep and one near his hipbone. They didn't linger there for too long though; instead, they roamed over his body, checking his bones for injuries.

"He's all right," he heard one of the angels say. "And by that I mean that none of his bones are broken."

Huh. That one sounds a little like Sherlock.

"Here, John," it said, and then he felt something heavy and warm being draped over his body. He felt two fingers being pressed to his carotid artery, gently but firmly.

"His heart rate is too slow," the other angel said. "Sherlock, his lips are blue."

"Yeah, Mycroft, I see that!"

Sherlock…Mycroft? They're not angels?

"Sherlock?" John tried to say, but all that came was a low moan. He felt a cool hand on his forehead, pushing back his sweaty bangs.

"Quiet, John," Sherlock said, patting him on the shoulder. "Just be quiet. It's okay. We'll get you back to the flat and fix you up, all right? Don't worry; you're going to be fine."

No.

"No, just leave me!" Again, John's words didn't come out as he intended. This time, instead of a moan, it sounded like he was whimpering.

"Mycroft, help me get him up."

He felt two arms gripping onto each of his and pulling him gently up and off the frozen ground. The change in orientation did no favors for him; his head felt like a massive brick had just landed on it, and John found that his neck could no longer support the weight. His head lolled forward and dropped onto his chest.

The Holmes brothers carried-well, dragged, to be precise-him to their car and helped him inside. He was sitting between them. Out of his peripheral vision, he could see that the one on his right had curly hair. Sherlock.

Again, Sherlock placed his hand on his forehead. The cool skin felt amazing when in contact with his own burning flesh, and he sighed in disappointment when Sherlock pulled away.

"He's burning up," he heard Sherlock mutter. "We barely made it in time. No thanks to you."

Mycroft snorted. "Sherlock, I told you, I did the best I could. As soon as I found out what had happened, I came and got you."

"Why didn't you just come and get him?"

"I told you; he wouldn't have come with me."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to scoff. "Right, because he definitely looks like he's in the position to be making demands."

Mycroft inhaled slowly. "I didn't realize how bad it was," he said softly. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but as you know, I have more on my plate than looking after the pets that you've outgrown."

Sherlock didn't respond immediately. After a few seconds of silence, Mycroft said, "I'm glad you've found someone."

Sherlock turned his head to stare at his brother. "Excuse me?"

"Someone you actually give a damn about," Mycroft clarified. "It only took you thirty-three years."

"Who says I care about him?"

"Well, you do, obviously. Not in words, you know, but your actions. He's the first person you were willing to peruse the streets of London for."

"I was not going to peruse the streets of London."

"Sherlock, you would have a plethora of dirt sources from that cat's paws. And I know you; you would've searched until you found him, starting with the areas closest to where you first met him and then stretching out. Give me a little credit."

"I thought you said I gave you too much."

Mycroft smirked, and Sherlock did, too. But John didn't see any of this. He had passed out soon after Sherlock removed his hand from his forehead.

/break\

When John awoke, he found himself in the familiar quarters of 221B Baker Street. He was stretched out on the sofa, covered with two blankets, one of which was electric. A fire was roaring in the fireplace and the embers were crackling and popping like it was nobody's business.

After two unsuccessful attempts, John managed to push himself up so he was leaning against the arm of the couch. Mycroft was sitting in Sherlock's chair reading a book.

"Good morning," he said without looking up from the pages.

John cleared his throat. In a raspy voice, he choked out, "Good-Good morning."

"Are we feeling better today?"

Better. Anything was better than how he'd felt the last time he was awake.

John raised a hand to his face and felt his swollen lip and the tender area around both his eyes. "I got…I got…attacked," he said softly, as the memories came rushing back to him. After a week of being off the streets, Fat, Thin, and Guy-in-Between had plenty of problems to blame on him, and they took it out in the form of physical assault.

"You did," Mycroft said, nodding, as he folded back the corner of the page and closed the book. "But you're all right. No broken bones, no internal injuries. Just some bruises and a heavy blow to your pride."

"Why am I here?" John asked as he continued to look around the room.

"Sherlock and I brought you here."

John rolled his eyes slightly. "Yes, I gathered that much. Why?"

Mycroft shrugged his broad shoulders. "My brother went mad after you left. To be honest, I can't understand why."

"Mad after I left?" John repeated, a smirk on his face. "What was he before he knew me, then?"

"To be frank, Dr. Watson, Sherlock was fine before you two became pals. He had not a friend in the world and he was perfectly fine with it. But now that he knows you, he cares about you. I don't know why, and I don't know how it happened, but I sure as hell am glad that it did."

"Oh?" John asked, his eyebrows lifting up in anticipation. "And why is that?"

Mycroft set his book on the end table and leaned forward, his elbows on his keens and his fingers interlaced. "Because everyone who comes into contact with my brother walks away thinking that he's a sociopath, if he's lucky, or a jerk, if he's not. You may have realized that he's not exactly the friendly sort."

John nodded curtly. "Yeah, I think I picked up on it a bit."

"But he likes you," Mycroft continued. "God only knows what he sees in you. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. Having a friend will do him some good. Hopefully, it will make him seem more approachable."

John nodded. It wasn't an awful idea. "Where is he, by the way?"

Mycroft smiled thinly. "He's…on a case."

"Oh. Well, that's good, isn't it?"

"It isn't a real case," Mycroft admitted. "Just something I fabricated to get him out of the flat for a few hours."

John cocked his head. "And you wanted him gone…why?"

"Because I need to talk to you about something, and Sherlock would be very, very unsupportive of the idea." Mycroft leaned back in his chair and crossed his right leg over his left, then steepled his fingers together and let his chin rest atop them. "John, the day after you left, Sherlock was visited by a client. A client named Harriet Watson."

John's breath caught in his throat and he felt his heart begin to beat quicker. Harry?

"She was looking for her brother," Mycroft continued. "For you, John."

"Did he tell her I was here?" John asked, panicked. "Please tell me he didn't tell her I was here!"

"No no, calm down. He said nothing of the sort. She's got no idea."

John breathed a sigh of relief. The very last thing he wanted was for Harry-any member of his family, really, but especially Harry-to find out that he was alive and back in London. He couldn't face them. He didn't want to face them.

"Thank God," John breathed as he sank back into the couch.

"I know that you have no intention of getting in contact with any of them, but I think you should reconsider. They're worried about you, John."

John shook his head. "No."

"She's very worried about you," Mycroft tried again. "Surely it wouldn't hurt to let her know that you're alive?"

"You're wrong. We don't get on. We never have. She has some ulterior motive for wanting to find me; I know it. No, I'm not doing it. Tell Sherlock to keep his nose out of my business."

"I've tried that approach; it doesn't work. Sherlock does whatever pleases him. Fortunately for you, that involves keeping your life, such as it is, a secret from your very concerned family.

"You know John, I can see where your sister is coming from. If it were Sherlock missing, I wouldn't stop until I found him."

"Yeah, well, you and Sherlock give a damn about each other, despite the fact that you bicker like schoolchildren."

"We were not close in our youth," Mycroft admitted. "Quite the opposite. I was quite cruel to him when he was a child. Seven years is no small difference; we had absolutely nothing in common except contempt for our fellow man-I outgrew that, Sherlock didn't. Even though we never talk about it, I have no doubt that, when he looks at me, all he remembers is how horribly I treated him throughout his entire childhood. And John, if there was something I could do to take it back, I would do it in a heartbeat. I've tried to remedy our relationship, but he's not making it easy. He wants absolutely nothing to do with me. He even-"

"Not that I don't find this fascinating," John interrupted, holding his hand up to signal to Mycroft to stop talking, "but what does this have to do with me?"

"Your sister hasn't yet had the opportunity to make amends," Mycroft explained. "You two went from being on bad terms with each other to you being MIA. Do you really want her to spend the rest of her life feeling guilty about the way she treated you?"

John shrugged. "I don't see why not. She'd let me do it without batting an eye."

"Then be the better man!" Mycroft hissed. "Do what I couldn't: swallow your pride and give it another go between you two. John, there's not a day goes by that I don't regret the choices I made back then to make Sherlock and I what we are today. You need to do this. If you don't, I promise you, you'll wish you had."

Maybe you should give her another chance. After all, she came out and consulted a professional to find you. She's obviously worried. What's the worst that could happen? She doesn't have to know you've been living on the streets. Lord knows she's a pathological liar; it won't hurt you to toss a few out there, too.

John nodded slowly. "I'll think about it," he told Mycroft. At that moment, the front door to the flat opened. Sherlock stepped inside and instantly frowned at his brother.

"That was not amusing."

Mycroft laughed. "On the contrary, I think it was very, very amusing." He stood up and gathered his umbrella and book, then turned to John and held out his hand. "Good day, Dr. Watson. Be sure to think about what I said."

John forced a smile.

As soon as Mycroft left the room, Sherlock peeled off his coat, scarf, and gloves and threw them all onto the chair with the Union Jack pillow. "Let me guess," he said, grinning. "He was trying to convince you to get in touch with your relations."

John chuckle. "Good guess."

"To be honest, I never guess; that was a rhetorical statement. Mycroft is so hung up about our dysfunctional relationship that he doesn't want to see anyone fall into the same pit. What he doesn't realize is that sometimes it's already too late."

"What should I do?" John asked, staring up into Sherlock's icy gray eyes. "Do you think I should contact them?"

Sherlock shrugged. "No idea, John. That's something you'll have to decide on your own. But I have a question of my own for you; will you move in with me?"

Sherlock slid so seamlessly from one topic to the next that it took John a split-second to even realize what the detective had asked him. He furrowed his eyebrows. "Um…what?"

"I said, will you move in with me? There's another bedroom upstairs; I'm sure Mrs. Hudson knows someone with extra furniture we could put in it. My worst habits are that I play the violin at odd hours and that sometimes I don't talk for days on end; the former you already knew about and the latter isn't really, in my opinion, that big of a deal."

"Don't forget your experiments."

"Those are a hobby, not a habit."

"Oh, right."

Sherlock stared at him expectantly, and it was at that moment that John realized that Sherlock wanted his answer now.

"Well?"

"Well I don't know!" John exclaimed. "You're a perfectly decent man and all, and I really appreciate everything you've done for me, I really do, but don't you think we're moving a bit fast?"

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't put it like that; you make it sound romantic. It's a perfectly logical decision. You need a place to live; I need someone to split the rent with. We'll get you back on your feet, get you a decent job-you can start your life over. There's actually a surgery two streets down that's hiring-"

"You knew, then?" John interrupted. "You knew all along that I was a doctor."

Sherlock shook his head. "Not all along, no. But the way you bandaged your own wounds, and the way you cared for me, lent knowledge to the fact. What you said was true; living on the streets probably does teach you a thing or two about taking care of yourself in a medical sense, but there was something very relaxed about the way you did it. Almost like you were made for it. Now, like I said, the surgery down the street is hiring, and I know that Mycroft would be willing to help find you employment, he does owe me a favor, after all."

"Slow down," John told him, smirking. "You talk too fast when you're excited."

Sherlock sighed and nodded, biting his bottom lip. "Yes. Yes, I have been told that. My apologies."

The familiar mewl of Phree brought John's attention to Sherlock's bedroom door. She was sticking her head out to hear who the voices belong to and, upon seeing John, she sauntered over to the couch and hopped onto it, rubbing against his chest.

"That's another thing," Sherlock said, pointing his finger menacingly at Phree. "You need to stay here so you can keep that thing out of my hair. Every night, every single one, she sleeps with me. But, as she prefers you to me, that habit would change if you were to move in."

Again, John laughed. The whole situation sounded too perfect. He could move in with a man that-dare he say-he was beginning to consider a friend, and he would have his cat, and he could get a job. He could get in touch with his family on his own terms, and he would be paying half the rent, not simply mooching off Sherlock…

John put Phree onto the couch and stood up, stretching his hand out towards Sherlock. "Let's do it."

Sherlock gave him a wide, genuine smile and took his hand, shaking it once. "Excellent."

"You do realize, though, that this is going to cause a ruckus. Two mates living together. People might talk."

Sherlock shrugged carelessly. "People do little else."
Thanks so much for reading this story! If you'd like to read more, you should check out the Sherlock/Supernatural crossover I'm working on ;) Message me if you'd like a link!
Previous post Next post
Up