Fanfiction: Sherlock, BBC
Title: Fire Storm
Summary: "Do you regret it?" - A simple fall can change everything, but some things are always the same - and some are not quite what they seem. After all, no one said this would be easy. Sequel to my one shot 'Black Ice'.
Chapter Word Count: Approx 4,000
Rating: Teen
Notes: I do not own Sherlock. Apologies for the long wait - blame my exams!
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
It's daylight when John opens his eyes on Christmas morning. Pale sunlight is filtering weakly through the crack between the closed curtains. Briefly, he considers merely going back to sleep, but his neck is stiff and aching already. He pushes himself slowly upright, wincing and groaning as he does.
'That,' he mutters grumpily, rubbing his eyes, 'is the last time I fall asleep on the sofa.'
'It wouldn't be as bad if you didn't sleep so late,' Sherlock admonishes, flexing his arm experimentally. He wiggles his fingers to try and force some feeling back into them, returning the circulation that has been cut off where John has leant on it.
'What time is it?' is what John means to say, but it comes out as some sort of incomprehensible mumble, which causes Sherlock to huff a sigh between derision and amusement.
'Almost nine,' he replies in a reproving tone, checking his watch.
'You haven't got up either,' John manages to say; Sherlock rolls his eyes.
'I've been awake at least an hour,' Sherlock replies, and the fact surprises him as much as John; never before would he have put up with the mind numbing tedium of remaining in bed - or rather, on the sofa - for so long after waking up. 'You were leaning on my arm,' is his only explanation.
John grunts in response. He sits forward on the sofa cushion, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. Never. Again. He is never sleeping on the sofa again as long as he lives. Sherlock raises an eyebrow.
'No,' John mutters before Sherlock can speak, 'don't even say it.'
'Say what?'
'I do not have a hangover.'
'I assure you, the thought never crossed my mind,' Sherlock lies.
John knows he's lying. And he knows that Sherlock is, for once, wrong. He just can't be bothered to argue the case; he did not drink that much eggnog. And only a small amount of the whisky they were supposed to be putting in it...certainly not much more than Sherlock at any rate. But right now, his brain and mouth are working at entirely different speeds, and he can't seem to form the words to explain himself.
'Get changed,' Sherlock instructs him eventually, standing up.
'Urgh,' John replies, momentarily off-balance as the cushion beside him rises when Sherlock's weight leaves it. Again, though, he has neither the energy nor the inclination to say anything particularly witty or poignant, and settles for dragging himself with as much dignity as he can muster to his room.
It takes some fifteen minutes for him to feel awake enough to return, his sluggish mind dragging itself back to coherency with a great deal of reluctance. His shoulder twinges painfully as he pulls on a fresh jumper and he winces again. Sleeping on the sofa is now firmly labelled as a Bad Idea.
Once dressed, John crosses to the window and twitches the curtain aside. It's bright in the street; the sky is pearly with clouds, a single fuzzy patch of yellowish-white glimmering softly where the sun is trying to break through with little success. What light it is casting, however, is reflected back magnificently off the snow that covers every visible surface to spectacular effect.
The street is relatively quiet; most people are probably either still in bed, or else awake and watching their children open their presents...a group of teenagers run past, laughing - one boy's coat is splattered with snow and a girl is gathering another handful from the ground for fresh ammunition. John smiles, grabs a large parcel from on top of the chest of drawers, and walks down to find Sherlock in the kitchen.
'Merry Christmas,' he throws the parcel to Sherlock, who drops the spoon he was holding with a clatter in his effort to catch it. John chuckles at the uncharacteristically inelegant movement, and Sherlock glares at him.
'I thought you said you hadn't got anything?' He replies acidly, eyeing the package with an expression bordering on suspicious.
'The proper response is 'Merry Christmas to you too'. And it's not technically a Christmas present, I had it done anyway, it just seemed appropriate,' he pauses, shaking his head at Sherlock's close inspection of the present. 'Stop trying to deduce what's inside and just open it like a normal person.'
'Boring,' Sherlock tuts automatically,
'Yes, well, some of us like boring.'
Sherlock doesn't reply to this, instead hooking his fingers into the paper and making short work of the tape holding it together. He glances up at John quickly, then back down at the folded black fabric.
'You'd better not ruin it again,' John warns as Sherlock lifts the coat away from the wrapping paper completely, 'that cost a bloody fortune to get fixed.'
Daytime television is, by definition, terrible. John knows this - he has wasted far too many hours in front of it, flicking with ever decreasing hope between channels for something he can stand to watch without going mad with boredom.
Anyone who has ever had the misfortune to be subjected to it knows that daytime television is to be avoided at all costs - especially at Christmas.
Except for Sherlock Holmes, that is, who is pointing the remote dejectedly at the TV and changing the channels nauseatingly quickly. His scowl deepens with every new failed attempt to find something worth watching. It's infuriating.
'Sherlock!' John exclaims, slamming his hand onto Sherlock's arm to stop the constant button-pressing, 'for God's sake, either choose something or turn the damn thing off.'
'I'm bored,' Sherlock replies sullenly, his features arranged into a petulant pout of annoyance.
'I'd noticed,' says John through gritted teeth, teasing the remote from Sherlock's hand and pressing the power button firmly. Perhaps confining Sherlock to the flat for two whole days, without his phone or laptop, was not such a good idea after all. He glances towards the window and frowns at the snow falling outside. Christmas with Sherlock is turning out to be...well, just like almost every other day with Sherlock, actually.
'Let's go for a walk,' John announces suddenly, standing up; Sherlock looks at him as though he has gone mad.
'What?'
'You heard what I said.'
'I'd rather not,' Sherlock replies disparagingly, turning a scornful look to the snow.
'You'd rather sit here staring at a blank TV screen?' John is already pulling on his coat. 'Your choice; I'm going.'
'Why?'
'Because it's Christmas; it's nice. It's what people do. And because I can't stand being trapped in a room with you when you're bored,'
'I wouldn't be bored if you'd let me work on the case -'
'You could have accepted Mycroft's invitation,'
'I'm not that bored.'
John laughs, 'I'm going, you can come if you like,' he calls with an air of finality over his shoulder, opening the door. He makes sure that he has his back to Sherlock before he lets the smile spread across his face.
Sherlock remains in his seat for a moment, debating. John is walking out the door without a backwards glance...walking is boring...but so is sitting here. On his own. Without a case. Without John. With daytime television, which he is rapidly coming to realise is probably a form of torture in its own right. He could always steal his phone and laptop back from Mrs Hudson, he is already certain he knows where she has hidden them...John will probably not be back for at least an hour...
A sudden loud thump interrupts his thoughts and he jumps around - not startled, just...mildly surprised at the unexpected noise - to see a large splotch of white sliding down the outside of the window. His eyebrows shoot up of their own accord as he moves quickly across the room to look out.
John is stood on the path, already speckled with white from the falling snow, taking aim with a second badly shaped missile and grinning mischievously. Sherlock smiles despite himself - John waves, gesturing for Sherlock to join him, his nose tinged red from the cold after only a minute or so outside. Sherlock opens the window to call down to him - and John lets the second snowball fly.
It hits Sherlock in the face.
For several seconds, Sherlock doesn't respond - then he very carefully wipes the snow from himself, shaking it out of his hair and blinking slowly.
'You will pay for that, John Watson,' he doesn't need to raise his voice. The menace in it carries perfectly to John, who has the decency to look momentarily wary of the seriousness of Sherlock's tone.
Sherlock is already pulling on his newly fixed coat, snatching his scarf on the way out and letting the door swing shut behind him. He hurries down the steps and stoops to the ground the moment he steps outside to scoop up a handful of snow. John watches him,
'You wouldn't...' he says, 'Sherlock Holmes...having a snowball fight? Surely far too meaningless for the great consulting detective...'
'Not at all,' Sherlock replies calmly, gathering still more snow and patting it into a larger ball, rolling it meticulously into a perfect sphere. 'It's an experiment.'
'An experiment to find out...what, exactly?' John asks, now backing away as Sherlock approaches.
'That would ruin the point of the experiment.' He's not looking at John, instead seeming to devote his entire attention to forming the snowball. He's silent. Distantly he wonders if he could, actually, conduct a viable investigation into projectile aerodynamics or ballistics of some sort with this - but how is he to control the variables? Wind speed, snow consistency, the precise size and shape of the snowball itself...
'Sherlock...?' John stops backing away and takes a step forwards - lightening fast, Sherlock takes aim and throws the snowball. John covers his head with his arms just in time and avoids getting a face full, immediately bending down to get revenge ammunition. Sherlock dodges the next snowball sent his way, and catches John in the back with one of his own - receiving one on the cheek for his efforts.
Ten minutes later and two streets away, John stops, waving to Sherlock for a ceasefire and trying to catch his breath with his hands on his knees.
'I - cannot - believe - you just did that,' he gasps, beaming nevertheless. His coat is thoroughly soaked now, and he can't help but laugh at the sight of Sherlock with chunks of snow stuck in his tousled hair.
'You -' Sherlock begins,
'- You are not going to say what I think you're going to say -'
'- started it.'
Then they are both laughing breathlessly, genuine smiles passing between them as each shakes their head at their own antics.
'You remember when I said chasing the taxi was the most ridiculous thing I'd ever done?' John asks, slowly bringing his laughter and breathing under control and standing straight again.
'Yes,' replies Sherlock; how could he not? That entire case had been fascinating in its own right, and yet still one of the most memorable, most intriguing aspects of it had been discovering just how well he fitted with John Watson. How captivating such an outwardly simple, boring man could be.
'Correction - that was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done.'
How easily each could make the other relax, without even trying to - and at the same time, how quickly either could infuriate the other more than anyone else; even Mycroft.
Sherlock runs a hand through his hair, brushing away the snow that has stuck there and looking curiously at John, wondering why on Earth he just did what he did. Then he catches sight of John's smile.
Ah. That's why. It seems he is going to have to look out for that smile - it has an unexpectedly strong influence on him, though he finds he doesn't really mind that much after all.
'What's so interesting?' says John, looking around as though expecting to see something behind him,
'Nothing,' Sherlock replies. This...John, everything...is...strange. But somehow not unpleasant. Very much like the inter-workings of the Solar System, it seems to be something that will happen whether or not he pays it any attention, whether or not he understands why - so it doesn't seem all that important to try.
'So - still bored?' The amusement is more than evident in John's voice, and he flashes Sherlock another one of those grins that Sherlock can't help but want to see again.
'Not as such,' he answers eventually. John rolls his eyes, takes Sherlock's hand and starts to walk in the general direction of Baker Street once more. They are silent for what feels like a long while. Sherlock is no doubt deducing the life history of every person they pass, while John finds his mind straying into unwelcome territory. Without meaning to, his grip on Sherlock's hand tightens.
'John?' Sherlock breaks the quiet - he needn't voice his question, John knows what he is asking.
'It's nothing,' he replies, trying to dislodge the images from his mind.
'I've told you before, John - you're really incapable of lying.'
John sighs, his good mood dampened now as he opens his mouth to explain, then closes it again. They are almost back at the flat.
'I was just - look, it's stupid, forget about it. Honestly, it's -'
'John.'
'I didn't expect you to be here this Christmas,' John says eventually, all traces of good humour gone from his expression. 'I thought - look, it doesn't matter, you're here, I was wrong, they were wrong - it's fine. I thought...'
'You thought I was going to die,' Sherlock finishes for him succinctly. John visibly winces at Sherlock's indifference.
'Yeah,' he says tightly, 'like I said, forget it. It doesn't matter.'
'You're right,' Sherlock replies, stopping outside the door of 221b; he opens it, but doesn't go in, pausing and turning around, 'it doesn't matter.'
'Thanks,' says John sarcastically, 'that's a real help -'
'Because I have no plans of dying any time soon. So stop worrying.' He leans forwards, resting his forehead against John's and staring intently at him, taking care to absorb every detail of his appearance - of John. 'I'm fine.'
A smile flickers briefly across John's face, and he is about to reply when he notices something hanging from the top of the doorframe that definitely wasn't there when they left.
'Is that -?' John starts; Sherlock glances up.
'Mistletoe,' he finishes quietly,
'Mrs Hudson...' John breathes, somewhere between amused and exasperated.
'I'm sure there's some sort of tradition associated with this,' Sherlock says, mock-thoughtfully, and John doesn't have time to laugh before his lips are pressed against Sherlock's, his back against the doorframe. His concerns skitter away in the wind, dancing like the snowflakes still falling around them and he smiles into the kiss, gentle and slow but loaded with meaning. He breathes in the unmistakable scent of Sherlock, of coffee and nicotine and mint, as though he will never get the chance again, and feels Sherlock's hand at the small of his back, pulling him closer. His own arms reach up of their own accord, resting on Sherlock's shoulders and looping round the back of his head, John's fingers twisting lightly into Sherlock's curls, and Sherlock hums with pleasure. They have all the time in the world, all the space and all the power, and who cares about Moriarty or anybody else anyway?
'When you two have quite finished,' a semi-disgruntled voice breaks through, and they jump apart guiltily to see Lestrade standing on the path. 'Don't you answer your phone?' He addresses Sherlock as though nothing has happened. John feels himself turning bright red, hyper aware of the snowflakes melting on his burning cheeks. Of how close he is still standing to Sherlock, the frantic beating of his own heart.
'It's been confiscated,' Sherlock replies coolly, 'I was about to negotiate its return.'
'What's wrong?' John interrupts, glaring at Lestrade until the tiny smirk melts from the DI's face,
'Christmas present for you,' Lestrade replies, the smirk fading until he looks distinctly out of sorts, 'there's been another murder.'
Sherlock, out of habit it seems, refuses to ride in the police car, and he and John follow immediately behind in a taxi, all previous reluctance forgotten. John can practically taste the infectious energy radiating from Sherlock at the prospect of a case and his own twinge of exhilaration battles with a rush of guilt.
Neither of them speak for the length of the journey, but the silence is not an uncomfortable one; tense with anticipation, yes, but they are both simply too absorbed in their own thoughts to speak. There just isn't the need to vocalise what is going through their heads. Briefly, it's as though nothing has changed in the last two months. It's just another case; just another crime scene for Sherlock to examine.
The street they follow the police car into is run down - most of the buildings look tired and old, and many appear to be wearing slowly away before their eyes. The house they approach is quite the most decrepit of all of them; evidently it has been empty for some time, and a large, lopsided sign announces DANGER: UNSTABLE STRUCTURE, KEEP OUT.
The red brick is chipped in places and three of the windows are boarded up. One on the top floor has been smashed straight through, leaving a dark, gaping hole in its place, and another has a single crack running diagonally across it. The front door is literally hanging off a single hinge.
Lestrade is stood waiting for them when they get out of the taxi, his face grim.
'It's an old place, been abandoned for about two years,' he tells John, following his gaze to the missing tiles on the roof. 'Then a couple of weeks ago some vandals set fire to it - irreparable. It's set to be demolished in the New Year.'
'Who found the body?' Sherlock asks, eyeing the place with great suspicion. Lestrade shrugs.
'Anonymous tip - we're trying to trace it,'
'You won't find anything,' Sherlock tells him distractedly, now running his fingers along the door frame. Lestrade doesn't reply.
Pulling his magnifying lens from his pocket, Sherlock crouches down and begins inspecting the footprints in the thick dust on the floor of the hallway. They are long and scuffed - John, though he daren't voice it in case of being shot down by Sherlock, suspects whoever left them was carrying something heavy.
'Your people have been past here?' It is more of a statement than a question, which Sherlock directs at Lestrade with a slight twist of his head, without actually looking up.
'They kept to the sides,' Lestrade replies, slightly defensively, 'and took photographs.'
Sherlock nods in ascent, then springs to his feet.
'Where's the body?' he asks; Lestrade gestures towards the staircase.
'Careful,' he warns, 'we don't know how stable this place actually is.' Sherlock seems on the verge of disagreeing, but a loud creak and an unmistakable snapping sound as he puts his foot on the first step forestalls his objection. John follows warily, pausing every few steps as Sherlock stoops to examine another mark on the floor or walls.
They tread carefully across the landing, which seems to have seen the worst of the fire damage; the walls are black and filthy, and patches of the floor have already been cordoned off by bright yellow police tape, clearly unsafe to walk on.
'Through here,' Lestrade enters the room ahead of them and nods to the small forensics team gathered there. They glance towards Sherlock with expressions varying from resentful to respectful, and back out, one of them muttering something to Lestrade on the way.
John and Sherlock stop in the doorway.
John stares. Blinks.
'Is that -?' he begins quietly,
'The girl from the hospital,' Sherlock finishes. He is frowning, and suddenly glances towards the space where the window should be, as though expecting something outside it; several snowflakes drift through the hole, blown by an icy breeze which makes John pull his coat tighter as a chill runs through him, not entirely caused by the draft.
'Sorry?' Lestrade looks from one to the other of them, a new edge of apprehension entering his eyes, 'do you know her?'
'We saw her at the hospital - outside Sherlock's room, she was...' John trails off, unsure what he was going to say anyway.
The girl, no more than nineteen years old, is propped into a sitting position against the wall, a little to the right of the window. One side of her straggly, blondish hair has caught some of the flakes fluttering through it. Her legs have been crossed, and but for the fact that her head is slumped limply forwards onto her chest, she looks as if she could have been simply sat waiting for their arrival. Her hands are folded in her lap, her hair hanging over her face.
She looks so small, and John has to fight a wave of sadness as he looks at her, certain that she met her death purely because he and Sherlock happened to spot her in a hospital full of other people. The cold presses in his chest, knowing that this choice of victim was very deliberate, and trying not to feel guilty.
'What time did the call come in?' Sherlock asks briskly, striding forwards and picking up the girl's hand, turning it over in his own and frowning at it in concentration.
'About...two hours ago,' Lestrade checks his watch. Sherlock nods, pushing the girl's sleeve back and peering at the vivid bruises across her forearms.
John watches Sherlock examine her with cold efficiency, tilting her chin up to reveal an ugly red mark around her neck, looking closely at her fingernails - broken but clean - and digging though her pockets. Empty.
'John?' Sherlock prompts after several minutes, standing and gesturing for John to take his place. Swallowing his feeling of responsibility, John forces himself to focus and examines her himself.
'Strangulation, probably,' he says, 'not just the marks on her neck, there's petechial haemorrhaging in her eyes as well...she fought, though. Those bruises are probably defensive...and her nails - but they've been cleaned, removed any evidence...'
'But?' Sherlock hints,
'But what?'
'Do you see any signs of a struggle?' Sherlock waves his hands vaguely around the room. Though essentially empty, leaving nothing to be disturbed even if there had been a struggle, John can see what Sherlock is getting at; the only marks in the dust are very deliberate footprints, a little scuffed and misshapen, but not marks that would indicate any sort of fight - and only their own and, presumably, the culprit's prints - none small enough to belong to the girl.
'She was killed elsewhere and left here,' John says thoughtfully, 'but - why?'
Sherlock opens his mouth to answer, but a dull thud from somewhere overhead interrupts him.
'What was that?' John asks automatically, looking up.
'Probably just -' Lestrade starts,
'Shut up,' Sherlock demands suddenly, holding a hand up for silence and turning quickly on the spot, peering around, listening intently. Something creaks loudly. 'Move,' he says, spinning back around and grabbing John's arm, pulling him to his feet -
'What are you -?'
'Move, move, MOVE!' he yells, steering John around, shoving him towards the door and dragging Lestrade along with them, 'everyone out!' he shouts to house at large, 'NOW, everyone, move!'
He hurries towards the staircase, letting go of Lestrade but pushing John in front of him as another creak echoes through the building. It's followed by a further crack and thud, the sound of something falling - several more things follow; John can feel the floorboards quiver with the force of it. Understanding in a single terrifying moment what is happening, he puts on a burst of speed and shouts out his own warning, closing his hand around Sherlock's wrist and pulling him along -
A chunk of ceiling falls through and narrowly misses John's head, bursts of plaster dust clouding the air as they rush towards the door -
John, Sherlock and Lestrade lurch, coughing, into the street, in time to turn and see the last of the roof cave in, sending a rush of dust and rubble billowing from the door and windows.
Summary: "Do you regret it?" - A simple fall can change everything, but some things are always the same - and some are not quite what they seem. After all, no one said this would be easy. Sequel to my one shot 'Black Ice'.
Chapter Word Count: Approx 4,000
Rating: Teen
Notes: I do not own Sherlock. Apologies for the long wait - blame my exams!
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
It's daylight when John opens his eyes on Christmas morning. Pale sunlight is filtering weakly through the crack between the closed curtains. Briefly, he considers merely going back to sleep, but his neck is stiff and aching already. He pushes himself slowly upright, wincing and groaning as he does.
'That,' he mutters grumpily, rubbing his eyes, 'is the last time I fall asleep on the sofa.'
'It wouldn't be as bad if you didn't sleep so late,' Sherlock admonishes, flexing his arm experimentally. He wiggles his fingers to try and force some feeling back into them, returning the circulation that has been cut off where John has leant on it.
'What time is it?' is what John means to say, but it comes out as some sort of incomprehensible mumble, which causes Sherlock to huff a sigh between derision and amusement.
'Almost nine,' he replies in a reproving tone, checking his watch.
'You haven't got up either,' John manages to say; Sherlock rolls his eyes.
'I've been awake at least an hour,' Sherlock replies, and the fact surprises him as much as John; never before would he have put up with the mind numbing tedium of remaining in bed - or rather, on the sofa - for so long after waking up. 'You were leaning on my arm,' is his only explanation.
John grunts in response. He sits forward on the sofa cushion, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. Never. Again. He is never sleeping on the sofa again as long as he lives. Sherlock raises an eyebrow.
'No,' John mutters before Sherlock can speak, 'don't even say it.'
'Say what?'
'I do not have a hangover.'
'I assure you, the thought never crossed my mind,' Sherlock lies.
John knows he's lying. And he knows that Sherlock is, for once, wrong. He just can't be bothered to argue the case; he did not drink that much eggnog. And only a small amount of the whisky they were supposed to be putting in it...certainly not much more than Sherlock at any rate. But right now, his brain and mouth are working at entirely different speeds, and he can't seem to form the words to explain himself.
'Get changed,' Sherlock instructs him eventually, standing up.
'Urgh,' John replies, momentarily off-balance as the cushion beside him rises when Sherlock's weight leaves it. Again, though, he has neither the energy nor the inclination to say anything particularly witty or poignant, and settles for dragging himself with as much dignity as he can muster to his room.
It takes some fifteen minutes for him to feel awake enough to return, his sluggish mind dragging itself back to coherency with a great deal of reluctance. His shoulder twinges painfully as he pulls on a fresh jumper and he winces again. Sleeping on the sofa is now firmly labelled as a Bad Idea.
Once dressed, John crosses to the window and twitches the curtain aside. It's bright in the street; the sky is pearly with clouds, a single fuzzy patch of yellowish-white glimmering softly where the sun is trying to break through with little success. What light it is casting, however, is reflected back magnificently off the snow that covers every visible surface to spectacular effect.
The street is relatively quiet; most people are probably either still in bed, or else awake and watching their children open their presents...a group of teenagers run past, laughing - one boy's coat is splattered with snow and a girl is gathering another handful from the ground for fresh ammunition. John smiles, grabs a large parcel from on top of the chest of drawers, and walks down to find Sherlock in the kitchen.
'Merry Christmas,' he throws the parcel to Sherlock, who drops the spoon he was holding with a clatter in his effort to catch it. John chuckles at the uncharacteristically inelegant movement, and Sherlock glares at him.
'I thought you said you hadn't got anything?' He replies acidly, eyeing the package with an expression bordering on suspicious.
'The proper response is 'Merry Christmas to you too'. And it's not technically a Christmas present, I had it done anyway, it just seemed appropriate,' he pauses, shaking his head at Sherlock's close inspection of the present. 'Stop trying to deduce what's inside and just open it like a normal person.'
'Boring,' Sherlock tuts automatically,
'Yes, well, some of us like boring.'
Sherlock doesn't reply to this, instead hooking his fingers into the paper and making short work of the tape holding it together. He glances up at John quickly, then back down at the folded black fabric.
'You'd better not ruin it again,' John warns as Sherlock lifts the coat away from the wrapping paper completely, 'that cost a bloody fortune to get fixed.'
Daytime television is, by definition, terrible. John knows this - he has wasted far too many hours in front of it, flicking with ever decreasing hope between channels for something he can stand to watch without going mad with boredom.
Anyone who has ever had the misfortune to be subjected to it knows that daytime television is to be avoided at all costs - especially at Christmas.
Except for Sherlock Holmes, that is, who is pointing the remote dejectedly at the TV and changing the channels nauseatingly quickly. His scowl deepens with every new failed attempt to find something worth watching. It's infuriating.
'Sherlock!' John exclaims, slamming his hand onto Sherlock's arm to stop the constant button-pressing, 'for God's sake, either choose something or turn the damn thing off.'
'I'm bored,' Sherlock replies sullenly, his features arranged into a petulant pout of annoyance.
'I'd noticed,' says John through gritted teeth, teasing the remote from Sherlock's hand and pressing the power button firmly. Perhaps confining Sherlock to the flat for two whole days, without his phone or laptop, was not such a good idea after all. He glances towards the window and frowns at the snow falling outside. Christmas with Sherlock is turning out to be...well, just like almost every other day with Sherlock, actually.
'Let's go for a walk,' John announces suddenly, standing up; Sherlock looks at him as though he has gone mad.
'What?'
'You heard what I said.'
'I'd rather not,' Sherlock replies disparagingly, turning a scornful look to the snow.
'You'd rather sit here staring at a blank TV screen?' John is already pulling on his coat. 'Your choice; I'm going.'
'Why?'
'Because it's Christmas; it's nice. It's what people do. And because I can't stand being trapped in a room with you when you're bored,'
'I wouldn't be bored if you'd let me work on the case -'
'You could have accepted Mycroft's invitation,'
'I'm not that bored.'
John laughs, 'I'm going, you can come if you like,' he calls with an air of finality over his shoulder, opening the door. He makes sure that he has his back to Sherlock before he lets the smile spread across his face.
Sherlock remains in his seat for a moment, debating. John is walking out the door without a backwards glance...walking is boring...but so is sitting here. On his own. Without a case. Without John. With daytime television, which he is rapidly coming to realise is probably a form of torture in its own right. He could always steal his phone and laptop back from Mrs Hudson, he is already certain he knows where she has hidden them...John will probably not be back for at least an hour...
A sudden loud thump interrupts his thoughts and he jumps around - not startled, just...mildly surprised at the unexpected noise - to see a large splotch of white sliding down the outside of the window. His eyebrows shoot up of their own accord as he moves quickly across the room to look out.
John is stood on the path, already speckled with white from the falling snow, taking aim with a second badly shaped missile and grinning mischievously. Sherlock smiles despite himself - John waves, gesturing for Sherlock to join him, his nose tinged red from the cold after only a minute or so outside. Sherlock opens the window to call down to him - and John lets the second snowball fly.
It hits Sherlock in the face.
For several seconds, Sherlock doesn't respond - then he very carefully wipes the snow from himself, shaking it out of his hair and blinking slowly.
'You will pay for that, John Watson,' he doesn't need to raise his voice. The menace in it carries perfectly to John, who has the decency to look momentarily wary of the seriousness of Sherlock's tone.
Sherlock is already pulling on his newly fixed coat, snatching his scarf on the way out and letting the door swing shut behind him. He hurries down the steps and stoops to the ground the moment he steps outside to scoop up a handful of snow. John watches him,
'You wouldn't...' he says, 'Sherlock Holmes...having a snowball fight? Surely far too meaningless for the great consulting detective...'
'Not at all,' Sherlock replies calmly, gathering still more snow and patting it into a larger ball, rolling it meticulously into a perfect sphere. 'It's an experiment.'
'An experiment to find out...what, exactly?' John asks, now backing away as Sherlock approaches.
'That would ruin the point of the experiment.' He's not looking at John, instead seeming to devote his entire attention to forming the snowball. He's silent. Distantly he wonders if he could, actually, conduct a viable investigation into projectile aerodynamics or ballistics of some sort with this - but how is he to control the variables? Wind speed, snow consistency, the precise size and shape of the snowball itself...
'Sherlock...?' John stops backing away and takes a step forwards - lightening fast, Sherlock takes aim and throws the snowball. John covers his head with his arms just in time and avoids getting a face full, immediately bending down to get revenge ammunition. Sherlock dodges the next snowball sent his way, and catches John in the back with one of his own - receiving one on the cheek for his efforts.
Ten minutes later and two streets away, John stops, waving to Sherlock for a ceasefire and trying to catch his breath with his hands on his knees.
'I - cannot - believe - you just did that,' he gasps, beaming nevertheless. His coat is thoroughly soaked now, and he can't help but laugh at the sight of Sherlock with chunks of snow stuck in his tousled hair.
'You -' Sherlock begins,
'- You are not going to say what I think you're going to say -'
'- started it.'
Then they are both laughing breathlessly, genuine smiles passing between them as each shakes their head at their own antics.
'You remember when I said chasing the taxi was the most ridiculous thing I'd ever done?' John asks, slowly bringing his laughter and breathing under control and standing straight again.
'Yes,' replies Sherlock; how could he not? That entire case had been fascinating in its own right, and yet still one of the most memorable, most intriguing aspects of it had been discovering just how well he fitted with John Watson. How captivating such an outwardly simple, boring man could be.
'Correction - that was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done.'
How easily each could make the other relax, without even trying to - and at the same time, how quickly either could infuriate the other more than anyone else; even Mycroft.
Sherlock runs a hand through his hair, brushing away the snow that has stuck there and looking curiously at John, wondering why on Earth he just did what he did. Then he catches sight of John's smile.
Ah. That's why. It seems he is going to have to look out for that smile - it has an unexpectedly strong influence on him, though he finds he doesn't really mind that much after all.
'What's so interesting?' says John, looking around as though expecting to see something behind him,
'Nothing,' Sherlock replies. This...John, everything...is...strange. But somehow not unpleasant. Very much like the inter-workings of the Solar System, it seems to be something that will happen whether or not he pays it any attention, whether or not he understands why - so it doesn't seem all that important to try.
'So - still bored?' The amusement is more than evident in John's voice, and he flashes Sherlock another one of those grins that Sherlock can't help but want to see again.
'Not as such,' he answers eventually. John rolls his eyes, takes Sherlock's hand and starts to walk in the general direction of Baker Street once more. They are silent for what feels like a long while. Sherlock is no doubt deducing the life history of every person they pass, while John finds his mind straying into unwelcome territory. Without meaning to, his grip on Sherlock's hand tightens.
'John?' Sherlock breaks the quiet - he needn't voice his question, John knows what he is asking.
'It's nothing,' he replies, trying to dislodge the images from his mind.
'I've told you before, John - you're really incapable of lying.'
John sighs, his good mood dampened now as he opens his mouth to explain, then closes it again. They are almost back at the flat.
'I was just - look, it's stupid, forget about it. Honestly, it's -'
'John.'
'I didn't expect you to be here this Christmas,' John says eventually, all traces of good humour gone from his expression. 'I thought - look, it doesn't matter, you're here, I was wrong, they were wrong - it's fine. I thought...'
'You thought I was going to die,' Sherlock finishes for him succinctly. John visibly winces at Sherlock's indifference.
'Yeah,' he says tightly, 'like I said, forget it. It doesn't matter.'
'You're right,' Sherlock replies, stopping outside the door of 221b; he opens it, but doesn't go in, pausing and turning around, 'it doesn't matter.'
'Thanks,' says John sarcastically, 'that's a real help -'
'Because I have no plans of dying any time soon. So stop worrying.' He leans forwards, resting his forehead against John's and staring intently at him, taking care to absorb every detail of his appearance - of John. 'I'm fine.'
A smile flickers briefly across John's face, and he is about to reply when he notices something hanging from the top of the doorframe that definitely wasn't there when they left.
'Is that -?' John starts; Sherlock glances up.
'Mistletoe,' he finishes quietly,
'Mrs Hudson...' John breathes, somewhere between amused and exasperated.
'I'm sure there's some sort of tradition associated with this,' Sherlock says, mock-thoughtfully, and John doesn't have time to laugh before his lips are pressed against Sherlock's, his back against the doorframe. His concerns skitter away in the wind, dancing like the snowflakes still falling around them and he smiles into the kiss, gentle and slow but loaded with meaning. He breathes in the unmistakable scent of Sherlock, of coffee and nicotine and mint, as though he will never get the chance again, and feels Sherlock's hand at the small of his back, pulling him closer. His own arms reach up of their own accord, resting on Sherlock's shoulders and looping round the back of his head, John's fingers twisting lightly into Sherlock's curls, and Sherlock hums with pleasure. They have all the time in the world, all the space and all the power, and who cares about Moriarty or anybody else anyway?
'When you two have quite finished,' a semi-disgruntled voice breaks through, and they jump apart guiltily to see Lestrade standing on the path. 'Don't you answer your phone?' He addresses Sherlock as though nothing has happened. John feels himself turning bright red, hyper aware of the snowflakes melting on his burning cheeks. Of how close he is still standing to Sherlock, the frantic beating of his own heart.
'It's been confiscated,' Sherlock replies coolly, 'I was about to negotiate its return.'
'What's wrong?' John interrupts, glaring at Lestrade until the tiny smirk melts from the DI's face,
'Christmas present for you,' Lestrade replies, the smirk fading until he looks distinctly out of sorts, 'there's been another murder.'
Sherlock, out of habit it seems, refuses to ride in the police car, and he and John follow immediately behind in a taxi, all previous reluctance forgotten. John can practically taste the infectious energy radiating from Sherlock at the prospect of a case and his own twinge of exhilaration battles with a rush of guilt.
Neither of them speak for the length of the journey, but the silence is not an uncomfortable one; tense with anticipation, yes, but they are both simply too absorbed in their own thoughts to speak. There just isn't the need to vocalise what is going through their heads. Briefly, it's as though nothing has changed in the last two months. It's just another case; just another crime scene for Sherlock to examine.
The street they follow the police car into is run down - most of the buildings look tired and old, and many appear to be wearing slowly away before their eyes. The house they approach is quite the most decrepit of all of them; evidently it has been empty for some time, and a large, lopsided sign announces DANGER: UNSTABLE STRUCTURE, KEEP OUT.
The red brick is chipped in places and three of the windows are boarded up. One on the top floor has been smashed straight through, leaving a dark, gaping hole in its place, and another has a single crack running diagonally across it. The front door is literally hanging off a single hinge.
Lestrade is stood waiting for them when they get out of the taxi, his face grim.
'It's an old place, been abandoned for about two years,' he tells John, following his gaze to the missing tiles on the roof. 'Then a couple of weeks ago some vandals set fire to it - irreparable. It's set to be demolished in the New Year.'
'Who found the body?' Sherlock asks, eyeing the place with great suspicion. Lestrade shrugs.
'Anonymous tip - we're trying to trace it,'
'You won't find anything,' Sherlock tells him distractedly, now running his fingers along the door frame. Lestrade doesn't reply.
Pulling his magnifying lens from his pocket, Sherlock crouches down and begins inspecting the footprints in the thick dust on the floor of the hallway. They are long and scuffed - John, though he daren't voice it in case of being shot down by Sherlock, suspects whoever left them was carrying something heavy.
'Your people have been past here?' It is more of a statement than a question, which Sherlock directs at Lestrade with a slight twist of his head, without actually looking up.
'They kept to the sides,' Lestrade replies, slightly defensively, 'and took photographs.'
Sherlock nods in ascent, then springs to his feet.
'Where's the body?' he asks; Lestrade gestures towards the staircase.
'Careful,' he warns, 'we don't know how stable this place actually is.' Sherlock seems on the verge of disagreeing, but a loud creak and an unmistakable snapping sound as he puts his foot on the first step forestalls his objection. John follows warily, pausing every few steps as Sherlock stoops to examine another mark on the floor or walls.
They tread carefully across the landing, which seems to have seen the worst of the fire damage; the walls are black and filthy, and patches of the floor have already been cordoned off by bright yellow police tape, clearly unsafe to walk on.
'Through here,' Lestrade enters the room ahead of them and nods to the small forensics team gathered there. They glance towards Sherlock with expressions varying from resentful to respectful, and back out, one of them muttering something to Lestrade on the way.
John and Sherlock stop in the doorway.
John stares. Blinks.
'Is that -?' he begins quietly,
'The girl from the hospital,' Sherlock finishes. He is frowning, and suddenly glances towards the space where the window should be, as though expecting something outside it; several snowflakes drift through the hole, blown by an icy breeze which makes John pull his coat tighter as a chill runs through him, not entirely caused by the draft.
'Sorry?' Lestrade looks from one to the other of them, a new edge of apprehension entering his eyes, 'do you know her?'
'We saw her at the hospital - outside Sherlock's room, she was...' John trails off, unsure what he was going to say anyway.
The girl, no more than nineteen years old, is propped into a sitting position against the wall, a little to the right of the window. One side of her straggly, blondish hair has caught some of the flakes fluttering through it. Her legs have been crossed, and but for the fact that her head is slumped limply forwards onto her chest, she looks as if she could have been simply sat waiting for their arrival. Her hands are folded in her lap, her hair hanging over her face.
She looks so small, and John has to fight a wave of sadness as he looks at her, certain that she met her death purely because he and Sherlock happened to spot her in a hospital full of other people. The cold presses in his chest, knowing that this choice of victim was very deliberate, and trying not to feel guilty.
'What time did the call come in?' Sherlock asks briskly, striding forwards and picking up the girl's hand, turning it over in his own and frowning at it in concentration.
'About...two hours ago,' Lestrade checks his watch. Sherlock nods, pushing the girl's sleeve back and peering at the vivid bruises across her forearms.
John watches Sherlock examine her with cold efficiency, tilting her chin up to reveal an ugly red mark around her neck, looking closely at her fingernails - broken but clean - and digging though her pockets. Empty.
'John?' Sherlock prompts after several minutes, standing and gesturing for John to take his place. Swallowing his feeling of responsibility, John forces himself to focus and examines her himself.
'Strangulation, probably,' he says, 'not just the marks on her neck, there's petechial haemorrhaging in her eyes as well...she fought, though. Those bruises are probably defensive...and her nails - but they've been cleaned, removed any evidence...'
'But?' Sherlock hints,
'But what?'
'Do you see any signs of a struggle?' Sherlock waves his hands vaguely around the room. Though essentially empty, leaving nothing to be disturbed even if there had been a struggle, John can see what Sherlock is getting at; the only marks in the dust are very deliberate footprints, a little scuffed and misshapen, but not marks that would indicate any sort of fight - and only their own and, presumably, the culprit's prints - none small enough to belong to the girl.
'She was killed elsewhere and left here,' John says thoughtfully, 'but - why?'
Sherlock opens his mouth to answer, but a dull thud from somewhere overhead interrupts him.
'What was that?' John asks automatically, looking up.
'Probably just -' Lestrade starts,
'Shut up,' Sherlock demands suddenly, holding a hand up for silence and turning quickly on the spot, peering around, listening intently. Something creaks loudly. 'Move,' he says, spinning back around and grabbing John's arm, pulling him to his feet -
'What are you -?'
'Move, move, MOVE!' he yells, steering John around, shoving him towards the door and dragging Lestrade along with them, 'everyone out!' he shouts to house at large, 'NOW, everyone, move!'
He hurries towards the staircase, letting go of Lestrade but pushing John in front of him as another creak echoes through the building. It's followed by a further crack and thud, the sound of something falling - several more things follow; John can feel the floorboards quiver with the force of it. Understanding in a single terrifying moment what is happening, he puts on a burst of speed and shouts out his own warning, closing his hand around Sherlock's wrist and pulling him along -
A chunk of ceiling falls through and narrowly misses John's head, bursts of plaster dust clouding the air as they rush towards the door -
John, Sherlock and Lestrade lurch, coughing, into the street, in time to turn and see the last of the roof cave in, sending a rush of dust and rubble billowing from the door and windows.