An Experiment, Of Sorts - Sherlock - John/Sherlock

[toestastegood]

Title: An Experiment, Of Sorts
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Word Count: 17,868
Rating: R
Warnings: Dark/triggery subject matter, non-con, stalking.
A/N: Written for a prompt at sherlockbbc_fic.
ETA: This is AU characterisation: I do not think Sherlock as shown in canon would ever do any of the actions presented in this fic, nor would I want him to.
Summary: Faced with a case where a rape victim murdered his attacker, Sherlock finds himself without the required knowledge to solve the crime. He performs an experiment on John, the most suitable subject - but the fall-out is far more shattering than he could have anticipated.



"He raped me," says the victim (the suspect), with a restrained quake in his voice. "Once a night. For a week."

"So you shot him? Cold-blood, straight in the chest? It takes a strong heart to do that."

A swallow.

"He would come into my room while I was sleeping, and he'd handcuff me. And he would - he would fuck me. Silently, wouldn't say a word. Just... Just sex, just... And so- I. I have a gun. I was in the army, for a while. When he came into my room, I was waiting for him."

Wrong.

Sherlock isn't sure what it is, exactly. Not yet. The pieces don't fit. The crime isn't right. He's seen the body and looked at the room and examined the handcuffs themselves.

There is a lot that their poor, poor Mr Turner isn't telling them, Sherlock thinks. He's already worked out a lot of it, but there are bits that are missing, bits that don't make sense. The hardest part about investigating his mind is that motivations are difficult: he can see how things are done, and when the motive is financial or concrete he can work it out. The emotional side, that's difficult. He reads the relevant research papers and, from time to time, he will study a soap-opera for clues on how people are 'supposed' to behave. It usually helps.

Looking across the table at Mr Turner (and he's not supposed to be in here: Lestrade is giving him one minute and says he should be grateful for even that), Sherlock's eyes narrow.

"You didn't call the police," he says. "After the first night, you could have picked up the phone and sent him right here, put him right behind bars. You didn't."

He can hear hands scrambling at the door now, eager to get him out of the room before he manages to psychologically scar their witness any more than he already has. Sherlock has a few seconds, if that.

"He was my friend," Mr Turner whispers. He isn't looking at Sherlock, staring into the middle distance with hazy eyes. "I trusted him."

Interesting.

Trust is a fragile, egg-shell of a thing, and Sherlock finds that it is more troublesome than it is worth. The door busts open and Lestrade bursts in, barking at him to get out, so Sherlock supposes that he's lost the inspector's time-limited trust for a few weeks once more. Easily fixed. He'll just wait it out.

Yet there's something about this character, this Mr Turner, something that gnaws and bites at the back of his mind like an ugly dog. He allows Lestrade to escort him out of the interview room, clutching him by the arm with far more force than is necessary: police brutality, he could have him done for that if he felt that it was at all important.

"He's lying to you," he says. "There's something that's not right here."

"He's been through a huge trauma," Lestrade sighs at him. Sherlock frowns. Trauma and lying are not mutually exclusive. They are bed-fellows, surely. "We have no evidence; nothing solid. That man in there? He's going to prison for murder unless we can prove what he's saying is true."

"How do you know it is?"

They are marching steadily towards the exit of the station, talking as they go.

Lestrade's answer makes Sherlock falter for a half-step: "Trust," he says, followed by 'goodbye'.

It's a puzzlement, certainly, and Sherlock mulls it over in his mind as he walks onto the sunny streets of London. Trust. He doesn't have very many people that would be foolish and blind enough to trust a man like him, mad and brilliant at once, but in a split-second his mind provides a name: John.

Interesting, again.

Looking to the sky and finding it clear of clouds, Sherlock's mouth twists thoughtfully - he's beginning to think that an experiment is in order.

*

John sleeps on his back, like a true military man. His mouth is half-open and, in the limited light provided by the open door, it is possible to see that his cheeks are slightly flushed: a product of his dreams, no doubt. A very bad one, or a very, very good one. There is no small tent further down the bedsheets, which implies a nightmare rather than a nocturnal emission. Echoes from the war, perhaps. He's wearing a cheap white t-shirt and, Sherlock imagines, underwear beneath the covers. It's impossible to see, hidden, but John doesn't seem like the kind of man to sleep commando. Far too strict and moral for that.

Standing in the doorway, Sherlock fingers his pair of handcuffs. He'd lifted them from the station while he was there, a new pair: he has quite the collection in his own room. Sometimes, with hands like magnets, he can't help but pick things up. You never know when something might come in useful.

Very, very useful.

As he enters John's bedroom, he recalls the pair of handcuffs from the original crime that he had examined. The chain connecting the bracelets had been scuffed and tattered at the middle section, suggesting that they had been used to confine his limbs to something rather than merely behind his back. There had been no blood traces inside the bracelets: his struggles hadn't broken the skin, although there had been bruises on his wrists, yellowing ugly things that refused to fade.

He sits on the edge of John's bed and watches him stir: wonders if he ought to turn the light on to see him better, but decides against it. Before John can wake up, he takes his left wrist and snaps the cuff around it, reaches up and threads the chain through the bars of the old, decorative headboard, and then captures the other wrist. Securely. The key is in his pocket, but it won't be used until this is concluded. Sherlock doesn't imagine it will take very long.

John's eyes are open now, alert and confused, and he squints at Sherlock in panic, pulling on the cuffs: they rattle against the headboard.

And then he stops. "Sherlock?" he asks, as if that makes everything better, as if this is going to be alright. "What's going on?"

He asks as if he is sure there will be a good explanation and, of course, there is. Sherlock will tell him afterwards, once the experiment is complete. All conditions must be identical for this to be worth anything at all. Mr Turner had said it was silent, wordless, so of course it would be.

He wished that he had thought to ask about their states of undress in the original crime, or at the very least been able to inspect the naked corpse or Mr Turner without his clothes: all sorts of secrets can be hidden by material. He doesn't think Lestrade would have let him get very far with undressing this man in the interview room. He'll have to make do.

He pulls the covers back and flings them to the side, out of the way, and begins to pull John's cheap boxers off of him, down his legs as they thrash, until he can drop them onto the floor: it's difficult not to look up at John's face, where so many ticks and answers will be, but he is a master of self-control. "What are you doing?" John asks: there's a thread of panic taking over the confusion and sleepiness now.

His genitals are small when flaccid, lying docile as he pulls and tugs at his arms to try to get out of the cuffs. He won't succeed. Sherlock doubts that he has much experience with picking police handcuffs. Before he met Sherlock, he had never been arrested.

Sherlock pushes his trousers down his hips and finds himself rock-hard already: he had taken medication, little blue pills, to ensure it. Sex is not his primary interest and rarely registers on his horizon. It's a distraction. For tonight, it has a purpose and might help with a case. That makes it less useless than one would usually suppose.

John is talking: Sherlock, stop it, whatever you're doing just stop, we'll talk about this, alright? Let's just talk.

Silence, Mr Turner had said. Sherlock doesn't say a word.

It had been called 'fucking' when Mr Turner had described it. Fucking requires something less intimate than a face-to-face encounter, so Sherlock takes John and turns him over: he isn't surprised by the weight. From the very first sight of him, he had him figured out to the closest pound, stocky and solid.

John is swearing at this point, as angry as he ought to be, but Mrs Hudson is gone for the evening and Sherlock catalogues the tremors of rage that are firing through John's shaking hands. He slicks his cock before he pushes inside, more for his own comfort than for John's. John is tight and hot, just as Sherlock remembers sex being, and for a shocked, stunned moment, the struggles stop, as if John can't believe that this is really happening.

Sherlock takes no pleasure in this, just as he takes no pleasure in beating corpses with riding crops.

(but he likes that, truly, and perhaps he loves this too, the feeling of John underneath him, the tremble of his breath and tensing of his muscles, his for the night).

The chains of the cuffs rattle against the headboard with every staccato thrust. There had been two sets of semen samples at the crime scene: Sherlock ensures that John orgasms, fondling his cock until he's hard and then pulling him through resistant pleasure, ignoring the way that he shouts then whispers and begs him to stop, please, just stop.

There are tears on John's face by the time that Sherlock comes. They drip over his chin onto his pillow as he breathes through his slack lips. Sherlock puts himself right again, hides his member away, and covers John up too before he unlocks him.

He expects to be attacked, but it isn't fists that fly at him.

"Why would you do that?" John asks, lying motionless, shaking.

Silence, Sherlock reminds himself. He leaves without giving an answer, turning the evening's events over his mind. It's almost time to collect the results and chase the truth of Mr Turner's experiences. It's a waiting game.

Waiting is always the boring part.

*

During the night he hears John leaving, along with the click of his cane against the floor. Hard to say whether the limp has been brought back by added stress, or whether other injuries have led him to rely on it. Sherlock doubts the latter option: there had been no blood and he had taken pains not to harm him physically, just as in the original alleged crime. All conditions have been replicated to as near a degree as he was able to achieve.

Light comes, followed by the empty ringing of John's alarm clock - Sherlock turns it off for him, because he finds that it slices through his thoughts: important thoughts, valid thoughts, the kind of thoughts that hold the very path of justice and logic in the balance.

Lunch comes and John still hasn't returned, which is frustrating. Sherlock feels a buzz of anticipation in his belly, the thrill that only comes when the game is on, when he has theories to follow and facts to confirm. John's holding him back, wasting time, by refusing to be right here when he wants him. He toys with his phone, considering whether to text him to demand his presence, and turns it over in his hand several times.

Urgent case of boredom. Presence required immediately.
SH.

He types it out, then sighs and deletes it. Perhaps not.

He feels trapped in the apartment, waiting for John to come back, and he paces back and forth as he tries to keep the soles of his feet from burning. Trapped tigers have less energy. Mrs Hudson comes in and asks him what's wrong, and he tells her there's nothing, and then he tells himself that's true. It is true.

Evening comes.

He checks John's blog (out of a sense of scientific curiosity, of course) and there is one new entry:

"Nothing happens to me." Remember that?

Laughing comments from his sister; concern from his therapist. Sherlock wets his lips and browses elsewhere, answering emails addressed to him from his website - boring cases that he can solve without having to be there: he's cheating on you. He doesn't add 'you idiot' to the end of that one, as a sign of limited compassion. He thinks Lestrade would be proud of that, John too, and instantly decides not to tell them.

There are stars glaring from the sky and John still has not come home, which makes this entire experiment rather pointless. He fiddles with his phone again, feeling at sea without someone to text, someone to annoy. He's not used to waiting and he certainly doesn't like it, not one bit.

Have you seen John Watson?
SH

That one is sent to Lestrade. There is a certain nervous buzz in his belly as he waits for a reply. He had felt certain that one would go to the police instantly in such a case: there's no logical reason to hide the truth simply because you know a person, liked them even (once). If that is the case, he might find himself in prison, although he feels reasonably certain that there is far from enough evidence to convict him. There is nothing but John's word, and for a man with a psychosomatic limp who is diagnosed with PTSD his word shouldn't mean too much before a jury.

His expression twitches in faint distaste after the thoughts fade: truthful, but unpleasant. Facts of life.

Past midnight, he gives in and texts John.

Going out. Dinner in oven for when you get home.
SH

He makes sure to actually put something in the oven, although he's not sure if he's ever used it himself: Mrs Hudson or John are usually around for that, and he doesn't eat much anyway. Wastes time. Why cook when someone will do it for you?

John doesn't answer him, but Sherlock leaves anyway and doesn't tell Mrs Hudson where he is going. He isn't entirely sure himself. Somewhere to think, somewhere to breathe, somewhere to get him out of the apartment for long enough to get John into it. He's starting to get a headache and his fingers are starting to twitch in the way that they usually do when he's been away from his nicotine patches for far too long: signs of withdrawal. Ridiculous.

He's starting to get the impression that this entire plan is 'ridiculous', which doesn't make sense. His plans are works of art.

Shoulders hunched, he walks through the streets with his feet on the ground, looking for all the world like any other harassed Londoner on the streets at this time of night. They all have stories, most of them sad, all of them dark, but Sherlock knows (can tell at a glance) that he's the darkest: the best. He doesn't feel the badge of pride at that realisation that he ought to, that he wants: it's a hollow triumph.

As he walks, his mind filters back to the night before, to darkened sins and carefully structured experiments. In the dim light of day (or the light of street lamps, which aren't quite the same thing) it doesn't feel as clinical as it ought to. Scientists are warned never to become attached to their test subjects - but Sherlock was attached long before the test began.

'Attached.'

It's an odd word. He's uncertain if he likes it, yet it fits. His apartment is filled with John and his stuff, until they are entwined to the point that separation seems difficult and pointless. Two liquids, perfectly blended: if he is water, John is the dye that colours him, a bland attempt to make him more human.

It doesn't appear to have worked.

He rubs warmth into his hands and checks his watch. Half an hour of walking has passed. Hoping that that will be enough he turns on a heel and begins to retrace his steps, a stupid waste of time. Half an hour of stillness should have been enough time for John to return home, like a rabbit rushing to its burrow. With a thrill that is almost as good as chasing a criminal, Sherlock hurries home, eager to find what awaits him there, eager to see what the results are and the impact they will have on his theories.

When he makes it home, only slightly out of breath, he can hear a great rustling coming from John's room, a clattering and occasional swear word (and the cursing, that makes him think of last night, that makes shivers go down his spine that are far from experimental), that draws him in, piecing his way across the untidy floor without having to look down at his feet: he knows exactly where every discarded object is.

He raps once on John's bedroom door with a couple of knuckles, and the sounds inside instantly stop. Without being invited in, he enters anyway.

There is a large box on top of John's bed, and it is already half-filled with clothes and books and the strange DVDs he'd moved it with. John has another handful of items clutched close to his chest, and he looks like a schoolboy caught in the act when he looks up at Sherlock, eyes wide, lips ajar. At first, he doesn't say a thing.

The silence makes Sherlock feel awkward, which is annoying - he never feels awkward. He gestures over his shoulder. "I made dinner," he says. "It's a ready-meal. Should be edible."

John should be shouting at him by now, he thinks. He had expected a fight of some sort. It feels disappointing to see him silent and deflated: it's not what he was ready to encounter at all.

"I know, I saw it. I'm just here to get my stuff."

Sherlock nods once, piecing things together as best he can. "You're staying with your sister," he concludes.

"Just for the night." Without looking at him, John clarifies, "Just until I find somewhere new."

"Oh."

Hit by an outcome he hadn't predicted, Sherlock is briefly off-balance, uncertain of what the next chess-move is supposed to be. There is an itching temptation to stride forth and unpack his belongings, but he holds himself back; events should be allowed to run their course.

He even closes the door behind himself when he leaves the room.

*

Although John is a quiet fellow, the apartment is echoingly silent without his presence. Too silent to think: Sherlock places a radio on John's old bed, tunes it to Radio 4, and leaves it murmuring as he heads to his chair outside. The noise helps.

He never used to need noise.

Yet this behaviour helps; it all fits with his own ideas. Following a stark betrayal, John had left. He hadn't hung around for five nights for a repeat performance. He hadn't prepared himself with a gun. Admittedly, he hadn't gone to the police either, but with an unhappy twist of his mouth Sherlock supposes that fits in with regular statistics: he's done a bit of reading. He's always been more interested in murders than rape cases. Everything is more solid with a murder or a theft. It's less messy, or at the very least the mess is more fun to pick through. Rape leaves tattered emotions and trembling victims. It's not half as enjoyable as a well thought-out execution.

He allows it to churn in his mind for a solid, silent day before he returns to Lestrade, who is as grave and frustrated as ever.

"What do you mean you 'don't know'?" Voice raised, standing while Sherlock sits, Lestrade appears to be trying to look threatening. "You never 'don't know'."

"It appears you've found a case that defies even me," he says with a dismissive wave of his hands. With a little unpicking, he could solve this: he could work out reality and deduce the exact events of Mr Turner's experience. It isn't in his nature to walk away.

It's making his palms itch just thinking about it.

Lestrade stares at him with an intensity that will probably make his head ache, thinking too hard for his limited brain cells to handle. "You're up to something," he says, as he places his hands on the desk in a no doubt subconscious attempt to echo television detectives. "I want to know what it is."

Sherlock gives him nothing but an expectant rise of his eyebrows, waiting to hear Lestrade's grand ideas on what precisely he is getting up to behind the police's back. He doesn't think that any wild shot into the dark will give him the answer to that particular puzzle - and there's something about that that makes him feel smug, feel smart, feel better than them. He'll have to be careful; that feeling could be all too addicting.

"I'm going to leave town for a few days," he says. "I have to visit my brother: I hope the police force will be able to hold itself together for one measly weekend without my help."

Lestrade snorts as if he has something stuck up his nose, and then Sherlock is permitted to leave the station. He doesn't run into Mr Turner at all during his visit, and for that he is eternally grateful: while this case rests as an ugly patch at the centre of his brain, he's forced himself to admit that it is perhaps beyond his capacities to solve it, or that he would at the very least be ill-advised to do so. His experiment has had rather unforeseen consequences that he will have to take some time to tidy up.

When he makes it back to their apartment (his apartment, he thinks, but the thought is batted away: John will be back soon), Mrs Hudson is fussing unhappily with her tea-pot, and she frowns at him as he enters the kitchen. Everyone has been frowning at him recently, haven't they? "What have you done now, love?" she asks, which is always an unpleasant opening to a conversation. "John came by and handed me his keys this morning. Have you two had a fight?"

The situation is far too complicated for him to try to explain to anyone, never mind someone as meddlesome as their shared landlady. "He's staying with his sister," he says. "We shouldn't question why."

With enough emphasis and enough of a stern look, he manages to imply that there is an entire story going on behind the scenes: all to do with Harry and John, nothing to do with him. He's little more than an innocent bystander.

"Oh my..." Mrs Hudson breathes. He imagines that Harry will receive a greetings card later this week, with 'Thinking of You...' written on the inside, even though the pair have never met. "I hope it all gets sorted out soon."

"Families are tricky things," Sherlock responds: it is the kind of bland announcement that is customary in conversations, and he never usually bothers with them. Everything feels wrong today, as if he is mimicking mankind rather than belonging to it himself. "I'll be leaving for the time being as well. You'll have the place to yourself for the weekend."

He has no true intention of visiting his brother, but he has other friends outside of town - or, at the very least, other favours that can be called in if he needs somewhere to rest. Clearing his mind of London and its woes seems the best option. He'll go hunting in the country for mysteries to solve. There's always something: a locked door that no one can explain, missing jewels, cheating husbands, run-away teenagers. Silly problems, no more challenging to him than a child's crossword. Diversions.

While his mind focuses on John and only John, he needs something to occupy himself, something to take his mind far, far away from this foolish London life and its games before he makes a further mistake.

A further mistake like the one he makes that evening while sitting on the train, playing with his mobile phone: he calls John.

He calls him.

As he holds the phone to his ear, it occurs to him that he has been careful not to hear the ringing of phones like this in months, maybe years. It's unpleasant, yet he doesn't think that John will answer a text. He's unlikely to pick up the phone either, but it's a sign: an olive branch that indicates change. Or perhaps it is the sign of a desperate man with a shaky excuse, a man who -

"Why are you phoning me?" John answers, unexpectedly. "You text. You don't phone."

He's grumpy, but that's usual. For a graceful, blissful moment as the countryside rushes past the train window, Sherlock thinks perhaps John doesn't remember anything, perhaps he thinks that it was all a wicked dream: he won't examine why this makes him feel so gleeful. "I'm bored," he says.

On the other side of the line, he hears the sound of John swallowing. "I think, maybe, you should find someone else to call when you're bored. It's inappropriate."

He's talking in the clipped, military manner that he usually resorts to when he's uncomfortable: Sherlock can visualise the expression that must be on his face, the same expression he'd worn when they're first met and Sherlock had seen so much about him in a flashing moment. The memory almost makes him smile, but there's a cold stone resting in his stomach that stops it. "Where are you?" he asks. "Harry's?"

"I'm at a hotel. I'm serious, Sherlock. Don't phone me any more. If I want to get in touch, I'll do it. I'll do it."

"Mrs Hudson says you handed your keys in to her," Sherlock says. He's trying not to listen to what John's saying. "That isn't conductive to contacting me again."

"Goodbye," John sighs. He sounds more than irritated with him, and it makes Sherlock's spine shiver: it isn't right, for John to sound so distant, so unimpressed. It doesn't fit him well.

John hangs up; the line goes dead. Sherlock listens for a moment longer, as if he might be able to glean further insight from the sound of the dial tone, but nothing comes. As he hurtles further away from London (away from John), he can't help but feel the worry gnawing at his gut: the certainty that this experiment will require far more cleaning up than wiping chemicals from the floor.

*

For six months, Sherlock keeps his distance.

This isn't to say that he doesn't keep an incredibly close eye on John through his blog and contacts, but he doesn't phone. He doesn't even text. He reads about John moving out of London and he doesn't raise a finger to stop him: it won't last. A man like John belongs in the city, in the capital, and running away will only last so long. It's best to allow him to get it out of his system, Sherlock tells himself, as he struggles to focus on his cases and has to give up on three in a row. They aren't interesting enough. When he doesn't have someone to awe with his deductions, it's starting to seem boring.

Boring.

Boredom rots the brain but lately he can't escape it, which is why he is infinitely glad to see John's blog updated: sitting in front of his laptop after updating his own site, Sherlock's mouth twitches in the facsimile of a smile:

Going to Mike's birthday party tonight. Haven't seen him since I left London. Haven't been back at all, actually. Sorry for the slackening of updates recently: life has been blissfully quiet so there has been little to write about. And Harry and Clara might be back on again, so fingers crossed for that.

Better go and iron a shirt for tonight. I'll write again soon.

It's a pleasant change from the infrequent posts about his pet peeves or the new restaurant that he had tried, and within a couple of minutes Sherlock has the address where the party is going to be held. He doesn't bother to call Mike for an invitation: when he shows up on people's doorsteps they tend to let him in out of a dull sense of surprise.

He feels nervous, a gnawing in his stomach that is altogether unpleasant. He walks across London to allow his legs a chance to stretch and to dull the adrenaline coursing through his blood veins. Perhaps placing a patch upon his arm before he went out would have been a wiser idea - or something stronger than nicotine, something better and far more forbidden. Since he has been alone in his messy little flat, the secret stashes have become all the more tempting, all the more difficult to resist. He doesn't know how much longer he can pretend that he is strong enough or willing enough to resist.

Mike is not the kind of man to have many close friends - Sherlock could tell that within the first minute of meeting him - but he has a lot of acquaintances and colleagues and near-friends and neighbours. When Sherlock approaches his home, he can hear old music from the 80s and the rumble of laughter and mindless chatter. It is the kind of scene that he would usually avoid, the sort of pointless place that makes his mind ache, but he has a reason to be here and a flatmate to collect. One might even say that he has an experiment to conclude, but he doesn't think that he is quite so heartless. There is more to it than this.

He rings the doorbell and hears it shrill - and is, quietly, relieved that it isn't Mike that lets him inside. He slips by unnoticed, even if his suit and pristine shirt are more formal than the occasion appears to require.

It's late in the evening and most of the guests are already tipsy, well on their way to being drunk. From their slurs and the dilation of their eyes, Sherlock can tell how much each person there has had to drink so far tonight (he can also, based on their clothes and especially their shoes, tell how much more they are likely to imbibe before the night calls them to bed).

John, for example, has only had two beers. He's considerably more sober than most of the other people at this dire event.

Sherlock finds him in the living room, standing in a crowd with his back to the door. For a moment, Sherlock halts in the doorway. He tilts his head to the side as he watches him, drinking in every single tick and twitch. His clothes are all reasonably new: six months old, in fact, when Sherlock is used to seeing him in clothes that have suffered through years of use. His jaw clenches as he remembers the most significant event in John's life that happened six months ago, as he thinks that this new wardrobe was probably inspired by him.

Even in a group, John isn't talking too much, preferring to remain quiet and absorb the conversation of those around them - until Sherlock wants to demand that they all shut up, wants to ask why they are being such idiots by not allowing him to speak. He wants to hear him laugh like the other drunks in the room, he realises. He remembers how John would giggle when he was tipsy, a high and free sound that was so rare from a military man.

We can't giggle at a crime scene, Sherlock remembers, and it makes his mind feel warm.

It takes him only a moment to gather his courage and walk forwards - and this feels worse than battling serial killers. It makes his heart race more than fighting a sword-wielding maniac.

Standing at John's side, he joins the group without introducing himself and without allowing himself to look towards John; out of the corner of his eye, he watches him double-take at him, can hear the hitch of his breath and the splutter of out-raged surprise. John won't confront him here: he's a private man, a polite one, and that means that Sherlock is protected in a crowd from any rage he might want to unleash.

"What are you doing here?" John hisses at him beneath his breath, while the group around them discuss wine as if they actually know a damn thing about it, all of them lying and forcing the words.

Sherlock allows himself to look towards John now, to take him in. His face shows signs of sleeplessness, dark smears under his eyes, and there's a scuffiness to his hair that wasn't there previously: nothing much, nothing anyone else would notice, but it can't be called military. John's losing his grip.

"Celebrating dear Mike's birthday," Sherlock says. He blinks and wonders if he looks believable or reptilian. "What about you?"

"Mike doesn't even like you." That isn't true, not remotely; Mike is the sort of man who will remember and leap upon a university friend years after they have grown apart. He is a man who will receive generic gifts on his birthday because no one here knows him well enough to buy something personal. What this means, of course, is that Mike is not a man who can afford to dislike anyone at all. "Are you following me?"

"I've left you alone for six months," Sherlock answers. He's tired of waiting around with nothing happening. It's dull. "That should be enough."

"'Enough'?" John responds. His voice has broken free from its private hiss, and Sherlock's eyes glance to the wider group. They're listening, now. "Enough for what, exactly?"

John is angrier than Sherlock had expected, but only slightly so. He had been prepared to meet resistance - it's why he had waited so long. "Your room is as you left it," he says: which means that it is empty and hollow, waiting for its owner to return. "It would be..." He doesn't know the word to use; he's not good at this, and he hates doing anything that he's not good at. "I would be happy to have you back."

John's arms cross over his chest. Defensive. Protective. Not a good sign. "I just bet you would," he says, in a tone that brings back shadowy memories of that night, of John held captive in his own bed and the way that Sherlock had come, harder and stronger than he could remember doing in all his youth.

Sherlock glances to the side at their audience again. He's unconcerned with the perceptions of the public, but the John that he remembers would have been, so wrapped up in small concerns about what others might think. He wets his lips and then gives the only excuse that he has, knowing that while perfectly valid in his own mind John might argue with him: John had told him stop whipping corpses, after all. He'd said it was disrespectful.

"It was for a case, John," he murmurs, barely above a whisper.

It's after that that the pain explodes in his cheekbone.

He'd seen the punch coming a fraction of a second too late, and John really is the only one capable of getting the drop on him in such a way. The force of John's fist causes Sherlock to double over, and the room falls silent - but ABBA continue to sing merrily in the background, Waterloo rippling while Sherlock presses the back of his fingers against his cheek.

"Damn your cases," John exclaims. He makes a move as if he is about to follow up that punch again, but the man at his side holds him back, beefy hands on his arms. "Stay away from me. I mean it."

He meant it last time too, but it doesn't matter. Sherlock keeps his hand cupped protectively over his face: he has received worse injuries than this, certainly, but this pain has a certain emotional quality to it that is more unpleasant than usual. "I'm sorry," he says, and those words aren't pleasant ones to say.

Six months was far too soon, he realises now. With the pain in his face throbbing, he leaves the party without further fuss - knowing that, perhaps, he will have a small while longer to wait.
*

There is a strange ache that claws at the inside of his skull: it makes him restless, makes him bored. Lonely, even. The bruise from John's fist fades from his cheekbone, and in the end he acquires a new flatmate through trickery and lies. It's like university all over again, where his incredible skills irritate his companion and he has no one to think with, no one to put up with him with nothing more than a weary sigh.

Yet the months slip by. He keeps an eye on John's blog and reads bare records of his meetings with his therapist, filling all of the missing details in for himself. A new therapist, away from London. A better one, from the looks of things.

"George," he calls absently, staring at the computer screen and reading about John's encounter with a traffic warden. "I need more tea."

His new flatmate, it has to be said, is not nearly as easily led as John had been. From his bedroom, George yells back, "Get it yourself, you twat!"

Sherlock frowns.

Ten minutes later, he still has no tea, and Mrs Hudson isn't answering his texts either. He leaves the flat rather than brewing anything for himself, because there is no satisfaction in doing something for yourself when someone else should be doing it for you. The London breeze whips at his face and brings pink patches to his pale skin, forcing him to bury his hands within his pockets. He has nowhere to go and no purpose to his wanderings: he doesn't even have a case. London has grown static and frigid, perfectly boring. He doesn't know where to go next - he wants to wait until John returns before he moves on, but has increasingly come to realise that John's return may not happen for some time yet.

He refuses to think 'ever'. Nothing in the world is infinite. Not even pain; not even hatred. Everything fades and wilts and dies. It's a waiting game.

He hates waiting games.

In his pocket, his cell phone buzzes against his fingers, the vibrations violent and angry in the winter's cold. Phone call rather than texts. The only people to call him are those who don't know him well enough to know his preference for texts, or who know him perfectly well and want to annoy him anyway. With a pursing of his lips, he slides the phone out of his pocket and peeks at the display.

Number Withheld.

Withheld.

Could be accidental, of course; could be someone with a new phone. Could be Mrs Hudson struggling with her settings, but she wouldn't call him. She's been hung up on enough times to learn her lesson.

Which makes it on purpose.

A threat? An enemy? A surprise?

(John?)

The thoughts pass by in a flying second before he answers the phone and holds it to his ear, surveying the quiet street for the sign of anyone else on a phone. No one is there, only an old woman walking her pet dog.

"Sherlock Holmes," the phone says, and Sherlock knows that voice instantly. They've talked before, now.

His mouth twitches. He tries not to look too satisfied. "Moriarty," he responds. He loves the way that the name rolls off of his tongue, sliding in the crisp air as if it refuses to be contained. There is nothing quite like the thrill of talking to an enemy. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

He listens intently to the background noises in the phone call, trying to pick up on anything that might be a clue to his whereabouts: it is silent, completely. There isn't so much as a clock ticking. That alone is a small nugget of information, enough to confirm that the silence is intentional; he will have to research the locations with expensive sound-proofing in the city, assuming that Moriarty is in London, assuming that the man on the phone is Moriarty rather than a mere mouthpiece. Blind assumptions are ugly.

"Your investigations have slowed down as of late," Moriarty observes. "Four successful cases in one year? That is truly shameful."

"It's below my average," he agrees. He doesn't give himself targets, but last year he solved just under thirty. This year has been - slow, certainly. Uninspired. "If the crimes don't happen, I can't solve them. Perhaps you ought to spice things up for me."

Challenging a serial killer is ill-advised, but life is boring when you live safely. On the other end of the life, Moriarty chuckles, which is warm like smoked wood. "I have been, my dear," he says.

Sherlock's eyes narrow: he hasn't noticed anything especially clever going on. Run-of-the-mill crimes with boring solutions. The police don't need to come to him for help, not even Lestrade. On the occasions where they have, Sherlock has waved them away with the snapped assurance that they can get to the bottom of it all themselves if they only apply a little brain-power. "You seem to be losing your touch."

"On the contrary," Moriarty says. He's starting to get under his skin, now: Sherlock is gripping his phone too tightly. He's in danger of damaging it. "When is that companion of yours scheduled to return, Sherlock? You've been rather monotonous to play with ever since you made him leave."

Sherlock isn't angry: he doesn't get angry, doesn't allow it, refuses to acknowledge how often it happens. He refuses to admit that the red fuel that fires through his veins is cold fury. "Use his name if you want to taunt me with him. Dancing around the topic is - Well, it's exactly your style. Far more flourishes than substance."

"Doctor John Watson. Does that help?" It doesn't, not at all, but Sherlock grunts all the same. "I'm sure we both know to who I am referring. And I'm sure we both know what made him leave."

Sherlock stops walking, standing dead on the street. His feet are too close together and he feels like he might topple over at any moment, but he makes no attempt to steady him. Moriarty can't know. There is no possible way that he could have figured it out - but he is clever, so clever, and he seems to have eyes everywhere. "What do you mean?"

The chuckle on the other side of the phone line is cold this time; Sherlock knows fear as well as he knows anger. He likes to think that it is a stranger to him, kept at bay by the sociopathy he has claimed as his own. "Would you like me to chase him back to you, Holmes?" Moriarty offers.

Sherlock, for one foolish moment, considers saying 'yes'. He knows that Moriarty's methods will be far from pretty, and he has worked his way through enough bodies to know that Moriarty is no amateur, but the end result might make it worth it. To have John in London again, to have a worthy companion, to have the ability to take on a case once more, wouldn't that be worth a few more of John's poor tears?

He closes his eyes and listens to the silence on the end of the line, and the wind whipping around his body. "Leave him alone," he hears himself saying. "Or I'll find you. I promise you that."

"Now, now, let's not over-react," Moriarty says. "It's not time for our great show-down, yet."

Sherlock doesn't know what will happened when he meets Moriarty face to face - and the unknown is a worrying thing, the kind of blank space that his mind can usually penetrate. It eludes him, now, the one puzzle he will be forever unable to solve.

"Bring him back yourself and I'll have no reason to go near him," Moriarty continues. Simple logic. Impossible in practice.

"It's complicated," Sherlock says, which makes him feel melodramatic and like an actor in a poorly written play. Life is only as complicated as you make it; those with sharp eyes can pierce through the complications.

With John, he doesn't feel sharp enough to pierce through anything.

"Yes, you did make rather a mess of things." Moriarty sounds rather more amused than he has any right to be. Sherlock wonders if he knows the dusky bedroom truths, or if he is playing a role - pretending. He tries to imagine being on the other end of this mystery and can only think of Mr Turner, can only imagine his own failings. It's a mental block and it is all John's fault and yet he can't fight it, not at all. "Get back to work, Sherlock. I'm getting bored."

Sherlock well knows the tedium of boredom and the way it kills the brain, but the line goes dead before he has a chance to commiserate and plead his case: John won't come back to London, not yet. He won't be the supportive audience that Sherlock needs until he is able to come back of his own free will. Sherlock's attempts to force his hand drew only a bruise for his hard work. Far from worth it.

Getting John back might be a long wait, yet he still has to entertain Moriarty for John's sake. It makes his jaw clench with irritation to be forced into anything he doesn't want to do, but he aims for the police station anyway: it looks as if it is time to once again muscle his way onto a case he has no right to be near.

*

Over the following year he completes sixty cases, an impressive record even for himself. He often runs several at once, and when there is nothing entertaining enough in London he flies around the world: he is out of the country one week in three. Work becomes dull and routine - and he hates it, hates that, hates Moriarty for forcing him to dance like a puppet and hates John for making him willing to do it.

There's a murder. That's far from unusual. Sherlock no longer goes a single week without examining a body.

A locked door mystery, all very fascinating, although from the second he entered the room Sherlock could see that the entire case had the rest upon the air vents that connecting the pair of adjoining bedrooms in the grand country manor. He hadn't yet pieced together all the parts of the puzzle, but he could tell that the solution wasn't far away: a day's work, perhaps. He could have it completed by morning, and perhaps two years ago he would have. He has no interest in this case, however, going through the motions for the sake of his audience, so he takes the night off.

It isn't rare for him, these days, walking through the streets of London and visiting the old haunts that he knows well - but the pavement and entire road that leads to the take-away he had been intending to visit has been closed off.

He changes course and decides to head elsewhere - only to find a parade rushing past and making it impossible to cross from one side of the road to the other, even for someone as slippery and nimble as him. As far as he had been aware, no events had been scheduled for tonight.

The decision to go home is cut-off by a police man threatening to take him down to the station of all things (not a real officer, wrong stance, wrong words, wrong hair-cut, no flecks of pen smudged on his hands) and Sherlock knows, instantly, that he is being herded - and he also knows that he doesn't like that, not one bit, and through his mind he maps an alternate route through gardens and garages and back-alleys that can't be closed down to him.

"You going to head straight home then, sir?" the not-officer checks. "Or do I have to take you in?"

"I'm sure I'll manage alone - thank you." He flashes a smile that feels like burnt butter on his face, and heads away in the correct direction. For a moment, he considers stopping, but this man is twice his size and is sure to be armed. He'll have better luck slipping away to be better prepared next time.

Takes a left into an alleyway instead of right onto the wide street. Down the alley, up to the roofs, through an open window, quietly through a stranger's flat, out the other side. Down. Turns right through a closed public garden, diagonally. Ends up on a busy street filled with pubs, smokers milling outside with a grey cloud around them. Eyes alert, Sherlock looks for any other obvious attempts to herd him elsewhere, and spots -

John.

John. His lips part and he stares across the road to where his old, unseen friend is swaying on his feet, barely supported by his equally drunk friend, a man Sherlock doesn't know. He feels himself bristle at the sight of him, helping to keep John on his feet, and the resentment grows stronger when he sees the way that John's head bows: he can't hear it from this distance, but even after two years he remembers the sound of John's abandoned giggle. Hands in his pockets, he forgets that he is being watched.

He watches as the pair swerve towards the road, waving wildly at a taxi, and as one slows to pick them up it is as if a magnet is turned on. Crossing the road without checking for cars, he is at John's side by the time his friend has collapsed inside. "Take him wherever he wants to go," he instructs the driver, passing in enough money to take him to the airport if not further. His eyes don't move from John's face, and he sees the struggle of his pupils to focus.

Placing a hand on John's elbow to stop him from running away, he holds him in place with little fuss: it's far easier to control John when he's drunk. Perhaps that's something he should have relied on far earlier. "Geddoff me," John complains, slurring. The driver shrugs and takes off, leaving them behind on the pavement. "What are you even being here. I mean. What are you doing here? Why? What?"

John seems almost more confused with his own words than with Sherlock's presence - and already this encounter is going smoother than their last. Sherlock hasn't been punched yet.

His hand doesn't move from John's elbow, even though John has stopped struggling now. "I don't mean to alarm you, but I believe we're being watched," Sherlock tells him. John blinks at him, slow and confused, as if he isn't sure whether or not he's dreaming. Sherlock gives his elbow a shake, but it does very little to wake him up. "I was led here - to meet you, I think."

"What?" John says. "Why would someone do that?"

And he doesn't sound dismissive - curious, waiting for an answer, trusting that Sherlock has one that makes sense. Sherlock could kiss him to have that presence again, but he holds back. Even drunk, he doubts if John would be willing to put up with such behaviour.

"Moriarty," Sherlock murmurs. There are six different methods of security and CCTV cameras focused on this small patch of the street alone. He has no doubt that their audience has them well-observed. "Apparently I haven't been entertaining enough."

John makes a sound that is something like 'urgn?' so Sherlock gives up on the explanations and takes John with him instead, leading him like a dog on a leash. He can't take the time to revel in the satisfaction that comes with their reunion, forced as it is: John is here for a reason, and Sherlock shudders to think what he did wrong.

"There's someone in your room," he says, although he thinks he might throw Peter out if John wants his bed back (George had been swiftly moved on and replaced with a string of other flatmates, no one else working out; they won't put up with him. He can't stand them). "You can sleep on the sofa."

"I could sleep at home," John points out, with the kind of blunt logic that always overlooks the facts.

"We're being watched. Both of us, probably. For the time being, it's best to stay together."

"Which is what the bad guy wanted?" John's elbow jabs at him and misses terribly, but the inaccuracy is hardly the point. The viciousness about it speaks miles. "It's probably you. There's no bad guy."

"I can assure you that this threat is quite real," Sherlock answers as they walk towards Baker Street: despite his grumbles, John doesn't struggle against him. It's a start, perhaps, maybe even progress - but Sherlock won't allow himself to feel gratitude towards Moriarty, as wonderful and manipulative as he might be. "You'll stay with me until I can work out what's going on."

"I bloody will not," John replies, tripping over his feet for emphasis.

Despite that objectively untrue statement, John winds up in Sherlock's unmade bed, passed out on top of the covers with his feet poking off the edge. There is drool dripping onto Sherlock's pillow, and as he stands in the doorway, blocking what little light can enter the room, Sherlock feels a spike of contentment as he watches it. His hands are thrust into his pockets, bound in tight fists, but he can't help slipping forward.

Completely altruistic, he tells himself. Trying to make him comfortable. It's what a good friend would do, surely.

He pulls John's laces free and slides his boots from his feet, dropping them onto the ground at the foot of the bed. John doesn't stir - not even when Sherlock says his name. Having made him comfortable, this is no doubt the point where Sherlock should leave, but he finds that his hand lingers upon John's ankle: just his ankle, nothing more. There isn't even bare skin, just cotton socks that have faded scuff-marks on the bottom around his toes and heels from where he has walked around his new flat in them. Sherlock's thumb rubs back and forth against the inside of John's ankle as he thinks - and it produces a moan, a heavy thing that comes out on a whisper of breath.

Sherlock's eyes flick upwards to John's face, slack with the kind of sleep that can only be acquired through the use of high quantities of chemicals. Sherlock would know. It's the only rest he can get these days, mind ticking. John won't stir, not for the world.

Sherlock looks down at his own hand, resting upon John's ankle, and there's a temptation there that he isn't used to: the desire to push it further, to swipe up the inside of John's thighs until he cups what rests between, the wish to peel John's trousers away and repeat the mistake that had got them into this situation in the first place. That first, sweet temptation rushes through him, head to groin, and he feels heat stir in his stomach and lower. His mouth waters at the thought and he doesn't move at all, not a single twitch. Memories, stained by the two years they have been waiting, stir to life in his mind as he remembers how John had felt below him, the tight clench that had supported him.

There's no experiment now.

That case is over.

The temptation remains.

For a moment more, his hand rests on John's warm ankle, fingers covering the bone that arches inside his sock. "Good night," he says, with the hint of a tremble in his voice as he gets to his feet.

He isn't used to denying himself anything that he wants or requires: he isn't used to having to stop to consider other people's feelings on the matter, but it was these actions that caused such trouble in the first place. There is too much to be considered, so he slaps a patch then two onto his arm and lies in his chair, sending his mind as far away from John as possible in an attempt to access Moriarty's mind instead. It's too far from him, too distant. What is the reason for leading him to John like this? What does it achieve? It can't cause him to take on more cases, as he's done far too much of that already. Having John to worry about slows him down - this shattered friendship is something he's never been able to solve. Is that it? Does Moriarty want him to confront his failings? No, no, far too simple, far too emotional, if he has a nemesis then they have to be better than that, have to have better reasoning, but what? What? Distraction, then. Involvement in his current case, perhaps? The locked room mystery? Seems simple enough. Too simple, maybe; too much of a classic.

Too far gone, he doesn't hear it at all when the door whistles open and shut in the morning.

"Was that our John?" Mrs Hudson asks him, poking her head into the room.

Sherlock doesn't have the energy to answer her, feeling closed in by the kind of problems that his logic cannot solve: he puts on another patch and tries to will himself away from this room.

*

Part Two