Love at Five
Title: Love at Five, Epilogue
Rating: R for language and violence
Characters/Pairings: None
Summary: By sheer luck, Sherlock and John stumble over one of Moriarty's schemes. In order to unravel the madman's plans Lestrade all but orders them to go undercover. Unfortunately, for the consulting detective and his blogger, the ruse takes place in a speed dating event. This might not be one of Lestrade's best ideas, but Donovan hadn't laughed so hard in years.
Disclaimer: Seriously, does anyone NOT know Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?
Notes: Gen, but can be read with slash goggles. Also posted on AO3
“We found Caville,” Lestrade announced grimly as he took the proffered tea from John.
“That doesn’t sound good,” John said as he slowly sank into his armchair.
Though he’d been out of the hospital for almost a month, the chest wound was slow to heal, and still caused considerable pain at the end of the day.
“His body, to be exact,” Lestrade explained. “We found it, in his flat. In his bed, tucked in.”
Sherlock arched his eyebrows. “Was he in his bedclothes?”
“Yep. It all looked very domestic save for the fact that the corpse was putrefied. I can’t imagine the hassle to stuff that into linen pyjamas.”
John winced. “My God, that’s truly disgusting.”
“Not to mention a waste of perfectly good pyjamas,” Sherlock added. “As for Winter?”
“He’s still alive, and in jail. Also not speaking a damn word. I’m starting to think Moriarty either forgot about him, or Winter is too small a problem for Moriarty to be concerned with.”
“With Caville gone, we’ll never know,” Sherlock said.
"At least Nathan's safe," John muttered. "Just got a post from him. He loves Sydney. Met a girl there, and is planning to stay longer."
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow but remained silent about Nathan's amorous proclivities. “Did your specialists come up with anything on Caville's laptop?”
“Now that’s where it gets interesting,” Lestrade said. “Caville was smart enough to have two backups: one in the … ‘cloud’ thing whatever that is, and the other an external drive. They weren't able to decipher it, but one word kept coming up, repeatedly.”
“What is the word?” Sherlock asked.
“Reinchbach,” Lestrade answered. “It’s German for…”
“It’s a painting,” Sherlock interrupted curtly. “A Turner painting.”
John’s eyes widened. “You don’t think…”
“As I’ve often said: It’s dangerous to theorize without facts.”
“I’m going to have someone at the Met look in on that painting,” Lestrade said cautiously. “Care to tell me where it is, Sherlock?”
“Higgins Gallery,” Sherlock answered promptly. “Lestrade, pay attention. If this is another lead then it would be wise to tread carefully.”
“Will do.”
John waited until Lestrade was out of earshot before asking, “You’re actually going to trust the Met with Reichenbach.”
“Of course not,” Sherlock scoffed. “But it pays to have them snooping around. May throw Moriarty off our scent for a while.”
“Ahh, I see,” John said as he stood up. “I’m guessing Mr. Fontaine, Eternal Art Student, will make an appearance.”
Sherlock had to smile at John’s fond tone. His friend had a laughing fit when Sherlock revealed that particular disguise. Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was the beret or the ridiculous beard that did it, but John could hardly breathe as he sat wheezing on the floor with tears streaming down his face.
“Maybe,” he said. “Or Mr. Hurringer of Salzburg could drop by.”
John chuckled. “Either one would be lovely. I could do with a good laugh. Surgery was murder today.”
“Are you sure you should be working? So soon?”
John looked kindly at Sherlock. “Yes, I do. Any more convalescence and I would have started shooting the walls.”
Sherlock watched John stumble about the kitchen, washing his mug. “Do you need help tonight?”
“No, I’m just going to brush my teeth and toss it in. Good night, Sherlock.”
The detective closed his eyes and listened to John move about his room. The limp wasn’t back but there was a distinct lack of crispness in John’s movements. People could easily attribute the change to exhaustion, but Sherlock knew better.
It was pain. As expected John had binned his pain medication the moment store-bought ones could do the job. At first, Sherlock was insulted, because he knew the main reason for that foolhardy sacrifice was his personal history with drugs.
But his anger quickly morphed into something warm and distinctly … unfamiliar. John who was shot, who nearly died, whose heart was nestled against a bullet, was more concerned about Sherlock’s wellbeing than his. And let’s not forget the pain. Post surgery recovery was a nightmare. Add chronic pain to that blend of horrors: it was almost insurmountable.
But no one reasoned John’s particular brand of stubbornness, loyalty, and self-sacrificing personality. So, Sherlock gratefully accepted his friend’s truculence and his tired demeanor. That John and not Sherlock, for a change, needed to be entertained to take his mind off other things.
And Sherlock, to his undying glee, found that making John roar with laughter was actually enjoyable. Especially since he found John had a wicked sense of humor, and was not at all averse to dining out with Sherlock in disguise.
In fact, Sherlock had eaten dim sum with John as Marcus Simmons, a curator for the Gallery. And they once actually shared a meal at Angelo’s while Sherlock was impersonating an accountant hired to help John organize his finances.
John had no compunction in letting the old bookworm, Mr. Jameson, ply him with used books at Camden Market. And actually bought Mr. Finch, a pilot for British Airways, a latte at Speedy’s as the two discussed airfares and the best time to fly out of Heathrow.
At the end of the masquerade extravaganza, John had remarked, “I don’t think I’ve been so socially amiable since I came back from Afghanistan.”
Sherlock smiled at the memory. Others would have been either confused or worried that they were being mocked. But not John. John had encouraged it, enjoyed Sherlock’s more flamboyant personalities. And took to heart that Sherlock meant no harm by his behaviour.
Sherlock once more felt that warm spot in his mind pulse. With some reluctance he stopped thinking about his friend and continued to listen as John finally crawled into bed and fall asleep.
As was his usual habit, Sherlock decided to forego sleep altogether and instead catch up on his reading. He has an inbox filled with forensic journals from Australia and Canada that he hadn’t touched.
It was almost three when Sherlock heard the familiar but dismaying noises of his friend in the throes of a nightmare. Sherlock wasn’t prone to feeling guilt, but he suffering it well enough as he heard John moan softly while thrashing in his bed. Then he heard the door to Mrs. Hudson’s flat open. Sherlock peeked into the hallway and saw her look up the landing.
“Is he having one of those?” she asked softly.
Sherlock nodded. “Afraid so.”
“Poor dear,” she whispered.
“I wish he didn’t. It serves no purpose save making John surly and stubborn in the morning.”
Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “Of course they serve a purpose. And you should be glad, Sherlock, that he has nightmares still.”
Sherlock gaped at his landlady for a moment before asking, “How did you arrive at that conclusion?”
“Because a good man like John? Well, imagine him in the middle of a warzone, and a doctor at that. He couldn’t possibly save everyone, could he? Nobody is that good a doctor. And he probably killed, more than he’d ever thought he would.
“Still, even after all that he remains a good man. So, he comes home and all his guilt comes rushing up after being bottled for heaven knows how many years. But that’s what happens to a good man, Sherlock. You put them in impossible, horrible situations, and they survive; well, their conscience won’t make it easy for them after. How could it?”
“So, you’re saying his nightmares are a badge of honor?”
“No, Sherlock, evidence of his goodness. And the fact he has nightmares tonight … it means he cares.
“My Jerry? He never had a bad dream. Not a single nightmare his entire life. When he first told me that I thought it must have meant he was a happy, easy-going fellow.
“Well, I know better now, and so should you, Sherlock.”
Sherlock felt a smile curl on his lips. “You are a wonder, Mrs. Hudson.”
“Stop talking and play something he likes. You know well enough what calms him.”
“I will. Good night.”
“Good night, Sherlock.”
He didn’t wait to hear her door close. Instead, he softly began playing his violin, a composition of his own floating through his fingers and into the violin, to have it echo throughout the flat and into John’s cursed mind.
And Sherlock hoped that his music would be enough to soothe the lion heart that rested within John and give his friend some blessed peace.
The End
Part II
Rating: R for language and violence
Characters/Pairings: None
Summary: By sheer luck, Sherlock and John stumble over one of Moriarty's schemes. In order to unravel the madman's plans Lestrade all but orders them to go undercover. Unfortunately, for the consulting detective and his blogger, the ruse takes place in a speed dating event. This might not be one of Lestrade's best ideas, but Donovan hadn't laughed so hard in years.
Disclaimer: Seriously, does anyone NOT know Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?
Notes: Gen, but can be read with slash goggles. Also posted on AO3
“We found Caville,” Lestrade announced grimly as he took the proffered tea from John.
“That doesn’t sound good,” John said as he slowly sank into his armchair.
Though he’d been out of the hospital for almost a month, the chest wound was slow to heal, and still caused considerable pain at the end of the day.
“His body, to be exact,” Lestrade explained. “We found it, in his flat. In his bed, tucked in.”
Sherlock arched his eyebrows. “Was he in his bedclothes?”
“Yep. It all looked very domestic save for the fact that the corpse was putrefied. I can’t imagine the hassle to stuff that into linen pyjamas.”
John winced. “My God, that’s truly disgusting.”
“Not to mention a waste of perfectly good pyjamas,” Sherlock added. “As for Winter?”
“He’s still alive, and in jail. Also not speaking a damn word. I’m starting to think Moriarty either forgot about him, or Winter is too small a problem for Moriarty to be concerned with.”
“With Caville gone, we’ll never know,” Sherlock said.
"At least Nathan's safe," John muttered. "Just got a post from him. He loves Sydney. Met a girl there, and is planning to stay longer."
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow but remained silent about Nathan's amorous proclivities. “Did your specialists come up with anything on Caville's laptop?”
“Now that’s where it gets interesting,” Lestrade said. “Caville was smart enough to have two backups: one in the … ‘cloud’ thing whatever that is, and the other an external drive. They weren't able to decipher it, but one word kept coming up, repeatedly.”
“What is the word?” Sherlock asked.
“Reinchbach,” Lestrade answered. “It’s German for…”
“It’s a painting,” Sherlock interrupted curtly. “A Turner painting.”
John’s eyes widened. “You don’t think…”
“As I’ve often said: It’s dangerous to theorize without facts.”
“I’m going to have someone at the Met look in on that painting,” Lestrade said cautiously. “Care to tell me where it is, Sherlock?”
“Higgins Gallery,” Sherlock answered promptly. “Lestrade, pay attention. If this is another lead then it would be wise to tread carefully.”
“Will do.”
John waited until Lestrade was out of earshot before asking, “You’re actually going to trust the Met with Reichenbach.”
“Of course not,” Sherlock scoffed. “But it pays to have them snooping around. May throw Moriarty off our scent for a while.”
“Ahh, I see,” John said as he stood up. “I’m guessing Mr. Fontaine, Eternal Art Student, will make an appearance.”
Sherlock had to smile at John’s fond tone. His friend had a laughing fit when Sherlock revealed that particular disguise. Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was the beret or the ridiculous beard that did it, but John could hardly breathe as he sat wheezing on the floor with tears streaming down his face.
“Maybe,” he said. “Or Mr. Hurringer of Salzburg could drop by.”
John chuckled. “Either one would be lovely. I could do with a good laugh. Surgery was murder today.”
“Are you sure you should be working? So soon?”
John looked kindly at Sherlock. “Yes, I do. Any more convalescence and I would have started shooting the walls.”
Sherlock watched John stumble about the kitchen, washing his mug. “Do you need help tonight?”
“No, I’m just going to brush my teeth and toss it in. Good night, Sherlock.”
The detective closed his eyes and listened to John move about his room. The limp wasn’t back but there was a distinct lack of crispness in John’s movements. People could easily attribute the change to exhaustion, but Sherlock knew better.
It was pain. As expected John had binned his pain medication the moment store-bought ones could do the job. At first, Sherlock was insulted, because he knew the main reason for that foolhardy sacrifice was his personal history with drugs.
But his anger quickly morphed into something warm and distinctly … unfamiliar. John who was shot, who nearly died, whose heart was nestled against a bullet, was more concerned about Sherlock’s wellbeing than his. And let’s not forget the pain. Post surgery recovery was a nightmare. Add chronic pain to that blend of horrors: it was almost insurmountable.
But no one reasoned John’s particular brand of stubbornness, loyalty, and self-sacrificing personality. So, Sherlock gratefully accepted his friend’s truculence and his tired demeanor. That John and not Sherlock, for a change, needed to be entertained to take his mind off other things.
And Sherlock, to his undying glee, found that making John roar with laughter was actually enjoyable. Especially since he found John had a wicked sense of humor, and was not at all averse to dining out with Sherlock in disguise.
In fact, Sherlock had eaten dim sum with John as Marcus Simmons, a curator for the Gallery. And they once actually shared a meal at Angelo’s while Sherlock was impersonating an accountant hired to help John organize his finances.
John had no compunction in letting the old bookworm, Mr. Jameson, ply him with used books at Camden Market. And actually bought Mr. Finch, a pilot for British Airways, a latte at Speedy’s as the two discussed airfares and the best time to fly out of Heathrow.
At the end of the masquerade extravaganza, John had remarked, “I don’t think I’ve been so socially amiable since I came back from Afghanistan.”
Sherlock smiled at the memory. Others would have been either confused or worried that they were being mocked. But not John. John had encouraged it, enjoyed Sherlock’s more flamboyant personalities. And took to heart that Sherlock meant no harm by his behaviour.
Sherlock once more felt that warm spot in his mind pulse. With some reluctance he stopped thinking about his friend and continued to listen as John finally crawled into bed and fall asleep.
As was his usual habit, Sherlock decided to forego sleep altogether and instead catch up on his reading. He has an inbox filled with forensic journals from Australia and Canada that he hadn’t touched.
It was almost three when Sherlock heard the familiar but dismaying noises of his friend in the throes of a nightmare. Sherlock wasn’t prone to feeling guilt, but he suffering it well enough as he heard John moan softly while thrashing in his bed. Then he heard the door to Mrs. Hudson’s flat open. Sherlock peeked into the hallway and saw her look up the landing.
“Is he having one of those?” she asked softly.
Sherlock nodded. “Afraid so.”
“Poor dear,” she whispered.
“I wish he didn’t. It serves no purpose save making John surly and stubborn in the morning.”
Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “Of course they serve a purpose. And you should be glad, Sherlock, that he has nightmares still.”
Sherlock gaped at his landlady for a moment before asking, “How did you arrive at that conclusion?”
“Because a good man like John? Well, imagine him in the middle of a warzone, and a doctor at that. He couldn’t possibly save everyone, could he? Nobody is that good a doctor. And he probably killed, more than he’d ever thought he would.
“Still, even after all that he remains a good man. So, he comes home and all his guilt comes rushing up after being bottled for heaven knows how many years. But that’s what happens to a good man, Sherlock. You put them in impossible, horrible situations, and they survive; well, their conscience won’t make it easy for them after. How could it?”
“So, you’re saying his nightmares are a badge of honor?”
“No, Sherlock, evidence of his goodness. And the fact he has nightmares tonight … it means he cares.
“My Jerry? He never had a bad dream. Not a single nightmare his entire life. When he first told me that I thought it must have meant he was a happy, easy-going fellow.
“Well, I know better now, and so should you, Sherlock.”
Sherlock felt a smile curl on his lips. “You are a wonder, Mrs. Hudson.”
“Stop talking and play something he likes. You know well enough what calms him.”
“I will. Good night.”
“Good night, Sherlock.”
He didn’t wait to hear her door close. Instead, he softly began playing his violin, a composition of his own floating through his fingers and into the violin, to have it echo throughout the flat and into John’s cursed mind.
And Sherlock hoped that his music would be enough to soothe the lion heart that rested within John and give his friend some blessed peace.
The End
Part II