Invisible Bonds - Chapter 2 (3/?)
Title: Invisible Bonds - Chapter 2
Length: 3,848 this chapter
Pairing: Sherlock/John, currently one-sided and purely platonic
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: AU world/OCs are mine, but I (sadly) do not own the world of BBC Sherlock in which this fic blatantly plays.
Summary: In a world where myth, mystery, and the supernatural flourish beneath the veneer of modern civilization, Sherlock is a master of magic as well as science and deduction. But there are some things that he cannot see, riddles he cannot unravel, even when they walk right beside him in the form of one John Watson…
Beta: Many thanks to non_canonical for her friendship, brilliant advice and Brit picking, to daluci for being a top-notch beta, and to folha5eca and 99everafter for making sure my Chinese dialog/culture/references are correct! :D
Special thanks go out to abundantlyqueer. If it wasn't for her encouragement, I wouldn't be writing at all.
Notes: This is the second story in the Fallen series. One should read Fallen first, otherwise this probably won't make much sense. ;) This is also a WIP, but I'm VERY committed to finishing it and intend to post a new chapter every week if not more often. 22,000+ words written so far!
Invisible Bonds - Chapter 2
Trudging up the stairs, his arms laden with bags from Tesco, John pushes his way past the open door of the living room and pauses. Sherlock is seated upon the couch, hands steepled before his lips, eyes narrowed in contemplation as he stares at the computer screen in front of him. John’s computer screen.
With a soft sigh of resignation, John trundles his way into the kitchen noting softly under his breath, “Don’t mind me….” A box of tea is the first thing he pulls out and, turning around, he opens the cupboard to the right of the stove only to find… tea. Vast quantities of tea, in fact.
“Sherlock?”
“Hmmmm?”
“You said we needed tea.”
“Yes.”
“The cupboard is full of tea.”
“Yes.”
John’s hand lifts to press over his eyes as he begins to count before asking, “So if the cupboard is full of tea, why did you…?”
“We’re out of my favorite tea.”
John blinks and huffs, “What, so you couldn’t make a cup of some other type of tea?”
Sherlock’s head turns toward him for the first time. The look he gives John is filled with a lack of comprehension as to what exactly the problem is, gilded with a faint air of irritation that John is bothering with such a ridiculous idea. He doesn’t even grace the question with a reply, just turns his head back to the screen. After a few minutes of John grousing under his breath he interjects, “I gather, from your reaction, that you did not purchase the correct type of tea.”
“That’s not the point, Sherlock. Next time, if you want a specific type of tea you’ll have to tell me. I’m not a mind reader.” He opens the fridge and stares, reaching in to pick up the container of milk sitting inside, its weight indicating it is mostly full. “Why did you have me buy milk when we have full four pint carton already?”
Sherlock’s hands have dropped to the keyboard, dancing over it with a grace and speed that John never ceases to be envious of. The best he can manage is hunt and peck. “MmmMmmm, don’t drink that. Experiment.”
“Dear G… what sort of experiment do you have to perform upon our milk? And could you please mark it if you’ve tampered with it? Last thing I need is to drink milk laced with bile or some toxic bacterial cocktail that you’ve been incubating.” Again, Sherlock does not deign to answer, the question in front of him far more arresting than John’s whinging. Finding a large black marker, John draws a massive X on the mysterious milk and places the new container in on the furthermost side of the fridge. “Right, I’ve marked the questionable milk. Make sure you don’t use the new milk by mistake, right?”
“Tea.”
“What?”
“I want some tea. Why haven’t you made any yet?”
John can’t help but splutter. He loves Sherlock, really he does, but sometimes even the patience of an angel can be taxed. “What, that’s it? That’s what you wanted me to come back to the flat for after you abandoned me without a word? You want me to make you a cup of tea?”
This time Sherlock’s eyes flicker over to John quizzically, his expression innocent and bemused as if the answer was obvious. “It’s better when you make it.”
John has to firmly squelch the small twist of tenderness that those words invoke. Sherlock would rather wait for tea made by him, because John makes it best. That’s a far better way to take those words than ‘Sherlock is just too lazy to make it himself and that’s why it’s better when John makes it.’
Suddenly the typing stops, Sherlock’s gaze now narrowed and considering John intently, combing his figure for clues. “Where have you been? You’ve been gone far longer than is strictly necessary to go shopping and get back home from where we were.”
“How would you know? When have you ever done the shopping?” The counter now clear of groceries, John leans forward and places his hands along the edge, head turned sideways to study Sherlock and consider his yet ungiven answer. To say that Sherlock has issues with his brother would be putting it mildly. Putting on Watson’s best "aggrieved" face, he tries a lie. “I had a row in the shop with the chip and pin.”
Sherlock’s brow creases, a quizzical expression touching his features as he asks, just to make sure he heard that correctly, “You had a fight… with a machine?”
“Yeah. It wouldn’t sell me anything and I yelled at it abusively.”
Silver eyes flicker to the empty bags on the counter as Sherlock notes in amusement, “But I see that you conquered it in the end, so how…” But his gaze grows sharper as he continues to study John, one brow lifting abruptly as he ascertains, “That’s a lie. Why are you lying?”
John sighs. “How can you tell?”
“Simple. When you’re really annoyed, you get this crease between your eyebrows. No crease, not annoyed, therefore lie. You were also limping slightly on your way up the stairs. You do that on occasion, when you’re worried about something tedious and are mulling it over. Temporarily thwarted shopping would not cause you to limp.”
If angels gambled at cards, no one would ever be able to tell they were bluffing. They all have perfect poker faces, utterly devoid of any expressions or physical tics. John Watson, however? Full of nothing but tells it seems, unless he’s being stoic and soldiery. Sherlock can take one look at his face and read him like a book most of the time. But a partial truth should sufficiently hold up to his scrutiny. “Your brother tried to bribe me to spy on you.”
“My brother?” Now it’s Sherlock’s turn to get a crease of irritation between his eyebrows before logic soothes it away. Rolling back, he stretches his long frame down the length of the couch to ponder this new annoyance. “Hmmm, yes, well, I suppose I should have expected it. Really, he took rather longer than usual this time. Don’t tell me. He had you abducted off the street, didn’t he? He has a terrible flair for theatrics.”
John huffs and strides past Sherlock, pulling the curtain back with one hand to peer out the window curiously. The car containing the mysterious Anthea has indeed departed. “Yes, well, it runs in the family.” The words are only slightly more affectionate than sardonic.
Sherlock’s gaze sidles over towards where John is standing by the window, eyes slitted and suspicious as he asks in a soft, silky voice. “Did you accept his offer?”
John turns to stare at Sherlock, slightly affronted. “Course not.”
“Pity, we could have used the money. Think it through next time.”
Pivoting up and around, Sherlock brings his feet to the floor and leans forward again, fingers pressed against his lips as he stares at John’s computer screen. “Your blog is still blank. I thought that useless therapist of yours wanted you to keep a journal?”
A soft huff escapes John as he points out, “You know full well that I don’t really do technology. Just like you know that I keep a handwritten journal instead of a blog. Really, that is something about this century that I will never understand; why people have the compulsion to spill their every waking thought into a giant public pool for everyone and anyone to take a gander at. Some things are private, or should be.”
Sherlock’s silver eyes lift to John’s, narrowing as he notes, “Your journal isn’t particularly private - you just write ridiculous narrations of the cases that we go on.”
John takes a breath and holds it, then blows it out, along with an unexpected flare of temper, thanks to Watson’s sense of propriety no doubt. “You’ve read my journal?!” His hand lifts, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as he closes his eyes and answers himself. “No, wait, of course you’ve read my journal. My what-everyone-else-on-the-planet-except-for-Sherlock-Holmes-knows-is-private-property-do-not-read journal.” That crease that Sherlock mentioned before? The one that forms between John's eyes when he's really annoyed? Very much present at the moment. His eyes snap open, glaring down at Sherlock. “You have absolutely no comprehension of boundaries, do you? No respect for personal space or, or private property.” John’s hands flail, gesturing at his computer which Sherlock has blithely been using all this time.
Sherlock blinks, waiting for John to get to the point, though the dubiousness of his expression suggests he doesn’t really think there is one. “I don’t see why you’re so angry,” he replies calmly. “There wasn’t anything in your journal that was ‘private’, so obviously you expected that I was going to read it.”
Hands on his hips, John grumbles, “Right. Well, I guess a part of me realized that you would, but that doesn’t make it okay! Maybe just part of me was hoping that you would prove me wrong.” Normally he would know everything that Sherlock got up to, but now he has all these annoying things that take up his time and remove him from Sherlock’s presence. Damn the need to run errands and sleep and all those other pesky details of being human!
“So, yes, because I live in a flat with you, where privacy is virtually nonexistent, I keep a journal solely about our adventures. If I wanted to keep any secrets, I suspect I would need to get a safe deposit box in a bank, and even then I don’t doubt you would find some way to access the data.” Course so, far he’s managed to keep the fact that they live with a Brownie named Tuppence a secret from Sherlock, but then the Fae are infamously good at hiding themselves from those that they don’t wish to be seen by.
“Hmmmmm.” Sherlock’s smile does nothing to deny that likelihood. “Speaking of banks and cases, we have a new one.”
Flopping down in his chair after his apparently unaffecting strop, John peers over at Sherlock, sullenly asking, “Ohhh? What’s this one about?”
“Locked room mystery, apparently. No details as of yet. An old… acquaintance of mine from University dropped me an email requesting my assistance. Something to do with security and confidence concerns, wanting to keep the inquiry private and discreet.”
“And I trust you’ll get paid for your ‘discretion’?”
Waving a dismissive hand, Sherlock points out, “It isn’t about the money, John, it’s about the work.”
“Yes, and work results in payment, which generally takes the form of money. I know you don’t care about such things, but I personally rather enjoy eating and having a roof over my head. If you want to continue to enjoy that damnably expensive tea you’re so fond of, you might want to consider that next time.”
“Fine, you can be my biographer and my accountant, just don’t pester me with such petty concerns…”
Grumbling under his breath, John points out, “They’re not so petty when you’re starving and freezing to death…” as he lurches out of his chair and stomps off to the kitchen to fix himself a cup of tea. There is a sigh of irritation, directed at himself for a change, when he finishes and looks down. He automatically prepared two cups instead of just the one and used the box that he just purchased; Sherlock’s favorite.
*****
Entering into the posh environs of Shad Sanderson, John follows Sherlock’s lead, trailing slightly behind as is his wont. He tries to tell himself that it is not, in fact, because the body he’s inherited has unusually short legs, or the fact that Sherlock’s are ridiculously long. He’s taken slightly aback, however, when after they introduce themselves at the front desk they are escorted to the office of one Sebastian Wilkes. The man in question gives Sherlock a smarmy smile and purrs, “Sherlock, so glad you could come,” shaking his hand firmly as if they were the best of friends when John knows full well they were the worst of enemies. Anger and resentment that he could never feel before he became human rises up within John, his hands clenching at his sides as he starts to grind his teeth together, remembering just how badly Sebastian once used Sherlock. And here he is, presumably to ‘use’ him again.
Much to his surprise, Sherlock gives Sebastian a friendly smile and shakes his hand just as warmly before turning about and offering, “This is John Watson, my…” There’s a brief moment of hesitation before he offers, “…colleague,” at the same time John speaks up and offers a bit too emphatically, “Friend,” his chin lifting in a subtle challenge, eyes flashing.
Sebastian gives Sherlock a look of barely concealed surprise, tinted with derision, as he echoes, “Friend??” as if to suggest that the very idea of Sherlock having an actual friend would be laughable.
Sherlock glances at John sideways, one brow lifting at his demeanor, but says nothing. His manner is uncharacteristically demure, which both confuses and frustrates John. Even when he was an angel, he knew that Sebastian was a total git. He saw an opportunity to get what he needed, used Sherlock abominably, and then tossed him aside callously once he had what he needed, mocking him behind his back and telling stories to any and all who were curious. Granted, Sherlock didn’t take the slight lying down and made him look like a fool on more than one occasion, but the fact that Sebastian was surrounded by friends, while Sherlock had none, rather lessened the triumph of those moments.
“Please, please, take a seat,” Sebastian offers, as if trying to soothe ruffled feathers and move past John’s apparent faux pas. Sherlock, in turn, explains to John, “Sebastian and I went to University together.” John bites his lip and simply nods, trying to pretend and act like he doesn’t know exactly how these two met. He glances around the room instead, finally finding Sebastian’s Guardian standing by the window, looking out upon the world, rather than his charge. Sebastian’s smug voice cuts across John’s ruminations.
“Mmmm, yes. This blighter here had the most annoying habit of announcing everybody’s business to anybody who just happened to be around. Who’d been shagging who, who was cheating on exams, so on and so forth. Royally pissed us off, he did.”
John doesn’t miss the way Sherlock’s face closes off. It’s a subtle thing, but unmistakable; how his eyes grow flat and distant, his gaze shifts down and away. When he does conjure up a smile, it lies cool and false upon his lips. “MmmMMm,” is his only reply though. “So, what exactly is your problem?”
It’s almost as if Sebastian had forgotten the reason why he asked Sherlock to come here in the first place, readily slipping into old familiar roles. He leans across the desk, a faint hint of chagrin gracing his features as he confesses, “Right, yes, to business. I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time later to reminisce about the good old days.” He can’t help but chuckle as he muses, “Ironic that now you’re here specifically because of all those fancy ‘tricks’ that you can do, hmmmm? Who would have thought it would turn out to be something useful?”
Sherlock’s eyes harden as he rumbles, “It’s not a trick. I merely observe.”
Whoops. Sebastian seems to realize that he has once more said the wrong thing, but rather than apologize or concur, he simply glides over the awkwardness with a slick smile and a shrug of his shoulders, his expression sobering as he moves on to the matter at hand.
“We’ve had a bit of a break-in. Let me show you.” Rising up once more, Sebastian leads John and Sherlock out of his office and down a hall noting, “It’s the office of our late Chairman, Sir William. We keep it as something of a memorial. But last night someone broke into his space and, well, you’ll see.”
Sebastian stops a few corridors down and opens the door of the office in question. Stepping inside, John and Sherlock stare at the grand painting of the Chairman, or more specifically the line across his eyes and the graffiti on the wall to the left of the painting.
Sherlock’s eyes narrow speculatively while John’s casts about the rather Spartan room curiously before asking, “Anything taken?”
Shaking his head, Sebastian replies, “Not a thing. But here’s what concerns us.” He strides over to a computer and types on the keyboard. “Every night when the offices close, each door of the building is automatically locked electronically. Every office door, every stairwell, every break room and toilet. Even the cupboards. If any door is keyed open during off hours, it registers the exact location and time in the computer system.”
“Let me guess,” Sherlock replies, “The door to this office was never opened.”
“Precisely. And take a look at this.” Stepping back, Sebastian reveals the CCTV’s recording of the previous night, the view being of the room’s interior. Everything is fine and then, suddenly, the image devolves into scratchy white and grey visual static. One minute later, the image clears and there, on the wall, is the graffiti. “The central system that runs all the cameras is in an area with a guard at all times. No tampering there. There is also no way for anyone to tamper with the camera in the room without falling into the view of the lens.”
“The Security officer on duty is reliable, I presume?”
“His record is impeccable, but naturally we are checking into his background.” Turning toward Sherlock, Sebastian’s expression for once becomes serious and solemn. “We have a security breach. Find it and we’ll pay you. Handsomely.” Drawing out a check from his breast pocket, he offers it to Sherlock noting, “This is an advance. Tell me how he got in and a much larger check will follow.”
Sherlock is barely even paying attention to Sebastian now, studying the room as he asks, “Hmmm. May I?”
“Please. Take your time. I’ll be in my office if you need anything or have any further questions.” The check hovers in the air for a moment before John steps forward and notes, “I’ll just take that and hold onto it for him, shall I?” Somehow it comes out less than a question and more a command.
Sebastian turns to John, offering him a conciliatory smile, as if desperately trying to figure out just how he got off on the wrong foot with him. Handing over the slip of paper, Sebastian watches Sherlock for a moment before realizing that he’s essentially been dismissed. “Right, well, I’ll leave you to it then.”
Sherlock begins to prowl about slowly, taking pictures of the yellow markings and studying the nearly empty room while John stands out of his way, watching. The silence is comfortable, but John can’t stop himself from breaking it.
“You hate him.”
“Hmmmm?”
“Wilkes. Your old ‘uni chum’. You totally hate him.”
“I don’t indulge in petty emotionalism, John. You should know that by now.”
“Bollocks. You hate him. So why didn’t you tell him to stick this case up his arse? Why are you here, helping him?”
Straightening up from where he is examining the graffiti, Sherlock glances over his shoulder and blinks. “John, how many times do I have to tell you, it’s about the work. I don’t give a damn about Sebastian. But this,” he notes, gesturing to the room, “this is interesting.” He opens up the massive French windows and steps out onto the balcony, looking out at the view of London for a moment before leaning over to look down and then craning his head backward to look up thoughtfully.
John follows him out, wrapping his arms over his chest to ward off the chill from the stiff wind that whips about them. Distracted by the view and his own thoughts, Sherlock catches him off guard when he speaks up again.
“So is that what we are then?”
Blinking, John turns to look at Sherlock, who has now climbed up onto the edge of the balcony and is leaning against the wall, staring at the side of the building, the wind buffeting him slightly.
“Jesus!” Lunging forward, John takes a firm grip on the blowing ends of Sherlock’s coat, fully prepared to pull him down before the wind knocks him off the balcony and down forty floors. “What?”
Sherlock’s gaze drops down to John, looking at each white-knuckled hand clutching his coat before those calm silver eyes meet John’s frantic blue ones. “Friends.”
John sputters for a moment before babbling, “Oh. Well, yes, I think so, don’t you? I mean, we’ve been flatmates for over two months now, and….” And I’ve been with you for all of your life and gave up my position as an Angel to save your life and you’re pretty much all I think about and you’re all that I care about and I killed a man for you in cold blood and… “well, for all your strange behavior and inability to clean anything or be polite I generally like you,” a lot, “and I think you like me? And could you please get down from there now?”
His pale eyes flash with amusement as Sherlock asks, “What is this, junior school? Are you asking me to go steady?” His chin jerks forward, indicating that he’s going to jump now and that John should move out of the way. Shifting back slightly, John continues to hold one side of Sherlock’s coat, breathing more easily once he’s back down on relatively solid ground once more, blushing furiously. Fortunately the bite in the air can excuse the color in his cheeks.
“Fine. Excuse my presumption. I’m your flatmate and your occasional colleague.”
“And the author of my memoirs, don’t forget that…”
“It’s my diary, not your memoirs.”
“History will say differently, just you wait…” His head tilts slightly to one side introspectively before he adds, “I am amenable to us being friends,” and then darts back inside.
Sadly, Sherlock is right. John can’t actually write the truth of his life within those pages. But to keep up the illusion of this human mantle he has taken on, he has to write something. Might as well be Sherlock’s exploits. Those are at least worth reading about.
For the next fifteen minutes, Sherlock prowls and darts around the area surrounding the office in question, zigzagging this way and that through aisles of desks and computers, bobbing up and down like some deranged meerkat on steroids. Narrowing it down bit by bit, he arrives at an office space to his liking, where he can stand still and see through to the Chairman’s office or, more importantly, to the graffiti upon the wall within it. A smug smile touches his lips as he lingers by the door on the way out for a moment, taking in the name of Edward Van Coon and the position of Hong Kong Desk Head before snatching the name card and pocketing it.
“Come on, John. Time to pay Mr. Van Coon a social call…”
Length: 3,848 this chapter
Pairing: Sherlock/John, currently one-sided and purely platonic
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: AU world/OCs are mine, but I (sadly) do not own the world of BBC Sherlock in which this fic blatantly plays.
Summary: In a world where myth, mystery, and the supernatural flourish beneath the veneer of modern civilization, Sherlock is a master of magic as well as science and deduction. But there are some things that he cannot see, riddles he cannot unravel, even when they walk right beside him in the form of one John Watson…
Beta: Many thanks to non_canonical for her friendship, brilliant advice and Brit picking, to daluci for being a top-notch beta, and to folha5eca and 99everafter for making sure my Chinese dialog/culture/references are correct! :D
Special thanks go out to abundantlyqueer. If it wasn't for her encouragement, I wouldn't be writing at all.
Notes: This is the second story in the Fallen series. One should read Fallen first, otherwise this probably won't make much sense. ;) This is also a WIP, but I'm VERY committed to finishing it and intend to post a new chapter every week if not more often. 22,000+ words written so far!
Invisible Bonds - Chapter 2
Trudging up the stairs, his arms laden with bags from Tesco, John pushes his way past the open door of the living room and pauses. Sherlock is seated upon the couch, hands steepled before his lips, eyes narrowed in contemplation as he stares at the computer screen in front of him. John’s computer screen.
With a soft sigh of resignation, John trundles his way into the kitchen noting softly under his breath, “Don’t mind me….” A box of tea is the first thing he pulls out and, turning around, he opens the cupboard to the right of the stove only to find… tea. Vast quantities of tea, in fact.
“Sherlock?”
“Hmmmm?”
“You said we needed tea.”
“Yes.”
“The cupboard is full of tea.”
“Yes.”
John’s hand lifts to press over his eyes as he begins to count before asking, “So if the cupboard is full of tea, why did you…?”
“We’re out of my favorite tea.”
John blinks and huffs, “What, so you couldn’t make a cup of some other type of tea?”
Sherlock’s head turns toward him for the first time. The look he gives John is filled with a lack of comprehension as to what exactly the problem is, gilded with a faint air of irritation that John is bothering with such a ridiculous idea. He doesn’t even grace the question with a reply, just turns his head back to the screen. After a few minutes of John grousing under his breath he interjects, “I gather, from your reaction, that you did not purchase the correct type of tea.”
“That’s not the point, Sherlock. Next time, if you want a specific type of tea you’ll have to tell me. I’m not a mind reader.” He opens the fridge and stares, reaching in to pick up the container of milk sitting inside, its weight indicating it is mostly full. “Why did you have me buy milk when we have full four pint carton already?”
Sherlock’s hands have dropped to the keyboard, dancing over it with a grace and speed that John never ceases to be envious of. The best he can manage is hunt and peck. “MmmMmmm, don’t drink that. Experiment.”
“Dear G… what sort of experiment do you have to perform upon our milk? And could you please mark it if you’ve tampered with it? Last thing I need is to drink milk laced with bile or some toxic bacterial cocktail that you’ve been incubating.” Again, Sherlock does not deign to answer, the question in front of him far more arresting than John’s whinging. Finding a large black marker, John draws a massive X on the mysterious milk and places the new container in on the furthermost side of the fridge. “Right, I’ve marked the questionable milk. Make sure you don’t use the new milk by mistake, right?”
“Tea.”
“What?”
“I want some tea. Why haven’t you made any yet?”
John can’t help but splutter. He loves Sherlock, really he does, but sometimes even the patience of an angel can be taxed. “What, that’s it? That’s what you wanted me to come back to the flat for after you abandoned me without a word? You want me to make you a cup of tea?”
This time Sherlock’s eyes flicker over to John quizzically, his expression innocent and bemused as if the answer was obvious. “It’s better when you make it.”
John has to firmly squelch the small twist of tenderness that those words invoke. Sherlock would rather wait for tea made by him, because John makes it best. That’s a far better way to take those words than ‘Sherlock is just too lazy to make it himself and that’s why it’s better when John makes it.’
Suddenly the typing stops, Sherlock’s gaze now narrowed and considering John intently, combing his figure for clues. “Where have you been? You’ve been gone far longer than is strictly necessary to go shopping and get back home from where we were.”
“How would you know? When have you ever done the shopping?” The counter now clear of groceries, John leans forward and places his hands along the edge, head turned sideways to study Sherlock and consider his yet ungiven answer. To say that Sherlock has issues with his brother would be putting it mildly. Putting on Watson’s best "aggrieved" face, he tries a lie. “I had a row in the shop with the chip and pin.”
Sherlock’s brow creases, a quizzical expression touching his features as he asks, just to make sure he heard that correctly, “You had a fight… with a machine?”
“Yeah. It wouldn’t sell me anything and I yelled at it abusively.”
Silver eyes flicker to the empty bags on the counter as Sherlock notes in amusement, “But I see that you conquered it in the end, so how…” But his gaze grows sharper as he continues to study John, one brow lifting abruptly as he ascertains, “That’s a lie. Why are you lying?”
John sighs. “How can you tell?”
“Simple. When you’re really annoyed, you get this crease between your eyebrows. No crease, not annoyed, therefore lie. You were also limping slightly on your way up the stairs. You do that on occasion, when you’re worried about something tedious and are mulling it over. Temporarily thwarted shopping would not cause you to limp.”
If angels gambled at cards, no one would ever be able to tell they were bluffing. They all have perfect poker faces, utterly devoid of any expressions or physical tics. John Watson, however? Full of nothing but tells it seems, unless he’s being stoic and soldiery. Sherlock can take one look at his face and read him like a book most of the time. But a partial truth should sufficiently hold up to his scrutiny. “Your brother tried to bribe me to spy on you.”
“My brother?” Now it’s Sherlock’s turn to get a crease of irritation between his eyebrows before logic soothes it away. Rolling back, he stretches his long frame down the length of the couch to ponder this new annoyance. “Hmmm, yes, well, I suppose I should have expected it. Really, he took rather longer than usual this time. Don’t tell me. He had you abducted off the street, didn’t he? He has a terrible flair for theatrics.”
John huffs and strides past Sherlock, pulling the curtain back with one hand to peer out the window curiously. The car containing the mysterious Anthea has indeed departed. “Yes, well, it runs in the family.” The words are only slightly more affectionate than sardonic.
Sherlock’s gaze sidles over towards where John is standing by the window, eyes slitted and suspicious as he asks in a soft, silky voice. “Did you accept his offer?”
John turns to stare at Sherlock, slightly affronted. “Course not.”
“Pity, we could have used the money. Think it through next time.”
Pivoting up and around, Sherlock brings his feet to the floor and leans forward again, fingers pressed against his lips as he stares at John’s computer screen. “Your blog is still blank. I thought that useless therapist of yours wanted you to keep a journal?”
A soft huff escapes John as he points out, “You know full well that I don’t really do technology. Just like you know that I keep a handwritten journal instead of a blog. Really, that is something about this century that I will never understand; why people have the compulsion to spill their every waking thought into a giant public pool for everyone and anyone to take a gander at. Some things are private, or should be.”
Sherlock’s silver eyes lift to John’s, narrowing as he notes, “Your journal isn’t particularly private - you just write ridiculous narrations of the cases that we go on.”
John takes a breath and holds it, then blows it out, along with an unexpected flare of temper, thanks to Watson’s sense of propriety no doubt. “You’ve read my journal?!” His hand lifts, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as he closes his eyes and answers himself. “No, wait, of course you’ve read my journal. My what-everyone-else-on-the-planet-except-for-Sherlock-Holmes-knows-is-private-property-do-not-read journal.” That crease that Sherlock mentioned before? The one that forms between John's eyes when he's really annoyed? Very much present at the moment. His eyes snap open, glaring down at Sherlock. “You have absolutely no comprehension of boundaries, do you? No respect for personal space or, or private property.” John’s hands flail, gesturing at his computer which Sherlock has blithely been using all this time.
Sherlock blinks, waiting for John to get to the point, though the dubiousness of his expression suggests he doesn’t really think there is one. “I don’t see why you’re so angry,” he replies calmly. “There wasn’t anything in your journal that was ‘private’, so obviously you expected that I was going to read it.”
Hands on his hips, John grumbles, “Right. Well, I guess a part of me realized that you would, but that doesn’t make it okay! Maybe just part of me was hoping that you would prove me wrong.” Normally he would know everything that Sherlock got up to, but now he has all these annoying things that take up his time and remove him from Sherlock’s presence. Damn the need to run errands and sleep and all those other pesky details of being human!
“So, yes, because I live in a flat with you, where privacy is virtually nonexistent, I keep a journal solely about our adventures. If I wanted to keep any secrets, I suspect I would need to get a safe deposit box in a bank, and even then I don’t doubt you would find some way to access the data.” Course so, far he’s managed to keep the fact that they live with a Brownie named Tuppence a secret from Sherlock, but then the Fae are infamously good at hiding themselves from those that they don’t wish to be seen by.
“Hmmmmm.” Sherlock’s smile does nothing to deny that likelihood. “Speaking of banks and cases, we have a new one.”
Flopping down in his chair after his apparently unaffecting strop, John peers over at Sherlock, sullenly asking, “Ohhh? What’s this one about?”
“Locked room mystery, apparently. No details as of yet. An old… acquaintance of mine from University dropped me an email requesting my assistance. Something to do with security and confidence concerns, wanting to keep the inquiry private and discreet.”
“And I trust you’ll get paid for your ‘discretion’?”
Waving a dismissive hand, Sherlock points out, “It isn’t about the money, John, it’s about the work.”
“Yes, and work results in payment, which generally takes the form of money. I know you don’t care about such things, but I personally rather enjoy eating and having a roof over my head. If you want to continue to enjoy that damnably expensive tea you’re so fond of, you might want to consider that next time.”
“Fine, you can be my biographer and my accountant, just don’t pester me with such petty concerns…”
Grumbling under his breath, John points out, “They’re not so petty when you’re starving and freezing to death…” as he lurches out of his chair and stomps off to the kitchen to fix himself a cup of tea. There is a sigh of irritation, directed at himself for a change, when he finishes and looks down. He automatically prepared two cups instead of just the one and used the box that he just purchased; Sherlock’s favorite.
*****
Entering into the posh environs of Shad Sanderson, John follows Sherlock’s lead, trailing slightly behind as is his wont. He tries to tell himself that it is not, in fact, because the body he’s inherited has unusually short legs, or the fact that Sherlock’s are ridiculously long. He’s taken slightly aback, however, when after they introduce themselves at the front desk they are escorted to the office of one Sebastian Wilkes. The man in question gives Sherlock a smarmy smile and purrs, “Sherlock, so glad you could come,” shaking his hand firmly as if they were the best of friends when John knows full well they were the worst of enemies. Anger and resentment that he could never feel before he became human rises up within John, his hands clenching at his sides as he starts to grind his teeth together, remembering just how badly Sebastian once used Sherlock. And here he is, presumably to ‘use’ him again.
Much to his surprise, Sherlock gives Sebastian a friendly smile and shakes his hand just as warmly before turning about and offering, “This is John Watson, my…” There’s a brief moment of hesitation before he offers, “…colleague,” at the same time John speaks up and offers a bit too emphatically, “Friend,” his chin lifting in a subtle challenge, eyes flashing.
Sebastian gives Sherlock a look of barely concealed surprise, tinted with derision, as he echoes, “Friend??” as if to suggest that the very idea of Sherlock having an actual friend would be laughable.
Sherlock glances at John sideways, one brow lifting at his demeanor, but says nothing. His manner is uncharacteristically demure, which both confuses and frustrates John. Even when he was an angel, he knew that Sebastian was a total git. He saw an opportunity to get what he needed, used Sherlock abominably, and then tossed him aside callously once he had what he needed, mocking him behind his back and telling stories to any and all who were curious. Granted, Sherlock didn’t take the slight lying down and made him look like a fool on more than one occasion, but the fact that Sebastian was surrounded by friends, while Sherlock had none, rather lessened the triumph of those moments.
“Please, please, take a seat,” Sebastian offers, as if trying to soothe ruffled feathers and move past John’s apparent faux pas. Sherlock, in turn, explains to John, “Sebastian and I went to University together.” John bites his lip and simply nods, trying to pretend and act like he doesn’t know exactly how these two met. He glances around the room instead, finally finding Sebastian’s Guardian standing by the window, looking out upon the world, rather than his charge. Sebastian’s smug voice cuts across John’s ruminations.
“Mmmm, yes. This blighter here had the most annoying habit of announcing everybody’s business to anybody who just happened to be around. Who’d been shagging who, who was cheating on exams, so on and so forth. Royally pissed us off, he did.”
John doesn’t miss the way Sherlock’s face closes off. It’s a subtle thing, but unmistakable; how his eyes grow flat and distant, his gaze shifts down and away. When he does conjure up a smile, it lies cool and false upon his lips. “MmmMMm,” is his only reply though. “So, what exactly is your problem?”
It’s almost as if Sebastian had forgotten the reason why he asked Sherlock to come here in the first place, readily slipping into old familiar roles. He leans across the desk, a faint hint of chagrin gracing his features as he confesses, “Right, yes, to business. I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time later to reminisce about the good old days.” He can’t help but chuckle as he muses, “Ironic that now you’re here specifically because of all those fancy ‘tricks’ that you can do, hmmmm? Who would have thought it would turn out to be something useful?”
Sherlock’s eyes harden as he rumbles, “It’s not a trick. I merely observe.”
Whoops. Sebastian seems to realize that he has once more said the wrong thing, but rather than apologize or concur, he simply glides over the awkwardness with a slick smile and a shrug of his shoulders, his expression sobering as he moves on to the matter at hand.
“We’ve had a bit of a break-in. Let me show you.” Rising up once more, Sebastian leads John and Sherlock out of his office and down a hall noting, “It’s the office of our late Chairman, Sir William. We keep it as something of a memorial. But last night someone broke into his space and, well, you’ll see.”
Sebastian stops a few corridors down and opens the door of the office in question. Stepping inside, John and Sherlock stare at the grand painting of the Chairman, or more specifically the line across his eyes and the graffiti on the wall to the left of the painting.
Sherlock’s eyes narrow speculatively while John’s casts about the rather Spartan room curiously before asking, “Anything taken?”
Shaking his head, Sebastian replies, “Not a thing. But here’s what concerns us.” He strides over to a computer and types on the keyboard. “Every night when the offices close, each door of the building is automatically locked electronically. Every office door, every stairwell, every break room and toilet. Even the cupboards. If any door is keyed open during off hours, it registers the exact location and time in the computer system.”
“Let me guess,” Sherlock replies, “The door to this office was never opened.”
“Precisely. And take a look at this.” Stepping back, Sebastian reveals the CCTV’s recording of the previous night, the view being of the room’s interior. Everything is fine and then, suddenly, the image devolves into scratchy white and grey visual static. One minute later, the image clears and there, on the wall, is the graffiti. “The central system that runs all the cameras is in an area with a guard at all times. No tampering there. There is also no way for anyone to tamper with the camera in the room without falling into the view of the lens.”
“The Security officer on duty is reliable, I presume?”
“His record is impeccable, but naturally we are checking into his background.” Turning toward Sherlock, Sebastian’s expression for once becomes serious and solemn. “We have a security breach. Find it and we’ll pay you. Handsomely.” Drawing out a check from his breast pocket, he offers it to Sherlock noting, “This is an advance. Tell me how he got in and a much larger check will follow.”
Sherlock is barely even paying attention to Sebastian now, studying the room as he asks, “Hmmm. May I?”
“Please. Take your time. I’ll be in my office if you need anything or have any further questions.” The check hovers in the air for a moment before John steps forward and notes, “I’ll just take that and hold onto it for him, shall I?” Somehow it comes out less than a question and more a command.
Sebastian turns to John, offering him a conciliatory smile, as if desperately trying to figure out just how he got off on the wrong foot with him. Handing over the slip of paper, Sebastian watches Sherlock for a moment before realizing that he’s essentially been dismissed. “Right, well, I’ll leave you to it then.”
Sherlock begins to prowl about slowly, taking pictures of the yellow markings and studying the nearly empty room while John stands out of his way, watching. The silence is comfortable, but John can’t stop himself from breaking it.
“You hate him.”
“Hmmmm?”
“Wilkes. Your old ‘uni chum’. You totally hate him.”
“I don’t indulge in petty emotionalism, John. You should know that by now.”
“Bollocks. You hate him. So why didn’t you tell him to stick this case up his arse? Why are you here, helping him?”
Straightening up from where he is examining the graffiti, Sherlock glances over his shoulder and blinks. “John, how many times do I have to tell you, it’s about the work. I don’t give a damn about Sebastian. But this,” he notes, gesturing to the room, “this is interesting.” He opens up the massive French windows and steps out onto the balcony, looking out at the view of London for a moment before leaning over to look down and then craning his head backward to look up thoughtfully.
John follows him out, wrapping his arms over his chest to ward off the chill from the stiff wind that whips about them. Distracted by the view and his own thoughts, Sherlock catches him off guard when he speaks up again.
“So is that what we are then?”
Blinking, John turns to look at Sherlock, who has now climbed up onto the edge of the balcony and is leaning against the wall, staring at the side of the building, the wind buffeting him slightly.
“Jesus!” Lunging forward, John takes a firm grip on the blowing ends of Sherlock’s coat, fully prepared to pull him down before the wind knocks him off the balcony and down forty floors. “What?”
Sherlock’s gaze drops down to John, looking at each white-knuckled hand clutching his coat before those calm silver eyes meet John’s frantic blue ones. “Friends.”
John sputters for a moment before babbling, “Oh. Well, yes, I think so, don’t you? I mean, we’ve been flatmates for over two months now, and….” And I’ve been with you for all of your life and gave up my position as an Angel to save your life and you’re pretty much all I think about and you’re all that I care about and I killed a man for you in cold blood and… “well, for all your strange behavior and inability to clean anything or be polite I generally like you,” a lot, “and I think you like me? And could you please get down from there now?”
His pale eyes flash with amusement as Sherlock asks, “What is this, junior school? Are you asking me to go steady?” His chin jerks forward, indicating that he’s going to jump now and that John should move out of the way. Shifting back slightly, John continues to hold one side of Sherlock’s coat, breathing more easily once he’s back down on relatively solid ground once more, blushing furiously. Fortunately the bite in the air can excuse the color in his cheeks.
“Fine. Excuse my presumption. I’m your flatmate and your occasional colleague.”
“And the author of my memoirs, don’t forget that…”
“It’s my diary, not your memoirs.”
“History will say differently, just you wait…” His head tilts slightly to one side introspectively before he adds, “I am amenable to us being friends,” and then darts back inside.
Sadly, Sherlock is right. John can’t actually write the truth of his life within those pages. But to keep up the illusion of this human mantle he has taken on, he has to write something. Might as well be Sherlock’s exploits. Those are at least worth reading about.
For the next fifteen minutes, Sherlock prowls and darts around the area surrounding the office in question, zigzagging this way and that through aisles of desks and computers, bobbing up and down like some deranged meerkat on steroids. Narrowing it down bit by bit, he arrives at an office space to his liking, where he can stand still and see through to the Chairman’s office or, more importantly, to the graffiti upon the wall within it. A smug smile touches his lips as he lingers by the door on the way out for a moment, taking in the name of Edward Van Coon and the position of Hong Kong Desk Head before snatching the name card and pocketing it.
“Come on, John. Time to pay Mr. Van Coon a social call…”