Fic: To Everything, There is a Season 8/8- Complete!
Title: To Everything, There is a Season- 8/8 Complete!
Rating: PG 13 (just to be safe)
Characters: This chapter: Sherlock, Lestrade, Mycroft, John!
Spoilers: None.
Warnings: A not quite attentive parent? Slightly dark, manipulative relationship. Drug use. Angst. Much angst.
Disclaimer: I owe none of this, sadly enough. And I beg little familiarity with the British school system, police procedure, or drugs or drug use. Also- possible Americanisms, and this hasn't been completely beta-ed.
Summary:
Act I: This is the story of Sherlock and Mycroft's childhood together, back when Sherlock still looked up to and his world revolved around his brother. When Sherlock lived like he wanted to and only his brother understood.
Of course, it couldn't last forever; no matter how much he wanted.
Written pre- series 2, in vignette's from Mycroft's POV.
Act II: Having decided he doesn't need anyone and can survive perfectly well on his own, Sherlock strikes out into the world. He hits a few bumps and lows before finally finding the one person he's really been looking for all along.
Written pre- series 2, in vignette's from various characters' POV.
This chapter: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson finally meet... need I say more?
A/N: Well, this is it folks. After months and nearly a year of working on this story, we are finally at the end.
Somehow John's chapter, the most important chapter in my mind, turned out to be the shortest. I considered adding to it and making it longer, but it feels perfect and I don't want to change anything.
Just a warning: this chapter has not been beta'd, so be aware I have no familiarity with nearly everything UK. I apologize for any Americanisms, or anything else that may not make sense. Also, the tenses might be a little funny in some places.
Any feedback would be very welcomed; or any ideas for stories from this verse you would like me to write, I would love to hear! This verse is very dear to me and I love writing in it. I don't quite want to leave it yet!
I hope you enjoy, thanks for reading! And for sticking through this with me! Thanks everyone!
Years went by and Mycroft, Greg, and Sherlock settled into an arrangement that worked- for the most part.
Greg worked to keep Sherlock entertained and occupied with police cases, all the while keeping a watchful eye on the younger man. Greg settled into an authoritative figure in Sherlock’s life, but also gave parental advice that was often met with a skeptical scoff from the other man. He left the role of distanced sibling who still managed to look after his brother by honestly alarming means to Mycroft.
It took Greg a while to navigate the complexities of his relationship with Sherlock. He had become a part of Sherlock’s life somewhat reluctantly at first, but he was certainly part of it now; yet there were still many times when Greg had no idea what to do with the man.
To his relief Sherlock did stay clean, and seemed to have left his years of drug use behind. He moved on to infuriate and drive Greg and his team crazy at crime scenes, while proving to be the eccentric genius Greg had known Sherlock could be. Once Sherlock joined Greg and consulted on cases his closing rate jumped exponentially as together they were able to close case after case. It was as if Sherlock was the final missing piece Greg and the police force had needed to become even better.
And while Greg and Sherlock did have their bad days (like when Sherlock picked the lock to his flat and ventured inside, or when Sherlock went off on his own and managed to nearly get killed yet somehow capture their suspect) it still worked, somehow.
Mycroft meanwhile continued to watch Sherlock from a distance through various methods available to him and also from visits with Gregory Lestrade. Mycroft watched over Sherlock as he had always done, but didn’t yet dare visit his brother in person. The close relationship they’d once enjoyed had completely disintegrated, and Sherlock made it obvious he did not want to see even a sign of Mycroft.
And, if he was honest with himself, Mycroft didn’t want to see how much Sherlock had changed or what had happened to him in the time when he hadn’t watched over his younger brother. Sherlock may no longer be using drugs but he was still in real danger, even with the DI looking after him closely.
When Mycroft finally decided to visit his brother, a year and three months into Sherlock’s tentative agreement with Lestrade, their visit went as poorly as Mycroft had expected.
Sherlock had said only a few words to him, spending the rest of the time scraping away at his violin or staring out the small, grime-smeared window of the cramped dingy flat Sherlock was occupying. Mycroft had offered several times by way of the DI and other means to find Sherlock a more suitable flat, but his brother had flatly refused. Sherlock had refused any help at all, suffering selective deafness.
What had been the worst of all was how Sherlock had completely ignored him, refusing to look or meet his eyes at all. All Mycroft had hoped for was validation that his younger brother was well and healthy. But Sherlock hadn’t even allowed him that.
His first visit had honestly been a disaster, and seemed to have done more harm than good. But Mycroft was a Holmes and therefore very persistent, especially with his visits and getting news from the DI.
It was an immense relief every time Lestrade called and assured him Sherlock was still clean and healthy. The DI even went so far as to making surprise drug busts at Sherlock’s flat, a constant annoyance to his brother.
No one else had ever gone so far for Sherlock, which went to prove the DI truly cared about Sherlock and his well-being. Even after all Sherlock had put Lestrade through.
But even with both Mycroft and Greg now looking after Sherlock, it felt as if something was still missing.
For the next two years Mycroft worried over his brother from afar, and Greg tried his best to keep Sherlock occupied and in line. But Sherlock still remained as eccentric and unpredictable as before, constantly risking his life, and didn’t appear to be about to calm down any time soon. He continued to live life his own way, refusing to let anyone too close.
Then, on an ordinary London day, Doctor John Watson- formerly of the RAMC- walked into a laboratory at St. Bart’s and met Sherlock Holmes.
The next day John Watson went to look at a flat with Sherlock, and an hour or so afterwards they visited a crime scene together.
John Watson, who, when confronted with Sherlock’s seemingly random inquiry of ‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’ didn’t recoil or become upset. Instead he had looked confused, and then intrigued. The first ever.
Who, when Sherlock asked- acting on impulse for the first time in years- if he wanted to see more of the war, hadn’t even hesitated before responding ‘oh god, yes.’
Anyone else, other people who were considered in their right minds by the general public, would have said no- would likely have been horrified by the question.
But not John Watson. He followed Sherlock down the stairs and out the door as quickly as his psychosomatic limp let him.
In the cab John had seemed nervous, feeling eager and confused, sitting next to Sherlock on the seat. It became enough of a distraction that Sherlock wasn’t able to focus on his mobile even in the silence. So he had asked, masking most of his irritation, for the questions John Watson was doing a poor job of holding back. This had prompted an entire flood of questions, ones the majority of the population could have thought of.
To Sherlock’s surprise he had felt a bit let down that John could possibly be not as extraordinary as he’d proved until then. In the lab Sherlock had been intrigued by the concept of a doctor who was also a soldier, so he had forgotten to keep as tight a rein on his deductions as he normally did. He had been rewarded with the one man in all of London he could stand as a potential flat mate. Then at Baker Street Sherlock found himself actually tidying his things because he didn’t want that to be the one reason John didn’t stay. John hadn’t said a word about it. So Sherlock had treated John to a glimpse of how he had known so much about John, sharing the observations that had spilled forth while watching John in the laboratory. But then Mrs. Hudson came in and Sherlock quickly stopped, confused that he actually wanted to share them with John.
He chose to believe that was the reason why, when John called him a private detective (yet reasoned the police didn’t consult amateurs), that instead of merely correcting John he was a consulting detective, Sherlock listed and explained all the observations he’d made about John to show him instead. He could have easily changed the topic of conversation, or stopped it all together. But neither of those options occurred to him before his mouth ran off on its own, explaining things to John. All of his observations spilled out in a rush almost as if it all wanted to be told. But that was ridiculous.
And at the same time his heart begged as it listened to his rambling words for John not to be another one to turn and run away. True, it hadn’t been his best idea to test John while they were in a cab on their way to a crime scene. He wanted John to see what a crime scene was like before John left.
He sat there in the backseat of an ordinary London cab rattling off an entire string of deductions, more than he’d shared in years with anyone. And not only telling John, but explaining everything- every little detail about John’s life, his past, his brother, his phone.
Sherlock didn’t dare look at John; he kept his eyes on the mobile in his hand or out the window. He didn’t want to see the disgust or outrage forming on John’s face.
When he finally managed to close his mouth it was already too late. He had laid John’s entire life out before them. All he could do was continue staring out the window and wait for John to tell the driver to pull over.
Just when Sherlock was ready to demand John to say something just to break the tense silence, he did.
The words weren’t an insult or cutting remark like the ones that usually followed Sherlock’s deductions.
No, it was an exclamation of awe. John had called him brilliant.
Sherlock quickly turned to face John, wanting to see this unbelievable truth for himself.
There was no sign of deceit or falsehood on John’s face, none at all. It was completely open, and lit with honest awe.
He’d asked John to repeat himself, just to be certain he had heard correctly. And the truth was that not only had he heard John perfectly, John even complimented him again.
John said he was amazing, and extraordinary; two words Sherlock hadn’t heard directed at him in many, many years- possibly even ever. And John had only known him for a little more than an hour.
The rest of the cab ride had passed in silence. Sherlock tried not to betray just how surprised he had been by John’s praise, or how excited he was to show John a crime scene.
When the cab finally pulled up to the crime tape, Sherlock almost burst out of the cab from how eager he was. John followed him more slowly due to that damned limp, an annoyance Sherlock swore to take care of soon.
(Of course, he had gotten the gender of John’s sibling wrong, but that wasn’t too great of a mistake.)
The crime scene proved to be even better than he’d expected, and Lestrade was as helpful as usual. John had remained silent and let Sherlock work, instead of constantly interrupting and demanding answers. And while John had done little more than certify this was the work of the same serial killer the Yard had been chasing for months, it had been a wonderful new experience to have someone to talk to; John had actually been the one to put him on to pink case.
He hadn’t purposefully left John behind; he had just been riding the high of having a new piece of the puzzle to uncover and then slot into the larger picture. The pink case was what Sherlock knew would help him break this case wide open.
Sherlock only realized he’d acted unusual at all was when Greg rang to tell him so.
He’d been digging through a skip at the time, so it’d taken a while to find his mobile. Once he answered Lestrade had promptly begun to tease him about his new friend, pointing out especially that John was a doctor. Lestrade even suggested that Sherlock might have a bit of a crush.
(He didn’t, of course.)
It was all ridiculous, even if Sherlock knew Lestrade was only teasing him. But he was busy trying to find the case and didn’t have time to listen to Lestrade. So Sherlock promptly hung up on the DI.
(Looking back, he realized that may have been (part of) the reason for the surprise drugs bust.)
Then Mycroft kidnapped John right off the street and took him somewhere secluded for one of Mycroft’s ‘chats.’
Sherlock paced restlessly around Baker Street, livid with his brother for always poking his fat nose where it didn’t belong and somehow not being able to understand that Sherlock could take care of himself without any help from Big Brother. He half-expected John not to come back, even after Sherlock’s insistent texts.
But John hadn’t been put off at all by an overprotective and powerful older brother. When he walked in the door John had merely looked annoyed at having been kidnapped at all.
After that, Sherlock managed to successfully convince John to text a murderer (and the shock on his face when he’d realized had been incredibly amusing), to go with him to what proved to be an unsuccessful stakeout- but was a successful dinner- and then to run through London after a cab.
Sherlock had run through London after suspects before in the past years, but never with anyone at his side or anyone running beside him.
(Lestrade, usually minutes behind, didn’t count.)
That night he had John running with him through dark alleys, over rooftops, and around the maze of London streets. He had someone to call to to hurry up, to coax to keep pace with him, and to make John forget his limp and just jump.
His reward was the exhilarating feeling that rushed through him with every step; John’s ridiculous giggling after Sherlock’s comment ‘welcome to London’; and best of all, he seemed to have completely cured John’s psychosomatic limp.
From that point on, the night only became even better.
Somehow he made John laugh in the hall of Baker Street as they caught their breath, and then John grinned at him when he realized he’d left his cane behind. Neither had ever happened before, and likely no one else would have. Everyone else had always avoided his company. Yet here was John, who seemed to be enjoying himself.
(The surprise drugs bust was just a minor hitch, as well as the remarks dubbed as a ‘bit not good’ by John that Sherlock made to John and the few police officers.)
Then everything came together and the puzzle was solved with the final piece of the dead woman’s mobile, and Mrs. Hudson going on about a cab waiting for him.
Sherlock went off on his own because he needed to know; he needed to see with his own eyes just how the cabbie- a cabbie, how brilliant!- had orchestrated these murders. It was the same urge he had always been driven by- the thirst for knowledge and the need to solve every puzzle given to him.
The danger was just an added bonus.
In the room they ended in the cabbie was kind enough to show and explain everything; although the gun was just a touch overdramatic. But it was brilliant, even if not to Sherlock’s own standards. Two pills, one poisoned the other not; the victims having to make a choice in a moment with a gun pointed at them; a 50/50 chance of survival.
Whoever the cabbies benefactor was, this mysterious Moriarty, had done an excellent job of arranging this game. Sherlock suspected this would not be the last time he heard the name Moriarty.
And of course he wouldn’t have taken the pill. He wasn’t as reckless as that. Still, since the cabbie was shot, Sherlock would likely never know if he’d chosen the correct pill. Yet, he was still alive- which was good.
At first Sherlock had suspected one of the cabbies enemies, or his benefactor, had shot the cabbie. It was the most likely explanation.
But then outside, perching on the back of the ambulance with the eye-sore of a shock blanket, another explanation he hadn’t even thought of crashed down onto him.
Standing just beyond the police tape, hands stuffed inside the pockets of an oversized jacket, managing to blend into the background, was John.
John who had been a soldier, used to life-threatening situations, and who possessed a gun he didn’t think Sherlock knew about.
The ex-soldier and the doctor who had just killed a man. John may have waited until he was in real danger, but John had still killed the cabbie.
John had killed a man, for him.
It was something no one he had known before John would have ever done.
He and John had known each other barely twenty-four hours, yet John had just killed someone to save his life.
Sherlock had never imagined anyone would ever care enough for him to do such a thing. But it seemed John Watson was anything but ordinary or normal.
As they walked away from the crime scene, quietly giggling together, Sherlock reflected that John was the first person in his life he could truly call friend.
And, for the first time since his childhood, Sherlock finally felt content.
~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~
the end
Rating: PG 13 (just to be safe)
Characters: This chapter: Sherlock, Lestrade, Mycroft, John!
Spoilers: None.
Warnings: A not quite attentive parent? Slightly dark, manipulative relationship. Drug use. Angst. Much angst.
Disclaimer: I owe none of this, sadly enough. And I beg little familiarity with the British school system, police procedure, or drugs or drug use. Also- possible Americanisms, and this hasn't been completely beta-ed.
Summary:
Act I: This is the story of Sherlock and Mycroft's childhood together, back when Sherlock still looked up to and his world revolved around his brother. When Sherlock lived like he wanted to and only his brother understood.
Of course, it couldn't last forever; no matter how much he wanted.
Written pre- series 2, in vignette's from Mycroft's POV.
Act II: Having decided he doesn't need anyone and can survive perfectly well on his own, Sherlock strikes out into the world. He hits a few bumps and lows before finally finding the one person he's really been looking for all along.
Written pre- series 2, in vignette's from various characters' POV.
This chapter: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson finally meet... need I say more?
A/N: Well, this is it folks. After months and nearly a year of working on this story, we are finally at the end.
Somehow John's chapter, the most important chapter in my mind, turned out to be the shortest. I considered adding to it and making it longer, but it feels perfect and I don't want to change anything.
Just a warning: this chapter has not been beta'd, so be aware I have no familiarity with nearly everything UK. I apologize for any Americanisms, or anything else that may not make sense. Also, the tenses might be a little funny in some places.
Any feedback would be very welcomed; or any ideas for stories from this verse you would like me to write, I would love to hear! This verse is very dear to me and I love writing in it. I don't quite want to leave it yet!
I hope you enjoy, thanks for reading! And for sticking through this with me! Thanks everyone!
Years went by and Mycroft, Greg, and Sherlock settled into an arrangement that worked- for the most part.
Greg worked to keep Sherlock entertained and occupied with police cases, all the while keeping a watchful eye on the younger man. Greg settled into an authoritative figure in Sherlock’s life, but also gave parental advice that was often met with a skeptical scoff from the other man. He left the role of distanced sibling who still managed to look after his brother by honestly alarming means to Mycroft.
It took Greg a while to navigate the complexities of his relationship with Sherlock. He had become a part of Sherlock’s life somewhat reluctantly at first, but he was certainly part of it now; yet there were still many times when Greg had no idea what to do with the man.
To his relief Sherlock did stay clean, and seemed to have left his years of drug use behind. He moved on to infuriate and drive Greg and his team crazy at crime scenes, while proving to be the eccentric genius Greg had known Sherlock could be. Once Sherlock joined Greg and consulted on cases his closing rate jumped exponentially as together they were able to close case after case. It was as if Sherlock was the final missing piece Greg and the police force had needed to become even better.
And while Greg and Sherlock did have their bad days (like when Sherlock picked the lock to his flat and ventured inside, or when Sherlock went off on his own and managed to nearly get killed yet somehow capture their suspect) it still worked, somehow.
Mycroft meanwhile continued to watch Sherlock from a distance through various methods available to him and also from visits with Gregory Lestrade. Mycroft watched over Sherlock as he had always done, but didn’t yet dare visit his brother in person. The close relationship they’d once enjoyed had completely disintegrated, and Sherlock made it obvious he did not want to see even a sign of Mycroft.
And, if he was honest with himself, Mycroft didn’t want to see how much Sherlock had changed or what had happened to him in the time when he hadn’t watched over his younger brother. Sherlock may no longer be using drugs but he was still in real danger, even with the DI looking after him closely.
When Mycroft finally decided to visit his brother, a year and three months into Sherlock’s tentative agreement with Lestrade, their visit went as poorly as Mycroft had expected.
Sherlock had said only a few words to him, spending the rest of the time scraping away at his violin or staring out the small, grime-smeared window of the cramped dingy flat Sherlock was occupying. Mycroft had offered several times by way of the DI and other means to find Sherlock a more suitable flat, but his brother had flatly refused. Sherlock had refused any help at all, suffering selective deafness.
What had been the worst of all was how Sherlock had completely ignored him, refusing to look or meet his eyes at all. All Mycroft had hoped for was validation that his younger brother was well and healthy. But Sherlock hadn’t even allowed him that.
His first visit had honestly been a disaster, and seemed to have done more harm than good. But Mycroft was a Holmes and therefore very persistent, especially with his visits and getting news from the DI.
It was an immense relief every time Lestrade called and assured him Sherlock was still clean and healthy. The DI even went so far as to making surprise drug busts at Sherlock’s flat, a constant annoyance to his brother.
No one else had ever gone so far for Sherlock, which went to prove the DI truly cared about Sherlock and his well-being. Even after all Sherlock had put Lestrade through.
But even with both Mycroft and Greg now looking after Sherlock, it felt as if something was still missing.
For the next two years Mycroft worried over his brother from afar, and Greg tried his best to keep Sherlock occupied and in line. But Sherlock still remained as eccentric and unpredictable as before, constantly risking his life, and didn’t appear to be about to calm down any time soon. He continued to live life his own way, refusing to let anyone too close.
Then, on an ordinary London day, Doctor John Watson- formerly of the RAMC- walked into a laboratory at St. Bart’s and met Sherlock Holmes.
The next day John Watson went to look at a flat with Sherlock, and an hour or so afterwards they visited a crime scene together.
John Watson, who, when confronted with Sherlock’s seemingly random inquiry of ‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’ didn’t recoil or become upset. Instead he had looked confused, and then intrigued. The first ever.
Who, when Sherlock asked- acting on impulse for the first time in years- if he wanted to see more of the war, hadn’t even hesitated before responding ‘oh god, yes.’
Anyone else, other people who were considered in their right minds by the general public, would have said no- would likely have been horrified by the question.
But not John Watson. He followed Sherlock down the stairs and out the door as quickly as his psychosomatic limp let him.
In the cab John had seemed nervous, feeling eager and confused, sitting next to Sherlock on the seat. It became enough of a distraction that Sherlock wasn’t able to focus on his mobile even in the silence. So he had asked, masking most of his irritation, for the questions John Watson was doing a poor job of holding back. This had prompted an entire flood of questions, ones the majority of the population could have thought of.
To Sherlock’s surprise he had felt a bit let down that John could possibly be not as extraordinary as he’d proved until then. In the lab Sherlock had been intrigued by the concept of a doctor who was also a soldier, so he had forgotten to keep as tight a rein on his deductions as he normally did. He had been rewarded with the one man in all of London he could stand as a potential flat mate. Then at Baker Street Sherlock found himself actually tidying his things because he didn’t want that to be the one reason John didn’t stay. John hadn’t said a word about it. So Sherlock had treated John to a glimpse of how he had known so much about John, sharing the observations that had spilled forth while watching John in the laboratory. But then Mrs. Hudson came in and Sherlock quickly stopped, confused that he actually wanted to share them with John.
He chose to believe that was the reason why, when John called him a private detective (yet reasoned the police didn’t consult amateurs), that instead of merely correcting John he was a consulting detective, Sherlock listed and explained all the observations he’d made about John to show him instead. He could have easily changed the topic of conversation, or stopped it all together. But neither of those options occurred to him before his mouth ran off on its own, explaining things to John. All of his observations spilled out in a rush almost as if it all wanted to be told. But that was ridiculous.
And at the same time his heart begged as it listened to his rambling words for John not to be another one to turn and run away. True, it hadn’t been his best idea to test John while they were in a cab on their way to a crime scene. He wanted John to see what a crime scene was like before John left.
He sat there in the backseat of an ordinary London cab rattling off an entire string of deductions, more than he’d shared in years with anyone. And not only telling John, but explaining everything- every little detail about John’s life, his past, his brother, his phone.
Sherlock didn’t dare look at John; he kept his eyes on the mobile in his hand or out the window. He didn’t want to see the disgust or outrage forming on John’s face.
When he finally managed to close his mouth it was already too late. He had laid John’s entire life out before them. All he could do was continue staring out the window and wait for John to tell the driver to pull over.
Just when Sherlock was ready to demand John to say something just to break the tense silence, he did.
The words weren’t an insult or cutting remark like the ones that usually followed Sherlock’s deductions.
No, it was an exclamation of awe. John had called him brilliant.
Sherlock quickly turned to face John, wanting to see this unbelievable truth for himself.
There was no sign of deceit or falsehood on John’s face, none at all. It was completely open, and lit with honest awe.
He’d asked John to repeat himself, just to be certain he had heard correctly. And the truth was that not only had he heard John perfectly, John even complimented him again.
John said he was amazing, and extraordinary; two words Sherlock hadn’t heard directed at him in many, many years- possibly even ever. And John had only known him for a little more than an hour.
The rest of the cab ride had passed in silence. Sherlock tried not to betray just how surprised he had been by John’s praise, or how excited he was to show John a crime scene.
When the cab finally pulled up to the crime tape, Sherlock almost burst out of the cab from how eager he was. John followed him more slowly due to that damned limp, an annoyance Sherlock swore to take care of soon.
(Of course, he had gotten the gender of John’s sibling wrong, but that wasn’t too great of a mistake.)
The crime scene proved to be even better than he’d expected, and Lestrade was as helpful as usual. John had remained silent and let Sherlock work, instead of constantly interrupting and demanding answers. And while John had done little more than certify this was the work of the same serial killer the Yard had been chasing for months, it had been a wonderful new experience to have someone to talk to; John had actually been the one to put him on to pink case.
He hadn’t purposefully left John behind; he had just been riding the high of having a new piece of the puzzle to uncover and then slot into the larger picture. The pink case was what Sherlock knew would help him break this case wide open.
Sherlock only realized he’d acted unusual at all was when Greg rang to tell him so.
He’d been digging through a skip at the time, so it’d taken a while to find his mobile. Once he answered Lestrade had promptly begun to tease him about his new friend, pointing out especially that John was a doctor. Lestrade even suggested that Sherlock might have a bit of a crush.
(He didn’t, of course.)
It was all ridiculous, even if Sherlock knew Lestrade was only teasing him. But he was busy trying to find the case and didn’t have time to listen to Lestrade. So Sherlock promptly hung up on the DI.
(Looking back, he realized that may have been (part of) the reason for the surprise drugs bust.)
Then Mycroft kidnapped John right off the street and took him somewhere secluded for one of Mycroft’s ‘chats.’
Sherlock paced restlessly around Baker Street, livid with his brother for always poking his fat nose where it didn’t belong and somehow not being able to understand that Sherlock could take care of himself without any help from Big Brother. He half-expected John not to come back, even after Sherlock’s insistent texts.
But John hadn’t been put off at all by an overprotective and powerful older brother. When he walked in the door John had merely looked annoyed at having been kidnapped at all.
After that, Sherlock managed to successfully convince John to text a murderer (and the shock on his face when he’d realized had been incredibly amusing), to go with him to what proved to be an unsuccessful stakeout- but was a successful dinner- and then to run through London after a cab.
Sherlock had run through London after suspects before in the past years, but never with anyone at his side or anyone running beside him.
(Lestrade, usually minutes behind, didn’t count.)
That night he had John running with him through dark alleys, over rooftops, and around the maze of London streets. He had someone to call to to hurry up, to coax to keep pace with him, and to make John forget his limp and just jump.
His reward was the exhilarating feeling that rushed through him with every step; John’s ridiculous giggling after Sherlock’s comment ‘welcome to London’; and best of all, he seemed to have completely cured John’s psychosomatic limp.
From that point on, the night only became even better.
Somehow he made John laugh in the hall of Baker Street as they caught their breath, and then John grinned at him when he realized he’d left his cane behind. Neither had ever happened before, and likely no one else would have. Everyone else had always avoided his company. Yet here was John, who seemed to be enjoying himself.
(The surprise drugs bust was just a minor hitch, as well as the remarks dubbed as a ‘bit not good’ by John that Sherlock made to John and the few police officers.)
Then everything came together and the puzzle was solved with the final piece of the dead woman’s mobile, and Mrs. Hudson going on about a cab waiting for him.
Sherlock went off on his own because he needed to know; he needed to see with his own eyes just how the cabbie- a cabbie, how brilliant!- had orchestrated these murders. It was the same urge he had always been driven by- the thirst for knowledge and the need to solve every puzzle given to him.
The danger was just an added bonus.
In the room they ended in the cabbie was kind enough to show and explain everything; although the gun was just a touch overdramatic. But it was brilliant, even if not to Sherlock’s own standards. Two pills, one poisoned the other not; the victims having to make a choice in a moment with a gun pointed at them; a 50/50 chance of survival.
Whoever the cabbies benefactor was, this mysterious Moriarty, had done an excellent job of arranging this game. Sherlock suspected this would not be the last time he heard the name Moriarty.
And of course he wouldn’t have taken the pill. He wasn’t as reckless as that. Still, since the cabbie was shot, Sherlock would likely never know if he’d chosen the correct pill. Yet, he was still alive- which was good.
At first Sherlock had suspected one of the cabbies enemies, or his benefactor, had shot the cabbie. It was the most likely explanation.
But then outside, perching on the back of the ambulance with the eye-sore of a shock blanket, another explanation he hadn’t even thought of crashed down onto him.
Standing just beyond the police tape, hands stuffed inside the pockets of an oversized jacket, managing to blend into the background, was John.
John who had been a soldier, used to life-threatening situations, and who possessed a gun he didn’t think Sherlock knew about.
The ex-soldier and the doctor who had just killed a man. John may have waited until he was in real danger, but John had still killed the cabbie.
John had killed a man, for him.
It was something no one he had known before John would have ever done.
He and John had known each other barely twenty-four hours, yet John had just killed someone to save his life.
Sherlock had never imagined anyone would ever care enough for him to do such a thing. But it seemed John Watson was anything but ordinary or normal.
As they walked away from the crime scene, quietly giggling together, Sherlock reflected that John was the first person in his life he could truly call friend.
And, for the first time since his childhood, Sherlock finally felt content.
~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~
the end