On the eighth day of Sherlockmas: In Closets, Hidden (1/3), for xenadragon_xoxo

[sherlockmasmod]

Author: pippnfrodo
Title: In Closets, Hidden
A gift for: xenadragon_xoxo
Characters/Pairing: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft Holmes, Harry Watson, OCs
Category: Gen
Rating: PG13
Warnings: violence, mention of drugs (overdose), coarse language
Summary: When the past you've tried years to forget about decides to come back to haunt you, and comes after you, your sister, and your friends, it's always nice to have a consulting detective as a friend/flat mate. And a Detective Inspector and British Government doesn't hurt either.
Author's Notes: Thanks goes to my friend KP for letting me babble and rant about this, and for brainstorming with me. Thanks to xenadragon for the wonderful prompts! I hope you enjoy this and its a good gift. Happy holidays!

1.

It was always during the slow times when they were in between cases and Sherlock threatened to shoot the walls so John had to keep hiding the gun from him every few days that John found himself wishing for something exciting to happen. Not necessarily even a case, just something that would grasp and hold both of their attention. For a few days.

Looking back, his almost desperate need for a distraction was probably how Harry managed to convince him to go over to hers and help her pack up her things. Her tearful call interspersed with faux pathetic sniffling had also helped.

He'd known she was having trouble since her divorce papers with Clara came through. So far Harry had managed to stay away from the bottle, so John saw it as part of his duty as her brother to help her continue staying sober no matter how awful the temptation became.

That was why he was now on his way to Harry's in the middle of the day, leaving behind a sulking Sherlock on the sofa. He'd tried telling his moody flat mate where he was going, but the man had refused to give any sign he was listening... or not listening. John was almost sure Sherlock hadn't heard given how the man never seemed to notice he was gone. Which probably meant he would get a text from Sherlock sooner than later asking where he was; or when he went back to Baker Street Sherlock would act like John had never been gone at all.

When he arrived at the new flat Harry had moved into after Clara left, his sister greeted him at the door with puffy, bloodshot eyes; but he was glad to not smell any alcohol on her breath. John didn't mention it and as soon as he was across the threshold Harry pulled him in for a hug with her arms tight around his waist. In return John somewhat awkwardly patted her back twice then let her go when Harry pulled away.

He followed her inside and up the creaky wooden stairs to the second level. He'd never been up here before, and once Harry pushed open the door to the storage room/attic space John was glad of it. As children Harry's room had always looked like it'd recently been hit by a tornado, whereas John's was typically fairly neat. And it seemed the tendency had carried over into Harry's adulthood.

The room wasn't very large, only a few paces wide and maybe half again that long; but nearly every available floor space was occupied by cardboard boxes. Near the walls the boxes were stacked two or three high and they nearly covered the window at the far end, allowing only a pale, thin beam of light into the room.

John took a cautious step down the barely inches wide path between the boxes left for anyone brave enough to venture further. He took another step then stopped, looked around at all the boxes within reach- they didn't appear to be labeled at all- then turned back to face Harry. Even before he could make any comment she leveled a glare at him, warning him off actually saying anything. The way she had her arms wrapped around herself made him feel unsettled and… guilty. He was here to help, not chide.

John licked his lips and turned his attention back to the boxes. Kneeling down John reached for the box closest to his feet and pulled the top off, stirring up small clouds of dust. After a few seconds, out of the corner of his eye John saw Harry bend down and open the box closest to her.

Together they managed to get through more than half of the boxes before the light started to dim and it grew dark in the cramped room. John finished packing up the last box he had finished and slid the lid back on. After what they had gone through so far Harry had four boxes of things she wanted to save, and a pile precariously set off to the side of things she'd said she didn't want. He was silently surprised there wasn't more Harry wanted to keep; she was usually more a one for sentimental keepsakes.

John pushed the box away from him and wiped his hands on his jeans. It was good they had finished so much in however long they'd been working. Harry needed this divorce behind her without the constant reminders of Clara, and now the process wouldn't be needlessly drawn out over multiple days. They could be surprisingly productive when they decided to work together.

Realizing his sister had been silent a long time, John looked over to check on Harry. She had a box open on the floor in front of her and was holding a thin pile of papers in her hand that looked faded and somewhat wrinkled, like they'd been put away in the box for years and hadn't been glanced at since.

John moved closer to her and tilted his head so he could see the papers she was holding better. Then he saw the faded once black-and-white but now grey photograph and the headline in large text declaring ‘Local Childrens' Games End in Arrest of Crime Ring'... and froze.

John licked his lips, shifting a little on the cold floor; then he asked, surprised his voice was as steady as it was, "Harry, why did you keep that? Why would you even save it, you were the one who-"

"I forgot it was in here," Harry snapped irritably, the fingers of her hand curling around the edge of the box. "It's not something I'd keep because I wanted to. I've tried to forget as much as you have!"

She tossed the papers back into the box as if they'd burnt her fingers while she'd been holding them.

John quickly placed the lid on the box and put a hand on top of it as if that would keep it closed. "I never said I wanted to forget; Mum was the one who made us move away."

He could almost hear her rolling her eyes. "It was to protect us Johnny. Who knows what would've happened if we'd stayed."

John pushed himself to his feet and dusted off his jeans. "We don't know what happened to the people we left behind, Harry. Think about that."

Not wanting to hear her response John turned and walked back through the path of boxes and out of the room all together. He didn't want to think about that part of his life anymore today. If Harry wanted help moving the boxes tomorrow she could call him then. For the rest of the night he just wanted to feast on takeaway and watch bad telly. Even if he had to put up with Sherlock's scathing commentary.

~~~

Sherlock pulled his attention away from his experiment at the kitchen table when he heard the sound of takeaway bags rustling in John's hand. John shifted them to open the door, and given how his footsteps were uneven, mimicking his old psychosomatic limp, John was upset.

Sherlock watched out of the corner of his eye as John trudged into the kitchen, coming over to the table. John's lips were pressed together and his jaw set, more evidence of just how upset he was. After a glance at the bags John set on the table Sherlock inhaled. "Chinese?"

The side of John's mouth twitched upward. "Our usual," he confirmed. John walked over to the cupboards and took down plates and mugs that he'd just washed that morning. "Are you almost finished with that?"

Sherlock looked down, considering the results of his experiment so far. "It can wait," he announced, straightening. As John pulled out the few clean pieces of silverware they had, Sherlock pushed the experiment off to the side and slid off his safety glasses. The experiment wasn't for a case or time-sensitive, so it wouldn't matter if he spent the night with John eating takeaway and whichever idiotic program John settled on. Sherlock was certain he would be able to improve John's mood with his usual commentary; even if they watched one of those ridiculous spy films.

~~

The next morning John was sitting at the table with his usual breakfast of tea and toast (without mold or experiment-tainted jam), while Sherlock checked his website for anything resembling a case. He'd been at it for nearly an hour but still hadn't found anything that even exceeded a one on his scale. And John was just sitting there opposite him calmly reading the paper and sipping that tea he loved so much, completely unconcerned.

"Morning boys," Mrs. Hudson called as she knocked on the door to the kitchen. "Its good to see you're up and about already. It's a lovely day outside, you can actually see the sun for once."

She slowly shuffled into the room- her hip must be bothering her again- and started bustling around, picking up papers and stacking dishes. It was the same routine each time Mrs. Hudson came upstairs, no matter how often she protested she wasn't their housekeeper. Mrs. Hudson liked to check up on them every so often. Sometimes Sherlock wondered just what she thought was going to happen to them.

"Really Sherlock, you need to clean up more in here. Can't have you two living in a mess." Mrs. Hudson fussed, setting the dirty dishes in the sink.

She turned around from the sink to address John. "Oh, John, there was a box with your name out on the steps this morning. I brought it inside but left it in the entry. If you want to get it…"

John set his mug down with a loud thunk against the wooden surface of the table. "Of course, Mrs. Hudson," he replied, letting the paper fall to the table. "I'll go get it now, take it off your hands."

Mrs. Hudson walked closer to the table as John pushed his chair back. "Oh you don't have to now, I don't want to interrupt your breakfast…" She trailed off into a soft "oh" as John walked out the doorway. A few seconds later his footsteps could be heard on the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson sighed quietly then glanced over at Sherlock. "I guess he was expecting something." She moved to stand next to the chair Sherlock was occupying. "He's good for you, you know," Mrs. Hudson told him quietly. "So don't do anything to drive him away, Sherlock. You two are so good together."

Sherlock worked very hard not to turn his head even the slightest to look at her. "That isn't my decision to make, Mrs. Hudson."

"Sherlock," she scolded the way she did when she didn't think he was listening. He still refused to turn and meet her eyes.

Sherlock only raised his head when he heard John's distinctive voice from the bottom of the steps. John cursed sometimes out of habit still, but would catch himself. This time he stopped and was quiet for several seconds; likely while he thought about whatever was in the box.

Finally John came to a decision, he didn't want to linger on what he'd seen, and started back up the stairs. Now he was carrying the box John's steps were slower and heavier on each stair.

Sherlock carefully watched the doorway, expecting John to come back in carrying the box. He hoped John would share the contents with him now Sherlock's curiosity was piqued. But John's footsteps didn't stop or even pause on the landing outside. They continued up to John's bedroom, soon followed by the sound of John's door slamming.

When John didn't come back down after enough time it was obvious he wouldn't reappear any time soon, Sherlock returned to the experiment he'd been working on. He needed time to decide if what had upset John yesterday involved this mysterious box or if the two were separate incidents and the first had only been because of his sister.

By the time John finally came downstairs again, Sherlock had finished and put away his disappointing experiment. Once he finished Mrs. Hudson coaxed him into drinking a mug of tea and put a piece of toast in his hand. Now she was watching him closely from the other chair at the table as he slowly ate and drank.

John stepped into the room, the lines around his eyes even more pronounced than usual. He wasn't smiling like John usually smiled; this was John trying to pretend everything was normal and fine.

"So," John spoke first after they all looked at each other. "Did you find anything interesting for us to look into, or is it another day of experiments and film marathons?"

Obviously John wasn't going to tell them. Not on his own. Well that was fine, Sherlock was an expert at bringing secrets to light. John would tell him in time; hopefully before too long.

For now… "Preferably more experiments than bad telly and films." Sherlock rejoined before he quickly finished off the rest of his nearly cooled tea. He stood up and started fixing John a fresh, hot cup of tea.

2.

The mystery of John's box pestered Sherlock off and on for the next days. He wanted to know what was inside that upset John, it nagged at him, but Sherlock didn't want to distress John even more. An upset John was dangerous; and Sherlock didn't want to force John into leaving.

Before Sherlock could give in to his need to puzzle out and know exactly what had happened, Moriarty revealed himself and forced Sherlock into a game of puzzles with ‘pips' and hostages in bomber vests and finally, a pool. An arena full of shadows and a confrontation where he saw what he could have become if he'd never given up the drugs and the accompanying rush, or if he hadn't begun working with the police and turned his mind to better purposes, and had never met John. Moriarty was brilliant, true; but he was also dangerous. And of the two, Sherlock would rather have John.

After the pool, when they were back at Baker Street and more or less safe, Sherlock rethought his decision to stay quiet and try to ignore whatever had upset John. And the mystery of the box from his sisters. How could he keep John safe, and not just from Moriarty, when he didn't know everything that had the potential to, or did distress, John?

That was why one day while John was away at the locum where he ‘worked,' Sherlock went up to John's room and searched for the box. Whatever secrets it held, Sherlock knew he could handle anything. This was within his abilities. He simply needed to know what was inside to know what he need to do.

The cupboard box was hidden at the very back of John's closet, amongst the nearly military precision of lined up shoes and clothes hanging on hangers. Some habits John found difficult to break it appeared. Hiding the box under his bed was the more obvious choice as a hiding place, but John would expect him to look there first. At least this way John made it somewhat difficult for him. But he did need to work on his hiding skills.

Sherlock lifted the box from the back of the closet and set it on the floor in front of him. The tape was easily disposed of, allowing Sherlock to easily lift off the top.

Inside was a stack of papers, newspapers mostly he noticed, along with several photographs. Sherlock set the papers aside and looked at the photographs first.

On top was a black and white photograph of a group of children, three boys roughly of twelve years of age and a girl of ten. The two boys on the left had their arms around each others shoulders in a close, friendly way and wide, triumphant grins spread across their dirt smeared faces. Standing close, but not comfortably so, was another boy staring defiantly out of the picture with a determined look on his face. Both of his hands were clutching the shoulders of the girl standing in front of him, holding onto her as she glared out at the camera. Their features were similar enough, as was the defiance, that it was easy to identify them as siblings. And upon closer examination the boy was so obviously a younger John that Sherlock berated himself for missing it.

There was no caption or date stamped on the back of the photograph, but considering the way they were posed and what was visible in the background this was an official photograph of some kind.

Sherlock sat staring at the photograph, and more specifically at this younger version of John. His mind took what details he could from the picture, weighing and measuring them against his John, the current John. Only when he was satisfied and time had gone by, Sherlock set the photograph down and turned to the next one.

This was only of John and the younger girl who must be his sister Harriet. Even in this photograph they weren't smiling. Harriet looked annoyed, mouth fixed in a pout and her arms crossed defensively. John was standing apart from his sister, on purpose, but he didn't look as annoyed. He looked more as if he was trying very hard to fade into the background.

Sherlock had witnessed this strange ability of John's multiple times, especially in gatherings and when he was questioning a decision. It was extraordinary for someone who appeared who ordinary on the surface. But this John wasn't questioning; there was a tightness around his eyes and he wasn't looking directly at the photographer… worried. This was younger John worried.

Sherlock set this photograph on top of the first then glanced at the other three photographs left. They were all of the other boys, and of Harriet. There weren't any more with John.

Not worth looking at Sherlock decided and set them aside. He turned to the faded and wrinkled papers still in the box. A further glance revealed they were news articles more than a decade old, and not well preserved considering the fading. The first page contained a headline in large bolded letters: ‘Local Childrens' Games End in Arrest of Crime Ring.' A smaller version of the first picture he'd found was set amongst the text, with another picture of John and Harriet.

It seemed that even a young John played hero, saving the world in his own way. Just like Sherlock had started trying to solve cases at a young age.

As he continued reading the article, retaining only the important information while ignoring the elaborations, Sherlock learned even more about this young John. A John who it appeared had accidently stumbled across a drug deal and murder plot-in-progress while he, his sister and friends were playing in an abandoned building one afternoon.

The author of the article didn't know any specific details of what happened, could only write what the police had shared with the public and their own speculations. But Sherlock was able to fill in most of the details himself.

He could see why the police had named John, Harriet, and the other boys heroes of the city. And he read how relieved the people of the city were after the criminals were sentenced and locked away for a long time. Most of the crime and drug activity had decreased significantly after the major arrest, making the city supposedly a safer place.

That was likely untrue, at least to the degree the papers were claiming. But people liked to feel safe and secure within their own homes. And news writers were experts at calming the general population.

No, the real question, the one Sherlock wanted to know the answer to (preferably from John's own mouth) was why John- and Harriet to a point- appeared to have had such a different reaction from their friends. Why weren't they as proud of what they had accomplished as the other two boys? Putting away criminals was no simple task; especially when you were so young the police were inclined to think you were lying or just making up tales.

Whatever the reasons for their reaction, it was still strong enough after so many years that John had become upset just seeing the box with the mementoes from that time. He'd gone as far as to hide it in the back of his closet. And who ever had put them in the box in the first place had hidden them away rather than burn or destroy them.

His mobile buzzed twice in Sherlock's pocket, signaling a new text message. Sherlock pushed the puzzle of the box and its questions to the back of his mind while he read the new message from Lestrade. A new case involving a missing weapon, mysterious note, and relatives in position to inherit a rather large fortune.

Sherlock put the papers and photographs back in the box then carried it downstairs to hide the box in his own room. Only then did he pull on his coat and hurried off to pick up John on his way to Lestrade.

~~

The case didn't prove to be as interesting as it first appeared, or as Lestrade had made it sound. But there was still quite a lot of running involved and a long period of waiting for the guilty party- parties it turned out- to reveal themselves. Suspense, murder, and relatives out for inheritance before they were due it. John at least seemed to enjoy himself; and went on about how it would make a good blog entry.

When they were back at Baker Street after enjoying a dinner at Angelo's, Sherlock glanced over from where he was sprawled on the sofa to where John was pecking at the keyboard on his laptop. Even after all their cases John had written up he still had trouble typing properly.

To stop the pecking- at least momentarily- and finally satisfy his curiosity, Sherlock turned his head against the pillow and focused his attention on John. "You never told me you were so heroic as a boy John. Do you have any other awards for your heroic deeds I'm not aware of?"

The pecking stopped even before Sherlock finished his question. He watched closely as John went very still in his chair, hands poised above the keys he'd just been using. John didn't turn to look at Sherlock like he usually did for a conversation. Instead he sat blinking rapidly at his laptop screen.

Upset again then, or still. Sherlock had obviously miscalculated somehow.

"How," John coughed then cleared his throat roughly. "How do you mean?"

Sherlock decided he might as well follow through with his enquiry; he never had liked doing anything by halves.

"‘Local Childrens' Games End in Arrest of Criminal Ring,'" Sherlock quoted, reining in his sarcasm despite the urge to mock the idiotic headline. It was nearly as awful as the puns John used for his blog entries. "Not the best headline, but the story is more important. A group of children happen across a gathering of criminals and subsequently help the police arrest them? A human interest story with enough details for people to talk about for years. I expect you and the others were local celebrities; and what child wouldn't enjoy the attention and limelight?" (What ordinary child other than him; or possibly John, even).

The answer to his rhetorical question was John slamming the lid of his laptop closed, resting his hands on top of it. "How did you-" John stopped himself before he could finish. Apparently he had realized the answer himself and didn't like it. John made the sigh he usually did when Sherlock had done something he didn't approve of.

"You went through my room! Why did you go in there, I never said you could-" John rubbed at his forehead. "Of course that doesn't matter. I'm guessing you saw the box; the box I hid in my closet which means that's the only place you could have seen it."

"I wasn't aware your room was off limits John, seeing as we share the flat together," Sherlock commented, folding his hands on top of his chest. "And the box obviously upset you when your sister left it for you. That's why you put it in the back of your closet where you wouldn't have to see it."

John pushed his laptop off to the side and swung his legs over so he was sitting upright. "Yes, Sherlock. I put it there because I didn't want to look at it or think about it. But that doesn't give you any right to sneak around. This is private and extremely personal."

Sherlock watched, carefully remaining calm as John rose to his feet and started pacing. It was much more effective now without the limp and the cane. "Curiosity, John; it is deadly and all."

"Curiosity is not the same as invading a person's privacy." John barked as he turned half towards Sherlock. He took a deep breath, shook his head, and moved away again. "Especially invading my privacy about something like this."

Sherlock pushed himself upright more until he was sitting. "‘Like this'? What exactly is ‘this' John?" He asked curiously.

John spun around from the other end of the sofa, his usually warm eyes blazing. It seemed everything Sherlock said, no matter the sentiment behind it, only infuriated John more.

"Like what ruined my childhood, Sherlock!" John shouted in a burst of anger. Then he adjusted his stance and said a little closer to his normal voice, "We all have parts of our lives we want to forget, Sherlock. Even you I imagine." Sherlock kept his expression neutral. "Well this, this is what I wanted to forget."

Sherlock watched John carefully, watching the waves of anger move across his face before finally John turned his back on him. He put an end to their conversation without a single word and walked over to the desk instead of saying anything else. John picked up his wallet and mobile, stuffing them into his pocket; then he crossed the room to the door off the landing and pulled on his jacket.

"I'm going out," John announced fiercely, not looking anywhere near Sherlock still on the sofa.

John took the few steps to the door, pushed it open, then thundered down the stairs. By the time Sherlock got to the open doorway John was slamming the front door behind him.

~~

Usually when John stormed out for a walk to get some air after one of their ‘domestics' as Mrs. Hudson called them, he was only away for a few hours before he eventually came back; often with an invitation of dinner offering takeaway or a fresh cup of tea.

This time John didn't come back after three hours, or five... or six.

When Sherlock woke from a restless night of merely dozing on the sofa, there was none of the usual noise of John making tea or breakfast in the kitchen and no sound of the shower running.

Considering the hour it was doubtful John was still asleep; most of the time, unless he hadn't slept in days, John was awake with the sun. Sherlock still uncurled himself from his position on the sofa and went upstairs just to make sure.

There was no sign of John in his room, and the bed looked completely untouched and unslept in.

Neither of them had slept much during the case that had drawn out needlessly over three days. John had managed to catch some sleep a few times but never for long. Sherlock's mind had been racing too fast trying to solve the case to even consider sleeping. Both of them were in desperate need of sleep; yet John hadn't come home to sleep in his own bed.

As soon as Sherlock realized John hadn't been home at all he hurried back down to the living room. His mobile had slipped down between the cushions of the sofa so he had to dig it out again. Once Sherlock had the phone in his hand he unlocked the screen, opened his messages, and tapped out a quick message to John.

No tea this morning. Come make some. SH.

After a ridiculously long time had passed and John still hadn't responded to his text, Sherlock dropped down onto the sofa. He kept the mobile in hand to be absolutely sure he would hear it when John's reply came.

He sat staring down at the screen of his mobile, waiting for it to light up. When it stayed stubbornly dark Sherlock considered sending another message. John had taken his mobile with him so he did have it; he was probably just refusing to answer.

Sherlock thought then finally gave in and unlocked the screen again. He typed out ‘John? SH.'

Simple, and a question. John was certain to be inclined to answer now.

Yet his mobile continued to remain dark and silent no matter how intently Sherlock stared at it. Why wasn't John answering? This was ridiculous.

As even more time went by Sherlock fell back into his customary sprawl across the length of the sofa. Why was John making him wait; usually John answered his texts within minutes. Even if it was to yell at him for adding yet another item- usually for an experiment- to his shopping list.

Sherlock wouldn't even mind if John responded to his texts with an angry or annoyed comment. Or to yell at him. Or to tell him to stop texting him. This silence was… irritating, and worrying.

The silence became more and more suffocating so to battle it Sherlock tried to continue some of his experiments. But he couldn't give them the focus they needed. There were no new comments on his website no matter how often he checked, and his science journals were all boring and filled with nonsense.

Finally, finally; hours later, his mobile vibrated clutched in the hand resting on his stomach. Sherlock abruptly sat up, dislodging the papers from his face, and held up his mobile to peer at it.

On the now lit screen were the words ‘New Text from John.' Sherlock quickly unlocked the screen and brought up the new message.

John's message was short, and to the point.

Leave me alone

Obviously their time apart so far had done nothing to improve John's mood. He was still upset; though John hadn't used any punctuation so Sherlock couldn't exactly read his mind.

Sherlock tried again. I've told you you should sign your texts, John. Otherwise how do I know if they're really from you? SH.

Who else would they be from, idiot? was John's quick reply. More annoyed then upset this time, and John had called him an idiot. Now leave me alone.

Sherlock's mouth quirked upward on one side. You were the one who replied first, he shot back, fingers flying over the keyboard on his mobile. It might be slightly childish of him, but he was just so happy to hear from John. And that John was finally responding to him.

Yes, now leave me alone Sherlock, John sent back within less than a minute.

It seemed John was being stubborn like he could be sometimes. Especially when he was upset or annoyed about something that personally affected him. The fact that he had responded to Sherlock's texts was optimistic progress.

Sherlock waited several minutes, alternatively checking the time and for any new messages on his mobile. Hopefully John would send another text without Sherlock having to prod him into it.

But no more messages came no matter how patient Sherlock tried to be or how long he waited. It seemed John wasn't going to engage in conversation with him more than the few texts they'd exchanged. Maybe he needed more time, longer than usual then when John went off on his own like this, to do whatever John needed to do.

Sherlock reluctantly set his mobile on the floor next to where he was on the sofa. He needed to find a way to pass the time until John returned. Preferably in a way that wouldn't make John upset with him all over again. Lestrade hadn't contacted him about any new cases and there was nothing interesting in the paper.

On a glance around the sitting room Sherlock's gaze caught on his violin case by the bookcase beside his music stand. There was a piece he'd been working on recently but hadn't finished yet, and John always seemed to appreciate his playing. When Sherlock wasn't just running the bow over the strings because he was irritated or to drive Mycroft off.

After sending one last text to John, Sherlock pushed himself off the sofa and walked over to his violin.

Come home. Please. SH.

~~~

Working on the song, improvising notes and making edits on a handy piece of sheet music, occupied most of the rest of his afternoon. Sherlock ended up making a lot of progress on the song, but he still couldn't get it exactly right.

The entire time he kept his mobile close, just so he would be able to hear it in case John texted him again. But John never did, not at all.

This was just becoming tiresome. Nothing could hold his attention for any length of time. The flat wasn't nearly the same without John, it was so quiet and… empty. Not to mention the sad lack of tea.

John had to come back; (didn't he?)

~~

Finally as a last resort Sherlock leaned over nearly falling off the sofa in the process, to pull his laptop over from the table. The first time he'd wanted his laptop Sherlock had called for John to fetch it for him, then realized his mistake when it didn't appear in minutes.

But now he was desperate for a distraction. There still wasn't anything interesting on his website. Apparently the criminal classes were being unimaginative again. It made him ever so briefly wonder where Moriarty had gone. But it was a fleeting thought because Sherlock had had enough of Moriarty. And Sherlock already put John in enough trouble himself on every case they worked on.

On a whim Sherlock opened a new tab for John's blog. He didn't always read every single write-up of every case John posted for the world and for their ‘fans' to read. But they were mostly interesting, despite John's penchant for the dramatic and elaboration. Sherlock entertained himself by reading over John's shoulder as he typed, making comments about John's word choices and descriptions.

The last entry on John's blog was from their last case before Moriarty's games. It hadn't been the most intriguing of cases but there had been a ridiculous amount of running. And he and John always enjoyed running.

Sherlock clicked on the title to read the entirety of the entry in a new tab. He read through John's narrative of the case in which John apparently thought it necessary to include every single detail. Even the ones Sherlock couldn't remember completely given how elaborated they were.

But Sherlock would freely admit John had done an excellent job of putting what had happened into words, describing everything well. John had talent as a writer; talent put to much better use writing up their cases than blogging about their boring day to day activities.

Sherlock reached the end of the entry then scrolled further down to read through the few comments people had left. There was the usual drivel from his sister Harry; Mrs. Hudson cooing over he and John and their supposedly more than friends relationship; and at least one other mutual acquaintance of theirs. Sometimes Mike, Lestrade, or someone else involved in their cases who didn't completely despise his presence.

The very last comment was from someone whose name Sherlock didn't recognize, or recall John ever mentioning. But considering how familiarly he addressed John, calling him ‘Johnny,'
it wasn't a stranger.

Sherlock was curious about the danger the person warned of; he sounded very worried and panicked. And Sherlock refused to let John be put into danger without knowing everything possible about it. What exactly was this threat that might be ‘coming back' for them? Whoever this was was frustratingly vague.

Sherlock returned to the main page of John's blog and started going through the older entries. Not all of them had comments on them, and not many were very interesting. But this person, this stranger- or not- called Mark hadn't posted anything on any of John's other entries. Only on the one entry. And of course he only went by his first name, with no hint at a last name. There had to be dozens of Marks in London alone.

Sherlock wondered if John had seen the comment on his entry. There was no time stamp so it wouldn't be easy to tell exactly when it was posted. But John had only posted the entry itself two days ago. It was possible he'd seen it before he went off for his multi-day journey wherever he was. Or not, seeing as John didn't frequently check his blog.

Sherlock set the laptop next to him on the sofa and grabbed for his mobile. He leaned forward with his arms on his knees, considering as he tapped the top of his mobile against his chin. Finally Sherlock gave in, unlocked the mobile, and sent one last text to John.

Comment from a ‘Mark' on your blog. He claims you're in danger, that someone is coming after you. Where are you? You should come home. SH.

John's answer came after a longer time than Sherlock liked. John had his mobile on him but wasn't checking it often or right away when it vibrated. Obviously he was too preoccupied with something else.

You don't believe that Sherlock. I'm fine, not in any danger. I'll be home soon.

Well at least John was promising to come home soon. That was good. Sherlock felt a weight, a tenseness he hadn't noticed before, lift. Baker Street wasn't the same without John. It was emptier somehow, darker. But now it was certain John was coming home, everything was alright.

The only lingering question was if John really was in danger.

Sherlock refused to ask Mycroft; he wouldn't stoop that far. Mycroft didn't need to have a hand in this. Sherlock had his own, perfectly successful, methods of keeping a close eye on John.

He opened a new message and sent a request to his homeless network. A request for them to watch John and contact him immediately if anything at all happened. It was one more thing he could control about John's safety when he wasn't with John himself. John wouldn't easily forgive him if he caught Sherlock hovering after just accusing him of invading his privacy.

In the time before John came back Sherlock lay on the sofa staring at the ceiling pondering the mystery surrounding John. Considering the information from the news articles and photographs he'd found in the box in John's closet, and the new comment on John's blog from ‘Mark' warning of danger.

Had they been enjoying the calm and quiet after Moriarty too much that whatever this was from John's past had to come and disrupt them now?

He was interrupted by a quiet knock on the door he'd apparently left open. "Sherlock? You awake love?" Mrs. Hudson called as she poked her head around the door. She came inside and sighed when she caught sight of him on the sofa. "John still not back yet?"

"Obviously," Sherlock drawled, draping his arm over his eyes so he didn't have to look at anything.

He heard her come further in until she was standing beside the sofa, hovering over him. "There's no need to worry. He'll come back to you. I don't know what the two of you would do without each other."

Likely he would stay here on the sofa for the foreseeable future, bored to tears Sherlock thought bitterly.

His leg jerked in reaction to a sudden warm weight on his knee. "I'll make you some tea. It won't be as good as John's, but it might help cheer you up."

"I don't want tea," Sherlock muttered as Mrs. Hudson lifted her hand away and started towards the kitchen. (Hopefully she could make the tea without discovering any of the experiments he'd hidden in there). "I want John."

"How about some biscuits?" Mrs. Hudson asked, putting her selective hearing to good use. "Those chocolate ones you like so much."

Sherlock considered getting up but decided firmly against it. "There aren't any. We ate them all and John forgot to get more on his last shopping trip."

There were noises coming from the kitchen of Mrs. Hudson making the tea and clanging things around. "You're perfectly able to go to the store yourself, Sherlock. It won't hurt you to step foot in one," she scolded. "And John might appreciate it if you tried a little."

In silent response Sherlock rolled over so he was facing the back of the sofa, face pressed into the cushions. "I do try. But he's still gone."

Silence, horrible silence, reigned in Baker Street until the water finished heating and Mrs. Hudson poured tea for them both. Her tea was always delicious, but never as good as John's. John somehow knew, almost by instinct it seemed, exactly how Sherlock preferred his tea.

She shuffled back into the living room, walking slowly around the sofa and to the table between the sofa and John's chair. "Here Sherlock, a nice cup of tea for you." A clink as she set the mug down near him. "Drink some while its hot."

Sherlock mumbled a vague acknowledgement but didn't move. He'd drink the tea when he wanted to, not now.

Mrs. Hudson tsked at him but he could tell she didn't mean it. She reached over and gently squeezed his shoulder, like the supportive familial figure she was. Then once Mrs. Hudson was at the door she called back, "There is the cafe downstairs dear. Just a suggestion."

He listened as she walked slowly down the stairs, going step by step with both slippered feet. Her hip must not have been bothering her anymore given how agile she was moving. And still acting like a housekeeper even after all her protests.

Sherlock stayed curled on the sofa with his back to the room, musing while the tea cooled alone on the table. John had promised he would be home soon, but Sherlock didn't know how soon was ‘soon.'

He could stay here on the sofa, waiting even longer with nothing to distract him other than a cup of tea. Or he could go downstairs to the cafe, pick something out quick, and be back when John came home. John would probably appreciate a treat; especially if he'd been staying with his sister as Sherlock suspected. And making John happy was always a good thing.

~~~

By the time the front door downstairs not quite slammed open and John's steady but dragging steps echoed up the stairs, Sherlock was sitting on the sofa again drinking his now cooled tea.

John stepped inside past the door then stopped, casting a quick but thorough glance around. Then he continued walking, making his way over near the sofa. He stopped beside his chair and tossed the bag he'd been carrying over his shoulder onto it with a loud thump.

"Have you moved at all since I left?" John's voice asked from just feet away. He sounded more amused than at all upset. It was also a fairly reasonable question. Some days Sherlock felt perfectly entitled to lounging on the sofa for hours at a time.

"Yes," Sherlock replied but didn't feel like elaborating. He turned over onto his other side and shifted his head towards John. "You don't seem to have enjoyed your visit with your sister."

John frowned, blinking rapidly. "Not exactly, no. We're getting along even worse than usual at the moment. And it doesn't help we're both tense."

Sherlock took in the shadows under his eyes, the permanent frown his mouth seemed set in, and finally the tense set of his shoulders. And instead of commenting further about John's relationship with his sister, Sherlock offered, "There might still be tea in the kitchen."

John's eyes widened almost comically. "You made tea?" He asked in astonishment. It sounded like the world was ending, or he was hallucinating Sherlock having made tea.

Sherlock scoffed. "No, of course not. Mrs. Hudson made some earlier. There may still be some left warming in the kettle."

John's face fell a little, but the edges of his mouth were still turned up. "All right, thanks." He took a few steps in the direction of the kitchen then stopped suddenly. "I suppose you'd like a cup?"

Sherlock nodded his agreement. "Thanks." Then he closed his eyes and clasped his hands together.

John resumed his walk into the kitchen and took a mug down from the cupboard with the squeaky hinges. Sherlock heard the moment John noticed the bag of pastries from the cafe from the rustle of the paper bag followed by John's happily surprised laugh. The one he made every time Sherlock managed to surprise him.

John finished making fresh tea and took out a clean plate to put the pastries on. Then he came back out into the living room, setting the mugs down on the table and the plate of pastries between them.

"You have to have at least one, Sherlock," John instructed, almost falling down into his chair. "I'm not letting you off until I see you eat at least one pastry on the plate."

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes and glanced over at the plate filled with pastries. "You expect to eat the rest?"

John chuckled as he leaned forward to pick up his tea. "I could, maybe."

"Hmm." Sherlock had mainly picked the selection of pastries based on John's preferences. But there were one or two he wouldn't be adverse to eating if John made him. Still, he waited to see which John would choose first.

John took a sip of his tea then sighed happily. Leaning back in his chair he asked, "Did Mrs. hudson put these together?"

"No, she just made the tea," Sherlock answered; seeing as John didn't seem to be in any hurry Sherlock reached over to the table and snagged a croissant.

"Then these…?" John said, trailing off as he gestured at the plate.

Sherlock lifted one shoulder in a shrug and bit into the pastry. He chewed slowly then swallowed. Finally he answered, "Go well with the tea you and Mrs. Hudson made."

John stared at him then tilted his head slightly to the side and treated Sherlock to his own considering look. In the meantime as he thought John sipped at his tea until it must have been nearly half gone.

Sherlock eyed the mug in John's hands while he finished off his croissant. When he was done Sherlock brushed off the crumbs and picked up his own tea John made. Sherlock took a big gulp of the tea and sighed happily. He'd missed John's tea.

"So you went down and picked these out, just for our tea," John confirmed, leaning forward to set his mug back down on the table. He hovered a hand over the pastries before finally picking out a danish. "Thanks for that."

"Mm," Sherlock replied distracted. "It was Mrs. Hudson's idea."

John took one bite of his danish followed quickly by two more. "I'm sure," he answered, not quite hiding his smile.

The two of them sat in comfortable silence as John finished off his danish, obviously enjoying each bite. Sherlock considered the remaining pastries, wondering if he should take another.

"Sherlock," John started, speaking into the silence. He stopped and swallowed before continuing. "I'm not mad at you, all right? Just, ask before you go through my things or into my room when I'm not here. Can you do that?"

It wasn't much to ask really, and he definitely hadn't meant to upset John. He'd just been… curious. Which was possibly a fault of his.

"From now on I will be sure to ask you before I do anything considered invading your privacy," Sherlock pledged dryly without moving.

When he heard John huff quietly Sherlock turned his head and opened his eyes to look at John. "Is that enough for you?"

John was still smiling. He gripped the arms of his chair and pushed himself to his feet. As he picked up the mug John asked in return, "Tea?"

"Mm, thanks," Sherlock answered as he swiped another pastry.

John laughed easily. "Leave at least one for me. Those don't count as a real meal, just so you know."

"They're food John, of course they count." Sherlock disagreed just before he bit the pastry in half.

Using his well-developed ability of tuning Sherlock out when he needed to, John continued into the kitchen and started making tea-making noises.

Sherlock finished chewing his mouthful then let his eyes slowly slip closed at the familiar noise of John in the kitchen. By the time John returned with two steaming mugs of tea Sherlock had finally fallen into a peaceful, deep sleep.

~~

Later, much later, Sherlock looked up from his laptop propped up on his legs. "John, that comment on your blog from ‘Mark'-"

"It's nothing Sherlock," John reassured in his calm, steady doctors voice. He didn't look away from the medical journal he was reading; one he'd been planning to read for weeks but hadn't had time before with their case. "Mark was always excitable. There's not anything to worry about."

Sherlock didn't believe that for even part of a second. He could tell John was still worried, there was a furrow vying for a permanent place on his forehead. And John wouldn't so easily dismiss a friend who claimed to be in danger; even a childhood, estranged one. So for some reason John was trying to hide how worried he really was.

All Sherlock said was "All right," and went back to browsing the internet. But he continued watching John out of the corner of his eye.

3.

Only a few days later they learned just how not all right things were.

As John typed key by key on his laptop, ignoring the suspicious noises from whatever experiment Sherlock was performing in the kitchen, the mobile on the table started buzzing.

John stopped typing to turn and look over at the phone. He leaned over, careful so his laptop didn't fall, and glanced at the number. It wasn't one he recognized; Greg and Harry's numbers were programmed into his phone, and Mycroft somehow always showed up the same no matter how often he changed his number.

For some idiotic, genius reason Sherlock had listed John's number on his website for potential clients to call with cases. John didn't make a habit of answering numbers he didn't know, and Sherlock didn't like talking on the phone when he could text, so John really had no idea why Sherlock thought it was a good idea.

With a sigh John picked up the phone. "Client!" He called over his shoulder in the direction of the kitchen. Then John unlocked the phone and raised it to his ear. "Hello?"

"John? John Watson?"

John frowned, tilting his head to hold the mobile between his shoulder and ear. "Sorry, who's this?"

"It is you Johnny! Thought so," the voice exclaimed triumphantly. "It's Chris, Chris Harper."

"Chris?" John repeated, completely and absolutely astonished. The voice didn't exactly match what he remembered of Chris, but it had been years since they'd spoken. John hadn't talked or been in contact with anyone from his old neighborhood since they'd moved away when he was a boy. He hadn't wanted to really. "How are you?"

"That's why I'm calling Johnny. I think we're in a lot of trouble. Someone's been following Mark and he's real scared; and I've been getting unsigned threats in my mail. We think someone's after all of us. You need to be careful Johnny."

Like John didn't suffer enough drama living with Sherlock and having Mycroft Holmes involved in his life. "I'm sure everything's fine, Chris," he reassured calmly. "There's no one after us. We're safe. They're all in jail remember?"

Chris' voice took on a frantic edge, climbing upward in pitch. "Not anymore Johnny. Something's different now. I don't feel safe." He made a funny nervous sound in his throat. "They're back Johnny. I don't know how but they're back."

"Chris, Chris. Remember to breathe," John coached as he pushed himself into a more upright position. He set the laptop down on the arm of the chair. "I'll look into it all right? I have a friend in the police I could ask for a favor. I can't promise anything but I'll let you know, okay?"

"Thanks Johnny," Chris said not sounding very relieved at all. "I knew I could count on you."

John swallowed thickly. "Right, course." He glanced towards the kitchen but apparently Sherlock was still occupied with his experiment. "Take care of yourself, Chris. Watch your back."

"I will Johnny. And you look out for any people following you, suspicious people." Chris warned. "We're not safe. They're coming back for us."

That didn't sound right. It'd been years, why was this all getting stirred up again now? "Chris, are you-"

John couldn't even finish his question before there was a click and the phone started beeping at him. Chris had hung up.

John ended the call, scrolled down to the number in his call history, and hit redial. After two rings the answering machine clicked over.

He hit the end call button harder then was probably necessary and let the mobile fall into his lap.

"Client?" Sherlock's voice asked eagerly. John partially turned to see Sherlock standing just beyond the kitchen, poking his head out with the safety goggles still perched on top of his hair.

John shook his head and ran a hand over his face. "No, not a client. Just an old friend."

"Oh," Sherlock said, all of his eagerness disappeared. "Boring." He vanished back into the kitchen.

"Right," John said under his breath. He inhaled deeply and picked up the mobile again. Before he could think better of it John unlocked the screen and dialed Harry's number.

It rang three, four times (maybe Harry wasn't there, maybe she had gone somewhere, or maybe she was asleep), and finally five times before Harry picked up.

"John?" His sister greeted, sounding confused. "If you keep this up I might start thinking you actually like me."

"Of course I like you Harry," John said. "You're my sister."

Harry laughed at that like she actually found it funny. "Right. So why're you calling this time?"

No pleasantries again. "Do you remember Chris? Or Mark? From our old neighborhood?" John asked thickly, rubbing at his forehead. It seemed like the more he didn't want to talk about all of this the more it came up and haunted him.

"Of course I do," Harry answered a touch briskly. "What about them?"

"I just got a call from Chris. I hadn't heard from him since we moved away but just now he called to try and warn me. He thought we might be in danger." John explained, aware he was talking a little faster than he normally did. John took a steadying breath and waited for his sisters response.

"What did he mean ‘danger'?" Harry asked, surprisingly calm. "Everyone's in some kind of danger every day. Did he say exactly what danger?"

John replayed the brief conversation over again in his head. He grudgingly admitted, "Not really, no. Just we're in danger and not safe. And that ‘they're all back coming for us.'"

Harry sighed loudly in his ear. "Well that's not cryptic. And who are ‘they'? Why would anyone be after us? He doesn't sound like much help at all."

"Harry, I'm sure there are reasons people would be after us-"

"After you-" Harry interjected. "Who knows how many enemies you and that flat mate of yours have made with your cases. But I'm not any part of that."

Of course she'd never done anything. Though he was reminded of his disastrous first date with Sarah when she'd been kidnapped because Chinese smugglers mistook him for Sherlock. Sarah's life had been in danger because of him. They were friends now but John wouldn't soon forgive himself for that mistake. It was part of why he'd been careful not to involve Harry in any of their cases.

"Yeah, true," John conceded with a small nod. "You aren't part of our cases, but we've both done questionable things Harry. Even if they're not close to the mess when we were kids."

"Is that what you think this is?" Harry asked sounding extremely skeptical. "You think we're in danger from them? After all these years."

How stubborn a Watson could be when they believed they were in the right. "Yes, I think we could be. It's the only reason I can think of why someone would be targeting the four of us. And Chris and Mark sounded really scared Harry. Especially Chris; he was a little.. manic. He said people were following him."

Harry made a strange scoffing laugh. "And that surprises you? He was already a little… unhinged, even before everything. Nothing's going on John. They're locked away in prison and they've been there for decades. They can't touch us. We have nothing to worry about."

"As far as we know, Harry!" John snapped back at her. "We haven't heard anything about it in years. They could be anywhere and we wouldn't know. Maybe they are coming after us."

"Don't be ridiculous John. It's been too long," Harry argued, still not sounding nearly as worried as she should. "Listen," his sister said, "I've got to go. Be safe Johnny."

"Harry, wait-!" John shouted into the phone, but the beeping proclaimed she was already gone. She had better things to do than argue with him about whether or not they were in danger. Especially since it was unlikely they'd ever agree about it.

John exhaled slowly and tossed the mobile across the sofa. He closed his eyes and tried to think about something other then someone maybe coming to kill him.

"Another disagreement with your sister?" Sherlock commented from just over his shoulder. He must have been hovering over the back of the sofa again. "Really John, every time you talk with her you become more upset. It's not helping you any."

"Yes, thank you Sherlock," John snapped without opening his eyes and looking over at the man. "I don't need your commentary on my own sibling relationship."

"You obviously aren't listening anyway," Sherlock observed with a huff. He turned on his heel and strode back on long legs towards the kitchen. John glanced up in time to see Sherlock's hair disheveled from his running his fingers through it and the goggles perched on his hair.

Still playing the mad scientist then.

John tugged the remote for the television out from between the cushions and switched on the telly. He turned the volume up loud enough to drown out any persistent nagging thoughts but not so high he wouldn't be able to hear any explosions from the kitchen.

~

Later on while John was engrossed in the mindless program he was watching, Sherlock walked very quietly back into the sitting room and over to John. He reached over the back of the sofa and picked up the mobile where it lay forgotten on the other end from John.

Sherlock checked John was still focused on the program then retrieved his laptop from its precarious position on top of a stack of journals on the desk. Then he returned to the kitchen to research the number of John's ‘old friend.'

Things seemed to be quickly enfolding and Sherlock wanted to know everything. Even though John was so insistent on keeping him out of it for some reason; probably for his own safety. But Sherlock refused to let that happen. He didn't like not knowing things, especially when it came to John. John was just too stubborn that he wanted to do everything on his own first. Sherlock simply had to find a way to convince John it would be better for them to work together.