Case of the Chiropractor, Oneshot
Series: Sherlock (BBC, 2010, TV)
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Gregory Lestrade
Couple: Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Lestrade
Title: Love With The Holmes Brothers: Case of the Chiropractor
Word Count: 4,639
Chapter: 2/?
Status: Incomplete
Rating: R/Mature (For possible later chapters)
Disclaimer: Sherlock is owned by BBC and whoever else is on a list of errata that probably is longer than I am tall. I have no claim on it.
Main Summary: A long series of oneshot vignettes in the Treatment series about Sherlock and John, and Mycroft and Lestrade.
Chapter Summary: Sherlock sulks in jealousy; Mycroft threatens.
“You’re angry with me.”
“Absolutely spot-on deduction,” John growled as he slammed the door behind him. He couldn’t quite look at Sherlock right then. They had just gone through this with Greg and Mycroft, hadn’t Sherlock learned anything about that discussion?
“Now what?”
He whirled and took a deep breath to calm himself. He could yell at Sherlock and he knew the man could take it. He wasn’t overly sensitive, but there was a line he couldn’t cross and it wouldn’t be terribly difficult to cross it once he got going. “Are you seriously going to tell me you don’t get why I’m annoyed?”
“John, he was flirting with you.”
“Sherlock, he was sixty and asking where Bouverie street was. He wasn’t flirting!”
“That’s what you think. Don’t be so naïve. No one goes to Bouverie anymore.”
“How do you know that?!”
“Nobody reads physical newspapers anymore.”
“I do!”
“You’re the exception. Everyone reads it online now.”
He had to hold himself in from screaming and instead took a deep breath. “Didn’t we just go through this with Mycroft and Greg? You know, the possessive behavior?”
“I don’t see how that’s related to this. I’m not being possessive, he was flirting with you. I merely informed him of the fact that we were dating.”
“You told him that I belonged to you!”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow as if to say, ‘So?’
“Look, let’s leave the whole ‘flirting’ thing aside, because he wasn’t, for a second. You don’t give me enough credit! I’m not going to up and leave you and I don’t need your protection!”
“When have I given you the impression that I don’t trust you, exactly?”
“Do you really want me to go down that list?”
Not surprisingly figuring out his thoughts, Sherlock sighed in annoyance. “What you’re thinking of is not a lack of trust, but-”
“If you’re about to say a lack of intelligence, I will hit you. Hard.”
Sherlock threw up his hands and glared. “If you don’t want to let me be part of this conversation, then have it your way.” The man threw off his coat and stalked into the kitchen.
John followed. “Don’t just walk away, we’re talking here and it’s important!” But his partner wouldn’t look at him or speak to him, instead staring into the microscope at something that might not even be there. “Sherlock!” Still no response. “Fine, pout! Very mature.”
The doctor felt embarrassed about his reaction about half an hour later. Looking back on it, when he wasn’t so annoyed at the wording Sherlock had chosen, he thought it was really quite funny. The man’s face had been priceless and he assumed that his had been as well. It didn’t change the fact that his lover had been wrong to assume that he had been flirting, but it could be an honest mistake. Their relationship as boyfriends was quite new and he knew that Sherlock had never dated anyone before. In a way, he thought he felt a bit honored that Sherlock would think someone was flirting with him, that anyone would be interested in him that way.
He had honestly expected Sherlock to calm down in an hour or two, but the man still wouldn’t look at him or speak to him by dinner. He tried making the detective’s favorite food, but it had no effect. When he tried to kiss him, Sherlock moved his head away. Nothing for it, then. “Sherlock, I’m sorry.”
The apology got eyes flickering in his direction, but that was all. John frowned in annoyance. Was Sherlock actually going to continue pouting? After he’d apologized? Trying one more time, he said, “What exactly are you upset about?”
No answer was forthcoming and he rubbed his face, biting his lip to prevent himself from yelling in frustration. Obviously he couldn’t do anything right that night and rather than make it worse, he needed a place where he could cool off. So he turned, grabbed his phone and his jacket, and just left without a backward glance.
The back of his neck itched and he knew that Sherlock was watching him from the window as he got into the cab he’d hailed and gave his directions to. Maybe if he had some space, he could figure out which part of what he said had hit too hard.
It wasn’t a long trip to where he was going and he jogged out and up to the small loft that was his target. He hit the doorbell once and then twice, shivering in the cool of the early winter night. Finally, the door was flung open. “I said cut it out-John?”
He smiled with a resigned sigh. “Hey, Greg. Need to crash on your sofa for tonight. You mind?”
“No, but…”
“Clearly he and my brother have had a falling out at the moment,” a man said, his voice wafting from the inner recesses of the apartment.
Of course Mycroft would be there, Because why wouldn’t he, with John’s luck? “I can find another place-”
“No, come on in, you can stay.”
He stepped in, shrugging off his coat in the entryway and hanging it on a peg. Greg led him into the small living room. Mycroft had shed his jacket and tie, sleeves had been rolled up, and he was currently sitting on one end of the sofa as if it was a high-back chair that had ancient history attached to it. “So everything got…worked out with you?”
“Sort of,” Greg replied, disappearing into the kitchen and returning with a beer. “He knows why I was upset. We’ll see if something will come of it next time he has an irrational bout of jealousy.” John glanced at Mycroft quickly, who was sitting right there, and back and Greg just shrugged. “Trust me, I’ve been through all this with him. If he’s still upset with me, nothing else I can do about it. Now, what happened with you and Sherlock? Did he…”
“Of course my brother wouldn’t kick him out,” Mycroft told him, bracing his hand on his chin and his gaze flittered over John, probably taking in so minute in details he felt naked. “Knowing our dear doctor here, I’m sure they argued over our penchant for being…over-bearing. I have been informed that while our partners must have some patience with certain personality features of ours, that does not mean that we don’t have to ‘act like a damn human being and control ourselves’, I believe is the delightful way Gregory explained it.”
Greg flushed and shrugged helplessly at his choice of wording. “I was angry.”
“I was hoping to borrow the couch tonight to cool off and let Sherlock calm down, but if you’re busy tonight…”
Mycroft shook his hand regally, dismissing his politeness with the same elegant high-handedness he did everything else. “You’re not interrupting. It isn’t as if I don’t have plenty of work to do.”
“Actually…”
His words paused the tall man that was about to stand and an eyebrow quirked in his direction with a silent ‘Yes?’
The truth was, most of the time, he thought he knew Sherlock so well, probably better than anyone and often had no need to ask anyone. Who else was the man even vaguely close to? Yet he found himself at a loss as to what explained the man’s behavior. What had he said that was so wrong? In fact, how was he wrong at all with arguing about the possessive behavior?
John hadn’t the slightest clue so he asked the one person that might know more than him. “I don’t really know what I said that would upset him. I’ve said a lot of things to Sherlock and he’s never gotten this angry before.”
As he relayed what he had said, one of Mycroft’s eyebrows rose. “Well, isn’t he being childish.”
“Why is he upset?”
“Oh, I haven’t the faintest idea. He’s like a child in all respects.”
“But I apologized!” he growled, flopping down in a chair. “And I was right despite apologizing!”
“Wish we could help, mate, but Sherlock is…well, Sherlock,” Greg added with a shrug.
Mycroft stood up then and began to roll down his sleeves. “I will leave you then to unravel the mysteries of my brother.”
“Just one thing,” Greg said, reaching out and grabbing the man’s tie, tugging him down and kissing him with a deep passion. John looked away quickly to give them their private moment, deliberately humming under his breath so he didn’t overhear their whispered words. By the time he looked back, Mycroft had gone.
“So…another beer?”
John looked at his almost-empty beer bottle. “…Why not.”
-0-
“Go away.”
Mycroft ignored the petulant statement from bundle on the sofa. He had, of course, fixed his clothing before leaving the detective’s house and a stab of curiosity had prompted him to detour to his brother’s flat to find out just what was causing the man’s fit.
Taking him in, his eyebrow rose. “What has got you so upset now?” Deciding to pretend he knew nothing, Mycroft looked around the apartment from the doorway. “Where is John?”
“Probably at Lestrade’s by this point and you’ve clearly just come from there, so there’s no need to lie.”
He sighed in annoyance and came in, sitting down deliberately in John’s chair. Sherlock refused to face him, showing him his back. “He is, apparently, going to be staying the night there.” That was a definite twitch, something he noticed though likely no one else would. “If you hadn’t refused to speak to him, he most likely wouldn’t be there now.”
“And you would have tied Lestrade to the bed by that point. Has John ruined all your fun?”
“The doctor didn’t ruin any ‘fun’ at all. I was just curious as to the reason you were pouting like a child.” Finally, Sherlock flopped on his back to glower balefully at him. “Why did you refuse to speak to him?” Not surprisingly, at least to him, his brother shrugged. “So you upset him for nothing?”
“He was being preachy. And wrong.”
“I don’t doubt that, the good doctor is very good at speeches and righteous indignation, but I assume you would like to have sex ever again? Perhaps even dare to be in the same room as him again?”
“Of course.”
“Then I would suggest that when he comes home tomorrow that you use any and all in your power to apologize to him and perhaps he will take you back.”
“John would always take me back.”
He sighed. “Has it ever occurred to you, Sherlock, that you take much for granted? You don’t seem to realize you came very close to losing him during your absence. There was a woman named Mary that he had been growing close to. Had you waited on your return, you may not have come even close to this point. He may not always wait for you.”
Though his brother pretended he didn’t hear him, Mycroft knew his words were sinking in. His job done, he stood up, twirling his umbrella, and decided to head home. That was enough payback for Sherlock ruining his evening. After all, it was Sherlock’s fault that John had left their flat to start with.
-0-
The sofa at Greg’s place was probably the most uncomfortable thing he had ever had the misfortune to sleep on and he included Afghanistan in that. John slipped off the brutal furniture that felt like someone had randomly placed rocks in the cushions and headed out before the detective was even awake. The snores of his friend seemed to follow him on his way out.
It was still dark, the sun not having quite gotten out of bed yet, and he took the opportunity to walk in the quiet back to his flat. He…missed Sherlock. Damn him, but he missed him, temperamental and all. He had overreacted the day before. Right as he might have been, there had been a better way of approaching it and he knew that. Sherlock hated it when he thought someone was telling him what to do and how to feel, or how to act.
Sighing, he unlocked the door and paused at the base of the stairs. He had expected to hear violin music maybe, but there was nothing. Shaking his head at himself and how much he had fallen so helplessly in love, John quietly ascended the stairs. Last thing he wanted was to disturb his landlady and have her hovering over them when they were trying to have a conversation about their relationship.
The door was unlocked and wide open when he reached the landing and he frowned in concern, but all he saw was the usual controlled chaos. He slipped off his jacket, not paying any attention to what he was doing. Where was Sherlock? He wasn’t on the sofa nor was he by the window. He didn’t see him in the kitchen.
In the quiet he heard the shower and relaxed. Sherlock was still here. It was a stupid fear, where else would Sherlock be? This was his home. Shaking his head at himself, he headed through the kitchen and was fully intending on talking to his boyfriend when he paused at an open manila folder on the table. Wait…he knew that man.
He snatched it up, not even registering the ceasing of the shower. This couldn’t be true. Joe would never do any of that. He was a doctor, he could never…!
“…I see you found it.”
“Sherlock, what is this?”
“An old case of Lestrade’s. It’s been unsolved for years.” There was a pause. “You know him.”
“Yes, I know him. I work with him. What is he doing in here?!”
“If you read the case file, you’d know that he was their prime suspect, but they couldn’t prove it. The victim was his cousin.”
John quickly flipped through the paperwork, skimming it. This would have happened…fifteen years ago. Joe would have just been starting out, if that. It wasn’t…inconceivable, but he couldn’t believe that of his friend. “Is he guilty?” he asked. Sherlock was always right when it counted. If he thought he was guilty, then he probably was. Finally, he looked up at his boyfriend, almost willing him to say no. There were dark circles under his eyes and he recognized that face. Sherlock hadn’t slept at all last night. He’d probably been working on the case the entire time.
Sherlock turned without saying anything, heading to their bedroom, and John forced himself to wait there. He feared if he followed, he might just shake the answer out of the detective. When Sherlock returned, he was dressed and he answered as if he there hadn’t been a break in the conversation. “Yes.”
His stomach sank to his feet at hearing that single word. “You’re going to find him, aren’t you?”
“Well I did consider calling Lestrade first.”
“I’m going with you.”
His boyfriend blinked at him. “Of course.”
The two words were so simple, as if Sherlock couldn’t figure out why he wouldn’t be going with him. Whatever had been his boyfriend’s glitch was long gone, thanks to the case. He should have been happy that things were all right between them, but he wasn’t. Joe had been his friend since he’d come home from the war and had been hired. He’d been the only one that didn’t look at him strange after Sherlock’s ‘death’ when his reputation had still been in shambles.
Yet no matter what, if Joe had done this, had killed his cousin, then he had to be brought to justice. John grabbed his jacket and quickly followed after Sherlock. The sun would be up in an hour. “Why not wait until he was at work and have Lestrade arrest him then?” he asked, hoping to get a word in with his friend before his world came crashing down.
“He won’t be there. He bought a plane ticket last night for Switzerland and it leaves in two hours.”
So he was running. “How did he even know to buy one?”
Sherlock frowned. “He saw me when I was following him.”
That was one of the downsides to Sherlock’s ‘fame’, as it were. He was so well-known now, his face so recognizable, that if you spotted him following you and you had something to hide, it was a good bet that you’d end up in jail. “Where are we going?”
“His apartment building.”
They rounded the corner and John hadn’t realized that his friend had lived so close to them that they could get there in twenty minutes by walking. Joe wasn’t married, how could he afford… “He did it for the money, didn’t he?”
“His cousin had a life-insurance policy for a million pounds and he was the beneficiary. He was sick, would have died of leukemia in months, but he had recently found out that he’d had a child. His cousin was going to change his will.”
“And Joe wouldn’t get anything.” So he had killed him before he could. “How?”
“He faked a car accident on the way to his chemotherapy.”
John felt himself getting sicker to his stomach by the minute. He had wanted to believe that it was manslaughter, perhaps, something done by accident…but it had been intentional, for money.
As they approached the door to the apartment building, it opened and Joe saw them. He had two suitcases in his hands, with a heavy coat on, and a look of panic crossed his face. He glanced at the street, maybe he had called a cab that hadn’t arrived yet, but nothing was there.
“Joe!” he called, hoping, though not expecting, he could get his friend to just turn himself in.
Instead, Joe dropped his suitcases and turned, running back into the apartment. Sherlock sprinted forward, getting to it before it closed and John raced after him. They pounded up the stairs with no thought to being quiet and burst onto the roof. “Joe?” he called as Sherlock quietly slunk around the edge, looking for him. “You need to turn yourself in, you can’t get away with it anymore.” Hearing no response, he asked, “Why did you need the money so badly?”
John went the opposite way Sherlock did. There were no lower roofs nearby that he could jump to and he didn’t think his colleague could make it back to the door while avoiding them. Which meant he was still up there somewhere. “Joe-”
He felt something slam into his back and he stumbled forward, barely managing to keep on his feet. Before he could get his balance under him, he was spun around and hands were gripping the front of his jacket, pushing him, and he felt the edge of the roof under his heels. “I didn’t have a choice!” Joe hissed. “I couldn’t have paid tuition any other way!”
“Don’t make it worse, you can’t get away at this point! You won’t make it to the airport in time at this rate.”
“…I can always get another ticket. I just have to make sure I can’t be found.”
Feeling a sense of dread, John asked, “What are you talking about, Joe?”
“He can’t find me if he’s too busy mourning you. …I’m so sorry, John.”
He tried to avoid the push, to fall to the side and not off the roof, but all he ended up doing was pulling Joe with him. He heard a yell, thought it was his name, but Joe’s cry was too loud in his ears to be sure. John couldn’t see anything to stop his fall, the old building hadn’t been retrofitted with a railing, and he was going to-
His fall was suddenly stopped by a tight grip on his ankle and his back slammed against the side of the building. He tried to reach out, to grab Joe, but his fingers only managed to skim his jacket instead of his hand. There was just the sound of a thump from below and he closed his eyes, not wanting to see the impact of his friend hitting the street. Looking up from where he had fallen, he saw Sherlock’s face, white with the effort to hold him up. He patted his pockets, looking for his cell. “Shit, Sherlock, is my phone up there?!”
Before his lover could answer, there was a comment from below him. “Sherlock, if you ever get me out of bed again after all you’ve put me through, I’ll make you go with Mummy to the opera!”
Looking below him, he spotted Mycroft. Anthea was next to him, draping a blanket over Joe’s broken body. A phone was in Mycroft’s hand and as he stared, he heard the sound of sirens getting louder. “I thought you didn’t call Lestrade,” he grunted.
“I didn’t. I called Mycroft. He’d at least be quiet about arriving,” Sherlock grunted and John felt more than one pair of hands hauling him up the roof.
He could only assume that the people that helped Sherlock haul him back up to the roof were Mycroft’s. It was hard to tell in the darkness and he squinted a bit as the blood that had rushed to his head went back down, but before he could really make out their faces, he felt Sherlock’s arms wrap around him tightly. John grunted a bit and squirmed, but there was no prying Sherlock off. Instead, he was dragged back down the stairs, past the stunned eyes of the other apartment tenants, and onto the sidewalk.
Lestrade, who looked as if he was only half-dressed when he ran out of his apartment, was just getting out of his car. “Sherlock, what the hell-”
“I just solved one of your cold cases, now it’s your turn to do the clean-up. We’re going home.”
“Oh no you’re not, not until I get some answers! First, how did you get your hands on the case to start with?!”
But Sherlock wasn’t paying any attention. Instead, he snagged Lestrade’s keys out of his hand and all but threw John into the passenger seat. “Do you even know how to drive?” he asked as Sherlock hurried around to the driver’s seat, slamming the car door just as Lestrade reached it.
“Of course.”
“Uh huh.”
If what Sherlock did was called driving, John had been doing it wrong the whole time, he thought. Sherlock apparently thought brakes were for other people. Thankfully it was a short drive and he wasn’t even sure why they were in the car to start with. They’d walked to Joe’s apartment…
The memory of what happened hit John and he gritted his teeth to keep it together. They’d been friends for four years, had been a place of healing when Sherlock had been gone. He didn’t think that friendship had been a lie, but it was hard to place his friend in the same body as the one that had murdered his cousin for money, no matter the reason.
Their landlady was standing at the base of the stairs, clutching her robe closed. “Sherlock, what’s going-”
“Not now, Mrs. Hudson,” the detective interrupted, following after John like a bodyguard. Once they were inside their flat, Sherlock slipped off John’s coat. He nodded in thanks, kicking off his shoes and letting them land wherever they would. It was about to turn into morning and yet all John wanted to do was sleep. Did he have work? He couldn’t remember all of a sudden.
Sherlock wrapped his arms around him from behind and John sighed, leaning back just a little. Oh, yeah, they’d had a fight, hadn’t they? It had only been yesterday and less than an hour of his time, he had forgotten about all of it. It seemed even stupider as he wondered if they hadn’t had that argument, he would have been here during the case and maybe been able to talk Joe into…something. Maybe the ending wouldn’t have involved his death.
“You don’t know that,” Sherlock told him.
“Reading my mind now, Sherlock?” he asked, stepping away from his lover to go get changed for work, but hands pulled him back until they were both on the sofa.
“He tried to kill you, John. At no point was he prepared to surrender.”
He wanted to believe Sherlock badly, because if the detective was wrong, it meant this outcome was his fault. “I have to get ready for work,” he muttered, but Sherlock’s hand on his arm tightened just a bit.
“Don’t go today.”
“I have to.”
There was an odd look in his boyfriend’s eyes as he stared at him and admitted, “I already informed them you wouldn’t be coming in today.”
John couldn’t find it in him to be angry or annoyed that Sherlock had called in for him, probably last night, without even asking. He felt tears press against his eyes and he closed them, taking deep breaths so he wouldn’t cry. Despite his best effort, a few slipped out anyway.
-0-
He woke rather abruptly. When had he fallen asleep? Looking around, he noted that he was in their bedroom, the lights were off, and it looked to be late afternoon, from what he could tell of the light around the closed blinds. His clothes had been changed to just a t-shirt and shorts. Rubbing his gritty eyes, John grabbed the first robe that came to hand and left the room to find Sherlock.
His boyfriend was pacing in the den, a phone plastered to his ear. Despite how badly John wanted to know when he’d fallen asleep, he politely attempted to wait until Sherlock was done. It took only seconds for the detective to see him and whoever he was speaking to was unceremoniously hung up on as he ended the call. His eyebrow rose and he grinned. “Missed me that much, John?”
“What?” Sherlock’s eyes flickered from his face and to his chest, and John followed his gaze. The robe he had grabbed had turned out to be his boyfriend’s and he felt a faint flush go up his cheeks. “It was closest to the bed, that’s all. When did I fall asleep?”
“A few hours ago.”
“What about…the case?”
“Lestrade is finishing it up. It’s done.”
“And his family? Have they been told?”
“I would assume so. Isn’t that their job?”
John thought of Lisa, Joe’s sister. He hadn’t been on good terms with his family, hadn’t spoken to any of them for years, but he had always told John stories of his younger sister when they’d been children. He hoped someone would call her, at least, to let her know. “I should check with Greg, make sure someone’s been called.”
“They’re handling it, John.”
He could hear the implied ‘so leave it’ and while he was tempted to argue, he didn’t. Even if he did call her, what could he say? ‘I was his friend and it’s my fault he’s dead’?
“It isn’t your fault.”
Deciding not to comment on that, John said instead, “Have you eaten yet?”
“…No.”
“Then I’ll make dinner tonight.”
As he turned to head back into the kitchen, Sherlock said behind him, “I’m here, John.”
A faint smile touched his lips. No matter how they might argue, no matter if Sherlock saw flirting where there was none or he was possessive, this was what counted. The man wasn’t asking him to confide, but he was there if he needed to talk. He might not understand what John would say, but he would at least be there to listen in his own way. He’d try.
“I know. I’m so-”
Lips touched his neck as Sherlock crossed the distance so quickly it was like he teleported there. “No more apologies, John.”
Right.
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Gregory Lestrade
Couple: Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Lestrade
Title: Love With The Holmes Brothers: Case of the Chiropractor
Word Count: 4,639
Chapter: 2/?
Status: Incomplete
Rating: R/Mature (For possible later chapters)
Disclaimer: Sherlock is owned by BBC and whoever else is on a list of errata that probably is longer than I am tall. I have no claim on it.
Main Summary: A long series of oneshot vignettes in the Treatment series about Sherlock and John, and Mycroft and Lestrade.
Chapter Summary: Sherlock sulks in jealousy; Mycroft threatens.
“You’re angry with me.”
“Absolutely spot-on deduction,” John growled as he slammed the door behind him. He couldn’t quite look at Sherlock right then. They had just gone through this with Greg and Mycroft, hadn’t Sherlock learned anything about that discussion?
“Now what?”
He whirled and took a deep breath to calm himself. He could yell at Sherlock and he knew the man could take it. He wasn’t overly sensitive, but there was a line he couldn’t cross and it wouldn’t be terribly difficult to cross it once he got going. “Are you seriously going to tell me you don’t get why I’m annoyed?”
“John, he was flirting with you.”
“Sherlock, he was sixty and asking where Bouverie street was. He wasn’t flirting!”
“That’s what you think. Don’t be so naïve. No one goes to Bouverie anymore.”
“How do you know that?!”
“Nobody reads physical newspapers anymore.”
“I do!”
“You’re the exception. Everyone reads it online now.”
He had to hold himself in from screaming and instead took a deep breath. “Didn’t we just go through this with Mycroft and Greg? You know, the possessive behavior?”
“I don’t see how that’s related to this. I’m not being possessive, he was flirting with you. I merely informed him of the fact that we were dating.”
“You told him that I belonged to you!”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow as if to say, ‘So?’
“Look, let’s leave the whole ‘flirting’ thing aside, because he wasn’t, for a second. You don’t give me enough credit! I’m not going to up and leave you and I don’t need your protection!”
“When have I given you the impression that I don’t trust you, exactly?”
“Do you really want me to go down that list?”
Not surprisingly figuring out his thoughts, Sherlock sighed in annoyance. “What you’re thinking of is not a lack of trust, but-”
“If you’re about to say a lack of intelligence, I will hit you. Hard.”
Sherlock threw up his hands and glared. “If you don’t want to let me be part of this conversation, then have it your way.” The man threw off his coat and stalked into the kitchen.
John followed. “Don’t just walk away, we’re talking here and it’s important!” But his partner wouldn’t look at him or speak to him, instead staring into the microscope at something that might not even be there. “Sherlock!” Still no response. “Fine, pout! Very mature.”
The doctor felt embarrassed about his reaction about half an hour later. Looking back on it, when he wasn’t so annoyed at the wording Sherlock had chosen, he thought it was really quite funny. The man’s face had been priceless and he assumed that his had been as well. It didn’t change the fact that his lover had been wrong to assume that he had been flirting, but it could be an honest mistake. Their relationship as boyfriends was quite new and he knew that Sherlock had never dated anyone before. In a way, he thought he felt a bit honored that Sherlock would think someone was flirting with him, that anyone would be interested in him that way.
He had honestly expected Sherlock to calm down in an hour or two, but the man still wouldn’t look at him or speak to him by dinner. He tried making the detective’s favorite food, but it had no effect. When he tried to kiss him, Sherlock moved his head away. Nothing for it, then. “Sherlock, I’m sorry.”
The apology got eyes flickering in his direction, but that was all. John frowned in annoyance. Was Sherlock actually going to continue pouting? After he’d apologized? Trying one more time, he said, “What exactly are you upset about?”
No answer was forthcoming and he rubbed his face, biting his lip to prevent himself from yelling in frustration. Obviously he couldn’t do anything right that night and rather than make it worse, he needed a place where he could cool off. So he turned, grabbed his phone and his jacket, and just left without a backward glance.
The back of his neck itched and he knew that Sherlock was watching him from the window as he got into the cab he’d hailed and gave his directions to. Maybe if he had some space, he could figure out which part of what he said had hit too hard.
It wasn’t a long trip to where he was going and he jogged out and up to the small loft that was his target. He hit the doorbell once and then twice, shivering in the cool of the early winter night. Finally, the door was flung open. “I said cut it out-John?”
He smiled with a resigned sigh. “Hey, Greg. Need to crash on your sofa for tonight. You mind?”
“No, but…”
“Clearly he and my brother have had a falling out at the moment,” a man said, his voice wafting from the inner recesses of the apartment.
Of course Mycroft would be there, Because why wouldn’t he, with John’s luck? “I can find another place-”
“No, come on in, you can stay.”
He stepped in, shrugging off his coat in the entryway and hanging it on a peg. Greg led him into the small living room. Mycroft had shed his jacket and tie, sleeves had been rolled up, and he was currently sitting on one end of the sofa as if it was a high-back chair that had ancient history attached to it. “So everything got…worked out with you?”
“Sort of,” Greg replied, disappearing into the kitchen and returning with a beer. “He knows why I was upset. We’ll see if something will come of it next time he has an irrational bout of jealousy.” John glanced at Mycroft quickly, who was sitting right there, and back and Greg just shrugged. “Trust me, I’ve been through all this with him. If he’s still upset with me, nothing else I can do about it. Now, what happened with you and Sherlock? Did he…”
“Of course my brother wouldn’t kick him out,” Mycroft told him, bracing his hand on his chin and his gaze flittered over John, probably taking in so minute in details he felt naked. “Knowing our dear doctor here, I’m sure they argued over our penchant for being…over-bearing. I have been informed that while our partners must have some patience with certain personality features of ours, that does not mean that we don’t have to ‘act like a damn human being and control ourselves’, I believe is the delightful way Gregory explained it.”
Greg flushed and shrugged helplessly at his choice of wording. “I was angry.”
“I was hoping to borrow the couch tonight to cool off and let Sherlock calm down, but if you’re busy tonight…”
Mycroft shook his hand regally, dismissing his politeness with the same elegant high-handedness he did everything else. “You’re not interrupting. It isn’t as if I don’t have plenty of work to do.”
“Actually…”
His words paused the tall man that was about to stand and an eyebrow quirked in his direction with a silent ‘Yes?’
The truth was, most of the time, he thought he knew Sherlock so well, probably better than anyone and often had no need to ask anyone. Who else was the man even vaguely close to? Yet he found himself at a loss as to what explained the man’s behavior. What had he said that was so wrong? In fact, how was he wrong at all with arguing about the possessive behavior?
John hadn’t the slightest clue so he asked the one person that might know more than him. “I don’t really know what I said that would upset him. I’ve said a lot of things to Sherlock and he’s never gotten this angry before.”
As he relayed what he had said, one of Mycroft’s eyebrows rose. “Well, isn’t he being childish.”
“Why is he upset?”
“Oh, I haven’t the faintest idea. He’s like a child in all respects.”
“But I apologized!” he growled, flopping down in a chair. “And I was right despite apologizing!”
“Wish we could help, mate, but Sherlock is…well, Sherlock,” Greg added with a shrug.
Mycroft stood up then and began to roll down his sleeves. “I will leave you then to unravel the mysteries of my brother.”
“Just one thing,” Greg said, reaching out and grabbing the man’s tie, tugging him down and kissing him with a deep passion. John looked away quickly to give them their private moment, deliberately humming under his breath so he didn’t overhear their whispered words. By the time he looked back, Mycroft had gone.
“So…another beer?”
John looked at his almost-empty beer bottle. “…Why not.”
-0-
“Go away.”
Mycroft ignored the petulant statement from bundle on the sofa. He had, of course, fixed his clothing before leaving the detective’s house and a stab of curiosity had prompted him to detour to his brother’s flat to find out just what was causing the man’s fit.
Taking him in, his eyebrow rose. “What has got you so upset now?” Deciding to pretend he knew nothing, Mycroft looked around the apartment from the doorway. “Where is John?”
“Probably at Lestrade’s by this point and you’ve clearly just come from there, so there’s no need to lie.”
He sighed in annoyance and came in, sitting down deliberately in John’s chair. Sherlock refused to face him, showing him his back. “He is, apparently, going to be staying the night there.” That was a definite twitch, something he noticed though likely no one else would. “If you hadn’t refused to speak to him, he most likely wouldn’t be there now.”
“And you would have tied Lestrade to the bed by that point. Has John ruined all your fun?”
“The doctor didn’t ruin any ‘fun’ at all. I was just curious as to the reason you were pouting like a child.” Finally, Sherlock flopped on his back to glower balefully at him. “Why did you refuse to speak to him?” Not surprisingly, at least to him, his brother shrugged. “So you upset him for nothing?”
“He was being preachy. And wrong.”
“I don’t doubt that, the good doctor is very good at speeches and righteous indignation, but I assume you would like to have sex ever again? Perhaps even dare to be in the same room as him again?”
“Of course.”
“Then I would suggest that when he comes home tomorrow that you use any and all in your power to apologize to him and perhaps he will take you back.”
“John would always take me back.”
He sighed. “Has it ever occurred to you, Sherlock, that you take much for granted? You don’t seem to realize you came very close to losing him during your absence. There was a woman named Mary that he had been growing close to. Had you waited on your return, you may not have come even close to this point. He may not always wait for you.”
Though his brother pretended he didn’t hear him, Mycroft knew his words were sinking in. His job done, he stood up, twirling his umbrella, and decided to head home. That was enough payback for Sherlock ruining his evening. After all, it was Sherlock’s fault that John had left their flat to start with.
-0-
The sofa at Greg’s place was probably the most uncomfortable thing he had ever had the misfortune to sleep on and he included Afghanistan in that. John slipped off the brutal furniture that felt like someone had randomly placed rocks in the cushions and headed out before the detective was even awake. The snores of his friend seemed to follow him on his way out.
It was still dark, the sun not having quite gotten out of bed yet, and he took the opportunity to walk in the quiet back to his flat. He…missed Sherlock. Damn him, but he missed him, temperamental and all. He had overreacted the day before. Right as he might have been, there had been a better way of approaching it and he knew that. Sherlock hated it when he thought someone was telling him what to do and how to feel, or how to act.
Sighing, he unlocked the door and paused at the base of the stairs. He had expected to hear violin music maybe, but there was nothing. Shaking his head at himself and how much he had fallen so helplessly in love, John quietly ascended the stairs. Last thing he wanted was to disturb his landlady and have her hovering over them when they were trying to have a conversation about their relationship.
The door was unlocked and wide open when he reached the landing and he frowned in concern, but all he saw was the usual controlled chaos. He slipped off his jacket, not paying any attention to what he was doing. Where was Sherlock? He wasn’t on the sofa nor was he by the window. He didn’t see him in the kitchen.
In the quiet he heard the shower and relaxed. Sherlock was still here. It was a stupid fear, where else would Sherlock be? This was his home. Shaking his head at himself, he headed through the kitchen and was fully intending on talking to his boyfriend when he paused at an open manila folder on the table. Wait…he knew that man.
He snatched it up, not even registering the ceasing of the shower. This couldn’t be true. Joe would never do any of that. He was a doctor, he could never…!
“…I see you found it.”
“Sherlock, what is this?”
“An old case of Lestrade’s. It’s been unsolved for years.” There was a pause. “You know him.”
“Yes, I know him. I work with him. What is he doing in here?!”
“If you read the case file, you’d know that he was their prime suspect, but they couldn’t prove it. The victim was his cousin.”
John quickly flipped through the paperwork, skimming it. This would have happened…fifteen years ago. Joe would have just been starting out, if that. It wasn’t…inconceivable, but he couldn’t believe that of his friend. “Is he guilty?” he asked. Sherlock was always right when it counted. If he thought he was guilty, then he probably was. Finally, he looked up at his boyfriend, almost willing him to say no. There were dark circles under his eyes and he recognized that face. Sherlock hadn’t slept at all last night. He’d probably been working on the case the entire time.
Sherlock turned without saying anything, heading to their bedroom, and John forced himself to wait there. He feared if he followed, he might just shake the answer out of the detective. When Sherlock returned, he was dressed and he answered as if he there hadn’t been a break in the conversation. “Yes.”
His stomach sank to his feet at hearing that single word. “You’re going to find him, aren’t you?”
“Well I did consider calling Lestrade first.”
“I’m going with you.”
His boyfriend blinked at him. “Of course.”
The two words were so simple, as if Sherlock couldn’t figure out why he wouldn’t be going with him. Whatever had been his boyfriend’s glitch was long gone, thanks to the case. He should have been happy that things were all right between them, but he wasn’t. Joe had been his friend since he’d come home from the war and had been hired. He’d been the only one that didn’t look at him strange after Sherlock’s ‘death’ when his reputation had still been in shambles.
Yet no matter what, if Joe had done this, had killed his cousin, then he had to be brought to justice. John grabbed his jacket and quickly followed after Sherlock. The sun would be up in an hour. “Why not wait until he was at work and have Lestrade arrest him then?” he asked, hoping to get a word in with his friend before his world came crashing down.
“He won’t be there. He bought a plane ticket last night for Switzerland and it leaves in two hours.”
So he was running. “How did he even know to buy one?”
Sherlock frowned. “He saw me when I was following him.”
That was one of the downsides to Sherlock’s ‘fame’, as it were. He was so well-known now, his face so recognizable, that if you spotted him following you and you had something to hide, it was a good bet that you’d end up in jail. “Where are we going?”
“His apartment building.”
They rounded the corner and John hadn’t realized that his friend had lived so close to them that they could get there in twenty minutes by walking. Joe wasn’t married, how could he afford… “He did it for the money, didn’t he?”
“His cousin had a life-insurance policy for a million pounds and he was the beneficiary. He was sick, would have died of leukemia in months, but he had recently found out that he’d had a child. His cousin was going to change his will.”
“And Joe wouldn’t get anything.” So he had killed him before he could. “How?”
“He faked a car accident on the way to his chemotherapy.”
John felt himself getting sicker to his stomach by the minute. He had wanted to believe that it was manslaughter, perhaps, something done by accident…but it had been intentional, for money.
As they approached the door to the apartment building, it opened and Joe saw them. He had two suitcases in his hands, with a heavy coat on, and a look of panic crossed his face. He glanced at the street, maybe he had called a cab that hadn’t arrived yet, but nothing was there.
“Joe!” he called, hoping, though not expecting, he could get his friend to just turn himself in.
Instead, Joe dropped his suitcases and turned, running back into the apartment. Sherlock sprinted forward, getting to it before it closed and John raced after him. They pounded up the stairs with no thought to being quiet and burst onto the roof. “Joe?” he called as Sherlock quietly slunk around the edge, looking for him. “You need to turn yourself in, you can’t get away with it anymore.” Hearing no response, he asked, “Why did you need the money so badly?”
John went the opposite way Sherlock did. There were no lower roofs nearby that he could jump to and he didn’t think his colleague could make it back to the door while avoiding them. Which meant he was still up there somewhere. “Joe-”
He felt something slam into his back and he stumbled forward, barely managing to keep on his feet. Before he could get his balance under him, he was spun around and hands were gripping the front of his jacket, pushing him, and he felt the edge of the roof under his heels. “I didn’t have a choice!” Joe hissed. “I couldn’t have paid tuition any other way!”
“Don’t make it worse, you can’t get away at this point! You won’t make it to the airport in time at this rate.”
“…I can always get another ticket. I just have to make sure I can’t be found.”
Feeling a sense of dread, John asked, “What are you talking about, Joe?”
“He can’t find me if he’s too busy mourning you. …I’m so sorry, John.”
He tried to avoid the push, to fall to the side and not off the roof, but all he ended up doing was pulling Joe with him. He heard a yell, thought it was his name, but Joe’s cry was too loud in his ears to be sure. John couldn’t see anything to stop his fall, the old building hadn’t been retrofitted with a railing, and he was going to-
His fall was suddenly stopped by a tight grip on his ankle and his back slammed against the side of the building. He tried to reach out, to grab Joe, but his fingers only managed to skim his jacket instead of his hand. There was just the sound of a thump from below and he closed his eyes, not wanting to see the impact of his friend hitting the street. Looking up from where he had fallen, he saw Sherlock’s face, white with the effort to hold him up. He patted his pockets, looking for his cell. “Shit, Sherlock, is my phone up there?!”
Before his lover could answer, there was a comment from below him. “Sherlock, if you ever get me out of bed again after all you’ve put me through, I’ll make you go with Mummy to the opera!”
Looking below him, he spotted Mycroft. Anthea was next to him, draping a blanket over Joe’s broken body. A phone was in Mycroft’s hand and as he stared, he heard the sound of sirens getting louder. “I thought you didn’t call Lestrade,” he grunted.
“I didn’t. I called Mycroft. He’d at least be quiet about arriving,” Sherlock grunted and John felt more than one pair of hands hauling him up the roof.
He could only assume that the people that helped Sherlock haul him back up to the roof were Mycroft’s. It was hard to tell in the darkness and he squinted a bit as the blood that had rushed to his head went back down, but before he could really make out their faces, he felt Sherlock’s arms wrap around him tightly. John grunted a bit and squirmed, but there was no prying Sherlock off. Instead, he was dragged back down the stairs, past the stunned eyes of the other apartment tenants, and onto the sidewalk.
Lestrade, who looked as if he was only half-dressed when he ran out of his apartment, was just getting out of his car. “Sherlock, what the hell-”
“I just solved one of your cold cases, now it’s your turn to do the clean-up. We’re going home.”
“Oh no you’re not, not until I get some answers! First, how did you get your hands on the case to start with?!”
But Sherlock wasn’t paying any attention. Instead, he snagged Lestrade’s keys out of his hand and all but threw John into the passenger seat. “Do you even know how to drive?” he asked as Sherlock hurried around to the driver’s seat, slamming the car door just as Lestrade reached it.
“Of course.”
“Uh huh.”
If what Sherlock did was called driving, John had been doing it wrong the whole time, he thought. Sherlock apparently thought brakes were for other people. Thankfully it was a short drive and he wasn’t even sure why they were in the car to start with. They’d walked to Joe’s apartment…
The memory of what happened hit John and he gritted his teeth to keep it together. They’d been friends for four years, had been a place of healing when Sherlock had been gone. He didn’t think that friendship had been a lie, but it was hard to place his friend in the same body as the one that had murdered his cousin for money, no matter the reason.
Their landlady was standing at the base of the stairs, clutching her robe closed. “Sherlock, what’s going-”
“Not now, Mrs. Hudson,” the detective interrupted, following after John like a bodyguard. Once they were inside their flat, Sherlock slipped off John’s coat. He nodded in thanks, kicking off his shoes and letting them land wherever they would. It was about to turn into morning and yet all John wanted to do was sleep. Did he have work? He couldn’t remember all of a sudden.
Sherlock wrapped his arms around him from behind and John sighed, leaning back just a little. Oh, yeah, they’d had a fight, hadn’t they? It had only been yesterday and less than an hour of his time, he had forgotten about all of it. It seemed even stupider as he wondered if they hadn’t had that argument, he would have been here during the case and maybe been able to talk Joe into…something. Maybe the ending wouldn’t have involved his death.
“You don’t know that,” Sherlock told him.
“Reading my mind now, Sherlock?” he asked, stepping away from his lover to go get changed for work, but hands pulled him back until they were both on the sofa.
“He tried to kill you, John. At no point was he prepared to surrender.”
He wanted to believe Sherlock badly, because if the detective was wrong, it meant this outcome was his fault. “I have to get ready for work,” he muttered, but Sherlock’s hand on his arm tightened just a bit.
“Don’t go today.”
“I have to.”
There was an odd look in his boyfriend’s eyes as he stared at him and admitted, “I already informed them you wouldn’t be coming in today.”
John couldn’t find it in him to be angry or annoyed that Sherlock had called in for him, probably last night, without even asking. He felt tears press against his eyes and he closed them, taking deep breaths so he wouldn’t cry. Despite his best effort, a few slipped out anyway.
-0-
He woke rather abruptly. When had he fallen asleep? Looking around, he noted that he was in their bedroom, the lights were off, and it looked to be late afternoon, from what he could tell of the light around the closed blinds. His clothes had been changed to just a t-shirt and shorts. Rubbing his gritty eyes, John grabbed the first robe that came to hand and left the room to find Sherlock.
His boyfriend was pacing in the den, a phone plastered to his ear. Despite how badly John wanted to know when he’d fallen asleep, he politely attempted to wait until Sherlock was done. It took only seconds for the detective to see him and whoever he was speaking to was unceremoniously hung up on as he ended the call. His eyebrow rose and he grinned. “Missed me that much, John?”
“What?” Sherlock’s eyes flickered from his face and to his chest, and John followed his gaze. The robe he had grabbed had turned out to be his boyfriend’s and he felt a faint flush go up his cheeks. “It was closest to the bed, that’s all. When did I fall asleep?”
“A few hours ago.”
“What about…the case?”
“Lestrade is finishing it up. It’s done.”
“And his family? Have they been told?”
“I would assume so. Isn’t that their job?”
John thought of Lisa, Joe’s sister. He hadn’t been on good terms with his family, hadn’t spoken to any of them for years, but he had always told John stories of his younger sister when they’d been children. He hoped someone would call her, at least, to let her know. “I should check with Greg, make sure someone’s been called.”
“They’re handling it, John.”
He could hear the implied ‘so leave it’ and while he was tempted to argue, he didn’t. Even if he did call her, what could he say? ‘I was his friend and it’s my fault he’s dead’?
“It isn’t your fault.”
Deciding not to comment on that, John said instead, “Have you eaten yet?”
“…No.”
“Then I’ll make dinner tonight.”
As he turned to head back into the kitchen, Sherlock said behind him, “I’m here, John.”
A faint smile touched his lips. No matter how they might argue, no matter if Sherlock saw flirting where there was none or he was possessive, this was what counted. The man wasn’t asking him to confide, but he was there if he needed to talk. He might not understand what John would say, but he would at least be there to listen in his own way. He’d try.
“I know. I’m so-”
Lips touched his neck as Sherlock crossed the distance so quickly it was like he teleported there. “No more apologies, John.”
Right.