All's Well that Ends Well
Title: The Inconsequential Death of Mr. Stevens
Characters: Sherlock/John, Lestrade
Rating: PG
Warnings: Brief mention of a dead body
Word Count: 5,800
Genre: Humor, romance (in a Sherlock-attempts-to-woo-John sort of way)
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Alas, I do not own this excellent reincarnation of Sherlock Holmes.
Author's Notes: A sequel to the cleverly titled Untitled Forensics John Fic, which was a fill for this prompt, that asked for an AU meeting between John- new head of forensics, and Sherlock- still a consulting detective. It probably isn't necessary to read the first fic, but it certainly couldn't hurt, and it isn't terribly long.
"If this is about Gregson, I can't help you," Lestrade sighs as he slides into the chair behind his desk. "I know the she's a bit of a stiff, but she's not the worst- ...Sherlock?"
Sherlock flaps a hand at him in a lethargic gesture of askance, but doesn't stop staring through the glass walls at the office down the hall. The one with the shiny new name plate. The one with a complete lack of personal decoration. The one that is currently bereft of its occupant.
Sherlock frowns. Lestrade grins, "Oh, don't worry about Watson, I'm sure he'll leave your coat alone this time."
The speed at which Sherlock whips his head around is frightening, "That was a gross abuse of police authority."
"Technically, the fact that you were there at all was a gross abuse of police authority. Come off it, Sherlock, you know you're just miffed that he didn't come by for the drugs bust."
"Wrong."
"Please. You made yourself dizzy looking for him. I've never seen you so disappointed."
Sherlock's only reply is a sniff of disdain as he turns his face away from Lestrade's offensive statements. That this move also gives him the opportunity to take another look at Watson's office is mere coincidence.
Still empty. Blast.
Preoccupied as he is with keeping his all consuming aggravation from affect his facial expression, Sherlock misses the footsteps that come from the opposite end of the corridor, resulting in a rather dramatic start at the knock on the door jamb.
"Hello, Lestrade." And there is Watson, ensconced nicely within the door frame. "Sorry to interrupt, but I got the results from the Stevens' case, whenever you get a minute."
"Got a minute now," and at Watson's questioning glace towards the man who was currently staring at him, "He's fine. You remember Sherlock, don't you? The consulting detective?"
"That wasn't- I thought that was a joke. You know, messing with the new guy? Why else would someone out of a bad pulp novel show up at a crime scene?"
Which set Lestrade to chuckling. It was, unfortunately, not loud enough to cover Sherlock's offended sputtering, but Sherlock is nothing if not quick.
"You are recently divorced. Within the last three to six months, and it was a mutual decision. You've since moved in with a sibling- most likely a brother- on a nonpermanent basis, who lives alone in Croydon. He is attempting to hide his alcoholism from you, and failing."
Sherlock held in a sigh as Watson blinked at him. Here it comes.
"That's... brilliant."
"It is?"
"Well, assuming you didn't find that out by hacking into and memorizing all my legal and personal documents, yeah."
"Not my style."
"A good pulp novel, then. Fantastic." A smile. At Sherlock, no less. Curious. "But back to the deceased Mr. Stevens." Watson flaps a manila folder through the air as he brings his attention back to Lestrade. There is surge of... jealousy? surely not- at the loss of that expression.
"At the scene, I noticed there was something off about the blood on his scalp. Turns out it was bits of paint- red paint- most likely transferred from the murder weapon to the area at impact. You wrote down that the girlfriend in an artist, deals mainly in furniture, and if I recall correctly, the flat was covered in her odds and ends, bits of chairs and tables."
"You think she beat him over the head with a table?"
"More like a table leg, judging from the wound, but yes. From the way the paint covered his hair, it looks like it was still wet when she got him with it, so if you can find anything repainted within the last... 24 hours or so, I'd bet money on it being the murder weapon."
"That's great and all," Lestrade sighs, "but isn't it far more likely she'd just get rid of it?"
"Wrong. Again." Tired of being left out of a conversation involving murder, Sherlock added extra condescension to his tone so Lestrade would feel appropriately chastised. "Getting rid of one table leg would be conspicuous in of itself, about as conspicuous as, say, a three legged table. She would have to dispose of the entire project, which someone would surely notice, or, far more probable, as an artist she would be loathe to destroy one of her own creations, and would therefore be idiotic enough to hope to hide it in plain sight."
That earns him another smile. "Yes. Exactly that. It's all in here, actually." Watson moves to place the folder on Lestrade's desk, but Sherlock swipes it mid-air; he completes the motion empty handed.
And it's... beautiful. Neatly written. Heavily detailed. Important information highlighted. The conclusions drawn are objective and apt. Sherlock spares a few seconds to calculate how many copies would be needed to completely paper his room before he looks up.
Then immediately twists around violently. Watson is gone. Gone! When did he leave? The chair squeals on the linoleum as he throws his head in the other direction to check his (still unoccupied) office.
There is a snort from Lestrade, who is now hunched over his desk and partially obstructed by heaps of paperwork, looking appropriately miserable for it.
"He left nearly a half hour ago, Sherlock."
The angle of the sunlight outside indicates that 35 minutes have passed since his last observation. He was so preoccupied with this work of art that he neglected the artist himself. That will not do. Clearly this Watson fellow was... well, not clever, per se, but certainly good at what he does. A valuable trait, one that should be nurtured and encouraged in order to flourish.
Yes, in time Sherlock could see this man approach near brilliance, so long as he avoids his coworkers. Repeated inundation in their way of thinking would only render him useless. Nothing for it then, Sherlock would simply have to spend as much time with him as possible.
"I am going to need Watson's phone number."
Lestrade refuses to give him the number. And then proceeds to whine when Sherlock tries to leave with the forensics report on Mr. Stevens. The manila folder is handed back to him while Sherlock mutters indignant nonsense that is, unfortunately, not enough to distract Lestrade from Sherlock's other hand, which is covertly tucking the report papers into his coat pocket.
A chase ensues, which is interesting in that Sherlock is the one being chased, as opposed to the chaser, but unfortunately New Scotland Yard happens to be full of police officers who are not fond of Sherlock. He narrowly avoids being clothes-lined by Donovan with a swift duck, but the maneuver leaves him off balance and he ends up toppling into what seems to be a copy room.
Perfect.
He slams and locks the door.
A muffled "Oh, for fucks sake..." filters through cheap laminate as the doorknob rattles in manner that lacks conviction. Sherlock estimates nine minutes before the key is found, which is plenty of time.
It's with one leg dangling out the window that he finally takes note of his surroundings. He zeros in on the copy machine itself, a behemoth of a mechanism that, judging by the make and model, seems to be from the late 1980s. The pages in his pocket crinkle with anticipation.
Gleefully, he slides back onto the floor, places the four page report in the automatic feed tray and, referring to his previous calculations (with an additional several dozen auxiliary copies), punches in 382. With a cough of ozone the machine shudders to life and begins spitting out pages. But it's slow, too slow, and Sherlock sighs heavily as he cuts his losses, grabs the originals and a stack of machine warmed paper slightly less than an inch high, and throws himself out the window onto a conveniently located shrub.
The first texts from Lestrade arrive during the cab ride back to Baker Street, but Sherlock doesn't bother to read them until he is safely in his sitting room. They are fairly typical:
From: G. Lestrade
Stealing is a crime, Sherlock.
Stealing from NSY doubly so.
From: G. Lestrade
I'm serious, Sherlock!
I can have you arrested!
From: G. Lestrade
I will have you arrested.
And I don't allow criminals
at my crime scenes.
From: G. Lestrade
Leaving me a copy doesn't
count. I need the original.
From: G. Lestrade
...Why are there so many
copies? Seriously. Why.
From: G. Lestrade
Copy machine has caught
on fire. Add destruction of
property to your repertoire.
At which point, Sherlock is reminded how tedious Lestrade can be, and instead focuses on how to mount the original report pages. Perhaps he should frame them? A far more long term solution than taping them to the mirror. However, taping them would provide immediate gratification.
From: G. Lestrade
Give it back, or I'll tell
Watson about your
little crush on him.
Well, that simply would not do.
To: G. Lestrade
Willing to trade: One (1)
original forensics report
by ?W for one (1) mobile
number of ?W. SH
From: G. Lestrade
Terms accepted. IF you get
them back here before my
boss finds out.
To: G. Lestrade
Fine. SH
To: G. Lestrade
Also, I want the rest of the
copies. SH
To: G. Lestrade
And his first name. SH
An empty fire extinguisher, lightly dusted with potassium bicarbonate, sits next to Lestrade's desk when Sherlock next enters. The desk is similarly frosted, although it is likely from the considerable piles resting on Lestrade's hair and shoulders. It reminds Sherlock of Christmas, and once he gets Watson's number, it will feel like Christmas, too. Giving up the report will be agonizing, no doubt, but he placates himself with the fact that he can easily lift it at a later date. Perhaps he will even be kind enough to replace it with a copy. He did make extras, after all.
The initial separation always hurts the most, Sherlock reminds himself. This knowledge is unhelpful, so he clutches the pages tight to his chest and sniffs loudly at Lestrade's hunched form
"What? Oh, don't give me that look. You're not fooling anyone. Hand it over."
"I want the number, first.
"You're not getting anything until I get that report."
Sherlock sighs heavily. Lestrade is clearly beyond reason today, and with a heavy heart, he lays the pages on the desk.
"Number. Now."
"Alright, alright. First, here-" Lestrade shoves what had once been a stack of paper at him. It is heavily charred, and the top page appears to be dappled with drops of melted plastic. Scratching at the ash with a fingernail reveals that this is all that remains of the report copies, no longer fit for wallpaper duties. Although the bottom half inch seems relatively unscathed, it is a small consolation.
The move Lestrade uses to get up from his desk is one of a man who incredibly unhappy with what he is about to do, but resigned to it anyway. The lethargic motions don't disturb the piles of gray dust that have settled on him, but the great, heaving sigh he lets out does, throwing dancing white specks into the air around him. He is the world's most miserable snow globe, until he charges through the haze. Sherlock follows the bits of white trailing behind him.
Together they head towards the acrid scent of burnt plastic until Sherlock can taste it on the back of his tongue. Opposite the door to the copy room, a small crowd is gathered, sipping from stryofoam cups as they murmur obvious statements to each other regarding the age of the copier, and how that affected it's combustibility and copy quality. Sherlock rolls his eyes at them even as he admires their devotion to procrastination; the bitter smell is overwhelming and heavy, almost nauseating.
Then he notices that Donovan's desk is among those closest to the copy room, which makes him feel much better.
An elbow from Lestrade distracts Sherlock from the rude gestures Donovan is currently engaged in making; he tilts his head towards the other side of the room (releasing a small avalanche of powder), where Watson stands with a look of confusion. Sherlock finds it wonderfully endearing, and is fumbling with the camera on his mobile before he realizes that Lestrade has approached Watson without him.
Watson gives Lestrade, and, after a brief sprint, Sherlock, a small smile. "Nasty business, eh?" He mumbles, looking towards the blackened copy room door.
Lestrade shrugs, which sends more dust into the air. Watson subtly shifts away from the worst of it. Sherlock subtly shifts towards Watson.
"I was just looking for you." Watson continues, facing Lestrade. Sherlock frowns at this, before wondering whether or not taking pictures of someone with their consent is socially acceptable, or if he should just mime a phone call and snap wildly. "The report I just gave you- on Mr. Stevens? I was hoping to grab it back real quick. Forgot to make a copy for my records, but it looks like that won't be happening." He sighs, "I don't suppose you made an extra copy or two, by any chance?"
Lestrade makes a noise that is either a laugh or a sob, hunching his shoulders forward as they shake with what may be amusement or may be grief; the remaining potassium bicarbonate on his person flies everywhere, as if he is encased in his own personal snow fall. Had Sherlock not been standing so close to Watson, he would entirely missed the tiny smile and muttered "...Like Christmas." that escapes him.
Something in Sherlock's chest lurches desperately at this, and before he quite realizes what he's doing, he's clawing at his coat pockets only to grab and extract the rolled up stack of charred reports to shove at Watson. Watson starts at the sudden appearance of pages in his face, and between both quick movements flakes of ash scatter. Sherlock ignores both.
"Yes."
"I- what?" Watson's eyes dart around, hoping for an explanation of why he narrowly avoided have his face lacerated with paper cuts. Lestrade is entirely unhelpful, although his sobs have graduated to gasping chuckles.
"I made an extra copy. Or two. Here." Sherlock pulls the pages back to flip through them in an attempt to find a report of acceptable quality.
"Oh." Watson hesitantly extends a hand towards the not-quite-as-burnt report that has again been shoved towards his face. "Thank you? But... why do you have so many?"
"Wallpaper." Sherlock mumbles, rolling up the remaining reports to hide within his coat.
"What?"
Perhaps it is not good to admit you wish to paper your walls with a forensics report. "Do you have a first name?"
"...Yes." There is a pause. "It's John."
John. John. Marvelous. Sherlock smiles; it is entirely involuntary, and he's aware that it is the smile that shows a bit too much teeth, but he is far too ecstatic to care. "Fantastic. My name is Sherlock."
"Yes. I know. We've met twice now."
"Three times, if you count this instance."
John's bemused smile is easily the most adorable thing Sherlock has ever seen; the step he takes towards John because of that fact is also entirely involuntary.
"Do you have a mobile number, John?"
"Yes." John has to tilt his head up to look at him, and Sherlock takes the time to memorize how his eyebrows have drawn together in confusion, most likely over Sherlock's inability to observe personal space.
Sherlock waits.
"It's... it's in the report. My mobile number. On the last page, in case anyone needs to contact me. Regarding the report."
Sherlock blinks, and rips the report copies from his pocket with such force that half of them are blown away. And there it is, on the last page, underneath a nearly illegible signature, is a number. He has had it this entire time. He has had John Watson's mobile number in his hands for the past hour, and he never noticed. That he should be so pathetically unobservant is simply unthinkable; it fills him with loathing.
That statement throws Lestrade, who had managed to calm down, into slightly hysterical giggles. Sherlock glares at him, tosses the remaining pages into the air with disgust, and stomps off.
To: John Watson
Are you free? SH
From: John Watson
I'm sorry, who is this?
To: John Watson
Sherlock Holmes. We've
met three times. SH
From: John Watson
Yes, of course, how could
I forget.
To: John Watson
Significant blunt force
trauma to the head
immediately following
an introduction could
result in short term
memory loss of that
particular instance. SH
To: John Watson
But you would remember
the two auxiliary
meetings. SH
To: John Watson
Severe blunt force
trauma to the head
would be required to
remove me from your
memory completely. SH
To: John Watson
Although you would
also be unable to recall
your own name, so it's
nothing to be embarrassed
about. SH
To: John Watson
Are you free? I was
informed by my landlady
that I should apologize
for my previous immature
actions, and would like
to do so by treating
you to dinner. SH
From: John Watson
It's 10 AM.
To: John Watson
Yes. SH
From: John Watson
It's 10 AM on a Thursday.
To: John Watson
Yes. SH
From: John Watson
I'm working.
To: John Watson
Yes. SH
From: John Watson
No, I am not free.
To: John Watson
Ah. SH
To: G. Lestrade
I need to know John
Watson's exact location. SH
To: G. Lestrade
Willing to bribe you with
report on Mr. Stevens. SH
From: G. Lestrade
Already have the original.
You gave it back
yesterday. Threw the
copies everywhere.
To: G. Lestrade
Wrong. SH
From: G. Lestrade
No, I distinctly remember
you having a hissy fit.
To: G. Lestrade
The 'wrong' is in regards
to your supposed
possession of the
original. SH
From: G. Lestrade
So it is.
From: G. Lestrade
I just want you to know
that I really, really
hate you sometimes.
The address pried from Lestrade brings Sherlock to an unattractive little building in Hackney; it is with great irritation that he spares the time to toss a few bills at the cab driver before rushing towards the largest concentration of officers. London's finest seem to be especially irate today- their only other excuse is that they are not fond of being shoved aside, but really, it's their own fault for standing between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Blatantly stupid actions have repercussions, it is time they learned this.
Sherlock is nearly to the body when he's stopped by an unfortunately stubborn sergeant who makes the grave decision of trying to talk Sherlock out of his current war path.
"I'm sorry, sir, approved personnel only."
The awkward young man states this in what is apparently, and regrettably, his most authoritative voice while stepping directly in front of Sherlock, then proceeds to match him step-for-step as Sherlock shuffles right, then leftwards in an attempt to get around him. Sherlock engages in this lateral movement for nearly a minute, the stubborn sergeant bobbing back and forth in front of Sherlock as a flush crawls up his pockmarked face, before he is bored enough to stop.
"You're in my way."
"You're not allowed in, sir."
"But you are?"
"Yessir."
Sherlock takes a deep breath in preparation for the soliloquy to follow, planning mentally as he does so: first, to deal with the utter inanity of the statement and how completely illogical it is, given the young man's intelligence both relative to Sherlock and in general, followed by a recourse on his less than flattering habits, and rounding it all out with a brief treatise on the likelihood of him ever achieving farther than his current station.
Ashy blond flashes in the corner of his eye.
The breath leaves Sherlock in an anticlimactic huff as he snaps his right hand out to grab the sergeant’s shirt and pull him to the ground, before he makes a huff of his own as Sherlock steps on him to get to John Watson.
John Watson is crouched over the body of a Caucasian male between the ages of 25 and 30, a rather unattractive fellow with mousy brown hair. In a contrast that Sherlock finds delightful, John's fine blond hair has managed to catch the scant amount of sunlight that has struggled through both cloud cover and pollution, and is reflecting it in such a way that it makes it look shiny and soft- inviting, even. At least four schemes for obtaining a sample shudder through his brain before he manages to derail the train of thought.
"Can I help you with something?"
It's the man standing next to John that makes this statement. Sherlock had ignored him previously, dismissed him as clearly unimportant when compared to John's hair. The diction and tone indicate that Sherlock’s presence is surprising and unwanted, while his posture- crossed arms, raised shoulders- indicate that he feels the need to defend his authority; the whole effect, complete with oversized trench coat, comes off as petulant and insecure. He is the D.I. on scene, newly promoted- possibly because of who he knows rather than what he knows- and is incredibly aware of that fact. Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes; there is only so much posturing he can handle before unsavory bedroom activities are used as blackmail, and he is truly not in the mood.
Although in addressing him, the D.I. is also makes John aware of Sherlock's presence. He looks up and smiles; Sherlock twitches his lips in an attempt to smile back.
"Yes." Perhaps if he is direct, he won't have to waste time watching this man metaphorically piss all over his territory. "I have requested John Watson's presence for dinner."
"Yeah, well," the D.I. frowns severely, in the manner of a child being forced to eat some kind of unappetizing vegetable, "he's working."
"Sherlock," John sighs, not moving from his curled position near the victim's hips, "it is 10:45 in the morning."
"I am aware of the time, John."
"Dinner is an evening activity."
"But that's hours away!"
"Hold up!" Even Sherlock knows that interrupting a conversation is a bit not good; he may disregard that fact at every opportunity, but the fact that the novice D.I. is willing to ignore this general rule of civility fills him with irritation. "Sherlock Holmes? I've heard of you."
"Sally Donovan is an idiot; you shouldn't believe a word she says."
"Donovan's not an idiot." John says while examining the hands of the corpse.
"Sally Donovan has more potential than she willingly uses; you shouldn't believe a word she says."
"How do you know it was her?" The D.I.'s shoulders are approaching his ears.
"Lestrade refuses to think about me any more than necessary, to include casual conversation; Anderson whines about me constantly, but you would rarely, if ever, come into contact with him. You have been newly promoted from Sergeant; obviously Sally Donovan is in your social circle."
"Oh, obviously," he sneers, looking down towards John in an attempt to gain his approval and share a long-suffering grin with him. John, still crouched, ignores him in favor of writing notes on a clipboard; the grin slides into a grimace, which becomes a scowl when he brings his eyes back to Sherlock. "What do you want, then?"
"I've already told you."
"Yeah, and I've already told you that he's working." The D.I. says this while baring his teeth far more than necessary, "and we'll be working until this case is solved."
"It was the brother." Sherlock says this, and in the silence that follows, takes the opportunity to grab John around his bicep and pull him towards the road.
Sherlock manages to hold onto John's arm until he is forced to let go upon entering the taxi. The elaborate excuses he comes up with to reattach himself are flimsy at best, so he instead shifts his attention to the fact that he and John are in very close quarters.
"Thanks for that," John smiles at him- still so novel- while waving his clipboard in the direction of the crime scene they are currently fleeing from. "Can't say I enjoy working with Dimmock."
"I'm sure very few people can."
"I suppose," the smile shifts to a grin, boyish and charming, and Sherlock grips his mobile but resists the urge to take a picture as it will ruin the moment. "You haven't told me where we're going."
"Angelo's. An Italian restaurant. You'll enjoy it- you have a weakness for a good vodka sauce." Sherlock brushes his rebuttal aside with a sweeping motion from his hand; his fingertips just brush John's jacket. "And yes, I am still aware of the time, thank you. Surely there's some sort of pre-dinner meal that people engage in. Starts with an R. Perhaps a C."
"What, you mean lunch?"
"Yes, perfect, I shall treat you to this... lunch."
John huffs out a laugh at that, which makes Sherlock feel as though he's inhaled copious amounts of helium, or hydrogen, perhaps even neon, and could float away at a moment's notice. This is impossible for several reasons, of course; for one, he would be dead if that were the case, for another, human lungs are incapable of inhaling the volume necessary for liftoff. Nonetheless, it is a delightful feeling. He will have to make John laugh more often.
Sherlock is speculating on the various methods to produce a humor reaction when John breaks the silence.
"So how did you know it was the brother?"
"Oh, that? Simple."
"Well, yes. To a point. Victim was garroted with a chalk line by an unknown assailant of similar height and weight.” John rattles off while flipping through his clipboard, "Footprints around the area show that assailant and victim are within a shoe size of each other, and hair found on the victim is only slightly darker than the victim's own."
Sherlock manages to bite out a "Yes," as the pages rustle back down.
"Doesn't necessarily mean it was the brother."
"No, but it is highly probable."
"Not the same as knowing." John grins back.
It's warm in the cab. Too warm. Sherlock gives the knot of his scarf a tug, hoping to loosen it in time to prevent any blushing. From the heat. Obviously.
"The saw horse."
"You know it was the brother because of the saw horse?"
"Yes. The victim was clearly in construction."
"Calluses on the hands, saw dust under the fingernails, yes." Sherlock tugs his scarf off completely, and contemplates opening a window. John seems closer than before, had he moved undetected?
"And was found behind a house currently being renovated. Not professionally, judging by the equipment and materials being used, and, from the number of tools in the area, work is being done by two men only. Two men, going in together to buy a derelict house in Hackney only to resell it at a profit? It involves money- a steep initial investment, along with the time and opportunity cost needed to bring the house up to standards. Clearly an intensive undertaking, and not one to be taken with someone untrustworthy. A trusting- rather, formerly trusting- relationship between the two men, who also happen to bear a striking physical resemblance to one another? Brothers. Obviously."
"Obviously." John mimics, smiling as he injecting the word with warmth. This doesn't help Sherlock at all, nor does the quick dart of John's tongue as he licks his lips. Sherlock can feel a flush beginning on his cheeks, despite his best efforts. "And the saw horse?"
"The saw horse farther from the victim’s location had a tool belt hanging over it, with the last name written quite clearly on the side."
"Could have belonged to the victim?"
"The victim was wearing his, labeled with the same last name." Sherlock clears his throat, mouth suddenly dry. "But you knew that already."
The space between the two of them has apparently been halved by both Sherlock and John, which is marvelous for a number of reasons, none of which he can fully articulate because John chooses that moment to lick his lips again.
"Did I?"
John’s reply is mumbled, and not the wittiest of comments, but Sherlock is in no position to judge as he can't even seem to answer. He can't say yes, it's written on the first page of your notes, listed as an item found on the victim at the time of discovery, because John is closer still and Sherlock finds himself utterly distracted by John's lovely eyelashes, just a shade darker than his enchanting blond hair, helpfully displayed because John is tilting his head upwards, and easily examined because Sherlock is tilting his head down and-
The cab comes to a sudden halt, throwing both men forward.
It's an awkward scramble to get out of the vehicle, and Sherlock admirably resists the urge to strangle the cabbie with his scarf as he throws some folded bills at him; instead, he loops the fabric back around his neck as angrily as possible without asphyxiating himself, and wishes he had paid in coins.
He turns in time to see John give his wristwatch a brief glance before he slides both hands into his pockets, clipboard tucked under his left arm. The action pulls the fabric of his trousers tight across his arse, which occupies Sherlock so thoroughly that it takes several seconds before he realizes John is speaking to him, and not to the door of the restaurant he is currently facing.
"Doesn't open for another forty-five minutes."
That is unexpected. It never actually occurred to Sherlock that Angelo's ever closed. He scratches 'dinner' off of his mental list, created with help from Mrs. Hudson, labeled 'Course of Action for Pursuing a Relationship with John Watson'. Technically, next on the list is 'entertainment', open parenthesis, a film, a show, a concert in the park perhaps dear, do they still have those?, et cetera, close parenthesis.
Sherlock has two opinions regarding that bullet point, first, that he finds all of those activities loathsome, and, second, that crime scenes are far more entertaining. Clearly that aspect of the list has already been visited, and can also be crossed off.
"Would you like to come back to my flat, then? For coffee?"
John twists his neck to grin over his shoulder at Sherlock, "More of a tea man, myself."
Sherlock frowns at this. "According to my sources, it must be coffee."
"Must be coffee? Who told you that?"
"My geriatric landlady, who has taken a frighteningly enthusiastic interest in my personal relationships."
"Your ger- wait, wait- you're asking me in. For coffee. Coffee at your flat."
"Yes."
"You say that a lot."
"You state the obvious frequently. Normally I'd reply with something scathing, but I find it rather endearing when you do so."
"Endearing. Right." John says this as he turns his body to face Sherlock's.
Sherlock is silent.
"Right, yes, I know." The oddest smile is spreading onto John's face, as if he is trying very hard not to curl his lips upward, but finds resistance impossible. "I'm just trying to figure out whether or not you actually want to drink coffee, if it's a deliberate euphemism for sex, or if it's an accidental euphemism for sex."
It takes Sherlock several seconds to process the muddled words tumbling from John's half-smirking lips, and during that time he takes careful notes regarding the red slowly staining John's cheeks. Things click into place rather suddenly: what he has said, what John is saying, and why Mrs. Hudson gave the word 'coffee' so very much emphasis when he was discussing this with her earlier.
"Ah. The third option. That way you can meet your new landlady when she makes us tea afterwards."
"New land- never mind. That sounds brilliant." John's rather nice lips form a full-fledged smile as he steps very close to Sherlock, who is finding it rather hard to take his eyes off of John's lovely smiling lips, which is fine, because John is tilting his head upwards, and they can be seen very well, but even better would be if Sherlock tilts his head downwards, which he does and-
The only thing that comes to a sudden halt at this is Sherlock mental processes. It does not interrupt the kiss.
-----
When Lestrade flicks the light in his office on the next morning, he briefly wonders about the reproduction habits of paperwork. Asexual, perhaps, the letters on a page dividing in two, the words splitting, the paragraphs doubling, until an entire separate sheet pops off? Perhaps they mate, forms sliding and rustling and oh God what is he thinking about.
His desk chair complains loudly when he thuds down into it, and from it he gazes, glassy-eyed, at the paper towers barricading him in. This is probably why he feels so obscenely grateful to Watson when he knocks on the door bearing a paper cup, still throwing thin wisps of steam into the air.
"Morning." Watson smiles one of his many affable smiles as Lestrade makes an indecent noise at his first sip of coffee in lieu of a response.
"You looked like you could use a jump start. And I've got something of yours to return, actually." From his other hand, Watson brings up a thin collection of papers, slightly burnt, severely crinkled, and smelling faintly of tea. A forensics report, upon examination. Mr. Steven’s forensics report.
Lestrade chokes on his coffee. "Oh thank Christ- Watson, you're an absolute saint. How the hell did you get this from Sherlock?"
With his hands in his pockets, Watson just shrugs. "Easy, really- it was on his bedside table. Doubt he'll even notice it's gone, with all the clutter he has."
Lestrade flips through the pages with something resembling awe in his face, "Either way, you're a life save- ...hold up." Very, very slowly, Lestrade brings his gaze back to Watson.
Watson says nothing, just gives an embarrassed grin as his cheeks faintly color pink; Lestrade, cursing his eyes, spies the edge of a dark red splotch, faintly ringed by purple teeth marks, just barely revealed by his shirt collar.
He clears his throat, "Let me just make one thing perfectly clear: under no circumstances whatsoever do I ever, ever, want to hear the exact course of action that lead to you retrieving this report from Sherlock Holmes' bedside table. Alright?"
"Alright." Watson's face is bright red, but his smile is utterly satisfied, and Lestrade tries very hard not to think too deeply about that fact as Watson waves on his way out the door.
Then, Lestrade sighs, pushes the report to the corner of his desk furthest from away from him, and starts his paperwork.
THE END
Characters: Sherlock/John, Lestrade
Rating: PG
Warnings: Brief mention of a dead body
Word Count: 5,800
Genre: Humor, romance (in a Sherlock-attempts-to-woo-John sort of way)
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Alas, I do not own this excellent reincarnation of Sherlock Holmes.
Author's Notes: A sequel to the cleverly titled Untitled Forensics John Fic, which was a fill for this prompt, that asked for an AU meeting between John- new head of forensics, and Sherlock- still a consulting detective. It probably isn't necessary to read the first fic, but it certainly couldn't hurt, and it isn't terribly long.
"If this is about Gregson, I can't help you," Lestrade sighs as he slides into the chair behind his desk. "I know the she's a bit of a stiff, but she's not the worst- ...Sherlock?"
Sherlock flaps a hand at him in a lethargic gesture of askance, but doesn't stop staring through the glass walls at the office down the hall. The one with the shiny new name plate. The one with a complete lack of personal decoration. The one that is currently bereft of its occupant.
Sherlock frowns. Lestrade grins, "Oh, don't worry about Watson, I'm sure he'll leave your coat alone this time."
The speed at which Sherlock whips his head around is frightening, "That was a gross abuse of police authority."
"Technically, the fact that you were there at all was a gross abuse of police authority. Come off it, Sherlock, you know you're just miffed that he didn't come by for the drugs bust."
"Wrong."
"Please. You made yourself dizzy looking for him. I've never seen you so disappointed."
Sherlock's only reply is a sniff of disdain as he turns his face away from Lestrade's offensive statements. That this move also gives him the opportunity to take another look at Watson's office is mere coincidence.
Still empty. Blast.
Preoccupied as he is with keeping his all consuming aggravation from affect his facial expression, Sherlock misses the footsteps that come from the opposite end of the corridor, resulting in a rather dramatic start at the knock on the door jamb.
"Hello, Lestrade." And there is Watson, ensconced nicely within the door frame. "Sorry to interrupt, but I got the results from the Stevens' case, whenever you get a minute."
"Got a minute now," and at Watson's questioning glace towards the man who was currently staring at him, "He's fine. You remember Sherlock, don't you? The consulting detective?"
"That wasn't- I thought that was a joke. You know, messing with the new guy? Why else would someone out of a bad pulp novel show up at a crime scene?"
Which set Lestrade to chuckling. It was, unfortunately, not loud enough to cover Sherlock's offended sputtering, but Sherlock is nothing if not quick.
"You are recently divorced. Within the last three to six months, and it was a mutual decision. You've since moved in with a sibling- most likely a brother- on a nonpermanent basis, who lives alone in Croydon. He is attempting to hide his alcoholism from you, and failing."
Sherlock held in a sigh as Watson blinked at him. Here it comes.
"That's... brilliant."
"It is?"
"Well, assuming you didn't find that out by hacking into and memorizing all my legal and personal documents, yeah."
"Not my style."
"A good pulp novel, then. Fantastic." A smile. At Sherlock, no less. Curious. "But back to the deceased Mr. Stevens." Watson flaps a manila folder through the air as he brings his attention back to Lestrade. There is surge of... jealousy? surely not- at the loss of that expression.
"At the scene, I noticed there was something off about the blood on his scalp. Turns out it was bits of paint- red paint- most likely transferred from the murder weapon to the area at impact. You wrote down that the girlfriend in an artist, deals mainly in furniture, and if I recall correctly, the flat was covered in her odds and ends, bits of chairs and tables."
"You think she beat him over the head with a table?"
"More like a table leg, judging from the wound, but yes. From the way the paint covered his hair, it looks like it was still wet when she got him with it, so if you can find anything repainted within the last... 24 hours or so, I'd bet money on it being the murder weapon."
"That's great and all," Lestrade sighs, "but isn't it far more likely she'd just get rid of it?"
"Wrong. Again." Tired of being left out of a conversation involving murder, Sherlock added extra condescension to his tone so Lestrade would feel appropriately chastised. "Getting rid of one table leg would be conspicuous in of itself, about as conspicuous as, say, a three legged table. She would have to dispose of the entire project, which someone would surely notice, or, far more probable, as an artist she would be loathe to destroy one of her own creations, and would therefore be idiotic enough to hope to hide it in plain sight."
That earns him another smile. "Yes. Exactly that. It's all in here, actually." Watson moves to place the folder on Lestrade's desk, but Sherlock swipes it mid-air; he completes the motion empty handed.
And it's... beautiful. Neatly written. Heavily detailed. Important information highlighted. The conclusions drawn are objective and apt. Sherlock spares a few seconds to calculate how many copies would be needed to completely paper his room before he looks up.
Then immediately twists around violently. Watson is gone. Gone! When did he leave? The chair squeals on the linoleum as he throws his head in the other direction to check his (still unoccupied) office.
There is a snort from Lestrade, who is now hunched over his desk and partially obstructed by heaps of paperwork, looking appropriately miserable for it.
"He left nearly a half hour ago, Sherlock."
The angle of the sunlight outside indicates that 35 minutes have passed since his last observation. He was so preoccupied with this work of art that he neglected the artist himself. That will not do. Clearly this Watson fellow was... well, not clever, per se, but certainly good at what he does. A valuable trait, one that should be nurtured and encouraged in order to flourish.
Yes, in time Sherlock could see this man approach near brilliance, so long as he avoids his coworkers. Repeated inundation in their way of thinking would only render him useless. Nothing for it then, Sherlock would simply have to spend as much time with him as possible.
"I am going to need Watson's phone number."
Lestrade refuses to give him the number. And then proceeds to whine when Sherlock tries to leave with the forensics report on Mr. Stevens. The manila folder is handed back to him while Sherlock mutters indignant nonsense that is, unfortunately, not enough to distract Lestrade from Sherlock's other hand, which is covertly tucking the report papers into his coat pocket.
A chase ensues, which is interesting in that Sherlock is the one being chased, as opposed to the chaser, but unfortunately New Scotland Yard happens to be full of police officers who are not fond of Sherlock. He narrowly avoids being clothes-lined by Donovan with a swift duck, but the maneuver leaves him off balance and he ends up toppling into what seems to be a copy room.
Perfect.
He slams and locks the door.
A muffled "Oh, for fucks sake..." filters through cheap laminate as the doorknob rattles in manner that lacks conviction. Sherlock estimates nine minutes before the key is found, which is plenty of time.
It's with one leg dangling out the window that he finally takes note of his surroundings. He zeros in on the copy machine itself, a behemoth of a mechanism that, judging by the make and model, seems to be from the late 1980s. The pages in his pocket crinkle with anticipation.
Gleefully, he slides back onto the floor, places the four page report in the automatic feed tray and, referring to his previous calculations (with an additional several dozen auxiliary copies), punches in 382. With a cough of ozone the machine shudders to life and begins spitting out pages. But it's slow, too slow, and Sherlock sighs heavily as he cuts his losses, grabs the originals and a stack of machine warmed paper slightly less than an inch high, and throws himself out the window onto a conveniently located shrub.
The first texts from Lestrade arrive during the cab ride back to Baker Street, but Sherlock doesn't bother to read them until he is safely in his sitting room. They are fairly typical:
From: G. Lestrade
Stealing is a crime, Sherlock.
Stealing from NSY doubly so.
From: G. Lestrade
I'm serious, Sherlock!
I can have you arrested!
From: G. Lestrade
I will have you arrested.
And I don't allow criminals
at my crime scenes.
From: G. Lestrade
Leaving me a copy doesn't
count. I need the original.
From: G. Lestrade
...Why are there so many
copies? Seriously. Why.
From: G. Lestrade
Copy machine has caught
on fire. Add destruction of
property to your repertoire.
At which point, Sherlock is reminded how tedious Lestrade can be, and instead focuses on how to mount the original report pages. Perhaps he should frame them? A far more long term solution than taping them to the mirror. However, taping them would provide immediate gratification.
From: G. Lestrade
Give it back, or I'll tell
Watson about your
little crush on him.
Well, that simply would not do.
To: G. Lestrade
Willing to trade: One (1)
original forensics report
by ?W for one (1) mobile
number of ?W. SH
From: G. Lestrade
Terms accepted. IF you get
them back here before my
boss finds out.
To: G. Lestrade
Fine. SH
To: G. Lestrade
Also, I want the rest of the
copies. SH
To: G. Lestrade
And his first name. SH
An empty fire extinguisher, lightly dusted with potassium bicarbonate, sits next to Lestrade's desk when Sherlock next enters. The desk is similarly frosted, although it is likely from the considerable piles resting on Lestrade's hair and shoulders. It reminds Sherlock of Christmas, and once he gets Watson's number, it will feel like Christmas, too. Giving up the report will be agonizing, no doubt, but he placates himself with the fact that he can easily lift it at a later date. Perhaps he will even be kind enough to replace it with a copy. He did make extras, after all.
The initial separation always hurts the most, Sherlock reminds himself. This knowledge is unhelpful, so he clutches the pages tight to his chest and sniffs loudly at Lestrade's hunched form
"What? Oh, don't give me that look. You're not fooling anyone. Hand it over."
"I want the number, first.
"You're not getting anything until I get that report."
Sherlock sighs heavily. Lestrade is clearly beyond reason today, and with a heavy heart, he lays the pages on the desk.
"Number. Now."
"Alright, alright. First, here-" Lestrade shoves what had once been a stack of paper at him. It is heavily charred, and the top page appears to be dappled with drops of melted plastic. Scratching at the ash with a fingernail reveals that this is all that remains of the report copies, no longer fit for wallpaper duties. Although the bottom half inch seems relatively unscathed, it is a small consolation.
The move Lestrade uses to get up from his desk is one of a man who incredibly unhappy with what he is about to do, but resigned to it anyway. The lethargic motions don't disturb the piles of gray dust that have settled on him, but the great, heaving sigh he lets out does, throwing dancing white specks into the air around him. He is the world's most miserable snow globe, until he charges through the haze. Sherlock follows the bits of white trailing behind him.
Together they head towards the acrid scent of burnt plastic until Sherlock can taste it on the back of his tongue. Opposite the door to the copy room, a small crowd is gathered, sipping from stryofoam cups as they murmur obvious statements to each other regarding the age of the copier, and how that affected it's combustibility and copy quality. Sherlock rolls his eyes at them even as he admires their devotion to procrastination; the bitter smell is overwhelming and heavy, almost nauseating.
Then he notices that Donovan's desk is among those closest to the copy room, which makes him feel much better.
An elbow from Lestrade distracts Sherlock from the rude gestures Donovan is currently engaged in making; he tilts his head towards the other side of the room (releasing a small avalanche of powder), where Watson stands with a look of confusion. Sherlock finds it wonderfully endearing, and is fumbling with the camera on his mobile before he realizes that Lestrade has approached Watson without him.
Watson gives Lestrade, and, after a brief sprint, Sherlock, a small smile. "Nasty business, eh?" He mumbles, looking towards the blackened copy room door.
Lestrade shrugs, which sends more dust into the air. Watson subtly shifts away from the worst of it. Sherlock subtly shifts towards Watson.
"I was just looking for you." Watson continues, facing Lestrade. Sherlock frowns at this, before wondering whether or not taking pictures of someone with their consent is socially acceptable, or if he should just mime a phone call and snap wildly. "The report I just gave you- on Mr. Stevens? I was hoping to grab it back real quick. Forgot to make a copy for my records, but it looks like that won't be happening." He sighs, "I don't suppose you made an extra copy or two, by any chance?"
Lestrade makes a noise that is either a laugh or a sob, hunching his shoulders forward as they shake with what may be amusement or may be grief; the remaining potassium bicarbonate on his person flies everywhere, as if he is encased in his own personal snow fall. Had Sherlock not been standing so close to Watson, he would entirely missed the tiny smile and muttered "...Like Christmas." that escapes him.
Something in Sherlock's chest lurches desperately at this, and before he quite realizes what he's doing, he's clawing at his coat pockets only to grab and extract the rolled up stack of charred reports to shove at Watson. Watson starts at the sudden appearance of pages in his face, and between both quick movements flakes of ash scatter. Sherlock ignores both.
"Yes."
"I- what?" Watson's eyes dart around, hoping for an explanation of why he narrowly avoided have his face lacerated with paper cuts. Lestrade is entirely unhelpful, although his sobs have graduated to gasping chuckles.
"I made an extra copy. Or two. Here." Sherlock pulls the pages back to flip through them in an attempt to find a report of acceptable quality.
"Oh." Watson hesitantly extends a hand towards the not-quite-as-burnt report that has again been shoved towards his face. "Thank you? But... why do you have so many?"
"Wallpaper." Sherlock mumbles, rolling up the remaining reports to hide within his coat.
"What?"
Perhaps it is not good to admit you wish to paper your walls with a forensics report. "Do you have a first name?"
"...Yes." There is a pause. "It's John."
John. John. Marvelous. Sherlock smiles; it is entirely involuntary, and he's aware that it is the smile that shows a bit too much teeth, but he is far too ecstatic to care. "Fantastic. My name is Sherlock."
"Yes. I know. We've met twice now."
"Three times, if you count this instance."
John's bemused smile is easily the most adorable thing Sherlock has ever seen; the step he takes towards John because of that fact is also entirely involuntary.
"Do you have a mobile number, John?"
"Yes." John has to tilt his head up to look at him, and Sherlock takes the time to memorize how his eyebrows have drawn together in confusion, most likely over Sherlock's inability to observe personal space.
Sherlock waits.
"It's... it's in the report. My mobile number. On the last page, in case anyone needs to contact me. Regarding the report."
Sherlock blinks, and rips the report copies from his pocket with such force that half of them are blown away. And there it is, on the last page, underneath a nearly illegible signature, is a number. He has had it this entire time. He has had John Watson's mobile number in his hands for the past hour, and he never noticed. That he should be so pathetically unobservant is simply unthinkable; it fills him with loathing.
That statement throws Lestrade, who had managed to calm down, into slightly hysterical giggles. Sherlock glares at him, tosses the remaining pages into the air with disgust, and stomps off.
To: John Watson
Are you free? SH
From: John Watson
I'm sorry, who is this?
To: John Watson
Sherlock Holmes. We've
met three times. SH
From: John Watson
Yes, of course, how could
I forget.
To: John Watson
Significant blunt force
trauma to the head
immediately following
an introduction could
result in short term
memory loss of that
particular instance. SH
To: John Watson
But you would remember
the two auxiliary
meetings. SH
To: John Watson
Severe blunt force
trauma to the head
would be required to
remove me from your
memory completely. SH
To: John Watson
Although you would
also be unable to recall
your own name, so it's
nothing to be embarrassed
about. SH
To: John Watson
Are you free? I was
informed by my landlady
that I should apologize
for my previous immature
actions, and would like
to do so by treating
you to dinner. SH
From: John Watson
It's 10 AM.
To: John Watson
Yes. SH
From: John Watson
It's 10 AM on a Thursday.
To: John Watson
Yes. SH
From: John Watson
I'm working.
To: John Watson
Yes. SH
From: John Watson
No, I am not free.
To: John Watson
Ah. SH
To: G. Lestrade
I need to know John
Watson's exact location. SH
To: G. Lestrade
Willing to bribe you with
report on Mr. Stevens. SH
From: G. Lestrade
Already have the original.
You gave it back
yesterday. Threw the
copies everywhere.
To: G. Lestrade
Wrong. SH
From: G. Lestrade
No, I distinctly remember
you having a hissy fit.
To: G. Lestrade
The 'wrong' is in regards
to your supposed
possession of the
original. SH
From: G. Lestrade
So it is.
From: G. Lestrade
I just want you to know
that I really, really
hate you sometimes.
The address pried from Lestrade brings Sherlock to an unattractive little building in Hackney; it is with great irritation that he spares the time to toss a few bills at the cab driver before rushing towards the largest concentration of officers. London's finest seem to be especially irate today- their only other excuse is that they are not fond of being shoved aside, but really, it's their own fault for standing between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Blatantly stupid actions have repercussions, it is time they learned this.
Sherlock is nearly to the body when he's stopped by an unfortunately stubborn sergeant who makes the grave decision of trying to talk Sherlock out of his current war path.
"I'm sorry, sir, approved personnel only."
The awkward young man states this in what is apparently, and regrettably, his most authoritative voice while stepping directly in front of Sherlock, then proceeds to match him step-for-step as Sherlock shuffles right, then leftwards in an attempt to get around him. Sherlock engages in this lateral movement for nearly a minute, the stubborn sergeant bobbing back and forth in front of Sherlock as a flush crawls up his pockmarked face, before he is bored enough to stop.
"You're in my way."
"You're not allowed in, sir."
"But you are?"
"Yessir."
Sherlock takes a deep breath in preparation for the soliloquy to follow, planning mentally as he does so: first, to deal with the utter inanity of the statement and how completely illogical it is, given the young man's intelligence both relative to Sherlock and in general, followed by a recourse on his less than flattering habits, and rounding it all out with a brief treatise on the likelihood of him ever achieving farther than his current station.
Ashy blond flashes in the corner of his eye.
The breath leaves Sherlock in an anticlimactic huff as he snaps his right hand out to grab the sergeant’s shirt and pull him to the ground, before he makes a huff of his own as Sherlock steps on him to get to John Watson.
John Watson is crouched over the body of a Caucasian male between the ages of 25 and 30, a rather unattractive fellow with mousy brown hair. In a contrast that Sherlock finds delightful, John's fine blond hair has managed to catch the scant amount of sunlight that has struggled through both cloud cover and pollution, and is reflecting it in such a way that it makes it look shiny and soft- inviting, even. At least four schemes for obtaining a sample shudder through his brain before he manages to derail the train of thought.
"Can I help you with something?"
It's the man standing next to John that makes this statement. Sherlock had ignored him previously, dismissed him as clearly unimportant when compared to John's hair. The diction and tone indicate that Sherlock’s presence is surprising and unwanted, while his posture- crossed arms, raised shoulders- indicate that he feels the need to defend his authority; the whole effect, complete with oversized trench coat, comes off as petulant and insecure. He is the D.I. on scene, newly promoted- possibly because of who he knows rather than what he knows- and is incredibly aware of that fact. Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes; there is only so much posturing he can handle before unsavory bedroom activities are used as blackmail, and he is truly not in the mood.
Although in addressing him, the D.I. is also makes John aware of Sherlock's presence. He looks up and smiles; Sherlock twitches his lips in an attempt to smile back.
"Yes." Perhaps if he is direct, he won't have to waste time watching this man metaphorically piss all over his territory. "I have requested John Watson's presence for dinner."
"Yeah, well," the D.I. frowns severely, in the manner of a child being forced to eat some kind of unappetizing vegetable, "he's working."
"Sherlock," John sighs, not moving from his curled position near the victim's hips, "it is 10:45 in the morning."
"I am aware of the time, John."
"Dinner is an evening activity."
"But that's hours away!"
"Hold up!" Even Sherlock knows that interrupting a conversation is a bit not good; he may disregard that fact at every opportunity, but the fact that the novice D.I. is willing to ignore this general rule of civility fills him with irritation. "Sherlock Holmes? I've heard of you."
"Sally Donovan is an idiot; you shouldn't believe a word she says."
"Donovan's not an idiot." John says while examining the hands of the corpse.
"Sally Donovan has more potential than she willingly uses; you shouldn't believe a word she says."
"How do you know it was her?" The D.I.'s shoulders are approaching his ears.
"Lestrade refuses to think about me any more than necessary, to include casual conversation; Anderson whines about me constantly, but you would rarely, if ever, come into contact with him. You have been newly promoted from Sergeant; obviously Sally Donovan is in your social circle."
"Oh, obviously," he sneers, looking down towards John in an attempt to gain his approval and share a long-suffering grin with him. John, still crouched, ignores him in favor of writing notes on a clipboard; the grin slides into a grimace, which becomes a scowl when he brings his eyes back to Sherlock. "What do you want, then?"
"I've already told you."
"Yeah, and I've already told you that he's working." The D.I. says this while baring his teeth far more than necessary, "and we'll be working until this case is solved."
"It was the brother." Sherlock says this, and in the silence that follows, takes the opportunity to grab John around his bicep and pull him towards the road.
Sherlock manages to hold onto John's arm until he is forced to let go upon entering the taxi. The elaborate excuses he comes up with to reattach himself are flimsy at best, so he instead shifts his attention to the fact that he and John are in very close quarters.
"Thanks for that," John smiles at him- still so novel- while waving his clipboard in the direction of the crime scene they are currently fleeing from. "Can't say I enjoy working with Dimmock."
"I'm sure very few people can."
"I suppose," the smile shifts to a grin, boyish and charming, and Sherlock grips his mobile but resists the urge to take a picture as it will ruin the moment. "You haven't told me where we're going."
"Angelo's. An Italian restaurant. You'll enjoy it- you have a weakness for a good vodka sauce." Sherlock brushes his rebuttal aside with a sweeping motion from his hand; his fingertips just brush John's jacket. "And yes, I am still aware of the time, thank you. Surely there's some sort of pre-dinner meal that people engage in. Starts with an R. Perhaps a C."
"What, you mean lunch?"
"Yes, perfect, I shall treat you to this... lunch."
John huffs out a laugh at that, which makes Sherlock feel as though he's inhaled copious amounts of helium, or hydrogen, perhaps even neon, and could float away at a moment's notice. This is impossible for several reasons, of course; for one, he would be dead if that were the case, for another, human lungs are incapable of inhaling the volume necessary for liftoff. Nonetheless, it is a delightful feeling. He will have to make John laugh more often.
Sherlock is speculating on the various methods to produce a humor reaction when John breaks the silence.
"So how did you know it was the brother?"
"Oh, that? Simple."
"Well, yes. To a point. Victim was garroted with a chalk line by an unknown assailant of similar height and weight.” John rattles off while flipping through his clipboard, "Footprints around the area show that assailant and victim are within a shoe size of each other, and hair found on the victim is only slightly darker than the victim's own."
Sherlock manages to bite out a "Yes," as the pages rustle back down.
"Doesn't necessarily mean it was the brother."
"No, but it is highly probable."
"Not the same as knowing." John grins back.
It's warm in the cab. Too warm. Sherlock gives the knot of his scarf a tug, hoping to loosen it in time to prevent any blushing. From the heat. Obviously.
"The saw horse."
"You know it was the brother because of the saw horse?"
"Yes. The victim was clearly in construction."
"Calluses on the hands, saw dust under the fingernails, yes." Sherlock tugs his scarf off completely, and contemplates opening a window. John seems closer than before, had he moved undetected?
"And was found behind a house currently being renovated. Not professionally, judging by the equipment and materials being used, and, from the number of tools in the area, work is being done by two men only. Two men, going in together to buy a derelict house in Hackney only to resell it at a profit? It involves money- a steep initial investment, along with the time and opportunity cost needed to bring the house up to standards. Clearly an intensive undertaking, and not one to be taken with someone untrustworthy. A trusting- rather, formerly trusting- relationship between the two men, who also happen to bear a striking physical resemblance to one another? Brothers. Obviously."
"Obviously." John mimics, smiling as he injecting the word with warmth. This doesn't help Sherlock at all, nor does the quick dart of John's tongue as he licks his lips. Sherlock can feel a flush beginning on his cheeks, despite his best efforts. "And the saw horse?"
"The saw horse farther from the victim’s location had a tool belt hanging over it, with the last name written quite clearly on the side."
"Could have belonged to the victim?"
"The victim was wearing his, labeled with the same last name." Sherlock clears his throat, mouth suddenly dry. "But you knew that already."
The space between the two of them has apparently been halved by both Sherlock and John, which is marvelous for a number of reasons, none of which he can fully articulate because John chooses that moment to lick his lips again.
"Did I?"
John’s reply is mumbled, and not the wittiest of comments, but Sherlock is in no position to judge as he can't even seem to answer. He can't say yes, it's written on the first page of your notes, listed as an item found on the victim at the time of discovery, because John is closer still and Sherlock finds himself utterly distracted by John's lovely eyelashes, just a shade darker than his enchanting blond hair, helpfully displayed because John is tilting his head upwards, and easily examined because Sherlock is tilting his head down and-
The cab comes to a sudden halt, throwing both men forward.
It's an awkward scramble to get out of the vehicle, and Sherlock admirably resists the urge to strangle the cabbie with his scarf as he throws some folded bills at him; instead, he loops the fabric back around his neck as angrily as possible without asphyxiating himself, and wishes he had paid in coins.
He turns in time to see John give his wristwatch a brief glance before he slides both hands into his pockets, clipboard tucked under his left arm. The action pulls the fabric of his trousers tight across his arse, which occupies Sherlock so thoroughly that it takes several seconds before he realizes John is speaking to him, and not to the door of the restaurant he is currently facing.
"Doesn't open for another forty-five minutes."
That is unexpected. It never actually occurred to Sherlock that Angelo's ever closed. He scratches 'dinner' off of his mental list, created with help from Mrs. Hudson, labeled 'Course of Action for Pursuing a Relationship with John Watson'. Technically, next on the list is 'entertainment', open parenthesis, a film, a show, a concert in the park perhaps dear, do they still have those?, et cetera, close parenthesis.
Sherlock has two opinions regarding that bullet point, first, that he finds all of those activities loathsome, and, second, that crime scenes are far more entertaining. Clearly that aspect of the list has already been visited, and can also be crossed off.
"Would you like to come back to my flat, then? For coffee?"
John twists his neck to grin over his shoulder at Sherlock, "More of a tea man, myself."
Sherlock frowns at this. "According to my sources, it must be coffee."
"Must be coffee? Who told you that?"
"My geriatric landlady, who has taken a frighteningly enthusiastic interest in my personal relationships."
"Your ger- wait, wait- you're asking me in. For coffee. Coffee at your flat."
"Yes."
"You say that a lot."
"You state the obvious frequently. Normally I'd reply with something scathing, but I find it rather endearing when you do so."
"Endearing. Right." John says this as he turns his body to face Sherlock's.
Sherlock is silent.
"Right, yes, I know." The oddest smile is spreading onto John's face, as if he is trying very hard not to curl his lips upward, but finds resistance impossible. "I'm just trying to figure out whether or not you actually want to drink coffee, if it's a deliberate euphemism for sex, or if it's an accidental euphemism for sex."
It takes Sherlock several seconds to process the muddled words tumbling from John's half-smirking lips, and during that time he takes careful notes regarding the red slowly staining John's cheeks. Things click into place rather suddenly: what he has said, what John is saying, and why Mrs. Hudson gave the word 'coffee' so very much emphasis when he was discussing this with her earlier.
"Ah. The third option. That way you can meet your new landlady when she makes us tea afterwards."
"New land- never mind. That sounds brilliant." John's rather nice lips form a full-fledged smile as he steps very close to Sherlock, who is finding it rather hard to take his eyes off of John's lovely smiling lips, which is fine, because John is tilting his head upwards, and they can be seen very well, but even better would be if Sherlock tilts his head downwards, which he does and-
The only thing that comes to a sudden halt at this is Sherlock mental processes. It does not interrupt the kiss.
-----
When Lestrade flicks the light in his office on the next morning, he briefly wonders about the reproduction habits of paperwork. Asexual, perhaps, the letters on a page dividing in two, the words splitting, the paragraphs doubling, until an entire separate sheet pops off? Perhaps they mate, forms sliding and rustling and oh God what is he thinking about.
His desk chair complains loudly when he thuds down into it, and from it he gazes, glassy-eyed, at the paper towers barricading him in. This is probably why he feels so obscenely grateful to Watson when he knocks on the door bearing a paper cup, still throwing thin wisps of steam into the air.
"Morning." Watson smiles one of his many affable smiles as Lestrade makes an indecent noise at his first sip of coffee in lieu of a response.
"You looked like you could use a jump start. And I've got something of yours to return, actually." From his other hand, Watson brings up a thin collection of papers, slightly burnt, severely crinkled, and smelling faintly of tea. A forensics report, upon examination. Mr. Steven’s forensics report.
Lestrade chokes on his coffee. "Oh thank Christ- Watson, you're an absolute saint. How the hell did you get this from Sherlock?"
With his hands in his pockets, Watson just shrugs. "Easy, really- it was on his bedside table. Doubt he'll even notice it's gone, with all the clutter he has."
Lestrade flips through the pages with something resembling awe in his face, "Either way, you're a life save- ...hold up." Very, very slowly, Lestrade brings his gaze back to Watson.
Watson says nothing, just gives an embarrassed grin as his cheeks faintly color pink; Lestrade, cursing his eyes, spies the edge of a dark red splotch, faintly ringed by purple teeth marks, just barely revealed by his shirt collar.
He clears his throat, "Let me just make one thing perfectly clear: under no circumstances whatsoever do I ever, ever, want to hear the exact course of action that lead to you retrieving this report from Sherlock Holmes' bedside table. Alright?"
"Alright." Watson's face is bright red, but his smile is utterly satisfied, and Lestrade tries very hard not to think too deeply about that fact as Watson waves on his way out the door.
Then, Lestrade sighs, pushes the report to the corner of his desk furthest from away from him, and starts his paperwork.
THE END