Sherlock Holmes in New York (pt 3)
Title: Sherlock Holmes in New York
Rating: R for language, violence, allusions to sexuality, drug use
Pairing: Sherlock/ Irene Adler (past), Sherlock/ John bromance (or pre-slash, if you have your slash goggles on)
Warnings: Nothing extremely graphic, see rating.
Spoilers: All three episodes to be safe.
Wordcount: 24,400
Summary: When Sherlock tracks Moriarty to New York City, he's drawn in to helping an old friend. John isn't sure what to make of any of it.
Betas/ Britpickers: pantropia, herovillian, brewsternorth, marshmellowed
Continued from pt 2
22 September
Sherlock hadn't spoken a word to John in the two hours since the conversation with Mycroft. John had tried to keep details to a minimum, omitting the fact that Sherlock had a more personal connection to the case than just Moriarty, but Mycroft was just as adept at sniffing out lies as his brother. He'd requested to be put on speaker-phone. The black look Sherlock had given the doctor promised weeks of noxious and potentially hazardous experimentation when they returned home.
“Sherlock, I do get the feeling that there's something your Dr. Watson isn't telling me. Would it have something to do with the boy's parentage, perhaps?”
“That's none of your business, Mycroft.”
“Oh, but I believe it is, since this has quickly become a family matter. I see from his most recent passport photo that he's inherited Mummy's cheekbones. She would have been so delighted. Ms. Adler, my condolences on the loss of your father last year.”
“Thank you,” she had mumbled, confusion and unease written large on her face. She'd looked to John, eyebrows raised in a question.
John had answered with a silent shake of his head. “Later,” he'd mouthed.
“I believe you'll find that by eight AM Eastern Standard time, you'll have consultant status with the New York branch of the FBI. An agent will be assigned to the case and will be in contact. Dr. Watson, in the meantime do acquire a firearm. This shouldn't be difficult, as it is the States. Strictly speaking, unless one has a green card, there is a ninety day waiting period, but since you don't seem to have any compunction regarding the use of illegal firearms, I suggest you pursue other options. You can both also assume that your accommodations have been compromised. If Ms. Adler would be so kind as to extend her hospitality for the duration of her son's absence, I believe the process of finding him would be smoother.” At that, Irene's eyes had bugged and her cheeks had coloured. John had given an apologetic half shrug in response. “Ms. Adler, I would also strongly suggest you don't leave your residence unaccompanied. Dr. Watson, please do keep us updated.” The phone had gone silent then.
Sherlock perched on Irene's plush red velveteen couch with Nero's laptop, working through the browser history. John had Irene's laptop and the two of them worked on plotting the boy's usual route, along with his common detours, on a map of Manhattan. They had a rough timetable of his afternoon.
John had given Irene a brief run-down of Moriarty while Sherlock had poked through the boy's bedroom. He'd been vague about the serial suicides and the bombs, and left out most of the details about the pool. He'd had to explain the part about burning Sherlock's heart out though, since Moriarty had used his opening move to reinforce that message.
John leaned back and yawned, blinking a few times and stretching his arms. He hadn't slept for more than ten hours in total since they'd arrived in New York.
“You may as well get some sleep. There won't be much to do until we can get access to the crime scene,” Sherlock said without looking up.
“I have a guest room upstairs,” Irene offered.
“Thanks. Think I'd rather stay close by though, if it's all the same. The chair is fine.”
“You could at least take the couch.”
“In case you haven't noticed, the couch is already occupied,” Sherlock said, annoyance evident in his voice.
“Don't be an ass. There's like a million other places to sit. Just move so John can lay down.”
“I'm comfortable here.”
“John will be too. Move.”
With a huff and a glare, Sherlock relocated to the chair farthest from the couch.
“I'll get you a blanket and a pillow.” Irene disappeared upstairs.
“So...” John began.
“No.”
“You don't even know what I was going to say.”
“Probably going to try to ferret out my feelings, which you should know by now is pointless.”
John left it for later. “Found anything helpful?”
“You would know if I did.”
Irene returned with a fleece blanket and a pillow. John thanked her and settled in with a sigh.
Sherlock hadn't been this closed off with him since the first few cases they'd worked together. He knew that even though Sherlock was devoting most of his considerable brain power to the missing boy and Moriarty, somewhere in the background he was actively suppressing any and all feelings. Emotion slowed the man down. Still, this kind of revelation could be devastating. John wasn't sure of Sherlock's feelings beyond anger and betrayal. He wasn't sure how he would feel, if it were the case. He'd like to think that if he'd gotten Mary (his first love, they used to have quick and mostly-clothed sex on the Jones' sofa when she babysat) pregnant, she would have told him and they'd have decided together. He would have done the right thing. He tried to imagine being married with a family at a young age. A wife and children were things he'd always more or less wanted, vaguely thought that he might still have in the future, married and kids was what you did. For him, he'd just kept putting it off. Having a family as a soldier was a difficult thing. But he was getting sidetracked.
What about Irene? She didn't seem the violent type, but Sherlock had been pushing her. Irene had said he brought out the worst in her. She'd said she hadn't hit anyone since she was a kid, but kid was subjective. She'd had her son when she was a kid. Had they been in an abusive relationship? John had never seen Sherlock hit someone out of anger, only self defence. Even then, it was never to hurt, but to subdue. John felt he knew Sherlock well enough to assume he wasn't the type to get physical. Then again, he hadn't pegged him for a junkie either. He was verbally abusive to almost everyone. Sometimes he did it without realizing he was being terrible, but other times it came from wanting to hurt someone. Usually to break them during a case, or when he felt cornered. John could count on one hand the number of times Sherlock had willingly tried to hurt John's feelings, really hurt him. Each time John had declined to escalate the situation and left. The first twenty years of his life had prepared him for dealing with that kind of thing. He'd been tempted at those times to snarl something equally nasty back, but always stopped himself and went somewhere to cool off. John the peacemaker and all that. He wondered if he was an enabler. Most people in that role would vehemently deny any wrongdoing on the part of the other party. Or worse, rationalize it. If anything, John fell into that latter category.
He'd realized early on that Sherlock's deeply (deeply) buried insecurities made him more sensitive to insults from people he was close to- a small number, to be sure, but even Sherlock had people he relied on for comfort and stability in some form. John suspected that this was the ultimate source of the aggression toward Mycroft. Sherlock was certainly no helpless child, but he displayed the emotional reactions of one. John often felt the need to protect him and explain “normal” responses to him. For all the man's observational skill of the world at large, he was startlingly lacking in empathy (unless it suited him). This fact had probably led to the diagnosis of sociopathy, which John suspected Sherlock had been saddled with at an early age, or labelled himself with. He'd done a psych rotation in his run-through training, but it was hardly comprehensive. Maybe when he got home he'd have another look at the ICD-10 again...
John felt himself drifting farther into a tangent on Sherlock. It wasn't uncommon for him to fall asleep while puzzling over some aspect of the man. Like walking the Hampton Court maze. Spiralling inward until the heart of the matter was uncovered and circling back out....
John awoke to soft voices from the kitchen. He strained to listen to the conversation, but the house was old and solid- thick plaster walls and heavy wood muffled the sounds. He got up quietly, making his way to the door of the lounge. He didn't risk getting closer for fear of discovery. It was a bit devious, and he should feel more guilt for eavesdropping, but it could be something to do with the case. If it was, he would announce himself and have Sherlock bring him up to speed. If not, he didn't want to disturb them. The acoustics of the hallway were much better than inside the room, and John could hear the conversation with perfect clarity.
Irene's voice was soft and a little sad. “It was my choice. I did think about it, I really did, but I was more afraid of that than going through everything else.”
“It's a relatively simple procedure.”
“Physically,” she snorted. “Living with myself after though? Jersey might not be as bad as the south, but it's still like one of the most heinous things you can do. It would be like wearing a scarlet A over my uterus- everyone who knew would have judged me. The guilt would have followed me around forever.”
John felt his cheeks burning with shame. He shouldn't be listening to this. He should just go back over to the couch and lay down again, feign sleep until their private moment was over. Morbid curiosity won over guilt, and John found himself holding his breath.
“Maybe if I had been older, I would have thought of it differently. I probably would have done it. Back then though... I dunno. It was a scary thing.” She paused and exhaled loudly. Smoking another cigarette. “I don't regret it. Not ever. It's so cliché, but from the second I first held him, I knew he was going to be the person who changed my life forever. I had this tiny little human that was going to love me, no matter what.” She choked on a sob.
There was a rustling of fabric. The tenderness in Sherlock's voice startled John. “Irene.” A muffled sob. “Why did you name him Nero?”
A watery laugh. “After you, kinda. Nero Wolfe, E-O, O-E, Sherlock Holmes... Nero seemed to fit. I had this image of you playing your violin and me dancing as London burned. It was all very poetic. I was listening to Pablo Honey a lot at the time.”
Sherlock's rich baritone chuckle. More silence. Irene's sniffles. Sherlock, soft and almost vulnerable, “Why didn't you tell me?”
“You know how we were. It would be like in Trainspotting, when they find the dead baby. I don't even want to think about it.”
“Maybe not.”
“Would you have wanted it? Married with a baby before you ever got to college? Buckling down, getting a job... We'd be miserable, and we'd never have gotten to where we are now. You wouldn't have left me high and dry, but we'd've resented each other, just like my parents. Just like your parents.”
Sherlock hummed in response. There was a click of a lighter, then another. “He used to ask me about you, when he was little. I always told myself I'd be completely honest and open with him, but how do you tell your seven-year-old that Mommy and Daddy were juvenile delinquents, ya know? I didn't want him to grow up hating you for not being here, either. He knows you live in England. And that you're like the smartest man on the planet. When my Dad died last year, I really thought about contacting you. We were in Kent, where Dad retired to. Wouldn't have been too much out of the way to go to London. I chickened out though. I figured I'd leave it up to him to find out when he was old enough, if he wanted to.”
“And if he didn't want to? Would you ever have told me?” Sherlock sounded a little raw himself.
“I don't know. Maybe. Probably not. Dunno. I knew we'd have to have this conversation and I was avoiding it. Maybe if I hadn't, maybe if I'd just told you both...” Irene's last words hitched again, followed by more soft sobs and the sound of fabric shifting on fabric. John chanced a look around the doorway.
Sherlock was standing facing the hall, holding Irene close. He rubbed her back gently. He made eye contact with John over the top of Irene's head. John felt panicked for a second, but Sherlock didn't seem offended that his friend had been spying. Sherlock murmured into Irene's hair, “John will be awake soon.” His head inclined ever so slightly to the lounge. That was John's cue to make his way back to the couch.
Irene sniffed. “I think I'll go take a shower. I'll make some breakfast when I get back down.” Soft footsteps padded through the hall and up the stairs. John heard the clinking of two mugs as they were put in the sink. Water running. A sigh.
John gave Sherlock another moment and went to the kitchen. Sherlock stood with his back to the doorway, hands resting on either side of the sink. Smoke curled from the cigarette in his left hand. The early morning light framed the line of his hunched shoulders, making him seem smaller, more human.
“Has your curiosity been satisfied, John?” His tone wasn't scathing, as John has expected it to be, but soft.
“Not as such, no, but it'll keep. Is there tea?”
Sherlock straightened, gracing John with one of his enigmatic half-smiles, which John took as a thank you for not making a scene. He opened one of the cabinet doors and produced a mug, setting it on the worktop. “No kettle. You'll have to use the microwave.”
“Barbarism,” John remarked.
“Quite,” Sherlock smirked.
John went about making his tea. “Have you found anything on the laptop?”
“School-work. Most visited sites in his browser history are about cooking, orchid care, and soft-core animated Japanese pornography. It seems it he was planning on visiting a grocery store, as he was looking up recipes for Peking Duck and had bookmarked a page that stressed the use of fresh Shiro plums in the glaze. The boy prefers shopping at the Whole Foods chain. Most convenient, as there's one on Columbus Circle, right off the 59th Street stop. His MetroCard records confirmed that he hadn't boarded a train or bus after his initial embarkation at Chambers Street. The online banking records don't show any transactions on Monday, but it's possible their system has been compromised or more likely the boy never completed his purchase. The market opens at eight. Irene will go see the manager to determine if he'd been there.”
“You're not sending her alone! She could be the next target!”
“Of course not. You'll be accompanying her. She's also mentioned she has a friend who may be able to get you a gun. Make sure you have cash.”
John blinked. “And where will you be?”
“At the police station, finding out what presents Moriarty has left for us. Then the remains of the nightclub. You may want to go to the hotel and get our things on your way back.”
Continued in pt 4