Sherlock (BBC): Sidekick (2/2)
Title: Sidekick (2/2)
Author: Vescaus
Pairing: John/Sherlock (pre-slash to become slash)
Summary: John is obviously struggling after the incident at the swimming pool with Moriarty. And try as he might, Sherlock cannot uncover why whilst coming to terms with his own internal issues.
Spoilers: Definite ones post 1.03 The Great Game and very minor for 1.01 A Study in Pink
Rating: R
Words: 12K
Disclaimer: See User Info
Sidekick Part I
Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far! I appreciate all your comments. Here is the next installment. Enjoy!
Sidekick
by Vescaus
It was a good three weeks after the incident in the swimming pool before Lestrade became frustrated enough to threaten to assign Sherlock to another inspector (and worse yet, have Anderson present at every scene) before Sherlock decided to go down and offer his statement to Scotland Yard. John had given his quite a while ago but Sherlock had been far too busy conducting his own investigation into Moriarty to succumb to the banality of partaking in the Yard’s required red tape. Sherlock did know when to give up but as punishment for taking so long had to go down to Scotland Yard himself instead of have Lestrade trek to Baker Street.
“This whole investigation would have been a lot faster if you’d just come on your own initiative,” Lestrade had badgered him, like an overbearing mother, as Sherlock stubbornly recounted in detail the moments of the encounter in the swimming pool. Every time he thought about it, it became harder and harder to become detached from the incident. In front of him, Lestrade put his feet up on the table and ignored the smirking look of Donovan from the other side of his office window.
“What good would it had done?” Sherlock asked calmly without looking up. “I told you what was of most relevance at the scene. Moriarty is targeting me that much we already know. Who could possibly have more information about how he and I think and act than myself?”
“That’s beside the point, Sherlock. The investigation in to Moriarty is still a police matter which means you don’t withhold information and go gallivanting off like an excited puppy! I do not want to see another public building destroyed because you decided you could take matters into your own hands.”
Sherlock stared at him piercingly with an expression that implied the Inspector was trying his patience. “What would be the point? I was the closest one to catching him and still I failed. What makes you think that the Yard is going to be able to catch a man who until now completely unheard of and went about unnoticed? No…he wants to play with me and at some point, he will slip up. And when that happens I will bring him down.”
“At what cost?” Lestrade remarked icily leaning forward. It was the first time Sherlock had heard the Inspector sound so dangerously angry at Sherlock as opposed to exasperated. “Yourself? John Watson? More innocent civilians who accidentally get caught in the crossfire of this feud?”
“Any cost will be mine!” Sherlock shouted immediately, slamming his gloved hand down on the table and glaring at Lestrade with glittering grey eyes. For a few moments there was silence and the tension hung thick in the room, electrifying it. Sherlock blinked and looked back down at this statement to compose himself. His sheer need to catch Moriarty did outweigh most thoughts in his mind. He knew Lestrade thought this was a petty but dangerous affair between two prodigies acting like children; Sherlock knew it too but to deny the game would risk defeat. And endanger him and John further. “What makes you think that the few dozen Scotland Yard squad men that you would offer me wouldn’t fall into the pit of casualty if that’s what Moriarty wanted? He knows how we act and how we will act. Procedure will not work here.”
Lestrade didn’t say anything. It took patience but Lestrade had acquired much of that since his association with Sherlock Holmes and deep down, he thought the irony of fate was trying to make him a better person in its own twisted way. Sherlock was manipulative; arguing against a man who cannot be persuaded was completely futile. Deep down, he was aware that catching Moriarty was beyond the Yard’s capabilities but he was bound by the law and wished Sherlock could at least co-ordinate with them and not just use them as and when he fancied. The police were not there simply for Sherlock Holmes’ convenience. So he let out a breath and learnt back in his chair. “How is Doctor Watson anyway?” he suddenly asked instead.
“Fine,” Sherlock murmured distractedly, finding Lestrade’s new track of polite conversation unnecessarily pointless. Disturbing him this asinine task would not help him complete it any faster and get him back to his data.
“Funny, the guy looked like he’d been run over and then reversed over again when I found him at the swimming pool. And to be honest, he didn’t seem much better when he gave his statement last week.”
Now Sherlock paused in his frantic writing and looked up from his tightly crafted statement. “Why the sudden interest, Lestrade?”
“No reason,” the inspector replied with a casual shrug, putting his hands behind his head.
“Yes there is, you’ve never asked about any associates of mine before.”
Lestrade scoffed. “That’s cause you never had any. Someone who’s willingly stuck with you for this length of time - especially after being blown up and abandoned - should be checked up on from time to time. You’ve just made it clear he’s expendable in this game of yours.”
“You gave me the ‘bollocking’ as you so put it at the swimming pool. Don’t continue to comment on matters you know nothing about,” Sherlock remarked angrily. “You called me four days ago and you didn’t ask after John then.” Lestrade didn’t answer but looked at Sherlock, waiting for his response with a small smile. “So why now?”
Sherlock knew that his ability to read people by observing them was astounding. However, even he had to admit that human beings were not logical creatures and were governed by emotional laws sometimes beyond the realms of logical understanding. Sherlock knew that on this finer, more intricate level what was evidently troubling John was more complex than simply the fear resulting from the encounter at the swimming pool. He could admit that he did occasionally require help from people with finer experience in certain areas. Lestrade was a man with basic human understanding, with an ability to connect and see matters on a more personal level. Inwardly, it annoyed him that Lestrade should dare to claim he understood his and John’s relationship better than Sherlock himself; yet Sherlock knew Lestrade had his own ability to read people from a distance with the benefit that Sherlock discarded: with empathy. Amazingly, Sherlock thought that if there was a possibility to understand John’s abnormal attitude recently, he was at the mercy of Lestrade’s good nature. Given the small smirk on the man’s face, Lestrade had information and it would be best not to aggravate the man.
Sighing, he changed his tone to a kinder one. “What do you know?” he asked carefully, in a careful attempt not to sound like this information was the most important thing to him in the present moment.
Lestrade paused before pulling his legs off the desk and bringing his chair forward. Sherlock ignored the sigh coming from the man which obviously hinted at how tiresome this conversation could be. “Sherlock…it’s not my place to say. In fact, I’m surprised you haven’t gotten to the bottom of this yet…”
“I have had a few things on my mind lately. Trying to understand a man who is acting outside his emotional boundaries is a very arduous task at present.”
Lestrade shook his head. “I think it’s more than that. Sherlock, you treat your cases and the people involved in them with a sense of distance because, well, you don’t know them. And that’s fine, that’s good. You have a sometimes enviable ability to not get bogged down in empathy and sometimes…sometimes I wish I didn’t care either. But John Watson, he’s different, isn’t he? You’ve spent so much time with the man in more than just geographic proximity that observing from an emotional distance, like some specimen in your kitchen, is difficult. The man has gotten under your skin, hasn’t he? And now you can’t read him. You care, Sherlock. I’m impressed.” Lestrade sat back, looking rather smug at Sherlock’s obviously confused expression and the tight grip the man was holding the pen. “It’s not fun being the specimen yourself, is it?”
Sherlock’s dark eyes flickered up to Lestrade, the smouldering iris’ giving away his annoyance. Instead of answering, he flicked his hand dismissively. “It’s irrelevant to my question anyway.”
Lestrade rolled his eyes but was evidently enjoying this too much at Sherlock’s expense. “All right. I’ll give you a hint if you want your puzzle. You were with John pretty much the whole time throughout this case. I’m sure you’ve tried to work out based on what you know of John’s whereabouts and actions during those few days what could have happened to make him so distant. However, what about the time you didn’t know? At what point in those few days did you not know exactly what John Watson was doing?”
Almost instantly, Sherlock’s eyes widened, and his gaze snapped back to Lestrade, annoyed that he hadn’t come to this conclusion earlier; annoyed that Lestrade was the logical one, for once. The answer had been so beautiful in its simplicity. “The statement John wrote last week let me see it.”
“Come on, Sherlock!” Lestrade cried, throwing his hands up in the air in a commendable display of fake exasperation. It didn’t require much effort, Lestrade seemed to spend his entire time in the presence of Sherlock exasperated “You know I can’t do that, it’s against the law. My job would be on the line.”
Sherlock stood up and leaned over the desk to speak in a low tone. “Yet I’ve done far worse under your supposed “supervision” and your superiors haven’t thought to demote you yet…”
He couldn’t help but smile to himself when Lestrade after a bout of ineffective and indignant spluttering, got up and went to the filing cabinet to locate the statement. In this case, he could forgive Lestrade for manipulating him, even if it was completely transparent.
*
John was upstairs rifling through a book on poisonous plants when Sherlock burst through the front door, slammed it shut and practically bounced up the seventeen stairs. He swung the door open, probably a little too dramatically but John had become used to his theatrics when entering a room. “What did he say to you?” he asked sternly, not entering the living room.
John simply looked confused for a moment but then his expression neutralised, turning into one of trepidation. “What…are you talking about?”
“Moriarty,” Sherlock spat, whipping his scarf off and then flinging his coat into the chair violently, before putting his hands on his hips to stare down at John. “Now what did he say to you?”
In fairness, John refused to be intimidated by Sherlock’s supreme height and piercing eyes and lifted his chin to stare at Sherlock steadfast. “I don’t think it’s necessary for me repeat it all. You obviously already know otherwise you wouldn’t ask me. What did you do, compliment Lestrade on his new haircut.” Sherlock didn’t answer but cocked his head to the side. After a few seconds, John rolled his eyes and snapped the book shut with a muffled thump before flinging it away. He walked away and then turned around aggressively. “You had no right to go through my statement! It’s confidential. Lestrade should know better.”
Sherlock waved it off. “That’s why you’ve been acting so strange the last few weeks. You weren’t scared by that whole thing with Moriarty. In the same way you aren’t scared about Afghanistan. You’re not afraid to go back out there and you’re not afraid to go back out the streets of London. It’s not what he does that scares you and gives you nightmares; it’s what he said to you.”
“Yes, yes, all right,” John muttered, dumping the dishes in the sink to wash later and trying to push Sherlock out of the way and ignore the conversation. It was apparent he was livid at Lestrade and doubly so at Sherlock. If it had been the reverse, John would have known to simply leave the detective alone until he emerged out of his funk. Sherlock was not as perceptive and subtle when he was on the verge of cracking something that had been mystifying him. Never one to approach sensitive topics with tact, Sherlock tackled problems at the source.
“No, it’s not all right!” Sherlock continued, stalking John into the kitchen and standing right behind him. “You don’t think he’s just spinning you a story? You don’t think he spoke to you to deliberately in that time you were waiting for me? He could have gotten anyone to strap a bomb to you but he did it himself because he wanted your reaction. He wanted to talk to you.”
“Maybe! He likes to play games with people, we’ve seen that. But maybe he’s speaking the truth, Sherlock! You didn’t know anything about me when we first met and still you managed to “deduce” that I was an army doctor with no money and barely any family. If Moriarty is supposed to be your equivalent in crime then I’m sure he’s able to extrapolate much the same but he has the added benefit of regarding our relationship as well. And my role within it.”
Sherlock sneered at him in an unattractive way, as if he considered John’s thought process and insecurities inferior to his own logical ones, unaffected by internal struggles. “So what is this? He talked you into a crisis of confidence? I don’t appreciate you enough?”
John laughed sardonically and in disbelief flinging a tea towel he had used to wipe the mugs to the side. “Yes, yes, because it’s all about you! It’s all about you and Moriarty, nothing else matters outside this little world of yours and it hasn’t for the last three weeks. You’re bloody obsessed with the man. So what am I, huh? What am I, Sherlock, in this game you two are playing? Your glorified bloodhound? The guy who you order around to do the boring and mundane work that you can’t be bothered to do whilst you go off to risk your life? Your personal soldier in this army of one?”
Sherlock paused, unable to answer effectively because he knew deep down there was truth in those words. He had numerous times told John to go off on tasks and whilst the other man complained that he couldn’t sit down for a moment and enjoy a nice cup of tea, Sherlock was never under the impression there was some deeper problem to this. John had never acted like he’d felt exploited or used up until this moment. In his own mind, he couldn’t work out the complex avenues of thought an ordinary person went down and reach the real crux of John’s problem but he was so close. He’d read it in the statement but it was not a confession; only an abbreviated version of a long and painful conversation John had with Moriarty as the other man manoeuvred him physically into a bomb best and psychologically into self deprecation. For the second time that day, since Sherlock read the statement at the station, he wondered how John felt in that agonizing hour before he arrived at the darkened swimming pool. How long had it taken the poisonous ideas that Moriarty fed into his mind to take affect?
He was not surprised at Moriarty’s ability to wheedle his victims into personal crises. He was surprised at how much John believed them.
“He is just using you to get to me.”
John nodded solemnly. “I know. I know, Sherlock and that is the problem. There are roles here whether you like it or not. In this completely crazy scenario, he’s a criminal mastermind - your arch nemesis, because they exist in your world - and you’re the hero.”
Sherlock flapped his hand and turned dramatically in rejection moving away from John in disgust. “I’ve told you before, heroes don’t exist.”
“In this instance they do!” John spat back with equal venom, anger glittering in his eyes and vibrating throughout his body. For a man of small stature, he gave an impressive display of ferocity. “You may not believe in the traditional nobility of the term because you only do this for yourself not for the good of others. You’re a selfish hero. I still think….” He paused, taking a deep breath and when then continued, defeated, as if all the energy had been sucked out of him. “And Moriarty singled you out as the only one with the mental ability to beat him. That makes you in some twisted form, a hero. I’m no different to Moriarty’s minions, his snipers or those other people he strapped bombs to that he tells where to go and what to do. They’re just…useful. But not essential.”
Sherlock glided back over to John and spun the man round, grabbing his wrists to hold him in place. The man was trapped between himself and the kitchen counter that he had backed himself into. In reality, even with John’s bad shoulder, he knew the doctor could twist free from his grasp. There was a hidden physical strength underneath those jumpers and cardigans. There was mental strength somewhere there too, which Moriarty had been trying to stamp out of him. Sherlock couldn’t help but think that being this close to John was actually pleasing to his mind and rubbed the inside of the doctor’s wrists. John remained deathly still and glared at the detective with eyes that resonated with Sherlock as despair and defeat. His breath came out in short and shallow puffs. And it terrified him to think that the soldier that Sherlock saw in the man was dying inside of him. Even if John’s view were completely irrational to his own logical chains, he would have to try to understand. “Is that what he said to you? That you’re expendable,” he asked slowly and darkly, unable to contain his own anger at Moriarty’s manipulative actions. “And you believe him?”
Of course, he didn’t realise that his tone, to John, could be construed as disregard. John, returning to that insatiable anger that Sherlock had grown to love and wrenched his wrists free of Sherlock’s grip to move to the side of their small kitchen. He took a few deep breaths and ran his hands through his hair in agitation.
“Moriarty pointed out a few things to me while I was having that bomb strapped to me. I went from being a soldier, Sherlock, a soldier. I went out to Afghanistan because there was nothing for me here, no family and no adventure. And even if I don’t agree with why we’re out there, I felt like I was doing something to help people. I was with groups of people who I identified with. It was a joint effort by all of us, working towards a goal, working as equals and helping each other out. I was part of something wonderful, Sherlock. And I miss it so desperately. You could never understand that collective purpose, you don’t even see yourself as working alongside the police half the time!
“And then I got shot and do you know what my thought was when I woke up? I was happy I wasn’t dead, but I didn’t want to go home because here I’m neither a soldier nor a doctor. And look, now I’m back where I started! Somewhere I don’t belong. This is your city, Sherlock, your battlefield, it’s not mine. I feel…detached when I’m wandering round here. Even Lestrade and Donovan ask the same question I do of what I’m doing at these crimes scenes and what exactly I’m contributing to anything in the investigations. And Moriarty can see that too.”
“This is just a period of readjustment, you know you’ve contributed plenty,” Sherlock replied dismissingly.
John nodded in agreement. “I thought so too. I thought that this,” he remarked, flapping a hand between them, “with you, would be better therapy that an overcharged session in a chair.” He turned his back again on Sherlock again, staring at the window in the kitchen leading outside into a dark December sky. “But you know what Moriarty said when he told me to get into that cubicle, just minutes before you arrived? He said I was a pawn. Those exact words, he used. In this game between you and Moriarty, nothing else matters…to either of you. You will use any resources at your disposal to destroy each other.”
“That’s not true,” Sherlock retorted sharply, his voice slightly hoarse.
“Isn’t it? This is what my life has become, Sherlock! I do your bidding so you can solve these cases and I’m used as bait by Moriarty to throw you off your game. And he’ll do it again, you know he will. My life should be more than this, Sherlock, more than a damned chess piece!”
Sherlock threw up his hands in frustration, stalking back into the living room and flopping down on a chair to pick up his bow. With careful practise, he ran his fingers up and down the taught strings as if the repetitive gesture could calm him. His attempt to understand John was falling short because all he could see were the self pitying comments made by a man who should know better.
“Do you think you are different to all the other people in the world? People who sit doing boring jobs in their boring offices, getting paid far too much for too little effort but essentially living their safe, comfortable and unexciting lives? At some point people always ask if this is all there is to their lives. And yes, maybe there is! However, pondering and wallowing on the philosophical will not change the situation. At least when you went to Afghanistan, you took the opportunity and acted on this desire to do something ‘meaningful’ with your life, whatever such an arbitrary concept even means in your romantic mind. At least you had the courage. But since you came back from Afghanistan, you’ve just stopped, thinking you’re purposeless. That’s the weakness Moriarty saw, not a brave individual who met a set of unfortunate circumstances; just someone who gave up.”
John’s jaw clenched tightly and for a moment, Sherlock wondered if he was about to be punched in the face. It wouldn’t be the first time. Whilst anger smouldering off John in waves he had yet to show the capacity to physically hurt someone with his bare hands. Sherlock almost wished he would just so he could be rewarded with those unpredictable moments from John that he loved so much and remind him again that the man was, in fact, unique. Either that or maybe he should apologise again. For once, Sherlock despised the silence. “John, I…” he began quietly.
“I’m going out,” his flatmate interrupted instead, grabbing his coat. “If I’m not back, don’t assume that Moriarty has snatched me up to use against you. Assume I’ve left for good.”
He turned quickly and marched out the door, his feet thundering on the wooden steps. Sherlock cursed harshly at himself and flew out after him. “John. John!” he shouted urgently, but was rewarded with the slam of the door as he reached the ninth step.
He was about the follow the man out of the door to continue the discussion on the street if it was necessary. However, something stopped him. “Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson said, from the bottom of the stairs, hidden in the shadow of the corridor leading to her ground floor apartment. It was evident that she had been listening the entire time but Sherlock did not have the energy to be mad at her as well for her blatant eavesdropping. She sounded terribly upset, almost on the verge of tears. “Leave him,” she insisted, grabbing the detective’s arm. “He will come back.”
As Sherlock felt himself gently pushed into Mrs Hudson’s apartment, no doubt to indulge in some over sweetened tea, he couldn’t help but think he’d been waiting for John for a long time. He was beginning to realise that when John was not present, time seemed to slow to glacial level.
*
John did come back - six hours later. He smelt of old varnished wood, beer and stale smoke, a sure sign to anyone that he had spent his time in the pub. What an amateur would have been unable to decipher was that the smell came from the pub only down the road, the one that specialised in world ales. A particular German brand, Sherlock recognised. He himself didn’t indulge in alcohol (except on an experimental level relevant to a case) finding that level of brain numbing to be ineffective even during the long boring days in between cases. On John, there was a sense of familiarity about the smell, as if it suited him. He looked as the man stopped in the entrance of the living room, and noticed Sherlock sitting in a chair reading book instead of hunting Moriarty like a man deranged. Tiredly, he flopped down on the seat next to him and rubbed his eyes tiredly. Sherlock noticed not for the first time the energy that seemed to have been drained from the man; the sad coloured pallor of his face enhanced ringed black circles around his eyes and even eyes themselves were bright from exhaustion rather than intrigue.
“What are you reading?” he asked quietly and Sherlock quirked slightly at John’s apology masked as a question of interest. He closed the book and showed John the front cover, aged and worn from years of reading.
“Wilhelm Dilthey, philosopher - German, of course but this is a fairly decent translation - a man who tried to unlock the philosophy of history.”
John raised an eyebrow as he looked over. “Sounds like a difficult job. I thought you said you didn’t take the whimsical questioning of philosophers as productive.”
“I have a holy bible on my shelf too, that doesn’t mean I take word for word the book of Genesis in the creation of the universe. However, it’s always necessary to keep a well stocked library when engaging in a conversation with people on the subject to be particularly brushed up on the area.”
John sat back in the seat. “Does…this have anything to do with Moriarty, then?”
“No,” Sherlock replied, still sitting straight in his seat but turning his head slightly to regard John with a wry smile. “It has everything to do with you, though.”
It was worth it, the look of confusion on his friend’s face as the eyes widened slightly. “Okay…I’m listening. Is Mr Dilthey going to tell me my place in the world?”
Sherlock smiled slightly and sat back in his seat. “Not so much, like you said, I don’t believe searching for that question is a worthwhile exercise when, like yourself, you could be finding something productive and personally worthy in the time you’re given. No, Wilhelm Dilthey, tried to drag history away from its purely scientific form and the idea that you could use events from the past, observe, analyse and experiment on them to predict how the future events could play out. That an economic depression could automatically lead to unemployment and maybe even war. However, the world doesn’t always run this way. And Dilthey attributed it to the human element of history, the unpredictable thoughts and emotions which govern humans and direct the course of events. It is because of the human agent that we can use history as a rough guide but unfortunately, it can never be one logical and foreseeable sequence like in science, like in physics. Logic…logic amongst man is rare.”
He was rewarded with John’s confusion as he spread his hands as if to say ‘so what?’
Sherlock smiled in response. “So he was right.”
“Who?”
“Moriarty, of course,” Sherlock said and got up from the chair to walk to the window and the scene outside.
He caught the roll of John’s eyes as he continued with his new obsession. “So it is about Moriarty, then.” he asked carefully.
Sherlock looked at the scene outside, the bustling of taxis taking people from A to B; the couples wandering down the street hand in hand oblivious to anyone but themselves; the old woman trying to ensure that her dog wouldn’t rush her off her feet; and the shop owner down the road who was trying to push the threatening number of school children out of his shop. All people self involved in their little lives. “Inevitably at the moment, but not for the reason you think. You said, as I believed myself,” he continued, looking out of the window, “that I had no heart worth mentioning of or in his case, worth threatening. And I don’t deny that I have often regarded it as a positive trait of mine, to not become so involved with what is at stake which could distract me from unravelling the puzzle.
But Moriarty, oh he’s clever, and he’s more observant because he saw what I failed to up until that night three weeks ago. What introvert analysis of myself could never uncover. That the human agent of emotion, compassion - even love - has in fact affected my judgement and my actions. He knows my hunt for him is not driven solely by the need to satisfy my love for the puzzle. And he exploited it. And he will again.” He turned his head slightly and watched John listening with rapt attention.
“He could have gone for Mycroft because for all our rivalry I do not want him to come to harm. I do share DNA with him, after all,” he added disparagingly. “But Mycroft is too eel-like in nature so it would be too difficult for Moriarty to use effectively. Provided he could even find him.” He swivelled from his position to lean against the wall, and folded his arms across his chest and grinned wildly. “That leaves you.”
“Me?” John asked, raising his eyebrows in disbelief.
“You, John, you!” Sherlock cried with enthusiasm. He turned back towards the window placing his hands either side of the wall. “Don’t you see? Of all the mundane, mind numbingly dull people that wander the streets beyond this one, I met you.” He leant his head against the wall, the joy dissipating from his voice and suddenly became sombre. “And that has knocked me off my logical stride and made all the difference to what I do and how I do it. And how Moriarty can use you.”
John sighed, tapping his fingers on his knee and watching them in fascination except at Sherlock. The detective could see the cogs turning madly in his friend’s mind as he processed Sherlock’s rather expressive admission. Still, it was hard to follow Sherlock’s train of thought, often ten steps ahead as his own. “So what, I should be happy that for more than just practical convenience, Moriarty snatched me up because you’ve suddenly developed the capacity to care about one human being?”
Sherlock sat cross legged on the chair opposite John and smirked. “One is all it takes. You are a romantic at heart, John, I thought this would have pertained to your sensibilities. Think of all the dubious actions, including crime, that occur place because someone has placed the one they love above all else and is prepared to do anything for them. Husbands, wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, it’s a sad and plagiarised story that fills books, films and real life. And to a certain degree, I unknowingly fell into the same pattern the moment I saw that bomb on you…where making sure you were out of harm’s way was more important than the case itself. But unlike other people I am simply aware of the lengths I could go already.”
John let out a huff of breath. “I feel flattered, really. But even those who are not sociopaths in the world would admit that if it came down to it, they would pick the person closest to them above strangers. It’s not a bad thing to feel. It is, as you say…human.”
“I know. It was its unoriginality that took me by surprise. This caring lark is rather exhausting.”
Slowly a small smile graced John’s face and Sherlock knew he had gotten through to him the enormity of the issue and John’s place within it. “Try being a doctor,” was the response he got.
Sherlock laughed sharply. “So you agree to a certain extent: you are a pawn in this battle of ours. But for the reason, John, the reason…he never told you that reason you are the one he used and still might. Some might say that was quite an impressive feat given the type of person you are dealing with.”
“Does that worry you?” John asked calmly. “You’re remarkably - articulate - for someone who has difficulty expressing emotion.”
Sherlock considered it for a moment, picking up the book and turning it over and over in his hands. “Mrs Hudson aided me in some techniques,” he said, as if he dismissed her input when in fact, he found it undeniably helpful. For one, Mrs Hudson was able to point out that their previous argument had, in fact, been a fight, not a minor squabble. It seemed that everybody else was better at interpreting the dynamics of his and John’s relationship but himself. Mrs Hudson had been more informative than Lestrade in unlocking John’s true nature. “And Moriarty helped as well.”
John couldn’t help but laugh slightly, although it sounded strained. “Yes, odd that, coming from a man who has no human element himself. None that we can expose, anyway.”
“No,” Sherlock agreed, putting his hands together and rubbing them slowly in concentration. “And that is what makes him so much more dangerous. More dangerous than the Islamists you were fighting because at least they felt primal passion for their cause.” He looked at John straight in the eye and hoped that the man understood that what he lacked in emotion, he made up for in intensity. “People who have lost everything or who have nothing to lose view the world in such a narrow focus. There is no weakness for them.”
What he wanted to say, and what he would never be able to, was that John had saved him and undone him. He hoped John understood; that it was his compassion and his unique Hippocratic expression of the sanctity of life that made him realise the difference between himself and Moriarty. Sherlock may not have the ability or the capacity to care for everyone at stake. Just John was enough and he was coming to terms with the idea that this dangerous element in Sherlock’s life was worth it.
John looked uncomfortable for a moment and looked down apparently overwhelmed by the conviction with which Sherlock had spoken. The man never said anything he did not believe. And although he was looking at human emotion in a logic way, it was still enough to affect the man’s judgement. “You…err…still haven’t answered my question,” he responded quietly. “Are you worried?”
Sherlock looked away up to the mantelpiece. “Would you be disappointed if I said I was? Emotions have the ability to cloud judgement. But do not underestimate the value your presence and input now has in my daily life. I grow accustomed to certain things…your company has become one of them. So I don’t regret that you have aided me in understanding that sometimes there is more at stake than losing the game.” He stopped, realising that his voice had grown louder and louder. “This has become more than a just game to me now.” Sherlock put the book down firmly to emphasize this point.
John sighed and rubbed a hand over his forehead and looked at Sherlock. The detective could see the concern in his friend’s eyes. “I don’t normally over-evaluate my place in the world…I’ve never needed to until I lost the one thing that defined me.”
Sherlock shuffled closer to John in his chair, their knees almost touching. It was a beautiful paradox, his John held within him. He found it endlessly fascinating that John could find no fear in explosions and life threatening situations, so long as he was contributing to a greater cause. So long as he had a sense of purpose. “You are two things, though. A soldier and a doctor. You are still both, if not in action, so do not talk about them in the past tense. They will forever define you, in my mind’s eyes anyway; that is what I saw you when I first met you. I’m sure Moriarty did too. It is just how to adapt those qualities to a new environment.” Sherlock spread his hands. “Our environment.”
John nodded solemnly, picking at a thread on his trousers which meant his hand inadvertently brushed Sherlock’s knee repeatedly. “I’m tired of fighting. With you, that is. And myself. I didn’t mean to make it personal.”
Sherlock steepled his fingers together and brought them to rest on his nose, sliding them up and down in contemplation. “But you did. Or rather, Moriarty did. This was his intention all along because he is very good at finding people’s weaknesses. You…err…shouldn’t feel bad, you know…about falling into his trap.” Sherlock had up until this point barely been able to admit to himself never mind John that he himself had fallen into so deep into the well it was impossible to get out. With every hour he worked, he felt himself be drawn into the darkness of how Moriarty operated and how much danger lay ahead for John. This seemingly endless preoccupation, with Moriarty, which filled his mind every waking moment and which was inextricably linked to his need to protect John, would drive him to the edge of madness. But as he looked at John, their faces so close that it was possible to examine each other’s features in close detail, he felt for the first time, it didn’t matter. Moriarty had correctly diagnosed Sherlock; he was wrong about John.
“Don’t let Moriarty manipulate you in the same way he can me.”
John raised an eyebrow but then looked down, unwilling to meet Sherlock’s intense gaze. The doctor looked down at their knees, almost touching. “You…err…seem to be under the impression that I don’t share any of these same feelings and inhibitions. After all, I did grab the guy from behind with the bomb strapped to my chest so you could get away. Which, by the way, you completely failed at.”
Sherlock let out a sardonic laugh, grabbing the remote control for the TV and switching on Countdown before flinging himself back violently into the comfortable settee. He lifted his knees and wrapped his arms around his legs again, the position he felt most comfortable in when using daytime television as a source of relaxation. Somehow, he felt as though it had comforted John, to know that the great Sherlock Holmes did not function like a cold-hearted machine, devoid of feeling and compassion to show others. He hoped, as the doctor got up to sit next to him, John realised the important role he played.
“I get the impression, John,” he said quietly, “that we are, therefore, both in serious danger.”
John hummed in agreement like he’d known all along. He paused as if struggling to come out with the words that he so wished to say. Glancing slyly at him, Sherlock could see an internal struggle raging through John again. “You could stop,” the doctor said quietly, his voice barely audible over the monotonous sound of Countdown.
“I could what?”
“Stop hunting him, Sherlock. Neither of us wants the other to die. And he will kill both of us if we carry on.”
Sherlock paused himself, taken off guard by John’s comment. The man had actively been involved in his investigations and although he sometimes disapproved of the reasons behind them, never believed Sherlock should stop all together. This sudden change of track by a man who searched for the adventure in life surprised him. “I….I ca…” He himself found he couldn’t formulate the words properly.
“Can’t? Yeah, I thought so.”
“He will kill us anyway, John, whether I am hunting him or not.”
John turned back to the TV. “Yes,” he said distractedly. “Yes, I suppose so.” After a few moments, he looked down and saw Sherlock’s hand was touching him again.
And instead of continuing the seemingly endless conversation on Moriarty, John went down that wonderful predictable in timing yet unpredictable in manner route Sherlock adored in him so much by asking whether he would like some tea. And when he came back with the two cups and Sherlock spent the rest of the evening with his hand laid gently on top of John’s, gently rubbing his palm with a cautious thumb, the doctor didn’t say anything. He just let Sherlock sit close and monitor and comfort him in a peculiar but satisfying way.
The End
The story continues in Villain
A/N: The end for this fic anyway. The plot bunnies grew so large that it has now evolved into a series which will chart the relationship from this point. Constructive criticism, as always, is appreciated.
And if anyone fancies being a beta, please drop me a line! I could really do with one.
Author: Vescaus
Pairing: John/Sherlock (pre-slash to become slash)
Summary: John is obviously struggling after the incident at the swimming pool with Moriarty. And try as he might, Sherlock cannot uncover why whilst coming to terms with his own internal issues.
Spoilers: Definite ones post 1.03 The Great Game and very minor for 1.01 A Study in Pink
Rating: R
Words: 12K
Disclaimer: See User Info
Sidekick Part I
Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far! I appreciate all your comments. Here is the next installment. Enjoy!
Sidekick
by Vescaus
It was a good three weeks after the incident in the swimming pool before Lestrade became frustrated enough to threaten to assign Sherlock to another inspector (and worse yet, have Anderson present at every scene) before Sherlock decided to go down and offer his statement to Scotland Yard. John had given his quite a while ago but Sherlock had been far too busy conducting his own investigation into Moriarty to succumb to the banality of partaking in the Yard’s required red tape. Sherlock did know when to give up but as punishment for taking so long had to go down to Scotland Yard himself instead of have Lestrade trek to Baker Street.
“This whole investigation would have been a lot faster if you’d just come on your own initiative,” Lestrade had badgered him, like an overbearing mother, as Sherlock stubbornly recounted in detail the moments of the encounter in the swimming pool. Every time he thought about it, it became harder and harder to become detached from the incident. In front of him, Lestrade put his feet up on the table and ignored the smirking look of Donovan from the other side of his office window.
“What good would it had done?” Sherlock asked calmly without looking up. “I told you what was of most relevance at the scene. Moriarty is targeting me that much we already know. Who could possibly have more information about how he and I think and act than myself?”
“That’s beside the point, Sherlock. The investigation in to Moriarty is still a police matter which means you don’t withhold information and go gallivanting off like an excited puppy! I do not want to see another public building destroyed because you decided you could take matters into your own hands.”
Sherlock stared at him piercingly with an expression that implied the Inspector was trying his patience. “What would be the point? I was the closest one to catching him and still I failed. What makes you think that the Yard is going to be able to catch a man who until now completely unheard of and went about unnoticed? No…he wants to play with me and at some point, he will slip up. And when that happens I will bring him down.”
“At what cost?” Lestrade remarked icily leaning forward. It was the first time Sherlock had heard the Inspector sound so dangerously angry at Sherlock as opposed to exasperated. “Yourself? John Watson? More innocent civilians who accidentally get caught in the crossfire of this feud?”
“Any cost will be mine!” Sherlock shouted immediately, slamming his gloved hand down on the table and glaring at Lestrade with glittering grey eyes. For a few moments there was silence and the tension hung thick in the room, electrifying it. Sherlock blinked and looked back down at this statement to compose himself. His sheer need to catch Moriarty did outweigh most thoughts in his mind. He knew Lestrade thought this was a petty but dangerous affair between two prodigies acting like children; Sherlock knew it too but to deny the game would risk defeat. And endanger him and John further. “What makes you think that the few dozen Scotland Yard squad men that you would offer me wouldn’t fall into the pit of casualty if that’s what Moriarty wanted? He knows how we act and how we will act. Procedure will not work here.”
Lestrade didn’t say anything. It took patience but Lestrade had acquired much of that since his association with Sherlock Holmes and deep down, he thought the irony of fate was trying to make him a better person in its own twisted way. Sherlock was manipulative; arguing against a man who cannot be persuaded was completely futile. Deep down, he was aware that catching Moriarty was beyond the Yard’s capabilities but he was bound by the law and wished Sherlock could at least co-ordinate with them and not just use them as and when he fancied. The police were not there simply for Sherlock Holmes’ convenience. So he let out a breath and learnt back in his chair. “How is Doctor Watson anyway?” he suddenly asked instead.
“Fine,” Sherlock murmured distractedly, finding Lestrade’s new track of polite conversation unnecessarily pointless. Disturbing him this asinine task would not help him complete it any faster and get him back to his data.
“Funny, the guy looked like he’d been run over and then reversed over again when I found him at the swimming pool. And to be honest, he didn’t seem much better when he gave his statement last week.”
Now Sherlock paused in his frantic writing and looked up from his tightly crafted statement. “Why the sudden interest, Lestrade?”
“No reason,” the inspector replied with a casual shrug, putting his hands behind his head.
“Yes there is, you’ve never asked about any associates of mine before.”
Lestrade scoffed. “That’s cause you never had any. Someone who’s willingly stuck with you for this length of time - especially after being blown up and abandoned - should be checked up on from time to time. You’ve just made it clear he’s expendable in this game of yours.”
“You gave me the ‘bollocking’ as you so put it at the swimming pool. Don’t continue to comment on matters you know nothing about,” Sherlock remarked angrily. “You called me four days ago and you didn’t ask after John then.” Lestrade didn’t answer but looked at Sherlock, waiting for his response with a small smile. “So why now?”
Sherlock knew that his ability to read people by observing them was astounding. However, even he had to admit that human beings were not logical creatures and were governed by emotional laws sometimes beyond the realms of logical understanding. Sherlock knew that on this finer, more intricate level what was evidently troubling John was more complex than simply the fear resulting from the encounter at the swimming pool. He could admit that he did occasionally require help from people with finer experience in certain areas. Lestrade was a man with basic human understanding, with an ability to connect and see matters on a more personal level. Inwardly, it annoyed him that Lestrade should dare to claim he understood his and John’s relationship better than Sherlock himself; yet Sherlock knew Lestrade had his own ability to read people from a distance with the benefit that Sherlock discarded: with empathy. Amazingly, Sherlock thought that if there was a possibility to understand John’s abnormal attitude recently, he was at the mercy of Lestrade’s good nature. Given the small smirk on the man’s face, Lestrade had information and it would be best not to aggravate the man.
Sighing, he changed his tone to a kinder one. “What do you know?” he asked carefully, in a careful attempt not to sound like this information was the most important thing to him in the present moment.
Lestrade paused before pulling his legs off the desk and bringing his chair forward. Sherlock ignored the sigh coming from the man which obviously hinted at how tiresome this conversation could be. “Sherlock…it’s not my place to say. In fact, I’m surprised you haven’t gotten to the bottom of this yet…”
“I have had a few things on my mind lately. Trying to understand a man who is acting outside his emotional boundaries is a very arduous task at present.”
Lestrade shook his head. “I think it’s more than that. Sherlock, you treat your cases and the people involved in them with a sense of distance because, well, you don’t know them. And that’s fine, that’s good. You have a sometimes enviable ability to not get bogged down in empathy and sometimes…sometimes I wish I didn’t care either. But John Watson, he’s different, isn’t he? You’ve spent so much time with the man in more than just geographic proximity that observing from an emotional distance, like some specimen in your kitchen, is difficult. The man has gotten under your skin, hasn’t he? And now you can’t read him. You care, Sherlock. I’m impressed.” Lestrade sat back, looking rather smug at Sherlock’s obviously confused expression and the tight grip the man was holding the pen. “It’s not fun being the specimen yourself, is it?”
Sherlock’s dark eyes flickered up to Lestrade, the smouldering iris’ giving away his annoyance. Instead of answering, he flicked his hand dismissively. “It’s irrelevant to my question anyway.”
Lestrade rolled his eyes but was evidently enjoying this too much at Sherlock’s expense. “All right. I’ll give you a hint if you want your puzzle. You were with John pretty much the whole time throughout this case. I’m sure you’ve tried to work out based on what you know of John’s whereabouts and actions during those few days what could have happened to make him so distant. However, what about the time you didn’t know? At what point in those few days did you not know exactly what John Watson was doing?”
Almost instantly, Sherlock’s eyes widened, and his gaze snapped back to Lestrade, annoyed that he hadn’t come to this conclusion earlier; annoyed that Lestrade was the logical one, for once. The answer had been so beautiful in its simplicity. “The statement John wrote last week let me see it.”
“Come on, Sherlock!” Lestrade cried, throwing his hands up in the air in a commendable display of fake exasperation. It didn’t require much effort, Lestrade seemed to spend his entire time in the presence of Sherlock exasperated “You know I can’t do that, it’s against the law. My job would be on the line.”
Sherlock stood up and leaned over the desk to speak in a low tone. “Yet I’ve done far worse under your supposed “supervision” and your superiors haven’t thought to demote you yet…”
He couldn’t help but smile to himself when Lestrade after a bout of ineffective and indignant spluttering, got up and went to the filing cabinet to locate the statement. In this case, he could forgive Lestrade for manipulating him, even if it was completely transparent.
*
John was upstairs rifling through a book on poisonous plants when Sherlock burst through the front door, slammed it shut and practically bounced up the seventeen stairs. He swung the door open, probably a little too dramatically but John had become used to his theatrics when entering a room. “What did he say to you?” he asked sternly, not entering the living room.
John simply looked confused for a moment but then his expression neutralised, turning into one of trepidation. “What…are you talking about?”
“Moriarty,” Sherlock spat, whipping his scarf off and then flinging his coat into the chair violently, before putting his hands on his hips to stare down at John. “Now what did he say to you?”
In fairness, John refused to be intimidated by Sherlock’s supreme height and piercing eyes and lifted his chin to stare at Sherlock steadfast. “I don’t think it’s necessary for me repeat it all. You obviously already know otherwise you wouldn’t ask me. What did you do, compliment Lestrade on his new haircut.” Sherlock didn’t answer but cocked his head to the side. After a few seconds, John rolled his eyes and snapped the book shut with a muffled thump before flinging it away. He walked away and then turned around aggressively. “You had no right to go through my statement! It’s confidential. Lestrade should know better.”
Sherlock waved it off. “That’s why you’ve been acting so strange the last few weeks. You weren’t scared by that whole thing with Moriarty. In the same way you aren’t scared about Afghanistan. You’re not afraid to go back out there and you’re not afraid to go back out the streets of London. It’s not what he does that scares you and gives you nightmares; it’s what he said to you.”
“Yes, yes, all right,” John muttered, dumping the dishes in the sink to wash later and trying to push Sherlock out of the way and ignore the conversation. It was apparent he was livid at Lestrade and doubly so at Sherlock. If it had been the reverse, John would have known to simply leave the detective alone until he emerged out of his funk. Sherlock was not as perceptive and subtle when he was on the verge of cracking something that had been mystifying him. Never one to approach sensitive topics with tact, Sherlock tackled problems at the source.
“No, it’s not all right!” Sherlock continued, stalking John into the kitchen and standing right behind him. “You don’t think he’s just spinning you a story? You don’t think he spoke to you to deliberately in that time you were waiting for me? He could have gotten anyone to strap a bomb to you but he did it himself because he wanted your reaction. He wanted to talk to you.”
“Maybe! He likes to play games with people, we’ve seen that. But maybe he’s speaking the truth, Sherlock! You didn’t know anything about me when we first met and still you managed to “deduce” that I was an army doctor with no money and barely any family. If Moriarty is supposed to be your equivalent in crime then I’m sure he’s able to extrapolate much the same but he has the added benefit of regarding our relationship as well. And my role within it.”
Sherlock sneered at him in an unattractive way, as if he considered John’s thought process and insecurities inferior to his own logical ones, unaffected by internal struggles. “So what is this? He talked you into a crisis of confidence? I don’t appreciate you enough?”
John laughed sardonically and in disbelief flinging a tea towel he had used to wipe the mugs to the side. “Yes, yes, because it’s all about you! It’s all about you and Moriarty, nothing else matters outside this little world of yours and it hasn’t for the last three weeks. You’re bloody obsessed with the man. So what am I, huh? What am I, Sherlock, in this game you two are playing? Your glorified bloodhound? The guy who you order around to do the boring and mundane work that you can’t be bothered to do whilst you go off to risk your life? Your personal soldier in this army of one?”
Sherlock paused, unable to answer effectively because he knew deep down there was truth in those words. He had numerous times told John to go off on tasks and whilst the other man complained that he couldn’t sit down for a moment and enjoy a nice cup of tea, Sherlock was never under the impression there was some deeper problem to this. John had never acted like he’d felt exploited or used up until this moment. In his own mind, he couldn’t work out the complex avenues of thought an ordinary person went down and reach the real crux of John’s problem but he was so close. He’d read it in the statement but it was not a confession; only an abbreviated version of a long and painful conversation John had with Moriarty as the other man manoeuvred him physically into a bomb best and psychologically into self deprecation. For the second time that day, since Sherlock read the statement at the station, he wondered how John felt in that agonizing hour before he arrived at the darkened swimming pool. How long had it taken the poisonous ideas that Moriarty fed into his mind to take affect?
He was not surprised at Moriarty’s ability to wheedle his victims into personal crises. He was surprised at how much John believed them.
“He is just using you to get to me.”
John nodded solemnly. “I know. I know, Sherlock and that is the problem. There are roles here whether you like it or not. In this completely crazy scenario, he’s a criminal mastermind - your arch nemesis, because they exist in your world - and you’re the hero.”
Sherlock flapped his hand and turned dramatically in rejection moving away from John in disgust. “I’ve told you before, heroes don’t exist.”
“In this instance they do!” John spat back with equal venom, anger glittering in his eyes and vibrating throughout his body. For a man of small stature, he gave an impressive display of ferocity. “You may not believe in the traditional nobility of the term because you only do this for yourself not for the good of others. You’re a selfish hero. I still think….” He paused, taking a deep breath and when then continued, defeated, as if all the energy had been sucked out of him. “And Moriarty singled you out as the only one with the mental ability to beat him. That makes you in some twisted form, a hero. I’m no different to Moriarty’s minions, his snipers or those other people he strapped bombs to that he tells where to go and what to do. They’re just…useful. But not essential.”
Sherlock glided back over to John and spun the man round, grabbing his wrists to hold him in place. The man was trapped between himself and the kitchen counter that he had backed himself into. In reality, even with John’s bad shoulder, he knew the doctor could twist free from his grasp. There was a hidden physical strength underneath those jumpers and cardigans. There was mental strength somewhere there too, which Moriarty had been trying to stamp out of him. Sherlock couldn’t help but think that being this close to John was actually pleasing to his mind and rubbed the inside of the doctor’s wrists. John remained deathly still and glared at the detective with eyes that resonated with Sherlock as despair and defeat. His breath came out in short and shallow puffs. And it terrified him to think that the soldier that Sherlock saw in the man was dying inside of him. Even if John’s view were completely irrational to his own logical chains, he would have to try to understand. “Is that what he said to you? That you’re expendable,” he asked slowly and darkly, unable to contain his own anger at Moriarty’s manipulative actions. “And you believe him?”
Of course, he didn’t realise that his tone, to John, could be construed as disregard. John, returning to that insatiable anger that Sherlock had grown to love and wrenched his wrists free of Sherlock’s grip to move to the side of their small kitchen. He took a few deep breaths and ran his hands through his hair in agitation.
“Moriarty pointed out a few things to me while I was having that bomb strapped to me. I went from being a soldier, Sherlock, a soldier. I went out to Afghanistan because there was nothing for me here, no family and no adventure. And even if I don’t agree with why we’re out there, I felt like I was doing something to help people. I was with groups of people who I identified with. It was a joint effort by all of us, working towards a goal, working as equals and helping each other out. I was part of something wonderful, Sherlock. And I miss it so desperately. You could never understand that collective purpose, you don’t even see yourself as working alongside the police half the time!
“And then I got shot and do you know what my thought was when I woke up? I was happy I wasn’t dead, but I didn’t want to go home because here I’m neither a soldier nor a doctor. And look, now I’m back where I started! Somewhere I don’t belong. This is your city, Sherlock, your battlefield, it’s not mine. I feel…detached when I’m wandering round here. Even Lestrade and Donovan ask the same question I do of what I’m doing at these crimes scenes and what exactly I’m contributing to anything in the investigations. And Moriarty can see that too.”
“This is just a period of readjustment, you know you’ve contributed plenty,” Sherlock replied dismissingly.
John nodded in agreement. “I thought so too. I thought that this,” he remarked, flapping a hand between them, “with you, would be better therapy that an overcharged session in a chair.” He turned his back again on Sherlock again, staring at the window in the kitchen leading outside into a dark December sky. “But you know what Moriarty said when he told me to get into that cubicle, just minutes before you arrived? He said I was a pawn. Those exact words, he used. In this game between you and Moriarty, nothing else matters…to either of you. You will use any resources at your disposal to destroy each other.”
“That’s not true,” Sherlock retorted sharply, his voice slightly hoarse.
“Isn’t it? This is what my life has become, Sherlock! I do your bidding so you can solve these cases and I’m used as bait by Moriarty to throw you off your game. And he’ll do it again, you know he will. My life should be more than this, Sherlock, more than a damned chess piece!”
Sherlock threw up his hands in frustration, stalking back into the living room and flopping down on a chair to pick up his bow. With careful practise, he ran his fingers up and down the taught strings as if the repetitive gesture could calm him. His attempt to understand John was falling short because all he could see were the self pitying comments made by a man who should know better.
“Do you think you are different to all the other people in the world? People who sit doing boring jobs in their boring offices, getting paid far too much for too little effort but essentially living their safe, comfortable and unexciting lives? At some point people always ask if this is all there is to their lives. And yes, maybe there is! However, pondering and wallowing on the philosophical will not change the situation. At least when you went to Afghanistan, you took the opportunity and acted on this desire to do something ‘meaningful’ with your life, whatever such an arbitrary concept even means in your romantic mind. At least you had the courage. But since you came back from Afghanistan, you’ve just stopped, thinking you’re purposeless. That’s the weakness Moriarty saw, not a brave individual who met a set of unfortunate circumstances; just someone who gave up.”
John’s jaw clenched tightly and for a moment, Sherlock wondered if he was about to be punched in the face. It wouldn’t be the first time. Whilst anger smouldering off John in waves he had yet to show the capacity to physically hurt someone with his bare hands. Sherlock almost wished he would just so he could be rewarded with those unpredictable moments from John that he loved so much and remind him again that the man was, in fact, unique. Either that or maybe he should apologise again. For once, Sherlock despised the silence. “John, I…” he began quietly.
“I’m going out,” his flatmate interrupted instead, grabbing his coat. “If I’m not back, don’t assume that Moriarty has snatched me up to use against you. Assume I’ve left for good.”
He turned quickly and marched out the door, his feet thundering on the wooden steps. Sherlock cursed harshly at himself and flew out after him. “John. John!” he shouted urgently, but was rewarded with the slam of the door as he reached the ninth step.
He was about the follow the man out of the door to continue the discussion on the street if it was necessary. However, something stopped him. “Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson said, from the bottom of the stairs, hidden in the shadow of the corridor leading to her ground floor apartment. It was evident that she had been listening the entire time but Sherlock did not have the energy to be mad at her as well for her blatant eavesdropping. She sounded terribly upset, almost on the verge of tears. “Leave him,” she insisted, grabbing the detective’s arm. “He will come back.”
As Sherlock felt himself gently pushed into Mrs Hudson’s apartment, no doubt to indulge in some over sweetened tea, he couldn’t help but think he’d been waiting for John for a long time. He was beginning to realise that when John was not present, time seemed to slow to glacial level.
*
John did come back - six hours later. He smelt of old varnished wood, beer and stale smoke, a sure sign to anyone that he had spent his time in the pub. What an amateur would have been unable to decipher was that the smell came from the pub only down the road, the one that specialised in world ales. A particular German brand, Sherlock recognised. He himself didn’t indulge in alcohol (except on an experimental level relevant to a case) finding that level of brain numbing to be ineffective even during the long boring days in between cases. On John, there was a sense of familiarity about the smell, as if it suited him. He looked as the man stopped in the entrance of the living room, and noticed Sherlock sitting in a chair reading book instead of hunting Moriarty like a man deranged. Tiredly, he flopped down on the seat next to him and rubbed his eyes tiredly. Sherlock noticed not for the first time the energy that seemed to have been drained from the man; the sad coloured pallor of his face enhanced ringed black circles around his eyes and even eyes themselves were bright from exhaustion rather than intrigue.
“What are you reading?” he asked quietly and Sherlock quirked slightly at John’s apology masked as a question of interest. He closed the book and showed John the front cover, aged and worn from years of reading.
“Wilhelm Dilthey, philosopher - German, of course but this is a fairly decent translation - a man who tried to unlock the philosophy of history.”
John raised an eyebrow as he looked over. “Sounds like a difficult job. I thought you said you didn’t take the whimsical questioning of philosophers as productive.”
“I have a holy bible on my shelf too, that doesn’t mean I take word for word the book of Genesis in the creation of the universe. However, it’s always necessary to keep a well stocked library when engaging in a conversation with people on the subject to be particularly brushed up on the area.”
John sat back in the seat. “Does…this have anything to do with Moriarty, then?”
“No,” Sherlock replied, still sitting straight in his seat but turning his head slightly to regard John with a wry smile. “It has everything to do with you, though.”
It was worth it, the look of confusion on his friend’s face as the eyes widened slightly. “Okay…I’m listening. Is Mr Dilthey going to tell me my place in the world?”
Sherlock smiled slightly and sat back in his seat. “Not so much, like you said, I don’t believe searching for that question is a worthwhile exercise when, like yourself, you could be finding something productive and personally worthy in the time you’re given. No, Wilhelm Dilthey, tried to drag history away from its purely scientific form and the idea that you could use events from the past, observe, analyse and experiment on them to predict how the future events could play out. That an economic depression could automatically lead to unemployment and maybe even war. However, the world doesn’t always run this way. And Dilthey attributed it to the human element of history, the unpredictable thoughts and emotions which govern humans and direct the course of events. It is because of the human agent that we can use history as a rough guide but unfortunately, it can never be one logical and foreseeable sequence like in science, like in physics. Logic…logic amongst man is rare.”
He was rewarded with John’s confusion as he spread his hands as if to say ‘so what?’
Sherlock smiled in response. “So he was right.”
“Who?”
“Moriarty, of course,” Sherlock said and got up from the chair to walk to the window and the scene outside.
He caught the roll of John’s eyes as he continued with his new obsession. “So it is about Moriarty, then.” he asked carefully.
Sherlock looked at the scene outside, the bustling of taxis taking people from A to B; the couples wandering down the street hand in hand oblivious to anyone but themselves; the old woman trying to ensure that her dog wouldn’t rush her off her feet; and the shop owner down the road who was trying to push the threatening number of school children out of his shop. All people self involved in their little lives. “Inevitably at the moment, but not for the reason you think. You said, as I believed myself,” he continued, looking out of the window, “that I had no heart worth mentioning of or in his case, worth threatening. And I don’t deny that I have often regarded it as a positive trait of mine, to not become so involved with what is at stake which could distract me from unravelling the puzzle.
But Moriarty, oh he’s clever, and he’s more observant because he saw what I failed to up until that night three weeks ago. What introvert analysis of myself could never uncover. That the human agent of emotion, compassion - even love - has in fact affected my judgement and my actions. He knows my hunt for him is not driven solely by the need to satisfy my love for the puzzle. And he exploited it. And he will again.” He turned his head slightly and watched John listening with rapt attention.
“He could have gone for Mycroft because for all our rivalry I do not want him to come to harm. I do share DNA with him, after all,” he added disparagingly. “But Mycroft is too eel-like in nature so it would be too difficult for Moriarty to use effectively. Provided he could even find him.” He swivelled from his position to lean against the wall, and folded his arms across his chest and grinned wildly. “That leaves you.”
“Me?” John asked, raising his eyebrows in disbelief.
“You, John, you!” Sherlock cried with enthusiasm. He turned back towards the window placing his hands either side of the wall. “Don’t you see? Of all the mundane, mind numbingly dull people that wander the streets beyond this one, I met you.” He leant his head against the wall, the joy dissipating from his voice and suddenly became sombre. “And that has knocked me off my logical stride and made all the difference to what I do and how I do it. And how Moriarty can use you.”
John sighed, tapping his fingers on his knee and watching them in fascination except at Sherlock. The detective could see the cogs turning madly in his friend’s mind as he processed Sherlock’s rather expressive admission. Still, it was hard to follow Sherlock’s train of thought, often ten steps ahead as his own. “So what, I should be happy that for more than just practical convenience, Moriarty snatched me up because you’ve suddenly developed the capacity to care about one human being?”
Sherlock sat cross legged on the chair opposite John and smirked. “One is all it takes. You are a romantic at heart, John, I thought this would have pertained to your sensibilities. Think of all the dubious actions, including crime, that occur place because someone has placed the one they love above all else and is prepared to do anything for them. Husbands, wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, it’s a sad and plagiarised story that fills books, films and real life. And to a certain degree, I unknowingly fell into the same pattern the moment I saw that bomb on you…where making sure you were out of harm’s way was more important than the case itself. But unlike other people I am simply aware of the lengths I could go already.”
John let out a huff of breath. “I feel flattered, really. But even those who are not sociopaths in the world would admit that if it came down to it, they would pick the person closest to them above strangers. It’s not a bad thing to feel. It is, as you say…human.”
“I know. It was its unoriginality that took me by surprise. This caring lark is rather exhausting.”
Slowly a small smile graced John’s face and Sherlock knew he had gotten through to him the enormity of the issue and John’s place within it. “Try being a doctor,” was the response he got.
Sherlock laughed sharply. “So you agree to a certain extent: you are a pawn in this battle of ours. But for the reason, John, the reason…he never told you that reason you are the one he used and still might. Some might say that was quite an impressive feat given the type of person you are dealing with.”
“Does that worry you?” John asked calmly. “You’re remarkably - articulate - for someone who has difficulty expressing emotion.”
Sherlock considered it for a moment, picking up the book and turning it over and over in his hands. “Mrs Hudson aided me in some techniques,” he said, as if he dismissed her input when in fact, he found it undeniably helpful. For one, Mrs Hudson was able to point out that their previous argument had, in fact, been a fight, not a minor squabble. It seemed that everybody else was better at interpreting the dynamics of his and John’s relationship but himself. Mrs Hudson had been more informative than Lestrade in unlocking John’s true nature. “And Moriarty helped as well.”
John couldn’t help but laugh slightly, although it sounded strained. “Yes, odd that, coming from a man who has no human element himself. None that we can expose, anyway.”
“No,” Sherlock agreed, putting his hands together and rubbing them slowly in concentration. “And that is what makes him so much more dangerous. More dangerous than the Islamists you were fighting because at least they felt primal passion for their cause.” He looked at John straight in the eye and hoped that the man understood that what he lacked in emotion, he made up for in intensity. “People who have lost everything or who have nothing to lose view the world in such a narrow focus. There is no weakness for them.”
What he wanted to say, and what he would never be able to, was that John had saved him and undone him. He hoped John understood; that it was his compassion and his unique Hippocratic expression of the sanctity of life that made him realise the difference between himself and Moriarty. Sherlock may not have the ability or the capacity to care for everyone at stake. Just John was enough and he was coming to terms with the idea that this dangerous element in Sherlock’s life was worth it.
John looked uncomfortable for a moment and looked down apparently overwhelmed by the conviction with which Sherlock had spoken. The man never said anything he did not believe. And although he was looking at human emotion in a logic way, it was still enough to affect the man’s judgement. “You…err…still haven’t answered my question,” he responded quietly. “Are you worried?”
Sherlock looked away up to the mantelpiece. “Would you be disappointed if I said I was? Emotions have the ability to cloud judgement. But do not underestimate the value your presence and input now has in my daily life. I grow accustomed to certain things…your company has become one of them. So I don’t regret that you have aided me in understanding that sometimes there is more at stake than losing the game.” He stopped, realising that his voice had grown louder and louder. “This has become more than a just game to me now.” Sherlock put the book down firmly to emphasize this point.
John sighed and rubbed a hand over his forehead and looked at Sherlock. The detective could see the concern in his friend’s eyes. “I don’t normally over-evaluate my place in the world…I’ve never needed to until I lost the one thing that defined me.”
Sherlock shuffled closer to John in his chair, their knees almost touching. It was a beautiful paradox, his John held within him. He found it endlessly fascinating that John could find no fear in explosions and life threatening situations, so long as he was contributing to a greater cause. So long as he had a sense of purpose. “You are two things, though. A soldier and a doctor. You are still both, if not in action, so do not talk about them in the past tense. They will forever define you, in my mind’s eyes anyway; that is what I saw you when I first met you. I’m sure Moriarty did too. It is just how to adapt those qualities to a new environment.” Sherlock spread his hands. “Our environment.”
John nodded solemnly, picking at a thread on his trousers which meant his hand inadvertently brushed Sherlock’s knee repeatedly. “I’m tired of fighting. With you, that is. And myself. I didn’t mean to make it personal.”
Sherlock steepled his fingers together and brought them to rest on his nose, sliding them up and down in contemplation. “But you did. Or rather, Moriarty did. This was his intention all along because he is very good at finding people’s weaknesses. You…err…shouldn’t feel bad, you know…about falling into his trap.” Sherlock had up until this point barely been able to admit to himself never mind John that he himself had fallen into so deep into the well it was impossible to get out. With every hour he worked, he felt himself be drawn into the darkness of how Moriarty operated and how much danger lay ahead for John. This seemingly endless preoccupation, with Moriarty, which filled his mind every waking moment and which was inextricably linked to his need to protect John, would drive him to the edge of madness. But as he looked at John, their faces so close that it was possible to examine each other’s features in close detail, he felt for the first time, it didn’t matter. Moriarty had correctly diagnosed Sherlock; he was wrong about John.
“Don’t let Moriarty manipulate you in the same way he can me.”
John raised an eyebrow but then looked down, unwilling to meet Sherlock’s intense gaze. The doctor looked down at their knees, almost touching. “You…err…seem to be under the impression that I don’t share any of these same feelings and inhibitions. After all, I did grab the guy from behind with the bomb strapped to my chest so you could get away. Which, by the way, you completely failed at.”
Sherlock let out a sardonic laugh, grabbing the remote control for the TV and switching on Countdown before flinging himself back violently into the comfortable settee. He lifted his knees and wrapped his arms around his legs again, the position he felt most comfortable in when using daytime television as a source of relaxation. Somehow, he felt as though it had comforted John, to know that the great Sherlock Holmes did not function like a cold-hearted machine, devoid of feeling and compassion to show others. He hoped, as the doctor got up to sit next to him, John realised the important role he played.
“I get the impression, John,” he said quietly, “that we are, therefore, both in serious danger.”
John hummed in agreement like he’d known all along. He paused as if struggling to come out with the words that he so wished to say. Glancing slyly at him, Sherlock could see an internal struggle raging through John again. “You could stop,” the doctor said quietly, his voice barely audible over the monotonous sound of Countdown.
“I could what?”
“Stop hunting him, Sherlock. Neither of us wants the other to die. And he will kill both of us if we carry on.”
Sherlock paused himself, taken off guard by John’s comment. The man had actively been involved in his investigations and although he sometimes disapproved of the reasons behind them, never believed Sherlock should stop all together. This sudden change of track by a man who searched for the adventure in life surprised him. “I….I ca…” He himself found he couldn’t formulate the words properly.
“Can’t? Yeah, I thought so.”
“He will kill us anyway, John, whether I am hunting him or not.”
John turned back to the TV. “Yes,” he said distractedly. “Yes, I suppose so.” After a few moments, he looked down and saw Sherlock’s hand was touching him again.
And instead of continuing the seemingly endless conversation on Moriarty, John went down that wonderful predictable in timing yet unpredictable in manner route Sherlock adored in him so much by asking whether he would like some tea. And when he came back with the two cups and Sherlock spent the rest of the evening with his hand laid gently on top of John’s, gently rubbing his palm with a cautious thumb, the doctor didn’t say anything. He just let Sherlock sit close and monitor and comfort him in a peculiar but satisfying way.
The End
The story continues in Villain
A/N: The end for this fic anyway. The plot bunnies grew so large that it has now evolved into a series which will chart the relationship from this point. Constructive criticism, as always, is appreciated.
And if anyone fancies being a beta, please drop me a line! I could really do with one.