Cycle 4, Round 3 Entries: #12 - #22

[landlady_hudson]

12.

It would have been romantic, John thought drowsily. If he were in any other situation it would have been just his cup of tea. Her soft body curled so close against him as though she wanted to bury herself beneath his skin, the two of them twisted together like pretzels. For the tiny hedonistic fraction of him just being close to another, feeling the texture of them, breathing them in and tasting them on his tongue was his ideal of being romanced.

She had everything that quickened him as a man. Long pale hair that curled around her face and the back of her neck when pinned up. A sweet smile and a hearty, unleashed laugh. She was gorgeous, with flashing green eyes and a smattering of freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose that he found utterly charming.

So, yes, romantic, had it have been her tongue or her taste filling his mouth just now instead of her hair, lopped off from the base of her skull and shoved half down his throat as a gag and punishment both. Her sweet scent (violets. He'd only met her thrice but all three times she'd smelled of violets) wasn't what assailed his nose, but instead it was assaulted by the acrid, rancid odour of vomit. No gentle breaths or sighs in his ear. Gasps - great, heaving, suffocated gasps of lungs trying to draw the necessary particles from increasingly unbreathable air were almost audible beneath the heavy, loud thudding of his heart.

Thu-thump thump, thu-thump thump, thu-thump thump...

He wasn't panicking yet, not like she was, and even had he not been gagged he could not have spared the breath to try and calm her. To keep his heart rate slow he kept himself still, he breathed shallow - if the slight gasping panting he was doing through his nose could ever be called breathing - and he prayed.

It was dark in the box, and he was grateful for that now, grateful that he couldn't see her face, see the colour it was turning, couldn't see the look in her eyes. When he'd first awoken he hadn't been quite so thankful. His hands which he could no longer feel cuffed behind his back, and Frances had been on top of him then, rambling nonsense at him that he couldn't quite understand. But he hadn't needed to hear the tremour in her voice to know where they were, and to know that it was bad. The distant thudding from above that grew ever more faint as their air grew ever more poisonous, coupled with where he'd found her took care of that for him. Nightmares as a child of being buried alive didn't hold a candle to the horror of the real thing.

She'd thanked him, quite queerly, for being the one to find her.

“I never wanted to die alone.”

John could only shake with silent terror for a moment before he reigned it in, practicality and futile hope forcing him to conserve his remaining oxygen for that Just In Case that rarely - but sometimes - happened to him.

He prayed to the flashing lights as they grew brighter and sharper and Frances finally stopped her horrible gasping, hoped - but didn't invest - in the probability of Sherlock finding them soon. And he screamed in his mind, up in the direction that he thought Heaven might be, that if Sherlock didn't find them soon that he wouldn't find them at all. He couldn't bear the thought of Sherlock finding them too late. Couldn't die with the knowledge of what that would do to his friend. Could not bare... could not... breathe... what... was that...?

A sound? Scrabbling like rats. Oh, God, were there rats in here with them?

No. Stupid. Suffocating brain wasn't working. Wasn't... working... right... Help?

Was that?

No... no... wasn't. Just the... wishful... ears of a dying... man... waiting...

Waiting for his Just In Case.

John reached, grasping at that one more breath, and held it, held it as long as he could.

Thu-thump thump...

Thu-thump thump...

Thu-thump...

Thump...

…

Thud.

13.

Five times Molly lost her heart … and one time she found one

1. The first time Molly falls in love, she is still too small to understand that concept properly. All she knows is that Toby, the neighbour’s boy, has the brightest smile she has ever seen. So she spends all her afternoons playing with him and his cat which is soft and warm and snuggles up against her. Toby is a friendly boy and when his cat gives birth to the cutest little kittens imaginable, he rushes off to Molly’s house as fast as he can to give her the prettiest one as a gift. Sadly, Molly’s mother doesn’t approve of pets and consequently Molly is forbidden to play with Toby anymore. She cries for a week before vowing to hurry growing up so she can make her own decisions.
2. The next time, Molly is old enough to understand her crush, but sadly that isn’t very helpful. Mr. Mason is her secondary school chemistry teacher and suddenly the subject becomes very interesting indeed. As Molly loves to listen to his explanations and intently hangs on his every word (not only for science), she hardly notices how her grades subsequently improve. Her parents do, though, and for the very first time Molly feels what it is like to be the favourite child. When she expresses interest in studying chemistry or maybe medicine, her parents could not have been prouder. The next year, Molly gets a new chemistry teacher and Mr. Mason is soon forgotten - Molly’s interest in all things scientific, however, remains.
3. The third time Molly falls in love, she already is a university student and living on her own in a tiny bedsit. She is always busy studying and since that doesn’t leave much time for cooking, most of her meals consist of canteen food. For her first birthday not at home she decides to order a celebratory pizza and as soon as she sees the pizza delivery boy, she has lost her heart again. She can’t really pin down what so special about him - maybe his wild curls or the cute way he says “Here’s your pizza, hope you enjoy it.” - but for the next few weeks she eats pizza every day until she has spent all her allowance and put on 5 pounds.
4. Molly makes it through university without losing her heart once until the day she starts working at Bart’s. Nobody has warned her about Sherlock, so she is completely unprepared when he strides into the morgue for the first time and starts giving her orders. As Molly is too perplexed to argue, she follows Sherlock’s every wishes and when in the end he smiles at her, she feels that it was fully worth it. Sherlock has Toby’s smile, Mr. Mason’s intellect and the pizza boy’s curls, so what more could she ever want? For years all of Molly’s dreams revolve around a certain consulting detective and when a little voice in her head sometimes whispers that he only toys with her, she firmly tells it to shut up.
5. The fifth time, everything is perfect, especially in all the ways Jim isn’t like Sherlock at all. He is friendly, caring and actually listens when she tells him about her small worries and big dreams. When she needs help with her computer, he explains everything patiently and without even making fun of her once. Within a day, Molly has lost her heart to Jim, although she still stutters when Sherlock comes unexpectedly close, so a small part of it is probably left in his possession. Everything between her and Jim is wonderful until suddenly the world turns upside down and it is everything but. Molly feels she has never made a more stupid decision in her life.


6. Finally, Molly is perfectly happy on her own. That’s why she will just put the pilot’s cap she has found yesterday on the table and sneak out before he can show up as arranged. And indeed she has already written a short note politely stating her regret and turned to leave when she sees him entering the restaurant and recognises the look in his eyes. It speaks of hope and love and - when he sees the lonely hat on the empty table - of kicked puppies. As he reminds her distractingly of Sherlock, it takes Molly a moment to realise that she has not only found his cap, but his heart. So how can she not turn back, smile at him and watch his eyes light up again with delight?

14.

MISSING:
Grey Yorkshire Terrier, responds to “Jasper”.
Last seen in the back garden of 165 Baker Street.
Beloved family pet, much treasured.
Reward offered.
Contact Debbie, 165 Baker Street.

MISSING:
Probike XRC 2.0 Road Bike.
Navy, with white seat and handlebars.
Taken from garage of 87 Baker Street.
Last seen one week ago.
Reward offered for safe return.
Contact Stephen, 87 Baker Street.

MISSING:
One Early Learning Centre wooden child’s swing set.
Light beech wood, green detail with orange plastic seat.
Removed from back garden of 240 Baker Street.
Present for young daughter; its disappearance has caused much stress.
Please contact Harker family, 240 Baker Street, with knowledge of its whereabouts.
Thank you.

MISSING:
Creda Electric Spin Dryer.
Taken from front garden of 66 Baker Street.
Put out for collection at 9AM but removed before buyer’s arrival at 10AM.
Has caused great inconvenience to all.
No reward offered, but information very welcome.
Contact Jenny, 66 Baker Street.

MISSING:
Ornamental toadstool.
White with red head, yellow spots. 9” tall.
Last seen in front garden of 103 Baker Street, by pond.
Great sentimental value.
Large reward offered.
Contact Michael, 103 Baker Street.

MISSING:
Ornamental toadstool.
Thank you.
Michael, 103 Baker Street.

MISSING:
Ornamental toadstool.
White with red head, yellow spots. 9” tall.
Last seen in front garden of 103 Baker Street, by pond.
Great sentimental value. Much distress caused.
No reward offered.
Contact Michael, 103 Baker Street.
Only honest calls, please.

MISSING:
Football net.
Removed from goalposts in back garden of 59 Baker Street.
Posts remain, but are now unhelpful.
Any information, please contact Kevin and Linda.
59 Baker Street, between 5-9PM.

MISSING:
Stack of Michelin tyres.
Delivery reported to front garden of 220 Baker Street, but upon return no tyres were found.
Foul play suggested, any information welcome.
Delivery much needed.
Contact Richard, 220 Baker Street.

MISSING:
Hedstrom Wavy Slide.
Orange, with black detail.
Last seen in back garden of 11 Baker Street.
Please return ASAP, or contact us if you know any information.
Slides are expensive.
Contact James or Rachel Fyffe, 11 Baker Street.

MISSING:
All of my bandages.
Last seen in MY BEDROOM, UNDER MY BED.
Safe return much appreciated.
Reward available in body parts.
Contact John Watson, 221B Baker Street.
Ha ha no seriously Sherlock give them back.

MISSING:
Consulting Detective. Tall; dark, curly hair; swishy coat.
Responds to “Sherlock”, “Freak”, “Sexy”.
Last seen in 221B Baker Street, could be anywhere.
Reward can be negotiated, if you have any crimes that need solving.
Contact Dr. John Watson, 221B Baker Street.

MISSING:
John Watson, M.D. Average height; light brown hair; fondness for jumpers.
Last seen leaving Baker Street Surgery, 7PM.
Hasn’t attended work for three days now.
Contact Sarah Sawyer, Baker Street Surgery.

MISSING:
Time Machine (??)
221C Baker Street.
Please help.
Mrs Hudson.

15.

John was going to kill him. Sherlock knew that with the same certainty he knew his own middle name (which is none of your business, thank you very much but it most certainly is not Dorian, no matter what Mycroft tells people). "Three days in Swansea for a medical conference and he expects me to watch that blasted thing. It's his own fault, really." In his heart of hearts, though, Sherlock knew differently. John had been concerned but trying to hide it when he bid Sherlock goodbye on Sunday, going over his checklist and ignoring Sherlock's eye rolls and sighs.

"Seriously, Sherlock! Gladstone needs to be walked at least twice a day, more if possible."

"Yes, yes, dog needs to shit out in the park, I understand." Sherlock refused to look up from his laptop until John came to stand directly before him, knees touching knees. "John..."

"I'll miss you, too, you berk." He bent down and pressed a swift kiss to Sherlock's forehead and sighed. "Wednesday afternoon."

Sherlock had been unable to hide his small smile as John left, the pressure of his kiss like a sweet brand on his skin. Until Gladstone had leapt into his lap and licked it off. A lot. That had been Sunday evening and now, now it was three hours until John's arrival on Wednesday night and Gladstone was lost. "What kind of dog slips his leash?" he muttered to himself, striding down the path in the park, said leash clutched in his tight grasp. "A stupid one, that's what," he answered himself. "Doesn't even understand simple commands like 'sit' and 'stay' and 'don't eat those slippers'. No, only knows 'play dead' and 'pee in Mycroft's umbrella'." He paused, smirked a bit and admitted to himself that the last one was actually rather amusing. He glared down the path a bit further and sighed. Gladstone was definitely not in the park. But, judging by the loud ringtone in his pocket, John was on his phone. "Fanbloodytastic," Sherlock muttered before forcing himself to sound calm while he lied to his new boyfriend.

"What's all this, then?" John laughed. Sherlock was waiting for him at the station, practically vibrating with something akin to excitement as he swept John into an embrace, kissing him with surprising fervor and ignoring commentary from passers-by. Finally, when they broke for air, John shook his head with a grin. "If this is the welcome I get, I should go to Wales more often."

Sherlock didn't try to smile--John would know it was fake. He could force himself to engage in public displays of affection and John would accept them (even though he knew how Sherlock preferred to keep such things strictly private and personal) because he was an affectionate person. But he knew Sherlock's smiles were rare and for him to just throw one out in public...well, John would know and right now, the happier he kept John, the better. "Let's stop for dinner. I forgot to go to the shops and, unless you want a stale Whotsit and dodgy boiled eggs, we're better off stopping."

"Wait, you were supposed to get dog food..."

"Mrs Hudson took care of it." That, at least, wasn't a lie.

"Let's just go home. I'm tired, Sherlock, and want nothing more than to order in, curl up on the sofa with you and Gladstone, and just relax."

"I need to stop by the tobacconist," Sherlock said a moment later. "And the news agent."

"Can't it wait?"

"Not at all." The journey home took them by the tobacconist, the news agent, Tesco's, Sainsbury's and finally, when John grew insistent, home.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to keep me out of the flat. Oh, God, we still have a flat, don't we?"

"Yes," Sherlock growled. "We do." He shoved a handful of notes at the driver and ushered John into 221, shutting the door with a decisive click.

"How's Gladstone, then? You never did answer me when I asked earlier..."

"John,the thing is--"

"Here's Daddy!" Mrs Hudson carolled, opening her door to let Gladstone rush out. "He missed his Daddy, didn't he?"

Sherlock stared openly at her as John gathered the puppy in his arms. "Mrs Hudson..."

"Found him by the rubbish bin out back," she murmured just loud enough for him to hear. "Lucky you."

Sherlock felt himself wilt inwardly with relief. John was carrying the puppy upstairs, cooing and giggling like a boy. "Very."

16.

Sherlock has deleted a lot of things from his hard drive over the years.

Extraneous data, of course. Those decisions are easy. John had laughed at him about his lack of knowledge about the solar system, but it isn't as though astronomy were powered on his own understanding of it. The planets had been orbiting the sun since long before there were humans to understand the physics of it; they'd continue to do so until long after the last rational minds were gone.

Upsetting details from his own personal history. He deletes those, not because they aren't important--they are; or, at least they were at the time, and Sherlock does know enough to realise that's its own type of valuable information--but because they're distracting. Mycroft has always found it disconcerting to recount a childhood memory only to find that his own brother has no recollection of it happening. He'd objected rather strenuously when he discovered that Sherlock had deleted the memory of their pet spaniel.

("It's a matter of humanity, Sherlock."

"He was a dog. It was years ago. What possible purpose could it serve, taking up space in my brain?")

*

Some information he never bothers to store at all.

Sherlock doesn't know how to drive, for instance, although he has no doubt that, should the need arise, he'd be able to work out the mechanics quickly enough. He's entirely avoided reading entire sections of the accepted literary canon. There are large numbers of non-European plants whose blooms he wouldn't recognise (though he has relevant websites bookmarked).

*

Some things, he never quite forgets.

His mother's birthday, for one, even though she died years ago. He'd tried to delete it, a few months after the funeral. When it rolled around again the following April, Sherlock had been glad that particular bit of data had stuck.

Mrs Hudson's favourite type of biscuits. Ostensibly because it's useful to be able to curry her favour, though he's hasn't taken advantage of it since moving into the Baker Street flat. Building up capitol, he told himself, the last time he brought her a packet. She's smiled and thanked him, and he'd declined her offer for tea.

That there are seventeen steps up to 221b. It's not necessary knowledge, except when it is: when he's exhausted or hurt, when he knows John's waiting for him. He counts them every time.

Sherlock never forgets how to shoot a gun, despite the fact that Mycroft had successfully kept him from acquiring one after that case with the Serbian diplomat, four months after he moved to Montague Street. (Then John arrives and--to belabour a metaphor--shoots Mycroft's best efforts all to hell. Just for that, Sherlock thinks he'll keep him.)

***

Sherlock finds John's cane propped behind the sitting room door one late summer afternoon. Through the open window comes the sound, not of London traffic, but of the lazy droning of bees.

He stares at it for a long time before picking it up, hefting it in his hands, testing its weight. John watches him do it over the tops of his glasses, not speaking. It feels almost unbearably medical under his fingertips, its metal smooth and cold.

"I don't remember this being here."

John sighs and folds his paper down into his lap. "That's my old cane," he says. His voice is patient; he'd long ago accepted that Sherlock's genius comes with this sort of price.

"You hated it," Sherlock says. "It can't have any sentimental value for you." He's frowning at John as though John himself is a puzzle, as though the answer could be read on his face.

"I did hate it," John agrees.

"You haven't needed it in years. Not since--"

Not since that first night, running together down alleys and up staircases. The first time John had followed Sherlock even though he was wrong (then right, then wrong again); that night Sherlock did something unforgivably stupid and John answered by doing something unforgivably brave.

When he looks up again, John is smiling at him, the corners of his eyes creasing into lines that are, perhaps, deeper now than they once were, but no less kind. "Remembered now, have you?"

The answer Sherlock gives is the truest he knows. "I never forget the important things," he says. "Those, I always keep."

17.

WARNING: Slight violence, Implied torture

A rose by any other name would smell as sweet…
-W. Shakespeare

He found her half sobbing, half sulking in a dark alleyway his car happened to drive by. What drew him to her was the gun that she held in her shaking hand, her finger so close to the trigger. He sighed as he imagined what a scene it would be if she accidentally shot an innocent passer-by. He told his driver to reverse and he got out as soon as they got to the alleyway, opening his umbrella to protect him and his impeccable suit against the rain.

He stopped two feet away from her, far enough not to be intrusive but close enough to discern her mutterings of A name. My name. He took my name. He observed her, her lithe young frame wracked by her angry sobs. Her wet dark hair stuck to her back and around her neck and cheeks and the rain ran in streams from its ends. In tattered men’s clothing, she was able to tell him a lot that he wanted to know about her.

“I can help you find your name.” He drawled, although he knew that that wasn’t the only thing that she wanted. In any case, it wasn’t the thing she needed at this point.

She looked up, her dark colored eyes staring dreamily at him at first and as his words sank in, their gaze hardened. “What did you say?” she murmured.

“I can help you find your name.” He said, carefully enunciating every word. “If that is what you want.”

Suddenly she giggled, “I’d like that very much, thank you.”

===

In the car, he never asked her who she was and how she had ended up in the alleyway. He did ask her what she planned to do with the gun and she had simply replied that she would use it on the man who took her name.

He had taken her home and instructed his housekeeper to give her a warm bath and then had sent one of his underlings to buy some clothes, size 6. While everyone was bustling about their tasks, he had retired to his study where his mind did its brilliant work.

I’ve seen her before. Ah, yes. Government personnel files, part of Spiderweb. Eight person team was to track down certain criminal mastermind with a frighteningly wide network and rumored to have headquarters in Great Britain. Last of the team, if I recall. All the others have been found recently. Brutally mutilated. She escaped place of torture, not without psychological injury though there’s also slight physical injuries. Must have been saved for last as she was the only female on team.

Theirs was supposed to be an extra covert group, if there’s such a term. Their identities shouldn’t have been known outside the inner circle of the bigwigs. Means there is a mole. Stupid bigwigs didn’t bother to investigate when I told them about it. Had to send my own men to look into it.

Still no report on the mole…Maybe in two weeks? My men are good. Perhaps she’d like to join? I’m in need of a highly skilled personal assistant, one with particular training. Can’t usually find those. I’ll ask her later.

After an hour, his housekeeper knocked and informed him that the girl wanted to see him about his offer. He smiled and told her to bring the girl in.

===

“What the hell is this!” He snarled, standing up as quickly as his pudgy legs would let him. “Is Mycroft accusing me of being a mole?” He threw the sheaf of papers in his hand onto his desk.

“It seems so.” She said, smiling but not glancing up from her phone, her fingers ghosting the keypad with astonishing speed.

He barked out a laugh, “That nincompoop! Thinks he’s so brilliant. I’d like to see him up against Moriarty!”

Then he genuinely laughed, loudly. “He has no idea what he’s up against. But you…” He looked down at her as she continued to text. “You and your team experienced his genius, didn’t you? How did you like it?” He sneered down at her, “Don’t you miss being called by your real name?”

“No.” She replied as she looked up and away from her Blackberry and reached into the pocket of her trench coat, “I’ve found better names.”

Then she promptly shot him.

18.

He was looking for someone.

Well. Not someone, not only. Someone, and a pocket watch. The watch might even be more important than the someone. At first, anyway. The watch would lead him to the person, to the shell of the only person who could open that watch and become…

No use getting ahead of himself, though, of course. First he had to find that watch (assuming it existed (but of course it did, all the readings said so, even if the readings could be wrong. They weren’t this time. It was real. He knew it was. (It had to be.))), and the best place to find something that was lost in…what was this, again? Twenty…first. Yes, 21st century London, lovely place, really.

And the best place to look for something that was lost in 21st century London was a police station.

He found a sergeant there, Sergeant Sally (alliteration, wonderful, one of his favorites!), and she told him to ask her boss if he’d seen it, which was splendid advice. Well, actually, she mentioned her boss in part of an ongoing rant about pranks set up by someone she called The Freak, which was hardly polite of her, but it did get him in to see Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, and that was helpful.

Well. He said helpful.

Apparently they all thought he was a joke of some sort, but he wasn’t. He was just an ordinary sort of Time Lord, looking for a watch to find a man to maybe wake up another perfectly ordinary Time Lord who might have been stranded here quite accidentally a number of lifetimes ago.

That wasn’t anything like a joke, in his opinion.

The Detective Inspector’s belief that he was a joke led him to 221B Baker Street, however, and that really was a piece of luck. It might just be the best luck he’d ever had.

Because Sherlock Holmes, now he was something special. He took him in and listened, and watched, and saw. He understood the importance of the watch, and that the events unfolding were the stuff of legend. He had the watch, and the watch was beautiful, and the watch was cracked, and golden light dripped from those cracks like honey.

That was how he’d sensed it. The cracks. If it hadn’t been for cracks in the case created when Sherlock began experimenting on a type of metal that looked gold but wasn’t-

Yes, Sherlock Holmes was a remarkable man.

Then he had the watch in his own hands, and they were warm with the thrumming he never thought he’d feel again, the compressed energy of a different Gallifreyan, one lost here before the Time Wars ever began, so long and never ago, and his hands began to shake until-

He dropped it. The watch.

He dropped it.

And it bounced and rolled away from him to the measured pace of a man’s heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, rattling with the words Where did you find the watch, Sherlock?

Too easy, Doctor. In my flatmate’s room, where else?

And a man stepped inside the doorway, a short man, with sandy hair and deep blue eyes and war cut into his body even though he had been spared the war that should have killed him. The watch bumped to a halt at his feet, and he stooped to fetch it up, and the light of it poured over his hands for the first time since Sherlock broke the case.

And his eyes filled with that light, filled and overflowed until his body burst with it, until the cracks widened and crumbled and the whole of it disintegrated in his hands, underscored by his sharp, low gasp of understanding.

The Doctor stood, watching the understanding settle, watching knowledge blossom and fill the corners of a disguise John Watson hadn’t known he was wearing. He watched Gallifrey burn Earth out of an ordinary man.

John Watson blinked. He breathed. He looked at Sherlock, who watched him like he was the first new light of a supernova. He turned to the Doctor.

The Doctor smiled. “Found you,” he said.

And that was the beginning of them.

19.

“Hey have you seen my warrant card?”

“What?” The male voice called from the kitchen.

“Warrant card? I’m sure it was in my issue waterproof pocket.” She scrabbled across the lounge floor as she peered under the sofa, then the chair and on the coffee table in amongst all the empty wine glasses and take-out boxes. Such is the life of a single policewoman who rarely gets to spend any time in her crummy little flat with her sleazy boyfriend on weekend release from his wife.

“Chicken’s ready. You know, my wife never lets me cook.” She glanced over the plate presented to her and wasn’t at all surprised that he wasn’t allowed to cook. It was black, charcoal like in texture and nearly crumbling into its constituent parts of bone and burnt-to-a-crisp flesh.

“Anderson, it’s black. I’m not eating that.” Sally shoved the plate back at him and looked pointedly in the direction of the kitchen.

“Oh. I thought blackened chicken was supposed to be black.” He was sure the recipe book had said that, but it might have been the cooker’s fault.

“No. Just no. Clean up and go home.” She went back into the lounge and resumed her search.

“Sherlock,” John hissed into the small mic hidden in his collar and glanced down the street to the hideously out of place van, “Why am I dressed like this? Why couldn’t you do this?”

“Because,” Sherlock’s voice crackled into his ear, he could even pick up the tone of annoyance, “I am too tall to be her, and you have a tan.” Sherlock rolled his eyes as he watched down the row of houses to make sure John wasn’t planning a quick escape.

“I’m just glad police issue shoes are flat.” He knocked on the door, and adjusted his wig. “And how did you find Sally’s warrant card in the street, I thought she’d be more careful.” John shifted uncomfortably in the odd feeling uniform and hopped from foot to foot in the cold. His army uniform had not been made of itchy, thin polyester like this police one was. It was no surprise that plain clothes detectives wore terribly cheap suits if this was what they were used to. He pushed thoughts of Lestrade in one of Sherlock’s handtailored ones out of his mind in case the owner opened the door to a laughing policewoman.

The door opened, “Hello officer.”

“Yes, I’m Detective Sergeant Donovan, I’d like to talk to you about the murder down the street.”

“Ah yes, I saw it on the news.” The property owner looked shifty.

“Yes, we’re doing a door to door and wondered if you might know anything?” John smiled best he could in a hopefully winning manner.

“Sorry officer, I was out that night.”

“Yes, out murdering.” Came Sherlock’s voice as a whisper in John’s ear, he shivered at the feeling.

“Ah, well thanks anyway. We may be in touch again.” The door shut and John headed back to the conspicuous van. “I think you’re right Sherlock, he looked terribly shifty, eyes back and forth, you know the kind.”

“Oh yes, but I think we need to stake him out until Lestrade gets here.”

“Why? You never usually stick around, and it’s not like you ever enjoy sitting in one place for an extended period of time. And I want to go to bed.”

“Because I thought it might be fun to spend some time alone with you.”

“We live together, alone with each other all the time. Can we do this back at the flat?”

“I stole Donovan’s card from her pocket at the crime scene yesterday.”

“I know.”

“I like you.”

“I know. You’re not as hard to read as you think. Can we do this at home, rather than in some skanky van with a murderer nearby?”

“A better idea, yes.”

20.

Mycroft was seven when Sherlock was born, and he immediately instated himself as his younger brother’s protector. No one got near Sherlock without his approval, and each one of Sherlock’s bottles had to meet Mycroft’s rigorous requirements.

Under Mycroft’s rule, three nannies were reduced to tears and most of the servants ended up resigning. His parents simply indulged their son in his idiosyncrasies; after all, before Sherlock was born, all of Mycroft’s attention had been focused on taking over the British Isles one town at a time. He was already the puppet master for five of them.

When Sherlock was old enough to crawl, he was getting into absolutely everything, and Mycroft barely managed to be one step ahead of him each time. As they both got older and Sherlock discovered subjects such as biology, and chemistry, Mycroft found himself forced to stay as many as five steps ahead.

It wasn’t until Sherlock was five and Mycroft was twelve that he realized he could delegate people to watch Sherlock and keep him out of trouble. This was primarily out of necessity, as the Holmes were quite tired of Mycroft being Sherlock’s primary caregiver (this may be partially attributed to Sherlock’s calling Mycroft ‘ma’ when he first started talking) and wanted to regain control of their two headstrong sons.

So then it was that Mycroft was sent off for further learning and Sherlock was left at home.

Mycroft’s minions kept an eye on Sherlock, but that was all they could do. They couldn’t step in when Sherlock started stalking the local fauna and trying on Mummy’s best evening wear. They couldn’t step in when the local boys decided that Sherlock made a fine target now that Mycroft was out of the picture. They couldn’t even step in when Sherlock decided to figure out how the family’s town car worked.

Most of the servants left, there would be no nanny who would stay for more than two hours, and most of the tutors had to be heavily bribed in order to stay and educate Sherlock. His parents tried, but even they couldn’t do what Mycroft accomplished.

Thus it was that Sherlock grew, and became more and more uncontrollable. Meanwhile, Mycroft was learning and growing and had resumed his previous attempts at taking over the British Isles. By the time Sherlock was fifteen, he had succeeded.

Unfortunately, during this time Mycroft had lost something that he would never regain. He lost Sherlock’s respect, as he hadn’t been seen or heard from for over seven years. He lost any control he might have had in Sherlock’s life, as there was no possible reason that Sherlock would listen to his estranged brother. He lost seeing most of Sherlock’s childhood, as not even his people could tell him everything about Sherlock’s activities, and left out much of what they relayed.

Mycroft found himself fighting Sherlock for those things he lost, and while he had a small amount of control over Sherlock’s life in later years, that was all he had. He still held out hope that he would regain Sherlock’s love and respect, but all he seemed to gain in return was scorn. However, Sherlock’s childhood was out of his reach, forever.

Mycroft at times wished that he’d defied his parents, or kept in touch, or put his career plans on hold. He’d been naïve to think that after years of his absence, that things would stay the same, that he would have no regrets.

Now, all he could hope for was that Sherlock could find that last shred of love and respect left in his body…and direct it towards him, so he could have that which he had once lost.

Perhaps then he could experience life with his brother in person, rather than at a distance.

21.

Sherlock leapt from the cab even before it reached a full stop. Lestrade stepped immediately forward leading Sherlock through the entrance and down the warren of corridors, words rapid-fire. "He doesn't remember anything. Scared the life out of a couple of university kids. Thought they'd found a dead body. We're waiting for toxicology to come back."

Sherlock didn't acknowledge him.

"He's in a bad way of it. He decked Anderson when he tried to get a look at him."

Sherlock hit the stairs taking them two at a time.

"He won't talk to any of us."

The details were unimportant. After eight days. There was only one thing. One data point that mattered.

John's bruised, stitched face was frowning down at his hand, but he shoved himself upright, expression going wary as Sherlock burst through the doorway.

An aberrant misfiring of neural cells, perhaps assisted by poor quality control in one of the five nicotine patches he wore created a disconnect between Sherlock's brain and his mouth, for instead of the innumerable things he meant to say what came out was, "You're alive."

Cautiously surveying him through the eye that wasn't swollen shut John nodded.

"You don't know me?"

John shook his head.

Sherlock pretended not to notice the flinch as he stepped forward. "Your name is John Watson. You are a doctor. You were a soldier. You were invalided out after you were shot in the shoulder and for other reasons no longer relevant. You live at 221B Baker Street. You do not object to odd smells, violin music, or if the last biscuit is gone before you have tea." Sherlock indicated John's now clenched fist resting against the bed tray. "Although you write with your right hand, you prefer shooting with your left. And my name is Sherlock Holmes."

John's swollen eye flickered warily to Lestrade in the doorway, then to the IVs tethering him, then to Sherlock's face. Without a word, Sherlock could tell none of it was familiar.

He could go on. Fill John's head with facts. Tell him about Sherlock's coat and how no, as John's military training had automatically noted, he did not have a gun marring its cut because John's gun had gone missing right along with John. Or yes, those were patches on his wrists and hidden up his arm, but not indicators of a smoking habit because one only had to observe the state of his nails. He could tell him yes his hair was always this disheveled, that incessant running his hands through it until he had wanted to pull it out had done nothing to alter its natural state. He could tell him every fact Sherlock knew. But it wouldn't mean anything to John. And Sherlock wanted to go out and damage something. Preferably with explosives.

John was watching Sherlock. Opening his mouth, John finally rasped. "Do you have a pen?"

Sherlock raised his brows. "Yes."

One handed John pulled the napkin from under the plastic cup of ice chips and awkwardly clicked it on. Sherlock cocked his head and watched as John carefully wrote "Sherlock Holmes". Then he stared at it, biting down on his split lip.

"You appear to have retrograde amnesia with no evident traumatic brain injury. Not surprising considering the cocktail they suspect was in your system when you were found, by two students claiming they were taking a shortcut but who were actually trading sexual favors. They were not your captors." And he let his words go heavy. "But I promise you, we will find who did this and stop them."

John slowly nodded. "All right."

Sherlock blinked. Lestrade exclaimed from the doorway. "What? You won't talk to us but he comes in and suddenly 'all right'?"

"Yes."

Discomfited, Lestrade asked. "Why?"

John looked at Sherlock and then down to the tray's napkin. He raised his eyes and beyond the swelling and bruising there was something that looked like relief. "Because I left myself a note."

Sherlock frowned. The napkin held only John's rendition of Sherlock's name. If it wasn't a reminder...

Sherlock's gaze flashed to the clenched fist resting beside it. Oh.

"May I?" Gently he took John's hand in his own. The smeared words were written in black in the same decisive handwriting across John's palm.

His name is
Sherlock Holmes.
Trust him.

John's split lip tugged into a smile. "Apparently I felt there were some things more important than knowing my name or that I don't mind missing the last biscuit."

22.

Sherlock checks all the dark places first.

He checks the corners of dank pubs on the edges of the city, the smudged wet cracks beneath bridges where the homeless sleep, the basements and attics of rundown buildings, and alley after alley after alley.

Then he checks the bright places.

He wears a tuxedo to get into the symphony, and he dines (or pretends to dine; John is always better at doing the actual eating) in the four most lavish hotels in London, and passes through every museum he knows (which is all of them).

But there is nothing. No sign, and he isn’t sure why he expected to find one.

He walks down Baker Street. Up and down and up and down. He walks miles and covers no distance. The cameras follow him, and his mobile rings and rings but he doesn’t pick up.

Mycroft picks him up on the corner of Wigmore Street, and Sherlock collapses into the car with all the grace of a collapsing building. He doesn’t look at his brother. “Have you found him then?”

“Yes.” Mycroft slides his palm over his cane. “At his sister’s.”

Sherlock tilts his head to the side just enough to see his face. “His sister’s.”

Mycroft hums noncommittally. “He’s unharmed. He’s waiting at home for you.”

Sherlock is quiet. His sister’s. John was at his sister’s all this time. How could that be?

The car smoothes to a stop in front of 221, and Sherlock ducks out with no thanks for Mycroft. He takes the steps inside two at a time.

John is making tea.

John is making tea. And Sherlock isn’t sure if he should throttle him or kiss him.

But then he turns and there - there - a deep dark bruise like a black hole under his left eye, and in two strides, Sherlock is to him, wrapping him up in his arms, ignoring the wheeze and gasp of aches and scrapes and knocks, because John is home.

“I lost you,” Sherlock murmurs.

“You did,” John touches his hand to his hip, speaks against his shoulder. “But it’s alright.”

“Harry?”

“Fine. Locked her in a cupboard. A little fitting, all-in-all.”

Sherlock giggles, and John joins him, and they stand there in the kitchen holding onto each other until the kettle whistles. They part like fibers, and Sherlock wants to stay stuck to him, that bit of lint that won’t go away.

“Moriarty likes to prove he’s cleverer than you.” He makes the tea, his shoulders curved in.

“He’s not.” Sherlock watches him, his hands hanging. “You just make my head foggy sometimes.”

The circle of John’s elbow as he stirs his tea slows, and he turns to study Sherlock’s face. “Well, keep it clear from now on.” His voice is steady, serious. He presses the tea into Sherlock’s hands, letting his fingers brush against his knuckles. “You don’t do anyone any good when you’re not thinking, you know.” He takes up his own tea, sips it with a relieved hum.

Sherlock smiles. Found.

On to Entries #23 - #31!