Fic: You've Begun To Feel Like Home (3b/?)
Fight The Good Fight, continued...
Holly's body was eventually removed and John watched the van go with a heavy heart. Sherlock had remained silent during their vigil but now he spoke up.
"Coffee?"
"Sorry?" John asked tiredly.
"Would you like a coffee? There's a cafe two streets away that stays open late."
"I'd love one," John said honestly, a little surprised that Sherlock seemed content to linger in his company. He had always thought of himself as nothing more than another source of antagonism, or occasionally a sympathetic ear, at best.
They made their way to the tiny cafe and sat down at a rickety table. They were the only customers in the place, but it seemed nice enough. John sipped at his coffee and watched the man opposite him. And he was a man now, undoubtedly. Even in his early twenties, there had been a childlike quality to Sherlock, but it seemed long gone. For the first time, the thirteen years between them didn't feel like a unfathomable gulf.
"So, you work with the police now?" John asked.
"When they're in over their heads, yes," Sherlock said smugly.
"That was amazing, what you did earlier. How on earth did you know all that?"
"I observed. Just like I observed that you knew her well. And that you were in Bosnia."
"Yes, how did you know that?" John asked. "It was years ago, before the last time I saw you."
Sherlock smiled and tilted his head to one side.
"The last time I saw you, you were wearing a jumper. Dark grey, wool, obviously Eastern European in origin. And it had a Bosnian fleur-de-lis on the chest."
"I could have been on holiday."
"Who goes on holiday to Bosnia? When it's cold enough to need a thick jumper like that?"
John laughed and nodded in agreement.
"Fair point," he conceded.
Sherlock smiled widely, more genuine than John had ever seen him, and John smiled too.
"You look well, Sherlock."
"I've been clean for two years now," Sherlock said seriously.
"I'm glad to hear it," John said.
They fell silent for a while but John could feel Sherlock's eyes on him as he sipped his drink. Sherlock cleared his throat and John looked up.
"I, err, I don't think I've actually ever thanked you. For what you did for me," Sherlock got out awkwardly, eyes flicking between John and the table. "It was - it was good. Thank you."
"I didn't do anything," John said, surprise colouring his voice.
"You were there when I needed someone to just... be there."
Sherlock raised his eyes to John's again.
"And you didn’t judge me."
"It's not my place to judge."
Sherlock gave a low laugh.
"There aren't many priests like you," Sherlock said. "In fact, there aren't many regular people like you."
John smiled and Sherlock turned to look out the window, a faint smirk still on his face. A comfortable silence fell over them and they sat like that until the cafe owner came over to tell them they were closing. Outside, they said their goodbyes and John headed back home, lighthearted despite the awful shock of Holly's murder.
****
A week after Holly's death and John found himself battling dust bunnies in the sacristy, trying to ascertain if they needed to order more wafers and whether it was worth being lazy and sending one of the older Altar Boys down to Tesco with some petty cash for a fresh wine box. Although John shared many of the duties with the other two priests, he had somehow ended up responsible for replenishing the consumable items needed for Mass. He was just finalising his list for the night when the phone rang. He sank down into his chair and picked up the receiver.
"Hello?"
There was no answer, but John could hear breathing and he frowned, thinking it was probably a prank caller.
"Hello?" he said again. "Who is this?"
There was more silence, but just when John was about to hang up, a voice came down the line.
"I was wrong."
“Sherlock?”
“I was wrong,” Sherlock said again, slightly louder, his voice strained.
“Wrong about what?” John asked, confused.
“The girl. Holly.”
“What’s happened?” John said worriedly.
“Two more girls are dead,” Sherlock murmured. “It wasn’t the pimp, obviously.”
“Sherlock, are you alright?”
He didn’t sound alright - he sounded like he was on the verge of a breakdown.
“I don’t make mistakes. Not like this.”
“Everyone makes mistakes.”
“I don’t,” Sherlock said sharply. “I don’t miss something like this. I don’t. How could this have happened?”
“Sherlock, where are you?” John asked, worry creeping into his voice.
“At home."
"Where's home?"
"26A Montague Street,” Sherlock said after a small pause.
“I’m coming over.”
“Really, John, you don’t-”
“I’ll be there in half an hour.”
Before Sherlock could protest, John said goodbye and hung up. Something in Sherlock’s voice had him on edge, worried about what the man might do. He hadn’t heard Sherlock so dejected since he was a boy.
Just over twenty minutes later, John jumped out of the taxi and made his way to the front door of the converted house where Sherlock lived. He rang the bell and was buzzed in straight away, making his way quickly along a dark hallway to Sherlock’s flat. He knocked on the door and it opened under the force, letting a crack of light out onto the landing. He went in and closed the door behind him, calling out for Sherlock.
“In here,” Sherlock answered from a room just off the entrance.
John rounded the doorway and stopped as he got his first look at Sherlock. The younger man looked a mess, clothes rumpled and hair mussed. He was sitting on the sofa, staring at the small table in front of him. Sitting in the middle of the table was a small bottle of clear liquid, and next to that a syringe in a sealed wrapper.
“Sherlock.”
Sherlock didn’t look at him, but he did let out a shaky breath.
“I wish you didn't have to see this,” he said softly, and raised his eyes. “But I’m glad you came.”
“It’s not your fault, Sherlock.”
“Of course it is!” Sherlock burst out, fisting his hands in his hair. “I missed the clues. So obvious!”
John wasn’t sure what to do and he hesitated in the doorway.
“Let me make you some tea,” John offered.
Sherlock laughed and rubbed his hand over his face.
“I could use something a bit stronger than that.”
“What have you got in?”
“Whiskey. In the cupboard next to the fridge,” Sherlock said with a wave towards the other room.
John’s gaze flicked between Sherlock and the table, but he finally turned and went into the kitchen. He found the bottle of whiskey, dug out a couple of glasses, and made his way back to the main room. Sherlock was staring out of the window now, his whole frame tense.
John placed the glasses down next to the syringe and poured a drink for each of them.
“Here,” he called, holding out a glass to Sherlock. “Drink.”
“Are you supposed to encourage drinking, Father?” Sherlock asked with a tentative smile as he took the glass.
“If it’s the lesser of two evils, yes,” John answered. “And I think you’ve known me long enough to call me John, don’t you?”
"John," Sherlock repeated with a small smile, tipping his glass towards John in faint salute before taking a large mouthful.
John settled on the sofa next to Sherlock and took a sip of his own drink. Sherlock was fiddling with his glass, his eyes on the floor.
"Have they caught the killer then?" John asked.
"She handed herself in."
"She?"
"A colleague of Holly's, I suppose you could say. Apparently she was jealous of the younger girls. She had some sort of mental health problem, so I hear, and she turned on them."
John didn't say anything, taking another sip of his drink as he tried to banish the image of Holly's dead body from his mind. The fact that another two girls had suffered the same fate made it even harder. John crossed himself almost instinctively and glanced up to see Sherlock watching him.
"I was under the impression there weren’t many priests who would pray for dead prostitutes."
"I think we've already established that I'm not like a lot of other priests."
"Saint John has a nice ring to it," Sherlock commented sarcastically.
"Well, it will be a miracle if I can get you to see that you're human, just like the rest of us, and therefore quite capable of making human mistakes."
Sherlock regarded him with a pinched expression and then dropped his head, letting out a sigh.
"Here, have another drink," John said, grabbing the bottle and pouring Sherlock another generous measure.
Sherlock sipped his drink slowly, his face turned slightly away from John.
"Are you disappointed in me?" he asked quietly, giving a little nod in the direction of the objects on the table.
"No, Sherlock. The fact that it's sitting on the table and not running through your bloodstream right now says something, don't you think?"
Sherlock said nothing, but John saw him bite his lip.
"Do you need me to get rid of it?" John asked.
"Please," Sherlock breathed.
"Are you going to be alright?" John said as he got to his feet. Sherlock turned to him and nodded shakily.
"Are you sure? I can stay if you want me to."
"I'll be fine," Sherlock said with a weak smile.
"Try and get some sleep," John said, gathering up the bottle and packet and slipping them into his pocket. Sherlock's eyes followed his movements, and when the objects were out of sight, some of the tension seemed to leave his body.
"And go easy on the whiskey," John added with a smile.
"Yes, doctor."
They shared a smile and Sherlock rose to his feet.
"Thank you, John."
"Anytime," John answered, resting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I mean it."
Sherlock walked him to the door and they said their goodbyes. John left feeling drained, but relieved, his hand wrapped around the objects in his pocket.
****
On to Part Four: Scatter The Darkness
Holly's body was eventually removed and John watched the van go with a heavy heart. Sherlock had remained silent during their vigil but now he spoke up.
"Coffee?"
"Sorry?" John asked tiredly.
"Would you like a coffee? There's a cafe two streets away that stays open late."
"I'd love one," John said honestly, a little surprised that Sherlock seemed content to linger in his company. He had always thought of himself as nothing more than another source of antagonism, or occasionally a sympathetic ear, at best.
They made their way to the tiny cafe and sat down at a rickety table. They were the only customers in the place, but it seemed nice enough. John sipped at his coffee and watched the man opposite him. And he was a man now, undoubtedly. Even in his early twenties, there had been a childlike quality to Sherlock, but it seemed long gone. For the first time, the thirteen years between them didn't feel like a unfathomable gulf.
"So, you work with the police now?" John asked.
"When they're in over their heads, yes," Sherlock said smugly.
"That was amazing, what you did earlier. How on earth did you know all that?"
"I observed. Just like I observed that you knew her well. And that you were in Bosnia."
"Yes, how did you know that?" John asked. "It was years ago, before the last time I saw you."
Sherlock smiled and tilted his head to one side.
"The last time I saw you, you were wearing a jumper. Dark grey, wool, obviously Eastern European in origin. And it had a Bosnian fleur-de-lis on the chest."
"I could have been on holiday."
"Who goes on holiday to Bosnia? When it's cold enough to need a thick jumper like that?"
John laughed and nodded in agreement.
"Fair point," he conceded.
Sherlock smiled widely, more genuine than John had ever seen him, and John smiled too.
"You look well, Sherlock."
"I've been clean for two years now," Sherlock said seriously.
"I'm glad to hear it," John said.
They fell silent for a while but John could feel Sherlock's eyes on him as he sipped his drink. Sherlock cleared his throat and John looked up.
"I, err, I don't think I've actually ever thanked you. For what you did for me," Sherlock got out awkwardly, eyes flicking between John and the table. "It was - it was good. Thank you."
"I didn't do anything," John said, surprise colouring his voice.
"You were there when I needed someone to just... be there."
Sherlock raised his eyes to John's again.
"And you didn’t judge me."
"It's not my place to judge."
Sherlock gave a low laugh.
"There aren't many priests like you," Sherlock said. "In fact, there aren't many regular people like you."
John smiled and Sherlock turned to look out the window, a faint smirk still on his face. A comfortable silence fell over them and they sat like that until the cafe owner came over to tell them they were closing. Outside, they said their goodbyes and John headed back home, lighthearted despite the awful shock of Holly's murder.
****
A week after Holly's death and John found himself battling dust bunnies in the sacristy, trying to ascertain if they needed to order more wafers and whether it was worth being lazy and sending one of the older Altar Boys down to Tesco with some petty cash for a fresh wine box. Although John shared many of the duties with the other two priests, he had somehow ended up responsible for replenishing the consumable items needed for Mass. He was just finalising his list for the night when the phone rang. He sank down into his chair and picked up the receiver.
"Hello?"
There was no answer, but John could hear breathing and he frowned, thinking it was probably a prank caller.
"Hello?" he said again. "Who is this?"
There was more silence, but just when John was about to hang up, a voice came down the line.
"I was wrong."
“Sherlock?”
“I was wrong,” Sherlock said again, slightly louder, his voice strained.
“Wrong about what?” John asked, confused.
“The girl. Holly.”
“What’s happened?” John said worriedly.
“Two more girls are dead,” Sherlock murmured. “It wasn’t the pimp, obviously.”
“Sherlock, are you alright?”
He didn’t sound alright - he sounded like he was on the verge of a breakdown.
“I don’t make mistakes. Not like this.”
“Everyone makes mistakes.”
“I don’t,” Sherlock said sharply. “I don’t miss something like this. I don’t. How could this have happened?”
“Sherlock, where are you?” John asked, worry creeping into his voice.
“At home."
"Where's home?"
"26A Montague Street,” Sherlock said after a small pause.
“I’m coming over.”
“Really, John, you don’t-”
“I’ll be there in half an hour.”
Before Sherlock could protest, John said goodbye and hung up. Something in Sherlock’s voice had him on edge, worried about what the man might do. He hadn’t heard Sherlock so dejected since he was a boy.
Just over twenty minutes later, John jumped out of the taxi and made his way to the front door of the converted house where Sherlock lived. He rang the bell and was buzzed in straight away, making his way quickly along a dark hallway to Sherlock’s flat. He knocked on the door and it opened under the force, letting a crack of light out onto the landing. He went in and closed the door behind him, calling out for Sherlock.
“In here,” Sherlock answered from a room just off the entrance.
John rounded the doorway and stopped as he got his first look at Sherlock. The younger man looked a mess, clothes rumpled and hair mussed. He was sitting on the sofa, staring at the small table in front of him. Sitting in the middle of the table was a small bottle of clear liquid, and next to that a syringe in a sealed wrapper.
“Sherlock.”
Sherlock didn’t look at him, but he did let out a shaky breath.
“I wish you didn't have to see this,” he said softly, and raised his eyes. “But I’m glad you came.”
“It’s not your fault, Sherlock.”
“Of course it is!” Sherlock burst out, fisting his hands in his hair. “I missed the clues. So obvious!”
John wasn’t sure what to do and he hesitated in the doorway.
“Let me make you some tea,” John offered.
Sherlock laughed and rubbed his hand over his face.
“I could use something a bit stronger than that.”
“What have you got in?”
“Whiskey. In the cupboard next to the fridge,” Sherlock said with a wave towards the other room.
John’s gaze flicked between Sherlock and the table, but he finally turned and went into the kitchen. He found the bottle of whiskey, dug out a couple of glasses, and made his way back to the main room. Sherlock was staring out of the window now, his whole frame tense.
John placed the glasses down next to the syringe and poured a drink for each of them.
“Here,” he called, holding out a glass to Sherlock. “Drink.”
“Are you supposed to encourage drinking, Father?” Sherlock asked with a tentative smile as he took the glass.
“If it’s the lesser of two evils, yes,” John answered. “And I think you’ve known me long enough to call me John, don’t you?”
"John," Sherlock repeated with a small smile, tipping his glass towards John in faint salute before taking a large mouthful.
John settled on the sofa next to Sherlock and took a sip of his own drink. Sherlock was fiddling with his glass, his eyes on the floor.
"Have they caught the killer then?" John asked.
"She handed herself in."
"She?"
"A colleague of Holly's, I suppose you could say. Apparently she was jealous of the younger girls. She had some sort of mental health problem, so I hear, and she turned on them."
John didn't say anything, taking another sip of his drink as he tried to banish the image of Holly's dead body from his mind. The fact that another two girls had suffered the same fate made it even harder. John crossed himself almost instinctively and glanced up to see Sherlock watching him.
"I was under the impression there weren’t many priests who would pray for dead prostitutes."
"I think we've already established that I'm not like a lot of other priests."
"Saint John has a nice ring to it," Sherlock commented sarcastically.
"Well, it will be a miracle if I can get you to see that you're human, just like the rest of us, and therefore quite capable of making human mistakes."
Sherlock regarded him with a pinched expression and then dropped his head, letting out a sigh.
"Here, have another drink," John said, grabbing the bottle and pouring Sherlock another generous measure.
Sherlock sipped his drink slowly, his face turned slightly away from John.
"Are you disappointed in me?" he asked quietly, giving a little nod in the direction of the objects on the table.
"No, Sherlock. The fact that it's sitting on the table and not running through your bloodstream right now says something, don't you think?"
Sherlock said nothing, but John saw him bite his lip.
"Do you need me to get rid of it?" John asked.
"Please," Sherlock breathed.
"Are you going to be alright?" John said as he got to his feet. Sherlock turned to him and nodded shakily.
"Are you sure? I can stay if you want me to."
"I'll be fine," Sherlock said with a weak smile.
"Try and get some sleep," John said, gathering up the bottle and packet and slipping them into his pocket. Sherlock's eyes followed his movements, and when the objects were out of sight, some of the tension seemed to leave his body.
"And go easy on the whiskey," John added with a smile.
"Yes, doctor."
They shared a smile and Sherlock rose to his feet.
"Thank you, John."
"Anytime," John answered, resting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I mean it."
Sherlock walked him to the door and they said their goodbyes. John left feeling drained, but relieved, his hand wrapped around the objects in his pocket.
****
On to Part Four: Scatter The Darkness