Additional Material: Watches 'Verse spin-off fic, D!Sherlock POV
Title: Looked You Up On the Internet Last Night
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 4.6k
Warnings: Some violence.
Beta: vyctori and fogbutton did a cursory check months ago, i.e, they read it
Disclaimer: Do not own
Summary: There are days when he nearly forgets about his Samaritan. (Watches 'verse additional material, non-canon compliant for Watches 'verse or for the TV show, just a theoretical snippet following Elsewhere Come Morning. Followed by Secrets in Plain Speech.)
There are days when he nearly forgets about his Samaritan.
Sherlock has other matters on his mind, other priorities, and the Samaritan is so very unobtrusive. Only texting when texted, only emailing when emailed. If Sherlock were content to sit back and do nothing (ha!), his helper would fade away entirely, deliberately.
There are days when he can think of nothing else.
Not knowing hurts. The Samaritan is his unreachable itch, his squirming discomfort, and, ever the addict, Sherlock needs his fix. He needs to know. There’s a man behind these words that Sherlock knows far too little about. Sherlock is almost certain that this is a man. He has a rough profile.
The Samaritan is cautious, compassionate and realistic. He is emotionally wounded but retains enough sense to be practical. He’s good with people, claims to be in a current relationship, and has lost “someone extraordinary” in the past to the late Jim Moriarty. He once had a bomb strapped to him but escaped detonation. Judging by the timing of his texts and emails, he appears to work part time. He is intelligent as well as educated and has a superb grasp of grammar, save for when intentionally riling Sherlock. He is occasionally playful and unfailingly confident in his interactions with Sherlock. He is also an idiot, but he knows he is. More importantly, he possesses the required amount of talent to recognize genius.
Sherlock imagines a forgettable appearance. Neither thin nor obese. Average or below average height. A dull hair colour, not a ginger or a platinum blond. Practical clothing, nothing too expensive or new, but very presentable. The mannerisms of a contained man, special and yet keeping his head down. Polite. Touches of sarcasm and what might be a furious temper beneath that veneer.
Plain features, he imagines. Perhaps quietly good-looking. Confident but certainly not vain. An average appearance. An adequate face. A full head of hair, or not so receding a hairline as to impact confidence, though that’s a bit of a reach. Sherlock isn’t sure what would impact this man’s confidence.
Age, history and the all important name remain tauntingly elusive.
Sherlock spends more time than he would care to admit running into walls in the search for those details. Mycroft grows increasingly insufferable and that is truly saying something. The more time passes, the more Sherlock refuses, but only because the temptation grows.
But that would be giving up.
That would be admitting defeat.
If Sherlock is going to prove himself worthy of this partnership, he’ll have to find his Samaritan on his own.
Go around back instead, the text reads. Green door.
Sherlock hesitates, then does as he says. There’s little time to question and the growing ache through his skull leaves him disinclined to press for the other man’s sources. He slips inside the warehouse and makes his way toward where he is certain tonight’s theft will occur. They’re here and they’re early and there’s not much in the way of hiding places.
Sherlock makes do, quick about it, kneeling behind a number of crates and trusting his coat to blend him into the shadows. The thieves pass briskly by. They know precisely where they’re going. He waits until the sound of their footsteps recedes and in the moment before he moves, he becomes aware of another sound.
He exhales and stops breathing, yet hears the following inhale. Then silence.
There’s someone beside him, breathing in sync.
Slowly, Sherlock turns his head. He wills his eyes to adjust.
A vague outline, little more. Crouched, black jacket, black gloves, jeans. Arm raised, elbow bent, left hand by the ear; a black-clad shield over his face, invisible in the dark save for the metal of his watch. In this non-existent lighting, brunette hair. Therefore, tawny. Dishwasher blond. Caucasian?
Sherlock shifts closer. His coat drags on the concrete warehouse floor, a meaningless brush that nevertheless causes them to freeze. He shifts closer all the same.
“You take right,” he whispers. The proximity does nothing for visibility. Sherlock is blocking the light.
The man shakes his head.
“Why left?”
The man says nothing, only shifts away with a silence that leaves Sherlock envious. Careful of revealing his face, the man turns before he stands. He pads toward their band of thieves without a backwards glance.
Sherlock follows.
Not only does the man breathe to his rhythm, he adjusts his pace, each footfall corresponding with one of Sherlock’s. As quiet as Sherlock himself is, it’s an impressive feat when performed blindly.
He sinks into the shadows, controlled, not tense. Slightly below average height, even gait, presumably fit. His hair is in need of a trim and falls over his ears and the collar of his jacket. Sherlock wants to jab him in the neck to see if he’ll reflexively turn.
The man raises his left hand, signalling to stop. Military.
Sherlock’s stomach drops.
The assassin. Not the Samaritan.
He could hit himself. He’s tired, slowing down, distracted by his growing headache. Of course not the Samaritan. The Samaritan would never put himself so close to the front lines.
There are sounds from up around the corner, the burglary in progress. They’ve opened the shipping container and are pulling out the crates. Heavy, noisy work. The one they want must be buried.
Sherlock edges forward and the assassin repeats his gesture, this time with silent force. Sherlock stills.
They breathe and wait and Sherlock has no idea what they’re waiting for. There will never be a better moment to surprise them, the trio with their hands full. The assassin has his head cocked to the side, listening intently, and Sherlock listens too.
It’s not much. Mostly grunts and the slide of wood over metal, over plastic.
Then: “...this the one here?”
“Hand me that torch.”
Signalling once more for Sherlock to stay, the assassin rounds the corner. Naturally, Sherlock edges forward enough to watch. The plan is obvious the moment he sees the set up, but it’s still pleasing to watch the execution, the speed with which the smaller man shoves the torch-wielding man into the shipping container, using the light to blind the cohorts already inside. He slams the door shut and bars it before bolting.
Sherlock takes off after him immediately, the sounds of their footsteps obfuscated by echoes and the shouts and banging of the men locked in the shipping container.
The assassin always turns. Sherlock could overtake those shorter strides if given a straight path and it’s clear the man knows this. Corner after corner, knocking whatever he can into Sherlock’s way. Experienced runner, good at dodging, and Sherlock is running on empty, nothing more and nothing less than adrenaline and determination.
Running empty, yes, but thinking fully.
Sherlock gives up direct pursuit for the sake of the green door. He gets to it first, thinks he does, and he slips outside, closing it so, so quietly behind him.
He goes to the edge of the yard, jumps the fence near the pile of crates and waits. It takes much longer than it should to catch his breath. His pulse is pounding inside his head. Crouched down, out of sight, he risks it all on the assumption that this is the way the assassin will leave. His height makes the crates the logical place to jump from.
Green door, his Samaritan had said. Was there something wrong with the other one? Was it locked? If only Sherlock had checked before-
But too late.
But it doesn’t matter, because he hears him. Across the shipping yard, up the crates, and over, a good landing.
Sherlock tackles him.
They skid across concrete on their knees, Sherlock gripping that black jacket, arms tight around the man within it. He experiences a distant sting of tearing friction against his shins. He experiences the rush, the thrill of capture, and then the man breaks his grip. Sherlock is shoved backward, lands on his rear, and he reaches forward, instinctually, his hand outstretched toward the barrel of a gun.
The glint of it in the near-dark. The angle, weapon aimed just so, blocking the line between their eyes. Turned to the side, sighting down his right arm, his shoulders rise and fall with heavy breaths, but the hand remains steady, fixed. Not quite point-blank range.
“You won’t shoot me,” Sherlock tells him. He’s dizzy, exhaustion settling in at the edges, but he can still see. The light is better out here. He can see. “Drop the charade.”
The gun never wavers, tracking him smoothly as he stands. Always, always between their eyes.
“Do you really believe hiding your face stops me from recognizing you?” Sherlock bluffs. “Your stature and military bearing give you away. I’m well-aware I’ve seen you before.” Hiding his face so insistently, as a priority, it must be true. Sherlock stands, the motion slow to keep it stable. “If you run, I will chase you. I think we’ve established this by now, Golem Killer.”
Slow, broadcasting his intentions, Sherlock steps forward, hand outstretched.
His leather-clad fingers curl around metal before they can waver.
Gently, gingerly, he guides the gun to the left, pointing it away from himself, revealing the assassin’s face.
Recognition is not instantaneous.
The man stares him down, jaw clenched, eyes as steady as his hands. Age approximately forty. Eyes blue, dark, darker for the night. Lines beneath eyes, across brow. Ears turn out slightly toward the tips. What registers most is the force of him, the sense that Sherlock has carried off a larger gamble than he had intended.
The man pulls the gun away from Sherlock’s hand. He points it to the ground but fails to shift out of his firing stance.
“Hello again,” Sherlock says, all bluff.
A quick pursing of the lips, such a small change of expression. Disbelief. Irritation. The sighting of a lie. How?
The man turns around and begins to walk away, tucking his gun away under his jacket as he does, concealing it at the small of his back.
Sherlock remembers.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he calls after, projecting his voice. “The answer’s ‘yes’.”
The man looks back over his shoulder, left shoulder, just as he had before. Sherlock sees him clearly, recalls his features as illuminated by a circle of candles, as illuminated by passing headlights. Flirtatious, playful. Nonplussed by the tussle inside the circus.
“Your offer,” Sherlock clarifies. “I’d like to get that drink sometime.”
“That’s really too bad,” says the man. He very nearly sounds polite.
Sherlock approaches him. “Is it.”
“There are three men locked in a shipping crate,” the man reminds him. “You might want to do something about that.”
“Such as?”
“Poke a few air holes?” the man suggests. “Call the police?”
“Call Scotland Yard down on you?” Sherlock shakes his head. “I’d rather a chat.”
“I did just point a gun at your head.”
“I did just tackle you,” he counters. “I’d rather the chat.”
“I’d rather not.” The man keeps walking.
Sherlock keeps following.
They walk for blocks in silence.
His stomach makes its feeble presence known. The dark of the night sky begins to blur. It flickers before his eyes.
Too soon. He can keep going. Too soon. The chase in the warehouse was more than expected. The case was meant to conclude two hours ago, plenty of time for him to have returned to Baker Street and the sofa.
But this, this is a chase as well.
The waiting game is simple: will the man try to run from him before Sherlock collapses from exhaustion? The man is fresher than Sherlock, fed and rested. He gets them to public areas, crowded spots, and Sherlock can’t touch him. Sherlock doesn’t need to touch him. Sherlock needs a lead. He needs to keep following and keep following and keep following until the man attempts to go home or sleep or rest.
That this is the full extent of his plan proves how exhausted he is already.
“I’ll find you again regardless,” he says, lifting his voice. “You will talk to me.”
“Go home,” the man tells him. Not a yell or a threat, nothing so aggressive. It’s a half-pleading missive, issued for Sherlock’s sake. “Before you fall on your face, go home.”
“Tell me who you are.”
“You’re not on your game right now.” He stops at the light, the red figure of a man above the street bidding him to wait. He turns around, expression closer to concern than annoyance. “Hunt me in the morning.”
“Who keeps sending you? The Spider, the Golem, tonight: why?” It can’t be the Samaritan, as much as Sherlock’s mind forever wants to jump to him. This case had nothing to do with Moriarty.
“No one sent me,” the man says.
“No,” Sherlock agrees, seeing it belatedly. “You’re good - very good - but you’re not professional. Then- Why?”
The man smiles and shrugs. “Everyone needs a hobby.”
Sherlock laughs. Sherlock laughs and laughs and the man giggles.
“God, look at you,” the man says. “You’re exhausted.”
“You killed the Golem for fun.” The Golem. International assassin, the stuff of nightmares, shot cleanly through the heart by a bored English army veteran.
The man sobers. “No,” he says. He shakes his head. “No. I killed him for a lot of reasons.” His voice is as quiet and firm as a gun before it fires.
“Name one.”
“Professor Kannes,” the man answers. Then: “Careful.” His hand on Sherlock’s arm. “You’re wobbling. Christ, I’m getting you a cab. Tell me you don’t live alone, you clearly need someone to look after you.”
“I know my limits.” He doesn’t shrug off the touch. He rather needs it.
“So much for respecting them.” He raises his other hand, flags a taxi. “In you go.”
“I can help,” Sherlock says. He swallows down the nausea of aimless stomach bile. He can’t remember when he last ate. “With your hobby. I don’t disagree with your targets. You’ve been very good help to me.”
“Go home,” the man tells him. “We both know you’ll show up on my doorstep within the week, so just go home.” He opens the door and tugs Sherlock by the arm. Trying to resist only tenses his body and makes him more easily moved. The man knows how to use his lower centre of gravity.
“You could save both of us the time and effort,” Sherlock counters. “I don’t have any cash,” he lies to the cabbie.
“Then get out,” the cabbie replies without missing a beat.
The man shoves at Sherlock’s side, forcing his legs into the cab, and then slides in next to him. “Doesn’t matter, I’m paying.”
He can’t seem to focus his eyes. “What-”
“Shut up and tell him where you live, will you? You do know that, don’t you?”
“Two-two-one-bee Baker Street,” he snaps. “You’re not coming.” Incredulous statement in face of obvious facts. The man is coming. Sherlock is unable to focus. Not good.
“Apparently, I am,” the man says.
The ride slips into silence. He has so much to ask, so many details to tease out, but the world is dark and wobbling. He might be sick and he has nothing to be sick with. Miscalculation. Air is heavy.
A blur happens and there’s warmth against his front. Male scent; skin, sweat, traces of tonight. Cloth, a body beneath. His feet drag, his arms twitch, and his insides are twisting themselves apart. He’s being carried. Face against a neck, front against a back. Something hard against his empty stomach. Gun-shaped. Then everything shifts. There’s a hand in his pocket.
“Who...?”
“It’s okay,” the man tells him. “I’m getting your keys. It’s okay.”
He hears the door open and he forces his eyes to do the same. He can’t see, let alone observe. It hurts inside his head. It has for the past two days, but the pain is suddenly important.
“Stairs look like a bad idea right now,” the man says. “I’m going to put you at the bottom, all right? Is there anyone here to look after you? Hey. Hey. Wake up. Open your eyes. Look at me. Good. I need you to focus. You’re going to be fine and for that, I need you to focus. Is there anyone else here?”
He mumbles, “Mrs. Hudson.”
“Okay,” the man says. He tilts Sherlock against the wall and the world lurches terribly. Then he’s gone and knocking on 221A.
“Soothers,” Sherlock realizes.
Somehow, the man hears. “Oh, Christ. Okay.” He comes back. “Hold on, I’ll be right back.”
“No. Stop it.” He’s fine.
The man goes up the stairs. He comes back. “Open your mouth.”
“No-”
The spoon goes into his mouth, cloyingly sweet. Honey, across his tongue. Hand firm on his jaw. Sherlock swallows.
“Good,” the man says. Not like praise. Confirmation. “Drink.”
Mug. Water.
“Slower. If you’re sick, we have to start over. You’re dehydrated enough as it is. Christ, look at you.”
Everything is cold and warm and hazy and “Why are you doing this?” and “It’s okay. It’s okay” and he’s on his sofa, curled under his coat.
Sunlight.
Sherlock blinks into it. There is nothing but pain inside his head. His throat consists of scratches.
On the coffee table, there sits a mug. There is a plate.
Sherlock reaches for the mug and drinks the water. His coat slides off his shoulders. The cloth pools on his lap. There is paracetamol on the table and he takes that as well.
On the plate is a knife, an angular apple core and two slices. The fruit is brown with the air. Sherlock eats those all the same.
Next to the plate are his keys.
Those, Sherlock looks at.
How did last night turn out? his Samaritan asks. Catch your criminals?
Yes. Was also tucked into bed by amateur assassin. SH
...Are you talking in code?
No. SH
:O
Sherlock’s not sure why that makes him smile.
He does remember to call Lestrade about the three men in the shipping container.
Three ignored phone calls and Mycroft resorts to texting him. Sherlock makes the mistake of reading.
Quite the friend you have. Should I expect a happy announcement by the end of the month? Mummy would be so proud. MH
Fuck off. SH
Naturally, Mycroft doesn’t.
That’s what Sherlock blames the dreams on, later. What he attributes the dreams to. Hazy warmth. An unsettling feeling that there is something missing and therefore wrong. He wakes irritable and unsettled. This will stop, must stop, once he understands.
He is, after all, pursuing a man who has flirted with him and taken atypical measures to ensure his wellbeing. A tease of romance and the semblance of intimacy. The sense of being cared for is incidental, ought to be incidental, will be incidental once Sherlock deduces the man’s proper motives. In hindsight, it’s obvious that the man flirted with him their first meeting in order to repulse him. It’s clever and conniving.
This is what respect feels like. That Sherlock is, as his brother keeps insinuating, somehow charmed is utterly ridiculous.
He replays that evening simply because he doesn’t understand.
Tracking down a tanned army doctor takes some time, but Sherlock manages it. Forcing soldiers to blog appears to be a common practice among therapists charged with their reintegration into society and so Sherlock browses. Profile picture after profile picture excludes blog after blog until Sherlock is left with the more creative bloggers.
There is a RAMC mug, several dogs, and a novel.
He scans through the mug blog first only to discover a post last night at the time of the thwarted theft. This one, he sets aside for later, recognizing a potentially fabricated alibi when he sees one. RAMC is a good start, though the tone of the entries doesn’t quite match the man from last night. Then again, many people write differently than they speak. He slogs through the dog blogs with immense boredom until he finds pictures of the pet owners. One is merely the hand on a dog collar, but it’s enough for him to tell.
The novel cover is set in the sidebar, a section labelled “About me” with the description “I am an experienced medical doctor recently returned from Afghanistan. This is what I’m currently reading.”
Skimming through the popular entries, Sherlock easily pieces together that this man lives with a librarian (divorced, recently; one child) and now writes fairly banal reviews of the novels his flatmate recommends. The only truly interesting material is in the comments. Again, the writer’s voice doesn’t match the amateur assassin’s. But there is something....
color:#333333;background:white">Seriously, John! I read this when I was 14!
Harry Watson background:white">07 February 15:48
color:#333333;background:white">With the amount of lesbian sex involved here, I’m not surprised. I just hope Mum didn’t know.
background:white">John Watsoncolor:#333333;background:white"> color:#0D4A86;background:white">07 February 15:50
background:white">
Mum was the one who GAVE it to me!
Harry Watson background:white">07 February 15:53
color:#333333;background:white">:O
background:white">John Watsoncolor:#333333;background:white"> color:#0D4A86;background:white">07 February 15:59background:white">
...familiar. Of course, many people use those faces. They use them in common ways. Internet conventions, the permutations of language in a digital society.
All the same, Sherlock finds himself reading from the very start of the blog. Bland write-ups of daily habits, pointed comments toward the therapist who was once monitoring this blog, nothing important and everything revealing.
He registers, distantly, being agitated.
He matches the times John Watson replies to comments with the times his Samaritan replies to his texts. He finds signs of agitation during the week of the explosions, but no actual posting. The one post in the following week is lacklustre.
He recognizes, distantly, a tightness in his stomach.
He finds a later post that isn’t about some rubbish book and reads about rugby. He scrolls down through the comments, looking at such a familiar voice, and that’s when he finds the flatmate’s link to a match. Harry Watson (actually a sister) had demanded to see the “hilarious tackle John landed” on Derek Wilson’s cousin. Wilson had linked accordingly, complete with a time marker.
He clicks the link and loads the page.
He watches.
A blond man tackles a brunette. Unfamiliar clothing, poor quality video, and no view of the face. And yet.
Sherlock searches for more.
He pauses the clip.
The man freezes mid-laugh, sweaty and mud-splattered. Dark blue eyes, round nose, the same ears. The lines on his face are less apparent.
Sherlock opens his phone and looks at his texts. He looks at the blog posts, all of them, a third time, although he’d memorized them the first.
He needs a more direct comparison.
Need rugby explained. Are you of any use? SH
You have a rugby case?
Experiment. SH
Dear god, run for the hills.
If you can’t help, you could have simply said. SH
Wikipedia and I are here to help. What do you need to know?
Lying on the sofa, attempting to think, he can’t.
He can’t think.
The nicotine doesn’t help, caffeine-laden tea doesn’t help, nothing helps. He glares at the mug on the coffee table, empty, unmoved days later, and he hates the missing plate and its consumed brown apple. He curls onto his side, flops onto his back, sulks on his stomach.
Nothing helps.
He feels sick again. Might be the patches. He peels two of them off and feels marginally less horrible. The empty threat of vomiting recedes.
He gets up. Goes to the kitchen. A spoon, the jar, and back to the couch.
A spoonful of honey: treatment for hypoglycaemia in diabetics, such as John Watson’s flatmate.
He sets it against his tongue and waits for his blood sugar to rise. Thick and sweet and smooth when he swallows. He licks his lips and remembers, vaguely, John doing the same. Physical tick, identifying mark. He'd done it on the video as well.
After, Sherlock drinks another two mugs worth of water.
Again, he feels a bit better.
He returns to the couch, lies down, and tries to think. He folds his hands over his stomach and keeps them carefully there. No more movement. He falls, slowly, toward sleep.
In his dream, he’s said yes. It’s the only explanation for why they’re having that drink. Not beer but mead, honey sweet. Which is odd, particularly at Angelo’s, but for once, Sherlock doesn’t mind the discrepancy. His Samaritan is muddy and Mrs. Hudson fusses so as she arranges napkins on their table. Sherlock doesn’t pay attention to her, too intent on the man across from him.
He hears himself speak and deduce only to wince as the details fall away, all the evidence beneath his marvellous conclusions. He stumbles and covers, but his Samaritan isn’t looking at him. He’s peeling an apple with his gun. Sherlock watches, fascinated.
“I didn’t know you could do that,” he admits.
His Samaritan says nothing, only smiles. Polite. No teeth, no feeling.
“You followed me to the circus,” Sherlock blurts. “No, before that. The Antiquities Museum. And at the circus, you asked after Soo Lin Yao. You’re always around me. It is me, isn’t it? It’s more than Moriarty.”
Tucking the gun away in the back of his striped rugby shirt, his Samaritan brushes some of the mud from his face.
“It’s about me,” Sherlock repeats. “It is, isn’t it?”
“Professor Kannes,” his Samaritan corrects. He hands Sherlock the peeled apple. It’s slick and slimy without its skin and Sherlock drops it on the table.
“Oops!” Mrs. Hudson says for him. “Here, let me clean that up.”
“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock snaps and when he looks back across the table, the Samaritan is pulling his jacket on, black with leather patches. The mud has vanished. The rugby shorts remain.
“I appreciate the interest,” his Samaritan says, standing in the sitting room, “but we’re very happy.”
Sherlock tries to get up from the sofa only to find himself anchored there by his dressing gown.
“It’s okay,” the Samaritan tells him. “It’s okay, Sherlock, you’re going to be fine.”
“No,” Sherlock stays. “Stop it.”
The Samaritan tilts his head, the embodiment of a question mark.
“Saving my life. Paying for a cab. Feeding me by hand.”
Those fingers return to his jaw, so steady, so clinical. Leather gloves, not yet skin. Sherlock can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t speak, and fingertips touch his lips. The Samaritan draws his mobile from his mouth and Sherlock coughs.
“Better?” the Samaritan asks, tucking the mobile away into his jacket.
“I need that back,” Sherlock insists, reaching, as if toward a gun. “Give it back.”
The Samaritan is so much taller than him when standing, when Sherlock is trapped on the sofa. “Okay,” he says. He holds the mobile between their eyes, offering.
When Sherlock takes it, the Samaritan is gone.
He wakes tense and aching.
There’s something wrong inside his chest.
He decides to risk it.
color:#333333;background:white">Is it conventional for doctors to make house calls these days, or are you simply a Good Samaritan?
Sherlock Holmes background:white">28 September 07:46
color:#333333;background:white">I wouldn’t call myself conventional, no.
background:white">John Watsoncolor:#333333;background:white"> color:#0D4A86;background:white">28 September 18:12
background:white">
So about that drink.
Sherlock Holmes background:white">28 September 18:17
color:#333333;background:white">I hope you mean you’re hydrating.
background:white">John Watsoncolor:#333333;background:white"> color:#0D4A86;background:white">28 September 18:32
background:white">
Enough.
Sherlock Holmes background:white">28 September 18:35
background:white">
color:#333333;background:white">A likely story. Eat your veg and get some rest.
background:white">John Watsoncolor:#333333;background:white"> color:#0D4A86;background:white">28 September 18:36
And call you in the morning? Or should I stop by Grant Road?
Sherlock Holmes background:white">28 September 18:38
color:#333333;background:white">I am not carrying you up that many stairs.
background:white">John Watsoncolor:#333333;background:white"> color:#0D4A86;background:white">28 September 18:44
Then pick up your phone.
Sherlock Holmes background:white">28 September 18:45
color:#333333;background:white">It’s not morning yet.
background:white">John Watsoncolor:#333333;background:white"> color:#0D4A86;background:white">28 September 18:56
Now it is.
Sherlock Holmes background:white">29 September 00:01
He dials.
Voicemail.
He’ll try again in the morning proper.
“Yes, hello?”
“Dr. Watson.”
“...Hi.”
“Or would ‘Captain’ be more appropriate?”
“John. ‘John’ is fine.”
“Hello, John.”
“…Hello, Sherlock.”
A new day begins.
---------------------------
A reminder here that this is not the official meeting between D!Sherlock and John. This is just an idea that got stuck in my head, the idea of how D!Sherlock would respond to John, and I wanted a chance to write it from his POV.
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 4.6k
Warnings: Some violence.
Beta: vyctori and fogbutton did a cursory check months ago, i.e, they read it
Disclaimer: Do not own
Summary: There are days when he nearly forgets about his Samaritan. (Watches 'verse additional material, non-canon compliant for Watches 'verse or for the TV show, just a theoretical snippet following Elsewhere Come Morning. Followed by Secrets in Plain Speech.)
There are days when he nearly forgets about his Samaritan.
Sherlock has other matters on his mind, other priorities, and the Samaritan is so very unobtrusive. Only texting when texted, only emailing when emailed. If Sherlock were content to sit back and do nothing (ha!), his helper would fade away entirely, deliberately.
There are days when he can think of nothing else.
Not knowing hurts. The Samaritan is his unreachable itch, his squirming discomfort, and, ever the addict, Sherlock needs his fix. He needs to know. There’s a man behind these words that Sherlock knows far too little about. Sherlock is almost certain that this is a man. He has a rough profile.
The Samaritan is cautious, compassionate and realistic. He is emotionally wounded but retains enough sense to be practical. He’s good with people, claims to be in a current relationship, and has lost “someone extraordinary” in the past to the late Jim Moriarty. He once had a bomb strapped to him but escaped detonation. Judging by the timing of his texts and emails, he appears to work part time. He is intelligent as well as educated and has a superb grasp of grammar, save for when intentionally riling Sherlock. He is occasionally playful and unfailingly confident in his interactions with Sherlock. He is also an idiot, but he knows he is. More importantly, he possesses the required amount of talent to recognize genius.
Sherlock imagines a forgettable appearance. Neither thin nor obese. Average or below average height. A dull hair colour, not a ginger or a platinum blond. Practical clothing, nothing too expensive or new, but very presentable. The mannerisms of a contained man, special and yet keeping his head down. Polite. Touches of sarcasm and what might be a furious temper beneath that veneer.
Plain features, he imagines. Perhaps quietly good-looking. Confident but certainly not vain. An average appearance. An adequate face. A full head of hair, or not so receding a hairline as to impact confidence, though that’s a bit of a reach. Sherlock isn’t sure what would impact this man’s confidence.
Age, history and the all important name remain tauntingly elusive.
Sherlock spends more time than he would care to admit running into walls in the search for those details. Mycroft grows increasingly insufferable and that is truly saying something. The more time passes, the more Sherlock refuses, but only because the temptation grows.
But that would be giving up.
That would be admitting defeat.
If Sherlock is going to prove himself worthy of this partnership, he’ll have to find his Samaritan on his own.
Go around back instead, the text reads. Green door.
Sherlock hesitates, then does as he says. There’s little time to question and the growing ache through his skull leaves him disinclined to press for the other man’s sources. He slips inside the warehouse and makes his way toward where he is certain tonight’s theft will occur. They’re here and they’re early and there’s not much in the way of hiding places.
Sherlock makes do, quick about it, kneeling behind a number of crates and trusting his coat to blend him into the shadows. The thieves pass briskly by. They know precisely where they’re going. He waits until the sound of their footsteps recedes and in the moment before he moves, he becomes aware of another sound.
He exhales and stops breathing, yet hears the following inhale. Then silence.
There’s someone beside him, breathing in sync.
Slowly, Sherlock turns his head. He wills his eyes to adjust.
A vague outline, little more. Crouched, black jacket, black gloves, jeans. Arm raised, elbow bent, left hand by the ear; a black-clad shield over his face, invisible in the dark save for the metal of his watch. In this non-existent lighting, brunette hair. Therefore, tawny. Dishwasher blond. Caucasian?
Sherlock shifts closer. His coat drags on the concrete warehouse floor, a meaningless brush that nevertheless causes them to freeze. He shifts closer all the same.
“You take right,” he whispers. The proximity does nothing for visibility. Sherlock is blocking the light.
The man shakes his head.
“Why left?”
The man says nothing, only shifts away with a silence that leaves Sherlock envious. Careful of revealing his face, the man turns before he stands. He pads toward their band of thieves without a backwards glance.
Sherlock follows.
Not only does the man breathe to his rhythm, he adjusts his pace, each footfall corresponding with one of Sherlock’s. As quiet as Sherlock himself is, it’s an impressive feat when performed blindly.
He sinks into the shadows, controlled, not tense. Slightly below average height, even gait, presumably fit. His hair is in need of a trim and falls over his ears and the collar of his jacket. Sherlock wants to jab him in the neck to see if he’ll reflexively turn.
The man raises his left hand, signalling to stop. Military.
Sherlock’s stomach drops.
The assassin. Not the Samaritan.
He could hit himself. He’s tired, slowing down, distracted by his growing headache. Of course not the Samaritan. The Samaritan would never put himself so close to the front lines.
There are sounds from up around the corner, the burglary in progress. They’ve opened the shipping container and are pulling out the crates. Heavy, noisy work. The one they want must be buried.
Sherlock edges forward and the assassin repeats his gesture, this time with silent force. Sherlock stills.
They breathe and wait and Sherlock has no idea what they’re waiting for. There will never be a better moment to surprise them, the trio with their hands full. The assassin has his head cocked to the side, listening intently, and Sherlock listens too.
It’s not much. Mostly grunts and the slide of wood over metal, over plastic.
Then: “...this the one here?”
“Hand me that torch.”
Signalling once more for Sherlock to stay, the assassin rounds the corner. Naturally, Sherlock edges forward enough to watch. The plan is obvious the moment he sees the set up, but it’s still pleasing to watch the execution, the speed with which the smaller man shoves the torch-wielding man into the shipping container, using the light to blind the cohorts already inside. He slams the door shut and bars it before bolting.
Sherlock takes off after him immediately, the sounds of their footsteps obfuscated by echoes and the shouts and banging of the men locked in the shipping container.
The assassin always turns. Sherlock could overtake those shorter strides if given a straight path and it’s clear the man knows this. Corner after corner, knocking whatever he can into Sherlock’s way. Experienced runner, good at dodging, and Sherlock is running on empty, nothing more and nothing less than adrenaline and determination.
Running empty, yes, but thinking fully.
Sherlock gives up direct pursuit for the sake of the green door. He gets to it first, thinks he does, and he slips outside, closing it so, so quietly behind him.
He goes to the edge of the yard, jumps the fence near the pile of crates and waits. It takes much longer than it should to catch his breath. His pulse is pounding inside his head. Crouched down, out of sight, he risks it all on the assumption that this is the way the assassin will leave. His height makes the crates the logical place to jump from.
Green door, his Samaritan had said. Was there something wrong with the other one? Was it locked? If only Sherlock had checked before-
But too late.
But it doesn’t matter, because he hears him. Across the shipping yard, up the crates, and over, a good landing.
Sherlock tackles him.
They skid across concrete on their knees, Sherlock gripping that black jacket, arms tight around the man within it. He experiences a distant sting of tearing friction against his shins. He experiences the rush, the thrill of capture, and then the man breaks his grip. Sherlock is shoved backward, lands on his rear, and he reaches forward, instinctually, his hand outstretched toward the barrel of a gun.
The glint of it in the near-dark. The angle, weapon aimed just so, blocking the line between their eyes. Turned to the side, sighting down his right arm, his shoulders rise and fall with heavy breaths, but the hand remains steady, fixed. Not quite point-blank range.
“You won’t shoot me,” Sherlock tells him. He’s dizzy, exhaustion settling in at the edges, but he can still see. The light is better out here. He can see. “Drop the charade.”
The gun never wavers, tracking him smoothly as he stands. Always, always between their eyes.
“Do you really believe hiding your face stops me from recognizing you?” Sherlock bluffs. “Your stature and military bearing give you away. I’m well-aware I’ve seen you before.” Hiding his face so insistently, as a priority, it must be true. Sherlock stands, the motion slow to keep it stable. “If you run, I will chase you. I think we’ve established this by now, Golem Killer.”
Slow, broadcasting his intentions, Sherlock steps forward, hand outstretched.
His leather-clad fingers curl around metal before they can waver.
Gently, gingerly, he guides the gun to the left, pointing it away from himself, revealing the assassin’s face.
Recognition is not instantaneous.
The man stares him down, jaw clenched, eyes as steady as his hands. Age approximately forty. Eyes blue, dark, darker for the night. Lines beneath eyes, across brow. Ears turn out slightly toward the tips. What registers most is the force of him, the sense that Sherlock has carried off a larger gamble than he had intended.
The man pulls the gun away from Sherlock’s hand. He points it to the ground but fails to shift out of his firing stance.
“Hello again,” Sherlock says, all bluff.
A quick pursing of the lips, such a small change of expression. Disbelief. Irritation. The sighting of a lie. How?
The man turns around and begins to walk away, tucking his gun away under his jacket as he does, concealing it at the small of his back.
Sherlock remembers.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he calls after, projecting his voice. “The answer’s ‘yes’.”
The man looks back over his shoulder, left shoulder, just as he had before. Sherlock sees him clearly, recalls his features as illuminated by a circle of candles, as illuminated by passing headlights. Flirtatious, playful. Nonplussed by the tussle inside the circus.
“Your offer,” Sherlock clarifies. “I’d like to get that drink sometime.”
“That’s really too bad,” says the man. He very nearly sounds polite.
Sherlock approaches him. “Is it.”
“There are three men locked in a shipping crate,” the man reminds him. “You might want to do something about that.”
“Such as?”
“Poke a few air holes?” the man suggests. “Call the police?”
“Call Scotland Yard down on you?” Sherlock shakes his head. “I’d rather a chat.”
“I did just point a gun at your head.”
“I did just tackle you,” he counters. “I’d rather the chat.”
“I’d rather not.” The man keeps walking.
Sherlock keeps following.
They walk for blocks in silence.
His stomach makes its feeble presence known. The dark of the night sky begins to blur. It flickers before his eyes.
Too soon. He can keep going. Too soon. The chase in the warehouse was more than expected. The case was meant to conclude two hours ago, plenty of time for him to have returned to Baker Street and the sofa.
But this, this is a chase as well.
The waiting game is simple: will the man try to run from him before Sherlock collapses from exhaustion? The man is fresher than Sherlock, fed and rested. He gets them to public areas, crowded spots, and Sherlock can’t touch him. Sherlock doesn’t need to touch him. Sherlock needs a lead. He needs to keep following and keep following and keep following until the man attempts to go home or sleep or rest.
That this is the full extent of his plan proves how exhausted he is already.
“I’ll find you again regardless,” he says, lifting his voice. “You will talk to me.”
“Go home,” the man tells him. Not a yell or a threat, nothing so aggressive. It’s a half-pleading missive, issued for Sherlock’s sake. “Before you fall on your face, go home.”
“Tell me who you are.”
“You’re not on your game right now.” He stops at the light, the red figure of a man above the street bidding him to wait. He turns around, expression closer to concern than annoyance. “Hunt me in the morning.”
“Who keeps sending you? The Spider, the Golem, tonight: why?” It can’t be the Samaritan, as much as Sherlock’s mind forever wants to jump to him. This case had nothing to do with Moriarty.
“No one sent me,” the man says.
“No,” Sherlock agrees, seeing it belatedly. “You’re good - very good - but you’re not professional. Then- Why?”
The man smiles and shrugs. “Everyone needs a hobby.”
Sherlock laughs. Sherlock laughs and laughs and the man giggles.
“God, look at you,” the man says. “You’re exhausted.”
“You killed the Golem for fun.” The Golem. International assassin, the stuff of nightmares, shot cleanly through the heart by a bored English army veteran.
The man sobers. “No,” he says. He shakes his head. “No. I killed him for a lot of reasons.” His voice is as quiet and firm as a gun before it fires.
“Name one.”
“Professor Kannes,” the man answers. Then: “Careful.” His hand on Sherlock’s arm. “You’re wobbling. Christ, I’m getting you a cab. Tell me you don’t live alone, you clearly need someone to look after you.”
“I know my limits.” He doesn’t shrug off the touch. He rather needs it.
“So much for respecting them.” He raises his other hand, flags a taxi. “In you go.”
“I can help,” Sherlock says. He swallows down the nausea of aimless stomach bile. He can’t remember when he last ate. “With your hobby. I don’t disagree with your targets. You’ve been very good help to me.”
“Go home,” the man tells him. “We both know you’ll show up on my doorstep within the week, so just go home.” He opens the door and tugs Sherlock by the arm. Trying to resist only tenses his body and makes him more easily moved. The man knows how to use his lower centre of gravity.
“You could save both of us the time and effort,” Sherlock counters. “I don’t have any cash,” he lies to the cabbie.
“Then get out,” the cabbie replies without missing a beat.
The man shoves at Sherlock’s side, forcing his legs into the cab, and then slides in next to him. “Doesn’t matter, I’m paying.”
He can’t seem to focus his eyes. “What-”
“Shut up and tell him where you live, will you? You do know that, don’t you?”
“Two-two-one-bee Baker Street,” he snaps. “You’re not coming.” Incredulous statement in face of obvious facts. The man is coming. Sherlock is unable to focus. Not good.
“Apparently, I am,” the man says.
The ride slips into silence. He has so much to ask, so many details to tease out, but the world is dark and wobbling. He might be sick and he has nothing to be sick with. Miscalculation. Air is heavy.
A blur happens and there’s warmth against his front. Male scent; skin, sweat, traces of tonight. Cloth, a body beneath. His feet drag, his arms twitch, and his insides are twisting themselves apart. He’s being carried. Face against a neck, front against a back. Something hard against his empty stomach. Gun-shaped. Then everything shifts. There’s a hand in his pocket.
“Who...?”
“It’s okay,” the man tells him. “I’m getting your keys. It’s okay.”
He hears the door open and he forces his eyes to do the same. He can’t see, let alone observe. It hurts inside his head. It has for the past two days, but the pain is suddenly important.
“Stairs look like a bad idea right now,” the man says. “I’m going to put you at the bottom, all right? Is there anyone here to look after you? Hey. Hey. Wake up. Open your eyes. Look at me. Good. I need you to focus. You’re going to be fine and for that, I need you to focus. Is there anyone else here?”
He mumbles, “Mrs. Hudson.”
“Okay,” the man says. He tilts Sherlock against the wall and the world lurches terribly. Then he’s gone and knocking on 221A.
“Soothers,” Sherlock realizes.
Somehow, the man hears. “Oh, Christ. Okay.” He comes back. “Hold on, I’ll be right back.”
“No. Stop it.” He’s fine.
The man goes up the stairs. He comes back. “Open your mouth.”
“No-”
The spoon goes into his mouth, cloyingly sweet. Honey, across his tongue. Hand firm on his jaw. Sherlock swallows.
“Good,” the man says. Not like praise. Confirmation. “Drink.”
Mug. Water.
“Slower. If you’re sick, we have to start over. You’re dehydrated enough as it is. Christ, look at you.”
Everything is cold and warm and hazy and “Why are you doing this?” and “It’s okay. It’s okay” and he’s on his sofa, curled under his coat.
Sunlight.
Sherlock blinks into it. There is nothing but pain inside his head. His throat consists of scratches.
On the coffee table, there sits a mug. There is a plate.
Sherlock reaches for the mug and drinks the water. His coat slides off his shoulders. The cloth pools on his lap. There is paracetamol on the table and he takes that as well.
On the plate is a knife, an angular apple core and two slices. The fruit is brown with the air. Sherlock eats those all the same.
Next to the plate are his keys.
Those, Sherlock looks at.
How did last night turn out? his Samaritan asks. Catch your criminals?
Yes. Was also tucked into bed by amateur assassin. SH
...Are you talking in code?
No. SH
:O
Sherlock’s not sure why that makes him smile.
He does remember to call Lestrade about the three men in the shipping container.
Three ignored phone calls and Mycroft resorts to texting him. Sherlock makes the mistake of reading.
Quite the friend you have. Should I expect a happy announcement by the end of the month? Mummy would be so proud. MH
Fuck off. SH
Naturally, Mycroft doesn’t.
That’s what Sherlock blames the dreams on, later. What he attributes the dreams to. Hazy warmth. An unsettling feeling that there is something missing and therefore wrong. He wakes irritable and unsettled. This will stop, must stop, once he understands.
He is, after all, pursuing a man who has flirted with him and taken atypical measures to ensure his wellbeing. A tease of romance and the semblance of intimacy. The sense of being cared for is incidental, ought to be incidental, will be incidental once Sherlock deduces the man’s proper motives. In hindsight, it’s obvious that the man flirted with him their first meeting in order to repulse him. It’s clever and conniving.
This is what respect feels like. That Sherlock is, as his brother keeps insinuating, somehow charmed is utterly ridiculous.
He replays that evening simply because he doesn’t understand.
Tracking down a tanned army doctor takes some time, but Sherlock manages it. Forcing soldiers to blog appears to be a common practice among therapists charged with their reintegration into society and so Sherlock browses. Profile picture after profile picture excludes blog after blog until Sherlock is left with the more creative bloggers.
There is a RAMC mug, several dogs, and a novel.
He scans through the mug blog first only to discover a post last night at the time of the thwarted theft. This one, he sets aside for later, recognizing a potentially fabricated alibi when he sees one. RAMC is a good start, though the tone of the entries doesn’t quite match the man from last night. Then again, many people write differently than they speak. He slogs through the dog blogs with immense boredom until he finds pictures of the pet owners. One is merely the hand on a dog collar, but it’s enough for him to tell.
The novel cover is set in the sidebar, a section labelled “About me” with the description “I am an experienced medical doctor recently returned from Afghanistan. This is what I’m currently reading.”
Skimming through the popular entries, Sherlock easily pieces together that this man lives with a librarian (divorced, recently; one child) and now writes fairly banal reviews of the novels his flatmate recommends. The only truly interesting material is in the comments. Again, the writer’s voice doesn’t match the amateur assassin’s. But there is something....
color:#333333;background:white">Seriously, John! I read this when I was 14!
Harry Watson background:white">07 February 15:48
color:#333333;background:white">With the amount of lesbian sex involved here, I’m not surprised. I just hope Mum didn’t know.
background:white">John Watsoncolor:#333333;background:white"> color:#0D4A86;background:white">07 February 15:50
background:white">
Mum was the one who GAVE it to me!
Harry Watson background:white">07 February 15:53
color:#333333;background:white">:O
background:white">John Watsoncolor:#333333;background:white"> color:#0D4A86;background:white">07 February 15:59background:white">
...familiar. Of course, many people use those faces. They use them in common ways. Internet conventions, the permutations of language in a digital society.
All the same, Sherlock finds himself reading from the very start of the blog. Bland write-ups of daily habits, pointed comments toward the therapist who was once monitoring this blog, nothing important and everything revealing.
He registers, distantly, being agitated.
He matches the times John Watson replies to comments with the times his Samaritan replies to his texts. He finds signs of agitation during the week of the explosions, but no actual posting. The one post in the following week is lacklustre.
He recognizes, distantly, a tightness in his stomach.
He finds a later post that isn’t about some rubbish book and reads about rugby. He scrolls down through the comments, looking at such a familiar voice, and that’s when he finds the flatmate’s link to a match. Harry Watson (actually a sister) had demanded to see the “hilarious tackle John landed” on Derek Wilson’s cousin. Wilson had linked accordingly, complete with a time marker.
He clicks the link and loads the page.
He watches.
A blond man tackles a brunette. Unfamiliar clothing, poor quality video, and no view of the face. And yet.
Sherlock searches for more.
He pauses the clip.
The man freezes mid-laugh, sweaty and mud-splattered. Dark blue eyes, round nose, the same ears. The lines on his face are less apparent.
Sherlock opens his phone and looks at his texts. He looks at the blog posts, all of them, a third time, although he’d memorized them the first.
He needs a more direct comparison.
Need rugby explained. Are you of any use? SH
You have a rugby case?
Experiment. SH
Dear god, run for the hills.
If you can’t help, you could have simply said. SH
Wikipedia and I are here to help. What do you need to know?
Lying on the sofa, attempting to think, he can’t.
He can’t think.
The nicotine doesn’t help, caffeine-laden tea doesn’t help, nothing helps. He glares at the mug on the coffee table, empty, unmoved days later, and he hates the missing plate and its consumed brown apple. He curls onto his side, flops onto his back, sulks on his stomach.
Nothing helps.
He feels sick again. Might be the patches. He peels two of them off and feels marginally less horrible. The empty threat of vomiting recedes.
He gets up. Goes to the kitchen. A spoon, the jar, and back to the couch.
A spoonful of honey: treatment for hypoglycaemia in diabetics, such as John Watson’s flatmate.
He sets it against his tongue and waits for his blood sugar to rise. Thick and sweet and smooth when he swallows. He licks his lips and remembers, vaguely, John doing the same. Physical tick, identifying mark. He'd done it on the video as well.
After, Sherlock drinks another two mugs worth of water.
Again, he feels a bit better.
He returns to the couch, lies down, and tries to think. He folds his hands over his stomach and keeps them carefully there. No more movement. He falls, slowly, toward sleep.
In his dream, he’s said yes. It’s the only explanation for why they’re having that drink. Not beer but mead, honey sweet. Which is odd, particularly at Angelo’s, but for once, Sherlock doesn’t mind the discrepancy. His Samaritan is muddy and Mrs. Hudson fusses so as she arranges napkins on their table. Sherlock doesn’t pay attention to her, too intent on the man across from him.
He hears himself speak and deduce only to wince as the details fall away, all the evidence beneath his marvellous conclusions. He stumbles and covers, but his Samaritan isn’t looking at him. He’s peeling an apple with his gun. Sherlock watches, fascinated.
“I didn’t know you could do that,” he admits.
His Samaritan says nothing, only smiles. Polite. No teeth, no feeling.
“You followed me to the circus,” Sherlock blurts. “No, before that. The Antiquities Museum. And at the circus, you asked after Soo Lin Yao. You’re always around me. It is me, isn’t it? It’s more than Moriarty.”
Tucking the gun away in the back of his striped rugby shirt, his Samaritan brushes some of the mud from his face.
“It’s about me,” Sherlock repeats. “It is, isn’t it?”
“Professor Kannes,” his Samaritan corrects. He hands Sherlock the peeled apple. It’s slick and slimy without its skin and Sherlock drops it on the table.
“Oops!” Mrs. Hudson says for him. “Here, let me clean that up.”
“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock snaps and when he looks back across the table, the Samaritan is pulling his jacket on, black with leather patches. The mud has vanished. The rugby shorts remain.
“I appreciate the interest,” his Samaritan says, standing in the sitting room, “but we’re very happy.”
Sherlock tries to get up from the sofa only to find himself anchored there by his dressing gown.
“It’s okay,” the Samaritan tells him. “It’s okay, Sherlock, you’re going to be fine.”
“No,” Sherlock stays. “Stop it.”
The Samaritan tilts his head, the embodiment of a question mark.
“Saving my life. Paying for a cab. Feeding me by hand.”
Those fingers return to his jaw, so steady, so clinical. Leather gloves, not yet skin. Sherlock can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t speak, and fingertips touch his lips. The Samaritan draws his mobile from his mouth and Sherlock coughs.
“Better?” the Samaritan asks, tucking the mobile away into his jacket.
“I need that back,” Sherlock insists, reaching, as if toward a gun. “Give it back.”
The Samaritan is so much taller than him when standing, when Sherlock is trapped on the sofa. “Okay,” he says. He holds the mobile between their eyes, offering.
When Sherlock takes it, the Samaritan is gone.
He wakes tense and aching.
There’s something wrong inside his chest.
He decides to risk it.
color:#333333;background:white">Is it conventional for doctors to make house calls these days, or are you simply a Good Samaritan?
Sherlock Holmes background:white">28 September 07:46
color:#333333;background:white">I wouldn’t call myself conventional, no.
background:white">John Watsoncolor:#333333;background:white"> color:#0D4A86;background:white">28 September 18:12
background:white">
So about that drink.
Sherlock Holmes background:white">28 September 18:17
color:#333333;background:white">I hope you mean you’re hydrating.
background:white">John Watsoncolor:#333333;background:white"> color:#0D4A86;background:white">28 September 18:32
background:white">
Enough.
Sherlock Holmes background:white">28 September 18:35
background:white">
color:#333333;background:white">A likely story. Eat your veg and get some rest.
background:white">John Watsoncolor:#333333;background:white"> color:#0D4A86;background:white">28 September 18:36
And call you in the morning? Or should I stop by Grant Road?
Sherlock Holmes background:white">28 September 18:38
color:#333333;background:white">I am not carrying you up that many stairs.
background:white">John Watsoncolor:#333333;background:white"> color:#0D4A86;background:white">28 September 18:44
Then pick up your phone.
Sherlock Holmes background:white">28 September 18:45
color:#333333;background:white">It’s not morning yet.
background:white">John Watsoncolor:#333333;background:white"> color:#0D4A86;background:white">28 September 18:56
Now it is.
Sherlock Holmes background:white">29 September 00:01
He dials.
Voicemail.
He’ll try again in the morning proper.
“Yes, hello?”
“Dr. Watson.”
“...Hi.”
“Or would ‘Captain’ be more appropriate?”
“John. ‘John’ is fine.”
“Hello, John.”
“…Hello, Sherlock.”
A new day begins.
---------------------------
A reminder here that this is not the official meeting between D!Sherlock and John. This is just an idea that got stuck in my head, the idea of how D!Sherlock would respond to John, and I wanted a chance to write it from his POV.