Fic: A Slowly Dawning Attraction 1/2
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Disclaimer: Belongs to ACD and BBC, not mitsuruaki. Still love you guys, though.
Title: A Slowly Dawning Attraction
Author: mitsuruaki
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Prompt: 5 times Sherlock and John nearly kissed at work, and 1 time they did. :D
Rated: PG-13/R
Words: 12,143
Notes: Thank you to all my awesome people on the kinkmeme! You guys have motivated me to start posting things here, and I'll be working on that over the next couple of days. This is for you. Oh LJ and your word limits...
1.
Sherlock was researching on John’s laptop when he first became consciously aware of it.
His own computer was somewhere in the kitchen (much too far away; John’s was so much more convenient) where his flatmate was most likely noticing his latest experiment in the fridge.
“Sherlock-”
“Leave it,” Sherlock interrupted, typing away without pause. “I need that blood for my experiment later. Do be careful with it, John; some of it’s infected.”
The refrigerator door closed abruptly.
“You put infected blood in the fridge,” John said flatly. “Next to the food.”
The consulting detective raised his head to stare at his flatmate. “Is there food in the fridge?” he asked.
John reopened the fridge and stared for several long moments. “Ah.” The door closed. “Never mind then.”
“What do you know about poisons?” Sherlock responded, attention once again on his computer screen.
Behind him, John cleared his throat, shuffling a little. “They can kill you. Generally aren’t something you’d want to ingest. Why?”
“Come here.”
A soft sigh preceded the sound of footsteps approaching, and then he sensed John’s presence at his back.
“Poison, Sherlock?” John asked, profile appearing in his peripheral vision. “Is this for the case?”
“Of course,” Sherlock said, bringing up several windows to peruse at once. “What else would it be for? Honestly John, think.”
“Who’s been poisoned?” John asked, bewildered.
“Jane Levins,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. “Look at these.”
Silence reigned as he waited impatiently for John to finish reading, but he couldn’t quell the urge to speak. “Half-brother’s slipping it in with her medication, most likely.”
“Half-brother?” the doctor asked, aghast. “You mean Stephen?”
“Oh come now, John, surely you didn’t think they were fully related.”
“Her medication?” John continued, and Sherlock could feel his gaze burning the side of his face, making his skin tingle. “Sherlock, those are prenatal vitamins! She’s pregnant!”
“Yes, well, he certainly doesn’t know that,” Sherlock replied, picking up his phone to text Lestrade. The DI would want to hear about this, he was sure. “I doubt it would have made a difference if he did. No doubt she attributed her nausea, stomach pains, and vomiting to morning sickness or even her vitamins-rightly so. Simply not for the reasons she assumes, of course.”
“She-the baby-”
“She’ll lose the baby,” the detective said shortly, tapping out his message to the Yard. “Hopefully, at least, it won’t be too late for Ms. Levin.”
“Poison…?” John repeated softly, his voice low and disbelieving and…something else a bit harder to identify. Helpless anger? Sorrow, perhaps? Both?
“John, poison is…”
He made the mistake of turning his head to look at John before his sentence was complete, which normally wouldn’t have made any difference at all, but this time…this time John was looking at him. Still leaning over his shoulder, some odd centimeters away, and staring at him with eyes that were more expressive than he had ever seen them.
Sherlock felt the rest of his words trail away neatly without a trace as his stomach adopted the void-like sensation of being in free-fall, a brief flash of confusion and horror flitting through his mind when his gaze involuntarily dropped from the other man’s eyes, to his mouth, to his chin, and back again. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel his chest moving in time with his pulse, surely it was obvious, even John was bound to notice-
“You should send that text,” John said quietly.
And just like that, those eyes leveled out into something the detective was more familiar with- not emotionless, but emotion restrained by military training. The two men stared at each other a few seconds longer before John turned and disappeared back into the kitchen.
Sherlock kept his gaze fixed on the exact spot where his friend’s face used to be for several drawn-out seconds, blinked twice, breathed (when had he stopped?), and jerked his head around to stare blankly at his waiting phone. Feeling oddly lightheaded, he hit the send button.
With a quick unseeing glance at his flatmate’s laptop, he ran a swift mental evaluation of what he was feeling. A little shaky, not unlike a mild crash after an adrenaline high, a little anxious, a little mystified, and when had this started happening?
Gray eyes darted briefly over to John, who was doing something in the cabinets, and focused on the myriad of articles littering the glowing computer screen about various toxic substances.
Maybe he’d been poisoned, too.
2.
“Well?” asked Lestrade.
Sherlock crouched next to the cold body on the victim’s kitchen floor (sprawled out, body hurriedly dropped, closed eyes), his mind whirling and analyzing all the information she was giving him.
Her simple style of dress, the messy knot of her hair, and the lack of signs pointing to consistent cosmetic use indicated she wasn’t part of the workforce. The kitchen along with the rest of the house boasted various items of well-made quality, so despite her lack of work she had a solid income of some sort. Possibly child support, and the pay cheques of someone else close to her. The smell of her fingers and the faded knees of her trousers said she did all the housework herself, by hand, frequently and on a pre-established cleaning schedule. Evidence of her dominance here could be seen from the extreme cleanliness of the flat, to the strict order of every object in its place, to a noticeable void of sentimental photos or paraphernalia. Divorced, then, by the faint pale band of skin where her ring used to reside, very nasty divorce, most likely involving a long, drawn-out custody battle that she inevitably won, for their child, just one, as the unfinished place settings on the kitchen table contained only two plates, some cutlery, an assortment of foodstuffs, a box of cling film, and a stack of napkins.
He lifted her right arm carefully, judging the weight of the muscle mass.
With only two in the household, the mother not working, and a supplement still needed for their income, that left the child as the one bringing home pay cheques. If they were receiving child support and the child was working, that put the age as older than sixteen but younger than eighteen, and working long hours. Most likely female, as a daughter would be less likely to actively rebel against a domineering mother than a son, in this case. Until now.
“Where is her daughter?” Sherlock asked, examining the woman’s right hand closely. “Her classes should have ended hours ago.”
Lestrade blinked. “How did-nevermind. Haven’t found her yet, we’re still looking.”
“Find where she worked; she’ll be somewhere nearby,” Sherlock said, setting the arm back on the floor and moving up to examine the woman’s face. “She’ll need somewhere familiar to regroup, and the only places that qualify are here, her work, and her school. She won’t return to school and she’s certainly not coming back here after she’s just left.”
“’Regroup’?” the DI asked, a dark cloud settling over his face. “You don’t think-”
“No,” Sherlock interrupted impatiently, peering closer at the ring of bruising around her neck. “No, I don’t think, Lestrade, I know.” Honestly, didn’t they observe anything?
“Sherlock,” John cut in from where he was watching his friend work, before things could escalate out of hand. “We can’t read your mind. You’ll have to tell us what you’re thinking.”
The detective huffed and rolled his eyes. “John, it’s quite obvious-”
“Yes, I’m sure,” John said patiently. “But do you know who did it?”
Sherlock gave him a look that said he despaired of John’s intelligence sometimes, he really did. “Naturally,” he replied disdainfully. “Her daughter did.”
“What?” Lestrade exclaimed, staring incredulously down at his consulting detective. “Her daughter? Sherlock, there’s no way-”
“What do you think, John?” Sherlock asked abruptly, eyes boring into his friend’s.
John looked startled for a moment. “What do I think?” he repeated, with a tentative frown. “About her daughter, you mean?”
Sherlock brushed that away and gestured at the body. “Tell me how she died.”
The doctor looked at Lestrade, who shrugged and handed him a pair of gloves. Sherlock waited as John pulled them on and knelt on the other side of the woman’s head.
“Well,” John started, and Sherlock watched as he cleared his throat slightly and shifted on his knees. “Got a bit of bruising round the throat here,” fingers traced over the marred flesh, “so I’d say she’s been strangled, but…”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
“But?” the DI prompted.
The detective impatiently waved him into silence and watched the flex of John’s throat as the man swallowed.
“But I don’t think that’s what killed her,” John finished, glancing up at both of them in turn. “Someone definitely tried to strangle her-”
“Her daughter.”
“-the bruising proves it, but strangulation victims usually wind up with a fractured hyoid as well.” Careful fingers felt along the crease where the skin under her jaw blended into her neck. “Bit hard to tell, but uh…I don’t see that level of damage here.”
“So you’re saying she wasn’t strangled, then?” Lestrade clarified, frowning at the doctor. “Then what killed her?”
Sherlock leaned closer, eyes on John’s fingers. “Just bruising?” he asked.
John nodded, glancing at him. “Not enough pressure to do any more than that, I think. Maybe they didn’t have enough time-”
“’She’, John. She had the element of surprise, but she hasn’t outgrown her mother yet.” A pause as John’s hands moved up to examine the mother’s face, checking her nose and mouth. “When her mother began to regain control, she was forced to choose an alternate method…”
“One that wouldn’t rely on strength?” John asked, bending over to examine her eyes.
“Yes, like-”
“Smothering?”
Sherlock jerked his head up to stare at the same time his flatmate raised his. He was profoundly aware of his hair brushing across John’s skin as he moved, of the sudden flare of warmth trapped under his coat and scarf as the two came a hair’s breadth apart from touching noses.
“Yes,” Sherlock breathed. “Like smothering.”
“Her eyes are bloodshot,” John muttered, unmoving. “Burst capillaries.”
He didn’t dare move his gaze from John’s as their breath swirled between them. “Whatever she used is still here, in the kitchen.”
“She used something from the kitchen?”
Sherlock didn’t answer, because he was a bit preoccupied with how John seemed to be sporting his own magnetic field, which was impossible, people couldn’t just magically conjure magnetic fields willy-nilly, but then why was he feeling this strong urge to-
Lestrade cleared his throat from behind them, fabric whispering as he shifted uncomfortably.
John blinked rapidly and leaned back, refusing to meet his eyes.
A strong rush of anger flooded through him, at both himself and at the Detective Inspector, because honestly, the man had no tact at all, and good god they were at a bloody crime scene. What the hell was wrong with him?
Throwing himself unsteadily to his feet, he gave Lestrade a nasty glare and cast his gaze around the kitchen. What here could be-there. Not on the floor, so she disposed of it, which means…
Sherlock strode to the rubbish bin and knocked the lid aside.
“Sherlock, what are you doing?” the DI asked, exasperation in his voice.
The detective spun around and held up his prize in the palm of his gloved hand.
“…cling film?” the police officer asked, eyes snapping to the box sitting innocently on the kitchen table. “She used cling film?”
“Surely you can do more than state the obvious, Lestrade,” Sherlock said, tossing the wadded ball at him. “Do your job and find that girl, would you?”
If the atmosphere during the cab ride home was a little more charged than usual, neither of them acknowledged it.
3.
Sherlock stood back and watched John work, all three of them dripping wet and cold from the Thames and the rain, and one of them unconscious. His movements were quick and efficient and designed to push as much water from a pair of lungs as possible. Compress and count, pinch nose and exhale into mouth, compress and count…
“John,” Sherlock said quietly.
His flatmate ignored him, whether by choice or because he was fully absorbed in what he was doing, Sherlock wasn’t sure. He didn’t even pause, muttering under his breath and performing the same actions over and over and over-
“John,” he tried again, irritation rising, taking a small step forward.
The sound of sirens and shouting filled the air as the police finally arrived, far too late as always, and probably armed with more of those ridiculous shock blankets. John’s actions didn’t deviate in the slightest, almost mechanical now, even when Lestrade and Donovan rounded the corner of the warehouse and ran towards them.
“John,” Sherlock repeated sharply. He waited two seconds for a reaction that never presented itself, then grabbed his friend under the arms and dragged him away from the body.
The doctor’s reaction to that was swift and furious. “Sherlock, what are you doing! I’m not finished yet, I have to-”
“He’s dead, John.”
“No, he’s not, this is what CPR is for, I’m a doctor, I can-”
“Dead. Gone. Drowned with his wrists tied behind-”
“Stop it!”
“-his back, as he passed the point of no return some minutes ago-”
“Stop it!”
“-and even if you could, the likelihood of brain damage-”
“Sherlock.” Lestrade’s voice was as harsh as his glare as he approached them, Donovan following on his heels and giving him a disgusted look. “Lay off him. What’s happened here?”
“I believe the term is DOA,” Sherlock replied flatly, keeping his expression neutral while impatiently peeling his soaked hair away from his face. “They tossed him into the Thames not too long ago. He drowned. We fished him out, John attempted to resuscitate him-”
He was unprepared for the strong twist of his flatmate’s arm when John threw himself out of his grip, unable to resist the pull of what he considered his doctorly moral obligation. “He’s not dead, Sherlock, if you’ll just let me, I can-”
Sherlock lunged after him, and John’s knees didn’t even have the chance to hit the ground before the detective was pulling him back, long fingers buried in the back of his jacket. He hauled John away from Lestrade and Donovan’s surprised expressions until they were out of hearing range, with the doctor struggling impressively the whole way.
“If you don’t unhand me right now, Sherlock Holmes, I swear-”
He released him, not because John demanded it, but because he deemed them far enough away to not be overheard. The moment his friend turned on him, Sherlock had John’s face in both hands. “John, listen to me.”
“No!” Hands flew up to fight with Sherlock’s coat sleeves, yanking at his wrists. “I could’ve-”
“No, you couldn’t have, John, now listen to me.”
John stayed quiet, although his eyes were full of fury and mutiny, and his hands kept moving. Sherlock’s gaze didn’t flinch away, and he kept his hands firmly in place.
“There was nothing you could have done. It’s not your fault, John.”
John stopped struggling and stared at him.
He wasn’t good with these sorts of things: caring, and social niceties, and reassurance. His whole family was bollocks at this kind of sentimentalism, really, so he tended not to make an effort in those areas, but he believed in facts. He could give John facts.
“Phillip Norton was in the Thames a full five minutes before we found him, John,” he started, pitching his voice low and direct. “By the time we arrived, there was nothing to be done. He is not dead because you did not do enough for him, or because your skills as a doctor are inadequate, or some other foolish notion you have planted in your tiny little brain. Phillip Norton is dead because Geoffrey Gorden and his thugs tied him up and threw him in the Thames with the intent of ending his life, and because they knew that even if Phillip Norton managed to escape his bonds, he didn’t know how to swim.”
John was still staring at him, but his eyes were unfocused in a way that said he wasn’t really seeing anything at all.
Sherlock leaned closer and gave him a shake, making clear blue eyes snap back onto him. “Short of suddenly developing clairvoyant powers, there is nothing we could have done to prevent this sequence of events. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
He got a short nod in response, eyes flickering over his features.
“What am I saying?”
John cleared his throat uncomfortably, meeting Sherlock’s eyes again. “You’re saying we didn’t kill Phillip Norton.”
‘We’. We didn’t kill Phillip Norton. This is not our fault.
Sometimes John really was more perceptive than he gave him credit for. Now he just had to convince himself that the words were true. Five minutes faster would have made all the difference in the life of one man.
John closed his eyes and breathed through his nose for a few moments, fingers tensing and relaxing against the sensitive skin of Sherlock’s wrists, before reopening them.
It really was an intimate position, he supposed, that he truly wasn’t comfortable with. They were too close and too wet, and they were touching, touching skin on skin, his hands framing John’s face and John’s hands on his arms. Now that his point was made the proximity wasn’t necessary, was a bit intrusive actually, so he went to move his hands and give himself a little more space.
John tightened his grip and didn’t let go.
Brow creasing in confusion, Sherlock felt the strangest tingling sensation skitter down his spine while a twinge of uncertainty gnawed at his thoughts.
The doctor’s eyes were calm if a little bit weary, and for some reason Sherlock felt an unexplainable warmth unfurl from where John’s fingers rested against his skin.
“Thank you,” John muttered quietly, but Sherlock was paying less attention to his words and extra attention to what his eyes were saying, because the information there was vastly informative in a way verbal replies weren’t. He may have below average emotional sensitivity, but there was more in John’s expression than simple gratitude, something softer, and Sherlock didn’t have any idea what it was. He’d never had that directed at him before.
He’d never been one for social cues either, yet the combined weight on his wrists and that something sent out a command his brain didn’t understand but his body instinctively did, inexperienced as it was, which told him to move closer and lower his head and tilt John’s back and-
“Oi! Freak!”
Sherlock snatched his hands away and retreated several steps, his heart pounding in his ribcage and turmoil in his mind-a tremor along his skin, fear so strong he could taste it, far, far out of control…
He turned on his heel and left John Watson standing there alone.
Next Part
Disclaimer: Belongs to ACD and BBC, not mitsuruaki. Still love you guys, though.
Title: A Slowly Dawning Attraction
Author: mitsuruaki
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Prompt: 5 times Sherlock and John nearly kissed at work, and 1 time they did. :D
Rated: PG-13/R
Words: 12,143
Notes: Thank you to all my awesome people on the kinkmeme! You guys have motivated me to start posting things here, and I'll be working on that over the next couple of days. This is for you. Oh LJ and your word limits...
1.
Sherlock was researching on John’s laptop when he first became consciously aware of it.
His own computer was somewhere in the kitchen (much too far away; John’s was so much more convenient) where his flatmate was most likely noticing his latest experiment in the fridge.
“Sherlock-”
“Leave it,” Sherlock interrupted, typing away without pause. “I need that blood for my experiment later. Do be careful with it, John; some of it’s infected.”
The refrigerator door closed abruptly.
“You put infected blood in the fridge,” John said flatly. “Next to the food.”
The consulting detective raised his head to stare at his flatmate. “Is there food in the fridge?” he asked.
John reopened the fridge and stared for several long moments. “Ah.” The door closed. “Never mind then.”
“What do you know about poisons?” Sherlock responded, attention once again on his computer screen.
Behind him, John cleared his throat, shuffling a little. “They can kill you. Generally aren’t something you’d want to ingest. Why?”
“Come here.”
A soft sigh preceded the sound of footsteps approaching, and then he sensed John’s presence at his back.
“Poison, Sherlock?” John asked, profile appearing in his peripheral vision. “Is this for the case?”
“Of course,” Sherlock said, bringing up several windows to peruse at once. “What else would it be for? Honestly John, think.”
“Who’s been poisoned?” John asked, bewildered.
“Jane Levins,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. “Look at these.”
Silence reigned as he waited impatiently for John to finish reading, but he couldn’t quell the urge to speak. “Half-brother’s slipping it in with her medication, most likely.”
“Half-brother?” the doctor asked, aghast. “You mean Stephen?”
“Oh come now, John, surely you didn’t think they were fully related.”
“Her medication?” John continued, and Sherlock could feel his gaze burning the side of his face, making his skin tingle. “Sherlock, those are prenatal vitamins! She’s pregnant!”
“Yes, well, he certainly doesn’t know that,” Sherlock replied, picking up his phone to text Lestrade. The DI would want to hear about this, he was sure. “I doubt it would have made a difference if he did. No doubt she attributed her nausea, stomach pains, and vomiting to morning sickness or even her vitamins-rightly so. Simply not for the reasons she assumes, of course.”
“She-the baby-”
“She’ll lose the baby,” the detective said shortly, tapping out his message to the Yard. “Hopefully, at least, it won’t be too late for Ms. Levin.”
“Poison…?” John repeated softly, his voice low and disbelieving and…something else a bit harder to identify. Helpless anger? Sorrow, perhaps? Both?
“John, poison is…”
He made the mistake of turning his head to look at John before his sentence was complete, which normally wouldn’t have made any difference at all, but this time…this time John was looking at him. Still leaning over his shoulder, some odd centimeters away, and staring at him with eyes that were more expressive than he had ever seen them.
Sherlock felt the rest of his words trail away neatly without a trace as his stomach adopted the void-like sensation of being in free-fall, a brief flash of confusion and horror flitting through his mind when his gaze involuntarily dropped from the other man’s eyes, to his mouth, to his chin, and back again. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel his chest moving in time with his pulse, surely it was obvious, even John was bound to notice-
“You should send that text,” John said quietly.
And just like that, those eyes leveled out into something the detective was more familiar with- not emotionless, but emotion restrained by military training. The two men stared at each other a few seconds longer before John turned and disappeared back into the kitchen.
Sherlock kept his gaze fixed on the exact spot where his friend’s face used to be for several drawn-out seconds, blinked twice, breathed (when had he stopped?), and jerked his head around to stare blankly at his waiting phone. Feeling oddly lightheaded, he hit the send button.
With a quick unseeing glance at his flatmate’s laptop, he ran a swift mental evaluation of what he was feeling. A little shaky, not unlike a mild crash after an adrenaline high, a little anxious, a little mystified, and when had this started happening?
Gray eyes darted briefly over to John, who was doing something in the cabinets, and focused on the myriad of articles littering the glowing computer screen about various toxic substances.
Maybe he’d been poisoned, too.
2.
“Well?” asked Lestrade.
Sherlock crouched next to the cold body on the victim’s kitchen floor (sprawled out, body hurriedly dropped, closed eyes), his mind whirling and analyzing all the information she was giving him.
Her simple style of dress, the messy knot of her hair, and the lack of signs pointing to consistent cosmetic use indicated she wasn’t part of the workforce. The kitchen along with the rest of the house boasted various items of well-made quality, so despite her lack of work she had a solid income of some sort. Possibly child support, and the pay cheques of someone else close to her. The smell of her fingers and the faded knees of her trousers said she did all the housework herself, by hand, frequently and on a pre-established cleaning schedule. Evidence of her dominance here could be seen from the extreme cleanliness of the flat, to the strict order of every object in its place, to a noticeable void of sentimental photos or paraphernalia. Divorced, then, by the faint pale band of skin where her ring used to reside, very nasty divorce, most likely involving a long, drawn-out custody battle that she inevitably won, for their child, just one, as the unfinished place settings on the kitchen table contained only two plates, some cutlery, an assortment of foodstuffs, a box of cling film, and a stack of napkins.
He lifted her right arm carefully, judging the weight of the muscle mass.
With only two in the household, the mother not working, and a supplement still needed for their income, that left the child as the one bringing home pay cheques. If they were receiving child support and the child was working, that put the age as older than sixteen but younger than eighteen, and working long hours. Most likely female, as a daughter would be less likely to actively rebel against a domineering mother than a son, in this case. Until now.
“Where is her daughter?” Sherlock asked, examining the woman’s right hand closely. “Her classes should have ended hours ago.”
Lestrade blinked. “How did-nevermind. Haven’t found her yet, we’re still looking.”
“Find where she worked; she’ll be somewhere nearby,” Sherlock said, setting the arm back on the floor and moving up to examine the woman’s face. “She’ll need somewhere familiar to regroup, and the only places that qualify are here, her work, and her school. She won’t return to school and she’s certainly not coming back here after she’s just left.”
“’Regroup’?” the DI asked, a dark cloud settling over his face. “You don’t think-”
“No,” Sherlock interrupted impatiently, peering closer at the ring of bruising around her neck. “No, I don’t think, Lestrade, I know.” Honestly, didn’t they observe anything?
“Sherlock,” John cut in from where he was watching his friend work, before things could escalate out of hand. “We can’t read your mind. You’ll have to tell us what you’re thinking.”
The detective huffed and rolled his eyes. “John, it’s quite obvious-”
“Yes, I’m sure,” John said patiently. “But do you know who did it?”
Sherlock gave him a look that said he despaired of John’s intelligence sometimes, he really did. “Naturally,” he replied disdainfully. “Her daughter did.”
“What?” Lestrade exclaimed, staring incredulously down at his consulting detective. “Her daughter? Sherlock, there’s no way-”
“What do you think, John?” Sherlock asked abruptly, eyes boring into his friend’s.
John looked startled for a moment. “What do I think?” he repeated, with a tentative frown. “About her daughter, you mean?”
Sherlock brushed that away and gestured at the body. “Tell me how she died.”
The doctor looked at Lestrade, who shrugged and handed him a pair of gloves. Sherlock waited as John pulled them on and knelt on the other side of the woman’s head.
“Well,” John started, and Sherlock watched as he cleared his throat slightly and shifted on his knees. “Got a bit of bruising round the throat here,” fingers traced over the marred flesh, “so I’d say she’s been strangled, but…”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
“But?” the DI prompted.
The detective impatiently waved him into silence and watched the flex of John’s throat as the man swallowed.
“But I don’t think that’s what killed her,” John finished, glancing up at both of them in turn. “Someone definitely tried to strangle her-”
“Her daughter.”
“-the bruising proves it, but strangulation victims usually wind up with a fractured hyoid as well.” Careful fingers felt along the crease where the skin under her jaw blended into her neck. “Bit hard to tell, but uh…I don’t see that level of damage here.”
“So you’re saying she wasn’t strangled, then?” Lestrade clarified, frowning at the doctor. “Then what killed her?”
Sherlock leaned closer, eyes on John’s fingers. “Just bruising?” he asked.
John nodded, glancing at him. “Not enough pressure to do any more than that, I think. Maybe they didn’t have enough time-”
“’She’, John. She had the element of surprise, but she hasn’t outgrown her mother yet.” A pause as John’s hands moved up to examine the mother’s face, checking her nose and mouth. “When her mother began to regain control, she was forced to choose an alternate method…”
“One that wouldn’t rely on strength?” John asked, bending over to examine her eyes.
“Yes, like-”
“Smothering?”
Sherlock jerked his head up to stare at the same time his flatmate raised his. He was profoundly aware of his hair brushing across John’s skin as he moved, of the sudden flare of warmth trapped under his coat and scarf as the two came a hair’s breadth apart from touching noses.
“Yes,” Sherlock breathed. “Like smothering.”
“Her eyes are bloodshot,” John muttered, unmoving. “Burst capillaries.”
He didn’t dare move his gaze from John’s as their breath swirled between them. “Whatever she used is still here, in the kitchen.”
“She used something from the kitchen?”
Sherlock didn’t answer, because he was a bit preoccupied with how John seemed to be sporting his own magnetic field, which was impossible, people couldn’t just magically conjure magnetic fields willy-nilly, but then why was he feeling this strong urge to-
Lestrade cleared his throat from behind them, fabric whispering as he shifted uncomfortably.
John blinked rapidly and leaned back, refusing to meet his eyes.
A strong rush of anger flooded through him, at both himself and at the Detective Inspector, because honestly, the man had no tact at all, and good god they were at a bloody crime scene. What the hell was wrong with him?
Throwing himself unsteadily to his feet, he gave Lestrade a nasty glare and cast his gaze around the kitchen. What here could be-there. Not on the floor, so she disposed of it, which means…
Sherlock strode to the rubbish bin and knocked the lid aside.
“Sherlock, what are you doing?” the DI asked, exasperation in his voice.
The detective spun around and held up his prize in the palm of his gloved hand.
“…cling film?” the police officer asked, eyes snapping to the box sitting innocently on the kitchen table. “She used cling film?”
“Surely you can do more than state the obvious, Lestrade,” Sherlock said, tossing the wadded ball at him. “Do your job and find that girl, would you?”
If the atmosphere during the cab ride home was a little more charged than usual, neither of them acknowledged it.
3.
Sherlock stood back and watched John work, all three of them dripping wet and cold from the Thames and the rain, and one of them unconscious. His movements were quick and efficient and designed to push as much water from a pair of lungs as possible. Compress and count, pinch nose and exhale into mouth, compress and count…
“John,” Sherlock said quietly.
His flatmate ignored him, whether by choice or because he was fully absorbed in what he was doing, Sherlock wasn’t sure. He didn’t even pause, muttering under his breath and performing the same actions over and over and over-
“John,” he tried again, irritation rising, taking a small step forward.
The sound of sirens and shouting filled the air as the police finally arrived, far too late as always, and probably armed with more of those ridiculous shock blankets. John’s actions didn’t deviate in the slightest, almost mechanical now, even when Lestrade and Donovan rounded the corner of the warehouse and ran towards them.
“John,” Sherlock repeated sharply. He waited two seconds for a reaction that never presented itself, then grabbed his friend under the arms and dragged him away from the body.
The doctor’s reaction to that was swift and furious. “Sherlock, what are you doing! I’m not finished yet, I have to-”
“He’s dead, John.”
“No, he’s not, this is what CPR is for, I’m a doctor, I can-”
“Dead. Gone. Drowned with his wrists tied behind-”
“Stop it!”
“-his back, as he passed the point of no return some minutes ago-”
“Stop it!”
“-and even if you could, the likelihood of brain damage-”
“Sherlock.” Lestrade’s voice was as harsh as his glare as he approached them, Donovan following on his heels and giving him a disgusted look. “Lay off him. What’s happened here?”
“I believe the term is DOA,” Sherlock replied flatly, keeping his expression neutral while impatiently peeling his soaked hair away from his face. “They tossed him into the Thames not too long ago. He drowned. We fished him out, John attempted to resuscitate him-”
He was unprepared for the strong twist of his flatmate’s arm when John threw himself out of his grip, unable to resist the pull of what he considered his doctorly moral obligation. “He’s not dead, Sherlock, if you’ll just let me, I can-”
Sherlock lunged after him, and John’s knees didn’t even have the chance to hit the ground before the detective was pulling him back, long fingers buried in the back of his jacket. He hauled John away from Lestrade and Donovan’s surprised expressions until they were out of hearing range, with the doctor struggling impressively the whole way.
“If you don’t unhand me right now, Sherlock Holmes, I swear-”
He released him, not because John demanded it, but because he deemed them far enough away to not be overheard. The moment his friend turned on him, Sherlock had John’s face in both hands. “John, listen to me.”
“No!” Hands flew up to fight with Sherlock’s coat sleeves, yanking at his wrists. “I could’ve-”
“No, you couldn’t have, John, now listen to me.”
John stayed quiet, although his eyes were full of fury and mutiny, and his hands kept moving. Sherlock’s gaze didn’t flinch away, and he kept his hands firmly in place.
“There was nothing you could have done. It’s not your fault, John.”
John stopped struggling and stared at him.
He wasn’t good with these sorts of things: caring, and social niceties, and reassurance. His whole family was bollocks at this kind of sentimentalism, really, so he tended not to make an effort in those areas, but he believed in facts. He could give John facts.
“Phillip Norton was in the Thames a full five minutes before we found him, John,” he started, pitching his voice low and direct. “By the time we arrived, there was nothing to be done. He is not dead because you did not do enough for him, or because your skills as a doctor are inadequate, or some other foolish notion you have planted in your tiny little brain. Phillip Norton is dead because Geoffrey Gorden and his thugs tied him up and threw him in the Thames with the intent of ending his life, and because they knew that even if Phillip Norton managed to escape his bonds, he didn’t know how to swim.”
John was still staring at him, but his eyes were unfocused in a way that said he wasn’t really seeing anything at all.
Sherlock leaned closer and gave him a shake, making clear blue eyes snap back onto him. “Short of suddenly developing clairvoyant powers, there is nothing we could have done to prevent this sequence of events. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
He got a short nod in response, eyes flickering over his features.
“What am I saying?”
John cleared his throat uncomfortably, meeting Sherlock’s eyes again. “You’re saying we didn’t kill Phillip Norton.”
‘We’. We didn’t kill Phillip Norton. This is not our fault.
Sometimes John really was more perceptive than he gave him credit for. Now he just had to convince himself that the words were true. Five minutes faster would have made all the difference in the life of one man.
John closed his eyes and breathed through his nose for a few moments, fingers tensing and relaxing against the sensitive skin of Sherlock’s wrists, before reopening them.
It really was an intimate position, he supposed, that he truly wasn’t comfortable with. They were too close and too wet, and they were touching, touching skin on skin, his hands framing John’s face and John’s hands on his arms. Now that his point was made the proximity wasn’t necessary, was a bit intrusive actually, so he went to move his hands and give himself a little more space.
John tightened his grip and didn’t let go.
Brow creasing in confusion, Sherlock felt the strangest tingling sensation skitter down his spine while a twinge of uncertainty gnawed at his thoughts.
The doctor’s eyes were calm if a little bit weary, and for some reason Sherlock felt an unexplainable warmth unfurl from where John’s fingers rested against his skin.
“Thank you,” John muttered quietly, but Sherlock was paying less attention to his words and extra attention to what his eyes were saying, because the information there was vastly informative in a way verbal replies weren’t. He may have below average emotional sensitivity, but there was more in John’s expression than simple gratitude, something softer, and Sherlock didn’t have any idea what it was. He’d never had that directed at him before.
He’d never been one for social cues either, yet the combined weight on his wrists and that something sent out a command his brain didn’t understand but his body instinctively did, inexperienced as it was, which told him to move closer and lower his head and tilt John’s back and-
“Oi! Freak!”
Sherlock snatched his hands away and retreated several steps, his heart pounding in his ribcage and turmoil in his mind-a tremor along his skin, fear so strong he could taste it, far, far out of control…
He turned on his heel and left John Watson standing there alone.
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