FIc: Facing the Odds
Title: Facing the Odds
Warnings: AU.
Prompt from: sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2262.html
Prompt summary: John returns from Afghanistan psychic.
Words: 5,000
Notes:
This is my first fanfic in 10 years and (obviously) the first in this fandom. Lots of Canadian-isms have surely been missed, if you see something, please let me know. The perspective switches from Sherlock with John comments to John to Sherlock. Comments and Criticism are love.
Thank you so much to Captinsway and Sezso! Who first encouraged me to continue. Also, I stole Captinsway’s “33.2%... poor when you're doing science, but pretty good odds at cheating death…”
Last but not least, a huge thank you to disassembly_rsn who took the time to look through this piece of fiction and make fantastic recommendations to improve grammar and narrative!
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PART I | PART II | PART III
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At 23:54, the alarm on Sherlock’s mobile rang as he sprung from the cab. If it had been a call or a text he would have ignored it, but having never set the alarm on his mobile the sound was surprising and required a cursory investigation, even if he had no intention of slowing.
Curiously, the alarm was linked to a reminder in his calendar that simply read “Check your voice reminders” the date stamp indicated that the reminder had been created that morning at 05:42. ‘John then.’ He sighed irritably, his eyes flicking to the looming building; he fidgeted with the mobile, before slipping it into his pocket and heading toward the pool. The alarm rang again. A second reminder left at 05:44.
SH stop being a stubborn idiot. M can wait five minutes. Check the voice recorder. JW
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When John was five, already shorter than the rest of his class and a touch chubby, it was a game he and his mates played. If the world was different, what super power would they have? Tim wanted to fly, Mike wanted to walk through walls or be invisible. John wasn’t picky; anything would do as long as the future would leave him alone. He told Tim and Mike about wanting to control fire. He never told them about the future. Never told anyone.
---
M? Sherlock raised a brow. Interesting. He had not informed John of his intent to meet Moriarty. Although it was conceivably straightforward to deduce who Sherlock would meet once left to his own devices, it was interesting that John had deduced the approximate time of the meeting eighteen hours in advance. That -did- merit investigation. Sherlock flipped through the phone applications before opening the voice reminder app, which blinked to indicate a message left at 05:01. John had been in his room at that time, pacing and talking to himself. Sherlock had been assembling his thoughts on the bombings, Moriarty, and individuals likely to be subsequently targeted. Sherlock had not thought to investigate John’s soliloquy and phone pilfering; He was beginning to wonder if that had been a mistake. He pressed play and continued to stroll towards the pool.
The recording started with two seconds of John’s breathing and, in the background, Sherlock could make out the discord of a violin played violently. The distortion in the background noise indicated that John was pacing in his room while Sherlock played the violin in the living room. This fit Sherlock’s recollection of that morning’s events. “Sherlock, firstly, I’m not Moriarty or working with him, get that out of your head right now or rather five minutes from now. Listen…I…I know you are at the pool. This is so bloody stupid.” John sounded agitated, nervous. He had been distant all day; Sherlock had attributed it to John being annoyingly plebeian about his dashed hero worship and (of course) the bombings. He was wrong. Apparently John had somehow deduced that Sherlock would be meeting Moriarty at midnight at the pool before Sherlock had come up with that scheme. Sherlock felt a surge of pride mixed with some concern regarding the evident predictability of his behaviours. “Sherlock, you know that I went to see Sarah, what you don’t know is that I was prevented from getting there.” Sherlock froze. “Wait! I am fine. It’s all fine. Or, at least, there is a 90% chance everything is fine…”
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John’s desire for the future to stop haunting him did not change him knowing that Jason would throw an eraser at the back of his head in class (92% chance); that Jillian, who fell out of a tree, had a 64% chance of breaking her leg, a 21% chance of just breaking her arm, and based on the angle of her fall had a 13% chance of breaking both; that there was a 81% chance that the goalie would not think to stop a ball aimed for the middle left of a net. He knew who would live and who would die before he saw them in the med tent. He foresaw the chest shot and adjusted it into a shoulder wound; if he had not taken it, there was a 97% chance that Smith - crouching behind him- would have taken it to the head.
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“…Sherlock, there is a very good chance that neither of us are leaving that pool alive. But if you turn around and go home right now chances of you living are excellent. And you really should leave. Think of Lestrade and the rest of Scotland Yard, they really need you alive to bring down Moriarty…God, I’m just deluding myself aren’t I? You’re coming in anyway, especially now that I left you this message.” John’s words were coming more quickly, a sign of approaching hysteria perhaps. The background distortion indicated an increase in the speed of pacing and, consequently, John’s agitation. Sherlock could only conclude that either John knew he would be captured and had been coerced into leaving the message (perhaps by Moriarty at gunpoint? Perhaps Moriarty kidnaped Sarah? Harry?) or he was a willing puppet. Neither assumption fit perfectly. If John had been coerced, why be left alone with Sherlock for the remainder of the day and chance giving the game away? If he were a puppet, why leave the message when Sherlock was prepared to enter the pool? If he deduced these events that morning, why the bloody hell would he stay silent all day?
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The movies had lied. Precognition was not half as useful as it should have been. It made John’s life into an indecisive unmitigated hell. Every decision picked apart seconds before and after being made. Every hesitation spelling out its consequences; every mistake was not a matter of “I could not have known,” it was a matter of “I should have known.” That is, when the “gift” deemed to work; its effectiveness was indirectly proportional to his embarrassment. Sometimes, John would actively look to the future and see nothing. Other times he would dodge bullets. Maybe precognition was a tradeoff.
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“I‘m sure you are thinking to yourself ‘John, what the hell?’…I know this makes no logical sense. Precognition doesn’t exist and all that.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. Precognition? Really? This had to be part of Moriarty’s game. Sherlock ignored the uncomfortable feeling in the back of his shoulders, the one loudly proclaiming that Moriarty would not use a ruse this ridiculously transparent to send a message; would not use the metaphysical as an evasion. He could hear John getting irritated.
“Since you probably think this is all stupid, and I am delusional, let’s see if I can predict the unpredictable.” John’s laugh sounded tight, strained around the edges. In the background he could hear John’s fingers on the keyboard of his laptop. “London weather. The forecast for this evening is ‘clear with a 20% chance of precipitation.’ Ha! Shows what they know. Ready? three, two, one.” A raindrop hit Sherlock’s left cheek. Within seconds it was joined by others as a system gathered.
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He maintains that he is not psychic. Not really. The future is fickle, ever changing, and accurately predicted only one or two seconds ahead; forecasting minutes, hours and months ahead results in a migraine at best and nightmares that rival his flashbacks at worst. The constantly branching events of the future rarely tie themselves to a single stationary event. Apparently, all John needed to find such an even was a shoulder wound, ten CCs of morphine, multi-spectrum antibiotics, and a fever over 39 degrees. In that moment he saw an evening months ahead in a pool with twelve snipers and two men he had never met.
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John released a deep breath. The recording crackled with static. “You need to trust me. If you go in there you will probably die, so will I, and maybe Moriarty as well…Although I doubt it. That fucker has the Devil’s luck. Look, I’m sorry about not telling you earlier; you would probably just get pissed off and not believe a word I said. ” Sherlock felt like he was trying to think through a cocaine haze. There were no such thing as psychics, no such thing as precognition, this was ridiculous. A perfectly logical explanation was waiting to present itself. Obviously, John had been coerced by Moriarty who hacked into the phone to change the date stamp of the message…with a recording of Sherlock’s violin playing in the background. Moriarty was nothing but thorough. Obviously. However, he had not yet deduced how Moriarty made it rain on command. Not even Mycroft had managed that.
“So here is what you need to know. I am at the pool with Moriarty. Obviously. Once I’ve got the vest off. Right. The vest. The vest is under the anorak and covered in Semtex.” John seemed to gather himself once more before continuing in military precision. “Two minutes into the discussion the snipers will appear. Ignore them, they are in the balcony and won’t shoot. Probably.” He started sounding aggravated. “Also, in the future, when meeting well-connected psychopaths kindly choose a more defensible meeting place; something that is less likely to bring ‘shooting fish in a barrel’ to mind…when Moriarty leaves, help me out of the vest. Wait until he returns. Shoot the vest. Jump into the pool. Don’t think. Don’t hesitate. For the love of God, don’t talk to him. I will be right behind you. Stay in until the heat dies down. There’s a 33.2 per cent chance that drowning, the shockwave and falling debris don’t do us in. Charming, I know. Not too late to taxi back to the flat.”
---
He recognized Sherlock the moment he stepped into the lab. Knowing how things would turn out changed nothing. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” for the first time he was in the presence of someone who could understand the horror of seeing in a world that was blind; albeit in a different manner. He had a partner in weirdness, even if he could never share his “gift” for fear of having his brain figuratively and literally dissected.
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“You should know that it’s fine. It’s all fine. No matter how this turns out, I don’t regret moving into the flat. I moved in knowing this …not everything, but definitely this. See you soon. Probably.”
At 24:00, Sherlock slipped the phone into his pocket. He understood the message, if not the methods used; John had levelled the playing field between him and Moriarty. No longer walking into the unknown, Sherlock theorized that if he and John beat the 33.2 per cent, there was a 100 per cent chance that they would need a Very Long Talk. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, wiped the rain from his face and strolled resolutely to meet the odds.
---
Broken collarbone. Sprain in left hand. Bullet wound in left thigh (again, how lovely). Broken ankle. Concussion (minor). Unequivocally and undeniably alive and whole. Bloody hell. On the up side, the injuries indicated that Sherlock was alive [Yes! 99%]. On the down side, the injuries where indicative of Sherlock being coherent [As I see it, yes! 96.5%] and probably watching him [It is certain! 95.1%].
“Your heart rate went up three minutes ago. Your breathing changed a minute and a half ago. Pretending to be unconscious at this point is juvenile.”
Yes. Definitely watching him. [You are so going to regret this! 100%]
“Stop pretending and speak to me. Doing so will bring this- discussion - to a swifter conclusion.”
Sherlock sounded unusually terse. As Sherlock often sounded terse, the additional bile made gooseflesh breakout across John’s skin. He shuddered. ‘Discussion’ sounded a lot like ‘interrogation.’ Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Idiot. He should’ve let himself get shot, but that would have decreased Sherlock’s chances [Yup! 19%], and God-forbid that London be denied Sherlock’s ever-expanding ego. There was no point in hoping Sherlock contracted amnesia [You wish! 0.05%] at this point. He didn’t need the precognition to tell him the discussion would be uncomfortable [Deeply! 88.9%].
“Discussion? About what?” God, his voice sounded awful, probably smoke inhalation [Most likely! 99.8%]. He doubted Sherlock would be fooled by retrograde amnesia [You’re an awful actor! 1.05%]. He would be subject to experiments [Yes! 89%] and maybe get dissected [Reply hazy, try again! __%]. God damn. He opened his eyes, confirming Sherlock’s looming form over his hospital bed. He coughed, his throat burning. “Water?”
“Stop stalling.” Sherlock’s face was unreadable. He was like a dog with a bloody bone; there was no way John was going to manipulate his way out of this [Not a chance! 99.9%]. Nevertheless, a glass of water was propped under his chin, and a straw was extended to his mouth. Obviously Sherlock needed to keep him in good condition prior to dissection [I’ll keep you updated! __%].
“Can we not talk about it?” [My sources say no! 99.9%]. “…or talk about it when we get home?” John hedged.
Sherlock simply stared at him, his face mimicking the expression he wore prior to tearing into a corpse. Actually, John figured the conversation might go better in the comparably safe environment of the hospital [Probably! 73.2%]. Where there would be witnesses [Mycroft got rid of them! 82.1%].
“You were much more forthcoming in the message.”
“I thought we were both going to die, and thought I might attempt to keep you from stupidly wasting your life. You’re welcome.” He had failed at warning Sherlock off danger, of course. John realized he was starting to hinge on panic and maybe anger. He should have relied on his military experience, he had heard too many things said in the heat of battle and then regretted. “If it is all the same, I would really prefer not to discuss this.” John could feel the mortification taking over. The constant stream of data in the back of his head shut up. John breathed a sigh of relief.
“It is not ‘all the same.’ Explain the precognition.”
John ignored the IV lodged in his arm in favour of pressing his right hand against his face. The dull pressure behind his eyes increased. He had explained the “gift” a million times in his mind; had described it; drawn diagrams. Right now, he had nothing. God, he did not survive Afghanistan to spend the rest of his life as a lab experiment.
[Sharp! Right hand! 98.9%]
“Cap the syringe, no need to impale me, I’ll talk.” Experiments have begun. Charming. Dissection was likely next [Better not tell you now! __%]. He could hear a surprised intake of breath, followed by the sound of a syringe being binned. Any triumph he might have felt at surprising The Great Sherlock Holmes was intimidated by the near-stabbing. “What do you want to know?” he carefully placed both hands on his lap to stem the temptation to slug his sociopathic roommate [You wouldn’t win anyway! 12.1%].
“Everything.” Of course.
“Right…I usually can’t see as far ahead as that.” John’s head buzzed for a second and the half-dream that woke him in the first place surfaced. Right. Switzerland. He should write that down before he forgot. Forgetting might be optimistic seeing as he would have nightmares about it for months [A year, actually! 99%]. “One to two seconds ahead is most accurate. Further than that are the ghosts or webs of un-collapsed futures.” John gave a dry humourless laugh that ended in a coughing fit. “When I was four I tried to explain it to my mum, she took me to an eye doctor thinking the fuzziness to my vision was near sightedness.” He sighed deeply. “I figured out I was -different- by reading the Incredible X-men. Never told anyone. End of story.”
Sherlock rested his chin on his steepled fingers. He regarded John with an expression reserved for interesting experiments. He got the uncomfortable feeling that this is how Sherlock eyed his first pet cat, immediately before dissecting it.
“Scientifically speaking, 33.2 per cent is a poor prognosis.”
John shuddered. He had seen them die; had watched Sherlock’s brains splatter across white tiles; had seen him shot in the chest; watched him crumple lifelessly to the ground; had been covered in his blood; had been burned alive; had drowned with him; had his ribcage crushed underwater by the shockwave or falling ceiling. “Poor in science, but decent odds when cheating death; anyway, the longer you two gabbed the higher your likelihood of survival.” His lungs had burned and in his mind the counters had tracked the survival rates. Sniper 1, balcony left [12%]; Sniper 2, balcony left [11%], Sniper 3, upper balcony left [22%];….; Moriarty [Bastard! 92%], Sherlock [Idiot! 33%, 21.5%, 12.1% (what did I say about talking to Moriarty?), 43%, (jump into pool) ,46.6% (dodge metal support beam), 57.8% (dodge falling glass), 63.3% (take bullet to thigh), 79.1% (push Sherlock to the surface)].
“Moriarty is alive?”
John nodded [Unfortunately! 89%], staring vacantly at the blankets covering his hospital bed. He had not realized he was clutching them until that moment. “Yah. Licking his wounds, but alive. So, now you know; what’s next?”
“You tell me.” Sherlock’s face was an unreadable mask. Fuck. John wished he had inherited something bloody useful; something that made Sherlock less of an unreadable arse at times like this. But he could not hate the man, even when he was eyeing John like a science experiment. Not even now. The moment he had recognized Sherlock in the Lab at Bart’s two webs were born. In one, he faced the pool and in the other, he faced himself. John believed in following paths with higher odds of survival.
“I can’t tell what will happen in the coming weeks.” He avoided mentioning Switzerland. “By the way, Mycroft is on his way. How are you going to explain this?” His heart felt like a stone in his chest.
“Elementary. I follow the facts. I went to the pool with the intent of confronting Moriarty; I was surprised by your presence; we survived due to moxie and gumption.” Sherlock intoned sarcastically. “My phone is, unfortunately, a complete loss.” Sherlock managed to sound genuinely upset. Amused, John could forgive himself for not catching the insinuation immediately.
“The recording is gone?”
Sherlock “hmmed” distractedly even as the tap of Mycroft’s umbrella could be heard in the hallway outside. “Fair warning, we are not done talking.” Sherlock’s grinned at him. “Also, stop fretting, no one is going to dissect you.”
John nodded too relieved to respond. He could feel himself drifting off, until he was startled by the ghosts of knives experimentally tossed at him [Sharp ones! 89.3%]. Bloody fuck.
---
He should have deduced this earlier; perhaps he had and then had discarded the conclusion due to its pervasive lack of logic. Sherlock had ripped romanticism out of his life and stuck to the facts. Apparently his base assumptions required re-evaluation. ‘John Watson presented with accurate…’ he cringed at the word ‘…intuition.' He idly hoped the anomaly was specific to John and not something cropping up in the population at large; that would not only be incredibly aggravating, but also statistically reduce his success rate on cases. He would have to ask John about his ability to foresee uses of available evidence and consequently the potential for manipulating said evidence. Then again, seeing as John was an open book he might be able to deduce the answer on his own.
Having returned to 221b, John initially appeared calm. The hospital setting (likely causing the latent PTSD to re-emerge) and the ridiculous fear of being dissected had kept John tense; He failed to make sarcastic jokes, hardly smiled, and had the disturbing habit of flinching at things that Sherlock could not see. John’s physician had attributed it to PTSD. At one point Sherlock might have agreed. In their shared flat, John had managed to unwind and present with a plethora of symptoms of his -condition-.
On his first night back, Sherlock had dragged John to dinner to gage his reactions to the masses and make up for the lack of edible objects in the fridge (without John, the kitchen had degraded to a sad state). If John deduced it to be a celebratory dinner, that was entirely up to him.
Sherlock was annoyed with himself; he really should have noticed. In addition to predicting the unpredictable (predicting rain to the second was impressive), John had reflexes that human neural hardware could not support.
On the walk to the restaurant, John righted a woman (aged 36, a banker from the City of London, but residing in Epping) before her heel caught on a cobblestone, bumped into a middle aged man (aged 56, janitor residing in London, not married but seeing a younger woman) with uncharacteristic clumsiness, and in the restaurant had righted a pepper shaker before it tipped.
“Extraordinary.” Sherlock breathed.
“Is there a pepper shaker involved in the next case?” John was embarrassed. A smile hovered on the edges of his lips, so Sherlock excused his inane comment as being deliberately obtuse for the sake of levity. The humour was idiotic, but excitement bubbled up in Sherlock regardless. This! This is why John Watson was so infuriatingly interesting. This is why a man that should have been dull dull dull had become a lynchpin in the vortex of Sherlock’s considerable intellect.
“You manifest impossible reaction times; even considering the speed of reflex arcs. This points to accurate knowledge of future object placement. However, you consciously obscure the data by not always following the…precognition… You saved the banker from spraining her ankle, you saved the janitor from being hit by a biker, you righted the pepper shaker before its loose cap detached and deposited its contents on your dinner; but you let the glass fall from the table because catching it mid-air would be telling.”
John looked profoundly impressed with Sherlock’s deductions. “Incredible. How did you know she was a banker?” Of course, John would latch onto the only female subject in the discourse. Metaphysical abilities aside, he could be terribly plebeian. He was fortunate that Sherlock had an overly developed respect for his own intellect and enjoyed an audience. Preoccupied Sherlock did not get another opportunity to interrupt John’s meal.
It was late by the time they return to the flat. John carefully eased himself into his chair, resting the cane against the coffee table (painkiller taken four hours ago was wearing off; also the tranquilizing effect of the meal was coupled with the effects of the codeine). He let his head fall back as he studied the ceiling.
Sherlock stretched back in his couch and picked up the knife he had managed to rescue from John’s fanatical scouring of sharps from the flat. He had calculated that a knife was necessary. A bullet was too risky and a crumpled piece of paper likely to be ignored.
“Put it down.” John did not look in Sherlock’s direction; his body betraying the calm in his voice. His shoulders tensed and he planted both feet firmly on the ground, ready to dodge if necessary.
“Do you think I will use you for target practice?” Sherlock kept his voice conversational.
John finally lifted his head and met Sherlock’s calm gaze. Sherlock tossed the knife from one hand to the other, gauging its balance (very poor). He ran his eyes over John again, no new information. The doctor looked as worn as he had earlier that evening and at least as tense as he had in the hospital. Back to thinking about dissection then.
“With you I don’t know what to think. How must it be in that immense brain of yours…where all actions are equally likely until a millisecond before you enact them?” John shifted his weight minutely to the left, and caught the knife by the hilt. With the same impossible speed the knife returned to Sherlock and buried itself half a centimetre from his right ear and eight centimetres deep in couch cushions.
“I’m not a toy.” John did not raise his voice. For the first time since the pool, Sherlock could see the complete absence of emotion on John’s usually expressive face. His hand was dead steady. Could be interesting. Might get Sherlock killed. Knives were a ‘no’ then. Sherlock grinned. Apparently he was not as predictable as the pedestrian sheep of London. It was a relief; so overwhelming that he decided to forgive the knife’s unsavoury return.
“No, no, of course not.” Sherlock jumped up from the couch and began pacing in enthusiasm. “This is incredible! Marvellous! John, there is no problem that together we will be unable to solve”
“I’m really not -that- useful.” Came the disinterested sigh from the chair. Sherlock spun on his heel and hopped up on the coffee table, crouching down to bring his face in line with John’s. John did not look surprised, which irritated Sherlock almost as much as the need to surprise John. He thought of a dozen possible surprising solutions, before realizing that John had backed as far into his chair as cushions allowed and had gone rather red in embarrassment. Immediately afterwards he looked a bit confused. Sherlock re-ran the dozen scenarios, chose the most embarrassing ones and leaned in. John continued to look confused. Sherlock leaned back. “Doesn’t work when you get embarrassed?”
“Uh. No. You aren’t going to - uh. Never mind.” John’s mortification was obviously mounting. The scenario certainly explained John’s lack of success in dallying with various women. When he was embarrassed, the precognition failed. Interesting. It merited further investigation to determine whether the discrepancy had a psychosomatic background.
“Also, of course you are useful. Your opinions are invaluable.” Maybe even more than he had previously imagined. John could insist on not being a toy but Sherlock had not felt this level of zeal since discovering that chemicals reacted. Thrilling!
Sherlock jumped down from the table in enthusiasm. “You knew about the pool two months in advance. Can you determine Moriarty’s next move?”
“He will probably try to kill you.” John deadpanned.
Sherlock briefly despaired that the withering look he used on Anderson no longer had an effect on John Watson. Frustrated he ran his hands through his hair. “You have superpowers! and that is the best you can do? A mentally deranged monkey could have deduced that.”
“Yah well, I can say with complete certainty that he will not try to kill you in the next thirty seconds or so.” John returned to gazing at the ceiling. His right hand clenched his knee, while his left hand (still in a brace) twitched distractedly. John was omitting something.
“John, stop being obtuse and tell me.”
“No.” John sounded frustrated. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He winced minutely at contact with his left thigh, but the pain either faded or was an insufficient deterrent. Moving from frustrated to steaming, then. John had been fairly blasé about his own death in the pool, but more panicked when he described Sherlock being killed. Ah.
“I see.”
“No, you don’t bloody well see. Stop pretending to be omniscient! I’ll tell you the moment it’s relevant.”
Sherlock pouted. He flung himself onto the couch. He glared at John. He prepared himself for a prolonged sulk.
“You look twelve when you do that. Also, check your text messages. Lucky you, it’s a triple homicide.”
Sherlock’s phone rang.
In the cab, John insisted on being infuriatingly uncommunicative. Sherlock considered using the knife again. Pity he had left it in the flat.
“Is it two women and a man?”
“I don’t know.” John was starting to sound annoyed.
“Is it two men and a woman?”
“I still don’t know.” Definitely annoyed!
“Is there a child?”
“Sherlock! We are too far from the murder scene. So. I. Don’t. Know!” Furious!
“Fine! Then make up for this woeful lack of information by describing my preordained demise.” Sherlock had not fully surrendered the petulance stemming from before the phone call.
“I predict that in three minutes you will die in a cab strangled with your own scarf.”
“Boring.”
“Stop pestering me. If I tell you, the odds change. Just, trust me. I wouldn’t keep quiet for no reason!”
Sherlock huffed under his breath and leaned back into his seat. “Is it a child and two adults?”
John spent the rest of the cab ride studiously ignoring Sherlock. The fact that he had come at all was more telling, of course. Sherlock did not need precognition to know that John would do everything in his power to help him solve the case; that he would keep Sherlock safe regardless of his own injuries; that Sherlock would return the favour.
---
Months later Sherlock still did not believe in intuition. It was a sloppy excuse for insufficient thought and emotional conclusions with no concern for the facts. He could forgive it in John Watson. At the moment he was willing to forgive John anything if the other man would get out of his foul mood. Really, who was being childish now? The thrill of the chase; the euphoria of a job well done; the knowledge that the crime syndicate was falling apart around Moriarty’s ears; the booming marvel of nature’s most exhilarating water works. John continued to sulk. Really, what adult sulked anyway?
“John, try to enjoy yourself.” Sherlock raised binoculars to his eyes for a better look at the fungi surviving the brutal cascade of water. If he could get down there, it might merit investigation. Over the white noise of the waterfalls, he could hear rapidly approaching footsteps (teenager, boy, wearing flip flops, a tourist, probably American).
John sighed irritably at his side. Sherlock suppressed his instinctive desire to punch when he was engulfed in quick and awkward one-armed hug. “Sherlock, I have to go, I need to see a man about a boulder. -Do- avoid being murdered in my absence.”
Sherlock did not have a chance to reply before John started briskly walking up the path towards their hotel. The teenager (15, definitely an American tourist) franticly scrambled to catch up.
Sherlock was not a stupid man, but it had been a while since this particular brand of Watson-depression had manifested itself and suddenly everything clicked.
The alarm on his mobile rang. The reminder in his calendar simply read “Check your voice reminders.”
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Bit more/Next Part>>
Warnings: AU.
Prompt from: sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2262.html
Prompt summary: John returns from Afghanistan psychic.
Words: 5,000
Notes:
This is my first fanfic in 10 years and (obviously) the first in this fandom. Lots of Canadian-isms have surely been missed, if you see something, please let me know. The perspective switches from Sherlock with John comments to John to Sherlock. Comments and Criticism are love.
Thank you so much to Captinsway and Sezso! Who first encouraged me to continue. Also, I stole Captinsway’s “33.2%... poor when you're doing science, but pretty good odds at cheating death…”
Last but not least, a huge thank you to disassembly_rsn who took the time to look through this piece of fiction and make fantastic recommendations to improve grammar and narrative!
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PART I | PART II | PART III
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At 23:54, the alarm on Sherlock’s mobile rang as he sprung from the cab. If it had been a call or a text he would have ignored it, but having never set the alarm on his mobile the sound was surprising and required a cursory investigation, even if he had no intention of slowing.
Curiously, the alarm was linked to a reminder in his calendar that simply read “Check your voice reminders” the date stamp indicated that the reminder had been created that morning at 05:42. ‘John then.’ He sighed irritably, his eyes flicking to the looming building; he fidgeted with the mobile, before slipping it into his pocket and heading toward the pool. The alarm rang again. A second reminder left at 05:44.
SH stop being a stubborn idiot. M can wait five minutes. Check the voice recorder. JW
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When John was five, already shorter than the rest of his class and a touch chubby, it was a game he and his mates played. If the world was different, what super power would they have? Tim wanted to fly, Mike wanted to walk through walls or be invisible. John wasn’t picky; anything would do as long as the future would leave him alone. He told Tim and Mike about wanting to control fire. He never told them about the future. Never told anyone.
---
M? Sherlock raised a brow. Interesting. He had not informed John of his intent to meet Moriarty. Although it was conceivably straightforward to deduce who Sherlock would meet once left to his own devices, it was interesting that John had deduced the approximate time of the meeting eighteen hours in advance. That -did- merit investigation. Sherlock flipped through the phone applications before opening the voice reminder app, which blinked to indicate a message left at 05:01. John had been in his room at that time, pacing and talking to himself. Sherlock had been assembling his thoughts on the bombings, Moriarty, and individuals likely to be subsequently targeted. Sherlock had not thought to investigate John’s soliloquy and phone pilfering; He was beginning to wonder if that had been a mistake. He pressed play and continued to stroll towards the pool.
The recording started with two seconds of John’s breathing and, in the background, Sherlock could make out the discord of a violin played violently. The distortion in the background noise indicated that John was pacing in his room while Sherlock played the violin in the living room. This fit Sherlock’s recollection of that morning’s events. “Sherlock, firstly, I’m not Moriarty or working with him, get that out of your head right now or rather five minutes from now. Listen…I…I know you are at the pool. This is so bloody stupid.” John sounded agitated, nervous. He had been distant all day; Sherlock had attributed it to John being annoyingly plebeian about his dashed hero worship and (of course) the bombings. He was wrong. Apparently John had somehow deduced that Sherlock would be meeting Moriarty at midnight at the pool before Sherlock had come up with that scheme. Sherlock felt a surge of pride mixed with some concern regarding the evident predictability of his behaviours. “Sherlock, you know that I went to see Sarah, what you don’t know is that I was prevented from getting there.” Sherlock froze. “Wait! I am fine. It’s all fine. Or, at least, there is a 90% chance everything is fine…”
---
John’s desire for the future to stop haunting him did not change him knowing that Jason would throw an eraser at the back of his head in class (92% chance); that Jillian, who fell out of a tree, had a 64% chance of breaking her leg, a 21% chance of just breaking her arm, and based on the angle of her fall had a 13% chance of breaking both; that there was a 81% chance that the goalie would not think to stop a ball aimed for the middle left of a net. He knew who would live and who would die before he saw them in the med tent. He foresaw the chest shot and adjusted it into a shoulder wound; if he had not taken it, there was a 97% chance that Smith - crouching behind him- would have taken it to the head.
---
“…Sherlock, there is a very good chance that neither of us are leaving that pool alive. But if you turn around and go home right now chances of you living are excellent. And you really should leave. Think of Lestrade and the rest of Scotland Yard, they really need you alive to bring down Moriarty…God, I’m just deluding myself aren’t I? You’re coming in anyway, especially now that I left you this message.” John’s words were coming more quickly, a sign of approaching hysteria perhaps. The background distortion indicated an increase in the speed of pacing and, consequently, John’s agitation. Sherlock could only conclude that either John knew he would be captured and had been coerced into leaving the message (perhaps by Moriarty at gunpoint? Perhaps Moriarty kidnaped Sarah? Harry?) or he was a willing puppet. Neither assumption fit perfectly. If John had been coerced, why be left alone with Sherlock for the remainder of the day and chance giving the game away? If he were a puppet, why leave the message when Sherlock was prepared to enter the pool? If he deduced these events that morning, why the bloody hell would he stay silent all day?
---
The movies had lied. Precognition was not half as useful as it should have been. It made John’s life into an indecisive unmitigated hell. Every decision picked apart seconds before and after being made. Every hesitation spelling out its consequences; every mistake was not a matter of “I could not have known,” it was a matter of “I should have known.” That is, when the “gift” deemed to work; its effectiveness was indirectly proportional to his embarrassment. Sometimes, John would actively look to the future and see nothing. Other times he would dodge bullets. Maybe precognition was a tradeoff.
---
“I‘m sure you are thinking to yourself ‘John, what the hell?’…I know this makes no logical sense. Precognition doesn’t exist and all that.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. Precognition? Really? This had to be part of Moriarty’s game. Sherlock ignored the uncomfortable feeling in the back of his shoulders, the one loudly proclaiming that Moriarty would not use a ruse this ridiculously transparent to send a message; would not use the metaphysical as an evasion. He could hear John getting irritated.
“Since you probably think this is all stupid, and I am delusional, let’s see if I can predict the unpredictable.” John’s laugh sounded tight, strained around the edges. In the background he could hear John’s fingers on the keyboard of his laptop. “London weather. The forecast for this evening is ‘clear with a 20% chance of precipitation.’ Ha! Shows what they know. Ready? three, two, one.” A raindrop hit Sherlock’s left cheek. Within seconds it was joined by others as a system gathered.
---
He maintains that he is not psychic. Not really. The future is fickle, ever changing, and accurately predicted only one or two seconds ahead; forecasting minutes, hours and months ahead results in a migraine at best and nightmares that rival his flashbacks at worst. The constantly branching events of the future rarely tie themselves to a single stationary event. Apparently, all John needed to find such an even was a shoulder wound, ten CCs of morphine, multi-spectrum antibiotics, and a fever over 39 degrees. In that moment he saw an evening months ahead in a pool with twelve snipers and two men he had never met.
---
John released a deep breath. The recording crackled with static. “You need to trust me. If you go in there you will probably die, so will I, and maybe Moriarty as well…Although I doubt it. That fucker has the Devil’s luck. Look, I’m sorry about not telling you earlier; you would probably just get pissed off and not believe a word I said. ” Sherlock felt like he was trying to think through a cocaine haze. There were no such thing as psychics, no such thing as precognition, this was ridiculous. A perfectly logical explanation was waiting to present itself. Obviously, John had been coerced by Moriarty who hacked into the phone to change the date stamp of the message…with a recording of Sherlock’s violin playing in the background. Moriarty was nothing but thorough. Obviously. However, he had not yet deduced how Moriarty made it rain on command. Not even Mycroft had managed that.
“So here is what you need to know. I am at the pool with Moriarty. Obviously. Once I’ve got the vest off. Right. The vest. The vest is under the anorak and covered in Semtex.” John seemed to gather himself once more before continuing in military precision. “Two minutes into the discussion the snipers will appear. Ignore them, they are in the balcony and won’t shoot. Probably.” He started sounding aggravated. “Also, in the future, when meeting well-connected psychopaths kindly choose a more defensible meeting place; something that is less likely to bring ‘shooting fish in a barrel’ to mind…when Moriarty leaves, help me out of the vest. Wait until he returns. Shoot the vest. Jump into the pool. Don’t think. Don’t hesitate. For the love of God, don’t talk to him. I will be right behind you. Stay in until the heat dies down. There’s a 33.2 per cent chance that drowning, the shockwave and falling debris don’t do us in. Charming, I know. Not too late to taxi back to the flat.”
---
He recognized Sherlock the moment he stepped into the lab. Knowing how things would turn out changed nothing. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” for the first time he was in the presence of someone who could understand the horror of seeing in a world that was blind; albeit in a different manner. He had a partner in weirdness, even if he could never share his “gift” for fear of having his brain figuratively and literally dissected.
---
“You should know that it’s fine. It’s all fine. No matter how this turns out, I don’t regret moving into the flat. I moved in knowing this …not everything, but definitely this. See you soon. Probably.”
At 24:00, Sherlock slipped the phone into his pocket. He understood the message, if not the methods used; John had levelled the playing field between him and Moriarty. No longer walking into the unknown, Sherlock theorized that if he and John beat the 33.2 per cent, there was a 100 per cent chance that they would need a Very Long Talk. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, wiped the rain from his face and strolled resolutely to meet the odds.
---
Broken collarbone. Sprain in left hand. Bullet wound in left thigh (again, how lovely). Broken ankle. Concussion (minor). Unequivocally and undeniably alive and whole. Bloody hell. On the up side, the injuries indicated that Sherlock was alive [Yes! 99%]. On the down side, the injuries where indicative of Sherlock being coherent [As I see it, yes! 96.5%] and probably watching him [It is certain! 95.1%].
“Your heart rate went up three minutes ago. Your breathing changed a minute and a half ago. Pretending to be unconscious at this point is juvenile.”
Yes. Definitely watching him. [You are so going to regret this! 100%]
“Stop pretending and speak to me. Doing so will bring this- discussion - to a swifter conclusion.”
Sherlock sounded unusually terse. As Sherlock often sounded terse, the additional bile made gooseflesh breakout across John’s skin. He shuddered. ‘Discussion’ sounded a lot like ‘interrogation.’ Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Idiot. He should’ve let himself get shot, but that would have decreased Sherlock’s chances [Yup! 19%], and God-forbid that London be denied Sherlock’s ever-expanding ego. There was no point in hoping Sherlock contracted amnesia [You wish! 0.05%] at this point. He didn’t need the precognition to tell him the discussion would be uncomfortable [Deeply! 88.9%].
“Discussion? About what?” God, his voice sounded awful, probably smoke inhalation [Most likely! 99.8%]. He doubted Sherlock would be fooled by retrograde amnesia [You’re an awful actor! 1.05%]. He would be subject to experiments [Yes! 89%] and maybe get dissected [Reply hazy, try again! __%]. God damn. He opened his eyes, confirming Sherlock’s looming form over his hospital bed. He coughed, his throat burning. “Water?”
“Stop stalling.” Sherlock’s face was unreadable. He was like a dog with a bloody bone; there was no way John was going to manipulate his way out of this [Not a chance! 99.9%]. Nevertheless, a glass of water was propped under his chin, and a straw was extended to his mouth. Obviously Sherlock needed to keep him in good condition prior to dissection [I’ll keep you updated! __%].
“Can we not talk about it?” [My sources say no! 99.9%]. “…or talk about it when we get home?” John hedged.
Sherlock simply stared at him, his face mimicking the expression he wore prior to tearing into a corpse. Actually, John figured the conversation might go better in the comparably safe environment of the hospital [Probably! 73.2%]. Where there would be witnesses [Mycroft got rid of them! 82.1%].
“You were much more forthcoming in the message.”
“I thought we were both going to die, and thought I might attempt to keep you from stupidly wasting your life. You’re welcome.” He had failed at warning Sherlock off danger, of course. John realized he was starting to hinge on panic and maybe anger. He should have relied on his military experience, he had heard too many things said in the heat of battle and then regretted. “If it is all the same, I would really prefer not to discuss this.” John could feel the mortification taking over. The constant stream of data in the back of his head shut up. John breathed a sigh of relief.
“It is not ‘all the same.’ Explain the precognition.”
John ignored the IV lodged in his arm in favour of pressing his right hand against his face. The dull pressure behind his eyes increased. He had explained the “gift” a million times in his mind; had described it; drawn diagrams. Right now, he had nothing. God, he did not survive Afghanistan to spend the rest of his life as a lab experiment.
[Sharp! Right hand! 98.9%]
“Cap the syringe, no need to impale me, I’ll talk.” Experiments have begun. Charming. Dissection was likely next [Better not tell you now! __%]. He could hear a surprised intake of breath, followed by the sound of a syringe being binned. Any triumph he might have felt at surprising The Great Sherlock Holmes was intimidated by the near-stabbing. “What do you want to know?” he carefully placed both hands on his lap to stem the temptation to slug his sociopathic roommate [You wouldn’t win anyway! 12.1%].
“Everything.” Of course.
“Right…I usually can’t see as far ahead as that.” John’s head buzzed for a second and the half-dream that woke him in the first place surfaced. Right. Switzerland. He should write that down before he forgot. Forgetting might be optimistic seeing as he would have nightmares about it for months [A year, actually! 99%]. “One to two seconds ahead is most accurate. Further than that are the ghosts or webs of un-collapsed futures.” John gave a dry humourless laugh that ended in a coughing fit. “When I was four I tried to explain it to my mum, she took me to an eye doctor thinking the fuzziness to my vision was near sightedness.” He sighed deeply. “I figured out I was -different- by reading the Incredible X-men. Never told anyone. End of story.”
Sherlock rested his chin on his steepled fingers. He regarded John with an expression reserved for interesting experiments. He got the uncomfortable feeling that this is how Sherlock eyed his first pet cat, immediately before dissecting it.
“Scientifically speaking, 33.2 per cent is a poor prognosis.”
John shuddered. He had seen them die; had watched Sherlock’s brains splatter across white tiles; had seen him shot in the chest; watched him crumple lifelessly to the ground; had been covered in his blood; had been burned alive; had drowned with him; had his ribcage crushed underwater by the shockwave or falling ceiling. “Poor in science, but decent odds when cheating death; anyway, the longer you two gabbed the higher your likelihood of survival.” His lungs had burned and in his mind the counters had tracked the survival rates. Sniper 1, balcony left [12%]; Sniper 2, balcony left [11%], Sniper 3, upper balcony left [22%];….; Moriarty [Bastard! 92%], Sherlock [Idiot! 33%, 21.5%, 12.1% (what did I say about talking to Moriarty?), 43%, (jump into pool) ,46.6% (dodge metal support beam), 57.8% (dodge falling glass), 63.3% (take bullet to thigh), 79.1% (push Sherlock to the surface)].
“Moriarty is alive?”
John nodded [Unfortunately! 89%], staring vacantly at the blankets covering his hospital bed. He had not realized he was clutching them until that moment. “Yah. Licking his wounds, but alive. So, now you know; what’s next?”
“You tell me.” Sherlock’s face was an unreadable mask. Fuck. John wished he had inherited something bloody useful; something that made Sherlock less of an unreadable arse at times like this. But he could not hate the man, even when he was eyeing John like a science experiment. Not even now. The moment he had recognized Sherlock in the Lab at Bart’s two webs were born. In one, he faced the pool and in the other, he faced himself. John believed in following paths with higher odds of survival.
“I can’t tell what will happen in the coming weeks.” He avoided mentioning Switzerland. “By the way, Mycroft is on his way. How are you going to explain this?” His heart felt like a stone in his chest.
“Elementary. I follow the facts. I went to the pool with the intent of confronting Moriarty; I was surprised by your presence; we survived due to moxie and gumption.” Sherlock intoned sarcastically. “My phone is, unfortunately, a complete loss.” Sherlock managed to sound genuinely upset. Amused, John could forgive himself for not catching the insinuation immediately.
“The recording is gone?”
Sherlock “hmmed” distractedly even as the tap of Mycroft’s umbrella could be heard in the hallway outside. “Fair warning, we are not done talking.” Sherlock’s grinned at him. “Also, stop fretting, no one is going to dissect you.”
John nodded too relieved to respond. He could feel himself drifting off, until he was startled by the ghosts of knives experimentally tossed at him [Sharp ones! 89.3%]. Bloody fuck.
---
He should have deduced this earlier; perhaps he had and then had discarded the conclusion due to its pervasive lack of logic. Sherlock had ripped romanticism out of his life and stuck to the facts. Apparently his base assumptions required re-evaluation. ‘John Watson presented with accurate…’ he cringed at the word ‘…intuition.' He idly hoped the anomaly was specific to John and not something cropping up in the population at large; that would not only be incredibly aggravating, but also statistically reduce his success rate on cases. He would have to ask John about his ability to foresee uses of available evidence and consequently the potential for manipulating said evidence. Then again, seeing as John was an open book he might be able to deduce the answer on his own.
Having returned to 221b, John initially appeared calm. The hospital setting (likely causing the latent PTSD to re-emerge) and the ridiculous fear of being dissected had kept John tense; He failed to make sarcastic jokes, hardly smiled, and had the disturbing habit of flinching at things that Sherlock could not see. John’s physician had attributed it to PTSD. At one point Sherlock might have agreed. In their shared flat, John had managed to unwind and present with a plethora of symptoms of his -condition-.
On his first night back, Sherlock had dragged John to dinner to gage his reactions to the masses and make up for the lack of edible objects in the fridge (without John, the kitchen had degraded to a sad state). If John deduced it to be a celebratory dinner, that was entirely up to him.
Sherlock was annoyed with himself; he really should have noticed. In addition to predicting the unpredictable (predicting rain to the second was impressive), John had reflexes that human neural hardware could not support.
On the walk to the restaurant, John righted a woman (aged 36, a banker from the City of London, but residing in Epping) before her heel caught on a cobblestone, bumped into a middle aged man (aged 56, janitor residing in London, not married but seeing a younger woman) with uncharacteristic clumsiness, and in the restaurant had righted a pepper shaker before it tipped.
“Extraordinary.” Sherlock breathed.
“Is there a pepper shaker involved in the next case?” John was embarrassed. A smile hovered on the edges of his lips, so Sherlock excused his inane comment as being deliberately obtuse for the sake of levity. The humour was idiotic, but excitement bubbled up in Sherlock regardless. This! This is why John Watson was so infuriatingly interesting. This is why a man that should have been dull dull dull had become a lynchpin in the vortex of Sherlock’s considerable intellect.
“You manifest impossible reaction times; even considering the speed of reflex arcs. This points to accurate knowledge of future object placement. However, you consciously obscure the data by not always following the…precognition… You saved the banker from spraining her ankle, you saved the janitor from being hit by a biker, you righted the pepper shaker before its loose cap detached and deposited its contents on your dinner; but you let the glass fall from the table because catching it mid-air would be telling.”
John looked profoundly impressed with Sherlock’s deductions. “Incredible. How did you know she was a banker?” Of course, John would latch onto the only female subject in the discourse. Metaphysical abilities aside, he could be terribly plebeian. He was fortunate that Sherlock had an overly developed respect for his own intellect and enjoyed an audience. Preoccupied Sherlock did not get another opportunity to interrupt John’s meal.
It was late by the time they return to the flat. John carefully eased himself into his chair, resting the cane against the coffee table (painkiller taken four hours ago was wearing off; also the tranquilizing effect of the meal was coupled with the effects of the codeine). He let his head fall back as he studied the ceiling.
Sherlock stretched back in his couch and picked up the knife he had managed to rescue from John’s fanatical scouring of sharps from the flat. He had calculated that a knife was necessary. A bullet was too risky and a crumpled piece of paper likely to be ignored.
“Put it down.” John did not look in Sherlock’s direction; his body betraying the calm in his voice. His shoulders tensed and he planted both feet firmly on the ground, ready to dodge if necessary.
“Do you think I will use you for target practice?” Sherlock kept his voice conversational.
John finally lifted his head and met Sherlock’s calm gaze. Sherlock tossed the knife from one hand to the other, gauging its balance (very poor). He ran his eyes over John again, no new information. The doctor looked as worn as he had earlier that evening and at least as tense as he had in the hospital. Back to thinking about dissection then.
“With you I don’t know what to think. How must it be in that immense brain of yours…where all actions are equally likely until a millisecond before you enact them?” John shifted his weight minutely to the left, and caught the knife by the hilt. With the same impossible speed the knife returned to Sherlock and buried itself half a centimetre from his right ear and eight centimetres deep in couch cushions.
“I’m not a toy.” John did not raise his voice. For the first time since the pool, Sherlock could see the complete absence of emotion on John’s usually expressive face. His hand was dead steady. Could be interesting. Might get Sherlock killed. Knives were a ‘no’ then. Sherlock grinned. Apparently he was not as predictable as the pedestrian sheep of London. It was a relief; so overwhelming that he decided to forgive the knife’s unsavoury return.
“No, no, of course not.” Sherlock jumped up from the couch and began pacing in enthusiasm. “This is incredible! Marvellous! John, there is no problem that together we will be unable to solve”
“I’m really not -that- useful.” Came the disinterested sigh from the chair. Sherlock spun on his heel and hopped up on the coffee table, crouching down to bring his face in line with John’s. John did not look surprised, which irritated Sherlock almost as much as the need to surprise John. He thought of a dozen possible surprising solutions, before realizing that John had backed as far into his chair as cushions allowed and had gone rather red in embarrassment. Immediately afterwards he looked a bit confused. Sherlock re-ran the dozen scenarios, chose the most embarrassing ones and leaned in. John continued to look confused. Sherlock leaned back. “Doesn’t work when you get embarrassed?”
“Uh. No. You aren’t going to - uh. Never mind.” John’s mortification was obviously mounting. The scenario certainly explained John’s lack of success in dallying with various women. When he was embarrassed, the precognition failed. Interesting. It merited further investigation to determine whether the discrepancy had a psychosomatic background.
“Also, of course you are useful. Your opinions are invaluable.” Maybe even more than he had previously imagined. John could insist on not being a toy but Sherlock had not felt this level of zeal since discovering that chemicals reacted. Thrilling!
Sherlock jumped down from the table in enthusiasm. “You knew about the pool two months in advance. Can you determine Moriarty’s next move?”
“He will probably try to kill you.” John deadpanned.
Sherlock briefly despaired that the withering look he used on Anderson no longer had an effect on John Watson. Frustrated he ran his hands through his hair. “You have superpowers! and that is the best you can do? A mentally deranged monkey could have deduced that.”
“Yah well, I can say with complete certainty that he will not try to kill you in the next thirty seconds or so.” John returned to gazing at the ceiling. His right hand clenched his knee, while his left hand (still in a brace) twitched distractedly. John was omitting something.
“John, stop being obtuse and tell me.”
“No.” John sounded frustrated. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He winced minutely at contact with his left thigh, but the pain either faded or was an insufficient deterrent. Moving from frustrated to steaming, then. John had been fairly blasé about his own death in the pool, but more panicked when he described Sherlock being killed. Ah.
“I see.”
“No, you don’t bloody well see. Stop pretending to be omniscient! I’ll tell you the moment it’s relevant.”
Sherlock pouted. He flung himself onto the couch. He glared at John. He prepared himself for a prolonged sulk.
“You look twelve when you do that. Also, check your text messages. Lucky you, it’s a triple homicide.”
Sherlock’s phone rang.
In the cab, John insisted on being infuriatingly uncommunicative. Sherlock considered using the knife again. Pity he had left it in the flat.
“Is it two women and a man?”
“I don’t know.” John was starting to sound annoyed.
“Is it two men and a woman?”
“I still don’t know.” Definitely annoyed!
“Is there a child?”
“Sherlock! We are too far from the murder scene. So. I. Don’t. Know!” Furious!
“Fine! Then make up for this woeful lack of information by describing my preordained demise.” Sherlock had not fully surrendered the petulance stemming from before the phone call.
“I predict that in three minutes you will die in a cab strangled with your own scarf.”
“Boring.”
“Stop pestering me. If I tell you, the odds change. Just, trust me. I wouldn’t keep quiet for no reason!”
Sherlock huffed under his breath and leaned back into his seat. “Is it a child and two adults?”
John spent the rest of the cab ride studiously ignoring Sherlock. The fact that he had come at all was more telling, of course. Sherlock did not need precognition to know that John would do everything in his power to help him solve the case; that he would keep Sherlock safe regardless of his own injuries; that Sherlock would return the favour.
---
Months later Sherlock still did not believe in intuition. It was a sloppy excuse for insufficient thought and emotional conclusions with no concern for the facts. He could forgive it in John Watson. At the moment he was willing to forgive John anything if the other man would get out of his foul mood. Really, who was being childish now? The thrill of the chase; the euphoria of a job well done; the knowledge that the crime syndicate was falling apart around Moriarty’s ears; the booming marvel of nature’s most exhilarating water works. John continued to sulk. Really, what adult sulked anyway?
“John, try to enjoy yourself.” Sherlock raised binoculars to his eyes for a better look at the fungi surviving the brutal cascade of water. If he could get down there, it might merit investigation. Over the white noise of the waterfalls, he could hear rapidly approaching footsteps (teenager, boy, wearing flip flops, a tourist, probably American).
John sighed irritably at his side. Sherlock suppressed his instinctive desire to punch when he was engulfed in quick and awkward one-armed hug. “Sherlock, I have to go, I need to see a man about a boulder. -Do- avoid being murdered in my absence.”
Sherlock did not have a chance to reply before John started briskly walking up the path towards their hotel. The teenager (15, definitely an American tourist) franticly scrambled to catch up.
Sherlock was not a stupid man, but it had been a while since this particular brand of Watson-depression had manifested itself and suddenly everything clicked.
The alarm on his mobile rang. The reminder in his calendar simply read “Check your voice reminders.”
---
Bit more/Next Part>>