Fic: Adjustment (3/?)
Title: Adjustment
Authors: skadi_zlata, tenderly_wicked
Rating: R
Category: case!fic, hurt/comfort, slash.
Warnings: abuse, death, lots of angst.
Word count: c. 2100
Disclaimer: No profits, no rights. But it’s all fine.
Summary: Written for this prompt. They were never a couple. But John somehow got used to thinking that he’d be living with Sherlock for a long, long time… Then this guy, Richard Brook, showed up - and everything went wrong.
Betas: the absolutely wonderful mygoldenbuttons and selana1505.
***
In the next weeks, the only change in the routine was a dull ache John was beginning to feel in his damaged shoulder from sleeping on the sofa. Sherlock was still in depressed spirits, and the only person who shared John’s growing concern about his state of mind was Mrs Hudson. There was nothing on the web site. No distractions. John secretly called Lestrade to ask him if he had any cases for Sherlock. If only he could do something else…
Sometimes John wished Richard Brook dead or badly injured - and Sherlock learning about it. Sort of restoring balance to the universe. Sometimes he wished Sherlock could just forget everything that had happened. But even if Sherlock was able to delete facts from his hard-drive, maybe it was more difficult with emotions.
Mycroft paid them a visit once, but it was not of much help. On the contrary, this visit ended most awkwardly. When John arrived, the two brothers were already sitting opposite each other in the living room, the strained strings of silence almost visible between them. Something had been said, and it looked like the conversation hadn’t been pleasant for both parties.
“John,” Mycroft forced out a polite, formal smile. “How nice to see you. I’m glad you’ve moved in with my brother again, despite some obvious inconveniences. Your shoulder must be hurting you - sofa, Sherlock, it was the sofa. Don’t blame it on the change of weather.”
“Oh. Of course.” A quick look at John - and Sherlock turned away, avoiding his gaze.
“It’s not so bad. It’s temporarily. I mean - these problems with furniture,” John said. He felt like he was apologizing for something. Damn.
“Anyhow, it’s a better location than your former flat,” Mycroft continued, dismissing John’s explanations with a gracious wave of his hand. “A sufficient compensation for lack of furniture and my brother’s tantrums. What’s he like to live with? Still hellish, I would imagine. Your tolerance must be remarkable. No one else seems able to endure Sherlock’s company for long. As far as I can see, that charming young man from TV was no exception to the rule.”
Sherlock glared at Mycroft. Then he just stood up and left for his room. The door banged. Mycroft demonstratively shrugged his shoulders. “Always so aggressive,” he sighed. “No wonder they broke up.”
“Mycroft, you’re wrong,” John hissed at him. “You got it wrong. If you’re as concerned about him as you always say you are - how could you not notice what was going on between them? This charming young man…” John inhaled and exhaled in order to calm down. “Jesus, if you were there, if you saw what he did to Sherlock, you wouldn’t call him charming!”
“John, shut up and tell him to get out,” Sherlock’s voice came from the bedroom, muffled but still loud enough.
“I’ll see you out,” John said. He wasn’t going to discuss Rich Brook with Mycroft if Sherlock didn’t want him to, but when they were in the hallway, he couldn’t stop himself from asking in a quiet voice, “Sherlock…was he ever… I don’t know… abused as a kid? Physically punished? Was he… used to it?”
There was a short pause before Mycroft said, “We had a traditional family, John. Ordinary in many ways. Sherlock never fit in.”
“Why not tell me directly? Total silence is traditional too, is it? A stain on your family honour?”
Mycroft’s face contorted, just for a second. “Tell him I’m sorry, would you? That wasn’t what I thought. It’s good you are here. If there is some financial incentive I can offer you to stay with him…”
“So you want me to watch out for your brother after a bad break-up.”
Mycroft’s lips twisted, “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“How very considerate of you. Taking into account that I’ll stay with him anyway. Goodbye, Mycroft.”
Sherlock was standing at the top of the stairs, leaning to the wall, when John came up. He reached out a hand and touched John’s shoulder slightly. “I observe - but don’t pay attention. Typical of me, isn’t it? You’ll move into my room. Don't be absurd,” he cut off John’s unsaid objections, “it’s no discomfort for me. I don’t sleep much anyway.” He suddenly faltered, and took his hand off John’s shoulder. “I mean - it makes no difference if I spend a few nights on the sofa instead of you. Until we sort things out. Buy something suitable. Then you’ll take the room upstairs again.”
Maybe it was the expression on his face that made Sherlock stammer over what he was saying, John thought later. For John had a brief but bright vision of them sharing a bed, his head comfortably pillowed on Sherlock’s arm. Oh God, how stupid it was. Stupid. Stupid.
Fortunately, it caused no further tension. As for sleeping in Sherlock’s double bed… well, it felt strange. But it was temporary, anyway, and Sherlock never disturbed him - at least until, after a week or so, he suddenly burst into the bedroom early in the morning to gather his clothes from the wardrobe, in a state of somewhat sinister cheerfulness, close to his usual agitation when on a case.
“Lestrade called?” John remarked casually, wondering if there was time for breakfast. Luckily, he had a day off.
“The faculty of deduction must be contagious,” Sherlock sniffed. “Yes. I’ve been summoned. A mysterious murder on Barts Hospital roof. Are you coming?”
***
The first thing John saw when he came out into the midday light that flooded the rooftop was the perfect white dome of St Paul’s. He narrowed his eyes in the bright sun, and it was not until Sherlock’s hand suddenly clutched at the sleeve of his jacket that he paid attention to the cause of their visit to the roof of Barts Hospital. The body lay right next to the exit, and judging from the short stripe of smeared blood, it had been moved away from the door.
Expensive shoes. A posh suit. Dead eyes.
“Richard Brook,” Sherlock said in a low dull voice and let go of John’s sleeve.
“So you must be watching telly from time to time after all,” Lestrade chuckled beside them. “Yes, Richard Brook. Or, James Moriarty, according to his ID. Brook was his stage name. Sounds better than Moriarty, at least he thought so. Shot in the head from close quarters, behind the right temple. No signs of struggle. The weapon is missing.”
“Who moved the body?”
“The maintenance guy who found him. The body was blocking the exit, he couldn’t come out at first.”
“No one heard the shot?”
“No one reported it. It was a bit loud down there, in the street. Construction work. Trucks coming and leaving. You know, that project to redevelop Barts as a Cancer and Cardiac Centre. As the staff says, some disruption and noise is inevitable. Even if someone heard a single shot, it could be interpreted as something harmless.”
As if to confirm Lestrade’s words, a highly unpleasant solo of an electric drill interrupted the conversation. John wouldn’t call this sound harmless. Sherlock kept staring at the spot where Brook had been shot, at the stains of blood on the door. “Shouldn’t it have been locked? Any ideas how - and why - he came to be here? As well as the one who found him?”
“The roof is usually inaccessible for public, but the thing is, they were going to film something here, for BBC. The crew was to shoot the scene today, and that’s when the body was found, to the general confusion. The maintenance lad and the cameraman who was accompanying him were the first and only ones to see Brook lying there, but the whole stunt team knows by now. They all have already been here a few times, checking the spot - a sort of test strip. A member of staff always accompanied them, but it looks like they left the door unlocked between the visits. Someone’s going to be disciplined for this, I guess.”
“Other exits?”
“None. There are rusted fire stairs, behind this old chimney, but they now lead to another section of the roof which is not accessible. No exit. You couldn’t get down there unless you jumped.”
Sherlock lost interest in the blood pattern marring the door and went to the edge of the roof. With his customary diplomacy and tact, he turned away from Lestrade, and the DI was now talking to his back. “Brook was supposed to take part in the filming today too - funny enough, he was playing the main villain. But no one knows why he would have come here earlier in the morning, all alone. The director says Brook was a kind of self-proclaimed star, he wouldn’t even think he needed another rehearsal on his own before the filming.”
Sherlock walked along the narrow ledge to the corner of the roof, staring down all the time. John followed him. What was he looking at? The ledge, the lower sections of the roof, or the gap between the buildings? Or was he just biding time?
“There’s a fact that might be of interest, though,” Lestrade added behind them. “Brook’s girlfriend works here. I mean - not on the filming crew. Here, at Bart’s, in the mortuary. Surely you know her. One Molly Hooper. And the rumor is that not everything was fine between them.”
“Hm,” said Sherlock. He stood watching Giltspur Street below, hands behind his back, long fingers tapping in an agitated manner.
“Sherlock,” John whispered. He felt uneasy, he wished he’d never called Lestrade asking him to give Sherlock a case to solve. Should they tell Lestrade that Sherlock knew the victim? He’ll find it out anyway, that’s only a question of time.
Without turning to him, Sherlock muttered, “No trace of struggle. Huh!”
“And another rumor… Might be of importance, too,” Lestrade continued, perhaps beginning to wonder why Sherlock was contemplating the traffic instead of examining the body. “The guys from the filming crew say Brook has been nervous the whole week. He had a feeling that he was being followed.”
Sherlock suddenly kicked the ledge with the sole of his shoe. Bent down to see the result. Frowned. Then swiftly went back to the spot where he started. “No trace of struggle, you say. Look! His left hand - there’s a mark - something has been torn out of his grip, with force. And what’s this?” He pointed at a chip on the ledge, just opposite the place where the body originally lay. The stonework was grey, but there it showed white for a space not larger than a coin.
“Another shot?” suggested Lestrade. “Was he armed too?”
“No. Not a shot. A sharp blow. And there are no such chips elsewhere. It took some violence to do that. I struck the ledge without leaving a mark.” Sherlock whipped his lens from the pocket of his coat and began to examine the stonework. “In a curious place, too. It looks like the knock was not from above but from below.”
“It may have nothing to do with the matter.”
“It may,” Sherlock agreed and finally turned to Lestrade. “How do you think it all happened? Anyone can walk in anywhere if they pick the right moment. But what about getting out? The victim was standing at the door leaning to it. The murderer shot him and somehow went out without moving the body that must have been in his way. Or, as you say, jumped from the roof to leave the scene intact, as he had no other exit. Which is an interesting idea, of course, but hardly the most credible one.” He put away the lens and declared, “Done here for now. I’ll talk to Molly if she’s in the hospital.”
“The TV crew is still here if you wish to talk to them too,” Lestrade suggested.
Sherlock gave a nod, preoccupied with his thoughts, “Fine. But Molly Hooper goes first.”
“So it’s the girlfriend, then,” Sergeant Donovan joined in. “The one who’s slicing up cadavers. Might have the nerve for murder.”
“And I thought it’s me who’s supposed to make freakish remarks here,” Sherlock muttered, without a glance in her direction. “If being a forensic pathologist were a sign of wickedness, you should have arrested Anderson long ago. Which would be for the best, perhaps.” He turned his collar up and rapidly walked down the stairs, not waiting for her to reply.
John wondered if Lestrade - or anyone else - noticed that he hadn’t touched the body and Sherlock hadn’t told him to. Just a little suspicious detail.
Part 4
Authors: skadi_zlata, tenderly_wicked
Rating: R
Category: case!fic, hurt/comfort, slash.
Warnings: abuse, death, lots of angst.
Word count: c. 2100
Disclaimer: No profits, no rights. But it’s all fine.
Summary: Written for this prompt. They were never a couple. But John somehow got used to thinking that he’d be living with Sherlock for a long, long time… Then this guy, Richard Brook, showed up - and everything went wrong.
Betas: the absolutely wonderful mygoldenbuttons and selana1505.
***
In the next weeks, the only change in the routine was a dull ache John was beginning to feel in his damaged shoulder from sleeping on the sofa. Sherlock was still in depressed spirits, and the only person who shared John’s growing concern about his state of mind was Mrs Hudson. There was nothing on the web site. No distractions. John secretly called Lestrade to ask him if he had any cases for Sherlock. If only he could do something else…
Sometimes John wished Richard Brook dead or badly injured - and Sherlock learning about it. Sort of restoring balance to the universe. Sometimes he wished Sherlock could just forget everything that had happened. But even if Sherlock was able to delete facts from his hard-drive, maybe it was more difficult with emotions.
Mycroft paid them a visit once, but it was not of much help. On the contrary, this visit ended most awkwardly. When John arrived, the two brothers were already sitting opposite each other in the living room, the strained strings of silence almost visible between them. Something had been said, and it looked like the conversation hadn’t been pleasant for both parties.
“John,” Mycroft forced out a polite, formal smile. “How nice to see you. I’m glad you’ve moved in with my brother again, despite some obvious inconveniences. Your shoulder must be hurting you - sofa, Sherlock, it was the sofa. Don’t blame it on the change of weather.”
“Oh. Of course.” A quick look at John - and Sherlock turned away, avoiding his gaze.
“It’s not so bad. It’s temporarily. I mean - these problems with furniture,” John said. He felt like he was apologizing for something. Damn.
“Anyhow, it’s a better location than your former flat,” Mycroft continued, dismissing John’s explanations with a gracious wave of his hand. “A sufficient compensation for lack of furniture and my brother’s tantrums. What’s he like to live with? Still hellish, I would imagine. Your tolerance must be remarkable. No one else seems able to endure Sherlock’s company for long. As far as I can see, that charming young man from TV was no exception to the rule.”
Sherlock glared at Mycroft. Then he just stood up and left for his room. The door banged. Mycroft demonstratively shrugged his shoulders. “Always so aggressive,” he sighed. “No wonder they broke up.”
“Mycroft, you’re wrong,” John hissed at him. “You got it wrong. If you’re as concerned about him as you always say you are - how could you not notice what was going on between them? This charming young man…” John inhaled and exhaled in order to calm down. “Jesus, if you were there, if you saw what he did to Sherlock, you wouldn’t call him charming!”
“John, shut up and tell him to get out,” Sherlock’s voice came from the bedroom, muffled but still loud enough.
“I’ll see you out,” John said. He wasn’t going to discuss Rich Brook with Mycroft if Sherlock didn’t want him to, but when they were in the hallway, he couldn’t stop himself from asking in a quiet voice, “Sherlock…was he ever… I don’t know… abused as a kid? Physically punished? Was he… used to it?”
There was a short pause before Mycroft said, “We had a traditional family, John. Ordinary in many ways. Sherlock never fit in.”
“Why not tell me directly? Total silence is traditional too, is it? A stain on your family honour?”
Mycroft’s face contorted, just for a second. “Tell him I’m sorry, would you? That wasn’t what I thought. It’s good you are here. If there is some financial incentive I can offer you to stay with him…”
“So you want me to watch out for your brother after a bad break-up.”
Mycroft’s lips twisted, “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“How very considerate of you. Taking into account that I’ll stay with him anyway. Goodbye, Mycroft.”
Sherlock was standing at the top of the stairs, leaning to the wall, when John came up. He reached out a hand and touched John’s shoulder slightly. “I observe - but don’t pay attention. Typical of me, isn’t it? You’ll move into my room. Don't be absurd,” he cut off John’s unsaid objections, “it’s no discomfort for me. I don’t sleep much anyway.” He suddenly faltered, and took his hand off John’s shoulder. “I mean - it makes no difference if I spend a few nights on the sofa instead of you. Until we sort things out. Buy something suitable. Then you’ll take the room upstairs again.”
Maybe it was the expression on his face that made Sherlock stammer over what he was saying, John thought later. For John had a brief but bright vision of them sharing a bed, his head comfortably pillowed on Sherlock’s arm. Oh God, how stupid it was. Stupid. Stupid.
Fortunately, it caused no further tension. As for sleeping in Sherlock’s double bed… well, it felt strange. But it was temporary, anyway, and Sherlock never disturbed him - at least until, after a week or so, he suddenly burst into the bedroom early in the morning to gather his clothes from the wardrobe, in a state of somewhat sinister cheerfulness, close to his usual agitation when on a case.
“Lestrade called?” John remarked casually, wondering if there was time for breakfast. Luckily, he had a day off.
“The faculty of deduction must be contagious,” Sherlock sniffed. “Yes. I’ve been summoned. A mysterious murder on Barts Hospital roof. Are you coming?”
***
The first thing John saw when he came out into the midday light that flooded the rooftop was the perfect white dome of St Paul’s. He narrowed his eyes in the bright sun, and it was not until Sherlock’s hand suddenly clutched at the sleeve of his jacket that he paid attention to the cause of their visit to the roof of Barts Hospital. The body lay right next to the exit, and judging from the short stripe of smeared blood, it had been moved away from the door.
Expensive shoes. A posh suit. Dead eyes.
“Richard Brook,” Sherlock said in a low dull voice and let go of John’s sleeve.
“So you must be watching telly from time to time after all,” Lestrade chuckled beside them. “Yes, Richard Brook. Or, James Moriarty, according to his ID. Brook was his stage name. Sounds better than Moriarty, at least he thought so. Shot in the head from close quarters, behind the right temple. No signs of struggle. The weapon is missing.”
“Who moved the body?”
“The maintenance guy who found him. The body was blocking the exit, he couldn’t come out at first.”
“No one heard the shot?”
“No one reported it. It was a bit loud down there, in the street. Construction work. Trucks coming and leaving. You know, that project to redevelop Barts as a Cancer and Cardiac Centre. As the staff says, some disruption and noise is inevitable. Even if someone heard a single shot, it could be interpreted as something harmless.”
As if to confirm Lestrade’s words, a highly unpleasant solo of an electric drill interrupted the conversation. John wouldn’t call this sound harmless. Sherlock kept staring at the spot where Brook had been shot, at the stains of blood on the door. “Shouldn’t it have been locked? Any ideas how - and why - he came to be here? As well as the one who found him?”
“The roof is usually inaccessible for public, but the thing is, they were going to film something here, for BBC. The crew was to shoot the scene today, and that’s when the body was found, to the general confusion. The maintenance lad and the cameraman who was accompanying him were the first and only ones to see Brook lying there, but the whole stunt team knows by now. They all have already been here a few times, checking the spot - a sort of test strip. A member of staff always accompanied them, but it looks like they left the door unlocked between the visits. Someone’s going to be disciplined for this, I guess.”
“Other exits?”
“None. There are rusted fire stairs, behind this old chimney, but they now lead to another section of the roof which is not accessible. No exit. You couldn’t get down there unless you jumped.”
Sherlock lost interest in the blood pattern marring the door and went to the edge of the roof. With his customary diplomacy and tact, he turned away from Lestrade, and the DI was now talking to his back. “Brook was supposed to take part in the filming today too - funny enough, he was playing the main villain. But no one knows why he would have come here earlier in the morning, all alone. The director says Brook was a kind of self-proclaimed star, he wouldn’t even think he needed another rehearsal on his own before the filming.”
Sherlock walked along the narrow ledge to the corner of the roof, staring down all the time. John followed him. What was he looking at? The ledge, the lower sections of the roof, or the gap between the buildings? Or was he just biding time?
“There’s a fact that might be of interest, though,” Lestrade added behind them. “Brook’s girlfriend works here. I mean - not on the filming crew. Here, at Bart’s, in the mortuary. Surely you know her. One Molly Hooper. And the rumor is that not everything was fine between them.”
“Hm,” said Sherlock. He stood watching Giltspur Street below, hands behind his back, long fingers tapping in an agitated manner.
“Sherlock,” John whispered. He felt uneasy, he wished he’d never called Lestrade asking him to give Sherlock a case to solve. Should they tell Lestrade that Sherlock knew the victim? He’ll find it out anyway, that’s only a question of time.
Without turning to him, Sherlock muttered, “No trace of struggle. Huh!”
“And another rumor… Might be of importance, too,” Lestrade continued, perhaps beginning to wonder why Sherlock was contemplating the traffic instead of examining the body. “The guys from the filming crew say Brook has been nervous the whole week. He had a feeling that he was being followed.”
Sherlock suddenly kicked the ledge with the sole of his shoe. Bent down to see the result. Frowned. Then swiftly went back to the spot where he started. “No trace of struggle, you say. Look! His left hand - there’s a mark - something has been torn out of his grip, with force. And what’s this?” He pointed at a chip on the ledge, just opposite the place where the body originally lay. The stonework was grey, but there it showed white for a space not larger than a coin.
“Another shot?” suggested Lestrade. “Was he armed too?”
“No. Not a shot. A sharp blow. And there are no such chips elsewhere. It took some violence to do that. I struck the ledge without leaving a mark.” Sherlock whipped his lens from the pocket of his coat and began to examine the stonework. “In a curious place, too. It looks like the knock was not from above but from below.”
“It may have nothing to do with the matter.”
“It may,” Sherlock agreed and finally turned to Lestrade. “How do you think it all happened? Anyone can walk in anywhere if they pick the right moment. But what about getting out? The victim was standing at the door leaning to it. The murderer shot him and somehow went out without moving the body that must have been in his way. Or, as you say, jumped from the roof to leave the scene intact, as he had no other exit. Which is an interesting idea, of course, but hardly the most credible one.” He put away the lens and declared, “Done here for now. I’ll talk to Molly if she’s in the hospital.”
“The TV crew is still here if you wish to talk to them too,” Lestrade suggested.
Sherlock gave a nod, preoccupied with his thoughts, “Fine. But Molly Hooper goes first.”
“So it’s the girlfriend, then,” Sergeant Donovan joined in. “The one who’s slicing up cadavers. Might have the nerve for murder.”
“And I thought it’s me who’s supposed to make freakish remarks here,” Sherlock muttered, without a glance in her direction. “If being a forensic pathologist were a sign of wickedness, you should have arrested Anderson long ago. Which would be for the best, perhaps.” He turned his collar up and rapidly walked down the stairs, not waiting for her to reply.
John wondered if Lestrade - or anyone else - noticed that he hadn’t touched the body and Sherlock hadn’t told him to. Just a little suspicious detail.
Part 4