#gatsby!lock

[galtori]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Alright! I've finished up my Gatsby!lock, after a whole lot of fussing on my part. Hope everyone enjoys it!

[galtori]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Also, I published the first five chapters of my Gatsby!lock, as promised. Should have the other two up by tomorrow!

[abigatorfrenzy]

GO FOLLOW THE WONDERFUL GALTORI WHO MAKES ME LIFE AWESOME AND IS GOING TO POST GATSBYLOCK AND SHE'S JUST A WONDERFUL PERSON!!

http://galtori.tumblr.com/

[galtori]

And we also have Chapter 5!

Once they reached their destination, Sherlock ducked into a small restaurant. Looking around, John would guess they served Italian food, though there wasn't much to go off of. But they were quickly seated at a table next to the window, and John did notice that a 'reserved' sign had been removed from the table. They were given two menus and the server boy walked off.

“I have an arrangement with the owner.” Sherlock looked up as another man approached the table. “Angelo.”

“Sherlock!” The owner, an older Italian man, greeted them enthusiastically, shaking the man's hand before reaching for John's hand. “You're in the company of a good man. He got me off a murder charge. The police were convinced it was me, but Sherlock proved me innocent.”

“The police officer had framed you, believing that your race would cinch your supposed guilt; I simply illuminated the truth.”

“You kept me out of jail. I'll get started on your favorite dish. My grandfather's recipe, kept in the family for generations,” Angelo insisted.

“Go ahead and make it for my friend. I'm on the case and won't be eating,” Sherlock said. John frowned. It had been hours since they'd eaten. Surely he was hungry.

“You should eat,” John insisted.

“I told you this morning, when I'm on a case, I don't eat. Everything else is transport,” Sherlock argued.

“Yes, but your mind needs to run on something. At least attempt to eat something small,” John countered. Sherlock sighed in defeat.

“Very well. Something small.” Angelo nodded.

“Don't worry Sherlock. Italian food isn't all heavy foods. I'll bring you something light. And don't worry about the bill. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you.” With that, Angelo left them. About ten minutes later, Angelo brought out food for both of them. There was a light soup for Sherlock, and a flavorful pasta for John. But Sherlock paid little attention to his food, instead keeping his eye on the window, scanning the outside conditions. This, in turn, made John apprehensive, and after several mouthfuls, John's nerves began to wear.

Settled together, pretending to eat, John finally became uneasy. Everything was happening so quickly, almost as though he were in a natural disaster. But now that he had enough time to sit and think about what all had occurred during the day so far, he was becoming more and more curious about different things.

“You have questions,” Sherlock stated as John picked at his food.

“Yes. What are we doing here?”

“Waiting to see if my hunch is correct,” Sherlock answered quickly. “Next.”

“What is it that you do?” At that, John saw a hint of a smirk.

“How would you describe my work?”

“I would say that you're a detective,” John trailed off. He knew that his description wasn't quite right.

“But,” Sherlock motioned him on.

“But the police don't consult amateurs.” Sherlock was definitely smirking now.

“Consulting detective is what I call myself. Only one in the world. I invented the job.” John was truly beginning to wonder about the man's amount of vanity when it came to his intelligence.

“Which means?” John was now motioning.

“That whenever the police are in over their heads, which is always, they consult me.” And his job did nothing to take his ego down a notch, John thought privately. “And you are right. Police don't consult amateurs. You've seen me work at a crime scene; you've seen me figure out all those people who walk through my home.”

“True enough. So what exactly is this hunch?”

“If our suspect is as desperate as I believe him to be, he'll be on the lookout for more victims. He has to have a way to convince them. And looking at where he picked up all four of the victims, this is the best approximation of where I think he would pick the next victim up.”

“So you've seen where they were all picked up?”

“I've read the cases in the news, it's enough to go on. All of the victims were taken in well-lit, common areas of New York, but he's working his way south.”

“Why? He'd be insane to try to kidnap someone in broad daylight, not to mention in such a crowded area.”

“No, I think he's that brilliant. The brilliant ones are always so desperate to get caught.”

“Why?”

“Appreciation, applause, at long last, the spotlight! That is the frailty of genius: it needs an audience.” From the glitter in his eyes, John had to believe that Sherlock might suffer from the same, hence his love of crime scenes.

“I take it you know that fairly well,” John quipped, and Sherlock hummed in response. Relatively satisfied, John began to eat more of his meal. It was nearly dinner time, and John had his suspicions that they would go several more hours before there was another chance to eat.

“John, I think you should put your fork down.” Sherlock stated. John glanced at him, and saw that he was stock-still, like an animal ready to sprint after prey.

“Why?” John thought he knew the answer, but needed to hear it.

“I think I see our suspect.”

“What makes you think so?”

“His walk, his approach to others. Calm and casual, yet when they aren't looking, calculated. No, don't look out the window. We can't both stare.”

“Then you stop staring so I can,” John insisted. Sherlock's lips quirked into a small smile, but quickly fell back into line.

“I think he found someone. Come on!” Sherlock was out of his seat before John could turn to look at the suspect. Unwilling to be left behind again, John leapt out of his chair and hurried out after Sherlock. Sherlock had already vaulted over a car that nearly ran him over, but was still now. John shouted a quick apology to the driver as he ran up to Sherlock.

“What happened?”

“He got into a cab. Won't be able to run after the car.”

“So what do we do?”

“Thinking.” After a few seconds, Sherlock took off in a direction. “This way!” Sherlock then took off again. John took off after the crazed man, feeling slightly like a young recruit. They ran through several alleyways, climbing up stairs. There was even a very clever rooftop jump. They ran for quite some time, and at one point, John nearly got lost. Sherlock's well-timed shout kept him from running in the wrong direction.

Finally, Sherlock dashed out into a street, all but throwing himself at a taxi. John, in concern, dashed out after him, but Sherlock was already heading to the back of the cab, demanding that they open up and flashing something at them. The door opened, and Sherlock ordered a man out before he ordered the same of the driver. But as the driver looked out, John knew he was ready to panic and flee. But before he pushed down the gas, John pulled his gun, pointing at the driver and issuing his own order to turn the car off and get out. Knowing they were defeated, both men sat quietly. As John glanced in the seat, he saw a woman laid out, already half strewn across the seat and partly undressed.

“John, see to the woman. She may have already been poisoned.” Sherlock stretched out his hand, and John handed the gun over. He then scrambled into the cab. If she was poisoned, they would have to work quickly to save her. But as John began to look her over, he smelled the culprit: a rag soaked in chloroform. She needed fresh air more than anything, so John rolled down the windows and carried the rag out of the cab.

“Chloroform. Not like the murderer.” Sherlock's head snapped to the cab, taking in the scene before looking at the rag in John's hand.

“Different criminals then.” Sherlock's shoulders momentarily slumped, then straightened again. “Either way, best to fetch a cop. I'll make sure they don't do anything.” Nodding, John turned to run down the street. Fortunately, he found one at the corner, and was able to quickly explain the situation. The cop climbed into his car and brought it around to the taxi, handcuffing both men and putting them in the backseat.

By that time, the woman was waking up, and John helped her sit up and rearrange her clothes. Obviously, she was shaken, but John was able to calm her enough to get her to ride with the policeman and give her statement at the station. When the car finally pulled away, Sherlock and John leaned against the brick wall, adrenaline still coursing through their veins.

“We just caught two men committing a crime when we were looking for someone committing a different crime.” The statement was so odd, John had to say it.

“Well, you go fishing for criminals, you can never be certain as to which type you catch.” He stated it almost lazily, as though he were talking about actual fish. Laughter bubbled out of John's throat, and after a few moments, Sherlock joined in.

“That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done,” John confessed.

“And you invaded France.” This started another shared moment of inappropriate giggles, and then the two sighed and stopped. “And I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“That your limp could be coaxed into remission.” John blinked at him a few times before it finally clicked: he'd run all over New York just now, and his limp had vanished. He wasn't even sure how Sherlock had known that was possible, but at this point, John wasn't going to doubt it.

“So how did you get them to open the cab? What did you show them?” John asked, subtly changing the subject. Sherlock pulled out the object he flashed, which turned out to be a police identification card. But it read 'Captain Lestrade'.

“I pickpocket him when he's annoying. You can keep that one, I have several.”

“So will you pickpocket me when I become boring?”

“Most definitely,” Sherlock assured, handing John his gun back. “Now, let's head back to Angelo's. We'll see if we can catch the criminal we're after on the walk there. If not, we'll start walking somewhere else.” And with that, they walked back, sticking to the main roads.

[galtori]

Chapter 4!!

They rode with Captain Lestrade to the crime scene. By the time the pair reached the car, Sherlock had managed to contain his enthusiasm, but the Captain seemed to notice it either way, shaking his head as Sherlock hopped into the back of the squad car obediently.

"Who's on forensics today?"

"Anderson," Lestrade replied. Sherlock's good mood seemed to almost evaporate.

"Anderson doesn't work with me, and wherever he is, Donovan isn't far behind."

"Donovan?" John asked, confused.

"You'll understand when we get there," Sherlock said dismissively. And with that, the three sat silently through the rest of the drive into New York City.

When they finally reached the crime scene, the three men stepped out of the car and towards the crime scene, an apparently dilapidated old set of apartments. A demurely dressed Negro woman was waiting for them just outside of the building.

"Captain," she greeted Lestrade as he passed. But when her gaze turned to Sherlock, her gaze soured. She didn't even acknowledge him as he passed into the building. But as her gaze turned to John, a surprisingly strong hand stopped him from entering. "Sir, this is a crime scene, and only police are allowed inside with one," she shot a look at Sherlock, "notable exception."

"This is Dr. Watson. He's a colleague of mine. John, this is Donovan." Donovan scoffed at Sherlock.

"You don't have colleagues," she spat. "Did he follow you home? It's fairly easy to get rid of his kind, nothing a swift kick won't do." There was a very palpable hostility in the air, making John distinctly uncomfortable.

"Would you prefer that I just wait-" Sherlock cut John off before he could even finish a suggestion.

"No," Sherlock stepped around Donovan, holding the door open for John, "after you." And with that, John stepped into the crime scene. Sherlock quickly brushed past him and led him to a room where John and Sherlock hung their coats. After a moment, Captain Lestrade pulled Sherlock slightly aside, but John could still hear the conversation while Sally slipped in, standing in a corner.

“Who is he?” Lestrade asked.

“He's with me.” Sherlock calmly answered. Lestrade gave him a look.

“You aren't answering my question.”

“Yes I am,” Sherlock denied. “All you need to know is that Dr. Watson is a good physician, and he is with me.” Sherlock then crossed back across the room to join John, indicating that he was done with the conversation. With a sigh, Lestrade nodded and the group left the room.

Once they left, Sally led the three men up several flights of stairs. John's bad knee protested at one point, but he made due and finally reached the top of the stairs. Somewhere along the way, Captain Lestrade stepped aside, motioning for the others to continue. As the three stepped into the room, John saw a dark-haired man bent over the body. The body in question was a blonde woman wearing a shocking amount of pink, and in quite an alarming shade. The man stood after a moment more. Donovan was the first person he saw.

"Ah, Sally. I was just about to go downstairs and ask if the Captain had returned. I can guess he has, since you've returned." The man then focused on Sherlock, and the man formed a sneer before approaching.

"I hope we are under an agreement. No contaminating the crime scene."

“Quite clear, Anderson. Now, if I may have access to the body?” Sherlock agreed.

“I already have half of my items set out. It will take Sally some time to move all of them, so you can wait outside or speak with Lestrade if you desire company,” Anderson answered, waving Sally over and Sherlock off.

“You don't need to move those items. You wish to discuss your theories on the murder with Donovan,” Sherlock replied. At the scandalized looks from Anderson and Donovan, and John's own look of surprise, Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh please, Anderson. It's obvious that she's incredibly intelligent, and that's why you bring her to crime scenes. She's more of a partner than an assistant. Any other assistant worth her wages would pick up on your routines within a week.” He waved them off as Anderson opened his mouth to speak. “No, personally I don't have any problems with that. The entire eugenics practice is riddled with flaws, bias, and inconsistencies. And while it is strange for her to be intelligent as a woman, it isn't impossible. Were she a man, I would vouch for her presence in the department, though even my eccentricities have their limit, so your best bet for her continued presence is not for my word to be added to her resume. But using the fact that you take her to work to corroborate your affair, it's rather dull. You both could be far more creative. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to find a serial killer.” With that, Sherlock turned his attention back to the corpse, motioning for them to move. Slowly, the pair looked at each other before silently agreeing and moving for Sherlock. John can now see something scratched into the floor: 'N-O-T-M-L'. The man now set to examining the corpse, touching her coat and even her jewelry.

“I would like a moment for my colleague to privately investigate the corpse for himself,” Sherlock finally stated.

“And you would be?” Anderson prompted, finally turning to face John. Anderson had thick, dark hair framing his face, contrasting his pale complexion, but the man had quick, sharp eyes.

“Dr. John Watson.” John introduced himself, shaking hands with the man.

“Very well, it isn't often we get doctors examining the bodies at the scene of a crime,” Anderson allowed, and he and Sally left the room. Once they left, Sherlock motioned to the corpse, and John knelt down to begin his own inspection. He checked her for alcohol, for any sort of overt trauma, but the smell from mouth wasn't normal. John took a deeper breath, trying to identify the smell. He couldn't identify it exactly, but he knew that whatever it was she ingested was poisonous. Now the next question: did someone force it down her throat or was it taken willfully? Lifting the woman slightly, he saw no bruises or other major indicators of force, so he finally straightened.

“Died some time last night, no signs of blunt trauma, there's a strange odor at her mouth though. Guessing from her position and what I can recall off the top of my head, I would say poison. I don't see any overt signs of it being forced down her throat, so she willfully ingested it.”

“Well done, Dr. Watson,” Sherlock praised, and John glanced back over in surprise. Lately, John had been on a streak of getting things wrong.

“Tell me then, what do you see?” John asked, but at the moment, Captain Lestrade walked back in.

“Do you have anything?” He asked them.

“Oh, plenty. Where did it rain yesterday night? Where's her planner? It should be in her carpetbag.”

“Uh, New Haven. And what carpetbag?”

“She'll have been carrying a carpetbag with her, containing a change of clothes. Nothing more than an overnight bag. She was here to have a love affair.”

“And you know that how?”

“Her ring has been regularly removed. Given the clean state of her other jewelry and the atrocious state of her wedding ring, it's an unhappy marriage with regular affairs. Her wedding ring is clean on the inside because she cleans it when she works it off for her affairs. See these water marks on her legs? Given the small splash patterns, it's from her carpetbag. Her coat is wet, even under the collar. So she turns up the collar of her coat against the elements and puts her bag down to do so. She picks it back up, the bottom of the bag is wet, dripping and splashing water onto her leg when it brushes by. So she's from New Haven, coming to Manhattan for an affair, and somehow winds up here against her will. She then ingests a poison, and with her dying energy scratches into the floor that she is a murder victim. Unfortunately, she wasn't able to complete her message.”

“How did you know about the message?” John finally asked, still astounded by his friend's ability.

“See there, 'N-O-T'. 'Not'. Then there's 'M-L'. Could be a set of initials, but you can see that she was moving her hand when she died. The only other letter that would make it make sense is 'E' instead of 'L', spelling out 'not me'. Her best way of signaling that while she ingested the poison, it wasn't willful. The only question is why would she wait so long to write it?” Sherlock frowns at the corpse for a few more moments.

“Unless the killer was in the room with her, watching her take the poison, watching her for part of the time that she died. Now, where's her planner, it should give us more clues as to who her killer could be. Right now, all we know is that it's a stranger.”

“And you know that how?” Lestrade cut in.

“You haven't seen any obvious relationship between the other victims, yet it's the same 'suicide' repeated over and over again. Either someone is handing out suicide information, which is highly unlikely since none of them showed any signs previously, or they all came in contact with a serial killer. The latter is far more likely. Now, where is her carpetbag?”

“There was no carpetbag, Sherlock!” Captain Lestrade roared, frustrated. Sherlock, who had been looking at the body again, stood slowly and turned to the Captain.

“Say that again.”

“There was no carpetbag.”

“Of course there was. She was coming here for one night. Can't risk going home in something that could get dirty from her 'exertions'. So she's got a bag and a planner. A woman able to manage multiple lovers and multiple affairs would have everything written down. She wouldn't just wander off and hope she remembered everything. So where is it?!” Sherlock then stilled, placing his hands over his mouth. “Oh, unless the killer brought her here, drove her here and forgot that her bag was in his car. Oh that's brilliant! We find the bag, we find the killer! He was good up until now. But she was clever, she thought to leave us a message. And if we can find her bag, then we have a better chance of finding whoever killed her! Be on the lookout for a pink bag!” Sherlock then began bounding down the stairs, full of frantic energy.

“Why pink?” Lestrad asked, following with John on his heels.

“Come on! The woman coordinates her lipstick with her shoes. Anyone with any basic knowledge of fashion would know she wouldn't dare step out without a matching bag!” Sherlock shouted up at them. “Now hurry up, John! I have an idea of where we might look for our serial killer! I'll grab your coat!” With that, John sighed, clambering down the stairs as fast as he could.

“So where are we heading now?” John asked when he finally walked out of the building. Sherlock was waiting for him, his own coat already on and practically hopping on the spot in anticipation.

“I have a place in mind, little place in the Bronx. We'll grab a taxi there,” Sherlock responded, walking over the street and hailing a cab. When a cab pulled over for them, the pair slid into the seats and settled in for a ride to the Bronx.

[galtori]

Chapter 3!

The next morning, John woke early and got ready. No one had bothered him that night, so he supposed that Sherlock hadn't found any work. John wasn't sure if he should be glad about that or not. He got ready and brought a bag with him, packing his swimming suit. He repeated his appearance from last night, limping around to the front. A different servant answered the door today, but when he stated his name, he was shown into a large dinning hall and his bag was taken, presumably to a coat rack room. Ten minutes later, Sherlock showed up. Just as he set down, several servants came out bearing different dishes. "I wasn't sure what you wanted, so I made sure to have them cook several different dishes. I apologize for my tardiness, I stayed up later after the party." "I can't imagine what you were doing, Mr. Holmes," John answered amicably as he tucked into a lovely quiche and some waffles. "Oh please, call me Sherlock. Mr Holmes ages me." Sherlock stood and began taking something from each of the different plates. John had all but smack the other man with a spoon to keep Sherlock from taking all the crepes. "Oy, save some for me. And I don't see how you keep such a small frame if you eat like that," John remarked as Sherlock finally settled down to eat. "Dr. Watson, what you see is very atypical of me. However, I am not working today, therefore I am famished." Sherlock then poured them both tea, which John gratefully accepted. "Now now. That is hardly fair." A small smile quirked Sherlock's lips. "Very well, John. But when I am working, I dislike eating. My mind becomes the focus of what I do. Everything else is transport." With that, he tucked into some eggs. They stayed in companionable silence for maybe 10 minutes an older woman entered the dining room. "Good morning Sherlock. I'm glad to see that the mess was cleaned up as always. Oh, and you have such a large breakfast in front of you. I'm glad about that too. Oh, hello," the woman finally turned her attention to John. "You must be the fellow Sherlock mentioned earlier this morning." "I didn't see Sherlock meet anyone else last night, so it must be me. John Watson," he introduced himself, shaking the woman's hand as she helped herself to breakfast. "I'm Mrs. Hudson. I technically own this estate, but Sherlock has been good enough to give it life lately." With that she settled down to eat near Sherlock, and the three continued breakfast in comfortable silence.

After breakfast, Sherlock took John to tour most of the bottom floor. Mrs. Hudson joined them long enough to get to her own room, where they parted ways. As it turned out, that was one of the few rooms guests weren't allowed in during Sherlock's parties. They also passed the ballroom, which held a handsome organ that was played by the supposed heir of Mozart, if the grapevine was to be believed. Sherlock insisted that he was, though he was not the closest heir. Apparently there was a second that Sherlock hadn't found yet. And of course, that person, whomever he or she was, would be welcome to the residence to play. John quietly chuckled as Sherlock spoke of plans for sonatas and concertos. A great deal of it flew right over his head, but Sherlock always managed to keep him just enough in the loop, adding details and explanations whenever the doctor grew too confused. After a tour of the downstairs, they took in parts of the upstairs, and one of the towers. John had never seen so many books in the same building his whole life, and that included every library he had ever known. None of them came close to the Holmes residence. Sherlock also provided a good deal of stimulating conversation. Apparently, they had both served in the English military around the same time, though John hadn't recognized Sherlock's division. At that moment, a manservant came into the room, announcing that a police chief had arrived. Sherlock sat up and set his tea aside before responding. “At last,” he whispered, then raised his voice. “Send him in at once.” Now he turned his attention back to John. “This is what I do.” But before John could ask any questions, the a man came into the room. The man was dressed in the easily recognized blue police uniform. John would place him in his 40's, with signs of graying hair. The man gave John a strange look before focusing his attention on Sherlock. "You have a case." Sherlock stated, staring out a nearby window at the bay. "There's been a fourth suicide. This one left a note," the man replied. John remembered glancing at the paper before he left his cottage and remembered seeing an article about a string of suicides. "You're talking about the three suicides that were in the news? The ones that people are starting to think are linked?" John spoke, wishing to confirm his suspicions. "Will you come, Mr. Holmes?" The man asked, ignoring John in favor of Sherlock. "To answer your question, Dr. Watson, yes. And to ask you another, would you like to see my work?" Sherlock asked, and John had to blink. "You would want me to come with you?" "You are an exprienced army doctor. A second medical opinion wouldn't hurt," Sherlock casually told him. John glanced at the man in the doorway again, who seemed to be watching the entire exchange with an intense interest. "Why not? I don't know how much stranger my day could get," John finally relinquished. His sister would insist that he really had gone mad. "Very well then, Captain Lestrade. We will join you. Give me a moment to gather my things and inform Mrs. Hudson, and we will join you outside." With that, Captain Lestrade turned and walked back the way he came. Once the man left hearing range, Sherlock jumped into the air, giving a small whoop of jubilation. "Come along, Dr. Watson! We have a case today!" With that, the man almost bounded from the room, John limping on his cane to keep up. The pair then went to Mrs. Hudson's room. John arrived in time to see her emerge. "Mrs. Hudson, I don't know when I'll be back. There's been a fourth suicide. There's a serial killer in New York! Leave something for John and me tonight.” “I'm not your housekeeper,” the woman insisted. “And it isn't right for you to be so happy, dashing about like this because of murders.” But the woman was chuckling and straightening Sherlock's coat. “Who cares, Mrs Hudson?” Sherlock asked enthusiastically. “The game is on!” He shouted jovially, then kissed the matron on the cheek before dashing out the front of the house. John tipped his head towards Mrs Hudson and limped after Sherlock. Today would definitely be interesting.

[galtori]

Whoops!

Finally, they were sitting downstairs in the organ room with two glasses of champagne, analyzing the drunken fools passed out or too drunk to notice either of them, noting who slept with who, who had how much to drink, and other various ‘deductions’ or so Sherlock called them. Mostly it was John guessing and getting things horribly wrong before Sherlock would step in and correct him. But after guessing at least one thing about each person, some of the hired help came in and began to clear out all the drunken fools, most likely into cabs.

“Well,” John drained the last of his drink. “I think they’re going to start herding us out of here. So I will part here and bid you goodnight, Sherlock. Perhaps we can meet up some time later.” Sherlock chuckled.

“Don’t be ridiculous, we have no need to move,” he replied, completely relaxed and at ease. “Carry on, but allow this man to stay,” he addressed the working men, pointing at John. “He is my neighbor, and any request he makes of you should be treated as a request from me.” The two men turned to Sherlock, looked at John, and then nodded before turning back to their business.

Neighbor. He is my neighbor. John thought had seen it all tonight, but apparently it was the night for John Watson to be wrong about everything.

“Yes, I am your neighbor,” Sherlock’s voice brought him out of his near-stupor, and it wasn’t until then that John realized he had spoken aloud. He turned to see Sherlock analyzing him over the rim of his champagne glass, a small smirk playing at the edge of his lips.

“I told you I was looking for you,” was all that John could say. Perhaps it was rude, but John felt a little tricked.

“You never asked what my last name was, nor did you ask if I had seen Mr. Holmes. Though most ordinary people would have introduced themselves properly,” he conceded. After a few more moments, Sherlock began again. “If I have offended you by not addressing this, I do apologize. I meant no offense.” If it had been any other person speaking, John wouldn’t have believed them. But something about Sherlock’s posture, more rigid than before, and his tone, more hesitant than John had heard all night, made Sherlock’s point better than his words. John waved off the apology.

“I’m more curious about why you didn’t tell me who you are,” John stated. At that, Sherlock sat up.

“I wanted to get to know you better and show you around. I also needed to make sure you weren’t boring like the others,” Sherlock explained, almost as if it were obvious. “Either way, if you wish to come back tomorrow during the day, I can show you the rest of the house.”

“So you would just open your house up to a complete stranger?” It wasn’t that John was ungrateful, but he was shocked that a man of Sherlock’s wealth would open his house so easily to a stranger. Wasn’t he concerned about the things John could do?

“I have no concern about you stealing anything from the house. I would know the instant that thought crossed your mind. You’re more concerned about someone stealing from me than you are getting caught, that much I can tell from your face. My security is good enough that I have no concern about any unwanted fellows wandering in and stealing anything, and I would know if a new staff member showed up.” John opened his mouth to argue the point of the parties, but Sherlock moved to still him for a moment longer. “And that is also why I watch all of my guests leave the party. I will know the instant they try to steal anything of value. You have no cause for concern, and I know you well enough to trust you.” Sherlock gave John a strange look at the last statement before continuing. “And besides, I may need a consulting physician in my line of work.”

“You still haven’t specified what that is. If I’m going to consult you in it, I feel that I should know what it is.” John wasn’t one to put his foot down often, but when he did, it was on important things. And he was an honest man; he wouldn’t do dishonest work.

“Come by tomorrow, and I hopefully I will be able to show you. If work shows up before then, I will send one of my men or come by and wake you myself.” John gave a confused look at the timetable. What sort of work didn’t show up at a scheduled time? And the possibility of coming in the middle of the night? Who worked such ridiculous hours? “Though perhaps night time may not be the best time for you to learn about my work.” After a moment of consideration, Sherlock straightened again. “If it is an eight, I will come and fetch you myself. For five through seven, I will send one of my men. I would not bother you with anything less than a five.” Sherlock then nodded to himself, pleased with the amendment, though it meant nothing to John. “Regardless, you are welcome to come by tomorrow to see the rest of the house. I dare say that the beach is beautiful this time of year, should you wish to bring swimming trunks with you.” It had been over two years since John had relaxed at the beach, though he was still unsure of his knee and shoulder.

“I think I shall come by tomorrow. If it turns out to be anything like this evening, I would be a fool not to pursue such excitement when it is only just next door,” John finally conceded. His sister would think him queer, seeking this much excitement as an old soldier still haunted by his memories on the battlefield, or so the army physician said in his discharge papers. But at the moment, he didn’t care what his sister thought.

“Very well, Doctor Watson. Tomorrow it is,” Sherlock agreed. But as he limped down the front steps of the Holmes residence, John knew he was not being foolish. For the first time since the war, he felt his blood thrum through his veins. And when he undressed and finally lay down to sleep, he slept knowing that the next day would bring a challenge.

[galtori]

Well, now that we've had sleep and time to think about it

The party roared at the Holmes residence every night, but John Watson found no reason to investigate his neighbor’s parties. He had received no invitation, and his mother had always told him that it was rude to arrive at someone’s party without an invitation. So it was with great surprise one morning that John Watson awoke to find someone knocking at his door.  Pulling on trousers and a shirt, John answered the door to find an envelope on his doorstep. Confused, he didn't even go back inside to open the envelope. Inside was an invitation, written in flowing handwriting, inviting him to his neighbor's party. But as he read the invitation a second time, he felt a sudden prickle on the back of his neck. It was an old sensation he remembered from fighting in the Great War, and he turned, trying to find the eyes watching him, but only finding the darkness cast by the trees in his yard.

As night rolled in, the Holmes mansion lit up once again, and cars began to pour in as John limped around to his neighbor's front door. From those cars emerged the wealthy, the famous, the young, the old, the commoners, and everyone in between. John was in awe as he stared at the front of the mansion properly. He had seen it during the day, on his way to work at a small clinic in Manhattan. But it had always been dark in the mornings. It had never looked anything like this. Yet it seemed like everyone else passed by without a care for the decor, for the attention to detail, for the flowers lining the walkway, for the fountain where they all parked their cars. Once John walked onto the main path, he found himself swept up into the crowd, jostling to get inside. He could only hope that the crowd wouldn't push him onto his bad leg. If he fell, he was fairly sure he would be trampled by the masses trying to get in.

Fortunately, John managed to find his way to the center of the party without falling flat onto his face, though there were one or two incidents where a funny bloke tried to take his cane. But it seemed that no one had met the mysterious host. And even more maddeningly, he seemed to be the only there by invitation. Every single soul had laughed at the card he showed them.

After three drinks and almost two hours of waiting for this mysterious Holmes man to show up, John decided to go search the house for the host. He started in a disused dining hall (though technically it had been repurposed by a few couples to make use of its dark corners and lack of occupants), and worked his way around the house. It wasn't until he reached the library that he found anyone interesting at all. Curled up by the fire with a bottle of champagne was a thin man with a mess of dark curls and several books.

John took a moment to look at this possibly sober man before he interrupted the silence. "So what have you heard about this Holmes fellow? Everyone seems to have a different story." After a few moments, the man looked up from his book.

"I've heard a number of things. I've heard that he's a cold-blooded killer, that he's a freak, that he's a git, that he's a ghost, that he's a government front." The man began to lean forward, laying down the book and steepling his long fingers together in front of his face.

"Hadn't heard the government one yet, but at this rate, I might start believing the ghost rumor." John comments.

"Perhaps you should try to seek him out," the dark-haired man advised. "It would certainly put these rumors to rest."

"At the very least, I know he exists. Or at least I think he does. I seem to be the only one here with an invitation." He held out the card, waiting for a scoff that never came. Instead the mysterious man took hold of it with his long fingers and examined the card for a moment before handing it back to John. Tucking it back into his breast pocket, he regarded the mysterious man for another moment. "Well, I'm going to continue looking for him."

"Oh, I always love a good mystery." The strange man stood, and it wasn't until then that John realized that this stranger was much taller than him. And impeccably dressed as well, going by the suit. "Sherlock," the man introduced, holding out his hand. John switched his cane to his other hand before he reached for it, introducing himself as they shook.

“John Watson.” The grip was good, and John could feel the strength in that grip and those fingers.

When they pulled away, Sherlock walked ahead to open another door, leading into another large room. "So, your injury was in France, end of the Great War. Am I correct?" John turned in surprise.

“How did you –” John began, but Sherlock waved him off.

“Your suit has hints of French influence. You’re a former soldier based on your posture and how you enter a room, also by your search pattern. Also, the calluses on your hands are a good indicator. But they’ve become softer,” he explains, almost too quickly, but John is able to keep up with him.

“That’s incredible. You got all that without me saying a word?” John was flabbergasted. Who could do something like that? Sherlock glanced back before shrugging.

“Most don’t say that. But it is fairly obvious. All one has to do is observe their surroundings,” he explained. The pair now head upstairs, continuing their search for Mr. Holmes. John slowly limped up the stairs while Sherlock seemed to bound up them with ease.

“So what else can you observe about me?” John asked once they were both upstairs. Sherlock lead John to the nearby fireplace before focusing intently on the man. John had to keep himself from squirming, Sherlock’s gaze was so intense. It felt as though his clothing was stripped away, leaving him exposed and vulnerable to this stranger. Sherlock then crossed his arms behind his back, circling John like a vulture or a hungry lion. After he circled John once, Sherlock smiled and began to talk more.

“You haven’t been doing anything related to the service since the Great War. Can’t be something overly active given your limp, but you’re still fairly active. You don’t work as a clerk or in a grocery store; you would have kept muscles in your arms. But given your sharp gaze, you need your intelligence. Your nails are kept trim, and your hair in good condition, so you interact with people on a frequent basis. Best guess is a doctor. Also, you aren’t as well off as most of the people here. Your suit is technically still in fashion, but that’s because it’s a classic style. You take good care of it, but a few little tells say that it’s a little over a year old. The cufflinks are knockoffs, though they are good imitations. Most soldiers have found their own place in the world by now, but your leg keeps you limited. You do have some family, based on the watch. But it wasn’t meant for you. That isn’t a knockoff. You wouldn’t buy it for yourself, given the cufflinks. If the gift was meant for you, it would fit better. You can see how a different hole has been used at one point. It isn’t something you wear all the time, it would have more marks on it if you did. Extended family wouldn’t bother with a gift like that, they would think of someone closer to them. So that means it’s a sibling. But you can’t be close to that sibling; if you were, they would pay for more things. Given the frown lines when I talk about this sibling, you are the one limiting the contact. Left handed given how you open doors. Anything else you want to hear about?” John was stunned. Absolutely stunned. Flabbergasted, floored, gob-smacked. It took John a few moments to regain his composure. But he could tell that Sherlock was pleased, given the glint in his eyes.

“That was amazing. Phenomenal. Spectacular. Brilliant.” Was there anything this strange man in front of him couldn’t do? “And yes, I am a doctor. What do you do?” He was fascinated by this man and just had to know more about him.

“I do several things. I –” he hesitated before continuing. “I assist a few people on different matters. Various things that keep my mind occupied.” John was curious to know more, but stopped himself from asking. If this Sherlock man wanted to keep his life private, that was his business.

“At this point, I’m not sure if this Holmes fellow will be able to top this adventure,” John joked as they cleared yet another room. By now, the party was winding down, and the pair went to one of the large windows, watching everyone stumble out to their vehicles. “So, what do you see about those two people down there?” John asked, curious to see what this companion of his could do. Sherlock glanced over before grinning.

“Tell me what you see first,” he replied. John flushed briefly before he focused in on them, trying to pick out details.

“You can see that both of them have been having too much fun. Their clothes are ripped. Probably from just being in the crowd.”

“Anything else?” John looked over, expecting to see a patronizing look on Sherlock’s face. Instead, he found genuine curiosity and gentle reassurance. Bolstered, John looked back out and focused on them. But before he could gather any more meaningful information, the pair climbed into a car and drove off.

“I couldn’t see anything else before they drove off,” he admitted. “So, how did I do?”

“Fairly well for your first time, spare the fact that you were wrong. However, I saw them come in and once more last night. The suit has been torn for almost a day. The dress however, was just this night. So this is their only nice outfit. But they had a fight tonight. Probably about the car, but it is a little difficult to tell. Inferring it’s about the car because they’re driving it around with stains and scratches. But she was holding her wrist, and his suit was torn. So they get into an argument, she was the one who started it, given her distaste of his appearance. But he fights back, pins her wrist down. She’s trying to move out of his grip when she injures that wrist and tears the dress. It’s been half a year, it doesn’t move like it used to. Which explains their torn outfits.” John takes a moment afterwards to shake his head.

“That’s cheating.”

“It is not,” Sherlock insisted. “Using information gathered over more than one sighting is not cheating. It’s simply taking in your surroundings. Now, what about that pair right there?” Sherlock pointed to another pair. John focused his attention again, and they continued for quite some time like this.