The worst part of grieving someone is that it sometimes hits you when you least expect it. Triggers can be small. Maybe you’re out on a date and the mug your coffee is served in resembles their favorite cup. Maybe you’re walking past an obnoxiously blue bar, now under new ownership, and without realizing it you’re reliving every moment the two of you had together. Maybe you see someone wearing a blue scarf out of the corner of your eye and you turn, expecting them to be there, and it’s a stranger, instead.
Maybe it hits you on a random Thursday afternoon for no reason at all and with no apparent trigger, which is how John found himself sitting at his desk, the heels of his hands pressed into his eyes, trying desperately not to remember all the things he was trying to forget. Time, his therapist said, would soften these moments, but Sherlock was right about her being a useless provider.
It was a lot like being stabbed by Sebastian, actually. His human form leaked red blood onto dusty sand. Losing his body would be interesting, but it hurt, and he hadn’t expected that.
“Well, hello again, Watson,” Moriarty said, appearing in a swirl of black sand. He gazed down at John with sharp teeth and crazed black eyes. “Oh, dear. You’ve gone and damaged your body. Naughty boy.”
John could just grunt in return.
“Same spot, too. Tut, tut, dearie,” Moriarty grinned. “Sebby must just have a lot of nostalgia for that particular shoulder.”
“You did this?” John managed to strangle out. Moriarty’s inhuman grin widened.
“You didn’t think you were the only one who got off on the blood and glory, did you? Seb’s been playing with you for years. It’s time to call in that favor, my dear Doctor Watson. You’re going to England, and from there we’ll discuss our terms.” Moriarty hovered his hand over John’s wound. A slimy black aura, much like his oozing manner of transportation, poured from his hand into John’s body. “That will hold you until the human surgeons can repair you. I’ll be in touch, Johnny boy.”
After that, everything faded to black and John knew nothing else for a long, long time.
I couldn't remember the last time I was this happy. I was giddy. It was ridiculous and amazing.
As we drove on, crawling through the endless London traffic I reigned myself in, bit by bit. I should be irritated that he snatched my phone from me instead of asking for it; he came close to picking it straight out of my pocket. He probably would've if I hadn't moved first.
I wondered if I should ask my other questions: What am I doing here? What do you want me to do at this crime scene? Am I even allowed to do this? Why me?
That would probably end poorly so I kept my mouth shut. If Sherlock hadn't thought of those things (especially the last one) I shouldn't encourage it. Besides, I'll probably do something else mortifying.
I shifted in my seat to get more comfortable but I ended up settling closer to him. I could feel the body heat radiating from his leg. I wanted to shift away but I knew if I did it'd look like he made me uncomfortable and I wanted him to like me. The fact that he did make me uncomfortable really didn't help. If he was as good at reading people as he said he'd read why I felt uncomfortable and that would be... uncomfortable.
Recognizing that my thought process was devolving I spent the rest of the trip thinking about surgical procedures and Grandma Watson.
----Sherlock's POV----
I managed to enjoy the silence for two blocks before John shifted and my mind came back on. I wanted to snap at him for interrupting me but his posture wasn't relaxed. That was surprising. He should be basking in the glow of... friendship?
We were friends now, right?
Should I introduce him as my friend to the officers? No, no that wouldn't work. They'd make a big deal of me having friends and that would be weird to John and while John already knew I was weird but there was only so much one person would take before it was too much and I became freakish.
Assistant? But that would imply that we weren't friends... that he was below me. I caught a mental image of John below me and cut off a growl.
I took a deep breath to calm my thoughts and realized my nasal passages were clogging.
That was bad.
Really bad.
Harry Watson may not be a drug addict but alcoholism was close enough for most people. I cursed my weakness. Sure, I had just gotten Lestrade (and therefore my brother) off my back but I shouldn't have pickpocketed that passerby. Or taken that little detour after hanging up with Mrs Hudson.
Why was I always so impulsive?!
On the same note, why did John bring out such strong reactions in me and my thoughts? A train of thought was running through all the different ways to put John's dirty mind to the test instead of being disgusted at the idea of touching another person. The heat from his leg made me crave pressing my leg against his and capturing it.
WHY?
It wasn't the drugs. At least, not entirely. I was clean last night and that was the first time I'd masturbated to porn since I was a teenager. Usually, if I brought it up the expressions of boredom killed my libido. And it had been an age since I'd imagined anything outside of that half-sleep state when waking up.
John was different.
John was perfect.
No, no one was perfect. It had to be an act. He clearly lusted for me. He was probably just making a play to get in my bed.
Then why the outburst in front of Mrs Hudson?
John clearly wasn't thinking long term.
What was his angle?
I started mentally listing to see what I missed: lonely, unhappy, unfulfilled, wants to be useful, wants to work, trained doctor, army medic, adrenaline addiction, bisexual (? is that even a thing? is he just closeted? focus!) bored, likes routines, therapist, trust issues, smart-ish, anger issues, conscience, polite, manners, Mike Stamford, blog-
Blog!
He wrote about my case right before Lestrade came to me. Was that before or after Lestrade forwarded me information? John's blog didn't have timestamps for the entries-
Therapist!
The only information available was "trust issues." It ensured that I looked into him more, that I'd see the blog entry, that I'd see him.
Coincidences?
No.
I'd dismissed it thinking it was all Mycroft and after dismissing John's association with him I didn't think of other possibilities. Stupid!
Of course, it didn't mean that Mycroft didn't set the whole thing up. But, in the texts, he seemed eager to talk to John. And Anthea never even hinted at anything like with the computer.
I looked at John out of the side of my eye; he seemed to be reciting a recipe. Flour, eggs... Oh, fighting an erection. Obvious. Probably linked to a grandparent or something.
Was it?
Was John just acting?
The anonymous commenter... was John a fan?
The real question was: Was John a murderer?
And what would I do if he was?
----John's POV----
Sherlock directed the taxi to pull along the outermost police vehicle and hopped out. He left the door open and I slid across his seat rather than try to fight with my cane in order to get out the door on my side, closing the door behind me. Sherlock started walking and I tried to keep up.
"Did I get anything wrong?"
I swallowed the questions I realized I should have asked, 'What the hell am I doing here?' chief among them, and answered.
"Spot on then. I didn't expect to be right about everything." Sherlock sounded almost disappointed.
I resisted smiling, "Harry is short for Harriet."
Sherlock stopped on the spot and I took a few steps past him expecting him to catch up quickly.
"Harry is your sister."
I was forced to stop since we were within hearing range of the pc. "What am I supposed to be doing here?" I needed direction.
"SISTER." Sherlock spat, angrily.
"No, seriously." I implored. This was an actual crime scene. Suddenly it was all real and I was feeling very uncomfortable. How could I be of use here? I was about to make a tremendous fool of myself. "What am I doing here?"
"There's always something," Sherlock grumbled and walked straight to the blue and white tape, ignoring me completely.
---- Sherlock's POV ----
I directed the cab to stop as close to the scene as he could. John's discomfort was shifting from uncomfortable around me to uncomfortable with the surroundings. That would be useful. But, could be bad too. I need to distract him. "Did I get anything wrong?" Duel purpose of questioning my lead suspect and sating some curiosity.
The cab drove away without asking for payment. I frowned internally but John didn't seem to notice.
"Harry and me don't get on, never have."
Sibling rivalry. Probably older then. Boring.
"Clara and Harry split up, three months ago. They're getting a divorce."
Marriage has been on the rocks quite some time then. Both parties must have been more reluctant to admit the failure because of... children? No. The couple wanted kids but never had any-
"Harry is a drinker," John admitted reluctantly.
Family trait. How tedious.
"Spot on then." And boring. "I didn't expect to be right about everything." Boring, boring, boring!
"Harry is short for Harriet."
Oh!
Well, that's interesting.
They didn't want to admit the failing because they didn't want to add to the statistics. Possibly active in the community. The stress of unconventional sexuality and probable harassment lead to drinking. High paying job but constantly passed over for promotions, discrimination. Traditional family values, factoring John's tone when he said Harriet... John's denial of Mrs Hudson's insinuations...
Say something!
"Harry is your sister." Is that your problem with her? That she's gay? It isn't a sibling rivalry at all? No, that's not it...
"Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?" John tried to change the subject.
"Sister!" I hissed and resumed my stride.
John reiterated his question.
I needed John's honest reactions so I didn't answer him.
"There's always something," I muttered as I factored this new information into John's profile. She probably came out early, while still at school. It would have been the 80's... I've been going about this all wrong. Stupid!
Sally was watching the line. I needed her to speak first, she didn't look happy to see me. But that was normal. Her first words would set the tone of the interaction. I was hoping she had forgiven me but each step seemed to cloud her face. She was so smart normally, her choice in men was holding her career back more than I ever did.
Please be friendly, please have forgiven me, we were friends once. C'mon Sally. Please. I'm already weird enough...
"Hullo, Freak!"
Fantastic.
First crime scene back and: I'm high, may have brought the murder as my assistant, if John isn't the murderer he's interesting and will possibly be my new flatmate, he's the only person who I've even considered in any case and my mind is stuck in a sex-loop on a person who has problems with his own sexuality. And probably mine.
And I'm being harassed by the only person who's ever been pleasant to me on Lestrade's team who has... yes, hooked up with Anderson. Again.
If I stay professional maybe she will too? "I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade."
"Why?"
Be nice, be nice, be nice. "I was invited." Be nice...
"Why?"
Be polite, be polite, it's your own fault I reminded myself, be polite. "I think he wants me to take a look."
"Well, you know what I think, don't you?"
I let myself under the tape. "Always, Sally." Since we're not going to be civil I can at least use this to my advantage. I took a deep sniff. "I know you didn't make it home last night."
John moved closer before I was done with Sally and my hand went to the tape. John was going to come, I wanted to see his reactions, I needed an assistant and John needed a job. There was no reason John shouldn't come.
