Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

              There are three words nearly every person in the world learns from the moment they're born. Classifications that have been around from time immemorial.

              Monstrum, Magus, and Humanus.

              Monstrum. Derived from the Latin verbs monere and moneo, both of which hold the same definitions- “to warn, remind, or instruct.”

              It, along with its genitive plural Monstrorum, are the Latin root of the word Monster.

              John had never really been a particular fan of that word, especially in the context of referring to an entire population of individuals. Unfortunately for him, and rather fortunate for the one who started the whole Monstrum business in the first place, Magick that affects time doesn't particularly mix well with going to the past when one doesn't have a specific destination in mind. That, and Time Magick is rather seriously forbidden, but if you ask him that is neither here nor there.

              Magus referred to anyone who studied and worked nearly exclusively with Magick in a multitude of ways, with most Magi commonly being humans, but not always. He'd run into plenty of Monstrum over the years who pursued careers utilizing Magick to know better.

              And Humanus was rather self explanatory- Humans. The so-called ordinary, though truthfully that was far from the true case, Humans were extraordinary in their own right.

              All three have been moving in a rather complicated dance of unification and defiance with each other for centuries. That's simply how things have always been as far back as any can recall. There was no before, or who was in the world first.

              And of those three, John was. Well. John. Just John. That's all he's ever wished to be, or ever will be. Simply John Hamish Watson. Centuries old classifications hold no merit nor meaning for his state of being. Classifications did not dictate how successful he was at protecting his squad, how disciplined he was when a gun rested in his hands, or how efficient he was with a scalpel in the operating room.

              ‘No, they certainly had nothing to do with you being sent home,’ That traitorous part of John's mind hums, tired blue eyes absentmindedly glancing at passersby as he slowly makes his way down the street. The stark clacking sound of his cane meeting the pavement in tune with every step dampens his mood even further. ‘What decided it was that damned tremor in the end. Can't very well save lives when you can hardly prepare your tea, can you?’

              As ironic (and possibly a bit unhinged) as it sounds, Afghanistan was John's safe haven. No demands or expectations shoved onto his shoulders beyond the expected, coupled with the safety and assurance of having comrades at his back was exactly what a younger John needed back then. What he still needs now.

              And all it took was a single bullet to tear away that sense of security, of being, of purpose.

              Not to say returning to London was bad. Not really. Disorienting, certainly, but no, not bad in the least. It was the lack of direction that was slowly killing him, though the stress of being amongst London’s surging crowds was most definitely trying its best to do him in as well. But no. Still far more preferable than returning home in the long run, even if the cost of living was becoming a lot more than his Army pension can reliably sustain (And no matter however much Harry may disagree with him regarding the situation as a whole. Even still, no amount of arguing was going to convince him to live anywhere but London.).

              “John! John Watson-!”

              Abruptly pulling away from his internal thoughts, John's head instinctively snaps around to face the vague direction his name is being called from, sharp gaze immediately locking onto a middle aged man standing in front of a park bench. Short brown hair, rounded rectangular glasses, and a creamish tan coat over some decent dress clothes is what John manages to note before the man's scent subtly registers in his mind.

Coffee, pen ink, old papers, and..antiseptic? Familiar. Why does he smell like-

              “Stamford, Mike Stamford. We were at Bart's together.” An offered handshake is suddenly within John's line of vision, and he just barely manages to stifle the embarrassed blush that tries to bloom on his face as he quickly accepts Mike's hand. Got too lost in his thoughts again, made the other man think he'd forgotten him, bloody hell Watson, keep it together.

              “Mike! Sorry, yes, Mike- Hi, Hello. How've you been?” Smooth, Watson. Smooth. Fuckwit.

              “Yeah, I know. Got a bit fat.” Despite the self-deprecating words Mike's smiling brightly, gesturing to himself as he speaks as if to say ‘Look at me! Isn't it funny?’

              That cheerful smile alone is all that's needed to immediately plunge John's mind back to those younger days back at Barts. Mike may have changed in appearance a bit, but at his heart he seems to be just about the same as he once was. Cheer and soft spoken optimism personified.

              “No, no, you're not you..you're..” Sighing softly, John takes a steadying breath before continuing on, a weak attempt at a grin on his face as he nods in the direction of a shop that's a ways down past the park path that they're standing on.

              “Nevermind. Coffee?”

              Mike gives him a bright happy smile and quickly gathers up his satchel he left sitting propped against the bench he's been sitting on, returning to John's side with its handle clutched tightly in his hand.

              “Absolutely.”

              “So? How are things? I thought I'd heard something about you actually going through with going abroad, getting shot at and all that.”

              “I got shot.” Short and straight to the point. He doesn't catch the startled look on Mike's face, or the worry in his eyes as he watches John sip his coffee. Just answers as clearly as he can in hopes that the topic will switch out to something else. Something more bearable.

              “Christ. How serious?”

              Mm, No dice then. Pity. He should've known his luck wouldn't work with him on this.

              John makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat and gestures vaguely at his cane, refusing to look towards Mike as he does. “Enough to have this damn thing.”

              “And London doesn't trouble you? You're doing alright?” There it is. Perhaps the biggest question out of this topic’s batch that John had hoped Mike wouldn't ask. Not out of any sort of cruelty of course, John's fairly certain Mike doesn't have a single mean bone in his body- it's just the inevitable worried questioning. Unavoidable.

              “I'm managing. An Army pension in London isn't exactly brilliant, but..” John glances at Mike with a small, and hopefully reassuring, smile. “Really, I'm fine. And, before you even start, yes- I'll reach out to you and Dahlia if I ever need help.”

              “Mm. I'll have to hold you to that, Lord knows what Lia will do if I don't.” Mike's giving him a suspicious and almost fondly exasperated look, a look straight from their old uni days, that John quickly decides to ignore. Maybe it's the fact he has a familiar face by his side distracting him with casual small talk, but there's a confusing mixture of calm and the striking urge to just leave swimming around in John’s chest. He won't, of course he won't, but it's becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

              “Where are you then? Still at Bart's?”

              “Teaching now actually. Bright young things like we used to be. Gods I hate them.” Mike jokes with a placid grin, his face brightening with pride as his words spark a little laugh from John. “Are you certain about sticking around London? If Harry can't help, Maybe you could try a flatshare.”

              The snort that leaves John is automatic. Harry would rather disown him altogether than help, and honestly homelessness sounded far more appealing than approaching her for anything. A flatshare on the other hand would be troublesome for entirely different reasons altogether. His psychosomatic limp, chronic nightmares, and overall disposition wouldn't earn him any points with his potential flatmate, and those weren't even the entire list of issues he'd end up bringing to the table.

              “Who the hell would want me for a flatmate?” John sips his coffee, raising a curious brow as Mike laughs. “What? What's so funny?”

              “Nothing, it's just,” Mike chuckles again, shaking his head in disbelief. “You're the second person to tell me that today.”

              Interesting. “Who was the first?”

              Damn Argus McMillan for helping him figure out his quote unquote ‘type’, Damn that months long bender of dating said type back in Uni, and Damn Mike and his cheeky arse for bringing him here knowing fully well just who he was introducing him to.

              Sex personified, that's bloody well who.

              As if he needs to be making a fool of himself in front of such a catch at a time like this. Fucking Stamford.

              Running into another old colleague or two had been uncomfortable but expected. The new, more advanced equipment in the lab Mike drug him to was a given when one considered how long it has been since both he and Mike studied there and how advanced the medical field has become in that time.

              The tall, lithe, dark haired man at the far end of said lab pipetting an unknown substance onto a petri dish, on the other hand, was the equivalent of a gods-sent pipe bomb.

              Limping further into the lab, John does his best to ignore the man at the other end of the room, silently praying he isn't truly who Mike plans on introducing him to. “Bit different from our day, isn't it?”

              “Mate, you've no idea.” Mike grins, a not so subtle gleam in his eyes as he glances between John and the stranger. Bastard. John rolls his eyes at him, annoyed, though the smile on his face is more than fond.

              “Mike, may I borrow your phone? There is no signal on mine.” The stranger speaks up with a silken baritone, sitting down on the chair that's situated in front of the microscope he appears to be using.

              “Is there something wrong with the landline?”

              “No, I simply prefer to text.” Understandable, and a habit John himself shares. Far easier to send information over text and continue with your day instead of stumbling through a call where the other person won't have answers right away. With a surprising lack of hesitation John reaches into his coat pocket and grabs his phone, holding it out towards the dark haired stranger with a small awkward smile.

              “Ah, well. Here. You can use mine.”

              “Oh, thank you.” Just barely concealing the surprise on his face the man stands up again and strides over to gently pluck John's phone from his hand, Looking John up and down before flipping it open as he quickly gets to work typing out a message.

              Gesturing towards John with a wave of his hand, Mike speaks up again, smiling as he introduces him. “This is an old friend of mine, John Watson.”

              The man makes a faint noise of acknowledgement, fingers flying across the keyboard of John's phone. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

              “Afghanistan.” John responds automatically, habit kicking in swiftly. “Sorry, but how did you know?” He's smiling again, genuinely smiling. Just who is this man?

              Before John can pull an answer from him a petite, gentle looking woman in a stark white lab coat walks in with a steaming mug in her hands, pulling the stranger's attention immediately.

              “Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you.” He flicks off John's phone before passing it off to him, Looking up as he accepts the mug from the shy looking woman- Molly. “What happened to the lipstick?”

              “Oh it..It wasn't working for me.” Her smile is a titch strained now, a faint blush blooming on her cheeks.

               Evidently missing the obvious embarrassment on Molly's face, the man continues, sipping his coffee and grimacing at the taste. “Really? I thought it was a big improvement,” he vaguely gestures at his face in a circular motion. “Your mouth is too small now.”

              The blush on Molly's face deepens as she murmurs a soft ‘okay’ before leaving the room. Mystery man doesn't seem to notice nor care about her sudden departure as he moves to sit back down in his chosen chair.

              “How do you feel about the violin?”

              “Depends,” John hums, his smile taking on a more amused turn. “Do you happen to be any good?”

              “Considering I play when I'm thinking, I'd argue very good.”

              “And I'm sure you also happen to not talk for days on end due to said thinking. Am I wrong?”

              “Would that bother you?” The man relaxes against the work table while setting down his coffee and pulling a keyboard closer, an intrigued shine in his eyes as he looks John over again. “Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other, after all.”

              “I'm an army veteran with PTSD and a habit of falling mute on bad days, I'm no stranger to silence.” If John's mind wasn't caught on this fascinating man before, it most definitely was now, no holds barred.

              Relaxing his weight a little more casually against his cane, John completely misses the amused grin on Mike's face as the bespectacled man watches the two hit it off. “Besides. I'd argue potential flatmates should also know the good about each other. For instance I'd say I'm a rather decent cook, I happen to love the violin, am generally a neat person, and have been told I make a damn good cuppa.”

               The man doesn't even bother to pretend he isn't surprised now, an eager grin on his face as he forgoes working on the keyboard as he may have planned in favor of focusing his full attention on John.

              “I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. You, Doctor Watson, are fascinating.”

              “Fascinating?”

              “Intriguing.” Mystery man gives a subtle shrug while picking up a pristine looking black Belstaff coat. “You haven't run yet, so you've already lasted longer than most others.”

              The man stands up and slips on the coat before he ties on a navy blue scarf, casually stepping towards John and Mike as he prepares to leave.

              “I've got my eye on a nice little place in central London, together we ought to be able to afford it. Meet me there tomorrow evening. 7 o'clock sharp.” He finishes adjusting his coat and scarf, stopping in front of John. “Sorry, gotta dash. I believe I may have forgotten my riding crop in the mortuary.”

              “Hold on a moment.” John raises a hand in a gentle gesture to get the man to stop. “You've got me at a disadvantage.”

              “Disadvantage how?”

              “Well for starters. You know my name, but haven't supplied yours, haven't told me where we're meeting, and we've only just met so we hardly know anything about each other. You're not trying to get me to budge off, are you?”

               The man raises an elegant brow, amusement dancing in his blue (Green? Gods, just how many opportunities is he going to have to decipher this man's eyes if he actually goes through with this?) eyes as he leans in as if to tell John some grand secret.

              “I know you're an Army Doctor who has been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for any form of help because you don't approve of him - possibly due to his alcoholism; far more likely because he has recently walked out on his wife. There are secondary reasons as well, reasons I am forced to admit I cannot yet place from a mere first glance, yet all the same I will note they are there. And I know that your therapist believes your limp is psychosomatic-” He glances down at John's leg, unintentionally triggering John to shuffle in place a bit. “Quite correctly I'm afraid.”

              Looking back up while standing back to his full height he gives John a smug smile. “That's enough to go off of, don't you think?”

              “Brilliant.” John breathes, chuckling softly while stepping back out of his potential flatmate's path to the door. “But that still doesn't answer my questions. Who are you?”

              “Sherlock Holmes,” The man - Sherlock - answers while stepping towards the door, one of his hands moving up to tug up the collar of his coat. “And the address is two two one B Bakerstreet.”

              He opens the door and steps through, turning his head to give John and Mike a wink (John swears, would bet money on it even, that there is subtle blush burning Sherlock's pale cheeks.), and speaks up before he leaves. “Afternoon.”

              Listening to Sherlock's steps fade down the hallway for a moment John eventually turns to face Mike, squinting suspiciously when he catches the giddiness and obvious amusement the man isn't even bothering to hide. Mike gives a small shrug. “He's always like that. Figured you two would get along.”

              “Mhm. And that's the only reason you introduced us, is it?”

              Mike shrugs again and chuckles when John makes a half hearted attempt at hitting his ankle with his cane. “Of course it was.”

              Suddenly snapping his fingers Mike perks up in realization as he appears to remember something.

              “Oh hold on, before I forget- Here. Pass me your mobile for a moment.” Mike holds his hand out expectantly, smiling happily to himself when John complies with his request despite returning to his usual mildly grumpy countenance. Typing quickly he passes it back to John once he's done, leaving behind two new contacts with him and his wife's names displayed proudly on the screen.

              “Now you haven't any excuse not to contact us.” He grins, patting John on the shoulder.

              Huffing in a mix of amusement and false annoyance John tucks his phone away and shakes his head, following Mike as the other man holds the lab door open for him.

              “You're a pain in the ass, you know that?”

              “Haven't the faintest idea what you mean.”

              He owes Mike dinner. Many dinners. Because this? This has got to be one of the most brilliant first meetings he's had in his life, and he has met plenty of interesting people in his life, especially during his service.

              Sitting alone on his bed in his dreary bedsit John flicks through the menu on his phone and simply stares at the message Sherlock sent using his phone earlier, unknowingly sending John's mind tumbling in a fascinated spiral for the umpteenth time, in the few hours since they'd met each other.

If brother has green ladder arrest brother -SH

               Shaking his head in disbelief John chuckles a bit and sets his phone down. Looking up, his eyes stop on his laptop resting on a table across from him, and he comes to a quick snap decision.

              Leaving his bed he moves to the table and flicks on the laptop, quickly typing ‘Sherlock Holmes’ in a search bar and smiling as results appear- First of which being a site titled ‘The Science of Deduction’. Settling down in the nearest chair John eagerly clicks on the site and prepares for a decent bit of reading.

               Forget the dinners. John owes Mike a bloody cruise.

Chapter Text

              It's a rather tired, yet clearly satisfied John Watson who finds himself standing outside of 221b the following day, just shy of 7 o'clock. For the first time in a long while he'd stayed up late from his own doing and not some half panicked nightmare, reading through as much of Sherlock's site as he could before he eventually had to give in to his body's demands for sleep. A rather dry read, but interesting all the same, unintentionally giving John a small peek into the character of his soon to be flatmate. He'd already been half convinced to move in with him during the sudden meeting at Bart's, reading through his site had simply stoked the flames of John's curiosity and sealed the deal.

              And sure there were several potential risks involved, but when had he ever turned away from a little danger? If nothing else, if things go wrong he can always give Mike a big ‘I told you so’ and do his damndest to move on with his life.

              Turning his head to look towards the street as he hears a car slow down, John allows his shoulders to relax when he sees Sherlock climbing out of a black cab. Watching the taller man pay the driver, John smiles a little awkwardly to himself and makes sure to wave in greeting with his free hand when Sherlock turns back around to face him, limping forward and holding out his hand for a handshake once Sherlock is close enough.

              “Ah, Mister Holmes-”

              “Sherlock, please.” Sherlock accepts John's greeting with a firm, decent grip, shaking his hand before starting to walk towards the front stairs of 221b.

               John relents without much fuss. Sure, he complies with niceties when they're called for, but that doesn't mean he isn't occasionally tired of them. “Call me John, then.” He gestures at 221b by nodding towards it with his head. “Rather a prime spot- must be expensive.”

              “Oh, Missus Hudson, the landlady- she's given me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years back her husband was sentenced to death in Florida; I was able to help out.”

              “Stopped it or ensured it?”

               Sherlock gives John a smile, a look in his eyes that's fairly unreadable, but not necessarily negative from what John can tell. “Ensured it.”

               The door in front of them opens before anything else can be said, revealing a rather motherly looking older woman who is holding her arms open towards Sherlock.

              “Sherlock, dear, hello!” She calls out happily, a cheerful smile lighting up her face.

              Sherlock walks forward into her awaiting arms and hugs her briefly before pulling away and holding an arm open towards John, almost as if he's subtly trying to show the older man off.

              “Missus Hudson, this is Dr.John Watson.”

              “Oh hello! Come in, come in.” She steps back a bit and holds the door open for them both, ushering the two men inside. John nods politely as he steps past her with a grateful smile.

               Rushing ahead Sherlock swiftly walks up a set of stairs and waits patiently for John on the first floor landing, thankfully not seeming to mind the doctor's milder speed as he carefully limps up the stairs to join him. Once assured that John has caught up Sherlock moves ahead and opens the door to the flat, leaving it open for John as he steps inside.

               Stepping in after him John hums appreciatively as he looks around at the living room. A few boxes and random items scattered about, clearly left around mid move-in, but not terrible in the slightest especially once finished. A couch set against one the wall to the right of the front door with a desk at its side, and a coffee table set up at its front. Some old fashioned yet decent wallpaper decorated the walls, with one wall sporting a cow skull wearing a pair of headphones, much to John's amusement. Two armchairs sit opposite of each other in front of the fireplace, one red fabric with a small table set up next to it while the other is leather. Photographs, trinkets, and oddly enough a human skull rest on the fireplace's mantlepiece.

               Walking further into the flat John glances at the kitchen, raising a brow at the sight of a chemistry set already displayed rather proudly on the kitchen table. But putting that mentally aside, quite a decently sized kitchen. Seems they'd have to negotiate on kitchen space but that wasn't necessarily a deal breaker.

              Silently noting another set of stairs as well as a hallway presumably leading to more rooms, John decides to take a break from exploring for a moment, grabbing a union jack pillow from atop one of the boxes to rest against as he sits down in the red armchair.

              “Very good. I think this place will do nicely.” John states with a satisfied look about him, relaxing into the armchair while looking over at Sherlock. Said man blinks at him before settling for a small smile, clearly relieved by John's reaction to the flat.

              “Yes, my thoughts precisely. So I went straight ahead and moved in.”

              “Mm. Sound decision. You've clearly got more things to fill the flat with than I do, so once everything's situated we shouldn't be crowded much at all I imagine.” John says while eyeing the many boxes strewn about.

              “Ah, well, obviously I can straighten things up a bit-” He moves forward to do just that but John interrupts him before he can even start, pointing at the skull on the mantle with his cane.

              “No, no worries, it can wait till later. That a friend of yours?”

              “Yes.” Sherlock pauses and then immediately backtracks a bit, waving one of his hands vaguely, “Or, well, when I say friend-”

              “Pass it to me?” John politely requests, smiling gratefully when Sherlock follows through with nothing but a curious look on his face. Propping his cane up on the side of the armchair, John accepts the skull with both hands and carefully turns it over as he examines it, murmuring somewhat to himself but loud enough for Sherlock to hear him clearly.

              “Male. Perfectly developed Frontal, Occipital, and Parietal. Mild fracture on the left side seam between Temporal and Sphenoid. Mostly intact Mandible, though there's a few molars missing in the back.” Holding the skull out for Sherlock to take back, John nods towards it as the dark haired man returns it to its rightful place. “Decent condition. Where'd you get him?”

              There's a surprised warmth in Sherlock's eyes, a fascinated look John isn't quite used to receiving. “Gift from Molly during some holiday. Which one is unimportant.”

              “What do you think then, Dr.Watson?” Missus Hudson chimes in as she picks up a cup and saucer from the side table and walks in to join the two men in the living room. “There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two rooms.”

              “That'd be the safest bet considering Sherlock and I only met just yesterday.” John answers with a subtle shrug of his shoulder.

              “Oh no need to worry dear, there's all sorts around here. Missus Turner next door's even got married ones.” With that she walks off towards the kitchen and starts to fuss over the mess, mildly reprimanding Sherlock as she moves dishes to the sink.

               Watching her walk away, John eventually turns his attention to Sherlock as he takes off his belstaff.

              “I looked you up on the internet last night.” he speaks up, tilting his head to the side and raising a brow when his eyes catch Sherlock pausing his movements for a small nearly unnoticeable moment. “Found your website. ‘The Science of Deduction’.”

              “What did you think?”

               Is he-? Oh he most definitely is. The dark haired savant is standing a little taller while sorting the books from one of many moving boxes, practically preening, though John isn't sure if he realizes he's doing it or not.

              “Well...” John casually taps his fingers on the armrest as he collects his thoughts. “You claimed you could identify a software engineer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb, and considering our...interaction yesterday I'm inclined to believe it at least somewhat. But I'm not totally convinced. Intrigued, sure, but no. Not convinced.”

              Setting the books down Sherlock smirks. “I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone. Surely that is convincing enough?” He turns away and casually walks to one of the living room windows to look outside.

               John continues to drum his fingers on the armrest, suppressing an amused snort. “Maybe. But you've yet to explain how you're seeing it.”

               Turning his head as he hears approaching footsteps, John holds in any following statements when he sees the newspaper in Missus Hudson's hands, his brow furrowing in confusion.

              “What about these suicides then, Sherlock?” She flicks the paper in order to straighten it in her hold, making it easier to read. “Sounds right up your street. Three, exactly the same.”

              “Murder.” John speaks up without actively thinking about it, coughing under his breath and glancing away in embarrassment when Missus Hudson and Sherlock both turn to look at him. He relaxes minutely when he catches the surprise and hint of approval shining in Sherlock's eyes, grim faced considering the topic but feeling encouraged to continue. “Once is an accident. Twice is a coincidence. But three? That's a pattern. Can't be anything but murder.”

              “Four now.” Sherlock hums, turning to face the window again. “There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time.”

              “A fourth?” Missus Hudson asks, looking troubled.

              All three turn their heads at the sound of hurried steps pounding up the stairs. Panting softly, a man in casual yet pleasant dress clothes with a black overcoat stops in the open door of the flat, looking towards Sherlock and unknowingly giving John a solid opportunity to casually note his appearance.

              Fairly tall but shorter than John's new flatmate, making him decently taller than John himself. Exhaustion is clear in how he holds himself along with a stubbornness to continue that John recognizes well. Grey hair in varying shades, clean shaven face with a faint nearly unnoticeable stubble. And freckles? No, not freckles. Scales perhaps. And sure enough, there's a mild tapering to the man's ears, a subtle grey gradient to his skin practically camouflaging the pointed tips in with the colour of his hair. He's a Monstrum Descent, potentially even a full Monstrum, though one can't always tell from observation alone. Brilliant. Reassuring, honestly, considering his flatmate doesn't seem surprised to see this stranger in the slightest. Atleast John now knows he won't be moving in with a bigot.

              Sherlock doesn't give him any opportunity to catch his breath before he starts questioning him.

              “Where?”

              “Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.” The tired man pants out, one hand gripping the doorframe.

              “What's new about this one? Something changed, you wouldn't have come to me otherwise.”

              “You know how they never leave notes?” He waits for Sherlock's acknowledgement before continuing. “This one did. Will you come?”

               Instead of answering, Sherlock continues to question him, staying standing in front of the window. “Who's in forensics?”

              “Anderson.” Was that a wince? That was most definitely a wince. Wonderful.

              “Anderson won't work with me.” Sherlock growls out, visibly grimacing as he turns his head away in order to stare outside again. John stays seated in his chair, watching the two's verbal game of Racquetball with interest. Whoever this Anderson is was either a rival, or someone unbearable, and John isn't sure which he'd rather deal with.

              “Well, he won't be your assistant.”

              “I need an assistant.”

              “Will you come?” The stranger pointedly ignores Sherlock's complaint and asks again, practically pleading.

               Sherlock stays silent for a moment seeming to contemplate his response before he speaks. “Not in a police car. I'll be right behind.”

              The relief coming off the grey haired man is nearly palpable. “Thank you.” He murmurs with a polite nod before rushing off, leaving the residents of 221b to sit in silence.

               It hardly lasts a minute before Sherlock is suddenly prancing up onto the coffee table, clenching his hands in excited fists with a brilliant grin as if he's just won the lottery. “Brilliant! Yes! Four serial suicides, and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas.” Jumping down he walks to where he's hung his belstaff coat and quickly throws it on, talking towards where Missus Hudson has walked off to as he ties on his scarf.

              “Missus Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food.”

              “I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper.” Her tone is gently reprimanding, though one could hardly call it serious. Most definitely an old argument that's never been settled.

              Either not hearing her clearly or not caring, Sherlock continues. “Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!”

              John doesn't really have a chance to say anything back before Sherlock is already rushing out the door and down the stairs, the front door of the flat slamming shut behind him.

              Mad. The man is absolutely mad. And if John were even remotely sane he'd leave right now and never consider coming back- which, of course, he's not going to do, not at this point. Damn his curiosity.

              “Look at him, dashing about. My husband was much the same.” Missus Hudson sighs fondly from some end of the flat out of John's line of sight. “But you're more the sitting down type- I can tell.” He most definitely isn't, but he's hardly going to argue with her over it, they've only just met.

              “Now I'll make that cuppa, you rest your leg.”

              “D…- Ah, well. Cup of tea’d be lovely. Thank you.” He nearly clips the tip of his tongue, he clenches his teeth so hard, biting down an irritated exclamation as he quickly remembers just who he's speaking to. No sense in yelling at his new landlady for a situation that isn't her doing. It's not as if she's the one who shot him and scrambled his brain enough for it to misplace where he was wounded.

              Eyeing the newspaper she left behind he picks it up in hopes of distracting himself, quickly skimming over the first few lines talking about the serial suicides. An image of the third, and up until the apparent new fourth discovered today, serial suicide victim Beth Davenport is depicted at the start of the article. A smaller photograph next to it catches John's eye, putting a name to the face of the grey haired man who called Sherlock away- Detective Inspector Lestrade.

              “You're a doctor.”

               Looking up from the report John immediately sets it aside when he sees Sherlock standing in the door. Noticing he has John's attention Sherlock continues, stepping a little closer.

              “In fact you're an Army doctor.”

               Standing up John grabs his cane and nods in confirmation, gripping the handle tightly.

              “Yes.”

              “Any good?”

              “Very good.” Not a matter of exaggeration or bragging, merely a statement of fact. He'd been good. Damn good. And he still was- just because he can't handle a scalpel like he used to, doesn't mean all his hard work, his knowledge, was gone.

              “Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths.”

              “Well, yes.” Where was this headed? Just where is he going with this?

              “Plenty of trouble too, I bet.”

              “Yes, of course. Far too much. Enough for a lifetime.” Because that's the normal thing to say. Can't exactly tell someone you miss war of all things.

              The closest John can describe the sudden grin on Sherlock's face is out right devious. Enigmatic. Devilish. As if he knows exactly what his words are stirring in John’s mind and loving every second of it.

               An addict supplying another addict with a new fix.

              “Want to see some more?”

              “Oh Gods, yes.” John breathes out fervently with a pleased grin.

               Sherlock winks before he turns on his heel and takes off, leading John out of the flat and down the stairs. John follows as quickly as his limp allows, calling out to Missus Hudson.

              “Sorry, Missus Hudson, I'll be skipping the tea. Off and out!”

              “The both of you?” Missus Hudson stops at the bottom of the stairs, having followed them down when she heard the commotion. Sherlock spins around and walks towards her, gently grabbing her by the shoulders.

              “Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point in staying home when something fun is finally going on!” he exclaims before he kisses her rather noisily on the cheek, grinning as she chuckles and gently swats his arm.

              “Oh look at you, all happy. It isn't decent.”

              Her scolding hardly does anything to dampen the enigmatic man's mood. If anything it riles him further, the grin on his face widening as he saddles up next to John and makes his way to the front door again, speaking over his shoulder.

              “Who cares about decent? The game, Missus Hudson, is on.”

               That rather does it. This man is absolutely off his skull, and John is hooked.

               Eagerly following Sherlock outside, John stops next to him as the taller man successfully hails a taxi, clambering in after him once it stops and relaxing into the worn leather seat as the strange man he's decided to stick with tells the driver where to go.

               As they sit in silence, Sherlock working on something unknown on his phone, John occupies himself by looking outside at the passing scenery. The air is only mildly uncomfortable, mostly John's doing than anything else as far as he can tell. Such a brilliant time to finally panic. Just what is he doing? What the hell is going on? Of all the people he's ever come to know, why him, why now does John find someone who seems to pull him out of the metaphorical pits without hardly any effort. He has Mike again now, he isn't alone anymore, he knows he could recover just fine with said man's help. So just what about this stranger- his new flatmate- is so different?

              He can't resist. Damn it all, but he can't- he needs to know more. Flicking his tongue out to wet his lips, John lets his eyes fall closed as Sherlock's scent washes over him, the close proximity in the taxi giving him the perfect opportunity to take it in without interruption.

Sandalwood and… citrus? Chemicals. Medical grade cleaner. Cigarette smoke. And something more earthy, but not quite- almost wet. Petrichor. Has to be Petrichor.

              Sherlock suddenly speaks up while tucking his phone away, getting John to turn his attention towards him as he unintentionally pulls the army doctor away from his thoughts.

              “You have questions.”

              “A few, yes.” John shrugs one of his shoulders, quickly recovering from his own sudden shift in attention. “But I can surmise the answers to some of them.”

              “Oh?” An elegant dark brow is raised, curiosity burning in the green (Blue- damn it all he really needs to figure out what colour they are, it's going to bug him until he does.) eyes staring into John's soul. Coughing a little awkwardly under his breath John nods and looks away from Sherlock's sharp gaze, turning his attention to his own hand as he raises it and starts ticking off fingers with each theory he lists.

              “You mentioned a fourth suicide, and with that Detective stopping by its rather obvious we're headed to a crime scene. You can't be an officer, you neither hold yourself like one nor would a D.I. stop at a coworker's flat in order to bring them on for a case, they'd sooner call than grab you personally. Besides, I may not know you well, but I can't imagine you handling the more social aspects of being part of the force. You'd sooner out a person's divorce than comfort them at a crime scene.” His tone is mildly teasing towards the end. John isn't meaning to be insulting, just attempting to state an observation of his own, even if it isn't at the level the other man is used to making.

              “You're not a private detective. The police don't go to private detectives. So you're something different, something new. And whatever it is you do… You're not an amateur.”

               John looks up, internally cursing his own expressiveness when he's forced to try and smother a blush from blooming on his face. Sherlock is looking at him with a gaze John can't decipher, a glint in his pupils shining brighter than a search light. Christ. Who knows if it's a blessing or a curse to catch the interest of such an eccentric, brilliant man.

              “I'm a Consulting Detective- Only one in the world. I invented the job.” Sherlock answers, practically purring with approval and pride. And yet there is a subtle nervousness about him. As if he expects John to call his bluff, to disbelieve. To doubt him.

              “It means that when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they come to me.”

              “Interesting. Down to elaborate?” John asks, curiosity burning in his tone.

              “When I met you for the first time yesterday, I asked you. Afghanistan or Iraq. You looked surprised.”

              “That's right. You saw it somehow, you must have, but what gave that away?”

              “Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, both say military. But your conversation with Mike- ‘Bit different from our day.’ says trained at Bart's. Army doctor then. Obvious.” Sherlock reaches out and gently taps one of John's wrists with a pointed finger, directly on the tanline splitting the shades of his skin.

              “Your face is tanned, as well as your hands, but not above the wrists. You've been abroad but not sunbathing.”

               He shifts his attention to John's cane by lightly tapping It with his foot.

              “Your limp is bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, as if you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan, current societal upheaval in parts of the world that fit the needed criteria- Afghanistan or Iraq.”

               Sherlock finishes his statement with a pronounced click at the end of ‘Iraq’, his gaze shifting to stare ahead towards the front of the cab.

               John smirks, feeling more energy thrumming in his chest than he has since returning home. More. He needs to hear more.

              “What else can you see?”

               Sherlock glances at him, seeming surprised, before relenting without much hesitation. He holds a hand out and smiles as John catches on to what he wants, flipping John's phone around in his hands as he casually examines it.

              “Your brother, for one. Your phone- it's expensive. Email enabled, MP3 player. But you're an army man who's looking for a flatshare. You wouldn't waste money on this. A gift, then.” He turns it around, showing off the scratches decorating its surface.

              “Scratches. Not one, but many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it must have had a previous owner. ‘Course the next bit is easy. You know it already.”

              “The engraving.”

               Sherlock nods in agreement while flicking the phone open, tilting it so John can look at the engraving with him.

Harry Watson

From Clara

Xxx

              “Harry Watson. Clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget, and most likely not a cousin. You're a war hero who can't find a place to live, the chance of extended family being available to help, or atleast being close enough with them in order to feel comfortable enough to ask, is highly unlikely. Now Clara. Who's Clara?”

              John's eyes follow his finger as Sherlock traces over part of the engraving.

              “Three kisses say it's a romantic attachment. Expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She had to have given it to him recently, this model's only six months old - Marriage in trouble then, if he's just giving it away. If she left him, he'd have kept it, sentiment usually pulls people to do such things. But no, he wanted to get rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you- That says he wants you to keep in touch. You're searching for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help. That says you've got problems with him. Perhaps you liked his wife; Perhaps you don't like his drinking.”

               John interrupts, he can't help it. “How the hell could you possibly know about the drinking?”

              “Shot in the dark.” Sherlock closes John's phone and passes it back to him with a smug smile. “Good one, though. Power connection- tiny little scuff marks around the edge. Every night he goes to plug in his phone on the charger but his hands are shaking. You never see them on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them.”

               He stares ahead again, hands clasped in his lap. “So you'd be correct.”

              “About what?”

              “The police don't consult amateurs.”

              He looks to the side to watch the passing scenery, gnawing on his bottom lip. Nervous. Waiting.

              ‘Hm. Well that won't do.’

              “That. Was amazing.”

               Sherlock tenses, keeping his gaze outward but clearly still paying attention. “Do you think so?”

              “Of course I think so.” John scoffs, irritated, but not at Sherlock himself. “Extraordinary actually. Quite extraordinary.”

              “Oh, that's… not what people normally say.”

              “What do people normally say?”

              “Piss off.”

               The two men turn their heads to look at each other coincidentally at the same time, blue eyes meeting blue as the silence stretches on. It's John who cracks first, tossing his head back as his laughter sings in the air, prompting Sherlock to start as well. It takes a few minutes for them to calm down, with Sherlock being the first.

              “So? Did I get anything wrong?”

              “Harry and I don't get on, we never have. Too many disagreements that have never been settled.” John sighs, smiling softly. “Clara and Harry split up 3 months ago and they're getting a divorce. And Harry is a drinker.”

              “Spot on then. I didn't expect to be right about everything.” Sherlock hums, sounding pleased. The taxi stops in front of a tall building surrounded by officers, vehicles, and yellow tape.

              John opens his door and moves to step out, but pauses mid way, looking at Sherlock over his shoulder with a wry grin brimming with amusement.

              “And Harry is short for Harriet.”

Chapter Text

            “...Your sister.”

            “Right, what are we up to then?” Amused as he is by Sherlock's reaction to his reveal, they have a job to do; though John isn't entirely sure what he'll be doing as Sherlock works with the police. He waits patiently for Sherlock to pay the driver before he starts to walk in the direction of the crime scene. 

            “Harry’s your sister. ” Sherlock moans in annoyance, striding petulantly at John's side. “There's always something.”

            “Sherlock, I don't have any clearance to be here, what are we doing?” John frowns, clutching the head of his cane tightly. If he was still in active service he may have been able to walk in without much issue, but he's not. On top of that, the victim wasn't even remotely related to the military in any form as far as they knew, so there wouldn't be much reason for a Captain to visit the scene anyway.

            Instead of answering Sherlock walks ahead towards the nearest stretch of yellow tape closing off the crime scene. Before he has a chance to walk through, a stern looking woman moves to stand in front of him, her arms folded over her chest as she stares Sherlock down. 

            “Hello, Freak. ” John's eyes widened at the word, surprise and outrage immediately surging in his chest.

            ‘ Surely I heard her wrong. She's joking, right? ’

            “I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade.” And if that isn't a decent bit of whiplash. John isn't sure if he should be impressed or concerned over how unfazed Sherlock appears to be in the face of this strange woman's animosity. There's some history here, there has to be, because if there isn't then he's going to have to start worrying over the quality of Scotland Yard and its officers.

            “Why?” 

            “I was invited.” 

            “ Why? ”

            “I think he wants me to take a look.” Sarcastic, but not quite biting, not yet at least. John shouldn't enjoy the sour look that forms on the woman's face from Sherlock's snark, but he does. Oh he most definitely does.

            Despite that she doesn't seem deterred by Sherlock's answer. If anything it seems to fuel her, the sneer on her face becoming harsher. “Well, you know what I think don't you?”

            Sherlock lifts the yellow tape and ducks under it in order to join her on the other side. He makes no move to acknowledge her behaviour beyond his level-toned, sarcastic remarks. “Always, Sally. Just as well as I know you didn't make it home last night.” 

            “I don't..” The female officer finally seems to notice John's presence, her gaze flicking over him quick; almost dismissively. “Er, who's this?”

            “Colleague of mine, Doctor John Watson.” Sherlock keeps holding the tape up until John has joined him, nodding towards Donovan as he makes introductions. “Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan, an..Old friend.”

            John doesn't bother offering a handshake and simply gives her a curt nod. His shoulders square up as he instinctively falls into a parade rest, forcing himself into a much needed realm of calm. “Sergeant.”

            Donovan gives a derisive, disbelieving snort.  “He doesn't have colleagues. What'd he do, follow you home?”

            “No. Rather in reverse, actually. I have it on good authority that he's a rather gracious host. Far more preferable over..certain company.” John's smile is all teeth and poorly masked contempt, he can feel it is, but really he couldn't help it even if he wanted to. Can't really bring himself to care. Hardly five minutes in her presence and this so-called Sergeant has already rubbed him the wrong way in more ways he ever thought possible. Why bother with anything but the minimum respect, when she seems to carry not an ounce for anyone in her body?

            Gleefully ignoring the offended, gobsmacked look on Donovan's face, John turns his attention back to Sherlock with a noticeably softer look; his smile settling down into something far more genuine.

            “Where to then?”

            “...Follow me.” 

            Sherlock turns away and starts to stride over towards a rundown looking building with a clear traffic of Scotland Yard personnel exploring both its interior and exterior like an army of task-focused ants. What part of his face John can see as he hurries to catch up is somewhat blank, almost cold, but not out of any sort of disapproval. Moreso in the way of a carefully assembled mask. Of having a job to do and needing all measures of focus to complete it, to stay on task, to sort out other things later once the job is done. His tone had been soft with an underline of something , but John could at least follow him with the knowledge that he hadn't overstepped. Or well- He rather hoped he hadn't. Though really, Sherlock didn't seem the sort to wait before expressing his opinion on another's actions, so what he said must have been somewhat fine in the eyes of the genius.

            As the two approach the front door of the busy house, a man with short brown hair wearing a coverall over his clothes steps out outside with an immediate look of distaste on his face the second his eyes catch sight of Sherlock.

            ‘ Fucking christ, not another one. ’ John sighs internally. He is rapidly losing what hope he once had for Scotland Yard as a whole. If that tired looking Detective that came over to find Sherlock at the flat was in any way as bad as the last two officers they've run into, he just might have to give up on them entirely.

            “Ah, Anderson. Here we are again.” Sherlock greets the sour looking man, his voice perfectly pleasant and oh so clearly faked. Props to his acting though, a rather impressive display. Almost believable if it wasn't for the fact John was dead certain now that there was some history between Sherlock and Lestrades's team that would make the sweetest of nuns red faced with outrage within an instant. If John, who was a rather regular polite bloke by his own opinion, was having trouble not biting these officers heads off just by being a bystander- he couldn't imagine what Sherlock himself was feeling.

            “It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?” 

            “Quite clear.” Sherlock answers him, tilting his head just the subtlest slightest bit, like a cat assessing a fly on the wall. “And is your wife away for long?”

            “Oh don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that.” The man grumbles, hands moving to fiddle with his plastic gloves in an attempt to pull them on more firmly.

            “Your deodorant told me that.”

            “My deodorant?”

            “Yes. It's for men.”

            Anderson pulls a face, looking indignant. “Well of course it's for men, I'm wearing it!”

            “So's Sergeant Donovan.”

            The monotone, almost bored drawl of Sherlock's voice upon such a reveal nearly makes John choke on his own spit as he desperately holds back a startled laugh. Anderson's shocked and frankly horrified face as he spins around to look at Donovan truly makes it all the sweeter. John even has to reach a hand up to try and subtly wipe away a budding tear, his chest tight from holding in his amusement.

            ‘ Mad. This man is fucking mad. Bloody hell this is brilliant to witness. ’ John cackles internally, his mind humming the praise his habit-instilled manners won't allow him to express out loud.

            Incensed by Sherlock's clear accusation now that he's had a moment to process, Anderson turns back around and points an accusatory finger, on the edge of snarling with anger.

            “Now look- whatever you're trying to imply..”

            “Oh, I'm not implying anything.” Sherlock pointedly ignores Anderson's judgmental gesturing and steps towards the front door of the house, continuing to speak as he walks past both Anderson and Donovan. 

            “I'm sure Sally came round for a delightful little chat and just so happened to stay over.”

            He pauses in the doorway of the house, turning back to face them while visibly giving them a once over with his eyes.

            “And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees.”

            Smiling smugly at their twin looks of abject horror, Sherlock glances over at John, subtly jerking his head in the direction of the inside of the house before turning around and stepping in. John makes his way past Donovan and pauses briefly to take a pointed look at her knees before giving her a blank look with a raised brow, stepping into the house after the mad detective he's tossed his lot in with.

            Sherlock ends up leading him off to a room on the ground floor. The only one there is Lestrade, who is fighting to get on a coverall of his own that is much in the same model of the one Anderson is wearing. 

            “You'll be needing one of these.” Sherlock says to John while gesturing towards a pile of similar coveralls. 

            “Who's this?” Lestrade speaks up while looking between the enigmatic genius and his blond apparent companion, his brows furrowed in confusion.

            “He's with me.” Sherlock answers while casually removing his black gloves.

            “Yes, but who is he?” The grey haired DI snips back, his tone peppered with exasperation and a rising tide of resignation.

            Huffing in annoyance, Sherlock picks up a pair of latex gloves and starts to put them on. “I said he's with me.”

            Stifling a small smile, John just shakes his head and takes off his coat, setting it aside where he can find it again later. Tugging on a set of the coveralls he considers, for a moment, to ask Sherlock whether or not he'll be putting one on himself; Though that thought dissipates just as quickly as it hits his mind. A day may not be considered long enough to truly know someone, but it's plenty of time to realise that Sherlock is stubborn . He won't be doing anything unless it gets him the results he wants, and pandering to the whims of protocol doesn't feel like a qualifier in the slightest.

            “So where are we?” Sherlock speaks up as soon as John has his coverall zipped up and white cotton coverings pulled over his shoes.

            Lestrade grabs another pair of latex gloves and nods in the direction of a nearby doorway. “Upstairs.”

            Leading them through the door Lestrade takes the two up a circular staircase, speaking up again as they approach the second story.

            “I can give you two minutes.”

            “May need longer than that.”

            Lestrade makes a soft frustrated noise in the back of his throat at Sherlock's response but continues speaking anyways.

            “Her name's Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Potential Monstrum, Monstrum Descent at the very least due to visible non-Humanus physical features. Hasn't been here very long. Some kids found her.”

            Reaching the top of the stairs he leads the way to the first room and opens the door. The room is bare of any furniture beyond an old rocking horse tucked off in a corner. Scaffolding poles hold up part of the ceiling next to where a few large holes have been knocked into one of the walls. And right at the room's centre a few portable emergency lights, presumably set up by the police, shine down on the body of a woman.

            She's face down so John can't quite see her face from where he's standing, with her hands palm down on the floor on either side of her head. Meticulously manicured pink nails, almost claws, are chipped and scuffed on one of her hands with some illegible scratches on the floor beneath. High heeled pink shoes and a bright pink overcoat match seamlessly with a small pair of avian wings that curve out from her back- not even remotely large enough for flight, stretched out limp and ruffled from whatever state of panic she must have been in before she passed. Feathers of varying gradients of pink lay strewn about around her, littering the melancholy scene with shocks of colour contrasting against the dark dusty floorboards.

            Sherlock steps closer and stops in front of the body, a focused look on his face as he kneels down and examines her with a sharp gaze. Stepping further into the room as well, John stops next to Lestrade, his hand clenching down hard on the handle of his cane as he carefully schools his features.

            ‘ Such a pointless loss of life. ’ he internally sighs, his chest clenching with sympathy and grief. ‘ There's nothing she could have done to earn a death like this. Nothing. ’

            There's a long pause as the two casually watch Sherlock poke and prod at the body before Lestrade finally says anything.

            “Danvers said she sensed broken Wards, though we haven't had any luck finding a Ward Stone. Have you got anything?”

            “Not much.” Sherlock hums nonchalantly while standing back up to his full height. He takes off his latex gloves, seemingly uncaring of the information Lestrade has provided. As he takes his phone out of his pocket and starts to type on it Anderson appears, leaning casually against the doorway of the room.

            “She's German. ‘ Rache ’. It's German for ‘revenge’. She could be trying to tell us something…-”

            Cutting him off mid sentence Sherlock walks over and shuts the door in his face, still staring at his phone screen.

            “Yes, thank you for your input.” He sarcastically drawls just before the door fully shuts, stepping back over towards the centre of the room.

            “So she's German?” Lestrade asks.

            Sherlock doesn't bother looking up from his phone as he answers. “Of course she's not. She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night..”

            A smug smile blooms on Sherlock’s face. ‘ Must have found something. ’ John chuckles internally, some of his previous amusement returning in the face of Sherlock's victorious air.

            “...before returning home to Cardiff.” Pocketing his phone, Sherlock finally looks up. “So far, so obvious.”

            “What about the message, though?”

            “Doctor Watson, what do you think?” Completely ignoring Lestrade's question, Sherlock turns his attention towards John. Raising a questioning brow, John glances between him and the body but doesn't move.

            “While I'd love to assist, I don't think you have the jurisdiction needed for me to do that..-” 

            “Sherlock, no, we have a whole team right outside.” Lestrade interrupts with an irritated sigh.

            “They won't work with me.”

            “I'm breaking every rule letting you in here.”

            “Yes..because you need me.”

            Staring at him for a moment the frankly exhausted looking Detective Inspector eventually looks down at the floor with a helpless look.

            “Yes, I do. Gods help me.”

            John still waits to move, patiently waiting for some form of signal of permission. No amount of Sherlock's intense staring was going to get him to approach the victim without it. Seemingly sensing John's questioning look Lestrade lifts his head and gestures towards the body, sounding rather tetchy.

            “Oh, do as he says. Help yourself.”

            He turns away and opens the door, stepping outside. “Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes.”

            With that done, John finally approaches the body with Sherlock at his side. He carefully kneels down onto one knee with a small pained grimace, leaning heavily on his cane to support himself. Sherlock squats down on the other side of the body, staring patiently over her at John.

            “Well?”

            “You're going to have to give me a moment to actually examine her before I can tell you anything. My mind isn't as fast as yours, you know.” John tries to give him an unimpressed look, though his tone gives away his amusement over Sherlock's behaviour well enough.

            As John drags his other leg down into kneeling position Lestrade reappears and stands in the doorway. Carefully John leans forward to look her over more closely, silently noting the condition of her face. Smaller pink feathers intertwine with the brown hair of her eyebrows and near her ears. Her face is gentle with very few worry lines, and peaceful, enough so that one could even mistake her for being asleep. Leaning in closer, John takes a small sniff of the air near her face, his head tucked down as he licks his lips purely out of nervous habit, waiting for the sudden informational input he knows is coming. The last time. This will be the last time he does it.

Perfume, flower based. Lilac? Rose? No- Lilies . Salt. Sea water. Soil. Pen ink. Chemicals, can't tell what type. Most probably the poison. Butyric acid. Fear .

            Sitting back up John reaches out and gently takes her right hand, turning it over to examine her skin. Closing his eyes for a brief moment he focuses and sends a gentle pulse through the contact he has with her, quickly pushing past the sensation of her empty Magick Core to search for the presence of any possible Monstrum sourced toxins in her body. Making a quiet thoughtful noise in the back of his throat John eventually lays her hand back down and looks across to Sherlock.

            “Don't smell any alcohol on her. Most definitely Asphyxiation, which they'll confirm later I'm sure during the autopsy. Not exactly an expert on things like this, nor do I know exact circumstances for the others, but from what I can tell she definitely ticks some of the same boxes as the previous victims when it comes to being a victim of poison. No presence of toxins from a poison wielding Monstrum from what I can sense so that may not be the source, but I'd leave that for the toxicology report to confirm.”

            “Sherlock.”

            Both John and Sherlock turn their heads towards the door as Lestrade speaks up.

            “Two minutes, I said. I need anything you've got.”

            Both move to stand, with John moving a little more slowly of the two due to his leg. Sherlock slowly walks around the body as he summarises what he's uncovered.

            “Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I'm guessing something in the media considering the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. Obvious from the size of her suitcase.”

            “Suitcase?”

            “Mm. Suitcase, yes.” Sherlock stops walking, his eyes focused on the victim.

            “She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers, none of them knew she was married.”

            “Oh, for the Gods sake, if you're just making this up..-”

            Sherlock vaguely waves his hand at Lestrade as if to command him to shove off before pointing down at the victim's left hand.

            “Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring; State of her marriage right there. The inside of her ring is shinier than the outside- that means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when it's worked off her finger. It's not for work; look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple.”

            ‘ Fucking hell . ’ “That's brilliant.” John's voice is soft with admiration; wistful as if he's just finished having a chat with a messiah of some fashion and had his world rearranged, but one can't really blame him. He's seen a good few impressive things in his lifetime, but what his flatmate’s been pulling off in the few hours he's known him are steadily climbing that list. He hadn't even meant to speak up really, but truly, who wouldn't? He's in awe, sue him.

            Sherlock turns to look at him and John instinctively apologises, shuffling in place a bit as he shifts his weight and looks away.

            “Cardiff?”

            “It's obvious, isn't it?” Sherlock asks Lestrade as his attention is pulled away from John. His question is met with expectant silence, enticing an annoyed scoff from him.

            “Dear Gods, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring. ”

            He turns on his feet to face the body again, gesturing with one of his hands as he speaks.

            “Her coat: it's slightly damp. She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it's dry and unused: not just wind, strong wind- too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?”

            Pulling his phone from his pocket Sherlock flicks it over to the webpage he was looking at earlier, showing the other two the screen to reveal he has the current weather for southern Britain open.

            “Cardiff.”

            “That's..That's fantastic. ”

            “D'you know you do that out loud?” Sherlock murmurs in a low voice, looking intently into John's eyes. There's a soft sense of wonderment to his gaze, and John has to force himself to look away; a faint embarrassed flush to his face.

            “Ah..Sorry, I'll stop.”

            “No, it's…fine.”

            “..Why'd you keep saying suitcase?”

            Sherlock tucks his phone away again and spins around in a circle to look around the room.

            “Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organiser. Find out who Rachel is.”

            “She was writing ‘Rachel’?”

            “No, she was leaving an angry message in German. ” Sherlock bites out sarcastically, unimpressed by Lestrade's range of questions. “Of course she was writing Rachel; no other word it can be. Question is: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?”

            “How d'you know she had a suitcase?”

            Gesturing towards the lower end of the body, Sherlock starts to explain, focusing on the woman's right leg.

            “Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, none present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, a woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night.”

            Squatting down he examines the back of her legs more closely. John looks as well but stays standing, suitably impressed but staying silent so as to not throw Sherlock off his rhythm again.

            “Now- where is it? What have you done with it?”

            “There wasn't a case.”

            They both snap their heads up to look at Lestrade, a frown on Sherlock's face as he stares the Detective down.

            “..Say that again.”

            “There wasn't a case. There was never any case.” The detective's face is pure bafflement. John can't exactly blame him. This entire situation was akin to trying to keep a surging storm from tumbling trees.

            Surging to his feet Sherlock rushes out the door and starts to call out to any officers currently in the building as he hustles down the stairs.

            “Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?” 

            “Sherlock, there was no case!” Lestrade calls down the stairs towards him as he and John stop on the landing. Sherlock slows his steps but still continues to descend, speaking louder to ensure he's heard clearly.

            “But they take the poisons themselves, it's not a Monstrums's doing, not physically anyway; they chew, they swallow the pill themselves. There are clear signs . Even you lot couldn't miss them.”

            “Right, yeah, thanks! And…? ”

            “It's murder, all of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings - serial killings. We've got ourselves a serial killer.” He stops walking halfway down the staircase, lifting his hands close to face with a manic grin. “I love those. There's always something to look forward to!”

            “Why are you saying that?

            Huffing a bit in exasperation Sherlock calls out towards everyone in the house again. “Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it?!”

            “She could have checked into a hotel? Left her case there?” A member of Lestrade's team pipes up from the second floor.

            “No, she never got to one. Look at her hair. She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking…” Suddenly trailing off Sherlock stills, eyes widening as he seems to come to some sort of realisation. 

            “Oh. Oh! ” Clapping his hands together in delight, Sherlock starts to smile cheerfully to himself. “Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake.”

            “We can't just wait! ”

            “Oh we're done waiting!”

            Sherlock starts to ramble rather excitedly while resuming his descent down the stairs. As startled as he is by the man's sudden surge in energy, John can't help but amusedly compare him to a dark comet rocketing off.

            “Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel! ”

            He finally reaches the bottom of the stairs and runs off out of sight. Lestrade leans over the railing calls after him, a bewildered and frustrated look on his face.

            “Of course, yeah- but what mistake-?! ”

            Just as quickly as he had once disappeared, Sherlock reappears again for a moment, running up a few stairs to ensure Lestrade can see him as he yells up an answer.

            “ PINK-! ”

            And then he's gone again.

            Sighing tiredly while running a hand through his hair, Lestrade turns to walk back into the main room of the crime scene, only to pause in his tracks when he sees John; having apparently forgotten the doctor was even there in the first place.

            “Sorry Doctor- what did you say your name was again?”

            “John Watson.”

            “Doctor Watson.” Lestrade closes his eyes for a moment, seeming almost pained. Most likely imagining a mountain of paperwork, if John were to hazard a guess. “Fuck. I'm going to be seeing a lot more of you in the future, aren't I?”

            John hesitates a moment before giving him a small nod and a sheepish grin. “Most likely, yeah.”

            Nodding to himself Lestrade sighs again before turning away, giving John a small wave. “Fine. Off you go, wish you luck finding him. Gods only know where he's run off to now. Leave the coveralls in that first main room, yeah?”

            “Understood. Best of luck, Detective.”

            John returns his wave before he carefully starts to make his way downstairs. Some members of Lestrade's team accidentally bump into him as they walk past but he pays them no mind, too lost in thought to care. Eventually making it to the ground floor, John moves off to the main room where he left his coat and quickly trades it for the coveralls he's wearing, squinting at the sudden change in light as he stops out onto the street. There is no visible sign of Sherlock anywhere, which he figured would be the case; but that doesn't stop a twinge of disappointment from hitting.

            “He's gone.”

            Donovan makes herself known and approaches John, stopping off to his right with her arms crossed.

            “He just took off. He does that.”

            “And you sound.. Disappointed.”

            Unimpressed by John's clear snark, Donovan makes a disgusted noise in the back of her throat and looks away towards the main road, shuffling her feet a bit as she shifts her weight.

            “Sherlock Holmes doesn't do normal, and he doesn't have friends. The only reason he'd drag you around is if you're worth something to him. So I have to ask-” She turns her head so she can look into her eyes. A faint amber hue curls around her pupil and the outer rim of her iris, adding a new layer to the harsh look she's giving him.

            “Just who- or rather, what - are you?”

            “Doctor John Watson, his new colleague. We've just met. As for what- Well. That's really none of your business, isn't it?” John answers softly, eyes narrowed as he gives Donovan a harsh stare of his own. Really- right as he was sure she couldn't become any more rude than she already was. Who the hell asks for someone's Classification, especially on a first meeting?

            Donovan's lips subtly curl while accompanied with a disdainful glare, the amber in her eyes growing, but she doesn't have much chance to say anything before the sound of Lestrade's voice calling her name echoes from the house. John gives her a cheerful, winsome smile as she moves to leave, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

            “Right then, I'm off. Good day Sergeant. ” 

            He doesn't stick around to wait for a response. Lifting the tape of the crime scene and ducking under it; John limps off towards the main road with nothing but the music of distant traffic, strangers' conversations, and the solid clack of his cane against pavement to greet his ears. 

            First things first- pack up his meagre belongings at the old flat and get them over to Baker Street. Then he'd worry about figuring out where his flatmates run off to.

Chapter Text

            ‘ Or get bloody stalked instead. Like hell this is any sort of coincidence. ’

            Four payphones. He's passed four payphones in the maybe ten-ish minutes he's been walking, and every single one has started ringing unprompted, before stopping as soon as he's either walked too far away or someone else has attempted to answer it.

            ‘ Fuck. Make that five. ’

            A fifth starts to raise all sorts of hell as he limps past it, scaring off a nearby pigeon. Clenching and unclenching a fist in a subconscious attempt at steadying himself, John gives up on trying to ignore whoever is being so unbearably persistent and steps into the telephone box. Picking up the still ringing phone John raises it to his ear and pulls his best attempt at a calm yet reproachful tone.

            “There are far, far easier ways to get a hold of someone, you know.”

            Whoever is on the other side takes a moment of silence before responding. A rather dry, clearly posh male voice speaks. “...There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?”

            Rolling his eyes John answers with a rather uninterested frown. There was no way of winning with whoever this is, they were dead set on continuing their theatrics. Far too many action films in their free time. He turns his head and looks out the window of the telephone box towards the building the man is referring to, squinting up at the camera hooked up to a high corner. “Yeah. Yeah, I see it.”

            “Watch.”

            The camera, which had been pointed directly at the phone box, swivels away to face somewhere else. The stranger speaks up again when John fails to say anything.

            “There is another camera on the building opposite you.”

            “Mm-hm.”

            The newly mentioned camera turns away as soon as John's eyes land on it. John clenches his jaw, a churning scream of approaching danger rolling up his spine. Dangerous. Whoever this was was dangerous.  

            “And finally, at the top of the building on your right.” 

            John stares directly into the next camera this time, silent and glaring even as it inevitably turns away from his gaze. A black car pulls up on the curb next to him and the phone box, pulling the retired soldier's attention away from his one sided stare-off.

            “Get into the car, Doctor Watson. I would make some sort of threat, but I'm quite sure your situation is quite clear to you.”

            The phone line goes dead, cutting off any potential questions John may have attempted to ask. Closing his eyes with a thoughtful look on his face John takes a calming breath while setting the phone down. His options were beyond limited. In their own way, the stranger had provided a sort of mercy, in a sense. They'd given John a ( albeit, vaguely threatening, and most definitely false ) choice. He could choose to leave, leg it home and hope he made it there, with of course the risk of being followed home anyway. Or he could just do as the man asked and get in the car, with the potential of being offed in some private place the police would never find. Could truly be worse. They could have skipped calling and just used a customised summoning sequence with absolutely no warning whatsoever. And they clearly could afford one, if the camera trick and private car was any indication.

            Nodding to himself once as he comes to a decision John opens his eyes and grabs his cane, stepping out of the phone booth back onto the pavement. Approaching the car John gives the driver a polite nod as they hold the door for him, climbing in with minimal issue beyond having to tuck his cane in next to his leg. 

            As soon as he's settled in and the car starts to drive John notices there's a fairly attractive woman with long brunette hair sitting alongside him focused entirely on the phone in her hands.

            “Hello.” John greets politely. He glances between her face and the phone in her hands, mildly unnerved and suspicious of her presence. Warranted, considering he hadn't exactly planned on being kidnapped today. 

            The woman briefly looks up from her phone, giving him a quick yet brilliant smile before looking back down at whatever she's typing on her phone.

            “Hi.”

            “What's your name, then?”

            “Er..Anthea.” False. So, so beyond false. This woman wasn't even trying to fake him out well. 

            Snorting softly in a flash of reluctant amusement John sits back in his seat and looks outside at the passing buildings. In just a few short minutes Central London steadily fades off into the warehouse district before his eyes. 

            “There's no point in asking where we're going, is there?” He eventually murmurs, tired and already quite done with the situation as a whole.

            “None at all, John.” 

            ‘ ...Lovely. ’ John sighs internally, closing his eyes for a brief moment as an eerie sense of calm hits. 

            When he opens his eyes next, the car is pulling into one of the warehouses, pulling slowly into what must be the centre. Machinery with intricate looking wire work lines the edges of the inside, their purpose unclear. The cement floor is wet with puddles reflecting light from the overheads, with the centre of the warehouse devoid of anything but a cheap steel armless chair- and a man. John looks him over as he steps out of the car, allowing himself a single quick lick of his lips as the only sign of nervousness. The familiar bark of his old drill sergeant snarls in a half faded memory. A valuable and much needed distraction. 

            ‘Give them things to look for, Watson. Make them think they've won. ’

            The man- or rather, Monstrum- stands tall, nonchalant; almost bored as he leans on a dark umbrella. Feathers glow in the lacklustre shine of the overhead lights. Gold, tan, brown, and more, all decorating the sides of his head where human ears would be; as well as the massive wings pinned proudly on his back through the expensive suit he wears. His well tailored pants are cuffed at the knee, his legs bent in the way most satyr-esque Monstrum tend to be- powerful looking avian legs ending in sharp, knife-like claws. More feathers, tail feathers, catch John's eye and seal his theory solidly. The man's an eagle. What type, he isn't sure, and he's not certain of the Monstrum type either ( A siren? An angel? ), but there are few bird species in the world that could give a Monstrum wings that large. His scent only adds to it all, though it takes John a moment to find it hidden under layers of the warehouse's unfortunate odour.

            Caramel. Ozone. Soil. Paper. Letter wax. Over steeped coffee. Candle wick smoke. Italian cigars. Pen ink. Oak wood.

            John limps closer to the man slowly, leaning heavily on his cane for support. As he's approaching the man speaks up while gesturing towards the chair with the end of his umbrella. A polite smile graces the man's face, though it doesn't hold any sort of pleasant effect nor is it comforting.

            “Take a seat, John.”

            “I'll stand thanks.” John answers dryly, stopping just a few paces in front of his apparent kidnapper and away from the offered chair. “I've got a phone, you know. Your little show was clever and all, but seriously. You could just phone me.”

            “When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet.” The man gestures vaguely at their surroundings, unintentionally ( or perhaps, intentionally ) drawing John's attention to the well cared for talon-like nails at the end of each finger of his hand. “Hence, this place.”

            It's subtle, but the stranger's smile shifts to something a bit more stern. His tone, just barely balancing on the line between commanding and false concern. ‘ Rather unfortunate for him that I don't give a damn. ’ John hums internally. ‘ Though I should have figured this would be related to Sherlock somehow. ’

            “The leg must be hurting you. Sit down. ”

            “I don't want to sit down.” John grinds out, eyes narrowed as he stares the man down defiantly.

            Stormy eyes narrow in turn as the stranger's smile becomes more strained. “You don't seem very afraid.”

            “You don't seem very frightening.”

            To John's surprise, his quick remark earns him a chuckle, though the humour in the man's voice is about as clear to see through as glass in a greenhouse. Absolutely nonexistent .

            “Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?”

            John stubbornly refuses to speak up again, jaw clenched just the minutest amount. A rather sound decision on his part as the man's chuckling swiftly fades into a stern frown. Tawny tail feathers fan out behind him, with his wings pulled tightly against his back.

            “What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

            “I don't think that's any of your business, really.”

            “Since yesterday you've moved in with him, and now you're solving crimes together.” The strange man relaxes his wings a bit but still maintains an air of stern authority bordering on entitlement. One that John is quickly growing sick of, enough so that he's losing restraint over his own tongue. “Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?”

            “Wouldn't say end of the week- need to let the family know and all that. They'd want time to call out of work for it, you know. Better to aim for next month, much more time to plan the wedding that way.” John says with a winsome grin, thoroughly enjoying the sour look on the man's face born from John's cheeky reply. “Who are you? Are you hunting for an invitation?”

            “An..interested party.”

            “Well obviously, everyone loves a good wedding. Here, let me rephrase- who are you to him? I'm assuming you're not friends.”

            “You've met him. How many friends do you imagine he has?” The man sighs out while schooling his features, making it clear he does not appreciate John's behaviour. “I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having. An enemy.”

            “...An enemy.” 

            “In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch -enemy. He does love to be dramatic.”

            John makes a point to ensure the man can see him looking around at the warehouse before answering with a sarcastic drawl.

            “Well thank the Gods you're above all that.”

            A phone alert suddenly cuts through the moment as it echoes in the spacious warehouse, giving John a chance to ignore his kidnapper in favour of digging in his pocket. Taking out his phone he flicks it on and opens the message while leaning a little more casually on his cane.

Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. -SH

            “I hope I'm not distracting you.”

            “Not distracting me at all, no.” John hums out casually while taking his time to look away from his phone, Sherlock’s sudden message wiggling a loose piece in the back of his mind free that he'd been too distracted by his situation to pay attention to. Kidnapping notwithstanding, something was off, and for the life of him he can't put his finger on what it is.

            The gentleman seems to wait until John tucks his phone away before continuing, a faint hint of curiosity in his gaze.

            “Do you plan on continuing your association with Sherlock Holmes?”

            “Is that any of your business?”

            “It could be.”

            “It really couldn't.” John can't help but bite out, tired of the man’s theatrics.

            Casually the man reaches into the breast pocket of his suite and fishes out a small notebook. He's smirking to himself, not quite triumphantly, but almost satisfied in a way as he flips it open.

            “Well, if you do move into-” He cuts himself off for a brief moment as he reads. “Two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way.”

            “Why? And in exchange for what?”

            ‘ Something's off. Somethings off - ” A hushed fragment of John's mind hisses softly; all pent up and simmering with an unpleasant combination of nerves, rising anger, frustration, and a heart chilling calm he's only ever felt while stressed. It takes a larger measure of self control than he cares to admit to keep himself looking as unbothered as possible. ‘ What could he possibly want? And Why? ’

            “Because you're not a wealthy man. As for what I want...” The stranger tilts his head to the side, his stormy eyes analysing John closely. “Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel… uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to.”

            “ Why? ”

            “I worry about him. Constantly. But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a…difficult relationship.”

            ‘ Difficult relationship? In what world does that make any- Wait. Wait. ’ A rush of clarity, and dare he call it relief , hits just as John's phone goes off for a second time; prompting him to smile and pull it out of his pocket to read whatever he's been sent. He should have seen it from the start of this whole ordeal, the level of dramatics had felt familiar for a reason. Though in fairness to himself he'll admit it isn't as if he's exactly had enough time to become familiar with such behaviour. ‘ And of course the source of all this damn fuss messages again, almost like the world's trying to confirm it for me. ’

If inconvenient, come anyway. - SH

            “Fine.” John hums while closing his phone, casually tucking it back into his pocket. The smile he gives the man is far more polite, though his shoulders are still settled in a deceptively relaxed position. “I'll report to you about your brother, Mr.Holmes , assuming a few conditions are met. I expect you'll be able to find my number well enough.”

            “Pardon?”

            “You're excused. Now, are we done?”

            The newly uncovered Holmes brother keeps up his fixed smile, his claws digging into the notebook in his hand. “You tell me, Doctor.”

            Huffing in annoyance and reluctant amusement John clutches the handle of his cane hard while looking down at the ground for a moment in thought. Looking back up after a beat John squares his shoulders and lets his smile drop before turning on his heel to limp away. Without any measure of caution he should probably possess, John climbs back into the back seat of the car that brought him to the warehouse, giving Anthea a small polite smile once he's situated.

            “Address?” She asks calmly without looking up from her phone.

            “Baker Street. Two two one B Baker Street.” John answers quickly as his phone buzzes for a third time, his hand automatically moving to pull it from his pocket.

Could be dangerous. - SH

            A wry grin pulls at John's mouth as he reads the message. He doesn't look away from it as he speaks again, distracted by jumbled thoughts but feeling oddly settled now that he has goals to look forward to. ‘ Must be what people mean when they talk about feeling alive. ’

            “But… I'd like to stop somewhere else first, if you don't mind.” 

            “You and I seem to have differing definitions when it comes to ‘dangerous’.”

            Letting the Duffle bag he's carrying slide off of his shoulder onto the floor near the front door, John limps over towards Sherlock, taking in his mildly ruffled appearance as the taller man lounges on the couch. Sherlock is stretched out on his back with his coat off, dress shirt sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up his arms. The palm of his right hand is firmly pressed onto the underside of his left arm just below the elbow. Verdigris eyes stare blankly towards the ceiling, clearly lost in thought.

            Sherlock makes a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat and closes his eyes, his body relaxing further into the couch. John walks over to one of the livingroom windows and looks out towards the street for a moment before looking towards Sherlock with a raised brow.

            “So, what are you doing?”

            “Nicotine patch. Helps me think.” Sherlock reopens his eyes and sits up a little, moving his right hand to reveal 3 circular nicotine patches littering his arm. “Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work.”

            “Mm. But good news for breathing.”

            “Oh, breathing! Breathings boring. ” Sherlock grumbles while waving his arm dismissively. John approaches slowly and gently catches his arm midair, leaning his cane against the couch as he moves his fingers to Sherlock's wrist.

            “What are you doing?” Startled, but more curious than anything, Sherlock doesn't pull away.

            “Making sure your heartbeat is stable.” John answers simply, eyes staring blankly towards where he's clasping the other man as he focuses solely on reading his pulse. Seemingly satisfied with what he's found, he eventually lets go and picks up his cane before stepping back.

            “Well, you asked me to come. I'm assuming it's important.”

            “Oh, yes, of course. Can I borrow your phone?”

            “..My phone.”

            “Don't want to use mine.” Sherlock settles back down on the couch with his hands placed in a prayer gesture under his chin. “Always a chance that my number will be recognized. It's on the website.”

            “I was the other side of London.”

            “There was no hurry.”

            “When there's danger, there's always hurry. Did you ask Missus Hudson?”

            “She's downstairs. I tried shouting but she didn't hear.”

            John rolls his eyes and casually sits on the armrest of the armchair closest to Sherlock's head, pulling his phone out of his pocket to hold in his hand in preparation to pass it over.

            “So what's going on with the case? Did you find it?”

            “Her suitcase, yes. The murderer took her suitcase. First big mistake.” Closing his eyes Sherlock makes a faint sound before murmuring. “No use, there's no other way. We'll have to risk it.”

            He raises his voice a little, imperiously gesturing his hand towards John. “On my desk there's a number. I want you to send a text.”

            “..A text. You brought me here, to send a text.” John doesn't move an inch, his fist clenching and unclenching around the handle of his cane. The smile on his face is tight with simmering aggravation and disbelief.

            “Text, yes. The number on my desk.” Either oblivious or uncaring of John's feelings on the matter, Sherlock returns his hand to its previous position with its twin under his chin, eyes still closed.

            Clenching his jaw for a brief moment John takes a deep breath and sighs it out heavily before standing up and wandering over to the aforementioned desk. Quickly copying down the number on his phone he then wanders back over to the window, glancing outside every now and then as he prepares to send the text. Sherlock opens his eyes and looks over with a curious gaze, tilting his head slightly as he silently takes notice of John's behaviour.

            “What's wrong?”

            “...Just met a friend of yours today.” John mutters, eyes narrowing as he looks at the many security cameras that dot the roof edges on various buildings along the street. None move, and none appear to be facing anywhere but where they're supposed to, but he's suspicious all the same.

            “A friend? ”

            “An enemy.” 

            “Oh. Which one?” John turns his head to face him, raising a brow at Sherlock's non-concerned tone.

            “Your brother. Or as he prefers it, your ‘ arch-enemy ’. Quite the drama queen that one.” The startled look on Sherlock’s face is nearly enough to make John laugh outright, a wry grin settling on his face instead. “Tell him I'm much nicer with a cup of tea over being spirited away to a murderers dream work site, next time he wants a chat.”

            “My brother-” Sherlock sits up, hands clinging to the couch as he stares at John. “How did you know he is my brother?”

            “Facial features. Mannerisms. Different yet similar flare for dramatics. The way he said things when referring to you.” John gives a little shrug. “Mostly was a guess, he just ended up confirming it for me when I confronted him about it.”

            “Did he offer you money to spy on me?”

            “He did.”

            Sherlock's eyes narrow suspiciously, flicking about taking in data as he appears to realise something.

            “You accepted. Why?”

            “Apologies for assuming considering how little we've known each other, but you don't really give the impression of someone who’d care.”

            Limping over casually John sits down in the red armchair, a slight edge of nervousness in his smile as uncertainty hits. 

            “Had a feeling you wouldn't be offended like anyone else normally would be. You're too logical. Pragmatic. ” His smile settles down into something much more genuine, mischief dancing in his eyes. “Plus your brother didn't specify what exactly he wanted, so who's to say what I send him?”

            “Careful now, John, I may just have to keep you.” Sherlock remarks with an approving grin. He swings his legs around until they're back on the floor, moving into a sitting position so he can look at John.

            “What a shame that would be. Though you won't hear me complaining.” John raises the hand holding his phone, lifting a questioning brow as his smile settles into a focused frown. “Now, the text message. Why am I messaging a dead woman?”

            “Unimportant.” Sherlock says quickly as he settles his hands back into a prayer pose with his fingertips nearly touching his lips. “Now then, these words exactly. ‘What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street, please come.’”

            “You blacked out?” John asks in concern, pausing his typing to look up at him.

            “What? No. No!” Springing to his feet he walks on top of the coffee table and marches to the kitchen. John refocuses on the message as soon as he's out of sight, still mildly concerned but mollified for the moment. “Type and send it, quickly.”

            As fast as he disappeared he reappears from the kitchen with a small pink suitcase and a dining chair. Flipping the chair around he sets it in front of the armchair opposite of John and sets the suitcase on it like it's a makeshift table, unzipping it once he's sat down in the armchair in order to look through its contents. There are a few articles of clothing (unsurprisingly in varying shades of pink), along with a washbag and a paperback book.

            “Sent.” John looks up from his phone as soon as he's done texting and immediately tenses when he sees the suitcase, looking between it and Sherlock with alarm as the dark haired man studies it intently. “Fuck thats..That's the case. That's Jennifer Wilson's suitcase.” 

            Feeling John's gaze Sherlock looks up and immediately rolls his eyes. “Oh I suppose I should mention: I didn't kill her.” He drawls sarcastically.

            “I never said you did.”

            “Why not? Considering the text I just had you send and the fact I have her case, it's a perfectly logical assumption.”

            “Do people usually assume you're the murderer?” John asks with a small amused snort.

            Sherlock gives him an unapologetic smirk as he answers. “Every now and again, yes.”

            “Alright.” 

            Relaxing back in his armchair while tucking his phone in his pocket, John rests his head on a propped up hand with a tired sigh.

            “How did you get this?”

            “By looking.”

            “Where? Did you use Magick or-?”

            Sherlock snorts decisively and waves one of his hands with an almost disgusted look on his face. “ Hardly. As if Magick was even needed.”

            Relaxing back in his chair Sherlock starts to gesture with one of his hands as he talks.

            “The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could have only kept her case on accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention – particularly a man, which is statistically more likely – so obviously he’d feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn’t have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake. I checked every back street wide enough for a car to fit through five minutes from Lauriston Gardens, and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip.”

            “Incredible.” John says with an awed smile. “You got all of that because you realised her case would be pink?”

            “It had to be pink, obviously.”

            “Sure, you're not wrong. Her coat, her nails, her feathers, her shoes. Why not her suitcase?” 

            “Good. Now, do you see what's missing?” Sherlock asks, leaning forward with an almost expectant look on his face.

            ‘ Oh buggering fuck- ’

            “Well-” Face mildly flushed from surprise John moves up onto his feet and limps over in order to get a closer look at the case. “If she did work for the media, I'd normally say laptop. But considering the lack of space for one in the case, along with the fact we just sent that message off and didn't hear anything- It's a phone. Her phone is missing, isn't it?”

            “ Exactly. ” Sherlock exclaims with a happy smirk. “The question is, where is the phone now?”

            “She could have lost it. Or left it at home.” John offers hesitantly. “Or do you think the murderer has it?”

            “Maybe she left it when she left her case. Maybe he took it for some unknown reason. Either way,  the balance of probability is that the murderer has the phone.” The dark haired sleuth answers quickly while staring off in thought.

            “Sorry did I just- did I just text a murderer? What good will that do?”

            “A few hours after his latest victim, and he receives a message that can only be from her. If someone had just found the phone they'd simply ignore it. But the murderer…” He's briefly interrupted by the sudden chiming of John's phone ringtone, a satisfied smirk on his face as he looks towards John's jacket pocket. “Would panic. ”

            He looks up towards John for the barest hint of a moment before springing up on his feet, slamming the pink case closed with both hands. John watches him rush around the room tossing on his outdoor cover wear with a worried look on his face.

            “Where are the police in all this? Have you contacted them?”

            “Four people are dead, there's no time to talk to the police.”

            “So then why are you talking to me?”

            “Missus Hudson took my skull.” Sherlock fastens his scarf around his neck while nodding towards the mantel. John turns his head to find that he isn't joking- the skull is well and truly missing.

            “So I’m just here to fill in for your skull?” John states as he turns again to face Sherlock, a perplexed frown on his face. 

            “Relax, you're doing fine.” Finishing getting ready, Sherlock looks towards John with a small smile. “Well?”

            “Well what?”

            “Well..you could just sit here and watch telly.”

            ‘ I could, but why is he..? OH- ’ John points a finger hesitantly at himself with a small smile. As surprised as he is, he'll admit to also being secretly pleased, even if being compared to a decorative skull was rather not great.

            “You..You want me to come with you? Again?”

            “I like company when I go out and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so..-” Sherlock tilts his head in question while raising an elegant brow, hands clasped behind his back in a relaxed position. “Problem?”

            “Well, no, I just-”

            “I said ‘dangerous’, and here you are. Says a lot doesn't it?”

            Leaving no chance for a response Sherlock takes off out of the flat, leaving John standing alone in the living room. Sputtering indignantly, John looks around for a moment at his surroundings before stopping abruptly to close his eyes and reach up to rub the bridge of his nose. He knows quite well that his decision has already been made, it's fighting off any future headaches that seems to be a potential issue.

            “ Damn it. ”