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holmesticeTitle: The Stress of His Regard
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
coloredink
Author:bk7brokemybrain
Summary: Being at the center of Sherlock's world, and occasionally the focus of his attention, isn't healthy, regardless of how much John needs to be there.
Warnings: PG-13 for language and violence. Case!fic, bromance/pre-slash. Set at the end of HoB through beginning of TRF; slight spoilers for S2. Violent imagery, dead bodies, mental illness (PTSD).
Words: ~8,500
A/N: Dearcoloredink, you were so easygoing in your request that it was a (happy) challenge to narrow it down, and I found plenty of common loves between us. I tried to work in your musical love of “My Boy Builds Coffins”, but that theme wasn't jiving with this story. I love Florence + The Machine, and the song that played non-stop in my head while writing this was “Kiss With a Fist”. You can find a direct reference to that as the title to Chapter 5. The whole fic is a nod to why John Watson hears “punch me in the face” every time Sherlock speaks.
Beta'd byasnowyowl Thank you! Any remaining errors are my own.
Title influenced by Tim Powers.
The Stress of His Regard
Chapter 1: The Cross Keys
John fought the bedclothes, punching and elbowing his way out from under, kicking and twitching. His moans increased in volume the closer his nightmares got.
There is an explosion, the humvee ahead on the road engulfed in flame, as the one John rides in is rocked backward. There are screams, there is blood, there are limbs. There is a blood-curdling howl as a black beast lifts its head to the sky in triumph and menace, then pounds down the rocky hillside, red eyes blazing in the glaring sun. It is for John, and only John. Captain Watson turns to run, sees Bob Franklin standing in a field. Franklin takes a deep breath, tips his face to the hard blue sky, and turns to a bloody mist as he rises with the flames of the exploding mine.
He woke with a shout, then a stifled sob. He sat up on his elbows, panting. The air in his nostrils smelled of damp. Not Afghanistan, then. Check.
He keened, a high noise of frustration and despair. Where am I? This isn't my bed. It smells funny here. The pillow was musty. The room was pitch black. No ambient light leaked in from Baker Street.
“John.”
He startled. A light clicked on. He saw Sherlock sitting on the edge of his bed on the other side of the night table.
“Ohhh, shhhii--” John groaned, scrubbing his face with his hand. “Shit. Sorry.” His face crumpled as he held it all in.
Sherlock said nothing, just stared, absorbing it all. John flopped back on the bed.
* * *
John stood at the bar-cum-front desk of the The Cross Keys, waiting to check out and get the hell away from the place. It was a nice town, with nice people, but-- just, no.
Billy answered the bell's ding, neckerchief and chef's coat tidy. “Leaving us already, John? Wish you both would stay a bit.”
John handed over the room key. “Sorry. Got to be getting back.” His smile was strained.
“Ah, sure. You look tired, though. Didn't get much sleep, even with the double beds, eh? Am I going to find them pushed together after all?” He laughed sweetly. He was a sweet man. “Have to admit, I heard you moanin' last night. Thin walls,” he shrugged apologetically.
“Oh. No. Nightmares. Not-- not. Just bad nightmares.”
“That's too bad. Sorry.” He slid John and Sherlock's bill across the counter.
Sherlock came trundling down the stairs, his coat flapping, his overnight case in his hand. He set it down next to John's. “Morning,” he said to Billy. To John he said, “Take that to the Rover with yours. I'll grab us a table for breakfast.” He turned to leave.
“And who pays the bill?” John asked, holding it up.
Sherlock fluttered a hand in dismissal, and walked outside.
John shook his head and reached for his wallet.
“Gary's the same way,” Billy sighed in commiseration. “Still, your Sherlock seems more than worth it. You should hold on to that one.”
John sighed a long, long-suffering sigh. “He should hold on to me, more like.”
Billy smiled kindly as John signed the receipt.
* * *
John slept on the train ride home, his head leaning against the window, occasionally getting his brain rattled as they hit crossings. Still, he managed to dream, and they were not good ones. Angry, awful flashes of horror woke him. Sherlock sat across their table from him, eyes unfocused, ears pricked, taking in everything like an omniscient Sphinx. And that's not cheating, that's called listening! John recalled Sherlock's rant, and admired the master at work. Listening, indeed. The Aricebo Dish had nothing on Sherlock.
John used his thumb and forefinger to wipe some drool from his mouth. “Where are we?”
“Still an hour out.” He looked critically at John pulling out his laptop. “The frequency of your nightmares has increased.”
“Yeah, well, you could be helpful and go buy me a couple of bottles of water so I can flush the sodding drug out of my system. Maybe then they'll stop. There's a good lad.” John opened up a fresh document, headed it, pointedly ignoring Sherlock, who eventually got up and wandered away.
When they were approaching Paddington Station, and Sherlock had not yet returned with his water, John assumed a shiny new mystery had caught the man's fancy. Didn't make him any less thirsty, nor any less annoyed at carrying both bags to the platform.
Chapter 2: The Copper Bitches
The red-haired young woman sat in John's chair facing the two men. Her clothes were expensive, her hair and makeup gauche. She had achieved an unearthly shade of orange with spray tanning. Either that, John mused, or she ate pounds of carrots and tomatoes every day. She didn't seem all that healthy an eater. She was trying very hard to hide the Scouse in her speech, especially when faced with Sherlock's posh and measured articulation. She crossed her legs and balanced her cup and saucer on her bare knee, skirt riding up.
“And they were just... gone. All three of my girls. The boys were still locked up, but all my bitches were gone! And they haven't come back! I've done everything. Me and my girlfriends, we searched everywhere, put up flyers, started a Facebook page, and all.”
“Mrs.-- What was it, again?” Sherlock inquired. John smiled to himself. Sherlock had not forgotten her name.
“Langham. Yes, that Langham,” she preened. “My husband is the same who played with David Beckham, that one year. Me and my girlfriends, we're all footballers wives. We've all got our little hobbies. Mine is breeding fine dogs.”
“Irish Setters,” Sherlock stated.
“Yes! How did you guess?”
“Sherlock...” John warned.
Sherlock grasped the armrests, and leaned forward slightly. “Pet owners tend to project themselves onto the animals they own. You chose a breed that is svelte, overly friendly, trim and attractive, and known to be, if not actually of lower intelligence, then willfully deaf and mischievous. Irish Setters are gun dogs. These days, not even the wealthy hunt. Not very 'PC'. You are attempting to assimilate yourself into a world of privilege that doesn't really exist anymore. Your hair has been dyed to match your dogs, since you obviously chose a breed with a color similar to your own, but you punched it up a bit. There are long, auburn hairs at the hip of your jacket which almost match your hairs exactly, except the dog's coloring looks natural. So, tall dog, of auburn color. Could be a red and cream English Setter, but there are no cream hairs mixed in, so Irish it is. That, and the tendency for humans to choose a dog that idealizes their self-image, and there you have it.”
John smirked as Mrs. Langham fought a flush of anger.
“Are you going to help me find my bitches or not? I have plenty of money. I can pay you.”
“Of course you will. And please stop calling them 'bitches'. It sounds so pretentious.” Sherlock sat back and tented his fingertips against his lips. “Who resents you enough to steal from you? Enemies? False friends? Does your husband have any deranged fans?”
“Not really. No one ever threatened us. All my girlfriends are devoted to me, and me to them. No enemies.”
“Everyone has enemies. Who is sleeping with your husband behind your back?”
“No one! Well, not anymore.”
“Could she have taken your dogs to hurt you?”
“I don't-- I don't think so. She's my friend. She likes my dogs.”
“Still your friend? Interesting.” Sherlock paused. The silence was palpable. “You use the word 'bitch' so often. Are you trying to impress someone in particular, or just society at large?”
“Well that's the proper terminology, isn't it? I'm a breeder.”
“You have aspirations, then? Show dogs?”
“Of course! Why else would I get into it? I've got my eye on Crufts, some day.”
Disdain flickered across Sherlock's face. Anyone but John would have missed it. “Very well. Have someone meet us at the first train into Sheffield tomorrow morning. Gather anyone who has contact with your kennels. Good day.” He stood in dismissal, turning to the window, buttoning his suit jacket. It was up to John to see her to the stairs.
“Oh, that perfume!” John whinged on his return, waving his hand in the air, making his way to the windows to open them wide. “Phew! That's one for your blog. So, how did you know where she lived?” He walked to the opposite end of the flat to open those windows as well.
“Sheffield, John. Where else could she live?” He turned again to Baker street, moving the curtain aside with the back of his hand. “I fear for those dogs.”
* * *
In the end it was simple.
The kennel crew was small, a few teen boys and girls from town who liked dogs, and wanted to be close to fame and money. One young woman stood out. She was plain, well-mannered when questioned, but flat in her inflections. John wondered if she wasn't depressed or mentally ill in some way. Sherlock thought along similar lines. He took her some paces away from the crowd, to the rear of the large yard. John shadowed them unobtrusively.
“You know a bit about breeding, don't you?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
The girl shifted her feet. “My family's done it for ages. Grandmother is a judge. She really knows her stuff.”
“And Mrs. Langham doesn't. It's all right, you can tell me. I know she's a novice.”
“She really doesn't.”
“So, why aren't you breeding your own, if your family are breeders?”
“Can't afford it.” She shrugged. “We used to have means, but....” She shrugged again. “This is the closest I can get.”
“I see. And what does your grandmother have to say about the Langham's setters? Nothing good, I'd imagine?”
“No. She says Mrs. Langham wouldn't know a proper setter if it bit her plastic face. She gets quite put out about it, actually.”
Sherlock stuffed his hands in his coat pockets. “I see.” He turned to face the kennels with the sires in them. “Why didn't you take the males, too?”
Tears welled up in the girl's eyes. “The males are all right. They're from Grandmother's own line. I don't think she knew who Mrs. Langham was when she sold them. But the females.... They couldn't be allowed to mix. They're awful creatures. I've seen their papers. Grandmother insisted--” She broke off guiltily.
“Are they still alive?”
She shook her head. “Put down. They couldn't be allowed.”
John sighed deeply, a sick feeling coming over him. Amazing what humans did to the creatures under their protection, and each other.
* * *
John decided to write up this latest case on the ride back to London. The sooner he could put the awful story to rest, the better. The images of more dead dogs after Baskerville was doing nothing for his peace of mind. Sherlock sat next to him this time, shamelessly reading over his shoulder.
“'The Copper Bitches', John? Don't you think that's a bit plummy?”
“Nooo. No, I don't. The readers love my titles. They catch the imagination.”
“I see what you did there, obviously. Social commentary. Breeding will out, etc. etc.”
“Yes, well. It's true, isn't it. Don't have to be clever when the truth is so twisted.”
“Dull....” Sherlock gazed out the window.
Chapter 3: The Blue Carbuncle
John woke sweating again, panting from his dreams. Grimly, he swung his legs off the bed and padded down to the bathroom. The shower was running. John groaned, then knocked.
“Sherlock! Got to pee!”
“I'm in the shower,” Sherlock called out.
“Don't care. Old man with an old man bladder, remember?”
“Come in.”
John was through the door before Sherlock had finished giving permission. He looked over at Sherlock shampooing as he relieved himself. He could easily make out his movements through the frosted plastic curtain. “You spend more time on your hair than anyone I know. And that includes the women.”
“Results are worth it. Grumpy this morning. Sleep well?”
John scoffed as he shook off and tucked himself away. “Not lately, no.” He moved to the sink.
“Here, look.” Sherlock pulled the curtain aside and stuck his head out. He sported a giant sudsy mohawk.
John dipped his head and smiled. “You idiot.” He chuckled anyway as he flicked the water off his hands. “Thanks, though.” Sherlock ducked under the stream, the water making his curls drag down his face. John dried his hands very slowly, leaning against the sink, watching the man with his back to the spray applying a handful of conditioner and combing it through. “Baskerville did my head in. I'd hoped it was the toxin, but....”
“I'm about to start washing myself rather south of my head. You might want to go now.”
John sighed. “Right. I'll put the kettle on.” He flushed the toilet as he left, reveling in Sherlock's bellows.
* * *
Mrs. Hudson's rushed footsteps on the stair alerted the two that their breakfast was about to be interrupted.
“Boys! Boys!” She swept through the kitchen door without knocking. “There's a young man at the door, says he's looking for Doctor John.”
John put down his fork. “What does he need?”
“I don't know. He won't come inside. Just said someone is sick.”
Sherlock looked at John. “Homeless network?”
“Probably.” John ran upstairs to fetch his medical kit. Sherlock met him at the front door where a dirty, ragged young man stood.
“Jasper needs you, Doctor John. They told me where to come and get you. Come on.”
They poured out of the cab near a network of undercrofts. The youth lead them through tunnels lit by high windows, until they came to an encampment, a series of bedding areas partitioned with pieces of scrap cardboard, and other trash. On one of the pallets lay a young man, motionless on his stomach. His shirt was open and shrugged partway down his back, a bundle of cloth at the base of his neck. John looked at Sherlock, who gestured for him to continue.
John picked his way carefully to the boy's side. It was chilly in the tunnel, but his skin was warm to the touch when John laid a palm against him. He dropped his rucksack to the ground, turned back to the boy and felt for a pulse. There was none.
“When was the last time Jasper spoke to anyone?”
“Few hours ago. He wasn't making no sense. He was real sick with a fever, and he was breathin' funny.”
“Right. I'm sorry, but your friend is dead. We need to call the police.” The other boy backed away. “Look, son, they just need to take charge of his body, okay? No one will bother the rest of you.” The other boy vanished into the concrete walls, nonetheless.
Left alone, John continued his examination. He squatted down, reached gingerly for the wad of cloth at the boy's neck and peeled it away. Beneath lay a large carbuncle at least three inches in diameter and an inch high. The skin was inflamed, yet tinged a weird blue. John turned and dug through his bag for gloves. He snapped them on, and continued his examination. He leaned forward, sniffing at the face. He nodded. He examined the nail beds of the closest hand. He pressed gently around the margins of the infection. He picked up the wadded cloth and squeezed it, crushing it, exudate flaking away.
“He's diabetic. Likely untreated. Staph infection turned to sepsis. See that darker patch of skin around the boil? Something's been rubbing at that skin. Started the whole process.”
Sherlock picked up a messenger bag. “He's a bike messenger. Strap would rub between the shoulder blades.” With finger and thumb, he pulled out a large bottle of vodka. “Grey Goose? I imagine he's been using it on the compress.”
“That'd be my guess, but it's a pretty pricey antiseptic. And Sherlock-- he was dying, but someone poisoned him anyway. Smells like cyanide.” John stood and moved away. “Your turn. Use gloves.”
Sherlock donned the gloves and knelt beside the body. “The carbuncle seems to have formed over a tattoo. Molly will have to get us images. Perhaps we can identify him that way.”
“Yeah. No I.D. in here,” John said, poking around in the messenger bag. “Lots of pounds, though. Someone gave him plenty of cash.”
“This shirt is very fine. Bespoke. It's fine, but worn. And, look,” Sherlock pulled both arms above the boy's head. He fingered the buttoned cuffs, comparing the fit. “The right cuff buttons have been moved to accommodate a heavy watch. Not many men bother doing that. I'm guessing Jasper found himself a sugar-daddy. Maybe he was given the shirt, maybe he stole it. Either way, we can use the shirt to track the man I assume is Jasper's killer. A man who drinks good vodka, is left-handed and wears a hefty watch.”
“I'm calling Lestrade.”
* * *
A few days later, Lestrade walked into the morgue, where Molly, John and Sherlock waited. He dropped a folder on the counter and favored the M.E. with a dazzling white smile. “Hello, Molly.”
“Hi, Greg. You look very nutty. I mean brown. Like a nut. You know, tan.”
“I know what you meant. Thanks. Yeah, just had a holiday with the wife.”
“Ex-wife,” Sherlock put in from down the counter, his nose stuck in a microscope. “Still has his ring off.”
“Shut up, Sherlock,” John admonished.
“Mark my words...” Sherlock said.
“Anyway,” Lestrade continued with a frown, “so, yeah, the Spanish plains. Very hot this time of year. But lovely. Then I come back and get sent to Dartmoor to babysit this lot, and I can practically feel the tan getting sucked out of my skin by the English weather. Oh, well.” His shoulders drooped pathetically. He got his chuckle from Molly and John, but Sherlock continued to ignore them all. “John, Sherlock, I have to urge you, again, not to tamper with crime scenes before the Yard gets their crack.”
“It wasn't a crime scene,” Sherlock piped up, “it was a medical emergency.”
“Yeah, until Dr. Watson here determined there was no pulse, then you should have backed off. John? Please keep a tighter leash on this one. I can't have civilians tampering, all right? The Superintendent's got a stonking great hard-on for the rules and regs, right now. So, please.”
John smiled tightly. “Of course.”
Lestrade continued solicitously. “You know I'd've called you back in. He was one of your guys, wasn't he?”
“I didn't know him personally, but I imagine he was part of Sherlock's network, at least peripherally. Was he?” John turned to Sherlock still hunched over the scope, who only shrugged as he changed slides. “Nice,” John scolded.
Lestrade smoothed his hair down. “All right. Shall I start? It was definitely murder. Cyanide. And he's not as young as we thought. Not a teen rentboy. He was twenty three, been around the block a few times. We used those UV photos of the victim's tattoo to trace him. Thanks Molly, very helpful. The blue inks and design were a Delft pattern. We checked Interpol, and there was indeed a missing persons report for Jasper Van Goossens, late of Holland. Looks like he came to London a year ago. His old FaceBook account indicates he was gay. Molly?”
“Drugs screen was clean, mostly. Traces of cannabis, but I've seen worse profiles with the homeless. STD panel was negative except for a very low viral load for HIV. He was newly infected. And, we knew he'd been poisoned, but I found something very odd in his stomach contents. An apple laced with cyanide. Very Snow White, right?”
“Actually,” Sherlock intoned from over the scope, “that's how the mathematician Alan Turing committed suicide. Very interesting. He was prosecuted for his homosexuality, forced to submit to chemical castration in lieu of prison time. It was a very ambiguous suicide.” He clacked another slide onto the stage.
“Would you please stop with the microscope, and come join us like a regular human being?” Lestrade said. “What are you looking for, anyway?”
“Checking oxygen levels in these blood samples.”
“You can't see oxygen through a microscope,” John sighed.
“I know.” Sherlock smiled, swung around on the stool, and walked over to the group.
“Infant.” Lestrade welcomed him to the circle with a sarcastic sweep of his hand.
Molly took over. “Your assessment of him at the scene was correct, John. He was diabetic and un-medicated. He was therefore highly susceptible to that infection turning systemic. Unfortunately, it was all beside the point.”
“Except,” Sherlock mused, “if he was ill, and had nowhere else to turn except the romantic interest with the money, he might have made enough of a pest of himself to annoy the poisoner. Or possibly, our Jasper got himself tested somewhere and found out he'd been infected by his 'boyfriend'. Either way, it seems he confronted his killer, got paid off with a good deal of money and an apple that would ensure no more blackmail payments. Not many people keep deadly poisons on hand--”
“Present company excepted,” John said.
Sherlock shifted his glance to John. “--perhaps this is Romeo's exit plan, if he gets too sick. Harken back to Turing's social statement? But he used it on Jasper first. Perhaps others, as well.”
Silence fell in the morgue.
“Are we all thinking the same thing?” John asked. He looked at Lestrade and Molly. He knew what Sherlock's face would say already. “This guy's got a chip on his shoulder, and he's looking to take some young men with him?”
Lestrade nodded. “Yes. Sick bastard. We need to get him fast. The Yard's got no leads yet.”
“I have,” Sherlock said. He reached over the lab table, grabbed his coat and strode out of the room, John jogging behind.
“Sherlock! Don't--” Lestrade called after them in exasperation.
* * *
“Ooooff!” John grunted as his shoulders and head slammed against the floor. He wrestled against the stronger man's grip wound through his arms and shoulders, behind his neck, threatening to snap his spine. With a clang and a crunch, his attacker seized up, then went limp. John scrambled out from beneath. Sherlock stood hunched over with a Samurai helmet in his hand.
“You said he'd be a lefty! He led with his right!”
“Occasionally I get something wrong. He must have been goofy-handed, wearing his watch on the dominant wrist. For most purposes, it wouldn't matter. Oh, well.”
“I suppose it wouldn't matter that he was into martial arts, either?” John rose slowly from hands and knees, to standing. “You couldn't wait for Lestrade! You just had to be clever! You had to worm your way in to Mr. Public-bloody-Relations' flat and start trouble! Christ! Shit! Goddamn-- gah!” He looked at the blood on his hands, and down at the unconscious body on the floor. “Jesus. Blood.” He hurried over to the open kitchen area of the loft, flipped on the tap with shaking hands and began washing. “Do I have any on my face? Sherlock, come over here! Do I have any on me?” He checked the warped, reflective surfaces nearby, but saw nothing. “Let me see you.”
“I'm fine. He never touched me. Are you all right?”
“Do I look all right??” John soaped and scrubbed, soaped and scrubbed. “Jesus, Sherlock. You know I never had myself screened for disease so often since I started in with you. And I worked in a war zone.”
Sherlock was close. He calmly reached up a hand, turned John's face toward him slightly. “Don't move.” Sherlock yanked a sheet of paper towel from the roll, wet it and turned back to John's face. He daubed a drop of blood from under John's eye. “You ought to go in the bathroom and really look yourself over.”
“You think?” John, still shaking, walked angrily to the bath. Sherlock dropped the tainted towel next to the man on the floor, then turned to peruse the displays of antique Japanese martial arts equipment. He snatched a black obi from the wall, and used it to secure the hands of the murderer behind his back.
It took Sherlock only a few minutes of poking around to find the red lacquer box with the photos in it. Just a few mementos of the boys Mr. PR had toyed with. Fortunately, there weren't many, many more.
When Lestrade arrived with Donovan and a horde of officers, he found John, shower-wet hair and red-scrubbed skin, sitting in a ball against the wall.
Sherlock eagerly expounded on his use of the tailored shirt with the moved buttons to lead them to the man's address. He'd simply plied his own tailor for names (Mycroft's would probably have been too staid for Mr. PR's taste), and followed where they led.
For once, John wasn't standing there, enraptured, to praise his cleverness.
Chapter 4: The Muskrat Ritual
“I am not going to the Netherlands without you! If you want to solve the bloody case, you can come detect with your own two eyes!”
Sherlock pouted quietly from his desk chair, again wrapped in only a sheet. “But it's hardly even a six.”
“Well then, the disappearance will go unsolved, forever,” John promised. “I am not your errand boy.”
“Except for when you get the shopping, and my dry-cleaning,” Sherlock muttered, dangerously loud enough to possibly be overheard. “But it's so wet there. And I'd have to explore the actual wetlands, and you know I don't own a pair of Wellies.”
“Yes. The man with the fireman's getup in his closet doesn't own a pair of Wellies. You could wear your pyjamas and third-best house coat, then. Or buy a pair of sodding Wellies! I'm not going alone. God, and you tease Mycroft about avoiding legwork.” John crossed his arms stubbornly. Sherlock threw him a soft look. “Oh, don't. Stop with the eyes. It doesn't work on me since you drugged my coffee.”
“I didn't actually--”
“You thought you were drugging my coffee, Sherlock. That counts.”
“Please, John.”
“No! Sherlock!” John threw up his hands. “Do I look like I speak Dutch? What about me and my history suggests that I would do well in the Netherlands? Was it having Scottish parents? Growing up in London? Watching “Goldmember”? Whereas you with the posh schooling, and the musical ear, and the bloody Mind Palace-- yeah, I'm thinking you speak passable Dutch. Or you could fake it. Or learn it on the train ride over.”
“Fine.” Sherlock wrapped the sheet tighter around his chest. He powered up the pout a bit.
John shook his head. “Look. I'm happy to go with you. I'm just not going alone.”
* * *
Another case, another train ride, this one much longer than usual. John couldn't sleep. Since he had nightmares regularly now, staying awake was the lesser of two evils. By the time they got to the guest house in the small coastal town in the rented Rover they got in the bigger town, it was dark, past dinnertime, and he was done in. He jumped when Sherlock hit the bell at reception.
Sherlock checked them in using probably flawless Dutch. He never hesitated, at any rate. The wrinkled old woman who gave them their key smiled nicely at them. The young woman, her granddaughter, welcomed them in English, and sent them upstairs with a knowing smile. What she thought she knew, John assumed, was the same as what everyone else thought they knew about Sherlock and John. He wasn't bothered.
John opened the door and saw the canopy bed. “One bed? Never mind. It's fine.” He emptied his suitcase into the dresser, tossed his Wellies into the closet where he'd hung his jacket. He nipped down the hall to the common bathroom, and when he returned, Sherlock had hung up his suits, and pointedly set his new Wellies next to John's. Sherlock sat in an armchair near the window, texting, scrolling, surfing the web. John stripped down to T-shirt and boxers, leaving his jeans within handy reach on the chair. He flung his socks onto the pile and threw himself under the covers. He turned from side to side until he found a good spot. “Good night, Sherlock.”
“You aren't going to eat?”
“Not hungry.”
“As if we could find anything open in this place, at this hour, anyway.”
“Hmm.”
Sherlock clicked away on his phone. “I'm going out for a walk. Get the lay of the land.”
“Terrific. Good night,” John mumbled. “Shut the light.”
He was asleep almost immediately with the scent of the North Sea in his nose.
* * *
John woke repeatedly. Every time was a new terror, a new anguish, another reason to clutch his chest in panic. He always fell back into slumber, back into nightmare, muttering curses.
The last time, Sherlock was there beside him, his hand a heavy, warm reassurance on John's arm.
“John.” It was a rich, low utterance. It anchored John to reality, and he breathed deeply, relaxing onto his pillow. Sherlock lay down on his stomach, propped his pillow under his face, placed his forearm up John's chest, hooked his fingertips over John's shoulder and went to sleep.
Captain Watson made no more excursions to the desert that night.
* * *
“We're going down to the water today. Dress in layers,” Sherlock advised, as John buttoned up a summer-weight checked shirt.
“I'll take an extra, in case, thanks.” John frowned slightly as he buttoned up to the top. “What are you wearing, then? A suit? Why?”
“I always wear a suit.”
“Yes, when it's not pyjamas or a sheet, you're in a suit, but we're heading to the shore. You're putting boots on over your suit?”
“Of course not.”
“You're putting on jeans, then?”
“Jeans? What jeans? I don't own jeans.”
John rubbed his hair. “I could have sworn....”
“In what universe do I wear denim, John?” He slipped on his suit jacket, shrugged it in place, and buttoned it effortlessly. Smart as ever, he led them down to breakfast.
Over coffee and pastries, they decided on their agenda. There was the missing man's wife to meet, and a group of local elders to probe for information. They would be found in the low stone building at the edge of town, where they met daily to drink and talk.
“Mr. Holmes? A package for you.” The granddaughter approached their table with a large FedEx box. Sherlock took it from her happily.
“Thank you.” He stood it on end next to his chair, ripped open the pull-tab, and tore open the flaps. “John, stand up.”
“What? Why?”
“I need to check size. Stand up.”
John huffed, but laid his napkin on the table. He stood up military-straight, arms at his sides, palms out in exasperation.
Sherlock rose, then dragged a black garment from the box, holding it up to John. “Hm. It'll do.”
“What the hell is that?”
“Wetsuit.” He briskly folded it over his arm, and rummaged in the bottom of the box. He held up a face mask. “Excellent.”
“What? What do you think I'm going to do? I don't know how to scuba dive! I'm not going in the water! It's freezing! It's the North Sea!”
“Calm yourself, John. It's not that deep. Hardly the ocean. More like a brackish waterway. Barely up to your chest. You'll see.” He dropped the equipment in the box, and returned to his coffee.
The lodge was dim inside. Festooned with banners and small animal heads and skins, some fishing equipment and a trophy cup here and there, the old men and a couple of younger ones sat about, smoking and talking. On the wall were a fur hat and coat given obvious pride of place, surrounded by old photos.
Sherlock stood looking at the display, until the eldest man approached. They conversed in Dutch and some English for a while. After a few minutes of understanding nothing, John moved to the doorway, looking out at the margins of land and sea, the creeks winding through the reeds and grasses.
When Sherlock and the old man moved away, John walked up to study the photos, perhaps to better understand the significance of the fur garments. That same old man was there in most of the pictures, youthening as John scanned to the left. This was obviously a lodge or community group of some type, focused on hunting and fishing. One photo showed the elderly leader holding up a chunk of cooked flesh on a knife, meat cut from an animal on a spit set up on the beach somewhere. Very Lord of the Flies, John thought. He was not a joiner like that, but he could see the appeal, in an old place like this. John had rugby mates, these guys had hunting mates. Same difference, he supposed.
Sherlock shook hands with the man, turned and walked to John's side.
“Time to look at the trap,” he said mysteriously, and John followed him out to the Rover. “Everything in the car?”
“Yes, and thanks for all your assistance in carrying it,” John responded sarcastically.
Sherlock loaded up the GPS function on his phone, entering coordinates. “You drive.”
“A 'please' would be nice,” John said as he shut the car door. Sherlock climbed in with his nose in his phone. “Where to?”
Sherlock looked up and pointed. “That way.”
They wound their way slowly down the fingers of land, Sherlock referring to his phone repeatedly. There was one path wide and solid enough for car traffic and they took it, careful not to disturb the grasses that flanked them. They came to a dead end with a large clearing, and stopped the engine.
They climbed out. John opened the door in back. The wind was warm enough for late spring, with a hint of cold carried from the water. The overcast made it easier to see through the water.
“Why here?” A loud splash sounded nearby. A heron took off slowly.
Sherlock showed John his phone. It displayed the spit of land they stood on with a dark spot just in the confluence of a couple of creeks. “I checked Google Earth to find this location. This bit of land has been used for many years for trapping. Over there,” he pointed, “there's a floating animal trap the town has used since World War II.”
“What do they trap?”
“Muskrat. Not indigenous to Europe, but brought over a hundred-some years ago for fur and its very tasty meat. Mr. Janssen told me a bit about the little rites they perform every spring. Binds the town together. Maintains stability in changeable times. You ought to put on that wetsuit now.”
John grumbled, but moved to the Rover. He pulled off his outer clothes and shoes, and tugged on the wetsuit which was a bit too large and floppy in all the wrong places.
“You know, it's telling that you figured out Irene Adler's measurements after about two seconds, but mine?” John scoffed. “God forbid.”
“You don't walk about in the nude, John.”
“Too right.” John groaned as he contorted to yank the zipper up his back with the long tether attached to the pull. “You want your boots?”
“I'm not wearing them.”
John huffed. “And why not? You bought them for this trip.”
Sherlock flashed a quick smile. “That was just to get you to stop pestering me about not having any. Worked, too.”
“But you carried them all the way over here! I carried them.”
“I'll be fine.”
“Oh, you'll be fine. What a relief.”
Sherlock walked in the dry sand toward the edge of the spit of land, to find a place for John to put in.
“Here's a good gap in the vegetation.” It was probably one used by the trappers, as the floating cage was located not too far away.
“Answer me one thing, first. You were going to send me here, alone, and make me get in the water without you, from the start. You were very happy to let me do all your grunt work. You only came because I made you.” John looked at him expectantly.
“I don't hear a question. Come on. In you get.”
John clumped over to the edge, a fairly steep slope of sand cut into slightly murky water by the incessant tides. “Fine. What am I looking for?” Sherlock handed him the face mask, which John stretched around his head, the band squeezing his sandy hair into a tuft.
“I need you to go to the trap and check the anchors at the bottom. I assume there's a drum of some kind keeping the platform afloat, probably with chains anchored to the floor of the channel. I want to you observe everything you see, and tell me if anything looks odd to you.”
“All right. Fine.”
John slipped down the embankment into the water. It only came up to his waist. It got deeper as he strode slowly toward the floating platform, keeping his arms up and dry as long as he could. It was to his chest when he reached his target. He pulled the mask down, gave Sherlock a dirty look, took a deep breath and submerged.
The water was bright but cloudy. He struggled to stay oriented at first, and he fought the shock of cold on his head and hands as he went under. He got his hand on one of the slimy chains angling away from the trap before he had to surface.
He took a few deep breaths and submerged again, pulling himself under with the chain. He could see the drum, and a dense hump of vegetation beneath waving with the current. He got within two feet of the bottom when he saw crowds of crayfish and crabs scuttling away like roaches with the lights flipped on. Disturbed, he returned to the surface for air.
“Just fish, John. Just animals doing their thing. You're in their environment.” He took a huge breath and went under, straight to the mass beneath the barrel.
The waving fronds weren't seaweed-- it was hair. A head stuck out from canvas wrapping, skin gone, eyes gone, crayfish reversing from the depths of the folds of fabric and running away.
John screamed, bubbles impairing his view, propelled backward with pushes of his hands against the water, kicking, writhing. It was all he could do not to inhale.
He broke the surface, hyperventilating, and swam brokenly as fast as he could to shore. He reached up a hand and Sherlock yanked him out, landing him like a huge fish.
“A body! A body...” John panted. “Decomposed. Eaten. Horrible.” Sherlock frowned and nodded. Realization dawned. “You knew! You knew our missing man was there! You sent me down there unprepared! What is wrong with you??” John shuddered. Suddenly, he couldn't get the wetsuit off fast enough. He yanked and pulled at the zipper and the neoprene until he was only in his boxers. He reached for the bottles of water in the back of the car and poured one over his head and face, shuddering in disgust. He rinsed out his mouth. “Oh, god, it's like body soup down there. God, I can taste it.” He retched and spit thin saliva onto the sand. He rinsed with more water.
“But you're a doctor. Why would a body bother you?”
John stood agape for several moments. “Because I am a doctor, Sherlock, not a bloody pathologist. I deal with the living, not the dead and decomposed and horribly eaten! Do you think the highlight of my military service was when I got to see soldiers blown to pieces? I'll tell you it wasn't.” John dressed angrily, the extra shirt he'd brought coming in handy. He pulled up his jeans forcefully, bouncing himself into place as he zipped up.
“Tell me what you saw--”
“Shut up.”
“But--”
“I said 'shut up'. I mean it, Sherlock. Don't speak. Don't say a word.”
“I need--”
John charged him, barefoot, hitting him low as only a short rugby player can, driving Sherlock back the few feet to the edge. He launched Sherlock into the water, watching him land arse first, completely submerging. Sherlock sputtered to the surface, wiping the hair out of his eyes.
“Should have worn your Wellies!” John stormed off to the car. “Wanker.”
He drove away as Sherlock tried to pull himself out of the channel.
Sherlock entered their room some time later, bedraggled but mostly dry after his trek through the wetlands. John sat in the armchair looking out the window, ignoring him. Sherlock stripped slowly, dropping clothing piece by piece into a pile, ending with his silk boxers, until he was entirely naked.
“This is a total loss.”
“Suit ruined? Shoes?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Sherlock wrapped a bath towel from the shelf around his waist, and went for a shower.
When he returned, John still hadn't moved. He dressed in silence. He sat opposite John in the other chair as he fiddled with his cuffs.
“John, I--”
“The only thing I want to hear from you is an explanation of this case. Nothing personal, nothing about you or me, just... I want to know why that body was where it was. I need to know that, and nothing else.”
“Very well,” Sherlock began softly. “First, this case wasn't really a six, it was more like a three. I imagined a scenario like this after communicating with the wife. You were right, though-- I needed to be here. You never would have got the whole story from the locals, and the details are what make it worthwhile.
“Long story short, Mr. Janssen has been the unofficial master of this town for decades, and part of the steering committee, if you will, for longer than that. His father, and his father's friends, formed the group of elders before him, and Janssen took the mantle when they died out.
“He's a bit of an arrogant megalomaniac, actually. Little bit of a god complex thrown in, too. He's a twisted man, John. His word is law, around here, or he thinks it should be.
“His father's generation started a club between the wars, trapping and eating muskrat. Getting drunk on the beach. They started a rite of spring-- probably summer, winter and fall as well, if it meant drinking to excess and gorging on good food, but regardless-- a ritual of wearing the muskrat fur hat and coat, consecrating the coming fishing months. It's a huge thing, here. Brings the whole town out.
“Our Mr. Janssen wears the furs, always takes the seat of honor. The villagers bring in the roast beast, and he carves it up, feeding it to each man himself.
“He likes the way things remain unchanged. Stable. But every now and then, a villager will rock the boat. Every now and then, Janssen decides their number needs culling, and someone disappears.”
“Oh, god.” John dropped his face into his hand and rubbed.
“Yes. The body is placed at the base of the trap. The crustaceans are attracted by the corpse, and eat it. The muskrat eat the crustaceans and happily stay near the steady food source; the villagers eat the muskrat. None of the bodies have ever been found, until today.”
“Janssen couldn't have disposed of all the victims himself, not as old as he is, at least not recently.”
“I suspect one or more of the younger generation have been groomed to take over. Some young, able person has done the dirty work, I'm sure with the promise of succeeding Janssen and donning the fur hat next.” Sherlock stood and paced. “That's not our problem. That's for the local constabulary.”
“And the widow? Our client?”
“That's for the local constabulary as well.”
“Because she'll be upset and emotional when she's told her husband is dead and bait at the foot of an animal trap, and you just hate the emotional stuff.”
“I'll follow up with an email.”
“I'm sure you will.” John stood and went down for dinner.
Chapter 5: “ ...So we remain the same.”
John avoided Sherlock for weeks after they returned. He didn't speak, didn't eat much, he didn't accept per diem slots at the surgery. When he slept, he didn't sleep for long. He didn't write up the case, although he'd sketched an outline, just so he wouldn't forget how angry he was and why.
What he did do was take very long walks every day. He let himself get lost in the heart of London, drifting through the dodges and alleys, finding the dead-ends where the ancient structures abutted the modern, or the river cut off his path. When he got too tired, he took a cab to a cafe where he could sit for hours, away from Baker Street. Angelo's was good for that, until Sherlock saw him sitting in the window one day. Then John found another place to be.
Occasionally, Sherlock would get a text from Lestrade. John knew this because Sherlock would glance at John expectantly. When John did not match his energy and enthusiasm for the chase, he'd deflate and delete. That's when he'd pick up the violin and begin to play, probably for hours since John would walk out and he'd still be at it when he got home. John was willing to make that leap.
Sherlock came back one evening on a very rainy day when John had stayed in with a slight cold. He carried a fragrant bag of Indian, and set it on the very empty and sterilized kitchen table. He pulled pairs of plates and utensils from the cupboard and drawers.
“I brought plenty for two. Why don't you join me? I got the hot curry you love. Maybe open up your sinuses?”
“All right.”
Sherlock and John silently arranged the plates, sat and dished out the food.
“You look terrible, you know,” Sherlock said.
John slowly tore a strip off a piece of naan. “There's a reason for that.”
Sherlock began to eat.
John bristled. “You see, this, right here, what you're doing... this is 'not good'. This is where apologies should start pouring from you like a fountain, but I'm sure you can't even imagine what you might have done wrong.”
Sherlock laid down his fork. “I admit to being baffled by some of your reactions.”
“Baffled. At least. Well, let me explain a few things to you.” John rubbed his forehead with his fingers. “Your average human being does not appreciate being ridiculed, patronized, condescended to, denigrated, manipulated, or used as a beast of burden or lab rat. There are consequences, Sherlock, actual, real-life consequences to what you do to me. I've been a wreck for months. It's not the accidental dangers we encounter that destroy me. It's the intentional infliction of pain you commit. You drug me, put me in a lab, scare the living daylights out of me, all for some half-arsed experiment that proves nothing, except that you are a selfish, sadistic prick sometimes. You expose me to all sorts of... dangers? Attacks? Illness? You never prepare me for what's coming, I can only guess it's in a bid to keep me ignorant, a kind of control in your experiments. It's that intentional part that hurts. A lot. You're supposed to have my back, be my partner, protect me as you know I protect you.
“I'll grant you that I enjoy our cases together. You know I need it; as much as you need me there, I need the excitement. I honestly don't know where I'd be today if I hadn't met you.”
“I feel the same.”
John sighed testily. “Yeah. I know. But. You... are a bad scientist.” Sherlock gasped softly. “And a worse friend. And I know which of those two statements bothers you more.”
John left the table and took himself away to bed.
John fell asleep with the sound of frenetic violin music wafting up the stairs. It would be a miracle if they didn't get angry notes from the neighbors tomorrow.
Every time he woke, the music was still there, a constant drone, a constant irritant. It was like listening to Sherlock's mind churning. Usually, he brooded in silence or paced energetically, rarely verbalizing, but tonight.... Tonight John had an unsolicited front row seat into the man's psyche. He wished he knew the titles of the pieces, although some were Sherlock's own compositions; they warred back and forth, point--counterpoint, question--answer. Thankfully, John was not subjected to Irene's theme. He didn't think he could stand knowing that woman was taking up any space in the man's head tonight.
In the early hours of morning, the music stopped abruptly. The silence was startling enough to wake John fully. He pricked his ears to listen for Sherlock's steps as he headed to his room, to bed, finally. He heard nothing.
Then it started again.
The tone was low, throaty. It was like Sherlock's own voice, the sound of the violin. It was a familiar melody, a lullaby but not. The strings spoke, and John filled in the sentences when the lyrics came to him.
Nothing's gonna harm you, not while I'm around.
Nothing's gonna harm you, no sir, not while I'm around.
Demons are prowling, everywhere, nowadays,
I'll send 'em howling, I don't care, I got ways....
It was embarrassing what a punch that simple declaration delivered. If this was the only way Sherlock could speak, so be it. John swallowed down the lump in his throat, lay back and listened to the rest, played with such emotion as his flatmate rarely expressed.
No one's gonna dare....
John believed it.
John went down for breakfast a few hours later. Sherlock already had the papers open, reading the personals section, searching for coded entries. John walked up behind, placed a hand on his shoulder, and squeezed warmly.
“Apology accepted.”
Sherlock laid a hand over his. He looked up at him with guileless eyes. “Thank you, John.”
* * *
Over the next few days, John experienced a clarity he hadn't felt since he was a child. Things felt simple and clean, brighter. The nightmares disappeared, mostly. His own psyche seemed to have come to an understanding with itself. Even his intermittent tremor resolved. His hand was as steady as his mind all the time.
And Sherlock. Sherlock settled down as well. It was a subtle shift in attitude, as much in his utter trust in John as his protective determination to let no harm touch him again. John felt the absence of a wall between them. He hadn't known it was there until it was not, and Sherlock held nothing back anymore. He felt Sherlock's eyes on him all the time.
There came a morning when the two had to face a crowd of paparazzi outside their door, trying to catch The Reichenbach Hero as he left to testify in court.
They swept down the stairs, but John paused with his hand on the latch, Sherlock braced flat against the wall.
John turned and asked, “Ready?”
Sherlock nodded and said, “Yes.”
And they were.
The End
Recipient:
coloredinkAuthor:
bk7brokemybrainSummary: Being at the center of Sherlock's world, and occasionally the focus of his attention, isn't healthy, regardless of how much John needs to be there.
Warnings: PG-13 for language and violence. Case!fic, bromance/pre-slash. Set at the end of HoB through beginning of TRF; slight spoilers for S2. Violent imagery, dead bodies, mental illness (PTSD).
Words: ~8,500
A/N: Dear
coloredink, you were so easygoing in your request that it was a (happy) challenge to narrow it down, and I found plenty of common loves between us. I tried to work in your musical love of “My Boy Builds Coffins”, but that theme wasn't jiving with this story. I love Florence + The Machine, and the song that played non-stop in my head while writing this was “Kiss With a Fist”. You can find a direct reference to that as the title to Chapter 5. The whole fic is a nod to why John Watson hears “punch me in the face” every time Sherlock speaks.Beta'd by
asnowyowl Thank you! Any remaining errors are my own. Title influenced by Tim Powers.
Chapter 1: The Cross Keys
John fought the bedclothes, punching and elbowing his way out from under, kicking and twitching. His moans increased in volume the closer his nightmares got.
There is an explosion, the humvee ahead on the road engulfed in flame, as the one John rides in is rocked backward. There are screams, there is blood, there are limbs. There is a blood-curdling howl as a black beast lifts its head to the sky in triumph and menace, then pounds down the rocky hillside, red eyes blazing in the glaring sun. It is for John, and only John. Captain Watson turns to run, sees Bob Franklin standing in a field. Franklin takes a deep breath, tips his face to the hard blue sky, and turns to a bloody mist as he rises with the flames of the exploding mine.
He woke with a shout, then a stifled sob. He sat up on his elbows, panting. The air in his nostrils smelled of damp. Not Afghanistan, then. Check.
He keened, a high noise of frustration and despair. Where am I? This isn't my bed. It smells funny here. The pillow was musty. The room was pitch black. No ambient light leaked in from Baker Street.
“John.”
He startled. A light clicked on. He saw Sherlock sitting on the edge of his bed on the other side of the night table.
“Ohhh, shhhii--” John groaned, scrubbing his face with his hand. “Shit. Sorry.” His face crumpled as he held it all in.
Sherlock said nothing, just stared, absorbing it all. John flopped back on the bed.
John stood at the bar-cum-front desk of the The Cross Keys, waiting to check out and get the hell away from the place. It was a nice town, with nice people, but-- just, no.
Billy answered the bell's ding, neckerchief and chef's coat tidy. “Leaving us already, John? Wish you both would stay a bit.”
John handed over the room key. “Sorry. Got to be getting back.” His smile was strained.
“Ah, sure. You look tired, though. Didn't get much sleep, even with the double beds, eh? Am I going to find them pushed together after all?” He laughed sweetly. He was a sweet man. “Have to admit, I heard you moanin' last night. Thin walls,” he shrugged apologetically.
“Oh. No. Nightmares. Not-- not. Just bad nightmares.”
“That's too bad. Sorry.” He slid John and Sherlock's bill across the counter.
Sherlock came trundling down the stairs, his coat flapping, his overnight case in his hand. He set it down next to John's. “Morning,” he said to Billy. To John he said, “Take that to the Rover with yours. I'll grab us a table for breakfast.” He turned to leave.
“And who pays the bill?” John asked, holding it up.
Sherlock fluttered a hand in dismissal, and walked outside.
John shook his head and reached for his wallet.
“Gary's the same way,” Billy sighed in commiseration. “Still, your Sherlock seems more than worth it. You should hold on to that one.”
John sighed a long, long-suffering sigh. “He should hold on to me, more like.”
Billy smiled kindly as John signed the receipt.
John slept on the train ride home, his head leaning against the window, occasionally getting his brain rattled as they hit crossings. Still, he managed to dream, and they were not good ones. Angry, awful flashes of horror woke him. Sherlock sat across their table from him, eyes unfocused, ears pricked, taking in everything like an omniscient Sphinx. And that's not cheating, that's called listening! John recalled Sherlock's rant, and admired the master at work. Listening, indeed. The Aricebo Dish had nothing on Sherlock.
John used his thumb and forefinger to wipe some drool from his mouth. “Where are we?”
“Still an hour out.” He looked critically at John pulling out his laptop. “The frequency of your nightmares has increased.”
“Yeah, well, you could be helpful and go buy me a couple of bottles of water so I can flush the sodding drug out of my system. Maybe then they'll stop. There's a good lad.” John opened up a fresh document, headed it, pointedly ignoring Sherlock, who eventually got up and wandered away.
When they were approaching Paddington Station, and Sherlock had not yet returned with his water, John assumed a shiny new mystery had caught the man's fancy. Didn't make him any less thirsty, nor any less annoyed at carrying both bags to the platform.
The red-haired young woman sat in John's chair facing the two men. Her clothes were expensive, her hair and makeup gauche. She had achieved an unearthly shade of orange with spray tanning. Either that, John mused, or she ate pounds of carrots and tomatoes every day. She didn't seem all that healthy an eater. She was trying very hard to hide the Scouse in her speech, especially when faced with Sherlock's posh and measured articulation. She crossed her legs and balanced her cup and saucer on her bare knee, skirt riding up.
“And they were just... gone. All three of my girls. The boys were still locked up, but all my bitches were gone! And they haven't come back! I've done everything. Me and my girlfriends, we searched everywhere, put up flyers, started a Facebook page, and all.”
“Mrs.-- What was it, again?” Sherlock inquired. John smiled to himself. Sherlock had not forgotten her name.
“Langham. Yes, that Langham,” she preened. “My husband is the same who played with David Beckham, that one year. Me and my girlfriends, we're all footballers wives. We've all got our little hobbies. Mine is breeding fine dogs.”
“Irish Setters,” Sherlock stated.
“Yes! How did you guess?”
“Sherlock...” John warned.
Sherlock grasped the armrests, and leaned forward slightly. “Pet owners tend to project themselves onto the animals they own. You chose a breed that is svelte, overly friendly, trim and attractive, and known to be, if not actually of lower intelligence, then willfully deaf and mischievous. Irish Setters are gun dogs. These days, not even the wealthy hunt. Not very 'PC'. You are attempting to assimilate yourself into a world of privilege that doesn't really exist anymore. Your hair has been dyed to match your dogs, since you obviously chose a breed with a color similar to your own, but you punched it up a bit. There are long, auburn hairs at the hip of your jacket which almost match your hairs exactly, except the dog's coloring looks natural. So, tall dog, of auburn color. Could be a red and cream English Setter, but there are no cream hairs mixed in, so Irish it is. That, and the tendency for humans to choose a dog that idealizes their self-image, and there you have it.”
John smirked as Mrs. Langham fought a flush of anger.
“Are you going to help me find my bitches or not? I have plenty of money. I can pay you.”
“Of course you will. And please stop calling them 'bitches'. It sounds so pretentious.” Sherlock sat back and tented his fingertips against his lips. “Who resents you enough to steal from you? Enemies? False friends? Does your husband have any deranged fans?”
“Not really. No one ever threatened us. All my girlfriends are devoted to me, and me to them. No enemies.”
“Everyone has enemies. Who is sleeping with your husband behind your back?”
“No one! Well, not anymore.”
“Could she have taken your dogs to hurt you?”
“I don't-- I don't think so. She's my friend. She likes my dogs.”
“Still your friend? Interesting.” Sherlock paused. The silence was palpable. “You use the word 'bitch' so often. Are you trying to impress someone in particular, or just society at large?”
“Well that's the proper terminology, isn't it? I'm a breeder.”
“You have aspirations, then? Show dogs?”
“Of course! Why else would I get into it? I've got my eye on Crufts, some day.”
Disdain flickered across Sherlock's face. Anyone but John would have missed it. “Very well. Have someone meet us at the first train into Sheffield tomorrow morning. Gather anyone who has contact with your kennels. Good day.” He stood in dismissal, turning to the window, buttoning his suit jacket. It was up to John to see her to the stairs.
“Oh, that perfume!” John whinged on his return, waving his hand in the air, making his way to the windows to open them wide. “Phew! That's one for your blog. So, how did you know where she lived?” He walked to the opposite end of the flat to open those windows as well.
“Sheffield, John. Where else could she live?” He turned again to Baker street, moving the curtain aside with the back of his hand. “I fear for those dogs.”
In the end it was simple.
The kennel crew was small, a few teen boys and girls from town who liked dogs, and wanted to be close to fame and money. One young woman stood out. She was plain, well-mannered when questioned, but flat in her inflections. John wondered if she wasn't depressed or mentally ill in some way. Sherlock thought along similar lines. He took her some paces away from the crowd, to the rear of the large yard. John shadowed them unobtrusively.
“You know a bit about breeding, don't you?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
The girl shifted her feet. “My family's done it for ages. Grandmother is a judge. She really knows her stuff.”
“And Mrs. Langham doesn't. It's all right, you can tell me. I know she's a novice.”
“She really doesn't.”
“So, why aren't you breeding your own, if your family are breeders?”
“Can't afford it.” She shrugged. “We used to have means, but....” She shrugged again. “This is the closest I can get.”
“I see. And what does your grandmother have to say about the Langham's setters? Nothing good, I'd imagine?”
“No. She says Mrs. Langham wouldn't know a proper setter if it bit her plastic face. She gets quite put out about it, actually.”
Sherlock stuffed his hands in his coat pockets. “I see.” He turned to face the kennels with the sires in them. “Why didn't you take the males, too?”
Tears welled up in the girl's eyes. “The males are all right. They're from Grandmother's own line. I don't think she knew who Mrs. Langham was when she sold them. But the females.... They couldn't be allowed to mix. They're awful creatures. I've seen their papers. Grandmother insisted--” She broke off guiltily.
“Are they still alive?”
She shook her head. “Put down. They couldn't be allowed.”
John sighed deeply, a sick feeling coming over him. Amazing what humans did to the creatures under their protection, and each other.
John decided to write up this latest case on the ride back to London. The sooner he could put the awful story to rest, the better. The images of more dead dogs after Baskerville was doing nothing for his peace of mind. Sherlock sat next to him this time, shamelessly reading over his shoulder.
“'The Copper Bitches', John? Don't you think that's a bit plummy?”
“Nooo. No, I don't. The readers love my titles. They catch the imagination.”
“I see what you did there, obviously. Social commentary. Breeding will out, etc. etc.”
“Yes, well. It's true, isn't it. Don't have to be clever when the truth is so twisted.”
“Dull....” Sherlock gazed out the window.
John woke sweating again, panting from his dreams. Grimly, he swung his legs off the bed and padded down to the bathroom. The shower was running. John groaned, then knocked.
“Sherlock! Got to pee!”
“I'm in the shower,” Sherlock called out.
“Don't care. Old man with an old man bladder, remember?”
“Come in.”
John was through the door before Sherlock had finished giving permission. He looked over at Sherlock shampooing as he relieved himself. He could easily make out his movements through the frosted plastic curtain. “You spend more time on your hair than anyone I know. And that includes the women.”
“Results are worth it. Grumpy this morning. Sleep well?”
John scoffed as he shook off and tucked himself away. “Not lately, no.” He moved to the sink.
“Here, look.” Sherlock pulled the curtain aside and stuck his head out. He sported a giant sudsy mohawk.
John dipped his head and smiled. “You idiot.” He chuckled anyway as he flicked the water off his hands. “Thanks, though.” Sherlock ducked under the stream, the water making his curls drag down his face. John dried his hands very slowly, leaning against the sink, watching the man with his back to the spray applying a handful of conditioner and combing it through. “Baskerville did my head in. I'd hoped it was the toxin, but....”
“I'm about to start washing myself rather south of my head. You might want to go now.”
John sighed. “Right. I'll put the kettle on.” He flushed the toilet as he left, reveling in Sherlock's bellows.
Mrs. Hudson's rushed footsteps on the stair alerted the two that their breakfast was about to be interrupted.
“Boys! Boys!” She swept through the kitchen door without knocking. “There's a young man at the door, says he's looking for Doctor John.”
John put down his fork. “What does he need?”
“I don't know. He won't come inside. Just said someone is sick.”
Sherlock looked at John. “Homeless network?”
“Probably.” John ran upstairs to fetch his medical kit. Sherlock met him at the front door where a dirty, ragged young man stood.
“Jasper needs you, Doctor John. They told me where to come and get you. Come on.”
They poured out of the cab near a network of undercrofts. The youth lead them through tunnels lit by high windows, until they came to an encampment, a series of bedding areas partitioned with pieces of scrap cardboard, and other trash. On one of the pallets lay a young man, motionless on his stomach. His shirt was open and shrugged partway down his back, a bundle of cloth at the base of his neck. John looked at Sherlock, who gestured for him to continue.
John picked his way carefully to the boy's side. It was chilly in the tunnel, but his skin was warm to the touch when John laid a palm against him. He dropped his rucksack to the ground, turned back to the boy and felt for a pulse. There was none.
“When was the last time Jasper spoke to anyone?”
“Few hours ago. He wasn't making no sense. He was real sick with a fever, and he was breathin' funny.”
“Right. I'm sorry, but your friend is dead. We need to call the police.” The other boy backed away. “Look, son, they just need to take charge of his body, okay? No one will bother the rest of you.” The other boy vanished into the concrete walls, nonetheless.
Left alone, John continued his examination. He squatted down, reached gingerly for the wad of cloth at the boy's neck and peeled it away. Beneath lay a large carbuncle at least three inches in diameter and an inch high. The skin was inflamed, yet tinged a weird blue. John turned and dug through his bag for gloves. He snapped them on, and continued his examination. He leaned forward, sniffing at the face. He nodded. He examined the nail beds of the closest hand. He pressed gently around the margins of the infection. He picked up the wadded cloth and squeezed it, crushing it, exudate flaking away.
“He's diabetic. Likely untreated. Staph infection turned to sepsis. See that darker patch of skin around the boil? Something's been rubbing at that skin. Started the whole process.”
Sherlock picked up a messenger bag. “He's a bike messenger. Strap would rub between the shoulder blades.” With finger and thumb, he pulled out a large bottle of vodka. “Grey Goose? I imagine he's been using it on the compress.”
“That'd be my guess, but it's a pretty pricey antiseptic. And Sherlock-- he was dying, but someone poisoned him anyway. Smells like cyanide.” John stood and moved away. “Your turn. Use gloves.”
Sherlock donned the gloves and knelt beside the body. “The carbuncle seems to have formed over a tattoo. Molly will have to get us images. Perhaps we can identify him that way.”
“Yeah. No I.D. in here,” John said, poking around in the messenger bag. “Lots of pounds, though. Someone gave him plenty of cash.”
“This shirt is very fine. Bespoke. It's fine, but worn. And, look,” Sherlock pulled both arms above the boy's head. He fingered the buttoned cuffs, comparing the fit. “The right cuff buttons have been moved to accommodate a heavy watch. Not many men bother doing that. I'm guessing Jasper found himself a sugar-daddy. Maybe he was given the shirt, maybe he stole it. Either way, we can use the shirt to track the man I assume is Jasper's killer. A man who drinks good vodka, is left-handed and wears a hefty watch.”
“I'm calling Lestrade.”
A few days later, Lestrade walked into the morgue, where Molly, John and Sherlock waited. He dropped a folder on the counter and favored the M.E. with a dazzling white smile. “Hello, Molly.”
“Hi, Greg. You look very nutty. I mean brown. Like a nut. You know, tan.”
“I know what you meant. Thanks. Yeah, just had a holiday with the wife.”
“Ex-wife,” Sherlock put in from down the counter, his nose stuck in a microscope. “Still has his ring off.”
“Shut up, Sherlock,” John admonished.
“Mark my words...” Sherlock said.
“Anyway,” Lestrade continued with a frown, “so, yeah, the Spanish plains. Very hot this time of year. But lovely. Then I come back and get sent to Dartmoor to babysit this lot, and I can practically feel the tan getting sucked out of my skin by the English weather. Oh, well.” His shoulders drooped pathetically. He got his chuckle from Molly and John, but Sherlock continued to ignore them all. “John, Sherlock, I have to urge you, again, not to tamper with crime scenes before the Yard gets their crack.”
“It wasn't a crime scene,” Sherlock piped up, “it was a medical emergency.”
“Yeah, until Dr. Watson here determined there was no pulse, then you should have backed off. John? Please keep a tighter leash on this one. I can't have civilians tampering, all right? The Superintendent's got a stonking great hard-on for the rules and regs, right now. So, please.”
John smiled tightly. “Of course.”
Lestrade continued solicitously. “You know I'd've called you back in. He was one of your guys, wasn't he?”
“I didn't know him personally, but I imagine he was part of Sherlock's network, at least peripherally. Was he?” John turned to Sherlock still hunched over the scope, who only shrugged as he changed slides. “Nice,” John scolded.
Lestrade smoothed his hair down. “All right. Shall I start? It was definitely murder. Cyanide. And he's not as young as we thought. Not a teen rentboy. He was twenty three, been around the block a few times. We used those UV photos of the victim's tattoo to trace him. Thanks Molly, very helpful. The blue inks and design were a Delft pattern. We checked Interpol, and there was indeed a missing persons report for Jasper Van Goossens, late of Holland. Looks like he came to London a year ago. His old FaceBook account indicates he was gay. Molly?”
“Drugs screen was clean, mostly. Traces of cannabis, but I've seen worse profiles with the homeless. STD panel was negative except for a very low viral load for HIV. He was newly infected. And, we knew he'd been poisoned, but I found something very odd in his stomach contents. An apple laced with cyanide. Very Snow White, right?”
“Actually,” Sherlock intoned from over the scope, “that's how the mathematician Alan Turing committed suicide. Very interesting. He was prosecuted for his homosexuality, forced to submit to chemical castration in lieu of prison time. It was a very ambiguous suicide.” He clacked another slide onto the stage.
“Would you please stop with the microscope, and come join us like a regular human being?” Lestrade said. “What are you looking for, anyway?”
“Checking oxygen levels in these blood samples.”
“You can't see oxygen through a microscope,” John sighed.
“I know.” Sherlock smiled, swung around on the stool, and walked over to the group.
“Infant.” Lestrade welcomed him to the circle with a sarcastic sweep of his hand.
Molly took over. “Your assessment of him at the scene was correct, John. He was diabetic and un-medicated. He was therefore highly susceptible to that infection turning systemic. Unfortunately, it was all beside the point.”
“Except,” Sherlock mused, “if he was ill, and had nowhere else to turn except the romantic interest with the money, he might have made enough of a pest of himself to annoy the poisoner. Or possibly, our Jasper got himself tested somewhere and found out he'd been infected by his 'boyfriend'. Either way, it seems he confronted his killer, got paid off with a good deal of money and an apple that would ensure no more blackmail payments. Not many people keep deadly poisons on hand--”
“Present company excepted,” John said.
Sherlock shifted his glance to John. “--perhaps this is Romeo's exit plan, if he gets too sick. Harken back to Turing's social statement? But he used it on Jasper first. Perhaps others, as well.”
Silence fell in the morgue.
“Are we all thinking the same thing?” John asked. He looked at Lestrade and Molly. He knew what Sherlock's face would say already. “This guy's got a chip on his shoulder, and he's looking to take some young men with him?”
Lestrade nodded. “Yes. Sick bastard. We need to get him fast. The Yard's got no leads yet.”
“I have,” Sherlock said. He reached over the lab table, grabbed his coat and strode out of the room, John jogging behind.
“Sherlock! Don't--” Lestrade called after them in exasperation.
“Ooooff!” John grunted as his shoulders and head slammed against the floor. He wrestled against the stronger man's grip wound through his arms and shoulders, behind his neck, threatening to snap his spine. With a clang and a crunch, his attacker seized up, then went limp. John scrambled out from beneath. Sherlock stood hunched over with a Samurai helmet in his hand.
“You said he'd be a lefty! He led with his right!”
“Occasionally I get something wrong. He must have been goofy-handed, wearing his watch on the dominant wrist. For most purposes, it wouldn't matter. Oh, well.”
“I suppose it wouldn't matter that he was into martial arts, either?” John rose slowly from hands and knees, to standing. “You couldn't wait for Lestrade! You just had to be clever! You had to worm your way in to Mr. Public-bloody-Relations' flat and start trouble! Christ! Shit! Goddamn-- gah!” He looked at the blood on his hands, and down at the unconscious body on the floor. “Jesus. Blood.” He hurried over to the open kitchen area of the loft, flipped on the tap with shaking hands and began washing. “Do I have any on my face? Sherlock, come over here! Do I have any on me?” He checked the warped, reflective surfaces nearby, but saw nothing. “Let me see you.”
“I'm fine. He never touched me. Are you all right?”
“Do I look all right??” John soaped and scrubbed, soaped and scrubbed. “Jesus, Sherlock. You know I never had myself screened for disease so often since I started in with you. And I worked in a war zone.”
Sherlock was close. He calmly reached up a hand, turned John's face toward him slightly. “Don't move.” Sherlock yanked a sheet of paper towel from the roll, wet it and turned back to John's face. He daubed a drop of blood from under John's eye. “You ought to go in the bathroom and really look yourself over.”
“You think?” John, still shaking, walked angrily to the bath. Sherlock dropped the tainted towel next to the man on the floor, then turned to peruse the displays of antique Japanese martial arts equipment. He snatched a black obi from the wall, and used it to secure the hands of the murderer behind his back.
It took Sherlock only a few minutes of poking around to find the red lacquer box with the photos in it. Just a few mementos of the boys Mr. PR had toyed with. Fortunately, there weren't many, many more.
When Lestrade arrived with Donovan and a horde of officers, he found John, shower-wet hair and red-scrubbed skin, sitting in a ball against the wall.
Sherlock eagerly expounded on his use of the tailored shirt with the moved buttons to lead them to the man's address. He'd simply plied his own tailor for names (Mycroft's would probably have been too staid for Mr. PR's taste), and followed where they led.
For once, John wasn't standing there, enraptured, to praise his cleverness.
“I am not going to the Netherlands without you! If you want to solve the bloody case, you can come detect with your own two eyes!”
Sherlock pouted quietly from his desk chair, again wrapped in only a sheet. “But it's hardly even a six.”
“Well then, the disappearance will go unsolved, forever,” John promised. “I am not your errand boy.”
“Except for when you get the shopping, and my dry-cleaning,” Sherlock muttered, dangerously loud enough to possibly be overheard. “But it's so wet there. And I'd have to explore the actual wetlands, and you know I don't own a pair of Wellies.”
“Yes. The man with the fireman's getup in his closet doesn't own a pair of Wellies. You could wear your pyjamas and third-best house coat, then. Or buy a pair of sodding Wellies! I'm not going alone. God, and you tease Mycroft about avoiding legwork.” John crossed his arms stubbornly. Sherlock threw him a soft look. “Oh, don't. Stop with the eyes. It doesn't work on me since you drugged my coffee.”
“I didn't actually--”
“You thought you were drugging my coffee, Sherlock. That counts.”
“Please, John.”
“No! Sherlock!” John threw up his hands. “Do I look like I speak Dutch? What about me and my history suggests that I would do well in the Netherlands? Was it having Scottish parents? Growing up in London? Watching “Goldmember”? Whereas you with the posh schooling, and the musical ear, and the bloody Mind Palace-- yeah, I'm thinking you speak passable Dutch. Or you could fake it. Or learn it on the train ride over.”
“Fine.” Sherlock wrapped the sheet tighter around his chest. He powered up the pout a bit.
John shook his head. “Look. I'm happy to go with you. I'm just not going alone.”
Another case, another train ride, this one much longer than usual. John couldn't sleep. Since he had nightmares regularly now, staying awake was the lesser of two evils. By the time they got to the guest house in the small coastal town in the rented Rover they got in the bigger town, it was dark, past dinnertime, and he was done in. He jumped when Sherlock hit the bell at reception.
Sherlock checked them in using probably flawless Dutch. He never hesitated, at any rate. The wrinkled old woman who gave them their key smiled nicely at them. The young woman, her granddaughter, welcomed them in English, and sent them upstairs with a knowing smile. What she thought she knew, John assumed, was the same as what everyone else thought they knew about Sherlock and John. He wasn't bothered.
John opened the door and saw the canopy bed. “One bed? Never mind. It's fine.” He emptied his suitcase into the dresser, tossed his Wellies into the closet where he'd hung his jacket. He nipped down the hall to the common bathroom, and when he returned, Sherlock had hung up his suits, and pointedly set his new Wellies next to John's. Sherlock sat in an armchair near the window, texting, scrolling, surfing the web. John stripped down to T-shirt and boxers, leaving his jeans within handy reach on the chair. He flung his socks onto the pile and threw himself under the covers. He turned from side to side until he found a good spot. “Good night, Sherlock.”
“You aren't going to eat?”
“Not hungry.”
“As if we could find anything open in this place, at this hour, anyway.”
“Hmm.”
Sherlock clicked away on his phone. “I'm going out for a walk. Get the lay of the land.”
“Terrific. Good night,” John mumbled. “Shut the light.”
He was asleep almost immediately with the scent of the North Sea in his nose.
John woke repeatedly. Every time was a new terror, a new anguish, another reason to clutch his chest in panic. He always fell back into slumber, back into nightmare, muttering curses.
The last time, Sherlock was there beside him, his hand a heavy, warm reassurance on John's arm.
“John.” It was a rich, low utterance. It anchored John to reality, and he breathed deeply, relaxing onto his pillow. Sherlock lay down on his stomach, propped his pillow under his face, placed his forearm up John's chest, hooked his fingertips over John's shoulder and went to sleep.
Captain Watson made no more excursions to the desert that night.
“We're going down to the water today. Dress in layers,” Sherlock advised, as John buttoned up a summer-weight checked shirt.
“I'll take an extra, in case, thanks.” John frowned slightly as he buttoned up to the top. “What are you wearing, then? A suit? Why?”
“I always wear a suit.”
“Yes, when it's not pyjamas or a sheet, you're in a suit, but we're heading to the shore. You're putting boots on over your suit?”
“Of course not.”
“You're putting on jeans, then?”
“Jeans? What jeans? I don't own jeans.”
John rubbed his hair. “I could have sworn....”
“In what universe do I wear denim, John?” He slipped on his suit jacket, shrugged it in place, and buttoned it effortlessly. Smart as ever, he led them down to breakfast.
Over coffee and pastries, they decided on their agenda. There was the missing man's wife to meet, and a group of local elders to probe for information. They would be found in the low stone building at the edge of town, where they met daily to drink and talk.
“Mr. Holmes? A package for you.” The granddaughter approached their table with a large FedEx box. Sherlock took it from her happily.
“Thank you.” He stood it on end next to his chair, ripped open the pull-tab, and tore open the flaps. “John, stand up.”
“What? Why?”
“I need to check size. Stand up.”
John huffed, but laid his napkin on the table. He stood up military-straight, arms at his sides, palms out in exasperation.
Sherlock rose, then dragged a black garment from the box, holding it up to John. “Hm. It'll do.”
“What the hell is that?”
“Wetsuit.” He briskly folded it over his arm, and rummaged in the bottom of the box. He held up a face mask. “Excellent.”
“What? What do you think I'm going to do? I don't know how to scuba dive! I'm not going in the water! It's freezing! It's the North Sea!”
“Calm yourself, John. It's not that deep. Hardly the ocean. More like a brackish waterway. Barely up to your chest. You'll see.” He dropped the equipment in the box, and returned to his coffee.
The lodge was dim inside. Festooned with banners and small animal heads and skins, some fishing equipment and a trophy cup here and there, the old men and a couple of younger ones sat about, smoking and talking. On the wall were a fur hat and coat given obvious pride of place, surrounded by old photos.
Sherlock stood looking at the display, until the eldest man approached. They conversed in Dutch and some English for a while. After a few minutes of understanding nothing, John moved to the doorway, looking out at the margins of land and sea, the creeks winding through the reeds and grasses.
When Sherlock and the old man moved away, John walked up to study the photos, perhaps to better understand the significance of the fur garments. That same old man was there in most of the pictures, youthening as John scanned to the left. This was obviously a lodge or community group of some type, focused on hunting and fishing. One photo showed the elderly leader holding up a chunk of cooked flesh on a knife, meat cut from an animal on a spit set up on the beach somewhere. Very Lord of the Flies, John thought. He was not a joiner like that, but he could see the appeal, in an old place like this. John had rugby mates, these guys had hunting mates. Same difference, he supposed.
Sherlock shook hands with the man, turned and walked to John's side.
“Time to look at the trap,” he said mysteriously, and John followed him out to the Rover. “Everything in the car?”
“Yes, and thanks for all your assistance in carrying it,” John responded sarcastically.
Sherlock loaded up the GPS function on his phone, entering coordinates. “You drive.”
“A 'please' would be nice,” John said as he shut the car door. Sherlock climbed in with his nose in his phone. “Where to?”
Sherlock looked up and pointed. “That way.”
They wound their way slowly down the fingers of land, Sherlock referring to his phone repeatedly. There was one path wide and solid enough for car traffic and they took it, careful not to disturb the grasses that flanked them. They came to a dead end with a large clearing, and stopped the engine.
They climbed out. John opened the door in back. The wind was warm enough for late spring, with a hint of cold carried from the water. The overcast made it easier to see through the water.
“Why here?” A loud splash sounded nearby. A heron took off slowly.
Sherlock showed John his phone. It displayed the spit of land they stood on with a dark spot just in the confluence of a couple of creeks. “I checked Google Earth to find this location. This bit of land has been used for many years for trapping. Over there,” he pointed, “there's a floating animal trap the town has used since World War II.”
“What do they trap?”
“Muskrat. Not indigenous to Europe, but brought over a hundred-some years ago for fur and its very tasty meat. Mr. Janssen told me a bit about the little rites they perform every spring. Binds the town together. Maintains stability in changeable times. You ought to put on that wetsuit now.”
John grumbled, but moved to the Rover. He pulled off his outer clothes and shoes, and tugged on the wetsuit which was a bit too large and floppy in all the wrong places.
“You know, it's telling that you figured out Irene Adler's measurements after about two seconds, but mine?” John scoffed. “God forbid.”
“You don't walk about in the nude, John.”
“Too right.” John groaned as he contorted to yank the zipper up his back with the long tether attached to the pull. “You want your boots?”
“I'm not wearing them.”
John huffed. “And why not? You bought them for this trip.”
Sherlock flashed a quick smile. “That was just to get you to stop pestering me about not having any. Worked, too.”
“But you carried them all the way over here! I carried them.”
“I'll be fine.”
“Oh, you'll be fine. What a relief.”
Sherlock walked in the dry sand toward the edge of the spit of land, to find a place for John to put in.
“Here's a good gap in the vegetation.” It was probably one used by the trappers, as the floating cage was located not too far away.
“Answer me one thing, first. You were going to send me here, alone, and make me get in the water without you, from the start. You were very happy to let me do all your grunt work. You only came because I made you.” John looked at him expectantly.
“I don't hear a question. Come on. In you get.”
John clumped over to the edge, a fairly steep slope of sand cut into slightly murky water by the incessant tides. “Fine. What am I looking for?” Sherlock handed him the face mask, which John stretched around his head, the band squeezing his sandy hair into a tuft.
“I need you to go to the trap and check the anchors at the bottom. I assume there's a drum of some kind keeping the platform afloat, probably with chains anchored to the floor of the channel. I want to you observe everything you see, and tell me if anything looks odd to you.”
“All right. Fine.”
John slipped down the embankment into the water. It only came up to his waist. It got deeper as he strode slowly toward the floating platform, keeping his arms up and dry as long as he could. It was to his chest when he reached his target. He pulled the mask down, gave Sherlock a dirty look, took a deep breath and submerged.
The water was bright but cloudy. He struggled to stay oriented at first, and he fought the shock of cold on his head and hands as he went under. He got his hand on one of the slimy chains angling away from the trap before he had to surface.
He took a few deep breaths and submerged again, pulling himself under with the chain. He could see the drum, and a dense hump of vegetation beneath waving with the current. He got within two feet of the bottom when he saw crowds of crayfish and crabs scuttling away like roaches with the lights flipped on. Disturbed, he returned to the surface for air.
“Just fish, John. Just animals doing their thing. You're in their environment.” He took a huge breath and went under, straight to the mass beneath the barrel.
The waving fronds weren't seaweed-- it was hair. A head stuck out from canvas wrapping, skin gone, eyes gone, crayfish reversing from the depths of the folds of fabric and running away.
John screamed, bubbles impairing his view, propelled backward with pushes of his hands against the water, kicking, writhing. It was all he could do not to inhale.
He broke the surface, hyperventilating, and swam brokenly as fast as he could to shore. He reached up a hand and Sherlock yanked him out, landing him like a huge fish.
“A body! A body...” John panted. “Decomposed. Eaten. Horrible.” Sherlock frowned and nodded. Realization dawned. “You knew! You knew our missing man was there! You sent me down there unprepared! What is wrong with you??” John shuddered. Suddenly, he couldn't get the wetsuit off fast enough. He yanked and pulled at the zipper and the neoprene until he was only in his boxers. He reached for the bottles of water in the back of the car and poured one over his head and face, shuddering in disgust. He rinsed out his mouth. “Oh, god, it's like body soup down there. God, I can taste it.” He retched and spit thin saliva onto the sand. He rinsed with more water.
“But you're a doctor. Why would a body bother you?”
John stood agape for several moments. “Because I am a doctor, Sherlock, not a bloody pathologist. I deal with the living, not the dead and decomposed and horribly eaten! Do you think the highlight of my military service was when I got to see soldiers blown to pieces? I'll tell you it wasn't.” John dressed angrily, the extra shirt he'd brought coming in handy. He pulled up his jeans forcefully, bouncing himself into place as he zipped up.
“Tell me what you saw--”
“Shut up.”
“But--”
“I said 'shut up'. I mean it, Sherlock. Don't speak. Don't say a word.”
“I need--”
John charged him, barefoot, hitting him low as only a short rugby player can, driving Sherlock back the few feet to the edge. He launched Sherlock into the water, watching him land arse first, completely submerging. Sherlock sputtered to the surface, wiping the hair out of his eyes.
“Should have worn your Wellies!” John stormed off to the car. “Wanker.”
He drove away as Sherlock tried to pull himself out of the channel.
Sherlock entered their room some time later, bedraggled but mostly dry after his trek through the wetlands. John sat in the armchair looking out the window, ignoring him. Sherlock stripped slowly, dropping clothing piece by piece into a pile, ending with his silk boxers, until he was entirely naked.
“This is a total loss.”
“Suit ruined? Shoes?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Sherlock wrapped a bath towel from the shelf around his waist, and went for a shower.
When he returned, John still hadn't moved. He dressed in silence. He sat opposite John in the other chair as he fiddled with his cuffs.
“John, I--”
“The only thing I want to hear from you is an explanation of this case. Nothing personal, nothing about you or me, just... I want to know why that body was where it was. I need to know that, and nothing else.”
“Very well,” Sherlock began softly. “First, this case wasn't really a six, it was more like a three. I imagined a scenario like this after communicating with the wife. You were right, though-- I needed to be here. You never would have got the whole story from the locals, and the details are what make it worthwhile.
“Long story short, Mr. Janssen has been the unofficial master of this town for decades, and part of the steering committee, if you will, for longer than that. His father, and his father's friends, formed the group of elders before him, and Janssen took the mantle when they died out.
“He's a bit of an arrogant megalomaniac, actually. Little bit of a god complex thrown in, too. He's a twisted man, John. His word is law, around here, or he thinks it should be.
“His father's generation started a club between the wars, trapping and eating muskrat. Getting drunk on the beach. They started a rite of spring-- probably summer, winter and fall as well, if it meant drinking to excess and gorging on good food, but regardless-- a ritual of wearing the muskrat fur hat and coat, consecrating the coming fishing months. It's a huge thing, here. Brings the whole town out.
“Our Mr. Janssen wears the furs, always takes the seat of honor. The villagers bring in the roast beast, and he carves it up, feeding it to each man himself.
“He likes the way things remain unchanged. Stable. But every now and then, a villager will rock the boat. Every now and then, Janssen decides their number needs culling, and someone disappears.”
“Oh, god.” John dropped his face into his hand and rubbed.
“Yes. The body is placed at the base of the trap. The crustaceans are attracted by the corpse, and eat it. The muskrat eat the crustaceans and happily stay near the steady food source; the villagers eat the muskrat. None of the bodies have ever been found, until today.”
“Janssen couldn't have disposed of all the victims himself, not as old as he is, at least not recently.”
“I suspect one or more of the younger generation have been groomed to take over. Some young, able person has done the dirty work, I'm sure with the promise of succeeding Janssen and donning the fur hat next.” Sherlock stood and paced. “That's not our problem. That's for the local constabulary.”
“And the widow? Our client?”
“That's for the local constabulary as well.”
“Because she'll be upset and emotional when she's told her husband is dead and bait at the foot of an animal trap, and you just hate the emotional stuff.”
“I'll follow up with an email.”
“I'm sure you will.” John stood and went down for dinner.
John avoided Sherlock for weeks after they returned. He didn't speak, didn't eat much, he didn't accept per diem slots at the surgery. When he slept, he didn't sleep for long. He didn't write up the case, although he'd sketched an outline, just so he wouldn't forget how angry he was and why.
What he did do was take very long walks every day. He let himself get lost in the heart of London, drifting through the dodges and alleys, finding the dead-ends where the ancient structures abutted the modern, or the river cut off his path. When he got too tired, he took a cab to a cafe where he could sit for hours, away from Baker Street. Angelo's was good for that, until Sherlock saw him sitting in the window one day. Then John found another place to be.
Occasionally, Sherlock would get a text from Lestrade. John knew this because Sherlock would glance at John expectantly. When John did not match his energy and enthusiasm for the chase, he'd deflate and delete. That's when he'd pick up the violin and begin to play, probably for hours since John would walk out and he'd still be at it when he got home. John was willing to make that leap.
Sherlock came back one evening on a very rainy day when John had stayed in with a slight cold. He carried a fragrant bag of Indian, and set it on the very empty and sterilized kitchen table. He pulled pairs of plates and utensils from the cupboard and drawers.
“I brought plenty for two. Why don't you join me? I got the hot curry you love. Maybe open up your sinuses?”
“All right.”
Sherlock and John silently arranged the plates, sat and dished out the food.
“You look terrible, you know,” Sherlock said.
John slowly tore a strip off a piece of naan. “There's a reason for that.”
Sherlock began to eat.
John bristled. “You see, this, right here, what you're doing... this is 'not good'. This is where apologies should start pouring from you like a fountain, but I'm sure you can't even imagine what you might have done wrong.”
Sherlock laid down his fork. “I admit to being baffled by some of your reactions.”
“Baffled. At least. Well, let me explain a few things to you.” John rubbed his forehead with his fingers. “Your average human being does not appreciate being ridiculed, patronized, condescended to, denigrated, manipulated, or used as a beast of burden or lab rat. There are consequences, Sherlock, actual, real-life consequences to what you do to me. I've been a wreck for months. It's not the accidental dangers we encounter that destroy me. It's the intentional infliction of pain you commit. You drug me, put me in a lab, scare the living daylights out of me, all for some half-arsed experiment that proves nothing, except that you are a selfish, sadistic prick sometimes. You expose me to all sorts of... dangers? Attacks? Illness? You never prepare me for what's coming, I can only guess it's in a bid to keep me ignorant, a kind of control in your experiments. It's that intentional part that hurts. A lot. You're supposed to have my back, be my partner, protect me as you know I protect you.
“I'll grant you that I enjoy our cases together. You know I need it; as much as you need me there, I need the excitement. I honestly don't know where I'd be today if I hadn't met you.”
“I feel the same.”
John sighed testily. “Yeah. I know. But. You... are a bad scientist.” Sherlock gasped softly. “And a worse friend. And I know which of those two statements bothers you more.”
John left the table and took himself away to bed.
John fell asleep with the sound of frenetic violin music wafting up the stairs. It would be a miracle if they didn't get angry notes from the neighbors tomorrow.
Every time he woke, the music was still there, a constant drone, a constant irritant. It was like listening to Sherlock's mind churning. Usually, he brooded in silence or paced energetically, rarely verbalizing, but tonight.... Tonight John had an unsolicited front row seat into the man's psyche. He wished he knew the titles of the pieces, although some were Sherlock's own compositions; they warred back and forth, point--counterpoint, question--answer. Thankfully, John was not subjected to Irene's theme. He didn't think he could stand knowing that woman was taking up any space in the man's head tonight.
In the early hours of morning, the music stopped abruptly. The silence was startling enough to wake John fully. He pricked his ears to listen for Sherlock's steps as he headed to his room, to bed, finally. He heard nothing.
Then it started again.
The tone was low, throaty. It was like Sherlock's own voice, the sound of the violin. It was a familiar melody, a lullaby but not. The strings spoke, and John filled in the sentences when the lyrics came to him.
Nothing's gonna harm you, not while I'm around.
Nothing's gonna harm you, no sir, not while I'm around.
Demons are prowling, everywhere, nowadays,
I'll send 'em howling, I don't care, I got ways....
It was embarrassing what a punch that simple declaration delivered. If this was the only way Sherlock could speak, so be it. John swallowed down the lump in his throat, lay back and listened to the rest, played with such emotion as his flatmate rarely expressed.
No one's gonna dare....
John believed it.
John went down for breakfast a few hours later. Sherlock already had the papers open, reading the personals section, searching for coded entries. John walked up behind, placed a hand on his shoulder, and squeezed warmly.
“Apology accepted.”
Sherlock laid a hand over his. He looked up at him with guileless eyes. “Thank you, John.”
Over the next few days, John experienced a clarity he hadn't felt since he was a child. Things felt simple and clean, brighter. The nightmares disappeared, mostly. His own psyche seemed to have come to an understanding with itself. Even his intermittent tremor resolved. His hand was as steady as his mind all the time.
And Sherlock. Sherlock settled down as well. It was a subtle shift in attitude, as much in his utter trust in John as his protective determination to let no harm touch him again. John felt the absence of a wall between them. He hadn't known it was there until it was not, and Sherlock held nothing back anymore. He felt Sherlock's eyes on him all the time.
There came a morning when the two had to face a crowd of paparazzi outside their door, trying to catch The Reichenbach Hero as he left to testify in court.
They swept down the stairs, but John paused with his hand on the latch, Sherlock braced flat against the wall.
John turned and asked, “Ready?”
Sherlock nodded and said, “Yes.”
And they were.
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Date: 2012-06-14 06:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-29 02:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-14 06:11 pm (UTC)I'll just sit here quietly in awe of this, shall I?
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Date: 2012-08-29 02:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-14 08:59 pm (UTC)(spasms of joy)
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Date: 2012-08-29 02:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-29 02:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-17 05:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-29 02:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-02 04:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-29 02:53 am (UTC)I pulled a couple of things from my RL to put in this fic, and wasn't that a revelation - that I have been both Sherlock and John in different relationships. One was the 'bad scientist' line, which is something I want to say to a friend I broke it off with, if I ever speak to him again. The other is that arm up the chest anchoring move. I've been regular sleeping partners with a disabled war veteran with PTSD and increasing nightmares. I've done just that move for him to calm him down. It's especially poignant to imagine someone as emotionally detached as Sherlock still reaching out to help his dear friend. *lip wibble*
I agree with you that John and Sherlock made some kind of quantum leap in their relationship between Hound and Reichenbach. Sherlock is almost completely pliant when it comes to John's suggestions after that (except when it comes to giving smart-arse a wide berth, oh well).
And inspiring - yes! Finish your Sherlock fic already! I can't wait.
Thanks hun! I"m glad you sought me out.