holmestice | Fic for lavvyan: Of Disadvantages and Benefits (4/4)

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Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

“I really do not understand your brother at all,” John announced when he came back.

“What did he say?” Sherlock asked.

John shook his head helplessly. “I have no idea,” he said. “I think I might need some form of Mycroft Translator if we're going to stay here much longer.”

“There's no need,” said Sherlock. “He never says anything worth listening to, even when you can understand it.”

John sat down on the bed. “He told me all about some guy you used to know. I've no idea why.”

“Victor,” realised Sherlock immediately. Interesting – Mycroft was seeking to warn John as much as to enlighten him.

“Yeah,” said John. “Not sure how some old uni friend of yours is relevant, unless that's the kind of thing that counts for small talk in your family.”

“Not sure 'friend' is entirely accurate,” said Sherlock, thinking back. He hadn't wasted brain power on Victor for a very long time – trust Mycroft to remember that he'd existed at all. “We spent rather more time having sex than having conversation.”

John choked. “What?” he asked, sounding shocked. Clearly Mycroft had omitted that detail. “You and Victor were...”

“'Fuck Buddies' is probably the most accurate term,” said Sherlock, making a face at the vulgarity of it. “Before the incident with his father, anyway. After that, he stopped seeing me at all.”

John nodded. “Mycroft did mention that,” he said. “And that after that, you started taking cocaine.”

Damn Mycroft. The two things were almost entirely unlinked, there was no reason for him to have suggested an association to John. “I was bored,” said Sherlock. “University was extremely dull. That's why I left before completing my studies.”

“Right,” said John, but he was looking at Sherlock with an odd, analysing look.

Sherlock resolutely turned his back on it, refocussing his attention on the research. “I'm clean now,” he reminded him. “Have been for years.”

“I know,” said John, but he stayed where he was for a few more minutes and Sherlock could almost feel his gaze on his back.

Eventually John turned back to his own pile of documents with a tiny sigh and then there was silence for a long time as they both carried on with their work.

John lay down on the bed to read after an hour or so, and it wasn't long after that that Sherlock heard his breathing slow and soften into sleep. He let himself glance back at him then, noting the way he'd just dozed off with a report still in his hand, face turned into the pillow. Maybe there was something in what he'd said that morning about his painkillers making him drowsy.

For the first time, Sherlock wondered if taking a man who was still recovering from major surgery on a jaunt around some of London's most dangerous gambling dens was a good idea, but quickly dismissed the thought. If John wasn't up to it, he'd have said something. All they were going to be doing was playing a few games, asking a few questions and keeping an eye out for Moran. There was nothing strenuous about any of that.

He carried on working, letting himself get lost in the intricacies of Moriarty's empire with John's calm breathing as a background to the stream of data he was gathering. The change came so slowly that he didn't notice for a while, John's breathing growing hoarser and more strained, until a red flag went up in Sherlock's brain. Something is wrong.

He turned to the bed, leaping out of the chair when he saw the manner in which John's lungs were struggling to pull in air and the ashen cast to his skin. “John,” he called. “John, wake up.”

John didn't move.

Sherlock grabbed hold of his shoulders, noting that his skin was clammy as well as pale and that his lips were tinged blue. “John,” he said again, desperation running through his voice. “John! Come on, wake up!”

John's eyelids fluttered and his breathing grew even more laboured as he started to wake up and fought to control it. He opened his eyes, wide and panicked, hands scrambling for purchase on Sherlock's jacket.

“Calm down, John,” Sherlock commanded him. “Slow, even breaths.”

John shut his eyes for a moment and when he opened them again, Sherlock could see stubborn determination filling them rather than panic. His breathing started to take on another pattern, slower and more careful, but it was clear from the increasingly hoarse rattle in his windpipe that the problem was more than just panic-driven.

Sherlock let go of one of John's shoulders so that he could pull his phone out of his pocket, texting Mycroft one-handedly, without looking away from John's face.

Get a doctor to my room. Now. SH

“Come on, John,” he said, dropping the phone as soon as he'd hit the send button. John's breathing was getting harder, his chest surging with the effort of it and his eyelids starting to flutter.“Keep breathing – you don't get to duck out on me this easily.”

John's grip on Sherlock's jacket grew tighter, pulling him in closer, and he managed a violent shake of his head. “Not. Happening,” he forced out between loud breaths.

“Don't waste air talking,” said Sherlock. He pulled John up further, shifting on the bed in order to support his back with one arm. “Just keep taking deep breaths.”

John nodded, eyes shutting for a moment with exhaustion as he continued to fight for oxygen. Sherlock found himself feeling completely helpless in a way that he absolutely hated. How was he meant to solve the problem if it was John's own body that had turned against him?

John's breathing was beginning to sound weaker as he got more tired, every inhale taking longer, every exhale sounding more like it could be the last. Sherlock felt his mind begin to seize up with the implications of that and he fought to keep his hands steady on John, trying hard not to just grab him and shake him until he just breathed for God's sake, just got his act together and stopped making Sherlock's own chest feel like it was beginning to constrict.

“Come on, John,” he gritted out, his voice almost unrecognisable. “You don't get a choice on this. Keep breathing – I need you.” He leant his head forward, resting his forehead against John's hair. “I need you,” he repeated, quieter, the truth of the words feeling so solid and firm that they should be able to sink down into John's bones, into his lungs, and force them to start working properly.

It took an unforgivably long time for him to notice the incongruity – nearly a whole second. John had been inside the house for days, and before that, in the hospital – no time for swimming for weeks, and certainly he'd been scrubbed clean of any trace of the pool where the explosion had happened. His typical shampoo was the cheap, generic kind, scented with what a chemist who'd never left a lab thought ocean waves might be like. Why, then, did his hair smell of chlorine?

Sherlock pulled back abruptly. “Chlorine poisoning,” he announced.

John rolled his eyes exaggeratedly as if to say 'no, really?' in that annoyingly sarcastic way he had, just as Mycroft entered the room with a great deal more haste than Sherlock had seen him display in years.

“About time,” he snapped. “John needs a doctor, immediately. And oxygen.” It went without saying that a hospital was out of the question – if Mycroft's house wasn't completely secure, there was no way a hospital would be safe from Moriarty.

Mycroft had paused for a moment, taking in the scene with unnecessary slowness. Sherlock had never seen him actually need to pause to evaluate what he was seeing, and scowled at him. “Now, Mycroft!” he said. “It's chlorine.”

Mycroft nodded, striding swiftly into the room, all hesitation forgotten. “It's already taken care of,” he said. “The medical team should be here within a minute.” He fixed a stern glare on John. “Doctor Watson, it's vital that you keep yourself alive for a few more minutes.”

John pulled one of his hands away from where they were gripping tightly to Sherlock's arm - when did that happen? wondered Sherlock – just long enough to flip Mycroft off, then returned it.

“Don't,” said Sherlock sharply to Mycroft. “You'll only make him want to spite you, and I can't have him-” he broke off, unable to phrase the next few words, even in his head. “He needs to concentrate,” he said instead.

There was the sound of feet in the corridor, accompanied by the rattle of equipment wheels, and a moment later the room was filled with medical professionals. They surrounded John, pulling Sherlock away in order to push an oxygen mask into place over his face, and Sherlock let them move him aside, keeping his eyes fixed on John's face. John glanced up at him and twitched an eyebrow, almost looking amused at all the fuss, and Sherlock glared at him. Stupid man wouldn't even give in to a poisoning attempt, he just had to keep being so-

The thought was cut off. Poisoning attempt, must have happened in this room, very recently, whilst he was sleeping, but Sherlock wasn't affected and no one came into the room, so how was it-

Sherlock's eyes riveted on the bed, on the dent in the pillow where John had pressed his face. “The sheets,” he realised. “The sheets are poisoned. Some kind of chemical compound that gives off chlorine – of course! You have to get him out of this room.”

One of the doctors glanced at him, then back down at the sheets and nodded. “Right,” he said with a confident snap to his voice. “You heard the man, we need to move this patient.”

“There's another bedroom next door,” said Mycroft. “It should be suitable.”

Someone pulled forward a gurney and they prepared to move John to it. John tried weakly to push them away, as if he was intending to move himself, but they ignored his efforts in favour of lifting him all together in one swift motion, half-pulling the sheets with him so that they trailed across the floor.

“The sheets,” repeated Sherlock, aghast. “My sheets. Aimed at me, but he got in the way.” His mind flashed back to a vision of Mary holding a pile of sheets and he turned furiously on Mycroft. “Your maid!” he said. “This was your maid!”

Mycroft's face was cold as he glanced at the door, where Sherlock could see a couple of Mycroft's security men lurking. “Find her,” he said in a low voice. They nodded and disappeared.

John was being wheeled out and Sherlock automatically went to follow him, shaking off Mycroft's arm when he tried to restrain him.

“Let them work in peace,” said Mycroft.

Sherlock shot him a disgusted stare and followed anyway, unable to keep his eyes off John until he was sure that he was going to be okay. They went next door to John's bedroom, the one where he should have been sleeping, where he would have been fine. Sherlock clenched his fist and felt nails bite into the skin of his palm. John was still breathing as if it was the most difficult thing he'd ever done, clutching at the oxygen mask like he'd been clutching at Sherlock's arm. Sherlock could still feel the grip of his hands imprinted on his skin and he ran one hand over where they had been, trying to press the memory of it into his skin.

“Sherlock,” said Mycroft in a soft voice. “You can't do anything here except get in the way.”

Sherlock scowled at him. “I have to stay,” he insisted. “I have to see that he's – it's my fault, Mycroft, I have to make sure it's not-” He broke off again, huffing impatiently as his eyes went back to John, who was propped up on the bed now, still surrounded by the medics. A heavy weight bore down on Sherlock's whole brain, all the thoughts that he was unable to fully formulate about what might happen to John starting to choke off everything else.

He couldn't move away from where he was standing, frozen to the spot with his eyes glued to John the whole time that the medics were fussing around him, only dimly aware of Mycroft standing next to him, just as still and silent. He should be going after Mary, finding her so that they could find out why, work out the connection between her and Moriarty – it had to be Moriarty – but he couldn't even bring himself to contemplate leaving John now.

After about ten minutes, Mycroft reached out to touch his shoulder, squeezing it gently. Sherlock barely felt it.

****

1985

Sherlock didn't know what to do, so he went to see Mycroft. He thought Mummy was probably going to be angry when she found out, and Daddy was at work, but he knew he had to tell someone, if only so he could find out what the right response was.

He walked into Mycroft's room without knocking, carefully cradling all the bits of Rupert that he'd been able to salvage in his arms. Mycroft was sitting at his desk, doing something for school, but he looked around and put down his pen when he saw Sherlock.

Sherlock carefully laid out the pieces of Rupert on the desk, over Mycroft's schoolbooks, and looked up at him, waiting for a verdict.

“Oh dear,” said Mycroft with a sigh. “What have you done, Sherlock?”

“I didn't do anything,” protested Sherlock. Everyone always thought everything was his fault. “It was Jack. He gave him to Buster to play with.” He looked back at the scattered scraps of fur and stuffing that he'd preserved. “Can you fix him?”

Mycroft pulled Sherlock up into his lap, wrapping one arm protectively around him. Sherlock thought about telling him that he wasn't a baby and didn't need to be held, but right now, with Rupert all pulled apart, it made him feel a little bit better.

“Sometimes, things are broken too badly for us to fix them,” said Mycroft.

“Oh,” said Sherlock, looking back at Rupert and trying not to cry. He'd just been taking him to see the frogspawn in Mrs. Kettering's garden, he hadn't meant for this to happen. Mycroft was quiet for a while, rubbing Sherlock's back as if he knew how close he was to tears. Crying is useless, Sherlock told himself firmly. He wasn't going to waste energy on it.

“Why did Jack give him to Buster?” Mycroft asked eventually, after Sherlock had pushed back the threat of tears.

Sherlock shook his head. “I don't know,” he said. “Because he's mean?”

“People don't usually do mean things unless they have a reason. It's called having a motive,” Mycroft explained. “Did you do something that provoked Jack?”

Sherlock frowned. “I just said that he was going to be sent to a special school for stupid children, because he can't even do his times tables yet. But that wasn't Rupert, that was me. Why would he hurt Rupert?”

“Because he knew it was the best way to hurt you,” said Mycroft with a sigh. “Sherlock, I thought we talked about being more polite to people.”

“Jack's not people,” said Sherlock angrily. “He killed Rupert – he's a murderer.”

Mycroft looked back down at the ruins of Rupert. “Even murderers are people,” he said.

The more Sherlock thought about it, the angrier he felt, the emotion building up and up inside him until he felt like he was going to explode. You couldn't just go around killing things – it was wrong. “I want to hurt him,” he said.

“That's not a good idea,” said Mycroft. “But if we tell Mummy, she'll talk to Jack's mother, and he'll get punished. That'll hurt him far more than anything you could do.”

Sherlock thought about it for a moment, about how when Mummy punished him it was the worst thing ever, then nodded. “Okay.”

Mycroft's arm tightened around him and they both sat in silence while Sherlock looked at what had used to be his only friend, and thought about Jack getting the punishment he deserved.

****

An interminable amount of time followed, during which Sherlock realised all over again that feeling like this for John caused too much pain and trouble – if he'd known it would end like this, he would never have allowed John to lend him his mobile that day in Bart's, let alone taken him to see Baker Street. He wondered if it was possible to still get out of this – he could cut John out, never see him again, and surely eventually the churning sensation in his stomach would ease enough to allow him to function as he had before. One look at John's pale, strained face was enough to destroy that illusion. Sherlock was stuck with this now. He'd just have to learn to adapt to it.

John slid into unconsciousness with the oxygen mask still clamped firmly on his face, but he looked much better than he had before. His breathing was coming much more steadily, even if there was still an unpleasant rasp to it. The lead doctor turned to Sherlock and Mycroft.

“We've stabilised him,” he said. “He needs to rest now.”

Mycroft nodded and pulled on Sherlock's shoulder. “Time to go,” he said. Sherlock resisted him, pulling away to stay where he was.

The doctor fixed him with a steely look. “He needs to be undisturbed,” he said in the manner of a man accustomed to being obeyed. “You're only hampering his recovery by staying here.”

Mycroft took his shoulder again and this time Sherlock let him lead him out of the room, pushing aside the sight of John looking so small in the bed, diminished almost, as if it was possible for a man like John to ever be diminished. He moved away from Mycroft in the corridor, trying to pull himself together. He needed to think, find Mary and work out the link between her and Moriarty, how she had got past Mycroft's security like that, there was no time for useless worrying.

“My security will be waiting,” said Mycroft. He led the way down to a small room where two black-suited men were hunched over an expensive computer monitoring system, frowning in a way that made Sherlock's stomach sink.

One of them straightened up at their entrance, obviously restraining a salute. “She's disappeared, sir,” he reported in the bland tones of a man who knows his news is unwelcome.

“Oh for crying out loud!” exclaimed Sherlock, turning to Mycroft. “Are your men really so incompetent that they can be outwitted by a maid?”

Mycroft glowered at him. “I'm sure they will find her,” he said, fixing his man with a look that made him nod frantically.

“We've three teams out looking, sir,” he said. “She was last seen leaving through the back door after clearing away lunch. She told the man there that she needed to buy more bread, but never came back.”

“And you didn't think to send up an alarm?” asked Sherlock with frustration. He ran his hands into his hair, gripping tightly. “How do you even manage to dress yourself in the morning with so little intellect?!”

“Sherlock,” said Mycroft in a warning tone. Sherlock let out a disgusted sound and spun away, going to look at the computer screens, but they just showed a whole series of useless street views.

“Find her,” Mycroft told the man in a quiet, deadly hiss. It was a pale imitation of the version Mummy had used whenever she found one of Sherlock's dead animals in the kitchen, but it was enough to make the man nod frantically and then turn back to the surveillance.

Mycroft dragged Sherlock away before he could attempt to help, took him into the sitting room next door and gestured at the sofa. “Sit,” he commanded.

Sherlock did, but he made sure that his opinions on being ordered about like a dog were clear from his face.

Mycroft let out a sigh and sat down next to him. “I know you're finding this difficult,” he said. “Please try not to take it out on my men.”

Sherlock snorted his disdain for that, but took a deep breath anyway, trying to bring his brain back from teetering on the edge of confusion. John was going to be fine – he had to be. Mycroft's doctors had got there in time, and they clearly were the best. Military-trained and frighteningly competent – John was in the best possible hands.

Hands that Mycroft had provided in a fraction of the time that Sherlock had assumed he'd have to wait when he'd been sat beside John, trying to will him to keep breathing. For all that Sherlock hated Mycroft's meddling, if he'd saved John's life with his obsessive need to plan for every scenario, Sherlock owed him enough to keep his insults to himself.

Well, some of his insults – he couldn't promise miracles, after all.

“Good,” said Mycroft with a nod. “Now, think for a moment rather than just reacting. There was no game here, not like before. Moriarty wasn't playing with you.”

He just wanted me dead, Sherlock realised. No mocking calls or texts with clues to a treasure hunt, no warning at all. “Something's changed,” he said out loud. “Something that means that he just wants me gone rather than as a source of entertainment.”

“Precisely,” said Mycroft with a small, satisfied smile.

Sherlock returned it as the implications of that settled in. “We found his weakness,” he said. And a man with a weakness could be brought down.

****

When they finally let Sherlock in to see John, he was propped up on a stack of pillows with the oxygen mask still covering half his face, although he started trying to clumsily remove it when he saw Sherlock.

“Leave it,” commanded Sherlock, sitting down beside him, then moving the chair closer to the edge of the bed so that he could observe John properly, at the right level of detail. His face was a much better colour than it had been and his chest was moving with a regular and satisfying motion that made some of the cold weight in Sherlock's stomach fade away.

John just rolled his eyes and took the mask off anyway. “I can't talk with the bloody thing on,” he said in a hoarse, gasping voice.

“But you can breath,” Sherlock pointed out.

John gave him an amused smile. “Breathing's boring,” he said, and Sherlock scowled at the reminder of his own words.

“Not when it comes to you,” he said in a low voice.

John looked at him carefully for a moment, then reached over and covered Sherlock's hand with his own. “I'm sorry I scared you,” he said in a matching voice.

Sherlock tried to express some form of disdain for the idea that he'd been scared, but instead he just found himself gripping at John's hand, reassuring himself that his skin was the right temperature and that his pulse was within acceptable parameters.

John looked at where their hands linked together for a long moment and Sherlock wondered if he should let go – there were only so many clues he could let slip before even John managed to work this out – but he couldn't bring himself to open his fingers just yet. John didn't move his either, just kept holding on to Sherlock's hand with a steady, reassuring grip.

“Before,” he said after several minutes of silence, “you said you needed me.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw and stared down at their hands rather than John's face. “You were experiencing severe breathing difficulties,” he reminded him, hoping he sounded dismissive.

“There was nothing wrong with my hearing, though,” retorted John. His fingers clutched slightly tighter at Sherlock's. “Sherlock...what did you mean? How can you need me?”

Sherlock glared at their hands, trying to will himself to pull away and leave the room before the conversation got any worse. “How do you think?” he asked. “I can't afford the rent on my own, and I can't stay with Mycroft for much longer without becoming criminally insane.”

“And that's it, is it?” asked John and there was an edge of annoyance in his voice. Excellent – if Sherlock could just sufficiently piss him off, he'd forget all about this line of enquiry. “Because it seems you might have meant something else.”

Sherlock pretended to be puzzled. “Having you to make me tea is useful as well,” he added.

John let out a frustrated sigh, then had to stop and cough a couple of times as his lungs objected to the strength of it. Sherlock glanced up from their hands, grabbing the oxygen mask from where it had fallen and holding it over his face again.

“Idiot,” he hissed.

John took several careful breaths, then took the mask from Sherlock and pulled it away again. He looked determined, eyes fixed on Sherlock's so fiercely that Sherlock couldn't look away. “Because I find myself needing you too,” he said. “And for more than rent and- well, you never make tea, so I don't even have that benefit to blame it on.”

Sherlock felt himself freeze up, everything coming into focus with the kind of blinding clarity that usually signified a revelation. “You're my friend, John,” he forced out. “You know that.”

John nodded a couple of times, his eyes not leaving Sherlock's. “And you're mine,” he said, then something steeled within his gaze, his muscles tensing as if he was going into battle. “I could be more than that, though, if you wanted.”

Sherlock felt his eyes widen just as John leant forward and pressed a careful, dry-lipped kiss against his mouth.

Sherlock knew that there were contributing factors and consequences and all kinds of data that should be evaluated before he reacted, but when John leaned back, he didn't look confident or determined any more. He looked terrified, as if he'd only just realised what he'd done, the risk he'd taken. Sherlock couldn't bear to see him look like that, so he slid his hand around his neck, feeling soft hair brush against his fingers, and pulled him in for another kiss.

John's reaction was immediate and perfect. He clung to Sherlock's shoulders, pulling him in closer as he kissed him back, every move of his lips and tongue intensifying the rush of excitement surging through Sherlock's system, a thrill that he wasn't sure he could cope with filling him up until he had to pull away.

John was breathing raggedly again and immediately fumbled for the oxygen mask, pressing it over his mouth while his eyes stayed on Sherlock's face, wide and alive in a way that Sherlock had never seen them before. Suddenly he realised what Mycroft had meant when he'd said that there were benefits to this feeling that he had been struggling with, benefits that more than made up for the disadvantages.

“I need you like that,” he said in a half-whisper, barely aware he was saying it. “Exactly like that.”

John's smile grew. “That's good,” he said, pulling away the mask again. “Brilliant, actually.”

His breathing was still sounding more than a little strained, so Sherlock took the mask from him and put it back over his mouth. “Keep breathing,” he reminded him.

John rolled his eyes, but obediently took hold of the mask to keep it on his face. Sherlock nudged him over in the bed and climbed up next to him, settling back against the headboard with the whole right side of his body pressed against John's. Having him that close, close enough so that he could feel the rhythm of his breathing and the warmth of his body almost made up for the panic of watching him struggle for air earlier. He was just as comfortable as he'd hoped.

“So,” said John, moving the mask just enough to speak, “are you going to tell me what happened, or should I be trying to guess? How did chlorine get in your bed?”

Sherlock let out a careful breath. He wasn't sure John really wanted to know that it had been Mary who had tried to kill him, although part of his mind was quick to point out that at least that signalled an end to any threat she might pose as a potential romantic interest.

“Moriarty had an agent in the house,” he said. “He's been monitoring our progress ever since we got out of the hospital. I doubt there's anything he doesn't know about our research.”

“An agent?” asked John. “But who had that much access to-” he stopped himself dead. “Oh,” he said quietly and shut his eyes tiredly. “Mary.”

“She was ideally placed,” said Sherlock. “She's been with Mycroft for several years now – no one would have suspected her. I'm not sure yet if she's always been in Moriarty's pay and he's been playing a very long game, or if she was recruited recently.”

“And then she tried to kill me,” said John. “I suppose Moriarty decided to get me out of the way of his game.”

Sherlock stilled. For a split-second he was tempted to allow John to believe that, just to avoid him from knowing that he'd been caught in something that was aimed at Sherlock. He needed John to know the truth though, needed him to have a complete understanding of the picture. “John,” he said carefully. “It was my bed that was poisoned.”

There was silence for a very long moment while John processed that and Sherlock waited, heart in mouth, to see if it was going to ruin this new thing between them. He rather thought that being the cause of near-death by chlorine poisoning was frowned upon as a dating technique.

“That makes no sense,” said John with a frown. “He's fixated on you – why would he send a minion to poison you? It lacks the personal, obsessive, crazy maniac touch, somehow.”

Sherlock wanted to laugh with joy. Trust John to confound his expectations and get right to the heart of the matter all in one sentence. “Precisely,” he said gleefully. “Clearly, we were getting too close to something important to him, and needed to be stopped.”

John blinked. “Moran,” he realised.

“Yes!” said Sherlock with excitement that John was on the same page as him. “Moran is the key to this – Moriarty tried to end the game early in order to protect him.”

“So if we get him...” said John, his face lighting up in a mirror of Sherlock's emotions.

“...we can use him to get to Moriarty,” finished Sherlock.

They grinned at each other for a long moment, and Sherlock felt triumph surge through him. This was going to be easy - he and John could do anything together, take on anyone and win. It was their turn in the game, and Moriarty was as good as dealt with.