marita_c | Sherlock fic: Minutiae of the Mind

Title: Minutiae of the Mind
Word count: ~7000
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sherlock/John (epic bromance), Sherlock/Lestrade (slash)
Warnings: Implied drug use.
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, etc.
Beta: The magnificent duo

nanfreak and

timothy_carter .

Author's note: Third and final story in the "Mind" series (Look! I made a poster!). This part is unusually fluffy for my repertoire.If you want to understand what's going on I suggest reading the first two parts before this one.

Summary: Conversations, deductions, public displays of affection and Tetris.

I. A Mind to Disengage (Sherlock's POV, NC-17)

II. My Mind in Ruins (Lestrade's POV, NC-17, see warnings)

III. The conclusion from John's POV :

Minutiae of the Mind

by Marita C

John Watson does not consider himself a proper genius. He’s bright enough, intelligent and well-educated, but when faced with a collection of ambiguous, disjointed facts, he doesn’t excel in arranging them into a coherent story. That area of expertise is reserved for his flatmate and John is more than content to let Sherlock take the lead when brilliant deductions are called for.

That is why, on one bright and sunny Sunday morning, he is taken by surprise when a tiny plastic bottle causes a torrent of previously unrelated events to fit together in his mind and form a startling revelation.

It happens while he’s taking out the rubbish. The bag predictably ruptures when he’s a step away from the bin and he ends up collecting its spilled content from the ground. He pays no attention to the white bottle with the green cap at first; simply throws it in the bin with the rest of the waste and thanks God that, for once, the bag contained no severed body parts.

It takes almost a full minute for his conscious mind to register what he’s seen.

John freezes in the process of replacing the lid over the bin, looks inside, spots the bottle and picks it up again. A quick glance at the label provides all the confirmation he needs.

Somewhat dumbfounded, John remains motionless for several long minutes. The pieces of the puzzle swirl around his mind, each falling into place with a jarring, painful impact.

Once the picture is complete he can’t help thinking back over the clues. They suddenly seem painfully, absurdly obvious. It makes him feel tremendously stupid; the by-product of hindsight, perhaps. Clutching the bottle of eye-drops in his hand, John goes back upstairs.

The door to Sherlock’s bedroom is shut, as it’s been for the better part of three days now. Even though it’s past eleven in the morning, Sherlock hasn’t emerged yet. John doesn’t need to wonder about that anymore — he’s just gotten all his answers. He sinks into the sofa and sighs, twirls the small bottle between his fingers.

He thinks he can pinpoint the exact day of onset. Two days after a certain child murderer had been burned to a crisp, an occurrence which he and Sherlock had significantly contributed to. John had not known what to expect afterwards — normally after solving a case Sherlock would be euphoric. It would last for a day, maximum, after which Sherlock would either find something new to work on or sink into his characteristic irritated, bored state. However, that had been no ordinary case. Once the personal relevance to Sherlock had become obvious, the consulting detective’s typical detached indifference had quickly dissipated. Sherlock had attempted to stay composed as the investigation progressed — John had been initially reminded of Sherlock’s demeanor when faced with the sight of John strapped to explosives — but that had been a different scenario altogether. When repressed memories from Sherlock’s past had begun to surface, it had become clear that events were heading in an entirely different direction.

All John had been able to do was hope that, by the time it was all over, there would be enough left of Sherlock to put back together.

-- 17 days earlier —

“It smells like a barbeque here. I think I’m getting hungry.”

The case is solved. The child killer is dead. The little girl is saved.

Sherlock is… fine.

A couple of small second-degree burns on his arm, a mild case of smoke inhalation, but he seems relaxed. As he and John laugh about the amount of paperwork they’ve left Lestrade with over breakfast, John truly believes the worst is behind them.

***

“Your tea is getting cold.”

The next day Sherlock is quiet. That in itself isn’t all that unusual — Sherlock would, on occasion, go days without saying more than five words to John — lost in his thoughts, distracted by whatever puzzle is being processed in the recesses of his mind. John would normally leave him to it, knowing he’d snap out of it and become moderately sociable again eventually.

But Sherlock’s current silence suggests something other than distraction; he doesn’t seem preoccupied by thoughts. From his perch on the armchair Sherlock gazes around the room restlessly, appearing somehow agitated yet subdued. John tries to make conversation, hoping for some insight into Sherlock’s head, but Sherlock isn’t particularly cooperative. His replies are mostly monosyllabic and eventually he picks up a magazine in a gesture that clearly indicates he wishes to be left alone.

The following day is more of the same. When John comes into the living room in the morning he finds Sherlock sitting on the floor with a notepad in one hand and a pen in the other. The page is completely blank and Sherlock’s eyes are frustrated and red from insomnia. By this point John is concerned enough that he seriously considers staying home from work, but Sherlock isn’t any more sociable than he’d been the previous day and eventually John leaves him be.

***

When John comes home that night Sherlock is gone. He resists the urge to call, knowing Sherlock would not appreciate him acting like a concerned wife, but stays up in the living room, waiting for Sherlock’s return. He falls asleep at some point, awakening with a jolt at the sound of the front door closing and then blinking sleepily at Sherlock.

“Everything alright?” John asks hoarsely.

And Sherlock seems… fine.

More than fine, actually. Better than the last time John had seen him and certainly more alert than anyone has any right to be at — John glances at his watch — three in the morning.

“Of course. Why are you awake?” Sherlock asks briskly as he pulls his gloves off.

“I… was just going to bed,” John mumbles.

Sherlock sits down at his computer, logs in, and John realizes that Sherlock is not about to enlighten him as to his whereabouts in the past hours. Feeling somewhat stupid for worrying, John wishes him a good night and turns in.

***

“You’ve been keeping busy, I’ve noticed.”

Things settle, but it’s an entirely different kind of normal than what John had grown used to. Sherlock seems constantly occupied, always in motion. There doesn’t seem to be any downtime at all. He spends little time at home, working on this case or another, and he seldom asks John to accompany him on his excursions. During their limited interactions Sherlock is unusually distant. He seems… careful. Controlled.

John can’t help feeling that perhaps he’s the one at fault. Perhaps something he’s done has made Sherlock reconsider him as a suitable working partner.

Although it eats at him, John says nothing.

Then Brackston happens.

-- 4 days earlier —

“Have you gone completely around the bend?!”

He tags along because Sherlock needs backup cornering a key witness in the latest murder investigation. The man’s name is Edward Brackston and Sherlock is convinced he helped the killer hide the body of his second victim. Sherlock’s usual focused exhilaration, which John has learned to expect during particularly challenging cases, is nonetheless underlined by something else; a sort of manic intensity that John has never witnessed in Sherlock before.

They finally find Brackston hiding out in a garage on the outskirts of London, in what must be the only area in the entire country without adequate cellular reception. Sherlock stays with Brackston and sends John out to get Lestrade.

John complies without thinking.

Once he finishes the phone call he returns to find Brackston in a considerably more bloodied shape than he’d left him and Sherlock looking disturbingly calm as he cleans his knuckles with a handkerchief.

He lets Sherlock have it then; torture as a method of investigation is where John draws the line. The ensuing argument is particularly ghastly and once Brackston is safely in the hands of the police John lets Sherlock know that he’s on his own and promptly returns home.

He’s so angry that he ends up taking two sleeping pills before even attempting to go to bed, knowing it’s his only chance of getting any sleep at all. He’s out of it by the time Sherlock comes home that night and when John leaves for work the next day Sherlock’s bedroom door is firmly shut.

Most of John’s anger is gone by that point. It changes his view of the previous day’s events; for the first time John begins to consider the possibility that something might be wrong. That Sherlock is… not fine.

***

Sherlock is not in the flat when he returns from work later that afternoon and once again John has to fight the urge to call him.

Hours later he’s lying in bed, listening to the sound of rain splattering on pavement outside, when he finally hears the front door. Somewhat relieved, he’s contemplating just rolling over and going to sleep, but restlessness drives him out of bed and downstairs. He finds Sherlock standing by the window in the dark living room, looking into the miserable night outside.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Sherlock says quietly, facing away.

His tone makes the hairs on the back of John’s neck stand on end. It’s all wrong. Hollow. Sherlock’s silhouette against the light coming from the street is wrong too. Frowning, John turns on the light and then curses. Sherlock’s hair is plastered to his head. The man is completely soaked, water dripping from the ends of his coat to puddle on the floor.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock!” John exclaims. “Picked a lovely night for a stroll, have you?” He goes to the window, turns Sherlock to face him. The air leaves him in a rush then; Sherlock is shivering, his lips are blue. There’s a purple bruise on the side of his face. “What the hell happened?”

Sherlock blinks at him a few times in confusion, seems to take a long time to understand what John is talking about. Finally he huffs in amusement. “You should see the other guy.”

John shakes his head and takes Sherlock’s hands in his. They feel like two blocks of ice. “Come on, you’ll catch your death,” he says as he starts tugging on Sherlock’s coat. Sherlock is acquiescent as John strips it off him. John keeps expecting some humorous or teasing remark, especially as he begins unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt, but Sherlock’s eyes are vacant and he lets John undress him down to his underwear in silence. John wraps a blanket around him and directs him to the sofa. Once Sherlock is settled he sits down on the edge of the coffee table, facing him.

“Are you going to talk to me?” John asks him.

Sherlock reaches up to take hold of the edges of the blanket, to pull it tighter around himself, and John notices faint, finger-shaped bruises around Sherlock’s wrists. He frowns. Exactly what sort of brawl had Sherlock gotten himself into?

“You should go back to bed,” Sherlock replies, sniffling a little.

“Did you find the killer? Did he do this to you?” It’s not John’s place to ask, not after he’d turned his back on Sherlock and the case, but he’s desperate to understand what’s going on.

Sherlock sniffs, reaches for a tissue. “No. I reckon he’s in the process of booking a flight to Thailand as we speak.”

John is about to ask whether Lestrade knows about this but is stopped short by the sight of the tissue turning bright red as it touches Sherlock’s nose.

“Did you get hit in the nose too?” John asks, frowning. There’s no bruise he can detect.

Sherlock looks at the bloody tissue dispassionately, then clutches the blanket around himself and gets up. “It’s late. I’m going to sleep,” Sherlock mutters as he turns to his room. “You should do the same.”

John remains looking after him, frowning in confusion.

-- Now --

Stupid.

There is no other word for it. Sherlock had been right to call John that.

With clues so obvious, any half-witted individual would have figured it out long ago. Sherlock’s behavior, his avoidance of John, his mania, his aggression, the sodding nosebleed.

John has been oblivious. Has had his head stuck so far up his rear end that stupid might actually be an understatement. He’s been so preoccupied trying to figure out what he’d done wrong that he never stopped to consider the possibility that Sherlock was avoiding him simply because he was hiding something.

Had been hiding something, John corrects himself, because Sherlock was no longer running amok through London. Ever since Thursday night, when Sherlock had arrived home drenched and bruised, he’s been holed up in his room, sulking. John had wondered, naturally; he’s used to Sherlock inflicting his bad moods on him. Sherlock always prefers an audience when he’s bored, brooding or generally frustrated with the world. Now the reason behind Sherlock’s self-enforced seclusion becomes apparent and John realizes that Sherlock’s restlessness and irritation have little to do with the fact that DI Lestrade had taken him off the latest murder investigation.

John becomes aware of a presence in the doorway; he’d apparently missed the sound of Sherlock’s door opening. Slowly, deliberately, he leans forward and places the bottle of eye-drops on the table. He leans back and only then glances to Sherlock.

Sherlock is in his dressing gown, leaning against the doorframe. His eyes are fixed on the bottle, his face even paler than usual. “I didn’t want you to know,” he says quietly.

“That’s a bit of an understatement. Using pilocarpine to shrink your pupils back to normal… that’s…” John trails off, doesn’t even know how to call it.

Sherlock fidgets a little, looks down.

“You’ve clearly put a lot of effort into hiding it. Did you think I’d be angry at you?” No, that can’t be it, John thinks. Sherlock has no qualms about making him angry — it feels like he’s turned it into a sport sometimes, simply to see what range of responses he could get out of John if he only antagonized him enough. “Did you think I’d think less of you?”

Sherlock’s mouth twitches.

That’s closer to the truth, then.

“Don’t you?” he asks John.

John shakes his head. “For having a weakness? No, I really don’t,” he replies honestly. “For being a complete idiot about it? Well…” Sherlock’s head snaps up at that and John sends him a mild look. “We’ve already established that you’re an idiot back when we first met.”

Sherlock seems taken aback, searches John’s face with something akin to incredulity. “You’re taking this rather better than I expected.”

“Your timing was good,” John admits. “Had you come out of your room half an hour ago, before I had a chance to think about it rationally this conversation might have gone differently.”

Sherlock nods, comes further into the room. He stops by the window and looks outside.

There are a million questions John wants to ask him, he hardly knows where to start. It’s concern that wins over in the end, because while Sherlock looks relatively fine, John had learned the hard way how deceiving appearances can be where his flatmate is concerned. “How are you feeling?” he asks hesitantly.”It’s been what, three days?”

“Sixty three hours,” Sherlock replies without turning around. “I haven’t been feeling quite like committing mass murder in the last five, most likely thanks to that third nicotine patch.”

John rolls his eyes but refrains from scolding him. He doesn’t normally approve of Sherlock’s nicotine abuse, but supposes that in this case it’s the lesser of two evils. “Are you going to stop hiding in your room now? You don’t have to go through this alone, you know.”

“I am alone,” Sherlock says dully.

John looks at him in confusion, hoping that some sort of explanation is forthcoming. Finally Sherlock turns around and sinks into the sofa next to him, his expression morose. “We all are. People may convince themselves that social connections alleviate their loneliness but at the most fundamental level the subjective individual existence prevails through a severance that is crucial for our survival.”

John blinks at him. “Naturally.” He has no idea what Sherlock has just said.

Sherlock huffs in exasperation and slowly flops sideways, drawing his legs up. He ends up lying on his side with his head in John’s lap. “It means that in the end it’s every man for himself, as it should be. You can’t feel what I feel and you’re better off for it.”

John hesitates for only a second before he lets his hand drift down to pat Sherlock’s hair. The gesture feels strangely natural to him, even though it’s entirely novel. Sherlock has never sought this sort of physical contact from him before and John has never offered. He can come up with plenty of rational reasons as to why this shouldn’t be happening — they’re both men and John has a girlfriend and people talk — but the fact remains that Sherlock is quickly unwinding under his touch and John is far from perturbed. “I don’t have to feel what you feel in order to be able to sympathize and help,” John tells him gently.

Sherlock sighs and closes his eyes. “I shouldn’t need help. It’s an embarrassingly primitive craving that’s neither rational nor sensible. I should be above it.”

“You are above it,” John points out. “There’s no guard by your door, nothing to restrain you except for your own self-control yet here you are — sixty three hours.”

Sherlock is silent for a moment, presumably mulling it over. Then, “Hmmm.” A reluctant agreement, perhaps.

Would he have acted as that guard had he learned about Sherlock’s actions sooner? Or would he have turned his back on Sherlock, leaving him to self destruct all by himself? The latter is not a pleasant scenario, but past experience with his sister suggests to John that it’s probably the likelier one. He’s never been the one pouring Harry’s whiskey down the sink. He’s not sure whether he can see himself doing it for Sherlock. He hopes he’ll never have to find out.

“Is there cocaine in the flat?” John asks as an afterthought. The next bogus drug bust is always a looming possibility and if he’s at risk of ending up in prison he should at least be prepared.

Sherlock’s mouth twists in bitter amusement. “That’s greatly overestimating my self-control. Lestrade took the last of it on Thursday.”

Well then.

Obviously, Lestrade had figured out that Sherlock was using again before John did. It stings a bit, makes John feel like a clueless idiot once more, but it also explains a few things. “It’s why he took you off the case,” John surmises. “It wasn’t because of Brackston.”

Sherlock nods, his cheek sliding minutely against John’s thigh.

Lestrade could have arrested Sherlock had he wanted to. John has his own suspicions as to why he hadn’t, but isn’t sure how tolerant Sherlock would be to that line of questioning. Another thought occurs to him, more facts beginning to make sense. He runs his thumb gently across the fading, greenish bruise on Sherlock’s jaw. “Did he do this?” he murmurs.

Sherlock nods again. After another beat he opens his eyes and looks thoughtful. “Will you beat him up for me?”

It makes John smile, because some irrational, over-protective part of him wants to do exactly that. “That depends on what you’ve done to earn it.”

A small frown-line appears between Sherlock’s brows. “Enough to justify worse.”

Is that guilt in Sherlock’s tone? John frowns. Pigs must be flying outside.

He’s not sure he wants to know what had happened exactly between Sherlock and the DI on Thursday. It must have been disastrous.

“Are the two of you involved?” John asks before he loses his nerve. Might as well, seeing as they’re apparently having a heart to heart.

Sherlock tenses a little, sends him a furtive glance. “Not the term I’d use.”

As vague as that answer is, John thinks he knows what Sherlock is implying. “Only shagging then?” He keeps his fingers idly stroking through Sherlock’s hair, his own way of letting him know that it’s all fine.

“On and off,” Sherlock replies with a half-shrug. “Mostly off.” A silent moment and then he adds, more quietly, “Possibly not anymore.”

Ah. Disastrous indeed.

“In that case I may as well beat him up,” John offers lightly.

It has the desired effect and Sherlock laughs, rolls onto his back. “Can you shoot him while you’re at it? Any place that has a lot of nerve endings.”

John rolls his eyes. “You don’t mean that.”

Sherlock pouts, but it’s underlined by amusement. “No, I suppose not.”

There’s a short chime from the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom. John recognizes it as an incoming text message. “Are you going to get that?” he asks Sherlock, feeling a little regretful. He’ll never admit it but he’s… quite comfortable. He and Sherlock had barely spoken throughout the past two weeks and John has only now realized how much he’d missed him. He doesn’t want the moment to end quite yet.

Sherlock fixes him with a long stare, the intense scrutiny nearly making John blush. “It can wait.”

***

The honeymoon is over very quickly.

John blames himself entirely; he’s been trying to be sympathetic to Sherlock’s condition and thus had said nothing when he’d walked into the living room an hour ago to find Sherlock sitting on the floor, holding a chisel in one hand and a mallet in the other. He’d convinced himself that Sherlock finding a creative outlet for his fowl, restless mood was a good thing, even if it did entail somewhat excessive remodeling of their coffee table.

Unfortunately Sherlock, being observant as he is, had caught on quickly and since then has been trying to find out precisely how far he can push it before John would no longer be able to contain his disapproval.

John, rapidly approaching a complete mental breakdown, decides that desperate times call for desperate measures. He does his best to keep smiling pleasantly as he collects the large pile of wooden shards that used to be their coffee table into the crate by the fireplace, and then settles in the armchair with his mobile in hand and browses through the applications.

Sherlock watches him from the sofa with a curious expression which, some ten minutes later, is gradually replaced by a scowl.

“What are you doing?”

John is very careful not to look over as he replies. “Tetris. Level five.”

“What’s that?”

He glances at Sherlock now, watches the deepening frown. Perfect.”You’ve never heard of Tetris? It’s a game. You wouldn’t like it,” he says airily. He can feel Sherlock’s eyes boring into him suspiciously. “Ha! Level six. I’ve still got it.”

“I know what you’re trying to do and it’s entirely preposterous. These games are nothing but an inane waste of time.”

“Yes, absolutely,” John replies and keeps playing. “I’m simply feeling a bit nostalgic. We used to play it in the army to pass the time — some of the computers on base were so old this was the only game that would run properly.”

There’s an indistinct “Hmmm” from Sherlock’s direction followed by a short silence. Finally, Sherlock shifts a little. “Would I have that on my phone?”

It’s not easy to remain totally impassive when inside one is bouncing with the joy of victory, but John thinks he manages quite well. “If not you should be able to download it with a click of a button.”

He pretends to be engrossed in the game as Sherlock picks up his own mobile, and shortly thereafter a familiar pattern of blips and chimes begin to drift from that direction. “It’s hardly what I’d call challenging,” Sherlock notes.

“Wait until you reach level twelve.”

Five minutes later John pauses his game and gets up to make tea. Sherlock, fully engrossed in the game, doesn’t even seem to notice and John allows himself a thoroughly self-satisfied smile.

***

Lestrade shows up about thirty seconds after Game Over (level twenty-one on Sherlock’s first attempt, which is hardly shocking) and John thinks he wants to kiss him for his timing (figuratively speaking, of course). Lestrade spots him in the kitchen and waves. John is not quite done with the dishes yet, so settles for nodding back.

“Inspector. Come to gloat?” Sherlock drawls from the sofa.

“Where’s your coffee table? And why would I gloat?”

“You’ve caught your killer at eleven forty five last night, two miles west of Heathrow.”

There’s a brief, stunned silence in which John mostly thinks this can’t end well. He risks a glance at Lestrade as he dries his hands off. The inspector looks about as flummoxed as John would expect, but not quite as angry. “How can you possibly know that? Have you been tracking my mobile again?” Lestrade turns to John with a frown. “Has he been tracking my mobile again?” John raises both hands in a ‘leave me out of it’ gesture and Lestrade turns back to Sherlock. “I’ve changed my password three times in the past two weeks!”

Sherlock snorts and throws the magazine he’s been flipping through to the floor. “Try to come up with one that isn’t so absurdly predictable then. Moira’s passport number? Please.”

“How the hell did you manage to find my daughter’s passport number?”

“You got her a trip to New York for her graduation. There was a copy of the electronic ticket containing her passport number on your desk last week.”

For a moment Lestrade simply stands there, speechless and indignant, and John feels a little guilty at how amusing he finds all this. “That’s great. Really. You’ve turned into a right stalker.”

“It’s simply a means to stay informed.”

“More like an infatuation.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow at that. “I’m not the one showing up in your home unannounced.”

“You haven’t left me much choice, what with ignoring my texts and screening my calls.”

“Withdrawal tends to make me anti-social.”

“More than usual, you mean? I doubt that’s even possible.”

“Is there an actual reason for this visit, or are you just here to pester me in my—“

“—Alright! Children!” John finally intervenes. He’s nearly forgotten how bad these two can be once they start bickering. “Can we all remember our age and try to have a civil conversation?”

Sherlock makes some indistinct and disgruntled noise, and Lestrade sends John an apologetic look before clearing his throat. When the inspector turns back to Sherlock he’s slightly more composed. “McCarthy, our killer, got himself a pesky solicitor. He convinced the judge that our evidence is circumstantial.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes and John can imagine him barely resisting a comment about the Yard’s sloppy police work. “You want me to find you a smoking gun.”

“Sometime in the next twelve hours, or McCarthy walks.”

Sherlock gestures at Lestrade’s shoulder bag. “Are those forensics reports?”

Lestrade takes the bag off, hands it over. “And crime scene photographs, and witness testimonies. It’s all there.”

Sherlock digs out the files like a kid unwrapping Christmas gifts, not even attempting to hide his interest. He breezes past Lestrade and John, who’s leaning against the partition, carries the files into the kitchen and begins arranging them on the table.

The relief on Lestrade’s face is unmistakable. John comes to stand next to him, takes in the inspector’s somewhat frayed appearance. He can imagine how frustrated he must be at the prospect of losing the perpetrator after all the hard work put into capturing him.

“Thanks for that,” John tells him quietly, gesturing to Sherlock in the kitchen. “I was going a little insane.”

“I wish I could take credit, but I’m genuinely desperate for that evidence.”

“He’ll get you what you need,” John assures him.

Lestrade nods, his expression weary as he watches Sherlock scanning over the files. Several silent moments later he turns away from the kitchen and looks at John. “Do you think I’ve made a mistake, taking him off the case?” he asks quietly.

It takes John by surprise — he’s not used to Lestrade sounding so unsure. “Depends on your point of view, I guess. I think you’ve done him a favor at the expense of the investigation, but he won’t ever see it that way.”

“I’m not expecting his gratitude,” Lestrade replies with a shrug.

“Well, you have mine,” John tells him frankly.

Lestrade stops, looking mildly surprised as he and John share a meaningful look. Gratitude is all John has to offer at the moment. In truth he’s afraid to think of where they’d currently be without Lestrade’s intervention.

“Can I get you a cup of coffee? Tea?” John offers.

“Get it somewhere else!” Sherlock snaps in annoyance from the kitchen. “I can’t concentrate with the two of you constantly yammering.”

John turns to him with a frown, intending on reminding Sherlock that this is his flat, too. However, a touch on his elbow stops him.

“Come on, I’ll buy,” Lestrade offers placidly.

***

They end up in a booth at the café down the street, relaxing over coffee and croissants.

“Pilocarpine? My mother used to get that for her glaucoma,” Lestrade says with a frown.

John rubs his eyes tiredly. “Trust Sherlock to discover its more creative applications. How did you find out, by the way? He had me completely fooled.”

“Wish I could say that I did. His brother called me Thursday morning.”

“Mycroft? Huh.” John shakes his head. Oddly enough, that makes a lot of sense.

“I’m actually surprised he called me and not you,” Lestrade adds.

John isn’t surprised in the slightest. He knows exactly why Mycroft hadn’t contacted him. “He blames me for it.”

“Blames you?” Lestrade seems confused. “For what? A child killer decided to mess with his brother’s head — how's that your fault?”

John sighs. It’s been niggling at him since this morning. “He… approached me during that case. Mycroft. I think, in a way, he knew how it would end before Sherlock did. He warned me about the repercussions, asked me to get Sherlock to stop investigating.”

“As if you could have.”

“I didn’t even try.” John shrugs. “A little girl’s life was at stake. I knew Sherlock was the best chance of finding her.” He lets out a sharp, mirthless laugh. “I actually told Mycroft that he was underestimating Sherlock.”

Lestrade shakes his head. “That kid is alive now thanks to Sherlock. You can’t tell me you’d choose differently now given the chance.”

John thinks about that for a moment. “Maybe not… but Mycroft was still right. I couldn’t see that Sherlock is more fragile than he lets on.”

“He’s not frail, John. He’s an addict.”

John raises an eyebrow at the sudden bleakness in Lestrade’s tone. “You think he brought it on himself?” he asks carefully.

“I can’t imagine what it’s like in his head. I know it can’t be easy, but ultimately the drugs are his choice.” Lestrade’s mouth twists bitterly then. “You can’t blame yourself. You… can’t be expected to care about people who don’t care about themselves.”

To John this isn’t a revelation — his sister would testify to that, at the very least — but the obvious pain in Lestrade’s voice is unexpected. It makes John suspect that it’s himself the DI is trying to convince to stop caring, rather than John. “He cared enough to stop,” John tells him. “For now, at least.” He adds that last bit because he’s not foolish enough to think there won’t be a next time.

Lestrade nods and looks away. “Yeah. It’s good, that he has you... your support.”

“Not sure about the extent of my support. Mostly I make the tea and try to keep things from exploding too frequently.”

“It’s why he likes you so much,” Lestrade notes with a small smile. “You don’t mollycoddle him, you give him his space. It’s the perfect relationship.”

John rolls his eyes, considers printing out a sign for this. “We’re not sleeping together. I’m not gay.”

Lestrade smirks and sips his coffee. “Sounds like something I used to tell my wife.”

“I’m not in denial, either. I’ve no intention of getting into his pants — they’re all yours.”

Lestrade chokes a bit on the coffee and John tries not to snicker as the inspector attempts to clear his throat. “It’s not like that,” he manages between coughs.

“It’s fine,” John says in dismissal. “It’s none of my business and I don’t really want to know.” He also doesn’t think the fine-print would settle his mind.

“If he’s been telling you details about—“

“—nothing of the sort,” John assures him. “He didn’t even mention it until I asked.”

“Oh. Well, good,” Lestrade says gruffly. There’s an awkward moment in which both of them study the tabletop in silence. At some point Lestrade lets out a long-suffering sigh and looks back up. “What did he say?”

This is the second, entirely surreal conversation John finds himself having in one day. When did he turn from an army doctor into a couple’s therapist?

“Um… only that it’s a casual thing… and that… it might be over.”

Lestrade seems to take a moment to absorb this. Finally he nods and looks away.

John studies his profile, notices the scowl. He’s hardly an expert in these things, but he’s beginning to get the impression that things are happening beneath the surface that aren’t typical to a casual affair.

“What am I missing here…?”

Lestrade turns to him and shrugs in dismissal. “No, nothing. That’s pretty accurate. I mean… he calls me up once in a blue moon. I never know if there’s going to be a next time.”

Learning that Sherlock’s interest in sex is rare and sporadic wouldn’t come as a shock to anyone who knows him, but John is still having trouble seeing the bigger picture. “But still… you keep taking him back.” If the inspector is only looking to get off, surely there are less complicated options.

“And regardless of recent events, I probably will next time, too,” Lestrade tells John in a distinctly self-deprecating tone. “Sherlock is hard to refuse… even though I know he only does it because he’s bored, or when he can’t sleep.”

John stares at him for a beat, somewhat incredulous. “You weren’t joking when you said you don’t know him at all,” he says, but has to reiterate at Lestrade’s hurt expression. “Sherlock… plays the violin when he can’t sleep. He destroys inanimate objects when he’s bored. When he calls you up it’s because he wants your company.”

Lestrade blinks, huffs and looks away. “That’s cute, but doesn’t change the fact that Sherlock and I can’t stand each other for longer than two hours at a time.”

“Two hours is record-breaking with Sherlock,” John points out and smiles when Lestrade bursts out laughing. “Really, most people don’t last ten minutes before either running away or resorting to physical violence.” He’s not entirely excluded from that statement, he realizes. He can remember more than one occasion where he’d come home to find Sherlock in one of his moods and stayed only long enough to pack an overnight bag before heading over to Sarah’s.

“I’ll… keep that in mind,” Lestrade says finally, still amused.

John becomes distracted by the appearance of a familiar tall figure at the café entrance. Sherlock barely spares them a glance as he strides over, his attention on the mobile phone in his hand instead.

“We need to get to 344 Marbury Road at once. I suspect McCarthy will be paying someone to cover his tracks — time is of the essence if we want to find anything admissible.”

Lestrade seems pleased at that, digs in his wallet for cash as John looks Sherlock over. After three days of seeing his flatmate in pajamas, the sight of Sherlock dressed, well-groomed and in his element — dramatic coat and all, is both refreshing and reassuring.

“Are we expecting trouble?” John asks as he shrugs into his coat.

At that Sherlock looks up from his phone and sends him a brilliant smile “Always.”

***

Trouble turns out to be an understatement. Two men sent by McCarthy are in the process of torching the house when John and Lestrade kick the door in. Both are armed, but Lestrade has the element of surprise; he manages to corner one of them before any shots are fired. The second man drops the paraffin container he’s holding and makes a dash for the basement. He’s promptly followed by Sherlock.

John shouts after him to wait. Sherlock, of course, ignores him — he’s unarmed but that’s never stopped him before. Lestrade is already calling for backup but John doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t stop to think. He takes the stairs down after Sherlock, cursing under his breath, and finds himself rolling down the last few steps when a bullet flies inches from his head. He takes cover behind some crates and blinks furiously as his eyes adjust to the darkness.

The trajectory of the bullet indicates to John that the shooter is approximately eight meters away at his ten o’clock. He thinks he can make out Sherlock’s form behind a pillar straight ahead. John’s foot brushes against something and he glances to his left to see a broom propped up against the crate.

He plans quickly; with a few twists of his wrist he separates the wooden broom handle from the brush. He hears movement and sees Sherlock dashing from one pillar to another. Predictably, the shooter follows, gun aimed after the motion. He fires two shots which ricochet off the pillar. When Sherlock moves again John takes advantage of the shooter’s turned back and makes his move. He dashes out from behind the crates, broom-handle clutched tightly in both hands. The shooter hears the scuff of his shoes and turns just as John swings down. The handle strikes hard against the shooter’s wrist and the gun clatters to the floor. John jabs the handle into the guy’s solar plexus. Sherlock appears just in time to deliver a well aimed elbow into the shooter’s kidney and the man collapses to the floor with an ‘oooff’.

“Stay down!” John orders, emphasizing his words with a firm foot in the middle of the man’s back.

Sherlock kicks the gun further away and starts looking around the room, turning on the light as he passes by a swinging light bulb.

“Everything alright down there?” Lestrade calls from above.

“Marvelous,” Sherlock calls back. “John’s got a big stick.”

There’s a short silence followed by Lestrade’s amused voice. “Want some handcuffs to go with it?”

Sherlock’s brow furrows and John gets the impression the humor is rather lost on him. “Some evidence bags would be helpful as well,” Sherlock replies.

***

Twenty minutes later John and Sherlock are contemplating dinner plans as they watch Sergeant Donovan manhandling McCarthy’s handcuffed henchmen into the back of a police car. Lestrade comes out of the house with another evidence bag, hands it over to one of his men and heads over to them. To John he looks very pleased.

“That house is going to keep Anderson busy for a week,” the inspector informs them. “It looks like both murders took place in the basement. We found the murder weapon with some of MaCarthy’s bloody clothes.”

“Even better than a smoking gun,” John notes. “You should start charging,” he tells Sherlock with a small smile.

Sherlock smirks back, turns to Lestrade. “It’s doubtful the inspector would be able to afford me. I’ll have to settle for his heartfelt gratitude instead.”

Lestrade huffs and sends Sherlock a fond look. “You have it. If my entire team wasn’t present and watching I’d kiss you, too.”

“What’s the matter, Inspector?” Sherlock mocks, “Worried they’d no longer respect your authority once they find out you’ve been fornicating with the help?”

John is ready to elbow Sherlock in the ribs for his callousness, but Lestrade doesn’t seem at all irritated. If anything, he seems contemplative. After a beat the inspector rolls his eyes, takes hold of Sherlock’s coat lapels and leans in to kiss him. It’s a simple, light press of lips against lips that could pass for perfunctory, but lingers long enough to become unmistakably intimate.

John catches himself, averts his eyes in a polite attempt to stop staring, only to discover that out of the numerous personnel around them he’s the only one who has bothered doing so.

When Lestrade pulls back he looks for a moment like he can’t quite believe his own actions. “Happy?” he asks Sherlock quietly.

“Delighted,” Sherlock replies, his expression unreadable.

Lestrade steps back and clears his throat. “Good. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go reassert my authority.”

“Of course,” Sherlock murmurs.

With a curt nod at John, Lestrade departs and heads over to Sally, who’s staring frostily in their direction.

“Well…” John starts but finds himself at a loss for words.

“That was… unexpected?” Sherlock offers.

“Quite, yes.”

“And rather confusing.”

“I would imagine.”

Sherlock is silent for a beat and then, “There’s implied significance to this, I suspect.”

John looks over to where Lestrade is now enduring an unpleasant-looking conversation with Donovan. “I’d have to agree.”

“I don’t quite know what it is,” Sherlock confesses.

John turns to him, takes in the frown, the hints of discomposure. He smiles because, in a way, it’s fitting that Sherlock’s powers of deduction would fail him on something as trivial as a public display of affection. “You’re a genius, Sherlock. You’ll figure it out,” he assures him.

If not, he’ll have to explain it to Sherlock over dinner, and that, John thinks, is fine too.

Tags:

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Date: 2011-01-18 03:32 pm (UTC)

From:

Trivialities, Lies and Fiction

Page Summary

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags