Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sherlock slowed his pace as he made his way back to 221B, remaining as inconspicuous as possible, careful not to reveal the fact he knew he was being followed.

He had been asked to assist with a case by Lestrade, simple, boring, solved within moments of his arrival. In the midst of his usual tirade of how incompetent the entire force was, Sherlock had paused unexpectedly, much to the relief of the officers.

Feeling an unfamiliar set of eyes locked on his person he bid Lestrade goodbye and speedily made his way further from the crime scene. Negating the use of a cab, he had taken several unnecessary turns and stops before ending up within the vicinity of his flat, the inkling of being watched never leaving his figure.

Finally he gave a sudden sprint around a corner, tucking swiftly into an alleyway as the feeling finally subsided. Waiting, and analyzing every citizen who had crossed the entrance of the alley, one eventually passed his field of vision that appeared out of place.

Hardly making a sound, Sherlock speedily snatched the stranger's wrist and pulled him into the seclusion of the alleyway, pinning both hands above his head with only one hand, pressing harshly into the brick wall.

He had not said a word, not yet, as he deduced several things about the person who had been following him.

‘Short, blonde hair, military cut, blue eyes, muscular build hidden by black turtleneck and baggy jacket, slight discomfort at having arms above his head, possible chest injury, most likely gunshot wound, tan complexion but pale line around wrist from a watch, has served time in the military, most likely a gunman judging by the weapon currently strapped to his hip…’

However, there was one last thing he was unable to discern.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

Sherlock had asked aloud without meaning to, causing the man to blink in confusion. Curiosity flashed in his eyes before seeming to purposely quell the questions bubbling within him.

“Afghanistan,” he answered. “How-”

“Who are you and why are you following me?”

Sherlock cut him off, glaring sharply at the shorter male.

“What, you can't deduce that?” He asked, a sarcastic smirk flickering across his tan features.

Either this man had no sense of what danger he was currently in, or he thoroughly reveled in such circumstances.

The detective tightened his grip, trying to intimidate the stranger but to no avail, instead he looked amused.

“Mycroft?”

“Oh, you know each other?”

“Unfortunately.”

He uttered with contempt, choosing to ignore the shorter male’s feigned surprise.

“I suppose you’re some sort of assassin, with experience having served in the military before being sent home due to an injury, with that look of discomfort I would wager you were shot in the left side of your chest. And now you’ve been sent to keep me from harm, either from a mad criminal or myself? How dull.”

“Huh?”

A light shot through his blue eyes, as he stared up at Sherlock.

“What?”

“Oh, er, Mycroft had mentioned you were a consulting detective who solves cases using the science of deduction. I hadn't believed that was such a thing and yet, here you are, reading my entire life as if it had been printed in ink. Quite brilliant, really.”

It was Sherlock's turn to be confused, though he would not admit it.

“That's not what people usually say.”

“What do they usually say?”

“Piss off.”

The shorter male shook with laughter, his head falling back against the brick wall. Sherlock found his laugh infectious, slipping into a fit of poorly suppressed chuckles.

Despite the serious situation the two men had ended up laughing amongst themselves as if they had long been friends. Clearing his throat, the tan gunman struggled to compose himself, looking up to meet Sherlock's silvery eyes.

“I'm John Watson.”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

He stated simply, releasing the ironclad grip on the gunman's wrists, much to his relief as he rubbed at the reddened skin, giving a testing roll of his now stiff shoulder. John’s eyes sparked in realization.

“Wait, Holmes? So you and Mycroft are…brothers?”

“Tragically.”

“Ah, that explains it.”

“Hm?”

“I was wondering why he had me trailing a consulting detective of all people instead of some possible threat. Must be a brotherly concern.”

Sherlock reflexively scrunched his nose at the thought.

“Don't be fooled, my brother is not capable of such sentiment.”

Readjusting his scarf, the detective folded his arms behind his back, looking over the gun for hire once more.

“As for you being assigned to protect me, it is entirely unnecessary. Head back and inform him that your services should be placed elsewhere.”

John did not falter, instead giving a swift shake of his head.

“He knew you’d say that. That’s why it’s been decided I’ll be moving in with you. Mycroft’s already set things up with your landlady, Mrs. Hudson, sweet woman. I’m to not leave your side until it’s deemed necessary for me to do so.”

Sherlock shot a deathly glare at the shorter male, only for him to square his shoulders and meet it back with equal force. Though he dreaded the thought of having to share the flat with one of Mycroft's goons, the detective was unable to deny the fact that he was utterly intrigued by such a peculiar character.

“I am known to play the violin at ungodly hours of the night.”

Sherlock started, hoping to put off the man with his own faults as a flatmate.

“Fine with me.”

“I also conduct dangerous experiments with volatile chemicals at all times.”

“Nothing wrong with a good sense of curiosity.”

“I rarely clean up after myself.”

“Luckily, I keep things rather tidy.”

“I can go days on end without moving or saying a word when the mood strikes me.”

“Alright then.”

Not a bit of hesitation. No recoiling at having such a troublesome and unpredictable flatmate. He could see Mycroft had not informed John of his shortcomings and yet there he stood. Unwavering. Letting out a huff of annoyance, Sherlock spun on his heel, and exited the alley, John following closely behind.

“This won't last.”

He hissed at the shorter male, to which he gave a nonchalant shrug, a playful smile curving to the gunman's lips.

---

 Fingers steepled to his mouth, Sherlock laid strewn across the couch in baggy pajamas and a blue bathrobe, lost in thought, or so it would seem. Every once in a while the detective would peek an eye open to glance over at his flatmate who had remained, much to his annoyance, for over a week now.

Sitting in a comfy chair facing the window, John rested directly across from where he lay, eyes focused on the morning newspaper. Reaching over to take a sip of hot tea between reading, Sherlock was surprised at how unassuming he had been able to appear in a rural setting.

Now dressed in a soft cream colored wooly jumper and blue jeans, he had noted the stark contrast between the black turtleneck and coat he had first seen him in. Had one seen the two mannerisms on separate occasions, a normal citizen would not have been able to realize they were both the same person.

A light knocking sounded at the door, Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock guessed to himself.

“Hoohoo, hello boys.”

The sweet landlady entered with a smile. John had placed the newspaper neatly on the arm of his chair, standing up to greet her.

“Morning Mrs. Hudson.”

He smiled back.

“Sorry to interrupt, I just wanted to bring you a welcome gift. Took me some time to perfect it but I think you’ll enjoy them.”

Walking over to the kitchen table, she set down a tray full of various sweets. Chocolate biscuits lie in a row next to brandy snaps and miniature treacle tarts.

“You’ve outdone yourself. I hardly think I’m worth the trouble you must’ve gone through making all of these.”

“Oh hush now dear.”

She tutted, tapping the chest of his jumper dismissively.

“You’ve been a delight to have around. With time you may be a good influence on Sherlock.”

She whispered the last part with a giggle.

Giving a sudden snort from the couch, the two glanced over to the unmoving detective before turning back to each other with fond smiles. Mrs. Hudson then made her way to the door, waving a goodbye to her tenants before disappearing down the stairs.

Admiring the tray of treats, John retrieved a few biscuits, stepped over to place a few on Sherlocks chest before returning to his chair to read. Munching on a chocolate biscuit, the shorter male was alerted by the ding of the detective's phone.

Snatching up the device, Sherlock immediately jumped to his feet, biscuits flinging straight into the door as he bolted off to his bedroom.

“A case! Finally!”

He exclaimed, hurriedly getting dressed. Things had been unbearably quiet since his last case, break in, suspect was easily found hiding his loot in the park, dull, hardly registered as a four. John being present was an even bigger annoyance, him tailing his every step, having received clearance into the crime scene thanks to a convincing ID from Mycroft. It made him feel like a child being chaperoned by a Nanny.

Since then he had been stuck at 221B, the only thing to distract him from mind numbing boredom being the mystery surrounding his forced flatmate.

Having attempted several revolting experiments with a couple of eyeballs and a severed head in the tub, he was frustrated to find the gunman had simply taken each one in stride, only eliciting irritation when he attempted putting fingers in the kettle which was quickly shut down.

And even then it had been less about the appendages and more about the kettle being off limits. Sherlock had deduced the unperturbed reactions to the body parts must be because he had dealt with gore frequently during his military years, and now as a hired Gun.

He then spent some time trying to decipher as to why and how he became a gunman in the first place, especially one who now served Mycroft of all people. Unfortunately, without any evidence, and a blatant unwillingness to contact his brother to get any more information, the detective was unable to draw any conclusions and thus put that one on hold.

There were of course several more curiosities that perplexed Sherlock.

For example, why was John always so adamant to make sure the detective ate at least a couple of bites of food a day? It was not a part of his job and yet he always found a way to ensure he would eat, either take out, sandwiches, or something he had cooked himself.

Holmes would never admit it aloud, but he found the meals John made to be oddly comforting, even if he would only eat a bite or two.

Another was the fact that despite being a gun for hire, he was quite…soft within the privacy of the flat.

He would treat Mrs. Hudson with kindness, and it would never be forced or with a hidden coldness behind his eyes.

Watson spent most of his time making tea, which appeared to be a tension diffuser for the gunman, or reading a new book or newspaper in the comfort of what quickly became his chair.

He also took it upon himself to retrieve groceries, though oftentimes he would come back muttering obscenities about a chip and pin machine. However, the most alarming, Sherlock noted, was the fact that he had grown accustomed to John’s presence.

Finding the flat was now deafening silent when he had gone to the store. Missing the way he would huff in mild annoyance upon finding a jar of eyeballs in the microwave. Or the soothing sounds of John flipping through the newspaper and preparing tea for both himself and the detective, whether he drank it or not.

Realizing the direction of his train of thought, Sherlock shoved them into the hidden corners of his mind palace, focusing on the matter at hand.

Now dressed in a sleek grey suit and purple button up, the detective came rushing out and swung on his coat and scarf.

He paused however, finding John now standing next to the door, a heavy coat pulled over his jumper and his gun secured behind his back out of view.

“What are you doing?”

“I think you already know that.”

The shorter nodded, giving a wave of his hand towards the door.

“Lead the way detective.”

Sherlock wanted to argue with the stubborn gunman, but his interest in a new case after such an extended period of silence outweighed his need to get him to bugger off.

“Fine. Don't slow me down.”

The detective warned, not even taking the time to read his reaction as he sped down the stairs and into the street. Easily waving down a cab, the detective nearly growled at John who was already there opening the door for him with a teasing smirk.

Glaring daggers at him Sherlock plopped in unceremoniously, listing off the address for the cabbie as the gunman scooted in from the other side.

Chapter Text

Rushing out of the cab, he left John to pay the driver as he ducked under the police tape and strutted into the crime scene, already noting several bits of interesting information.

A freshly dug grave lay at the far end of the cemetery, presumably for a funeral that was to be happening at this moment had it not been delayed by the discovery of a corpse.

Cold air weaved its way through the numerous tombstone, NSY snapping pictures of a body, male, only dead for at least eleven hours, rigamortis having long set in.

The lifeless form of the victim lay across the top of three separate graves, six foot one, nearly every strip of clothing missing apart from his pants and socks.

Kneeling down, the detective pulled out his magnifier and looked over a copper necklace, which appears to have once been coated in steel, now fused around the neck of the corpse. Looking further, Sherlock noted a single burn mark at the bottom of his left foot which had made a large hole in the red fabric of his socks.

It did not take him long to notice John was now standing behind him, peering down at the victim with an odd look on his face.

Letting out an exasperated sigh, he slumped his shoulders and cast an annoyed look his way.

“You're thinking too loudly.”

Sherlock scolded, receiving a brow arched in confusion before the gunman shook his head and knelt down.

“It looks like he's been asphyxiated, but there are no signs of strangulation, much less of a struggle.”

“And?”

The detective found he was curious as to what this gun for hire could glean from the corpse, half expecting him to be just as unhelpful as the rest of the officers bumbling about.

Humming in thought, John turned to address Lestrade instead of answering the question, obviously wanting to confirm something before saying his thoughts aloud.

“Is there any way we can flip the body?” 

The DI made his way over, having gathered witness testimonies, scribbling something into a notepad as he looked over the scene.

“Yeah, you should be fine too. Here.”

He retrieved some gloves for the two to put on before touching the body.

Carefully John and Sherlock flipped the corpse over until his back was completely visible.

The detective found his eyes locked on an intricate tree-like pattern etched into the victim's back, still bright red.

“Lichtenberg…” he mumbled, confirming his earlier theory.

“Lichten- what? Stop making up words, freak!” Donovan snarled, looking upon the consulting detective with pure disdain.

Sherlock sprung to his feet, clasping his hands together.

“Perhaps, Donovan, you should spend less time trying to get your leg over with the new forensics specialist and more time with a book. You might be familiar with the term Lichtenberg figures. Also known as Keraunographic markings. Still confused, why am I not surprised?”

She crossed her arms, sneering as Sherlock continued.

“They are defined as fern-like patterns that may appear on the skin of lightning strike victims. Typically they disappear within twenty-four hours but since our victim had died roughly eleven hours ago they are still a glaring red.”

“So the bloke was struck by lightning. Case closed.” She shrugged.

“That would be the case, however there hasn't been a storm in over a week, less so this morning. Also it would be wise to note there appears to be the absence of scorch marks within the cemetery. Meaning this is not the place of his death. Someone had moved him, most likely with an accomplice due to the height and weight of our victim and the lack of drag marks.”

He had rattled off all of this, all the while appearing more and more excited, nearly rolling back on his heels.

“Don't you see? This could mean our suspect has found a way to use lightning as a murder weapon!”

“Sounds a bit Syfy, if you ask me.” She commented with a roll of her eyes.

“That is because you lack imagination, Agent Donovan.”

Trotting over to the disturbed dirt surrounding the large hole in the ground, he took quick notice of a discarded shovel.

“Can anyone tell me why they decided to bring the corpse to a cemetery?”

Sherlock asked, not even looking around to address the officers who remained silent, all of course Anderson who finally piped up.

“Remorse?”

“Not even close.”

The detective dismissed swiftly.

 “In fact it would appear they were on their way to hide the body in this very grave. Had they not been interrupted, they would have dug deeper, placed the corpse inside, and effectively disposed of it once buried under the same layer of dirt. The funeral would have gone on without any suspicions and no one would have ever known there was a murder victim hidden just below the casket.”

“Hold on, the witnesses hadn't said anything about seeing anyone moving the body.”

Lestrade interjects, looking over his notes.

“Ms. Francis stated she’d been walking her dog when she spotted a possible drunkard asleep in the cemetery. She was about to budge him with her cane when she noticed he was in fact deceased. Nearly gave her a heart attack.”

“Which means we have a missing witness.” Sherlock smirked, a curious glint in his silvery eyes.

“One who had seen two suspects transporting the corpse, and incidentally spooked them off, leading them to drop the body and leave the shovel. And another who was ready in a nearby vehicle to make a getaway. Now the question remains. Who is our mystery witness and where are they now?”

He hummed in thought for a moment before turning fully to face the silver haired DI.

“Do we have the name of our victim?”

“Uh, not yet.”

Lestrade responded slowly, looking to be in desperate need of a strong coffee, trying his best to catch up with the evidence that had been practically thrown at him. 

“None of the witnesses could identify him and he didn't have any kind of ID-”

“Contact me once you can at least place a name to our victim. I’ve got much to investigate. Come along, John. The game is on.”

And with that he tossed off the medical gloves and sped his way out of the cemetery, taking out his phone to snap a picture of a license plate of a nearby vehicle parked on the opposite side of the street. 

He then took a photo of a seemingly random patch of road before continuing to walk over to a nearby sidewalk. 

Watson was swift to follow as Sherlock typed away on his device.

“That was excellent!”

The gunman blurted out, a wide smile across his tan features.

Startled, Sherlock paused, staring intently at the shorter male in an attempt to discern whether he was being sincere or feigning admiration.

“Really?”

“Absolutely. Fantastic! I'm pretty sure Donovan is still stuck on the Lichtenberg figures.” 

He started with a laugh, looking back at the officers as they prepared to transfer the body.

‘Sincere…how odd…’

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock took a step closer to the gunman.

“I see you’ve been holding out on me, Doctor.”

John appeared faintly perturbed, locking his blue eyes with the detective's silver pair.

“You have medical training. Capable of noticing the signs of asphyxiation and with the knowledge of Lichtenberg figures, enough to know to check the back of the corpse. Though it isn't always present for victims of being struck by lightning, you knew it was a possibility. Were you an army doctor as well as a soldier during your time in Afghanistan?”

After a breadth of silence, John eventually let out a long sigh, scrubbing a hand through his blonde hair.

“Can't hide anything from you, can I?”

“You can try, but we both know it would be a wasted effort.”

Sherlock fell silent for a moment, appearing to analyze their surroundings.

“Let's get lunch.”

He suddenly offered, catching John off guard.

“What?”

“Lunch? You know, a meal eaten in the middle of the day-”

“I-I know what lunch is, Sherlock. I just didn't, you know-” he cleared his throat, forcing his shoulders to relax. “Sure. Where did you have in mind?”

---

Having been seated by a cheery fellow named Angelo, who had hugged Sherlock the moment they walked in much to John's surprise, the two placed their orders and sat in silence.

Not long after Angelo came back with a candle and lit it with a beaming smile.

“More romantic.” He winked, returning to the kitchen just as fast as he had appeared.

Neither one mentions the candle, though Sherlock swore he saw John stifle a chuckle before choosing to be distracted by something outside.

Busying himself with his phone, the detective hardly took notice of his meal being set before him.

Just as John had taken a bite of his food, Sherlock gave a sudden ‘Aha!’ 

“It appears my earlier suspicions have been confirmed. We are dealing with a murder kidnapping.”

Watson took a sip of water, eying the obviously excited detective.

“And how is that?”

“Our missing witness had in fact been the funeral director, Charles Quinton, who has been missing since 6 this morning. He must have been there to prepare for the upcoming burial, but ended up stumbling upon our suspects mid transport of our victim. Charles must have recognized one or both of them. Why else snatch him up? My homeless network was able to find his cell having been smashed and tossed in a bin.”

“Wait-wait-wait! Homeless network?”

“Yes, keep up! They’ve been proven to work more efficiently than our very finest at the NSY.”

“What about the name? And…and the phone?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, retrieving his phone and turning it to show a picture of a license plate.

“After running the plate I’ve found this car does indeed belong to Mr. Quinton. It was parked on the opposite side of the street along with a ticket stuck to the windshield indicating it had been there since seven this morning.”

Giving a quick swipe he revealed a second picture and zoomed in to reveal the faintest scattering of broken glass across asphalt.

“This is where they had smashed his phone before tossing it in the nearest bin since they were pressed for time.”

Sherlock then pocketed his device, a successful smile across his pale features.

“I suspect we will find our witness rather soon, most likely in a place furthest away from the crime scene, having either been robbed or murdered in some obscenely different circumstance than our victim in an attempt to throw us off their trail.”

John smiled at the pleased detective.

“Brilliant.”

Sherlock squinted his eyes.

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“You keep…complimenting me. If this is some sort of attempt at flattery then I should let you know it won't work.”

John chuckled.

“I'm just being honest. You truly are a brilliant man. Your mind works in such a unique and amazing way that no one can even begin to comprehend. I consider myself lucky to be able to witness it in person.”

After taking a bite of food, still being scrutinized by the suspicious detective, he cleared his throat.

“However, if it makes you uncomfortable, I could keep my compliments to myself. Keep it professional and what not.”

“I never said that.”

Sherlock quickly responds, avoiding eye contact by pushing his food around with a fork.

John hides a smirk behind a forkful of food, noticing a faint dusting of pink across the detective's cheekbones.

Suddenly, Sherlock's silver eyes met his own, a question lingering just behind them.

“Uh, what is it?”

“How did you go from army medic to gun for hire?” 

He had asked, trying to sound bored with the inquiry but John could see it had been eating away at him for some time.

The doctor cleared his throat and straightened up in his seat, pondering just how much he should tell him.

“And don't try to hide anything.” 

Sherlock warned, his stare seeming to confirm that trying to do so would end in absolute failure. 

Watson sighed, taking another drink from his glass.

“You sure you wanna know? It's pretty boring really.”

“That will be for me to judge, no?”

Meeting the detective's gaze, the doctor could see no way out of this topic, rubbing a hand over his face with a groan.

“Fine, fine. Uh, well, you already know I got shot, sent back to London and had to make regular visits to a therapist to reintegrate me back into society.”

“Hm, dull.”

Sherlock quipped, eliciting a smirk from John unintentionally.

“Even dealt with an annoying psychosomatic limp for a good bit. Until one particularly bad nightmare, and feeling hopeless for the future, I uh…I grabbed my gun and…went for a walk.” 

He paused, his smile long gone, looking intently at the cold glass within his hand before continuing.

“Walking about here and there I found an abandoned building. The door had already been wedged open so I went inside, and made my way up to the roof. All was silent when a sudden ear splitting scream sounded from below. Looking down over the edge I saw this man holding a knife to a woman's neck, clamping his hand over her mouth as he started dragging her away.”

The detective could see a burning rage spark through his eyes as he recalled the memory, though he kept his expression surprisingly neutral.

“There wasn't a soul out that night, so he's clearly going to get away with whatever he was planning. Before I realized what I was doing, I’d already pulled out my gun, aimed and…that was it.”

“KnightsRidge.”

Sherlock stated casually, his fingers steepled to his lips.

“Y…yeah?”

“Lestrade had asked for my assistance to identify the shooter. Anderson stupidly suggested it was a mere gang fight gone wrong but I quickly disproved it. There were lipstick smeers covering his left palm, letting me know he had been attempting to keep a woman silent, trying to drag her away with a knife to her throat. It was all too easy to follow the trajectory of the gunshot wound to a nearby building. There were footprints in the otherwise undisturbed dust covering the stairs with an indentation of a cane. However the same prints heading in the opposite direction did not have traces of said cane. That must mean you no longer needed it after your act of vigilantism. Cured of your psychosomatic limp by the need to protect.”

He rattled off everything with a calculating calmness. 

John could practically see the pieces falling into place within his silver eyes.

Watson had to prevent himself from calling him brilliant, but the amazement must have been clear across his face because a satisfied smirk came to rest upon the detective's pale lips. 

“Three years later and I am now sitting across from the perpetrator Scotland Yard has been unable to track down…and he's my flatmate.”

The doctor was unable to stop a snicker, clearing his throat and covering his mouth to no avail.

“Sorry, it's just the irony-” He started to giggle uncontrollably, eventually forcing himself to calm down with a sigh.

 “So, are you gonna turn me in or…”

“No…” Sherlock quickly responds, an odd shimmer in his silver eyes. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“You’d be able to get me out of your way.”

“True, however, that would only result in Mycroft hiring another guard to take your place. Whereas I would enjoy the trouble it would cause him, I’ve become rather accustomed to your presence.”

He muttered the last part of the sentence, silently hoping John would miss it, but judging by the twitch of a smile and soft blush adorning his tanned features, Sherlock realized he did indeed hear his words.

Pretending to be distracted by his phone, the detective cleared his throat.

“You still haven't told me how you became an official gunman.”

“Didn't I?”

“No. You’ve more alluded to me how you found your, calling, as it where, but not the events that transpired to the point of you being hired by my brother. Or how you even obtained the title of gun for hire. Are you popular among those in need of an assassin?”

John snorted with a shake of his head.

“Yeah, no, not really. I'm a hell of a good shot, but I guess I have a reputation for being…picky?”

“Picky?” Sherlock echoed with a curious quirk of an immaculate brow.

“Eh, I don't really do the whole ‘no questions asked’ bit. If innocent lives are in danger due to some bastard on a power trip I have no qualms putting a bullet through them. But being ordered to blindly take someone out cause they deserve it? I don't care how deep their pockets are, I’m not putting someone in the ground unless they have a solid reasoning behind it.”

“What difference does it make?”

“What?” John asked, his brows scrunching together in confusion.

“Whether you accept or refuse the job, won't they simply find another gun man with little moral compass?”

A mischievous smirk flickered to his lips, scratching the back of his neck as he leaned back in his chair.

“Let's just say, I may or may not send anonymous tips to the appropriate authorities if an unnecessary life was at risk. Including some damning evidence that leaves them no room to escape no matter how much money they have.”

Sherlock had long put away his phone, watching the contradicting man sitting before him with every bit of focus he dedicated to an interesting case.

“And you’ve never been exposed?”

“I don't meet my clients face to face. Anonymity has its uses. I also have this odd gift to simply disappear into a crowd. No one hardly pays any mind to a limping, boring veteran on his way to Tesco.”

“Mycroft?”

“Ah, that was an interesting day. I don't usually have clients pull up in a black sedan as I’m on my way to the park for a stroll.”

“Dramatic.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother's actions but continued listening with intense focus.

“It was the first time someone hired me to protect a life rather than cut it short. I was…intrigued to say the least. Guess it appealed to my doctor side.” 

He huffed a short laugh, shaking his head. 

“In the end, I accepted and here I am. Didn't expect you to find me out so fast though. Mycroft suspected as much but I was confident I could avoid that outcome. Guess it's the first time I was pleased to be proven wrong.”

John smiled with clear sincerity before catching himself and diverting his attention to his meal.

Sherlock had wanted to pry more, to understand the events that led up to him becoming a gun for hire. However he could plainly see such information was not going to be willingly divulged any time soon.

John had skirted around that topic so far but was open about everything else with little restraint.

What could it be that he did not want him to see?

Instead of demanding the details and pull them from the gunman uncomfortably, he denied his curiosity for once, deciding to let the topic be for now.

It was rather absurd, but he did not want to risk driving away someone as interesting as John Watson.

A never ending source of mystery though he deems himself boring and broken.

Tapping away on his phone, Sherlock waited until the doctor had finished his meal before jumping from his chair and slipping on his coat and scarf.

Watson was swift to follow, shouting a quick thanks to Angelo as the two sped out of the restaurant and into the now foggy streets.

“Where are we headed?” The doctor asked, pulling his coat closer as a cold breeze whipped past them, a light spattering of rain starting to fall. 

“Home. It appears our suspects are taking their time relinquishing the next victim and I’d rather wait back at the flat. I have an interesting experiment with mold cultures to keep me busy until then.”

Chapter Text

Sherlock typed away on the laptop, eyes scanning swiftly over the information presented as he switched from one tab to the next.

The experiment with the mold cultures had produced uninteresting results leaving the detective with nothing much to do but conduct an endless stream of research pertaining to the case.

Waiting impatiently for the next body to reveal itself, he sat sprawled out in his black chair, a slight scowl across his features.

Scrubbing his hands through his curly hair in agitation, he readjusted to now be curled in more, long legs dangling over one arm as he started a new search.

He hardly took notice of the bathroom door swinging open, ears twitching at the sound of John on his way to his room when he stopped halfway.

“Is that my laptop?”

“Hm?”

The detective continued scrolling as if he had not heard the inquiry.

“Sherlock.”

“Yes, John?”

“Is that my laptop?” He repeated, sounding a bit more irritated this time.

“Obviously.” Sherlock shrugged as he opened another tab.

“And where's yours?”

“Accident with a vial of acid, chemical and electrical fire, blah, blah, blah…”

“Blah, blah, blah?” John echoed with a huff of laughter.

“Yes, blah,blah,blah. Now if you don't mind I am trying to solve our case-” Sherlock finally looked up to glare at the gunman only for the words to die in his throat mid rant.

John had apparently forgotten a change of clothes when he had decided to get a shower, now standing in the middle of the flat in nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist.

He found his eyes doing a quick scan of the gunman's exposed appearance of its own volition.

A faint hue of rosey pink was scattered over his tanned features and the tips of his sturdy shoulders from the scalding waters, his still soaked golden hair sticking up messily from a quick attempt at drying it with a towel.  

Silver eyes flicked over the pale violent scarring stretched across his left chest, hinting at a viscous exit wound on the back.

Though he had been curious about the injury since he first deduced its existence, Sherlock found his attention drawn to the sharp definition of the assassin's muscles instead.

Still tanned from time in the sun, and seeing as his arms and chest were still in great shape, he could assume John found time to work out despite not having seen him do so.

Before his thoughts could derail into dangerous territory, Sherlock caught himself staring for just a moment too long, clearing his throat and forcing his attention back to the laptop.

Trying not to focus on the curious expression that had settled on John's face, he started typing away once again.

“I should be done soon.”

Sherlock finally forced the words from his suddenly very dry throat.

“Alright…” The gunman responded slowly, a hint of suspicion in his voice. “Just keep the chemicals far away from it, yeah?”

The detective could only hum in confirmation as John made his way up stairs to get a fresh change of clothes.

Finally free from sight, Sherlock let out a stifled grunt of annoyance, covering his now burning face with his hands.

Though he tried to delete the image of the scarcely dressed soldier from his mind palace, it had already set up permanent residence amongst the other facts pertaining to his flatmate.

An odd feeling of warmth curled within the base of his gut as he found his mind transfixed on the image.

How could his hair be such a perfect hue of gold with specks of silver?

Would it be soft or corse beneath his fingers?

How would it smell?

Such a curious shade of deep blue in his eyes, seemingly able to change depending on his mood.

And yet all the colors adorning his flatmate seem to all blend together beautifully with his sun tanned skin from his years in the military.

How is he still in such good shape?

When did he find the time to continue the necessary work out without the detective being able to notice?

What would the scar feel like against his palm?

Or perhaps…his lips?

Alarmed by the growing heat and concerning trail his thoughts had taken, he gave a quick shake of his head to clear them away, growling at the betrayal of his transport.

Directing his focus back to the case, Sherlock scrolled through several more sites before finding a possible lead.

With a curious hum and snapping the laptop shut, the detective leapt up from his chair, swinging on his coat and scarf just as he heard John make his way down stairs.

“We’re going out.”

He declared, already darting towards the front door.

“Wha- hang on!”

Watson exclaimed, snatching up his coat as he hurriedly slipped on his boots.

He finally made his way out to the street just as Sherlock hopped into a cab.

Sliding in next to the mad detective, he had missed the address as the cabbie drove off to their unknown destination.

“Where are we off to?”

John asked in the silence of the cab.

“London Museum of Water and Steam.”

He swiftly replied with little else for explanation, trying his best to ignore the fact he could detect the doctors shampoo in the close proximity of the cab.

“And why are we going there?”

John urged, hoping for more information.

“I assume it has something to do with the case.”

“It has everything to do with it.”

Sherlock stated with a smirk.

“It just so happens they recently hosted a convention for Tesla Coil enthusiasts. Hobbyists would bring in their own Coils and trade advice between other attendees. The festivities had been concluded as of yesterday. It meets just within the time range of the murder and disposal of the body.”

“Lightening as a murder weapon.”

John muttered with a smile, echoing what Sherlock had said at the crime scene.

“So we'll be on the lookout for any suspicious burn marks.”

“Most of them may already be cleaned up but the one necessary to have been the cause of death should still be lingering.”

“So, what's the plan once we get there?”

Sherlock glanced over to the gunman, unable to suppress a mischievous smile that spread across his pale features.

-----

John did his best to withhold an exasperated sigh, plastering an attentive smile across his lips as the guide continued to explain the various activities available for children at the museum.

He continued to respond to her every inquiry, trying to push away the fact that Sherlock was now practically draped against his right shoulder, one arm hooked within the crook of his elbow.

The detective wore a smitten smirk, having slipped on the mask of a sweet and love struck husband. 

John’s husband to be exact. 

A group of children on a field trip sped past the two, giggling among themselves as they went on to the next part of the exhibit, their chaperon trying with difficulty to keep their attention.

“Aww, look at them!”

Sherlock cooed, catching the attention of the guide.

“This place will be perfect to bring our child, wouldn't it, dear?”

He smiled, pulling John even closer to himself.

“Have you two picked out a kid? I know you’ve been approved but…”

She hesitated, looking a little flustered.

“Oh, no, not yet.”

The doctor replied, trying with great difficulty not to trip over his own words.

“We're still discussing it. They’re all just so precious, right love?”

“We’ll find the perfect one soon.”

Sherlock smiled, leaning in so close his dark curls tickled John's cheek.

The detective’s free hand reached up to cup the side of his face before pressing a quick kiss to his temple. 

The gunman's face flared a bright red, his heart skipping a beat at the random act of intimacy.

Reminding himself this was just an act, he forced his expression to remain in character despite the thumb softly rubbing circles over his cheek.

Sherlock suddenly stood completely straight, his eyes going wide, looking as if he had forgotten something as he directed his attention to the guide.

“Oh! Before we go, do you mind if we could take some pamphlets home? And perhaps we could sign up for the membership, that way we could come back with our little one?”

“Of course! I’ll be right back.” She agreed, quickly darting down the stairs and towards the main office.

Once she was out of hearing range, John shot an annoyed glare at the detective.

“Yes?”

Sherlock asked, raising a brow, his mask having slipped away as if it had never been there. 

The hand on his face had long fallen back to his side, John silently stamping down the fact he missed the contact already.

“Was this really necessary?”

He motioned with a shake of his still captive arm.

“We could've just said we worked with the police and asked to check the place.”

“Ugh, dull. This is more entertaining. Besides, have you considered the fact that our suspects may still be present? Remaining inconspicuous was our best bet to prevent any chances that they may abscond the premises. Anyways, I- John?” 

He had paused in his rambling, swiftly realizing the gunman's attention was elsewhere.

“John? What is it?”

“I…sorry…” he shook his head, but was still looking over at a massive steam engine. “I think that kid is watching us.”

“It's a museum for children, what do you expect?” Sherlock asked with a roll of his eyes.

“I dunno. It sounds crazy, but I think he knows what we're talking about.”

The detective finally released John's arm, repositioning to now be standing face to face with him, pretending to straighten the collar of the doctor's coat as he stole a sneaky glance of the child in question.

Unkempt dirty blonde hair stuck out in messy directions, hanging over bright green eyes. Sherlock noted he had a massive scar across his pale skin, arching from his right ear and nearly linking with the corner of his eye.

Realizing he had been spotted, the child hurriedly turned away, only to peek over once more.

Curious, Sherlock whispered a ‘hello’.

The kid seemed to perk up, unable to turn away this time.

“Do you understand me?”

He mouthed, making sure even John could hardly hear him.

Hesitantly, he gave a slow nod, wringing the hem of his shirt between his hands.

“Interesting.”

Sherlock mused, slowly walking over to the locomotive.

John was soon to follow, mostly wanting to make sure the detective did not scare the child.

“What are you doing?”

“He knows something and he obviously wants to tell someone. As well as being deaf, he's been able to read our lips from across the room, following along our conversation with little trouble.”

Without another word the two now stood near the locomotive.

The child had yet to move away, though he kept his eyes on the floor.

John could see he was terrified but not of them. Something was definitely troubling him.

Taking a deep breath, the doctor cautiously stepped closer and knelt to match his height.

Hesitantly the kid turned to meet his gaze, eyes going wide as John signed a question.

‘What’s your name? I'm John Watson.’

An excited smile rose to his pale features as he quickly signed back.

‘William.’

‘Nice to meet you William.’ He smiled in return. ‘Is something wrong? You look a little scared.’

The child hesitated, eyes flickering back to the polished floors.

‘Do you guys work for the police?’

‘In a way. You can trust us to help.’

 John's smile seemed to put William at ease, no longer wringing the hem of his shirt.

William started to sign so fast that the doctor nearly lost track of what he was trying to explain.

“Uh- H-he’s saying that at least three hours ago he and the other kids had just started their tour…” 

John relayed the conversation to Sherlock.

 “...he went off on his own to look at the engines when he spotted a massive man speaking angrily to a woman who was also upset…He could tell they were keeping their voices down cause no one else seemed to notice them…They weren't facing him fully but he was able to catch a few words…The large man said something about ‘doing their job’ and ‘money’ but the woman shook her head and started arguing back…”

William paused, his hands starting to shake for a moment as the events replayed in his mind.

‘It’s alright.’ John signed with a patient smile. ‘Just take your time.’

Nodding tentatively, he took a deep breath before signing a bit more slowly.

“She didn't see the other man as he came up from behind and clamped something over her mouth…He thinks the two men were twins…they looked exactly the same…The woman tried to fight him but…she eventually stopped moving…they quickly got her out of sight through a back door… but not before one of them spotted him…the man looked furious…he ran off to tell one of the chaperones but by the time he got their attention…they were gone…he tried explaining what he had seen but a group of kids had started climbing onto one of the trains and the chaperone had to run off to stop them…he’s afraid the angry man will come back and- hey-hey, calm down.”

The doctor stopped translating to place a reassuring hand on Williams trembling shoulders.

“Deep breaths, there we go. We won't let anything happen to you, alright? Promise.”

“That's a big promise to make.”

Sherlock stated, only to have John send him a quick glare.

“Well, I mean it.”

He responded, a steely resolve making his blue eyes shine sharply.

Suddenly, a small hand grabbed his wrist painfully tight, a shaky gasp sounding from the child.

Looking back to William, he found his eyes staring at something closer to the entrance, his face looking unnaturally pale.

“William?”

He tapped his hand to get his attention. 

Frightened green eyes met his own. 

“What is it?”

‘It’s him…’

He signed shakily, eyes flicking back to the slowly approaching figure.

John glanced over to see a janitor pushing a trolley of cleaning supplies and a large seemingly empty bin.

Though he had most of his face hidden by the brim of a simple brown cap, it was obvious he was making a deliberate b-line towards the child.

“Sherlock.”

“I know.” He muttered. “Out the back. Now. Bring the child.”

The doctor only had a split second to consider the legal trouble of them absconding with the kid when he felt William suddenly cling to his arm in an iron clad hug.

He could feel the fear making his heart pound, his eyes squeezed shut, awaiting the terrible fate the stranger had planned for him.

Taking a quick glimpse at the approaching stranger, he caught a faint sickening smile rising to his lips as he drew closer.

‘Oh hell no!’

Within an instant John lifted William into his arms, settling him against his right shoulder as he raced after Sherlock who had already found the back exit.

Just as they entered a dimly lit narrow hall, the startling clatter of a trolley being shoved into a wall echoed through the museum. 

Rushing down the hall and past several other doors most likely for storage, they found the one door marked with a glowing red exit sign and shoved it wide open.

A piercing alarm shrieked the moment they stepped outside, slamming it shut at the sound of fast approaching footsteps, two figures in similar height and appearance running straight for them in the narrow space.

Ignoring the continuous blaring alarm, John and Sherlock pushed a massive skip to secure the door and buy them some time to get away when they spotted a man blocking the only exit out of the alley.

“Triplets!?” The doctor exclaimed sharply. “Are you serious?”

“Hand over the kid and we'll let you gents go.”

The towering stocky man demanded with a surprisingly high pitched voice.

John and Sherlock exchanged glances, both failing to stifle a fit of giggles at the disproportionate tone.

“This isn't a game!” He yelled, pulling out a long dagger, clutching it in his left hand so tight his knuckles turned white. “Now hand over the kid and toss off!”

“No. That will not be happening any time soon.” 

Sherlock was finally able to respond after quelling the inappropriate laughter.

The hefty skip thudded like a drum as the two other suspects tried shoving it out of the way.

A twisted smile rose to the man's lips as he stepped closer.

“Then I guess my brothers and I will have some fun and slice you bastards to ribbons.”

John sighed, setting William down just behind Sherlock.

Immediately the child clung to the detective’s long coat, nearly knocking him over despite still being braced against the skip.

“I’ll be right back.”

The doctor whispered to William with a reassuring smile before turning to face the confident assailant.

“Your gun.”

Sherlock muttered quietly, a sudden realization flickering in his eyes.

“Yeah.” John confirmed with a shrug. “I didn't have time to grab it before you went blazing out of the flat.”

Despite this fact the gunman started walking towards the towering man, hands tucked into his coat pockets casually.

“Huh, I see we have a volunteer.”

The man laughed, lunging forward with a swing of his blade.

In the blink of an eye John had darted to the right, dodging the dagger while seizing his wrist.

Twisting his limb behind his back until he dropped the weapon, the doctor gave one swift push as a loud pop echoed through the alleyway, his arm being dislocated in an instant.

The agonized scream of the assailant echoed noisily through the alley before being cut off upon having his head slammed into the nearest brick wall.

His body crumpled to the filthy ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

John exhaled a loud sigh, slipping off a pair of simple black gloves Sherlock had not even seen him put on before tucking them away into his pockets.

The skip skidded sharply as the two pushed even harder to get out, seemingly emboldened by the pained shouts of their brother.

Scooping up the child Sherlock ran out of the alley, John soon to follow as the skip was loudly shoved away.

Chapter Text

The two ran as fast as possible, following the detectives helpful internal map of London until they were deemed far enough away to slow their pace.

Already nearing their flat, the use of a cab was deemed unnecessary, the now trio deciding to walk the rest of the way back.

William kept up with ease, his eyes darting back and forth, still fearful of the men trying to get him.

John soon noticed the foggy air was getting colder, the sprinkle of rain now turning into ice.

Realizing the child was ill equipped for the weather, most likely having left his jacket back at the museum, the doctor stopped walking and slipped off his coat.

He then knelt down and slid it over Williams narrow shoulders before zipping it back up.

The brown jacket looked massive on him, dangling over his hands and the tall collar covering half of his face.

“Sorry. It's not a perfect fit but it'll do till we get you to safety, alright?”

The child gave a shaky nod, the shivers that were once present already ebbing away thanks to the residual heat from John wearing the thick coat.

The gunman stood to continue walking when he felt a tiny cold hand wrap around his right hand.

Looking down, William seemed to avoid his gaze, staring stubbornly at the concrete.

Trying to supress a smile, the doctor continued forward without drawing any more attention to the child.

John was surprised to find Sherlock had stopped along with them instead of bolting off ahead, having watched the exchange in complete silence.

Seeing John had noticed, the detective spun on his heel and sped off as if nothing had happened.

Finally approaching the flat, Sherlock hardly looked shocked as a police car pulled up right next to him with the lights flashing.

Lestrade jumped out of his vehicle and straight into the detectives space, looking tired and now stressed out.

“What's this I hear about the two of you stealing a kid?!”

He shouted, waving his hands in exasperation.

“We didn't steal him.”

Sherlock corrected cooly.

“We took him away from a situation where his life was in danger and moved him somewhere safe. I believe you would refer to that as protective custody.”

John and William were now standing at the landing to 221B, watching the altercation.

“Damn it Sherlock! We have officers trained for this! Protective custody isn't just running off with a witness- much less a child- to wherever you deem necessary! You should've called me!”

“There wasn't time. He was about to be kidnapped by the suspect's who were involved with the death of the graveyard victim to most likely dispose of him in a similar fashion to our missing witness. And now, thanks to his eyewitness testimony, we know that there was a woman who had hired the three men to either commit the murder or help dispose of the body. Her remains will probably be popping up any time now since she refused to pay them for their services.”

 The detective rattled off the information, hardly seeming to take a breath as he did so.

John was honestly surprised he had not bitten off his own tongue with how fast he relayed everything.

The DI did not seemed pleased with this explanation, as he continued berating Sherlock for taking the child without going through proper procedure, explaining how he had been lucky he was the officer being assigned to sort this mess out.

The doctor was pulled away from the conversation by a light tug on the sleeve of his jumper.

William cast a curious look his way, his hands moving swiftly to sign.

‘Who’s that officer? Is he Sherlock's dad?’

John was unable to stop the snort of laughter as it erupted from his chest, causing the two men to glare back at him.

Lestrade’s eyes went wide, suddenly realizing the child was right there the entire time.

“That's him?”

He asked, more talking to John than Sherlock.

“Er, yeah. His name's William.”

Sending one last disapproving glare to the detective, the DI stepped just a bit closer, obviously not wanting to crowd or intimidate the kid.

“Hello William.”

He greeted kindly with a sincere smile.

 “I’m Detective Greg Lestrade. Are you doing alright? These two treating you well?”

William looked up at John who nodded at him, encouraging the child to trust the DI.

Still a little nervous, he gave a swift nod before signing to him.

‘Yes. I’m fine. Are you Sherlock's dad?’

A full blown smile spread across his tired face, his shoulders shaking with laughter.

Lestrade then turned to face Sherlock and started to sign his own question.

‘Well young man, what have you got to say for yourself?’

John had already started giggling, the detective looking back and forth between the two men appearing perplexed.

A realization struck the DI, meeting Watson's eyes.

‘Wait, does this twit actually not know sign language?’

The doctors smile dropped from his face, looking over at Sherlock before signing back.

‘You know, I don't think he does.’

John and Lestrade met each other's gaze before simultaneously chuckling at their newfound knowledge.

‘Looks like we have our own secret language.’

The DI signed, William watching the interaction with an amused smile.

‘Yeah, that is until the git masters it in one day.’

“You both are laughing now, but remember, I’ve memorized what you're signing and once I learn it I’ll know what you two have been saying.”

Sherlock interjects confidently.

This only made the two men to laugh even harder.

 Suddenly, the door to 221B swung open to reveal the cheery face of Mrs. Hudson, causing them to settle their laughter to roughly suppressed chuckles.

“Oh, I thought I heard you lot out here. Lovely to see you again detective.”

“Uh, and you as well-”

“Goodness me!”

The landlady loudly exclaimed upon spotting William, trotting down the steps to look him over.

“Poor dear! You must be freezing out here! Shame on you lads! Letting this wee one shiver in the cold while you yammer on. Come with me. We'll get you some warm clothes and a nice cuppa tea and you’ll be right as rain.” 

Mrs. Hudson had already started leading the befuddled child up the steps, wrapping a welcoming arm around his shoulders.

“Sherlock, those experiments of yours had better be cleaned up and well out of reach while he’s here. I will not have him getting hurt on my watch.”

She warned, keeping her voice stern but soft as she spoke.

“Of course, Hudders.”

He agreed with little fight, much to the surprise of the two men watching the events unfold.

“Good lad. Now John dear?”

“Y-yes, Mrs. Hudson?”

“Would you be so kind to tell me his name? I'm not too clear on my sign language but I'm awfully good at charades.”

She smiled warmly.

“Ah, right. It's William.”

“William. What a perfect name for a precious child. Thank you, John. See you ensure Sherlock does in fact clean up that mess of his.”

She tutted at Holmes before turning to lead the small kid inside.

“Will do.”

John smirked briefly over at the detective, only to receive a roll of his eyes and an annoyed scoff.

Sherlock then turned to face the bewildered DI.

“Well, Lestrade, what do you propose we do now?”

Snapping out of the dizzying whirlwind that is Mrs. Hudson and her kindness, Lestrade let out a long groan as he scrubbed a hand down his face.

“Alright…alright…you lot can watch over him for now. I’ll sort this mess out and keep you two out of cuffs. But! I’ll be checking in to ensure William’s being taken care of properly.” 

He then pointed to Sherlock with a stern glare. 

“None, and I absolutely mean none, of your experiments are to be conducted while he's here. Understand?”

The detective sighed dramatically.

“Fine. No experiments whatsoever.”

“Yeah, I don't trust that for a second.” Lestrade huffed with a laugh before looking over at John. “Keep him in line, alright.”

“What makes you think he has any kind of control over me?”

Sherlock asked indignantly. 

“I don't.” He shrugged as he trudged over to his vehicle, clearly exhausted. “But a voice of guidance never hurt anyone.”

And with that he shut the car door, flicked off the lights and drove down the street.

Just as Sherlock turned to enter 221B, John shot a hand out, blocking him from going in.

“What is it?”

He asked with a quirk of his brow.

“When did you tell Mrs. Hudson about William?”

The doctor asked with a knowing smirk.

Sherlock was unable to restrain the sterling smile from blossoming across his lips as he met John's eyes.

“You always surprise me, John. How did you know?”

“One, you weren't at all startled when the DI drove up. Two, your arguing with him was more about the facts of the case rather than anything to convince him we were capable of watching over a child. Mrs. Hudson was your key for driving that point home. You knew Lestrade wasn't going to just let us keep a child in protective custody, not when he has officers specifically trained for that.”

“When would I have had time to contact her?”

“Most likely while we were running our way here.”

“Lestrade could’ve still refused the idea.”

“Not against the pure force of Mrs. Hudson.”

The detective shot another genuine smile his way as he trotted up the steps into 221B.

“Very good, John.”

Watson was startled by the elation fluttering in his chest at the rare complement.

And that smile. 

It was so pure, unlike the ones he often used to persuade witnesses to trust him or to gain information. 

He found himself wondering if could he get him to smile like that more often?

With a firm shake of his head to clear the sudden flood of thoughts he had kept buried deep beneath the surface, John made his way inside and swiftly shut the door.

Now inside the warmth of 221B the doctor had not realized just how cold he had gotten, rubbing at his arms to generate extra heat through his surprisingly thin jumper.

Sounds of clattering and heavy clunks overhead jolted John's focus away from his shivering.

Mrs. Hudson soon peeked her head out of her kitchen, shaking her head at the concophany upstairs.

“I'm glad to see Sherlock's cleaning up but he's bound to wake the poor dear if he isn't careful.”

She tutted, returning to drying a tea cup with a clean flannel.

John suddenly spotted William sitting at a small circular table now adorned with sweets and fresh tea.

A soft rumble of snoring drifted from the now fast asleep child, partially slumped forward as a tea biscuit slipped closer to falling from his grip.

He had been wrapped up in a thick and fluffy deep blue duvet, his hair combed neatly and a smear of crumbs across his cheeks from a treat he had no doubt enjoyed before falling into a peaceful slumber.

Mrs. Hudson returned with a fresh flannel soaked lightly with warm water as she gently wiped away the mess left on Williams face.

“Much better.”

She smiled, admiring her work as she softly combed a hand through his hair.

“Poor little thing. Must’ve been through quite the ordeal to be so tuckered out.”

A loud crash and muffled curse caused the two to flinch at the inevitable chaos waiting for John upstairs. 

“John, I know you're about to have your hands full but do you mind helping me move him to my bed. He’s going to have a terrible crick in his neck if he sleeps there any longer.”

“Sure thing.” He nodded.

Carefully cradling the small child in his arms, Mrs. Hudson led him to her room, already pulling back the sheets for him.

Slowly and gingerly, John layed William down and covered him up to his chin.

He found himself smiling at the once fearful and panicked child now sleeping so peacefully.

“Thank you Mrs. Hudson.” 

“Oh it's no trouble, dear! I should be thanking you boys for bringing him to safety. Now why don't you go and make sure our favorite detective isn't making an even bigger mess.”

She giggled, patting him on the back.

“Or setting something on fire, for science of course.” 

John joked as he made his way out and over to the steps leading to 221B.

“Let us know if you need anything.”

“Of course dear, now stop stalling.”

Mrs. Hudson smirked, going back to cleaning up the table.

-----

Heaving a weary breath, John slipped off the thick rubber gloves covered in various unidentified substances, tossing them in the bin.

Glancing back at the windows he realized it was nearly night, street light flicking to life, the icy rain having long turned into a full on snow storm.

He could hear Mrs. Hudson giggling from downstairs, seeming to be chatting with William who was wide awake and spending time with her until the upstairs could be deemed livable. 

Leaning tiredly against the kitchen counter, now cleaner than he had ever seen it since moving in, he glared at the fridge which may never be sterile again no matter how much he scrubbed.

Realizing the clothes he had on were destined for the trash, the doctor made his way to his room to change only to be stopped by an equally messy detective.

“Don't change just yet.”

 He quickly instructed, already strutting past John to enter the kitchen. 

“You're not conducting an experiment on my clothes. They're being thrown away.” 

The gunman grumbled, not yet moving from where he stood.

“What's the problem if they're being thrown away anyways? But, that's not what I mean. I need your help moving the fridge to my room and then you're free to get washed up.”

“Your room?”

John repeated, stepping back into the kitchen to see Sherlock already having unplugged the fridge and scooting it away from the wall.

“Yes, my room. Now, if you don't mind?”

Several questions raced through his mind but with a dismissive shake of his head he decided to just get it over with.

“Where do you want me?”

Sherlock blinked up at him for a moment, a hardly noticeable blush rising to his cheekbones before looking back at the fridge, the innuendo flying right over John's head due to his exhaustion.

“If you could support the back, I can hold up the front. Just follow my lead.”

“Alright.”

The doctor sighed, taking his place behind the fridge.

Thankfully, due to the appliance having been emptied beforehand, it was light and easy to move into the detective's surprisingly sparse room.

Deciding to take care of the rest of the mess remaining where the fridge once was at a later time, John retrieved a change of clothes and retreated to the shower.

Finally feeling less like a pile of sludge, the doctor slipped on his simple pajama pants and T-shirt, wrapping up his hazardous clothing into a plastic bag.

Swinging open the bathroom door, John paused mid step as a group of strangers walked past him, down the steps, and out of the flat without a word.

“Sherlock?”

“Kitchen.”

Following the monotone response, John entered to ask what was going on but immediately fell silent at the brand new fridge sitting in the old one's place.

He froze, wondering if his tired eyes were playing a trick on him.

“W-when…how…”

“Easy.” 

Sherlock shrugged, tossing his gloves into the bin as he stepped back to appreciate his work.

 “I used the money Mycroft was paying you to get a new fridge. And before you ask how, you left your wallet out in the open so it was exceedingly simple.”

He then paused and looked back at John with a sudden air of uncertainty.

“Was that…not good? If it's any consolation the purchase hardly made a dent-”

“No-no-” John shook his head with a satisfied smirk. “This…this is good. I don't care if you used the money. I only use it for groceries and necessities anyway.”

Silver eyes shimmer with relief, once tense shoulders relaxing with John's reassurance.

Unable to restrain his curiosity, the doctor stepped over to the fridge and swung the door open, pleased to be greeted by immaculate shelves and a lack of mysterious stains.

“Thank you Sherlock. I assume the fridge in your room will be used to keep your experiments in from now on.”

“That is the plan, yes.”

He nodded, suddenly looking down at himself to see just how filthy he had gotten, nose scrunching up in disgust.

“As you can see, I am in desperate need of a shower. If you’ll excuse me.”

And with that Sherlock sped off to the bathroom, leaving John to admire the new appliance.

Chapter Text

Waking with a start, John was confused by the unfamiliar surroundings until his tired mind finally reminded him he was in Sherlock's room. He had been sleeping there for up to four days now and yet he still could not get used to it.

It had felt a bit awkward but they all decided the doctor’s room was the safest for William to sleep in during his stay. That was of course after he cleared a few weapons and items of a similar nature into the massive duffle bag lying next to the detective's closet.

Sherlock was adamant he would not be sleeping anyway due to working on the case, so he had surprisingly offered his bed to John. Despite the doctor's best efforts Holmes stood his ground and refused his counter offer to sleep on the couch instead.

The first night John had fallen asleep faster than he thought he would, possibly due to the incredibly soft Egyptian silk sheets.

He refused to believe it had anything to do with the fact the bed smelt strongly of Sherlock. But now, after sleeping there for more than one night, the bed has started to smell like a unique blend of their scents. It was rather pleasant, which did little to help with John's growing affections for the mad detective.

Swinging his feet over the edge of the bed, he stretched his back with a sleep addled yawn, checking his phone to see the time.

6:00am

Cursing himself for waking early, he begrudgingly got up to get dressed for the day. He decided it would be wise to make a run to Tesco to replenish the kitchen before anyone else got up.

-----

Watson had taken his time, strolling leisurely through the early morning snow already starting to melt with the warm sunlight peeking through heavy grey clouds. 

It had taken more time than necessary to finally pay for his groceries, withholding the various insults bubbling within him at the troublesome chip and pin machine before making his way back outside.

As he started down the sidewalk however John took notice of the all too familiar sleek black vehicle pulling up next to him. Pausing as the window rolled down, he was none too shocked to see Mycroft inside. An assistant dressed in a silk charcoal suit stepped out from the front seat and held the door open for the doctor.

“Have a seat, John.” 

Mycroft instructed, seemingly busy inspecting his umbrella.

“Ah, no thanks. I’ve got my hands pretty full if you haven't noticed. Besides, walking’s good for your health.”

“Perhaps you should realize it is beneficial for your health to listen to your employer.”

He retorted, tilting the handle of his umbrella to the seat across from him.

“Take a seat.”

John repressed the urge to argue, letting out a long sigh before scooting into the car, setting his bags on the seat next to him. The door was shut swiftly as they took off once more. After a brief tense silence, the doctor cleared his throat.

“Where are we headed?”

“221B.”

Came the swift response.

“Alright…I could've gotten there myself.”

“I see you and my brother have a new tenant.” Mycroft changed the subject, finally looking up at John with a blank expression. 

“A ten year old named William. In the foster care system at the age of four after a house fire took his parents. It was a miracle he survived even after a wooden beam-”

“Stop it.”

 John interjected, his fists clenched atop his knees.

“Do you not think it pertinent to know all about a potential new addition to the family?”

Mycroft smiled tightly.

“Should I be expecting a happy announcement?”

“What are you on about?” 

Watson asked, confused by the unexpected turn of the conversation.

“William’s staying with us until we catch the bastards trying to end his life.”

“And yet my brother insisted on keeping him at 221B instead of protective services. It’s my understanding that he already provided information to assist with solving the case. So why keep him around? What more could Sherlock want from William?”

John opened his mouth to respond, but was unable to find the right words.

Why had Sherlock ensured they kept William at 221B? He would be just as safe in protective custody as at the flat. The suspects hardly seemed to have any connections that would prove otherwise.

Sherlock even went as far as sterilizing the flat to make sure it was livable and safe for him. In fact, the detective had been shockingly generous to William. The first morning of hosting the child, John had run out to restock their brand new fridge, only to return to a curious scene waiting for him in the living room.

__________________________________

Sherlock had been standing at the mirror, watching his own hands as he practiced what appeared to be sign language. The wall was lined with photos and facts of the case and on the opposite side were diagrams of BSL.

William was now sitting in John's chair, waving at him before going back to reading a massive book sitting in his lap. It was then he noticed the rather large bee plushie resting to his right, one arm wrapped around it in a gentle hug.

“You went shopping?”

 John asked, now standing behind his chair to peek at the book the child was deeply invested in.

“Is that a book about bees?”

“William has an affinity for them, not my fault. Apparently he would spend ample time in the orphanage’s garden and watch them fly from flower to flower. He tried reading more about them but they only had one rather uninformative book to offer.”

“The Anatomy of the Honeybee.” Watson read aloud, impressed by the rather detailed diagram of a bee William was currently entranced by.

“And the plush?”

“He asked nicely.”

Sherlock responded nonchalantly, trying to block his own copy of the same book sitting on the mantle with his body. John found his heart fluttering with long suppressed affection for the surprisingly doting man.

 Something then struck him.

“You guys have been talking? Don't tell me you’ve already mastered sign language.”

“Mastered? No. But just about.”

He smirked with pride.

John tried to hide an endeared smile by wiping a hand down his face when he spotted several boxes of various sizes covering the couch. The detective followed his line of sight.

“Books. Blankets. Notebooks. Art supplies. Shoes. And new clothes. He can't be expected to wear the same outfit every day while he's here.”

John looked back to William who had indeed changed into a simple crimson turtleneck and comfy black pants. A smile twitched to his lips at the fuzzy bee striped socks as the child swung his legs happily where he sat.

“Let me guess. Mycroft's money?”

“He does have a nauseating amount to throw around with little worry.”

“Good.” 

The shorter male chuckled, pausing as he realized Sherlock was signing ‘Little Bee’ in his reflection.

“Little Bee...”

He muttered out loud, not meaning to let it slip.

“Hm?”

The detective spun around to meet John's eyes. 

“So I got it right? Excellent.”

He smiled to himself before repeating the hand gestures.

“Little Bee?”

The doctor repeated, teasing lightly.

“Yes, Little Bee. It's what I’ll be referring to William as when signing. Much more efficient. I have a nickname for you as well.”

He then did a swift and well practiced gesture.

‘Soldier’

“Or, if you prefer…”

‘Doctor’

“Either one works for me.”

He shrugged though he was obviously pleased with how efficient he was getting at sign language.

______________________________

Trying with great difficulty not to smile at the pleasant memory, John cleared his throat and straightened in his seat.

“And what does this have to do with you? Why bother with the car and unwarranted digging into William's life? You should be proud your brother is taking such good care of the child instead of trying to insinuate something more sinister or- whatever!”

John could feel his temper flare as he spoke, not quite sure why he suddenly felt so defensive for the two. All he knew was that he was pissed and that he wanted out of the car right now. Mycroft went back to inspecting his umbrella, not reacting at all to the rage.

“I thought you were smarter than that, John. Think about it. What happens once you have your suspects in custody? William will be returned to foster care. But if Sherlock is already attached to him, do you think he will let him go so easily? If he were to do something brash and adopt William, it would be wholly irresponsible and selfish of him.”

He flicked his gaze to meet the doctor.

“Now you tell me. Do you think William would be happy and safe given the lifestyle the two of you lead?”

John had wanted to argue with the self assured man, but found he could not disagree.

William may be happy with them, but safe? His life would be at constant risk. Mrs. Hudson would not be able to watch over him every time they got pulled away for a case to who knows where. And even if they could find someone to watch over William, with the amount of enemies they make, one of them could try to use him as leverage.

Or even worse, as a way to exact revenge. A wave of nausea rolled through his gut at the thought. He wanted William to be safe and happy. Even if it was without them.

The car finally pulled up to 221B, John's door being pulled open for him before he could reach the handle.

“I'm glad we could come to an agreement.” Mycroft stated with an icy calm.

Watson got out without another word, making his way towards the landing to the flat with the groceries in tow. Fumbling with the keys, his mind stuck on the discussion between him and Mycroft, he eventually got the door open and trudged inside. Slowly walking up the stairs, his thoughts continued to circle.

What does Mycroft expect him to do?

Tell Sherlock to stop caring?

To not get attached and make an irrational decision?

That may work fine and well for him but Sherlock did have a heart no matter how adamantly he protested it.

He cares about people.

The way he treats Mrs. Hudson like a mother, and how he pays attention to William’s interests despite the fact he could simply choose not to.

He even had a level of respect for Lestrade, though he would never admit it aloud.

John found that Sherlock did in fact care about him as well, despite the irritation his presence used to cause the detective.

That thought made a flicker of warmth spread through his chest, only to be dampened by the matter at hand.

What was he supposed to do?

John had already made his way into the kitchen on autopilot, still lost in thought as he squared away the groceries.

“I see Mycroft gave you a lift.”

Sherlock's baritone voice snapped him back to reality. Turning from putting the milk away, he found the detective was leaning nonchalantly at the entrance to the kitchen, silver eyes scanning over him.

“Uh, yeah. He did.”

He quickly averted his eyes, continuing his current task.

“What did he want now?”

“Just the usual. Making sure I do my job.”

“You're a terrible liar, John.” 

“I'm not-I- er- Oh! Where's William? I got his favorite biscuits.”

Watson tried desperately to change the subject.

“Napping on the couch. Now stop stalling. It's not working and getting rather tedious.”

Sherlock had stepped fully into the kitchen, edging closer to the doctor who refused to look his way.

“It's nothing, really.” John shrugged. “Just Mycroft being Mycroft.”

“He thinks I’m getting too attached to William.”

Watson nearly jumped upon finding Sherlock now standing at the end of the table closest to him, cursing the fact he had not heard him moving.

“Mycroft believes that I’m going to do something irrational and adopt William despite the fact our lives are too dangerous to have a child involved.”

John was stunned at the spot on deduction, eventually finding the ability to speak with great difficulty.

“Y-yes. That's about what he said…actually, exactly what he said. How did you-”

“It's Mycroft. He can't help but stick his massive nose into everyone's business.” He scoffed with a roll of his eyes.

“How foolish does he think I am? I may enjoy William’s company but I would never put his life at risk just for my own selfish gain.”

A faint glimmer of sadness shone through his silver eyes, quickly being hidden by a mischievous smirk.

“However it won't stop me from ensuring he ends up in a family that will help him flourish instead of watering him down into some run of the mill civilian. William is a brilliant child and he deserves nothing less.”

Though he had stated this all with the obvious intention to make the foster system a living hell for the workers, John found himself smiling fondly at the taller male.

He made such a good…not father...eccentric uncle, perhaps?

Whatever he was, it made the doctor's heart swell with such intense adoration he had to fight back the urge to walk right over and snog the man.

The mischievous expression slipped from Sherlock's face as he met John's eyes, his head tilting with an inquisitive hum.

‘Shit!’

Watson cursed himself for letting his guard down, spinning back to attend to the groceries.

“See, like I said. Nothing to worry about.”

 He rambled, hoping against hope Holmes did not have time to deduce what he was thinking.

“John?”

The doctor pretended to be engrossed in his task, not yet willing to face the fact he may have screwed everything up with one unguarded expression.

“John.”

Voice sounding from directly behind him, the shorter male turned around only to nearly crash face first into the detective’s chest. Sherlock was now looming over John, causing him to back away until his hip hit the counter.

Even then it hardly gave him any breathing room with how close they were now.

“John…” 

His baritone voice rumbled in his chest, head tilted down to meet the others' deep blue eyes. A shivering jolt shot down the soldier's spine that he hopelessly tried to ignore.

“What are you thinking?”

Sherlock asked, refusing to break eye contact. John hesitated, not wanting to watch as the detective's intense focus shifted into pure disgust at the truth. And though he could most likely fight his way out of the corner and run out of the flat, a part of him refused to turn away.

So, steeling himself for a mess of anger and possible indifference, he closed his eyes, forcing his mouth to work.

“I-I-well…you're just being so- so adorable and I  wanted to…”

John pursed his mouth shut, frustrated he had bumbled over his words, refusing to open his eyes for fear of having just ruined the friendship that had started to develop between the two.

Everything had gone silent, and if it were not for the detective's body heat radiating off of him John would have been convinced he had darted away. It took more courage than he liked to admit to finally open his eyes, convincing himself to face the carnage once and for all.

However, instead of being faced with an expression of distaste or down right rejection, he found Sherlock staring at him with wide eyes. A soft pink had tinted his cheeks and his silver eyes shone with an unfamiliar emotion that seemed to make them glow amongst his pale features.

It was then he realized his own face had turned a deep crimson, feeling as if it had been engulfed in flames.

“Is…”

Sherlock seemed to be having trouble finding a coherent thought which surprised the doctor.

“Is this- is this just because of my doting to William-”

“Nope.”

John responded honestly, though he knew he could have lied and ended the inevitable train wreck.

“Not only right now.”

The detective’s eyes bore into his own, scanning for any signs of deceit.

“So you think I’m…adorable? All the time?”

“Adorable, handsome, brilliant, a downright git, moody, unpredictable and undeniably mad…but I’m attracted to you so no doubt I’m mad too.”

Watson was unable to stop the words now that they had broken free.

He waited for the moment Sherlock would spin around and strut away, likely to either delete the whole interaction or find a way to make Mycroft fire him so he could be rid of him once and for all. What he did not expect was his long pale fingers to wrap gingerly around his wrist and pull it ever so slightly closer into the space between them.

Holmes stared down at their hands, rubbing slow circles at the point of his wrist bone, now refusing to meet his eyes. His face had turned an even darker shade of pink, looking similar to that of vibrant rose petals.

John watched as he took a deep breath before finally locking their eyes together once more. His heart hammered in his chest at the mix of determination, hesitance, and that unnameable emotion swirling within their silver depths.

“John…”

 Sherlock's voice was lower than he had ever heard, the grip on his wrist tightening slightly as if trying to keep the doctor from making a break for it.

“I-”

The two jumped as the detective's phone started to ring. Snarling in annoyance, Sherlock retrieved the device with his free hand and answered with a scowl.

“Lestrade, you know I prefer texting-” he paused, his eyes sparking with interest as the DI relayed information to him.

“Alright. We'll be right there.”

Without another word he hung up, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

“They’ve found Charles Quinton’s body.”

He explained, his hand still on the shorter male's wrist as if he had forgotten it was there.

“Where did they find him?”

John asked, seeming to take the detective by surprise at his inquiry.

“He was dredged up from the Thames. Lestrade wants us to take a look at St. Bart's.”

“Is Mrs. Hudson available to watch William?”

A tension appeared to slip free from Sherlocks posture as he smiled briefly before schooling his emotions back under control.

“I’ll go check. Don't forget your gun.”

“Of course not.”

He smirked, even as the detective released his wrist more slowly than necessary. Sherlock then spun around and sped his way down the steps to the landlady's residence.

John squared away the rest of the groceries that would spoil before rushing into Sherlock's room to equip his weapon. Feeling an odd flutter of hope at having not been outright rejected, the soldier felt oddly lighter after the interaction no matter how brief it was.

Forcing his focus back to the matter at hand, he returned to the living room to slip on his coat, only to pause mid reach. Sherlock was crouched next to William, carefully returning his plush bee back under his arm after it had tumbled to the floor. John had shifted his weight unconsciously, causing the floor to creak just enough to alert the detective to his presence.

Immediately he sprung to his feet, hands folded behind his back as he trotted off towards the exit.

“Mrs. Hudson will be up shortly. Come along, John.”

Sherlock dashed down the stairs, pulling up his collar in an attempt to hide a blush threatening to encompass his pale features.

Watson did not fight the fond smile this time, chasing after his mad flatmate before he could disappear into a cab.

Chapter Text

Sherlock grimaced as he took a sip of his coffee, adding another scoop of sugar to the hot bitter liquid as John took a seat on the opposite side of the booth. A bell dinged as a new customer stalked in from the freezing weather, swiping fresh snow from their coat.

Peering out the window, the detective's eyes followed the flurry of flakes drifting to the sidewalk below as he reviewed the facts of the case.

‘Despite providing clear descriptions of the triplets, none of them have been tracked down. Address provided for the janitor of the museum led to an uninhabited flat. Name was an alias. One works as a groundskeeper at the cemetery, which explains the funeral director's recognition of the men. Provided employee address leads to the same empty flat.’

Realizing Sherlock had retreated to his mind palace, the doctor returned to the counter to order a small baggie of fresh pastries.

‘Mr. Quinton's corpse was found having been wrapped in industrial cling wrap, nylon cordage, and weighed down by cinder blocks... Cold waters and plastic wrapping assisted in preserving the condition of the body despite having been submerged for five days. Obvious signs of drowning when analyzing his lungs which revealed emphysema aquosum.’

Sitting back at the booth, John pushed a warm croissant towards the detective, obscuring a successful smirk behind his cup as the detective started taking bites absentmindedly.

‘However, upon testing the water in the thoracic cavity it was swelled with tap water, not brackish water from the Thames. Suggests they had drowned him in a tub before disposing of the corpse in the river. No signs of a struggle. No restraints had been used. It was as if he had willingly drowned himself.’

Sherlock had devoured the first pastry, Watson carefully scooting a chocolate filled croissant in its place.

‘How is that possible? How do you convince someone to drown themselves? …Unless…’

The detective’s eyes went wide before jolting upright in the booth.

“He was drugged!”

The patrons of the cafe jumped at the sudden booming shout, casting disturbed and annoyed glares at the duo. John flashed an apologetic smile, already throwing away their trash as Sherlock went skidding out of the shop, fingers flying over the keys of his phone.

Jogging to catch up with the long strides of the detective, Watson reflexively shivered at the drastic temperature difference, tucking his hands into his pockets as his boots crunched into the thick layers of snow.

“Sherlock?”

“We need to return to Bart's.” 

He swiftly informed the confused doctor, starting to walk back and forth on the sidewalk, hardly paying any mind to the few people passing by.

“I’ve already instructed Molly to run a full tox screen on Mr. Quinton. He had to have been drugged. How else could they drown him with no marks of a struggle?”

Sherlock rambled frantically, waving his ungloved and most likely icy hands in the air as he continued.

“There's no other possible explanation! Perhaps it was something to make him compliant or so out of his mind he hadn't realized he was drowning-”

“Sherlock!”

 The doctor grabbed a hold of Holmes to halt his frantic pacing, having nearly stepped straight into the path of an oncoming two-tier bus.

“Just, hold on. I think I know what you're talking about. And if I’m right, then there's little chance it'll show up on a tox screen.”

Sherlock fixed his calculating gaze on John.

“Elaborate.”

Certain the detective will no longer run out into traffic, Watson released his hold, scrubbing a hand through ice flecked golden hair.

“Well, I had a job in Bogota, Colombia. I was hired to take out a sleazy character at the head of a human trafficking ring. He’d been lacing people's drinks with this powder called burundanga. It's tasteless, orderless, and has a remarkably short half-life, making it nearly impossible to pull up in a toxicology report. It leaves the victim in an obedient and submissive state. Once they come to they’ve been shown to experience anterograde amnesia.”

“Seems to confirm my theory.” 

Sherlock mused with the flicker of a triumphant smile.

“Where would one obtain this chemical?”

“In Bogota, a gram sells for as little as twenty-three pounds on the street. Here, you can purchase it at a pharmacy. It's used in motion sickness medicine.”

The detective suddenly clasped both hands on the sides of the shorter male's face in pure delight.

“Brilliant John!”

Throat going impossibly dry at the intense closeness of their faces, Watson struggled to compose a question but failed repeatedly, reflexively shivering at the lithe cold digits clutching his head. Sherlock appeared to notice the change, but did not retreat, curiously rubbing his frigid thumbs over John's warm cheekbones. Face flushing a deep crimson, he could hardly suppress a pleased hum at the soothing contact, eyes fluttering shut against his will.

The detective continued his menstruations, leaning in closer and closer until his warm breath ghosted across the others lips. Yearning to confirm whether or not John's lips were as soft as they appeared, he hesitated, frozen to the spot.

Sherlock desperately wanted this, and though the doctor's body language made it clear he did as well, a nagging voice of doubt forbade him from going further.

‘Don’t! 

This could be a ploy! 

A trick! 

A means to keep himself at 221B without a fight! Remember…

He works for Mycroft…

He could be manipulating you…’

An unfamiliar tightness wound up in his chest at the thoughts. It could all be a clever ruse. Sherlock could see no reason why his brother would refrain from a rather distasteful ploy.

However, as silver eyes scanned over a crimson blush and lovely tanned features, he silently considered allowing himself to be tricked.

Holmes had grown attached to the once bothersome assassin. Having become a conductor of light for the detective, he did not want to even consider a future where John did not reside at 221B. Sherlock wanted him, every bit he had to offer, and keep it all to himself.

Being struck by the sudden urge to resume his actions and steal a kiss, the doubt swung back fiercely, holding him back.

‘Don’t!  

You're doing exactly what Mycroft wants! 

Don't be a fool!

It has to be an act!

Who could ever love you?’

Letting out a frustrated groan, Sherlock dropped his head against John's shoulder, hands falling limp to his sides. Fully expecting Watson to become irritable by his indecisiveness, he was startled by the hand combing gently through his now snow soaked curls, the other resting at the small of his back.

“Hey. It's alright.” 

John whispered.

“You don't need to push yourself. I'm not going anywhere anytime soon.”

Though a part of Sherlock despised being coddled like a child, the other half was strangely relieved. The confusingly reassuring silence quieted the doubtful voice, each tender stroke from the doctor's sturdy and capable hand easing away the tightness residing within his chest.

Finally returning to his normal self, Sherlock took a deep breath and straightened back up, keeping his eyes on the nearest brick wall.

“I…thank you. That was…good.”

He stuttered much to his own frustration.

John only smiled with understanding, the detective stealing a quick glance at the clearly sincere expression which nearly broke his resolve.

“No problem.”

Watson replied, tucking his freezing hands back into his pockets. The doctor had opened his mouth to say more when Sherlock's phone pinged. Retrieving his device, silver eyes darted over the message, an intrigued smirk curving to his lips.

“They found her.”

----

Speeding down the halls of Charing Cross Hospital, Sherlock received several befuddled looks at his eager stride as he approached the room where their recent victim rested. John caught up to the madman, trying his best to not alarm any of the patients or doctors.

“Sherlock.”

He called, keeping his voice quite due to the onlookers.

“Sherlock, wait!”

Watson got to the door just in time to stop the detective from barging in by stepping in front of him.

“Now hold on a minute, alright. We should wait for Lestrade before charging in.”

“He and the rest of his team are looking over the site where she jumped. I highly doubt they'll find anything with Anderson there to muddle any potential evidence.”

“She just got outta surgery."

“Yes, and the longer we wait it could only be a matter of time until one of the triplets realize they still have a living witness. Look, she's already awake!”

The doctor glanced back to see the woman was indeed wide awake and looking over at the small window of the door with a confused expression. Before he could even turn to address Holmes he had pushed past and barged inside, putting on his best placating smile.

“Hello Abigail. How are you feeling?”

The woman rose a skeptical brow at the tall man before her gaze fell to John as he begrudgingly followed.

“Who…who are you-” her cracking voice cut off with a violent cough, causing her to groan in pain as it jolted her fractured ribs.

Watson immediately filled a small paper cup with cold water and slipped in a ghastly orange straw as he brought it to her bedside.

“Here you go.”

The detective noticed Abigail relaxed at John's energy, watching as she took a long grateful sip from the cup.

“Thank you, er…”

“Dr. Watson.”

He smiled before motioning towards Sherlock.

“And that's my colleague, Detective Holmes. He has a few questions if you're feeling up to it.”

Eyes darting between the duo, she eventually gave a slight nod. John cast the detective a glance with silent encouragement to begin. Not wasting a moment Sherlock stepped closer to her bedside.

“Is there anything you can tell us about your kidnapping, Abigail?”

Her eyes went dark for a moment before she looked up to meet his silver pair.

“I…I had just gotten to work.”

She started, her voice slow and shaky.

“I’m a tour guide at the London Museum of Water and Steam and…things seemed to be going fine when one of my coworkers wanted to have a word with me.”

“Of course.”

Holmes interjected, teeming with impatience.

“He wanted to discuss payment for getting rid of the body. You said no-”

“How-” 

Her eyes went wide with panic, nearly jumping from the bed if it had not been for her broken legs and arm keeping her in place.

“How did you know? How could you possibly know about any of that?”

“We have a reliable witness.” 

He informed Abigail, narrowing his focus to read her expressions. 

“Now, if you don't mind explaining the electrified corpse you hired those men to dispose of, we can speed things along.”

“Sherlock...”

John gave a subtle warning, taking notice of her rapidly elevated heart rate.

“He…Micheal…that bastard had been cheating on me!” 

Abigail’s sudden anger startled the doctor, the fear long gone and replaced with seething rage as she glared at the detective.

“We’d been together for six months- six months! I was so sure we'd be together forever! But I was an idiot! A blind idiot who didn't realize Micheal already started branching out for one night stands hardly five months in!”

Sherlock immediately appeared bored by her motives, ready to cut her off to get to the point when a nurse gave a quick knock at the door.

“Excuse me gents?”

A kindly brown haired woman smiled nervously at the tense air of the room. 

“Would you two like something to drink? Coffee or tea or-”

“Tea, milk and two sugars, please.”

The detective instructed swiftly as he returned his attention to the patient.

“Tea would be lovely.”

John smiled back, trying to make up for Sherlock's rude energy.

“Just a bit of milk in mine, please.”

“Will do.”

She nodded, not at all seeming offended by the taller male's behavior as she turned to leave.

“Abigail, it seems plainly obvious you invited your cheating boyfriend to the recent Tesla Coil Convention. You had Micheal wait for you after hours, completely unaware that you had turned on one of the coils to electrocute him. It was hardly difficult given he often wore that gaudy chain which drew the current towards him.”

Sherlock informed her with little restraint even as the anger withered away from her broken form.

“What I want to know is how you came to hire the janitor to assist in ridding you of Michael's body.”

“James? He-he offered to help.”

Holmes disregarded the alias as he pried for more information.

“How would he know you were planning to murder your boyfriend?”

“Well, I…we would talk often. About work, friends, life.”

The detective used great restraint to not roll his eyes.

“I ended up venting to James about Micheal. How I wanted to make him pay for using me…but I didn't know what to do. That was when he gave me the idea.”

“James told you how to get rid of him?”

Sherlock asked with a quirk of his brow.

“Y-yes…he told me he’d even help dispose of the corpse, for a fee, of course.”

“And you refused to pay him.”

“They messed up!”

Abigail nearly screamed, clenching the pale green blanket with her good hand.

“I shouldn't have to pay for their mistakes! They even pulled in an innocent man who had nothing to do with any of this and expected double the money to get rid of him as well! What was I supposed to do?”

"For one, you could have simply dumped Micheal.”

A dry, humorless cackle sent a sickening chill through the two men as her head lolled back against her pillow.

“That wasn't enough. He had to pay. He had to suffer. Micheal strung me along for months and I was supposed to just let that go? No…”

Abigail's eyes started to fall shut as the machine pumped in a dose of pain meds. Sherlock attempted to throw in at least one more question but it was too late. The woman had fallen asleep. Growling in vivid aggravation, there came the knock of the nurse form before.

“Sorry for the delay.”

She smiled, handing over the two a styrofoam cup each.

“Please enjoy.”

“Ta.” 

John nodded with a grateful smirk before she turned and left once more.

Tapping a finger on the white styrofoam, Sherlock stared at the unconscious figure, almost as if he could will her awake so he could gather more evidence.

“We'll just have to wait till the meds wear off.” 

Watson shrugged, sitting down in an uncomfortable wooden chair as he took a sip of his tea.

“Who knows how long that will be?” 

Holmes exclaimed irritably, swallowing a gulp of his drink as he started to pace across the polished linoleum.

"We need to see what she's able to remember! Clearly those men were able to get her to jump while under the influence of scopolamine, but there has to be something buried in the recess of her mind that could help us catch them! And while she's asleep either one could come by and silence her before we can get the chance!"

“If you're so worried, we could hang around and…and…ugh…”

John groaned, clutching a hand to his head.

“John?”

 Sherlock's head turned to face the doctor as he seemed to wobble where he sat.

“I don't…something’s wrong…”

Peeking an eye open, he glared down at the styrofoam cup, accidentally tipping it over as he lost his grip.

“Shhhit…”

He slurred, struggling to push himself up from the chair to no avail.

Sherlock sped over to his side, worry etched into his features as he knelt to meet John's bleary eyes.

“John? John! Look at me! You’ve been drugged, haven't you?”

Giving a heavy nod, the doctor pointed at the cup still within the taller male's grip.

“..tea…the tea…”

He hardly got the words out before going completely limp, eyes sliding closed.

“John! Wake up! John!”

Sherlock stood to go get a nurse but nearly collapsed as the room swiveled around him, barely able to steady himself on a nearby counter. Tossing the offending cup away to who knows where, Holmes retrieved his phone with already numb fingers.

With a quick shake of his head, he was finally able to tap the intended number, stumbling out of the room and towards the elevator.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade answered before the phone could ring a second time. “I thought you prefer text-”

“Just shut up and listen!” 

Sherlock shouted a bit more harshly than he had intended, but he was already struggling to keep his words clear and understandable.

“Come to the hospital! We’ve been drugged! Keep John safe! He’s-”

The phone clattered from his grip as he tripped to the cold linoleum, barely catching himself before his face could slam into the hard surface.

“Whoa there! Let's help you up, yeah.”

 An unfamiliar voice sounded from above Sherlock, a strong grip pulling him back to his feet and into a wheelchair. A man leaned down to meet his gaze, a sadistic smirk flashing across an instantly recognizable face.

“You poor thing.” 

The triplet cooed with faux empathy, already pushing Sherlock down the hall.

“I’ll get you taken care of, alright?”

Though the detective was slowly losing consciousness, he could see the man's presence was met with kind regards and no suspicions as he was wheeled into a nearby elevator.

Sherlock found his thoughts drifting to John, worry gnawing at his heart for the shorter male's safety before being engulfed into the inky darkness.

Chapter Text

Lestrade POV

Exiting the elevator, Lestrade bolted through the halls of the hospital, stopping at the nurses station only to find it to be completely empty. In fact, the entire floor seemed void of staff members. A startlingly loud clatter caused the DI to instinctively draw his gun.

Following a screeching alarm to a nearby room as stealthily as he could, Greg peered into the small window of the door.

Spotting a patient with his left arm in a sling dragging an unmoving John by the collar of his coat, Lestrade sprang into action, kicking the door ajar and steadily aiming his gun at the suspect. Upon seeing the DI, a look of panic washed over his horribly bruised features as he drew a gun of his own.

“Who-who are you?!”

 The suspect shrieked in an oddly high pitched voice.

 “I was supposed to have ten minutes! I was promised ten minutes! Who the hell are you?!”

“I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade. Now put the gun down and step away from the doctor.”

Greg instructed as calmly as he could despite noticing the growing frantic tremors of the stranger. Sending a quick glance to the motionless doctor, he was silently relieved to see his chest rise and fall in slow shallow breaths.

“No-No-No! I need to drown him! This bastard has to pay! You shouldn't be here!”

The man screamed, waving the gun around as if forgetting it was still there.

“He promised me ten minutes! You shouldn't be here! You shouldn't be here!”

He kept chanting the statement, getting more and more unstable before going completely still, eyes wide with resolve.

“I'm not going…I’m not going to jail!”

Much to Lestrade's horror, the suspect lifted the gun to the side of his head. Raising a hand in a calming motion, the DI lowered his weapon ever so slightly.

“Wait. You don't need to do this. Just-”

The man squeezed his eyes shut as he pulled the trigger.

*Click*

Nothing.

The gun was empty.

Lestrade released a breath he had not realized he was holding as the suspect's eyes popped open. Hand starting to shake uncontrollably, the weapon clattered to the polished floor. Mumbling incoherently to himself he backed up into a corner, curling in and seeming to shut down completely.

The commotion of multiple footsteps shattered the silence as nurses and security came rushing back in.

“What's going on? Who are you? What happened here?”

One guard demanded as a nurse sped over to reconnect the shrieking equipment, finally making it go quiet. Still baffled by the transpired events, Lestrade pulled out his ID while securing his gun.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade. Care to explain why this floor was empty?"

Any of the previous aggression was washed away by a sheepish look.

"A scheduling mishap. Somehow everyone ended up doing a shift change at the same time. We were only gone for five minutes."

"Five minutes..." 

Greg echoed, the words of the frantic suspect looping through his head.

'Ten minutes...He gave me ten minutes...'

"Get him out of here."

Lestrade motioned to the trembling man crumbled to the floor.

"And be careful."

The security guard gave a quick nod backing out into the now noisy hallway to gather a couple nurses. Approaching the suspect with caution, they were able to inject a dose of morphine with hardly any reaction from the broken man. They then helped him into a wheelchair and ushered him from the room.

Greg knelt down to check on John who finally started to wake with a pained groan.

“John? Hey. Come on. Wake up mate. Have you seen Sherlock?”

At the mention of the mad detective, Watson sprung up in a frenzy.

“Sherlock! Where's-ugh-” he nearly toppled as he slumped forward.

“Whoa now!”

Lestrade braced the unsteady doctor, keeping Watson from slamming face first into the linoleum by securing one arm over his shoulder

“Don't want a concussion now, do we?”

“Sherlock…we have to find Sherlock.”

John slurred, refusing to sit even when Greg led him to a chair.

“What happened? I'm guessing you two got drugged somehow.”

“Something was in the tea.”

The doctor confirmed, slowly sounding less out of it as the chemical seemed to be losing its grip. Suddenly, the DI’s phone went off. Lestrade sighed as he retrieved the device with his one free hand.

“Detective Inspector-”

“Lestrade.” 

An all too familiar and faux pleasant tone nearly caused him to roll his eyes.

“What is it Mycroft?”

“I’m willing to forgive the fact you just missed my brother being kidnapped in light of your rescue of Dr. Watson. He’d never forgive me if something were to happen to his favorite toy.”

“Kidnapped? What are you talking about?”

“Oh Inspector, I thought you were more clever than this. Perhaps I had too much faith in your intelligence?”

“Look, you can either keep being a smug berk or you can tell me what's going on! Now which do you think will help me find Sherlock faster?”

John had officially returned to full awareness, stable on his own feet as he watched the interaction take place.

“Very well.”

Mycroft conceded.

“I have him on CCTV being loaded into a dingy white van. I’ve been able to follow their trail all the way to Hatch Forest. I suspect they hope to enact whatever plan they have within the confines of the wilderness.”

“Got it.”

 Watson nodded in understanding, already making his way out of the room.

“There is one more thing I should inform you.” Mycroft added as Lestrade went after the doctor.

“John, hold up!"

The DI called.

“Let me at least get my team before you run off and get yourself killed. What’re you even planning to do?”

John paused at the elevator, turning back to meet Greg's eyes.

Lestrade nearly backed away at the unfamiliar deathly coldness making his gaze dark and the air around him dangerous.

“My job.”

An ear splitting alarm suddenly filled the building.

“What the-”

“That's what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

Mycroft sounded over the phone, causing Greg to practically press it to his ear to hear the man over the deafening wailing.

“The third brother did not enter the vehicle. He’s still at the hospital and from what I’ve learned, he has a passion for fire.”

John seemed to hesitate for a moment, only for Greg to wave him off.

“Go! Save the infuriating twit! I’ll handle this!”

The doctor appeared appreciative before spinning away and speeding down the stairs instead of using the elevator.

“All right,” 

The DI started, steering clear of a group of patients being escorted out. 

“Tell me where the fire is. And don't say you don't know cause you always do.”

“Twelfth floor.”

Mycroft replied more stoic than necessary.

“He’s still there. It appears he was to be the distraction while his brother escaped after executing Dr. Watson.”

Greg was already sprinting up the stairs, dodging employees and patients before making it to the mentioned floor.

“Fire rescue is on their way.” 

The other Holmes cooly informed. 

“You should head out with the others.”

“He has a hostage.” 

The DI cursed internally upon peeking into the floor as quietly as possible.

The pyro was pacing back and forth with a manic look on his face, hardly seeming concerned with the black smoke gradually filling the building. Lying behind an information desk, a nurse was out cold with a bleeding wound to the temple.

The brother kept glancing back at the figure as if expecting him to jump up at any moment, scratching the hilt of a blade to the back of his head.

“Why haven't the sprinklers gone off?”

“Looks like they’ve been deactivated. You should leave this mess to the Firefighters and get out.”

“Not while that bloke needs help.”

“Don't try to be a hero, Inspector-”

“You can politely shut the hell up!” 

Lestrade hissed before hanging up, throwing a quick rude gesture to the nearest security camera.

Peering back at the pyro he felt his heart freeze as the suspect did a sudden pivot and stomped over to the unconscious male. Kneeling down and gritting his teeth, the suspect swung back the blade, ready to plunge it into the unsuspecting nurse.

Moving faster than he thought possible, Lestrade drew his weapon and shot two times into the pyro's chest. His body slumped into a lifeless heap, knife still gripped tightly in his hand.

Staying low to the floor, the DI rushed over to the unconscious male and slipped off his coat. Carefully slinging the nurse over his shoulders, he covered the victim with his coat to prevent as much smoke inhalation as he could. Just as Greg made his way back towards the stairs, the sprinklers sprang to life, dousing the quick spreading flames and soaking the two men.

Back in the stairwell, Lestrade looked up at a camera and rolled his eyes with a smirk.

“Dramatic git.”

He mumbled to himself as he carried the nurse down the numerous steps.

Unbeknownst to the DI, Mycroft caught what he had said, an amused smirk briefly flickering to his lips.

----

Sherlock pried his eyes open with great difficulty as he came to, blinking rapidly as he adjusted to the nearly blinding orange light of the sunset. Though it was partially obscured by the thick tree line, it still bathed the surrounding forest in its vibrant hue, only enhanced by the thick layers of glittering snow.

“Finally awake?”

Sherlock jumped at the voice, his vision finally clearing up to allow him to spot the man from the hospital, still dressed in his work uniform.

“A first responder.”

The detective croaked, trying to clear his throat with a cough.

“What was that now?”

“You're a first responder.”

Sherlock repeated slowly with an annoyed roll of his eyes. 

“It all makes sense now.”

“Oh?” The man smirked, crossing his arms. “Care to explain then?”

“Gladly.”

The detective echoed the smirk, allowing himself to take in the situation he had been pulled into.

“A murderous trio. One with the signature to drown his victims. The other must use fire judging by the pile of tinder I am now bound to.”

He motioned with a shake of his bound wrists, fastened to a massive log sticking straight up from a pile of sticks and dry grass gathered at his restrained feet.

“As for you? Not so simple, is it? You deem yourself a hero."

Sherlock sneered.

"One who has prevented unfortunate drownings or rescued a victim or two from a terrible fire, having earned you a great deal of respect among your colleagues. That's why you and your brothers use scopolamine. To keep your victims compliant and easy to control. And if they just so happen to experience amnesia, which ensures you won't be recognized as the assailant-”

“No!”

The man suddenly cut in with a stern shake of his head.

“I'm not the assailant. As you said. I'm the hero in this story. Do you know how many lives I’ve saved? How many people get a second chance thanks to me?”

“A second chance they wouldn't need had you and your brothers not targeted them in the first place.”

“Wrong!”

“Oh I see how it is.” Sherlock mused, doing his best to stall for time.

“You made your brothers into villains. After all, what is a hero without its villain? And seeing as how they look up to you with such respect, they see no reason to believe you would lead them astray. You, their dearest brother, would never deceive them, right?”

At this the suspect started to chuckle, low and unnerving as he met the detective's eyes.

“They really are just a bunch of idiots, huh?”

He started to play with a small zippo lighter, stepping just a hair closer as he continued to talk.

“Gene can hardly take care of himself. Needs constant directions. And even with my guidance he ends up getting his ass handed to him by some short bloke in an alley! That's why I had to ensure he’d stop dragging me down. In fact, he should be done getting rid of that buddy of yours.”

Holmes felt his heart turn to ice at the statement, but refused to break his calm facade, keeping his stare steady on the man before him.

“Of course, security's probably shot him by this point. Ah well. Good riddance, Gene. You’ve been nothing but a hassle.” 

He cackled, having amused himself as he flicked the flame on and off.

“And what of your other brother?”

 Sherlock urged, hoping to keep the man bragging for as long as possible.

“This is his signature after all. Why don't I see him assisting you?”

“Assist? Me? Hah! That fool may be charismatic but there's a reason he became a janitor. Drew’s nothing more than a hopeless pyro who itches endlessly to set something ablaze. He’s supposed to be Gene’s distraction so he can escape, but he's probably in cuffs for burning up the hospital right about now.”

He then lit the flame one last time, allowing it to remain as he stared into it's glowing, flickering light.

“I'm finally free of those idiots. Sure, they were useful in lining up people for me to rescue, but its time for me to move on. Find a change of scenery. New lives to save. And now,”

The man's eyes glinted with self assurance.

“There's only one loose end to tie up.”

Slowly extending his arm, the suspects whole body gave a sudden shake before collapsing to the ground, lighter extinguished as it ended up buried in a pile of muddy snow.

Sherlock’s eyes went wide as he noticed the small bloody entry wound at the dead center of the man's forehead. His ears twitched at the approach of footsteps crunching through slushy ice before the rope around his wrists were sliced away. Next went the bindings around his ankles as John entered his field of vision.

“Sherlock?”

The doctor asked, gently grabbing the sides of his face to check him for any injuries.

“Are you hurt anywhere? How are you f-”

Watson was swiftly interrupted by the detective throwing his arms around him and clinging tight. Dark curls tickled the side of his face as Sherlock burrowed his face into the crook of the doctor's neck.

“You're safe.” 

He muttered, slightly muffled by the fabric of John's coat. 

“He said…I couldn't…John-”

“Sherlock.”

Watson softly chimed in, pressing a gentle kiss into messy curls as he rubbed soothing circles in between the detective’s shoulder blades.

“I'm not going anywhere, remember? You're stuck with me wether you like it or not.”

John joked, receiving a quiet and unsteady chuckle from the taller male. Sherlock lifted his head, just enough to level silver eyes with blue. He then leaned closer and closer, giving the doctor ample to time to pull away before pressing their lips together.

It was chaste and full of uncertainty, but it left the two blushing madly as they met each other's gaze.

“I…I would like you to stay. I would very much like that, John.”

Chapter Text

Finally back at 221B Baker Street, the duo were immediately bombarded by William tackling them at the door, nearly sending them slipping on their rears in the fresh layer of snow.

“He’s been worried sick!”

 Mrs. Hudson explained, watching with a fond smirk.

“From the sounds of it, you’ve caught the men after William, right?”

“From the sound of what?”

Sherlock inquired, taking notice of the numerous packed suitcases stacked by the entrance. 

A familiar black car pulled up as Mycroft stepped out, swiveling his umbrella within his grasp as a soot covered Lestrade exited the other side.

“My word, what happened to you?”

The landlady asked, looking concerned for the exhausted DI.

“Long story.” 

Greg huffed tiredly, scratching a hand through his now black speckled silver hair 

“Is William ready, dear brother?”

Mycroft asked with utter disinterest.

“Like you don't already know.”

Sherlock nearly snarled.

“As you well remember, once the suspects have been apprehended-”

“Yes! Thank you for the unnecessary reiteration!”

The detective snapped.

John looked back to address the more stoic Holmes.

“At least give us a moment to say goodbye.”

“If you must.”

Mycroft waved his hand dismissively, pulling out his phone as he turned to face the stationary vehicle.

Lestrade rolled his eyes with a scoff, jabbing the man in the shoulder with his elbow. Crossing his arms over his chest Greg fully ignored the murderous glower shot his way as he leaned back against the car.

William giggled at the brief interaction, soon returning his attention to the two standing before him. Sherlock had cast his eyes to the landing, hands shoved into coat pockets and head ducked until the bottom half of his face was obscured by the blue scarf.

Seeing the taller male was doing his best to avoid the situation, the child reached out and tugged at the hem of the belstaff. The detective eventually met his gaze as William beckoned the two to kneel down so they were closer to eye level.

Holmes begrudgingly did so, almost tumbling backwards when the kid swiftly hooked an arm around his neck and then another around John's, pulling them together into a near bone crushing embrace. Blinking a few times in pure befuddlement, Sherlock hesitantly freed his left arm and hugged William back, soon realizing the doctor had done the same with his right.

After a moment the child released the two, quickly rubbing at his eyes as he tried to hide his face from view. Much to everyone's surprise, the detective slipped off his scarf and started wiping away the rouge tears, leaning his head down to meet William’s bleary green eyes.

‘This isn't goodbye, Little Bee.’  

Sherlock signed, dropping his scarf atop his knee so he could use both hands. 

‘You can text us anytime you need anything…or if you simply wish to say hi.’

John rose a brow at the mention of texting, but shook his head, deciding to get the detective to clarify later on. William nodded in understanding, jumping up to hug Sherlock once again.

“Ahem!”

The duo simultaneously glared daggers at the charcoal suited assistant, causing him to take a half step away before slipping back on a mask of indifference.

“I-If you don't mind.” The man stuttered. “I do need to load up his belongings.”

With vivid displeasure they stepped away from the landing, Holmes now carrying William in his arms much to the doctor's suppressed amusement. Even Lestrade had to cover his mouth to hide a smirk.

One by one the boot was loaded up with the child's suitcases, the aide silently returning to the front seat, ready to take William back to the orphanage.

Sherlock scanned his internal checklist, eyes narrowing with irritation as he handed the child over to John before darting inside. Brow furrowing with confusion, Mrs. Hudson chased after the detective, only to nearly be run over as Holmes returned with the massive plush bee.

“Idiots.”

He muttered, scowling at the oblivious assistant as he handed the toy to the now elated child.

The doctor chuckled as he watched William squeeze the plushie, heart swelling simultaneously with care and an aching sadness.

Though he knew it was for the best, John was unable to ignore the fact he was indeed going to miss the kid.

Fond memories of meals where Sherlock actually ate to ebb away William's concern crossed his mind.

Lestrade's shocked face when he would check in to see the flat free of toxic experiments or mysterious body parts.

The DI had often joined them for lunch or breakfast to make sure the child was being taken care of. Occasionally he would end up drawing or laughing with William, the seemingly permanent exhaustion appearing to fade from him each time he visited.

John was going to miss the random bee facts being signed to him over a cup of tea in the morning.

And the way William would giggle when the doctor would sign something sarcastic or teasing when Sherlock happened to not be paying attention.

Which usually resulted in suspicious glares and bargaining with the child to tell him what Watson had signed.

Broken from his thoughts as the car door swung open, Mycroft pointedly cleared his throat as he motioned for them to move things along. Refusing to shoot the impatient man a rude gesture though he was greatly tempted, John gave William a strong hug, setting him back to his feet.

“See you, Little Bee.”

He smirked, the kid's eyes shimmering happily at his nickname.

Mrs. Hudson then rushed forward to hand the child a plate adorned with sweets, wrapped securely to prevent the still falling snow from soaking them.

“You take care, William.” 

She cooed, combing his hair back with a heartbreaking smile that fought to appear cheerful.

Smiling gratefully up at her, he stepped closer to give the landlady a final hug despite his full hands. He then turned and entered the vehicle, scooting in across from where Mycroft now sat.

Lestrade sighed, scratching the back of his neck as he stood just outside the car door.

“We’ll take care of statements tomorrow, alright?” 

He offered, dropping his hand heavily to his side. 

“Excluding the part where John did ‘his job’ . Which, of course, since Mycroft's involved, never happened.”

With that said the DI slid in and shut the door, the sleek black vehicle smoothly pulling away and disappearing down the road.

Mrs. Hudson pat Sherlock on the shoulder with a soft understanding smile before returning to the flat. John let out a long sigh, tucking his hands into his pockets as he turned to enter as well. 

Halfway up the landing, he paused at the sudden ding of a notification from the detective’s phone. The taller male pulled out the device, a quick laugh escaping his lips as he opened the message. Peeking over his shoulder, John found himself giggling at the unexpected photo.

William had his Bee plush held out, blocking where Mycroft was sitting to make it look as if the toy was holding the umbrella.

A second image soon popped up with the Bee balanced atop his dirty blonde hair, smiling brightly at the camera.

The doctor could see William was trying to cheer Sherlock up despite no longer being with them, which only made his heart ache even more. He watched as Holmes swiftly set the last photo as his new screen saver before tucking the phone away.

John wanted nothing more than to hug the obviously sad detective, but was still unsure about the boundaries between them.

They had shared a brief kiss in the woods, but neither had said a word about the interaction since. It did not appear Sherlock regretted his actions, but the apprehension was still evident in the tense energy surrounding them in the cab ride back.

Perhaps the detective was just as perplexed as to how to approach the subject?

Had he ever been in a relationship?

John never had the time to pursue anything akin to romance due to his work as a gunman, the last outing that could even be considered a date being back in his teens.

Besides, this was Sherlock.

Did he even desire romantic interactions?

It was obvious the detective was open to kisses, but to what extent?

“Stop.”

John jolted from the endless careen of concerns cluttering his mind, Holmes now standing next to him on the landing into 221B.

“You’re thinking too loud.”

“You- wha- fine, alright.”

The doctor shrugged, not wanting to argue the topic.

“Tea?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock nodded, an impish grin twitching to his lips.

“Hold the sedatives, please.”

The two chuckled as they entered the flat, setting about their usual routine as John filled the kettle and set it to boil after hanging up his drenched coat.

Sherlock had disappeared briefly before re-emerging from his room, having changed from his snow soaked suit and slipped on a pair of pinstriped pajama pants and a simple white T-shirt. Cloaking himself within his crimson bathrobe, he stepped over to the wall littered with case facts.

Clearing the wall bit by bit, John could see him pause at the BSL diagrams before removing them as well.

Pouring the boiling water into their mugs, the doctor realized Sherlock was in great need of a distraction. He was doing an adamant job at hiding the sadness trying to creep in, but even John could see how his shoulders seemed to deflate as his eyes drifted over to the bee book sitting on the mantle.

Suppressing a sigh and squaring his shoulders, John gathered their tea and set the steaming mugs at the table.

“Sherlock?”

“Hm.”

“You had asked about how I became an assassin.”

The detective paused mid removal of another slip of paper, turning to eye the shorter male curiously.

“I may recall how you adamantly danced around the topic, yes.”

“If…if you're still interested-”

Sherlock wordlessly dropped the stacks of parchment and strutted over to the table, gracefully sliding into a chair before propping his head atop his folded hands.

Fighting the urge to both laugh at his sudden actions, and convey irritation at the new mess covering the floor, John sighed and plopped down in the chair opposite of him.

“Well?”

 Holmes urged with a spark in his silver eyes.

“Go on.”

Chapter Text

8 Years Ago: Afghanistan 

Head pounding and ears ringing, John pushed himself up from the concrete floor littered with twisted panels of metal sheets. Prying his eyes open, Watson found his left eye was seemingly glued shut. Reaching a hand up he could feel thick drying blood had been pouring from a large gash at his hairline.

The acrid scent of melting plastic wrappings burned his throat as he attempted to take a breath, quickly noticing the massive palates once lining the walls now splintered and filling the room with thick smoke as flames ate away at the wood. Forcing himself to focus as he struggled to his feet, John squinted his good eye to spot his team sprawled and scattered around the facility, majority of them covered in debris and unmoving.

Gritting his teeth with a sharp inhale, he maneuvered his aching body through the mess, only pausing briefly here and there to check their vitals. So far, each of the bodies showed no signs of life, much to Watson's distress. He had made his way towards a back wall where one of the men lay under a large panel of metal, silently hoping for the faintest hint that someone had survived the explosion.

Just then John heard the sound of boots crunching over charred wood, causing him to spin around, instinctively reaching for the absent assault rifle that had been lost within the chaos. The doctor hardly had any time to realize it was one of the soldiers from base before his eyes locked on the barrel of a gun being aimed at him.

Having no time to react, a bullet shot straight into the left side of his chest, sending him falling to the concrete as it tore right through his flesh.

A towering strip of metal collapsed on top of the doctor, trapping him in place as the injury bled profusely. Darkness crept into his vision, pulling John back into the realm of unconsciousness.

Though he was certain this was where he was going to die, a nagging voice in the back of his head screamed for justice.

One of the soldiers who were supposed to be on their side just shot him. This whole operation had been a trap.

A trap that had taken out every single one of his men. This incident could be chalked up to an unfortunate case of espionage at the hands of the Taliban.

John, however, knew the truth.

But what good did it do him as he lay amongst the ruins of a crumbling storage facility, blood pooling from the gaping wound in his chest. Had he had a second chance, Watson would have ensured his men did not die in vain.

Though he could not bring them back to life, he would have hunted down the people responsible. John doubted the soldier had done this of his own volition. Someone ordered him to do this. To ensure no one survived the explosion for whatever unknown reason they had.

He would have made sure they regretted ever having targeted his team.

His friends…

-----

An annoying, familiar, muffled beeping filled the doctor's fuzzy head, slowly but surely forcing his heavy eyes open to see he was in the infirmary. The very infirmary he would be patching up wounded soldiers on a regular basis when he was not out in the field with his team.

A medic took notice of John's movements, rushing to look him over before darting away to a nearby sink. He recognized her immediately. A young and mostly panicky woman by the name Amelia Rodriguez. Though she seemed to run on nothing but pure anxiety, John had seen how deathly calm she could get when faced with a rather gruesome injury.

He guessed he had her to thank for the numerous stitches to his head and aching chest. Amelia swiftly returned with a paper cup full of water and a plastic straw to help him drink as she eased the bed up to a semi sitting up position. Taking a sip of the cooling liquid to quell the dry burning in his throat, John's hearing seemed to return to focus as Rodriguez started rambling.

“Th-thank goodness you're awake!” She stuttered, brown eyes wide with concern.

“When I-I heard what happened to your team- Sorry! Sorry. You probably already know- u-unless you don't! Which of course then-”

“Rodriguez.”

The woman jumped at the sudden voice, alerting her to the man standing at the entrance.

“G-General McKinney, sir.”

“We would like to have a word with Captain Watson.”

The tall male stated strictly as another much shorter and stocky man soon joined his side.

John was able to recognize him as Major Barrett.

“Oh! Of course! Yes, sir. I’ll just- uh-”

Amelia fidgeted in place before speed walking out into the hallway.

The door had been left ajar however, propped open just enough for the doctor to spot an unfamiliar figure standing outside, appearing to be listening in, but making no effort to enter the room. This struck Watson as rather odd but he decided to instead focus on the men before him.

“Captain Watson,”

The taller addressed him, violet emotionless eyes doing a brief scan of the soldier's injuries.

“General McKinney. Major Barrett.”

John nodded.

He would have saluted but both arms were out of commission for the time being.

“You have our condolences for the loss of your team. Can you tell us what happened?”

Major Barrett asked, readjusting his glasses as they slid down his beakish nose.

“Yes sir. We were out to investigate a potential hideout at a storage facility. I led my men inside and we found nothing but towers of pallets filled with supplies. Next thing we knew the whole place went up in smoke. I'm guessing the building was rigged with explosives.”

“But you were shot.”

General McKinney interjected with a skeptical arch of his brow.

“I was checking my men to see if anyone survived when I was shot. Didn't get a chance to see who though.”

“You're a very lucky soldier.”

“Depends on your definition of luck, sir.”

He smirked ruefully.

McKinney cleared his throat awkwardly, shifting his feet.

“Is there anything else you can tell us?”

Major Berrett urged.

“No sir.”

“Very well. Get plenty of rest. With luck we'll have you back in the field in no time.”

The Major smiled confidently.

Berrett then turned on his heel and left the infirmary, General McKinney swiftly following in silence. John noticed the unfamiliar man follow after the two, but hardly had any time to make out any features before he had disappeared as well.

Letting out a long sigh, Watson lay his sore head against the thin pillow, staring up at the roof.

He was alive.

Against all odds, he had survived.

John had been given his second chance, and he was going to make it count.

Chapter Text

Present Day

Having long finished his cup of tea, John was about to stand to make another but Sherlock had beaten him to it, swiftly swiping up the empty mugs and flipping on the kettle.

The doctor blinked in mild confusion.

“Er…you know how to make tea?”

He asked, trying with great difficulty not to sound skeptical.

“Of course I do, John.”

Sherlock quipped, leaning back against the counter as the water started to simmer.

“Right. It's just, I’ve never seen you use the kettle before. Well, except for when you tried putting severed fingers in-”

“Experiment. Besides, I have my own kettle for those purposes.”

“So why have I been making you tea when you’ve been perfectly capable this whole time?”

“I never asked you to.”

The detective shrugged, walking over to retrieve two fresh tea bags.

“You also never told me not to.”

John retorted with a teasing smirk.

“Could just admit you like the tea I make.”

Sherlock set the bags in the empty mugs, idly fiddling with the tag of one.

“Perhaps, I find it…comforting…and nice when you make tea.”

He muttered, refusing to look back to address the doctor directly.

John could faintly make out a rosey blush dusting across his cheekbones as he poured boiling water into the cups. Something in the words Sherlock had said suddenly struck him.

The detective found it to be comforting and nice when John made tea for him. He was now making a cup of tea for the doctor without being asked. Holmes was trying to be comforting and nice while John regailed to him about a rather painful part of his past.

His heart fluttered with affection upon this realization, fighting back an enamored smile from rising to his lips, though the crimson blush was quick to betray him.

Having slipped back on a mask of insouciance, Sherlock returned with the two steaming mugs before sliding back into his own seat.

“Now then, please continue. And no more stalling.”

John could not help but chuckle at the instantaneous switch from caring to straight to business.

“Very well.”

He sighed.

“I doubt you wanna hear about the uneventful and frustrating weeks of recovery where I was hardly allowed a step away from the infirmary. I’ll just skip on ahead to where I'm free to roam the base with strict orders to take it easy. It didn't take long for me to overhear rumors of one of our men going MIA. Couldn't help wondering if it was the same one who shot me, but I wasn't about to walk up and start asking. I was still unsure who to trust at the time.”

John paused to take a sip of the tea, shocked that it did indeed taste pleasant.

“No need to look so surprised.”

Holmes mumbled into his cup with a sharp glare.

Choking back a laugh, the doctor cleared his throat before continuing.

“I decided to keep listening in hopes to find any helpful information. Then there came the gossip. Apparently some higher up revealed that there was indeed a mole in our ranks. Selling secrets and sending soldiers out on missions that supposedly never happened. They identified him as Major Barette.” 

Sherlock quirked a brow at this information but kept silent, his silver eyes working in a calculating manner.

“Turns out he had fled the base and was hiding out in some abandoned building. There were plans to infiltrate the place and bring him into custody. Obviously, I wanted in. But of course I was refused since I was still recovering. So, doing what any sane person would do, I learned the time they would be heading out and snuck off a couple hours before to find the bastard myself.”

“Seems perfectly reasonable.” Holmes mused without an ounce of sarcasm much to John’s surprise.

However he realized it shouldn't be that surprising since in a similar situation he was certain Sherlock would have done the same thing.

“Well, I nicked a patrol vehicle, drove halfway there, and made the rest of the journey on foot. Didn't want the car to give me away. I had found the facility. I could hear multiple voices inside, too many for me to take out alone so I had to come up with a distraction.”

At this John looked a bit sheepish, scratching at the back of his neck as he kept his eyes on the mug.

“I found the generator, secured a couple explosives to it and got a safe distance away.”

“Explosives?”

Sherlock echoed.

“May have borrowed a few…just in case…Look, it was idiotic, but it worked. It made enough of a scene that the main building was left practically empty as they dealt with the chaos. I was able to sneak in without any trouble. Except, maybe, a single guard. He had to have been protecting the room where the traitor was. His attention was already scattered, looking back and forth in the darkness as he waited for the power to come back on. I was able to knock him out with relative ease. I checked the door and was confused to find it unlocked.”

John heaved a sigh, taking a final gulp of the tea before continuing.

“I went in and found Major Barrette. Dead. Slumped over a desk littered with incriminating documents that tied him to every operation they suspected him of, and a gun lying on the floor by his chair.”

“How did he die?”

The detective inquired, already looking suspicious.

“It looked like he was shot during a raid. Bullet holes all over the place, including the walls and desk. They set him up. The crew would come in, shoot up the place, and find his lifeless body. Whoever was behind this most likely had their own people within the operation. They’d report in with some piss poor story that he tried firing at them so they had to take him out. No way for him to defend himself. The traitor would’ve been dealt with and suspicions would abide for now. I had hoped to find the truth, but instead I found a patsy…I no longer had a lead.”

John’s eyes were dark as he turned the mug around in circles.

“So…I head back to base. Returned the car. And was ready to be discharged for my actions when a black car pulled up in front of me.”

“Oh no.”

Sherlock scrunched his nose, hoping he was wrong for once.

“Yep. It was Mycroft.”

Watson grumbled a confirmation, causing Holmes to groan with irritation.

“He was the big shot looking into the whole traitor ordeal. Apparently, while they were heading out for the operation, he was watching me from some sort of heat sensing drone thing. Like a much creepier James Bond. He’d asked me to confirm that I indeed found the Major dead long before the mission. It appeared he had already assumed something wasn't right. In fact he had a suspect in mind, but refused to tell me anything further. I was about ready to jump out of that ridiculous car when he offered me a job. To work as an agent for him. Of course I outright refused, not wanting anything to do with this man. This didn't seem to surprise him. In the end, Mycroft told me that he had informed the base that I had been working for him this entire time, with the paperwork and everything. That I was going elsewhere for another case. He’d said this would prevent me from ending up dishonorably discharged for my actions. And so, he sent me off in a separate car to the airport and I returned to London.”

“You're telling me he didn't try to bribe you in any way?”

“Oh he did. Imagine my surprise when I was given a key to a flat already registered under my name. I had planned to find one myself, just to spite the bastard, but my army pension could only go so far. I tried to find work, but no one would call me back.”

An annoyed scowl settled across his features, as if reliving through those difficult moments in his life over and over again. Sherlock was absolutely certain John had downplayed the events of him breaking into the facility. Making it seem so simple, and yet there was an underlying pain he tried with great difficulty to keep buried. How else would he end up with a psychosomatic limp and the constant nightmares he had mentioned?

Perhaps guilt for never being able to find the one behind his team's death?

Clearing his throat, the detective was unable to quell the final question swirling within his thoughts.

“You did end up working for Mycroft in the end. How did that transpire?”

“Ah, right. Remember the incident with the creep trying to attack that woman?”

Sherlock nodded in confirmation.

“Well, on my way back to the flat, guess who happened to pull up next to me?”

“Nope. Don't want to.”

John laughed at his response, finally easing away the tension that had built up over the retelling of his past. The detective tried his best but ended up giggling alongside him, honestly pleased to see Watson cheering back up.

“Yeah, makes sense.” The doctor chuckled, wiping at his eyes as he attempted to catch his breath.

“Of course it was the nosey bastard. He knew what I had done and pointed out the miraculous healing of my limp. Again he made his offer. Again, I told him to shove it. But this time, he had the upper hand. He could outright tell Scotland Yard of my crime, or I could simply disappear for a bit until things blew over. I didn't want to, but I eventually accepted.”

“And becoming a gunman?”

“That was a cover often used for missions he would send me on. It took on a life of its own as word got out about the picky assassin who would vanish without a trace. And of course you know the rest. Assigned to protect the arrogant pricks brother who hated my guts.”

John smiled, leaning back in his chair.

“Any more questions?”

Sherlock thought it over for a minute, fiddling with the handle of his mug.

“Who do you prefer working for?”

“What?”

Staring up at him with sharp silver eyes, the detective repeated himself.

“It's a rather simple question. Who do you prefer?”

Watson shoved back the urge to laugh due to the severity of his flatmates stare.

“You, obviously.”

“Good.”

Sherlock gave a quick smile before standing from the seat and heading towards his room. 

“Good night, John.”

He paused at the door for a brief moment before looking back at the slightly confused doctor.

“And…just so you know…I’m glad you're here.”

It was such a brief statement, and yet it held so much that it made the doctor's heart thump painfully. Sherlock then swiftly entered his room without another word and shut the door with a click.

-

John had woken to the sound of dishes clattering, quickly making his way down the steps and into the living room to find a peculiar scene.

Sherlock was busy in the kitchen, scrambling eggs and veggies. A plate full of bacon sitting at the table and the scent of toast being made perplexed the doctor further as he silently wondered if he was still asleep.

“Before you ask, yes, I can cook.”

The detective announced as he plated the eggs.

“It may come as a surprise to you, but I am a fully functioning adult, capable of making edible meals. Now sit.”

Holding his hands up in defeat, Watson sat at the table as the wonderful smelling breakfast was set before him with a fresh cup of tea. He smirked teasingly as he looked up at his flatmate.

“What, no good morning kiss?”

Sherlock froze, making John immediately regret having said something so carelessly.

He was ready to apologize for his joke when a hand reached up and cupped the side of his face.

Holmes then leaned down and gently pressed their lips together. The doctor's brain short circuits for a half second before he reciprocates the action, incidentally deepening the kiss.

A muffled hum sounded from the much taller male as his hand slid up to comb through the others sleep mused blonde hair. John couldn't resist the temptation to do the same, marveling at the impossible softness of the black curls.

The kiss was nothing more than a slide of lips and yet it sent warmth and affection encircling both frantically beating hearts. Neither knew how long the contact lasted and neither of them seemed to care.

Eventually breaking apart, slightly breathless and blushing brightly, Sherlock and John ended up motionless, as if frozen in time as they stared into each other's eyes. Finally, the detective came back to his senses and stood up, running a hand through his now even messier hair.

“Good morning, John.”