Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes was back from the dead, and John Watson was not altogether pleased about it.

Finding out after two years that your late best friend was not, in fact, as deceased as you’d been led to believe was generally considered to be a happy occasion. John supposed that eventually he might get around to the whole “happy” bit of it. Right now he was just plain brassed off.

It wasn’t so much that he couldn’t understand Sherlock’s rationale for the entire charade; John appreciated, very much, his own current state of not-being-dead. No, what John couldn’t understand was why the charade had needed to continue for so bloody long without his being apprised of the real state of affairs. After all, hadn’t Sherlock said that he didn’t have any friends but John?

Yes, John was quite cross at having been deceived, so effectively and for so long; but that didn’t change the fact that the papers and news blogs had no right to write the things they had been about his formerly-late best friend.

“FRAUDULENT AMATEUR DETECTIVE HOLMES “BACK” AMONG THE LIVING” splashed across the screen of John’s laptop, along with a photo of said detective looking like he was moments away from lambasting the face off the shot’s photographer. Of course, that was probably nothing to the excoriation that the article’s author had undoubtedly received, given the tone of the piece and the questions that the journalist had apparently asked.

A large number of the pieces that John had seen were calling for Sherlock to be locked away in a mental institution. In their opinion, he was “dangerously unbalanced” and “a threat to society at large.”

“Nevermind that it’s him that tracked down that mad bleeding cabbie, not to mention any other number of actual threats to society at large,” muttered John in disgust, as he closed both the browser window and his laptop. He scowled ferociously at the empty tea cup he carried into the kitchen, as if it were the author of such ludicrous suggestions, and at the clock on the wall as though it were the tea cup’s fiendish accomplice. “I hope he’s made at least one journalist cry by now. Nosy gits deserve what they get,” he informed his jacket as he yanked it on and stomped through the door on his way to work.

He got about as far as double-checking that the front doorknob was locked before the first flashbulb went off. Suddenly a microphone was in his face, and he was being asked whether he had known that his erstwhile partner had survived his fall from the roof of St. Bart’s.

“Not that I see how it’s any business of yours, but no,” snapped John. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, some people have more important things to do today than stand about and gossip.”

His attempts to push through the small knot of reporters went over rather poorly. He had just about resolved to start stamping on feet and elbowing faces when two tallish, official-looking fellows in suits reached through the crowd and extricated him. The journalists, foiled for the moment, started calling after him about his “bodyguards” as the men led him to the back door of a dark-windowed car waiting at the curb. John was just as happy to ignore them and slam the door in their inquisitive faces. “I take it I’ll be late for work, then, yeah?” he asked Anthea, who smirked at him before turning her attention back to her mobile.

“Right,” John sighed. What a lovely morning this was shaping up to be.

*******************

Mycroft stood waiting in the middle of the warehouse, like a mirror reflecting back to John’s first encounter with him. “I trust my wayward brother has informed you of his oh-so-miraculous return from the dead?”

“Yes, he did at least have the courtesy to do that much before the reporters started turning up on my doorstep.”

“Ah, yes, the press. They’ve made quite a nuisance of themselves, wouldn’t you agree, Dr. Watson?” asked Mycroft. John got the distinct impression that this was supposed to be leading somewhere that he was rather sure he wouldn’t like.

“I’d call that a bit of an understatement, yeah,” John responded guardedly. “Making things a bit hard to get to work this morning. Where I’m supposed to be now, in fact...” He glanced pointedly at his watch.

“We’ll have you there soon enough, Dr. Watson. We first need to discuss the rather... difficult situation that my brother has created for himself. You see, once the media discovered that his supposed suicide was, in actuality, a fake, they came to the conclusion that, clearly, he was perilously unbalanced-”

“Can’t argue with that one,” John interrupted crossly.

“-and as such, needs to be contained. Both for his own good and for that of the general populace,” Mycroft finished, glaring purposefully at the good doctor.

“Hang on - you’re not saying that you actually agree with them, are you?” John demanded. If Mycroft was trying to imply that John, being a doctor, should assist with the attempt to get his friend committed to a mental institution, well, he was terribly mistaken. John couldn’t even imagine how very much, or for how very long, Sherlock would hate him for being party to such a thing.

“No, nothing of the sort. I’m pleased to see that you don’t either,” Mycroft assured him, looking almost imperceptibly relieved.

“Then... if you’re not asking for my help to lock him up - what am I doing here?” John wondered. “I’m not a psychologist, if that’s what you’re asking. Not my field. I can’t prove he’s well enough to run about in public, not and have it stick. Besides, I’m known to be his partner. Your brute squad can tell you all about the horde of reporters that was waiting on my doorstep this morning.”

“I’m not asking you to do that, either. No, actually there’s quite a renowned psychologist with a practice near Bath I’d like him to go see.” Mycroft paused, as if thinking how best to phrase his next thought. Ah, thought John, here we come to the bit he knows I won’t be pleased with. “I’d like you to take him out there for a few weeks, make certain he sees the doctor when he’s supposed to. It should be far enough from London to dodge most of the press, hopefully, until this mess has died down a bit.”

“And how did this become my responsibility? I’m sure that you, being his big brother, would be better suited to babysit his appallingly uncommunicative highness.” John crossed his arms and scowled.

“I have pressing business to attend to-”

“Don’t you always.”

“How many other friends, precisely, do you think he has?” Mycroft asked.

“I’m not even sure he still has this one,” John replied, knowing he didn’t really mean it, and also knowing that he wasn’t going to let on to Mycroft. “Not after the stunt he just pulled. I thought he was DEAD, for chrissakes. For TWO. BLEEDING. YEARS.”

A thought occurred to him. “How long have you known he was alive?” John accused. It would be just like the secretive prat to have known all along, thanks to his spies, that Sherlock wasn’t really dead. Just like him not to tell John and let him suffer.

“Only slightly longer than you have, I assure you,” Mycroft replied. John eyed him suspiciously and doubted the truth of the response. “Now, can I count on you to keep an eye on Sherlock? All of the expenses will be taken care of, of course.”

John considered protesting a bit more, but realized that it was a losing battle. The longer he held out, the later he would be to work, was all. “Fine. You know what? Fine. But you get to convince Sherlock.”

*******************

“He won’t listen to me, John. Terribly busy, John,” the doctor in question mimicked in a high voice that clearly wasn’t Mycroft’s. The speaking to himself was earning him some strange looks from passersby as he walked along the street, but John couldn’t be bothered to care. “What a load of rubbish.”

He strode under the awning of Speedy’s to the once-familiar door of 221B Baker Street. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to do more than hire a moving service, after Sherlock had “died.” He regretted not having been able to be more help to poor Mrs. Hudson, then, but at the time... he simply couldn’t, that was all. A wave of nostalgia rolled over him as he lifted and released the knocker. He then stood for a good three minutes waiting for the door to be opened. When, at last, the door handle turned, John found himself face to face with his former landlady.

“Oh, hello, John! I should have figured that I’d be seeing you pop ‘round soon, now Sherlock’s taken up residence again. Come in, come in!” Mrs. Hudson greeted him. She stood aside and ushered him in and up the stairs. “Haven’t had anybody to rent the flat, since you lot left... bullet holes in the walls, that gas explosion, and so on, you understand... though a good few photographers have taken to lingering down in the street, since he came back, you know.”

John glanced back at the door as it swung closed and thought he saw the flash of a camera. Although maybe that was just paranoia, or the power of suggestion, or some such.

“Yes, they have come out in full force, haven’t they? Had a few nearly barricade me in my flat the other morning,” John responded, raising his voice a bit in the hopes that it would carry up the remaining stairs and induce some semblance of guilty feeling in his former flatmate. Not that that would work, but it couldn’t hurt his case, now could it?

“My, how dreadful, dear,” Mrs. Hudson sympathized. “It’s not gotten quite so bad around here, but that’s mostly since Sherlock never leaves the flat, lately. You know how he gets, of course.”

John rolled his eyes and nodded in agreement. The two of them shared a knowing smile. “I’ll leave you two be, then,” she said as they reached the landing, patting John’s arm. “Good to see you again, dear.”

“Pleasure to see you, too, Mrs. H.” He took a deep breath, let it out, and rounded the corner into his old flat.

The place looked a bit more bare than it had when he had first arrived some four-odd years ago. John supposed that that was what came of having a considerable portion of one’s possessions sold off or donated to charities following one’s untimely demise. The harpoon still rested against a wall in the corner, though, and a violin and music stand were propped up near a chair in the other corner.

The man himself, clad in a bathrobe, stood peering through a slight gap in the window dressings at the street below. “They’re quite easy to elude if you come and go a bit less predictably. That’s your problem,” Sherlock opined. “Then they don’t know when to show up in force.”

“Yes, well. That’s a bit harder to manage when you have to work for a living, isn’t it?” John retorted sourly.

Sherlock released the window shade and turned to face his former flatmate. His eyes narrowed in that calculating way of his. “You don’t want to be here; you’re still angry with me, but here you are anyway. What has my brother convinced you to try and get me to do?”

John noticed the stubborn set of Sherlock’s face when he mentioned his brother and braced himself for battle. Some things never changed. “You mean to say you haven’t worked that out yet, too? Seems being dead has dulled your wits.” It was the wrong thing to say, and John knew it, but he was angry. He needed Sherlock to understand exactly how angry he actually was.

And it looked like that had done it. Rage sparked to life in Sherlock’s eyes. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with any of my mental faculties, and never has been, as you well know. If you, of all people, intend to imply that I am incapable of functioning without constant observation, then you’re welcome to leave this flat immediately. You don’t live here any more, John, and you most certainly are not my keeper,” Sherlock snarled. As he spoke, he closed the distance between them and loomed over the shorter man.

John glared up at him. “You think that now I would give up on you? After I stood by you through everything else?” It was insulting even to think it. “We just need to get you out of here for a while. Before it’s too late and you bite the heads off enough journalists to wind up getting yourself locked away for real. I am TRYING to help you. And, whether you believe it or not, so is Mycroft.”

Sherlock leaned back, the lines of contempt smoothing themselves from his face. “Certainly not. I’ve only just returned. They can hardly bother me in my own flat.”

“Yes, fine, but you can only stay in here for so long. Think how bored you’ll get,” John reminded him. He knew that, if there was one thing his friend couldn’t abide, it was boredom. Sherlock scowled as if displeased that the doctor knew him so well.

“Where, exactly, are you proposing to take me, and why should I care?”

“Because you can’t solve crime in a straightjacket, Sherlock!” The taller man opened his mouth, probably to point out the fallacies in that statement--not least of which being that Sherlock probably could solve crime in a straightjacket--but John cut him off before he could begin. “No, stop, I don’t want to hear it. Half of Britain is out to see you put away, and it’s only going to get worse. Have you seen some of the anonymous statements they’ve dug up about how unhinged you are?”

“Yes, Anderson’s in particular have been spectacularly uncreative. Clearly he still thinks that pigheadedness is an appropriate substitute for intelligence.” As Sherlock paused, John reflected that he wouldn’t be even remotely surprised if the detective had deduced the authors of every uncredited comment about him. “Very well, obviously you and Mycroft have come up with the perfect solution to my little dilemma. Let’s have it, then.”

“Well...” John hesitated. Here came the tough sell. “The best way to convince them that your mental health is not an issue would be to have proof to support the claim. Soooo,” he cleared his throat, and continued in a rush, “we were thinking that it might be best for you to be examined and given a clean bill of health by a well-known psychologist. Away from London. For a while.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock pulled away from their little face-off to start pacing the flat in agitation. “Do you really suppose I’m going to sit down in a quaint little lodge in the country with a popularized quack and talk about my feelings? Me, John? I know you were forced to keep company with lower minds in my absence, but do at least make an effort not to be asinine.”

Upon hearing it out loud, John was forced to recognize how ludicrous the idea was. Not that he was about to admit it aloud, of course. “Funny thing, it’s not exactly how I planned on spending the next month either, and yet here I am.”

Sherlock froze, back to John. “Of course. Mycroft doesn’t trust me to go along with it on my own, so he sends you with to make sure I do as I’m told.”

“Not that I particularly think you’ll listen to me, but your brother’s convinced, and what are the opinions of us mere mortals next to the great Holmes brothers?”

“What indeed?” the taller man agreed absently.

John clenched his jaw. There had been a time when thoughtless comments like that had elicited an eyeroll at most. That time had been over for just about two years now. “So help me Sherlock, if I have to hogtie you to get you on that train, Mycroft will make sure no one lifts a finger to stop it.”

“There’s no need to resort to barbarism,” Sherlock pronounced, turning an appalled face to John. “No bags with you and no taxi waiting out front, so the plan wasn’t to leave today, but you still felt anxious to convince me this afternoon. I’ll see you in the morning, shall I?”

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

“This is pointless, John, and a complete waste of my time.” Sherlock was looping his scarf around his neck in preparation for storming out of the psychologist’s office. Again.

John tried not to roll his eyes and looked up from the magazine he’d been reading in the lobby. Now, instead of watching crap telly, he got to read all about it in months-old gossip rags. He waved the periodical in question in Sherlock’s direction. “Not exactly what I consider the best use of my time, either, but it really is necessary if we’re to be able to go out in public ever again. Without being assaulted by cameras, anyway.”

“I fail to see how my answering the same inane questions ad infinitum for a week has made ANY progress toward being done with this infernal place,” Sherlock huffed dismissively. John glanced an apology at the receptionist. “And if it’s not producing the desired results, then there’s really no point in staying.”

John bolted up from his seat to grab the trench coat that the detective was preparing to stuff his arms into. “Perhaps if you’d actually try to answer the questions instead of just mocking Dr. Cunningham, we might be getting somewhere.” Sherlock tried to pull the coat from the shorter man’s grip, but the doctor refused to release his terrier-like hold on it. “Now would you please get back in there? You’ve only got half an hour left, then we’re done for today.”

The sound of a stitch or two giving way from the contested garment caused Sherlock to release the coat suddenly in alarm. John stumbled backwards and batted the coat out of his face. He then narrowed his eyes at his friend with a smirk, laid the coat across his chair, and sat on it.

“Oh, for God’s sakes,” Sherlock protested. “That’s a bit childish, don’t you think?”

“Nnnnope.” The smirk unfolded into a smug smile as John flipped the magazine back open and crossed his right ankle over his left knee.

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh and turned on his heel back toward the door of the doctor’s office. About the same time that he heard the door slam shut, a soft blue scarf hit John Watson in the face. A quiet chuckle escaped him. “And he has the cheek to call me childish.”

The receptionist stifled a giggle. “Is he always like this?” she asked.

John shot her a long-suffering smile. “You have no idea.”

*******************

John turned from the laughing receptionist (Rose - she was actually quite pretty, and studying to be a nurse) when Sherlock re-emerged with a bang and a scowl a half hour later. The disgruntled detective stalked over to collect his things from John’s chair, and John excused himself to have a word with Dr. Cunningham.

“So, ah, how are things coming?”

The psychologist shrugged his broad shoulders and leaned against the doorframe. “The last half hour went fairly well. Got him to talk about why he had gotten so upset with me, at least.”

“Yeah, funny thing. He usually seems more than happy to talk about everyone else’s faults,” John grimaced.

“Hm. It’s easier than confronting one’s own, generally,” Dr. Cunningham pointed out. He removed his wire-framed glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Alright?” inquired John, looking up with concern at the taller doctor.

“Yes, fine. Just have a bit of a headache, that’s all.”

The shorter doctor snorted. “Yeah, I imagine so. I don’t envy you having to try and root around in that mind of his for two hours a day. Give anyone a headache, I imagine.”

“John, are you coming?” the migraine-inducing detective called from the front door to the clinic. John guiltily wondered if his friend had overheard any of the preceding conversation.

“Yeah, right there,” John replied. He nodded his regards to Dr. Cunningham. “See you tomorrow then.”

“Of course. Have a good evening.”

“Well, I’ll try, anyway,” John agreed. The chagrin on his face revealed his apparent belief that this was less than likely. He moved to collect his own coat from his chair and replaced his abandoned magazine on the side table. Really should remember to bring a book or the laptop tomorrow, he reminded himself. Glancing up, he realized that Sherlock had already swept out the door, and hurried to catch up with his impatient friend. On his way out, he barrelled into Dr. Cunningham’s assistant, Alice.

“Oh, sorry, should pay more attention,” she apologized, abruptly shutting off the screen of her mobile. She looked more concerned than simply apologetic for colliding with the doctor, so he quickly assumed blame.

“No, no, I’m fine. My fault, really, I was in too much of a hurry to catch up with Sherlock,” John assured her. “You’re alright, aren’t you? Not hurt?”

“No, of course I’m fine, sorry. So sorry,” Alice proclaimed, peering anxiously over her shoulder at the entrance to the office but remaining rooted in front of John.

“Don’t worry about it, really,” he insisted. He spared a glance over his shoulder himself to track Sherlock, who was quickly lengthening the gap between them. When he looked back to Alice, she was shifting her weight impatiently from one foot to the other. “Right, sorry, you’re busy, and I’ve got to--” he gestured vaguely in the direction the detective had disappeared.

As if to punctuate his statement, the sound of raised voices carried through the door. John winced; the words were indistinct, but that irate baritone was unmistakable.

Alice offered a tight smile. “Go ahead. Sorry again.”

With that, John was off to find out what kind of temper tantrum Sherlock was throwing this time.

*******************

“Look, all I’m saying is that you didn’t have to give him quite such an earful for trying to take your cab, alright?” John stepped out and slammed the door on his side of the taxi rather harder than he had intended. Sometimes John felt like talking to Sherlock was like talking through an electric fan - most of it went in one side and came out the other, with a whole world of distortion along the way. “We’re supposed to be keeping a low profile here, remember? Shouting matches in the middle of the street are hardly what we’re after.”

Sherlock finished collecting his change from the driver and stepped around to the curb. “Why are we still talking about this? It’s scarcely my fault that the obese imbecile took offense at the suggestion that he could do with more walking.”

John threw up his hands in resignation and strode up the walk towards the hotel. His friend was more gifted than God when it came to deductive reasoning, but his social skills were about on par with those of a feral cat.

“Yeah, but you don’t just say it, just like that!”

“Why not? I’m certain his physician has told him as much, more than once, with a heart condition like that and his figure the way it was.” The longer-legged detective caught up with and passed John, turning up the collar on his coat against the cold.

John realized he must look like a fish and closed his gaping mouth. All of his friend’s astonishingly accurate conclusions had become almost old hand, before. He was still reacclimating to it, now, being around Sherlock again.

“What about you, then?” he demanded, recollecting himself as they passed into the hall their rooms branched from. “I don’t see you doing anything besides sulking about here.”

“My physical health is hardly in question. Frankly I don’t see why my mental health should be either.” Sherlock paused in unlocking the door to his room to grace John with a scathing look. “And I don’t sulk.”

John followed his charge into the room, crossing his arms. “Yeah? What would you call it? ‘Cause from here, it looks an awful lot like you’re sitting in here feeling sorry for yourself day in and day out because you actually have to take responsibility for your actions, for once.”

There was a sharp inhalation. “I’m not sure what more you want from me, John, but I’m growing quite tired of your efforts to punish me.”

“Punish--” the doctor repeated. “I’m trying to help you, if you’d bloody well let me. Last time I checked that was the opposite of punishing you.”

“You’ve made it nothing but clear since the beginning of this ill-conceived venture that this is the last place you want to be. Combine that with your residual anger, and you’ll forgive me if I don’t believe you. Then again, maybe you won’t.”

Hands clenched against that final barb, John did his best to rein in the fury that threatened to tear loose. He had every right to still be angry about--about everything, but he really didn’t want to get into that argument yet again.

Truth be told, he and Sherlock had been doing little but arguing with one another for the duration of the trip. He’d hoped that things would improve, but as the week had progressed it was just the opposite. The easy way he’d been able to cope with his ex-flatmate’s shenanigans had apparently evaporated over the last two years and showed no signs of returning. Add to that the fact that neither of them particularly wanted to be there, and that Sherlock was doubtless growing increasingly bored, and it was a recipe for disaster.

“I’m just--I’m not going to deal with this right now, I’m really not.” The best option, John decided, would be to just remove himself from the situation.

“But John, what happened to keeping a low profile?” Sherlock asked disingenuously, almost before John had finished turning for the door.

He hid his surprise and didn’t even bother asking how Sherlock had known he’d planned to go out for dinner, maybe check out a few of the local tourist traps. There were some hot springs a bit outside of town--perhaps not as showy as the famous ones in Bath itself, but since the cab fee for getting all the way to Bath was a bit steeper than he’d prefer, the more modest springs seemed worth a look.

“You know, you’re the one that always had trouble with ‘low-profile,’ not me,” he pointed out, managing not to slam the door this time. He also resisted the urge to slump against it once it was closed, exhausted though that encounter had left him. Passing a hand over his face, John heaved a weighted sigh. Why was it so hard to get Sherlock to do anything that was for his own good? Yeah, fine, he might not be best pleased with the impossible man, probably wouldn’t be for the foreseeable future, but it wasn’t like he actively wished him harm.

The hot spring might have to wait, John decided. Right now, what he needed was a drink.

******************

Again with the waiting room. Really, if this trip had been under any other circumstances he might have quite enjoyed the chance at all-expenses-paid relaxation. As things stood, though, anything in conjunction with the name Sherlock Holmes was by definition the opposite of relaxing. With a sigh, John resettled the laptop on his knees and shifted against the nondescript tan upholstery.

“He’s been in there almost an hour without threatening to leave this time,” Rose the receptionist offered, clearly picking up on John’s mood.

“Yeah, that has to be some kind of record, hasn’t it?” Brows furrowed, John checked the time to verify that she was right. “Honestly, that almost worries me more.”

“Oh, come on, then,” Rose prodded with a teasing grin. She really was quite pretty--there was a certain mischievous charm to her smile. “It’s got to be a good sign, him staying in there this long.”

“With Sherlock? No, not really.”

“If he’s all that bad, then you’re an even better friend than I thought, bringing him here.”

John took in the trepidation in her face and suppressed a groan. She was just making a hopeful guess on the “friend” bit. He had absolutely not missed that part of running about with Sherlock. Still, the fact that she hoped otherwise was a good sign, wasn’t it?

“Not that he seems to appreciate it much,” he agreed. “But what are friends for?”

Her smile widened a bit at his emphasis. “Well, you know--”

The door was flung open. “Looks like we spoke too soon,” he murmured in an undertone, setting his laptop aside in preparation for dealing with an errant consulting detective. But when he looked up again, it wasn’t Sherlock standing in the door--it was Dr. Cunningham.

That couldn’t possibly be good.

“Rose, would you kindly cancel my 3:30... actually, the rest of my appointments for today?”

Nope. Definitely more than a bit not good. John stood up and moved toward the psychologist. “What has he done--”

Dr. Cunningham shook his head and gave a tight-lipped, wan smile. “Not Sherlock this time... I’ve got to go down to the morgue and identify a body.”

John’s eyes widened. His hand came to rest on the other man’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry. Don’t let us keep you.”

The taller doctor nodded. “Thank you. I must be going.”

As the psychologist strode out through the exterior door, the detective strode in through the interior one opposite it. He held his hands steepled in front of his chin, and there was no mistaking (at least for those who knew him as well as John did) the look of intense interest on his face. John tried to tamp down on the involuntary thought, At least now he won’t be bored, before it had a chance to take root.

“No.”

Sherlock looked up as though surprised to see John there. “But John, it could--”

“No,” John repeated, with the distinct impression he was talking to a puppy that wanted very much to tear his best shoes to ribbons. “Not today, not this time. Not here. Not happening.”

Rose glanced between the two of them in extreme confusion. She shook her head and punched a few keys on her computer, then picked up the office phone’s handset.

The two men, meanwhile, were locked in a staredown. John’s hands balled into fists at his sides. Finally Sherlock dropped his own hands from his face and stuffed them into his coat pockets. “Fine,” he enunciated. He turned cool, empty eyes on Rose and John in turn and began striding towards the door.

“Not this again...” muttered John tiredly. He shoved his laptop into its shoulder bag, not bothering to buckle it, and threw his coat on one arm.

“Everything alright?” Rose asked concernedly, one hand covering the mouthpiece of the handset.

“Not in the slightest,” John informed her, hastening after Sherlock with his coat only halfway on.

By the time he reached the street, the detective was nowhere to be seen. Swearing to himself, John took off in the likeliest direction--the corner where they had caught the cab the previous day. Reaching it, he found that there were no cabs to be seen, nor any furious dark haired detectives in long woolen jackets.

There was, however, a convenience store, advertising cigarette prices in its windows. Presented with no other likely options, John dashed across the street to it and peered in the window. Sherlock was already receiving his change from the cashier. The leggy bastard was quick.

John was leaning against the storefront windows when the door jingled open for Sherlock. “So you’re back at those again, are you?”

Sherlock tapped the pack against his opposite hand and kept walking, crossing back to the side of the street where they normally picked up a cab. John gritted his teeth and stepped to follow suit. A few cars later, and Sherlock was already lighting a cigarette by the time John made it across.

“Those things’ll kill you, you know.” He had meant it as sort of a joke, but John was embarrassed to hear his voice crack in the middle of it.

Sherlock stopped mid-inhale and turned to look at the shorter man. He cocked his head slightly and furrowed his brow. “I’m not dead, John.” A simple statement of fact. Smoke trailed out of his mouth with the words, as though he were some sort of person-shaped dragon.

“That’s the thing, isn’t it?” The doctor put a fist in front of his mouth as if to block more words. He kept his eyes riveted on the cab pulling up, like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. Sherlock must have called it on his dash to the convenience store.

The detective dropped his cigarette to the pavement and put it out with his heel. His eyes were still on his friend as he stepped over to the car and opened the rear door. He paused with the door open, then wordlessly stepped to the side and gestured for John to get in.

Taking the apology for what it was, John nodded tersely and ducked through the door.

*******************

They were having a rather companionable, if silent, dinner back at the hotel pub when the telly had to go and ruin it.

“...body of 34 year old Alice Acton was found today near these very hot springs. I’m here with geologist Kenneth Hayter, who tells me that sudden fluctuations in temperature, like the one that apparently scalded Miss Acton to death, are exceedingly rare, almost to the point of being unheard-of without significant seismic activity...”

Suddenly Sherlock’s attention, which had been wandering among the pub’s other patrons, was rapt on the screen. John, whose attention had also been drawn by the mention of Dr. Cunningham’s assistant, shook his head and turned back to his dinner partner, remarking, “That’ll be Dr. Cunningham’s bad news, then.”

“Shut up.” Sherlock waved an impatient hand at him, and John glanced back over his shoulder at the screen. The geologist was telling the reporter how, normally, it takes an earthquake for such sudden changes in water temperature to take place. In most cases without seismic activity, though, such a fluctuation would usually take days or weeks to develop. Obviously, with the lack of earthquakes in the area, the geologists were eager to investigate what had happened.

“The most puzzling part of this tragedy is that water temperatures are now back to their usual - a pleasant 36 degrees. We’ll keep you posted on what the geological survey turns up. Back to you...”

“Puzzling? Oh, please,” Sherlock scoffed.

“Sorry?” John turned once again back to their table.

“There’s nothing puzzling about it. Obviously, it is scientifically impossible for a geothermal spring to jump temperatures right at a moment’s notice, just in time to kill someone, then return to normal as soon as she’s dead. And if that’s impossible, then something else must have killed Alice Acton.”

“Sherlock, I know you’re bored, but not every death is necessarily a murder.”

“Not every death, no,” the detective replied, rising from his seat and dropping his napkin on the table. “Just this one.”

John gazed forlornly at his half-eaten shepherd’s pie and took a deep swig of his beer. He looked at the mad genius, already two tables away, who had paused in his flight to the door to look back questioningly at him. The doctor couldn’t help but smile a little and shake his head as he pulled a few notes from his pocket to leave on the table, then followed his friend out into the night.

*******************

“Immediate family is too easy to verify, a boyfriend wouldn’t be given access, it’ll have to be a cousin.”

“How. How do I keep getting dragged into this?” John asked Sherlock’s back as its owner strode down the empty hospital hallway. “No, I really want to know.”

“Quiet, John. I need to stay in character.” Well, it wasn’t as though he’d actually needed an answer anyway. If he was honest with himself, he only had himself to blame; he couldn’t keep away if he tried.

“Right, well, if you need me to punch you again, I’m happy to help.”

The look that Sherlock tossed over his shoulder was the definition of disparaging. Then they turned the corner and, as John watched, his friend’s disdain transformed to what was almost a caricature of grief. John said almost because a mere caricature wouldn’t have been half as convincing as the way that his friend was fighting back crocodile tears, looking for all the world like a man trying not to show anyone how shattered he was.

Not that John had any experience with that particular look. None at all.

Almost as if on cue, a man with a badge marking him as a mortuary technician stepped out of a pair of swinging doors. Upon noticing John and Sherlock, he brought himself up short, a frown forming between his eyebrows.

“Sorry, you’re not supposed to be down here--”

“Is she in there?” Sherlock interrupted, his voice thick. “Alice, is she--is she in there?”

“I really can’t discuss that, but you can call and see about a viewing if that’s what you want.”

“I just need to see her,” the detective choked out. For a man who had a hard time fathoming normal human emotions, he did an excellent job imitating them. It was almost comical, if you knew Sherlock. Which thankfully this technician did not. “Please, I’m her--I’m her cousin, we grew up together, I just--I just need to see her.”

The technician was casting doubtful looks between John and Sherlock. The doctor cleared his throat. “I’m just here for, ah, moral support. I didn’t want to uh, leave him alone.” And wasn’t that the truth.

“Look,” said the mortuary assistant, “I’m at the end of my shift, and I’m really not the person you’re supposed to talk to for this. I’m sorry, but I can’t help.”

“Just five minutes!” Sherlock exclaimed with a look of desperation, grabbing onto the technician’s hand and clinging. “Please, just give me five minutes with her.”

John fought back his amusement. Lying their way in to see the body of a very nice young woman who in all likelihood had not been murdered was not something that should be amusing. Just like people shouldn’t giggle at crime scenes. Right.

“Um.” The technician withdrew his hand, clearly uncomfortable. “You’re talking about Alice Acton, right? I should warn you, it’s a little...much.”

John half expected Sherlock to grin at the hint of a gruesome corpse to examine, but somehow his friend stayed in character. “I don’t care what she looks like, I just need to see her.”

The technician ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know why I’m doing this, but fine. Five minutes.”

John knew how he felt.

The technician led them to the body, which--as promised--was really not a pretty sight. Even John, with both his medical and military backgrounds, had to fight down the bile at the back of his throat at the sight of her. Burns, whether from an explosion or from boiling water, were never easy to deal with, but this was possibly the worst case he’d ever seen. All over her body, the skin, where is was still attached, had turned brown and leathery. Where it was no longer attached, the flesh beneath was exposed, red and pink and raw.

With the technician hovering to the side, having drawn the line at leaving them alone with the body, Sherlock had to restrain his normal enthusiasm. Even so, there was a moment when he looked up and met John’s eyes with a spark of excitement so bright that John was surprised the technician didn’t throw them out right off as imposters. There was no doubting that the detective had found a clue to support his mad theory, regardless of the fact that--after that one brief departure--Sherlock’s act remained flawless. And John, God help him, realized how much he had missed this. Funny how inspecting bodies in a morgue could do that to a bloke.

He distracted himself by trying to do his own subtle inspection of the body, but with the full-body burns he wasn’t exactly sure what Sherlock could have seen. Before he could figure it out though, their time was up. As they were ushered out, Sherlock kept up a front of grief-stricken gratitude toward the technician.

The moment the technician was out of sight, Sherlock spun to grip John’s shoulders, a grin splitting his face.

“It was murder, John!” he exclaimed with glee. He was practically buzzing from restrained delight. “There’s no doubt, absolutely none!”

“Of course there’s not,” John sighed, closing his eyes briefly. In a moment the mad detective had spun away and was blazing a hurried trail towards the nearest exit.

“This is brilliant! Here I was thinking this trip would be a complete waste of my time, but this! This is perfect!”

“You do realize that we knew that poor girl?” John hissed, keeping pace with his rather manic companion as he barrelled up the stairs. “Saw her just yesterday, ran into me because she was texting, and now her body is barely even recognizable.”

“Spare me the sentiment; everyone dies. At least she had the decency to make it interesting.”

Noise in the stairwell boomed and echoed, so John fought to keep his voice down “She didn’t die for your gratification!”

“No,” Sherlock drawled, not slowing in the slightest as he pushed the door to the main level open. He did, however, turn the full force of his bright gaze on John. “It’s just my job to find out whose gratification she did die for.”

“Oh for God’s sake, what was it, then? What has you so convinced it was murder?”

“Do your eyes actually function, or are they just there for decoration? The contusion on her forehead; the cyanosis around her mouth and extremities.”

“Putting aside how the hell you even noticed that through the third-degree burns covering her entire body, she could have hit her head on a rock or something, and even you can’t claim it’s surprising to find signs of drowning when she died in a hot spring.”

“Not signs of drowning, signs of asphyxiation!” They had reached more public areas of the hospital now, and Sherlock’s excited proclamation brought them more than a few concerned looks. John continued pressing for the exit, hoping to spare the civilians from hearing any of the more distressing comments his friend was capable of.

“The outward symptoms of drowning and asphyxiation are almost identical, I’ll admit, but--”

“They didn’t find her in the hot spring though, did they? The newscaster specifically said they found her near the springs. Which means that even if she was really in them in the first place, she would have had to get herself out and away from the water. How does a woman drown on dry land, John?”

“Okay, so it’s a bit unusual, but...” He trailed off at the scornful look being directed at him. Who was he fooling? “All right, you win. What do you propose we do about it?”

Sherlock lifted his eyebrows. “I think it’s high time we did some sightseeing, wouldn’t you say?”

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

It was dishearteningly easy to sneak into the crime scene. Not that anyone but Sherlock (and therefore, by default, John) actually thought it was a crime scene, but even so. John had been holding out hope that maybe there would be lingering news cameras that would force them to keep their distance. The crime scene tape had led him on, making him think that there was actually a chance of their being stopped, but it was not to be. Sherlock ducked under the tape effortlessly, leaving John no choice but to follow in his wake.

“So it doesn’t bother you that no one has actually asked for your help on this one?” he inquired, leaning against the bole of a tree while his mad friend stooped, torch in hand, to investigate patterns in the grass.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Why would it bother me?” Apparently this reprimand didn’t even merit a glance up.

“Aside from the fact that we’ve already broken several laws tonight?” John muttered. This did cause Sherlock to look at him sharply.

“That’s never seemed to be a problem before; I don’t see why it should be now.”

Well, that was...actually a good point. The doctor sighed and shifted his weight. “Right, it’s all about the work.”

"Obviously." Sherlock turned his attention back to the ground underfoot and began to retrace their steps toward the road. When John moved to follow the detective across the clearing, he was commanded to stop with an abrupt gesture. "Stay there, you'll walk on it."

With no idea what he was meant to be walking--or rather, not walking--on, John settled back against the tree to watch and tried not to smile. He couldn't help but think that his friend looked like some sort of absurd cartoon detective, hunched over the ground like that. All that was missing was an oversized magnifying glass.

Whatever trail Sherlock was following led him all the way back to the crime scene tape at the edge of the road. He ran the circle of his torch's illumination up and down the roadside cursorily, then began to scan the brush near the apparent end of his trail. Deciding that he might as well stand about feeling useless where he could actually see what Sherlock was doing, John pushed away from the tree. He carefully picked his way between the trees that edged the clearing to the shrub that the crouching detective was meticulously inspecting.

"Ah!" Sherlock's hand shot out and pulled something from between the leaves. Something that looked, at least to John as he peered over his friend's shoulder, suspiciously like... more leaves.

"Um... 'Ah' what, exactly?"

The detective gave a pained sigh and gently shook the twig in front of John's face. The doctor raised his own torch to take a closer look as the taller man straightened his legs and launched into an explanation. "Surely even you can tell that these leaves are from a different plant than the one in front of you."

With the better light, that much was indeed obvious to John. He nodded. "Alright, but it could have just broken off one of the other plants around here."

"Except that yellowroot is not native to any part of Europe, certainly, it could have. Nor is it the sort of thing commonly to be found in British gardens. There is, however, one building locally in whose garden we have seen it." John just cocked his head and raised an eyebrow, knowing that the answer would be supplied. "The hospital."

John snorted and crossed his arms. "So one of the paramedics got his trousers caught on a plant when he cut through the memorial garden. How does that prove anything about it being a murder?"

"Because it wasn't the paramedics. You can see from the tyre tracks that the ambulance pulled up there," --using his torch as a spotlight, he illuminated the exact location-- "on the other side of the clearing. The impression of the stretcher's wheels indicates that they then came straight across to the body," --he tracked the line of their apparent path-- "loaded it up, and returned to their vehicle. No, before they got here, our murderer pulled up here," --spotlight-- "and, in the process of unloading the body, got his trousers caught for the second time that evening on this shrub, then dragged the body to where it was eventually discovered, here." The torch traced its way to a slight depression in the grass.

John blinked several times to clear the light trails from his vision. "So the murderer was at the hospital."

"Not simply the murderer; the murder."

"So... Let me see if I've got this. You're saying that she was scalded and asphyxiated to death. At the hospital. And no-one noticed this, or the killer moving her scalded dead body to his car."

"Precisely."

Which was how John found himself being herded once more into the seat of the black cab they’d left waiting for them, so that they could go back to the hospital that they had just left. He’d complain about how much money they were wasting on cab fees, but it was all out of Sherlock’s pocket, so it wasn’t as though it was John’s loss.

Sherlock was staring intently at the back of the driver’s seat in a way that suggested he was lost in thought. Trying to occupy himself, John pulled out his phone and almost considered sending Lestrade a text, asking the DI to take over. This whole situation was slightly ridiculous, from their going on holiday to see a psychologist of all things, to the alleged murder case that the detective had put himself on. Then again, he should have known better than to expect things to continue on being normal after Sherlock’s return.

“I need more data!” Sherlock growled suddenly, causing John to jump and face him more fully. “Who was she? What dirty secrets was she hiding? Who did she... John!”

“What?” he returned cautiously. There was no telling what Sherlock would demand when he was in this sort of state.

“That receptionist of Dr. Cunningham’s, the one with the appalling dye job. She gave you her number.”

“How did--no, it doesn’t matter how, the answer is no.”

Sherlock frowned. “I didn’t ask you anything.”

“You were about to. You were about to ask me to call Rose up and interrogate her about her dead friend, who she just lost and who she definitely does not think was murdered. You’re not the only one who can make deductions, you know.”

“Fine.” Before he could react, John found his phone being plucked from his hand. Already Sherlock’s long fingers were dancing across the screen; John knew it was a matter of seconds before Rose’s number was discovered.

“What are you--Sherlock, if you don’t give that back right now--”

“You’re clearly going to be pointlessly stubborn about it, and I have to get the information I need somehow. This is simply the most expedient method.”

That was the last straw. John launched himself across the back seat at Sherlock, fighting to get to his mobile. Sherlock, damn his freakishly long limbs, held the phone aloft and out of reach, continuing to stab at it with his thumb as he did so.

“You are not. Calling. Rose!” Using the seat for leverage John lunged upwards, only to find himself overbalanced when the cab went over a bump. Trying to catch himself while simultaneously avoiding placing his hands anywhere awkward proved too much effort. He wound up with his face very nearly in the place he'd been avoiding with his hands.

Sherlock looked impassively down at where John had sprawled in his lap and brought the phone to his ear. “Too late.”

“Oh for Chrissakes, give it here, I’ll talk to her!” Squirming so that one hand was free, he reached for the phone. Thankfully, this time Sherlock complied; anyone would be better to talk to a grieving young woman than Sherlock. Also thankfully, the phone was still ringing when John put his ear to it.

He was attempting to right himself when the ringing was cut off by a voice. “Hello?”

“Rose? Yeah, hi, it’s John - John Watson?” It was incredibly difficult to hold the phone to his ear while attempting to extricate himself one-handed in the back of a moving vehicle on a not-especially-well-paved country road. Particularly so, since Sherlock didn’t seem the slightest bit interested in assisting him. Probably wanted to listen in on the conversation, nosy git.

“John, hi!” The voice on the other end of the line grew noticeably warmer. “Did you manage to get things sorted with Himself, or is this you trying to escape for the evening?”

The doctor finally managed to successfully right himself, studiously ignoring both the way he’d had to press himself against Sherlock for leverage in the process as well as his friend’s gaze. “It’s all fine. Actually, I called to...” To what? How to get the information Sherlock was demanding without coming across as an insensitive prat before he even took the girl out once? Ah. “...to see how you were holding up. We just heard on the telly about what happened to Alice. I know the two of you were friends.”

“Oh, yes, I just heard about it myself. I’m still a bit in shock, you know?”

“I know what you mean. It’s a lot to take in, that someone you saw just hours ago alive and well, someone you cared about, is gone forever.” Suddenly he wasn’t really talking about Alice. He tried not to glance across to the other side of the seat. Caught himself eying a pair of usually-graceful hands fidgeting on a wool-covered lap. Looked out the window instead.

Silence for a moment, then: “Yeah. Though I’m not so sure she was quite ‘well.’ She and her boyfriend had been having a bit of a domestic. Not that I think she was that unwell-” Rose added hurriedly. “Not to hurt herself on purpose, or anything.”

“No, of course not,” John assured her. “Boyfriend probably feels terrible, though, poor man. Do you know him at all?”

“What, Ben? Yeah, poor bloke. He works down in the ICU at the hospital. Hope to God he wasn’t there when they brought the body in.” A still, pale face in a growing pool of red on the pavement... a corpse so blistered that calling it recognizable was dubious at best... John pressed the heel of his hand over his eyes in an attempt to blot out the horrifying double image. “John?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry. That would be a bit awful, yes. I hope he was spared that.”

“Me too.” There was another pause. “Mmph. I’ve seen some pictures of burn victims in my textbooks. Horrible way to go, poor girl.” A little more distress was creeping into Rose’s voice now. John cast about for a topic to change to before he was put in the awkward position of trying to comfort, via mobile, a crying acquaintance that he hadn’t even really wanted to call tonight.

“Oh, by the way, do you know if Dr. Cunningham is cancelling appointments for tomorrow, what with the tragedy...?” Not quite far enough from the touchy subject... too late now.

“No, the cold bastard rang me earlier. Business as usual, I’m afraid. Something about his obligation to his patients, blah blah blah. If you ask me, they could reschedule for something like this, and no-one would blame him.”

“Are you going to be okay to work?”

“Going to have to be, aren’t I? There’s nobody to fill in.” She sighed. “I should go, speaking of. I’ve some errands I need to run before the shops close. Funny how the world doesn’t end just because one more person leaves it.”

“Funny. Right.” John tried to shake himself out of the odd funk he’d fallen into with this phone call. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“See you tomorrow, John. And thanks for thinking of me.”

I didn’t. Sherlock did. “Of course. Have a good--well. See you later.”

“Bye.”

Sherlock was staring at him unblinkingly. “Boyfriend?”

“She seems to be doing all right, thanks for the concern.”

He made an impatient noise. “Irrelevant. The boyfriend, John!”

“Works at the ICU,” John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Apparently he and Alice were having a row of some sort.”

“Dull!” Sherlock proclaimed. “All this just for a lover’s spat. Barely worth my time.”

“But how did he kill her in the middle of a hospital, then?”

“Think, John, you’re a doctor. What could he possibly have access to at the hospital that would have this effect on a body?”

“I don’t--” he paused, considered. “No. No one would be that--no.”

***

“Yes.” Sherlock smirked at the hospital computer in satisfaction. “The records show it was run at precisely three oh-eight in the morning--but no one was scheduled to be using this room at that time, so why should it have been running? Answer: it shouldn’t have been. The victim’s boyfriend knew that this area would be deserted and decided to take advantage of it.”

“Incredible.” The word popped out of John’s mouth of its own volition. It was enough to derail Sherlock, who turned to blink at John in surprise. Suddenly self-conscious and realizing that he hadn’t exclaimed over Sherlock’s brilliance like that since before... John cleared his throat. “Really though, who sees a scalded body next to a hot spring and right away thinks ‘autoclave’?”

“I rather think that was the killer’s point.”

As always, the logic was faultless. An autoclave used steam, heat, and pressure to sterilize equipment, leading to the burns that had been so easy to dismiss as the effect of immersion in very hot water--and the signs of asphyxiation that Sherlock had noticed. Not all autoclaves were large enough to fit a human body, but this one, unfortunately for the victim, was.

“Well. I suppose we should have a word with him, then.”

The trip to the ICU was short, and finding their suspect didn’t take very long either. It would seem that their team was horribly understaffed at the moment, and there was only one Ben that Rose could possibly have been talking about--particularly given his red-rimmed eyes. He nodded wearily in response to their request for a word with him, and followed the pair to an unused room.

As the door swung closed behind them, Sherlock flashed an official-looking ID card quickly enough that it was impossible to read Mycroft’s name. Unless you were looking for it, that is, which John by now knew enough to do. “We need to ask you a few questions about Miss Acton.”

Ben blinked a few times in confusion. “But... I thought that her death was an accident?”

“We never said that it wasn’t,” Sherlock pointed out, the corners of his mouth curling up in the smirk of a predator that had scented his prey. “I do notice, however, that you can’t have been too attached to her, or else you never would have come to work this evening.”

“Piss off!” Ben snapped, rallying from his confusion. “We’re understaffed, there was no one to fill in. I wish to God I could have stayed home!”

“Hmm. Tell me, were you working yesterday evening as well?”

“No, not that I see how it’s any of your business, I was at home having a drink.”

“Yes, I suppose you would have been nursing your wounds after a major row with your girlfriend.”

“How did you--who told you about that?”

Sherlock, accustomed to such questions, lifted an eyebrow significantly. “A source, who will remain anonymous. And I take it that you will say you were alone at the time?”

“Hell,” Ben breathed. “You think I did it. You think I what, shoved Alice in a bloody hot spring?”

“Did you?”

“NO! Where the hell do you get off coming into my work and accusing me of murdering my girlfriend?”

This was getting a bit out of hand. John supposed that was his cue to step in. “Listen, Ben, no one’s accusing you of anything.” He ignored Sherlock’s glare to the contrary. “Why don’t you tell us what you were rowing about.”

Ben took a deep breath in an effort to regain some of his composure. “She wants--wanted--to move, somewhere busier, out from under Dr. Cunningham,” he told them stiffly. “I’ve put in a lot of years here, I’m up for a promotion. I don’t want to move somewhere else and start over again from scratch.”

“We’re getting off topic,” Sherlock interjected. “The only question is, why the autoclave? If you weren’t on shift last night, why bring her here, where there are so many more witnesses?”

Lips thinning dangerously, Ben squared his shoulders. “I’m not answering another damned one of your bleeding questions. I don’t have to take this. I don’t know who the hell you self-righteous pricks think you are, but if you speak so much as one more word to me I will have security throw you out before you can blink.”

With that, their murder suspect stormed out of the room. It was actually sort of impressive that he managed to disappear before Sherlock could get in the final word.

John snorted. “That went well.”

***

At eight o'clock on a weekday evening, the local police station of the small town wasn't exactly buzzing with activity. Sherlock strode up to a bored-looking clerk, John in tow. She looked up expectantly from her computer screen, pushing a pair of plastic-rimmed glasses further up her nose. "Can I help you gentlemen?"

"Yes. We need to speak with someone about a murder," Sherlock informed her.

Suddenly they had her undivided attention. "You have information about a murder? Let me get your names, please."

"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.”

John stifled the laugh that threatened to escape, managing to turn it into a cough. And here he’d been thinking that Sherlock hadn’t been paying attention for all those James Bond films. “John Watson,” he managed.

The clerk’s eyes widened in sudden recognition. She straightened in her seat. "Oh, I see. Let me get you DI Forrester right away, then, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her abrupt change in demeanor, and tapped his foot in impatience while she made the call to the DI. For his part, John was just happy that they were finally going to the police. Investigating a murder without official sanction was not the way to convince the world that Sherlock was suitably trustworthy.

Hanging up the phone, the clerk stood. "If you'll follow me, please?" She led the way to a security door and held it open for them. They followed her through a small room full of desks to an office near the back. The placard on the door marked it as the DI's office. The clerk knocked twice before turning the handle and ushering them in.

DI Forrester was a slightly overweight man with a heavy stare. John knew this because just then, DI Forrester was all but glaring at them.

Sherlock didn’t wait for introductions. “I take it you’ve been following the news. Don’t. The media is full of incompetent idiots.”

“Er, what he means to say is,” John interjected, clearing his throat, “thanks for seeing us.”

Sherlock gave him a look that clearly stated that no, that was not at all what he had meant to say.

“You’re lucky I am." The DI directed his words at John rather deliberately. "Your friend here doesn't exactly have the sort of sterling reputation he used to, these days."

John raised his eyebrows at the thought that Sherlock had ever had a sterling reputation, but didn’t comment on it. “Yes, well, he’s just as brilliant a detective now as he was then, regardless of what rubbish the media chooses to print about him." Sherlock rather uncharacteristically did not try to interject immediately and redirect the conversation. Apparently there was something fascinating about John’s face that was preventing him from doing so.

“Well, let’s have it then. Who is supposed to have been murdered?" DI Forrester demanded.

Sherlock's eyes refocused on the policeman. "Alice Acton."

"Acton? That's not even a case. Freak of nature and an accident."

"Just because that’s the obvious assumption doesn't make it the correct one. Don't you people have forensic teams? Even the most dimwitted analyst should be able to tell that wasn’t even the scene of her death.”

“So what happened then, if you’re such a genius? She turn the tap in her bath too hot?”

The skepticism in DI Forrester’s voice was not encouraging. Neither was the incensed look on Sherlock’s face. "Personal stupidity hardly equates to murder, Detective Inspector, do try to keep up. Did your medical examiner also miss the blunt trauma to her head? She was knocked unconscious prior to being forced into a walk-in autoclave at the hospital, which was the true cause of death. The murderer then transported the body to the hot spring on the obviously correct assumption that the vacuous local police force would dismiss it as a natural accident."

“You actually expect me to believe that?” DI Forrester’s tone was flat and incredibly unamused. “That is the most far-fetched story I’ve ever heard. I thought I’d humor you, but I’m starting to think the media’s right about a thing or two. And--hold on, when did you get access to the body?”

“We er... well, I am a medical doctor, you know,” John tried in a piss-poor attempt at damage control. Even before the words left his mouth, he knew it wasn’t going to work.

The Detective Inspector's face was turning a shade of purplish-red that was both interesting and alarming. "Get OUT. Of my OFFICE. You're lucky I don't have you both arrested here and now. OUT!"

John seized Sherlock's arm when the consulting detective opened his mouth to issue some sort of retort or further insult. He grabbed the door handle with his free hand and forcibly dragged his friend out through the desk room and the security door beyond. He didn't trust Sherlock to have enough common sense to keep the both of them from getting thrown in a cell, with the added pleasure of them being out here with no-one to bail them.

Outside, Sherlock finally wrenched himself from John’s grip. “What are you doing? I had the situation under control.”

“No, actually, you were going to get us thrown in jail,” John countered, crossing his arms. “Dunno if you noticed, but that man was not Lestrade.”

“Oh, thank you John for that dazzling show of wit. What astonishing revelation will you share with me next?”

“Right. You know what? Okay. If you haven't got a better plan than being sarcastic at me, I’m going back to the hotel.”

“Nonsense, that’s just a minor portion of the plan. The rest of it involves returning to the hospital in order to collect more solid evidence, so that even that clod of a detective can’t deny what’s in front of him.”

John supposed that past experience should have taught him better than to think that Sherlock would give up so easily. He shook his head. “And have the boyfriend call security so that we can be thrown off property and into that cell anyway? Sorry, no thanks. It’s already your fault that I’ve a criminal record. I’d rather not add to it.”

Sherlock looked vaguely disappointed to be denied a target for his mockery--though clearly not enough so to deter him from his chosen course of action. "When was it that you became so dull, John? By all means, if you’d rather spend the rest of the evening depleting the contents of the hotel bar than stopping that girl’s killer, I won’t keep you from your precious mediocrity.”

“Here I was thinking that when you do manage to get yourself arrested, it might be nice if at least one of us was free to bail you out. Of course, if you don’t want me to...”

The noise Sherlock made wasn’t quite a growl, but it came close. “Fine. Then I suggest you start looking for a cab.”

Somehow, John wasn’t the least bit surprised when, a few moments later, he found himself standing outside the police station alone and without a ride.

***

John did not sleep well that night. Despite his best attempts to assure himself that Sherlock knew what he was doing, and the knowledge that Sherlock had managed for years without John to keep an eye on him, he couldn’t quite quiet the voice that kept telling him that he should be out there with his mad detective instead of here trying to sleep in a too-soft hotel bed. Two years ago, he wouldn’t have even contemplated staying behind for a second.

Whenever he thought he was finally drifting off, he'd fancy he'd heard his phone vibrate and flip over to grab it from his night stand. The dark screen was almost as much of a disappointment as his continued inability to relax long enough to actually fall asleep.

He must have done eventually, though. There was no other way to explain him suddenly being shaken awake to the sight of Sherlock standing over him, eyes bright with excitement.

“Sherlock, what--”

“Get dressed. There’s been another murder.”