---
title: "Sherlock Character Studies"
author: "Basser"
lang: en
id: "ONE-5"
fandom: "Sherlock (TV)"
rating: "Teen And Up Audiences"
warnings: ["No Archive Warnings Apply"]
words: 25511
chapters: 13
date: 2012-12-15
status: "in progress"
written_by: human
summary: "Scenes from the series as experienced by Sherlock. Rationalisation of his behaviour, why he might do the strange things he does... and most importantly, what on earth is he thinking?"
---

# Sherlock Character Studies

## Chapter 1: Three Patch Problem

He flexes the arm with the patches, willing more blood to flow through the limb and up, up to his brain. The frenzied mess he calls a mind is beginning to calm and oh, it's glorious. Like a systems terminal shutting down, everything just *stops.* A million and one stray thoughts stutter to a halt and finally leave him in peace. Distractions, things and details and objects in the room that he usually can't help but examine suddenly all cease to matter. Nothing matters now. Nothing except the case, because the case is what he *wants* to think about and for the moment he can choose to do so. He is in control of his own mind and it's such a foreign state of being that for a moment he simply revels in the giddy high of it all.

Right, Sherlock, focus. He's got a good while before the initial buzz wears off but it won't do to waste it all just lying here watching the room spin. He closes his eyes against the dizziness and begins to *think*. Free from the distractions of his own mind and the environment around him, he can finally bring the full force of his deductive reasoning to bear.

And then John shows up.

John showing up doesn't necessarily bother him, he supposes. He can, after all, ignore the man. The absurd amount of nicotine in his system right now gives him the option to do that. But John asks him what he's doing and Sherlock finds himself responding. Banter, back and forth, and it's fun somehow. He doesn't need to guard his words or think about upsetting the man because John apparently doesn't get upset, not over silly things like manners. And quite frankly that's a good thing because Sherlock is not at all in the right frame of mind to navigate social conventions. Nicotine is not a talking drug.

John is just standing there now and Sherlock really doesn't care why, so long as the man's quiet about it. The detective closes his eyes again, brings his hands up under his chin like he's praying because the perfect symmetry of fingertip-to-fingertip feels good, and John is still standing there. Damn. What does he want?

Oh! Oh, right yes, he'd sent those texts. After he'd already put on the patches. He'd realised only belatedly that his number might be recognised, but going downstairs to borrow a phone was too risky. No telling when the vertigo would hit, and he had little desire to wind up in hospital with a broken neck (again). Not while a case was on. Tried yelling but Mrs. Hudson either didn't hear him or pretended not to. Well, no matter. He still had his phone. Played a bit of a psychological game, he recalled. A few carefully-chosen words to ensure that the rumpled ex-army doctor would show up eventually. It worked, of course. Things always seem to work when he's high.

John hands over his phone and Sherlock takes it. Holds it between his hands for a few seconds before remembering that the number he needs is across the room and he's certainly not getting up to retrieve it. Not without falling flat on his face, at any rate. He hands the phone back to John and tells him what to do. The man's dallying for some reason or other, Sherlock doesn't mind. It's not time-sensitive and he'd really just as soon ride out the remainder of his vertigo on the couch.

But then John mentions a friend? Friend! Oh, enemy. That's alright then. Plenty of those. Which one?

Ah. Mycroft. Well he'd expected it really. The meddling git. John's passed his brother's silly little test, obviously, or he wouldn't be here. Nice to know the doctor is trustworthy, but Sherlock still wishes he'd said yes. Just to wipe the self-satisfied smirk off Mycroft's fat face when someone failed to conform to his perfect little expectations. He tells John to think it through the next time. Knowing Mycroft there'll probably be one.

Thinking about Mycroft is annoying and so Sherlock simply doesn't. He gets John back on track instead, because the dizziness is abating and if he's going to sober up anyway they might as well do *something* useful with their time. The doctor does as he's told, military instincts giving him a pleasing predisposition to follow orders. He takes far longer than Sherlock would have and asks some obtuse question about blacking out which is confusing for a split-second because they'd only just met, how could John know-? But he realises a fraction later that the man's just being thick.

It's been a good ten minutes now and the initial vertigo of his three-patch problem is down to a manageable level. He doesn't give himself time to think, just springs up from the couch and steps over the coffee table resolutely. Doesn't fall flat on his face, doesn't vomit. All good signs. John has forgotten the address already and good god *how?* It's only been a few seconds! But Sherlock forgives him. The man's only ordinary, after all.

He makes his way across the room. Manages not to stumble in the slightest, (which he thinks he ought to congratulate himself for because the walls are still not entirely steady) and grabs up the victim's suitcase. Time to see if there's a brain hiding behind that boring, unassuming face.

## Chapter 2: Drugs Bust

"Oh Sherlock, what have you *done?*"

He's alarmed. Sociopath or not, he doesn't like seeing other people cry. Least of all Mrs. Hudson, who's only ever been kind to him and doesn't deserve to be upset over whatever trouble he's caused her now. He bolts up the stairs and flings open the door to find a crew of uniformed police officers milling about in his *(their?)* sitting room, searching-lifting-moving-*touching his things.* He hates it, wants to scream at them to stop but forces himself not to. Instead he just snaps angrily at the smirking, silver-haired man lounging placidly in his chair like he thinks he bloody owns the place.

*Damned* Lestrade. Sherlock's never been able to figure him out. One minute he's kind, accommodating, almost *fatherly* and the next he's... *argh* he's in his *flat* doing a bloody *drugs bust* in front of the first person he's met in *ages* who might possibly be able to put up with him and, and just- *god,* Lestrade, why now? Why couldn't he have just *called* or come over later to lecture him privately or complained to his *brother* or done *literally anything else?* Carting all these people into his home, humiliating him in front of his new flatmate (who probably won't want to be his flatmate at all anymore, not after this, but he refuses to think about that). It's just *bullying*, plain and simple.

He rants at Lestrade and the man just smiles, smug and infuriating. *Bastard.* And oh god, John's trying to defend him. No, John. Just... no. Just shut up right now. He glances around and sees Lestrade's smirking grin grow wider, almost chuckling as the naive doctor comes to the misguided defence of a man he really doesn't know anything about at all.

All the officers who've been on the force long enough to have seen Sherlock high are giving each other coy little smirks. They think John's about to leave. Think the second he finds out the truth he'll walk out and leave Sherlock to face the consequences of his habit and his freakishness but no no no, Sherlock *knows* John won't do that (*hopes* he won't, hopes to god but-) but the warning stare he fixes on the man is nonetheless tinged with just a hint of worry.

John is flabbergasted. *You?*

Yes, *me*, John because you don't know the first thing about *me* and, and just- just *shut up.*

He rounds on Lestrade again, because he doesn't want to see the moment when John realises how pathetic he really is. Discovers Anderson of all bloody people rifling through his kitchen cabinets. His stomach clenches as it always does at the sight of that horrible, weasel-like face. Too evocative of old memories for comfort, too similar to- no no no *god*, all these people in his flat *get them out!*

His usual defence mechanism of lobbing scathing insults kicks in and he snipes acidly at both Anderson and his trampy harlot of a lover Donovan before shoving his hands in his pockets and turning to pace in agitation. Anxiety is creeping up his spine, making his insides twist uncomfortably. John still hasn't spoken since being told to shut up (just following orders? or is he disappointed, preparing to walk out?), the officers are too close to what he dearly hopes they won't recognise as a pre-mixed solution of cocaine sitting next to the chemistry supplies (it's just there for *emergencies* he hasn't used any in *months* he's doing *fine*) and he snaps at Lestrade. Shows the nicotine patch because *see I've even stopped smoking isn't that enough to prove I'm trying* but Lestrade just shows his too, negates Sherlock's accomplishment with his own because *of course* Lestrade's also gone off cigarettes. Like it's so simple even an ordinary sod like *Lestrade* can do it. He rolls his sleeve back down and turns to glare viciously at the police mucking about in his kitchen.

Lestrade seems to have finally clued in to how upset Sherlock's getting and changes the subject to focus on the case instead, tactfully giving the detective an excuse to think of something else before the anxiety eats him alive. Sherlock latches on to the mental escape route and allows his brain to completely switch gears on him. It helps, he's focused on clues now and the people crowding in on him fade to a backdrop.

Until, of course, Anderson pipes up. That *bloody weasel-faced-* ugh. Calls Sherlock a psychopath. He is *not*. The stupid bastard doesn't even know what the word *means*. He snaps back a retort quickly before switching back to the murder case, turning away from the man before his train of thought has a chance to get derailed.

The victim scratched the name of a stillborn daughter on the floor. *Why?* A stillborn, meaning there wouldn't have been enough time to form more than a rudimentary emotional connection. And *fourteen* years ago at that! So why would she bother? Can't be sentiment, she might have had a bit of lingering depression over the incident but not to the level of- no, there *has* to be another reason. Nobody would still be upset after so long, not enough to cause themselves physical pain in their final moments etching out a name that would serve no useful purpose. John doesn't see and Sherlock whips around from his pacing to snap at him because it's *obvious.* She *had* to have another motive. The stillbirth was *ages* ago, John! *Why would she still be upset?*

And just like that everyone is staring at him.

*Oops,* he thinks, feeling the room grow silent. He shifts uncomfortably, nervous under the scrutiny. Damn. Did he cock up somehow? Forgot to obey some social convention? Should he have just gone with their stupid assumptions, pretended to *care* even though everyone in the *bloody room* should know *perfectly well* that no woman would go to such lengths for a child she never even got to meet? Probably, he thinks. But then he's not sure. No way to tell if they're staring because of what he *said* or if he's just gone and done something freakish without noticing again. John would know. The man for some reason still seems inclined to talk to him, so he takes the chance and asks.

*Bit not good*, apparently.

Alright, then.

Argh but *no*, no god damn it *why?* Everyone should be able to *see*, should be able to- he launches into an explanation. What would you say if you were about to *die?* Forgets for a moment that John would have first-hand experience, and that causes his argument to fall a bit flat, but wait no it *doesn't* because John's smart but not really all that *clever*, not like the victim must have been, so it doesn't count. Drops the subject, useless, he has to *think.* There has to be *some reason* she would...

He returns to pacing, not even registering the insulted look on the doctor's face, and like she's just been waiting for the *worst possible moment* Mrs. Hudson shows up nattering about a taxi. *Didn't order a taxi,* fuck's sake what would he even need one for *go away.* Then she and John start blathering on about nothing so *pointless* and he *can't bloody think* because there's *too many people* and *SHUT UP EVERYBODY JUST SHUT UP.*

Yells at Anderson to turn around, because his face is too much like *his* and it's distracting and if there's one thing he doesn't need to think about it's *that.* Of course the moron argues but for once Lestrade deigns to be helpful and confirms the order, adding on instructions for everyone else to be silent as well.

The room grows marginally quieter, except for Mrs. Hudson who's still on about the *bloody* taxi so he shouts at her and she scampers off. He doesn't have time to feel bad about yelling, because *oh!* Oh, god yes suddenly it all makes sense. *That's* why- he grins in relief. Clever. Very clever. And it confirms his position on the whole miscarriage thing (though that had never really been in question anyway.)

Explaining makes him feel better, shows off how brilliant he's managed to be and proves that *yes, yes I'm still right I'm* ***always*** *right even when you bastards break into my flat and give me an anxiety attack I'm still bloody* ***right-*** but like usual nobody else understands. God, *how?* It's so obvious! He tries to explain enough for them to realise it themselves but of course all he gets for his trouble is a room full of vacant stares. Christ, what's it even like to be so *stupid?* Must be so relaxing, not knowing all the things he knows, little brains full of boring, mundane fluff instead of searing fire.

John gets him back on track, snapping at him before he can really get going on another patronising diatribe, and he manages to convey what 'Rachel' means without unduly insulting anyone (well, except Anderson, but he's a special exception). He leaves John to get the coordinates of the phone while he tries to talk some sense into Lestrade concerning how to handle the investigation from here.

In less than a minute John speaks up hesitantly, almost failing to get Sherlock's attention before he finally takes notice and strides over, only to stop short in confusion at the data on the laptop screen. The phone's... *here?* How can it be- no, it can't. He would have noticed it. Has to be some other explanat- as he turns to start pacing again he catches sight of Mrs. Hudson hovering in the doorway, the cabbie he never called for lurking behind her. Oh.

*... OH! Yes, that's it!* Suddenly everything clicks into place, and it's *brilliant*. The taxis, of *course.*

A text alert makes his phone vibrate in his pocket, cutting him short before he gets a chance to convey his realisation to the others.

**COME WITH ME**, it says.

There's only one person it can be from. He considers for the barest moment telling John, or Lestrade even, that their murderer is currently standing behind his landlady at the door. Immediately tosses the notion aside. What would be the point? John isn't going to stick around much longer, not after tonight, and certainly won't care if Sherlock gets himself killed following a lead. Lestrade, of course, has quite thoroughly lost all right to be informed of anything Sherlock does for a good long while.

Going with the cabbie might be dangerous, might be suicidal, but the spike of adrenaline shooting through his veins gives him his decision before he's even had time to think it through. All at once the world seems to slow down on him, thoughts calming in the wake of discovery. The giddy high of fresh anticipation. It's almost like cocaine... *almost*, but so much better. So much more *vibrant.* Everything around fades to static, leaving him caught in a dreamlike state as he lowers his phone and walks toward the door.

John tries to stop him. *Where are you going?*

He replies with some half-hearted excuse, scarcely aware of what he's even said. It doesn't matter, John's hardly going to follow him.

Without so much as a backward glance, Sherlock leaves the flat.

## Chapter 3: Shock Blanket

*Moriarty...* the name twists over and over through his consciousness, but to no avail. He's never heard it before, has no recollection of the significance. But it has to be *somewhere*. A criminal of high enough standing to puppeteer a serial killer, to *want* to puppeteer a serial killer... and for what? Paid the man to murder strangers, to draw Sherlock's attention. No, a mastermind of that level would have shown up on his radar by now. There has to be *something.*

He's still mulling it over, trying to draw out any and all memories that might correllate, when *yet again* his thoughts are interrupted by the medic draping a hideous orange blanket over his shoulders. Of all the-! He's *already* agreed to sit on the bumper of the ambulance instead of 'scarpering off to do god knows what', shouldn't that be compliance enough? And of all things that might conceivably be helpful to anyone, why a *blanket?* He's wearing a *wool coat* for god's sake, all this stupid orange monstrosity is doing is making him look ridiculous.

Lestrade ambles up, giving Sherlock a chance to complain to someone besides the ambulance crew. The blanket's for 'shock', yes, he *knows* that. The medic's already said as much. Sherlock gives the same answer now as he did ten minutes ago- *I'm not in shock.* Why on earth *would* he be? He's seen men die before, countless times. He's even *tortured* men before (not that anyone besides himself is privy to that little detail of the confrontation, but still). There's absolutely *no reason* to expect him to be upset by the situation. True to form though Lestrade just quips some belittling remark about taking photographs, making Sherlock frown in annoyance. He wonders vaguely if Lestrade is even capable of communicating in anything besides condescending sarcasm as he looks away.

Probably not, he decides. At least not toward him. But whatever, drop the subject, move on to something more salient. The shooter, what of him? Not that he particularly expects the Yard to have managed anything more than incompetent faffing about but at least the topic might provide something to distract him from the currently-unanswerable riddle of Moriarty before it eats a hole in his brain.

As usual, Lestrade is hopeless. *Nothing to go on*? Oh please. Nothing but the *myriad facts* staring you right in the *face* you blundering idiot. He shoots Lestrade a sardonic look, gets a resigned sigh and an indictation to get on with it in return.

The ambulance bumper is hard and uncomfortable so he stands to give his deductions, eyes darting around the assembled crowd of emergency services as he speaks. (Lots of bright colours, movement, flashing lights, very distracting. Why do they feel the need to keep the signal racks on when they park anyway? Turn them off, get a floodlight or something.) The shooter must be a crack shot, steady handed, acclimatised to murder, retains a strong moral principle regardless of violent history - not inclined to kill without reason, judging by how long he waited to take the shot. Only acted when someone was in danger - protective instinct? Not likely to be a hired assassin. Got to be military though, with plenty of combat experience, lots of determination, nerves of... steel...?

Sherlock's words trail off as he stares uncomprehendingly at the man he's just caught sight of.

*John Watson* is standing by a police car, hands tucked casually behind his back as he surveys the organised chaos around them. What on... why is *John* here? He should be back at his bedsit, browsing ads for flatshares or perhaps looking for affordable housing in Leeds. Instead he's... Sherlock's eyebrows furrow in realisation as John catches his eye, only to immediately glance away with poorly-feigned innocence. John's... standing by a police car... with his hands *very deliberately* tucked behind his back... looking about *this close* to smug. John. The ethical, determined, fearless, adrenaline-focused *army medic.*

Comprehension hits like a bolt from the blue. And even if Sherlock doesn't quite *understand* it (why would John want to protect him...? why would *anyone* want to protect him?) he nonetheless backtracks quickly. Never mind kindly disregard all that no idea who it might've been total mystery thoroughly unsolvable.

Lestrade's a bit befuddled, so Sherlock makes some borderline-sarcastic excuse about shock and tries to leave. *Wait, where are you going?* Argh, excuse, need an excuse... the rent! Yes, *need to talk about the rent.* That's normal, not suspicious in the least, leave me alone Lestrade I'm not hiding anything just go away.

Lestrade's not through yet though and dogs him as he walks. Annoying, can't speak candidly to John while a bloody *DI* hovers over them so he stops and tries the shock excuse again. Even got the blanket still, see! Forgot to take it off. So yes, *definitely* in shock; all muddled in the head, not the least bit useful at the moment. Lestrade doesn't seem convinced... argh but honestly *come on* it shouldn't matter anyway, should it? After all he *has* just caught them a bloody serial killer! (Well, more like a serial killer's *corpse...* but no, no that still counts! More or less, anyway.) And really that should be *quite enough* for tonight, thank you. Deduction machines need to be recharged just like any other applicance, can't keep expecting him to remain in top performance at all hours.

They engage in a brief staring contest... finally the DI backs down with an exasperated, not-quite-credulous shift of his jaw and Sherlock's free to go. He can feel the older man's eyes on his back as he strides off but ignores it, pulls the hideous blanket from his shoulders and tosses it dismissively through the open window of a parked cruiser before ducking under the police tape where John's standing. The ex-soldier's already talking, going for casual and innocent even though they both know exactly what he's done.

It's all a bit amusing, if totally pointless. John's a bloody terrible liar. Sherlock barely manages to keep the smile off his face as he speaks.

*Good shot.* It was. Amazing shot. John's a talented marksman. Talented *and* smart. (Perhaps not all that *clever,* but maybe with a bit of work...) He watches as the man makes an obviously-feigned attempt at denial, quickly cuts the act off in as gentle a tone as he can manage. Nobody in earshot for the moment but there's no telling how long they've got before someone walks by, and John's in danger of being arrested if they don't take care of the evidence. True he probably won't be *convicted*, not on the murder charge anyway... the illegal firearm perhaps, but considering who it was employed to protect (and that's still so difficult to fathom; John *protected* him, *why?* Nobody but Mycroft has *ever-*) he's confident he can get his brother to have the case dismissed. Really rather not have to go to all the hassle though; dealing with his sibling is *so* tiresome, and powder burns in contrast are childishly easy to remove.

Instead of replying John looks away and clears his throat, a strange look on his face. Sherlock suddenly finds himself... what? ... concerned? ... *worried?* No, no that's absurd. He's a *sociopath*, he doesn't *worry.* But the sensation's there anyway, something tight and constricting in his chest and good god *hang on*, is John even *alright?*

Because he *can't* have premeditated all that. Shooting the cabbie was a... a spur-of-the-moment decision- perhaps triggered by his PTSD, some sort of flashback scenario...? John couldn't have known what he was *doing* at the time. Sherlock eyes the shorter man warily, waiting for the realisation to hit. For it to occur to John that he's just he's taken another being's *life* in the name of protecting some freakish, sociopathic drug addict. The doctor won't be thrilled about it, he's sure.

But seconds go by, and the man seems fine. Christ, John, you've just *killed a man*, you should be more upset! But he isn't. Not in the least. The little army medic just stares back at him for a moment, clears his throat, looks away... and then *makes a joke.* Sherlock's befuddled. John's... what? What's he doing? Masking his distress? Using humour to distract himself from the situation? People *do* that, right? Sherlock narrows his eyes in confusion, brain kicking into puzzle-solving mode to figure out *why* someone like John would- and for *Sherlock* of all- but within seconds he stops himself.

*Sod it,* who cares about motives? All that matters is that John, for whatever *unfathomable* reason, isn't upset. Against all odds the man is standing there *smiling* and *joking* and for once Sherlock stops analysing motives and simply responds in kind. As they turn to leave he's almost giddy. John just said something really, genuinely *funny* and they're *laughing* and Sherlock honestly can't even *remember* the last time he laughed without acting.

John kills the mood somewhat, though- *you were going to take that damned pill, weren't you?*

He denies the accusation immediately. *Of course I wasn't.* It's a reflexive response. Conforming with the social norm because he knows the truth won't go over well; that he doesn't particularly care whether he lives or dies, so long as he isn't bored. This cavalier attitude tends to anger people though (particularly medically-trained people) and he doesn't want John angry. Makes up some silly excuse about waiting for backup, which of course John doesn't buy but then *you're an idiot,* said in a matter-of-fact tone and it's alright again. He very nearly laughs in relief but suppresses the impulse, asks about dinner instead. Not that he's all that hungry but John might be, and if John's hungry Sherlock can pretend to be too.

They start walking again, Sherlock nattering on about Chinese restaurants without really paying attention to what he's saying. Too busy thinking, trying to process everything that's happened and accept that yes, good god, John's *actually going to stay*. No more interminably long nights, hour after hour stretching away into nothingness with only silence and a long-dead skull for company. He's going on about door handles for some reason when John interrupts him in a warning tone.

What? Was he talking too much? But John's looking wary, points out a figure emerging from a parked car ahead of them and oh it's just Mycroft.

*Piss off you fat git,* he thinks irritably as his brother greets them with some ridiculous, over-dramatic speech right out of the pages of a trashy pulp-fiction novel. The man's trying *very* hard to sound maliciously threatening... and utterly failing at it. Still miffed about the whole 'arch-enemy' business then, Myc? Well too bad. Sherlock just plays along with the act, blindingly sarcastic and *completely* unrepentant. If Mycroft wants a different nickname he's going to have to stop living up to the current one so spectacularly first. (And anyway whose fault is it that the old standby of 'fat whale' no longer applies, hm? Although it *does* look like some of that blubber might be making a reappearance...) They snipe back and forth, but then Mycroft goes and ruins it by bringing up Mummy.

Wait, *what?* *Upset* her? Of all the-! Mycroft knows *full bloody well* it was Father who-

Suddenly John cuts in, sounding very confused. *Who's Mummy?* Oh for god's sake John do you even speak English who else would a woman called 'Mummy' be but our mother? But Sherlock clarifies anyway, introduces his brother properly (which has the added benefit of putting an end to the git's stupid little villian act, thank god) and John seems a tad dazed. Well they don't look much alike, Sherlock supposes (thank goodness for small mercies), so it's probably a bit of a shock. The army doctor goes on to ask if Mycroft's a criminal mastermind. Sherlock considers for a moment... well, less *'criminal'* and more *'lazy ponce'*, but close enough.

Mycroft, predictably, makes a pathetic attempt to pass himself off as nothing more than an innocuous politician. Sherlock shoots the lie down immediately. As if his brother could ever be anything less than a lunatic with a power fetish, honestly. But *ugh no* alright that's quite enough talking to Mycroft, it's been a whole *three minutes* already - *far* past time to leave. Any longer in the prat's company and they'll be in danger of death by petty beareaucracy. Sherlock snipes a less-than-friendly farewell to his brother and stalks off.

Well, *tries* to stalk off. John's dallying for some stupid reason... talking to Mycroft? Oh for *god's sake* John don't *encourage* him! He moves to pull the doctor away from his deranged control-freak of a sibling but thankfully John takes the initiative and leaves under his own power. *(Smart man.)*

They're strolling leisurely down the street again, bantering about fortune cookies and other silly nonsense... and rather abruptly, Sherlock realises he's happy. Not simply *content* or *perfectly fine* but actually, properly *happy*. Because in the span of one, semi-disastrous night he's managed to find not only a *flatmate* (and he still can't quite believe his luck even now but John's *here* so it's *true*) but a new riddle as well. Things haven't gone this well in a very, very long time.

Speaking of the riddle... the unknown name flits through his mind again, sending a burst of giddy anticipation through his chest. *Moriarty...* he has absolutely *no idea* who the man might be, and it's *brilliant*. Something to *deduce*, to work on and puzzle over and think about... probably for *ages*, too. After all if there truly is some vast criminal network out there, being led by one shadowy spider of a man... a man Sherlock hasn't so much as *heard of?* That speaks of connections, of cleverness unrivaled, of *genius.* He smiles to himself. *Finally* an end to the boredom.

John must have caught his expression, because he shoots him an odd sort of teasing look, probably wanting to know why he's grinning like an idiot. *What are you so happy about?*

He answers more or less truthfully, going on about his new case. It's accurate but not completely honest... because there's more than riddles to be happy about now. Because there's John. And a flat. And tasteless jokes and Chinese food and giggling at crime scenes.

Because... he may have found a friend.

## Chapter 4: Colleague

John's password is the serial number of his gun.

He'd tried it on a whim, wondering if it were really possible for anyone to be so predictable. It was. He stares at the laptop for a moment, trying to decide if he should turn it off or not. Using his own computer would be less annoying, considering John's complete lack of coherent desktop organisation, but his laptop's all the way in his *bedroom.* He glances up at the doorway, thinking maybe he'll go get it anyway, but *good god* that's yards and yards away. A veritable *sea* of gently undulating, pulsing hardwood bucking over itself like ocean waves.

It probably shouldn't be doing that, he notes vaguely. Looks around the rest of the room; just as distorted, spinning dizzy around his head in a haze of twisting vertigo. Hmm. Perhaps the fourth nicotine patch hadn't been such a good idea. (But *ugh* after the fight with the swordsman everything had just seemed so *boring* and he'd needed something to *do* but there was *nothing* so he'd... well, he'd almost done something stupid, to be perfectly honest, but stopped himself at the last minute. More patches, then, always the better option.)

Well at least he has a laptop handy now, even if it seems to have been set up with the express goal of being as inefficient as possible. Should try to get some work done while he waits for the nicotine rush to wear off. He leans his elbows on the wooden table and goes about checking his email.

Spam, spam, message from Lestrade, spam, Mycroft being a git, more spam... Wilkes?

*Sebastian* Wilkes? Seb? From *Oxford?* What on earth would *he* want?

Opens the message. Casually-worded email, idiotic use of the word 'buddy' as if Sherlock doesn't remember perfectly well what their brief period of acquaintance ultimately amounted to. Wants Sherlock to look into an 'incident' for him. Vague terminology, intentionally sparse on details, request to meet in person. Must be some sort of security risk, a break-in perhaps or an internal dispute - something he doesn't want his shareholders catching wind of. Probably dull as anything. For a moment he's set on just deleting it.

But then John walks in, and he finds himself reconsidering. Well, it *might* not be dull. Where's the harm in taking a look? A short cab ride, poke around a little. Wouldn't be too much bother. And more than worth the hassle if the case actually turns out to be interesting.

Not that he particularly cares to see Seb again, but the draw of a potential new puzzle is tempting enough to suffer through a few minutes with the smarmy prat. *Especially* if it turns out to be somewhat complicated. Dangerous, maybe. John would like that. Yes, alright, he'll go. And so will John.

Curiosity and anticipation take root in his mind. And if underneath it all there's a tiny spark of self-righteousness... well, so what? He's entitled to be egotistical sometimes *(okay a lot more than sometimes)* and if the thought of shoving his recent acquisition of a real actual *friend* in Seb's stupid face is currently making up a not-entirely-insignificant fraction of his motivation for going to meet his old classmate then so be it.

John, as ever, trails after him without so much as a pause for clarification. *We're going to the bank,* and that's all the needs to know. Sherlock should really find more military acquaintances. They're quite brilliant to have around. (Or maybe it's just this particular one?)

A short cab ride later and they're pushing their way through decorative glass doors, up to a reception desk. Not five minutes after he gives his name they find themselves being led to a sleek, modern office. They don't have so much as a chance to sit down before Seb walks in.

He doesn't look much different to how Sherlock remembers him. Perhaps a little more plump, well-cut suit, hideous tie which nonetheless must have cost a small fortune judging by the material. Doing quite well with his career. Still as much of a smarmy prat as ever, but then Sherlock hadn't really expected anything else from a man like Seb.

They shake hands, and Sherlock introduces John... as his *friend.* Hah, take *that* Sebastian. You smug bas-

*Colleague?*

Sherlock carefully forces his features to remain blank as he stares sidelong at John. *What?* They're...? He hadn't- but he'd *thought-* but then Seb is glancing back at him with that stupid smug *knowing* look and he has to shove the whole topic out of his brain before the sick bolt of disappointment makes itself apparent on his face. Tells himself he *knew*, really. He did. Know it. All along. That they were just... business partners. Of course. Obvious.

But then unbidden the first night pops into his head, involuntary, unexpected *unwanted* shattering his careful illusion. Serial killers and powder burns and giggling at crime scenes, laughing in the hall while John stands perfectly steady on his own two feet his cane left behind in the restaurant and *bloody hell John how the hell do you define friendship if not-!*

Ugh, no. No no no no stop thinking about it. Obviously he's made an error in judgement. Doesn't happen often but it *has* happened and sod it all, he needs to find something else to focus on before he drives himself mad with this confused tangled illogical mess of thoughts.

Focuses on Seb instead, because at least once upon a time he knew where he stood with *this* smarmy prat. The watch jumps out at him, right time, wrong date. He uses it as a conversation starter. Politely, properly, Normal Sherlock. Or as much as he can remember how. Go for the old regular human persona, he thinks, and don't draw attention.

But even that fails. *It's not a trick*, how many times has he said that? To Seb, to Victor, to *everyone* and it's still 'oh Sherlock how did you manage such a *miraculous feat?'* How? *How?* I looked at your *stupid watch*, you bloody idiot, it's *right there!*

Seb is smirking, talking like a smug cheshire cat. Old memories. Breakfasts in the formal hall, seeing the rumpled clothing untidy hair sleepless eyes how *obvious* but he'd never known what constituted friendly ribbing and what would be disturbing. The others laughed and joked about such things but he'd learned quickly to keep his mouth shut. Because what they saw and what *he* saw were on entirely separate planes of existence. They noticed the way someone yawned, the bags under their eyes and took the mick out of them for 'being up late with that fresher girl'. But *he* noticed the way they winced when they sat down, the flecks of aftershave the smell of men's deodorant - but not their *usual* brand no that was *Adric's* brand and the way they looked at each other the slight nervous blushing and *he* knew what had really happened. *He* knew their 'secret' (but it's not a secret, it's *not* because it's written over *every single thing* and why can't anyone else *see*). And so it was Sherlock who pointed these things out, not realising he was the only one who noticed. He became the freak, the outcast, the psycho.

*Put the wind up everybody. We hated him*. Well good, because I hated you too.

Seb's being obnoxious. That's no surprise, he's always been obnoxious. But Sherlock glances sidelong and John is smiling, exasperated rolling his eyes in *that* way. That way that means he agrees with the sentiment. They're *both* against him now, and this isn't at all what he'd had in mind but no no, he'd only come for the possible case, remember? Wasn't any other reason. And the watch is right there and it's *still so obvious* but he's outnumbered here, he's the Freak again. He's always been the Freak. *(And maybe that's why John doesn't...?)*

No, no don't think. Just be normal.

Normal Sherlock. It's been *years* but he thinks he can still manage the proper facial expressions. Comes up with a plausible excuse for his illicit *(-oh fucking hell it is* not*, the watch is* right there *you bastards for god's-)* knowledge within milliseconds, nice and believable. Normal Smile. Normal Words. There, see? Is *that* what you wanted, Seb? Back to how things were those last few months at uni, back when I was *normal?*

Seb laughs, and everything's fine again. Whether the man sees through his lie or not Sherlock isn't sure. Eight years is a long time, and though *he* remembers those months with frightening clarity *(the clarity of ice, and of soft white snow and pristine perfect ordered chemically-saturated thoughts)* he's not sure if Seb does. If his abrupt personality change and the long slow spiral down into the depths of hell have stuck with anyone else or if it's only Sherlock whose thoughts chase round and round wondering how things could have gone differently.

Probably just him, he decides, because Seb is evidently too much of an oblivious moron to catch the old trick.

(And this one really *is* a trick, though it's one they never really seemed to notice. Because he used to be so *brilliant* at it, used to be flawless, impossible to detect the transition - freakish to normal in one seamless shift. John would probably prefer him that way, come to think of it... should have tried it earlier, before the whole *friend* business. But it's so much more difficult now, he always forgets to keep the act up. How did he ever manage to...? Oh. Right. *That* was how. The calm focus of the snowfield. And nicotine patches are *close* but they're never quite... but he might still have some of it, back at the flat... clear white vial amongst the chemistry supplies... he could... no.

No no no John would be angry.

But wait, John isn't even his *friend* so why should he care? What's stopping him from- *argh*, no! *Mycroft.* Mycroft would be angry. Mycroft would be *furious*. And he'd find out in a heartbeat so stop thinking about it. Stopstopstop.)

They leave the office, tour the facility. Go over the break-in and all its little discrepancies and that's good, really it's a godsend because he desperately needs to think about other things for awhile. Seb tries to offer him some exorbitant payment, which quite frankly he can shove up his- *alright*, no, back to the case. Not thinking about anything but clues and facts and yellow spraypaint actually should go get a picture of that before some moron decides to have the portrait restored.

Sherlock stalks off, ignoring John, because *who cares* what his *colleague* does. He doesn't notice when his hands tuck into his coat pockets, when his shoulders hunch ever so slightly and his face draws into a glower as he ascends to the upper floor where the crime scene is. He'll go take those photographs, do a quick sweep of the compromised office and then *leave.*

Of course it doesn't go that way. He gets sidetracked haring around the columns, checking lines of sight. But that's fine. That's *good* honestly because he has a lead now. Names to go on. Almost manages to forget about his *colleague* but then John turns up again. Sherlock's already got everything he needs to move on, didn't need John's help in the *slightest*, so they end up taking the lift back down together.

John's following along behind him, nattering on about their meeting with Seb. *You said that just to irritate him.*

Sherlock has to smirk at that one. It's such a childish oversimplification. But then John goes on to ask about the watch... and alright maybe he's just a *colleague*, but at the very least he's a colleague who speaks to him without being obligated to, who trails around after him with that gobsmacked expression every time he does something clever and says *'brilliant'* like he's actually *interested* by Sherlock's deductions instead of disturbed or annoyed.

So Sherlock dutifully explains, and John chimes in at all the right moments and listens without interrupting or getting confused or upset. And evidently that's not friendship. That's... professional acquaintance. That's *colleague.*

Sherlock's never had a friend, not really, so he has no way of telling when *colleague* makes the official transition into *friend.* It hasn't yet, and maybe it never will. But this is probably the closest he's ever going to get, considering who he is and *how* he is. John will move on eventually, find someone less freakish to trail around after. And maybe *they'll* be friends, and John will be very happy. But for now...

The bottom line right now is that for the time being, Sherlock has company. He's not alone. It's *them* investigating the case instead of just *him.* That's what's important here. Colleague or friend - just words. Silly pointless labels. Makes no difference in the end, because the distinction doesn't bother him.

It *doesn't matter*.

... It doesn't.

## Chapter 5: Expert

Of all the interests he's taken up and dropped over the years, painting has never been one of them.

Much less *spray-painting.* The smell of aerosol is at best disgusting and at worst nauseating, so he's always made a point to avoid the stuff. And so, while he can identify virtually any type of tobacco ash with a mere glance, he's at a complete loss to determine the exact type of paint employed by their criminal.

Luckily, he knows a young man who can.

John is smirking. Apparently he's finding it some point of immense amusement that *Sherlock* of all people would need to ask *advice*. Stupid. Just because he happens to know a lot of facts in a wide range of subjects doesn't mean he knows *everything*. Quite apart from being impossible such an undertaking would be a massive waste of cranial processing power. Remembering reams of knowledge in boring subjects is the job of computers and specialists, not genius detectives. Sherlock memorises things he finds interesting or useful; nothing more.

It doesn't take long to find Rhys. The boy's always loved the subtle irony of defacing museums with his own unique brand of intricate yet vaguely disturbing artwork, so tracking him down is a simple matter of checking round the back of the nearest public gallery. Rhys is one of the more reliable members of Sherlock's unofficial 'crew' of street types. The homeless, vandals, drug addicts - he's on decent terms with swaths of the criminally-inclined across London. Some might scoff at his putting his trust in a load of street urchins, but Sherlock knows all too well what sort of diamonds can be hidden amongst the rough of London's back alleys.

Rhys is a good example of that. A tagger with a near-encyclopaedic knowledge of aerosol brands, excellent predictive ability and a healthy dose of artistic talent besides. Sherlock's known the boy for a fair few years now, having met him back when Rhys was nothing but a headstrong young teenager trying (rather unsuccessfully) to worm his way into the good graces of a shady Stockwell distribution ring.

Sherlock glances at the boy's current project - a policeman with a pig nose. Alright, then. Dismisses it before Rhys can get into one of his long explanations about whatever deranged symbology he's woven into his little act of rebellion this time. John seems a bit put off by the whole situation, and Sherlock vaguely wonders if John has ever so much as spoken to a petty criminal in his entire life. *(Well, in his entire life before meeting Sherlock, that is, since technically...)* Sherlock ignores him, pulls up the photos of the unknown tags on his phone and hands the device over.

John's staring at the transaction with a look of bland incredulity, probably expecting Rhys to make off with the mobile or something equally ridiculous. Of course he won't - the boy is trustworthy. And even if he weren't, few street types would dare nick anything belonging to Sherlock Holmes. Vagrants he's never so much as *met* know him by sight at this point, having heard stories of the 'psychic junkie' passed up and down the alleys. Absurd as the moniker is he nonetheless allows the rumours to circulate - much better to be implicitly feared than rely on the nebulous respect of criminals and teenagers.

Rhys takes the phone (tossing one of his paint cans toward John, who instinctively catches it with a befuddled expression) and goes about examining the photographs.

Michelin brand, zinc-based propellant. Excellent start, but he needs more information. Rhys is being irritatingly unhelpful, whinging about not having much to go on despite Sherlock less-than-politely reminding the boy there's *actual human lives* at stake. Ugh, this is the one thing he really dislikes about the vagabonds; they're all just so *unreasonably* selfish. Granted he quite understands the motivations behind such an attitude, but that doesn't make it any less aggravating. And of course Rhys is complaining again - *are you going to help us or not?* Little sod.

Somebody *must* know something, and nowadays Sherlock has far better things to do than skulk about skate parks hunting down illicit graffiti. Rhys, he knows, does not. The boy eventually agrees to ask around, and Sherlock starts to go about prying some sort of coherent plan of action out of the young man. Before they can continue the conversation further, however, the predicted arrival of two community support officers interrupts them.

Sherlock snatches his phone back from Rhys, tucks it in his pocket and instinctively bolts down the street.

Only once he's a good few hundred yards away does he realise the irony in what he's just done. Not two hours ago he'd been in the very heart of Scotland Yard, literally *scolding* an officer of the law. And yet he's just sprinted away from a couple of cops on the off-chance he'd be detained and searched.

Which actually, come to think of it, he probably doesn't even have cause to worry about anymore. What's he got with him, anyway...? He pats down his pockets - nicotine patches, penknife, magnifying glass... no, he's not even brought along his lockpicks. Nothing in the least bit illegal... meaning he's just scarpered like a spooked junkie when he hadn't even been carrying!

How embarrassing.

He scrunches up his face in annoyance with himself. Old habits, he concludes. Making him flee without pausing to think. Strange that he's retained such an illogical instinct after so long.

Rhys escaped through the opposite street and John's nowhere to be found, so Sherlock takes a moment to straighten his jacket before casually meandering back out into the main road. He idly considers the benefits of deleting this 'run away from oncoming policemen no matter the circumstances' impulse he's apparently been keeping stored away, but eventually decides to just leave it be for now. After all with his lifestyle there's no telling what he could have in his pockets at any one time, and he has little desire to go through all the bother of having Mycroft bail him out of prison *(again)*.

Decision made, and John still missing *(where did the doctor run off to, anyway...? down the alley with Rhys...? but no, Sherlock hadn't seen him - the man must have found a different path somewhere)* he tucks his hands in his trouser pockets and walks off to find a cab. He's got data to go on now, even if it isn't much. The paint brand, very specific type of aerosol by the sound of things. He'll head back to the flat and do some research.

Doubtless John will show up eventually.

## Chapter 6: Strangled

Both their victims turn out to have been antiques smugglers, the graffiti cipher is actually an ancient number code used by Chinese merchants. And thus the plot thickens.

Sherlock suggests a stakeout, John declares he's hungry, and so they compromise by stopping in for a bite at a noodle shop across the street from the Lucky Cat Emporium. John orders something or other and flirts with the waitress while Sherlock completely ignores them - better things to think about, also not hungry in the slightest. Never really hungry, actually, not for a long time now... nicotine patches are all the sustenance he needs anyway so it hardly matters. John keeps insisting Sherlock needs to replenish his glucose levels though or he'll get sick, which is frankly ridiculous because *how long* has he been living this way? Years, honestly, *decades*, and he hasn't passed out more than a few times. Hasn't so much as had any medical complications even. *(Well, aside from the seizures that once... but no no that was more down to the drugs, hardly counts.)* So really he's *fine* so long as he ingests food once every few days or so. Any more than that is just distracting and wasteful.

He quickly dismisses such inane musings from his mental space however - John won't be nagging him about eating when they're on the job after all, so there's no reason to waste brainpower thinking about it. The waitress leaves and soon enough they're back to discussing the case; pointless repetition of facts, but it helps to get everything straight in his mind. As they speak Sherlock idly jots down the two numbers they've translated so far onto a spare napkin, doing his best to replicate the unfamiliar symbols along with their Roman numeral equivalents.

Ancient Chinese number code, *obvious.* Another of those things he should have - *could have* - noticed earlier, if only he hadn't been so cluttered with stray information. Needs to delete more data, keep things clearer... but then again the numbers system is *exactly* the sort of thing he'd delete if he were to do a systems sweep, so that might not have helped. Something of an impasse, he supposes. A delicate balance between keeping irrelevant facts around on the off-chance they'll be needed someday and not filling his brain up with useless rubbish.

He fiddles with the napkin, folding and re-folding, while he walks John through the logical chain of events so far. The bank to Sebastian to smuggling to money and illicit profits, half a million in a week, all of it slotting so neatly into place. John fulfills his role admirably, asks *just* the right question - *why did they die? It doesn't make sense...*

Sherlock stares into space for a moment, absently palms the folded napkin. Quick flip of the wrist to tuck it safely into his sleeve, no trace of its ever being in his hand. Movements very slightly clumsy - losing muscle memory. Should really try to get more practise in but Lestrade hasn't been particularly annoying lately and John would probably not be too thrilled to be pickpocketed all the time and- oh! *Hah!* Light-fingered, of course! Stole something from the hoard, killer threatens them both. *Perfect.*

John agrees with the reasoning and goes back to eating; Sherlock's already had breakfast *(toast with peanut butter, forced on him by John after the doctor realised he hadn't eaten the day before - annoying, but tolerable considering it makes John feel useful)* so he instead allows his gaze to wander to the street. Pedestrians and doorways, a phonebook abandoned on the pavement, ripped plastic and wet at the top right corner...

Wait, *wet?* Why? When was the last time it rained?

John doesn't have to follow as Sherlock bolts out the door but he does anyway. Not that Sherlock really notices, as he's far more interested in the phonebook. *Inconsistent*, been there since Monday. No answer to the buzzer so they go round the back - open window, unsecured fire escape, obvious break-in... or escape, perhaps? A fleeing victim?

No way to know but to check.

A vase tips over as he climbs through the window, but he'd been half-expecting that so he catches it easily. Calls down to John, doesn't get an answer but he's not really paying much attention anyway. Too many details - things to check and events to deduce. Laundry *(not dried, starting to mildew)*, milk *(smells awful, sour, gone off)*, a ridge in the rug *(size eight at best, small for a man)*. So someone's been here, and he's not very tall... had to be reasonably athletic, then, to gain access. Was the fire escape ladder left unsecured originally or had they needed to climb up to it? Have to look for details on the way back out, could be relevant.

John keeps yelling about something and ringing the buzzer, which is annoying, but Sherlock ignores it. Better things to do. Fingerprints on a photograph, *small, strong hands, calloused...* it's their acrobat suspect, has to be. Strange, though - the man's been sloppy. Didn't secure the ladder, left the window ope- oh.

*Oh!* No no, not in the *least.* The killer hasn't been sloppy... *Sherlock has.*

*Stupid, stupid! Obvious!* Should have noticed from the start, should have- but *no* never mind there'll be no use in self-recrimination now. It's not a large flat; his suspect is close at hand. Small, short stature... probably well-muscled but Sherlock should still have a relatively good chance of incapacitating him. He's no prize fighter but he has been in his fair share of scuffles, knows weak points and how to think on his feet. It'll be best if he can maintain the element of surprise though - just have to flush the man out, find where he's hiding. Can't be too difficult, not many places...

*There!* Ornate privacy screen, partially unfolded. Likeliest spot. Sherlock pockets his magnifying glass and moves carefully, stance shifting to a defensive posture. Slow approach, quiet footsteps... push the screen back *quickly* but- it's empty?

Sherlock has time to blink exactly once in confusion before a length of fabric loops over his head, around his neck, tugging down to the floor like a noose and *oh christ can't breathe!*

*Panic! Panicpanicpanic JOHN shitshitshit can't breathe JOHN! fuckcan'tohgodnonon-*

He can practically *hear* the delicate cartilage in his trachea bend and crack, air coming in strangled gasps and he can't do a *single bloody thing* about it. The killer's at his *head*, can't kick, hands too busy trying to gain purchase pry away the fabric *anything* but it's no use - a grey haze begins to creep around the edges of his vision. Some part of him knows what that means but it still doesn't prepare him for the disorientation when it finally...

He blinks awake with a gasp and immediately begins coughing. Fabric still at his neck *get it off!* and the scarf too, *fuck* he can barely *breathe-!* The suspect's not bothering to be subtle, footsteps loud, ran off toward the window. Sherlock can't exactly do anything about it though while he's stuck hacking his lungs out on the floor so he barely even notices. *Breathe, just breathe, breathe.*

For the first time in a good long while he finds himself incredibly grateful that he's stopped smoking - lord only *knows* how much worse this would be if his windpipe were still blocked with cigarette tar. Thankfully his lungs are more or less clear at the moment, so he manages to get his breath back and make it to his knees within a minute or two.

Still gasping, but his trachea hasn't been crushed too badly and his head's only swimming *a little*. So really he's fine, overall - stood up from worse attacks before. *Fine*, yes, just stay *upright.*

Something in his pocket, wasn't there before - origami? A small black flower. Oh, *right*, the syndicate's trite little calling card. Strange, though, the killer couldn't have assumed he was dead; left far too quickly. A warning, then? Reminder of who he's dealing with? *Pointless* - as if he didn't know already. It means they've figured out he's on to them though, so he'll have to be more careful.

*Much* more careful. Christ, getting caught like that was a damned rookie mistake, absolutely *pathetic*. Mycroft would be furious.

Mycroft... oh good lord, Mycroft *can never know about this.* He'd have Sherlock put on triple surveillance with a bloody *agent* assigned and no no no no, this incident is to remain *utterly secret.*

Sherlock abruptly shakes his head to clear it - *no stop thinking about it delete the event never happened, idiot!* Anyway, so! Moving on. To what...?

*Oh*, yes, right, and speaking of people who take inexplicable interest in his personal affairs... John's probably still outside. Should go and update him on the situation. And that... means standing. Of course, standing... *walking.* He can manage that. Definitely.

Hauling himself to his feet isn't so bad. Then he stumbles, which isn't really a *good* sign, but quickly regains his balance. Alright, hang on, pause to take stock... head's still a bit off, room spinning, but... no, he's fine. *Fine fine perfectly fine*, been through much worse before. Just keep going, ignore his body's protests and refuse to give in to the weakness of flesh-and-blood stupid useless *transport*. Mind over matter and all that - and his mind is *much* greater than the meagre husk of matter he's been saddled with, so he remains perfectly *(mostly, sort of)* steady as he makes his way to the front door of Soo Lin's flat.

John is, predictably, still hovering by the buzzer. Sherlock attempts to calmly inform the other man of his findings. Unfortunately speaking turns out to be slightly more troublesome than walking was, so it ends up coming out a bit choked. Feels like his throat is swelling shut... and that's quite likely a Very Bad Thing but *never mind don't worry about it*. All in his head anyway... *probably*. Keep calm and it'll work itself out, always does. And John doesn't seem the least bit worried so Sherlock must be doing a fair job of behaving normally. *Just ignore it, it's nothing...*

He tilts his head downwards in a somewhat-subtle attempt to clear his airway and spots something at his feet; splash of white on grey pavement. Kneeling down to retrieve it perhaps isn't the *best* of ideas - sets his head spinning again - but he steadfastly straightens back up regardless and studies the envelope while John's busy asking his usual array of pointless questions.

Note from a young male... love interest? Ah, no, a *colleague.* Works at the National Antiquities Museum. *Excellent*; solid lead with plenty of opportunity to gather information about the newest victim. Sherlock pockets the scrap of paper and turns to head down the street, John at his side.

As they walk the doctor shoots him an odd, sidelong look. *You've gone all croaky, are you getting a cold?*

Sherlock shakes his head, coughs - just *once*, mind, even though he's beginning to feel like he's just chain-smoked an entire pack of cigarettes and a single cough is not *nearly* enough to make that particular sensation subside. Collapsing into a debilitating fit of hacking would be decidedly undignified, however; worse yet it might make John suspect there's something *wrong* *(and there isn't, not at all, honestly he's had worse)*, so Sherlock determinedly exerts every ounce of willpower at his disposal to halt his body's pathetic instinctual reaction to the near-strangulation. Manages to swallow instead.

And there, *see?* If he can swallow he can *breathe*... mostly. *Probably.* So he's *fine,* perfectly okay, not injured in the least. Which means it's a non-issue, and so he doesn't have to *say* anything about it, meaning that (most importantly of all) *nobody needs to know* that he's just been caught like a blind novice traipsing about a crime scene like an idiot*. Nobody.* Not John and not Lestrade and *absolutely not Mycroft.*

Nope, there's nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. Throat feels like it's closing up but that'll pass soon enough.

He dredges up a fake smile for John as they walk.

*I'm fine.*

## Chapter 7: Cold Turkey

Shower to wash the pig blood off, fine. He'd almost rather have continued to wander around the city covered in the stuff - interesting to watch peoples' reactions - but John insists so Sherlock reluctantly does as he's told.

Soon enough he's back to looking respectable *(ugh how dull)*. Even cleans the end of the harpoon! Very responsible today. But that only took all of five minutes so now he's bored again. Bored bored bored *bored* good fucking *christ* is there nothing at all do bloody *do!?*

Pacing back and forth, harpoon in hand because it's somewhat interesting to look at the tiny patterns in the wood and of course there's always the chance of it going off accidentally and *wouldn't that be exciting?* Can't do it on purpose though, no, then he'd know about it beforehand and things you know about are never quite as fun as random events and *good god is there nothing at all going on!?*

In answer to his question John lists off a load of boring tripe from the news - military coup in Uganda, who cares, another photo of… *oh for the love of-* damn that stupid hat and whoever made it.

Whatever, *boring uninteresting pointless* just ignore it go back to pacing back and forth to and fro across the hardwood occasional step on carpeting not random enough too expected so it fades into mundane *argh* the wallpaper's peeling the slightest bit in the corner right *there* and the picture frame map of the British Isles crooked off-centre but only because he knows it annoys Mycroft when was the last time he looked at that sheet music what if the suspect in Lestrade's case last month hadn't actually been the killer of course he *was* but what if he hadn't been who else could have been a suspect no no no this is a stupid line of thought no one cares John flips another page of his newspaper *cabinet reshuffle* who honestly gives a damn *nothing of importance* another million thoughts blurring into a chaotic mess and *OH GOD* make it *stop!*

Slams the harpoon down, but it fails to go off *(it won't, of course it won't he's engaged the safety mechanism but wouldn't it be interesting if it failed?)* and the vague burst of disappointment just makes everything that much more *irritating.* Ugh, no. No no no sod this sod *everything* he gives up. This whole stupid bloody plan was *John's* idea anyway - whinging about health risks and *breathing* and why on earth had Sherlock even agreed in the first place? As if he gives a toss about his health. Just caved to John's badgering like usual. And since this is all John's fault in the first place it should really be *him* who goes and obtains whatever might be available, *right bloody now* because honestly he needs *something.*

But *damn it*, that's right, they've paid off every shop and dealer in the area. No cigarettes, no cocaine, not even *speed* (which despite its tendency to give him heart palpitations he'd gladly accept at the moment - who gives a shit about one's heart after all when their *brain* is ready to explode!?) And god who the hell came up with *that* stupid ide- oh right. He did.

*ARGH* but who cares anyway dismiss that move on to something else such as the fact that there *has to be some sort of drug around here somewhere.* A stray cigarette or a nicotine patch, maybe a phial of something stronger. With all the substances he's experimented with it's nigh impossible there won't be a scrap of *something* left. Flips folders out of the way - *flinging them*, because the dramatic movements bring a spike of adrenaline. Only a fleeting burst, doesn't help much, but still it's a vestige of stimulation. And fuck there's nothing there and not in the box or the shelf or under papers and *this is all John's fault he's got a stash somewhere hiding them for emergencies tell me where they are!*

*Please!*

Pleasepleaseplease*please* just one drag, one pill or hit or *anything* because he honestly can't deal with this it's too many details registering all at once all echoing hollow into the utter, *utter* stillness of *nothing going on.* There's no focus point so instead *everything* becomes a focus point and the human brain simply wasn't *built* for this! Not even his!

*You're doing really well, don't give up now.*

John sounds exasperated - probably because this is the third time they've been through this conversation in less than two days and the doctor's getting sick of it. Well quite frankly *Sherlock's* getting sick of it too, which is why it would really be better for everyone if they'd just let him go back to his usual routine of chemically-assisted brainwork but *nooo* it's got to be all down to his *health.*

Hang his health! He's managed to survive this long without giving a damn! And anyway what's the difference if he gets lung cancer or dies of an aneurysm? One less sociopathic freak of nature for the world to deal with - hell they'd probably *celebrate* down at the Yard. Better to live a shortened blip of an existence than to deal with this constant neverending buzz of thoughts and details and knowledge and *argh, just shut it off!*

John doesn't understand, refuses to sympathise. So Sherlock falls back on the only thing he can think to try and acts *normal.*

Careful arrangement of facial muscles, ensure the correct expression of contrite humble *pleading* because fuck his dignity at the moment there's more important things at stake.

*Please.*

John is unimpressed. Damn it!

Alright well, on to bribery then - next week's lottery numbers? He's sure he could crack the algorithm or whatever they use, but John's not interested in that either *(knew he wouldn't be, worth a try anyway.)* Argh *fine* if John's going to persist in being unhelpful... *there!* By the fireplace something's been moved recently, could be an old stash- oh, *his secret supply!* He literally *flings himself* toward it.

Mrs Hudson comes in as he's searching, she'd know what they've done with it *tell me where it is* but she just plays stupid. *How about a nice cuppa?* No! No no *no* caffeine does *nothing!* Why don't they seem to *understand!?* He needs something *stronger!*

*Seven percent stronger...* he hears himself mumble. Flashes of memory - snow, frosted pristine mirrored ice, the chilled apathy and effortless poise... all he wants is a *single bloody cigarette* but if they won't let him then *by fucking god* he'll quite happily go straight back to the harder substances. It'd serve them all right for trying to control his decisions anyway. Glances over his shoulder with a glare and *oh, look at all that! Details, facts... Mrs Hudson you silly woman, think I wouldn't notice?*

Points the harpoon at her. (For drama's sake mostly, because the safety's still on - but there's a spark of something horrible in his brain wondering just what might happen if it went off; blood splattering the windows, all over John's chair, the death would be slow and painful... she might be saved but only with quick intervention. He doesn't, *absolutely doesn't* want anything to happen to her but *god there's nothing at all going on!* so the dark thoughts rise up unbidden and there's little he can do about it.) Rattles off where she's been, who she's been with, why and how and all the things she thinks no one will notice *but he always notices* and maybe if he just says something terrible and rude, gives them a glimpse into his mental space right now they'll *understand.*

It's the only way he can think of to show them that he can't just turn this off, can't stop knowing about all the things everything *everywhere* all their little secrets and sordid love lives. It's *always always always* happening. Drugs are the only way to quiet the cascade of details facts and ideas that chase constantly screaming round his head. Drugs will make this *stop.*

But she only gets upset and runs out. John's angry now too, and *of course* it's all Sherlock's fault. *He's* the one in the wrong - for pointing out things they could have all seen if only they had the slightest clue what this is like. It's not *their doing.* No, no, certainly not. Even though this is only happening because they've *taken away his bloody drugs!*

He curls up in his armchair and rocks back and forth a few times like a child, because while he'd quite like to be able to sit quietly like a sane person staying still is *not an option* right now*.* John's lecturing him. *Go after her and apologise.*

*Apologise!?* For what? For doing *exactly what they should all have been expecting him to do!?* Go fuck yourself!

*God*, bloody John and his placid empty little mind. Doesn't have the slightest *fucking* clue what any of this is like, what the forced dormancy is doing to Sherlock's brain - tearing itself to pieces inside his skull. He tries to explain regardless, metaphors similies but none of them quite right, everything sounding so stupid and *god I need a case!*

John's apparently had enough - he snaps and yells back about having just solved one.

*So!?* That was *this morning!* Hours and hours ago *(well, more like one or two but who the hell can be expected to keep track of time in this state)* and that's an *eternity* when every single second of every minute is filled with a million million racing thoughts. With a huff Sherlock flops down in his chair and fidgets like a madman. Movement helps, calms the sensations of tiny racing ants in his nerves though it does unfortunately make him look rather insane. Not that he cares right now. *God* need a case, need something to think about *when's the next one!?*

The only thing on the website is an utterly ridiculous email from a little girl. Can he *please please please* find Bluebell? *A rabbit, John!* Who the *hell* honestly expects a homicide detective to go chasing after rabbits!? Do people teach their children *anything* these days? Or are their dimwitted parents *actively creating morons?* He drops into sarcasm; oh yes let's phone Lestrade get the bloody *police* on the case this is obviously a matter of national importance!

John, predictably, is utterly lost. *Are you serious?*

Sherlock turns back to him with a vicious scowl. *Is he seri-?* What the hell kind of question is that? *Yes*, John, *of course* I'm serious. Let's call up the *bloody Yard* and report a goddamned missing rabbit *you complete fucking idiot.*

He stares his flatmate down for a second more, then delivers an ultimatum (mostly just to see what he'll do): report the rabbit... or Cluedo.

John reacts as if he's just suggested they murder the Prime Minister. *No no no we are never playing that again.*

Why not, though...? Stupid game had actually been halfway amusing the last time, coming up with logical solutions for the utterly moronic little murder scenarios. True, no one else had seen the connections but that's hardly a surprise now is it? Perhaps if he got Mycroft to play... he'd certainly agree about the rules needing a proper overhaul. Maybe he could get the pompous git to rewrite them and then-

The doorbell cuts him off mid-sentence.

Single ring, maximum pressure just under the half-second... it's a *client.*

*Oh thank god*.

## Chapter 8: Gay

Adjusting microscopes is always so finicky.

Granted, of course, it's still one of his favourite laboratory tasks. A bit like tuning a violin, really - endless careful tweaks, twist the tiny pegs *just* enough to see if the change is a good one then back off until the image comes into focus. One of those few activities where perfection is an attainable goal... where you *know* you've hit the right spot, and that makes the tedium bearable. Always best when there's a set endpoint, not just working and working for no tangible benefit.

At the moment he's busy trying to get the pollen specimen he's isolated centred in the lens frame. Slide's in the correct position *(finally)* and now it's down to focusing the lenses. John's on the other side of the lab bench, talking for some reason. Sherlock's not quite listening *(no no, that turn was just a hair too far, back up a bit, switch to the coarse-focus knob, is that better? slightly, back to the fine adjustment then)* but he still manages to catch enough of the other man's sentence to respond with a questioning noise. Not that he particularly *wants* John to repeat whatever inane thing he's on about now... but telling his friend to shut up would only irritate the man, which would be considerably more distracting than simple polite discourse, so he obligingly goes through the motions of humouring him. Sherlock's capable of multitasking, anyway. Carry on a conversation and focus his sample at the same time...? Fine, easy enough.

Regardless his voice ends up coming out as a bit of a distracted mumble when he replies to John's question about the hostage. Not how he'd intended to sound... but honestly he's *busy.* And anyway the topic's hardly relevant, is it? No possible leads to be had chasing after some random civilian plucked up off the street, really not worth getting sidetracked over.

John continues to talk anyway. Sherlock's far more interested in the readout screen of the pollen analysis to his left. No matches? Impossible. It's likely just not focused correctly. But if it's still off it's only going to be by a tiny margin, try the slide adjustment again... no, wait, back to the eyepiece... *ugh,* his phone chimes in his lapel pocket as he's working. Bugger it, he's bloody *busy!*

Generally he'd just ignore the message. Considering the magnitude of the case they're working right now though... well, there's a good chance it's something important. Should really take a look at least. But then the pollen analysis isn't exactly going to wait either *(he's already got the comparison programme running - the longer the sample remains out of focus the more chance of missing the correct match, and re-scanning the entire database will waste time they can't afford)*. John's not doing anything useful anyway so he asks the man to retrieve it for him. Practically punches him in the chest trying to fish it out - *careful*, for god's sake! He's still got his hand on the microscope knob! One nudge will undo *minutes* of tedious focusing work.

*Text from your brother*. Ugh, of course it is. *Delete it.* Mycroft's perfectly capable of solving his own little idiotic problem, why can't the stupid prat just leave them alone for once? John for some reason feels the need to object. And oh *honestly* it's clearly not a matter of urgent national importance; Mycroft's not about to waste time texting his little brother over and over again when he actually wants something done. No, the man loves the sound of his own voice *far* too much to ever forego the opportunity to harass Sherlock verbally. But he's had a toothache for awhile now *(too many sweets, probably)* so this must be the day he finally relented and scheduled a dental appointment. Not an emergency visit, didn't cancel it, meaning the missile plans aren't critical. *Obviously.*

John seems irritated by his nonchalance. *Lives* are at stake? Pah, lives are *always* at stake. The world's full of billions of fragile little human beings all dying each and every second, it's impossible to care about them all. Why John insists on trying anyway Sherlock will never understand. Because really, why cause yourself stress worrying about the life of someone you'll never meet, whom you have absolutely no hope of ever assisting? From a perspective of net suffering it's practically the *worst possible* course of action - now not only is some complete stranger in pain, but so are you. That's *twice as much distress*. How is that in any way helpful to anyone?

No, better to not react at all. Especially if, as in John's case, having an emotional response renders you completely bloody *useless*.

Sherlock's distracted from his somewhat-scathing reply to John's nagging by the database alert. Match found! *Finally!* Now they can get some actual *work* done. Molly walks into the lab just as he's exclaiming in triumph, with some timid fellow trailing along behind her.

Sherlock eyes the newcomer for a moment. *Ugh...* no, he decides, he's *really* not in the mood to try and navigate acceptable social interaction right now - this is the time for *brainwork*, far too critical to waste cortical power trying to switch gears into something approaching polite conduct. John will handle it though, he always does. With any luck Sherlock won't even have to bother talking at all if he manages to make himself look sufficiently busy.

So despite the database match having already been completed he leans forward and begins pointlessly re-focusing the pollen sample again. Nudges the fine-adjustment, fiddling with knobs as he watches the image through the lenspiece blur and sharpen and blur again. Molly will leave quickly enough, he surmises, and then they can get back to working on the case.

But a whole minute passes, and *ugh* why is she still here? Introductions. Why does everyone always assume he wants to know peoples' *names?* Random arbitrary mixture of sounds used to indicate one of a billion faceless masses of human beings - it's information *tailor-made* to be deleted. And yet they all insist on telling him anyway. Usually while knowing full well he's only going to forget again in half a second which of course is *rude* so it just turns into another round of *let's lecture Sherlock for being more mentally efficient than we are*. Bloody irritating.

The coiling knot of annoyance beginning to burn through his skull at Molly's continued proximity takes up the majority of his mental space, so that when she starts going on about *office romance* and he glances over to the man beside him - sees the eyebrows, manicure, t-shirt, *underwear* - he blurts out his deduction without thinking. *Gay.*

It's written all over the man's face, *honestly.*

But then Molly goes stiff - *sorry, what?* and Sherlock realises a fraction too late what he's just said, how it's going to affect her. *Oh for god's*... she'll get upset now, won't she? And then she *definitely* won't leave. No, plus they'll probably all be cross with him... John especially and *ugh* why again is it not socially acceptable to just tell people to leave him alone? It would be so much *easier.* He could even have a little warning placard like blind people have: *"NOT INTERESTED IN YOUR BORING LIFE, GO AWAY".* Save everyone the trouble of getting offended when he inevitably cocks up at their pointless little game of social graces.

There's no cardboard handy to fashion a sign though, so instead he quickly backtracks. Covers the mistake - *er, hey* - and throws in a fake smile for good measure. *There,* god. Let John say he never made an attempt to be polite. Actually quite frankly that was a stellar effort considering the circumstances. Maybe they'll leave now...?

The gay man's flustered, knocks over a sample pan (very deliberately) and *oh lord are you serious.* Sherlock barely manages to contain an exasperated sigh as he rolls his eyes. Hiding a note under a dropped item, *really?* In what universe does that constitute acceptable flirting behaviour? Are you a grown man or a bloody *schoolgirl?*

Irritated beyond *belief* now, but rather than give in to his impulse to start berating the stupid idiot for being a pathetic spineless twat *(and for behaving in as obnoxiously gay a manner as possible - he knows twinks are an acceptable facet of the culture but it's just so annoying)* Sherlock instead turns his attention back to the microscope, determinedly ignoring the lot of them. Maybe a bit rude, yes, but a better alternative to opening his mouth right now. John should be thankful for his restraint.

Joe *(was that his name...? no, no.. something with an I... oh who cares)* mercifully says goodbye and leaves, but Molly stays behind. Oh, she thinks they're *together.* Right. The bloke wearing fluorescent pants above his trouser line is dating *Molly.* Still the girl's a friendly enough acquaintance so Sherlock makes at least *some* effort to keep the conversation civil. She's put on weight, he notices... usually loses it when she's stressed - forgets to eat, buries herself in her work - so the companionship must be beneficial. That's good, right?

Evidently not. She retorts with a flustered *two and a half*. No... three pounds, definitely. See? You're obviously quite happy, that's all that matters. Continue on with your little delusional romance and kindly leave me the hell alone so I can get back to my work.

But of course she doesn't. Tries to argue with him instead - *he's not gay!* ... and now for some reason John's decided to jump in as well? Puts a bit of *product* in his hair? Oh *please.* Shampoo is not *product.* As if either of them have any idea what they're even talking about.

He can't help smirking to himself in slightly bemused exasperation as they continue to lob useless defences his way; it's all a bit ridiculous. Because really quite aside from the whole *I'm a bloody observational genius* thing Sherlock's quite certain he's the only one of the three of them who has any experience whatsoever with spotting homosexuals. It's not exactly *rocket science*, of course, but accuracy does improve with repetition.

Briefly he toys with the idea of saying something along the lines of *I've been to more gay bars than the both of you combined,* but decides against it. He's not entirely certain either of them even knows his orientation... it's not like he makes a big show of it, after all, and this really isn't the opportune moment to 'come out', as it were. Besides which he rather prefers to let people assume he's asexual. More imposing, mysterious... and more importantly less likely to find himself being chatted up *(and ugh god yet again, leaving a number under a dish? that's just bloody stupid)* or, worse, fawned over by the irritating gaggle of young women who always seem to want to cluster around homosexual men.

So he instead just rattles off all the details he'd noticed *(will they get suspicious if he mentions the underwear? no, apparently not, just another one of the million facts he knows - where on earth do they think he learned something like that though, he wonders, if not from experience?)* and for good measure makes a token attempt to warn Molly off what's quite clearly a doomed relationship. Cat's out of the bag now, anyway, so it's probably better in the long run if she just breaks it off now.

Molly bursts into tears and runs out of the room.

Sherlock's expression drops into vaguely disappointed bafflement as she goes. What...? *Crying?* Why? Was that really so rude? He'd made a legitimate effort to be gentle about it! Even after she'd practically *forced* him into explaining himself - he still hadn't called her an idiot for not noticing, didn't make any suggestions about the clear level of desperation necessary to have fallen for such a ruse... even remembered not to bring up the *weight* thing again *(and come to think of it she's probably going to drop at least five pounds after this).* That's a bloody *crowning achievement* considering his usual level of tact when dealing with peoples' sordid little love lives. Molly should know him well enough to see that, shouldn't she? Does the fact that he *tried* count for nothing?

And plus he's just saved her a terrible, emotionally devastating breakup later down the line when what's-his-name finally confesses. Put the power to end it all in *her* hands rather than his. That's better than allowing her to suffer under a delusion for who knows how long... better than letting the revelation crush her when she least expects it.

John doesn't agree, evidently, and for the second time in five minutes Sherlock finds himself the subject of the doctor's steely disapproval. *That*, apparently, *wasn't kind.* Sherlock frowns to himself. God, this has *really* just not been his day for getting social mores correct, has it?

Well... whatever. It's not like he isn't used to accidentally offending people. Anyway enough with the nonsensical arbitrary rules of human interaction for today, *far* past time to move on to more relevant matters *(and more importantly on to things he's actually capable of understanding, though of course he doesn't say as much - never admit to confusion, act like it's a choice).* There's a case to be solved, hostages to rescue, shoes to examine... oh, speaking of.

He turns to the trainers on the lab bench beside him, angles one toward John.

*Go on then.*

## Chapter 9: Breakdown

*I Didn't. See. Anything.*

Shivering with adrenaline, veins thrumming with the lingering pulse of terror and confusion and *fear*. Normally he'd be fumbling for a cigarette right now; at the very least adding another nicotine patch *(or four)* but good god he *can't* because there's *nothing*. John's taken away all his usual drugs. What does that leave...? Come on *there has to be another way* think you idiot there must be *something...!*

Buildings ahead, pub. *Alcohol...* only option.

Sherlock *hates* the stuff but it's all too necessary - he's just honestly not capable of calming down on his own right now. No, no no no *no* his mind is racing too fast out of control *can't stop it!* The sick, *sick* fear of his own impending madness sucks down to the pit of his stomach, coiling into a tight knot with dread and anxiety. It's a roiling ball of *horror* and he's really never been much good at repressing that particular sensation. Fear in general just isn't something he handles well. Drugs, then, always the drugs. Only way to keep himself sane enough to cope.

Teetering on the verge of a full-blown panic attack now; hasn't had one in *years*. Nicotine patches are stronger than cigarettes, he's found, tend to keep him calmer. Though even before the switch he'd already mostly learned how to stop himself panicking, trained his mind to kill off the anxiety before it could build into something destructive... or he *thought* he had, anyway. Maybe he'd just been fooling himself into thinking he had some vestige of control over the process, was really the drugs the whole time...

He takes another sip of whiskey and grimaces at the taste, sets it down on the table beside him. How he'd even managed to make it to the pub and order a drink without breaking down into a hyperventilating wreck of a neurotic mess he honestly has no idea. Managed it somehow, though, and the fireplace is warm and the whiskey is *disgusting* but it's nonetheless doing its job of scattering his thoughts in swirling vortices of light-headedness. He places his hands in front of his face fingertip-to-fingertip in his usual meditative posture and tries to collect himself.

Within minutes though John walks in, and *good god why.* Not *now*, John, *please* not now... but there's really no choice, is there? Sherlock's got his role to play in this whole partnership thing and of course John's sat down and started speaking, seeking *social interaction*. Having a conversation is absolutely the *last* thing Sherlock wants to do right now but ugh John's his *friend* so he has to at least try. Alright, calm down, *focus*, take deep breaths. He's fine. Fine fine *fine* by *fucking god* he's *perfectly fine.*

It's a struggle to avoid breaking down into a panic. Doesn't quite trust himself to speak - no, not quite yet - so he just lets John continue to ramble on about inconsequential things. Glares a bit, though, because as he glances over the other man's *completely at ease*, which is just... *god,* *really*, John? Is it not *painfully obvious* that he's not okay right now? There's no way he doesn't... really, this *clearly* isn't normal behaviour... *why hasn't he mentioned it...?*

But then abruptly, belatedly, he figures it out.

John simply doesn't care.

Well... that's... that's fair. Why *should* he, really, after all? Sherlock's not *meant* to have emotional reactions to things. *Sociopath*, remember? Probably thinks it's some sort of manipulative gambit. And... and it *is.* Yes, he's just acting this way to... see how John will respond. Right. By choice. Because if it's a choice then he can *stop.*

John goes on and mentions the *dog*, though, and without warning Sherlock finds himself incapable of continuing the train of self-deceptive lies he'd been trying to trick his brain into believing. Suddenly all he can see is that bloody *hound*- no, that *monster!* Enormous slavering jaws those *teeth* and *glowing red eyes* - so utterly, completely unnatural and *obviously a hallucination* but god it had seemed so *real* and the only thought trapped in his mind since seeing it has been a looping shrieking mantra of *I've gone mad I've gone mad I've gone mad...*

It's finally happened, he's snapped, it's all downhill from here and *oh god he has no idea what's going to happen to him now.*

What do they even *do* with psychotic, schizophrenic sociopaths? Commit them? Surely they must - they *will,* because he holds no illusion that anyone is going to volunteer to... to *look after* him, or whatever sort of care is necessary for mad people. No, he'll be thrown into an institution probably. Somewhere like that wretched rehab clinic except so much *worse* because it'll be full of the mentally ill and he'll have absolutely *no chance* of escape no not if Mycroft's involved. Stuck trapped in some hellish facility with nothing and no one *forever.*

Denial should be his only option right now but damn it all it's *not working.* And whether by fault of the alcohol or something else Sherlock finds himself admitting in a rush what he'd seen: *Henry was right, I saw it too...* But John doesn't seem to believe him. *Let's be rational...?* What the hell do you think I've been trying to *do* for the last thirty minutes!? Being rational is *not fucking working*, John! I saw a bloody *monster!* How does one rationalise *insanity!?*

Doesn't yell, though, even if he wants to... just mutters something about *improbable and impossible*, because maybe... *maybe it was real*...*?* But then *no it fucking wasn't*. He *knows* it wasn't - John's right, after all. If someone had figured out how to make a genetically mutated super-dog they would have heard about it. No no *no*, it was a *hallucination* he should just accept that but he *can't*, god he just can't. Refuses to reconcile the thought of his brain and his senses failing him so catastrophically. In desperation he picks up the whiskey again.

His hand is shaking.

He stares, but doesn't get angry, no attempt to mask it. No... instead he just laughs - short and bitter because *isn't that just like his body*, to go and betray him so obviously. Muscles utterly outside his control. Within the confines of his mind he's *so good* at divorcing himself from all this nonsense - an expert at himself distant, detached, collected; successfully tamped down the urge to scream and cry and run far *far* away, hadn't he? Went and ordered a drink, sat in an armchair by the fireplace, behaved like a *civilised adult.* And yet despite everything his hand still trembles... undeniable proof that he *isn't fine*. Not really. No matter what he forces himself to believe he's still just... scared. Frightened. *Pathetic.*

Attempting to explain all this to John isn't really the *best* option, he knows that. Won't help to stop the flood of shooting pulsing terror if he goes and *acknowledges* it, after all... but... god, but for some reason he just wants someone to *know.* For once it would be nice to not have to struggle alone, withdrawing into his mental fortress to wage solitary battle against the crushing tidal wave like usual. And isn't John always going on about how it's better for patients to *talk?*

Well, Sherlock's not exactly a *patient,* but he is a friend... and since everything else has failed so far maybe he'll give it a bloody try.

It doesn't work, though. John just gets annoyed.

Perhaps Sherlock's failed to adequately explain the problem? Or... no, the man simply doesn't care. That's probably more likely. *No one* really cares. Sherlock learned that lesson a long, *long* time ago; why he still persists with the delusion that perhaps he'd been mistaken he has no idea. What makes him think a *friend* will have any sympathy for him, after all, when family never did? Not even his *brother* really... but *god*, no. No, alright, talking about it had been a *stupid* idea. Should have just kept his mouth shut. *Idiot.*

Frustration with his own moronic behaviour begins to blossom through the swirling eddies of early intoxication and fires of self-loathing chasing round his head, so that by the time John's moved on to trying to calm him down with condescending platitudes he is *entirely* not in the mood. *You've just got yourself a bit worked up...*

*Worked up...?* Of all the fucking...! *Worked up!?*

If John thinks *this* is worked up he hasn't seen the bloody *half* of it! Sherlock's *been* 'worked up' before, and this *definitely* isn't it. No, this is him winning a *valiant battle* to keep a lid on his own instinctual, idiotic panic response! But oh, the forest was *was dark and scary,* was it...? How *understandable*, frightened of the *fucking dark!*

John has absolutely *no idea* what it takes to scare him. Stupid bastard thinks he's been through *so bloody much*, Afghanistan and *war* and *getting shot.* There's worse things than simply being injured, John. Much *much* worse.

Such stark difference between being invalidated in the line of duty and... and... *argh.* No, the simple fact is that people *respect* John's suffering, because he was damaged while fulfilling a noble role. It's an *honour* for him to share his story, the PTSD is acceptable, even *expected.* But no one would have an ounce of sympathy for any of Sherlock's... if he were to *tell them* what he's... no, no. He never will. He *can't.*

Some stupid teenaged junkie huddled alone in the freezing rain isn't worth feeling sorry for. Even if he can't remember how he ever fell so far or when it feels like the entire world's abandoned him to die. It was *his choice,* after all *-* he made the decision to turn to drugs... and maybe no one ever *told* him what addiction was really like or how it would consume him eating away until there was nothing left but somehow he should have known. Should have been *smarter.*

But before all that though, the little boy in trouble with Father again and it was *his fault, his fault, his fault -* he could never behave properly, never seemed capable of learning from his mistakes. So *of course* no one cared, because obviously he'd deserved it. Maybe he'd deserved *all* of it. Maybe he deserves *this.*

But no. *No.* Self-pity isn't fucking helpful. *Stop it you bloody idiot!* Head up, regain shredded confidence, *keep it together.* There is absolutely *nothing wrong with him.* He's fine, he can push through this, he's *fine.*

John keeps staring at him with that look of *concern* and Sherlock can't bloody stand it anymore. Looking like he doesn't *believe* him which is stupid because it's the *truth* isn't it there's nothing wrong *nothing wrong* no, no no no *THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH ME.*

Oops... *damn it,* shouted that. Glances around at the pub, and perhaps he should be feeling a *little* more sheepish about the random emotional outburst but *fuck it all*, he's well on his way to tipsy now and it really doesn't matter in the slightest, does it? Struck with an idea as he looks behind him, though... he's *fine*, and he can bloody well... *want me to prove it, yes?* John's brilliant little *stupid fucking plan* of looking for a dog. Alright then, watch *this.* Hallucinations or not he's still a *genius*, he's still *better* than them, still *worth* something.

Without meaning to his deduction drops into a bit of a manic ramble; but *who cares* because it *helps*. He's finally focused on something besides the maelstrom in his brain; doesn't even pause to let John interject with his usual questions no just supplies them himself *how the hell can you know that, Sherlock?* and perhaps he's being just a *tad* mocking but *for god's sake does John honestly not see?* Everything laid out so *perfectly* and it's only a terrier not *exactly* what they're looking for drops into sarcasm he's not even sure why he's still *talking* but John's just staring at him with that flat, unimpressed look and fucking hell why does he have to keep looking like that *just leave me alone!*

Something about friends and *I don't have friends.* He never has, *never will* because John's obviously not one or he'd *care.* An irrational presumption hiding deep within Sherlock's brain seems to be expecting John to argue, to try and prove that he isn't going anywhere, maybe even *apologise* or hell perhaps just continue to sit there and stare. But he doesn't do any of that.

No... he gets up and leaves.

Sherlock stares after his flatmate, wanting to say something... but he has no idea what. Half a second longer and the opportunity's gone, John disappears out the back door of the pub. Sherlock slowly moves his gaze back to the fire.

Alone now, John's left him. Isn't that what he'd wanted...?

A single, choked-off sob manages to escape his chest.

*God, no.*

## Chapter 10: Defrocked

Standard over-ornamented interior décor of a lavish Belgravia residence, not exactly much he can gather through observation. Too clichéd, almost *overbearing* in its aggressive display of wealth. It reminds him somewhat uncomfortably of his childhood - everything so neat and pristine, obsessive cleanliness, items in their proper places. More like a museum than a home. Disgusting.

A woman's voice sounds from the hallway and he quickly leans forward on the sofa, donning his "Stammering Vicar" persona in one quick shift. Kerchief back to the cut on his face, flip expressions from his basic neutral façade to flustered stress. Not an entirely comfortable personality to wear but it's one of the few characters in his arsenal with a timid, non-threatening demeanour. And in dealing with a dominatrix, he'd surmised, playing submissive is the most likely key to lowering guards.

Footsteps down the hardwood, she's asking after his name - had he even come up with one? Must have done, just need to remember... ah! Yes, that's right, it was- *gah!*

*That-* what!? *What.* Why is she-? *WHAT.*

He's startled right out of his act. Instead stares blinking like an idiot at the *extremely naked woman* in the doorframe. That's... well. Hadn't, er... hadn't been expecting... but *why* is she naked? What possible purpose could that-? And what's... is that... why is th...!?

It occurs to him rather belatedly that he has, to date, had precisely *zero* real-world encounters with (living) female anatomy. *(And why would he have? He's never found himself interested in them, sexually or otherwise, and his study of biology and/or the physiological sciences generally extends only so far as its use in forensics.)* And for some incomprehensible reason this dearth of experience is proving to be an *exceptionally* effective stumbling block to any and all ongoing mental processes.

Against all odds this woman has, for the moment, thoroughly scrambled his brain.

Still standing at the threshold to the room she tilts her head to the side with a slight questioning, vaguely insulted expression; silent message of *what's the problem?* As if *he's* somehow the one being rude - as if meeting a guest *completely starkers* is nothing more than a slight modification to social custom. It's not. It's *miles and miles* out of line. He may have no more than a tenuous hold of appropriate social protocols at the best of times but he's quite sure of *that* one.

Unfortunately there's not really any eloquent way to ask the very pertinent question of *'why the hell are you naked?'* without betraying the fact that the majority of thoughts currently running through his mind are largely centred around human genitalia, and lacking anything coherent to say he's reduced to sitting in a sort of stunned silence. At the very least he manages to keep his expression neutral as she saunters over; doesn't react more than a fraction to her simpering taunts and sudden very unwelcome intrusion into his personal space.

*Difficult to remember an alias when you've had a fright...*

No, more when you've had the rules of polite conduct rudely turned on their head without warning, thanks. He's not sure why she thinks *breasts* should be frightening, of all things. Not that he wouldn't very much like to have hers out of his face. That's not *fear*, though - discomfort if anything, now, simply for the fact that he tends to find *anyone* (naked or not) coming within such close proximity to his person to be acutely unpleasant.

She leans forward, snatches away his fake clerical collar, quips something about *defrocking*. Probably halfway clever if he were capable of paying more than the barest attention to her words. And, oh, evidently she knows his name...? Could have skipped all the acting, then. Well, no matter. He responds with hers in kind. Two can play at that game.

And there now, see? Not *frightened,* not in the *least.* Just... vaguely startled. Understandably so, too, as it's not often someone casually strolls into a room completely nude. Also still being forced to tolerate a naked person infringing on his personal space. Which, granted, may very well cross the line from *startling* to *distressing* here quite soon *(though still that's not fright at all - anxiety, entirely different beast)* but for the moment he has enough nicotine in his system to smother the impulse to panic. Not a problem.

Anyway, yes, well. So she's naked. And standing *far* too close to him. Nothing he can't ignore. He's fine.

A strange expression flits across her face as she smiles down at him; *oh, look at those cheekbones...*

Wait, *what?* What has his *face* got to do with anything? *Slapping* him...? And, oh, oh... right... some sort of seduction technique. Probably? Well, in retrospect it must be - she's a *dominatrix,* clearly her preferred form of negotiation will revolve around sex. Should have expected that. It's fine, though, he simply has to figure out how to counter it... surely he's had at least some experience? Think, think... some long-buried interrogation, or...

Blast, nothing. As far as he can recall the last time Sherlock came even remotely close to *seducing* anyone he'd been nineteen and high as a bloody kite. Quite close to drunk, as well, and moreover dealing with *entirely* the wrong gender. Not exactly applicable to the situation at hand. Evidently past knowledge won't be helping him here.

On to deduction, then. And while that's never been especially effective when dealing with social constructs over logical ones there's still always a chance. All he needs to know is how she's expecting him to respond... or, wait... *is* she expecting him to respond? Perhaps her behaviour's somehow meant to facilitate relevant discussion on its own? Can't, though, because what's the ultimate *point* of this? Not... sex, or whatever. He'd just come about photos, he's almost certain... no, this confrontation has nothing to do with anything.

And why the *hell* has she got his fake collar in her *mouth* now? Is that meant to be intimidating? Or, what... sexy? Because if so it's rather failed - mostly just looks like she's gone round the bend. But then she's still staring at him with that strange half-smile so she must be expecting him to do *something* or react somehow but he has no idea what she's after and *oh lord this is just bloody confusing.* And uncomfortable. *Extremely so.* If the mad bint would just take a single sodding step *backwards-!*

Mercifully he's saved from further bewildering torment by John showing up. The doctor stares at them a moment, befuddled, then raises his eyebrows with a sarcastic *I've missed something, haven't I?* which breaks their current stalemate.

Adler finally, *finally* backs off from hovering perilously over Sherlock's lap; he can't stop a very small thought of *oh thank god* as his personal space becomes his own again. *(One thing he's simply never been able to tolerate: proximity to strangers. No real explanation for the aversion, either, just that he hates it.)* Free of the oppressive knot of stress her presence had been causing he manages to slip back into his usual role of sardonic poise.

Now then. Presumably he'll be able to think clearly once more. Unbothered by her continued lack of clothes *(just skin and flesh, after all, nothing he hasn't seen - he'd just been startled earlier, reacted oddly)* he quickly scans her for details.

And... finds nothing.

*Of all the...* why!? She's not in his face anymore - genitals no longer distractingly exposed as she's crossed her legs, breasts now covered by her arms. Surely he should be able to...? Ah, but then, no, on closer inspection it's less a problem of her being *naked* and more that he's not sure what details comprise actual clues and what might be a ruse. But is that something she's done purposefully, to throw him off? Or is he still muddled from the recent affront on his senses?

Need some sort of baseline measurement... there! John, by the door still. Easy enough. *Two-day shirt, razor, shoes, eyebrows... date night, Stamford, needs to call Harry...* okay, right, no. He's fine. Deductive prowess thoroughly recovered. So why...?

Back to Adler. Earrings large, expensive... but has she worn them specifically *because* she knows he'll notice their price? And if so, why? What do they signify? *Red lipstick black hair tight curls* but none of it necessarily *means* anything; every detail could matter or *none* of them could matter and in the end that cancels out to questions over questions.

Is all of that *her* doing, though, or is his mind playing tricks? Inventing complication where none exists? Is he *overestimating* her? But then, if that were the case, why this inability to make heads or tails of any portion of her appearance? Surely *something* must...

They've moved on to some sort of inane pseudo-philosophical discussion, now. And perhaps he *has* overestimated her intelligence because her analysis of his disguise was nothing but a complete load of drivel.

*However hard you try it's always a self-portrait?* What, he's a vicar with a bleeding face? Oh, no, she's got some ridiculous little psychological profile all ready to go. Right, okay. Because *clearly* he must hold a delusional vision of himself as some sort of god. A god whose thought process completely derails in response to some random de-clothed woman standing a bit too close to his face. Ring the *bloody* church bells, people, we've a deity here.

Derisive, vaguely contemptuous glare her way - because *honestly,* they've been acquainted for what? Less than ten minutes? And already she thinks herself qualified to *dissect* him? Good bleeding luck. To her credit she's come up with a marginally-decent description of the outward characteristics of his default persona but that's hardly a crowning achievement. He's been using the same act for well over twenty years now, not much of a challenge to piece it together. Now if she got anywhere beyond the superficial, *that* would be something... but of course she doesn't. Not possible, he's ensconced in far too many layers of false fronts, continual obfuscation of his motives.

And yet she continues to look smug? Ugh, probably thinks his silence means she's *on* to something. Like hell it does. He is *not* delusional and he's certainly not *damaged*, whatever that's supposed to mean. Nought for two, woman, give it up.

She makes some sort of unsubtle implication of he and John being together. Not unexpected, happens frequently, decidedly uninteresting. John's growing more and more uncomfortable with the woman's state of undress however so Sherlock stands from his seat on the couch to offer his coat, which she accepts without protest. Quips and banter, keeping the doctor the butt of the joke; *don't think John knows where to look.*

Adler turns to the unfortunate man and bares herself fully, smirking as she turns back around. *No, I think he knows exactly where... not sure about you.*

Well, no, as he's never had any possible reason to care about female anatomy. Best he's got is a collection of half-remembered rants from various heterosexual male acquaintances on the merits of breast size and hip ratio. Which, back when he'd been young and bored enough to bother with such things, hadn't been of much consequence to his personal tastes.

Derailed from that line of discussion, however, because somehow Adler knows about a case of theirs? The hiker, hasn't been in the papers... *I know one of the policemen.* Oh, so she extorts information from her clients. Dangerous, might be alarming if not for the idea being so depressingly predictable. Get them at their weakest, obviously... and honestly what *is* it about sex that reduces men to moronic shells of their former competence? Some sort of gender-specific deficit in neural wiring, creates automatic weakness in even the most stalwart individuals.

Not universal, though, of course, as *Sherlock's* certainly never found himself- er... well, actually... no, no! But, sort of. Alright then so he's *mostly* never been... well... but then he'd been *high* at the time so it doesn't... and it's not like he said anything beyond... and... *gah*, wait, *why is he thinking about sex!?*

Sudden internal panic in response to a frankly *alarming* deluge of mental imagery. Accompanying physical reaction!? No! No, nononono *stop it* that is *not* appropriate to the situation you bloody-

*Argh!* The hiker! Right! *How was it done!?* John and the woman busy exchanging barbs now he's not really listening brain's been usurped by unwelcome recollection of past encounters things he'd been quite sure to delete memories from younger years *brainy's the new sexy!?* and *no,* alright*, shut up!* Dead hiker! How!?

*Pos'tionf'th'carrle-* random slur of noises instead of a sentence. *Oh for fuck's-!*

Shakes his head to clear it, tries again, simple enough explanation *come on get it together you idiot.* Words tumble out racing along far too fast but *sod it* that's coherent enough. At the very least he manages to slow his pace down by the trail end of his overdrawn run-on sentence, regaining some poise, though that's not much of a victory after a display like *that.*

Flicks a frustrated glare off into space at his own lack of composure. *Ugh,* enough already. He is not some hormone-addled teenager - he's a *bloody adult.* This is *not* an issue. He's not going to let himself get flustered over some childishly lewd remarks and a single naked human smirking at him while she uses his coat as a dressing gown. Who cares, not relevant.

Sex is a thing that happens... that *has* happened. Multiple times. *(No matter how Mycroft would apparently like to pretend otherwise - has the idiot honestly never bothered to catch up on Sherlock's surveillance-dodging escapades during university? Or does he simply not want to know? Probably the latter. Sherlock absolutely never wants to learn the particulars of his brother's romantic history, after all. Doubtless the sentiment is mutual.)* Just acknowledge the subject and move on. This is *not* a problem.

All distracting thoughts forcibly shoved from his mental space; better things to focus on. Adler's here, willing to talk, get the information they'd come for. Simple.

Pacing is admittedly a terrible habit but he hardly recognises he's doing it - too engaged with the business of stringing Adler along the trail of logic he's had nebulously planned since the beginning of this while debacle. Interestingly enough she actually appears *fascinated* by the case. Unable to piece it together with any degree of finesse, though - not quite on his level it seems. Disappointing... but still there's a spark of gratification regardless. Not often does he find people who want to understand the process beyond its end results, after all.

Despite the brief flash of cleverness she nonetheless steps neatly into his trap with all the grace of a lumbering rhinoceros. And that, frankly, is pathetic. Supposes he can't really fault her, though - he *is* a genius, can't expect to find intellectual equals but once in a blue moon.

Anyway. Photos are in the room? Excellent.

John's dismissed to the hall to enact his part in the plan. Adler lets him go without a fuss - she'll fall for their trick, plainly. But she's being as she's moderately clever and they're stuck waiting for the moment he decides he might as well see if he can't guide her through to the solution of the hiker's death. Simple case, really. Maybe she'll catch on without undue effort.

Ugh, god but she *insists* on being dense. *Stop boring me and think!* Startling people with nudity and unwelcome contact might constitute 'cleverness' in her world but it's a far cry from the cold logic necessary in *his.* Come now you silly woman, I've spelled it out for you - all down to the car's backfire, not a leap to the rest. Think what one does in response to a loud noise, the *distraction...*

And that, by some stroke of luck, provides a perfect segue to the fire alarm.

Adler's eyes immediately flick to the hearth. Sherlock smirks.

*Far* too easy.

## Chapter 11: Caring

There's no mistaking the proportions: 32, 24, 34. Near-perfect hourglass figure. Unblemished porcelain skin, lack of identifiable scars or callouses... it's the same woman.

Sherlock stares down at the corpse, and quite suddenly he finds himself wanting to leave the room. Adler had been *irritating*, of course... drugged him (which he's still more than a little miffed about) and set his phone to that obnoxious text alert, messaging him all hours with her stupid pointless nonsense. But the thought of her life having been snuffed out like this, just bludgeoned to death like a common nameless victim... it bothers him.

He's not entirely sure *why* it does so and he'd certainly prefer it not. But despite every scrap of willpower fighting against it the emotion's still there creeping through his gut, unassailable even in the face of cold logic.

Such sentiment isn't something he's keen on laying bare to the prying eyes of Molly, nor especially his brother, so he retreats wordlessly to the hall. Perhaps out of sight of the body he'll have better luck realigning his thoughts.

Snow falls in soft flurries outside the window; a rare white Christmas Eve. He watches in still silence and wills the gnawing ache of loss in his chest to subside. For god's sake, he hadn't even *known* Adler. Twenty minutes they'd interacted at the *most* - she'd been a passing blip on his radar, one victim out of thousands in his career. Why in god's name does he *care?*

Out of those thousands, however... how many had actually managed to outmanoeuvre him? How many had successfully drugged him, smacked him around with a bloody *riding crop* and then had the audacity to nick his phone in the process?

... and how many had then sent dozens upon dozens of texts to him afterwards?

For weeks now he's been reading (*failing to ignore*) a continuous stream of glib remarks and assorted vacuous nonsense directed his way by Irene. Day in, day out, middle of the night or high noon... taking time out of her schedule just to annoy him. Who, in his entire life thusfar, has done anything remotely similar?

And some days it had worked. Some days he'd been on the verge of blocking her number entirely, just fed up with the idiocy of it all. One button press and he'd be free to return his usual life devoid of her niggling spark of unsolicited human interaction.

But he'd never gone that far. Something in him, for whatever idiotic reason, had actually *liked* the attention. Attached some pathetic vestige of meaning to the fact that she remained so persistent in bothering him just for the sake of... of what? Annoying him? Talking to him? Some deeper motive? Whatever the case it had been a marked contrast to the exasperated, semi-fond comments by John, the fawning adoration and discomfort of Molly, the cold distance from Mycroft. Irene had seemed like... an equal. Somehow.

She hadn't been, though. No, just a silly human connection in the form of a woman whose idea of intellectually besting someone had involved jabbing them in the arm with a syringe full of modified rohypnol. Complete waste of his time.

And yet here he is... against all logic finding himself *disappointed* to have lost her to the cold jaws of death. Already a hollow emptiness creeping up his chest... no more texts with rude alert chimes waking him up in the dead of night just to say hello, the constant temptation to reply with a clever quip snuffed out before he'd even had a chance to give in and annoy her back.

Oh good god, is he actually *regretting* not having stooped down to her childish level? What the hell is wrong with him?

Behind him the morgue door opens and shuts - Mycroft. Likely already deduced the general gist of his younger sibling's thought process, doubtless come to tell him off for being such a sap. Well, get on with it then... he probably deserves it. Lord knows his brain's on track to spiral into a cesspool of idiocy by night's end.

Uncharacteristically, though, the man says nothing. Instead Sherlock looks over his shoulder to find a cigarette being held up toward him like some sort of deranged peace offering.

*Why?*

*Merry Christmas*.

He almost turns it down. This is all some sort of stupid game, obviously, a gauge to see if he's likely to relapse in the wake of whatever emotional trauma Mycroft's decided his little brother's been through this time. That's how the man works, after all. Always a bloody *agenda* behind everything, subtext over subtext, never a simple motive.

... ugh but sod the double-meanings. Sherlock decides he doesn't care. Because his brain's beginning to kick itself into a roiling ball of colliding thoughts and the nicotine patch on his arm wore off three hours ago. With a bland quip about *laws* he accepts the little paper stick, wordlessly betraying weakness in the process.

Mycroft lights it. Why he's carrying around a lighter and a pack of smokes Sherlock has no idea - probably been planning this set-up all night, the self-important pillock. It's fine though because it's been *ages* since he had a proper, instantaneous dose of nicotine and the rush of clear-headed tranquillity is worth whatever ridiculous intervention plan of his brother's he's just kicked into motion. Let them all dig through his things back at the flat, who cares. They'll never find his hiding spots anyway.

His brother questions him about Adler, how he'd known of her demise. Expected, really. They sidestep neatly around each other in a familiar dance of esoterics. It isn't as if Mycroft doesn't know every detail already - just wants Sherlock to admit to his part in the events. Manipulation. So pointlessly dull.

Sherlock soon finds his attention usurped by a group of grieving strangers in the entryway down the hall. Sobbing, clinging to each other for support...

Quite suddenly all he can think is that he can't recall a single member of his family having ever mirrored those actions.

Every death in their childhood had always been tactfully swept aside, treated with the same emotional distance as a far-off tragedy in some foreign country. Given a nod of acknowledgement and then simply never discussed. They'd clip the whole event neatly out of polite conversation while they all went their separate ways, pointedly ignoring each other's opinions on the matter.

There has to be something wrong with that, hasn't there? No *healthy* family behaves that way. Relying on manipulations and subtext to inquire after each others' health, talking for hours without ever really saying a word. Everyone pretending not to care *so bloody perfectly* that one's eventually forced to wonder if the illusion of camaraderie is just that - an illusion - and nothing real had ever, nor ever would, exist between them.

Asking Mycroft what he thinks won't help in the slightest, Sherlock knows that full well... but he does so anyway. Remembers for a moment those days long past when his big brother knew everything in the world, could always make the answers simple. An eternity ago now.

*Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.*

No... it's not. But does it have to be? Does one's whole existence really need to be reduced to a game of chess, every action or thought appraised in terms of their worth to some grand never-ending quest for power and control?

To Mycroft, it seems, they do. So much so that he hasn't even caught on to the implied meaning of his own words - *you're a burden to me.* Because he *does* care, Sherlock knows that more keenly than he'd like to admit... but by no means is that concern present by *choice*. Fraternal instincts, forced upon him by the cruel hand of biology. How tragic for a man of his standing to be tied down by a delinquent younger sibling.

Nicotine spills through Sherlock's brain like a flowing tide, washing away whatever vestiges of emotion had begun to worm their way through the cracks in his walls. It's barely enough of a buzz to even be worth the bother of smoking it, which is ridiculous because he hasn't been abusing the patches *that* much, so why...?

Oh, wait. *Low tar.* Of course.

Mycroft replies to his brother's irritated change of subject with a sarcastic quip, signalling their dangerously near-candid discussion finished. Sherlock huffs a short, humourless laugh to himself as he looks away. Because isn't that just like them? Backing out of anything even remotely resembling a personal connection with a speed as if burnt.

That's the way it's always been, though. Bit too late to change such things now... besides it's not as if he actually *wanted* to have a conversation with Mycroft anyway. Probably devolve into a lecture on politics within the space of a minute, the bureaucratic bore of a fluffed-up ponce.

With a short drag Sherlock turns to leave, setting a leisurely pace toward the exit. Mycroft brought them here in a car, of course, but he much prefers walking. Especially when the alternative is time further spent in the company of his sibling.

Still smoking the near-useless fag, just for something to do with his hands... contemplates picking up a pack of something stronger on his way home. Would John notice the smell?

Probably. Who cares, though. Idiot's doubtless already ruined his sock index searching for a morphine stash.

Over his shoulder he calls a bland farewell to his sibling.

*Merry Christmas, Mycroft.*

## Chapter 12: Stag Night

Light-headed, good. Just a little on the tipsy side. Excellent.

He's verging on buzzed, nowhere near drunk, all going according to plan. And well on schedule, too, moving along at a decent clip... he's still not entirely sure what the whole *point* of traipsing from pub to pub like this is, of course, but apparently that's what one does on a stag night (according to the internet, in any case) so he's planned that out as well. Direct route, carefully chosen streets *(every one where they've found a corpse, personal touch)*, each with a convenient bar. This is going to go perfectly. It *has* to.

Because he is a genius, after all, and he's John's... best friend. Somehow. Best friends make sure their friends have a good time, that's what real proper ones are meant to do, so even if it requires toting around a pair of graduated cylinders in his pockets all night he'll manage. Optimal volume, though, very important. He's determined to do this right. John deserves that much of him.

This pub they're at now isn't so much of a pub, more of a... dance club, or something. John's gone off to have the bartender refill their cylinders *(four hundred and forty-three millilitres, on the dot, hopefully John remembers to check the meniscus this time)* leaving Sherlock to stand and blink around at all the bright lights. Strobes, too-loud music, a floor full of pissed patrons all in various stages of dwindling muscle coordination. Why, again, is this considered an entertaining way to spend an evening?

John shows up at his elbow, hands him his glass *(cylinder)*, and Sherlock blinks out of his observation of the surrounding venue to thank the man. Ugh, good lord, the beer here tastes *disgusting*. What is that supposed to even be? An... amber, or...? Wait, hell, he doesn't actually know the first thing about beer. Probably just meant to have a strong burn to it, then, like a signature flavour or something.

The stuff tastes bloody awful but he knocks it back anyways, because he's supposed to. Because John expects it. Because drinking is *normal* and *proper* and while he's never been particularly keen on alcoholic inebriation he'll still do it for John. Even if the stuff burns his throat to hell and back and good lord honestly what *is* this? It almost tastes like someone poured a straight shot into a pint.

He glares at the empty cylinder in disgusted confusion for a moment, but John quickly plucks it out of his hand again, goes off to fetch another round. Sherlock blinks after him. A burst of swirling dizziness pulses through his brain and he glances back around to the pub, the coloured lights, strobe effect... mystifying. Everything seems to have somehow set itself spinning.

What's going on...? Is he...? No, no, shouldn't be this pissed after one drink. Maybe he should check his- oh, but here John's back with the beers again. Drink up. Fine, yes. For John.

On to the next street over, then, and they're halfway there before Sherlock realises he's quite forgotten to log the last round in his mobile app. But for some reason it's too much work to get the phone out of his pocket so he quickly gives up on the whole endeavour. Doesn't seem so important now anyways; certainly not enough to fight with the coat over it. Snickers to himself at the thought that he's a bloody *supergenius* who apparently can't work out how to operate a simple coat pocket, then giggles louder because John did too, he has no idea why *either* of them are laughing now and *bloody hell* why is everything so funny all of a sudden?

There's a niggling thought in his head telling him this isn't how things are meant to be going - something's wrong. He's not supposed to be this... this dizzy, or... pulsating? What? Swirls of brain matter dance around his skull, morphing shapes like a kaleidoscope, fuzzing out the world. Oh *god* he's drunk. Why is he drunk? Hates it, always has. Give him a line of coke or a hit of speed any day, *marijuana* even, anything at all besides the awful hazy swimming bewilderment of sodding alcohol. Because at least on hard drugs he still stands a chance of being able to *think -* altered consciousness, fine, he can work around that, enjoy it even. But he can't do a single damned thing with his head completely *scrambled*.

And oh, hell, is it scrambled now. Obliterated. Shouldn't drink any more, not until he sobers up a bit, and how did this even...? Must have mucked up the schedule somehow. *(Of course you did, bloody idiot*.*)* Seriously though he's well and truly plastered, just skip this round and...

But then John shows up again with two full graduated cylinders and a happy twinkle to his eye, so Sherlock accepts his glass with a nod and a smile and *cheers* even if he doesn't really want to. Thinks of the look on John's face if he were to decline, the disappointment of having to cut their outing short thanks to Sherlock's inability to handle a few sodding *pints*, relating to everyone how the stag night had... no, no, god. Sherlock can deal with a few more drinks. He's fine. He'll be fine. Room's spinning but that's not a problem.

This ale burns too, though, and what on *earth* is wrong with all these pubs' beer selections? He glares at the cylinder again but forgets almost immediately why he's doing so. Glances around in befuddlement instead. Things have started to go very hazy.

A fight may or may not be happening, he's not sure. What's he shouting about? Ash? What? He *knows* ash, all the different types, what's this tosser's bloody-

Fist swinging for his face, he dodges on instinct. *(And hah! High as a kite and still... no, no, wait, he's not high - why isn't he high? Did he run out of coke again?)* Tries to retaliate but something's dragging him away and oh hello what's John doing here? He *knows* ash, John, he knows he's... right. About whatever it is he's, erm... arguing about...? Oh time to leave, apparently, next pub. Yes... sure. 'Course.

Their next few rounds zip past in a blur of colours and sounds, more accidental fights, giggling for no real reason and then suddenly they're on the stairs back home and he has no idea *why* but then he has a reputation, you know, to... uphold. *(Or tarnish, maybe?)* John hasn't got one, no. Sherlock's name is *far* more impressive and he's sure he could explain precisely how if he had any clue whatsoever as to why he's famous.

Wait, he's *famous*...? What for? Who'd ever care what he does? No, no, wait, he knows... he knows this. It's for... crime, or something. Is he a criminal? Must be, yes, been in jail. Remembers the white bricks and metal bars. Pickpocketing, too, lots of that, and the lockpicks, drugs... oh, maybe he's a renowned thief? That would be *brilliant*. Like a pirate but without a ship to sail around in. He always wanted to be a pirate.

Mrs Hudson shoos them out of the foyer before he can think much further on the subject and John suggests a game so then they're back in the flat. Ridiculous nonsense, this. Choose a famous person, write it on a bit of paper, stick it to John's forehead. Sherlock doesn't know any famous people so he just chooses a name at random out of a newspaper on the coffee table. Good enough.

Apparently that's not quite how you're meant to play - who the hell is 'Madonna'? But the cock-up's well worth it for the ensuing hilarity. *Am I a woman?* Yes, yes John you are. You're a... hah... a lovely, stout little woman. Belle of the ball, all the nice blokes fancy you. He's fairly sure he's not saying any of this out loud, just snickering like a moron, but whatever. Talking's ridiculous anyways. Just... hand signals. Flapping about, John'll get the message. Hardly matters. What are they doing in the *flat*, anyway? Hadn't they been... pubs, or something?

There's a glass of amber liquid in his hand and the sharp burn of liquor when he takes a sip, so evidently they've come round to an alternative. Good, really, because he'd been getting a bit sick of the too-dim lights and noisy clamour of crowded bars.

Out of nowhere Mrs Hudson shows up with some girl. Bit late for a client, isn't it...? He's not really capable of caring, though. Too woozy, tired. Only her story's a bit sad. Oh, no, she's *crying?* No, no don't cry. You're *lovely*, strange little dumpy woman. I'm sure your suitor was enchanted. You are dead boring, though. So, so boring. And he's so bloody tired. Perhaps she won't mind if he just takes a bit of a nap...

*A ghost!* What!? Oh, no, boring boring... no, wait. Ghost? What? That's... *fascinating?* Maybe? What are they talking about? Oh, investigate, yes. Off to some bloke's flat, the game's... something.

*On.* On! Yeah, that! Game's on. Time to find a ghost. Or a dog, maybe? Whatever.

Being mostly sloshed and half hung over, however, turns out not to be an excellent combination for deductive work. He blinks owlishly at some big, green... egg-shaped... sitty thing... and begins to wonder if perhaps he'd have been better off staying home. Getting progressively more nauseous as the minutes drag by, still can't figure out the great bloody coat *(christ why are there so many pockets and argh the sleeves get off me you stupid wool monstrosity stop fighting back)* and there's nothing in the carpet that could even charitably be described as anything remotely relevant but lord it's so comfortable to just lie right here. A nap, please, sleep.

Get up. No, god why, don't... up, up, okay. Tries to stand, but he only gets to his knees before the nausea's too much to keep at bay aaaand nope, no. Too sick for this nonsense. Terrible carpet anyway. Deserved it.

Flashes of the police showing up, being carted off in a squadcar *(oh and there brilliant, see, he is a criminal - a famous... famous land-pirate? do those exist?)* and then the very next sensation he's aware of is someone shouting nearby. A burst of startled adrenaline shoots through him at the unexpected noise, making him bolt upright with a panicked gasp. Immediately he regrets that action with every single fibre of his being - *excruciating* headache, cold hard metal slat under his back the taste of stale vomit in his mouth and *oh god* why does everything have to be so *bright* in here*.*

Walking's an ordeal, as his balance seems to be completely shot. Brain's flat-out exhausted, whole body aflame in bitter agony... *christ*, he hasn't had a hangover this bad since uni. What in the hell happened to his plan? Hadn't he worked out precisely how to avoid all this? Charts? Graphs? Molly and the... the medical files? Had their calculations been...? No, Sherlock must have... or... no, god, *how?* How did he cock everything up this badly?

John quirks a tired smile and gamely tries to offer up some canned sentiment of thanks, but *no, it was awful.* Everything went horribly awry. Sherlock made a complete mess of the whole business and hasn't even got the faintest *clue* as to why, bugger it, shouldn't have even tried. Knew it would end in misery.

The vague mention of clues, though... jumbled memories, falling out his ears. Strange dumpy woman with the ghost. Oh, the sodding *ghost!* There was a damned *ghost* case and he'd just got sick all over it, what a *waste*. Ruined the first interesting problem he's had in ages - as if he didn't feel horrid *enough*. Now he's just going to be thinking over that nonsense like a neurotic terrier with a bone until he finds some way to solve the trick. Wonderful.

Oh, but hadn't there had been a website...? She'd mentioned one, definitely. Ghost-dating, a support group of sorts. Look it up, then, track down the client. Try again. Because *damned* if he's going to let this stupid attempt to do something halfway normal for John destroy the one bright thing he knows he'll always be able to rely on. The work. Far more important than... than stupid *best friends*. Christ.

His *work* won't ever run off marry someone else, now will it? Won't expect him to go on a sodding *stag night*, either, nor attend a stupid wedding, won't choose to spend time with its fiancé instead of him. No, work won't do anything at all but exist and wait to be solved. Perfect loyalty. All the companionship he needs. Bloody John can just go and get st-.

As if responding to his petulant thoughts a white-hot pulse of splitting pain shoots through his head. He grimaces and pinches the bridge of his nose as he walks down the hall, John at his side. The two of them together as always... and, perhaps, as never again.

*End of an era*, his brain supplies out of nowhere, tone dark and snidely mocking.

He grits his teeth against the dull ache spreading through his chest.

It's just a hangover, that's all... he'll be fine.

## Chapter 13: High

May have overdone it a bit. Morphine. Perhaps not a good choice.

With the cocaine he still knows his limits, can still tell when the boundaries of his flesh begin to buckle by the ringing in his ears and the tightness of his jaw. But the opiates... he's been off them for so long, he's forgotten. Body and mind reset to the blank slate of days long since buried. There simply hasn't been a reason to chase the languid pleasure of depressants these last few years. It's been *focus, focus, focus* for an eternity now. Life or death dependant on the sharpness of his mind and the quickness of his reflexes.

Work, first, then the running. Always running. Being chased through jungles of concrete and leaves and wood, captured, chained up, shouted at in languages he can't even begin to remember how to speak. Only he always *does*, somehow, because he either dredges up the lost words from his palace somewhere or he learns it all anew. The feats his brain is capable of honestly frighten him at times. Giving him knowledge and skills well beyond his years, tapping into deep, deep wells without his ever knowing how they got there. How many words does he know, now, in how many tongues? Is it even possible to count? Does he want to?

Vague scenes of what might be memories swim in front of his eyes as he lies curled up on a filthy mattress, thoughts meandering where they will. There's the snow of Serbia overlying the frosted glass lake of a cocaine high - oh and he'd done a hit of that, hadn't he? Not too long ago. Even though he'd been already lost to the shifting summer winds of poppy fields. Forgotten or dismissed the danger; morphine's gentle sunlight makes it so easy not to care. Now he's got a winter tableau lit by quiet dawn. Beautiful. Deadly. Good *christ*... so easily fatal. But beautiful.

Now if only he could just relocate all this lovely scenery, get it the hell out of Serbia. Because soldiers keep looming at the edges of his vision and he can't quite muster the energy to run.

Voices behind his back, that dark-skinned idiot with the earrings who can't handle half a syringe without speaking like a quarter-speed recording. Shut *up*, god. Learn to hold your drugs, you bloody twat. But then... oh, *hmm*, another voice. A familiar one? Is he hallucinating, now? Maybe. Sherlock rolls over to check, curious. *Oh, hello John.* Well then. Not hallucinating. Pleasant surprise. A bright ray of gold-spun warmth to go along with the winter sunlight in his brain.

But John's golden glow turns quickly into a crackling lightning storm.

Sherlock gets dragged up by his arm - *ow, bloody hell, stop, not the left one for god's* - and then there's shouting, a lecture he only identifies by the tone of voice because he's long since learnt to tune the words out. John had come to collect the daft idiot beside him, not Sherlock *(- of course not Sherlock, why would he, who would want to collect* him *of all-)* and the younger man weaves a stumbling exit ahead of them whilst Sherlock stays behind with his gold-warmth-fury-lightning-rage melting vast ragged holes in the ice he'd been enjoying. Clouds roll over the sunlight, chilling him to the bone. John's upsetting the entire scene. Bastard.

Right, no. Doesn't need this. Sherlock stalks off toward a door he's fairly sure should lead outside, shoves a bit too hard and somehow manages to fling an entire sheet of plywood straight out onto the stairs. It lands with a satisfying *crash*, echoing the frustrated growl of his own words like a bolstered shield against John's tempered electricity behind him.

*A case!* This is for... it's *for* something. He knows it is. He's... undercover. Or he *had* been - under the cover of *snow* and gentle warmth, you arse, until this light-that-isn't-*his*-no-not-anymore had to turn up and ruin it all. Oh, but of course there's another point, somewhere. Letters and baiting the shark, but that's inconsequential. Other plans in motion for that. Going so far with the backup strategy hadn't been necessary, really. But then... *sometimes*, damn it. Sometimes he still needs the quiet snow. It had been helpful at one point. Comforting. Like this golden light had once been until it decided to abandon him for weddings and *orphansecrettattooskipcodeliars*. And the sunlight helps, too. It does, really. Even the danger of both is worth it. They balance each other.

Or they *would*, without this nagging storm upsetting their harmonic waltz.

Shoved uncomfortably in the middle seat, with the idiot who can't handle heroin to one side and that half-sober stubblefaced sitter to the other. Legs scrunched up. Vaguely painful. It takes a moment to register precisely what John's on about with the *pee in a jar* but like a tendril of mud through the cracks in his ice it catches on to buried knowledge of drugs tests. Oh god's sake, he doesn't... *why?* He'd been *so content* back on the awful little mattress, why hadn't he just kept his mouth shut? Stupid morphine blurred out the consequences, too bright and hazy to see the sketched-out future his brain could have built if not for all the snow.

Bloody pointless, running tests. He already knows full well... but, then. No, let them waste their time. Serves them right. Wasting his. Wonders vaguely around sparks of frigid annoyance just how massively positive the results will be. How long has he been high, anyway? Just the night? Since yesterday? Several hours at least. Plenty of time for the drifts to trickle out his mind and settle through to the kidneys.

Pain, suddenly, across his face. Doesn't really register. Not much of a sting, not compared to steel boots, hard fists and chains. Snows of Serbia again. Since when has his mind palace had so many *trees?* Oh but it's Molly, isn't it. Not a soldier. And the hard metal of a ring didn't slice his flesh. Engagement's off, then. *Sorry.* Not really. A little, actually. Can't admit that. Sarcasm instead. Defuses trite lectures. When will they accept he's a lost cause?

They won't, will they. Idiots. It's for a *case*, then, wasn't it in the beginning? More or less. The snow was, at any rate. Turn it round back on John, a bit of unexpected help from... who the hell *is* that bloke, anyway? Looks a bit like... no. Doesn't really. But he's good, decent at least. *Nope, nope, nope, not your name.* Billy. Fine. Scruffy bloke is Billy. He tucks that information up amongst half-melted snow. Right next to the sharpening imagery of John's involvement with that bandage on Bill's arm. *Addict*, John. Hypocrite.

Message alert on his mobile. *Finally*. Something further to work with. Janine's wondering where he's got to. Best let her know. She'll catch on, tell her boss, elegant perfection.

As he leaves the room snow begins to kick up in flurries through his mind again. Sunlight permeates in soft beams of hazy brightness, and he lets himself get caught up in the light winter chill. So much easier to think this way, god. All his information's frozen in place, he can just pluck it shimmering off the boughs of his branching trees of connections, no need to go haring about his mental space. Like an orchard, perhaps. Should make a new row.

When he glances up from the task of planting more lines of flowering trees he quite abruptly realises he's somehow in a bloody *taxi* now and *hang on, weren't there other people?*

Just John here. Had he filtered the rest? Probably. Hadn't been paying attention. Doesn't need to, though, does he? He's got a head full of warmth and snow to focus with. Everything else just gets buried under drifts. Dig it up later, when he needs it. Never will. Straightened door knocker. Usually askew. *Damn it.*

What's *he* doing here? Who phoned him? Oh god *damn* it, John, why can't you just keep your *bloody*- wait, we? *We!?* For *god's sake!* People in his sodding *flat* why the *hell* can't these bastards ever leave him *alone!?*

*Anderson?* And some... other bint? And who the *hell* is that little pillock? Get out of my chair before I rip your damned arm off. Sherlock grits his teeth - doesn't want to deal with this. He had a head full of brilliant white *snow*, damn it, and it's all melting away in muddy rivulets now. The sun's too bright. Lightning storm ruined it. Curls up sideways in the lone half of an armchair duo and tries in vain to retrieve some of the comforting warmth he'd found so fleetingly back in the den surrounded by all the starving lost souls.

But all he can see is the kitchen, idiots riffling through it, the path unblocked by red fabric.

He'd gotten rid of it, John's spot, the chair, because it turned out the constant reminder of solitude wasn't something morphine could erase. Not whilst he *looked* at it, anyway. But looking at nothing's been worse, somehow. There's no way to win. Mix the sunlight with the frost, then, and forget there was ever anything to see.

Mycroft's nattering on and he ignores it for a while - nothing, nothing, no, *nothing to find*. Not in here, anyway. He's not *that* stupid. And even if he were the majority of contraband's pretty well all safely ensconced in his veins now. Tolerance is a fickle thing. But then the fat ponce is off toward the bedroom and *oh, wait* no no no can't let him find *her*. That's something. A hollow something utterly devoid of meaning but it's still there and it shouldn't be caught. Not yet.

*Okay, just stop, point made.* Let them believe it's what they want. Put them off the scent of the reality he's carefully woven. His case.

And right, *honestly*, this all really did have a bloody point. Well before the siren's song of frosted light got to him he'd been doing all this for a *reason*. Say it, form the name in his throat, show Mycroft the shark's circling shadow and all this will stop.

Oh how it stops. Dead halt like a train coming up against a rockslide. Should have done that minutes ago, can't remember why he hadn't. Probably some justification but then there's another flurry of snow and he really doesn't care. More fun to watch Mycroft channel a dead man in a fit of paranoid rage. Up against John, though... *pfft, hah.* No. Not a chance. John, the unstoppable force smiling blandly at an immovable object.

Sherlock's unstoppable, too. Has been since the day he was born, and even *moreso* whilst coasting merrily along on the still-slick dunes of melting snow in his head. Mycroft can do the voice and the posture and the steely glacial stare all he wants, isn't going to work. Hasn't worked in *years*. And anyway it's far past time for the self-important git to leave, now. This is all just stupid, pointless, going nowhere. *Bye bye.*

*Unwise, brother mine.*

... no.

No. Not in that voice. Not with that look. Not *now.*

Not when caution and decorum still lie half-muted under ice, when Sherlock can so effortlessly take out all the frustrations he's held tamped so far down for so long and let them bubble to the surface like a geyser. Unwise? *Unwise...?!*

Remember *unwise.* Remember who ran hunted through the frigid tundra, *brother mine*. Who spat blood with wrists rubbed raw by chains while the other sat idly by and watched. Who knows every weakness of the human body because he's had no choice but to learn them all or *die*. It's not the ponce in the suit with the brolly, is it? Playing at control. No. It's the wildfire with the head full of sunlit blizzard who'll destroy the whole of creation if it pesters him long enough. Who'll destroy his *own mind* if he sees fit. Because who the hell can stop him?

Sherlock is chaos and tragedy and all the wrongs which fester dark beneath the surface of a turbulent river. Mycroft is the naive child struggling to stem the flow of raging rapids. Mycroft, straightening a crooked door knocker. Mycroft, meting out threats that hold no weight without a web of whipped lackeys behind him. Mycroft, mirroring a man he'll never admit to idolising. Even now.

And *Mycroft*. With his wrist twisted back, a snapping stretch of cartilage and his façade cracking *so easily*. Torn asunder by just that tiny bit of pain. Pathetic.

*Don't appal me when I'm high.*