It’s barely a tick past noon when they hear the bell and the sound of Mrs. Hudson letting in their guest. A short, nervous-looking man with a shock of the reddest hair John has ever seen enters, hyperventilating. Before John can even stand to greet him or offer him some water he bursts out in a rush of words, “Oh, thank God! I think someone is planning to kill me!” and collapses in a heap on their sitting room floor.

The man wakes to the dark shadow of Sherlock perched above him on the arm of the sofa, fingers steepled, observing him unblinkingly. John kneels beside him, taking his pulse. He gives a sharp gasp and begins to hyperventilate again.

“All right, don’t start that again,” John orders in his most medical tone. “That’s how you ended up here in the first place. You’ll have to excuse my partner, he’s just very eager to hear what you have to say. Okay?”

The man gulps and nods, and lets John help him sit up. John shoots a meaningful look at Sherlock, jerking his head towards the chair. Sherlock reluctantly abandons his angel-of-death posture and re positions himself in a less threatening attitude.

Sherlock’s lucky not to have given the poor stranger a heart attack like that, distressed as he was. John lives with the man and is still right startled when he wakes to Sherlock looming like a cadaverous vulture above his bed. Thank God it only happens a couple times a month.

“Are you ready to talk about your case, Mr. Bryant, or would you like to waste more of my time with your theatrics?”

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Holmes I just – Hang up, how did you know my name? I didn’t give it to your housekeeper.”

“The same way I know you haven’t gotten more than four hours of sleep in a night for at least six months, that you play golf regularly but don’t enjoy it, that you recently started a new relationship and are a considerate lover, and that while you now enjoy a comfortable upper middle-class existence you actually grew up in poverty.”

John’s eyes rove over the man but he can see little that would have given Sherlock any of this information. As usual. It drives him crazy, but it also sends a chill down his spine that is not unpleasant.

Bryant’s jaw drops, to Sherlock’s obvious satisfaction. “How did you know all –”

“Because I pay attention, and because it is my job to pay attention. That’s why you’ve come to see me, isn’t it? Then get to why you’re here or get out.”

John sighs a bit a Sherlock’s typical rudeness, but it does seem to do the trick. Bryant carefully smooths his shirt and begins to explain.

“Well, sir, you were right about how I grew up. My mother could barely keep a roof over our heads and I never knew my father. She did what she could to get me a decent education, and always made sure I focused on my studies, but there just wasn’t enough money for University when it came time. I took a gap year to work and try to earn enough, but it was difficult. About the time I was losing hope, I met a man who said he belonged to the British Society for Ginger Advancement.”

“The what?” John interjects.

“I know it sounds strange, but it’s a real organization, only for people with naturally red hair. It’s mostly a social thing, but they were founded by a very wealthy man who made it the club’s mission to promote the well-being and success of people like me. Some of the members are a little extreme, refusing to date anyone who isn’t also ginger, talking about how oppressed and endangered we are; that sort of nonsense. But most people are just in it for fun or tradition. Anyway, the man I met explained that the Society offers scholarships to deserving and hard-working young men and women, and that I was certainly eligible. It seemed odd of course, but people offer scholarships for all kinds of strange reasons, so I applied. To my surprise they offered me enough to pay for my whole education, including a little to live on. Well, of course I took them up on it and became a member of the club. There was the usual secret society swearing in and rites of passage nonsense you get with these things, but they mostly were a good hearted group who just liked to get together for a drink and to make business connections – there was a lot of that, some very well placed people are members."

“There was the understanding that when I got older and more successful that I would give back to future young people through the Society, and I didn’t mind at all. Not only did they give me an education, it was through Society members that I got my current job and a decent future in my career too.”

John would not be inclined to believe any of this, if not for the man’s almost naïve sincerity, his incredulity at his own life’s story. Still, it may be odd, but it’s hardly a case by itself.

Sherlock yawns. “I’m not seeing a problem here, Mr. Bryant. You’ve come to me because life has been too quixotically kind to you?”

Bryant swallows nervously. “I’m getting to that. Sometime last year something changed in the club. It got more serious, the more extreme members ended up with officer positions, and instead of a tone of ‘oh, we all have red hair, people make fun of us, gotta stick to together’ meetings instead started to involve resentment and distrust of everyone who was not like us. I stopped going, kind of distanced myself from the whole thing. I felt guilty about it, but it just wasn’t like it used to be and I didn’t want to hate anyone, especially because of something as silly as hair color. It was all fine for a while, I went about my life. But then I started noticing….people.”

“People following you?” John asks.

“Not…exactly. Just one day I noticed while I was at the grocery that there seemed to be rather more red-headed people around that one normally sees. I shrugged it off, but it kept happening. On the street, in the shops, wherever I went. At first I thought I was going mad, but after a few weeks I couldn’t deny that it was actually happening.”

“Anyone you recognized? Did any of them speak to you or do or say anything threatening?”

Bryant shakes his head. “No. After a couple months of this, I cracked a little, ran over to a strawberry blonde woman and demanded to know what she was doing. She said she had no idea what I was talking about, that she was out for a walk, and said she’d call the cops on me if I didn’t leave her alone. But I know this has something to do with the Society, something with my leaving. And it’s happening more and more.”

It does sound rather threatening to slowly be surrounded by strange ginger people who seemed to materialize wherever you went. Even if it was a fluke, it would be creepy. Not that John has anything against redheads – he’d bedded a disproportionate number of them in his time – but too many at once, outside of Scotland, just seems unnatural.

“Did anyone from your…club… ever say anything to you after you left? Ask you to come back?”

“No, nothing. But it has to be them… I know they don’t take betrayal lightly. I don’t think they want me back. I think they want me dead!”

John glances at Sherlock, whose face is unreadable. “I think that might be a little extreme for a social club, don’t you?” he asks carefully. “Even one that’s gone a bit off the edge.”

“I know how it sounds,” Bryant says, pleading. “But you don’t understand how some of these people are. Please, you have to help me. I don’t know who else to go to.”

Sherlock unfurls himself from his chair and looks down at the pitiful, shaking form sitting on the sofa. “Here’s your answer. You feel guilty about taking money and then not returning the favor. Your guilt causes you to notice others of your complexion more than usual, which then develops into paranoia, which escalates the whole thing even further. Give a large donation to your Society’s scholarship fund, find a therapist, and get yourself some sleeping pills. Good day.”

He turns abruptly on his heel, heading for his bedroom.

That was cruel, but John has to admit it’s the mostly likely scenario. He thinks about trying to get Sherlock to reword his diagnosis in a less harsh manner, but supposes softening the news wouldn’t be doing the poor soul any favors. And Sherlock doesn’t appear in the mood to compromise.

“Wait, please!” Bryant calls after him, desperately. “What about the things happening at my work?”

Sherlock halts. “What things?”

“I was just getting to that. In the past month or so, things have been happening at my job that I haven’t had anything to do with. And yet my name is on the paperwork, or my ID card was used. People have said they saw me at the office at days or times when I know I wasn’t there. None of it’s bad, I haven’t gotten in trouble for anything. It’s all minor stuff within the range of normal office work. But I can verify that I was somewhere else or doing something else at the time a lot of it happened. Yet my coworkers insist that I was definitely there.”

Sherlock turns back, just as abruptly, and returns to the sitting room.

“Where do you work? Government job? Finance? No, your clothes aren’t right for either… copyist?”

“Sort of. It’s a specialty paper company. We do some printing, though – mostly non-standard jobs with special requirements, like those large ad banners. I like it well enough, but it’s nothing I can imagine anyone would be envious of!”

Sherlock purses his lips. “All right. John will go to your place of work on Monday to see what he can find. As you seem to be in no immediate danger I think it’s best if you continue to act as normally as possible. This may take some time. And for God’s sake, start keeping track of who these mysterious people you’re seeing are and whether the same people are showing up multiple times. Pay attention instead of panicking, I mean honestly what on earth has been going through your brain for the past six—”

John clears his throat. “Sherlock…”

“Yes, what?” the detective snaps.

“I’m not going to be here on Monday. Or tomorrow. Remember?”

“What? No. What are you talking about; of course you’ll be here. Where else would you be?”

Of course. Of course Sherlock had forgotten. It didn’t pertain to him and it inconvenienced his own plans, so naturally it had been unable to penetrate his consciousness in any way.

“Dublin. The conference. Honestly, I told you ten times. I've also put it on the wall chart, pinned it up near the hook where your scarf is, the fridge and in your notebook!”

Mr. Bryant coughs politely and they both stop and stare at him.

“Are you still here?” Sherlock asks. “I told you I’ll look into it. Now run along. You’ll hear from us.”

Bryant gathers his things uncertainly and makes his way out of the flat, looking both confused and somewhat reassured.

Sherlock turns his focus immediately back to John. “Well, I’m sure it’s too late to get your money back on the hotel, but it can’t be helped. Now, what we really should start with is—”

Is he really presuming John’s going to abandon a professional obligation of longstanding just to help with a case that doesn’t seem urgent and is certainly manageable by Sherlock alone? John wonders why he’s even remotely surprised at this anymore.

“I’m not cancelling,” John interrupts. “This is important.”

“More important than this case? A man’s life is at stake!”

“Maybe. But not in the next three days, I assume, from your lackadaisical approach so far. I’m going to the conference. I’m to present a paper; I can’t just not go.”

Sherlock’s face begins to assume the expression that indicates he is about to hit a sulk of epic proportions but John is unmoved.

“What kind of paper would you write, anyway?” he demands, as if the concept is preposterous.

“One on the mating habits of African pygmy tree shrews. Jesus, what kind do you think? I am a practicing physician, if you recall. I believe that’s one of the reasons you found me so useful in the first place. I occasionally do something of scientific interest or value to the medical community, even if you aren’t paying attention when I do. It’s a toxicology conference, and I’m presenting on the novel delivery and action of Indian viper venom when introduced in small doses via intramuscular injection. Remember, the speckled blonde case?”

“Well, I suppose if you must have your little amusements…”

John bites his tongue, hard. If he lets that get to him he will already have lost. He closes his eyes for a fraction of a second and lets the frustration and anger wash over him like a wave. This Sherlock. This is what he does. To take it personally would be a waste of emotional energy. And the fact that Sherlock cares at all whether John stays or leaves is somewhat endearing, even if he’s mostly just being controlling for the fun of it.  

"You could come with me,” John points out, making an effort to seem as unruffled by the baiting as possible. “A meeting like this seems right up your alley.”

Sherlock makes a disgusted face. “Waste of time. And conferences are full of…people. I’ve too much on here, anyway. Bring me back something to read if you like.  Now if you don’t mind very much, I have some urgent research to do on this Ginger Society matter.”

“Yeah, urgent, sure,” John says sarcastically. 

The rest of the afternoon and evening are spent at their separate pursuits, Sherlock researching the case while John goes over the abstracts for the conference and his own presentation. He’s so focused on it that he barely notices how late it’s gotten, until Sherlock stretches and yawns on the sofa. He gets suddenly to his feet with one smooth motion.

John hides an indulgent smile and follows, pausing to tamp down the fire and collect several tea mugs and other bits of detritus that have collected over the course of the day.

When John reaches Sherlock’s room his friend is already settled. Sherlock seems to have come to terms with John’s upcoming trip – or perhaps he’s just deleted it again. John wouldn’t put it past him.

John’s feeling sleepy, but something that’s been niggling at him all day just won’t be quieted. He’s tried to ignore it to show his annoyance at Sherlock’s arrogance, but it just doesn’t seem worth it any longer.

“Sherlock?” he asks, unable to resist.

“Hmm?”

“I give up. When you deduced Mr. Bryant today… how?”

Sherlock gives an amused rumble, smiling but not opening his eyes. “Come now, John. You should be able to tell me how.”

He wants the game, he wants to see John jump for it, and John is pleased enough oblige.

“Okay…well, the name was easy. We both saw it, ‘Abel Bryant’ stitched into his coat tag after he passed out. The golf… I did see calluses on his hands which I suppose you are going to tell me are indicative of an avid player. But how did you know he doesn’t enjoy it?”

“The calluses are a centimeter too low, but have been there a long time. He’s holding his clubs wrong, either resulting in him being poor at the game or because he can’t be bothered to learn the right way, after all these years. Either way, he’s not likely to be having much fun at it. Continue, please.”

“All right. Well, his clothes and shoes are good quality; I suppose that’s how you got his income bracket. Raised in poverty though…?”

“His clothes were expensive but were they new? Observation, John!”

“No… they’d been mended a little, were a little worn.”

“Exactly. And yet his watch was recent. He can afford new clothes, but he’s not comfortable with getting rid of something that has any wear left in it at all. Poor man’s habit. Last?”

“The relationship. There was lipstick on his collar but that doesn’t mean it’s a new one, does it?”

“Good, John. Not necessarily, although in a settled relationship that doesn’t happen as often. More common in affairs, but he’s not married. It was the whiff of women’s perfume I caught. He carries a handkerchief scented with it in his pocket. Very Victorian sentiment; very recent infatuation behavior.”

John snorts. “Incredible. But one more thing. How could you have possibly known he’s a considerate lover? You had to have taken a shot in the dark with that one. Besides, no one wants to think he’s an inconsiderate lover. No man would contradict you.”

“Mmm… true. But I had evidence to back it up.”

“And that would be?”

“For a man otherwise not meticulous with his person – slightly mussed hair, two days growth of beard, clothes as before mentioned – he had perfectly manicured hands and extremely well-trimmed fingernails.”

John glances down at his hands – and their extremely well-trimmed fingernails – involuntarily.

“I rest my case,” Sherlock says smugly, and John laughs.

Only Sherlock Holmes could find such a roundabout way to compliment someone so thoroughly, so intimately, and so arrogantly.

“You know you could go to Bryant’s work on Monday and check things out while I’m away,” John points out after a few moments of silence.

Sherlock’s eyes open and he looks surprised at the suggestion. “John, while this case is intriguing, I hardly think it merits my personal presence in such an early stage. Really, you ought to know this by now.”

“Oh, of course, how silly of me,” John retorts. “Because the cases you decide to go out on aren’t merely dictated by whim of the moment, there’s a logic to it.”

“Of course there is. Clearly we need some sort of system to help you understand which is which…”

“Great. Maybe you can work on that while I’m away. In Dublin. For two days.” John waits for Sherlock to try and talk him out of going again, but Sherlock ignores his words completely.

John can never tell when Sherlock is actually oblivious to things outside his immediate concern and when he’s being purposely obtuse to torture John or simply get his own way. Doesn’t matter really, because John is not going to let it work. Sherlock wins enough of the time without John actually letting him.

John leaves early in the morning, making one last ditch effort to impress his upcoming absence upon Sherlock’s brain on the way out the door. Sherlock is deep in some experiment and doesn’t respond.

He finds the conference enjoyable, even if he’s grown unused to being away from Sherlock and Baker Street for any great period of time. But there’s plenty to keep his mind occupied, new research to learn about, new colleagues to meet, a modest amount of praise for his own work. It’s invigorating.

John feels a lot of things when he’s around Sherlock, good and bad and intense. But he rarely has a chance to feel clever, really clever, all on his own. He’s accepted this as part of the price of being friends with one of the most intelligent people on earth. But every once in a while, it feels nice to be one of the smart ones again.

John finds out the answer to whether or not Sherlock was really oblivious to his trip when his hotel phone rings off the hook at three am Monday morning, and refuses to be silenced.

On the second afternoon John runs into some friends from the Army, other medics that he’s served with many times. He finds he’s surprised to see them, though given the setting he really oughtn’t be.

“I’ll be buggered, if it isn’t Three Continents Watson!” booms the largest of the group, Jackson. He pulls John into a bear hug that lifts him off the ground by half a meter.

John grins sheepishly and straightens his clothes as they pepper him with questions and exchange pleasantries.

“This man here,” Jackson informs the only member of the group John doesn’t know. “Has luck with women that’s got the devil himself scratching his head. He’s had his way with so many lovely little things it’s a miracle any were left for the rest of us. Watson, what the hell have you been up to… or into?” He winks slightly lewdly.

It had to come eventually. John has managed to dodge most of the people from his old life in the past year, for reasons having nothing to do with his sexuality, but sooner or later he’d known this would come up. His first instinct is to hide his new situation from his army buddies, a knee jerk reaction. But bugger that. He’s not ashamed of it or of Sherlock and damned if he’ll let military machismo bully him into acting otherwise.

“Actually, I’ve rather settled down,” he tells them with studied casualness. “I think my playboy days are over.”

“Christ, Watson, you didn’t get married!” exclaims a stout captain – Brixley – in mock horror.

“Hardly,” John laughs stiffly, and decides to just bite the bullet. “Truth is, I’ve got a certain gentleman waiting for me back home, and he’s put a permanent end to my… roving.”

The men look at him blankly for a moment, before Jackson roars with laughter and slaps him on the back. “Good one, Watson! Had us there for a moment.”

But John’s face is stone and the laughter dies.

“You’re bloody serious,” breathes Brixley. “Of all people, I never figured you for one of them...”

John’s hands clench at his sides and he can feel them all taking a mental step back. They’ve seen him go off, and not even Jackson, who is easily twice his size, wants to be on the receiving end of that.

John had broken Jackson’s nose once, when he was being rather too drunkenly insistent with an unwilling companion, and he knows the other man hasn’t forgotten it. For all his bluster now, he’d followed John around like a beta dog for months after.

"Well,” John says with transparently false cheer. “Neither did I. That’s not a… problem… for anyone here is it?”

They all hurry to say no, of course not, best of luck with that, but the conversation dwindles after his revelation and soon they are mumbling reasons why they must really get going. Great to see John, next time we’ll have to hit the pub and relive the glory days.

As they go, the youngest of the group, a lieutenant named McNabb, lags behind long enough to tell John, quietly, “I read your newspaper work, it’s brilliant! And you and that detective fellow, Holmes? It’s… well, I think it’s nice is all. Good for you.”

John gives him a half-hearted smile and McNabb punches his arm lightly before disappearing with the others.

After that the rest of the day is somewhat soured for John. The programme is still interesting, but he feels like he’s just going through the motions until it’s over. He’s more than ready to leave in the morning, skipping the closing breakfast.

John’s gotten plenty of funny looks and comments since he met Sherlock. He never likes them and has more than once picked a fight over it, but even so that sort of prejudice from strangers rolls off the back easily. But these are men he’s known for years, some since med school. They’d shared assignments and danger and rough nights. Brixley had even helped treat John after he was wounded, stitched him up with his own hands. Normally they all would have gone out and gotten roaring drunk together, telling war stories and picking up women. The rejection stings.

John gets home mid-morning on Tuesday. Sherlock, predictably, takes no notice. He’s sitting sideways in John’s chair, legs dangling over the arm and head tilted back, staring blankly at the ceiling while he thinks through some problem. John trudges up to his room to unpack, feeling both relieved and oppressed at being back.

Sherlock’s unconditional commandeering of his entire existence can be suffocating and his refusal to admit that anything John does that’s not directly to do with Sherlock himself has any worth at all is maddening. But here John is accepted completely, without question or comment. He’s safe here with Sherlock, despite certain death always lurking around the next corner. And he’s valued, even if it’s not always for the things he’d prefer.

As he’s slowly hanging his shirts back in the wardrobe, he hears Sherlock bellow from the sitting room. “John! John. John!”

John doesn’t respond. He’s not in the mood to shout a conversation between floors, and is certainly not going to run downstairs to find out whatever ridiculous thing Sherlock wants. He gives it 45 seconds. At 46 seconds he hears footsteps pounding up the stairs.

Sherlock appears in John’s doorway looking as if the future of the British empire hangs on the answer to his question. “John, where the hell are all the drinking glasses?”

“Hello to you as well. They’re in the big stockpot on the hob.”

“Why would they be there?”

“Because I felt the strange urge to sterilize them after you used them test the rates at which human kidneys dissolve in difference kinds of acid.”

“Ah.” Sherlock turns to go and John returns to his unpacking, feeling bone weary, wanting to just sleep off the emotional exhaustion of the past couple days.

Sherlock pauses and instead of going back downstairs, he steps fully into John’s room, standing just a few feet from him, a little uncomfortably.

“I have noticed,” he says in a neutral tone, “that when individuals react negatively to an unexpected change in a person, it is more often due to the cognitive dissonance caused by the conflict between the new behavior and the perceived character or identity of a person they believe to know very well, rather than any intrinsic disapproval or abhorrence for the nature of the change.”

John swivels to stare at him, momentarily floored.

For a man with an emotional IQ that isn't suppose to exist, this level of perceptiveness is stunning. Not so much the information itself – that falls reasonably in line with Sherlock’s ongoing study of human nature – but the fact that he was able to deduce what had happened at the conference and recognize that hearing it might be comforting to John at this particular moment.

John feels the burden that’s been weighing on him today lift as he’s reminded of why he’s here, why it’s worth living with this insane, impossible and genius man. “Thanks. That was… good.”

Sherlock nods curtly, hesitates, and adds almost shyly, “It was very dim while you were gone. It’s brighter now.”

John's smiling at last. “I missed you, too.”

“I thought perhaps you were angry with me.”

John shakes his head. “No…not really. A little annoyed and frustrated, but nothing out of the usual.” He grins to show he’s teasing. “Why did you think I was?”

“You were…too red. And static.”

“Red? I look red to you when I’m angry?”

“Like lava hitting the ocean.”

John steps closer to Sherlock, his previous task forgotten.

“And now?” John asks.

“Not angry. Bright and white and golden. Like a Christmas tree lit with candles… you're happy?”

“Happy,” John confirms, and realizes that he really is. “Although if you really want to avoid any lava, you could always try being less of a complete dick about my non-you activities.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to retort, but before he can say anything they hear Mrs. Hudson yelling from the kitchen.

“Boys! You’ve got another one!”

John really has no idea how he goes from being hustled out the door, to a crime scene to sitting in Buckingham Palace next to his naked, sheet-draped best friend, being hired for a new case by, apparently, the King and Queen. Who follows their work. On the whole it’s turning out to be a very enjoyable day.

Why on earth is Sherlock naked now? He’d been clothed when John left him. Perhaps he’d forgotten their guest and gone to take a shower and neglected to dress afterward. It doesn’t really matter – it’s all quite brilliant and Mycroft’s impotent fury at their utterly ridiculous situation is one of the most amusing things John has ever seen.

Despite his studied reluctance in front of his brother, Sherlock is all but salivating over this dominatrix case. It certainly is out of their usual scope. John has never seen Sherlock take quite so long to decide which of his many disguises and uniforms will suit his purpose in an investigation. The only thing he tells John about his plan is that John is to set off the fire alarm two minutes after Sherlock’s signal, once he’s alone with Ms. Adler. 

But really, the day is going along just splendidly until Sherlock punches John in the face. It all goes rather downhill after that. Distressed Stranger Sherlock is not a new one for John, although he’s not previously taken it to such an extreme, and they are ushered into Ms. Adler’s house with John dutifully playing the Helpful Bystander as is required of him.

The priest thing is a novel touch. John didn’t even know Sherlock had a clerical collar.

However, the last thing John could have expected upon returning to Sherlock in the dominatrix’s surprisingly respectable sitting room is to see him straddled by a very beautiful, very naked woman. The image is so irrational that John can’t quite manage to process what he’s seeing. It’s far and away more surprising than being hijacked in a helicopter by the government to find Sherlock wrapped in a bed-sheet and defiant in one of the most hallowed buildings in the country.

It doesn’t help that Irene Adler is one of the finest specimens of the female form he’s ever seen – and he’s seen a statistically significant sample. From her perfectly coiffed hair to her carmine lips to her flawless skin and breasts and hips and more, she is sex embodied, whispering and screaming at him, and John’s body is, unfortunately, listening. He shifts and futilely tries to will away any sign of interest or arousal, cursing his still-extant susceptibility to the fairer gender.

Sherlock looks from Irene to John and back again, and John realizes with a start that not only is his friend completely thrown off balance but that Sherlock’s body is also responding to this brazen display. It’s almost undetectable but John knows even the tiniest signs, oh so very well. He finds Sherlock’s predicament entertaining for almost two whole seconds until he also realizes that Sherlock is discomfited by her nakedness.

Sherlock is never bothered by nakedness, his own or anyone else’s, as he’s well proved today.

Except…

Sherlock being flustered like this flusters John, and it’s only made worse by how she’s taunting John with words he’s not allowed to say, not allowed to hint at, and it’s fine as long as no one else says them either, but she does. She just lays them out there carelessly, with a knowing look at him and instantly he’s naked too, but not naked like she is.

Somebody loves you.

John snaps, ruins everything, gives himself away to their opponent, allows his flash of jealousy and unease to give her the upper hand for a moment. And then she’s wrapping herself up in Sherlock’s coat, his coat which might as well be his skin, with a level of familiar intimacy even he doesn’t dare uninvited. She’s wearing it like a trophy, smug and catlike as if she’s won a contest he didn’t even know he was in.

But he doesn’t have time to reflect on how ridiculous this line of thought is, because Sherlock has snapped him to attention and he’s back to doing his duty, standing guard, working in perfect harmony with his friend, exactly as it should be, exactly as they always are. Even through the smoke alarm and the gun to his head and the moment when they are both certain that Sherlock is going to have to watch John get his brains splattered all over the cream cashmere carpet and John isn’t sure which of them is about to suffer more, he feels like things are completely right. This is how it works. This is what they do.

And they keep doing it right until the moment John discovers an unconscious Sherlock on the floor of the woman’s bedroom and she flips out the window and evaporates, still naked except for the coat, Sherlock’s coat, drawling a last parting shot and leaving him to tend to his defeated, incoherent friend.

Nothing happened. Sherlock lost. It wasn’t the first time, and it’s good for him to remember he’s not invincible. He’s not permanently hurt. Neither is John. And their opponent isn’t exactly an axe murderer, so what if she’s still on the loose? Mycroft’s problem. On the whole, he should feel good about today. A draw’s as good as a win if you get a good story out of it. Right?

John manages to get Sherlock out the door, eventually, by hoisting him over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes and hauling him to the taxi. Trying to help him walk had only resulted in going in circles, though it had yielded a number of amusing visuals for Lestrade and his boys. John doesn’t try and stop them because Sherlock can always use another check on his ego and, frankly, John’s running out of ideas.

Sherlock protests weakly as John stuffs him in the car, then slumps against the window, taking up most of the back seat. John settles opposite with a deep sigh.

Normally after an incident like this John would have to hold Sherlock off with a stick until they managed to get home, the combination of the general danger, John’s heroism in taking down several assailants single handedly, and John’s near death experience making Sherlock half crazed with fear and desire, liable to tear off John’s clothes in the taxi and take him right there to make sure they both knew they were still alive, if John didn’t hold him back. John’s primed for it, Sherlock looks vulnerable and thin, head lolling back, face mushed against the glass.

“John, go around back, cut her off,” Sherlock mumbles. “Don’t let her get away.”

“Okay, Sherlock,” John agrees amiably. “Whatever you say.”

“Don’t let her get away! I need her. I need her back, I need to know…”

John feels that pit of discomfort forming in his gut again. “What do you need to know?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to answer and vomits all over John’s shoes.

John gets Sherlock to bed, not even bothering to try to undress him in his state, just laying him on the mattress and pulling the sheet over him, hoping he’ll sleep it off. John positions himself in the sitting room with the futile hope of getting some work done, strangely unsettled and tensed for any noise coming from the other room. When Sherlock does wake, calling for John, he’s hardly more coherent than he had been on the way home, babbling about the woman again, insisting that she was here, trying to get up and go after her.

John catches him, patience rapidly thinning, and drags him back to bed several times before he stays down. Still, he covers him back up tenderly and assures him that he’ll be close by if Sherlock needs him.

“Why would I need you?” Sherlock murmurs, sleep closing back in on him.

John sets his jaw. “No reason at all,” he grumbles, and goes into the kitchen for a glass of cold water. He runs his fingers through his hair and makes himself dissipate the flash of anger that is building.

Sherlock is drugged, he’s not in control of himself. And even if he was, that sort of idle cruelty is par for the course with Sherlock, especially when he’s been thwarted. And of course he’s obsessed with a criminal who got away. It shouldn’t get to John like this – he’s accepted his status as default punching bag to a certain extent, it doesn’t bother him because he can handle himself, give as good as he gets when he needs to. Why on earth should he care now? He must just be tired. It’s been a long day. Everything will be better in the morning. 

Still, he feels a strange reluctance to assume his usual place in Sherlock’s bed and the fact that Sherlock is currently sprawled diagonally across it, taking up every square centimeter possible with feet still hanging off the end, isn’t an incentive. Instead, John trudges up the stairs to his room, rarely used, little more than a storage closet at this point but still his own space. He has that, at least.

He pulls back the slightly stale bedclothes and crawls under them, willing himself to fall asleep immediately, grateful for his ability to blank his mind out under almost any conditions. He doesn’t remember his head hitting the pillow.

It’s not the dawn light that wakes him, but the sense of not being alone in his room. He knows at once the presence is Sherlock and doesn’t start, opening his eyes slowly to see the tall detective sitting cross-legged at his feet, observing him silently.

The cut on Sherlock’s face from John’s fist is still red and angry but there are new marks too, livid welts on his knuckles, marks John didn’t make and hasn’t seen before, even though he knows every blemish on his friend’s skin. From the scrape on his shin where he’d dinged it against a fire escape during a chase six days ago - the new wounds, minor though they are, scream at John like a siren.

John sits up without a word and waits for Sherlock to speak.

“You slept here last night.”

John nods. “How are you feeling?”

“Splitting headache, dry mouth, patchy memory, nausea,” Sherlock says dismissively. “I prefer you to sleep downstairs.”

“I know.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “In fact, as I’ve mentioned many times, having an entire room of the flat that is barely used is really a terrible waste of space, there are so many better things—”

John interrupts with a pointed cough, and Sherlock falls silent reluctantly, judging that this is not the time though clearly not sure why. John changes the subject aggressively, forcing a light-hearted tone. “Well, that was a hell of a day! From Buckingham Palace to almost getting my head blown off… and that woman! She was a piece of work. On the whole, more than enough excitement for the week, I’d say.”

Sherlock grins, his face and eyes lighting up. “Oh John, I wouldn’t say that! I would say it wasn’t nearly enough. Besides, you seemed to take to her well enough,” he adds snidely.

John flushes at the memory of his response, how he’d felt the warmth spreading in his loins and how his heart had skipped a beat at the sight of her. He had hoped the drugging would have made Sherlock forget.

“What are you so cheerful about, anyway?” he snaps. “She got away.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock beams at him. “I lost. She beat me!” His tone is awed. Enchanted. Delighted.

Sherlock Holmes doesn’t like women. It’s not merely that he’s not attracted to them sexually or romantically. It’s that he has no interest in them at all, and seems to regard them as an entirely separate species, one that’s far too much trouble to attempt making contact with unless a particular female has something to offer in the way of a case or assistance or expertise. There are obvious exceptions, but in general he seems to view the entirety of femininity as something completely out of his sphere, alien and superfluous to his existence, and therefore of no consequence unless there is an immediate reason for it to be. Like the solar system. Then again, that’s how he treats most people. And things. But John has never seen him react to anyone – or anything – like this.

Not even Moriarty.

John doesn’t know what to say to that, but apparently Sherlock doesn’t require a response. He jumps to his feet and grabs John’s wrist.

“Come on. Mycroft will be here in…” His lips move silently for a moment, as if he is calculating the exact number of minutes it takes for the elder Holmes to brush his teeth and the length of time for a car to get across town in morning traffic. “…thirty-seven minutes. I’m sure he’ll be wanting to hear all about it.”

John dresses while Sherlock waits impatiently and they go down together. Sherlock has somehow wheedled Mrs. Hudson into making them breakfast and they eat while Sherlock and Mycroft spar over the case. It’s comfortingly domestic, from Sherlock pretending to read the paper in his dressing gown to the fraternal antagonism to the hot oatmeal and tea, and John feels the previous day begin to recede like a bad dream.

Sherlock doesn’t give him enough credit. John may not be as fast or brilliant but he gets there eventually. He knows how Sherlock got those welts on his hand. He knows he wasn’t the only man in the room affected by Irene Adler’s crass sensuality. And he knows Sherlock suspects far more than he’s telling about her and the contents of what she had left behind. What does it matter, though? Let Sherlock have his illusion of mystery if it makes him happy. John’s just glad to put it behind them, let it fade into the realm of the ridiculous and unknowable, and watch Sherlock torment his older brother.

He grins widely as Sherlock plays the older man out to “God Save the Queen”.

“You have no intention of letting this case go, do you?” he asks, when Sherlock finally sets down the violin.

“Well, it did nearly get you shot. I would think you’d be more invested in the reasons behind that.”

“The only things I’m invested in are those tickets I bought to the New York Symphony that we didn’t get to use last night. That wasn’t exactly what I had envisioned for a date. Granted, Americans, nudity, and a riding crop were all part of the plan, but hardly in the combination that we ended up with.”

Sherlock snorts, reminding John of the time Sherlock had the same reaction to John's sarcastic response to Mycroft's threats towards him and then they both crack up.

“God, your brother might have a point about us acting like grown-ups,” John says, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

Sherlock makes a face that indicates that he couldn’t agree less, and claps John on the shoulder. “Now,” he says brightly, rubbing his hands together. “Don’t you think it’s time we attended to the extremely dangerous and convoluted case of Mr. Abel Bryant and the Society for Ginger Advancement?”

“When you say ‘we’…”

“Well, it’s only a five right now John,” Sherlock informs him primly. “I put the address in your pocket. Take a coat, it’s chilly.”

He picks up the violin again while John gathers his things.

“That’s interesting,” John comments on the tune, which is slow but rich and vibrant. “Have you played that before?”

“Hmm? Oh, just something I’ve been working on. Now, are you talking or are you leaving? Move, man, move!”

John goes to Bryant’s place of work with far less reluctance than he shows to Sherlock. It’s good to be doing something that has nothing whatsoever to do with Ms. Adler or Mycroft. And Sherlock might be pretend he’s less than riveted by this case, but John knows it’s an act – he’s beyond intrigued.

The company is large, with several floors of shiny, new offices attached to a massive complex of warehouses and factories. Bryant wasn’t kidding that it was a good job. It must be the largest paper manufacturer in London, perhaps in all of England  For all it’s size, though, it’s surprisingly deserted when John enters, well before noon. He realizes belatedly that it’s a bank holiday – of course hardly anyone is working today.

So easy to lose track of time, of day and weeks and dates of all kinds in Sherlock’s orbit, when sleep and meals are a matter of allowance by casework and adhere to no regular schedule. Nothing is ever predictable.

Then again, there is at least a receptionist on the front desk, and it might not be a bad thing to have fewer people observe his investigations. He wonders if Sherlock had thought of that, or if he even knows what day of the week it is presently.

The girl in reception is beautiful, with light cocoa eyes and hair and skin, over which a handful of espresso freckles has been artfully sprinkled. John feels himself adjust his posture as he approaches, automatically straightening, smiling, becoming attentive to her. He reproves himself – she cannot be more than twenty – yet she returns the smile with more than just the politeness of the job, looking him over and apparently not finding anything wanting.

He flirts with her almost by rote, feeling guilty at the rush of pleasure from her admiration and telling himself that this what Sherlock would have him do, why the detective sent him in the first place.

Sherlock can turn on the charm, blindingly, but it’s work for him and he can’t hold it long. He prefers to rely on John’s innate likability, his genuine and nearly boundless attraction to the opposite sex, wielding John’s personality like one of his lock-pick tools, even from afar.

“Abel?” She giggles as if the man himself is a joke. “No, he’s not in today – hardly anyone is. I could take a message, or you… could leave your phone number and I could call you up when he’s here. Or….some other time?”

Her too-obvious coquettish, brassy and unpracticed, brings home just how young she really is and John dials back from the encounter, trying to figure out how to get a look around without her appointing herself his own personal tour guide.

Luck is with him then, an older woman with “supervisor” scrawled all over her sour expression breaks in from behind the desk – John realizes with a start that  she’s been there this whole time, he simply hadn’t noticed her presence at all.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Miss Callan,” she snaps. “Of course Mister Bryant is here – he came in about two hours ago and is still in his office. What use are you if you can’t even keep track of the employees? For the love of Christendom, look at your files once in awhile.”

Miss Callan looks entirely unabashed by the tongue lashing, although somewhat put out as John switches his attentions to her superior.

“I’m sorry… ma’am… did you say you’ve seen Mr. Bryant today?”

She snorts harshly at him. “I don’t need to have, we track the ID of every employee who walks through the door electronically. This isn’t the Dark Ages. But as it happens, I walked by his office and saw him in there, working away. Good man. He doesn’t have to come in today, like we do.”

John successfully sweet-talks his way into being allowed to visit Bryant’s office unaccompanied and breathes a sigh of relief. He wonders if he can get out without passing either the crone or the over-eager maiden again.

The office is easy to find and empty, although the warmth of the coming from it tells him it was recently occupied and may soon be again. Like Bryant himself it is a little homely and chaotic, though seemingly random piles of paperwork speak of a personal organisation system opaque to anyone but its progenitor. John is familiar with this method, and would bet the man can pull out any needed item or document instantly upon request. A few personal items and photos inhabit the space, but nothing seems significant or out of place.

John continues his search, debating whether it’s worth trying to access Bryant’s hidden files while he’s out or just wait until he returns and explain himself. His glance falls on an employee ID card strung on a lanyard, laying forlorn and abandoned. It’s Bryant’s, complete with unflattering picture and personalized code.

John picks it up and just as he is thinking that this doesn’t seem like the sort of place one wanders about without one’s ID, even on a holiday, a slight noise behind him makes him spin towards the door, crouching a little, unconsciously, as his body readies itself for any potential threat.

He finds himself face to face with Abel Bryant. Only…not. The man is of the same height and build as their client dressed in the same style, with the same flaming red hair and slight thinning at the crown. But it’s not him.

The stranger freezes, and John can see the indecision flash momentarily across his face before he settles on an offensive tack. “What are you doing in my office?” he demands, doing a decent impression of being genuinely affronted. “Put that down and get out before I call security!”

John smiles at him wolfish. “Nice try,” he says. “You might be close enough to fool an old woman without her glasses, from behind, but I actually know Mr. Bryant and my eyesight is just fine. I can see from your stance that you’re not armed, so why don’t you just sit down and we can talk this over?”

The man looks deflated and John relaxes ever so slightly, motioning him to the chair in front of him. He is unprepared for the sudden lunge, without any tell, for the ID card in his hand, and just barely manages to hold it out of reach. He is somewhat more prepared for the ensuing roundhouse kick aimed at his chest, though still startled by the strength and speed of the smaller man’s attack. John manages to deflect the kick and move close enough to get in a punch or two of his own, hoping the immediate vicinity is deserted enough for no one to hear the scuffle.

John’s blood is pounding, his mind alert and high on the adrenaline from the fight. He hates to admit that in moments like these he feels a thousand times more himself than he does at almost any other time, with the possible exceptions of when he is doing emergency surgery or in the throes of passion. He thrives on the thrill and, shamefully, on the savagery.

His hook connects with jawbone, but in doing so John loosens his grip on the ID card just enough for his opponent to tear it out of his hands. The man spits blood at him and turns on a dime, fleeing down the hall toward the center of the vast complex. John is instantly in hot pursuit – the little devil is fast, but John is no stranger to impromptu foot chases and the slipperiness of the recently buffed floors level the playing field a bit more. Still the man is a good twenty feet beyond John when he crashes to a halt in front of an unmarked door and waves the ID before the pad beside it.

John reaches it just in time to grab hold of a tweed sleeve as he slips through, but the door slams shut with heavy steel finality and John has to jump back to avoid having his arm sliced off. He finds himself standing alone, with nothing but a slightly worn jacket in his hands and a deep bone bruise on his upper arm to show for his pursuit.

He swears wearily, crumpling the jacket under one arm, and starts looking for the nearest exit.

“Did you get dinner?” Sherlock’s question reaches John’s ears before he’s fully gotten inside the door.

“What? No… I was a little busy.” John tosses the jacket at him and sinks stiffly into his chair.

Sherlock looks him over, completely devoid of empathy once he assures himself of the lack of blood or other sign of severe injury on his friend. 

“Don’t you want to know what happened?” John asks, peevishly. “I did go all that way…”

Sherlock focuses again on John. “I presume you went to Bryant’s office, discovered an impostor there, wearing his clothes judging by this jacket, engaged in a fight and pursuit, and then allowed him to escape without finding out any meaningful information from him.”

John rolls his eyes. “Why do I even bother?” he grumbles, rubbing his arm.

“Because of details, John! Now, tell me everything.” Sherlock hunkers down across from John and turns his full attention on him, as usual both unsettling and flattering.

To have those grey eyes on you, bottomless and questioning, to know that at this moment only you can give them what they seek is heady stuff. John has never been able to inure himself to the power of it, the way it electrifies him from head to toe until Sherlock chooses to release him.

John relates the story as accurately as he can remember.

“The ID badge…” Sherlock mulls, when he’s done.

“Yes, the impostor seemed quite keen on it, like nothing else mattered. Maybe he just knew it was his quickest escape?”

Sherlock shakes his head and smiles knowingly at John. “Tell me, why would a paper company have an unmarked, reinforced door that requires a badge to get through?”

“You think they do something other than make paper?”

“Mmm… what? Don’t be an idiot. Now shut up and let me think!”

John shrugs and moves to get up, but Sherlock swiftly shoves him back down into his chair.

“I said, let me think!”

John sighs theatrically and settles in as his friend’s eyes go glassy before him, looking through John and focusing on something either very far away or, more likely, deep inside his own head.

Sherlock uses John like a totem when he’s thinking. Or maybe just like a filter through which to distil his own deductions. Sometimes this involves talking at John – whether or not John is actually there – for hours on end, but other times it just seems to require John’s presence in his vicinity while he ponders.  

“Have it your way, you mad wanker,” John mumbles at Sherlock’s unhearing figure. He’s not sure how much time passes, but the next thing he knows Sherlock’s mouth is to his ear barking his name unnecessarily loudly, and it’s dark outside.

“Jesus Christ, piss off,” John snaps, pushing Sherlock’s head away from his and shaking himself. “What time is it?”

“Gone nine. You’re useless, aren’t you?”

John pulls at his still-ringing ear. “I’m sure you find having a good think to be endlessly entertaining, but if all I’m allowed to do is sit there as you imitate a statue, I might as well get some rest while you’re at it. Now, did you figure anything out?”

Sherlock angular features split into a wide grin. “Oh, yes!”

“Well, what?”

“Don’t know yet. Now are you ever going to get us something to eat or do I have to miss tea as well?”

John grumbles but realizes he also hasn’t eaten since breakfast and slowly gets up and collects himself to go out. “I thought you didn’t eat while you were working.”

Sherlock often merrily contradicts his own stated habits, although John has noticed recently that he seems to being making more of an effort to take care of himself, at least when he’s not utterly absorbed by something else. John wonders if Sherlock is actually doing it for his sake, like the abstinence from drugs.

“This? Barely qualifies as work. Child’s play. Well, mostly. Now, hurry up, we’ll be getting a call from Bryant before midnight.”

“A call? Why?”

“Why, to tell us his house has been robbed, I expect,” Sherlock replies calmly. “I’d like to eat first, if you don’t mind.”

John returned with food and no sooner had they, well John at least, had finished, their phone rang.

“Hello, Mr. Bryant,” Sherlock answers in a sickly cheerful voice. “Oh dear, you don’t say, how awful, be right over, bye bye!” Sherlock looks triumphantly at John, who can’t quite hide a smile at his cocky enthusiasm. “Shall we, then?”

Bryant’s townhouse is older, but in a nice neighborhood, and very well kept up. He meets them at the door, looking haggard and nervous.

“Have you called the police?” Sherlock demands, pushing inside past him.

“N-no… you said to leave them out of it, so I just called you straight away. I’ve been away for a couple of days, thought a little holiday might help my—”

“Excellent,” Sherlock cuts him off. “Come on, John, don’t dawdle.”

John follows Sherlock through the door and is greeted by a scene of complete chaos. The impeccably furnished home has been completely ransacked, furniture overturned, pictures on the ground, clothes and small items strewn everywhere.

Sherlock begins his usual inspection, scrutinizing and sniffing as he makes a systematic circuit around the house like the bloodhound he is, while John scans the rooms more haphazardly, hoping to catch something at random.

He’ll never have Sherlock’s laser like ability to focus on details or the scope of knowledge to put all the minutiae together, but more than once he’s noticed something in the big picture that Sherlock’s myopia bypassed, even though he’s rarely able to deduce its full meaning. He always feels more at loose ends at cases like these than when there’s medical opinion to be taken, but he’s picked up a few tricks over the past year and tries to be as observant as he can.

“What did they take?” Sherlock asks Bryant, running his finger through the dust on a still-intact grandfather clock.

“I-I’m not sure. I haven’t looked yet.”

Sherlock’s head snaps towards him. “Then let’s talk about what they didn’t take.” He towers over the smaller man. “They didn’t take your antique end tables, original impressionist paintings, or even the secret and significant store of cash you keep in a condensed milk tin in the back of the icebox. What does that say to you?”

“I…I don’t know…” Bryant looks more frightened than ever.

Sherlock makes a disgusted sound and turns to John. “Care to do any better?”

John furrows his brow in concentration. “Maybe that they wanted to scare him? Or that they want something that only he has, not something they could get just anywhere?”

“I already know one thing they took, do you John? Mr. Bryant, you will find you are missing several items of clothing, including a tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows. Additionally, I suspect that you will also be missing a hairbrush, favorite mug, and several other small personal items. Beyond that, nothing should else should be gone. Except, of course, your employee identification card, which you will likely find either in your car or your office tomorrow morning when you go to work, to make it seem like you simply forgot it.”

John starts to feel it as Sherlock speaks, all the evidence coming together, coalescing around him. He can’t quite verbalize it yet, but almost and he knows as soon as Sherlock says it will seem so clear as to have been impossible not to see all along.

“My ID card? And clothing, hairbrush… B-but why? I don’t understand.”

Sherlock looks beyond pleased with himself as he circles Bryant’s trembling form. “Are you aware that your security clearance within your company has been vastly upgraded in the past several months? No? I’m not surprised. You did mention having records of signing orders and other actions you have no memory of. It’s all true. I got into your company’s system this evening – which, you may wish to pass on, is not as secure as all that despite looking very fancy indeed – and found out that not only have you been given access to every level and area of the company, even those which the existence of you may be unaware, but that you have been very busy during hours when you weren’t in the office.”

“Why would anyone do that?”

“Don’t you get it? Not just the security upgrade, but impostors making it look you were there when you weren’t, so that your coworkers would swear to seeing you? And now they’ve taken personal items, distinctive ones as well ones that would yield hairs, skin flakes. Someone is setting you up, Mr. Bryant. They’re setting you up for something very, very big.”

Bryant gives a squeak of panic. “For what?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Not enough data yet, although I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have three good ideas and six mediocre ones.”

Mediocre ideas to Sherlock are still more brilliant than John can think of most days, and he’s certainly right about the set up. But he can’t make the burglary quite add up in his head yet.

“Hold up,” says John. “Whoever it is has access to his office, why bother breaking in here? Wouldn’t there be plenty of items they could use from there?”

“Not bad, John. But lots of people go in and out of an office, and there are cleaners. They wanted to be certain they got Bryant’s cells, his DNA, his hair, and no chance of contamination with anyone else’s.”

“All right, but then why all the mess? Why not just slip in quietly and take what they wanted? Things like that, wouldn’t most people just assume they’d misplaced them in the house? No need to cause all this alarm.”

“You said it before, they want him scared. They want him unstable and acting oddly. When whatever is being planned happens and Bryant goes down for it, they want everyone around him to remember how edgy and off balance he’s been and think how obvious it was that he was up to something.”

“So what do I do?” Bryant asks, recalling both their attentions suddenly. “Can I go to the police now? Or maybe my bosses?”

Sherlock snorts derisively. “It’s too late for that, all you’ll be doing is pointing them to the fact that for all appearances you’ve been doing all sorts of things you oughtn’t. No, the only way out for you it to let it play out and we’ll catch them when they spring their trap for you Which means you must act as normally as you possibly can. Go on with your work, with everything as if you had no idea what was going on, but be alert. And go over your house very carefully – I suspect they also may have left some small items that might be incriminating to you later on, but I can’t tell you what. Just look for anything unfamiliar."

"Look for anything you don’t remember seeing before, however small or insignificant, even a new stain on a piece of clothing. Now, you can call the police to report this, it would look funny if you didn’t, but don’t tell them anything we’ve talked about, just say you came home and found the place this way with nothing missing. They won’t find any fingerprints or evidence of the culprits and it will die quietly. Then just carry on until something else happens or you hear from one of us—”

As Sherlock is issuing instructions to the overwhelmed Bryant, John’s eyes fall on the doorjamb next to him. He reaches out and plucks something hanging from a splinter. “Sherlock…”

The detective glares at the interruption and then sees what John is holding carefully between gloved fingers and his expression changes to elation. “Oh, yes!” he exclaims, taking the two long strands of bright red hair from John. “Well spotted.”

John can’t help but glow with pride at his find, a little embarrassed at how easily his annoyance is pushed aside by even the smallest amount of recognition.

Sherlock examines them meticulously with his lens before dropping them into an evidence bag, stowing them in his pocket, and looking, if possible, more smug than before.

“All right, out with it. What did you just learn?” John prods him.

“Well, I can tell you one thing, Mr. Bryant. It’s not your Ginger club that’s out to get you.”

“But the red hair…”

“Oh yes, it was very red wasn’t it? But it was dyed that way. Goodnight, Mr. Bryant. Remember what I told you.” And with that Sherlock sweeps out into the night, leaving John to make a hurried apology on his behalf and offer some quick, bracing words of reassurance before trotting after him.

“Do you think that was dramatic enough?” John needles, upon catching up with his lanky companion. “Would you like to try it again and be a bit more mysterious?”

“I told him what he needed to know. You too.”

“But not everything you know, obviously.”

Sherlock never tells John everything, and it’s always maddening. John’s mostly given up taking offense at it. It’s part of Sherlock’s process, to be able to come out with a fully-developed theory to wow his audience instead of revealing it piecemeal. Still, John’s more than just an audience, or ought to be.

“Everything I know, not everything I suspect. All things in their time. But one thing is for sure, whoever is doing this is intimately familiar with the Society for Ginger Advancement and desperately wants Bryant – and us – to think they’re the ones responsible. Two levels of set-ups. Brilliant.”

“Sherlock, I swear to God…” John exclaims angrily, but Sherlock waves dismissively at him.

“Now, there’s not much we can do right now. We need to wait until they make their next move, and I suspect that won’t be for some time. I have some hunches to follow up on, but for now I think we need to worry about more pressing concerns.”

“Pressing concerns? Like what?”

“Like,” replies Sherlock grimly, “the fact that Mrs. Hudson thinks our flat would be the perfect location in which to host a party.”

“Come on, it will be fun,” John coaxes. Sherlock had taken refuge in John’s room while Mrs. Hudson fills the lower floor of the flat with food and decorations for the party tomorrow. He’s sitting cross-legged on John’s bed, petulant and disheveled.

John likes the holidays well enough as it is, and the thought of having them with Sherlock has put him in a cheerful mood.

“Why on earth would it be fun?” Sherlock spits.

“Because… it’s Christmas! Drinks and games and all our friends… and you promised to play for everyone, remember? Too late to back out now.”

Sherlock scoffs. “One of those things sounds appealing.”

“Two. You love playing because everyone tells you how good you are.”

Sherlock looks less than convinced and John crosses the room and sits on the bed, pushing Sherlock back against the pillows.

“I don’t think you hate Christmas nearly as much as you like everyone to think,” he tells Sherlock in a low voice. “In fact, I think you quite enjoy it.”

“Why… why would you think that?” Sherlock manages in a voice that approaches, but doesn’t quite reach, normal.

“Because you’re still here,” answers John.

“You look like Christmas sometimes,” Sherlock tells him.

“Do I?” asks John.

“Yes. Like the tree lit up and fire in the fireplace and sparklers." The corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitch upwards, but then his expression grows serious and he frowns. “You’re not going to wear the jumper, are you?” Sherlock demands.

John grins. “Oh, I have to wear the jumper.”

Their little party is a success, at least at first. Sherlock is in rare spirits, playing carols on his violin beautifully, and if he can’t stop thinking about work or deducing his friend’s lives, he at least seems to think he doing so in a playful manner. Of course most people don’t find it cute at all, and thus the rather small number of people gathered here tonight. The only ones stubborn enough to remain despite the constant stream of insults and painful, unasked for information about their relationships.

Sherlock tosses out these little bombs into people lives, things that to him seem so painfully obvious but that wouldn’t have occurred to them for a moment until he says it and their universe comes crashing down. He’s proving he’s clever, but John’s also starting to realize that he thinks this is how to connect with people, how to show he’s paying attention to them. It’s half game, half misguided show of friendship.

He’s getting better. It only takes a word from John to stop him from starting in on Harry, a masterful show of self-control given his seemingly boundless loathing of her. And when he gleefully displays such breathtaking cruelty to Molly that she’s reduced to tears before them, he sees it. For once, he actually sees what he’s done and offers without prodding a quietly sincere apology and a chaste kiss.

John is so fiercely proud of him for that, for just an instant prouder than he’s ever been of Sherlock.

And then she, once again goes interjecting herself into their lives at the worst possible moment. It wouldn’t be so bad if she hadn’t apparently broken into their flat and left a present for Sherlock, if John hadn’t decided to make an issue of it right then, if Sherlock hadn’t completely refused to discuss it with him. But mostly it wouldn’t be so bad if it all didn’t mean that she was dead.

John realizes in retrospect that Sherlock must have known what was in the box before he opened it, known exactly what it meant. Both that she was about to be found dead, and that she wasn’t just yet. When John was chasing after Sherlock, harrying him about the number of calls and whether he replied or not, Irene Adler was out there in the world, dying.

He listens at the door as Sherlock tells Mycroft the news, hating himself for every word that’s just come out of his mouth. None of it matters now. 

“You okay?” he offers.

“Yes,” Sherlock tells him and John wonders if he knows that he’s lying. Either way, he shuts the door in John's face and it doesn’t open again for a long time.

It’s nearly three a.m. when John hears Sherlock’s phone ring through the wall of his bedroom. John can’t hear the conversation, but doesn’t need to. He can guess. Sherlock emerges moments later and sweeps past John in the hall as he grabs his coat and heads for the door.

“Sherlock? Was that… Is she…?”

“Yes.”

“Let me get my jacket…”

“Your presence is not required,” Sherlock says coldly and is gone before John can argue. John is left alone in the sitting room, feeling sick and useless. After a few minutes, Mrs. Hudson enters to check on him.

“Did Sherlock leave to…?” she asks tentatively and John nods. “Do you think we ought to…?

“Yes, I suppose we had,” John replies, with a heavy reluctance. Sherlock had asked this of him a few months ago, to save him from himself in times of great stress. He had informed John out of the blue that he had paid off all the local dealers to keep them from selling to him and that John should search his things when he thought Sherlock was in danger to prevent him from violating his own promise to John.

He’s still not sure whether getting Mycroft involved was a good idea, but the elder Holmes does know Sherlock better than even John, and it’s not like he would have had any success preventing Mycroft’s interference had he attempted to.

Because for once, he didn't want to.

Sherlock returns an hour later, just after John and Mrs. Hudson have completed their exhaustive search and Mycroft has finished warning him just how bad Sherlock really is tonight. Not that John hasn’t figured it out on his own, but having Mycroft confirm it makes his stomach twist with fear.

Sherlock shuts himself up in his room again immediately. John knocks once and receives no answer. He paces the kitchen, unsure of what he can do other than be awake and in the flat in case something happens.

How is he supposed to stay with him when Sherlock won’t let John near him?

When Christmas morning dawns, Sherlock is still locked away. John cancels on Harry and snags a few hours of sleep in his own room before going back downstairs to the deafening silence of the closed and impenetrable door. He sits in the kitchen, drinking cup after cup of coffee and futilely willing it to open.

What follows is one of the worst weeks of John Watson’s life, including those spent in combat. At least in combat you know what you’re supposed to be doing, and there’s always the chance that someone will kill you and get it over with.

Sherlock eventually comes out of his bedroom, but when he does it’s almost worse. John had hoped that a long sleep would have helped him, but it’s clear he’s not slept at all, although he’s got the glassy eyed look of a man sleepwalking. He ignores all casework or offers of it, leaving John to helplessly field increasingly panicked phone calls from Bryant.

He doesn’t respond to John or reply to any of his carefully innocuous questions. He won’t eat any of the meals John stubbornly cooks for him, doesn’t sleep, stares at the telly like he doesn’t see it – he constantly mumbles corrections at it, but they are half hearted and mechanical. He will drink tea that John makes, but sips it with an air of surprise, as if he can’t imagine where it came from or what on earth his body wants with it.

He’s a man in mourning, who doesn’t know how to mourn, and John doesn’t know how to teach him. Isn’t sure he wants to.

How would he grieve for John, if it had been him instead of her? Would he be like this, lost, broken, verging on catatonic? Would he go into a vengeful, destructive rage? Would he even notice, or perhaps just miss the audience and the attention John provided, the functions John fulfills but not John himself?

Such thoughts are unworthy of them both, John knows, but can’t quite help himself. He could never have imagined Sherlock to be capable of an emotional response of this level to the loss of another human being, and now that he’s seen it it’s even harder to imagine it lavished on himself. 

The hole left in Sherlock’s life by Irene Adler feels much more like one made by a lover than anything John can picture leaving, for all they’ve shared. It doesn’t help that John has been firmly banished to the very bedroom Sherlock once all but begged him to give up.

The music is the worst part, somehow. At first, when Sherlock picks up his violin again, John is thrilled. If he won’t talk, at least playing can let him express something, soothe him a bit. And he does play, for hours on end, a tune that is new to John yet somehow familiar, repeated over and over almost ceaselessly until Sherlock’s fingers grow numb and he is forced to stop, at least temporarily. By the third day the very notes of the song, whatever it is, are like nails on chalkboard to John.

Whatever he’s writing, he’s never happy with it, constantly changing it just the tiniest bit each time through, although it remains the same melody at it’s core. It’s for her, of course, a requiem, and the thought only makes John dread the sound of it more.

John’s afraid to leave him alone in the flat in this state, and almost more afraid to find out that Sherlock wouldn’t notice at all if he’d gone.

On New Year’s Eve, Sherlock is still playing, still not eating, and John has realized he is about to hurtle past the breaking point if he doesn’t get out. There’s no one he can really talk to about these things – neither of them discuss their relationship with others - but he accepts an invitation from an old acquaintance, because if nothing else at least at a party he can at least get massively pissed without having to think about Sherlock.

On his way out he dares to ask to Sherlock about the song, about what he’s thinking, about anything at all. Sherlock shows the first flash of life he’s had in days, and of course it’s about her. As it if still matters. As if it’s just a case and not a way to digitally resurrect her on some level.

And despite his resentment he’s still grateful for anything that will bring out the old Sherlock again, even for a moment, even it’s only further proof of what John fears.

But even that lasts only a few seconds before Sherlock sinks back into himself and his playing, lost again.

John isn’t sure whether to be annoyed or glad when his New Year’s plans are hijacked by, for all appearances, Mycroft. Despite his worry, he’s not contacted the elder Holmes for advice. It would feel petulant and disloyal, and Sherlock wouldn’t thank him for it. But on some level, he’s glad that Mycroft has finally decided to insert himself into the situation, freeing him from having to decide to do it himself.

When a very-much-alive Irene Adler herself steps out of the shadows before him, fury and relief surge so powerfully within him that they almost cancel each other out.

“Tell him you’re alive,” John finds himself saying, before he can even can form a proper thought. There’s a note of pleading in his tone and he doesn’t care.

He doesn’t want her to be alive, she can only cause more trouble, but she is and maybe if Sherlock knows it will be enough for him, maybe then he can forget about her, at least he won’t be able to make a shrine out of her in his mind.

She shakes her perfectly coiffed head at him. “He’ll come after me.”

“I’ll come after you if you don’t.” He’s surprised at the fierceness in his own voice, and more surprised that he means it.

He’ll do anything for Sherlock, even if it means hunting down the object of his obsession and presenting her to him gift wrapped, with a bow in the middle of her forehead. The realization strengthens his resolve and weakens his knees at the same time.

She explains what she did and why, but it doesn’t matter to him because he only cares about her in the context of what her existence means to Sherlock. Beyond that all he can feel is anger. He doesn’t know what’s more shocking, the fact that she spent months flirting at Sherlock or fact that, for all his rapt attention whenever she left him notes, gifts, phone calls, he never replied to her in all that time.

“Does that make me special?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Not maybe, definitely. Sherlock has never reacted to another person like this, from the moment he saw her photograph he was transfixed. Whatever special means to him, she is it.

“Jealous?”

“We’re not a couple.”

He doesn’t know why he says it, they haven’t hidden it even if they don’t talk about it either. Maybe it’s because couple is not a word that he would ever use for what they have been, maybe it’s from an instinct to shield them from her, or maybe it’s that it’s hard to feel like part of a couple when the other half barely acknowledges your existence.

“Yes, you are,” she dismisses, and he doesn’t have in it him to argue.

“For the record – if anyone out there still cares – I’m not actually gay,” he says a little too loudly to a little too much silence.

Of course he’s not, never has been, though he’s not sure why he feels the need to assert it now, to misdirect and protect it from her. Sherlock is an outlier, the one man in a billion he could be with and it doesn’t even matter because if he was gay he’d not be ashamed of it, and he’s not ashamed of Sherlock as it is. But around her there’s a deep need in him to keep even a hint of what they have away from her at all costs. It’s the one thing he won’t allow to be sacrificed on the altar of Irene.

Not that she can’t see through all that, but to admit it out loud would feel like he’d lost to her.

“Well, I am,” she says simply. “Look at us both.”

It’s a moment of surprising vulnerability from her, and for just a second he wavers. She looks as sad and forlorn as he’s felt. He opens his mouth to say something to her, though he doesn’t know what yet, but is cut off by a sound that means someone, namely Sherlock had followed him and heard every word they’ve just said.   

After that week and that conversation, the horrible events that follow are almost a respite, although John hates that he thinks that way now. Mrs. Hudson is neither seriously hurt by the thuggish Americans looking for Irene Adler nor as shaken as she pretends to be, and it gets Sherlock back in the game, back to life.

He says not a word to John about the week’s events, about Adler’s reappearance, about what they said in the warehouse, but that night he is the man John knows again. Viciously protective, cheerfully callous, brilliant and maddening all at once. John is grateful, even if he resents that the one he has to be grateful to is the one who caused it all in the first place. Sherlock still won’t talk about her, not even to acknowledge her existence, but he plays for John, Auld Lang Syne, and wishes him a happy new year, and John takes the crumb offered and tries to let it all go.

Does any of it matter, really, so long as they are both back in 221B and there is music, and they are together?

After that first night, John expects it to get better. It does get better, really it does. Sherlock starts sleeping and eating and working and speaking again. He does things other than play the same six mournful bars on the violin over and over and over. In fact, he snaps back to his normal – whatever you can call normal for Sherlock – self again.

He jokes with John again. They take cases. They eat together, drink together – everything as usual. Except. Except there is a space between them now that wasn’t there before. Sherlock has stopped shutting the door to his room, but issues no invitation, initiates no contact. John continues to sleep upstairs and Sherlock doesn’t seek him out.

Is this how it’s to be from now on? They just go back to how it was before, flatmates only, without discussion or fight or acknowledgement? And yet even before, the separation between them was never this yawning, never this final. There had always been the anticipation, the potential for closing the gap.

Now it seems insurmountable.

In darker moments, he begins to wonder if it had even been real.

Can Sherlock even see him anymore? Is he still light and fire and brilliance in Sherlock’s brain, or has his flame gone out at last?

John knows he should talk to Sherlock. He’s always been able to reach him before, no matter how closed off, no matter how distant, no matter the knots and convolutions required of the English language to achieve some level of discourse. But this time he doesn’t know how. He doesn’t understand what this woman has done to his friend, can’t process it in any way that makes sense for the man he knows. Thinks he knows. Whatever Sherlock has been through of late, he’s placed the experience so tightly under lock and key that the rest of him seems to have gone with it.

It can’t go on.

But it does go on. It goes on for a month. John hopes and prays Sherlock will pull out of it, that it’s just a matter of him needing time to recover from Irene’s death and resurrection, from whatever that meant to him. But nothing happens. John lets it continue far too long, even once he knows that if this new status quo is to change he’s going to have to be the one to knock it off balance.

He’s afraid, is what it boils down to. This isolation is torture but at least he can pretend at times that everything is fine, that things are normal between them. But to investigate, to force the issue and perhaps discover incontrovertibly that he’s been replaced in Sherlock’s world, that the man no longer needs him so completely… He’s not sure he could stand it. He hates his own cowardice, his dependence, his insecurity.

Eventually, though, John can’t endure it any longer. Sherlock is standing by the window, playing his violin. The same six bars again, but now they sound like a love song instead of a dirge. John wants to rip the three-hundred year old instrument out of his hands and smash it against the wall. Instead, he positions himself directly in front of his friend and puts a hand on the strings, forcing Sherlock to stop playing.

“John!”

“I need to talk to you.”

“You can talk while I’m playing. You so often do.” The taller man goes to resume his music but John is unmoved.  Something in John’s expression alerts Sherlock to the gravity of the situation and he hesitates, then puts down the violin with a theatrical sigh. “What?”

Where does one start, when asking if the premise upon which one has built an entire life is flawed?

John had planned to be honest, to ask what was going on between them, to speak his feelings and hope that Sherlock could understand. But instead, an entirely different question comes out of his mouth. One he didn’t even realize was in his mind until this very second.

“Sherlock… what do you see when you look at Irene Adler?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… do you see anything like… like what you see when you look at me?”

Sherlock finally turns to meet John’s eyes and looks him up and down for a moment. “No.”

John supposes he should be relieved by this, but he’s not. “But there’s something though, isn’t there?”

Sherlock appears torn between answering honestly and not replying. At last he says, “Something.”

“Will you tell me what it is?”

A pause. “No.”

John turns to stalk away, defeated, but then stops. “At least tell me. Do you lo...?” However John isn't allowed to finish the sentence.

Sherlock turns his pale eyes on his friend in genuine surprise. “Don’t be vulgar.” He resumes his playing, variations on the same theme.

John feels sick.

Sherlock doesn’t love her. John could handle it if he did. But he doesn’t love her, like he doesn’t love John or worse, like he’s never not-loved someone before. She’s too precious to bestow that common emotion on, too precious to share at all, even by talking about her, even by expressing what he thinks or feels about her in the most minor way.

John put his hands to his temples. “I’m going out,” he says quietly, wondering if Sherlock will even notice. He doesn’t. He’s absorbed in his playing, lost in a world that seems further from John than ever.

John is more surprised than he ought to be to see Mycroft Holmes standing outside of his sister’s house the next morning. He rushes out before the man can try to enter. Harry and Mycroft would be an explosive combination and he’s not sure who would come out of it the worse.

“What are you doing here?” he demands. “How did you even know where I was? Sherlock tell you?”

Mycroft gives him a look of weary patience. “Sherlock didn’t tell me anything. Do I really need to explain to you how this works?”

John sighs. He doesn’t. He knows Mycroft keeps regular surveillance on their flat and on himself. He just prefers to not think about it as much as possible.

“Besides,” Mycroft adds. “It’s the one place Sherlock wouldn’t be likely to follow you to. It’s not a difficult deduction.”

It’s true, he won’t. Sherlock hates Harry. Not in the way that he dislikes most people, truly hates her, refuses to be in her presence for any reason. If he could find a way to make her not exist without causing John pain, he would. It seems to be because she’s the only living human being with the power to summon John from Sherlock’s side at any time. John will always go to her if she really needs him, and Sherlock resents it. Or at least he had once. Did it matter at all to him any more?

"Why are you here?"

“You should go home, John.”

“I will. When I’m ready.”

“You should go home now, John.”

Fear rips instantly through John’s chest. “Did something happen? Is Sherlock—”

Mycroft shakes his head. “No, nothing like what I am sure you are imagining. But it’s not good for him when you’re gone.”

“Given his behavior lately, I’m surprised he’s even noticed.”

“Jealousy is very unbecoming, John.”

“I’m not jealous,” John snaps. “I’m just tired of being shut out and treated like I’m not there. A few days of not actually being there might do us both some good.”

“I highly doubt that.” Mycroft gives a heavy sigh and half sits on the wall of Harry’s front garden. “John. How much do you know about Sherlock’s life before you met him?”

“Why?”

“Humor me.”

John frowns. “We don’t discuss it much. Obviously I know about his time at Uni and Victor. I know there was some period of time after that when the drugs were too powerful for him and that it was pretty bad. And that he eventually got himself mostly clean, or at least in control, and began working as a detective. That’s about it.”

They both have things they want to move beyond, that they don’t want to share or dwell on. It’s always been the present that mattered with them, and the future. Sherlock-and-John. What had happened in the past was better left there. They both liked to think that their lives as themselves started when they’d met.

Mycroft is silent for a long period. “Would it surprise you to know that the only period of Sherlock’s adult life in which he has been entirely free of chemical aid has been the past two months? After your serial killer case. And his use before that, after meeting you, was at a record low.”

John eyebrows go up. “He seemed to have it together when I met him. I mean there’s been times since when I worried about… but those were isolated incidents. And now he… doesn’t.”

Mycroft shakes his head. “He was on the edge before he met you. He was slipping, John, and I think he knew it. I suspect that’s why he suddenly decided to stop living alone. He was hoping the presence of another person would be enough of an obstacle to keep it from happening.”

“No, no, he was clean, at least temporarily, when we worked on that cabbie case, right when we met.”

He had been, hadn’t he? He must have been. He was so sharp, so alive, John hadn’t been able to believe at the time that Sherlock would ever use drugs at all, much less that he was an addict. He’d seemed too strong to succumb to something like that, too in control of himself.  And even now, knowing all he did, it still seems preposterous that he’d ever let them get the upper hand.

“He was trying. But he was failing, slowly. I know his pattern, and it wouldn’t have been long before it was too much for him again.”

“Before what was too much?”

“Life. His mind and it’s unfortunate tendency to go to dark places. I believe that if he had succumbed fully again it would have been for the last time.”

John lets this sink in, trying not show how much the thought disturbs him. He’s almost afraid to ask, “What… what actually happened to him? Between University and when I met him?”

“That’s a long span of time, John. But what’s relevant for you… He began experimenting with substances before he even enrolled in his first University. He was a teenager. And when I say ‘experimenting’ I mean he took every mind altering drug he could procure and made rigorous notes on exactly what they did in various doses and combinations, factoring in side effects and relative levels of risk. He eventually figured out that his seven percent solution of cocaine served to relieve the pain he felt when he did not have suitable distractions, and various combinations of opiates could calm his mind when it was working beyond his control. But you know this.”

“Well, I knew the last part, yeah, but not so much before that.”

“I had assumed he would go for a doctorate in chemistry after university and he nearly did, but he’d gotten the detective idea in his head by then, and we had fallen out badly… well, I suppose you must know all about that.”

Mycroft continues. “He insisted on doing things his own way, refused money or help, and without the structure of school or the support of family he was vulnerable. His manner put people off so he had a hard time getting private cases, and the police almost never believed him when he came with a solved case. He kept busy with experiments and writing papers and monographs about forensic techniques and related matters but it wasn’t enough for him. He started to rely more heavily on his chosen substances to maintain his sanity. And of course, he went too far.”

John closes his eyes and bites his lip. He feels guilty getting this from Mycroft but he’s not likely to hear it from Sherlock and the elder Holmes is right in that he really should know. “Too far how?”