Chapter Text
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, just give it to me!” Sherlock snapped his fingers at Lestrade impatiently, “I’ll sign it, so help me, despite the fact that it’s the most inventive piece of fiction I’ve ever seen in my life. Look, I’ve got a pen – I’ll sign!”
Lestrade grinned all over his handsome face. “Good boy, Sherlock,” he said condescendingly; Donovan didn’t bother to hide her smirk. Sherlock glared but added his signature to the document with a pressure that threatened to eat through the paper.
“Now that I’ve abandoned what was left of my moral rectitude, will you let me out of here before Mycroft destroys my flat?” he demanded. Lestrade sat back in his chair and put his hands behind his head.
“Oh, come on, Sherlock!” he chided, grinning broadly. “You never had any moral rectitude in the first place, we all know that. And I’m sure your brother merely has the interests of the British nation at heart, along with all life, the universe and everything. Personally, I think he’s a very brave man – wild horses wouldn’t get me into your flat at the moment, even to conduct a drugs bust, although I suspect I might uncover some very interesting things if I did.”
“Very funny, Inspector,” Sherlock responded with a glare that could freeze nitrogen, no problem. “I must ask on what possible basis could he justify a sweep for hazardous radioactive waste?”
Lestrade shrugged in an exaggerated fashion.
“Sounds reasonable to me, sir,” Donovan commented smugly.
“For once I agree,” Lestrade replied, “Perhaps you’d better get back before he has it fumigated, Sherlock?”
“He wouldn’t dare,” Sherlock growled.
Both men turned at a discreet knock on Lestrade’s office door. It opened and Doctor John Watson limped into the room, still on crutches and looking highly disgruntled.
Sherlock stood up, took in Watson’s physical state and smirked nastily. “I thought you were supposed to have a walking cast on two days ago?” he sneered.
John glared venomously back. “I was,” he replied in a rather subdued fashion, “I put my recovery back a week or so by tackling a flight of stairs before I was ready.”
“Why didn’t you ask for help?” Sherlock demanded, taking John’s crutches and propping them against Lestrade’s desk.
John sat down heavily and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Because I couldn’t make myself heard above the sound of running water,” he replied, jaw clenched.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Unless I am very much mistaken,” he continued in a low, dangerous tone, “and as we both know, I am never wrong – you should be half way around the globe by now being shot at by religious and political fanatics.”
“That is correct,” John responded; his chin jutted out challengingly.
“So, why aren’t you?” Sherlock demanded, eyebrows raised, equally uncompromising.
John’s face turned red. He opened his mouth to deliver what was likely a blistering comeback but was forestalled by Lestrade.
“Children,” he admonished, slightly wide-eyed at the exchange. He glared at both of them individually then opened a buff-coloured file, snagging his glasses from atop a pile of books. He peered through them at Donovan who was still hovering, clearly enjoying the show.
“That will be all, Sergeant,” he said gravely. Her lips twitched but she left the room readily enough.
“Seriously, though,” John said, turning towards Sherlock, the light of battle in his eyes, “Who bolloxed this up big time for me, eh? One of you two, or that meddling brother of yours, Sherlock?”
Lestrade spread his hands wide and shook his head; Sherlock ignored the challenge, staring sightlessly at the wall with bored eyes.
Watson’s lips thinned. "I should be in transit to Lashkar Gah by now,” he protested, “and what happens? I’m stopped by military police – military police! – at Heathrow, taken aside and instructed to go home and report here today or risk – get this! – repatriation from Afghanistan to answer questions in a murder investigation!”
Watson sat back in his chair. “This had better be good, Lestrade,” he told him, folding his arms belligerently.
Lestrade smoothed down the pages in front of him and removed his spectacles; his face was serious.
“Doctor Watson,” he began, “by leaving this jurisdiction, you would have forced the CPS to take action against you for certain drugs offences allegedly committed over the past three years in connection with the high-profile model Mary Morstan, who is now in rehab, and the award-winning war photographer, Alexander Murray. By preventing you from getting on that flight to Kabul, we did you a considerable favour.”
Lestrade folded his hands over the papers before him. “In other words, Doctor Watson,” he said seriously, “you’re not off the hook yet.”
Lestrade handed John a single sheet of A4 densely covered in typescript. John’s forehead creased in concern and he lowered his eyes to the copy.
Sherlock stirred in his chair. “What Lestrade means to say,” he said, “is that if you sign that miracle of fiction he has just presented to you loosely described as your Statement, any and all charges against you will be dropped, all your problems will magically be whisked away from under your very nose, your fairy godmother will grant your every wish and my brother Mycroft will turn into a pumpkin.” He snorted derisively. “Well, we can but hope for the latter.”
John turned incredulous eyes on Lestrade. He pointed wildly at the paper. “You want me to sign this?” he demanded. “But – it’s nonsense!”
“Precisely,” Sherlock agreed. “I signed mine not five minutes ago.”
“But…” protested John.
Sherlock shook his head before the other man could continue. “Resistance is futile,” he intoned solemnly. “When faced with the insurmountable might of British governmental bureaucracy, the only sensible course of action is capitulation. Sign it, John.”
John Watson stared first at Lestrade then at Sherlock. He gave a small shrug and reached inside his jacket; Sherlock produced a black Mont Blanc fountain pen without seeming to move, like a conjuring trick.
Lestrade sighed with satisfaction as he blew the ink dry and tucked Doctor Watson’s statement into his buff-coloured file with finality.
“The case of Percival Forestier Phelps is now closed,” he said, “Theatrical agent, entrepreneur and murderer, not to mention drug dealer, arsonist and suspected extortionist. Most of the details I guess we’ll never know.”
Sherlock raised expressionless eyes to the policeman. “Hasn’t this been wrapped up rather quickly, Lestrade?” he asked in apparently bored tones.
Lestrade fixed him with a hard look and stuck out his chin. “No sense in hanging around when it’s an open and shut case,” he replied, “particularly when the perp conveniently offed himself.”
“Yes, and in a particularly showy manner,” John added bitterly. “Mrs Russell is very upset at the damage, even though her flat was hardly touched and she wasn’t even home at the time.”
Lestrade had the grace to look a little shamefaced. “I’m sorry about your place, Doctor Watson,” he said ruefully.
Sherlock stirred. “Yes,” he added, “particularly as you’d only just replaced the carpet ruined in the last incident.”
Even Sherlock seemed to realise that wasn’t the most tactful comment to make under the circumstances. “Not good?” he asked John.
John blinked. “Bit not good, yeah,” he replied; Lestrade found something extremely interesting in his desk drawer.
Sherlock glanced between the two, mildly surprised, then cleared his throat and inhaled sharply once or twice with an air of intense concentration.
“What?” demanded Lestrade, slamming his desk shut looking slightly alarmed.
Sherlock smiled ironically. “Nothing at all, Inspector,” he replied, “unless perhaps the faint but unmistakeable odour of my brother’s interference over the fallout from this case?”
Lestrade looked away. “I’m sure I haven’t the foggiest what you mean,” he replied, rearranging a pile of files. “Now hop it, you two, before I have you arrested for loitering.”
“Business as usual, Inspector,” Sherlock Holmes slid his feet off Lestrade’s desk and stood up.
“Very well, Doctor Watson,” he said gravely, “I think that is our cue to exit.” John Watson looked around him with a clueless air.
“What?” he said, baffled. “But I thought…”
“Yes, well,” Sherlock interrupted quickly, “you will persist in believing you can actually think. It’s a very bad habit – kindly leave it to those of us who are specialists. Lestrade, good afternoon; I’ve no doubt you’ll need me again the very next time you encounter something that you don't understand, which, let’s face it, will not take long.”
Sherlock grabbed John by the sleeve of his coat and hauled him to his feet.
“Wait, wait!” protested John, grabbing for his crutches.
Sherlock waited impatiently in the corridor. “I haven’t got all day,” he said testily.
John raised mutinous eyes as they drew level. “What makes you think I’m going anywhere with you?” he said.
Sherlock smiled. “Because you want to know the answers to too many questions to let me leave here without answering them,” he replied. He smirked at John’s furious glare but turned on his heel, confident that the other man would follow.
Bounding onto the pavement outside Scotland Yard, Sherlock immediately hailed a taxi and beckoned impatiently as John made his way out more slowly. John clambered into the back seat, whacking Sherlock in the shins more or less accidentally with his crutches.
“221B Baker Street,” Sherlock told the cabbie.
“What?” protested John, “I’m not going back to that public health hazard you live in!”
Sherlock turned to glare at him. “My flat is not a public health hazard,” he said gravely, “at least, not anymore, and considering your latest abode is currently a burnt out shell and you have been living in a hotel ever since, I don’t think you have much of a leg to stand on, do you?”
“Oh, ha very ha, Sherlock,” John said sourly, “And anyway, my hotel is very nice; it has a sauna and a steam room.”
Sherlock made a dismissive gesture. “Hotels are never nice,” he declared, “They merely fulfil a function either badly or tolerably.”
“Well, I’m perfectly happy in mine, thank you, “John objected, more for form’s sake than anything else. “I’m still quite wealthy, you know, despite the film star lifestyle I’ve been leading.”
Sherlock snorted. “Just shut up and concentrate on keeping those crutches over your side of the cab.”
As he walked over the threshold at 221B, John’s jaw dropped. The boxes and piles of equipment had been tidied and filed away, the hazardous waste had been magically removed, Sherlock’s violin lay resplendent in its case on top of the bookcase and his music was displayed artistically on the stand. The tired old armchairs had been given a new lease of life with bright new cushions and there was a cosy fire burning in the grate.
As he stood and stared, Mrs Hudson bustled in with a tray of tea.
“Nice to see you again, Doctor Watson,” she said with a knowing smile. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to move in some time over the weekend?”
John gave a puzzled frown. “Ah, did Sherlock say something to you about me, then?” he asked.
Mrs Hudson was too busy pouring the tea, plumping up the cushions and kissing Sherlock gently on the cheek in a motherly fashion to reply. Sherlock seemed to endure it without complaint, something which John found quietly amusing.
“Now then, boys,” Mrs Hudson said, “no all-night parties or riotous behaviour – and you’ll stop him from shooting the walls again, won’t you, Doctor Watson?”
“Of course he will, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock interrupted testily, “that’s what I’m keeping him for.”
Her girlish laughter floated back up the stairs. John stared, opened his mouth then sighed and sat down to drink his tea; sometimes the line of least resistance was the safest.
Silence fell for a while as John contemplated the flickering flames in the grate and Sherlock paced about taking stock of various experiments and checking his email. For a long while, all that could be heard was the clatter of keys and the occasional snort of disgust.
“So what am I doing here, Sherlock?” John asked after a while. He looked at the other man.
Sherlock frowned. “I thought I made it perfectly plain,” he replied. “You’re moving in here with me. You don’t think Mrs Hudson and Mycroft’s minions cleared all my stuff up and cleaned the place for my sake alone, do you? Not to mention smoothing the way over that little matter of over-prescription.”
John chuckled and shook his head. “No, I don’t suppose they did,” he replied. “So we’re flat-sharing, then?”
“That would seem to be the plan, yes,” Sherlock replied. The unspoken “your brain works at the speed of a snail” hung in the air.
“On what basis?” John persisted.
Sherlock paused, looked down at his feet and exhaled heavily. “On whatever basis you want,” he replied in a low voice. He looked up again.
“I’m not good at this, John,” Sherlock said. “You heard what Phelps had to say about me. I won’t deny any of it; it’s all true – the psych reports, the appalling behaviour at Oxford, the body parts – none of it was inaccurate in the slightest. Oh, except that bit about the arson case. I know better than to get caught fire-raising; that wasn’t me, it was Mycroft.”
“Your brother?” John said.
“Mycroft is my brother, yes,” Sherlock replied testily and then relented, “Alright, I’ll tell you about it sometime. It’s one of the few occasions I have ever had the privilege of genuinely laughing at him.”
Sherlock expelled a breath of air. “What I’m trying to say is,” he continued in slightly muffled tones, “I’d be happy to flat-share with you on whatever basis you like. We can co-habit and ignore each other’s existence if you want. We can greet each other politely on the stairs, or we can share the groceries and the bills. We can lead separate lives, or you can help me with my work – it’s up to you.”
“And the other night? In your bed?” John queried in a neutral tone.
Sherlock swallowed and looked away. “We don’t have to do that again,” he said quietly, “but I won’t be looking elsewhere if it can’t happen with you.”
Haunted by what might have been.
It wasn’t much but this was Sherlock Holmes and it was more of an apology than anyone else had ever managed to wring out of him. John seemed to realise this; he was silent for a few moments.
“I didn’t lie to you, you know,” John said finally into the quiet of the flat. “I did what I had to do to protect Mary and Alex – for god’s sake, I hardly knew you. I could scarcely bare my soul on what was little more than a first meeting.” He sighed. “You weren’t exactly encouraging either.”
Sherlock bowed his head. “I was angry,” he admitted. “I hurt you.”
John nodded. “You did,” he replied thoughtfully, “and now you’re asking me to pull out of Medecin sans Frontieres and stay here with you in Britain. That’s a pretty big ask, Sherlock. I mean, I’ll be unemployed.”
“I know that,” Sherlock replied, “and you have no real reason to trust me after what I… what with our history of doubt and suspicion.”
“I do though,” John blurted.
Sherlock smirked. “Of course you do,” he replied loftily.
“Wanker,” John responded with no heat and chucked a cushion with a Union Jack cover. Sherlock ducked neatly and took refuge behind the other armchair.
“How could I help you with your work?” John asked, returning to some semblance of seriousness.
Sherlock abruptly lit up. He paced around the living room. “You’re an army doctor used to violence and mayhem on a daily basis,” he replied. “I need an assistant who isn’t too annoyingly stupid, both at crime scenes and elsewhere. You’ve proved you can think out of the box – those photographs from the Teddington drowning are a case in point. I can’t think of anyone better qualified. And also,” Sherlock added, stopping his pacing to stare at John, “you’re a fellow addict.”
John frowned. “Just how do you work that one out?” he demanded.
Sherlock shrugged. “You’ve been bored out of your skull with television medicine,” he replied, “but your shoulder wound means you wouldn’t pass the physical for active service; that’s why you elected to work for Medecin Sans Frontieres – just to get back onto the front line. John, you were never traumatised by your war experiences, you miss them!”
John stared. Sherlock crouched down at John’s feet, gripping the man’s knees with his hands.
“You’ve seen first-hand the kind of mayhem that makes up my life,” Sherlock continued. “You can have a share in it, if you want. I need a colleague, a partner if you prefer. I like company when I go out and I think better when I talk aloud; the skull just attracts attention. And I need someone to watch my back – things can get very dangerous at times. Oh, and it doesn’t hurt that you’re a crack shot either, John.”
John’s eyes were suspiciously bright. Sherlock raised his head to meet John’s eyes and a flicker of a smile played round his lips. John placed his hands carefully over Sherlock’s and the other man’s fingers curled tentatively around his.
“You just said ‘dangerous’,” John replied, unable to prevent his smile breaking out into a broad grin, “and here I am.”