Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

January  

According to most polls, January is not anyone's favourite month. In fact, surveys consistently rank it at the bottom of the list, mainly due to its cold weather, short daylight hours, and post-holiday blues of returning to routine after the festive season—all of which combine to make it a less desirable month for most people.                                                 

However, John Watson was not most people. He appreciated the opportunity for the new goals it brought, and enjoyed it for the feeling of a fresh start, setting new resolutions, and taking advantage of post-holiday sales. Well, he used to. 

Unlike what most people may have thought, John Watson might look ordinary, but lots of things about him weren’t ordinary. His tastes and preferences were anything but ordinary. His choice of the best month of the year wasn’t the most unexpected one, compared to the choice of lifestyle, chasing danger and mayhem. And now, wasn’t that the very reason for his misery? Lately, he’d found himself asking that question more and more. 

Well, the anticipation of fresh starts and new beginnings was over. Now he despised this time of the year. Well, as well as the rest of it.  

That’s what he was telling himself, repeating it like a mantra, limping his way along Endsleigh  Street. Cold damp air sent daggers of pain through his leg while his shoulder accompanied in excruciating harmony, making him wonder about his decision to leave the bedsit at all, let alone embark on such a long walk. But he hadn’t had a choice—he needed to escape before his frustrated, sleep-deprived mind wandered back to those dark corners of being frustrated with himself, his life choices, and his life. 

The cane had started to leave blisters on his palm, but he kept going. Wasn’t this what Ella recommended? More walking, more time spent outdoors. Light exercise. His therapist also suggested that he start a blog. She had tried, apparently, to push him into doing something—anything— to get out of that damp cell of a flat, away from his bottles.  

Blogging. Writing. About what happened to him . Huh! Nothing was happening to him these days. Not anymore. 

Sun was peeking in and out of dark clouds, a bit of an improvement compared to the other day when he got soaked, but it hadn’t done much to improve his mood. It was just one of those days again, after a sleepless, restless night filled with nightmares, turned into the grey dawn filled with emptiness. 

He grumpily walked his way through Tavistock Square, passing by hustling pedestrians, mostly in a rush as if going to save the world. A tall young man with his head bending towards his phone bumped into him and John needed a lot of patience to remind himself that he was back in London now, and picking a fight over an ignorant pedestrian wouldn’t help.  

“This is not the end of the world, John! Not being a surgeon doesn’t mean it’s over! You still can find a job as a doctor!” Who kept saying that, Harry or Molly…? He wasn’t sure anymore, probably both of them. At least the voice ringing in his head was something in between.  

But John didn’t work that hard to go to medical school to be a GP. His dreams involved much more excitement and more adventure. Most unrealistic, he knew now . There wasn’t any glory in war, and he alone couldn't bring the healing and peace he hoped to those who suffered.  

He kept on walking.  

He wasn’t entirely alone. His family might have been dysfunctional, but he had a few good friends who genuinely cared. They’d called, sent messages, and asked him to come out multiple times. Each time, he politely declined, using his still-recovering injury as an excuse. The truth was, he had no desire to sit among his “successful” and settled ex-colleagues and classmates. Lately, their presence only amplified the hollow ache inside him, leaving him feeling even more lost and adrift. 

He limped his way out of the square onto Bedford Place, growling under his breath, startling a bunch of poor pigeons pecking at seeds on the pavement. He glared at the last and bravest straggler that remained, standing its ground and staring up at him with beady, accusatory eyes as if to say, "Pitiful, John Watson. Shame on you!"  

Deep down, he knew he was being irrational, but he despised pity, and lately, it felt like even Molly Hooper was treating him that way. She’d sent countless messages over the past few weeks and called more times than he cared to count. Perhaps she’d finally realised he needed space— he hadn't heard from her for days now. Or maybe she’d given up on him, tired of his self-pity. The thought stung more than he wanted to admit. He could only hope he hadn’t hurt her feelings. Molly was one of the few true friends he still had, and the idea of losing that was almost unbearable. 

It wasn’t that John Watson had trouble being popular in a group—quite the opposite. From his school days as the rugby team captain to his uni years at the top of his class, he had always been well-regarded. Add to that his reputation as an adventurous, flirtatious charmer, and it was no wonder he’d earned a string of colorful nicknames along the way. The problem was, he had a habit of leaving. Every circle, every group, one after another. Over and over again. People chalked it up to arrogance, called him “difficult,” or dismissed him as a fickle, capricious lover. But the truth, as always, was far more complicated. 

John let them believe what they wanted, relieved that their assumptions masked the real reasons: boredom . A gnawing lack of excitement. And, worst of all, the lifelong inner turmoil and confusion about his own identity. 

The truth was John had a habit of leaving things unfinished, always chasing something better, something more. He’d left behind his position as a trauma surgeon at Barts. He’d walked away from relationships the moment they turned serious. The army, too, had slipped from his grasp—not by choice but by necessity, invalided out and left adrift. And then there was James... 

No. Don’t think about James . John shook his head hard. Not now. 

He hadn’t been honest with Ella—not really. He couldn’t bring himself to open up about the things that had happened in Afghanistan, and so she had made the assumption, as most people did, that like so many soldiers, he was suffering from PTSD. He hadn’t rejected her idea, but why on earth couldn’t he come clean with himself about it? 

He was in his mid-thirties now, an independent man, no longer in the army. So why couldn’t he face the truth, not just with others, but with himself? Why the hesitation, the walls? 

John almost stumbled on a crack in the pavement, barely catching himself at the last second, pausing for a breath. He knew he needed to change his lifestyle. He certainly didn’t want to follow in his father and sister's footsteps into drinking. He just needed more time—that’s what he told himself every night, just before just before opening the Scotch bottle again. Next week, he promised. 

His hand had gone numb, and his leg was screaming in protest. Maybe finding a bench to rest for a few minutes wasn’t such a bad idea. As he contemplated this, he passed by another pedestrian, only to hear his name being called. Great. The last thing he needed was to run into an acquaintance. 

He tried to ignore it, quickening his pace, but the person wasn’t about to let him off the hook.  

“John? John Watson…?’ 

Half an hour later John wasn’t feeling that bad. Mike Stamford was still the same warm-hearted, easy-going guy as in the old days if a couple of pounds heavier, and he didn’t brag about his achievements like their other former classmates. Back at uni, aside from Eddie Hooper, Mike was one of the only ones with whom John truly bonded over a shared love for adventure, though life sent them down different paths. After graduation, only John’s friendship with Eddie’s younger sister, Molly, remained strong.  

He should definitely call her tonight.  

He and Mike talked about unimportant things, boring impersonal everyday stuff, and Mike didn’t inquire about his current life situation or give unwanted advice; John appreciated that. He already felt lighter as they stood to leave, jokingly saying he felt less ancient now, which made Mike laugh out loud. He caught his breath back and said, 

“By the way, speaking of that, you always liked vintage stuff, right? I remember those scratchy vinyls you used to buy at vintage stores near uni. There was a big one in Maida Vale, they’re closing now for good and have a big sale. I checked them yesterday and found a vintage fairy tale book for the girls. It’s a messy place–floors of junk kept by an old codger who sold stuff on the ground floor and basement while living upstairs. A real treasure trove. Thought you might like a rummage.” 

John had stopped collecting old vinyl a long time ago but thanked him and said he’d check it out. When they finally said goodbye and went their separate ways, the wind had picked up, and the sky was fully overcast, the air heavy with the threat of rain. Yet, despite the weather, John felt better than he had that morning. 

John's plan for the evening was to go home and drink himself to sleep alone in front of the telly, so maybe it wasn’t a bad idea to check out the place Stanford had mentioned instead. It was on the way home anyway, and it could serve as a shelter for an imminent downpour that was bound to catch him off guard without an umbrella. 

The sale happened to take place in an up-and-coming area, but the building stood out like a sore thumb. The old Victorian brick building had seen better days; it now looked like a forgotten relic, weathered and crumbling with the red bricks darkened by decades of soot and grime, and patches of ivy clinging stubbornly to the walls. Tall windows were clouded with dirt, streaked with grime and time. 

John vaguely remembered passing the derelict building and seeing a small sign about vintage books and stamps but never bothered to check it out. Now it seemed like someone had eventually decided to sweep all the moths and spiders out and sell up to some developer.  

He barely made it into the building before the rain began to pour. With no other option but to wait it out, he started looking around. Maybe they had an old umbrella he could buy, or at least something to help him make it home without getting drenched. 

He couldn’t find any umbrellas, but there was plenty of random old junk, memories of past lives and people. The air inside carried a strong smell of dampness and decay as if the building itself exhaled memories. A blend of nostalgia and mystery. Musty, soft light filtered through mismatched lamps and dusty glass fixtures, casting flickering shadows over shelves crammed with junk. The hum of the city outside was muffled.  

John managed to find an employee—a young girl with lavender hair, wearing a ratty Nirvana T-shirt and at least fourteen earrings—asking if there were any umbrellas available. She shook her head, saying she hadn’t seen any in the six days she’d been working there, but with a grin, added that she’d seen “some real crazy shit.” 

Her laughter was infectious, and John found himself laughing along. He asked more about the store, intrigued by her laid-back attitude. 

The girl - Sloane - didn’t know much except that the actual owner, an ancient man who was a hoarder, had passed away, and now the grandchildren were trying to sell the place to a developer. The first step was to clear the place needed to get rid of the junk piled up in the two-flat building.  

With a hand covered with mismatched rings, she pointed towards a spiral iron staircase and said, "There’s some real old junk up there if you’re okay with spiders, but I can’t promise an umbrella”, she said, her pretty smile making her large nose ring jingle. John couldn’t help but think that, in his younger days, he would’ve asked her for a coffee after work, but those days felt long gone. He gave her a polite thank you and made his way toward the rusty stairs. The first floor was too chaotic so John didn’t mind climbing the narrow stairs, though with some difficulty, given his cane and gamey leg. It was still pouring anyway.  

The second floor was a mirror image of the first—just more dust, more damp, and fewer people. The stale air clung to everything and the dominant scent of naphthalene wafted from forgotten corners and timeworn cedar chests, much stronger. John thought to himself, damn, this place is SO old .  

John carefully navigated through moth-eaten fur coats, empty, dingy glass bottles, stacks of mouldy magazines, and scratched vinyl records, when something caught his eye. A tall, vintage dollhouse stood in the corner, its intricate details almost faded over time. He limped toward it, his movements slow, as memories from years past surfaced. 

His older sister, Harriet, had received a dollhouse from their Granny for her tenth birthday. She had just shrugged it off, never having much interest in dolls. The dollhouse was left in the corner of her room, a forgotten relic of a gift. But for John, it became a secret source of fascination. 

Several times, when he came home from school before their parents, and Harriet was out or preoccupied on the phone, he’d sneak into her room to explore it. He loved running his fingers over the tiny furniture—the desk, the cupboard, the two chairs. There was even a miniature dresser by the bed, with little drawers that actually opened. It was a world he could control, a perfect, miniature escape. 

Harry used to like her Barbie doll, but later after she cut her hair and ripped her clothes Mommy got angry and refused to buy her another. Not that Harry cared much. She also didn’t care when she found him sitting by the dollhouse, playing with the tiny dishware. It was their father who exploded in anger, yelling at him. 

It took him a while to understand why his father kept yelling at and scolding him for harmless things and activities he did or liked. Why on earth was the fascination with miniature things considered a crime or something to be mocked by others? 

It was during one of the many fights his parents had that he heard his father’s angry shouts, words that John wouldn’t fully understand until years later. Words that his father would repeat often, especially when he'd had too much to drink—blaming his mother for Harry, and foreshadowing John’s future, words that became a dark echo in John’s mind, shaping the way he saw himself for years to come. 

Like so many other kids, John soon developed a protective mechanism: he instinctively learned to hide the things he loved—his interests, his desires—if they were disapproved of by others. He learned to lie about them, to everyone: family, friends, the world,  and eventually, himself. He learned that no matter how harmless or right they were, they had to be hidden, forgotten, or abandoned. It was safer that way, or so he thought. 

A sudden crashing noise followed by a string of loud cursing yanked John out of his trip down memory lane, as a couple of employees rushed past to help with whatever catastrophe the customer had caused. He shook his head, about to turn and leave, when something caught the corner of his eye. 

He may have long since overcome the desire to touch or play with miniature furniture, but he still had a soft spot for small boxes and chests. There, in a corner behind the dollhouse, was a small, dusty wooden box with a rusty brass lock. John glanced around for assistance, but all the employees were busy cleaning up the mess. 

John left his cane by an old table, half climbed, half stretched over a pile of old board games and a bowling ball bag, and finally managed to reach the small wooden box. With a bit of difficulty, he held the corner of the table with one hand to stop himself from falling over and managed to grab the box. 

It weighed more than he thought and obviously had been there for a long time, as rust and dust bunnies collaborated with spiders to make a nasty tent around it, and brass latches left a rusty print on the shelf. 

The manager at the cash register on the ground floor was busy ordering some of the temporary staff and didn't pay much attention, happy to get rid of a piece, even as small as the box. He got five pounds for it and went back to bossing the staff to keep an eye out for shoplifters. The rain had eased off into a drizzle when John stepped out toward the tube station to go back home. The box was now wrapped in a piece of newspaper tucked under his arm, and the shop owner had clumsily tried to dust it up a bit before wrapping it. 

As he limped back home, a small smile tugged at John’s lips. It completes the look now, he thought to himself—an old, limping man with an old, rusty box. Then, with a small sense of realisation, he acknowledged this was the first in a long time he had smiled. Maybe I should write about finding this in my blog! He smirked at the thought. 

John returned late to his boring, empty little flat. The darkness had settled in, and his leg felt dead from the walk. He was tired and hungry, but too drained to cook anything proper. He managed to make some tea and beans on toast, then fished the remote from the depths of the sofa, flipping haphazardly between channels, his mind unfocused. 

 His eyes were getting heavy. Maybe tonight he could skip the whisky, it was getting a bit out of hand. Maybe that long walk wasn't a bad idea anyway.  

He vaguely remembered that he was supposed to call Molly back. Why was it so difficult to call people back? He couldn’t postpone it any longer, it was rude. And he hated being rude to Molly, out of all people.  

Despite being nearly five years younger than him, Molly was smarter and more experienced in life than any of his other friends. No wonder John felt so much more comfortable with her, even more so than Eddie–who knew what part of the world he was in now? A new, dangerous adventure, lucky bastard. How did he manage to start a family with that lifestyle, and John couldn’t even manage a relationship? Or did he really want one?  

John wanted to get up and go to bed, but hours of walking in the cold and then sitting with hot camomile tea and white stale bread sent him into a carb coma. The only thing he could do was set a reminder on his phone to call Molly tomorrow, and before realising it, he drifted into dreamland. 

At least instead of the usual war nightmares, he had weird dreams including being a little boy again playing hide and seek with child versions of Molly, Harry, and her ex Clara in a giant Victorian warehouse, the air thick with the scent of old wood and the looming threat of spiders. A stranger—a dark-haired kid in a ratty Nirvana T-shirt—tagged along behind them, his presence oddly out of place. A smiling Mike Stamford in a chef’s white uniform happily stirred a big pot of beans.  

He jolted awake from the dream with his phone vibrating angrily under his shoulder. It took him a second to be able to focus on its screen and see the name “ Scam Likely ”. He muttered a curse and threw the offending item onto the coffee table, couldn’t believe that he had fallen asleep on the couch! His neck and bad shoulder were nagging and stiff, but at least his head didn’t hurt like every morning. Finally, a sober night.  

He turned up the telly and with a huge yawn, head still filled with fading images of his weird dream, dragged his stiff body to the kitchen to make tea and then take a long shower. He’d just turned the kettle on when the high-pitched voice of the Vintage Cash Cow advert pierced through his skull. John grabbed the remote and muted the offending sound. Aw, what the…  

The word vintage reminded him of something. Shower temporarily forgotten, John limped to the still newspaper-wrapped box left on the counter and unwrapped it. Now under the dim light of the kitchen, it looked even more ancient. There in the store, among other vintage items, it hadn’t looked this old. 

More curious than ever,he grabbed his pocket knife and fumbled with the lock a bit. Although he had always been good at fiddling with locks he didn’t have much hope with this one, until he heard a soft small click, and was genuinely surprised. 

John hesitated. What the hell was he doing? Was he out of his mind? What if something harmful or toxic was inside the box? Something illegal? Drugs? A weapon? His sleepiness began to dissipate, replaced by a sharp clarity. His mind raced with all the possibilities, the sudden sense of danger overwhelming him. But after a moment of rational thought, the more reckless, thrill-seeking part of his brain—the part that had driven him into war, that had left him broken, bored, and empty—pushed him forward: Open the damn box.  

So, he did. But nothing in his life, not even in his wildest dreams, could have prepared him for what he saw inside. 

A glass cylinder, like a large capsule, lay secured in the middle of the box. And inside the capsule - a tiny sleeping man . 

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

John had seen a lot of strange things in his life, but this? This made him freeze. For a minute. Or two. Or maybe longer. Was it a toy? A piece of artwork? A prank? Those were the first thoughts that flitted through his mind. But even as they surfaced, he knew—without quite being able to explain why—that it wasn’t any of those things. He just knew . It wasn’t a toy. It wasn’t a statue. It was... human .

Was it another fragment of his dream from the night before?

John became aware, then, of how long he’d been standing there—frozen in front of the open box. The kettle had stopped whistling ages ago, and his fingers were tangled in his messy hair.

"Right. Ok," he muttered to himself, though the words didn’t seem to settle anything.

His hand, still shaky, moved cautiously toward the glass. He barely brushed it with a finger. It was shockingly cold—so cold, in fact, that the frost from within had nothing to do with dust. It was ice. An ancient-looking device, possibly a thermostat, rested at the top of the glass.

What to do? What to do?

John felt an urgent need to pick up his phone and call someone—anyone—but who? Where? He wasn’t sure. Maybe he needed someone to confirm he hadn’t finally lost his mind.

Ten minutes passed. He paced around the cramped space, his hand alternately rubbing his mouth and his hair. Every few seconds, his eyes flicked back to the “thing,” as though he might wake up from this strange dream at any moment. Was he delusional? He couldn’t help but wonder, as his mind ran in circles, considering the options.

He dug through his old things and came across a dusty magnifying glass. Cautiously, he leaned over the capsule, inspecting it more closely. People did strange things, created bizarre artworks, and then left them lying around—who knew how this piece had ended up here? A joke, perhaps? But the delicate mechanism inside, the precision of it, told him otherwise. This wasn’t some modern creation—it was vintage. Real.

As he examined it further, John noticed the top was sealed with a wax-like substance, the edges carefully etched into place.

The Doll–John wasn’t sure what to call it, but he knew it wasn’t a doll– was about 8 or 9 centimeters tall, curled into a fetal position, resting on a soft, gelatin-like pad.

As he brought the magnifying glass closer, a shiver ran through his body, making him straighten up instinctively. There was no mistaking it—not with that level of detail.

John was a doctor. He knew what something organic looked like when he saw it. And this... this was organic.

He’d seen his fair share of life-like statues, from Madame Tussaud’s to art gallery exhibitions, but this? This wasn’t like any of them. It was a male figure—John could tell by the proportions. The face was mostly obscured by hands, but he could make out a tiny head, dark brown curls, and prominent features. Even the marble-pale skin didn’t give him the sense that it was porcelain or wax.

God, he wished Eddie could see this. Eddie loved weird mysteries. But those days were gone—no more teenage boys rummaging through his grandmother’s attic, chasing down oddities. Eddie was halfway across the Atlantic now, helping refugees, too busy for John’s little, silly findings.

For a brief moment, he considered Googling it—then quickly dismissed the idea. What exactly was he supposed to Google? “Hey Google, I just found a miniature humanoid in a damp thrift store—now what?” Or maybe ask Reddit: “What to do when you find a vintage glass capsule containing alien life forms?”

His brain felt like mush.

And then, his phone pinged. The sudden sound made him jump, his heart lurching in his chest. The screen flashed “Molly.” -the reminder. Oh, yes. Molly. Of course—he should call Molly!

Molly Hooper picked up after three rings.

“Oh, hi, John! How are you? I heard you finally called about the job! Great!”

John struggled to remember what Molly was talking about. “Er… what? Oh, yeah, yeah, did I? I did, in fact, well, there’s just something… something else I wanted to talk to you about.”

“About the application? If it’s the reference I already sent the - ”

“No, not about that. Well, actually, yes - there is a project—something came up, erm… just wanted to borrow your brain and your experience for a few minutes, if possible.”

“John…? Is everything ok?”

“Yeah… yeah, I’m fine.” John realized he probably sounded completely out of it. He cleared his throat, trying to steady himself. “I’m sorry, I’d come to you, but there’s a situation. I can’t leave the house right now, so if it’s convenient… would you be able to come over?”

Molly’s tone shifted, now tinged with concern. “OK… are you sure you’re alright? You sound a bit stressed. Do you need anything I can bring?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” John took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing thoughts. “Actually, yeah—if you could bring a few things, that’d be amazing. May I text them to you?”

“No problem, I’ll see if I can leave a bit earlier. It’s quiet around here today.”

John thanked her, and as he hung up, he wondered what the hell he was doing.

Molly arrived sooner than he’d expected, a bag of the things he’d requested in hand, and a pair of big, brown, worried eyes.

“John! You’re ok?”

“Of course! Very ok. Brilliant. Come in.” John practically pulled her inside.

Getting Molly settled on the sofa and quickly explaining the situation wasn’t as easy as he’d hoped. He was surprised at how calm her reaction was when she saw the “jar.” It wasn’t nearly as dramatic as his own. In fact, she seemed almost… professional about it. Maybe it was her job? Her scientific curiosity quickly replaced the initial shock, and before long, they were both inspecting the item closely again—this time, using the strong standing magnifier Molly had brought.

The “Doll” still looked real.

John explained that he’d considered taking it to the hospital for Molly’s expertise, but he was worried it could be carrying a biohazard—some harmful microorganism, virus, or something. Who knew? He also couldn’t shake the paranoia about losing it.

Molly tried to calm him down, acknowledging his concerns but also admitting she wasn’t sure about the next step either. She suggested they go back to the store, and maybe find some clues about where it had come from. Good idea.

John shot a worried glance at the capsule. Molly reassured him, “Come on, it’s been there who knows how long. A few more hours won’t hurt.”

But John’s paranoia was too strong. He carefully carried the box and capsule to his bedroom and locked them away in the small safe under the bed—the one where he usually kept his unauthorized gun.

It was a sunny Friday. Not that the sun had much power, but it was an improvement over the rain from the day before. On the way to the store, John thanked Molly again, apologizing for dragging her into such a strange situation. She waved it off, telling him she was happy to help, and more than that, she was glad to see him excited again.

"I'm helping because I love seeing you like this ," she said.

“Like what?”

Molly pointed to him, eyes widening. “Where’s your cane?!”

For the first time since the store, John realized he wasn’t limping anymore. A wide grin spread across his face.

When they arrived at the store, John found the busy owner in a corner. “Oh, hi, I was here yesterday. Remember? I got an old dusty box?”

The man glanced up from his clipboard. “Sorry, mate, no returns.”

John quickly corrected him. “Oh, no, no returns... well, my friend liked your item a lot. I brought her to get something. She’s into Victorian books and stuff.” He dragged Molly into view by the arm. Molly gave a sheepish, fake smile and nodded along.

“We… we were wondering if you have really old stuff. Like, the oldest you’ve got.”

Molly cut in, “Well, I needed some old papers for an art project.”

For some reason, John noticed that the shop owner seemed more convinced by Molly’s explanation. He shrugged and added,

“I don’t know mate, guess your box, if it was that old that you say, must have belonged to old Grandpa Alf, my grand-grandpa.

John tried not to look too interested, “ So your great-grandfather owned this place?”

“Yeah, he did. Right odd fella, he was, back in the day, least that’s what I heard. Don’t know much more ‘bout him meself. Me granddad got it off him, but me dad never opened the shop—he was workin’ in some office instead. Granddad passed away a few years back, left it to me and me brothers.” 

He took a look at his watch and added, “Reckon there’s some of his old bits shoved up in the attic from back then, the useless stuff the family couldn’t be bothered with. I’m tellin’ ya, it’s all spiders’ corpses and rat crap up there now. But if you’re keen, knock yourself out. We’re clearin’ the attic this weekend anyway—water’s got in and ruined the lot. Ain’t much, though—mostly old papers.’”

Sloane wasn’t around this time, unfortunately, so the owner handed them over to a lanky guy with a slouch beanie perched on a table in a corner speed typing on his phone, who reluctantly and without taking his eyes off the screen directed them to the attic and disappeared. 

Compared to this small space, the rest of the store was an immaculate boutique. It seemed like over decades, whatever was rejected and unwanted in the store of unwanted things, was sent and stuffed into this corner. The owner had been correct: water damage had rendered most of the old cardboard boxes of yellowed maps, cookbooks, and journals crumbled and useless. 

John was glad that it was a sunny day as there wasn’t any light source to be found, and the only light was coming through a big skylight covered with plastic sheeting.

They didn’t waste much time appreciating the grim scene in front of them and set up working. John was glad he brought his small torch.

“What are we exactly searching for, John?”

“I don’t know… equipment? More boxes..? No, I mean, anything similar. Anything that can give us a clue.” 

Molly yelped over a big brown spider running from a box she just opened, and answered, “Remember what the owner said? Papers. Maybe we should look for documents. Manuals?”

They had to cover their noses and mouths with their scarves from the dust and tried to move as many boxes as possible, yet couldn’t stop occasional sneezing and coughing. John felt like he had come back to his grandma’s attic with Eddie, their favorite summertime adventure place as kids. But that place had many more interesting items compared to this one.

After nearly an hour of fruitless searching, John began to suspect they were getting nowhere and considered suggesting a strategic retreat from the dusty cave of despair. He almost plopped onto a rocking chair that had materialized from beneath the boxes but thought better of it, put the box back, and opted to lean against a corner to ease his aching back. Unfortunately, his hip collided with a large hatbox, triggering an avalanche of chaos and prompting a stream of colorful language he couldn’t quite stop. 

Rubbing his eyes and muttering apologies, he was cut off by Molly’s voice: “Uh, John? You might want to look at this one.”

John looked back: the last box slid over to reveal an old, Victorian-looking,drop-front drawer desk. Its once-rich black finish faded and speckled, and brass ring pulls are tarnished with age, bearing the weight of countless hands that once opened its drawers. Cobwebs clung to the edges, and its aged wood was cracked in places.

They worked together to clear the top of the desk, and then John fumbled with his pocket knife to open the top but failed. He was looking around for something else to use but Molly impatiently pulled the top up, and to their surprise, it came off. It seemed like the cobweb blanket held the top on rather than the rusty lock. 

Inside the desktop was cleaner than the whole place. There were stacks of yellowed, brittle paper tied with crumbling ribbons, dried ink bottles, and a couple of tarnished steel nib pens. Brittle newspaper clippings, a broken pocket watch, a set of antique keys whose locks were doubtless long lost, a matchbook, and some coins.

John cautiously picked up a bundle of papers and opened the ribbon, there were all numbers and figures, like a cheque register. A couple of other journals also turned out to be checkbooks, transactions, …

John was disappointed. He closed the fourth notebook with a tap which sent some dust in the air and made him sneeze again. “I’m not sure if there’s anything useful here,” he said bitterly. 

Molly was trying to open one of the drawers. “This one’s so heavy, I’m sure there’ll be something in it.” 

John shook his head, “Don’t see anything related, just numbers…Lots of numbers. Whoever owned this desk must have worked in a bank, I guess.” John just let out a long sigh and put the notebook down to help Molly. A small page fell from the notebook and fluttered on the floor. 

They both stared at it, and John carefully picked it up. It was a page covered in tiny handwriting, accompanied by sketches of a brain that reminded him of Da Vinci’s human anatomy illustrations.

A small spark of hope flickered in John’s heart. He joined Molly trying to open the stubborn drawer, which after a few minutes of effort, finally gave way. The whole big drawer was filled with even more papers bundled together with twine, a bunch of bound ledgers and journals, and bound books with ruled pages filled with scribbles of what seemed like records, inventories, or correspondence logs.

John impatiently tipped the heavy drawer out, spilling its contents across the dusty floorboards as he searched for anything resembling that piece of paper. There was none, but Molly picked up a weathered bound leather journal, bulging with lots of paper inside, and began fiddling with the small brass lock, trying to open it.

Looking at his watch, John said, “No time Molly, let’s just gather all the documents.” They’d been up there for over an hour now and he didn’t want to raise any suspicions.

The owner told them they could take things from this section for free, and they didn’t want to take anything potentially valuable. So they emptied all other drawers, just picked all the papers and folders, and left everything else. They ended up filling two cartons and a shopping bag with yellowed papers, notes, and journals.

Passing by the counter, John shook his head to the owner who was on the phone, and he just nodded and waved a hand. 

The unhappy grumpy cab driver stared at them when trying to stuff their findings into the back seat, but John gave him a twenty and they managed to take it all home. After John made a big pot of strong tea and opened some chocolate digestives, they spread their findings out over his small living room floor and started working on finding a clue all the rest of the day till very late at night. 

They managed to divide papers into categories of account logs, personal and observation notes, letters, and misc papers including faded train tickets and receipts. 

The most interesting part came in a couple of leather-bound journals, which although worn and well-used, looked very pricey and custom-made. The journal was filled with pages and receipts, each one signed with the initials “J.M.” 

Molly muttered under her breath, “This again... Who the hell was this M ?”

John shrugged, a wry grin forming on his face. “Heh, I don't know… Jim Morrison...?”

“Nah,” Molly chuckled, “Julianne Moore, haha.”

Some transactions were also signed by J.M. Other booklets seem like transactions. Big numbers.  

The best part of the search came when they found a bundle of faded handwritten notes in Latin, accompanied by elegantly detailed drawings of plants and animals. John and Molly exchanged a victorious glance as if they'd just stumbled upon a jackpot.

John’s grasp of Latin had faded considerably over the years, limited mostly to medical terminology. But as he peered into the smudged pages, he could make out references to experiments and observations on rare plants and their effects on other organic forms, along with notes on mathematics and physics. It was slow and painstaking work, but using Google Translate, John managed to decipher a few words here and there, piecing together fragments of meaning.

Unfortunately, the ink had faded and smudged in many spots, and the yellowed paper showed signs of insect damage over time. Molly, flipping through a large logbook, murmured, “These are dated 1856... boy, they’re really vintage. Maybe we should put them on eBay.”

John couldn’t help but snicker at the thought.

Molly continued flipping through the pages, “And also, some seriously big numbers for that time. Even considerable by today’s standards. Someone was a big businessman back then.”

“Someone, maybe that J.M , was making a lot of money,” John added.

“Lucky bastard,” Molly replied with a grin.

“And they didn’t pay much in taxes, either,” John muttered dryly. “And who knows how his desk ended up in the attic of a tacky vintage store.” He paused, then glanced at Molly. “Molly... what do you know about Concalesco… ? ”

Molly answered right away, “ To become warm …?” 

John was impressed,” Wow, your Latin is much better than mine.” 

“Not really, I work with the police, remember?” 

John thought, yeah, growing up he never thought that the skinny, shy little girl might someday deal with corpses and murder and gore daily. He could bet most people still couldn’t picture it, seeing her now. But then again, they had no idea how sharp and smart this down-to-earth, quiet young woman truly was.

“Have you ever regretted it, Molly? Choosing your job? I remember, as a kid, you wanted to become a vet.”

Molly snickered. “Why would I regret it? I love my job.”

John hesitated for a moment. “I know… I just mean, you always loved life so much. Now you have to deal with death every day.”

Molly looked up at him, a soft smile on her face. “Well, working in post-mortem makes me appreciate life even more.”

John couldn’t help but smile back, before turning his attention back to the paper. His thoughts wandered, wondering how Molly had managed to forgive that asshole fiance Tom for breaking her heart and moving on. Even more, how she could trust men again, let alone start dating one again? He vaguely remembered their last conversation about it, over the phone. The guy was a cop, right? What was his name... Gavin?

He stared absentmindedly at the piece of paper in his hand with a sketch of a frog on it for ten minutes and was about to ask Molly about her new date when her loud gasp suddenly jolted him out of his mind.  He looked up with blurry eyes: “What..??”

Molly held up a large weathered, elegant dark brown leather document wallet, with the initials “J.M” in elegant gold-plated brass letters on it. It was their gold mine: neatly but very compressed were descriptions of lots of experiments. His sleepiness left John, looking at the English parts of the reports. 

But none of them was more interesting than early mentions of something that “M” mentioned as his Magnum opus ultimum vitae (the biggest achievement of his lifetime).

Shrinking the organic, living body. 

These bundles of notes were much more illustrated, and there were even a couple of photographs. All seemed like an initial stage of constructing a mechanism, research made for some sort of machine. 

Molly murmured,“Oh my God, it looks like they experimented on living human subjects...look at this, embolia cutis medicamentosa   … and what this picture could be demonstrates gangrene? Massive exophthalmos after infusion of F77 …?! What the…. these people, whoever they were, were monsters, John.’

John and Molly set everything aside to focus on that file. It was much better preserved than the rest,  yet its contents were cryptic and written in a perplexing style, more like the ramblings of a mad scientist’s fantasy novel. They both combined their intellects and phones to decipher some parts that had “ capsula ” mentioned, but it felt more like abstract poetry about time and the admiration of infinity, accompanied by illustrations of various clocks.

John was starting to conclude that all of this was the work of a mad poet or dreamer.

By midnight they were both exhausted, confused, and starving. John ordered in some Chinese while Molly sat cross-legged on the carpet, still hunched over the crumpled papers, absently chewing on the end of her braid.

They had their food in silence, both too tired and lost in their thoughts to talk. John took their plates and went to the kitchen to make some fresh tea, and Molly splayed on the sofa, arm over her tired eyes, resting. 

John almost dropped the pot when Molly shouted, "John! Remember that third page of the first notebook, with clock drawings in it? It wasn't a clock, it was the device on the capsule - said pressura temporis … remember?!”

Before John's tired brain could connect the dots, Molly sprang off the sofa, rifling through the papers to find the page. She rushed over to the capsule, holding up the illustration. "Look, John, this one—the smaller one in the back—this illustration looks like an early version of it! I told you it looked familiar!" And when she saw John's confused stare, “Look, here! See…??”

John moved closer to see where she was pointing, squinting his tired eyes, trying to touch the device when the sudden whistle of the kettle startled him and his finger hit a tiny latch by its side. There was a sudden small hiss and the delicate hand of the device started to change. 

“Oh, FUCK— I didn’t mean… what—" John stammered, his hands pressing into his face in disbelief.

It was Molly who regained her composure first. "Well-eh-I guess it probably reduces the pressure gradually. Well..." She trailed off, still processing the realization.

John grabbed her arm and dragged her by the window and opened it up. A cold wet breeze came in and brought some rain.“Do you think we should leave the house..??”

“What…? Why, do you think it’s dangerous..?!” 

“I don’t know - maybe you should go. I don’t want to put you in danger.” 

“Danger..? Oh, come on, John. I’ve worked all day on this, you can’t dismiss me now. I’m staying. Plus, it’s past midnight and it’s raining, I’m not going anywhere.” 

Once again John regretted not bringing the capsule to the authorities, the army, or someone who could take proper care of it.

They sat and watched the capsule like a hawk for a couple of hours, from a safe distance, as there wasn’t anything else they could do.  But the food and exhaustion finally set in. After a few hours, John sent a dozing Molly to rest in his bed and kept watching, but the sky started to turn pink when he finally lost the battle and fell asleep, too.

John woke up on the sofa early in the afternoon, groggy and disoriented. A note from Molly was stuck to the fridge: "Had to leave early—my cat must be losing its mind by now."

Still half-asleep, John dragged himself to the kitchen, desperate for a cup of tea before heading for a shower. As he filled the kettle, his drowsy gaze drifted to the table, and—

The capsule was empty!

All traces of sleep vanished in an instant. John slammed the tap shut and stood frozen as if expecting an alien to lunge at him from a corner.

Then, frantically scanning the room, John's gaze landed on the table—and his breath hitched. There, perched on the untouched chili sauce container from last night’s takeaway, was something wrapped in a napkin from the same order.

John rubbed his eyes, trying to clear the fog of disbelief. A figure seemed to be sitting there, staring blankly ahead. Hesitating, he closed his eyes for a second, took a deep breath, and then cautiously took a step forward—once, twice—before finally kneeling beside the table.

Oh. My. Bloody. God.

There was no mistaking it now. What he was looking at wasn’t a wax sculpture, a porcelain figurine, or any sort of crafted replica. It was a living person.

The figure’s marble-like, light grey eyes stared forward, blinking slowly, almost owlishly. He was alive. Breathing. A real, miniature human being in John’s kitchen!

John’s mind raced, his pulse hammering in his ears. He was absolutely out of ideas for what to do next.

Would he understand his words? ( He? ) Was he suffering from any complications of being frozen? ( frozen? ) Or whatever condition he was in? Was he even human? An alien? Another species? (John pushed away the word ‘fairy’ from his mind.) How were they supposed to communicate?

Unconsciously, he found himself leaning closer, his face now mere inches from the diminutive figure. Then, without warning, the tiny, marble-like eyes shifted, locking onto his. The voice that John heard was surprisingly clear for someone so impossibly small:

 "Where. Is. He?"

Chapter Text

John was so startled that jerked back—he’d been expecting anything but English! The man, very slowly, turned his face—framed by a mop of dark hair—toward him. Even at that size, John could tell his face was a mixture of pure exhaustion and exasperation.

John was speechless, still gazing in disbelief, his ears straining to catch every word, the voice was so low he barely dared to breathe. And yet, he still couldn’t make out everything the man was saying.

"... perceive his mad experiment worked...  I…probably…. miscalculated… "  

Still gaping, John instinctively leaned in closer, trying to see and hear better. The tiny man’s face shifted into a faint frown, his narrowed eyes scrutinizing John. “What’s this… ?”  

After several failed attempts to respond, John finally managed to find his voice. "This is my home". 

The mini-man flinched, recoiling slightly, his diminutive form tilting away from John. 

“Oh, sorry, sorry! Too loud, I suppose—well…” John quickly whispered, his voice dropping to an apologetic hush. “Er—what’s your name? Sir ?” 

The little man turned his entire head toward John this time, his tiny eyebrows knitting together in what could only be described as the fiercest miniature scowl imaginable. 

"Do not pretend you don't know my…” 

He gathered his "sheet" gracefully like a robe and got up to possibly give more weight to his words. But the words died off when he swayed and fell with a tiny thud on the table. John hurriedly  jumped to grab him, but not fast enough. His body under the napkin was warm, but not enough like a real person. Poor thing should have been super exhausted and still cold. 

John grabbed his scarf from where it lay draped over the chair and gently wrapped it around the tiny, motionless figure. He rushed to the kitchen, filled a water bottle with warm water, and slipped it into a Tupperware container he found under the sink. He carefully placed the bundle over the improvised heated bed and positioned the man in a recovery position. Casting about for something to make his “patient” more comfortable, he grabbed a tissue, folded it, and clumsily slid it under the tiny head as a makeshift pillow.

For a few moments, he just stood there, anxiously rubbing his hands against his jeans, utterly at a loss. Then, snapping out of it, he darted to the bedroom and rummaged under the bed until he unearthed his old medical bag, dusty and long-forgotten. Pulling out the battered ancient Littmann, he pressed the diaphragm against the miniature chest and listened. The heartbeat was startlingly fast—like a hummingbird’s—(500 bpm? Really…?!). Probably normal for a man his size. God, but what was normal for him?

John bit his lip. He should hydrate him—but how? There were no visible veins, and even if there were, what kind of IV could possibly work for someone so small? Frustrated, he opted to cover the tiny man snugly with the scarf for now. 

He was grateful for the years of emergency triage experience that allowed his hands to work on autopilot because, without them, there was absolutely no way he’d be holding it together right now—not when he had no idea if this was reality or some bizarre, fever-induced hallucination.

John remembered his promise to keep Molly updated. Keeping one eye on the Tupperware, he grabbed his phone and hastily tapped out a text, hopeful she could make sense of it despite the typos. Her reply came almost instantly, a flurry of surprised and excited emojis followed by a message brimming with enthusiasm, promising to head over as soon as she could finish up her hectic Monday.

Later, John tried to give the man a bit of electrolyte solution, soaked on a Q-tip. To his relief and delight, his lips twitched slightly before gently brushing against the cotton, sucking ever so slowly and drawing in the liquid. It was progress—small, but promising.

Encouraged, John lightly touched the man’s dark curls, marveling at how soft they were like strands of silk slipping through his fingers. The act of feeding him and the delicate touch triggered a memory from years ago: a swallow with a broken wing that he and Harry had found in their backyard. Mummy had given them a shoebox and an old T-shirt, and they’d spent days tending to the fragile bird until, one morning, it had scrambled upright in the box and taken off through the window.

But this one wasn’t going to fly out of here… right?

The man remained unchanged throughout the day, his tiny form unmoving except for the occasional, faint sucking of the sugary water John offered. Concerned by how cold his hands and feet still felt despite the warm water bottle and scarf, John tried gently massaging them, though his worry about the fragility of the delicate limbs kept him from applying pressure. Instead, he found himself simply caressing the soft curls or lightly brushing his fingertips over the small feet, a soothing gesture for both of them as the hours dragged on.

Too worried to leave the Tupperware out of his sight, John carried it to the living room and turned on the TV to pass the time, flipping through channels, and updating Molly every hour. 

Throughout their texts over the past few hours, Molly had been brainstorming what she might bring to help their mysterious, miniature companion. She suggested borrowing a few items from her nephew, though John, utterly clueless, couldn’t offer much guidance.

While the tiny man continued to sleep, she arrived with two lox and cream cheese bagels and a bag of what appeared to be miniature supplies. As she spread her loot out on the kitchen counter, John raised an eyebrow in surprise. It seemed he wasn’t the only one with a soft spot for tiny, intricate things.

“Here, I got some stuff from my nephew, like I said,” Molly announced, her voice slightly unsteady. She stood up slowly from where she'd been kneeling by the coffee table, having spent the last few minutes just staring at the man. Clearing her throat, she added, “Erm, my brother said she’s already grown out of her dolls and Barbie house and is into video games now, so I told them I needed these… for a tiny person. ” Her voice dropped to a whisper, her eyes never leaving the Tupperware. “Well, I… I didn’t lie, did I?”

They moved to the kitchen, and she took stuff out of the paper shopping bag to the coffee table: a small freezer bag of clothes "Well, I don't really know if he likes these, they are mostly for Barbies, she didn't have any Ken… 

John quickly replied, “Oh no, no, it’s amazing, thank you! Really.” He glanced at the Tupperware and added, “Actually, I’ve been wondering what to do about clothes. He can’t stay under my scarf and a napkin forever—it’s too cold for that. We can figure out something more, erm, male for him later.”

Molly carefully pulled a tiny bed from the bag, complete with a mattress and a little blanket. “I bought this for her myself a few years ago for Christmas,” she said, her smile turning a bit sheepish. “It even has a dresser! I never thought they’d actually be used. ”

Next, she placed a delicate porcelain mug on the table. The miniature cup had “Molly” printed on it in tiny, careful script. “A gift from a friend in uni,” she explained, blushing faintly but smiling. “Do you think he might need this?”

“Well yeah, I hope so!”  

It was later at night, and John was fighting off sleep while lazily snacking on crackers, Ewen Cameron's show playing quietly on the TV. The boring dialogue nearly lulled him to doze off when a flicker of movement in the Tupperware caught his attention.

He froze, then quickly turned off the TV and leaned toward the makeshift bed. Inside, the tiny man stirred, his movements slow and labored as he propped himself up on his elbows. His head turned in small, hesitant jerks, his expression a mix of confusion and wary curiosity as he took in his surroundings.

Finally, his tiny gaze locked onto John’s face. His brow furrowed as he muttered something, but the words were a blur to John, too soft and strange to make out. John leaned in closer, bringing his ear just above the edge of the Tupperware, straining to catch any sound that might make sense.

“I said, could you direct me to the facilities, please?” 

John stared for a few seconds. "Oh. Of course. Wait for a second” 

John rummaged through the kitchen junk drawer until he found a bottle cap. After washing it out, he filled it with water and set it on a saucer, adding a piece of tissue underneath and placing an empty cab beside it. He looked at the tiny man, who was sitting on his makeshift bed, eyes narrowed in a critical stare.

“Ah, sorry, this is the best I can do for now,” John muttered, feeling a bit awkward. “I’ll try to find something better tomorrow.” He carefully placed the makeshift basin near the man's feet, then straightened up. “I’ll leave you alone for now,” he added softly, stepping back and giving the tiny figure some space.

John busied himself in the kitchen, trying to give the tiny man some privacy while also mulling over his next move. What could he possibly eat? Was there anything that would work for someone his size? His mind buzzed with questions as he heated up some canned chicken soup and made a slice of toast for himself.

While waiting for the soup to warm, he washed the white miniature mug Molly had brought, filled it with water, and set it on the counter. After a quick text to Molly, he picked up the mug and went to check on the man.

John found his quest sitting with his back against the side of the Tupperware, clutching John’s scarf tightly around him. He was definitely cold. John’s flat was always drafty, no matter how many times he complained to the landlord, and it must have been even worse for his miniature guest.

Taking a deep breath and reminding himself not to get too excited, he moved slowly, carefully approaching the coffee table before kneeling beside it. With a steady hand, he held out the small mug filled with water, offering it to the tiny man.

“Water?”  

The man’s eyes were closed, but John could tell he was awake. Slowly, he blinked his eyes open, his gaze unfocused and still heavy with confusion. He looked at John but didn’t say anything.

John held the mug steady, not pushing, just waiting patiently. After what felt like an eternity, a tiny, shaky hand—so pale it almost matched the porcelain of the mug—emerged from beneath the scarf. It trembled slightly as it reached toward the mug, hesitant but determined, before weakly attempting to take it from John’s hand.

“Oh no, let me help.” 

Realizing the man might be too weak to hold the mug on his own, John carefully slid his index finger under the base of the mug, lifting it gently to his lips. He took a small sip, his hand trembling against the porcelain. Afterward, he seemed to exhale a softy before leaning his head back against the side of the Tupperware and closing his eyes again. John stayed still, waiting for any sign of response or word, but he didn’t say anything. 

If John hadn’t heard the man speak so fluently earlier, he might have started to worry, but he reminded himself to be patient. The silence stretched on for a few minutes, and finally, John decided it wouldn’t hurt to initiate the conversation. He leaned in, whispering gently,
“Would you like to have more water…?”

Without really waiting for an answer, he carefully lifted the mug again, bringing it closer to the man’s lips. The tiny figure frowned, eyes still closed, but after a moment’s hesitation, he allowed himself a few more sips, his movements slow but deliberate.

Satisfied that the man had taken enough, John carefully set the half-empty mug aside, then gathered the bottle caps and picked up the small pillow from the miniature bed Molly had brought. Slowly, he slid the pillow behind the man’s back, hoping to make him a bit more comfortable, and then draped the scarf over him once again, tucking it in gently.

A thousand questions were swirling in John’s mind, but for now, he had no choice but to wait. He wished he could refill the warm water bottle, which was nearly cold by now, but didn’t want to disturb the man. Instead, he picked the doll blanket from the bed and draped it over him, hoping it would offer some extra warmth.

With a sigh, John made his way back to the kitchen, fetched his food, and returned to his spot by the Tupperware, settling in for a night of quiet vigilance, the weight of the unknown pressing down on him as he waited.

It was a long, restless night for John, full of coffee and worry. He found himself glued to the muted TV, unable to fully focus on it as his eyes repeatedly flicked back to the Tupperware. Every few minutes, he couldn’t help but check the man’s heartbeat, his fingers trembling slightly as they hovered over the tiny chest, listening closely for any sign of life. He used a tiny mirror to check for breath, reassuring himself with each small exhale.

He looked much better than before and seemed like sleeping pretty deeply, as John’s constant checking didn’t disturb him, not even a little. John noted that his hammering heart had slowed down (450 bpm), and his temperature had risen, according to the temporal thermometer, two degrees warmer than before. A slight but significant improvement

The first light of dawn filtered through the windows, and John, weary from the long night, decided to make some tea and toast, that noticed a slight stirring from the tiny lump under his scarf. During the night, the man had curled into himself, like a tiny shrimp; but now he was slowly unwinding, stretching with small, tentative movements.

John abandoned the toast he was about to pop into the toaster, rushed back to the coffee table, and sat by it on the floor. 

His guest slowly lifted himself into a sitting position, wincing slightly as if his muscles were protesting, his hand rubbing his eyes and face before shaking his head slowly, if trying to shake off the remnants of confusion.

John kept his distance but tried to remain within his field of vision. He waited quietly, hoping for any response, but when none came, decided to break the silence.

"Good morning," John said gently.  His low voice seemed to startle the guy, he blinked a few times and stared at John.  

"How do you feel? Are you cold?"

The man didn’t bother answering, the scarf/blanket fell from his naked shoulders, and he shivered.  

"Would you like a bit of freshening up? I can prepare a hot bath for you. Wait a second."  

John carefully prepared a small bowl of warm water, adding a drop of his shampoo and shower gel to a teaspoon before placing some folded tissues in the bowl as a makeshift towel. He set it all on a small folded towel in the bathroom.

After taking a moment to gather his thoughts, he went back to the coffee table. The tiny figure was still sitting on his makeshift bedding, staring off into nothingness. John knelt beside him, his voice gentle but firm.

"I’m going to take you to the bathroom," he said softly, "It’s warmer in there, and you’ll have some privacy, okay?" And again, he did not wait for an answer, gently picked the Tupperware up, and took it to the bathroom.

He couldn't help but feel a pang of concern as he left him alone but reassured himself that there was little chance of the man getting hurt or drowning in the small bowl. As he kept himself busy in the kitchen, making tea and buttering a toast, the time seemed to stretch on endlessly.

About 15 minutes later, John knocked lightly on the bathroom door before entering. His guest was sitting on the towel, half wrapped in the tea towel, looking exhausted but still trying to dry his hair with a piece of tissue. John cleared his throat and awkwardly stepped inside, offering a small smile.

"Er... I brought you some clothes," he said, his tone light but cautious. "Not the best, but considering the situation..."

The man didn’t reply. Instead, he paused in his efforts, simply staring at John.

John placed the small pile of folded doll clothes in front of him and quietly left the bathroom again, wondering if the man would need help dressing. He didn’t dare ask. It struck him strange and funny at the same time, how a 12 cm man could still feel so intimidating!

 A few minutes later, when John knocked and went in again, he was greeted by the sight of the tiny man sitting on the edge of the bowl, wearing a pink shirt adorned with a glittery heart in the center, barely reached the top of his blue denim pants, the frayed hems just grazing his ankles. He had a sock in his hand and was seemingly contemplating whether or not to add it to the weird look. 

John couldn’t help but smile at the sight, even though the situation was still surreal. "Oh, good. You've all dressed up. Ready to move?" He watched as the tiny man pushed his foot into the sock and slumped back onto the tea towel with what could only be described as a dramatic eye roll. 

John hesitated for a moment, then stepped forward slowly, offering his hand. "May I?" he asked gently. The question hung in the air, a quiet invitation to trust him just a bit more.

The grumpy Barbie accepted John’s hand, and with a slow, deliberate movement, he slid into his palm. John carefully cupped his hand, being mindful of the delicate weight, and padded softly back to the kitchen.

He placed the man gently onto the makeshift eastern seat he’d set up for him earlier on the kitchen table—a cozy arrangement of the miniature pillow and blanket beside a biscuit box, all set up while he waited for the man to wash up.

"Are you hungry? Do you need more water? " And when no answer came, John fell back on the quintessential British magic words: “Would you like a cup of tea?'"

To his not-so-surprise, that did the trick. A soft but definite, "Yes, please," followed.

John grinned. Trust a British gentleman—no matter his size or state—to never say no to a good cuppa. He fought the urge to shout, Victory! 

"Sugar? Milk?" he added, keeping his tone casual.

"Just sugar, please."

Rising purposefully, John poured a drop of sweetened tea into the mug. Suppressing his triumphant grin, he set the steaming mug down in front of his odd guest, then pulled up a chair with his own cup in hand. "Here you are. Enjoy."

The man took the cup in both hands, cradling it as if savoring its warmth. He sipped tentatively, only to recoil slightly, letting out a soft hiss as if scolding the tea itself.

John took a sip of his tea, quietly amused, only to realize the man was now staring at him with the tiniest stern gaze

"Afghanistan," the stranger stated, his voice low and deliberate.

John blinked, certain he had misheard. He leaned in instinctively. "Sorry—what?"

"I see you've been in Afghanistan, Doctor," the man repeated, his tone making it sound like the most obvious thing in the world.

"What? How—?" He paused, regaining composure. "Okay, my turn. My name's John Watson. And yes, I was a doctor—an army doctor. I came back from Afghanistan a couple of months ago. But before we go any further... would you mind telling me your name?"

But the man didn’t respond. His eyes had drifted to something on the table's far side, his expression taut, his gaze unwavering.

John turned to follow it, expecting something dramatic or scary-but all he saw was yesterday’s folded newspaper.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes," the man finally said, his voice trembling just enough to betray him. "And I believe I am in the wrong era."

Chapter Text

It started raining in the afternoon. Sherlock hadn't said a word since morning, his gaze fixed on the streaks of water trailing down the glass. He hadn't even finished his tea. John watched him, worry tugging at the edges of his thoughts. 

John also had a LOT to think about. 

He spent an hour glued to his laptop, meticulously researching, updating the ever-curious Molly, and casting concerned glances at his tiny, silent, and oddly still guest.

Sherlock Holmes . An unusual name for a truly unusual fellow. There was no doubt in John’s mind, that this tiny guest of theirs was from the Victorian era. But instead of spiraling into questions of how or why , John’s brain, ever the practical soldier, was preoccupied with far more immediate ones like: What on earth do I feed this man?

After the last conversation at the kitchen table, John gave his strange guest half an hour to speak again, but when no more words came out. He didn’t react when John carefully draped his scarf over him again, lifting him with a gentle hand to place him on a cozy spot by the window—a makeshift nest John had fashioned from his own favorite Union Jack cushion. Since then, Sherlock had been motionless, his gaze fixed on the dull, rain-soaked view beyond the glass. He paid no attention to the fresh cup of tea John had set beside him, nor to anything else around him. 

Hearing him was a big challenge. John hated the awkwardness of having to lean uncomfortably close to his guest. Determined to find a solution, he hit upon a practical idea—a small microphone and speakers.

After a long search on the internet , he found a compact Bluetooth mic that Sherlock could clip onto himself. Paired with a simple app, it would let his voice be amplified through a speaker, no matter where he was. Grinning at his ingenuity, John bookmarked the gadget’s page, then decided to bite the bullet - went and sat close. “Hey… Ehem. Sherlock? Can I call you Sherlock?” 

No reaction. 

“How do you feel? I mean, any pain? Nausea? Dizziness? I am a doctor but I can't examine you the way I need to, so if you could help me, I'd appreciate some information. Also…is there anyone.. anywhere, you want me to cal-contact?” 

Sherlock seemed to get a bit out of the dark thoughts he was deep in: “What for?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“What purpose would that serve? Everyone I once knew is… long departed.” John felt the weight of the words Sherlock said. His shoulders were slumbered, his voice trembling with the weight of his realization. “ He has triumphed. I have been so utterly foolish . Mycroft was right all along. Oh, Mycroft…” A new cloud of sadness and sudden realization passed over his face, and he lowered his head into his hands.

John was at a loss for words. The sight before him was truly heartbreaking. “I'm very sorry, it should be very difficult. But now you're here, and we can help you.”  

“We…?!”  

“Well, me and Molly…. Doctor Hooper. She's a dear friend of mine, and I fully trust her. Don't worry, she helped me a lot in finding a way to get you out of the capsule. Also brought you the stuff….”  

But Sherlock wasn’t listening anymore; his interest had already vanished. John couldn't push him further. With a quiet sigh, he returned to his laptop, though his gaze kept flicking back to Sherlock, ever watchful.

An hour passed in silence, broken only by the sound of John's fingers typing on the laptop and the rain. Finally, John thought he could use a cuppa and went to the kitchen. Sherlock was still in the same pose. Crossed legs sitting on his made-up seat, leaned back on the cushion. 

John brought him another cup of fresh tea, accompanied by a small piece of chocolate digestive biscuit carefully crumbled onto a teaspoon. This time, the sweet aroma seemed to stir Sherlock from his sorrowful reverie, if only for a moment. He glanced at the cup, hesitated, then lifted it to take a small sip.

If John had been hoping for a thank you, it barely crossed his mind now. Watching Sherlock finally eat and drink something was enough to make him feel a quiet sense of relief.

John had been searching for Sherlock Holmes but didn't find much. He even searched the records for deceased people; and found a birth certificate for one William Scott Sherlock Holmes, January 6, 1854. Could it be the one? No date of death. It only said, missing .

John picked up his small notebook and went to ask more questions. “Sherlock?” 

“Hmm?” 

Good. Seemed like the tea had some magical effects.  

“Is it alright if I ask some questions? I am sorry but I really need more information.” 

Sherlock, with eyes still closed, exhaled a long sigh: “What manner of information?” 

“Well, I have a million questions, but will try hard to stick to a few important ones for now. Alright?” 

A small nod.  

“Good. First of all, you were born in 1854, right? “ 

Sherlock looked a bit touched but answered, “Yes. January 6. Next question?” 

“Good. Good. What do you do? I mean, for life?” 

"I am a consulting detective—the only one of my kind in the world. A profession of my own invention."

“Ehem…alright. So, have you ever heard of “the Professor …” 

Sherlock's eyes suddenly snapped open. 

"Have I heard of him?! The wretched Napoleon of Crime?! James Moriarty is not merely a professor, nor even a man in the truest sense—he is but a spider…And now, true to his word, he has succeeded in reducing my life to ashes..."

Ah! J.M . Now things were getting clearer for John. 

John waited a moment, watching as the fiery anger slowly faded from Sherlock’s face.” So…this Moriarty person, was a scientist? Did he experiment on you? Is it revenge or something? “ 

Sherlock suddenly got up or at least tried to, as his legs seemed to buckle under his weight again. This time John's hand was ready to stop him from falling.  

“Hey, hey- slow down. You are still weak. Why don't you help me with an overall examination? I will be quick.“ 

Sherlock, out of breath, let John put him down on the towel. "No need. I am perfectly fine Dr Watson.”  

“John, please. Any pain?” 

Sherlock was quiet for a few seconds. John felt perhaps he should be more precise, but then he answered. ”My head. And back, mostly erector spinae and latissimus dorsi . Also, quadriceps as well as gastrocnemius and soleus . Mostly muscles cramp. Expectable after being frozen for over a century.”  

It wasn’t exactly what John expected to hear. ”Well …yeah, but still, let me take a closer look, alright?” 

Sherlock made a move that could be translated as a tiny shrug. 

John brought the big standing magnifying glass and turned on its light. Sherlock squinted back before closing his eyes. 

“Sorry, sorry… just a few seconds.”  

John studied Sherlock’s eyes, his skin, his face. The color was much improved since yesterday—still pale, but a marked improvement from the sickly grey it had been before. He still looked too thin and malnourished, but there was progress.

Carefully, John placed his index finger under Sherlock's chin and turned his face. Tiny sharp cheekbones seemed to strain against the taut skin, as though they might break free at any moment. His eyes were deeply sunken, surrounded by dark blue circles. At least, John noted with some relief, Sherlock's skin was warm to the touch now—perhaps a bit too warm, in fact. John wasn’t surprised when he checked his temperature: 39°C. Well, given Sherlock's size, that was expected. Was it his normal temperature? John added this to a notebook he had started keeping for his tiny guest.

John warmed up his old stethoscope and asked Sherlock to lift his Barbie T-shirt so he could listen to his lungs and fast-beating heart. He performed a basic neurological exam, checking for any signs of irregularity. Afterward, he used the small digital scale Molly had brought to weigh Sherlock. Thankfully, it seemed there was no sign of brain damage, though even this brief examination seemed to tire him.

"Alright, amazing. Now rest," John said, tapping very gently on Sherlock’s bony shoulder. "Molly will bring you some proper clothing tomorrow." John paused, considering. "Would you like to join me to watch some television?"

Sherlock slit opened his eyes and gave him a look that could be best interpreted as whatever . John carefully carried his nest of scarf and cushion to the couch and sat by it.

He still felt like he was walking in a dream, but as if watching crap telly with a thawed Victorian mini-man was the most casual way to pass the time. He found the remote and switched the telly on.  

For someone from two centuries ago, facing modern technology for the first time, Sherlock didn’t seem particularly surprised—or interested.  

"Anything in particular you want to watch?" John asked.

"Is this some manner of electronic device for transmitting images through wires?"

“Hmm…yes, in fact it is.” 

“Then anything whatsoever.”  

John contemplated for a second and then turned on the BBC News. Sherlock was still looking indifferent, but John could see him startled seeing the weather forecast. 

"It seems that women have changed considerably over the past century."

John snorted. “You have no idea”. 

The news droned on—global crises, rising gas prices, and finally, a homicide report.  

"Ah, so the world remains as much a mess as ever."  

" More than ever."  

"This is how you gather all your information now? And newspapers as well?"

"Well, yeah, and also the Internet… uh…" John hesitated, realizing he had no idea how to properly explain it. "A global network of connected devices, for instant communication, information sharing. It’s like… like a massive library and postal system combined."  

Sherlock remained quiet, his expression unreadable, but at the mention of information and library , John caught the faintest glimmer in his eyes—just enough to encourage him to continue.  

"You can look up anything, send messages to anyone, anywhere, all from a device in your home."  Yes. Good, Watson. Find something to cheer him up.

Sherlock gave a slight nod before murmuring something too soft for John to catch. John leaned in more, straining to hear. That was something he’d need to sort out soon—the microphone.  

“I said, can I go outside?”  

John leaned back as if snapping out of a dream. Of course. Sherlock was a real, breathing person, though a very tiny one, and he didn’t belong to John. He could leave whenever he wanted.  

Sherlock was watching him, his tiny face pale and exhausted.  

“Of course! You’re a free man; I don’t want to keep you here against your will. If there’s someone I can contact for you, just say the word.”  

He hesitated, then added, “But first… the world’s changed a bit since you, erm… fell asleep. Politically, socially—hell, even technologically. And, well… I did consider handing you over to some government organization, but—” 

He exhaled sharply. “If I’m being honest, I figured you wouldn’t be thrilled about waking up in captivity. Which could have happened. Or worse—you could have ended up as some kind of experiment, and I—”  

Sherlock cut him off, his voice edged with fatigue. “I’ve endured more than my fair share of being experimented upon , don’t you think?”  

John fell silent.  

Sherlock let out a quiet breath. “I’m afraid I have neither living family nor acquaintances left…” His voice wavered, just for a second, before he forced a faint, bitter smile. “That leaves me with few options, I suppose. I must accept my fate, as it seems.”

He looked so small, so defeated, that it twisted something in John’s chest. A lump rose in his throat, making it hard to speak.

“Don't lose hope, there's still lots of things we can find out…maybe even reverse your experiment… 

But Sherlock wasn't listening to him. His eyes were closed and his head bent down slightly.  

“Sherlock…? Are you alright?” 

John extended his index finger and slightly touched his shoulder. Sherlock opened up his eyes.  

“…believe I must rest.” 

"Oh, well. Sure. Let me help you." With some effort from Sherlock, John carefully maneuvered him back into his palm.  

"Er… would it be alright if I moved your bed to my room? That way, I won’t have to worry so much about how you’re doing through the night."  

Sherlock gave an impatient wave of his hand, muttering something unintelligible. John took it as a reluctant yes . Scooping him up in one hand and clutching the miniature bed Molly had brought in the other, he made his way to the bedroom.  

There on the nightstand, he set the tiny bed in place, then gently lowered Sherlock onto it, pulling the blanket over his small frame. For a moment, John hesitated, watching as Sherlock shifted slightly, settling in with a barely audible sigh.  

“I hope it’s comfortable, it wasn’t exactly made for a living person to sleep on…” John murmured, leaning in slightly, waiting for any response.  

"Do not worry, John Watson," Sherlock mumbled, his voice nearly lost to exhaustion. "I’ve rested my head on far less agreeable surfaces, I assure you… My carriage simply needs coaxing t—"  

John huffed a quiet laugh at the peculiar phrasing. With a small shake of his head, he carefully adjusted the blanket over him. Then lingered for a moment, watching the small figure curled on his side, already on the verge of sleep.  

Satisfied, John switched off the nightstand lamp, then reached for his laptop, planning to bring it to bed. Just as he was about to sit, a quiet voice stopped him.  

Although exhausted, John found sleep elusive that night. His mind churned with a thousand thoughts—what to do now, what was right, what was wrong. And beneath it all, a new worry had begun gnawing at him.  

What if people found out about the box? About him and Molly? What if they were now targets? Was someone out there trying to take Sherlock away?  

It had only been two days, yet John felt an unreasonable—no, undeniable—sense of protectiveness toward this tiny man. He supposed it made sense. He didn’t have much family left either, no real ties to speak of. Friends were all he had. A few, but good ones.  

Yesterday, he’d spent hours digging through records, trying to determine whether Sherlock had any living relatives. There were countless Holmeses in London, but tracing them with any certainty was nearly impossible. He needed Sherlock’s help with that.  

But Sherlock hadn’t seemed the least bit interested.

——-

Someone was whispering his name into his ear: 

“ John…. John Watson!!! ” 

Half-asleep, John’s muddled brain registered it as the most bizarre mosquito ever, almost sounding like his name. But then the mosquito started pulling his earlobe. Then it tapped on the tip of his nose. 

What the hell…?!?! 

John’s eyes snapped open, and there, right in front of his face, stood an angry-looking Barbie doll, with a wild mess of dark curls, and a scowl far too intense for a plastic figure.  

His sluggish brain caught up.  Sherlock !

With the sudden remembering, he jerked up on his elbows, sending Sherlock tumbling onto the pillow. 

“Sorry, sorry… what—what are you doing here?” John reached to help him up.  

Sherlock clumsily sat up, batting his hand away with an annoyed huff.

“That rectangular device of yours is shaking non-stop with the word ‘Molly’’ appearing on it. I thought it could be an important matter. “ 

Still confused, John looked at the nightstand. His phone indeed was vibrating. John forgot he left it there last night, picked it up, and answered.  

“Oh, John! Hello!” 

“Hi Molly, sorry I slept in. What time is it?’ 

“Ah…sorry, I should've let you sleep but I was curious how you and your guest are doing. Can I come for a visit? Is everything alright? Need anything?” 

“Hmm…yeah, yeah sure, no…I mean... the stuff you brought already has been so useful. Yeah, clothes, too.” John glanced over at a grumpy Sherlock sitting cross-legged on the pillow glaring at him and his clothes with an air of dissatisfaction  

“Oh really…? Oh, I'm so happy to hear that! I just grabbed whatever was available! Look, I found this online store on Etsy, they are amazing and super quick, I can order some clothes, whatever he likes. I think we just need his measurements.”  

John was still trying to wake up and digest these all. “Ok, let's work on it. and Molly,” 

“What?” 

“Just be careful, OK? “ 

There was a little pause. “OK, John. Sure. See you soon.” 

Sherlock was looking at him quizzically. 

“Well, I stayed up late last night thinking…” 

“About what?” 

“Lots of things. But at the top of them all—your safety. Hmm… do you think these people, organizations, whatever they are—were—might still be around? Are you still in danger?”  

John didn’t say we but the implication was clear.  

Sherlock, however, looked away, his gaze drifting.

"I say, that's precisely why I inquired about sources of knowledge yesterday. Should you lend your assistance, I might find my bearings, and shan't be a burden or cause for alarm to you and your companion." 

“No, no, Sherlock. By no means can you be a burden! I’m just concerned. Whoever was evil enough to do such a thing—we should be afraid of them.”

Sherlock shook his head. "Not a soul believed me when I spoke of Professor Moriarty's monstrous and wicked true nature. I was laughed at and threatened by the courts for accusation and insult. The man had built such a fine reputation at Oxford, with decades of seeming good service and teaching, and a show of humble living, that..." 

Sherlock's voice faded as he drifted back into his thoughts. John waited a few moments, eager to finally hear something about the "professor," but no more words followed.He thought perhaps this was a conversation that needed tea and more waking up. After visiting the bathroom and doing morning routines, he helped Sherlock with his own, then carried him to the kitchen. He made some tea and toast and scrambled eggs, which to his happiness Sherlock tasted a bit of, served in a teaspoon. 

When they finished eating, John poured another cup of tea for both of them and sat close to him in front of the table. 

Sherlock took a long breath, cleared his throat, and began speaking, leaning back against the bread loaf as he nursed his half-full mug.

"It took years of hard work to gather enough evidence to present to the court and bring him to justice. Even then, my brother warned me that such actions would not come without their price. I was abroad when I received word that the villain had disappeared while out on bail."

Sherlock paused, staring at the teaspoon in front of him. When he spoke again, his voice was rough. "I was returning from a case when my carriage was ambushed by masked ruffians, and I was taken. I braced myself for death, feeling little fear—for I had done what was necessary and felt a strange pride in my actions."  

He took a small sip of tea, his grip on the tiny cup steady despite the weight of his words. After a pause, he continued, his tone became quieter.  

"When I opened my eyes in that damp cellar, I saw the professor himself, his gaze burning with a madness I had never seen before. With unsettling delight, he declared that I was the perfect subject for his final experiment."  

Sherlock’s expression darkened. "He went on to say that he had no intention of leaving without me—as both a companion and a token..." His voice trailed off, eyes clouded with something unreadable. "That, I’m afraid, is the last memory I have."  

He looked so troubled, so weary after even that brief recollection, that John decided it was enough for now. Wordlessly, he helped Sherlock to the makeshift cushion seat from yesterday, watching as the tiny man curled in on himself, knees drawn up to his chest.

Chapter Text

Sherlock's legs still struggled to carry his weight, and he reluctantly admitted that he was experiencing dizzy spells. Even speaking for more than a few minutes seemed to exhaust him. John remained hopeful that these were merely the side effects of his long nap and that Sherlock would improve with time. There wasn’t much he could do but give him space while keeping an eye on him as he busied himself with washing up.

Molly showed up in the early evening with another bag of goodies for Sherlock and a bigger bag of curiosity. Sherlock climbed off his “seat” to give her a rather dry but polite greeting, which left Molly blushed and surprised with an open-gaped mouth. Although John had been updating her almost hourly, she didn't expect what she was seeing.  

“Oh, hi! I’m Molly! Glad you feel better, Sherlock.” Sherlock shook a head and grumbled something inaudible which made Molly bend over him.  

"I suggested that you should allow your ginger cat to roam outdoors from time to time, as it seems to have a dislike for the tabby one."

Molly, and turned to John, stunned. “Did you tell him about my cats…?!” 

“Not a word! Sherlock, how…” 

Then remembered he never asked Sherlock how the hell he knew about his profession or Afghanistan. 

But before asking the question, he remembered,  “Oh Molly, could you find it…?” 

“Oh, oh, yes! As you said.” Molly dragged herself out of shock and drew a box out of her bag. ”The guy in the store said it's the lightest they have, and also has a very good range working with Bluetooth. “ 

John whispered to her, “Oh thanks a lot, how much do I owe you…? I’m getting my next check this week…” 

“Oh John, come on, don’t mention it! It was me who suggested bringing stuff, remember?” Molly whispered back, smiling as she started unboxing the item.  

It was the smallest lapel microphone John had ever seen, and the descriptions on the website were accurate. Glad that he spent the time searching for it, John tried to briefly and quickly explain to Sherlock what a microphone was and how it worked, to which he didn't show much interest. Instead, he took the mic and held it in his hands, staring at it as if it were some curious, oversized fruit.

John installed the app and asked Sherlock to speak into the mic. Sherlock hesitated, frowned at them, then at the mic in his hands. After a moment, he cleared his throat and said, "Hello."

 Both Molly and John were taken aback by the depth and richness of his voice. Was this how he normally sounded?

John cleared his throat. “Uhm... awesome! Now we can hear you loud and clear. You don't have to push yourself hard anymore to talk to us, and I can hear you anywhere in the house.“  

John made some final adjustments to the app settings for the best, most normal level of voice, and then they decided that hanging the mic like a large necklace around Sherlock’s neck might be a good solution. It would keep it close to him without getting in the way, and Sherlock wouldn’t have to worry about holding it. 

Molly dragged a small freezer bag out of her purse and put it in front of Sherlock on the table, 

“Here, I got some other pieces of clothing for you. Sorry that you had to put on Barbie stuff, not really your style, is it?” 

Sherlock just gave her a look. 

Molly continued, ”There are some sort of underwear and socks, probably a bit big for you, but…” 

Sherlock snapped, now clearly audible with the help of the mic, "Very well! I am most grateful for your kindness, ma'am - Doctor Hooper. If you'll forgive me, I find I need a bit of solitude. John, could I trouble you to escort me back to your room?"

John complied and deposited Sherlock and his new bag of accessories on the nightstand, which now turned into Sherlock's temporary bedroom, and came back to Molly.  

“You look tired, John,” Molly said sympathetically. “Couldn't sleep, could you?“

"I'm worried, Molly. Not just about him, but also you. I already feel bad for dragging you into this. Maybe I’d better..."

"Oh, John, stop! This is probably the best thing that’s happened to me in years! I'm so happy you trusted me with this and told me! And I'm even happier to help. Please, don’t think like that again." 

Then, before John could say more, she pulled another small baggie from her purse—a tiny Victorian-style tea set. “Well, last night, when you said he accepted the tea, I thought he might like this. My granny gave it to me for my seventh birthday; it used to be hers. It’s vintage and very dear to me.”

John grinned—a vintage tea set for a vintage fellow. Well, in fact, it could be quite useful. They needed plates.

----

The next morning, John woke to find Sherlock meditating on his bed. It seemed he had decided to regain his strength, as he made an effort to eat some crumbs of toast and eggs John had given him—even tasting a bit of leftover Indian food later. He told John his headache had improved and that his eyesight was nearly as sharp as before.

Now that they had the mic and conversation had become much easier, John ached for more information—not that getting Sherlock to talk was ever easy. He answered some questions but ignored most. When John asked how he knew about his and Molly’s background, Sherlock simply gave an arrogant reply: “Elementary, Watson. Elementary.”

Sherlock showed little interest in anything, still looking downcast and silent, even with the microphone. The only thing that seemed to catch his attention was John’s phone. He asked to see it, and after a brief explanation about smartphones, John propped it up on a book in front of him.

He sat cross-legged before it for hours, utterly captivated by the touch screen and keyboard. His fascination was so intense that John had to dig out his old phone and adjust the fonts and keyboard to the smallest possible size. From that moment on, Sherlock sat quietly, absorbed in reading and searching. John tried offering him food and water in his small china set, but they remained untouched.

John was starting to suspect that Sherlock’s thin frame wasn’t just the result of his prolonged hibernation, but also a consequence of his questionable eating habits. The thought was hardly reassuring.

By evening, John had to finally take the phone from Sherlock, much to his loud objection. He told Sherlock he had to eat if he wanted the phone back. Sherlock pouted for a while but eventually relented, eating some mashed beans while avoiding the sherds of broccoli.

“Food has become so bland. Barely edible”, he exclaimed. 

John replied with a mock butler voice, "Is there anything His Highness prefers to eat? A special recipe, perhaps...?"

“Well, do you still have fish and chips in London?” 

Hehe, John thought to himself, so much for the arrogant posh Victorian gentleman. 

“Alright, I'll see if I can get you some.” 

John hesitated, reluctant to leave Sherlock alone, but after warning him not to attempt any dangerous things, unlikely climbing or descending, he grabbed his keys and jacket and stepped out.  A cold, wet breeze welcomed him, and he realized with a jolt that he hadn’t left the flat for four days! Walking outside felt refreshing, and he was still surprised by the lack of serious pain in his leg. It was hard to believe, and not needing the cane was almost unbelievable.

He stopped by his favorite pub for a beer, grabbed some fish and chips and cookies, and made his way back home. When he entered, he noticed the phone was off, and Sherlock was curled up on his side, facing away from the room.

John called out to him quietly, but there was no response. He tried nudging him gently on the shoulder, and Sherlock only answered with a soft groan. Concerned, John asked, "Hey, Sherlock, you alright?" Still no answer.

John moved closer, turning the little bed towards him. Sherlock groaned louder, folding himself in even tighter.

“Are you in pain? What hurts?” 

“My head”, Sherlock finally slurred 

John dragged the big magnifying glass and turned Sherlock’s head a bit to see his face. Sherlock opened his bloodshot eyes and scrunched them with a louder groan. “Leave me alone!” 

John sat back with a worried frown. He wished he could give him some painkillers, but how much? 

John checked his notebook again for Sherlock’s weight, and after a good deal of calculations, he figured out roughly how much he should scrape off a paracetamol tablet. He then made Sherlock take it with some water, hoping it would help ease his pain.

The tiny detective slept the rest of the evening and into the next day.  

----

“How's the head?” 

After a long pause, a muffled answer came from Sherlock, still not looking up. He remained sitting with his knees pulled to his chest. 

“Better”. 

Sherlock started the day fully cocooned on his bed, curled up like a shrimp. John couldn’t help but feel a wave of worry creep over him again. He had to bring his mini bed to the kitchen, to have an eye on the tiny man while working.

“Hey, you need to eat something. And drink your tea”.

“I want my telephone back”. 

“And give yourself another migraine again…? You can't fill a century and a half of missing information in a short time! Give yourself a break.” 

“Telephone, Watson! I require information!” 

“Nope.”  

“John!!!” 

“Food first.” 

Sherlock picked up his tea angrily.  

“Toast, too,” John said. “I also brought you chips last night, but you were asleep, so I ate them myself.”

"I am BORED, Watson! Do you not see? And I haven't even my pistol to shoot it out!"

“Your pistol…?!”

“It used to help me!”

“Well, I don’t think that can be an option now. If you’re good and finish your food, maybe I can see what I can do.”

“Do not treat me like this, John Watson. I am no child!”

“Oh really…?! Then maybe you should stop acting like one.”

That brought a sudden shift to Sherlock’s face. “Mycroft used to say that,” he murmured sadly.

John paused, his hands still in the soapy water, and looked at him. A deep, unspoken sadness seemed to hang in the air.

“How many siblings do you have?”

“Just an older brother.”  

John tried to find something comforting to say but couldn’t. Instead, he broke off a small piece of chocolate chip cookie, which Sherlock showed some interest in, and placed it on one of the new tea set saucers, silently offering it.

Sherlock took the plate like a robot and put it on his lap. He slowly took a bite of the cookie. It was such a sad image that John felt his eyes stringing. Embarrassed, he turned back to the sink and busied himself with the dishes. 

John waited for Sherlock to ask for his "reward"—the phone—but to his surprise, Sherlock retreated further into his blanket cocoon and remained there, ignoring John's questions for the rest of the day. After a while, John couldn’t stand it anymore. He decided to check on him, no matter what. He walked over to the nightstand and gently shook the tiny detective, calling his name.

“Sherlock, are you alright? Time for some dinner.” The tiny cocoon was shivering. Worry gnawed at him, and he gently pulled the blanket away. Sherlock had curled into the tiniest sweaty, pale ball. A muttered curse escaped John's lips—how could he not have checked on him sooner? Did he have a fever? 

John tried to touch his forehead. Sherlock shivered and murmured something. John found the microphone by the bed and turned it on. Sherlock murmured: "I say, might you fetch me a bit of cocaine? " 

Johns's eyebrows disappeared under his fringe. ”Cocaine…?!” 

 “Yes…the Peruvian tunic. Some good extract…. preferably a seven percent solution, but no, I can’t use it now…. I'd ask for morphine but that would be impossible too, considering….” 

John cut him off, “You should know that cocaine and opioids are highly illegal now, there's no way I let you torture your already weakened body anyway! You're telling me you are an addict…?!” 

“I am not an addict, I'm a user. I alleviate boredom and occasionally heighten my thought processes….”

 “That's enough! There are no drugs. I'm sorry. You have to try and get clean.”  

Chapter Text

The last thing John ever imagined he’d experience with his tiny guest was going through ten days of hellish withdrawal. The first few days, he seriously considered turning Sherlock over to the Army or any other authorities, thinking that he wouldn’t survive this ordeal. The idea of letting go was tempting, but John couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Molly, however, came through with some medication and stayed up two nights to keep a close eye on their suffering guest, giving John a much-needed chance to rest. There wasn’t much they could do other than keep him hydrated, offering water, juice, and the occasional tea, while gently wiping Sherlock's sweaty face and head with a damp tissue, doing their best to keep him cool. Every passing hour felt like a battle, but John refused to give up.

On the third day, Sherlock’s symptoms worsened, and John’s worry deepened. He had never wished for an IV more in his life as Sherlock was unable to keep any liquid down. After a violent bout of unproductive retching, Sherlock collapsed onto his bed, unconscious.

John quickly grabbed the large magnifying glass and stethoscope, his heart pounding in his chest as he inspected Sherlock more closely. He checked his pulse—740 bpm, really?!—it was alarming. His hands trembled as he gently felt Sherlock’s arms, carefully examining the skin. Old scars, unmistakable track marks, now visible. They told a grim story of a long-term habit, and John’s heart sank. 

But as horrible as it was, once again, Sherlock surprised John by pulling through another rough patch and surviving. Despite the relentless pain and the toll on his body, he fought on. John watched in awe as, little by little, the worst seemed to ebb away. 

By the fifth day, Sherlock was still quite grumpy, but noticeably better. It seemed like the worst of the withdrawal was behind him, leaving him physically drained but mentally more present. When John suggested a bath and some broth, Sherlock, though begrudging, agreed—his pride still intact but the need for basic care undeniable. John was happy that Molly had brought those new pieces of clothing. 

But after the bath, he ignored John's requests and questions, and when John persisted, he simply turned off his microphone and pushed it off the shelf, showing he was not open to any conversation.  

 “I cannot believe you let me suffer!“ Those were his words the next morning.

 “It was for your own good, Sherlock. Even if I could find you drugs, in your current state…” 

 “You're a doctor - of course, you could find some! You just didn't want to!” 

John tried to explain more about being a doctor these days, but Sherlock simply rolled over, facing away from the room. The entire day passed with Sherlock either asleep or sulking—John couldn't quite tell which.

After the harrowing days of withdrawal, it seemed even more absurd to reason with Sherlock about smoking. If drugs were illegal, tobacco wasn’t, and Sherlock had insisted that he had checked.

"Come now, John, light a cigarette or two and leave them here, so that I might at least enjoy the scent!"

 He argued that if John could bring him some cigarettes, he could fashion his own, now that he can’t find a pipe his size. But John wasn’t willing to take any risks with Sherlock’s unknown respiratory condition.

It was Molly, after hearing about Sherlock's constant complaints and threats, who suggested they help him quit with the aid of nicotine patches. In Sherlock's case, it meant cutting the smallest piece possible. John once again found himself deep in calculations, estimating the right dosage of nicotine for such a small frame. After much deliberation, he settled on a tiny sliver of a low-dose patch- seven milligrams. Cutting the patch into such precise segments proved to be a tedious task, one that left John questioning his own sanity midway through.

John was beside himself with worry as he offered the nicotine patch to the grumpy lump under the covers. He gave Sherlock clear instructions and, though Sherlock barely acknowledged him, John sat vigilantly, watching for any signs of overdose. At least with the patch, Sherlock became a little more cooperative and managed to eat a few bites of his food. It seemed the tiny detective was a hardcore smoker—within thirty minutes, he was asking for another patch, and again an hour later. John, however, refused to give him one after a meal, determined to keep some control over the situation.

Watching Sherlock's face and witnessing his catharsis was heartbreaking, and John reminded himself not to be too harsh. After all, Sherlock had endured withdrawal without any medication to ease the process. He was so depressed and weak that he didn't even feel like using the phone, and it remained off on the nightstand for days, untouched.

John tried playing some music for Sherlock, asking about his preferences. After an initial round of being ignored, Sherlock finally named Paganini and Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto. John found the pieces on YouTube, thinking it might lift Sherlock's spirits. The music seemed to help, and for the first time in days, Sherlock felt good enough to join John for dinner. He even tried mushroom risotto, for the first time.

------

The day began with a familiar, complaining voice from the frustrated detective: “I find myself in need of assistance with my shaving and hair trimming!”

John hadn’t thought much about how Sherlock was going to manage such tasks, while they were so focused on making sure he survived. To his defense, Sherlock didn’t have much hair growing on his pale face, so it wasn’t immediately obvious he needed a shave.

John couldn’t help but sympathize a little. He imagined how frustrating it must be for Sherlock, and thought about how he would feel if he couldn’t shave for such a long time.

But where on earth could he find a suitable shaving device for such a tiny man?
John spent a good hour pondering various methods and contraptions. At last, he struck on an idea: cutting a small piece of a disposable razor blade and mounting it onto a toothpick to serve as a handle.

He handed Sherlock a dollop of shaving cream in a bottle cap, and the detective’s eyes lit up with excitement, finally being able to shave over a week - no, a century and a half - old stubble off his face. John sweetened the moment by assuring him that the makeshift razor could be replaced whenever needed. Seeing Sherlock so genuinely happy and absorbed in the task brought warmth to John’s heart.

While Sherlock was busy with his grooming, John set to work on another small innovation: crafting a toothbrush from a paintbrush bristle. Not typically one for crafts, he felt a rare sense of pride at his creation—his finest handiwork since fourth grade. Mrs. Simons would be impressed. 

After Sherlock’s second bath, it was their turn to find him something to comb and tame his hair. Once again, Molly came to the rescue: bringing along a cleaned, old mascara brush. John trimmed the tip, and while it wasn’t perfect and didn’t fully satisfy his tiny, perpetually grumpy guest, it served as a temporary solution—at least for the moment.

Unfortunately, the requested “Macassar oil” and “Brilliantine” to slick back his hair was nowhere to be found. The alternative—hand cream—wasn’t much of a success, though John couldn’t quite figure out why. Sherlock, on the other hand, wasn’t sure if it was the quality of the new hair products, the water, or if the so-called comb was simply useless for the task.

John eventually suggested using some of his conditioner and set out to find a good shampoo for curly, dry hair. After scouring options, he ordered a few samples, hoping one might meet Sherlock’s impossible standards.

As expected, Sherlock rejected each one for a variety of reasons: this one smelled too strong, that one was too runny, and another was just off for reasons only he could detect. Finally, he approved of a pricey shampoo with a crisp scent of mint and eucalyptus. Thankfully, he only needed a mini droplet each time!

John secretly thought Sherlock’s unruly hair looked perfect as it was. The new hair routine didn’t alter his appearance much, but it made the curls more defined and bouncy, though Sherlock remained dissatisfied with them.

John, however, found himself making excuses to touch those curls. Occasionally.

"Well, I suppose that, since I am already wandering about like a foolish bohemian artist—without a hat, tie, or proper attire—it is only fitting to have hair like this as well," a defeated Sherlock finally grumbled one morning. 

After a long and meticulous bath, followed by shaving, hair care, and styling, John couldn’t help but stare at Sherlock. Even dressed in ill-fitting clothes and his loose, new blue Ken robe, he looked utterly astonishing—like a nicely made figurine. 

It wasn’t just the hair, John found every excuse to study Sherlock closely through the big magnifying glass, captivated by every tiny detail. But as Sherlock’s health improved, the distance between them seemed to grow wider. John found himself missing the simple intimacy of touching him—his soft hair, the warmth of his skin. Missed feeling that subtle yet rapid, bird-like heartbeat fluttering beneath his fingertips again.

So when Sherlock finally suggested that John help trim his unruly hair— This confounded hair is utterly disheveled, oh dear… augh! —John was ecstatic. The task was done with a pair of eyebrow scissors and the eyebrow "brush" Molly had brought. John felt guilty that he didn’t wait for busy Molly to come and do it. It wasn’t the finest haircut, but the expensive styling product John had found for bouncy curls worked wonders on Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock nagged and complained throughout, yet somehow seemed content with the result. In the end, after an hour of sitting in front of a pocket mirror, he managed to master a new hairstyle, one that seemed to become his new look.

Each morning, John carried Sherlock to the bathroom for his bath in the same small bowl he’d used from the start. He’d already begun planning a proper bathtub for Sherlock, another way to make his life more comfortable. He tolerated all of Sherlock's grumpiness, huffs, puffs, and orders, simply relieved to see him recovering. At least he had emerged from his slumber.

Chapter Text

It took over ten days for Sherlock to completely recover from withdrawal, spending most of them either sitting in a corner,  wrapped in the oversized robe Molly had bought him, mostly napping, sometimes taking a look at the phone. 

His physical health slowly improved, but his mental state didn't quite keep pace, and remained quiet and aloof. After their explosive conversation, where Sherlock had accused John of “letting him suffer,” John could sense that Sherlock was still upset and cross with him. Sherlock spoke to Molly more than to John, seemingly preferring her company. Molly even finally convinced Sherlock to help them with his measurements; John’s request for the same had been met with stony silence.

John desperately wanted to repair the rift and regain Sherlock’s trust, but he didn’t know how. All he could do was give him space and be patient.

The rest of February passed almost peacefully, with Sherlock slowly gaining his health and strength back, and John learning more and more about him, day by day. Sherlock still wasn’t very helpful with that, and John had to mostly rely on his own observations and deductions and was confident with his progress.

Sherlock had almost gotten used to being carried around the house in John’s palm, though his face always betrayed his utter dissatisfaction with this method of transportation. John had set up a safe area for him on the cushion by the window and another on the kitchen table, complete with a few small items Sherlock could use as furniture. Yet, Sherlock mostly preferred to spend his time alone in the bedroom, next to the phone.

----

John was happy that Sherlock’s appetite was back - well, somewhat - and he accepted some food John gave him.  

John allocated a section in his “Sherlock notebook” to his tastes and preferences: food, music, etc. Since Sherlock seldom vocalized about his pallets, John had to use trial and error and discover it himself mostly. This week, he added: 

food he likes :  

• Apples
•  bananas  
• oolong tea 

Dislikes:  

• Kiwis 
• Asparagus 
• cooked cabbage smell 
• Most herbal tea 

John couldn’t wait for him to feel good enough and taste some new cuisines. He also got him chips again, though that didn’t seem like the healthiest choice now for the patient. Sherlock lukewarmly welcomed it, and rejected the fish: "It does not have the scent of a true animal.” 

With drug withdrawal over and eating habits getting closer to average, Sherlock started moving around more like a normal person—well, normal for his size. John found him meditating, stretching, and once doing some special exercise. To his quizzing look, Sherlock explained, “Bartitsu. I have been practicing since I was twelve."

On Day eighteen after “defrosting”, John brought in the scale again and weighed the complaining Sherlock. He had lost some weight, but John remained optimistic. With his improved eating habits and shifting mood, John was confident that Sherlock would regain it, and maybe even gain a little more. 

The diminished detective gradually became more open, and each day they had a bit more time to talk. He even reluctantly answered some questions about his life and work from before. John began offering him breaks from his long hours of research and study in front of the phone, bringing him tea and biscuit crumbs, asking questions, some of which—though not always—were answered.

Sherlock had stubbornly reverted to calling him Watson or Doctor again—at least for a few days.

One morning, after being jolted awake by yet another loud "Watson!" , John finally snapped.

“John. Please! You make me feel like I’m back in the army.”

Sherlock hesitated. “Er… so people just call each other by their Christian names all the time now?”

“Well, at least flatmates do.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Are we flatmates?”

John glanced around the room and shrugged. “Well, I guess so.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, considering. Then, with a small nod, he answered thoughtfully, “Very well, then.”

Research and collecting more data remained Sherlock’s main interest and obsession, and John had thought it would be impossible for him to grow bored with the phone and the internet. But then, one day, another week after recovering from detoxing, as John typed away on his laptop, he suddenly heard a loud yell from the bedroom:

"BOOOORED!!"

He began nagging, demanding experiments, insisting that as a graduate chemist, he needed proper equipment. The same afternoon, his eyes gleamed with excitement, learning that Molly worked at the morgue. “Can I come with you?” he asked eagerly, his voice practically buzzing with curiosity.

Molly shook her head with a firm smile. “Absolutely not.”

“Well, perhaps you could bring me some parts to experiment with instead?”

Molly’s face was a picture of disbelief as she blinked rapidly at him. For a moment, she seemed caught between shock and amusement. “What—Sherlock! You can’t be serious!”

Sherlock, in all his scientific enthusiasm, nodded. “For experiments, of course. You know, to study the decay rates or the effects of exposure to different chemicals…”

“No!”

“A fingertip, maybe? An eyeball…?” His voice trailed off.

“No!!”

Sherlock let out a dramatic sigh, clearly unimpressed by her refusal. “Such a waste of opportunity,” unsatisfied, Sherlock left to pout behind his phone in silence.

The next morning, John was startled awake by Sherlock shouting. He bolted upright, eyes darting around, only to find Sherlock locked in a struggle with a couple of ants—just ordinary sugar ants, but sizable enough for him. One of them must have bitten him awake.

There were more biscuit crumbs around Sherlock’s bed than John had realized. With a sigh, he quickly got rid of the intruders and applied some cream to the bite, making a mental note to be more careful about bugs. Thankfully, the flat wasn’t prone to infestations, but suddenly, an old childhood memory flashed through John’s mind—some film he’d seen ages ago, where a tiny person battled a massive spider.

He shook the thought away. Let’s hope we never get to that point.

In a panic, John spent the first half of the day obsessively deep-cleaning every corner of the room, hunting for spiders, insects, and any lurking creepy crawlers. Every shadowy gap between furniture was inspected, and every dusty corner was wiped down. By the time he was done, the place was practically sterile—though Sherlock, perched on the bookshelf with an amused expression, pointed out that John was probably overreacting.

Sherlock, however, didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. Instead, he requested that John give him one of the dead ants for examination and, naturally, some experimentation. At last, a glimmer of satisfaction flickered across his face. He was happy!

Chapter Text

Throughout the rest of February, Sherlock’s time was split between intense curiosity—immersed in the internet, taking notes, and searching—or complete silence and inactivity. John referred to these moments as "dark moods," where Sherlock would do nothing but curl into a ball in his seat or turn into a little shrimp on his bed, turning off his microphone, much to John’s frustration. He ignored every attempt John made to start a conversation or feed him.

Molly believed these were part of his coping mechanism and that he simply needed time. John, of course, was determined to give him that, but patience had never been one of his strengths. The lack of communication, and being in the dark, made him cranky.

Of course, Sherlock had every right to be this way. Having shrunk to this size, out of time, losing everyone he knew—wasn’t that enough to feel depressed? John couldn’t help but imagine himself in Sherlock’s place. What would he do if it happened to him? Well, he wasn’t particularly attached to many people or family, but the thought of losing his tiny circle was bad enough. He didn’t even want to think about the size part.

John longed for long walks, especially now that he didn’t need his cane anymore, but he was hesitant to leave Sherlock alone. So, he spent most of his time in the tiny flat, writing entries for his blog that he never published. He even started a sci-fi story about a lonely man finding a tiny alien, but deleted it by the end of the day.

He knew that soon he would have to sit down and have a serious talk with Sherlock—about what they both wanted to do and Sherlock’s plans for the future. But every time, he put it off.

Sherlock remained cold, distant, and largely uncommunicative. But John’s real reason for avoiding the conversation was the fear that Sherlock might want to leave him. He was grateful that Molly had her cats, making it practically impossible for Sherlock to stay with her.

Since Sherlock had unexpectedly entered his life, everything had transformed—his once monotonous existence had become a vibrant, unpredictable adventure. Some days, John woke up and wondered if it was all just a crazy dream. The first thing he would do each morning was glance over at the nightstand, making sure it wasn’t.

John couldn’t get enough of the enthusiasm and wonder that came with discovering more about his little friend. It wasn’t just Sherlock’s size that fascinated him; everything about him and his brilliant mind was spectacular. Sometimes, John couldn’t help but wonder how Sherlock looked in his own time, at his actual size. How many friends did he have? How popular was he among people who appreciated his intelligence? And, surprisingly, once, he found himself wondering—did Sherlock have a significant other?

He had heard Sherlock mention his brother, but he knew little about the rest of his family. He didn’t have the heart to ask. The mere mention of his brother had always seemed to weigh heavily on Sherlock, and John, eager to avoid drawing them both back into those dark clouds, chose not to press further into Sherlock’s past.

John wondered why there was no record of Sherlock Holmes as a detective. Sherlock explained that, as a private investigator, he had worked hard to stay in the shadows—his brother had even assisted in that. Most of his cases went unnoticed, and no one knew he had solved them. All the credit and honor went to Scotland Yard.

It was a cloudy Tuesday, a week after recovering from withdrawal, when, at the end of a whole day of silence, Sherlock finally agreed to turn the mic on and answer some basic questions. He accepted the cup of tea, settling into his pile of bedding, staring off into the air before suddenly speaking about how vain and useless his brain had become.

John didn’t know how to respond. Sherlock continued, speaking as though to the wall, "All the information I gathered over a lifetime, about people, about everything, is useless now. Utterly useless. Twenty-seven years of education for nothing. Now, I am a middle-aged man with a brain full of nonsense."

John raked his own brain for a suitable answer, but, trying not to grin at the last sentence, he couldn't come up with anything better than, "Well... I understand it must be very difficult to update your information. I know... but remember, erm, in modern times, you could still be a university student, with much less knowledge or education…”

Sherlock suddenly turned to him. “I’m not merely referring to academic education, Watson! I speak of my life education! It is gained through observation and experience, and takes a lifetime to attain! People have changed entirely! Everything has changed!" And he dug his hand in his unruly curls.

John recalled Ella’s words about how sometimes being just a listener is the best thing one can do, and tried not to offer any fake, positive advice. He wanted to tell Sherlock that maybe he could focus on the positives and figure out how to make the best of it his changes. How? Well... even he didn’t know.

The next day, Sherlock asked John for something he could write with. John never imagined that someday he’d spent that much time Googling miniatures, and was also surprised by the sheer number of sites and people selling such items. He hadn’t been very hopeful about finding pencils small enough to actually be usable, but not only did he find them in various colors, he also stumbled upon miniature notebooks. To his surprise, he even found a more sophisticated, handmade leather-bound journal, though it was a bit larger than ideal.

Sherlock accepted the pencils and journal with a critical, serious expression, examining them carefully. A low, thoughtful, "thank you" was all he said. But John knew he liked them, as Sherlock didn’t stop scribbling in his notebook every day, even though the miniature pencils were still too large for him. The journal became his personal logbook, which he kept tucked safely under his bed.

John was happy to prepare whatever Sherlock requested, hoping to pull him out of his sad thoughts and distract him from his craving for drugs. So, when Sherlock asked for tools and instruments for experiments, John did his best to help him gather them as well.

When Sherlock wasn’t working, John found him falling asleep, not only in his bed but mostly in all random places, anywhere that he couldn’t stay awake anymore: in the middle of open books, over an “experiment”, more than once on John’s pillow. 

He also learned how to turn on and off the lamp on the nightstand, and a few times in the middle of the night, John woke up, seeing him checking something on his phone or taking notes.

It was one of his prolonged “absent moments,” where he sat motionless, staring at the wall with his hands steepled under his chin. The silence stretched into an hour, and John’s concern grew. Worried that Sherlock might be experiencing some kind of brain damage or an absence seizure, he finally leaned in and shook him gently.

Sherlock blinked out of his trance, loudly objecting to the interruption. Later, with an air of exasperated superiority, he explained that he had been “working,” as if that were the most obvious thing in the world.

 “Yes, Watson, I was in my Mind Sanctum .”

“Don’t call me that - your what ..??”

Sherlock closed his eyes and let out a long, dramatic sight, "One's brain is like an empty chamber, meant to be furnished with materials of one's choosing. It should be kept in meticulous order, so the necessary facts may be retrieved with ease when needed. Mine was once a finely organized space, my Mind Sanctum , as I called it. But alas, it has grown seriously disordered—cluttered with relics of outdated knowledge and coated in the dust of passing time."

He ended his peculiar description with a bitter grin, then muttered softly, as if speaking only to himself, “It seems I must undertake a grand reconstruction—demolishing entire wings, archiving volumes now rendered obsolete, and discarding the superfluous altogether. Only then may I reclaim enough space to house the new and pertinent knowledge."

John left him to his own devices for the rest of the day after that little lecture.

There was no further mention of the "Mind Sanctum" until the next day when John asked Sherlock to leave the phone alone for a few minutes and join him on the couch for dinner and some TV. To John’s surprise, Sherlock reluctantly agreed.

John had been craving tomato soup all day, so he whipped some up, pairing it with a cheese toastie. He served Sherlock his share in his tiny dishes, though Sherlock barely glanced at them, clearly uninterested.

After flipping through the channels, John settled on some utterly ridiculous reality show, the sort he only watched when he needed background noise. To his astonishment, Sherlock seemed absorbed in it, his eyes narrowing at the screen as the drama unfolded. By the end of the show, Sherlock was practically yelling at the characters, his frustration boiling over in sharp, cutting remarks.

John couldn’t help but laugh. "You do realize they’re not actually there, right?" he teased, barely holding back his amusement.

Sherlock gave him a stinking look. “Don’t mock me, Watson. I am perfectly aware of how television broadcasting works.” He replied icily, ”It doesn’t make their idiocy any less infuriating. This show is utterly absurd."

John mentally kicked himself, remembering how insecure Sherlock was about his outdated knowledge—one of the reasons he had been so withdrawn lately. Nice job, John, he thought, wishing he had bitten his tongue. Trying to recover, he forced an indifferent tone.

“And how is that…?”

“The man, Watson. His shirt—of course, he’s the father! Look at the collar….” Sherlock replied as if the answer was painfully obvious.

John couldn’t see anything wrong with the mentioned collar and remained thoroughly confused.

 Sherlock must have noticed his bewilderment, as he rolled his eyes dramatically and added, “The stitching, John! It’s frayed unevenly—clearly done by hand. Only someone emotionally attached would bother to repair such an ordinary garment instead of replacing it. Combine that with the man’s body language: the microexpressions of guilt and protectiveness. Obvious.”

John blinked, still not entirely convinced but unwilling to argue. “Right… of course.”

Sherlock’s voice grew more intense as he continued. "And then there’s the body language. When the man sat down, there was a brief moment of hesitation—his right hand hovered near his chest, as though he instinctively wanted to protect something. His face was neutral, but for a fraction of a second, his expression tightened, almost as if bracing himself for a question."

John raised an eyebrow, still processing the information. Sherlock smiled faintly, pleased with his own analysis.

“Then, consider his reaction when he spoke of his child. A moment of defensiveness. It’s a common trait in those who have something to hide—especially when it involves a relationship with a child. The sudden desire to over explain, to point out trivial details like the shirt, was a subconscious effort to avoid addressing something deeper. His attachment to the shirt is a form of emotional denial.”

Sherlock’s detailed, rapid-fire explanation of deductions made John’s spoon freeze on the way to his mouth.

Sherlock stared at him quizzically. “Problem?”

John blinked a few times, still processing what he’d just heard. “Uhum…that—was amazing, Sherlock. Is that…is that what you used to do, back in your time?”

Sherlock sighed, his expression remaining neutral, though a subtle shift in his posture suggested he appreciated the compliment more than he was letting on. "I suppose you could say so," he muttered, his eyes briefly flickering away as if trying to mask a rare moment of satisfaction. "That’s simply observing, Doctor."

"Heh, it’s definitely not simple . Wow."

"Well, it used to work well."

"But you could deduce me and Molly pretty accurately."

"Did I?"

"Yeah, everything you said was spot on."

Sherlock looked at him, a faint smile tugging at his lips before his expression shifted back to seriousness.

The silence stretched again, but John wasn’t ready to let it settle. He seized the moment, speaking up after a minute.

“Well…you’re right about huge changes, but I bet lots of basics are the same about human beings, right? I mean…you said personal items tell a lot about their owners?”

Sherlock gave a short, contemplative nod. “I believe so.”

John smiled, “So, what can you deduce , from my phone then? Do you want to look at it again?”

John couldn’t let this opportunity to engage Sherlock in a conversation slip by. Sherlock seemed reluctant, contemplating for a moment before giving a slight shrug. John placed the object in front of him.

Sherlock barely shifted from his spot on the Union Jack pillow. He craned his neck slightly, quickly glancing at both sides of the item. After a brief, uninterested pause, he sank back into his original position, looking defeated,

“Well…I’m afraid I can’t say enough. My knowledge of mobile telephones is still fairly limited.” 

John hesitated for a moment, realizing that perhaps the object he'd chosen hadn't been the best one. He cleared his throat and, with forced lightness, said, "Well, no worries, it was just a game... in time. But you know, I still want to know how you figured out my profession."

" That wasn’t difficult. The first time I saw you, I noted your face was tanned, but there was no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad, though not sunbathing. You were tired and sleepless, yet you held yourself upright, even with the traces of a freshly healed serious injury on your left shoulder. Military personnel. That indicates the original injury was traumatic. Wounded in action, I’d say – Afghanistan. Of course, I had no inkling of the time change then, but surprisingly, and sadly, some things never change. Our country’s foreign policies remain one of them."

John realized his mouth was hanging open, staring in disbelief. Sherlock was waiting—either for an answer or some reaction. He cleared his throat and nodded, trying to regain composure. "Right, right. But..."

 “I'm afraid there is not much I could deduce about your brother from the device.” 

“My brother …?!”

"Your telephone. It seems quite costly, yes, I’ve gathered that much - the fruit emblem is unmistakable, and I can discern the model number clearly. But considering the flat you now occupy—no offense—it would be unlike you to waste money on such an item. You already had another, and given your frugality, it’s highly improbable you would replace it while the old one still functions. So, it’s a gift, then. The scratches, not just one but many, have accumulated over time. It’s been carried with keys and coins. The man sitting by my side would never treat his one luxury item with such neglect, pre-owned then. The next part is simple. You already know it."

John muttered: “The engraving.”

" Harry Watson is clearly a family member who gifted you his old phone. Not your father—this is a young man’s device. It could be a cousin, but given that you are a war hero who cannot afford a decent place to live, it seems unlikely you have a large family, especially not one you are particularly close to. So, it must be your brother. Now, who is Clara ? Three kisses indicate some level of romantic involvement. Given the expense of the phone, it points to a wife, not just a lady companion.

"Marriage in trouble, then - he has just given it away. If she had left him, he would have kept it - sentimental. But no, he wanted to rid himself of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you: which indicates he wants you to stay in touch. You’re seeking inexpensive accommodation, but not turning to your brother for help: that suggests you have issues with him. Perhaps you were fond of his wife, or maybe you can't stand his drinking."

“How can you possibly know about the drinking?”

Sherlock shrugged: "A shot in the dark. The power connection: tiny scuff marks around the edge. Every night, he goes to attach it to the electricity, but his hands are trembling. I doubt you'd see such marks on a sober man's phone, as your old one is free of such, though I may be mistaken. Mobile phones, you see, have become the most personal and intimate of possessions, replacing pocket watches. One can learn much about their owner by simply observing them."

Sherlock looked at the telly, pretending to be indifferent, but biting his nails nervously as he awaited John’s reaction.

John now put the spoon in the forgotten bowl. He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “That... was amazing .”

Sherlock looked up, so surprised that he couldn’t even reply for the next four seconds. Then, finally, slowly, he said: “Do you think so?”

“Of course, it was. It was quite… extraordinary.”

Sherlock was taken aback. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully, then finally said, "That was not what people generally said."

“What did people normally say?”

" Bugger off !" 

Sherlock smiled briefly at John, who grinned back and turned to look back a t the silly show. But seeing Sherlock’s real smile for the first time made his heart swell so much that he couldn’t concentrate on what he was watching.

A few minutes later, Sherlock asked: "Did I err in any way?"

"Well... Harry and I don’t get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago, and they’re getting a divorce. Harry’s a drinker."

Sherlock looked pleased with himself, picked up a bit of crumb, and took a bite. "Precisely so. I did not expect to be correct in every regard."

"And Harry’s short for Harriet ."

Sherlock dropped the crumb on his lap."Harry’s your sister ."

"Do you want another piece?"

It took Sherlock another two minutes before he suddenly lifted his head as if snapping out of a trance. “You mentioned… they were married ?”

“Mm, yes... Ah, that’s another one of the big changes, I suppose.”

Sherlock stared at him, utterly taken aback. The rest of the night passed in a quiet haze, with him staring at the telly but seemingly lost in thought, his mind somewhere far away.

Chapter Text

It seemed as though Sherlock was on a spree to uncover the new world, while John was thrust into a crash course on uncovering Sherlock himself. The competition, however, was anything but fair—Sherlock had an arsenal of means and sources of information at his disposal, while John had to settle for snippets and scattered fragments of information gleaned from his enigmatic miniature companion, piecing together a sparse file about him, primarily based on whatever he graciously chose to share, whenever the mood struck him.

Adding new pages to the “Sherlock Notebook” was a slow and painstaking process. It now included sections dedicated to the skills and areas of expertise John had managed to uncover about him. Sherlock had mentioned, in passing, that he was a graduate chemist, and his boundless enthusiasm for research and experimentation led John to see him as more of a scientist. Each day, John added a new entry to the growing list of Sherlock’s limits and capabilities, carefully piecing together the puzzle.

But given Sherlock’s peculiar enthusiasm for morbid topics—corpses, murder, and such —John wasn’t particularly surprised, especially considering his self-proclaimed title of consulting detective . As someone who had grown up devouring detective novels and eagerly watching Miss Marple , John found himself itching to hear about Sherlock’s cases and the stories behind them.

Not saying that it was easy: Sherlock wasn’t much into communication, or sharing personal information. John realized after a month that Sherlock was so sensitive and insecure about his knowledge, and didn’t want to talk unless he was the smartest person in the room, as he used to be, and he didn’t feel like that anymore.

One evening, after a full day of silence between them, John finally broke it.

“Hey, I know you’re clever and brilliant,” he began, keeping his tone light. “But, you know, we can just have a casual conversation. You don’t always need to show off your massive intellect .”

Sherlock reluctantly looked up from his phone, his expression blank. “Why? What would be the point of that?”

John blinked, at a loss for words. Finally, he sighed and retreated back behind his newspaper, deciding it wasn’t worth the effort to explain.

Later that evening, Sherlock, as if recognizing his earlier bluntness, eventually spoke, his voice quieter than usual. “Erm... John, I must admit I enjoy having conversations with you. You’re a good listener.”

John lowered his paper, surprised by the admission.

Sherlock continued, his tone hesitant. “It’s just... I require an interesting subject matter to engage with. Casual banter isn’t my strength. Never has been.”

John considered that for a moment, then gave him a small smile. “Well, maybe that’s something to work on, yeah? You’ve been trying to learn new things lately, haven’t you? Social skills are more important now than ever. ”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as if weighing the suggestion, but after a brief pause, he nodded slowly. “Alright. I would like to know more about these ‘social skills.’ I’ll be glad if you’d kindly inform me... occasionally.”

John chuckled at his reluctant tone, shaking his head. “Yeah, alright, Sherlock. We’ll start slow.”

The miniature consulting detective, however, had far more pressing matters on his mind than satisfying his companion’s curiosity. Exploring the flat, conducting experiments, and meticulously reconstructing his mind sanctum took precedence over providing John with the much-needed information he craved.

After recovering from detoxing, Sherlock frequently asked John to take him to the kitchen. He seemed to enjoy pacing along the small counter, examining the drawers and cabinet knobs with an almost childlike curiosity.

A couple of times, while John was busy cooking or washing dishes, he glanced over to find Sherlock perched atop the salt shaker, quietly observing him with a level of intensity that made John feel like a particularly fascinating experiment.

Sherlock also discovered the junk drawer—not a particularly messy one, as John had only added a few stray items: mostly leftover sauce packets, disposable silverware, and chopsticks from takeaways. Most of the clutter came from the previous tenants, leaving a treasure trove of odds and ends.

It quickly became Sherlock’s favorite spot to explore. He spent hours rummaging through the drawer, examining its contents with keen interest. Eventually, he selected a peculiar assortment of items and, with a tone that left no argument, asked John to transport them to his “bedroom.”

One of Sherlock's favorite things, so far, were Ziploc bags, the smaller baggies. He marveled at their ability to keep items safe from fingerprints or contamination, preserving evidence without interference—perfect for his investigations. He especially found them handy for collecting and carrying things around.

Equally fascinating to him were the toothpicks. They turned out to be incredibly versatile, serving countless purposes—everything from makeshift chopsticks to mini tools for his everyday tasks. Sherlock even experimented with using them as quills, though with limited success, much to his own amusement.

By now, one of Sherlock's favorite pastimes had become sitting by the window, observing and deducing the lives of passersby. Surprisingly, it had become one of John’s favorite activities too. At first, Sherlock was dissatisfied with the results, insisting that he needed more updates and fresh information, but as time passed, he grew better at it, regaining his confidence with each new deduction.

As the days passed, more and more items and furniture were added to Sherlock's temporary "room"—a basin, a chair, and a desk, which he seemed to have developed a particular fondness for. After spending so much time perched on the Union Jack cushion, John decided to search for something more fitting—a miniature olive green velvet armchair, which the seller claimed was in Victorian style. 

Sherlock rejected the idea initially with a sharp glare, but eventually accepted the chair, giving John a brief smile. It quickly became his new favorite seat. Though Sherlock had a newfound fondness for the chair, he still cherished the cushion and often crawled across it to lie down, hands tucked under his chin, retreating into his mind sanctum.

He took notes every day, jotting down words and phrases he encountered before turning to Google. He had affectionately dubbed the Internet "the magic mirrors," believing it could answer all questions. His curiosity seemed insatiable, but there were still words, phrases, or idioms that eluded him. When that happened, he’d eventually ask John for clarification, which sometimes sent John into fits of uncontrollable laughter.

John reminded himself daily not to use words like "adorable" when referring to Sherlock, telling himself that he was not a doll or a child, but a grown man—well, at least most of the time. He’d told Molly the same thing once, sighing, "But it’s so difficult not to think like that sometimes."

John felt a pang of guilt for indulging, but when Sherlock asked him to check a rash on his hand after rummaging through the junk drawer, he couldn’t resist. With the magnifying glass in hand, doing what he was asked, he found himself glancing at one of Sherlock’s open notebooks on the desk. Despite himself, he couldn’t stop sneaking a peek.

There were supposedly some words that Sherlock opted to look up later that day, scribbled in his characteristic chicken-scratch handwriting. Some were impossible to read, the letters jumbled and disjointed, while others were more legible—words like:

To look up:

Selfie

Inspector gadget

Cold war

Copium

Ghosting

Cryptocurrency

Psl

Bae

binge-watch

John struggled to keep a straight face, fighting the urge to grin, which made Sherlock, brow furrowed, ask if the rash was something serious.

Some new discoveries about Sherlock were also fun. John soon realized that Sherlock loved honey, which he dutifully added to "his" notebook. However, Sherlock made it very clear that he despised the one John had, declaring it utterly unacceptable. "Find a real one," Sherlock demanded.

John bought several different brands, only for Sherlock to dismiss them all with a curt "repugnant." One day, while running errands along a new route, John passed by a quaint little shop that advertised local honey. Curious, he stepped inside.

The shopkeeper, an older man with a thick gray beard and an encyclopedic knowledge of honey, launched into a detailed explanation of the various types. After an unexpectedly long conversation, John left with two small bottles—one of royal jelly and another of a particularly rare honey. It was expensive, but John figured it was worth the investment, especially since the shopkeeper claimed the royal jelly worked wonders for weak, recovering patients.

The next morning, Sherlock was absorbed in his usual distraction, his eyes glued to the screen. John spread a tiny piece of toast with the new rich honey, placed the mini plate in front of him, and waited for the moment of truth. Sherlock reluctantly turned his head from the screen when He took a bite, his eyes widening in surprise. "Mmmmm…where did you find this ?"

John, beaming with satisfaction, flashed a mischievous smile. "I asked some fairies," he said, busy making sure the airtight bottle was properly sealed—he didn't want to attract ants again.

As he fumbled with the bottle, he glanced up and noticed Sherlock still staring at him, a rare moment of vulnerability in his expression. It was one of those times Sherlock thought John wasn’t looking. John smiled softly and averted his gaze, trying to act casual. Did it mean that he truly liked the honey?

It seemed that the royal jelly was indeed a miracle. After just a week of adding it to Sherlock’s meals, John could see some improvement in his health. Sherlock seemed more energetic, more engaged, and even started looking forward to his meals as John used the honey as a prize, a little incentive for Sherlock to finish his food, and it worked like a charm.

Sherlock was utterly surprised to discover you could have Chinese food in London. The only time he’d had dim sum was years ago at Victoria*. After that, John began introducing him to different cuisines—Persian, Ghanaian, Japanese, and Italian.

Aside from sushi, which Sherlock described as “both perplexing and fascinating,” he developed a particular fondness for Italian food. He even later asked if they might have more “ delightful green-covered tiny puddings ” (gnocchi). Sherlock also kept insisting that John make that “rich rice pudding” (risotto) again, although he stubbornly refused to learn the actual names of the dishes.

Maybe the mind sanctum was simply overflowing, John mused. He couldn’t blame him. In fact, he was increasingly impressed by the capacity of that sanctum . Sherlock still spent most of his time either glued to his phone, reading his mini-books, or making notes.

Sherlock also ventured into some new fruits which he vaguely remembered from his travels.  He still had a soft spot for chips, but after trying crisps, he became an even bigger fan of them, bugging John every day to get him some. He loved to have a bottle cap of salt and vinegar crisps crumbs in front of him while working.

In general, he had a thing for unhealthy, junk food: crisps, deep-fried snacks, fast food, sweets, cookies, and ice cream. John tried his best to keep them out of Sherlock's reach, but after seeing his reaction to strawberry ice cream for the first time—closing his eyes, tilting his head back, and humming the longest “ Mmm ”—he couldn’t help but give in.

Sherlock’s preferences for music were a bit more unexpected than his food choices. Once John discovered his favorites in classical music, he became curious about what Sherlock might think of modern genres. So he played a few tracks on Spotify, but it quickly became clear that Sherlock wasn’t a fan. John couldn’t exactly blame him.

But the real surprise came when Sherlock revealed his interest in heavy metal. He claimed its rhythm was “gothically elegant,” and to John’s astonishment, spent hours listening to Tool and Opeth, seriously analyzing their lyrics and jotting down notes in his tiny notebook. When John asked him why he liked it, Sherlock’s answer was thoughtful: “The intricate arrangements and relentless energy, structure of a complex problem, demanding both focus and an understanding of chaos.”

Intrigued, John browsed through YouTube and later picked up a list of CDs Sherlock had requested.

One rainy afternoon, as John sluggishly typed away at his laptop and Sherlock sat by the window, lost in his own thoughts, Sherlock suddenly spoke up, mentioning how much he had missed playing his violin. The words sparked an odd thought in John’s mind— What if they could make tiny violins?

The very idea of Sherlock playing the violin for him, sitting by the fire, with those long, pale, spidery fingers gliding across the strings... John froze. A strange warmth spread through him, and he blinked, trying to shake off the unexpected sensation.

Wait...what? What's wrong with me?

He tried to dismiss the thoughts, refocusing on his typing, but the odd feeling lingered, making it harder to concentrate.

John soon realized that Sherlock, despite all his indifference to the world except his meticulous, cat-like cleaning habits - including eating, sleeping, and other daily routines - actually cared a great deal about his appearance. This could explain some of his grumpiness and depression, getting stuck with doll clothing, and ill-fitting garments, which were a constant reminder of his predicament.

One day, John couldn't resist asking, "Do you miss dressing up like you used to, before all this?"

Sherlock shot him a look, something between a glare and a stink eye. "Do you truly think me so outdated and backward, Watson?! I may be out of my time, but I have no intention of appearing as such."

He was sitting at the table, inspecting a few new pieces of clothing Molly had brought that morning. Holding a t-shirt in front of him with a displeased expression, he muttered, "Why, pray tell, are people so enamored with these elastic fabrics these days?"

John, searching for an answer, froze mid-sentence as his gaze landed on the t-shirt Sherlock was already wearing. "This one's inside out, Mr. Genius. Let me—"

"I know, Mr. Know-It-All!" Sherlock interrupted, his voice sharp. "I deliberately wore it this way. The coarse stitching and hems torment my skin."

"Oh... okay," John replied, blinking in surprise before turning away with a bemused smile.

John had been mulling over how to find Sherlock some more stylish clothing. Molly, ever the angel, had suggested ordering a few items from an Etsy shop she had come across; all they needed were his measurements. However, convincing Sherlock to cooperate was not easy and took a while. He absolutely refused to let anyone do this for him, and when finally conceded, he researched the process online, and after some trial and error, resorted to using a piece of string to measure himself.

Molly, ever generous, insisted on handling the ordering herself, calling it her treat. 

When Sherlock saw the new clothes Molly had ordered—button-down shirts, trousers, and a navy blue jacket—he examined them with a critical eye. Holding up the jacket, he muttered, "Yes... this is how men dress these days. Hmm."

He slipped into the white dress shirt and dark trousers, smoothing down the collar as he glanced at himself in the mirror. He raised an eyebrow, "And no ties?"

John chuckled, "Oh well, I can tell Molly to look for ties if you..."

Sherlock cut him off with a dismissive wave. "Well, no, I've never been into ties anyway. Better this way."

But when it came to hats, his expression soured. "It is so absurd. I think it will take another century for me to get used to it!"

John raised an eyebrow. "Have you missed them that much?"

Sherlock sighed, his tone uncharacteristically wistful. "Well, I must confess, I couldn't imagine walking outside without them, but considering the fact that I can hardly be in public anymore... it doesn't matter."

Later that Friday night, John and Molly were having dinner at John’s flat. John made pasta, and Molly brought some homemade apple crumble.

John washed down the last piece of dessert with tea and asked, “So don’t tell me, you are not letting me pay, because I am jobless and living on a pension.”

“Well, you could be not jobless. What happened to the NSY position? I thought you would love the job! Don’t you want to apply?”

"I will, though I don’t think I may get accepted… my resume…"

"Oh please... You know you're overqualified. Also, you'll be working with Greg. He's an awesome bloke..."

John was grateful for the shift in the conversation, and with a smile, he replied, "So, things are getting serious, huh? Everything’s going well with you two, I think?"

Molly blushed faintly. "Yup, we’re fine. Don’t dodge my question though. What’s holding you back?"

John lowered his voice and leaned slightly toward Molly, eyes soft. "Molly, I can’t leave him alone here."

“Well, I know things have changed a lot, but it’s happening, sooner or later," she said, standing and gathering their dishes.”I know he’s tiny, but he’s not a child, John. He can take care of himself - with our help. I get your worry, but you can’t neglect your own life."

Molly took their plates to the sink, signaling the end of the conversation. "So, when are you starting?"

Chapter Text

March

"I daresay, Doctor, you could find me some outdoor attire. I'm quite eager to step outside." The sad, velvety voice came from behind him.

John looked up from his book. It was good to hear his tiny companion speaking again after two days of brooding in one of his “dark moods”. On a cold, dreary early March day like this, even a small improvement felt promising. Hopefully, the new month brought new (good) changes. 

Clearing his throat, he replied: “Is that so? Well, of course... though you must know a lot has changed since then. And we have to be careful to stay hidden...”

“Of course! I don’t dream of just jumping into the street like a fool. I’ve seen what the world looks like through your teleporting—on television and the internet. But I need to smell the city’s air and hear its quivering heartbeat.”

The words carried such determination and seriousness that John forgot his prepared reasoning entirely.

“Um… well, I suppose if we have to go, we’ll go. But first, we’ll need to wrap you up well—it’s rather cold outside. Molly mentioned dropping by this afternoon to check on us. Perhaps she could help too. Is there a particular place you’d like to see? The sights, or...”

“Yes. Home.”

“Your home…? But…”

"Yes, I know it still exists. I checked. It was quite a new building when I moved in. The address is 221B, Baker Street."

Looking up on the internet, John was delighted that the address still indeed existed, and also found out that 221C was currently listed for rent by one Martha Hudson. Acting quickly, he managed to arrange a meeting with her for the evening.

Molly was due to visit that afternoon, and John filled her in on his nibs' latest desire, asking if she could help in any way. True to form, she arrived later that day bearing a few pieces of Ken doll warm clothing she’d picked up at Tesco.

Sherlock initially showed interest, but after Molly unpacked the bag of clothes, his excitement died. The plastic boots turned out to be rigid and completely useless. John, ever practical, chimed in, “For now, we’ll have to skip the shoes and focus on keeping you warm.” It’s been an especially cold winter.

The dark blue wool sweater Molly had bought was far too big for Sherlock, so after some trial and error, he ended up layered in two T-shirts, a warm purple shirt, black trousers, and thick socks. Finally, Molly produced an oversized, heavy wool coat.

“It was on a teddy bear. Sorry!” she admitted with a sheepish grin.

Despite Sherlock's grumbling, she managed to get him into the coat, buttoning it up snugly. Now fully dressed, Sherlock resembled a character straight out of a nostalgic Christmas movie.

Molly stepped back to admire her work, her expression a mix of pride and amusement, before chuckling, “Um… wait a second, just one more thing—”

She grabbed a pair of scissors from a mug on the counter and deftly cut a strip from the oversized sweater. Holding it up triumphantly, she leaned in and attempted to tie it around Sherlock’s neck as a scarf.

That was the last straw for him. Fuming, with his patience over, Sherlock snatched the makeshift scarf out of her hand and tied it with swift, precise movements, the knot as sharp and neat as his glare, and snapped, “Alright, Mother! I'm all wrapped up! Could we please go now…?!” 

Baker Street was an address that John would prefer the tube, but today it was out of the question, with a receiver in his ear, and an impatient mini detective in the front pocket of his oversized parka. Sherlock was now peaking a little bit out, watching the streets passing by; and John took a look down every few minutes to check.

Sherlock’s old home was an aged brick building beside a sandwich shop. John transferred Sherlock to the inside pocket of the parka just in time before a nice elderly lady in a purple dress opened the door and greeted them warmly. John introduced himself and Molly and she invited them in. 

221C turned out to be a moldy, damp flat. John tried to show some interest, fabricating a story about a new job he’d supposedly found in midtown that required him to live nearby. He nodded politely as Mrs. Hudson gave him a brief tour, his gaze darting to the peeling wallpaper and the damp patches on the ceiling.

When they were done, he leaned against the doorframe, adopting an air of casual curiosity. “Do you happen to have another flat available upstairs?” he asked, as though the thought had just occurred to him.

Mrs. Hudson’s face brightened momentarily before she hesitated. “Well, you know, there is indeed an empty flat upstairs,” she said slowly, her tone laden with caution. “But I’m not sure it’s quite what you’re looking for.”

John arched an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”

"Well, there's a bit of a weird story behind it," she replied, wringing her hands. "It’s been empty for years, though someone kept paying the rent all that time. The building went on sale at a good price, and I was looking for a place when I came back from Florida—which is a whole other story—but…"

"So people didn’t want to rent it? Why? Does it have a mold problem or something?" John asked, trying to keep his tone light.

"Uh, no, not really. In fact, it’s in much better shape than C. But… it was the previous tenant. A former owner added a condition to the lease: the bedroom on the top floor isn’t to be touched—still full of their old things. That put people off. Naturally. And there’s more… rumors."

"Rumors?"

"Yeas, Mrs. Turner next door said she heard from someone that the flat is… haunted."

"Haha, really?" John chuckled, though he felt curious.

"I know, you're a man of science, Dr. Watson, but people believe all sorts of nonsense. The oddest part is that the rent was paid for years just to keep the rooms as they were, untouched. Like the tenants disappeared and never came back. So… still interested in seeing it?"

Feeling Sherlock’s growing restlessness, squirming impatiently in his inside pocket and tiny kicks nudging his ribs, John masked his intrigue with a casual shrug and exchanged a look with Molly. 

"Well, yeah, why not?"

They followed Mrs. Hudson up a narrow, creaking wooden staircase. At the landing, John paused for a moment, leaning slightly against the worn banister to shift an increasingly restless Sherlock back to the chest front pocket, leaving the top slightly open so he could peek out. John couldn’t deny he was just as curious as his companion, though he kept his expression carefully neutral.

Mrs. Hudson stepped in first, tugging at the heavy, dust-laden curtains. A thin stream of weak, cloudy daylight filtered into the room, illuminating the swirling motes of dust in the drafty air.

John heard Sherlock let out an exaggeratedly big, heavy sigh, followed by what sounded like a muttered, "Good heavens."

The flat was small, its simplicity accentuated by the quiet stillness of long neglect. The living room was mostly bare, save for a few mismatched pieces of furniture. An old fireplace sat at the center of one wall, its mantle adorned with an antique mirror, smudged and hanging slightly askew.

Two armchairs—one a faded red with threadbare arms, the other a dark, cracked leather—faced each other across a low, scuffed coffee table. The walls were lined with bookshelves, their emptiness interrupted only by a few dusty boxes and stacks of magazines, their covers dulled and draped with cobwebs that quivered slightly in the draft.

They passed by the small kitchen, its clutter and disarray spilling over from the main room despite technically being separate. Mrs. Hudson led them toward a bedroom, pausing at the door to gesture inside.

“Well, good that you’re a single man, right?” she remarked in a solemn tone. “- that you won’t need more than one bedroom. The other one, up those stairs, is packed with boxes and junk. I’ve contacted the previous owner a couple of times, but haven’t gotten a concrete answer yet. If I don’t hear back, I’ll probably just handle it myself—clear it out, as per the policy…”

“No, no—no rush,” John interjected hurriedly, his voice a little higher than usual as his ear buzzed with Sherlock’s indignant shouting through the earpiece. “No problem at all. I would only need the one bedroom, yes. Perfectly fine as is.”

Mrs. Hudson gave him a curious glance but didn’t press further. She simply nodded and turned back to the rest of the tour, her and Molly moveing ahead, their voices blending softly as they chatted, leaving John standing alone in the dimly lit room. He lingered, letting the atmosphere settle over him. There was something about the place—something he couldn’t quite pinpoint—that felt uncannily familiar, as though he’d seen it before, perhaps in a fleeting dream or a half-forgotten memory.

The weight of the decision he was about to make pressed lightly on him, but not in an unwelcome way. In fact, it had been years—since the day he enlisted for Afghanistan—since he’d felt this kind of thrill, the peculiar mix of anticipation and trepidation that comes with stepping into the unknown.

It wasn’t rational, not entirely. Yet it felt like the start of something new, a fresh chapter in his life, one he hadn’t known he needed. Intrigued and just a touch anxious, John found himself smiling faintly. The decision had already made itself, and he was ready to see where it would lead.

John told Mrs. Hudson that he liked the flat and would be in touch with her soon. The surprise and happiness that spread across her face were genuine and heartwarming, which made John feel even more certain about his decision.

Molly said goodbye and left, but John wasn’t in a rush to go home. Instead, he decided to take a stroll around Regent Park, then along the riverside. It was a quiet, calming walk, and he could use the time to talk to Sherlock without drawing any attention. After all, to anyone passing by, it would just seem like he was talking on the phone.

Sherlock had been quiet during the walk, his restlessness replaced by an almost palpable stillness. It was as though the visit had taken something out of him, leaving behind a heaviness that John couldn’t ignore.

"So… how was it? Did you recognize the flat? Has it changed much?" John asked, breaking the silence.

Sherlock hesitated before answering, his voice a little softer than usual. "Well… they destroyed the decoration. And their choice of wallpaper was atrocious, not to mention the mismatched furniture… but—" He paused, the weight of his words settling between them. "—it is home."

The sadness in Sherlock’s voice struck John more deeply than he expected. The silence that followed felt laden, both of them lost in their own thoughts. John stopped and sat on a bench by the riverside, gazing out at the city view, the soft hum of the city filling the space around them.

"So… what do you think of the new London?" John asked, breaking the quiet.

Sherlock leaned back slightly, his eyes scanning the skyline. "Well, there are some sights I like, but overall, I prefer the old one. The noise is horrible now. It's cleaner, yes, but it smells different."

They sat in silence for a while. Thoughts swirling in John’s head, until Sherlock’s voice cut through the quiet again.

"John, you should definitely rent the flat."

"I’m considering it, though I have no idea how I’m going to pay for the rent. Maybe if I had a flatmate."

"I’ll be your flatmate."

John chuckled, "Heh, funny. For real?"

"Then find one," Sherlock replied with a shrug.

John laughed again, but his mind wandered. "How? Who would want me as a flatmate?" 

“And why is that?” Sherlock asked, genuinely curious.

John sighed, leaning back slightly. “I have horrible sleeping habits… I’m also grumpy and jobless. Some days I drink myself to oblivion. My leg…” His voice trailed off, unsure how much to reveal.

“John Watson, in the brief span of over thirty days since our acquaintance began, I’ve observed nothing but the most exemplary conduct from you. Your dedication to your pursuits, your tireless work ethic, your impeccable standards of cleanliness, and your admirable self-discipline are truly remarkable. Why, who would not aspire to be your companion? ”

John blinked, taken aback by the uncharacteristic praise. It stirred something inside him, leaving him strangely touched. His face flushed slightly, and he quickly cleared his throat, trying to brush it off. “Uhum… well, thanks. Not many people think like that.” He hesitated, then added, “Anyhow, my retirement allowance doesn’t exactly allow me to move there.”

“So, it’s time to find a job!”

John raised an eyebrow, surprised by the sudden shift. “Really? Molly’s been pushing me to apply for one for ages, but with my PTSD, my hands…”

“There is nothing wrong with your hands,” Sherlock interrupted firmly. “Every time you touched me or did something for me, your hands were completely steady. And trust me, I could have seen it very well, considering my size.”

John swallowed, glancing down at his hands, still steady. “My therapist believes that,” he replied, almost defensively.

“Then fire him.”

“Her. Ella is a woman.”

“Oh, well then—her. Big changes indeed.”

John chuckled softly, shaking his head. “No, I won’t. She’s awesome. She also recommended that I start a blog.”

“A what?”

“A blog…” John replied, a little surprised. “Haven’t you seen some yet? It’s like a personal journal, shared on the internet. People worldwide can read and comment instantly. She suggested that I write about what happened to me.” He paused, his voice softening. “I wasn’t a fan of the idea, but the day I told her that ‘nothing happens to me’ was the day I found you.”

A small smile tugged at John’s lips, and he couldn’t help but feel a warmth spreading inside him as he thought about the series of events that had brought Sherlock into his life. He could feel Sherlock’s gaze on him, studying him carefully.

“So, is it a good thing or a bad thing?” Sherlock asked, his tone shifting, intrigued.

John looked ahead, his thoughts momentarily drifting. He smiled, though it was faint, almost uncertain. “Well… I guess we should wait and see.”

His eyes followed the flickering lights outside, the dark cityscape stretching before them. His future felt just like that scene—vague, uncertain, but still filled with flickers of possibility.

Chapter Text

After they visited 221B, Sherlock grew increasingly restless and moody, more than ever, caught somewhere between anticipation for the move, excitement, or whatever else was driving him. He either spent hours locked in his mind sanctum or a frenzy, checking and experimenting with whatever he could find, trying to fill the time and alleviate his impatience and restlessness.

It wasn’t a new thing. As soon as Sherlock was back on his feet—and, of course, after discovering the internet—he dove into experiments with a fervor that was both unsettling and relentless. But now, there was a noticeable agitation to it. He began examining everything within reach: dead bugs, John’s hair, rotten food… nothing was exempt from his scrutiny.

John found Sherlock in compromising places and situations more times than he could count, each time getting angrier, told him it was dangerous. But Sherlock didn’t care—he was too eager to check and investigate everything, relentlessly complaining that he needed tools and proper equipment. After a lengthy search, John finally found a dollhouse chemistry set, but it was met with nothing but a dead stare from the tiny chemist. Resigned, John had no choice but to give in to his request, carrying him back to the junk drawer so Sherlock could make his own “proper” equipment.

As soon as Sherlock started venturing around, John’s medical bag became his all-time favorite object in the house. John had to drag him out of it a few times, finding Sherlock either buried in the contents or attempting to drag something out. Eventually, to keep his tiny hands off it, John had to stash the bag in one of the top cabinets in the kitchen—high enough that even he could barely reach it himself.

Seeing Sherlock's enthusiasm, John couldn't resist telling him, "If you behave and listen to me a bit more, one day, I might take you to Barts to see Molly and their new, advanced microscopes and equipment." The promise was met with a gasp from Sherlock as if John had just promised a trip to Disneyland for a toddler. It made John smile, knowing how much the idea excited him.

But their trip to Barts didn’t unfold quite the way John had imagined, as a delightful science field trip.

That Tuesday, they fought again. John stood firm, refusing Sherlock's insistence on rummaging through his medical bag. "No, Sherlock, that is out of the question," John said, his voice firm. "I don’t want to hear about it—there are too many dangerous things in it!"

Sherlock, clearly annoyed, pouted and sulked in his makeshift "lab". With a sharp click, he turned off his mic—a silent sign that he was done communicating. 

John had had enough. He stomped into the living room and sank into the couch, attempting to immerse himself in the last chapter of his book. The tension lingered in the air, and he sighed, wondering if Sherlock would ever truly understand.

He was deep into the climax of the story, the moment when the detective revealed the criminal to the gathered crowd when he heard a soft voice calling his name. At first, it was barely a whisper, but the second time, louder, more insistent, there was no mistaking it: "John!"

The urgency in Sherlock's voice was completely new. John had grown used to his tiny companion's bossy orders and constant calling, but this—this-this was different. There was something in the tone that made him jump off his chair, leave the book behind, and rush toward the kitchen.

But the scene that greeted him made his blood run cold: Sherlock sat by his overturned chair, next to the tiny desk, his back to the tissue box on the table, clutching his upper thigh. Tiny drops of blood were dripping onto the table. Well, not exactly tiny for him.

John shook off his shock, his instincts kicking in. He quickly grabbed a piece of tissue and pressed it firmly against the wound. "What happened?" His voice was a mix of worry and disbelief.

“Er.... I was sharpening a, um, harpoon... For...guess I miscalculated...”

It seemed Sherlock had struggled to reach the discarded mic and turn it on to call John, losing precious time in the process. John barely had time to process what he was seeing. His eyes followed the trail of blood, which led to the microscopic handmade shaving blade discarded at Sherlock's feet on the table. 

“You stabbed yourself with that ...???” disbelief and anger battling within him.

“Not stabbing, John,” Sherlock replied coolly, his face strained but his tone trying to sound dismissive. “Do follow— it slipped from my hand while…” 

“Oh, shut up!” John barked, his voice sharper than he intended. It wasn’t just fury—it was pure fear. His heart pounded in his chest as a thousand questions flooded his mind, each one worse than the last. What if he hit a major vein? An artery? How the fuck am I going to fix this microscopic wound? What can I possibly do about the blood loss? 

John cursed himself for trusting Sherlock with sharp tools, and gave him the made-up shaving blade. Well, he had no idea this tiny troublemaker was going to use it for "experimental" purposes. Apparently, Sherlock decided it was a good idea to carve one of his favorite toothpicks with the tool. 

John fought to steady his breath, slipping into battle mode, cleared his throat, and forced calmness into his voice, "OK, Sherlock, I need you to stay calm and breathe normally," he said, focusing on the task at hand. "I'm going to press hard to slow the bleeding down. It’s going to hurt, sorry. I’ll try not to press too hard, alright?"

Sherlock was silent, his usual confidence replaced by an unfamiliar expression of guilt—a look like a child caught red-handed doing something wrong. Looking down at John's index finger on his wound, he gave the faintest of nods 

With his left hand, John quickly snatched up his pocket knife from where it lay on the counter and carefully cut away Sherlock's tiny trouser leg. The wound wasn't large, but it was deep enough to worry him. He almost shouted at Sherlock for pulling the blade out in the first place, but then he looked at his face to see him unusually sweaty, his skin an unnerving shade of pale, and hesitated. The anger melted away, replaced by a rising sense of urgency.

“Hey, Sherlock, you okay? I’m going to slow down the bleeding, alright?” John spoke softly but with determination, picked up the cut-away trousers leg, and fashioned it into a makeshift tourniquet, tightening it around Sherlock's thigh. This time, Sherlock couldn’t hold back, and a sharp cry escaped him, his face contorting with the pain. 

John muttered an apology, his hands already searching his back pocket for his phone. But from the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock slowly start to slide sideways off the box where he'd been leaning. Instinctively, John reached out, catching him midway. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, his skin cold and clammy beneath John's touch. Fuck. What the fuck do I do now?! The panic twisted in his gut, but he forced himself to breathe, to think— focus, John, focus.

John had seen all kinds of emergencies—working under falling bombs, explosions shaking the earth, and the rattle of heavy gunfire. He’d patched up soldiers with severed limbs, faced blood-soaked chaos, and didn’t feel shocked. The adrenaline rush had kept him steady, helped him survive those years, and made him the army surgeon he was. But now, with Sherlock's fragile form in his hands, he felt horrified , completely out of his depth, and utterly clueless. The experience that had once kept him grounded now seemed useless.

Still pressing the tissue, now stained bright red, against Sherlock’s wound, John fast-dialed Molly, praying she was available. She picked up after three rings.

“Hey, John! What's up? I was just thinking—”

“Molly, are you at work? I need your help—Sherlock had an accident. I have to bring him to you, can you help?” John's words tumbled out in a rush, his voice strained.

Molly was silent for a moment, then responded, her voice steady but tinged with concern. “Sure, actually it’s almost my lunchtime. Um… I’d say we go to the pediatric ward—maybe we can find an empty examining room, but I don’t know anyone there... What kind of equipment do you need? Is it bad?”

John, grateful for Molly’s professional demeanor and her calmness, said: “Just think about taking care of a one-centimeter stab wound on the tiniest leg.”

“Then meet me at the Giltspur entrance, I’ll try and grab some stuff.” 

“I'm rushing out now, will text you more details soon. And thanks a lot.”

John hung up, quickly wrapped Sherlock in a tea towel from off the hook, tugged on his jacket as fast as he could, and rushed out the door. He must have looked like a madman, but by some stroke of luck, he managed to hail the second cab that passed by. The cabbie eyed him with raised eyebrows, “What’s up, mate? Where’s the fire?”

"Er—I'm a surgeon," John replied quickly, trying to keep his voice steady. "My patient had an accident and is in critical condition. Have to rush before it gets too late."

The cabbie glanced at John through the rearview mirror and slammed his foot on the gas pedal.

John put the bundled-up Sherlock in his inside pocket and pressed against his chest. Every few seconds, he stole a glance, his fingers hovering over his tiny form to feel the faint, rapid thump of his heartbeat. His thoughts were scattered, but one sentence kept repeating over and over: "God, oh God, let him live." It was the only prayer he could muster.

The route to Barts had never seemed this long, each second dragging painfully. By the time they arrived, John felt as though he'd aged a year. He threw some cash at the cabbie without even pausing, barely waiting before he was out of the car before sprinting towards the hospital. His heart was beating almost as fast as his tiny patient’s. 

Molly was waiting for him by the entrance, a large shopping bag in her hand. Without a word, she gave him a nod and simply said, “Follow me.” John didn’t hesitate, and despite the urgency gnawing at him, he obeyed without a question.

If his brain wasn’t in such a frantic haze, he probably would recognize the path Molly was leading him down, though in his old days at Bart’s, he rarely ventured this far into the hospital.

“There’s one place no one will bother us,” she said, her voice steady despite her hurried pace, sensing his unease. She added quickly, reassuringly, “The lab has everything we need to treat him.”

John didn’t care if they were heading straight into the depths of hell for that, as long as there was equipment there, anything was worth it.

The research lab was tucked away in a lesser-used wing of the hospital, located on a basement floor that could only be reached through a seldom-used service staircase. This isolation explained the lack of foot traffic. Molly occasionally worked there, giving her special access, and the space was sometimes used for forensic pathology or advanced diagnostic work. Due to the sensitive nature of the research, it was strictly off-limits to general hospital staff, remaining eerily quiet most of the time.

Molly used her keycard to unlock the door. It was a medium-sized sterile room with stainless steel counters, shelves of chemicals and medical equipment, microscopes, and bright overhead lighting.

In the corner, there was a mini-fridge for samples and a sink stocked with sterilization tools. John quickly set up a makeshift surgery area for Sherlock as Molly locked the door behind them. She brought over gauze, alcohol wipes, and a surgical kit from the lab’s storage. 

John opened a sterile tray, laying it out with precision before gently placing Sherlock on it, cushioning him with layers of soft gauze, propped with small pieces of rolled ones to keep his leg stable.

Molly said, “No one else has access here after hours, I know it’s not a checking room but….”

John, on autopilot now, quickly scrubbed his hands thoroughly at the sink with antibacterial soap and dried with sterile paper towels.

“No, it’s perfect! Thanks - could you find the stuff I asked for?”

Molly was already putting a microsurgical suture kit and other equipment on the table, and then dragged in a big standing magnifying glass, bigger than the one John had at home, while John put on latex gloves and swiftly covered Sherlock with a sterile cover.

Molly adjusted a lab lamp with a flexible arm, angling the beam directly onto Sherlock’s wound. She warmed a pediatric stethoscope in her hands before leaning in to listen to his tiny, rapid heartbeat, eyeing John. 

He exhaled deeply, closing his eyes for a brief moment to steady himself. It had been a while since he’d treated a wound—let alone one this unique. But as his hands moved with precision, a practiced calm took over, his military and medical training seamlessly kicking into gear.

John inspected the wound under magnification, his brow furrowed in concentration. The bleeding had stopped during the cab ride, but as he dabbed the wound with gauze to remove the blood so that he could inspect it thoroughly, it started anew. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath before pressing on it with gauze for some more time.

After spreading a disposable tablecloth on a Mayo table she’d wheeled in from somewhere, Molly carefully dropped everything they might possibly need on it, careful not to contaminate the items as she opened the sterile packets. She then donned a pair of latex gloves herself and leaned in, taking over, gently pressing a sterile cotton swab against the tiny gash to slow the bleeding further. Sherlock stirred slightly, a faint groan escaping him. Without a microphone, they couldn't hear him as clearly now.

"Sherlock," John called softly, patting his pale cheek with his index finger. "Can you hear me?" His voice was steady despite the chaos in his mind.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, his lips moving in an inaudible murmur. 

John wasn’t sure if Sherlock could understand him, but he explained anyway, his voice calm but firm, “Hey, I’m going to inject some lidocaine around your wound and then start stitching, alright?” Without waiting for a response, he got to work, glancing briefly at Molly, who was standing across the table, ready to assist.

Administering the local anaesthetic allowed John to have another look at the wound. He established that there weren’t any nerves or arteries severed; if he closed the wound firmly, it should keep the bleeding under control.

Molly carefully held Sherlock’s leg to stabilize it as John began. Sherlock twitched slightly, his body stirring now and then, but didn’t react much beyond that. John’s hands moved with practiced precision, creating the tiniest stitches, vertical mattress sutures to make sure the wound would hold, his focus unwavering. He’d chosen this stitch over regular knots since the thigh muscles moving would put a lot of strain on the wound, and he wanted to make sure the stitches would hold well.

When he finished, he meticulously cut a small square of sterile gauze, securing it over the wound with an equally small piece of surgical tape. To ensure extra protection, he wrapped a thin strip of gauze around Sherlock’s thigh, tying it gently but firmly in place.

John leaned back slightly, exhaling a deep breath as he inspected his work. "That should do for now," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else, relief mingling with exhaustion.

The stab wound was finally patched up and dressed, but despite their efforts, they couldn’t rouse the tiny patient. Sherlock’s chest barely rose and fell, his cold skin tinged faintly blue. A pang of fear struck John as he exchanged a worried glance with Molly.

The pediatric oxygen setup John had asked Molly about on the way wasn’t ideal, but it was the best option they had. John turned on the oxygen and carefully held the small mask—still absurdly oversized for Sherlock’s miniature frame—over his patient’s face. Improvising had become second nature by now. It was a 40 % Venturi mask, demanding that at least 10 litres per minute be used to achieve the promised percentage. “Enough but not too high,” he murmured under his breath, adjusting the regulator’s dial carefully. The needle quivered before settling just above 10 litres per minute—the minimum.

Molly then quickly rummaged through a closet and found a few hand warmer packs. She activated them and placed them gently around Sherlock, then covered him with a soft hand towel to trap the warmth.

“Alright, mate,” John muttered, his voice trembling despite his continued effort to stay composed. “You’re not leaving me. Not today.” He carefully turned Sherlock into the recovery position, propping him with the towel and hand warmers. Folding a piece of gauze, John placed it gently under Sherlock’s head and leg to keep him stable. 

The oxygen mask was too large to fit properly, so John turned it around, creating a makeshift protective dome over Sherlock’s tiny frame. He stuffed a stack of gauze pieces underneath the edge to keep it slightly open so that the pressure underneath wouldn’t rise uncomfortably high.

The faint hiss of oxygen could be heard under the mask in the room, and John crouched low, his face just inches from the tray, peering through the mask. The oxygen swirled softly within the makeshift tent, creating a faint fog near Sherlock’s barely parted lips.

The rise and fall of the tiny patient's chest became deeper than before, and color returned to his pale face. John let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He stayed there, eyeing the tray, as Sherlock’s breathing grew steadier. 

“You’re going to be fine,” John whispered, more to himself than to Sherlock. “You’ve survived worse.”  

Sherlock stirred, his cold, clammy hand weakly grasping John’s index finger. John’s eyes stung as emotions rushed through him. Was Sherlock in pain? Cold? Afraid? Gently, John covered the tiny hand with his thumb, carefully rubbing it in soothing circles. The small gesture seemed to bring his patient some comfort, his grip loosening slightly. John leaned closer and softly smoothed Sherlock’s curls with his free hand.

"John, he's gonna be ok.”

John raised his head, catching Molly’s gaze from across the table. She was looking at him with a soft, sympathetic smile that made something inside him twist uncomfortably. He didn’t know why, but a flush of shame crept up his neck. 

He straightened and said: “Yeah, er, I hope. I did what I could do. just…”

Molly came to his side and put a hand on his shoulder. “I'm gonna go get a cuppa. Want me to bring you some?”

That afternoon stretched out into one of the longest in John’s life.

He sat back in the chair beside the tray, watching Sherlock’s steady breathing under the makeshift oxygen tent, feeling a wave of helplessness and frustration. They were in a hospital, yet couldn’t access basic, essential things like an IV or blood products. Molly came back once, her movements precise, calculating, and preparing microdoses of cephalexin by grinding down a tablet with a scalpel. “What about his tetanus status? Has he ever had a vaccine for it, do you think?”

John must have been dozing, his chin resting on his hand, since he was startled by Molly’s question. He had to ask her to repeat it. “No, I don’t think he would have. We cleaned the wound pretty thoroughly, and I hope the antibiotic is enough.”

“Penicillin’s okay for tetanus, so cephalexin should work?” Molly suggested.

“We should get him to drink something, he’s got to be a bit hypovolaemic. I doubt there’s a cannula small enough for him even at the pediatric wards.”

A tiny sound from the table caught both their attentions. Sherlock was weakly trying to push the oxygen mask away.

“Sherlock?” John leaned in, his voice a mixture of relief and warning.  “Hey, hey! Stop!”

He picked up the mask and checked the patient, who blinked, sluggish but deliberate, as though his brain were recalibrating itself. Then his gaze slid lazily toward John.

John whispered: "How do you feel?" Sherlock looked confused, then tried to push himself up on his elbows and failed, saying something John couldn't recognize.

"Hey, don't try to get up. You're in Barts. Had to rush you here. Do you remember what happened?” John put another piece of gauze under his "pillow".

Sherlock squinted at John, then looked down at his bandaged leg, his fingers cautiously brushing over the dressing.

John stared at him for half a second before his composure snapped. "Yeah, you stabbed your damn leg with the bloody blade! I don’t know what the hell I was thinking when I gave it to you!" John barked, his voice sharper than he'd intended. His hands twitched at his sides, again caught somewhere between wanting to throttle Sherlock and pulling him into a hug.

Sherlock shivered and closed his eyes.

John dropped back into the chair, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes. All the worry and frustration he'd been holding onto seemed to spill out as anger. He didn’t want to shout at Sherlock, at least not yet—he’d been so worried, waiting and wondering if he’d ever open his eyes again. But despite the immense relief, the only thing he could feel now was seething anger - at his own carelessness for trusting Sherlock with dangerous tools, and at Sherlock's stupidity, though he wasn’t sure which one made him angrier.

Thankfully, Molly came in, likely hearing the angry shouting, and looked so relieved at seeing Sherlock awake, blinking weakly.

“Oh, Sherlock, thank God. Do you feel better?” she asked, leaning in a little closer, remembering he didn’t have his mic, and lowering her voice. “How’s the pain?”

Sherlock blinked several times, attempting to speak, but instead, he just weakly coughed.

“Oh, wait, your mouth must be so dry.” She exchanged a quick glance with John, who was still seated, his arms crossed tightly.

“John!”

John pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath to calm himself. "Yeah, ok. Do you think you can bring his highness some juice, please? One of those disgustingly sweet ones from the vending machine down the hall? No, no wait, I’ll do it." He stood abruptly, his frustration still simmering. "Would you give him some water? Thanks. Be right back."

With that, he grabbed his jacket, threw it over his shoulder, and stormed out of the room.

Molly tried a picker and gently offered Sherlock, now propped up on a cushion of folded gauze, a bit of water, which he accepted eagerly. John returned a few minutes later with some apple juice, handing it to Molly. She used the straw to give Sherlock a drop to sip, helping him sit up a bit more with her free hand, glancing at John as she did.

John, meanwhile, busied himself with breaking off a fraction of a liquid paracetamol vial into a micro-dropper to give Sherlock a tiny dose later to manage pain.

John assured Molly he’d save the lecture for when the patient was feeling better. After an hour of rest and sugary hydration, he carefully picked Sherlock up, gently securing him in his pocket; thanked Molly a thousand times, before heading back home.

It was dark when they got home, and John felt bone-tired - as if he'd just finished an open-heart surgery. He dragged himself up the stairs, carefully placed his mini-patient on his bed, and then made his way back to the kitchen. Suddenly, it hit him that he hadn’t had a real meal all day, and now, he felt too worn out both physically and emotionally to cook. He settled for putting the kettle on, rummaged through the cupboards, and found the last stale scone in the box, tossing it onto a plate with a resigned sigh.

Now that his anger had abated, John found himself surprised and a bit ashamed of his reaction. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been that worried about someone in his life—hadn’t felt such a connection in ages. As he poured the hot water and sat waiting for the tea to brew, cutting the scone with mechanical precision, he mulled over the thought of how, in such a short time, the bonds between him and Sherlock had grown so strong. It was hard to believe, and that scared him. He had lived for so long with no strings attached, no real emotional ties—his life was simpler that way. But now, it seemed impossible to ignore the pull.

He found the mic, discarded and left in their frenzy on the kitchen table, added a dollop of jam to the scone halves, and poured some sweetened tea into Sherlock's mug before heading back to check on his patient. Sherlock looked asleep, his face pale but warmer and dry now. John slowly shook his shoulder to rouse him, then gently helped him sit up, placing the mic on his lap and holding the mug of tea in front of him. Sherlock raised a shaky hand to take it, but John quickly interjected, "No." Without looking up, Sherlock had a sip.

"So, how do you feel? How’s the pain? Give me a number from one to five. And no, not ‘fine’."

Sherlock took another sip of his tea, keeping his eyes fixed on the mug and carefully avoiding John’s face. "Much better. I guess... three. Maybe four."

"All right then," John said, sliding a plate closer. "Try and have a piece of this scone. Yes, don’t squint at it. Then I’ll give you a bit of painkiller and some more antibiotics. And if we’re lucky, you might just survive."

Sherlock didn’t reply. He raised his hand again, less shaky this time, and John placed the mug into it. Sherlock closed his eyes briefly as if savoring the warmth against his fingers.

John sighed. "We have to talk," his voice, firm but weary. "I’ll put it on hold for now, leave it for tomorrow, or when you feel better. But it doesn’t mean you're off the hook.”

When John went back to the kitchen to fetch the medication, he was surprised to find that most of the fuming anger he’d felt earlier had gone. He wondered if parents felt the same way when their kids did stupid things and hurt themselves. He shook his head, pushing the thought aside, and returned to the bedroom with the microdoses and a mini cup of water. 

Sherlock was lying back on his pillow, eyes closed. He took his medication, surprisingly without any nagging or comment, and drank the water to the last drop. John checked the bandage again for any signs of bleeding and pulled the blanket up over Sherlock, tucking it in carefully around him.

Sherlock was alive, his mind sharp enough to be insufferable, and for now, that was enough.  

“Get some rest,” John muttered gruffly, leaning his head back. 

And for once, Sherlock didn’t argue.  

Chapter Text

John fell asleep quickly that night, but it wasn’t long before another nightmare jolted him awake. He sat up in the dark, waiting for his racing heart to settle, wiping sweat from his face as the cause of the nightmare clicked into place. The nightmares had taken a new turn—this time, he was desperately trying to save a wounded soldier under enemy fire, only to watch him shrink under his hands and disappear into the rubble before his very eyes.

Sleep didn’t come back to John that night. The troublemaker, however, was blissfully deep in sleep, completely unaware of John’s distress, and didn’t so much as stir when John leaned over to check on him.

The next day, the patient developed a fever that made John reconsider his antibiotic dosage. His temperature wasn’t dangerously high, but he spent the day tossing and turning, muttering feverishly in his sleep. John thought he had finally managed to get him to rest after a microdose of paracetamol, but Sherlock kept jerking awake as if plagued by his own nightmares. It seemed John wasn’t the only one in this household haunted by them.

John had to rouse him a few times for food and drink. Despite his exhaustion, he knew he had to keep Sherlock hydrated and nourished after all that blood loss. Sherlock looked worse than the day of his accident—his face pale, eyes deep-set with dark smudges beneath them. At last, by nightfall, his fever broke.

John sadly thought to himself, Two steps forward, three steps back. Just when Sherlock had started to recover and look somewhat normal, this setback hit. He needed to carefully calculate the doses for iron and vitamin supplements without risking an overdose. Vitamin K, B-12, folic acid—he ran through the list, his mind calculating the precise amounts Sherlock could tolerate.

The next day, a cold front swept through the city, and John couldn't help but wish he had a fireplace like Baker Street’s to make the morning feel cozier. But it wasn’t just the chill that had him uneasy—Sherlock had been unusually quiet, lost in his thoughts all day. The lack of conversation was unsettling, and John couldn’t shake the guilt about shouting at him. They hadn’t had a real talk since the accident, only brief exchanges where Sherlock gave clipped answers to John’s questions, a few words about how he felt—but nothing more. It left John feeling frustrated, wishing for things to feel normal again.

“You’re not the only one with nightmares here, you know,” John said softly. 

Sherlock’s eyes slowly shifted from his feet to meet John’s. 

"I've had nightmares a lot, after my injury... pretty bad," John added, his voice low. "It's quite common after trauma... they’ll fade eventually, once you get better. Physically and mentally."

Sherlock whispered so quietly that John had to lean in closer to hear. “…not about that day. Much older.”

“Older, like childhood trauma?” John asked, his voice still soft.

“Of the experiment,” Sherlock replied, his gaze still fixed ahead.

John blinked, surprised. “Really? I thought you said you didn’t remember that.”

“I do not… merely some bits and pieces of memory about the hours before… before I slept,’” Sherlock said in a grim voice, his eyes still on his foot.

John decided it was a good time for some more tea. It would also give him the perfect excuse to move Sherlock out of the bedroom, where he’d been confined for days, into the living room for a change of scenery.

He carefully transferred Sherlock to his now favorite cushion on the couch and joined him soon after, bringing his own steaming mug of tea along with Sherlock’s. He switched on the telly, settling for a documentary on Antarctica, knowing the hum and flickering light often helped Sherlock talk.

As Sherlock settled in, John’s mind wandered back to the armchairs in 221B. It would have been the perfect setting for a day like today—a quiet space for sipping tea by the crackling fire, indulging in a heart-to-heart banter. He exhaled, realizing he’d forgotten to call Mrs. Hudson, in the face of new chaos and the incident. 

He wasn’t wrong, and after a few minutes, Sherlock broke the silence:

“It was the Hoot.”

“Sorry, what?”

Sherlock added in a grim voice, “Dr. Magnus Vesper, known as "Hoot". Known to haunt his candlelit laboratory late into the night, his disconcerting gaze, and eerie, owl-like demeanor made him both feared and respected by Moriarty’s network of operatives.” Sherlock said this all  in his matter-of-fact tone, like reporting an old case.

“Born into a modest family of apothecaries, Vesper's obsession with the mysteries of life led him to darker pursuits, experimenting with toxins, venoms, and experimental serums that pushed the boundaries of science. A genius, and a former lecturer at King’s College he was… ousted after a scandal involving the unexplained disappearance of cadavers from the anatomy department. Later on, his involvement with a couple of suspicious deaths made him disappear.”

Sherlock absentmindedly rubbed his hand on his covered wound, before he went on.

“Scotland Yard believed after a year that he was dead in an incident in Ireland, but my personal idea was that he was drawn into Moriarty’s web of crime. A while later a reliable source of mine reported that Vesper became his trusted purveyor of lethal poisons and biological weapons, and an innovator in stealthy assassination methods.” 

There was a silence after these words for a while, as John had muted the telly in anticipation of hearing more. 

Sherlock's voice grew distant as if the memory itself was pulling him back into its grip. "What I recall …was waking in a most peculiar laboratory, surrounded by strange apparatus, bound tightly to a table. Large needles pierced various parts of my arms and body…I saw a pair of bulging eyes staring - Vesper - set in that grotesquely oversized head, leering at me with the glee of a child spying on a sugary treat. And there, beside him - Moriarty himself, gazing down with satisfaction."

He paused, his voice softening, filled with a bitterness that John had rarely heard from him. "He said he was delighted that I could join them -  he understood my fixation with him, therefore he took the liberty of arranging matters so I could accompany him wherever he went. Always."

"And for the first time, I saw him smile—or rather, what passed for a smile—a grotesque attempt on a face so lifeless it seemed his muscles had forgotten the art entirely. I recall the strange glance he shared with Hoot, who smirked in return. They were utterly reveling in their amusement, and I, foolishly, had gifted them that satisfaction." Sherlock added the last with a sudden anger and shook his head. 

"I cannot begin to describe the torment that coursed through my body. I have known pain before, but this—this was pure agony.. Mixed with the pain of being forced to watch the triumphant smile spread across Moriarty’s face - pain so strange and excruciating it tore screams from my throat and dragged me into unconsciousness, again and again. Each time I awoke, it was to the same scene—the same place, the same faces staring down at me. But with every awakening, they seemed to loom larger. At first, I believed my tortured mind was deceiving me. Now I understand—it wasn’t they who were growing; it was I who was shrinking."

Sherlock stopped narrating, his tiny face crumpled in fury, and his nostrils flared. 

John was speechless. Then he muttered: “I understand, I’d be cross as hell too if I got - ”

“I am quite cross with myself! In my dazed state, I foolishly made my capture too simple. Utter stupidity!" 

John tried to say something and failed, put his now forgotten and cold tea on the table, and pondered.

“Well… you were celebrating, in a way, after two years of chasing a criminal…”

Sherlock’s answer surprised him. “No, I was, in fact, sad. And already my thoughts had turned to the inevitability of boredom. I felt... hollow,” Sherlock murmured, staring ahead.

The next few days after their conversation, Sherlock slipped into another one of his quiet modes. John often found him staring blankly at his phone, lost in thought, or sitting with his hands cupped under his chin, contemplating for hours. The stillness in him reminded John of the porcelain statues his mother had displayed on the mantelpiece, delicate and unmoving. As a child, John had often wondered what it would be like if those statues came to life at night when the house was silent and no one was watching.

John attributed it to the toll of his physical weakness and ongoing recovery. But aside from a fever that lingered for a day or two, there hadn’t been any serious complications, and Sherlock was steadily improving. John couldn’t say how many lives Sherlock had left, but he was certain of one thing: he wasn’t running experiments, wasn’t asking to go out, and wasn’t complaining about being bored. At least he was more cooperative now—taking his medication without protest, nibbling at his food with far less resistance than usual.

Remembering Sherlock’s ashamed, guilty expression from the day of the accident, John couldn’t help but wonder if his sudden change in demeanor had anything to do with that moment. Or was it something else entirely—something John wasn’t seeing?

Sometimes, when John was caught up in his tasks, he couldn’t help but notice that Sherlock would stare at him. (He did not want to leave Sherlock out of his sight anymore, usually bringing him and his bed whenever he was working.) And just as quickly, Sherlock would avert his gaze, either looking away or pretending to focus on his phone. There were moments when John wondered if Sherlock was trying to say something—something that lingered just beyond the surface, something unspoken. At times, it felt as if Sherlock were studying his face, searching it as though trying to decode some hidden message. It made John uneasy, but at the same time, it piqued his curiosity. What was Sherlock trying to understand?

It was Friday night, and John found himself longing for a late-night walk. He hadn’t had much of a chance to get outside lately, his time consumed with looking after Sherlock.

The first time Sherlock went out in John’s pocket, the constant swaying left him miserably motion-sick. On the next outing, John, ever mindful, tried to walk slowly and at a measured pace. A noble effort, but in the streets of London, could be criminal. Passersby jostled past, muttering curses, and more than once, an irritated shout rang out: “Move over, mate!”

John figured that a backpack might be a more practical way to carry Sherlock around—especially with his leg still recovering. The idea struck him unexpectedly while scrolling through Molly's Pinterest, where he stumbled across pictures of pet backpacks with little "windows." Intriguing.

He went to Sherlock, who had been sitting on his bed on the coffee table, chin resting on his hands, eyes closed. 

"Hey," John ventured, holding up his phone, "What do you think about… this?" showing him a picture of the backpack on his phone: ”Do you think you’ll be comfortable sitting there?”

Sherlock stared at the image for a few long seconds, his expression unreadable, before finally responding in a tone as cold as frost. "Really, John? Am I your pet?"

The words dripped with irritation, and that was the end of the conversation. He didn’t say another word for hours, leaving John baffled. He’d genuinely thought Sherlock would appreciate the practicality of the idea. What was the big deal?

A few hours later, John approached the coffee table again, a tiny cup of tea in hand, hoping it might serve as a peace offering.

Sherlock accepted the mug with a quiet nod, cradling it in his hands as the steam curled around his face. For a while, he said nothing, and John assumed the subject was closed.

Then, barely above a murmur, Sherlock said, “You don’t want me in your pocket anymore.”

John blinked, startled. “What...?!” he blurted, sitting back. “What makes you say that? Why should I—” He broke off, exhaling sharply. “Sherlock, that’s not it at all.”

Sherlock stared into his tea, his voice low and edged with something uncharacteristically vulnerable. “After that day, after you took me to Barts… you’re still cross with me.”

John opened his mouth, then closed it again, caught off guard. “What are you on about? Seriously?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the mug in his hands. 

So that’s what had upset Sherlock? He thought John was keeping him at a distance. If only he knew how much John ached to feel his tiny form nestled in his pocket again, the warmth and closeness of it a strange but undeniable comfort. But no—Sherlock couldn’t know. He’d never let him live it down.

John cleared his throat, pushing the thought aside. “Sherlock, seriously. Would you please look at me?”

Reluctantly, Sherlock raised his sunken eyes and took a sad look at him.

John began softly, leaning forward. “How can you possibly think like that?” John asked, his voice soft but incredulous. “Of course, I like carrying you in my pocket. I just thought it might give you more freedom. And be more comfortable. I don’t want you to feel sick again.”

“I overcame motion sickness long ago John, you know that! “

There was a heavy silence before John finally broke it. “Hey,” he said, his tone more earnest than before. “Listen. I’m down for whatever way you’re comfortable with going out, as long as it’s safe for you. Okay?”

Sherlock gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug. It wasn’t much, but it was something. And at that moment, John considered it a success.

Sherlock suddenly started: “You are quite right to feel that way. I have been careless and jeopardized our... connection, and placed you in grave danger. It was thoughtless and selfish of me, and I never offered a proper apology.”

John was genuinely flattered by the heartfelt, sincere apology from the usually cold, selfish little detective. He cleared his throat, uncomfortable but touched by the honesty.

“You’re very welcome, Sherlock,” he said quietly. “It’s alright. Accidents happen. I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have shouted at you like that. I was just... worried, and didn’t act as professionally as I should have.”

He let out a nervous, almost shy laugh, trying to ease the tension. “There’s a reason we don’t let relatives work on patients, you know.”

“Relatives…?!”

John winced, realizing his slip-up too late. “Er... I mean, when you know the patient. Closely. Like a family member, a friend... that kind of thing.”

Sherlock’s gaze lingered, and then, with a touch of disbelief creeping into his tone, he asked, “You... mean... I’m your... friend...?”

John was taken aback by Sherlock’s tone, the detective’s face etched with genuine surprise, eyes wide in disbelief.

“Of course, you’re my friend,” John replied, his voice soft but steady, as if the answer should have been obvious. He gave Sherlock a small, reassuring smile, then paused, realizing he had just used that word for him—for Sherlock—for the first time. The word lingered in his mind, leaving a sweet taste in his mouth. It felt like a rediscovery as if it had been a long time since he’d truly used the word.

Sherlock was quiet, staring at John with such intensity that he might as well have been a statue. Not a flicker of movement, not even a blink. It was unsettling, to the point that John’s worry began to creep in.

“Sherlock?” he asked cautiously, his voice tinged with concern. “You alright?”

John moved closer to Sherlock, his concern deepening as he waved a hand in front of his face. The lack of response was unnerving. “Sherlock...?! Hey, it’s getting scary now,”

After a few more seconds, Sherlock stirred, blinking rapidly as if shaking himself from a daze. He was taken aback when he realized how close John’s face had been to his. John, equally startled by the sudden movement, cleared his throat and quickly drew back to give Sherlock space.

Sherlock abruptly turned his face to John, his expression serious. “John, I have a confession to make.”

John raised an eyebrow. “What is that?” 

Sherlock took a deep inhale, hesitated, then let out a long sight and closed his eyes. “Well… I…I took something from your medical bag. I apologize, it was rude and most inappropriate of me, but I couldn’t resist. I knew you wouldn’t accept, so I planned to tell you later, yet I did not dare after the unfortunate accident, so…”

John was both pissed and moved at the same time, touched by Sherlock’s sincerity and courage, but he tried to stay calm, not wanting to let his emotions get the best of him.

Sherlock slowly slid off the bed, his movements careful, gripping the corner of the bed to steady himself, he lifted the mattress. Beneath it, hidden from view, was a number 10 scalpel, wrapped in its original packaging.

Sherlock's voice was oddly sheepish as he looked at the scalpel in his hand, his fingers tracing the packaging with an almost fond reverence.

“I have an attachment to the tool—perhaps a bit too much. It is so sharp, far sharper than any razor, and I thought to keep it as a weapon, should the need arise, you see…” His words trailed off, an awkwardness settling over him as he finally met John’s gaze, waiting for a reaction.

John closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, and shaking his head in disbelief. He was simply relieved that the scalpel wasn’t what Sherlock had used to accidentally stab himself—just imagining how that could have gone made his stomach churn.

Sherlock, in his own peculiar fashion, seemed intent on making some sort of point. With deliberate care, he lifted the scalpel with both hands and raised it toward John, his expression serious, almost reverent, as though presenting an offering to the gods.

John fought to keep a straight face, but it was not easy, given the absurdity of the situation right before him. Struggling to maintain composure, he said, “Alright, thanks a lot for telling me, I appreciate it,” his voice steady as he took the scalpel from Sherlock's outstretched hands.

Sherlock exhaled, the tension easing from his shoulders, he dropped down onto the bedside, clearly relieved.

John looked at the scalpel for a moment, then sighed, “Actually, you know what? I think maybe it wasn’t totally a bad idea for you to have a ‘weapon’ somewhere. How about keeping it there for now?” He thoughtfully added, “Just… do NOT use it for an experiment! You have to promise me. Only for ultimate emergencies. Swear!”

Sherlock’s eyes began to gleam, the look in them shifting to something almost childlike as if he’d been given a second chance. His expression softened with something close to gratitude, and for the first time in a while, there was a hint of warmth behind his gaze.

“For certain! I swear!” he promised, and sat there, with his now legally obtained weapon in his arms.

“So... what do you think? Ready to go out?” John asked, a playful note in his voice, trying to gauge Sherlock’s mood.

Sherlock’s lips curled into a smile—the first genuine one in a long while: wide, real, and softened the sharp edges of his usual expression. Without thinking, he jumped off the bed, a little too quickly, and winced in pain as his leg protested the sudden movement.

“Whoa, hold on, not too excited,” John laughed and quickly moved forward to steady Sherlock with a hand. “You should still keep it slow, take care of the leg. It’s not fully recovered yet.”

Sherlock glanced at him, his excitement flickering in his eyes, though he tried to hide it with a brief, almost defensive look. “Could we go to the Tower Bridge, too? I Haven’t seen it for over a century.”

“Bridge, too. Now finish that tea. I'll go get ready.”

That night, John carried Sherlock, wrapped in the teddy bear coat and his makeshift scarf, tucked into his left breast pocket. They took a cab and then walked to the bridge. It was almost deserted, the streets quiet, with only the faint echo of distant footsteps. People had already rushed to the warmth of their homes.

They stood by the bridge, watching the flickering city lights stretch across the river in a comfortable silence. Then, suddenly, a loud gasp from Sherlock nearly startled John out of his thoughts.

“John, look! Snow!” Sherlock exclaimed, his voice filled with an almost childlike excitement as he pointed towards the sky, where big fluffy snowflakes began to drift down.

It indeed was snowing, the gentle flakes swirling around them in the evening air. One landed lightly on the top of the pocket near Sherlock’s head. He quickly reached up and carefully grasped it with both hands, mesmerized. He studied the structure of the tiny crystal with intense focus, eyes tracing every intricate detail of the delicate shape.

“Faaascinating!” 

“You see, not everything about being tiny is bad!” John laughed, a warm smile tugging at his lips as he watched Sherlock. It was a rare, peaceful moment, and John couldn’t help but feel a sense of contentment.  

Chapter Text

Moving to Baker Street became a possibility by the first days of April. Sherlock’s insistence wasn’t the sole reason—just the first of many that ultimately pushed John to make the decision.

He applied for the NSY job, and to his surprise, was invited to interview. The proximity of Baker Street to the work was certainly an added advantage.

Mrs. Hudson offered them a good deal, pleased to finally have a tenant for the rather obscure flat.

And, of course, John couldn’t deny how much he liked it—though he had no clear reason why. It felt as if, in some forgotten corner of his mind, he had lived a previous life in that very flat.

“Yes, it was expensive for me back then, too. I also considered sharing the rent,” Sherlock said that morning, as they sat over breakfast.

“Really…?” John asked, surprised.

“Yes. Well, Mycroft suggested I find a flatmate. But I never really pursued it.”

“Why not?”

“Same reasons you mentioned, John. I never thought anyone would accept me as a flatmate. I have quite bizarre habits and a lifestyle that makes it nearly impossible to live with me. Not to mention my particular tastes and preferences in choosing companions. Most of the time, I just can’t tolerate other people’s presence around me.”

John chuckled. “Well, I hope you get better. I don’t think you have many options for flatmates now,” he said jokingly.

The move itself didn’t take much. John’s belongings consisted of four boxes and a duffle bag. Molly kindly offered to help, her cheerful presence making the task easier. Mrs. Hudson hovered around them, dusting and tidying as John and Molly carried the boxes upstairs.

Sherlock, of course, was carefully placed in a box labeled Fragile, nestled safely on top of the fridge away from Mrs. Hudson's prying eyes. John had assured her it was simply medical equipment, and she seemed satisfied with the explanation, though Sherlock’s annoyed expression suggested otherwise.

When Mrs. Hudson finally left, John, eager to show Sherlock their new home, carefully cupped him in his palm and gave him a personal tour. Sherlock’s eyes darted around, taking in every detail, muttering to himself as he surveyed the place. “Oh, look at this… What have they done to that…!” he grumbled, inspecting the slight imperfections in the arrangement.

Once they made it through the main rooms, Sherlock decided to settle himself on the mantle, a perch high enough for him to look down at John and Molly with a certain detached interest. He watched them move about the room, tidying up the last few bits, a quiet observer with a critical eye. Despite his usual need for control, there was something oddly peaceful about just watching, rather than directing.

By the time the sun started to set, the last of John’s things were in place, and the flat finally felt like home. He and Molly sat down on the couch, the tiredness of the day catching up with them. John popped open a beer and ordered a pizza.

Sherlock had been giving them orders from his perch, his voice sharp and bossy as he dictated where to put what and how. Now even he was tired, laid back on John's crumpled scarf with his eyes closed. 

He tentatively tried his first pizza, his eyes narrowing as he chewed.  To everyone’s surprise, he seemed to genuinely like it. (John had cut the tip of three slices, and gave these new triangular mini slices to Sherlock). The small slices fit perfectly in Sherlock’s hands. He then took a sip of coke in a bottle cap, after eyeing it with suspicion.

“This isn’t exactly what I expected when you said coke,” he remarked, voice dripping with his typical dry tone.

Molly laughed softly. “You do know that we can’t buy cocaine these days.”

“I’ve figured that out,” he replied, his eyes scanning the room with a bored look. “Absurd, though. It helps me think.” His voice lowered as he muttered to himself, almost wistfully, “Heavens, I’d kill for my pipe and some negrohead tobacco.”

After everything was settled and Molly said her goodbyes, Sherlock perched himself on the coffee table, his gaze wandering around the messy flat. He closed his eyes, a soft, almost imperceptible sigh escaping him as he let the stillness of the space envelop him.

“I'm home,” he whispered, a small, quiet admission to himself. 

——

Years of being in the army, of adapting to sleeping in countless unfamiliar places, had conditioned John to the routine of waking up in new beds. Yet, the first morning he woke up in his new flat, in the unfamiliarity of the old but freshly settled space, was an odd experience.

Wakefulness slowly crept into him, a haze of new smells and noises blending. The air carried a strange mixture of the dusty scent of aged wood, lavender-scented laundry detergent, and that unmistakable, indescribable aroma of old London houses—stale yet somehow comforting.

His hand instinctively reached out to the nightstand on his left, searching for something familiar to grasp, but there was nothing. The emptiness was odd, an extension of the disorientation of this new, temporary life.

“Ah, you are finally awake. It's well beyond the hour,” came Sherlock's voice, sharp and clear, breaking through the quiet stillness of the room.

John’s eyes snapped open. There, sitting on the pillow beside his head, was Sherlock—cross-legged, arms crossed tightly, an impatient frown etched on his face. "I have been waiting for you to wake up for an hour and 23 minutes," he stated.

John blinked, the fog of sleep finally clearing as everything clicked together in his still-drowsy brain. New flat. Sherlock. The move.

"Morning to you, too," John mumbled, voice thick with the remnants of sleep as he propped himself up on his elbow.

Sherlock didn’t even acknowledge the sarcasm, instead continuing as though it was an afterthought. “Your telephone buzzed 9 times.”

John rubbed his eyes, still groggy, as he grabbed his phone from the small nightstand on his right. Nine missed calls—Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and a couple of unsaved numbers. Was everyone he knew trying to catch the worm …?!

“It’s not even 8, Sherlock, what’s the rush?” John mumbled. “Are you hungry?”

Sherlock’s gaze turned sharp, almost indignant. “Rushing?!” he exclaimed, as though the mere suggestion was absurd. “I’ve waited over a century to lay eyes upon my belongings!” He frowned, “Word had it they remain tucked away, still packed, in the room above.”

John blinked at him, half in disbelief and half in exasperation. "Well, it’s not like you’re going anywhere. We’ve got time,” though he knew there wouldn’t be any winning there. 

After a hasty morning routine, a swift cup of tea, and a slice of toast, John remembered Mrs. Hudson’s offhand remark about the room lacking electricity. With a sigh, he dragged a tall, old lamp from the living room, connecting it to a long extension cord. John placed an impatient Sherlock into his shirt pocket and carefully made his way up the five creaky stairs to the room. 

There, fumbling with the unused key on the chain the landlady had handed him, he worked it into the lock. After a few failed attempts, the rusty lock finally gave way with a reluctant click and groaned as if protesting the intrusion. Overwhelming smell - a mixture of old wood, dust, years of abandonment - and impenetrable darkness welcomed them.

The room had once served as Sherlock’s study and lab in the days before. He’d taken careful measures, insulating the walls as best he could and sealing the window tightly with heavy wooden boards and wax, determined to make it as dark and secure as possible. 

John took a deep breath, the musty old scent in his lungs, before flicking on the lamp, casting a dim glow across the room. There were indeed several grand chests there, their wood darkened with age and bound in iron bands tarnished with a greenish patina. They looked weatherproof, as edges sealed with wax, and hardened into amber-like streaks. Heavy brass locks guarded their contents. 

John suddenly felt as though he’d stepped into a museum vault, surrounded by artifacts lost to time. He glanced around. “Well,” he muttered, mostly to himself, “I think first we should start with opening the window.”

Opening the long-sealed window proved far more taxing than John had anticipated. What he initially thought might take a few minutes turned into a full hour’s work, a process required a crowbar borrowed from the store downstairs, a hefty screwdriver from Mrs. Hudson, generous amounts of lubricant spray, and a scraper knife found in the kitchen’s overflowing junk drawer.

Finally, with a creaking groan, the stubborn window yielded, letting in a rush of cold, damp air that carried the unmistakable scent of London rain. Pale grey daylight spilled into the room, mingling with the warm glow of the lamp. Sherlock, perched impatiently atop one of the larger chests—marked W.S.S.H. in tarnished bronze letters—impatiently watched John’s efforts

John had to take a break after that, catching his breath and letting his gaze wander over the weathered chests in the muted light.  He could feel a flicker of excitement rising now. After a few moments of rest, he stood, closed the murky, cracked window half way to minimize the chill, and dragged the lamp closer to the nearest chest. It was time to see what secrets these relics of Sherlock’s past had been guarding.

“Well…? Which one first?”

Sherlock looked uncertain, hesitating for a moment before pointing to a dark wooden chest by the wall.

John got to work, carefully cutting through the seals with deliberate precision.But opening the boxes wasn’t possible without Sherlock’s help. Using a bobby pin John had borrowed from Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock sat and carefully picked each lock. John watched, astonished.

“Is that something you’ve done a lot before?”

“Hm… quite a lot,” Sherlock murmured. “These are actually rather basic. I’m a bit disappointed in Mycroft’s choice.”

“So you think it was his idea? Putting your stuff in storage? Paying the rent? Why?”

Sherlock paused for a moment, the lockpick still in hand, and said quietly, “He never lost hope.”

The pensive expression didn’t linger long. He turned back to the task, and with a few deft movements—helped along by the drops of lubricating oil John had applied earlier—he clicked the lock open.

As he lifted the lid, a soft creak echoed in the room, and a faint whiff of cedarwood, resins, and the unmistakable scent of old libraries wafted out. Inside were several smaller boxes, their surfaces aged but intact, each seeming to hold secrets of its own.

John exchanged a glance with Sherlock, who was now perched on the rim of a closer box, his expression unreadable but keenly observant.

With a steady hand, John opened the first box. Inside was an old-school chemistry set housed in a polished mahogany case—just like the kind he'd seen in vintage textbooks. There were beakers, test tubes, and small glass bottles, their labels faded with time. Alongside them were stacks of old books and papers, their pages yellowed and brittle.

The second box held even more books, piled neatly alongside large leather folders. The air around them carried a musty scent, mingled faintly with traces of aged tobacco. Among the folders, John found surprisingly well-preserved clothing—fine fabrics slightly faded but still intact, as though waiting patiently to be worn again.

At the side of the second box was a black case, its surface scuffed with age but still intact. Sherlock’s eyes lit up, and he exclaimed, "Yes! I knew he kept it!"

Curious, John drew the case out and placed it on the floor. It was unmistakably an old violin case. Carefully, he undid the tarnished latches, and inside lay a stunning instrument. The reddish-brown body gleamed faintly in the dim light, its curves graceful and timeless.

Sherlock looked utterly captivated. His expression softened, and for a moment, he seemed almost vulnerable. He extended his arms towards the violin like a child reaching for a cherished toy.

John, touched by the rare display, brought the instrument closer. Sherlock’s fingers trembled slightly as they traced the slender body of the violin, his half-closed eyes filled with a dreamy reverence.

After a moment, he took a deep breath, composed himself, and leaned back. "My dear Stradivarius," he murmured. "It took a special case for a client—an Italian duke—and two months of relentless investigation, from Sicily to the Dolomites. It became my closest companion after that... well, it was."

There was a silence for a few moments. John finally broke it, " Who knows, maybe you can play it again.”

"John, please. Be logical," Sherlock began, his voice faltering ever so slightly. "I… I think it's rather cold in here. It's enough for today. Perhaps we should return to the living chambers."

John gave him a sideways glance, noting the distant look in Sherlock’s eyes. "Hmm… I think I’ll take this downstairs," he said, gesturing to the violin. "Is there anything else you want me to carry down for you?"

Sherlock, still spaced out, stared at a spot on the wall. "I don’t think anything here is particularly useful for a microhuman now," he said absently.

John sighed and bent down to close the chest when Sherlock suddenly said, "Wait! In fact, could you just take that one—near the Britannica Encyclopedia?"

John paused, looking where Sherlock had indicated. John carefully picked the large, old leather book and realized it was a photo album. It wasn’t particularly thick, but it held sepia-toned black-and-white photographs of people in Victorian attire.

“Oh, wow! Your family album?” he asked with genuine curiosity, When there was no response, John glanced up and froze. Sherlock was sitting stiffly, his fist over his mouth, his eyes burning with an intensity John had never seen before.

“Erm… I’m sorry, Sherlock,” John stammered, shutting the album slightly. “Do you want me to put it back? I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no. It’s fine.” Sherlock’s voice was low, and uneven, as though he were struggling to regain control. He swallowed hard and finally said, “A century and a half has passed, and yet… it feels like only a few months to me.”

John felt his chest tighten at the quiet admission, a pang of empathy squeezing his heart.

“Let’s go down. I need some tea,” John said, his tone light but steady.

Sherlock just nodded, still lost in his thoughts. “No, don't put it there. Bring it downstairs, too. Please.”

So John picked up the album and the violin case, tucked Sherlock into his chest pocket, and made his way down to make tea. 

Most of the rest John's day was spent finishing the organization of the house. He was eager to start using the fireplace, and with Mrs. Hudson's help, they finally managed to get it ready for a proper fire that night.

Later, after they’d enjoyed the mushroom risotto John had made—Sherlock having polished off all three rice grains on his plate, with extra gravy (a big success)—they both sat by the fireplace, sipping tea, basking in the quiet warmth of their first fire.

Sherlock broke the silence, his voice slow and thoughtful.

“We can take a look at the photo album if you like.”

John glanced up, slightly taken aback. “Are you sure it’s okay?”

Sherlock simply nodded, “Yes.”

So John opened the big old album on the rug in front of the fireplace, with Sherlock sitting on the Union Jack cushion, offering explanations:

"Yes, that's my parents, with young Mycroft. I’m in that crib, I suppose… This one was from Christmas, 1862... I was so sad. Mycroft left for Eton and I was terribly depressed. It was the last picture we took together before they passed, at the Alexandra Park Disaster in 1866.

“This is my first violin, yes, stop laughing! I hate taking photographs! It was utterly boring and frustrating, I never understood why my parents loved photographs so much. These are some uncles, I’ve deleted their names—unimportant.”

John really didn’t want to laugh, but some poses looked so funny, fake, and uncomfortable, that he couldn't stop himself from giggling. The wine he'd had for dinner certainly didn't help either. But then, on the page before the last, a photo caught his attention—its quality was much better than the others. It depicted two men: one, enormous, sat in a large armchair, his sharp expression set on a massive face with peculiarly light eyes. Beside him stood a younger, tall, thin man with dark, slicked-back hair and the same pale eyes—eyes that John could now recognize in any universe.

"It was Christmas, 1885, a few days after I had concluded the case of the Professor. Mycroft was brimming with pride at my efforts..." Sherlock's pensive tone broke the silence. "He insisted we take a photograph together, after a long time, as he said, to mark the ‘beginning of a new era’, believing London would, at last, know a semblance of safety without Moriarty’s web of influence. He was pleased at the thought of seeing more of me in the days to come.”

Sherlock's voice faltered, a shadow crossing his expression. "He did not yet know that it would, in fact, be one of the last occasions we would spend together. The week after, I departed for Switzerland."

John stole a look; Sherlock looked so sad. He tried to find something to say and console him, but he was horrible at those things. After a heavy silence that only occasional crackling of fire was breaking, Sherlock spoke again.

"Last week, I devoted a great deal of time scouring for any trace of my family," Sherlock began, his voice carrying a faint note of weariness. "Only to discover that my brother passed in 1935." He shook his head, a wry smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Apparently, he led a long and prosperous life—so says the internet—and served Her Majesty for over sixty years. No true retirement to speak of." A brief snort escaped him, tinged with amusement. "Most of us were convinced he'd not see fifty, given his appalling eating habits."

"Was he survived by any children?

"The internet offered no further details, but it did confirm his membership in that peculiar club of his—the Diogenes Club. He was, as it happens, one of its founding members. To my surprise, I discovered the club still endures to this day. However, true to its nature, they remain as impenetrable as ever, offering no information to those outside their exclusive circle.

“There’s not a shred of additional information about him to be found on the internet," Sherlock remarked, his tone tinged with a hint of resignation. "Knowing Mycroft as I do, the notion of starting a family was never within his realm of interest. I cannot imagine he left anyone behind."

These words were followed by another long silence, and they both sat staring at the fire.

The photo album joined the small chest, glass capsule, and other Sherlock-related items in a box that John placed in the safe. Sherlock didn't talk about his brother or family anymore after that night.

——

They settled into the new home much faster than John had anticipated. There were still plenty of issues to address—safety, transportation, communication—but all in all, John felt surprisingly content. His main source of stress now was his upcoming job interview.

Interviews had never been his strong suit. Even though he knew he was a solid candidate—possibly even overqualified, as Molly had so helpfully pointed out—he couldn’t shake the overwhelming anxiety creeping in.

It was their first week at 221B, one cloudy afternoon, and John was fighting a losing battle against drowsiness after lunch, trying to finish an email for the job interview he had the next day. Concentrating was nearly impossible, and he cursed himself for having that chicken biryani and the mango lassi,  now weighing him down like a tranquilizer.

The flat was eerily quiet, but through his foggy thoughts, John kept hearing something peculiar. Was it… Morse code? He rubbed his sleepy eyes and promised himself to swear off mango lassi forever. Yet the persistent dots and dashes refused to be ignored.

Then, it hit him—he hadn’t heard from Sherlock in a while. Too long, actually. Not even a text. The realization sent a spike of worry through him, and John pushed back his chair abruptly, the half-typed email forgotten. He rushed toward the kitchen table, where he’d last seen Sherlock, perched and absorbed in one of his infamous “experiments.”

Prepared for the worst, John felt relief flood him when he found Sherlock, alive and perfectly intact, sitting atop a box of crackers. The detective was rhythmically tapping a teaspoon against the side of John’s water glass with all the precision of a metronome.

John stood frozen for a moment, torn between exasperation and amusement.

Sherlock turned his face toward him with perfect calm. “Ah, John, finally. Would you kindly pass me my microphone? I seem to have left it on the other side of the table.”

John’s jaw dropped. Giving Sherlock his microphone not very nicely,“You sent me an SOS for that? Why didn’t you just—oh, I don’t know—walk a bit to get it yourself? Wait—wait. You know Morse code?!”

“Of course, I do,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. “And you’ve been in the Army, so naturally, I assumed you’d understand it as well.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose, banging his head against the kitchen door frame. “Oh my God.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “So dramatic. Also, while you’re up, would you mind making some tea? You look like you need it far more than I do.”

John stood there for a beat, mentally counting to ten. Then he sighed, muttering under his breath as he reached for the kettle, “I’m going to regret this living arrangement, aren’t I?”

Sherlock, with his usual indifference, was already tapping out a nonsensical rhythm on the glass.

It took John two strong cups of tea to realize, with a faint smile, that they had just stumbled upon a functional—and rather ingenious—means of additional communication, especially for times when verbal exchanges weren’t an option, whether in public or elsewhere.

Finishing that bothersome email suddenly felt much easier.

Chapter Text

The new position as Forensic Medical Examiner at NSY wasn’t exactly what John had envisioned. At first, it was simply a means to pay the rent, but as the days went on, he began to realize just how much he enjoyed it.

His medical background proved invaluable, especially when it came to examining bodies and determining causes of death; his insights into medical matters were often crucial in helping solve cases.

But a large part of why he came to appreciate the job was Greg Lestrade. Molly hadn’t been wrong when she said John would like him. Greg was sharp, warm-hearted, and compassionate. It didn’t take long for John to see him as both a supportive friend and a trustworthy colleague, someone who balanced professionalism with a quiet kindness that made the workplace easier to navigate.

They clicked almost immediately, much better than John had with the other members of the team. It was a relief, in a way, that Molly had finally found the right man—though John couldn’t help but think Greg was perhaps a bit too old for her.

John also met Sarah, a beautiful Chief Medical Officer. She was fantastic at helping him settle into his new role, offering guidance and support when he needed it. Once, after lunch, she suggested they grab a coffee, and the simple gesture felt unexpectedly comforting.

John’s biggest worry, however, remained leaving Sherlock alone at home. Sherlock, naturally, had his own solution: “Well, take me with you.”

It started as a playful request, then morphed into, “At least just a short tour,” and eventually escalated into a full-blown row. The argument stretched on for days, culminating in a week of sulking, followed by a hunger strike. John could’ve sworn he was dealing with a particularly stubborn 12-year-old.

In the end, John had no choice but to compromise, agreeing to a sort of half-day visit. A brief appearance on a short shift, followed by the usual routine of placing Sherlock in his bag on the desk. It wasn’t perfect, but it seemed to satisfy both of them—for the moment.

Sherlock was unusually over-excited at the beginning of the day, his small form hidden snugly within the folds of John's pocket, stirring only slightly as the hours passed. But by the time they were on their way home, Sherlock had grown strangely quiet, the energy that had once bubbled up within him fading entirely. He didn’t even ask for dinner, quietly retreating to his bed as the evening settled in.

John, though perplexed, couldn’t quite figure out the shift in Sherlock’s mood. It didn’t make sense, especially considering how much Sherlock had enjoyed his office, and he’d been eager to see the sights. 

It wasn’t until the next day, after some strawberry ice cream (which Sherlock hardly touched, to John’s surprise) that the answer became clear.

Playing around with his dollop of icy treat in the cup with his handmade spoon, Sherlock nonchalantly said,  "Your colleague has developed an affection for you, John. Can’t you see that? It is strikingly apparent."

John blinked,  "She what…? No, she has not ! How- no, she's my supervisor - a real cool and kind one but…" John stopped himself, clearing his throat. “What makes you think that?”

"She IS , John. You see, but you do not observe. The evidence is as plain as daylight.” Sherlock let out a theatrically long sigh and steepled his tiny fingers, his voice taking on the deliberate cadence of a lecture.

“Her attire, far more flattering than necessary for a mundane Tuesday, was chosen to catch your eye. Moreover, a shade of blue that precisely complements the hue of your own eyes was hardly a coincidence. She fiddled with her hair five times during a single conversation, always coinciding with moments you directed your attention toward her, and her laugh was far too enthusiastic for your abysmal joke about the weather. She leaned slightly forward during your conversations, an unconscious gesture that conveys interest and engagement. Her posture, while composed, softened whenever you addressed her.”

He continued without waiting for a response. “And then there was the tea incident. When you spilled it, she not only rushed to help but also brushed her hand against yours unnecessarily long, all while blushing. Combine this with the subtle quickening of her breath when you thanked her, and the conclusion is irrefutable. If she’d leaned any closer during your banter about scheduling, John, you’d have been forced to share your sandwich. Additionally, her left sleeve…” 

John groaned, covering his face with his hands. “Alright, alright, I got it. You’re impossible, Sherlock.”

“Not impossible,” Sherlock corrected sadly. “Simply observant.”

John started contemplating it. Well, he liked Sarah, she was beautiful and funny and smart and had been very kind to him since the first day he went for the interview and all, but John never thought she might like him on a date.

He should be happy. Not very long ago, John wouldn’t let any chance like this slip by. He had a reputation in the Army for a reason. The thing his army folks didn’t know was why he stopped .

He had not lost his interest in ladies, though; he just still felt wounded thinking about James, what the realization did to him, and how it changed his view of life.  

“Why would she, Sherlock? I'm just an army surgeon with a weak leg and a weaker banking account…” 

“Nonsense, John. You have faced battlefields and saved lives under circumstances that would break weaker men. Your resolve remains unshaken, your bank account is no measure of your worth. You have decency, steadfastness, and compassion, qualities I find far from common.”

John’s hand stopped midair, rinsing his mug, surprised by Sherlock's serious tone and sincere words. And more surprisingly, he felt his ears get hot. It made him glad that he was faced away.

"OK, I may ask her for dinner. How about that?”

Sherlock's head was now down on his phone, reading an article about the bee population declining. Without raising his head, he answered, “Quite satisfactory.”

John felt there was much more behind that brief answer, but couldn't put his finger on it.

A few days later, John found himself on a date after the game, sitting across from Sarah at a nice Chinese restaurant. She had indeed accepted his offer with a smile, and he had been hopeful, at least initially.

The dinner started well but quickly lost its direction. As Sarah spoke, John's mind kept drifting back to Sherlock and what he was up to. Several times, without realizing it, he absentmindedly patted his pocket, as if to make sure Sherlock was still there. He felt odd, out of place without the familiar presence in his pocket, and each absent-minded touch seemed to pull him further from the conversation.

It was silly, really. But being out without his little warm presence in his pocket, without those frequent questions, felt strange now. Like he was missing something. Sarah was asking him something, and he snapped back to reality, catching his own distraction. "Pardon?"

"I was just asking, am I boring you?" Sarah asked, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

"No, no! By no means. Why?" John quickly replied, trying to shake off his distracted thoughts.

She raised an eyebrow. "I was just saying, don't worry, your little one's ok."

John's eyes widened in surprise. "What…?!"

“You look like a parent with a toddler at home,” Sarah said, laughing lightly. “Worried all the time, looking around, or checking your phone… Hahaha.”

John was speechless, and he quickly gulped down a huge sip of water. Damn. Well, she was partly right—he did have a "little" one at home.

For the rest of the night, John did his best to pull his scattered thoughts back from his little man and focus on his companion.

John didn’t go on another date with Sarah after that. He tried, but his mind and soul were always elsewhere. He deeply respected Sarah and didn’t want to be a neglectful date.

He used to be a man who had never been able to stay alone for more than a few weeks. His army mates hadn’t called him “Five Continent Watson” for nothing. Yet now, that restless energy, that constant need for motion, seemed to have faded. It wasn’t that he no longer craved company—he did. But the company he wanted was no longer the same. He missed his constant, peculiar little companion.  

For years, he had tried to fill a void in his heart and soul, moving from one person to another, never letting anything take root. Why? He wasn’t sure. It had never really been about sex or novelty—deep down, he knew that much. It was something else, something deeper, something he could never quite name. Staying too long, letting someone truly know him—it had always felt... wrong.

John blamed his numbness on stress, the pressure he’d been under, and the occasional half-hearted attempts at self-service in the shower on early mornings.  

Then he tried again—a few more times—determined to prove to himself that nothing had changed, that he was still the same. That he still had his potency.

Jenett, a foxy school teacher he had met at a work meeting, was remarkably smart and graceful. Their first date went on well, with dinner and a movie. A few days later, John reserved a table at a lovely Japanese restaurant, hopeful that the night would end on a positive note.

The dinner started promising but quickly turned into a disaster. As the evening wore on, John’s phone buzzed incessantly with text alerts. He ignored them, focusing instead on Jenett, who was telling him about a recent project at her school. But the next messages saying URGENT made John excuse himself, muttering something about a work emergency, and stepped away to call Sherlock. 

He didn’t have time to yell at Sherlock about fake emergency alerts, and cut the conversation short to return to the table. Jenett was standing, her face tight with frustration. “You’re already taken,” she said, her voice sharp, before storming off, leaving John standing there, feeling like a complete fool.

Sofie, the BFA student working as a part-time barista, had handed him her number with a smile as she passed him his soy latte. John had been surprised but flattered. He decided to take it slow, so the next day he waited for her to finish her shift so they could go for a walk. She suggested that on the weekend, they meet at a new, trendy restaurant, and for a moment, it seemed promising.

However, things quickly took a turn. Sofie’s enthusiasm faded once she realized that John wasn’t a vegan—he’d simply opted for soy milk that day for a bit of variety. The conversation stumbled as John tried to keep up with the slang she was using, most of which went straight over his head.

When he mentioned that he had served in Afghanistan, trying to make some sort of connection, it was the final straw. Her face tightened, and she ended the night with a patronizing smile. 

“It’s good to have a friend like you,” she said, before leaving him to pay for the meal on his own.

The next day, he texted her a couple of times, but she never replied.

Two weeks later, things were going smoothly with Anaya, the thirtysomething yoga teacher. She invited him over for a drink after they’d visited an art gallery together. Everything seemed to click right away—clear expectations on both sides, no surprises. But what he hadn’t anticipated was his embarrassing failure.

The moment came, and he couldn’t help but feel humiliated. His mind raced for an excuse. "Stress," he muttered, blaming his new job and the pressure that had been building. He apologized awkwardly, gathered his things, and left, feeling like a complete failure. What was wrong with him?

He got home, frustrated and exhausted. After half a bottle of whiskey, he collapsed on the couch, the weight of the evening pulling him into the strange abyss of sleep. And that’s when the weirdest dream began.

He was on a warm beach—Spain probably, the one he had planned to visit on vacation for ages but never quite managed. The sun blazed brightly in a turquoise sky, the sand beneath him was soft and warm, and there was another presence beside him. A warm body, close enough that he could feel its heat against his skin.

John's body stirred, heat pooling low, but as he turned toward the figure, his breath caught. The face was unmistakable: piercing gray-green eyes and unruly dark curls falling across a sharp, familiar profile. His heart thudded painfully in his chest.

What the hell …?!

John was unbearably hard now, to the degree of being almost painful. Sherlock's hand moved down his body and onto his member to hold. John couldn't take it any longer; he came screaming his name and woke, nearly jumping off the couch. Panting, John sat still for a moment, looking down at the mess in his trousers, his heart racing and body still buzzing with the remnants of the dream. He ran a shaky hand over his face, trying to steady his breathing, but its vividness lingered, refusing to fade.

It hadn’t happened to him since his uni days—this kind of dream, this kind of… reaction. Embarrassing. Mortifying, even. Dreaming about Sherlock, of all people! What the hell was wrong with him?

John stood longer than usual under the shower spray, letting the warm water cascade over him as he tried to untangle his thoughts. He wasn’t embarrassed about his sexuality—he’d come to terms with it years ago as a student, during a few brief, experimental encounters with male classmates. None of them had amounted to anything meaningful, but they had been enough to help him understand himself.

Later on, there had been a few sheepish tries in the army, though those had left him more hurt than fulfilled. His thoughts inevitably drifted to James, his commander.

John shook his head, willing himself not to go down that road again. But the memories crept in anyway- how he’d waited for James, hoping for more, even when the rigid structure of the army wouldn’t let them get truly close. How he’d swallowed the sting of rejection when James chose his fiancée and his career over… whatever they could have been.

"Sorry, John," James had said, the last word he said to John. Sorry .   

John pressed his palms against the tiles, letting the water wash away the ache that still hadn’t entirely left. He exhaled sharply and tried to push James—and the growing confusion about Sherlock—out of his mind.

After James, John decided to go back to dating women. At least with them, there wasn’t any need for hiding or lying. Things were simpler and straightforward, and the chances of finding someone were undeniably higher. It felt like the logical choice, the safer path—one without the complications that had left him hurt in the past.

He spent the night on the couch, unable to bring himself to return to the bedroom. Mostly, he stared at the ceiling, the occasional creak of the old flat the only sound in the silence. No more dates , the words repeated in his mind. He couldn’t deal with this now. He needed a pause—maybe a long one.

Chapter Text

Some days, John couldn’t believe that just a few months ago, he’d said nothing ever happened to him , complaining about lack of excitement, responsibility, or purpose. Now, as April unfolded into one of the busiest, most chaotic months he’d ever experienced, he found himself wondering how he’d managed to go from idle to overwhelmed in such a short span of time. Maybe too much was happening now.

The new job, the new flat, Sherlock and his ever-growing demands—it all piled up, along with the influx of new people and friendships that seemed to come as part of the package. Not that he was unhappy; far from it. 

Back at home, a different kind of work was required—one that demanded a lot of improvisation. John began installing a wire system along the walls of the flat, giving Sherlock an easier way to move around. However, there was still a long list of other adjustments to be made—practical changes to ensure life was not only more comfortable but also less hazardous for two flatmates living with such a considerable size difference.

At night, when John came home, Sherlock was usually buried in his research on his phone or passed out in the middle of it. John would try to unglue him from his “studies” long enough to have dinner. Some evenings, Sherlock was eager to see him, ask about his day, and find out if any “interesting” murders had occurred. On other days, he stubbornly refused to leave the bedroom, forcing John to make sure he ate something more substantial than the single crisp and pieces of fruit he had left for him in the morning.

Sherlock had already shared some of his old cases with John, and more than once, John had considered writing stories based on them. He found himself captivated by the tales, especially since some of them were so intriguing that they seemed to belong in a book of their own. But, Sherlock didn’t like the idea, despite how much John said, “but those were Brilliant ! “

“Aah John, in their time maybe, but not in the modern era. Especially not with all the new methods and scientific advances in criminology and everything.”

Sherlock insisted, almost every morning, that he didn’t need John’s help and could "manage perfectly well on his own". Yet, barely an hour after John left for work, his phone would light up with a barrage of texts. Questions, updates, and demands for assistance came in quick succession, often with no regard for John’s actual availability.

The concept of a “full-time job” seemed utterly alien to Sherlock, and what made it worse was that while he pestered Molly for help on occasion, he never seemed to annoy her quite as much. John wasn’t sure if he should be relieved by that or vaguely insulted. Probably both.

Though an undeniable pain in the neck, John surprisingly realized how much he missed Sherlock while at work. After spending almost two months mostly at home, immersed in the tiny detective's orbit, he couldn’t help but notice how much of his thoughts—his research, his musings, even his dreams—revolved around Sherlock.

By the end of the workday, John felt a quiet sort of happiness, knowing he’d soon head home to share his day—and maybe dinner, too. It was an astonishing, unfamiliar feeling: the certainty that someone was there, waiting for him, even if only half-heartedly. He had never truly experienced that before.  

There were still plenty of things to sort through at home. On the first Sunday after John started his new job, they spent hours in the upstairs room, rummaging through boxes and chests.

At the very bottom of the last chest, John found a hat box—a heavy cardboard one. Skeptically, he opened it, revealing crumpled brown paper packed tightly inside. Just as he began peeling it back, Sherlock suddenly shouted, “My friend!!”

John froze, startled both by Sherlock’s unexpected words and by what lay beneath the paper shreds: a human skull. Old, yellowed, but with teeth so perfect they could have been a dentist’s pride. He glanced at Sherlock with a mixture of shock and bewilderment.

“Well, when I say ‘friend’...” Sherlock started, a hint of defensiveness creeping into his tone.

John carefully lifted the ancient skull out, turning it in his hands.  “Yes, Billy - my... my best friend. For years,” Sherlock admitted.

John hesitated when Sherlock asked him to put Billy on the mantelpiece. But Sherlock insisted it belonged there, that it had been its original spot for years. John reluctantly agreed, giving in to the unwavering conviction in Sherlock’s voice.

Mrs. Hudson, however, was not pleased when she saw it. Her disapproving gaze lingered on the skull as if it were some sort of cursed relic.

"Is that... really necessary?" she asked, wrinkling her nose.

John had to quickly concoct a story. "It’s just from my student years," he said with a light chuckle, trying to downplay the strangeness of the situation. "A bit of academic eccentricity, you know? We were studying—uh—archaeology at the time. It’s, er, part of my ‘research’."

Mrs. Hudson eyed him skeptically, but after a moment, she shrugged and muttered, "Well, it’s your flat. Just don't expect me to dust it."

John sighed in relief, glancing at the skull. He wasn’t entirely sure if Mrs. Hudson bought it, but at least she didn’t ask more questions. Sherlock, of course, seemed delighted with the arrangement. The skull had found its place, and that was all that mattered.

Every time Molly visited, she brought more items with her, as if she were on a mission to transform Sherlock’s wardrobe. She ordered more from her favorite Etsy shop, and over time, his collection grew: three button-down shirts, two pairs of trousers with matching jackets, some underwear, and even socks.

To her surprise, Sherlock seemed to take a liking to one particular item from earlier: the oversized coat. It was warm, and he wrapped himself in it like a security blanket. When Molly suggested ordering a more tailored one, he flatly refused, declaring the coat "perfectly adequate".

"I don’t need any more frivolous purchases," he had said, though his tone softened as he pulled the coat tighter around him. John just chuckled from the couch, looking at the skinnydetective lost in the garment.

He also liked the makeshift scarf Molly made him, so she added that to the list, the same color, as she believed it drew out the blue of his eyes.

Among other items she brought was a pair of black leather shoes, meticulously crafted, and a blue robe to replace the Ken-doll bathrobe she'd once found at Tesco. When Molly referred to the latter as a bathrobe, Sherlock corrected her with his usual precision: "It’s a housecoat, Molly. Do keep up."

John would never forget the day Sherlock emerged, dressed in the new dark navy suit Molly had brought, paired with a deep purple shirt. fit him impeccably, but of course, Sherlock seemed less than impressed.

He stood before the tiny mirror on the dresser, tilting his head to scrutinize his reflection with a critical eye, smoothing the fabric of the lapel. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he declared, “Well... quite crudely manufactured, but acceptable.”

 As soon as John arranged the living room bookshelves, filled with a mix of Sherlock’s old books and his own, Sherlock immediately asked to read them. The font size, however, proved a daunting challenge for him now. Still, his curiosity persisted, especially toward John’s medical journals and textbooks. 

On more than one occasion, John found Sherlock fast asleep on the pages of an open book, his tiny frame curled up among the text, most often on the well-worn copy of Gray’s Anatomy . Sherlock had been captivated by this version from the moment he first saw it ( colored pictures… Most curious! ) and immediately requested Molly and John to bring him books on criminology and pathology. He spent countless hours poring over them, his fascination particularly drawn to criminology. Or ,at least with the pictures.

During his first weeks exploring the internet, Sherlock discovered ebooks but quickly decided they were a poor substitute for paper books. He constantly grumbled about their inability to match the experience of turning physical pages, almost as much as how he was complaining about the gigantic fonts, which made reading particularly cumbersome for someone his size.

One day, while riding the Tube, John noticed the man next to him engrossed in an ebook. Inspiration struck: why not download PDFs and ebooks, then print them as miniature books for Sherlock? That evening, he sifted through Sherlock’s old collection to find a fitting candidate and settled on The Principles of Scientific Management by Frederick Winslow Taylor—a book celebrating efficiency and methodical thinking, qualities that Sherlock had a huge respect for. It sounded like a good choice to test his idea.

John handed it to him as a sort of housewarming gift one morning. Sherlock fell uncharacteristically silent, and for a moment, John worried—didn’t he like it? But then he caught the glint of genuine amazement in Sherlock’s eyes. Without a word, Sherlock dove straight into the miniature pages, finally able to read without a single complaint. John exhaled, a quiet satisfaction spreading through him as he watched his flatmate utterly absorbed in his gift.

It inspired John to create more books for Sherlock, some of his own choices and others from a list Sherlock later gave him. The list was a peculiar mix, ranging from The Practical Handbook of Bee Culture to Essentials of Forensic Medicine and Toxicology , and even The Art of War . Sherlock seemed to love having real paper books again as if this tiny gesture had unlocked a new realm for him.

With his new furniture, books, and accessories, John decided it was time for Sherlock to have a more permanent "room" of his own. He had always been concerned about Sherlock's safety and privacy, especially in their new flat.

After some deliberation, John concluded that the first shelf of the bookshelf in the bedroom could serve as Sherlock's new, secure spot. It was high enough to keep him out of sight, and with a thin wooden sliding door, it could provide both privacy and a layer of safety. John used a few matchboxes as a set of small stairs, giving Sherlock easy access to a small desk in the corner of John's bedroom—well, Sherlock's bedroom, just over a century ago.

John couldn't stop thinking about how Sherlock felt, sleeping in the same room, yet with everything so different. Not just in size, but in the view from the window, the atmosphere, and the feel of the space. So much had changed, yet it was still the same room. The world outside had shifted, but Sherlock, in his new form, was back in the same place in a way he never had been before. Would he ever get used to it? Would he find peace here? John wasn't sure.

With the new bedroom set in place, they were finally able to furnish it. Molly, particularly excited about the project, assisted with more furniture and final touches. Although John had offered to help carry Sherlock to the bathroom every day for his shaving routine, Sherlock insisted on having his own Shaving Station in the corner of his room. It was a tiny setup, equipped with a small basin, jug, a piece of flannel cut into a tiny hand towel, and a delicate makeup brush.

Molly, always thoughtful, gave Sherlock a small makeup bag mirror, which he proudly hung on the wall of his station. It was a small but meaningful space—Sherlock’s own little corner of independence. It wasn’t just about shaving—it was about Sherlock carving out his space, in this shared world they were slowly building together.

In the end, Sherlock’s “room” looked like a real diorama, a miniature world tucked onto the bedroom shelf. There was a small bed, a dresser, a wooden chest, and, of course, his beloved shaving station. Molly had helped with putting up mini shelves for his equipment and books in the corner and completed the setup with a delicate battery-powered lamp that cast a soft glow as well as a dollhouse rug that added a cozy touch to the room. John also found a stand for his old phone—now officially Sherlock’s phone—transforming it into a giant monitor for him to use.

It was the perfect blend of functionality and charm—an intimate little haven for Sherlock among their much larger, shared space. His miniature sanctuary. He’d ventured through the whole flat, but this corner was his and only his. 

That Saturday, while John was throwing together a quick Alfredo pasta for dinner, he kept glancing into the living room. Sherlock and Molly were deep in one of those conversations—what had apparently started with taxonomy and liver pathology had now morphed into women’s qualifications in the judicial system. Naturally . John raised an eyebrow as he stirred the sauce.

He was impressed, honestly. If he tried to have a conversation like that with Sherlock, it would’ve died halfway through. They did talk—a lot, sometimes—but Sherlock seemed to genuinely enjoy these strange, winding chats with Molly. And John… well. There it was. A weird little sting. Was that envy?

It wasn’t just their shared interests—cadavers, pathology, crime scenes, all the glamorous stuff. It was the way Sherlock listened to Molly. Actually listened . Like her thoughts about society and even politics were a brand-new crime scene he was trying to solve (even though John was fairly certain Sherlock normally couldn’t care less about the last one). He had that look on his face—the focused, analytical one, tinged with something almost fond—as if Molly were helping him rediscover the world, piece by piece.

John shook his head and chuckled quietly to himself. Out of all the people in the world, Sherlock had only two people he talked to now. And yet here he was, getting territorial. Ridiculous. Especially since Sherlock hadn’t even liked talking to Molly at first—kept her at arm’s length, avoided eye contact like she might combust, but week by week, the distance had shrunk.

John suspected Sherlock had never had a proper relationship with a woman in his life. He’d mentioned once that he lost his mother as a child, and John doubted any sort of maternal influence had stepped in afterward.

Any love affairs…? John couldn’t picture it. And he didn’t like the sharp curiosity that flared in his chest at the thought of Sherlock’s past, especially not his past romantic life. Not good , he scolded himself, turned his attention just in time to stop the sauce from burning.

Really, he should just be glad Sherlock had found such good company in Molly. It meant John wasn’t his only friend anymore.

With a familiar rhythm born of many small dinners, John scooped a dainty portion of spaghetti into one of Sherlock’s tiny plates, added a bit of sauce, and then poured a single drop of port into Sherlock’s mug. Molly’s favorite, apparently, but turned out Sherlock liked it too. Of course he did. 

Sherlock wasn’t much of a drinker, but John found it well worth it just to see him a little tipsy—less prickly, slightly more human, and prone to philosophical debates with the toaster. John smiled to himself as he plated up the rest of dinner, making a mental note to ask Molly for help finding some good quality, Sherlock-sized wine glass.

-------

Experiments continued, with Sherlock constantly requesting dead animals, body tissues, and samples of various things. John often found himself slipping into strange situations, like when he quietly grabbed a dead fly from Greg’s desk and tucked it into his empty coffee cup, hoping no one would notice. People were quick to start talking, after all. But whatever reasoning they might come up with, John thought, it would be the most unlikely scenario that he was taking that home for a mini scientist to use for experiments.

Though busier than ever, John made an effort to keep cooking whenever he had the chance. Since he’d resumed cooking, both he and Sherlock had benefited from it. John primarily did it to introduce Sherlock to new meals, but it also led to him eating more properly and healthily himself. On top of that, John had significantly reduced his drinking. The night after moving into 221B, when they were celebrating the end of the move with a shot shared with Molly, he suddenly realized he hadn’t touched whiskey in weeks. It was almost unbelievable!

After starting his new job, most nights John was too tired to cook, but thankfully, Sherlock always had enough leftovers stashed in the freezer. No problem there!

Still, while John was cooking, it was common for Sherlock to come and sit nearby, watching him work. Despite his dislike for certain smells—like the pungent scent of cooking cabbage or frying fish—Sherlock seemed to enjoy the process, often offering remarks and suggestions. He would claim, with his usual smugness, that cooking was mostly chemistry, after all.

Eating more regularly had made Sherlock gain some weight—John discovered this when he weighed him on the kitchen digital scale, despite Sherlock’s loud complaints—a realization that genuinely made John happy.

In the first weeks of their living together, John had developed a paranoia that Sherlock was shrinking—damn that old movie, it kept haunting him. He had to scale and measure Sherlock whenever possible, just to make sure it wasn’t happening. More than once, he woke up from a nightmare, frantic, about coming home to find Sherlock had shrunk to an inch tall, and was continuing to shrink, turning into a microorganism.

He was still skinny, but much better than that skeletal figure that emerged out of the capsule. His color, though still pale, was much closer to that of a living, breathing human. Eating more regularly and engaging in physical activities—climbing up and down ladders, dealing with gigantic items—had helped him gain more muscle. Overall, he looked worlds better than he had in those first few months.

John was content with his new life, convinced that it couldn’t get better than this. He wasn’t entirely right.

Chapter Text

Contrary to Sherlock’s belief, John wasn’t the only clever person at the MET, but it didn’t take long for Greg, among others, to recognize that in comparison to his colleagues, John’s intelligence and capabilities stood out. His ability to blend medical knowledge with practical problem-solving, tactical thinking, and an understanding of human behavior—traits that some of his fellow officers lacked—quickly made him an essential asset. His grounded, realistic approach to crime-solving distinguished him, and it became clear that he wasn’t just another member of the team.

Greg came to value John’s clear, practical mindset, especially when faced with complex problems that required more than just theory or procedure. While others might become bogged down in technicalities, John would find the overlooked piece of evidence or propose a new angle on a suspect that others had missed.

His medical insights consistently kept him a step ahead, particularly in cases where the victim’s health or background was key to understanding the crime. His military background, too, helped him read crime scenes from a unique perspective—one that focused on how the crime was executed, not just the aftermath. And in high-pressure situations, he could think quickly, anticipating the next move of the suspect with precision.

It wasn’t long before Greg began asking John to accompany the team to some of the more sensitive and high-stakes crime scenes—an invitation that drew more than a few raised eyebrows among the other officers. Some resented it outright. But Greg knew what he was doing. He saw in John a rare quality: the ability to unify a team without forcing it, to read people quickly and accurately, to recognize both strengths and flaws, and arrange them like pieces on a chessboard. John hadn’t become Captain in the army by accident; he had earned it through trial, error, and sheer perseverance.

He wasn’t a natural-born leader—the kind who commands attention simply by walking into a room—but rather the kind who had learned leadership the hard way, in mud and blood and silence. That made him more self-aware, more deliberate; it also made him more prone to frustration. Because when you’ve had to learn how to see people clearly, you can’t unsee it: noticing when someone is wasting potential, missing the obvious, or letting ego get in the way of a solution. And for someone like John, who preferred action to excuse, that could be a quiet agony.

Greg appreciated this qualification that had been lacking in the past year, due to toxic dynamics within the team. John’s calm demeanor and clear communication style allowed him to work seamlessly with different departments, from forensics to detectives, ensuring results without unnecessary conflict.

As John’s position within the team rose, it upset some individuals. Philip Anderson, the forensic officer, and Sergeant Sally Donovan were particularly displeased.

It had been only over a month since John started working at the MET when their division became entangled in a case the press swiftly dubbed as “Serial Suicides.” Weeks of constant media scrutiny, probing questions from authorities, and a lack of progress had left Greg Lestrade visibly frustrated. Tensions ran high, and everyone in the department was on edge.

When the third incident came to light, public concern and criticism reached a boiling point. Newspaper headlines denounced the MET’s ineptitude, amplifying the growing sense of fear and distrust among the people.

John found himself working alongside the insufferable Anderson, which only made enduring the mounting pressure ten times worse. He couldn’t understand how the rest of the team tolerated Anderson’s passive-aggressive remarks and incessantly annoying behavior. Patience had never been John’s strongest trait, and he found it increasingly difficult to keep his temper in check, worrying he might eventually lose control and punch Anderson in his smug face.

But as irritating as Anderson was, Donovan proved to be even worse. While the idea of punching her was out of the question, John could at least console himself with a silent, mental counterargument as he navigated her obscured hostility.

There were no clues, no connections, no discernible motivations. They couldn’t even definitively prove that the deaths were suicides. The only thing linking the victims was the identical cause of death: poison, seemingly, voluntarily taken.

Since John started his new job, Sherlock had revived his interest in newspapers, particularly the crime section. He didn’t need to ask any questions when John returned home each evening; the defeated expression on his face said everything—the police were still no closer to cracking the case.

That Tuesday evening, John dragged himself up to the flat, utterly drained from a string of late, fruitless nights at work. All he wanted was to throw together a simple dinner and relax. As he made breakfast for dinner—fried some eggs and sausage - Sherlock casually declared that John needed to take him to the crime scene.

John nearly dropped the eggs onto his feet instead of the plate. "What...?! What are you talking about, Sherlock?" he blurted.

Sherlock kept insisting, “You heard me. You people need professional help.” 

John shook his head. “No, Sherlock, out of the question. Too dangerous.”

“But you’ve already taken me to your office!”

“That was different! And it wasn’t even a good decision. Look at what happened.”

“What happened?!”

“Well, things are…awkward with Sarah now, and…”

“What happened between you and her has nothing to do with me, John. I merely pointed out my observation.”

John closed his eyes and sighed. Unfortunately, Sherlock was right. No one had forced him to date Sarah and fail. That was entirely his own doing. But…

“…what I’m saying,” Sherlock continued, “is that those imbeciles at Scotland Yard—just as incompetent as ever—won’t solve this case, and soon another life will be wasted. I can prevent that.”

John’s eyebrows shot up. “You really think so...?”

“I do,” Sherlock replied, his tone unwavering. “I have a couple of theories, but nothing I can do but hope next time when the killer makes his next move…”

“You really can’t be waiting for another innocent person to die, Sherlock!”

Sherlock didn’t seem to hear him, seemed instead to be mostly thinking out loud. “The chances of making a mistake after the third attempt for any serial killer…”

John sighed, rubbing his tired eyes. God , he needed sleep. He managed to swallow some food and start a hot bath, hoping it might soothe his aching shoulder.

“Well, there’s nothing I can do tonight but rest. Still tons of reports to review for three murders…”

Sherlock suddenly broke his silence. “Four.”

“Huh…?!”

“Lestrade, John.”

John suddenly realized his phone had been buzzing, and he’d completely missed it. Muttering a curse, he answered: sure enough, there had been another murder, and he was summoned to the crime scene. This late . 

He turned off the tap and hastily threw on his rumpled jeans. Searching for his socks and shoes, he found himself scrambling—still no sign of his keys or wallet. He stood in the middle of the living room, confused, scratching his head in frustration, when he heard Sherlock's voice.

“Need any help?”

John looked up, puzzled, only to see the tiny detective on his desk, fully dressed in his wool coat, tying his blue scarf with a serious expression on his face, watching him.

John blinked, still trying to process. “What…?”

“Let’s go. I’m ready.”

“What the hell are you talking about? We talked about it, Sherlock! It’s too dangerous. My job…”

Sherlock waved him off dismissively. “I know, I know. So serious, so complicated. You’re too tired, so you can’t even put your left sock on without twisting it inside out, and you're unaware of three ketchup stains on your face and collar. Moreover, if you want your keys and wallet, I’m the only one who can help you.”

“Sherlock, I really should be going!!”

“But it requires you to find your wallet and keys first, right?”

John had already scoured the kitchen counter, the coffee table, and his armchair nine times, raking his fingers through his hair so many times that his head looked like a tousled, overwhelmed hedgehog.

“Where are they…?! Tell me!”

“No, pick me up first.”

“The keys, Sherlock! Mrs. Hudson isn’t home—no one can open the door for me!”

“Indeed. The pocket, John. And you have to promise me you won’t bring me back out.”

John shot him a furious look, his eyes burning with exhaustion. He took a deep breath. Whether it was his sleep-deprived brain or sheer desperation, he finally snapped, “OK!” and grumbling under his breath, picked up Sherlock with more force than necessary and shoved him into his front pocket.

“OK—happy?! Now where are my fucking keys?!”

“Language, Doctor. No need to be so cross. We’re a team, right? Remember your promise?”

“AAUGH…”

Sherlock’s voice softened as a smug grin laced his words. “It wasn’t very easy to push them off the nightstand. The wallet, on the other hand…”

John didn’t let him finish. With a grunt, he pushed the heavy nightstand, finally spotting the key chain. He grabbed a corner of his wallet and dragged it out from the obscure place they trapped, some narrow gap between the nightstand and the bed, pulling a string of dust bunnies along with it. Pocketing them hastily and rushing to the door to grab his jacket, he shot,

“We’ll talk about this later. I’m not done with you!”

“Indeed, Doctor. Now make haste—the game is afoot!”

Thanks to Sherlock’s theatrics and his longer route, John was a bit late to the crime scene. By the time he got out of the cab and rushed over, the forensic team had already set up. He was surprised to see Donovan there—she lived even farther out than John. She shot him a snarky, rude remark about how late he was before announcing, “Boss’s favorite sniffer dog is here.”

John didn’t have the energy to deal with her tonight. But then, the smug face of Anderson emerged from the crowd, and it only made things worse.

John muttered mostly to himself, “I wonder how she could get here this fast…”

Sherlock’s voice crackled through his earpiece. “The answer was on her knees.”

“Her knees…?!”

“ Observe , John…”

John tried to make sense of Sherlock’s cryptic remark, but before he could, Greg called from the top of the stairs, forcing him to rush up.

Greg led John up a narrow, circular staircase. Both of them stopped to wear coveralls, shoe coverings, and latex gloves as Greg filled him in on what they had learned about Jennifer Wilson, the new victim, before they entered the room where she had been found.

The room was eerily empty, except for the woman’s body lying face down on the bare floorboards in the center. She was dressed in a bright pink overcoat, her hands pressed flat on the floor beside her head.

Anderson triumphantly leaned against the door frame, announcing that he had already checked the victim. John didn’t take his eyes off the body. “So fast, Philip. Trying to set a new record, are we?”

“Why not? Are you trying to set the record for the slowest one? What did you ride here, a snail?”

Lestrade growled, “Enough, Anderson!” Then turned to John. “What do you think?”

Sherlock’s voice came through his earpiece, sharp and full of irritation. “Ignore the moron.” There was an edge to it, the kind of anger John didn’t often hear from him. “Kneel by her right side. Perfect…”

John muttered quietly to himself, though it was addressing Sherlock, “RA CHE…what does that mean….”

Anderson quipped, “She’s German. ‘Rache’: it’s German for ‘revenge.’ She could be trying to tell us something …”

Sherlock whined in John’s ear, “Heavens, someone apply a muzzle to that babbler…John, show me her hand, yes, good, pick the left one now…. left-handed…alright….”

Following Sherlock’s directions, John squatted down beside the body and ran his gloved hand along the back of her coat, then lifted his hand again to look at his fingers: Wet.

He reached into her coat pockets and found a white folding umbrella in one of them. Ran his fingers along the folds of the material, he then inspected his glove again: dry. Then put the umbrella back into her pocket, he moved up to the collar of her coat and ran his fingers underneath it before again looking at his fingers: wet.

“Ok, now what?” he muttered.

“Bring her left wrist up, need to see the bracelet…alright, higher….humm…dirty…Take the wedding ring off her finger and hold it up, please. Good, turn it, perfect.” 

Lestrade was eyeing him with tired eyes.“Got anything special?

John, nonchalantly, answered, “Eh…” standing up and taking off the gloves to get his mobile phone from his pocket and began typing on it, following Sherlock’s demands, UK Weather , selecting the Maps option.

He heard Lestrade saying, “ So she was German?”

 “Of course, she’s not . She’s from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night ... before returning home to Cardiff.”

Lestrade asked: “What about the message, though?”

John couldn’t answer, as he had to concentrate on listening to the tiny detective’s voice, so instead of answering had to stare at the floor for a few seconds and then quote: 

“The victim is in her late thirties, a… professional person, hum, going by her clothes…I’m guessing something in the news-trumpe… media , erm, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Traveled from Cardiff today, and wanted to stay in London for one night... It’s obvious from the size of her suitcase.”

Lestrade's brows went up: “Suitcase?”

John looked around the room but couldn’t see a suitcase anywhere. He was confused himself. What was Sherlock talking about? 

He cleaned his throat, “Erm, yeah, suitcase, yes, she’s been married for at least ten years, but not happily… She’s had a string of lovers, but none of them knew she was married.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, if you’re just making this up...”

John closed his eyes for a second. God, it was a bad idea …almost held up a finger to ask Greg to wait for a moment, then added:

“Her wedding ring - erm - yes, the ring: Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring… the state of her marriage is right there…Right? Yes… The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it’s regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It’s not for work; look at her nails.” 

John paused, pointing at the lifeless pink body. ”She doesn’t work with her hands, so why does she remove her rings? Clearly not one lover; she’d never pretend to be single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them.” 

John added this with a realizing glint in his own eyes and tried to suppress a smile. 

Lestrade was quiet for a second. They stared at each other, and then he shook himself out of it: “Cardiff?”

John was staring at him for a second, before slightly shaking his head and adding: “Her coat! Yeah, her coat, you see…?” turning to the body on the floor: “It’s slightly damp. She’s been in heavy rain for the last few hours. Erm… no rain anywhere in London at that time. Right? Under her coat collar is damp, too. She’s turned it up against the wind. And… well, she’s got an umbrella in her left pocket, but it’s dry and unused: not just wind, strong wind – too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she wanted to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance, right…?But she can’t have traveled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn’t dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind during that travel time?”

John held his phone up and showed those two the webpage he was looking at earlier, displaying today’s weather for the southern part of Britain: Cardiff.

Lestrade muttered : “Fantastic!”

Anderson rolled his eyes, turned, and disappeared into the hallway. Before John could react, Lestrade added: “Why'd you keep saying suitcase?”

It was confusing asking someone to answer his own question. John had no idea, then 

spun around in a circle to look around the room: “Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organizer. We must find out who Rachel is.”

Lestrade asked, surprised: "She was writing 'Rachel'?"

John: “Of course, no other word can be. The question is: where is the suitcase…”

“How d’you know she had a suitcase?”

John was repeating his question, looking around the room: “Yeah…why? why….hum…Aha!” Pointing down to the body, where there were small black splotches on the lower part of her right leg, “Look, back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, nothing on the left…erm… She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Couldn’t get that splash pattern any other way. It should be a smallish case, going by the spread…. we know she was staying one night.”

He squatted down by the woman’s body and examined the backs of her legs more closely. ”Now, where is it? What have you done with it?”

”There wasn’t a case.”

John raised his head and looked up at Lestrade, puzzled. “Why…?”

Lestrade shrugged: “There wasn’t any case.” But John was frozen on the floor, staring at the wall, like listening to his inner voice.

But before he could ask anything, John suddenly straightened up and headed for the door, pausing just enough to say, ”Gotta find it! Later!” before dashing out, calling out to all the police officers in the house as he began to hurry down the stairs: “Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?”

Lestrade followed him out and stopped on the landing. John managed to quickly look up and shout: “Get on to Cardiff, find out who Jennifer Wilson’s family and friends are. Find Rachel! I’ll call you.” And ran down the stairs and out the door.

Sherlock was talking into his ear, boiling with excitement, voice full of delight: “It’s murder, all of them! I don’t know how, but they’re not suicides, they’re killings – serial killings. Yes….We’ve got ourselves a serial killer. I love those. There’s always something to look forward to.”

“Oh, Please….!”

But Sherlock couldn’t stop now. “Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it?! Someone else was here, and they took her case.” Then, more quietly, as if talking to himself, “So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the carriage.”

John: “ Car -  She could have checked into a hotel, and left her case there.”

“No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She color-coordinated everything! She’d never have left any hotel with her hair still looking ... OH… ” and stopped talking.

“You OK? Sherlock?”

“Ohh!”

“What…??”John hurried out of earshot of the MET people and officers.

“... serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake…”

John asked: “Of course, yeah – but what mistake?!”

Sherlock yelled in his ear: “PINK!”

John just hesitated enough to remove his coverall, put his jacket back on, and walk out onto the street. A few steps further from the officers and police tape, he asked Sherlock, “So where should we exactly search for the damn case…?!”

Chapter Text

Two hours later, the Met office fell into stunned silence as a crumpled and visibly exhausted John Watson walked in. He reeked faintly of garbage, a piece of wilted lettuce clinging to his hair, and carried a dirtied pink suitcase.

Everyone froze, staring at the absurd sight. John managed a sheepish smile, his voice light with forced humor. “For the record, I didn’t kill her.”

Lestrade stepped out of his office, his expression a mix of confusion and disbelief. “What the... That’s— that’s Jennifer Wilson’s case, isn’t it? Where - how the hell did you find it?”

John shrugged and shook his head. “By looking.”

“Looking where?” Lestrade pressed, his tone incredulous.

John sighed, brushing the piece of lettuce out of his hair. “The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens, right? He could only have kept her case by accident—probably left it in the car. Nobody, least of all a man—which, statistically, he’s more likely to be—would risk being seen with a bright pink suitcase like this. It draws attention.”

He grimaced at the grime the case left on his hand. “Obviously, once he realized he still had it, he’d have to ditch it somewhere fast. We...well, I checked every backstreet wide enough for a car within five minutes of Lauriston Gardens. Anywhere you could dump something bulky without being seen.”

Lestrade blinked, clearly impressed. “Pink. You got all that because you realized the case would be pink?”

“Well, it had to be pink, obviously,” John said wearily, brushing off his sleeve.

Anderson, who had been grumpily loitering nearby, muttered under his breath, “Why didn’t I think of that?”

Sherlock’s voice rang sharply in John’s ear from his pocket, nearly making him wince. “Because you’re an idiot!”

Thankful that Sherlock’s voice was safely confined to a range only he could hear, John patted his pocket in an effort to silence him. Gathering what felt like his last ounce of energy, he hefted the pink suitcase onto the desk and slammed it down with a thud. “I took a quick look inside, just in case, and... something’s missing.”

Anderson, as always, couldn’t help himself. “How can you possibly know what’s missing in somebody else’s case?”

John didn’t bother responding to him, instead addressing Lestrade. “Her phone, Greg. Where’s her mobile phone? There wasn’t one on her body, and there’s none in this case. We know she had one—that’s her number there on the case label.” He pointed at the tag.

Lestrade folded his arms, looking at the open case with a tired expression. “Maybe she left it at home.”

“She didn’t,” John countered firmly. “She has a string of lovers, and she’s careful about it. She wouldn’t leave her phone at home.”

Lestrade shrugged, running a hand over his stubbled chin, clearly unconvinced. “Well, then... the killer has the phone. If we can trace it, maybe we’ll find him. But—” he sighed heavily, “—we’ll need to send in the paperwork first. Might not even be traceable anymore.”

For a moment, silence settled between them, both men staring at the case with exhaustion etched into their features.

Then John nearly jumped as Sherlock’s voice cut through the quiet like a gunshot, yelling in his ear, “RACHEL! It’s about Rachel!”

“Rachel?” John repeated aloud, startled.

Lestrade turned back to him, frowning. “Who?”

John stumbled over his words, scrambling to piece together Sherlock’s insight. “Erm... Rachel! Did you find out who she was?”

Lestrade nodded slowly, his brow furrowed. “Yeah... Jennifer Wilson’s only daughter.”

John frowned deeply, his mind racing. “We need to bring Rachel in. We need to question her.”

Lestrade gave him a puzzled look. “She’s dead.”

John froze, processing the words. “Is there a connection? There has to be.”

Lestrade sighed, rubbing his temple. “Well, I doubt it, seeing as Rachel’s been dead for fourteen years. Technically, she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson’s stillborn daughter—born and lost fourteen years ago.”

John grimaced, his heart sinking at the revelation. He turned away for a moment, struggling with the weight of the tragedy. From his inside jacket pocket, Sherlock squirmed furiously, noticeably agitated. John was grateful he had the foresight to move him there, away from prying eyes.

“No, that’s... that’s not right,” Sherlock muttered, barely audible but no less intense. “Why would she do that? Why? That was ages ago. Why would she still be upset?”

John froze mid-thought, had an overwhelming urge to open his jacket and confront Sherlock directly, but instead, his mind spun into overdrive. Why Rachel? It had to mean something—a code, a clue... a password.

Yes. A password! But a password to what?

His eyes darted to the open pink suitcase on the desk. The phone wasn’t in it; the killer likely had it. Jennifer Wilson didn’t have a laptop, which meant she handled everything on her phone. But there was nothing else in the case except—

Her email.

John’s memory sparked to life, recalling the email address printed on the luggage label. He snatched the tag and scanned it again. Without missing a beat, he darted to the nearest computer, entered the email address, and hovered over the login screen.

Behind him, Anderson’s irritating voice rang out as he appeared in the doorway. “Okay, I got it. Rachel is the password. So what?”

John suddenly shouted, “Ah! She was clever, clever, yes! Do you see? She didn’t lose her phone, she never lost it.” Pointing to the screen, he went on, “She planted it on him! When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer…”

John didn’t bother turning around. His fingers flew over the keyboard, muttering under his breath, “And we can do much more than just read her emails. We can track it with GPS.”

Anderson scoffed. “Unless he got rid of it.”

John shot back, his tone sharp, “Then we’re going to have to move fast. This phone battery won’t last forever.”

Lestrade folded his arms, his expression skeptical. “We’ll just have a map reference, not a name.”

From inside John’s jacket pocket, Sherlock’s voice came low and deliberate, as though talking to himself. “John...”

John ignored him, his focus unwavering as he turned to Lestrade. “It’s a start! Narrows it down from just anyone in London. It’s the first proper lead we’ve had.”

Sherlock kept going, his voice like a persistent hum in John’s ear, “John, who do we trust, even if we don’t know them?”

John sighed, leaning back from the keyboard and rubbing his tired eyes. The room felt heavy with exhaustion. Lestrade looked equally drained, his shoulders slumping under the weight of the long night.

“Alright,” Lestrade finally said, his voice weary. “I think we can call it a night. We’ll pick this up first thing in the morning.”

John nodded, though his mind was still buzzing. “Good idea.” He watched as the others began to filter out of the room, leaving only him behind.

With a tired smile, he said goodnight to Lestrade and set off toward home. His legs felt like lead, but Sherlock’s mumbling continued relentlessly, his words like a whisper threading through John’s thoughts.

“…Who passes unnoticed wherever they go?”

John sighed again, his mind too fogged to make sense of Sherlock’s cryptic musings. For now, he needed rest. Tomorrow, they'll take the next step.

There was no taxi in sight, and the wet, cold wind bit through his coat, making John shiver. He pushed his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, his fingers numb and aching. The thought of walking to the tube station filled him with dread. This late at night, the chances of finding a cab seemed slim.

He glanced down at his jacket, was about to relocate Sherlock to the outer pocket as usual, wondering if it was too cold for him to be moved there, when he spotted the faint glow of headlights cutting through the darkness. A black taxi appeared, slowing as it approached him. Relief flooded through him as he raised a hand, and the cab stopped.

Grateful to escape the biting wind, he quickly gave the driver his address and slid into the backseat. The taxi’s interior warmth seeped into his chilled bones like a blanket as he let out a tired sigh, leaned back against the seat, and closed his eyes. The hum of the engine and the soft patter of rain on the windows made it easy to let his mind drift, if only for a moment.

"…Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?” Sherlock’s voice murmured insistently in John’s ear, faint and persistent, like a background hum. But it blended into the rhythm of the engine and the occasional hiss of tires over wet pavement. John let it fade, his body finally beginning to thaw as his mind dipped into an almost dreamlike state.

It was the cabbie’s voice that broke through, cutting into his moment of peace. At first, the words didn’t register, lost in the haze of his drowsiness.

John blinked his eyes open, shaking off the creeping heaviness. “Sorry, what?” his voice was rough, as if waking from a deep sleep.

“I said, rough night, wasn’t it?”

John cleared his throat, ”Yes, it was,” unwilling to continue the conversation.

“You a copper?”

John briefly responded, “Sort of,” hopeful to end the undesired conversation.

“It should be difficult, serial suicides and stuff, I say. Especially when they are clever,” the driver went on.

John blinked and felt that sleepiness draw back from his brain.

“How’s that?” He asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

Suddenly Sherlock shouted out, ”...Clever! Of course! ‘Course it’s the cab driver!” Then, after he paused, like this time talking to John instead of himself, he asked: “John? Where are we…?”

John didn’t answer, his face stern now. “Who are you “?

The cabbie was quiet for a moment before answering, “Someone more clever than you coppers, Dr. Watson.”

Even if John was shocked by this, his face betrayed nothing. The traces of weariness vanished from his mind in an instant, replaced by a sharp, simmering alertness. Keeping his voice steady and calm, he asked, “Who are you? And where are we going? This isn’t the route to Baker Street.”

The driver gave a crooked smile. “Name’s Jeff. ‘Cause we’re not headed to Baker Street, you and I are going to have a little chat. I’m gonna help you figure out what you and your friends have been tryin’ to find for weeks, and then we’re gonna play a game.”

John’s chest tightened, though his expression didn’t waver. It crossed his mind for a second, good that he hadn’t moved Sherlock to the front pocket. He simply tilted his head slightly. “A game?”

“Oh, I recognised yer, soon as I saw you poking around where you shouldn’t. Clever trick, going after that case. Too clever for a copper,” Jeff said, his voice dripping with something between admiration and malice. “But a bad idea to throw it where you did. I took a picture, see?” His grin widened. “Followed you after. Yer too smart for yer own good.”

John didn’t know which one he should blame himself for more, for being careless there, or bringing Sherlock with him.

Sherlock’s voice hissed urgently in John’s ear, “Call Greg! Stop talking!”

Jeff eased the cab to the side of the road and turned to face John, his eyes glinting with unsettling amusement.

John’s hand instinctively inched toward his pocket, but the driver raised something metallic, drawing John’s attention to the gun now aimed squarely at him.

“Ah-ah,” Jeff warned, shaking his head. “Don’t go inviting your little friends to join us. This is between you and me. Now give me yer phone.”

John huffed internally. He had his unauthorized gun with him, picked up earlier that day when he realized he’d be taking Sherlock—something Sherlock was unaware of.

He stared at the cabbie, his face unreadable. Reaching into his pocket, he slowly withdrew his phone and handed it over.

Jeff took it, smirking, and powered it off before slipping into his coat, “Good lad. Now, listen here- I didn’t kill those four people, Dr.Watson. I spoke to ’em ... and they killed themselves. “

John raised an eyebrow, forcing a dry chuckle. “So why tell me now?”

“Because you’re clever,” Jeff replied matter-of-factly. “And I’ve decided to talk to you, too.”

John snorted. “Oh, yeah. No thanks. I’ve no time for lunatics.”

Jeff ignored the jab, his voice steady and eerily calm. “I don’t wanna kill you, Dr. Watson. I just wanna talk.”

“Well, thanks for that. Truly. I’m so relieved.”

Jeff’s grin didn’t falter. “...I’m gonna talk to yer ... and then you’re gonna kill yourself,” the cabbie finished.

“And how do you know my name?”

Jeff smirked again. “Oh, you’ve got friends, but so do I. And mine have resources.”

John’s heart stuttered, his hand twitching instinctively toward his jacket. He froze halfway, his brain racing. Bluff, he told himself. He doesn’t know.

Instead, he slowly shifted his left hand toward the small of his back, where his gun was hidden. Letting himself relax into the seat, he adopted a disinterested tone. “Tell me more, then.”

Jeff leaned back, his grin spreading wider. “That’s all you’re gonna know...”

John felt Sherlock trying to wriggle out of his pocket, so he gently tapped there with his index finger, sending the Morse code: "IT'S OK" and then "WE ARE SAFE." John heard Sherlock grumble in his ear, but after a moment, the squirming stopped.

The cab rolled to a stop in front of two identical buildings, their facades dimly lit by the weak glow of nearby streetlights. Jeff switched off the engine and stepped out, his movements deliberate but unhurried. He rounded the cab and opened the back door, leaning in to look at John.

Jeff was unremarkable—middle-aged, with a weathered cardigan and a plain cap pulled low over his brow. A badge dangled from a cord around his neck, the kind issued to licensed London cab drivers. His demeanor was calm, blending perfectly into the city’s backdrop of ordinary lives.

There was nothing special about him. Nothing alarming. Nothing extraordinary.

John glanced outside. “Roland-Kerr Further Education College? Why here?”

“It’s open; cleaners are in. One thing about being a cabbie: you always know a nice, quiet spot for a murder. I’m surprised more of us don’t branch out,” Jeff said with a grin.

He raised the pistol and pointed it at John. John didn't flinch; he didn't need more light to see that the gun was fake, but he didn’t show anything. Instead, he snickered, “You can’t make people take their own lives at gunpoint.”

“I don’t. It’s much better than that,” Jeff said, shaking his head toward the building. “Shall we?”

At Roland-Kerr College, Jeff followed John closely to a classroom and flicked on the lights. "Well, what do you think?" He gestured toward one of the benches. "Shall we talk?" Without waiting for a response, he pulled out a chair and sat down.

John took a chair across from him, his gaze steady.

The cabbie reached into his pocket and pulled out a small glass bottle with a screw top, setting it on the table in front of him. Inside, there was a single large capsule. Facing John's neutral face, with a slight movement, Jeff pulled out another identical bottle with an identical capsule and placed it beside the first one.

"You weren’t expecting that, were yer?" He leaned forward, eyes narrowing.

John, unfazed, muttered with a bored tone, "Okay, how many more do you have? Should I start counting?"

The cabbie didn’t seem bothered by his mocking. He gave a tight smile. "I like yer attitude. The bravery of a soldier, isn’t it?"

John shrugged. "I can just say boredom. Go on, maybe... You mentioned a game?"

The cabbie sighed, leaning back in his chair, his right hand still resting on the fake gun now placed on the table.

“Between you and me sitting ’ere, why can’t people think?” he said, tone slightly frustrated. “Don’t it make you mad? Why can’t people just think?”

Sherlock, his voice dripping with sarcasm, whispered, “Oh, I see. So he’s a proper genius, heh.”

John cleared his throat loudly to cover up his voice, trying to stay calm.

The cabbie went on. “Don’t look it, do I? Funny little man drivin’ a cab. But you’ll know better in a minute. Chances are it’ll be the last thing you ever know.”

John held his gaze for a second or two, then looked down at the table. “Okay, two bottles. Explain. I don’t have time.”

“There’s a good bottle and a bad bottle. You take the pill from the good bottle, you live; take the pill from the bad bottle, you die.”

“And you know which is which.”

“Course I know.”

“But I don’t.”

“Wouldn’t be a game if you knew. You’re the one who chooses.”

John’s frustration was growing. "Yes, for sure. What’s in that for the others?"

“I’aven’t told you the best bit yet. Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one – and then, together, we take our medicine. I won’t cheat. It’s your choice. I’ll take whatever pill you don’t.”

John fought the urge to draw his gun, arrest the man, and head home. Let Lestrade handle this nonsense. He pushed himself to speak. “This is what you did to the rest of them: you gave them a choice."

The cabbie nodded, “And now I’m givin’ you one.”

John huffed, “First of all, it’s not a game. It’s a chance.”

“I’ve played four times. I’m alive. It’s not chance, doctor, it’s chess. It’s a game of chess, with one move and one survivor. And this ... this ... is the move.” The cabbie slid the left-hand bottle across the table toward John, licking his lips as he pulled his hand back. He left the bottle where it was.

“Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one. You ready yet, doctor? Ready to play?”

“Play what? It’s a fifty-fifty chance.”

“You’re not playin’ the numbers, you’re playin’ me. Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill? Is it a bluff? Or a double-bluff? Or a triple-bluff?”

"None, I’m done." John started to get up.

The cabbie leaned forward, undeterred. “Four people in a row? It’s not just chance.”

John spat, "Luck."

“It’s genius. I know ’ow people think.”

Sherlock sounded way more bored than John “ Ohhhhhh heavens, do shut up, man.”

John let out a huh. “So, you risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?”

The cabbie’s insistence returned, his voice sharp. “Time to play.”

John, not phased, smirked and replied, “Oh, I am playing. There’s shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody’s pointed it out to you.” He felt Sherlock shift slightly in his pocket, but he didn’t acknowledge the movement.

The cabbie’s discomfort grew as John’s eyes remained fixed on him, unblinking.

John continued, his voice smooth. “Traces of where it’s happened before, so obviously, you live on your own. No one’s there to tell you.”

John’s gaze narrowed as he saw the subtle shifts in the man’s expression. “But there’s a photograph of children. The children’s mother has been cut out of the picture. If she’d died, she’d still be there. The photograph’s old, but the frame’s new. You think of your children, but you don’t get to see them.”

The man’s gaze slid away from John’s, and for the first time, there was a flicker of pain in his eyes. John didn’t let up, his voice quiet but relentless.

Mindless of Sherlock’s kick, John continued, “Estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them, and it still hurts.” His eyes locked on Jeff’s face, his voice softening just slightly. “Ah, but there’s more.”

Jeff, seemingly caught off guard, lifted his gaze back to John. There was no longer the confident smirk, just a hesitation in his eyes, as if he was deciding how much more he wanted to reveal.

“Your clothes: recently laundered, but everything you’re wearing’s at least ... three years old? Keeping up appearances but not planning ahead. And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What’s that about?”

Jeff regained his composure, his face a mask of neutrality as he met John’s gaze again. His expression revealed nothing, not even a flicker of emotion.

John softly added: “Ahh. How long have they told you you have? You don’t have long, though. Am I right?”

Jeff’s smile was cold, detached. “Aneurysm.” He lifted his right hand, tapping the side of his head. “Right in ’ere. Any breath could be my last.”

John’s voice turned flat, a hard edge to it, “And because you’re dying, you’ve just murdered four people.”

“I’ve outlived four people. That’s the most fun you can ’ave on an aneurysm.”

Sherlock’s voice crackled in John’s ear, cutting through the tension like a sharp knife. John frowned, shifting his weight in his chair as he pushed back to make some noise, hoping to cover the sound.

Sherlock hastily whispered, “No. No, there’s something else. He didn’t just kill four people because he’s bitter; bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator. Somehow, this is about his children.”

John’s eyes narrowed, his mind racing as Sherlock’s words landed. “The children…”

Jeff looked away and sighed: “Ohh. You are a good one, ain’t you?”

John asked, “ But how?”

“When I die, they won’t get much, my kids. Not a lot of money in driving cabs.”

“Or serial killing.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Surprise me.”

Jeff leaned forward. “I ’ave a sponsor.” He grinned.

“You have a what?”

“For every life I take, money goes to my kids. The more I kill, the better off they’ll be. You see? It’s nicer than you think.”

John huffed. “Who’d sponsor a serial killer?!”

Jeff’s grin grew bigger. “Who'd know everyone in MET?!”

They stared at each other for a long moment.

“There are clever people out there ... and they’re so much more than just a man,” Jeff added happily.

John lifted a brow, “Like an organization? What?”

“There’s a name no one says, an’ I’m not gonna say it either. Now, enough chatter.” Jeff nodded down at the bottles. “Time to choose.”

John started pulling back his chair and getting up.

Sighing in a combination of exasperation and disappointment, Jeff lifted the pistol and pointed it at him. “You can take your fifty-fifty chance, or I can shoot you in the head.”

Sherlock jolted in the pocket, but John just smiled calmly. ”I’ll have the gun, please.”

Jeff smirked, “Funnily enough, no one’s ever gone for that option. Are you sure?”

The cold smile became bigger on John's face, “Definitely. The gun.”

“You don’t wanna phone a friend?”

John just kept his cold stare at the man. “The. Gun.”

Jeff’s mouth tightened, and slowly he squeezed the trigger. A small flame bursts out of the end of the muzzle. John smiled.

“I bet your insider didn’t tell you that I know a real gun when I see one.”

Calmly, Jeff lifted the pistol-shaped cigarette lighter and released the trigger. The flame went out. “I guess not.”

John stood up, “Clearly. Well, it’s late, I’d better be going, will look forward to the court case.” He extended his hand towards Jeff, his patience barely holding together. “If you give me back my phone, please - I need to call a real cab.”

Jeff, however, seemed intent on prolonging the game. “Just before that, did you figure it out... which one’s the good bottle?”

John’s frustration was palpable. “Don’t know, don’t care. My PHONE.” His voice was rough, strained with exhaustion, and as he stared at Jeff, his gaze sharp.

Unmoved, Jeff pressed on. “But which one would you ‘ave picked, just so I know whether I could’ve beaten you?”

John’s thoughts flashed to his gun—what would it take to end this now? The temptation was there, but he resisted. It would only complicate things.

Chuckling, Jeff’s smirk widened. “Come on. Play the game.”

John’s voice dropped, the weariness in it underscored by a biting edge. “I’ll tell you how we play. I pick a pill, and you tell me the name of your sponsor. How about that?”

Sherlock kicked his chest with a force unbelievable for his size. Not waiting for a response, John reached forward, swiping the bottle nearest to Jeff, his movements quick and decisive. Jeff’s expression lit up, clearly pleased. He picked up the other bottle, as though the game was far from over.
John unscrewed the cap, lifted the capsule between his thumb and finger, took a look at it under the light.

“So what d’you think? Can you beat me?” the cabbie smirked.

The irritation burned in John’s chest, but he refused to let it show. “Who. Is. Your. Sponsor?”

Mocking John’s movements, Jeff took his time unscrewing the lid of his bottle with a slow, exaggerated motion. The pop sound echoed in the room.

A big grin formed on Jeff’s face. “... So clever. But what’s the point of being clever if you can’t prove it?”

John’s frustration boiled over. “YOUR. SPONSOR.”

Then, Sherlock’s scream pierced through the tension, “JOHN!!”

The scream from Sherlock was so loud that John flinched, and even Jeff seemed startled for a moment. But the expression on Jeff’s face didn’t last long—before a gunshot shattered the air, a bullet impacted him, continuing through his body and smashing into the door behind.

John hit the floor instinctively, dropping the pill in his surprise. His heart pounded as he stayed low and scanned the room, his eyes darting to Jeff, who had crumpled to the ground. Crawling quickly but cautiously toward him, John glanced up.

Through the fractured glass, he thought he caught the faintest glimpse of a shadow—tall, bulky—moving in the window of the opposite building. But it was gone before he could process it. He turned his attention back to Jeff.

The cabbie was convulsing on the floor, his breaths wet and ragged, blood spreading in a dark pool beneath him. His eyes were wide, staring at John in shock.

John leaned over him, assessing the wound—it was bad, too close to the heart. There wasn’t much he could do, but instinct drove him forward. Spotting Jeff’s fallen hat, John grabbed it and pressed it to the wound as Jeff groaned in agony.

With one hand on the improvised bandage, John fished his phone out of his cardigan pocket. “Stay still. I’m calling an ambulance,” he said, his voice firm but calm.

Jeff shook his head weakly, disbelief flickering in his dimming eyes.

John could feel time slipping through his fingers as shadows moved closer. He leaned in, his voice low but urgent. “Your sponsor. I want a name.”

Jeff gasped in pain. “No...” he whimpered, shaking his head again.

John’s patience snapped. “Now! The NAME!” he bellowed.

But Jeff’s body jerked with one final, agonized breath before his eyes glazed over. “Go to hell,” he murmured, the faint words slipping out with his last breath as his head rolled to the side.

Chapter Text

John sat on the back steps of an ambulance, the orange shock blanket draped around his shoulders bugging him more than the chaos around. As much as he appreciated the paramedics’ diligence, he wished they’d stop insisting he keep it on.

The first thing he’d done—before even calling Lestrade—was take Sherlock out of his pocket. The look on Sherlock’s tiny face still haunted him: a mixture of fear, anger, and something John couldn’t quite decipher. Carefully, he’d brought him closer to his face to check, watching as Sherlock, in turn, craned his head left and right, frantically, as if scanning John for damage.

Finally, Sherlock collapsed back into John’s palm with a harsh huff of relief, his brows knitted in a fierce scowl.

“What were you thinking, John Watson?” Sherlock snapped, his voice sharp despite the exhaustion in his tiny frame. “I thought you were a sensible man!”

“I am, Sherlock! Everything was under control—I sent you a message!” John shot back, his voice defensive but laced with guilt.

“It was…?! I told you the killer was a cabbie! You didn’t let me finish!! Didn’t listen!”

John, taken aback by Sherlock’s anger, didn’t answer. He couldn’t. It was stupid—so bloody stupid—to put Sherlock’s life in danger like that. Sherlock was right, and the worst part was that John knew it. He hadn’t seen that shot coming.

Instead, he put him back in the pocket and called Lestrade, and tried not to think about the angry ball of fury in his pocket, and focused on the task at hand.

Since that brief exchange, Sherlock had gone quiet, refusing to answer John’s questions- even his Morse code taps. John found himself checking his inner pocket more than once in between the paramedic’s fussing, just to be sure Sherlock was alright. Each time, all he got in return was a withering glare from the depths of the pocket, sharp enough to make him wince.

John couldn’t wait to get home.

The paramedic draped that infernal blanket over his shoulders for the fourth time, and John was just about ready to stash it somewhere for good when Lestrade walked over.

"I see you’re in shock," Lestrade said with a wide grin, gesturing toward the blanket 

John couldn’t stop snickering. “Oh yeah, very much so,” he said, tugging at the edge of the blanket in mock solemnity. Then his face turned serious. “So, the shooter. No sign?”

Lestrade shrugged, “ Cleared off before we got ’ere. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him, but ... got nothing to go on.”

But now John frowned slightly, his gaze dropping to the ground. He muttered, almost to himself rather than Greg, “Well….the bullet they just dug out of the wall’s from a handgun, kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon, right….?”

Greg lifted an eyebrow, waiting for more. He started to ask a question, but before John could answer, the tiny deduction machine in his pocket kept on narrating.

“... a crack shot, but not just a marksman; a fighter.”

John tried to focus on what Lestrade was saying, but the fatigue and Sherlock’s running commentary made it impossible. Finally, he snapped, “Oh, come on , you can’t be sure of that!”

Greg stared at him, startled. “Sorry?”

John quickly backtracked. “Erm… His hands, they wouldn’t have shaken at all, so clearly he’s acclimatized to violence… I’d say someone with a history of armed forces, maybe military service, but I can’t be certain.”

Lestrade looked impressed. “You wanna take another look at the window?”

The last thing John wanted was to stage anymore.  He waved it off quickly, “Sorry, it’s just the, er, the shock talking,” and started getting up.

Lestrade wasn’t quite done. “...But I’ve still got questions for you.”

John groaned, gesturing dramatically at the blanket, “Oh, what now? I’m in shock! Look, I’ve got a blanket!”  He added with a tired grin,” I just caught us a serial killer ... more or less.”

Greg laughed, shaking his head. “Alright, alright. You’ve done good, John. Get some rest. I’ll see you early tomorrow, yeah?”

John gave a weary nod. “Yeah, early tomorrow,” he muttered, already heading off, eager for silence and the sanctuary of home. He took the blanket from around his shoulders, bundled it up, and tossed it through the open window of a police car. He just ducked under the police tape when he heard Sherlock asking softly, 

” Are you all right?”

John, momentarily surprised, answered,  “Me…? Yes, of course, I’m all right.”

Sherlock:” Well, you just watched a man get killed.”

John exhaled slowly, “Well… That’s true, innit? Not the first time. “ John shook his head and zipped up his jacket, “But he wasn’t a very nice man.”

Apparently reassured, Sherlock’s tone shifted back to his usual indifferent one. “Hmm… No. No, he wasn’t really, was he?”

“And,” John added with a faint smile, “ And frankly, a bloody awful cabbie.”

Sherlock chuckled, and John couldn’t help but join him, glad for the tension to break. “Stop, don’t make me laugh! I’ll look mad standing here talking to myself and giggling at a crime scene.”

“You’re the one who brought us here,” Sherlock quipped. “Don’t blame me.”

John was about to retort, Oi, I made you come here? When he realized they were walking past Sergeant Donovan, who gave John a flaming look, it felt like she was disappointed that the cabbie didn't finish him! When she caught him looking, she sharply turned away.

John ignored her and kept walking.

A few minutes later, Sherlock’s voice broke the silence. “You were going to take that damned pill, weren’t you?”

John stopped in his tracks, caught off guard. “Course I wasn’t! What are you saying?” When there was no immediate answer, he pressed, “Sherlock? Is that what you really thought? That I’d take it? Do I look like an idiot to you?”

After a pause, Sherlock replied, “...Well, sometimes.” Before John could respond with the sharp remark now on the tip of his tongue, Sherlock added, “You didn’t listen to my deduction.”

John opened his mouth to argue but closed it again, realizing Sherlock wasn’t entirely wrong. He had been an idiot to let Jeff lead him there in the first place, especially when Sherlock had been right there in his pocket. Remembering how much stress that last hour must have caused his tiny friend, John left with a pang of guilt.

He cleared his throat. “Well,” he said lightly, “I suppose idiocy is contagious, then. I’ve been living with one for months. For a genius, you can be so thick sometimes.”

John walked a few more steps in the brisk night air. He contemplated saying something else before heading to the tube, but Sherlock spoke first.

“Dinner?”

John blinked, genuinely shocked. He never thought he’d hear Sherlock suggest that. With a big grin, he said, “Starving.” He quickened his pace. “There’s a good Chinese place at the end of Baker Street. They’re open ‘til two. I can grab some food.”

“Mmm! Do  they have those Pocket Puddings ?”

“Humm..?! Oh, dim sum, yeah, they do..” 

“I can always predict the wisdom biscuits.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Almost can.” 

They walked a few more minutes in companionable silence before John started down the station stairs. As he descended, Sherlock’s voice reached him again, low but probing.

“Is there anything else bothering you?”

John huffed. Of course, Sherlock would pick up on that—trust him, even from inside a pocket. “Well,” John said thoughtfully, “I’m just gutted we couldn’t get any information about his ‘sponsor.’ Do you think we’ll hear from him again?”

Sherlock’s voice turned serious. “My senses tell me so. Now that you’ve sparked some interest in a criminal mind, or organization, you should be more careful from now on, John.”

John nodded to himself, already deciding to keep his guard up. If Sherlock’s instincts were right, trouble wasn’t far behind.

Chapter Text

After wrapping up such a stressful case — their first real collaboration of that kind — John found it strangely calming to spend his afternoons on home improvements and poking around the so-called “storage” room upstairs.

The following Thursday evening, after dinner, it was John who suggested another trip up there, hoping to uncover more oddities. Sherlock hesitated at first, but eventually agreed.

This time, John unearthed even more peculiar relics, and Sherlock, with surprising insistence, urged him to bring some downstairs. Two weeks of rummaging through Victorian clutter had already exposed John to a variety of bizarre objects—some of which Sherlock claimed for himself, like a Persian slipper that reeked of tobacco, and an old, intricately decorated jackknife.  

But it was in Sherlock’s vintage Cambridge trunk that John stumbled upon something truly strange: an old bison skull, carefully wrapped in oilskin. Next-level weird. Sherlock, usually indifferent to explaining the origins of his odd possessions, barely spared most discoveries a glance. Yet, when his eyes landed on the skull, a faint, nostalgic smile crossed his face.  

That alone was enough for John to press for the story behind it. Sherlock ignored him at first, but over a dinner of mushroom risotto and Coke, he finally relented.

John cleaned up the dinner, then they sat by the fire—John in his armchair, Sherlock in his, on the small table in front of the bison skull. The firelight flickered in his eyes as he cradled his tiny teacup.

They sat there in a comfortable silence, looking at the fire. Then Sherlock ran a hand over the smooth surface of the skull - that now seemed impossibly large compared to him - and began his story.

“Ah, John, this skull,” he said, his voice carrying an air of nostalgia, “it is not merely a relic of my early days in the field—it is the cornerstone of one of my first significant triumphs. Let me take you back to the autumn of 1875 when I was fresh out of university and still navigating the precarious bridge between theory and practice."

John sipped his tea, already engrossed as Sherlock went into his tale.

“At the time, my reputation was as young as my career. But even then, word of my deductive methods had begun to trickle into certain discerning circles. The Pinkerton National Detective Agency, ever the pragmatists, sought me out for a case they couldn’t crack. Their pride, you see, was at stake, and so they sent for me, hoping my methods might salvage theirs.”

Sherlock paused, a gleam of mischief in his eyes. “The case was, shall we say, compelling. A missing archaeologist, one Professor Jonathan Crowe, who vanished without a trace while investigating ancient burial sites in the Dakota Territory. His expedition had been a small one—five men, including his trusted assistant, Dr. Edwin Hawthorne. There were plenty of rumors about a cursed bison skull and a guardian spirit of the plains."

John chuckled. “Suppose you sneered at the idea of a curse even then.”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied with a smirk, “but the human mind, John, is a curious thing. It can make curses real to those who believe them. And there were plenty of believers in that desolate wilderness.”

The story unfolded with the tempo of a practiced storyteller. Sherlock spoke of his journey to the Dakota Territory, the rugged beauty of the landscape, and the wary eyes of the locals. He described meeting the remnants of Crowe’s expedition, men haunted by fear and whispers of spirits. Among them Dr. Edwin Hawthorne, a man whose eagerness to assist seemed, even then, just a shade too forced.

“I followed the evidence to a series of caves Crowe had been exploring. The entrance was easy to miss, obscured by overgrown brush and boulders.” Sherlock leaned forward slightly, his expression sharpening as he continued. “It was in the largest cavern that I found the first signs of a struggle. A scrap of cloth snagged on a jagged outcrop of rock—coarse fabric, torn hastily, the threads fraying unevenly. Crowe’s expedition had included a uniform of sorts, with jackets made from a specific blend of wool and canvas. A quick analysis of the fibers confirmed the match. The tear wasn’t clean; it suggested a sudden, forceful motion—an arm wrenched back while attempting to flee.”

Sherlock’s tone quickened as he narrated his deductions. “Not far from the cloth, I found the remnants of a broken lantern. From the pattern of oil stain splash and irregularity of shattered glass pieces, I deduced that Crowe had been ambushed—caught off guard in the darkness.”
 He gestured animatedly, his miniature hands mimicking the placement of objects. “Nearby, faint smears of blood marked the stone floor, their edges irregular. The positioning suggested Crowe had been dragged, his legs likely limp but his arms resisting, judging by the trail’s intermittent pattern. The depth of the drag marks indicated he was carried by one man, likely someone of average build and height—strong enough to lift, but not without effort.”

John leaned closer, captivated. “So you knew Crowe had been taken, but not by whom. What led you to the suspect?”

Sherlock smirked. “Evidence, John. Always. The caves held more than just signs of a struggle—they held secrets. In the smaller offshoot chambers, I found fragments of charcoal and the remains of hastily scribbled notes, the handwriting angular and precise. These were not Crowe’s—they were Hawthorne’s. I had seen his notes before during my initial inquiries with the expedition team, and wouldn't forget his ‘A‘s.”

Sherlock’s voice grew sharper, his enthusiasm palpable. “I also was lucky with the footprints. The floor of the cave was coated in fine silt, soft enough to capture impressions but dry enough to preserve them. Crowe’s boots were distinctive—thicker soles, designed for rugged terrain—but there was a second set of prints, narrower and more worn at the heel. They showed signs of a limp on the left side, consistent with the description of Hawthorne’s gait provided by one of the expedition members.”

He paused for dramatic effect before concluding. “The final piece of the puzzle was the bison skull itself. Hawthorne had hidden it deeper in the caves, wrapped in layers of burlap and sealed in a crate. His fingerprints were all over the crate’s nails, left behind in his haste to conceal it. It was his undoing. When I confronted him with the evidence—cloth fibers, handwriting, footprints, and fingerprints—his bravado crumbled. He confessed everything: his jealousy, his plan to discredit Crowe, and his intention to sell the skull to the highest bidder.”

Sherlock leaned back with a faint smile. “Crowe, though injured, was alive and grateful when we found him. As for the skull, it was returned to the tribal leaders with the respect it deserved. A lesson, John, in how even the most tangled mysteries unravel when one observes keenly and deduces boldly.”

Sherlock’s expression softened as he reached the tale’s conclusion. “In gratitude, the tribal leaders presented me with this one, carved with a symbol of wisdom and protection. It was their way of acknowledging my efforts to honor their culture.”

The fire crackled, filling the silence that followed. John looked at the skull on the mantle, and then back at Sherlock.

“You’ve lived quite the life, even before I met you,” John said, his voice tinged with admiration.

Sherlock smiled faintly. “Indeed. But it is only in retelling these stories, John, that they truly come alive. Thank you for listening.

——-

When John brought the Bison Skull down to the living room, he did so with the intention of it being a memento of Sherlock’s old-time adventure in the U.S. However, upon arriving home, he realized just how unsettling the skull looked sitting out in the open, staring blankly with its hollow eye sockets. After one too many close encounters, in the dark late at night and being startled by the skull’s eerie presence, John decided to do something about it.

One Friday evening, John just finished reading one of his last favorite novels before realizing it was really late. Yawning and stretching, he got up off his chair and rubbed his tired eyes to open them, and was suddenly startled by the skull’s empty stare, again. 

Looking for something around, he saw his old pair of headphones in the charity box on the messy desk. Without much thinking, he grabbed and placed them over the skull’s horns. His sleepy mind’s thinking was simple: "If it’s going to stare at me all day, it might as well look less creepy and more... modern."

When the next morning Sherlock asked why the skull was suddenly sporting headphones, John, half-joking and half-serious, replied, “I don’t know…I figured it was either that or give it a pair of sunglasses. Just done with his empty stare.” And seeing Sherlock’s stare, he continued, ”Let them be there for the weekend, till I find something else.”

To his surprise, Sherlock said, “In fact, I like your addition. Keeps it entertained, doesn’t it?" 

Maybe John never knew how Sherlock was amused by John’s logic and appreciated the unintentional humor, but the headphones stayed and became an inside joke between them, with John occasionally quipping that the skull was listening to "some bison beats" whenever he passed by it.

Chapter Text

Next week turned out to be a slow one after the turbulence of the killer cabbie—the name the press had now taken to using. The hype surrounding the “serial suicides” died down, giving the whole division room to breathe, largely thanks to John. It wasn’t hard for him to notice the shift in his colleagues' demeanor: the thankful glances, the warmer smiles, and the respectful greetings. It was as if he’d lifted a massive weight off everyone’s shoulders.  

Not everyone shared that sentiment, though. Anderson, for one, visibly avoided John like the plague. If he’d been cold and scornful before, now he was downright hateful, as though John had personally insulted him by successfully identifying a serial killer. Donovan wasn’t much better. She didn’t speak to him directly but often stood in the corner, arms crossed, watching him from a distance whenever he was talking to Greg. Her gaze wasn’t hostile exactly—more analytical, as if trying to figure something out.  

This wasn’t John’s first encounter with jealousy and toxicity in the workplace. He’d learned long ago how to ignore it.  

Unfortunately, his work with Sarah had tapered off recently. He missed her no-nonsense perspective and wondered what she would have made of it all.  

When Greg asked John to take credit for the case in the press reports and interviews, John politely declined. It was clear Greg wasn’t thrilled, but John insisted. “I was just doing my job,” he’d said—though it wasn’t even part of his job description—and that he had no interest in having his name attached. Greg called it humility. John called it self-preservation. Staying out of the spotlight was a habit, and now he needed that more than ever. 

The quieter week brought new dynamics. Greg now asked for John’s opinion on practically everything, and younger team members—interns especially—started treating him like a mentor. They followed him around, took mental notes on his every move, and one particularly eager intern even jotted down something he’d said during a casual conversation. John couldn’t help but think, Oh, God. Seriously? He felt like an old professor.  

With more time on his hands than he was used to, John spent one evening after dinner typing out a more adventurous version of the story Sherlock had told him about the bison skull. He wasn’t usually a fan of his own writing, but this one turned out quite well enough to make him feel a small sense of pride. Feeling pleased, he sent it to Sherlock to read.  

Sherlock’s response came swiftly, cutting through John’s moment of satisfaction: “You’ve dramatized a simple elementary case into an adventure melodrama.”  

“Come on, Sherlock, it was adventurous!” John insisted.  

“Was it?” Sherlock replied, arching an eyebrow. “It was one of my most mundane cases. If it weren’t for the skull, I’d have probably omitted it entirely by now. The relic was the only thing of real interest.”  

“Glad you didn’t. And it wasn’t mundane at all.”  

“Oh, but it was,” Sherlock said, frustrated, mimicking John, “I could’ve solved it when I was ten, probably. In fact, I’m certain I tackled more interesting cases at that age.”  

“What—? Murder cases? As a kid?” John said in disbelief. 

Sherlock shrugged. “Oh, not murders. People didn’t kill each other quite as much back then, unfortunately… I did read about a few in the papers, but no one took my ideas seriously, which was particularly frustrating in the case of young Carl Powers…”  

Sherlock’s voice trailed off as he noticed John staring at him, his expression teetering between incredulity and disappointment. Sherlock quickly cleared his throat, sensing he might have gone too far. He didn’t like that look on John’s face—disappointed, John was disturbed, to say the least.  

“Well,” Sherlock began, shifting gears with the finesse of a practiced conversationalist, “if you really enjoy writing up case stories—vain as that may be—I do have some better stories for you.”  

John’s eyes lit up, his interest glowing with his smile. “From your old cases?”  

Sherlock couldn’t help the small smile that crept onto his own face. John’s genuine smile was, as always, contagious. “Of course, Doctor. What would you like to hear most?”  

----

Encouraged by his recent raid into writing, John decided to try his hand at compiling a toned-down, fine-tuned version of their last case, titling it ‘A Study in Pink’. Naturally, he had to find a way to erase his own role in the events, which led him to create a fictional character to take his place.  

Once he’d finished, he turned his attention to some of the older cases Sherlock had told him about. John reworked them, setting them in contemporary times and adding them to the adventures of a mysterious detective. 

When Sherlock read the first two drafts, he simply covered his face with his hands and let out a long, exaggerated sigh, shaking his head.  

“What?” John asked, half-amused and half-exasperated. “Still didn’t like them?”  

Sherlock groaned. “Oh, John, your choice of words is atrocious... There were fourteen typos… And, for the love of all that’s logical, how are you still typing with two fingers?”  

John smirked, relieved that Sherlock’s main complaint wasn’t about his narration.  

The question of a name for their fictional detective lingered in John’s mind. He wandered into the kitchen to refill his mug, muttering more to himself than to Sherlock. “Hmm... how about Scott? Scott... Jones, maybe…?”  

From the sofa, Sherlock shook his head vehemently. “Oh, no. No, no, not Scott!”  

“But it’s your middle name! Alright, fine,” John said, rolling his eyes. “Suggestions?”  

“Use Sigerson,” Sherlock replied abruptly, after a long pause. 

“Sigerson?” John repeated, looking over his shoulder. “Any particular reason?”  

Sherlock hesitated, his voice growing softer, more reflective. “I used it a couple of times when working... anonymously abroad. Back then,” he added, almost absently, “disguised as a Swedish musician.”  

John caught the faint note of something deeper beneath the words—memories, perhaps, not all of them pleasant. He decided not to press, letting the moment hang briefly before nodding. “Alright then. Sigerson, it is.”  

Later that night, after dinner, John sat with a mug of tea, gathering the nerve to broach the subject. Finally, he asked, casually but carefully, “So... are you alright with me posting some of these stories on my blog?”  

Sherlock looked up from the haze he’d seemed to drift through most of the evening. “Hmm... if it pleases you, I don’t see why not,” he replied, shrugging lightly. “They’re superficial and silly, but it seems people enjoy that kind of entertainment these days. Besides,” he added, picking up his teacup, “didn’t your doctor suggest writing as part of your recovery?”  

John grinned faintly. “She might have mentioned something like that.”  

Sherlock gave a faint nod, his attention drifting back to his tea. “Then, by all means, indulge.”  

John didn’t expect much from his simple, not-entirely-accurate narrative of what happened with Jeff Hope. It was just a story, exaggerated for the sake of readability and filled with enough fiction to obscure the truth.  

Still, when he posted it under the title A Study in Pink that evening, he decided to add a twist—a website dedicated to the fictional character he’d created: the retired Detective Sigerson, a part-time “consulting detective” who offered keen insights to assist in solving cases. The website was bare-bones but functional, with a few cryptic references to Sigerson’s storied career abroad.  

Satisfied, John closed his laptop and headed to bed, thinking little of it. It was, after all, just a bit of fun.  

What he didn’t expect was the overwhelming response it would receive the next day.

The following Monday was a busy one, consumed by a case involving a young city trader who had lost everything in the stock market. This time, tragically, it was a real suicide by the gun found in the victim’s left hand. The case wrapped up quickly enough, but the day’s work had kept John occupied until dinner.  

That evening, after polishing off a hearty lasagna- courtesy of Mrs. Hudson, who, despite her constant insistence that she wasn’t his housekeeper, often spoiled him with amazing meals- John finally settled onto the sofa. Lazily eyeing the rubbish playing on the telly, he opened his laptop to check the ‘Sigerson’ blog.  

Sherlock sat on his chair on the coffee table, thoughtfully chewing his last bite of the new dish while writing some notes at the same time in his notebook, when John’s sudden exclamation shattered the quiet.  

“Holy fuck!”  

Sherlock almost choked on his food. “What now?” As always, visibly cringing at the profanity.

“Nine hundred and two views in 24 hours!” John’s voice pitched higher in disbelief. “What...?! Jeez, look at all these comments!”  

Sherlock reluctantly rose and walked across the coffee table to the laptop to take a look. John scrolled through an overwhelming cascade of feedback, comments from readers marveling at Detective Sigerson’s deductive brilliance.  

John laughed, albeit nervously. “I can’t believe it! I’ll need a secretary just to keep up with these replies.”  

“You don’t need a secretary,” Sherlock remarked dryly, rolling his eyes. “I can answer them for you.”  

The mental image of Sherlock responding to comments with his normal attitude made John snatch the laptop back swiftly, grinning. “No, thank you! I was only kidding.”  

For a moment, John thought he caught a flicker of something—hurt?—cross Sherlock’s face. It was fleeting but enough to prick at John’s conscience. He’d been carrying a pang of quiet guilt all week as the accolades rolled in, knowing well that it was Sherlock’s brilliance, not his, that had solved the case.  

John cleared his throat, suddenly uncertain. “Erm... Sherlock, you know, I do wish I could share the credit. It’s really you—your genius—”  

But Sherlock waved a hand dismissively, cutting him off. “Oh, who cares, John? I’ve solved countless cases for Scotland Yard and explicitly asked them to leave my name out of it. Fame and credit don’t interest me. It’s the work, the thrill of it, that matters.”  

John frowned, his voice dropping to something softer. “But it feels wrong. You’re still brilliant, Sherlock. You could do so much more. I’ve never met anyone as observant as you.”  

Sherlock was already back at his latest experiment: a suspicious liquid dripped from a pipette onto a sliver of John’s clipped fingernail mounted under his magnifying glass. Without looking up, he added, “You trusted me, took me to the crime scene, and did the legwork. You most certainly deserve the credit.”  

John didn’t have a reply to that, so he let the conversation trail off, staring at the glowing screen of his laptop. Sherlock might not want fame, but John would ensure his brilliance wasn’t forgotten, not entirely. 

Sooner than John expected, Sigerson found a huge number of fans—not just enthusiasts eagerly asking for more adventures, but also people seeking help with their own problems. At first, there were only a few scattered inquiries, but the week after John published the skull’s story under the name of "The Mystery of the Guardian’s Whisper", the number of requests surged.  

Perhaps it was John’s fault. In the blog’s bio, he’d written that Sigerson used to consult on special, uncanny cases. Now, the email address John had created and provided for the blog was bursting with messages. These ranged from tales of missing cats to reports of bothersome ghosts in supposedly haunted houses, and, of course, the classic cheating spouses.  

A few emails came from trolls, insulting the stories, calling them utterly stupid, and insisting that such a detective could never exist. Among the mix, there were also more peculiar emails. Some requested a photograph or personal details about the enigmatic detective. One particularly bold email proposed a date.  

John invited Sherlock to sift through the bursting inbox with him, but he merely huffed, read the first three emails, and retreated to his new book about bees. “Imbeciles,” he muttered, shaking his head as he climbed up onto his armchair.  

John, however, grew more serious the further he delved into the messages; his tea sat forgotten on the desk as he scrolled through page after page. What if they actually helped some of these people? Not by solving murders, of course—that wasn’t realistic—but online consulting could certainly be a useful tool. People sought remote advice for all kinds of things these days, from skincare routines to marriage counseling. Why not this?  

One particular message caught his attention: a heartfelt plea from an older woman who missed her late husband—except, according to her, he wasn’t late at all. She believed he’d been abducted, forced to live under a false identity somewhere in Chile. Her sadness leaped off the screen, and John couldn’t stop thinking about it.  

The idea began to take root. What if he researched the legal aspects of her situation and then talked to Sherlock about it? Perhaps there was a way for the consulting detective to help, even from the comfort of 221 B.  

“Are you out of your mind, Watson…?!” was Sherlock’s immediate response that Wednesday evening, after John had explained his plan for the blog.

He pushed his plate of mashed potatoes aside. “You were so adamantly against accepting my help with that pink case of yours, to the point I had to force you to bring me along, and now you want me to solve criminal cases for unknown people remotely? Have you ever thought about the risks? To you, to Molly Hooper, if people start getting curious about who's behind this?”

John had, of course, thought about that. “Of course I did. And by no means do I want to do anything risky. For your safety—more than anyone’s,” he said, his voice softening. He was genuinely impressed by Sherlock’s concern for them both. 

“I’ve been thinking about you, Sherlock. And how much you enjoy solving crimes. And how brilliant you are at it. I hate that you’re stuck here all day, can’t go out, can’t do what you love most. I thought this might be something you’d actually enjoy. It’s not like the real work you used to do, but…” he trailed off. “It’s a calculated risk, of course. We’ll have to be extra careful.”

Sherlock remained quiet, staring at his tiny plate. John was almost beginning to think there wouldn’t be an answer when, after a long silence, as he moved to put his plate in the sink, he heard Sherlock’s low voice. 

“There was a time when the work was the most important thing in the world to me… and that’s why I neglected other things. Things I’ve lost now and will regret forever, never to have again. I don’t want to make the same mistake again…”

John opened his mouth to reassure him, but Sherlock added, “But as you mentioned, this remote consulting could open some doors, though virtual, for me. Maybe virtual is better than nothing.”

John smiled. Was that a yes?

Sherlock didn’t offer any more words, but later that night, as they were getting ready for bed—John in his bed, Sherlock in his “room” on the bookshelf, reading under the light of his tiny lamp—Sherlock spoke again.

“How do you think I should tell the woman that her husband is indeed still alive?”

----

Sherlock called his website Science of Deduction, a name he’d used years ago for a detailed article that no one had accepted to publish. (Curious, John rummaged through Sherlock’s old papers in the storage room for a whole two hours to find it. It was, of course, brilliant, but he didn’t tell him.)

What John didn’t expect was that even the Met people read the blog. Greg Lestrade mentioned it casually one day, and John tried to clarify that it was just fiction, not based on actual cases. But Greg just shrugged and said it was fine—everyone loved it, and in fact, encouraged him to keep writing.

Then, of course, curiosity about the mysterious consulting detective grew. Lestrade initially thought Sigerson was just a product of John’s imagination. When John told him that he in fact was a real person—an old acquaintance of his, a friend of a friend—Lestrade seemed taken aback. 

John had to make up a story on the spot about a genius who helped the British Army with serious threats during one of John’s overseas trips. The story had some truth in it, as Sherlock had once told him about helping his brother with an international threat regarding a naval treaty. So John spun a tale that Sigerson was retired now, taking cases only for fun, and trusted John to keep his identity hidden because he was an aloof person who only communicated with a very few select individuals, including John.  John finished with, “He has a lot of enemies.”

Lestrade nodded thoughtfully, apparently convinced. But John wasn’t so sure about Donovan, who always seemed to be lurking nearby, eavesdropping, monitoring their conversation from a distance.

So anyone who wanted to talk to Sherlock had to go through John first. John met a few potential clients—though Sherlock didn’t accept all cases—and sometimes he played the role of carrier, as Sherlock insisted on meeting them "in person," which, in his case, meant observing them from John’s pocket, and in two cases, from a box on the table. Sherlock would shout instructions in John's ears—“No,” “Moving on,” “Next,” - and poor John would have to politely turn people down. “Sorry, I know he won’t accept your case.”

Gradually, the “mysterious” online detective became a bit of a phenomenon. Some believed he was a real, solitary person; others, including a few Met officers, thought he was just a figment of John’s imagination and that he either did the solving himself or paid someone else to do the work. But if that were true, they wondered, why then did John insist on remaining anonymous in cases solved for NSY?

Anderson, followed closely by Donovan, was convinced John was exploiting someone’s work—perhaps an illegal immigrant, a refugee, or even a criminal—and believed the whole thing should be stopped. This idea stemmed mostly from jealousy, especially Anderson’s. Sally was a bit more neutral but still suspicious. John’d always been nice to her, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was hiding something. Anderson, on the other hand, was simply insecure. 

John couldn’t understand why Anderson couldn’t focus on his own work instead of obsessing over others’ business, trying to find faults, and then wondering why everyone despised him. He was a classic example of those who just couldn’t be happy with what they had, and were always fixated on things that weren’t theirs—jobs, positions, partners.  Sometimes John couldn’t stop thinking about Sherlock’s first deduction about his affair with Sally.

John thought Anderson could be good in his field, but it seemed like gossiping and fabricating theories were more his style. Contrary to Sherlock’s opinion, Anderson wasn’t an idiot, but well, to Sherlock, everyone was an idiot—even John, though he never said it aloud. John couldn’t blame the genius much for thinking that way. Anderson believed John should be working on a much lower level, thinking he lacked the education, background, and experience to hold the position. 

----

Giving people consultations and solving some uncanny cases for mental exercise—and as an alternative to drugs—was the main idea, so John never really considered Sherlock making money out of it. That’s why he was so surprised when Sherlock asked him for a way to receive the “gifts of appreciation” that a particularly grateful client wanted to send.  

Sherlock, completely nonchalant, said, “Yes, yes. I started the website because I needed to work. I want to pay my share of the rent, so I need to make money!”  

John blinked, startled. “You really don’t have to! I can handle the expenses. Don’t worry about it—Mrs. Hudson’s giving us a really good deal. She’s just happy someone finally rented the ‘haunted’ flat. Besides, you barely occupy any room to pay for it!”  

Sherlock shrugged, unimpressed by John’s reasoning. “Perhaps. But I still have expenses, most of which you currently cover. Besides, moving here was my idea, and it’s not as though you can get another flatmate now. It’s unfair to impose all of this on you.”  

John opened his mouth, ready to argue, but something about the way Sherlock said it — so matter-of-fact, yet almost careful — made him pause.

For a brief, foolish second, John wondered if this was about more than just rent and expenses. If maybe, somehow, Sherlock was asking to belong, in the only way he knew how.

The thought caught him off guard - sharp and strange and aching - but he shoved it aside almost immediately.

No, he told himself. Sherlock didn’t think like that. This was just logic, cold and clean. Nothing more.

John cleared his throat, forcing a smile. "Alright," he said, keeping his voice light. "If it matters that much to you, we’ll sort it out."

Sherlock nodded once, brisk and businesslike, already turning back to the laptop.

John watched him for a moment longer, feeling something unspoken settle between them anyway — a thread he pretended not to see, but that he couldn’t quite ignore.

Chapter Text

John couldn’t exactly pinpoint when their “casual touches” became normal. Perhaps it started with the occasional checks in the early weeks - John feeling the need to reach out, to confirm Sherlock was still real and not some delicate porcelain figurine or a figment of his imagination. Those moments came especially on colder days when Sherlock sat unnervingly still for hours, staring into nothingness.  

The routine checks became less frequent as Sherlock’s health improved. Gradually, his energy returned, and with it his sharp wit and a bit of color to his pale complexion. When they began venturing out more, Sherlock safely tucked it into John’s pocket, John was oddly grateful for it. He convinced himself that the warmth against his chest was grounding, a comfort he hadn’t realized he needed.  

But then came the changes. After they improvised a transportation system within the flat—miniature cars, zip lines, and other ingenious contraptions—Sherlock stopped asking John to carry him. It was practical, efficient, and entirely in line with Sherlock’s personality. Still, John was startled to discover that he missed it. He never voiced this, of course. He didn’t want to bother Sherlock, who valued his autonomy above all else.  

And yet, over time, John began to suspect he wasn’t the only one seeking those moments of physical connection. For all his aloofness and insistence on personal space, Sherlock had peculiar ways of initiating contact. Small, almost imperceptible gestures; sitting closer than necessary, brushing against John’s hand while climbing up onto the couch, or occasionally using him as a makeshift armrest.  

The last weeks in John’s old flat held a memory that stood out vividly in his mind. It was a cold March night, John was sleepily reading his spy novel in bed, the words beginning to blur together, when he heard Sherlock’s low voice cut through the quiet.  

“John, there’s an eyelash on your left cheek.”  

“Hm…? Where?” John mumbled, blindly brushing at his face with no real effort.  

“Over there—allow me to help you,” Sherlock said, already on the move. He leaped gracefully from the nightstand, where he’d been reading his own book, to John’s pillow. He wobbled slightly as the soft surface shifted beneath him, but managed to keep his balance.  

John watched him as walking across the pillow with determined precision. His delicate pale face with eccentric proportions seemed even more surreal in the dim light.  

Reaching John’s cheek, Sherlock bent down and plucked the offending eyelash with precision. The movement caused him to stumble, and in an attempt to steady himself, he braced his other hand against John’s face.  

The tiny hand was cold against John’s skin, and for a moment, something like a jolt of electricity passed through him. Their eyes locked, and the room felt strangely still.  

Then Sherlock cleared his throat, straightened, and tucked the eyelash into his tiny robe pocket.  

“You’re… keeping that?” John asked, raising an eyebrow.  

“Erm… I need it for an experiment,” Sherlock replied, not meeting his gaze.  

John’s other eyebrow joined the first. “Right. An experiment.”  

Sherlock straightened his back defensively. “What? You have plenty.” After a short pause, he added, “Two hundred and thirty-five, on that eye to be precise.”  

John blinked. “You haven’t counted my lashes… have you?”  

Sherlock hesitated, then muttered, “I might have. Some nights I can’t sleep. Boredom.” With that he turned and went back to his book. 

—-

Their “accidental” touches slowly became more frequent. John couldn’t ignore it, nor could he shake the growing suspicion that Sherlock, for all his aloofness, had lived an incredibly touch-starved life. It made sense. With his eccentric ways and sharp edges, John could easily imagine how Sherlock might have been the odd man out, especially in his original time. Isolated. Alone. No wonder he built those walls around himself.  

John didn’t know much about Sherlock’s personal life—or love life, if there had ever been one. He never shared, and John didn’t push. Still, he could tell that Sherlock liked and even craved support and attention, no matter how hard he tried to deny it. Slowly and cautiously, Sherlock allowed physical contact, and John couldn’t help but feel it was a sign of trust.  

One cold morning, during those early days at Baker Street, John woke to an odd sensation on his forehead. Something warm and unexpected. Startled, he jolted and snapped open his eyes, only to find Sherlock curled into a tiny ball on his pillow, wrapped in his miniature blanket.  

The movement stirred Sherlock awake. He yawned, stretched slightly, and said, “Morning,” with a lazy indifference.  

“Sherlock, what the... What are you doing here?” John blurted, still trying to process the sight.  

Sherlock, unfazed, burrowed back into his blanket. “The heater broke again last night. I was cold. Body heat helped.”  

John stared, speechless for a moment, before finding his voice. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”  

“Why should I have? Your heat is efficient,” Sherlock replied matter-of-factly, closing his eyes again as if the conversation was over.  

“That’s not the point!” John groaned, running a hand over his face. “Sherlock, it was dangerous! You can’t just crawl onto my bed! What if I’d rolled over and crushed you without realizing it?”  

Sherlock sat up, his hair sticking up in wild tufts, and without a word, grabbed his blanket, dragged it across the bed, and stomped away in what could only be described as a tiny but theatrical exit.  

John sighed, dropping his head into his hands. “Oh, God,” he muttered. “Why did I yell at him?” He still believed it had been a risky move, but maybe he could’ve handled it better.  

Sherlock remained distant and frosty for the rest of that day and into the next.  

When they finally spoke again, Sherlock’s words caught John off guard. “You couldn’t have rolled over,” he said quietly, avoiding John’s eyes. “You sleep with minimal movements. On your back...”  

He trailed off as if realizing how creepy it sounded to have observed John’s sleeping habits so closely. Sherlock fidgeted, his voice quieter now. “I… have bad sleeping patterns,  you know that. Some nights, I just… stay awake.”  

—-

That Friday night, they finally wrapped up a missing person’s case after three exhausting days. The team had worked late, with Sherlock keeping up remotely from home. It wasn’t until well past midnight that the police found the basement where the jealous ex-husband had hidden a boyfriend. The breakthrough came thanks to Sherlock’s unseen but invaluable input, which John had expertly and discreetly woven into the investigation. By the time he dragged himself home and crashed into bed, it was already 3 a.m.

So, naturally, he wasn’t thrilled to be woken by someone yelling in his ear just a few hours later. Groaning, he rolled over, only to feel a tiny hand patting his chin.

"John! John! Wake up!"

“Why... What the hell...?! What time is it?” he mumbled groggily.

“Irrelevant!” Sherlock declared impatiently. “It’s Garden Day! Get up!”

John squinted, his brain still fogged with sleep. “Wha...?”

“We’re meeting Molly for the Poison Garden tour. Remember? I’ve been waiting for weeks!”

Through the haze, the memory clicked into place. Oh, right. They’d arranged this trip weeks ago after Sherlock had been obsessed with the famous Poison Garden. Coordinating with Molly had been a nightmare, given John’s increasing work demands, as well as Molly’s busy schedule and changes in her personal life. Sherlock had, in his roundabout way, made it clear how much he missed her company, so John had thought the outing would be a nice break. And now he regretted his decision.

“Sherlock, it’s not even seven. Nothing’s open yet, and we’ve had less than four hours of sleep. Go back to bed,” John muttered, pulling the duvet over his head.

Sherlock sighed dramatically, clearly pouting. “You’d better get up soon, or I’ll be in your hair... literally.” John heard him grumble, “It took ages to come over here to wake you up, and now I’m stuck. No more sleep for me.”

Despite his complaints, John felt the tiny weight of Sherlock climbing up his pillow. He landed on his head with a quiet huff, yawning. “I’ll just rest here for a second,” he murmured.

John chuckled at his flatmate’s stubbornness but froze at the next mumbled, sleep-slurred remark: “...Don’t know why you insist on cutting your hair so short. Feels like hay in late summer to lie in…”

John was surprised by the sleepy honesty. Sherlock must have been really exhausted. Grabbing his phone, John took a blind shot at the top of his head. When he looked at the picture, his grin widened. There was Sherlock, sprawled out and fast asleep in the middle of John’s disheveled “haystack” hair, clutching a tuft of it like a blanket.

Of course, that wasn’t the only place Sherlock ended up. On one memorable night, Several weeks later, John woke at dawn to find Sherlock sprawled on the duvet across his chest, fast asleep. The tiny figure had clearly abandoned his usual perch for a more comfortable—though much riskier—napping spot.  

John had blinked groggily at the sight, taking a moment to process it. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he watched Sherlock’s slow, rhythmic breathing, his tiny face relaxed and free from his usual intensity. John might have felt tempted to move him back to safety, but the scene was unexpectedly peaceful. He let himself enjoy it for a while before drifting back to sleep.  

By the time he woke later that morning, Sherlock was gone, leaving no explanation for his bold choice of napping spot. They didn’t talk about it afterward, and John didn’t press.  

Such moments gradually made things less awkward. Sherlock seemed to test boundaries in his own odd ways, and John learned to adapt. It wasn’t long before Sherlock started riding on John’s shoulder from time to time, particularly for quick trips around the flat.  

Sherlock dismissed it as practical—“Much faster than relying on my contraptions”—but John couldn’t help noticing the glimmer of enjoyment Sherlock tried to hide. And maybe, just maybe, John didn’t mind it either.

Chapter Text

Some days, John felt like Sherlock behaved like a toddler with separation anxiety, the kind that clung to their parents when they returned to work after a long holiday. Yet, more often than not, when John came back home, he’d find his flatmate utterly indifferent—either engrossed in an experiment or lost in his mind sanctum, barely acknowledging his return.

The tiny detective was still an enigma, but in the months they’d lived together, John had learned enough to see through the cold, detached mask Sherlock wore so effortlessly. He couldn’t always decipher the reasons behind it, but he understood now that Sherlock wasn’t as unfeeling as he appeared. For now, John was content that they’d found some kind of balance in their coexistence. That was enough.

After their first crime-solving adventure, though, John noticed that the mask cracked just a little. Sherlock was clearly more excited about their collaboration than he let on, even if he tried to dismiss it as nothing more than the work. John assumed it was a one-off, but by the second week of May, the NSY had an unusual double murder on their hands—bizarre and frustratingly complex. Sherlock, of course, couldn’t leave John alone about it, pestering him endlessly for details.

John wasn’t surprised when, after sharing a few photos and some basic information, Sherlock solved the case in under an hour. The real challenge was directing the team to the key evidence in a way that wouldn’t raise suspicion. But the effort paid off: they saved days of work, and a murderous CEO was caught just in time. John couldn’t complain, even if the process left him with a few more gray hairs.

Gradually, asking for Sherlock’s help became more common, and to mutual benefit. The first time John had to video call him from a crime scene was during a high-pressure case. It ended up taking far longer than before, but once again, Sherlock’s input turned out to be pivotal—even if John and a bunch of officers did a lot of  “leg work”.

---

From the very first day that Sherlock learned to send messages, it quickly became his favorite method of communication. John, anticipating the need for caution, had bought a prepaid SIM card with cash, intending it solely for emergencies. However, as John soon discovered, Sherlock’s definition of "emergency" was... very different.

And what truly surprised Sherlock wasn’t the ability to send messages themselves, but the existence of emojis. For an entire day, he couldn’t stop ranting about how humanity had regressed to such bizarre communication methods - “Hehe, this is utterly ridiculous, we are back to using hieroglyphs!” - to the degree that John seriously considered switching his phone to a flip phone.  

Thankfully, something else caught his attention soon after, and the emoji tirade was momentarily forgotten.

It was shortly after John started his new job that Sherlock resumed his habit of mass texting him throughout the day. John had made it clear that he couldn’t respond much during work hours, and while Sherlock claimed to understand the concept of emergencies, his definition remained… flexible.

The messages varied wildly, ranging from: “When did you leave?! I was talking!” to “How long does it take for a human toenail to decay if buried in the mud?” to “Can we have colonial deviled chicken* tonight?”

It wasn’t until the first week of May that John received a truly surprising message from Sherlock during his coffee break with Greg. He was mid-sip when his phone buzzed, and the sight of Sherlock’s message made his eyebrows shoot up. It was just an emoji.  

Greg, seated across from him, noticed John’s expression and chuckled. “What’s that, a love note? Having a date, are we?”

“What? No!” John sputtered. “Just got a… surprising message from an old… associate.”  

Greg smirked. “What’s so funny about it, then?”  

“Well,” John said, tilting his phone to Greg. “He hates emojis. At least, he used to. Now he’s sent me a string of them. No words, just emojis. Maybe it’s a butt-dial? Or a… butt-text?”  

Greg laughed, taking a sip of his coffee. “You think that’s odd? You should see Molly’s texts.”  

The comment caught John off guard. Greg rarely mentioned Molly in personal conversations, almost as much as Molly tended to talk about him. Intrigued, John cleared his throat and pocketed his phone. Trying to sound casual, he asked, “Oh? How so?”  

Seeing Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade unexpectedly bashful, smiling into his coffee cup was a rare scene. “Well… you wouldn’t expect it from someone as serious as her, but… her texts are all sweet words, hearts, and emojis. It’s… cute.”  

John stared, astonished at the glimpse into Greg and Molly’s growing relationship. He was about to ask a follow-up question, mouth already open, when a loud buzz interrupted them. 

Both men instinctively glanced at their phones, but it was Greg who groaned and muttered, "Duty calls."  

John smiled wryly. "Saved by the bell, eh?"  

Greg chuckled, standing and tossing a few coins onto the table for his coffee. “Guess I’ll leave you to decipher your ‘butt-texts’.” He gave a parting wink before heading out, leaving John alone to ponder.  

Glancing at his phone again, John re-examined Sherlock’s emojis;

He didn’t receive any real messages from him today, surprising and maybe a bit worrying. 

Then the first message was: 🛟 

John would swear that it indeed was a butt-text, but it was followed by some  more messages, 

🗝️

John muttered to himself, "What da…?”

Then:

👮‍♂️

👋

🦠

Then:

⌛️🔪

John was already worried, and started to type a message when this one came:

🎤❓🏠💨👀🕵️‍♂️

His heart skipped. Was Sherlock trying to tell him something serious?

Before he could think further, his phone buzzed again.

🚨🕳️📴

What….?! 

John couldn’t wait anymore and dialed Sherlock then froze, as his phone went immediately to a generic voicemail message. John jumped, sent a quick message of a family emergency to his colleague, and ran.

Fifteen minutes and a £35 taxi ride later, John burst through the flat’s door, breathless and ready for anything. 

“Sherlock??”

The detective was sitting calmly on the kitchen table, reading. He looked up, surprised by John’s entrance. “John? What’s with the dramatic entrance?”

John, still catching his breath, held up his phone. “What… what does this mean, Sherlock? Are you okay? What’s going on?”

Sherlock glanced at the screen and groaned, rubbing his temples. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. It’s not a code, John. I was asking where my microphone was. It’s alright, I found it.” 

“Your… microphone?” John repeated, utterly baffled.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, gesturing vaguely. “This symbolized 'help’. I didn't want to send a more urgent depiction, not to make you worried - wasn’t it obvious enough?” Registering his silence, he kept going., “Next one is you, I assume. Well, the closest thing I could find for you, then ‘hello’, as you didn’t bother answering? Then I tried to tell you that my time was running out, and I was getting angry.”

John squeezed the bridge of his nose.“Okay….” 

“The last one was even more obvious, this means microphone, this means where, the little house represents the flat, the puff of air is my frustration, the eys, 👀 because, of course, I’m looking for it, and this last one because it’s, well, me.”

John blinked. “And the last message?!”

Sherlock sighed. “That was me realizing the microphone might have fallen into some crevice, and my phone was about to die before I could finish explaining.”

For a moment, John stared at him, torn between relief and shouting. Finally, he just shook his head. “Sherlock, emojis aren’t your thing.” Then dropped himself into a kitchen chair. “Stick to typing.”

Sherlock tilted his head thoughtfully. “Hmm… Clearly, the issue lies in your interpretation, not my communication. Also, typing is boring. I decided to follow your advice and learn ‘modernity’. Isn’t this part of it?” Sherlock added smugly. “I may reconsider using hieroglyphs from now on.”

John covered his face with his hands and groaned. 

Sherlock didn’t bug John with hieroglyphs much after the whole microphone debacle. But, naturally, it wasn’t long before it happened again.

The case had dragged on for weeks—messy, convoluted, and seemingly endless. Now, after a full day of searching, their suspect had slipped away at the last second. Frustrated, John stood in the middle of the third victim’s house, trying to piece together any leads that could give them a direction.  

He messaged Sherlock, knowing he might see something everyone else had missed. When the reply came, his heart lifted slightly. Sherlock was already looking at the live footage he'd sent. Maybe this would be the breakthrough they needed.  

Then John opened the message.  

🔪💂🏼‍♂️🧶👤👞🐍🪠 

He blinked, staring at the screen. Sherlock had solved the case—or at least, that’s what it seemed like he was saying. His head throbbed. Why did it always have to be like this?  

He angrily punched in a reply: 

“Could you be clearer? I don’t feel like playing a guessing game right now, Sherlock!!”

Sherlock’s answer came almost instantly.  

😏

John slammed his phone down, letting out a frustrated growl that startled the officer walking by.  

“Everything alright, Doctor Watson?”  

John waved him off, muttering under his breath.  “Everything's Excellent.”

--

It was well past midnight when John finally got home. Tired and pissed didn’t even begin to cover it. He should’ve been happy—the case was wrapped up, and Lestrade had clapped him so hard on his bad shoulder that it ached all over again.  

“Sharp work, Watson!” Lestrade had said, beaming. “Figured it out right in time!”  

What Lestrade didn’t know was that John had spent an hour running around that house like a headless chicken, piecing together Sherlock’s ridiculous clues. The praise didn’t do much for his mood.  

Sherlock lay back on his bed, leisurely writing in his notebook while a violin concerto played softly on his phone.  

John stood in front of the bookshelf, fists clenched at his sides, his anger bubbling up. Words failed him.  

Finally, Sherlock glanced up. “Ah, John. You’re home. How was your day?”  

“Are you aware,” John growled, “of how much time I spent trying to figure out your bloody code?”  

Sherlock tilted his head, thoughtful, chewing the end of his pencil. “Hmm… eighty-five minutes?”  

John’s jaw tightened. “Some days, you should be thankful you’re tiny.”  

They didn’t exchange another word that night—or the next morning, for that matter. Breakfast was tense. John had cooled off visibly but wasn’t interested in talking.  

Sherlock fidgeted with his tea, trying once or twice to start a conversation, but John’s silence held firm. Eventually, he finished his tea, grabbed his keys and jacket, and left without a word.  

---

It was nearing lunchtime when Sherlock received a message from Molly.  

“Hi, Sherlock. I don’t know what’s going on again, but John sent me something to forward to you. Is everything okay?” 

“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

The forwarded message came through: “Less than an hour, idiot.”  

Sherlock smirked, then texted back: “Thank you, Molly. Would you mind sending something to him for me?”

“Like what?”

“Just this: 😉.”

——————-

*Colonial deviled chicken, another made-up word from our Victorian mini detective, this time for “Kung Pao Chicken”.  

Chapter Text

John jolted out of sleep with a shout. It took him a few seconds to get his bearings and slow down his breathing. Nightmare. The first one after a rather while. And like all of his new ones, Sherlock was a part of that.

After Sherlock’s accident, John’s nightmares returned for a short time, but with a different focus: Sherlock was at the center of all of them, trapped in bizarre and dramatic dangers—being attacked by a giant spider or roach, or, most horrifyingly, accidentally crushed under John’s own foot. Each morning after waking from these nightmares, John devised new safety measures and precautions, much to Sherlock’s frequent complaints.

But it was the first time after moving to 221B that John had had a major nightmare. 

He couldn’t even remember the whole of it now, though it had started with something like eating out with Molly and Anderson in a Chinese restaurant that served owl-shaped dim sum, while Molly petted a big black cat on her lap. John had, on habit, patted his left chest pocket to check if Sherlock was alright, just to realize he had a blue silk robe on and that there was no pocket on it. He was still coping with this discovery when he found himself on a dark damp mountain trail where an old, hunchbacked man with a long white beard stood waving in the wind, with deep-set, scary dark eyes and dressed in a long black Oxford professor’s gown, and in his hand was Sherlock, in an empty jar of his favorite apricot jam. 

John tried to slowly step forward, telling him to be sensible and put the jar down, as the path was a dead end: ahead was nothing but a big, dark waterfall, roaring down. Sherlock kept banging on the jar and shouting something John couldn’t hear, maybe asking for help. John was shaking with rage and worry. The old man just stared at him with those dead eyes, as a murderous grin opened up his sinister face, and then, suddenly gripping the jar hard, he took a step and leaped off the cliff into the waterfall. 

The last images of his nightmare still lingering in his mind, John shook his head in his hands, like letting the dark images evaporate in the room air. Thankfully, the subject of the nightmare wasn’t bothered, dead asleep after a long, late night of experimenting. 

John wasn’t sure if it was the late-night leftover sambusa he ate or an exhausting day writing down lots of reports with Anderson running around bugging him, but it was one of the longest and worst Sherlock-oriented nightmares he had ever had.

John knew he wouldn’t be going back to sleep, so he carefully got up and padded to the kitchen for a chamomile tea. He then sat in his armchair for a while, pondering.

Since the first week of discovering his new companion, John had been searching for any trace of Professor James Moriarty. His thorough investigation didn’t yield much—only that the infamous villain was last seen in Switzerland around 1886. Rumors suggested he’d been ambushed by rival criminals at his main safe house, hidden deep in the highest reaches of the obscure mountain range. Although his body was never found, he was presumed dead.

John sat in his chair for a while, trying to collect his thoughts. Rain still lashed against the windows—it had been storming all through the last week of May. His mind drifted back to something Sherlock had once said about the professor. He’d described him as a spider: “not one to engage in criminal activity directly, but perched in the center of a vast web, waiting for the slightest tremor—something to shake the strands.” 

He also remembered the day he’d shown Sherlock the pages—his gathered findings about the professor’s fate. Sherlock had glanced over them and simply said, “The game is never over. Only the players change.” That had stuck with John. His own concern, however, was less about Moriarty himself and more about the new kind of threats rising now—criminals, governments, shadowy organizations—anyone who might see Sherlock not as a person, but as a weapon, or worse, a lost experiment worth reclaiming. That fear had been with John from the very beginning, gnawing at him quietly. And lately, with the launch of Sherlock’s website and the growing visibility of the online consulting work, the anxiety had only intensified, the worry growing, and was now manifesting as nightmares.

After joining the MET, John had used his access to the NSY archives to dig deeper into the fate of Professor Moriarty. What he uncovered painted a darker, more tangled picture. Several others had turned up dead over the years—most notably, a notorious genius scientist named Magnus Vesper, better known by his nickname, the Hoot. He’d been killed in a series of mysterious explosions that destroyed what appeared to be a highly advanced scientific research facility.

Rumors hinted at a violent fallout between rival governments over the development of mass destruction weapons—early precursors to something worse, perhaps meant for the First World War. Some of the names linked to the case were so powerful, so untouchable, that they’d been deliberately scrubbed from the record—hushed, erased, as though they’d never existed.

It felt eerie to see information when he heard the name from Sherlock before. It also made the rage he felt towards these people take on an eerie edge - like he knew them, though they had died long ago - for what they had done to an amazing, brilliant mind like Sherlock. The realization crept up on him, unexpected yet undeniable: if they weren’t already gone, he might have done something about it himself.

During those first chaotic weeks after Sherlock woke, John had been consumed by the frenzy of keeping him alive, navigating the suffocating uncertainty of what came next. Old papers and experiment reports had been gathered in haste, stuffed into plastic bags, and shoved under his bed, forgotten in the whirlwind.  

It wasn’t until they moved to Baker Street that he realized he wanted to go back to them, to sift through the pages with a clearer mind, without the stress and urgency pressing down on him. But each day brought a new problem, another fire to put out. And so, the papers remained untouched. He didn’t get a chance to take a serious look until late April, after the chaos of those first weeks at his new job and the constant struggle to keep everything from falling apart.

He had no idea how he would have managed without Molly. She had even “babysat” Sherlock the day he went for his job interview. Despite his adamant denials, Sherlock had been just as nervous as John—pacing the kitchen counter, feigning indifference.  

John couldn’t shake the worry that something would go wrong in the brief window when he had to turn off his phone. So Molly had stepped in, keeping the tiny detective occupied and, most importantly, out of trouble.

Molly had had her own busy month. Spring seemed to come early for her—not just at work but in her personal life, where her budding relationship had unexpectedly taken a turn toward something more serious. John noticed it in the little details: the extra spring in her step, the fleeting smiles when she thought no one was watching. Wanting to respect her time, he tried not to bother her unless absolutely necessary and even asked Sherlock to do the same.

This, of course, led to a dramatic eye roll and a long lecture on the futility of emotional entanglements and the ridiculousness of sentiment, which John wisely tuned out. Surprisingly, though, Sherlock did seem to pay attention —or perhaps he was simply preoccupied with a string of cases. Either way, his usual late-night texts and cryptic phone calls to Molly had noticeably diminished.

It was enough of a change that Molly eventually called John to inquire if everything was alright.

From the start, Molly and John had established safety protocols for Sherlock’s sake—clear, precise, and followed without fail. It wasn’t just a precaution: it was survival. The rules were straightforward: full concealment at all times, no mentions of him when anyone else was around, and, above all, his name was strictly off-limits.

The question of what to call him, however, had required some thought. During the first few weeks, they’d referred to him vaguely—“our friend,” “your guest,” and similar evasions. But then Molly, ever practical, came up with a simple cover: Sherlock would be “Shirley”. A perfect excuse, conveniently believable, and really mundane.

In early March, Molly had taken in a third rescue cat—a small, angry, half-feral kitten with a rough past who struggled to adjust to life with the other two. She’d named her Shirley, with a little amused glance at John when she first mentioned it. Shirley spent nearly all her time under Molly’s bed, curled into a wary, untrusting ball. Even with the bedroom door shut, she had no interest in venturing out.

It wasn’t uncommon in their texts, messages like, “How’s the cat today? Did he like the new food?” Or, “Sorry for the late reply, was busy with the grumpy cat. Made a mess again”. 

If anyone overheard John muttering about a mess or Shirley’s inevitable chaos, the explanation was ready. “Shirley knocked over the sugar again,” John might say if Mrs. Hudson ventured upstairs.

 “Oh, poor thing must’ve been spooked!” she’d reply sympathetically. It was absurd. It was practical. And, somehow, it was perfectly fitting.

The only person these days who could pose a risk to their carefully concealed arrangement was Mrs. Hudson, their charming yet occasionally nosy landlady. As wonderful as she was, Mrs. Hudson had a knack for wandering into their business, often with the best of intentions but little respect for boundaries. Despite this, John couldn’t shake the instinctive trust he felt toward her, even though he wasn’t entirely sure why.

Still, he wasn’t taking any unnecessary risks. John had quietly replaced the flat’s locks with sturdier, more serious ones, brushing off her quizzical glance with a vague excuse about “work security protocols.” She’d nodded, though her raised eyebrow suggested she didn’t entirely buy it.

As for the strange new “decorations” scattered across the flat—Sherlock’s miniature transportation system—they were harder to explain away. Ladders tucked into corners, improvised ramps leading to shelves, and the occasional odd panel in the walls were bound to draw attention sooner or later. While John was still brainstorming a plausible story, he relied on nonchalant shrugs and muttered mentions of “an ongoing project” to deflect her curiosity. It wasn’t perfect, but for now, it would have to do.

That Sunday afternoon in mid-April, John and Sherlock were enjoying a rare moment of calm, sipping tea on the couch. Sherlock, perched on his armchair, was deeply engrossed in a miniature notebook, occasionally muttering deductions about the neighbors.

Their tranquility was shattered by a sudden knock at the door. “Hoo, hoo!” Mrs. Hudson’s familiar voice drifted in - she wasn’t supposed to be back until tomorrow! John suddenly set his mug down, and his posture stiffened.

Sherlock’s reaction was immediate. In one swift motion, he leaped into the sugar bowl sitting on the coffee table. John barely had time to slap the lid on before Mrs. Hudson entered the room.

“Afternoon, dear. Hope I’m not interrupting anything.” She smiled, setting her bag down and heading toward the tea tray. “Thought I'd share some goodies from my sister!”

“Not at all!” John said quickly, stiffly sitting at the edge of the seat.

Mrs. Hudson sat down, talked a bit about her trip, and asked how things were going with John. John offered some tea, which may not have been the wisest idea - in the middle of talking, she reached for the sugar bowl, but John intercepted her hand, grabbing the item just in time. “Er… out of sugar! Let me refill that for you.”

“Oh, don’t fuss, John,” she protested, but he was already halfway to the kitchen with the bowl clutched tightly in his hands.

There, John set the bowl down and removed the lid to reveal a very disgruntled, sugar-dusted detective. Sherlock stood, brushing futilely at his dressing gown, the white granules clinging stubbornly to his hair.

“I tried so hard to suppress a sneeze,” he muttered, shaking himself like a cat.

John stifled a laugh, wanting to help him, but had to rush back before raising more suspicion. 

But this made John think more seriously about emergency hiding places and shelters for his tiny flatmate.

A few days before, while searching for something under the upholstered sofa, John stumbled upon a sizable tear near the right leg. After checking inside, he pushed some drawing pins into the sofa leg, creating a makeshift ladder for Sherlock to climb and explore the hidden space. While it offered some potential, it wasn’t particularly useful, though Sherlock’s quick mind soon found something better.

Directing John to one of the floorboards that had seemingly fused with time, Sherlock explained that it once concealed a small space he had used in the past to stash things. With some effort and his trusty pocket knife, John pried it open, revealing a dusty but surprisingly intact compartment. After a bit of cleaning and improvising for an air vent, John turned it into a functional hiding spot again, much to Sherlock’s satisfaction.

Encouraged by the success, John asked Sherlock about any other secret hideouts he might have used. Initially reluctant—arguing that “hidden spots should remain hidden”—Sherlock eventually gave in and led John to a few others. One was concealed behind wallpaper, where an old hollow had been plastered over but remained detectable with a little probing. John carefully cut through the plaster. John wondered who had renovated the flat.  

The spot was just large enough for Sherlock to crawl into and sit. John kept the piece of wallpaper on the plaster, like an improvised door. It wasn’t easy to see the cut, but John wasn’t satisfied and disguised it by hanging a vintage Victorian picture frame over the area.

This discovery inspired John to revisit another of Sherlock’s old hideaways behind the bed’s headboard, along with one beneath the floorboards there. Over the next few days, Sherlock showed John several more bolt holes: the hollowed-out base of a broken lamp, the interior of the skull, a secret compartment in an old Britannica encyclopedia that John had previously hollowed out to store bullets, and the base of the vintage fan (that John soon discovered was beyond repair). Sherlock even had a spot in the middle container behind the electric kettle in the kitchen, John’s sock drawer, and—much to John’s surprise—the left pocket of his bathrobe. These were just a few of the bolt holes scattered around 221B

And as John discovered each one, he couldn’t help but think: maybe it was time they came up with an actual emergency code.

Chapter Text

April showers hadn’t brought many flowers this May, but they had managed to make way for a few surprisingly sunny days. After a gloomy, cold, and rainy April, the weather had turned so lovely that John found it hard to think about anything other than stepping outside to enjoy it. He savored the long walks he took whenever time allowed. Even the crime rate seemed to take a dip - as if people were less inclined to kill each other when spring was showing off its best days.  

Not everyone shared John’s enthusiasm, of course. While he was soaking up the cheer and fresh air, Sherlock was decidedly grumpy. The lack of interesting crime stories had left him bored, and the newspapers, full of puff pieces and fluff, only made matters worse.  As much as the warmth of spring had lifted John's spirits, his flatmate was in another one of his dark moods .

Without any captivating cases to work on, Sherlock had taken to either sprawling on his chair or draping over the Union Jack cushions like a disgruntled cat. He wasn’t even experimenting lately, much to John’s surprise. Instead, Sherlock alternated between ignoring him entirely and venting about the crushing dullness of life, covered with as many micro-nicotine patches as he could get.  

By last month’s experiences, he knew better than to press Sherlock to move or do much to change his mood. All he could do was make sure Sherlock didn’t starve to death or accidentally expire in some dangerous experiment, and wait for the dark clouds to pass once again. 

The first Saturday, exceptionally warm and nice for that time of year, John looked out the window and again wondered how he might find a way to drag Sherlock outside. It wasn’t a day to waste indoors.  

He came back to his armchair with a mug of tea and one for Sherlock, settled himself comfortably, and casually opened the newspaper, glancing at his flatmate.  Sherlock sat cross-legged in front of John’s laptop—his new favorite—on the small table before him, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, as if reading something mildly interesting. John figured it must be his website. 

Eyeing his serious, focused profile, John thought, Good, finally something 'worthy of his time” might have turned up . It had been just over two weeks since Sherlock had launched his online consulting service: the “Science of Deduction” website. 

He turned to the human interest section of the newspaper, only to be jolted back by a loud “ Huh! ” from Sherlock, followed by a snicker.  

Curious, John glanced over the edge of his paper. Sherlock was staring intently at what looked like a picture of a room on the laptop screen.  

“Anything funny in that picture?” John asked, folding the paper onto his lap.  

Sherlock, now darting across the keyboard, typing furiously, replied, “Not the room, John. The police’s incompetence and people’s ignorance—as always.”  

“Alright, genius, enlighten me.”  

“This one didn’t even need a genius. Honestly, anyone not blind or completely daft could see it… painfully obvious.”  

“So… a case solved, then? How long did this one take? Ten minutes?”  

“Seven, actually,” Sherlock said with a shrug, his tone dripping with boredom. “Though calling it a ‘case’ feels generous. But what else can I do during this infernal drought?”  He sat again, “I’d have preferred something more stimulating—at least a decent homicide, but you insisted that I ‘keep it low', and only take on insignificant cases. So here we are.”  

Sherlock went on, briefly summarizing a rather long email received earlier that day:  

A wealthy old woman had lost a precious family heirloom, missing for over a week. She’d been accusing everyone—her housekeeper, the gardener, even her own family members-of stealing it. The heirloom, a custom-made brooch commissioned from René Lalique, the famous French Art Nouveau jeweler, was a wedding gift from her grandfather to his wife.  

The woman lived alone, except for her housekeeper, a middle-aged widow who had worked for her for over 20 years, and whom the old woman trusted implicitly.  

Her life was quiet, with few visitors. Occasionally, a handyman would stop by to fix something in the aging house, and her relatives checked in sporadically. Last week, however, there had been two new visitors: her youngest grandson, a uni student who had come to ask for money to cover his gambling losses, which she refused, and the new gardener, a young woman, hired on the recommendation of one of the housekeeper’s relatives.  

When the brooch went missing, the old woman immediately called the police. They questioned everyone and arrested the gardener, citing her prior record. They even searched the gardener’s flat, but found nothing.  

Despite this, suspicions lingered. The old woman began to believe the housekeeper and the gardener had conspired to steal the brooch. Alternatively, she suspected her grandson and the attractive gardener might have worked together, especially since she had spotted them laughing and chatting in the backyard the week before. They had stopped abruptly when they noticed her watching, pretending nothing had happened.  

The police had also questioned the grandson but hadn’t pressed him further at the woman’s request. Frustrated and at a loss, she offered a £10,000 reward to anyone who could find the brooch.  

She mentioned that contacting Sherlock had been her grandson's idea, as he recalled Sherlock helping a friend of his with a case. Sherlock, who had apparently already deleted that particular incident, asked for more information and specifics about the woman’s daily routine, details about the day the brooch went missing, and a few questions about the layout and structure of her house.

Sherlock picked up his cup, continuing, "The night before, she attended an event and put the brooch on. She returned home later than usual, exhausted, and went straight to bed, leaving the brooch on the jewel plate beside her rings on the vanity, not in its usual spot in the safe. It was still there in the morning when she woke up and went for a long bath."

"Then she came back, and the brooch was gone?" John asked.

"First, she noticed a vase of flowers on the vanity. She went closer to smell them, and that’s when she realized. The room was a bit... 'Disheveled,' she said, ‘as though someone was searching for something in a rush, maybe for more valuables to steal. ’

"The first conclusion was that the gardener brought the flowers, saw the brooch, and left in a hurry. But the girl claimed she’d gotten an emergency call from her mother and had to go help her—her mother is sick and bedridden."

John was now fully interested, the newspaper forgotten. "So, did you find it? Where was it?"

"Of course I did."

"Care to share how?"

“Spring , John, spring is the key!” he exclaimed, just to receive an even more confused reaction. “Spring breeze!”

John kept staring at him, confused. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, letting out a dramatic sigh. ”Simply follow the chain of events, John.”  

"Go on then."

"I asked for a photograph of the troublesome heirloom." Sherlock pointed to the screen, where a picture of the old woman appeared, seemingly cropped from a group photo. The brooch, a truly beautiful work of art, shaped like a moth with delicate enamel wings, rested on the woman's collar.

"And then one from the bedroom," Sherlock continued. "She rather surprised me by sending a picture she had taken the very morning after she realized the brooch was missing. I suppose she’s been reading one of your crime novels," he smirked, "and thought it might be useful. The police didn’t care, of course. See, there was enough information in it if they had." He shrugged, taking a sip of his tea.

John frowned, trying to make sense of it. Nothing obvious to him yet. He kept looking at Sherlock, signaling that he was waiting for him to continue.

Sherlock sighed and put the cup down. "Do you see that standing thing? The candle holder...?"

John corrected him. "It's a jewelry stand, yes."

"Yes, that . The woman is so keen on everything vintage, but that—" Sherlock gestured to the jewelry stand on the screen, "is a rather cheaply made item that sticks out. In contrast to the vintage vanity sets, hand mirror, a brush, a powder jar, and a small dish for holding personal items. And, I can tell you, not very good quality."

John was still trying to connect the dots and, unfortunately, knew that his confusion was evident on his face. "I don't understand what the quality of a jewelry stand has to do with the case."

"Related, John, when it's not stable enough." He leaned in, emphasizing each word. "I asked her if she always leaves her scarf on that stand, and she said no. That night, she was so tired she haphazardly threw it there—a small, light silk scarf—and it was still there the next morning."

"Scarf…? I still don’t get it."

"Yes! Don’t you see?! Scarf, where it shouldn’t be. Window, when it shouldn’t be open… Chaos instead of order..." Sherlock's voice grew more intense, "It was a sign."

"Sherlock…"

“Ah... alright." Sherlock wore that smug look, the kind that screamed, I know something you don't , making John want to strangle him and, at the same time, hug him. John shook his head, leaning back in his armchair like the good idiot audience he was, letting Sherlock enjoy his favorite part: the reveal.

Sherlock, in turn, sank into his mini velvet armchair, interlocking his fingers on his robe-covered belly. He inhaled deeply, savoring the moment, then began.

"The gardener thought her employer was displeased with her flirting with her grandson the other day. She liked her new job and needed it badly, also taking care of an ailing mother and struggling to find work due to her past mistakes. So, she tried to please her employer, arranged a nice bouquet, and put it on the vanity. Then, before leaving, she decided to crack open the window for that 'fresh spring air' you've been torturing me with all last week. And, of course, the lively spring air was a bit too lively. A sudden gust of wind blew in, knocked the cheap candle—erm, jewelry stand or whatever it is—over, onto the oval-shaped dish on the vanity, and sent its contents flying—rings and the brooch. Could it be simpler than this...? Child’s play.

"The vanity set, John, is actually Victorian. I remember the brand name—quite common in upper households back then." Sherlock leaned forward slightly, eyes gleaming. "One thing about that oval-shaped dish, though, it can work like a seesaw."

John blinked, wide-eyed, clearly following Sherlock’s train of thought now.

Sherlock glanced up at John’s surprised face and smirked. "The traitorous scarf worked as a sail, caught by the spring breeze, and helped bring the disappointingly lightweight stand down. It hit the dish on the left side, sending the brooch flying like a real-life happy insect." Sherlock ended with a half-chuckle.

"Okay, okay, assume your guess is right..."

"I never guess ."

"The Domino Effect, okay, I got it..."

"A what...?"

"Never mind, your 'Chain of Events,' as you said. How can you be so sure of them?"

"I asked her, and she confirmed she picked up the stand and put it upright again, right before she realized the brooch was missing. But even before she did, I knew where the brooch was."

"Did you?! She said they rummaged through the whole room, searching everywhere!"

"And not just the room, the whole house, yes.  Maybe they shouldn’t have."

"What?!"

Sherlock let out a sad sigh. "John, never underestimate hiding in plain sight."

John was getting impatient.

"Picture of the room, John. Tell me - what does it tell you?"

"Yeah. An old room, real old furniture and knick-knacks… looks like a vintage store... My grandma had wooden shelves like those on her walls, too - 1960s ceiling lamp, old grandma wallpaper, so what - "

John suddenly paused. "Wallpaper... Let me take another look..."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, eyes glinting, an amused smile tugging at his lips as John leaned in to zoom in on the picture.

Sherlock’s voice, matter-of-factly, continued in his ear, “One thing I like about new digital technology is the zooming ability, in fact - ”

“No shit! You’re not gonna tell me.”

“Yup. You now see the pattern of that ancient wallpaper.”

John’s face was a mixture of disbelief and amusement.

“…which enabled the missing brooch to be successfully camouflaged on the wall, nesting snugly on that shelf by the angled statue above the bed against a butterfly motif, appearing as if it were part of the design all along."

Sherlock, now with his eyes closed, with the tone of a professor addressing freshmen, added, "The family never thought to look so high up. I bet the first place everyone tried was under the bed—well, balance of probability. The brooch's colors and design matched the wallpaper so well that everyone’s eyes glossed over it during their searches. Also, she assumed it had been stolen in the first place. Flying wasn’t in anyone’s priority, so she focused on accusations and theories instead of rational thinking."

John leaned back in his chair, softly laughing. "Hahaha... Sherlock, that was sooooo funny. I should definitely write about it."

"Oh no, you wouldn't. It’s too stupid for Sigerson to even be mentioned!"

John rubbed his forehead. "So, what did you answer?"

Sherlock shrugged and opened the email he had sent.

“Your heirloom was carried away by an accidental conspiracy of wind and fabric, where it has taken flight—though not far. Examine the small wooden shelf above the bed closely.”

Sherlock muttered jokingly, “Hiding in plain sight like a moth pretending to be a butterfly.”

John was reading the email, his smile widening, but it vanished as he reached the bottom of it.

"Sherlock, why did you ask for your prize to be given to the gardener?!"

Sherlock answered, still with closed eyes. "To make amends. I’m sure she needs that much more than I."

John started to object, but it was Sherlock’s work—and what could he say? 

“…at least the butterfly finally experienced 'flying,' sort of," Sherlock huffed, with that familiar gaze on his face, the one he always had when thinking or talking about flying.

It reminded John of Sherlock's skyward yearning, and suddenly sparked an idea in his mind.

"So... I had a feeling we should celebrate your first payment… sort of."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I’ll pretend you didn’t say that seriously." But then he added after a moment, "Well, maybe tasting the spring air with you won’t be that intolerable. It gave me a case… just a walk to our bench. I haven’t seen London's new developments in the sun yet." He added, "And maybe we can get some chips from that place of yours on the way back."

John, a tiny smile on his lips hearing the word our bench , said, "Hmm… I have a better idea."

They did enjoy the walk, under the sun, listening to the birds' ballads, and watching the trees bloom and come back to life that afternoon. They rested on their bench, but when John got up, he surprised Sherlock by saying they had another sight to see.

"Better than here?" Sherlock asked.

John smiled. "Higher."

Sherlock, reluctant, gave him a suspicious look before saying, "Alright... still, would it involve chips?"

"Yeah, chips, too."

The late afternoon sun bathed London in golden hues as John made his way towards the London Eye. The giant Ferris wheel cast a striking silhouette against the sky.

"Is this truly necessary?" came from inside his jacket pocket, laced with irritation.

“Think of it as an observation opportunity,” John said with a grin, keeping his tone light as he navigated the crowd of tourists. “I thought you wanted to see your city’s changes?”

Sherlock shifted restlessly within the confines of John’s jacket. “Changed, indeed. But from what I’ve seen so far, most of it is unpleasant.” He added scornfully, “This wheel, for example. A sore on the city’s face.”

John chuckled as they joined the queue for the London Eye. “Not exactly, Sherlock. It gives people a chance to see the city from a different perspective. I’d think you, of all people, would appreciate that.”

Sherlock gave a disdainful grunt. “Perspective is one thing. Adding permanent carnival installations is another.”

They finally reached the entrance to the capsule, and John stepped in, careful to keep his movements smooth so as not to jostle his tiny passenger. As the door closed behind them and the capsule began its ascent, Sherlock poked his head out of the pocket, his eyes narrowing at the expanse of modern London slowly unfurling below.

John glanced at their companions. They were sharing their ride with a large group of Chinese tourists, an old man and his little granddaughter, and a young couple holding close to each other, looking oblivious to whatever was happening around them. John opened his pocket lapel a bit more, allowing Sherlock's head to poke out, his hands gripping the edge of the pocket. John couldn’t help but wonder how Sherlock was reacting.

Sherlock was silent for a while, absorbing the skyline of glass, steel, and bustling streets. “What... on earth has happened to the architecture?” he muttered. “Monstrous towers, far too much glass. No sense of elegance, no restraint. It’s as if the city’s identity has been swallowed by some mechanical beast.”

John suppressed a laugh. “Well, this ‘mechanical beast’ is home now. You might want to get used to it.” He could imagine how Sherlock’s sharp eyes darted from one building to another. 

“It lacks the grace of my time,” Sherlock murmured. “These buildings… where is the craftsmanship, the character?”

“Times have changed. Function matters as much as form now.”

“Hmph,” Sherlock grumbled. “Function without elegance is barbaric.”

John rolled his eyes, looking out at the river below. “You know, you could just relax and enjoy the view.”

As they reached the peak of the London Eye, Sherlock grew quiet, seeming fully absorbed in the view stretching endlessly before them. John could feel Sherlock standing precariously on the edge of the pocket now, scanning the scene with intensity.

He finally broke the silence, “Look there, that bridge! What is that abomination?”

John followed his gaze. “You mean the Millennium Bridge?”

Sherlock’s tone was cold. “Preposterous. That thing looks as though it will snap in the next strong wind. Where is London Bridge, for heaven’s sake?”

John chuckled softly, “Still there, remember? Besides, the city’s still got plenty of your era left.”

Sherlock just growled in response.

For a brief moment, the hustle of London felt far below them, distant and insignificant.

Sherlock whispered, “Hmm… but it’s good. Now it’s all small, like myself.”

The sun was setting, and the sky turned into a variety of reds and golds as the capsule began its slow descent. Sherlock had gone quiet again, a sign that he was deep in thought. John wondered if those were happy thoughts or dark ones. It was even more difficult to guess without seeing him. Yet, despite all his complaints, John knew Sherlock was fascinated by this new world, even if he would never admit it.

They reached the ground in silence. As he stepped towards the door, he tried to gauge Sherlock’s mood.

“Hey, are you still there? Come on, modern’s not all bad. You like modern food.”

The answer came as a low groan.

“Next stop, chips.”

“Pizza.”

Confused, John stopped. “Sorry…?!”

“You talked about modern food, didn’t you? Additionally, I traveled a huge distance today. I need a big meal.”

John chuckled as the city lights started turning on, the last rays of sunlight dispersing, and a cold evening breeze began to blow. He zipped up his jacket and set off to their favorite pizza place.

Chapter Text

Of Onions and Acronyms

John was hurriedly chopping onions for a quick dinner, his eyes watering so much he could barely see. Between wiping his face with his sleeve and fumbling for a tissue, he heard Sherlock's voice calling from the living room.

“Jawwn…?”

John was too busy to answer and almost added his diced right index finger to their dinner.

“John…? What does BAMF mean?”

“What?” John shouted back, unsure if he’d heard right.

“ BAMF ,” Sherlock repeated, louder this time. “It’s written in capital letters. Your colleagues used it to describe you in the comments under the blog entry about your last case.”

John stopped chopping and glanced toward the living room, where Sherlock sat cross-legged on the coffee table in front of his phone, deeply absorbed in reading. 

John froze, his face shifting from confusion to half-laughter, half-embarrassment. “Well… uh… It’s an acronym.”

“And what does it stand for?” Sherlock asked, turning his head toward John now, his tone suspicious.

John cleared his throat, avoiding eye contact as he awkwardly answered, “It, uh, stands for Bad-Ass Mother F— ”

Sherlock’s eyes widened in shock, his face a mix of disbelief and offense. “ What? I thought your colleagues had a respectful attitude toward you. This is unbelievable! ”

“No, no!” John quickly interjected, waving a hand while trying to stifle a laugh. “It’s a compliment. They meant I acted bravely. That’s all.”

Sherlock looked visibly baffled as he absorbed the information. “Why,” he muttered, shaking his head, “must everything in this modern world be so saturated with vulgar profanity? It’s appalling.”

John went back to his tear-jerking job, “Welcome to the modern world, Sherlock.”

Money? Elementary.

One afternoon, as they sat having tea, John was idly checking his bank account on his laptop. Suddenly, his eyes widened in disbelief. “Wow, holy moly, they actually paid! I can’t believe it— that case made us that much money! Sherlock, you’re really making money in this new era! Impressive—I wasn’t expecting that.”

Sherlock, seated across from him with a steaming mini cup of tea beside him, didn’t even glance up from the cutout newspaper he was examining. His expression remained completely indifferent as he replied in a matter-of-fact tone, “Of course, it does. You didn’t take me seriously when I told you I’d be your flatmate and partner in solving cases—and that I’d help with the rent.”

John leaned back in his chair, staring at him thoughtfully. “So… is that how you used to live? Solving puzzles or helping Scotland Yard?”

Sherlock finally turned the page of his paper, his voice calm and precise. “Not exactly. I did occasionally assist Scotland Yard when they found themselves out of their depth, which was almost always. It kept my brain from rotting and alleviated my boredom.” He set the paper down to sip his tea, his movements graceful yet deliberate. “From time to time, clients would pay me, depending on their financial status and the complexity of the case. It was helpful, of course, but more than anything, I relied on my family’s trust fund.”

Preventative Measures

John woke up in a cold sweat, heart racing. This time his nightmare had been absurd—utterly ridiculous—but disturbingly traumatic all the same:

He’d been hoovering the flat, absently humming along to some dreadful '80s synth-pop droning from the radio. He’d just rolled the vacuum under the sofa when a faint, high-pitched scream hit his ears.
It was coming from inside the vacuum cleaner .

In the dream, he dropped the hoover in horror, like it had electrocuted him. Then came a muffled banging from the dust canister, and Sherlock’s furious voice:

“John! You idiot ! I was conducting an experiment!”

He sat in bed for a long time, breathing hard, trying to shake the image of a furious mini detective covered in lint and crushed biscuit crumbs. It took him a full minute to realize he was no longer holding a hoover. The clock showed 3 a.m.; he got up and quietly disassembled the entire vacuum cleaner. Just in case.

Sherlock wasn’t in his bed. John vaguely remembered him saying something earlier about needing to monitor a crucial experiment overnight.

Sure enough, on the kitchen table, Sherlock was dozing beside a cluttered Petri dish setup, curled up next to a spoon like it was a body pillow. When John’s movement stirred him, he blinked sleepily and mumbled, “What are you doing, John?”

“Nothing,” John muttered, stuffing the vacuum bag into the bin like it was radioactive. “Just… preventative measures.”

From that night on, he established a rule: No cleaning without visual or verbal confirmation that Sherlock wasn’t under the sofa.

Genius, Slightly Understeeped

John dragged himself home after an exhaustingly demanding, bitterly cold day, not to mention being caught in the rain without an umbrella, again. By the time he reached 221B, he was thoroughly soaked and miserable, his damp hair plastered to his forehead. Mrs. Hudson met him at the foot of the stairs, tutting sympathetically.

“Oh dear! Told you you’d need an umbrella today! Go change before you get sick!”

Still shivering, John kicked off his soaked shoes and just managed to shrug off his dripping jacket when Mrs. Hudson appeared with a small tray of a steaming cup of tea and a small plate of freshly baked shortbread cookies. The warmth of her kindness felt better than the tea itself.

“Thanks, Mrs. H. You’re a real saint.”

She waved a hand dismissively, her smile brightening the dreary evening before retreating downstairs. John hurried off to his room to change into dry clothes when a familiar, indignant voice rang out from the kitchen.

“I need tea too! Where’s mine ? I’ve been cold and tired all day!” Sherlock poked his head out of one of the kitchen bolt holes.

John, halfway into peeling off his wet jumper, rolled his eyes and called back, “Oh yeah? Then help yourself!” He shook his head. Sherlock was unbelievable.

He thought nothing more of it until he returned to the kitchen—and froze to the surreal scene. his flatmate was perched in a cup of milky tea, half-submerged like a particularly disgruntled teabag, lounging in the warm liquid, utterly unapologetic.

Sherlock glanced up as casually as if he were sitting in his armchair. “Oh, John. Hi! You’re back earlier than I expected.” He leaned against the rim of the cup, perfectly at ease. “Well, I’ve always wanted to try this. It seemed... logical.”

John blinked, dumbfounded, before bursting into laughter. “Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?”

“Testing an old theory,” Sherlock replied serenely, “and warming up. Quite effective, I must say.” Then, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, he added, “Would you care to pass me a piece of that cookie to go with my tea, please?”

The Flatmate Effect

Sherlock had been tinkering all Saturday afternoon.
John, having spent the day buried in paperwork and then half-watching telly, had managed to ignore the increasingly frantic tapping sounds from the kitchen—until he couldn’t anymore.

He sighed, put down the remote, and braced himself for whatever half-singed “experiment” awaited. Hopefully not another scorched mark on the kitchen table. Possibly worse.

To his surprise, Sherlock was crouched beside a collection of nuts, bolts, and metal washers, inspecting his handiwork with the intensity of a jeweler examining a diamond. He wore that familiar look— “I’m building something that will either solve crime or blow up the flat.”

John leaned in. “Oh no. Is this a new weapon again? Or—wait! Is that a dumbbell?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock muttered without looking up.

“Well, that’s… awesome? Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve helped—”

He was cut off by a distracted murmur: “It must weigh exactly five grams. No more. No less.”

John blinked. “I mean… not that you can’t, but it’d be much easier for me to make one. And now that you’ve figured out the perfect weight… you’ll need a second one, won’t you?”

Sherlock turned and looked at him like he’d just grown a third eye. “Why should one dumbbell be used where two would normally go together? Can you imagine the result of using only one dumbbell? Asymmetrical development?! ”

John opened his mouth. Closed it. “Okay. My bad.”

Well, at least it gave him the final push he needed—John finally decided he’d start going to the gym next week. He couldn’t lag behind his miniature flatmate forever. And besides, it was for the sake of symmetry.

Chapter Text

 John thought they had already gone through all the interesting things in the upstairs storage room. But still, on slower Saturdays like today, when the rain tapped steadily against the windows and there was nothing urgent to do, he’d find himself heading up there again.

It had become routine, this rummaging—like a determined archaeologist sifting through ruins. What had started as idle curiosity—mostly born of boredom and nosiness—had turned into a weekly expedition. Sherlock’s boxes were bottomless pits of mystery. There was always something in them that managed to surprise, confuse, or mildly disturb.

The bison skull had been the first thing to properly rattle him. Then came other bizarre oddities, like a box of taxidermied bats that John was fairly certain had a name and a tragic backstory.

Today, though, his hand brushed against something different: a small wooden box, tucked away like a secret. He pulled it out from the back of the trunk with a quiet grunt and set it down on the floor with a gentle thud. The carvings were delicate—leaves and symbols that looked ancient or possibly just dramatic. Typical Sherlock. He’d have to take this one down and ask.

“Another treasure?” Sherlock asked, muffled, munching on his new favorite salt and vinegar crisps, eyes fixed on his phone.

“You know me,” John replied. “Can’t resist a mystery box.” He set it on the kitchen table and lifted the lid with a quiet creak.

Inside was an assortment of strange trinkets, some that seemed far too important to be stashed away so carelessly. Nestled among some yellowed newspaper clippings and what looked suspiciously like a child’s tooth in a velvet pouch, one item caught his eye: a small, round cameo—almost like a locket—tucked in a corner of the box. Its glass was cloudy with age, but John could make out faint engravings on the surface, a delicate pattern that looked familiar and foreign all at once.

“What’s this?” John asked, holding it up between thumb and forefinger.

Sherlock reluctantly peeled his gaze from his phone. The teasing left his face in stages. His eyes narrowed on the cameo as though it had whispered something rude.

“That... is a relic from an old case,” Sherlock said softly, almost absently. He didn’t look at John but instead seemed to drift inward. “A case I never quite finished. One that has… haunted me.”

John blinked. “You? Not finish a case? Must’ve been either deadly or terribly boring.”

“It was in Rome. Two young victims. A priest. Some very powerful enemies.”

John frowned, leaning back in his chair.  “You sure you didn’t just miss some critical clue and storm out in a huff when someone insulted your Latin?”

Sherlock ignored that, too. “The priest warned me that something was coming.” 

John’s brow furrowed. “Of what?”

“That’s the part I never figured out,” Sherlock’s voice stayed quiet, almost mournful. “It was a string of murders, some Vatican high priest mentioned.I was asked to look into it. At the time, I thought it was just another case of corruption. But... there was more. Something far darker.” He paused. “Very inconvenient.”

“Sounds like your kind of thing,” John said, glancing down at the cameo again. “Was it in someone’s dusty old trunk?”

“It was found in the victim’s palm - the priest.” Sherlock’s voice dropped in register—the one he used for grim details and personal ghosts. “Like a warning. A threat, maybe. I never did figure out who it was meant for.”

John looked up at him, surprised. “You kept it, though.”

Sherlock gave a one-shouldered shrug, aiming for nonchalance but falling short. “I don’t like unfinished business.” He reached out and rested his tiny hand on the cameo.

After a pause, his voice thickened with regret. “I should’ve solved it. The priest, the victims... they were caught up in something that wasn’t just about murder. It was about power. The Church. Corruption. I never got the evidence I needed , in time.”

His eyes flicked toward John. “It was a case that, had I been there, I could’ve solved. But I wasn’t. I was... gone. And it worked in favor of those who should have been brought to justice.” Sherlock said quietly. “I failed them. And I can’t undo that now. The knowledge that I let them down, and the case remains open, unresolved.”

John sat back, letting the weight of it settle between them. He didn’t know what to say—how to comfort him. Sherlock had spoken of regrets before, but something about this one felt... heavier.

“So you think it was something you could’ve stopped?” he asked softly.

Sherlock’s gaze settled on him, unreadable. “I believe so. I wish I could’ve tried.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything more that day, and the week passed. John didn’t think it right to bring it up again. It wasn’t until the following Monday that it was mentioned again.

----

They were at the table, as usual. Sherlock was parked in the middle of an open Oxford Handbook of Clinical Medicine, the pages stretched out beneath him like some vast academic tundra. He sat cross-legged in the crease of the spine with his favorite blue robe sprawled around him, frowning down at a diagram nearly the size of his torso, hand traced a line of text, his mouth moving in a low murmur as he read. 

John, meanwhile, had just finished compiling the latest report for Greg. He yawned and rolled his shoulders, blinking at the screen as his thoughts drifted. That case—that one—had been haunting Sherlock, and John hadn’t forgotten it. The priest’s warning. The deaths. The failure. The way Sherlock had said “I failed them”, like it still stung.

“I’ve been thinking,” John said, tone casual but carefully measured.

“Dangerous habit,” Sherlock murmured without looking up.

John ignored that. “About that case you never solved.”

That got Sherlock’s attention. His hand paused mid-page, and he looked up slowly, like someone hearing a name they hadn’t expected.

“And how it relates to… well, to us. To what we’ve been through.”

Sherlock said nothing, just watched him with that unreadable face of his—the one John had learned to translate in degrees of resistance.

John pressed on. “That Vatican Cameos thing. You said the cameo was a warning. That the case was unfinished. Well, it’s still unfinished, isn’t it? It’s not just history. It’s... residue.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “Residue?”

John waved a hand. “You know what I mean.”

A beat. Then John, lips twitching, added, “Actually, now that I think of it, that case would make a brilliant story. Murder, secrecy, corruption in high places…”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “You’re not going to blog it, are you?”

“I was thinking more novella,” John said, mock thoughtful. “Maybe call it The Case of the Vatican Cameos. Has a tragic flair, don’t you think?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “What genre? Gothic melodrama? Paranormal thriller? An ill-fated romance with theological overtones?”

John grinned. “Exactly.”

Sherlock gave him a look that hovered somewhere between disdain and amusement. “You’re insufferable.”

John leaned forward. “No, listen—I’m being serious. What if we used it as a code? A proper distress code. ‘Vatican Cameos.’ If things ever go sideways, if something’s really wrong, we use that phrase.”

Sherlock’s face went still. “A code,” he repeated, dubious.

“Yes,” John said, more earnest now. “Because that case was a warning you couldn’t answer. And if we ever need to send one ourselves—something subtle, something only we’d get-that - ’s the perfect phrase.”

Sherlock leaned back slightly, silent, his gaze flicking down to the book and then back up again.

“You realize,” he said after a pause, “if we choose this as a code, it becomes more than just a name. It becomes... personal.”

“I know,” John said quietly.

Sherlock studied him for another beat, then gave a small, single nod. “Alright. Vatican Cameos, it is.”

John exhaled, and a half-smile tugged at his mouth. “Good. Then we’ll never forget why we chose it.”

“And now,” Sherlock said, eyeing John’s laptop, “please tell me you’re not actually going to write that novella.”

“No promises,” John replied cheerfully, already opening a blank document.

Sherlock groaned and went back to his book.

Chapter Text

“What do you mean, it’s not our division anymore…?! We’ve been working on this case for weeks, Greg!”

Greg leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose before letting out a deep sigh. “It’s not my call, John. Orders came from higher up. Much higher up. You know how this works.”

“That’s it? Just like that, we hand it off?” John’s voice was sharp, his frustration barely contained. “After all the late nights, the stakeouts, the hours spent digging through records… we finally have him cornered, and now you’re telling me we’re done?!”

“John.” Greg’s tone softened, but there was a weariness to it. “I get it. Believe me, I do. But this is way above my pay grade. I’m telling you—just let it slide.”

But John couldn’t.

The whole team had poured weeks into this investigation, following every lead until they’d uncovered the head of a human trafficking ring: a high-ranking government official. They had evidence, witnesses, and a case so airtight it practically wrapped itself in a bow. And now, when they were just an inch away from making the arrest, someone in power was shutting it all down.

John clenched his fists. “Greg, you know what’s going to happen. He’s leaving the country—”

“For the summit, yeah,” Greg interjected. “It’s a done deal.”

“He’s not going alone!” John snapped, his voice rising.

Greg hesitated. He knew what John was referring to.

The official was taking someone with him—a young Russian girl, barely out of her teens. Officially, she was listed as his PA. Unofficially, she was his victim. Abused, manipulated, and trapped under his control for over a year. If he left with her, that was it. She’d disappear, and so would the last chance to put him behind bars.

“John…” Greg’s voice was quiet, firm.

But John wasn’t listening.

When Greg stepped out of the office to take a call, John made his move. His hand slipped into Greg’s coat pocket, and he pulled out the ID badge without hesitation. Sherlock’s voice echoed in his mind: “It’s not theft; it’s strategic borrowing.”

With the badge in hand, he ran.

At the airport, John’s chest tightened as he scanned the crowded terminal. The man wasn’t hard to spot, striding confidently toward the gate in a tailored suit, his hand possessively gripping the girl’s elbow. She looked pale, her hollow eyes fixed on the floor.

John felt a surge of anger. He didn’t think. He acted.

Flashing Greg’s badge, he pushed his way past security, ignoring their protests. People were staring now, but he didn’t care.

“Hey! You!” John shouted, pointing directly at the man. “She doesn’t want to go with you!”

The girl froze, her wide eyes darting between John and the man.

“Do not engage,” the official said coolly, tightening his grip on her arm. “This is a misunderstanding.”

But the girl’s voice cracked through the tension. “I don’t want to go,” she said, louder this time. Tears welled in her eyes. “Please… I don’t want to go!”

The terminal erupted into chaos. Security guards rushed in, and the man’s calm façade cracked as he began shouting about diplomatic immunity. But it was too late. The girl broke free, and John’s persistence left the guards with no choice but to intervene.

Within minutes, the man was in handcuffs.

And so was John.

Now, cuffed and seated in a stark, windowless room, John stared at the scuffed metal table in front of him. The adrenaline had worn off, leaving him with the weight of the consequences he knew were coming.

He’d been arrested with a fake ID. It didn’t look good. Not for his career, not for his future. And yet, all he could think about was the girl’s face—the relief in her eyes as she broke free.

The door creaked open, breaking his thoughts.

He straightened in his chair, expecting the officer to return with more threats or some bureaucratic speech. He’d been interrogated enough to recognize the type—puffed-up authority with a hollow core.

But the officer’s expression was different this time. Troubled. Uncertain.

“Dr. Watson...”

John cut him off, his voice steady. “I’ve told you. You need to—”

“You’re free to go.”

John blinked. “What?”

The officer didn’t repeat himself. He handed back John’s belongings without another word.

John didn’t press the matter, he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Silently, he grabbed his things and walked out of the room.

As he walked out, the officer lingered by the door, his brow furrowed. Whatever strings had been pulled to free John, it was clear the man wasn’t happy about it.

As soon as John got his phone back, he powered it on and quickly sent a message to Molly:

Kitty may need milk.

Their code for alert mode—check on Sherlock. I’m compromised.

He hit send and barely had time to think before the officer spoke again.

“And, Dr. Watson—”

John turned, his muscles tensing instinctively.

“This is for you.”

The officer extended his hand, holding out his phone. Except someone was already on the line.

John slowly took the phone. The officer stepped back immediately, his expression uncomfortably blank.

Frowning, John held the phone to his ear and answered, his voice edged with suspicion. “Hello?”

A calm, controlled male voice on the other end answered, “There’s a car waiting for you by the side entrance. My PA will guide you.”

John’s brow furrowed. “Who’s this? Who am I speaking to?”

“I ordered your release,” the voice replied, steady and unbothered. “I’d threaten you for the recklessness of your actions, but I think your situation is already quite clear to you.”

John’s fingers tightened around the phone. So, this was the man who had him released.

Before John could say another word, the line went dead. He handed the phone back to the officer, who stepped forward with a neutral expression, took it, and silently disappeared down the corridor.

Does he know who that was? John wondered. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to get answers here.

John stood still for a moment, his mind racing. The rational side of him knew the chances of getting kidnapped and killed in front of law enforcement were slim. Still, this entire situation reeked of danger.

“Well,” he muttered to himself, glancing at the side entrance, “here we go.”

John’s first thought was that this person was another Senator—someone big, a “playmate” trying to shut him up before he caused more trouble. Maybe even the mastermind behind it all. Which, if true, made the whole kidnapping seem unlikely. If they wanted him silenced, jail would’ve been the easier place to do it. 

He decided to wait and see.

A sleek black car was indeed waiting for him, parked just where the voice had said it would be. The driver, a tall, broad-shouldered man in a tailored suit, stepped out and opened the rear door without a word.

John hesitated for a beat, then climbed in, his eyes darting around the interior. Already seated on the plush cushions was an attractive young woman, her attention glued to her phone as she typed with precision and speed.

Without looking up, she greeted him with a simple, “Hello, Dr. Watson.”

John nodded, shifting uncomfortably as he sat. “Hello.”

She didn’t respond, still focused on her screen.

He turned, glancing briefly out the rear window before settling back in his seat. “Any point in asking where I’m going?”

“None at all,” she said lightly, finally looking up from her phone. Her smile was brief, polite, and tinged with the faintest trace of amusement before she returned to her screen.

“Right,” John muttered, leaning back against the seat. He pulled out his phone and shot a quick text to Greg: I’m out. Will see you in an hour.

But even as he sent it, John doubted it would be that simple. His brain was already spiraling, the words from the mysterious man on the phone echoing in his head.

For a fleeting moment, the thought of the "sponsor" crossed his mind. The sniper in the parallel building. A man? An organization? Moles embedded even within Scotland Yard?

Had the spider, as Sherlock once called it, finally stirred from its web?

I knew this was going to happen. Damn.

All he could think about now was Sherlock. Was he safe? Was Molly there? John clenched his fists, his thoughts flashing back to the last time he’d found himself in a similar situation—except that time, he’d had his SIG with him, and the quiet reassurance of steel at his side.

This time, it was just him. At least, thankfully, Sherlock wasn’t with him.

They sped through the city streets, faint traffic hum and the faint clicking of the woman’s phone the only sounds filling the tense silence.

The sleek black sedan pulled into an almost empty warehouse, the sound of the engine echoing off the huge walls. Standing in the center of the space was a tall man in a three-piece suit, leaning casually on an umbrella, as though he had all the time in the world.

The car stopped. John glanced at the woman beside him. She made no move, no acknowledgment that they’d arrived, so he took it upon himself to open the door and step out. The chill of the warehouse brushed over him.

The warehouse was eerily quiet-empty except for the man. No backup, no lurking henchmen. At least, none that he could see. John adjusted his jacket, squaring his shoulders as his boots scuffed the concrete as he walked toward the stranger.

“Good day, John,” the man greeted, his tone polite, almost amiable.

John didn’t slow his pace. “You know,” he began, voice even, “I’ve got a phone, too. You could’ve just called.” He cast a pointed look around the warehouse. “All this? Not necessary. No need for the whole kidnapping.”

The man’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Is that what you think?” He adjusted his grip on the umbrella, his tone light yet pointed. “I thought you might be tired. Consider this... a courtesy ride.”

John stopped a few steps away, arms loose at his sides, his expression unimpressed. “Thoughtful of you. Wrong address, though.”

The man’s smile thinned as he studied John, his tone taking on a sharper edge. “You don’t seem very afraid.”

John tilted his head, his reply steady. “You don’t seem very frightening.”

The man chuckled softly. “Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is, after all, just a kinder word for stupidity, don’t you think?”

John’s expression hardened, his eyes cold and unyielding. “If you’re not going to explain why I’m here, I have a shopping list to take care of.”

The man’s gaze sharpened. “What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

John didn’t flinch. He’d had the better part of twenty-five long minutes in that car to run through possible scenarios. He kept his expression neutral, his voice steady. Perhaps Sherlock would’ve been proud of his composure.

“Which one?” John asked smoothly.

The man’s expression flickered—brief confusion, perhaps—but he quickly recovered. Before he could respond, John spoke again.

“Who are you?”

The man’s smile returned, cold and practiced. “An interested party,” his tone was icy.

“Right,” John said, adopting an air of nonchalance. “I heard about Holmes from a historian who wrote about Victorian criminals. Joined a forum online—some people are really into that stuff. What about you? Big fan of the classics?”

The man’s lips curled into a faint smile. “I’ve admired Sherlock Holmes since I was a child. Surprised to see another enthusiast.”

John shrugged. “Well, apparently, there was a Professor Moriarty, and Sherlock Holmes took him down. History, right? Now, if you don’t mind—why am I here?”

The man took a step closer, his gaze sharpening. “A friendly warning.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah? About what?”

“Not from me,” the man clarified with a cold smile. “From the new generation of criminals. You must be aware—some serious gangs operate in London these days.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

The man’s smile widened, almost amused. “Not all cops blog about their cases, Doctor Watson. And your blog? Quite popular.”

John feigned indifference.“Yeah, I’ve got a blog. Could’ve messaged me there. I’m a busy man.”

Ignoring the jab, the man pulled a notebook from his inner pocket, flipping it open with deliberate precision. “Busy, indeed. Since joining the New Scotland Yard in April, you’ve been… productive, haven’t you? Impressive, truly.” He continued, glancing at his notes. “Identifying and arresting serial killers? Solving high-profile cases? For someone with no prior police training, your instincts are remarkable. Almost too remarkable.”

“I’m a fast learner,” John replied coolly.

The man’s tone grew pointed. “Seems you’ve had some excellent mentors.”

John smirked. “You could say that.”

He didn’t press further, but John’s phone buzzed with a text alert, breaking the tension. He fished it out and glanced at the message. 

Molly: Kitty ok. Got fed.

The stranger watched him, unbothered. “Am I distracting you?”

“Not at all.” John slipped the phone back into his pocket, looking up at him with deliberate slowness.

The figure resumed his probing. “Given your background, I would’ve expected you to choose a safer career, perhaps something more aligned with your field. Interesting choice, joining NSY.”

John stayed silent, his expression unreadable.

He took a step forward, his gaze drifting to John’s left hand. “Also… the tremor. The one that supposedly ended your military career. Odd. I don’t see any sign of it now.”

John’s spine stiffened, but his face gave nothing away. Don’t react. Don’t give him anything.

“Psychosomatic tremor caused by PTSD, was it? Another misdiagnosis?” The man’s gaze flicked to John’s left hand. “Show me.”

John didn’t move. “You want to see my hand? Come and get a closer look.”

He smiled thinly and stepped forward, umbrella hooked over his arm. His hand reached for John’s, but John hesitated, resisting the instinct to pull away. Finally, he held it out, palm down.

The stranger examined it closely, his touch clinical. “Remarkable,” he murmured.

John pulled his hand back sharply. “What is?”

He took a step back, speaking as if lecturing. “Your therapist thinks you’re haunted by the war. But she’s wrong. You’re under stress now, and your hand is steady. Fascinating.”

John’s jaw tightened. “Is that so?”

He didn’t seem to falter. With the same smug smile, he said, “You’re not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson. You miss it.” Leaning closer, he whispered, “Welcome back.”

Another buzz from John’s phone. He pulled it out, glancing at the screen. 

From ‘Will’. Kitty was ok. needs crisps. 

John smirked, pocketing the phone.

“Thank you for the... insight, Doctor,” the man said, his voice smooth and measured as he closed his notebook and tucked it away. “Consider this a courtesy call. A warning.”

“Warning for what?”

“Criminals, Dr. Watson, are rarely pleased when others interfere with their plans. And your interference has been... rather substantial.”

John’s smile was cold. “Is that all?”

“For the moment,” the stranger replied with a subtle incline of his head. “But rest assured, I’ll be keeping an eye on you. Should you encounter a case of such... sensitivity again, I may be inclined to offer my assistance.

“Helpful, considering you haven’t told me your name.”

“You’ll hear from me again.” He smirked faintly, twirling his umbrella as he turned to leave. “Work wisely, Doctor Watson.”

John didn’t reply, his eyes following the man as he turned and walked away, the sound of his umbrella tapping against the floor echoing in the empty warehouse.

Behind him, the car door opened, and the young woman stepped out.

“I’m to take you home,” she said softly.

John gave her a curt nod, climbing back into the car without a word.

He sent some more coded texts to Molly and Sherlock, then finished and pocketed his phone, took a look at the young woman, still with her eyes fixed on her phone, typing. 

John cleared his throat. “So…is there any use asking who your boss is?”

She smiled brightly at him for a moment before returning her gaze to her phone again. “No.”

He gave the woman his old address, but she barely glanced up from her phone before replying, “So… you’re going to Baker Street, then?” They knew where he lived. 

John felt his pulse spike—anger rising fast—but he forced himself to stay calm. “Alright.” John exhaled and lay back in the seat. ‘No problem, ’ he thought to himself.

Sometime later, with a steaming mug of tea resting on his chair’s arm, John tried to make sense of the day’s events. A crazy day, even by his standards.  

He had found Sherlock in his ‘room,’ the sliding door shut, apparently deep in thought. The only greeting he got was a pointed, “No crisps?”  

After having some leftovers for dinner, Sherlock had listened to John’s account with forced nonchalance, but John could tell—he was worried.  

He grew particularly quiet and serious when John said, “I just met a fan of yours.”

He had barely touched his food, absently moving it around his plate while listening in silence. He only spoke to ask, “He did mention your tremor?”  

When John nodded, Sherlock hummed, “Observational skills.Too much for a backbencher in Parliament, I’d say. I doubt it.”

John exhaled, then asked the question that had been weighing on him. “Do you think we should leave? Get out of London—or the country—for a while? I have my gun, but if we want to be safe—”  

“John, please… calm yourself.” Sherlock’s tone was firm, but not unkind. “If that man wanted information from you, he wouldn’t have let you go. And I am a tad surprised you accepted that ride in the first place.”

“He bailed me out. I needed to see who he was.”

Sherlock had only rolled his eyes and shaken his head. “Now what?”

“Probably someone high up, whose name opened the right doors. I don’t know. I’ll ask Greg for help in the morning, but right now, I can’t think.”

John had always been wary of surveillance, but after that night, he became meticulous, watching his surroundings, his communications, and his comings and goings.  

Surprisingly, Greg had no names to offer. The only thing he could tell John was that the senator’s case had been “taken care of”—wrapped up with a formal thank you. No further details. He had just shrugged. “Well, either you’ve made a friend in high places, or a foe. I guess time will tell.”

John didn’t care about threats—not for himself, at least. But Sherlock was another matter. He kept turning it over in his head, trying to connect this “big man’s” role in sensitive cases with his interest in Sherlock Holmes. Coincidence? Unlikely. As a certain detective had always said, "The universe is rarely that lazy.”

Part of John wanted to take Sherlock and disappear. Another part of him knew that running would only confirm whatever suspicions the man—or the organization behind him—already had.  

After a few days of tense silence, Sherlock spoke over breakfast, watching as John let his tea go cold.  

“The spider will show up, it’s just a matter of time. Stop worrying. We prepare, and we wait.”

Easy for him to say.  

If John had been indifferent about his job before, now he had every reason to stay. Being at Scotland Yard meant access to information, and more importantly, it meant knowing exactly who was watching him—and how to avoid them.  

The morning after the visit, he swept the flat for listening devices, using sight, touch, and a digital counter-surveillance system to check every inch—his clothes included.  

And from then on, he made sure to do it every few days.

Chapter Text

After the whole arrest-and-mysterious-bailout incident, John had made a firm decision: no more risky moves. No dodgy clients, no suspicious websites, and definitely no online detective antics that might attract attention from anyone in suits, ties, or unmarked cars.

Sherlock, naturally, took this as a personal betrayal.

It took a few days—over two weeks in fact— before Sherlock could even peek at the website again; not that he was allowed to touch it. John had changed the admin password and refused to share it. Cases continued to trickle in—some with actual intrigue—but they were promptly ignored or quietly deleted, much to Sherlock’s horror.

The pocket-sized brilliant sulked around the flat like a cursed porcelain figurine, occasionally throwing himself into dramatic poses across maps, paperclips, or John's laptop keyboard. He muttered darkly about “ wasted potential ” and “ the decay of modern intellect ,” which John mostly responded to with long, practiced sighs.

Eventually, John gave in—not because he stopped being cautious, but because he couldn't stand another evening of being lectured to by a fork-sized detective about the tragic state of 21st-century crime.

He allowed Sherlock to take on a couple of "harmless" online cases—things like missing housekeys or suspicious pastry thefts. Sherlock solved them with a single glance at the client-submitted photos, muttering, “ Child’s play ,” and “ Honestly, it’s insulting ”. And, of course, that only whetted his appetite.

At what John later classified as a solid “Level 5 Boredom Emergency”, Sherlock began demanding real puzzles. Against his better judgment—and mostly for his own sanity—John let a few low-stakes cases slip through. Just breadcrumbs, he told himself. Something to keep the little gremlin distracted.

It escalated fast .

Soon, Sherlock was on fire again, scribbling across case notes and insisting they follow up leads in person. By the time they hit 7-ish on the Excitement-O-Meter, it was clear: they were leaving the house. Again.

The case wasn’t supposed to be serious. It really wasn’t. But it turned into one of the most exhilarating investigations John had seen since Sherlock had quite literally fallen into his life. John, of course, did most of the legwork after shifts at the Yard, then spent the weekend zigzagging across the city—asking questions, knocking on doors, checking CCTV, taking notes, and hunting down evidence—all while being bossed around by a pocket dictator who kept poking his head out of John’s jacket pocket to bark instructions.

John wouldn’t admit it out loud, of course, but he’d sort of missed it. Not just the mystery, but the detective—shrunken and annoying as he was. Eventually, the case took a turn and led to a midnight stakeout by the Thames, where the suspect tried to escape by boat. John had to call for backup, while Sherlock screamed directions from his perch in John’s coat.

Despite the freezing cold and the fact that John was not technically on duty, he found himself bolting after the murderer through dark alleyways, guided by the furious voice in his ears, “ Turn left! No, your other left! ”  Eventually, they cornered him—thanks to a clever Sherlock trick involving alley geometry, a surprise leap from a hiding spot, and John’s rugby tackle instincts.

That night, as John stood on the Jubilee line platform waiting for the train, he absentmindedly touched the pocket where Sherlock was curled up, fast asleep. Warm. Safe. Muffled snoring. He smiled. 

A flashback from earlier months came to his mind, when he had come home to find Sherlock standing on a map of London spread out across the desk, muttering to himself.

“What are you doing?” John had asked, dropping his keys.

“Updating my mental map of London.”

John blinked. “You’ve got to be bored. No one can memorize all of London; it’s huge. That’s what GPS is for. You’ve heard of it, right? It’s in your phone.”

“I can . I did —before,” Sherlock said sharply.

John rolled his eyes. “Sure. And I used to be able to run 5 miles without wheezing. We all had our prime.”

Sherlock glared at him like John had insulted the entire Holmes lineage. John just sipped his tea and muttered, “Honestly, you should rest. No need to exhaust yourself out-mapping Google.”

Sherlock didn’t reply. He turned back to the map, as if John’s opinion were background static.

John just carefully closed the street door and stepped inside to clean his muddy shoes, and take a breath by the stairs in the hallway, when a sleepy voice echoed in his ear, saying coolly, “You must agree now, Doctor, that sometimes organic GPS is far more efficient.”

John couldn’t think of an answer. Instead, he just leaned his tired back against the wall and couldn’t help giggling. And didn’t expect but heard a soft hah hah of the tiny sleepy menace. 

“Only if it comes with a mute button.”

Chapter Text

Experimental Brews

John was halfway through an article and waiting for his tea to steep when he glanced up—just in time to spot Sherlock, standing on a matchbox beside the mug, trying to stealthily drop something into it.

Very stealthily. And very suspiciously.

“Sherlock…?! What are you doing?”

Sherlock froze, caught in the act, then tried his best innocent, nonchalant look.
“Nothing.”

“Are you dropping something into my tea? What the hell?!”

“Erm… maybe a bit of sugar.”

“I don’t take sugar in my tea—and you know that better than anyone.”

John shoved his chair back and strode to the kitchen table, inspecting the area around his mug. From the corner of his eye, he spotted an empty blister pack.

“Sherlock Holmes—are you trying to drug me?”

Sherlock glanced sideways at the poorly hidden pack, muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse, then composed himself and answered coolly:
“Not a drug , per se. Enhance...Assist. Slightly recalibrate. I just thought you needed more sleep. And anyway, you said you used to take this, so—”

“Slightly recalibrate—?! Oh my God.” John was now looking at the mug like it might explode. “You can't just put pills in my tea . What the hell is wrong with you?”

“You see, John,” Sherlock said with a deep breath, closing his eyes and adopting a bored tone, “experiments are important just to—”

“You mean you’re doing experiments on me?!”

“When I say experiment, I mean—well, technically, yes—but it’s for your own good. Next time that—”

“Sherlock!” John cut him off angrily. “You can’t experiment on me, or anyone else! It’s my decision whether I want to take medication or not!”

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “I was just curious to see the effect on someone of your height and weight, compared to the case we had last week. They were prescribed to you, so they’re perfectly safe. And I’m fairly sure your sleep improves and productivity increases by roughly seventy-five percent when you take the pill three to five hours before sleep rather than just before. I was only trying to—”

“You absolute goblin .” John angrily snatched his mug off the table. “You can’t just tamper with my food and drink! You’re not a scientist—”

“I am precisely a scientist.”

“Not that kind! Jesus.”

“John, please. You admitted yourself that you used to take those to help you sleep.”

“Yeah. Used to ! Key phrase.”

John stomped to the sink and poured the tea away with theatrical flair. “From now on, I’m locking up my tea bags. And my biscuits. And maybe my toothpaste, just in case.”

Sherlock looked vaguely insulted. “That’s unnecessary. I would never tamper with toothpaste. The flavor compounds are far too volatile.”

John stared. Then slowly, firmly: “You are never to dose me again. Or experiment on me. Are we clear?”

Sherlock sighed and muttered something about “ ethics being overrated in domestic partnerships” , but John was already reaching for the biscuit tin—and giving it a suspicious shake.

From that point on, John made a quiet, determined habit of keeping his mug—and most of his food—well out of reach of those mischievous, tiny hands.

-----------------------------------

Caps, Coats, and Quarrels

They had already gone through most of the belongings in the upstairs room. What remained were mostly papers—documents from old cases, yellowed and brittle newspapers, and similar forgotten things. And two large boxes of clothing.

Sherlock had been surprised that the clothes were even kept. He hadn’t felt the urge to open those chests; both their size and their time had become rather irrelevant to him now.

But on a boring Sunday evening, when John was feeling particularly bored—and slightly warm from a nifty glass of port—he suggested they take a look.

“Just for fun,” he said, holding up his glass. Sherlock had only responded with a shrug.

They went up together. Sherlock perched on a stack of faded handwritten papers, lost in what looked like notes on an unfinished case. Meanwhile, John opened one of the boxes. A strong smell of camphor and dried herbs hit him instantly.

Sherlock, deep in thought, was startled by a sudden burst of laughter.

“Ha! What is this ?” John was holding up an old gray hat, peering at it with amusement. “Oh my God—this is a hat? This is the funniest-looking cap I’ve ever seen. Look, it has flaps ! On both sides!”

Sherlock didn’t even lift his gaze. Chin still resting on his hand, he replied in a long, drowsy voice, “It is a deerstalker .”

“A what ?” John kept laughing, turning the hat over, inspecting it like an odd fossil. “Didn’t you lot mostly wear top hats back then?”

When Sherlock didn’t reply, John glanced over and saw him sitting rigid, eyes like twin daggers. Uh-oh. He’d hit a nerve.

Trying to smooth things over, John joked, “Ahem... So, did you stalk any deer in that?”

Still no answer. Just cold silence.

Scrambling for something less offensive, John was about to speak when Sherlock cut in icily. “No deer . But I used it during surveillance in the suburbs. It went well with my Ulster coat.”

“Ahh, so that’s the look,” John said with a chuckle. “You wore this when going out on cases. That could actually be kind of cool.”

He thought the conversation was over until Sherlock added in a low, reflective voice, “In fact, I sort of miss putting that on.”

John, still in a playful mood, couldn’t help himself. “Well, don’t miss it too much. No one wears such silly things anymore!”

That did it. Sherlock snapped his head up. “Oh really?! I’ve seen far stranger things on people’s heads these days! What is that stupid sack people wear now—young people walking around in their nightcaps during the day?!”

John laughed. “Haha! Not everyone wears beanies, Sherlock—and they’re not nightcaps!” Quickly changing tone, he added, “It’s just hard to imagine you in this.”

Sherlock’s voice turned glacial. “I’m sure it is. Your imagination is remarkably limited, John Watson—especially regarding fashion.”

This time it was John’s turn to feel insulted, and he frowned. “Oh, really? And when did you become a fashion expert in modern times?”

Without looking up from the papers, Sherlock muttered, “I don’t need to be one to see that your fashion sense is atrocious .”

Before John could formulate a scathing comeback, Sherlock coolly added,  “Also, I’ve done quite a bit of fashion research, by the way. It’s important for work. You, on the other hand, dress like a retired eighty-year-old middle school history teacher— on your best days.”

John opened his mouth—then shut it again. He couldn't think of anything equally insulting. So, pretending to be unaffected, he rummaged silently through the trunk a bit more before closing it. 

As he stood up, he tossed a line over his shoulder, casual as ever: “Well, now that I think about it, maybe I will wear it when it gets colder since my taste is so horrible, after all. Might match my vibe.”

Sherlock immediately looked up from the paper, scandalized. “No. You won’t do such a thing!”

“And why not?”

“Because it is a Sherlock Holmes hat!”

John tried to keep a straight face. “Okay, okay. I’ll keep it safe. Maybe you can sleep in it. Looks warm.”

Later that night, as John lay in bed, his thoughts drifted between the idea of commissioning a miniature deerstalker for Sherlock-just for nostalgia, maybe for his birthday...?-and imagining Victorian-era murder investigations in foggy suburbs.

His thoughts grew softer, fuzzier. The image of the old hat mixed with visions of a full-size Sherlock in a matching gray robe and piercing silver eyes, walking toward him through mist.

“Come on, John,” the dream-Sherlock said. “There’s been a murder.”

It was such a strange, vivid picture—absurd and comforting at once. Like one of those detective shows John had watched as a child. He fell asleep grinning, even if he had no idea why.

-----------------------------------

Everywhere and Nowhere

Since early June, Sherlock’s tiny evidence board—a cork coaster in his room—had become a chaotic mosaic of notes: bite-sized scraps of newspapers and magazines, fragments of photographs, and bits of paper printed from his miniature printer. The tiny scribbles were nearly impossible for anyone else to read, but it was clear that something had captured his attention. Over the past few weeks, the collection had steadily grown, taking over a corner of his room.

One night, John finally noticed it and couldn’t stop asking questions. Lately, Sherlock hadn’t been very forthcoming with his thoughts, only mentioning a few “interesting” or “stupid” cases he’d solved for his website.

Sherlock, still facing the board, murmured, “Huh… I’m not exactly sure yet. I just see a pattern… starting after the dancer’s case.”

“Care to elaborate?” John asked, leaning a little closer.

“Well… I can’t exactly put my finger on it… not yet. It’s still so nebulous,” Sherlock admitted, tapping a tiny finger against one of the scraps as if trying to piece it together mentally.

“Oh, how I wish I had my Baker Street Irregulars now.” He glanced at John’s surprised face and added, “Oh, I told you about them, remember? My army of street children I employed to gather information, run errands, and observe things inconspicuously.”

John vaguely remembered Sherlock mentioning something like that a couple of months ago. “Ah, right. And they were helpful, right?”

Far more effective than Scotland Yard at times—precisely because no one noticed them. I miss having that option. I could have solved this mystery long ago if I’d still had access to them, or if I could have gone out myself. Now, bound to this form, they could serve as my eyes and ears more than ever. Perhaps I could even build a new sort of… homeless network. There are plenty of those people, everywhere, these days.

John snickered. “Well, don’t be so wishful. There’s no guarantee they’d have given you much worthy or accurate information.”

“And why not?” Sherlock’s tiny brow arched.

“Cause… why should they care? And how can you even trust them?”

“I don’t see why not. They’d be paid for their service!”

“Oh yeah? And then they’d spend it all on their next hit. You really should accept the new century, Sherlock.”

Sherlock just stared at him, brows knotted together, like he had so much to answer but had decided it was better not to. He turned away from John and faced his board again, signaling with a quiet stubbornness that the conversation was over.

Chapter Text

From the early weeks, the matter of transportation was a constant question. John, of course, had no objections—he was always ready to offer his palms as a steady ride for his demanding little flatmate. Sherlock, however, was firmly against the idea.

After moving to Baker Street, the flat itself became his terrain: a vast and complicated landscape, filled with obstacles to overcome and opportunities to exploit.

So, from the first days there, Sherlock began devising contraptions of every sort. Some were wildly unrealistic, others surprisingly workable—though none entirely free of danger.

He tried out every bizarre device he could cobble together from whatever materials and odd bits he found lying around. But after his incident, there was a change—subtle, but there. Sherlock began, however reluctantly, to pay more attention to John’s endless lectures about safety and the risks of reckless experiments. He would never admit it, of course, but some of it sank in.

So, with no small amount of irritation, he started letting go of the more absurd devices John flatly vetoed, and instead turned his energy toward designs that were at least practical—even if they still carried his usual touch of danger.

John kept insisting, “Let me help—you know, we have actual technology for this!” To which Sherlock never bothered to respond. After countless attempts, John finally gave up and let him get on with it—reinventing, as John saw it, even the wheel, and taking a certain mad delight in the process.

After weeks of trial and error—punctuated, of course, by the occasional shouting match—Sherlock gradually managed to produce a handful of Watson-approved contraptions. 

Scaled-down pathways and ramps were the first projects they tackled together, a way to speed up Sherlock’s transportation across the flat. But when it came to critical points—like staircases or tall pieces of furniture—climbing was still unavoidable. But

one of his earliest “systems” involved turning the furniture into climbing walls. Drawing pins proved surprisingly useful; in the hidden sides of the couch and other pieces, he had John fix them in place like handholds on a rock face. At first, it was slow going and exhausting work, but soon he improved the design with handmade ladders and bits of rope, refining his miniature mountaineering setup.

Next came a system of tossing up a hook—originally a bent and sharpened paper clip—that Sherlock used to scale the taller obstacles. John, unimpressed, later swapped it out for a proper miniature fishing hook, despite Sherlock’s protests. “If you insist on living like a caveman, at least use the right tools,” he muttered.

John wanted to help more, but Sherlock refused, insisting he needed the exercise to rebuild his strength—though it left him utterly exhausted. Still, his persistence paid off. Gradually, he developed what could only be called Portable Climbing Equipment: miniature climbing gear, ropes, harnesses, and grappling hooks, all designed for scaling furniture, stairs, and any other obstacles the flat could throw at him. On another occasion, he experimented with tiny magnets to climb metal surfaces like the fridge—but with few suitable surfaces in sight, the system was abandoned after just a few attempts.

John watched these inventions from a safe distance, worried that some of them might actually be dangerous. While Sherlock busied himself with his bizarre and inventive contraptions, John began quietly considering the use of more conventional technology.

The idea came to John one day when Sherlock, rifling through John’s old belongings, discovered a miniature skateboard. He carefully glided across the kitchen floor, using a straw as a makeshift paddle, and seemed to be having a good time. The first weeks after moving into 221B had been so hectic that he hadn’t found a moment to work on his idea. But by one evening in early May, on his way home from work, he stopped by The Entertainer to take a look.

Sherlock was busy with something in the bedroom, so John seized the chance to tinker with his own little innovation. God, he hadn’t been this excited about a project since third grade!

He was so absorbed that he completely lost track of time—only emerging when Sherlock called him on his phone, as John didn’t hear him yelling his name out loud.  He brought the slightly disgruntled, tea-starved detective to the living room and onto the desk to reveal his project.

“And before you start turning me down, criticising it and calling it DULL , let me tell you, I’ve thought about it for a long time”. 

Sherlock, in response, offered nothing but a raised brow and a level, assessing stare.

“It’s a 1:20 scale remote-control toy car, battery-powered but also USB rechargeable. The best part? It’s surprisingly sturdy, whisper-quiet, and offers variable speeds …”

Sherlock, still in the same pose, simply said, “Toy car.”

John: “Hmm… yes, car. Told you—you need a quick and safe way to get around! I’m not saying your hard work on transportation methods wasn’t impressive, but… sometimes there’s an easier, faster option.”

 Sherlock said nothing, simply staring at the car on the desk.

Worried it might end up like the backpack experience* and afraid of losing, John hurriedly added, “Well, it says ‘toy ,’ but it actually moves like a real car—almost.”

Sherlock, without changing a muscle, muttered, “Remote.”

John blinked. “Sorry, what?”

“You said ‘remote.’ So… who’s going to control my transportation?”

John, partly relieved, let out a small laugh and leaned back in his chair. “Well, that’s the part I’ve been working on for the last hour.” He gestured toward a messy pile of wires, bits of plastic, and a few scattered tools. “I dismantled the remote controller, tried to pick out a few pieces, and modified it.” Scratching his head, he added, “I’ll admit—it’s not as easy as I thought, but…”

Sherlock stood silently, hands clasped behind his back, looking very serious as he inspected the empty car box on the desk.

John continued, “I watched a couple of YouTube videos—I think I can finally figure it out.”

Sherlock finally stepped forward and picked up the tiny manual. “Does this treatise offer any help?” He flipped through the booklet as if it were an oversized newspaper. “It appears to be… a rather complicated task.”

John was both surprised and amused by Sherlock’s reaction. For all his “ no to technology ” protests, he was handling it far better than John had expected. He even forgot, for now, that he’d been craving tea.

Clearing his throat, John said, “Hmm… not really. Mostly just basic rewiring. They usually have a simple circuit board with maybe two or three wires controlling the motor and steering servo. I used to tinker with mine a lot as a kid—actually, I completely destroyed my last one. Best Christmas gift ever, gone, hehe.”

That afternoon turned into a surprisingly fun one—and lasted straight until midnight. With steady hands and a soldier’s knack for tinkering, John took apart the entire remote, bypassed the receiver board, and rewired the controls inside the car.

He rerouted the motor and steering wires to small toggle switches cut from the transmitter, now mounted on a makeshift dashboard inside the car. Essentially, he had given Sherlock a direct, wired control panel: no remote needed, just mini toggles and switches perfectly positioned for the tiny driver.

John then wrote out the instruction: “Left switch → left turn, Right switch → right turn...why are you looking at me like that…? Forward lever → motor on. Back lever → reverse… all right, Obvious , I got it...”

Sherlock leaned in, inspecting the tiny cockpit with all the seriousness of a seasoned pilot—though, of course, he looked ridiculously heroic behind the minuscule controls.

The next step was Sherlock’s cockpit. The hard plastic seat wasn’t much of a seat at all—certainly not soft or comfortable for an actual person. John had considered gluing in a bit of cushioning, but Sherlock insisted he was fine. Still, John thought he might add some foam padding around the edges later.

John snickered. “Well, at least it’s not high-tech enough to throw you out of the car.”

Sherlock, perched in the seat with his small hands flicking at the toggle switches, looked genuinely surprised. “Why on earth would that ever happen?”

“Oh, don’t you remember that… oh, never mind.”

The last addition was a seat-belt harness, fashioned from sewing elastic John had begged off Mrs. Hudson, secured with a tiny hook and eye. As John explained the necessity of wearing it—drifting into a lecture about rechargeable LiPo batteries—Sherlock wasn’t listening. He was busy inspecting the cockpit.

“Marvelous, doesn’t this have a honk?”

They went through a fair bit of trial and error. As if he had never had anything against “ transportation technology ”, Sherlock took a keen interest in his new mode of travel—his motorized vehicle —and mastered the driving far faster than John had expected. John laughed as Sherlock jerked forward, crashed into the skirting board, and indignantly blamed the primitive controls, though the laughter didn’t last very long.

Especially the next day, when the detective, speeding along, lost control of the tiny vehicle and slammed straight into John’s ankle.

That led to a strict lecture from John, who spent a full thirty minutes warning Sherlock about the dangers of speeding. He tried to make it interesting, invoking physics and Newton’s laws, worried sick about Sherlock crashing with no real safety measures—no airbags, just a thin plastic makeshift windscreen between him and being flung at full speed. John even pulled up YouTube videos of real accidents and slow-motion tests to drive the point home.

Halfway through, he noticed Sherlock’s absent, blurry eyes. The detective was physically there, perched in front of the laptop, but clearly bored—and had already switched off mentally, gone somewhere else entirely.

Unfortunately, once again, the detective learned his lesson the hard way—crashing into the kitchen trash can and ending up with a bump on his tiny forehead. John wasn’t sure whether it was that, or his serious threat of confiscating the vehicle that finally made the detective come to his senses and stop speeding.

He especially liked the new vehicle because it let him transfer his favorite large finds from the kitchen to his room much faster. John wished it had been a tiny truck for exactly that reason, but then decided to attach a little hook to the back of the car so he could tow things.

At least the new vehicle distracted him enough from plotting more adventurous, inventive modes of transportation—like that banister-based contraption he had been on the verge of starting—for a little while.

By early June, 221B was equipped—or, as Mrs. Hudson liked to say, decorated —with a full-fledged transportation system. It included not only out-of-sight “ rock-climbing ” push pins but also a zip-line network made from fishing line and dental floss, complete with tiny pulleys fashioned from paper clips. The pulley systems were complemented by a grappling hook kit, using a makeshift hook fashioned from a small safety pin attached to a tiny ball of dental floss. Stations were set up at key locations for easy travel, and foldable rope ladders were tucked behind frames and other objects all over the walls, allowing Sherlock to move around the house when he couldn’t use the floor. Even all his hidden boltholes were now easily accessible.

John was still uneasy about the safety of such a setup, but Sherlock insisted he’d scaled far more treacherous trails in the mountains of Tibet and Peru, and that this was no more dangerous.

Chapter Text

Martha Hudson was a woman of hidden depths, shaped by a life few could imagine—and most would never believe. Born to a working-class London family in the 1940s, she developed a sharp wit and a steel spine early on. Humor and resilience weren’t hobbies; they were survival strategies.

Spirited and adventurous in her youth, Martha once worked as an exotic dancer—not that she ever called it that, of course. "Stage work," she'd say with a wink, artfully dodging follow-up questions. She enjoyed her independence until she met Tony Hudson, a charming but dangerous man tied to the criminal underworld.

Their passionate whirlwind romance soon spiraled into something darker. Tony’s abuse and deep ties to the outlaws left her isolated and constantly looking over her shoulder - especially after their move to Florida, where his cartel connections turned their lives into a B-movie thriller.

When U.S. authorities finally closed in, Martha made the most daring decision of her life: she quietly handed them the information that led to his capture. Tony was eventually executed, which technically made her a widow, but not the kind anyone brings flowers to.

Scarred but free, Martha returned to London and set about rebuilding her life. She bought 221B Baker Street, became a landlady, and leaned into a quieter, steadier existence filled with biscuits, tea, and telling nosy neighbours to mind their own business. She thought her wild days were behind her. Finally, some peace. Maybe even a little boredom.

Well, that part didn’t exactly go to plan.

————————————————-

Over the last few years, Mrs. Hudson had tenants come and go, though none stayed for long. She’d gotten a suspiciously good deal on the house—not for any obvious reasons like a mold problem or structural neglect, as she’d first assumed, but because of whispers, eerie rumors, and the sort of vague “incidents” that estate agents like to refer to as “colorful history.” Martha never gave such nonsense a second thought (she’d lived through actual danger, thank you very much), but finding tenants who weren’t scared off by everything from old gossip to an occasional parcel addressed to long-dead occupants was another matter entirely.

Tenants left for all sorts of reasons, some even mid-lease. There were, of course, some sensible people, like the sweet young couple who moved in for a time, but the wife, a university biology professor, complained that a “storage unit” inside their flat could be a potential hazard to their health.

Then there was the lonely poet—quiet, unassuming, and entirely pleasant—until he started muttering about “voices in the walls” and became convinced someone had been murdered, chopped into pieces, and hidden in the upper room. He demanded she call the police. Twice.

Mrs. Hudson herself was forced to end the contract with two university students who were too noisy and careless about the house's upkeep. 221B stayed empty for such a long time that she consulted her lawyer and decided to deal with the problematic space, no matter what the original contract said.  

And then, on the tail end of a long winter, a pleasant doctor arrived, ready to take on the so-called haunted flat.

————————————————-

Mrs. Hudson liked to think she was good at reading people, and from the first meeting, she knew she loved John Watson. There was something about him—honorable, serious, yet undeniably sweet—that made her trust him right away. She’d never thought of herself as motherly, whether because of the chaos of her past or her dangerous, thrill-seeking lifestyle.  But now, she found herself spoiling John as though he were the son she’d never had.  

How could she not? He was kind, honest, with a touch of compassion that tugged at her heart.  

Still, the young man had his peculiarities. More than once, she’d heard his voice rising in a heated conversation, sometimes late at night or at odd hours of the day. At first, she thought it might be speakerphone calls, but there was something about the tone and rhythm that felt off. Not wrong—just different. It wasn’t just the tone of the arguments, but the way they carried—almost like there was someone else in the room.

It wasn’t John’s volume that caught her attention so much as her own instincts, sharpened from years of living on the edge and indulging her curiosity. For a fleeting moment, she’d entertained the absurd idea that he was talking to a ghost, though she dismissed it quickly enough. More likely, he had an imaginary companion—something that happened to plenty of people living alone.  

John didn’t seem to be into dating, though she couldn’t figure out why. Still, she decided not to press the matter. Everyone had their little secrets, and John’s were his to keep.

————————————————-

Mrs. Hudson had a way of sneaking into John’s life in more than one way. She was a natural confidant, always ready with tea and biscuits, quick to laugh, but never prying too much—except when it came to his love life.

“You really ought to date more,” she would chide. “You need to meet the right person.”

Their downstairs chats became something of a ritual. John discovered that his landlady was full of stories—some funny, some unexpectedly dark, all fascinating. Her life as the wife of a drug cartel mobster was far more complex than he’d initially realized. More than once, he found himself wishing Sherlock could meet her properly. They’d make quite a pair, he thought. Sherlock would revel in her stories, and Mrs. Hudson, he imagined, would take him under her wing in the same way she had John.

One evening, over tea and biscuits, Mrs. Hudson casually brought up Sarah. “So, what happened there, then?” she asked, her voice kind but curious.

John sighed, swirling the tea in his mug. “Didn’t work out, unfortunately.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, dear. But don’t give up,” she said, patting his hand. “The right person is out there for you. You’ve just got to keep looking. Don’t let a bit of bad luck put you off.”

John laughed softly, though there was a flicker of something bittersweet in his expression. “Yeah… maybe. I don’t know. I’m not exactly in the mood for meeting new people these days. New job, new life—feels like I’ve already got too much on my plate.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded with understanding, her eyes twinkling. “It must be hard. I sometimes hear you talking late into the night. I suppose they don’t leave you alone even after work hours, do they?”

John froze, silently cursing himself, and forced a smile. “Yeah, it’s… a demanding job.” He made a mental note to lower his voice when speaking to Sherlock, even during those moments when the detective was at his most maddening.

She gave him a knowing smile, leaning back with her tea. “Well, don’t let it wear you down. You’re doing fine, love. And just wait—the right person will show up when you least expect it.”

————————————————-

Her understanding seemed to waver a bit, though. The first time he noticed they were watching crap telly late in the afternoon. They’d just stopped laughing at a silly couple on a reality show when she leaned over and said, with all the gravity of someone delivering devastating news, “John, I think you might need to talk to someone. You know, professionally.”

He nearly choked on his beer. “Sorry—what?”

“You’ve been arguing with someone who isn’t there,” she said gently, patting his hand like he was a fragile heirloom. “I’ve heard you, love. And it’s nothing to be ashamed of. My cousin had an imaginary friend well into his thirties…”

John blinked. “Mrs. Hudson, I don’t have an imaginary friend. I’m fine, really.”

She nodded politely, but she didn’t look convinced. He thought that was the end of it.

It wasn’t.

Over the next few weeks, every time Mrs. Hudson overheard a heated exchange with Sherlock—or worse, with himself when Sherlock refused to answer—her concern seemed to deepen. She must have pieced together Sherlock’s name from the arguments and decided this "imaginary friend" was now his imaginary boyfriend.

The morning after an especially animated disagreement about whether a particular suspect’s choice of shoes was “simply lazy” or “brilliant misdirection,” Mrs. Hudson quite randomly happened to meet him on his way out the door.

“Good morning, dear,” she greeted him sweetly. “Did you two have a domestic last night?”

John froze on the bottom step. “Excuse me?”

“You and your boyfriend,” she added helpfully as if clarifying would make it less ridiculous.

“My—what? Mrs. Hudson, I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Oh, it’s fine, John,” she said with a conspiratorial wink. “You know I don’t mind. We have all sorts here.”

“Erm… I was talking to my colleague.”

She gave him a look. “Darling, no one argues like that with a colleague. Or a friend, for that matter. You sound like you’ve been married for years!”

“Mrs. Hudson, how many times do I—Sherlock is NOT my imaginary boyfriend!” The snapped words echoed a bit too loudly in the stairwell.

Her expression softened further, if that were even possible. “Oh, it’s all right, love. We all have our own coping mechanisms.”

John stared at her, completely at a loss. Somewhere upstairs, Sherlock was probably laughing at the whole exchange.

With a resigned sigh, he shook his head, muttered “I give up,” and walked out the door.

————————————————-

Sherlock had developed an unexpected interest in Mrs. Hudson. He often asked John how she was doing and listened with what could only be described as genuine curiosity to the anecdotes John brought back from their tea-time conversations. Her baking seemed to be a particular draw—her Chelsea buns and Victoria sponge cake quickly became his favorites. John, to his amazement, had witnessed Sherlock consume them with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, polishing off all his tiny slices.

When John told how Mrs. Hudson escaped from her abusive, criminal husband, how she’d managed to hand him over to the authorities, and eventually his execution, Sherlock’s eyes lit up with an unmistakable glimmer of admiration. It was rare to see him praise anyone so quietly but so clearly.

One Friday night, John returned home late, still grinning from his afternoon with Mrs. Hudson, high on sugar and more. The two of them had spent hours laughing over an old movie, accompanied by tea and her “magic cookies.” The whole evening had left him giggling like a child. When he walked into the flat, Sherlock, perched cross-legged on his bed with a notebook in hand, gave him a long, assessing glance.

“I thought you said recreational drugs are illegal in England,” Sherlock remarked, his tone dry.

John grinned, waving a biscuit in the air. “Well, I can make some exceptions for the less serious ones… wanna try some pot cookies?”

Sherlock raised a single brow, his pen pausing mid-sentence. “If by ‘pot,’ you mean cannabis , then no, thank you. I’ve always found it rather dull. Besides, I prefer my own… pharmaceutical pursuits.”

John snorted, collapsing into his chair. “Suit yourself. You’re missing out.”

That night, John’s dreams were a bit weirder than usual—though thankfully, none of them involved Sherlock, especially getting crushed under his feet.

Chapter Text

The Yard had been investigating the disappearance of a biology scientist since before John joined them in April. He only heard about it later that month, when another scientist went missing—this time in Glasgow. On the surface, the two cases seemed unrelated, but Greg happened to mention the first case one day, noting that both missing persons had shown signs of distress in the days or weeks before their disappearances, according to relatives and colleagues. The Glasgow professor’s case added to the growing pile of cold, unsolved disappearances—possible fatalities—and John didn’t think about it again until early June, when something drew his attention to a former Cambridge archeology professor and collector.

There wasn’t much connecting the cases, except that all of the scientists had attended the same important science conference in Berlin last year, focused on genetic evolution and innovative new methods. The retired professor had contacted the Yard to report a break-in—or some kind of threat—but later dismissed the complaint, insisting everything was fine. That, naturally, struck John as suspicious and drew his attention.

What confirmed John’s suspicion even more was discovering that the man’s name had also been noted as a witness after the murder of the first scientist, one of the last people to see the victim alive. Yet he had refused to cooperate with the police, which only made John more determined to speak to him. There was no evidence against him, and the Yard couldn’t compel him to talk. They could only ask questions about his colleague, and after a few minutes of discussion at the Yard, he had simply walked away.

The retired professor was the last link in the chain of murders and disappearances, but Greg insisted they leave him alone, as he had firmly requested. Still, John was determined to discover what the connection was and how the archaeologist was involved.

Knowing the professor wouldn’t answer his calls, John decided to go to his house. He reasoned that a few questions wouldn’t hurt, and so he set out. He already had the address from the witness statements in the casework binders he had consulted while writing his report at the FME.

John arrived only to find himself let into the house—and immediately confronted by three big goons. The professor was already dead, so John had been right—but far too late. A heavy blow to the head sent him sprawling, and he was bound to a radiator against the wall, duct tape digging into his wrists, in the living room of the old suburban villa. He was beginning to regret that no one knew he had come here.

He could hardly believe his own stupidity. He should’ve listened to Greg; he never should've come at all. It was all on him. And now, crumpled in the corner of the room, the first thought in his mind wasn’t his imminent doom—it was Sherlock.

He knew Molly would be there for him if, as seemed likely, he didn’t make it. Still, he felt awful for being so reckless, imagining Sherlock’s disappointed voice echoing in his head: “Utterly reckless and idiotic… I expected more from John.”

He also wished he’d told Sherlock where he was going. Though it had been a sudden decision, he’d only sent a short message saying he’d be late and was going to ask a few questions about a case.

John was completely doomed.

-------------

Sherlock had finished his experiment and was already bored when John’s message arrived. He was full of hope that John would come back soon, eager to share the results of an experiment that could prove his last client’s innocence. He was thoroughly pleased with himself—after three days of failing to convince John, Sherlock could hardly wait for the smug “told you so!” moment, feeling that all the long hours of work had been worth it.

All last week, they had been tangled in their own cases. Sherlock was consumed by the bizarre situation of a firefighter framed for the murder of someone he had rescued, and John, as far as Sherlock could recall, was dealing with an old cold case—one that Sherlock had mostly deleted from his mind after five minutes of John’s explanation, quickly losing interest and returning to his own work.

Sherlock was yawning, growing impatient, and increasingly desperate for a cup of tea when John’s message arrived. 

What…? Sherlock’s frustration spiked. No, not now! He was about to unleash his irritation in reply, but stopped himself—he couldn’t show desperation. Better to play indifferent, bide his time, and reveal the results later, just to see the surprised look on John’s face.

Usually, if Sherlock didn’t reply, another message would follow—asking if he needed something or providing more information, as John somehow always sensed Sherlock’s unhappiness. But this time, nothing came.

Sherlock tried to busy himself with a chapter of his new mini-book, Honeybee Democracy, yet his mind was scattered, and an uneasy worry gnawed at his chest. He walked to the phone and checked again—still nothing. Slowly, he began to consider which case it could be.

It took him four trips to the phone—walking there and back—before he finally decided to call John. They’d had a rather rough conversation last week, when John, for the hundredth time, had told Sherlock not to call during work hours, to ask about the location of his spare notebook or the name of that TV show they’d watched last week instead of looking it up himself.

The knot of worry tightened around his heart when the call went through: “The EE customer you are calling is switched off.”

John never turned his phone off when he was out without Sherlock—that was one of their protocols. Even if he didn’t want to be disturbed, it would at least be set to silent or Do Not Disturb.

Sherlock felt his palms start to sweat; it hadn’t happened like this in ages. He shook his head and retreated into his mind sanctum before fear could take hold. He sank down crossed-legged in front of the phone, eyes closed, and drifted to John’s wing.

It was his favorite spot in the sanctum: a cluster of rooms including an archive and library, modeled after his family home’s library and drawing room—the place in the house he had liked most while growing up.

The old, dark wooden shelves were crammed with John’s data, in thick, weighty books and journals. And in other sections, a newer arrangement mimicked Baker Street shelves, with rows of DVDs in their covers, echoing John’s collection of movies and music.

A large leather-bound logbook of John’s words sat in the center of the library—massive now, thick with months of entries. Sherlock flipped through swiftly, skimming the most recent weeks. Nothing of note. Then his eye caught on a word: Cambridge. Cambridge…Why did it ring a bell? He paused. A professor—yes, a retired one…

The word professor, especially Cambridge professors, was never benign in his psyche. They carried shadows, lodged deep enough to stain. On the page before him, that single word stood out in black ink, stark against the rest of the faded writing.

Sherlock shook his head, forcing away the image of another professor that had leapt, unbidden, into his mind. Irrelevant. His fingers traced the word on the page, lips moving in a low mutter. Then—Aha! The witness. A reluctant witness, John had mentioned, almost dismissed. He sprang toward the bin in the corner, rifling through the jumble of crumpled papers and scraps until, at last, his hand closed around the one he wanted.

The information about the case was sparse—brief, vague, scattered like crumbs across the pages. Sherlock pieced them together with difficulty, but still—he was 89% certain this was the one John had pursued. The question was where.

Not through the MET. No, they would never. John had gone himself. Damn, John and his insatiable curiosity. Though—if he was honest—Sherlock couldn’t quite blame him. He would have done the same… wouldn’t he?

With a jolt, Sherlock tore himself out of his mind palace. The situation was even more dreadful than he’d feared—bad. Very bad.

Before he could think, his fingers were already flying, fast-dialing Molly, straight to voicemail. A vague memory surfaced—something about her taking her nieces to some idiotic film event. Damn it!

He almost sent a text—John is in danger, call the police—but stopped cold. The address. He didn’t have the address. No, he didn’t even have a name yet. 

Frustrated, he jabbed the call off and stood frozen, fingers gripping desperately into his curls.

Address. Address. Address… where?

He plunged back into the sanctum, rifling feverishly through the emptied recycle bin contents, scraps of words from that tedious cold case flying past. Useless. Nothing important. Damn! Why had he been so hasty in deleting things lately? He knew why; the sanctum was already bursting with new data, cluttered to the point where even the crucial fragments were getting harder and harder to retrieve.

He left the library and stepped into the living room—not the real one, but the sanctum’s version, where a John always sat in his chair. That John wasn’t much help now; he didn’t even glance up from his newspaper. So Sherlock turned to the TV instead, replaying fragments of their recent conversations. Back and forth, again and again—nothing useful. His hope was slipping when a half-forgotten moment surfaced: John on the phone with Lestrade, pacing the living room and ruining his experiment with the noise. Sherlock had involuntarily listened with irritation then, but now the words rang sharper—“case”… “casework binder”.

A binder. A file. Yes—an actual paper one.

Sherlock jolted out of the sanctum—so abruptly he wobbled for a second—then darted his gaze across the messy desk. There, in the corner, sat a rack holding a couple of beige, slightly bulging lever-arch binders, bristling with brightly coloured tabs. The kind of archaic thing NSY still clung to.

It was painstaking, physical work at his size: forcing the heavy binders down, prising them open. The second one, luckily, proved to be the right choice.

He toppled the files onto the desk, pages fanning open, and went at them frantically. Turning the thick sheets was gruelling, and by the time he’d finished, sweat beaded his forehead, his chest heaving. Still, he had what he needed—names, testimonies, fragments of a trail. He narrowed it down to three names. Only one lived close to London, in Belsize Park: Professor Alistair Whitcombe. The other was all the way in Edinburgh.

When he finally spotted a small line with the address tucked at the bottom of the page, he dropped onto the desk. Legs stretched out, arms braced behind him, he let his weight press into his palms and allowed himself a single breath. Then his eyes flicked to the clock—over nine minutes gone. Unacceptable, he was so, so slow! The thought hit like a blow, panic surging up again.

Crawling toward the phone, Sherlock sent Molly a terse text: the situation, the address, and a request for her to call Greg. How long would it take her to notice? He couldn’t rely on the idiots at NSY to be on time. Should he just call the police himself? And what on earth would he say?

He pushed upright, standing amid the chaos of scattered papers. Frustration tore out of him in a ragged shout—“Oh, GOD!”

No time for panic. He had to decide. He needed a plan. Now!

Since waking up in this ridiculous way, he had never felt so helpless, wishing he could just be himself. He could have bolted out the door, hailed the first cab, and rushed there—if only the cursed London traffic would cooperate! Even at his normal size, it would have taken forever to get through rush hour. He needed something fast. Really fast.

The word fast rang in his mind… his conversation with Molly about alternatives to a car, the fastest options…what did she say?  Motorbike couriers! Of course—that was it!

Outlines of a reckless, dangerous idea flickered in his mind. Well, desperate times call for desperate measures.

Last week, Sherlock had used John’s Amazon account to order a miniature chemical set, which they’d opened only the other day. John had given him a disapproving lecture on wasting money on impractical items, to which Sherlock had merely shrugged. “So what? I liked it.”

The impractical set had been moved to the bedroom, but the box—labeled Fragile and stuffed with packing peanuts—still sat on the desk corner, buried under a pile of other mess.

Sherlock quickly grabbed his emergency backpack from where they had decided to keep it, tucked beneath the corner drawer, pressed against the desk leg. It contained items for rainy days and emergencies, including his favorite scalpel, and he slung it over his shoulder.

He tore a page from a yellow sticky notepad on the table and, trying to mimic John’s doctor-like chicken scratch as best he could with a pen taller than himself, scribbled down the address—it was barely readable. Then he composed a text to Mrs. Hudson, asking for help in sending a box, signed it as John, and sent it. Finally, he called the delivery service.

He then threw his backpack into the box, climbed in, and hid under the packing peanuts, closing the flaps as best he could. He had just finished when he heard Mrs. Hudson’s footsteps on the stairs. Hoping the curious landlady wouldn’t peek inside, he relaxed slightly. Fortunately, it was her baking day with Mrs. Turner, and she was eager to get back. Sherlock felt her hand picking up the box and taping it shut quickly, just as the doorbell rang. Soon, he was carried downstairs and handed to the delivery rider on his motorcycle.

The delivery service was indeed fast, though Sherlock started getting dizzy and nauseous just a few minutes into the ride. Each turn threw him from left to right—far too much for a fragile package! In no more than twenty-eight minutes, they reached Belsize Park.

The deliveryman carried the box across fourteen steps of gravel, eight on half-dried grass, and climbed four stairs before ringing the doorbell. An angry, muscular gap-toothed man in his mid-thirties, with a South-East London accent, a faux leather jacket, and a deviated septum, opened the door. 

After the rider announced the name, he grunted, “Oh yeah, I was waiting for this. Thanks.”

Sherlock felt the package being carried in and thankfully thrown onto something soft, maybe a sofa. He prayed to the packing peanuts; even so, the impact was hard enough that he barely stifled a grunt. As he heard the gap-toothed man’s retreating steps, Sherlock peered through the hole he’d managed to make in the side of the box on the way.

“Bloody prick, kept ordering shit right up to the end. Fucking wanker,” the man snickered.

Another voice (older, Yorkshire accent, ex-boxer, ex-smoker) answered. “Ain’t dealin’ with the other now. Plans changed, boss wants him. Could’ve had a laugh first, but we’re runnin’ late. He’ll be right pissed.”

A third voice whined from much further away, “Yeah, let’s go, I’m getting hungry.”

“Oh, fuck off, Wiggs! You’re always hungry.”

Then came the sound of a kick, like hitting a bag.

 “Oi, mate—plans’ve changed. You’re comin’ with us.”

And the next words made Sherlock’s heart stop.

John’s voice, calm, collected, sharp as a razor: “Go fuck yourself.”

Sherlock didn’t wait any longer. He started slicing through the wrapping tape along the lid of the box with his blade, and even amid the stress, he couldn’t hide his quiet, joyful surprise at how sharp it was. The box had already been shifted to the side, and Sherlock slithered out through the small opening he’d made.

He found himself in a spacious, sunlit living room, tastefully decorated with vintage pieces collected from all over the world. In the far right corner, the unfortunate owner lay face down, a dark puddle of dried blood around his head.

Seventy-five, left-handed, natural science major, single, vegetarian, ex-professor, Cambridge. That was him. Or, rather, had been.

John was nowhere in sight, but judging by the distance Sherlock had heard his voice, he was tucked into the far-right corner of the room, behind a counter shaped like an exotic mini bar.

Sherlock didn’t stop—just took it all in at a glance and kept running. The squeak of the wooden floor warned him someone was coming, so he darted behind the foot of an armchair.

Gap-tooth appeared, clutching a stack of papers, and dropped them into a large plastic bag in the center of the room. “Oi, lads, think that’s it. Study’s finished. Got any more sheets lyin’ about back there…?”

Two other voices grunted from deeper in the house.
“Almost done,” came one, and the whiny, hungry Wiggs muttered something inaudible.

Gap-tooth turned on his heel and went back to the other room. Sherlock heard him taunt, “So, Dr. Watson—not so lucky this time, eh? Heh-heh…”

Wheezy Billy whined from afar, “How’m I supposed to open this one?!”

Gap-tooth cursed under his breath. “For fuck’s sake, Billy! Hold on—I’m comin’.”

Sherlock was about to dash across the room toward the hallway when a soft chime echoed. He froze. Another shadow had entered the room—too small to be a person-

Good heavens.… It’s a cat! Really?! Why is everyone in this century so obsessed with cats?!

Fortune favored him because the old kitty wore a collar with a tiny bell. It padded to its human, seemed slightly surprised, and sat by his side, licking the floor.

Sherlock cursed under his breath. There was no time to dash across the room to John. His eyes landed on the beaded curtains nearby.

Glancing once more at the busy cat, he drew a deep breath and leapt from his hiding spot toward the nearest beaded string dangling close to the floor. He climbed as fast as he could, grateful for all the necessary rope-climbing workouts he’d endured over the past months. especially when the cat finally looked up and his eyes locked onto him.

Sherlock sped up, climbing high enough to put some distance between himself and the now-curious cat. Then he swung to the next string, and the next. Fifteen strings later, he finally landed—roughly—on the counter.

Pushing himself up and rubbing his sore shoulder, he could now see the other side of it.

John sat on the floor against the wall, his wrists bound behind him to the radiator. The left side of his face was smeared with dried blood from a wound on his forehead. Sherlock felt a burning flare of anger ignite in his chest.

John’s head was tilted back against the wall, his expression calm, anger the only thing etched on his face. At least his eyes were open—sober and collected—so the injury didn’t seem serious. Hopefully.

Sherlock crept along the counter until he reached him, softly landing on John’s shoulder without him noticing. Leaning close to John’s left ear, he whispered: “Don’t show any reactions. Stay calm. I’m going to cut your bonds.”

Despite the warning, John jolted from his daze, shaking so violently that Sherlock’s careful grip on his collar barely kept him from tumbling.

“Easy! Yes, I’m here. No time for explanations, going down now—stay still, please.” Before waiting for an answer, Sherlock began sliding down. “Don’t move your wrists until I pull your pinky twice, alright?”

He crawled down John’s arm and, thanking his trusty scalpel #10, began slicing through the thick, multi-layered duct tape. Pulling the pinky, he scrambled back, and in one quick, firm motion, John freed his wrists. The first thing he did was grab Sherlock, bringing him up to his face.

“Sherlock, what the… Fuck?!” he whispered.

His face was something Sherlock had never seen before—a mix of utter disbelief, surprise, and something else he couldn’t quite place. He quickly said,

“Gap-tooth is coming back. Keep your hands on the wall.”

John slid Sherlock into his inside pocket and pressed his wrists back against the pipe. The Gap-tooth returned, smiling.

“Oi Doc, fancy a ride?” Without waiting for an answer, he added, “Ain’t my idea. I’d finish it here, but the boss wants his little chat. So, off we go. Don’t try nothin’ stupid—he ain’t dying to see you.”

He shoved his gun into the back of his trousers, pulled a pocket knife, and bent down to free John’s hand—big mistake. In that instant, John’s forehead smashed into his nose with a sickening CRACK! He yelled and fell back.

John didn’t waste a second. He grabbed a heavy lamp from the nearby table and smashed it into the side of the man’s face.

Before the first thug's body hit the floor, the house trembled with the thudding rush of the ex-boxer, a grumpy, trunk-like figure barreling in from the other side of the room, swung his weapon to bear, but John was faster: He yanked Gap-tooth’s gun from his belt and shot Ex-boxer above the knee. The man screamed, collapsing like a heavy sack. John rushed over, kicked the fallen gun out of reach, and finished the job with another kick to the head—just as sleepy, heavy-lidded Billy showed up. His eyes widened in terror, mouth agape, gun dangling uselessly from his hand.

John shouted, “‘Drop it! Now!”

 “But… but then you’ll shoot me! No, no.”

 “Drop it! It’s over!”

At that exact moment, the wail of approaching police sirens confirmed his words. Billy’s chin trembled. “I—I didn’t want to kill anyone! It was their idea! I just… I just needed a hit!”

“Yeah, just drop the fucking gun! NOW!”

The useless weapon clattered from Billy’s shaking hands. He collapsed to his knees, trembling, just as cops stormed into the house, shouting, “Police!”

------------------------

John sat on a stone bench outside the villa, watching MET officers push a stretcher with a body into the ambulance. A medic had handed him a piece of gauze, and he absently pressed it to his forehead.

Greg approached with a crooked grin.

“Well… another case wrapped by BAMF John, eh? Can’t believe I’m seeing Eddie ‘Gapper’ again. Thought he’d skipped the country after the last time he got out of jail. Neat job, John.”

“I only came here to ask Whitcombe a question. Had no idea…” John trailed off, taking back his phone that Greg had fished out of the Trunk. He pressed the button, frowned when it stayed dead. 

“Don’t bother,” Greg cut in. “I already texted Molly. And yes—she was worried sick.” His grin lingered for a moment before his expression hardened. “But John… texting her and not me? What exactly have you been playing at? I’m shelving the anger for now, but tomorrow we’re having a proper talk in my office. Professional talk. I don’t ever want to see this again. Understood?”

Still staring at the lifeless phone, John muttered, “Understood.” Sure enough—unprofessional as hell. He was already grateful for the rare flexibility and forgiveness of his boss.

After a beat of silence, he cleared his throat. “Yeah… unfortunately, Whitcombe was more tangled up in this than we thought. Sad ending for a scholar. Hopefully, we can still catch the big fish. Gapper doesn’t come cheap.”

“He is,” Greg confirmed. “And his boxer mate, Rainer. Don’t know why they brought that stupid junkie, though. Not their style. Anyway, I’m giving you a ride home. No, don’t look at me like that—you won’t find a cab this time of day. Are you sure you don’t need the hospital?”

John, for the eighth time, shook his head. “No, I’m a doctor, remember? The only thing I need now is a hot shower and some food. Thank you, Greg.”

As they spoke, John’s hand rested lightly on his chest, brushing his pocket.

“Are you sure you’re okay, John? Did you get hit anywhere else?” Greg asked, his gaze quizzical.

“What are you going to do with the cat?” John answered instead.  

---------------------

Sherlock made John sit on the kitchen chair and climbed onto the microwave over the counter to level with his forehead, helping him clean the wound, carefully dabbing at it with a sterile gauze moistened with saline. A strange, uncomfortable silence settled between them.

After a quick glance over Sherlock to reassure himself that the detective was unharmed, John stayed pensive, withdrawn, which only heightened Sherlock’s unease.

John stared at himself in the small mirror perched on the microwave, while Sherlock briefly recounted the day’s events—from his deductions leading to the suspect, to John’s solo questioning about the last piece of evidence.

John murmured, “I should’ve thought twice… Professor Whitcombe didn’t look like he’d be involved, but I…”

“Miscalculated. Happens to the best of us, John. Stop beating yourself up. Even I’ve misjudged a case. Are you sure it doesn’t need stitching?”

“Nah, the strips will do. So… you just packed yourself up?”

“Mrs. Hudson finished it. She’s good at wrapping.”

John shook his head, rubbing his eyes, a tired laugh escaping. “Oh God…”

Sherlock paused, gauze in hand, staring at him. “What…?”

“Nothing.”

Sherlock went back to finishing cleaning the wound. “I told you the chemistry set wouldn’t be useless… see?”

John snickered and shook his head. “Oh, shut up…”

Sherlock didn’t answer, but the corners of his lips twitched.

They lapsed into silence for a few minutes. John carefully applied strips to his wound while Sherlock helped him set them in place. Then, frowning seriously, he stepped back to inspect his handiwork.

“All good. Just keep it dry.”

John couldn’t stop another bark of laughter. “I see that you’ve learned well.”

“I’ve had a good teacher.”

John leaned back in the chair, turning to face Sherlock, who was busy cleaning his own hands with a drop of sanitizer gel and rolling down the sleeves of his purple shirt. John just sat there, staring at the tiny figure before him.

Sherlock looked up, puzzled. “What…?”

John didn’t answer. Instead, he lifted his hands and gently held Sherlock’s tiny ones between his thumb and forefinger. Sherlock froze, caught in the depths of John’s cerulean eyes. They stayed like that, suspended in the quiet intensity of the moment, until John finally whispered: “Thank you.”

Sherlock tried to drag his gaze away from John’s eyes, blinking a few times, swallowing, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Humm…?” 

“You saved my life…”

“Um. You saved mine. multiple times.”

“…In more than one way,” John finished softly.

Now Sherlock was truly confused. John’s right hand left his own and went to his face, softly caressing the left side. Sherlock subconsciously leaned into the touch, half-closing his eyes. John’s heart leapt in his chest.

“Sherlock… Sherlock.” He could barely whisper. My savior, detective.

Sherlock’s tiny face flushed a delicate rose. Now he really looked like one of those mum's old figurines. 

They stayed like that for several seconds, silence no longer uncomfortable, pregnant with unspoken words that hung thick in the air, syrupy with raw, unknown, new emotions. They both breathed it in, half-closed eyes, the smallest, most tentative skin contact, like thirsty teenagers needing to feel and be felt for the first time. 

John’s fingers moved softly over Sherlock’s slender white neck, then his narrow shoulder—when Sherlock suddenly hissed and winced.

“Are you ok? Did you hurt your shoulder?” John was startled by his own voice, which came out rough and raspy.

“Em… hit it a bit today on the way, but nothing serious. Probably just bruised.” Sherlock shrugged it off.

“Let me see?”

Sherlock barely nodded and slowly opened the buttons on his shirt. Shrugged it off his shoulder; there was indeed a bluish spot formed. 

“Doesn't hurt unless I touch it. I'll be fine, nothing serious.”

“Let me put something on that, then.” John paused, seeing a shudder go through Sherlock’s body, and added, “Let’s go to the bedroom. Warmer there.”

Sherlock gave a slight nod and slipped into his inviting palm. Both were too knackered to say more, desperate for rest. John deposited his tiny savior on his tiny bed, where he lay on his stomach, and brought the arnica cream. He warmed a bit on his finger and carefully applied it to Sherlock’s skinny back. The detective’s skin was so warm under his touch that John couldn’t suppress a deep sigh. He massaged as gently as possible. Sherlock’s breath softened as the tiny body beneath his fingers relaxed, sinking further into the bed.

He was about to offer water, but realized Sherlock was fast asleep—interesting, to see the tiny detective fall so quickly, so early. The day must have been especially strenuous. John didn’t want to wake him, gently covering him with his tiny comforter.

Then he just stood there, in front of the shelf, staring, thinking about what the hell they were doing. Exhausted, the entire day felt almost unreal. He let out a long, deep sigh and peeled off his clothes before sprawling across his bed. For a moment, he thought about crawling under the covers, but before he could manage anything else, sleep claimed him.

Chapter Text

Summer began with a brutal heat wave—London was hot and dry for weeks. 221B, too, felt stifling, but not just from the weather.

In the days after John’s rescue, a strange atmosphere settled over the flat. 

Every morning, John woke to find his tiny flatmate already gone from his room, buried in experiments or casework, working in near silence. Sherlock wasn’t cold or sharp or even dismissive—just polite, distant. Not unpleasant, but carefully apart.

If John felt a twinge of disappointment, he gave no sign. Truth be told, he was almost grateful for the distance. Perhaps Sherlock was giving him space to cool things down—and maybe John needed it. He wasn’t sure what to make of the pull inside him, wasn’t ready to look too closely. Better to push it back, save it for later. Later, when it felt “safe.” Which in his world usually meant when the feeling had already gone cold, dulled, and lost its glow.

It wasn’t new. He’d lived this way for years. For anything out of reach, anything unusual to want—he trained himself to wait, to smother it in patience. A self-preservation trick, practiced since childhood until it became second nature. Things will keep, he’d tell himself. Get some air. Go for coffee. Take a trip. Next week, maybe. And meanwhile life, with its endless errands and distractions, would move in, bury the unease, and before long the feeling was safe—faded, forgotten, tucked neatly into a corner where it couldn’t hurt him.

The worst part was that he was completely alone in this. There wasn’t anyone he could confide in, anyone to help him find a solution—if a solution even existed. Not Ella. Not even Molly. Oh God, what could he possibly tell Molly…? He didn’t want to lose his best friends.

Molly sensed something was off; since the morning after the incident, she came by early to check on the boys and found the taller one at the kitchen table—third mug of coffee in hand, dazed, staring into a corner.

She worried he wasn’t all right. It was the second kidnapping in just a few months, after all. John only shrugged it off with a tired laugh, grateful for her reasoning. He couldn’t imagine voicing what churned inside him; he couldn’t even face it himself. Best to wait. Let it cool down, fade out—like always.

Not that life ever failed to provide distractions.

The day after the professor incident was oddly quiet. Sherlock spent the entire day shut away in the corner of his room—his usual ‘do not disturb’ zone—until, at last, he broke the silence that afternoon. He wanted to know what had happened to the goons, particularly Wiggins. The instant John mentioned the junkie was in the hospital, Sherlock stiffened and became alarmed.

“You have to get him out of there! He’ll be killed! Perfect place for being secluded, and I believe he might have useful information for us!”

John ran through the facts quickly. “He can’t talk, he was shaking, vomiting… The police are obliged under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act — have you heard of it? They had to get him medical treatment first. They took him to A&E rather than straight to the custody suite, but he’s still considered ‘under arrest’ in the hospital, a guard with him, watching...”

Sherlock’s impatience broke through. “For how long?”

“Well… severe opioid withdrawal,” John said, scratching his chin. “They’ll stabilise him with methadone or buprenorphine, IV fluids, anti-nausea meds… He’d need at least 24 to 48 hours before he’s well enough for questioning. At least, based on what I saw. But to be honest, in another situation, I’d keep him longer. He looked frail, probably suffers from dehydration and malnutrition. But he’s a junkie, so I don’t know…”

Sherlock’s gaze snapped up, sharp and sudden. “And why’s that?”

John hesitated. “Um… I know that type. As soon as they step back onto the street, they’ll go straight to the next dealer. Same story. Once an addict, always an addict.”

A silence fell in the room, thick and heavy, like an invisible frost. John immediately regretted the words. He cast a stealthy glance at Sherlock, who was frozen behind his tiny desk, staring at his phone. His features were hard, dark, and unyielding.

Uh uh. Definitely not good.

Internally, John kicked himself. What had been the point of saying that? He rubbed his face tiredly and, unable to think of anything better, tried to appear nonchalant.

“Sherlock… these people can have help, but mostly they waste their lives on drugs. I’ve seen it a lot when I worked in the hospital. Sad, but… nothing we can do about it. All their own choices.”

“Is it, indeed.” Sherlock’s voice came out sharper and louder than usual, so vivid and organic that John momentarily forgot it was coming through the phone. Intimidating. Real.

John huffed a nervous laugh, trying to ease the tension. “Well, as if you know more about living on the streets. Things have changed in the last—”

“I might have, in fact,” Sherlock interrupted, voice even sharper. “Also, one doesn’t necessarily need the exact experience to offer an exact opinion.”

Before John could answer, Sherlock added, low but cutting: “Living on the streets is not a choice for a great deal of Londoners. Never has been.”  

John had the day off and zero desire to step outside, let alone deal with the case—or visit the stupid Wiggins. But Sherlock’s mood wore him down, and after an hour, John had no choice: he could either go to Mrs. Hudson’s (not an option, she had a guest) or step outside into the pouring rain. Reluctantly, he found himself at St Thomas’ Hospital.

He pushed through the sliding glass doors with the calm, purposeful stride of someone who had spent years navigating its corridors; every turn, elevator, and shortcut to the Addiction Clinical Care Suite felt familiar. The young constable at the door glanced up from his phone, gave him a bored look, then stiffened when he saw John’s ID.

Wiggins was in a small room, last bed, still miserable but better than yesterday. Awake, he nervously lay there, one bony wrist cuffed to the bed, eyes widening in terror as John approached. He scooted toward the top of the bed, as if trying to put distance between them, jaw wobbling.

“Ehh… p-please… I dunno… I didn’t mean… I didn’t hurt nobody! I swear!”

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath, asking himself what he was doing there. “Listen… Wiggins… It’s Billy, right? Can I call you Billy?”

Billy, still staring in fear, just nodded.

“I didn’t come here to interview you,” John continued. “It’s not my job. Once you feel better, you’ll go back to the station for proper questioning. For now, you just need to rest. I came to check on you.”

Billy’s expression softened into puzzlement, but he didn’t speak. John, seeing no answer, was about to leave. “Good… I see you’re improving. Hopefully by tomorrow morning you’ll be—”

“No! N-no! Take me there now! P-please! I—I won’t last! I can’t…!”

John froze. “What? You’re safe here.”

“No! You dun’t get it! They’ll… they’ll kill me! They’ll come tonight! P-please… take me to the station!”

John picked Billy’s chart up and glanced through it, checking for delirium, then leaned closer. Billy was murmuring something, “Eh… c-can you… come ‘ere a sec?”

John had to lean toward him, 

The junkie craned his head toward the half-open door where the guard could be seen.

John, regretful of coming, sighed and moved closer — not ready when Billy suddenly lunged at him with his free hand, clinging fast.

“Th… they’re already ‘ere! I know! Waiting for the… night shift… they’re gonna finish me! I d-don’t know anything, I swear! But they won’t let me go! The nurse… the fella with the rose tat behind his ear — d-did you see him?! He’s not a nurse! He’s… he’s a plant! He’s gonna finish me, I’m telling ya!”

John, surprised and upset, detached Billy from his jacket, stepped back, and dropped the patient board on the bed.

“Hey, listen, if you don’t stop acting like tha—”

“Th-the man with the… the mole… right cheek! He’s not a nurse! I swear! P-please, sir, I beg ya!”

John exhaled, shook his head, and turned to leave, but Billy’s voice stopped him.

“I-I know he’s not… by his wrists… a-and his pinkie…”

There was something uncomfortably familiar in the way he spoke. John half-turned.

“What did you say?”

“His… his wrists, sir!” Billy insisted, voice quivering.

“Okay, okay. That’s enough. I’ll see your doctor and get you some medication. See you tomorrow.”

“No… n-no, you won’t, d-doctor!” Billy whined behind him.

John felt a strange twinge in his chest, but left the room.

----------------------------------------

The next morning, John woke from a nightmare, heavy and guilty for no clear reason. Rolling to his side, checked his phone and sent a text to Greg: “What time is Billy’s interview today? I want to be present.”

Greg’s reply came quickly: “No need to come early this morning.”

A cold sweat formed on John’s forehead. Then another text arrived: “Wiggins escaped from the hospital last night.”

John sat in Greg’s office, cold coffee forgotten in his hand, as Greg explained how the staff discovered Wiggins had freed himself in the middle of the night. The guard, who claimed he’d assumed Wiggins had no chance of escaping in his state. Security footage was still being reviewed.

So many thoughts swirled in John’s head, and Sherlock’s voice rang in his mind, accusing him of not observing enough. He suddenly spoke aloud: “Would you check the staff that night for a male nurse with a rose tattoo and a mole on his cheek?”

Greg was furious. “How is that even possible? A nurse… replaced by… what? An assassin?”

They found the poor nurse at home, bound and bruised, shock written all over him, but thankfully alive. Nothing was missing except his wallet and a few pieces of clothing. The intruder had apparently checked in wearing a mask, done their work, and vanished without a trace. Once again, the trail went cold.

The “retired professor” case collapsed into a dead end—miles of paperwork, endless hours, and nothing to show for it. The hired thugs clammed up, refusing to say who had paid them. Wiggins remained the only potential lead—assuming he didn’t disappear before anyone could reach him. 

A few days later, John walked home through a small alley. A homeless figure, hooded and wrapped in a ragged blanket, raised a hand for change. John dug into his pocket when he heard a familiar voice.

“Oi… act normal, Dr. Watson! Someone might be watchin’ us!”

“What the—!?” John was ready to grab the man by his collar, but waited. 

The figure instructed him: “There’s a wee bar down at Roupell Street, by Waterloo. A mate of mine works there. Open late. Come round about nine.” Then he grabbed his rags around himself and disappeared into the dark alley like a shadow. 

John didn’t want to go anywhere to meet a fugitive, but the area was a well-known place and not even deserted that time of day, not exactly a proper place to bump off a police officer. Sherlock didn’t like the idea and insisted he should come—“Wiggins won’t talk to you, you’ll miss everything”—but John was adamant. He told Greg he was going to check some clues for a case, and sent a cautionary text to Molly for their “cat.” Tucking his illegal gun into his jacket, he headed out.

The bar was a cozy corner by the Thames, fairly crowded. John slid onto a stool and ordered a pint. The bartender, a burly man in his fifties with a Scottish accent, silently served him, and when John asked about meeting a “friend”, he jerked his chin toward a narrow staircase with a sign reading Staff Only.

Cautiously, John climbed the cold, creaky wooden stairs to a small room upstairs. Among boxes and old chairs piled there, Wiggins sat by a broken table, quietly eating a sandwich. John placed his pint on the sticky wooden table and drew a chair beside him. Wiggins didn’t speak, munching steadily, staring at the table as if mourning a lost lover.

“You know I can get you arrested right away here, right?” John asked.

Wiggins made a hum.

John reminded himself not to lose his temper—something surprisingly easy with this person. “Is there anything you need to tell me before I call my colleagues? I’m busy.”

Wiggins swallowed hard. “I, uh… wanted to thank you, Dr. Watson.”

“For what?”

“For savin’ my life.”

John was puzzled. Before he could ask more, Wiggins continued: “Couldn’t’ve got out without gettin’ these cuffs off, sir. I… I’d be dead, I swear.”

John blinked. “Okay… start from the beginning. How did you do that?”

“The… the paperclip on the board, sir. You… you were close enough. I… I couldn’t’ve done it without that.”

John’s mind raced in a flashback. The patient board! Damn it. Watson, you screwed up. He shook it off. “Alright. You got rid of the cuffs. How did you get out of the room?”

The faintest shadow of a grin crossed the junkie’s face. “One should know how to slip outta some places, Doctor… But I’m not here for that.”

John sat back, arms folded.

“I need protection.”

John barked a laugh. “Excuse me, what?”

“You said you want info. I might have some… some for you… an’ the coppers too, but… I need help, see?”

“As far as I remember, you kept saying ‘you don’t know nothin’!” John felt he was wasting his time. He finished his pint in one swift motion and pushed back his chair.

“You don’t exactly inspire sympathy, Billy. You were caught at a murder scene.”

“Not much, but it can help. Get your killer nicked—I don’t got much on the Boss.”

John’s attention sharpened. “The Boss.”

Billy shivered. “Nah… not him. Just… heard things, that’s all.”

“What things? And why are you tellin’ me? You were helping those goons trying to kill me!”

“I never wanted to hurt anyone, Dr. Watson, I told ya! Eddy couldn’t get his man that day, sent me. I owe that fellow a lot for… drugs… had to go. Don’t even know how to use a gun, I swear!”

“Okay… imagine I believe you. Why are you talking to me now?”

“‘Cause I trust you, Dr. Watson.”

John stiffened, uneasy at the words. “And why is that, exactly?”

“‘Cause I do. You’re a good man, innit. Just… deduced.”

The very familiar word, out of such an unlikely mouth, made John’s brows go up. 

Billy, seeing it as a sign of approval, went on without a pause with the same deadpan, flat tone: “Overly precise footsteps… shoes too clean. Sleeves… rolled just right… not how nurses usually wear ’em. Didn’t check my chart once… not even a glance. And the smell… smoke, metal, somethin’ sharp… not from the ward, not from any patient. Carried himself like… like he was there for one thing only. Kept lookin’ at doors, windows… every few seconds… like waitin’ for someone… not like a nurse curious about the ward… more… automatic… like a machine. And tiny marks on ‘is knuckles… not from fightin’, sir… more like he pressed or poked at stuff, practiced somethin’ with his hands… wrists… the way they moved, marks on ’em… like he’d held someone down before. And his pinky—bent, nicked… that’s when I realized he weren’t a nurse.”

Glancing at John’s face, Billy hesitated a moment, then added, “And I… I further deduced—”

John cut him off sharply. “Enough.”

He took a deep breath, leaned back in his chair, and placed both hands on the table. “If you’ve got something solid—names, proof—I’ll talk to my boss about protection. But give me a reason, Billy. Otherwise, you’re on your own.”

Saying that, John stood and turned to leave. From behind him came Billy’s low, whining voice: “You don’t get it, sir—he’s already marked you.”

John froze halfway to the stairs. Billy had ducked his head, chewing at the crust of his sandwich as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

The wooden steps groaned under John’s boots as he descended. Behind him, Billy’s voice drifted up again, casual, almost resigned: “You know where to find me.”

John didn’t answer. The words clung to him anyway, heavier than the pint glass he’d left behind.

---------------------------------------------

Billy’s call came two days later, late in the evening, voice tight: “I'm ready, but I ain’t going anywhere near coppers… Not the Yard, not anyone else”

John arranged a neutral meeting at a small, nondescript apartment he could access safely. No other officers, no cameras, no official channels. Just him.

As promised, John hadn’t brought any recording devices—or anyone. Almost. There was one exception he simply couldn’t refuse: his miniature roommate. Sherlock had been relentless, insisting that the whole idea was, in some way, his own and that he absolutely needed to meet the man.

So, carefully positioned in his usual spot—the chest pocket, even more meticulously concealed than usual—Sherlock sat through the meeting, observing and listening. When John raised an eyebrow at his extra caution, Sherlock dryly remarked, “We’re dealing with a smart man.” 

John snickered—incredulously

When Billy arrived—hood low, hands stuffed deep in his pockets—John met him at the door. He looked wrecked: pale, hollow-eyed, with sweat beading at his temples despite the evening chill. His clothes sagged on his frame, and every movement seemed shaky, like his body wasn’t fully his to control. The restless twitch in his hands had dulled to something slower, weaker. He looked close to the man John remembered on the night of his arrest—strung thin, starving, and too tired to resist much of anything, even help.

“Billy,” John said quietly, holding the door open. “This is the only way we can do this safely. You come in here, I take your statement, and then we work out protection. You understand?”

Billy didn’t answer. His eyes flicked toward the window. “Can’t… go to ma place. Can’t get my stuff. Can’t get a hit… tired of hiding…” He sank into the chair John offered. “Don’t wanna talk to Yard neither…”

John paused, assessing him. He could argue and explain the procedure, but the fear in Billy’s eyes told him it wasn’t worth pushing. Instead, he adjusted his plan.

“Alright,” John said firmly. “Then it’s only me. No one else. Whatever you tell me stays between us for now. You trust me?”

Billy rocked slowly back and forth in his seat, almost nodding.

“Do you trust me, Billy?”

“Yeah… I guess so.” His voice was barely audible, his eyes fixed on the floor, and he was chewing at the edge of his sleeve.

John cleared his throat. “Start from the beginning. We… I need everything you know—every name, every move. Don’t leave anything out. And in exchange… You can stay here for four weeks. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s safe.”

Billy’s wet eyes lifted from the floor and glanced around the room nervously.

“And, if things go right,” John continued, “I can tap a few old acquaintances and arrange a part-time job in a quiet shop—stacking shelves and such. But…”

Billy’s eyes met John’s for the first time today.

“…you have to get clean, first,” John said, seeing the bewildered, almost petrified look on Billy’s face. “Sorry, but no one gives a job to a junkie, you know that. Or a room like this. Or even the validity of a statement. No, really. I’m trying to buy you some time—the rest is all up to you.”

Billy swallowed. “Alright… but if anyone finds out I’m talking to you, I’m dead.”

John’s voice was firm. “Then you don’t tell anyone. That’s all you’ve got.”

For the next hour, Billy spoke—cautiously at first, then with growing urgency. It was like pulling teeth, and John had to summon every ounce of patience. He listened, probed with careful questions, and paused now and then to jot down notes.

Billy went on, just enough to put the two thugs they had in custody behind bars. Then he stopped, slumped back, and muttered a complaint: he was hungry.

John was surprised he could still be hungry in such a state—and doubted he’d keep anything down—but he ordered a pizza anyway. Closing his notebook, he said, “That’s enough for now. I’ll make sure you’re safe while we figure out the next move. But you need to give me your word, Billy.” His voice slipped into its old captain’s edge. “You stay low. You cooperate. Understood?”

Billy barely nodded, jaw tight. “Yeah… I get it… think so.”

----------------------------------------

John thought Sherlock warmed to Billy once he’d heard his deductions. But whatever the reason, after the meeting, Sherlock announced that they could trust him. John couldn’t see why—but Sherlock was unwavering, even urging him to help Wiggins.

Over the next few days, John set to work. First, he got Billy into a rehab program—a small private clinic willing to take him discreetly. Greg was the only person John confided in, the only one he asked for help.

John stayed in close touch, checking in, making sure Billy was cooperating and safe, guiding him through the first hard weeks of withdrawal.

What surprised him was Sherlock: a man who’d never shown much care for anyone kept asking after Wiggins, following up on his progress. John could only put it down to their shared history with drugs.

John admitted to himself that, if not for Sherlock’s insistence, he wouldn’t have cared this much. He doubted Wiggins had any more to give than he already had. But he never said so aloud—not after the reaction he’d seen before. The flicker of hurt on Sherlock’s face—almost disappointment.

----------------------------------------

During a couple of visits while Billy was in rehab, he gave John small hints—nothing officially recorded, just names and scraps that John carefully collected. They could help with a few things.

Billy was going through a rough patch when he had been plucked from the streets by the Boss’s people, who gave him money, promised to keep him off the streets, though what truly bound him to them was the steady supply of drugs.  Having spent most of his life on the streets, Billy knew more than most. No one took him seriously—he looked too strung out, too dim—but he wasn’t. He was sharp.

After the first two weeks, John started to admit that Sherlock had been right—damn it, again. Wiggins was more than just a street junkie. He was smart. Just another unfortunate soul who hadn’t landed in the right place at the right time, though John didn’t know much about his background or childhood. And damn… the man knew a lot.

Sherlock said Billy’s key to survival had always been invisibility—being someone no one counted or took seriously, even when he wasn’t a junkie. At the same time, he was everywhere, listening to everything—details that could prove useful… or, in the wrong hands, be the end of him—something he found useful in his own resources back then.

The fact that Wiggins claimed to have a lot of “friends”—probably people like himself—but couldn’t turn to them now, either because they were in hiding or too afraid, showed just how powerful the “Boss” was and how terrified the homeless had become. That was what mattered most. It made John all the more determined to help Billy survive long enough to talk—and, if possible, to finally quiet Sherlock’s persistent questions.

The interest was somehow mutual. During one of their earlier rehab visits, Billy asked John about his “detective friend”. John was surprised—Billy had been following his blog! He was even more surprised when Billy said he trusted the detective and wanted to contact him.

Of course, any contact with Sherlock was strictly through John and the website. That was how Sherlock managed to gather small but important pieces of information from Billy.

That August afternoon, over tea, Sherlock casually remarked that he was rather pleased with the progress of his “homeless network”. John nearly choked.

“No networks—times have changed! These people are not your street kids from back then! There are dangerous felons, undocumented criminals…”

“Yes, yes, vampires, cannibals… blah, blah…” Sherlock cut him off with his most bored tone. “I know, I know, John. Modern London streets are cesspools of criminals and danger—you’ve mentioned it enough. I fail to see why you imagine it was better in my time. Personally, I find it rather safer now, with all the surveillance and-”

“Sherlock, you can’t even meet these people! You’ve forgotten our situation…?”

Sherlock’s tone turned sour, almost icy. “I have not. And I am quite capable of keeping us safe,” he clipped, turning to his phone.

John pressed the bridge of his nose. God, he knew this pose. No one—John or anyone else—could shift the detective once he’d entered this mode. From now on, he’d need to be extra careful with emails, contacts, everything.

He wished he had never had the “honor” of meeting Billy Wiggins. Trouble—he could feel it—was coming.

----------------------------------------

Willing or not, John remained the only link between Billy and the rest of the world—the only person he could trust. It was a heavy responsibility, but he had no other choice, largely because of Sherlock’s pressure, as if Billy were a golden key to the streets, the underground world, and all their secrets.

Next came a safe place for him to stay. the small flat that they met in. John found, through a trusted contact, someone who wouldn’t ask questions and could keep Billy’s presence confidential. Pretty basic but clean, warm, and most importantly, out of sight of anyone who might be looking for him.

Finally, there was work. Billy couldn’t just sit around — that would be dangerous too. A part-time job. Nothing flashy, but enough to keep him occupied and under the radar.

It wasn’t perfect, and it certainly wasn’t official protection. But it was something. Something that could keep him alive long enough to survive, stay clean, and maybe, just maybe, provide the information John knew he had.

For a few weeks, things seemed to settle. Billy, surprisingly, stuck to his routine—not perfectly, but far better than John had expected. The rehab program, the flat, the part-time job… he kept a low profile, avoided trouble, and John allowed himself the cautious hope that things could be different for him in a different situation. 

And yet, in the background, there was something else. The cheap phone in Billy’s pocket offered him a way to reach out, and one restless night, he did—through the strange consulting website John had mentioned in passing, the one Sherlock used for clients.

Sherlock answered.

Since then, Billy had quietly done a little work for him: scraps of street talk, the odd errand. Nothing dangerous, nothing heavy—but enough to give him purpose, a sense of usefulness he hadn’t felt in months. It was reckless, of course. John would have been furious if he knew. But for Billy, it worked. At last, for a while.

Chapter Text

John vaguely remembered a cold, windy afternoon in early February. He’d met Molly for a quick coffee during her lunch break, after he’d dashed through a short shopping trip, paper bags tucked under the little round table. He’d promised her a few updates about their tiny, impossible friend.

That was when he’d casually asked Molly how things were going. Almost shyly, she had brightened and said she was doing well herself — she’d just had an “amazing Friday night,” which turned out to be a date night with Greg. She recommended the Italian place they’d gone to, raving about the gnocchi and lasagna, calling it one of the best “cozy date spots” she’d ever been to.

John had laughed, though a shade too bitterly, and muttered, “Well, that’s nice, but I’d need a date for that.”

Molly flushed, stumbling over her words, reaching for her mug as if to hide behind it. She hurried to apologize, but John gave a small wave of his hand, forcing a faint smile.

“It’s fine, Molly. I was joking,” he said, though he wasn’t entirely sure he was. Then, with a nod, he added, “Alright, I’ll check it out sometime.”

“Soon”, however, didn’t come until April, when John finally gave the place a try during a forgettable date with a girl whose name he couldn’t even recall. The evening ended with him going home alone, though he certainly couldn’t blame the food. The lasagna had been nothing short of heavenly, and the tiramisu? Addictive.

Determined to return for the food alone, John went back for takeout a week later. That’s when Sherlock, skeptical at first, tried a spoonful of the tiramisu and immediately declared it “an amazing layered coffee trifle”. From then on, it became a regular addition to their orders, much to John’s amusement.

That night, while John waited for his order, the owner himself approached. Angelo, with his warm, slightly theatrical manner, struck up a funny, light conversation that John couldn’t help but enjoy. He wasn’t much for chatting with strangers, but sometimes he appreciated people who were simply genuine, kind-hearted, and enthusiastic about food, company, and life.

It was clear Angelo was more than just the owner; he was the heart of the place. He seemed to be everywhere at once — greeting tables, overseeing the kitchen, making sure each customer was content. John found himself wondering how many dramas the man must have witnessed within those cozy walls, and yet Angelo always seemed unflappable.

That night, though, John wasn’t at his sharpest. Hungry and tired, he let the conversation slip a little. More than once he said “we” when talking about who would be enjoying the food. Angelo, intrigued, tilted his head.

 “Why not order more? For two people, yes?”

John froze, then fumbled. “Eh… he has a very limited appetite,” he said quickly, hoping to move things along.

But Angelo only smiled, curiosity catching. From then on, he always asked about John’s mysterious “friend.”
 

“Did he like the tiramisu? It’s our specialty, you know. Why doesn’t he ever come in with you?”

Caught in his own lie, John found himself spinning the story further. “Oh yes, he loved it. Best he’s ever had.” Then, for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, he added, “He’s, uh, a very busy man. Works with the police too — as a consultant. Doesn’t get out much, bit of a recluse really.”

Each time John left the restaurant, he wondered why on earth he’d said so much. And yet somehow, the conversations always ended with a promise he couldn’t resist making:
“One day, I’ll bring him here. I promise.”

--------------------------------------

After the successful close of the banker fraud case, the pleasant summer night seemed perfect for a small celebration. Sherlock, intrigued by the restaurant John had been raving about, insisted on seeing it for himself.

With a bit of ingenuity, John placed him in a sturdy gift box with a clear plastic “window,” the sort meant to display a delicate ornament. To anyone else, it looked like a wrapped present set on the table. From John’s usual corner seat, he angled the box just right so Sherlock could see, hear, and—most importantly—share the meal in their own unconventional way.

It worked surprisingly well. Sherlock sampled a morsel of pesto ravioli from John’s plate, chased by a single drop of wine, while his sharp eyes swept the room, dissecting the lives of the other patrons. Despite his initial nerves about bringing Sherlock into public, John found himself relaxing. For the first time in a long while, they laughed together—genuine laughter—at Sherlock’s dry observations. (“Third table on the left, first date. He ordered Merlot despite her mentioning twice that she doesn’t drink red. Already doomed.”)

For the most part, it was a fun, memorable night.

But of course, Sherlock couldn’t leave well enough alone. Halfway through John’s blissful demolition of dessert, Sherlock’s voice cut through: “Angelo’s in trouble.”

John blinked, fork mid-air. “What?”

“The owner,” Sherlock clarified, nodding toward the far end of the room. “He’s distressed. Something’s wrong.”

At first, John dismissed it—Angelo seemed his usual self, chatting with an elderly couple, smiling warmly. Yet when John really looked, he saw it: a faint tightness in Angelo’s shoulders, a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, his hand flexing nervously against the back of a chair.

John sighed, setting down his fork and rubbing his temple. “Great. Now I’m worried. What’s your read?”

Sherlock leaned against the side of the box, gaze calculating. “Not immediate danger. Pressure of some kind. Financial? No… personal. But enough to bleed into his behavior.”

John exhaled, watching the man who was usually the very heart of the place. Angelo had always radiated warmth, humor, and calm—it was hard to picture him carrying any serious weight. But if Sherlock had noticed it, then it was real.

“Well,” John muttered, spearing the last bite of tiramisu, “you couldn’t just let us have one normal night, could you?”

Sherlock smirked. “Where’s the fun in that?”

The very next day, the news hit John harder than he expected: Angelo, arrested.

He heard it not from the Yard, but from Angelo himself, in a voice stripped of its usual warmth. Out on bail, hands shaking, the man swore up and down that he had nothing to do with the smuggling charges leveled against him. Illegal contraband had been found in one of his restaurant’s storage rooms.

John sat across from him in the small office above the restaurant, the smell of coffee and flour clinging to the air. Angelo looked smaller than usual, his theatrical confidence gone.

“They say I’m part of a ring,” Angelo muttered, dragging his hands down his face. “Smugglers, hiding things here—here, in my place! I’ve worked all my life to build this restaurant. And now this.”

John listened, uneasy. The police had evidence: crates tucked neatly in the far corner of a rarely used room. No fingerprints but Angelo’s, no camera footage. The cameras, it turned out, had blind spots.

“John,” Angelo said suddenly, eyes desperate. “If they try me again, if they—what do you call it—double punishment? I’ll go away for good. They’ll say I never stopped, that I only pretended to be clean.”

“Double jeopardy doesn’t work quite like that,” John corrected gently, “But a previous conviction does make things worse if they think you’ve reoffended.”

Angelo slumped back, defeated.

John rubbed the back of his neck. This wasn’t his case—not officially. But he knew who it belonged to. He could already hear the sharp voice in his ear, impatient and eager. Sherlock would see what the rest of them had missed.

John unlocked the restaurant’s back door under Sherlock’s quiet instructions, feeling like an intruder in a place that had always been a second home. The storage room was cold and dim, the air thick with the scent of old wood. He crouched to examine the lock, just as Sherlock had instructed.

“Scratches,” John murmured, running his thumb over the faint grooves around the keyhole. “Recent. Someone picked it.”

Sherlock’s muffled voice drifted from John’s pocket. “As expected… Hmmm. Shine your torch on the far side… yes. Of course. The contraband was planted.”

The next clue came from the records: two new hires in the past month. On the surface, they were spotless, but reference numbers for the second one rang hollow, and John frowned.

Sherlock was quiet during their short walk back home, and John couldn’t tell if it was a thinking silence or genuine boredom. Later, at home, it looked like the latter. Sherlock sat perched on his favorite book, left open on the table, his tiny frame slouched, expression somewhere between disappointment and sheer impatience—like a child who had finished a treat too quickly.

John sat at the desk, pulling up the numbers on his phone to try again. Sherlock, leaning on the edge of the book, muttered boredly, “Paper can lie, fabric does not. Dull.”

John’s questioning stare earned a dramatic sigh. “I had hoped this was at least a three.”

“Care to explain?” John asked.

“Chalk, John. Chalk.” Sherlock’s tone was smug. “I once wrote an article on the soil of this part of London. Would you like to read it? Of course, it’s useless now with all the new constructions…”

“Sherlock—”

Impatient, Sherlock cut him off. “Come on, John! You saw that too. The server—the one with the single oxidized silver earring, the fish tattoo behind his left ear, mother issues… Oh, never mind.”

He seemed to sense John’s heartbeat quicken and hurried on, cutting off any protest: “When he bent to place a plate on the next table, I caught it—a faint line of chalk across his black shirt, brushed across the elbow. Angelo had the same mark once, after rooting through his basement, though his was faint, nearly rubbed clean. This one is fresh.”

“Sherlock,” John muttered.

Sighing, Sherlock lay back on the book, staring at the roof, fingers interlaced on his chest. “From the crack in the basement wall. That chalk—well, it’s actually a kind of clay mixture. Standard for basements in this district, used for damp-proofing walls when most buildings were laid in the late 19th century.”

John raised an eyebrow. “And…?”

A faint, self-satisfied smirk. “I happen to know the plan of this particular building; it used to be a haberdashery. I passed by this block several times while walking—builders at work, scaffolding everywhere. It took a while to finish, and I made a point of noting which basements had that signature wall treatment.”

John blinked. “You… remember a haberdashery?”

“Of course I do,” Sherlock said sharply. “One observes.”

John shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “Only you would remember that sort of thing.”

“Precisely,” Sherlock replied, the faintest smile ghosting across his face.

 “Which is why our young friend has been in the basement more than once.”

John frowned. “But he’s a server. He has no business down there.”

“Exactly.”

John remembered something Angelo had once told him, one late evening, after he’d seemingly had an absurdly good glass of wine. He’d been tipsy, fond, laughing at his own seriousness. “My cellar is treasure. No one enters but me. If someone wants a bottle, they come to me for the key. Even my staff joke about it—Angelo and his dragon’s hoard of wines… Hahaha”. 

“True,” John said slowly, “but still… not enough. Couldn’t he have handled it somewhere else in the building?”

Sherlock waved him off with a bored flick. “Puzzone di Moena.”

“Sorry—what?”

“Distinctive enough.” Sherlock paused, then cut in before John could protest: “Oh, come on—you must have caught it when the server leaned in with your wine. Don’t tell me your precious smelling cells failed you. That would be tragic. Impossible to miss!”

John closed his eyes, concentrating. The man had clearly spent enough time in the cellar for the cheese to cling to his hair.

Sherlock hummed, litany still going. “Why should a good-looking, fashionable fellow smell like that outside? Ladies wouldn’t exactly be fond of that choice of cologne… and he has more than one lady friend—three, to be precise.”

Satisfied, Sherlock leaned back again and closed his eyes. “Case closed.”

The police arrested the real culprit two days later, and Angelo was finally cleared of all charges. John made sure their involvement stayed buried; officially, the case closed thanks to his own persistence and “a lucky hunch”. But every time he left Sherlock out of the story, the lie felt heavier, like a small betrayal he couldn’t undo. He hated it.

The culprit, a young employee named Pedro, had slipped into Angelo’s trust with practiced ease. The boy had been using the restaurant as cover for his own dealings, hiding contraband in the least-visited storage room and counting on Angelo’s history to deflect suspicion. If the police chased Angelo, Pedro had time to move his network elsewhere or vanish entirely.

When the truth came out, Angelo was stunned. He leaned heavily against one of the polished tables in the empty dining room, shaking his head as though the news had landed in another language.

“I just can’t believe it,” he said at last, voice tight. “Pedro? I thought he was happy here. His dad and I… we were friends back in school. Good friends. After he passed—God, I thought giving the boy a job would help. A way to look out for him.”

John stayed quiet, knowing that betrayal could feel like a punch you‘re not ready for.

“I didn’t even know his own family had turned away from him,” Angelo continued, softer now, almost to himself. “And then… this. Using my place, my name… the trust I gave him.” 

He was quiet for a long moment. John, sensing it was his cue to leave, started to step toward the door.

“Wait,” Angelo called suddenly, and John stopped. The older man turned toward him. “I can’t thank you enough… You and your friend. You didn’t have to help, and yet you did. Old friends betrayed me, and new ones saved me! It’s a strange world,” he added with a short, bitter laugh.

John gave a faint smile. “Just glad it’s over.”

Angelo’s eyes softened. “And just remember… you’ll always have a special place here in this restaurant. And your friend - can’t wait to thank him properly, in person.”

John gave a short, knowing nod, then slipped into the night. The restaurant behind him glowed softly in the lamplight, a small world restored—but the real architect of its salvation remained invisible, tucked safely in shadows and secrets.

Chapter Text

He couldn’t remember eyes like that—maybe he’d just never been close enough to see the way the colors shifted, the way they caught the light, a glimmer that lingered too long… He tore the thought out of his mind. No. Not again. He was not going to think—much less fantasize—about his flatmate. Stop it. Right now. For God’s sake, how many times did he have to remind himself?

He wished he could stop dreaming. Stop wanting.

Don’t you see the minor size difference?! Even if everything else were fine… Haven’t you learned from before? You know what happens when people know what you think about them, about relationships. Just… be sensible. Rational.

He slowly opened his eyes, lingering in that fragile space between sleep and wakefulness. Dawn was just breaking.

He had always treasured this liminal state, where the rational part of mind could finally rest, letting him drift into places it never could by day — secret, forbidden realms.

But now, his flights soared too high, teetered too close to edges he had never dared approach. He was afraid of burning, of falling.

Sighing, Sherlock rose from his miniature bed. The flat lay still and silent. His phone, balanced precariously on the miniature desk, showed 5:04 a.m. There was still some time before John woke. 

He eased himself upright and peered from the shelf. A thin ribbon of dawn slipped through the half-closed curtains, brushing across John’s face. How could he sleep like that, with all the light pouring in?

His enigmatic flatmate was still deep in slumber, lying on his back, one arm draped over his disheveled head, the other resting on his chest. He looked so peaceful, so innocent, so impossibly calm. All the lines and wrinkles softened in rest. It was hard to believe he was the same fearsome, dangerous army doctor. His silver-blonde hair, tousled and soft, made his face all the more dear.

In the habit of so many previous sleepless nights, Sherlock sat there leaning against the wall of the shelf, knowing that sleep would not return. He let out a deep sigh and kept watching this man.

These nights, dealing with conflicting, absurd feelings. Feelings…?! Since when had Sherlock Holmes dealt with feelings! All his life, he had been criticized for his detachment, for dismissing sentiment as trivial. Always above a chemical defect found in the losing side. All emotions were abhorrent to him, like cracks in a perfect lens.

And yet here he was. Watching. Feeling.

Unacceptable. 

He had spent months in this beyond-belief, absurd life, trying to justify the strange, painful sensation in his chest. Did he need more reasons to feel so off, unlike himself?

But then — he wasn’t just anyone. He was the great Sherlock Holmes! He could handle it. He should. He had survived the most impossible procedures. Surely he could survive this, too. Whatever this was.

But did he really want to?

During his not-very-long life in his own time, Sherlock had mastered the art of hiding — hiding his feelings, intentions, face, ideas, true self—from everyone. From very early childhood, he discovered that showing who he truly was to anyone besides his brother invited surprise, or worse, disgust. Even with his own parents — lovely, caring people, but utterly ordinary — anything he truly thought was met with incomprehension.

If it weren’t for the mighty, genius, powerful presence of Mycroft, he could never have managed to grow up and survive. Yet even Mycroft could not save him from himself and his self-destructive habits, because living hurt.

It had always been this way. Even as a child, Sherlock suffered, unable to explain why everyone seemed too slow, too dull, too boring, too incapable of thinking. Life itself was utterly tedious, and he abhorred the dull routine of existence. It made him crave mental excitement - what else was there to live for?

His cases and the new “modern” techniques he began developing in his early teens were the only bright points in his days; they gave him motivation to go on. He was secretly gratified by the occasional surprised compliments — a brief balm for the pain of being a weirdo. But even that wore off soon enough; the compliments lost their power, leaving him bored more. 

The deep sense of being lost in the world, fundamentally different, utterly alone —were wounds he carried since childhood, never seemed to heal. Everyone assumed he was content with solitude. He always wanted to be exclusive, didn’t he?

Later, at Eton, Sherlock was quietly grateful that he had no “urges” during adolescence. He had watched classmates struggle desperately through that time, and he could only grin at their pathetic efforts, furtively peeking at smuggled pictures of ladies in books or hidden under floorboards. He firmly believed he was unique, that his body had no “needs,” which he considered weakness.

But there was a bitter awakening for teenage Sherlock in his final years of school. The night he never forgot.

It happened in an orchestra with astonishing musicians. The experience was harsh, not only because of rejection — sharp, personal, unyielding — but because it revealed a shocking truth: he was not immune to urges and impulses as he had believed. He was interested — but in a way he had never anticipated.

Since then, the burden of concealment had only grown heavier. Sherlock became more anxious, quieter, and increasingly reclusive. His brother grew worried, visiting during holidays, seeing him impossibly thin, paler, more fragile than ever. Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to share his discoveries with Mycroft, despite his older brother’s gentle efforts, glass of port in hand, trying so hard to reach him.

It came as little surprise that Sherlock, courtesy of a reckless classmate, first made his acquaintance with drugs. In a way, he was grateful — they carried him through days when the only choices seemed to be forcing himself, in agony, to complete assignments, or simply living, or stepping off the tower of Great St Mary’s.

He perfected the art of concealment and disguise, undetected by anyone but Mycroft. To the school, he was merely the eccentric, half-maniacal boy: quiet, sometimes rude, yet too brilliant to be dismissed. His grades dazzled masters and headmasters alike, and he followed rules just closely enough to leave no cause for complaint. By twenty, he had already finished his degree, seemingly prepared to step into the world beyond. 

Or was he?

His morbid fascination with blood and gore, crime, and solving dark puzzles had shown itself as early as elementary school. It deepened at Eton, where he began, almost unconsciously, to sketch the outlines of a future career — and a name that would one day be known.

Mycroft was far from pleased. He had failed to persuade his brilliant younger brother to join him at Whitehall in the distinguished career he had always envisioned. Recognizing Sherlock’s fragile psyche, Mycroft chose not to press further — nor could their Uncle Rudy assist. Sherlock, by contrast, preferred an adventurous life measured on his own terms. From his early twenties onward, he traveled the world, encountering diverse cultures as the century drew to a close.

He kept moving, restless, striving to prevent his mind from rotting in stagnation, to fill the emptiness in his heart — a void seemingly impervious to anything.

Work remained his only remedy.

He made what peace he could with the likelihood of a life spent alone, comforting himself with the belief that he would not live beyond thirty-five. Until then, he had his murder cases, the Seven-Percent Solution, and his pipe — life was bearable.

Until Moriarty.

The first days of waking in a new world were still a haze. He felt lost, as if he had died only to be reborn in a different body — and a different size. Finding the will to go on was no simple task. Perhaps the self-loathing helped, a grim companion as he held himself responsible for his carelessness and for falling into Moriarty’s trap.

But then there was the puzzle — the new, enormous mystery, the greatest and most challenging he had ever faced: John Watson.

He had been busy solving this case from the early days. He tried to understand John’s objectives, his motivations. All the dedication, all the care he gave… why? What was that? Caring? Boredom? Danger?

He had some theories. Lots of time. Physical problems and mental fog didn’t help. Yet one by one, his hypotheses were scratched away — Sherlock couldn’t stick to a single explanation.

John Watson was a mystery, unlike any man he had ever met.

This new life offered too much for him to consider and learn; the data was overwhelming. He used all his methods to narrow it down, to distract himself, to manage the flood — but with little success.

Now, there was simply too much. His mind-sanctum was broken, in dire need of total reconstruction, and the big elephant in the room was never far from his thoughts.

Every time Sherlock said something offhand or acted recklessly, he expected John to leave. Yet again and again, John stayed. Why?

His logical brain offered one reason: John liked miniatures. He liked having a tiny man around. Well, if that were the case.

But there was another part of Sherlock—long ignored, neglected, locked away—that whispered different ideas. The part that made him glance at John when he wasn’t looking, the part he had believed long dead. He’d buried it in the farthest corner of his mind sanctum, sealed away with memories of fourth form, of a stormy July night, a concert heavy with the scent of wax candles, flowers, and heavy velvet curtains. A part he should have deleted. But he hadn’t. At the last moment, he’d hidden it instead, deep in the basement, never meant to be unearthed.

But now it was out. Following this strange soldier, moving swiftly and powerfully all at once, Sherlock could not ignore the smallest details: the warmth of his steady, healing hands, the gentleness of his touch, the startling cerulean blue of his eyes. Lately, whenever John drew near, Sherlock had to close his own eyes, bracing against the strange shiver that threatened to overtake him. He couldn’t explain it. He couldn’t understand it.

He told himself it was only the strangeness of being small, of being watched so closely for the first time in his life. That explanation almost fit… yet why did he find himself craving it, again and again?

One part of him recoiled from John’s hands, while another ached for them with equal force. The conflict was exhausting. He tried to reason it away, to tell himself it was only that John’s fingertips held some singular power to relax him — a solace his mind palace had never known.

Yes. He needed it categorized. It was for experimental purposes, wasn’t it?

Sherlock tried every method he knew to steady his mind. Crime-solving helped—of course it did—and there was always more to study, more to learn. The world offered endless puzzles, each waiting to be unpicked. But even so, he remained restless, unsettled in ways he could neither name nor silence.

He craved his violin with an ache that deepened the longer he lived in this strange new confinement. The absence was a constant throb, a reminder of something he could not reach . Eventually, he realized he had to do something about it, so he turned to music apps—tools that promised practice, play, even composition. Most were dull, amateurish distractions that he abandoned within hours. But then he found BandLab. And after a time, it managed to hold him, to occupy him just enough.

Sherlock practiced for days, first with clumsy effort, but gradually his hands grew more certain, his ear more exact. It was nothing close to the mastery of his violin, of course, yet the strange little app steadied him. It gave him a point of focus, a rhythm to return to when thought grew tangled and the world pressed too heavily.

In June, he began composing something for John. At first, it was only an idea—an impulse that seemed to come from nowhere. But the work dragged on for months, unfinished. Music poured not from calculation but from his heart, as much as he didn’t believe to have such a metaphorical thing, and that heart had never been more restless. Troubled, storm-tossed, confused—his emotions churned too violently for harmony to take shape. Notes drifted like wreckage on a stormy sea, searching for a shore and never finding one.

He managed, after weeks of circling, to write down a few lines. But each time he returned, dissatisfaction gnawed at him. He deleted, rewrote, reshaped—again and again—until the piece was little more than fragments, a scarf forever knitted and unraveled by his own hands. Frustration drove him away from the screen, only to pull him back later, caught in the same cycle, as if the music mirrored the turbulence he could not speak aloud.

Tutorials, videos, endless reading—anything to smother the strange emotions and keep himself safe. And yet, John Watson's data kept filling his mind storage. He was almost certain it couldn’t last, that John’s patience would snap and he’d be handed over to someone else, perhaps the government. But to his astonishment, even after the reckless accident that might have killed him, John’s loyalty remained the same.

Sherlock shifted where he sat, fingers unconsciously rubbing over the scar beneath his pajama trousers, as he always did when the memory returned. John’s eyes came back with it—worried, beautiful—scanning him with unbearable intensity. Sherlock remembered the frantic beat of John’s heart, reverberating through the fabric of his pocket: strange music, steady and wild all at once. Comforting. Healing. Addictive. Soon it became impossible to resist slipping into that pocket each day, again and again, drawn back to the warmth and rhythm like a compulsion.

The sound, the rhythm, the slow, steady sway — it wrapped him in a sense of safety he had not known. Security. Protection. Peace. Like being suspended in the womb, as though he had finally found the place he was meant to belong. For the first time in a long time, it made him feel human again.

He was getting addicted to John Watson. On cold, sleepless, lonely nights, when the heavy shadows of dark memories and thoughts from a bleak past and bleaker future crept into his mind, he had to crawl close and sleep beside his savior.

The truth was, Sherlock was jealous of everyone and everything around John. It wasn’t just about his dates. He was even jealous of John’s scarf — especially that scarf.

He tried to justify it to himself. These were not the right people for John. John was much better than that. He couldn’t do much better than this… yet deep down, Sherlock knew that sooner or later, John would meet “the right person”. It was a fact he would have to face eventually.

The new job, the way John spent so many Friday nights with a pint at the pub with Greg — it bothered Sherlock, though he kept repeating to himself that it was John’s life and that he was happy that way. So Sherlock should be happy for him, too.

The sun was rising, and his soldier began to stir. Soon he would yawn, rub his right eye, then his left shoulder, and glance toward the shelf to check on his tiny roommate. But by that time, the little man was back in his bed, curled in a perfect, serene ball, looking asleep and still, a calm mask over the storm that raged quietly in his heart—ready, as always, to face another day as Sherlock Holmes. No matter the size.

Chapter Text

The late July heat pressed against the office windows, making the day drag like molasses. John’s thoughts wandered lazily—from whether or not he should grab another cup of bad office coffee to survive the rest of the day, to Sherlock’s recent silent treatment, to the game tonight—until his phone buzzed, sharp and insistent. Molly’s name glowed on the screen.

Something’s off. Come by. We need to talk. – M.

He frowned. It wasn’t unusual for Molly to notice things, but this message carried an urgency he hadn’t seen before. He left his office, grabbed his coat, and met her at a quiet café near the morgue.

She was already seated, stirring a cup of tea with deliberate slowness. “Thanks for coming.” 

John set his own cup on the table and sat. “What’s up?”

Molly lowered her voice. “You know Dr. Hargrove, don’t you?”

“Hmm… not sure. A colleague of yours?”

“Yes. For two years now. He’s a good man. Quiet, not very friendly, but precise. Last night…” She took a careful sip of her tea, then continued thoughtfully, “We had this body — the man. Hargrove handled the preliminary report.”

“And…?”

“Well… I hate to say it, but something felt wrong. He was… too quick. And he ignored a lot of signs on the body.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Ignored? What kind of signs?”

“I was there last night, saw the report, and took a look myself,” Molly said. “He just passed it off as ‘suicide’ in less than ten minutes. Not really like him.”

“And what did you see, checking the body?”

“That’s the weird part. Hargrove is a pro — eighteen years here. No chance he didn’t see those bruises. That was textbook!” Molly took a careful sip of her tea. “Even if we accept that this poor sod really did jump from the eighth floor, late at night, with no real reason, nothing explains those marks. “ She shook her head slightly. “He didn’t even do a proper check of the nails.”

John frowned. “So you think he’s lying.”

“Not lying exactly. More like… turning his head. Deliberately.”

That was enough to pique his curiosity. “Where’s the body now?”

“In storage. We might be able to get it again, quietly,” she said, her voice dropping lower. “If you want to see what I saw,” then she quietly added, fingers tightening around the cup: “The coroner’s satisfied. His family’s already arranged the funeral.” She hesitated, “The cremation is booked for Friday.”

John was surprised. “Friday? That’s in—”

“Three days.” Molly’s voice was urgent now. “If there’s anything wrong, if anything was missed, that body will be gone. And then no one will ever know.”

Later that afternoon, John followed her to the morgue, and they examined the body anew. She was absolutely right - two marks, subtle but not enough to be hidden from a seasoned expert: bruises on the inner arm and wrist, inconsistent with a fall, suggesting the victim was grabbed or restrained before the fall. A small abrasion on the back could indicate a struggle or being pushed.

When John saw the nail bed damage on three fingers on his left hand– tiny tears and scratches on fingernails consistent with trying to hold onto something or fend off someone - he stretched back with an exhale. 

His eyes met Molly’s at the other side of the slab. 

John muttered, “Definitely not suicide. Something’s wrong.”

------------------------------------------------------

John thought this might be a case that would pique Sherlock’s interest — if only Sherlock weren’t in one of his “dark moods” again, though John had no idea why. He’d probably just dismiss it as a four.

Shrugging, John poured himself a coffee and sat down to check the file.

Daniel Mercer, 31, had graduated from the London School of Economics with a degree in Accounting and Finance. Married for four years, he and his wife were expecting their first child any day. John knew that appearing successful and “happy” to the outside world didn’t rule out suicidal thoughts—but he couldn’t make sense of the loose thread of signs being overlooked at the morgue.

John thought about all possible reasons for a suicide, even if he knew it wasn’t. As a routine, he went through the motivations for a murder. He began sifting through the victim’s files quietly, piecing together emails, notes, and digital traces.

All the motives were ruled out one by one.

He checked the file for any history of untreated depression, bipolar disorder, or other conditions that might explain risky behavior—nothing. Next were his personal life motives, romantic jealousy or possible affair; no evidence of infidelity, the marriage was stable, domestic conflict: any sign of abuse, tension, or recent arguments? Nothing pointed that way. Mercer was supportive and excited about fatherhood.

Financial Motives?  Bank records and lifestyle didn’t fit a man secretly drowning in debt. Life insurance existed, but it didn’t provide a real motive there. Instead, it highlighted Mercer’s careful, responsible character — reinforcing that suicide was even less likely, since he was consciously building a safety net for his family.

John was nearly out of options. He’d crossed off family, money, debts, grudges — nothing fit. So, almost reluctantly, he turned to the company Mercer worked for.

Camden Logistics, on paper, was the picture of respectability: a mid-size UK shipping firm, running freight forwarding, cargo consolidation, and customs clearance. Reliable, mundane, nothing flashy. A business built on moving boxes from one place to another. At first glance, harmless.

What struck him wasn’t the specifics of the job, but the pattern: this man wasn’t the first victim this year—it was the fourth, all linked to the same employer. Beyond that, they couldn’t have been more different: jobs, ages, backgrounds, personal characteristics.

Coincident…? And of course, Sherlock’s voice echoed in his brain, “The universe is rarely that lazy”.

The company itself was well-known, almost spotless in reputation — celebrated for its charitable work and support of humanitarian organizations; Oxfam, Save the Children, and the British Red Cross. Glowing ratings, employees who seemed content, and little evidence of anything troubling.

At most, John found a few remarks about demanding workloads in upper management. But nothing substantial. Odd. Every workplace had someone complaining about something—yet here, the worst he uncovered was a grumble about the quality of the canteen salad last year and a delayed repair on the cargo unit’s air conditioning.

Good pay. Decent conditions. Too clean, if anything.

He dug deeper into the victims’ profiles: a 26-year-old from the cargo division, a 39-year-old technician, a 48-year-old janitor who had resigned just days before her death, and, most recently, the 31-year-old finance manager.

They hadn’t even worked in the same building, which meant the chance of them knowing one another was slim. Still, John’s instincts told him to look closer. Shared vendors, the same accounting software, or a travel route required by the company — connections might exist in the margins.

The causes of death seemed unrelated. One had died in a workplace accident, another in a car crash. The janitor’s death was reported as a sudden heart attack, and now Mercer’s case, staged as a suicide.

But at the bottom of the reports for the last two deaths, one detail stood out: the same name signed them off. Dr. Hargrove.

Later, John noticed that Mercer’s case wasn’t the only time Dr. Hargrove had acted strangely. Even in the janitor’s file, the phrasing of the cause of death was slightly different, almost as if someone had edited it to obscure the truth. Witness statements were oddly sparse, lacking the detail normally required. If John had any lingering doubts, minor missing pieces erased them: the last emails, the CCTV footage, and the access logs from Daniel’s office were all inexplicably absent, leaving a hollow space where the truth should have been.

It took John three hours, four cups of coffee, and half a pack of chocolate digestives before the picture gradually sharpened. These weren’t random tragedies, but targeted removals, each disguised as something ordinary. Different buildings, different jobs, different stories — but every one of them had brushed against the company’s operations: cargo manifests, software systems, storage access, financial records. No single low-level supervisor could touch them all. The coordination, the timing, the cover-ups — it required oversight, authority. Someone high up. Someone who could see every corner of Camden Logistics, control schedules, access, and reporting. And Mercer, with his finance role, had gotten the closest look of all. That made him the latest target.

He had a theory, one that would explain the deaths. But as he began to verify it, checking files, logs, and internal contacts, the picture expanded far beyond the company itself. The fraud, the hidden contracts, the manipulations — they weren’t just internal matters, but tied to powerful people and places far above Camden’s modest headquarters. And of course, for all these, he had no concrete proof. 

From the fragments he could access, a few names emerged repeatedly in internal communications: a finance director whose offshore accounts skirted multiple jurisdictions, a logistics VP whose travel schedules aligned suspiciously with unusual shipments, and a legal consultant who seemed to coordinate between Camden and partners abroad. 

John pressed his hands to his face; It was enough to understand the scale of what Mercer had stumbled into, yet not enough to act. Even tracing the shipments or auditing the accounts fully could draw attention. He traced one container to one of the countries known for opaque regulations and secretive trade deals. Another linked to a warehouse that, according to public records, didn’t exist. The trail zigzagged across jurisdictions, deliberately messy, almost designed to confuse anyone trying to follow it. Whoever was orchestrating this had the power, the knowledge, and the networks to keep the operation invisible to anyone outside the inner circle.

The higher he climbed in his investigation, the riskier it became. For now, he could map the outlines and trace the chain, but going further, confronting them directly, would be beyond him.

It grew serious enough that he considered turning to someone at a higher level—someone able to cut through the power and influence shielding the operation. But for now, what he really needed was a sharper intelligence.

John sat at the kitchen table, files and half-legible photocopies spread in front of him. He rubbed at his temple with ink-stained fingers. He’d carried all his findings home to ask his genius flatmate for a look.

On the table’s edge, Sherlock sat cross-legged on a folded sheet of notes, hands steepled under his nose.

If John had been hoping for even a flicker of approval, some acknowledgment of the hours he’d poured into research and the trail of clues he’d managed to piece together, he got nothing. Sherlock sat in brooding silence as John launched into his brisk, hopeful summary of the case, from Molly’s call to the dead end he’d finally struck.

John dragged both hands down his face, rubbing his eyes, then let them fall to the mess of papers. A short, exhausted laugh escaped him.

“Suppose I ought to get myself an evidence board, like you,” he muttered, nudging one of the sheets with his finger. “Scaled up to my size, of course.”

Sherlock, still absorbed in the paper before him, didn’t look up. When he finally spoke, it was only to murmur: “Hm. Then why don’t you?”

“Four deaths in three months, all connected to the same company,” John muttered. “No connection between the people themselves; two had already left the job before they died.” He glanced at Sherlock. “If this isn’t smuggling, then what?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “It isn’t smuggling. Not at this scale. This—” he gestured toward the papers —“reeks political.”

John gave a low hum of agreement.

Sherlock continued, his voice low. “Patterns of silence. Manufactured suicides. Bodies tidied away. Someone’s cleaning house, John—not for profit, not for contraband, but for secrecy.”

“So… what are you saying? Where should we start? I was about to …”

“I’m saying,” Sherlock cut him off, standing to pace across the expanse of paper, “that there are powers involved who will crush anyone who strays too close. You’d be wise not to get involved in this case.”

John blinked at him, unsettled. It wasn’t like Sherlock to shut him down like this. He opened his mouth, ready to argue—lives were at risk, people had already died—but the set of Sherlock’s jaw and the iron weight in his tone stopped him cold. By the time Sherlock dropped back into his chair, hands steepled, eyes distant and unreachable, there was no room left for protest. John swallowed down the words, too drained to fight a wall of silence.

It wasn’t until the next afternoon that John could stop at Lestrade’s office in the middle of a hectic day. A folder tucked under his arm, the product of a night spent hunched over shipping manifests—chasing names, dates, and connections until the notes blurred into nonsense. He set it down on the desk with a weary sigh.

Greg flipped through the papers while John launched into a rapid account of his two days’ research. He frowned, glancing up.

“You’ve been busy.”

“Yeah… too busy,” John admitted, leaning back, fingers tightening around the folder. “And I’ve hit a dead end. I need more clearance, more information. Time’s slipping, and the official channels won’t touch this.”

Greg said nothing. Seeing the silence, John pressed on, voice sharper. “Look at the pattern… doesn’t that bother you?”

“Of course it does.” Greg closed the folder and leaned back, eyes tired. “But this company—John, they’ve got government contracts. Half their work is behind security clearances I’ll never get. I can’t push any further without someone pulling me off the case entirely.”

John exhaled slowly. “So… that’s it? We just stop?”

Greg tiredly rubbed his eyes and huffed, half-joking. “Oh man… you’re not planning to tackle another MP in the middle of Heathrow again, are you? I don’t need more white hairs, mate.”

John ignored the jab, leaning forward, voice tight and sharp.

“The main culprit isn’t clear this time, but I know there are some big players behind this. Every lead hits a wall. We’re blocked at every turn. We need more—more data, more evidence—before this blows past us completely.”

Before Greg could respond, John added quickly, “And it’s still our division—so don’t brush me off.”

Greg nodded slowly. “I’m saying this is where we stop.” His voice was gentle but firm. “At least, this is as far as we can go. Beyond this… It’s not the Yard’s territory. It’s bigger. For someone in high places, maybe.”

John shook his tired head. “Indeed,” he muttered.

--------------------------------------------------------

John set the folder down on the desk table with a thump. He’d barely spoken a word since coming back from the Yard. Sherlock, cross-legged on his armchair with eyes closed, jerked out of his thoughts by the sudden shake and peered down at the papers.

“Well?” Sherlock prompted.

John rubbed a hand over his face. “Greg says this is as far as they can go. The damn company’s tied up with government contracts, classified this, restricted that. Out of the Yard’s reach.”

Sherlock gave a dismissive snort. “Predictable. The Yard is little more than hall monitors when true secrets are involved.”

“Yeah, well, he’s not wrong.” John tapped the folder. “He called it ‘bigger.’” He paused, almost reluctantly. “Made me think about needing a… bigger lens.”

Sherlock froze, sharp eyes narrowing. “No.”

John blinked. “I haven’t even said anything yet.”

“You don’t need to. I can hear the thought forming in your skull.” Sherlock’s voice was clipped, icy. “If you’re thinking of turning to him—don’t.”

John raised his brows, starting to answer, but Sherlock didn’t let him; he slid from his chair and stepped down onto the folder, standing squarely on it like he could block it with his whole weight. “You don’t need to solve every case you touch. Forget it.”

John folded his arms. “Convenience or not, if it’s the only way to keep people from ending up on a slab, I have to at least consider—”

“I said No!” Sherlock snapped, sharp enough to sting. His chest heaved, and for a moment John thought he looked almost… frightened.

He drew himself up, tiny shoulders squared, and took a deep breath. “What makes you think you’re responsible for all the lives in London? And turning to some stranger you don’t even know… perhaps a criminal mastermind?”

John nervously huffed. “We should stop watching Bond movies, I…”

“Really, John?” Sherlock snapped, voice low and sharp. “You’re blundering around like a child. Don’t you see how easily that man could ensnare you? One small favor, and you’d be dancing to his tune. Pulled back into his control, manipulated... It’s almost laughably simple — even for you.”

John was too tired for Sherlock’s insults. His blood started boiling. “Well, at least I care about lives. Better to be stupid than heartless .”

The words left his mouth, and he immediately regretted them. Sherlock, for a split second, seemed shaken, but didn’t show much hurt. Instead, he replied smoothly, almost too calmly, “Well, all lives end, John. I simply do my part. I don’t need to pretend I’m a hero — heroes don’t exist.” His tone was indifferent, icy. Then he turned away, passed across the folder, and returned to his armchair.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. God, why is he like this? There’s never any point in trying to explain my intentions. He won’t understand; their ideologies, perspectives… entirely different.

John studied the small, rigid figure, the way his shoulders drew tight as though braced against an unseen weight. He pushed back his chair and stood, gathering the folder under his arm. “I need some rest,” he muttered, heading toward the bedroom.

Sherlock’s voice followed him. “You don’t understand. If you go to him, you won’t just be handing over a case. You’ll be painting a target on yourself. And on me.”

John frowned. “On you?”

“Yes!” Sherlock spun. “What do you think happens if he learns about me, hm? I’m not a curiosity to be pinned under glass, John. Studied, locked away, dissected—”

John stared at him for a long moment. Then a wry smile tugged at his mouth. “Oh, so that’s it. You’re worried about yourself.”

Sherlock’s face flushed. “Yes, why not!”

“No, no,” John cut him off, huffing tiredly. “Don’t you fret, Sherlock. If anything ever happened, Molly would be there to keep you safe. I’m sure she’d be delighted to tuck you away in a jam jar on her shelf.”

Sherlock gaped at him, speechless, caught somewhere between outrage and disbelief.

John’s hands tightened on the folder. “Well, I can’t sit here and do nothing; it’s not just Mercer, it could be anyone. And you… You’re blocking me.”

For a long moment, they just stared at each other, the tension thick enough to choke on. John finally turned, shoulders rigid. “I have to do this. Even if you don’t agree.”

Sherlock said nothing, just looked after him, eyes sharp and unreadable — but John felt the sting anyway.

Chapter Text

John hadn’t slept much that night. When he woke early, he realized Sherlock hadn’t gone to bed at all.

He reached into the desk drawer and drew out the card, pausing with it between his fingers. He rolled it gently, turning it over and over as though the simple motion could tilt his decision one way or the other. At last, after a long, silent deliberation, he set the card down, picked up his phone, and typed a brief message to the number.

John hated doing it, but he was desperate. Sherlock’s last words echoed in his head: “This is a stupid idea!” It was oddly reassuring, hearing that from him—the master of all stupid ideas. He exhaled slowly, trying to steady the nagging thought in his mind: Sherlock is safe… the VC protocol will get him out if things go sideways… this is the only way to reach the truth.

He took a deep breath and stepped out of the room to make a strong cup of tea.

Sherlock was already in front of John’s laptop, wrapped in his comforter, absorbed in whatever was on the screen.

“I didn’t expect you to be up this early,” John said, forcing his voice to sound casual, as if last night’s conversation hadn’t happened.

“I’m working on a case,” Sherlock replied, his tone perfectly nonchalant, effortless. “It looked interesting.”

John hummed, quickly filled the kettle, and set about making tea. He poured a tiny cup for Sherlock, then grabbed his own things, careful to keep the morning routine as ordinary as possible, avoiding any questions about where he was going. He placed the steaming mug in front of the distraught detective.

“So… tell me about the case. Interesting enough to wake up this early? I know you hate mornings.”

Sterlock, still slouched there in his cocoon, without taking his eyes off the screen, plainly answered, “I really don’t like it.”

There was something off in his tone of voice that made John pause and look at him.

Sherlock was biting his fingers hard, staring at the laptop screen with an empty gaze.

“I thought you said it was interesting?”

Sherlock snapped out of his daze. “Ah, this? Already solved it. Obvious.”

John glanced at the screen, quickly skimming the email. It described a bizarre case: a frantic client accused of stabbing his upstairs neighbor—even though he was in his own flat with the doors closed—and then throwing the body in the dumpster in front of the building. 

He muttered, “Not obvious to me… What exactly is this about?”

“No, not this, it just was his thumb - I mean, what you’re about to do, John—it is not a good idea.”

Sherlock finally looked up at him. Pale, worn, worried—his tiny face struck John in the chest with a pang of guilt. He searched for the right words, something better than this is the only chance.

Then his phone chimed: The car arrived, Dr. Watson.

John finished his tea in one swift motion and grabbed his coat from the chair.

“All right, don’t forget to tell me how you solved it when I get back,” he said, quickly shrugging into the coat.  

He was about to step out the door when he heard a small voice: “John…”

He turned to look back over his shoulder. Sherlock was far across the desk, but his eyes seemed to stretch as far as they could, fixed on John. He paused for a heartbeat, then spoke quickly, almost too quietly.

“Be careful.”

John gave a quick nod, flashed a grin, and left.

The now familiar small, warm ball stirred deep in John’s chest, but he pushed it aside, focusing on the important matter ahead. He hurried down the stairs, hesitated for a second before opening the door, then strode purposefully toward the black car waiting in front of the building. And tried not to think about Sherlock looking at him from the window.

It was déjà vu—the same pretty young woman, immaculate in her chic suit as before, and the quiet ride. She offered only a brief, polite “Hello, John,” before returning to typing silently, ignoring him entirely. He hadn’t expected any answers, so he didn’t bother asking questions.

The trip passed quickly, the silence a stark contrast to the storm raging in John’s mind. Thoughts collided and circled endlessly—the case, the risks, the worst possible outcomes—and he clenched his fists in his lap, bracing himself for whatever awaited at the end of the journey.

They drove onto Whitehall, bordered by grey, monolithic buildings, stern and unyielding, guards on horseback frozen like statues. The car slowed at an unremarkable doorway—no crest, no plaque, just a number etched in stone. Quiet authority radiated from the entrance; power that needed no announcement.

A discreetly dressed aide led him down a quiet, carpeted hallway to an office and instructed him to wait. The room was hushed, broken only by the distant, muted hum of London traffic. Rich mahogany furniture gave the space a vintage weight, but modern touches—a sleek computer and a single, ominous red telephone—stood out sharply.

John tried to apply Sherlock’s methods, attempting to deduce something about the office’s occupant, but his mind was too cluttered to focus. He sank into a large leather armchair, the kind that invited relaxation while demanding respect, and forced a vacant expression, tried to mirror the room’s calm authority, and resisted checking his watch. Yet his left foot tapped nervously against the polished floor.

Minutes stretched like hours. John began to wonder again if contacting them had been a mistake, just as the door creaked open.  

The tall, enigmatic man entered, three-piece suit immaculate, a half-folded newspaper dangling from one hand. His expression was unreadable, as ever.

“Ah, Dr. Watson,” he said smoothly, closing the door behind him. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Tea?”

He lowered himself into the armchair behind the desk with practiced calm, as though this meeting were routine—something they did every day, right here in this office.

John cleared his throat. Best to go straight in. “Last time we ...met. You said you could help with certain matters, right?”

The man’s brow lifted, almost amused.

“I meant to,” the man said lightly, leaning comfortably back in his chair, fingers laced together across his abdomen, “but surely you’re not here about the knife-thrower case. That one’s embarrassingly obvious.”

John’s stomach tightened. “That’s… not why I’m here. Wait— The story isn’t even in the news yet. How —how do you know about it?”

“Well,” the man, not caring about his question, was looking at his nails, a thin smile curving his lips, continued, “you wouldn’t have come all this way for something obvious.”

“Obvious…?” John echoed, bristling.

“Transparent, considering the thumb. So what is it, then?”

John exhaled, forcing his voice steady. “Before we get to that, maybe we should start with the basics. Like… who exactly am I talking to?”

The man leaned back, smile widening just enough to feel deliberate. “Dr. Watson, you seek help from a stranger. The case must be very dire indeed.”

John exhaled hard. He didn’t have time for this game, not now. He steadied himself,  looking down at the folder in his hand, readying a firm reply, when a knock at the door cut him off.

The young woman from before slipped in, a small tray balanced in her hands. She set down a single cup of tea with her usual efficient silence.

“Anything else, Mr. Holmes?” she asked.

John froze. For a second, he felt like half of his brain went numb -  M. H.—Holmes. It’s quite a common surname, Watson. Relax.

“Thank you, Anthea,” the man said smoothly. “That will be all. Tell the MP I’ll see him in ten minutes.”

John realized it was useless trying to hide anything from this man; his gaze cut like a laser. Looking down at the file, he placed the larger folder deliberately on the desk before him and, as nonchalantly as he could manage, asked, “So… when you said you were an enthusiast, did you mean… you’re actually related to Sherlock Holmes?”

The man’s mouth curved faintly. “I meant exactly what I said, Doctor. I’ve been a fan since childhood.”

He picked up the folder, opening it with meticulous care, eyes skimming the contents before adding, almost as an afterthought, “Sherlock Holmes was my great-grand-uncle.”

The other half of John’s brain went numb.

 “So you’re not…”

“What? A criminal mastermind?” The man’s grin flickered, dry and amused. “I assure you, Dr. Watson, I am neither a criminal nor a detective. Merely a minor functionary in the British government.”

John cleared his throat, “Well. All right then, Mr. Holmes.” John let the name hang with a faintly theatrical edge. “Pleased to meet you. So as you can see on the chart—”

“Mycroft.”

John, who had just opened the second folder to find a photograph, froze mid-page.

“Sorry—what?” The words slipped out before he could stop them.

“Mycroft Holmes,” the man repeated smoothly. “Apologies for not introducing myself properly before.” His gaze sharpened as he caught the flicker of surprise John couldn’t quite suppress. “My parents had a fondness for tradition. Children named after ancestors—it is a family habit.”

John was out of brain to get numb this time. 

He leaned back slightly, the satisfaction of a cat toying with a mouse barely concealed in his tone.

“And to spare you the trouble of Googling me later—don’t bother. You’ll find next to nothing. My profession requires discretion. Let’s just say… I assist in matters where national security and justice intersect.”

Thank heavens, something in the file seemed to catch the man’s attention. Perfect timing: John needed a Herculean effort to keep the storm raging in his brain at bay. Dizziness threatened at the edges, he struggled to concentrate on the case, forcing himself to mask the bewilderment threatening to show on his face.

Mycroft’s expression remained passive, almost disinterested—but a faint crease appeared on his forehead as he muttered, “Hum… I might say your dedication to this case has been rather… impressive. They might come in handy for catching some… bigger fish, indeed.”

John summoned every ounce of focus he had to bring his remaining brain cells back to the case. 

----------------------------------------------------------------

He left Mycroft’s office with a strange mixture of relief and unease. What he carried wasn’t a folder of classified files or a neat set of shortcuts, but something less tangible and far more valuable: permission. A new perspective, and a quiet advantage he hadn’t had before. Doors that were usually shut might now be opened; people who normally brushed him off would have to answer his questions. It felt promising.

Later on, the whirlwind of incidents that followed after the meeting blurred together for John; it took nearly twenty-four hours before he finally made it home, lay down, and let himself think about it.

He began with small threads. A quiet phone call to a government insider—arranged through Mycroft—confirmed the minor anomalies he’d already spotted in the shipment schedules. Another discreet contact verified the timing of a meeting inside a restricted building, which John matched against the victims’ movements. Each detail seemed trivial on its own, but together they began to sketch the edges of a larger pattern. It was enough to move. Action had to follow.

----------------------------------------------------------------

John slid an envelope across the desk, the embossed signature catching Greg’s eye.

“Mycroft… Holmes?” Greg frowned, leaning closer. “I don’t… know who that is. Since when do you have access to someone like this?”

John kept his voice low. “What matters now is that this opens doors — corporate HR, internal reports, financials, CCTV, even restricted Yard files. I just need the access.”

Greg raised an eyebrow, skepticism written all over his face. “Right… I don’t like it, and I certainly don’t know who this Holmes guy is. But if it gets the files open, fine. Just…” he leaned back, still uneasy. “If anyone outside this room asks, you’re explaining it to me first. Understood?”

“Understood,” John said, tucking the envelope into his coat. The game was on, and now the doors were open.

Over the next hours, the project came alive. The team split into logical sections and started fast: some verified physical evidence, others dug into communications, while a small unit quietly cross-checked financial and operational patterns. They began by reviewing the autopsy reports again before turning to the missing pieces of the puzzle. John began combing through Mercer’s personnel files, emails, and HR reports. Patterns leapt out immediately: the four employees were all tied to the same manager.

The team worked quietly and efficiently—except for Donovan. More skeptical than ever, she lingered in a corner, arms crossed, quietly monitoring John.

“Seriously, Greg. He’s an FME, not CID. Why are we letting him go through corporate emails and security logs?” she asked, her voice low but sharp.

Greg didn’t flinch. “Because he sees things we don’t. Trust me on this.”

John didn’t have time for glances and scorn. Gaps in CCTV footage caught his eye. Security logs were incomplete for the night Mercer died, even if only for a few seconds. Cross-referencing schedules, he found contradictions in the manager’s reported whereabouts.

He couldn’t think several times a day, how would Sherlock analyze these same anomalies, or would have jumped at the missing seconds, the tiny inconsistency. But John knew he had to solve this without the genius beside him. Who, also in his turn, was strangely quiet, as if leaving John to face it alone.

who, for once, Loads of new information had poured in, so much that John couldn’t go home and spent almost the entire night at the office. Earlier in the day, right after leaving Mycroft’s office, he had texted Sherlock saying everything was alright, that he’d had a fruitful meeting and was going to work on the new information. The reply had been nothing more than a 👍.

John had no idea if that was meant to give him more time or if Sherlock was just irritated and upset by his decision that morning. Either way, he had no time to lose. Later, he paused to text Molly, asking if she could check on Sherlock later that day, to which she had happily agreed. No reply came from Sherlock to John’s rather detailed message about the new progress on the case.

By day four, witnesses—finally willing to talk now that the case had official weight behind it—filled in more pieces of the puzzle. One technician remembered Mercer arguing with the manager; another had seen the same man near Mercer’s floor at the critical time. The company’s impeccable façade began to crack.

Accessing the backup servers, John discovered what the main CCTV had tried to hide: several crucial minutes had been wiped. There it was—the manager entering Mercer’s floor at exactly the wrong time. Everything began to fall into place. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he imagined Sherlock’s smirk, silently saying, “Elementary, Watson.” He shook it off and kept working.

Over the next few days, John’s routine barely left room for sleep. He came home late and left before Sherlock woke, sometimes pausing only to text Molly for updates. She’d tell him that they had a good night, watching movies and eating popcorn. That small reassurance was enough. John was almost grateful that the case kept them apart—he still had no idea how to tell Sherlock about the identity behind their main clearance.

It wasn’t until Day 6 that the arrest could finally go in. The manager, who had seemed so convincing and defiant at first, cracked under the weight of undeniable evidence. He looked betrayed—he had been promised protection by his higher-ups. Who then got exposed for failing to keep their promises, even if they had no idea of the full scope. He became collateral in the collapse. 

The company had orchestrated silences to cover financial fraud and illegal shipments, and poor Mercer had simply known too much. What followed was like dominoes falling; once the first truth came out, the investigation accelerated, and the façade of the seemingly flawless company—built on fraud and shaky foundations—began to crumble.

John stood back as the authorities closed in on Hargrove. The suspension notice lay on the table, a man’s career collapsing in a few sheets of paper. Hargrove, who looked so measured and composed, faltered. A twitch of the hand. A glance toward the door. Hesitations, half-answers, evasions when pressed about the signs he had overlooked. And then—slips of the tongue: a daughter. Mentioned, withdrawn, as if the word itself had escaped against his will.

This wasn’t incompetence, nor was it malice. His mistakes had been engineered—forced—by fear. By love. His teenage daughter was the weight dragging him under.

Whispers John had caught resurfaced: talk of a settlement, a quiet payment swept under the rug. He dug deeper, turning pages of public records and insurance filings. There it was: a cyclist struck late at night by a drunk teenager, an injury buried under a payoff.

What startled him wasn’t just the leverage, but how it had been uncovered. The blackmailer had reached into records no ordinary person could easily touch. Hard to find, even for someone who knew where to look. The blackmailer had been patient, methodical, waiting for the right moment to squeeze. 

When it was over, Donovan still looked annoyed, but even she had to acknowledge the case was closed. Greg gave John a brief, approving nod. “I wasn’t thrilled about the clearance. But… seems the name opened the right doors after all.”

John nodded, satisfaction mixed with melancholy. He whispered to himself, “You’d have liked that one, Sherlock”. He didn’t boast, didn’t need to. The case was solved, the team shaken but functional, and the secret of how it all came together—Mycroft’s name and the clearance—remained just between him and Greg.

That night, after wrapping up the case,  John finally returned home, coat smelling of rain, shoulders heavy, but his eyes alive with the afterglow of a closed case. Sherlock was sitting on the desk, ink-stained, fiddling with notes that only made sense to him.

“Mm. You reappear after six days. Do they pay you by the hour, or by the corpse?” Sherlock muttered, without taking his eyes off the notes.

John huffed a tired laugh, hanging up his coat. “Neither. More’s the pity.”

“You’ve been sharper since that little meeting with your ‘mystery man.’ Casework agrees with you. Now you vanish into the Yard like a proper detective.” He tilted his head, curious but not pressing.

John paused, a flicker of guilt—both for keeping secrets and for knowing more than Sherlock does. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Sherlock smirked, settling back in the papers. “Well, try not to enjoy it too much. You’ll give the Yard ideas.”

John let the banter hang, uncorrected. He wouldn’t tell Sherlock that it was Mycroft’s name that pried open every locked door. He wouldn’t tell him that the ‘mystery man’ was family. For tonight, it was enough that justice had been served.

----------------------------------------------------------------

John felt the sting more than he cared to admit. In the days that followed, after all the hours, the legwork, the careful piecing together—Sherlock hadn’t said a word. Not even the faintest good job. John told himself he didn’t need praise, that the result was what mattered. But a part of him had hoped, just once, to hear it.

He didn’t consider that Sherlock might be nursing his own wound in silence: John no longer seemed to need him—he worked with the Yard now, surrounded by men of stature and authority, men who didn’t have to hide in shadows.

“Why even ask me at all?” Sherlock finally snapped, sharper than he intended. “You’ve got a better partner now.”

Unlike the other cases John had cracked since joining the Yard, this one didn’t leave him satisfied. There was a nagging feeling at the back of his mind, whispering that some loose ends remained. And, of course,  the most pressing of all was the matter of the Holmes family.

Later, an email arrived from Daniel Mercer’s mother, addressed to Lestrade. Her words were simple, yet carried a weight that left John both touched and quietly sad.

She thanked the team for their efforts. Knowing that Daniel hadn’t committed suicide had given the family a fragile measure of relief. But reading on, John realized something more: Daniel had also been a victim of blackmail. He had spoken to his mother, trying to shield his pregnant wife from the truth. She, in turn, believed she had failed him, unable to help. The guilt she carried pressed heavily on her, convinced that the pressure had driven her son toward death.

Leaning back in his chair, John felt the weight in his chest. The case was officially closed, yet the blackmailer remained unknown. Were Mercer and Hargrove the only victims in the company? Probably not. Too many questions lingered, leaving John unsatisfied. All he could do was hope that more clues might surface in the future.

Chapter Text

What John had wanted to do right after that meeting—but hadn’t, thanks to the case—now pressed on him with renewed urgency. He couldn’t shake the thought: Who exactly had he met? The name carried weight, certainly, but his mind refused to take it at face value. He needed proof.

He started small, combing through NSY’s internal personnel directories. Nothing under Mycroft Holmes, of course, but a few scattered entries hinted at consultants with unusually high-level clearance, their work spanning multiple departments. Subtle footprints of someone invisible, yet unmistakably present.

From there, he turned to government contractor logs. Even a man as discreet as Mycroft left traces somewhere—archival records of special advisers, temporary consultants, security-cleared contractors. Each entry was sparse, almost deliberately neutral, yet consistent enough to suggest a single figure moving through those circles.

Finally, John made a discreet call to a trusted contact, framing it as a routine verification. Nothing official—just a quiet check. The confirmation came obliquely, but unmistakably: someone matching Mycroft’s profile existed, held clearance, and moved through the shadowed intersections of government authority under the title “Permanent Under-Secretary”.

Leaning back at last, John allowed himself a long breath. Mycroft was real—part of the machinery of power he had only just glimpsed. And that, he realized, explained the quiet menace and effortless authority that had filled the room that morning.

———————————————————

The air between the 221B residents stayed taut for days, and only time — along with two cases, leveled six and seven, in the following week — gradually made Sherlock less icy and more willing to communicate.

Searching for anything that might break the ice, John asked about the closed-door murder Sherlock had been examining that morning. Sherlock was reluctant at first, but finally explained though, unlike his usual elaborate, animated style, he spoke briefly. It was, by all accounts, a truly bizarre case: in short, the main clue lay in the suspect’s right thumb, the very reason he had been unable to execute his carefully practiced plan perfectly.

The suspect, incapable of composing a coherent explanation, had sent a frantic POV video — brief, panicked, and shaky — showing exactly what had happened. It captured him discovering the neighbor’s body in the dumpster, one of his bright blue knives stuck in the chest, his own thumb accidentally in frame.

Sherlock had asked for a separate close-up, and the image confirmed it: a subtle bend in the right thumb — clinodactyly — paired with faint, parallel calluses along the pad. A natural deformity combined with the marks of habitual knife use. No wonder the throws had been erratic. The thumb told a story the man hadn’t even realized: he could practice all he liked, but precision would always betray him.

The only advice Sherlock gave the panicked man was simple: stop running. He was almost at the station, thinking he could make a break for Brighton. Sherlock told him to go straight to the Yard and surrender. No flights, no hiding — just the facts. Everything else would follow naturally, once reason replaced panic.

One of Lestrade’s youngest colleagues, Gregson, was already working on what he called an “obvious” murder case. To understand it, Sherlock had the officers recount exactly what had happened the night before. From their account, he carefully pieced together a theory of how the incident had occurred.

Gregson received the report. John, knowing the man, could almost hear him snort. “I don’t take recommendations from amateurs”. But the logic was solid, the angles precise, every detail accounted for. Officers were dispatched to check the points Sherlock had highlighted — the knife trajectory, the open window, the fall angle. Everything matched. And, of course, the victim’s flat door had been locked from the inside.

Sherlock took a deep breath, leaned back in his chair, and continued. The setup explained why a knife could accidentally miss its target — a hot, stuffy night in a flat without air conditioning, with the suspect frustrated and drunk. One photo of the tiny flat’s living room had already hinted at the tenant’s position and the conditions of the night. Later, the full sequence of images clarified everything, showing exactly how the accident had occurred.

The suspect, frustrated, accidentally threw one knife out the window. By unfortunate timing, that very knife struck the victim in the chest mid-fall. The victim landed in the dumpster. A tragic coincidence — not an intentional strike.

Later, with more information, it became clear that the victim had suffered from long-term depression and had chosen that night to jump from his balcony.

In the report Sherlock sent to the Yard, he noted that the investigators only needed to focus on the angle of the broken neck. That detail alone was enough to determine the force with which the body had hit the dumpster. Even before examining other signs of the fall, it was clear the victim had fallen from a height, not merely been thrown there.

In the end, the client was cleared. Sherlock didn’t need to be there in person; his analysis alone had been enough.

Finishing his narration with a dismissive hand gesture, he said, “Surely more observations could easily show the angle of the knife hitting the victim’s body, which — though potentially fatal — was not the actual cause of death. But, well… it was obvious from the start.”

He had deduced that the neighbor’s flat was perfectly aligned with the trajectory of the knife.

------------------------------------------------------------

John thought of Mycroft’s words. Could it be that the man had really cracked the case? Well—why not? He was a Holmes, after all. Genius ran in the family.

Damn, Sherlock would be thrilled, finally having someone at his intellectual level. And that thought struck John’s heart even harder, a mix of longing and a touch of ache he couldn’t quite name.

He felt horribly conflicted — wanting to protect Sherlock, yet terrified of becoming the jailer of a truth that wasn’t his to keep.

The following week, John felt an almost compulsive need to dig even further. This time, he turned to the past. He replayed every detail of the meeting: the sharp intelligence in Mycroft’s eyes, the faint, unspoken warning that he seemed to know far too much. If there was a trail to follow, a thread that could confirm Sherlock’s family and history, John had to find it — quietly, carefully, before anyone else could interfere.

That was why a few days after solving the big case, John found himself in the Yard archives. He waited until a quiet hour at the Yard, when most of the younger detectives had gone home and the records office was left in the hands of one tired clerk. He worded his request carefully — an old name search, ostensibly in connection with a cold case review, framed as a matter of record verification. Nothing that would raise an eyebrow.

With his clearance, the clerk didn’t question him, only wheeled out the microfilm reader and slid in the reel for 1888. 

The Civil Registration ledgers were not digital here, but leather-bound volumes and brittle microfilms cataloguing marriages, births, and deaths, stretching back into the nineteenth century. 

He wasn’t even sure of the exact year, so he began with the London marriage registration indexes from 1885 onward. The name itself, however, was unusual enough to guide him — Mycroft Holmes was hardly an entry one could mistake for another.

The microfilm reader hummed, the screen flickered, and row after row of names crawled past in their cramped, typewritten uniformity. No stories, no faces — just facts reduced to letters.

John scanned 1885–1890, narrowing his focus. He sat there, eyes fixed on the screen, watching the machine churn out names, grey and distorted, until one at last settled into clarity: Mycroft Holmes. No other man bore the name.

Holmes, Mycroft — Ashcombe, Eleanor — June Q, 1888 — Westminster. Cold, clinical, and beyond dispute. 

John sat back, heart quickening. It was only the first step — a single name and date — but proof nonetheless. Proof he could follow further, dig deeper. This would heighten the suspense before he could confirm the marriage in the parish register — undeniable, solid proof.

John hesitated for a moment, thinking he could just request an official copy of the microfilm entry — entirely legal with his Yard clearance, and simple enough to cite for a cold case review - but then the thought of the new, creepy Mycroft crept into his mind. The man seemed to know everything, and any formal request might alert him to what John was doing. Better not leave a paper trail. 

John leaned forward, double-checking the reference, scribbled it down, and with a quiet sigh, tilted his phone toward the microfilm reader and snapped a quick shot of the frame. It wasn’t exactly sanctioned, and technically against archive rules, but the office was empty and the risk low. A proof, yes, but a hollow one. A copy to carry, something Sherlock could hold.

Then, buzzing with excitement, he gathered his things and got up to go to the next place for confirmation, when, almost immediately, the more rational thought followed: this was just the beginning. Why stop at a single name?  Why not go deeper? The certificate was just the first branch. There could be children. Grandchildren. Hopefully, a thread stretching straight to the present. He needed to follow it, step by step.

Confirmation would come next—the parish register at St. Margaret’s—but first, he wanted to follow the trail to see how far he could go.

He sank back into the seat, bracing himself for a full dive into the family’s history.

Step by step, John followed the thread. From Sherlock’s brother’s marriage to the births of children, then their marriages, and onward through decades of registrations, he traced the family tree forward with painstaking care. Each name, each date, each mother’s maiden name added another branch, another proof of continuity. He felt almost like a time traveler, watching the line of Holmeses stretch toward the present, generations linked by ink and paper. By now, his bad shoulder ached from leaning over the reader, and he realized his foot had gone numb, tucked awkwardly under the chair — yet he barely noticed the hours slipping by.

Along the way, two entries caught his attention. One: Mycroft Holmes — 1917–1995, clearly the grandfather, though the index gave nothing beyond name, birth, and death. Another: Arthur Mycroft Holmes, the modern generation. The latter was recent enough that the full certificate was restricted, sealed by law. John could see only the index: the name, the birth quarter and district, and the middle name — Mycroft.

He paused, staring at the final entry as if the name itself might speak. The trail ended there. He could follow no further; the documents were beyond his reach. John leaned back, rubbing his aching shoulder, and let out a deep sigh. He guessed that was it. End of track. 

For now, at least. The index had taken him as far as it could, but John wasn’t ready to stop. He made a mental note, planning his next step.

-------------------------------------------------------

Later that week, John walked into Westminster’s diocesan archive, the scent of dust and aged leather greeting him. The archivist produced the marriage register with care, sliding the heavy, leather-bound volume with brass fittings across the table. The pages were thick and yellowed with age, the ink faded to brown but still precise.

John turned the pages, fingers slowly brushing over the faded, neat Victorian handwriting. And there, under the date 14 June 1888, the entry spoke clearly:

Marriage solemnized at St. Margaret’s, Westminster, June 14, 1888: Mycroft Holmes, bachelor, gentleman, of Sherringford House, to Eleanor Ashcombe, spinster, of Eaton Square.

It was as if a spotlight had struck him in the chest. The uniqueness of the name left no doubt: there could be no other. His pulse quickened as he studied the details — the fathers’ names and occupations, the witnesses, other Holmes relatives. The witness signatures were cramped, almost nervous, while Mycroft’s own name was written with a confident, deliberate flourish.

The script was beautiful, formal, and final. John read it twice, then a third time, absorbing the gravity of it. Sherlock had never known. To Sherlock, his brother had remained the austere, unmarried man frozen in 1885 — but here was proof that life had moved on, quietly, deliberately, without him.

His fingers hovered above the page before quickly taking a picture, careful not to damage the fragile paper. He leaned back, letting a small, incredulous smile slip. Even the Yard’s archive had no idea of the private life of this Holmes — but here it was, laid bare in ink on yellowish paper.

John closed the book carefully, heart heavy and full at once. This was more than an archival victory — it was a window into Sherlock’s lost past, a tangible link to the bloodline that stretched forward to the present.

John studied the photograph of the parish entry, fingers tracing the delicate lines on his phone screen. He couldn’t help but wonder if the original Mycroft’s handwriting bore any resemblance to his brother’s — the same careful loops, the same deliberate pressure, the same confidence in every stroke. Tiny Sherlock, perched on his shoulder earlier and scribbling in his miniature notebook, came to mind: even at twelve centimeters, his handwriting carried that same precision and certainty. A chill ran down John’s spine; here was a tangible echo of family, a thread connecting past and present across ink, paper, and genius.

Back in the office, he carefully printed the photograph at a reduced scale, the text shrinking until it matched the size of the little books he always made for Sherlock. When cutting and placing the tiny copies into an envelope, John allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. It was proof, yes — but also a gift, a bridge between Sherlock’s past and the world he had returned to, something the little detective could hold in his own hands.

-------------------------------------

Having all the records in hand, it still took John a few more days to work up the courage to confront Sherlock about his findings.

He was genuinely afraid. Afraid that telling Sherlock about Mycroft might push him away, that Sherlock might decide to leave and immerse himself in a now-legitimate family. John remembered the deep, quiet agony in Sherlock’s voice when he had spoken of his brother — his only “blood” family — and thought, he’s going to be so happy.

John couldn’t even imagine Sherlock’s reaction to realizing he wasn’t, after all, completely alone in the world. And even more astonishing, there was someone out there — gifted, sharp, someone Sherlock wouldn’t dismiss as an “idiot,” someone who might actually rival his colossal intellect.

The thought squeezed John’s heart. Pride, anxiety, and hopelessness collided in him, leaving a hollow, twisting ache, as if he stood no chance in this unspoken contest.

And of course, John couldn’t be certain of Mycroft’s motives. Family, yes — but could he be trusted to be loyal? What if he decided Sherlock was a national security risk, or worse, sent him to some scientific or military facility? If Sherlock chose to live with Mycroft, John realized he might lose the chance to protect or support him entirely.

Perhaps Sherlock had been right all along — insisting that John shouldn’t seek Mycroft’s help. Yet even if he hadn’t, John knew that Mycroft, with all his authority, would have them under surveillance anyway. Sooner or later, he would discover Sherlock’s existence regardless.

If Mycroft found him first, the outcome would be out of their hands. But if John revealed it now, at least Sherlock would retain some agency.

Like so many times before, John wished he didn’t have a steady job and could just take Sherlock and vanish somewhere far away from everyone. But it wasn’t only the job that held him back. Even if he could, Sherlock couldn’t live far from London — the city itself was a beating heart for him. And above all else, the only thing that truly mattered to Sherlock was the work. He cared little for his own life, let alone anything else.

He had decided it was time to talk to Molly about the meeting with Mycroft, seeking her advice on what to do. 

--------------------------------------------

She found him in the cozy upstairs room of their favorite pub, Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, two empty pints already in front of him, head buried in his hands, looking as if he hadn’t slept for days.

Molly’s reaction was no less surprised than John's; she listened quietly, her brow furrowed slightly, her lips pressing into a thin line. When he mentioned Mycroft by name, she leaned back, exhaling softly, as if the weight of it had landed squarely on her chest.

“You went to see him…?” she said carefully, her tone even but tinged with concern. “John…that’s not a small thing. This…well, changes things.”

John nodded, staring at the empty pint in front of him as if it could absorb the truth. “I know. But I had to. And now I’ve found out all these…things I can’t ignore.”

A silence fell between them, heavy and thoughtful, each lost in their own reflections. Then Molly reached across the table, placing a steadying hand on his arm. “It’s up to Sherlock to decide,” she said gently. “You can’t hide something this big from him. He’s a grown man — he deserves to make his own choice.”

Her words were a calm, pragmatic counterweight to John’s spiraling thoughts. 

“You already made the choice when you went to Mycroft,” she added softly. “Sherlock deserves to hear it from you, not from someone else’s lips.”

John’s chest tightened. Her certainty grounded him, but also shifted John’s dread into inevitability. He could delay, but he could not stop what was coming. His fear of losing Sherlock to Mycroft wasn’t merely jealousy. It was love and protectiveness too: he knew how cold and manipulative Mycroft could be, and he was terrified that Sherlock would be swallowed into that world.

----------------------------------------------

The next day, John came home early, carrying Chinese takeout: sweet and sour soup and Shumai — small comforts they both enjoyed. 

Sherlock paused his experiment for a few minutes and  joined him to eat. John brewed some of Sherlock’s favorite tea blend, and they both sat with their mugs, sharing a silence that was not entirely comfortable.

John drew a slow breath, the words sticking like thorns in his throat. “I…” His hand tightened on his mug. “There’s… something I need to tell you.”

Across the table, Sherlock rolled his eyes, the motion so small it might have been missed if John weren’t watching him. He set his cup down with exaggerated precision. “Finally,” he muttered, as though he’d been waiting for John to catch up with the obvious.

God, John thought, resisting the urge to rub at his temple. Is there any easy way with this guy? He’d been brooding for days; he knew that it was impossible to hide anything from Sherlock, which only made the moment worse.

He tried again, aiming for steady, calm. But the thing that came out wasn’t exactly what he had practiced and intended to say.  “I’ve… hum… met someone.”

Sherlock’s fingers faltered on the porcelain handle. The tiniest slip — the faintest tremor — and a drop of tea spilled, darkening his trousers. He froze at once, jaw tightening.

John didn’t notice. He was still staring into his mug, drumming his fingers against it as if the surface of the tea might arrange the right words for him.

“I didn’t know about the man I met—”

“Oh, your mysterious politician acquaintance,” Sherlock cut in lightly, voice dripping with mockery, maybe, surprisingly relieved? “What is it now? Fish and chips every Friday? Perhaps a charming little walk along the Thames, discussing foreign policy on the …”

John’s patience snapped. All the rehearsed lines vanished. He cut across Sherlock’s rambling with a sharp breath. “...His name is Mycroft Holmes.”

The effect was immediate. Sherlock stopped mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open in a rare, unguarded moment. His brows drew tight in a furious knot.

John stared, thinking this must be it — the shock, the joy, the relief. Damn, it was bigger than he’d even imagined.

He swallowed, ignoring the painful squeeze in his chest. “He… he’s your family. In fact, he’s your great-grand—”

“Outrageous!” Sherlock’s voice cracked like a whip, loud and sharp as breaking ice. His face had gone pale, his small frame trembling with barely contained fury.

John froze. Of all the reactions he’d prepared himself for, this was not one of them.

“How dare anyone drape themselves in that name?” Sherlock spat, his voice dropping to a venomous hiss. “A demanding man presuming to wear my brother’s name.” His lip curled. “Imposter!”

John sat there, stunned, every careful rehearsal in his head unraveling. He’d thought he was bracing for heartbreak. Instead, Sherlock’s fury bristled like a shield — and for the first time in days, John realized the fear of losing him might have been entirely his own invention. Relief flooded through him, edged with disbelief, and beneath it all, an unexpected joy he could neither suppress nor explain.

He didn’t know what to say. The detective was already pacing in furious little strides across the desk, muttering under his breath.

“Sherlock—” John tried, “can you stop for a second? Why is this so important? It’s not even his choice even, parents-”

“It doesn’t matter who chose it!” Sherlock snapped, whirling on him. “The name of a great man has been squandered, handed to someone who wouldn’t be fit to polish his boots!”

John started to object—“But you don’t even know him”—and instantly regretted it. Sherlock’s eyes flared like struck matches, fury burning hotter than words.

Sherlock growled, “I know his type perfectly well—no need to meet him for that. I can deduce enough already.” His voice was clipped, furious. “My brother would never have treated the Commonwea…people—with such disdain. He lived by an oath to serve the Queen and the country, and he did so all his life. This one is nothing more than a pompous prick—power-playing, manipulating, meddling. Obviously.”

John couldn’t deny that Sherlock’s deductions fit the man all too well. But then again, which powerful bureaucrat didn’t look exactly like that?

And his name had opened doors — whether he wanted to or not, the man had helped crack a case that cut off funds to terrorists and exposed a laundering scheme. John could live with a little arrogance for that.

“So your only problem is with his name?” John asked.

“Of course not,” Sherlock snapped. “I refuse to believe he’s truly a Holmes descendant.”

“And why not?”

“My brother, as I’ve told you, was utterly devoted to his work. Neither of us had the slightest interest in starting a family. We had our own… reasons.”

“Maybe he changed his mind later — after you were gone.”

Sherlock shook his head, though not with his usual conviction. For the first time, John saw the certainty falter, just slightly, as if Sherlock’s mind had already begun sifting through the possibilities against his will.

“Sherlock, if he is a descendant…”

“We don’t know that!” Sherlock snapped.

John exhaled, shame prickling at him. “Well… in fact, I do.” He hesitated. It was time to lay his last card on the table. With a sigh, he pulled the small prints from his pocket and set them down in front of the detective.

Sherlock froze mid-stride, fixing John with a sharp, questioning look. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move, then in a sudden, precise motion, he snatched up the small prints from the desk. His eyes flicked over them, eyebrows drawing into an impossibly tighter knot.

John cleared his throat, pressing on. “As you always recommend — did my research, a bit… well…” He trailed off. It was obvious Sherlock wasn’t listening.

Sherlock fell into a long silence, the prints limp in his hand. John sank into his armchair, watching him in cautious glances.

Minutes dragged by. When the quiet grew unbearable, John rose, took his cold mug of tea to the kitchen, and busied himself with making another. Still no sound from the living room.

When he returned, Sherlock was sitting now, prints still in his hand. John cleared his throat once. Then again, started saying something, but changed his mind. 

“Arthur Mycroft Holmes”, Sherlock eventually huffed derisively. “No wonder he chose to go by Mycroft. Who in their right mind would saddle themselves with a name as stale, as bland, as Arthur?!” Then added with venom,“and you think that my name is uncanny,” and then threw the paper aside. 

John set the fresh, tiny mug of tea on the desk, turning to sit when Sherlock’s voice cut in, “I assumed that you had done all the research for him on the internet and other places, right?”

“You are right. Also, police records and nothing much, not enough to know he is a real person. And really works for the government. The official title is, erm… Permanent Under-Secretary. Whatever that exactly means.”

After another stretch of silence, John cleared his throat and carefully said, “So… erm… You have a living family member. How are we feeling about that?” 

Sherlock ignored him, picked up his mug, and took a slow sip. “Weak. This is weak.”

John pressed on anyway. “You’re not… happy?”

Sherlock’s eyes shot daggers. “Happy? About what?”

John froze and shrugged helplessly. “ Weren’t you upset before that you had no one left in the world? Remember?”

Sherlock’s voice dropped low, cold, sharp. “Who, a dangerous man in the British government? How can I be happy having anybody like that as my family? Especially now in my current situation. If anything, I should be worried. For both of us.” 

John let out a long, tired sigh and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “So… you don’t have any desire to contact him? Or… anything?”

Sherlock looked at him as if he’d grown another head. “John. I respect your mind, I really do, but sometimes I’m utterly disappointed in it. You actually think I’m going to stroll up and say, ‘Hello, I’m your shrunken, ancient,140-year-old great-great-granduncle…?!’ Why on earth would I do anything like that?”

John just stared at his mug, imagining the scene. “Well, maybe not exactly like that…”

“Then what else, Doctor? Please, do enlighten me!”

“You don’t trust him.”

“You shouldn’t trust him either! Well, you’ve already done it — we all make mistakes — and now he’ll be monitoring you, monitoring us, meddling, and you won’t be safe anymore. You’re always obsessed with safety, and now you’ve handed it away with your own hands.”

“OK,” John said, “if he really is an enemy, a criminal mastermind, or whatever you think, it’s better to keep him close. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer, right? Let him believe I have nothing to hide. Much better than pretending in front of him — he’ll figure it out sooner or later.

“And like him or not,” John added, “his help was crucial in cracking the last case. Without it, we wouldn’t have caught the terrorists or exposed the corrupt politicians. We simply couldn’t have gone on.”

Sherlock slammed his tiny mug on the desk, more force than necessary. “He kidnapped you, intimidated you! How can I ever trust him?”

“He didn’t intimidate me, Sherlock, I—”

“I would not allow such an abhorrent attitude toward my friends, even from a family member. If he really is.”

John lost his patience. “So what else do you suggest I do, get a DNA test?!”

“Yes! Actually… that could be a very good idea.”

Before John could answer, Sherlock barked, “Are you going to ask him for help again?”

“If needed… yes,” John admitted.

Sherlock let out a loud, frustrated groan, flinging himself back in his chair, muttering to himself as if no one could hear: “…and instead of taking care of all the underground activities in London, he’s been monitoring you because of some great-grand-something? Stupid! I’ve detected a pattern, a network of a mastermind, and this man — with all his resources, facilities, equipment — is sitting there, bothering new Scotland Yard officers. Embarrassing.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose, tried another approach. “Look, Sherlock — he’s your own blood, and a genius too, I think—”

Sherlock’s brows shot up so sharply that John rushed on, afraid of being cut off.

“That day I met him, he mentioned the knife-thrower case and said the clue was in the ‘thumb,’” John added quickly. “Yes, he knew about that case — I know, it’s creepy, and I don’t know how, seems like he checks everything— what I’m trying to say is… he solved it, apparently following the same clues as you. It’s just… interesting.”

Sherlock said nothing, only stared at him — cold, unreadable.

John tried to sound casual. “I mean, it really does seem to run in your family. It was… impressive.”

Sherlock repeated the word, low and dangerous. “Impressive.”

“Well, yeah,” John added quickly, with a smirk. “He’s a Holmes, right?”

Sherlock’s composure faltered, his expression one of a man who had just been thoroughly dispossessed. He shut his eyes, drew in a sharp breath, and tried to mask it with indifference — though John knew him well enough to see through the act.

“Well,” Sherlock said at last, his voice cutting, “congratulations, John, for finding your mentor and idol. I see.” With a dramatic swirl of his blue robe, he spun back to his phone, dismissing the conversation entirely.

John winced. Really? The tiny man’s enormous pride got wounded?!

The conversation had gone nowhere near any of the outcomes John had prepared for. He wasn’t sure if he ought to feel relieved or devastated, hadn’t expected Sherlock’s ego to bruise so easily, nor realized that a genius could be so fiercely insecure about his mental superiority. Any praise from John, it seemed, had to be for Sherlock alone — exclusively his.

In the following days, Sherlock tried to pretend that nothing unusual had happened, that everything was as normal. Yet he slipped in the occasional barb, referring to Mycroft as “your new genius mate”, or, more often — with a curl of disdain — “the impostor”.  The latter, John noticed, was his favorite.

But it occurred to John that there wasn’t as much venom behind those words as before. After a few weeks, several times, Sherlock seemed half serious — actually wanting John, in his own roundabout way, to contact Mycroft and meet him again. Typical Sherlock: he wouldn’t admit it, but his curiosity about this family member was genuine, even if he claimed to hate him.

For Sherlock’s sake, John was willing to do it, though he didn’t feel entirely comfortable. Visiting Mycroft Holmes was never easy, even knowing he was related to his best friend.

Chapter Text

That hot Tuesday late in July, John returned home worn out, tossing his keys onto the coffee table with a dull clatter. He rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the stiffness. The flat was dark and quiet, echoing the long, tedious day of meetings and paperwork he had endured.

His eccentric flatmate wasn’t home. He had gone out with Molly, who had taken the day off to prepare a surprise for Greg’s birthday and to search for a gift.

Sherlock had insisted on accompanying her, offering his help. Molly loved borrowing his taste when it came to choosing something “classy” for Greg. Oddly enough, the man who loathed shopping for basics—groceries most of all—showed unexpected patience when it came to fine accessories and clothing.

John couldn’t quite see how Sherlock was meant to be any real help to Molly, though it wasn’t the first time they’d gone off into the city together. Lately, it has almost become a habit. The thought stirred an unwelcome pang of jealousy, and he felt foolish for it. Still, Sherlock did seem to choose her company over his these days, always insisting John was buried in work and needed the rest.

They had agreed on Sherlock riding in Molly’s backpack—the very same idea that, when John had once mentioned it, had only offended him. Yet from her it was perfectly fine, which only deepened John’s ridiculous jealousy. The bag had originally belonged to Molly’s younger cat, the adventurous one, and now Sherlock seemed to claim it as his own. He sat inside, peering through the little window, keeping up a steady flow of observations and deductions that left Molly laughing the whole way.

John couldn’t help laughing to himself, imagining the tiny detective pointing out flaws Molly would never notice—a crooked cufflink, cheap leather, a misprinted label. He pictured him muttering insults at the sales assistants or “correcting” Molly’s choices with merciless precision.

The first time they went out together had actually been for John’s birthday. Molly, in her usual earnest way, had gone shopping for a gift—a tie, a pair of cufflinks, maybe even socks—because she thought he deserved something nice. Sherlock had come along, tucked into her bag, and to Molly’s surprise he had enjoyed himself immensely. 

At one point she finally laughed and teased him, “You know, Sherlock, for someone who claims not to care about appearances, you’ve just spent twenty minutes lecturing me on pocket squares.”

Later on, they occasionally went to places John tended to skip: the Hunterian Museum for medical oddities, or the Grant Museum of Zoology. Molly found them endlessly fascinating, and Sherlock approved—so many bones, specimens, and puzzles to examine. Other times, they ventured to Fortnum & Mason, surrounded by luxury in every aisle. There, Sherlock waxed lyrical one moment and sharp-tongued the next, his sarcasm cutting as deftly as his insights.

Sherlock also loved guiding her to some of his favorite corners of the city—places that had barely changed over the years—and sharing the adventures he had experienced there.

John remembered Molly describing these outings with a mixture of awe and laughter. At the Temple and Inns of Court, Sherlock had boasted, “A forged will once led me through these courts at midnight. The barristers fancied themselves clever—until I appeared behind them in the shadows.”

Later, at Burlington Arcade, she had recounted another tale: “A jewel thief once thought he could vanish among the hat shops here. I followed him from end to end without losing him—or being seen. Very satisfying.”

This time, it seemed their outing had begun around the gentlemen’s shops of St. James’s and Jermyn Street.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

John thought about all this as he made himself some tea. Carrying the mug to his armchair, he kicked off his shoes and rested his tired feet on the chair opposite. It was funny—he had chosen this spot on the very first day they moved in, deliberately avoiding the green leather chair in front of him, as if it belonged to the flat’s other inhabitant.

Which, in fact, it did. That chair was Sherlock’s favorite; he sometimes perched on its handle, lost in thought, especially whenever John settled into the opposite seat.

He set the mug on the small table beside him and sank more deeply into his chair, letting out a long sigh. Sherlock’s message had said he’d be out, “so you can enjoy an afternoon by yourself, free from annoyance”. John had intended to do exactly that. Yet, instead of relishing the flat all to himself, his thoughts kept drifting to Sherlock.

As the peace between them slowly settled once more, John let the warm feeling in his chest bloom again, tinged with a pang of shame. It was at once delightful and guilty—like savoring a forbidden fruit he knew he shouldn’t.  As the hidden sweetness of such things was always the most intoxicating.

He tried to resist, but he couldn’t stop staying close to his tiny flatmate, letting himself linger in that wonderful, enveloping warmth.

In the past few weeks, John had felt Sherlock pulling back, especially whenever things grew too comfortable between them, whenever they began to simply enjoy each other’s company. John didn’t like it. He couldn’t help worrying that he had overstepped—that he’d crossed a line the night after the rescue.

He felt guilty whenever he thought back to that night, no matter how many excuses he tried to muster—trauma, exhaustion, the fog of fatigue. He told himself he hadn’t really been himself. But deep down, he knew better. It wasn’t that. He hadn’t been shaken, only tired, perhaps. And it had been him—nothing but him. What he had truly wanted.

He was ashamed of it, terrified of it, and had tried so hard to hide the want—a near-impossible task when living with a five-inch detective who saw everything. John didn’t want to lose Sherlock. He simply couldn’t. Even if he could content himself with being a distant provider, keeping the tiny, demanding detective at arm’s length, he would rather that than be pushed out of his life. Not now. Too late for that.

He shook his head and rubbed his tired eyes, thinking about his peculiar flatmate and the sudden shifts in his preferences and obsessions. It wasn’t entirely new—John had noticed a few instances since the very beginning of their acquaintance—but lately, it had become stranger, harder to predict. The newfound unexpected interest for those backpacks was just one small, puzzling example.

He picked up his mug and took a sip. Tea. Yeah, right.

From the very early days of knowing each other, John had guessed—and was right—that the Victorian detective was deeply in love with tea. Preparing and serving the tiny, demanding roommate had quickly become a daily routine.

Sherlock’s main preference was strong black tea—robust, no-nonsense, full-bodied. Preferably Assam, although he could reluctantly accept English Breakfast. Always served with just a hint of milk; sugar was optional, depending on whether he wanted “distraction from taste” or not. His tiny cup was always full by his side, keeping him alert while examining evidence or reading documents. Brewed strong, nearly bitter, because subtlety was wasted when he needed focus.

He even drank green tea—though not his top choice—sipping it occasionally in a contemplative mood, such as while studying diagrams or running tiny experiments. Herbal infusions were rarely his cup of tea, but he appreciated rare, medicinal, or experimental blends. Several times, he tried mint, chamomile, ginger, or hawthorn—not for taste, but for their effects, like staying awake, calming nerves, or minor stimulation.

On these rare occasions, John enjoyed watching from a distance as Sherlock methodically brewed them in a tiny teapot, measuring down to a single leaf. It was delightful to watch—not just for the delicacy, but because Sherlock was doing it himself instead of bossing John around. He would mutter his exacting critiques under his breath:  “Too weak. This would barely wake a cat. Bring the Assam. Full measure. Precisely.”

Times like that made John wonder how much caffeine his tiny system could possibly handle. He imagined Sherlock as a little detective monk with a tea fetish.

So, it was understandably difficult for this half-pint tea philosopher to accept that John drank coffee in the morning. When Sherlock first tried a drop from John’s mug during their first weeks together:

“Ah… what is this?” Sherlock hissed, wrinkling his tiny nose. “Yuck. Black, bitter… aromatic chaos!”

John sipped calmly. “It’s just coffee, Sherlock. No sugar, no cream. My way.”

Sherlock leaned closer, as if the cup might attack him. “No sugar? No cream? Humans are truly mad. This is an affront to tea, to civilization, to every decent taste bud on the planet! How can you drink this?”

John shrugged, smiling faintly. “Keeps me awake.”

“Awake? At what cost?” Sherlock fluttered a tiny hand in despair. “You call this… sustenance? I would rather drink nothing at all than poison myself.”

John raised an eyebrow. “You may like it if you try more?”

Sherlock recoiled as if John had offered him molten lead. “I prefer to remain alive, thank you.”

Thinking back, the conversation seemed even funnier—because now Sherlock not only drank coffee, but had developed a real fondness for espresso, constantly asking John to get one whenever they were out to fill his own tiny cup, and poor John wasn’t much of an espresso fan. Sherlock, naturally, had his own habits and drank his coffee sweet.

John wasn’t all that surprised to find his laptop open to pages like “How different roasting levels affect chemical balance”, “Chemical fingerprinting of beans (origin detection)”, or even “How much caffeine can kill a man of 70 kg weight?”

The journey from calling it “The Bitter Bean Broth” to developing an obsession with Blue Bottle Coffee had been truly remarkable. Then, suddenly breaking the silence, Sherlock presented a fact as if it were evidence.

“Did you know, John, that one cup of Death Wish Coffee contains 728 milligrams of caffeine? Equivalent to three espressos and two of your so-called army rations.”

------------------------------------------------------

Although it wasn’t always easy to watch movies with Sherlock, John had spent many evenings doing just that—from Star Wars to James Bond. Sherlock mostly mocked the storylines, laughed at plot holes, sprinkled in his own “mystery” commentary, and, of course, corrected everyone else’s mistakes. Surprisingly, he had taken a liking to House M.D., though this time it was John laughing at the medical inaccuracies, so they stopped after three seasons. Sherlock’s true favorites, however, were documentaries—history, wildlife, and especially true crime series and podcasts.

After moving into 221B, John noticed that Sherlock often binge-watched a few series they had tried together, only to dismiss them shortly afterward as “too stupid to continue”—probably just an excuse to take notes. John would sometimes find him sitting quietly with his phone, a notepad, and an oversized pencil, jotting down quick observations to review later.

The detective seemed especially drawn to crime series that emphasized meticulous investigative methods, detailed forensic analysis, and logical deduction. His fascination with new scientific approaches to crime scenes and laboratory work led him to weeks of binge-watching shows with near-religious focus. Luther and Mindhunter ranked among his favorites, though he occasionally tuned into Bones and CSI as well.

But after the first few months in the “modern” world, John was surprised to notice Sherlock’s early enthusiasm for contemporary crime-detecting technology beginning to wane. Sherlock would shrug and mutter, “Ah… nonsense. They’ve progressed far too much. Entire staffs, high-tech contrivances everywhere. Why trouble myself when all these laboratories already exist? There is no delight in it now. I was once the sole practitioner of my own ingenious inventions! And the absurd NSY actually possesses them!”

Instead, his attention turned to fields that had intrigued him from the very beginning, and soon they became his true favorites: modern psychology and criminology. John wasn’t all that surprised by the shift.

“Oh, John… the human mind! Such a vast, uncharted terrain. All these modern works of the past two centuries, and we’ve barely scratched the surface. I can safely assert that most of the people at NSY remain hopelessly inept when it comes to understanding human behavior and motives—the very keys to criminology!”

He devoted a great deal of time to studying, practically time-traveling through the field of psychology in six months of obsessive reading—from Freud to the latest fMRI studies. John would probably have teased him for “speedrunning psychiatry”.

Most of the famous pioneers’ work he dismissed as “mysticism” or, at best, “imaginative nonsense, though historically useful”. Yet he found some—like William James—more practical, with insights into attention and habits that he could actually apply.

Among the long list of authors he devoured, Sherlock consumed the DSM-5-TR, treating it as little more than a catalogue of human weaknesses. He found Robert Hare’s PCL-R checklist fascinating for profiling criminals, all the while admiring Oliver Sacks’s meticulous observational rigor. Later, his attention shifted to the psychology of bias, which he deemed invaluable both for solving crimes and for self-reflection. A miniature copy of Daniel Kahneman’s Thinking, Fast and Slow was never far from him—wherever he went, it seemed to follow, a tiny companion in his relentless pursuit of understanding the human mind.

Between all this reading, Sherlock devoted substantial time to criminology and forensic psychology. He devoured Paul Ekman’s work, but waved away David Canter’s offender profiling as ‘nothing more than astrology in a lab coat’. At the same time, he pressed John to provide him with modern digital forensic journals—the sort of data-driven, empirical studies that thrilled him just as much as any classic text.

Not only was he deeply fascinated by advances in psychology, but he also took it upon himself to perform a little self-diagnosis.

John blinked. “So… you believe that you’re a psychopath ?!”

Sherlock’s frustration was almost theatrical. “Do some research! I am a high-functioning sociopath!”

John froze. “A… what…??”

“Sociopathy,” Sherlock continued, utterly unbothered by John’s confusion, “is usually considered a form of Antisocial Personality Disorder, or ASPD. I compared myself against Hare’s psychopathy checklist… and naturally, concluded that I fit perfectly.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. Of course he did. Naturally.

------------------------------------------------------

And it wasn’t the last of his obsessive shifts. 

From the man who initially dismissed computers as “The Overhyped Counting Machine” and “Mechanical Reckoner”, he suddenly became a fan. Early on, shortly after moving into 221B, he even asked John for a print copy of Computers for Seniors for Dummies. But just a few weeks later, he was requesting Hacking for Dummies. John wasn’t all that surprised when, by midsummer, Sherlock had progressed to Python Crash Course.

John suspected, deep down, that Sherlock’s fascination had roots in his love for unlocking closed doors—his dexterity and lifelong curiosity about bypassing obstacles in real life. But digital data was equally compelling to him. The idea of “all the knowledge of the British libraries condensed into something as small as a drive? Fascinating”.

John tentatively asked if Sherlock was thinking about becoming a hacker.

“No,” Sherlock replied, “I’m too far behind. That level of dexterity and knowledge requires at least a year of intense study for me—too long, and I…” he trailed off, noticing John’s worried expression. “Erm… I mean, do not worry. I have no intention of breaking the law; I’ve always been on their side.”

He let out a long, thoughtful sigh. “Believe me, John, this is the future. I wonder how it’s all going to unfold.”

John made a mental note to watch Terminator with him that evening.

-----------------------------------------------------

John sighed and finished the last of his now-cold tea. These were all changes, of course, but nothing like Sherlock’s most recent ones. His behavior had shifted—quieter, more clipped, less overtly rude.

John thought, bittersweetly, that even if he could return to that night, he wouldn’t act differently. The surge of emotions he had felt—heightened by exhaustion and a sudden drop of adrenaline—had been so intense that it had pushed him past the walls and barriers he had carefully built around himself over the years. But more than anything… Sherlock. Sherlock hadn’t resisted. He had seemed… receptive. As if the careful poise and sharp wit that cloaked him even in the smallest moments were softened, just for John.

The guilt settled over John once more. What if it was that Sherlock had truly been caught off guard, unsure how to respond?

If only Sherlock knew the wild, far from innocent dreams those seemingly harmless touches inspired at night… and John couldn’t allow them. It was all so wrong.

A ping of a text message pulled him from his thoughts. It was from Molly, saying they were heading home after a successful day—capped with a perfect ending at Chelsea Embankment, where they had lingered on a quiet park bench, sharing a small scoop of ice cream. Sherlock had finally conceded that the gift for Lestrade was “acceptable, if not optimal”.

John found himself smiling despite the heaviness in his chest. His tiny flatmate had enjoyed himself, everyone was safe and well—what reason was there to be unhappy? Life was good. He was happy.

Chapter Text

After Sherlock’s reckless rescue plan, John tightened the security: he replaced the flat keys, added a second lock, and told Mrs. Hudson it was all because of “some top-secret cases and evidence” he was handling. He stressed that the precautions were for her safety and that he didn’t want her dragged into any trouble.

He also made Sherlock swear, in all seriousness, not to leave the flat under any circumstances—even if John were in danger. Arms folded, Sherlock flatly refused, until the familiar stubbornness in Captain Watson’s expression left him little choice. He gave in at last, but only on condition that John promised the same: no investigations without first informing his boss.

John had the uneasy feeling that he’d be the one keeping his word while Sherlock found clever ways around his. 

On a finally rainy Tuesday in early August, John was at work, and Sherlock, tucked away in the bedroom, had just finished reading an extensive article on profiling extremes. He stretched back in his chair, feeling a faint ache in his tiny frame, and let out a sigh. A hot cup of tea would be perfect right now—too bad he’d have to wait hours for John to come back and make one.  

Just as he was lamenting this, a loud crash echoed from downstairs. The sound hit his heightened senses like a shockwave, immediately setting his nerves on edge. He froze, his sharp ears straining for any follow-up noise, mind rapidly cataloging possibilities.  

He vaguely recalled the faint chime of the doorbell earlier. Odd—Mrs. Hudson’s baking day usually meant no visitors. Who could it be?  

Logically, there was little to fear, with that sophisticated locking system that John installed on the flat’s door, a precaution to keep Sherlock safe when he was alone. But what John didn’t know was that Sherlock had quietly filed away in his mind as a potential emergency escape route— a loose floorboard beneath the left side of the old wooden door, just below the first hinge, which provided a crawl space. Small enough to go unnoticed, but not for Sherlock.

Sherlock became more concerned when he heard a muffled scream, and his entire body went rigid, mind snapped into full alert, battle stations ready. He grabbed his phone and started fast dialing John, only to stop halfway through - John had mentioned an important meeting this morning and had explicitly said he wouldn’t answer unless it was an absolute emergency. Sherlock hesitated, thumb hovering over their code for distress, debating whether the situation warranted it.  

More noises came from downstairs—movement, something heavy dragging. Sherlock’s instincts kicked in. Calling 999 might escalate things unnecessarily, and he wasn’t ready to involve outsiders yet. No, this required immediate, precise action. He needed to check for himself!  

Maybe it wouldn’t be the best idea, but last month's experience had shown Sherlock that he should listen to the voice inside him, one that, most of the time, got him into trouble, but occasionally made crucial decisions. He trusted himself more than before, and since the last mission, he had updated his emergency equipment. 

He reached for the climbing system he’d designed for navigating his scaled-down world and slung it over his shoulder. At the last second, he decided to bring the phone: it might come in handy for contacting someone.

Descending from the bedroom desk and onto his makeshift car was rather easy. The difficult part was lowering his phone down with the fishing line, which, even after all the practice he had had before, dropped halfway. Sherlock still made it to the flat’s door and the escape spot in no time, toting the phone behind him. 

He first pushed the phone out, and then, with practiced ease, he slipped through the gap under the door, ran to the edge of the landing, and pricked up his ears.

The voices became clearer and louder. A rough, gruff male voice echoed up from below, met by Mrs. Hudson’s sharp, indignant retorts. They were arguing—heatedly. Sherlock pondered for a second and then made up his mind.

Calling the police wasn’t the solution. Not yet. A direct intervention would only escalate things—the man wouldn’t let her answer the door, or worse, he might panic and take her hostage. No, this required finesse, strategy, and quick thinking.

Sherlock sent a message to John before leaving the phone behind, but wasn’t sure when he’d see it. Molly was at a conference out of town, and he didn’t want to worry her, not again after the last time.

Then came another crash, much louder this time, and Sherlock froze. It didn’t take much deduction to realize Mrs. Hudson was in danger. The man’s tone was threatening, his movements aggressive. Sherlock’s mind raced through the possibilities, weighing every option with precision.  

He paused for a second, then took a deep breath and began his descent down the stairs, after pushing the poor phone a few stairs down, which didn’t have a soft landing this time.

Sherlock spotted the phone lying on the eighth stair; the screen was cracked, but thankfully still on. He swiftly descended and reached it, managing to push it from the edge so that it fell again—this time onto the old armchair halfway down, giving it a softer landing. He then joined it himself using his handmade climbing system.

He didn’t waste any time and started running to 221A’s door, keeping close to the wall, ears keen for the sounds coming from her flat. His mind was racing through the calculations: Mrs. Hudson's reaction time, the man's approximate height, weight, and age. Each variable clicked into place as he factored in the creak of the floorboards and the acoustics of the flat. The result brought a sly grin to his lips—he had a plan.  

Sherlock reached the base of Mrs. Hudson’s door, out of breath. He had to work quickly—the noises from inside the flat suggested the intruder was still occupied, but that wouldn’t last long. He pulled the last piece of thin but strong thread from his backpack.

The first anchor point was the bottom hinge of Mrs. Hudson’s door. Sherlock slipped one end of the thread around the hinge, forming a quick slipknot. With a sharp tug, the loop tightened instantly, securing the line in place without the need for fumbling knots. The placement was perfect—nearly invisible at ankle height, yet strong enough to serve its purpose.

Moving swiftly, he carried the other end of the wire across the narrow hallway, scanning for the best second anchor. There was another door on the left - a simple, dark-colored old one - Sherlock vaguely remembered, 221C. Its rusty bottom hinge looked like a perfect spot— just within reach. 

Wrapping the thread around, he secured it with a single flick of his fingers. The tension held firm. No unnecessary complications, no wasted time.

With the tripwire in place, Sherlock retreated, positioning himself behind a large ceramic umbrella stand near the door.

Now all he needed was to lure the intruder out. A quick, precise distraction—just enough to make the man step forward: as soon as his foot caught on the line, momentum would do the rest. The stumble would be inevitable, the fall unavoidable. If luck was on Sherlock’s side, the intruder would drop his weapon, giving Sherlock the opportunity he needed to turn the tables.

He took a steady breath, then made his move.

Then, with his microphone set to maximum, Sherlock took a deep breath and bellowed, his voice amplified and cutting through the silence like a blade:  

"Hey! Why don't you try fighting someone your own size?"

The effect was immediate. He felt how the intruder froze mid-step, and could almost see the room tensed, thick with the weight of uncertainty. For a moment, nothing moved. Then, a series of heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed from inside Mrs. Hudson’s flat. A pause. The faint creak of the doorknob turning.  

The door opened a crack, revealing a burly man in his seventies—a little shorter than Sherlock had calculated, but still big, with a large beer belly. He glanced out, eyes scanning the staircase. Satisfied there was no one, he stepped fully into view.  His short white hair and leathery skin suggested a lifetime of bad habits. The tailored suit and dark grey silk shirt may have been designed to give him the look of a decent man from old money, but he was ill-fitted to the persona they implied. Proof, in his right hand, held low but ready, was a sleek automatic gun.  

His eyes swept the landing, searching. He hesitated, wary. Then, from his hidden spot below, Sherlock couldn’t help but taunt, his voice clear and mocking:  "Here, you BULLY!"  

The man spun sharply toward the voice, coming from the armchair, raising his weapon, but his movement was his undoing. His legs tangled in Sherlock’s nearly invisible fishing line trap. With a startled yelp, he stumbled forward, arms flailing. His gun flew from his grip and skidded across the hallway. His momentum carried him straight into a spectacular fall, crashing down like a fallen tree. The entire flat trembled under his weight.  

Sherlock watched from his hiding place as the man struggled to untangle himself, just got to his knees, groaning, trying to push himself up—disoriented but not fully down.  

And then—  

WHAM.  

Mrs. Hudson appeared out of nowhere, frying pan in hand, and swung with terrifying precision. The heavy metal connected with the man’s skull with a dull, sickening THUD.  

He collapsed instantly, facedown, out cold.  

Sherlock blinked.  

For a fleeting second, he wondered if this was how he would die too—squashed by an airborne pan, wielded by an unsuspecting Mrs. Hudson. She stood there, pan raised, her stance almost regal, like some ancient warrior queen surveying the battlefield.  

Sherlock hesitated, then in a hushed but urgent tone, he whispered, "Mrs. Hudson, I admire your bravery. Now, would you kindly pick up his gun and call the police?"  

"What on earth—?!" she gasped, eyes darting around, her grip on the pan tightening as if ready for another attack. Her wide eyes, scanning the room, darted to the chair, searching for the source of the voice.   

Sherlock sighed. "The situation is under control. No need for further violence—though, I must say, that was a rather impressive swing."  

Mrs. Hudson, now breathing heavily but visibly more composed, demanded, "Who’s talking?!"  

Sherlock considered his options. This was not how he planned to reveal himself, if he ever did. Before he could decide, Mrs. Hudson huffed, stepping over the unconscious man and swiftly picking up the gun. She checked the safety—good, at least she had some sense.

 “Whoever you are,” she snapped, holding the gun awkwardly but firmly, “stay put. I’m calling the police!”  

“Perfect,” Sherlock grinned.

He watched as the landlady swiftly fished her phone out of her apron pocket with her left hand, never lowering the gun. Her voice was steady—too steady for an old lady who had just been attacked—as she relayed the situation to the police in quick, efficient words. All the while, her wide eyes kept darting around, searching for the source of the voice she’d heard. Call finished, she lowered the phone, but her grip on the weapon remained firm.

"Show yourself!" she demanded, still scanning the room, her gaze flicking up toward the stairs.  

Sherlock sighed, then, as if merely making polite conversation over tea, began, “My name is Sherlock Holmes; I am Dr. Watson’s friend and flatmate. It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance properly. Oh, and I must say, your Victoria sponge last night was superb—an excellent decision to use vanilla paste.”  

He took a steadying breath before finally stepping out from his hiding place. “Down here, by the umbrella stand,” he added, relieved to see that, at the very least, the gun was now pointing away from him.

Mrs. Hudson’s jaw dropped as she finally spotted the small figure standing confidently by the stand. She stammered, “So... so… you’re not imaginary?”  

“Imaginary?” Sherlock tilted his head, a trace of amusement in his tone. “No, ma’am, I can assure you, I am quite real. Tiny, yes, but entirely tangible and very much breathing. Just a bit… shrunk.”  

--—————————————

John had just escaped a mind-numbing meeting with the head officers and was now understandably tired, hungry, and desperate for a moment of peace. He looked at his phone, only for his heart to lurch violently at the first message from Will.

"Crime in progress at 221A. Please disturb."

Swearing under his breath, John shot his arm up for a cab. “Police!” he barked, shoving himself inside the moment one screeched to a stop. His fingers flew to Sherlock’s number. No answer.

Next, he tried Mrs. Hudson. Two rings. Then—

“Oh, John, hi.  Don’t worry, dear, I’m fine! The police just left.”

John’s pulse, still hammering, barely registered her words. “The cops…? Fine. Fine. I’m coming home.”

“Alright, we’re fine.”

John exhaled sharply, letting his head fall back against the cab seat, relief finally catching up to him. His body loosened—until, suddenly, his eyes snapped open.

We…!?

Whatever chaotic scene John had braced himself for evaporated the moment he burst through the building’s entrance. It was calm, and 221A’s door was ajar.  

As he approached, muffled laughter and light conversation floated through the hallway, distinctly Mrs. Hudson’s voice. Some of the tension drained from his shoulders, though his confusion only deepened.  

He knocked once, then pushed the door open to her familiar invitation: “Come in, dear, the door’s open!”  

What greeted him made his jaw drop.  

Mrs. Hudson was seated at her small kitchen table, which looked like it had been set for a particularly charming doll’s tea party. There were biscuits, cheese, a slice of cake, a steaming teapot, teacups—

And across from her, perched on a matchbox, sat his infuriatingly tiny flatmate.  

Sherlock held the delicate cup, sipping with the same nonchalant ease he reserved for crime scene tea breaks, the saucer balanced effortlessly in his other hand. 

John felt like he had been standing there for an eternity, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. It wasn’t until Sherlock glanced up with his usual bored expression that John’s brain began working again.  

“Oh, John. Hello,” Sherlock greeted him as if nothing were remotely out of the ordinary. “I’m glad you joined us. Mrs. Hudson made the most exquisite lemon drizzle this morning. You should try it.”  

—-

John needed far more than tea to process the whirlwind of shock and stress from the afternoon, but eventually, the grounding comfort of Mrs. Hudson’s steady demeanor and Sherlock’s blasé attitude began to ease his nerves.  

“You know, I’ve been kicking myself for letting one of those so-called old  ‘friends’ of Tony’s into the house! Claimed he was just stopping by to say hello. Next thing I know, he’s waving a gun around and demanding I tell him about some safe deposit box Tony apparently had in that bank.” She sniffed in disdain. “As if I’d know anything about that nonsense. What a fool.”  

John’s jaw tightened. “Did he hurt you?”  

“Oh, nothing serious,” Mrs. Hudson said breezily, though her hand subconsciously rubbed her wrist where a faint bruise lingered. “A little bruise is all, but it could’ve been worse. Nasty man.’

Her smile softened, her tone maternal. “And don’t worry so much. We’ve got Sherlock Holmes watching out for us, don’t we?” 

An hour later, John prepared to return to work, carefully carrying Sherlock back to his room. Before leaving, he lingered in the kitchen doorway, looking back at Mrs. Hudson with an apologetic expression.  

“Mrs. Hudson, I just…I’m really sorry for not telling you about…well, Sherlock. I hope you understand, it’s—”  

Mrs. Hudson cut him off with a wave of her hand, a bright smile spreading across her face.  

“Oh, John, stop. No need to apologize. Honestly, dear, I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe.” She chuckled. “I’m just relieved to know the house isn’t haunted! Not that I really believed that nonsense, but you never know…”  

John opened his mouth to continue, but Mrs. Hudson beat him to it.  

“Now, don’t you worry about me. I may be old, but I’m no gossip. Do you think I’d chatter about my tenants at bridge night? I’m not daft, John. Know how important it is to keep this quiet. You’ve got nothing to worry about.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “Truth be told, you’ll need someone on your side. Everyone needs a confidant, especially when life gets…complicated.”  

John smiled, a little reassured by her sincerity. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I really mean that.”  

-----

John hated involving more people in their peculiar situation. First Molly, and now Mrs. Hudson. But what was done was done—there was no undoing it. At least Mrs. Hudson’s reaction had been unexpectedly cool, a reminder that she never ceased to surprise him.  

He hadn’t realized just how much her inclusion would change things. Suddenly, life felt a little less burdensome. For the first time in months, John could go to work or run errands without a constant undercurrent of worry about Sherlock’s well-being or what chaos might be unfolding in his absence.  

Sherlock had taken to spending many of his days with Mrs. Hudson downstairs, a development that initially left John mildly alarmed but quickly proved a blessing. They’d watch TV together—though Sherlock mostly made snarky comments about plot holes—or enjoy companionable silence during “reading time”. Sherlock, of course, couldn’t resist exploring every corner of her flat, and her junk drawer quickly became a new favorite haunt, as it contained a completely different array of oddities compared to their own.  

Mrs. Hudson, always eager to embrace the bizarre, delighted in Sherlock’s company. She listened with wide-eyed curiosity to his stories and speculations, soaking up every detail like a true fan. Her fascination extended to his wardrobe, too. While she appreciated the effort John and Molly had put into crafting his clothes, she found their work “practical, but uninspired”. Soon enough, she took it upon herself to elevate his wardrobe, sneaking in small refinements here and there.  

Sherlock, naturally, made a show of complaining about these uninvited upgrades, mostly theatrics. That evening, he was grumbling about how the number of mothers in his life had suddenly doubled and whining about unsolicited haircuts—though he’d finally donned the perfectly tailored purple shirt she’d adjusted for him. His hair, now neatly trimmed, no longer resembled a comical eraser head. John noted that despite all the noise, Sherlock seemed genuinely happy with the attention.

Now that the weight of constant vigilance had lifted, John felt the exhaustion of the last few months settle into his bones. He hadn’t realized just how much strain he’d been carrying since starting work at the Yard.

Glancing around the flat, he couldn’t help but think about the peculiar family they were building. It was unconventional, to say the least—an odd assembly of personalities, quirks, and secrets—but it somehow worked.  

And at least, he mused with a wry grin, there were fewer worries about Sherlock getting sucked into the vacuum!

Chapter Text

John stormed down the block, jaw tight, fists clenched. The late afternoon sun flashed off the shop windows—too bright, too cheerful, mocking him. Tourists dawdled, office workers hurried, and he shoved his way through, half convinced he could walk straight into the pub and just sit, let the world catch up on its own.

He sank into a corner seat, shoulders still rigid, and ordered a pint. The bartender, a young man with a teasing tilt to his grin, leaned across the counter.

“Rough day, mate? Looks like you just lost a duel with the whole city.”

John forced a humorless smile and took a slow, deliberate sip. “Something like that,” he muttered.

He let his eyes drift over the bar—the ordinary chatter, the clink of glasses—then up to the football on the TV, trying to pretend it was worth watching. Anything to distract him from the fact that Sherlock had upended his carefully plotted holiday, one he’d counted down to, booked, imagined in detail—now hijacked before it had even begun.

John had arranged his first proper break in ages—a ten-day escape to Spain’s Costa del Sol. He’d booked it well in advance, quietly counting down the days. An easy package deal: hotel, flights, transfers, all sorted. Familiar, affordable, full of fellow Brits. Not glamorous, but that wasn’t the point. He wanted sun, cold beer, football on TV, and the occasional quiet walk along the beach.

Planning hadn’t been easy—not with his demanding job and an even more demanding flatmate. John had booked the trip months earlier, back in April, when he was still between jobs. Once hired, one of his first questions to HR and his supervisor was whether he could still take the holiday in August. Negotiating his very first proper leave at NSY, he couldn’t help feeling a little guilty about asking, being the new guy.

It was only last month that John finally decided to bring up the summer holiday. On a calm July morning, they sat together over a quiet breakfast in the kitchen. John had just finished his toast and was watching Sherlock nibble on his own, half-absorbed in reading his freshly printed miniature-sized newspaper.

John pushed his plate aside, leaned back, and cleared his throat before outlining the ten-day trip he’d planned to Spain. He braced himself for protests — from the sheer illogic of the concept to the potential danger of dying from boredom. But to his surprise, Sherlock, though not particularly enthusiastic, didn’t instantly reject the idea. He lowered the newspaper and looked at John quietly as John explained the outlines of the trip to the Costa del Sol.

Worried Sherlock might change his mind, John hurriedly added, “I know you love staying in the city, but a brief change of scenery can be constructive for the brain — scientifically proven. Plus, you’d meet a lot of people from different countries.”

Sherlock, still holding the newspaper, raised an eyebrow.

John continued, warming to the subject. “Crystal-clear warm water, pretty beaches, sun… maybe not your favorite things, but important to me. I miss it. And lots of people on the beach…”

“And by ‘people,’ I assume you mean ladies in their bathing costumes, like that Love Island show you like?” Sherlock teased.

John shrugged. “Well, that too! Anyway, you’ll like it. Who knows, maybe we can even find a deserted corner late in the day and go for a little swimming.” He smiled, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling oddly warm talking about it.

He picked up his empty plate and took it to the sink. When he looked up, Sherlock was still in the same pose, but staring at him with one of his rare small smiles. Then, as if remembering propriety, he held the newspaper up in front of his face again.

They fell into a comfortable silence until John rose to leave. Sherlock slowly lowered the newspaper and, in a low, thoughtful voice, asked, “You mentioned swimming — does that mean we need to pack… swimming trunks?”

-------------------------------------------------

John came home earlier than usual that Friday, tired but content, ready to start packing for their weekend trip. He set his bag down with a sigh and loosened his coat—when Sherlock’s voice cut across the room, bright, almost electric.

“I’ve accepted an important case,” Sherlock announced from the desk, practically vibrating with triumph. “Costa Brava. We begin our investigation this Sunday.”

John froze where he stood, still gripping the straps of his bag. “Case?” he managed at last, his voice tight.“Sherlock, I’ve got a train ticket for Spain tomorrow afternoon!”

“So what? Costa Brava is in Spain.”

“Costa del Sol, Sherlock! That’s where I booked the package. I don’t even know where the hell this Brava place is!”

Sherlock shrugged, utterly unconcerned. “Minor detail. Both are in Spain. Sun, coast, mild climate—what’s the matter?”

John’s eyes widened in disbelief. It took him a few seconds to find his voice to answer, “Sherlock! You don’t understand! Spain is bloody huge! That’s probably the other side of the country. I’ll have to cancel the tickets, the transfers, the hotel—none of it refundable! It’s too late!”

Sherlock just stared at him, puzzled.

“Things have changed, okay? Vacation is now something you plan months ahead!” John growled.“For God’s sake, why didn’t you ask me before deciding anything?”

Sherlock cut in, impatient. “Yes, alright, but the game is—”

“No more games!” John exploded. “There’s no case, Sherlock! I’m going there to lie under the sun and switch my phone off! I want to come back actually rested, like a normal person. Do you have any idea how many nights I’ve counted down to this trip? How much I was looking forward to not thinking about crime scenes or corpses for once?”

Sherlock, calm and smug, said, “But you’ve already accepted, John. They’ll be expecting you Monday morning at—”

John’s eyes landed on the open laptop behind Sherlock. There was indeed an email thread glowing on the screen, a very warm thank-you reply addressed to him, thanking him for accepting the case on behalf of Detective Sigerson.

“What the—!?”  he yelled, his voice cracking. His fists clenched, that familiar surge of helpless fury rising in his chest. “Bloody hell, Sherlock?!”

He closed his eyes, counted to ten, and growled under his breath. “You know I’ve been planning this trip for bloody ages! I thought you were excited to go on these holidays with me! You let me ramble on about it for a month, and now you tell me you’ve accepted a case?!”

Sherlock tilted his head, entirely unruffled.

“Well, technically, you are on holiday. Spain, sunshine, seaside—that was the plan, wasn’t it? Only now you’ve the added benefit of an actual mystery to occupy your mind instead of cheap lager and sunburned tourists. I fail to see the problem.”

John was too angry to answer, forcing himself to take a few deep breaths and clamping his jaw shut. He couldn’t say it—not the real reason he’d been so careful, planning for months, counting down the days. It wasn’t just about a bloody beach. Ten days away, just the two of them, no crime, no chaos—he’d hoped it might help… fix things. Give them a chance to breathe. To remember they were still—whatever they were—before the silences and the sharp edges crept in. A chance to mend the growing distance between them.

Sherlock continued as if nothing was wrong: “It’s at least a seven, and I already have eight ideas. It shouldn’t take more than 3–4 days, all things considered, and then you can enjoy the rest of—”

But John didn’t wait to hear more. He stormed out the door, slamming it with such force that the whole house seemed to shake.

----------------------------------------------------

John took a long pull of his pint and told himself to stop thinking about it. Sherlock would never understand. Best to let it go, get through the mess of rebooking and replanning, swallow the extra expense—a real pain in the neck—if he could even find a new booking at all. But as he sat there, staring at the pitch on the screen, the ache lingered, quiet and stubborn.

On the other hand, he reminded himself, Sherlock had no clue how trains or reservations worked these days. He didn’t want to yell at his small roommate—but really, he should have seen it coming. Still, it felt like his own failure: not managing to give Sherlock a good time somewhere warm and ordinary, where life wasn’t all deduction and danger. Just a little proof that it didn’t always have to be so complicated.

It took John an hour, sitting there, staring at the football match on TV and seeking answers from his empty pint, to finally feel cooled down enough to return home and continue the conversation with his flatmate “safely.” The flames of raging anger had faded into the ashes of bitter disappointment. He took a deep breath and got up, ready to face the mess of replanning and cancellations.

On the way back home, he reminded himself to keep his cool every step of the way. If he expected to see Sherlock looking guilty—or even slightly ashamed—he was wrong. Sherlock sat cross-legged in front of John’s laptop, as if nothing had happened, tiny crisp crumbs scattered around him.

“Oh, John, you’re back already?” he said lightly, without looking up. “Hmm… come see, you’ll like the villa.”

“Oh God, help me,” John growled, rubbing his tired eyes. “Villa?!”

Sherlock reached for another crisp piece without looking up. “Certainly a better view than any Benidorm package you booked. Semi-private beach, a terrace shaded from the afternoon sun, no karaoke bars. Much quieter than whatever crowded hotel you chose. Honestly, John, you’ll thank me once you see it.”

He looked almost pleased with himself, glancing up, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. “Consider it an upgrade. A rather generous one, courtesy of the client.”

John only nodded—what else could he do? He couldn’t tell Sherlock he’d already pictured it all differently, not that he could quite explain how he’d imagined it.

He felt a pang of guilt but brushed it away. Sherlock had no right to make reckless decisions without consulting him. So he swallowed hard, let Sherlock have his little triumph. He took a deep breath, stretched his arms, and set about the impossible task of calling the train company to see what on earth they could do.

In the end, they got lucky. With some extra expense and a handful of tense phone calls, he managed to change his ticket. Not ideal, not what he’d planned, but at least it wasn’t a total disaster. As always.

-------------------------------

John tightened his inner vest, pressing the tiny form of Sherlock against his chest. The little man murmured something faint—probably a warning or a complaint, but John ignored it. At least this part—getting them through security—hadn’t been wasted like the rest of his planning for the trip.

The vest had been Mrs. Hudson’s genius idea, and she had even helped quickly trim and alter one of John’s old ones for the purpose. Despite John’s crabby mood, the three of them had a laughing time, John trying it on while they made adjustments and practiced, Sherlock perched at the table, monitoring the proceedings and barking orders.

Packing was a hassle, with John doing his best not to let disappointment and irritation slip into the luggage. If it hadn’t been for Mrs. Hudson, he probably wouldn’t have managed it properly at all. In fact, it was she who reminded him to pack his annoying travelmate’s care pack, stuffed with the tiny necessities he insisted on bringing. And it was she who patted his shoulder at the door, smiling gently, and said, “Go with the flow.”

Ahead, the security checkpoint hummed with activity. Passengers emptied their pockets into the plastic trays. Jackets and coats were lifted onto the conveyor belt to be X-rayed. John followed the routine carefully, placing his jacket in the tray, patting down the empty outer pockets to prove nothing was left. The inner vest, however, remained snug against his body. 

“Anything in your pockets, sir?” the officer asked.

John forced a smile, voice light but steady. “Just my tiny flatmate.” He shot a sideways glance at his chest, where Sherlock squirmed faintly.

The officer blinked, raised an eyebrow for a fraction of a second, then gave a polite nod. “Alright, sir. You can go through.”

The metal detector beeped once, then cleared him. No alarms, no questions. John exhaled quietly. As soon as he put the EarPods back,  Sherlock made a tiny, satisfied sound, and John imagined the miniature smirk on his face.

“Well,” John muttered under his breath as they moved along, “I guess we’re officially on our way. Finally.”

John eased himself into the train seat, sliding Sherlock into his front chest pocket with practiced care. Sherlock wriggled slightly, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like a complaint about “wasted travel time,” but John ignored it.

John smiled down at him. “Ten hours, buddy. Try not to drive anyone mad.”

From the safety of the pocket, Sherlock’s sharp eyes darted out, scanning the carriage. Every passenger became a subject for scrutiny: the imminent outburst of the child kicking the back of a seat, the woman reading a crime novel upside-down in another row, utterly absorbed in suspense. He murmured little observations, half to himself, half to John, muttering deductions and corrections in rapid-fire.

Anticipating his mini travel mate’s boredom, John brought out a stack of miniature books he had crafted for exactly this purpose, which the detective snatched eagerly. But to John’s surprise, Sherlock didn’t last long. Either the warmth of the pocket or sheer boredom—or perhaps both—lulled him to sleep less than an hour after departure. They had boarded the train around sunset, and now darkness stretched through the tunnels.

John had even brought his old camera bag, cushioned and equipped for the mini detective to spend part of the trip on the small table, but he didn’t want to disturb him. He took a last look at Sherlock, curled into his favorite pose deep in the pocket, and paused before slowly buttoning it, leaving enough room for air to flow.

He also reminded himself not to fall asleep, as he was worried about keeping an eye on the people around him. Well… he was mostly successful. After a couple of hours, though, not even all the coffee he had drunk before the train, or his worry about his tiny companion, could keep him from dozing off. And despite all the stress and frustration of the last twenty-four hours, his sleep was quiet and empty.

Their transfer from Barcelona to Costa Brava wasn’t hard, and gave John enough time to get a coffee and a pastry at the station, and in about half an hour, they were at their destination. John was hopeful that curious people wouldn’t be surprised seeing him putting crumbs and pouring coffee in his camera bag, but the second train was considerably less crowded than the first one, and also let Sherlock, sleepy and grumpy but curious, poke his head out and watch the scenery passing by. 

The air between them remained somehow tense; throughout the train ride, they barely spoke, and John was not comfortable enough to chat. Mrs. Hudson’s words lingered in his mind, echoing with gentle insistence.

The early morning scenery was beautiful. 

John gazed out the train window, marveling at the picturesque Catalan countryside unfolding before him. The early morning sun bathed the landscape in warm gold, casting long shadows over rolling hills and patchwork fields. Tiny villages with terracotta rooftops dotted the terrain, nestled among olive groves and vineyards.

Closer to the coast, the landscape opened to the Mediterranean. The calm blue of the sea reflected the pale sunlight, waves sparkling like scattered diamonds. Tiny fishing boats bobbed in the harbors, and along the cliffs, secluded coves and beaches hinted at hidden corners.

He glanced down at the camera bag on the table, where Sherlock sat perched, eyes sharp and gleaming, fascinated by how absorbed the little man was, his sharp eyes tracing every detail of the passing world. From this small position, the countryside should have looked impossibly vast, yet Sherlock took it all in, studying patterns in the fields, probably the spacing of the houses, or the way the sun reflected on windows.

“They’re so quaint,” John said, smiling. “These little houses… perfect for a peaceful morning, right?”

Sherlock’s lips twitched in something like a smirk. “Peaceful? Perhaps to you, John. To me… these isolated cottages are ideal for committing a murder with impunity.”

John blinked. “You mean… seriously?”

Sherlock leaned slightly forward, voice low and precise. “You forget, I have a mind attuned to detection. You see charm; I see opportunity.”

John shook his head. “Of course you do.”

------------------------------------

The train had been quiet for the last two hours, but John couldn’t take a nap as he had wanted and planned, which left him stiff and aching. When it pulled into the small Costa Brava station just after sunrise, he blinked against the pale light. A sleek black car waited, engine humming softly, and as mentioned in the emails, a man in a suit stood by the arrival gate holding a sign that read: “Dr. J. Watson.”

“Hello, Welcome to Costa Brava. I will take you to your room, yes?” in lightly accented but precise English

John straightened, “Yes, thank you. I’m here on behalf of Mr. Sigerson, the private detective. The villa, please.” Inside his coat pocket, Sherlock wriggled slightly.

John muttered. “Guess your case has already begun.”

The man, who introduced himself as Hugo, showed identification, took John’s bags with practiced efficiency, and led them toward the car.

The drive to the villa was short, twisting along the coastal road, the cliffs on one side, the glimmering cove on the other. 

By the time the car arrived at the villa, the morning sun had begun to warm the cove below. John’s legs felt like rubber, but he couldn’t help smiling at the sight: a semi-private beach tucked into a rocky bay, a terrace shaded by olive and pine trees, and the quiet, unspoiled stretch of sand below.

The chauffeur said he’d be there to pick him up in an hour and a half. John wanted to protest—I need some rest!—but, of course, they were on their way to a case anyway. He muttered a quiet thank you and managed a ghost of a smile.

Inside the villa, sunlight streamed through tall windows, glinting off the white walls and terracotta floors. Watching the car pull away, John took Sherlock out of his pocket and set him on the small coffee table. The detective stretched like a wild little animal and groaned before dramatically flopping onto his back. Meanwhile, John set down his luggage and began unpacking. Carefully lifting Sherlock’s tiny bathtub, he muttered under his breath:“If anyone checked my luggage, they’d have a very strange idea of what I pack for vacations…”

“I do require certain standards, John. Not everyone can improvise a proper bath in a cove,” Sherlock muttered back, still sprawled on the table. 

“If it wasn’t for Mrs. H, I’d just let you bathe in a teacup.”

A quick shower later, they both felt refreshed. The small kitchenette was adequately packed with coffee, croissants, an ensaimada, a small bowl of fresh citrus and berries, and a slice of pa amb tomàquet.

John poured a cup of coffee from a small side table and filled Sherlock’s. He handed that to Sherlock, who took it delicately, before making a plate full of food. _

Sherlock: “Where do you think we can find a decent espresso? I hope there’s been some progress here in the art of making coffee.”

John: “Since when?”

Sherlock: “Since Café de Fornos, Madrid, 1881.”

John: “Really? I bet it was a pretty fancy place back then. How was the coffee?”

Sherlock: “A strong, acrid, over-burnt concoction—utterly lacking in refinement or elegance.”

John: “Curious to see how it’s changed now.”

He stepped onto the terrace with a cup of coffee in hand, taking in the quiet morning. A gentle breeze rustled the pines. The beach below was empty, save for a few distant gulls circling over the bay. 

Sherlock sat on John’s shoulder to check, “Hmm. No prying eyes. Very satisfactory. And the sun is just right for afternoon observation of minor currents and… leisure.”

John leaned back, savoring the first sip. “Well, Mr. Sigerson. Think we're ready to meet your mysterious client now.” 

Chapter Text

The moment they settled into the back seat for the first time, John tried to make conversation. Nothing heavy—just the usual friendly touches to soften a long drive: where Hugo was from, how long he’d worked for the Valdezar family, whether the estate was far.

Hugo answered every question politely. Too polite—the kind of politeness that sounded rehearsed. His posture stayed rigid as he drove this time, even slightly more, fingers locked around the steering wheel. Whenever John mentioned the family, Hugo’s eyes flicked briefly to the rearview mirror, then back to the road with a faint, guarded tightness around the mouth. He wasn’t rude or evasive. He was… careful.

John leaned back and let out a long sigh. Outside, the day was brilliantly sunny—the kind of day made for games and lightheartedness—but inside, it was as if he was stepping into something dark. The brightness felt distant, the world suddenly gray around him. He closed his eyes, trying to push away the nagging feeling of being dragged along like a marionette, having no control over where he was headed—the feeling he hated most.

On the train, John read and gathered as much information as he could. The family: Bodegas Valdezar, one of the oldest wine houses in Spain, founded in 1620. They produced high-end, award-winning Rioja reserva and gran reserva wines and were known for their extremely strict, traditional production methods. Their wines were exported worldwide, carrying a reputation for prestige and old-world quality. Their brand motto, in Latin, was: “Honor et Terra”—Honor and Land.

John knew even less about the client, the patriarch: Don Alejandro Valdezar, age 67. A powerful, rigid, intimidating figure. No social media presence, almost nothing on the internet—just fleeting mentions in a few formal events and galas. He didn’t strike John as the outgoing type.

What he did gather so far: Don Alejandro was a former military officer, deeply patriotic, a man devoted to Spain, tradition, honor, and hierarchy. His reputation preceded him: “The Lion of Rioja”. Feared by business rivals, respected by politicians.

By Friday, after John’s initial wrath and fumes had subsided, and the last-minute, hasty arrangements for traveling were done, he realized a surprising fact: Sherlock had agreed to take a case that wasn’t exactly clear. He had a strict rule about ambiguous cases—yet here he was. John wondered if perhaps Sherlock already knew more than he was letting on.

Even now, John had no idea why they were hired—beyond the vague explanation of a “family matter”. Whatever it was, he hoped it would be over quickly. Just let it be solved fast, he silently prayed.

---------------------------------------------------

They reached La Casa Solariega Valdezar, the Valdezar family residence, in less than twenty minutes. Hugo mentioned in passing—almost casually—that it had been built in 1683.

A long driveway, flanked by tall cypress trees, led to the mansion, a pale stone fortress with terracotta roofs that seemed to stare down at them. Even from the car, John felt the weight of it,  a cold castle planted in the midst of a sunlit landscape, heavy with secrets buried beneath generations of silence.

Inside, he was greeted in the main hall by the manager, a tall, salt and pepper-haired man in an immaculate charcoal suit, his grey eyes cool and unreadable.

John glanced once more at the list on his phone—the roster of staff Sherlock had requested—and braced himself.

“Dr. John Watson? Esteban Llorente, Chief of Staff to Don Alejandro Valdezar.” The man said,  “I must apologize for the household’s current… state,” Llorente said as he guided John down a dimly lit hallway. “We were not expecting outside inquiries.”

The carpet muffled their steps, and the walls were lined with old paintings in heavy gilded frames, their subjects’ eyes seeming to follow him. John felt as if he were walking through the National Portrait Gallery.

The rest of the mansion did nothing to ease the sense of dread: heavy dark-wood furniture, antique tapestries depicting battles and saints, every corner steeped in solemn history.

Llorente finally showed him into a large study—dark wood panels, thick carpets, and heavy curtains drawn just enough to keep the light from softening the edges.

The room reeked of old cigars and tension.

Don Alejandro sat behind a low table, hands folded, posture perfect. John felt the weight of expectation pressing into the room before a word was even spoken. The man’s presence filled the room, rigid and controlled, voice deep, firm, and carefully polite when he spoke.

“Dr. Watson,” the patriarch said, voice calm but hard. “I trust your journey was… uneventful.”

He talked in the manner of a man who always gives orders; even now that the situation was dire, it seemed to be difficult for him to act differently. Although John could catch the flicker—the small, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of an eye, the tightening of the jaw—that betrayed panic, or perhaps shame.

John gave a small nod, eyes scanning the room. Paintings of ancestors glared down from the walls. Dark wood furniture gleamed. Every surface was spotless. Nothing casual, everything deliberate.

“You realize that this is a very delicate matter, and it is very important that it stays just within these walls and no one, especially the police, should be informed, as I have informed Mr. Sigerson previously. And I hope you understand the need for discretion. The matter… is private. An acquaintance mentioned he helped him with a problem a few months ago, and I thought he could help us now.”

“I understand this is delicate,” John said, giving another curt nod. 

He was starting to get impatient. The atmosphere, the hidden pressure of the archaic, museum-like room, and even the dead stare of the ancestors from the walls were making him feel that. 

Don Alejandro moved a finger to Llorente, who stood at his boss’s side, his stare more annoying than anything. He looked calmer even than his boss. Too calm, maybe. Too calculated. He brought forth a big leather case, probably one of his boss’s old logbook cases, and handed it to John. Well, the contents weren’t what you would expect in a logbook. Inside was a crumpled, very clichéd ransom letter made from cut-out letters.

Don Alejandro said, “My son, Tomás, was supposed to be back on Monday. He left last Friday morning for Madrid, but instead we received this first letter on Tuesday.”

John stared at the note. The cut-out letters were eerie enough, but the text itself meant nothing to him:

EN TOMÀS ÉS NOSTRE.

PAGA.

SENSE POLICIA.

OBEÏX O TE’N PENEDIRÀS.

He glanced up helplessly. “Er… I’m sorry, what does it say? I don’t speak Spanish.“

Don Alejandro’s eyes darkened. “Catalan, not Spanish,” he said, his voice sharp. “It says: ‘Tomás is ours. Pay. No police. Obey, or you will regret it.’”

And before John could answer, he continued, “We believed at first it was a sick prank. I tried to contact Tomás. There was no answer—though it wasn’t unusual for him, so…”

John sorted through the contents of the leather case—more strange cut-out letters, jagged words glued in crooked, unsettling lines.

“The next letter arrived two days later,” Don Alejandro went on, his voice tightening. “A harsher tone. They demanded one million euros. And the threats…” He exhaled sharply. “Worse.”

John lifted the final sheet. Its edges were torn, dirty, as if handled by someone careless—or cruel.

“The last one,” Alejandro said quietly. “Complaining, we had taken no action. It says: ‘If you don’t want Tomás, we don’t either. We will send him to you—gradually.’”

John hummed and set the letters aside.

“So, what have you done so far?”

Don Alejandro drew a slow breath, his voice still perfectly composed. “Since the first letter, I asked every contact I have in Spain about Tomás, of course, and nothing.”

John was surprised he had waited even that long.

“I beg your pardon, Don Alejandro, but I don’t understand why you didn’t go to the police. If you believe your son is in danger, this is serious.”

Alejandro shot him a dark, warning look. “I do not trust the local force to keep this quiet. One leak—one uniformed fool hungry for glory—and my son dies. I have the means to act faster, and far more discreetly, than they ever could.”

John didn’t know what to say. He only cleared his throat. “Any suspects?”

“I do.” Alejandro’s voice hardened, though his posture remained calm. “I am fairly certain this comes from the Aldabó family. We have been in a… dispute for several years over a major court case concerning a series of fraud and espionage cases. They lost that case, and with it, a great deal of money.”

He paused, jaw tightening. “The man himself told me I would regret the outcome. I never imagined he would sink this low. They have already sabotaged parts of my vineyards—damaged property, injured workers. Petty acts of vengeance.”

Alejandro’s eyes darkened, the mask slipping for a heartbeat.

“But this—kidnapping my son—this is beyond anything I believed him capable of. He must be desperate. Truly desperate.” His tone clipped but measured, “Not that I am a man inclined to negotiation, but I still believed the matter could be resolved privately. He has children of his own; I assumed—even if he chose to ‘teach me a lesson’—he would not cross certain lines. I thought it was posturing. A bluff.”

He exhaled slowly, knuckles whitening on the armrest.

“So I went to him. I asked—maybe not politely enough —if there was something we needed to discuss. If there was any… misunderstanding that required clearing up.”

A bitter, humourless smile crossed his mouth. “He refused to let us inside. Stood at the doorway like a guard dog, shouting that everything was ‘settled’ long ago and that now I must ‘face the consequences.’ Pretended not to understand what I was referring to, but the satisfaction in his eyes—God, it was unmistakable.”

He paused, jaw tightening, fighting down whatever darker thought rose in him.

John leaned slightly forward. “If you’re this certain, I have to ask again, why haven’t you contacted the police? Even without evidence, an investigation—”

Don Alejandro’s expression darkened—not with anger, but with something far more controlled.

“Because, Dr. Watson… an official investigation would destroy any chance of getting my son back alive. The Aldabós may be vicious, but they are not fools,” he continued, voice low, steady. “If this is their doing—and I am nearly certain it is—then the moment the police become involved, they will panic. They will hide him, move him, or worse.”

He sat back, fingers interlaced, every movement precise.

“Secondly, the police cannot move discreetly. The moment I file a report, every patrol car within three provinces will know that ‘Valdezar’s boy is missing.’ Gossip will erupt. Reporters will swarm. The Aldabós will hear it within the hour.”

John opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“And lastly,” Don Alejandro added, tone sharpening, “I do not trust the local authorities to handle anything involving my family objectively. I have… history with them. Old rivalries. Envy. Influence.” His shoulder rose slightly in a shrug. “Involving them would be handing my enemies the perfect opportunity to twist the situation further.”

He lifted his chin.

“No. I will not risk Tomás by allowing bureaucracy or corruption anywhere near this.”

A beat.

“That,” he finished quietly, “is why I need Mr. Sigerson.”

John thought to himself, Well, not much we can get directly from this man. Time to go Sherlock-style. He cleared his throat. “Alright, Mr. Sigerson’s given me strict orders to follow, so if I may, I’ll start by asking some questions of your staff.” As if they’re not stressed and scared to death to say a word, he added silently.

The manager directed John to a living room. It was slightly brighter, with more sunlight filtering through the tall windows, but still grim, walls lined with gold-plated frames holding more ancient, judging faces. He spent almost two hours asking staff a string of tedious questions, while Sherlock observed discreetly from John’s travel bag, perched neatly on the table.

The staff were varied in age and gender, but all shared one thing in common: careful, measured movements and an almost palpable fear. Almost all insisted that the father and son had an excellent relationship, that nothing significant had ever happened, and that Don Alejandro was an amazing father to all his children. According to them, Tomás was a fortunate, happy, and beloved boy—warm, friendly, and affectionate.

Slowly, a picture of the missing son began to form: a quiet, sweet, shy child, the last after four daughters. His mother had died shortly after his birth. He had been kind and considerate with the staff, and studied architecture in Barcelona. One staff member mentioned that he had recently returned from an educational trip to Germany, and the father had hosted a welcoming party, instructing the staff to bring out some very old wine for it.

Everyone seemed to like him. When John asked a few older staff if they had ever noticed hostility from friends or neighbors, or if Tomás had ever seemed uncomfortable, they all dismissed the idea. 

Despite appearing obedient and willing to help, none seemed able to speak freely.

John was growing impatient, ready to call it a day, until one of the maids, Doña Mercedes, spoke up. She had overheard a heated argument between father and son just days before Tomás disappeared. Uneasily, she said that the young man had left the room, upset—possibly crying.

That small revelation reignited John’s motivation, pushing the fatigue and sleepiness from his mind. The case felt a bit more alive again.

After an hour, John asked for a break and requested a brief tour around the house. The manager obliged, showing him only what John thought were the “most relevant” rooms—including a quick look at the manager’s office on the first floor, which John requested under the pretense of wanting to see the backyard from its window, and required him to put his bag down on the desk for a moment. And, of course, Tomás’s bedroom.

The suite was in the left wing of the building, noticeably sunnier and brighter than the rest of the house. Sherlock, now poking his head out of John’s pocket, conducted his usual laser-focused observation, giving John whispered directions and orders: move closer, step back, adjust the angle.

When John leaned at a window to get a better look at the yard, Sherlock whispered in his ear, Tell the manager to show you the next room, and let me out of here.

John hesitated for a moment—Why…?—but knew better than to argue. He discreetly lifted Sherlock out of his breast pocket and placed him carefully on a nightstand, pretending to pull out his notebook to jot something down. God, I should start being a magician, he thought wryly. I’ve become so good at these sneaky moves with practice. 

‘Good. Now go and come back in five minutes.’ The whisper said.

He didn’t dare ask how or why; instead, he turned to Llorente. “Is it alright if I take a look at the next room?”

The manager’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “The next room…? But it’s just a storage room.”

Damn you, Sherlock John cursed inside. “I know… eh… just to confirm something,” he muttered aloud.

He hoped that pretending to seriously examine some dusty bins and cardboard boxes, and a dustier pair of roller skates hanging in the corner, wouldn’t make him look ridiculous.

Then he heard the whisper in his ear: Ask if you can take the picture frame on the nightstand.

John mentioned it casually to Llorente, and there in the bedroom, with another Houdini-worthy maneuver, he swept the frame—and Sherlock—into his pocket, this time down low, not the usual breast pocket, all under the ever-watchful eyes of the manager lingering by the door.

God, I need a drink, he thought grimly.

On their way back down, John’s eyes wandered over the walls of the estate, lingering on the family portraits lining the grand hallway. Generations of Valdezars stared back at him: rigid, stern men in naval uniforms, women in heavy lace collars, children posed in perfect symmetry. Oil and paint canvas, then black and white photos, yellowed pictures with time, and finally colored ones.

John recognized Tomás in several of the frames—different stages of his life, from a little boy riding a pony to formal graduation portraits, including one of the photos they had sent through the website to Sherlock earlier. What struck John again was the expression: the more recent the pictures became, the sadder and more withdrawn Tomás looked. In the last few years, he didn’t even bother with the polite, staged smile for the Christmas family photos anymore.

Sherlock murmured, “Get closer to the big frame—the green one… yes, there.”

It was an old family photo: Tomás at his birthday, seated before a huge cake with a candle shaped like a 9, his smile bright and unguarded. The last photo, John realized, where he looked truly happy.

Tomás sat cross-legged on the floor, his expression open and curious, clinging to a woman who knelt beside him. Her smile was gentle, warm—so different from the stern faces surrounding them. She wore a simple black dress, and an unmistakable air of affection radiated from her.

John whispered, “What about it?”

“The woman,” Sherlock said softly. “On his left. Find out who she is.”

The woman turned out to be Señora Carmela.

The manager hesitated before speaking. “She was… the young master’s nanny.”

“I didn’t see her name on the staff list,” John noted.

“Well… she doesn’t live here anymore,” he replied carefully. “She had a—let’s say—mild disagreement with Don Alejandro and chose to retire. Left the estate years ago. I’m not entirely sure where she is now.”

Later, when things had quieted, John discreetly asked Hugo about her. Hugo looked genuinely surprised by the question, but after a moment’s thought, he gave John directions to her small home outside the estate. He was still so hesitant, as if revealing her location might stir up trouble he didn’t want to be part of.

By around noon, John was too drained — mentally and physically — to stay in that house any longer. His notebook and his brain both felt close to bursting after the morning’s flood of information. He needed to rest before anything else slipped through the cracks.

Sherlock shifted inside his pocket. He was still analyzing, of course, but John could feel the tension in him too.

Llorente appeared again. “Dr. Watson, Don Alejandro asked me to offer you lunch here in the house. He is unfortunately occupied at the moment, but the kitchen is prepared.”

John froze for half a second. Lunch here? In this suffocating place? This museum, where every step felt judged?

He forced a polite smile. “That’s very kind. Truly. But—” He paused, reaching for the softest possible excuse. “I’d actually prefer to see the town a bit. Mr. Sigerson’s instructions. I can have lunch there.”

“I will inform the driver,” Llorente replied in his ever-polite, friendly voice, a voice John no longer found quite so charming.

Sherlock whispered inside the pocket, so quietly it tickled John’s ribs.

“Good. Another hour in this tomb and I would’ve started digging my way out.”

“Yeah. Me too,” John muttered back.

In the car, John discreetly shifted Sherlock from his pocket into the small travel satchel—a practiced motion he could probably do blindfolded by now.

The farther they got from the mansion, the more the chauffeur seemed to relax. His shoulders uncoiled, his posture softened. He didn’t speak at first, but the difference was noticeable.

By the time they reached the outskirts of town, the change in him was almost startling.

John made an off-hand comment—just a quiet question about the old stone tower they passed, casual curiosity, nothing more—and it was like flipping a switch.

Hugo brightened. “Ah, that?” he said, glancing back briefly with a spark in his eye. “It’s from the eleventh century. Used to be for defense, now it’s where we hold the harvest festival.”

From there, the conversation flowed naturally—smooth, unforced, and surprisingly pleasant. Thirty minutes later, John felt like he’d gotten an unofficial tour.

Born and raised there, with a genuine pride in his homeland, Hugo gave a concise but interesting history and some fun facts about the town. Which streets and stores to avoid (“Tourist traps!”) and which to definitely visit; which little shops were still run by old families; the bakery that made the best coca de crema in the region; where the fishermen sold their catches at dawn; the perfect cliffside spot for watching sunsets in summer; the tiny bookstore no one could find unless shown. 

John listened with a smile, genuinely charmed. Even Sherlock peeked out from inside the satchel, whispering, “He’s quite passionate. I approve.”

As they drove past the narrow streets, Hugo gestured casually.

“That bar across the street?” he said. “I wouldn’t hang around there. Usually, the Aldabó family—old rivals of the Valdezars. Better just keep walking if you pass by.”

John frowned slightly. “The grudge is real, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Hugo said, eyes on the road. “They keep an eye on outsiders, that’s all. You’ll be fine if you stay polite. Some shops, though… the owners have connections. Stick to the family-run places, you’ll enjoy the town more.”

The chauffeur then listed a few restaurants—his own favorites, not the fancy ones for tourists or the flashy ones near the beach. John chose one immediately. He was pretty famished, and although his tiny companion didn’t confess, he was sure he needed some fuel, too. 

When they pulled into the sunny town square, John politely declined Hugo’s offer to wait. “I’ll manage on my own,” he said. “I need the time to walk… and think.”

After Hugo departed, Sherlock’s voice rose from inside the bag, 

“Well. A surprisingly pleasant man… once he escapes the baron’s castle.”

John was shifting the satchel on his shoulder.

“Come on. Lunch first, thinking later.” He was hungry enough to eat a horse, and Sherlock had admitted (reluctantly, with great dignity) that he probably needed a bit of “fuel” too.

John arched an eyebrow as he tucked the satchel’s flap just enough for Sherlock to peek out.
“Fuel? What happened to ‘I don’t eat when I’m working, John.’” 

“That’s for London. We’re on foreign soil, Watson. Now march. You’re about twelve minutes away from getting hangry again, and I refuse to listen to your stomach growling any longer.”

It was their first real conversation since the fight, and for the first time that weekend, John allowed himself a flicker of hope—maybe his vacation wasn’t entirely ruined after all.

At La Llar de Mariona, John spotted a table tucked into a corner of the terrace. A narrow ledge ran along the railing, and two wooden tables, worn smooth by decades, sat just far enough from other diners.

He claimed the one at the far end, creating a small island of privacy—bathed in gentle sunlight, with a clear view of the calm bay, and safely distant from prying eyes.

He set his satchel carefully on the table, leaning it slightly against the chair. The flap opened just enough for a small, familiar face to poke out.

“Finally,” Sherlock complained, stretching all twelve centimeters of his frame. “I was beginning to suspect you’d forgotten me in here. I can barely feel my limbs.”

John lifted the menu. “We’ll start simple. Something hearty.”

The pa amb tomàquet with olive oil, truita de patates, and pollastre a la brasa—and later a small coca de crema—vanished quickly, with few words exchanged between them. Sherlock sniffed dramatically.

“Finally… something edible.”

“You don’t eat.”

“I can have opinions.”

Still, he eventually accepted small morsels of both the first and last dishes.

There wasn’t anybody else on the terrace, and John embraced the moment, leaned back, took a sip of water, and let his gaze drift to the sunlit sea. The waves sparkled, gulls called in the distance, and for the first time all morning, he could breathe.

Another good part was that Sherlock could climb fully out of the bag, surveying both the view and John’s plate.

“Your concentration improves dramatically with proper sustenance, Watson. I approve.”

Walking around the small town was interesting, but John’s mind was crowded with thoughts and worries. Enjoying the scenery and the town’s unique atmosphere proved difficult, and before long, they found themselves heading back.

———————————————————-

John took off his jacket with a groan. On the coffee table, Sherlock almost mirrored the gesture.

“God, I’m so happy I didn’t have to stay longer in that building,” John said, sinking into the couch. “Sapped all my energy.”

Sherlock, perched on the table and stretching like he was in a yoga pose, replied, “I knew you wouldn’t like staying there. That’s why I insisted on a villa. Although personally, I would’ve preferred to remain. For investigative purposes of course.”

“Really? Did Don Alejandro actually offer you a room in his castle?”

“It’s not a castle, John. And as far as I know, they have enough spare rooms to give us one without any bother. I kind of liked it, actually—it reminded me of…”

“Oh man,” John interrupted with a laugh. “Imagine sleeping in one of those rooms with portraits stabbing you with their looks all night. No, thank you. I’d rather sleep in a tent by the beach.”

“Not really,” Sherlock said, smirking. “The sun’s scorching there, and the seagulls are aggressive.”

“Any ideas so far?”

Sherlock touched his toes, hummed thoughtfully. “Hm… almost six.”

John had planned to make a strong coffee and lay out all the new data and evidence, ready to piece everything together. But between the day’s exhaustion and the delicious food, he had barely sat down before deciding a short nap was in order.

When he woke, disoriented, dizzy, and hot, he realized it was already half past five. Almost three hours had slipped by. He felt rested and groggy at once, guilty as if he’d neglected a duty he’d been assigned.

As usual, the first thing he did was scan the room for Sherlock.

The tiny detective was exactly where he had asked John to drop him when they arrived, sitting cross-legged on a pack of Wet Ones antibacterial wipes John had left there, hands joined under his nose in deep thinking mode. John wondered how long he’d been in that pose—probably in his own mental sanctum.

Grateful that the villa had an electric kettle, John found some Earl Grey tea bags, brewed a cup, and opened his laptop to work on the data they’d gathered. Sherlock didn’t budge, even when John carefully set the tiny cup of tea beside him. Finally, John gave him a gentle nudge.

Sherlock snapped out of his trance with a sudden shake, blinking a few times before giving John a quizzical stare.

“Thought you could use a cuppa.”

Sherlock gave the little steaming mug a suspicious look. “Tea… in Spain? Did Mrs.H pack some of her stash, too?”

“No,” John said. “I found some teabags in the cabinets.”

Sherlock scowled. “You know I despise these powdered pretenders. There is no tea.”

“Well,” John shrugged, “I guess this is all we can do right now, so deal with it.”

Sherlock muttered something indistinct, then went back to his mind.

John sighed, opening his own laptop. “And if you’re done wandering in your mind-space, maybe it’s not a bad idea to take a look at your case, Mr. Sigerson.”

Sherlock ignored him. John was done for the night, indulging instead in a jamón serrano and manchego sandwich with a glass of wine. Then dropped onto the bed with the remote, turning on the TV. Enough of this annoying detective for today. Hopefully, no dreams of stern-faced opponents hunting him down would plague his sleep.

Chapter Text

The first task on the second day was to locate Señora Carmela, the nanny. John had managed to track her down the day before, thanks to information from one of the older staff. She had cared for Tomás since birth, after his mother had passed away following his birth. Now elderly, she had left the mansion long ago and lived in a quiet, distant part of town.

John had planned to rent a car, hoping it would give Sherlock more freedom to explore and observe the area. But then he remembered they still needed to interview Señora Carmela—a task complicated by the fact that she would likely never trust non-spanish speaking strangers who claimed to be inquiring about Tomás. John definitely didn’t want to arrive and tell the elderly woman that her dear child was missing. The solution was obvious: he would need Hugo’s help.

Señora Carmela lived in a small, modest house with her cousin. When John and Hugo arrived, they found her on the balcony. She was small and wiry, but full of life, with bright, intelligent hazel eyes. Comfortably dressed and shaded by the wicker rocking chair, she wore a headset, listening to music as her hands moved rhythmically over her knitting.

Her face lit up when she saw Hugo, who, honoring the understanding he and John had reached, offered her a gentle reassurance even before John spoke. They spent some time exchanging warm greetings and laughter.

“Señora Carmela, this is John Watson. He’s been helping the family recently.” Hugo said.

John mentioned that Hugo could serve as their interpreter. She gave a small, charming smile, lifted her phone from beside a large mug of coffee, and said, “No need,” showing the Google Translate app.

John couldn’t help letting out a soft laugh—the lady was far more up-to-date than he had expected.

Hugo gently guided the conversation, helping John ask whether she had seen Tomás recently, or anything about his life now. 

Sherlock whispered in his ear, “Good. Now, use your Watson charm.”

John resisted an eye roll and offered a gentle smile, keeping his tone calm and respectful.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Hugo has told me so much about your devotion to Tomás over the years. I’m just here to understand a little more about him—how he’s been, what’s on his mind. The family asked me to check in and make sure everything is all right.”

He was more grateful than ever to have Hugo as their guide and buffer, as her attention shifted back to John, her smile tightened slightly, and a brief, fleeting glimmer of worry passed over her sharp, alert eyes. It was just a flash, but enough to make him pause—enough to tell him that, despite her outward calm, she was quietly concerned.

It was clear she didn’t know what had really happened—otherwise, she wouldn’t be so relaxed, so calm. Equally obvious that she had never cared for Don Alejandro; her eyes darkened slightly at the mere mention of him.

Her voice wavered as she spoke of Tomás’s mother, recalling the difficult pregnancy and the hardships she had endured. She described the father’s coldness, his emotional distance, and the neglect that had shadowed the boy’s early life.

Señora Carmela’s gaze softened as she spoke of Tomás. She had cared for him like a mother—fierce, unwavering. With a quiet sigh, she set her crochet hook down.

John waited silently, giving her space.

“Growing up with that father…” she began, shaking her head. “It wasn’t easy. Not only was he distant, cold. Never a warm word.” Her mouth tightened. “He sent Tomás to boarding school. The boy cried for days. Clung to me. And I could do nothing but let him go.”

She went on, explaining how everything in Tomás’s life was meant to follow tradition—his grandfather, his great-grandfather, all the way back. “But this time,” she said with a hint of pride, “Tomás chose his passion. He chose architecture.”

Then her expression dimmed. She spoke of how Don Alejandro had imposed that winter Germany trip—half punishment, half discipline—ostensibly a prestigious architectural internship, but cruelly timed, deliberately harsh. A lesson in obedience.

She met John’s eyes and said one word, firm and bitter:

“Dictador.”

John asked gently, “So… he wasn’t really happy here, was he?”

Her eyes glistened. “The last time Tomás visited me… he was happy.” A small, sad smile. “After so long.” She glanced toward Hugo, as if confirming it was safe to say more. “Probably happy it was over.”

John felt there was more—something she hadn’t said yet. He waited, gently, hoping she might continue. But Carmela only lifted her crochet hook again, her hands steady even as her voice faded into silence.

John exhaled slowly. It wasn’t the full answer he’d hoped for—but it was a crucial piece all the same.

And he couldn’t help wondering how much Hugo had known all along, while the rest of the staff seemed oblivious. One thing was clear: Hugo was likely one of the only people Don Alejandro truly trusted.

--------------------------------------------------

John returned to the mansion to interview a few more staff members who hadn’t been available the day before. Llorente, the manager, informed him that they hadn’t received any new letters.

The staff John spoke to today seemed even less aware of what was going on, and he couldn’t help feeling that he was wasting his time. He imagined Sherlock probably about to burst from boredom—or maybe even asleep, since he hadn’t heard a peep from him in a while.

John wished he didn’t have the language barrier and could speak directly to the staff. But with the grim Llorente always present as interpreter, even when there wasn’t a need for one,  he wasn’t sure anyone would ever reveal anything in front of the man. Did Don Alejandro truly trust anyone to speak freely? 

His suspicions were confirmed when it was Anna’s turn, an almost newly hired maid. She greeted him in flawless English, leaving no doubt about her skills. And yet, Llorente remained beside John, sitting rigidly with his neutral, unreadable smile.

Anna was the only staff member John noticed who didn’t carry the usual air of stress or excessive caution. She seemed at ease, confident in herself—probably because she hadn’t been at the mansion long enough to absorb its oppressive rhythms. Her large olive green eyes shone with intelligence, alert and lively.

She went on to explain that she was a sophomore at ECAM, the famous film school in Madrid, and had only started working at the villa because her father’s vineyard had an “accident,” and she needed to help her family financially.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s whisper in his ear: “You need to talk to her more! Alone!”

John told himself, Yeah… easier said than done! And tried to think quickly.

 “So, you’ve been helping the family in the kitchen… do you have any cooking experience?”

Anna shrugged a little: “Not really. My studies were in cinema, so nothing like that. I just used to work part-time at a coffee shop in town.”

“Oh? Which one?” John asked, smiling, leaning slightly forward with genuine curiosity. “Was it any good? I might have to try it sometime.”

Anna brightened a bit, as if enjoying the topic. “La Ventana-It was small, cozy… the pastries were amazing, though the espresso could have been stronger.”

“Sounds perfect. Do you still go there?”

“Yeah, it has a nice, cozy balcony—perfect for writing in the late afternoon.”

John tried a small, casual gesture—a glance toward the window and a soft, fleeting nod. If she notices, she’ll understand… otherwise, nothing lost.

Anna met his eyes for a brief second, a faint smile flickering across her face. She said nothing, but something in that glance told him she’d understood.

John wasn’t sure if the subtle hint had worked, but at least Llorente remained completely unaware, still sitting with his neutral smile.

Later that day, John stepped into Café La Ventana. There she was—seated at a corner table, fingers flying over her laptop keys. He smiled politely. “May I join you?”

Her smile lit up, brighter than it had been that morning.

John ordered a cortado, just as she had recommended, and she had a café con leche in front of her. They fell into a casual chat, the gentle hum of the café and the warm afternoon sunlight spilling across the table making the conversation easy and unhurried.

John said, “Beautiful town, isn’t it?”

She shook her head with a small frown. “I don’t like it. It’s so boring—nothing ever happens here. It’s really hard to find inspiration for the story I want to turn into my first short film.”

John tasted his drink. “I have to say, I’m impressed—you got my hint and actually came here.”

Anna smiled. “I’m not stupid. When the famous Dr. Watson comes all the way here, there has to be something serious going on!”

John laughed. “Haha, don’t tell me you’re reading my blog!”

“Of course I do! I love it. It’s amazing. A bit dramatized sometimes… but I’ve always thought about writing a script out of some of your stories. Would Detective Sigerson allow it?”

John heard a grumble in his ear and decided to change the subject before the said detective could intervene. “Perhaps. I hope this entry ends up well, too… if the Aldabó family lets us. Do you know them?”

Anna’s smile faded. “Of course I do–everybody here does. And lots of people hate them. I’m sure they were responsible for the fire at our family’s farms, but there’s no way we can prove it. Don Alejandro helped a little, but now I have to help my father– bye bye, dreams…”

“So you believe they’re dangerous?”

“If something stands between them and their profit, they are. I’m sure you’ve already heard about the historical feud between the two families.”

“I did a bit. So, are you comfortable working in the mansion?”

Anna shrugged. “Not really. I don’t care what others say—I can’t stand Don Alejandro. He’s too rigid and old-school; you saw the atmosphere yourself. But I can’t deny they pay well, at least for this part of the country, and there are benefits. That’s why everybody just sucks it up and never complains.”

John’s attention sharpened. “Is it really that bad?”

Anna finished her café con leche with a long sip. “Not so bad if you’re okay with working in a fridge. That’s what it feels like. That Llorente is always everywhere, like a shadow. Staff say he’s caring, always looking out for everyone, smiling and listening—the opposite of his boss—but he creeps me out. He also controls who gets hired and who doesn’t, even people like that… quiet Julián.”

“Julián?”

“Yeah, the tall, good-looking fellow. Follows him like a puppy. Interesting that no one knew him before. The rest of us either have a family member on the staff or have lived in the house for generations.”

John thought: That’s something maybe worth checking. 

Anna grabbed her laptop. “I’d better go now…”

“Just one more thing, Anna—Doña Mercedes mentioned she heard a big argument between Don Alejandro and his son. Did you know anything about it?”

“If Mercedes said it, it definitely happened! No one hears and sees things better than her,” she said with a grin, then her expression hardened.

“Is it something about Tomás? I hope not. He’s such a sweet guy—I feel bad for him.”

“Why then?”

Anna paused, as if almost regretting her words. “I mean… such a warm-hearted, sweet guy with a dictator of a father. You know, I’ve only seen him a few times, but every time he looked miserable, even if he was trying not to show it. I’d feel the same if I had that father. Mine’s not much better, but at least he can’t control me.”

She stood up and grabbed her things. “I hope he’s okay. Wish you luck with your case!” and left with a warm smile.

John told Sherlock, “What do you think about Anna?”

Sherlock, clearly thinking about something else, answered absently, “Yeah, she’s clean. Can’t be involved.”

“You didn’t suspect her, did you?!”

“I suspect everyone. Are we done here? I need to stretch.”

Sherlock was unusually quiet, even more so than when absorbed in a case. He rejected John’s suggestion to walk along the beach—it was a beautiful evening—and insisted he needed to rest. 

John spent an hour strolling along the shoreline, the sand cool beneath his feet, waves lapping rhythmically, and the salty breeze teasing at his hair. Seagulls called overhead, and the horizon blushed as the sun slowly dipped, painting the sky in shades of gold, pink, and violet. Eventually, he settled into a beach chair, letting the calm wash over him, before heading back to their villa to share his notes and conclusions with the detective.

He found Sherlock once again in his mind sanctum—a space he seemed to be growing fonder of lately

John, surprisingly tired, was getting ready for bed when a low, almost imperceptible voice reached him.

“You’re still cross.”

John blinked, yanked from his thoughts. “What?”

“About the case,” Sherlock continued, voice soft, almost teasing. “Don’t you think it’s… interesting?”

John’s exhaustion made the conversation difficult to engage in. “I’m not cross, Sherlock. I’m just tired. Try to get some sleep, will you? We can talk tomorrow.”

John contacted Llorente to arrange a meeting with the Aldabó family, hoping to reach some sort of agreement. He didn’t like the silence that followed his request, the weight of uncertainty pressing on him. The manager confirmed the plan, and they decided to hold the meeting the following day.

John went to bed late, his mind restless, turning over how the discussion might unfold and what it could mean for everyone involved.

Chapter Text

John stood at the edge of the sea, the waves brushing his bare feet in a slow, rhythmic pull. The full moon was painfully bright tonight, turning the whole cove silver— too bright. He stared at the dark stretch of water, trying to read its depth, when something splashed a little way off the shore.

He blinked, leaned forward. “Hey! Anybody there?” he called out. “Are you alright?”

No answer.

John didn’t wait. He ran in cold water, hitting his shins, his knees, then his waist. Another splash. A head broke the surface. Two wide eyes stared at him, desperate, pleading.

John’s blood froze. Tomás. Exactly as in the photos.

A hand lifted toward him, and then the figure vanished again.

John dove, kicking into the black water—no, not black; a thin silver thread of moonlight cut through it, shimmering. Something was sinking just ahead. He pushed harder, paddling like a man possessed, reaching—grabbing—only to clutch at nothing but water. He burst to the surface, gasping, then swam back toward shore for help.

He dragged the limp body onto the coarse sand, rolled it over—and recoiled.

Sherlock. Moon-white skin. Completely still.

John scrambled back to him, panic rising so fast it hollowed him out. He patted Sherlock’s cheeks—once, twice—and the sound was wrong, a dull tap like striking a glass jar. His skin felt cold, smooth, hard: porcelain. He tried to remember what to do, how to resuscitate a drowning man—his friend—but his mind gave him nothing. Empty. Slipping. Why wasn’t anything working? Why couldn’t he remember?

He fumbled for his phone in his soaked shorts. Instead, his fingers closed around something soft, swollen— an oversized, sodden teabag.

“Come on—oh, come ON…!!” He threw it away with a frustrated groan.

A dim light flickered farther down the beach—people? A fire? A weirdly familiar music drifted across the sand, slow, muffled. He ran toward it, but the sand dipped and dragged with every step, pulling him down, making the distance endless. The music grew louder, nearer—yet never close enough.

Then he heard Sherlock shouting his name. “John! JOHN!”

John lurched back—and sat up with a cry.

His phone was buzzing angrily beside his pillow, rattling against the nightstand. The blinds were still open; the sunrise landed straight on his face like a spotlight. He pressed his palms into his eyes and groaned.

“Finally,” came a voice.

Sherlock—awake, perched on the nightstand with a book in his hands—looked sideways at him.

“I was this close to turning your phone off,” he said, deadpan. “Or answering it for you and telling them you’re unavailable today.”

John grabbed the phone. It was a text from Llorente.

Dr. Watson? Sorry for calling you this early. An urgent matter requires your presence. Is it possible that Hugo picks you up in 15 minutes?

“Fifteen minutes? Are you freaking kidding…?” John squinted his blurry eyes at the screen. It was five past eight.

God, that glass of Empordà old-vine Garnacha last night had been a mistake. What had the seller said about it? Something about certain aromatic compounds that disrupt sleep cycles… John barely remembered. He hadn’t taken it seriously. Bad idea.

John later had no memory of how, somehow, in those impossible fifteen minutes, he had managed a shower and even conjured a cup of espresso from that hated single-serve pod machine he swore he would never learn. Maybe he hated those things as much as Sherlock hated teabags.

But what really jolted him awake was seeing Hugo—so stern, worry barely hidden behind his composed face. John’s heart sank. He didn’t want to press the chauffeur for more information; he decided to wait.

The manager wasn’t much better. His calm, smiling mask—the kind that hid snobbery—seemed slightly cracked.

John was even more surprised by Don Alejandro, who remained unnervingly composed. The only hint that something was amiss was the dark velvet dressing robe draped over him, out of place in the office.

“I’ve always known he was vicious,” Don Alejandro said, his voice low, controlled, but trembling with fury. “But this… this I did not expect. I underestimated him.” His face was calm, but his eyes were scorching.

John’s gaze fell to the large desk. There, a small tin box caught his attention. He shot a quick look at Don Alejandro; after a brief nod of approval, he picked the box up and opened it.

John’s brow furrowed. Inside was a man’s nipple, roughly cut around the areola, over a blood-soaked, folded napkin. Threaded through it was a delicate gold hoop, with a tiny, deep blue sapphire.

He hummed, unnervingly calm for his own liking, though slightly disturbed by the kidnappers’ choice of body part. His pocket felt calm, too. No movement, probably the same reaction.

“Proof of life,” Don Alejandro croaked. “Half a million by midnight. If we involve the police… they said they’d send the rest in pieces.” He tossed a new letter onto the desk, red-stained edges fluttering.

John cleared his throat, buying time. “Without exact tests, we can’t confirm definitively if this is your son’s. All I can say—it’s real.”

A ragged breath left the patriarch’s chest. “They’ve mutilated him—”

John cut in, voice firm. “That’s not how this works. This could be anybody’s. It might not be your son, which is why you need to call the police now. They have resources, forensic labs—”

“Absolutely not!” the man snapped, suddenly breaking from his calm for the first time, slamming his palm against the desk. “You don’t understand. If the police come, the boy is as good as dead. ”

John suddenly felt a surge to talk to the man alone, without the pesky manager hovering.

“Don Alejandro… can I ask a personal question?”

The patriarch looked up from his fixed stare at the box, his eyes bloodshot. John braced himself for a refusal—He’s family, or something along those lines—but to his surprise, Don Alejandro simply said: “Esteban, give us a minute.”

If the manager felt offended, he didn’t show it on his sad, pale face. He only dipped his head in a polite acknowledgment and quietly left the study.

John turned to Don Alejandro.

“Don Alejandro… do you have any idea why the kidnappers chose this?”

The man shook his head—very curt—grief and stubbornness brimming beneath the surface.

Sherlock’s whisper, low and urgent, into John’s ear: “Push him harder. Tell him amateurs make mistakes. ”

John went on, steady, almost gentle. “I want you to think. If they were professionals, they’d send a lock of hair, a photograph with today’s newspaper—something irrefutable. Instead, you’ve been sent a crude… mutilation. That tells me they’re improvising. What makes you so sure it’s Tomás’s? 

Don Alejandro, staring at the box, said, “I am not… I’m sure about the jewelry.”

“The ring? Do you know it for certain?”

The father sighed. “Indeed. It was my first gift to Isabella, my late wife, before we were engaged. Tomás had it, as his mother wished.”

John leaned in slightly, lowering his tone.“If you let fear blind you, you’ll hand them everything they want—and they’ll still have your son. You need us to expose the mistakes they’ve already made. Otherwise, you’ll be paying half a million for nothing.”

The patriarch stared at him, torn between fury and desperate hope. Finally, he sank into his big chair, and John, thankful, could sit.

He squeezed his eyes shut and let out a breath. “It is… this was one thing my son and I argued about last May—over his… piercing.”

John opened the box again, taking another close look.

“I accidentally saw it when he was swimming. I was passing by the pool. I wasn’t happy about his choice of how to use the ring. It was a small thing, but, well, it escalated into bigger things.”

John asked, “Don Alejandro, did you and Tomás have a lot of disagreements? I mean, recently?”

Don Alejandro leaned back, calmer now. “Not more than any parent and child, I suppose. You read the brief family history Llorente sent to Mr. Sigerson, didn’t you?”

John thought for a moment. Yes, all of it… mostly nonsense. “Right, I did—and it mentioned that your wife passed away years ago. So… did you have a good relationship with your only son?”

Don Alejandro hesitated, discomfort flickering across his features. After a pause, he said, “I assure you, Dr. Watson, my son has the best life any boy could hope for in this country. I’ve never denied him anything—even when he chose a field of study against my wishes and our family tradition. Perhaps our relationship has been a little distant in recent years, but I have always supported my son and all my children. They all have happy, prosperous lives.”

“And are you sure he had it on the day he left?”

“I don’t see a reason he wouldn’t,” Don Alejandro replied. “He said the reason he altered the ring was to always have it close to his heart.”

Sherlock huffed in John’s ear. “Perfect.” He sounded utterly bored.

Don Alejandro was visibly impatient now. “What’s the next move, Dr. Watson?”

John leaned back. “I have to call Mr. Sigerson and update him on everything. I’ll contact you as soon as possible.”

He just wanted to get away from that cold room, the cold box, and the sad body parts. His head was pounding, and nausea churned in his stomach.

John turned and nearly left the room, but by the door, he caught Don Alejandro’s muffled question—words faint, so unlike his usual voice, that John could hardly believe it was really him. “Dr. Watson, should we keep the box in the refrigerator, or… is it too late? Maybe there’s a chance to attach it to the body?”

John froze for a moment, “I… I don’t think that would help now,” he said carefully, keeping his voice steady. “It’s too late for that. We need to focus on what we can do,” and left the study.

————————————————-

He was led to the living room and sank into a chair to “call” the detective. The father’s last words still weighed on him, leaving him unexpectedly drained—hollow, even.

Llorente hovered nearby, a polite mask barely covering his anxiety now. “Would you like anything, Dr. Watson?” he asked, voice tight with practiced calm.

John’s mouth felt dry as paper. His head throbbed. He was dehydrated, exhausted, and desperate for the man to simply leave him alone for a moment.

“Just some water, please,” he said.

Sherlock had gone suspiciously quiet in his ear. Too quiet. Is he thinking? Plotting the next angle? Or did he just… fall asleep? The uncertainty only made John feel more helpless.

A servant—a tall young man—arrived with a tray, setting down a bottle of sparkling water and a glass. He was already turning to leave when—

Suddenly, Sherlock’s voice, excited for the first time, made John almost jump from his seat.

“Perfect! Ask him to open the bottle for you.” Sherlock’s voice burst through the silence, sharp and suddenly animated. Not a trace of the sorrow that had shadowed him minutes ago.

John swallowed, a twist of bitterness rising in his chest. Of course, the sight of body parts must have refreshed the detective.

He didn’t have the energy to question the strange request.

--------------------------------

Hugo didn’t accept John’s request to be dropped off in Midtown, claiming it was “dangerous,” and took him straight to their villa. John was about to protest—he needed some walking in the sunny town—but Sherlock’s drawling voice in his ear, “LET HIM,” stopped him. God, he didn’t need any more of a headache.

Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea, being back at the villa. It wasn’t even noon, and John felt like most of the day had passed, and it was hot. He kicked off his shoes and tossed them into a corner, set the detective’s bag on the coffee table, and collapsed onto the couch, eyes closed.

After a long silence, realizing he hadn’t heard anything from Sherlock, he opened his eyes—and saw him sitting on the edge of the coffee table, utterly downcast and drawn.

“So? Any progress…? How many of your original ideas are left?”

Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts. “What…? Hm… It’s just depressing. I’m disappointed.”

John frowned. “Oh, come on… You seriously don’t think they’re going to chop up the rest of the boy by tomorrow, do you?”

“No, I mean—the case! So disappointing! I expected much more, at least a seven, and it’s barely a three. Might as well not have accepted it. Sorry, my apologies.”

John, confused, forgot his headache for a moment and propped himself halfway up on the couch. “Would you mind clarifying what the hell you’re talking about?!”

Sherlock continued muttering to himself, barely audible. “How can people be so stupid…? So dumb…”

John had no patience left to lose. “God damn it! Don’t tell me you’ve already solved it!”

Sherlock slowly turned his head toward him, all dramatic flair.“John… you should be thrilled. Seems like you can spend more time with your favorite beach and seagulls even sooner than—”

“Sherlock! I swear, I’m going to feed you to them if you don’t tell me right now what’s going on!”

“Please… don’t tell me, Doctor, that you didn’t see it.”

“See what?!”

“The damn nipple! The piercing…”

“So…? We know the father wasn’t a big fan, so what?”

“No, no, no—you see, but you don’t—”

John cut him off, growling. “Sherlock…”

Sherlock dramatically dropped onto a pan de leche roll left on the table.“Yeah, yeah. And it’s the only pierced nipple in Spain. John, the damn hole was barely two days old! You—out of all people—should have seen it! I don’t care what the jewelry was…”

John impatiently cut him off again. “Okay, it’s not Tomás’s, assuming you’re right…”

Sherlock frowned. “I do not assume. I observed.” Then, with a flick of his hand: “Case closed.”

“Sherlock! People’s lives are at stake! You can’t be serious!”

Sherlock yawned, utterly bored. “Naah. As far as I know, severing a nipple—or both—won’t be life-threatening. Painful, yes. Inhuman, yes. Life-threatening? Only if infection sets in.…”

Seeing the rage on John’s face, he raised a hand to pause the incoming yell. “Now—How likely is it that someone on staff keeps scratching his left chest? Coincidentally, at the right time? Possible side effect: recent piercing. But doing it discreetly—especially from your angle? Not likely. You didn’t see it—you were talking to the manager. That man… Julián.”

John’s anger flipped to sharp interest. “He did?”

“All three times, he was around. Well… almost. And if it weren’t for the manager’s dagger glare, he wouldn’t have stopped.”

This time, John raised a hand to pause. “That’s why you asked me to ask him to open that water bottle… Okay—but you’re not accusing him of being involved, right?”

Sherlock shrugged. “One of the reasons. No, I don’t. I condemn the manager. I suspected him from the first day, but I needed more concrete evidence.”

Seeing John’s impatience, he quickly and briefly explained why.

“Duplicitousness lurked in this man, though nicely masked. He tried to present himself as a kind, caring boss, yet the staff seemed constantly intimidated, walking on eggshells around him. The maids straightened sharply whenever he entered a room; the cook’s eyes were always lowered, as if speaking to the floor. A housekeeper wrung a cloth between her hands whenever Llorente stood behind her.

“This is how people behave around someone who wields power over them and knows all their secrets. I flagged this as covert authoritarian control, which made me reluctant to trust him. From the beginning, I suspected an inside job—someone within the household, perhaps the staff—given how closed the family was. Later, my suspicion turned out to be correct, and the answer came far sooner than I imagined.

“Yes, back to inconsistencies—a quiet number, I noted. From the faint hint of cigarettes, though he later claimed he doesn’t smoke (and the resort prohibits staff from smoking on duty), to the obvious signs of financial stress…”

John looked up, surprised. “Financial stress?”

“Indeed. His watch is a cheap fake of an old Rolex model—a replacement, I suspect, because he sold the expensive one but didn’t want anyone to know.”

Sherlock continued, eyes narrowing. “Also, fresh indentations on the ring finger. Pawned wedding rings are common among debt-heavy gamblers. His shoes—expensive, handmade leather, yes, but recently patched cheaply—are worn more than expected for someone in management. A man in his position doesn’t mend old shoes unless he’s hiding debt.

“All signs of serious, urgent cash-flow problems. Not even to mention his extreme defensiveness. When you casually ask, ‘Everything alright with your expenses here?’ he instantly tenses, too fast for innocence…”

Sherlock sighed, stretching slightly on his cushioned perch. “I can say, one of the strongest  motivations is financial distress, as I’ve observed in my professional life.”

John frowned. “But he—and all the other staff—are paid very well! Don’t you think he could just ask Don…?”

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly to stare at John. “It depends on the cause. Maybe it isn’t about asking. Perhaps it’s tied to his destructive habits,” he said, letting the words hang. Then, almost quietly, he added, “Ludopatía,” and in answer to John’s confused look, “gambling addiction.”

John crossed his arms over his chest, not that again–  Sherlock never missed a chance to tease him about it. As if he were a gambler! John thought bitterly. He just liked a few apps. Before he could say anything defensive, Sherlock went on.

“Again, there were obvious signs—well, maybe obvious only to me. I won’t insult you by mentioning them all.”

“Go on, insult away!”

“A fidgeting habit: rubbing the base of his thumb—a common gambler’s stress gesture. The faintest smell of paper on his hands: casino receipts. Unopened bills hidden away. When you put your bag down in his office, I saw credit agency envelopes, casino-branded letters, and overdue notices tucked under papers. I only needed a glimpse to know—a casino stamp on a matchbox.

“He was even confident—or careless, I don’t know enough to open a small drawer on his desk for a second, just to bring out some keys. You couldn’t see from that angle, but you could hear the ceramic clink of poker chips. I’m sure it was also full of casino vouchers and maybe losing tickets.”

John made a small gesture of impatience. “Okay, okay… all you needed was the sound. I got it.”

But Sherlock pressed on. “From my pocket vantage point, I caught a glimpse of the inside lining of Llorente’s coat as he stood near you: sticking out of a hidden pocket was a VIP lounge card. Not to mention the ATM withdrawal slip I took from his pocket—two slips stuck together: ‘Retiro 300€ — 02:17 AM, Casino Mediterráneo’…”

Seeing John’s eyes flicker with impatience, Sherlock sped up. “Even if I hadn’t been searching for a reason behind his financial situation, signs of his addiction were everywhere. I’m surprised no one else noticed—well, they probably did, but who dares to mention it? Well, yes…”

John’s eyes went wide. “Sherlock, I got it! The… the man’s a crook—and a gambler. But does it have something to do with the kidnapping? Did he help the Aldabós?”

Then John yanked his phone out of his pocket. “I need to see Don Alejandro asap.”

“Put it down, doctor. Tomás is safe.”

“Safe?!” John’s voice cracked, a mix of relief and disbelief.

“Safe,” Sherlock repeated firmly. “And leave the Aldabós out of this. Savage or greedy as they may be, they have nothing to do with this.”

John’s brow furrowed. “So, Llorente did the kidnapping by himself?”

“What kidnapping?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

John, without realizing it, edged dangerously close to the table. Sherlock sat upright on the roll, trying to radiate calm, looking up, though he was acutely aware of the storm in front of him.

John, eyes wide and dark blue, glared down at him. “WHERE. IS. TOMÁS?”

Sherlock shrugged, hands raised in mock innocence, nose slightly crinkled. “Hmm… Germany, I suppose.”

“Germany?!?” John’s voice cracked, disbelief lacing every word. “Says who?”

“Himself,” Sherlock replied, deadpan.

Sherlock gestured toward the nightstand.

John crossed the room at once. On the small nightstand sat Sherlock’s makeshift mattress, neatly arranged. He lifted it carefully.

Beneath it lay a tiny yellow note, smudged with charcoal.

John picked it up and brought it closer to his eyes. In the right light, faint indentations, half-formed words, pressed through the paper, just enough to make out the shape of something written in haste:

«Padre,
Necesito tiempo. Me voy a Alemania.
Por favor, no me busque — estoy a salvo.
Però ja no puc respirar en aquella casa.
Cuando regrese, espero que por fin podamos hablar con honestidad.
—T.»

“Sherlock—what, where, when, how—quickly.”

“Tomás’ bedroom,” Sherlock replied, calm but precise, “when you left me there to check. Charcoal markings. Anything else?”

“Yes, like what the hell am I reading?!”

“Oh, that,” Sherlock said, as if he forgot, “literally says: ;Father,I need time. I’m leaving for Germany. Please don’t look for me—I’m safe. But I can’t breathe in that house anymore. When I return, I hope we can finally speak honestly.’

“He starts formally, in Spanish, mirroring the nature of the relationship between these two, but one line slips into Catalan—the language of childhood, emotion, the Catalan line hits like a crack in the armor: ‘But I can’t breathe in that house anymore.’ He switched languages only at the emotional breaking point.”

Seeing confusion on John's face, he explained, “Catalan feels more personal, emotional, like letting his mask slip. My guess is he switches to Catalan only when he’s truly upset, which gives the note extra sting.”

John, now holding the small piece of paper in front of his eyes, tilted and shifted it in the light from the window. “Right–how long did it take you to do this smudging? You could have simply asked me!”

“You explicitly and firmly told me not to bother you, saying you needed sleep when we came back. Remember? So I made the best of my time recovering the indented writing. It didn't take more than half an hour. I couldn’t sleep, anyway.”

“And you’re sure it’s written by Tomás?”

“Well, I don’t see any reason why it shouldn’t be. And as you can see, the message was written with some force—more than usual for a note. As if the writer was angry, or pushing himself to put the words on paper. It just makes it easier for us to trace them. and judging from the angle of ‘P’s  I can say–”

John cut him off, lowering the paper and pressing his fingers to his temple. “So, you got the page off the notepad and what—?”

“Rolled it and put it in my big inner pocket, not easily, but I managed. And you say my coat is unnecessary for this weather.”

“I said ‘ridiculous,’ and I still say so. So you did all that in the five minutes I left you in Tomás’s bedroom?”

“Enough to check everything I needed,” Sherlock said.

“Like?”

“Hmm… a lot, like how badly Tomás wanted to escape that house.”

John’s eyebrows shot up.

“You didn’t check the photo frame. Take a closer look.”

“I did—” But at the same time, John hurried for the frame, left on the corner of the table under some other clutter. He lifted it, turning it over in his hands. Nothing special: a perfectly ordinary family photo—stiff, formal, the Valdezars arranged like chess pieces.

“What about it? I checked the picture carefully before, but I didn't see anything unusual—no clue.” But before Sherlock could answer, John went on, “Alright, alright, let me observe.”

He began moving the old, heavy wooden frame in his hands, turning it on all sides, holding it very close to his eyes. He made a mental note to get a magnifying glass for future cases; his eyes weren’t as sharp as they used to be. Then he saw it.

It was subtle—the kind of thing that could only exist if someone handled that frame constantly, opening it, closing it, slipping something in and out behind the photo.

Along the top wooden edge of the frame was a tiny line of abrasion—not a crack, not damage, but a thin, polished strip formed from repeated sliding of fingers in and out from behind the photo. The small metal tabs at the back were unevenly loosened, slightly bent outward.

“No one caught this, because they weren’t looking for it,” Sherlock murmured. “You didn’t catch it because the room’s lighting wasn’t angled right. But I did. Obviously. Now tilt it.” 

John tilted the frame toward the window. Still nothing.

“Shake it.”

John hesitated, then gave it a careful, quick shake. Something shifted. A faint papery rustle, so soft John wondered if he imagined it—until a tiny corner of something pale slipped out from behind the family photo. Barely a millimetre, but there.

His stomach tightened. He sat on the edge of the table and worked the metal tabs free with the gentleness of someone disarming a bomb. The back panel lifted, stiff with age.

A small photo, half the size of the main one, slipped out and landed in his palm.

It was Tomás, relaxed, bright smile, bundled in heavy warm clothes. His left arm was tightly wrapped around another young man, around the same age, with a charmingly shy smile and big, warm eyes. Their heads leaned together in that effortless way people do only when the entire world feels safe.

Behind them stretched a wide, breathtaking mountain sunset—somewhere in the Alps, perhaps. A place people go when they simply need to breathe.

John flipped the photo over, revealing the back. The handwriting was slightly slanted, tight, and almost hurried. In neat, careful German letters, it read:

"Bis wir unseren Ort zum Durchatmen finden, gehört dies uns. L.F."

“Until we find our place to breathe, this will be ours,” Sherlock said.

The initials were tiny and neat, tucked into the bottom right corner—more a discreet mark than a signature, a quiet claim that only Tomás would recognize.

John murmured, “Hold on a sec… the father and the nanny mentioned that Tomás went on a trip to Germany, right?”

At first glance, it looked like a sweet picture of two friends on holiday. But the longer John stared, the clearer it became that this was not a “friends” photo. It radiated something soft, warm, intimate.

And then the question hit him in a cold wave—Why had Tomás hidden it?

“Because someone here would never accept it,” Sherlock said.

John frowned. “But… Why did you ask me to open the frame now? Why not sooner?”

“Well, it was just the last confirmation for my theory. I had enough time in his room to know—checked his clothing, did a scent analysis, and took a quick look at his open wardrobe…”

And sensing John expected more explanation about how he concluded, Sherlock swiftly went to say instead, “He didn’t hide the photograph because he was ashamed. He hid it because someone bullied him into it.”

John ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. “So why the hell didn’t you tell me about it and let us waste all that time? And the poor father is worried sick!”

“Well, maybe he deserves it,” Sherlock said lightly. “But anyway, I knew someone in the staff was responsible, and I wanted to gather evidence and make my observations. I knew Tomás wasn’t in danger.”

John shook his head. “Sherlock, you’re insane… I can’t believe you didn’t share this with me. Where is the note, then?”

“My train of thought tells me the boy, angry with his father, left early in the morning. But at the last minute, he felt bad and decided to leave him a note. So.

“I can’t believe a smart person like that manager didn’t think to check the notepad or get rid of it.” Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the mug on the table. “People tend to ignore such important things. In my time, I’ve seen at least two cases of talkative ink blotters–”

Noticing John’s expectant eyes, Sherlock continued, “Tomás needed a place where his father would definitely see the note. Do you remember what the stableboy said about Don Alejandro’s stallion — so wild that only a handful of people can get close to it? No? Fine–That makes it the perfect place for leaving something important and private. And since Tomás most likely threw away his SIM card before leaving the house — which explains why every attempt to contact or locate him failed — he needed a guaranteed method of communication.”

Sherlock tapped the table lightly.

“Don Alejandro rides that horse every Friday at 7 a.m. without fail. His son counted on that, so hid the yellow note under the saddle blanket — just tucked enough that it wouldn’t fall, but visible the moment the horse was prepared for the ride.

“But that day,” Sherlock went on, “Don Alejandro told us he didn’t go for his usual ride — he’d slept poorly and had a headache. Instead, he simply trusted Llorente to tend to his beloved stallion and bring it back to the stable.”

Sherlock gave John a pointed look. “Naturally, that meant Llorente was destined to find the note before the father ever did. And this,” Sherlock said, pointing to the small yellow note now lying on the table, “is what ignited all the hassle.”

John exhaled sharply. “Still feels weird, doesn’t it? Don Alejandro — with all his power and money — can’t find a single trace of his son?”

Sherlock tilted his head. “It’s not as strange as it seems. Disappearing is harder these days, yes, but not impossible. Europe’s borders can still be crossed by ground or water with minimal checks, especially if you’re careful: plane tickets bought with cash,  long-distance ferries, and  I very much doubt Tomás is doing this alone. His lover clearly helped.”

John cut in quickly, connecting the dots. “So the manager sees the note first, realizes Tomás is gone, and decides to use it? Twist the whole situation into a scheme?”

“My belief,” Sherlock said, voice calm but razor-sharp, “is that Llorente is drowning in debt — badly. Probably under pressure from people you don’t say ‘no’ to. He hid his gambling habit from Don Alejandro for a while, but like all addictions, it grew teeth. It spiraled. And he became sloppy.”

Sherlock tapped the note with one long finger. “He must have thought Tomás’s disappearance was his golden lottery ticket. But in truth, it sealed his doom.

“When people spend too long surrounded by those who fear them,” Sherlock said, “they start believing their own myth. Invincible. Untouchable. The only clever one in the room.” He flicked a hand dismissively. “Llorente hired sheep. The most obedient, timid staff possible — easier to rule.”

John huffed a laugh. “Except Anna.”

Sherlock’s eyes glinted. “He can’t handle people like her. We know why.”

John nodded. “But he couldn’t keep up the trick forever. Tomás is bound to contact someone sooner or later.”

“Mm.” Sherlock relaxed back against his roll, steepling his fingers. “And by then, Llorente would’ve vanished. New identity, new country. Enough money left after paying— or conveniently ignoring— his dangerous creditors. I do wonder where he planned to run. A place with no extradition.”

Sherlock finished with a flourish of his hand, then glanced at John, who was now standing with his arms folded across his chest, a small, satisfied grin tugging at his mouth.

“Sleazy bastard,” John muttered.

Sherlock opened his own mouth to continue, but the sight of that grin stopped him. He lingered on it longer than he should. He allowed himself a tiny, mirrored smile. God, that expression… That warm, fond grin, the spark of pride in John’s eyes. It made Sherlock’s heartbeat stutter in a way he would never admit aloud.

Moments like this — the reveal, John’s reaction — Sherlock could live on them, solve twenty cases a day, just to see that look twenty times.

But instead of indulging further, he flicked his hand in another theatrical gesture and let out an exaggerated sigh.

“Anyway,” he said, tone lofty but eyes still warm, “as I said — pure disappointment.”

John dropped onto the couch again with a wheezy half-laugh. “God, this is so not right. I know you needed more evidence, but… we should’ve told Don Alejandro. If we could’ve gotten him alone — without the bastard glued to him.” 

Scrubbing  a hand over his face, he added, dry as sandpaper, “At least we could’ve saved a nipple then.”

John lowered himself onto the arm of the couch. “So, why disappointed? What exactly did you expect that wasn’t fulfilled?”

Sherlock made a vague, dramatic motion in the air. “Eh, I don’t know… some mysterious society, secret compartments, hidden hallways inside the walls, clues behind paintings… a chase by the coast in the middle of the night, perhaps through narrow alleys–”

John huffed a laugh and rubbed his forehead. “Sorry you didn’t get your cinematic thriller. Does the Casa have any of those secret hallways? I’ve seen them in films.”

“Oh, I’m sure it does,” Sherlock replied instantly. “Judging by the discrepancy between the room sizes and the exterior dimensions—”

“…and probably some paintings with tiny peep holes, right?” John cut in, already laughing. “I swear, the ones in that living room gave me actual chills. No wonder Tomás hated staying there.”

“Family can be a heavenly supportive place to live,” Sherlock said quietly, “or a big torturous jail, if you’re not who they want you to be. Doesn’t matter if it’s a golden cage.” His voice thinned, almost slipping into something unguarded. “It’s still a cage.”

Sherlock’s eyes went distant, unfocused — staring at nothing and everything at once, lost somewhere far outside the room.

John pondered for a few moments. “Who else among the staff are you suspicious of?”

Sherlock, now lying on the roll, eyes closed, said, “Not many. Llorente’s smart enough not to involve more people.”

John hummed, thinking for a moment. “So, do you give Hugo clearance, then?”

John picked up his phone again and called Hugo this time, “Hello, Hugo? I need a quick favor—could you send me a message when you take Mr. Llorente to the Vallverd estate? Appreciate it.”

John finally managed to send Don Alejandro the message he had been itching to send, despite Sherlock’s quiet disapproval.

“We have strong indications that your son is safe. Please gather your senior staff. I will be there around 6 p.m. to provide further explanation and details.”

Chapter Text

Surprised by how violently his mood could swing in the span of an hour, John now felt not only drowsy but abruptly energized. His stomach growled—he’d barely had a stale croissant for breakfast.

Riding that sudden burst of adrenaline, he ordered a small Margherita pizza and a soft drink from a nearby pizzeria. He devoured it at an alarming pace under Sherlock’s curious gaze and that bored, faintly amused smile.

“What…?” John muttered around a mouthful. “It’s going to be a long afternoon. I need fuel.”

Sherlock didn’t answer. He simply watched him with that inscrutable little grin, absently poking at his own tiny slice.

John pressed the phone to his ear, keeping his tone calm and steady.

“Don Alejandro… I know this is delicate, Mr. Sigerson believes perhaps it would help if your manager were sent to the Aldabós estate. A small gesture of apology, peace offering, something to smooth over the misunderstanding.”

There was a pause on the other end. John could almost feel the heat of the flames from the other side of the line and braced himself for a shout. But the patriarch’s voice came, low and tight with fury and disgust: “What kind of action is this, now, after what they sent…”

“Please,” John interrupted, firm but controlled, “this is his exact instruction. He believes it will help the situation. Do you trust him enough to handle this correctly?”

Another pause. Fury and reluctance warred in Don Alejandro’s measured breathing. Finally, he exhaled sharply, voice low but controlled. “Very well. But I do not like it.”

John allowed himself the faintest relief. “Thank you, Don Alejandro. I believe this will help us manage things until I arrive. I will be there by six o’clock.”

John arrived, making a point of leaving his satchel in the car.

He approached Don Alejandro with polite calm.

“Don Alejandro, would it be alright if I asked Hugo to bring my satchel from the car? I left some important notes in it. I’d like to be ready when we talk.”

The request was ordinary, routine. Llorente didn’t even blink.

Don Alejandro inclined his head graciously. “Of course. Whatever you need.”

John turned smoothly and walked toward Hugo, waiting respectfully by the side door.

“I think I left it near the passenger side,” John murmured, then lowered his voice. “Your boss requests that all gates be secured immediately. Quietly. No staff moving around until the meeting starts.”

Hugo hesitated only long enough to glance at Don Alejandro across the room. The Don stood straight, hands behind his back. Their eyes met. A single, tight nod. That was all.

Something like steel slid behind Hugo’s expression. “Sí, señor.”

He didn’t look at John again, moving quietly, fast, and purposeful, disappearing down the side corridor toward the security wing.

Llorente’s gaze followed him for a half-second, mild curiosity at best, his mind clearly elsewhere.

A faint, almost imperceptible whisper tickled John’s ear: “Hmm… neat.”

John suppressed a smirk. The trap was set. No one—especially Llorente—suspected a thing.

Hugo returned with John’s bag. John took it, giving a small nod. “Thanks, Hugo. stay close, will you?”

Hugo, trained and attentive, picked up on the tone—it was casual, not an order. He subtly positioned himself near the door, ready to cover the room or intercept anyone who might react when the manager realized they were being watched.

John put the bag– now containing the detective– on the small table by the side of the armchair he was sitting. 

The living room of La Casa Solariega Valdezar loomed like a cathedral of memory and authority. Heavy dark-wood furniture stood in precise arrangement, and antique tapestries depicting battles and saints hung along the walls. Portraits of stern ancestors, their medals gleaming faintly, seemed to observe every movement with silent judgment. The room was carpeted, immaculately organized, every object meticulously placed, radiating cold control.

Outside, the sun had nearly disappeared beyond the horizon. The last streaks of gold and amber lingered briefly in the sky before fading into deepening twilight. Inside, the dim light from the windows mingled with the soft glow of lamps, casting long, wavering shadows that stretched across polished floors, over velvet armchairs, and along the glass-fronted bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes and silver candelabras. The fading light turned the treasures of the room into silhouettes, and the corners seemed darker, more secretive, more expectant.

Don Alejandro was waiting there in a high-backed armchair of dark carved walnut with deep olive-green leather, solid and dignified — unmistakably the seat of the family patriarch; in a small semicircle of vintage seats in front of the grand stone fireplace. 

John chose an old velvet chair that faintly reminded him of Sherlock’s miniature one at home and set his bag — now discreetly holding the detective — on the small table to his right. John had barely settled when Esteban Llorente slipped in, a little hurried, as if he’d been occupied with something moments before — checking the bets again? His brief glint of satisfaction suggested he’d won. He offered a quick apology and took a seat: a newer armchair of polished mahogany with plush burgundy cushions — warm and welcoming at first glance, but somehow too perfect, too polished to be entirely honest.

The patriarch asked how the meeting with the Aldabós had gone, and Llorente — like a soldier returning from an enemy dungeon — delivered his report with such an air of solemn drama that John wondered if the man had missed his true calling at a London theatre.

Don Alejandro asked John if he needed a drink, and John, feigning slight forgetfulness, leaned toward him. “Sir, I was hoping to see that special vintage from the cellar you mentioned last week. I can’t remember the exact name. Could we… maybe have someone bring it up?”

Don Alejandro, thinking it routine, replied without hesitation. “Llorente, fetch the bottle from the cellar.”

Llorente picked up the house phone — John had remembered one maid mentioned before, that besides Llorente, only Julián held a key for that particular cellar. Within minutes, Julián appeared in the doorway, carrying the bottle with practiced, quiet efficiency.

“Is that bothering you? Have you gotten hurt during work?” John asked casually, voice soft, professional.

A brief pause. The movement of Julián’s hand faltered. His eyes flicked up, just for a fraction of a second, betraying a flicker of shock—or guilt. Don Alejandro noticed it too, his brow furrowing subtly. Across the room, Llorente’s hand tightened around the arm of his chair, the polished surface no longer quite comforting.

John glanced at Don Alejandro. “Do you give your staff sick leave?”

Don Alejandro’s sharp voice cut in. “Are you hurt, Julián?”

Julián’s response was clipped, nervous. “No, señor.”

John inclined his head politely. “Ah, okay, my bad. Habit of mine… professional habit. Can’t help noticing if a patient’s chest is hurting—or might be at risk of infection.”

He saw it then: the poor man’s hands began to tremble slightly. Criminal or not, he wasn’t a good actor—not like his boss. Julián swallowed hard, trying to steel himself.

Don Alejandro straightened, sensing tension. “Julián, what’s the matter?”

Julián hesitated, voice small, strained. “Señor… just a scratch while working.”

John’s eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly. “On your… nipple…?”

The glass in Julián’s hand wobbled, slipped, and fell with a soft clink to the table. The subtle, professional tone of the room cracked instantly. Don Alejandro’s eyes widened slightly; Llorente tensed, aware now that something had gone terribly off-script.

John leaned back, calm, letting the silence stretch. “Ah,” he said quietly, “well, that explains a lot. Thank you for being honest. I only mention it because. it might be relevant.”

Don Alejandro’s eyes sharpened, voice low and commanding, a dangerous edge cutting through the room. “Julián… take off your shirt.”

Julián froze completely. His face drained of color, sweat beading at his temple. Every carefully maintained mask, every fraction of composure he had left, shattered in an instant. “Señor… please…” he whispered, voice trembling.

Julián’s eyes flicked between them, petrified, completely exposed. His hands shook; he swallowed hard, unable to speak. 

John took a look at Don Alejandro, leaned forward, softer now but no less firm, eyes steady. “It’s okay, Julián. You don’t need to—this isn’t necessary. We can handle this another way.”

And before the patriarch had a chance to cut him off, he turned to him and added, “I have a strong belief that Julián was acting under pressure, forced to comply because of circumstances beyond his control.”

Don Alejandro’s fierce gaze swung toward him, sharp as a blade. John met it evenly and unflinching. “Perhaps it’s better,” he said, voice steady, “to ask him instead, who made him do it.”

Julián flinched slightly at the words, his hands trembling again, but the focus had subtly shifted—the weight of suspicion now hovered elsewhere. Across the room, Llorente’s carefully maintained composure showed its first crack.

In the middle of the chaotic scene, a loud, sharp voice suddenly echoed in John’s ear:

“DULL…”

Apparently, the detective wasn’t amused in the slightest.

John was about to address the sly, serpentine man across the room, but it was Julián who shattered the suffocating tension. With a sudden, trembling motion, he sank to his knees before Don Alejandro’s imposing chair.

“Don Alejandro, please!” he cried, voice breaking, raw and urgent. “He made me! I didn’t do anything! I haven’t hurt anyone! I swear on my mother’s grave!” Hands clasped tightly in front of him, knuckles white.

Julián turned sharply toward Llorente, still seated, radiating a tense, carefully maintained calm. “Señor, tell them! Tell them I had nothing to do with it!”

Llorente’s face tightened into a frown, his calm like a mask stretched too thin. “What are you talking about, man? Get yourself together!”

He straightened slightly, voice rising more to the others in the room than to Julián himself..  “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

John wondered how the manager could have lost so much—he could have been a big winner with a poker face like that. He was also happy having his “interpreter” whispering in his ears, to figure out what the heck is going on.

He just shrugged, very casually, and reached for the yellow note he’d kept tucked safely in the inner pocket of his messenger bag—the only place he could hide something important without a jacket in summer. He held the note up in the air.

“Then let’s ask.”

It was a replica—carefully traced with Sherlock’s help to match the note found in Tomás’s room. John was genuinely proud of the craftsmanship, and the bluff.

All that effort was worth it the moment he saw the color drain from Llorente’s perfectly composed face. His left eyelid twitched. The corner of his lips jerked. And then he shot a lightning-fast, murderous glare at poor Julián—What have you done, you idiot? I’ll kill you myself. Then he blinked, smoothing his expression.