4
“Just local work,” the woman holding Watson’s resume was giving him a rather concerned look. It was only logical that she be skeptical. He knew what was on that sheet of white paper and if words alone could get a bloke a job in this part of town that particular sheet could get him much farther than this clinic.
“It’s fine, I’m looking for something quiet. I like quite.” What a lie that was. Watson hardly wanted the quiet life; he’d been up all night with Sherlock hunting a murderer. Apparently this was also a murderer who could scale and walk through walls, there was not a single thing quiet about that.
“You’re a bit overqualified.” She laughed. She had a gentle laugh, and she was pretty, he couldn’t stop looking at her mouth. “And it says here you’re a soldier,”
“And a doctor.” He grinned and she laughed, it made him blush.
“It might be a bit mundane.”
“No. no mundane is good.” He could think of a few other things that would be good as well. She was great, beautiful and so smart… she was a doctor herself. He just wanted to ask her what her name was, and if she, perhaps wanted to join him for dinner.
“Well we do need some help. A few of us are on holiday for the weekend and one just had a baby. How’s Monday sound?”
~
It was one of the few times Watson had walked down baker street feeling as if he could sing. Things finally seemed to be turning in his favor. Soon he would be able to earn some money AND have the opportunity to ask a nice girl out on a date. All of a sudden normal life didn’t look so terrifying.
“I said could you pass me a pen.” Sherlock’s harsh voice was there to great him the moment he walked through the door.
“wh-
“About an hour ago,” Watson tossed him the pen too happy to acknowledge the fact that Sherlock had been sitting and waiting for an hour instead of walking two feet.
“Didn’t notice I went out, I went to go see about a job,”
“How was it?” Through the mirror, Watson could see those blue eyes watching him, actually eager to hear about his day. It was almost sweet.
“Great. She was great.” Sherlock’s face twisted slightly
“Who?”
“The Job,”
“Is a She?”
“It,” Watson annunciated as he turned around to face the detective. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Of course John had met a woman. Men these days were so utterly typical, a pretty woman smiles in there direction and they’re perfectly giddy for weeks. God help him if he had to listen to John rave on and on about her eyes and the way she wore her hair. Sherlock sighed, if people put the amount of attention into daily life as they did into their shag mate there would probably be far more consulting detectives in the world.
“Have a look,” Sherlock jerked his head in the direction of a news article frowning as Watson walked passed him. It was such a shame that the doctor was going to fall victim to that silly emotion of lust. …Wait. What had he been thinking?! He blinked for a moment trying to rediscover the train of thought he had been focused on for hours. It was just gone. That had never happened before, his thoughts sometimes clouded but that was rare and never. Never had Sherlock just lost it in that manner. He recovered it quickly enough but he was still unsettled by it. He needed another nicotine patch, something to clear his head. Then he would head over to the agency and prove that Van Coon had not killed himself and there was in fact a murderer out who could climb like a spider up the sides of buildings. With two people dead now there was a connection. Once Sherlock uncovered that connection he would be that much closer to discovering the murderer.
“Sherlock!” he caught the sound of John’s voice as he tore out of the room. He had a patch or three in his overcoat pocket so he just had to grab that, and a cab, and he would be thinking clearly once he arrived at the police station. “Sherlock!” the detective increased his pace, for some reason the sound of the doctors voice had become grating. He just wanted his case and the silence,
“God I miss my skull,” he mumbled as he hailed a cab leaving John to find his own way to the station.
It didn’t take long for John to catch up to him, which was, honestly, surprising. Sherlock prided himself on his ability to slip away and not be found and John was proving to be unnaturally good at finding him.
“Annoying.” He grumbled not bothering to slow down his pace as the older man struggled to catch up to him.
“Sherlock!” John paused to catch his breath when he reached the detectives side. Sherlock didn’t wait for him, he just kept walking. “Will you just bloody wait a minute,”
“Sorry I’m in a rush. I need advice and my consultant won’t be around much longer.”
“You need,” He stopped so that he could breathe with out the strain of talking, “Advice?” He finally caught up “’I’m sorry what?”
“You heard me.” Sherlock turned, finally, to look at the man who had taken such effort to catch up with him. For some reason those soft brown eyes just made him irate and, if he had decreased his pace at all, he began to strut once more. “On painting,” those were the last few words Watson caught before he just gave up for a moment to breathe.
As Watson sat there on the edge of the fountain, practically hyperventilating, he watched Sherlock’s back grow smaller and smaller. What was going on? Watson knew, from the day he had met that man, that Sherlock was a bit of a loner. He’d introduced himself with the comment “Sometimes I don’t talk for days at a time,” so Watson had been prepare for long silences filled with violin music. He’d also noticed, in the month or so that the two of them had been sharing, that as silent and still as Sherlock could become, he was never standoffish. If he had nothing to say he would simply smile, or jerk his head in such a way that indicated he was listening.
Watson was also well aware that Sherlock was first and foremost dedicated to his case. He would run off at the drop of a hat after sitting still for hours at a time. It was how he was. But this time things just didn’t seem right. Even when Sherlock did dart out at a moments notice he always said something. And, also, during the pink lady case Sherlock stopped to wait for him when Watson had run after them. They were a team, colleagues. It was so strange seeing Sherlock act this way. He was crazy, in several ways, but this one didn’t suit him. It was too… moody.
With a few more deep breaths, Watson pulled himself back to his feet and chased after Sherlock before he lost sight of him for good. When this case ended, if Sherlock was still acting like a teenage girl, Watson was going to talk to him about it. There were several things he could put up with, but this attitude was quickly wearing on his patience.
When he finally caught up with Sherlock the brunette was talking with a young delinquent currently spray painting the wall Before he could even open his mouth the teen tossing him a can of paint,
“Yeah I recognize the paint.” Sherlock was showing him a picture on his cell. Blue eyes darted up almost venomously when Watson approached, but the minute Watson noticed, Sherlock’s attention was back on the phone,
“What about the symbols?”
“Not sure it’s a proper language,” Sherlock shifted in his direction
“Two people have been murdered and this is the key to solving it. Think.”
“I’ll ask around,”
“Hey you!” Sherlock and the boy were much quicker to respond than Watson had been. Without a seconds hesitation Sherlock kicked the bag and the artist threw his can. Watson, of course, was lift with a duffle filled with paint and two paint cans in his hand as Sherlock bolted down the street. “What do you think you’re doing?”
~
He shouldn’t have kicked that duffle at John. It had been stupid and malicious. The doctor had probably noticed he had done it. Even if John hadn’t noticed, Sherlock had still left him to get arrested. He hadn’t wanted John to get taken into custody but the man had been following him so persistently and his presence had been grating. Why, Sherlock couldn’t comprehend, all he knew was that he needed to get away from John by any means necessary. It was a shame; the doctor was usually such good company. Why was he thinking about this?
Of all the things to be wasting mental energy on this had to be the worst possible. There had been two people murdered with the killer still out there. Sherlock was the only one who could stop him and here he was at home pacing and worrying about John. He needed to get away. The man had been clouding his thoughts. He’d done the right thing, it was for the good of the case. So why was he worrying about something so utterly stupid?! He picked up a book, desperate for something that would help him focus. He had to place that Symbol. Quickly.
It had only been about 90 minutes before the door to their flat slammed behind someone. John. It seemed that he was finally back from the station and judging by his footsteps he was livid. Sherlock wasn’t sure if he was happy or sorry
“You’ve been a while.” John looked more than a little pissed
“Yeah, you know how those custody sergeants don’t like to be hurried. Formalities, Fingerprints. Custody sheets, and I have to be in court on Tuesday,”
“What?” Sherlock found it difficult to keep the emotion out of his voice. He felt sorry. This was something he needed to shake.
“Me, Sherlock, in court on Tuesday! And you can tell your friend he’s clear to own up any time,” Watson moved across the room and started taking his coat off. Sherlock had to still himself. Even if he did feel sorry he could hardly have John around making him wonder why and clouding his thoughts. At the present moment he needed an errand run at Scotland Yard and John away from him, so John was going for him. That new detective didn’t like Sherlock but the detective was fairly confident John could get the things they needed from him. And hopefully Lestrade would be back soon.
“No I need you to go to the police station,” his hands touched John’s back and spun him around forcibly in the direction of the door. The doctor’s skin felt warm even through his clothes. Sherlock could feel his pulse, the man was visibly under stress and still very angry. That guilt came again but he pushed it, and John, out the flat door. “The victim’s personal affects were impounded and I need you to get them, and his diary, something to tell us moves.” He tossed John’s coat at him and darted out, shoving past him.
“And where are you going?” But Sherlock was already on the street and Watson was forced to sigh and follow the command. They were hunting a murderer after all; arguments were going to have to wait. Besides, he had no desire to chase that skinny brunette one more inch down any street. When this was all over though, god help him, he was going to sit Sherlock down, tie him up if he had to, and lay into him in every way he deserved.
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