A/N: Set after "A Mirror Without" and "Joyeux Noel". Do not take the references to American crime shows as commentary - I love me some SVU. Rated M for just in case. I do not own, nor do I profit from. Enjoy!
Sherlock didn't look up when John came at almost ten at night, because he'd been expecting John to be late and was therefore unsurprised and unwilling to be distracted. John's clinic had been running an evening vaccination session for flu shots. Sherlock had tried to get John to bring some samples of the vaccines home, so he could run some experiments on their potency if administered in large doses and with other drugs, but John had refused, which was vexing. Something about the legal ramifications, although Sherlock could easily dodge these, but John seemed worried about losing his medical license, which was preposterous. Who would Sherlock tell? Sometimes, John was baffling. Sherlock suspected this was deliberate.
Sherlock was making do with studying the effects of ammonia on the degradation of human skin after death but prior to the onset of rigor mortis. It was not, all things considered, particularly interesting. At least, not yet.
He hoped there would be a new body available in the morgue in St. Bart's within the next day or two, one that he could run some tests on. There were times when he missed Molly Hooper's presence, because she had generally let him do whatever he had wanted, although the newest tech seemed to find his experiments interesting and had even put forth some good ideas of her own. Sherlock suspected she may actually be intelligent, which was encouraging. He was already considering recommending to Lestrade that he replace Anderson with her, though, to be fair, Lestrade could replace Anderson with a trained hamster and it would be an improvement.
There was a thud of mail on the table but Sherlock ignored this, greeting John vaguely from the kitchen as the other man shed his coat, scarf and gloves and hung them on his peg. John grunted in return but Sherlock didn't notice, adjusting the focus on his microscope, frowning to himself concerning the results he was getting. Or not getting. Perhaps he needed to add some bleach?
"Who's Bess?" John asked.
Sherlock ignored him, chewing on his lower lip, considering what other cleaning supplies he may need to purchase the following day. What did they have in the flat? Cleaning was so often John's purview.
"Sherlock. Who's Bess?"
Sherlock huffed, looking up. John seemed tired, but this was not unexpected.
"I don't know anyone named Bess," Sherlock replied. "Am I to be keeping track of all your former girlfriends or army mates?"
Something flashed in John's eyes but Sherlock ignored it. The doctor held up a postcard that had been taken from the mail pile – Sherlock hadn't gone out that day, so hadn't bothered gathering their mail. For some reason, this seemed to annoy John.
It was a postcard from Venice, with a picture of the Rialto Bridge in the middle distance, the city spreading out around it. Sherlock gave it a disinterested glance. He'd been to Venice, and had found it disappointing. What kind of recommendation was "romantic" for a city anyway?
"Still don't know anyone named Bess," he said. "Nor do I know anyone currently visiting Italy. Who is she, then? Trying to make me jealous?" He asked the last question off-handedly, turning back to the microscope.
"Might as well shout at thunder," John muttered. Sherlock leaned back, rolling his eyes.
"Don't be a bore, John, of course I'd be upset if you were interested in someone else. But I don't know anyone named Bess, so unless it's to the wrong address, it must be for you."
"It's addressed to you first," John said, holding it out. Sherlock sighed and took it, dismissing the picture on the front and flipping it over.
The addressee information read:
S. Holmes & J. Watson
The text read:
Lovely weather down here, although they haven't the faintest idea how to make a decent cuppa.
Things are going well; nice to be out and about in the fresh air occasionally. Will write again soon.
-Ciao, Bess
Sherlock's eyes lit up and he grinned, pushing himself to his feet, the tedious and disappointing experiment forgotten. He checked the postmark date; it had been sent only four days previous.
"So you do know her," John said in what Sherlock considered an unnecessarily dark tone.
"No," Sherlock said, shaking his head and still grinning, ignoring John's displeased expression. "Him. John, it's from Sam."
At this, John lost the displeasure and looked surprised.
"What?" he asked. "I thought he was in France? And that his name was Yves?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes again, indicating what he thought of John's observational abilities.
"Yes, he's in France, but obviously he wouldn't send us anything from there. And yes, his name is Yves. Yves Phillipe Bessette, John. Bess. Do you think he'd sign it 'Yves'? Or 'Sam'? This is his handwriting, too."
He stuck the postcard on the fridge, using a small magnet with the Union Jack printed on it hold it up. This was good news – it meant Sam was at least able to leave whatever hospital he was in for short periods of time. Sherlock suspected that the Interpol agent was still hospitalized, after all, he'd been quite badly injured the last time Sherlock had seen him, and that been before plunging off the Waterloo Bridge. Sherlock appreciated the postcard image more now; Sam had chosen the view of a bridge with good reason.
"You know his handwriting?" John asked.
"Of course," Sherlock replied. "I did tell you that he left me a note in the file Veronique gave me."
"You recognize his handwriting after seeing it once?"
"Yes, of course," Sherlock said, surprised. "Wouldn't you?"
John shook his head, muttering something, and opened the fridge.
"Anything to eat?" he sighed.
"No," Sherlock said vaguely, sitting back down and returning his attention to his microscope. "Do we have any formaldehyde?"
"Why would we have formaldehyde?" John sighed.
"I need some," Sherlock replied. "I think I may come to the clinic with you tomorrow and check your supply room. I am distressingly short on materials around here."
John shut the fridge door louder than necessary.
"No you won't," he replied. "Dammit, why don't we have anything to eat?"
"We can do take away," Sherlock said.
"We've been doing that all week. I'm putting on weight, I can tell."
"Haven't noticed that," Sherlock said.
"Yeah, well," John grumbled. Sherlock frowned, looking up from his microscope.
"John, what are you on about?" he asked.
John stopped rummaging through a cupboard to look back at him.
"I'm hungry and tired," he said shortly. "I don't see why you can't make dinner when you're at home, if you can make breakfast."
Sherlock stared at him a moment, then sprang up, yanking open a cupboard and pulling out a can of soup. He dropped it on the counter, then returned to his microscope.
"If you want me to make dinner, you need to text me and tell me," he said. "Contrary to your unshakeable belief, I cannot read your mind."
John sighed but opened the can and dumped the contents into a pot. He heated it quickly, fishing about for a clean bowl as he did so, then poured the soup into the bowl. He plunked the bowl on a plate and disappeared into the livingroom, turning on the telly slightly louder than necessary.
After half an hour of trying to ignore the American crime drama John was watching at an unreasonable volume, Sherlock pushed himself to his feet with a scowl. He hated these shows; they were so banal. The American detectives ran about like children, never stopping to consider the facts in front of them. Was that any way to behave with a case? It was a wonder they were able to solve anything.
John looked up when Sherlock came into the livingroom, brown eyes darker than normal.
"All this because I didn't make dinner? Or because Sam sent a card?"
John was startled.
"What? No and no. I'm glad to hear from Sam."
"Then what?" Sherlock demanded.
John let out a sigh, shaking his head.
"I don't know," he admitted.
Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes, as he suspected this may make things worse. John had admonished him on more than one occasion about body language that suggested that he was impatient or didn't care. But he was impatient. How did John expect him to get anything done acting like this?
"Anyway, doesn't matter," John sighed, picking up Sherlock's Union Jack pillow, which he had always insisted was tacky, and holding it protectively against his stomach, arms crossed defensively over it.
"It matters because you're distracting me," Sherlock said, tapping his fingers irately against the frame of the archway that led to the kitchen. John shot him an annoyed look, slouching down further on the couch, then rolled his eyes away, staring resolutely at the television screen. "Also, you are my husband."
John's head snapped back, eyes blazing, cheeks suddenly red.
"Oh, that comes in second, does it?" he snarled.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes quickly.
"I'd think it rather went without saying," he replied coolly. "However, need I remind you that you are the one who married a sociopath? I told you that the day you met me."
John stared at him, disbelief scrawled over his features.
"So now this is my fault?" he demanded.
"Frankly, I'm not even certain why we're assigning blame," Sherlock retorted. "I have absolutely no idea what you're upset about."
John stared at him again, then threw the pillow irately on the couch, pushing himself to his feet.
"I'm going to bed," he announced, then stalked out of the livingroom without a backward glance, leaving his dishes behind and the television on. Sherlock shut off the TV, but didn't touch the dishes; let John take care of his own mess in the morning.
He went back into the kitchen, throwing himself back into his chair and returning to the experiment with a new zeal born of frustration and the desire to make a point. Although about what, he still was not entirely clear. Fuming, Sherlock spun the magnification on his microscope to its fullest power, then wished he had some of the vaccine from John's clinic.
A little over an hour later, he heard John come back out the bedroom but didn't look up, refusing to be drawn further into a pointless and baffling argument. But the sound of the door opening made him sit up quickly and lean back. He saw John, in his pyjamas, unbolting the locks and stepping out.
"You've not got your coat!" Sherlock called, not even bothering to point out that John was in his pyjamas. What was the man up to? He had to be the most obstinate person in the world. Barring Mycroft, of course.
John ignored him, leaving the door open, and starting to the stairs. With a huff, Sherlock pushed himself to his feet and followed, standing at the top of the stairway and John went down slowly, almost mechanically. Sherlock clattered down after him when he opened the outer door – John wasn't even wearing shoes, and it was mid-January.
"John!" Sherlock hissed.
John didn't look round, just stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame, motionless for several minutes. Then he stepped back in, shut the door, and turned back, heading for the stairs. Sherlock met his eyes and was surprised – John looked at him, but was obviously not seeing him. His expression was glassy and slightly unfocused. He walked past Sherlock and put a hand on the banister, making his way back up to the flat.
Sherlock pulled out his phone quickly and was about to open the browser, but called up his contact list at the last second. He selected Tricia's name and sent her a quick text message.
John is sleeping walking. Please advise. SH.
While waiting, he followed John back up the stairs and closed and relocked the door to their flat. The vibration of the phone in his hand redirected his attention.
Just put him back to bed. Don't try waking him, unless you fancy getting a black eye. –T.
Sherlock frowned.
Causes? he texted back.
There was a longer pause, during which time John had gone into the kitchen and had begun to methodically remove all of the cups and mugs from the cupboard.
Stress, probably. Check the calendar, Homes.
It's Holmes. With an L., Sherlock texted back.
Smart phone is not so smart, Tricia replied. Check the calendar! Then take care of your husband.
Sherlock knew her well enough to know that when she referred to John as Sherlock's husband, she was impressing on him that he needed to take responsibility. It had not taken Sherlock long – less than five seconds, actually – after meeting Tricia to deduce that she was the surgeon who had saved John's life after he'd been shot, that the memory still made her shaky, and that she stood in as a surrogate sister for Harry, who was far less dependable and far less often sober. More now, of course, but John never had to worry about that with Tricia. With anyone else, Sherlock may have been inclined to feel jealous, but he could tell that the relationship was more familial than anything.
He checked the date and time on his phone.
"Ah," he said softly.
It had just gone on midnight, January eighteenth. A year to the day since the crash. Sherlock sighed to himself and slipped his phone back into his pocket. What was it with people? So it had been one year since the crash that Moriarty had orchestrated. Moriarty was dead. One month ago, it had been eleven months after the accident, and John hadn't been sleeping walking about the flat, nor had he seemed to notice. Why did everyone put such stock in unrelated dates and events? It wasn't as though Sherlock was going to be in another crash, just because he'd been in one on this day a year previous. He'd survived thirty-four years of accident-free January eighteenths up until that point.
He went into the kitchen, where John had managed to remove a good chunk of their glassware from the cupboard and spread it out across the counter. Gently, so as not to startle the doctor and end up on the wrong end of John's right hook – which Sherlock had seen was very impressive – he took John's hands, then wrapped an arm around John's shoulders.
"Come on, John," he murmured softly. "Let's go back to bed."
John sighed but fell into step with him. Sherlock led his husband back into their bedroom and settled him into bed, tucking the covers about him. He went back into the kitchen and livingroom and shut off the lights, then returned to the bedroom, changing into pyjamas, dumping his clothing on the floor near the closet. He had no desire to sleep, nor was he tired, but he felt less like chasing John about the flat all night and herding him back into bed.
When he climbed in beside John, his husband curled up against him, wrapping one arm around his waist, nuzzling his face into Sherlock's chest. Sherlock was certain that had John been awake, this wouldn't have happened, given the attitude John had had when he'd gone to bed. Sherlock sighed, wrapping one leg protectively over John's hip and one arm over his shoulders.
He wondered if he could will himself to sleep. Then he wondered if he'd have to promise to go nowhere the next day, for fear of having delivery trucks run into him. Sherlock closed his eyes, repressing a sigh.
Bored. He was bored.
He needed a case, something to do, something to occupy his mind and his time. He felt more than in danger of falling into mediocrity. The last case he'd worked, right after new year's, had been so simple that he wondered why Lestrade had needed him. Really, was Scotland Yard getting so dim lately that they couldn't manage on their own? In the darkest moments of the night, Sherlock wondered if he'd lost something that was keeping him engaged when Moriarty died. It wasn't a thought he wanted to voice but he was certain John had picked up on it.
Expelling an angry breath, he forced himself to refocus, concentrating on the warm body in his arms and tried not to think about how, right now, it would be a pleasure to be presented with a cold body on a slab.