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Chapter Text

John stood before a picture window in a large, lavish and unfamiliar house, waiting patiently for Sherlock to finish his detailed sweep of the victim's parlour and summon him along to another room. The weather was grey and drizzling, the sort that always drew him to introspection, and today he found himself with much to think on.

It had been four weeks since Chicago. Four weeks. Four hazy, happy, confusing, long, and incredibly awkward weeks.

After the night-long flight back from the States, and then the interminable early morning cab ride from the airport to 221B, they'd been in a pathetic state: John sore and cranky, and Sherlock dreadfully overtired after his refusal to rest on the plane. Mrs Hudson had taken one look at the pair of them and tutted, chivvying them both in the door and up the stairs with a continuous stream of rhetorical questions and worried exclamations. If there had been any overt signals of the change in their status, that day, she would've been perfectly within her rights to overlook them; after all, what were a few meaningful glances between close friends?

They'd both been out of commission for nearly forty-eight hours after their return. Mrs Hudson had tottered up once with a casserole John could heat for supper, and again the next morning with a little bit of milk to tide them over; but he hadn't actually spoken to her about anything of consequence until mid-week, when he'd remembered to fish the much-abused purple scarf from the bottom of his laptop satchel. He'd made an attempt at that point—albeit a pitifully inadequate one—to explain the state of affairs between him and Sherlock; but amidst her renewed fussing over Anna's misfortune, he hadn't been sure the message had gotten across. Eventually, not being one for emotional overstatement, John had simply let the matter drop, resolving to stop worrying about it: she'll catch on eventually, he'd told himself. Surely it'll be obvious to her, soon enough?

John had remained on the crutch for four full days, hobbling about the flat periodically and grumbling about his bruised ribs. On the morning of the third day Sherlock had gone off to do the shopping, carrying a list that had been carefully negotiated: the milk, bread and other hotly contested necessities, written on scrap paper in a shaky hand. (Shaky because Sherlock had insisted John write the items down, but refused to get up from his new favourite lounging position to allow it. As it turned out, Sherlock's shins were ticklishly sensitive to the pressure of the pen.)

Late that morning, John had been balanced on his good foot, his crutch propped against the kitchen worktop, when he had become suddenly aware of a presence behind him. He'd splashed the last of Mrs Hudson's milk to the left of his mug, gasping.

"Doctor Watson. A fine morning, is it not?"

"Jesus," John had panted, spinning in an awkward grab for a towel, "Jesus. Mycroft, you startled me."

"Apparently so," the man had said, smirking and scraping the tip of his umbrella in a tiny, precise figure eight on the floor. "Apologies; my stealth was quite unintentional, I assure you. At any rate, I've merely come to offer you my congratulations. It's so much nicer, isn't it, when one can express felicitations in person?"

"Congrat—? Oh. Er. Sorry, how...?"

"Come now, Doctor Watson. It is my business to know such things, especially when the knowledge in question concerns the well-being of my brother." Mycroft had stepped forward, then, and graciously picked up John's tea from the worktop, allowing John to manage his limping return to the sofa unhindered. "Besides, surely you didn't truly believe your new attachment would remain a secret? Your body language in the baggage claims made the situation blatantly obvious."

John had gaped up at him, mortified, as he'd settled himself gingerly onto the sofa and reclaimed his mug. "You're telling me—ta—you had us watched at the airport?"

He'd waved a dismissive hand, turning it to study his immaculate fingernails as he'd stepped backwards into the centre of the room. "As it so happens, we were surveilling that terminal to watch for a certain traveller of diplomatic importance. But that's none of your concern. No, John, I simply wanted to give you my very best wishes. Although, I must confess a measure of curiosity; after all this time, such a definitive change seems quite sudden. I wonder whether the minor injuries you've sustained weren't the only precipitating factor?"

At that moment, the downstairs door had crashed open loudly and Sherlock's resonant voice had preceded him up the stairs. "Tesco's at eleven thirty in the morning is an appalling crush of humanity. You should have warned me to wait, John, it would—Mycroft?"

"Greetings, brother."

Sherlock had looked their visitor up and down, and his expression had immediately soured. "I suppose a little privacy is more than I could reasonably expect to be granted? Go away," he'd snapped, storming through to the kitchen and hastily stuffing bags into the fridge.

Mycroft had only let a freshly smug smile slither across his face. "You know what will be expected of you now, Sherlock."

"Really, Mycroft. It's been barely two weeks!" He'd swept past the man, wordlessly handing a chocolate biscuit down to John. Then he'd sat down right in the centre of the sofa, the full length of his left leg warm against John's right, and had thrown a challenging look up at the elder Holmes as if it had been an utterly natural action. It most definitely had not.

"Don't think you can escape your obligation," his brother had sniffed. "It's been far too long; and now, your changed circumstances demand it be done, as you are well aware. I shall endeavour to smooth the waters, for your sake, though you are hardly deserving of it. But do not delay too long, little brother." Levelling a stern look down his nose at Sherlock, he'd turned to leave, pausing at the door only long enough to murmur politely over one shoulder, "Good day, John."

"What the hell was all that about?" John had asked, brushing crumbs of the unexpected biscuit from his shirt. "What obligation?"

"It's nothing. And I don't want to talk about it, it's not important," Sherlock had replied brusquely. With that, he'd crossed his arms and thrown himself into a sullen sulk that had lasted for hours, although he hadn't shifted from the spot he'd chosen at John's side.

A flurry of motion reflected in the window glass brought John's attention suddenly away from his memories, and he turned to look.

"The killer was an unexpected visitor, but was known to the victim," Sherlock began, striding energetically from the other end of the lavish parlour. He directed his next statement to John's left, addressing a new arrival. "You're looking for a woman, no taller than one hundred sixty centimetres, with a penchant for clove cigarettes. She either lives or works in a place with three dogs, one of which is a Lhasa Apso, and she will have recently attended a culinary school course on knife work."

The recipient of this rapid-fire stream of deductions tossed her curly head and snorted in disbelief. "And just how do you get a culinary course out of this bloody mess? Ridiculous! You're reaching, Freak. You're still trying to see just how far you can pull the wool over our eyes, aren't you!"

John noticed his left hand clenching, and made a conscious effort to release it.

"Sally, Sally. As always, your incredible cynicism blinds you to the obvious." Sherlock was calm and collected, looking down on her with impassive eyes as he stepped closer.

"What's obvious is that you and your pet doctor shouldn't be permitted to crawl all over these crime scenes! Mark my words, Freak, you won't have the run of this city forever."

He's so calm, thought John, like nothing she says upsets him at all. He held himself perfectly still at Sherlock's side, drawing a silent, slow breath and visualising the clean air filling him to his toes. If Sherlock wasn't upset, there was no reason to take this needling seriously. They'd had as much and worse from Donovan before, so why did John feel so on edge?

Sherlock didn't so much as glance his way, although John was hyper-aware of the man's fractional smile as he shifted his weight slightly forward. "I rather think I've proven myself valuable. If nothing else, I've saved the Met from countless embarrassments due to poor training, prejudicial bias, and lack of basic observational skills—and you'd know about at least two of those, wouldn't you?"

Standing frozen between Sergeant Donovan and his partner, balanced on the knife edge between stillness and shouting, John found a sudden realisation ringing a clear peal in his head. She doesn't know about us. And he's clearly not volunteered it. Does he mean it to be a secret? Sherlock was holding himself poised and angled away from John in a way that sent two clear and separate messages: to Sally it said "don't notice him, eyes on me", and to John it said "don't get involved." John gritted his teeth and watched, forcing himself to obey the unspoken request.

"Don't you worry," Sally said next, tilting her head and baring her teeth in a hard smile. "You'll step a foot wrong sooner or later, and the Chief Superintendent will finally start asking the right questions again. Getting rid of the psychopath and his live-in? Trust me, it won't be a hard sell the second time 'round!"

No; the calming techniques weren't working. John could feel heat rising at the back of his neck, and fingernails pricking into his palms. Neither of the other two appeared to be paying him any attention. Just one more nasty smirk from Donovan would change that in a big way—and there it is. That's it, I've HAD it!

Just as he opened his mouth and drew breath to fire off a blistering comment of his own, Greg Lestrade appeared in the doorway behind them.

"What's all this now? Donovan, what've I told you about winding Holmes up?" The DI's voice firmly interrupted the building tension; he stepped in between them and faced his subordinate down.

"Sir, I just—"

"I don't wanna hear it. Go find Patel, and help him finish interviewing the household staff." She opened her mouth again, but he cut her off with a curt gesture before she could get another word out. "Do it, Donovan."

For one brittle moment Sally stared at him, her lips pressed hard together; finally, she glanced just once at Sherlock before wisely retreating.

Greg watched her go, and once they were alone he turned with a tired sigh. "Sorry about her. I think she's stressed about family stuff, y'know—she's been lashing out a bit the last two weeks since I've been back. I'll talk to her about it," he said, running a hand over his salt-and-pepper hair as he threw John an understanding and apologetic look.

Raising an eyebrow, Sherlock regarded the older man silently. Then he turned with a small nod, utterly unruffled, and began to repeat his string of deductions for Lestrade's benefit.

John remained at the window when the other two men began a circuit of the room. As Sherlock pointed out transferred dog hairs and unique spatter marks, he began a fresh breathing exercise, relaxing his hands deliberately and trying to make sense of his violently protective reactions...and the signals Sherlock had sent to prevent him acting on them.

Honestly, they hadn't yet talked about whether they'd tell anyone outside their closest friends. And while John wasn't certain he minded the idea of telling the world—shouting it to the rooftops had felt fairly attractive, at certain moments over the past month—he knew it would just give people like Sally more ammunition for petty attacks. So, was Sherlock's apparent reticence merely a protective measure specific to their environment? Or was he truly not inclined to let people know?

Or...does he think that secrecy is what I want, still?

Rolling the last of the tension from his shoulders, John set aside his worry and moved to catch up to the others.