Chapter Text
The lump of flesh stank with wet and rot. Sherlock frowned down at it; a scalpel held carefully in his hand. He intended to carve the piece of muscle into small samples that would allow him to test the efficacy of several secondary disposal methods after tissues had been frozen and allowed to thaw. Behind him, a desiccated finger from the refrigerator floated in a weak vinegar solution.
Downstairs, the door opened. Mrs. Hudson spoke in low tones to another person. Sherlock stepped away from his experiments, tilting his head to listen. A single set of steps, light and feminine, ascended to the door of their flat. He strode over and swung open the door before the potential client could knock.
He sighed in heavy disappointment as soon as he saw her. She slowly relaxed her fist and lowered her hand to her side. Her forced smile melted away as he stared at her. He considered closing the door in her face or ignoring her to see how long she took to go away.
But Sherlock was bored. It was the only reason he invited the woman inside. Ordinarily, the prospect of a client would energize him, but this case was so obvious he could hardly consider it a case.
“I don’t usually investigate runaways,” he declared flatly, before she could take a breath.
She blinked in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s the reason you’re here. A runaway. Late teens most likely.” He scanned her again. She stood there, frowning, with her head tilted to one side. She looked bemused rather than annoyed or distressed. It nagged at him, so he kept talking. Often times, his rapid-fire deductions led prospective clients into revealing reactions. “Not your child. Could be a sibling or perhaps a close cousin. Missing since at least this morning but for no more than 36 hours.”
Her brow furrowed in consternation, and she crossed her arms over her chest. “How could you possibly know that?”
“You have creases around your eyes and forehead, but no angry tension in your muscles. That says worry not betrayal, so it’s likely a missing loved one. You’re here, not at the police station, so whoever it is isn’t young enough to be helpless. A runaway, not foul play, for the same reason.” Sherlock stepped back and around her, pretending to examine her face for the signs he recited. In truth, he was watching for her to reveal the one missing piece to his puzzle. His mobile chimed, but he ignored it.
“The length of time is based on your eyes and clothes. You’re worried enough to be here, but you’ve slept recently so either they’ve only been gone a day, or you’ve only known about it that long. It’s not something that was deliberately kept from you, or you’d be angry in addition to worried. Angry and anxious people don’t generally dress so carefully so you didn’t know about the situation when you dressed this morning.” He made a show of scanning her, from her designer pumps up to her elegant pantsuit. He eyed the silk scarf clipped by an antique broach. Not an heirloom, he thought. It matched the rest of her ensemble too well.
He heard the door downstairs open and decided to rush her out of the flat. The case was dull, and he had no intention of letting John spoil their evening by trying to guilt him into taking it.
“The thing I haven’t figured out is why you’re here. It’s far too early in a simple runaway case to start seeking out detectives. You should still be contacting friends and extended family.”
Oddly, the woman nodded her head as though she agreed. “You didn’t actually let me introduce myself,” she told him. Behind her, the door opened.
“They were completely out of -” John cut off his complaint at the sight of their guest. “Clara?”
The woman smiled with relief. When John set down his shopping bags, she stepped into his offered hug, certain of her welcome. Sherlock frowned. It’s always something.
John held on to her for a long moment and then ushered her over to a chair. “Sherlock, I’m assuming you didn’t introduce yourself.” He didn’t wait for a response. They both knew his impatience with social niceties. “Clara, Sherlock Holmes, my flat mate. Sherlock, this is my sister-in-law, Clara.”
She shrugged awkwardly. “Ex-Sister-in-Law, technically.”
“I didn’t see my name on the divorce papers,” John answered fondly.
The piece of missing data fell into place, and he sighed in resignation. He would end up helping this woman find her sibling, if only to keep John from searching all night. With any luck, they would still have time for their Sunday night traditions of a late dinner and bickering over John’s atrocious taste in television. He drummed his fingers on the arm of his own chair.
“I take it your sibling was close to your ex-wife?”
She nodded, his previous rudeness forgiven. “Yes. Harry and I aren’t good for each other… not really. So, after the last time we failed to make a go of it, we agreed to block each other’s numbers.”
“Making John your simplest point of contact.” Sherlock met John’s worried gaze.
“Sherlock mentioned your sibling. Has something happened to Jenny?”
“Jason,” she corrected. “He was supposed to wait until I could be there before he came out, but Mum caught him practicing his speech in the mirror. He took off while she was still yelling. I’m hoping that he’s with Harry, but I can’t exactly call her myself.”
John fished his mobile from his pocket. “I’ll call her now.”
Despite stepping towards the kitchen, they could all hear John’s side of the conversation. Clara relaxed into an exhausted slump when she got confirmation that her brother was safe and sound with John’s sister.
“Just bring him round to the flat, Harry, and we can figure things out together.” John listened to her, no doubt predictable, response. “Actually, would you mind picking up a kettle if they have one? Sherlock used ours to electrocute a heart in the tub, and the Yard is liable to have a new murder case to investigate if I can’t get a decent cuppa before I go to the clinic in the morning.”
Whatever she said in response made him laugh. He hung up a moment later and rejoined them. “He’s fine,” John assured their guest. “He went straight to Harry’s office and talked his way past the receptionist. She took him to the shops for a few things since he left so quickly. I guess he thought you were out of town?”
“I was supposed to be.” She laid her head back against the chair and closed her eyes. “Fortunately, my client cancelled.” She held out her hand with a soft smile. “How have you been, John? It’s wonderful to see you.”
By the time Mrs. Hudson admitted their visitors, Sherlock’s boredom had entered excruciating territory. Were the end of this episode not in sight, he might have got desperate enough to reply to the texts Mycroft’s assistant had been sending all afternoon.
John’s sister stared sadly at her ex-wife as she turned over custody of her brother-in-law. Sherlock automatically catalogued her. Six months sober and determined to make it stick. She sets her jaw like John does when he’s exerting willpower. Actively resisting a craving then.
He flicked his eyes over to his friend. He sees it, too. The resemblance between Harry and John was striking in person, but it was more than could be explained by simple features and colouring. There were mannerisms and expressions that accentuated the similarities. His sister even pinched her lips the same way John did when holding back emotions.
Sherlock resigned himself to a dull evening. John would insist that his sister stay for a visit, and she would accept to avoid the temptation of the pub down the road. The two of them would sit and try to catch up in some socially acceptable way. It would be so tedious.
He bit back a sigh. Sherlock had had the evening mapped out, and he was disappointed at the change in plans. I was looking forward to telling John about the resolution to the electrocution case over a nice curry. At least the curry is still an option.
Sherlock met John’s eyes, as Harry looked toward the door and shuffled her feet nervously. John arched a brow at Sherlock, who pulled out his phone with a sigh. “I’m ordering from Mr. Singh’s. What would you like?” He got a grateful smile and nod from John in return. Then, both men started sharing recommendations with their guest.
Their favourite little cafe was only down the block, so Sherlock walked over to pick up their meal. His mobile vibrated in his pocket again. He ignored it, again. As he re-entered their flat with the aromatic bags in hand, he heard laughing and teasing murmurs from the kitchen. He hoped that John was making them tea with their new kettle.
“I just don’t see how you’ve not done anything with him in two years, John.” Harry laughed. The two siblings faced the counter, oblivious to Sherlock in the doorway. “He’s so damn pretty.”
“You’re gay,” John reminded her.
“But I’m not blind!” She swatted at John’s shoulder. “You can’t tell me you’ve never even tried to get that man into bed.”
John gusted out an aggravated sigh, and Sherlock waited for his usual response to those sorts of assumptions. Instead, he said, “Sherlock and I are just friends.”
“Right.” She stepped aside when he reached for the empty mugs. “Guess I wouldn’t want to ruin a good friendship for a shag either.”
She turned toward the table and spotted him. Her eyes widened with surprise, and her cheeks flushed. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.” Her smile went tight around the edges. “I was just taking the piss out of John. You know how siblings can be.”
Hot water sloshed onto the floor as John spun to face him. His eyes widened, and Sherlock knew that he had missed an important piece to the puzzle of Dr. John Watson.
“Not gay doesn’t exactly mean straight, Sherlock,” John admitted, resting his tea on the arm of his chair. “I’ve never cared for people making assumptions about my preferences, and that’s all most labels are as far I’m concerned.”
Harry sat, struck and guilty from her own chair in their sitting room. “I really am sorry,” she mumbled again. “I would never have outed you like that on purpose. You know that, right?”
“It’s fine, Harry.” John shook his head. “Trust me, Sherlock doesn’t care who I find attractive.” His smile turned smug and amused. “At least, not for the reasons you’re worried about.”
Could I really have missed this? Sherlock sifted through his memories. In the two years since they met, John’s preferred type had been incredibly consistent. Every person he dated had had a medium build; a nice complexion; even features; and higher than average intelligence. To a person, they fit that type, and of course… “In the entire time I’ve known you, you’ve only ever dated women.”
“What?” Harry gaped at her brother.
John rolled his eyes. “Honestly, Sherlock. Think of what you know about me, and the things I find attractive.” He raised a meaningful brow. “Now, what would you deduce about my taste in men?”
Considering his friend’s affinity for dangerous situations, Sherlock had to acknowledge that he would likely be attracted to unstable or similarly reckless people. Since those traits would be easier to find in single men than women… He nodded in silent acceptance and took a sip of his tea.
Harry glanced back and forth between them and then protested. “Oh please! Your taste in men cannot be that bad!”
John turned back to his sister. “Ian lit the garden shed on fire.”
She rolled her eyes. “He was 19. You were both 19.”
“Brad wrecked three cars in a month. Two of which weren’t his, and one of those he was expressly forbidden from borrowing.”
Street racing, Sherlock decided. Likely before John entered the army, perhaps just after…
“Sure, but you made up your mind to study medicine after that last accident. By that measure, you could argue he was good for you.”
“Harold tried to plant a camera in my flat because he thought I was cheating on him.”
Sherlock scoffed at the absurdity. “You? Cheat? You usually date people with some intelligence, John.” The idea of his friend being unfaithful was as ridiculous as him growing wings and flying away. “They’re boring but not idiots.”
“Yes!” Harry exclaimed as though he had made some incredibly salient point. “You pick women that end up boring you. That’s why you’ve never managed to commit to any of them.”
“John looked at engagement rings for his last girlfriend,” Sherlock offered, smirking.
She frowned, “I think you mentioned her… Mary something? What happened with that? One minute, you were serious enough to say you wanted to introduce me, and the next you were asking me to list Christmas gifts on eBay for you.”
John glared at him, and Sherlock gladly took that quelling look as a dare. He grinned. “She wasn’t boring.”
“She tried to shoot you!”
Sherlock laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous, John. If she’d been trying to shoot me, she wouldn’t have missed! It was a warning shot. Perfectly harmless.”
Harry stared, her mouth agape in horror.
“She was being blackmailed.” John explained. “She intended to steal back whatever evidence there was of her… past. When Sherlock confronted her, she fired a gun in his general direction.”
“Ok, so…your last girlfriend…” Her mind clearly whirled with the realisation that John’s life in London was not as safe as she would have hoped. She closed her eyes and took a deep sip of her tea. By silent agreement, the men gave her a time to adjust to her new understanding. She mumbled something about gender and John’s preferences. Finally, she asked, “What about that non-binary person you dated for a while? They were nice.”
“Teagan?” John smiled, fondly. “They still are nice. No dramatic breakup there. Our work took us opposite directions, and I’m not cut out for a long-distance relationship.”
Harry nodded, accepting that. “They still in London? You could try to rekindle things, now that you’re home?”
He shook his head. “That ship has sailed, Harry. We meet up for lunch occasionally, but we’re just friends these days.” John leaned forward in his chair and asked the truly relevant question. “Why are you so interested in my lack of a love life, anyway?”
She smiled over at him. With that sadly fond expression on her face, she looked very like John. “I want you to be happy, little brother. And some people aren’t meant to be alone.”
With Harry gone home and John off to bed, Sherlock leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes. He rolled the revelations of the evening over in his mind. Of all the things he thought he understood, John’s choice in sexual partners had seemed clear and predictable.
I don’t know how I missed this. There must have been some sign. He pulled up his memories of the last three women John had dated. Nothing within those observations told him anything new. Even Mary had fit John’s usual type, her prior career notwithstanding.
The mystery gnawed uncomfortably at his mind. Sherlock had never had a companion as close to him as John. After two years, he thought he knew everything important about the man. I just need to review the data and think it through. He allowed himself to drift, remembering the fleeting faces and bland smiles of the women that John dated.
After an hour, he sat up and rubbed his eyes in frustration. I’ll need more data. John’s post army relationships are clearly not a representative sample set of what he seeks out. He started toward his bed, tired and grateful for a new mystery to solve.