Chapter Text
The trick to being with Sherlock Holmes, John mused, was to always keep in mind that he wouldn’t actually murder you and wear your skin as a suit.
“I can see the appeal,” Sherlock was murmuring to him over the peeled body, much to the horror of any Yarders in earshot. “I often find it surprisingly difficult to get inside your head. It might be cathartic to do in a more literal sense.”
They were crouched over the latest victim in an abandoned basement, the corpse’s exposed muscle going stiff and translucent in the dry air. The Yard was hoping to find the rest of the man nearby and, according to terrified witnesses who had seen the murderer traipsing around in it earlier, entirely in one piece. Of all things.
John snorted. “With your curls? Our killer didn’t even clean this poor bugger out properly, just pulled him on gore and all. You’d be picking bits of me out of your hair for weeks afterwards.”
“Yes, well, give me credit for obviously going about it a bit more intelligently than this.” Sherlock examined the naked pads of the man’s fingers for a moment before he paused, grinning. “Of course,” he teased, “if I followed suit exactly, I’d always have a part of you with me. In my hair.”
John laughed. “You’re such a romantic. Hold up his arm for me, will you?”
Everyone gave them a wide berth.
They would forget again soon (people usually did; it was probably the jumpers), but in the weeks since John had shot a serial killer in the eye with an illegal handgun in front of Sally Donovan, all the half-hearted effort Sherlock had made to smooth things over with her (and, really, the rest of London’s police force) had been wasted. John tried not to feel too guilty, since he’d shot the woman while saving Sherlock’s life, but it did mean that his image as the sane, safe one was a bit damaged at the moment.
He probably wasn’t helping it laughing about being skinned by his boyfriend, of course.
On the upside, the current imagined threat of Sherlock going serial-killer with John as his gun-wielding sidekick was keeping almost everyone out of their way and exceptionally polite. No one wanted to be interesting enough or annoying enough to be the first victim when things went sour. Really though, they needn’t have worried; barring any truly amazing breaks of character from the residents of the Yard, Anderson would clearly be at the head of the line if they snapped.
“So?” Greg asked, unable to keep quiet any longer. “Anything?”
Sherlock peeled back a section of muscle on the body’s shoulder, examining where the flaying knife cut slightly too deep. His eyes narrowed, he gave a slight, sudden inhale, and John glanced up to look at him.
“Boring,” Sherlock declared, standing abruptly and stripping his gloves off in disgust.
John stared. “What?” he blurted, torn between annoyed and disbelieving.
“What?” Greg echoed, clearly deciding on annoyed.
“Don’t force me to repeat myself,” Sherlock sighed, tossing the gloves in the bin and pulling on his own leather ones, which were hardly going to keep anything warm. John supposed they looked quite dashing, though, which was presumably their only function. Even now Sherlock was lifting his chin and tilting his head at just the right angle to project beautiful but disaffected ennui. Usually John found it amusing and, admittedly, attractive against his better judgment. But really, on this murder?
“Boring?” he managed, “the killer skinned the man, pulled on his face, and went to the bloody Tesco to buy crisps. That is absolutely an eight at the least.”
“Boring!” Sherlock flipped his coat collar up. “Did you see the cut marks? The method of subduing the victim?” He looked back and forth between John and Greg, growing more agitated. “For god’s sake, look at the ropes!”
Greg turned to look at John instead, but he just shrugged helplessly in reply.
Sherlock stared at them and flung his hands in the air, making a frustrated noise. “It’s the same case as before, Sally simply can’t be trusted to clean everything up correctly!”
“Oi!” Sally yelled from across the room, “I can bloody hear you!”
“You missed a spot,” Sherlock snarled, pointing at the corpse, “right here. I am not tidying it away for you!”
“You don’t tidy your own flat, no surprise there,” Sally shot back. “What the hell have I done to disappoint you this time, Freak?”
“You have twelve indescribably inept, moronic members of a disbanded murder internship program currently kicking their heels in the machinery of your useless justice system,” Sherlock bit out, yanked his coat tighter around himself and flung the door open. John scrambled to follow. “Yet somehow you’ve failed to question them sufficiently to know whether you’ve managed to capture all of them.”
Sally stuck her jaw out and slammed the door shut before Sherlock could leave. “I might have, if your boyfriend hadn’t shot the only one who knew everything,” she accused, giving John a glare.
“Still not sorry,” John said cheerfully. Sally slit her eyes at him but didn’t say anything more.
“In any case,” Greg said quellingly, his hands up like he was dealing with a pack of rabid dogs, “knowing it’s another student doesn’t help us. Giving us some details about how to find him does. Sherlock? Impress us. Show off how brilliant you are and tell us where he’s hiding.”
Sherlock gave him a glare that clearly said he would not be manipulated, and he was frankly appalled at the weakness of the attempt. John knew Greg’s pain; he’d gotten that look already twice in as many hours. Apparently, cajoling your flatmate into eating dinner was considered controlling and dictatorial, and was Not To Be Borne.
“I’m getting the feeling that ‘boring’ means you don't know the answers,” Sally tossed out, and John could swear he saw Sherlock’s hackles rise.
Apparently he would be manipulated today.
“No salt. No chemicals,” he hissed, stalking back to the body to wave his hand over it wildly. “Not even the brain was used to stave off rot on the skin. The killer made no attempt to preserve it.” He gestured around the room; it was clear, open, and utterly without neighbors. “The scene gave him ample opportunity; that means he doesn’t intend to keep it. By the time he’d finished his childish trip to the shops, the smell would have set in, and he would be covered in gore. He’d want to get rid of it and clean up.”
“It’s not that easy,” Greg insisted. “No one has seen anyone wandering around drenched in blood since your pig fiasco in the tube. People would have called.”
“We were getting phone calls about you dripping all over the train for the entire week afterwards,” Sally agreed.
Sherlock ignored them. “He’d need to clean off and dump the skin out of sight. Where? He can’t go to a public toilet, he can’t be sure he’ll avoid attention breaking in to any back rooms to use a shop’s, and anyway he’ll want a full shower, ideally, to get the…” he glanced at John, and smirked, “mementoes of the occasion out of his hair entirely. He went to Tesco’s for attention, but now the police are coming and he needs to move quickly.” He turned to them, triumphant.
Then his face fell.
“Really?” he asked, incredulous at their presumably blank faces, “Good god, no wonder the paper’s crossword is a challenge, I’m surprised you don’t all need my help using the bathroom as well. Really? You can’t think of anywhere nearby that would sport a shower the killer would know about and could count on.”
Sally and Greg both looked at John again, which really never helped them, but they still assumed he could read Sherlock’s mind. Probably because Sherlock expected him to as well, most of the time. He just shook his head again.
“This building is right next to one,” Sherlock snapped, pointing, and looked ready to strangle them.
“Hold on.” Greg held a hand out to stop him, other arm still crossed over his chest. “You can’t honestly be trying to tell me the man wandered over to the motel next door and booked a room. Even if he’d done it before he was covered in blood, someone would have seen him dripping somewhere. It’s not a slow area.”
Sherlock looked, if possible, even more disgusted than before. “You don’t need to go in the front door to use the shower, Lestrade. You only need to have prepared the back window by unscrewing the bars, yank them the rest of the way off when you get there, and break in. Did you not even notice the cement bits he dusted off his jacket over the body? Of course you didn’t. And, of course, most telling; he left his receipt,” he sneered, snatching a bit of paper out of the open rubbish bin in the corner.
“Wait,” Sally tried, “so—“
“Search the dumpsters and back windows of the motel on the receipt, find the skin with his DNA embedded in it, and catch him. If that fails, try questioning your witnesses again. You don’t need me for either of these.” He yanked the door open, dislodging a furious Sally, and stormed out.
“Good to see you, Greg, Sally,” John called back, and ducked out after him.
***
“That,” John told him later in the taxi, “was amazing.”
“That was tedious,” Sherlock corrected him petulantly. “I’m sick to death of that whole idiotic group. The way the Yard has been looking at you sideways since we dealt with the woman in charge grates on my nerves. And the receipt wasn’t cheating, it was observing; you should try it someday.”
John looked up, startled. Sherlock was hunched up into the far corner, glaring out of the window, refusing to even look at him. “What? Of course it wasn’t cheating. And don’t worry about me, Sherlock, it’s not a big deal. They’ll forget about it eventually.” He grinned. “They always do.”
Sherlock turned slightly and raised an eyebrow. “They’ve never been confronted with how dangerous you are quite so strongly, John. Even with the battered, weeping colanders they use for memory space, they’ll remember. Do try not to be more of a simpleton than you already are.”
“You’re in a mood,” John said serenely as they pulled up to 221B. “It doesn’t particularly matter anyway, does it? I think I can handle people looking at me funny.”
Sherlock scowled, climbed out and headed up the steps, stomping at every one. “You don’t think, clearly, so you shouldn’t pretend to.”
John gave him a mocking look and followed. “You mad bastard, you just finish telling me how much you hate the Yard thinking ill of me and then you start throwing names and insults. Are you going to tell me I’m the prettiest again then ask me to cover my face with a sack?”
Sherlock spun around at the door to glare at him. “I am not simply concerned with the public ‘thinking ill’ of you, John. If you take an instant to apply your atrophied concentration to consider anything beyond the present moment, you might realize what such ill-thinking means on a slightly larger scale.”
“I won’t be invited to the office Christmas do this year?” John suggested, unworried. “I’ll miss seeing Anderson get slapped when he gets drunk and starts using it as an excuse to get handsy, but I can’t really say it will be all that burdensome a sacrifice.”
“It means,” Sherlock gritted out, unlocking and shoving open their door, “that you are now fair game. That, while up until now you’ve been the kind, hapless doctor strung along whenever I did something poorly considered, now you will be an accomplice.”
“I hate to point this out, since I’m sure you’d have rather figured it out on your own,” John told him kindly, “but we’re partners. We filed the business paperwork and everything. And everyone who didn’t know for certain if we were also shagging or not is damn clear on it after that last noise complaint got called in.”
Sherlock looked momentarily distracted by the memory but soured quickly. “Yet again, you completely fail to grasp the point, John. You do recall how often I’m accused of murder, kidnapping, faking my livelihood?” He gestured vaguely. “Moriarty? The pink case? The murder ring we just wrapped up? Ring any bells?”
John gave him a look.
“You’ve been exempt, part of the ‘normal’ people I’ve duped. Pitiable, foolish, but innocent.” Sherlock leaned on the door heavily, looking ready to tear it off. “Now you’re dangerous, John. You’ll be guilty right along with me.”
John considered. It seemed plausible. More than plausible, really; it was ridiculous and, when he thought about it, vaguely insulting how he was constantly left out of the hail of accusations Sherlock received. Everyone just assumed that of course he wouldn’t be in on it. “Alright. Well. Not having anyone to bail us out will be a more common thing, then,” he allowed.
Sherlock glared at him, spun back away with a huff, and stalked inside.
“Look, Sherlock.” John walked in after him, taking care to close the door and hang his coat up; Sherlock’s was already thrown haphazardly over John’s chair. “It really doesn’t bother me. Hey,” he caught Sherlock’s arm, “it’ll be fine.”
“It will be fine,” Sherlock repeated, looking skeptical, “right. Of course. Being suspected of murder has never led to horrendously disastrous consequences before. Your sparkling Pollyanna nature, John, and your ability to ignore your own hypocrisy hugely impresses me. It’s really quite extraordinary.”
“Hold on, what?” John let go. “How am I being a hypocrite?”
“’We need to be more careful,’” Sherlock mimicked, and John’s mouth went dry. “The press will turn, Sherlock, they always turn, and they’ll turn on you.’”
“Now, wait, this isn’t the same—“
“And don’t forget directly after,” Sherlock continued, “you gave me that look, the one that said I’d disappointed you by not understanding your feelings when I couldn’t comprehend why you might be worried or upset about things that could only affected me.”
“Ah,” John managed.
Sherlock stalked away loudly, turned back and began to pace. “Don’t act as though I’m being an emotional, hysterical wreck. I’m not building fears out of nothing, I am reasonably worried about completely rational concerns.” He came to an angry halt and swept the entire mess he’d left on his chair that morning onto the floor with a loud crash before throwing himself bodily into it.
Being Sherlock, of course, it didn’t tip over backwards with him in it like it would have for John.
Sherlock still wasn’t finished. “Don’t patronize me, don’t tell me it will be fine,” he snarled, snatching up his violin from its case. John winced in anticipation. “I am brilliant. I am exceptional. When I say this will end badly, it means this is going to end badly.” With that, Sherlock put his bow to the strings and began sawing at it, making a sound like a cat screaming. Loudly.
John slumped into his own chair, ignoring the din and letting all his breath out in a huff. “You’re right,” he sighed.
Sherlock stilled.
“I should take it more seriously.” John admitted. “It’s probably going to bite me in the arse.”
“You still don’t sound particularly concerned” Sherlock noted frostily, still not looking at him.
John shrugged. “I’m not, really. Let’s face it, Sherlock, we’re both happy and willing to be martyrs to protect the other. The main difference now? I’m lucky enough that you won’t have such an easy time of it. I’ll be in the same snake pit that you will.”
Sherlock looked even less pleased after that one, but he stopped attacking the violin (thank god) and buried himself in his computer instead. John watched him for a moment, but he didn’t seem interested in talking.
John exhaled and levered himself up; he’d been fighting with Sherlock to eat when they had been called away on the case and he was famished. If they were done arguing, perhaps he could scrounge around their kitchen for something vaguely safe for human consumption. He pottered around the cupboards before opening the refrigerator and pulling out something that looked like a block of streaked pork.
“This thing here,” he called out, eyeing it. “Human or animal?”
“Animal,” Sherlock replied absently, scrolling through what was presumably his email. “Pig.” John nodded, and pulled it out. Dinner, then. His luck seemed to be turning; it was rare you found something in the fridge that wasn’t an experiment.
He paused.
“Edible or not edible?” John asked warily after a moment.
“Definitely edible,” Sherlock told him. Then he looked thoughtful. “Provided you cook it first, of course. Thoroughly.”
Well.
Well, that could mean several things. That could mean it was perfectly acceptable ham or bacon, and would be lovely fried up with eggs and/or toast. It could also mean, of course, that Sherlock had introduced a dangerous bacteria to it that was nonetheless susceptible to heat. Or, Sherlock may have done nothing to it at all, but had found it on a roadway somewhere. It could be any number of things that should, really, exclude it from John’s regular menu.
No real way to tell, honestly.
“Please don’t make me play twenty questions with my dietary health, Sherlock,” John begged. “If I knew the full history of this piece of meat, would I want to eat it?”
“Likely not.” Sherlock glanced up over the laptop screen, then back down. “Few people do, considering modern industrial farming practices and supermarket handling mishaps. Ignorance of your food’s history didn’t bother you when you made those pork chops last night, though, so I can’t see why it would now.”
John was suddenly very concerned about last night’s pork chops.
“Look,” he said finally, “you know the question I’m trying to ask you. Just answer that one.”
Sherlock looked back up and smiled. It should have been annoying, really; John mentally kicked himself when he started to go soppy instead. “No. I have not done anything to the bacon, aside from unwrapping it and placing it in the container.” He bent back to his work.
“Oh thank god.” John closed the refrigerator.
“Wait.” Sherlock popped his head back up. “Is that the blue container, or the white one?”
“Uh,” John said, “What?”
“Ah, the white one.” Sherlock looked back down again. “Then yes, it’s fine.”
John looked back at the bacon, troubled, then put it away. “I think I’ll have takeaway tonight, actually.”
Sherlock didn’t reply.
“Sherlock?” John glanced over; Sherlock had narrowed his eyes at something on his computer, eyes scanning quickly through it. He might have gone a bit pale, but then, that could just be the light of the screen. “What is it?”
Sherlock’s head shot up and he snapped the lid closed. “Nothing.”
John stared at him in awe at the sheer enormity and blatancy of the lie, and Sherlock at least had the grace to squirm sheepishly. “I know I’m not as clever as you are, Sherlock, but I’m not actually a complete idiot. What was it?”
Sherlock’s upper lip curled up, disdainful, and his eyes dropped back to the closed laptop before they met John’s. “Not nothing,” he admitted, “but nothing new. It started out interesting, but recently I’m coming to realize it has been mediocre from the beginning.”
“Right,” John said, unconvinced. “Well, whatever that mediocre nothing is, does it mean we have a case on?”
“Definitely not.” Sherlock pursed his lips and glared at the computer.
“Then I am going to order some food, because I am at the end of my rope tonight, you’ve poisoned the refrigerator, I am going to eat something, and it won’t be whatever you’ve left in the crisper.”
Sherlock’s mouth quirked up, and John rolled his eyes. “Oh,” Sherlock purred, leaning back in his chair, “I wouldn’t mind that.”
“I am going to eat some food,” John clarified virtuously. Sherlock gave an exaggerated sigh.
“Oh, dull,” he decided. “But I suppose. If you must.”
“That way I’ll have energy later on to eat other things,” John told him primly, and Sherlock snorted. “Like your—“
“Crude,” Sherlock growled, standing, and pushed him down onto the sofa.