Ultra-Special blah blah blah

Misdialed - Sherlock/John fic - Chapter 22

dlanadhz — Mon, 21 Jan 2013 16:01:10 GMT

Title: Misdialed
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Word Count: 62,009
Chapter Count: 22/22
Beta: satsuki_tears
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I don't even totally own the idea. :P
Warnings: Character Death
Summary:
AU John needs a new phone, one that doesn’t bend time and have an amazing man on the other end who claims to be the world’s greatest detective, except that he can’t figure out how he called Dr. Watson instead of his brother. However, with a criminal mastermind on the loose, John's phone connection may be the only thing that can save him.
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Chapter 22

When he first regained consciousness, John noticed the sound of water lapping gently nearby. Then he noticed the sound of an engine, or a turbine perhaps. The sounds had a slight hollow sound to them. Someone took a few steps, and the clop of their shoes on the hard ground echoed slightly. John took a slow, steady breath. He had two possibilities for where he was, and since the ground below him felt very solid and he wasn't moving at all, he narrowed it down to one.

He was at a pool.

Without opening his eyes, John could tell he wasn't blindfolded. Moriarty didn't care if John saw him or not. John already knew what he looked like. John had already told the police that Moriarty was present at each crime scene. By now the police should have identified him, maybe even found him, and yet he had been there on the street. And John had seen him, clear as day and a foot away, so a blindfold wasn't necessary.

He also knew that his hands were held behind his back. Rope by the feel of it. Not too tight, because he would have already developed a burn from them in his unconscious state, but they were definitely tight enough. Legs too. No gag though, so Moriarty must not be worried about being overheard. There would be no one around within ear shot.

Great mess you got yourself into this time, he scolded himself. So worried about Sherlock when you bloody well should have been worried about yourself.

"Comin around," a gruff man said as a door swung open, and John realized he'd been noticed.

He let out a half-heavy breath and opened his eyes a crack, as though just waking up. He saw the cement and tile floor of a public pool below him and the rope around his ankles, then he raised his eyes up to the thug of a man standing in front of him. John's neck screamed at the new position, and he rolled his head to get out some of the kinks.

"Sleep well?" a familiar voice asked, and Moriarty strolled casually in front of him. "Wouldn't want you to be in any physical pain."

"Well my neck is a bit sore," John admitted, a friendly sass in his voice. "Don't suppose you have a chiropractor on hand?"

Moriarty, for all his crimes, smiled. "No," he said and folded his hands behind his back. "But don't worry, Doctor. It'll be the least of your problems."

"What will be the worst?" John asked, trying to hide the fear he was feeling. It was bubbling up in his stomach like a sour juice in the aftermath of the sass. He'd rushed out of the Diogenes club alone. He'd been on the road alone. He'd been captured alone.

No one knew he was missing.

"The worst will be.... hm," Moriarty paused and put a finger to his lips. "You know what? I'm actually really torn. Help me pick how you're going to die." He clapped his hands together and then twirled a finger in the air. The thug stepped up from behind him with a gun, but Moriarty didn't take it.

"Why would I help... pick my own death?" John asked. He swallowed thickly. The gun was aimed at him, and though the man's finger wasn't on the trigger, that didn't mean he couldn't change that very quickly.

"Because it's more fun that way," Moriarty said as though John had asked an especially dumb question. "Now pick. I could have Henderson shoot you in the head and make it look like a suicide – couldn't take the pressure of Sherlock Holmes or whatever. I could have him drown you in the pool and make it look like an accident – slipped, fell, hit your head, bled out and inhaled too much water. Or I can put you in a taxi and send you home." The small man paused, and John felt a surge of hope. "But just before you reach your destination, the driver has a heart attack, swerving into the path of an oncoming vehicle – maybe a truck. The taxi is hit from the side, crushing you in your seat before you have time to call for help."

"You're demented," John gasps out.

"Well you don't get where I am by being a sweetheart, do you?" Moriarty asked with a laughing grin. "So which is it?"

John took a deep breath and, for a moment, actually debated which he'd prefer. Something made him pause. "Do you ever do any of your own dirty work?" he asked.

The criminal gave a pause and considered John. "No," he said, a slight air of confusion in his voice, as though he couldn't figure out how the conversation had shifted into a boring topic. "Why on Earth would I have lackeys if I did the work myself? Honestly."

"You get to enjoy all the credit and do none of the work," John accused, energized by a sudden rush of adrenaline from his eminent death.

"How dare- Did you-?" Moriarty looked at the thug man beside him and motioned to John before looking at his victim again. "Do you have any idea how much work goes in to coming up with perfect murders and making them look like suicides and accidents? This is my life work!"

"You're a tiny man hiding behind bigger men," John taunted. Why was he doing this? So he could die faster? No. Because maybe, just maybe, if he threw Moriarty off his game, John could have a chance at escape, and even if he died, the crime may be so sudden that evidence will be bound to be left behind to catch this creep. Even if both John and Sherlock had to die because of him, maybe there would be a chance of stopping him.

"No!" Moriarty snatched the gun from his man and held it against John's forehead. "You are the one hiding behind others."

"What are you on about?" John said, his eyes squinting a bit, prepared for the shot that would take his life.

"You have been hiding behind Sherlock's good work, living with that old woman who took care of Sherlock, and hiding inside the walls of your job this whole time. For the last several months- months! – you've been hiding behind Sherlock's defenses! And you think you're innocent!"

"What defenses? I haven't done anything!" John shouted. Moriarty hit him upside the head with the gun.

"The Baker Street Irregulars," Moriarty sneered, spitting out the name.

'His network of the homeless, the drug addicts, the riff raff, and the oddly loyal followers he finds on his cases,' John heard Mycroft explain from earlier.

"They've been circling you since you moved into Baker Street, calling attention to spies, endangering my men, foiling traps. Do you understand how infuriating that is?" Moriarty asked. "But today, today was good. Poor little John Watson rushed down the street, all alone, with no addicts in sight, no one knows why or how. But he ran right into my hands."

'Don't be surprised to find me guarding you... in my own way.' Sherlock's recording rang through his head. Sherlock really had been protecting him... all this time.

"Are you awake, Doctor? I didn't accidentally kill you already, did I?" Moriarty asked, and John turned his head away from the handgun. "Good." He took a deep breath and backed up from John. He dusted his suits lapels off and smiled again. "Now you know why you even came up on my radar, correct?"

"Mycroft tol-"

"WRONG!" Moriarty shouted. "You're here because of Sherlock Holmes. If you had stayed away from him, you wouldn't be a target, but you had to be one of the closest people to him, and that makes you a target for me."

"Why? Why do you hate Sherlock?" John asked. Moriarty stood straighter, his left eyebrow lifting. He looked contemplative, as though he'd never been asked this question before.

"Why?" He tapped his gun against his head. "Because he's the greatest mind in the world after my own, because this is the great game... because we have to solve the final problem."

"What is the final problem?" John asked, voice lowered. Moriarty shrugged. Then he frowned, his entire expression deadly.

"Who is the greater mind?" he asked. "Is it the devil or the angel? I set the game and the pieces. He solves the cases. But he keeps losing people, because he isn't focusing and the time limit slips by. You're the only one – the only one he seems to always be around. Never leaves you alone. I know because you'd already be dead if I'd ever had the chance."

"Very reassuring," John said.

"It should be." Moriarty's expression was similar to Irene, someone who longed for Sherlock's love and attention and was jealous and angry that John had it when they didn't, and they'd worked so hard for it. "Do you know how to solve the final problem?"

"Kill me?" John guessed, the lump in his throat threatening to choke him, and still he sounded almost normal. He pulled at his hands gently, but they refused to give at all.

"What? Oh no, no," Moriarty assured, shaking his head and smiling. A funny laugh even came through his throat. Then he held up the gun and aimed it at John, his expression one of homicidal glee. "That's only the first step." He paused, his eyes looking up in thought. "Well, more like the tenth step, but it's all the same really. I kill all the people he's ever cared about and then-"

"You kill Sherlock," John finished and let out a huff of air. He felt squished, like someone was laying on him even though he was in a chair. Moriarty had already killed Sherlock, so what did it matter anymore?

"Correct. I kill Sherlock Holmes. You're the largest obstacle in that plan. Everyone else would merely forget Sherlock if he died, but you actively meddle in his life. You would continue to remind people of him, and I can't have that happening." Moriarty took a deep breath and let it out as a quick sigh. "After you I just have to finish off his silly Irregulars... and maybe take out the police inspector, and then everyone who Sherlock cares about will be gone."

The irregulars? Moriarty was going to take out random drug addicts and street urchins? Was he going to kill Raz too? John knit his eyebrows together. That boy with the old woman on the street before John had been knocked out – that had looked a lot like Raz. But Raz was in prison. It was impossible. It must have been John's imagination, but what difference did that make?

That kid could be an Irregular. Hell, the old woman could've been. Raz seemed to be one. They'd all be murdered by this madman. They were innocent. They were people, fallen on hard times by choice or accident, who helped a genius solve crimes and put bad men behind bars or in morgues. And the worst man of all was going to kill them for it.

"You'll never win," John said as soon as the response came into his head. Moriarty's grin dropped entirely, and John clenched his fists. He was sealing his fate. "Even if you kill all of us, you'll be caught or killed. Sherlock's work will help someone defeat you. No matter how many people you kill, you're still the loser, Moriarty. Because it takes no skill to win when you know all the rules, but it takes a genius to succeed when he never knew the rules to begin with... and Sherlock has matched you countless times. You lose."

Never had John seen so much rage on one face. It sent ice into his gut, down his legs, through his chest. He would never make it out of this alive.

"I will skin you alive," Moriarty said, his voice shaking from emotion. "I will make a chair out of you."

"Not if I make a rug out of you first," a new voice called monotonously from somewhere hidden on the sidelines.

John closed his eyes and held his breath. Was it possible to die without feeling the pain of a bullet? It was fairly common for those near death to hallucinate but-

"Speak of the devil and he appears," Moriarty sneered, his demeanor unaffected by the new addition. "Or I suppose I did just say you aren't a devil."

"Drop the gun, Moriarty," Sherlock said, stepping from behind a plastic wall, a gun held high in his strong hand. "And let him go."

"Just like a Holmes to give orders first and do anything later, but I refuse. You heard my speech. This is a war between us – the two greatest men in history." Moriarty shrugged and raised his free hand to thump off the side of his temple. "And you know... when two celestial bodies collide and whatnot.... Bound to be a couple casualties."

"Not anymore." Sherlock put both hands on his gun to steady his hand. He was wearing that damn good purple shirt with his tailored suit and looked, for all purposes, to be going on a date instead of facing down a murderer. "This isn't a game. And if it were, you've lost."

"How do you figure?" Moriarty asked.

"Because I brought back-up." Sherlock's lip tugged up in a smirk as a dozen red gun scopes aimed themselves at Moriarty. John let out a huff of relief when Moriarty slid his eyes shut and removed his finger from the trigger. He raised his hands up in surrender, eyes still closed, and didn't move. "Gun," Sherlock reminded. Moriarty dropped it with a clatter.

Sherlock lowered his weapon too and hurried over to John. He moved fluidly, his face a mask of concentration, and knelt behind John to undo his bindings.

"Are you alright?" he asked. John could only let out an exasperated giggle, and Sherlock moved to undo his ankles. "Are you alright?" the detective asked more harshly. It sounded just like the day they met, when John had no idea who this bleeding, dying man was.

"I-I'm fine," John said, although his legs felt unstable when he stood up. Sherlock helped him stand, and they just smiled at each other for a minute before someone shouted, a shot echoed off the tile, and Sherlock was tackled into the pool.

"Sherlock!" John gasped.

Moriarty was in the pool on top of Sherlock, using his whole body to hold the slender man under water. There was a fight of limbs, water splashing, and Sherlock made his way to the surface. He gasped in air, and Moriarty slammed his knuckles into the side of his face. Sherlock went down again, slipping beneath the surface. The red dots of the guns hovered around helplessly, unable to safely take a shot. John shook his head.

He flung himself into the pool and onto Moriarty. He wrapped his arms around the stunned man's neck and pulled back, peeling Moriarty forcefully off Sherlock. Moriarty kicked out at Sherlock and clawed at the arms choking him. Just when Sherlock got his legs under him and broke the surface again, Moriarty nailed John in the corner of the eye with his elbow, weakening the doctor's grip enough to allow escape.

John stumbled awkwardly in the water until he caught the edge of the pool. When he looked back, Moriarty had his arms around Sherlock, using him as a human shield. Sherlock's arms were raised in surrender, but his eyes were on John and his face was deadly calm.

Moriarty's gaze was up where the lights were coming from. "Brought your well trained puppies, the men of the yard, to save you?" he asked, voice conversationally low. "But they won't shoot the hero to kill the villain."

Sherlock's eyes flickered away from John and then back. John was watching those eyes, his heart hammering loudly, his adrenaline pumping, his worry mounting, and suddenly he thought he understood. He turned his head to the edge of the pool, slowly so as not to draw attention, and saw what Sherlock was motioning toward.

Sherlock's gun was within arm's reach, dropped before the fight. John looked back at Sherlock, staring into those bright, serious eyes, and he asked a question without using words. Sherlock's chin lowered a fraction and raised back up. Acceptance. Approval. John sucked his mouth shut and nodded back, his eyes hardening. There was only one option. Moriarty had to be stopped.

In the time of a blink, Sherlock threw his head back, catching Moriarty in the nose and causing the man's hold to weaken. In the same moment, John snatched up the gun and spun it around on the two other men. Sherlock pulled away from Moriarty, but the slippery man grabbed for him again almost as quickly. John took a steady breath and felt his heart stop when he pulled the trigger.

As the gunshot echoed, Sherlock dropped into the water, Moriarty on top of him. Blood was leaking out to mix with the water around the slumped bodies. John's hands started to shake and he tossed the gun away.

"Sh-Sherlock?" he panted, chest still heaving with anxiety.

Moriarty's body rolled off to float face up in the water, a gunshot in his temple. Then Sherlock stood up, soaking wet and breathing deep. He nodded at John again and they silently dragged themselves from the pool while officers swarmed the area. The thug from earlier and the two others who had helped grab John on the street were found, cuffed, and herded together.

Lestrade was there and he smiled at them both. "Give me a heart attack, why don't you?" he gasped. "I thought he was going to shoot you both. Good work, the pair of you."

The inspector clapped them both on the back and started rambling about how good of a team Sherlock and John had been, how Sherlock had found John with his contacts and alerted authorities, about how all of this was apparently some great plan between John and Sherlock, but John couldn't begin to understand what had happened. Lestrade wasn't stunned to see Sherlock at all. He didn't seem overly happy or relieved either. You'd think Sherlock had never been dead at all.

"Thank you, Inspector," Sherlock was saying, and he didn't seem to find speaking with Lestrade to be odd either. "Sorry about not bringing him in alive."

"We can deal with that later. You shouldn't have anything to worry about – self-defense and all. I'll take care of it." Lestrade was looking at John now, but John still couldn't believe his eyes. "You alright, Doctor Watson?"

"What?" John shook himself. "What? Yeah. I'm fine. Not a scratch." He touched his temple even as he said it, knowing he would bruise.

"Just a bruise," Lestrade said. "That'll be in your favor, probably... So I know you two haven't spoken in awhile, and John looks like he's about to burst. I'll take the men back to the yard. Join us when you're ready, alright?" He took two steps back and stopped, hands up. "Before the day's end." And he gave Sherlock a look that told John Sherlock must have a habit of keeping his own schedule.

There were men taking photographs of the pool, of the body and the blood. John was no policeman, but this could take awhile. How were they meant to have a private conversation? Just then, he found his arm snatched up in a firm grasp, and he was led from the room. They stepped out through the same door Sherlock must have come in through, hidden behind a long plastic wall. It was a locker room with tile around showers and changing rooms but then thin carpet around the actual lockers, muffling the echoes of the room.

Once the sounds of shuffling feet and complaining men had faded away, John was released. The lanky detective was looking him over, water clinging to his bangs and dripping from his clothes. His breathing was heavy, but so was John's even though he hadn't done much during the fight. He still couldn't believe it. Sherlock was alive, standing there in front of him. How? How was he- Why did it even matter? He was here.

"Sherlock?" he asked and swallowed heavily, trying to regain control over his flimsy vocal chords.

"There is no answer," Sherlock said and pushed his bangs out of his face. God, he looked even better. Maybe John was dead.

"Come again?" John took a deep breath.

Sherlock stepped closer to him, as though he would tell John a secret. "Two heads, two hearts, eight limbs, and is colored red and blue. There is no answer." He stopped a foot from John, which made it increasingly difficult to breathe. "Tell me I'm right. You gave me a riddle with no answer."

The bright eyes, the dark hair, the pale face, the deep voice. John was going to pass out. He nodded slowly. "There's no answer. It was the only way I could guarantee you'd never figure it out."

"And yet I did. Took me a long time, but it was the only logical solution. Had I died that day, I would never have known... and that would have killed me," Sherlock said. He ran his thumb across John's forehead, catching water before it got to his eyes. "Brilliant game, John. You are... something. I haven't decided what yet."

John let out a pant and then a gasp, his eyes being forcefully pulled to Sherlock's lips. "You'll figure it out."

"Well," Sherlock said, and his lips tugged up on the right. "Can I suggest a different game of sorts for the time being?"

He leaned slowly forward, and John nodded slowly, then rapidly. Sherlock smiled more, a deep chuckle coming from his throat, and then they were kissing for the second time ever, almost two years later. John grabbed Sherlock, feeling his arms, his shoulders, his back. Feeling him to prove that he was solid, here,... alive.

"You're alive," John huffed out when Sherlock pulled back to breathe deeply.

Sherlock made a grunted approval of a noise. "I heard you on the phone. I knew you were in trouble, and I couldn't very well die knowing you could be following me there. I don't know how it happened the first time, but suddenly all your comments about changing the past came to me, and I knew I had to live. So I changed it."

"But nothing changed. Moriarty still came after me." A drop of water hit John's nose when it fell from Sherlock's hair. He loved it and gripped Sherlock's silky shirt cover arm as he moved closer for the chance of it happening again.

"Moriarty is a psychopath," Sherlock answered, voice dangerously low. "You still started working on the case. I knew your timeline and worked around it so we'd never meet and your time would progress smoothly, but my death or life changed nothing for Moriarty."

"My time?" John asked, and he felt a bubble of betrayal in his gut. "Why did you mind my time? You could have talked to me, could have let me know you were alive! I went through hell with grief over you!" He released Sherlock's arms and pulled away from him as though Sherlock had physically shocked him.

"Things would be different if I'd interfered," Sherlock said. He didn't follow John's steps, didn't reach out for him. He just watched while John took more steps away and ran his hands through his hair.

"What would be different?" he asked. "What could possibly have gone wrong if you'd just come and talked to me?"

"You wouldn't love me."

Sherlock's voice was so unemotional, so matter-of-fact, and his face was open, relaxed, but revealed no feelings. He might as well have been commenting on the God damned weather. He watched John absorb the answer like he may watch a child's movie, with mild interest.

"Wouldn't-," John lost his voice and his chest heaved once. He dropped his hands to his side. "Wouldn't love you?"

For the first time, Sherlock seemed to doubt. His lips became thinner, his forehead ever so slightly creased. "Was I wrong? I'm sorry. I thought-"

"Shut up, Sherlock," John ordered, sighing and rubbed his face. "Why wouldn't I love you if you talked to me?"

"Well obviously you'd have thought my phone calls were lies. I wouldn't be some mysterious past caller. I'd be the bloke downstairs who set the flat on fire. I left my casework on Moriarty, traveled, did freelance work elsewhere all so you'd have at least a similar timeline... Although by your reactions, I'm assuming nothing changed for you." Sherlock paused, considering this. "You still thought I'd died."

"Bloody right I did," John said with a grunt. "Your brother told me the day after Christmas."

"My brother has never met you," Sherlock amended, and a small smile played with his lips at John's confused sound of a response. The doctor squinted at Sherlock a bit, trying to remember. The more he tried, the foggier his memories of Mycroft became. He still remembered the older Holmes, but the specifics of conversation scampered from his questioning mind. He tried again, this time thinking about the day Sherlock died... and found that too was cloudy.

"But-," John began and then stopped himself, unsure of how to continue. He remembered the bullet in his shoulder, the lamp sparking as his phone crashed into it, the sight of Moriarty running down the street and Raz's panicked apologies, but he could not clearly remember the sight of Sherlock on the ground. He knew Sherlock had died, had slipped away before his very eyes, but the haunting image would not come from the recesses of his memory.

quot;Time has shifted, my dear John. I kept him out of your life for your own sanity.. Although I guess my efforts were in vain. You still remember the old timeline."

"I'm not following." John took a deep breath. Timelines. Sherlock was alive in this one, but he'd actually been dead before? It wasn't all some trick? Mycroft didn't know him? But before they've spoken at least once a month. Lestrade, Molly, Irene, Raz – would any of them know him now? What was different in this timeline? Why did John still remember the old one?

"As far as I can tell, the timelines are nearly identical. I still sent you on the scavenger hunt at Valentine's Day. My messages still made it into your hands. The only difference would be my living instead of dying. By my guess, the only reason you still recall any of my death is because you and I were at the center of the temporal shift." Sherlock folded his hands behind his back. "Are you angry with me?"

"What?" John tilted his head to the side and then straightened up again. "What? No. Of course not. You're alive. It's a miracle! I'm just wondering about the messages."

"What about them?" Sherlock asked.

"Well I never got the last one," John explained. "Recording... one."

Was it possible for Sherlock to look embarrassed and totally calm at the same time? "I mailed that one. It should have arrived before recording 8, where you learned I knew of my fate. Honestly, I thought that was the reason you quit speaking to me. I should've known the post would be unreliable."

"I stopped calling you because you kept talking about death as an absolute, and I couldn't handle the stress. Idiot." John shook his head and took a step closer to Sherlock. "What was so bad in the last message?"

The pale man gave a noncommittal shrug. "It was the recording explaining my feelings for you. Even so long ago, I knew where this relationship was headed. Irene was furious. I'd never taken an interest in anyone, male or female, but something about you sparked something within me." He took a shallow breath. "Recording one was about my affections for you."

Now it was John's turn for shallow breathing. His chest couldn't concentrate long enough for deep breaths. Sherlock's affections? Sherlock... had assumed, correctly, that John loved him. Of course that had to mean – "Oh sod it," he said and closed the distance between them once more.

He grabbed Sherlock by his shoulders and leaned in for a kiss. Sherlock's hands, while strong, were placed tentatively on John's waist as the detective leaned down and accepted the kiss. It was only one - one simple, solid kiss, and then John pulled Sherlock closer and just hugged him.

Sherlock's arms around him were long, firm, and warm. Every reminder that Sherlock was here and alive made John's heart speed up, and he could only hold on tighter, burying his head into whatever part of that slim torso was nearest.

"I missed you," Sherlock admitted quietly in his deep voice.

"Idiot," John scolded. "God, I missed you too."

The End
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Thanks so much for reading and your support, everyone!

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Misdialed - Sherlock/John fic - Chapter 21

dlanadhz — Fri, 18 Jan 2013 04:16:05 GMT

Title: Misdialed
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Word Count: 62,009
Current Chapter Count: 21/22
Beta: satsuki_tears
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I don't even totally own the idea. :P
Warnings: Character Death
Summary:
AU John needs a new phone, one that doesn’t bend time and have an amazing man on the other end who claims to be the world’s greatest detective, except that he can’t figure out how he called Dr. Watson instead of his brother. However, with a criminal mastermind on the loose, John's phone connection may be the only thing that can save him.
-- -- -- --

Chapter 21

The Diogenes Club was a large white building of imperial stature that was a stark difference to the dark brick building of the Holmes Estate, although they were about the same size. When John stepped through the large front doors, he found himself in a hallway instead of a foyer. The doorman showed him through the club, passing half a dozen doors that hid a few offices if the one that was wide open was anything to go by.

At the end of the hall were two doors that led to a kitchen. The smell of lunch being prepared caused John's stomach to clench in hunger. A woman spotted him peeking in and handed him an apple without a word, although she did smile, so John felt a little better about possibly being poisoned. He nodded and smiled to show his thanks, and then he had to hurry to catch up with the doorman, who had left him behind.

On the second floor was a room full of older men sitting in comfy chairs, none of them facing any of the other chairs. The walls were lined with carved wood and bookshelves, with books that actually looked as though they had been removed often and read. Some of the men had newspapers while some stared blankly ahead, and as he watched them John noticed why the whole building seemed odd to him.

It was entirely silent inside.

Aside from the soft clanking of the kitchen as you passed it, there was no noise at all inside the club. Even the doorman hadn't greeted John. He'd just motioned for John to follow and had started walking. As he passed the lounge with the old men, none of them even glanced up. It was as if they were in a trance or something where no outside stimuli could affect them.

Finally, the doorman stopped in front of a door and motioned for John to enter. John's hand barely touched the handle, but it was enough of a movement to signal the doorman to hurry back to his duties. Trying not to let the stillness of the air unnerve him, John stepped inside the room. These walls were only half covered in decorative wood, but the large oak desk and the fancy bookshelves pressed up against the wall were enough to make it just as impressive.

Behind the desk, Mycroft sat and read a letter. When the door shut behind John, Mycroft glanced up at him, closed his eyes, sighed, reopened them, and then set the letter down carefully.

"Odd place," John commented, and his voice seemed far too loud for the place he was in.

"The Diogenes Club," Mycroft allowed, smiling with as much humor as his face could probably handle. "There are many men in London who have no wish for the company of their fellows, yet they are not averse to comfortable chairs and the latest periodicals. It is for the convenience of such men that I helped start that Diogenes Club."

"So it's a place for grumpy hermits to collect?" John asked, voice dry and unamused.

"Sherlock used to say it contained the most unsociable and unclubable men in town. You see, no member is permitted to take the least notice of any other one. Save for when in a sealed office, such as this one, no talking is allowed within these walls," Mycroft explained, folding his hands in front of him on the table.

"Did he not like it, then?" It sounded like a place full of authority, and John knew how much Sherlock thought of authority.

Mycroft's smile faded a little, but otherwise he only gave a minute shrug. "My brother said he found it held a very soothing atmosphere."

Of course he would. Why would Sherlock Holmes ever pretend to conform to people's thoughts of him?

"Alright then. Out with it. You said it was time," the doctor said and waved at Mycroft.

The older gentleman frowned deeply. "Are you in a hurry to leave, Doctor Watson?"

"I'd be lying if I said I was happy to be here."

"Well I wouldn't want you to lie." They exchanged an electrified stare, both of their mouths dragging down at the corners as though there were nothing in world worth smiling about. It felt like a contest of who could show their displeasure the most. Then Mycroft made a grumbling noise in the back of his throat. "Sherlock left me a note as well, you know."

"The letter?" John asked, and Mycroft nodded. He lifted the paper off his desk anew.

"It's rather short for being a goodbye letter – only a page long – but he was never one for grand speeches... unless he was telling you why you were wrong or proving how clever he was." The older Holmes sat up straighter. "Mostly he's making me promise to complete a favor for him. One of his Baker Street Irregulars brought it to me almost a month after his passing."

"His what?" John asked, shifting his weight uncomfortably.

"His network of the homeless, the drug addicts, the riff raff, and the oddly loyal followers he finds on his cases. I daresay, if you had known him in person while he lived, you could have been considered one." He paused for just a moment, looking like he wanted to add an exception to what he'd just said, but then he shook his head and continued. "My brother's letter requested I promise to do only one thing."

"Make sure I keep talking to him?" John asked.

"No. He made me promise to tell you how he died." Mycroft's face was a stone, blunt and cold like his words. "He told me to let go of the past, but he distinctly ordered me to tell you how and when it happened. I sought you out on my own, for reasons I have already discussed with you."

John let out a huff of air. "So are you going to tell me or not? Because your phone call sounded pretty determined, but now you're just stalling."

The letter fluttered to the desk as Mycroft dropped it with none of his earlier care. He stood up and walked around to John's side of the desk, but then he opted to lean against it instead of standing.

"A year ago," Mycroft began, crossing his arms over his chest. "Sherlock was chin deep in a case... several cases, really, and he swore they were all connected. Knowing his brilliance, I never doubted him. He told me there was one man at the center of them all, and I assigned all my best men to do as Sherlock was and find some evidence to link one man to the scene of every crime."

"Moriarty," John said. Mycroft nodded.

"Turns out he's stayed under the radar for a good reason. The man leaves nothing behind. During his last week, Sherlock showed me that Moriarty, Jim Moriarty, was in every photo of the crime scene crowds, and yet we found nothing on him, not even a strand of hair. And even with his face in every shot, he appears in no government records after he was eighteen. He was impossible to find, but he always found Sherlock." Mycroft ran a hand down his face. "He called me once and promised to confess, to turn himself in, to do something to help the case against him, but only if I answered one specific question."

"Did you?" John asked.

"Of course."

"And what was the question?"

"He wanted to know who it was that Sherlock always spoke to on the phone," Mycroft said, leveling his gaze on John, who lost the breath in his lungs. Moriarty had known? "As was obvious with him and my brother, he had been watching Sherlock closely. It seemed he had been overly curious about who took up so much of Sherlock's concentration. By that point, Sherlock knew Moriarty was attacking those close to him, but I didn't even hesitate before telling him your name."

"You told Moriarty who I was?" John asked, a touch of anger seeping into his tone.

"It was the chance of a lifetime. I tell a psychopath the name of someone who didn't even know my brother existed, and I could effectively capture the country's greatest criminal. One man for a country, Watson," Mycroft said, as though John were a rebel child and not a man who's life had been ruined by that choice. "But, as you can expect, Moriarty backed out on his part of the deal. He hung up before I could even think of objecting."

"You sent him after me," John said, clarifying. "After me? After everything Sherlock told you about us? Did you not believe him?"

"I did not," Mycroft admitted. "Not entirely. I knew you existed, obviously. I did a background check. But asking someone to believe in a time lag is a hard request. Until I officially met you and you confirmed you were still speaking with Sherlock, I was unconvinced. So I told Moriarty who you were, and he vanished into the wind."

"Except he didn't, because he hired Raz to shoot me," John said, his voice low and angry.

"Precisely," Mycroft said, and John got the impression that something should have been clarified with that word, but he hadn't followed Mycroft's train of thought. "Ryan, one of Sherlock's own Irregulars, turned against him."

"Raz," John stressed, "And he was threatened and forced." He barely knew Raz, but he still liked the teenager more than Mycroft. As Lestrade had pointed out, there was just something about Raz that made him feel trustworthy.

"Either way, he killed my brother," Mycroft clipped, almost sneering at John for defending the boy.

"What?" John frowned, confusion pulling at his brow. Raz killed Sherlock? "When-" He froze. Raz killed Sherlock. Raz went to prison for murder. John flashed back to last November, when he was standing in front of the Ask restaurant and a well dressed man had taken off at a sprint down the road.

"Now you understand?" Mycroft asked. "At first I blamed you. The boy had been aiming for you, after all." John winced, a numbness flooding his shoulder. "But Sherlock's letter told me to forgive you, although not in so many words, and after a few months I realized I was the one to blame, really."

"Sherlock was the man," John murmured. It was hard to find a breath.

'I-I knew that guy. He was a nice guy… I never would’ve hurt him,' Raz's pleas echoed in his mind.

He remembered Lestrade, a deep sigh and closed eyes. 'It wasn't your fault. I tried to build it up that it was, but it wasn't.'

"Yes," Mycroft said. "He saved your life at the cost of his own."

Irene, barely dressed, threw her acid gaze at him in his flat so long ago. 'He did everything for you. Gave you everything... Didn't even come to the funeral. Then again, maybe you weren't welcome.'

Gave him everything. He gave John his life. The doctor held his head with one hand. Sherlock was the man in the street that day. The man with the pale eyes and color drained skin as blood pooled around him. He snapped his hand from his head and looked at his watch.

"Do you need to lie down?" Mycroft asked.

"No." John ripped his phone from his pocket. "No, I need to go."

He didn't even give Mycroft a second thought as he put the phone to his ear and rushed from the office, down the stairs and out of the building. His phone connected when he stepped outside into the sun, and it only rang once before it was picked up.

"John?" Sherlock answered, and John couldn't even bask in the surprise in his voice. He was hurrying down the street, back toward Baker Street, although he knew he couldn't do anything.

"Sherlock, you're dead," John said, his chest pounding at the gravity of finally saying it.

"I know," Sherlock said.

"No, you don't understand. It's all my fault." John's eyes felt hot. "Just... – Where are you right now?"

"The flat," Sherlock said. "And you, I believe, are about to get lunch down the street."

"Don't go outside, Sherlock," John said, voice hard. "You hear me? Stay inside, no matter what."

The other end of the call was so silent under John's panting that he feared he had accidentally hung up on Sherlock somehow. John slowed to a brisk jog and then to a long stride. He didn't even know where he was running to. He couldn't physically stop Sherlock.

"It happens today, doesn't it?" Sherlock asked. John expected him to sound reserved, quiet, but he sounded almost energetic. "This is when you're shoulder is injured."

"Yes, Sherlock, but listen to me. Stop. I need you to stay home. Don't go out!" He just wanted this one thing from Sherlock. He wanted to hear the detective promise him to stay out of it.

"I can't. John, he's going to shoot you. It's already happened. I have to go." Sherlock was moving around in a noisy rush, and John imagined he was pulling on the blue shirt he'd been wearing that day, the black trousers, and the long dark coat. The same damn coat that Irene had given him.

"He's going to miss!" John shouted. "You're going to die!"

"I have to go." Street noise in the background. John stopped walking and pressed his free hand through his hair, his eyes sliding shut.

"No! No, you don't," John said, his voice cracking as he tried to scream through the phone.

"You're living proof, John. I'm already dead. The least I can do is protect you. Stop trying to distract me. I won't leave you to die." Why didn't he understand? Raz was planning on missing. Sherlock didn't need to die!

"Sherlock, wait! Don't do this. Raz isn't going to kill me." John's chest ached and he felt a tear slip over his cheeks. He could see it now, clear as day, the man lying in the street.

Mike was shouting. People were screaming. One of the waitresses had already snapped her mobile to her ear with a call for an ambulance and the police. The man in the street had dark curled hair and high cheekbones. God, it looked just like the photos. How had John never noticed?

'You alright?' John heard himself shouting in his memory and remembered the smile Sherlock had given him. 'Are you alright?!' Eyes slipping shut.

"Listen to me! I have things I need to say to you. In person. Important things! Don't do this," he pleaded.

A woman shouted in the background, and John remembered her being pushed into her friends as Sherlock stumbled onto the sidewalk. The woman is yelling at Sherlock, and John isn't sure he's even being heard over her. He growls in frustration, but the only response his gets is Sherlock arguing with the woman.

Oh God.

"Sherlock, if you care about me – if you love me at all – Stop Walking!" His voice echoed off the buildings around him. There was no one around to be startled, but a car alarm went off one street over.

He could still hear the street on the other end, the woman still yelling faintly, but there was no response from Sherlock.

"Oh God," John breathed out. He raised his misted eyes to the road in front of him and felt his heart stop. "Oh God," he repeated.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was still on the line, and John's chest skipped in a moment of hope before it skipped in fear.

"Moriarty," John said, and the slim man dressed in black smiled mischievously from his position fifty feet away.

Someone grabbed John from behind and he dropped his phone to the pavement. He was being choked! Moriarty walked calmly up to him, and whatever behemoth had hold of him, and chuckled. He looked down at the phone curiously, and then his eyes grew dark and he smashed his foot down on the device. The screen cracked, the keyboard crunched, and pieces of the mobile splintered off under the criminal's heel. The car alarm cut off as though it had never been blaring, and now all John could hear was his own gasps.

"No one around to protect you now, Johnny-boy," Moriarty said. Over the man's shoulder, an old woman and a young man were walking slowly together, and John had a moment of wondering when they had gotten there before Moriarty snapped his fingers to bring his attention back. He did not look pleased at being ignored. "Bag him," he spoke coldly.

A literal bag went down over John's head, but the rope at his neck was released. John had enough time to panic, wondering if Sherlock listened to him, wondering how he'd check now that his phone was gone, had enough time to feel his heart break in desperation before something hit him at just the right angle over his head and he blacked out.
-- -- -- --

Preview, Chapter 22:

"Why?" He tapped his gun against his head.
"Because he's the greatest mind in the world after my own, because this
is the great game... because we have to solve the final problem."

"What is the final problem?" John asked, voice lowered.

John
took a slow, steady breath. He had two possibilities for where he was,
and since the ground below him felt very solid and he wasn't moving at
all, he narrowed it down to one.

He was at a pool.

Moriarty's gaze was up where the lights were coming from. "They won't shoot the hero to kill the villain."

"Tell me I'm right. You gave me a riddle with no answer."

Click here for Chapter 22!
Click Here for the Masterpost!

Misdialed - Sherlock/John fic - Chapter 20

dlanadhz — Fri, 18 Jan 2013 04:14:57 GMT

Title: Misdialed
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Word Count: 61,811
Current Chapter Count: 20/22
Beta: satsuki_tears
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I don't even totally own the idea. :P
Warnings: Character Death
Summary:
AU
John
needs a new phone, one that doesn’t bend time and have an amazing man on the other end who claims to be the world’s greatest detective, except that he can’t figure out how he called Dr. Watson instead of his brother. However, with a criminal mastermind on the loose, John's phone connection may be the only thing that can save him.
-- -- -- --

Chapter 20

It was a busy night at the pub, and most of the patrons were all dressed up for the occasion. There were devil women and several devil men, a cupid, someone dressed entirely in white, people with gray faces and orange horns, a witch or wizard or two, and even a playboy bunny hopping around the bar. John sat at a small booth near the front, not wanting to be lost to the Halloween singles crowd. He was starting to feel underdressed, sitting there in a black cat t-shirt and his woolen jumper, when Sarah came back with her drink. She was dressed in a casual professional manner, having come here straight from work.

"You know, John, you didn't have to buy me a drink or... four," she said, dropping down beside him. She was on her third drink, a screwdriver with strawberry juice instead of the typical orange, and was sufficiently tipsy.

"I had to do something," John said. "I mooched off your hospitality for the entire month of March. A couple drinks is nothing compared to the price of food I ate."

Sarah giggled. "Only half a year late," she said. She raised her glass to him, and he tapped it with his Old Fashioned. "Thank you for your consideration, Dr. Watson."

"Anytime." The whiskey burned his throat, but it was more than welcome tonight.

"Woah! Slow down on the chugging, Doctor," Sarah said, pulling the glass away from John's lips. He frowned and swallowed what was still in his mouth, and then took a deep gulp of air. "Everything alright there, John?"

Before he could answer, a female mad hatter slipped into the booth and bumped up against him.

"Hey there, stranger," she said, a big grin on her face. "The only time a man drinks that much he's either out to kill a man or kiss a girl... or guy! Hahaha! So which is it?"

"Wha?" John gave a stunned glare at the woman as she clapped him heavily on the back. "Harriett? What are you doing in London?"

"I moved, Bro! Don't you have a Facebook or something?" she asked, yelling a little louder than necessary to get over the music. "Happy Halloween!"

"You're alright," John said, nodding and putting a hand on his sister's shoulder to stop her from bouncing.

"So which is it?" she asked again.

"Which is what?" John asked.

"Are you trying to kill someone or kiss them?" Harry asked as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I saw you sucking that shit down."

"What? Neither. I'm not going to kiss or kill anyone," John said, shaking his head and turning to Sarah, as though he had to make her believe him.

"I don't know," Sarah said, shrugging. "She has a point. You've been drinking more than usual."

"You gonna go kiss that cell phone guy?" Harry nudged his shoulder.

"What? No." John shrugged away from her and ended up against Sarah's shoulder instead.

"You say 'what' a lot," Harriett noted. "So come on. Out with it. You find that guy?"

"What guy?" Sarah asked. A skinny elf tried to slide in beside Harriett, but she shoved him out without even looking at him.

"The guy in the photographs," John said, nodding his head toward her when he said it. He opened his mouth to tell Harriett to mind her own business and he wouldn't be kissing anyone, but then Sarah let out a bit of a squeak.

"I thought you said he died!" she exclaimed. She looked sad through her intoxication.

"He did," John said and turned to Harry again, and again he was interrupted.

"He died?! Johnny, why didn't you tell me?" Harry shouted as an inhuman octave.

John covered his ears and groaned before shaking his head. "No. Listen! He died awhile ago. You didn't need to know, alright?"

"But I thought you really liked this guy." Sarah's expression couldn't pull together with anymore concern if she tried. "And all you have are those photos?"

"Photos?" Harry asked before sucking down half of her drink.

John shook his head to erase the question. When had this turned into an interrogation? "Photos and a damn audio file message, but none of it matters, because I'm not going to look at them anymore and I'm not going to listen to the message."

"Why not?" Harry waved over a bartender. "Missy here is right. You liked this bloke. If he left you a final message, I'd listen to it. Hell, I'd cry over it, repeat it, hug it, obsess over it, and love it."

"What are you, twelve?" John grunted, downing the last of his drink. Harry ordered two new drinks from the guy who answered her call.

"No, she's right," Sarah said, drink forgotten. "John, if he left you a message, that's all you've got of him. That's his voice, probably his honest to God emotion, his real words recorded. If he left you a message, you've got to listen to it. You've got something most people don't have these days. You have a way to remember the way he looks AND sounds for the rest of your life, if you want to. You've got to listen to it. I mean.. What if it's important?"

John sighed and stole one of Harry's two Long Island Ice Teas that were set down on the table. "God, I hate logic right now," he grumbled and started sucking down the drink.

"So you'll listen to the message, then?" Harry asked, grinned and looking past her brother to Sarah. The female doctor smiled back.

"Yeah, alright, you vultures. I'll listen to it," John agreed, giving in and wincing as he felt all that alcohol hitting his stomach.

The girls gave a cheer and clinked their glasses together in victory. John felt their joy seep into him a bit, but that may have been the drinks. Either way, he let himself fade into the warm freedom that came with enough alcohol and good company. He didn't even care when the rest of the night was spent telling stories about each other, horrible embarrassing stories, and watching Harriett con men into buying her more to drinks. Overall, it was a good Halloween. For the first time since he'd broken it off with Sherlock, he enjoyed himself and truly laughed.

-- -- -- --

"Recording 8 of 8."

John sighed and rubbed his face. It had been a week since Halloween, and he'd almost convinced himself to ignore the girls, but here he was... listening to it.

"Today is the twelfth of April. I have known you, John Hamish Watson, for exactly six months. We have never spoken in person, but in a way I believe that is its own sort of perfection. I have never grown this... friendly with someone I met in person first. Even Lestrade knew me first as a name on paper, and I knew him from the news. Perhaps I form relationships easier when the mind is known before the figure."

Sherlock's voice made John's whole body ache. He kept telling himself to treat this like a will, like the last precious message from Sherlock. He tried to tell himself that loving a dead man wasn't so bad, that at least he had known him at all, but it didn't stop him from hurting.

"You've known my mind for quite a while, and you will know it even better by the time you hear this message, so you understand that I am extremely observant and I notice things most people would never see or put together with facts."

Of course John knew all that. And was it just him or did Sherlock sound almost... anxious?

"So it should come as no surprise to you...," Sherlock paused and took a deep breath. "...that I already know that I am dead."

John's chest pounded harshly and he bit his lip. "What?" he asked, his voice a breath in the stillness of his flat. Sherlock gave him the courtesy of a few seconds to let that sink in, but part of John wished he'd just dove into his explanation.

"I had my suspicions after Christmas, when I realized we never met after that kiss. I wondered why I wouldn't have sought you out at some point. You told me I've made you cry, and Mycroft started talking to you. I could list specific examples for the better part of an hour, but just know that I pieced it together. I died sometime before the new year. You know it too."

"You knew?" John asked the speakers. He ran his hands over his face. "Oh my God."

"You may wonder why I did any of this if I knew from the start that I wouldn't be around to see it through. The answer is simple, although unconventional for a Holmes. I wanted what time I had with you. If I am to die before the new year, I wanted to spend it on one last great mystery – the Mystery of John Watson. How are we speaking a year apart? What makes him keep talking to me? What does he like, dislike? What is our relationship? How smart is he? "

"Was this some sort of game to you?" John stood up from the couch and huffed a heavy breath, his eyes narrowing at the computer on the table before him. "String him along and see what makes him tick?"

"I asked myself many times what I would do if I discovered all the answers before my time had come, and by now I have the answer. I will enjoy myself. I will stay in contact, and I will be with you until such a day comes that I won't be here to call you."

"You and your brother are the same," John growled out. He felt so angry, so heated, so stifled. "Both liars. Both emotionless machines. Did neither of you consider how this would make me feel? I'm not just some experiment, Sherlock!"

"I know," Sherlock said and stopped. John's heart skipped a beat and his anger backed down in shock. "I know you are probably angry with me now. I promised myself that I wouldn't tell anyone about my discovery, but when I came up with this scavenger hunt of sorts, I decided you had a right to know."

"I had a right to know back in April," John said, still angry but now quiet.

Sherlock was quiet for a long time, and then John faintly heard him breathe in slowly. "That's all I had to say for this one. So I hope you find it in you to forgive me, and do give me a call when you get this if I'm still around. I don't know when this one will get to you, but it should be near the end. Raz is already a little unpredictable, and I'm rather sure he'll be in prison for shooting you by now." He paused again. "I'm sorry, John. Recording 1 will explain the motive of my crimes. It will explain everything. Find it."

The sound cut off, the file ended, and John had one grain of sanity left that kept him from hefting his computer out the window. He could always just step on the SD card, but he knew that wouldn't be as satisfying. A lack of funds to buy a new laptop was the only thing reminding him that he shouldn't break his own things to get revenge on someone else.

He felt used. He felt... betrayed. He felt like he wanted to call Sherlock right this bloody minute and demand he explain himself – recording 1 be damned. They had both known, John and Sherlock, from the beginning that there could never be anything between them. They were on the phone only, never to meet in person. They had both been keeping this secret for a year, although John had apparently let it slip.

A year. John pressed his lips together. Tomorrow was the day he'd first been called by Sherlock.

At that moment, his phone began to ring in his pocket, and his heart leapt to his throat. He pulled it out even though he knew it wasn't Sherlock's ringtone. It was Mycroft.

"Hello?" he answered, voice a little higher pitched than he'd have liked.

"Come by the club, Doctor Watson. It's time."

"Time?"

"Time I told you how he died."
-- -- -- --

Preview, Chapter 21:

"He called me once and promised to confess, to turn himself in, to do something to help the case against him, but only if I answered one specific question."

"Did you?" John asked.

"Of course."

"You sent him after me," John said, clarifying.

Raz's pleas echoed in his mind. He remembered Lestrade, a deep sigh and closed eyes. Irene, barely dressed, threw her acid gaze at him in his flat so long ago.

"It happens today, doesn't it?" Sherlock asked. John expected him to sound reserved, quiet, but he sounded almost energetic.

"Oh God," John breathed out. He raised his misted eyes to the road in front of him and felt his heart stop. "Oh God," he repeated.

Click Here for Chapter 21!
Click Here for the Masterpost!

Misdialed - Sherlock/John fic - Chapter 19

dlanadhz — Fri, 18 Jan 2013 04:14:41 GMT

Title: Misdialed
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Word Count: 61,811
Current Chapter Count: 19/22
Beta: satsuki_tears
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I don't even totally own the idea. :P
Warnings: Character Death
Summary:
AU
John needs a new phone, one that doesn’t bend time and have an amazing man on the other end who claims to be the world’s greatest detective, except that he can’t figure out how he called Dr. Watson instead of his brother. However, with a criminal mastermind on the loose, John's phone connection may be the only thing that can save him.

-- -- -- --

Chapter 19

It rained the entire first week of September. It seemed like it rained the whole month, the way the sky kept a constant deep gray cloud cover and roared from time to time. Even with his umbrella and using cabs, John swore his entire wardrobe was saturated by a skin numbing wetness. He felt heavy and humid wherever he went, whether it be work, home, or the shopping mart. Mrs. Hudson made him a cuppa for when he walked in the door every day for the first week. They were all delicious, but John never found time to finish one. His mind buzzed with paperwork he needed to finish at work and all the patients he'd seen each day. As the days dragged on, he worried he was no long doing his job properly. Nothing had changed about his work - he'd checked - but he still felt like he was failing somehow.

He didn't return to the morgue to see Molly until the second Friday of the month. As usual, they didn't talk much. She unlocked the drawer for him, and he pulled out the files. He didn't know that there was anything in the files to find, to be honest. He'd been looking over them for months. All he'd found was that Moriarty was in every photo - or the man they assumed was Moriarty. Maybe John wasn't meant to be the one to solve this case. Maybe no one was. Only Sherlock could do it.

Sherlock was in the photos too. His name was on the forms. Seeing those made John wonder why he was still doing this now, but he knew why. Just because Sherlock was gone didn't make the case unimportant. Just because John and Sherlock could never be together didn't mean John didn't want to find Sherlock's killer. John still wanted to make a difference.

Four weeks. A bloody month, that's how long it had been. It was like detox from a drug addiction. He wasn't even listening to the tapes. He definitely wasn't watching the video. It all felt dangerous... and broken.

"It's been a long time since I've seen you down here," Molly said, breaking the stagnant silence. She'd finished an autopsy recently and was putting away her newly cleaned utensils.

"I've been busy," John said, not looking at her.

"I noticed. Working longer days, are we? Must leave you tired." Molly stepped closer, craning her neck to see the papers. John admired her attempt at friendly conversation, but it made his stomach twist. "Maybe I could help out somet-"

"Molly." John snapped out her name, causing her to jump and take a step back. "I don't want you looking at them. I've told you before. I'm sorry, but it's for your own safety. Just - ...don't."

"Oh... O-Okay." The mortician shuffled away, glancing back once or twice before shaking her head and walking out of the room. The shutting door echoed a metallic hollow sound around the sterile area.

John rested his elbows on the table and dropped his head into his hands. He shouldn't have snapped at her. She was just trying to help. It was Molly. She was harmless and good-natured. Why had he done that? He was cutting himself off from people. It wasn't good. When had he become so wrapped up in his solitude? He knew the only thing causing it was Sherlock. Nothing else had changed in his life. His break with Sherlock was ruining his life.

His mobile buzzed in his pocket. With a tired sigh, he fished it out and flipped it open without looking at the screen.

"Hello?" he answered.

"Meet me upstairs in five minutes. We need to talk." The call ended. John took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He could try to pretend he hadn't heard the order, but it probably wasn't smart to ignore Mycroft Holmes.

John put the files back together, keeping them neat and organized. Then he slipped them back into their file cabinet and locked it. He rapped his knuckles against the metal casing, listening to the vibration it caused. His slow pace was all to delay going to see Mycroft, he knew it, but Mycroft sounded intense on the phone and John was in no hurry to meet his doom.

Turned out he didn't have much choice. Mycroft was just outside the elevator when John stepped off.

"You couldn't just come down? What? Are you afraid of morgues?" John asked, shrugging his coat on more and looking away from the deep frown on Mycroft's lips.

"You'll understand my distaste for them only after you have been called in to identify your sister's body after she dies of alcohol poisoning," the older Holmes stated coldly.

"Don't talk bad about my sister," John replied, just as coldly.

Mycroft started walking, fully expecting John to follow him, which he did. They walked down the hall and into an empty office John had never been in before. It was covered in personal effects, and he felt bad for intruding into the space, but Mycroft walked in like he owned it.

"Dr. Watson, let's stop this dog fight before it starts. I didn't come here to bait you. I came to apologize." Mycroft turned where he stood and folded his arms behind his back.

"Apologize?" John asked, shaking his head. "For which part?"

"For all of it. You probably knew this already, but I knew a great deal about your relationship with my brother before you ever became aware of him. I knew the extent to which it would progress and with what rapidity. I want to apologize, because I set you up to experience a greater pain than I ever did, and I knew it from the start." His words were sincere, but his face was such a stone, and John couldn't pull any meaning from it.

"Well it's good to know you're decent enough to apologize. It doesn't change anything, though. I've ended it with Sherlock. We're not calling each other anymore." His phone had been a heavy burden in his pocket ever since, and he was always so aware of it.

Mycroft nodded. "I know. You stopped sending me updates with a final message that said 'I'm not speaking to Sherlock anymore.' Believe me, it was quite clear. And I'll honor your wishes to stay out of it. I just wanted to have one last discussion with you. A last farewell, you might say."

"Yeah, alright." John looked away from Mycroft, suddenly feeling guilty just by looking at him. Mycroft and Sherlock didn't even look the same, but now he was noticing similarities. Damn it.

"He was better with you," Mycroft said, and his tone was so humble, so sad, that John had to look back at him. Even the brother's expression seemed forlorn, and his eyes bore into John's heart. "He'd become so... bored with life, so disinterested in people. I was beginning to believe he didn't care about anything anymore. When he came back from visiting you at Christmas, I thought he'd finally snapped, lost his mind to apathy. But he grew... kinder isn't the right word, but he began to feel more committed to his cases and the people in them again. It was, and I don't use the term lightly, a miracle."

Were they even using the same speech patterns now?

"Are you done? Mycroft?" John stepped toward the door, not wanting to stand here anymore. He felt like he was being subtly guilt tripped, and he refused to let that happen. He had told Sherlock to stop calling him, so he wasn't about to call Sherlock. Mycroft be damned.

Mycroft took a steady breath, sizing John up, and then smiled down his large nose. "Of course. Good day, Doctor Watson." John didn't buy the smile, not for a second, but he took his chance and left the room. He just wanted to forget about the Holmes family, but they kept coming back.

-- -- -- -- --

John strolled down the street, pulling his jacket close around his jumper. Bloody freezing, it was. A pack of children ran by him, giggling and dressed up in all sorts of outfits. There was a thirteen year old Captain America in the pack holding the hand of a tiny Tinkerbell. She waved at him as they passed him and tossed some glitter too late to get it on him. Captain America shouted 'Good job' anyway as they rounded the corner of the block. It was almost cute enough to make John not care that it was freezing but not snowing and there were trick-or-treaters running loose with their parents nowhere in sight.

"Happy Halloween," he grunted, turning the corner and stepping into Dorset Square. He slowed when he felt his pocket vibrate and pulled his phone out. His steps stayed slow as he closed his eyes and answered it. "What can I do you for, Inspector?"

"Yeah, I was wondering if you could make a stop by the station sometime, Doctor Watson," Lestrade said. "You remember that kid who shot you in the shoulder last year?"

"Kind of hard to forget," John said with a sigh, rolling his shoulder at the memory of the pain.

"Right. Sorry. He made a request from prison. It's kind of peculiar, but the judge decided to grant it. He wants to give you something." He sounded like he was doing more than just talking on the phone. He was probably doing paperwork. "Anyway, can you stop by tonight or tomorrow?"

"I'm heading out for a drink tonight, but I'll swing by on my way." What could it hurt at this point? Raz leaving him something could be dangerous, but John found he didn't much care anymore.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Wait up for me. I'll catch a cab and be there in a couple minutes." He stepped off the curb of the street, waving down a passing cabbie with his light on.

The ride took a grand total of eighteen slow minutes, slow because the cabbie kept ranting off about this friend of his, brilliant bloke, who'd gotten himself killed after murdering three people. As John understood it, the passenger usually ranted the driver's ear off, not the other way around, but here he was... stuck listening to murder stories. As they pulled to a stop, the cabbie finished by saying he was glad the old bugger had been shot, though, because he was giving cabbies a bad name. They weren't all killers. But he sounded so creepy when he said it that John made a note to catch his cab number and give it to Lestrade inside.

The station was half dark, most of the staff gone home for the night, but there were plenty of people still up and roaming about. John was led to the same table where he'd sat before, analyzing bits of crime scene data until a bomb destroyed it all. After a minute or so, he was joined by Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.

"Evening, John," he greeted and gave a tired groan.

"Same to you, Inspector," John said. They stared at each other for a long moment before Lestrade sighed and reached into his pocket. On the table he sat down a tiny, clear, plastic case with a black micro-SD card.

"We ran some tests. Techs were instructed not to listen to the file on it, but they did every scan they know of. It's virus free and clean as a whistle. Safe to you and any computer you stick it in." He paused again while John stared at the tiny device and then let out an exclamation. "Almost forgot. This too. This is from me, but you'll need it." And he set a bigger SD card beside the smaller one. Looking it over, John realized it was actually an adapter. It was for the micro-SD card, so it would fit in his computer.

"He left me a memory card," John said, his voice flat. He knew exactly what this was. He'd probably known from the moment his phone had rung with Lestrade on the other end.

"An audio file, to be exact."

Another piece of the scavenger hunt. One of the only two pieces left. It was either the first one Sherlock recorded... or the last one. One of two pieces John had forgotten could very well find him even if he never left his house or work again. Sherlock, or one of his many acquaintances, would gravitate toward John like a metal ball to a magnet. There was no stopping them.

But that didn't mean John had to listen to it.

John flashed a smile up at Lestrade. "Thank you, Detective." He lifted the two devices off the table and slipped them into his pocket. "I'll get the adapter back to you as soon as possible."

"Any idea what it could be?" Lestrade asked, standing up when John did. John shook his head.

"No idea. If it's evidence worthy, I'll bring it back." The two men grasped hands in parting, but then John paused. "Why didn't the tech guys listen to the file? Are you not worried he's passing me intel?"

"Well, as you just said, you'd bring it back if it was important... plus, the kid said it was personal and for your ears only. Usually I'd be suspicious, but something about him made me want to trust him. You've met him. You know what I mean?" Lestrade asked, and John could tell the older man was looking for proof that he wasn't losing his edge as an officer. He'd probably gotten scolded for believing Raz.

"No, you're right," John said. "He definitely feels like a trustworthy kid. And he picked a good guy to deliver." He took a step toward the door, let out a huff of air, and turned to Lestrade again. "Thank you. And uh... I'll see you later."

"See you around."

John caught another taxi, this one without the rambling driver, but he didn't head home. He was going out, like he'd told Lestrade. He was already halfway to the bar when he realized he had the SD card in his pocket. It would be there, taunting him, until he got home and could throw it out or bury it in a junk box. Already it was squeaking up at him, begging John to listen to it. The doctor sighed and leaned against the car window.

He hated scavenger hunts.
-- -- -- --

Preview, Chapter 20:

When had this turned into an interrogation? "Photos and a damn audio file message, but none of it matters, because I'm not going to look at them anymore and I'm not going to listen to the message."

"John, if he left you a message, that's all you've got of him," Sarah said. "You've got to listen to it. I mean.. What if it's important?"

"Today is the twelfth of April. I have known you, John Hamish Watson, for exactly six months. We have never spoken in person, but in a way I believe that is its own sort of perfection." Sherlock's voice made John's whole body ache. "So it should come as no surprise to you...," Sherlock paused and took a deep breath.

"You and your brother are the same," John growled out. He felt so angry, so heated, so stifled. "Did neither of you consider how this would make me feel?"

"The only time a man drinks that much he's either out to kill a man or kiss a girl... or guy! Hahaha! So which is it?"

Click HERE for Chapter 20!
Click Here for the MasterPost.

Misdialed - Sherlock/John fic - Chapter 18

dlanadhz — Mon, 17 Dec 2012 02:19:06 GMT

Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Current Word Count: 50,360
Current Chapter Count: 18/22
Beta: satsuki_tears
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I don't even totally own the idea. :P
Warnings: Character Death
Summary: AU John needs a new phone, one that doesn’t bend time and have an amazing man on the other end who claims to be the world’s greatest detective, except that he can’t figure out how he called Dr. Watson instead of his brother. However, with a criminal mastermind on the loose, John's phone connection may be the only thing that can save him.
-- -- -- --

A/n: I am SO sorry about the HUGE gap in posting. Life was rather hectic. Please enjoy this chapter along with my sincerest apologies.

-- -- -- --

Chapter 18

Working an entire shift was hard when John kept thinking about the CD case in his bag just waiting for him. John was a serious doctor, however, so he knew how to give his patients his full attention. It just happened that every time he left a patient, his mind was crawling back to his office. Eight hours later, John was still not free to return home and watch the newest piece of the Sherlock puzzle. He was off the clock, but Mondays had the added time of going to see Molly in the morgue to work on the case. It wasn't just Mondays, but Monday was the first day of the week where he had this time. He used to come during only lunches, but it was never enough time and he ended up not eating a lot. Not healthy.

"You seem distracted today," Molly said after John had been staring at the same document for twenty minutes.

John pulled back from the blurring paper and sighed. "My mind is in a million places at once, Molly."

"Maybe today just isn't a good day. You need fresh eyes, maybe." She was standing just far enough away that she probably couldn't read the information in front of John.

He appreciated the distance. He'd already told her he didn't want to get her involved. Beyond that, Lestrade had been anxious about leaving so much evidence where a morgue worker could look into it. This made two civilians who knew about it, and he wasn't keen on the idea.

"Maybe," he agreed and frowned down at the papers around him. He hadn't made any progress since coming down today. He knew no more than he had a month ago. Moriarty was after people Sherlock knew - but was he still doing it? Was there a way to stop him? Moriarty hadn't contacted John since March. It was August. Had anyone else related to Sherlock died? Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, Anderson, Irene Adler, Angelo, and Mycroft. Why had none of them been targeted yet? Some of them definitely fit the bill of being involved in cases with Sherlock. At least two were even ex-cons. So far the deaths had been people Sherlock had caught or people who tried to rat on Moriarty... and at least one case of friendship with Sherlock had caused death. So why no one else?

Why hadn't he killed John when he'd had the chance?

"Take a break. You'll not think properly in the state you're in," Molly said, pulling him back from his thoughts once more.

John smiled at her, a tired grin. "You're right. I'm too distracted and too tired. I'll come back tomorrow... or whenever I have a spare moment next."

As John packed everything away again, Molly opened and closed her mouth several times, then she stood passively by an operating table. When John turned to her, he meant to ask if she wanted to say something, but she shook her head before he could and smiled encouragingly.

"Good luck, Dr. Watson," she said.

"Thanks." To say he wasn't confused would be a lie, but he didn't press her for information. If she didn't want to talk, he wouldn't force her to.

By the time John's taxi stopped by the flat, the rain was really coming down. The one day John neglected to bring his umbrella just in case and it rained like the sky itself was bloody falling. He paid the driver and scurried inside as fast as he could, but that didn't keep him from being soaked.

"Oh my," was the first thing Mrs. Hudson said when she saw him, and she put her hand to her mouth. Great. Not even a greeting. An exclamation.

"Evening to you too, Mrs. Hudson," John replied, shaking off his wet coat.

"Oh, Dear, I'm sorry," the old woman said and hurried to help him. She hung the dripping garment from a walled coat rack and tried to dry him off by making dusting motions on his shoulder. When she realized she was being silly, she backed off and waved her hand as though brushing away the idea. "You go upstairs, and I'll make you a nice cuppa."

"Thanks very much, but don't worry. I'll make something on my own," John said. It wasn't so much that he didn't want her to as it was him trying to be alone so he could watch or listen to Sherlock's next recording.

"Tish tosh. I'm going to go make you one right now." And the pink clad woman bustled off into her own section of the building.

John sighed, admiring the woman's care and affection. His own mother had never been so insistent, although she'd been plenty attentive to the needs of her children. John called out that he was heading upstairs and then moved quickly, trying to leave as little water as possible on the steps.

The first thing he did when he stepped into his flat was to immediately strip himself of his wet clothing. He hopped in the shower to rinse off the city smell that clung to raindrops and then dressed himself in sleep pants and a sweater. Mrs. Hudson appeared with tea through a towel wall as John was drying his hair. He hadn't even heard her coming.

"Thanks," he said, throwing the towel over his shoulder and taking the cup.

"Just this once. And you may want to put socks on, or you'll catch cold with the weather like this." She left with a cautionary wave over her shoulder, the one that held one finger higher than the rest as though saying 'mark my words' or 'don't say I didn't warn you.'

John chuckled and took a sip of his tea. Brilliant, as always. She always made a good cup of tea, and she always said 'just this once.' He wondered if she knew how often she said that line. John shrugged and settled himself down on the couch with a sigh. He rolled his shoulders, cleared his throat, and took another sip of tea before sliding the CD into the drive.

"Recording three of eight," Sherlock started. No video then.

In the pause Sherlock gave him, John did his count. He'd heard recording five, six, seven, two, four, and now three. That left one and eight. The beginning and the end. This hunt was almost over.

"Fear." Sherlock paused. A lighter clicked open, then shut. "I've said once before, in the last recording, recording two, that I have only been afraid of one thing since my mother died. When I was young, I feared quite a few things - pain being one of them. What child doesn't fear being hurt? A young boy scrapes his knee and calls for his mother. A baby grows hungry and cries for food until there is no longer a growling, painful feeling in its stomach. Children fear pain very much. Children fear being abandoned or getting lost. I am not a child."

John reached over for his towel, his hair dripping down the back of his neck. He took a sip of his steaming tea and shivered in the aftermath. It was so different from the cold rain out the windows and the solemn tone of Sherlock's voice.

"When my mother passed away, Mycroft and I became the final two of the Holmes family. I learned that day that death happens. My mother died, and I was unable to do anything about it. My parents were gone. That was the ultimate level of abandonment for a child. Mycroft liked to believe he wasn't affected, but even adults feel the loss of a parent. I decided then to not care about people the way I had as a child." The coldness of Sherlock's tone shouldn't have made John ache the way it did.

"After her death, I feared nothing. I pissed people off without worry. I purposefully rubbed police officers the wrong way, stopped locking my door when I went out, and my diet decreased immensely. Over the years I have improved thanks to Mycroft's meddling and Inspector Lestrade, but I am nowhere near the lifestyle I once took part in. But I have grown to feel fear again, and that is the one thing I regret. What I fear is so.... normal." It was as if the idea baffled him, that anything about himself could possibly be normal.

John smiled, but his chest felt tight. He wished his could tell Sherlock how much he loved Sherlock's normal, his humanity, his confusion as well as his brilliance. He could, his realized, if he just picked up the phone, but he didn't want to stop the recording early.

"My greatest fear is entirely about other people. I fear, and this is hard for me... I fear letting people down who really matter to me. I fear leaving behind some who will miss me, but I also fear leaving behind no one to miss me. I've tried all morning to think of how to word this recording, but I have, unfortunately, come up with nothing as elegant as I'd like. I simply fear disappointing those left behind. I don't have friends. I've got acquaintances all over - Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, even some of those inept officers in the force like Anderson and Donovan. But I've just got one friend. That's you, John, and my greatest fear isn't dying or failing or being hurt. My greatest fear, believe it or not, is hurting you."

Shit. John pressed a hand over his mouth. His tea sat on the table beside him, forgotten.

"I couldn't believe it myself. I knew I feared something. I knew I feared hurting those I cared about, but until recently I thought I could ignore that fear. I have never had someone like you in my life, John. I have never before made a documentary of my life to share with someone else as I am doing for you right now. I have never cared who got involved in my cases so long as they didn't get in the way, but when I think of you involved I just wonder if you're going about it safely. I have no doubts in your skill, of course. It's just thoughts I keep having whenever I find new evidence. I find myself hoping, something I don't take part in on a regular basis - hoping you are safe at work or home."

His chest thrummed powerfully, causing him pain and warmth and joy all at once. What was Sherlock saying? John had often joked with himself that Sherlock cared, had found small clues to the idea that he cared, but this was direct and blatant. John wasn't sure he could handle it.

"I told myself twenty years ago that death was an absolute, something mankind had very little control over, especially in random acts of violence like a car crash. Still, I find myself worrying lately, fearing death as I have not feared it since childhood. Death is an absolute. People die - People have died," Sherlock said. He paused to breathe, a deep breath that barely made it through the microphone. John felt his throat closing up, felt the sticky sensation that precluded tears. When Sherlock spoke again, he sounded resigned. "But that's what people do. There's nothing you, I, or anyone else can do about it. Your fate is not in my hands, nor is mine in yours. Thus I have rediscovered fear, and I must live with it... just like every other normal person. I must live and hope, and one day I will face this fear. And wont that day just be spectacular."

John shut his eyes and took several deep breaths. He just kept hearing Mycroft in the pauses. He kept hearing that Sherlock was dead, kept hearing Irene Adler blaming him in her own way, and kept hearing Angelo saying it wasn't his fault. Would this recording hurt so much if he was still alive? Right now it might as well be John's killer.

"If we meet again," Sherlock said, his voice back to business. "Don't be surprised to find me guarding you... in my own way."

John turned off the recording ten seconds from the end.

"Shit," he muttered and sucked in a gasp of a breath.

The flat was silent besides his breathing as he tried to get hold of the feelings that had welled up so suddenly. He couldn't lose it like this. He couldn't. Sherlock didn't know the effect his words had, and John really shouldn't let them effect him so much. But the voices and memories of conversations wouldn't leave him. Everyone he'd met had liked Sherlock in some way, had been close to Sherlock. They had all looked at John with such sad eyes, like they knew the hole he was digging himself into, like they knew John had been living in denial. None of it had meant anything to John, but now Sherlock had to go and leave a message all about people dying.

Death is an absolute. There's nothing you can do about it.

John's mobile went off then, cutting off his thoughts violently. He shook his head and cleared his throat, trying to get control of his voice. It was a call from Sherlock. Of course. Perfect timing as always.

"Evening, John," Sherlock greeted without any acknowledgement. "I trust you had an uneventful day." John pressed his lips together. 'I find myself hoping you are safe at home.' Sherlock was worried about his safety. "I was involved with a multiple homicide. There was a woman dressed entirely in pink. Lestrade, of course, had no clues. I discovered she's had a string of lovers and is from out of town. As usual, Lestrade didn't understand, but I found her suitcase. I was just about to text a killer to lure him into the open, but I realized you may want to scold me first before I -"

"Stop talking," John said, voice thick. He hated how thick it was.

"Excuse me?" Sherlock asked. He didn't sound angry. He just sounded confused. Normally John would love that sound, but he'd heard it enough in that last recording.

"I think... we should stop calling each other," John continued, running his hand down the back of his neck and taking a deep, uneven breath.

"....Why?" Oh, there came the serious detective voice.

"I can't do this anymore," John said, voice so close to a whisper. "I can't -... I can't. Just... don't call me anymore. Please."

"John, what's happened?" Sherlock asked. "Did something happen?"

"I can't save you, Sherlock!" John shouted and covered his eyes with his hand. "I can't do anything! So please just leave me alone."

Sherlock didn't say anything at first, and John didn't wait to see if he had a response later. He ended the call and dropped the hand holding the mobile. Grown men don't cry, he told himself, but he knew that was a lie. He'd seen plenty of men cry in hospitals. Still, he tried to stop himself. It was like cutting out a piece of his own chest. He'd turned Sherlock away, and Sherlock wouldn't call him anymore. John had told him not to, so he wouldn't. And knowing that hurt too.

"One more thing," John said, voice breaking. He put the phone back to his ear. There was no call going through, no noise emitting from the speaker, no connection to anyone past or present. "Just one more miracle, Sherlock.... for me. Don't...." He stopped, his throat solid with tears that he bit back. "Don't be dead. Would you do that? Would you? Just for me?" He let out a sob and sucked in his breath. It hurt. His lungs stung. His chest burned. "Just stop it. Stop this."

He dropped the phone onto the cushion beside him and buried his face in his hands. He'd done this. He'd let it get out of hand. He'd known from the start that Sherlock was gone, that nothing good would happen here, and yet he'd persisted. He'd agreed to Mycroft's stupid plans, had let Sherlock woo him with puzzles and hunts and wit. Why had he done that? Why had he let it build so much? All it did was make this moment hurt worse.

"Just for me...," he said in a breath. "God... Don't die on me."

His flat felt far too dark and quiet, and his tea sat - cold. His mobile didn't ring.

-- -- -- --

Preview, Chapter 19:

It was like detox from a drug addiction. He wasn't even listening to the tapes. He definitely wasn't watching the video. It all felt dangerous... and broken.

"I want to apologize, because I set you up to experience a greater pain than I ever did, and I knew it from the start." Mycroft and Sherlock didn't even look the same, but now John was noticing similarities. Damn it.

"You remember that kid who shot you in the shoulder last year? He made a request from prison. It's kind of peculiar, but the judge decided to grant it. He wants to give you something," Lestrade said.

"He was better with you."

He just wanted to forget about the Holmes family, but they kept coming back.

Click Here for Chapter 19!
Click HERE for the Masterpost.

Misdialed - Sherlock/John fic - Chapter 17

dlanadhz — Mon, 08 Oct 2012 18:18:14 GMT

Title: Misdialed
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Current Word Count: 47.603
Current Chapter Count: 17/22
Beta: satsuki_tears
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I don't even totally own the idea. :P
Warnings: Character Death
Summary:
AU John needs a new phone, one that doesn’t bend time and have an amazing man on the other end who claims to be the world’s greatest detective, except that he can’t figure out how he called Dr. Watson instead of his brother. However, with a criminal mastermind on the loose, John's phone connection may be the only thing that can save him.

Also on AO3.

-- -- -- --

Chapter 17

Opening the envelope seemed much more important now - now that John had admitted to himself, out loud, that he was in love with Sherlock Holmes. Everything seemed more intense, heavier somehow. The mini USB inside the packaging had a bright 4 drawn on it in what looked like white out.

"Haven't eaten in twenty-nine hours. Feeling a bit disorientated. I want it on record that I blame you entirely, Doctor Watson. I've never met someone who would refuse to talk to me unless I ate first," Sherlock said through the computer speakers.

"I hope you ate after these recordings, then," John said and walked away from the computer to grab a different shirt to wear. It was kind of cold inside, John blamed the rain, and his short sleeved top wasn't thick enough to keep away the chill.

"Mind you," Sherlock amended after a moment of silence. "I've never given in to what other people wanted me to do before. I've said so before, but perhaps you have forgotten, that you are quite remarkable, John."

John paused, holding the folded jumper he'd pulled out, and turned to look at the laptop where it sat on his bed. He closed his eyes and shook his head. He shouldn't let something so small... So small a compliment made his chest flutter. It shouldn't make him feel this way. He shouldn't let it.

"I've never let others dictate what I do. I'm not genetically built that way. When the general population walks around like a herd of sheep and no one uses their brain for more function than it takes to do the shopping, I never saw a reason to listen to what others said was best for me. I went through school as a problem child. I was brilliant. I knew all the answers, but I knew things, noticed things, that I should have kept to myself. I lack the ability to keep my thoughts to myself, it seems... at least when it comes to what I think of other people." Sherlock let out a short breath. His chair scraped the floor as he stood up.

John took the break as his chance to pull on his jumper. He moved to sit on the edge of his bed as Sherlock's stressed voice returned. He needed to eat.

"After I injured a boy named Richard Brooke, I only ever got input on how I should act or what I should do. I think it was resentment and rebellion that made me worse. What really got me, however... What really made it apparent to me that I shouldn't care what others told me to do, was that no one ever asked me what I wanted to do. Not even when I started university..." Sherlock's voice dropped, and John knew he'd lost him to a memory.

John took a deep breath, folding one leg under himself. "Well what do you want, Sherlock?" he asked.

"I want-," Sherlock started, and it seemed so much as though Sherlock had heard him that John's heart literally skipped a beat. "I love doing what I do right now. I can't imagine myself doing anything less. Of course, Mycroft wishes I would work under him in the government. I've heard I should work for MI6 before. But what do I care for the qualms of a country? Too many politics for good brain work."

"So, what? You wanted to tell someone that all you want to do with your life is work with the police so you can tell them how useless they are?" John asked the air.

"The police are out of their depth. They need someone like me to help them, even if they don't accept that. I was lucky. Lestrade found me and helped me become what I am today. Without him, I wouldn't be me. Without me, the number of unsolved crimes in this city would be double. It's not often I admit someone is useful, but Lestrade has his moments." Sherlock took a pause to breathe, and John thought he heard a lighter. The only thing that kept John from being upset was that this recording happened months ago. "Point is, I do what I do because I'm good at it and it gives me a thrill. I'll probably continue to do this until the day I die, even if everyone I know on the force leaves and I have to build from scratch, I'll do this. Heh. Can you imagine?... I may even get old doing this."

John didn't like that - didn't like the way Sherlock thought of getting old, as though it was only a possibility and not a certainty. He disliked it even more because he knew that someday... someday soon, Sherlock would be at the end of his life. He would never get gray hair or wrinkles. He would never grow old.

"I never pretended to think I was going to change the world or 'do good' with my life. My idea of fun and good living has never been what others expected. I didn't have a great scheme for my life. I just wanted someone to ask. I wanted someone to know that right now, in this life I have, I. Am. Happy. And isn't that what people want... in their normal little lives? For others to be happy?" Sherlock stopped just as he'd regained the bored tone that was so common in his voice.

"That's what I want," John mused, looking down at the audio player on his screen.

"I want you to be happy," John said at the same time as Sherlock.

"What?" The audio file ended with no further dialogue, but John kept looking at it. "What?" he repeated.

Had he heard what he thought he'd heard? Had Sherlock made a message so short? Where was the pomp and circumstance of numbering the file and expressly explaining the purpose of the file? Was that it? Had John really heard the last few seconds right? He clicked near the end of the file and pressed play. There was silence, the silence after Sherlock questioned normalcy. It seemed like the longest pause in the world. And then...

"I want you to be happy," Sherlock said. The clip ended. John clicked back and pressed play. "I want you to be happy."

It was said with a tone of sudden realization, like it hadn't been thought of, hadn't been planned. John would have wondered if Sherlock even knew it was at the end of the file, but Sherlock wouldn't have made a mistake with these. That was left on the end because Sherlock wanted him to hear it. Sherlock wanted him to be happy.

Sherlock cared.

Wow. John should start seeing a therapist. He may be going insane. He may be having a break down. He replayed the whole audio clip again and laid back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Sherlock's voice, full of annoyance and passion, washed over him, and the last line made his chest ache. John hit replay again, and this time he felt tired. On the fourth listen, John rolled onto his side, careful of his laptop, and closed his eyes.

"I want you to be happy."

It may have been the best thing he'd ever heard. And he fell asleep.

-- -- -- --

"Two heads, two hearts, eight limbs. You see, so far it resembles, perhaps, conjoined twins or some oddity of the like. It's the colors that are the curious part. Red and blue. There are no red and blue people in life. Thus the only explanation is that this is a pop culture reference I am not familiar with," Sherlock ranted.

John smiled. It was brilliant to hear him deduce, and even more brilliant to know that what was stumping his super intelligence mind was a little riddle from him, someone so ordinary. It had been weeks since he'd given Sherlock this riddle, and Sherlock was still guessing.

"Whatever you say, Sherlock," he said.

Sherlock could be heard groaning softly. "You give nothing away, do you?"

"Not this time," John said. Any other time, Sherlock could read him like a book, but this one thing was John's secret and he delighted in hearing Sherlock dance for it.

"Hm. Fine. I will figure this out before long," Sherlock promised and something on his end popped loudly.

"What are you doing?" John asked, only mildly concerned. Sherlock did odd things all the time. It was probably nothing.

"An experiment involving potassium perchlorate."

"Well be careful, and don't light the flat on fire," John said. He decided against using the elevator and instead used the stairs.

"Nonsense. Potassium perchlorate is a common kid's toy. I'd have to be stupid to end up lighting the flat on fire." Sherlock noticeably paused and made a thinking noise. "Are you at work?"

"Yep. Just got in. I'm heading up to my office. Why?" John asked.

"It's five in the morning," Sherlock pointed out.

"Says the man making potassium perchlorate explode." John waved at the nurses who were doing some paperwork at their station, except for that brunette in the back. She was writing fanfiction or something. He waved at her too, and she grinned.

"I'm being careful."

"I'm sure. I have complete faith in you," John said. "I also remind you that you called me, so you can't be worried about my schedule much."

"No... I know your schedule," Sherlock said, but John thought he heard some uncertainty in it.

"Okay. Then you know I have to hang up now and we text until at least lunch." The hospital was quiet, so John tried to keep his voice low. He didn't want to wake any patients he may pass, although he was pretty sure half of these rooms were vacant currently.

"I know," Sherlock said, and John couldn't tell if Sherlock was blunt or defensive or sad because the potassium perchlorate made a loud fizzing noise then, like a sparkler.

"I'll talk to you this afternoon, then," John said when the noise stopped. "I may have something important to tell you."

"Will do." Sherlock hung up. He always hung up first.

John slid his phone in his pocket and sighed. He had something important to tell Sherlock, no maybes about it. The only issue would be if John could work up the courage to tell him. How do you tell a man living a year in the past that you love him, unconditionally, and he's in danger of dying. How do you change the future so selfishly for yourself? How do you even come to terms with the idea of loving someone like that so much?

His train of anxious thoughts stopped the moment he stepped into his tiny office and found a man there.

"Good morning?" he asked. Was this another 'friend' of Sherlock's? Well at least this one was fully dressed.

"Well-" was all the man said, looking John over as though he saw nothing of particular interest. It was weird, being sized up by this skinny, greasy looking man. He had a big nose and combed back hair, and his face appeared to have forgotten how to smile. He had a pinched look about him, something angry but sad. He wore a relaxed suit and looked tired. On his right hand was a blue, latex glove. His left hand was hidden in his pocket.

"Can I help you with anything, Mr...?" John asked, motioning to his guest.

"Anderson," the man said, and even his voice sounded odd. He sounded... sordid. "And no."

The name rang a vague bell, but John didn't think on it. "Then why are you in my office?"

Anderson opened his mouth and then shut it. He pressed his lips together, and his face malfunctioned until he looked queasy. Instead of speaking, he slipped his hand into his inside jacket pocket. John's heart thudded in his chest as he debated if he should make a run from the room. He wasn't exactly confined, but if this was one of Moriarty's men it wouldn't matter much. Then Anderson pulled out a CD case, and John let out the tentative breath he'd been holding.

Without a word, Anderson set the CD case down on the small desk beside him and slid his hand into his other pocket. John knew what this must mean. Two weeks since his birthday and now he was getting another note, one more piece of the puzzle, one more piece to love.

"Keep in mind that he's a psychopath," Anderson said, and this time he definitely sounded gloomy. "He makes it hard to remember that."

And before John could correct him, tell him Sherlock wasn't psychotic, Anderson pushed past him and left the office. John grabbed the CD first and then looked out the door for Anderson. The pale man was already out of sight.

'You know very strange people,' he sent to Sherlock.

John stripped off his jacket and put down his bag, which held his lunch, mostly, and a change of clothes if he needed them. He slid the CD in with his clothes before shrugging into his doctor's coat. It was then that he remembered where he'd heard of Anderson before. Sarah had brought him up after John's accident - said he worked part time with the police. Forensics, John thought, but he could be wrong.

'Problem with that? SH'

John thought that over for a moment, considering all the people he'd met through this scavenger hunt and his relationship with Sherlock. They were definitely all strange in some way or another, but most had been fairly decent people - even Irene. He smiled and shrugged.

'Nope,' he said. 'Not at all.'

-- -- -- --

Preview, Chapter 18:

"Fear." Sherlock paused. A lighter clicked open, then shut. "When I was young, I feared quite a few things - pain being one of them. What child doesn't fear being hurt? I am not a child."

John pulled back from the blurring paper and sighed. "My mind is in a million places at once, Molly."

"I don't have friends. I've got acquaintances all over - Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, even some of those inept officers in the force like Anderson and Donovan. But I've just got one friend. That's you, John."

John shut his eyes and took several deep breaths. He just kept hearing Mycroft in the pauses, kept hearing Irene Adler blaming him in her own way, and kept hearing Angelo saying it wasn't his fault.

"Shit," he muttered and sucked in a gasp of a breath. "Just... one more miracle, Sherlock..."

Death is an absolute. There's nothing you can do about it.

Chapter 18
Click HERE for the Masterpost!

Misdialed - Sherlock/John fic - Chapter 16

dlanadhz — Sun, 09 Sep 2012 21:12:16 GMT

Title: Misdialed
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Current Word Count: 44,773
Current Chapter Count: 16/22
Beta: satsuki_tears
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I don't even totally own the idea. :P
Warnings: Character Death
Summary:
AU John needs a new phone, one that doesn’t bend time and have an amazing man on the other end who claims to be the world’s greatest detective, except that he can’t figure out how he called Dr. Watson instead of his brother. However, with a criminal mastermind on the loose, John's phone connection may be the only thing that can save him.
-- -- -- --

A/N: I'll save my long apology, since this will be like.. the third chapter update in a row that I've had to put one on. Just - sorry for the delay.

-- -- -- --

Chapter 16

Damn it all. John couldn't deny Sherlock anything, could he? He'd like to think he'd fought hard with this one, given Sherlock something to really try with. But the ending truth was simple. John did everything for Sherlock, just as Irene claimed Sherlock did everything for John.

Two weeks ago, Sherlock had sent no less than four texts throughout the day reminding John to take off work for his birthday. One came at breakfast, one just before John left for his shift, one just after lunch, and one before supper. While each one after the first was met by John with minor annoyance, he didn't actually request the day off until after he took his supper break, so they all had a point anyway. Sherlock didn't send anymore even though John never told him he'd finally done as asked.

Then there was the week before, where Sherlock told him to dress nice on his birthday. There was no need for a tux, but if he could just wear some nice slacks and a business casual shirt at least then everything would be great. John visited Harriet to get some nicer clothes. After the fire, he'd been given a nice amount of money to rebuild what he'd lost, but he hadn't bought much. Two weeks' worth of clothing. Maybe a little less. He wore all of it to work, but he suspected Sherlock wanted something else.

Harriet pulled out a box of John's things that hadn't been transported to London during the move. He found an outfit that was nicer than what he wore around the hospital, which wasn't entirely hard. He liked to wear plain, short-sleeved shirts under sweaters at work. So, dodging the fifty questions by Harriet and the five by Clara and guarding the box of clothing carefully, John made his way home with Sherlock's second request.

The third order was for John to sleep in on his birthday and do whatever he wanted to do for the entire day. John had to admit that it was a bit of a letdown. What was the outfit for if he was meant to laze about all day? Still, he did as told and tried not to do anything serious. He wanted to go work on the Moriarty case with Molly, though he knew he was making slow, slow progress on that front. He wasn't Sherlock. He didn't know what to do. Moriarty was killing people Sherlock knew, assumingly to get at Sherlock, but Sherlock was dead by Moriarty's own hand and yet he was still picking fights with Sherlock, and why was he doing that? Who was this guy?

No.

No, not today. Sherlock said not today. So John sat down to watch crap telly, but he rioted when he couldn't find anything on but reality shows and cop dramas. That's when he turned to Miss Hudson. He helped her replace some lights and fixed a loose door before she stopped him to make him some tea and biscuits. After that, they played a few games of cards while they discussed John's previous birthdays and Miss Hudson swore to get him a gift.

"Oh you! You should have told me it was coming! I would have had something prepared!" she scolded.

"It's really alright, Miss Hudson. I don't need anything," John tried.

"If that isn't the biggest lie I've heard all year, I don't know what is. Listen here, John Watson. You lost your entire life in a burnt flat. This should be the best birthday of your life, people giving you things and all. Now don't argue. I'm going to get you something by the end of the week," she'd said, and he couldn't talk her out of it.

She made comments about clothes and furniture and home decorations and so many things that John had no idea what to expect as a birthday gift. He just hoped she didn't spend too much money on it.

It was around eight pm when Sherlock called. John felt his chest burn in a way that told him he was too deep, and Mycroft's disapproving glances flashed in his mind, but he ignore it all and picked up the call.

"Good evening," Sherlock said before John could speak.

"Good evening," John mimicked. "So am I going somewhere tonight? Because I got all dressed up just now. I realized that if you wanted me lazy during the day, the outfit must be for tonight. Where am I going?"

"Mmm. Not as dumb as the rest," Sherlock complimented. "You're much smarter than Mycroft gives you credit for. I bet you already know..." He trailed off in thought, as he did just a bit too often.

"Know?" John prodded. Sherlock made a negative noise.

"No, John, you'll just have to wait and see," he said in that oddly monotonous manner of his that seemed to say too much. "Since you're dressed, that speeds things up. Time to head out, John. You have a dinner date."

"With you?" John asked, heading down the stairs and out the door. Miss Hudson was nowhere in sight. Good, no questions.

"In a sense," Sherlock said, and there was a smile in his voice.

"Is that right? Sherlock Holmes just asked me out on a date?" John teased.

"Don't be silly, John," Sherlock scolded gently. "I asked you two weeks ago."

John laughed to himself, and Sherlock let him finish before directing which direction he walked. The restaurant was close, he said, a very short walk. As he gave his first turn, John heard him say goodbye to Miss Hudson and pursed his lips.

"Are you heading out as well?" he asked.

"Naturally. You think I'll be sitting at home during our dinner?" Sherlock retorted.

"Depends. Do you actually plan on eating with me?" John asked.

"... It's your birthday," Sherlock said. "You decide whether I eat or not."

"Wow." John let out a slow breath. Sherlock was giving up control for the night... sort of - control of his diet, anyway. "In that case, yes. Yes, you're definitely eating."

Sherlock was kind enough not to point out that he undoubtedly already knew that was what John was going to decide. Instead, he told John to look up at the sky.

"One year can't change the sky, right?" he asked.

"Unfortunately, we had a nuclear war last Christmas so...," John broke his seriousness and laughed. "I'm just kidding. Yeah. It's still just stars."

"I suspect they're just as beautiful as they are for me," Sherlock responded, almost sounding defensive for the stars.

"Yes. Very beautiful. I just didn't think you'd care about something as ordinary and forgettable as-," John began, but Sherlock interrupted.

"There is nothing ordinary about stars, John. And even if the general populace forgets about them, it doesn't mean I can't appreciate them," Sherlock replied calmly. "They are one of the remaining mysteries in the universe."

"Sherlock Holmes believes in life in the universe?" John asked.

"Hardly. But everything about the universe as a whole is mostly speculative," Sherlock said. "There isn't much in the universe that can't be explained with a little time. The universe is just taking them an annoying amount of time."

"Not everything can be explained... and that's not necessarily a bad thing," John said, lowering his gaze from the distant lights.

"What can't be explained?" Sherlock asked.

"Us. This." John held his breath after he said them, said them with such force, as though they were undeniable proofs. "You can't explain it, but it's still a good thing, isn't it?" And if he sounded hopeful, he wouldn't deny it.

Sherlock didn't speak. John heard cars passing, but he didn't know if that was over the phone or around him.

"Stop here," Sherlock finally said and cut the moment with an axe. "Welcome to Angelo's. He'll know who you are when you walk in. Just in case, tell him I sent you. I'm sure he'll tell you all about what I did for him. Just understand that he's harmless now. Feel free to text me while you eat, but I'll let you off the call so you can eat with both hands."

"Sherlock-," John tried, sighing.

"Happy Birthday, John," Sherlock said and then call ended.

John frowned. Why did Sherlock avoid statements and questions like that? John thought he was afraid of something, not of sex or anything like that, but definitely of deep emotion. Why couldn't he just admit he wasn't a robot like his brother?

Clearing his face of anxiety, John stepped up to the brilliant, green-tinted storefront. It was a small restaurant, but it looked tasty. When he stepped inside, a bell jingled and a host with the name tag 'Benny' greeted him. He was almost instantly overpowered by a larger man with a long graying ponytail who swooped in like a vulture.

"Would you be Dr. Watson?" the man asked.

"You must be Angelo," John greeted and held out his hand. Angelo smiled and nodded, shaking it.

"I have your table prepared, just as Sherlock requested," Angelo explained, leading John to the nearby window seat. "There's a candle, nice and romantic. Sherlock said I didn't have to, but it's not often Sherlock has a date."

"Yeah, even when that date is a year behind," John said, smile faltering. Angelo noticed and nodded with a frown.

"Yes. But at least the date goes well," the large man said. "He seemed pleased when he left, so I assume you will be too."

"Excuse me?" John asked. Did Angelo know about the time difference?

"It's not your fault, Dr. Watson. None of it is. Time is a funny thing. Sherlock explained it to me during his side of the date." Angelo paused while Benny gave John a menu. "Made me feel honored, honestly. Sherlock said I was one of only two people he told."

John debated if Sherlock had told Angelo so the man wouldn't be super confused about the two halves of a dinner taken a year apart. Angelo was also the first person Sherlock had known to not look at John with pity in their eyes upon their first meeting. Angelo had greeted him with a smile, and even now he seemed happy. John knew they couldn't hope to explain the situation to everyone Sherlock knew, but having a happy conversation about Sherlock with someone who understood was nice.

And Angelo had no problem sitting down after John ordered and talking about Sherlock and how the detective had caught him breaking into cars but had cleared his name from murder and how a month in prison was infinitely better than life. Then Angelo had reformed himself and opened his restaurant, and Sherlock used the place a lot to spy on people. Angelo would do anything for Sherlock. John found himself smiling and laughing with Angelo as he recounted the entire experience with Sherlock. Angelo was very upbeat and happy to share his memories. It was nice seeing Sherlock from someone else's point of view that wasn't entirely work related.

When John's food arrived, Angelo smiled and excused himself to return to work. As was common with Sherlock, he had great timing and sent a text right at that moment.

'What did you order? - SH'

'Spaghetti'

'So basic. It's your birthday. Order something you can't make at home - SH'

'I like spaghetti. What did you get?'

'Chicken Parmesan. Decided on protein if I have to eat. - SH'

'Delicious choice.'

'You should get it too. - SH'

'I'm fine with my spaghetti.'

So they argued about food and Sherlock's fine taste despite not eating most days. They debated the differences in being a food-y and being rich. Sherlock mentioned his childhood; the way his mother used to take him and Mycroft to restaurants around whatever estate they were staying at that week while his father worked; the way he used to experiment on condiments and figure out which ones were made of what and which ones tasted best. His mother used to say it was his first true experiment.

'How did you mother die?' John asked.

His plate had been taken away, but it had been replaced with another one - one carrying a slice of cake. It was vanilla with a single candle in the center. John tried to say he didn't want it, but Benny smiled at him.

"Mr. Holmes insisted," he said and lit the candle.

"Thank you," John said, and Benny shrugged along with his smile as he left. John resisted texting Sherlock with a thank you as well, not wanting to give the detective a way out of answering the question about his mother.

'She was hit by a car when I was 13 - SH'

John frowned down at his phone and started typing his condolences, but he stopped. Sherlock probably wouldn't care either way. In fact, he'd probably tell John that condolences twenty years later didn't mean much. Darn it. John was going to send some anyway. - but then Sherlock sent another text, beating him to it.

'No sorrys needed. Her heart was weak. She would have died soon regardless. Besides, I've come to terms with it. Unfortunately, I've been told my heart died with her. - SH'

'Oh, but that's not entirely true,' John wrote back. He cut off the tip of his cake and tasted it. Ooh.

Sherlock took a bit longer than John expected, but eventually he sent back 'How would you know? - SH'

'No one without a heart would order me this cake,' John said. It was delicious. It was just like Sherlock to know John preferred vanilla and yellow cake to chocolate. How he knew, John had given up trying to figure out.

'Cakes are traditional on birthdays, so I'm told. - SH'

'Shut up. Don't even act like you didn't get cakes.' John took another bite and worried for a moment that perhaps Sherlock hadn't gotten cakes on his birthdays. He didn't seem like he would be a normal child with normal birthday parties.

'Okay. I admit it. I had lots of cake as a child. - SH' John smiled when he relaxed. Oh thank God.

'It's probably the only thing you ate as a child. Good too. You need the calories to keep up your brain function.' John nodded to himself, eating more. He'd had a cousin once who couldn't eat properly because of a sickness. They'd fed her nothing but empty calories just so she could function normally.

'No lecture on health issues involved with too much cake? -SH'

John smiled. 'That would make this a very guilt ridden cake I'm eating. I refuse to stoop to that level.' Looking down, he almost laughed. There wasn't much cake left to be guilty over.

'Well we wouldn't want guilty cake, now would we? - SH'

'No, thank you.'

'You're welcome. - SH'

'I didn't really thank you for that, you know'

'I know. That was for the thank you coming soon for ordering the cake and dinner at all. - SH'

Typical Sherlock. Cutting off normalcy at any chance. 'So I assume I don't need to say it anymore.'

'Not unless you want to - SH'

'But that would be so normal and predictable.'

'That's fine. I like it when you're normal. - SH'

'I'm always normal,' John answered, slipping the last bit of cake into his mouth and enjoying just how soft, warm, and delicious it was. He didn't eat a lot of sweets and junk food, but this was definitely a birthday present.

'Hardly - SH' was Sherlock response. John smiled around his cake and swallowed before he tried to type a response.

'Thank you,' John said. Thank Sherlock for being interesting, being brilliant, being unusual, being a jerk, and being one of the most human human beings that John had ever known. 'Really. This was a great birthday.'

'Anytime. - SH'

Angelo swung over to pick up the cake plate, and John made sure to tell him how delicious it was. At this point, John wouldn't have been shocked to hear that Sherlock had invented the recipe or made it himself last year and had invented a way for cakes to never go bad or, hell, that Sherlock had invented cake. It just seemed like one of those nights. But Angelo said it was his own personal recipe and thanked John for coming. Before he stepped away from the table, Angelo handed John an envelope with his name on it. It took John by surprise. He'd been expecting it a bit throughout the day, but he'd totally forgotten about the possibility during dinner.

"Tell him I said hello," Angelo said as John gathered his things and stood.

"I will. Thank you, Angelo. I'll come again sometime," John promised.

Benny waved to him as he left, manning the front again. The cool night air was so different than the pervading warmth of the restaurant, but John didn't mind it. He was full to the brim with warm food and emotion. Though all the conversation had been over text messages, he felt like he truly just had dinner with Sherlock.

When John got back to his flat, he set the new recording on the table and pulled out the photos he had of Sherlock, smiling down at them. For all his pomp and circumstance, all his airs and graces, Sherlock was very much the same as anyone else. He noticed more things, retained more information, but under it all, he was still human. John smiled at the unsure poses of the photos.

"Oh God... I love it when you're human," he muttered, flipping through them. He paused on the last one, thinking back on what he'd just said. Sliding the photos back into their envelope, he groaned. "Shit," he cursed. He rubbed a hand over his face and through his hair, but it didn't change what he'd said or how he felt. God damn it.

He really was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

And wasn't that just sad.

-- -- -- --

Preview, Chapter 17:

Instead of speaking, he slipped his hand into his inside jacket pocket. John's heart thudded in his chest as he debated if he should make a run from the room.

"What really made it apparent to me that I shouldn't care what others told me to do, was that no one ever asked me what I wanted to do. And isn't that what people want... in their normal little lives? For others to be happy?" Sherlock asked.

Wow. John should start seeing a therapist. He may be going insane. He may be having a break down.

Chapter 17!
Click HERE for the Masterpost!

Misdialed - Sherlock/John fic - Chapter 15

dlanadhz — Tue, 31 Jul 2012 05:13:05 GMT

Title: Misdialed
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Current Word Count: 41.663
Current Chapter Count: 15/22
Beta: satsuki_tears
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I don't even totally own the idea. :P
Warnings: Character Death
Summary:
AU John needs a new phone, one that doesn’t bend time and have an amazing man on the other end who claims to be the world’s greatest detective, except that he can’t figure out how he called Dr. Watson instead of his brother. However, with a criminal mastermind on the loose, John's phone connection may be the only thing that can save him.
-- -- -- --

A/N: I'm so sorry about the delay. I did mean to update sooner. I had the chapter done. My life has just been busy lately with school and moving and work. But here it is. Chapter 15. Enjoy!

-- -- -- --

Chapter 15

John treated the fourth disc he'd received like a movie. He brewed himself some fresh tea and grabbed a bag of barbecue crisps before settling down in front of his computer at his desk. The disc whirred to life as John popped the first crisp in his mouth. He took a second to really appreciate the flavor before he clicked for the disc to play. He was only mildly disappointed when it was audio and not video.

"Recording 2," Sherlock started and then paused. John frowned. Five, Six, Seven, and now Two? "There is always a plan to any murder or robbery or true crime. Well, at least any crime performed by someone with a steady mind. We won't include every mental disorder in this idea. But most people who organize crime or commit the crime plan their actions in advanced, even if only by an hour or a couple of minutes. I will record later a list of relationships, but there is one relationship even a good detective wouldn't find out in the beginning of a case involving me. This relationship is... different, and the woman involved was perhaps the best at planning the games she played."

John frowned and shoved a handful of crisps in his mouth to stop himself from frowning. Hearing Sherlock compliment Irene was annoying, and Sherlock hadn't even confirmed who he was talking about yet.

"I received a case when I was thirty-two... just about four years ago. Oh, right. I had a birthday since you asked me. I'm thirty-six now. If this disc was delivered properly, it should be about your fortieth birthday. Unfortunately, I don't trust this to be delivered on time, so I'm probably too early. Happy Birthday, if you like hearing that sort of thing.... Right, back to the story. I was called in to deal with a case where the perpetrator was already known. It was a woman... THE Woman," Sherlock explained.

"The Woman?" John asked. He frowned deeply despite his best tries. Irene was sounding more and more important to Sherlock by the second.

"It was how she was known in her work, you see. She had her own website for her type of business. Her real name is Irene Adler. I caught her in possession of some highly classified information, something worthy of bringing her to the law for. She tricked me, a smooth talking devil, and I let her go. Of course, I kept the information she'd stolen, so it wasn't a complete failure."

"I kept an eye out for her in the following months. She'd gotten hold of my cell number and took to messaging me the way most people update their Twitter accounts. After two more cases involving her, she invited me out to drinks. I declined, but then she showed up at my flat with an old bottle of scotch, and she wouldn't let me decline. We talked while we drank. Well, she did most of the talking. After the bottle was drained, she showed me her self-entitled 'battle dress'... It was the first time," Sherlock said and trailed off into thoughtful silence.

"Oh God," John sighed out and covered his mouth. "I don't want to hear this." His crisps had slipped onto the floor, forgotten.

"Understand, it is about the only subject on which I am, and I hate the word, shy about. Mycroft tells me I'm scared of it. I dare say Miss Adler believes it as well. It isn't fear. I've only ever been afraid of one thing since my mother died, and it certainly isn't sex," Sherlock continued.

"Please, Sherlock. Please stop," John whined, wanting to stop the recording but driven on by a sick need to know. It was like watching a car crash. He couldn't stop watching to see what happened.

"She... took a piece of me with her when she left that night, a piece of me that I can never regain... and she stole my coat. She left me on the floor, drunken and dizzy." Sherlock paused, took a deep breath, and continued "I won't lie to you, John. I didn't enjoy it. I didn't want it. Every time she touched my face, or any part of me, honestly, I wanted to pull away, but she had me trapped in my own home. I suspect there was more than scotch in my cup as well. My senses were terrifyingly numbed. Before I leave you with some ambiguous ramble, I will make myself clear no matter how... uncomfortable the topic may make me. Irene Adler was my first and only sexual experience."

"Oh God, he said it," John exclaimed, covering his eyes as though the truth had been a photographed handed to him and he didn't want to see it anymore.

"And as much as it may be defined as rape, I never begrudged her it. I have never told anyone before this moment, and part of me hates that you won't even hear it for another year. I don't know if Irene will listen to this before she hands it over, but if she does, it is nothing I have not already told her. She is, as she put it, the woman who beat me. She was, and remains, a puzzle I can't solve except to the extent that I know she loves me. It is the only reason she has tried to sweet talk me and kept in contact since that evening. I think she's been spending her time trying to apologize. I suppose I should feel honored that she cares about such trivialities," Sherlock murmured.

"Tri-Trivialities?" John gasped. "You call that- Sherlock!"

"I have known her for four years, two of which have had very little contact. She doesn't even text me much anymore. She is a powerful, beautiful, dangerous woman. She is The Woman, the woman who bested me, who beat me and didn't tell a soul. She deserves respect for that notion. In her defense, she could have destroyed me, but she chose not to." Sherlock was silent for a moment and then cleared his throat.

"I hope you will not hold this information against Miss Adler or against myself. I decided this morning, when I came up with the idea of these recordings, that you needed to know this part of my life in order to have a complete understanding of me. What happened is in the past, but it made me secure about certain portions of myself. While I shall never trust Irene Adler with any substance I'm going to ingest anymore, I still count her as a valuable ally. Again, I hope this does not change your opinion of me. I admit, my conversations with you may be the only thing in my boring life that I look forward to these days." Again, Sherlock went silent. And then abruptly, he said, "End Recording Two."

The sound cut off, but John was already dialing Sherlock on his phone. It took only a two rings before Sherlock picked up. By then, John was pacing.

"Day off?" is how Sherlock answered the phone.

"Trivialities?" John snapped.

"Oh."

"It's not trivial, Sherlock!" and John couldn't help how his voice rose. "That woman, she-if I had known that before she left.. I would have-! She acted like she owned you! She treated me like some second-class citizen who didn't deserve to know you, and yet she's the one who assaulted you! I'll tell you one thing- If I had known what I know now, our conversation would have gone radically different!"

"John-," Sherlock tried, but John spoke right over him.

"Especially knowing about her 'battle dress'! I mean, it would be one thing if she used it on you alone, but to come into my house, in nothing but a coat - Your Coat - and use the same line of a 'battle dress', to use it because she knew it would catch me off-guard, because she used it on you- What kind of woman does that?" John asked.

"She met you with her battle dress?" Sherlock asked, and his voice was so stony and flat that it blindsided John and pulled him from his rant. "Did she-"

"No," John spoke quickly. "She didn't touch me."

"... Good."

"Well she did slap me," John corrected, voice a bit lighter. "But she'd covered up by that point."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Sherlock asked.

"Thought it might," John answered. "But don't worry. She left me intact."

"Good to hear. I need my Doctor in one piece." Sherlock let out a long breath that John mimicked. "You're the only one I trust."

"But I haven't done anything as your physician." John pressed his lips together. He stepped on something that crunched and realized he'd crushed his crisps. Shit. He reached down to pull the bag off the floor.

"You have done more for me than any physician I've ever met in person, John. Don't belittle yourself," Sherlock said. "Without you, I'd still be smoking. That is more than most people can brag."

"Most people," John muttered and looked out his windows. "How dull." Next to Sherlock and the life John had now, he couldn't imagine going back to 'normal' life. He was beginning to understand Sherlock's view of the world.

Then Sherlock chuckled and broke all tension in John's spine. "Undoubtedly."

-- -- -- --

It was a brilliant idea. John had to say, it was just bloody brilliant. He'd been left to his own thoughts about The Woman for about a week, and he'd mulled over his issues about her during every spare moment of thought that he had. It was a natural deviation from his usual constant thoughts about Sherlock, but it was even more of a puzzle for him. The question John had about her was 'why does Sherlock find her so interesting?' and 'what makes me put up with her?' And the answer he found after the whole week was surprisingly simple.

Sherlock couldn't solve her. She was a riddle with an elusive answer.

So John had started thinking some more, this time about how he could compete with such a riddle. When Sherlock figured out the phone mystery, what else would John have to offer in the way of conundrums? He wanted to be mysterious for Sherlock, wanted to be a source of entertainment and interest. It may be childish, but he wanted more of Sherlock's thoughts and heart than That Woman. It was his main goal these days. He would need to break himself of the need, of the addiction someday... but not today.

And that's when he had the most brilliant of brilliant ideas - an idea that would keep Sherlock around for as long a time as they had remaining.

"I have a riddle for you," John said one day when Sherlock had stopped composing on his violin and had gone to at least make some tea to appease John's request that he not starve to death.

"Oh? Is it a good one? I used to read riddle books when I was a child. Perhaps I've already heard it," Sherlock suggested and something clattered off the counter and rolled along the floor. Sherlock's annoyed growling was the only suggestion John had that the act was not planned.

"I came up with this one on my own, so you wouldn't have read it anywhere," John said. "I figured if you're putting me on a scavenger hunt, I can give you a game as well."

"Alright," Sherlock grunted, lifting whatever heavy item had fallen and setting it somewhere it undoubtedly didn't belong. "What is your riddle?"

"What has two heads, two hearts, eight limbs, and is colored red and blue?" John asked. "Feel free to take your time guessing."

"Two heads...," Sherlock murmured, moving things around in his kitchen. He wasn't being very careful, and pots and pans continued to smash together. John nearly winced. He wished he could jump through the phone and clean Sherlock's apartment for him. "Is it some sort of science fiction monster?"

"Nope." John grabbed himself an apple from his fridge.

"Some demented form of Frankenstein's Monster?"

"Try again."

"I'll need to think on it," Sherlock said.

"Like I said, take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere," John answered and took the first big bite out of his yellow fruits. He smile was devious and gleeful. This was such a brilliant idea. This riddle was the best riddle in the history of riddles, and even Sherlock Holmes wasn't going to figure it out with ease.

-- -- -- --

Preview, Chapter 16:

Angelo was also the first person Sherlock had known to not look at John with pity in their eyes upon their first meeting. He lead John to the nearby window seat. "There's a candle, nice and romantic. Sherlock said I didn't have to, but it's not often Sherlock has a date."

So they argued about food, and Sherlock mentioned his childhood; the way his mother used to take him and Mycroft to restaurants around whatever estate they were staying at that week while his father worked.

"Is that right? Sherlock Holmes just asked me out on a date?" John teased.

"Don't be silly, John," Sherlock scolded gently. "I asked you two weeks ago."

For all his pomp and circumstance, all his airs and graces, Sherlock was very much the same as anyone else. He noticed more things, retained more information, but under it all, he was still human.

Click HERE for Chapter 16!
Click HERE for the Masterpost!

Misdialed - Sherlock/John fic - Chapter 14

dlanadhz — Sat, 30 Jun 2012 01:36:32 GMT

Title: Misdialed
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Current Word Count: 39,662
Current Chapter Count: 14/?
Beta: satsuki_tears
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I don't even totally own the idea. :P
Warnings: Character Death
Summary:
AU John needs a new phone, one that doesn’t bend time and have an amazing man on the other end who claims to be the world’s greatest detective, except that he can’t figure out how he called Dr. Watson instead of his brother. However, with a criminal mastermind on the loose, John's phone connection may be the only thing that can save him.
-- -- -- --

Chapter 14

John was sure he should feel bad about how much time he spent on the phone, but he didn't. He found himself, more and more often, lounging at home when he got off work and just talking on the phone for hours. Sometimes the conversations were lively and animated. Sherlock would discuss a case he was working on, and John would listen and provide input when needed or when he thought Sherlock had overlooked something. Sometimes they argued because Sherlock called John names or because John didn't approve of what Sherlock said or was doing to those around him. Sometimes Sherlock played the violin. Sometimes he composed. Sometimes they didn't talk at all. The phones would sit on tables or arm rests and be completely silent while John pulled up a book to read or made dinner and Sherlock did who-knows-what.

The quiet calls weren't a problem. They were special because both men seemed to be completely fine leaving their phones connected across time even when they had nothing in particular to say. It was strangely intimate, being able to hear every time Sherlock sneezed, coughed, cleared his throat, growled, or any of the abundant noises that came from his throat while he worked, and the same applied to Sherlock as he listened to John move about.

After his talk with Mycroft, John texted the older brother less but thought about the younger brother more. John let silent phone calls go on longer and would prompt Sherlock to discuss more about his work to delay hanging up the phone.

"Do you love my brother?"

What kind of man asks that kind of question like that? As though it didn't matter what the answer was, as though John didn't matter, wasn't important or worthy? It was rude. It was almost cruel. It kept John from being able to read during the silent calls.

"Sherlock," he said one day just as Sherlock had been about to change a silent call into a violin session.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock asked. He wasn't next to the phone.

John closed his book and set it aside. "It's May. You've started building the case files I'm working with, haven't you?"

"Yes. A double murder and an arson attack," Sherlock confirmed. "I already solved those cases. The files are still with me, though. I knew they were connected by this Moriarty. Alas I still cannot find any information about him. The man is a ghost."

"Victor Trevor," John interrupted. Sherlock cut off his rant and did not start back up. "May 12th. Victor Trevor."

Victor Trevor, the first love of Sherlock Holmes. The man who got away because he was straight. The man who signified the break between the Holmes brothers. John heard Sherlock drag his bow across the strings of his violin, slowly and not to any specific tune.

"Yes. Two weeks ago. Double homicide," he said, voice flat as though he had not had a case in days and was about to start shouting.

"He and his wife were murdered, Sherlock," John clarified. "You knew them both. The same for the other one, Sebastian Wilkes - February 25th. House fire. You went to school with both of them."

"Richard Brooke as well," Sherlock spoke, near the phone now but still quiet. "I found him. He was alive after his family died in a car accident. He died last month. Another house fire."

"Everyone attached to this case who has died since.... since I started working on it has been someone you put away for murder. Everyone who they killed before going to prison was someone you knew.. Am I right? Except Jasmine Sheffield."

"I met her yesterday morning," Sherlock corrected. "She wasn't always a Sheffield. Before her second marriage, she was Jasmine Powers. She was the mother of a boy, Carl, murdered during my time at university. It was my very first serious case. When I met her yesterday, I recognized her instantly. That was when I made the same connection you are making now."

"Moriarty is killing off people around you, people you know." John said it with such clarity and assuredness that he was certain that if it had not been already true, he would have made it so with his words.

"That's what I'm afraid of," Sherlock murmured. He could be heard sighing heavily and running a hand over his face. John could almost see him doing it. "I hope he takes that into consideration," Sherlock murmured next.

"Takes what into consideration?" John asked. "What are you afraid of?"

Sherlock took a moment to think on his own and then he let out a short breath. "I'm hoping he doesn't know who I'm talking to on the phone all the time.... and if he does find out, I hope he understands you aren't technically 'around' me."

"Come now, Sherlock. Don't you think he would have killed me by now if that was his plan?" John asked. "All he's done to me is scare me."

"I don't want him to take our fight too seriously and drag it out. I don't want it to bleed into your time," Sherlock said, almost ignoring John.

"Sherlock-," John tried, but the other man cut him off.

"I don't want you to be collateral damage, John. Can't you understand?" he asked, rushed and anxious. John's mouth snapped shut, and for several moments they were both silent. The only sound over the call was Sherlock's sudden heavy breathing.

John heard the soft sounds of Sherlock rummaging around for something and seemingly unable to find it. He could still hear Sherlock's laborious breaths through all of it, like he was an asthmatic who couldn't find his inhaler. John frowned and closed his eyes.

"Sherlock," he said just as the rummaging ceased. "I'm still here." Put down the cigarettes, he thought. "I'm not going to die on you." Not like Sherlock would. "Sherlock?"

John strained his ear to pick up any sound the phone would give. He heard the click of something metallic being set on something wooden. Sherlock had put down the lighter. When Sherlock's voice spoke up again, John could tell Sherlock hadn't smoked anything. His voice sounded teasing and a little strained.

"You're going to be the death of me, Doctor," he said, a half laugh coming from his throat. He took a slow, deep breath and held it. After a full thirty seconds, he let it out just as slowly. "There. I crushed the cigarette. Didn't even sniff it." And John smiled at the annoyance he heard.

"I'm so proud," John said back, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't teasing... but he was being honest too. "Don't worry. Everything turns out alright in the end."

"You say that as though you read it in a book," Sherlock said with a sneer and sniffed, but he seemed much calmer now.

"I'm in the future. How do you know I didn't?"

"Touche, Doctor. Touche."

John chuckled and felt his heart warm. He would miss this banter.

-- -- -- -- -- -- --

Mmm. He had to admit. This didn't happen every day... especially not in John Watson's flat.

"Right," was the first thing he could think to say. "C-Can I help you?"

He dropped his shopping bag on the nearby table and looked at his peculiar visitor. It was a woman of surprising beauty. She was sitting in his chair, legs crossed and poised like a queen. She had no fear in her posture or eyes. Only her crossed legs showed she had a sense of decency, for beyond her glistening earrings, she wore no clothes. She smiled coyly at John.

"Dr. Watson," she greeted. She held out her hand. "It is a pleasure to meet you at last. Well, when I say 'meet you', I mean in person, of course. I've seen surveillance of you and a few snap shots over the last year. It was sort of my job. Sort of. Do you like my battle dress?"

"I'm sorry. Have I - Have I missed something?" John asked, glancing around the rest of his flat that was visible and checking for other people. As far as he could tell, they were alone. What did she mean 'battle dress'? She wasn't wearing anything.

The woman just grinned broader. "Sherlock sent me with the finest regards. I was meant to come just before your birthday, but I figured why not a month early? I'd stand to shake your hand, but he told me you were a bit... sensitive." She raised her eyebrows suggestively on the last word.

John cleared his throat. "Obviously didn't really bother you much," he said, shuffling forward awkwardly to take her hand. He held it just long enough to shake and then released it.

"Irene," the woman finally said. She leaned over toward John, her arms now covering her chest. "Irene Adler. Surely Sherlock has spoken of me before."

Her tone was smooth and milky, like a voice in a commercial trying to get John to buy chocolates or a sultry temptress to buy porn. He wasn't sure which. He took a seat on the arm of his couch, keeping a wary eye on her.

"Nope. I don't think he has. I'm sure he would have warned me." John looked away from her again, his cheeks probably burning. "You have a disc or something for me?"

"Oh. Straight to the point. He's got you pinned, lover boy," Irene cooed. She stood, probably knowing John would look further away, and moved over to the coffee table. She lifted a long coat off it, which had been folded neatly before, and put it on. John let out a sigh of relief and look her dead on. "He gave me a gift for you, yes. But you'll have to beat me to get it."

"Excuse me?" John asked. He put his hands on his knees and stared her down. Something about her coat seemed wrong. It wasn't made for her. John couldn't imagine her running around town wearing only that. She seemed much classier.

"I don't play fair like Sherlock," Irene explained. She pulled a pack of cigarettes from the coat pocket and lit one up. She then proceeded to not listen to John's protests about smoking in his house. "You play my game, Doctor, or you don't get the prize. It's as simple as that. Yes or no?"

"Sherlock wouldn't like-," John tried, not seriously trusting Irene at all. He didn't even completely trust that to be her name. But before he could finish his sentence, she'd snapped her lighter shut and set a testy glare on him.

"It doesn't matter what Sherlock would like or not. He's dead. It's my rules now, and I like them the way they are. Do you want the damn disc or not?" she asked.

Her sensual attitude was gone, replaced only with distaste. Her words bit down when she said 'dead', and it didn't take a doctor to realize her anger stemmed from Sherlock's passing and not from anything John had done. John cleared his throat and motioned for her to continue. Like an appeased feline, she fell back into her coy grin and sat on the edge of the table, facing John.

"I knew Sherlock for four years before he died. You knew him for one. If you can name something about him that even I don't know, you win. But I warn you now, I know things about him even he doesn't know. Poor baby." The woman was damn near purring.

"Sherlock plays the violin," John began. Irene snorted and rolled her eyes. John glared. "But he never wanted to play for profit."

"Please. He never does anything for profit. He only accepts money because he knows it's necessary to pay Ms. Hudson and buy a few heads of lettuce," Irene countered. "You'll have to do much better than that."

"Sherlock doesn't like lettuce," John shot back.

"True, but he eats it because Ms. Hudson told him he needed more green in his diet," Irene explained easily.

"How did you say you knew Sherlock?" John asked. She made him uncomfortable, made his collar itch and his stomach churn and his chest pound. With anyone else, he would have thought he was attracted to her, but this was different. This was uncomfortable.

"I was one of his cases. I was the illegal," Irene said, wiggling her fingers at the word. "He caught me, and he let me go. We played a bit of cat and mouse and got very.... very close. Now you're stalling."

"Am not," John said and hated how childish he sounded. That's what this was. It was jealousy, like a child who got cheated out of cookies. "Fine. Sherlock's favorite color is purple, but he only owns one purple piece of clothing."

"A button up shirt that makes him look like dessert."

"He's a master of his own personal fighting style-"

"Yes. I saw him take out a Turkish mercenary with it."

"-but he's still rubbish at fighting because he doesn't eat properly and he never exercises."

"Sherlock didn't tell you that. You're assuming based on your profession."

"Sherlock likes men."

"Oooh, clever one. Yes. He claims to be asexual, but he's really just too nervous about physicality. You should have seen his face the first time I showed up in this little outfit." Irene winked, and John's mouth went a little dry. He glanced at the cigarette in her fingers and down to the pocket where the rest of the box sat.

"That's Sherlock's coat," he said, and he didn't care that it wasn't something she didn't know. He suddenly needed to know if it was true. The outfit she meant was her wearing nothing. That coat wasn't included in her wardrobe or she would have claimed it in her speech. It wasn't hers, but... the cigarettes in the pocket. The lighter she used looked just like the one Sherlock had described to him.

Irene's face fell from its foxy grin and she looked down at her only garment. She tapped her cigarette into a small bowl she'd stolen from John's cabinets. He recognized it, but he hadn't left it there. Irene took her eyes from John for the first time since he'd walked into the room, and looked uneasy to boot.

"I stole it," she said. "These are his cigarettes too. Or, they're the same brand. The man loved his nicotine."

"He stopped smoking," John corrected, not doubting the truth of that statement at all. Irene laughed sourly.

"That he did. Because of you, but you knew that already," and she sounded a bit sour at John too. "He gave up his bad habits because you told him to. He'd do anything you asked him to. He did everything for you. Gave you everything."

"No. Sherlock only ever did things for himself," John said, shaking his head. Irene dropped her cigarette, stood, and slapped John across the face in one fluid motion.

"See?" she asked. "You didn't really know him at all."

John held his stinging face as Irene walked over to a small bag behind the door. She took the coat off and hung it on the door and pulled out a set of clothes from the bag. John kept his head turned away, gently rubbing his sore cheek and giving her privacy. They didn't speak the whole time, but John didn't know what to say anyway. This was another heart broken by Sherlock Holmes, the man who didn't know how much he meant to every person he came across.

"Some special boyfriend you were," Irene murmured, pulling on the last bit of clothing, a short black jacket. Her shirt was white and she had black denim trousers. It was like an outfit she'd grabbed at random, not really thinking. "Never came to visit him. Didn't even come to the funeral."

"I didn't know," John began, trying to explain. Irene scoffed.

"Hardly. Mycroft sent the announcements out to everyone Sherlock so much as bumped into. I doubt he would've missed you - the famous John Watson. Then again, maybe you weren't welcome," she said, acid creeping into her tone.

"He isn't dead, Irene," John said, forcefully. Irene pause with her hand on Sherlock's coat, ready to pull it off the door. "Maybe he is for you, but I still talk to him every day. Neither of us can explain it, but he still calls me and sends me texts throughout the day. He's a year behind me and still solving cases, and I'm still getting to know him. We're living a year apart, as crazy as that sounds. When I found out he was dead... I'm still going to try to save him."

Irene's face was a mixture of shock, disbelief, and annoyance, but there was another emotion trying to make room for itself. That emotion was hope. She slowly took Sherlock's coat off the door and laid it over her arm.

"Well if that were true, Doctor, you would have earned all I have to give and more. Unfortunately-," but a noise stopped Ms. Adler's conclusion. It was John's phone going off, sending a low beeping noise through the flat.

Irene stared at him, almost daring him to answer it with her eyes. John pulled the phone from his pocket and clicked it on. It was a text, just as he'd known it would be, and it was from Sherlock, something else John had expected.

"Bloody bored, John. No cases, and it's raining. Sherlock," John read off.

Irene nearly clawed John with her nails as she snatched the phone from him. She stared at the message, her lips locked into a line. She pressed them even closer together as the phone went off again. Another message. Probably some crack at Lestrade. Sherlock liked to pick at Lestrade when he was bored.

Irene half threw the phone back at John after she read it. Just as he'd guessed, it said Lestrade was probably falling apart at the joints because of the amount of rain in London and his old age. Irene placed a hand gently over her mouth and stared at the floor.

"It isn't possible," she murmured.

"That's what Sherlock said," John said. Irene snapped her gaze to him.

"Does he know?" she asked. "Have you told him he's...?"

"No. Mycroft told me not to," John answered, shaking his head.

"Well screw Mycroft. How are you going to save him if you don't tell him?" Irene snapped, but she didn't seem angry at John anymore.

"That's what I said," John agreed, nodding. "And I will. I'll tell him. But not yet. I don't want him to over think it."

"I'd tell him now," Irene said. She knelt down next to John, and gave him a look he couldn't quite read. Was it pity? "I'd tell him every day, whenever I could."

"Are we still talking about his death?" John asked. "I can't really... you know, read you."

She smiled then and rose slowly to her feet. Her lip touched his cheek in a soft kiss and then she sighed. "That's almost what Sherlock told me," she said. "Anyway, I admit defeat, Doctor Watson."

Irene held Sherlock's coat out for him to take. It was softer than he expected, and he tried to push it back into her arms, but she wouldn't have it.

"He would want you to have it, not just the recording," she explained. "Just... tell him for me, alright? The world still needs him. He should give thanks for what he has and stay home."

"Irene," John started but she put a finger to his lips. John frowned and fished in the pockets of the jacket. He pulled out the pack of cigarettes and tossed them to her. "I'm sorry."

"Save him for me, Doctor, and there will be nothing to apologize for. Well... except maybe for stealing his heart." John knew he was okay with her because that had been a definite tease, and she winked.

Tapping the cigarettes against her hand, she gave him one last smile and nodded. Then she was out the door and down the stairs without a proper goodbye. John nodded to the empty space she let behind and slid onto the seat of the couch. He fished around in the pockets and realized Irene had left the lighter too. The cool metal was somehow just as grounding as the coat.

From the back pocket, he drew another CD, and he had an inkling he knew what it would be about: Irene Adler. Sherlock had to explain how someone as memorable as that woman hadn't been on his recording about relationships.

"Ah, and part of me doesn't really want to know," he mused aloud, hand stroking the fabric of the coat in his lap.

-- -- -- --

Preview, Chapter 15:

"I was called in to deal with a case where the perpetrator was already known. It was a woman... THE Woman," Sherlock explained. "I decided this morning that you needed to know this part of my life in order to have a complete understanding of me."

"Oh God," John sighed out and covered his mouth. "I don't want to hear this."

"John-," Sherlock tried, but John spoke right over him.

"It's not trivial, Sherlock!"

When Sherlock figured out the phone mystery, what else would John have to offer in the way of conundrums? And that's when he had the most brilliant of brilliant ideas - an idea that would keep Sherlock around for as long a time as they had remaining.

"Understand, it is about the only subject on which I am, and I hate the word, shy about. It isn't fear. I've only ever been afraid of one thing since my mother died, and it certainly isn't this."

Click HERE for Chapter 15!
Click HERE for the Masterpost!

Misdialed - Sherlock/John fic - Chapter 13

dlanadhz — Thu, 07 Jun 2012 21:19:07 GMT

Title: Misdialed
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Current Word Count: 36,184
Current Chapter Count: 13/?
Beta: satsuki_tears
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I don't even totally own the idea. :P
Warnings: Character Death
Summary:
AU John needs a new phone, one that doesn’t bend time and have an amazing man on the other end who claims to be the world’s greatest detective, except that he can’t figure out how he called Dr. Watson instead of his brother. However, with a criminal mastermind on the loose, John's phone connection may be the only thing that can save him.
-- -- -- --

Chapter 13

The service lift to the morgue was always deep and heavy sounding, but the hallway up to it was always silent. The sounds of the hospital were dulled the farther down the hall you walked until it was almost completely soundless by the lift except for the whirr of the air conditioner. John liked listening to the sound of his footsteps as he approached the end. There was something grounding in hearing your steps echo so resolutely. Plus, it was pretty much ingrained in John's head that if someone wanted to sneak up on him, it would be impossible to do in this hall - even if that person was undead or a zombie. Unless they could fly, he'd be able to tell.

John chuckled a little in his head. He could hear Sherlock in his head, telling him he was being silly. Vampires and zombies didn't exist, and humans couldn't fly. Oh, but it was still in John's mind, just like Sherlock's logic.

The lift opened with a soft beep and released him into the lowest layer of the morgue. He stepped out and through a set of doors to where Molly always worked with the bodies. She was examining one right then, checking a puncture wound on the neck. John smiled as he remembered his thoughts on the journey down here. Vampires. Silly.

"Afternoon, Molly," he greeted, slipping his doctor's coat off and hanging it up. He liked leaving that identity behind when he worked on Sherlock's case. It made him feel unbound somehow, not tied to medical thought processes.

"Oh! Doctor Watson," Molly greeted, her smile flickering. Odd.

"Is everything alright, Molly?" John asked, walking over to the filing cabinet. He almost reached down to open it as well, but that's when he noticed the other person in the room.

It would have been fine if the other person had been Lestrade, although John wasn't yet ready to share his copied files. But instead of the police officer, he saw a beautiful woman sitting on a stool in the far corner. Her hair was long, wavy, and dark. Her nails were decorated in a sculpted curve, and her dress went only to her knees. If she wasn't crossing her legs, John was certain he'd be able to see up her skirt. He may have even thought long and hard about her eye color, except he couldn't see them. Her eyes were glued to a phone in her hands, which she seemed to never stop typing on.

"Hello," John greeted. Molly nodded her head in the direction of the woman, and John nodded too. He walked over to the dark beauty and cleared his throat. "Hello," he tried again.

"This is for you," the woman said, not looking up. Instead she simply lifted an envelope from inside her short jacket somewhere and handed it to him.

"Uh? Thank you?" John tried, looking down at the white package. It was written on in a scribbled and yet refined hand, bearing the words 'To be delivered to Dr. John H. Watson on the 5th of May.'

The woman slipped off her stool, barely looking away from her screen. "My employer says to tell you that he will be seeing you shortly," she said and left the room, her heels clacking with every step.

John watched the door until he couldn't see her nor hear her footsteps. That was odd. He looked down at the envelope in his hands, trying to deduce what it was about. Who was that woman's employer? He glanced to Molly, but the mortician shook her head and shrugged her shoulders uselessly. John slowly opened the letter, worried a bit about its contents. He doubted it was anything serious, though. After all, the woman had kept it in her jacket.

Out of the envelope fell a mini flash drive. John held it up in front of him and frowned at it, frowned at the number 4 on the side. A 4GB usb? What could- John paused. Was this the next recording? John looked over to Molly, eyes wide, and then scanned the counters for a computer. There was one, but it appeared to be specifically for work purposes.

"Sorry, Molly. Can I reschedule our usual lunch meeting?" John asked, but it really wasn't a question. He grabbed his coat as he left, pulling it on and dropping the usb into the pocket. He heard Molly agree and say she'd see him around, and then John was in the lift and surrounded by the low rumble.

Recording six hadn't given any clues to the next one. Well, it had, but the only clue Sherlock had said was that the next recording was like an anonymous tip in a case. Anonymous indeed. John had no idea who that woman was and she hadn't given her name. Recordings five and six had been on CDs though. This was a flash drive. As John made his way into the computer lab, he wondered if he should be worried about the change.

The usb went into the computer and instantly loaded its contents - yay technology. John checked to make sure he was alone before he dared to let the sole file on the drive play. It was more than audio this time, and John felt his heart skip a little as he saw Sherlock sitting in front of a computer camera, checking the settings and quality. Finally he sat back and cleared his throat. He was wearing a purple collared shirt open at the top in a casual style. One look at Sherlock in that shirt made John's chest ache and his whole body grow warm.

"Recording seven. Video this time - like to keep it interesting. I actually put on clothes for this," Sherlock said, looking to the side a bit. John closed his eyes for a second, which Sherlock seemed to know he needed because he didn't speak. Sherlock hadn't been dressed before this? Maybe he just meant dressed up?

"Recording six was an introduction to my relationships, but I figure at this point I should expound a bit. Particularly on the point of my dear brother, Mycroft. As I said before, I lie to Mycroft on a semi-daily basis. He likes to keep tabs on me and checks in from time to time personally. He knows I dislike him, but he continues to intrude on my life. Some things I will never understand."

John frowned. Sherlock really didn't know why Mycroft kept coming around? Even John could figure some of these things out. Maybe Sherlock couldn't imagine Mycroft wanting to be around him, loving him? Maybe he couldn't imagine the same of Molly, and that's why he didn't understand her... either of them.

"Mycroft knows," Sherlock began again, lowering his voice bit. "He knows what he did, what he kept doing. It should be no surprise to him that I no longer put any stock in his confidence, in his opinions on any matter." He took a deep breath and continued at a normal volume.

"When I was a child, going to primary school like all normal children do, I quickly learned my brain moved at a rate that far exceeded my classmates. I skipped school several days, knowing I would easily pick up what I missed out on within the first few minutes of the next class, and I told only Mycroft. I thought he was paying off the instructors so they wouldn't tell mother, but then he went and told her himself. I was put into home school within the week and was never allowed to miss a class after that."

That's it? That was the big Sherlock family secret?

"A year later, I bought something for the first time with my own money. It was a doll with blonde hair. Unrealistic in features and mobility, with an apparent case of malnutrition and steroid use. The clothes were blue based and made of a tacky sort of plastic byproduct, rough to the touch and common only in children's toys and second hand Halloween costumes. The doll's expression was its only saving grace. While unmoving, it was... happy. I had that doll for all of two days before Mycroft told father and it was literally ripped from my hands," Sherlock continued, obviously still sore about it. "I was nine at the time."

John ran a hand over his face. Sherlock's mind was amazing. He remembered so much detail about a doll he owned for only two days twenty-six years ago. Nearly three decades of memories, and he remembered that one.

"There were several similar incidents of Mycroft looking out for my wellbeing; taking toys away, keeping me from meeting certain friends or going certain places, and telling mother whenever I didn't follow his ideas for my future like a good little brother. The last straw, though, came in the spring of my eleventh year. I was at a new school that year, beginning my third level of education, and made quick and easy friends with a boy a year my senior named Victor Trevor. Although I should have started skipping levels at that point, I stayed behind like normal students so that I could remain in classes with Victor. He was my very first true friend."

John watched Sherlock straighten up in his seat and check over his shoulder. That was when John noticed the recording was done in 221b. He recognized the entire back wall near the door that Sherlock kept glancing at as though someone was coming up the stairs. Who knew? Maybe someone was. Sherlock was keen like that.

"Anyway, my feelings for Victor were quite strong, and at my twelfth birthday party, I kissed him when no one was looking. I had never trusted feelings of that caliber before, so of course I was anxious. Victor, however friendly, did not reciprocate the emotions, but assured me we would still be friends. The next day, another boy at school told me Victor had explained the situation to him and he was going to tell the school counselor and anyone he ran into along the way. You may be happy, or unhappy, I don't know, to know I ended up breaking the boy's nose. His name was Richard Brooke. I went to the person I thought I could trust to help me keep the secret, both secrets. Mycroft assured me he would do what was best for me... so he told my mother and father. My mother suffered a heart attack, poor woman, and my father pulled me from school again. I was forbidden from visiting Victor in his Norfolk estate and never saw Richard Brooke again... although I did read that the entire Brooke family was in a car accident a few years later, so that would suggest he's dead. I never kept up with either of the boys. Mycroft made sure of that," Sherlock said, voice low and full of old spite. The anger surprised John. He'd never heard it before in Sherlock's voice.

"I never trusted Mycroft with the truth of matters after that. I had twelve years of experience working against him, and as of today he has done nothing to merit regaining that trust. Especially with that spy working for him - Anthea, who does nothing but text him constant updates on everything she sees or hears around her like his own personal robot," Sherlock complained.

"Oh. Is that her name?" John asked, almost forgetting this was a video and not a video call. When he spoke he noticed the quiet of the room and covered his mouth a bit, glad no one had been around to hear it.

"Yes. I'm sure Mycroft will have her deliver this instead of him. He's never been one to get his hands dirty with anything, even delivery work," Sherlock said and John really wanted to know how Sherlock became psychic.

This message was left with Mycroft? But Anthea had dropped it off. Did that mean Mycroft was here somewhere? Or had he sent her alone? John wondered if Mycroft listened to this message before giving it to him. If Mycroft hadn't heard this yet, John would probably give it to him. The man seemed desperate to know where he'd gone wrong.

"The truth about Mycroft that you must understand, John, is that he acts like an arrogant, government pencil shredder, but he actually cares a bit too much. He taught me how to deal with people as I grew up, and while the Holmes family may not be good in public, he definitely taught me to survive with the upper class idiots our family associates with. I know how to treat people to gain authority over them. He taught me a lot, and I respect his power.... but I do not trust him when he is right in front of me, much less when he is out of my sight."

Sherlock shifted again, glancing almost imperceptibly to the side and then sighed in annoyance.

"John, I envy you and your normal sibling relationships. It must be so boring but so.... safe. You don't talk much about your sister. I don't want you becoming a hermit. Call her. Have a nice.... chat or something. Don't talk to me again until you do," he said, looking seriously at the camera when he said that. Then he nodded curtly. "End of recording seven."

Sherlock's hand twitched near the bottom of the screen and the video ended. John found himself grinning to himself; not a huge smile but one that comes from remembering a fond memory. He ran his hand over his mouth and tried to wipe the smile off his face. In a strangely content state, he reached forward and closed the video player, ejected the usb, and pulled it out of the computer. John ran his thumb over the device and then slid it into his pocket as he pushed out of his seat.

Anthea had delivered the message, but John doubted Mycroft would ever stay far away if he knew about this message. Mycroft had definitely watched this. John wouldn't doubt Mycroft had been on the stairs listening to it being recorded. He also wouldn't doubt that Mycroft was in the building right now.

Turning the corner into the receiving bay for the E.R., John stopped walking and looked toward the double doors on his left. The hall beyond the doors looked bright but vacant, totally empty save for one tall figure. John shifted his coat and stepped through the doors, trying to seem taller than he was so he could compare to the man standing in the hall. The corridor was silent, and the rush of the hospital through the door threw that into stark contrast. John took only a few steps into the area before the door shut and he stopped where he was, halfway between the door and Mycroft.

"That's the one thing Sherlock never liked about London.... the rain," the older Holmes said, looking out the windows.

"He picked the wrong place to live," John replied, slipping his hands into his coat pockets. He waited a moment to see if Mycroft would reply and received only a frowning stare out the window. "Did you watch the video?"

"I did. He never told me not to; just said I was to deliver it at a specific time and date. Not that it mattered, of course," Mycroft said. "I knew everything it held regardless."

"You were on the stairs." It wasn't a question. John knew it was true. Sherlock wouldn't keep looking over his shoulder without a reason, and he wouldn't be so calm about it if it wasn't someone he knew. Mycroft made an affirmative sound in his throat and tapped his umbrella on the ground. "No cane?" John asked.

"The umbrella is less conspicuous and much more useful in British weather," the older man explained. "You understand."

"I understand that you loved your brother so much that his death caused you to have a twitch in your right knee that causes you pain and requires you to limp and use a cane," John explained.

"I limp because I've hit my leg one too many times on the metal coffee table in my office," Mycroft said, denying the claim.

"Maybe if you admit out loud that you have a psychosomatic limp due to the death of your brother and not because of blunt force trauma, it might go away." John cleared his throat then and held his hands behind his back.

Mycroft Holmes looked at John Watson then, a distant and disinterested glaze over his eyes, as though he wasn't seeing John as someone worthy to look at. John met his gaze with one he hoped conveyed determination and the idea that John knew he was right and wouldn't back down. After a moment, Mycroft looked back to the rain slipping down the glass in front of him.

"All lives end," he said.

"Yeah, but this was your brother. This wasn't just some random person on the street. He was family. You loved him," John pointed out.

"All hearts are broken," Mycroft said as an answer. He lowered his gaze to his hand on the handle of his umbrella. "Caring... is not an advantage."

"The hell it isn't," John grunted out. "You wouldn't be checking with me about Sherlock every other day if you didn't think knowing his days would give you an advantage.... over what or who, I don't know, but that doesn't matter. Caring brings people together."

"Caring causes irrational emotions," Mycroft almost snapped and the tension in his words made John hesitate. Mycroft took a silent, slow breath and continued in a calm tone and pace. "Caring causes normally logical people to act stupidly and selfishly. Caring tears people apart. Sherlock knew that, and it is something you should get used to."

"I would rather live on this side of the fence, thanks. It makes life much less miserable," John said, crossing his arms in front of him now.

"Do you love my brother?" Mycroft asked suddenly, finally turning to face John.

"What?" John asked, not expecting the question. Love Sherlock? Love the sound of his violin and his deep voice and his quick texts and his amazing brain? Love the way he's talking over a time jump? or love the way he died before John ever got to officially meet him?

"You see? You feel the tension build in your chest, and you cannot explain why. It causes you grief, Doctor Watson. Caring does not bring happiness or joy. Caring simply opens the heart to weapons that can injure it."

"You're a machine," John decided, awed by his own inner deduction. Mycroft looked at him curiously, and John shook his head. "You're not human at all. You're a bloody machine," John said again and turned his back on the older Holmes. With that, he left the hallway and the man in dark clothes watching the rain.

-- -- -- --

Preview, Chapter 14:

"That's what I'm afraid of. Can't you understand?"

"I don't play fair like Sherlock." She pulled a pack of cigarettes from the coat pocket and lit one up. "You play my game, Doctor, or you don't get the prize. It's as simple as that. Yes or no?"

"He gave up his bad habits because you told him to. He'd do anything you asked him to. He did everything for you," and she sounded a bit sour at John too. "See? You didn't really know him at all."

"You're going to be the death of me, Doctor," Sherlock said, a half laugh coming from his throat.

Click HERE for Chapter 14!
Click HERE for the Masterpost

Misdialed - Sherlock/John fic - Chapter 12

dlanadhz — Fri, 18 May 2012 21:35:09 GMT

Title: Misdialed
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Current Word Count: 36,184
Current Chapter Count: 12/?
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I don't even totally own the idea. :P
Warnings: Character Death
Summary:
AU John needs a new phone, one that doesn’t bend time and have an amazing man on the other end who claims to be the world’s greatest detective, except that he can’t figure out how he called Dr. Watson instead of his brother. However, with a criminal mastermind on the loose, John's phone connection may be the only thing that can save him.
-- -- -- --

A/N: I apologize for the atrocious delay in posting. I just finished my last semester of my BA degree and between papers and group projects and work, I just didn't have time to write. Hopefully all that is behind me, but now it's time to find a job, so we'll find out. Again, I apologize and hope you all continue to love the story. Enjoy!
-- -- -- --
Chapter 12

The wind blew harshly between the buildings, forcing John to shield his face with one arm. He pulled the phone away while he shook his head in the aftermath and then put it back against his ear.

"Sorry. What was that? The wind was blowing," he said.

"I said yes, I do play the violin," Sherlock said. "I picked up my mother's violin when I was five and have been playing ever since."

"Did you take lessons? You're really good," John complimented as he hurried across a street.

"Thank you. No. I'm entirely self taught. Father didn't like the idea of spending money to teach his son a woman's instrument, but I preferred it that way. Teachers are infuriating hypocrites for the most part. It was much more efficient to teach myself."

"Yeah, well, good on you. Most people don't have the concentration and drive to teach themselves," John said and then snickered. "But then I guess you're not most people."

"No, I most certainly am not," Sherlock mused. John stepped inside his flat and heard a puffing noise through the phone.

"Are you smoking?" John asked.

"Would there be a problem with that?" Sherlock answered, sounding slightly defensive.

"A little. You'll develop lung cancer or something," John said.

Sherlock scoffed. "Nicotine helps me think. Smoking is good for brain work on cases."

John huffed and shook off his coat to hang it up. "Listen, my mother is a chain smoker. Thirty years, she's been doing it, and she's healthy as a horse unless she's got to walk more than thirty feet or go up an incline."

"So you're saying...."

"I'm saying, if you want to stay active and energetic, you should stop smoking. It'll help you breathe easier."

"Uh! Breathing. Breathing's boring," Sherlock complained but then sighed. "There. It's out. Happy now?"

"Very, actually." John moved into his kitchen and went about putting some tea on. "So back to the violin. I didn't know you composed either."

"Composing helps me think sometimes," Sherlock said.

"You should stick to that more often and give up the smoking," John said. "Doctor's advice. I hope you trust your doctor."

"Only a fool argues with his doctor," Sherlock said with a grin in his voice. There was a slight sigh, a pause of silence as John poured water, and then "Of course I trust you."

John turned off the faucet and made an affirmative noise, but was actually taking a moment to absorb and enjoy that thought. The softness of Sherlock's voice when he said it and the personal tone to the statement were beautiful in John's ear.

"John," Sherlock said after the long silence. That sounded beautiful too.

"Sherlock," John answered. Another short silence followed before Sherlock cleared his throat.

"We were discussing violins," he reminded.

"Oh, right," John said and returned to making tea. "Do you compose a lot, then?"

"I never took it seriously, if that's what you mean. I played at my parents' parties sometimes, but never in a public setting, for a recital or professional. It's my personal hobby. Something I very much like doing."

"Even more than case work?" John asked, leaving the kitchen to start doing laundry for the first time since his move.

"Maybe not more than case work," Sherlock conceded. "Nothing beats a good mystery."

"Mmm. Maybe we should never meet in person again, then," John mused.

"Why do you say that?" Sherlock asked, alert. John smiled.

"Well I wouldn't be a mystery then, would I?" He turned the knob on the machine and jumped a little as it came to life.

"No. You wouldn't," Sherlock agreed, a bit softer, as though he was thinking about it for the first time in a long while. There was a hum of silence as John moved back to the kitchen. "But you'd be real."

"What do you mean?"

"Sometimes I think I'm imagining you. I've gone schizophrenic or psychotic as Anderson's always telling me. Sometimes I believe my brain has run too hard for too long and I've invented you to replace my skull... and by skull, I don't mean my own skull. I mean -"

"You mean the one on your mantel piece," John said. "Ms. Hudson says his name is Yorik. Was that you naming it or her attributing you to Hamlet?"

"That was Ms. Hudson. You really have been in my flat."

"Yep. Ms. Hudson had me over for dinner. I live on the floor above you now," John said and pulled out leftover dinner Ms Hudson had brought up for him.

"Do you? And you still call me? Why don't you just go downstairs if you want to talk about my violin composing?" Sherlock asked.

"Ummm...," John stalled. He hadn't thought about this. "Well you're actually on the way out. You don't live there anymore. Ms. Hudson only let me in to get the recording. Is it true you used to keep mold experiments in your kitchen?"

"That was one time, over two years ago. Ms. Hudson doesn't forget it because the whole building had to be cleared and cleaned when it got out of hand."

"You infected the building with mold?" John exclaimed, looking at the nearest wall suspiciously.

"Only my flat, but it was precautionary. I told Mycroft he was overreacting, but the man never listens to me."

John took a moment, his mind going over Mycroft and the way the older Holmes ate up any and all information about Sherlock. He cared about Sherlock so much, but Sherlock couldn't see it... or maybe Mycroft didn't show it well before the incident that deprived the world of Sherlock Holmes.

"I think you should talk to Mycroft more often. I've only met him in person once, but I can tell he worries about you," John said and poured himself some tea.

"I must be quite the inconvenience," Sherlock agreed.

"Never," John said and shook his head. "I mean he cares about you. You should just try to give him a ring sometime, and ignore whatever it is that made you dislike him."

"Well that's quite impossible, but if I say I'll try it once, will it make you happy?"

"Yes," John said with a grin and took a sip of his cup. He nodded at the flavor and went to sit on his couch. "You already did the recordings, didn't you?"

"Yes, in fact. I seem to have ideas almost exactly a year before you're effected by them." He seemed much too pleased with himself.

"Alright, then where's recording number six?" John asked. "You said there were clues on number five, but I've listened to it five times and I still don't hear any."

"Dear John, if I told you, it wouldn't be a scavenger hunt," Sherlock pointed out smugly.

"You're having fun with this, aren't you?" John asked.

"Oh, indubitably."

-- -- -- --

The morgue was always a little odd to John. If not for the context alone, the place always smelled like dissection day in science class. Molly cleared her throat as she motioned around her lab.

"So a bomb blows up in a box you were investigating. The body of that guy comes to me. Ian Monkford, your friend from the jail, talks to you and gets a poison injection to the back of his shoulder. Your flat burns up and the charred body of a man is found in the alley below your window. Oh. Sorry about your flat by the way. I heard you had to move even after it got renovated," she said, biting her lower lip.

"Yeah. Rough times. Back to your explanation," John said. The news of the continuing body count of people involved with John's case work was nothing new.

"I'm just letting you know I completely understand. I wouldn't have been able to move back in right away either," Molly assured and then turned her back on him to clear her head and continue. "Anyway, I identified all the bodies, even the... exploded one, and sent the DNA and information to Detective Lestrade. He looked them up in cases and finds they all have something in common." She turned to John with a proud grin.

"Okay. And that would be?" John asked, urging her on. He didn't have a break all day. He had to go back to work eventually.

"Oh right. Sorry," she said, shaking her head but never dropping the smile. "The common factor in all the criminals was Sherlock. He put them all behind bars for their crimes. The other two had been released after their sentences or on bail, of course, but Ian would have been in for a few more years if he hadn't died. Anyway, the two who died blowing up evidence or your home had long grudges against Sherlock. Lestrade says they mentioned their distaste for Sherlock in audio recordings or in written statements, both before and after their time in the yard."

"And me. They all have a connection to me. They all died around me," John reminded.

"True. But you only interacted with them after Sherlock's... um.... right. Sherlock put them away, but when they got out, Sherlock wasn't around. And for some reason, they're turning their attention to you," Molly explained.

John pressed his lips together. "Because I'm keeping him alive," he said. Molly pressed her lips together and knit her brow in honest confusion. "Moriarty said that Sherlock died but, because of me, Sherlock wasn't really dead. I was continuing his work."

"Is that why you dropped the case?" Molly asked.

"How much does Lestrade tell you, exactly?" John countered. Molly blushed and turned away. She had been getting excited.

"Sorry," she said. She kept her voice low, like a child admitting things to an angry parent. "Anyway, I do have a point to all this. The case files that were destroyed... I think I actually have copies of all of them."

"Sherlock gave you the copies?" John asked, standing from his stool. Molly nodded.

"One day he just started bringing me tiny files and asking for them to be put in my records, the cabinet only I use. He wanted to keep them somewhere safe but said I shouldn't read them in case I got involved," Molly said, motioning toward a filing cabinet in the back corner. There were several cabinets, but one had an M on the side that designated it as Molly's. The word 'Records' was labeled across the top.

"Records. I told him to make copies. I never knew he actually did it," John mused. He could probably start looking in to the case files again by making visits to the morgue. Moriarty wouldn't know to keep his eyes open where the bodies were kept. Maybe John could continue the search for Sherlock's killer? "Records," he said again, the word pulling at his recent memories. Molly walked over to unlock the files and pull one out for him, a sort of tenseness to her shoulders.

"It's up to you to find the next disc - record six."

"Molly, did Sherlock leave anything else with you?" he asked. "What did he leave in record six?"

The mortician paused, the bottom drawer just pulled open. She looked back at him curiously, like she was stunned and trying to translate what John had said out of Latin.

"Sorry?" she finally came up with and stood up. She closed the drawer with her foot.

"Did Sherlock leave a disc in record six?" John asked. He didn't even know if 'record six' was right, but that's how Sherlock had said it and so that's how John said it.

Molly pressed her hands together and slowly, eventually, nodded. She turned back to the cabinet and opened the middle drawer. After a bit of shuffling through folders, she pulled out a manila envelope and shut the drawer. Just like her nod, she slowly made her way back to him.

"John," she said when she got to him. "How come Sherlock always seems to be here when you're around?" She held the envelope tightly and didn't hold it out. "Moriarty may be right... Whenever you're here, you bring up something about Sherlock. It's like he's still alive and... and playing around."

"Well you're right about that," John said and took hold of the envelope beside Molly's hand. "He's definitely playing. He's sending me on a scavenger hunt and probably grinning in his grave."

"Why you?" Molly asked and pulled the envelope closer to her. She was frowning, a stark difference from before. "Why does he have to keep doing this to you?"

John got the sense that Molly wasn't talking about John. She was mulling over her own emotions. She had cared for Sherlock too. She still had Sherlock's files and record six. John could imagine the jealousy making her cold inside when she realized it was all for John. He could almost read her thoughts - she felt like a storage space.

"I'm sure you were important to him," John assured and put his free hand over hers. Her eyes shot up to look into his. "He trusted you with very important information. You mattered."

"Yeah," Molly agreed and smiled, but it was tinted sour. She pushed the envelope into John's chest and let her fingers fall from it."But not the way he mattered to me."

And something in her tone told John of her continuing jealousy.

-- -- -- --

John sat in his apartment and spun a CD between his hands. It was the disc from the manila envelope. The case it had come in was sitting on the table beside John, but he was watching the light glint off the CD as it turned it over and over in his fingers, trying not to get his fingerprints on its clean surface.

"Staring at it all day isn't going to help," he scolded himself and sighed. He leaned forward and grabbed his computer, sliding the disc in and letting autoplay do the rest. An audio file loaded from the disc.

"Recording six of eight." Yep. John had found the right one. "Finding a suspect is always the easiest part of a case. Interviewing those closest to the suspect to build your case is one of the first steps in catching a culprit. Unlike most people, I don't have many close people to interview."

"Oh, Sherlock. You have such a limited view of your world," John mused and grabbed himself a bag of crisps to snack on.

"The closest person is Ms Hudson. As you're now living with her, this should be easy. She acts very much as my mother, though I care for her a bit more than my mother. My mother has a weak heart and worries easily. Lying became necessary in my home to keep her from learning of the dangerous pieces of my chosen profession. Ms. Hudson is much easier to deal with, much more rational and accepting of my personality."

"Lestrade is actually old enough to be my father, barely. When we met, I had dropped out of university and begun making ties on the street with homeless people or drug dealers to get an information network going. Unfortunately, this had the nearly immediate effect of a drug addiction that nearly had me working as a street vendor instead of a detective. Lestrade helped me out of the addiction for the most part and has kept an annoyingly close watch on me sense. In case you're worried, no, I don't do drugs anymore. I took up smoking when I dropped the drugs. Found out nicotine does amazing things for brainwork. You're probably disapproving right now."

"Nope, because we already had this discussion the other day," John said, grinning because, for once, he was ahead of Sherlock.... sort of. At least it proved Sherlock wasn't all-knowing.

"At this point, you may be wondering why I don't live with my brother and why Mycroft didn't help me with the drug problem or dropping out of school. The simple truth is because I told him I didn't want to live with him and I wouldn't accept his help on a personal matter unless it was absolutely necessary. This doesn't mean I don't use him to get information for cases. It simply means I keep him out of my personal life and lie to him on a regular basis."

"Some things never change," John mused. It was nothing he didn't already know.

"You already know how I feel about Mycroft," Sherlock said and snatched away John's momentary superiority over him. "You probably don't know why. To keep it simple, I'll tell you Mycroft likes to stick his oversized nose into people's business and then tell other people about things they'd be better off knowing nothing about."

Pause. Clearing of the throat.

"And that's everyone important, I believe. Mother hardly leaves the home and my father doesn't speak to me. I have no relationships. Ah, I suppose there is one more person. I work most closely with her when I work at a nearby hospital. All the other morticians annoy me. Her name is -"

"Molly," John said along with the tape. He smiled a little. He'd been right. Molly mattered to Sherlock. She made it on his list.

"She's a bit mousy and her forehead looks too big when she pulls her hair back and her mouth looks too small without lipstick, but she's a sweet girl and she keeps working with me despite the fact that she usually leaves in tears by the end of a session with me. I haven't been able to figure out the cause, exactly."

"Emotionally retarded, I think," John mused allowed. "Can't tell flirting when it's biting him in the ass."

The Sherlock on the tape started up with something about case work and interviews, but John stopped listening when his phone started going off. He paused the CD and pulled out his mobile.

"Hello," he greeted and dusted his fingers free of crumbs while he held the phone with his shoulder.

"Evening, John," Sherlock's voice sounded. It was a different sound than the clarity of the CD. It was the clarity of a phone. "Anything new happen in the future today?"

"You made Molly cry," John commented off-handedly. "But I understand that's not new."

"Not in the least. I think the only person I haven't made cry is you, at this point."

John chuckled. "Oh, Sherlock," he groaned out. "You make everyone cry."

"Even you?" and he sounded incredulous.

"Yes. Even me."

"... Well... I promise to try harder in the future," Sherlock said.

"To do what?" John asked. Listening to Sherlock talk on a CD or talking with him on the phone was not a question; John would take conversation over recording any day.

"...to make you smile... obviously."

-- -- -- --

Preview, Chapter 13:

That's when he noticed the other person in the room. He saw a beautiful woman sitting on a stool in the far corner. Her hair was long, wavy, and dark, and her dress went only to her knees.

"Recording seven. Video this time - like to keep it interesting. I actually put on clothes for this," Sherlock said. He was wearing a purple collared shirt open at the top in a casual style. One look at Sherlock in that shirt made John's chest ache and his whole body grow warm.

"I figure at this point I should expound a bit. Particularly on the point of my dear brother, Mycroft," Sherlock began again, lowering his voice bit. "He knows what he did, what he kept doing."

"Do you love my brother?" Mycroft asked suddenly.

"You're not human at all. You're a bloody machine," John said.

Click HERE for Chapter 13!
Click HERE for the Masterpost!

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Misdialed - Sherlock/John fic - Chapter 11

dlanadhz — Tue, 13 Mar 2012 02:53:12 GMT

Title: Misdialed
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Current Word Count: 29,837
Current Chapter Count: 10/?
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I don't even totally own the idea. :P
Warnings: Character Death
Summary:
AU John needs a new phone, one that doesn’t bend time and have an amazing man on the other end who claims to be the world’s greatest detective, except that he can’t figure out how he called Dr. Watson instead of his brother. However, with a criminal mastermind on the loose, John's phone connection may be the only thing that can save him.
-- -- -- --

Chapter 11

John stayed away from the police station. He stayed away from his old apartment, even after it had somehow been completely renovated after only two weeks. He suspected Mycroft had something to do with it, since he kept asking John why he hadn't moved back in. A lot of his possessions had been replaced, probably also thanks to Mycroft, but John couldn't bring himself to move back in. Moriarty knew about the apartment. He knew John's routine there.

So far, Moriarty didn't seem to know about John's current escape.

"I heard your apartment was remodeled," Sarah commented one morning at work almost a month later.

"Yeah. I heard that too," John said and pretended to be completely focused on his charts.

"John," she sighed. "That means you can move back in, doesn't it?"

"What? Don't you like me staying at yours?" John asked, looking up at her innocently. "I do the washing."

Sarah smiled and shook her head. "That's not the point. The point is we aren't even dating, and you have a perfectly good apartment waiting for you."

"Do you want to start dating?" John asked, twirling his pen in his hand.

"No," Sarah groaned and held her head. No one paid them any mind, sitting in John's office. "I mean I used to want that, but not anymore. You're clearly not interested, but that's not the point. Are you afraid to move back home?"

"No. And what do you mean 'clearly not interested'?" John asked.

"I mean the only things you brought from your apartment were a computer and some photos, photos you risked your life for, I might add, and you never calm down after work unless you get a good look at them, like you're afraid they're going to spontaneously combust," Sarah explained.

"How does that mean I'm not interested in you?" John asked.

Sarah looked at him pointedly. "John, I've seen the way you look at those photos. And even if that wasn't it, you give more attention to your phone than to any girl that comes up to you. Are the photos of the person you're always texting?"

John frowned. He hadn't noticed himself giving any special attention to his few pictures of Sherlock, but Sarah had seen him oogling them? Had she seen the pictures too?

"Have you seen the photos?" he asked. Sarah hesitated but then nodded. "What do you think?"

"He's a very handsome man," Sarah said, a sad look to her eyes. "He's very lucky, and so are you."

"Sorry?"

"It's obvious those pictures were taken just for you... and you obviously like this guy a lot. It's a sad loss to women when two attractive men turn out to be off the market, but at least you seem to be genuinely into him," Sarah said. "But I think you need to head home soon. I'm not sure I can handle living with you and having no chance with you."

"Oh, Sarah," John began and stood up. She put her hand up to stop him, but he continued. "It's just... just a crush. He's..."

"He's what?" Sarah asked, crossing her arms loosely, guarding herself from John.

"He's....," John shook his head a bit. "He's dead, Sarah. The man in the photographs died last year."

Sarah's expression filtered down through a few stages. First she seemed confused, almost annoyed, as though she thought John was lying. Then she was simply stunned. Her arms dropped and she put her hand against her hair like she would run her fingers through it but didn't. Then her expression became sympathetic and apologetic.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "How did it happen?"

"I.. I don't know," John said. "His brother knows, and we talk often, but uh... I haven't asked and I don't think he'd tell me. Not yet, anyway." Not until the anniversary of the death. "Sorry. Can we talk later?"

John motioned down to his charts, but he really just wanted to end the conversation. Sarah nodded, understanding the truth, and apologized for bringing it up. Saying goodbye by promising to see him at home, she turned and left the office. John dropped into his seat again and sighed.

He wanted to know, damn it. He wanted to know how Sherlock died and when so he could start trying to change it, but Mycroft wasn't budging. John had asked only a week ago, but Mycroft had ignored him. John wanted to know, but he didn't want to call Moriarty for the answer. He didn't want to give that psycho any more power than he already had. Not only that, but John had no guarantee that Moriarty would tell the truth.

John smacked his fist down on his desk and was both glad and disappointed when it didn't make a loud noise. He groaned, rubbing his face down with his hands. Right now he would focus on getting out of Sarah's place. She had a point. A month with someone you weren't dating or shagging wasn't normal, but he didn't want to move back into his own apartment. Sighing, he put his hands together as though he were praying and pressed them up against his mouth. He hated apartment hunting, and he hated being so afraid.

-- -- -- --

Searching for a new home always had a sense of apprehension to it. John had experienced it a total of four times since moving from his parent's home. One of those was only stressful because it involved moving into a dorm with a guy he didn't know. He'd asked Harriet to sign up with him but she refused, saying she was moving in with a friend off campus. Traitor.

Now John was walking down the street, looking for the open flat he saw online. He was trudging down Baker Street, wondering if he should just use his phone GPS, when he heard an older woman shriek. John looked up in time to see a man running away from the older woman, a small purse in his hand. The man was running straight toward John. Without hesitation, John pulled back his arm and clothes lined the man.

"Back off man," the thief shouted as he pushed himself back to his feet. He lunged for John, but John side stepped and brought his fist over to connect with the thief's cheekbone. The thief went down and John hissed and shook out his hand.

"Oh thank you!" the older woman had caught up to the fight and was snatching her purse from the barely conscious body. "Dirty rascal!" she scolded and kicked him in the side a little.

John looked at the woman while she checked for her belongings and thought she looked very familiar. When it hit him, he felt both joyously stunned and in fear, but he pushed the joy into the focus.

"Ms. Hudson?" he asked with a grin. The woman stopped checking her purse and looked over.

"Oh!" she gasped and then smiled broadly. "You're the man from the train, aren't you?"

"Yes. I'm John," he said, reintroducing himself. "It's lovely to see you. Is your shop around here?"

Ms. Hudson seemed lost for a second but then she gasped and nodded. "Oh yes," she said and motioned behind her. "It's just down the street. I only own part of the shop now, but I do still own the entire section of building it's part of."

"Wow. Do you own a chain of stores?" John asked with a laugh.

"Oh no, dear. I own flats. I'm a landlady," she said. "Are you in the market?"

John was stunned for a moment. He looked down at his paper of directions and then down the road toward the shop and flats. He sighed and rubbed his head. The world was a small and cruel place. Finally he nodded and stopped messing with his hair and ear.

"Y-Yeah. Yes, actually. I was just coming to check out a flat, which, from what you just said, sounds like I was looking for you," John said.

"Oh, well isn't life so funny sometimes?" Ms. Hudson asked with a laugh. "I was just on my way there. I'll show you where it is."

John cleared his throat and motioned for her to lead the way, which she did without hesitation. She seemed happier than she'd been on the train. It wasn't a holiday where she could be lonely, and time had passed since Sherlock's death. She'd had time to cope. John still hadn't come to full terms with it. He still had to talk to Sherlock every day and pretend nothing was wrong.

Oh hell. Sherlock said Ms Hudson cooked for him the other day. He lived with her! John hid his jittery heart. Had Sherlock truly been so close to where John moved in? Ms. Hudson entered 221b and sighed contentedly.

"I only have two open flats," the elderly woman explained, closing the door behind John. "One's on the first floor. One's on the second."

"Which one did Sherlock live in?" John asked. Ms. Hudson froze in slipping off her coat for only a moment and then quickly hung it up.

"I'm sorry?" she asked. "Did you know Sherlock?"

"Yes," John lied. How would he explain this? "I didn't know about his passing until... well until I got back from Christmas vacation."

"Oh," Ms. Hudson made a muffled angry noise. "Happy Christmas indeed, I bet. Probably ruined the whole holiday for you. I know it had me a real mess. Poor Sherlock. I don't have his apartment open for sale. I keep thinking I should, but I haven't even managed to pack any of his things away."

"What about his brother?" John asked. "Hasn't Mycroft come to get things?"

Ms. Hudson shook her head. "Oh no. Those two hardly spoke civilly. I imagine Sherlock told him to leave things alone."

"Can I-" John swallowed a lump in his throat. He hadn't decided to ask the question until this moment, but now he felt compelled to ask it. "Can I see his place? Just for a second? Please?"

Ms Hudson ran her hands down her pale pink dress as though pulling out wrinkles and mulled over the question. She looked at John with pressed lips and then sighed in both annoyance and revere.

"My goodness. You and Sherlock are so alike. I can't imagine telling you no... Just don't move anything," she said and pulled keys from her purse. She led the way upstairs to the first floor and unlocked the first door they came to.

Sherlock's flat seemed to take up two floors on one side of the building. The room they entered was the kitchen, but they moved quickly through it to the sitting room. Ms Hudson took a quick look around to check the location of objects, nodded, sniffled, and turned to John.

"I'll go make you a cuppa," she said and pat him on the shoulder as she hurried her way out of the flat. John nodded in her direction and heard the door shut behind her quick retreat.

He stood silent for a moment, just looking around and not touching anything. The kitchen had been cleaned out mostly, but a chemistry set and two machines John didn't know the purpose of were still sitting out. The rest of the visible home was filled with rubbish. One wall had a mirror with clippings pinned to the wall all around it. Some had strings tied to their pins that connected them to other clippings.

John walked over to the mirror and looked in on himself, imagining Sherlock sitting in the chair behind him, watching him closely. There was a violin sitting on the side table that John imagined Sherlock held loosely against his neck as though he might play it, but he didn't. He fingers were poised, gently holding the bow. John closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

When he opened his eyes, he traced the many strings with his fingertips, trying to connect the dots like Sherlock had. How did all these stories match up? Similar MOs? Same people involved? There were far too many. John sighed and dropped his hand from the wall. There was a remote sitting on the mantle below the mirror, and John found himself picking it up. A small piece of paper on the back read 'push play'... so John did.

To his right, by the window, a radio whirred and began to play a CD. It was violin music and sounded like a homemade recording. John took a minute to listen to the quality of recording and the skill of the violin. It was really good. John had never heard the song before, but it was beautiful and slow. John could imagine Sherlock standing by the window with that shining instrument, pulling the bow across the strings and notating the movements as he went, composing the song just for John to hear... but that was ridiculous. Sherlock didn't feel the same way other people felt. He didn't care for John the same way that John cared for him.

The flat's single occupant turned back to the mirror and found a news clipping about him pinned in the upper left corner. It was about the award John had received for his dissertation. John knit his brow. The whole corner was about John. There were a few pages of his dissertation tacked together, a photo of John on his uncle's farm, and a copy of the Christmas photo John used to have a copy of, and an article on John from his university's journal. John felt his heart contract for a moment before he could breathe normally again.

God, being in Sherlock's flat, listening to Sherlock play the violin, and seeing Sherlock's detailed mess was almost too much. John took a shuddering breath. He could see Sherlock playing in the window by the radio. He could almost feel Sherlock guiding his fingers around the web of strings. Sherlock was too potent here... too close. John almost swore he could hear him talking.

John's chest froze. He could hear Sherlock talking. Sherlock's voice was on the recording of the violin! John gasped and walked closer to the radio.

"Recording five of eight. Best to begin in the middle of a case, near the end. No case is ever solved at the beginning, before anything happens. Recording one of eight has the motive. This recording is self composed music. Do enjoy yourself, John," Sherlock's voice said. John's heart skipped a beat. "Don't look too dazed. This scavenger hunt of mine should lead you around and give you something to think on when I'm not taking up your time with phone calls and texts. There are eight CDs recorded by me for you hidden in specific places for you or en route to be sent to you. Solve the clues and you'll be worthy to receive the first recording, on which I explain myself openly for your enjoyment. I figured that would be a worthy prize."

John ran a hand over his hair. Sherlock had actually recorded this for him. For him, John Watson. Just for him. He took a deep breath and nodded, his heart making it hard to breathe.

"If I'm right, this should get to you about mid-April. No. Make that early April," Sherlock continued and John checked his watch for the date even though he already knew Sherlock was right. How did he do that? How did he know? "I'll be recording four more songs and then it's up to you to find the next disc - record six. All you need to find it can be heard in this recording. Good luck... and I'll see you soon."

Sherlock went silent for a moment, there was the turn of a page, and the violin started up again. John shook his head.

"No you won't," he said, annoyance creeping into the edges of his voice. "You shouldn't promise things like that. You don't know yet. You don't know you're gone."

"I've heard that tape four times," Ms Hudson said, startling John from his ill heart strings. He turned to see her handing him a cup of tea. "I didn't know a John, and it didn't really hit me that it was you until I was downstairs just now. I heard the violin start up and I thought 'it's him.' I couldn't make heads or tails of it myself."

"Oh," John murmured and looked back to the radio. How was he supposed to find recording six if Ms Hudson, who'd heard it four times, couldn't figure it out?

"But I started thinking about the third time I heard it that... it does seem like he knew somehow," the older woman remarked and sighed. She was looking down at his violin. "He was always dashing about, but I never thought he was reckless enough to get hurt. And the more I think on it, the more I think he did know his time was coming. I don't know how he knew, but I never understood half the things he knew, to be honest."

John took a long drink of tea and let out a heated breath. Sherlock wasn't told by John. John wasn't going to tell him. He wasn't, no matter how much he wanted to. Mycroft said it was for the best that Sherlock not know.

"I knew I liked you for a reason," Ms Hudson continued and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Sorry?" John asked, tearing his eyes away from the music stand and his ears away from the violin music.

"Sherlock's never had many friends, but I can tell he meant a lot to you. I hope you told him as much before he left us." Ms. Hudson made a humming noise and headed for the door. "How would you like to stay for some supper? We can talk about flats later."

"Thanks very much," John called after her. He wanted to feel sad, depressed. He wanted to feel pleased. Sherlock had lived so close to where John moved to. Ms Hudson was so friendly. But all he felt was a tainted melancholy, tainted with annoyance and anger. Sherlock's stupid promises and ignorance. John hadn't told Sherlock anything yet. Sherlock didn't have a clue - about how deeply John felt already or about his own imminent death. And John was irrationally angry at Sherlock for not knowing those things, and was upset at himself for not telling him. It was a twisted sort of irony that only someone like Moriarty could really enjoy, and yet John was the only privy party.

-- -- -- --

Preview, Chapter 12:

"Sometimes I think I'm imagining you. I've gone schizophrenic."

John took a moment, his mind going over Mycroft and the way the older Holmes ate up any and all information about Sherlock. He cared about Sherlock so much, but Sherlock couldn't see it.

"Anything new happen in the future today?"

"You made Molly cry," John commented off-handedly. "But I understand that's not new."

The softness of Sherlock's voice when he said it and the personal tone to the statement were beautiful in John's ear.

"John," Sherlock said after the long silence. That sounded beautiful too.

Click HERE for Chapter 12!
Click HERE for the MasterPost!

Misdialed - Sherlock/John fic - Chapter 10

dlanadhz — Sat, 10 Mar 2012 04:50:34 GMT

Title: Misdialed
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Current Word Count: 26,731
Current Chapter Count: 10/?
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I don't even totally own the idea. :P
Warnings: Character Death
Summary:
AU John needs a new phone, one that doesn’t bend time and have an amazing man on the other end who claims to be the world’s greatest detective, except that he can’t figure out how he called Dr. Watson instead of his brother. However, with a criminal mastermind on the loose, John's phone connection may be the only thing that can save him.

-- -- -- -- --

Chapter 10

Work was a welcome reminder of the real world. John had never thought work would be so inviting. He always expected to love his work, saving people's lives or making the passing easier. He always expected to be useful and wanted by his patients. He'd even expected some people to hate him for their loved ones dying. He'd never expected to feel relieved by walking in the front doors of a hospital. Familiar, comfortable, but never relieved. And yet that was where he found himself on day three.

It was a relief to know that this was a hospital and people died in hospitals. People were also saved there. It was like John's second life, away from the murder scene shots and the people dying because of his investigation. At the hospital, he put those thoughts away and focused on his patients.

Unless, of course, Sherlock texted him. That's when he'd find a moment to check his phone and reply.

Sherlock was fine, as usual, and knew only a few basics. The files were attacked, that's why he needed to make copies. That's all Sherlock knew. He didn't know about the threatening phone call. He didn't know about the meeting with Ian. He only knew about the bomb in the police department.

"Dr. Watson?" a woman called. John jumped from his thoughts and smiled at her.

"Oh. Sarah, I told you to just call me John," he said. She smiled back but then frowned.

"I was going to, but you looked so serious that it didn't seem to fit. Are you alright?" Sarah asked, gently touching his arm. John drew what comfort he could from it, but it felt like trying to suck pudding through a straw.

"I-I'll be fine. I got a bit of a fright the other day. Bomb went off in the building I was in. Oh no, don't look like that. Only the bomber got hurt, but it did leave a few of us rattled," John explained. It was only the start of his worries, but if he wasn't going to let Sherlock in on the rest, he'd be damned to let anyone else know the full extent of the problem.

"Oh my God," Sarah gasped all the same. "Well if you need to unwind, just let me know. I'll treat you to drinks or something. Okay?"

"Okay," John said, but Sarah pulled her hand back as though she could feel the emotional distance between them.

John wanted to accept her offer. He knew if he did, he could probably get laid, but he also knew he'd be tense until he could hear Sherlock's voice over the phone. Only the thought of Sherlock brought any true calm to him. Just texting wasn't enough right now. However, Sherlock was busy. He'd said not to call until the later part of the day. John's shoulders bunched up every time he looked at the clock and saw how slow the hands moved around the circle.

"I'll call you," John said. "If I need anything, I mean." and he gave an encouraging smile.

"Okay, good," Sarah said and smiled. She nodded and then turned to go see to her next appointment. She stopped then and turned on heel. "Ahhhh, I almost forgot. Molly wants to see you in the morgue. I don't know why."

Then they waved at each other and she was gone. John's chest went hard. Even though he knew Sherlock had died months ago by Moriarty's planning, he still heard 'morgue' and thought he'd find Sherlock's body down there.

Shaking it off, John checked his schedule. He had no appointments for an hour. He could spare Molly some time. Then he was off, walking briskly but not in a hurry. What could Molly possibly want with John in a morgue?

As he entered the mortuary, he saw Molly puzzling over a body. As he let the door swing shut, he saw Inspector Lestrade standing across the room from her. He seemed tired as he looked at John and then nodded with a soft smile to Molly. Molly tried to smile at John but it flinched off her face when she began to talk.

"Hello, Dr. Watson. I know we haven't met a lot, but I really admire your work. You're a great doctor. I haven't had any of your patients in here," she said. John opened his mouth to reply but Lestrade cleared his throat. "Oh right. So, Inspector Lestrade just arrived with the med team that brought in a body. He said he wants to talk to you."

"Who died?" John asked. Adding Lestrade in the picture made the idea that this body would be Sherlock even brighter in his head and he had to beat it back and remind himself that it wasn't possible. Then again, it wouldn't be the first impossible thing to happen to John in the past few months.

"Ian Monkford," Lestrade said.

"The... The man who killed Jasmine Sheffield?" John asked, incredulous. "Impossible. I just spoke to him yesterday."

"Yep, and they found his body this morning in his cell," Lestrade explained and walked closer to the body on the table.

"Official cause of death is poisoning," Molly said, pulling the sheet down from poor Ian's face. "Haven't figured out how it got into his system, though. I only know it almost definitely wasn't through the mouth."

John stepped close and looked over the body without touching it. Molly pulled the sheet down to Ian's waist to give John more to look at. John shifted and looked over both sides before returning to his original position and pointed to Ian's shoulder.

"What's that?" he asked, drawing attention to a small puncture wound.

Molly bent to check while Lestrade resisted the urge to get in the way by poking his nose into their business. Molly touched the wound with her gloved finger and made a curious noise.

"It's a needle hole," she said. "I've seen similar holes on drug addicts..."

She trailed off and looked uneasily over at Lestrade. He shook his head and waved off whatever idea they'd both shared. John looked between the two and stood up straight.

"What?" he asked. Lestrade went to shake his head again, but John interrupted the motion. "No, seriously. What have I missed?"

"Sherlock - well it was probably before you knew him. He used to do drugs pretty regularly. Before I knew him as a detective, I knew him as an addict. Caught him buying, but he'd been clean for almost three years when he... you know," Lestrade explained.

"Wow. You're right. I had no idea," John said, running a hand through his hair. Lestrade let out a stream of air from his nose.

"John, look," he began and picked a folder up from an empty table. "The ID for the suspect in the street shots came back, but I'm worried about giving it to you."

"What? Why?" John asked. Molly gently moved John away from the table so she could test the new entry point.

"Well to be frank, people keep dying around you, don't they? This is two deaths this week. I'm almost worried I'll die just by holding these photos again," the inspector explained, holding up the folder.

"You saying you think I had something to do with these deaths?" John asked, knitting his brow in a glare.

"No. No, of course not. I'm just saying that someone obviously doesn't like this case being tampered with," the older man said. "Just... be careful." And he held out the documents for John.

"Thank you," John said, taking the folder. "Can you do me a favor and try to keep news of this from hitting the papers and stuff?"

"I'll do my best," Lestrade promised, but the way he looked at John felt like someone saying goodbye and sorry at the same time.

-- -- -- --

Lestrade said he'd keep things out of the media, but John understood that would be difficult. The whole police force was undergoing examination for leaks and rats. Even Lestrade had to be inspected, and they had not been happy when they found out about John and even less happy when they learned about Sherlock. It had been news to John as well, that Sherlock had been a sort of secret helper of the police and that all the files John had been looking at were illegally collected.

Moriarty knew all of it, of course. He'd texted John every hour on the hour from the time he got off work that night until he went in the next morning to remind John that he knew everything he'd done or was doing, everywhere he was and where he family lived. He knew it all - except of course, about the ID they had on him in the photos. He never mentioned it, and John hoped to keep him in the dark about having IDed him. He didn't want to know what Moriarty would do to him or his sister or even his family up in North York. But the 'teasing' messages through the night with photos of his family kept John up with nightmares. That was how day four had begun.

But none of that, none of the death threats or the stalker photos or the bombs or dead bodies, mattered at all, because when John slipped off his coat and stepped into a linen room, his phone vibrated and the voice that answered back to him made everything melt away.

"Hello?" John answered, sitting against the back wall of the silent but fluffy room. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and let out a tight sigh.

"John," Sherlock replied as was customary.

He began to rant about Lestrade and Mycroft and the petty boringness of life, and John soaked up every word. He tilted his head back and looked to the ceiling, surprised by the way his eyes stung like he wanted to cry. His chest heaved with the relief of hearing Sherlock's voice, a relief he had not expected to hit him so hard. They had not spoken in over two weeks. It had been only text messages. At first John could handle it, but not after this week. And hearing Sherlock speak, John realized he found solace and companionship in this voice. It was deep but not entirely smooth. It was usually bored or annoyed but sometimes excited. It was fast, never slow. And John loved the form that came with it. The pressed collars and the dark curls and the pale eyes and the cheekbones you could cut yourself on.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock was asking, and John realized he'd started crying silently. No sobs or anything, but his face was wet. He took several deep breaths and shook his head.

"Just... keep talking, please," he said and wiped at his face. "I just... it's been a hard few days and I... I just wanted to hear you talk."

Sherlock paused for a moment and then took a breath. "Did I do something?" he asked. "In your time, I mean. I haven't done anything to you in this year. But I'd like to know if I'm the reason behind your stress right now."

"No," John said forcefully, shaking his head. "No, it's not you. It's not. I mean, maybe a bit of it is, but no. No, not at all. I'm just under a lot of stress. I just need you to distract me."

"Did you watch the match yesterday?" Sherlock asked. John snorted.

"Oh please. You didn't watch the match yesterday. What makes you think I did?" the doctor asked and wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

"Nothing. You said to distract you. I was making conversation. And it worked. You laughed," Sherlock replied. "Tell me if I'm wrong."

"No. You're right," John said and lowered his head.

For a moment there was silence where they both just breathed and listened to each other breathe. It was strange, John thought. His stress was caused by Sherlock's case box, by trying to figure out who Moriarty was so he could put the man behind bars for killing Sherlock. John's stress was caused by the way his chest felt punched whenever someone mentioned Sherlock's name and whenever he thought back to Christmas, and yet... and yet Sherlock was the only one who could lift that stress. John took a slow breath and closed his eyes.

"I miss you, Sherlock," he murmured.

Sherlock didn't answer, just continued to breathe, but that was answer enough for John right now. It wasn't a rejection. It was tacit acceptance. Sherlock was agreeing with silence. John breathed heavily as he got his chest under control and then sighed and cleared his throat at the same time.

"I only have a few minutes," John explained, dropping his head back against the wall again. "Tell me about Mycroft?"

It took Sherlock three more breaths to decide on a response. "Sure," he agreed, voice heavy, but it lightened up as he continued. "The first thing you have to understand about my brother is that he operates the British government, no matter what he says, and he's secretly poisoning your drinking water - metaphorically, of course. But he has the same effect. Mycroft is dubious and not to be trusted with a toy chess set much less a country run like one. Although his position does come in handy when I'm trying to investigate private areas."

John smiled at the ceiling as he felt his breathing even out. Listening to Sherlock was the only medication he needed right now. This was all he needed.

-- -- -- --

John was feeling so good after his conversation with Sherlock that he hardly glanced at the television in the waiting room as he was heading out the door. He waved goodbye to Sarah, who then caught him to ask about going out for drinks again, but he told her he'd have to reschedule. He wasn't tense anymore, so he didn't even want a beer or anything. He just wanted to go home and watch some crap telly. Sarah gave him a brief hug, wished him well, and John passed right under the latest news flashing on the screen without so much as an upward glance.

It was early evening, still a little bit of light in the sky. John didn't feel threatened as he walked home from work, as he did often when he didn't feel like riding in a stuffy cab. Tonight he felt good, felt safe, so he didn't see the need to pay a cabbie to take him the long way home when he could walk in a nearly straight line.

His phone went off while he was looking up at the clouds. They were visible over the roof of a nearby building and looked unusual to John, but it was probably the evening light.

"Hello?" he asked, not recognizing the number.

"I told you to stop meddling," Moriarty's voice came over the line.

"What? But I haven't done anything," John said, glancing around as he continued to walk. He was almost home. His mind told him he would be safe if he could just make it to his apartment.

"Oh Doctor Watson. Don't you watch the news? You gave the police my picture. You got my name and then my photo? Sherlock really laid some good groundwork for you. Unfortunately, it's going to be the death of both of you. If I detect one more whiff of you on this case, I'll have to start aiming the big guns at your family. You know I can," Moriarty warned.

"Wh-what about this time?" John asked. "Just a warning?"

Moriarty laughed, loudly and for far too long. It chilled John's spine, nearly squishing the warmth in his chest that Sherlock had renewed.

"Oh John, John, John," Moriarty sighed. "I warned you. I told you I would stop you. I told you I'd-"

"Burn me," John murmured, eyes widening and heart speeding up. He hurried down Baker Street until he got the corner where he could see his apartment. "Oh Christ," he gasped.

"This is my last warning, Doctor. Do watch who's toes you walk over from now on." and Moriarty hung up.

"You- You bastard!" John cursed even though he knew the call was over. His eyes were fixed on the awkward clouds he'd seen before, which originated from John's apartment. A fire consumed the whole corner where John's window used to be visible.

John rushed forward to the building. People, some residents that he recognized, were crowding on the street and crying out. In the distance, John could hear the fire trucks. His heart hammered in his chest and he shoved through the crowd, forcing his way into the building despite people's yells for him to stop.

He couldn't, though. Everything he owned was in that apartment. Everything he held dear. John crashed through his heated door and dropped the floor to get below any smoke. The flames started by the windows, feeding themselves and licking up the glass. They spread from there around the building, destroying John's television and starting to drop onto his bed in the far corner.

"Shit!" John cursed, squinting against the heat as he hurried to his bed. He pulled his laptop from the side desk, still unharmed, and set it on the floor beside him. The bed was going up quick, but John grabbed the mattress and threw it off the bed. As the flames smashed into the wall and hissed angrily, he turned his eyes to the bed frame. There, still pinned against the frame near the side table, were Sherlock's photos. He snatched them up and slid them into the space on his laptop between the screen and keyboard.

As a batch of flames dropped near him from the roof, John jumped up and hurried for the door. Most of his property was up now, lost to ashes, but he could save the small pieces of Sherlock his still had. He coughed harshly as he rushed down the stairs and back out into the street. A woman put a hand on his shoulder to stop him from falling over as he coughed. A man nearby sneered at him for endangering his life for his laptop. John didn't care. He had Sherlock's pictures and he had his laptop, with his notes and his documents about the case and his work. Everything else was entirely replaceable. Even the documents were replaceable, but those photos were not.

John pulled out his phone as he stumbled away from the group and the firemen who were jumping off the trucks. It rang twice and then Sherlock picked up. At first, John couldn't say anything, just coughed into his hand and leaned against the nearest wall.

"John, what's happened? What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, and his honest worry touched John in the deepest part of his heart.

"F-Fire," John wheezed. "My apartment."

"Are you alright?" Sherlock rushed out. "Are you alright? Are you hurt? Do you need to call Mycroft?"

John shook his head and coughed again. "Sherlock... it was arson. Moriarty... the man behind the police station bombing..."

Sherlock's voice was deadly serious. "Run, John. Get away from there. Go somewhere no one would expect to find you." After a moment where John only let out a cough, Sherlock added a soft "Please."

John nodded and pressed his lips together. "I will," he said. "I know a place."

Even Sherlock seemed relieved by that thought, and John pushed away from the wall, heading away from the fire before anyone could remember to tell the firemen that John had be inside.

-- -- -- --

Preview, Chapter 11:

"What do you mean 'clearly not interested'?"

"I've seen the way you look at those photos. And even if that wasn't it, you give more attention to your phone than to any girl that comes up to you."

He wanted to know, damn it. He wanted to know how Sherlock died and when so he could start trying to change it, but Mycroft wasn't budging. John wanted to know, but he didn't want to call Moriarty for the answer. He didn't want to give that psycho any more power than he already had.

Being in Sherlock's flat, listening to Sherlock play the violin, and seeing Sherlock's detailed mess was almost too much. John took a shuddering breath. He could see Sherlock playing in the window by the radio.

"Don't look too dazed," Sherlock said.

Click HERE for Chapter 11!
Click here for the Masterpost!

Misdialed - Sherlock/John fic - Chapter 9

dlanadhz — Sun, 26 Feb 2012 14:35:10 GMT

Title: Misdialed
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Current Word Count: 23,450
Current Chapter Count: 9/?
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I don't even totally own the idea.
Summary:
AU John needs a new phone, one that doesn’t bend time and have an amazing man on the other end who claims to be the world’s greatest detective, except that he can’t figure out how he called Dr. Watson instead of his brother. However, with a criminal mastermind on the loose, John's phone connection may be the only thing that can save him.
-- -- -- --

Chapter 9

John had never felt quite as giddy as he did following Valentine's Day, but he would soon learn not to let anything happy lead him into complacency. February was barely over when the joy of Sherlock's photos was ripped from him. Or, more precisely, burned from him. Nothing would be the same then.

It was four days of hell, starting with a routine trip to the police station. Lestrade welcomed him warmly. A black officer named Donovan greeted him suspiciously, as though she thought he was a freak for simply looking into police files when he wasn't police.

"Don't mind her. She never liked Sherlock. Then you show up and take up his case. She's bound to dislike you. She sort of dislikes everyone," Lestrade said.

That made John feel better, but, "What I'm doing is sort of illegal, isn't it?" he asked. "I mean a civilian having access to crime documents?"

"Yeeeaah, but so long as no one tells the higher ups, we'll be fine," Lestrade assured.

"She won't tell?" John asked, noticing that Donovan had just now stopped watching him.

"Nah. She's all bark and no bite." Lestrade pat John on the shoulder to reassure him and then let him to his work.

John took out the street photos and looked at them, as he'd done several times before. This was his first trip here since Valentine's Day, and somehow having photos of Sherlock at home made ignoring him in the photos that much easier. He let his eyes scan the photos and focus on just the crowd.

"Oh my God," John gasped as he noticed a face in the crowd. He pulled one of the other photos quickly over and squinted at the photos. "Oh my God," he said again.

Lestrade looked up from someone else's desk, where he was looking over a lab report. He nodded to the officer and then moved quickly over to John, who was now pulling out three more street shots of crime scenes.

"You find something?" the detective asked, leaning over John's shoulder.

"Do you know this man?" John asked and pointed to a guy in the first street shot.

He was a bit short, with short black hair. In this photo, his hair was slicked back and he wore a collared shirt. John pulled up another. There was another man. He wore a hoodie and his hair was nearly buzzed. John pointed in all five photos where a similar man stood in all of them. Each time he looked just a little different, but it was definitely the same guy at every scene.

"My God," Lestrade exclaimed. "He was always there. I never noticed."

"Do you recognize him?" John asked.

Lestrade shook his head. "Do you?"

John frowned at the photos. "I feel like I do. I see him, and I think... I feel nervous, almost... scared? I feel like I should know who he is instantly."

"Think about it. Maybe you met him once?" Lestrade asked. He was intent and pulled over a chair to look through the photos again, staring at the man and making sure it was the same guy.

"I feel like I should have. I must have. I just don't know...," John trailed off and knit his eyebrows together. He felt like it had been on a street, just in passing. Maybe he hadn't even actually met this man? Maybe he'd just walked by him?

To an Italian restaurant. He saw him there, in front of the station, smiling across the street and whispering in another guy's ear. He was grinning over at John just before someone called his name and he went for lunch. A short man with dark hair in a suit, standing in front of the station?

"Bloody hell," John hissed. "He was there."

"Where?" Lestrade asked. John rubbed at his shoulder and frowned.

"He's the guy who told Raz to shoot me," John said, voice still hissing lowly. "He was there at the station before the gun went off."

"Are you sure?" Lestrade asked as the color drained from his face.

"Positive. Is there a way to check for him in the system?" John asked, handing the photos to Lestrade.

"Absolutely," Lestrade said and snatched the photos up. He turned and walked briskly into another section of the station that John couldn't go into. John shuffled through the papers in the box, but none seemed to matter next to the information they just got from those photos.

"Sir, can I see you badge?" a man asked, coming over. When John just looked at him, he continued, "Civilians aren't allowed to touch confidential documents."

"No. Lestrade - um, ask Detective Lestrade," John said, motioning toward the back area. The officer looked in that direction and then hooked his fingers under the box, lifting it from the table.

"I can't leave this with you until I clear it with the Inspector. Don't go away," the officer said and took the box into the back with him to find Lestrade.

John only had to wait about two minutes before there was a sudden explosion. John's heart jumped and he forgot to breathe for a moment. There were officers scrambling around to find out what happened, and then Lestrade was sliding out of the doors. He looked disheveled, like he'd been near the explosion, and he rushed over to where John stood, holding the table for support.

"What happened?" John asked. Lestrade looked from John to the empty table.

"Oh no," he groaned and shook his head. "Please tell me the box is still on this side of the doors."

"No," John said and Lestrade made a discontented noise. "An officer came and took it away until he could ask you if I was allowed to look at it."

"That's ridiculous!" Lestrade exclaimed. "Everyone in this office knows - Damn it!" He cursed. "We had a mole."

"Had?" John asked, feeling his chest deflate.

"A bomb went off in the back. An officer was caught in the blast. Shit. The whole box is gone," Lestrade cursed again.

"All of it?"

"Except the photos," Lestrade amended. "But those were our only copies of those case files. Damn it."

John's heart stopped for a minute and he whipped out his phone. His first photos of Sherlock were gone. Only the street shots were left. He had to warn Sherlock.

'Copy it all. Copy everything,' John texted. 'Someone's trying to stop the investigation. Make copies.'

Lestrade was off yelling orders to people, and John was just trying to catch his breath. His heart was still pounding, and his mind was still trying to wrap his mind around what had just happened. Then John's phone vibrated.

'Consider it done. SH' it said. John let out a breath of relief and then his pocket vibrated again. This time, John's chest felt squished... for an entirely negative reason.

John almost thought it was a copy text, but then.. 'Consider this my formal greeting, Doctor. Stay out of my business.'

"Are you alright?" It was Donovan, although John couldn't tell if she was truly concerned. "You look sick."

"N-no," John stuttered and caught his breath. "No it's fine." He couldn't explain why, but he didn't trust her. He didn't think she was a bad person, but he wouldn't tell her what was happening. "I'm fine."

"Alright. Well don't go anywhere. You're a witness. We're going to need your statement. Sit down," she said and then walked away, leaving John alone in the area.

His pocket went off again.

'Boom'

And that was day one.

-- -- -- --

John was at the jail the next day, wasting no time. He would have been there earlier, but Donovan hadn't been kidding about the police report. John had waited around at the station for over four hours while they detailed the bombing like a crime scene and took statements from everyone in contact with the box. As soon as they told him he could go, John grabbed Lestrade to organize a jail meeting.

Who? With the killer of Jasmine Sheffield. He wanted to ask Raz, someone he knew would be involved, but he didn't want to endanger Raz anymore than he already had. Raz was a good kid. So John went for a new convict instead.

The man that sat down across from him at the table was a stout looking man with large bags under his eyes and a sorrowful face. He seemed surprised at who was waiting for him, but he didn't hesitate to take his seat.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Doctor John Watson," John replied. "And you're Ian Monkford, the man who killed Jasmine Sheffield."

Ian seemed to grow more upset at the mention of Jasmine. He lowered his eyes to the table. "What do you want?"

"I want the man who planned it," John said easily, with more deadly seriousness than he could have imagined. Ian's eyes sprang to his and then quickly around the room.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said.

John shook his head. "No. No. Yes, you do. You're not a killer, Ian. You feel guilty about Jasmine. I'm willing to try and stop the man who hooked you into the plot. All you have to do is give me a name or a location or something."

"No, you don't understand," Ian said, lowering his voice to a whisper. "I won't survive in here if I tell you. He has eyes and ears everywhere."

It sounded just like Raz. This was definitely the right guy, the guy in all the street shots, the guy who'd had Raz shoot John.

"I won't tell anyone... and we're the only ones in here except for the guard waaaay over there. Just whisper it to me," John coaxed. "And I'll asked my friend in the force to give you extra security."

Ian shook his head and closed his eyes. John opened his mouth to try more tempting methods but then Ian opened his mouth and let out a heavy gasp.

"I didn't.... I didn't want to kill her. I just wanted to escape my debt. He said he'd help me disappear, me and my wife, if I just did this for him. But I killed her and he left me to the judges," Ian whispered.

"He's still out there, Ian. He's out there hurting more people. I just need to know who he is or how you contacted him," John said, lowering his voice as well and leaning a bit closer. The guard shifted and John leaned back to his previous position. The guard relaxed.

"M... Moriarty," Ian Monkford finally breathed out, as though saying the name would summon the man and all his forces. His eyes darted about the room again. "No," he said. "No, I can't say anymore. Don't ask me. We're done here. Leave me alone. They'll kill my wife. They'll kill me. Get out."

Ian stood up and knocked his chair over. He shook his head and stumbled back from the table until the guard came up to restrain him in case this was a farce to cause trouble. Ian was in such a hurry to get back behind the bars of his cell where he felt safe that he basically pulled the guard toward the door.

John watched him go, saw Ian throw one last look back at him in fear, and then he was alone. He sighed, stood up, and pulled on his jacket. As he passed the guard on the other side of the door, he stopped and smiled.

"Hello," he said.

"Morning," the guard said. He was a large man with a black beard.

"I was wondering about another prisoner," John said. The guard looked at him. "How familiar are you with the criminals who've been through here in the past?"

"I know each one by name and face," the guard answered.

"Good. Good. I was wondering if a man by the name of Moriarty had ever been in this prison," John said, but at the name, the guard went tense.

"Nope," he said. He didn't sound like he was lying. "But I think it's time you left."

"O-kay," John said, turning to the exit. "Well thanks for your help."

The guard just grunted, so John took his cue and left the facility. He wasn't ten minutes out into the overcast London streets before his phone vibrated with a text.

'You're selfishness is astounding, Doctor. You just continue to leave dead bodies in your righteous wake, don't you?' It read.

John froze there on the street and looked back toward the prison, but it was out of view. Not wasting a second more, he quickly called the number the texts were originating from. It barely rang once before it was picked up on the other end of the line. However, no one spoke in greeting.

"Moriarty?" John asked into the phone.

"Hello!" The peppy, excited voice on the other end replied and then dropped into entertained seriousness. "Took you long enough."

"Why are you after me?" John asked, looking around the street and then up at the windows.

"You?" Moriarty asked, near giggling. "Who said this was about you? Who are you?"

"But then why-?" John asked, but Moriarty's voice cut him off, dark and very serious. His accent dropped too.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said. "I can't allow you to continue, Doctor. I've already killed him once, but because of you, he just won't die." There was a pause in which John took several steps forward and then "Kind of like a cockroach, really."

"You killed Sherlock," John said, finally forming words. The idea swirled around his mind until it made him dizzy.

"Oh look, Folks! Not as dumb as he looks. Whoops! Yes he is! This took you months. Sooo average. Honestly, how can Sherlock stand you?" Moriarty asked, sighing dramatically.

"Shut up," John ordered, walking faster.

"No, I mean it," Moriarty insisted, as though he were complimenting John. "You're so boringly normal. Sherlock was brilliant, although he ended as a normal person. It was so disappointing how easy it was to lure him to his death. All I had to do was-"

"Stop it!" John shouted into the phone, glaring at the concrete as he walked over it. He didn't want to hear Moriarty recount how he murdered Sherlock. He didn't want to hear that from a psychotic killer. He wanted to know how it happened, but he didn't want the sick details Moriarty was sure to give him.

"Uh-oh! Found little Johnny-Boy's soft spot for Sherlock," Moriarty teased in a sing-song voice. Then he dropped his tone again and sucked in a heavy breath. "Look. If you don't stop meddling, I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you."

John's chest skipped a beat. "What?" he breathed.

"Bye!" and Moriarty's excited farewell ended the call.

John felt an unprecedented anxiety come over him. It had been a short phone call and yet this man sounded insane. He slipped from gleeful to deadly serious, and John didn't doubt him when he said he killed Sherlock. This man had convinced Raz into shooting at John and Ian to kill Jasmine Sheffield. John shook his head. He was almost too afraid to see what Moriarty would do if John kept digging, but he was more afraid of leaving the case unresolved. Now not only was his life and Raz's story on the line, but this was also Sherlock's murderer. In his name, John would not stop.

And that was only day two. The worst was yet to come.

-- -- -- --

Preview, Chapter 10:

John's chest went hard. Even though he knew Sherlock had died months ago by Moriarty's planning, he still heard 'morgue' and thought he'd find Sherlock's body down there.

"This is two deaths this week. I'm almost worried I'll die just by holding these photos again," the inspector explained, holding up the folder.

"You saying you think I had something to do with these deaths?" John asked,

"Are you alright?" Sherlock rushed out. "Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

Moriarty laughed, loudly and for far too long.

Click HERE for Chapter 10!
Click HERE for the Masterpost!

Misdialed - Sherlock/John fic - Chapter 8

dlanadhz — Wed, 15 Feb 2012 00:11:31 GMT

Title: Misdialed
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Current Word Count: 20,848
Current Chapter Count: 8/?
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I don't even totally own the idea. :P
Warnings: Possible Character Death
Summary:
AU John needs a new phone, one that doesn’t bend time and space and have an amazing man on the other end who claims to be the world’s greatest detective, except that he can’t figure out how he accidentally called Dr. Watson instead of his brother.
-- -- -- -- --
On Valentine's Day, here's the Valentine's chapter. Enjoy.
-- -- -- -- --

Chapter 8

John was startled from sleep when his phone went off with a text. Sleep was a foreign idea. The curtains on his windows were drawn, but John could still make out the light trying to break through to wake him. He'd planned to sleep all day until his night shift, but this text just ruined it. Night shift. John didn't know how he'd pulled the short straw on that one. Long shifts, too, roughly twelve straight hours each. He slept during the day and spent his few free days at the police station with Sherlock's box of evidence.

Five hours into a planned seven to nine hour sleep, John groaned as his dreamless sleep was shattered. He rolled over to grab his phone from his side table but then remembered he'd sent a message to Sherlock before falling asleep. He rolled back over to find his phone on the bed where he'd just smashed it with his chest. Phones were sturdy, though, and it would take more than someone lying on it for a second to kill it.

The text was from Sherlock, obviously. John never got messages from anyone else, except sometimes from Mycroft. The older Holmes seemed to prefer calling people, though, so texts were generally just from Sherlock.

'Do you know what this weekend brings? SH' it read.

John rubbed his eyes to wake them up and checked the date. He blinked blearily as his fingers tried to find buttons to form a reply.

'The 14th,' he sent back. Before he could properly close his eyes again, the phone was ringing.

'February 14th to be exact. SH,' Sherlock sent back. John took a deep breath. He'd known what month. He knew what day it was. He'd been trying not to think on it. Valentine's Day didn't mean much when you weren't actually dating anyone, and even less when that person you weren't dating wasn't anywhere near you.

'Happy Valentine's Day,' John sent back even though there were still two days until the lover's day was officially upon them. He hoped the messages would leave him be long enough to sleep some more, but he should have known better.

'I'm flattered. SH.'

John didn't reply. He read it and then rolled over to put his face well into the pillow, his phone still held in his hand. He gripped it tight and kept his eyes firmly shut. Even if he wanted to celebrate Valentine's Day with Sherlock, he couldn't. Sherlock was dead in the present and there was no way to send a gift back in time. Anyway, he shouldn't be thinking about Sherlock and Valentine's Day anyway. It wasn't as if they were dating. They'd known each other for just shy of three months and only over the phone... except for that one kissing incident which now seemed to stand out brightly in John's mind. He wished he could remember everything with more clarity, like the sound of Sherlock's voice saying his name or how long they were making out. He really wished he could remember the feel of Sherlock's hands on him, but it was all clouded by alcohol and time.

Interrupting his thoughts again, John's phone sounded loudly despite being half covered.

'Where The Bard leaves his car, the martyred saint waits to give you a gift. SH'

"What?" John asked aloud, wondering if it was just his tired brain that refused to let him understand what had just been sent to him.

'Or he should be waiting. SH,' Sherlock sent almost immediately after. 'But if he's not, then expect a message at least. SH'

John was still trying to figure out what to say when the third one came in. 'You can never tell where people will be in a year, after all. SH.'

'Sherlock, what on Earth are you talking about?' John sent back before another message could come through.

'Prove you're clever. Follow the clues. If you get it right by the 14th, you'll have earned the prize. SH'

'This is called baiting,' John said.

'And this is the part where you bite. SH'

John couldn't help the chuckle and blush combination that finally got him out of bed. He was getting presentable for going out, and not until he pulled on his shoes did he realize he had no idea where he was going. John shook his head, kicked off his shoes, and went to his computer to decipher the message.

Had he always been this accommodating to games and flirtation? Well he'd never had this much fun with such things before. Rubbing his eyes one last time, John cleared his throat and began to search. He hoped this game didn't end too soon. He liked it.

-- -- -- --

The Bard.

John had instantly noticed the capitalization in the middle of the riddle. A quick search on Google made this part obviously clear. The Bard - William Shakespeare. There were other things, game references and general dictionary definitions, but since a good deal of the results had come back with Shakespeare, John decided to go with that. Okay, what's next?

Where The Bard leaves his car. Well that was a bit odd. The first time John had tried to register to that part of the message, he'd read it as saying 'where The Bard parks his car', not 'leaves his car.' That got John thinking. Perhaps the riddle had something to do with a park.

The first step was to figure out where in London Shakespeare would matter. That was also easy enough to find. The Globe Theater was just over the river... sort of. John hadn't been the best English student, but he knew what the Globe Theater was.

"Where the Bard leaves his car....," John mumbled as he brought up information about parks near the Globe Theater. Looking up 'parks' got him hotels. It also got him some car parks, which John wrote down just in case, but he still liked his idea of a park better.

Trying to find entertainment near the theater just made John frustrated and he switched to Google Maps after about forty five fruitless minutes. There was a spot of green past the Millennium Bridge. Photos of the area proved that it was indeed a relaxing park area for people to enjoy. John wrote that down as well and decided to spend the remainder of his day before work trying to find the martyred saint.

Who's the martyred saint, you ask? John figured that one out first. It was Valentine's Day in two days. Saint Valentine, for who the holiday was named, was martyred for not renouncing his faith. Now John didn't honestly believe Sherlock had found some statue of St. Valentine to leave a gift at. As far as John was thinking, all that half of the message referred to was that there was a Valentine's Day gift at the end of this rainbow.

He couldn't help the pitter patter of his heart as the taxi drove him across town. He'd just been thinking Valentine's Day was useless with a person in the past, but it seemed Sherlock did not think it useless to celebrate the day with someone in the future. John felt honored, humbled; he felt flattered. Sherlock was honestly giving him a gift? For Valentine's Day?

"Thank you," John said and paid the cabbie. He hopped out and looked around him. He had to walk a little ways to get to the little Bankside Gallery park, which is what John had decided to call it since it was nestled between the two sections of the Bankside Gallery and he'd never been there and didn't know any other name for it. Couples were all over the place, probably celebrating Valentine's Day already because perhaps their schedules wouldn't match up on the right day. Graffiti decorated some of the surrounding buildings, large works of art that looked like people.

For a minute, John just stood on the edge of the grass, waiting for someone to show up with a gift. When nothing happened, he figured Sherlock must have hidden it somewhere in the area... but it was an open field with a few trees surrounded by a thin group of very skinny trees. Where was Sherlock supposed to hide it?

John walked to each tree in the open area, but there was no gift or message of any kind. He scanned the thin trees, not daring to think he could maneuver around them to check in between them all. Then he walked the edge of the park, looking for a hiding spot in one of the surrounding buildings. It would have to be a place where no one would disturb it for a year. John found nothing. He felt his chest deflate as he stood at the back of the small park and looked out toward the river. Sherlock wouldn't have buried it in the ground. For one, that was illegal. For two, he would have no way of guarantying John would be able to find it or that someone wouldn't be sitting on it.

It was a lost cause. John checked his watch. He had three hours until work. Letting out a heavy sigh, he went to hail a new taxi. He would try that car park tomorrow. If that didn't work out, it would be back to square one.

...So back to square one it was. Work had dragged on for ever, and John had been exhausted by the time it was over. However, he'd still gone straight from work to the student accommodation car park on Great Suffolk Street. His glee may have been dampened by his failure the day before, but John was certain this was the only place the gift could be besides the park. And yet after a half an hour of searching the area, John had found nothing. Square one.

His pocket vibrated. 'How far have you gotten with the riddle? SH'

John sighed. 'Nowhere. I thought I had it, but not anymore.'

His phone began to ring. John took a deep breath and put it to his ear.

"Sorry, Sherlock. I'm out of ideas," he said.

"Well don't empty the bin yet. What were you thinking?" Sherlock asked. He sounded a little groggy, as though he'd just woken up. John checked his watch. Ten a.m. Damn he wished he could sleep in that late.

"Well The Bard is obviously Shakespeare," John began.

"Obviously," Sherlock agreed. A high whistling sound alerted John to the creation of tea.

"And I thought the other half might reference a park, but I already went to the closest park to the Globe, and I didn't find anything. So now I'm at a car park, and I haven't found anything here either. So I must have read it wrong," John finished, putting his hand on his hip and breathing out fog.

"Nonsense. You may be average, John, but you're not as dim as people think," Sherlock said, and John didn't know if he should be insulted. There was pause on Sherlock's end. "Sorry. Seems to be someone at the door. Keep looking for your park and I'll call you later."

He didn't even wait for a conformation before he hung up. John shivered in the wintery air and didn't move for a few moments. Sherlock said he was right about the Globe and the park... but it was the wrong park?

John sighed and pulled the phone from his ear. He brought up his navigation app and typed in 'park.' As he typed, it gave him nearby areas he might mean. After just that word, John looked at his list of options. The very top one made him pause.

"Park street?" he asked aloud and clicked it. It was close, so he'd be fine walking. It was like just following one road that kept changing names. Before he even got to where his GPS was leading him, he found the directions saying 'turn onto park street'. John laughed ironically. "Stupid GPSs," he muttered.

So he was there, but now there was one question. What did Park Street have to do with Shakespeare? John slipped his phone into his pocket and began to walk down the street. He checked every sign, even the graffiti, for any reference to Shakespeare. He didn't think Sherlock would be mean enough to have his clues hint to Shakespeare written on the wall, but it was always a possibility.

John stopped walking. A road crossed Park Street here. On one side it said Emerson Street. On the other it said New Globe Walk. John checked a map in his head and looked down New Globe Walk. The Globe Theater was down that way. Park Street marked the beginning of the road that took you to the Globe. He turned his head to the left and let out a breathy laugh that brought up more fog. A parking lot, enclosed by a concrete wall, marked the corner of Emerson and Park.

"Where the Bard leaves his car," John chuckled and stepped forward to go around the corner toward the entrance of the parking area.

Again he stopped. On the corner was graffiti. At first John was going to ignore it. It was written smaller than most graffiti text he'd seen and there were hearts around it that were bleeding. What made him stop and read it was that the bottom was signed with SH, like a letter, and the graffiti was tagged with the name Raz. John knew too well who both signatures meant. SH was Sherlock Holmes. Raz was the poor kid in jail for the shooting. The graffiti, upon closer reading, was a hodgepodge of lines from Shakespeare with two words written in odd yellow to stand them apart from the quoted lines. How witty.

"I pray you, do not fall in love with me," it read, and John felt his chest contract.

"For I am falser than bows made in wine.

For Love is like a child,

That longs for everything it can come by.

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,

And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.

The stroke of death is as a lovers pinch, Which hurts and is desired.

Love goes by haps; some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.

But the course of true love never did run smooth."

John pressed his lips together. It was a love poem that seemed discouraging at first but ended in hope? John had only known Sherlock for three months. Were all these lines of love truly meant for him?

A woman, who had been standing under the blue windows across the street, now grabbed John's upper arm. John turned to her and saw she was homeless by the state of her clothes. She had muddy blonde hair and sunken eyes. Yet she blew bubble gum as though she looked like everyone else. John opened his mouth to ask what she wanted, but then she was holding out a manila envelope addressed to J.H.W.

"Um, thank you," John said as he took the envelope. The woman blew a large bubble, looking him over, then she turned and walked away without a word. Wrinkling his nose, John turned the envelope over in his hands.

It didn't looked tampered with. In fact it looked sealed for a war. He pried open the lip and found a slightly smaller envelope inside. Sherlock must have really wanted to hide the contents from his messenger because this one was also closed with the force of gorilla glue. John grunted as he forced open this one too, not feeling guilty at all about the horrid appearance of the envelopes when he was done. If Sherlock had wanted them open cleanly, he should have sealed them easier.

Finally John was able to reach in and pull out the contents. When he saw them, he had to put a hand to his mouth to stop any unnecessary noises escaping. Inside the envelopes had been three large photographs of Sherlock. They weren't of crime scenes. They were just of Sherlock. He looked a bit off, trying to figure out what one was supposed to do in photographs, and he wasn't smiling in any of them. Still, they were of Sherlock. He wasn't wearing the big coat he'd worn in the crime scene photos. He was wearing a black suit jacket, black slacks, and a purple collared shirt. In the third photo, he'd lost his jacket somewhere. They were like photos someone might put in a portfolio only without the professional back drop.

"'He's a bit camera shy."

"I'll be wary of cameras as well."

"Aw, don't do that. It's the only photograph I have of you."

John rubbed at his eyes and took a sniffled breath. Sherlock had taken photos of himself just for John. It took several deep breaths to get control of his emotions then, but he managed it. He slipped the photos back into the envelopes and pulled out his phone. With a tap of the screen, he took a photo of the graffiti Sherlock had Raz put up.

"Oh, Happy Valentine's Day indeed," he said, shaking his head in the wonder of it. He opened a text message, not waiting for Sherlock to call back.

'Thank you so much,' he wrote. 'This was really great.'

And though Sherlock was supposed to be busy, he sent back a reply quickly. John hailed a taxi going toward the Globe before he answered it.

'The bait was tasty, then? SH' it asked.

John chuckled and pat the envelopes in the seat next to him. 'Very,' he sent back.

'Then I shall have to go fishing more often. SH'

And John really couldn't argue with that.

-- -- -- --

Preview, Chapter 9:

John took out the street photos and looked at them, as he'd done several times before. Somehow having photos of Sherlock at home made ignoring him in the photos that much easier. He let his eyes scan the photos and focus on just the crowd. There was another man. Each time he looked just a little different, but it was definitely the same guy at every scene.

"My God," Lestrade exclaimed. "He was always there. I never noticed."

"I killed her and he left me to the judges," Ian whispered.

"I just need to know who he is or how you contacted him," John said.

"But then why-?" John asked. The other man cut him off, dark and very serious.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said. "I've already killed him once, but because of you, he just won't die."

February was barely over when the joy of Sherlock's photos was ripped from him. Or, more precisely, burned from him. Nothing would be the same then.

Click HERE for Chapter 9!
Click Here for the Masterpost

Misdialed - Sherlock/John fic - Chapter 7

dlanadhz — Sun, 05 Feb 2012 20:39:45 GMT

Title: Misdialed
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Current Word Count: 17,886
Current Chapter Count: 7/?
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I don't even totally own the idea. :P
Warnings: Possible Character Death
Summary:
AU John needs a new phone, one that doesn’t bend time and space and have an amazing man on the other end who claims to be the world’s greatest detective, except that he can’t figure out how he accidentally called Dr. Watson instead of his brother.
-- -- -- --

A/N: So I've made another decision for this story, and possibly all future stories. I'm adding previews for the next chapters. It works well in my Merlin stories, so I figure it'll work out in my other fandoms as well. Enjoy!

-- -- -- --

Chapter 7

John groaned and stared down at the photos in front of him. Three radically different crimes with different men arrested in each case, and yet they were all in this box of evidence as though something connected them. John was certain it all pointed to the man Raz was so terrified of, but he just wasn't as good as Sherlock. He didn't see the clues. What did street shots of crime scenes do for this investigation? It was just a crowd trying to see what was going on. And the rest of the crime scene photos didn't match either. The MO's were different. The victims were different. John was about to pull his hair out.

"Need fresh eyes?" Lestrade asked.

John looked up and smiled tiredly. "Sure."

Lestrade took a seat on the opposite side of the table from John and cleared his throat. He turned some of the pictures around and glanced over them. He didn't even ask what cases they were from. John watched Lestrade's face, the concentrated expression, and thought of Sherlock. Lestrade knew Sherlock.

"I'm sorry," John said. Lestrade looked up from the photos.

"About what?" he asked.

"I know you don't like me," John said and leaned his arms on the table top. "And I have a pretty good idea of why... so I just wanted to apologize."

Lestrade sighed and shut his eyes momentarily. "No no. It wasn't your fault. I tried to build it up that it was, but it wasn't. You've known Sherlock awhile. The two of you were close, yeah? So I'm sure it upset you as well."

John nodded. Lestrade didn't know about the time glitch. "Yeah. I'm still having trouble grasping the idea, to be honest." He'd only known for a week, but Lestrade didn't need to know that.

"Yeah. It's odd not seeing him taking over my office, but I guess I'm getting used to it. It must be harder for you, though. You're seeing him every time you come in here," Lestrade said and looked toward a far off desk.

"I do?" John asked, knitting his eyebrows together. Lestrade stared at him for a moment and then gasped.

"Oh right! The two of you never met in person, did you?" he asked and waved his hand dismissively. "Sorry. Yeah. This is Sherlock's box of clues your looking through. He worked a lot of the cases, so he's actually in a couple of the photos. He's a bit camera shy, but we got him a couple of times. Here."

Lestrade turned around one of the street shots and pointed to a man on the crime side of the blockade who wasn't wearing a uniform. He wore a long coat and a scarf and looked both bored and annoyed. John smiled. He looked the same as John remembered him from the party - as cloudy as that memory may be. Dark, curly hair, long face, and bright eyes. He was close enough to the camera to see them.

"And this one," Lestrade said and moved another photo over. This was an inside shot with Sherlock by the body on the left side of the picture. He was looking down intensely, concentrated entirely on the crime scene. John smiled.

"Handsome," he commented.

"Yeah, but his personality put a lot of people off. You knew him. I'm sure you know what I mean." Lestrade sat back a bit. "Anyway, last time I looked over these shots, Sherlock was with me. He said he was missing something in the streets. He knew it had to be something in the photos of the streets, but he hadn't told me what it was before he died. I'm sure he'd figured it out, but we were supposed to meet up that afternoon and he never made it."

"You think the guy he was trying to find got to him?" John asked. Lestrade gave him a blank but serious look. "Well if this man really is a criminal puppet master as Raz says, assuming Raz's man is the one behind all of these crimes here, then maybe Sherlock..."

"Yeah, Maybe," Lestrade said, interrupting to save them both from having to say it. "He always did take too many risks. Thought he knew better than anyone and didn't need anyone either. I always told him it would be the death of him, but..."

"Yeah," John said and nodded. "I work at a hospital. I know."

Lestrade stared at John for a second, clearly wanting to say something more to that, but then he shook his head and cleared his throat. "Right. Well, my pocket is vibrating, which means someone's trying to get in contact with me. Sorry I couldn't actually help. I'll just leave you to your investigation, right? Call me if you need any help, and I'll try my best."

"Will do. Thank you," John said and nodded some more. Lestrade sighed and stood from the table and evidence. He looked down at the pictures of Sherlock and then turned away. John watched him leave for only a moment before he too looked down at Sherlock.

His pocket vibrated and he pulled out his mobile. It was Sherlock, of course, always supernaturally punctual when it came to Lestrade's exits.

"Yeah, hello?" John answered and brought the street view photo closer.

"Morning, John. Sorry I've been so out of reach. Busy week. The Inspector's been hounding me about boring cases. My mind is going to rot at this rate. I need work," Sherlock complained.

"How'd you know I was in 2009?" John asked casually, looking over the picture of Sherlock by the body. He imagined Sherlock looked something like the serious man in this photograph right now.

"Context clues. You said you were in London. I looked you up and found you in North Yorkshire, working for your uncle to pay off a school debt. You had no shoulder wound and no limp, and your medical records showed no signs of you ever having them. You're descriptions of weather were never correct with the current weather in London. The fact that my phone glitches every time it calls you and your description of your phone's misadventure during the shooting cause me to believe that some supernatural force, though I usually don't believe in such things, connected our phones through time. I kept a close eye on you for a week and decided you weren't lying to me in our conversations, especially when I spoke with you and the you in North York didn't even pick up the phone. On Christmas I asked you the date to figure out just how far apart we were. I can't scientifically prove why any of this is happening, but it became easier to accept and deduce over time."

"Yeah? Well I'm doing a bit of detective work myself," John said and ran his hand over the image of Sherlock.

"You? What kind?" Sherlock asked, clearly puzzled.

"I found a photo of you, Mr. Detective," John said, being careful not to say anything about Sherlock's name while in the station. "From the Jasmine Sheffield case."

"Hm. If you weren't a year ahead of me, I'd be sure you were an idiot. I haven't done a case involving a Jasmine Sheffield yet," Sherlock said. "But I'll keep an eye out for her name in the future... and be wary of cameras as well."

"Aw, don't do that," John said. "It's the only photograph I have of you."

Sherlock was silent for a bit, in which John could hear the noise of passing traffic as through a window, distant. Then Sherlock seemed to forget the previous conversation. "Tell me about this case of yours. Maybe I can solve a case before it even happens."

John chuckled. He'd been looking forward to this conversation.

-- -- -- -- --

"I'm not a cook."

That's what Sherlock had said a week ago when he'd asked John if he'd mind staying in one evening to chat over dinner. Will it be a terribly fancy evening? John had asked, and that had been Sherlock's reply. So now John was making himself a one person lasagna fresh from the freezer section. He liked to cook, but he was too tired lately to be bothered.

"What did you make?" he asked Sherlock once he was settled.

"Ms. Hudson made me a plate of spaghetti," Sherlock said.

Ms. Hudson.....

'Call me Ms. Hudson. Everybody else does. It’s the name of my shop too.'

That old woman from the train. She'd been going to visit a man who'd been like family who had died. John gripped his fork tightly and frowned. The world was a small and ironic place. He'd met her once by happenstance on a train and she knew Sherlock. Not just that, she'd most likely been talking about him as well.

"That was kind of her," he said. He sat the phone on the table on speaker. "Who's Ms. Hudson?"

"My housekeeper. Well, not really," Sherlock explained. "She's my landlady, but she keeps an awfully close eye on my experiments and overall tidiness. She keeps messing up my sock index with her meddling."

"Sock index?" John asked and began to eat. Sherlock made an affirmative noise.

"My kitchen may be a 'mess', as Ms. Hudson claims, but my personal room is pristine. To be fair, the kitchen wouldn't be a mess if I had the proper room for my experiments. If she wanted it to be cleaner, she'd call my brother and have him remodel the building." He shut up for a moment, so John assumed he was eating as well.

John was taken over by thoughts of Mycroft and their daily chats, if you could call them that. He didn't know why Mycroft wanted to know what his brother had to eat on Tuesday or how many severed toe experiments he had going on over the weekends, but he apparently did and so John gave him updates. It was an odd thought, the idea of Mycroft Holmes. The man seemed to distance himself from the idea of the loss of his brother. John had seen him a few days after the initial meeting, when John had failed to start sending updates. At that time, Mycroft had switched from a cane to using an umbrella. It must have been a gift from someone wealthy because it was super durable and could withstand Mycroft's weight with ease. It was a clever rouse to hide his limp in public.

Thinking of the limp made John remember his and now he remembered the accident that caused it and he remembered that somewhere, sometime recently, Sherlock had died. He hadn't even asked Mycroft how it had happened. He hoped it had been a quick death, nothing painful or prolonged.

John had seen patients die slowly with only morphine to numb the pain. He'd seen accident victims bleed out, entirely conscious and crying for relief. John looked down at his microwave meal and frowned deeply. He didn't want to think of Sherlock dying like that. He didn't want to think of it at all.

"You've been odd since Christmas. What happened?" Sherlock asked, and John had the vague idea that Sherlock had said something and he hadn't responded.

"Nothing," he lied and cut off more lasagna.

"Is it the kiss? I apologize if I've offended you," Sherlock said. "I do tend to exhibit... socially unacceptable behaviors."

"No. No. It's definitely not... I mean... I guess it has been weighing on my mind." John nodded. This could be a good cover story for his new anxiety.

"Sorry?"

"Not that I didn't enjoy it. I did. It just makes me wonder... about us, I mean. Why didn't you come around after that and what is our relationship now, you understand?"

"Hm. I figured as much. So that was our only interaction before the calls. I knew I probably wouldn't continue it. You don't seem the type to have a relationship with someone you didn't even know, and you didn't know me during our first conversation. Still, knowing for a fact that I won't speak to you in person for a least another year is a bit disheartening." Sherlock made a curious noise and fell silent.

John's mouth hung open for a moment before he found his voice for speech. Sad thoughts just wouldn't leave him be.

"A fact?"

"Well yes. I can't change the future and it would be irresponsible for you to change the past. Therefore, anything in the last year of your life is a destined fact. We won't meet again," Sherlock explained.

John pushed his lasagna around on his plate. "I... wouldn't say that. We haven't tried. There are one or two things I'd like to change."

"No, John. Changing the past isn't an option. You don't know what effect that could have on your present." and Sherlock sounded so serious that John didn't want to push the subject, even if it did leave a sour, empty feeling in his stomach and ruin his appetite. He pressed his lips together and shook his head.

"Fine. So what effect are you having right now, then? What are we, Sherlock? If we can't mess with time, then why are we talking to each other? What can come out of it?" he asked. What could possibly happen with Sherlock being dead already? Why was John still talking to Sherlock? Was it just because Mycroft told him to?

"One can always learn from the past, John," Sherlock said, voice soft as though he knew how stressed John felt. "And I can learn a lot from someone so far in the future. As for the effect, well, I plan for it to be a good one, if I can help it. Would you help me with that?"

John ran a hand over his face and held his fork tighter. Trying to be quiet, he took in a deep breath and then let it out slowly. He should stop these calls right now. Nothing was going to change because of it.

"Yea, I suppose so," he said, contrary to his thoughts. "One can always learn from the past."

Sherlock chuckled softly and they lapsed into the silence of eating and thinking. John didn't want to think. He wanted to ignore Mycroft and pretend everything was normal.

"This lasagna really is terrible," he said. Again, Sherlock chuckled.

"You should get Ms. Hudson to cook for you next time. Problem solved."

"Obviously. So do you have anything to toast with?" John asked, standing to retrieve a bottle of wine from his kitchen.

"I have a box of cigarettes and a tacky bottle of wine from my brother," Sherlock answered, his voice dull with annoyance toward Mycroft.

"Well toss the cigarettes out the window and pour yourself a glass," John ordered. "We'll be toasting soon."

"It's only nine, John," Sherlock pointed out. John shrugged and poured the red liquid into his cup. The bottle barely made a thunk sound as it was set on the table afterward.

"I think we'll be toasting all night from the looks of it, and I'm the one in the future. I know certain things," John teased.

"Of course," Sherlock agreed, albeit with a roll of his eyes. "So to what shall we toast? To good fortune, good health, and world peace?"

John chuckled this time. "No no. Let's just toast to us."

Sherlock was silent on the other end for a moment, and John didn't interrupt it. He'd caught what his own vocal chords had pushed out of his throat. He had no issues with them either. He knew nothing would ever come of this relationship, and yet his chest constricted whenever he tried to remind himself of that. So, he decided, he would just ignore the imminent future whenever he spoke with Sherlock... assuming he could he manage that.

"To us, then," Sherlock said over the speaker.

"To us," John repeated.

"Happy New Year, John," Sherlock's deep voice said, clear but soft. John let one tear slip from between his lashes as he shoved the thought of death into a cage. This would be a good year. It would.

"May it be a good one," he said and tossed back his entire cup.

-- -- -- --

Preview, Chapter 8:

'Do you know what this weekend brings? SH'

'The 14th.'

'February 14th to be exact. SH.'

John didn't reply. Even if he wanted to celebrate Valentine's Day with Sherlock, he couldn't. There was no way to send a gift back in time. Anyway, he shouldn't be thinking about Sherlock and Valentine's Day anyway. It wasn't as if they were dating.

'Prove you're clever. Follow the clues. If you get it right by the 14th, you'll have earned the prize. SH'

John felt honored, humbled; he felt flattered. Sherlock was honestly giving him a gift? For Valentine's Day?

Click here for Chapter 8!
Click here for the MasterPost!

Misdialed - Sherlock/John fic - Chapter 6

dlanadhz — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 04:34:16 GMT

Title: Misdialed
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Current Chapter Count: 6/?
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I don't even totally own the idea. :P
Warnings: Possible Character Death
Summary:
AU John needs a new phone, one that doesn’t bend time and space and have an annoying man on the other end who claims to be the world’s greatest detective, except that he can’t figure out how he accidentally called Dr. Watson instead of his brother.
-- -- -- --

A/N: So I made the executive decision over my surprisingly busy Christmas break to work primarily on the Merlin fic Red Stones, which is why this one sort of dropped off. Now Red Stones is complete, so I'm moving to this story. I do apologize for what I predict will be a slow updating process. My schooling this semester promises to kick my ass. But please enjoy the chapter.

-- -- -- --

Chapter 6

John leaned his head down on the table and sighed. His phone was gripped in his hand, tapping steadily on the table in a dull drum back beat. He had a train to catch in two hours, but he refused to move from this spot until he received a phone call. Sherlock had sent a text saying he’d call before John had to leave for his train. So he had to call. He had to. Right?

When the phone vibrated, John literally jumped. He snapped the phone to his ear and felt the heat returning to his face.

“I was drunk,” he said as an answer.

“Well I’m curious about the story attached to that statement, but I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else,” a man that was definitely not Sherlock replied.

“Inspector Lestrade?” John asked, smacking his hand on his forehead. Oh that was even more embarrassing!

“Right. Look, I’ve got a message for you from a man up in a government office. Above my head, right? So I hear you’re out of town, but as soon as you get back to London, come on by the station. He says it’s about the case you’re trying to crack,” Lestrade said.

“Oh right. Sure. I’m due to be back in London by tonight. Should I come in tomorrow?” John asked. He’d have to call in at the hospital, but if the police wanted to see him, he really had to take time off or he wouldn’t be able to fit it into his schedule for a long while.

“Nah. Come by tonight. The station will be closing, no doubt, but this guy doesn’t run by the usual clocks. He’ll be here to meet you,” Lestrade said. He took a deep breath and sighed. “Now I don’t much know you, Dr. Watson, but I have to warn you. He’s a bit intense, so prepare yourself to meet him. I’m almost a hundred percent positive he means you no harm.”

“Excuse me?” John asked, knitting his brow in concern.

“Now I don’t mean he’s going to seriously injure you. I’ve never seen him hit anyone, honestly, but the subject is a bit touchy so I’m just giving you a heads up. Now I’ve got to go. I’m on a case. You let me know if you need anything after meeting him.” And Lestrade hung up before John could properly voice his doubts.

Some government worker who was very intense and might possibly slug John or hurt him in some way wanted to meet after hours outside of the police station? John bit his cheek. Part of him wondered if this was a trap that Lestrade didn’t know about. Maybe this was the crime leader he was piecing together coming to take him off the case.

John’s phone vibrated again, but this time it was a text.

‘Case came up. Call later. SH’

“Brilliant,” John sighed and pulled himself away from the table to grab his stuff and head for his train.

-- -- -- -- --

It was sprinkling lightly, as it is want to do in England. John wished it was snow. It would be much more bearable if it was snowing lightly instead of dampening his clothes so the cold wind could freeze him. The taxi stopped in front of the police station and left John Watson standing there by the brick wall. The wind was worse here, bouncing along the wall and chilling him to the bone, but he waited in the open nonetheless. He had no idea who he was supposed to be meeting in the dark and cold, but it was apparently important.

‘Get in the car. M’

John narrowed his eyes at his mobile and pursed his lips in slight agitation. A car truly was sitting across the street though. John didn’t remember it getting there. Had it been there when he got out of the cab? He stepped across the street and up to the black government vehicle, but he did not get in. The back door opened and a woman sat inside in the middle seat, texting. Had it been her? Lestrade said it would be a man.

“Time is a precious commodity, Dr. Watson. I would greatly appreciate it if you gave that thought more concentration.” The voice was definitely male and a bit slimy. The woman hadn’t even twitched. That’s when John noticed the leg and men’s dress shoe visible by the woman’s leg. “Please get in the car.”

“What do you want?” John asked.

“To discuss Sherlock Holmes, a subject I’m sure you are familiar with,” the man replied. “Get in the car.”

John hesitated only a moment longer and then found himself sliding into the seat beside the texting woman. She gave him a brief glance and smile, but he could tell she still took no mind of him. He looked over at the male occupant as the car purred into motion.

He was a blunt and humorless looking man with a fat nose that had the tiniest dimple at the end of it. He looked almost as if he had never smiled in his life or not for quite some time. His hairline was beginning to recede over his wide forehead and his hard eyes were not facing John. The man had a cane balanced on the floorboard between his feet and his hands resting on it.

“You're the man who called me at work, aren't you? Who are you? And what do you know about Sherlock?” John asked. It was awkward looking at the man over the woman’s bent head.

“My name is Mycroft Holmes, and Sherlock is my dear brother, although I’m sure he’d have said I was his arch enemy,” the man said, voice as humorless as his face. “I assume you have begun relations with my brother by this point, am I right?”

“Relations? Yes. Well, I mean we talk sometimes,” John said, shifting his position in his seat to look easier at the man. “What is this about?”

“We are almost to our destination. I will speak plainly with you there,” Mycroft said. “Until then, sit back and enjoy the ride, Doctor Watson. If my information about you is correct, you are not going to enjoy this conversation.”

John knew he wasn’t going to get anything out of Mycroft anymore. The man was like a stone, emotionless and immoveable. He dropped back into his seat but did not relax. He felt his heart pounding with nerves remembering what Lestrade had said and just hearing Mycroft’s last sentence repeat over and over. John pulled out his phone and quickly began to start up a conversation with Sherlock even though he didn’t know if Sherlock was free to text. Mycroft glanced blankly over at him but paid him no other mind. And so the car ride went.

When they had arrived at their destination, an impressively sized brick home, Mycroft led the way up the stairs and into a study. He twirled his cane every so often, making John wonder if he truly needed it at all or if the limp was all in his mind, like John’s had been. Sherlock had fixed John’s, so why wouldn’t he have fixed his brother’s?

As soon as John entered the study, the door shut and locked behind him. He turned in shock and noticed the woman had not followed them inside. John was alone with Mycroft.

“What do you know about Sherlock?” Mycroft asked. When John looked at him, the stiff man was sitting in a 360 office chair and tapping his cane on the ground.

“He’s a 35 year old detective who lives in London,” John said.

“Nothing else? You’ve been conversing with him for over a month and that’s all you’ve got to show for it? Perhaps this conversation will be duller than I had imagined,” Mycroft mused sourly. John couldn’t stop the tightening of his forehead or the downturn of his lips.

“What’s it matter what I know about him? You want me to stop talking to him?” John asked.

“Do you want to stop talking to him?” Mycroft asked. “He seems very fond of you, I’m sure.”

“Is this about the kiss?” John asked and shifted his weight to his left foot. He didn’t like Mycroft, and he certainly didn’t want to talk to him about this, but John could think of no other reason why Mycroft would want to talk to him.

“Yes, actually, in a way,” Mycroft said and nodded. “But I’m afraid you misunderstand my intentions. I want you to speak with him even more than you do currently. I want to know what he’s doing and thinking. I want you to spy on him and update me at least every other day if not more often. Do I make myself clear?”

“No,” John said and shook his head. “I mean, you’re very clear, but I won’t do it. I don’t care who you are or what your relationship is to Sherlock. I’m not spying on anyone for you.”

“You’re very attached to someone you know so little about,” Mycroft drawled out. “Tell me about this kiss. When did it happen?”

“Last year,” John answered without thinking. It had been plaguing him since Sherlock’s phone call. Mycroft could tell. John could see it in the man’s smirk, which looked sinister even in the brightness of the room.

“Yes. My brother often spoke of you and of that kiss. Liked to rub it in my face as the perfect mystery, something he couldn’t explain,” Mycroft said and lowered his eyes to his cane hand. “He spoke of you quite a lot.”

“What do you mean?” John asked. Was it truly possible? Mycroft looked up at John with dead eyes.

“I am not a joking man, Doctor Watson, so you will take it with the utmost seriousness when I tell you that my brother has been conversing with you since last November, not this November as you believe to be true. Your phone companion is living in a world one year behind your own,” he said.

“That’s impossible,” John said and smiled, waiting for the joke even though he knew exactly how much of a joker Mycroft was.

“Is it?” the older man asked blandly, as though he had forgotten the impossibility a long time ago. “Sherlock spoke so often of you, I tend to forget you don’t know anything that will yet happen in your relationship with him. But you will, and you will tell me all of it.”

“Why?” John asked. “If you already know, then why do you need me to tell you things as they happen?”

“Because living them once will simply not do,” Mycroft said forcefully, stunning John with the anger hidden there. The man pushed himself to his feet and seemed taller than before. “You may not yet grasp the truth of the time stream mistake,” he said, “but it is imperative that I am made aware of my brother’s movements. It is of the utmost importance.”

“Why?” John asked again.

“Because my brother is dead,” Mycroft said. “And you are the only chance I have to either save him or say a proper farewell.”

The room echoed with only the rumble of the air conditioner for several moments. It blew over John and made him shiver. Mycroft looked too intense standing there, leaning heavily on his cane as though the conversation had made his leg hurt worse. It really was psychosomatic, wasn’t it?

“What?” John asked, unable to grasp the information. He felt short of breath, but his words came out clear enough.

“My brother died this year, and you knew him during the last year of his life. I now have a year to track him through you and figure out a way to save his life, if such a thing is possible. I can think of no other reason that this anomaly of your relationship has occurred than to give me a second chance.” Mycroft stretched out his leg and shifted to lean on the unharmed one.

“Sherlock is dead?” John asked. Mycroft sighed.

“You are not as bright as my brother made you out to be.” And John glared, but Mycroft ignored it and continued in a much more pleasant tone. “You will help me save my brother’s life. From the tales he told, you care enough about him to grant me that small courtesy.” He seemed tired and much more somber.

“Yes,” John said in agreement. How could he say no? “I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

“Thank you, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft said and relaxed back onto both feet. “One more thing. Don’t tell Sherlock about his death.”

“But why not?” John asked. “How can we stop him from dying without telling him he’s going to die?”

“Sherlock is a stubborn one, Doctor. He wouldn’t believe you to begin with, but I’m more afraid of what he may do if you manage to convince him. He also erratic. Telling him could cause it to happen prematurely, and I don’t want to shorten the time I had with him,” Mycroft explained.

“So you know when it happens?” John asked.

“Down to the minute,” Mycroft replied and smiled as though this were something to be proud of. “But don’t worry yourself over that. For now, just enjoy your time with him and keep me up to date on what he’s doing. I’ll let you know when we’re getting close.”

The door opened behind John, a signal for him to leave, but John didn’t even move. He pressed his teeth together and pursed his lips for a moment before deciding on what he wanted to say.

“Your limp start the day your brother died?” he asked. He couldn’t put ‘Sherlock’ and ‘died’ in the same thought yet. Mycroft raised his cane up to examine it and then set it back down.

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” the businessman replied. He looked like a pissed bird the way his head twitched back in curiosity at John. It was uncomfortable being around him.

“I had a limp like that. Sherlock tricked me into losing it,” John said. He turned then and trudged out of the study, leaving Mycroft to stand and stare down at his stick.

Not tell Sherlock? John couldn’t believe that. As the car drove him home, he knew he wanted to tell Sherlock right away. Sherlock should be told. How were they supposed to alter history without telling the person involved? They couldn’t physically stop anything. Sherlock was just a voice on the phone!

The car stopped outside of John’s flat.

The air outside seemed colder and the air inside felt still. John went to his window when he got inside and threw open the nearest one. Cold air moved through the room, breaking the stagnation. His pocket vibrated multiple times. A phone call. He lifted it to his sight and saw Sherlock Holmes written on the ID.

“H-Hello?” he answered.

“Sorry about not calling sooner, John,” Sherlock began, voice brisk and busy sounding. “I’m on my way to the station right now because the inspector decided he needed a statement from me. How dull.”

“Inspector?” John asked and dropped back onto his couch. Sherlock’s voice was pleasant to his ear despite its bored tone. It made his stressed heart sigh.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock said, drawing out the name like he was speaking of a coworker that nobody liked but had to deal with and feign friendliness with.

“Lestrade,” John repeated.

There was silence and then Sherlock’s tone was slightly concerned. “Are you alright, John?”

“Y-Yeah,” John replied and wiped at his eyes. He hadn’t felt the tears coming. They just were. Lestrade. No wonder the man didn’t like to deal with John. He’d probably heard stories just like Mycroft. He probably thought of Sherlock every time John came to the station. John brought back the memory of Sherlock’s death for Lestrade. John could see all the pieces fitting together easily now. It was all true. Sherlock was in the past and dead in the present. It made so much sense… while still being so impossible.

“Has something happened?” Sherlock asked, all seriousness.

John shook his head and cleared his throat. “I just met someone. An enemy of yours.”

“Which one?”

“Your arch enemy, according to him.”

“Oh. I apologize for whatever he put you through. He’s not a man to be trifled with, and I can only imagine the experience you’ve just had. Last time he spoke to me, I threw a chair out the window in my disdain for the conversation. You don’t seem the type to throw chairs. You probably endured the whole thing, poor you.”

“No. It was fine. Everything’s… fine,” John said and nodded his head. He wiped at his eyes again and did his best not to cry. Sherlock would notice, and Mycroft was right. John just couldn’t bring himself to tell Sherlock the truth. He would just have to wait until Mycroft told him it was time. He just had to wait for more time.

-- -- --

Click here for Chapter 7!
Click Here for the Masterpost!

Red Stones - Chapter 9 - Merthur Fic

dlanadhz — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 15:28:23 GMT

Title: Red Stones
Rating: T
Fandom: Merlin BBC
Pairing: AdultArthur/Merlin
Word Count: 24,304
Chapter Count: 9/9
Warnings: None
Summary: Following a familiar call into the forest, Merlin finds himself dropped through time to enter a Camelot he doesn't know. Now he must fulfill his destiny and find his way back home by facing his greatest foe yet - a 14 year old Arthur Pendragon.

-- -- -- --

Chapter 9 - The Beach

Quiet at first. It was like being pulled slowly from a river. In fact, Merlin could see the red of stones glittering at the bottom. One in particular shone brighter than the others, and he fought to try and grab for it. The more he swam toward the bottom, the more he felt he was getting closer to the surface somehow.

"How is he?"

"... the mend... know what happened?"

"...found him in the woods..."

The riverbed looked unnatural. There were odd lines in it, like bookcases. There was a table, and over there a window. Then everything started to seem very solid and not like a riverbed at all. Merlin felt his arm begin to ache as he reached for the red stone before it could be lost to the rapidly shifting riverbed.

"When do you think he'll wake?"

"Can't be sure. His body was in bad shape, but I can't see his mind."

Merlin gasped loudly as he broke through the riverbed as though it were the surface of the water. His hand shot out to grab the red stone, but it was suddenly much farther away and hanging around the neck of one of the fuzzy figures in the room. His whole body shook and his arm went into a spasm as he dropped it back to his side, and he whined.

"Merlin?!" Gaius asked, very close.

"What's wrong with him?" Arthur asked as Merlin shivered on the bed and looked around the room for something he couldn't find. He didn't even know what he was looking for.

"He's in shock," Gaius explained, putting his hand on Merlin's uninjured shoulder and fixing the blanket that rested on top of him. "Merlin, it's alright. You're home."

"Home," Merlin repeated, his heart hammering as though he truly had been held underwater for too long. He felt as though he'd be trying to escape the waves for forever. His eyes saw a glint of red light and he saw again the red jewel. "Arthur."

"Yes," Arthur said and sat by the bed like Gaius. "You're in Camelot. You're safe."

Merlin groaned and closed his eyes. He suddenly remembered the morning he'd been whisked off to the past as though it had truly been only that morning. He knew his trip to the past hadn't been a dream, because the pain in his arm stung and kept his order of events undeniable. He chuckled harshly and then hissed.

"Flower picking.... is dangerous," he said and smiled up at Arthur. The prince seemed to want to smile, but something akin to guilt flashed across his face.

"Merlin," he began and then stopped to consider his words. "You were missing for a whole day. Do you remember what happened to you?" The sorcerer sighed and nodded. "So what happened? Who did this to you?"

"Bandits," Merlin groaned. Arthur looked about to leave, but Merlin raised his uninjured hand to call him back. "You already... took care of them."

"What?" the prince asked and looked down at him curiously.

"He must be tired," Gaius said. "It's probably the shock talking."

Arthur's expression turned serious and he frowned. Merlin saw the intense analysis going on beyond Arthur's eyes when they looked into his own. "Are you tired, Merlin?" he asked, and it sounded almost as though he expected Merlin to be lying.

"Y-Yeah," Merlin admitted. He was tired from adrenaline and not enough blood in his veins and from missing Arthur so much. He was exhausted.

"Best to let him sleep now that we know he'll live," Gaius said. "At least, I don't see any signs of brain trauma. Do you?"

"Merlin is a brain trauma," Arthur said and grunted. He never took his eyes off Merlin, but Merlin was looking all over Arthur. Seeing him all grown was like nectar from the Gods. Part of Merlin had thought he'd never see this version again, and it felt so good to finally be near him again. It was a joy to just see the way those clothes hung on the prince. He was so... corporeal, so close.

"I missed you," Merlin said without thinking, but Gaius would probably cover it up with saying it was the shock again. Maybe it was the shock, but it was also true. Merlin closed his eyes and relaxed his body as best he could, but winced when the attempt shifted his cut arm. A steady hand touched him just below the bandaged wound, and when Merlin opened his eyes he saw Arthur closer than ever.

"Get some rest," he said. "I'll talk with you when you're better."

-- -- -- --

"Breakfast, your highness," Gwen announced as she stepped into the room. Arthur was sitting at his table, reading a scouting report. Merlin was changing sheets with one arm.

"Ah. Thank you, Guinevere," Arthur said and glanced back at his manservant with a smile as the handmaid set it up in front of him. "See how on time she is, Merlin?"

"Quite, Sire," Merlin agreed. "Unfortunately I only have one hand to assist you with."

"Oh, I'm more than happy to help a friend," Gwen assured. "Is there anything else Merlin might need help with?" and she directed the question at Arthur.

"No. I'm going easy on him until he's healed. Thank you, though." Arthur gave her a smile and lifted his cup for a drink. Gwen bowed her head and gave a relieved smile to Merlin before she made her exit.

Everyone had been quite worried about him, it seemed. He'd vanished in the morning and had not returned with the flowers for Morgana. Gwen alerted Arthur first after half the afternoon was gone and he had not shown up. Arthur sent Leon out for a look, and when the knight had returned with a broken basket and some fruit a full search party had been organized to go out the next morning. They found no signs of struggle but also no sign of Merlin. According to Gwen, Arthur had been the first one out to look and they'd been searching through lunch when they'd found him.

When he'd been able to return to work, everyone he passed had given him a clap on the back or a hug, being careful to avoid his arm. It was surprising how many people seemed to have noticed his absence. Arthur only showed how much he cared by how much work, or how little in this case, he gave to Merlin. Other than that, he seemed deep in thought all the time.

Once Gwen had been gone for several minutes, Arthur turned from his breakfast to watch Merlin slowly cleaning up the floor.

"You know, I always had my suspicions," he began. "But you never seemed bothered by things I said or hints I dropped."

"I'm sorry?" Merlin asked, dropping Arthur's clothes from the previous day in a basket.

"I mean it was you, wasn't it? You were the man who led me through the forest when I ran away as a child," Arthur stated more bluntly. "And don't treat me like I'm stupid. I memorized that final morning after it was over, and you showed up in the forest with the exact same wounds you had when you left me back then. I checked an old journal of mine too. They were exactly the same."

Merlin stood in the middle of the room, watching Arthur. He wondered how much of the trip the prince truly remembered. Did he remember the part about Merlin being magic? Was it safe to admit to being the old man?

"How is it possible?" Merlin asked. He meant to go on, but Arthur slapped his hand down on the table.

"I don't know!" he answered loudly. "But I've been over it in my head a thousand times these last few days and a million times in the three years before that. I knew I recognized you when you appeared in Camelot. I even asked you if I knew you, but you didn't seem to recognize me at all. I thought you must be the son of that guy I traveled with, but he was too young to be a father to you, and you looked exactly the same... maybe more rustic."

"Hey," Merlin complained, but Arthur interrupted, continuing his speech.

"But then the other day you talked about the beach, and you said the same thing you said to me as a child, and I knew. You must be the same guy. Somehow you had gone back in time and met me... magically. But when you said it, you didn't seem to be trying to give me that hint. When you vanished, I thought the worst first, but when Leon showed me where he found the basket, part of me already knew where you'd gone. You hadn't been hinting at me because you didn't know the beach was a hint yet. And I was worried, yes I admit it. I was worried because I remembered the state you'd been in when you left me that day... and that's the part that has always stuck with me. Do you realize you left me? You disappeared in the middle of the forest and left me looking a fool in front of half the knights of Camelot!"

"Sorry?" Merlin tried, unable to fully grasp what was happening. Was Arthur actually blaming him?

"Sorry? I thought you had run off or something just to make me look bad. The knights kept that over my head for over a year until I was suddenly better than them at every weapon and could easily knock them to the ground. And my father! He heard and obviously went on a tirade about how you'd been a trick and trying to fool me into believing everything you said, so I started to hate the very idea of you and that witch we met. You know how easy it is to believe magic is evil when the two magicians you meet personally leave you to face ridicule? I thought I was going to murder you if I ever saw you again," Arthur explained.

"But you didn't," Merlin said, as though that made everything better. Arthur stood up.

"So you admit it was you, then?" he asked, and he looked scarily serious. "Everything that happened during those days. You admit to it all?" He sounded dangerous, as though all that hate had slipped back into him from the mere memory and he might very well enact his revenge this very moment.

He was right in front of Merlin then, and the light from the window sent red rays glinting from Arthur's necklace. Merlin had been about to defend himself, but when the light hit his eyes, he just felt all the worry drain from him. He reached out and touched the red stone.

"If you hated me so much," he said calmly. "Why did you keep this?"

"I'm not crazy," Arthur said, although it felt more like a question. The anger slipped from his expression. Merlin smiled.

"You're not crazy," he said. Arthur's arms were around him then, pulling him tight but leaving out his bandaged arm.

"I thought you'd died," the blonde admitted into Merlin's shoulder. "That day and when you disappeared here recently. I thought for sure I was going to find you lifeless in the forest. That's twice you've wormed your way into my life only to leave me worried."

"Sorry," Merlin replied, though it hadn't really been his fault. "I had no choice. I was pulled back and forth without any say in the matter."

"Well... you're here now," Arthur amended and pulled back. "And you're okay."

"Yep," Merlin agreed and nodded. Then he bit his cheek. "So how much of that excursion do you remember, exactly?"

Arthur looked Merlin over curiously, as though trying to discern why his manservant suddenly looked so nervous. Then his eyes got wide and he sucked in a breath of air. He shook his head, and Merlin knew he'd figured it out.

"You're secret's safe with me, Merlin," he said. He even smiled. "It always has been."

Merlin had to admit it. His heart melted.

-- -- -- --

The ocean was a deep blue and endless. It ran into the horizon, rolling off into nowhere. Looking out, Merlin assumed it had to end somewhere, had to run into something somewhere too far for eyes to see. Nothing just ended. His eyes, as bright as the shallow waters, looked down to his feet, dangling off the rock. His legs were just long enough for his toes to touch the sand and for the foaming waves to slide up to his ankles with every rush they made for the shore. Jacket forgotten farther up the beach, sleeves and pants rolled up, and afternoon sun shining down on him, Merlin decided he'd never been so calm.

"Was it worth it?" Arthur asked, voice surprisingly close. He was standing about fifteen feet off, but Merlin hadn't even known he'd come out of the tent. As had been promised many years ago, it was just the two of them.

"Was what worth it?" Merlin asked.

"The wait," Arthur said and motioned lazily toward the water.

Merlin smiled and looked down at a crab scuttling at the wave-line. "It wasn't a long wait for me. I only told you I wanted to go two weeks ago," he reminded.

"Hm... I keep forgetting it's all recent for you," Arthur mused. "I'm not used to the idea of time travel."

"Me either. I didn't even know it was possible," Merlin admitted and kicked his foot, splashing a bit. "Have you tried standing in it, yet?"

"Yea. Seven years ago, my father brought me here on my request." The prince walked over, his pants rolled to his knees, and hopped up on the rock by his servant. "You were still fresh in my mind then, and I thought if I went to the beach, you might be here. Of course, it was stupid. You didn't even exist then."

"I did. But I was just a kid like you," Merlin said. Arthur looked good, relaxing in the sun, but his face showed he was thinking hard about something. "Are you okay?"

"When I was young... I wanted to run away from Camelot and never look back," Arthur began, squinting in the sun. "I told you it was because of his treatment of sorcerers, and I wasn't lying... but there was something more to it that I never told you."

"I already know," Merlin said, interrupting. Arthur looked at him in minor surprise. Merlin shrugged. "Tethella."

"The green witch, right?" Arthur asked. "Do you know what happened to her?"

Merlin shrugged. "I believe she kept looking out for you when I wasn't around, the same way she said she'd been doing for years. Mm, but I haven't seen her in all my years here. My guess is she moved on, went somewhere else. Fell in love."

Arthur pressed his lips together and pulled his fingers in so tight on his hand in nervousness that some of his knuckles popped. Merlin looked over at him, shading his eyes.

"Speaking of feelings," Arthur said. "When I was young..."

"I told you - I know," Merlin said again with a tiny smile. " Tethella showed me. She'd watched over you your whole life, so she knew all about you."

"I doubt it," Arthur said with a little snort.. Merlin leaned over and grabbed his prince by the back of the head before kissing him full on the lips. He pulled back slowly at first and then quickly, trying to see Arthur's face. Truthfully, the prince had never seemed so unsure of words.

"What I told you in the past was no lie, Arthur. I know it's been a long time for you, but for me it hasn't." Merlin took a deep breath to calm his hammering heart. "And I still love you more than anyone or anything, and I would still die for you, and you're still the one I fear the most because if you reject me then I will have nowhere else to go... You're my destiny."

Arthur pressed his lips together and shut his eyes as though something pained him inside. Merlin went to reach for him, but Arthur caught his hand and pulled him closer for a second kiss.

"Eight years," Arthur murmured between them. "Eight years I waited for you even after you arrived in Camelot. Eight years, and I had you and lost you and trusted you and hated you. I became strong for you... because for eight years, you've been all that I wanted in my life, Merlin. And gods be damned, I didn't even know your name! I didn't even know if you were real, but I had this necklace, and now I know it was you, my idiot of a servant, and that's even better because you've been the only person I could trust for a long time now."

"Arthur...," Merlin tried, but Arthur shook his head. He still held Merlin's head close to his.

"I ran away from home because I fell in love with a sorcerer once and my father killed him while ranting about the unnatural and disgusting people in the world. I was terrified, but you taught me to be strong. I'm still terrified, Merlin, but I'll protect you this time. I will," Arthur declared. "And I know it's stupid to worry because this is your true timeline, but I keep feeling like you're going to disappear again."

"I'm not going anywhere," Merlin assured and ruffled Arthur's hair gently. "Remember what Tethella said? She said I would bleed when I returned to where I belonged, and I bleed here. I told you before - if you want me, I'll stay with you forever."

"I do," Arthur said, voice rough. He kissed Merlin briefly and pulled back to a normal sitting position. "I do, but if you treat me like a teenager, I'll put you in the stocks."

"As you wish, Archie," Merlin said with a teasing grin. He expected Arthur to get mad, but the prince just tried to hide his smiles and looked out at the sea. Merlin's mother had been right. This was the best feeling in the world.

The End

Masterpost
-- -- -- --
A/N: Thanks for reading, everyone!

Red Stones - Chapter 8 - Merthur Fic

dlanadhz — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 17:47:19 GMT

Title: Red Stones
Rating: T
Fandom: Merlin BBC
Pairing: AdultArthur/Merlin
Warnings: None
Summary:
Following a familiar call into the forest, Merlin finds himself dropped through time to enter a Camelot he doesn't know. Now he must fulfill his destiny and find his way back home by facing his greatest foe yet - a 14 year old Arthur Pendragon.
-- -- -- --
A/N: So! It seemed lj hates me with formatting now. It used to auto format so everything looked like these pretty words up here. Last time I updated, it made everything tin. I've made it bigger this time, but I'm still trying to figure out what changed and how to fix it. Sorry for the changing!
-- -- -- --

Chapter 8 - The Transformation

Merlin woke up the next morning to a tapping on his shoulder. They'd made it back to camp. It was back tracking on the way to Camelot, but Tethella had said bandits were in the area and Arthur had left his stuff when he'd run off. It had been a good night, and they'd fallen asleep with their heads together. Merlin felt closer to Arthur and very warm. He'd made Arthur happy last night with his declaration, and that notion on its own made him feel whole on the inside. He hated seeing Arthur sad, seeing Arthur cry.

He batted away the call at first, but it became more insistent. When he realized that someone was hitting him in the shoulder, Merlin jolted awake. His eyes darted nervously, taking in his surroundings for dangers, and he saw six large men standing around him. The one tapping him was Arthur, and in Merlin’s doze, he almost forgot to notice Arthur was fourteen. He sat up next to Arthur and glared at the four smirking men. Bandits. Merlin knew this would happen. They'd been too conspicuous last night.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Whatever you’ve got,” one spoke up. He had a dark beard and long hair. For a moment, it almost looked like Balinor, but Merlin knew his father was in a cave up north, and he’d never do something like this. His voice was too high as well, and his eyes weren’t sad and tired.

Merlin could feel Arthur shaking beside him, though he seemed unafraid in his posture and expression. Merlin put himself halfway between his prince and the aggressors before setting his determined look up into the eyes of the leader.

"We don't have anything," he said. "Just some clothes."

"I see a pretty fancy sword sticking out of the pack," the man said. "And I thought I heard a bird last night talking about the prince of Camelot."

"You were misinformed by the bird," Merlin said. "Birds like to play tricks on people."

The man's hand came in contact with Merlin's face, backhanding him. Merlin's face turned but he refused to falter and simply returned his resolute look back to the leader. The man did not seem pleased by it. Neither did Arthur.

"Take the sword," Arthur said. "If that's what you want, then take it and leave us in peace. Please," he added as an afterthought.

The bandits chuckled, all but the main one with the dark hair. He was staring at Arthur, something Merlin monitored with caution. If this man decided to belay their lies and take Arthur hostage, things could get a lot messier. Merlin would need to take them all out before he could be hit or Arthur kidnapped.

"That's a pretty necklace, you've got there," the man said conversationally.

"It's a stone from the bottom of the river over there," Arthur said, pointing. "Go get your own."

This time only the main man laughed. "Did you hear that, men? He told me to go get my own." A ripple of laughter fled through the men as their leader leaned down close to Arthur. "Why don't I just take yours and save myself the trouble?"

"It's not special," Arthur said. Merlin glanced at him and could tell he was lying. Arthur was tense. Even Merlin knew how much Arthur liked that necklace. He hadn't even taken it off when he'd been angry with Merlin.

The leader leaned over to grab the sword from Arthur's pack, examining the weight of it as he pulled it out. It was much too small for him, made for a budding youth, which this man most definitely wasn't. Then he turned the sword to point at Arthur. Merlin smacked his hand against the broad side of the sword and knocked it away from him. The man glared at him but kept the sword away.

"You're very brave in the face of us. Where does your courage spawn from? Is it from this child? Family relation, perhaps?" he asked. Merlin could tell the man didn't really care, so he didn't grace it with an answer. "No. You look nothing alike," the man continued. "Oooh, yeah. I heard last night... you like little boys, don't you?"

Merlin's cheeks flushed. "No," he said. "This is my master."

The man burst into laughs along with his crew. "Master?" he jeered. "Sounded a bit more intimate than that last night. Right, men?" and they chuckled more.

"Just take the stupid sword and-," Merlin began but was cut off by the blade crashing into his arm and knocking him down, his head cracking on a rock. Arthur let out a cry, but it just made the men laugh more.

"Stupid, it is not," the man said. "As I'm sure you'll agree, it has a nice bite. The handle is beautifully carved. I will take it. It shall fetch a nice penny on the market. But I'll take the necklace too. My wife's been crowing about needing nice jewelry."

Merlin pressed his hand tight against his arm where he bled profusely from. The cut was deep, but not mortal... yet. It could be fixed. It could, but it needed a physicians care. Merlin did his best to keep pressure on it, as Gaius had taught him, but pressing on it just made it hurt and he hissed and writhed slightly on the ground. His head bled too, but head wounds always bled more than they should.

Arthur's eyes were on Merlin as the bandit came close to him. The dark man reached forward for the shiny stone necklace, but as soon as he fingers touched it, Arthur's eyes shot full of fire and he focused all his attention on his attackers. He smacked his hands right over the leader's ears, a loud popping sound ringing out. The man dropped the necklace and stumble back with a cry, holding his ears and dropping the sword. Slowly, his left ear began to bleed. The man tried to speak, but it came out disoriented. More than minor loss of hearing.

"You will not touch it!" Arthur called out, strong and authoritative. He snatched up his sword and held it out like he'd been trained to. His eyes glanced to Merlin on the ground. "And you will not touch him either."

"Kid's been trained," one of the other bandits said in anger and shock. Their leader was still kneeling on the ground and holding his ear. The men looked at each other and then the one who'd spoken drew his sword.

"Take one step closer and I will end you. I have been trained to kill since birth," Arthur warned, shifting so his feet were in the proper stance. "He may not love me," he said, "But I love him and I will fight you all to the ground to defend him."

"We're fightin a whoopsie," the one with the drawn sword chuckled softly and stepped closer. His voice become dangerously low. "You hurt my boss. I think taking revenge on the two of you is more than fair."

Merlin pushed himself up to a sitting position, but his arm stung like poison and he kept his hand there to hold it. He let out a heavy breath and his eyes flashed golden. The one with the drawn sword cried out and dropped his heated weapon. He turned shocked eyes on Merlin and then glared. Before he could move more than one step, Merlin sent him flying back into a tree. He dropped to the ground, unconscious or dead Merlin didn't know.

He turned his eyes on the others, shocked. Now they knew he had magic, but Merlin had known Arthur couldn't take all five on his own. The leader seemed to regain himself at the reveal and forced himself to his feet. His eyes were watering and his ear bleeding, but he still made a wild gesture to Merlin and let out a jumbled sound that was just clear enough to be understood to mean 'Kill him.'

The remaining four bandits brandished their weapons and moved in without hesitation. Merlin glared, but he was sweating and he felt woozy. Arthur noticed and lunged at the closest man. With surprising ease, he caught the man off guard and stabbed right through his stomach. Even Arthur seemed frightened by how quick it had gone and how easy his sword had slid in. He stood staring at his bloodied sword well after the man had fallen. Unfortunately, the bandits were not as stunned.

"Archie!" Merlin warned and Arthur blocked just in time, shock and fear mixing in his expression as he looked into the eyes of his attacker.

The remaining two advanced on Merlin, but one Merlin vs two bandits isn't fair, even with Merlin wounded. They got a good strike in as Merlin's head rushed from his warning to Arthur. He got another sword graze to the shoulder, same side, but then his head came back to him and he screamed as his eyes flashed gold and the men were thrown into each other and then struck down by their comrades' swords. Now it looked like a team squabble gone bad. Merlin let out a pant of air and was only off the ground thanks to his bloody but uninjured hand, which held the grass beneath him.

Arthur was doing nicely, considering his fear. He'd been lightly grazed on the arm, but his parries were so good that the bandit couldn't land a solid blow. Arthur's eyes flickered to Merlin as the sorcerer bent over the earth, and all he saw was the blood coating Merlin's arm. He looked at the last bandit and let out a crazed battle cry as he kicked him in the chest instead of stabbing with his sword. Then he was pressing the man back until he hit a tree. Arthur snatched the man's sword wrist up and pointed his sword at the man's neck. Both fighters were breathing heavy, Arthur from more adrenaline than fatigue. He looked over at Merlin, who was looking back at him, and then lowered his sword. He knocked the man's sword to the ground and kicked it toward Merlin.

"Take your leader and leave before I kill you," Arthur ordered. "Leave!"

Despite being almost twice Arthur's size, the uninjured bandit nodded and scurried to his injured leader. The man could barely walk, but his only living underling made sure to get them both out of the camp area as fast as possible, half dragging his boss. Arthur stabbed his sword into the dirt and slid over to Merlin on his knees.

"Are you okay?" he asked. He reached down and tore his shirt. It wasn't as quick or clean as Arthur had once done for Merlin before, but this Arthur wasn't yet as strong. When he had a good strip, Arthur quickly wrapped it around Merlin's arm where the deepest wound was. He pulled it tight and flinched when Merlin hissed.

"I-I'm alright," Merlin said and fought to sit up straight.

"You are not alright," Arthur growled. "I don't know why I asked. Come on, stand up. I'm taking you to Gaius. He can help."

Merlin stood up with Arthur's help but had to lean on him a little to stay up. His head spun but he tried to hide it. Arthur seemed unusually warm to the touch, but Merlin realized it was because his arm had lost too much blood. He was cold, that was the problem.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "I should have seen the attack coming."

"Don't apologize, idiot," Arthur snapped. "Just walk."

They started off in the direction of Camelot, and after only a few steps, Merlin sagged his shoulders.

"You.... You were really great back there," he said. If possible, Arthur felt hotter under his touch.

"I'm not a total coward, you know. I really have been trained to hunt and fight. I just always freeze under pressure," the prince said in that tone Merlin knew so well, the one saying he was being dumb.

"You didn't freeze this time," Merlin pointed out and smiled down at him. Arthur glanced up at him and then turned away, cheeks flooding with color.

"Yeah well... they were going to kill you," Arthur mumbled. Merlin stopped walking and sighed.

"You did say you wanted to protect me," he said and dropped to his knees.

"H-Hey," Arthur began and took hold of Merlin's shoulders to keep him steady. "A-Are you-"

Merlin leaned in and pressed his lips to the younger Arthur's, cutting off conversation. He had told himself he wouldn't do anything to this younger version of the one he really loved, but the world was spinning so much. He kept telling himself he had a destiny, that he couldn't end here, but his arm had gone totally numb and he was so dizzy.

"I-Idiot! Don't-!"

Merlin let out a sigh and saw the shadows take over his vision.

"You said you'd be with me forever!"

-- -- -- -- --

Shudder. Stop. Shudder. Stop.

The world kept shaking. Merlin tried to raise his arm to his head, but the movement caused pain to shoot through him and he groaned. The world stopped moving, and Merlin felt like he was falling slowly. Everything felt fuzzy around the edges, but he managed to open his eyes after a moment when the world stopped moving altogether and he felt the solid ground beneath him.

"Thank goodness," he heard Arthur sigh. Merlin groaned again and looked around, finally finding his prince kneeling beside him.

"What-," Merlin began, but Arthur cut him off.

"You lost consciousness. I thought for sure you were dead, but that witch from last night showed up and put some kind of spell on your wounds. She said she had stopped the bleeding until you're returned to where you belong, whatever that means. Then she helped me build the sling, and I've been carrying you on it for the last few hours," the young blonde explained.

"Stop," Merlin said and winced. He may not be bleeding anymore, but it still hurt like a dragon bite. "You look tired."

"You look like death. I can rest when we get there," Arthur said, but he sat down anyway.

"Where are we going?" Merlin asked. He felt half asleep; half where he laid on the ground and half somewhere else.

"To where you belong, of course. To Camelot." Arthur leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees. "Why? Is there somewhere else you want to go?"

Merlin smiled, remembering a past conversation he couldn't quite place chronologically. "The beach," he said."I’d like... to sit with my toes in the sand and feel the waves."

"The beach?" Arthur replied and fiddled with the hilt of his sword. "We can go to the beach. But only after you get better."

"My mother....," Merlin started and then couldn't find the energy to continue. He felt like he was slipping off. Suddenly there was a slap to his face and he snapped back to consciousness.

"Stop doing that," Arthur ordered. "You keep freaking me out."

"Sorry," Merlin apologized. He could feel his arm much more than when he'd originally passed out. His blood must be replenishing. He wondered if he would lose it all again when he got back to where he 'belonged.' Tethella must have meant the future. Did that mean he'd be going home soon?

"What were you trying to say about your mother?" Arthur asked, keeping Merlin focused.

"My mother used to say... She says it’s one of the best feelings in the world... standing at the wave line," Merlin explained, and he felt as though he'd had this conversation before. Arthur didn't seem to recognize it though, so maybe it had been a dream he'd had while unconscious.

"We should try it... after Gaius fixes you up. We'll go, just the two of us, to the beach." Arthur was looking down at his arms, expression revealing his giddy nervousness. Merlin smiled. He remembered now. He'd kissed this teenager.

Merlin chest fluttered and for a moment, he thought his grown Arthur was the one sitting with him. He could almost hear that deep voice calling his name, but then Archie spoke and it was the same pre-pubescent voice as before.

"So when we get back to the castle, don't use your magic. I'll take you to Gaius and convince my father of your worth. He can appoint you a job in the household. I'm going to try for advisor or council or maybe even tutor, but I'll have to see if he'll listen to me. I wanted you to be by my side when I faced him, but you're in no condition to..."

Arthur stopped mid-sentence and turned to look into the forest.

"I should be stronger when we reach Camelot," Merlin said and managed to push himself up to a sitting position. "Stopping my bleeding seems to be giving me back my strength."

"That's great," Arthur said, distracted. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Merlin asked and listened. He did hear it, the shifting of feet in the underbrush... a lot of feet. "Sounds like a patrol," he said.

Arthur smiled. "They could help us back to the city. We're not far off now. Stay here. I'll go see if they're friendly." Arthur hovered for a second by Merlin, unsure which direction his body wanted to move. Then he leaned in and gave Merlin a kiss on the cheek. When he pulled back he was blushing, but he nodded to Merlin in a confident manner before he left to check over the hill.

Merlin smiled and closed his eyes. This Arthur certainly was easy to care about, but he still loved his Arthur more. They were the same, but Merlin ached with the want to see his grown up knight. He missed the length of his hair and the mature features, the soft eyes and the rough hands. He missed the deep voice and the steady grip. He even missed doing chores. Most of all he missed the smiles and laughter. It was a beautiful thing when you knew you were the one to make him laugh, to banter with him from the very start and make his day a little brighter.

The sorcerer opened his eyes and looked off in the opposite direction from where Arthur had run off. For a moment, he'd thought he heard Arthur's deep voice calling to him from over there. Merlin grunted in effort as he pushed himself slowly, uneasily to his feet.

"Arthur," he murmured, looking out at the trees.

There, he heard it again. He took a few weak steps in that direction before he found his balance. Here he paused to look back toward where little Arthur had gone running. Did hearing the older Arthur's voice mean he'd returned to the future? What was young Arthur going to think when he came back and Merlin wasn't there anymore?

Arthur called him again. Merlin shook his head. He'd always known he'd have to leave, and he'd known he probably wouldn't get a proper goodbye. This should be nothing new. Besides, Arthur was calling him, and ignoring Arthur was a dangerous thing to do.

Merlin stumbled slightly as he walked toward the sound of his lord's voice and became more and more aware of the familiarity of his surroundings. This was the place where he'd first met young Arthur, where he'd first appeared in the past. This was where he'd literally fallen through time.

"Merlin!" It was Arthur. It was Leon. He could hear the knights calling. He thought, perhaps, he may even hear Morgana. In the distance in front of him, he spotted Tethella amongst the trees. She gave him a silent nod and then shivered into nothing.

He felt the magic ripple through him this time, the magic that had thrown him through time. It made his insides quiver and then he hissed loudly and fell over into a tree.

"Ah!" he gasped and snapped his fingers to his arm again. It was bleeding like a fresh wound. Blood trickled down his forehead and over his eyebrow and leaked from the scratch on his shoulder. He was back. He must be in the future. Everything was moving as time commanded. What strength he had regained, he now felt draining out of him anew.

"Merlin?" and it was Arthur, pure and simple and grown. He looked dirty from a hunt, but it must have been a search from all the calling. He wasn't wearing chainmail, just his leather jacket. He looked gorgeous. He looked... right. Merlin's chest heaved with joy at the sight of him. He pushed off the tree and toward Arthur, using the propulsion alone to carry him.

"Arthur," Merlin could only gasp in relief. His feet tripped over themselves and Merlin fell the last few feet between himself and the prince. Arthur tried to catch him, and Merlin rolled into his arms like a limp doll.

"What on Earth happened to you?" Arthur asked, shocked and worried. "Over here!" he called out. "Quickly!"

"I'm sorry," Merlin murmured as the shadows started closing in again. He groaned, feeling ill, and leaned his head into Arthur's chest. "I left."

Arthur bit his bottom lip and wrapped his arms around Merlin, trying to give warmth back to him. "Don't be an idiot," he grunted and put his face in Merlin's hair. He didn't seem to care about the blood running over his fingers. "You're right here."

And as Merlin's blood level returned to what it had been before the good witch had intervened, he heard Arthur's voice whisper something he'd only heard in dreams. "Stay with me."

But then it may have been a dream anyway. After all, that's when Merlin dropped into darkness once more.

-- -- -- --

Preview, Chapter 9 – The Beach:

Merlin could see the red of stones glittering at the bottom of the river. One in particular shone brighter than the others, and he fought to try and grab for it. The more he swam toward the bottom, the more he felt he was getting closer to the surface somehow.

"How is it possible?" Merlin asked. He meant to go on, but Arthur slapped his hand down on the table.

"I don't know!" he answered loudly. ?" He sounded dangerous, as though all that hate had slipped back into him from the mere memory and he might very well enact his revenge this very moment.

"I already know," Merlin said, interrupting. Arthur looked at him in minor surprise. Merlin shrugged. "Tethella showed me." His eyes, as bright as the shallow waters, looked down to his feet, dangling off the rock, his toes barely touching the sand and foaming waves sliding up to his ankles with every rush they made for the shore.
-- -- -- --

Click HERE for the Final Chapter!
Click for Masterpost!

Red Stones - Chapter 7 - Merthur Fic

dlanadhz — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 03:34:17 GMT

Chapter 7 – The Witch

For an hour, Merlin worried that he should have followed Arthur. It was getting dark, and Arthur wasn't yet a hunter. He knew he'd done the right thing, letting him run off, because if Merlin had followed Arthur then Arthur would have just become even angrier. So for an hour, Merlin worried.

And then that hour ended. For the following hour, Merlin waited patiently. He had spotted Arthur's shirt sleeve, and consequently the rest of the prince, leaning against a tree just out of talking distance of the camp. He wasn't sure how long Arthur had been there, but he had a suspicion that Arthur had never truly left the area. Now Merlin was just left contemplating how long until Arthur returned to the fireside so Merlin could apologize... again.

Sometimes it seemed all Merlin did was apologize to Arthur. Sorry for dropping breakfast. Sorry for spilling the wine. Sorry for disappearing for two days to save your life when you thought I was in the tavern but I was actually almost dying. Sorry for your loss. Sorry for being late. Sorry for whatever is making you feel bad. Sorry for being in love with you.

Merlin took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He'd never get around to saying that last bit, especially at this rate. He wasn't even doing well with a pint sized Arthur. How was he supposed to convince a grown man that he wasn't just some idiot servant? Arthur still got mad at him for 'crossing the line' and kicked him out of the room on a regular basis. How was Merlin supposed to show his worth if Arthur wouldn't listen?

Oh. Merlin sat up straight and pursed his lips. There was an idea. He stood up and stretched, rolling his shoulders, and cleared his throat. He saw Arthur shift to watch him and then leisurely strolled from the camp site as though going to collect more wood or pee. He restrained himself before he could start humming.

Once he was a good distance out, he walked behind a tree and stopped. He peeked out, though, and looked back toward the shining fire. They should really put it out soon, but until Arthur was back, it was safer to keep it lit. Just as Merlin had suspected, as soon as he'd left the area Arthur came slowly stepping out of the bushes. He really didn't change as he grew up. He just changed who had to leave the area. Arthur left this time to pout in the woods, but in the future he would always send Merlin off and out of the room so he could pout alone. It was good to know he understood Arthur enough to notice at least this much.

Merlin turned his head toward a whisper through the trees. It sounded like.... and there she was, the woman from before. She stood between two trees, a hand pressed to the larger of the two. She had long golden blonde hair and shining green eyes that stood out even at night. She wore a green gown that was just a shade too bright to be mistaken for a tree or bush. It was nearly camouflage. Around her neck was a silver necklace.

"Emrys," she spoke in his mind, and she sounded almost amazed to see him. "Long have I dreamed of speaking with you."

"You're not speaking now," Merlin answered, defensive. She smiled, something surprisingly kind, and nodded. With a tilt of her head, she motioned for him to follow her further from camp.

"I promise I mean you and the future king no harm," she said as she walked off. Merlin glanced back at the fire. Arthur sat by it and glanced in Merlin's direction, but the young blonde couldn't see Merlin this far out. Merlin nodded to him regardless and then followed the witch.

"Who are you?" he asked when they'd stopped.

"My name is Tethella," she answered swiftly. "I'm a sorceress and seer. And you are Emrys, the sorcerer of legends." Again, she sounded in awe.

"What do you want with me?" Merlin asked. Her stance was unguarded, as though she feared no attack, from Merlin or otherwise. She concealed no weapons in her lithe gown, but she had powerful magic. Merlin could sense that.

"I wanted to warn you. There are bandits nearby... and I wanted to meet you. Your window here is small. I didn't have much time," Tethella explained. "I have studied your legends, Emrys. You and your king will do amazing things together."

"I know Arthur's destiny and my own," Merlin agreed, but Tethella shook her head.

"No. What you have yet to understand, Emrys, is that they are one and the same," she said. "I have tried to watch the young prince until your arrival, and I have seen him since. Come." and she held out her hand. "I can show you what's truly troubling his heart."

Merlin bit his cheek. She sounded like one of the kinder sorcerer's. She didn't seem to mean any harm. Merlin stepped forward and took her hand, prepared to defend at any moment. She pulled him closer, placed her free hand on his cheek, and tilted her head back slightly. That's when Merlin noticed they were the same height. She was tall.

Suddenly, though, Merlin couldn't think about Tethella. He closed his eyes and sucked in a breath as his mind was thrown into visions. It was senseless, pointless scenes really. Stables. Kitchens. Dinner tables. All were filled with people, including Arthur. It would be nothing, just a princely life, except for the growing stirring in Merlin's gut. He could feel Arthur's emotions. Everything was nervous and growing worse by the second. Merlin recognized the feeling. He'd had it too growing up. He suspected most young men did. Arthur was developing crushes.

And then there was Uther, all over the place, yelling and condemning the 'unnatural people', the ones who practiced magic and corrupted the hearts and minds of people, the people who deserved to be executed. Arthur was afraid. Why was he afraid? It was small and then worse and then even Merlin's heart began to race and panic as visions moved by faster and less focused. Arthur wasn't concentrating. He was frightened, and Uther's booming voice of condemnation echoed over it all.

And then Merlin recognized himself in the visions, bleeding in the forest. A drop of blood slipped from his head wound and formed a red glitter at the bottom of a river. It was the stone Merlin had given to Arthur. The vision moved from looking at the stone to looking at Merlin, and the shivering feeling in Arthur chest and gut returned. Merlin gasped and the visions ripped back.

Tethella snapped her hand away from Merlin's face and let out a quick breath. She smiled at Merlin, understanding glittering in those glowing eyes of her, and Merlin nodded.

"Arthur's...," he began, but Tethalla's eyes went hard and her head snapped in the direction of the camp.

Merlin turned as well, and there, standing in the nearby trees, was the very blonde they were talking about. He was frowning hard and wearing his sword. His expression was hard to see beyond the frown, but he was definitely looking at the pair of sorcerers. Tethella dropped Merlin's hand and stood loosely to the side.

"Arthur," Merlin said and took a step toward his prince. Arthur's hand reached up to touch the stone hanging from his neck. His fingers barely grazed it before he had taken off running back to the camp. "Arthur!"

"Go, Emrys. He needs you. Remember. There are bandits," Tethella warned. Merlin nodded to her and she faded into the wind.

Merlin dashed off back to the camp, ready to clear the air between them and tell Arthur he understood now. Tethella's visions of Arthur made something quite clear to Merlin which gave all new depth to Arthur's decision to run away, and Merlin was prepared to use it to help Arthur become the man he was meant to be. But when Merlin stopped in front of the camp, Arthur wasn't there. Arthur should have had time to return long before Merlin, but he wasn't here. His supplies were here, but...

"Arthur?!" Merlin called out, but only a spooked owl replied. Merlin turned in a circle, but there was no hidden teenager, no clues. Had he run off again?

Merlin bent down and looked in Arthur's bag. Everything was there except the sword and money. Arthur wasn't coming back. Merlin did a quick sweep, decided the easiest path through the forest, and took off running in that direction. Arthur would have chosen the smoothest escape route, the one with the least chance of getting lost on. Merlin knew the woods, but they were different in this time and it was dark. He hoped Arthur had chosen this path and that he could lead Arthur back to camp without getting lost himself.

It didn't take as long as he expected. No one could run through the forest without making noise, not even highly trained knights. Arthur's crunching feet called out long before Merlin could see his form hurrying through the underbrush.

"Arthur!" Merlin called out.

"Leave me alone!" the young man called back.

Merlin pressed his lips together and tried to run faster, but Arthur seemed to gain speed with the knowledge that Merlin had spotted him, and they were evenly matched. Merlin's eyes filled with golden light and the world slowed down around him, allowing him to easily make up the distance between them.

"Get off me!" Arthur shouted as Merlin grabbed him by the wrists. "Go back to your woman!"

"Arthur, calm down," Merlin grunted, but the prince continued to resist. "Stop being a child!" he scolded loudly, and Arthur instantly froze. Merlin felt his chest contract too. He'd never heard Uther say it, but it sounded so much like him somehow. He hated sounding like someone people feared.

Arthur turned his head away, tears stinging the edges of his eyes. "That's why you don't want to come back with me, isn't it?" he asked.

"What is?" Merlin asked.

"That woman in the forest. That sorceress. She's your woman, isn't she? You don't want to come back because you lo... you want to stay with her," Arthur said, small hands curled into fists.

Merlin shook his head and lowered himself to be on level with Arthur. "I don't love her," he said clearly. "There is only one person I would risk everything for, that I would fight and die for. There is only one person I love, Arthur, and it is you." He let go of one of Arthur's wrists and moved Arthur's bangs from his face in a caressing manner. Then he leaned in and pressed a kiss to Arthur's forehead.

"But.... you said you didn't want to return to Camelot with me," Arthur said. His voice was quiet and puzzled, but also a bit hopeful. Merlin frowned and ran his fingers through Arthur's hair a bit more.

"You will be strong one day. You will be so brave that you need no one else to make sacrifices for you... but they will. I will. I cannot go back with you, Arthur, but I love you. Do you understand? I love you, from the bottom of my illegal sorcerer heart, and I will love you in the future when you've stopped being a brat and move up to being a prat, when you act like you don't care and then go behind your father's back to help the needy. I will love you when you call me old or lazy or forgetful or a fool. I will be annoyed with you, but I will never stop loving you. And I want to go back with you and be your advisor, but I can't. I'm not meant to be here. Do you understand?" Merlin asked.

Arthur shook his head. "No!" he shouted and threw himself into Merlin's chest, hugging the sorcerer tightly. He cried, but Merlin wouldn't comment on it. He would rather let Arthur cry than to talk about it and have the blonde hide the fact. "I don't want you to go."

"Then I won't," Merlin said. He wasn't sure why he was promising this. He couldn't stay and he knew it. "I can't go to Camelot, but I'll stay with you."

Arthur hugged him tighter and Merlin returned the embrace, but he didn't know what he was thinking. He said it to make Arthur feel better, wanting to keep him from crying, but he would need to return to the future at some point. He couldn't be here forever. But he still said it, and Arthur approved, so he said it again.

"I'll stay with you forever."

-- -- -- --

Preview, Chapter 8 – The Transformation:

"Did you hear that?"

"Sounds like a patrol," Merlin said.

"Just take the stupid sword and-," Merlin began but was cut off by the blade crashing into his arm and knocking him down. The leader turned the sword to point at Arthur.

"Take one step closer and I will end you," Arthur warned, shifting so his feet were in the proper stance.

"I'm sorry," Merlin murmured as the shadows started closing in.

Arthur bit his bottom lip and wrapped his arms around Merlin, trying to give warmth back to him. "Don't be an idiot," he grunted and put his face in Merlin's hair.

Click for Chapter 8!
Click for the Masterpost!

Red Stones - Chapter 6 - Merthur Fic

dlanadhz — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 22:57:49 GMT

Title: Red Stones
Rating: T
Fandom: Merlin BBC
Pairing: AdultArthur/Merlin
Warnings: None
Summary:
Following a familiar call into the forest, Merlin finds himself dropped through time to enter a Camelot he doesn't know. Now he must fulfill his destiny and find his way back home by facing his greatest foe yet - a 14 year old Arthur Pendragon.

AN: Sorry, I've been really sick or on vacation for the last few weeks. School starts tomorrow but I'll try to be faster, I swear.
Also, I finished a video over the break. Check it out on my journal.
Enjoy!
-- -- -- -- --

Chapter 6 – The Fight

It didn’t take long for orphan Archie to start pulling lose strings from his pack to wind together into a necklace. He thought Merlin didn’t notice, but it was hard to miss when you were the only two around and you knew that stone eventually ended up as a necklace. Arthur tried to hide it, and Merlin couldn’t help but grin every time he noticed Arthur being embarrassed about it. Arthur in the future was bad enough about hiding his emotions when he was embarrassed or being too kind. This young Arthur was even more inexperienced, and he wore his emotions like a blush on his cheeks. It was obvious when you were looking for it. When Merlin had pointed out the new jewelry, Arthur had changed the subject to trees and pulled out his map to look busy. Merlin looked over his shoulder and pretended to believe him.

There was no way Arthur could tell where they were from the map. It was a good map, not as detailed as the ones in the future, but still good. However, since they weren’t following a path, the map was pretty much useless for Arthur, who hadn’t known which way he was going from the beginning. Merlin knew exactly where they were though. They were heading out of the Camelot woods and across the open plains. Between them and Ealdor were the forest and cliffs of Ascetir. Merlin had taken the long way through the forest. It gave him more time with Arthur, but he’d done it more for safety reasons than destiny reasons. Bandits liked the plains.

But it was nice spending time with Arthur as well… even if it was a pint sized version who still thought Merlin was generally useless.

“Archie, what kind of people do you like to be around?” Merlin asked as he marked their path by breaking off a twig from a tree which tore a line down the bark.

“My father says you stay around the people you most want to earn the respect of. Vicinity breeds loyalty,” Arthur replied. He was kneeling by a bush, wiggling his finger at a wild hare. “With that in mind, I would like to be around knights. Loyal knights are the best men you can find.”

“And you will have them. More than you can want,” Merlin said. He stood back from the scene, not wanting to scare off the animal that was slowly inching closer to Arthur. “But what kind of people would you choose personally? Anyone in the world… to be your friends.”

Arthur dropped his hand a bit and the hare sniffed the air nervously. Arthur frowned and waved at it again.

“Since I have no knights… Well my nanny used to tell me to be friends with whoever I most wanted… to be like, to be around people I admired,” he said. The hare touched its nose to his fingertips. Arthur smiled and slowly moved to touch the creature’s head.

“Who do you want to be like?” Merlin asked, leaning on the tree and crossing his arms.

“My mother,” Arthur answered without hesitation. “Everyone says she was a wonderful person with wisdom and grace.”

“People say all sorts of things after people die,” Merlin said monotonously. Arthur turned around too quickly and the hare dashed off into the undergrowth. Arthur was glaring.

“Excuse me?” he asked. Merlin stared at him steadily. “Are you trying to say my mother wasn’t wise and graceful?”

“I have no doubt your mother was a brilliant woman,” Merlin said. “But she loved your father very much, and people don’t tend to love someone who is completely unlike them.”

“What?” Arthur huffed out, standing abruptly. He looked uneasy behind his anger. Merlin pushed off the tree and shrugged.

“There must be something in your father that attracted her. Maybe she liked the way his eyes looked after a ride or the way he saw his people. I imagine… the king had a great vision for his kingdom. It just became a little skewed when your mother died,” Merlin explained.

“God, what is it with you?” Arthur groaned, throwing his hands up. “Every time we talk, you try to prove how great my father is.”

“No. I completely agree with you. Your father is a terrible man who kills innocent people who have done nothing wrong, people who don’t even use magic. He kills all magic users because just one made a mistake. It’s not fair. He yells, and he gets angry, and he’s blinded by his revenge. He’s losing his skill as a swordsman. He’s putting on weight. He’s losing his hair. If his temper wasn’t bad enough, his hygiene pushes him over the edge. He’s a disgusting man, inside and out, and he doesn’t deserve an heir like you,” Merlin said.

No sooner had he stopped speaking than Arthur was shoving him roughly, causing him to stumble back into the tree. The prince looked more flushed now than before.

“Shut up!” he yelled.

“Why?” Merlin asked, planting his feet firmly so as not to be knocked over again. “You hate him too, don’t you? You don’t care if someone speaks badly of him. He’s not your father anymore. He’s not your king. If you plan on keeping who you are a secret, you can’t go around getting upset when someone degrades him. You’re thinking it too. You’re just not man enough to admit it.”

“I said shut up!” Arthur said again, trying to push Merlin but failing this time. Merlin shoved his hands out, however, and caught Arthur just right. The blonde hit the dirt and skinned his elbow. He looked up at Merlin in shock. He touched his elbow to scale the pain and then only had eyes for the man who had been so gentle until now. Merlin knelt down and loomed over the fallen prince.

“I don’t want to lie to you, Archie,” he said. “I don’t like your father. Hate is a bit strong, but I definitely fear him. But there is more to a person than what you feel personally for them. Beyond your father is the kingdom he raised. It is prospering. The people are surviving. He is caring for his people. And beyond your father, there are other people to worry about. There is someone I care for and fear even more than the current king. I know they will be the greatest person in the whole world, in everyone’s world and not just in mine.”

“W-who’s that?” Arthur asked, slowly extending his arm out to push himself up.

“You.” Merlin held his breath a moment while he let that thought sink in. “But you are not the best man in the world yet. You have such a long way to go. You must learn to be forgiving and wise. Being king is not an honor. It is a duty. You have a duty to rule with dignity, honor, and justice for the sake of your people. You must learn to love others and most of all to trust your heart. Don’t let others manipulate you.”

“But if I listen to you, isn’t that letting you manipulate me?” Arthur asked. Merlin smiled and shrugged slightly.

“Not if you believe what you’re doing is right in your own heart,” he said. “I’m just counseling you. It’s what wise old men do.”

“You aren’t-!,” Arthur began, and his face flushed. He looked slightly to the right before continuing. “You aren’t that old.”

“Oh? You’ve been calling me a stupid old man the whole time I’ve been here,” Merlin reminded.

“Well you’re not old, alright?” Arthur snapped, pushing himself to his feet and shuffling quickly away. “But you’re still an idiot!”

“Of course, Archie,” Merlin said.

He took a step to follow the blonde and paused. He thought he heard something, or maybe he had felt it. His senses were fighting to claim which one had noticed something odd in the air. Merlin frowned at the forest. He saw nothing with his eyes, but his heart was pounding. He could almost hear it, whispering to him.

“Merlin.” He could hear a woman in his head – a woman he did not know. She sounded coy and, for a moment, Merlin thought he saw her between the trees, garbed in shimmering green, but then she was gone without a move or a sound.

“Hey!” Arthur’s call brought him back. He was up on the next hill. “Let’s go! I want to see this village where you grew up.”

“Ah! Coming!” Merlin called back and hurried to catch up. A magical person or creature might be following, but Merlin would just keep an extra eye out. She didn’t feel like she had any negative intent. So long as she kept to herself, Merlin had no reason to fight her. He just hoped she meant well.

-- -- -- -- -- --

“Hold still,” Merlin scolded when they stopped that evening. The sun had barely begun to set, but Arthur’s elbow had been giving him some discomfort. Merlin had him sitting on a rock while he tended to the injury.

“Why don’t you just use your magic and fix it already?” Arthur asked, wincing as Merlin rubbed a wet rag over the scratches. It used to be part of Merlin’s shirt, but now it was a badly ripped off section big enough to clean small wounds. Merlin was no less warm or covered because of it. If he got cold, his jacket would be more than enough to suffice.

“Magic isn’t needed for something as small as this,” Merlin said. “If it was infected and you grew ill, then I would use magic. Right now it’s just a scratch.”

“Oh!” Arthur suddenly exclaimed and snapped his free hand down on Merlin’s cleaning one. “That’s how you fixed your head wound, isn’t it?!” And he looked so joyous that Merlin barely had the heart to tell him the truth.

“No. That wasn’t me. Someone else fixed it for me. I mean, it was magic, but I didn’t do it. And speaking of my head wound, how is it that the greatest knight in all Camelot is so sore about a tiny scrape like this?” Merlin wiggled Arthur’s hand off and wiped off the last bit of dirt he could find on the cuts.

“It isn’t like normal,” Arthur said. “I’ve had plenty worse than this in training, but this one hurts more. It sort of burns. And let’s not forget who gave me this injury.”

“Sometimes the smallest injuries cause the most pain. And if you’d been wearing your jacket, you wouldn’t have scratched your elbow,” Merlin answered. He wrapped Arthur’s arm twice in a thin bandage and tied it on. “I’m done. You’ll live.” And he began to push himself up from the ground.

“Um-,” Arthur started and stopped. Merlin paused too and regarded him curiously. “You… Who do you want to associate with? What kind of person do you look up to?”

Merlin shrugged. “Well, like you, I love my mother, and I look up to my father as well. There are a couple of knights I’ve met, before they were knights, who are very honorable and loyal and a lot of fun to hang out with. And of course, there’s you. Oh! And Gaius.”

“Gaius?” Arthur asked, his face twisting in displeasure. “But he’s so old.”

“Do you not like Gaius? I thought he was teaching you,” Merlin said.

Now Arthur shrugged. “Yeah. I like Gaius. I’ve known him since I was born, but I wouldn’t call him my friend… more like a second father, and you can’t be friends with your father.”

“Why not? I love my father. If I could spend more time with him, I would.”

“Why can’t you?” Arthur asked, standing and gently holding his elbow.

“He died,” Merlin admitted. “Killed fighting some of Cenred’s men… to protect me.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said. “He must have been very brave.”

“Yes, he was. I used to be upset about his death, but I know he’s still with me in spirit.” Merlin looked up at the sky and the sun’s dying orange glow squeezing between the branches. Sometimes he could even swear he heard his father speaking to him, but Arthur didn’t need to know that – at this age or at his future age. Some things were better kept secret.

“That’s good then. So who’s your best friend?” Arthur asked, changing the subject in what he must have thought was a smooth manner.

“Hm? Well it used to be a serving girl, but she’s been busy most of the time recently. Right now, my best friend is you,” Merlin said and reached down to search for the flint in Arthur’s bag.

“But I don’t want to be your friend,” Arthur said.

Merlin stopped what he was doing and looked over at Arthur in worried confusion. “What?” He’d thought they were getting on just fine. Arthur didn’t consider them friends?

“I said I don’t want to be a friend,” Arthur reiterated. “I… I want you to come live in the castle with me.”

“The castle?” Merlin asked, still confused. “There is no castle in Ealdor.”

“Idiot! I meant Camelot, obviously,” Arthur grunted and looked uncomfortable. “I know that’s what you’ve been waiting to hear from the start – that I’ll go back. Well I will. I’ll go back to Camelot, but I want you to go back with me.”

“Arthur…,” Merlin began and bit his cheek. He took a short breath and tried again. “Arthur, I –”

“You wouldn’t need to worry about being a servant or anything,” Arthur interrupted hurriedly. He was looking at Merlin pleadingly and took a step closer to the wizard. “I’d get you a good position, like my … my advisor or tutor or something.”

“I can’t,” Merlin said, frowning deeply. He didn’t want to dash Arthur’s hopes, but he had no choice in the matter. Once he got Arthur back to Camelot, he would be returning to the future. He couldn’t stay. Besides that, Merlin missed his own Arthur.

“Please!” Arthur whined and took a half step back. “I’m not cut out for sleeping on dirt floors everyday or field work. I know I’m not… but I can’t go back to Camelot on my own. I need you to help me. I can’t survive my father by myself.”

“Yes you can,” Merlin assured. He took a step toward Arthur, and the prince took a step away. “You won’t always have someone to back you up. You have to learn to believe in yourself and just stand up for what you believe is right – without help from anyone.”

“You’re just trying to sound wise so you don’t have to come back with me,” Arthur ground out. “I’d protect your secret from my father. I’d protect you instead of you always protecting me, but you’re just…”

“Arthur,” Merlin tried and reached out to touch Arthur’s shoulder, but Arthur jumped back from him.

“Leave me alone,” Arthur snapped. “I need to be alone. I’m going for a walk.”

And Merlin watched sadly after his tiny prince. He’d somehow convinced Arthur to go back to Camelot, but the prince still had no confidence in himself and had not forgiven his father. Was it even possible to fix those issues now? Especially now, in fact, since Arthur seemed to have lost some bit of faith in Merlin.

-- -- -- --

Preview, Chapter 7 – The Witch:

She had long golden blonde hair and shining green eyes that stood out even at night. She wore a green gown that was just a shade too bright to be mistaken for a tree or bush. It was nearly camouflage. Around her neck was a silver necklace.

"Emrys," she spoke in his mind and held out her hand. "I can show you what's truly troubling his heart."

Merlin gasped and the visions ripped back. "Arthur's...," he began, but Tethalla's eyes went hard.

Arthur shook his head. He cried. "I don't want you to go."

"There is only one person I love." He moved Arthur's bangs from his face in a caressing manner and leaned in to press a kiss to his forehead.

Click HERE for Chapter 7!
Click Here for the MasterPost!

Video - Won't Let This Go - Multifandom

dlanadhz — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 16:48:22 GMT

And when I say multifandom, I mean multifandom.

For those waiting on my fics, I'm sorry I haven't updated. I've been depressingly ill for the last week and before that I was stuck in a car on a family road trip to Niagara Falls. But I'm getting better and will do my darnedest to update soon despite school starting tomorrow. Thanks for your patience!

I was making this one, my Naturally video, and my Stay video at the same time, but I started this one before the others. Now, thanks to vacation and time to devote to it - I've finished them all! Whoo! Hope you guys like it!

Warning: Contains Slash pairings and Hetero pairings.

Song: With Me by Sum 41
Fandoms: (In order of show appearance and then pairing appearance)
Tuck Everlasting
Jesse/Winnie
Titanic
Jack/Rose
Peter Pan
Peter/Wendy
Letters to Juliet
Charlie/Sophie
Bend it Like Beckham
Joe/Jess
The Eagle
Marcus/Esca
Merlin
Merlin/Arthur
Merlin/Gwaine
Arthur/Gwen
Stardust
Tristan/Yvaine
Narnia
Caspian/Edmund
Caspian/Peter
Caspian/Susan
Doctor Who
9 & 10/Jack
10/ Rose
Alice
Hatter/Alice
Beastly
Kyle/Lindy
Cursed
Bo/Jimmy
Penelope
Johnny/Penelope

# of Fandoms 14
# of Pairings: 19
# of Slash Pairings: 7
# of Het Pairings: 12

Enjoy!

Youtube Link

I Hate Water - Thief Lord, Prosper/Scipio fic - MasterPost

dlanadhz — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 18:45:50 GMT

Title: I Hate Water
Rating: PG
Fandom: The Thief Lord
Pairing: Prosper/Scipio
Word Count: 6,532
Chapter Count: 7
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters.
Summary: Based on a line said by Prosper in the book. Riccio accidentally pushes Prosper into the canal, now he wont talk to anyone. Scipio just wants to help. DU Even Prosper had a weakness he couldn't hide.

A/N: Oh! This story is quite old. :) Forgive any typos. I tried to go through and check for them. Also, formatting may be a bit odd in places because I had to re-save the story into a new format so my computer could read it (yep. That's how old this story is. lol). But I do hope you enjoy it regardless.
-- -- -- -- --

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7

I Hate Water - Thief Lord, Prosper/Scipio fic - Chapter 1

dlanadhz — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 18:44:04 GMT

Title: I Hate Water
Rating: PG
Fandom: The Thief Lord
Pairing: Prosper/Scipio
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters.
Summary: Based on a line said by Prosper in the book. Riccio accidentally pushes Prosper into the canal, now he wont talk to anyone. Scipio just wants to help. DU Even Prosper had a weakness he couldn't hide.
-- -- -- -- --

Chapter 1

The chilly winter wind whipped through Venice like a dragon beating its wings down on its buildings. Scipio walked up to 'The Thief Lord', the new name of Barbarossa's shop. Scipio owned it now and no one could complain because he had the deeds. His last performance as the thief lord was to steal money from his own family. He set it up in a bank account under a new name. His father could never find him now.

Scipio's age was now a blessing. Victor used him to find information that only a child could find out. Or... someone younger than an adult. Scipio was 18 this year. He was glad he hadn't ridden the merry-go-round. Despite all his hoping at the wonders it would bring, Scipio had chickened out. His childishness had won out and he'd opted out at the last minute. The look in Prosper's eyes when he thought Scipio would be riding it even when Prosper himself wouldn't, ... It hit something in Scipio and he just couldn't go through with it.

Barbarossa, however, was not so smart and so he now lived in a boarding school, as happy as a clam. How one could be happy while living with those awful people was a mystery. Scipio bought the shop for a very cheap price and now owned everything within its walls. He'd sold the junk off quickly and now Scipio's store was known for its fine clothing and hand crafted objects.

Most of his items were used clothes from Ida and a growing number of patrons. Scipio gave most of them away to poor children. The hand crafted objects were usually things made by Hornet, who had become quite the craftswoman in the last 3 years. Sometimes, you could hardly tell her items weren't real gold, silver, or ruby. Scipio never asked where she got her materials.

Then there was Mosca, who was saving up money to sail around the world. He was already closer to finding his dad than he'd been in years. The police were helping him now. Riccio was on a tight leash by Ida, even though he didn't live with her. She'd pretended to be his mother in order to get him in to a dentist, but after that Riccio and Mosca moved away to a new hideout. Ida was keeping tabs on them because Riccio was known to pickpocket still.

Scipio hadn't seen much of them. Everyone seemed so busy. Except Prosper... Prosper found time for everyone. He brought the news about Mosca's search and Riccio's attempted crimes that even Ida didn't know. Prosper helped Mosca paint his boat, Hornet make Scipio's products and Hornet's medicines, helped Riccio clean up their hideout and try to stop stealing. Prosper helped Bo with his homework, even when he had too much of it on his own.

He helped Victor with his turtles. Prosper was becoming the perfect husband by helping Ida clean and cook. Half the time, you couldn't tell if Ida was cooking the food you were eating or Prosper. Despite everything Prosper needed to do for himself, he helped everyone else out first. Scipio tried to deny his help but Prosper even wiggled his way into helping Scipio sell products and keep record of all the money earned. He ran the whole store when Scipio was sick.

Scipio couldn't remember how many times he'd walk through Ida's halls late at night and find Prosper still doing homework or finishing a book. More than a few times, Scipio found Prosper asleep on his books and not quite finished with his work. Scipio was now a pro at forging Prosper's handwriting to the point that not even Prosper could tell his last four problems were done by someone else.

Scipio felt bad that he seemed to be drifting away from some of his friends and yet Prosper found time to do... everything.

When Scipio entered the shop that morning, Prosper was sleeping, head on the counter. Scipio smiled and shook him lightly.

“Prop, wake up.” he laughed lightly. Prosper groaned but sat up, wiping his mouth of any possible drool. There was none. “I swear... I don't know who's the thief lord. Me or you. How did you get in? I locked the door this time and I took the spare key home with me.”

Prosper stretched and smiled at the same time.

“It's a secret.” he replied when he was done stretching. He yawned and tried to lay his head back down but Scipio caught it with his hand.

“Nuh-huh. Time for you to get up. It may be the weekend for you, but you’re in my shop now. Time to work.” Scipio didn’t let Prosper know how much he disliked watching him strain himself to help everyone. Personally, he’d let Prosper sleep all day... but he had to act like he wasn’t worried.

Prosper nodded. He had to work, or get out of Scipio’s way so he could work. Scipio watched Prosper gather himself and run his fingers through his constantly messy, curly brown hair. Scipio could watch him for hours... setting up the shop and cleaning the shelves. Prosper was amazing.

Scipio had decided Prosper was the bravest... strongest person he knew. Even when he was petrified, lost in Venice, Prosper didn’t show his weaknesses. When he was afraid of getting shot, Prosper admitted it and continued on regardless, gaining bravery as he went. Prosper never seemed too afraid of doing something. He could do anything. Perhaps the only thing he feared and showed fear about was losing his brother again.

Prosper sniffled a little and Scipio raised an eyebrow.

“Are you coming down with a cold, Prop?” he asked.

“Nah. Just thought I was gonna sneeze,” Prosper replied, not making eye contact and wiping his mouth in that way he always did when he was nervous about something. Scipio wanted to know what was up but he didn’t want to force Prosper into telling him either.

Click HERE for Chapter 2!

I Hate Water - Thief Lord, Prosper/Scipio fic - Chapter 2

dlanadhz — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 18:42:31 GMT

Prosper stood by the canal, looking into its murky waters wearily. He hated water... at least... water you could swim in. He liked showers, rain was nice, but the canals... He would be fine as long as no one suggested swimming. Not that anyone would go swimming right now. The water was probably nearly frozen.

The air was frozen too. No one in sight was dressed in anything less than two jackets, thick pants, thick wool socks, comfy shoes, and puffy gloves. The scarf was optional. Actually, the only person not wearing all of that was Prosper. He wasn’t wearing gloves and he only had one jacket. Scipio had given it to him when the weather had started to become chilly. He’d given one to everyone but Prosper’s was somehow... warmer, or comfier, or something...

“So Prosper, why’d you invite me out here? I could be doing business right now if it weren’t for you. Go on, spit it out,” Riccio ordered, pacing slightly.

Prosper leaned on the statue by the river and turned away from the waters. He glanced up at the shop and spotted Scipio inside, giving a child a coat. Scipio glanced up and waved at him but Prosper didn’t wave back. He sniffled and rubbed his nose a bit before focusing his attention on Riccio.

“Riccio... You’re my best friend so-...,” he began.

“Really? I thought that’d be Scipio. Are you sure?” Riccio asked, munching on some bread he’d just bought.

“Scipio’s... something more. That’s why I wanted to talk to you, Riccio.” Prosper took a deep breath, prepared to try and explain himself. “Riccio, you’re my best friend, so I thought you should know... I think I’m in love with Scipio.”

Riccio looked stunned at first. He didn’t say anything and Prosper was worried he’d be rejected because of such feelings. Then Riccio smiled.

“Yeah right. Nice try, Prosper. You almost had me,” Riccio laughed, lightly hitting Prosper in the shoulder.

“I’m not kidding, Riccio.” Prosper paused and then sighed in frustration. “I’m really trying here. I’m serious.”

“No you’re not, Prosper. You’ve never seen him like that before. He’s your best friend, for goodness sake.” Riccio narrowed his eyes like he couldn’t understand this conversation.

“Riccio! I’m not making it up. I like him... a lot! I’m trying to be honest with you cause I need someone to talk to. Someone to help me,” Prosper was giving Riccio a look to try and beg him to understand but Riccio shook his head.

“Stop jokin around, Prosper!” he raised his voice, trying to block out what he’d heard, and pushed Prosper roughly.

Prosper’s eyes widened. His hand slipped off the statue beside him. He could feel himself losing his sense of balance. Then Prosper slipped off the edge of the canal and straight down into its murky depths. They were deeper than they appeared. Riccio looked over the edge, worried for Prosper but expecting to see his head pop up at the surface, yelling at him for doing that. The water must be freezing, after all.

But Prosper did not resurface. All that was there to even say Prosper was in there were the bubbles leaking from Prosper’s lips. With a worried gasp, Riccio ran screaming into The Thief Lord’s shop.

Prosper was lost to the canal, lost to the frozen winter waters. The only one Riccio could think to go for was Scipio. Maybe... Maybe Prosper was being serious after all. Whenever Prosper needed help, everyone went for Scipio and whenever Scipio needed help, everyone went to get Prosper. Maybe Prosper was telling the truth. And Riccio just killed him!

Click HERE for Chapter 3!