For John Watson

[howdull]

[Sherlock is still finding pieces of the melted laptop in the carpet.

It had actually been quite an ingenious booby trap to be devised by a fourteen year old boy with only household chemicals to work with but, as Sherlock surmised, rather overkill to keep his mother from finding his extensive porn collection. Not one of their more illustrious cases, but it had been quite entertaining to watch both the boy and mother's faces as he revealed that he did know the how and why. He lost interest after the mother started shouting and John started shouting and the whole thing turned tedious.

He rather thinks John won't actually be doing a full write-up of this one on his blog.

It's been two days since their last case and he's beginning to get more than a little antsy. Lestrade has sent him nothing, just a boring hit and run that he refused to even leave the flat for, and nobody interesting has appeared through the blog. Said blog he is currently scrolling through on John's laptop, having borrowed it again.

He did ask, it's not his fault John hadn't been in the room at the time.]

Bored, John.

[He doesn't even know if his flatmate is even in, but that's hardly a necessity for him to actually speak to John. Frustrated, he throws the laptop across the room to hit the wall, where it summarily breaks. Which is where he can be found whenever John appears, sulking amidst pieces of laptop, both from the melted one of their last case and John's poor broken one.]

Comments

[howdull]

That sounds unbearably tedious.

[He does tilt his head to look at John properly, though.]

Pale, sweaty, slight tremble, you should eat before you collapse.

[jumpthegun]

[When was the last time he ate? This morning. Right. Before they went out.]

I'm fine.

[But more water would be good, probably. As would lying down. John's aware he should probably have tried to get antibiotics at the hospital. Or at the very least, bandages for his back. Getting roughed up by the police, however unintentionally, hasn't helped his condition.

He gets up to investigate Sherlock's kitchen, doubting there's even anything edible in it if he wanted food.]

Aren't you meant to be looking at card stock?

[howdull]

[John would be quite correct that there's nothing edible in the kitchen. The fridge is still running, but the only thing inside is a very shrivelled orange that's clearly been there since before they moved into Baker Street together. It's obvious that neither Sherlock nor Mycroft bothered to clean this place out.]

I need you to be conscious, John, how are you supposed to help me otherwise?

[He says it with a faint edge of irritation rather than the fondness a compliment deserves.]

[jumpthegun]

[He balks, wanting to argue the point, but food probably would help right now, even when the thought of eating anything makes his stomach turn.]

Fine. There's nothing here to eat. Will any take-away places even deliver to this address?

[howdull]

[He shrugs, Sherlock doesn't really remember ever getting takeaway when he lived here. Truth be told, he doesn't remember eating much. But then, he rarely eats much and remembering meals is a pointless use of hard-drive space.]

This is London, somewhere will. Then you should sleep, Mycroft has taken the bedding, but there's still a mattress.

[jumpthegun]

[John checks his phone and finds that his selection of takeaway places has, in fact, remained in his contacts. What must the people who transferred his contacts over think? God, he's useless.

He picks one at random and winds up with a Chinese place. He orders his usual orange chicken and egg rolls on reflex, then something for Sherlock. Even if he doesn't eat it, he'll have it to pick at.]

Food'll be here in fifteen.

[Reluctantly, John goes to fish Sherlock's wallet out of his coat again, taking his credit card for use and feeling absolutely wretched. Mycroft might have favors in mind as a way for John to pay all of this 'kindness' off, but Sherlock? John suspects Sherlock doesn't even think about it, and that just makes him feel worse, like he's taking advantage of the other man's generosity. It was bad enough having to ask for a little extra to help pay his half of the rent before they got the Blind Banker job.

And there's still the matter of the funeral arrangements. Mrs. H had helped, but Christ... when is he going to get to all of that in the middle of all of this? His next pension check isn't due for another week. The loan is still an option, but it's not like he has any collateral. He might have been able to put the flat down, but that's gone.

His chest starts to tighten and John's aware that he's working himself up toward a minor panic attack. Deep breaths.] Nngh! [Maybe not deep breaths. Those hurt. John closes his eyes and curls over where he's sitting on the bed, just trying to get himself under control before this turns to an actual problem, rather than an approaching one.]

Tell me about the cards, Sherlock. What specific aspects are we looking for to match up the card stock?

[howdull]

[It's not hard to see the start of a panic attack in John when he looks over, the symptoms are written as clear as words in the air. Elevated breathing, pale, clammy, dilated pupils, obvious frightened expression. The thing that Sherlock doesn't understand is why.

John is a soldier, used to combat and his life being in danger, and he has already proven that he finds that exhilarating rather than terrifying. So it's not being targeted. It can't be his injuries, that would surely be pain rather than panic. Surely it isn't his sister, panic isn't a logical response to a death. Grief, perhaps, but not panic.

Something to do with the food?

He stares at John with a slightly baffled expression, only snapping to when the direct question comes at him.]

It's the age, the thickness of the card used is at least two millimetres thicker in older stock. There's also a slight increase in rigidity and the coarse feel of the cardboard. Newer cards tend to be embossed or laminated.

[A beat.]

Why are you panicking?

[jumpthegun]

I'm not panicking.

[It's a patently ridiculous thing to say, and he knows it, knows Sherlock will see through it and won't drop it. He never drops it.]

I can't pay you back. I don't have the money to pay you back. For any of this. Mycroft wants to put me up at the Hilton. I can't bloody afford to pay either of you back. Not for the food, not for the clothes, the flat. I can't pay for any of it right now.

[He squeezes his eyes tight shut.]

I can't pay you back, and you don't care.

[howdull]

[Of course Mycroft wants to do that, sometimes he truly does detest his brother, but he can shelve that for now because of the greater mystery that is John. Why on earth should he care if John can pay him back or not? Nor did he realise that John would panic so much over expenses.]

If money is so important to you, then perhaps you should have taken Mycroft's initial offer of a retainer. Rather short sighted of you.

[He really doesn't get it.]

[jumpthegun]

[This is stupid. John knows it's stupid, and that just makes the panic worse, eats away at him. Sherlock is really not helping with his prodding, either. It makes John feel even more ridiculous, weak.]

It's not about the money! [The doctor is starting to hyperventilate. It is the money, it isn't the money. It's the helplessness, really, but John isn't equipped to articulate that. So, it's the money he's panicking over right now.] And I don't bloody spy on people for money.

[For their own good? Maybe. But not for money. Never for money.]

[howdull]

[This is baffling enough to have Sherlock put down the cards and actually focus on John properly now. He can read the panic attack clearly, but not why. It makes no sense.]

Then if the money isn't an issue, what are you panicking about?

[Mycroft? The Hilton? No. He can read none of those are correct, or not quite correct. What is it?!]

[jumpthegun]

I don't know! I don't know, all right? I just-I just am. Nothing. I'm panicking about nothing. [Like a useless idiot. And now he's distracting Sherlock from actually getting on with their work. Wonderful. Charming. Brilliant!

Why the man is concerned with having him conscious to help when he's not helping in the slightest is beyond John right at the moment. It's ludicrous. They need to find the Alphabet woman. They don't have time for this. Time to eat, time to sleep. There should be something he's doing, not just sitting around while Sherlock does everything.

John's not the clever one, he knows that. But this particular case has proved time and again that he's barely worth having around. He gets caught by the police, panics for no reason.]

Christ! Just leave me alone!

[Just let him pull himself together. There's a tingling sensation in his arms, and his cheeks, like pins and needles. He feels nauseous.]

Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.

[It's muttered quietly to himself as his hands grip the edge of the mattress and John holds himself rigid, just trying to stop everything.]

[howdull]

[This is so far outside Sherlock's wheelhouse that it's almost comical. He doesn't deal with the grieving family other than to get details for the case and he doesn't care if he upsets them then. He has never had a panic attack himself, though he can list off all the physiological symptoms and even fake one convincingly if necessary.

He pushes himself up to his feet and crosses to stand in front of John, glass crunching under his feet. He hesitates, unsure what to do or say in that moment. He recalls hearing other people give breathing instructions at this point, but that's so stupid. John is a doctor and a grown man, he knows how to breathe.]

You do not owe me anything, John. The assistance you provide on cases as a physician and the company you provide of a generally less tedious nature than most people, is valuable beyond monetary recompense.

[He doesn't see that as especially sentimental, it's just plain fact and he thought John knew it already. His contribution is not fiscal, he could achieve that without an ex-army doctor on hand.]

Here.

[He thrusts the business card from the hospital at John,]

Perforations down the side, four for an older stock, five for a newer one. A surgeons hands are better suited to feeling the difference and I'm bored. You take over.

[jumpthegun]

[John stares up at Sherlock for a moment, breathing hard as a different emotion washes through him. It's gratitude, but it's not the sort tinged with anger at his own incompetence and reliance on other people, as it had been for Mycroft. Sherlock is trusting him, giving him a task and just getting on with things.

The doctor feels his eyes burn and blinks hard as he takes the card. The symptoms of the panic attack aren't going to ebb that quickly, but he manages to get his breathing a little more under control and that helps to alleviate some of the other things.]

Thank you.

[John manages to pull himself up and move over to the pile of cards. His hands are shaking, but he just focuses on doing as he's been asked, feeling for the perforations. This is something Sherlock could easily do on his own and that would probably go faster with him doing it, but he's given it to John, and the doctor will not let him down.

By the time the buzzer goes off to signal the food delivery, John's mostly back to himself, although he's feeling rather emotionally and physically drained for the panic attack.]

[howdull]

[For once it's Sherlock that goes down to get the food, reappearing with takeaway which he puts on the floor within reach of John before he goes to sit on the bed. He isn't interested in the food, he doesn't eat while on a case, but he does want to think. This woman, the Alphabet Woman as John has dubbed her, is intriguing but indeed.

Perhaps it's because John is focusing so much harder on the task than Sherlock had been, but he might notice that the curve of the capital D in Donovan has the tiniest added line above it to make it seem like another part of a Pashto word. Piecing it together with the other fragment would spell the word "Hero".

There are also three business cards with the right amount of perforations among the several hundred on the floor. One for a bakery in Soho, one for a winery in Kensington, and one for a shoe shop in Oxford Street.]

[jumpthegun]

[John works away as he eats, feeling just a little better for the food, in spite of himself. He takes more ibuprofen with the meal, knowing he's going to max out on it soon. But he needs to stay focused on the task at hand. The D in Donovan doesn't immediately catch his attention, but looking at the damn card hundreds of times as he compares the card stock, feels over the letters to see if that helps him feel out similarities does eventually lead him to the flaw.

He sets aside the cards he's found and for the moment, along with his mostly-eaten orange chicken.]

Sherlock, give us your phone. I think... there's something wrong with the letters on this card. Well, the D, anyway. [The rest don't have the tick, which makes it stand out more.]

[howdull]

[There are words floating in the air, formless and vivid all at once, helping him to visualise the different ways this could go. The important thing now was deducing what C would be, another person or another place? Perhaps something abstract. He thinks he might almost have it when--]

What?

[Everything dissipates around him and he scowls at John in annoyance.]

Couldn't you have just collected it? I'm busy, you've interrupted me.

[He honestly doesn't see why John didn't just come and take it out of his trouser pocket as he laid there and thought.]

[jumpthegun]

[The look John gives Sherlock is one of extreme skepticism. He knows where Sherlock's phone is. A breast pocket is one thing. Going for Sherlock's trousers without warning is very much another. John considers what he would do in those circumstances... were it anyone other than Sherlock.

With an irritated sigh, the doctor just crawls over and places the three matching cards on Sherlock's chest before reaching across him and pulling his mobile free from his pocket.

A few seconds later, he's sat back on his heels, scrolling through Sherlock's pictures. It's... uncomfortable. He tries to skip past the ones that show Harry's face in full. He finally gets to a decent picture of the symbol on her forehead and compares the card he has to it.

He gets up to find a pen and joins the two pieces together directly on the card he has, brow furrowed. John knows this word. It's something they saw a lot of for the fallen in Afghanistan.]

Hero.

[Is the Alphabet Woman calling Sally a hero? Well, no, that wouldn't make sense. Him? If she's murdering people because of him, then she hardly thinks John is a hero.]

[howdull]

[Uninterested in whatever John is doing, Sherlock is trying to recreate the mental pathways that had almost led to his epiphany before he had been so rudely interrupted and lost his train of thought.

He hears John speak, and his reply is distracted.]

Very kind, John, but inaccurate. I'm not a hero.

[jumpthegun]

No, the Pashto.

[He's still puzzling over it as he shuffles back to Sherlock and sits gingerly on the bed near the other man's feet.]

The pierce on Harry and the piece on this card... the parts line up to make the work hero. Most of the villages, they had a wall somewhere, a memorial to the fallen heroes from the war.

[howdull]

[That does get his attention and his eyes snap towards John with intense focus, swinging his legs over the side of the bed to sit up.]

She's almost certainly from your service days, then, and it's likely to be intended as sarcastic or an insult. Perhaps in memory of a mistake made that she does not see you as a hero for? Perhaps she thinks you should have died out there and your name been added to the memorial? Or perhaps it's a threat that you will soon be deceased and eligible to be added to the wall of heroes?

[So many options, all of them interesting! He's really enjoying this case and it shows.]

that was a lot of typos... SORRY

[jumpthegun]

I made more than a few mistakes in my day. [And some calls that ended up in people dying, but the mission being achieved.] That doesn't narrow it down terribly much.

[John motions to the cards that have slid down to Sherlock's lap when he sat up.]

Those are the ones I found that match the card stock.

never forgiven

[howdull]

[He plucks the three of them up and looks them over, giving John a small nod of approval for the work he's managed to do.]

Well, why haven't you called them and found out about their business card suppliers?

[A chance for John to show that he can act as well.]

[jumpthegun]

[John clucks his tongue and reaches for one of the cards. He hands Sherlock's phone back at the same time, and dials the first place--the winery in Kensington.]

Hullo, I'm looking to speak with the office manager or the person who buys your card stock.

[howdull]

[The woman on the other end of the phone has the sort of posh accent that has been trained into her to make her business sound good.]

No, thank you. We're quite happy with the cards that we have, we're not interested in changing supplier.

[She clearly thinks he's a salesman. Two beeps sound loud in John's ear during the call, two text messages in quick succession.]