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

[jumpthegun]

Oh, god. I have to... [John looks down at his clothes, then over at Sherlock. He settles on Lestrade, looking momentarily distraught.] Harry. Harry's funeral is today. [And he's a mess. He hasn't taken a proper shower in a few days, his clothes are new and nice, but they're not appropriate for a funeral. The thought of leaving Sherlock alone here again to be snapped up by the Alphabet Woman--Caroline--is anxiety-inducing, as well. He can't exactly haul the man to a funeral in his current condition, though.]

I can't go. [His hand goes up to his hair, running through it a few times.] I forgot. Fuck.

[howdull]

How long?

[Lestrade only looked shocked for all of two seconds before jumping into action. No matter what else he thought of these two idiots at the moment, he wasn't about to let John miss the funeral of his last remaining family.]

Come on, get up, into the shower. I'll call in and have Donovan pick out a suit in your size and meet us there, police escort, cut out the traffic.

[jumpthegun]

An hour, but I can't... I can't just leave him. [John's eyes turn to Sherlock. As annoyed as he'd been a moment ago with the consulting detective, there's no part of John that wants that to happen again.] She took him last time I did, and he won't even be able to fight back.

[howdull]

[A tiny frown of confusion mars Sherlock's face. He's heard sentimental feeling expressed in his person before, but not usually directed at him. It's oddly touching and he has no idea what to do with it.]

Don't be absurd, John, why would she come back for me? She has already given me a potentially effective death sentence, and I am quite capable of surviving or dying without your supervision.

[jumpthegun]

[It's the dying part that more concerns him.]

Because she's a bloody psychopath!

[John looks to Lestrade.]

Could you put a guard on him? Someone you trust. It has to be someone you trust completely.

[Because paranoia whispers in his mind that Caroline or her accomplice might have gotten to someone in the police force. It's not another day until the her main event is meant to begin. But he can't help but distrust that assurance.]

[howdull]

[Lestrade is equally unwilling to leave Sherlock unattended when he's talking about dying like it might actually happen, but he only really has Anderson and Donovan on call today and neither one of them would be a good choice.]

I'll sort something out, just get going. What's the address, how long do we have?

[Getting across London is at least easier in a police car, especially if he sneakily puts on the siren for a while, but they might still be cutting it close.]

[jumpthegun]

[That will have to do. He gives Lestrade the address and his size for a suit.]

We only have about an hour.

[John is moving toward the bathroom. It should be a quick rinse in there. He doesn't have the time for a long soak, and he doesn't want to have to reapply what Molly put on his back. He's mentally berating himself for forgetting as he pulls off his clothes faster than he probably should, given his injuries. He hisses and grimaces through the pain.

Five minutes later, he's stepping out--thank god for the military teaching him how to do very quick showers when he needs them--and grabbing for... a hand towel. There's not much in the way of linens in here. He calls out through the door as he pulls on his pants:]

Are they going to bring the suit here, or are we going to meet them at the church?

[He doesn't want to have to get dressed and undressed and dressed again unless he absolutely needs to.]

[howdull]

[Sherlock is going to hate Lestrade, but needs must and he doesn't have anyone else that he trusts to have Sherlock's best interests at heart, so Lestrade may have just sent a sneaky text to Mycroft telling him that Sherlock would be alone and if he could see his way to coming by and spending some time then that would be great.

Sherlock really was going to kill him if and when he found out, but hopefully that wouldn't be until after he had left with John.]

Meeting us there, there's not enough time to wait for them to get here and then go. You'll have to change in the lav at the church.

[jumpthegun]

[Mycroft will be coming swiftly, so Lestrade will need to make haste. Luckily, he doesn't have a police escort, so they'll probably manage to get out before the brother arrives.

John pulls his clothes back on as fast as he can manage, not paying too much attention to having them sorted neatly. They're coming off soon, anyway. He steps out, hair wet, and looking rather rumpled, but it'll do. He can't help stopping for one last, earnest comment to Sherlock.]

I'll be back soon. Just a couple of hours. Text me if there's anything off. And make sure whoever's staying with you changes out your saline as soon as it's running low. The oxygen canisters, too.

[Sherlock might not be able to actually do anything but lie in agony and vomit in the near future, but this is as much for John's peace of mind as anything else. He can't lose anyone else. He can't.

As that's about all that can be said, though, John nods and then motions for Lestrade to lead the way downstairs and out to the car. The doctor doesn't like leaving his friend and patient alone, even for a short spell, but they need to get going.

And in any case, a familiar black car is sliding up the drive just as John and Lestrade are pulling away.]

[howdull]

[The last time Mycroft had deigned to come out to this little flat himself, it had been several years ago and Sherlock had been in the grip of a rather unpleasant overdose. It hadn't been long after that he had suddenly found himself back in touch with Mrs. Hudson and persuaded to take on more cases with Lestrade to give him something to occupy himself with.

He doesn't realise it's his brother that's been called until he hears the footsteps on the stairs, and by then it's too late to kill whichever of John or Lestrade actually called him. So he has to settle for glaring at the door and making his voice as acerbic as possible from behind an oxygen mask.]

Suddenly the throes of a ricin induced death seem almost appealing.

[brotheryours]

Hardly the dramatic death you might have hoped for, some little hovel with no one about.

[Mycroft's tone is drawling as he steps in, umbrella in hand. He pays very little mind to Sherlock's glare and just casts a disparaging look around the flat.]

I hardly think you want to become a footnote in history out of spite.

[howdull]

[He rolls his eyes and shifts onto his back on the little bed so that he can look at the ceiling instead of Mycroft, the stain of mildew is a much more welcome sight.]

Quiet day in the government today, then?

[Must be, Mycroft has come personally and in record time.]

Or is it just that the cafe around the corner still sells those pork pies?

[brotheryours]

Busy day in your neighborhood, brother mine. Have you any idea the number of people coming and going from this area recently? And several of them in the absence of usable CCTV footage. It's rather curious. I thought I might investigate.

Your DI also thought we might like to catch up while Dr. Watson sees to his... arrangements. Tragic. Nearly a double tragedy. I trust you've already begun narrowing the potential list of suspects for Mrs. Matthews' accomplice in your head?

[howdull]

Lestrade has a lot of idiotic ideas, but this one may have propelled him into a new league of stupidity. Why would anyone ever think we might like to catch up? What on Earth do we have to catch up on?

[Is that what normal siblings do? Discuss the mundane over tea and biscuits as if there could be nothing more interesting in their utterly trivial lives than to hear about another equally trivial life.

He doesn't answer about the accomplice, because truthfully he has no suspects. John's idea of a fellow veteran with technological skills is the best one they have so far. But he's not about to admit that to Mycroft.]

[brotheryours]

The weather? Local sports teams? Celebrity gossip? You're the one who hangs about with people like him. Surely you've gleaned what it is they talk about.

I see you're struggling with the accomplice question, though.

[Mycroft strolls over to the bed.]

Would you like some help?

[howdull]

No.

[It's sharp and immediate, he's clearly bristling at the implication that he might not have all the answers already.]

Of course I don't need any help, I have several suspects and am progressing well with narrowing the field. As ever, Mycroft, you are superfluous to requirements.

[brotheryours]

Am I?

[Mycroft plants his umbrella.]

Come now, Sherlock, your little pal is in danger. We wouldn't want Dr. Watson getting hurt. Is this petty feud worth that?

[howdull]

Never say the word 'pal' again, it's embarrassing.

[But he's not denying it any longer, neither is he ever going to outright ask for help.]

Did you at least bring Operation?

[That's how they handle all their more awkward conversations.]

[brotheryours]

Would you prefer pet? [Mycroft's feeling less than charitable toward the good doctor recently, what with one thing and another.] One that's proving more dangerous than I had anticipated. Provided he's really the target.

[Mycroft doesn't bother to answer the question directly, just sets the brief case he's been carrying on the foot of Sherlock's bed and opens it to reveal the game. He has some doubts that his little brother is going to be terribly coherent for much longer, so better to indulge him now.]

[howdull]

Of course he's the target.

[That comes out in a waspish tone of voice, because that is at least a deduction that he's certain of. Whatever is happening here, it's all because John didn't manage to save Danny Matthews.

Sherlock pulls himself upright, irritated at the shaking in his limbs and how hard it is to do just that, and starts to unpack the game onto the edge of the bed.]

The technology and planning may be the lion's share of this operation, but the person behind it is clearly working for the benefit of her plans. Therefore, the target is always going to be John.

[brotheryours]

You are aware he's a man of little consequence? [Mycroft raises a brow as he pulls the game out of its box and begins setting it up on top of the briefcase.] Surely you don't think someone would leap to the field medic as the culprit for what happened to their dead spouse without some encouragement? And why should anyone encourage?

His connections are far more interesting and valuable than he is. Your doctor may be the current target, but you may wish to expand your view beyond the present moment to considering who might be injured by his suffering. Not his sister. She's dead now. Who might that leave, do you imagine?

[howdull]

[He's stumped, but he's going to blame that on the soup that ricin is making of his brain, and definitely not that he just doesn't know what Mycroft is getting at. The only people who would stand to be injured by John's suffering are a few sad friends he meets down the pub once in a while, some army colleagues, and one or two women. Nobody of any consequence whatsoever.

He doesn't even consider that it might be him. He's not an emotional creature, people trying to get to him shouldn't use sentimental means. Besides which, he was in her grasp for a while, if he had been the target then she had ample opportunity to kill him. Which, he supposes, she sort of has done with the ricin. But it's still obvious he's not the main event.

So he ends up just looking at Mycroft in a slightly confused manner.]

There is plenty of supporting evidence for a grieving family member to latch onto a medical professional as a party to blame.

[brotheryours]

Oh, Sherlock. You really always were so very slow. [Mycroft sighs despairingly. He could attribute some of it to the poison, but really.] Why would she not latch onto the surgeon at the hospital where she saw her husband? His psychiatrists? Anyone that she had actually met. It would have taken effort to latch onto Dr. Watson. People rarely go to that effort when they're grieving. They would typically pick the easy target.

But we have this woman that Dr. Watson has never met, but just so happens to be closely connected to you, brother dear. Your flatmate. Your blogger. And such a loyal man. I wonder what you might do if he never comes back from that funeral.

[Mycroft raises his brow before settling with the board game between them. He flicks it on and Sherlock will have the chance to go first. Look how obliging his older brother is being!]

[howdull]

[Mycroft is right. He hates when Mycroft is right, which is a shame because it happens so frequently. But it is unusual that she would latch onto John, and there must be a deeper reason here.]

I have already been effectively at her mercy, if I were the target then her manner of dealing with me is most inefficient.

[He picks up the tweezers and goes for the funny bone, only just managing to keep his hand steady enough to get it out.]

Is your driver downstairs?

[brotheryours]

Of course.

[Mycroft takes the tweezers and considers his options before going for the Adam's apple. It's one of the easier pieces.]

I have little doubt Mrs. Matthews believes Dr. Watson to be her true target, but that does not preclude the motives of her partner. Perhaps something you've been nosing around the edges of.