Willow

Her boss hated to travel. He preferred to orbit between his flat and his office, with occasional unavoidable side trips to other parts of the city to deal with missing documents, work stoppages, and family problems. She'd never known him to travel farther than the M25, even in times of extreme crises. He'd videoconferenced for the Copenhagen summit, and sent her to New York to deal with the British Petroleum problem.

Still, some things had to be handled personally. Hence her presence in the deserted house just outside of Leicester.

She brushed a piece of debris from her sleeve. A new message popped up on her mobile, followed by two more. She glanced at the sender, dismissed them without reading them, and shifted position to make herself more comfortable against the wall. Blood trickled down her chin from her lip; she felt in her blazer for her handkerchief before remembering. Leaving it outside, over the dead man's face, had seemed the decent thing to do at the time, but now she wished she'd kept it. She blotted the blood with the back of her hand. She'd underestimated him, the first time they'd met, and had the months-old scars to prove it. She'd learned from that, learned to regard with the proper respect a man three stone heavier and a head taller than her, with ten years of military training to boot. Their first meeting had apparently not had the same effect on his respect for her. The second meeting had fixed that.

Another message; she dismissed it, and adjusted her position again, wiping sweaty palms on her skirt before picking up her mobile again. There: footsteps, too light to be familiar. She slid her mobile into the pocket of her blazer as she straightened. The door opened, someone ran inside, and then slowed immediately. She ducked around the corner.

“Seb?” A light tenor voice. The footsteps came closer as she listened, crossing into the hall... “Seb.”

“He's not coming,” she called down the stairs, and ducked as a bullet thudded into the wall above her head before she'd finished speaking. She circled round the landing, leaned out, aimed carefully, and fired twice. The first missed; the second hit his arm.

He cried out, the gun clattered to the floor-- and then the front door closed. Heavier footsteps advanced across the front room. She leaned around the corner, cautiously, just far enough to see the silhouette below. The newcomer paused magisterially in the doorway, and looked round. “Hello,” he said pleasantly.

She couldn't see the other man, but she heard rustling below, cloth on wood, and she went to the back window to watch the exit, tensing-- if she knew he almost certainly had another weapon, then surely her boss did, but--

“My name is Mycroft Holmes,” he continued. Then, a single gunshot. She recognized the caliber, and relaxed.

She waited a moment, then another, before coming down the stairs, gun still in hand just in case. When she entered the back room, her boss was straightening up from crouching near the body on the floor. In his right hand was a gun. He turned and regarded her carefully. “Any problems?”

She holstered her own gun. Objectively speaking, the amount of blood was relatively small, but the mess on the floor still turned her stomach. “I see why you keep lackeys to do this. I wouldn't want to make a practice of it,” she admitted, her voice not quite steady.

He frowned, as if puzzling over a neat academic problem. “Quite,” he agreed, his own voice perfectly even. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket, glanced down at the floor, and handed it to her. She wiped her mouth gingerly, and touched a tentative hand to her ribs; she'd have bruises there, soon.

His eyebrows went up. “Shall we?” he indicated the door. They turned their backs on the body, and left the house.

She texted the local constabulary, notifying them of the address, and Mycroft's own people, who were waiting about five minutes up the M1. Then she opened her inbox, scrolling through a series of increasingly angry and desperate messages from Dr John Watson. Where is he? What happened? I heard the shots and the explosion. Where? WHERE? If you don't tell me what happened I'm going to take apart every A&E in the city looking for him. What was troubling was not the content, but the five-minute silence since the last one. She switched to another window, this one a live video feed from a hospital room, trained on an abraded, burned, unconscious figure; a number of monitors were conveniently turned toward the camera. She studied it, and tilted it so her boss could see the screen. One eyebrow arched delicately, and he nodded, once; the thin lines on his face became slightly, almost imperceptibly, less sharp.

Sherlock alive, expected to remain so, she texted back. Sending driver now, eta 3 min. Link to live video feed to follow. She hesitated, then added: James Moriarty dead.

She wondered, if the idea was to make the carpet and drapes resistant to stains, why whoever had furnished the room hadn't gone with a darker brown. As it was, it was just brown enough to be drab, but not brown enough to be usefully utilitarian. She knew; she'd dropped three mugs of tea on the carpet, thanks to her damned hand. Each time she'd had to spend fifteen minutes on her knees scrubbing the carpet out, because the cleaning fee would have been money she could ill afford to spend. Each time she'd paid for it in another way the next day, when the minutes on the floor had made her leg seize up so badly she could barely hobble to the loo and back. Being bedridden left one with very little in the way of entertainment, even for a crippled ex-soldier with low standards. Staring at the clock, making herself count the minutes, always pushing back by fifteen more the time at which she would transfer the gun from the drawer to under her pillow... she'd killed two hours that way before falling asleep. And two more, upon waking.

She sat on the bed-- light brown sheets and coverlet-- and considered the opposite wall-- beige-- and her strange meeting with Mr Sherlock Holmes. The only phrase she could summon was, What the hell? If Mike was right, if the man hadn't been putting on an elaborate show to have her on, then she thought he was probably a little mad.

Her phone-- he'd borrowed it. What had he sent? That could be illuminating. She took it out of her pocket. The inbox was empty, it was always empty. The sent messages--

All right, maybe a lot mad.

She limped over to the desk and looked up his name on the Internet. There were only a few hits, the top one purporting to be the website of one Sherlock Holmes. “The Science of Deduction”-- well, that might explain why he'd been in the lab, then. Mike had never told her what the man did, but after thinking about it, she'd realized that scientists and doctors with the NIH usually didn't need flatmates to make the rent.

The website was fascinating and inexplicable, which, she realized, was a pretty good description of its owner as well. Surely he couldn't be serious about all this, all this business about ties and thumbs and green ladders and arrests? And who had he texted, anyway?

She finished looking through his website and shut her laptop. Staring at the brown wall, she recalled the meeting in the lab. Sherlock Holmes had taken her apart, guessed nearly everything about her life, stared at her like he could see right through her... but he hadn't pitied her.

The thought occurred to her that, possibly, Sherlock Holmes was even more mad than she was. Wouldn't that be refreshing? She didn't have to commit to anything, if she went round to see the flat. Just have a look, and maybe see if the man was really as rude, abrasive, and strange as he seemed.

And what else did she have to do tomorrow at seven, except sit and stare at brown walls?

He asked what had happened to her, and then let it drop. He was startled, curious, probably felt sorry for her, but he didn't make a spectacle about it, no profusions of sorrow or sympathy, no incredulous wondering what she was ever going to do with herself now. He asked her how long she'd been over there, and how long she'd been back, and if the answer to the second question seemed like a long time with respect to her lack of recovery, he didn't show it. They talked about other things; they went to get coffee, and he didn't mention her limp, didn't ask if she wanted to wait while he brought something back for her.

That was the first kindness Mike Stamford did her. He'd always, she remembered, been kind-- mild-mannered, but observant.

Her hand curled around the paper cup, steady for the moment. She tried to remember what she'd heard from or about Mike, if anything, since she'd been a student. “You still at Bart's, then?”

“Yeah. Teaching, now.”

She nodded. He'd always been patient, too, and good at explaining things. It made sense.

“Bright young things like we used to be. God, I hate them.”

Memories: late-night revision sessions with endless buckets of coffee, getting the highest grades in a decade on a particularly misanthropic, resentful (and misogynistic) lecturer's exams, a certain incident with the cadavers... she pictured Mike in place of the professor who'd been nominally in charge during the cadaver incident, and smiled, and it was nearly a real smile.

“What about you? Just staying in town until you get yourself sorted?”

The casual assumption that she had something to move on to, the faith in her abilities indicated by the question: it hurt, but it was genuine. And it was the second kindness Mike Stamford did her.

“Can't afford London on an Army pension,” she said non-committally. He could make of that statement whatever he wanted, and if he chose to assume she had a future elsewhere in England, she hadn't lied.

“And you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the Joan Watson I know.”

“I'm not the Joan Watson,” she snapped, and then cut herself off before she said anything more. Wasn't it obvious, to him? Was he just being kind? Or cruel? Or what? Couldn't he see what she'd become?

Of all the things he could have chosen not to let go, this was at least one of the less painful. “Couldn't Harry help?”

She snorted. She hadn't changed that much-- and, more to the point, neither had Harry. “Yeah, like that's going to happen.” Harry'd stopped sending cheques, at least, but she'd forced her old mobile phone, with its own ghosts, on Joan. That was fine; they weren't Joan's ghosts, and they didn't bother her. The phone was still under contract, and Harry had refused to give her the billing information, insisting on paying it. Joan had, reluctantly, acquiesced.

“I don't know... get a flatshare, or something?”

He seemed determined to try to solve her problems-- or this one, at least, which was admittedly the most understandable of them all. She gave him a sidelong look, a mild one, because he'd always been kind to her and he was trying now, even if his persistent belief that she had a future was bewildering. “Who'd want me for a flatmate?” If he asked “what do you mean,” if he could really see that little, she thought she might walk away.

But he didn't, just smiled a little, and then tilted his head as if he were thinking about something.

“What?” she demanded.

His eyebrows furrowed slightly. “How would you feel about rooming with a bloke?”

She frowned, and took a sip of her coffee. “Depends on the bloke.”

Title: Birthdays
Epilogue. The Social Life of 221b.
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, John, Anthea, Mycroft. Contains what you might call... pre-het, or squint-het.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the BBC's characters or plots.
Word Count: 3,346
Warnings: Guns in a non-combat context.


Sherlock was loudly correcting the telly show host, again. “He was sleeping with the rector, not the maid of honour!”

John shook his head. “Thought you would have got bored with it by now.”

Sherlock gestured at the screen. “What's here is infinitely stranger than anything anyone could invent-- and therefore, more interesting.”

“Hmm.” John sent his email, closed his laptop, and went to the kitchen. “So where did you learn to pick locks?”

“Hmm?”

“Tea?”

“Mmm.”

John poured hot water into the mugs, and carried them into the living room. “You. Picking locks. Where did you learn?” He handed one to his flatmate.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said, not taking his gaze off of the screen. After a moment, he added, “I was five. We were bored.”

“God help your parents.”

Sherlock didn't reply to that. John had never heard him mention his parents other than that night with the cabbie, the pills, and Mycroft. Finally he said, “I can teach you.”

“I don't think it's a skill I'd use in everyday life.”

“What a depressing pair of words. Oh, someone hacked your blog.”

“What? Who?” John reached for his laptop.

“Sometime in the last twenty-four hours, I'd say.”

John loaded his blog, expecting scarlet obscenities or something. But the page was still blue, it looked normal, he didn't see anything out of place... “Are you sure? Where?”

Sherlock didn't bother to respond, so John shook his head and began to read through the recent entries. “Oh,” he said after a minute. “Oh.” Hurriedly, he pressed the edit button. “I'll just... check over the rest of this. Who would do this? I don't even like slipcovers!”

“Gwen Simmons.”

“Who? Oh. Why?”

“She thought you were high-handed.”

“I was trying to save your life, Sherlock!”

“Her words, not mine.”

“She... she emailed you.”

“Obviously.”

“To complain, about me.”

“Not just to complain about you.”

“Lovely,” John muttered.

He'd just finished combing his blog to remove all the references to slipcovers, fluffy bunnies, and handcuffs when his mobile buzzed. It was a text message from a number he didn't recognize. Even though Sherlock was sitting right across from him, he felt a second of apprehension. Then he opened it, and...

“Problem?”

“This doesn't make sense at all.”

“What is it?”

“It just says... next Tuesday, 10:30, with an address. Is this her? Gwen Simmons?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“Because she always works alone, and because right now she's in Tulsa, Oklahoma, visiting her mother.”

“Oh.” John looked up the address. “It's... a vacant building. Used to be a kid's playplace.” He frowned. “Do you think it's...”

“He's not that stupid.” Sherlock picked up a book on pathogenic fungi of southern Thailand. “Maybe you've picked up a secret admirer from your blog.”

John puzzled over the mysterious text message for the next day. Then he wrote back: is this a threat?

The answer came back almost immediately. “Sherlock,” John said tightly, running downstairs. “Sherlock!”

His friend looked up from his book. “John.”

“Read this.” John handed over his mobile.

Sherlock glanced at the screen, then handed it back without comment.

“Well?”

“I don't see why you're so distressed.”

“'No, but feel free to bring your Sig'!”

“I can read, you know.”

“Sherlock, I am not supposed to have that gun.”

“Why not?”

“Because it's illegal!”

“Oh. Dull.”

“Whoever this is, knows that I have it, they even know what kind it is!”

“Clearly.” Sherlock turned a page.

John opened his mouth, closed it again, and went back to his bedroom. He suspected that making Sherlock understand why having complete strangers know about one's illegal pistol was bad, was an exercise in futility. He wrote back, who are you?

The answer came back almost immediately. My name wouldn't mean anything to you.

John spent Monday in the A&E worrying about the mysterious text messages. He finally resolved to somehow convince Sherlock into looking into it. After all, it was for Sherlock's cases that he'd been carrying the thing around the city, and Sherlock didn't have anything else on at the moment. John would be working at 10:30 the next day, so he wouldn't be tempted to go by the vacant building for a look.

John's boss called him into the office at the end of his shift. “I want you to take tomorrow off,” he said.

“Why? I'm scheduled.”

“Yes, but you've been working doubles for the last eight days,” Paul said.

“So has everyone else. I'm fit to work.”

“Er. John, just take tomorrow off.” Paul looked uncharacteristically nervous.

John stared at him. Then, suddenly, he understood, and licked his lips. “... Right,” he said.

“Good. See you... Wednesday, then?”

“I... I should think so, yeah.”

Paul looked at John, then shook his head just a little. “Good night, John.”

John arrived at the specified building at 10:24 on Tuesday morning, his Sig safely hidden beneath his jumper and his coat. The door was windowless; he tried the handle, found it unlocked, and stepped inside.

It was in surprisingly good condition for a building that had been abandoned for the last seven years. The front corridor was dark and dusty, but dry. He went in the direction of the faint light, and found himself in a perfectly normal-looking reception room.

“Identification, please,” the secretary said.

John fumbled in his wallet and handed over his ID card for the hospital. “Will this do?”

Silently, the secretary studied the card, and handed it back. “Through the hallway,” he said, indicating a doorway behind him, “around the corner, third door on the right after the corner.”

“Thanks.”

All the doors John passed were closed and unlabeled. The third door on the right after the corner was unlocked, and behind it was a large, mostly empty room. “If I hadn't figured it out,” he asked, “were you going to kidnap me again?”

Anthea turned around. “Yes,” she said, and smiled innocently.

The room was an indoor shooting gallery, long and narrow. Anthea was standing at the firing line. John joined her and drew his Sig. “I didn't bring any extra bullets, I'm afraid.”

“I did.” She began to unload the large canvas bag on the counter in front of her. In addition to three boxes of 9mm Luger bullets, she handed him a set of earplugs, a pair of earmuffs, and safety goggles. John put the last three on, then happened to glance at what else she was taking out of the bag:

the Browning Hi-Power he knew, from brief encounters with the SAS, but the long-barreled pistol and the smaller, sleeker gun he didn't recognize at all. Finally, she took off her blazer, drew another small pistol from its holster, and added it to the collection in front of her. She looked up, caught John staring, and put the long pistol in front of him. He took off his ear protection hastily. “Have a go with this one,” she said, put another box of bullets in front of him, and donned her own earmuffs.

John loaded the long gun: the engraving on the barrel proclaimed it an HK USP Elite, and it took .45s. It was more accurate than anything he'd ever shot before, and the recoil was much less. Still, after using half the box, he put down the HK and picked up his Sig. He glanced over at Anthea; she put down the small pistol that she regularly carried, and picked up the Browning. He concentrated on his own shooting. The range was fully automated, and he could bring up a new target with the flick of a switch.

His groupings weren't as clean as he'd liked, or as clean as they'd once been, but that was to be expected. When he'd reported his pistol as missing on the battlefield, and enlisted Bill's help to get it home, he'd been on strong drugs and not considering how he would either buy bullets, or practice with his weapon. John had never regretted the decision to smuggle his service pistol out of Afghanistan, though the lack of regret been for very different reasons before and after Sherlock, respectively. He reloaded.

He'd noticed enough improvement to please himself by the time he was out of ammunition. Anthea was just putting down the Browning. She looked over, saw him watching, and handed him the last gun from her collection, the small, sleek one. When she took off her ear protection, he followed suit. “Want to try this one?”

John turned it over. “Are all these yours?”

“No.” She placed another box of bullets in front of him, and put her earmuffs back on. John took out the magazine, loaded it, replaced his ear protection, and aimed at the target. This gun fired nicely, and he achieved a tight grouping. After reloading twice more, he put the gun down, and took off his earmuffs and earplugs.

“Do you have the things to clean them with?”

“I'll do that later. Are you done?”

“Yes.” He returned her gun. “Thank you.”

She looked up from putting away the guns and goggles, and smiled. “You're welcome, John.”

“Is, er... are things back to normal for you, then?”

“Normal?”

“Well. As normal as they get, I suppose.”

“Mostly. Mycroft made short work of Rosemary's accomplices.” She put the last box of bullets in her bag. “There's been turmoil in more than one ministry office since he got out of the hospital.”

“Hmm.”

Anthea turned and walked quickly out of the range; John hurried to catch up and then walked along beside her. “Do you do this frequently, then?”

“Regularly. Sometimes I practice with the field agents.”

“Right.” They left the building for a back alley; there was a familiar black car there, and Anthea opened the door and put the bag in the back seat. “Well, thanks again. I suppose I'll... see you next time Sherlock wants to piss off his brother.”

Anthea slid through and opened the other door.

He blinked. “Er.”

She smiled innocently. “Get in the car, John.”

“You know,” he said, as she drove through the streets of London, “there are ways to get someone to go somewhere that don't involve kidnapping them.”

“I didn't kidnap you. This time.”

“Or frightening their bosses.”

“He'll be fine.”

“Isn't that an abuse of power?”

She gave him her don't-be-an-idiot look. It wasn't as acerbic as Sherlock's, but it was still quite effective.

“No, right, your boss uses his resources to keep tabs on his little brother. What was I thinking? Is there any point in my asking where we're going, this time?”

“Mycroft's flat,” Anthea said, pulling up to the pavement. John looked round and blinked: yes, it was the familiar townhouse. “You're meeting Sherlock.”

“How long have they been there together?” he asked, following her up the steps.

“The windows are still intact. Oh--” Anthea entered the code at the front door, which clicked open, and the first thing John heard was-- music. “We're a bit early,” she said softly, and John barely heard her.

Someone was playing the piano; someone was playing the violin. John didn't recognize the piece, but he thought he recognized the violin, or rather, what were the chances that Mycroft knew two musical virtuosos? Which meant, by the process of elimination, that Mycroft had to be playing the piano. Where had the piano come from? He was sure there hadn't been one in the flat when he'd been treating Sherlock for snake venom. Then he listened more carefully, and forgot about everything else, because the music was breathtakingly beautiful. The piano played a few stormy chords and then stopped, leaving the violin to sing by itself, low and sweet and melancholy, for half a minute. When the piano began to play again, John remembered to breathe.

The piece came to an end; Anthea began to climb the stairs, and he followed her. Even though he'd heard Sherlock play before, he still found himself puzzling over how Sherlock and Mycroft, of all people, could play... like that, not just with technical perfection but with pathos. By the time they reached the top of the stairs, the quiet moment of musical concord had evaporated. “I couldn't possibly,” Sherlock said, laying his violin in its case. “Out of the question.”

“It's a very delicate mission, Sherlock.”

Sherlock glanced up. “John couldn't take the time off of work.”

Mycroft looked taken aback. “If you feel you need him on this case,” Mycroft said slowly, “I'm sure something could be arranged. He's been working double shifts for the past... eight days, John?”

John shifted his weight and nodded once, shortly. He looked Mycroft over: the gunshot seemed to have healed without complications.

“I can't, not at this time of year. It's entirely the wrong season for the place.” Sherlock went to the window and looked out.

“Where?” John asked, dreading the answer, because after what Mycroft had said about needing him, Sherlock was sure to drag John off to some god-forsaken locale just to spite his brother. John was dreading Mycroft's 'delicate mission' in Finland, or Siberia, or the Falklands.

“Nice,” Sherlock said, spitting the word out as if it offended him.

John blinked. “Nice is... quite nice this time of year, actually.”

“Exactly! It'll be full of... tourists, revelling drunkenly and mostly nude on the beaches.”

“Part of the attraction, for some people,” John said.

“Not in January, Sherlock,” Mycroft said at the same time. “And the tourists will provide cover for you.”

“What's the case?” John asked.

“One of my agents has... left,” Mycroft said.

John looked from Sherlock to Mycroft. “What, you mean he's turned traitor?”

“Not exactly. The evidence seems to indicate that she's joined a traveling... circus.” He pronounced the last word carefully, with a bit of disdain.

“Oh,” John said after a moment. “So you think Sherlock...”

“My brother does have a talent for unravelling the most unusual situations, yes.”

“It's simple, if you'd only bother to do your own bloody legwork, Mycroft. Or if you had competent agents to do it for you.”

Mycroft tilted his head. “I'm sure they'll be up to the task, once I release it to them. I was saving it for you, but...” He studied his fingernails.

“What's she doing in the circus?” John asked.

“If my sources are accurate, she's taken over as primary caretaker for the animals.”

“Er.”

“She also seems to have discovered a talent as a tattoo artist.” Mycroft smiled at John. Behind him, Sherlock turned his head to look at Mycroft.

“And you, you don't think it could be related to... whatever she's in Nice for?”

“Agent Carson was assigned to protection duty for the ambassador's wife's elderly grandmother. There could be a connection, but I rather think not.”

“That's... not something you hear about every day.”

Mycroft smiled thinly. “Most of my agents do try to avoid publicity, yes.”

John closed his mouth before he started to sputter that that wasn't the meaning he had intended.

Mycroft stood. “I'm afraid I need to meet with the assistant to the shadow secretary of state for education in half an hour, so you'll have to find your own way back. Good-bye, Sherlock. John.”

“Send our tickets round,” Sherlock said. “You'll need to make arrangements for John's Sig.” He picked up his violin case. “Come on, John!”

John looked after him, then glanced over his shoulder and shrugged apologetically before following his flatmate out. “Why'd you change your mind about the case?” he asked when they were sitting in a taxi.

Sherlock didn't answer. He was checking something on his phone. “How was your date?”

“What? It wasn't a date.”

“'It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun,'” Sherlock quoted.

“No. It wasn't-- No. Not a date. No.” John cleared his throat. “No. Sherlock, you knew who that text was from, didn't you?”

“You would have known too, if you'd only thought about it. It was obvious.”

“And you couldn't be bothered to tell me?”

“I presumed you could take care of yourself.”

“Sherlock--” John began, and then gave up.

Three days later, he got a text: You should be back from Nice in two weeks. Tuesday, same time?

A/N: Sherlock's remark about infinitely stranger is paraphrased from the Arthur Conan Doyle short story, “The Case of Identity.”

To find out why I've written John as having a Sig when Moriarty calls it a Browning, read this excellent post on the identity of John's gun: http://community.livejournal.com/sherlockbbc/1165186.html

In “The Great Game,” John says that he's met the secret service, which means MI5 and MI6, not the SAS; MI5 and MI6 are not known for carrying Browning Hi-Powers. However, it's not outside the realm of possibility that he encountered members of the SAS while in Afghanistan, or serving somewhere else. In my mind, Anthea's four guns are a Browning Hi-Power, a USP Elite, a Nighthawk T3, and a USP Compact as the one she actually carries; however, I don't know much about guns, and the details aren't particularly relevant. I don't know if the other three are actually hers-- I suspect she borrows them on a regular basis for target practice. And yes, the USPs are American-styled guns: I'm guessing someone in Mycroft's employ would have her pick of weapons.

I've written John as someone who is not a gun enthusiast for two reasons. Of course, the resetting of the Sherlock Holmes stories from Victorian England to 21st-century London means that John's service gun is now highly illegal, but he has it anyway; this is probably something the writers chose to overlook for narratorial convenience, but it does turn John Watson from a mostly law-abiding character (well, sort of-- he does aid and abet Holmes in some rather shady endeavors) to someone who went out of his way to do something highly illegal. Why? Because he craves danger? Because he was contemplating suicide? Probably some of both.

Anyway, there are two moments in “The Great Game” that made me stop and think. One is at the planetarium: the Golem is suffocating Sherlock, yet John still takes the time to say, slowly, “Golem! Let him go, or I will kill you.” It seemed to me like Golem had already seen the gun and was not particularly daunted by it, so why does John take the time to say that? Then, at Joe Harrison's flat, John is clearly pointing a pistol at Joe, but he still says “Don't! Don't.” Combine this with Sherlock's observation from “Didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though,” and I believe you have a picture of a man who doesn't like to fire unless absolutely necessary. His reluctance could just be because such a shooting is bound to attract attention, but then why doesn't he react more when Sherlock is very obviously shooting at the wall? So I've written John as someone who would want to stay a good shooter because he has a gun in the first place, but not as someone who would necessarily go to the range for fun.

The idea for Mycroft and Sherlock's duet was inspired by coryphaeusrex's Sonata, which is very good and which I recommend.

Finally, thanks for reading! I hope you've enjoyed the story.

Title: Birthdays
XI. New Rules
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, John, Anthea, Mycroft, OCs
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the BBC's characters or plots.
Word Count: 4,956
Warnings: Some violence.
A/N:
1.) Not beta'd or Britpicked
2.) PLEASE CHECK the ratings, warnings and pairings on each individual chapter, as they will be subject to change.
3.) More extensive author's notes will follow at the end of the last chapter.


In the middle of it, Anthea beckoned for John to follow her, and went into the laboratory. “I need an extra set of hands,” she said, exchanging her blazer for a lab coat and handing him a set of nitrile gloves.

John waited as she transferred five small pieces of cloth each into its own plastic tube, and added several sets of chemicals to each. Then she handed him one. “Hold this on the vortexer while I add these reagents.” She had a pipet in each hand; obediently, John held the tube firmly on the vibrating platform as she added drops of liquid from both pipets simultaneously. Anthea took the tube from him, set it in an incubator, and handed him the second tube.

“Done,” she said when the third tube was in the incubator.

He recognized it for a dismissal, but leaned against the lab counter instead. “What will this tell you?”

She didn't look up. “Analyzing a number of foreign fibres found on the clothes in Daniels' apartment.” After a moment, she added, “You're in my light.”

John returned to the other room. “... sheer incompetence!” Sherlock said.

“Treachery, Sherlock. Not incompetence.”

“Both. You couldn't be bothered to check your hypotheses!”

“Sherlock, unlike you, I do not have the time to run round London tracing every possible lead. I have responsibilities, and--”

“Yes, you're always going on about your responsibilities to queen and country. You've bungled those now, haven't you!”

“Starting World War Three isn't going to help anything!” John spoke louder than he'd intended, and both brothers looked at him. Mycroft looked surprised; Sherlock looked irritated. John took advantage of the momentary silence and continued, “Mycroft. If you've narrowed the list to three, can't you detain them all?”

“I am no longer sure of most of my resources,” Mycroft said, and looked suddenly rather weary.

“What about those fifteen people you eliminated?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “I can hardly send an army of desk analysts to arrest a dangerous traitor who was so far gone completely undetected.”

“All right,” John said, not knowing exactly what he was doing, but sure that nearly anything had to be more productive than Sherlock and Mycroft sniping at each other. “Wilkins. Eleven pipers piping. What is there to go on?”

Sherlock got up and started to pace, hands in his pockets.

“Sherlock,” John said. “You said... there was something that didn't make sense about the way he was choosing his victims.”

“Yes. Cameras.”

“Cameras?”

“In none of the cases was there any helpful CCTV footage, even at London City College. He had very precise information about the range of each camera, and some of the relevant footage is simply missing.”

“So Mycroft's spy was helping him plan the crimes.”

“Yes. It explains Hendon. It also explains how Wilkins knew where to find the two singers.”

“Why would a terrorist be interested in a serial killer?” John asked. He could see Sherlock thinking, see the questions prompting new ideas. “None of the victims were important to national security, none of them...”

“There is no link between any of the suspects, and Jared Wilkins,” Mycroft said. “Or between any of your murder victims and any of the suspects. The records have been very thoroughly doctored.”

“So... why did the spy carry on with the song, then?” John asked. “And why skip the two days in between?”

Sherlock took out his mobile and sent a text. “Need to find out what the police have gotten out of Wilkins.”

“You knew where he'd gone-- you must have some idea what he had planned for the other days,” John said. “Yesterday... would have been a stabbing, you said that was how he dealt with more than one person. And ten victims--”

“Yes. Age, infirmity, drugs, or sleep. Yesterday was most like to have been a care home, though it could have been an orphanage. Difficult to tell.”

“And today?”

“Strangling a tobacconist, possibly.”

“So... why is Mycroft's spy doing this, then?”

Anthea came out of the lab. “The fibre tests are inconclusive, but I seem to have locked down the log files for most of the CCTV system. These don't appear to have been tampered with. No signs of unauthorized access to the system itself it the last twenty-four hours.”

“Excellent,” Mycroft said.

“Also, we should leave here in the next ten minutes.” She returned to the lab.

Mycroft made a displeased face. “I do so hate working on the run.” He opened a drawer and took out another computer and a pistol. “Front door or back?” he asked when Anthea returned.

“Front.” She pressed a button on her mobile, and there was a muffled explosion from behind the door.

John couldn't help jumping; it was New Year's again, except much closer. No one seemed to notice his reaction, which, in a room with Sherlock and Mycroft, meant they had definitely noticed and were pretending not to. He felt his spine straighten and his chin inch forward.

Anthea opened the door to the hallway, and looked out. “It's still clear,” she said.

Mycroft picked up the laptop and slid the pistol into his jacket. John took his own gun out of the holster at the small of his back and followed Sherlock into the hall. Mycroft locked the door behind them. Anthea was looking at her mobile. “They haven't found the car.”

They followed her towards the back of the building, through a concealed door, and into the alley behind. As the door closed, John heard another muffled explosion.

Anthea and Mycroft turned left and began to walk down the alley. John started to follow them, and then Sherlock grabbed his wrist and took off running in the opposite direction, practically dragging him the first few steps until John began to run as well. “What are you--”

“This way!” They turned left at the first opportunity, and then right, left, right, right, and left. John tripped over a rubbish bin in the dark.

“What are we doing?”

“Getting away from Mycroft.”

“Where are we going?”

“Church.”

“Sorry?” But Sherlock was running again and didn't answer.

Twenty minutes later, they were outside of a church. Sherlock took a set of lockpicks out of his coat and began to work on the lock.

“Sherlock,” John said. “Back there, did you know?”

Sherlock glanced up from the door, and then looked him quickly up and down. “I suspected once I saw the lab. Too much data to move in a hurry.”

“Right, next time, do you think you could warn me?”

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. “Would that help?”

John's back straightened. “Yes, Sherlock. If I have to be in a room wired with explosives, I'd prefer to know.”

“All right.” The lock clicked, and he pushed the door open.

They were in the corner of a long, dark hall. A number of tables had been pushed to one side to make room for a dozen mattresses in the middle of the floor. Sherlock crouched by the one on the end. “David,” he said, so softly that John could barely hear him.

The man occupying the mattress opened his eyes and sat up when he saw Sherlock. He put his finger to his lips, shoved off the blankets, stood, and limped to the other end of the hall, where he let them in to a smaller conference room. For a moment the room was pitch-black when he closed the door; then he flipped the light on.

David looked about forty, but was probably younger; his face was lined, his light hair long and shaggy, and his eyes a brilliant blue. John didn't have to be told that he was looking at another former member of the military. “Hello, Sherlock. Haven't seen you in a while,” David said. “What brings you round?”

Sherlock took out his mobile. “Three people. I need to know where they've been.” He turned the mobile around and showed it to the man.

David frowned, scrutinizing each picture as it came up on the screen. Then he looked up and nodded. “All right. Should be doable.”

“As soon as you can.” Sherlock handed him a folded note; John couldn't see the denomination, but he knew it was high. “This is important.”

“I'll go round and see Annie now, then,” David said. He looked at John. “You'll be the flatmate?”

“Yes.” John offered his hand. David gripped it firmly and shook it. “I'm John.”

“I've never met a man who could keep up with him, but then...” he cocked his head. “I don't imagine this is the hardest duty you've ever seen. Where did you serve?”

“Afghanistan,” John said. “Five years. You?”

“Iraq. Ireland, before that.”

Sherlock stood. “Let me know as soon as you have anything.”

“Right.” David turned off the light, and let them out the back door of the hall. “Don't suppose there's any point in telling you to be careful, Sherlock?”

“Not particularly. Good morning, David.”

“Where now?” John asked as they walked down the alley.

“Baker Street.”

John checked his mobile; he'd felt it vibrate, during their trip to the church. Your being held hostage will only complicate matters. Mycroft Holmes. “Is it safe?”

“Safe enough.” Still, when the taxi had deposited them back home, and John had bolted the front door, Sherlock closed the drapes in the sitting room, turned on only a small lamp, and insisted they both occupy the sofa, out of sight of the window in the kitchen. He opened his laptop. “There has to be a personal connection between Jared Wilkins and Mycroft's spy. It's the only reasonable explanation.”

“So? Mycroft said the records had been altered.”

“Obviously. But they had to communicate about this somehow. The responsibility of planning the crimes obviously fell to Wilkins, he walked all over London, but he knew where the cameras wouldn't see him.” He frowned. “Wilkins is still alive, that means the spy doesn't consider him a threat.”

“You think the spy set all this up for him, without revealing his own identity?”

“Why would he do that? The spy can clearly pull off significantly larger operations than Wilkins managed. Why would he bother with petty killings?”

“A cover-up?” They'd been here before...

“No. Wilkins clearly has strong motivation for the murder method he chose, a strong emotional attachment to using the lyrics for revenge. That the spy continued the theme indicates a strong emotional attachment to Wilkins. Therefore they probably met face to face: fewer traces left behind, and Wilkins was about to do something risky, the spy would have wanted to see him.” He was typing quickly.

“And you know where Wilkins went.”

“I know some of where Wilkins went. Can't tell for sure where they met, but...” He frowned. “Twelve drummers drumming.”

“A stabbing.”

“Yes-- oh.”

“What?”

“Thieves. Wilkins was planning to sneak into a gaol. The spy would have gotten him in.”

“... you said his mother was killed in a burglary gone wrong.”

“Yes.”

“So...”

“If Wilkins picked the places himself, then they would have had to have met somewhere else. Oh, obvious.”

“You... found it?”

“Four possibilities.” He took out his mobile and sent a text. “Now we see if any of Mycroft's suspects have turned up there in the past three weeks.” He glanced at John. “You'd better get some sleep while you can. I need more data.”

“Are you going out?”

“I'll keep an eye out the window for David's informant. Best if you stay down here, there are gaps in your drapes,” he added.

“Right.” John retrieved a blanket from the chair by the wall, and took the holster out of his trousers. “Here. Take it with you when you go outside.”

Despite the light and the sound of typing, John fell asleep quickly. It seemed like only moments had passed before Sherlock said, “John,” but when he opened his eyes again, the sky was lightening outside the windows.

“Three explosions,” Sherlock said. “Pubs, each with the word “maid” in the title.”

“Maid? Why maid?”

“One of them the favourite of the heir to the throne, who was there hours before.”

“Flash powder again?”

“Yes.”

“When is he going to stop making threats?”

“Possibly tomorrow. Drummers is a clear military reference.” Sherlock was typing. “Maids appears to be a reference to a Scottish version of the song.”

“A clue, do you think?”

“Unlikely. He hasn't left any. All the breaks on this case have come from legwork.” A smile, but not a pleasant one. “He knows Mycroft well.”

John wanted tea, but the kettle was in full view of the window in the kitchen. “Have you heard anything from David?”

“No.” Sherlock frowned. “Here.” He handed back John's gun. “We're going to find out why.”

They took a taxi. John watched Sherlock watch the pavement and frown. Finally they were dropped at a day centre for the homeless. Sherlock climbed over the low fence and walked in the back door; John, catching up with him after getting over the fence with slightly less agility, found himself in a large room with about thirty women, some working on computers, some filling out paperwork, some playing cards. A few of them were staring at Sherlock, who was talking to a blond woman in the corner of the room.

“... him since yesterday,” she said as John got within earshot. She looked familiar; there was a clear family resemblance between her and David.

“Has anyone?”

“I'll ask around...” she trailed off, watching Sherlock's face. “You sent him to do something, and he disappeared.”

“Yes.” Sherlock was, in turn, watching her intently.

She nodded once. “What was it?”

“These three people.” He took out his mobile and showed it to her. “I need to know where they've been seen for the last three weeks.”

She studied the pictures, then looked up and tilted her chin up. “I'll do it. If you give me your promise that, if David's alive...” her voice caught, “and he's found, he'll be looked after proper.”

“You have it. Thank you, Annie.” He handed her a bill.

“Now get out of here, you're making some of the girls nervous, and God knows they don't need that. And if the matron catches you...”

Sherlock was already moving towards the door. “There was a break-in last night at the church, twenty minutes after we left,” he said when they were outside. “David was already gone. Mycroft was right about the cameras.”

“What?”

“He left by the same door we did. If the spy knew we were there because of the CCTV, he would also have known that David had already left. We were followed there.” He was already texting. “We're being followed now.”

John resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder, but listened, and heard nothing. “How many?”

“Two. Two blocks behind.”

Reaching for his gun would be a bit obvious at this point. “Are they going to break into the day centre?”

“No, they'll try to kidnap us.”

And this time, they wouldn't be dumped unharmed in a car park, John was relatively sure.

Sherlock put away his mobile and started to run. John was only a step behind as they careened through a series of narrow alleys that reminded him of the crime scene at Ealing, moss and all. Then Sherlock was holding a service door open for him-- John noted in passing that it had no exterior handle and wondered how Sherlock had got it open-- and John ducked inside to a dim, dingy stairwell. Sherlock ran up the dusty stairs, and stopped abruptly on the landing. John nearly collided with him.

“What are you doing?”

Sherlock didn't answer as he climbed onto the narrow, sloping wall that bounded the inside of the stairs, walked carefully back down, jumped, and landed behind the door. “Come on.”

John shook his head, and managed to replicate the feat with less grace. “You think they'll follow us in here?”

“We left clear footprints in the moss. Best if they're alive but unconscious-- Mycroft might be able to get something out of them,” he said softly.

Running footsteps stopped outside the door. John eased his gun out of its holster. The door swung open, a man in black stepped inside and started to turn towards them-- Sherlock grabbed him in a chokehold-- a woman stepped inside and pointed her gun at Sherlock-- John hit her firmly in the temple with his gun, she crumpled to the floor, and he did the same to Sherlock's captive.

Sherlock straightened his scarf and took out his mobile, presumably texting Mycroft. Then he knelt and went through their pockets. His eyes narrowed as he took out a piece of paper. “This is David's handwriting.”

“So, they--” John didn't like to think about the ex-serviceman lying dead in an alley somewhere.

“We knocked them out too soon, it seems. And she--” Sherlock rolled the woman over. “She attacked me in the flat.”

“I didn't get a good look at mine, but the build is right for the man.”

“The spy is relying on the same two people to do his dirty work.”

“Why? If he can get people into the Palace of Westminster...”

“He has a lot of data, but not much manpower. He knew who to bribe. He must have known about the four women in Ealing using marijuana, and he knew about Mellor's visit to the school.”

“Sorry, what?”

“The evening before he died, the athlete had gone round to a school and given a talk to the children. He let them handle his medals, returned rather late, and kept them out to polish the next morning. Otherwise they would have been locked in a safe.”

“So you're saying the spy knew that.”

“Mellor had made these visits before.”

“If this spy knew all that, why didn't he warn Wilkins not to come to the hospital?”

“His CCTV access has been intermittent lately, ever since Mycroft began to investigate this. He may not have known-- or he may have warned him, and Wilkins was so fixated on killing Lisa Regan that he ignored him.” Sherlock moved one of the unconscious bodies and sat on the bottom step. “I need another look at the flats of the three people on Mycroft's list.”

Ten minutes later, there was a knock on the door. John had his pistol out and the safety off as the door slowly eased open; it was the same burly men from the previous night, or a pair who looked exactly like them. He lowered his gun as they picked up the two would-be kidnappers and slung them over their shoulders. “Looks like Mycroft doesn't have a manpower problem,” he said.

“You'd be surprised.”

They took a taxi back to the flat with the carnivorous plants. Sherlock examined the books, the desk, and the woman's bedside table. John stood in the hallway of the flat, gun in hand, waiting for someone to break down the door and try to kill them. No one did, however, and they made it to the flat with the dog and the cat without incident. If anything, the cat was friendlier than before, and the dog more excited. John discovered why when he followed the cat into the kitchen: the food bowls were empty. But they'd been half full the day before, because he'd nearly stepped in one. “Sherlock,” he called. “She hasn't been home since yesterday.”

Sherlock opened the fridge, smelled the milk, and looked at a packet of salad greens. Then he went through the cupboard, frowning at a small pill bottle. The cat's cries became shriller and more insistent; John tried to gently nudge it away with his foot, but it swarmed up his trouser leg, used his thigh as a launching pad to reach the counter, and began nuzzling a plastic container of multi-colored pellets. It headbutted it, knocking it over; the lid fell open, and dried pellets cascaded over the counter and on the floor. Both the dog and the cat immediately began to eat.

Sherlock put the pill bottle back and closed the cupboard. “What about David?” John asked, hurrying after him.

“The homeless network has a far better chance of finding him than we do.” He closed the door of the flat behind him.

They stayed nearly an hour at the next flat; Sherlock examined the man's book collection in minute detail, inspecting the corners and spines with his hand lens. John investigated his drawers, and came up with nothing more enlightening than that he had a girlfriend and bad arches. He returned to the study; Sherlock was frowning sharply, clearly not having found what he was looking for. “We're going back to the flat,” he said.

Once there, he put a piece of cardboard in the kitchen window and sat at his microscope examining a sample of fabric taken from the carnivorous plant flat. John made them both tea, fixed himself lunch, read Sherlock Mycroft's texted updates, which amounted to little progress, and check out the front window regularly to see if anyone was lingering inconspicuously outside their flat. Sherlock left the microscope and began experimenting on a pill he'd taken from the flat with the cats. “I need to go to Bart's,” he said.

“Sherlock, there's someone outside. That woman you asked about the Golem, in April.”

Sherlock stood up quickly, stumbled, and grabbed the table to keep himself upright.

“Sherlock!” John ran into the kitchen, steadying his flatmate. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Just get me some paracetamol.”

“What did you do?” John looked at him. His weight was on his right leg, left foot held slightly off the ground-- “Your ankle. You twisted your ankle yesterday when they kidnapped us and you've been running around on it ever since.”

“It's in the cupboard in the loo.” Sherlock sat down again.

“I'm wrapping that before we go anywhere!” John called over his shoulder as he ran up the stairs. He came back a moment later with the paracetamol and two elastic bandages.

Sherlock didn't protest as John unlaced his shoe, removed it gently, and pulled off his sock; presumably he was thinking of how problematic it would be to fall in the middle of a chase. John wrapped the ankle tightly, swallowed his admonitions about ice packs and rest, and let Sherlock put his shoe back on. “You'll need to stay off that for about three days when we're done,” he said.

Sherlock pocketed the bottle of paracetamol and put a lid on the petri dish he was working with. “Bring me my coat.”

Sherlock wasn't limping when they went down the stairs, though John knew the paracetamol couldn't have kicked in yet. John hailed a taxi; Sherlock slid into the backseat a moment later, unfolding a sheet of paper and reading it rapidly. He took out his mobile and sent a text. John looked at the screen. Not Regina Winston. SH.

“Someone planted the bug,” John said when they were out of the taxi.

“Yes.”

“Why? The spy couldn't have known that someone would look there.”

“He has stymied Mycroft for a week.”

“Right...”

“I'll let Mycroft sort out what Regina Winston was doing in her flat that would have been valuable to the spy. Or why he would have wanted to incriminate her in particular.”

John spent the next hour fetching reagents and equipment for Sherlock as he experimented on the liquid paste that was the remains of the pill. Finally Sherlock fed a sample into a gas chromatograph. The computer beeped a moment later. “Ah!”

John read over his shoulder, but didn't understand what he was looking at. “What does it mean?”

“That pill container contained two types of pills. One was just prescription heartburn medication, and the other was similar but laced with cyanide.”

“Someone was trying to poison her... it's the man, then? Rowley?”

“Presumably a suicide pill would be more use to her if she carried it on her person.” He sent a text. “One cyanide pill doesn't prove anything.” Sherlock stood and put on his coat.

Back at the flat, the woman asking for spare change outside their door had been replaced by a man. He handed Sherlock a note in passing. John locked the door behind them and looked over Sherlock's arm: it was a list of the whereabouts of Alex Rowley during the last three weeks. A partial list; John could tell that there were gaps of several days at a time.

“It takes a special skill to elude the homeless network. Mycroft and I are the only ones I know who can do it, when we try. Apparently Mr Rowley is a third,” Sherlock said. “Bit of a coincidence, don't you think?” He ran upstairs and settled down with his laptop. “Keep an eye out for a new informant,” he called.

Instead, John went into the kitchen, found a bag of frozen peas, and handed them to Sherlock. “Keep this on your ankle.”

“I think my ankle will survive without an application of frozen vegetables.”

John shook his head, knelt, unwrapped the top bandage, and rewrapped it around the bag. “Tea?”

“Yes.” Sherlock was plotting things on a map.

The sun was going down as John reheated leftover curry. Sherlock was busy with his map, and with a long block of text on the right-hand side of his screen. “Someone new,” John reported finally, glancing out the window after having finished the curry.

“Go down and get the list, will you?”

The new informant was across the street, sitting on a sturdy box. He handed John a thickly-folded sheet of paper without looking in his direction. “Er-- any news on David?” John asked softly.

The man examined his nails. “No. Spare change?” he asked as a father and two young children passed by.

John ran up the stairs, handed the paper to Sherlock, and glanced at it over his shoulder. It was much longer than the one on Alex Rowley. Sherlock read it quickly and shook his head. “Nothing. Rosemary Jenkins is rather boring.” He opened a blank email and began to type.

“It's Rowley, then.”

“I'll let Mycroft draw his own conclusions, now that I've done all the legwork for him.” Sherlock smirked. “Still, he won't want something else blown up tomorrow morning.”

A few minutes later, Sherlock's mobile beeped. He looked at the screen and passed it to John. Home Office traced purchase of RDX to Rowley. Mycroft Holmes.

John exhaled. “Good. I'm going out, then.”

“Where?”

“Supper.”

John returned half an hour later with four boxes of Ethiopian takeaway and an ice pack. He put the takeaway in front of Sherlock, switched the peas with the ice pack, and got them both silverware. Sherlock put down his laptop, and they ate quietly. “I'm working tomorrow,” John said finally.

“Mmm.”

“Morning shift. Single.”

“Mycroft asked about the Diogenes Club again.”

“I already have a job.” John closed the empty takeaway box. “You need to stay off your ankle tomorrow.”

“Can't.”

“Why not? The case is solved.”

“I have a promise to keep.”

It took John a moment to figure out what he was talking about. “I thought you said...”

“I have resources that they don't.”

“Can't you put Mycroft on it? I'd imagine he owes you quite a bit after this.”

“My ankle will be fine, John.”

“I don't want you showing up in the A&E again.”

“I only did that because I knew you were on duty there.”

“You nearly gave the triage nurse a nervous breakdown. If he knew I knew you, he wouldn't be speaking to me.”

Sherlock smiled. “Fine, I'll go to some other A&E.”

John spread old newspapers on the floor and unloaded his gun, cleaned it, and reloaded it. He double-checked the safety, slid it into the holster, and cleaned up the rubbish. Coming back into the living room, he heard music: hammering piano chords accompanied by deep horn music. “That's... dramatic.”

“It's the Totentanz.” Sherlock was frowning at his laptop. “Someone emailed it to me.”

“Who?”

“I don't know.”

John cleaned up the kitchen and extracted from Sherlock a vague promise to change the ice pack when the liquid melted. He left Sherlock listening to the song on repeat, and went to bed.

A/N: Totentanz for Piano and Orchestra is a piece composed by Franz Liszt.

January 2nd
It was half nine when he woke, stumbled downstairs, and poured a mug of tea. Sherlock had gone out, so John had a leisurely breakfast while scrutinizing the paper. Then he sat down to pay his bills. It was the second-- no, the third rule of living with Sherlock. One: Always be sure you know what you're eating. (John's stomach twinged a little at the memory of the experiment gone wrong that had effectively chained him to the loo for six hours.) Two: Catch up on your sleep whenever possible. Three: When you've done that, do everything else mundane that needs doing. The next opportunity might not come for a week.

John looked at his online bank account page. The pay at his current job wasn't bad, especially when combined with his Army pension. For some time now his balance had been climbing steadily, and he'd gotten the vague feeling he should do something with the money, but he'd never been able to decide what. He had all the material possessions he needed, no outstanding debts, and no wife or children to worry about.

John spared a wistful thought for what might have been, along those lines, and then went back to his bank account. He didn't want a car, not in London, and the idea of saving up for a place on his own was laughable. It would be like cutting off a limb, to move out. Maybe a holiday? Some place warm, but not too warm. Perhaps in February, or March. He'd look into it.

Sherlock came up the stairs two at a time, draped his coat over the sofa, and hung his scarf on the back of the door. “Hello.”

“Morning.” John looked his flatmate up and down. “You were up early.”

“I was at the Yard.” Sherlock bit off the last word like it pained him, and John understood. About the only thing Sherlock liked less than making sure the police had all the evidence straight was having one of his cases bungled in court.

“Got it all taken care of?”

Sherlock went into the kitchen and took out the stoat. “Oh, excellent!” he breathed. “John, have a look at this.”

“I'm good, thanks.”

Sherlock put on gloves, took out bits... well, that implied a solid state; blobs? Took out aliquots of what had once been identifiable as stoat, and put them under the microscope. John checked his email, posted the kidnapping case to his blog, and, on a whim, looked up travel destinations in the south of France.

“I was thinking of going on holiday,” he said after a few minutes.

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock straightened up from the microscope and stripped off his gloves. “Why?”

“Change of scene. Someplace warm.”

“I could provide a change of scene.”

“Most people prefer their holidays without bodies.”

“Most people are idiots.”

“In this, I'll gladly side with the idiots.” His mobile vibrated: it was Harry. She'd called yesterday, hadn't she, and he'd forgotten to ring her back.

By the time they hung up, it was time for him to leave for the A&E. The department was relatively quiet, with nothing more unusual than a compound fracture. He left at nine, got supper for them both at a little Greek takeaway place on his way home, and went to sleep.

A/N: It has come to my attention that the version of "The Twelve Days of Christmas" that I have been using is probably not the authentic one. As today was the first day where the lyrics between the two versions differed, I considered rearranging the plot, but decided not to mess with the flow of things. You'll have to, therefore, forgive the Americanism.

Title: Birthdays
VII. Serpent from the Death-Stream
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Donovan, Mrs Hudson, not!Anthea, OCs
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the BBC's characters or plots.
Word Count: 5,930
Warnings: Violence
A/N:
1.) Not beta'd or Britpicked
2.) PLEASE CHECK the ratings, warnings and pairings on each individual chapter, as they will be subject to change.
3.) More extensive author's notes will follow at the end of the last chapter.

December 31st
Midnight came and went as John went round the ward, familiarizing himself with all his patients. He didn't know what strings Sherlock and Lestrade had pulled to get him assigned here for the night, but he didn't really care; he was up to the job, he knew it, and that was that.

When he got to Lisa Regan's room, she was asleep, and so was her new roommate, a slender, curly-haired woman who was recovering from an emergency appendectomy. John nodded, and examined the room. There were only three places an intruder could hide even momentarily: under the beds, in the folds of the curtain between the two halves of the room, and in the W. C. Under the bed was poor cover, and clearly empty; the pushed-back curtain gave him no resistance when he poked it. He moved a table so that the feet of anyone hiding in the curtain would be visible, and pushed open the door to the W. C.

“Morning.”

John spun, hand automatically going to the small of his back, and then relaxed. “Christ, Lestrade.” The W. C. was long and narrow, with the door at one end, and the DI was sitting on a chair around the corner from the door.

He saw the other man grin in the dark. Hoping his instinctive reach for his concealed gun had gone unnoticed, John shut the door and turned on the light and the tap. “What's the set-up?” he asked, leaning back against the basin.

“We've a woman at the nurse's station, and one in the room next door. Plus you, and me. Security's been given Wilkins's picture with instructions to alert us, but not detain him, when he turns up.” Lestrade stretched. He'd managed a shave since John had last seen him, and either some rest or a lot of caffeine. “Sherlock seems to think he'll turn up around four again.”

“But he didn't when he was going after them the first time, did he.”

“No. So keep your eyes open.”

John nodded.

“Sherlock's quite put out that he got away yesterday,” Lestrade said. “Can't get over the idea that there's something he's overlooked.”

“Yeah, I'd... noticed.”

“He's not getting away again.” Lestrade's expression was suddenly deadly serious. “He killed one of my most promising officers.”

John winced. “He died, then. The boy.”

Lestrade nodded. “Last night.” He studied John. “You kept him alive long enough for his family to say good-bye.”

John looked away.

“Probably... cold comfort.”

“Well, yeah.”

“But it wasn't to them.”

John looked up quickly, and met Lestrade's gaze. “Right.” He hesitated. “I better get back.”

“Leave the door open. I can see Lisa in the mirror.”

“Yeah.” John reached for the tap, then hesitated. “Where's Sherlock, by the way? He said he'd meet me here.”

“Oh, he'll turn up.” There was something odd about Lestrade's expression. “He's probably terrorizing the nurses. I'll text him.”

“Right.” John nodded, turned off the tap and the lights, and went to check on his patients. He glanced at the nurses' station as he went by, and quickly picked out the policewoman pretending to be cataloging records. Maybe running around with Sherlock had made him sharp-eyed, or something, and she wouldn't be as obvious to Wilkins.

At three, one of his patients had an emergency, and John spent thirty tense minutes keeping her from dying while trying to keep an eye on Lisa's room, too. The nurses' station was right across the corridor, surely nobody could sneak inside without being noticed? Lestrade was right there-- and where was Sherlock, anyway? Hiding in the cleaner's closet?

As soon as the crisis had passed, John hurried back there: Lisa was sleeping, breathing evenly, and her pulse was normal. There were no needle marks on any of her visible blood vessels. He checked her IV bag: it looked undisturbed. Just in case, he memorized the position in which it was hanging.

The roommate was stirring. John picked up her chart, and frowned: none of the nurses had checked on her since he'd come on duty. Had they pulled someone off-duty to make room for the ersatz nurse? He could find out later. “Hello,” he said. “I'm Dr Watson, I'm just going to check your vitals.”

She rolled over. “My vitals are fine.”

“Bloody hell, Sherlock!” John hissed a moment later when he'd recovered from the shock. “How--”

Sherlock smirked. John looked him up and down, trying to figure out how he'd altered his body language-- appearance-- something-- to make such a convincing woman. How had he made himself look so short? He shook his head.

“Any sign of him?” Sherlock asked.

“No.”

“He'll be here soon. Stay close.”

“I do have other patients.”

“They can spare you for thirty minutes, Doctor.”

John could see, now, how he'd hunched himself up in the bed and twisted the sheets around to make himself look shorter. He was also fairly certain that Sherlock had some sort of concealed weapon under the covers by his waist, but he couldn't make out the shape.

Sherlock looked at him, then glanced past him. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible. “Do you have--”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“I'll be back in a few minutes,” John said softly. “Right, pulse and blood pressure are good,” he added in a normal voice, and pretended to write on the chart.

He checked the patients in the adjacent rooms. The policeman was pretending to sleep in a chair at the bedside of his supposed mother-- at least, John was pretty certain he saw the glint of opened eyes under the lowered lids. When he came out again, he saw the woman at the desk glance down the corridor. Their gazes met briefly, and then he went into the next room. It was 3:53.

His heart rate was elevated. Waiting was like hearing the sounds of combat and wondering when the casualties would start coming in. He made himself use the same coping methods he had then: breathe deeply, remind himself that it was routine. Routine, and his job. There were four other people who could stop the serial killer, and right now, with no one in sight, his job was to provide competent medical care to his patients. At least the adrenaline meant he didn't have to worry about his hand shaking.

At 4:27, the corridor was empty and no one was stirring except for Mrs Walters, whose pain medication was giving her nightmares. He went back to Lisa Regan's room: she was still sleeping, and Sherlock was still feigning sleep in the other bed. He half-opened his eyes as John entered. John shook his head once, and made sure the door to the W. C. was open. If he stood right in the doorway, he could see Lestrade's outline in the mirror.

At 4:41, something rattled in the corridor. He stepped outside and looked the cleaner up and down: definitely not Jared Wilkins, this was a plump woman with a shock of grey hair and several scars standing out pink against her dark brown skin. A scream echoed off the walls of the ward, and he turned on his heel, racing for the source as patients woke up and began to swear. He felt faint stirrings of unease as he passed Lisa Regan's room, slowing briefly to make sure it was occupied by only who it should be, and saw that she was still sleeping. The scream had been a loud one.

Two nurses were standing by Mrs Walters when he got to her room. “A beast, there was a beast by my bed,” she said, sobbing. “It was going to rip my throat out and suck my blood!”

One of the nurses made a show of checking the corners of the room. The other took her vitals and looked at John. “The cleaner was just in here. She might have woken up and seen her, and hallucinated...”

He picked up her chart. “Better sedate her if she'll take it.”

“Right.”

He hurried down the corridor, the image of Lisa's still body troubling him. The cleaner's cart was three rooms away now; John could ask her if Mrs Walters had spoken to her when the woman...

But it wasn't a woman, or at least, not the same woman. And glancing at the slender build of the person in the uniform, and the slope of the shoulders, John's heart quietly began to beat faster. When the figure's back was turned, John snuck into Lisa's room and bent over her. Pulse, blood pressure, and breathing were all normal. The drip bag hadn't been moved. Just very deeply asleep, then.

He slipped into the W. C. and pushed the door most of the way closed. Lestrade was up and by his shoulder in an instant. “The cleaner,” John whispered, and moved so he could see the room but not be seen. No adrenaline now, just an intense clarity of purpose: mental tunnel vision.

The cart squeaked outside, at the adjacent door. John breathed slowly, and felt the pressure of his gun at his back to such an extent that it had to be partially in his head. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Lestrade wasn't in the way of the door.

After a moment, a shadow fell on the threshold. Jared Wilkins was as he had been described: slender, pale, in his sixties, with greying hair. Perfectly inconspicuous in every way; John wouldn't have looked twice at him in a crowd. His face was hidden by a cap pulled low over his ears. He took a step inside the room, and hesitated, looking around. Sherlock snored loudly; some part of John's brain could spare thought to admire his friend's acting ability. Wilkins started, and then smiled. John didn't need Lestrade's restraining hand on his forearm to wait as Wilkins approached the bed-- they had to catch him in the act to have reason to arrest him, the police had moved too soon the previous morning and he'd gotten away--

The man reached into the coat of his grey jacket-- the grey jacket that was too big for him and said MACDONALD on the name tape, John realized, his brain processing extraneous details almost instantly, and he hoped briefly but fervently that the real cleaner was still alive. His hand reappeared holding loops of something silky and blue, and he took the end of it in his other hand and dropped it on the pillow, reaching down to cradle Lisa's head and lift it so he could slip the scarf around her neck--

Lestrade's hand vanished. John shoved the door open and crossed the room in two quick steps, grabbing Wilkins from behind in a bear hug and pinning his elbows to his side. Sherlock vaulted over the bed as John tried to haul the killer back, but Wilkins let his weight fall forward, still trying to tighten the scarf. Lestrade had a baton in his hand and went for the man's gut; Wilkins shoved himself and John backwards, and John stumbled before using the momentum to take them away from the bed. Sherlock produced a long knife and stepped forward, point aiming for Wilkins's throat-- the man let his weight drop and drove his elbow low into John's stomach. John gasped, stomach roiling, and though he hung on, his grip was weakened enough for the man to slip his hand into his coat pocket and produce a knife of his own. He feinted forward, slashing open Sherlock's sleeve, and then the shift of his weight backward was all the warning John had to let go before the blade passed through where his ribs had been the second before. People were standing in the doorway behind them, the two officers, and he knew Wilkins wouldn't get away, but they shouldn't be having this much trouble with him--

Lestrade brought his baton down on Wilkins's outstretched wrist. The man cried out, but hung on to his knife. His other hand went into his coat pocket and came out closed around something as he backed towards the bed. John started to reach for his gun, but Sherlock closed with Wilkins and knives flashed in the light. Wilkins was groping at the bed with his other hand, and John couldn't see what he had in it--

Movement from the bed; Wilkins screamed and staggered, and as he half-collapsed Sherlock grabbed his knife hand and broke the wrist. Lisa was still dangling half off the bed, bloody syringe in her hands, eyes wide; Lestrade kicked the knife away, and John dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around Wilkins again. Sherlock grabbed the scarf, bent over the man, and bound his wrists, efficiently and very tightly. Wilkins whimpered.

The other two officers crowded into the room, hauling the killer to his feet and handcuffing. John sat back on his heels, panting, and did a quick assessment: no blood on anyone except Sherlock's forearm and Lisa's fingers. Running footsteps-- hospital security. He picked up Wilkins's dropped knife, examined the edge, and frowned. “Right.” As Wilkins was led away, John took Sherlock's uninjured arm and towed him towards the W. C. “Turn on the tap and run your arm under the water.”

“What? Why?”

“I don't like the look of that blade, and I wouldn't put it past him to have poisoned it.”

“It's not poisoned, John,” Sherlock said, but he stuck his arm into the basin and turned on the water, and that was all John cared about.

He went back to the other room. Lestrade had followed his people into the hallway. “Are you all right?” John asked Lisa.

She was starting to shake. “Yes.”

“Here--” He rummaged in the top of the bedside table until he found some pre-packaged, disposable flannels for her to wipe her fingers. Her drip stand hadn't gotten pulled over in the fight, but the needle was coming out. John stripped the blankets from the other bed, draped them over her legs, retrieved some supplies from the nurses' station, and fixed her IV.

“Thank you,” Lisa said, her voice uneven. “That bastard would have killed me.”

John took her pulse. “You had hidden a syringe. You were expecting him.”

She shrugged. “I knew something was up.”

“How?”

“You went into the loo and ran the tap for five minutes. You were either talking to someone in there or having an epic wank, and you didn't seem the type to do that while on duty.”

“Er. No.”

“Also, my sister had her appendix out last year, and she moaned like there was no tomorrow when she woke up. That lady-- bloke-- in the other bed was far too quiet.” She gave him a weak smile.

“You did well,” John said. “Really well.” He stepped on something, and looked down to see several matches scattered on the floor. He frowned.

The water turned off, and he heard Sherlock's footsteps behind him. He looked over his shoulder. “You need to keep flushing the wound.”

“The blade wasn't poisoned.” Sherlock bent, and picked it up. The edge flashed in the light.

Lisa gasped, and shrank back. John looked at Sherlock and the bloody knife he was holding, gave him an exasperated look, and tugged his arm down out of her line of sight. “Go get an evidence bag for that, or something.”

He got Lisa calmed down as best as he could, and brought her a basin of water to finish washing her hands. Then one of the nurses came in, and took over silently, with a sidelong glance at him. “I think you're wanted outside,” she said after a moment.

John obeyed the dismissal. More officers had come up, including Donovan, and they were leading Wilkins away under heavy guard. Lestrade and Sherlock were talking. “Where did you get that knife, Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked down at the blade in his left hand, the one without bloodstains. “It's my landlady's carving knife,” he said dismissively. “Nothing illegal.”

“You stole--” John just shook his head.

“She'll never miss it. I'll put it back.”

Lestrade opened his mouth, closed it, and then said. “Thank you, Sherlock.” He looked at John. “You're a good man to have in a fight. Thanks for... all this.”

John didn't know how to respond to that; he just nodded once. “I'm just glad we caught him.”

“You'll need to come in to sort through the evidence trail,” Lestrade told Sherlock.

“My pleasure,” Sherlock said drily. “John, food?”

“Work,” John reminded him, and then froze for just a second, because he felt the weight of his gun against his back. He couldn't do a twelve hour shift in the A&E with a pistol strapped to him; too great of a risk of discovery in the heat of some sort of crisis. But Sherlock was going back to the flat. “Come with me to the A&E, I want a look at your arm.”

Sherlock glanced down. “My arm's fine. It's already stopped bleeding.”

Under normal circumstances, John would be pleased about this, but Sherlock was about to walk off with Lestrade. Desperate times: John took a step forward and then let himself sag backwards, making a noise of surprise. One arm flailed in the air-- Sherlock grabbed his elbow, and John pulled the holster out of the back of his trousers and thrust it backwards. Hands met, Sherlock grasped the gun, maneuvered John to be directly between him and Lestrade under the guise of supporting him, and then the gun was safely hidden under Sherlock's coat and both of Sherlock's hands were holding him up. John straightened up. “Sorry,” he murmured.

“You can't go to work like that, you'll be dead on your feet within two hours,” Lestrade said, frowning.

John shook his head. “It's just... my leg. Gets like that sometimes.”

“I'll walk you down to A&E,” Sherlock said.

They rode the lift down in silence. “See you tonight, then,” John said. “Might be quite late.”

John's boss was in the administrative area, and looked up when John walked in.

“You know that bloke in the long coat?” Paul asked, frowning.

“My flatmate, yeah. Er, why?” People knowing Sherlock was sometimes good, and sometimes... not.

“You had anything to do with the four police cars outside, then?”

“Yes.”

Paul gave him a funny look. “Why don't you take the rest of the day off. Records say you clocked in at half eleven... upstairs...?”

Whoever Lestrade had talked to to get John assigned to Lisa's floor, it clearly hadn't been him: no one had told him anything. “My flatmate... works with the police,” John said. “They needed someone who could watch the ward and not give the game away. Catching a serial killer,” he added. “I can work. It's only a single shift.”

Paul still had that funny look on his face. “Go home,” he said firmly. “I still owe you that time off from earlier in the week.”

“All right...” John sensed he wasn't going to get anywhere with him. “Call me if you need me to work, then.”

“Yes.”

John caught up with Sherlock just before the other man climbed into the taxi. “Your boss heard about the fight upstairs and thinks you need some time off to recover,” Sherlock said.

“Something like that.” John shook his head. “Sherlock, if I get sacked because my boss thinks I'm secretly with the SAS...”

“You won't get sacked.” He looked out the window. “Though the Diogenes Club is looking for a resident physician.” He looked ahead again, and the corners of his mouth turned up.

“What's the Diogenes Club?”

“Mycroft is a member.”

“Like that's an inducement to work there.”

“It wouldn't be boring.”

“Neither is the A&E. I unstapled someone from a goat the other day.”

The taxi stopped at a twenty-four hour curry place not far from Baker Street. John sat down, and then started half out of his seat again. “The cleaner-- the real one--”

“She's in the other bed in Mr Delgado's room. Unconscious. Possibly dead.”

John grabbed for his mobile.

“They'll have found her by now,” Sherlock said. “Security was starting an entirely belated and entirely unnecessary sweep of the wing as we left.”

“Did you see her?”

“It's the only room with an empty bed and a roommate heavily sedated enough not to notice an altercation.”

“I... was in there, I didn't notice anything--”

“He was in the loo.”

“Of course.”

The waiter brought them a basket of naan and took their order. “I got a look at the matches he dropped,” Sherlock said, crumbling his naan into even pieces with quick movements of his long fingers.

John swallowed. “And?”

“Swan Vestas. Six of them. He was going to strangle her into unconsciousness and choke her with them.”

“Charming.” John took another piece of naan. “How many serial killers have you caught?” Since he'd known Sherlock, there'd been the cabbie, one in mid-July, and now Jared Wilkins.

Sherlock thought for a moment. “Six.”

“What was the first one?”

“I was seventeen. He was murdering undergraduates at uni.” Sherlock took the last piece of naan. “At first they suspected me.”

By the time their food came, John had heard the complete history of Sherlock and serial killers, including the first three he had caught, and the four times he had been mistaken for one. There was silence for a few minutes as they both attacked their food. John had never worried about Sherlock's fasting during a case since he'd seen how much his friend would eat after a case.

“Where did you go last night?” John asked finally.

“Sorry?”

“I mentioned something about Molly's camera, and you dashed out like the place was on fire.”

“Oh, just a thought,” Sherlock said. “I wasn't sure we'd catch him tonight... but it was nothing, after all.”

“Mmm.”

They cleared their plates, and John ordered another round as takeaway, since he wasn't sure they had enough food in the flat to satiate Sherlock's post-case appetite. The sky was lightening as they walked back to Baker Street. “Oh, give this back to Mrs Hudson, would you?” Sherlock passed him the knife, and took the stairs two at a time without waiting for an answer. “She's awake,” he called from the landing.

John looked at the knife, looked after his flatmate, and shook his head. He knocked on the door of 221a.

“Oh hello, dear,” Mrs Hudson said when she opened the door. “Have you two been out all night?”

“Yes. We caught a serial killer.” John took a breath. “Sherlock borrowed this.”

Mrs Hudson frowned. “Oh, dear.”

“It is clean,” he assured her. “He didn't... use it on anyone.”

“I'll have to talk with him,” she said, even though they both knew Sherlock wouldn't take any notice of her scolding, and she wouldn't really mean it anyway. “Would you like to come in for tea?”

“Thanks, but I'm... quite tired, actually.” He stifled a yawn. “Going to go back to bed, I think. Have a nice day, Mrs Hudson.”

When he got up to the flat, Sherlock was running the shower. John put away the takeaway and turned on the kettle. Sherlock came out of the W. C. in his blue dressing gown, and John poured them both tea.

“Let me look at your arm,” John called as Sherlock started to walk towards his bedroom. Sherlock made a grumbly noise, but stopped and turned around. John examined it; it was a bit warmer than he'd like, and the cut was swollen. “Here.” He got the antibiotic cream out of the cupboard in the W. C., applied it, and reached for a bandage.

“It doesn't need a bandage, John. It's not deep.”

“If you dream about Mycroft as a dragon again and hit your arm on the bedside table and break it open, I'm not washing your duvet when you get blood all over it,” he said firmly, wrapping the dressing.

“I did that once.” He sounded sulky.

“There's a second time for everything.”

“You're badly mangling common platitudes. I'm going to sleep.”

John knew he should do the same, but he was still buzzing from the last six days. As highs went, catching a serial killer was a pretty nice one. He settled back in his armchair with the mug of tea, not thinking about anything, just... sitting.

Something buzzed in the kitchen. He found Sherlock's phone, left on the table. There was a text: Good work. Mycroft Holmes. John replaced the phone, and then picked up the ointment and spare bandages to put them away, and then hesitated, frowning. He looked at the tube, turning it over in his hands. Suddenly he picked up Sherlock's mobile and took it to the sitting room, where he made a call.

The person on the other end picked up on the fifth ring, just when John was afraid it was going to go to voicemail “Lestrade.”

“Hi, it's John Watson.”

“John? I thought you were at work. What's wrong?”

“Nothing's wrong...” he hesitated. “Listen, could you do me a favor?”

“What?”

“Have someone take a look at that knife you took off of Wilkins-- test it for poisons. I didn't like the way it looked back at the hospital, and there's something... just a little off about that wound Sherlock's got.”

“Yes, okay. I'll text Sherlock's phone as soon as we know. Keep an eye on him.”

“Yes. Thanks.”

For a moment John considered waking Sherlock up and making him move to the sofa, but Sherlock was convinced the knife hadn't been poisoned, and would probably refuse just to be obstinate. He settled for stretching out on the sofa with the mobile in his left hand. He'd just...

The mobile buzzed. Sunlight was coming through the windows; it was around midday. He blinked, and looked at the screen. “Oh, shit.” He got up so fast his leg threatened to collapse under him. “Sherlock. Sherlock!”

John knocked, then barged in to the bedroom. Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up. “John?” He sounded groggy.

“Get dressed.” John pulled clothes out of the closet and flung them on the bed. “Donovan found poison on that knife blade. We're going to the A&E.”

Sherlock frowned. “What poison?”

“Triflin.” John looked at Sherlock. It was hard to tell with Sherlock, but he seemed paler than usual, and he was beginning to sweat. “Can you dress yourself?”

“Of course I can dress myself.” Sherlock swung his legs out of bed.

“Hurry up.” John closed the door behind him.

Sherlock came out a moment later. John grabbed his jacket and his mobile, and handed Sherlock his coat. “Come on.”

Sherlock got down the stairs without a problem, but at the bottom he shook his head, as if he was dizzy. John locked the door behind him and raised his hand for a taxi, but Sherlock grabbed his arm. “Look.” Across the street was a sleek black car, and a familiar-looking man got out and opened the back door. Mycroft's PA was in the back seat, so John went around to the front.

They rode in silence until Anthea-or-not said, “I'm to tell you the red was excellent.” She had that faint tone of surprise she always used when relaying messages.

“You should have turned here for the hospital,” John said a moment later.

The driver was silent. “We're not going to the hospital,” the PA said.

John twisted around to look at her. “Then where are we going?”

“It's been arranged.” She was looking at her mobile.

“He's been poisoned!”

She looked up now, and gave him a brief smile. “We know.”

John turned around again and spent the rest of the ride convincing himself that Sherlock's breathing was not, in fact, speeding up. He knew, from a brief training in poisons several years ago, that edged weapons were actually a poor way of administering them, since the bleeding tended to wash most of the poison away. Snake venoms were relatively slow-acting, and if anyone could find obscure antivenins on short notice, it would be Mycroft Holmes.

They stopped in front of a familiar-looking building. Mycroft's PA put in the code to open the door, and then slid all three bolts closed behind them. “Upstairs,” she said.

John didn't think Mycroft was anywhere in the flat; the sitting room was empty, but there was a large plastic box on the table. John opened it, and found syringes and bandages. He heard the fridge open and close, and Anthea-or-not appeared beside him offering a small vial. John took it: “TRIFLIN ANTIVENIN,” it said in small print, with the concentration and dosage beneath. He turned it around and scrutinized the side effects carefully.

“John could have done this at the flat if you'd just brought it by.” Sherlock sounded petulant.

She glanced at her mobile. “I'm to tell you he takes an interest in your welfare.”

Sherlock's only reply was a huff.

“Right, sit down,” John said, reaching for the bottle of hand sanitizer and cleaning his hands.

“I can do that--”

“Sit down.”

“I injected myself for years before I met you--”

John looked away from the vial and met Sherlock's gaze. “Do you distrust me?”

Another huff. “Don't be ridiculous.”

“Then sit. Down.”

Sherlock sat down.

“Take of your jacket, undo your-- Oh.” He glanced up; Sherlock was already rolling up his sleeve.

“I do know what I'm doing. And also what you're doing.”

John just shook his head. In the kit was a box of alcohol wipes; he wiped the injection site and let it dry.

“Are you going to give me a colourful plaster, too?”

“Only if you stop whining.” John adjusted the syringe, opened the vial, and took up the proper amount. “Deep breath.” Before Sherlock could complain, he gave the injection. There was a biohazard bag in the box; he discarded the used syringe tip. “I need to give you another in three hours.”

“You can give it to me back at the flat. Pack up the box.”

“Sorry, no,” Anthea-or-not said sweetly. “You're to stay here.”

“I really don't think you could stop me.”

She looked up from her mobile and smiled in a way that was extremely disconcerting, more so because it wasn't menacing at all. She glanced down at her mobile. “Your brother says you can stay here for the next six hours, or he can send a physician round to your flat to monitor you. For the next twenty-four.”

Sherlock stretched out on the sofa and turned his back to both of them.

John went through the box on the table to familiarize himself with the contents, just in case, though he'd injected the antivenin in plenty of time and the worst side effects were dizziness and nausea. Then he looked around. Sherlock was pretending no one else existed; Anthea-or-not was nowhere to be seen... no, she was appearing at his side with a mug of tea.

“Er, thanks. Don't you... have somewhere to be?”

The brief smile. “Here.”

He sipped at the tea. “Where is Mycroft?”

“Still dealing with the spy,” Sherlock said from the sofa. “Only a matter of extreme national security could keep him from coming round to gloat.”

Mycroft's PA didn't confirm or deny the statement; she just went back to the kitchen and sat at one of the stools near the center table, texting... or whatever it was she did with her mobile.

John wandered around the sitting room before taking a seat and letting his eyes close. Sherlock was texting someone. The flat had to be extremely well-insulated: he couldn't hear any noise from the street. He was willing to bet that the windows were bulletproof, too.

John opened his eyes and glanced over at Sherlock. “You all right?”

“Fine.” Sherlock sounded bored. If Mycroft hadn't Sherlock-proofed his flat, though, it was definitely not John's problem.

When his friend got up, appropriated his brother's laptop-- John was willing to bet Mycroft's password was a good deal harder to crack, but it didn't seem to present Sherlock with any difficulty-- John took over the sofa.

“John,” Sherlock said.

“Mmm?”

“Three hours.”

“... right.” He'd drifted off; he wasn't as caught up on his sleep as he thought.

John gave Sherlock the second injection and returned the vial to the fridge. Mycroft's PA was still sitting in the kitchen. “There's food in the cabinets. The last four issues of “Lancet” are in the printer cabinet.”

John blinked, then returned to the sitting room. “Why does your brother subscribe to...” But Sherlock was gone.

“He's upstairs, going through his brother's bedroom.”

“Okay.” John found the journal and settled down with it; it was available at the hospital, but he never had time to read it there.

“We're going,” Sherlock announced, breezing into the room as John was reading about hematomas. “It's been six hours.” He picked up his coat.

John didn't look up. “Any dizziness, nausea, headache, or cramps?”

“Only when I opened Mycroft's drawers.”

“Right, not asking.” John put down the journal and picked up his coat. He went to the kitchen and hesitated in the doorway. “Er...”

The PA looked up. “Bye,” she said.

Mycroft's driver dropped them off at Baker Street. Sherlock, who'd ransacked his brother's kitchen, began going through their own cupboards. “Takeaway's in the fridge,” John called. When he heard the fridge open, but not close, he went into the kitchen and found Sherlock kneeling on the floor, examining the stoat closely through the plastic bag.

“Look at this, John,” Sherlock murmured.

“I'll... pass. How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“You let me know if that changes.”

“Yes, doctor.” Sherlock was still staring at the stoat.

John reheated some supper from the safe shelf in the fridge, and then started writing up their previous case, a kidnapping. After he'd outlined the salient points, he turned on the telly and watched for a while. Sherlock ate supper twice and disappeared into his bedroom, having slept five hours out of the last forty-eight. John cleaned up the kitchen, took a hot shower, and went to bed, looking forward to an uninterrupted night's sleep.

A/N: The title of this chapter is taken from the Kalevala, an epic poem from Finland. In Rune 14, the hero is sent to kill a certain swan in the sacred death-river. However, before he can do that, the guardian of the river sends a serpent that kills him. (My apologies if I have misrepresented this poem in any way!)

Also, as far as I know, there is no known antivenin or antidote to triflin. I used authorial license on that point.

Title: Birthdays
V. Breakfast of Champions
Rating: PG-13/R
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, John, Lestrade, OCs
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the BBC's characters or plots.
Word Count: 2,360
Warnings: Description of graphic violence, blood, death of OCs
A/N:
1.) Not beta'd or Britpicked
2.) PLEASE CHECK the ratings, warnings and pairings on each individual chapter, as they will be subject to change.
3.) More extensive author's notes will follow at the end of the last chapter.

December 29th
The flat was dark and quiet when John woke early the next morning. The water in the kettle was cold; no telling when Sherlock had left, or whether he had managed to figure out who the next victim would be in time to save them. It was past the time of morning when the other bodies had been found. John shook his head, gulped down a quick breakfast, and walked to the Tube station, trying not to worry. It wouldn't do anyone any good, and Sherlock could demonstrably take care of himself.

But that John had had to save his life from his own stupidity thirty-six hours after meeting him, well, that had left an impression.

Emergencies often came in a row, even when it didn't make sense; he'd once fixed five dislocated shoulders in a row on a day when none of the patients had seen combat. Civvie street was no different, and today it was four cases of alcohol poisoning. For several hours his world was one of dialysis machines and stomach pumps, and yelling for them to get another machine down here, now, and of vomit and hypothermia. Finally they stabilized the fourth patient and sent her upstairs, and then he stitched up a little boy who'd ripped open the lower half of his calf falling off of the swings. Then there was a lull and he took advantage of it to make himself a cup of tea in the staff room.

The telly was on but muted; he watched the rugby results as the kettle heated, and then rummaged through the drawers trying to find where the night shift had relocated the tea bags. He happened to glance up, and his hands froze. The headline: “Five-time Olympic gold medalist found strangled in home.”

“Bloody hell!” John found the remote and turned the sound on.

“... in Willesden,” the announcer said, looking solemn. “Police are investigating, and ask anyone with information about the murder to call this number.” Briefly, there was video of a building surrounded by police cars, with officers going in and out, but he couldn't see if Sherlock, or anyone else he knew, was there.

“Dr Watson!”

Then he didn't have time to think about it any more, because three ambulances were discharging patients from a gas explosion.

It was the middle of the afternoon when he got five minutes of breathing room again, and by the time he came back from the W. C. there was a child waiting for him to remove a pencil rubber that was jammed up her nose. After that it was a diabetic man with hypoglycemia, and an elderly woman with stroke symptoms, and then a stabbing victim in danger of bleeding out. John winced at that one-- but Sherlock had said it would be a strangling today, and they'd already had that, hadn't they? They got a transfusion started, and then the man who had stabbed her crashed through the doors wielding a very large and very bloody knife, and everything went to hell.

Later John would remember yelling for everyone to get down. He would remember that the physician's assistant had hurled an oxygen tank at the man and then grabbed a broom from the corner and stood between him and the nearest three patients. He would remember screaming and someone calling the police, but when he found himself on the ground with the man pinned under him and the knife two meters across the floor, it felt at first like the past moment had gone too fast for him to remember.

Two burly orderlies restrained the man until the police came. A flock of administrators descended on the department, and someone well-meaning told John to go home, until someone else pointed out that there was no one to replace him. They made him go take a break, however. He turned on the telly to see if he could find out any more details about the strangling, but there was nothing. He made himself another cup of tea and wondered how long it would be before he could go back on duty without looking like an adrenaline junkie. He also wondered how the woman was doing; he hoped she hadn't noticed her abusive ex-boyfriend storming the department to find her.

He frowned, something tugging at his memory. Stab wounds; couples; something that had happened at the crime scene yesterday...

Oh. Oh.

“Sherlock Holmes.” There was conversation in the background, wherever he was.

“It's me. I found the turtledoves,” John said. “One of them's still alive.”

Sherlock was there in fifteen minutes, and he'd brought Lestrade. “I treated her two days ago,” John said, leading them towards the lift. “She and a man, both dressed like they'd come from a concert, both with stab wounds matching yesterday's. She said--” He frowned, trying to remember the exact wording. “She said, 'He said we'd have to mourn.'” They got in, and John gave his flatmate a once-over, relieved to see no obvious injuries. “He died, she lived. What Cyrus said about the concert being canceled-- I looked up their names while you were on your way. The missing lead soprano and tenor.”

Sherlock was busy on his mobile. “They're romantically linked. Turtledoves-- mate for life, kept for their voices.” He nodded once. “Well done, John.”

The lift doors opened and John led them to the room. The woman-- Lisa Regan-- was awake. She looked a lot better than the last time John had seen her, when she'd been pale and grey and half-dead; now, there was pink in her face again, and she didn't look quite so... haunted. She frowned, looking from John to the men behind him. “I... I think I remember you,” she said hesitantly, “but...”

Lestrade pulled out his badge. “DI Lestrade,” he said. “I just have a few questions, to help us catch who did this to you.”

“I've already talked to the police,” she began. “I'm happy to, to help...”

Sherlock stood at the end of the bed, and Lisa looked up at him. “It's a serial killer,” he said, looking at her intently. “He's killed six people since he went after you. You and Mike.” The woman stifled a sob. “Anything you can tell us will help us stop him.”

She closed her eyes, then opened them and nodded once. “All right.”

Lestrade took out a notebook. Sherlock simply watched her fixedly.

“It was dress rehearsal,” she said. “For the new concert series. It was supposed to go on the night before last. There's a section that is just the sopranos and altos, the chorus, I mean, so Mike and I...” She took a deep breath. “We stepped out, just for... some air. It was a thing we did, to go out and chat during rehearsal whenever things got too harried. We called it... our smoke break, though of course neither of us smoked.” Tears were gathering in her eyes, but her voice was steady. “That night, the director had been a bit rough with Mike-- nothing out of line, just dress rehearsal-- so we went for a walk. They wouldn't need us for a while.” She wiped her eyes. John silently handed her a tissue. “We had got as far as the yard at London City College when I thought someone was following us. It was just... a shadow, really, that didn't behave as a shadow should. I wanted to call the police, Mike was still trying to see what I saw, and while we were talking about it...” She closed her eyes, shoulders shaking, and put her hands to her face.

“Take your time,” Lestrade murmured.

After a moment, she swallowed visibly and opened her eyes again. John handed her another tissue. “He jumped out of the shadows,” she said. “Just this dark thing with a knife-- could see that clearly, I remember...” she trailed off.

“You said he jumped out of the shadows,” Sherlock prompted after a moment.

“Yes.” She took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. “He was on Mike before either of us could react, and the knife... went into his stomach. All the way, up to the hilt,” her voice dropped to a broken whisper. “I jumped on his back, clawing at his eyes, trying-- God, just trying to get him off, and he pulled the knife out and there was so much blood and then-- and then he reached back and--” she touched the right side of her chest, below her collarbone. “There. And it hurt, and I lost my grip and fell back, and he stabbed me again, in the ribs, and somehow--” She shook her head. “I don't know how, somehow Mike managed to crawl over and grab him round the knees, and brought him down, and then-- he stabbed Mike in the chest-- again-- and again--”

John's hand tightened to a fist at his side. 

“I had fallen all twisted up, and I managed to get my mobile out of my pocket, it was under me, and I rang 999 and said “London City College” and Mike was screaming-- in the background--” She paused, gulping air. “And he left Mike and yanked it out of my hand and stabbed me in the side, but I got my hand in-- half deflected it-- and then-- he, he bent over us and said-- 'You'll have to mourn.'” Her voice broke. “Then he just, he left. I, I crawled over to Mike somehow, and I managed to get my jacket off and I tried to hold it to his stomach, and then-- then I woke up in A&E.” She was trembling violently. The blankets were down by her feet, and John pulled them up over her legs. She smiled weakly.

“You've been very helpful, Ms. Regan,” Lestrade said. “Thank you. Can you, ah-- can you tell me everything you remember about what he looked like?”

She sank into the pillows. “About my height,” she said after a moment. “I remember that he only came up to Mike's collarbone. Rather slender-- ten stone, I'd say. Dark hair, with a good deal of grey in it. He-- well. Pale, quite pale.” She shook her head. “Dark jumper, dark trousers. His shoes...” She swallowed. “When I was on the ground, and he was... bending over Mike, they were right in front of me. Oxfords, black, shiny. And he had his right ankle wrapped.”

“What hand did he have the knife in?” Sherlock asked.

She frowned. “His left. It was his left hand.”

“Thank you,” Lestrade said. “I know this was hard for you, but what you've told us may save a life.” He scribbled in his notebook and tore off part of a page. “This is my mobile number. If you think of anything else, ring me, no matter what time it is.”

“All right.” She folded the piece of paper and tucked it into the drawer of the bedside table. “You're going to catch him, aren't you?” She looked up at Lestrade through eyelashes still damp from crying.

He hesitated. “Yes. We are.” Lestrade gave her a reassuring nod and left the room, Sherlock trailing behind. John stayed long enough to ask if she needed anything, then followed her out.

Sherlock was silent on the lift ride down. “What about this morning?” John asked. “I saw it on the telly...”

Lestrade grimaced. “Broke into the man's flat, strangled him with the bands of the medals, and then left the medallions arranged on his chest like the bloody Olympic rings.”

“Any leads?”

“Five,” Sherlock said.

“Five?” Lestrade said.

“I didn't tell you about all of them.”

“Sherlock--”

“Right, I'd better be back to work,” John said, to head off the pissing match.

“Oh, yeah,” Lestrade said. “Is your boss going to be okay with your having gone off with us?”

“Oh-- he told me to take a break.” John rotated his shoulder. “We had a little trouble with a bloke with a knife.”

Sherlock and Lestrade stared at him. It wasn't often he could take the world's only consulting detective by surprise.

“See you back at the flat,” he said. “Afternoon, Lestrade.”

He convinced his boss he was fine to keep working, and for the next three hours it was a succession of mysterious rashes, infants with high fevers, uncontrollable vomiting, broken limbs, chest pain, seizures, and one memorable workman who'd stapled himself to a goat. The number of patients picked up as people got off work and went home. The woman whose ex-boyfriend had made such an impression was, he was glad to see, sleeping every time he did rounds; better for her to put off remembering as long as she could, he knew. He patched up the victim of a chainsaw accident, told a man that his little girl was going to be just fine, lost a woman who'd taken too much heroin, and saved a diabetic in severe hypoglycemic shock. Just as he treated the last patient at the triage desk, a surge of new urgent care patients swamped the nurses, and he spent twenty minutes making the beds to help them out. They caught up; then one of the paramedics he saw on a regular basis brought in her driver, who was unconscious after having been slugged by a drunk. It was never dull.

Finally his shift officially ended; he took the night shift doctor around, showed her everyone, and sat down to fill out the leftover paperwork. By the time he took the Tube home and stumbled in the flat, it was a few minutes to midnight. The lights were on, and he heard water running in the W. C. upstairs. He filled the kettle, and turned it on.