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Anomalies	By : Harpling Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3513 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Sherlock, the BBC, or any of the characters mentioned herein, nor am I making any money from writing this.

Chapter List
- 14
- 15
- 16
Title: Anomalies
Author: Harpling
Characters, Pairing: Sherlock/John, Lestrade, Mycroft, Donovan, Anderson, Dimmock, Mrs. Hudson, OC
Rating: PG
Summary: Sherlock Holmes was a man accustomed to anomalies. Things out of place formed the bulk of his work, after all. But why was he so slow to notice them in his own behaviour?
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, and I am making no money from them.
Warnings: Manly man love, awkward conversation, knickers!
Beta’d by the extraordinary Lynn Maxwell and not yet Brit-picked.

Chapter 15

He was still absently humming the courante under his breath when he finally got back to his flat. However, the noise he was making still didn’t mask the sound of a female voice engaged in a very involved conversation.
“Oh, come on! I promise I won’t tell anyone. He’ll never even know where I got my info. … You’re being pretty ridiculous about this matter. Why are you so hung up on it? … Don’t try to deflect. I’m not a sex maniac; I’m just curious. Is Sherlock Holmes a boxers man or a briefs man? … Of course it’s important. You can tell a lot about a person by what sort of knickers they wear. This could be vital. … Fine, then. If you won’t tell me, I’ll just have to have a look for myself. But don’t say I didn’t – Oh, hello, Sherlock!” Looking completely unabashed, Jamie Wilson turned from her argument when he walked in the door.
“You do know the skull won’t actually answer, right? No larynx, no diaphragm, none of the necessary physical components for speech.”
She continued to cradle the skull in her hands like a long-lost friend. “Says you. We were having a very nice discussion before he decided to be a complete prude about a perfectly normal question. It’s not like he doesn’t know the answer.” Jamie gave the skull an arch look, but it continued to grin up at her.
Sherlock decided to ignore Jamie’s obvious signs of mental illness. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, your housekeeper let me in. Told her I was John’s old schoolmate. Sweet old lady. Though, to be honest, I’d fire her if I were you.” She glanced pointedly around at the clutter and mess.
“She’s the landlady, not the housekeeper,” he replied automatically. “But that doesn’t answer the question. Why are you here?”
“Couldn’t very well go back to my place, could I? Nice fellow called Lestrade told me I ought to kip at your flat, since mine is now a crime scene. But why’d you bring my gym bag over if you didn’t know I was going to be here? Do you always take souvenirs from crime scenes?”
Sherlock belatedly realized that he was still carrying the ridiculous bag he had grabbed from Jamie’s flat. Some of the feathers had gotten a bit crushed on the Tube. He’d been so absorbed in Dr. Bell’s comments about John that he hadn’t even noticed the garish thing hanging from his arm. “No. I told your flatmate that I was John, sent over for your effects after you’d sprained your ankle. Must have forgotten I was carrying it. Do you really take this to the gym?” he asked as he traded Jamie the bag for the skull.
“Sure. No one’s ever desperate enough to lift it. You must be pretty out of it if you didn’t notice you were carrying this thing around. What’d you grab for me?” She rummaged through the contents of the bag, pulling out a pair of lacy, orange knickers, seventeen socks, a hair bow, two swimming suits, a feather boa, and a single purple trainer. “Ah, I see. Got quite an evening planned, haven’t we?”
“I had no intention of you staying the night here and actually using this. I still have no intention of allowing you to sleep here. I need to work on several problems, and you’ll be in the way. Get out.”
“Nope. You’re the reason my flat is currently uninhabitable, so you get the honour of hosting me for the night. Where’s John, by the way? I’d’ve thought he’d be home from work by now.”
“New Zealand.”
“New Zealand? What the hell is he doing in New Zealand? He didn’t even tell me he was planning a holiday. Oh, well. I guess John won’t mind if I sleep in his bed, then.”
Sherlock was about to protest that he hadn’t been the one conducting illegal business transactions in the kitchen, but the idea of someone, anyone, else sleeping in John’s bed stopped him cold. “No. You’re not staying in John’s room. That wouldn’t be…”
She was already up the stairs. Clearly, anything he said to this woman was an absolute waste of time. With a sigh, he replaced the skull on the mantel and flopped back on the sofa. At this point, the best he could hope for was that Jamie would stay upstairs and he’d be able to ignore her. Resolutely, he turned his thoughts back to considering what Dr. Bell had told him.
The police might not believe him, but there was now an absolute link between the piles of money Anya had been collecting and the cases of weapons that Karolinski had been guarding in the warehouse. The record company responsible for the coded directions in the song would have to be investigated. Codes within codes on top of codes. Whoever was running this operation was good. Very good. Altogether clever enough to be the work of Moriarty, but Moriarty had been more intent on making his presence known. This new player seemed intent on keeping everything absolutely secret. John had said as much, several weeks ago. John…
No. Stop thinking about John. Think about the codes. He had still not figured out the code used in the text messages. No doubt Anya’s phone records, whenever the police got around to reading them, would have more of the same nonsense messages sent and received. He looked up at the wall where he had tacked all the pertinent information for the case. All of the messages had been printed out and pasted in a rather haphazard row.
New shipment coming Thursday morning.
Have space ready for fifty cases.
Sherlock sighed. There was no pattern he could see. As he thought, his fingers tapped out the rhythm of the hemiola from the courante Dr. Bell had played in the Tube. It was a catchy little tune, really. Hemiolas were always tricky to play. 1-2-3/ 1-2-3/-1-2/ 1-2/ 1-2 Gradually, he became aware of what his fingers were doing. His eyes flickered to his hand and back to the messages. Was it possible? Something so obvious and fiendishly simple. It was –
Whatever he had been about to think was abruptly cut off by the sight of Jamie Wilson, female and in no way resembling John Watson, wearing pyjamas belonging to John Watson. John’s pyjamas had been bought by John and smelled like John and felt like John and should only ever be worn by John, not by this irritating, absurd, strange woman who was currently walking into the kitchen as if she had every right in the world to don the faded flannel trousers and worn t-shirt. It was wrong, wrong in every way possible.
Something of his shock must have shown on his face because she paused, fork poised halfway between her mouth and the carton of Chinese take-away. “Problem? I would’ve ordered one for you, but John says you never eat during a case. I can share if you’re hungry, though.”
“Those are John’s clothes.”
“I did figure that much out for myself. Them being in John’s room was a bit of a clue, you know.”
“Why are you wearing John’s clothes?”
“You don’t seriously expect me to wear that stuff you brought, do you? Don’t worry – I won’t hurt anything. I’ve worn his clothes lots of times. ‘Course, that was back before he finished school and got too old for sleepovers. He won’t even notice.”
“You’ve… slept with John?” Sherlock couldn’t quite keep the strangled note out of his voice, which Jamie noticed, of course. Irritating woman.
“Yeah, I used to stay at his place all the time. Once his parents realized I wasn’t a threat to their baby boy’s virtue, they even let us sleep in the same bed. I was more interested in threatening Harry, if you know what I mean.” She winked at him, but he was too stuck on one fact to share in the joke.
“You’ve slept in John’s bed? With John? While wearing John’s clothes?”
She cocked her head and peered at him. Sherlock had the uncomfortable sensation that this must be what other people felt when he was analyzing and deducing. He looked away, unable to meet her all-too piercing gaze for very long.
“Oh, Sherlock, you’ve got it bad.”
“I’ve got what? I’m not ill, as far as I know.”
“You really don’t know, do you? Oh, that is too precious.”
“Know what?”
“Sherlock, you fancy him. Big time. You’re completely, utterly, stark-raving mad for him. Have you told him?”
He turned away and walked into the kitchen. “Don’t be absurd.”
“So you did tell him, then. And he turned you down. I wonder why he did that – he’s just as arse over elbows for you. You must have really botched it when you told him. How’d you lay it out for him?”
Everything went very quiet in Sherlock’s mind. Jamie’s voice, traffic outside, Mrs. Hudson’s cooking noises, everything faded into silence, replaced by a single, crystalline thought: He’s just as arse over elbows for you. Jamie’s words, ridiculous though the metaphor may be, filled his entire mind. He didn’t even realize that he had frozen in mid-step until an insistent pain in his midsection jolted him back to the present.
Jamie was poking one finger repeatedly at his stomach. “Sherlock. Earth to Sherlock. Come in, Sherlock Holmes…. Ah, there you are. You got a bit lost there for a minute. Let me guess, you didn’t know John fancied you. You pined away for him until you finally worked up the nerve to confess your secret eternal devotion to him. Being a complete and utter twat, you told him in the most insulting way possible, probably even so that he didn’t even know what you were trying to tell him. So, instead of telling you of his unrequited passions, John gets mad. What should have been all rose petals and rainbows and marathon shagging is instead John storming out so to avoid punching you in your stupid, smarmy face.” She sat in the chair opposite and tucked her knees up, supper completely forgotten. “Come on. Dish. What’d you tell him?”
Sherlock sighed. Much as he hated to admit it, even to himself, he still didn’t know precisely why John had left. Having known John for so long, Jamie Wilson might be able to provide him with a better understanding of his motivation. “I did not pine away for him. The data all indicated that we had similar physical interests. Since both of us were seeking relief, I proposed a mutually beneficial arrangement. I created a situation in we were both aroused and told him that we should provide each other with an outlet. But he left. I’m still not sure why he left. I had already checked his response to various forms of stimulation, and his body reacted unmistakably. It should have been a simple, physical stimulation ending in a quick release of pressure. I haven’t seen him since, so I can’t even accurately judge the results of his end of the experiment. It’s very frustrating.”
Jamie’s expression was difficult to categorize. There was pity there, hints of disgust, amusement, which she was trying to conceal. “Sherlock Holmes, you are bloody stupid. ‘The experiment?’ Honestly, what did you think was going to happen? You can’t treat sex like some bleeding experiment! Especially sex with John. He doesn’t even go in for one-night stands. With all your brilliant detectoring powers, how could you possibly miss that? And you treated him like a prostitute or a bloody blow-up sex doll. You must be the thickest bloke in London!”
He bristled. “There was no need for emotional involvement. I certainly don’t have any, and there was no sign on his part.”
“Again, you’re thick. Of course John didn’t show you anything. You pretty well shot him down before he even moved in here. ‘Married to my work.’ Remember that? He was afraid you’d make him move out if he let you know what he really thought, and then he’d have to leave London altogether. He’s had some pretty rough times with other blokes, so he’s gotten used to hiding everything. But you should hear the way he keeps on about you when you’re not around. You’d have seen it if you’d ever been bothered to look. And don’t tell me it’s all just sex for you as well. ”
“Of course it is. Purely physical.” It was difficult to form a coherent response when his brain kept circling back to the idea that he had missed highly relevant signs from his flatmate. What were those signs? Would Jamie be willing to tell him what to look for in the future?
“Right. You may be fooling yourself, but you’re certainly not fooling anyone else. Why else would you have spent so long staring at his photograph earlier? You were awfully quick to pick up on the fact that we used to sleep together, even if it’s not in the way you thought. And why else would you care that I’m wearing his clothes and sleeping in his bed now? Like I said, you’re mad for him.”
“Your first conclusion is erroneous. It’s only logical to assume that the rest of your conclusions are equally as incorrect and pointless. If you were correct and John had formed some sort of emotional attachment to me, he would not have run away the first time I, um, carried out the first stages of the physical level of the experiment. And he certainly would not have run away to the ends of the earth after that.”
“Did you actually kiss him as part of an experiment? And did you tell him it was an experiment?”
“I don’t see how that matters.”
“Of course it matters! You can’t just play with someone’s feelings like a couple of test tubes and microscopes. If you really wanted to kiss John, you should have told him so.”
“And then he wouldn’t have run away?”
“Are we talking about the same John Watson here? John’s never run from anything in his life. He probably left just so he wouldn’t use all that military training to knock you down and beat you. Or knock you down and shag you, which would have made him feel awful afterwards. Don’t you see? You offered him something he’d been hoping wanting for months and then told him he was just part of an experiment. Of course he’d want some distance, some space to get his head clear.”
Sherlock thought about this for a moment. If what Jamie said was correct – and he was not entirely certain she was – then it would certainly explain John’s initial reaction in the kitchen. And if that was correct, then her other conclusions might also be valid. Emotional attachment. He had avoided love for so long that it was merely a theory to him, one he had never personally tested. Affection, certainly, he was familiar with that. He felt a vague sort of affection for Mummy and possibly for Mycroft. Respect was easy. He respected Lestrade. But John didn’t quite fall into either category.
John caused reactions that no one else ever had. Seeing John laugh made him happy; seeing John hurt made him want to hurt the person responsible. Seeing John wrapped in explosives made him do everything he possibly could to protect him. He wanted to know everything there was to know about John, even the things that bored him in other people. John’s presence was a constant chord underneath everything else he was thinking. John’s absence was a constant ache deep in his brain. In light of that realization, the thought that he was only interested in John sexually was impossible. Logically, it followed that, however mad it seemed, Jamie spoke the truth. Sherlock felt something stronger than affection or respect for John.
“If, hypothetically speaking, I were to return John’s sentiments, how would I proceed from this point?”
“You’re asking me for dating advice? Haven’t you ever had a relationship before?”
“No. I’ve never seen a reason to pursue something like that.”
“You poor, daft, sad, little man.” Jamie shook her head ruefully. “The first thing you’ve got to do is to tell him about your great revelation. Now, after experimenting on him to get him into the sack, I don’t know that he hasn’t given up on you completely.”
“He’s in New Zealand, remember?. With his ex-girlfriend.”
“Ooh, ex-girlfriend, that’s not a good sign.” She thought for a moment. “Well, it could just be him trying to convince himself that he’s not just some experiment. John’s got his pride, you know. And you seem to have knocked it about pretty thoroughly. He didn’t even tell me he was planning to go, and he always tells me when he’s leaving, just so I can keep an eye on Harry. You’re going to have to do something pretty big to win him back, lover-boy. You could start by telling him you’re sorry.”
“He’s not here to be told.”
“And I suppose there’s no computers or internet Down Under? Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one in this flat?”
“I can’t just send him an email saying something like that. He’d think I’d gone completely soft.”
“Oh, my god. Men and their stupid pride.” Jamie stood abruptly and walked toward the door, calling over her shoulder, “I’m so glad I date women – we don’t have to compare penis sizes every time there’s an argument! If you don’t want my help, I’m going to bed. Hope you enjoy your little wallow in self-pity down here. Pleasant dreams.”
Sherlock snorted in disgust. He remembered why he didn’t deal with emotions – they were messy and irritating and entirely too distracting. He looked back up at the case notes tacked above his head. That was the important thing. The work was all that mattered, really. This entanglement with John, even if it was true, was distracting him from the case.
What had he realized before Jamie’s untimely interruption? Oh, yes. The key to the code used in the text messages was reminiscent of a hemiola: two and then three. Relevant words were interspersed with nonsense fillers.
Three travelling luggage cases holding bananas are ready or not to buy a big ship became Three cases ready to ship
The fluffy pinball queen is dancing but wants five apples and to warble or see slow versions of you became The queen wants to see you

He highlighted the relevant words in each text on the wall, then emailed the cipher key with the translations to Lestrade. The cipher would surely have been changed by now, but the police always got so put out of joint if they didn’t have all the information. It wasn’t as if they could do anything with it.
Quickly, he checked the forum on his website in the hope that something interesting would have been posted. No such luck. There was only one new message.
Mr. Holmes, my name is Victor Trevor and the police won’t listen to me. My girlfriend disappeared, and I think she must have been kidnapped. We were planning to go to Brighton last Tuesday, but she never came to the station. She’d been acting funny before then, but I thought she was just nervous about the trip. We’ve only been seeing each other for about two months, and I think maybe things were moving a little fast for her. But I’d never pressure her or anything. We were just going to celebrate her birthday. My mum’s got a cottage down there. I saw her Tuesday morning, but she said she had to pick up her things before coming to the station. And I haven’t seen her since then. The police say they can’t find her, but I know they’re just not looking. Anyway, her name is Holly Angel and she’s 26, she works at some shop down by Paddington selling ladies’ things, and she goes to my church, St. Thomas More. That’s where I met her, actually. I’m sending you a picture of her. I’m pretty sure something terrible has happened to her. She’s missed things before, but she’s never just not shown up for something. Please can you help me find her? ~~Victor Trevor
No wonder she’d given up on the sap; he was completely wilted. With nothing else to occupy his time, he stared at an open email window. Perhaps he should send an email to John, just to find out whether he would be coming back. Would he have to find a new flat-share now? The thought was distasteful. But what to say? After nearly an hour of writing and then deleting messages, Sherlock finally pressed Send:
John said to Jane I’m flat but sorry. Isn’t it time you said they are made of cheese worth three pickles far and away the more than enough to make balloons for me much higher than elephants and socks I like to let out to go on. Climbing down I tripped the wire miss the breaker you made. See how I fluttered to think one pixel I poisoned the eel may have to be admit the crime in without chocolate and love for plastic with faded curtains to you lot. So come burn down the home. SH
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Anomalies