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Hacked	By : SoftPurpleSherlockian Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 4355 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters and am making no money off of this story.

Chapter List
- 14
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- 16
John and Sherlock stood in the tiny studio flat that had once belonged to Alexander Jean. It resembled that of the typical starving artist; the walls were bare save for a few paintings that John could only assume were the young man's own, there was an unmade bed in the corner of the room, and the place smelled of old food from the pile of plates in the sink. It was obvious that whatever income the man earned went straight back into his art supplies. Adjacent from the bed sat a stack of canvases, easels, brushes, and acrylics.
John watched Sherlock turn one hundred eighty degrees to take in everything, not that there was much to see. The doctor set about going through the pile of completed paintings leaning against the wall.
“Sherlock, you know more about this kind of stuff than I do. Do artists usually paint the same thing over and over?”
The detective stalked over to where John had bent down and was flipping through the canvases. Each painting was nearly identical and Sherlock took note of the label on the bottom corner of each painting. J. Hance Art Gallery. He pulled the mental filing cabinet open and tried to place where he knew the name from. Ah yes, sixteen months ago he had been flipping through the morning paper while waiting for Molly to get him the lab results on some tests he had run the evening before. On the front page of the social section there was an article about the new gallery opening. The owner was some American bloke who had made a name for himself with pop culture paintings and t-shirt designs before packing up and moving to London to open his own gallery. ‘A place for young up and coming artists to display their work proudly’ Hance had boasted in the article. Sherlock hadn’t given it a second thought since, and was a little surprised the art gallery was still around. Businesses usually came and went within a year, yet this place seemed to be an exception to the rule.
“We’re leaving,” the detective rose and walked out of the door, making no effort to avoid stepping on the spot where blood had stained the hardwood floor.
“Sherlock!” John barked after him, “my god, have a little respect!”
The tall, ebony haired man turned to say something smart and immediately froze upon seeing the horrified look John was giving him. He huffed out an “oh very well” before continuing his decent down the narrow staircase. John quickly followed him out, taking care to walk around the spot where Alexander had spent the last moments of his life.
A taxi was already pulling up to the kerb by the time John made it outside. He took his place in the backseat beside Sherlock, unaware of where their final destination lay.
“Where are we off to?” He asked the man in the seat next to him as he stared intently out of the window at the buildings rolling by.
Sherlock sighed before answering “gallery”, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world and John was daft for even asking.
“Oh of course, the gallery. Well when you say it like that, it’s so obvious. I’m stupid for not knowing.”
“Quite right too.”
“Sarcasm, Sherlock.” John watched in amusement as the man's eyes narrowed into a half-hearted scowl.
The two rode in a comfortable silence and John tried his hardest not to notice every little move the detective made. He couldn’t seem to get comfortable, and John focused all of his attention on the lines painted on the road, watching them pass in a blur as he tried desperately to count them. Anything to distract him from the fact that it had been seventeen hours since he had spoken to Mycroft, and the eldest Holmes had yet to send him the new e-mail login and password. The morning had kept him preoccupied easily enough, Sherlock had been bursting with contagious energy and John found himself moving about the flat, going through his usual routine with more vigour than usual. His flatmate was always in a good mood when there was a case on, and John revelled in it. However, now that he was in the back of the taxi with his thoughts, he started to become antsy.
“Stop fidgeting, John!” You’re moving the entire seat every time you shift around,” the detective snapped, with an almost pained expression on his beautiful face. The doctor had been unaware he was doing it, and gave himself a mental kick for not keeping his body in check. Just because Sherlock appeared distracted, that didn’t mean anything. The man caught nearly everything and John made more of an effort to look as if he wasn’t boiling with agitation just below the surface.
Thankful for the light traffic, the two made it to the gallery in a relatively short time. Sherlock exited the cab and walked over to the sleek glass door of the entrance, leaving John to pay the fare. He quickly handed over a couple of notes he'd pulled from his pocket and joined the detective, where he stood impatiently waiting for his friend. They entered the building and were greeted by the posh interior of the foyer, while floor tiles with flakes of glitter gleamed up at them and John felt a small thrill in stepping on something so lovely. The walls were bare, yet they didn’t appear empty. The two shades of white they were painted made some sort of interesting pattern that kept the space from appearing too bleak. While John was gaping at their surroundings, Sherlock had made his way to the stainless steel desk that sat in the middle of the room, in front of a narrow wall donning the gallery’s name in sleek silver letters.
The young woman sitting behind the cold work space smiled up at Sherlock while John stood back and drank in the sight of her. She was a few years younger than the man currently standing across from her, with striking blonde hair that was swept into an elegant updo. With the fitted two piece suit and deep green shirt, she was the picture of professionalism as she asked the detective how she could help him.
“Hello, I was wondering if Mr. Hance was in at the moment.”
The woman frowned slightly before answering, “I’m sorry, Mr. Hance only comes in for exhibitions. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Perhaps you could tell me when the next one will be? I’d be very interested in speaking to him about submitting a few pieces.”
The young woman gave him a warm smile before reaching across the corner of the desk and plucking a leaflet off the top of the stack and handed it over to Sherlock. “The next show is this Friday night. We have one every two weeks. Mr. Hance’s exhibitions are very popular, every piece is one of a kind and people don’t mind spending the money for something special,” she said with a gleam in her eye that the detective picked up on right away.
Rising from her seat, she walked around until she was standing directly in front of Sherlock “Would you like a tour?” she asked, and Sherlock gave her one of his biggest smiles, the kind that turns bone to jelly and replied, “that would be wonderful, thank you.”
She put her hand on the small of Sherlock’s back and gave him a gentle push in the direction of the hallway to their right, “this way.” It was an innocent enough gesture, and yet, John could see Sherlock visibly tense at the contact.
Now, John had never seen himself as a violent person, sure he had a temper but he always kept it in check, though right this moment he wanted nothing more than to walk over and pry her hand away from his friend. She was making Sherlock uncomfortable, which was in-turn making John angry. The doctor had long since accepted that his role in their “relationship” was to look after the detective, so it seemed only natural to close the distance between them and place his hand possessively over Sherlock’s arm, giving it a firm squeeze of reassurance. He felt his friend go still and then relax into the touch.
The young woman looked back and forth between the two of them before turning an alarming shade of pink and murmuring something along the lines of “please follow me.” As soon as she turned and started walking away from the pair, John let his arm fall back to his side and had to bite back a smile as he felt the disappointment practically radiating from the man next to him.
“Er. Thank you… for that.”
John gave him a curt nod and started after the lady, but was stopped by Sherlock reaching out and grabbing his shoulder. “How did you know?”
The doctor choked back a laugh, “because I know you, Sherlock. You’re mister 'I have no concept of personal space until somebody invades mine'. Besides,” he shrugged, “I saw it, your whole body stiffened and you held your breath.”
Something akin to pride showed in the detective’s eyes. “I’m impressed, John. You observed instead of merely seeing.”
“Yeah,” the doctor laughed, “watch it or you might be out of a job!” At that, Sherlock gave a lopsided grin and rolled his eyes before walking down the short corridor that lead to an open, spacious room with various paintings hanging on the wall.
John hung back and allowed Sherlock to follow the woman around while she explained various pieces. Ever the actor, John watched him point and nod at all the right times, occasionally giving a chuckle when the situation called for it. As he leaned against the door frame, his eyes never left Sherlock for more than a few seconds, instantly finding him again if he felt he had looked away for too long.
John was torn from his thoughts by the vibration of the phone in his pocket. He felt the anticipation growing in his chest as his thumb swiped across the screen to read the waiting message.
I apologise for the delay, John.

Here is the information you inquired

about.
Username: CptHedgehog

Password: StrawberryJam
I realise how ridiculous it sounds,

however, I thought you would like

as much anonymity as possible,

lest something go askew. I sincerely

wish you the best of luck in whatever

you plan on doing with this information.
John stared down at his phone with a smile playing at his lips as he flicked through to the next message.
I've also taken the liberty of forwarding

all previous correspondences to the

account. -MH
Returning the device to its previous residence, he watched as Sherlock and the young gallery employee concluded their tour and headed in his direction.
- 14
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