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Brilliant Minds	By : FairyBean Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 4812 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, I do not Profit from this writing and do not know or own Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson or any of the other characters used in this work. I also do not own Sherlock (BBC) franchise or anything related to it.

Chapter List
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John was silent now, his arms folded neatly across his chest. Sherlock sat beside him on a red waiting room chair and seemed to be completely at home. Wherever it is they were.
Back at the flat John had objected, downright refused to let Sherlock go. But of course the detective had to do just the opposite when told something, so John’s refusal had led to them being escorted down to a black saloon type care and driven somewhere through the city before being ushered into a rather opulent looking high rise and now here they were. Sat in a waiting room on fairly uncomfortable red chairs while Sherlock looked around like a child in a candy factory.
“Mycroft,” he murmured a moment later and John’s eyes shot up.
A man stepped out of nowhere, not looking much like the younger Holmes that was sitting next to John but they shared that same feel, maybe the eyes too, the eyes gave away the family resemblance. This Holmes however was often easier to deal with than his younger sibling. John found himself standing, it was just in his nature to try to take control when he didn’t understand.
“But the medallion? The murder case….? And who is Annabel Heath?” He looked to Sherlock weakly as Mycroft merely smiled, telling John that it was a code word. Another blasted code word for something that could have easily just been said. “Couldn’t have just asked us to come over,” he muttered but knew he wouldn’t get an answer, and knew he was being rather childish.
“It’s true that that medallion links you to the case Sherlock old boy,” Mycroft started slowly. “But only because you stole the one that was on the last body. I took this one,” and he held it up between his fingers in much the same way as the woman had only minutes earlier, “Before anyone could figure out the connection. But I want you to, so here.”
He handed it to Sherlock who looked down at it. Lestrade had not let him take photographs, not that he needed to with his memory but it made it difficult to investigate the mark when he had no evidence to show his network. Sherlock nodded slowly and took the other out of his pocket, examining them.
“As I thought,” he muttered again, his voice was low around Mycroft unless he was angry. But this time he seemed to be giving time to his older brother. And that was a new thing to them both, considering the look on Mycroft’s face but it didn’t mean he wasn’t glad of it this time. John smiled a bit.
“Alright?” he asked offhand as Sherlock slid the two pieces together and then frowned. He put them in his pocket however as he shook his head.
“Wrong order, need the others.”
“Others?” Mycroft queried with a raised brow. He was being sly, purposely playing the innocent when he knew exactly what the younger Holmes was referring to.
“Why are you involved Mycroft?” Sherlock asked then, his eyes narrowing a little and John knew that look. Sherlock was getting bored, his first conclusion hadn’t worked and he was looking for something else. But when he was bored he would start fights, with just about anyone. Even Mrs Hudson had had to bear the brunt of Sherlock’s boredom once or twice. John however was used to it and before anyone could say anything more he turned to the door.
“Better be going to see Lestrade then,” he said in normal cheery tones, not bothering to ask about what the Holmes boys were trying to do just yet. “He’s got all the…artefacts from the other bodies. You can see if anything there fits the puzzle.”
Sherlock paused a moment and then turned and swept from the room. Mycroft smiled. “You do handle him rather well as of late Doctor.”
John shrugged. It was just something he was getting used to. He was adaptable after all, war veteran and all that. Without another word, though feeling slightly awkward, John followed Sherlock before he was left behind in the detective’s rush to get to the police investigative offices. As it happened Sherlock was tapping his foot impatiently while holding open the door to a taxi. John smiled, it wouldn’t be the first time he had been left behind while Sherlock ran off to look into something, but this was only one of a handful of times Sherlock had actually waited.
John looked to him once they were settled into the taxi and on their way. Sherlock didn’t say anything at first, content to gaze out of the windows but as they pulled up at the police HQ he tossed John a small smile and said “Didn’t want to leave you to fend for yourself in that neighbourhood, too many who would have you for dinner.” And with that he was out of the taxi and walking up the steps to the main entrance in search of Lestrade. John paid the taxi fare with a sigh, and followed at a more normal human pace.
That however seemed like a mistake. As he walked into the office he heard the laughter and looked to where Sherlock stood. Lestrade was behind them and looked momentarily shocked before he said “Knock it off, now.”
Of the two who had been ribbing Holmes, John only knew Anderson, and it was strange that he would be here. Though if Sherlock had demanded the evidence from the cases…then maybe. But that wasn’t the problem, the problem was that look in Sherlock’s eyes. Whatever had been said, it had been said to sting. And it seems it hit its mark. Not that they would be able to tell, it was just something John was used to by now. He stepped in.
“Lestrade,” he called and Lestrade looked over to him, a smile coming to his face.
“Finally, the tolerable one of the pair. Can you explain what happened?” he asked and like now, John often had respect and more than a little sympathy for some of the spots Sherlock put him in. Evidence wasn’t usually just freely handed out to whoever asked, consulting detective or not.
“We need to look over anything you found on the bodies or at the crime scenes. Seems there might be a link with the markings, so photographs of those would be helpful too.”
There were nods, and Anderson chuckled slightly. “See Holmes, all you have to do is ask like a human being.”
“Freak,” someone else muttered from behind John and he knew it was a woman but he didn’t turn around. Ah so that was it. They had been playing schoolyard bullies. Outwardly Sherlock was never bothered by this kind of thing, but John knew that inside, it struck a tiny nerve with the detective that he tried to bury.
“John, I’ll meet you at home. There is something I need to check,” he said, and that was Sherlock fleeing from the situation with dignity. “Bring copies home, and coffee,” he added as he swept out. Lestrade look after him and shook his head.
“How do you ever cope?” he muttered but didn’t wait for an answer before cocking his head towards the back of the huge office-esque room. “Come on, let’s see what we have.”
----
Sherlock hailed yet another cab, reeling inside as the cases washed over his thoughts, punctuated by the overlying audio Anderson and Donovan ribbing him over his inhuman attitude and how he was a freak. He would never give them the satisfaction of knowing it had hit something inside him. Not the inhuman thing, but being called a freak was something Holmes understood, and did not like one bit.
He barged into the dingy club, through the throngs of youth gyrating to the beat of the music, if it could be called that. He pushed on, not bothering to apologize that he knocked over at least three drinks on his way behind the bar.
She was there, sitting in her usual spot on a mezzanine up the stairs. It overlooked the entire club floor but he didn’t care. He never cared. “Kitty,” he greeted her perfunctorily. She had chosen the name to give him and regretted it ever since. He knew by the slight tick in her eye everytime he said it. But she let him away with it. She owed him her life after all.
“Sherlock,” she muttered. “I don’t have anything for you.”
Sherlock walked to the railing that separated this upper world from the throng of dancers below. “Hmm,” he muttered. He never had to say more than that to her. She understood.
“Sherlock,” she said, gaining his attention. He looked at her brown eyes and saw sympathy there. He hated that. “You have to get a grip before you relapse,” she said quietly.
Sherlock blinked. Then laughed. “Information.”
She sighed and reached down to her side. She threw him a balled up piece of paper. “This was found in the alley two streets from here,” she started as Sherlock opened the crumpled piece and stared at it shocked. It was a picture of a glyph he knew he had not yet seen upon a body.
“The next victim?” he breathed and Kitty arched a slim brow, then stood and came up behind him, her femininity suddenly a real factor in Sherlock’s personal space. He coughed. Ignored it. Asked another question. “Do you know what these are?”
She didn’t answer and he felt her rather enhanced bosom press against his thinly muscled back. The railing was in front of him, she was behind. A rather compromising situation, until his phone rang.
He fumbled, answered without words, nearly laughed when John’s voice said
“Plain or flavoured?” and of course he meant the coffee, and of course because he had read something into earlier he was treating him to a proper coffee house coffee and so he let the smile he felt spread over his face seep into his words as he said
“Flavoured of course, caramel is what I believe I am in the mood for. Thank you.” And he hung up the phone, turned in the womans quite well place arms and smiled winningly. “I’m afraid I have a rather pressing engagement that I am now rather late for,” he said and reached inside his coat withdrawing an envelope. “Would the usual suffice?”
She took the envelope with a knowing smile. “At least someone loves you Holmes,” she muttered as she walked away towards the stairs. She would go down and snare the bar tender or some other employee for a little backroom romp and would be satisfied. Not that Sherlock would ever tell John what kind of situation he had saved him from. Usually he went there with it all planned out, but this time had been spontaneous, something Sherlock was not used to being. But there it was.
Seemed words could burn after all.
---
He arrived back to the smell of melting cheese. Something John liked to make and Sherlock had never quite seen the fascination of. Not that it didn’t taste acceptable.
“Table, there’s something for you,” John shouted from the little kitchen where he was playing now with the grill handle. He didn’t need to see Sherlock’s face to know that the detective was still raw about the ribbing he had taken earlier.
“But I didn’t order anything,” Sherlock muttered, throwing off his coat and as usual letting it drape over the back of the chair. His gloves followed, dropped on the coffee table, and his scarf merely slithered to the carpet as he made his way to the higher desk type dining table that was really just a place to pile up junk.
Upon the table sat a white box, pristine and perfect and tied up with a perfectly executed red ribbon. Sherlock looked at it a moment, looked to John coming back to the room with a tray laden with things and then back to the pristine white box. He picked it up and as John sat he threw it into his lap.
“You open it. There isn’t an addressee and from the way its wrapped its more than likely from some admirer of yours. Who are you going out with now? Claire? Chloe? I never can remember their names.”
John frowned but didn’t dignify the rhetorical question with an answer. It may not have sounded it but Holmes never forgot the names of his partners, he knew them better than John himself. But he always played it off like that, and so somewhere along the line John had just gotten used to not answering.
He looked at the box in his lap, put down his teacup gently on the saucer and took hold of the ribbon, pulling it away easily and letting it pool in his lap. He was aware of Sherlock’s pale eyes on him. Watching his every move and taking in every nuance of his body language. He was curious as to what was inside but not more than what John would do once he saw.
“So, which one is it from,” Sherlock tried disinterest, came off more like nervously curious. John shrugged as he pulled the lid from the box and froze. Sherlock stilled, cardboard cup half way to his mouth, plastic lid in his other hand. His brain noted the smell of caramel, coffee and foam. He replaced the lid and slid it onto the table all in the same movement as getting up.
John registered that fluidity somewhere, knew it would make for some nice kink in bed and shook the thought away all in those few seconds before Sherlock was standing, peering over the box and holding his breath.
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Brilliant Minds