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Guilty Pleasures	By : CodyMThomas Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 8167 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or content associated with BBC Sherlock, I am merely playing with them for my own amusement and make no money from this fic

Chapter List
- 1-Guilty Pleasures
- 2-2
- 3-3
- 4-4
- 5-5
- 6-6
- 7-7
- 8-8
- 9-9
- 10-10
- 11-11
- 12-Chapter 12
- 13-13
- 4
- 5
- 6
A/N: Aaaaand its officially a casefic. Gods help me.

When Sherlock holds onto him just that much tighter, when John can practically feel the man's thoughts start up in his head again, part of him wants to breathe a sigh of relief. It isn't natural to see Sherlock so still, to be able to look into his eyes and not have to try and wade through a constant storm of unending thoughts before finding and catching hold of whatever it is that the man is focusing on now.
Seeing straight through Sherlock, and to find him as fragile as a butterfly's wing or a snowflake, where to even touch it would destroy it, yet Sherlock's eyes telling him he could, if he wanted to, is a power John really doesn't want to possess. Especially not with the dark beast lingering somewhere nearby, because it would absolutely destroy this, ruin Sherlock and therefore John forever. No, John could never claim the fragile vulnerability Sherlock shows him.
Instead he brings Sherlock close, holds him tight, trying to let him know 'I will protect that however I can. I won't let anyone destroy the precious thing you just trusted me with, I'll even find a way to defend you from myself if I have to.' and Sherlock breathing gently as he rests his head on John's chest, seems to say 'alright' and John has no idea what to do with that level of trust, especially when he doesn't feel like he deserves any of it.
Still not wanting to talk, or really move at all, they both drift off, thinking it will only be for a few moments, but both fall deep into dreams. They are roused about six in the morning with both of their mobiles going off like crazy with texts and calls alike at the same time. There's only one thing that can possibly mean and Sherlocks' eyes snap wide open and the hunger of the chase fills them as he goes for his phone on the bedside table. John can't blame the man, it's been nearly two weeks since their last case and the man has been insufferable in the interim.
John fetches his own phone out of his trousers, and sees he has a voicemail from Lestrade as he heads to the bathroom to do a quick wash up. "Twenty five people discovered dead with no immediate signs pointing directly to either murder or mass suicide. All of them died at approximately the exact same time, many of them in obvious pain, some accompanied by seizures. I need answers fast because the media found out about this one before we did, a reporter's kid discovered the bodies and they walked all over the place and probably took pictures before they phoned the police. I've sent an officer that will be there in ten and Sherlock doesn't get to argue it this time. Please make sure he's decent, this is already a media nightmare on its own without him deciding to show up in a ninja suit again. And if anyone asks about the photos of him covered in blood and wielding a harpoon, please say no comment."
Sherlock was already digging through his closet when John returned and started putting his pants and trousers back on. "What did yours say?" He asks as he starts pulling his trousers up over his hips.
" 'Twenty-five dead of either mass murder or mass suicide, need your help', and I stopped listening to his desperate rambling after that. The murderer certainly isn't withdrawn in the least and it's nowhere near their first kill. Possibly a serial killer, more likely a psychopath if there is no obvious connection between the victims. Unless they are the type of psycho who goes into a crowded place shooting, no one gets that high of a kill number on their first go unless their preferred method is in causing major accidents, and that is not the case here. Killers of this level have to develop a real taste for killing, work out all the kinks, before planning and pulling off something of this magnitude. He also would only do something this attention grabbing if his earlier kills had gone completely unnoticed and were logged as natural deaths, so a murder weapon that can pass for natural causes either just on the surface or completely, and I can think of thirty-six ways that could happen right off the top of my head. He would also have at least two armed accomplices because one man overpowering, abducting, and transporting twenty-five people on his own? That would be risky, highly risky, even if he drugged them, and especially if he kept them somewhere busy enough for the bodies to be found so quickly. No obvious signs, unless Lestrade's people are even more moronic than even I gave them credit for, means they weren't restrained. No ligature marks on the wrists, no tape on the mouths or signs of being gagged. Twenty-five people held against their will without being tied down in an at least semi-public place against one man holding one gun? No, especially not when he went to get more victims because you can't transport that many people at once without drawing some sort of attention. He wouldn't be able to control them. So there had to be controllers."
"Unless they trusted him for some reason. Could it be some kind of cult's mass suicide?"
"So few people, away from their compound, without an astronomical event, note, video, any sign of connection, or the signs of a suicide ritual? John do try to keep up."
"Well for the parts you tuned out there's going to be press there, they apparently found the bodies before informing police and took advantage of their luck, and most likely tainted the crime scene horribly in the process. Lestrade is sending a car, no arguments, and begging you to please not make a spectacle of yourself, and that we are denying the harpoon photos of you are actually you at all apparently."
"Oh tedious. Really, it wasn't like I actually killed anyone, the pig was already dead, I don't see what all the fuss is about."
"Gossip and sensationalism Sherlock, the press and public are addicted to it and you tend to amply provide them with both. Talking about it only makes it last longer, even if it's just to deny it."
He couldn't see it, but John knew that Sherlock was rolling his eyes in annoyance. He knew that Sherlock was already in 'Consulting Detective Mode' and that last nights episode was the absolute last thing on his mind right now, but John couldn't switch over his brain so easily. He was a doctor first and foremost and then he was an Army Doctor after that. He wanted to ask if the man was alright, if... if he was in pain or not because he had a small stash of painkillers left over from their repeated trips to the A&E. They were quite a bit stronger than paracetamol, and he kept them locked up and hidden so Sherlock wouldn't become tempted and wind up taking them all in a fit of boredom, but he didn't know how to ask. The peace was so tenuous, the incident so new. It didn't usually happen this fast. Sherlock normally didn't get up the nerve to say anything to him the first few days, and avoided his presence except when absolutely necessary. John didn't know if the switch was because Sherlock genuinely didn't fear him and was just in an extremely forgiving mood, or worse, he was becoming acclimated and adjusted to the situation. John sincerely hoped it was the first one.
Sherlock emerged with a pile of clothes in his arm, and made his own visit to the bathroom. He returned a few minutes later with his hair combed, and wearing a white shirt and a dark suit that made him look even slimmer than he usually did. John could never figure it out, but something about the cut also made him look more intelligent somehow. It was actually one of John's favorite suits on Sherlock, and even though he had never said a word about it to the man, he had a feeling that Sherlock most likely knew anyway.
He must have been staring because when he looked up Sherlock was staring at him hard, studying, observing, seeing more than should be possible. He still winced at the plaster on Sherlock's cheek. "Sherlock, do you... I mean are you... bollocks... I can get you-"
"Thank you John, but no. While stronger painkillers would help me one way, they also have the extremely annoying side effects of making me very uncoordinated and knocking me out for hours, especially opiates like hydrocodone and codine. They also slow my thought processes down considerably, which would not be beneficial to either of us right now. Perhaps later tonight before bed if I still need them."
And noticeably slower than Sherlock's usual flourishing trot through the door, but far faster than he had been moving last night, he leaves the room with his 'Consulting Detective' game face on and having determined the physical needs and desires of his body to be absolutely inconsequential for anything less than a bullet wound or a major broken bone until after the case was solved.
John sighed and made sure he had everything he needed; keys, wallet, cash for cabs, then grabbed two clips of ammunition, loaded, checked, and put his Sig into the shoulder holster Mycroft had given him for Christmas.
Mycroft had given him the holster already loaded with his own gun freshly cleaned, serviced, with a newly engraved placard on the butt, and, John suspected, the barrel either replaced or re-drilled in order for any previous ballistics reports to never be able to be linked to it. There had also been a license to carry firearms, and a freshly printed set of papers and pair of shoulder crowns declaring him reinstated on full active duty in Her Majesties Royal Army, this time as Major John H. Watson working as an international military liaison with Scotland Yard. His permanent standing orders signed personally by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, His Royal Highness, Prince Charles, as well as the Chief of the Defense Staff, General Sir David Julian Richards, and the Vice Chief of the Defense Staff, General Sir Nicholas Houghton, were to protect and defend one Sir Sherlock Holmes, Earl of Essex, above all other orders should the need arise, using whatever means and force necessary to do so, in this and all other Thirteen Territories without fear of legal reprisal if used on Sherlock's behalf. Lestrade had near flipped his lid when he'd seen it and no wonder, John now had more authority behind him than the entire chain of command of the police forces of the entire British Nation combined as far as it pertained to Sherlock. Sherlock hadn't seemed to comprehend the severity of the moment, and John had been speechless. Mycroft had literally given John a license to kill. John had the letter framed and it now hung in his bedroom.
Having learned not to put anything past Mycroft, John had truly been more shocked at learning Sherlock was an Earl. He had known about the knighthood, Mycroft had been threatening Sherlock with a second one for as long as he had known him, but gentry, somehow that surprised him.
"The Holmes family have been landed gentry for several generations Major Watson, and due to our family's familial traits of either above average intelligence, disdain for peacockery, or ability to manage money and investments properly, the Holmes manor in Essex is one of the few stately homes in existence today that has managed to retain all of its historical lands and properties in the same family. Our eldest brother Sherringford lives there now with his family, though in truth the home belongs to all of us. Rural places disagree with me however, I am far more inclined to the city, and haven't been there since I went off to University. You should both go there on holiday sometime, Sherringford has been quite keen to meet you. Sherlock was very fond of the place when he was younger as I recall. He swore he was going to live there forever and what did you call it, 'have a bee farm'?"
John snickered remembering the look of outrage and affrontation on Sherlock's face at that. He grabbed his coat and headed out the door, Sherlock already at the bottom of the stairs and kissing Mrs. Hudson on the cheek as usual.
"You better not be trying to butter me up because there are more holes in my walls Sherlock."
"There's finally a case, Mrs. Hudson, and I can only hope that it isn't boring."
"Well it's good for you to get out of the house a bit, you've been driving poor John spare up there! Did you two patch up your little domestic?"
Sherlock glanced up the stairs where John was coming down.
"Perhaps. What do you think John? Did we kiss and make up?"
John could only blush, but before he could answer the ringer buzzed. He had never been so glad to hear the bell in his life. An officer they had briefly met only a few times whose name he didn't quite remember, Harris or Hartford or something like that, stood waiting to escort them to the crime scene. Sherlock was less than thrilled to ride in a police car, but was less vocal about it since John was sitting in the back with him, and (Harcourt!) turned on the lights and sped them through the streets of London.
"Well Lestrade certainly 'as 'is knickers in a twist, you should have seen 'im snapping orders, practically threw me keys at me 'ead when 'e told me to come and fetch you with lights on and not stop unless I didn't want me job anymore! Wouldn't 'appen to know what's gotten 'im so worked up would you? 'is face was plumb purple, and that's not like 'im a 'tall." Harcourt said, making eye contact through the rearview mirror.
"We know about as much as you do," John replied, since Sherlock had rolled his eyes and begun staring out the window. "He just texted and told us to be ready in ten minutes and to expect a media circus, nothing else." John could immediately feel Sherlock's eyes boring into him, knowing that he was lying and almost ready to call him on it, but John figured if Lestrade hadn't told him, there was a reason for it, and he wasn't going to put the man in any fouler of a mood than he seemed to be in already.
Sherlock probably knew exactly where they were when they arrived, but John had lost track some 20 minutes previous. Harcourt had turned off the lights a good 2 minutes before then, and sure enough, a large crowd of reporters was waiting at the barrier.
"Lestrade says t' use the curtain before we go in."
Sherlock immediately grabbed for something under the seat and handed two rolls of thick black fabric to John, before adhering his own edge to some velcro on the roof of the vehicle John hadn't even noticed, and letting the curtain roll down to cover the window, then continuing with the rear window. John followed suit and covered his own window and the partition between the front and back seats. they were in a dark cocoon, but a multitude of flash bulbs still tried to make their way through. John took hold of Sherlock's hand, just because he knew how much the excessive press bothered him. It was extremely hard to be any kind of detective if everyone knew who you were.
- 4
- 5
- 6
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Guilty Pleasures