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The Prey	By : amandalee Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3756 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: The authors do not claim ownership to Sherlock or any of its characters, and we make no money from writing this.

Chapter List
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Chapter 6

Mary held the door open with her body as they left the building, and Sherlock leaned his head against John’s for a few seconds. John’s expression hardened as a thought occurred to him, that the detective was not quite as weak and disoriented as he let on, that he was merely conning some sympathy out of his assistant.

Sherlock plopped onto the sofa the moment he was led into the lodge. Now that he was inside, he seemed to be improving. Either that or he was beginning to act like his old self again.

“I’m fine, don’t touch me!” he snapped venomously as he reclined spread-eagle on the furniture. He looked nearly ready to snarl as John approached him with a penlight for further inspection.

For the umpteenth time, the doctor found himself dealing with yet another one of Sherlock's lightning-fast mood swings. He was capable of going from exhilarated to moody, from angry to easy-going, from clingy to distanced, in just a few moments. This was apparently going to be one of those occasions.

"You are dehydrated and likely also hypoglycemic," John patiently explained as he sat down on the edge of the sofa. "Now please let me examine you so that I can treat you accordingly."

"John, the pictures...!"

"They'll be there for later. Now please keep your head still and try not to blink." Despite the request, Sherlock blinked furiously when John checked his eyes, but fortunately his pupils seemed to respond as they should to light.

Sherlock squirmed uncomfortably as the rough fabric of the sofa scraped his sun burnt back and shoulders. John shuddered at how he would probably feel in a few hours, not to mention tonight...

Though Sherlock's heart rate was still 120 beats a minute, his breathing was less laboured than before, and John took that as a good sign. He brought a can of Coke for his friend, briefly holding the cool aluminum against said friend's overheated cheek. Sherlock's eyes closed, and a pink tongue snaked out to wet already moist, full lips. In another context, it would have been a highly erotic sight, and John had to remind himself that he was there as Sherlock's doctor, not lover.

"Drink this," he advised and popped the can open, uncertain if Sherlock in his current state could have done it without spillage.

The detective half-heartedly batted at the offered drink. "I want just water..." he muttered.

"No, you need this. Water, replacement electrolytes, and glucose. Now drink up."

John was prepared to be even more forceful, but fortunately further encouragement was not necessary. Sherlock gulped down most of the Coke, finishing up with a resounding burp.

"Is he alright?" Mary asked as she re-entered the main room, now clothed in a white cotton tank top - although no bra - and pink hotpants, her wet hair pulled back in a ponytail. "Is there anything I can do?"

“That kind of dress is against etiquette,” Sherlock said after one glance. “No dressing to titillate. This is no swingers' club.” Mary crossed her arms and glared at him.

“He’ll be fine if he actually rests and drinks,” John said, ignoring Sherlock’s cheeky little remark. The detective may have been right, but he personally had no complaints about Mary’s choice of clothing.

“My head hurts,” Sherlock argued, giving a frown which bordered on a childish pout. “I will not be fine. And give me the damn camera!”

Rolling her eyes, Mary got to the bag first and opened it, passing it into Sherlock’s impatiently gesturing hand. She truly did not look pleased with the situation, especially not with their companion.

Sherlock pressed the power button, muttering to himself unintelligibly and then shoving the device into John’s face, the playback screen facing the doctor.

“Look!”

John lifted an eyebrow, looking back and forth between the camera screen and his partner.

“Look… at what exactly?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes irritably. “One would think that you were suffering from dehydration instead of me. It’s obviously…” he paused when he turned the camera back to himself and saw the screen for himself. It was blank. With a hint of desperation in his eyes, he repeatedly pressed the power button, and then finally cursed in resignation.

“Bloody bollocks… It WAS working just a moment ago.”

“Battery must be dead,” Mary suggested, looking over John’s shoulder at the device.

“Very astute,” Sherlock grumbled. He addressed John. “A real keeper, this one.”

John considered “accidentally” dropping the camera.

“There’s a USB cord in the bag,” Sherlock continued. “We can hook it up to the laptop.”

“But we still need batteries,” John said, grip on the bag tightening. He could feel the cord beneath the water-resistant material.

"Hook it up to my laptop," the detective urged. He made an attempt to sit up and reach out for said piece of electronic, but the dizziness quickly overcame him and forced him to recline, hands pressed to his temples. New pearls of sweat broke out along his hairline, and he could feel them trickling down his forehead. John had soaked a small terrycloth towel in icy water and handed it to him; something Sherlock accepted without any grumbling this time.

"Should we try to get him to a hospital?" Mary asked, concern in her voice. Though it annoyed her to no end that the obnoxious detective had once again stolen all of John's attention, she did not want him to possibly die on their hands.

"I don't need a bloody hospital!" Sherlock snarled from underneath the terrycloth which now covered his face. "John, hook the camera up to my laptop!"

The doctor realized that his friend would only become more agitated unless they did what he said, and dutifully connected the two pieces of portable electronics using the USB cord. The power bar on Sherlock's laptop indicated that the battery would soon need to be recharged as well. Has Sherlock even thought to bring an adapter for a US plug?

The camera gave one lass dying buzz when John pressed the power button, and it was obvious that they would not get anything more out of it unless they replaced the batteries.

"Sherlock, did you pack any double-A batteries?" John asked, but he could already guess the answer.

"No."

"I did," Mary suddenly interjected. "My own camera runs on two double-A's."

“Thank you,” John said gently as he was passed the batteries. Tossing the dead ones, he inserted the replacements. “I’m sorry things are going so lousy.”

Mary gave a small smile and shrugged. “Not your fault.”

Pressing the button one more time, John was pleased to find that the camera worked again. The display screen lit up and was instantly filled with the color of flesh. John nearly blushed at the awkwardly lascivious poses of the subject.

“This must be…” John declared, though Sherlock drowsily cut him off.

“Sarah Cavanaugh,” he said, holding the rag to his forehead and briefly squeezing it to release excess water. Though he did not seem outright improved, he seemed much calmer than before, now that the camera was back in working order. He gave a half-hearted wave of command. “Look through them.”

Browsing through the images, John saw nothing amiss for the most part. Sarah had photographed herself in various self-indulgent poses as though she were being photographed for the shoot of an adult magazine. She had positioned herself in front of various trees and foliage. A naturist in nature, as it were. One of the last photos depicted not Sarah but the forest in general. The trees seemed to go on forever, the skies a deep blue with very few clouds.

“That could be anywhere,” Mary said matter-of-factly. John was about to nod when something caught his eye.

“What is that?” he asked, looking for the zoom option on the device. Finding it, he zoomed in on the sky. Fortunately, the scene had been photographed in high resolution, and the detail was still in clear quality. An area of the sky was slightly darker, stretching upward and dissipating.

“Smoke,” John realized aloud. “Either a bonfire, or most likely a chimney.”

He could understand Sherlock's almost perverted exhilaration slightly better now; this was their first major breakthrough in the case. Still, the fact that Sherlock had been willing to push himself to the brink of a collapse was worrisome, especially as it hadn't been the first time. If Sherlock had been even half as passionate about his relationship with John, then perhaps...

He banished the thought from his brain, determined not to go there again. He had a real shot at a meaningful and loving relationship with Mary; he must not screw that up by dwelling on the past.

"Somebody must have started it," John murmured. He opened the photo in a digital photo editing program on Sherlock's laptop and enlarged it further. "Sherlock, what do you make of...-"

The rest of the sentence faded off upon the discovery of Sherlock being fast asleep. One of his hands lay limp against his thinly muscled chest, while the other one, which had been vehemently gesticulating at John moments before, hung off the couch. The terrycloth rag still covered part of his face, including his eyes, but John did not need to see them to know that they were closed, and would likely remain so for the next few hours. John checked his pulse just to make sure that this was natural sleep and not another collapse, and it was down to a calming 90 beats per minute.

"Mary, could you get a sheet from his bed?" John asked. "I know he's sweating right now, but once that stops, he'll be cold instead."

“Yes, of course.” When she returned with a sheet, she looked over Sherlock’s skin with concern. “He won’t be happy when he wakes up,” she observed. “Those sunburns look downright furious.”

“And he’ll be a massive infant about it,” John said, browsing the images on the software. His statement had no annoyance or worry about them. He knew how Sherlock would behave for a fact, and nothing would stop it. Short of a powerful sedative, anyway.

“I think I have some aloe salve in my bag,” Mary said, searching through the luggage.

“Yes, that would do very well,” John replied.

Mary gave a sly smile as she unscrewed the lid. “Do you suppose I should apply it while he’s asleep?” To her, the idea of smearing something onto a conscious Sherlock was like trying to give a rabid dog a flea bath.

John glanced back at the sleeping form on the bed. He could imagine his partner soon peeling with dead skin like some kind of shedding lizard.

“Well,” he said, giving the notion some serious thought. “Better not. He’ll want to do it himself. Ah-ha!” He reached the photograph from the display screen and pointed at the familiar shape on the sky. “There. It is smoke. See the width? A bonfire would be much larger. There’s a house out in the woods. A shack at the very least.”

“And that might be where she went next,” Mary concluded, looking over the doctor’s shoulder. Though he voice was mostly calm, John thought he could hear a tiny trace of anticipation in her voice. Her eagerness seemed genuine, and it stirred a sense of pride in John. The young adventurous boy in him was suddenly excited in the case and wanted her to accompany him in the investigation. An invitation he was sure he would never grant her, for fear of her wellbeing, but it was an amusing thought.

"Still, that could be anywhere," Mary pointed out. "There's no way to tell where it was taken."

"Sherlock just might," John replied, and unbeknownst to himself at the time, his voice was filled with pride. "He has eidetic memory. If he's seen a place once, he can remember it in perfect detail."

"That's quite remarkable," Mary admitted. "But if that's true, he's surprisingly forgetful about some things..."

"He's scatterbrained," John explained. "If he deems something unimportant at the time, he deletes it. I have a feeling he did that quite a bit during his childhood."

He didn't deem it necessary to add that in many respects, Sherlock was still a child. A petulant man-child who could not be trusted to look after himself half of the time. A task, which, in the recent years, had been passed on to John. He wondered if at least Mycroft was able to live a fuller life now that Sherlock was not his responsibility alone.

The detective, whose sleeping body was growing increasingly aware of the searing sunburns covering a large portion of his skin, had rolled over to his side to relieve the pressure on his enflamed back.

I might as well prepare something for when he wakes up, John thought. Perhaps tea... spiked with Valium. He smiled briefly at the idea but quickly rejected it; Valium was an addictive substance, and one would do best to keep Sherlock away from those altogether.

What was the younger Holmes' preferred painkiller and anti-inflammatory drug nowadays? John thought back on his time living at Baker Street, and he could distinctly remember a bottle of Aspirin on Sherlock's shelf of the bathroom cabinet, and, come to think of it, sometimes also in his coat pocket.

Despite the summer weather, Sherlock still brought his coat with him. At least being in a nudist colony meant that he would not be wearing it. He might have additionally experienced a heat stroke, were that the case.

“I’m going to see if I can spot anything else in these,” Mary said, indicating the computer screen.

“Knock yourself out,” John said. “I trust you more with that software than myself.” Indeed he did. He had very little experience with photo editing, whereas Mary was a website designer and subsequently a graphic artist.

While Mary experimented with the photos, John went into his partner’s bedroom and carefully picked up Sherlock’s coat. The faintly superstitious part of his mind had a fear that the very moment he touched the article would cause Sherlock to bolt upright, like a spider sensing a strand of its web had been disturbed. Such was fortunately not the case, but John was careful not to rattle the pill bottle too loudly when he removed it from the pocket.

Pouring the pills into his palm, he took a closer look, and his brow knit at their features. Some of the engravings were from the usual painkillers, but others required that John search through his own personal memories as a doctor. He could not be positive, but his suspicions of the pills’ identity were worrying nonetheless.

Whatever Sherlock was storing in his Aspirin bottle, it wasn't Aspirin.

Leave it alone, John, the doctor urged himself. Sherlock's personal things are none of your business. Truth is, you're probably better off not knowing.

Part of him wanted to stuff the pills back into the bottle and replace it without further thought, but the more he thought about it, the less likely, he realized, it seemed that he would simply be able to forget. He trusted Sherlock with his life; could he really do that if he didn't know what his partner was on? Was there even a chance Sherlock had gone back to drugs? Did he keep illegal substances in an Aspirin bottle to avoid detection?

None of the potential answers to his numerous questions made him feel more at ease. He had to get to the bottom of this, even if it meant going behind Sherlock's back. Sherlock for sure seemed to have no qualms about going behind his.

John replaced all of the pills except one. The one he kept dug into his sweaty palm and he had to force himself to open his hand, lest the engravings dissolve and render the pills unidentifiable.

Taking a deep breath, the doctor then left Sherlock's bedroom, almost hoping that his flatmate would never awaken so that John would not have to confront him about his findings.

Mary immediately noticed the dogged expression on his face, and her eyebrows shot up against her forehead.

"John, what's wrong?" She sounded alarmed.

"Nothing, I..." He tried his best not to fidget. "I'm just a little worried... about Sherlock." At least that was not an outright lie.

"Of course. Sherlock..." She glanced at the sleeping man on the sofa with weary contempt. It was strange how young and innocent he looked in his sleep; truly a strong contrast to his wakeful self.

"I'll make some tea," Mary announced, standing up. It was bad enough that she already felt like the fifth wheel on what was supposed to be a romantic getaway. "You want some?"

"Yes, tea would be lovely," John replied with a wan smile. As soon as Mary was out of sight, he opened his tightly closed fist to examine the mysterious pill closer. Round, approximately one centimeter in diameter, groove in the middle to make for easier splitting. The letters CPN were engraved above the groove, and the number below it said 100. 100 milligrams, then.
100 milligrams of what?

As Mary continued with the tea, John minimized the software window and opened the laptop’s internet browser, thankful that the resort had WI-FI connection. Searching for the abbreviation itself was not helpful, as the first results produced were the New York Stock Exchange and a carnivorous plant newsletter. Narrowing the search, he entered “cpn drug”.

The first entry involved antipsychotics.

Letting the notion sink into his brain, John leaned back on the chair. If the drugs were indeed antipsychotics, was Sherlock using them for a serious mental disorder? If so, then what kind of disorder was it? If not, he could have been using them to treat something within the autism spectrum, or an emotional illness. Either way, antipsychotics were not something to use casually or just some fun to be had by the usual substance abuser.

Pocketing the pill, John looked at Sherlock and considered waking him for a direct confrontation. But he stamped down the panicked impulse and simply sat. Sherlock would be unpleasant to deal with regarding the sunburns alone, and outright demanding answers would cause the detective to immediately retreat into his mind. Sherlock would respond like a tortoise being attacked by a predator, and thusly hide behind a shell, and rightly so. No, this would require gentility. Sherlock was oftentimes like a child, and so oftentimes he had to be treated as such.

Closing the browser, he heard Mary approach and smiled at her as she handed him his tea. Two cups were left in her hands.

“I didn’t know when he might wake,” she said, referring to the sleeping man, "but I thought I should make him some anyway.”

"That's very thoughtful of you," John managed, although his voice sounded hollow and weak.

It was almost unfathomable that Mary was willing to wait on Sherlock despite all the problems he had caused. He did not, however, want her to be present during the talk they were bound to have once the detective woke up. It would be a big enough challenge to get Sherlock to open up to him. Mary's presence would only exacerbate things.

As if on cue, the dark-haired man stirred in his sleep, his features crunched up from the pain caused by the movement. John could see the rapid fluttering behind Sherlock's eyelids: he was in REM mode and would undoubtedly soon wake up.

John stood up and reached for his wallet, snatching out a 20 dollar bill and passing it on to Mary. She stared at him with confusion.

"What's this?" she demanded to know.

"I'm sorry I couldn't come up with a better solution, but you should leave for a while, Mary. Go to the pub, have a drink. Or the Nudsino. I hear it's a fun experience."

Mary looked flabbergasted at first, but when she spoke, she sounded decidedly offended. "John, I won't disturb him, I could go into the bedroom and read, or--"

"Sherlock and I have to talk," the doctor stated, and suddenly the pill in his robe pocket felt as though it physically burned his skin through the fabric. "It's... personal. We need a moment. Please, Mary."

The woman nodded and went to retrieve her sandals. John was grateful that his request had not led to a verbal argument, although it made his heart constrict when he saw how deflated Mary looked and probably felt as she almost dragged her feet toward the door.

"Do you need more money?" John asked and wanted to punch himself in the mouth the following moment.

Shaking her head, Mary even managed the ghost of a smile. "This is fine."

Sherlock groaned at the sound of a door closing with a little more force than was necessary and opened his eyes. His head was throbbing with a dull pain, and his entire upper body, including his face, felt like it had been doused with gasoline and set on fire.

"John..." he complained, struggling to sit up. "John!"

“I’m here,” John said, his voice weary.

Sherlock looked towards the direction of the voice, seeing that his assistant sat motionless in a chair next to the laptop. He did not look happy. A blind person could have been able to tell. Not that Sherlock cared about how John was feeling. Priorities were presently different.

“If you could pass that to me within the next few hours…” Sherlock trailed off venomously, gesturing to the nearby bottle of aloe that Mary had left out.

John hesitated at first, but finally tossed the bottle to his partner, who caught it effortlessly, opened it, and poured a copious amount onto his palm. The room instantly filled with the peculiar scent. John only stared as Sherlock slathered the substance over every inch of his red body. He considered mentioning that the lotion belonged to Mary, but what good would it do?

“I’m going to need some help reaching my back. I expect you took a closer look at the photos,” Sherlock said, oblivious to his partner’s annoyed state. Only when he realized John was not going to answer him did he look up. He raised his eyebrows, as though to say “I’m waiting!”

“They’re on the laptop now,” John said, his tone unreadable, at least to most people.

“Don’t tell me you don’t see what’s so blatantly obvious on those images.”

“I’d rather not discuss the images,” John said. “Not presently. This is a tender subject, but it needs to be addressed.”

Sherlock’s face screwed up in confusion. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You complained of a headache earlier.” John’s expression softened as he finally got to the point of his confrontation. “I thought I might help by getting out your pill bottle.”

Sherlock blinked, his realization instantaneous. John reached into his pocket and removed the pill, placing it on the table.

The color gradually drained from Sherlock's face, except for two bright red spots on his cheeks. Breath hitched in his throat, and for a few seconds, he looked strangely absent, as if he was having trouble staying oriented.

"You went through my things?" he croaked out, as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. Sherlock's features took on what John referred to as his 'snarly face'; eyes bulging, nostrils flaring, mouth curled. The detective was ready to defend himself, tooth and nail.

"Yes, Sherlock, and I already told you why." John knew he had to choose his words well, since this confrontation was going every bit as badly as he'd feared. "Normally, I wouldn't think this was any of my business." He gestured at the pill. "But I think it just might be. We're friends, right? Partners? Aren't we supposed to trust each other?"

"What was I supposed to say?" Sherlock spat. "Are you my handler all of a sudden? My nanny? Since when do I have to report to you?"

John leaned forward slowly, trying to establish eye contact with Sherlock, which the younger man seemed determined to avoid at all costs. His hands were trembling again - though for an entirely different reason this time - and John could also detect a twitch his facial muscles which did not seem voluntary. Both were clear signs of drug withdrawal. God, why hadn't he noticed any of this before? Or perhaps he had, but then he'd attributed everything to Sherlock simply being Sherlock, not for once thinking that perhaps Sherlock was truly sick, in the most clinical sense.

"Sherlock," he tried again. "I did some research... online, while you were asleep. I know this is Clozapine."

"I have mood swings!" the detective cried out, his voice several pitches above its usual deep baritone. "Don't look at me like that, John! Don't look at me like I'm some goddamn... freak!"

John quietly shook his head. "I've got a medical degree, Sherlock. You can't lie to me now. Clozapine is an antipsychotic. In fact, it's often used as a last resort for patients who don't respond to anything else. So please, just be honest with me..."

"I'm not crazy, John!" Both Sherlock's voice and face now disclosed his desperation, that he was no longer defensive, but frankly terrified. He grasped the sheet in his lap and held it to his chest hard enough to make his knuckles whiten. Then he began to rock back and forth, unaware of the motion himself. John took the opportunity to sit down next to him.

"Sherlock, tell me," he gently urged, wanting to provide comfort even though he was unsure if it would be accepted. "I promise I won't judge you."

Sherlock buried his head in his hands, sifting long fingers through his dark, still-damp curls. John could hear him hyperventilating. "I'm not crazy," he repeated. "I'm managing it. I've been managing it since I was sixteen!"

Had his friend's shoulders not been so sun burnt, the doctor would have wrapped an arm around him. Though normally not one to require comfort, this was clearly going to be an exception. John carefully placed his hand on the small of Sherlock's back, where the skin was still more creamy than red, and thus not as sore.

"Do you have schizophrenia?" he asked. The word tasted like poison in his mouth.

The detective's shoulders arched up defensively. One pale blue eye peeked out from between the protective web of his fingers. "No. I'm not schizophrenic. I have bipolar disorder. I've been on Clozapine since I was twenty-one."

John nodded. Finally they were getting somewhere. "Does anyone know?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No..." he whispered. "Only Mycroft. Why do you think he's got me under surveillance?"

"Lestrade?"

"God, no!" Sherlock made a noise that could only be interpreted as a groan of despair. "He mustn't know, John! He'd never let me near another crime scene if he did."

"I think you're being too hard on yourself, Sherlock. You didn't choose this. No one would think less of you just because... because you have an illness."

Sherlock's head snapped up. "Is that right?" he said bitterly. "Weren't you just now wondering if you've been dealing with a crazy person? Would you even have wanted to move in with me if you'd known?"

John’s face developed that familiar wrinkle at the center of his brow. But he was not simply angry.

“First of all,” he said, “I have never thought of you as crazy. Never. I’ve only ever thought of you as yourself.”

Sherlock scoffed, in no mood to believe him.

“And second of all,” John continued, his tone sharper, “I was under the assumption that we trusted each other. I’ve trusted you with my life, you know.”

Sherlock was silent. His expression was unreadable, and John could not determine if he was taking the words to heart, or simply being his usual childish, stubborn self. He would not look at his assistant, so John knelt in front of him.

“I thought maybe you knew that,” he said. Sherlock finally did look at him, and indeed saw what he had not wanted to see. Disappointment. Pain. Sadness.

“I guess I was wrong. This was why we never worked. You wouldn’t let me in. You wouldn’t allow us to connect more than just physically.”

Sherlock’s face contorted in frustration. This was not what he expected to be discussing during this botched vacation, and whatever his expectations had been for John’s reaction, this was not it.

“And how did you think I could simply tell you that?” he snapped. “Just casually mention it over breakfast? Maybe I neglected to tell you because it was simply less painful! It’s been years since it was truly a problem, and it would have still not been a problem if you hadn’t found the damn pills.”

"If you'd told me, perhaps I could have been more... understanding," John said, thinking back on all those time when he'd thought of Sherlock simply being a condescending, self-absorbed git with no regard to the feelings and needs of other people. His rapid mood swings, low attention span, and oftentimes impaired judgment... it all made sense now. How could John, as a doctor, have missed all the signs? They had practically been under his very nose the whole time.

"Is this why you never wanted to spend the night with me?" he asked, very careful so as not to sound accusing or judgmental. "Because you were afraid I'd notice something?"

"Oftentimes I can't sleep," Sherlock explained. "My head... is filled with noise. My thoughts are racing, and I can't seem to make it stop. If I stay in bed, it only gets worse. So I go sit in the closet. Sensory deprivation helps. The noise becomes manageable, even if it never goes away completely. After a few hours in there, I can crawl back out and face the world again. Right as rain, as it were." He finished with a mirthless chuckle.

John was at a loss for words. He could picture Sherlock so clearly, sitting on the cold floor of his closet, knees drawn up to his chest, eyes staring blankly into the surrounding darkness with only the sound of his own blood coursing in his ears... Sherlock, all alone, with no one to confide in. John felt his chest constrict painfully.

"You should have told me," he managed to say. "I could have... helped you. Supported you."

"If you'd known, would you still have left me?"

John took his flatmate's twitching hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I haven't left you. And I never will. You have my word."

"You know what I mean."

John’s grip tightened momentarily on Sherlock’s hand. As he looked up at Sherlock, he considered the strange nature of his partner’s anxiety. For someone unable to connect to most of humanity, Sherlock was certainly desperate for some sort of genuine relationship between himself and John, as transparent and lacking in true intimacy that it was.

Although Sherlock was presently allowing his hand to be held…

“Maybe if this had been addressed before, we might not be in this situation now,” John replied, “or maybe not. This was always what separated us.”

Another twitch passed over Sherlock’s face. Both the doctor and close friend in John wanted to simply hand him the pill.

“Wasn’t I any good?” Sherlock asked, and all the accusation in his voice was strangely gone. Instead he seemed purely curious in his despair.

John managed a sad smile. “The best I’ve ever had. Honest. But I needed more than that. The thing is… I figured this was just how you were. And I wasn’t about to try and change you like some reform school kid.”

The thought that Sherlock really did have bipolar disorder weighed heavily on john’s mind. Had he known about this sooner, would he have had more patience with Sherlock? Would they still have been together?

Christ, this was problematic.

John suddenly recalled one of the numerous conversations he'd had with Mycroft, and how the nature of it had made him feel very uncomfortable at the time. Until now, he had not fully understood the purpose of the conversation, or the elder Holmes' aversion to there being anything besides friendship between the doctor and his little brother.

***

John had decided to walk the short distance from the tube to their flat, despite the phantom pain in his leg, which tended to resurface whenever he got excessively tired. Doing two shifts at the surgery might have been a bad decision, considering he had yet another one starting in ten hours.

When a sleek, black car with tinted windows slid up beside him, he seriously considered using whatever strength he had left to run away. Mycroft had chosen an exceptionally lousy occasion to "kidnap" him for one of their - seemingly routine - chats.

Knowing that he had no choice to speak of, the doctor got into the backseat of the car, his leg thankful for not having to do anymore walking. It was, however, the only part of him that appreciated this.

Mycroft Holmes sat across from him, as always dressed immaculately in a three-piece suit that no doubt had cost more than John's monthly wage. Legs crossed, he stayed silent as the car softly rolled back into motion. Mycroft's unwillingness to exchange pleasantries, which was the usual custom, made John go from exhausted to wary in a heartbeat. Whatever he'd "kidnapped" John for this time, it was serious.

"Doctor Watson, please do relax," Mycroft said in that posh upper crust accent of his, which always made John feel less than five feet tall. "You're not in any trouble. Yet, anyway."

John felt a wave of anger wash away some of the fear. "Why don't you just cut the bullshit, Mycroft, and tell me why I'm here?"

"To the point as always. I like that about you." The civil servant smiled. "We're here to speak about my brother, of course. I know that you had... relations with him three nights ago, and again last night... on the sofa. I'd like to know what your plans are."

"Plans?!" John sputtered, too dumbfounded to even form intelligible words.

"Yes, regarding your intimate relationship with my brother."

"That's none of your business!" the doctor snapped, his fury now overpowering any fear he might have had of Mycroft Holmes. "Sherlock is an adult, and he can make his own decisions. He's thirty-one, he doesn't need your consent to have sex."

"You're the older partner. More experienced."

"You make it sound like I'm some bloody cradle robber!" John exclaimed. "Besides, I know Sherlock wasn't really a virgin." //Not when he sucks cock like a seasoned pro...//

"Not in a physical sense," Mycroft said in a low voice. "But nonetheless, he is inexperienced at relationships. You could hurt him, Doctor. Perhaps even break him. See that you don't."

John’s eyes narrowed, recognizing the vague threat. In times like these, John could not help imagining Mycroft as some kind of James Bond villain. All he needed was some weird health condition, or a fluffy white cat. In a way the mental picture helped lower his anger, but only by a smidgen.

“I can’t deny your concern for him is genuine,” John said. “But sometimes you have more than a funny way of showing it.”

Mycroft only gave a prim smile that did not quite reach his eyes, something John had noticed Sherlock doing countless times before. What John was uncertain of was whether they did so because they were never quite genuinely happy, or if they simply never wanted to reveal their true selves to others.

“Besides,” the doctor continued, “I think you’re getting a little too sensitive about what Sherlock can and cannot handle.”

“There are still secrets Sherlock keeps that would surprise you,” Mycroft quietly insisted.

“Such as…?” John retorted. “Oh wait, they wouldn’t be secret anymore if you told, right?”

Thin lips tightened until they were nearly gone from Mycroft’s face. As patient as the civil servant could be – and as approving as he was of Sherlock’s new assistant – he was still not someone to cross.

“As much as I disapprove of some of Sherlock’s personal business, it is still his personal business.” Mycroft said. “Putting it out for public display would gut him. Sometimes keeping a few things to himself is the only control he has. He is more fragile than you might be led to believe, so please… tread lightly.” He glanced out the window as the car slowed to a stop. “Your stop,” he said.

John pursed his lips and opened the car door, easing himself out. A twinge passed through his leg, but he ignored it, glad to finally be home.

“Rest well, Doctor,” Mycroft called out before the door closed. “Can’t have you drowsy on the job.”

TBC...
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The Prey