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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
- 6
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- 8
Title: Anomalies
Author: Harpling
Characters, Pairing: Sherlock/John, Lestrade, Mycroft, Donovan, Anderson, Dimmock, Mrs. Hudson, OC
Rating: PG13 (eventually NC17)
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, sexual situations
Beta’d by the extraordinary Lynn Maxwell and not yet Brit-picked.

Chapter 7

Close physical proximity was often a trigger for sexual arousal, or so the most recent research into biochemistry and pheromones would suggest. Sherlock took advantage of this idea to suggest a visit to a particular source of highly useful information. Naturally, John was not as enthusiastic.

“I still don’t see why we have to look for this man during rush hour. Wouldn’t he be easier to spot without all these people about?” They had been travelling from station to station for well over an hour, with what seemed like half of London squeezed into the tunnels beside them. Normally, the press of so many people would have been insufferable, but Sherlock was focused on his plan.

“The most profitable hours for beggars and street musicians are those during peak travel volume, when they have the most exposure to the public. He moves about from station to station to rotate his audience, but the man we’re looking for follows a fairly regular cycle of platforms during the week. We’ll try Victoria Station next. Come on!”

As they stepped into the last car, Sherlock made sure that they reached a position where the crush of bodies prohibited either of them from reaching any of the helpful straps and handles placed to assist passengers with balance. John immediately adopted a slightly wider stance, with his knees bent and his weight evenly balanced. Clearly, he was accustomed to rides like this. Though Sherlock could have imitated him and avoided stumbling, that would have defeated the purpose of this experiment entirely. As soon as the train lurched into motion, Sherlock let the inertia carry him forward the few inches necessary to fall clumsily into John’s instinctively raised arms. With a mumbled apology, he regained his balance, deliberately ignoring John’s smirk.

“Travel like this often, do you? I think you’ve gotten too used to cabs and Mycroft’s car.” Doubtless, John would have continued having a go at him, but a particularly jarring turn in the tracks gave Sherlock another opportunity to lurch toward him. This time, he had the foresight to clutch at John’s coat a little in feigned desperation to avoid falling. When he righted himself, Sherlock took care to stand a little closer. John displayed amusement and exasperation at Sherlock’s awkward antics, but there was no sign of arousal.

“I’ll just hold on to you, since you are apparently such a stalwart bastion of balance on public transportation. I don’t know why they build these things the way they do. Anyone could fall in here.” Sherlock reached out and grabbed hold of John’s shoulders, pressing himself right up against the shorter man, chest to chest. John still didn’t show anything that might be considered a sign of sexual attraction. In growing frustration, and noting that the next stop was nearly upon them, Sherlock took advantage of the swaying motion of the car to rock his hips slightly against the curve of John’s lower belly.

John jumped and looked up at Sherlock’s chin (the only part of his face visible from such a close angle). “Um, Sherlock…”

“What?” He was pleased to see that John’s face was becoming distinctly pinker than normal.

“Is that… um… are you… you know?” John’s face was quite red now.

“Don’t be dense, John. I picked up a bundle of test tubes at Bart’s this morning.” He rolled his eyes and snorted in derision. As soon as John looked away, still flushing furiously, Sherlock smirked. The test tubes were in his breast pocket. This particular item of research hadn’t yielded much in the way of results, but it was certainly enjoyable.

As soon as they stepped onto the platform at Victoria, Sherlock knew they had found his quarry at last. The air was filled with the sweet, sad sounds of an Irish lament being drawn out of a violin. Sherlock led the way over to the source of the music, a gnarled street fiddler sitting on a throne formed by several battered instrument cases piled atop one another. The musician’s hair was startlingly white against the wrinkled ebony of his skin, and his eyes had the clouded, unfocused look of the completely blind.

He drew the last strains from his instrument and let the notes hang, shimmering in the air as John and Sherlock approached. With a soft chuckle, he turned his sightless gaze to the pair. “Sherlock Holmes, I’d know those flapping coattails anywhere! Still the showman, I reckon?” His deep voice rolled out like aged bourbon and cigars and the fecund swamps of Louisiana.

“Dr. Bell, perceptive as ever. John, this is Dr. Joseph Bell, my first violin teacher.” The blind violinist held out his hand for John to shake.

John smiled. “Hello. Your playing is lovely. I can see where Sherlock gets his skill.”

Dr. Bell laughed, “You’re too polite, John. You must be Sherlock’s new roommate. A soldier and a doctor, right? I sure hope your sharpshooting can keep him in his skin.”

“Oh. I guess Sherlock’s told you.”

“Nah, he doesn’t come to see me unless he needs something these days. You have doctor’s hands, all that washing you’ve got to do. You walk like a military man, though, all heel strikes and perfect rhythms. Plus, you’ve still got the callouses on your fingers from sniper training. And Sherlock doesn’t play anymore except at home.”

“You knew all that without even seeing me? Fantastic,” John said, looking back and forth between the old musician and the smirking sleuth. “I guess you taught Sherlock more than just music. He had to look at my tan lines to learn that.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but Dr. Bell chuckled. “He never did learn to listen. You see, people are just like instruments: you gotta listen to the sounds they’re not making to really understand them. It doesn’t matter what beautiful sounds you can create if you never stop to listen to them. Sherlock was always so all-fired eager to hear what came next that he never listened to the pauses between the notes. Shame, really. He could’ve been a damn fine musician, otherwise.”

“Fascinating as this is, we didn’t actually come here to discuss my musical shortcomings, Dr. Bell. We need some information about a gang of Russians operating under the direction of Jim Moriarty. There’s nothing that happens in these tunnels that you don’t hear.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, son,” Dr. Bell chuckled again. “Word on the tracks is that there’s a new player in the game. Now, I heard the name Moriarty being whispered a few months back, but I haven’t heard a peep about him since the end of March. Russians, now. That’s a bit more interesting. Lots of new folks speaking Russian down here, and not all of ‘em making much sense.”

Sherlock grinned. “I knew the Russians were behind it-“

“I didn’t say they were Russians,” Dr. Bell interrupted him. “You still haven’t learned to listen, Sherlock. I said they werespeaking Russian. Some of them were just barely speaking it. Ukrainians, Brits, Argentines, I could swear I even heard one man who sounded like back home in New Orleans, but they were all muddling through in Russian. I’m sure you can make something of that, Sherlock; I just sit here and listen.”

“Any idea who this new player is or where I can find him?”

“I told you all I know, son. I’ll keep my ears open, but it’s up to you to listen to the spaces between the notes, Sherlock.” With that, the old man turned and pulled a gleaming saxophone out of the case beside him. He carefully stowed the violin in its own battered case, then rearranged the trunks to form a more comfortable seat.

John cleared his throat awkwardly and leaned down to speak to the old man in a low voice. “This is my card. It’s got my number in raised printing on the back. I know how hard it can be to get regular testing kits from the NHS.” His face was quite red by the time he finished; clearly, John felt uncomfortable making this offer, though Sherlock couldn’t imagine why.

“That’s mighty kind of you, son, but I’ve got everything I need. Now, you tell me: what made you say diabetes?”

“Well, uh, the marks on your fingers from regular testing pricks. And the skin on the backs of your hands has a couple of blisters that look like bullosis, so you’ve had it for a while. You don’t show any signs of nerve damage, though, so it must be controlled.” John’s stammered deductions and red face were enough to make Sherlock feel rather warm himself. He’d never thought hearing John try to apply his methods of reasoning would be quite so arousing.

“Sherlock, I think you’ve rubbed off on him! You better hang on to this one; he’s quite a catch.” Still grinning broadly, the wizened old man looped his saxophone around his neck and poured a series of liquid tones in the best Big Easy style jazz.

Since they had clearly been dismissed, Sherlock and John made their way across the platform and up into the early spring sunshine. Sherlock was momentarily distracted from considering all the implications of Dr. Bell’s information by the look on John’s face.

“Problem, John?”

“Hmm? Oh, no, I just hate seeing people living on the street like that, especially when they’re sick.”

Much to John’s astonishment, Sherlock actually laughed. “You don’t have to worry about Dr. Bell. He makes more money than you do, I’d wager. Has a nice little house just outside London. He just plays on the Tube because he was bored after he retired from teaching. Didn’t you see the state of his shoes? Or the lack of damp on his clothes, despite the rain we’ve had for the past three days?”

“Right. Of course. I made a fool of myself because my tiny little mind just can’t keep up with the likes of you. Well, anyway, it looks like we won’t have to worry about Moriarty after all.”

“No, but that still doesn’t answer the question of what we do have to worry about. Oh, this keeps getting better and better!” People pretending to be Russian, a new adversary to figure out, and John’s ability to make his own deductions based upon medical evidence. Sherlock had quite a lot to occupy his mind.

A/N~ Dr. Joseph Bell is the man often credited with inspiring Doyle to write his Sherlock Holmes stories. He was a medical professor, though, not a street musician from New Orleans.
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Anomalies