JohnLock

(AHA! It should work this time, I had to mess around with my account but this should be it!)

"The feeling, is of course, quite mutual." He wraps his other arm around John, pulling him a bit more snug. "But we're not going into this oblivious, and we are going into this together. So don't worry. After all, we'll make it through, somehow. The both of us," he glances down at him a fierce look.

"Mind you, it will be both of us, alright? Whatever Moriarty thinks he can do to break that, he's wrong. We survived Sebastian Moran, didn't we? You even served him tea, we can do this. As many promises as it takes to convince reality of that, I will give them."

Sherlock rests himself, leaning into John. He's never felt better, more self-aware of his own prowess, which was saying something. Some people have the inexplicable ability to spark genius in others.
That doesn't even begin to describe John Watson.
 
((HALLELUJAH! IT LIVES! *DANCE PARTY*))

His lips quirk up in a smile as he considers Sherlock's words, the tone of them, the utter confidence in that deep voice. He seems almost smug, as if he's bested the universe already and is celebrating his imminent success. John secretly loves to see Sherlock like this - so brilliant he's practically radiating confidence. It's like Sherlock is his own personal sun, and John can't help but be drawn into his orbit. Besides how much he likes seeing Sherlock happy, at the top of his game, it makes him feel more confident just watching him. Like together, they can take on the world.

Maybe they can, after all.

So John tightens his arms for a brief moment, a hug that says simply, "I'm grateful for you. I'm grateful you're mine. You make me feel better just by existing. Thank you." And he knows that Sherlock could probably guess that word for word if he tried. "I like your promises," he says aloud, a smiling mumble into the fold of Sherlock's coat. "Forever sounds better when you say it."
 
/That's because I mean it. Completely, utterly mean it./ His words are something he can always have, and now, it's something he can have with John too. He can make him feel safe, warm, loved with just a few letters. That's an ability he's not going to waste.
"I don't mind when you say it either, John."

It only takes a few more minutes of the cab ride to get to the Yard, minutes spent in a warm and confident silence. They could do this after all, they made it before, why should this be any different? With John at his side, watching their backs, they should both make it out of this alright. He's a fantastic shot, if the need arises.
Sherlock hopes it doesn't quite come to that again.
 
As they pull up to the Yard, John sighs a bit, extricating himself from Sherlock's limbs with a rueful twist to his mouth. He glances at Sherlock only to find his expression an exact replica of John's, both of them disappointed that this bubble of peace has to be broken. John's lips quirk up a bit at that a split second before Sherlock reaches the same conclusion, causing him to do the same. John lets out a slight chuckle, amused as much by the wordless conversation as by their apparent synchronization, and is gratified to see the for-John smile grace Sherlock's face for a moment in response.

He leans forward to pay the cabbie, then turns back to Sherlock to give him a quick, chaste kiss on the lips. "Let's go," he says, and before he's even out of the car he's twined his hand with Sherlock's. Inseparable. That's how they'll be from this moment on, if he has anything to say about it. And luckily, he does.

They walk inside hand in hand, the snickers and whispered conversations not even registering, until they get to Lestrade's office. Sherlock simply walks in as usual, not bothering to knock. John rolls his eyes at Lestrade, as if to say you know how he is, before clearing his throat and speaking. "So," he begins. "What'd we miss?"
 
Lestrade moves his feet off his desk and puts down his morning coffee, still appearing a bit groggy. Probably was an all-nighter for him, though, Sherlock adds mentally, he didn't mind. Mycroft's away after all, he prefers to keep himself busy.

Even if that wasn't the case, he wouldn't feel more than a twinge of guilt. John's well-being was much more important. The DI clears his throat, "No new signs of Moriarty, besides what he left last night. Molly did a rush autopsy around six this morning," He picks up a report file and though the consulting detective can probably guess what's on the sheet, he holds his tongue.
"Botulinum, isn't that what Moriarty used-?"

"Yes, obviously. But I'm guessing he didn't put it there this time?"

Lestrade shakes his head, "No, he didn't. Our new serial killer already put it in the poor girl's system long before he got his hands on the body. A stickler for details apparently. Did you figure out what happened with the body-snatching off the van?"

(YES! You get some plot and implied mystrade, I'll try to keep replying reguraly, sorry my love.)
 
((It's perfectly all right, dear! I know the horrors of writer's block. XD))

John glances over at Sherlock briefly before clearing his throat. "Well, we know who did it," he says slowly. "Or, at least, who's responsible for it." He tries not to dwell on it. Focusing on something like that right now won't solve any problems. Besides, he's resolved not to let that get to him. "Not that that really matters," he adds, "as we know who's really behind it all. Especially after his little message last night."

Lestrade's eyebrows furrow. "Message? What message?" He shifts his gaze to Sherlock, the familiar exasperated you're-withholding-evidence-from-me-again-aren't-you look on his face.

John is used to this routine, so he's easily able to step in and dissolve the conflict. "He wanted to know if Sherlock was going to play," he explains quickly. "That's why he sent Moran by. Or at least, that's the impression I got." He turns a little to look at Sherlock. "Am I right? That's why he was there?"
 
He stares at John, not sure whether to be proud or worried. Both seem extremely viable in this case. "Yes," Sherlock nods curtly, "Moriarty is very keen to start the game apparently."

"And? What did you say?" Lestrade looks at him expectantly, his expression hardening as if to warn him against acting like an idiot. He exhales, "I didn't really say anything. The situation was deteriorating and John's lapse into a traumatic state was much more pressing. I don't think Moriarty will be too pleased over that, but I couldn't care less at that moment."
 
John fights the urge to groan and put his face in his hands. The phrase "lapse into a traumatic state", while, let's face it, probably true, was not one he particularly wants used to describe him to Detective Inspector Lestrade. He would rather Lestrade not know the extent to which he had a minor breakdown when he's trying to work on this case very professionally, thank you. But then again, this is Sherlock, and John is used to this sort of thing, so he simply shoots Lestrade and Sherlock in turn his "that's not what he really means" look and his "that could have been worded better" look, respectively, and moves on. After all, Sherlock is only trying to help.

"In any case, what's done is done," he says. "I'm more worried about catching this killer at the moment." That's a lie, but it's what he should be worried about. Suggesting they focus on the serial killer first, in some strange way, helps alleviate his guilt that he'd rather be tearing off after Moriarty - and Moran - the first chance he gets.

Lestrade sighs and rubs his eyes. "Right, I suppose we should focus on that first. Sherlock? Any ideas?" He doesn't suggest any of his own. John guesses he knows Sherlock is their best hope.
 
The look he gets from John seems rather redundant, it's an accurate description. But he's guessing this is another "bit not good" moment and he takes a step towards his lover. A flash of an apology in his eyes just long enough for John to notice before he looks back at Lestrade.

Sherlock doesn't like admitting he doesn't know. But really, he hasn't given it much thought, not since Sebastian Moran decided to invade their flat. Distractions, the most enjoyable mind-consuming distractions. So for the first time in hours, he looks back at the crime scene in his head, every detail still fresh.

"She's not as much as involved as she is a stage manager. She'll only come out for Moriarty and I, when we finally put on our performance. That is, after she sends the rest of the messages. We are, however, at a slight disadvantage, seeing as he has the lead. We can't very well wait for her to kill again, of course not, because then he would have a chance at interception. She lives...within a 3-mile radius of the pool. Definitely local, judging by her knowledge, I'd say near Sutton."
 
John is, as usual, quietly amazed that Sherlock picked up on all of that just from the quick looks he had taken of the crime scenes. Lestrade looks relieved, but is trying not to show it; it's obvious that he's floundering here, and any lead is a good one to him. John can't help but feel rather overwhelmed as well. Where do they start? What do they do?

He considers the new information for a moment. It really does seem like this person is doing this purely to pit Sherlock and Moriarty against each other. Why would she possibly do that? Boredom? Entertainment? Or something he can't understand? What could possibly motivate her to play with their lives like this?

There are far too many questions for his taste, and not nearly enough answers. He decides to vocalize a few. "So how do we get the new messages from her without letting her kill people?" he asks, confused. "And aren't we working off a deadline here?"
 
Sherlock nods, "Yes, but the deadline isn't as much as a threat as it is a means to make Moriarty and I contact one another. We each have halves of the puzzle. Both of us needs the other, he doesn't know it's just a timer."

Pacing, he folds his hands together, "The only way...well, we could attempt to find her, but we have no idea the reaction that would cause. A fan of Moriarty...well, she'd have the same taste. Expect explosives, obviously, and whatever sick twist her own mind creates."

His mind keeps flashing back to the pool, to John wrapped up in semtex, to him trying to sacrifice himself and it's a wonder he's not wrapped around John like a long coat.
 
John nods shortly. "So trying to find her now is likely a bad idea," he muses. Part of him is disappointed. He would rather focus their attention on taking down this mysterious killer than going anywhere near Moriarty. Even the thought of a mere copycat has him feeling sick to his stomach. He can still feel the Semtex settling on his shoulders. He can hear that manic voice in his ear. He can see that betrayal in Sherlock's eyes-

He drags himself back to the present before he can dwell on that. He never wants to see that look again. Not ever.

"Wait, hold on a minute," Lestrade interrupts, brow furrowing. "Even if the deadline's not a threat, what's it counting down to? It's not like it can be counting down to nothing, can it?"
 
"Something new, Lestrade, something new. But most likely it's something she has planned for us. Right now, as planned obviously, our main focus should be Moriarty." The name comes through gritted teeth.
John's not going to like that one bit, but when it comes down to it, they don't really have much of a choice. He's uncertain if he can be so...aloof, yes that's the word.
Sherlock glances at him, apologetic. He is sorry, so very sorry. But it's what has to be done.

(Sorry for my plot holes)
 
((I'm terribly sorry it took me so long to reply, my dear! Finals week got in the way. XP But I graduate on Thursday so I should be able to reply much more regularly now!))

John nods slowly, resigning himself to the fact. They're going to have to face Moriarty. His worst nightmare. He almost feels foolish thinking of him like that, but it's true; he fears Moriarty more than anything else. More than death, more than Afghanistan, more than stray bullets or unseen knives from the criminals they chase. Moriarty can do the one thing nothing yet has been able to do: he can take Sherlock from him. One mistake, one miscalculation, and he could lose Sherlock forever. And Moriarty will not stop until he does. If there's anything that could cause him to be afraid, it's that.

And, he reminds himself bitterly, we'll probably run into Sebastian again as well. After all, he works for Moriarty. It's not out of the question to expect another meeting. Another standoff. He should be preparing for that; he should accept it now so it's not a shock later, but the idea just makes his throat close up, so he puts it out of his mind. Later, he thinks. I'll deal with it later.

"So what do we do?" he asks, his hands curling into fists. He wants to be going, to be doing something, to be stopping this instead of just sitting and waiting for something to happen. He wants this to be over.
 
(Happy Graduation! And CONGRATS, m'dear. Finals week is approaching for me, haven't been online as much, sorry about that!)

His eyes narrow at the ever so evident tightening in his John's muscle, held back emotions behind those usually expressive eyes. On most occasions, he loved how John could have such depth yet only betray just enough in his visage, but now....Now it only causes Sherlock apprehension.

"What we do is go after him." He says plainly, as if it's nothing, as if this isn't the highest stakes he's ever played with. It's time for default mode, sarcastic tone and rolling eyes, it's time for Sherlock to detactch himself, he realises. At least for appearence sake, at least for John.
 
((AGH, this just gets worse and worse. So much for more free time! Sorry, my love!))

Despite how many times Sherlock has called him an idiot (though he doesn't mean it, John knows he doesn't mean it, and it's more of a you're better than that than anything else), John is actually rather smart. While he may not be able to deduce a crime scene, he certainly can deduce one Sherlock Holmes. So he notices the shifts and changes, the little quirks and stony demeanor that signify Sherlock slipping back into his uncaring mode, his working mode. ("Will caring about them help save them?" "Nope." "Then I'll continue not to make that mistake.")

As always when he sees those signs, there's a slight sinking feeling in John's stomach at the recognition of it, and he has to remind himself that it's probably for the best. Sherlock works better when he's not distracted, or at least he claims to; food, sleep, and his own well-being are set aside, and the killer gets caught. If that's what it takes to best Moriarty... so be it. Besides, that uncaring lark can hardly extend to him, can it? Not now?

"How?" he asks, focusing on the matter at hand. No need to worry about something that may not even be an issue.
 
With a roll of his shoulders, he starts. "By doing what he wants. We play. At least, as much as necessary. He's left us clues and I'm going to follow them." No, that's not right. "We're going to follow them." Sherlock amends, looking at John and glazing over the hint of anxiety portrayed. Not the time. He has to focus after all, so that John doesn't have to feel like this again. At least for a while.

"The van." Sherlock blurts, turning to Lestrade. "Do say that Anderson's kept his useless hands away from it. Especially being that it's meant for me."

(It's all alright, love._
 
The tension in his shoulders subsides a little at Sherlock's correction. At least he's still on Sherlock's radar. He's almost surprised that Sherlock caught himself there; usually it's John who has to point out those little slips and thoughtless words. His lips quirk up at the corners for a second, an unspoken encouragement to Sherlock that lets him know John noticed, and appreciates it.

"He's done a quick inspection-" Lestrade starts, but at Sherlock's clearly visible eye-rolling and annoyance he crosses his arms and speaks a little louder, "but he hasn't touched anything, on my orders, and I won't tell you how much trouble it was having to hold the investigation off until you got here." He grumbles to himself for a moment, something that John doesn't catch but involves the words "you" and "having a fit". "You haven't got long, Sherlock," he says finally, "I've got to get this investigation moving so I hope for both our sakes that you're able to get something good off that van."
 
"Lestrade, I'm the only one who is going to get anything off the van." he reminds him in a tone as if his statement is well known fact. It is, however, Moriarty wouldn't be so reckless as to leave a clue for others to find. Not unless he had something else planned. Shelock places his arm on John's shoulder for just a half-second, giving it a light and temperate squeeze before taking a step outside the office and gesturing for the rest of them to come along as well.
 
They don't waste any time getting to the storage area where the van's being kept for the time being. John almost hesitates for a moment before approaching, but with a swift mental kick of You were a soldier, Watson, act like one, he marches determinedly to the back of the van. The scene is no less gruesome the second time around, and John's mouth draws into a thin line at the sight of it. You've seen worse, he reminds himself. Just because it's meant for Sherlock doesn't mean it's any different from anything you've seen before.

"Right," says Lestrade gruffly, obviously just as bothered by it as John is. "Let's have it, Sherlock, what have you got?"

((Sorry, my dear, it seems job-hunting stole all of my inspiration this week.))
 
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