"Drat!" A voice exclaimed as soon as he was conscious. "I was afraid of that," it continued mournfully, then sighed. He tried to turn, but was firmly tethered to a chair in some kind of basement.

The striking young man who had so effeminately collapsed dint he lobby of the hospital circled a round in front of him. "John Watson. Military Doctor."

"Yes. What of it? I assume this isn't a how d'you do..." he said flatly.

The man's eyes widened. "Ooh... I've really got the wrong hostage."

John only sighed.

"You are fascinating!" the man crowed. "A doctor—but you miss the war!"

"Hold on now!" John said heatedly, irritation spiking.

"You do! You miss the focus it gave you, the rush of danger! London is killing you, John Watson. Stifling. Smothering. You developed a limp to seem more interesting!"

"You don't know anything about me!"

"John Watson, 34, surgeon until you volunteered for the armed forces, served in Afghanistan as a medic on the front lines, taking over more dangerous surgeries, calm in the face of danger. You are one in a million. Returned after being shot, got your old job back regardless. You miss your gun, go to shooting practise regularly. You liked killing the enemy. Tell me I'm wrong."

"You're not. Who the hell are you?"

The man grinned. "Sherlock Holmes. A pleasure. I'd shake hands, but yours are tied."

John frowned, his eyes shooting wide. "You're—those murders! The police—"

"Yes! The very same!" He chortled. "Now, I've business with a man trying to edge in on my territory—being, England. And I need him dead. Would you like to help me?"

John gaped. "You can't just—you don't—what makes you think I would do that! I'm a doctor!"

"Doctor to the innocent. Don't tell me you're not excited. I can see it. Eyes widened, breath faster, pupils dilated. All a bit like arousal." Continuing over his sputtering, "Speaking of which, any muscle pain, headache, nausea, disorientation?"

"What? Um. No. Not really." Momentarily side-tracked.

"Excellent. My drug worked. Unconsciousness for precisely an hour and a half, and no side-effects!" He looked inordinately pleased. "Oh come on. Don't be boring. Help me get rid of a bad guy."

"You're a 'bad guy.'"

Sherlock laughed. "Oh I like you. Come with me. He's poisoning people and blaming me. Can't have that. Must send a message. I'll even give you a gun. Be my sniper, John."

He stared at him. "You're mad."

"Hardly. Just brilliant and bored. You'll have a choice. Kill me or kill him. I'll arrange us in front of a window. I'll be an easy shot—you're a good shot, John. Kill me or kill him. If you kill me, report it to Detective Moriarty. He'll love you. What do you say?"

"I haven't a clue," John murmured in a daze.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a Browning. "She'll be all yours...!"

"It's my choice?"

Leaning forward with an intense stare, Sherlock licked his lips. "Absolutely."

"Untie me?"

His smile nearly split his face.

Bursting into the room with the dead body, John rounded on Sherlock. "Why did you take the pill? It's poison! They're both poison!"

"Of course."

John gaped. "You utter idiot! You'll die! Throw it up!"

Sherlock grinned. "Nonsense. He always took the antidote first."

"Yes maybe, but you didn't!"

"Why John... One would almost think you cared... That must be what was in his flask then." He held up a small silver object. "Good thing I swapped them out earlier, hm?"

Once again, his jaw fell open and he surprised them both by dissolving into giggles.

"Oh yes, John Watson. We're going to have such fun."

So in a flurry of decisions that he never made, John found his nights full of Sherlock bloody Holmes, mastermind terrorising England. Sherlock turned up at the hospital all the time, always in disguise. Old men, gay men, military men, wounded men. The last was guaranteed to get him in to see John. Once he got over the shock of seeing him bloodied and bruised, with blood that wasn't his and make-up, John chastised him for it.

Sherlock just shrugged. "Want to help me get rid of a rapist tonight?"

John sighed. "You're taking up time that I could use to help others who, you know, actually need it."

"Serial rapist. From across the pond. I don't like him."

"So we're going to kill him," John returned to sterilising his instruments.

"I'll give you your Browning back."

"It's officially mine now?"
"I'm never going to use it," Sherlock said, mouth twisted in distaste.

"Your 'missions' sound suspiciously like vigilantism. Especially when you invite me along," he accused.

Sherlock grinned, the effect rather disconcerting with the blood dripping down his face. "I'll pick you up at ten." And hopped off the table.

"Wait!" John hissed. "You can't leave looking like that!"

Sherlock paused, saw his reflection in the reflective surface of the paper towels and then snickered. "Patch me up, good Doctor." He yelped as John shoved him down into a sitting position. "Doctor...!" Sherlock crooned.

"Stop it," he said lowly and then wiped the blood of Sherlock's face gently. "Jesus! This is real?"

"Don't worry," he said cheerily. "It's clean."

John blanched.

"Don't tell me you're suddenly squeamish..."

"This is someone else's blood! It's—"

"Pig's blood, John. Jesus. Don't be boring."

John snorted. "Excuse my attempts to be normal—"

"Boring."

"And! Sanitary!" John snapped at him and then shoved the cloth in his face.

Sherlock only laughed and swiped the cloth over his face. "There. Does that appease your social obligations as a doctor?"

He scowled and crossed his arms. "Get out."

"See you a ten, darling," and flounced out just as Sarah was entering.

"Darling? John? Who was that?"

"No one. Some strange patient."

"Really. Because he sounded like a man talking to his date. Do you have a date?"

"I don't think I'm the kind of doctor he needs," he said flatly. "Do you need something?"

"Oh relax. I just wanted to invite you to the staff party in three weeks."

"Saturday?"

'Yes. 8:00."

"Sure."

Sarah smiled. "Great! Bring your friend if you like."

He smiled, forced, and shook his head. "Just me. Do I need to bring anything?"

"Just your lovely self! Though if you'd like to bring some nibbles, I'm sure they wouldn't be turned away."

"Right. I'll be there."

"Brilliant!" And then she waved and sailed out.

Sherlock knocked on his door a quarter to ten, breezing into John's tiny military-clean flat he paid too much to. He curled his lip up in distaste. "No wonder you're unhappy. Come on then."

"I don't think I—"

"He's an enemy," Sherlock said coldly. "The Yard will never be able to catch him. Most of his crimes were committed on American soil."

"Your enemy," John protested, but didn't say 'no.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Come on. You've already decided you're coming. Don't be predictable and boring. Grab your jacket. It's a tad nippy." Holding the Browning out on a long finger, Sherlock grinned. "Well?"

John threw his coat over his shoulders and grabbed the gun from Sherlock, pointing it at him immediately.

If anything, the man's grin widened. "I love it when you surprise me, John. Unfortunately, we don't have the time for this as we've a specific time frame in which to act."

He scowled, slipped the gun into the back of his trousers beneath the jacket. "I want early to bed tonight, Sherlock. SO you had better be correct and get this done quickly."

They didn't.

After chasing the man from a nightclub full of uni kids, following him across town, through disreputable alleys, a drugs den, and through someone's flat, John crashed onto Sherlock's sofa, face first at 3:45 A.M.

"You really should just move in..." Sherlock said airily, draped over a chair, impossibly graceful.

John snorted.

"Why not? It will be more convenient for when I need you, you hate your flat, this is closer to your surgery, safer neighbourhood, and rent is cheaper."

"I don't hate my flat."

"Yes you do," Sherlock said confidently.

"And what makes you thi—"

"You haven't decorated. There's nothing personal. You live there like it's a temporary space. A hotel room. Your luggage was in plain sight. You don't live there, John. It's not home."

"So! As if living with a criminal mastermind would be any better. I'd get arrested if you were!"

"That's why I don't get arrested," he said smugly. "Make some tea?"

John was on his feet before he slowed and flopped back down. "Your flat. Make your own bleeding tea."

"You do it so much better."

"How do you know?"

"Who do you think drank your tea today?"

John gaped at him. "You snooped my desk!"

Blinking lazily, Sherlock arched a brow. "Your fault for such an unimaginative password. 170411Watson. Really, John?"

He flushed. "No one knows the day I got shot," he said lowly.

"Oops. Spilled my secret. So are you moving in? I'll help you move."

"As 'generous' as that offer is, I really think I'll have to pass," John drawled.

Sherlock rolled off the chair and sauntered into the kitchen. "You like yours with one sugar and a teaspoon of milk, yes?"

"I'm not even going to ask how you know that. And how do you even know all this? I know nothing about you," John called.

"It's not hard to find information on people if you know where to look. And it isn't hard to figure a person out if you merely observe."

"Places you're not supposed to be able to look?"

Sherlock re-entered the room with two mugs. "Perhaps."

"Sorry. I can't."

"You won't be arrested. I promise. You'll never be connected to me. Or. You will never be implicated. I could use a man like you at my back."

John paused. "You mean that."

"Of course I do," the other scoffed.

"And you can guarantee—"

"Unless we're caught together, red-handed, I can guarantee your innocence. And at the very least dispel certainty so they'll never have any clear motive or evidence to put you away. I give you my word. Now, if you're finished with your ridiculous insecurities, could you kindly move in so I can cease this demeaning pleading?" He glared, eyes glinting.

"Let me think about it," John said slowly.

"Excellent!" He whipped out his mobile. "Lestrade. Tomorrow you're helping me move a friend into my flat. Bring your car."

"Sher—wait! I didn't say yes!"

"Yes, a friend! You wound me... I'll see you at around 11 tomorrow." He rung off and looked smugly at John.

"I never agreed, Sherlock! My lease isn't up!"

Sherlock waved it away. "Don't worry. I can get your return back. Stop worrying. It's becoming tedious."

"I'm going to regret this."

"So you're going to move in."

John groaned.

"Excellent."

Reaching for the tea, his hand brushed a telly remote. Only he couldn't see it's corresponding part. Sherlock had vanished into the kitchen again, so he aimed it around the room pressing the power button.

"Batteries are dead."

He sighed and rolled into the back of the sofa, shutting his eyes, knowing he'd be sore the next day.

Which found him woken by all sorts of racket and commotion. He blinked to clear his eyes, staring dumbly as men paraded past with boxes. "Wha—" He broke off, cleared his throat, and tried again. "What's going on?"

One of the scruffy, burly men looked over him before grunting. "Moving stuff for Mr. Holmes."

"Uh-huh." He winced as he got off the sofa, stretching with a groan. "My things, I'm sure."

"Of course, John. To the room upstairs," Sherlock said, appearing in the doorway. "Careful, Greg. I'm sure John does want his things in the condition in which he left them."

The greying man puffed behind him through the door carrying a large box.

"Do you need help?" John rasped politely.

"No...this...the last..." And clomped up the stairs.

John turned to glare fully at Sherlock. "I never said for sure."

"Of course you did, John. Now that this is your flat as well, make tea. The boys will be gone in a few and then you'll have all the time you need to unpack."

"Who are they exactly?"

Sherlock shrugged, hanging his coat and disappearing into his bedroom.

"Sherlock!"

"Martin Fore, a sometimes useful retriever of information. Joel Lenke, one of my friends at the Telegraph. Carson Benito, acquires objects and tools. And finally, the good Greg Lestrade, junior detective at Scotland Yard."

"You've got the Yard working for you!"

Greg walked by with a grunt and disgruntled glance at Sherlock.

Who grinned.

John sighed.

"Begone! The lot of you! John! Tea!"

He jerked and took two steps towards the kitchen before turning to glare at Sherlock who had flopped himself on the sofa.

Sherlock chortled. "I love military types!"

"See ya, boss!" one of the guys said on his way out.

John continued to the kitchen because he wanted tea. Everything was relatively easy to find. Amongst the various poisons, body parts, and other curiosities in the cabinets. He thunked the mug (scrubbed) in front of Sherlock. "If you want me to live here, I'm not having anything mouldy in the fridge or cabinets."

"Demands already?" the other man drawled.

"Not unreasonable!" John said sharply.

Sherlock only hummed and took a sip of the tea. "No biscuits?"

"Get your own bloody biscuits!" And stomped up to his new bedroom to unpack.

There was a calm week for John while he unpacked. Sherlock flitted in and out of the flat. Conducting 'business' presumably. He jumped when Sherlock poked his head in. "John."

"Jesus! Don't do that!" John set down the picture frame.

"Sister? Ah. Alcoholic. How incredibly frustrating addictions are if you don't control them..."

"Wha—Sherlock. The very nature of an addiction is that you cannot control it. What did you want?"

"I need you to be my alibi."

"I'm sorry. What?"

He scoffed. "Don't make me repeat myself. My alibi. You're it."

"Today?"

"No. Last night. In case you're asked, we had dinner last night at Angelo's, table in front of the window. You had crab. I had water."

John rolled his eyes.

"Perfect." And vanished.

"I could not help you, you know!" John shouted.

Sherlock's head returned along with most of his torso. "You could," he said seriously. "But you wouldn't."

"Oh? And why's that?"

Sherlock smiled brightly. "I'm exciting."

He snorted. "You flatter yourself."

"Au contraire, John. You flatter me. Care to watch my back tonight? Bring the Browning. The Browning is good, isn't it? Or would you like something else? I can get it for you."

Sighing, John shook his head. "The Browning's fine. But if you want to make it up to me, get me a Sig and make sure I'm not arrested."

"I already promised the latter," he sniffed.

"Yes. Just make sure."

"Tonight. South London, drug dealer. Thinks he can avoid giving me my share. I need to teach a lesson," he said coolly.

"Alright then. I'll have time to do some shopping beforehand, yes?"

"Yes John. Here. Get some steak. We can celebrate tomorrow."

"Celebrate what?"

"Your official moving in and being my ace in the hole, so to speak!"

They didn't celebrate tomorrow. The drug dealer was a snitch for the Yard, leaving John and Sherlock no choice but to keep their heads down and take off through the back alleys and small roads of London. Sherlock cackled in glee as it began to rain, covering their tracks. He'd thrust his scarf at John to cover his face and then disappeared down an alley. John frowned, searched in circles for a while before giving up, stopping for hot tea before taking a taxi home. To Baker Street. It wasn't home.

He glowered at the squelching noise his trainers made as he climbed the stairs to their flat. He'd barely hidden the gun before the door was being knocked on by London's finest.

"Sherlock Holmes?" The young man in a suit asked.

"Um. No?"

He rolled his eyes. "No. I mean is he here."

John shrugged. "No idea. Just got in. Who are you?"

"Detective Inspector Moriarty." He held out a hand. "A pleasure."

John didn't take it. "So what did you need with him?"

Moriarty smiled. "We needed to ask him a few questions. How long have you lived with Mr. Holmes?"

"Less than a day."

The DI's brows flew up. "Oh really! And where did you say you were?"

John smiled dumbly. "I didn't."

Moriarty smiled again. 'Where were you?"

"Checking my alibi or something? What is this? I was out getting tea." He bristled. "I thought you had questions for my flat-mate. And since he's not her, and I'm soaked, could you kindly leave?"

Moriarty fished into his manteau for a card. "Give me a ring when you've seen him. Good night."

"Oh, of course," John lied cheerily. He shut the door and sighed, kicking off his shoes. A quick shower warmed him sufficiently, but he made tea anyway. Uncovered the telly and replaced the batteries in time to catch reruns of Curb Your Enthusiasm. He eventually got tired of waiting for Sherlock to return, since he apparently wasn't in, and went to bed.

Sherlock didn't return for another day and a half, promptly vanishing into his bedroom. A few minutes later: "Did you let him in?"

John might have laughed at him, eyes wide, chest heaving, hanging onto the door-frame.

"Don't pretend to be an idiot, John; it doesn't look good on you. Well. It does look good on you. When you're doing it for me. Did he enter the flat."

"If you're talking about DI Moriarty, then no. I did not invite him in. I was soaked, because you left me behind."

"Tsk. You knew the way home. You're good with directions and in the dark. You hardly stumbled once with me, and you didn't know where you were going."

"Yes, thank you," John drawled. "I'm very flattered. Now kindly do not leave me behind again."

Sherlock's eyes widened at his tone before crinkling with glee. "I see."

John frowned. "I'm not sure you do though, Sherlock. If you want me running around with you, then you won't be leaving me behind. Or I might suddenly develop. Poor aim."

Sherlock bounded over, grinning wider. He grabbed John's face and planted a kiss before spinning away. "Oh you've made yourself crystal clear, John. Absolutely."

"Um." He blinked. "Is that going to be standard procedure as well?" He called after the man as he disappeared into his bedroom.

"What? No. Spirit of celebration!" Sherlock's head appeared in the doorway briefly.

"What?"

Sherlock flew through to the kitchen. "What did I say about playing the idiot, John Watson." He wore a large grin when he shuffled into the room with a bottle of champaign and two flutes.

"Oh. Finally." John flopped down on the sofa. Two and a half mysteriously empty bottles later, he fumbled up from the sofa with a plea of 'loo.' Upon his return, Sherlock was cradle bridle style in one of the chairs, head flopped back to stare at the sofa. "I must be mad."

"Oh?" Sherlock's eyes focused in on him.

"I'm living with a man who kidnapped me. A man who has the entire crime scene at his beck and call. That's mad, right?" he slurred, dropping onto the sofa again. "Right?"

"Not for you," Sherlock rumbled.

John snorted, ending in a giggle. "Well I can't ask you, you're mad. You own London and get excite when people threaten to shoot you."

"Only you, John." His smile looked so devilish upside down.

"Why d'you live here anyway?"

"What's wrong with 'here?'"

"Couldn't you...I dunno. Afford some place... nicer?"

"It's nice enough. Holds everything I need and doesn't attract attention. I'm saving up to buy an island."

John snorted again. "Right, mate."

Sherlock grinned, levering himself upright.

"Wait, could you afford an island? Sherlock? You—oof!" He grunted as the man flopped onto his lap. "That's really not comfortable."

"For me it is."

"Of course it is. You're in the lap of a cushy war veteran."

Sherlock snorted. "I'm sure, John Watson, that you could kill me in more ways than I could deduce."

"Is that a compliment? It sounds like you like it like that."

Kissing him soundly again, Sherlock slithered out of his lap. "More champaign."

"No, no. I'm soused. No more." He dropped his head back on the sofa.

"Alright," he said from the kitchen. "Tea?"

"If you're offering."

"Sex?"

"Beg your pardon?" John asked in a higher octave than he intended.

"That a 'no' then?" Sherlock poked his head out, frowned, looked John over. "Guess not then."

"Wha—"

"Violin?"

"What?"

"D you object? Helps me plan."

"Plan? Sorry, I—"

"Yes, crime." The kettle sang. A moment later he returned with a mug for John and then settled himself in the chair with his violin. "This I bought."

"I didn't say anything," John mumbled around the rim.

"You were thinking it. An instrument like this... one must buy. Stolen money," Sherlock grinned as he began to tune, "But I bought the violin."

"Hn."

"Go to sleep, John. Finish your tea and get some sleep."

Seeming like a wise plan of action, he pulled himself up off the sofa to shuffle upstairs. "Good night, Sherlock," he called as the strains of something soft and almost tender eased from the violin.