Sherlock - Amor et Veritatem (A JohnLock fiction)

Prologue - In which the reader observes the unseen thoughs of John during his meeting with Irene Adler.

A/N- On the day I began writing this, I had just been watching Sherlock for about 2 days and I was already on the fourth episode. By then end of the fourth, I could agree with Irene Adler on one point: I was completely, irrevocably Sherlocked. Keep in mind that on the date of this creation, I had not seen the next two episodes of the second season - though, I knew more or less what happened in The Reichenbach Fall *sob*. Anyway - I'm going to try to keep as true to the original characters as possible - while also adding as much fluff as possible. I hope you like it.

As John Watson walked into the strange building, annnoyance ate at him. Damn Mycroft Holmes and his inability to just call people. He entered a strange open area and chuckled softly to himself, looking around partly to see every exit in the room and partly to find Mycroft. His voice almost startled himself as he began to speak, the sound vibrating off the concrete walls.

"He's writing sad music." John said loudly, to the entire room. "Doesn't eat. Barely... talks, only to correct the television." His mind catalogued every window, every doorway, and every potential exit as he spoke; it was something he always did, but probably not as efficiently as Sherlock. "I'd say he's heartbroken, but... He's Sherlock." the army doctor shrugged before looking forward. "He does all that anyway..."

John's normally strong voice wavered with his last words, his eyes connecting with something he definitely had not expected to see: Irene Adler, alive, walking towards him. She stopped a fair distance away, her voice just as strong as it had been the last time John spoke to her. "Hello, Doctor Watson."

John contemplated her for a couple seconds, partly to register the fact that she was, indeed, alive, and partly because his mind had just kicked into overdrive. How dare she be alive? This woman was the reason his very best friend, his Sherlock wouldn't eat, barely slept, and was just all-around miserable. When he spoke, his tone was both thinly veiled rage, and pleading. "Tell him you're alive."

A spark of bright anger tore at his insides when Irene barely shook her head, her voice wavering only slightly as she murmured, "He'd come after me."

"I'll come after you if you don't." The soldier's voice was dark, his head tilting slightly to the side as if he needed to convince himself not to attack her then and there.

Her tone became a smirk though her lips didn't move. "Oh, I believe you."

"You were dead on a slab! Definitely you." shouted John. As he spoke, images of the last few weeks flashed through his mind, all painful and familiar. Sherlock, sitting at the table, staring at her camera phone. Sherlock standing, staring down at the street below as his fingers tremored painstakingly over the strings of his violin. Sherlock's dinner, untouched. Sherlock's usually bright eyes growing duller and darker, more sunken in than ever in their home above the consulting detective's perfect cheekbones.

John was so caught up in the memories of his friend's misery, he almost missed it when Irene spoke again. "DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep." Her voice was matter of fact, all traces of playfulness gone.

"And I bet you know the record keeper." The words were laced with disgust as he looked up at the woman in front of him.

"I know what he likes... and I needed to disappear." Irene folds her arms in front of herself, obviously defensive at John's words.

John's anger reached a boil in the pit of his stomach, and it was all he could do to not lose himself. "Then how come I can see you when I don't even want to?" His words were cold, eyes hard and jaw set.

He watched as she smirked, lifting her hands in a defensive gesture. "Look, I made a mistake... I sent something to Sherlock for safekeeping, and now I need it back... so I need your help."

"Nope." John says, childishly.

"It's for his own safety!" Irene's eyes widened the slightest bit, her pleading tone trying to get the point across.

"So is this." The authority in John's voice was impossible to miss; it was the same tone as someone who would try to pull rank on a younger or lesser military officer. For John, it usually only meant one thing: He meant business. "Tell him... you're alive."

For the first time since John met Irene Adler, she looked defeated. "I can't"

Rage flared up in John, and it started to become exceedingly impossible to control himself. His breathing became erratic, and he put the last of his effort into trying to control his voice. "Fine... I'll tell him- and I still won't help you." And what that, John turned and started to walk away.

He could feel Irene's eyes burning holes in the back of his coat as he went, and wasn't surprised when finally she cried out, "What do I say?"

His control slipped for a moment. "What do you normally say? You've been texting him a lot!" He shouted, his voice ringing angrily off the concrete walls around them. When he realized he was shouting, he took a deep breath through his nose, letting it back out his mouth to calm his nerves.

John watched as Irene pulled her own mobile from her pocket, her arms crossing defensively in front of her as she started to scroll through her messages. "Just the usual stuff..."

"There is no 'usual' in this case." John shot back, his tone back down to thinly-concealed rage. He looked at the woman in front of him, deciding right then and there that, deep inside, he hated Irene Adler for all she was and what she stood for. She had broken his Sherlock, which was unforgivable in his eyes. Sherlock obviously had feelings for this woman, and yet, she continued to have her fingers in many pies. Leading on his Sherlock. Now, that was something only Jim Moriarty got away with, and to John, it was a crime punishable by death.

The soft clicks of her phone's buttons rang out in the room as she scrolled thorugh the messages she had sent to Sherlock. "'Good morning.'... 'I like your funny hat'..." John looked away, listening for something that would have affected Sherlock so deeply. Idle chit-chat would not have such an affect on the sociopath. "'I'm sad tonight. Let's have dinner.'"

John looked up, his eyes meeting her face. She looked away from her phone, the last two messages memorized as she recited them for the doctor. "'Even sexy crimewatchers have dinner.'... 'I'm not hungry. Let's have dinner.'"

The disbelief was evident in John's face, as if the woman no more than 20 feet in front of him had just told him the Prime Minister had poisoned his tea. Carefully choosing his words, John spoke slowly and softly.

"You... flirted... with Sherlock Holmes." the words sounded clipped and measured, but also as if John couldn't believe what he just said.

"At him." Irene corrects. "He never replies." She shrugs slowly with a smirk. He wanted to slap that smirk right off her face, but he couldn't register what she had just said. With much doubt, John thought deeply but quickly about what the Woman had just said.

"Sherlock always replies, to everything. He- He's Mr. Punch Line. He will outlive God trying to have the last word." John explained slowly, as if to discredit her words. Sherlock, not reply? Unheard of. He almost didn't believe her, until his mind ran across all the 57 times he had recieved messages from her and realized she was right. He'd look at it, make a face, and put his phone down.

The woman's eyes narrowed slightly as she contemplated John's words. "Does that make me special?"

John's mind kicked into overdrive again, running through every single possibility he could think of. Sherlock not responding. Why? Why would he not respond? Did he hate her? No... even if he did, he'd respond. He always, always responded to Moriarty's texts, and Jim was the most loathesome creature on the face of the earth. The doctor was at a loss.

"I don't know... maybe." John answered honestly, his eyebrows rising with his words.

"You jealous?" She asked softly, her lips in a tiny smirk.

The reaction was instantaneous and without thought or commitment as it always was, John licked his lips and said slowly, "We're not a couple." His left hand wrung the air habitually, a bit of annoyance lacing into his countenance.

"Oh, yes you are." Irene said scoldingly, not once looking up as she typed what could only be a message to Sherlock. John was quiet, thinking to himself. At the moment, he wanted nothing more but to be alone, and not to think about everything that was happening, not think about what the woman was implying, definitely not think about what it would be like if it were true for both parties involved. But, as John had learned in the military, appearance was everything. it had been conditioned into him from day one: Gays got beat. Gays got used. Gays were not welcome where John was, and John learned quickly. The habit of keeping everything inside had become so commonplace, John himself didn't believe he had any interest in men, until he really thought about it. It didn't matter, though.

"There." She said softly, breaking John's train of thought. Holding up her phone screen forward so John could see it (Though he couldn't possibly read it from that distance), she spoke aloud. "'I'm not dead. Let's have dinner.'" She clicks send, the look on her face close to 'I hope you know what you're getting me into'.

For a moment, a wave of releif washed over John Watson. He would be okay. Sherlock would be back to normal (as normal as Sherlock could be, anyway), his friend would return, and all would be right with the world. However, the releif didn't let John forget what Irene had said earlier, and it wasn't a comment John was prepared to let slide, especially to someone who obviously had a lot of power and could slander Sherlock Holmes' good name.

As the soldier spoke, he found it almost impossible to look at Irene, his voice quiet, clipped, measured as if he was holding back every ounce of rage her comment had invoked in him. "Well, who... who the Hell knows about Sherlock Holmes... But, for the record- In case anyone out there still cares, I'm not actually gay."

Without missing a beat, Irene looked down the way at John with her funny little smirk and murmured, "Well, I am. Look at us both."

John chuckled disbelievingly, both anger and releif coursing through him. He was angry at Irene for even being alive, but marginally feeling incredible after knowing that Sherlock might just feel like himself again...

Then, it all came crashing down when a small, lewd mechanical voice rang out through the concrete room.

58, said his mental counter, as a look of horror crossed his face. Sherlock's phone. Sherlock was here, and had heard everything. The sound was followed by long, staccato strides and the slam of a door that was the punctuation on a glaringly evident sentence- Somehow, though he didn't yet know how, John's best friend had just been very deeply hurt.