A/N: The shock blanket scene was pretty much universally requested as my next scene to do up in present-tense Sherlock internalisation. So... here it is!

Moriarty... the name twists over and over through his consciousness, but to no avail. He's never heard it before, has no recollection of the significance. But it has to be somewhere. A criminal of high enough standing to puppeteer a serial killer, to want to puppeteer a serial killer... and for what? Paid the man to murder strangers, to draw Sherlock's attention. No, a mastermind of that level would have shown up on his radar by now. There has to be something.

He's still mulling it over, trying to draw out any and all memories that might correllate, when yet again his thoughts are interrupted by the medic draping a hideous orange blanket over his shoulders. Of all the-! He's already agreed to sit on the bumper of the ambulance instead of 'scarpering off to do god knows what', shouldn't that be compliance enough? And of all things that might conceivably be helpful to anyone, why a blanket? He's wearing a wool coat for god's sake, all this stupid orange monstrosity is doing is making him look ridiculous.

Lestrade ambles up, giving Sherlock a chance to complain to someone besides the ambulance crew. The blanket's for 'shock', yes, he knows that. The medic's already said as much. Sherlock gives the same answer now as he did ten minutes ago- I'm not in shock. Why on earth would he be? He's seen men die before, countless times. He's even tortured men before (not that anyone besides himself is privy to that little detail of the confrontation, but still). There's absolutely no reason to expect him to be upset by the situation. True to form though Lestrade just quips some belittling remark about taking photographs, making Sherlock frown in annoyance. He wonders vaguely if Lestrade is even capable of communicating in anything besides condescending sarcasm as he looks away.

Probably not, he decides. At least not toward him. But whatever, drop the subject, move on to something more salient. The shooter, what of him? Not that he particularly expects the Yard to have managed anything more than incompetent faffing about but at least the topic might provide something to distract him from the currently-unanswerable riddle of Moriarty before it eats a hole in his brain.

As usual, Lestrade is hopeless. Nothing to go on? Oh please. Nothing but the myriad facts staring you right in the face you blundering idiot. He shoots Lestrade a sardonic look, gets a resigned sigh and an indictation to get on with it in return.

The ambulance bumper is hard and uncomfortable so he stands to give his deductions, eyes darting around the assembled crowd of emergency services as he speaks. (Lots of bright colours, movement, flashing lights, very distracting. Why do they feel the need to keep the signal racks on when they park anyway? Turn them off, get a floodlight or something.) The shooter must be a crack shot, steady handed, acclimatised to murder, retains a strong moral principle regardless of violent history - not inclined to kill without reason, judging by how long he waited to take the shot. Only acted when someone was in danger - protective instinct? Not likely to be a hired assassin. Got to be military though, with plenty of combat experience, lots of determination, nerves of... steel...?

Sherlock's words trail off as he stares uncomprehendingly at the man he's just caught sight of.

John Watson is standing by a police car, hands tucked casually behind his back as he surveys the organised chaos around them. What on... why is John here? He should be back at his bedsit, browsing ads for flatshares or perhaps looking for affordable housing in Leeds. Instead he's... Sherlock's eyebrows furrow in realisation as John catches his eye, only to immediately glance away with poorly-feigned innocence. John's... standing by a police car... with his hands very deliberately tucked behind his back... looking about this close to smug. John. The ethical, determined, fearless, adrenaline-focused army medic.

Comprehension hits like a bolt from the blue. And even if Sherlock doesn't quite understand it (why would John want to protect him...? why would anyone want to protect him?) he nonetheless backtracks quickly. Never mind kindly disregard all that no idea who it might've been total mystery thoroughly unsolvable.

Lestrade's a bit befuddled, so Sherlock makes some borderline-sarcastic excuse about shock and tries to leave. Wait, where are you going? Argh, excuse, need an excuse... the rent! Yes, need to talk about the rent. That's normal, not suspicious in the least, leave me alone Lestrade I'm not hiding anything just go away.

Lestrade's not through yet though and dogs him as he walks. Annoying, can't speak candidly to John while a bloody DI hovers over them so he stops and tries the shock excuse again. Even got the blanket still, see! Forgot to take it off. So yes, definitely in shock; all muddled in the head, not the least bit useful at the moment. Lestrade doesn't seem convinced... argh but honestly come on it shouldn't matter anyway, should it? After all he has just caught them a bloody serial killer! (Well, more like a serial killer's corpse... but no, no that still counts! More or less, anyway.) And really that should be quite enough for tonight, thank you. Deduction machines need to be recharged just like any other applicance, can't keep expecting him to remain in top performance at all hours.

They engage in a brief staring contest... finally the DI backs down with an exasperated, not-quite-credulous shift of his jaw and Sherlock's free to go. He can feel the older man's eyes on his back as he strides off but ignores it, pulls the hideous blanket from his shoulders and tosses it dismissively through the open window of a parked cruiser before ducking under the police tape where John's standing. The ex-soldier's already talking, going for casual and innocent even though they both know exactly what he's done.

It's all a bit amusing, if totally pointless. John's a bloody terrible liar. Sherlock barely manages to keep the smile off his face as he speaks.

Good shot. It was. Amazing shot. John's a talented marksman. Talented and smart. (Perhaps not all that clever, but maybe with a bit of work...) He watches as the man makes an obviously-feigned attempt at denial, quickly cuts the act off in as gentle a tone as he can manage. Nobody in earshot for the moment but there's no telling how long they've got before someone walks by, and John's in danger of being arrested if they don't take care of the evidence. True he probably won't be convicted, not on the murder charge anyway... the illegal firearm perhaps, but considering who it was employed to protect (and that's still so difficult to fathom; John protected him, why? Nobody but Mycroft has ever-) he's confident he can get his brother to have the case dismissed. Really rather not have to go to all the hassle though; dealing with his sibling is so tiresome, and powder burns in contrast are childishly easy to remove.

Instead of replying John looks away and clears his throat, a strange look on his face. Sherlock suddenly finds himself... what? ... concerned? ... worried? No, no that's absurd. He's a sociopath, he doesn't worry. But the sensation's there anyway, something tight and constricting in his chest and good god hang on, is John even alright?

Because he can't have premeditated all that. Shooting the cabbie was a... a spur-of-the-moment decision- perhaps triggered by his PTSD, some sort of flashback scenario...? John couldn't have known what he was doing at the time. Sherlock eyes the shorter man warily, waiting for the realisation to hit. For it to occur to John that he's just he's taken another being's life in the name of protecting some freakish, sociopathic drug addict. The doctor won't be thrilled about it, he's sure.

But seconds go by, and the man seems fine. Christ, John, you've just killed a man, you should be more upset! But he isn't. Not in the least. The little army medic just stares back at him for a moment, clears his throat, looks away... and then makes a joke. Sherlock's befuddled. John's... what? What's he doing? Masking his distress? Using humour to distract himself from the situation? People do that, right? Sherlock narrows his eyes in confusion, brain kicking into puzzle-solving mode to figure out why someone like John would- and for Sherlock of all- but within seconds he stops himself.

Sod it, who cares about motives? All that matters is that John, for whatever unfathomable reason, isn't upset. Against all odds the man is standing there smiling and joking and for once Sherlock stops analysing motives and simply responds in kind. As they turn to leave he's almost giddy. John just said something really, genuinely funny and they're laughing and Sherlock honestly can't even remember the last time he laughed without acting.

John kills the mood somewhat, though- you were going to take that damned pill, weren't you?

He denies the accusation immediately. Of course I wasn't. It's a reflexive response. Conforming with the social norm because he knows the truth won't go over well; that he doesn't particularly care whether he lives or dies, so long as he isn't bored. This cavalier attitude tends to anger people though (particularly medically-trained people) and he doesn't want John angry. Makes up some silly excuse about waiting for backup, which of course John doesn't buy but then you're an idiot, said in a matter-of-fact tone and it's alright again. He very nearly laughs in relief but suppresses the impulse, asks about dinner instead. Not that he's all that hungry but John might be, and if John's hungry Sherlock can pretend to be too.

They start walking again, Sherlock nattering on about Chinese restaurants without really paying attention to what he's saying. Too busy thinking, trying to process everything that's happened and accept that yes, good god, John's actually going to stay. No more interminably long nights, hour after hour stretching away into nothingness with only silence and a long-dead skull for company. He's going on about door handles for some reason when John interrupts him in a warning tone.

What? Was he talking too much? But John's looking wary, points out a figure emerging from a parked car ahead of them and oh it's just Mycroft.

Piss off you fat git, he thinks irritably as his brother greets them with some ridiculous, over-dramatic speech right out of the pages of a trashy pulp-fiction novel. The man's trying very hard to sound maliciously threatening... and utterly failing at it. Still miffed about the whole 'arch-enemy' business then, Myc? Well too bad. Sherlock just plays along with the act, blindingly sarcastic and completely unrepentant. If Mycroft wants a different nickname he's going to have to stop living up to the current one so spectacularly first. (And anyway whose fault is it that the old standby of 'fat whale' no longer applies, hm? Although it does look like some of that blubber might be making a reappearance...) They snipe back and forth, but then Mycroft goes and ruins it by bringing up Mummy.

Wait, what? Upset her? Of all the-! Mycroft knows full bloody well it was Father who-

Suddenly John cuts in, sounding very confused. Who's Mummy? Oh for god's sake John do you even speak English who else would a woman called 'Mummy' be but our mother? But Sherlock clarifies anyway, introduces his brother properly (which has the added benefit of putting an end to the git's stupid little villian act, thank god) and John seems a tad dazed. Well they don't look much alike, Sherlock supposes (thank goodness for small mercies), so it's probably a bit of a shock. The army doctor goes on to ask if Mycroft's a criminal mastermind. Sherlock considers for a moment... well, less 'criminal' and more 'lazy ponce', but close enough.

Mycroft, predictably, makes a pathetic attempt to pass himself off as nothing more than an innocuous politician. Sherlock shoots the lie down immediately. As if his brother could ever be anything less than a lunatic with a power fetish, honestly. But ugh no alright that's quite enough talking to Mycroft, it's been a whole three minutes already - far past time to leave. Any longer in the prat's company and they'll be in danger of death by petty beareaucracy. Sherlock snipes a less-than-friendly farewell to his brother and stalks off.

Well, tries to stalk off. John's dallying for some stupid reason... talking to Mycroft? Oh for god's sake John don't encourage him! He moves to pull the doctor away from his deranged control-freak of a sibling but thankfully John takes the initiative and leaves under his own power. (Smart man.)

They're strolling leisurely down the street again, bantering about fortune cookies and other silly nonsense... and rather abruptly, Sherlock realises he's happy. Not simply content or perfectly fine but actually, properly happy. Because in the span of one, semi-disastrous night he's managed to find not only a flatmate (and he still can't quite believe his luck even now but John's here so it's true) but a new riddle as well. Things haven't gone this well in a very, very long time.

Speaking of the riddle... the unknown name flits through his mind again, sending a burst of giddy anticipation through his chest. Moriarty... he has absolutely no idea who the man might be, and it's brilliant. Something to deduce, to work on and puzzle over and think about... probably for ages, too. After all if there truly is some vast criminal network out there, being led by one shadowy spider of a man... a man Sherlock hasn't so much as heard of? That speaks of connections, of cleverness unrivaled, of genius. He smiles to himself. Finally an end to the boredom.

John must have caught his expression, because he shoots him an odd sort of teasing look, probably wanting to know why he's grinning like an idiot. What are you so happy about?

He answers more or less truthfully, going on about his new case. It's accurate but not completely honest... because there's more than riddles to be happy about now. Because there's John. And a flat. And tasteless jokes and Chinese food and giggling at crime scenes.

Because... he may have found a friend.