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Sherlock awoke from a dead sleep with a gasp, kicking the sheets away from himself. His shirt was stuck to his back with sweat and his curls hung limp in his eyes; he pushed them away violently, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “John,” he rasped, rubbing his bleary eyes with his fists.
Warm fur brushed against his arms and settled in the small space between his legs. John pushed his head through the opening in Sherlock’s arms to nuzzle against Sherlock’s cheek, grounding him. Night terrors had always been a product of his seizures, but even after years of dealing with them almost once a week, they still shook his confidence in more ways than one.
John whined at him to draw his attention back. “Hello,” Sherlock greeted, a phantom of a smile gracing his lips. “I’m sorry to have woken you.”
A soft bark from the Lab (“you’ve woken me for more idiotic reasons”) made him chuckle. “I have, haven’t I?” He glanced over at his bedside clock, groaning at the time. “And its breakfast time, isn’t it? You were probably ready to wake me up.”
John licked his cheek before wriggling out of his hold and scampering out of bed to the kitchen. Sherlock pulled his dressing gown over his still uncomfortable pyjamas and followed more slowly. John’s happy tail thumping abruptly stopped and was replaced by a sharp bark and a growl, causing Sherlock to immediately shake off his tiredness and run out to meet him.
Instead of being completely in the kitchen, John was standing in the doorway, pacing back and forth in front of it like he was keeping Sherlock in. Or keeping whatever was in the flat out. Sherlock crept closer, peering out. Whatever remained of his good mood fell through the floor. “Mycroft,” he sighed.
“Dearest brother.” He stood from Sherlock’s seat (by now, he knew better than to take John’s) and rested his ever-present umbrella on his arm. “There’s a small matter I wish you to… take care of.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes and ruffled John’s fur, patting him on the side to let him know Mycroft wasn’t a threat. For now. “When isn’t there?” He sat across from Mycroft in John’s seat, letting the Lab settle in his lap. “National security this time? International?”
Mycroft crossed his legs and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, smirking at the way Sherlock’s eyes followed them. “A more personal matter, actually.” He handed Sherlock a cigarette and a small black lighter. “Well, personal to you. It regards your beloved city.”
John continuously nudged Sherlock’s hands away from his mouth, his tail hanging limp over the side of his chair (“please don’t, those are bad for you”). Eventually Sherlock gave up with a huff and placed both beside him on the side table, folding his hands under his chin. “And London is in danger?”
“A serial killer. Detective Inspector Dimmock has been keeping it to himself, after seeing you seize on his crime scene, but Lestrade is returning today and he will no doubt call you. They certainly need your help on this one.” Mycroft lit his own cigarette and took a deep drag.
Sherlock glared daggers at him, his fingers curling in John’s fur, before answering. “Leads? Victims?”
“Four so far. All white males, shorter than average, with around the same athletic build.” He sighed in that long suffering way of his before standing, brushing some imaginary piece of lint from his suit. “I trust you will take this case.”
“If you leave in the next few seconds.”
“As you wish.” Mycroft’s voice was cold but his eyes were warm, and Sherlock could tell it took a considerable amount of willpower for his elder brother to keep from kissing the top of his head like he did when they were children. “Goodmorning, Sherlock. John.” The door closed softly behind him.
Instead of jumping around excitedly at the prospect of a serial case, Sherlock slumped in his chair and held John close. “Are you ready to investigate?” he asked, trying to control the slight trembling in his hands.
Two short barks (“stay home”) that Sherlock ignored, taking up his cigarette and lighter and standing so John slid off his lap and he could smoke in peace. “I’ll make you breakfast but then I’m going out. You can stay by yourself if you’d like.” John all but threw himself onto his side, lying splayed out and pathetic. “Don’t be melodramatic,” Sherlock replied, stepping over him to go back into the kitchen.
---
Sherlock bundled himself up in coat, scarf, and gloves, helping John into his jumper as well. It was a simple green number made of thick cotton that Mrs Hudson had bought for John when he turned two earlier that year. Sherlock often said it made John look quite dashing, which made him turn around in circles for a while (“I do look dashing, don’t I?”). The detective also opted to put John’s proper safety vest on, as his night terror warned him of an impending seizure, and he didn’t want to risk John being taken and put in improper hands.
“Come along, John,” Sherlock murmurs, foregoing John’s lead and trusting that, while he is still young, he will stay by Sherlock’s side with little trouble. “Mycroft’s texted me the details of the latest scene. There’s bound to be evidence that those idiots at the Yard missed.”
John pushed gently against his leg (“and you’ll find all of it”) and they left the flat.
Before Sherlock could hail a cab, Lestrade texted him—Mycroft was wrong after all. “Northumberland Street. Hm. Not within walking distance today. Much easier to take the A41. Unfortunate.” He smiled and brushed a stray curl out of his face. “But Angelo’s is close to the latest scene, and by the time I finish this it’ll be lunch time.”
A low whine (“God, I hope so”) and Sherlock put his hand up again. As usual, one almost magically appeared beside them, and he held the door open for John, letting him jump in first. “Working dog, 22 Northumberland Street,” Sherlock said before the cabbie could ask, pulling out his phone and continuing to text.
It seemed only a minute after he pulled out his phone that the taxi was slowing close to Angelo’s and John was wagging his tail excitedly, moving between nosing Sherlock’s chin and looking out the window. Angelo always kept a few tins of food for John when he came and the medical dog appreciated it. John left the taxi as fast as he could, roughly tapping the handle of the back door and swinging it open.
“John! Where’s your Sherlock?” Billy asked kindly, patting John on his golden head. The detective wasn’t far behind him, nodding shortly to the waiter and sliding into his regular seat. “Ah, there he is.”
That coaxed a smile out of Sherlock. “Indeed. I’m not eating but John is, please.” He rested his chin on his hands and stared out the window, watching the outer perimeter of the crime scene across the street. Lestrade and his team were waiting for him, but he preferred to watch the scene for a while.
On the last four, based on pictures from certain CCTV cameras (courtesy of Mycroft, the stupid bastard), the same man had been seen within a mile of each crime scene after it was found. Statistically, there was no doubt he would show up here. When John’s normal bowl was placed on the floor next to Sherlock, he reached down and scratched under the collar of his jumper. “Be ready, John. We’re going to catch a killer.”
John watched him lift his shaking hand and whined at it (“eat or you’re going to have an attack”) but Sherlock ignored him, still staring out the window. He knew that just a bit of stress could set him off at any time, because he hadn’t seized in over two weeks. Stubbornness prevented him from looking out for himself—idiocy, in John’s obvious opinion, prevented him from listening to John.
Sherlock sat up straighter, following a slight movement across the street with his wide, bright eyes. A profile… a face… “John, come on!” He shot up from his seat, running out the door and after the man, who left at a sprint as well. John followed right beside him, using the full advantage of his remaining puppy energy to keep up with Sherlock.
It was only a few seconds later that Sherlock was tackling the murderer, alerting the previously unobservant sergeants surrounding the scene. “Get off!” the man shouted, rolling over and elbowing Sherlock in the face. On a normal day, he would be able to shake the blow off, but he was sent reeling backward. He had just enough time to cock his arm back and throw a punch that met its mark on the murderer’s nose before his head hit the pavement.
His vision went white and his ears rang, his brain threatening to black out completely, but he fought it. He could hear John in the background, snarling and growling and ripping at the man’s clothing to keep him down and afraid. The last thing he heard was the distinctive blues-and-twos before he lost consciousness.
---
He woke up in hospital, John’s head on top of his hand and dim light shining through the pulled curtains. Mycroft was sitting across from the end of his bed. “Good evening, my dear.”
“Why is yours the first human face I see?” Sherlock groaned. “I suppose you’re here to tell me off.”
“No. I’m here to thank you. You were very quick in solving this case.” He folded his hands over one crossed knee. “I must admit, it was a bit easy for your skill set, but you were spending far too much time in that dingy flat of yours.”
Sherlock’s lip curled in distaste. “It would be a dingy flat if John wasn’t with me.” He leaned his throbbing head back into the pillows and took a deep breath.
Mycroft smiled at him for a moment, then stood, tapping his umbrella softly on the carpeted floor. “I’ll leave you to rest. I do believe Detective Inspector Lestrade is coming to shout abuse at you any minute now, so prepare yourself.”
Sherlock heaved another sigh and rubbed John’s back, waking him and urging him up onto the bed. John obeyed sleepily, pressing his cheek to Sherlock’s shoulder (“I’m still here, I promise”) and quickly falling back to sleep. The detective smiled and closed his eyes, trusting in his biology that there would be no night terrors and trusting in John that he would help even if there were.