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In Tandem

Summary:

Cause and effect. One thing brings about another. Can friendship sponsor dependence? Does familiarity lead to taking things for granted, such as ... people?

A horrific car accident shakes things up.

Spoiler: Happy Ending. Eventually.

Chapter 1: Watch Out

Notes:

Our story unfolds in the back seat, a hired driver up front, and trouble on the horizon.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The words are flat. "I suppose not." Sherlock is as close to sulking as he can get outside of his hands-steepled, floppy-couch stroppy pose on Baker Street, and given the moue of his mouth, the reticent answer to John's question is personally significantly costly. "Not entirely."

"So, not a waste of time is still a good thing." John chuckles, knowing any argument he might offer is probably going to be ineffective and, ironically, a waste of his own time. "You solved it."

"And income has been generated, as you like to point out."

"Can we not have the money discussion again?" John asks.

"Argument, you mean," Sherlock interjects, apparently spoiling for one.

"Discussion," John restates. "Well, I try to discuss, and you make it an argument." John hears the faint whine in his voice and is largely okay with it. Their financial backgrounds could not be more diverse: Sherlock's trust fund and well-off family, John's impoverished bank accounts and relatives to match. Their new joint account was not only recent but at John’s insistence - and now it is much less on Sherlock's radar, less important. "Sit back, relax," he suggests.

"How long's the ride home again?" he asks rhetorically, in a tone that can only mean he’s not done complaining.

"Hour and a half, give or take." John sympathesises with Sherlock's restless energy, his zest for purpose, and he understands all too well that confinement is difficult. "This time of day, anyway."

From the other side of the car is a dramatic eye-roll, and Sherlock turns his head to stare out the window. It's approaching dusk, lights beginning to come on, the sky fading to shades of heather.

"How about I look for another case, if you want? Help pass the time."

"Fine." His tone means anything but.

They had taken this particular case, a remote connection of Lestrade's but quite far out of his jurisdiction, and solved it in less than a day. Ultimately, it had been some pre-trip research, a few hours of legwork, several interviews, unwrapping the lies hidden in the media and the alleged testimonials, some scathing remarks about the current investigators, then a press conference. The once-important exposures would now be relegated to annoying, useless details in Sherlock's mind - and he would no doubt complain vehemently at however John attempted to write it up in his blog. The now-grateful man in charge had hired a driver to take them home, who - thankfully - has not asked too many questions or peppered either of them with platitudes about Sherlock's career, John's blog, or anything else actually. 

But now, first, a boring ride home, trapped in the backseat with perhaps too little legroom too much sulk.

If only.

++

"Here's one," John offers, using a fingertip to scroll on his mobile. "Not as exciting as ... well, actually, not that exciting. But unusual in that there were actual identical twins, and ..."

"No." Sherlock, fiddling with something in his hands, is barely listening. "Nope," he reiterates, popping the 'p' with his lips because John had once told him that it was irksome.

"But, wait. They routinely swapped events, livelihoods, and one was a bloody surgeon ... who ..."

"I said no," Sherlock moans and groans about the fact that nothing is ever new, despite John's insistence that this actually is new. His long fingers spin and twist the object in his hands, then let go only to fuss at his knees, adjusting the trouser crease. "Next?"

When John presses his suggestion, fussing good-naturedly that they should take this one because there isn't anything else of more interest, Sherlock reaches his long arm in an attempt to confiscate John's phone. For a few moments, a few frozen seconds, their hands meet and hold. It's a little awkward given the electronic device somewhat squashed between, but enough skin contact - and then there is the making of more than just the warm touch.

++

Their physical relationship over the last few months is finally what people had been insisting all along. A peripheral conversation, John and a random coffee shop stranger, who made the mistake of asking for his number while Sherlock was within hearing range. "Wasting your ti-i-ime," he murmured, just a little bit sing-songy.

The voice deflection like that never ever fails to wind John up, and Sherlock shamelessly uses that to his advantage when it suits him.

Instead of backing down, though, she had confronted him, slightly amused in her assertiveness. One brow was raised as she responded to Sherlock, "Oh? Is it like that, then? Staking your territory are you?" John hadn't been especially keen before, but seeing her prickliness and her negativity directed at his flatmate, at Rosie's godfather, had certainly ended any residual interest.

He knew intervention was necessary before either of them escalated. "While I am flattered by your interest," he'd begun, deliberately invoking memories of their early days, of Angelo's, "you should know that I consider myself ..."

The slightest pause, for which Sherlock was waiting, and he interjected quickly, "Taken." He'd leaned in a bit, their arms brushing together, their heads near each other, conveying comfort and familiarity and intimacy, clearly at ease with each other.

John had shrugged, letting a brow raise, shooting Sherlock a small quirk of his lips not quite a smile. Although they’d been directing their words at the woman, who shook her head and huffed as she began to walk away in disgust, they’d been speaking in sidebar to each other.

Then later that evening, after he'd tucked Rosie in, he'd restated the word. "So, taken?" The sitting room, each in their respective chairs, is quiet and still but for John's question.

"Obviously," had been the reply.

John had hesitated, feeling the weight of a moment and not wanting to blow it, to miss out, to waste the opportunity that had fizzled out at Angelo’s years previously. His hand, unbidden, reached out, his fingertips lightly resting on Sherlock's knee.  “Are you saying …”

”Yes." Cool blue eyes had indeed been steady, looking back. Then with typical condescension, Sherlock had finished, "Do keep up.”

"Are you sure?"

"Are you questioning me, seriously? Do you think I would vacillate about something this important?" Between them, the tension that had waxed and waned over the years, swelled again. Someone looked at someone else's mouth, or maybe it was together, and the room warmed, crackled, beckoned.

That evening, a tentative kiss had been just the starting point, a directional change. They'd shared their lips, their mouths, their bodies, a coming together that ... although it just sort of happened with little discussion, it felt the most natural thing in the world. They shared Sherlock's bed a few times, with John always careful to return to his own shared bedroom upstairs before Rosie woke up.

The most they'd talked about it had been a few questions - are you okay with this? - and someone else's breathy answer - god, yes. And for the most part, it just worked, perhaps a little awkwardly, but it had finally felt like they were right where they were supposed to be.

++

"Not here," Sherlock breathes from across the back seat, and John agrees, and lowers their arms. In the jostling, the way their fingers splay and touch, John's mobile slips from their grip to end up on the floor by his shoes.

He unbuckles his seatbelt silently in order to retrieve the wayward mobile. In that clutch of seconds, a hateful universe unfolds, blooming chaos in the absolute worst fateful alignment in impossibly few seconds. The convergence, the few moments, the blink of an eye, and calamity strikes. Just as John is sitting back upright from regaining his mobile, turning to add a comment that never gets the chance to be delivered, there is noise from the driver.

"Oh shit, hang on!" 

A quick attempt to swerve, an acceleration, and then it goes from really bad to much, much worse as the car lurches to the side. There is deafening noise that stretches into the chasm, as two vehicles collide.

++

The professor drones on for a few minutes, listing the types and specific functions of the neurotransmitter, the synapse, and the pathways of each.

Then he makes eye contact with another section of his class, glances at the back wall, and nods once, imperceptibly to the students. His train of thought smoothly continues. "So as I was explaining, afferent vs efferent nerves are ..."

From behind the sloping lecture hall seats comes a suddenly hurled object, a large metal frisbee, thrown by a previously unseen visitor who'd entered soundlessly and had been waiting for his cue. The disc flies overhead of half the auditorium and clatters violently into the corner of the large classroom, ricocheting against two walls before tipping on an edge in the front of their seats.

"Okay. Object lesson. Fight or flight, remember? Before you were even consciously aware of what was going on, your eyes had taken note of the frisbee. The threat. Peripheral vision would be quite distracting if you were constantly aware of it. But your brain is paying attention despite yourself. Split seconds, and your optic nerve transmits to your brain, which stimulates your adrenal glands, resulting in a catecholamine surge. Epinephrine, norepinephrine, dopamine are almost instantly released. It affects everything - heart rate, breathing, pupils, muscles, GI tract, kidneys, lungs, pancreas, nerves, skin - and even now, you're aware of heightened focus. Your body is poised to do battle, down to a cellular level. Some of you missed the visual stimuli, but the sound evoked the same response." He hesitates, smiles a little as the guest begins to slip from the back door again, task completed. "Thank you, Steven." Pressing a button on the remote in his hand, the front screen is now full of a complicated diagram explaining the first nuances of catecholamines. "You all with me again? Skin still tingling? High alert?" he asks, and the students nod. There is some nervous chatter as they realise the unpredictability of the professor, and at the demonstration they will never forget.

++

The driver focuses on his task, neatly ticking off kilometers to his destination. The roads at this hour, just after dinner, are pleasant - not deserted but certainly not voluminous. The traffic signals are mostly timed to allow him, on his route, the right of way. Rarely, one of the side roads triggers his light amber then red. He is a good, attentive driver, his driving record is spotless, and taking this assignment was not out of the ordinary. He is grateful for the easy job, the respectful passengers, and the straightforward drive he's taking.

The light is green in front of him, the intersection angles slightly at a curve with some vegetation nearby. Later, a police analyst will comment that it was overgrown, that visibility wasn't actually all that good. But either way, out of his peripheral vision, suddenly there appear headlamps coming at an astonishing rate of speed, already almost upon them. He knows immediately there is no way in hell that car is planning to obey the traffic device. His brain, without needing his conscious consideration, will evaluate fight or flight, brake or accelerate, veer or hold the course: there is no planning. The same analyst will calculate approximate speed of both vehicles and the specifics of the crash using skid marks and debris patterns, as well as vehicular damage. It will be determined that no evasive manoeuvers would have been enough.

The driver's warning is too late and ultimately won't matter anyway.

The other car, a sturdy sedan, runs the red light without braking, plows solidly and full force into the front section of the car carrying himself and his passengers. The T bone accident is reverberating and loud this time of night; the few homes nearby will all hear it.

Metal crumples and bends; a spin, a lot of metallic bending, the harsh cracking of plastic alloy giving way to the laws of physics. Of the three occupants of the stricken car, two groan a bit in the seconds after the vehicles - or what's left of them - come to rest. A few seconds later, there is only one voice, gravelly and thinly, rasping out "Hey?" Neither of the others are able to answer. The lone voice, moments later, is quieter, a pained whisper. "John?"

Notes:

So quite an adventure waits for them ahead. Buckle up (sorry for the seat-belt reference), it's liable to be a rough ride for a little while.