The man, his shrink had scribbled down trust issues for, eight months prior, was not the John Watson of today. Since his arrival at Baker Street, he had changed greatly, so much so that if he were to read over Thompson's diagnosis again, he doubts either of them could recognize the man that now stood before them.
Despite the side effects of being Sherlock Holmes's flatmate, [sporadic shooting practice, uninvited guests at all hours and the fact that their fridge contained more human parts than what's socially acceptable], John looked at his new life with more vigor than he ever imagined he could. As time went on, the pair came to know each other quite well, with John even considering himself an apt interpreter [full time, semi-professional expert on all mood swings, significant glances and what not]. As they grew closer, John's confidence in his friend increased as well.
He's not sure when he started to doubt this confidence. But he was certain that Mycroft had everything to do with it.
July 3rd 9:30pm
Is my brother indisposed? - Mycroft Holmes
John's phone flickered for the fifth time that evening. Sloughed in his chair, he called out to his flatmate in the kitchen. The smell of burning oil and paper wafted strongly within the room.
"Mycroft's at it again." He called over his shoulder as he shuffled through the day's paper.
His flatmate did not respond.
After a sixth ping, John sighed loudly. "I'm not doing this again."
"Doing what?" Sherlock muttered inattentively.
"Playing your secretary with Mycroft."
"Nonsense, John. You're not my secretary."
"Thank you."
"You're clearly under qualified for that position." Acid hissed in the background as John turned around to glare at Sherlock.
"Right, if he texts again, I'll block his number."
He impatiently ran through several texts from Mycroft, each sounding as passively urgent as the next. He stopped at the latest one.
Require immediate service for a matter of national importance. Financial incentive provided, of course - Mycroft Holmes
He knew the final part was for his benefit only. As if Mycroft could expect his little brother to jump and beckon at the mention of cash. John, on the other hand.
"Sounds like he's got an important case. Probably something we'll want to work..."
Sherlock waved him off, stalking out of the kitchen and into his bedroom. "Not now, John!" He shouted out as he left.
Again, the soft ping. If not Sherlock, your services as well, are invaluable, Dr. Watson - Mycroft Holmes
"Damn." John cursed but soon enough he was quick on feet, coat in hand and out the door.
July 3rd 10:05pm
"He's got a lot on. New clients." John pandered unnecessarily to Mycroft. The later poured tea into a white cup and handed to John, all the while, smiling in disbelief.
"I cannot pretend that my brother's dismissal doesn't hurt me greatly." Mycroft said bitterly. "However, we are in great need of Sherlock's help." The words, as we always are, stood silently after this, acknowledged only in private thought by both men.
John, withdrawing a notebook from his coat, had his pen ready. "I'll pass on the message."
Mycroft did not ease comfortably at this but continued. "One of our departments has caught scent of a leak."
"So you need a name."
Mycroft's dry smile propped up, "We know who it is. We need Sherlock to uncover exactly who she is. For future assurances."
John clicked on immediately. "Blackmail."
Mycroft smiled dryly into his cup, his absence of an answer only confirming John's suspicions.
"He won't want to take it."
"Then he'll have to reconsider his position. For what else does a detective do then?" Mycroft mocked.
"He'll hate it. Even more so, coming from you. I know him." John said, shaking his head.
As John spoke, Mycroft grew stiff in his chair. "Know Sherlock? You truly believe you know my brother, John?" Mycroft spat out distastefully.
He paused, all together surprised by Mycroft's question. "Uhh.."
They sat in awkward silence until Mycroft spoke again, this time, colder than before.
"Very well. If you must, do not reveal my part in it. Just have Sherlock take the case."
July 3rd 10:56pm
That evening, John, still bothered by his visit with the older Holmes, returned to a empty flat and one new text, flashing across his phone.
Lestrade called. Meet us at Barts immediately - S
Groaning loudly, he resigned to telling Sherlock about the case in the morning.
July 21st 7:55pm
The Bin Man Murders [The case of a well-resourced serial killer who disposed of his bodies in bin bags of victims' relatives] had Sherlock and John unexpectedly busy over the following weeks. The last nights spent in the cold labs of Barts and the cafeteria of Scotland Yard made John long ever so strangely for his lumpy mattress. Their constant presence even was noted by the pathologist, Molly Hooper, who jokingly asked, one morning, whether he and Sherlock were planning on paying rent soon.
But [not] soon enough, the case was closed, with the murderer (A sixty-eight year old Scotsman, recently retired, divorced and hell-bent on chaos), placed in custody.
Throughout the case, Mycroft's harassment of John continued, his phone was plagued every hour by the repetitive ping. John, tired as he was, didn't have the patience to tell Mycroft that he failed in persuading Sherlock to take the case. He tried of course, but each time, his attempts fell on deaf ears. Hardly surprising, considering the intensity of the Bin Man Murders; Mycroft's case would have had to have twice the mystery to incite Sherlock away.
As the exhausted pair finally returned to 221B that night, falling onto the mercy of home, John's phone began to shrill loudly. Again.
"Tell him to piss off. It works well on the rare occasion." Sherlock remarked over his laptop as John groaned, pulling his phone out of pocket, his face creasing as he read over the text.
A car will arrive at 8 o'clock. Do be prompt - Mycroft Holmes
"Uh, Mycroft's not happy with us." John said, slumping carelessly into his chair.
"With what?"
"The case...that blasted case I tried to get you on the other week! God, he's sent over thirty texts." John angrily tucked the phone away.
"The leak?" Sherlock asked.
John lifted his head up in surprise, "You know-how do you know..?"
"I finished that one this morning. Ah, new cilent." A email alert sounded from Sherlock's laptop.
"So you gave Mycroft the details?"
"The adulteress Mrs. Jenkins strikes again. Oh, how terribly dull." Sherlock clicked away forcibly as John grunted frustratedly.
Sherlock!"
"The leak has been dealt with. She's currently on her way to Mozambique."
"Mozambique?" John asked dumbly, completely confused by Sherlock's motives. Until it hit him. "You...told her. God, you helped her-just to spite him. Sherlock, she was a national threat! "
"Hardly, John." Sherlock gritted in an obvious tone. "Her relations as a leak only extended to the privacy of a certain cabinet member. Less security threat-more sentimental tripe but Mycroft does love to impress his peers in any way possible." He finished bitterly.
John's phone shrilled up, an incoming call.
Sherlock looked up with a smile, stretching over his thin face. "Feel free to accept Mycroft's gratitude on my behalf."
July 21st 8:30pm
The man, gripping the sides of his chair, was not the Mycroft Holmes John was expecting to see. He was livid. The usually placid Mycroft was holding a shaking cup in one hand and with the other, impatiently waved John into his office.
John cleared his throat before he spoke, "Look, the case..."
"You must think our feuds are trivial.." Mycroft drawled out coolly. "But whatever it is, trivial or not, it is between brothers. Brothers who know one another."
"Whatever Sherlock's done-"
"Do you trust him, John?" Mycroft interrupted.
John's mouth opened once, then twice, but his reply came out strong. "Yes...yes, I do."
"Not very long ago, your psychiatrist established that you had severe trust issues. And yet, you trusted Sherlock rather quickly."
John shifted in his chair, "Well, of course I do."
"You're very willing to give your trust to someone you hardly know."
Finally biting the bait, John retorted sharply. "Look, I may not have the blood bad between brothers act you got with him but I know him." John's boldness seem to shun Mycroft quiet for the moment. He looked over Mycroft's agitated expression, Sherlock definitely went too far this time.
John began emphatically, "Look, whatever he did tonight to embarrass you..."
"Embarrass me? He humiliated me!" Mycroft snapped but the rage dispelled quickly as it came.
"Right...right." He watched as Mycroft's face fell back into its cool expression, devoid of any of its previous anger. The air was stiff, as John struggled to sit, eager to get out and avoid this conversation.
"I better be off." John said awkwardly as he stood up from his chair. "Listen, I know he can be a-"
Mycroft looked up at him with a very dry expression.
"a-an arse sometimes. But I know him as well you do.."
A breath of time passed between them, with John's words hanging in the room. Then, to John's surprise, Mycroft rose up from his chair to join him by the door.
"Of course John." He reassured casually [but not kindly] as he guided him through the doorway. "Of course."
"If you could tell him for me, no harm done." Placing his hand firmly on John's back, Mycroft gave a soft, final push out the door. "And give my best to his wife."
"Right-sorry, what?"
"Goodnight Dr. Watson." The door fell firmly shut, almost snapping up the short nose of the very confused John Watson.
John's walk back to 221B was overwhelmed by his meeting with Mycroft. Failing to make sense of the whole odd burst, he struggled to work out why he was feeling so displaced now.
You would think living with someone, running around with him all the time, would be enough to know a guy!
Of course it was, John thought. He was unwillingly exposed to all the man's odd habits [cigarettes hidden in roof, addiction to repeats of Loose Women], all his weird moods and piss poor attitudes John survived through. So he didn't know everything, he doubts that even Mycroft can claim to have that knowledge but he knew the real Sherlock.
Sure, there would be some days where Sherlock would disappear for a day or two, not bothering to tell John, but that's not enough evidence to suggest the man's keeping a secret, locked up lover somewhere in Mrs. Hudson's attic!
As John reached the final step before the door, he shook his head and laughed darkly at the imagery of a married Sherlock Holmes. "I mean...Sherlock...a wife?"
August 4th, The Mendel Case [Mrs. Mendel's missing husband, emptied bank account and her poisoned cat]
"Are you going to help or not?" John shouted from inside the skip, bits of cardboard, paper and rubbish flying out.
The detective in question stood nearby, his fingers carefully attached to his phone. "No, I don't want to ruin my shoes."
"Great-just great."
"Don't worry, John. You're doing a perfectly adequate job of it."
"Yeah, wasn't fishing for comp-err, found it." John pulled out a blue collar from the skip and handed it over to Sherlock who was quick to deduce.
"Short hair tabby cat. Marks on holes, consistent with Mrs. Mendel's description of the cat's build."
"Right one, then? Good."
"You can get out now, John."
"Hang on-foot's stuck in something-Jesus what is that!"
"John, hurry up."
"Oi!" Sherlock and John immediately looked over to the end of the alleyway where Inspector Lestrade was walking towards them. "Didn't think you two were the types for this kind of thing!" John climbed sheepishly out of the skip as Sherlock rolled his eyes at Lestrade, obviously displeased by his sudden appearance.
"Are you stalking us, Inspector?" Sherlock said unpleasantly.
"You think I've got time for that? Nah, you're not answering your phone again. We need you."
"Evidently."
"Got a robbery down on Bond Street. Bit of trouble."
"I'm afraid we're occupied at the moment." John shot a puzzled look at Sherlock, recalling the detective's bored rant about their case only this morning.
"Come on, Sherlock. Give us an hour..."
Then Sherlock's phone buzzed loudly. He instantly picked up it, reading over the message. "I cannot, Inspector. Got plans. John, however..." He offered up his friend who only looked between the two before sighing defeatedly.
"What plans? Mrs. Mendel?" John asked.
"No, something else. John, you go with Gavin..."
"Hang on, Gavin!?"
"Gavin-oh, he means Greg."
"Nevertheless. Goodbye Inspector. " Sherlock strode off, his phone immediately held against his ear.
Lestrade pointed to the fleeing back of Sherlock. "His loss."
John sighed. "So, jewellery heist was it?"
"The day before the shop were to get their new system installed. Reeks of an inside job. I was hoping to get his opinion on it. Where's he off to anyway?"
John shrugged as they walked towards Lestrade's car, parked beside the road. "Never says." John looked back to the street, half hoping to see the back of detective on the street. It was the third time that week Sherlock had left him randomly. Starts off with a text and then he's off for the day.
"Probably off to make someone cry."
Lestrade laughed heartily. "Should take a break. Get himself a girl."
"What, Sherlock?"
"Well, I dunno. Believe me, once you've known Sherlock Holmes for as long as I have, things don't seem completely impossible."
"Yeah but-
"well I won't deny that seems bloody impossible." Lestrade grinned.
John, not wanting to give up the chance to check whether Mycroft's having him on or not, casually phrased his next question.
"So, in all the time you've known him-he's never had.."
"Well, that's the thing with Sherlock. And why we need him so much. He's not normal, doesn't do things by the book."
Mycroft's full of bollocks.
August 26th, The SyCorp Investigation [Stolen blueprints of new security building in Central London, a stock broker's break-in and the death of a recently tanned secretary]
It was round three o'clock in afternoon, at Barts, where John found the working pathologist, Molly Hooper, hands deep inside a poor cadaver. The 'only capable pathologist at Barts' [Sherlock's words] was someone John couldn't help but admire. Despite Sherlock's coarse treatment, Molly always had a bright smile and a helping hand for them whenever they needed it. No doubt the soft spot she obviously carried for Sherlock was useful in some respect.
"Hey" He called out to her.
"Hi..." She held a absent look on her face a moment too long for John's liking.
"John." He said, a little discouraged.
"Oh no! No I know... John. Hi." She fumbled. "Ah, what going's on..."
"The report on the Richardson body. Sherlock politely requests it."
"Oh, oh course!" Molly quickly dropped her instruments and headed to the back office. John stood awkwardly over by the steel table, unable to avoid staring into the open stomach of the body Molly was carefully dissecting. It had been a while since he had seen a stomach like that. The half digested cornish pasty in his own stomach threaten to leave. Don't be squeamish. Not sque...god, would you look at that.
Luckily, Molly came out quickly with a brown file just as John pulled away from the body.
He pointed to the gaping hole of the corpse, "Enough to put you off your appetite."
She shrugged almost shyly, as she replied, "Oh maybe. Not for me."
John struggled to think why Molly Hooper, you know, warm, lovely, very pretty [for his tastes] would like Sherlock. The girl remained infatuated and Sherlock, dutifully aware of his effect on her, used her rottenly. She would be good for him, if he wasn't such a arse sometimes. Probably date her just for the unlimited access to the morgue.
Oh.
Molly would know something. Sweet Molly whose eyes were glued onto the detective the moment he stepped into the lab. Surely she would have noticed if Sherlock 'had' anyone.
Under John's stare, Molly blushed and moved back towards her work, reaching for her instruments again.
"You've known Sherlock a long time...?"
"Oh, only seven years." Molly said. Slip, cut, slip.
"And he's been annoying for most of that?" He joked but Molly's smile didn't widen.
"He's not that bad. Just..." She paused to pick her word carefully, "special."
John began his tactic, clearing his throat, he spoke as nonchalantly as he could. "Listen, Molly...bit of an odd question but you wouldn't have notice...or know if Sherlock...y'know...ever had a-girlfriend-or-boyfriend-or-anything like that?"
He regretted the question immediately as a metal scalpel fell into the cadaver's stomach.
Molly turned bright red as she fished it out. "Sherlock? Oh no! No...no-no I w-wouldn't know about...we're not that close!"
"Right, no. Of course."
"Has he? I mean, did he say something?" Molly stammered.
"No. Nothing. Says he's married to his work." John tried to reassure her, but it only elicited an odd giggle from Molly.
"Right..." Only to spare himself and the now quite red-faced Molly from further mortification, John decided to make his escape. Quickly.
"Err, I'd better get this to him. Y'know how he gets."
Another odd laugh followed.
Maybe, Molly Hooper wasn't the best person to ask.
As he left, he heard an heavy crash and thud, all echoed by a loud "Oh bugger!"
Yep. Definitely wasn't the person to talk to.
August 31st, The Harrison Case [The kidnapping of the Harrisons' prized pooch, Marigold, the suspicious bookie and the wife's plastic surgeon]
Mrs. Hudson and John struggled through the entrance of 221B, their hands filled with several shopping bags.
"Just through the kitchen dear, you can leave them there." The landlady instructed as they walked through her flat. John carefully dumped the bags onto the kitchen table, before falling into the chair beside it.
"Cup of tea would be nice."
"Only this once, dear." Mrs. Hudson pushed the biscuit tin towards him.
An abrupt sound echoed throughout the house, sounding very similar like a kick to a wall.
Mrs. Hudson looked up to the ceiling, letting out a worried sigh. "Oh, my poor walls. You should have seen what he did to them last week!"
John listened out but the upstairs flat had returned to its usual silence. Mrs. Hudson's walls were the least of his concerns if Sherlock's in a mood.
"He's been terribly upset all week. Only yesterday I asked him if he wanted his washing done and he pulled the clothes straight out of my hands! Shouted at me for disturbing his privacy." The old lady chattered as she wandered round the kitchen, fixing up a tea pot.
"It's probably just the case he's on."
"Oh I do wish he would just settle down sometime."
John paused, his half eaten biscuit in hand as he contemplated. "So, he's never...brought someone home."
Mrs. Hudson turned around, her face alight with concern. "Never! That's why I was so happy to see you come, dear. Thought perhaps, he'd finally found-"
"Nope, definitely not. I'm not his-have you met Sarah?"
"He needs someone. A wife." Mrs. Hudson prattled on, ignoring John.
"I think a housekeeper would suit him better."
Then a loud bang echoed, definitely a gun shot this time.
"JOHN!"
"Oh my poor walls!" Mrs. Hudson wailed.
John patted the distressed landlady's hand reassuringly before bolting up the stairs, responding to the shout.
The detective, bundled in a blue dressing gown, stood just inside the flat, John's revolver aimed at the door frame.
"Oi! Put that away!" John ripped the gun carefully from his hand. "What are you thinking!"
Sherlock spared John a dark look.
"Well, what's the wall done this time?"
"Not the wall, John. You."
"Me."
Yes." A chilling yes if ever there was one.
"Well what-what have I done?" John asked meekly, sitting back into the sofa, reaching for the newspaper that laid idly beside him.
"You've been gossiping with Mrs. Hudson." Flew the cool accusation.
"Gossiping? About what?"
"About me!"
"Not really."
"Why?"
John hid behind the newspaper, muffling his answer. "No particular reason."
"John." Sherlock said doubtfully. Very doubtfully.
"Nothing really-just something Mycroft-might-have-said or something-" John's guilty face was perfectly hidden behind the newspaper. Snooping behind Sherlock's back for idle gossip was bad enough but getting caught...might just be worse.
"Mycroft? What did he say?"
"Nothing important."
"What did he say?"
"Err.." The newspaper shifted to the side as John spoke, "He said to say hello to your wife."
"My wife?" Sherlock looked confused for a second, before his face quickly turned into a vacant expression. "Oh."
"You thought I had a secret wife."
"I-I might have, maybe, yes."
"And that I was keeping it from you."
The newspaper was pushed away as John looked earnestly up at Sherlock. Time to give up the witchhunt. Mycroft's just full of bollocks.
"I trust you. You would tell me."
If John continued to look at Sherlock, he would have seen his flatmate's face fall a little bit. If John had not returned to his paper, he would have seen that the man's face now gave way to a very puzzling expression.
A couple months later
John whistled cheerfully as he came down the stairs. He barely noticed the stern-looking Sherlock, perched in his chair.
Picking an apple from the table, John finally looked up at him.
"Mrs. Hudson has done our laundry," Sherlock nodded towards the two piles of clothing, neatly stacked on top of the end table.
"That's awfully nice of her-" John reached out for his pile, a stack of jumpers and jeans before stopping abruptly. Sherlock watched him keenly.
"What's that?"
"That's your pile."
"No. No, not that. This." John fished up a pair of white lace underwear into the air.
"That, John, is something I had thought you'd be very familiar with."
John, ignoring the jab, shot him a hard look. "What's it doing on my pile?"
"John, I've been meaning to tell you something."
"Oh god."
"After careful consideration, I've realised that it would be unfair to you not to share-
"Oh god, they're yours."
"What?! No."
"I-I don't understand then."
"I don't wear ladies' clothing."
"Then whose are they?!"
Sherlock paused. "Read the label, John."
John looked at him with doubt but did as instructed, lifting the panties up just to see a worn-white label, covered in washed out black markings but the tiny letters were still visible on the hem. M Holmes.
The snort just came out. Then it was followed by another, before a horde of shaking laughter streamed through his body. John fell back into the sofa helplessly as his eyes filled up with water. "Jesus-christ-" He rasped. All in his outburst, John hardly noticed the entrance of their visitor.
"Sherlock! What's wrong?" A soft voice cried out worriedly.
"I certainly didn't predict this reaction from him." John heard Sherlock mutter angrily.
Someone placed a hand on his shoulder, and John, still laughing manically, turned to see Molly Hooper, perched by his side, her face, filled with worry.
"John, are you okay?-What did you say to him?" She said sternly to Sherlock.
"Me? I did nothing. I merely presented him with the evidence." Sherlock threw something over to Molly.
"You gave him my underwear? That's your way of telling him about us!"
John stopped laughing, wiping his eyes. "Wait-they're not Mycroft's?"
Molly and John both jumped in shock at the sound of a very unusual guffaw. They watched in surprise as Sherlock was now shaking silently with odd spurts of laughter coming out. At the sight of his flatmate, John burst out again in loud cackles. The two continued like this with Molly, shaking her head in disbelief.
"Oh dear lord."
and the end.
gracias por su visita.