BBCSH 'How To Solve A Mystery'
Author: tigersilver
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,600
Warnings/Summary: Sherlock has postulated a 'sea change'; well! That's really not scientific, is it? John has a different method of arrival when it comes to his deductions and sometimes that involves shouting at innocent vegetables and sometimes that involves stirring up his oddly hesitant flatmate.
"Mister Wilkerson, Doctor. Sinuses inflamed, something chronic."
"Thank you, Lucinda." John smiled at them both, the elderly gentleman and then also 'new girl Lucinda', the bright young thing who'd recently replaced Mary busily ushering the man into John's office, and turned to snap on a fresh pair of exam gloves. He turned back to his patient with a smile. "Now, what seems to be the problem, Mister Wilkerson? Is it your nose again? Horrible things, noses."
"Oh, aye, it smarts!" The old man immediately launched into a series of complaints, some new and of interest, some rote and very tired, and John spared him nearly all of his attention. But…not quite that full one hundred percent. Three-quarters of an ear maybe John gave him.
"Do tell."
Really, John felt a bit like a bulldog, sniffing about, hunting clues. For he'd a mystery of his own to solve lately and it was niggling away at him, hovering about the edges of John's finely attuned detective senses, teasing. Well, admittedly his senses not nearly as honed as Sherlock's were, naturally, but then again John was no slouch. Years of exposure had taught him a thing or two, cheers.
And recently? Recently, a whole string of clues, each amounting to make up a brigade force and then metaphorically practically slapping John Watson in the bloody kisser with all the power of a suicide rush!
Clues—pesky things—one couldn't ignore them. Not if one roomed with Sherlock Holmes.
Which was the point, exactly: Sherlock Holmes.
Clue: John has taken to whistling and humming much more often, these last few months. Clue: He smiled and laughed far more readily as well. So much more often that even he had noted it. It was as if John's entire outlook on life had altered, suffered a sea-change of sorts, now that Mary was out of the picture. Clue: His domestic life was really quite sanguine, comprised as it was of tea, telly and detecting, with the occasional insane dash about Greater London and the inevitable blogging after. Nowadays, John actually looked forward to returning home to the flat after a shift, secure in the knowledge there was a lanky mad genius detective awaiting him. Life was exciting and yet oddly cozy—'very nice', John would call it. If anyone were to ask. Say Lucinda…and bless the girl if she never did!
Of course, if they did, John would have to snub them—her. His personal life was no one's business but his own, yeah?
"Hmm, well," John offered up a few moments into the exam, having peered inquisitively up both Mister Wilkerson's nostrils, down his crotchety old throat and deep into the tunnels of his hairy ears. "Back to the antiseptic gargle, I'd say. Twice a day for that and then we'll also try you out on a sample of the latest anti-inflammatory, OTC. Nurse will see to you now, sir, so off you go. Do please call back if it worsens, all right? Don't be a worrywart over it, but do please take care."
Mr Wilkerson gathered up and admirably swept away in the competent grasp of young Lucinda, John turned to write up his notes in the old man's file. But an increasing percentage of his deeper thought processes was given over to this one incredibly simple fact: Sherlock Holmes was at home at the flat, waiting for him. Waiting for John.
It made John's day brighter just to consider it. Why was that, then? It was only Sherlock, good old Sherlock, same as always, right? Sherlock, in his mousy wrapper and his airy-fairy ways. Posh twat.
"Missus Burgess, Doctor," Lucinda hissed, poking her ginger head round the door frame. "Suspected pregnancy! Oh dear! "
"Oh dear," John muttered darkly, "Indeed!" And shoved himself out of his seat to escort his latest patient in, circling about her to assess her newly gained bulk. "Now, what are your symptoms, Missus Burgess, and when did you start to suspect?" He frowned at her as she settled her padded hips down in the patient's chair, for Missus Burgess was married to a man known to be impotent and therefore no 'suspected 'pregnancy could be a good thing!
Bloody fuck, John thought, eyeing her red rimmed eyes and her nervous twitch.
Nor a natural one, either. Pregnancy a la marital venue was just straight out—wasn't happening, by all accounts and analyses.
Scenting a little medical mystery of his very own, John engaged in solving it. On the QT, though, for Missus Burgess had devolved into quite the watering pot, courtesy hormones.
In between the results of the urine test and counseling a sobbing Missus Burgess to consult both her attorney as to her pre-nup and an infertility specialist as well as highly-ranked geneticist (any affair of hers on the side could not explain away the fact of her recent inexplicable bout of short-term amnesia and Mister Burgess was a noted bioengineer and terribly jealous), a small part of John's brain puzzled over why it was suddenly so very important to feel so delighted over having the worst flatmate in the world.
The same exact flatmate who stared at John obsessively when he thought John wasn't looking and who had recently become incredibly over-conscious as to their shared space. A flatmate who flinched and blushed and shivered, to the point where John was terribly tempted to bung him off to Molly's lab again and have the git pee in another cup!
Also? A flatmate who had taken to venturing out to do the shopping unasked and taken to tidying up the flat now and again unchided. One who smiled more often at John than ever before (granted Sherlock smiled nervously, a weird flex of lips and chin and wrinkly bits about the eyes, but still—was a smile, no gainsaying) and yet who contrarily hesitated to invade John's personal bubble in the way he was used to, once upon a time. Sherlock—John's eternal mystery.
Clue: Sherlock was not especially good at interpersonal relationships. Clue: Sherlock was never terribly nervous around John, not before now, not before Mary, at least. Indeed, they were quite comfortable together, which was to be expected given the huge amount of trust they'd built up over the years, keeping company. Especially after the Mary Incident.
"Break time, Doctor," Lucinda informed him merrily. "Shall I fetch you a sandwich? It's no trouble." She tilted her chin at him flirtatiously and winked, which gave John quite the start. "At all, if you know what I mean. Id' be…chuffed."
John jumped. Oh, for god's sake, not another one! Ridiculous, really, the amount of office flirtations these days. And there'd be hell to pay of John even thought to start one, not after Mary!
"Oh, no. No need, thanks." John scrambled to summon a friendly but entirely professional smile for the poor deluded girl. Lucinda was really all right, just a bit boisterous; she'd recently suffered an ignominious breakup, judging by the new hairdo, the makeup and the state of her shoes. Was probably casting about for a rebound, what? Hat's what Sherlock would conclude, certainly—if he cared to conclude at all. Which was just not on, at least not with John. "My flatmate sent me off this morning with the leftover curry." He gestured ay the slightly battered and stained carton sitting to the side of his desk. "I'll just heat it up in a moment. But, thanks. That was kind of you, Nurse. Very…considerate."
"Pity, Doctor," Lucinda made a moue at John and hastily retreated, her smile slipping but still game. "But maybe next time?" she added quickly. "I'm always on for a bite out, sir. If—if you are."
"Right, right," John shook his head, blinking. "Er, no. No, I don't think so, ta very much. Like—like never, really. More trouble than it's worth," he muttered firmly toward the closing door, thankful it had Lucinda on the opposite side of it. "'Cause I'm not. I'm not in the market. God, why would I be? Bugger!"
He relished the nearly instant peace-and-quiet of his empty office and sighed heavily at the carton of curry awaiting him, propping his chin on his hand to regard it. For there laid before his gaze was another piece of the puzzle to consider: why on earth had Sherlock left John a packed up lunch when he normally couldn't be arsed to even make the tea? And why this morning, of all possible mornings? What was Sherlock trying to tell John?
Did he know about Lucinda? How could Sherlock possibly—and why? It begged the question, the 'why' of it.
Clue: Sherlock was…well, to face up to it honestly, John's flatmate was a bit on the possessive side. Clue: Sherlock was brutal when it came to spitting out the facts of a case or gen on a suspect or even the embarrassing tidbits of personal lives of the unfortunate personnel investigating, but he was equally as reticent when it devolved to his own emotions. Mum like a tomb.
Clue: There had really only been a very few occasions when he'd addressed them, his feelings, at least in John's hearing. Clue: Particularly those feelings Sherlock had in reference to John.
Really, John thought, glaring at the innocuous carton as it contained a dose of botulism, anthrax and chlorine gas combined, one had to be a detective oneself to sort out the 'great' Sherlock Holmes.
John sighed and drew the container toward him. Needs must, then, and he'd no other recourse, right?
Curry consumed, break over with long ago and five more patients dealt with ably and sent on their way, John whipped off his white work wrapper and scurried out the rear entry of the surgery, deftly ducking out before Lucinda could catch him up with the (inevitable) offer of drinks.
His walk back to Baker Street was brisk after he exited the Tube, and the newest Tesco's was convenient, even if he'd never stopped prior, so John popped in for a few necessities, his mind turned toward the prospect of supper. The mystery of the leftover curry, however, never left his mind.
Excepting…it was overshadowed by a huge host of other clues, facts and fancies about Sherlock Holmes, and John spent quite a few moments staring blankly at the arrays of cling-wrapt veg, ostensibly pondering whipping up a stir fry for supper. Broccoli? Peppers? Courgette? Oh, god!
And then it struck him. The curry! A singular curry. A sort of shorthand, really. John, said the curry, as loudly as one pleased. I care. Hurry home, why don't you? John! John?
"Tip of the iceberg, sod it!" Doctor Watson abruptly informed both the broccoli and his surrounds very loudly, causing a few passersby to glare at him. "What, am I blind?"
The staring, the smiling, the tea and the tidying, the restraint and the new manner in which Sherlock had begun to hold himself: all facts, all clues. All observable, if one knew where to look—to see.
As if John were too terribly precious to risk touching. As if John were the detective's treasure and therefore meant never to be handled but only adored from afar. Like an ancient Chinese teapot. Like a fragile orchid blossom.
"I am blind, aren't I?" he demanded of the lettuces, entirely ticked off at himself. "Blind as a—a—a great fucking bat!"
Like…like something Sherlock knew he could never, ever own but sorely wished to. Something he desired greatly and yet something conversely, perversely, expressly forbidden.
"But not anymore! Oh, no! None of that now, John Watson!" John nearly dropped his basket, his feelings were that urgent, that overwhelming. He half expected a text from the resident arsehole, but it didn't come.
Didn't come.
Didn't come…which meant Sherlock had no clue that this was a day of revelation. This was the day John Watson woke up and smelt the java, livid, fragrant and, above all, strong as houses. Undeniable.
John wasn't Sherlock, had never had been. His mind didn't work in Sherlock's peculiar manner and it never would. Oh, he could parse together facts and clues and so forth till he was blue in the face but still, it would never be same, the way they both arrived separately at similar conclusions. And John was quite all right with that, cheers. It was sufficient to be aware they did arrive, after all. A bit bracing and a source of pleasurable satisfaction.
"Er, sir?" A Tesco's staffer appeared at John's elbow, discreetly tugging at it. "All you quite all right? Because you've quite crushed that cabbage. You'll have to pay for it now, sorry."
So…Clue? Sherlock was suffering in the throes of love, that wretched state. Clue: Sherlock was in so deep he was never backing out again; a hopeless case. Clue: The only possible object left in Sherlock's view to inspire that sort of bone-deep affection was one John Watson, Sherlock's friend and blogger and flatmate.
"Oh fuck, my bad." John blushed and jumped, finally noticing he'd rather rended the green ball of leaves in his grasping hands to a heap of dangling shreds. "Yes, yes, of course. No problem. I was just having a bit of a—a moment, sorry!"
Clue: The great twat had admitted it, even, before a room full of witnesses.
"Of course, sir. As long as you pay."
Clue: Sherlock was correct. Everyone was an idiot, including John, for not having realized it then.
"It's for a Chinese dish, you see?" John babbled mindlessly, waving the cabbage bits in the clerk's surprised face. "My flatmate likes it. Making it tonight—oh! Do you have chicken? And of course I'll pay for it. What do you take me for, a criminal?"
Clue: John was feeling no pain and no pity for Sherlock over this revelation, not a whit. Why?
"Because I'll need chicken. And milk. And cocoa-nut—a tin or two of beans?"
Clue: John was just as attached to Sherlock as Sherlock was to John. Whoa! There's that pesky motive! At finally fucking last, surfacing like a long drowned body at a pool party. Expected and mayhap not particularly welcome but still. Expected.
"Oh, and beans, too—did I just mention beans. Where are they?"
Clue: If the bloody man John co-habited with became any more gorgeous in the physical sense, if he became any more charmingly insane, if he ever dared try it on with his somewhat oblivious (but no longer, ta!) flatmate, Sherlock's very same long-suffering flatmate would be forced to act upon it. (Admittedly, those little blushes and half-hidden grins had been causing John's pulse to race, quite inexplicably. Less so, now, of course. Now he'd got a clue.)
A clue: Once observed, a fact becomes painfully obvious and cannot be ignored.
"Ta, you fucktard of a machine," John grunted and exited, shopping accomplished. "Well, then!"
Conclusion: They would indeed have a stir fry for supper and John was no mewling coward, cheers.
He'd do something—something mad, something random—something sure to cock over Sherlock's carefully maintained composure.
He'd do it gladly and be happy with the consequence, because it couldn't be 'not good', no matter how it turned out. Not between John and Sherlock, not…between them.
And John would embark on loving the insensible idiot with all his conscious might, his famous obstinacy. For Sherlock might solve a mystery or a murder—of'times more than not he did—but John knew what it took to save a life.
Or…two.