a/n: Hi there, new story. This won't have Moriarty in it as any sort of fixture as his tenacity pisses me off. This may end up being a series of one-shots or continue as chapters but I am undecided. How many I write and if in order or not depends on how many people read and review. I hope you enjoy it! PS for John's hair, think Scarlet Johansson with the short sides longer top hair cut.
Chapter 1: Dr Holmes, pleasure to meet you
Lestrade stared down at his phone in shock. This had never happened before. Ok so it had once but even he could admit that the lure he had tried to temp Sherlock with was pathetic and the only reason he'd tried was because he was sure a danger day was near.
Was that what this was? A sign that the end was nigh? Or that Sherlock had found something illegal and either powdered or in a needle that interested him more than a case?
"What is it now? Freak hang up on you again?" Sally asked, packing cameras into their bags to pack into the van. He and his sergeant and his evidence team were all suiting up and getting ready to head to a double homicide. All that was missing was his trench coat wearing blood hound who was "taking the day off" Lestrade muttered.
"What?" She asked.
"He said he was taking the day off." He was a little pissed and deeply confused. This case was promising. Sherlock had said so when he described it but followed with some washy excuse of having a prior engagement at home.
He wasn't even going out and being busy. He was being busy at home.
"If that mad man isn't going to a crime scene, it's because he has once in the works," Sally sneered. Lestrade huffed but didn't comment. He was getting tired of her dogged insults and speculations but couldn't be bothered to engage in a fight by chastising her.
"Come on," he said, grabbing his rain coat from the stand by his office door. "We'll check on him on our way to the crime scene.
Music was playing from the mini cordless speaker sitting on Sherlock's cluttered desk. A soothing blues and rock mix, which brought up memories from their days together while at university, played unobtrusively in the background as they enjoyed the quiet morning. Mrs Hudson had been up once already and they could hear the faint sounds of her watching telly and taking her morning cuppa through the floor.
Sherlock carefully placed both mugs of tea on the coffee table and flopped onto the couch wearing low hanging flannel sleep pants. John was wearing the matching burgundy t-shirt. He pulled the soft throw blanket from off the back of the sofa and covered both of their laps with it.
John was tucked securely into his side, tea in hand, cane by the sofa arm. There was a general peace and stillness that even Sherlock was taking a moment to enjoy. Sherlock was used to mind and body racing, never taking a moment to stop and relax. But now relaxing felt right. He had John back and mostly in one piece too. There was an irrational feeling that everything was going to be fine that was seeping into the walls of his mind palace.
Already mental dust motes were being blown away by a bracing breeze and sunlight was shining in into the spacious white rooms through great carved windows from the parts of his mind kept outside the palace. Tarnish was fading off the silver decorating the walls and pillars, and somewhere in a garden of his mind palace, there was a lark singing. The lark had appeared after their second date, Sherlock had learned John's favourite books as a child had been The King Who Saved Himself from being Saved.
"Are you sure you don't want to go to that crime scene? It sounded like it would interest you and I'm not going anywhere," John asked, jerking a thumb to the cane.
"I'm sure. If Lestrade gets into a deep enough rut he'll text me to dig him out. Besides, it's good practice." Sherlock's confident tone and slight smirk made John smile. He loved those little smiles, always quiet, nothing ostentatious or awkward about them.
John nestled further under his arm and sipped the earl grey tea Mrs. Hudson had bought from the fancier side if London and sent up to them with fresh baked biscuits.
It had been a long and difficult deployment to Afghanistan and John had returned with a bullet wound, a psychosomatic limp and night terrors that would still disturb their nights even six months after John's return to Baker Street. Sherlock knew he had been picky about taking cases and he was even more abrasive than usual at crime scenes, wanting to solve it and be on his way. Lestrade and his entire unit had had their patience tested to the limits on more than one occasion since John's return from overseas. He was far more available in the earlier months when John spent more time in the hospital and then physiotherapy recovering but now John was back home. Sherlock would never admit it, and he didn't need to because John could tell anyways, but he had missed the companionship and closeness that came with having a roommate, friend, and romantic partner. Although Sherlock always said that word like it was dirty so it was simply understood, not spoken.
Sherlock tightened his grip and breathed in the smell of John's tea tree shampoo and slightly musky shea lotion. The two years in the desert had exaggerated the difference between their skin tones. However, Sherlock found he liked being able to see the contrasts of their persons when they were touching, just as he liked to trace John's tattoos and find constellations between freckles and moles.
The sound of a car door slamming on the street and muffled voices just before the door bell echoing through the hall and up into their living room had Sherlock sighing.
"I'm not at home," Sherlock declared in a slightly sulky tone.
"He's worried about you?" John tried to reason, a small sympathetic smile peaking out at him. Sherlock scowled and sipped his tea.
"I told him I was busy."
John tensed and shifted with a grimace to stretch out the troubled leg. The thigh muscles jumped lightly under the skin and Sherlock manoeuvred them both so he could massage the affected area. John sighed and whispered a small thanks.
"You very rarely pass up an opportunity to stick your nose into a case. He's probably just curious." A sip of tea. "Besides, I think it is about time I met Detective Inspector Lestrade, don't you?"
"Must you?" Sherlock griped, letting his head loll back onto the sofa back. John ran a hand over his thigh in a soothing gesture.
"I must."
They could hear Mrs Hudson opening the door and conversing with them briefly before the stairs creaked under what sounded like two, no three, pairs of shoes.
"Since you insist, I hope you understand this is the end to our quiet morning," Sherlock stated blandly. "And I hope you can lock away your precious brain cells, I have a feeling Anderson is about to inflict himself upon the premises."
"Quiet is good in small doses. Besides, if things start to get out of hand, I have my service weapon under my union jack pillow." John patted the pillow Sherlock had been leaning on and gave a little smile.
Sherlock let out a deep chuckle. Anderson's idiocy and Donovan's hateful vitriol wouldn't stand a chance.
"Yoo hoo, dears, a lovely man from Scotland Yard is here to see you Sherlock. Says you said no to a case, are you feeling alright?" Mrs Hudson asked as she knocked and entered their apartment at the same time.
John appraised the man of medium height who hurried passed Mrs Hudson and planted himself firmly in the middle of the room before gaping at the shirtless Sherlock cuddled on the sofa. He looked to be about mid forties, his dark brown hair worn short was greying at the temples showing the tell tale signs of his age and stressful occupation. He wore an unremarkable navy suit under a tan rain coat.
"You must be Detective Inspector Lestrade," John leaned forward and offered a hand.
A look of confusion dominated his face. A woman with darker skin and shoulder length curly hair followed by an almost rat faced man pushed their way through the door. Sherlock heaved a sigh and carefully slid from under the blanket. Plucking a biscuit from the tray with long fingers he stepped from the sofa to his chair then to the floor and into the kitchen with long, reaching steps. There was a clank and sounds of the tap running and the refrigerator opening before he reappeared, holding a small glass of orange juice and a pill for John. It was the last in a careful regiment all injured soldiers were put on to prevent the pop up of foreign diseases or infections contracted while on deployment. John was clean but rules were rules.
With a quiet thank you, John tossed back the pill and the juice and traded the chilled glass for the dregs of tea.
"Seeing as how it is unlikely I will manage to get anyone of you to leave without allowing you to be nosy I will cut to the chase and make introductions. Lestrade, meet my wife Captain Dr. Johanna Watson-Holmes," Sherlock gestured grandly to her before flicking his fingers towards the two by the door. "That is Sally Donovan and something Anderson. Careful when talking to them, they enjoy inflicting their unwelcome and idiotic views upon everyone."
"Wife?" Lestrade gasped.
"Please, call me John," she said with a smile. "Pleasure to finally meet you."
Lestrade stepped forward and shook her hand more on instinct than conscious thought.
"You mean someone was actually daft enough to marry you?" Donovan scoffed.
"What do you mean something Anderson, you know my first name."
"Deleted it actually, it wasn't important. Must you all still be here? What if you are missing time sensitive clues at your double homicide?" Sherlock retorted, unhooking his light blue, flowing house coat from where he'd hung it on one of the bison's horn and slipped it on. With a dramatic twirl sending it billowing out behind him, he perched on his chair, crouching on his heels.
"I assure you I am quite sane. Soldiers have regular psych evaluations during both service and medical discharge," John said, trying her best to remain calm and not throw whatever was in reach at the shrewish woman. Whatever was in reach turned out to be her teacup and she took another sip to settle herself. She left her gun tucked under the pillow.
"Or maybe your double homicide has gotten bored waiting for the police and has simply walked off," Sherlock muttered from his chair. John smiled at him.
"How long? I mean, I had no idea that you were even in a-a-a," Lestrade choked to a stop at Sherlock's glare as he reached behind him and pulled the wrought iron fire poker from the stand behind him.
"Short and scarred with a limp, that the type that does it for you then, eh freak?" Everyone shot Donovan a reproachful look.
"We have been married for almost five years, dated three before that. John is a highly respected doctor and decorated military officer and has contributed far more to the human race than you have Donovan so get your nose out of the air," Sherlock explained.
Donovan sneered and left the flat in a huff. Anderson looked unsure as to whether or not he should follow.
A light blush graced John's cheeks. She had never been a classic beauty. Her face had blocky lines on her jaw and cheekbones and her lips were a smaller cupid's bow. Her eyes were a dark blue that was sometimes mistaken as muddy green and her hair was cut short to match her somewhat short and stocky stature. But Sherlock didn't tolerate rudeness towards her just has she deflected mean comments towards him.
Sherlock had felt that love was a chemical weakness and while he could objectively analyze and recognize beauty, he had never been enticed by it. It was after getting to know John that he came to love her five foot six inches. She was fit and well muscled but still lean and showing feminine curves that he often found himself tracing. It meant all the more to him that she could keep pace with him on cases.
Her sandy blonde hair, now naturally highlighted from two years in the desert, was actually beginning to grow out again. It had been only a bit longer than buzz cut as it would have been in her way on the battlefield and on surgery. Now it was cut so the short layered hair was longer on top, where she would tousle it with her fingers letting the natural wave come put as it parted to the side.
Sherlock's mind palace was beginning to fill with the smell of bergamot and shea. Shaking his head he dispelled that trained of thought. After all, he and John had already thoroughly explored such human urges in the early hours of the morning and if he thought about it again, he'd drag her back to bed.
"So will you be coming or not?" Lestrade asked.
"Hmm?" Sherlock tried to look interested.
"You weren't listening were you?"
"Mmm, no."
John sighed and pushed the blanket off her lap. Reaching for her cane she set the empty tea cup on the coffee table.
"We'll get dressed and meet you at the crime scene," she assured. Lestrade nodded and took Anderson with him as he headed out to his patrol car.
"Come on love," John encouraged, "the game and glory awaits."