Writing this story for Samzi, I asked her what she liked to read and also to give me three words. She told me she enjoys Johnlock, humour, fluffy romance, and hurt/comfort. Then she gave me the words Mythology, Poppy and Rum. Interesting and challenging words. The story that presented itself to me is in the form of this AU, about three meetings, and I think I've included most if not all of her favourite elements to a degree. Samzi, I hope you enjoy this :D
Disclaimer: Don't own or profit - shame about that!
xXx
1996
Anatomy. It had always been his weakest subject, so when fellow medical student (and resident swot) Mike Stamford suggested that he join him for some extra-curricular anatomical study John Watson, would-be doctor, agreed with alacrity.
He hadn't realised until it was too late to back out that Stamford had life drawing classes in mind, and from the smirk on Mike's face it was obvious that the explanatory omission had been deliberate. However it appeared that both students were in for a bit of a shock.
The tutor had set them up with easels, and Mike had provided large sketch pads and graphite pencils, so they stood with the other would-be artists. John was a little uncertain about the validity of this as 'extra-curricular study', but when the model was introduced and walked out in front of the class, he was too busy chuckling at Stamford's chagrined expression to care, for the model, rather than being the gorgeous dolly-bird that Mike had been expecting, was a tall, slender vision of male perfection.
John was a little shocked that he found himself appreciating the body before him – really appreciating it, rather than just viewing it as an anatomical study. The alabaster skin and dark curls reminding him of school lessons on Greek Mythology, and the images of the god Dionysus.
The model, who was introduced as Sherlock, dropped the sheet that was wrapped around him and stepped onto the low podium. Almost as if he had read John's thoughts, he settled into a classical Greek pose, one leg bent, one arm bent at the elbow, hand outstretched as if holding or reaching for something.
But it was as he dipped his head, exposing his slender white neck that John felt a tightening in his groin – one that previously he's only associated with well-built blonds of the opposite sex – and he felt a frisson of shock as he experienced the tug of attraction.
Under the guidance of the tutor he started to outline the figure, and in his head he added labels – anatomical texts – although all too soon the class ended, and he wished he'd had more time, both to draw and to study.
With mumbled thanks to the model and desultory conversation amongst the students, the room slowly cleared until the only people remaining were John and Mike, the tutor and Sherlock. Mike was keen to go, but John made the most of his opportunity and walked over to the now sheet-wrapped model.
"Thank you." He said, offering his hand to the younger man, who stared at it somewhat suspiciously at first, before accepting the hand shake.
"I'm well paid for it doctor…"
For a moment John was stunned, firstly by the deep baritone, and secondly by the fact that he had called him 'Doctor', but he quickly found his tongue and responded with a smile.
"Watson – John Watson. Not a doctor yet, but I hope one day." Conscious of Mike standing waiting for him at the door, John flicked a glance in his direction, then looked back at the model, shrugged and added "yeah, thanks again." Turning away, the two medical students left.
He would have been amazed to know that, despite his cool façade the model was entranced by John's smile – the first genuine smile he'd received since he had left home two years previously – and he wondered at the sense of loss he felt as he watched the short blond haired man leave.
xXx
2008
Somewhere in the back of Sherlock's mind he knew, despite his knowledge of Bartitsu, his speed and his deceptive strength, he couldn't hold out against his five attackers for much longer. He was already battered and bruised, and one of them had stuck his very sharp knife into the flesh of Sherlock's upper arm, which was now bleeding profusely.
A lucky kick knocked his feet from under him, and as he went down all five rained vicious kicks on his head and body.
Sherlock curled into a ball, doing his best to protect himself, knowing he was just prolonging the punishment. From a distance he heard a shout – a new voice, yet to his battered brain it sounded vaguely familiar.
Accompanying the voice there came the sound of boots on paving stones; running, coming closer, and suddenly the words were becoming clearer.
"Oi! What the fuck are you lot up to? Leave him be!"
And in the stunned stillness that caught his attackers he cracked open one eye, and saw the moment a stocky, compact figure in desert combat dress threw himself into the fray.
It didn't take long for the five thugs to realise that they were outclassed by the soldier, and at the first opportunity they fled, leaving the short blond haired soldier shaking his hand and sucking at his bruised knuckles.
Making sure the gang weren't about to return, he crouched down by the injured man.
"It's okay mate, I'm a…"
"Doctor." Sherlock croaked, squinting up at the former student.
"Sherlock! Fuck mate – what was that all about? They looked like they were planning on killing you." As he spoke knelt down, carefully probing the obvious injuries, before slipping his hands inside the other man's coat.
Sherlock tried not to, but those boots and fists had hurt, and although the doctor's touch was sure and gentle he hissed as fractured ribs made themselves known.
"You need to get to hospital, here let me help you up."
"No." Sherlock swallowed, and forced himself to look up into concerned blue eyes. "No hospital. You're a doctor, can't you fix me up?"
John frowned slightly, wondering about his aversion to hospitals
"It's not what you think." The injured man sighed, reading his expression. "I'm currently investigating the theft of expensive equipment from Bart's Health NHS Trust – I obviously got too close to someone, I just need to work out who." Slowly, with John's assistance he got to his feet, leaning carefully against the wall.
"If I go back there, I might as well paint a target on my chest and wait for them to pick me off."
John sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, then moved back down the alleyway to pick up the kit bag he had flung to one side as he entered the fray.
"Okay. I'm staying with an army buddy while I'm in town, so I can't take you back there for treatment – goes against army medical corps regs – how far to your place? I assume it'll be okay to patch you up there?"
Sherlock smiled, and much against his better judgement John grinned back at him.
"Come on," the younger man started to limp towards the main road. "We'll get a cab."
In no time, they were on their way to Bethnal Green.
In the cramped Brick Lane flat, John finished cleaning and stitching the wound in Sherlock's arm, strapping up broken fingers, confirming fractures of three ribs and checking for concussion. The injured man was beginning to feel the effect of his adrenalin crash, and when the doctor returned from the kitchen with a glass of water and some codeine, he had fallen asleep.
John stood, mesmerised by the rise and fall of the smooth alabaster chest, remembering how much he had wanted to touch it during that art class – well now he had, and it felt as smooth and as warm as he had imagined. He felt his body reacting, just as it had that night twelve years ago.
Hurriedly John packed away his med kit and stowed it back in his army kit bag, then he had a quick rummage around the flat until he eventually found the bedroom, and grabbed the duvet from the bed.
Laying the warm cover over the sleeping man, he pulled a notepad from his breast pocket; knocking as he did so the poppy from his lapel and it fell, unnoticed under the coffee table.
Writing a quick note to cover his recommendations for a swift recovery, John added best wishes and a farewell, then propped the note against the glass.
Still crouched beside the couch, he turned his head and let his eyes travel over the smooth pale skin, dusky eyelashes smudging sharp cheekbones, down to full lips with their ridiculously feminine cupids bow.
The peace in that austere face called to him, and he reached out to softly sweep down the clean-shaven cheek with the backs of his fingers, turning his hand to gently cup Sherlocks chin he leaned down and gave in to the impulse that had pulled at him since that first night so long ago. He placed a chaste kiss at the corner of Sherlock's mouth, then swiftly rose and left to return to his army life, closing the door quietly behind him.
If he had stopped for just a moment, and looked back at the sleeping man, he would have seen the smile that curved the other's lips at his reverent salutation.
xXx
2010
Following Mike Stamford into the lab at St Bart's, John stopped dead and stared. Several thoughts ran through his head – surely this was just a dream? Surely Mike would have said something about already knowing the man he had suggested would be a good flatmate?
Sherlock looked up from his microscope, and once again stunned John with his ability to read the other's thoughts and expressions as he flicked a glance towards their tubby, jovial mutual friend and shook his head slightly, as if to say 'No, he doesn't remember that night' and John's nod of understanding was just as slight.
Mike introduced them, happily announcing that they would be ideal flatmates, as one was a scientist and detective, and the other a doctor and soldier. He seemed to have blatantly ignored John's cane and limp, and also ignored the fact that Sherlock Holmes by his own admission was a difficult man to get along with.
As the two men stood in silence at this pronouncement, Mike gathered up his lecture papers and hurried off to teach his next class.
The silence stretched, until John felt distinctly uncomfortable.
"I'm sorry…"
"You're no longer…"
They both spoke at once, awkwardly halting, and Sherlock indicated that John should continue.
"I…um…I'm sorry. Mike doesn't seem to remember you as our model, or thinks that maybe I wouldn't remember."
"He was disappointed that I wasn't female."
John grinned.
"Yes, he was. Most put out, moaned about it all the way back to the halls of residence."
A brief but genuine smile caught at Sherlock's lips, but didn't linger as he looked at the man standing before him.
"You're no longer in the army; you were injured and invalided out."
John didn't reply, he just looked at the floor, not quite knowing what to say or how to feel about the fact that this man could read him like an open book. He was still looking down when a pair of highly polished shoes moved into his line of vision, and his head came up, bringing blue eyes clashing with silver grey.
"John Watson – doctor and soldier. I have an errand to run, but I would ask that you meet me at the flat, just look at it and see what you think. It may be that Mike's right, and that we would be ideally suited."
The voice was deep, rich, and suspiciously emotionless, and John didn't know if that was because the words were said out of duty, or if the younger man didn't want to appear too eager.
"I take it then you no longer live in Brick Lane?"
"Condemned. Not long after you…"
"Yeah, I'm not surprised." John swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing tightly in his throat. "Where then?"
"Baker Street, 221B" Sherlock stepped around him and headed for the door, pausing on the threshold to glance back at the blond doctor. "At seven – don't be late." And with a wink he disappeared.
John stared at the closing door, wondering primarily how he would fill his time until their appointment.
In the end time had passed relatively quickly, and as he approached the house on Baker Street he realised that Sherlock was watching for him from an upstairs window.
By the time he reached the door it was opening, and Sherlock was beckoning him in, explaining that the landlady (who lived downstairs) was away at the moment, but was happy for him to rent out the room. He frowned slightly.
"You do realise your limp is psychosomatic? The stairs really shouldn't cause you too much of a problem once that goes."
"You seem certain that it will."
"Oh yes," Sherlock grinned "I know it will – give it time."
Entering the flat itself John took a long, slow look round. He noted the piles of boxes, partially unpacked, and the science equipment set up on the kitchen table. There was a bottle on the table next to a lit Bunsen burner.
"Is that a bottle of rum?" he asked, glancing at the young man. Receiving an affirmative nod he picked it up, and moved it to the worktop beside the kitchen sink. "Safer there, that's highly flammable stuff."
"The last time you visited my flat you didn't seem to mind the experiments everywhere."
John smiled and walked past him to look out of the window.
"Last time I visited your flat I wasn't being offered the chance to move in."
"And will you move in now?"
"Why do you want me to? We've met three times but you hardly know me."
"Because the last time you visited my flat, I dreamt that you kissed me goodbye." Placing his hands on John's arms he turned him around so that he could look down into those clear blue eyes.
"Tell me." Sherlock demanded, and as John turned his face away he reached across, grasping his chin and pulling him back to face him.
Closing his eyes John sighed, knowing he should speak, afraid of the other man's reaction.
"Please?"
That plea – heartfelt yet soft – was all it took. John reached out and took hold of the younger man's hand, lifting it and placing it against his left shoulder, over his newly healed scar, keeping it there with the pressure of his own hand. He looked up into the pale, angelic face and smiled sadly.
"When I was shot I thought….I thought I was dying." He paused and licked his lips. "I remember saying 'Please God, let me live', but…"
The look in Sherlock's eyes pleaded with him to continue.
"But what I really wanted to do was say 'Please God, let me just see Sherlock one more time, to tell him the things I was too cowardly to tell him before, to say….I fell in love one night at an art class, and I've never wanted to love anyone else since.'"
Pulling him close with his free arm, Sherlock crushed his lips against John's, swiping his tongue across the smaller man's lips until they parted and allowed him to taste the sweetness within, deepening the kiss and feeling John's eager response.
In the aftermath, John sighed happily, and laid his head against Sherlock's chest. Sherlock in turn let his cheek rest on the top of John's head.
"John," he whispered into the strands of gold beneath his lips "Three times our paths have crossed, three times. If I were any kind of religious man I would be thanking the Gods right now, for making this third time lucky."