Disclaimer : Don't own Sherlock or any of it's characters.
After the Aftermath
After an hour or so, the chatter among the Bomb Disposal Squad and the noise from the walkie-talkies had died down to a dull hum in the background. Not ten minutes after his...his outburst, Lestrade had arrived on the scene in tow with Detective Inspector Raymond who was technically in charge of the giant-bomb-defusing operation going on.
Sherlock had enthusiastically launched into a full-blown narrative of the matter at hand in his usual arrogant fashion, a narrative that John had mostly tuned out of. He had a more pressing question he needed to ask Sherlock.
Why?
After all, there was nothing like being blown to smithereens to give one a fresh perspective on a situation.
"Well that's taken care of, rather dull that Raymond bloke", Sherlock commented airily as he approached him, tying his scarf as he spoke. "Really no use for us to hang around anymore. What do you say about dinn-"
"Why?" He doesn't realize he's cut him off. It's not something rare, it was usually the other way round.
"What?"
They're far away from all the hustle-bustle. In no danger of anyone eavesdropping.
"You know what."
"John, I'm afraid you overestimate my genius. I'm not a mind reader." Sherlock starts walking, but John's not budging. Literally, and otherwise.
John knows he's lying, pretending he doesn't know what John's asking, so he doesn't have to face it. He might be a bloody arsehole and a show-off, but John Watson doesn't believe for a second that Sherlock Holmes doesn't know.
"Molly Hooper knew. Mycroft knew. Twenty-five", he lays explicit stress on the word, "of your Homeless Network knew. Why?"
Sherlock walks back to stand in front of John, albeit reluctantly. He has shoved his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and turned up the collar(again).
"Why what?"
"Why didn't you tell me the truth?" There. It's out in the open now. No excuses left for you now, Sherlock. "You told Molly. Mycroft knew, as you said, it was his plan. Why not tell me?"
Sherlock looks slightly uncomfortable now. John has no doubt he feels awkward and out-of-place, after all this is the one man who has more unresolved emotional issues than John himself(and that's saying something, John's inner voice adds).
"Look John, it was a very elaborate plan; as I've told you before-"
"You're not answering my question, Sherlock." His patience is wearing thin.
"Well, I would have, had you let me continue", he answers, slightly indignant. "In the grand scheme of things – between finding a believable body double, and faking the DNA records, and the mountain of paperwork involved in faking one's death, I simply...forgot. Until it was too late anyway."
It's such a bad lie that John lets out an involuntary huff of laughter before he can stop himself. Some officers – who by the way, are still trying to diffuse the bomb - turn to give them a look.
Sherlock? Forgot?
That's about as transparent as lies get, in John's personal opinion.
"I have known – lived – with you for three years. You don't forget. You never forget anything. Even while being strangled, you remembered what the bloody exploding star in the Gollum case - "
"Van Beuron Supernova", he says, involuntarily, as if he can't stop himself(he probably can't).
"Yes, my point exactly. So, no. I don't believe a word of what you just said. Try again."
There's a look of resignation on his face, but only for a second. And then it's back to his poker face.
"Fine", the word has been said with more emphasis than necessary. "If you must know, I initially did plan to tell you. But later in a conversation with Molly, I realized – I mean, I already knew this fact, but that's when it really struck me - that I might not necessarily be able to ...um, return to England.
"And in such an event – if there was any probability of it happening, and yes there was at least a sixty percent probability – that I leave you ignorant of the real plan. So that if worst did come to worst, you'd have..", he pauses for a second, searching for the right word, "closure." It sounds as if the word has been forced off his tongue.
"That's Molly choice of word, obviously. You know me better than to have such a vocabulary, John."
John's actually stumped for a moment. Complete loss of words as they say. But at least he's not opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish.
Of which he cannot be sure, his brain reminds him, since he cannot actually see his own face.
"Oh", he says. His voice sounds hoarse. Clearing his throat, he tries again. "Right. Right. Well, um...that was very thoughtful of you. Or Molly."
Sherlock has, at least in his mind, completely embarrassed himself. His only solace, at this moment, is that John looks as uncomfortable as he feels. Right. They better leave before people notice the two men standing around awkwardly, not looking at each other.
"Right", Sherlock says, clapping his hands together, hoping to escape the unnerving silence they have fallen into. "Dinner then?"
Thank God, John takes the hint and doesn't press anymore on the topic. He doesn't think either of them could survive another 'heart-to-heart' (he cringes mentally at the word) anytime soon.
"Yes, starving actually. No Chinese though", he says as they start walking back the way they had come.
"What's wrong with Chinese?"
"Nothing, I've gotten bored with it." It's true, he's had far too much Chinese lately.
"That's my line."
John laughs a little, and Sherlock joins in as well.
"Right. Oh, let me just call Mary and tell her I'll be late."
"Hmm."
They've almost reached the winding cylindrical staircase. Just another flight of stairs till they reach the tube station.
"Hi, Mary it's me. Listen I'll be late tonight..."
But Sherlock has already stopped listening; he's too busy trying to ignore the lightness he feels inside.
My first Sherlock fic? What do you think?