"I've Seen That Road Before"
by Street Howitzer
He lurched into the sitting-room, and was greeted by Sherlock with a "God, John, you honk. When's the last time you looked at a shower?".
He stared at his companion as though Sherlock said (again) that the sun went round the earth. "Do you hear a whistling noise when everything I say goes in one ear and out the other?"
"Don't snark at me, John. This isn't your silly blog." The detective's lip curled, and he actually waved a gloved hand before his nose. "You may hold a boycott against personal hygiene on your own time, but not when I've got something on."
The doctor shoved his hands in his jeans-pockets. His left one had the shakes, and he wasn't in the mood for Sherlock to see and deduce, well, anything. He lived with an incessantly brilliant man who never saw a personal boundary he didn't cross, never found a button he didn't push. Two months John'd lived with Holmes and he still wasn't used to it-it got harder as time dragged on. Today was a prime example, but last Tuesday was better.
"I told you," he said. "My shower's out of order. It's not getting fixed 'til tomorrow."
"Tomor-what the hell's gotten into you? Why didn't you rush it?"
"I can't afford a new showerhead and elbow joint at the moment. Mrs. Hudson's covering it. She's not paying herself 'til tomorrow."
Sherlock shook his head, stalked to his usual chair, and slithered into place. "How'd you manage to break that? I've got a meeting in twenty minutes."
"I'll wait upstairs." If his flatmate wanted to have a sulk all folded up in his chair, he could have at it. John didn't have to watch. He was halfway out the sitting-room when the detective spoke again:
"Get that knot out of your unders, John. Use my washroom. It's clean."
The first words that came to mind were You're taking the piss, but that was never the right thing to say to the detective. Sherlock and humor weren't friends. He looked up the dark stairwell leading to his bedroom, frowning slightly. The last time Sherlock was in a giving mood, it ended badly. But he couldn't see any harm in taking Sherlock up on his selfish generosity. He'd been without bathing for longer in Afghanistan, but this was London.
"Thanks," John said. "I'll just, uh, I've got my things upstairs."
Friday wasn't shaping up to be as depressing as Tuesday, but they were neck-and-neck for new experiences. John had never been in Sherlock's bedroom. He half-expected for Lovecraftian tentacles to quiver and retreat from the light into hellish corners. This said more about the sort of comic-book scans John read online at three in the morning than it did about Sherlock's living conditions.
John opened the door, felt around for a light switch, and found a medusa-lamp. He clicked it on. The lab equipment set up on a desk in the corner, all impeccably dusted and in order, he'd expected. But apart from the secondary lab, a mini-fridge John hadn't known about, a banker's box full of hard-drives near the night-stand, and certain titles scattered through his book collection, it was surreally normal. A couple of his shirts lay next to the hamper. The bed was unmade, the fitted-sheet yanked off the far corner of the mattress, his netbook and wireless mouse partly smothered by a pillow. Enough pillows piled on to accommodate Sherlock and up to five guests. A comfortable clutter, an acceptable layer of dust on the woodwork and the lampshades.
Leave out the bookshelves, and it could have been a hotel suite.
Raising his eyebrow, John strode in and shut the door. He wasn't here to snoop.
The washroom had the same bland typicality as the bedroom. John hung his towel on an empty bar near the stall, and just like a man who's not snooping, he took in everything. No windows. The face-plate on the air-vents were gone. Everything stark black, ivory and gray. About the only thing here that spoke of Sherlock Holmes was a traditional straight-razor folded into a black, polished handle, sitting in an otherwise-empty soap dish.
He started the shower, and stared at the razor while he undressed.
He climbed in when the water was just this side of scalding, crying out in a tone that would have been erotic if it weren't due to a goddamned shower. Sherlock probably fooled about with the hot-water valve, redirecting every drop to his own washroom-John's didn't heat up this fast, broken or not. He turned his face up into the water, eyes closed and ears full of a numbing rush, and he could practically feel a layer of grime and sweat peel off his skin. It felt like eating after three days of Work-related fasting.
His lazy side won out earlier; all he'd brought was his washcloth. He picked up Sherlock's shampoo-bottle and got busy making himself presentable. He managed to work a palmful of shampoo into a lather before he caught its scent, something weirdly sweet, like tea. The last time he'd smelled it was Tuesday, when he'd buried his face in auburn-brown curls, nuzzled the nape of Sherlock's neck.
He frowned at the faded gray tiles on the shower-stall floor. He was tempted to forage for one of Sherlock's surgical implements and dig out the part of his brain playing that particular morning on a loop, relating everything he saw and felt back to Sherlock tumbling into his bed. It wasn't a bad memory; for a little while there, John Watson was wanted. But the moment hadn't lasted, and his flatmate didn't care to explain why.
He'd invited Sherlock to his bedroom Tuesday night to talk it over. He'd stared at John, silently held up his mobile. Exchanging texts with Lestrade. John'd wished him good-night, went to bed, and stared at the corner until one. Rejection gave him insomnia.
Sherlock didn't owe him a reason for why he'd flailed, or cried, or withdrawn from the world. In the absence of a reason, John came up with one. (Back in the shower, his soapy washcloth circled over his chest, a little disgust quivered through him as he hurriedly washed his rounded body.) 'course his flatmate wept. He'd gotten a good look at whose mouth was round his cock. From the neck down, John was all muscle gone soft, fat and scar-tissue. He could understand looking at his body and crying.
He could've gone down that path for ages-it was well-worn, shadowed, and sloped ever downward. What made him turn back, slog up the incline and return to the stall, was something he'd noticed and dismissed. The air-vent next to the shower had no face-plate. The pipes connected to the sitting-room.
The slamming door, John nearly heard that through the walls-but the pipes carried it into Sherlock's washroom in tinny stereo.
He jolted, then turned a narrow-eyed look to the air-vent. Was that right? It couldn't be. It must. Now there were footsteps. And now came a voice: "You the nosey bastard who goes by Sherlock Holmes?"
He swallowed. Neat trick, that was. How long had Sherlock spied on him through the vents?
Next came the unmistakable ache of his flatmate's voice: "Yes. Did Mrs. Maberley send you?"
"There's your problem, Mr. Holmes-asking questions when you ought to shut your mouth."
"Ah, so that's who sent you." John grinned, as much from confusion as amusement-who the hell was stomping round their flat? "Tell her that threats won't work any better than bribes."
"I'm not here to take your fucking messages," said the hired heavy, and his tone-loud, like he was on the verge of screaming, but blunt-got John's back up. His washrag slipped from his fingers and landed on his foot. He ignored it. "I'm here to pass one on to you. Stay out of Harrow Weald. Your help's not wanted."
"Oh, God, dull," Sherlock said. "Were you the best your benefactor could afford? No, she's not paying you. She's got something on you. Ah. Of course. She knows about Perkins."
John heard a sound he'd dreaded out of its inevitability: a short, sharp crack. A pained groan, something that melted into a growl, scuffling, a "You don't know shit, Mr. Holmes", and that was all the doctor had to know. The glass door to the piping-hot shower opened silently. Gray tiles chilled his wet feet. The washroom door creaked on its hinges.
He glanced at the straight-razor. No. No. He didn't feel safe touching it. He'd have so many regrets. The sound of splintering wood reached him, decided for him. He left the evil-looking thing behind. Louder struggling, taunting from the Heavy, and as his fingers curved round the door-handle, a wet spatter.
He should have a plan. He should try and study the situation, plot out the battle. He should put on some trousers. Or rinse the soap off his chest.
Sherlock yelped, and a bright red light filled the doctor's mind.
He opened the door. He blinked, as though snapping the shutters on some mental camera, carving the drama playing out in their sitting-room in momentary brilliance. Sherlock: on the floor, sprawled on his left side, clutching his stomach, red-faced, not breathing. The flat: coffee-table shoved at an angle, papers (speckled with splashes of red) drifted over the floorboards, shades drawn, doors all closed. The Heavy: reeling back 'til he barked his shin on the leg of John's usual chair, five inches taller and ten years younger than John, short blond hair, no obvious weapons, wearing a suit cheap enough to stand a few bloodstains. Lucky for him. His nose was hopelessly broken, unleashing the usual tidal flood from a head-wound, painted a gory tie on the front of his shirt.
"Who'n the fuck," the Heavy snuffled, turned his head in the doctor's direction.
For the first time in ages, John forgot his body. He threw himself at the Heavy and greeted their guest with a firm backhand. The Heavy's nose shifted under John's knuckles. His enemy shrieked, threw an unseeing punch, socked the doctor right in the jaw. Pain transformed 221b into a kaleidoscope. He stumbled as the sitting-room lazily swirled round him, papers crackling under his feet. Idiot. Sucker-punched.
A suited blur grew in his vision. John's black eyes widened. His forearms crossed over his bare stomach, took the brunt of another torpedo of a haymaker. Sloppy. Scared. John's blunt nails dug into the Heavy's wrist, twisted 'til the bones crackled. He won a howl of agony. Good. The hired thug jerked away. He didn't know where he was fighting. He faltered. His heel struck the edge of the hearth. A huge hand flew out and caught the mantle.
John didn't give him time to fix his balance. The doctor launched at the Heavy, swung his weak arm round broad, shuddering shoulders. He sank his fingers in the cords of the Heavy's shoulder, as though they danced and John intended to dip him. Hadn't needed this maneuver in eleven months.
He ducked. His arm lariated the Heavy's shoulders. The huge bastard uprooted, flipped over John's bowed frame. Blood gushed from the Heavy's nose and pattered hot across John's spine. He shuddered.
He shut his eyes and fell to his right, collapsing along with the enemy. He'd practiced this once upon a time, so many damned times he could do it in his sleep. His arm slid like it belonged in a half-nelson round the Heavy's neck. They crashed to the floorboards, John's right side impacting the Heavy's chest. His forearm lightly crushed the bastard's throat.
He fantasized about spraining his hand on the Heavy's jaw. He leaned closer, looked the trembling, bloody man in his empty green eyes. The Heavy'd have a nose like a boxer for the rest of his life. Surely that was all the revenge John needed. "Morning. I'm Sherlock's assistant. "
The Heavy's teeth ground together. Terrified. Worried that John was insane. Of course John was mad. He was mother-naked.
"You're having second thoughts about coming here, aren't you?"
"Yes," the Heavy managed.
"Right. I'm gonna let go. And you're gonna walk out of here, and-"
"He's lying. I wasn't there when Perkins died. I was-"
John's forearm pressed harder, throttling off those words. At the same moment, Sherlock said: "You said you were at your fencing-club. We know different, though, don't we, Stephen?"
Stephen looked on the edge of fainting. That wouldn't do. He couldn't leave if he was unconscious. John let him go, sat up, backed away from the bleeding blond as he got to his feet. John watched his victim fight to stand up, and trailed after as Stephen floundered towards the stairwell leading to Baker Street. He stopped at the first turn in the stairwell. He listened as Stephen scrambled to the front door. It opened, and as it closed, John caught the strain of a distant sob.
Must be the first time he'd been sent arse-over-tits out the door.
A thump from upstairs-Sherlock. The doctor took the steps two at a time. He found his dazed flatmate slouched in his usual chair, elbows on the arm-rests, fingers interwoven, forehead resting in a cradle formed by his hands. He wouldn't have left Sherlock unattended if he hadn't known at a glance that he'd pull through. Diaphragmatic spasms were agonizing, but not fatal. Three minutes and Sherlock was breathing.
A diaphragmatic spasm meant a punch to the solar plexus.
John knelt before Sherlock's chair. "Where'd he hit you? Let me see."
Clouded gray-blue eyes regarded him over domed, elegant hands. "I'm fine."
"Not for long. Fight me on this and I'll take a pop at you. Where were you hit?"
"Stop fussing. I'm not hurt." Except for his pride-from the even, angry tone of his voice, Sherlock wasn't a happy bunny. "My injuries amount to developing contusions in the epigastric and umbilical regions of my abdomen, and a minor scrape on my right shin. Nothing an ice-pack can't fix."
"Oh, shut up and unbutton your shirt." John's hands steadied on his knees.
"You left the shower on."
"You've been using the air-vent in your washroom to spy."
"Since we're stating what's obvious to everyone but John Watson, you're not wearing any clothes."
And now, John remembered why he never saw much cop in arguing with Sherlock. Even when John was right, redirecting the conversation-always to a point where John was wrong-was second nature for his brilliant flatmate. He couldn't goddamned win. "Yeah," he said, getting to his feet and heading for Sherlock's room, "because I had my shower interrupted, by you. And I came out here to check on you, and I put a dent in a total stranger's nose for you. All so you can treat me like an idiot for giving a damn. He fucked up my jaw, by the way. Thanks for asking."
Sherlock's bedroom door clicked shut. John exhaled, a shaking, gusting breath. Price of the adrenaline. Couldn't stop fighting.
He almost went back and apologized. Then a door out there opened, and a woman (Mrs. Maberley, no doubt) exclaimed over the state of the flat. Sherlock's "Never mind that, tell me about the burglary last night" convinced John to wander silently to the washroom. No emotion in his voice. Like Stephen's explosive visit and John all but yelling at him hadn't affected the glacial core of his being.
Like John didn't matter.
Ah. There was the path, the easy incline into darkness.
No turning back now.
~end~