When the Universe Speaks, a sherlock fanfic

The Muses have churned out another Sherlock piece. I am sorry to inflict this to rest of you, but a story has to be told. So, I am telling this one. and I have no summary for it, because it just follows in the veins of my previous Sherlock stories; implied slash bordering on slash.

I apologize for the grammar, my Muses tried their best, I am an human after all.

Reviews make my day. Maybe I am not doing this the right way, please let me know.

Sherlock does not belong to me. I wish at the John Watson did though. Very much.

Lestrade buying drinks. The Goat and Boar. 6-ish.

Anderson.

Wonderful. Now that you know my number, I am going to have to change it.

Who gave you my number?

What makes you think I'd sit in the same room with you? Let alone drink beer in your presence?

There are two things that I absolutely loathe and you can find it in the last text I sent you.

And the answer is NO.

Screw you, freak.

Anderson.

Charmed.

Lestrade buying drinks. The Goat and Boar. 6-ish.

Anderson.

I'm in.

John

I'm going out for a pint with Lestrade.

John

Why?

Because there is beer involved and God knows, I miss it. You've practically banned beer from the flat.

John

Beers are disgusting.

Says the man who's got a severed head in the refrigerator.

John

Sarcasm through texting does not have the effect you would have intended.

Go to sleep.

John

I think I'll text Anderson for a bit.

Let it go, Sherlock. Everyone's tired. Don't turn a simple man into a psychopath.

John

Yes. Anderson is simple. I shall tell him we share the same opinion of him.

It's bound to make his day.

Sleep. Now.

John

When will you be back?

I thought I'd pop by Sarah's place later.

John

"Hello?"

"Mrs Hudson? It's me, John."

"Dr Watson! How can I help you?"

"Are the walls all right? Any strange noises…well, stranger than the usual, that is…coming from our flat? Sherlock did not answer my text. Or answered my calls."

"I'll check, dear."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson."

A moment later…

"Dr Watson? He's asleep on the sofa. Everything is fine. The walls are still standing."

"That's good. I'm going out for a pint and then drop by to visit Sarah."

"Oh."

"Just keep an ear out for him, Mrs Hudson."

"Of course. Will you be staying at Miss Sarah's tonight?"

"I…I'm…I'm not sure."

"Oh. That's fine, dear."

"Thank you, Mrs Huds…Hello? Hello?"

Anderson and Donovan probably thought they were being subtle; she left first and he left soon after, claiming he wanted to return her mobile that she had left behind. No one was sober enough to point out that they all knew the mobile was actually Anderson's. John, nursing his second pint of the night, watched them, amused and just a little thankful Sherlock was not there to witness this. On the stool next to him, Lestrade was trying to pick up a woman many years younger than him and completely uninterested.

The beer was getting lukewarm and John gradually came to a point where he did not feel as strongly about beer as he did an hour or so. Maybe it was the Sherlock – effect, everyone in the room seemed to be up to something; every gesture and nuance part of an ever-present flow of data…John felt as if he was going crazy. Not for the first time he wondered how it must be like in Sherlock's brains. And not for the first time he was thankful he did not have to know. If Sherlock had been here, John could sit back and enjoy his pint, let Sherlock do all the deducing. But since he was not here, it almost felt as if John had to compensate for Sherlock by doing what the detective consultant would have done.

"You missing someone?"

It was the bartender, pouring out another order for Lestrade, who had given up on the girl…the girl left… and decided to concentrate on his drink.

John looked at the young man, barely out of his twenties. "I…I think so," John replied, shrugging. Did bartenders attend a compulsory psychology and body-language-reading class somewhere? They could always get things right, read people right.

"Should have brought that someone along," the bartender remarked, putting a coaster on the bar before placing the mug in front of Lestrade, who rubbed his hand in anticipation.

John smiled in response and picked up his own mug to attempt to finish his beer. The beer tasted terrible and though he could have asked for a fresh mug, he decided he had enough.

"Or you should have stayed home with that someone," the bartender said, wiping his hands using a hand towel. "you're not exactly lighting up the room with your exuberance, are you?"

"Unlike my friend here," John muttered, glancing at Lestrade, who slammed his empty mug on the bar.

"Geoffrey Lestrade is a legend in these parts," the bartender remarked, as Lestrade acknowledged this statement with a slightly tipsy salute.

John decided that he was not surprised when he heard that. He has seen seemingly normal people do the most atrocious of things and Lestrade being a legend in the local pub is the most mundane of information he has ever heard, though he doubted if the rest of the Yard knew him as such.

Lestrade had his reached his limits and so had John, ages ago. He left the rest of his beer untouched, paid the bartender, leaving a much - appreciated tip and left the pub with a slightly swaying Lestrade by his side. They stepped outside into the chilly evening, pulling their coats closer, as they surveyed for taxis.

"Going home?" Lestrade asked. "Maybe we can share a taxi?"

"I'm actually…um…going over to Sarah's," John answered.

Lestrade suddenly seemed less drunk that John had assumed him to be. "Really?" the Detective Inspector asked. "Is Sherlock out of the country?"

John was surprised at the turn of the conversation. He could not make the connection between Sherlock not being in the country and him going over to Sarah's. Surely one was free to do whatever they wanted regardless of their flatmates' travelling plans?

"He's at home," John replied. "Catching up on his sleep. He'd been awake…"

"Then why are you going to Sarah's?" Lestrade actually looked surprised when he asked this.

"None of your business, I think, Detective Inspector," John remarked, trying to keep his irritation in check. It would not do for a civilian like John to deck Lestrade, even if he was drunk and was asking for it.

"It is my business, John," Lestrade replied with a chuckle and a pat on John's shoulder. "No offence, mate. And none taken, for the record."

It was too much for John to take. "How can it be your business? This is my private life." He kept his voice low though he wanted to yell at the supposedly staid detective inspector.

"Yes, it is," Lestrade admitted. "But unfortunately, your private life needs a little more…looking into." Just then, a taxi turned into the street and Lestrade held up a hand for it. The taxi came to stop on the road before them. Lestrade was about to open the door to the taxi when John cut him to it.

"I'll take this, you can get the next one," John told him, opening the door. He got in and closed it with as much gentleness as he could muster when he would have actually felt better if he had slammed it, possibly getting Lestrade's hand in the process.

Lestrade did not seem to notice John's hostility. He leaned down outside the taxi's window. Apparently, he thought John wanted to still hear him speak. "Think about it, John. Think about all the times you went to Sarah's, or even went out with her, and you'll know why it is not just my business, but Scotland Yard's as well."

"I think you a drunk," John said by way of taking his leave from the man.

Lestrade laughed. He shook his head, straightening up and took a step backwards from the taxi, getting back onto the pavement. But he was not done with his unasked for insight into John's social life. "I think you need to give the taxi driver the correct address," he said, smiling.

John told the taxi driver to get him away from the Detective Inspector as fast as he could.

"Address, mate?" the taxi driver asked.

John quickly gave Sarah's address, ignoring the slight lurch in the region of his heart; it was probably a reaction to the beer he had. As the taxi wove through the streets, John could not help the feeling that he was defying some unwritten law. And unlike the euphoria that follows such an act, usually with the presence of the world's only consultant detective, this time it felt…slightly disappointing. Perhaps it came from the fact that none of the persons he had interacted with in the last two hours or so showed any enthusiasm or support for a perfectly normal man going to see a perfectly normal girl.

Then again, being a man of his own, why should the approval of others matter?

And what does Scotland Yard has to do with anything?

Is this some kind of Big-Brother-is-watching-you thing?

Had Mycroft finally gotten hold of the Yard as well?

His mobile buzzed just then, startling him out of his reverie.

When the Umiserrse stalks, yous lishdfifnn

John did not recognize the number and decided the text had been sent to him by mistake. He was about to pocket his phone again, when he received another text.

When the universe talks, you muts listen

Lestrade

How much did that man drink? John wondered if he had not been obvious enough in showing his displeasure towards the detective inspector's unwarranted interest in what John did during his free time. Or at any other time, for that matter? What is wrong with him?

And what is wrong with everyone for that matter?

He was just going out and have a nice, normal time with Sarah. Like he always does when he is with her…

Oh.

Realization dawned and John could not help feeling rather…sheepish…slightly foolish, actually.

But…

It was no use arguing, he thought to himself. The facts were all there, plain as day to anyone. Whenever he plans something with Sarah, he barely needs to get out of the door when something bad usually derails everything. From the Chinese circus, to being held captive in an unused train tunnel, to getting nicked from right outside his doorstep, all of this had Sarah in the equation. And it had not ended well.

John decided not to even consider the ramification if he spends another night at Sarah's. The last time he did, the flat across the street blew up.

No wonder everyone was concerned.

No wonder Lestrade was concerned.

And if John had called Mycroft and told him about his plans, he has no doubts the elder Holmes would advise against seeing Sarah, for the sake of national security.

When the Universe talks…

John's universe, on the other hand, was not talking. Nor was it whispering. It was yelling and stomping its feet. What it was saying, however…

"Anytime you want to get down, sir," the taxi driver's voice interrupted the multitude of voices being played in John's ears. He was not going crazy; he was just…having a retrospective of the events that had occurred in the last few months.

"What?" John said, looking out the window. They were in front of Sarah's building and the taxi was idling. The driver's patience was wearing a little thin.

"We're here," the driver replied, his voice still pleasant. John swallowed, remembering the first case Sherlock and he had solved together. John's not one for stereotyping, but, sometimes one can never be too sure of things.

"I'm sorry, but, this is not where I wanted to go," John said, his voice quiet. The driver turned abruptly and John almost ducked into the floors of the taxi, had not the driver been laughing.

"Had one too many, did you?" the driver chuckled, shaking his head. "Where to then?"

"221B, Baker Street," John's reply was automatic. And he could not help the soaring feeling he felt when he said it. "Home."

Congratulations. You made it home.

Lestrade

Would I risk imprisonment if I said you were an idiot?

John

And how did you know?

John

Maybe and I gave the Yard a half an hour head's up. No emergency calls concerning a missing doctor.

Lestrade

Your interest in my private life is most unwelcome.

John

And yet you returned home.

Lestrade

I won't take credit for that. But am glad no one's been kidnapped or any buildings blown up. Thank you, John.

Lestrade

You're an idiot.

John

"Hello?"

"Dr Watson? Are you home?"

"Yes, Mrs Hudson. I just got in."

"I just…um…popped out for some milk and eggs. When I returned I saw the door open…"

"That's me, Mrs Hudson."

"Of course. There you are."

"Perhaps we should ring off now? Because this is vaguely uncomfortable for me. Talking to you on the mobile when you're just standing outside the door. "

"Of course. Good night, Dr Watson."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson. Good night."

"I am glad you made it safely home, dear."

The Universe was quiet; no longer shouting. There were no conflicted emotions within him either; if he felt anything at all, it was a sort of a muted relief, a feeling of contentment that arises from familiarity and routine. Sounds rather mundane and tedious, but if given any other choice, John would have politely declined. It was not a matter of his safety or the nation's safety. It was a matter of what made him happy.

John was happy to be back in his flat; the organized mess, the experiments in the kitchen and smiley face on the wall. All reminders, details rather, of what really made the flat a happy place for John.

Sherlock.

He was still asleep when John came into the flat, curled up on the sofa with his back to the muted television. John closed the door behind him after his strange conversation with Mrs Hudson and went to switch off the telly. The flat was dark, illuminated by the lights from the street outside. John did not bother with the lights, he was going up to his room, get some writing done. He could do it the sitting room, but he did not want to wake Sherlock, God knows the man needed his sleep.

You're home.

John turned to the sofa and sure enough, Sherlock was up, his blue – green eyes alert, an amused twinkle the only emotion he could read from the younger man. He could have just said something, but there was something about the moment that seemed a little surreal. John simply played along.

Bravo, Mr Holmes. A very astute deduction.

John

Are you off to bed?

Because they're showing a rerun of that quiz you always watch.

I'll put the kettle on.

John

And some toast. I am feeling a little peckish.

Get it yourself.

John

You're in the kitchen.

Not now.

John

Technically, you are nearest to the kitchen.

Technically, you are most adept at making toast and not burning down the flat.

Technically, you offered to make tea.

Thus, toast is in the jurisdiction of the person who makes the tea.

Technically, you're an irritating sod.

John

He made two mugs of tea and a stack of toast. He made Sherlock know that he made the toast because he had not eaten as well, but they both knew the truth. Matters like why John made the toast really did not need dissection of any sort, just acceptance. It is a small detail.

About as insignificant as Sherlock falling asleep on the sofa again, this time with his feet on John's lap.

And John's hand on the Sherlock's leg, his thumb rubbing circling into the hollow at the back of the younger man's knees.

The bigger was picture was that John was home, the walls of the flat were fine. And Scotland Yard did not get any phone calls regarding domestic terrorism and crime. It was an arrangement that suited everyone and the Universe just fine.

It was an arrangement that suited John just fine.

Glad you found your way home.

Mycroft Holmes.

John decided he was not surprised when he received the text from Mycroft. If Scotland Yard and Mrs Hudson had been concerned with his private life, then surely the man whose brother he was living with would be concerned as well. It just surprised John it took Mycroft this long to track him down.

- THE END -