One.
Martin scurries into the loo, his mobile buzzing in his pocket. Of all times for someone to call him for a van job! And now Douglas is going to make a perfect landing and rub it in his face. Terrific.
He wastes no time in locking the door, taking off his hat, pulling out his phone, and pressing the 'Answer' button. "H-Hello. This is M-Martin Crieff of Icarus Removals."
"Stop it, Sherlock!" the caller yells sharply, then coughs. "Sorry about that. Yes, is this Icarus Removals?"
Martin is slightly taken back but smiles into his reply. "Yes, this Martin Crieff, how can I help you?"
"I need to move my things from my bedsit to my new flat on— Dammit, Sherlock! I'm on the phone. Wait, no, what are you doing?"
Click.
He stares at his mobile in bewilderment.
Two.
"I can't believe you haven't seen a doctor in months, Martin," his sister scolds. He feels like one of his nephews in trouble. "Honestly, I don't know what goes through your head, Martin."
"R-really, I-I'm fine, Caitlin," he sneezes and blows his nose. "You don't need to ring up your GP. I can just take some paracetamol and drink some orange juice, I'll be fine."
"Martin," Caitlin's tone is stern; her hand covers the receiver of her home phone. "You're my baby brother. I'm going to take care of you. My doctor is the best. It's a shame that he's only part-time. Oh," she turns her attention back to her phone. "Oh, yes I'm still here. I'd like to make an appointment today for my brother… He's a new patient. I'd like him to see Dr. Watson, is that possible?" Caitlin groans and stamps her foot. "Really? Damn. I was hoping he'd be in… Alright then, I suppose Dr. Sawyer will do… 3:00? Yes… Yes… Thank you. Bye."
Caitlin grabs her handbag and pulls Martin to his feet. "C'mon, we're off. My doctor isn't in today, but I got you an appointment anyway." She sighs, "I really wish you could have seen my doctor. He's so dishy."
Three.
Today is awful.
He was supposed to be at the airfield at 5 AM sharp, but his alarm on his mobile phone didn't go off, so he was a half an hour late getting started. His shower refused to run hot water, he didn't grab anything to eat, and the van almost didn't start.
He arrives in the parking lot at the airfield fifteen minutes late. Martin has just locked the van when he turns to see Douglas retreating from GERTI back to his Lexus.
"Don't bother," his first officer grumbles.
"Wh- What?" Martin double-takes. He follows Douglas to his car. "What do you mean? We have a job today. We're flying to Minsk."
"Not anymore." Douglas opens his car and gets inside. "First, the person who booked us called to say he was changing the number of passengers from two to one, but was still going to pay full price. Fine enough. Two minutes later, our client calls again but to cancel the flight."
Martin gapes. "They c-can't do that!"
"Well, they did. Apparently the passenger we were flying decided that he didn't want to fly on GERTI after all and was going to explore other options."
Martin huffs, his face flush. There's nothing wrong with GERTI. Well…
"Yes, and somehow we still get paid and get the day off. Isn't Carolyn being generous? Although, I suspect she wants to watch that Downton Abbey marathon that she won't shut up about." He frowns indifferently and gives Martin a curt nod. "Well, goodbye Martin." Douglas slams his door and drives away.
Martin isn't sure what to do now.
Four.
Martin isn't sure why he set this profile up. It was a stupid idea. He's a bit embarrassed by it really. Under the 'Hobbies' section he's only listed aviation. Under things he 'Can't live without,' he writes 'coffee' and 'aeroplanes'. Martin frowns at the section entitled 'On a Typical Friday Night I…' and leaves it blank.
When he gets to the part where the site asks if he's interested in men, women, or both, Martin finds himself blushing heavily. He hadn't dated a man since… God since uni. Maybe it is time to give it another go.
He scrolls through the list of men, browsing through their 'Sneak Peaks' as the site called it.
Name: Paul Cohen
Age: 29
Occupation: Freelance Writer
Hobbies: Dickensian research & learning new languages
Can't Live Without: Books, knowledge, & a good cup of tea
On A Typical Friday Night I…: Read a good book
Interested in: Men
Name: layton lewis
Age: 45
Occupation: business owner
Hobbies: fishing, hunting and weight-lifting
Can't Live Without: my beagles
On A Typical Friday Night I…: watch telly, talk on the phone to my mum and cook dinner
Interested in: Men and Women
Name: John Watson
Age:
"Dammit!" Martin shouts and slams his hand against the computer monitor. His ancient computer freezes on the webpage and there's nothing he can do but restart. It takes a whole fifteen minutes to shut down, restart and get back to the website.
"Oh, no! No, no, no, no!" He cries again and curls his hands in frustration. All of his data from the website is gone. All of his information from what he's looking for in a relationship to what his favorite films are hadn't been saved before the computer crashed.
Five.
"Honestly, Martin," Douglas protests. "It's beginning to get a bit ridiculous."
Martin glares daggers at his first officer and then continues to revise GERTI's safety procedures.
"You're a pilot for God's sake; men and women should be falling all over you."
Martin presses his pencil point too hard on the paper and it breaks. He should have never told Douglas, (well, he had told Arthur, which really was telling everyone) that he was bisexual. It had been a big step for him. But now everyone was trying to set him up with their ideal male date.
"Look, I'm texting a friend of mine—"
"Oh God! Not you too, Douglas!" Martin closes the manual and swivels his chair around to face his first officer. "I'm fine. I really am."
Without looking up from his mobile Douglas replies, "Says the man who last month who called himself a girl to first officer Fairburn. Look, my friend is very attractive, as I have been told by my female friends. And intelligent; he's a doctor. And he was a surgeon in Afghanistan."
Martin's interest is piqued. "Really?"
"Oh, hit a kink, did I?" Douglas teases. "Yes, although he got sent back a while ago because he was injured in combat… And sent."
"What?" Martin rushes forward and tries to grab Douglas' mobile. "No, no Douglas! That's not fair! I don't want-"
"No, sorry Martin," Douglas' voice is smooth even though he and Martin are wrestling in the middle of the office. "This is for your own good, I'm afraid."
Douglas plays a solo game of keep-away from Martin for a full ten minutes. Without them realizing it, chairs are knocked over, and important papers fly into the air. Even the water cooler is slammed to the floor, and a gallon of water soaks into the carpet.
"What on earth is going on in here?"
Douglas and Martin stop in their tracks and finally survey the damage.
Carolyn, her face flustered, holds up a hand before either man can attempt to smooth talk their way out of the situation. "I don't want to hear it. Just clean it up!" She turns, and adds "And don't you dare think about making Arthur do it."
Douglas' mobile makes a chirping sound while they are scooping up soaked paperwork.
"Aha!" Douglas cheers. "Get out your best clothes for Saturday night, Martin. My friend's just replied—oh."
Martin quirks an eyebrow. "Oh?"
Douglas frowns. "He can't make it. He's going to be in Dartmoor of all places. Well isn't that a shame?"
"Dartmoor? That's a bit of a coincidence. I was just down there not too long ago on a van job."
"Oh really?" Douglas is vaguely interested.
"Posh fellow too." Martin crosses his arms. "Yeah, Knight. He used to live there as a kid and—"
"I don't hear you two working!" Carolyn yells from the hallway.
One.
After that genius commits suicide in London, people look at Martin differently. Some people say that Martin looks incredibly similar to Sherlock Holmes. His facial structure, curly hair and pale skin is what it is, Douglas tells him. Douglas barely sees it, apparently; he has to squint and hold the famous photo of Sherlock Holmes in the deerstalker next to Martin to see the resemblance.
Martin is sitting by himself in a pub in the heart of London. He's spending Christmas with Caitlin and her family. Two days before Christmas and while most people are doing some last minute shopping, Caitlin and the kids are off seeing a holiday children's film. It's not Martin's kind of thing so he went off to a pub that was recommended on . He's about to take another sip of his drink when a fist connects to his face.
He falls to the floor, knocking over bar stools in the process. People haven't realized that he's on the floor and keep stepping on him, and he tries to cover his face with his hands to protect himself. Martin can vaguely hear the barkeep shouting something. A strong pair of hands pulls him up off the floor.
"Oh God, I'm so—"
"You lot, clear off!" The manager of the pub begins to push Martin and the stranger out of the pub. "There's no fighting allowed in here! Clear off before I call the police!"
The night chill freezes Martin to his bones. He's not wearing his jacket; the manager hadn't been kind enough to throw that out along with them. Quickly he begins to shiver as the December snow falls on London.
"Here, take my jacket." The stranger forced his heavy coat onto Martin's shoulders. "God, I'm so sorry about that. Let me take you back to my flat—"
Martin's head shot up. That is the weirdest pick-up line ever. "No! N-No. That's not necessary. I'm fine. R-really. And We—We've only just met and uh-"
The man gives Martin a stern look. "I'm a doctor and," he chewed on his lower lip. "Against my better judgment, I just punched you in your face and if we don't take care of that soon it will be a rather nasty black eye. Taxi!"
"Wait," Martin pulls the doctor back from the kerb. "Are—Are you saying th—that you were the one who assaulted me in the pub?"
"Of course I was!" the man shouts. "Why the bloody hell did you think I got kicked out too? You don't need to be Sherlock Holmes—damn." The man scrubs his hand over his face for a moment, and then gazes up at Martin sympathetically. "Look, I am sorry. About everything. I didn't mean it. You just… You look like an old friend of mine."
"And you punch your friends in the face, do you?"
The doctor let out a pathetic laugh, a hint of a smile is there. "Only him." He pauses, "Look, here's a taxi."
Martin isn't sure why he gets into the taxi with a stranger who just punched him in the face. He could have called a taxi of his own. Or phoned Caitlin and met her up somewhere. Maybe it's the sad haunting look in the doctor's eyes that gets him to climb inside the cab.
It's silent in the cab for the first few minutes. Martin takes the time to appraise the doctor. He's around his height, only stockier, but stronger. There are deep lines in his face; it seems like he's seen too much for his age. The doctor's posture is impeccable. Martin remembers when he was young and his mum had sent Caitlin to a class to learn proper manners and things for girls and it took months for her to learn how to sit up properly with her chin tucked. This man seems to have had it ingrained in him as well. Martin can't help but think that the doctor is attractive. He feels bad thinking his since they just met, but really, the man is appealing. He feels his cheeks begin to flush.
"I'm John, by the way." John extends his hand for Martin to shake. "Dr. John Watson."
Something clicks in Martin's brain. "Do—Do you work at surgery in Marylebone?"
John's eyes narrow. "Um, yes. How did you know? Not a stalker are you?"
Martin's taken aback. "Oh, God no. My sister, Caitlin, Caitlin Boothby, she took me to your practice about a year ago. She's a patient of yours. You were out for the day so I had to see, um, oh who was it? Dr. Sawyer?"
Visibly, John relaxes. "Your sister is Caitlin Boothby? So you are—"
"M—Martin Crieff. Captain Martin Crieff," he says with pride. "Ah, do you get stalkers o-often?"
John laughs weakly again. "Ah, a little. But," he amends. "Not anymore. Crieff, did you say?" John's voice is very intrigued. "Do you own Icarus Removals?"
It's Martin's turn to be astonished. "Y-Yes. How—How did you know? Did Caitlin tell you?"
John scratches the back of his head, a nervous tick. "This is a bit embarrassing but I tried to have you move my things once."
"Tried?"
"Yes, my old friend, the one that I mentioned earlier? He uh, ended the phone call before I could really set anything up with you."
For the first time Martin takes his eyes away from John and gazes out the window. The snow is falling heavy now. He's never seen London snow before. "Nothing against your old friend, but he sounds rubbish."
"Yeah, he was." John agrees. "But he was—"
"Oi," the cabbie abruptly yells. "We're here."
"Just leave this on for ten minutes, then off for ten. Okay?" John instructs as he hands him an ice pack. "Do you want any tea?"
"Ah," Martin fidgets in his seat. "Actually, Do—Do you have any c—coffee?"
John stares at him for a good five seconds as if he can't believe what he's said. Then he shakes himself out of his stupor and smiles. "Coffee, yeah. No problem. How do you take it?"
Martin tells him and watches as John disappears into the kitchen. With his good eye, he observes the common area of John's flat. He has to admit that it's a little bizarre. The wallpaper is old, peeling. He notices on one wall there's holes and a spray-painted smiley face. On the wall facing the street there's a skull of an antelope hanging. Speaking of skulls, there's a human one on the mantelpiece…
"And here we are," John says as he re-enters the room and sets down with the coffee and tea. "Ah, I see you're admiring the décor," he chuckles. "It's all my old flatmate's. I haven't the heart to take it down or throw it away."
"Bit of an eccentric was he?"
John smiles fondly into his tea mug. "Yes, he was a bit."
Martin furrows his brow. Something isn't right about this. "What happened to your friend? If-If you don't mind me asking? Why do you still have all of his things?"
John is silent for a few moments, his gaze kept down. "He died."
"Oh God," Martin stumbles over his own tongue. "Oh—Oh G—God. I'm so so sorry. I—I didn't mean. I-I mean I bet your friend was a good friend. I didn't know your f-friend. I bet your friend wasn't rubbish. Not rubbish, no." His voice has gone all squeaky and high-pitched. "Oh God, I mean I bet you—you miss him a lot. You two must have been very close. Not—Not that I am insinuating anything!" Martin blushes furiously. "Not that you aren't attractive or anything! Because you are! Oh God…"
John stares at him blankly, then bursts into laughter, genuine laughter. "Oh, Martin, it's fine. It's fine."
Martin frowns, deeply hurt. "Why are you laughing?"
"I'm sorry, Martin." John sobers. "It's just that since Sherlock's died everyone's been so sensitive to me. Everyone, I mean everyone tries to remind what a wonderful person Sherlock was. It's…" he smiles. "It's really nice to have someone say that he was an arsehole. Even if you didn't know him."
Martin pales. "Y—Your friend was Sherlock Holmes?"
"Yeah." John replies simply. "I suppose you've heard about him. What the papers are isn't true, you know. Sherlock was a genius. Sherlock was brilliant."
Martin is calm, sensitive. He smiles. "Tell me about him?"
John rambles for the better part of two hours about his eighteen month stint with the consulting detective. Sherlock's habits: playing violin at all hours, not speaking for days, demanding tea, yelling at the telly, and occasional drug binges. Their cases together: John had started a blog to chronicle them. The Blind Banker, The Geek Interpreter, The Spectacled Blonde. How Sherlock went viral and the danger increased. There had been a stalker; a crazed genius called Moriarty who was obsessed with Sherlock. Moriarty wanted him and Sherlock to be partners, to be mates. But something changed in his plan and Moriarty was determined on destroying Sherlock's life. John skimmed on some of the details, but there had been a dangerous woman who Moriarty sent to compromise Sherlock, a media circus of a trial after Moriarty broke into the Tower of London, and Moriarty assumed the identity of an actor, Richard Brook, saying that Sherlock lied about being a genius. As far as John knew, at the end, Moriarty and Sherlock came to a head and each man killed himself. A game no one won.
During his tale, John tends to Martin's black eye, apologizing again and again. He refills their mugs when they empty. Eventually, John realizes that the heating is broken and apologizing profusely, grabs a thick blanket to cover them on the sofa. Martin can't help but blush as he sits close to John, a blanket and body heat the only things to keep them warm. Occasionally, their hands would brush or their knees would bump together.
"So, um. Were—Were you and Sh—Sherlock-?" Martin is uncomfortable that he even asked.
John on the other hand, waves it off. "Oh God no. Never. Sherlock… Sherlock wasn't really interested in that sort of thing."
"Did you, ah, did you have anyone? Do you have anyone? Because that's fine if you do," Martin backtracks. "I just-"
John smiles lazily back, licks his lips and surprising grips Martin's hand and squeezes. "No, there's no one. Unless you want there to be." He grins wickedly.
Blood runs straight to his cock. John's lips, his tongue, his voice should be criminal. Martin turns away, but John gently grabs his chin and forces him to look at him. They stare at each other for a few moments, not moving. Martin knows what is about to happen, yearns for it. He leans forward just as John does, angling his head ever so just so he can capture John's—
Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.
Martin curses under his breath and retreats from John's embrace. He stands and takes his mobile from his trouser pocket. "Hello? Martin Cr—"
"Martin, where the hell are you?"
Caitlin.
"I'm—I'm at a friend's."
"It's nearly midnight! I've been worrying myself sick. I almost called the police!"
Martin's shoulders slump. He hasn't realized that the time had gone that late. "Don't worry, Caitlin. I'll come back straight away." He hangs up before he can say anything else.
When he turns around, John is there. "Your sister?"
"Yes, I'm spending Christmas in London with her and when I didn't come back tonight she got worried."
John nods. "Good of her to look after you. Shall I wait with you until a cab arrives?"
Martin smiles weakly. "Yes, that'd be nice."
They stand in the doorway of 221B to stay out of the snow until the cab comes. Martin tells John about his 'job' as a pilot, his love of flying. John in turn tells him of anecdotes from the war. They learn of a mutual friend, Douglas and Martin promises to say hello when he returns to Fitton.
The taxi pulls up too soon and the driver honks the horn.
"Well, I guess this is goodbye then?" John leans against the door frame.
"It doesn't have to be."
There's a lift in John's voice. "Oh?"
Martin puffs up his chest, clenches and unclenches his fists. "John," he sighs. "Would you like to go to Duxford Air Museum with me sometime?"
John smiles, a bright grin that's sincere. "Yeah, I would."
The cab driver honks his horn again, longer this time.
"Are you here after Boxing Day?" John says with urgency.
"Only for one day," Martin affirms.
"Great, let's go then." John hurriedly steals Martin's mobile and types in something, and then hands it back to him. "That's my number. Call me on Boxing Day so we can make it a date, okay?"
Martin smiles wildly and as he begins to go John says, "Martin, you forgot something."
"What is it, John—" Martin isn't able to say anything more because John's lips are on his own. They're cold because of the weather but God they feel amazing, so perfect.
The cab driver honks several times now, and yells out the window for Martin to hurry up.
They disentangle themselves, and John is grinning like a cat. Martin has a feeling he is too. John squeezes his hand. "See you in a couple days, yeah?"
Martin nods. "Yeah. Happy Christmas, John."
John smiles. Oh, Martin loves John's smiles… All of the lines in his face disappear when he smiles. "Happy Christmas, Martin."