"I have the perfect job for you."
John scoffed, looking at his sister doubtfully as she plunked down on the sofa beside him. "Oh really? As what, exactly?"
She grinned at him fondly, looking very happy and healthy. "Well, you know I got involved in doing improv lately?"
Nodding, John recalled that Harry had tried many different techniques over the years to treat her alcoholism. Improv and acting classes were her latest interest, and judging by her long run of sobriety, seemed to be helping.
"Well, I have a good circle of actor and artists friends now, and I heard of a position through one of them." Harry sipped her tea.
John couldn't picture how he could do any work with an artist or actor. He had no experience in the area. He was a soldier. Used to be a soldier. He had no idea what he was now. "What kind of job?"
"Working as an assistant to an author. It's an easy job." Harry said, looking quite proud of herself.
"Assistant to an author? How the hell would I be good at a job like that? I know nothing about the publishing world." John chortled, pouring himself another cup of tea.
Harry got up, pacing around the room. "Look, from what I heard you wouldn't do anything with his work. It's just taking care of his day to day stuff around his house so he can focus on writing."
John wasn't convinced, but thought the job sounded more reasonable now.
Sitting back down beside John, Harry took his hand in hers. "Look, I know you are feeling crappy right now. You are out of work, your shoulder still hurts, and you need to figure out what to do next. Plus, it's hard to afford a decent place to stay in London with your army pension, even with flatmates."
"If you are trying to cheer me up, this is an epic fail." John tried to lighten things up with a bad joke.
Harry laughed and hugged John tight. "I know I haven't been a good big sister to you, and not very reliable to you in the past. But I've hit rock bottom enough times to recognize it in others. Let me help you, John. Take this job."
John could feel his eyes welling up and pulled back, grabbing some tissues. He dried his eyes and blew his nose, ashamed at the display of weakness. His feelings were so close to the surface these days.
Harry gave him time to collect himself. "Look, John, there are a few things that make it a good job for you. It's only for six months, so you will get chance to figure out what you want to do next. He's staying at his large estate while he writes, so no worrying about paying rent. And the best part is..." Harry grinned widely, clearly excited. "It's in California! It's like being paid to go on vacation!"
"California!" The other points were interesting, but this was the craziest part. "Can't he just hire an assistant from there?"
Harry shrugged. "The author is English, and he prefers to work with English staff, apparently. Let me give you the contact information, and you call his staff soon to get an interview, OK?"
John knew she wouldn't leave John alone until he agreed. "Fine, fine, I'll call 'his people'. Which author is this, anyways?" John had almost forgotten to ask. It was probably some scrawny, bookish man who shunned the sun.
Harry bit her bottom lip. "Um...Sherlock Holmes."
"Sherlock Fucking Holmes? He is such a cocky shithead, and I've heard no one wants to work with him." John jumped off the sofa, walking to the window to look out. Damn. The idea had started to grow on him, but even he had heard of the mercurial author, notorious for telling off a few TV hosts during interviews and other bad behaviour.
Harry got up, and walked slowly to stand behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "From what I heard, you won't see much of him. He holes himself away to write all day in his part of a huge mansion. But just call his staff and check with them. What can it hurt?"
"So, you think I would be a good fit for the job?" John was shocked.
The stylish woman in her fifties gave him a smile. "I think so. Mr. Holmes doesn't want a fan working in his house. He just wants someone to take care of the day-to-day things. Prepare simple meals, take care of the mail, make sure the cleaners and gardeners take care of the place. Run occasional errands. He prefers Brits for handling this stuff for him, finds them more low key and professional."
John mulled it over. He never thought it would get this far. He had made the phone call to appease his sister, and didn't think he'd be meeting with Sherlock's agent, Hazel, for an informal interview like this in her London office.
"I'll tell it to you straight. On the good side, you will stay in the guesthouse, have access to the pool and gym, in a beautiful setting. Your commute will be walking across the yard to the big house. The hours are 9 to 3, seven days a week, with quiet times during the day. Then you have the evenings free to yourself." Hazel said sincerely.
John was finding everything about that appealing. Easy work, a quiet place to get himself back together, no rent.
Hazel leaned forward, lowering her voice. "I will tell you about some potential downsides, so you are forewarned. Mr. Holmes values his privacy and focuses completely on his writing when he has a deadline. He doesn't even want to see people, deal with people, during this time. In the past, he usually just eats breakfast with his assistant to catch up on any urgent business or mail that needs attention. After that, you won't see him for the rest of the day. You will just put out his lunch at a certain time, and leave his dinner in the fridge.
"If you interrupt him while he's working, he can be a grumpy asshole and you will probably be called a few horrible names and hear a dozen curse words." Hazel shrugged. "He's a moody artist with a process we need to respect to get the best work out of him."
John cringed at the thought of eating breakfast daily with the man, even if it was more of a business meeting. The rest sounded fine. "Do I need to dress business casual?" He had been in uniform so much, his wardrobe was limited.
Hazel chuckled. "God no. It's California. You could wear a speedo and thongs, and nobody would look twice. Mr. Holmes is very casual around his house."
This was surprising. Sherlock was never seen in public events in anything but carefully put together outfits, perfectly fitted suits.
"So, will you take it?"
John heaved a big sigh. He could stay in London, in a depressing bedsit, barely scraping by, with no prospects. Or he could go live rent-free on a gorgeous California estate for six months with an easy job, figure things out, and come away at the end with some money saved. It was a no-brainer.
He held out his hand. "I'll take it."
Hazel shook his hand, her smile pleased. "Great! I'll get the paperwork sent over to you and we will hopefully have you there by the end of the month."
Gorgeous. Gorgeous. Gorgeous.
John shook himself out of his spell, and went back to eating his eggs, trying to act normal.
He wished he was entranced by the estate. It was certainly beautiful. On the top of a hill, it had amazing views from every side, and enough trees to make it feel private and rustic. His guesthouse was like a large one bedroom flat. The pool area was as beautiful as one in a decor magazine. The main house was an eclectic mix of modern angles, large windows showing the views, and cozy corners full of books and chairs you wanted to curl up in for hours.
Instead, he was stupidly entranced by Sherlock Holmes. Particularly his eyes, which no picture had done them justice. In person, sometimes they seemed light green, or ice blue. Other times, they seemed darker or the brown hues were more apparent. Seeing them in person, directed at him, made John into a blubbering fool. He hid it well, keeping his mouth shut, and nodding his head. Saying as little as possible.
"Is there any mail?" Sherlock asked, moving his empty plate aside and sipping his tea.
John placed the opened letters in front of Sherlock. "Invitations to events, bills, unopened letters marked confidential, business correspondence." Everything was in its proper piles and date stamped.
Sherlock flipped through it all, telling John which ones he wanted scanned to his London staff, and what to shred. He always took the personal correspondence up to his office to open later.
John gathered up the papers, nodding. Handling the mail usually took less than an hour a day, and he was already predicting Sherlock's responses to most pieces.
"You have a hair appointment at 2 pm and a massage at 3:30." John reviewed the calendar app on his phone. "A car has been arranged."
Sherlock nodded. "What are your plans today?"
John shrugged. "Just the normal things. I'll go down to the farmer's market later this morning."
Getting up, the author stretched, his green tee flashing a bit of his flat stomach. "See if they have avocados that look good. I'm craving guacamole."
Nodding, John cleared the table and watched Sherlock going upstairs. Into his private domain.
Carrying the tray of dishes into the house, he went into the beautiful kitchen. It really was a chef's dream. Huge, new appliances, wide granite countertops, big windows with great views that let in lots of light. The dishes were soon loaded into the dishwasher, and he checked the fridge for what he needed for the next few meals.
After taking care of the mail tasks, John made sure he had his shopping list, and hopped into his car. Another perk of the job was the use of a leased vehicle, a red convertible Mini Cooper. It was a bit of an adjustment driving on the right side of the road, but he just drove to nearby destinations, not going on the big freeways yet.
The farmers' market was always a revelation to John. Stalls bursting with the fresh fruit and vegetables, in amazing variety. He bought new foods every time he shopped there, wanting to try it all.
Back at the house, he stored everything away and got cooking. Putting on a classical music channel, which suited his mood best today.
After chopping up all the ingredients, John started the video on his iPad. Step by step, he followed the recipe, the scent of the fresh garlic and ginger filling the kitchen. Ten minutes later, he was plating a stir-fry with brown rice, and carried a tray out to the south deck. This side of the house was in shadow by this time of day. He set out the meal, a dome keeping the food hot. He messaged Sherlock that lunch was ready and retreated to the kitchen.
Eating on his own, John chuckled over his lifestyle now. The work was easy and the setting beautiful. He had been here three weeks now, and felt pretty comfortable with the routine.
The only hitch had been after his first week. Hazel had emailed him that he needed to vary his meals a little more. It seemed that the author wasn't too fond of beans on toast. She sent him a nutritionist report for the author, giving general guidelines for his meals.
At first, John had balked at the negative feedback. But reviewing the information, the food was still fairly simple. Just sticking to whole grains, lean meats, and adding a lot more fresh fruit and vegetables. He stepped up to the challenge, found many good recipe websites online, and tried new things everyday.
Today's stir-fry had turned out particularly well. Tender chunks of chicken breast, peppers in three colors, onion, cauliflower, broccoli, zucchini and lots of fresh ginger. Pleased, John pulled out his phone, and took a picture of his meal before digging in. It was as tasty as it looked.
He collected the dishes from the south deck, noticing everything had vanished. But the most shocking thing was the bright blue post-it left near the plate. It simply said, 'Delicious'.
Chuckling, John grabbed his phone, and took a picture of the empty plate with the note beside it. It was a true sign that his hard work was paying off, and his new cooking skills were appreciated.
He washed the lunch dishes and decided to get the dinner ready. It was always something cold he just left in the fridge for Sherlock to eat in the evening as his schedule allowed. Usually, it was a large salad with dressing on the side, like a Cobb salad with chicken, bacon, cheddar, boiled egg, corn, avocado topping the lettuce and vegetables. Healthy but satisfying.
Since Sherlock had mentioned guacamole, John was trying to make Mexican food for the first time. He was going to make a wrap with fresh salsa and guacamole as dips for baked tortilla chips. Still simple and healthy.
More instructional videos helped him prepare everything, and he was careful when handling the fresh jalapeño, washing his hands thoroughly afterwards. He took a picture of the final results, feeling pleased.
Sherlock's dinner went into the fridge, and he took his portion back to the guesthouse fridge. It was easier to just eat the same as Sherlock usually, although occasionally he made an old favorite like beans on toast, or had a bag of crisps.
Glancing at the time, John felt a jolt of relief. It was after 2 pm. Sherlock would be gone for hours with his appointments, John's work was done for the day, and he had the place to himself.
Stripping quickly, John soon had his swim trunks on and ran out to jump in the pool. It was cool, clear and calm. Perfect. It had been ages, years, since he had been in a pool, and John started running through old swim strokes, feeling rusty as he slowly moved through the water.
After a few laps, he felt tired and tread water, looking around with a smile. Floating on his back, he stared up at the clear sky. It was so calm, so silent, and he felt his tension slipping away.
An hour later, John's skin was getting pruney, and he reluctantly got out. Glancing around quickly, he saw he was still alone. He ran a towel over his chest and draped it over his shoulders as he used another one to dry his legs and hair.
Daringly, he stretched out on one of the poolside loungers, the thick padding making it as comfortable as a bed. The sun was strong in the mid-afternoon, but felt good on his cool skin.
He looked down at his body with a sigh. His legs and arms were very pale, and still looked slim. His swim trunks were almost too tight though, the waistband uncomfortable on his stomach. He ran his hand over it, covered by his towel, and felt disgusted. How had he let so much weight pile on?
As a boy, he had been into sports despite being a little smaller than the others. He was quick on his feet, and a good team player. In the army, he stuck to working out enough to stay fit, never struggling with it.
Sliding a hand up to his shoulder, he rotated it experimentally. It ached a little from the swimming, but it wasn't too bad. His doctor had always encouraged him to use it more, to get his strength back.
But the months of recovery time from the injury and being unsure of his future had John hiding away, hardly doing anything, eating cheap food that was easy to prepare. The pounds piled on, and he could tell how shocked Harry and other friends had been by his appearance. He had to buy bigger clothes and now found many of them were tight, since he kept gaining.
Between his shoulder injury and his weight gain, there was no way he would let anybody see him in just his swim trunks. No way he would date, since he couldn't picture undressing in front of someone. Who would want to date a fat, directionless loser anyways?
The sound of a car door slamming jerked John out of his thoughts, and he ran back to the safety of his guesthouse, making sure the towel was hiding his upper body well.
-Disclaimer: I own nothing.
-A/N: Thanks for reading the first chapter of this new story. I have rough drafts of done for the next few chapters, so I will be posting fairly fast to get you hopefully hooked. ;)