"We still have plenty of time. He won't arrive at the stop until 7:56. The newsstand gives us an extra three minutes, and the coffee, another four. Those are conservative estimates. The line at the coffee shop will be longer since the weather is a few degrees colder today than yesterday, when I last timed it."
John was still eyeing the door nervously as Sherlock finished downloading files onto a flash drive.
"Come on, come on," he muttered nervously at the computer, while Sherlock remained utterly serene. Even the sound of approaching footsteps did not fluster him. He merely whispered "Next door," as he removed the drive and shoved it into his coat pocket.
Sherlock walked over to the door and placed his hand lightly on the frame. "Vibrations." Then he held up a single finger and appeared to count silently to 20, moving his head almost imperceptibly with the rhythm of the numbers, then opened the door. The hallway was clear, and they walked with a forced casualness to the staircase at the end of the hall.
It was 8:03.
"I can't believe we cut it that close!"
"Nonsense."
"But what if he didn't get coffee today, Sherlock? Something as simple as that."
"I've been tailing him for a week, John. He is a man of regular habits, a military man, much like yourself. Routine is in his blood. Always a paper, always coffee."
John bristled at what felt like an accusation.
"I'm not saying you're dull, John. I'm saying you're predictable. Unlike, Mycroft, who is both predictable and dull. He leaves his office daily at precisely twenty-to-five and is at the Diogenes Club from quarter-to-five to twenty to eight."
"Sherlock, it's all well and good, and we got what we needed, but let's try not to cut it so close, for my sake. Let's say I like the predictability of not being arrested by security guards."
"Fine."
"And even someone as predictable as me makes changes once in a while. I don't always order the same meal at Angelo's"
"Yes. In that particular instance, your variety is what is predictable. Though you do have a pattern, you know."
"I do?"
"Yes. I will order your meal for you next time, so you can verify my observations."
They walked on in silence, John enjoying the fresh air, and the occasional leaf crunching underfoot. As they walked past the side street where they would normally turn to head to Angelo's, John smiled. They hadn't been there for some time, but John always thought of the little Italian restaurant as their place, remembering fondly the time he left his cane behind to follow a madman, who was following another madman (who happened to have poisoned four people).
He increased his stride to keep pace with Sherlock's longer legs and thought for not the first time how free he felt without his cane. He used to hate walking in the park. His physical therapist had insisted upon it, but he always felt so old using it. And he knew people had stared at him.
"You know, when I met Stamford in the park…when we grabbed a coffee and I told him that I needed a flatmate… I don't usually do that."
"Meet up with old friends, you mean? Or need a flatmate?" Sherlock flashed a warm, genuine smile.
"No. No, I don't usually walk through the park. Too many people watching me hobbling. I'd walk. I had to. But I'd always go back to the bedsit by the shortest route possible. And, yes, I don't usually meet people I know. I very nearly kept right on walking when Stamford called my name, too. I was feeling pretty miserable… about finding an affordable flat, actually… and my sort of misery didn't love company. So. It's a very good thing I wasn't quite so predictable that day." John smiled, as they continued on to 221B.
Sherlock didn't.
As a matter of fact, if John had been observing Sherlock closely, he would have seen a few things: a twitch in the lip, a radical slowing of his stride, that would have indicated his true emotions.
When they got to the flat, John hopped onto the computer and began checking for cases, while Sherlock checked his phone, placed it on the side table, made his way to the chair and folded his hands under his chin.
"Case?" said John.
"No," said Sherlock. "Thinking."
John returned to his work, leaving him undisturbed.
Stamford. A likeable enough man, not that Sherlock had cared much about likability. Stamford enjoyed chatting. About anything. And if Molly was there, the two of them would talk up a storm and it would drive Sherlock absolutely crazy. So, when he didn't join in the discussion about the weather, or the show on the telly they were both watching, or whatever the hell it was this time, Stamford asked him if he was all right.
Now, what do you say to that? "Yes, I'm all right, I just don't want to talk to you?" That would stop the conversation, but put him at risk of stopping the steady flow of thumbs into his fridge as well. No, he had to invent a problem, and quick. But nothing major, nothing Stamford would be genuinely concerned about, and no dead relative he would have to make a mental note of so as to ensure he or she was not magically resurrected in the future.
As a half-truth is always far easier to maintain than a lie, he would concoct a problem about moving, although, honestly, there were none. The new place on Baker Street was better than the one on Montague in every possible way. Location, size, level of damp, and it came with a landlord with a far more sympathetic view of chemical experiments and late-night violin playing. The rent was considerably higher, but between a discounted rate and Mycroft's eventual, albeit reluctant, agreement to loosen up his control of Sherlock's portion of their inheritance (the git), he could handle it just fine.
A passing comment about how no one could possibly want to room with him would also serve as a handy reminder of just how unpleasant a person to talk to he actually was. Perfect.
But then, Stamford had actually found someone. And it wasn't love at first sight. It wasn't. That didn't happen until several hours later. And it wasn't love, really. It was fascination. An entirely different, and far more suitable, emotion.
Still perched in his chair, he began to examine that day in even greater detail.
John hadn't intended to walk through the park… and he hadn't even intended to search for a roommate. What of the other players in their lives, over whom he had even less of an influence?
Headed to the lab early that morning. Causal agent? A call from Molly informing you there was a corpse. Someone she knew. Someone to experiment on without risk of negative consequences. And with an active case which would benefit from the close study of post-mortem bruising. What if... What if Lestrade had not given you that case? What if Molly had not considered calling you? Would never have started the conversation…which I never had planned to have had anyway. The forecast had called for rain, but it had been clear and surprisingly warm by early afternoon, so Stamford had decided to forgo his usual canteen fare in favor of a trip outside for lunch. What if it had rained after all?
People's decisions, random decisions, he hated to call them acts of fate, but there it was. These… acts of fate… had had a profound impact on initiating John and his life together. Instead of reveling in the fact that they were simply meant to be and destiny would ensure it, he, instead, remained fixated on how close he had come to it never having happened at all.
An image hijacked his mind: a determined criminal, impeccably dressed, asks "Do you mind if I get that?" The ringing of a mobile, and suddenly a gun was no longer trained on a semtex-lined vest as two men silently confirmed their commitment to die together. If fate had kept them alive, couldn't it do the opposite? His next thought surprised him. The realisation that fate could just as easily tear them apart as bring them together… that part wasn't entirely surprising… but the potential for separation, inexplicably, seemed a far worse result than a mutual death pact. Would he even be able to see it coming, or, much like the conversation with Stamford which had unknowingly brought them together, would he never even know what he had said, to end it?
How could he anticipate it? Anticipating actions had always been his unique ability- if not a gift, then at least a talent, or a finely-honed skill. Observing patterns and predicting reactions.
If these are solely random elements… stopstopstop… there are patterns. There are patterns to observe, ways people do things. It is not all random. That is what allows you to do the work. To function, even. Yes, there is a random element, but that is just a simple variable. It can be removed from the equation, analysed, then reinserted. Isolated, controlled. Life is not a mobile unexpectedly echoing against the tiled walls of an empty pool, you idiot; life is a man getting a coffee and newspaper every morning.
He calmed himself, somewhat, continuing to redirect his thoughts to the relative predictability of many things, searching though his mind palace.
The sun will rise each morning. The seasons will change. The hands will circle around the clock (no wonder Mycroft was so precise in his appointments). A caesium fountain clock on the mantelpiece. Stabilizing, helpful, calming.
Despite the unanticipated obstacles in your way, you still choose your own path.
That last thought should have comforted him as well. Instead, he found an open volume of poetry on a child-size writing desk: "Yet knowing how way leads onto way, I doubted if I should ever come back." His mind began to race along multiple pathways, hallways branching in different directions. Each of the myriad scenarios had its own chain of consequences.
The path you choose is crucial. No choice lacks weight. If there is, in fact, Choice at all… an opportunity to wage war against the unpredictability of life… each individual one has to be evaluated carefully.
"Sherlock, cuppa?"
John's voice, in the distance. He wanted to respond, but he was forced to consider the permutations of his answer.
John, used to Sherlock's occasional disregard while contemplating cases, smiled uneasily at the lack of response, and placed the cup on the table in front of him.
Some part of him was aware of this... that he had been debating the long range consequences of choosing whether or not to accept a simple cup of tea. He hadn't been pulled into a vortex like this since he… the wheels wouldn't stop turning, stopstopstop bring yourself back to a single point of focus. A single point. There had been a way to do that, back then, but the single point has been sharp and buried in his arm.
All the distractions could fade away, but it, no, not with John. John is a competent physician. Even you couldn't fool John for long. Maybe put your trust in denial… gain time to develop a plan… to make John understand. He would understand the necessity. No. John had loved Harry, but he had let her go. John would leave. No, no he wouldn't… but hemighthemight. If you go back there again, maybe you should want John to leave. That would be best for John. Best for John… to have never been shot. To have never been invalided out of the Army. To have never met you at all. If there was indeed a choice to have been made, surely that would have been the right one. The moral one. Break ties with… nonono… what would I do without…
"… John, Sherlock." At first, just a voice from down the endless corridor. Then, a hand was on his shoulder, possibly for the second time? More solid this time. "It's John. I'm not sure if I should be doing this, but…"
Sherlock shifted. "John."
"Oh, thank God," he muttered. "I'm sorry Sherlock, I know I shouldn't disturb you, but you said it wasn't for a case, and, I was…" John tried to mask a deep breath, but realized it was futile. "I was concerned. I know you told me when we first met that you sometimes didn't talk, even for days, but, well, I think not eating, not moving, not, well… it seemed like a new level, even for you. And, just now, it didn't seem like your normal breathing pattern. It seemed...off."
Sherlock assessed his surroundings,looking over at the end table. There was a freshly made cup of tea, and a cold one, ready to be exchanged, beside it.
"I was, lost, for a bit."
John leaned over to examine him further, placing his hand on his shoulder again. The touch was warm. "Lucky I found you, then," he said, steadily, evenly. "What were you lost in, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Randomness. Pure chance. Infinite choices."
"Hmmm." John's focus was on his forehead, as if he was attempting to peer into his friend's mind. He shook his head. "Sherlock, I know how much you value predictability, trust in it, but the randomness of life is what makes it interesting, vibrant, exciting. I know. I know because I spent day after day in my bedsit, trying to write my blog, trying to stop looking at my gun. I have no idea what tomorrow will bring, only that we will greet it together, and that is enough."
John bent his knees slightly, and they gazed at each other, pale cerulean locked to deepest blue. Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him. John inhaled sharply without ever breaking contact. When Sherlock shifted back he said "I'm sorry if you didn't want… I hadn't considered all the consequences for us to..."
"Full marks for your instincts," said John, as he kissed him back, longer, softer.
"I don't have instincts. I have planning. I have calculations. I have to navigate all the possibilities, to find the right path. Instincts," Sherlock smirked.
"Useless? Like sentiment? Like caring? Like love?"
"John, you are the one fixed point in a changing world of endless possibilities."