John and Sherlock were still failing to contain nervous giggles by the time they reached the nearest restaurant to the crime scene – a cheap Mexican restaurant – and sat down to dinner. They reviewed the menu with stifled, neurotic smiles, and when the waitress came to take their order John was pretty sure she was debating calling the cops and reporting them as suspicious characters, but the absence of sirens through their dinner told him that she hadn't, and for that he was grateful. Just what he needed, Lestrade walking in with Donovan and Anderson on his tail, making another gay joke. Realistically, John knew that they were still busy with the Kamikaze Cabbie. But still.
"So," John breathed, finally able to get his spurts of laughter under control. "Mycroft, brother. Position in government, explain."
Maybe if you were able to form complete sentences," Sherlock replied with the same grin, "I'd be complied to answer that question."
"Hell, Sherlock, I just saved your bloody life – think that deserves a little family backstory."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, pretending to be annoyed, but the thrill of the previous hour hadn't yet worn off since he had John to share it with. "I don't know, John, I don't really pay attention to the specifics of government unless it benefits me. All I know is, he wants it, it happens. He's on a first-name basis with the queen, has visited every country with a relatively safe airport, and stopped the third World War that no one knows about. Stopped two of them, actually," Sherlock added as an afterthought.
Wait, hold on," John clarified. "You can identify over fifty different kinds of tobacco, military school by a haircut, a software designer by his tie and an airplane pilot by his thumb –"
"John, you know I dislike unnecessary words, it wastes air. Rainforests being cut down and all."
"-but you don't know the position your brother occupies in the British Government? Seems a bit, uh…silly, Sherlock."
"Well, I don't know," Sherlock responded in good-humored irritation. "He's never told me."
"He's never told you, or you never paid attention?" John asked him knowingly.
"I always pay attention", Sherlock said under his breath as he looked around the restaurant distractedly. "Now, where's Jean? I forgot to order chips and salsa…"
"Jean?"
"Yes, Jean, our waitress."
"Her name tag said Julietta, Sherlock."
"She works at a Mexican restaurant, John, of course she's going to pick a Spanish name."
"Then how-"
"It's embroidered on the varsity high school T-shirt she's wearing under her uniform – ah, there she is! Excuse me, miss, could I get the chips and salsa while we're waiting?"
The waitress nodded, and soon they were munching on their order as they waited for their burritos to come out.
"So," John said through a mouthful of salsa, "You and Mycroft."
"John, you have my blessing."
John nearly choked. "What?!"
"In the time we have been in this restaurant, the only thing you have been interested about is Mycroft, and you did seem rather at a… loss for words at seeing him tonight. As you said, 'everything's fine'. Just warning you, though, I don't think you're his type."
If John hadn't known Sherlock better, he'd take his tone seriously, but looking up from his chip he saw his companion's eyes full of humor, and gave a chuckle that threatened to return the previous giggle fit from the crime scene.
"I know a cheap priest", John managed to choke out before they both erupted in laughter.
"But seriously," John said after he contained himself. "I didn't think you had any siblings."
Sherlock said nothing, biting into his recently-presented burrito.
"Look up to him, eh?"
It was Sherlock's turn to start choking. "What?!"
The smaller man shrugged and swallowed his own bite. "I dunno, I mean, you don't even know if he's mayor or prime minister, and yet you can count on him to pull all sorts of strings and even jam the traffic with a buggin' war-"
"That was a wonderful method called sarcasm, John."
John shrugged, getting the unspoken request. He dropped the subject and focused on his dinner, but he could tell that what he had said was making Sherlock think./p
It was a relatively peaceful night on the sidestreets, so they didn't take a cab once they were done with dinner, just plodded along, each absorbed in their own thoughts./p
It was relatively new thing for both of them, to enjoy the silent company of another person. For John, he still felt as if he should be looking around the corner for grenades or crawling on all fours in camo, praying against hope that there weren't snipers in the area. He had still spent a fair amount of time out of Afghanistan, but despite that civilian life was taking some serious getting used to, as if the therapist and (recently disappeared) psychosomatic limp hadn't been hint enough. Quiet walks through hazy London weren't usually his thing, but walking next to a man who seemed to look for war himself - albeit, a different kind of war - made life easier to readjust to.
As for Sherlock, he couldn't remember a single time outside of walks through mortuary corridors with Molly that a human being had willingly walked along with him in companionship for the last twenty years - since walking with Mycroft to school in the morning, at least. And even then, the older boy had never been able to completely hide his embarrassment at escorting his little brother that had the tendency to act like a pirate whenever he desired.
Sherlock had, for the longest time, convinced himself that human company was an unnecessary distraction, that anyone not on par with him mentally (which, so far, had been no one but Mycroft) was not fit for discussion unless necessary, that he could be satisfied with his skull and a good case. And to large extent, most of that remained true - but Sherlock could no longer deny that, every once in a while, human company... it was nice. Especially when said human wasn't in a body bag.
Sherlock gave a sideways glance towards his companion, noticing unfocused eyes also lost in thought, hands shoved in pockets from the chill, feet on autopilot towards the small flat already considered home.
The detective's brow furrowed as he remembered his prior conversation with his brother while he had been searching for the suitcase, apparently right before John had first met his so-called 'arch-nemesis'.
"Hello, dear Brother of mine."
"Mycroft, now is not the time. You do know how excited I get during -"
"Serial killings, yes. I heard", drawled Mycroft's voice on the other end of Sherlock's cell. The younger man had the strong desire to hang up and continue his search, but Mycroft hadn't called him for over two months and neither ever called the other simply to chat.
"What do you need, Mycroft? If you want me to investigate why you've been gaining weight, I suggest laying off the doughnuts."
Success. Sherlock could feel his brother's agitation through the phone. "This is more about what you."
Sherlock waited impatiently for him to continue. "John Watson", came the inadequate explanation.
"What of him, Mycroft?"
"Be careful around him."
Sherlock huffed. "He's not any sort of criminal, Mycro-"
"I know that", came the surprisingly harsh response. "I'm not concerned for your sake, Sherlock, I know you are perfectly capable of taking care of yourself."
"Spit it out, already."
"I'm sure you're aware of his military history, and his post-traumatic stress disorder." Sherlock stiffened. "You show people the war in London, Sherlock. For his sake as well as yours, do try not to break him. It would be such a shame."
Sherlock had angrily hung up the phone, annoyed with the three minutes of his life he would never get back from that conversation. Apparently something his brother had said had struck a chord with him, however, because he couldn't help noticing the sort of glassy film over the eyes of the soldier walking next to him and he felt a strange tug inside him that felt something akin to concern.
It was odd to think that the dead woman in the abandoned building had been found earlier that evening, that everything had taken place in a single night. To Sherlock, it was even stranger to think that in the single day his new flatmate had moved in with him, a strange but secret understanding between the two of them had formed that they knew each other better than anyone else they knew.
It was unnerving for Sherlock to realize how much he already trusted this man. He had, indeed, shot a cabbie not an hour prior to safe the life of a man he had just met. Sherlock wouldn't admit it, even to himself, but he somehow realized that if the old man hadn't been shot at that very moment, then yes, Sherlock would have taken the damn pill. Stupid, stupid. Better to analyze its chemical compound back in the flat than to risk your life in an abandoned college against a lunatic. Stupid.
Different emotions conflicted in the young detective's head as he thought about the entire situation. John Watson would be useful to him in the future, for sure - not only would he have an assistant to talk aloud to in previous cases, but this man who had before seemed so dim had figured out what was happening before Lestrade or any of the others, gotten there just in time, and hadn't hesitated to kill the cabbie once he knew that he had to. Even better were his reflexes, a soldier's reflexes - duck behind the window once you've been shot, don't allow yourself to be seen. He might be out of the war, but the war certainly was not out of him.
And then, concern. Genuine concern for another human being. Sherlock wondered what his adventures would do to this already damaged man - if it was the right choice to bring him along and give him a taste of what he left, or if that would be too much.
As said soldier zipped up his jacket against the biting cold of the night, Sherlock noticed with slight shock and worry that his hands were shaking. Of course, not a huge surprise to be found in a soldier with PTSD - but Sherlock couldn't help feeling a twinge of guilt. John seemed fine enough, but in all reality he had just flashed back to the days in which it was kill or be killed, and there was no telling what that had really done to him.
"And you're sure you're okay?"
The question startled John, having been lost in his own thoughts for the past ten or so blocks. "Pardon?"
"I said, you're sure you're okay? I could phone Lestrade for another shock blanket," Sherlock repeated. The last part had been a joke, John knew, but there was no doubt in his mind that the first part had been asked in genuine concern, which touched him.
"Sherlock, really, I'm fine."
"All right, then."
Silence once again fell, as John realized how far he really had went for this man he hadn't known for a even a week. He already cared for Sherlock more than anyone else in his life - except maybe Harry - and felt as if he'd known the arrogant man for years already.
These thoughts were abruptly cut off by a strong gust of wind, and John shivered as he pulled his jacket tighter against his body.
Suddenly, something warm was being wrapped around his neck. A scarf. John stuttered. "Y-you really don't need to-"
"Your teeth chattering was annoying me," Sherlock responded as he finished tightening the scarf and looked ahead in an effort to be detatched.
But looking up at the man for the briefest second, John knew that he saw a flash of concern in his eyes, and at once knew that this was where he belonged.
So, yeah. Sorry if the end was weird, I tried. Been wanting to write this for a while. Didn't come out exactly as I had planned it, but that's more due to lack of words than anything else. Hope you liked it. Please review!