A/N: My second foray into the Sherlockian world. Here I try to get to know the characters a bit better through a series of six vignettes, all from John's perspective. Pre-slash without squinting too hard, but we also have John/OFC here.
~One~
He'd just killed a man.
Not a particularly nice man. A ticking time bomb, according to Sherlock, and in more ways than one.
He'd shot the man from behind, for Christ's sake. Through two windows.
To save Sherlock Holmes. His…what? Friend? Flat mate? Casual acquaintance, more like?
To save him from a serial killer. That last part at least helped with any feelings of guilt he might have.
He was a bit surprised he didn't have any.
But what - what - was he doing chasing after serial killers?
Or associating with people named Mycroft or Sherlock? Or anyone that was on the tail of a serial killer?
And being kidnapped – could he call it that? Being whisked away by Mycroft Holmes in a black sedan and offered money to turn informant.
Did he offer you money to spy on me? Sherlock had asked him. Then Pity, we could have split the fee. Think it through next time.
"Something amusing?" Sherlock's voice was quiet, casual.
John jerked his head up. Sherlock was looking out the window.
"No. Nothing at all." The cab swerved too fast around a stalled car.
That's true, he was a bad cabbie. You should've seen the route he took us to get here.
John looked out the opposite window and smiled.
~Two~
Something woke him. He groaned as he rolled off his shoulder. He realized he was still on the sofa when his feet kicked the arm as he stretched.
The sitting room was dark and quiet. He lay still, listening for the sound – it must have been a sound that roused him– to repeat.
But nothing. Not a single cricket chirp out of place.
He sat up, waiting for his eyes to grow accustomed to the dark before trying to make his way upstairs.
Oh.
Sherlock was here, stretched out on a chair, head back, sprawled into sleep.
In the short time John had known Sherlock Holmes, he'd never seen the man asleep. He was always working, bent over the laptop or piddling around the kitchen engaged in activities not at all related to food preparation, when John went up to bed. Most days, John was awake, showered, and through the morning paper (and a mug or two of tea) before Sherlock turned up, always fully dressed and groomed, looking for all the world as if he'd just returned from a morning meeting with his solicitor.
When did the man shower? John couldn't remember ever seeing him unshaven, or with wet hair. Of course, he was gone some mornings now, at the surgery, and it amused him to think that Sherlock only bathed when John was away from the flat.
Sherlock snorted in his sleep.
It wasn't a snore – not exactly – but it was definitely an undignified noise. Akin to one of Sherlock's giggles when they were holed up somewhere where they should decidedly not be giggling.
John relaxed back into the sofa cushions, working his stiff shoulder in small circles. He stretched his neck to the side, all the while watching Sherlock sleep.
He took up the entire chair, and more. His posture indicated trust. Comfort. From time to time, he would make a quiet noise – a long inhaled breath, a sigh, a whistled exhale.
As his eyes grew more accustomed to the darkness, John realized that Sherlock couldn't see the telly from the chair in which he was sleeping.
There was no book in his lap, or on the table, or on the floor beside the chair. No empty mug, no plate with toast crumbs, no stack of papers.
No laptop. No cell phone. No telltale outline of same in Sherlock's pocket.
What, then, had brought Sherlock to that chair? And why had he fallen asleep there, facing the sofa on the windowless wall?
Watching him sleep.
No. Why would Sherlock watch him sleep?
And what was keeping him here now…watching Sherlock?
~Three~
John may have never seen Sherlock leave the bathroom with wet hair after a shower, but as it was the only bath in the flat, it would be impossible not to compete for it from time to time. The bathroom was compact – better yet, efficient – with commode, bathtub and washstand, glass shelving and a narrow, under-sized cupboard. There were two hooks on the back of the door; one hung a full foot higher than the other, as if the previous tenants had personalized them for their differing heights.
But what astonished John most about this room the first time he'd used it was not the convenient arrangement of the hooks, or the rather old-fashioned commode, or the laptop power supply dangling down from the wall outlet. No, what surprised him was the neatness, the downright orderliness, of the little space. Had he had doubts that Sherlock Holmes was a human being, he would have said the man simply didn't use the room.
But unless he was ducking down to Mrs. Hudson's for more than tea, Sherlock did use it. There was ample evidence that someone did – though it was difficult to believe that it was the same someone that inhabited the remainder of the flat. The sitting room, the kitchen, the stairway and corridor – all were subject to the entropy that was Sherlock Holmes. The flat was cluttered, not dirty, though saying it was merely cluttered was an understatement. A second-hand store was cluttered. A child's playroom was cluttered. The clutter in those places was predictable.
The clutter in 221B was not.
Well fine. He supposed it was somewhat predictable. Books and papers. The foundation was books, the frosting papers. Between them might be found any number of electronic gadgets, power strips and charging cords and media storage devices, a jar of preserved thumbs from an experiment on altering human fingerprints. Photographs, maps, a cardboard box filled with two hundred perfume samples, a collection of fabric swatches.
No, this room did not resemble the rest of the flat in the least. It was orderly. Organized. Not a hair out of place.
There were precisely three items in the shower. Shampoo in an oddly-shaped, unmarked bottle, leading John to wonder if Sherlock made his own shampoo, or kept this particular bottle for its interesting shape and refilled it when it was empty. Soap. An expensive-looking square in a rich cream color. A thick white flannel, folded once and draped over the side of the tub.
The usual bathroom items were either missing altogether or out of sight. No toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, comb, brush, razor, shaving cream. The soap near the sink was the liquid type that turned to foam when dispensed from a pump. The hand towel was dark blue, plain, but soft and expensive. It was precisely the type of towel that should have a monogram.
It occurred to John, weeks into his flat share with Sherlock, to wonder why he was wiping down the bathtub to remove any stray hairs left there after he used it. He would lift his own bottle of shampoo, wipe beneath it, press it into the corner where water would pool and dry.
Just leaving the shower how I found it, he told himself.
But why was Sherlock Holmes so meticulous about cleanliness and order in the loo when the rest of the flat resembled the storage archives of the British Museum?
"An organized disaster," Mrs. Hudson had told him. "You could lose a baby elephant in that flat but he always knows exactly where his keys and mobile are."
John ultimately concluded (long before the day when he would simply ask Sherlock why there was never a stray hair in the bathtub) that Sherlock simply didn't want his DNA lying around.
~Four~
The cab ride home was nearly silent. Sherlock should have been sleeping. Hell, he – John – should have been sleeping. Or laughing uncontrollably. Or pinching himself in the arm or the shoulder and delighting in the fact that he could feel the pinch, that he could operate his fingers to pinch at all.
And Sherlock, who had been on a frantic, not-stop pace for days and days and days, he should be unconscious. Moriarty was out of their reach now, and there were no sniper marks on either of them (John glanced over at Sherlock and checked again, quickly, just to be sure).
Adrenalin highs were one thing. But for John, they only balanced out the danger when he was in control. When the gun was in his hand. Or when the escape had been his own doing.
Sherlock didn't speak until they were only blocks from home.
"This can't end well."
A simple statement. Loaded with meaning.
His hand shook as he unlocked the door to 221B. John, just behind him, wished he would hurry.
Sherlock, unnerved, unnerved John.
Fifteen minutes later, he was in the shower, hands flat on the wall and hot water pulsing against his tense back, when the music started.
John closed his eyes. He had become accustomed to these violin performances which were not at all performances. Bursts of energy. Long, keening wails. Victory celebrations. Strokes and touches building to crescendos.
Release.
The notes, today, were slow and sweet. Low and seductive. He felt the music as much as he heard it. It was seldom anything he recognized. Sherlock humored him, on occasion, playing a piece he requested from his limited knowledge of the classics – something he'd heard at wedding or funeral. Can you play that piece from the Queen Mum's funeral? You know, the one… But most of the time, he simply played.
Today, the notes were deliberate. He imagined them marching in one by one under the door, then regrouping, reorganizing, filling the empty air around him. Bathing him, cleansing him, as surely as the water did. He sighed as the tempo of the music changed, rolled his shoulders, then relaxed forward, bending his elbows. He found his hand straying down to his cock as it brushed the tiled wall.
He took his time, pacing himself with the music. Long, slow strokes until the tempo increased, then quick pulls, drawn out rests. Still facing the wall, hot water on his back, one arm and shoulder pressed against the tiles, legs slightly spread, calves taut.
He came with the climax of the piece, head back, eyes closed, tension bleeding out of him, wrapping around the dying chords and draining away with the spent water.
Christ, he had needed that. After this day.
It didn't occur to him until later (days, weeks, months) that Sherlock must have known that.
~Five~
Sherlock Holmes' brain played on fast forward, two steps ahead and one step sideways from the rest of the world.
His body struggled to keep up. And bodies had their limits.
The first injury John patched up was on Sherlock's hand. He was with Sherlock when it happened, a badly jammed finger, and John had sorted it out as soon as they got back to 221B. He'd made Sherlock sit keep an ice pack on it afterwards, and there hadn't been any violin playing for a week.
The splinters were next. A dozen of them, some lateral and easy to remove, others broken tips of thorns, deep in the flesh. It had taken John more than an hour to get them all. He'd cursed several times, and groused that he wanted a discount on the next month's rent for the time it was saving Sherlock waiting to see a doctor at the surgery. Sherlock's fingers were extremely sensitive, and he struggled to hold them still so John could work. Staying still, John realized, was not Sherlock's strong suit.
He watched Sherlock favor his left foot for two days before he broke down and asked what had happened, then insisted that Sherlock let him treat it. There was nothing for it at the time but removing what was left of the toenail and cleaning it thoroughly. Sherlock Holmes was not a good patient.
John was there for the broken nose. He'd ended up with a black eye himself in the brawl, but Sherlock's injury was far worse and much messier. It hadn't required surgery – though John had suggested he'd go in for a second opinion (a suggestion that Sherlock has simply ignored) – and John had set it to rights, working with clinical, practiced hands as if Sherlock was just any other patient coming in after a domestic with a bloody, misshapen nose.
"Handy having a doctor about the house," Sherlock had said after John was finished. He was reclined on the sofa, head elevated, nose bandaged, ice pack applied, peering at John's eye, which was nearly swollen shut. "And speaking of doctors, I think you could use one."
By the time Sherlock was shot – grazed by a bullet, really, but John didn't know that at first – he thought of himself as Sherlock's personal physician.
He knew his blood type, allergies, resting heart rate and when he'd last had a tetanus shot.
He suspected, when he came home that day, from the blood on the tile at the bottom of the stairs, that he wasn't going to have a restful evening.
He'd found an inside-out pair of trousers tangled with a pair of bloody pants in the bathroom – clearly violating Sherlock's "don't leave my DNA about" rule. His shirt was draped over the side of the tub, his coat on the back of the commode. The towel was missing.
He followed blood droplets to Sherlock's bedroom door. He pushed the door open without knocking.
"Hello, John. You're home early."
He was home early. The stars had aligned properly for once and he'd gotten through his patient list early and had gotten a cab within a minute of walking outside.
Sherlock was wearing a dressing gown. He had a towel bundled against his hip, on the outside of the garment.
John hadn't expected to find him dead – not really – but finding him on his feet looking like he was getting ready for a shower was startling.
"Anything you'd care to share with me?" he asked, taking a step forward and staring at the towel. "And do you plan to clean the blood up before Mrs. Hudson slips in it and falls down the stairs?"
"Mrs. Hudson is at her sister's until six o'clock. The blood will be tacky by then. Her shoe would be more likely to stick to it then slide through it." He removed the towel and looked at it. There was a great deal of blood. He frowned.
It was the first time John pushed Sherlock onto his bed, the first time he touched his arse.
The only time Sherlock lay still and unmoving beneath his fingers.
"You should have gone to the hospital," John said, tiredly, as he worked.
"They'd have given me another tetanus shot," said Sherlock, his voice muffled by the pillow he'd pressed his face into.
"You just had one," said John.
"I know," said Sherlock.
"Wouldn't kill you to have another," said John.
"Might."
When he finished working, the wound was clean, closed and bandaged. John stood for a moment, staring at the line of Sherlock's hip, the curve of his arse. The pale skin. Soft flesh. Sculpted lines.
He shook his head. Blinked. He was tired. Long day followed by … this.
"John?"
"You owe me dinner. Somewhere expensive."
He turned and left the room before Sherlock could see the blush on his face.
~Six~
The next woman John takes to bed is tall and thin. She has pale skin and a short mop of dark, curly hair. She is beautiful in every way, though her voice is high-pitched and she likes football and is obsessed with the royals.
She lies half-naked on the bed, stretched out on her side, dressing gown pushed up to bare her legs and arse. He sits on the bed beside her, caresses her hip with his hand, works his fingers over the pale skin, the soft flesh, the sculpted lines.
Bends to press his lips against the flesh.
"John," she says, drawing his name out in a breathy moan.
"Shhh," he answers. "Shhh."
fin