This is just a little story for the times when I'm supposed to be revising… I'm going to fail my Maths exam anyway, but I can't really concentrate on a serious plot when there's a Maths revision guide staring at me. I thought of this idea whilst watching The Great Game, and figured, why not? A little adaptation of Twelfth Night for you. Enjoy!
WARNING- THIS FIC CONTAINS SHERLOCK OOC BEHAVIOUR, ANDERSON AND A HELL OF A LOT OF UNREQUITED LOVE (PARTICULARLY FOR LESTRADE).
Scene 1
"John, you've got to get out of this flat."
"I can't, you know that." John replied flatly. Harry glared at him, pissed off that he was being such an arse. He'd locked himself away for days and days, all because of some stupid new man he was fascinated with.
"This… George?"
"Greg!" He interjected, frowning at his sister. "Greg Lestrade."
"Whatever. This guy, surely he's not worth it?"
"You don't understand!" He got up out of his chair, running his hands through his hair desperately. "He's more than just some guy I met in a bar, he's… he's special."
Harry scowled at him, and then at the bombsite that her brother called a flat. How could he live like this? Piles and piles of books were stacked on the surfaces, food was left to go stale or mouldy wherever he'd left them, and cups of tea had been abandoned, forgotten, to go cold all over the apartment. Such a contrast to his usual, army lifestyle, where everything was cleaned with, well, military precision. This bloke had turned his life upside down. She glanced at the small stereo, playing some mournful, melancholic track about unrequited love.
"Surely you don't like this crap?"
"God no. It's terrible. It makes me ache, but maybe that way I can get this out of my system." He listened to it for a bit longer. "Actually, turn it off. I can't take it. God help me, I must be in love, I just can't make a decision about anything."
"In love?" Harry said, shocked. "Jesus Christ John, you've known him for a total of two days, how can-"
"The best two days of my life!" John yelled, collapsing onto the sofa, hugging a cushion to his chest and staring at the ceiling. "He completes me."
Harry snorted. "Bullshit."
John's face contorted with anger. "Get out!"
"What?" She laughed. "Come on, are you being serious?"
"Yes, I'm being serious! Out, now!"
Harry got up, sighing. "I'll come and see you tomorrow, ok? Provided you don't play that god awful music again." John hurled the cushion at her head, but she ducked and it knocked a picture off a shelf behind her. She smirked. "See you later." She heard John's lovesick groan before she left the house, John's landlady giving her a cheery wave. She sighed again as she signalled to a passing cab, cursing her brother's stupidity. He had no job, no life and soon he would lose his flat. She'd made him put an ad in the paper about finding a flat mate but so far all the people who'd turned up had made a quick exit. Who'd want to be saddled with a roommate who couldn't pay the rent and messed up the apartment? It was times like this that she really needed a drink. She glanced at a bar nearby, closed her eyes, and told the cabbie her address. She really shouldn't get into that again.
Scene 2
The flames could be seen from many miles around. Sherlock Holmes sat on the ground outside the burning house, huddled in an expensive, designer coat. The pavement was cold and dirty, but at that moment he didn't really care. He just felt numb.
He'd arrived home from the police station later than he'd planned, after a case had taken an interesting turn and he'd become distracted. Which was why he'd survived the arson attack on his home, the house that he'd lived in all his life and his family had owned for generations. He'd lived there with his brother, Mycroft, since their mother and father had died, and had always assumed it would stay around forever. He had no friends and no other family. And now…
A policeman crouched down beside him, looking sympathetic. "You're lucky to be alive. If you hadn't been late home tonight then you probably would have died." Sherlock said nothing, and continued to stare blankly across the road at the other houses. "We… I'm afraid we can't find your brother. I'm sorry, but it's likely that he died in the fire."
"Is there any chance he survived?" There was no expression in his voice; he spoke in a low monotone that gave little away.
The policeman looked at him and patted his shoulder gently. "I suppose it's possible. Don't give up hope. But it's unlikely that-"
"Thank you." Sherlock got up, smoothed down his coat, and began to walk away.
"Hey! Wait up! Have you got anywhere you can stay?" Sherlock stopped but did not turn around.
"Yes," he lied. "Don't worry about me."
"I need to take your contact details."
"Err," he said, faltering slightly. He thought of who out of his various acquaintances would be likely to take him in. A memory of a kind woman in her early sixties floated into his head. "221B Baker Street. I think I'll be staying there tonight." He told the officer his mobile number and then left, the cool night's breeze biting at his neck. He knew exactly who had done this- Moriarty was determined to torture him. He would never be so stupid as to try and kill him in such a random, unpredictable way, so clearly he just wanted to destroy something important to him. And in a way the house had been important to him, but not in a good way. The death of his brother lurked in his mind, and he felt guilty for not feeling sad. Maybe he was alive, maybe he wasn't, but Sherlock couldn't pretend that he and Mycroft had been close.
Scene 3
Molly heard a clash of something falling to the floor and put her head in her hands. Sally Donovan staggered into the office, clutching her head and groaning.
"You were supposed to be in half an hour ago," she said plainly. "Lestrade's going to do his nut when he sees you, you know that?"
Sally moaned again, her ears still ringing from the sound of the bin she'd knocked over.
"You know he doesn't like you going out before your shift starts," Molly continued.
"He can get used to it. It's not my problem." Sally mumbled, hands clasped tightly around a mug of steaming hot coffee.
"You can't come in for work like this again Sally! I'm not going to cover for you!"
Sally rolled her eyes. "Alright, alright. Fuck Molly, it's not like I've asked you to do anything absurd."
"Last time you went out you tried to set Lestrade up with bloody Dimmock, and I was the one who had to explain the graffiti in the toilets! What were you doing in the men's room anyway?"
Sally giggled. "Wouldn't you like to know. And Dimmock's a nice bloke! A catch in fact, Lestrade would be perfect for him. Tall, handsome, well off-"
"He flashes his cash around and you know it. I bet he spends it all on booze." Molly snapped back.
"Oh whatever. He's a clever guy, he knows three languages you know. He nurses the biggest crush on Lestrade, too."
"He's too argumentative for Lestrade. He could start a fight in an empty room."
Sally glared at her, then caught a glance of D.I Dimmock entering the office. "Here he comes now." Dimmock gave Sally a smile and Molly a curt nod. Sally smirked. "Say, Dimmock, how's about cheering up Molly a bit, eh? She's being miserable at the moment."
Dimmock gave her a small smile. "Well I'm sure we can arrange something." He leered at her, eyes surveying her petite body. Molly looked outraged, and left without saying a word. Dimmock and Sally burst into hysterical laughter. Sally wiped her eyes, still grinning.
"You should stop that, she doesn't know that you don't like women."
"It's too fun to stop," he grinned cruelly. "Going out tonight Donovan?"
"Definitely. I'll drink you under the table."
He laughed. "Whatever. I'm going off shift now, I'll see you later."
"Come out looking better than you did yesterday. You looked like crap."
"What?" he said, offended. "Why? What was wrong with me?"
"Your hair for starters."
Dimmock grabbed Sally's mirror from her desk and frantically messed with his hair. "What's wrong with it?"
"It's just so bland… Don't you do anything with it?"
"No! I didn't think it needed anything!" He looked genuinely upset, so Sally took pity on him.
"I saw that stalker guy around here again yesterday. Looking for Lestrade."
Dimmock looked annoyed. "Surely there's some law against that? What makes him think he's got a chance anyway?"
"I don't know, he's quite attractive. I had a chat with him the other day, he's an army doctor. You've got to love a man in uniform."
Dimmock scowled. "Lestrade's not interested. He's not interested in anyone," he said dejectedly.
Sally smiled. "Don't worry mate. I've got a plan, just forget about it for now. See you tonight." He perked up considerably, and gave her a smile before he left. Sally grinned and began to file her nails, her hangover already feeling a little better.
Scene 4
Mrs Hudson had embraced him tightly when Sherlock had arrived on her doorstep, and welcomed him into her home. He was unused to such displays of affection and felt slightly uncomfortable, but appreciated the thought. He'd sat in her warm living room with a cup of tea, explaining his predicament to her whilst she fussed over him.
"You poor love. So you have nowhere to live?"
"No. This is why I came to visit you, Mrs Hudson. I know you had a flat that you wanted to rent out, and I was wondering if it would still be-"
Mrs Hudson's face fell. "I'm sorry my dear, but I've got a tenant now."
Sherlock gave her a weak smile. "Ah, well, it's ok then. Thank you for the tea in any case Mrs Hudson."
He got up to leave, but bumped into a man in the hallway of the large house.
"Ah," said Mrs Hudson. "This is my tenant, John. John, this is Sherlock." John smiled warmly at Sherlock, and something about it made his knees weaken. The man was shorter than him, around 5 foot 7, but he seemed to have a much larger presence. He smelled faintly of toothpaste and tea, but it wasn't unpleasant. On the contrary, it was endearing.
"Hi," Sherlock mumbled, his usual cold and calculating personality banished by the man's smile.
"Hey. You're a friend of Mrs Hudson?"
"Yeah…" He felt ridiculous. This was an awful first impression, if he couldn't string a sentence together, how was he going to make this man like him? He frowned, since when did he care what anyone thought about him? But this guy, this John, he had bewitched Sherlock from the moment he laid eyes upon him. Something about the way he stood, his short, military haircut that was a shade between brown and blonde, the way he'd licked his lips before he'd said hello. Suddenly he realised the conversation had carried on without him.
"You're homeless? God, that's awful. Can't he stay here?" said John, looking concerned.
"I've got no room in my little apartment John," said Mrs Hudson. "That is, unless you could give him your spare room for a while?"
John smiled. "Sure."
"I've got money, I can pay the rent," Sherlock blurted out.
"That would be helpful. I'm finding it hard to get it together as it is."
Sherlock smiled at John, the first genuine smile he'd given for a while. "Thank you so much."
"Don't worry about it."
That had marked the beginning of something… bizarre. Sherlock and John had grown close, laughing and joking and forgetting together. John seemed to level Sherlock's otherwise hectic mind, and Sherlock was a brilliant distraction for John. Meanwhile, Sherlock had fallen for John and some new, twisted emotion was growing in his chest. When John was out, which was mercifully rare, he missed him and worried about him. He wanted to please him, to make him proud… He wanted him to love him. Which is why he was thoroughly depressed to find out from John's sister that he was irrevocably in love with someone he knew. She'd come round to see John on one of his infrequent trips out.
"Who the hell are you?" she cried, dropping the bag of shopping she was holding.
"I'm Sherlock," he said politely, holding out a hand. "I live here."
"You're John's new flatmate?" she said, incredulous.
"Uh, yeah," he said awkwardly. She smiled, and put the shopping down on the kitchen table. Sherlock sat down on the sofa. "You're John's sister?"
"Yeah. Harry Watson," she beamed at him. "Did you manage to get him to go out? I salute you sir."
"Well, I have my moments." He was trying to be friendly and polite but he got the feeling that he looked absurd.
She grinned at him. "I've heard a lot about you. He seems to like you, he's only known you three days and he's already treating you like a best mate."
Sherlock smiled, sincerely this time. "Thank you. But when you say it like that it makes me scared that he'll change his mind."
"I doubt it. He's taken a shine to you." At that moment, John arrived back at the flat. He looked worse than Sherlock had ever seen him, eyes slightly red from crying. Harry wrapped her arm around his shoulder and sat him down. Sherlock stood awkwardly by the door.
"John, what's wrong?" said Harry desperately.
"Greg…" he said sadly. "He wouldn't come and see me. I love him Harry, what am I going to do?" His voice cracked and his tears threatened to overflow. Sherlock was unsure what to do, they seemed to have forgotten he was here. As if he had read his mind- oh how perceptive the man could be sometimes- John smiled apologetically at him. "Sorry Sherlock. You don't know, do you? I… I'm in love with this guy…" Sherlock's heart felt like it had shattered. Whilst this cleared up the issue of John's sexuality, which he had been pondering for days, this also dashed any hope of a relationship with him. Sherlock tried not to let his disappointment show on his face.
"Oh… And he, he doesn't…"
"Yeah…" John's voice trembled again. "I don't know what I'm going to do now." He got up and walked quickly into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Harry sighed.
"I thought he'd gotten over him for one moment."
"Who is this guy?" asked Sherlock, resisting the urge to track him down and shake him for rejecting such a perfect man.
"His name's Greg Lestrade. He's a police officer and John met him by chance in some bar."
"Wait, Greg Lestrade?" cried Sherlock.
"Yeah… Why?"
"I know that guy!" John bound out of his room. He had clearly been listening through the thin walls.
"You know him?" He asked, eyes bright with hope.
"Yeah…I've worked with him…"
"You're a policeman too?"
"No… I'm a consulting detective. Whenever the police are out of their depth, which is always, they call me." He hoped this might impress John but he wasn't listening properly.
"So you see him a lot? You have to talk to him for me!" John looked so ecstatically happy that Sherlock was unsure what to do. He glanced at Harry, willing her to help, but she looked as confused as him.
"I don't know… We don't really know each other that well…"
"Oh, please, I'm begging you. He'll be more likely to listen to you than me, you're younger and more attractive so he'll pay more attention."
Sherlock would have asked him how this would have worked in John's favour, but was distracted. Had John just called him attractive?
"W-What?"
"You're more attractive than me. You've got this sort of allure that will draw him in; it does with everyone around you."
Sherlock was unsure how to take this. It was a compliment, but he was clearly still thinking about Lestrade. That lucky bastard. Now Sherlock thought about it, he remembered Lestrade mentioning some guy had been stalking him… What an odd turn of events…
"Please help me," said John desperately. He took Sherlock's hand and his fingers began to tingle from the contact.
"… I'll do my best…"
John pulled him into a tight hug, and Sherlock felt faint from the heat between them. "Thank you so much."
Harry looked at Sherlock's expression and gave him a knowing look. She smiled once, and then went to make herself a cup of tea. Sherlock closed his eyes and scolded himself- this was going to get awkward.
Scene 5
Lestrade sat at his desk, drinking the lukewarm coffee that Molly had made for him. It was weak and didn't taste of much but he didn't really care much. It was his second day back at work since his brother had died… He wasn't really in the mood for police work right now, but was feeling a little guilty for shouting at the man he'd met in the bar around two weeks ago. He'd looked so upset, but at the time he'd been so angry about his brother that he didn't care. It was bad enough having to see his family again after a good ten years apart, then he had to bury someone so close to him. He sighed and put his head in his hands. Anderson knocked on the door and didn't wait for a reply. Lestrade sighed again. "What is it Anderson?"
"Holmes is back. He wants to speak to you."
"Tell him to go away."
"I don't blame you. He's a sociopath and he won't give a shit what's happened to you this week."
"Please, Anderson, is this all about him exposing your affair to the whole office?"
Anderson scowled. "No, I disliked him long before now."
"If you weren't so antisocial all the time then Sherlock's little jokes wouldn't bother you."
Molly stepped into the office. "Lestrade, I'd go now if I were you. Sally's got herself near him and I don't think it will end well."
"Shit. Right, Anderson, tell him to go away, will you? I'm not in the mood."
Anderson left, looking disgruntled. Lestrade sat back down in his chair just before Sally burst into the room, eyes blazing and looking furious.
"Doesn't anyone knock anymore?" he said weakly. "What's wrong Sally?"
"Him!" she yelled. "I can't take him anymore! He says he won't leave, no matter what you say. You can't let him do this to you Lestrade, he's making us look like idiots!"
Anderson re-entered. "She's right, he won't take no for an answer. He says he's come about John, or something. Who's John?"
Lestrade frowned. "Right. Send him in then, if he insists."
Anderson and Sally both stalked away angrily, whilst Molly mumbled something about touching up her makeup. Lestrade smiled at the thought of Sherlock. Though he hid it well, he had grown attatched to the strange, impossible man… And had even developed some deeper feelings for him. Lestrade blushed at the thought of Sherlock ever finding out, however. Sherlock arrived, again not knocking but sitting in the chair beside his desk.
"First things first," Lestrade began. "How do you know about John?"
"By some twist of fate, I am now living with him. He's my new flatmate."
Lestrade laughed. "How odd! But, why are you here?"
"I'm here…" Sherlock paused, a pained expression on his face. "I'm here to ask you to see John again."
"What?" said Lestrade, shocked. "You're joking, right?"
"No!" said Sherlock indignantly. "Why don't you like him?"
"It's not that he's not nice, Sherlock, but I… My brother passed away recently and-"
"How recently?" he interrupted.
"Err, about 3 weeks ago…"
"Then surely you're not still upset?" Lestrade gaped Sherlock, disbelief etched all over his tired face. Sherlock frowned. "Not good?"
"A bit not good, yeah. I forgot you were a sociopath."
"Look, Lestrade, John's really crazy about you," Lestrade couldn't detect what the other emotion was in Sherlock's voice. The usually bored baritone was tainted with something that he couldn't figure out. "He'd love to see you again; it's all he's thinking about. You should be flattered."
"He's getting a little… obsessive, isn't he?"
"Well, why not? You're an attractive enough man, you've got nice eyes and nice hair and a nice smile and-"
"You sound like you're just listing these off Sherlock," he said uncomfortably, though he was rather pleased that Sherlock had noticed them.
"And John adores you. You should see him, all he does is cry and groan about how much he loves you."
Lestrade felt a blush creep up the back of his neck. "I'm sure he's a very nice guy Sherlock, I mean, he's very intelligent, kind, funny too, but I just… I just don't like him in that way. I've told him that before, I don't know why he doesn't understand."
"If I loved you with a fraction of the passion that he does then I wouldn't understand your rejection either." Sherlock said this with quiet menace and Lestrade was taken aback. Who knew that Sherlock understood feelings?
"… Sherlock, I… There's no point in you trying. I'll never… I'm just not attracted to him."
Sherlock gave Lestrade a piercing glare. "You know what, you don't deserve him," he spat bitterly. "You treat his love like it's some sort of joke. I'll see you later." Sherlock left with a twirl of his long coat, storming out of the office and sending passers by reeling in his wake. Lestrade was embarrassed to find his heart pounding heavily in his chest. Though he knew Sherlock's insult should have left him angry, it just made him long for the man more. This new found… intensity, the anger and the vehemence of his visit had just added Lestrade's mental list of reasons to love him.
Lestrade coughed, trying to shake the feelings out of his head. Unsure of what to do, he ripped a small piece of paper and wrote down his mobile number. "Anderson!"
Anderson slunk into the room, still annoyed about Sherlock's arrival. "What?"
"Run after Sherlock and give him this back," he passed Anderson the paper. "He insisted on giving it to me."
"What? No! I'm not your-"
"Anderson! Please, just do it."
"Fine," he sighed, and took the paper roughly from his hands, shutting the door a little louder than was totally necessary. Lestrade sat back down in his chair, running his hands through his hair.
"What the hell am I doing?" he muttered to himself. "Letting myself fall for Sherlock… I'm a fool. Not thinking straight. But still…" He sipped at his coffee. "Maybe it's fate?"
Like it? Then review!
Thanks for reading,
Cryptic Nymph.