A/N: This should be read as a sequel to my story "Afternoon Tea." Both are part of my ongoing series, "The Boys Next Door". Enjoy!
It was another month before John caught so much as a glimpse of the neighbors after Mrs. Hudson's exceptionally odd tea party and, as the pattern that seemed to be forming in John Watson's life dictated, it did not happen as he had imagined it, with another awkward tea or, God forbid, another late night showdown. Instead, it happened quite by accident.
Sherlock was off in Pakistan (something about a string of strangely related jewel thefts in Karachi) when Sarah rung him. Apparently a nasty virus was going around at the surgery and they were seriously understaffed. Always eager to help a friend, John of course agreed to step in.
He was walking home from the Tube when he saw it- a sleek black sedan, not unlike one of Mycroft's dark sentinels, parked about 223 Baker Street. Instantly, John's soldier instincts kicked in, causing him to duck behind his own building as a curious scene played out before him.
223's door opened up, revealing none other than Jim Moriarty in an uncharacteristic state of disarray. Still impeccably put together, there was something…off in his appearance. He looked unusually haggard, and his hair was somewhat ruffled, as though he had been running his hands through it in distress only moments earlier.
He could hear Moriarty speaking in hushed, urgent whispers with the driver, who exited the vehicle to open the back door, out of which two men emerged, one leaning heavily on the other. The driver rushed to assist them, he and the passenger carrying the injured man between them while Jim held the door open. If John didn't know any better, he would have said that the consulting criminal seemed nervous.
As the party made their way as quietly as they could into the building, the injured man's face was caught in the glow of a street lamp, and John was not all too surprised to see Sebastian Moran, despite his being almost bruised and beaten beyond recognition. Still, this glimpse was all that John needed before the whole group was spirited away, off of the sidewalk and into the mysterious territory of the Morans' flat.
For a moment, all John could do was stare as the door shut and the car drove off into the night.
He already knew about Sebastian's side job from Sherlock. On more than one occasion he had peered out the window to see him slipping out his door and into the London fog, the darkness seeming to swallow him. Still, seeing Sebastian in his sorry state drove the nature of his work home. In earning his living through blood, living often got bloody.
Finally, John collected himself enough to go in and walk up the steps to his own flat to ponder what he'd seen.
Within two weeks, Sherlock had returned to Baker Street. This amount of time seemed uncharacteristically long for someone who was known to solve some of London's toughest cases in under an hour.
Still, life at 221B resumed its normal pace, or one as close to normal as 221B ever got. Soon enough, they received another tea invite, this time at Mrs. Turner's flat. Once again John replied before Sherlock cold refuse, although he seemed less reluctant this time.
John and Sherlock arrived early, the former putting the kettle on so that Mrs. Turner could rest her knee, as it was particulary bad that day. Her flat was very cozy much like Mrs. Hudson's, but with the addition of two cats and a profusion of doilies.
Sherlock was examining the patterns of dust on one doily in particular when Jim Moran marched through the door, Sebastian Moran in toe, his foot in a cast.
"Hello!" Jim piped cheerily as Seb smiled in acknowledgement.
"Hello, boys!" Mrs. Hudson replied from her seat as they came to sit own.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson," replied Sebastian, seating himself across from John once again.
"My, dear! Whatever happened to your foot?" Mrs. Hudson asked, noticing the cast.
"Oh this?" Sebastian looked down, as if he'd forgotten the cast was there. "Had a nasty fall on some stairs. I fractured it."
"Oh, you poor dear!" Mrs. Hudson crooned. "That must have been awful."
"Oh, it was," Sebastian replied, a strange flicker of pain in his eyes. "But they certainly got worse from me."
The three other men in the room knew that Sebastian was no longer talking about stairs.
The conversation drifted from Sebastian's leg to Mrs. Turner's knee to Mrs. Hudson's hip, then finally to John's shoulder.
"It doesn't hurt much now," he said in response to a question from Mrs. Turner. "Every now and then I might get a twinge, though."
"You should try some of Jimmy's tea. Makes me feel better in a tic," she responded.
"She's right," Sebastian added. "Had a cup after my fall. Certainly eased some of the pain."
"Thanks," John replied, not sure what else to say. "I-I'll have to remember that for next time."
As with their last tea, awkward silence again reigned on Baker Street, only to be finally broken by Mrs. Turner.
"So how's your father Seb?" she asked, pouring herself a second cup of tea.
"He's doing very well," Sebastian replied. "Retirement really is the best thing for him. A man of his age should not have to handle such stressful matters."
"His father was the ambassador to Iraq," Mrs. Turner told Sherlock and John, a hint of pride in her voice.
"Really?" John replied, genuinely interested.
"Yes, for a number of years. I spent most of my youth in England with my mother, though," Sebastian replied.
"What about you, John? I don't remember ever hearing much about your parents," Mrs. Hudson asked.
"Oh, well mine passed away a few years ago. It's just me and Harry now," John said, sipping his own tea.
"And how is she, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked, a maternal spark in her voice.
"Very well. She and Clara are back together," John replied.
"Well that's just lovely," Mrs. Hudson smiles. "And Mycroft's been keeping busy, I assume?" she asked, turning to Sherlock.
"Despite a minor hiccup a few months back, yes," Sherlock replied with a not-so-furtive glance at Jim, who sipped his tea innocently.
"I've been seeing a lot more of him down at the Yard," John added. "Wonder why that is."
Sherlock didn't answer, favoring an eye roll as he sipped his tea.
Yet another silence, this one even more awkward, settled over them.
After five minutes, Jim cleared his throat loudly.
"I love what you've done with the place, Mrs. T," he gushed, practically ogling at the multitude of doilies and the rose colored paint on the walls. "I'd love to do something like this with our flat. Seb would never stand for it though," he grinned at his husband, who rolled his eyes in response.
He sighed. "Jim, you know that I have no stomach for pink, or for lace for that matter," adding a "Sorry Mrs. Turner," before sipping his tea.
"I understand dear," Mrs. Turner replied with a smile.
"Does yours do this, John?" Sebastian asked suddenly, his voice brimming with exasperated familiarity.
John was momentarily shocked. There he was having tea with the world's most dangerous criminal mind, whose hitman husband was now addressing him with a candid attempt at commiseration.
After what felt like endless awkward hours (but only turned out to be several stunned moments) John replied.
"Sherlock? Oh, no. If he had it his way, we probably wouldn't even have wallpaper."
"It's distracting," Sherlock muttered into his cup. "And besides, I always end up damaging it somehow."
"Exactly. I don't understand why you don't get that, Jim."
"But Seb, the flat could do with a little color!" Jim whined as Sebastian rolled his eyes yet again.
"And color it has, Jim. That brilliant red paint job was your idea…"
The tea ended with maternal hugs and somewhat feigned smiles, along with promises of teas to come.
Sherlock and John walked Mrs. Hudson to her flat, smiling at her as they mounted the stairs.
"When was the bad hit?" Sherlock asked John later as he plucked the strings of his violin absently.
"About a month ago when you were away," John replied. Sherlock's pizzicato paused almost imperceptibly. "I actually watched them carry him up. Whoever it was really did a number on him. He's lucky he got out of that with just a fractured leg."
"You saw it?" Sherlock asked.
"Yes. I noticed the car then ducked behind our building. J-Moriarty was all out of sorts," John replied.
"Almost lost his weapon, definite grounds for panic," Sherlock mused, fingers caressing the fingerboard.
"It wasn't just that, Sherlock. He really does care about Moran, psychopathic as he is."
Sherlock eyed John skeptically as he lifted his instrument before opening his mouth to contradict him. However, he thought better of it, and instead played some Debussy.
In this universe, I thought that Sarah and John would just be really good friends. It doesn't seem like John still works at the clinic, what with constantly helping Sherlock, but I thought he'd be willing to step in if needed.
In canon, Seb's father was the minister to Persia, so I thought Iraq was pretty close. It'll make sense later in the story. So will my putting Harry and Clara back together (also, I just love those two)
Thanks for reading! As always, constructive criticism is appreciated!