And yes, I'm finally starting with the one story that I've been excited about for a long time: my take on the Adventure of The Gloria Scott. Past Viclock, Established Johnlock, Unilock, student/teacher-thing, massive case in Part II
PART I: Chapter One
John was, to put it in the shortest way, pissed.
To put it in a slightly longer way involved quite a story.
The most regular visitor at 221B Baker Street was Mrs. Hudson (and her much loved trifles and baking pleasures), followed by DI Lestrade and then Bill Wiggins, who claimed himself to be Sherlock's protégé (and Sherlock denied that almost every time he staked that claim). Although Sherlock Holmes personally never liked having his Homeless Network reporting to him at his residence and preferred texts as the universal medium of gathering information, Billy was generally the exception, for Sherlock often used him as a lab assistant, and his representative while dealing with his Homeless Network people. John had often expressed his dissent about Billy being a former burglar and meth addict (and neither really liked the other since their first meeting-cum-sparring) and with Sherlock placing so much trust in Billy to even give him their house keys, but Sherlock never really listened to him.
However, when that day Billy came running to 221B without an appointment, Sherlock was, needless to say, surprised, and very, very angry.
"Why, Billy—?!" he began, but upon seeing Billy's excited manner, he calmed himself down at once. For a moment, John thought that there was someone after Billy's life, and then he dismissed the thought at once.
"He knows your name!" Billy exclaimed breathlessly, in his Cockney drawl, "Sherlock, he knows your name!"
Sherlock gave him the eyebrow. John put down his early dinner and turned to face Billy, "A lot of people know Sherlock's name, Billy."
"Not that," he panted, and sat down on the carpet. John reached out to give Billy a glass of water, while Sherlock kneeled down beside him.
After gulping down a generous amount, he regained his breath, "I was going on my usual duties. There I was, under the Waterloo Bridge. Penny—the one with the oily pigtails—she had a new one with him. Said she found him being attacked by dogs and saved him. He's quietly huddled in a corner, smallish, white-grey frizzy hair, dirty. I look at his face, I ask him his name, he doesn't reply. He seems brainy, I look at his hands, and they've done lot of written and lab work but not much of late. I think he can do some work, but he's so weak and old, but I feel bad—he's my old man's age—so I still ask him—"do you want to work for Sherlock Holmes"—and for the first time, he looks at me, and he asks—"Sherlock Holmes? William Sherlock Scott Holmes?" —and I run when I hear this. . ."
John frowned. There were only a handful of those who knew Sherlock's full name: himself, Moriarty (who was long dead), Sherlock's family, and Bill Wiggins. And probably Mrs. Hudson. Not even DI Lestrade, or Molly Hooper, knew that his first name was William, not Sherlock.
"Was we wearing a wedding ring, or band or anything of that sort?"
The question caused John to spin around to look at Sherlock. Was he really guessing?
"Yep," Bill answered, "I thought it was weird. Man living on the streets, with the platinum band on his finger," then he turned to John, "I know the shine of platinum, mind you—"
"Was he wearing glasses?"
"No."
"Did he say anything else? Did he have anything else on him?"
"I dunno," Billy scratched his head untidily, "Didn't want to inform you over phone. Your brother—"
"And you did wisely," Sherlock said and on the inside, John rolled his eyes. Mycroft wasn't going to go to the extent of tapping their phones, having not-seen some pretty racy stuff on the cameras previously installed around.
John glanced at Sherlock. Wiggins' excitement seemed to have spread to him as well. While his face would look detached to any outsider, John could tell, in the bobbing of his right thigh, in the trembling in his fingers that he was trying so hard to control, in the pitch of his voice. Something was up.
"So I came here. And yes, I remember one more thing."
"What is it?" Sherlock sounded almost breathless.
"The wedding band. . . it had an inscription on it. G.S."
In no time, Sherlock was up, and had his coat in his grip, "I'll see him at once."
The next part was pretty confusing for John. The girl with the oily pigtails under the Waterloo Bridge called Penny was having a late supper of bread and water when John and Sherlock, along with Billy arrived at the scene. John knew that girl, she was one of the six most valuable informers in Sherlock's Homeless Network. The old man sitting beside her was subdued, huddled in the blankets that she usually slept in. He kept his chin down, the frizzy grey hairs were untidily covered with Penny's bonnet. He was thin as a lath, and extremely, extremely dirty.
For a moment, Sherlock did not move from near their car. He stared at the old man long and hard, his nimble fingers twitching and gripping the door, as if thinking whether to go or not.
"Are you going to go?" John whispered in his ear. Sherlock, unlike himself, gave a start.
"Yes. Sorry."
The way Sherlock walked up to the old man, it almost frightened John. Every step was careful, as if the ground tread upon was full of landmines. His eyes were wide, brows furrowed and he often gulped to himself. John entertained himself with this curious transformation of Sherlock Holmes from the high-maintenance suffering-from-superiority-complex boyfriend to the reverent man watchful of his step.
When Sherlock finally reached him, he gently touched the dirty man on his shoulder, waiting for signs of recognition. And when it did dawn, the man's features turned around completely. His eyes were red when he gazed at Sherlock as if he had seen the God himself. Those eyes had authority, character written over them. His forehead was broad, a measure of intellectual capacity, and despite his state and age, John could tell that he had had been quite handsome in his youth. His lower lip trembled and he covered Sherlock's hand with his own extremely dirty one. Personally, Sherlock was averse to touching such people, claiming to "scratch their backs and then disinfect himself", but he held the man with such affection that John couldn't help but wonder who that man was, how he knew Sherlock and what could've caused him such a deplorable downfall.
Then Sherlock turned, and John saw a different man. He looked at John as if he didn't know who he was.
"Thank you, Billy," and then turning back to the old man, he whispered, "Come with me."
"That's a whole load of stuff that you're talking about, Sherlock," John said, pressing his fingers to his eyes, "Stuff that only I have to move. Only me. I know you, you're not going to touch a single thing!"
"We'll hire someone, then," Sherlock said dismissively.
"We can't afford to hire a full-time help, Sherlock! And I don't even know who this tramp is, and what—"
"John, he's not a tramp. Don't you dare call him a tramp."
"Then tell me, who is he? I deserve to know at least our house guests!"
Sherlock usually got silent at this point every time John had asked him the question for the past two days, which infuriated John even further. But he didn't let himself get any angrier, for anger was not the solution. But it was a chaste question, the man's identity. Why did Sherlock have to fall into such a deep quarry trying to answer it?
For the past two days, Sherlock had taken upon himself the responsibility to take care of that old man. John hadn't believed that it was even possible. There had not been a single day which had gone by without calling upon DI Lestrade or DI Morton until this mystery man's arrival. It was like Sherlock had forgotten his identity. For the past two days since the man had arrived, Sherlock had turned into a full-time valet. John and he only spent the meal time together, and he couldn't be any gladder for a more significant allowance.
And at night, John would hear strange stifled noises coming from their bedroom, which the man now occupied (and John took the sofa, to his annoyance, and Sherlock slept god-knew-where). Sherlock would retreat into their bedroom, close the door on the world, and spend hours inside, till perhaps his bedtime. Doing what, nobody knew, save the two of them. For a time, John entertained the thought that they were old friends, but Sherlock wouldn't hesitate to speak of an "old friend". Then he thought that maybe, they had been lovers, but John knew Sherlock since their Uni days, and the man's age ruled that out. Sherlock was extremely fastidious; he had all sorts of boundaries about who he would date and who he wouldn't despite his own feelings, as the Woman had proved. Sherlock obviously wouldn't date someone this much older than him.
What was this man?
"Just," John gave a defeated sigh, "tell me his name, so that I can. . . call him by something."
Sherlock's jaw twitched, "Call him Mr. Trevor," after a small pause, he added, "He needs respect, of all things."
John had no idea what Sherlock meant by that.
Over the next two weeks, Sherlock and John had many arguments and fights, most of all were about the man, Trevor, and the rest few stemmed because of Trevor's presence in the house. The old man himself was very quiet; he simply used the bathroom in the morning to clean himself, shave his face, brush his teeth, and suddenly after a couple of days, he had begun to look as respectable as John had made him out on the first day. He ate in his own room, not on the bed, but in a chair that Sherlock had provided for him, and John suspected that he realised that he was not entirely welcome in the house.
The first two days, Trevor kept bumping into things after which Sherlock took him to the optician and got him a decent pair of glasses, sent John and Mrs. Hudson on shopping errands for the man, took down the only copy of the Bible and handed it to Trevor. At first John told himself that he understood, this was someone really special to Sherlock(even if that sounded weird). But as days went by, as John began to feel cheated, he put his foot down.
And what happened was surprising.
Sherlock set to clean the second room upstairs and make it habitable all by himself. It was a storeroom of sorts, and biggest subject of their fight only second to Trevor. The bed was cleaned, new sheets were put on, and Sherlock was, all of a sudden, doing so much work (and Mrs. H was helping so much) that even John felt guilty and joined in.
Within two days, Trevor's new room was ready, and he was shifted there. It was then that he first heard Trevor speak, in a low, deep, refined voice.
"Thank you." He looked at Sherlock long, and then turned his eyes to John, John who had never been looked at by the man. Then Trevor smiled, a crinkly old-man smile that reached his eyes, eyes that were still red, yet brown and grateful.
"And to you too, John."
And quietly, with an air of Dalai Lama about him, he let himself be led up the stairs to his new room by Sherlock.
John felt so bad about himself when his inner consciousness felt relieved that he'd finally be able to sleep in his own bed with Sherlock.
After the first two weeks went, people began arriving at their flat. It was only when Mrs. H came up to tell Sherlock that he had non-case related visitors on a gloomy Saturday morning that Sherlock casually informed him that old friends were, well, coming, and might stay for the night.
The first person who came was a certain Max Miller, in good humour. John knew Max's name from Uni, that he was Sherlock's usual project partner. He'd even seen him during one of the parties that Sherlock had been forced to go to. Dark, clean-shaven and good-natured. Tolerable had been the description that Sherlock had given to John, and back then, John had taken it literally.
"You're in France," Sherlock blinked, as soon as Max crossed the threshold of 221B, "Centre National de la Recherché Scientifique. Working on a "classified" project. Jealously guarded," then he sneered, "Hardly."
"Ah, well," Max smiled uneasily, "your French is good as ever."
"Three kids," Sherlock began again, but John touched his hand, and Sherlock stopped to look at him.
"Not today," John whispered, "please."
Max laughed, "Let him, for once. Haven't heard his monologue since twenty years. My ex-girlfriend once broke up with me because of him."
John chuckled. Sherlock turned childishly sour.
"You must be John. I remember you from graduation," then he shook John's hand enthusiastically, "I'm Max, by the way."
"Pleased to meet you. Welcome."
Introductions were given, handshakes in order, and John sat down to chat Max up because he knew that Sherlock would go up to spend some time with Trevor. Max worked as a Senior Scientist A-2 in high-speed particle physics at CNRS, France. Married, one nightmarish toddler and equally nightmarish twin babies. Pretty impressive, John thought. Sherlock and he were not much for kids, thankfully.
Sherlock's eyes shone the way they had when they had first met Seb Wilkes.
Next to arrive (almost a hour apart) were Debra Carter, a average-looking, average-heighted woman with an air of superiority about her, and Andrew Fisher a tall, well-built man with a French beard, none of whom were glad to see each other, but Deb hugged Sherlock, and Andrew (who had a grumpy face on) shook hands with Sherlock and bearhugged Max. And what was most surprising was that all of them knew John, John who was left behind in this whole business.
Andrew worked for a major firm in Southampton, but he was mute as to the details. Deb worked at the Home Office, and even demanded from Sherlock that he visit her the next time he stopped by.
As she said so, Trevor came downstairs to use the bathroom. And as he did so, he carefully watched the three newcomers, and then at the room which didn't have any decorations or drinks to indicate a party. Sherlock looked nervous, John noticed, and then shortly relieved, when Trevor walked away towards the bathroom, while making himself appear smaller as he walked.
"Who's that?" Andrew whispered, "Your dad?"
"I'll tell you guys later."
Shortly, both of them warned Sherlock to not make fun of "Anna" like they did before. And then they told them all about this Anna, who was married off to some big industrialist called Frost, and that she wasn't very happy. And then the conversation turned very cheerful as Deb asked John how he was dealing with the madman and then it was revealed that Sherlock never spoke of his college friends.
And John was even more perplexed. Sherlock had friends in Uni? Sure, Sherlock was months away from his graduation when they had met, but he could've said something, couldn't he?
Then Deb and Andrew went separate ways, and throughout the day, John observed that not one of the two spoke with each other.
The last to arrive, in the evening, was the said Annabelle "Anna" Frost. Small, pretty and a lot like Molly Hooper in many ways, she did not look unhappy at all. She, in fact, looked excited and immature-ish. She was very happy to meet John and Max, but not so much with Andrew. She and Deb cried when they hugged (at which Sherlock promptly rolled his eyes).
After the dinner (which Sherlock spent most nervously), Trevor came down one last time, and this time, he hid his face as he went to the bathroom.
When Trevor was gone up, Anna whispered to Sherlock, "Is that. . . is he who I think it is?"
Max glanced at Sherlock and then back at Anna. It was obvious that Sherlock had told only Max something about Trevor, "Who do you think it is?"
"Okay," Andy interrupted, "We are four people extra. You said," he pointed at Sherlock, "that we had room downstairs. But I don't like that lady. She shouted at me when I parked the car outside the cafe."
"Mrs. H is a very sweet lady," John jumped to her rescue, "She's been mothering Sherlock for more than half his life."
Sherlock gave him The Look. John gave him The Look back.
Anna laughed, "You two are so cute."
Both of them gave Anna The Look. She blushed and choked on her drink.
"Sorry."
Never the one to mince words or talk of old times, Sherlock put his drink down, and cleared his throat, "John could you. . . give us some privacy?"
John blinked, nonplussed. He hadn't been expecting this. It was like a truck had hit him head-on.
"Um. . . okay."
Three pairs of eyes stared at him as he walked away towards the bedroom and closed the door behind him, suddenly feeling very lonely. Trust was something that John valued very highly in his relationship with Sherlock. He included Sherlock in about everything that he did in his life. So why could Sherlock not include him back?
First Trevor, and now this.
He took down a mini novel to pass the time, but his curiosity was like a ever-raging storm. If Sherlock did not trust him, then there was no reason to keep that trust, was there?
After a couple of minutes, he heard a gasp from outside. He knew it would be wrong, but he wanted to hear what Sherlock did not want to share with him.
"That's," this, John recognised, was Deb's voice, "oh my God, so it really is him?!"
"Oh, I thought we were going to be helping you on a high-profile case," Anna said with a giggle.
She did not just say that, John thought. He heard a deep murmur of Sherlock's voice barely after her exclamation, which he could only imagine to be an insult to her intelligence.
"Do you think he recognised us?" Andrew asked. "He did come down once or twice."
John realised that they were talking about Trevor. He wondered about how the man would feel if he were to listen to this, just like John was listening to them.
"I don't think he did," Max's voice was barely a whisper, "He's not even himself. God knows what happened to him."
"Think big, man," Andrew sneered, and then some unclear muttering, "Remember all his bullshit?"
The only thing that John could make out from their heated discussion was that this Trevor man was someone from Sherlock's Uni days.
"Did he say anything to you?"
"No. Not a single thing."
John frowned. So Sherlock was lying to everyone, not just John.
"You've got to get him into an old care home, Sherlock," this was Deb's voice, and John had to strain his ears to perceive her volume, "You can't keep him here. You shouldn't even have brought him here."
"Deb's right," Andrew said, followed by a slow unintelligible murmur from him.
"You shouldn't have sent John away, "this was Max, "He has a right to hear this."
"Victor "think-big" Trevor is none of your business," Andy said firmly, "call his family, his kids, tell 'em to take him away. Don't get into this again, Sherlock. Please don't."
John gulped, an irrational sort of fear gripping him tight. What did he mean by "again"?
"I did," Sherlock said, and now his voice sounded miserable, "His wife's dead. He has a daughter, Susan. She lives in the States. She doesn't want to come. I've tried everything else. That's why I called you here."
There was silence for a few moments, followed by Deb's angry voice, "What do you mean she doesn't want to come? This is her father!"
"Shhh, quiet!"
"How do you know all this? About his wife and kids?"
"He's a detective," Anna said irritably, "of course, he knows."
"So you thought calling us would give you a solution? You call us twenty years after graduation, and why, because of Victor bloody Trevor?"
"You're the one to talk," Sherlock countered back to Andrew with a sneer, "cutting off contact after you had to break up with Deb."
There was a shocked silence of two seconds, after which there was a screech of the chair, followed by Andrew's pissed voice, "I didn't come here to be insulted like this by a freak like you."
"You're not that much of a help anyway."
"Shut up, Sherlock," this was Max, "Andy, it's half past nine. If you want to leave, leave tomorrow morning."
"If you're really the oh-so-famous detective and not a fake hat guy, why don't you work it out by yourself, eh?"
John wished he could have stormed to the living room and confronted Andrew, about on what basis he had the right to say that, even after knowing Sherlock's brilliance and his deductive prowess, and how dare he question his college friend in this manner, a friend he had met after twenty years?
And why was no one coming to his defence?
"Oh, so you too think I'm a fake," Sherlock's voice was perilous.
"Look," Max said hurriedly, "the solution is simple. I observed John today, he isn't happy with this. And I don't think he is happy too. You're making him feel useless."
"How am I making him feel useless?," Sherlock sounded incredulous, "I found him on the streets. He's better off here."
Max gave a disbelieving chuckle, "He doesn't owe you anything. QED, he'd rather be left on the streets than be a burden on you two."
John had to admit, Max had a point.
"That's nonsense."
There was an unintelligible murmur from Max.
"Don't be stupid, I don't even know your son."
"Fine, then why exactly did you call us here?" Deb asked loudly, "I thought you were in a sudden mood of a reunion of sorts, but you were never like that."
Then Sherlock said something at length, after which there was a moment of silence, followed by a massive uproar.
"Have you lost your mind?!"
"I'm not going to take care of him in turns!"
"He's practically nobody to me! And God knows what he's been doing on the streets!"
"Quiet!"
"He remembers you, for some reason," Anna squeaked, "If anyone, you should take care of him. Don't push another burden on me. I've got my in-laws already!"
"Let's talk about this tomorrow," Sherlock's voice sounded so feeble.
"There's nothing about to talk about! I'm not taking him in every three months. Period. And neither should you."
And thus, the argument ended then and there, qith all of them presumably going away for a decent night's sleep. John crept away towards his bed and pretended to be asleep just when Anna asked Sherlock one last question before leaving.
"Did you ever. . . talk with Seb after graduation?"
". . . No."
And there, another lie.
He could hear the party of five going downstairs. Obviously, Sherlock was going to show them where to sleep. It would be small, and anyway, Andy had told them that he'd sleep in his car.
Then Sherlock came, opening the bedroom door and halted there. Then he changed into his pyjamas and crept into the bed with John, spooning him from behind.
"Didn't have to be so busy eavesdropping on us. You could've changed into your nightclothes instead."
John did a mental facepalm, "Max has a point. I deserve to know about what's going on with you."
"You know now. You heard everything."
"And didn't understand much."
"And that's why I didn't want to include you in this."
John stayed quiet for some time, fooling nobody. Then he cleared his throat, "I'm sorry it didn't go as planned."
Sherlock kissed his neck, "They'll leave tomorrow. And anyway, all of them have work on Monday."
John frowned, "You fellas met after twenty years. Could've spent the Sunday at least."
"Nah, this was just an excuse."
John stiffened, and then turned to face Sherlock in the dark, "Excuse?"
"Yeah. I knew that none of them would take Mr. Trevor in. But. . . after bringing him home, I just. . ."
"You just?"
"I, um. . . felt like I had to see these people again. I. . . know it's stupid. But these four were the only ones who were willing to talk with me back at Uni, sometimes even hang out with me. They were friends. . . sort of."
Sherlock stayed quiet for some time, and then continued, "They're all still the same, except that Andy was never this frustrated. Maybe because he's broke, and his car is mortgaged to the firm that he mentioned and his watch is ten years old and repaired several times."
"But he said he worked for that firm."
"Oh, he would say that in front of Deb, wouldn't he?"
John extricated himself from Sherlock's arms to change into his nightclothes. As he thought about the events of the day, one came to his notice.
"You said you contacted Trevor's daughter, Susan. What'd she say?"
"That she didn't want to—"
"Not that part. Why won't she come and take her dad away?"
Sherlock stayed silent for some time, buried in deep contemplation. It was only after John had crept back to Sherlock that he responded scornfully, "That man loved his family. And she. . . she said that she didn't want anything to do with him because he killed her mother."
By Sunday afternoon, all of Sherlock's friends from Imperial had left. Max was the only one who had stayed till afternoon, showing John hundreds of pictures of his three kids and fondly smiling at their videos, and left early only because he wanted to reach Paris before nightfall. John could hardly believe how empty their house felt after just half-a-day of guests.
It was on a fine Tuesday morning that John found himself alone with Victor Trevor in the flat. It was rare for Sherlock to go out for a length of time, especially when John was around and there were no cases, thus giving John almost no opportunity to be able to speak with Trevor.
Trevor had come down to use the bathroom, and on his way back, he stopped and looked at John. John took that as his onky opportunity to understand all that Sherlock had been keeping from him.
"Can I help you with something, John?"
John wanted to say that it was alright, he could do the kitchen work all by himself. For Victor was old, could've easily been in his late-sixties, but he still had the strength to stand on his feet steadfastly, and his voice was still strong. Even though John barely knew him, or liked him for that matter, he felt a weird sort of respect for the man, the man who could inspire such devotion in Sherlock.
"Um I'm making some breakfast. Sherlock went out without any, so. . ."
"Hmm," Victor smiled fondly, "He used to do that. He'd never listen to me."
John stared at Victor, "Huh."
"So I could. . . make some tea."
"Yeah," John smiled, "that'd be great."
The rest of the time was spent in silence. John couldn't bring himself to ask Trevor a single thing about himself. All he felt was curiosity, full to the brim, and thought that if he didn't open up, he'd explode into tiny bits and pieces.
Victor put down two steamy cups of tea on the table, and thankfully for John, struck a conversation on his own.
"Sherlock told me a lot about you."
John sat down across him, blowing on his tea. It was funny, considering that Sherlock hadn't told John a single thing about Victor.
"Don't worry, he spoke only good things."
John looked up in surprise. This man was teasing him!
"I'm glad he's doing so well. . . and found someone. It's very important, finding someone special to spend the rest of your life with."
John briefly thought back about what Victor Trevor's daughter apparently believed, "You're right."
The two of them sipped their tea in awkward silence. Well, to John it was awkward as hell. Victor looked contented.
"Oh, I put too much sugar in mine," he said quietly.
"I—I don't take any sugar, Mr. Trevor. But it's good."
"Oh," Victor's face fell, just a bit, "shame, that. My wife, she used to make a special sort of tea, at six in the morning. It would smell heavenly and it would taste just right," he breathed in heavily, "And after she died, I asked around at all the groceries, even checked her receipts. But I never found out where she got the tea from."
John had no idea how to respond to that. He glanced at Victor's ring finger. He hadn't taken off his wedding ring. Yet.
"I'm sorry," was all he could manage. Victor just hmm-ed and peacefully went back to his tea. After a minute of barely-contained silence, he spoke again.
"Where did you study, John? Sherlock told me that you were an army doctor."
"I did my MBBS from King's."
Victor's eyes lit up, "There. We have something more in common! This is what I always did, find something in common. That way, it's easier to make friends. Although I have to say, when I first met Sherlock," he said with a fond smile, "we had nothing in common. Not a single thing. It's been twenty years since I first met him. I was a boring, oldhouse person, and he was this," he imitated what seemed like an actor's representation of Caesar, and John could never have imagined that quiet old Victor could be so talkative, "grand young man, but so clever. Mind you, I've never seen a cleverer person his age," he laughed. "He was. . . so interested and passionate about what I had to say, and I. . . I really liked that. Anyway, what were you saying?"
"Yeah, um. . . you were at King's too?"
"Yes, I did my MSc from King's, and then went off to Caltech for eight years. Made many friends, met my wife. Those were the really good days."
John couldn't hide his incredulity, for Victor immediately caught his expression, "It's hard to imagine, eh? Old me, you picked up from trash and. . ."
"No, no. . ." John shook his head, smiling guiltily.
"Nah, it's okay. That girl who found me, she'd have had a good laugh at me too. Ah!" He exhaled happily, "I haven't talked as much in these years as I have in the past few weeks. Your surprise is natural, and actually pleasing. Don't worry."
Victor's words were charming and troubling in equal parts. There were not a lot of men who opened up like this during their first conversation with anyone, much less a man like Victor who had so much baggage. And the way he took Sherlock's name, it sounded like the echo of an old lover. John tried to dismiss that thought. The man, as Sherlock had said, clearly loved his wife very much, even after her death. But the way he kept saying when I first met Sherlock, it didn't sound platonic at the least. . . But the man was so much older. John wanted to know how he met Sherlock, where they met, and so many other trifling details, but pulled the reigns to his thought when Victor began speaking again.
"Actually I wanted to speak with you, John. I sent Sherlock away on a long errand so that I could manage some alone time with you. . . I don't know how he listens to me now, he never did when he was younger."
John's ears perked. Here, he had been working up his courage, and so had been Victor. Comforting to know.
"Alright."
Victor finished his tea in a sip, and put down the cup. John couldn't believe that he was looking at the same man they had found with Penny under the Waterloo Bridge, homeless and dirty. It was then that John noticed how nutrition had filled his figure out, giving his face a glow. Victor looked much respectable, healthier and, if it could be said for a man, radiant. His brown eyes were warm, his smile reached his eyes, eyes that sometimes turned sad, and his laughter was jovial at times. He seemed much younger than he really was.
"Well, I need you to convince Sherlock to wash his hands off me."
Wait, what?
"My hair didn't turn white in the sun, John," he spoke very seriously, all his good humour gone, "As heart-warming it is that he wants to keep me as a permanent guest, I won't be responsible for driving a wedge between the two of you. I'd like to move out of here as soon as possible. I've told him that countless times, but he wouldn't listen to me."
"That's not true, Mr. Trevor. It's just that I have a severe shoulder ache and I can't sleep on the sofa, that was all that our argument was about."
Victor smiled a sad smile, "I understand that Sherlock hasn't been completely honest with you. He should've been. Trust is very important in a relationship, and it's something that you deserve after having co-operated with him for so much: letting an unknown man into your place, letting him stay for absolutely nothing in return."
John flushed, "Thank you."
"That's all I request. Perhaps, it's time for me to spend time with people my own age."
With that, he rose up, and strode towards the second floor, but then paused on the landing, "Just so you know, I'm Sherlock's old professor, at Imperial. Department of Chemistry."
When Sherlock came back, he paused to examine John's movements, and then sat down on his chair and began checking his emails.
"So," John began.
"You talked with Mr. Trevor," Sherlock said bluntly, without turning his head, "You had tea with him. Two teacups near the sink."
John glanced back to the sink, and then towards Sherlock. Victor's words rang in his head. Sherlock's friends' apathy regarding their old professor, that wonderful man, rang in his head. And yet he had no idea what could've happened to him, a former professor at easily one of the best institutions in the world.
He intended to find out his story, before he made Sherlock understand that Victor, as Max had aptly put it, thought himself a burden. That if the man really needed to build his respect back of all things as Sherlock had proclaimed, he needed to be self-reliant first. John himself shuddered at the thought of such a devastating retirement.
"Yes, he told me that he was your professor."
Sherlock stopped his typing and looked up at John, "Is that all he said?"
John licked his lips. What else was Victor supposed to say?"
"He said that I need to hear the rest from you."
Sherlock looked away from John, and took a deep breath, "You've been very insistent."
"Who is he, Sherlock?" John asked, drawing a deep breath and glancing towards the second floor, where there house guest was sleeping soundly. "Tell me who he is. I've held out long enough, waiting for you to tell me, but I suppose that won't happen on its own."
Sherlock's expression was hard to read, which was not very unusual, given the past couple weeks.
"So tell me, who is he?"
Sherlock didn't look very unsure; John knew Sherlock wanted to say something, but there was something, something deep and dark holding him back.
Finally, Sherlock blinked and gestured towards the sofa. John wondered if it really was bad enough for him to hear it, bad enough to feel like the ground slipping underneath his feet. In his heart, he hoped their house guest was just a very old, very dangerous criminal, apart from being a day-time professor. But the truth, he knew, he had seen in Victor's eyes, was much more personal.
"That man is the reason I am what I am. He's not just my old professor, he's my first client, and I don't think I've ever been—or will ever be, for that matter—so intimate with any of my clients."
John looked at him with disbelief. What did Sherlock mean by being intimate with that old man?
"You mean, you solved his case?"
Sherlock bristled, "Partly. I was about twenty four back then and. . . not in a very good state."
"One year after I was stationed."
Sherlock blinked, and something like guilt creased in the wrinkles around his eyes, "Yes, you were gone, and this was the first case that I had solved. But he and I knew each other from back at Imperial, before I even met you.
"Of course, the conclusion to which I brought the case was not very satisfactory, but I knew then, that yes, this is where I can make best use of my abilities. But he did so much more for me than that. More than his faith, that man is the reason I am—and will always be—with you."
And so begins the story!
'I know Sherlock sounds a little cliche at end. But it's one o'clock in the morning here and I HAVE TO SLEEP!
Please let me know what you think of this, even if you don't like it :)