The more I watch Sherlock, the more entranced I am by it. Such amazing acting and writing. How do they manage to do it all in only three episodes a series? That being said, I have decided to work on a selection of writings that focuses on "what happens in between or at the end of" the scenes and episodes. This is what I would like to think was left on the cutting room floor. Given the fact that I am a JohnLock shipper, these "missing scenes" will focus on the development of their relationship, first as friends and then as … well, the possibilities are endless, I suppose.
For those following my Post-RBF fic "One More Miracle," I have not abandoned it, but I managed to write myself into a bit of a corner, and I am using this new series to "clear the pipes," so to speak (forgive the mixed metaphor). I will be back with "One More Miracle" as soon as the creative Liquid Plumber has worked.
Please let me know what you think about this first installment. It is set immediately after the events of "A Study in Pink."
Nope. These characters are not mine, but they sure are fun to play around with.
Evolution of Faith and Trust in D Minor
Chapter One: Bottom Third of the Door Handle
"So, is this what all your cases are like?" John asked, popping a piece of shumai into his mouth before reaching for the small plate of spare ribs. It was late, and though the place was open until 2 am, there were only a handful of other patrons scattered thinly through the Chinese restaurant.
"With my deductions leading to the apprehension of the criminal?" The question in Sherlock's tone wasn't so much a query as it was a wearied statement of what he considered to be an obvious conclusion. "To date, yes." He poured hot tea into the small china cup that sat next to his plate and took a sip.
"No," said John around a mouthful of spare rib – his Gran would be horrified by his lack of table manners, but it had taken Watson all of three conversations with the consulting detective to figure out that if he ever wanted to get a word in edgewise with Sherlock, he would have to take the opportunities when they were presented to him. He pointed his chopsticks accusingly at the man across the table from him, but there was no real malice in his gesture. "With you riding off with the suspect and nearly getting yourself killed."
"I was never in any real danger, John," Sherlock said. He turned his attention to the small plates of dim sum scattered between them. Egg roll or guotie?
"From the cabbie or from yourself?" Sherlock's eyes snapped to John's. The army doctor set his chopsticks on the edge of his plate and leaned back in his chair and stared – unflinchingly – back at the gray eyes that assessed him. "Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other, after all."
From the set of his lips and the way in which he crossed his arms, John Watson did not fully believe Sherlock's earlier assertion that he had no intention of taking the cabbie's poison pill. Truthfully, Sherlock wasn't so certain himself.
"If we're going to do this –" John gestured at the two of them, and it was clear that he wasn't just talking about being flatmates, "I need to understand my role. I need to know what 'colleague' means to you."
Tapping out the fingerings for Paganini's Violin Concerto No. 1 in D on the tabletop, Sherlock thought about this for a moment. He'd never openly admit it, but Sergeant Donovan had been correct. He didn't have colleagues. If fact, John Watson was the first person to whom he had ever applied that label. This simple army doctor. No. Not simple. Simple suggested commonplace, and Sherlock had known from the moment he had walked into the lab at St. Bart's that John Watson was anything but commonplace. The question was why? The doctor's intellect was above that of Lestrade's minions, but certainly nothing to equal his own. What was it about this man that left Sherlock wanting to learn more? Hear more?
He would not share these thoughts with the man himself, of course, so, "Your medical expertise would be valuable since none of Lestrade's people will work with me. Anderson's inept as you've no doubt noticed, and the rest of the medical examiners are even worse, whereas you at least show the potential of being competent," is what Sherlock said aloud.
Though far from a rousing commendation, given what John had already witnessed regarding Sherlock's questionable interpersonal skills, this was tantamount to high praise. "I'll take that as a compliment," John said with a wry grin. He reached for a sweet bean paste bun, bit into it, and washed it down with tea. "Anything else?"
"Well, as I said earlier, I think better when I talk aloud, and as much as I love my skull, it's only capable of so much insight, and the thought of continuing to try to explain my deductions to anyone at The Yard is extremely distasteful. You, however, ask reasonable, if not always observant, questions. Though I'm hopeful that will improve with time. "
"Right. So … itinerant medical examiner and sounding board." John scratched his temple and pursed his lips. Sherlock continued to avoid what, to John, was the most serious issue. "Umm … do you intend to always scuttle off alone after the murderer like you did this evening? Because I don't fancy the idea of running all over London trying to save your bloody arse when I have no idea where it is you've actually gone."
"I never scuttle!" The detective sounded offended, but shrugged his shoulders dismissively and turned his attention back to the food. "The GPS on Jennifer Wilson's phone guided you to me readily enough." He decided on an egg roll.
"You really have no sense of self-preservation, do you?" John pushed his plate to the side and leaned his forearms on the table. His voice was low. His incredulity clear.
"Quite the contrary, John, but 'The Work' is everything, and if pursuing the answers means that I have to occasionally put myself at risk – "
"So, bodyguard then," John interrupted. "Clearly someone's got to watch out for you."
He wasn't quite sure why he felt the compulsion to protect this man he barely knew, but the pull on his conscience was undeniable. You've always known how to do the right thing, Johnny-boy, his Gran used to tell him. Even when it doesn't always make sense, your heart shows you the path to take. "I'd imagine that most criminals don't take kindly to getting caught; especially not the way that you do it."
Sherlock considered the observation. The truth was that more and more often Sherlock found himself in potentially perilous situations where an extra set of eyes would have been beneficial – the tender line of flesh that was healing along his ribcage from last week's knife graze was testament to that.
"I am quite skilled at hand-to-hand combat, John, but it is likely that sooner or later I will run into an altercation that I will be unable to fully control myself. A trusted companion with military experience who knows his way around close combat situations could prove essential to my survival and that of my work," he acknowledged before he took another sip of his tea.
John rolled his eyes at the unbelievable situation he found himself in. "I've gone from stranger to flatmate to colleague to trusted companion in the span of 36 hours? You do know how to move quickly, Sherlock, I'll give you that." The problem was, John rather thought he liked it.
Sherlock leaned in closer to the table and glanced around the restaurant to ensure that none of the other patrons were close enough to hear what he had to say. His voice took on that same low, conspiratorial tone that it had had when they were standing together outside the Roland-Kerr Further Education College. "You did, after all, kill a man tonight to save my life. I'd say that trust definitely factors into your role as my companion, colleague, associate, partner, or whatever it is you'd like to term yourself."
John didn't fail to pick up on the fact that Sherlock hadn't included "friend" into his laundry list of labels.
You've met Sherlock. How many friends do you suppose he has? Mycroft had said to John during their cloak and dagger session in the warehouse yesterday.
Clearly not enough.
"I'll let you know when I decide," John said.
Sherlock nodded absently at the comment; his brain already moving onto another line of deductions about the man who sat across from him. "Quite the shot you made earlier. Given that the Geneva Conventions permit medical personnel in combat situations to use their weapons only in situations of self-defense, it is unlikely that the RAMC puts a great deal of resources into training their doctors to become crack shots, yet, as evidenced tonight, you most certainly are. Which means that you had experience with shooting a gun before you entered military service. Father would be the most obvious teacher –"
"Stop it, Sherlock!" The detective paused at the annoyance in the doctor's voice. "I can't work with you let alone be your flatmate if you're always trying to analyze everything about me. If there's something you want to know, just ask. Don't deduce! Or if you have to, keep it to yourself. Otherwise 'amazing' and 'extraordinary' will become 'piss off' faster than you can loop that bloody scarf around your neck."
John took Sherlock's silence as acquiescence and his raised eyebrow as the unspoken request. "It was my grandmother, actually. She raised us after our mother died." The eyebrow crept higher. "Da had run off a few years prior," John explained, his tone indicating that Sherlock would get no further information on that issue tonight. "She loved shooting. Learned it from her Da. He competed in the 1896 Olympic Games in Greece. Probably would have qualified herself if they'd permitted women to do so in her day."
"So she shared her love of the sport with you."
The doctor nodded. "Harry had no interest, so it became something that Gran and I shared together." Sherlock watched as John's blue eyes momentarily grew distant with memories. "It's come in handy … once or twice."
"That it has." Sherlock's meaning lay heavy between them.
Sherlock Holmes was unpredictable and erratic, brilliant and maddening, odd and, quite simply, a major pain in the arse. John had no idea why he had decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people, but one look into those steady eyes told him that he could trust the man – with his very life if need be.
"Listen, Sherlock … in the interest of 'full disclosure' between flatmates, you should know that I have … well, I have a hard time sleeping at night."
"Nightmares," Sherlock stated. John's brow wrinkled with irritation and Sherlock raised his hands in defense of his tacit promise, such as it was. "No. It wasn't a deduction – well at least not a new one – but we've already established that you suffer from – "
"Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Right," John sighed and took a sip of lukewarm tea and suddenly became fascinated with the tea stain on the corner of the paper placemat. With his finger, he traced the damp circle that the bottom of the cup had left behind. "I think I'd prefer if it were just nightmares, actually."
"Night terrors, then," Sherlock amended. "Though somewhat common in children, a rather atypical form of parasomnia in adults consisting of episodes of intense fear symptomized by screaming, thrashing, inability to waken easily, sleepwalking, and potentially violent behavior." Though the words were clinical, Sherlock's tone was not. He had suffered from sleep terrors as a child, and though he had outgrown them by the time he turned 12, Sherlock had hazy memories of the fear – not the dreams themselves – but the abject horror that had flooded his mind when he at last came to himself again. He could only imagine what John suffered both in the dreams and in the events that now caused his dreams.
John stopped his circumnavigation of the tea stain and looked up when he heard change in Sherlock's voice. It was damn near empathetic. Blue eyes held gray for a long moment and saw the silent sympathy of personal experience that lay there. It won't be a problem, the eyes said.
"Not good when rooming in a bedsit." Sherlock took a quick sip of tea to clear his throat, and signaled for the check. The moment of understanding had passed.
"A bit not good, yeah," confirmed John. It was why he had been so desperate to find new accommodations. The managers of the bedsit had given him three days to vacate his room because of the nightly 'disturbances.'
Sherlock glanced quickly at the check that was delivered to their table, pulled 30 quid from his wallet and handed it with a polite smile to Mrs. Tang before John could protest.
John and Sherlock each bundled up as best they could in their coats to begin the long, cold walk back to their Baker Street flat. Even with the lateness of the hour and the distance left to travel, neither man had any desire whatsoever to take a taxi home that night. They talked little, but the silences were companionable rather than awkward as though their relationship could be counted in decades instead of only hours. As they walked, John felt the adrenaline rush caused by the evening's events drain from his body, leaving him exhausted. Whereas Sherlock bounded up the stairs with seemingly endless energy, John was barely able to drag his arse up the 17 steps to 221B.
John bid goodnight to Sherlock at the entrance to their living room. "I doubt I'd even hear a herd of elephants stampeding down Baker Street," he chuckled when Sherlock asked if his playing the violin would disturb John's sleeping.
"It helps me think," the detective said by way of explanation.
"Night then, Sherlock," John said with a weary smile and began to head up to his room.
"John," Sherlock's voice was so quite that John nearly missed it. The doctor turned on the tread. He was now eye to eye with the much taller man. Sherlock rested his hand on top of the post, clenching the decorative knob with his fingers as he looked at the other man. There was much he wanted to say, but the words were more cumbersome than fluid for once. Simpler was better, he decided. "Thank you, John. Thank you for saving my life tonight."
John smiled. "That's what friends do," he said, the label was decided.
Sherlock watched John climb the stairs to his room, tossed his coat and scarf over the arm of the couch, and picked up his violin. It was but the work of a few moments for Sherlock to ensure that the strings were appropriately tightened and the bow adequately rosined. He tucked the violin beneath his chin, and pausing for a moment to select his piece – a modern solo designed to relax the mind and the body and hopefully keep the terrors away – he drew the bow across the strings.
Above stairs, John had just enough energy to drop his coat to the floor, toe off his shoes, and shrug out of his jumper before collapsing on top of the green-striped duvet that Mrs. Hudson had provided as part of his rent.
Though he pulled the edge of the coverlet over his body to keep himself warm throughout the cold night, it was the strains of Sherlock's violin that settled over his mind, urging John to sleep. As he drifted, John remembered something that a girlfriend from his Uni days had said to him as he walked her back home after a classical music performance she had talked him into attending. She was a cellist, a damn adorable one at that, and John had been young enough to follow wherever she asked him to go.
"The instrument's not merely an extension of the musician's body, Johnny," Ana had said. "It's our soul personified. Every note that is played is the emotion of that person shared with the universe, and each time we play, our hearts soar with a sense of contentment and fulfillment for which there is no earthly comparison."
John's last conscious thought was that if Sherlock could coax something so achingly beautiful from what was – at its most basic components a collection of wood, intestine, and horse hair – then the universe should count itself damn lucky that such a soul chose to share its emotions with it.
The song that I chose for Sherlock to play is entitled Sad Romance by Thao Nguyen Xanh. If you have a chance to listen to it on YouTube or iTunes, I highly recommend it. It's the perfect piece to help you drift off to sleep.
Reviews bring much happiness to the writer. I hope that you'll reward me by doing so. I've even changed settings so anonymous reviews can be left. Thank you for your reading time.
The next installment will be a shorter chapter set in the middle of "The Blind Banker" with a third chapter that follows the events of that same episode. I hope to have chapter two ready by the weekend.
Cheers!
~ Sarah