In which John learned quite a bit from Sherlock during his eighteen-month stint with his flatmate. Post-Reichenbach.
The first time that Mycroft decided to visit John in his new flat (not 221B, too painful), John was utterly surprised. The small, tired smirk that was plastered across the elder Holmes brother told him that his expression was priceless.
And then, the combination of being a doctor for years and then living with the Sherlock Holmes for months on end obviously took its toll on him, because he said, "You aren't eating." And the man simply arched his eyebrows in a silent query, so John, not sure if he should be amused, horrified, grieving, or all three, explained: "Your skin. Your suit."
The man nodded, as if those words made all the sense in the world. "Neither are you."
John shared a tired, grieving smirk with him. He turned and led the way inside, making tea.
And they sat. They sipped tea. They studied each other. John was pleased with how much he managed to pick up from the older man, the game that he and (an unknowing) Sherlock played (finally, finally) paying off.
Then Mycroft left.
John stood in the middle of the room that Mycroft had vacated an hour ago, and he said, "Not much of an archenemy, Mycroft."
Miles away, Mycroft's lips twisted wryly, an amused glint entering his eyes.
The second time, a full month later, John studied the man. There was something…off. Mycroft was beginning to eat instead of subsisting solely on tea, the transparency of his skin beginning to fade. He had the pale skin of not enough sun, and the papery look of tiredness, but there was lacking the dryness of skin that often detailed grief. He was stunned a bit, but then noted the slightest hint of color in his cheeks that he often associated with motivation and/or relief.
And John knew that somehow, somewhere, his best friend was out there. Alive. Healthy. But he led Mycroft in, careful—extremely careful—to not change his previous posture by even a millimeter.
It was just like old times. Let's see how long he could hide before he got caught.
Eight months and six visits later, Mycroft finally broke. "Has he contacted you?"
"No, of course not," John said easily, not even faltering as he pour Mycroft's tea. His posture shifted dramatically, away from the grieving-but-recovering man to the triumphant-and-excited man. Mycroft was stunned, not that he showed it to the younger man. "What gave it away?"
"Your jumper."
John looked down and studied himself. Then it hit him like a brick between the eyes: this was the jumper that he wore all those months ago, that first night with the cabbie and his first encounters of Sherlock's craziness. He hadn't even realized that he'd pulled it over his head this morning. It was shoved in the back. John had been hunting for another jumper when he'd found this one, decided that it was good enough, and pulled it on.
John could've smacked himself. Mycroft looked oh-so-faintly amused as he asked, "How long?"
"The second visit."
Had Mycroft been any other person, his jaw would've dropped to his knees and eyes widened to saucers. But this was Mycroft, so his eyes simply widened the slightest fraction.
"I did live with your brother, and I was a doctor for years before that," John said mildly, pouring sugar into Mycroft's tea, the way the man liked it. "Observation was in my job description—literally. Living with Sherlock just…amplified it."
"Mm. I see. What gave it away?"
"Your skin. The flush of relief and motivation in your cheeks. The lack of dry skin from grief. The reversing transparency of your not eating. I suspected something with the lack of dry skin and the fact that the transparency was going away, but the flush sealed the deal."
"And…?"
"It was just like old times, all of a sudden," John said, smirking in such a manner that reminded Mycroft very suddenly of his younger brother. "I knew that if I could fool you, I could fool the world. It was a game suddenly. A dangerous game. A game that I was just trying out my wings in. But then you came back, with naught a word about myself or Sherlock…and again, and again, and again. Until I almost couldn't believe that I was fooling even you for so long."
And Mycroft smiled with his thin lips. Had John been anyone else, he would've run for the hills. But this was John, and John Watson was well accustomed to both Holmes' brothers, so he simply returned the smile.
John woke to violin music at two thirty in the morning two weeks later. He blindly reached for his pad of paper and a pen, and scribbled in the dark, groggy: You are an idiot if you thought that I wouldn't pick up anything. –JW
Then he rolled over and went back to sleep, slapping the pad of paper down on the nightstand loudly.
In the morning, there was a drawing of a small, wry face on the pad of paper.
John laughed aloud, awake instantly.
Thirteen months later, eight visits from Mycroft, and one more waking up from violin music, John and Sherlock were seen in public.
People didn't know if they should be awed at John's long-time performance or angry at John's long-time performance. But once they were spotted in a small café, debating over John's actions in the last two years' worth of murders and mysteries that he's helped the Yard in, the public practically erupted.
And John had a very amused smirk on his face all the while.
Greg punched John with an impressive left cross. The former soldier took it stoically, not asking for ice as the bruise purpled and swelled. Then the Yardsman grabbed Sherlock in a tight hug, muttering, "You bastards. You utter bastards."
Apparently Mycroft never told Sherlock that John deduced that Sherlock was still alive. Sherlock spewed his tea when John recounted the story. John simply snorted with laughter and said, "You are an idiot if you think that I didn't pick up anything."
Sherlock rubbed his forehead. "The note."
"Yes."
"I thought Mycroft told you."
"After a month and a half? Not hardly. After nine months? No. He figured out that I knew. Then he quizzed me."
"A month and a half." Sherlock repeated in disbelief.
"His mistake was coming to see me before he knew that you were alive. The second time he visited, I knew after a couple of minutes. He knew that you were alive. Somehow. Somewhere. I didn't bother. But the fact that you were alive made all the difference in the world." John rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. "I never understood how you saw a murder mystery as a game. But now, I think…I think I can see it. Especially now, after I did the whole shebang with Mycroft and you being 'dead'."
Sherlock continued to rub his forehead, pale fingers ghosting across the broad platform, only thinking that one John Watson would never cease to amaze him.
Ruby: When I first wrote this, (I always put the summary up at the top of my document) I had no idea how to spell 'Reichenbach'. I simply took a stab at it and knew when I read it I would know what me-from-the-past would mean. And I spelled it right! I finally ran into the word, and my jaw literally sagged.
And yes, this was my first Sherlock Holmes fanfic. Please tell me what you think!