AN: This story may contain spoilers from series one and two, and eventually is going to contain Johnlock. No slash warnings for the first two or so chapters. The timeline is not in its usual order either. Enjoy.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters.
(...Epilogue...)
Have you ever seen a floor covered in blood? At first glance there is a simple beauty to it and how it contrasts with the white linoleum. It doesn't immediately register that what you're looking at is blood. Slowly a stiffness builds up in your body as your mind begins to realise that the beauty is actually life's essence. Then what was a simple beauty becomes repulsion.
Seeing his best friend laid out on the pavement with a meter wide red polka dot under him was not beautiful. It was down right hysterical. Not hysterical as in funny, hysterical as in I can't control my reaction kind of funny. John remembers looking at Greg's face, who stared back at him dumbfounded, almost completely mirroring his own emotions: pain, shock...guilt, confirming the happened. John remembers himself yelling, pleading, cursing and crying but to no vail. Sherlock Holmes, his best friend, was dead.
He remembers because he saw it. Saw it all happen before his own eyes. Because he was the one who had to face the vacant armchair across from his every time he sat down and relive it all over again. Because he was the one who'd been putting flowers on his grave every Sunday for the last three years... heck he was the one who ironically stepped into the building of St. Bartholomew and recognised the detective's corpse. And John has had no doubt in what he saw and what he did, not for once and not until the day that the same corpse walked back into his life as if it was the most natural thing for dead men to do. And no need to mention that the reunion was not a pleasant one.
But in spite of the whole drama and chaos, all of the bits with the shouting and punching and the soppy parts in between, John has had a brief moment to realise that his friend's return has not only switched on his psychosomatic limp, but also reopened something(he can't quite name that thing yet) that demands to be felt and paid attention to. Nothing he has been doing ever since that faithful day, seems to satisfy his constant need of filling that something...
The beep of his cell phone cuts his line of thoughts and he's forced back into reality. The reality where he's got a proper job, a proper soon-to-be-wife, a friend who he has not spoken to for a five days and half-hour before he has to report for duty in the kitchen (one of the perks of being soon-to-be-married). He can practically feel that certain something deep inside of him, that just screams its protest against this sort of activities. Though he has no general idea why it does so.
He is pretty sure that only two or three weeks ago, he would have gladly completed his share of tasks about the house and he would have, in fact, enjoyed that domestic bliss. But now, as John sits in his usual spot at the clinic, scrolling down the numerous texts from Mary, he wonders when did this life become so boring and simply not enough. He suspects it happened sometime between Sherlock Holmes' dramatic return, his proposal of marriage and John's stubborn refusal. Yes, he decides, definitely somewhere in between.
(...Much Earlier...)
i: all that we've amassed;
John has long learned that one can tell a lot about a person by the way he or she handles these three things: lost luggage, a rainy day and tangled Christmas lights. But counting that that person is no other than Sherlock Holmes himself, a part of his mind keeps telling him that finding out more about his flat mate is a quest very intently leaning towards 'impossible'. He tries anyway, because after some time his descriptions for the madman- fascinating, arrogant, imperious, pompous- simply become not enough.
Looking back at it now, John honestly doesn't know what he was expecting. While Sherlock is definitely not the type he will be arguing with about whose turn it is to pay the gas bill or what they're going to watch on the telly, and yeah, he is probably, most likely definitely mad, but the good doctor feels( has been feeling from the beginning) the rapidly growing urgency to learn more about the man he is sharing a flat with. He wants to know things about the man, which aren't the quirks that are already obvious to the eye( Sherlock's extraordinary ability of reading everyone like an open book and ,alright, knowing a couple of nice restaurants).
It was a foolish hope from the start, thinking that he might succeed. Now Let's go back to those three essential things. Firstly we have 'luggage', which would acquire the pair of them to travel. Of course they have left London for more than one occasion, for cases and not, but such a stable and composed person as Sherlock, would most naturally never face the problem of missing something, let alone his belongings.
Rather unfortunately the detective's mood doesn't alter significantly with the weather changes, either. He's still bound to his unhealthy habit of blocking everything and everyone out when he's on a case. It doesn't take a genius to guess that he's also most likely to find Christmas( the widely observed holiday by millions of people around the world) irrelevant and a waste of time. Needless to mention that his opinion on the whole process of decorating, capturing the magic of Christmas with rich colors, glittering lights and the traditional table, is low, at best( usually described as tedious and pointless).
However the one thing that is probably more insistent than Sherlock's mysteriousness, is John Watson's stubborn personality. Therefore that year, John purposely buys the tallest Christmas tree he can find so that Sherlock will have to help him decorate it.
ii: it sits before us, shattered into ash;
John Watson cannot conceal the longing in his voice. It is too much to suppress. He says. "But he's James Bond! How come you've never heard of him?"
He rolls over on his stomach and peers over the foot of the couch at his flat mate. Doesn't the code name 007 make some impression on him?
The good doctor's figure is slight but the look in his blue eyes is as intense and expectant as it has ever been, and right now there is a trapped look in the way his fingers curl against the armrest.
John's flat mate looks up briefly from his book and takes the opportunity to adjust the light level of the stretch of the wall near his chair. His name is Sherlock Holmes and the mention of the fictional character created in 1953 by writer Ian Fleming, does not move him. At all.
He says. "I've heard of him, yes."
Sherlock owes much to John's patience and kindness when it is needed, but even patience and kindness( especially patience) can be overdone. Is this a time for the detective to sit there like a statue built of some dark, warm wood? Of course John understands that there's no actual danger in the moment( as much as it is possible with the constant lack of safety with the detective) but after the recent events with The Woman and his gained experience from that Danger Night, he knows better than to leave the man on his own. And the git can at least pretend to appear interested, when John's only trying to help ever unconditionally.
"Then..." he says defiantly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I think you've forgotten what 'Bond' means."
"I remember very well what it means." the other says, "It means nothing! You're the one who's forgotten that. It means nothing to you, John Watson, and," he adds softly, "it means nothing to me, Sherlock Holmes."
John thinks with great delight of boxing Sherlock's ears. He shifts into a sitting position instead.
"Nothing?"
"Less than nothing. What do you want me to do about it, anyway?" Holmes runs his finger along a difficult passage in the book he is reading and his lips move soundlessly.
The good doctor sighs. I want you not to be so alone in your anger. I want you not to be the only one so filled with resentment, not to be the only one dying a slow death.
"That's 'cause you haven't seen one of his movies." No response. He licks his lips and carries on. "Right... we're definitely having a Bond night."
Sherlock turns a page and reads on a few words, then lifts his head with its skull-cap of crisply curled hair and raises one elegant eyebrow at his colleague. Oh, he's spared a glance from the great bastard himself, what an honour.
"It's nice to have something to look forward to."
"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Sherlock. What are you reading, anyway?" he steps forward and snorts. "More chemistry?"
Sherlock smoothes a crumpled page without visible rancour. "Call it the satisfaction of curiosity." he says. "I understand a little of it today, perhaps a little more tomorrow. That's a victory in a way."
A victory. What kind of a victory? John desperately wants to ask if that is what satisfies him in life. To get to know enough to be a quarter of a Registered Chemist by the time he's sixty five.
The corners of Sherlock's mouth slowly curl into a small smile and he says. "Perhaps, by the time I'm thirty five."
iii: we sat and made a list;
Sherlock slouches in the back seat of the cabbie, a hand working his leather glove on, while his second, abandons its posture for a second to shed away a laughing tear from his right eye.
"You have got to be kidding me." he manages to say at last in between throaty chuckles. And the sight is so rare... so precious and so undoubtedly human that John can't help but laugh too.
He shakes his head in response. "No."
"He actually compared my hair with a poodle?"
"Yeah, I was a bit surprised too." John says, with a shrug and a fond smile at his friend's unusual and enthusiastic antics. The reaction itself is also quite different from the expected. But well, if it is humouring the man...
"So, what did you say?" the detective asks lightly, almost casually, but there is that spark of ultimate interest and fascination in his gaze, that only ever happens when he finds John's ordinary actions more captivating. As if the good doctor is the one who does something amazing... something as compelling as deduce the hell out of anyone within kilometre. Right now is no exception. He has this sort of I have my best man on it expression on his face as he waits for an answer.
John grins. "I didn't say anything. I got up and..."
The good doctor retells the events that have taken place in Sherlock's absence, making gestures with his hands every once in a while and pausing just enough for the detective's laughter to subdue. He feels downright chaffed at the moment, sitting there and pulling long and genuine chuckles from the younger man and oh, there it is that certain look on Sherlock's face again and this time he just can't help but ask what?
The detective only smiles and turns his head away, his eyes observing the beauty of night London out of the window.
"I think, I can see your point on the basic hygiene needs." he says eventually, not meeting John's eye. "I shall remove the head from the fridge."
John hurries to follow the man's leap of mind and once he's sure that it's not the case, he comes to the conclusion that it must be Sherlock's daft way of saying thank you. He plays along.
"And the eyes from the microwave?" he says instead of 'you're welcome' or 'that's what friends do to defend each other's honour in front of gits like Anderson'.
"Let's not exaggerate." Sherlock replies and he means it too.
iv: of all the things that we had;
John should know when he sees the first few hints of green, as he walks into the kitchen, that something has gone terribly wrong, but it isn't until Sherlock, looking completely baffled, with his whole front covered in slime, leaving out unaffected only his googles and the pair of widened from shock eyes, blinking slowly at him.
The good doctor doesn't say anything for a long while. The wheel of fortune is still spinning, not quite certain yet, as to how to react to a blown-up kitchen, encrusted with a fine layer of... whatever it is and in addition to it, an equally filthy looking flat mate, who just looks about as surprised as he is. Almost, but not completely.
"Sherlock, what-"
He should know by now that he doesn't really have a say in it. The detective hurries to shut his mouth, practically shoving a mug of cold tea( the same tea, John recognises from earlier, that he has made for Sherlock) into his hands.
"I'll clean up. Truly. Don't worry." he assures and for some odd reason, John finds himself nodding and saying alright.
Sherlock nods too and scuttles back into the kitchen and it takes the good doctor a few shameful minutes( and he's already halfway to his bedroom) that no, it's not alright. That, this is not an acceptable situation and his response is even the more so. And he settles on placing the cup back where he put it in the morning, going upstairs and taking a shower, that Sherlock will no doubt acquire very soon.
He turns out to be right and he feels rather smug about it. So he may not have a say in a lot of things that happen in their life, but at least he may attempt to control those things, so that they don't get out of hand. And Sherlock is so miffed to find John in the bathroom( "No worries, Sherlock. You can shower at Mrs. Hudson's!"), that he decides to retaliate by waiting till John's out of the shower, then sneaking into the bathroom with his violin and screeching out the shower theme to Psycho. John is so startled that he slips.
The police is flooded with calls from the neighbours that night, about a crazy man in a towel yelling and chasing someone down Baker Street.
AN: A few other scenarios will be included in the second chapter and then we can get started on the angst of Pos Reichenbach.
My stories are not betaed so excuse some typos and errors. Let me know if this story is any good and if I should continue. Thank you.