Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters.
Chapter one: Impetuous
"What you need to do is arrive tomorrow with a fiancé."
"What?" Sherlock frowned, confused. Had his brother not understood what he had been telling him all along? "How could I-? Who-?"
Mycroft smiled his trade mark smile and nodded toward the other man in the room. "John will be your fiancé."
John gaped at the man who was the British Government, while Sherlock expressed the doctor's fears more forcibly. "For God's sake, Mycroft, have you run mad?"
"Not at all." came the measured reply. "If you will all think about it, you will see that it is the perfect solution."
"I see that it is perfect insanity," John retorted, once he was sure he's recovered his speaking ability. "If you think that I am going to become engaged to this...this..." man he wanted to say, but the detective beat him to it.
Sherlock looked at him, his eyes sparkling dangerously. "To this what?"
Just as John finished pouring hot water into his mug, he heard a beautiful melody of strings. His heart filled with emotion as he heard the wondrous tune spilled out into the air of 221B by only a bow gliding graciously across strings. To John, it was more than a song. It was a sign. A sign that a part of his old life was back and hopefully did not intend to fade away again.
Three years after The Fall, two, after his last appointment with Ella, and a month after Sherlock Holmes' dramatic return. The violin was merely a constant, that had always accompanied his mad man of a flat mate. But with time it had become so much more.
John could clearly remember the day he first met the detective and the quite blunt question on his opinion about the musical instrument. Sooner, rather than later, the doctor found out another few perks that had the tiniest potential to bother him. Such things as: storing body parts in the fridge and eyeballs in the microwave, having a stash of presumably illegal narcotics on the premises, shooting up a smiley face on the wall when bored, acting as if he had a God-given right to use John's belongings, pissing off the police to the point that they would fake drug busts as retaliation, rudeness of both the blatant and snarky varieties... But according to Sherlock, the violin surely was an annoying habit. And now it was back. His closest and dearest friend was back.
When he left the kitchen, John found Sherlock standing by the window in their living room, back turned and his elegant form moving fluidly with the instrument.
The good doctor swiftly made his way to his armchair, not wanting to disturb the man who was completely launched in music. Whether or not his flat mate had noticed his presence, the music did not stop. The beautiful music that was procuring from his delicate fingers on the wooden neck. There's a grace and a sense of refinement in the wrist angle in the way Sherlock held the violin. Firm, but relaxed. Steady, but easy.
A sigh of content escaped John and he took a sip from his mug of tea. This was comfortable. A word he never thought he would use to describe his time spent with the detective.
"Did you go to the dentist, John?" the question struck him by surprise as he had not realised that the man had stopped playing. By now Sherlock had his violin sat in its respectable place and was walking in the direction of the mantlepiece.
"Yea." John cleared his throat, recovering from his frenzy. "I did."
"And did he find out what you had?" The detective also sat onto his usual spot, across from the doctor and regarded him with a curious look, that was obviously forced.
The man was most naturally aware of the whole situation and could unmistakably dictate a detailed description of the events that had taken place in his absence. John, being ever the sensual man, decided to spare his flat mate from the tedious experience of the whole 'How was your day? ...Fine and how was yours?'
"Very nearly." he answered instead, lifting the cup to his lips, so as to hide the grin, which was surely about to form on his face.
"How so?" Sherlock raised a brow at him. Confused...hardly. Intrigued, no...just interested.
"Well, I had $3.40 and he charged me $3.00."
"How very blunt of him." The detective agreed and clicked his tongue in mock offence.
"You're saying."
They sat like that for another few seconds before looking up at each other. Their eyes met and simultaneously, they broke into a fit of shameless giggles.
This was comfortable and John was terrified, still not entirely used to the idea of Sherlock in the flat, Sherlock very much alive, Sherlock back in his life.
Even the silence that followed their unretained laughter was comfortable, not tense or awkward. Not the 'I-have-nothing-in-general-with-this-man-anymore' kind of silence, but the knowing and understanding type, the idyllic type of wordlessness. When not a word ought to be said in order to make up for anything.
"That was..." John cleared his throat, his voice serious, "That was nice."
Did he mean the banter or the song? He was not quite sure himself, while Sherlock, apparently was.
"Johann Sebastian Bach." The detective replied, the corner of his mouth rising into a half smile. "Thank you."
John pursed his thin mouth into a tight line. Somehow he could feel the atmosphere change all at once. Not that it was charged with an unexpected flood of negativity, the more accurate would be to say that just a theme had been brought up, which had been diligently avoided by both of them.
What was he to say now? Was he to ignore and forget? Should he possibly make a desultory comment about the weather and commit their relationship into returning to its previous, tessellated state? No, he was not going to step back now. Not really.
"I'm glad you're back." John whispered into the twilit of the room, his eyes trained solidly on his flat mate's. And he did not miss the momentum of sheer surprise, then relief and acceptance passing over Sherlock's face.
They kept this contact going, until the detective broke it with a small warm smile grazing his lips. He knew that this was sincere and this was comfortable. This was the right way and this was-
"How's Mary?" the question rang sonorously and rather lightly, far too lightly for John's liking. He mentally kicked himself for not thinking this through better. He was reminded of the important revelation he was yet to make.
Perhaps it had not been wise to wait for the last minute to mention about the plans he had made with Mary, concerning their future. Perhaps not.
"Umm, about that..." John scratched the back of his ear uneasily. "Sherlock, I think we need to ta-"
And there he was cut off by a force that undoubtedly found it amusing to meddle with their heads or care to ring the doorbell, for the matter.
It rang once, but demandingly so. Not a client then. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't bother, she had the keys...It couldn't be Lestrade either, not at such an hour.
John could practically feel the unrealistic comfortableness begin to languidly float away from him. For that he was sure.
"Just tell him the fellow cried off." The good doctor suggested callously. "That will put an end to the matter. It is quite believable. If your spectacle tonight is any indication, you would give any man an adequate reason to get out of an engagement."
Sherlock swung on him. "You have the gall to blame me for what happened tonight? Anyway, my fiancé is, not the sort of man who would 'cry off' an engagement as you so vulgarly put it."
John let out a bark of laughter. "That's rich. Considering your fiancé exists only in your imagination. I would imagine that he would do anything you wish. Maybe even fetch your bloody phone for you, when it's a foots distance away."
The detective opened his mouth to say something presumably rude, but Mycroft chose to interfere.
"What my dear brother means to say is," he explained in a calm voice. "that the sort of man I have told our grandfather he is, would never do such an ungentlemanly thing."
The poshly clothed man straightened his posture, satisfied that he had got John's attention and was able to give this conversation a decent turn. More or less.
"As I've already said, grandfather is still in ill health, and the doctor says not to disturb him. He says it is a miracle that he hasn't gone already. So me and mother kept putting him off about when Mr. Lassiter and you were going to come to Chevington."
"Mr. Lassiter?" Sherlock asked in puzzlement.
"Your fiancé." Mycroft replied curtly.
"Ah, yes, of course."
"Would you let him get on with the story, John?" asked Mycroft gently. "I assure you that it won't affect you in any way and will be temporary, of course."
John heaved out a sigh, running his fingers through his short blond hair. He should have known better than to agree to participate in this...affair. What was he thinking? Giving the Holmes brothers his stomp of approval. He was quite embarrassed to admit that it had taken Sherlock less than ten minutes to convince him to go with him. The manipulative bastard... Pulling off the same 'could be dangerous' card. Of course anything that had to do with Sherlock was either dangerous or nothing at all.
However, it seemed like the former soldier was not the only one who was troubled with something. John proceeded to watch the detective pace around the room, in what one would call, a restless manner, stop abruptly, open his mouth as if to say something, close it and then start pacing again.
Watson was the most patient human being ever, for willingly putting up with Sherlock every day, but at the moment, he was certain that even he would not last through another round of a ridiculously tall, sulking flat mate, marching on and about in front of him.
"When?" the said man turned to him sharply and asked quite unceremoniously, catching the doctor off guard.
"What do you me-"
"When have you decided to get engaged to Mary and when did you intend to tell me about it?"
John sighed again. "I...don't really remember. It just sort of happened."
"Happened." Sherlock hummed thoughtfully in response.
"Yes. Maybe it was last week. Maybe last month. It does not matter." the doctor said unsympathetically, shooting the other man a glare. "And quit acting clueless with me. I bet you have known it all along. Just asking it now, to irritate me."
And John had to bite the inside of his cheek, to suppress himself from cursing aloud. The open and anguished expression that he found on the detective's face was...let's just say it had pierced deep into his soul and he would not forget the image of it, any time soon. If ever.
"Hey, look..." he started, more softly now. "I'm sorry, I should have told you about this earlier, it's just...I suppose I just forgot."
"It's fine." Sherlock sniffed and waved off his explanation. "It's not your responsibility or precaution to keep me informed about your personal life."
"Sherlock that's not what I..."
"But will you have to move out?" the detective asked brokenly, looking at him expectantly, with those wide stormy blue eyes, just a glint of hope mirroring in them. John Watson had never hated himself in his life, more that he did at the moment.
"I'm afraid so." he said quietly, lowering his head almost guiltily. And he did not dare to say anything else. He was perplexed in the silence between them, because even now it was comfortable. The both men were obviously upset, a million things being left unsaid, but the silence spoke so many more things. Things that words could not express. They were silent, but they understood.
"You can not come with me to Chevington." Sherlock stated at last, snapping the doctor out of his thoughts.
"Wha- Why the hell not?"
"Because you can't." the detective told him firmly and gave him an encouraging smile. "This obviously means a lot to you and I can not... will not attempt to take you away from this. I understand. You must stay."
"No." John shook his head stubbornly. He did not deliberately suffer through all of their ludicrous tales that were supposed to make perfect sense, to back away now.
"You mean a lot to me too."
"John..."
"Mary will understand. Besides it's only for a few days right?" John grinned up at the taller man. "We give them a good old performance to go by and come straight back. And I'll hear none of it anymore. Deal?"
Sherlock's smirk could almost reach his ears.
"Deal."
AN: Hello, dear friends. I'm back with another Sherlock fic, but I must warn you that I will not be able to update this in a regular frequency.
So I know that the idea has been used many many many times before and I'm only presenting you a version of mine. The Johnlock will appear in the coming chapters, if that's what you're wondering. I have not planned out the ending yet...the whole thing with a grandfather in Chevington, Lassiter and the idea in general were inspired by a work by the amazing Candace Camp. This is all for now. Peace.
Reviews are very much appreciated.
