The Secrets of John Hamish Watson
She watched them in silence, the darkness of night like a cloak billowing away from her. He knew she was there, he had seen her standing under the broken streetlamp two hours ago. He stared at her face, noting that it was a blank mask, the only thing he could see were the electric blue of her eyes. Her hands were in her coat pockets, the coat black and, from what he could see, well worn, given the slight fraying at the edges, the almost invisible stains merging with the black material, wool perhaps, he needed a closer examination. He couldn't make out her hair; the coat's hood was up. The only thing that gave her away was the slight shape of her body, the way she stood, and the slight bulge of breasts in her chest area.
"Sherlock," John called from the kitchen, he was making dinner "could you give me a hand over here?"
Sherlock didn't hear John at all, he was busy trying to figure out why this woman was standing and staring at his window.
"She knows I see her but she doesn't try to hide or walk away." Sherlock muttered to himself, "Why? What is so important that she is just standing there? To see me, perhaps? No, if she had wanted to see me then she would have left or come in already. To spy? My enemies would not use so poor a spy, unless they had a hidden message in this? But what?"
"Sherlock!" John called out in exasperation, "Would you please set the table! The food is almost done!"
John looked into the living room, noticing that Sherlock was still at the window that over looked the street.
"Sherlock?" John stepped into the room, his plain apron spattered with the internal organs of tomatoes, "What is it? What are you looking at?" He peered around Sherlock's unmoving body.
The woman stood still for two seconds longer before abruptly turning away from the streetlight and making her way down the sidewalk.
"She was there to see you…" Sherlock trailed off, his mind racing to catch the implications. He had noticed that John's body had tensed, his eyes had narrowed, and his mouth had curved down into a frown, at the quick glimpse he had of the strange woman a split second before the man relaxed.
"Strange that," John casually remarked, he turned his back on the window and returned to the kitchen.
Sherlock watched John walk away, noticing that he was limping slightly. Whoever the woman was, or is for that matter, John obviously knew her. He knew her and had been upset with her appearance. Why?
"Did you say something?" John called from the kitchen, "Supper's going to be ready in two minutes, and would you please set the table!"
Sherlock moved to comply.
Why? What? Who? When? Why? Why? Why? Sherlock's mind worked overtime as he tried to piece together this little puzzle. He came up with several theories (the woman was Harry, John's sister, but why didn't she come in? Prank? The woman was one of John's exes, but why the mask? Stalker? But she hadn't hidden when he stood at the window), yet none of them felt right.
The only things he really did know are the facts. 1) a masked woman who took care to hide who she is, the upturned hood, hands in pocket, standing as still as possible, was 2) standing near a broken streetlamp watching his flat but 3) had not left when she noticed someone there, clearly she had not found him or his knowing she was there a matter of consequence, however 4) she had not wanted John to know she was there because 5) John obviously knew her even with the disguise on, given the way he had stiffened and reacted negatively. Why? Why did he react negatively? Why did she not want him to know but not care that Sherlock saw her? Does she really not want John to see her? Maybe she did want John to know but not actually see her? Again, why? What was the connection between John and this woman? Negative, obviously, but why?
"Are you going to eat or stare at the food?" John asked, already digging into the spaghetti and meatballs he had made.
"As much as I appreciate your culinary art I do not want to be the practice dummy for the next meal you cook for your current girlfriend. Who is it this time anyways? The librarian from the city library? The patisserie from New Body? Or is it the college professor with the yapping dog?" Sherlock poked at the dish, it looked decent enough, the smell could be considered appetizing and the little sprig of parsley contrasted pleasantly with the red of the sauce.
John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's deductions, "I'll have you know that it is the college professor, Sarah Kingly. She teaches-"
"Boring." Sherlock interrupted, he set aside the fork, pushed away the plate, folded his hands together, and studied John.
John pretended not to notice. He kept right on eating, noting that he might want to consider adding a little more salt in the sauce next time.
"Who was the woman at the streetlamp?" Sherlock suddenly asked.
"Don't know. Some weirdo I guess." John replied taking another bite of pasta, "And how did you know it was a woman?" He didn't look at Sherlock.
He's lying. Not looking at me means that he knows but doesn't want me to know…why? Sherlock felt something tremble in his chest. With a slight shock he realized he felt hurt. This was the first time that John had actually refused him something completely. Certainly there had been times where John would refuse to do/say something the Sherlock needed him to do but always John had made no real indication that he would shut Sherlock out. This simple refusal to meet Sherlock's eyes was a shut-out.
"You're not going to eat?" John used his fork to point at Sherlock's cooling food.
Sherlock did not reply, he simply rose from the table walked back to the window and pulled out his violin. John watched Sherlock's retreating back before he set aside his own fork, the pasta on his plate half eaten. He no longer felt hungry. With a sigh, John got up from the table, wrapped up the leftovers, and did the dishes. All the while Sherlock played on his violin.
Why? Was the same question that resonated through both their minds as the night continued to take over their part of the world.