This is part two of seven of my Sherlock wish!fic series. Sherlock meets John again, yay!
Many thanks to my awesome friend and beta Akiame9. Like Sherlock would be lost without his blogger, I would be lost without her.
Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
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The last time he'd been to the fountain was that fateful—was fateful even the right word? Sherlock wasn't sure—night he'd met John. To say that the encounter had changed his life, true as it was, would be a gross understatement. In the two years following the pivotal event, Sherlock managed to finally get his act together. With the help of Scotland Yard's Sergeant Lestrade and, begrudgingly, Mycroft, the ex-junkie took his first steps along the road to sobriety. It was a long, agonizing, arduous journey, but he'd come out on top in the end. Now the track marks on his arm were nothing but faded scars, little blemishes on his too-pale skin that reminded him of where he used to be and how far he'd climbed from his lowest point.
And tonight, he'd just helped the Met wrap up a rather nasty double homicide. It was his first official case as a self-proclaimed consulting detective, and it'd been a major success—not that he had any doubt it would be anything but. He was certain that his aid and expertise tonight practically guaranteed Lestrade a promotion in the very near future. Of course that wasn't to say that the policeman's career was his top priority—that slot belonged to both curing his boredom and putting his mind to practical use.
The adrenaline of the chase still buzzed and thrummed through his veins; he had some energy to burn before he'd allow himself to crash, and his feet led him there, to where it all started. The fountain itself hadn't changed since he'd last seen it. A solid, eternal entity in his slowly changing life. Left as it was, just as he'd expected even after all this time.
One thing he did not expect to find, however, was a lone figure in a dark green coat and jeans sitting on the edge of the fountain, concentrating way too hard on the water.
Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks.
John?
It took barely three seconds for Sherlock's analyzing eyes to gather all the information he needed to determine the man's identity, but he still had a difficult time believing what he saw. He didn't doubt his senses, because they hadn't been wrong often, but rather the probability of the situation at hand. Statistics ran through his already taxed, sleep-deprived brain, calculating the chances that he would happen to see John again in the same location they'd met by complete chance the first time around, on an arbitrarily-chosen evening so long after the initial acquaintance more than twenty-four months ago.
But John was here, in the flesh, defying all of Sherlock's previous notions of fate and wishes.
The solider didn't seem to notice the consulting detective's deliberate approach, lost in his own little world by the looks of it. Silently, Sherlock placed himself beside John, still standing, hands tucked deep into his coat pockets.
"Contemplating another wish?"
John nearly fell off his perch and onto the ground. Instead, he reigned in his surprise and looked up at the dark-haired man looming above him. His previously impassive face immediately lit up and his lips quirked into a small smile, one that Sherlock slowly mimicked.
"Hello, Sherlock," he said, cheerfully and still slightly awestruck. Clearly he had come to the same numerical and probable conclusion Sherlock had in regards to their chances at ever meeting again, especially here. At least they were together in their surprise and bafflement.
"Hello, John," Sherlock finally said, taking a seat next to the solider on the cold stone ledge of the fountain.
"Fancy seeing you here," John said. "Out for another late night stroll?"
"More or less," Sherlock responded with a nod. "The same for you, yes?"
"Mhm." John's shoulders rolled and hunched, the muscles stretching taut beneath the heavy fabric of his coat. Sherlock regarded the motion with more interest than he'd ever given a dead body.
And then, because he absolutely could not help himself, he blurted out, "You're trying to avoid someone."
That same look of shocked amazement when Sherlock had deduced John's career a couple years back now took residence on John's face once again, followed by a strange sort of grin—one that wasn't necessarily embarrassed or bashful, but almost disbelieving in its quality. "You're right," he admitted, to which Sherlock smirked. Of course he was right; he was rarely wrong.
The inquiry of "Dinner?" fell out of his mouth before his mind even had the chance to acknowledge the thought.
Much to his delight and slight astonishment, John readily accepted the offer.
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The Chinese restaurant where Sherlock ended up taking John was one of the most hole-in-the-wall, severely underrated eating establishments in London. Sherlock preferred it over many other places because of its relatively invisible and unknown existence. The coziness and quietude of the place had a wondrous calming effect on his chaotic brain. Plus, when he actually bothered to nourish himself, the food was actually quite good.
"So, you're a detective?" John asked after swallowing down a spoonful of egg drop soup.
"Consulting detective," Sherlock corrected as he nibbled at the end of a spring roll. "I invented the job myself, making me the only one in the world."
"And you use your deductive powers at crime scenes to help the police?"
"Precisely."
John slid his now empty bowl aside and folded his hands in his lap. "So…deduce me. I want to see how you think. How did you know I was trying to avoid someone?"
Sherlock stilled, setting his spring roll back on the plate a few moments later with slow, calculated movements. For the first time in…well, probably ever, he was nervous to share his brilliance. He was getting on so well with John. Why ruin it by saying something that the man might find offensive? It was also…odd that he was being so considerate of John's feelings.
But then again…when he'd rattled off his observations about John over two years ago, he was met with praise rather than the usual disdain. And John looked so earnest in his request, so eager to hear what Sherlock had to say.
Besides, Sherlock was feeling that compulsive need to show off for his new friend, fluff his colourful tail feathers like a peacock; being a show-off, he'd never been able to bite back that insistent urge.
He took a deep breath, locking his gaze with John's before he began. "The bags under your eyes say you haven't been getting much sleep, which is odd considering you're on leave at the moment and should be using this time to rest. Your shoulders were very tense when I first saw you, and though you've relaxed a bit in my company you're still rather stiff. You were also thinking deeply about something while at the fountain, as was obvious by the near-scowl that was settled on your face. That points to disappointment, perhaps frustration. Also, the fact that you were in the park this late at night suggests you were trying to get away from something, or someone. You aren't satisfied with where you're staying presently, but you feel like you have to put up with it because you've nowhere else to go otherwise. I'd wager you're staying with a sibling, most likely your brother, but the two of you don't get on very well, hence your earlier sour demeanor and your avoidant tendencies."
It wasn't until Sherlock finished with his deductions that John finally looked away, aiming a hard stare at the tabletop. The silence hung tense and heavy between them, even when the waitress brought them their plates of steaming Chinese cuisine. Neither of them were that particularly interested in their food.
Finally, John let out a small breath of a laugh. "Sister," he said, looking up at Sherlock once more, a strangely sad smile on his lips. "I'm staying with my sister and her fiancée."
"Always something," Sherlock muttered under his breath, though he couldn't hide the small, lopsided smirk that made its way onto his mouth. "Did I get everything else right?"
John nodded. "Yeah. It's hard to sleep when Harry and Clara are having one of their rows," he admitted, picking up his pair of chopsticks to poke at his rice. "But Harry's my only family. No one else to stay with."
Sherlock was swirling his lo mein around his plate with his fork when suddenly a finger came into his line of vision, inching closer to his face. He immediately backed away on reflex.
"Hold still," John ordered, and Sherlock did as he was told. He felt John's rough fingertip caress his cheekbone and shivered at the fleeting touch. His eyes fluttered open—wait, when had he even closed them?—and he tilted his head to the side, wondering what on earth John was doing staring so curiously at his finger.
"Eyelash," the blond said, holding the tiny hair out to Sherlock. "It was on your cheek."
"And you're showing it to me why?"
John chuckled, and Sherlock decided he could never grow tired of the sound. "You're supposed to make a wish on it."
A dark brow raised incredulously as Sherlock eyed the eyelash still resting on John's fingertip. How banal and stupid, making a wish on something as ridiculous as an eyelash.
Still…Sherlock's first ever wish to see John again had come true. What harm could it do to make another?
With a little puff of air from pursed lips, the eyelash flew off to God knew where. Sherlock wished for more time. More time to spend with John, because it had been so long since he'd genuinely enjoyed the company of another person—an actual living person, not a dead body—and perhaps with time, John could become someone Sherlock considered…a friend.
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There's still another chapter for this story, coming eventually.
Until next time,
Chibi