Could've- Sherlock has never met John Watson, but knows he must. / Or in which Mike Stamford has one job, and fails without knowing. / During 'A Study in Pink.'
AN: I don't get it. How do people manage to write in present-tense? Apologies for the large probability of OOC-ness.
Also, as for the line breaks- I blame my Doc Manager, so if they don't show up the way they're supposed to, apologies in advance.
It was just another morning, as it always starts as.
He wakes up on a late Thursday morning with black curls as tangled as his bed sheets and phone beeping maniacally. Sherlock groans, and reluctantly picks it up. Molly's chirpy, but shy voice informs him that there's a new body recently came in-
("Just a second ago," she claims, though it must've been at least a minute since he picked up the phone, obviously-)
-and if he wanted to test his hypothesis, he should do it now.
At the word body, he's already out.
.
"Anyone helping you out with the flat?" Mike Stamford asks, watching Sherlock brutally whip the body, unfazed.
Sherlock paused and blew a stray curl out of his sight of vision before finally shrugging. "If I had a flat mate who could stand me, you and all of London would have known by now. I'm not the most agreeable person-" he says without spite, smoothly, a plain fact, "and even I know that." He huffs, before continuing.
He gives no other words, just silence, so Mike Stamford leaves.
Everything will fine, Sherlock reassures himself unnecessarily, everything will be fine.
He doesn't know what triggered the thought, but he'll –they'll, whoever they are- will be fine.
He was wrong.
Later, in the lab, Mike peaks though the double doors, hoping to catch a certain man. He opens his mouth, as if to say something, but the decidedly changes his mind and says something different. "Any luck with your, er, project?
Sherlock is silent, and gazes into the microscope, deciding that Mike wasn't worth the attention from something so interesting, so-
"That's amazing," Sherlock hears, but when his head snaps to the door, Mike's gone. It wouldn't have mattered, though; the voice didn't match Mike's-
His mind is a whirl, searching and searching for something that didn't intend to be found; so it wasn't.
He leaves the room abruptly, because something wasn't right.
Something didn't happen, and he couldn't place what.
He didn't like not knowing things.
A week or two flies by and he's about to forget before the day startles him awake by giving him a name.
John Watson.
John Watson, John Watson, John. He tests the name with his mind, with his tongue, with his heart, although he insists that he doesn't have one (he does,) slowly at first, treating it carefully before he declares it in differing tones, from bellows to a hush and before Sherlock could remember he's not there, he shouts, "John!", and expects an answer.
The silence greets him instead.
John Watson, John Watson, John Watson. He should know him, shouldn't he?
.
Sherlock spends the rest of the day in a bathrobe and a computer, searching for him. Fingers dash madly across the keyboard with a rhythm of clicks. A vacant chair sits across him, waiting.
He finally comes across an empty blog, starting and ending with one line:
'Nothing ever happens to me.'
Sherlock phones Lestrade to tell him he's not going to be in, for a while.
"What!" The voice in the phone exclaims, and Sherlock has to draw it from his ear, wincing before putting it back. "Sherlock, it's a triple-murder."
"Busy," he dismisses, before using his shoulder to hold the phone so he could begin to hack into a government file or two. It's not too hard, which is slightly disappointing; he thought that they would have upgrade their security after Maboti.
"With what?"
"Searching," Sherlock hangs up before the DI could object, and just spares a moment. His fingers still.
John Watson. He knows the name, the man, and all the same, he doesn't.
Something should have happened yesterday, he concludes, though he's not even near to quitting.
He remembers something, a memory that never happened, just for a second. John likes Chinese.
It's trivial, but he holds on to it for another 4.2 seconds before he lets it go.
Mycroft kidnaps him later in the evening, and they drive around and around the city, going somewhere, but not. Mycroft is driving the car, surprisingly. It must be something more important than another mad man out for world domination; it must be something personal.
The last time Sherlock was dragged into a car and it was just them, alone, was the day before Mycroft went to the university.
Sherlock sits in the back, as he always has, even though he's an adult now. Mycroft will always hold the higher, leading positions, flaunting them with a smirk.
They loiter around the city that's as bright as the stars in the night before Mycroft finally speaks. "Turned down a serial killing, brother mine. Have you been fine, or should I check up on you more often?"
"Oh, don't you pretend you don't know why, brother dear," Sherlock snaps, drawing out the phrase brother dear with a sarcastic drawl.
The government official spares a raised eyebrow in the rearview mirror, before asking with an innocent tone, "Know what?"
Sherlock huffed, flopping back into his seat with his arms in his bathrobe before finally saying, "John Watson. Do you know anything about him?"
Silence. Sherlock looks into the rearview mirror, but Mycroft is determined not to meet his gaze. Finally, he looks, scrutinizing every last detail of his brother's still expression.
The car slows to a stop. Mycroft turns around, before nodding, and hands him a train ticket. "For your fare," he says, and leaves Sherlock behind at the heart of the city.
Despite the people, the lights, the noise, he still feels very, very much alone.
Sherlock does the one thing he does best, but he doesn't deduce.
He runs.
.
Sherlock finds himself at a train station.
People, scattered and lost- (a man, tall, dark, American, calling his brother for a ride. Recently divorced and unemployed- and then another; a mother calling for her child, two other children dangling in her arms. Single, 21, triplets, brave-) -and he watches them, there and back again, staring at all the doctors and musicians and business men, before his eyes finally closing in on another man.
Tan line, slow stride, psychosomatic limp-
He does not control his tongue; what speeds though his lips the next second is purely on impulse. "John!"
This time, he receives an answer. John turns and begins to open his mouth, but before then he's whisked off on the train, somewhere, somewhere, gone.
(When Sherlock looks back, he remembers that John gave one long look (1.3 seconds) before he boarded. One long, fast, sad look, as if ye know what happened [or what hasn't.])
By the time he returns to Baker Street, the night already began to recede. Mycroft texts him later that morning, when he has finally stopped running around London in his bathrobe. (Tooth canal, a stray part of Sherlock's mind works.
John Watson is a dangerous man. Do not approach. –MH
Mycroft needs to learn how to make up his mind, Sherlock thinks, and throws the Blackberry against the wall, hearing it break with a sharp snap.
(Or more of a clap, like a handgun, firing a bullet far, far away though two glass panes before-)
Sherlock doesn't sleep. Nor does he want to.
A phone rings two days later.
Sherlock, abruptly awaking after his short 'rest' (wake up, wake up, you need to find him-) before he answers the new iPhone.
"You said you needed help with the flat, right?"
Sherlock huffs. "I did no such thing. However, you on the other hand-
"Sherlock, just come downstairs. Mrs. Hudson let us in, because you didn't answer. Bli-"
He's down within a bound of steps, curls sprawling, hands flickering to grab his coat to cover his attire (which was a twin of the bathrobe the night before; he did have the decency to somewhat change.)
(John, he thinks, it has to be John.)
"Sherlock!" Mike Stamford exclaims. A younger, thinner man stood behind him shyly, hands in the pockets of his trousers, thumbs thrumming the thick underwear garter, visible above the waistline.
(Not John, something says, and that something breaks. It doesn't show; it never does.)]
Male. Early thirties. Hair products. IT. Fan. Shirt tucked into his pants, showing above his jean waistline.
"How did you acquire my address?" Sherlock inquires, cautious.
Something about the man behind Mike makes his skin crawl. The man sees this, and gives him a mad grin. Mike remains oblivious.
"Oh! Jim, from IT, remember?" Mike grins, and 'Jim' resides back to his first, quiet self. (So, an actor then, Sherlock thinks.)"I mentioned you needed a flatmate, and he jumped right up to it!"
"And… my friend Jim," he raised an eyebrow of confirmation. 'Jim' nods, and smirks, before shifting back into a shy smile. "told you my address?"
Mike replies with an enthusiastic 'Yes!', and Sherlock's demeanor shifts.
(Good friend from Uni. Be delighted, happy, but don't exaggerate. Get this 'Jim from IT to be with you alone.)
Sherlock's face lights up. "Oh! Jim!" He shakes Jim's hand before placing the other on his shoulder. "I haven't seen you in ages! We have much to talk about, don't we, Jim?" Sherlock turns his attention to Mike. "Thank you!"
"Absolutely, 'Lock!" Jim exclaims. Sherlock sends him a sharp glare before molding back into character. "Mike, thank you, so, so much. I'd invite you for tea, but I don't quite live here yet."
A clear dismissal. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, and in response, Jim nods. We need to talk.
Obviously, Sherlock's mind drawls.
"Of course, of course." Mike answers, clearly still happy of their 'reunion', unfazed of the remark. "Well, I must be going, anyway. I told you I'd find a flat mate for you yet!"
"No, you didn't." Sherlock remarks, but the man was already out the door.
"Nice to meet you, Jim from IT." Sherlock says, narrowing his eyes. Both men stand apart, assessing each other. "Who are you?"
"Jim Moriarty. Hi." Jim gave a small, playful smile and shrugs. "Did you like the touch with the underwear?"
"What do you want?" Sherlock asks, tone even and cautious.
Jim grins again, welcoming himself up the staircase. He stops on the fifth step before answering. "Does the name John Watson ring a bell?
Somedays, he would stare at the shoes Carl Powers left behind and remember.
"I will burn the heart out of you."
"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."
"But we both know that's not quite true."
Remember the loss.
Lestrade is persistent. He calls and he calls and calls again, until Sherlock is fed up and finally caves in.
"Lestrade!" Sherlock moans, "I told you I was busy!"
"Busy? Busy doing what?" Lestrade shoots back. "There's been a fourth murder, what is so important that you'd reject four murders?"
"John Watson, Lestrade, John!" The Detective Inspector is silent before answering. "Oh yes; I should have known you were already on it. Couldn't resist it, could you? Yes; it's John Watson, but how did you know his name?"
Silence. Sherlock stares back at the shoes propped on his windowsill.
He's out the door before Lestrade even utters a word.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, are you- oh, you bastard."
There is only one time Sherlock wishes he wasn't right. This is it.
(John Watson. Blogger. Flat mate. Army doctor. Blond Psychosomatic limp. Dark eyes. Good shot. Wounded shoulder.
John. Having a row with the chip machine. John, killing a man without a hesitation when they just met. John, healer, John, soldier, John, normal.
John, friend.)
Sherlock never met him, and never will, but he already knows John Watson better than the back of his hand.
He was right.
Scotland Yard found him (John, John, John) in an abandoned school building, an empty pill bottle in one hand and an almost unnoticeable slip of paper in the other. John looked fine –a bit pale, but fine, as if he were asleep- and something in Sherlock tore. As if his heart was ripped in two, mind in denial because this wasn't supposed to happen.
He was right and wrong in the end, though; when it came to being dead and fine.
[Reality was a brutal caretaker.]
No.
Stupid, stupid John, guessing, swallowing, playing the game with the cabbie.
The cabbie that he was supposed to kill instead. Sherlock sees it now; how cruel and concise and powerful the universe is. Later, he will laugh and cry and try to forget and remember all the same, but now, he is silent.
He stands, unmovable. Only the corner of his lips tugs into the slightest of frowns.
"Ha." Donovan says haughtily. "Freak's forgot to hide the body."
"I didn't kill him." Sherlock speaks. He barely gets the thought out, and when he does, it's slow, because his mind is assessing and a mess.
He drags himself to the body (don't look; it's not John) and knows where to pick for his next clue.
Sherlock pries the slip of paper slowly out of his cold hand. It's as small as a fortune cookie slip, but it speaks more words than John had ever said to him.
Call me. –Jim
His number is scrawled on the back.
Fin.
Cheers to the person who gets the Hobbit reference.