I was looking over some of my old stories and after series 2 of Sherlock had a lot of new ideas, so I've decided to rewrite this one because I now know where to take it! I've left the old story up for now. Reviews welcome.
Putting Out the Flame
Part 1: Learning and Burning
Sherlock Holmes was not the sort of man to have many friends, but those he did he kept close. It had taken John Watson almost five years of living with him to understand this and for three of those Sherlock had been dead. After those years, that John had termed the 'hiatus', it had been perhaps even harder than the grieving to readjust to having his best friend around. For weeks he had ignored him, refused to talk, being angry but when he had realised that Sherlock's health was slowly getting worse, his reclusive behaviour increasing, that he had to accept that Sherlock had it just as bad as him, in fact he'd probably had it worse.
Forgiveness hadn't been easy. There had been many days when John had seriously considered leaving for good but something had stopped him, it might have been Sherlock's broken looks, it might have been the little voice in the back of his head going he did it all for you, he suffered to so John had accepted and slowly things had returned to normal. Sherlock started eating, talking and eventually taking on cases. But John knew that the Sherlock he had known was gone, the man in front of him was different, he had nightmares, he was jumpy around unknown situations and he did everything he could to avoid putting John or Gregory Lestrade in any form of danger.
Of course, Sherlock had paid for it. In their latest case Sherlock had taken a bullet for him without any thought for himself, immobilising his shoulder for weeks but saying that John's friendship and continuing existence was worth the wounds. Sherlock had also become more open, talking about his childhood (not amazing), Mycroft (surprisingly affectionately) and the few friends he had and their importance to him.
So John Watson couldn't help but raise an eyebrow in disbelief and hurt as he learned of the existence of Sherlock's first true friend. It had been another of Sherlock's sulky days, he had spent most of the morning curled up on the sofa in his pyjamas, attempting to draw an intricate pattern up his arm in felt tip pen left-handed, having carefully removed his right from the sling (it turned out Sherlock was also quite an artist), because with his arm out of action Lestrade had effectively banned him from cases until he felt Sherlock was fit enough to return.
"Usually you've complained by this point." Sherlock's confused voice broke John's train of thought, he glanced across at the detective and the ink pattern that now decorated his skin. Clearly he had been expecting John to comment on his sudden change in behaviour.
"When do I ever complain?" John replied thinking of all the times Sherlock had done much worse and he hadn't commented, "I'm just glad you haven't used permanent marker. It would have taken ages to get it off."
That was when Sherlock's phone decided to vibrate itself off the table. With a loud, dramatic sigh Sherlock flung the pen down and stretched, lifting himself off the sofa, leaving the sling behind (again) and carefully catching his mobile before it hit the floor. John glanced up, expecting it to be a text from Lestrade about a cold case but found instead a soft, almost tender smile adorning Sherlock's face as he re-read the text. Whilst the younger man had become more open with his emotions John was surprised at such an open display of affection.
"What?" Sherlock asked innocently, phone held limp in one hand, as he caught John's curious expression.
"Care to share?" John asked simply, inwardly chuckling at his rhyming ability. Sherlock's expression fell into one of exasperation and with a grunt of mild annoyance he threw the phone in John's general direction. Thankfully John's reflexes were still 'military quick' and whilst Sherlock's aim was off he caught the phone before it hit the floor or broke something.
Free this evening?
Round mine, bring violin, at 7.
SL
"Who's SL?" John asked the moment he finished reading the disappointingly uninteresting message.
"An old friend" Sherlock replied carelessly from his place on the sofa. He had gone back to his drawing now that John had satisfied his curiosity and knew the contents of his inbox.
"A friend?" John replied incredulously just as Sherlock had done after he had met Mycroft so many months ago because John was pretty sure that he knew all of Sherlock's friends (all three of them) and none of them had those initials, so the possibility of Sherlock having a friend he hadn't previously mentioned hurt.
"Well, an enemy," Sherlock conceded, "and a good one at that, one of only two people to ever outsmart me." Sherlock gave up on his drawing and threw the pen at the table, giving John his fully attention because he knew the subject wouldn't be left alone and after leaving John in the dark for three years and then having to deal with the consequences John deserved some answers. Even now he couldn't believe John had forgiven him and in his most vulnerable moments often found himself watching the doctor, afraid he would up and leave.
In the silence the pen rolled gently across the table top, wobbled on the edge for a few moments and then fell off, the quiet clatter sounding extraordinary loud. Neither man moved to pick it up, there wasn't any point, it didn't make much of a difference to the already cluttered floor. After a few moments Sherlock realised that John was expecting him to explain without any prompting so hesitantly he began.
"You already know who one of them was." Sherlock stated, hoping John would give him some indication of how to continue, this sort of conversation was not his forte.
"Irene Adler." John acknowledged, apparently recognising Sherlock's internal struggle. "I assume you met the other before all this?" John gestured to the flat and Sherlock found himself nodding.
"I was young, naïve. I'd just left school and had decided to explore London, and because of my stupidity I got lost on the first night. Calling Mycroft was not an option, it would have been far too shameful, I'd never live it down so I was just about to find somewhere to sleep for the night, and a cheap hotel would do, when someone called out to me from the end of the street."
"Are you lost? Oh, new around here. Don't worry, happens to a lot of people when they first arrive, it's a bit bigger than they first thought, anyway, where are you heading?"
"I had to trust this stranger because they seemed to know the area pretty well, I was lost, tired and pretty much out of cash."
"Where am I?"
"You're just off Hanbury Street."
"Oh, I was aiming for Fournier Street."
"Well you aren't that far off. Fournier Street, famous for Jack the Ripper connections if I remember correctly, are you interested in that kind of thing?"
"They directed me to Fournier Street and pick pocketed me whist they did it, not that I had much on me, at least they left enough cash for me to afford a bed for the night. By the time I realised they'd gone. It took me two weeks to track them down and we've been in touch ever since."
"They pick pocketed you?" Sherlock nodded and John could have sworn that the amateur detective was actually blushing, well the idea of Sherlock falling for that seemed incredulous, no matter how young he'd been. After a few moments it became clear Sherlock was unwilling to continue so instead John tried to employ his methods and reach his own conclusion.
"A girl." He said eventually, hoping that he was right. Sherlock raised an eyebrow that said and how did you come to that conclusion without giving anything away. "You wouldn't trust a man out late at night, especially when you're at that age. I would imagine that, having discovered something you were interested in she distracted you with talk on the subject and just took it weren't you weren't paying attention, with your confusion and generally displacement it wouldn't have been hard." Sherlock gazed at him for a long moment before finally nodding.
"When done John, you were right on all accounts." John allowed himself a moment of astonished pride, "You're developing deductive abilities of your own." Sherlock sounded almost proud before sighing and giving in to John's silent demands for information. "Her name's Sophie Lawson, well her real name's Sophia but she hates it, says that sounds too Russian. She's a pianist and singer, but also has an interest in detecting, for a while she even worked with me." John couldn't help but wonder that there must be something more to her than that to be able to put up with Sherlock on a day to day basis.
"So how did she beat you then? Surely pick-pocketing doesn't make her an enemy?" Sherlock smiled again, shocking John with his openness.
"Sophie faked her own death, very well in fact, during a particularly troubling case concerning a drug ring. I only discovered that she was alive when she turned up on my doorstep four years later." For a moment the pair fell into a comfortable, contemplative silence. Then apparently reaching a decision about the invitation Sherlock got up and headed for the shower, paused and the hallway and stuck his head back round the door.
"Shall I assume you're going?" John asked, attempting to deduce Sherlock's behaviour.
"Of course, I also assume you would like to meet her."
"Naturally." John replied with a slight smile. It seemed that Sherlock was slowly getting the hang of this emotional stuff and was able to predict John's wants and needs and act upon them.
"Send her a text would you?" Sherlock asked and disappeared behind the door, no change there though, John still acted as Sherlock's personal slave at times, even if he did do it more politely. The changes in Sherlock had been astonishing in the past year and his friendship with John had developed into what John could describe as a platonic relationship. It turned out Sherlock craved love and attention as much as anyone else, especially having being deprived of friendly human contact for nearly three years and John would not be the one to deny him the affection he deserved. With a wry smile John glanced at the phone on the table, leant over picked it up and sent a text.
Will be there at 7,
Bringing violin and flatmate,
SH.
Sophie Lawson, ironically, lived on Hanbury Street. As the taxi drew up (Sherlock paid, that was another recent change) John first impression was that the house didn't seem that impressive, certainly not enough for the occupant to gain the attention of Sherlock Holmes, with the number 73A painted on the door beginning to fade against peeling paint. Undeterred Sherlock, now freshly showered and dressed properly reached up to knock but the door creaked opened before his fist could make contact.
Again John's first impression did not overwhelm him in any way. Sophie Lawson looked perfectly normal, she was reasonably tall, definitely over average height, but still looked quite small against Sherlock's lean frame. She was also quite slim, although no way near Sherlock's stick thin figure, at least her weight looked healthy, she probably did some form of physical exercise. John would have placed her age at about 28, although he knew looks could be deceiving, Sherlock looked ten years younger than he actually was. Her hair was a plain, slightly wavy, mousy brown but it was her eyes that set her apart. Gray and piercing, like Sherlock's they seemed to look into him. Sophie also seemed to give off an aura of something mysterious, it made John immediately distrustful.
"Good evening Sherlock, it's good to see you and you must be Doctor John Watson." Shaking his head out of his limited deductions John's mind latched onto another oddity, her accent was off, it just didn't sound quite right for a Londoner. However for the sake of politeness (something John Watson was renowned for) he shook the offered hand and stepped inside.
The house on the inside was very different to the outside façade and John cursed himself for, as his mother would say, judging a book by its cover. In a way it reminded him of Baker Street, with Victorian pastel wallpapers and nick-knacks all over the place and was surprisingly spacious. The living room ever contained an upright piano which Sherlock gently laid his violin atop. As Sherlock settled himself on the sofa John found an inviting armchair form which he could continue to observe the room. Sophie left momentarily pour the tea but when she returned she gave Sherlock a proper examination.
"You should have told me that your shoulder was hurt." She scolded much to John's surprise, "I wouldn't have made you bring the Stradivarius." Sherlock gave a small shrug, and an even smaller wince.
"How?" John asked baffled.
"Sherlock's right handed but he reached to knock with his left hand and took the mug with his left hand as well, suggesting that he favours his left side, but why? When he sat he showed discomfort, probably in pain, so he was wounded, he prefers the left side but does not avoid the right completely and is only cautious about the upper body, but he used his right hand to support the mug so that was not hurt but moving his arm caused him pain, so there is an injury to the right shoulder." Sherlock gave a small smile, whilst John gave himself a moment to realise that Sophie was essentially another Sherlock. Sherlock's ease around her and the soft smile she held allowed John to relax a little, if Sherlock was comfortable around someone who could deduce than John should trust his judgment.
"That was amazing Miss Lawson." John managed, then after a slight pause, "Would you care to explain how there's another you?" John asked playfully, looking pointedly at Sherlock.
"Sophie's a girl after my own heart." Sherlock replied simply, also relaxing now that he knew John was ok with Sophie and their friendship.
"You're amazing, both of you." John slumped back into the chair deciding it was best to accept and move on, Sophie grinned.
"Thank you, and it's Sophie not 'Miss Lawson" Sophie paused with a wicked smile playing around her lips, "and if you think Sherlock's amazing now, you wait until you get him into bed." With a wink at a slack mouthed, dumbstruck John Sophie exchanged a quick glance with Sherlock and promptly left to get the biscuits.
TBC