Chapter Two:


Four days later, John was sitting in his chair, going through the morning's post. He felt less anxious now about the final notice bills than he had in the past. He'd been living with Sherlock long enough to know that these would be paid through direct debits from his flatmate's account at some point. Sherlock didn't think about such mundane stuff, but clearly someone did. John suspected either Mycroft or perhaps a family adviser of some sort. He just went along with the arrangements now, and paid his share of the rent directly to Mrs Hudson, and kept a running balance of grocery shopping bills and taxi fares to offset his share of the utilities bills and rates for the flat. It had worked out pretty evenly over the past nine months, so he'd stopped worrying. He remembered the first time he'd raised it, at the end of the first month in Baker Street.

"What do you want to do with this, Sherlock?"

"Do with what?" The younger man was stretched out on the sofa in what John had come to think of as his characteristic 'possum pose'. Sherlock didn't open his eyes to look at the gas bill that was being waved at him by John.

"Bills. How do you want to settle up what we owe each other at the end of every month?"

"Boring. Just decide what I owe you and you can take my card to the nearest cash machine and take it." Sherlock didn't open his eyes, but just waved his hand dismissively before returning it to his usual 'prayer' position.

"Pretty trusting soul, aren't you? What happens if I end up owing you instead of the other way around. Or if I get greedy?"

"I know you scrupulously honest, John. I watch you balancing your bank account every time you write a cheque. You've been managing money meticulously all of your life. Someone that careful isn't a likely thief."

John decided that was as close to a backhanded compliment he was likely to get, so let it go.

As soon as he got to the fourth item down in the pile of today's post, he found the two envelopes, one addressed to him, the other Sherlock, in the same handwriting. Impressive, posh stationery. Sherlock was taking a shower at the time, so John decided to open his. He got Sherlock's jack-knife off the mantelpiece, remembering Mrs Hudson's reaction when she'd seen it there the first time ("Oh, my poor mantel; whatever possessed him to do that?") It was handy letter opener, and John felt that something this posh deserved to be opened carefully. He sliced through the top of the envelope very carefully and pulled out a gilt-edged stiff card

Syndicate B of the Parham Estate

invites

Captain John Watson MD MC

To a shooting weekend on 13-15 November

RSVP 01903 742021

His name had been written in black ink on the line, in perfect calligraphy, as if engraved itself to match the font of the printing. There was a small coronet embossed on the card at the top. Very tasteful, and it just screamed old money. There was no address, but he vaguely remembered Mycroft saying West Sussex. That made John wonder. He was from the middle of the country- the east Midlands to be precise. And when he escaped that to go to university in London, he didn't have much of a chance to travel in the UK. Apart from the area around Sandhurst in Camberley, Surrey, some thirty miles west of London, he didn't know much about southern England, outside of London. His army days after were spent in the far northeast, Northumberland, and then it was off to Sierra Leone, Germany and then his tours of duty in Afghanistan.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was even harder to place geographically. The accent created by a public school tended to erase any regional dialect. John had been at Sandhurst with soldiers from Scotland who had accents shaped more by their time at a posh southern school than any ancestral roots in Aberdeenshire or the Highlands. He had no idea where the Holmes brothers had grown up, apart from Mycroft's comment about Sherlock moving to London, so presumably he wasn't born in the city. Come to think of it, he'd never even managed to find out where Sherlock went to school. It just never came up at a crime scene, or standing across the mortuary table when examining another murder victim.

As he looked at the invitation again and re-played his backseat conversation with Mycroft, he realised that this was an opportunity to find out more about Sherlock and his brother, in a rather more social environment. The idea of the three of them being invited to some posh event was…intriguing. John was always game to try something new, and his Sandhurst days had knocked off most of the rough edges of insecurity about his own social background, so he wasn't fazed by spending a weekend seeing how the other half lived. Might be enlightening about a flatmate who persisted in denying the past meant anything.

"What's that?" The baritone over his shoulder roused John from his thoughts. Sherlock had come through the kitchen and was snooping over his shoulder.

"You've got one, too." He handed the envelope over his shoulder to his flatmate.

"Oh, that." Sherlock casually ripped the envelope open and pulled the card out, heading back toward the kitchen where he binned both without reading it.

"Oi! Aren't you going to even look at it?" John was surprised.

"I know what it says."

"Does that mean you aren't going to accept?"

There was something akin to disappointment in John's tone that made Sherlock look back at him, in surprise. He came and sat in his leather and chrome chair, eyeing the doctor with some surprise.

"You want to…go?" He didn't keep his disbelief hidden. "Why would you want to do that?"

John gave him a rather pointed look. "Maybe because I fancy a trip out of London and spending a weekend in the fresh country air at someone else's expense- well, what's not to like about that? Never been to a shooting party before. Sounds like fun. Why don't you want to go?"

"Mycroft."

"Well, there will be other people there, too, Sherlock. You can just ignore him there as much as you do here."

"It's not just him; one of these weekends can be full of hooray henrys and stuck up aristos, John. Not exactly a barrel of laughs."

"Who says I want a barrel of laughs? Can't say that every night stuck at home watching crap TV and eating take-away couldn't be improved by getting something different occasionally."

"Isn't that what your dating is all about?"

"Yeah, well, that takes hard work, finding someone to go out with. It might be interesting to be put together with a load of people I don't know. Not everyone is a self-confessed sociopath, Sherlock." John said it with a smile, hoping his flatmate wouldn't take offence. "Besides, you know what I think about guns, and actually having a chance to learn a weapon I've never really used before is…exciting."

Sherlock seemed to consider this. "The shooting itself is…good. It's just that it comes with a whole load of tedious stuff- like the formal dinner on Saturday. Black tie and all that stupidity."

"Will there be women?" John's mind had gone off on a tangent when Sherlock mentioned his dating.

"Yes, possibly one or two who actually shoot, but women are more common as the camp followers."

John shot him a confused look.

"Beaters, pickers-up, of course, plus the ones that come for the social stuff- wives, girlfriends, guests. That sort of women."

"Pretty?"

"I have no idea. I'm not in charge of the guest list, am I?" Sherlock was starting to look bemused. "Do you even possess a dinner jacket, John?"

"Nope, but a Mess uniform will do, won't it?"

Sherlock nodded. "Actually, it's likely that some other retired military chap will also get invited, so you won't be the only one; they generally love an invitation, and can be quite good shots."

"Well, I won't be, so don't expect me to do anything more than try it out."

Sherlock was smirking. "Don't worry. I am sure they won't put you in the firing line. If you'd like to be in the thick of it without the responsibility of actually hitting anything, I could show you how to be a loader for me. It's more interesting than just hanging about. Quite challenging, in fact. But, away from the drives, I'm sure there will be time to teach you the basics of shooting and give you a chance to add another weapon to your list of armament skills, John."

"Then you'll accept?"

"Well, if it matters so much to you, who am I to say no? Of course, if Lestrade calls with a juicy case, I will change my mind, but don't let that stop you."

And John decided right then and there to have a quiet word with one particular detective inspector, with the firm intention that making sure no such call ever got made.


Author's Note: If you want to know how Sherlock learned to love shooting, then read Periodic Tales Chapter Twenty One