Care [kair] – verb. 1. To be concerned or solicitous; have thought or regard
2. To have an inclination, fondness, liking, or affection
Emma was breathless when she entered Sherlock's room the following week.
John and Emma had been getting to know more of each other, and John was surprised to learn that Sherlock sent her money every birthday and Christmas. If he had enough money to pay the rent and send his daughter a hundred pounds every holiday, then why would he need a flat-mate? "Someone to keep him company, I suppose," Emma had mused when he voiced the question aloud. "I live with my mum in Durham, so we really don't see much of each other. He gets a bit...difficult if he doesn't have someone around and there's no case."
"Sorry I'm late!" she exclaimed, draping her messenger bag over the back of her usual chair. "Band practice ran a little late today. Brian couldn't keep his bleedin' hands off of Drake's bass, so Jenny and I had to keep them apart for an hour." She shook her head with a winded smile.
Emma constantly talked about her band, Onto December, which was an Indie band. The only Indie band that John actually enjoyed. "We don't play just Indie," Emma had emphasized when John expressed his doubts. "We're like those bands that mix up our genres. We play a little of everything."
"If Brian likes Drake's bass so much, why doesn't he play it?" Emma snorted as she pulled her chair over to the table.
"Please. Brian can't play the bass to save his life. He can't play any instrument, really. That's why he's a drummer." John laughed, wincing as pain shot through his stomach. Doctor Thornton said it might always be like that due to an internal bruise. "Anyway, Jenny was able to finally get us a gig! I'm...ridiculously excited." John grinned.
"That's great, Emma! When is it? I want to go." The hospital had released him days ago, he was currently staying in the flat for free, until he can get back on his feet (bless Mrs. Hudson's heart).
"On Saturday, at this local restaurant. We're only doing a couple of covers. It's an audition, to see if we're good enough to actually get paid to perform there." John smiled, setting up the chess game. While Emma and John got along great, chess was one of the few things they actually had in common. With Emma's intellect –obviously inherited from her father- and John's natural strategizing skills, the game was always intense.
"I'm excited to hear how it goes. First move is yours." He watched Emma's hand collide with her chin in thought. "How's choir?" She made a face.
"Eh, it's normal. I'm just sick of doing scales. It's all because of David. Choir is the last place he needs to be." John chuckled and moved his bishop forward. He could practically see the gears turning in Emma's head. "How are you?" She paused her train of thought, looking up at him. "Is your stomach feeling any better?"
"Define 'better'," he replied, grimacing. She frowned, her nose scrunching in distaste. "It's just a bruise. All bruises heal eventually." Emma nodded, moving the same pawn forward again.
"I had this one bruise on my arm that didn't heal for a whole year. Blimey, it was hard playing football those months." Emma, John learned, was an avid football player, and watched it on the telly in Sherlock's room. Sometimes, after coming from the toilet, he would hear Emma telling Sherlock the play-by-play after the game ended. John was more of a rugby fan, and both of them would watch each with each other when at the hospital.
"I heard that coma patients can hear what's going on around them," Emma had explained when John caught her talking to Sherlock one afternoon. "So, I'm trying to keep him entertained." At one point, she'd brought with her a copy of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets and began reading, straight from the book.
"When's your next game?" he questioned, cursing mentally as she swiped his bishop. "I feel so guilty for missing your last one."
"Don't be," she muttered, adjusting her scarf, "we played like shit." She then realized he had asked her a question and looked up. "This Saturday morning. So I have football in the morning and band at night."
"Are your Saturdays always so hectic?" She chuckled.
"Usually. Sometimes I get lucky and it rains, so I get to miss a game. I'm really hoping for a thick layer of snow this year. It's not that I don't like football, but sometimes a girl just needs her beauty sleep. Like this one time when Jenny went to sleep at one in the morning on a school night..." And there she goes. John had noted that Emma had a habit of rambling on and on about any particular thought that happened to enter her already scrambled mind. He wondered if that was what the inside of Sherlock's head was like, and that he was just better at keeping it all in.
It was two minutes later, when Emma was on the subject of swimming pools, that John cleared his throat. Emma quickly pressed her lips together, blushing.
"You shouldn't let me keep going like that!" she scolded. "It just gets worse the longer you let me ramble on like that." John just smiled and shrugged a shoulder. "Your move, you stupid bastard."
"Hey, you should learn to respect your elders," he reprimanded jokingly.
"I'll be sure to help you across the street during our next walk," she replied sweetly, her eyes daring him to keep arguing. Normally, the pair could've gone on like that for hours, but there was a small knock on the door. Emma turned and gasped, jumping out of her seat. "Uncle Mycroft!" she exclaimed, hugging him tightly around the waist. He smiled softly, a rare gesture, and gently hugged the teenager back.
"Hello Emily. John." The doctor nodded politely at his friend's brother.
"Where have you been this whole time? I would've expected you to at least visit once."
"I was in Dublin, right after I visited the last time. I just couldn't find the time, my dear." Emma shrugged.
"That's alright. At least you're here now." Mycroft chuckled and nodded in agreement.
"How is he?" Emma's shoulders slumped and she skulked back to her seat.
"He's better. Been like this for almost four months now. The moronic doctor doesn't know when he'll wake up." Mycroft frowned, then smiled a little.
"Yes my dear, but what have you always been told about doctors?"
"Not to trust a bleedin' word they say!"
"Oi!" John protested, half hurt and half amused. Emma threw him an innocent glance before turning to look back at Mycroft.
"Where's Grandmother?" she questioned, sounding a bit hurt.
"I'm afraid she couldn't make it, but she told me to give you this," he reached into his pocket and pulled out a necklace. The charm was a golden football, glinting in the fluorescent light. "That is fifteen karat gold, my dear Emily." Emma gasped and was practically bouncing as Mycroft helped her put it on, exclaiming how it must have cost a fortune and how she really shouldn't have. "Nonsense. She said to consider it an early birthday present." Emma's smile was so wide that John was sure her cheeks were hurting.
"It's beautiful! Tell her I said thanks." Mycroft nodded in response. He strode over to their chess game and whispered something in Emma's ear while eying the board, making John narrow his eyes suspiciously. Emma's eyes widened slightly and she grinned, quickly stealing away his knight, which he had moved, and somehow knocking out his king. "Haha! Checkmate!" John's jaw dropped.
"That's cheating!"
"On the contrary, dear Watson," Emma replied with a cheeky smile. "It'd have been cheating if Uncle Mycroft moved the pieces. He simply gave me advice on where to move them myself." John rolled his eyes.
Teenagers.
John shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot as he stood outside the restaurant, debating whether or not he should actually go in. It looked cozy enough, but he didn't feel comfortable walking into restaurants alone anymore. Not since he met Sherlock.
"John!" He turned and found his savior. Emma was running down the sidewalk with a guitar on her back, waving her arms wildly. Well, more like flailing. "Hey! What'rya doin' standing out in the cold? C'mon!" She looped her arm through his and dragged him into the restaurant. "You sit there." She took hold of his good shoulder and shoved him down into the seat in the first row. "Have you got the camera?" He nodded, holding it up for her to see. Emma had come up with the idea that John can come to her football games and band gigs, so that when Sherlock woke he could watch them all.
Suddenly he was being pulled back up again and yanked onto stage. Emma pulled him behind the curtain, where three other teenagers were waiting. One was a girl with white-blonde hair and twinkling silver eyes. The second was a boy with flaming red hair and a bright smile to match his jovial cerulean eyes. The last was a rather serious boy who stayed behind the other two. His light brown hair was spiked at the front, and his brown eyes surveyed John almost judgingly.
"John, this is Jenny," Emma gestured to the blonde, who waved with a smile, "Brian," the ginger grinned, showing off his teeth, "and Drake." The last boy simply nodded politely. "Guys, this is John Watson."
"The guy your dad's been sleeping-" Brian never finished his sentence (or question, perhaps), for Emma had lunged forward and clapped a hand over his mouth. He was obviously grinning, from the way his eyes crinkled at the corners.
"Yes, Brian," Emma said icily. "That guy." She turned to John. "Alright, go sit down. We'll be starting soon." John narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but turned and retreated back to his seat anyway. The buzz of restaurant chatter kept him occupied until the manager of the restaurant came out and had a long, lengthy speech introducing Onto December. Finally, the curtain was pulled back to reveal the four. Emma looked up and smiled, meandering to the front of the stage. John turned on the camera and pointed it up to her.
"Hello there. I'm Emma, and as the manager so kindly pointed out, we're Onto December," she said, fiddling with her guitar. "The songs we'll be playing today are really just covers of other songs. We haven't been through enough to write our own songs." She flashed a cheeky grin and several people chuckled. "This set is dedicated to my dad," John looked up, "who has been in a coma for the past four months." A sad smile crossed her face as she backed up a bit.
The song started out soft, with Jenny playing the piano and Drake playing smashingly on the cello. Emma approached the microphone.
"Heart beats fast,
Colors and promises.
How to be brave,
How can I love when I'm afraid...to...fall?
But watching you stand alone,
All of my doubt,
Suddenly goes away somehow.
One step closer."
John could hear other instruments joining them, but was unable to see due to the lighting. Brian was singing back-up while Jenny's fingers flowed seemingly effortlessly over the keys.
"I have died everydaywaiting for you.
Darlin' don't be afraid,
I have loved you for a
Thousand years.
I'll love you for athousand more."
The rest of the set was just as amazing, with a mixture of soft songs and fast-paced songs. And each of them took turns singing the songs. If the manager didn't give them that job, then John would have to have a few words with the man. At the end, the band received a standing ovation. He met the group backstage to find Emma frowning.
"I kept messing up in the bridge!" She rubbed at her throat irritably. "I knew singing that first song was a bad idea."
"What are you talking about?" John exclaimed in disbelief. "I thought you were great!"
"I'm just saying what Dad would say," Emma replied with a small shrug, latching her guitar case.
"Oh please," John muttered, turning off the camera as they stepped into the cool air. "I'm sure that Sherlock would've thought you were amazing."
"Oh, I know he would've. But, Dad would also comment on how my voice cracked during the third line in the bridge, or how I played the wrong chord during Blackbird." She shrugged and looked up at him with a smile. "It's his way of saying that I did great. Criticizing me is how he cares." John ran the words through his head. Sherlock criticized him often. Did that mean he cares?
"Possibly." John looked over to Emma, who was grinning. He realized that he'd spoken aloud. "If he was willing to blow up a bomb to save you, then he must care at least a smidgen." She paused, nose scrunching in thought. "Which is...fantastic. Dad needs a good man like you in his life." The double meaning was painstakingly obvious and Emma walked faster, a coy grin plastered across her lips. John was left standing in her dust, his mouth in the perfect shape of an O. Then, he rolled his eyes with an irritated scoff.
Teenagers.
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