John Watson yawned and rolled over in his bed, stretching his arms and smiling as his phone beeped quietly. He reached over and pulled it clumsily off the nightstand, squeezing his eyes shut before opening them wide. He peered at the text.
[Good morning, John. -SH]
John chuckled, rubbing his face before replying.
[It is now. What are you doing up so early. It's only half six. -JW]
John tossed his phone onto his pillow and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of his bed and stretching his arms properly, right hand coming up to rub at his left shoulder. His phone chimed again, and he reached for it.
[What's the time got to do with anything? And have you forgotten my habits already? I'm wounded, John. -SH]
John shook his head, putting his phone back down and padding into the bathroom. He glanced at himself in the mirror, frowning at his sleep-mussed hair. It was getting far too long - he'd really need a haircut next weekend.
When he was finished, he stepped back out and grabbed clean clothes. His phone chimed again, and he swiped at the screen, licking his lips as he read.
[I... I had a rather unpleasant dream last night. I just wanted to let you know that I... miss you. -SH]
John snorted. [I miss you too, you odd man. Go eat something. Please. I'm for a shower. -JW]
He plugged his phone back into the charger, then stepped into the bathroom.
The water was hot as he stood under it, and he closed his eyes. It felt good on his back, which seemed stiffer than usual. He'd have to figure something out - sleep was more difficult to fall into these days, what with Sherlock gone. Ever since Afghanistan, he'd found comfort sleeping near others, and sharing a room with Sherlock at Clouds had been no different, really. Safety in numbers and all that. He sighed and leaned his head back, letting the water wash over his face.
He opened his eyes and looked at the walls. Unthinkingly, a hand reached out, fingertips trailing over the wall to his right. He thought back to one of the last nights Sherlock had been here, when he'd surprised John in the shower. John bit his lower lip as he thought about the way Sherlock's skin had felt under his hands, his lips, his tongue...
His left hand automatically reached down, gripping himself tightly. He closed his eyes and conjured up the memory of Sherlock's voice, low and sensual and so damn perfect it should have been a crime. A soft, quiet moan escaped him as his hand worked harder, faster.
"Sherlock, Sherlock, oh god, Sherlock..." He was panting and whimpering and the only thing keeping him upright now was his right hand still on the wall as he came, Sherlock's name ground out between his teeth.
He stood there, breathing heavily for a moment, leaning to the side and resting his entire forearm against the wall, his head on his arm and his eyes still squeezed tightly shut. He shivered and closed his mouth, taking one long deep breath in through his nose. He opened his eyes and watched the water splash around his feet.
Christ, he was in trouble.
He hurried through the rest of his shower, scrubbing himself with an efficiency he hadn't used since his service in the war. He quickly toweled off and dressed in a pair of dark jeans and a simple black shirt. Then he brushed his teeth and stepped out of the bathroom.
His phone chimed as soon as he opened the door. It chimed a second time before he'd made it around the bed that used to be Sherlock's. By the time he finally picked it up, it had chimed another two times.
He glared as the screen flared to life, showing not four messages, but six. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock, you couldn't wait for me to get out of the shower even?" He muttered a few more things as he walked over to the window seat and plunked down, opening his inbox.
The first message was indeed from Sherlock. [Fine, if I must. I'll see you for lunch. Apparently I won't be able to get there until noon today. Not sure why. Think of me. -SH] John grinned and shook his head, clicking through to the next message.
[I hope you don't mind, John, but I'll be stopping by to see you this morning. Hoping you are well. -Mycroft H]
John's eyebrows rose a bit at that. If Mycroft was coming to see him... there must be news about his own transfer, then. That had to be it. He felt his heartbeat start to race and tried to tamp it down. It would not do to get his hopes up. There was always the chance that it was something entirely unrelated to John's transfer. He couldn't think of what, but...
He took a deep breath, and opened the next message. The number was Unknown.
[Dear me, Johnny Boy. Looks like you've hidden Sherlock from me. Naughty naughty. But don't worry. I'll find him. I always do. -Jim M]
John's mouth opened as he read and re-read the message. Jim M... He frowned. That... that had to be...
He blanched. If this... Jim, had his number suddenly... John closed his eyes.
He should go to Mycroft. Ask about Jim. Ask him to find out-
No.
John frowned. Was this the man he'd become? Running off to his... well, he wasn't sure what he should call Mycroft, but whatever he was, John certainly didn't want to go running to him with every little problem. Mycroft was just the sort of person to consider this a favor. Quid pro quo sounded an awful lot like the sort of thing Mycroft would expect. No, John couldn't take this to him. Not yet, at least.
He'd ask Sherlock. Sherlock would tell him.
Wouldn't he?
John sighed loudly. He needed to stop dwelling on this right now - he still had three more messages to get through.
The next one was Harry, saying that she was thinking about him while she was working today. He smiled and sent a quick reply telling her he was thinking about her too.
The next message was again from Sherlock, saying that he'd just heard Mycroft would be there to see John, and complaining that Mycroft had probably set it up so that Sherlock would not be there when he was. John rolled his eyes and smiled fondly. He and Harry were the picture of sibling love and affection when compared to the Holmes brothers.
The last message was from an Unknown number - John couldn't be sure, of course, but he was definitely leaning towards the idea that this was not from Jim M. It was a very short message, with none of the pageantry of the first message.
[I look forward to meeting you, John.]
No name, no explanation. Nothing but a simple pleasantry and his name.
It made his blood run cold.
He licked his lips and was about to close out of his messages when the phone beeped in his hand. He opened up the newest message.
[The next four hours and thirty-seven minutes are never going pass. -SH]
John stared at the phone for a moment before closing out of everything, shoving it in his pocket, and striding towards the door. Breakfast. he'd have breakfast, and then he'd worry about the strange texts.
He walked down the hall, unsurprised to find Molly leaning against one of the walls. He nodded to her, and she fell into step next to him.
"Are you alright, John?"
He glanced at her, giving her a faint smile. "Yes, sorry, just... tired. Sherlock texted me at half six this morning, the git. Don't know why he insists on waking me up so bloody early." He smirked as she giggled.
"Perhaps he just wants to remind you of how much he loves you." Molly looked at him and waggled her eyebrows teasingly.
John chuckled. "Right. I can see that, actually." He affected his best impression of Sherlock's baritone and peered at her through narrowed eyes. "John, you mean so much to me that I must keep you from your peaceful slumber with my declarations."
Molly laughed out loud as they walked through the lobby area and towards the dining hall, her hands coming up to cover her mouth. "Oh, god, sorry, that..."
John grinned. "I must be getting better, you've never laughed quite so loudly before."
Molly looked away shyly, her face flushing. "Yeah, a bit."
They each grabbed some eggs, toast, and bacon, and found a small table. John went back for coffee and papers, and soon they were sitting comfortably, sipping and reading in relative quiet.
Molly was switching pages when she let out a startled gasp and dropped the paper, which splayed out the moment it hit the ground.
"Sorry, oh, I'm... I'm sorry." She immediately dove to the floor, picking up the sheets hastily.
"Well, here, let me help you." John reached down, grabbing a couple pages, then slid to his knees and reached for one more.
"Oh, no, I-" Molly was reaching, but it was too late. John's eyes had come to rest on the picture that had no doubt brought on Molly's reaction.
The photo was old, but it made John no less happy to see it. Sherlock was standing there, his arm around the waist of one Irene Adler. The two were smiling at the camera, and Irene's left hand was sporting a rather hefty looking diamond ring. The captions read, Holmes and Adler: Reconciliation?
John pushed himself back up into his chair as he read the tiny write-up below it.
The Rumor Mill is abuzz with this latest bit - are Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler working to rekindle their romance? We all remember their rather sudden split, but perhaps they've found something worth fighting for after all. Neither party is talking right now, but a close friend to Adler stated that she recently visited him in rehab. For now, the idea is still just speculation, but we want to know what you think! Send us your opinions!
It wasn't until Molly put her hand on his that John realized he was shaking. He glanced at the article again. Beneath that was a website, an email address, and a Twitter handle.
"John, it's just someone being stupid."
John stared at the contact information. Maybe...
"John."
He looked up at Molly, and she immediately pulled him up, out of his chair. Her hand was warm and comforting on his wrist as she lead him out of the dining hall. She dragged him a few feet away from the door, then pushed him against the wall. His breath left him in a quick whoosh, and he stared at her.
"What-"
"No, John, you listen to me for a moment."
He gaped at her. He'd never seen this side to Molly, this dominant side. She'd been commanding when she lead him out of the dining room, forceful when she'd pushed him against the wall. She hadn't hurt him, but he was starting to think she could, if she wanted to.
He was very glad she didn't seem to want to.
"Alright."
She stepped back, arms going around her middle as she hugged herself. "Sherlock loves you."
John leaned his head back against the wall. "Alright..."
"And you know if he was going to even think about... about... her... He'd tell you. He would."
John nodded. "Of course."
"So don't you dare go getting worked up right now."
He smiled softly. "Yes ma'am." His eyes slid dow to look at her.
She watched him for a second, then nodded. "Good."
He stepped off the wall, hands on his hips. "I'm being ridiculous."
"Well, yeah." Molly shrugged. "That's what happens."
John nodded. "OK. You're absolutely right. I should... not worry about this. I mean... She did come to see him. And he was miserable about it."
Molly brought her hands out in front of her in a grand gesture. "Well there you have it."
John chuckled. "Thank you."
Molly grinned. "Anytime. I'm gonna..." She gestured at the room. "Are you?"
John shook his head. "No, I... I've rather lost my appetite, I think. I'll see you later?"
Molly nodded, and walked away. John rubbed at his forehead with one hand, then started off towards his room.
He'd made it halfway when his phone chimed. He opened it up.
[It's not true. I swear to you, it's not true, John. Please, I need you to believe me on this. -SH]
John stopped and fired off a quick reply. [Yeah. Molly sorta... reminded me of that. Thank you, though. For telling me yourself. -JW]
The reply came quickly. [You're welcome. I'll see you soon. And I'll tell you over and over again that she's not the one I want, if it will help. -SH]
John pursed his lips. For a man who cultivated an image of being stand-offish and above the petty needs of most people, he was surprisingly tender at times. It was not something John ever anticipated.
He went back to his room and dug out the file Mycroft had given him. He opened it, wondering when he'd last sifted through it - it felt like a lifetime ago. He laid it down on his bed, rubbing at his face with both hands. This was insane.
"I'm mad. That's the only explanation." He stared at the file, then closed it again angrily. It wouldn't have the answers he wanted. Only Sherlock would have those, and Sherlock wouldn't be here until after Mycroft had come and gone, it seemed.
John stowed the file away again, then grabbed his laptop. He opened up his email and sent Mike a quick update, letting him know things were going well still. He checked a few of the popular news sites - three of them also had small blurbs on the supposed reconciliation. Despite Sherlock's text, John still felt a stab of jealousy when he saw the pictures of him and Irene. They were a striking couple, really - under any other circumstances, John would probably be thinking how lovely it would be for them to work things out.
Of course, under the actual circumstances, the idea was far, far less appealing.
The next few hours passed slowly as John played far too many losing games of Solitaire. At quarter til eleven, John closed up his laptop, brushed his teeth, and walked back down towards the lobby.
When he stepped into the lobby he saw a familiar figure standing near the windows, umbrella next to him like a walking stick and one hand in his trouser pocket. John walked over and stood next to him.
"Good to see you John."
"Mycroft." John nodded in greeting even though they weren't looking at each other. "Funny, I don't remember your name being on my visitation list." He smirked.
"As your benefactor and sponsor into Whitecross, I have certain... privileges. I hope you won't think less of me. I assure you that I shall only visit for the purposes of discussing your impending transfer, unless you indicate your desire for less... formal meetings."
John let his eyes slide over to look at Mycroft's reflection in the window. He looked decidedly uncomfortable, and John ducked his head down, trying not to laugh.
"Thank you, but... I think I'm alright."
Mycroft let out a breath and relaxed. "Thank you, John."
"Of course." John shoved his hands in his pockets. "So... how are you?"
Mycroft turned slightly, one eyebrow arching inquisitively. "I'm well. And yourself?"
John shrugged. "I'm... fine."
Mycroft watched him for a moment. "Ah. It's not true. Put the entire idea out of your head, John. Sherlock is entirely devoted to you." Mycroft frowned. "I've the messages to prove it, should you be so inclined."
John's eyes went wide. Sherlock was leaving messages... about him... for Mycroft? The temptation was incredible, but...
"Is there anything in them you think he hasn't told me, but that I should know?"
Mycroft smiled. "Clever, John. Excellent." He turned fully and looked John in the eyes. "He's made mention of needing a place to stay - his own flat was rented out in his absence, at my insistence. I offered him my spare room, and his immediate response was rather..." Mycroft flushed slightly. "Ah, well, you know my brother, I'll leave you to your own deductions about what he might possibly have objected to."
John frowned before it hit him. "You... offered him a room."
Mycroft nodded in approval. "His words - which I shall not repeat verbatim - essentially boiled down to his insistence that if you were not there, he would not be either." And elegant half shrug interrupted Mycroft's speech. "Whitecross being the only exception, at present."
John smiled. "And I take it I am... persona non grata in your house?"
Mycroft looked shocked. "On the contrary, John, you are most welcome in my house. I do hope to have you both over for dinner once you're out of Whitecross. My brother, however..." Mycroft's nose crinkled as though he'd smelt something offensive. "...is... imaginative in his descriptions of what he might get up to in my house, with you there with him."
John closed his eyes as he felt his face heat up. "Oh God, I'm... I'm so sorry, Mycroft, he-"
"I trust you to be the soul of discretion, John. No, it's not the threat of...that... happening. More the fact that he will not stop discussing it, and while I am fully capable of acknowledging my brother's adulthood, he is still my brother, and-"
"I... I get it, no problem." John gave him a tight-lipped and awkward smile. "We'll find a place."
"You may not need to."
John licked his lips. "Is that so?"
Mycroft nodded. "It is. The head of Whitecross, one Mrs. Emma Hudson, has several flats in London that she routinely rents out to former patients. I believe Sherlock has been talking to her about the idea of renting one of them. I'm assured it's a lovely flat in good location, though he's been rather good at keeping me from finding out precisely what the address is."
John scratched at his neck. That was definitely like Sherlock.
"So what can I do for you today, Mycroft?"
"Shall we sit outside, John?"
John nodded, and the two walked out, finding an available table and settling across from one another. Mycroft immediately opened the slim briefcase he had and pulled out a folder, handing it to John.
"Your transfer will take place in three weeks."
John smiled as he looked over the paperwork Mycroft had. "Excellent."
"I thought you might be pleased. It's a bit sooner than we had originally anticipated, but I had a feeling that no one would have any complaints."
John shook his head. "None here."
"Good." Mycroft sat back, hands clasped. "I trust that you're... well enough, until then?"
John nodded quickly. "Yeah, course." He looked up. "Only a few weeks. We can survive that. And if we can't, well... doesn't say much for either of us."
Mycroft studied John again, and John once more felt like a specimen in a science class. "Be careful with him, John."
John's breath caught in his throat, and he tried to swallow. "I will."
"He is... dangerously attached."
John didn't know what to say, but he tried his best. "He's... important to me. Very... important."
Mycroft nodded slowly. "If I may give you a bit of advice?" John gestured for him to continue. "He will need you more than he's ever needed anyone. Please don't give up when - and I do say when, not if - it gets difficult. Sherlock will make things very difficult. I would hate to see you chased off by it."
John pursed his lips. He'd seen Sherlock being difficult. But he had a feeling it wasn't anywhere near as bad as it could - and according to Mycroft, would - be.
Mycroft stood, glancing at his watch. "As ever, John, it was wonderful to see you. Must be off now." He inclined his head at the folder. "Look over this, and do let me know if you've any questions."
John smiled, stood up, and shook his hand. "Thank you, Mycroft."
Mycroft lead the way back inside, and was less than halfway through the lobby when John heard him sigh softly. John, however, was not paying attention to anything regarding Mycroft now.
Sherlock had just stepped through the front door.
