AN: Hello everyone! Got a new chapter for you! Be sure to stay tuned after for a small author's note. Thanks for reading, and keep those favorites & reviews coming! Don't be afraid to give a bit of constructive criticism or ask questions!
DIsclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, or any of the characters herein. I bow before the talented Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat for the privilege of borrowing their characters for a bit of fun. Thank you, gentlemen, for sharing them with the world.
Chapter 2 - Unwelcome, But Surprisingly Appreciated
Sherlock was never really sure how he made it back to his flat after he left Mycroft's office. All he remembered was giving his brother the two-fingered salute over his shoulder and exiting the building. The next thing he knew, he was standing inside the front door of his flat, staring at the stairwell.
His landlady, Mrs Hudson, came scuffling out of her own apartment, a smile on her cheery old face. "Welcome back, Sherlock dear. How did it go?"
"I have a new Defender. We should expect him tomorrow," he answered flatly.
"Oh! But I thought you were going to finally tell your brother off?"
"I did. His prospective new hire was already there. I deduced him." He rested his foot on the bottom stair.
Mrs Hudson gave him a soft look of commiseration. "Sherlock, you didn't! What did he do?"
The sideways glance he gave her was full of confusion, "He said it was 'extraordinary'."
Her gasp of surprise chased him up the stairs and into his chaotic flat. Really, he couldn't blame her for being surprised. He was pretty sure he was surprised himself.
He had never purposefully deduced someone only to have them compliment him. Usually, they just threw ridiculous insults at him, and occasionally resorted to punching him in the face. The new Defender had done neither of those things, had done the complete opposite in fact, and had even corrected one of his intuitive leaps before absconding.
"Sister," he mumbled to himself. "It's always something."
Somewhere in the mess of papers on his desk, his datalet beeped forlornly. Stripping off his suit jacket, Sherlock stepped gracefully around the piles of scientific detritis that littered the floor until he could shuffle through the scribbled sheets and lift it up. He frowned at it, unhappy at himself for leaving such a valuable tool behind and at the message indicator flashing his hated brother's name.
The message contained a short version of his new babysitter's CV, which he refused to peruse, at least until he noted the highlighted acronymn 'Gen-A' under the listing of 'enhancements'. Most soldiers, AEC or otherwise, had 'cybernetic' listed there, so finding an unfamiliar notation piqued his interest.
Tapping on the note, a new file opened and his eyes widened at the title: Genetic Anomolies. There was a listing of animals that followed, and after each was a notation of the genes that had been selected to be integrated into the man's genetic code and an expected outcome. There was even a step-by-step procedure listed on how the manipulations had been accomplished.
A frightening smile began to overtake Sherlock's face as he drank in the words and charts. The sheer volume of possible experiments that he could perform with this new Defender was staggering! There was everything from enhanced sense of smell, through seeing in the dark!
One line in particular caught his considerable interest - 'Electrophorus electricus (DFB, electroreception). A quick internet search revealed the unscientific name of the animal as 'electric eel'. Sherlock mentally rubbed his hands together and pulled out a relatively empty notebook and began to frantically scribble experiment ideas as fast as his mind could generate them.
The first task, as far as he was concerned, was to learn every possible limit of his new bodyguard's abilities. The second, was to make the man feel just unwelcome and uncomfortable enough to make it easy to push him over the edge, thus getting the man fired or to quit. His last task was to make sure that Mycroft never foisted someone upon him again.
There wasn't much he could do about the experiments with the man still not in the flat. He could start on the 'make him uncomfortable/unwelcome' part of the plan though. Lifting up his datalet again, he swiftly selected a call number and dialed.
He barely waited for the person on the other end of the line to greet him before he snapped, "I'm going to need you to put a pair of lungs, ten fingers, and a liver in a cooler; if you could find a severed head as well I'd be grateful. If you could get those ready for me, Molly, I'll be by in an hour?"
Without giving her a chance to reply, he rang off. Smiling smugly, he set about creating the biggest mess he could manage without messing up his perilous stack-like filing system. One of Sherlock's many abilities was knowning how to arrange a bit of organized chaos in a short amount of time, and he set about doing it with relish.
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Doctor John Watson arrived at 221B Baker Street with 2 full duffle bags, a pair of medium sized cardboard boxes, and no fanfare at all. Sherlock only noticed his arrival because of the sound of footsteps plodding up the stairs. Opening his eyes, Sherlock observed from his comfortable position on the leather sofa as his new Defender took in the chaos of the living room.
Glancing over the books, papers, and various pieces of science equipment strewn about, Dr Watson merely lifted a curious eyebrow in lieu of questioning. Sherlock smirked devilishly, simply stating, "Your bedroom is up the stairs. If you like I can have Mycroft send someone to collect the rest of your things tomorrow."
The Defender's brow wrinkled slightly and he shifted uncomfortably on his feet, "These are all my things."
Sherlock raised a single eyebrow, but did not speak further. It seemed Watson decided to take that as a dismissal, as he turned and slowly made his way up the second set of stairs without further comment. Listening to the sound of his new flatmate settling in, Sherlock let his eyes fall shut again as he mulled over their first real exchange.
Though distinctly American, John's accent was actually rather soft, as if he spoke each word deliberately. His voice was pleasant, pitched toward the low end of the tenor scale, and probably had a soothing effect on his patients. Sherlock would likely get used to the sound after a while, and Dr Watson would hopefully continue to keep the flat sound of American vowels and the rough sound of American consonants as tightly under control as possible.
Slitting his eyes open, he watched as his new arrival returned to the living room and began to slowly make his way around the flat. At first, the consulting detective thought it was because the Defender was trying to avoid the mess, but then he realized that the doctor was actually pacing out the layout of the place. When he paused in the doorway of the kitchen, Sherlock waited for the inevitable questions about the makeshift laboratory and experiments that had taken over the table and counters.
When none came, he wasn't sure if he should be disappointed or not. Surely the man must have been curious? Sherlock sat up straighter and opened his eyes fully as the doctor returned to the room.
Watson was clad in comfortable clothing - worn jeans, moccasin slippers, and a dark gray sweatshirt with the faded words 'Semper Fi' beneath the silhouette of an eagle. It was a big improvement from the horrible suit he'd worn to the interview. His current outfit would give the illusion, to someone without Sherlock's observational skills anyway, that the doctor was completely harmless.
Dark blue eyes alighted on the mantle, and Sherlock carefully hid his shock at the boyish smirk that graced the ex-soldier's face. "Nice skull."
Involuntarily, Sherlock returned the smirk, "Old friend. Of a sort."
"So," Dr Watson slid into a parade-rest stance, probably out of habit, "I suppose now would be a good time to discuss your schedule?"
"I don't have one. I take interesting cases when I can, visit the morgue or the lab at Bart's occasionally, and experiment here when I'm not doing any of those things."
Watson hummed in acknowledgement as his eyes carefully traced the entirety of the living room. "Is there some sort of filing system I should worry about stepping on?"
"No. But I would prefer you leave everything as it is."
"Very well." As if that settled it, the doctor once again began walking around the room.
Leaning forward until his elbows rested on his knees, Sherlock placed his hands in a prayer-like position before his lips and observed. Watson prowled around the living room, often glancing between the windows and the furnishings, and it clicked in Sherlock's mind that he was judging the lines of sight. He also didn't seem put off by the detective's constant stare.
He was behaving far more professionally in those first few minutes than many of the others had displayed in their first few days. Since Sherlock was not a trusting man, he instead allowed himself to feel a modicum of respect for the doctor. At least the man knew his trade.
Sherlock's datalet pinged loudly in the silence, and instead of lifting it off the table, he held out a hand and commanded, "Defender? My datalet."
There was a long moment of utter stillness, in which both men held the other with their stare. Dr Watson furrowed his brow slightly and, without breaking the gaze, lifted the object from its resting place. He didn't let go after he had placed it in Sherlock's palm.
"I will answer to 'John', 'Watson', 'doctor', or 'Dr Watson'. Anything else is just white noise."
"Your name doesn't matter, you'll be gone as soon as I'm finished learning all I can from you." Sherlock waved a hand dismissively, and was pleased to note with his peripheral vision that the doctor's brows had drawn together suspiciously. With a tap to the screen, the datalet sprang to life revealing a single message: U were right. Found 4th. Coming 2 get u now - GL
Don't bother. Text me the address. I'll come to you. -SH
"It seems my presence is required at a crime scene. Be a good man and go fetch us a cab while I get my coat." Popping up off the sofa, Sherlock strode into his bedroom without a second glance.
Snatching a scarf out of his drawer, he took a moment to read the address Lestrade sent him off his screen and committed it to memory. Tugging on a suit jacket, Sherlock checked to make sure his appearance was as impeccable as ever, then slipped back out into the living room.
In the doorway of the stairwell, Watson leaned against the banister with an almost bored expression on his face. The sweatshirt had been exchanged for a dark green turtleneck sweater, and a worn donkey jacket was zipped up over that. It looked suitably professional, but still ordinary, and it was hard to guess if the doctor was presenting himself that way or if that was just his style.
Frowning, Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest as he filled the doorway with his tall frame. "Did I not order you to get us a cab?"
John didn't answer verbally, didn't even glance at his charge. Without making very much noise at all, he pulled something from his pocket and lifted it in the air just above his shoulder. Dangling from his thumb and pointer finger was a blue and white spiral wristband, attached to which was a single key, a fob, and a charm shaped like a little blue telephone box.
"You have a car?" Sherlock inquired. He received a nod for his question. Sneering, Sherlock bounded around his Defender and down the stairs. "How American. I'll drive."
"Not on your life."
God help him, Sherlock nearly squeaked (and when one says 'nearly', one means he will deny that such a sound ever came from his lips even as he covered it with a pathetically fake cough). He hadn't even noticed John start moving down the stairs, but the man was right behind him! How did someone with such short legs keep pace with him so quietly?
Outside the front door, parked and running about 5 feet away from the flat, was a small Suzuki Crossover. A deep metallic blue, the vehicle's paint and chromed hubcaps shined as if the thing had just rolled off the assembly line. Sherlock firmly planted himself on the right side and held out his hands for the key.
John smirked at him and moved to the left side of the car, and waited. And waited. Then he lifted his eyebrow, and he waited some more. Sherlock looked down into the window and sighed in defeat. He wasn't on the driver's side. Stupid Americans driving on the bloody left. Heathens.
While John took a second to adjust his side view mirrors and turn up the heating, Sherlock glanced around at the interior. It was surprisingly roomy inside, and Sherlock was happy to note his knees weren't even touching the glove box. Everything in the interior seemed to be of gray and black plastic, and the upholstery was all black cotton. Clipped to one of the fold-down visors was a pair of guardian angels, both wishing safety on the driver, one of which was for a grandson and the other a son.
Dangling from the rear view mirror was what seemed to be a plastic egg painted to look like a hedgehog. There were even little brown plastic spikes sticking out of its back. Grasping it carefully, Sherlock tilted it to see a small note painted on the bottom in careful handwriting: 'Good luck 3C - Semper Fi til we die - Bill'
"Friend of mine made it. Sort of a 'congratulations on being an invalid' present." John glanced at every mirror and slipped the car into traffic effortlessly.
"You've been in England for a long enough while to acclimate to our traffic flow." Sherlock changed the subject, not wanting to get bogged down by some sentimental reminiscence before a case.
"I've only been here for a month," Watson answered. "But my sister has lived here for years. I used to visit her before we got deployed, so I know my way around despite your terrible drivers."
Without looking, John fished his datalet out of his jacket and plugged it into the docking port on the dashboard. While they waited for a light to turn green, he flicked open his GPS program. "Mind tapping in that address for me?"
Sherlock waited a whole minute before complying, just to make his displeasure known. Once that was done, he continued to search through the applications John had stored, trying to find something to mock. "Ah, what's this? A music program? With labeled playlists, too. You really are quaint."
Tapping the list labelled 'Driving Music - City', Sherlock prepared to poke fun at John's musical tastes when Vivaldi began to pour out the speakers. The Defender's smirk was a strange cross between wry and smug. "I find that listening to Classical music while in the city helps keep me more focused."
Changing the subject again, Sherlock said, "Sometimes I don't talk for days on end, would that bother you?" A quizzical glance was the only answer he received, so he continued, "I also play the violin when I'm thinking, usually during the early hours of the morning. I often perform scientific experiments in the bathroom, kitchen, and occasionally the living room when I have the space."
Except for the sound of cellos purring, the car was silent. After John successfully navigated a traffic circle, the doctor ventured, "Okay, thanks for the warning?"
"We're going to be living together, I thought it would be best to get our worst traits out in the open."
Watson frowned. After another few moments of silence, he said cautiously, "My worst traits. Well, I swear vehemently and sometimes have a tendency to throw things when I'm angry. If I don't have at least one cup of Folgers within ten minutes of waking up I become homocidal." The already grim look on John's face became even darker as he stated softly, "Oh, and let's not forget the screaming, PTSD-induced night terrors. As long as you can tune out me shrieking bloody murder at 2 in the morning, we should be just peachy."
Sherlock was completely unsure of how to answer that statement, so he fiddled with one of his coat buttons before changing the subject again. "If you've been keeping up with the papers, you'll have a vague idea of the sort of crime scene we'll be attending today."
"Another suicide?"
"Yes. Obviously something is different with this one, otherwise I'm sure Lestrade would have waited much longer to call me in."
"Why's that?"
Giving his Defender a sharkish smile, Sherlock took in a deep breath, "Firstly, he would have taken forever to realize the commonality between all the crimes. No one expects a serial killer's weapon of choice to be suicide, after all. Secondly, his forensic analyst Anderson is an idiot. It would take him months to finish collecting all the data I can see in five minutes, and it would take him twice as long to correlate everything into an intelligent report. In the meantime, he'd be so behind the killer would have a dozen victims or more and we'd never see the end of it. Finally, the other Provosts are always reluctant to cal me in as it makes them look remarkably stupid when I solve a case they have been working on for months in a matter of hours."
When his rant was finally over, John snorted in disbelief and smirked at him. "Do me a favor and try to keep your ego contained in the backseat? There's no room up here for it."
Sherlock turned his head to look out the passenger side window, trying to hide his own grin. In truth, he had expected the man to admonish him, or even ask him to repeat himself (he'd been talking swiftly for just that reason). The consultant was pleasantly surprised to have someone joke with him; new experiences were always welcome.
Wiggling his legs, Sherlock regained control of his face and turned back to say, "It's rare to find a car capable of not pushing my knees into my ears. I doubt my ego will be a problem."
"That's why I call her the TARDIS," John smiled and stroked the console in a friendly way. When Sherlock's only reaction to that was a puzzled lift of an eyebrow, John sighed, "She's bigger on the inside? Doctor Who?"
"Why are you questioning me about doctors? I thought we were talking about your car."
John groaned, "This is going to be a long day, isn't it?"
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AN2: Here's a few definitions to help out in case anyone is confused or wishes for clarification.
Datalet - A cross between an iPad and a cell phone. About the size of a Kindle, a datalet is connected to a global communication network, which has taken over where the cellular phone companies failed during World War 3. Every cell tower is now connected to the GCN instead of a particular network, and all function as wireless internet hotspots. There are very few places in the world in which one cannot get internet access. They come with a bluetooth earpiece to make phone calls easier.
Provost - The secondary military kept only by the Faction Heads of the Supernations of the world. When not mobilized for defense, the Provosts act as a police force within the borders of the Faction Head. Basically, they're a military version of Scotland Yard. Their ranks in the UK are as follows - Constable, Sergeant, Marshal, Major, Lieutenant, Captain. The Provosts answer directly to the Head of Defense for the Faction Head.
Supernation - After World War 3, also known as the Convergence War, the world's countries banded together to form 5 new nations. The American Legion (AL), the Afro-Europe Coalition (AEC), the New Persian Empire (NPE), the Ru-asian Alliance (RA), and the Austro-Pacific Collective. Each is run by a Faction Head, which holds the major governing body of the nation, The following countries are the Faction Heads of the Supernations - the United States (AL), the United Kingdom (AEC), Iraq (NPE), China (RA), and Japan (APC).