I mentioned before this will be a slash story, but it might take a little bit of time. I plan to go through each episode a bit, but instead of retelling them, sort of coast over the action and show the in-betweens that the boys share. Anyway I hope you enjoy this chapter. Up next will be the Blind Banker adventure.
John didn't know what to expect when his friend brought him to the morgue lab, but it certainly wasn't the tall, curly haired man with piercing blue eyes, who immediately demanded a phone in sign language.
"You know what he's asking for?" John's friend muttered to John.
"I think he's asking for your mobile," John said with a shrug. John, in fact, knew exactly what the tall man was asking for, but deaf or not, John still wasn't ready to take a step back into that world.
The man patted his pockets in an exaggerated fashion and then said too loudly, "Sorry, don't have it."
John fought the urge to roll his eyes and fished out his mobile, walking it across the room to the other man. He tapped him on the shoulder and handed it over.
The man, nameless to John still, signed 'Thank you' and then began rapidly texting. He then looked at John out of the corner of his eye, and signed, 'Afghanistan or Iraq?'
John almost answered purely out of shock that the man, a perfect stranger, could know. He stopped himself just short of a finger-twitch and then said, keeping his words clear, quiet and concise, "Sorry?"
The man looked at him, a smirk on his lips, an eyebrow quirked. He raised his hands and fingerspelled the names of both cities. John continued to stare blankely, so the man gave a sigh and said, "Afghanistan or Iraq? Which one? You're a soldier, obviously, Army doctor. You're wounded, which means you've been near gunfire recently, not likely in any hospital in Britain, so I'm asking which one."
John gave a little cough of surprise and then said, "Afghanistan. How did you-"
"Never mind that. Thank you for the mobile," he said, handing it back. "The address is 221B Baker Street. I'll be there round seven, please be prompt."
John was facinated with the man, absolutely facinated. The way he spoke, as though he literally knew everything in the world. John hadn't seen him for more than a second, yet somehow the man knew that about him. "What's 221B Baker Street?"
'Flatshare, obviously,' he signed swiftly, 'and you're pretending you can't sign, which I don't understand but suspect you will tell me later.' The man then said, "Army pension doesn't pay a lot, obviously you need a flatmate. I was telling your friend over there that I was looking myself, and must be extraordinarily difficult to find a flatmate for. Now here you are. So again 221B Baker Street."
"Flatmate? I don't even know your name, we know nothing about each other, and yet we're to share a flat?"
"I wouldn't say that," he said and picked up a coat with a long, sweeping gesture, flinging it over his shoulder with a sort of dramatic twist to his body. "Army doctor, shot, healing well enough for your therapist to think your need for your cane is psychosomatic. You've got a brother, one you don't get on with, possibly his divorce, possibly his drinking. I think that's enough to be going on, yes?"
John simply stared in amazement and looked back at his friend who chuckled and nodded. "Yes. He's like that all of the time."
"The name is Sherlock Holmes," he said and then raised his hand, making the sign for Otter, which John assumed was his name sign, and he suppressed a chuckle because he could actually see it. "Gotta run, left my riding crop in the mortuary." He smiled a half smile, winked, and swooshed out the door with a coat twirl to rival that of Alan Rickman's portrayal of Severus Snape.
John stood there, muted, eyes wide, and wondering just how that man could see straight through him as though his mind were made entirely of glass. He turned to his friend and with a weak shrug, accepted the offer to at least look at the flat with the tall, very intimidating, deaf man.
It was five minutes to seven when John's cab pulled up in front of Baker Street. He was alone, so he decide to knock on the door when a second cab pulled up and Sherlock Holmes swooped out. He gave John a tense smile as he walked up to the steps.
'C.O.D.A.' he fingerspelled.
John rolled his eyes and realised there was no pretending with this man. "I prefer not to sign."
'Show me your name, please,' Sherlock signed.
John hesitated and then lifted his hands and made the sign for hedgehog. His face was bright red, it was the sign his aunt had given him when he was four and someone in the house had made the comparison, and it just sort of stuck. He imagined it was probably a lot like Sherlock's Otter, but that didn't lessen the embarrassment.
Sherlock's lip twitched but he didn't make fun of John right then. "Abusive parents..." he said slowly and then shook his head. "Your brother, he's deaf and you're the only hearing child in your family, is that right?"
"One of three, but the other two are distant cousins I've never met," John said.
"I'm the only deaf person in my family," Sherlock said.
"Probably explains why you're so good at lipreading. How did you know about my family?"
Sherlock smirked and instead of answering John, opened the door to the building and let them in. An old woman came out of the downstairs flat and met the pair with a grin. "Sherlock, how lovely. This must be the doctor you were telling me about?" Without waiting for an answer from Sherlock, the woman grabbed John and hugged him tightly.
It was the first time someone had touched John with genuine affection in years, and he had to force himself to keep a straight face. "Pleased to meet you," John said.
"Sherlock tells me that you're the child of Deaf parents, is that right?" Mrs Hudson signed and spoke.
John pursed his lips and nodded. "Yes, yes that's right. I would appreciate that Sherlock keep that to himself," John said, punctuating that Sherlock keep it to himself by signing the last bit.
"Well the flat is right upstairs. Sherlock's already moved his things in. I wasn't sure if you two'd be needing two bedrooms, so I've left some linens for the bed in the cupboard by the bathroom just in case."
"Of course we need to bedrooms," John said as he climbed the stairs slowly, his leg aching.
"Oh well I didn't want to assume," Mrs Hudson said as Sherlock swept into the other room without a word. "You know Sherlock, so fickle, never know what that boy is up to in his life."
"Actually I don't know Sherlock, I've just met him today," John said.
"And you're moving in," Mrs Hudson said with a half smile.
"I haven't agreed to anything yet," John replied crossly.
"But I don't doubt he will be moving his things in soon," Sherlock said, standing in the kitchen doorway. "I play the violin, a lot, and loudly... or so I've been told. I also ramble a lot, signs and aloud, especially when I'm working. I have very little patience for the quirks of the hearing, so if you find the telly too loud, please don't bother me with it, just turn it down yourself."
John sighed and looked around. The place was a mess, a huge mess, actually. Books and papers, beakers and microscopes, three laptops, clothes and scarves littered every spare bit of space and furniture. There was a skull on the mantlepiece, and there was a television, but a heavy ran coat covered most of it.
Still, the place was large, the location was fantastic, and he knew Sherlock wouldn't be offering him the room if the rent was out of his price range. John scratched the back of his head. "This could be quite nice," he said to himself.
Sherlock grinned. 'I agree. I'm quite happy here.'
'And if you wouldn't mind tidying up a bit...' John signed to him.
Sherlock pulled a face and attempted to right a fallen stack of books, and kicked a couple of used button up shirts under the sofa, giving him a grin a bit like, 'Ta-da' and opened his hands.
John shook his head, but let it go for the moment. More pressing matters were at hand, because right then a police car showed up and a tall, grey-haired man waltzed in and, in all honesty, changed John's life forever.
John hadn't really bothered to guess what Sherlock had done before this moment, but if he had, based on the microscopes and weird specimens all over the kitchen, and the work in the mortuary lab, he would have guessed Chemist. Researcher, analyst, something along those lines. He would not, under any circumstances, have guessed that Sherlock Holmes worked with the police.
The night was like a whirlwind of chaos, from Sherlock having overly-loud rows with other officers, to standing over the dead body of a woman, a name scratched into the floor, poisoned by the look, and suicide by circumstance. Sherlock, of course, was in his element. Turning this way and that, seeing everything as a list, a deduction, and he had all-but solved the case before John could get past the fact that the woman had asphyxiated on her own vomit.
Frustration was putting his feelings mildly when he was forced to hike down to the main road to catch a cab, and furious was the next step up when he was forcibly escorted by a strange car to an empty building where a man, tall, too- thin like he was ill or had over-dieted, holding an umbrella, waited.
"What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?" was the first question he asked.
John, while curious, was agitated. He didn't know Sherlock Holmes at all, he was tired, sore, and frankly all he wanted to do was tell this man to piss off. Instead he said, "I don't really have a connection to him."
"You just met today, and already you're moving in together and solving crimes. I expect we'll all receive the happy announcement by the end of the week."
John couldn't help the blush, and he looked away. "Who are you?"
"I see you don't deny there is some attraction there," the man said with a small, thin smile. "Mind your feelings, Dr Watson, for Sherlock Holmes doesn't have a heart. Not really, not outside of his wardrobe, his work, and making other people feel small next to his over-active brain."
John shoved his hands into his pockets. "What do you want?"
"I want to offer a monthly stipend, something to help ease your way," he said and pulled out a cheque book.
"What for?"
"Information. Nothing indiscreet, of course, just let me know what he's up to."
"Why? Why him?"
"Because I worry about him, constantly. I'm the closest thing he has to a friend, Dr Watson."
"Which is?"
"An enemy. His arch-enemy, he calls me. Such dramatics. What do you say?"
"I say fuck off," John snapped. "I'm not interested."
"Such loyalty, so quickly. That's dangerous."
"May I go now?" John asked.
The man shrugged and after some parting warnings, John was back in the car, on his way to Baker Street. When he told Sherlock of the man, Sherlock merely shrugged and told John not to concern himself with such trivial matters. That man, he said, while dangerous, didn't matter. What mattered were the suicides. Mostly, Sherlock explained, because they were murders.
Hours later found them sitting in a restaurant, John eating, Sherlock staring out the window, thinking. Occasionally he'd flick his fingers, signing to himself, shaking his head, and then he'd go silent again.
'What are we doing here?' John signed to Sherlock after getting his attention.
'Watching,' Sherlock replied, his hands limp and lazy. 'I'm thinking, there's a connection but... I can't see what. Yet.'
John sighed and then tugged on Sherlock's sleeve again. 'How did you know about my parents? About my family? About me?'
Sherlock smiled a little, his lips stretched and tense. He pressed his palms together, tucking the tips of his fingers under his chin and leaned forward to speak. "Your limp was clearly caused from a bullet wound, which told me Army. You mentioned having trained at St Bart's to your friend, which drew me to the conclusion that you were an Army doctor. Army doctor, wounded, that leaves two likely places you'd been. As for your family, what you forget is that you grew up in the world of the Deaf. You're one of the only people who speaks with expression. You raise or lower your eyebrows with questions, even when you're thinking you express it on your face. When you're not paying attention your hands form signs, showing me that you aren't deaf but you grew up with sign as a major part of your life. Your resistance, going so far as to lie about knowing how to sign shows that you were likely the only hearing child of a Deaf family. The mere mention of your brother's name and your face grows dark, the marks on the phone he gifted you shows he was a drinker, and probably angry, and probably at you when you were a child, and now his wife. Have I got anything wrong?"
John stared at him, his mouth slightly ajar. "That was... that was amazing."
Sherlock sat back and smirked. "So I was right?"
"I was wounded a few years ago in Afghanistan. I didn't learn to speak until I was sent to school, and even then I was in speech therapy for years and years because I prounounced my words the way a Deaf person would. Harry was angry at me for being more special, and took it out in me with fists. We don't get on, we never have and probably never will. Harry tries to make up for it, but due to the drinking, can't be trusted."
'I hadn't expected to be right about all of it,' Sherlock signed with a rather pleased look.
"Harry," John said slowly, "is short for Harriet."
"Sister!" Sherlock exclaimed too loudly. "It's always something."
John would have gone on, but just then Sherlock had a realisation about the case, and suddenly the pair of them were outside. They were running, Sherlock was babbling, effortlessly switching between speech and sign. John's head was spinning, and for the first time in a long time, he was excited, and he was laughing.
Even when they arrived back at their flat, grinning at each other, and Sherlock informed John that he'd gone all that way without his cane, John wasn't angry. Even when Sherlock suddenly disappeared, and John raced through London, tracking him desperately, finally shooting the murderer right before Sherlock put the pill on his tongue and swallowed, John wasn't angry.
When they ran into the mysterious man from the empty building and John learned it was Sherlock's brother, he was actually amused, and realised he was not surprised at all. He rather enjoyed watching them fight through sign, faces screwing up with annoyance, hands slapping, feet stomping.
In the end John and Sherlock went home, and the night quieted down. John was on the sofa with tea, Sherlock was at the window with his violin, and John was utterly unsurprised that he was really, really good.
'Do you ever get lonely?' John asked him as he started to feel sleepy.
Sherlock stared at him for a long time. 'What do you mean?'
'You said so yourself, you're married to your work. Doesn't that get lonely? Do you ever crave human company?'
Sherlock sat back and crossed his arms. "Are you gay, John?"
John rolled his eyes. "I said before, I'm not chatting you up."
"I'm aware. I'm still asking the question."
"Yes," John said finally.
Sherlock visibly relaxed. "Often my life is lonely, yes. Were you anyone else in the world, I wouldn't have admitted such a thing. You're the first person who has ever looked at me with absolute honesty and told me that I am fantastic. You're the first person who hasn't treated me like a freak, and for that I appreciate you. Thank you."
John was taken aback by this admission, but he accepted it, because for the first time, in the world of a deaf person, John wasn't a CODA, he wasn't between worlds. He wasn't living apart from any place. He simply existed, and he was helpful, and while Sherlock was clearly going to drive him absolutely mad, he belonged.
