Prince of Angels – Chapter Four – Change of Heart
John H Watson resented his roommate. He didn't have to go to 'I Hate My Flatmate' Anonymous, because almost everyone who knew him knew he hated Sherlock Holmes. Half of his blog were locked posts about Sherlock (and even then, Sherlock could still read them). And Sherlock was indeed hate-able:
He had somehow gotten ahold of a violin, and he played it at two in the morning. And not pretty songs, but high-pitched screeching and violent string-plucking. Sherlock seemed to have no human emotions, though John had heard that both his father and brother had human-like emotions. Sherlock told him he had never encountered a reason to be quote—'human.'
"AKA he needs to get laid," John muttered to himself when Sherlock had told him about his male family members.
Though the flatmates equally fascinated once another, Sherlock seemed to resent John as well: Sherlock was embarrassed by the fact that he was on Midgard at all, but especially that a mortal being would be caring for him: letting him live with him, letting him eat the food he bought, etc. For a God to have stooped so low as to need someone less powerful to show them a little kindness could make any-God resent the one person who did, even though they hadn't needed to.
Evenings had been reduced to hard silence on both parts: John would grade papers or blog, and Sherlock would experiment or he just wouldn't be around because he would be out catching criminals.
One evening, John was late coming home. He had fallen asleep on the Tube, got off at the wrong stop, and so he had to walk an extra three or four blocks to Baker Street. He came in on the other side of the door from where the one window looked out onto the street. That was probably the start of something… new.
He was quiet as he trudged up the steps, which might have been the reason Sherlock hadn't heard him, and the reason John caught his roommate doing something amazing. He was playing the violin. It was a simple melody, but it stirred in John such feelings that he thought could never feel about Sherlock.
Sherlock must have been a God, for the song he played was nothing John had ever heard on Midgard. It reminded him of every foreign, fantastical land in every story created by man on his term on Earth: Oz, Eden, Narnia, Middle Earth, Neverland. They were all thrown in a blender and then blended so thoroughly that John might have seen stars. John paused before he opened the door, wanting the moment to go on forever. He imagined fantastical beasts, every mythos he had heard of came into his mind. And then it was Asgard. If Sherlock was playing something so wonderfully fantastical, it could only be in memory of Asgard.
Did Asgard look like a blended version of the lands of Oz and Middle Earth? Were there talking animals and mermaids and flying boys? Was Asgard where the first mortal man and woman made? John found himself breathless as he actually thought about it.
And then there was that sadness about the violin song. Sherlock missed it. And that simple human emotion stood out to John, made him feel the sadness Sherlock felt. The music that Sherlock played conveyed the human emotion that Sherlock possessed. He wasn't a mortalized immortal machine. He missed Asgard, he missed his family, and whatever friends he had up there too. He probably wanted to go home.
"My, what an ass am I," John muttered, finally opening the door.
Sherlock's violin screeched as he whirled around. He had been at the window, possibly looking for John coming the other way.
"Don't mind me, Sherlock," John said, smiling slightly: the first real smile since meeting his impossible flatmate. I know you're human.
That night, John poured over the books he had checked out from the library. All the mythology books he had he opened and read through, trying the indexes to look for something, anything, on how one might get back into Asgard if one was banished. He was beginning to understand his flatmate a bit more, why Sherlock did the things he did.
For as he did his research, he really thought about Sherlock.
It had been about four months since Sherlock had fallen out of the sky and had landed on top of John on his way into work. In that time, though John had told himself and others that he hated the ex-God, he had also gotten used to Sherlock's habits and interests. John had tried to understand Sherlock by questioning him and reading up on Norse mythology. And Sherlock experimented too. He took body parts from Bart's and left them in the fridge or in the kettle, but he was really only trying to figure out human life and human nature, to learn something while he was trapped on Midgard. John figured the least he could do now that he knew that his flatmate was at least partly human, that he had a heart and he felt emotions and all that, was help Sherlock return to the place that he called home.
John looked out his window and wondered if he would ever want to return here if he was somehow banished to another part of the World Tree Yggdrasil.
Maybe. He had a job and a life. His family was dead except for an estranged sister. He was a bit of a workaholic so he didn't really keep the friends he made. Did he really have anything here of value here?
He had Sherlock… oh.
Oh.
Oh.
After John had walked in on him playing, Sherlock had put the violin away for a while. He was embarrassed that he had shown this part of him to John. It had been an accident, for he had been relying too much on John's practice of having the same route to and from work each day. But now John knew that Sherlock didn't just make the violin screech.
Sherlock unconsciously missed his home. He missed his father, and he missed his sister-in-law. He even missed his brother.
He liked being a Consulting Detective, and he liked experimenting on dead things. It helped him understand Midgard and the inner ways in which the planet worked. But there was no magic on this world… it had all sapped away. Asgard used both science and magic, and Sherlock almost preferred it that way. The closest the mortals had gotten to was the mythology of almost every nation in Europe and Asia. But it wasn't enough. He missed home.
Sherlock looked at the violin in the corner of his room and sighed, getting up off his bed and going down the steps to the living room, where John was working.
John looked up, "Have you had dinner?"
Sherlock looked at him and studied him for a moment. John was becoming an enigma once more to Sherlock. Ever since that day John had been staying up late, reading Norse mythology. He would get up at the usual time every morning, but he would make coffee and breakfast for both Sherlock and himself. He was kinder to Sherlock, which, to be truthful, freaked Sherlock out a bit. He wasn't adverse to it but… it would take some getting used to.
Sherlock's heart fluttered a bit, though he wouldn't show it to his changed flatmate. "No."
John put a paper he had been grading in the mythology book he had been studying as he closed the latter. "Get you're coat. You don't have a case?"
Sherlock was fascinated, "Why?"
"It's freezing outside. It tends to do that in the Northern Hemisphere in January…" John replied.
"No, I know that," Sherlock replied, his monotone never faltering, "Why are you taking me out to dinner? We haven't done that since… I arrived."
John gave him a little smile, "Just thought you'd like something other than beans and rice. I forgot to do the shopping again…"
Sherlock nodded. John had been studying up on his mythology for the past week, as well as his usual grading of papers and writing of blogs. He had forgotten to do much else that week except what his body required of him. Almost like Sherlock when he was on a case…
"Well… if that's the case, then I say we go," Sherlock said.
"We should try Angelo's," John said, grabbing his coat as Sherlock grabbed his.
Sherlock tied his scarf around his neck, "That sounds… nice."
John nodded and led the way out.
Mrs. Hudson peeked through the curtains over the window to her door. "That's odd…"
The first thing Sherlock noticed about Angelo's was the atmosphere. It was darker than a restaurant should be, and there were a lot of couples here. He looked to John and wondered for a moment if this dinner was a set up to another proposition. Well… not another proposition, but a sort of "Hey, we've known each other four months and you haven't run away just yet, want to form a romantic/sexual relationship?"
But John wasn't that type of person. Sherlock hadn't noticed John with any other man or even a woman since he had met him, and he certainly didn't proposition anyone, that Sherlock knew of, often. So the food was excellent here if John went often by himself or with friends… or maybe he had taken a date here. Sherlock didn't have enough data to fully comprehend his flatmate's dating vs. friendship views.
"This isn't a date," John said, sitting down at a table towards the front.
Sherlock lifted his head a tad, and then nodded. He sat down across from his flatmate and opened the menu the maître d handed him. He had finished a case the day before, and he had half-staved himself for about six days to finish it.
A heavy-set man with a ponytail bounded up to their table, "Mr. Holmes! So nice to see you again."
John recognized the man from the picture on the menu and widened his eyes at Sherlock, who would have blushed at the attention he was receiving. "This, as I can tell you already know, is Angelo," he said, by way of explanation. "About a month ago, I successfully proved to Scotland Yard that he wasn't part of an Italian gang set here in London, but that he was innocent, and the only thing that should be on his record that he was in another part of town housebreaking."
"She knew I was coming," Angelo said off-handedly, "And without this man, I would have gone to prison for a lot longer than I did."
John was in awe of the entire story. Angelo grinned at him, "Anything on the menu's free, Sherlock. For you and your date."
"I'm not his date!" John replied immediately.
Angelo didn't here him, "I'll get a candle for the table. It's more romantic."
"I'm not his date!" John nearly squealed.
Sherlock chuckled, "People get notions into their head, John… and this looks like more of a date place anyway…"
John shook his head, "The food is excellent, though…" he commented, opening the menu.
Sherlock mirrored his flatmate, "So… though I can hazard a guess… what made you change?"
"Change?" John asked.
"Your views about me?"
John thought about it, "That song you played was beautiful—let me finish," Sherlock had made to protest, "And… the emotion you put into it was human. Nostalgia and sadness and… well… it made me realize that you were human underneath that God-like disdain for having to be taken care of by a lowly human like me."
Sherlock blinked, startled a bit. "You… hated me because I wasn't human to you? But… I'm not."
"You were stripped of your powers when you were sent down here. You're as human as me or Angelo," John replied.
Angelo returned with the candle, took their orders and their menus, and then left again. All the while Sherlock looked pensive.
"I… Thank you."
John looked at him. "What?"
"Thank you… for… for everything you've done. Even if you did hate me for a while there…"
John smiled, "Well, thank you for being less clever last week and letting me walk in on a human moment of yours…"
Ever since Angelo's Sherlock had John on his mind almost constantly. Even when he was swamped with a case he was thinking about the good doctor. A verbal thank-you wasn't enough for Sherlock and he wanted to do more. He just wasn't sure what to do. He hadn't studied enough of human nature to know what other mortals did besides verbally express their gratitude.
"Lestrade," he said one morning as he was stuck at Scotland Yard to give them his statement for a case. "What do you do when you're grateful to someone… but words aren't enough?"
Lestrade blinked. He really didn't understand Sherlock Holmes (who did?), but he liked the man for his intelligence and his speed. He wouldn't ask questions about Sherlock like most others did, either. "Well… sometimes gifts work…"
Sherlock's eyebrow rose, "What kind of… gifts?"
"Thoughtful ones. Usually flowers, but that's a bit mainstream…"
Sherlock nodded, And though John might appreciate them, it isn't enough.
He was in a haze for the next few days. The case was closed, so he spent most of his days lounging on the couch in a dressing gown. John would come home and Sherlock would still be in the same position he had left his flatmate in that morning. John didn't worry about Sherlock when he did this, though. Besides, Sherlock always looked thoughtful.
It was a surprise, then, when John came home and saw that Sherlock was gone. There was a note on the couch, however: Off out. Library. Don't wait up. Bringing home take away.
John couldn't help but chuckle.
Sherlock had never met Irene, but John had her number in his phone, and from the times Sherlock had gotten hold of it, gotten through the password, and read some of the texts (yes, Sherlock did this before John and Sherlock had gotten… closer), he had learned that Irene often had to text John first before he would actually talk to her. He knew Irene worked at a library, and finally learned which one when he looked at all the Norse mythology books Irene had spoken about in her texts.
So looking at the gorgeous librarian in front of him, stroking her paper cup of coffee like a lover, and laughing up a storm about how John and she had met, Sherlock completely understood why John had made friends with her in the first place.
"… Then I got married, so I stopped taking on new subs, at least," Irene said, finishing her story.
Sherlock nodded, "But you kept some of them?"
"My husband's a wuss in the bedroom, but I love him for his intelligence and his personality. But I need a little kink once and a while, and I promised not to have sex with my lovely girls," Irene replied.
Sherlock nodded, almost flushing violently.
"Anyway," Irene said, taking a sip of her drink, "I know you didn't ask me for coffee just to hear me prattle on about my hobbies. It's about John, isn't it?"
Sherlock's eyebrows shot up, "Yes."
"Oh, that dear man," Irene sighed. "A workaholic, and much too invested in humanity sometimes. But he's a good man. What do you want to know?"
Sherlock looked at the wall behind the dark-haired woman for a moment. "I'm so grateful to him for all he's done. I want to… to show my gratitude, but words and flowers won't do the job properly."
Irene smiled, Oh John Watson. Somebody loves you. "John has different tastes anyway," she said, leaning forward to put her elbows on the table. She cradled her cheeks in her hands as she hummed lightly, thinking. "You ever notice that he kind of looks like a hedgehog?"
Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed somewhat. "What?"
"Molly says he reminds her more of a kitten, but I've always said he looked more like a hedgehog. Though both animals are adorable, I will give them that," Irene continued, musing now.
Sherlock was utterly confused, "I'm not quite getting your line of thinking, Mrs. Norton…"
"Irene, please," the dominatrix replied, smiling at him as she lifted her head off her hands. "I'm just saying, I see him as a hedgehog. Plus, he likes adorable things like that."
Sherlock finally got it, "Oh…"
Irene smiled and winked, "He can't care for a live one, mind you. He's got you, doesn't he? And he won't like anything too cutesy either. Nothing you would give someone for Valentine's Day. Not yet, at least."
"We're not a couple," Sherlock said.
Irene made a slight humming noise, "If you deny it, then you've at least thought about it. Don't give too much away, Sherlock dear."
Sherlock smiled slightly, "I'll keep that in mind. And thank you."
"Anytime, Sherlock," Irene replied, returning the smile somewhat. She was quiet for a brief moment. "Be sure and take John with you when you go home."
Sherlock's eyebrow rose at this statement, "We never go anywhere together, so how can we return that way?"
"I mean when you go home," Irene replied, her smile fading somewhat.
"London is my home," Sherlock replied.
Irene shook her head, "If you're going to play thick, then all right. But I think you know what I really mean."
And Sherlock did.
Four or five days later, Sherlock got a package in the mail, and he opened right in front of John. He was clever in the way he looked so surprised when he lifted the stuffed animal from the box. "Hmm… must be a joke from one of your… friends," he said, looking down his nose at his flatmate.
John's eyebrows went from both raised to only one. He said nothing though.
Sherlock shrugged, "Well…" he dropped the well-crafted hedgehog-shaped stuffed animal on John's lap carelessly, "There. I guess this can be your thank-you present."
"What?" John asked.
"Words aren't enough for all you've done for me, John," Sherlock said, fixing the man in question with a meaningful gaze. John returned it, but his face didn't convey so much steady apathy as an adorable look of perplexity.
"I… You're… You're welcome," John finally said, breaking the non-competitive staring contest and picking up the small toy.
Sherlock finally looked away from his roommate, but not before he saw the embarrassed smile John gave the gift Sherlock had gotten for him, pressing it into his stomach for some sort of comfort.
Notes: I now want that stuffed animal. Hedgehogs are so cute... Oh, and new head canons for this story: Lestrade is a hipster, and Molly is one of Irene's subs. Possibly her favorite. Just saying.