Unpredictable
Chapter 4
John is sitting in the pub, an untouched pint in front of him. It was probably a mistake to meet Clara, but he'd wanted to get out of the house. It's the first time he's seen her since she and Harry split up. They don't talk about that.
He knew that might be awkward when she rang up a couple of days ago to suggest meeting. But he'd always liked Clara, who'd almost made Harry bearable for the short time they were together. And at that point he'd assumed it would be fun to tell her all about Sherlock. Was even a bit excited about it. Because Sherlock was – is, still – the most amazing person John has ever met.
Not that that's any consolation right now.
"So what's your flatmate like?" Clara asks.
"A genius," says John, because this is still true and the easiest thing to say. "Extraordinary – quite extraordinary. I've never met anyone like him."
"I looked at his website," Clara says. "Can he really do what he says he can?"
"Yes," John says. This is the bit where he would have told Clara about that amazing conversation in the taxi – the "Afghanistan or Iraq?" bit, obviously, and how Sherlock had worked out he'd been on military service abroad. Not the bit about her and Harry splitting up and Harry's drinking. Or he could have told her about the amazing way Sherlock had worked out in seconds all those things about the dead woman in pink.
But instead he sits and looks at his untouched drink, trying not to think about this afternoon.
Clara's phone goes off; she looks at it and pulls a face.
"Sorry," she says, "I'd better take this."
"It's fine," he says. "It's OK."
He is sitting in the pub with Clara, but his mind is back in 221b Baker Street.
Coming downstairs to make a cup of tea, making one for Sherlock as well, thinking maybe they can try to talk about what happened earlier. Though he should have known that wasn't going to work. For God's sake, you're dealing with a man who clearly has no understanding of human emotions.
That thing about Rachel, for example.
The dead woman's daughter. Stillborn daughter, died 14 years ago. The woman had been trying to scratch her name on the floor in her last moments.
Sherlock's complete incomprehension: But that was ages ago, why would she still be upset?
The silence in the room, so loud that even Sherlock knew he'd got something wrong.
The odd way he turned to John, as if John could help him.
-Not good?
-Bit not good, yeah.
You'd have to be pretty stupid to expect someone like that to care about anyone else's feelings. Or notice they existed, even. Or have any themselves.
You'd have to be pretty stupid to let yourself care about someone like that.
Clara's conversation is still going on; it's work, of course. Something gone wrong with a court case she's preparing for, some idiot has lost a vital piece of evidence. Sort of thing he'd have told Sherlock about afterwards, see if he had an idea about it. If he'd been going home – back to the flat, he corrects himself – after this. He's still not sure about that.
He can't get the sounds out of his head.
They were pretty unmistakable, so it's not surprising.
Standing there on the landing like a complete fucking idiot and loser, mug of tea for Sherlock in one hand, other hand on the door about to open it -
and then the noises start on the other side of the door.
Lestrade groaning, Sherlock laughing, the laugh being smothered, a lot of bumping around and things being knocked onto the floor, and -
A sort of Oh, between pleasure and surprise. Not Lestrade's voice.
Scalding heat of the tea slopping from the mug over his fingers and onto the carpet.
Putting the mug down outside the door, carefully as if it might break. Going upstairs for his half-packed suitcase, never mind finishing the packing, enough there for overnight anyway, leave it in the hall and come back for the rest of his stuff later.
Walking past his stick in the hall, the one he doesn't need any more because Sherlock was right and his therapist was right and it was psychosomatic. Even if running around London chasing a taxi is a pretty weird sort of cure.
-That – is the most ridiculous thing I've ever done.
Leaning against the wall in 221b with Sherlock, out of breath and laughing, Sherlock saying And you invaded Afghanistan. Giggling helplessly. There's been – there was – a lot of that. Laughing with Sherlock. Best not to think about that.
So he doesn't need the stick any more. He can walk out of 221b Baker Street just like that. Out of Sherlock's life, too, which is obviously what Sherlock must want, given that he's with Lestrade.
Said he didn't have a boyfriend, why would he have said that if it wasn't true? Maybe it wasn't, then. Maybe it's only just happened. Maybe if he'd done something different, said something that morning when he woke up with Sherlock -
He can't possibly want to be involved with Sherlock. Not like that. You'd have to be mad to want that.
Clara is making apologetic faces. He gestures to her empty glass, see if she wants another. She mouths "Thank you."
He goes to the bar to get it. His phone beeps.
The message says
Come at once
221b Baker Street
Urgent
SH
He deletes it.
The phone beeps again, seconds later. Same message.
He deletes that too.
The third message, astonishingly, says
Sorry about earlier
SH
John doesn't think of "Sorry" as being in Sherlock's vocabulary.
He deletes the message.
He's still angry but there's something else, a sadness that makes his throat tight again.
Phone beeps.
Another message.
Just one word and the initials this time.
Didn't think that was in his vocabulary either.
Please
SH
John hits Reply. Texts and sends:
Fuck off
JW
It ought to make him feel better, but somehow it doesn't.
He switches his phone off and takes Clara her drink.
She's still on the phone, but says to the person at the other end, "Hold on a minute. I'm so sorry, John. This is just going to go on for hours, and we haven't had a chance to talk at all."
"It's OK," John says. "It's fine."
He says that a lot. Even when it isn't.
"I think I might go back to the flat," he says. "Feeling a bit under the weather. Can we do this another time?"
Clara looks relieved; she can get on with her work call without feeling guilty. "OK," she says. "Stay in touch, yes?"
"Yes," John says, meaning No.
He gets his coat and goes out into the night air. Thinks he might walk around for a bit. Not going back there just yet. Maybe later.