John heard his alarm going off in their bedroom. Estimating the time Mary would take to get freshened up, he put the kettle on. It was only six in the morning. Soft sunrays were peeking through the French windows of their kitchen. He limped there and opened those windows wider, letting cool morning breeze in, admiring the beautiful morning outside.
He had woken at three in the morning and remembered dreaming about Sherlock. Even the thought of the man was enough to make him feel culpable. They had established an accord the day before for both of their sanity's sake and for a brief period of time it had seemed to work. Yet waking up in the middle of night with your fiancée sleeping on your side while thinking of a certain man with high cheekbones, unruly hair and eyes with a shattering intensity, just didn't fit in the picture. He wondered if only he felt the growing connection between them. He wished it was his mind playing tricks. He did not want the connection between them to strengthen anymore than it already had.
He loved Mary and knew she loved him just as much. She didn't deserve to be treated like a substitute for his Soulmate. Mary had accepted him and now was his chance to set things right. His limp had pronounced evidently after the emotional turmoil he had been through the night before. Sherlock Holmes's sudden appearance had changed many little things between him and Mary. They were more careful around each other since a Soulmate bond no longer held them together. They were still engaged, yes, but the knowledge of John and Sherlock's connection had shaken the very cornerstone of their relationship. This is only a new phase. It'll take some time to adjust, an understanding Mike had said. That had angered John even more. He had never assumed the transition was going to be easy, but the least he could do for his -and especially Mary's- sake was to make it sufferable. So when he couldn't sleep without seeing his Soulmate's face in dreams, he stopped pretending to be sleeping and got up to make Mary a nice breakfast. He needed to make sure she knew that she still was and always would be his priority.
John's phone chimed, indicating arrival of a text. Sighing, he turned from the kitchen to fetch the phone. He hoped he hadn't been summoned in the hospital. A text from an unknown number flashed on the screen.
Received at 06:09 AM
Can a thread of diameter 4mm be enough to asphyxiate a man? SH
Frowning at the text John constructed a reply and hit send.
Sent at 6:09 AM
Who is this?
"Kettle's boiled."
John looked up from his phone to see Mary hesitating by the kitchen door. Her eyes were still puffy and reddened from last night's crying. Her shoulders were hunched forward and she looked terribly tired. A tentative smile played on her lips which didn't reach her eyes. John's chest clenched. Quickly he dropped the phone on the counter. He crossed the room as swiftly he could manage with a throbbing leg. Resting his palms on her hips, he pulled her close and quickly kissed her lips.
"Good morning," he whispered as he rested his forehead against her briefly. His phone tinkled from the counter top but it was ignored.
Smiling a little widely, Mary replied, "Good morning."
"I've made some breakfast. Care to join me?"
"Smells nice," said Mary and followed John to the dining table.
"Don't get your hopes high, though. It's only an egg fry and some toast," he said pulling out a chair and gesturing for her to sit down. Chuckling at the sudden chivalry, Mary bowed a little and sat down. John walked to the counter and back with two mugs of sugarless tea when his phone chimed again. He set the mugs on the table along with the rest of the breakfast and sat down. Seeing Mary busy with filling their dishes, he quickly checked his phone. An attached picture of a corpse flashed on his screen. The corpse was of a man in mid-fifties. He had red bruises on his neck and an indentation on the jaw line. The picture was followed by a text.
Received at 6:13 AM
Sherlock Holmes. A locked room murder in Soho. Medical consultation is required. SH
John's heart skipped a beat at the name. Recovering quickly, he typed his reply.
Sent at 6:14 AM
How did you get my number?
"John?"
"Huh?" John tore his eyes from the screen to see Mary looking at him expectantly.
"I asked if you want jam on your toast," She inquired, her eyebrows raised on her forehead.
"Oh yes, I'd love some. Sorry about that. Patient," John replied smoothly, figuring it wouldn't aid their current awkwardness by bringing up his newly found Soulmate. Thankfully she didn't say anymore on the topic and they settled on safer territory of who'd be mowing the lawn this time. John completely ignored next beep from his phone before putting it on the silent mode.
"What are you going to do today, then?" Mary asked.
"Uh, I was thinking of going for the tux shopping with Mike. We both have today off and wedding is only a month away. I'll also ask him if he'd be my best man." He silently prayed to the unknown deity above. This was in no way a safe zone conversation.
Mary put her fork back in the plate slowly as if it would break the plate. The little clink it caused was followed by silence. John daren't to look at her until she spoke, "Do you think that's a good idea?"
"I don't see why not. There's sale going on in-"
"John, you know I don't mean price wise."
John sighed heavily before saying. "Why it's not a good idea, Mary, you tell me. We are getting married in a month and I'd very much love to be in presentable clothes."
"We don't have to do this," she said in a smallest possible voice. "I can't make you to do this."
"You are not making me do anything. We still are engaged and nothing- nothing, you hear me- is going to change that. My feelings for you haven't changed. If yours are then-"
"No, they are not!" Mary exclaimed, her face showing mixed emotions of hurt and anger. Good, anger was good; far better than silently sobbing into the pillow thinking John couldn't hear it.
"I know they aren't," he smiled softly at her. He squeezed her hand lying on the table and held onto it. "So let's just forget about everything that's happened in last two days and go back to how things were before. You shouting at me for not helping you plan the wedding and shouting even more when I do it because I just don't get the hang of it."
Awkward silence in the room was finally chased away by Mary's timid laugh, slowly draining the tension between them. John squeezed her hand again and leaned to kiss her lips.
After some quiet minutes of kissing, Mary spoke. "I'm going to take shower now. As much as I'd love to spend rest of the day talking over oddly shaped egg fries as breakfast, I'm afraid I have a shift at the hospital." She kissed John again before heading to the bathroom.
John sat eating his remaining breakfast, feeling blessed and loved with a sense of returning normality. He had missed this. The mere act of kissing Mary brought immense relief to John's mind. That was the kind of effect Mary had on John. He had seen terrors of the war and lived through the post-war void, but with Mary it was different. She was much like an exceptionally warm day in winter. He wouldn't say he didn't miss the fervour driven days of the army but the sense of security Mary brought with her was oddly comforting for an ex-army doctor like John.
The sound of the bathroom door opening and closing pulled John out his thoughts. With a mind more at ease, he got up to wash the dishes. Somewhere back in his mind he still felt the need of doing everything in his reach to make Mary feel happy. Since an unsullied kitchen had always helped his case in the past, he started clearing the table. After a while he noticed the phone lying under a napkin on the table top. Hesitantly he unlocked it to find texts from the same unknown number waiting for him.
Received at 6:16 AM
You didn't answer my question. SH
Received at 6:18 AM
Statistically speaking, thread of that diameter wouldn't be able to throttle enough to cut off the oxygen supply unless the victim is not fully conscious. Or physically impaired. SH
Received at 6:23 AM
I'd appreciate your assistance on this case. Anderson's competency is worse than a snail's. SH
Received at 6:41 AM
I thought you said we could work it out together. SH
John swallowed the thickness in his throat as he read the last message. With this rate, it wouldn't be long before he fucked up his arrangement with Sherlock too. Great. Fucking perfect. Quickly he wrote back.
Sent at 6:53 AM
Sorry. Didn't hear the text alert. And yes, string of that size can asphyxiate if it's strong enough. But that's not the case with the dead man, is it?
Received at 6:54 AM
What do you mean? SH
Sent at 6:54 AM
Well, you can see a little red blotch under his left jaw line. Looks like he was injected by rather a thick needle. Chocked on his own vomit?
A minute after he sent the text he felt a great wave of thrill washing over his body. He nervously tapped his phone waiting for Sherlock's reply: it never came. His blood pressure was steadily increasing. He could sense Sherlock getting excited. For a brief moment John thought Sherlock was going to get himself in trouble again. He considered calling his brother but he had no means to contact him. After helpless panic rush, John got to his feet. He needed to do something.
He hurriedly dialed Sherlock's number. He rushed to the bedroom and changed quickly into old faded jeans. Sherlock didn't pick up. He redialled.
"Mary, I'm going out. Emergency," he shouted in general direction of the bathroom as he ran out of the flat. His heart was thumping faster but he recognised it wasn't from the fear. It was almost euphoric. All he could hope was it wasn't from some drug effect. He flagged a cab down.
"221B, Baker Street. Get me there in 10 minutes and I'll pay you double." The cabbie nodded and drove on.
After agonisingly sluggish 10 minutes, the cab slowed down on Baker Street. John thrust bills in the cabbie's hand, more than even the double of the fair. He was out of the cab before it fully pulled to the kerb. He ran to the door and knocked frantically. The landlady's rushing but oh-so-slow footsteps reached the door finally as it swung open.
"Oh hello, dear-"
"Sherlock. Is he here?" John asked between heaving breaths.
Her face scrunched up in confusion before she replied, "No, he isn't here. The usual inspector from the yard came and both they went somewhere. Are you okay, dear?"
"Jesus," John whispered, now panting harder.
"Come inside, luv. You look edgy." Mrs. Hudson ushered him in. He half heard her tsking about how flushed he looked. Instead he listened to his fast paced heart thumping against his ribcage as he bound up the stairs to Sherlock's flat.
John paced through the living room- perturbed and jittery- when Mrs. Hudson came in with a steaming cup of tea. He declined it with as much politeness he could muster given the situation and continued moving about the room, right palm lying on his heart- mapping out every beat. Mrs. Hudson threw him worried glances for another minute but eventually left him alone to agitate.
After another fifteen fidgety minutes John felt his heart slowing down, though it never attained the normal pace. But this was bearable. At least he knew Sherlock wouldn't be in danger anymore. He settled on a desk chair gingerly, looking at the room properly for the first time since he came. It was cluttered with all sorts of papers; files that were sealed with 'CONFIDENTIAL' written on them. He traced a through hole in the wooden desk. Acid probably, he thought. A chemistry set was kept precariously at the end of the desk and a tea mug that wasn't his by its side. Half of the tea had evaporated. John wondered how many days it had been abandoned there.
Within all the mess of the near unlivable flat, a violin case stood by the mantelpiece. The carefully polished case gleamed in the morning sunlight coming through the window. It looked oddly misplaced in mare's nest that was Sherlock's flat. John never knew Sherlock played the violin though it somehow fitted seamlessly into the detective's personality. John imagined the elegant fingers latching onto the bow as it swiftly glided over the strings while Sherlock's neck cradled the violin elegantly. It was a beautiful thought. And also a very distracting one.
Before John could drown himself in guilt ridden thinking, the quick opening and closing of the front door of 221B saved the day. He instantly stood up on his feet as two sets of footsteps and muffled voices reached him. It sounded like an argument.
"-and I'm not your tamer, Sherlock. You cannot go on your own without-"
"John." Sherlock's voice stopped the other man mid-sentence. John tried taking in every detail of Sherlock he could- hair dishevelled from wind, no visible cuts; his trousers were torn at the knee and mud on the shirt. But the most striking was the black eye which was now swollen up and turning a shade of purple that almost matched Sherlock's shirt.
John's heart was picking up speed again and this time it had nothing to do with the adrenaline. The relief he felt when he saw Sherlock was extraordinary. It was so overpowering that John felt the need to sit down. He saw Sherlock's hand clutched at the doorframe. He wasn't the only one relieved at the sight of their Soulmat. John could almost taste on tip of his tongue the tension leaving upon Sherlock seeing him. He remembered his own agitation as soon as he had sensed Sherlock was in danger. He panicked internally thinking how their little arrangement of coexisting together was going to work if this feeling to protect and be protected was going to only heighten through their acquaintance.
They might have stared at each other longer than socially acceptable because the silver haired man behind Sherlock cleared his throat. He looked at Sherlock and then at John with a tiny hinting smirk on his face.
"Hi," John said. His brain was working slower. It almost felt like being dizzy.
Sherlock's emotions took hiding behind the blank façade of his face when he spoke, "I'm sorry for the inconvenience I may have caused you. I shall keep in mind to inform you beforehand from the next time."
"It's... It's fine, really." No it was not fine in any sense, John yelled mentally. Why wasn't he able to say what he actually felt? Why must he become this hormone-driven teenager every time he saw Sherlock?
Behind Sherlock, the man shifted his weight from one leg to another uncomfortably. Taking the hint, Sherlock said, "John, this is D.I Lestrade from the Scotland Yard." John could feel the intense pair of eyes following every move as he stepped forward to shake the man's hand. "Lestrade, this is John, my friend-"
"Colleague," John corrected with a forced smile. Lestrade smiled at him tentatively, probably tasting the tension between them too. Sherlock chose not to betray any emotion on his face, yet John could get an impression of hurt. It amazed him how much he understood the man after knowing him for no more than a week.
"Er, right," the DI said, breaking the awkward silence. "Sherlock, I want you to come down to the Yard and give the statement by this afternoon." When Sherlock started to protest, Lestrade shook his head. "No, not tomorrow. Today. I have file work piling up. I don't want any more of it. Are we clear?"
"You don't get to boss me around." Sherlock grumbled under his breath.
"Yes, I do. I just saved your genius arse from the gunfire. I want you in my office. Today." And with that the DI left.
Sherlock expelled a heavy, dramatic sigh, reminding John very much of actresses in the midday soap operas his mum used to watch. With a single swift moment he untied the scarf around his neck to throw it unceremoniously on the sofa. His long coat, which gave him a mysterious and untouchable appearance -is that why he chose to wear it? To keep him distant from the ordinary people?- was discarded with just as little care. John saw Sherlock's pale fingers lifting up a flask containing auburn liquid. He gave the flask some swirls. The colour faded to pink and a wicked grin appeared on Sherlock's face before he carefully replaced it.
"A case, was it?" John asked quietly.
"Yes."
"Listen, Sherlock-"
"You aren't limping today."
"I- what?" John stuttered. The question had thrown him off guard.
"Your limp. Last time I saw you limping you were in distress. You knew I was in danger and that must have caused you some distress too, as your life as well depended on it." John now held Sherlock's complete attention. He tried not to squirm. "Given the tautness in your stance, I would say you leg was hurting this morning. But you aren't limping now. Why is that?" John wasn't sure if the question was directed at him. It seemed more like Sherlock asking himself. Even if it was, he didn't know the answer. The limp was psychosomatic. There was very less he could do about it. "Your limp gets pronounced when you are under stress was my first assumption. It's not only the stress that causes the pain, is it? It's quite the opposite. Interesting."
John didn't move away from Sherlock's scrutinising gaze. Sherlock's brows furrowed as he deduced the life story sitting in his appearance. John's spine straightened, chin raised up on its own account. He met the taller man's stare coolly: like a soldier.
"D.I. said something about gunfire?" John asked instead of commenting on his leg.
"Hmm? Oh that. Yes, stupid miscalculation on my account," Sherlock replied, dismissing John's question. He turned away from him to shuffle through the countless number of papers on the desk.
"You do know a stupid calculation on your account could have killed us both, right?" John asked. He recalled the time when he had felt stirred up as he had sent the text, when Sherlock was probably getting shot at. He didn't see the danger; he saw the puzzle that needed to be solved. The danger didn't excite him. It was the thrill of being able to solve the mystery. If danger came along with it, it wasn't given much thought.
"Why didn't you think of that before you went to the war then?" Sherlock replied, not looking up.
Sherlock's reply took him by surprise. "Does it bother you? That I was in the army when we weren't bonded?"
Sherlock looked at him over the papers in his hand. "No, it doesn't. I was no less self destructive back then. It didn't stop me overdosing myself, did it?"
They hadn't spoken about the overdose episode. Hell, they hadn't spoken about anything important at all. They needed to talk about it soon, John's therapist would've advised. He didn't know when a good time was to bring up such topics of conversations. He was not the sort of a man to discuss his feelings. He figured Sherlock wasn't one too.
"So you aren't now?" John hesitated. "Self destructive?"
Sherlock didn't answer right away. His fingers halted on the papers. He was very careful not to look at John. "I guess, I'm not anymore. You can relax."
"Christ, I wasn't asking for my safety." John retorted. Sherlock's cool gaze swept over him before returning to the papers in his hands. John took a deep breath before asking, "Have you, uh, done it… since then?"
"If you're asking about drugs, no, I haven't. It was easier to get high before I knew you." John saw Sherlock couldn't keep from grimacing at that.
"How long have you been doing it?"
"Six years."
That must have been around the time when he went to Afghanistan. Did Sherlock feel the connection when John was on the field? Adrenaline driving him to stitch his mates while other soldiers fought around them or those exceptional times when he had to pick up his gun when he was getting shot at?
"Yes."
"Sorry, what?"
"Yes, I sensed it. Your heart beating faster. It wasn't the best combination with my brain never taking a minute from buzzing. Opioid was the easiest way to not feel anything." John didn't know how Sherlock seemed to know whatever he was thinking. Creepy, yes, it was creepy. But it also showed what it was like in his brain.
John nodded at Sherlock's explanation. The topic was over, for now at least. He was glad.
"Do you want some tea?" Sherlock asked. He put the papers down abruptly and looked up at John. When John looked puzzled at the sudden change of topic, Sherlock asked a little uncertainly, "That's what ordinary people do, don't they? Offer tea and biscuits?"
John's lips curled in a smile as he nodded. "Yes, that's us lot."
"Kettle's in the right corner on the counter and tea bags in third cupboard from left. You'll find sugar under the dining table chair and milk by the foot in the fridge. I like it with two sugars," Sherlock ordered in a quick tongue before resuming his paper work. John didn't suppress a laugh this time. He could see Sherlock smiling from corner of his eye.
Ten minutes passed before John asked Sherlock "So you play the violin?" as he sipped on his sugarless tea. They were sitting in the living room- Sherlock on a leather chair and John across from him on another armchair, gulping down their tea. It felt strangely domestic to be doing this with someone like Sherlock Holmes.
"Hmm. Helps me to think. Also keeps Mrs. Hudson's mindless chattering away from my ears," he replied.
"I'd like to hear you play sometime."
"You would?" Sherlock asked incredulously. The utter surprise in his tone was itself a surprise. Had no one done showed interest before? John felt pity which he tried to suppress before it made an appearance in other man's mind. He met Sherlock's eyes over the mug in his hand. The tea tasted surprisingly okay, given the milieu the fridge was kept in. He had thought a severed foot would be the worst of the things kept in it. Clearly, he was wrong.
"Yeah, of course. Mary would like it too. She has an ear for classical music."
Sherlock's excitement dropped remarkably at Mary's name. Hiding his face behind his cup, he replied, "Does she?"
"Yeah. She said she'd even like to meet you." Now it was John's turn to hide his face.
"Why would she want that?" Sherlock asked furrowing his brows.
John shrugged. "I told her yesterday about, uh, about us. She said she'd like to know who my Soulmate is. If that's amenable to you, of course."
"She's okay with our arrangement?" Arrangement. Somehow hearing Sherlock say it wasn't comforting.
"Ah, yes. She is."
"I don't mind meeting her. It's not as if I'm going to be here any longer."
There. This was something John had been avoiding all along. Sherlock going to rehab for God-knows-how-long upon the will of his brother. Somehow not seeing a certain consulting detective everyday was a thought he couldn't digest.
John wondered what it was like for Sherlock. Did he not like seeing John with somebody else? He had made himself clear on the 'Soul-uniting business', as he called it. He wasn't interested in John. It shouldn't, but the thought left a painful tinge in him. John wondered if he'd mind seeing Sherlock with somebody else. The thought was disquieting.
It wasn't fair of him to ask so much of Sherlock, he realised. The man was struggling with his never-ceasing brain and emotional needs while John was doing nothing but intensify the complexity of the situation. Maybe introducing Mary to Sherlock was not one of the best ideas.
"If Saturday works for you both…" Sherlock's voice brought John to the room again.
"You don't have to do it. It was just a thought."
"I want to meet her," Sherlock replied with decisive finality. John nodded. The way Sherlock said 'her' though, made John feel as if he was having an affair with Mary while keeping Sherlock in dark.
"So," John asked, desperately needing to change the way their conversation was going, "solved the case?"
Sherlock's eyes lit up and a true-to-God honest smile spread on his face. "Yes. Your input was quite helpful."
"I'm glad I could be helpful." John's smile matched Sherlock's. "What is it you do exactly? Well, I know you're a detective-"
"A consulting detective."
"-yes, a consulting detective. How can I forget?" John said, grinning. "What do you do exactly, though?"
"As I said earlier, Scotland Yard and occasionally the British government consult me on riddles they cannot solve. It could be anything- cracking a code, hunting down a person, or most of the times a murderer. Serial homicides are my personal favourite, though." John stared at him wide eyed, expressions between horror and puzzlement when he realised it wasn't some twisted joke. Sherlock twitched uncomfortably in his seat. "Not good?"
"A bit not good, yeah."
"The point is my work is exciting and thoroughly satisfying. You should come with me on a case sometime. You have an affinity to danger, I daresay."
John wasn't sure if he should feel offended. Yet the pure joy on Sherlock's face meant he hadn't intended on such offense. And who was he kidding? He could have chosen to start a practice in London after completing med school, yet had chosen getting shot at under blazing Sun. He indeed had an affinity to danger.
"Yes, I'd like that, yeah," John said.
"You can come to the Bart's with me today. I'll explain how the man was murdered. It was brilliant. I think you'll like it too, being a doctor and all," Sherlock said with an excitement of a five-year-old. He was actually enthused by the prospect of showing John a corpse in the morgue as if Christmas had come eight months early.
John laughed at the absurdity of their situation, wondering what had got him here in the first place, but could only ask looking at his thrilled Soulmate, "When do we leave?"