I spend the morning tidying. Someone's got to do it and it's not going to be him. He frowns at me as I Hoover around him, I feel like his wife, mind you I was doing the house work before anything else happened wasn't I?
Sherlock's pouring over both laptops, he has fished his out of a corner of his room and set them both up and is flicking from one screen to the other. By the time I've done the front room, bathroom and am about to start on the kitchen he's found two more players.
"William Clerk and Sir Joshua James," he points at the two really old guys on the Brotherhood picture. He is smiling and obviously pleased with himself.
"Clerk? The shoe people? Oh right, of course. Who's the other chap?" Sherlock looks up at me and I realise this is one of those pieces of information which he thinks is important and I don't.
"What? You don't know Joshua James? He was a really famous race horse owner. Man about town, bit of a playboy in his time. Later we all found out he was spying for the enemy in WWI. Utter bastard but utterly brilliant all the same." There is grudging respect in his voice. I think I've vaguely heard of him and I say so. "So that's two more, doesn't help me much with the current players though." He bangs the arm of the chair. "Damn Mycroft! I really hoped he'd help. Argh!" Sherlock is very frustrated hope he doesn't start with the golf club again. I just tidied. I say so. Sherlock rolls his eyes and then looks at me more closely.
"John? Are you ok?" I sigh and sit down, cloth and cleaning fluid still in my hand. No I am not ok. Not at all.
"Not really Sherlock. I'm worrying about tonight." He frowns and I think he's forgotten about dinner with Harry, I stop at thinking about the other person who will be there. Then he nods once. He's not going to push the question and I love that about him, he can be the most inquisitive person ever but he appreciates boundaries. "I need to talk to you about Harry." He puts down both computers, what a compliment. He sits back in the chair, folds his arms and nods for me to go on. I know he's probably worked it all out and I appreciate that he's letting me tell the story.
"We used to get on so well when we were kids you know, did everything together. She's older than me by one year, mum and dad wanted the baby making out of the way I guess." I smirk and Sherlock smiles seriously, I know he's dying to get to his case and the fact that he is listening so intently is a measure of the esteem in which he holds me, I file it away for insecure moments. "But then when we got to secondary school people started to compare us, you know John's much better at biology than Harriet, Harriet's much sportier than John, that sort of crap, you know." He nods again and I wonder if this sounds like his childhood too. "I didn't care but it really got to Harry, we started to drift apart, she was deliberately distancing herself from me, from the competition. When I was started my A levels she came out. No one was surprised, mum and dad were really supportive but it wasn't good enough for Harry. I don't know," I sniff and rub my hands in my hair, "maybe she wanted a fuss, to feel different? Anyway she became more and more removed. We both went to university, me to London, her to Edinburgh. We got together for a few weekends, you know, went clubbing, drank too much." I look at him, has he ever been clubbing? I can't imagine it but after what he's said about his sexual experimenting you never know eh? He frowns and I realise I have stopped speaking.
"So we both study medicine, I go into the army, she took the more conventional route, she wanted to be a consultant. I didn't think of it at the time but maybe she needed to be something more than I was. That didn't go well for her at first, she had problems with some of her work colleagues, they found her too intense, too focussed on the job, even more than they were. "I look at Sherlock; I could be describing him couldn't I? The fact has not escaped him, obviously, he shrugs.
"And mum and dad, well everyone, they kept going on about how I was out there, saving brave soldier's lives, fighting for Queen and country. I think it infuriated her, she couldn't better me and I wasn't trying. The army was a natural choice for me after medical school, I was bored in a town practice, I didn't do it to get one up on her." Do I sound defensive? I suppose I am after all this time.
"I was back on leave when I met Clara. She was funny and attractive and it was obvious she liked me. Before I was posted back we went out, I suppose you could call them dates, I really liked her Sherlock." I look at him, his face is serious and he looks annoyed, I pause, is he bored? He picks up on this and shakes his head a little.
"I'm listening John, carry on." I sigh; I haven't really said this to anyone.
"We wrote, emailed and I spoke to her on the phone for a while. She seemed as keen as I was. I don't know Sherlock, I got involved, more than I meant to. It's weird being out there, things which would be trivial at home, new relationships, things like that, get blown out of proportion. You start to attach more significance to them you would if you weren't being shot at, shooting people." My voice has trailed off. Sherlock sits forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, fingers under his chin. It spurs me on. "Anyway, I built Clara into something, my answer, my thing to live for. It wasn't fair, she hadn't made any big commitments, we'd kissed a bit but we'd not even gone any further. In my head she was my future wife, the reason to get out of this hell and get home." As I say these words I realise I have done far more with Sherlock than kiss, I have just described a level of commitment which I don't know if we have together. His face hasn't changed. I stand up and pace to the kitchen, put the kettle on, distract myself from the next bit of the story, the hard part. He doesn't speak while we wait for the kettle.
I hand him his tea and he smiles his thanks, then he puts it on the floor, his manner telling me he wants me to keep on talking.
"So when the letters, the phone calls, the texts, the emails stopped coming... well it hit me harder than it should have done I suppose. I was frantic for weeks, obsessed. I phoned home, even phoned Harry but no one had seen her. Or at least that's what they said. I suppose now they were trying not to upset me but I still think they should have told me." I sip my tea, trying to regain some composure. "Then there was the accident, mum and dad didn't survive, Harry was ok but in hospital. I got compassionate leave, came home, organised the funeral and on my first visit to Harry, there was Clara, with Harry." Look at my feet, lips tightly pursed because this still hurts. Hurts like a bastard. I sit up, blowing out a long breath.
"So, that was it. They'd met in a pub, Harry was with some of our mutual friends who recognised Clara as this girl I'd been going on about and invited her over." Another breath, come on John. "At first I thought that it was just a coincidence that Harry had gone for Clara, that it was nature, attraction but..."
"But then Harry started to say things when she'd been drinking." Sherlock's voice is a shock, he's been quiet for so long. "Hurtful things, intimate things. " He mimics and he sounds bitter and cruel and just like Harry did that night outside the pub. "What good is an imaginary, brilliant soldier boyfriend when she can have a real, brilliant girlfriend who can take her to bed and make her come, kiss her in the morning, show off to her friends?" I gawp at him, it's not word for word but some if it is dead on, verbatim, especially about the sex. I nod.
"I went back to Afghan, next thing I heard they're having a civil partnership, I'm invited. Harry plans it for when I'm on leave, I'm her only family she says in her letter, can't we make it right? But the whole thing, the whole bloody Elton John fiasco is aimed at me." Maybe it wasn't, but it felt it was, felt like a slap in the face, a deliberate, cruel insult. "I went back, cut myself off. Didn't speak or hear from them for a year maybe? Then I got a letter from Clara, she was worried about Harry's drinking, she was getting abusive, not physically but emotionally, mentally. After the leg, the kidnapping." I stop, have I told him about the kidnapping? The days as a hostage, torture, not knowing if I will ever see anyone again? I can't remember, it happens sometimes, the world just shrinks to a narrow focus and I can't remember. PTSD the doctors called it. I carry on. "I was sent home. It was Harry's birthday party, Clara begged me to come. Things got heated; they always do when Harry's been drinking. There was a row, Harry went to slap Clara, said some hurtful things, really nasty. I stood between them, Harry hit me...I hit Harry." I look up still ashamed even now, a year on. Sherlock nods.
"Perfectly rational reaction, considering." He says clearly, letting me know it's ok.
"Thanks." I whisper, then sigh. "Anyway I drove Clara to her parents' house and she didn't go back. They're divorced now." I purse my lips again and remember my tea. It's getting cold so I take a long drink, clear my head. Maybe I shouldn't be talking about this when we're going to go over there, see Harry and...Sarah. Hmm. "Last night when I told Clara who I'd been seeing, not you, Sarah," I add as his eyebrows rise. "She looked really sad, upset. And then you mentioned Harry's new girlfriend's name."
"Sarah." Sherlock sighs and rubs his chin with his hands. There is silence and I can tell he is thinking. I don't know what to say, what he's going to say. Harry and I sound like we're some awful soap opera, I hate it. He's probably thinking we're freaks, the sort of awful dramatic family he avoids like the plague and shouts at on the telly. When he speaks it isn't what I thought he would say.
"So, how do you want to deal with this bitch of a sister then?" His eyebrows are raised and he sits back in the chair, drinks his tea. When he finishes drinking his mouth is a thin line.
I'm just out of the shower, towelling my hair dry and deciding what to wear. Yes, boys do it too. After all this is a big deal. Even though I'm not competing with Harry she still brings out that side of me, I can't help it. And Sarah's going to be there. You know that thing right, where you're not interested in them anymore but you still care what they think about you? Yeah, it's like that. I wander into the front room and Sherlock's on the laptops again. That doesn't surprise me. What does however is how he is dressed. The suit is a sharper, more expensive version of his usual charcoal grey. The cut is immaculate; you can tell from the other side of the room that it's cost a fortune. As I cross the floor I can see that the material is slightly shiny, not gaudy but there is sheen, once again I am brought to mind of a shark. His shirt is the same grey but the material is silk I think, the texture, matt and sleek, compliments the suit perfectly. His tie is black. He's wearing a tie. I've never seen him in a tie. He's even brushed that mad curly hair. He looks amazing, like a slightly sinister, sexy lawyer or something. I know have a serious sartorial problem.
I go back into my room and there's a paper bag on the bed. It wasn't there before. It's a silvery grey and from a very expensive shop. When I look inside there are some dark grey jeans and a black, thin knit jumper inside. The jumper feels heavy, silky. The jeans are hand stitched. They're in my size. I pick them up and go back to Sherlock.
"Er. What's this?" I ask, then, thinking that sounded rude I try to amend, "where are these from?" He looks up, face impassive.
"Thought you might want smarten up for tonight. Ordered those. Will they do?" I look back at the items in my hand; they are a sort of chic, urban version of what I wear. He bought them for me. Bloody hell.
"Yeah. Yeah. Great. Lovely. Erm... thanks Sherlock." I mutter, oh I'm so good with this aren't I?
I get changed and look at myself. The John Watson who looks back at me from the mirror is smooth, adult, sophisticated. I'd better put something on my hair I think. My only tub of hair wax, I've had it since 2003, is still in a box under the bed. I fish it out and poke some into my short hair. I can't see the difference but I know it's there. Then I go back to the front room.
"You've done something to your hair." Sherlock glances from the laptop screens and then back. "It looks nice." Right, thanks. He slaps down the lids and rubs his hands together. "Ok, ready?" his eyes skim over me and he smiles. It's a warm, friendly smile. I am a little taken aback.
"What?" I look down at myself, insecurely. He crosses the room to me.
"You are the brilliant army doctor John Watson, saver of lives, solver of crimes and great friend and the lover of the brilliant detective, Sherlock Holmes." He says holding me by my shoulders. The word 'lover' shudders through me. "Let's go and kick this poor imitation's arse." He smiles widely, dangerously and then he kisses me, hard and flicks his tongue inside my mouth. My breath stops and a tremor of lust thrills through me. He turns to the door and runs down the stairs.
Sherlock insists on getting a cab, even though Harry's house is in Clapham, South London. It's across the river and the journey costs a fortune but Sherlock doesn't bat an eyelid. In a city where most people can only afford a flat Harry has a house, of course she does. It's a Victorian terrace big enough for a Victorian family and servants but she's a big wig consultant now at the Chelsea hospital so I guess she can afford it. Sherlock pays the cabbie and meets me at the foot of the stairs. He holds my hand and squeezes.
"Sherlock," I start to say, not sure how to finish the sentence. I want to thank him for coming with me, for agreeing to this nightmare, for supporting me and I want to ask him to behave. I don't say anything.
"I will be the Archangel Gabriel." He smiles, drawing a halo around his head. I smile nervously. "Until she starts being nasty. Then," he spreads his hands like it's out of his control, "then the gloves are off!" Ok. Right then.
We climb the steps to the front door and I press the doorbell, we hear it jangle in the hall. I turn to Sherlock, he has his sociable grin on, he's practising. Bless him.
The door opens and it's Harry. She's lost weight since last time I saw her and her hair is a bit longer than it was too, a sort of long bob is suppose, same colour as mine. People tell us we look alike. I can't see it myself. She's wearing beige linen trousers and a beige linen tunic, looks like pyjamas to me. Expensive but simple diamond jewellery and she's already holding a large glass of red wine. This sends off alarm bells in my head. She's not looking at me, she's looking at Sherlock and I can't blame her. It's time likes this when his obvious upper class breeding comes out.
"John!" she exclaims, still not looking at me. "Lovely to see you! And you must be the mysterious Sherlock Holmes!" She leans forward and Sherlock performs the most realistic air kiss I have ever seen. I am astounded. He's grinning a grin quite different from his usual shark smile. If I didn't know better I'd think he was a sociable, normal guy. Oh dear.
"Hi," his voice is all velvet and chocolate and he hands over the expensive bottle of wine he's brought. I did try to explain that this might not be the wisest gift for Harry but he just grinned. "I've been dying to meet you." To my astonishment Harry simpers. No, really, she does. I'm sure my eyes go wide and I have to adjust my face because we're going into the house and she'd ushering us into the lounge for drinks.
The house is huge and chic. Cream walls and dark wooden floors, period furniture and obscure art. Her lounge has a large brown leather sofa that looks like it might be more at home in a gentlemen's club and two matching armchairs. Sherlock is accepting a glass of wine and making himself at home in one of them. He crosses his legs, a model of civilised, well to do manners. He winks at me.
"So, Sarah's getting dressed upstairs and food will be ready in about half an hour. I hope you're hungry?" I nod, unable to say anything; she does this to me, overwhelms me and makes me feel awkward, uncouth.
"I'm famished Harry, can I call you Harry?" Sherlock is so smooth and Harry does that little giggle again. What? He gets up and goes to the bookshelf. "You've got an interesting selection here; I'd never guess you and John were related. John's only read the Yellow Pages." He laughs lightly and she joins him at the book shelf. They discuss classical literature, of course Sherlock knows all about it, and Harry simpers and agrees with everything he says. I sip my wine and look at a magazine on the table about other people's houses.
After a few minutes Sherlock comes and sits by me on the sofa. By this time he has worked his magic and Harry thinks he's wonderful. I look at my watch; we've been here twenty two minutes.
"So, you're a consultant Harry? That must be a stressful job? Are you on call tonight?" Harry sits down after pouring herself another glass and she is just beaming, she loves talking about herself.
"Well Sherlock, that's an interesting name, where does it come from?" Sherlock smiles intimately, like there's just the two of them present, I begin to feel that familiar feeling of exclusion I get when Harry gets her claws into my friends; surely he isn't falling for this?
"It's a family name Harry; there's always been a Sherlock in our family for generations. So, about your job?" he prompts and smiles and Harry starts to describe her job. It's all very stressful and important and Sherlock is suitably impressed.
"Sounds fascinating, you really are dealing with people's lives aren't you? That must give an enormous sense of power." Sherlock is killing her with that stare, like she's the only person in the room. Harry practically purrs. Then she sees my face and realises I am not joining in with Harryfest 2010.
"Well, John's seen plenty of life and death haven't you John?" it's condescending and patronising.
"Yes but not the refined, high end surgery that you must be performing Harry, right?" Sherlock is looking right at her, I know what that look does. Harry smiles and tucks her hair behind her ear coquettishly. Jesus. "I mean, you must be at the cutting edge of medicine?" Harry nods in a bad impression of modesty.
"Well, there is a lot of pressure and we are performing surgeries that are pretty experimental sometimes, but, you know, we're all just doctors really aren't we John?" I laugh and try to join in their merry circle, I'm not sure I'm convincing.
"Excuse me Sherlock, I have to go and check the food. It should be ready soon. Please, help yourself to another glass of wine and I'll be back in a moment."
On to the rest of the party, don't forget to answer these simple questions:
What's your favourite bit?
What do you think of Harry now?
What do you want |Sherlock to do at the dinner party?
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