Thank you guys for the follows. It always feels nice to hear from you. So, if you have a minute then please leave a review. Thanks again.. :) 3
John tensed instantly when he saw Murray coming his way. He was checking and updating some of the medical files of his mates and tried to get lost in them. He tried and succeeded to avoid the situation so far but not anymore. He knew he could not avoid the coming conversation with Murray forever but it made him uncomfortable nonetheless.
M: "Hey."
J: "Hey, Murr."
M: "So… updating, huh?"
J: "Yeah, yeah…dreadful job, all these minute details and all."
M: "Yeah…uh… so, you've met someone?"
John knew there was no avoiding this time.
J: "uh..I..uh..not like that. We're just friends, that's all."
M: "When you visited home this Christmas?"
J: "Yes, yeah, last Christmas. We met quite accidentally."
M: "Really? That's good, I guess."
J: "Yeah, I guess so."
John was just about to excuse himself when the next question came.
M: "You like this bloke, don't you?"
J: "What? No, I mean, yes I like him, I definitely do but not that way, you know."
M: "What way?"
J: "Jesus, Murr! Am I under some kind of interrogation?"
M: "I don't know. I just thought it's better to know my rival, that's all."
John wanted to bang his head in frustration.
J: "Look, Murr, there is nothing between me and Sherlock, honestly. An-and you and me…we're not gonna work. It was never serious between us and you know that too, right?"
M: "How do you know that? We never really gave it a chance, John. And I really doubt there's nothing between you two. I mean, have you seen your face when you read his letters?"
John Watson did not blush. Not at all.
J: "You're wild guessing, that's what you are doing now. But I really don't like to talk about it. And I don't think my personal life is up for discussion."
M: "Look, John, I like you and if there is nothing between you and that London bloke then I want you to give us another chance."
J: "Are you mental? We are in between a war, Bill! A bloody war! It's neither the place nor the time to start a fucking relationship."
John Watson did not use pun. None at all.
M: "That's bullshit. These sorts of things, they don't wait for place, time or excuses, they just happen, you know. Beat around the bush as long as you want but you're a goner, John Watson."
J: "What? No, no..I..of course not! What are you tal.."
John was interrupted.
"Hey, Watson, your love letter's here!"
~0~0~0~
Dear John,
Another failed attempt to be amusing as well as poetic proves the fact that you are functioning properly. Hence I am glad to know that you are safe.
John, I have learnt my lessons and therefore can assure you than I am not doing anything more than necessary which may put my life at risk. But I must say you have a very colourful vocabulary. However, do not exhausted your tiny brain worrying about me as you have more pressing matters at your hand, especially now you have someone else to satisfy your need to mother. I assume you enjoy his compliments as well. However, I must let you know that I do not enjoy when people compare me to others. I may not be an ideal person but intellectually I am superior than most and I certainly do not have anything in common with a seventeen year old dullard trapped in a rehab. If I were you I would not have even bothered to waste papers and ink on him but then again you are not me. But, "moderately decent fellow", really, John? I didn't know you were this much easy to please.
You have the most open and idiotic smile, do you know that? You are like an open book, John. If you had sent me a group picture with fifty people in it instead of five then also I would have picked you out without any effort. Also, you have a RAMC logo stitched on your uniform shirt, others don't. In that photograph where five of you are standing in front of a tent the guy next to you has some sort of romantic interest towards you. Yes John, I have deduced you and I know you are the second guy from left. All my life I have craved mysteries and now I am stuck with someone who looks just like his letters and smiles at the camera as if he is at a kitten adoption camp instead of a war. My life is a misery.
I do not know how you will be benefitted knowing about some tedious details about myself but as I'm a quite generous man I will grant you your wish. So, here are some:
I grew up in Sussex, have our home there.
I was home schooled after I failed to lower my I.Q. according to some of the schools' atrocious teaching plans.
I enrolled in Cambridge for studying Chemistry but had to quit for some reasons.
I have more knowledge in Organic Chemistry than most of the University professors. (In fact I have more knowledge in almost everything than most of the people).
I do experiments when I am not on a case. I have a steady flow of body parts from St. Barts; Molly ensures that.
I play the violin.
Sometimes I don't talk for days.
I hate doctors. But I may give some benefit of doubts to Army Doctors.
I am clinically diagnosed with Sociopathy but I prefer myself to be called a high-functioning sociopath.
I hate stupidity of any form or variety.
I do not have friends, I've got just one.
I am not 'grumpy' and I do not scowl.
I am a very nice and responsible person. I am even more interesting for prolonged acquaintanceship.
I hope these will be enough to quench your thirst.
You will receive a photograph of me along with some other pictures with this letter. But I absolutely refuse to send any photo of Mycroft. It seems you have an awefully great interest in my brother which is very suspicious to say the least. Firstly you asked me to thank him on your behalf then asked me to send his pictures, what is going on, John? Has he contacted you? Has he threatened you? Do not lie to me, John. Tell me at once if he has done something. Otherwise, I forbid you to have any kind of liaison with my arch enemy.
I wish I could see your finger prints. They are very interesting, unique signature of an individual. I wish I could see yours, for research purpose, of course. And I like to thank you, John for sharing your photographs with me. I very much appreciate it. I will keep them with utmost care. But do not expect me to stick them to the wall or frame them. I know you are capable of most atrocious imaginations.
Take care. Try not to lose your limbs but in case you lose a toe try to send it to me. I am in need of a human toe. And stop crying like a character from Victorian romantic novel; we will have more Christmases to meet. Until then keep writing to me.
Yours,
Sherlock.
P.S. Do you reciprocate his feelings as well?
~0~0~0~
Shit.
Holy fucking fuckity shit. Those were the exact words that came to John's mind after seeing the first picture. In the photo a boy, yes, a Boy of eighteen or nineteen stood in front of a gigantic fireplace, wearing a suit, a bloody black suit with a purple shirt. But that's not all. It was the face that nailed it for John. Alabaster skin, high and insanely attractive cheekbones, dark curls were styled (of course, it was styled! Everything was styled about this picture!) in 'carefully careless' way, a cupid bow upper lip, a very pouty and plump lower lip. The boy was rather skinny but damn, was he tall. The only thing that matched with John's imagination with Sherlock was the slight arrogant frown on the boy's face. His one hand was stuck in his pocket and the other was rested on the back of a chair which might belong to Buckingham palace. Everything about this picture, about the room screamed highly posh elegance and in the middle of that stood Sherlock Holmes, regally, like a dark prince. Was this even Sherlock? Of course it was! A guy who was named Sherlock, who had a brother named Mycroft would definitely look like this. What was John thinking?! John licked his dry lips, swallowed hard and ran his fingers through his disheveled hair subconsciously. His mind couldn't help but compare Sherlock's photo with his own and that thought left his flustered. Suddenly John was thankful that he didn't meet Sherlock at the Christmas Eve. John knew he had his share in good looks, the dozen proposals he got during his college years confirmed it but this was on some entirely other level. Sherlock Holmes was a bloody handsome man? Boy? with a genius mind and John was just plain John.
Shit.
That was John's reaction after seeing the second photo. Sherlock wrote at the back of the photo: "Our ancestral home in Sussex where I grew up." Sherlock grew up in..in a mansion?! Jesus slimey blimey fucking Christ! John's mother had a copy of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice where there was a sketch of Darcy's house in Pemberly. This photo brought back that childhood memory in the forefront of John's mind. He shouldn't be surprised because Sherlock's image perfectly matched with his house but still…..a mansion?!
Shit.
That was for the last picture. John was thoroughly dumbstruck by the previous two photos otherwise he would have uttered something nice about this picture. It was a photograph of a rainy night. It was taken from above. It showed a rain soaked street where the lights were mixed with the falling drops, painting different patterns of modern art using the street as a canvas. It was still pouring when the picture was taken. Something warm swelled in John's heart and his chest felt clenched. Suddenly he realized that his breathing had gone heavy and his eyes pricked. Sherlock had sent him London rain in a photograph. He sent John a piece of home. He sent it to make John smile.
John flopped down his bed holding the pictures and the letter over his chest. His head was making this buzzing sound and he closed his eyes.
This was the person whom John met by chance and who instantly captured John's interest; this was the person who gave John hope; this was the person with whom John wanted to make memories; this was the person who, in spite of being thousand miles apart, tried his best to make John happy, like John's happiness mattered to him, like John mattered; this was Sherlock Holmes.
This letter was so un-Sherlock like. John knew that Sherlock was gradually opening up but after reading this letter John didn't know what to make of it. It was not only frank but also there was something else. Something which John didn't dare to pin-point. Questions were crawling around John's mind. Sherlock seemed really furious about that rehab kid, surely John wanted to rile him up a little but he never expected that Sherlock would be this angry. It almost felt like…felt like Sherlock was jealous! Was Sherlock jealous? No, that couldn't be the matter. Sherlock who lived in a mansion, was world's only Consulting Detective, looked like straight from a fashion magazine could not possibly be jealous about John writing letters to someone else. No, that was an absurd idea, right? But there were no other apparent reason for his irritation. John was utterly confused.
In the letter Sherlock shared some tid-bits about his life. He didn't have to just because John asked him to but he did anyway. Knowing Sherlock it was not only surprising but also endearing. But those facts made John even more confused and a bit worried. What did Sherlock mean that he didn't have friends? Was John his only friend? Sherlock thought himself as a sociopath? Was that a joke or something? Why didn't he talk for days? Didn't someone make him talk? Wasn't there anyone in Sherlock's life who was bothered by it? His brother? What in God's name Sherlock did with a 'steady flow of body parts'? And who the hell was Molly? She couldn't be Sherlock's girlfriend, he was gay, right? May be the house keeper? John groaned with frustration and made a mental note to ask all these things in his next letter.
Then Sherlock complimented about his smile. His bloody smile! He complimented about such a mundane thing! Well, the compliment was given in a very Sherlock-way, of course, but that didn't make it any less surprising. And the whole thing left John flushed. He was grateful that he was alone at the moment.
But what floored John was the part where Sherlock (again, off handedly) wished that he could see John's finger prints. To anyone else it would seem bizarre or even creepy but it filled John's stomach with butterflies. First of all to know that Sherlock wanted to know John beyond his letters was a great feeling but wanting to see something which was only John, raw, pure and unique, without any external merit was what thrilled John most. For John the emotion behind that desire was so intense that he actually had trouble breathing. He took deep breaths to even out his accelerated heart beats. And when he managed to calm down a bit he realized a shocking thing. He was a goner, wasn't he?
Shit.
~0~0~0~
Wait! What did Sherlock mean by reciprocating Murr's feelings?
Shit. Shit. Shit.
~0~0~0~
