Chapter 7
The table between them was crammed full of small plates and bamboo steamers, each holding a different dim sum delicacy that Sherlock had ordered for the both of them.
"You speak Chinese?" John asked, skewering a bao with his fork.
"Only Mandarin." Sherlock said. "John, no." Her voice was scolding, like talking to a puppy who wasn't housebroken. "You can't use a fork." She reached across the table and yanked the utensil from his hand, replacing it with a pair of enamelled chopsticks.
"I'm hungry." John protested quietly, looking around. "I don't have time to muck about with these things."
"It's really quite simple." Sherlock said. She set her own chopsticks down and adjusted John's fingers around his own.
John watched the intense look of concentration on her face and had to bite back a laugh. Definitely mad. When she was satisfied, Sherlock went back to her meal. John, however, was still openly staring at her face.
"I thought you were hungry." She said without looking at him.
"You were going to take the bloody pill, weren't you?" John blurted the question that had been on the tip of his tongue ever since his adrenaline had levelled out.
"No. Of course not." She said, now clearly making a point of not returning his gaze.
"Yes, you were. Is that how you get your kicks, then? You're off drugs so you risk your life to prove that you're clever?" John asked. He set the sticks down, suddenly finding that his appetite had waned.
"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock said. "Do you really think that I have to go to such lengths to prove my cleverness? I knew all about you from your tan and mobile phone."
"Well, at least you're humble." John rolled his eyes.
"Humility is highly overrated." Sherlock said. "And dull."
"Well, we wouldn't want that." John said. "So. . . you still haven't said."
"Said what?" Sherlock stuffed a dumpling into her mouth.
"You dragged me to Bart's to test the damn pill and you haven't even said if you were right or not." John said.
Sherlock smirked and chewed slowly, leaving John waiting. After she swallowed her smirk evolved into a smug smile. "You can't stand it, can you? Not knowing." Sherlock said. "Now you're beginning to understand."
"Just tell me." John said. He was growing weary of Sherlock always being right.
"Yes." Sherlock said. "I was right." She returned to her meal.
"But you didn't know that. Not for certain." John said.
"Of course I did." Sherlock retorted.
"Then why did you need to test it?" John said, picking up his chopsticks again. Sherlock paused, a roll halfway to her mouth. She took a bite and said nothing, but she didn't need to. They both knew that John was right. John finally began to eat and the two continued their meal in amicable silence until John spoke again. "Why didn't you tell me that the man, the one who broke into my flat, was your brother?"
"It didn't seem relevant." Sherlock sipped her tea.
"Didn't seem—fucking hell, Sherlock, I thought he was some sort of criminal psychopath." John said.
"As I said, you weren't far off." Sherlock said. "My family is not a topic I particularly enjoy discussing. Certainly not with someone I have known for less than two days."
"And yet you know all about my sister and me." John said.
"It's hardly my fault that you're oblivious." She waved her hand.
"All right, fine. No questions about Mycroft. Though I would like to know where the hell your parents got these names from." John said, shaking his head. "What about the nose ring?"
"I'm sorry?" Sherlock blinked at him in faux innocence. Mycroft, you bastard.
"That isn't a question about your family; it's about you." John said. "Nose ring and conspiracy theories. . . what was that about?" Sherlock sighed heavily.
"The trappings of a period of youthful rebelliousness. The Mohawk grew out but the heroin was harder to kick. Are we done with the question and answer portion of this meal now?" Sherlock's words came out lightening fast, as though she was hoping John wouldn't follow them.
John spent a moment trying to imagine Sherlock with a Mohawk. "No, we aren't. Since you brought it up, I think you owe me an explanation. About the drugs."
"You're a doctor, John. You should understand the physical dimension of addiction. On top of that, it feels marvellous." She emphasised the word, making it sound obscene. John shifted in his seat and cleared his throat.
"But you're done with it now? Permanently?" John asked, raising both eyebrows expectantly.
"Getting clean isn't an achievement, John." Sherlock explained. "While you're in rehab there are big, tough men in white and irritating therapists that physically prevent you from doing the only thing you want to do. It's getting back to your life that's the challenge." That was precisely why Sherlock kept her stash. She wasn't beating her addiction if the drugs weren't available, but every day that she actively chose not to take them was a victory of the mind. At least that was what she told herself. "If I still intended to use, I would have done it by now." She said plainly. John looked her in the eye and then gave a short nod.
"All right. All right, fair enough." He said, knowing that he had no choice but to believe her. "I don't want to be doling out ultimatums—"
"Then don't." Sherlock said. "Let me guess: you can't be involved in that sort of unpleasantness and you're wary of promises, probably because of your sister—though you will notice that I haven't made any—and you want it known that if I use again, you'll wash your hands of me?"
"I. . . well, yeah. I suppose that is pretty much it." John said, looking down at his plate.
"Fine. Deal. Anything else?" Sherlock said.
"Uh. No." John's voice was small.
"Good. My turn." Sherlock had apparently given up on eating now. "You were actually shot, right?"
"I—what?" John's head snapped up.
"Your limp is completely gone and you showed no sighs of post traumatic stress when you so gallantly gunned down my kidnapper. I'm beginning to question whether or not you were actually wounded." Sherlock steepled her fingers in front of her lips.
"I was." John said. "In the shoulder."
"Shoulder, I thought so." Sherlock dropped her hands and smiled.
"No you didn't." John frowned.
"The left, correct?" Sherlock said, having noticed a stiffness when he put on and took off his coat.
"Lucky guess. You had a fifty-fifty chance." John said.
"Simple deduction." Their waitress came by to refill their tea and drop off the bill as well as two fortune cookies.
"Are you going to deduce my fortune, then?" John asked, reaching for a cookie. Sherlock broke hers neatly and barely glanced at it.
"You will meet an enigmatic, brilliant stranger." Sherlock said.
"No, that already happened." John cracked the cookie and read the fortune to himself. There is nothing new under the sun.I beg to differ. John felt strangely optimistic, considering the unusual and dangerous events of the past day and a half.
"No, I meant my fortune." Sherlock said, showing him the scrap of paper.
"Would you describe me as 'enigmatic'?" John smiled.
"No." Sherlock said. She was miles away again.
"Well who do you think it's about?" John's brows furrowed slightly.
"I don't think that this little bit of drivel means a thing." Sherlock scoffed. "Though I do expect that I'll be hearing from someone soon." She seemed thrilled at the prospect.
"Who? What's got you so cheerful all of a sudden?" John asked.
"Moriarty." Sherlock said the name slowly.
"Who is that?" John said.
"I have no idea." Sherlock grinned. "Isn't that wonderful?"
"You're barking." John sighed.
"I'm not the one with a therapist." Sherlock said.
"I think I might take your brother's advice." John said.
"To stay away from me?" Sherlock rolled her eyes. Mycroft and his petty meddling.
"No." John glanced down at his leg. "To fire my therapist."
"That's not the way the bloody rules work, Sherlock!" John shouted in frustration.
"It's the only possible explanation." She said, folding her arms across her chest.
"Mr. Black did not, in fact, kill himself." John said, throwing his hands up in the air. The Cluedo board was spread out on the table between them and their argument had lasted longer than the actual game.
"No, of course not. He's faked his death and impersonated one of the supposed guests and is now trying to cover his tracks." Sherlock pressed her fingertips together and stared intently at the board, having already memorized her clues.
"No. No, no, no. I am not doing this." John said, standing up. "Do you even listen to yourself?"
"That's what I have you for." Sherlock said. John and Sherlock had been living together for two months and every time John thought he had finally grown accustomed to her ways, she developed a new irritating, and oddly endearing, quirk. Right now she was doing her best to make him hate all board games. "We could try to play Scotland Yard again. You can even be Mr. X."
"Christ no!" John said. "You can't strike out paths on the board just because it's 'impossible to get a taxi cab on Fulham Road at that time of night'. It's not in the rules."
"Then the rules are idiotic." Sherlock said, falling back on the sofa and crossing her ankles over the arm.
"You need another case. What about the one Lestrade tipped you off on? The Sussex thing?" John asked hopefully.
"Obvious." Sherlock pouted. "The boy's older brother was trying to poison him."
"Poison?" John wasn't sure they were thinking of the same case.
"Mm. With a blow dart gun. The boy's mother has been keeping it a secret. I sent a letter to the father explaining the whole thing." Sherlock examined her nails. "The brother is seeing a therapist and being shipped off to Harrow next term, case closed."
"And the woman who was round the other day. . . Miss Sutherland, the one with the missing boyfriend?" John asked, remembering the quiet, bespectacled secretary that Sherlock had interviewed in the flat.
"They met on the internet, hardly difficult." She sighed. "It's her stepfather."
"Her stepfather killed her boyfriend?" John leaned forward slightly, intrigued.
"No, no. . . her stepfather is the boyfriend." Sherlock said. "The girl was threatening to move away from home, taking her inheritance with her so the stepfather and mother conspired to break her heart and send her right back into their arms."
"That's—sick!" John spat. "What did she say when you told her?"
"I didn't." Sherlock replied.
"But she hired you to find her boyfriend. And you have to tell her what her parents are up to." John said.
"I never get involved in affaires de coeur. She wouldn't have believed me anyway." Sherlock said. "I did tip of Lestrade that he should look into the stepfather's finances. He married up, way up, and yet he's already worried about finances. There are only so many legal ways to go through that kind of cash."
John hung his head. "Fine. Poker, then?" Sherlock sat up immediately, smiling.
"Brilliant." She said, sweeping the Cluedo board off of the table and onto the floor. John couldn't help but smile. He found her happiness infectious and though he complained about constantly having to entertain her he was secretly thrilled that she wanted him around and not anyone else.
"All right." John laughed, getting up to get a deck of cards. "But we're not playing for money. My cheque book is useless enough as is."
"Then what do you suggest?" Sherlock asked, seating herself opposite him with her cool, calm poker face already intact.
A kiss. The thought came unbidden and John cleared his throat. "Uh. . . uhm, chores?" Thoughts like that had been cropping up more and more lately. It was to be expected, though. It had been almost a week since John had left the flat. Being cooped up with a woman as lovely as Sherlock dominating all of his time was bound to make a bloke think some strange things.
"Mrs. Hudson does all that needs to be done." Sherlock said, her stare boring into John. He was suddenly, irrationally afraid that she could read his mind.
"No body parts in the kitchen for a month?" John suggested. "No, wait. . . my sister is coming to town. You have to—"
"Too late. You said body parts." Sherlock said, taking the deck from him and shuffling it with deft fingers. "Afraid whatever you had in mind with regards to Harriet is off the table."
"Bollocks." John said. "You will be nice, though. . . won't you?" Sherlock just stared at him. "Just promise you'll try." He said hopefully. More staring. "Right. Fine. Just don't deduce her. Out loud."
"We'll see." Sherlock said. "Five card stud." She said, dealing out the cards.
[Sorry about the delay in updating. Chapter 8 will be up shortly and we'll get to meet Harry! Until then, I hope you enjoyed this fluff.
The case references here are for the Sussex Vampire and Case of Identity short stories, for those real Holmes buffs. And this takes place before the events of the Blind Banker, for those of you keeping score at home. Thank you so much for your patience and for reading! Ta.]
