A/Note: Thanks Quetzali, ben dot meyer dot 39395 and Nicklove (good to see you again!) for favoriting this story. And the funny reviews and messages. All of you out there, you make my day.
Good and bad news: I had misnumbered my original text and I still have ten chapters.
Without further ado, here it is: the reunion. Enjoy!
.
8. Welcome back
.
He thought of going into a pub to warm up a little, but one thing that had changed in him after his tours of duty was an aversion to crowded places. Back in Afghanistan, any crowded place always invited attacks. He wasn't as bad as some of his mates, but still felt a little uneasy in crowds.
His leg was bothering him, he needed to sit down a bit. Looking around for options he saw a café across the busy street and his stomach dropped. That was where he had spent some time with Scott way back when. He almost turned around, but the pain was getting worse. He shook his head, who was he kidding? The very reason why he was in this area was some ridiculous notion of trying to recapture that evening, long ago.
He quickly scanned the café from outside the window. Scott wasn't there, of course.
Well, what were the odds? It's too early in the evening for him anyway. Plus, he doesn't even live in London, that would be too much of a coincidence. Forget it, you'll never see him again.
He went in and ordered a Chai again, for old times' sake. As he waited, he looked around. The pair of armchairs they had used that time were taken, of course. The café was still cozy, some of the mismatched chairs might be new. He'd love to sit by the fire, but all the seats around it were taken. Wait, that couple is leaving. After a while he finally sighed, grateful to rest his leg, in a warm seat with tea. What more could you ask for? Well, company would be nice...
Ever since he had woken up at the hospital he had been thinking of him. All those years in Afghanistan he had tried to put Scott out of his mind. But being back in England made it harder to bury those memories away and pretend that he didn't exist. It still stung how Scott had left without so much as a note, because - as much as he hated to admit it - he had enjoyed their evening together. And not just because of what happened at the hotel. He had been fascinating, with what he could read in other people with only a quick glance.
He had dated a few (or rather, more than a few) female soldiers at Camp, but nothing serious. In an environment where death lurked around, all of them had developed the coping mechanism of not getting too attached. To fall in love could potentially end in too much pain, madness and despair. After Liz's death, even that got old and he stopped seeking hook-ups.
'Birmingham?'
It took him a few seconds to realise that, first, the question had been directed at him; second, he recognised the voice. Over the years all he remembered of the voice was that it was deep and seductive, but not its actual tone. Hearing it again though, he instantly recognised it. When he looked up, his eyes widened and goose pimples spread throughout his whole body at lightening speed. There he was, standing in front of him-
'I've read most injured soldiers go straight to Birmingham. When did you arrive in London?'
He stared with his mouth open. That voice was like a whirlpool that surrounded and engulfed him in an irresistible embrace of sensuality. And Scott looked exactly the same.
'Oh, come on, John. I know your injury has not affected your vocal chords. Although I would venture to say the cane is unnecessary. The pain in your leg is most likely psychosomatic.'
'That's- you remember my name?'
'Of course, John. O positive, 28740774 Watson, John, C of E.' He sat on the armchair next to him and, with a devilish smile, lowered his tone and arched an eyebrow, 'How could I forget?'
'You!' He tried to ignore the heat rising in his cheeks. It had never occurred to him that Scott would have read (and memorised) his dog tags. 'You left without so much as a goodbye! You just come to me after all these years as if no time had passed and expect me to pick up where we left?'
'Of course. Much has happened in five years.'
'Unbelievable. You are so-'
'Wonderful, skilled, amazing?'
'No, an uncaring, egotistical, self-centred bastard.'
'John, I knew you didn't want to see me in the morning. I just saved you the embarrassment.'
John thought about it, still miffed. Scott was right, of course, he would have been embarrassed. Yet, it would have been nice to wake up, see him smile, kiss and touch him again... instead of feeling like a discarded condom in a rubbish bin. Scott hadn't changed a bit, while he felt older than his years. Now he became aware of Scott's suit and was embarrassed of what he was wearing. Not that he currently had anything else better to wear.
'I have followed your career, whenever I could find news of you. Three medals and now a Captain. Impressive! I told you you would do well in the army. So, allow me to introduce myself properly this time.' He stood up and, placing a hand on his chest, bowed slightly. 'Sherlock Scott Holmes. I actually go by Sherlock.' He sat down again, lowering his voice, 'I only use Scott with people I know I won't be seeing again. It's less memorable.'
John stared, surprised, digesting the words and the implications.
'Hungry?'
'I- uh, yeah. I guess, now that you mention it.'
'There is a good Italian restaurant not too far from here. Once you feel rested we could go. If you like, obviously.'
'Um, let me finish my tea.'
'Of course.'
'But how did you know I would be here?'
'Ah, good question. I keep a network of sorts on the side, to keep me informed. Today I finally got word that you had been spotted in this neighbourhood half an hour ago. Knowing you could potentially be heading to this café, I took a chance and came as fast as I could. While I waited for the light to change I could see you picking up your tea and sitting down.'
'Sorry, I don't understand.' John remembered the talk with the man in the black car. 'A "network of sorts on the side"?'
'I distributed your picture around a few homeless people I know, given their usual spots being in the vicinity of the places we had been together, plus the others on the list I had given you.'
John stared, open mouthed. 'You distributed my picture? To homeless people? Why?'
'It seemed the most logical solution, as I cannot be at all places at the same time.'
'I get that, I mean, why? You left without a word!'
'It's precisely because I made that mistake five years ago that I don't intend to repeat it this time. If you are amenable to it, obviously.'
'Mistake? You mean, you wanted to see me again?'
'John, I'm here. Isn't that obvious?'
John stared some more. 'You followed my career? How did you have my photo?' He widened his eyes, 'Oh God, please don't tell me you took pictures of me while I slept!' He was horrified, imagining a post-sex naked picture of him circulating among homeless people. Or worse, on the internet.
'No, but I should have thought of that. No, I took a screen shot of the article about your first medal.' Sherlock pulled out his phone and showed him. 'It's a good picture of you.'
He remembered that photo shoot. All military personnel receiving medals on that occasion were rounded up while still in camouflage uniforms, before dressing up for the ceremony. Photos were taken individually at the lawn of the military building they were in. They were told to take off their helmets, caps or berets, cross their arms and smile. He guessed it was a PR attempt to make them look less stuffy, but more homely and friendly.
John couldn't believe that Sco- Sherlock had seen that article and continued staring with his mouth open. Sherlock pointedly looked at his wristwatch and added, 'Em, I don't mean to rush you, but if you do want to have a late dinner, I can text Angelo - the restaurant's owner. He owes me a favour and wouldn't mind waiting for us.'
'Erm, yeah, I - let me finish this and I'll be ready to go.' He tilted the rest of his tea, swallowing a little too much all at once, feeling his throat hurt with the huge volume of liquid. He tried hard not to make a face. He didn't want Scott - Sherlock - to see how eager he was. He probably saw it anyway. Thankfully it wasn't scalding hot anymore.
Sherlock stood up and extended his arm to let John go first. Once outside the café he asked, 'Would you like to take a cab? It's not very far, but if your psychosomatic pain is bothering you we can take a cab.'
'Psychosomatic or not, it still hurts, you dick.'
'Then why are you not really using your cane right now? You're moving it, but not leaning on it.'
John stopped and looked at his cane, as if seeing it for the first time. Then he looked up, 'Look, give me one good reason for me to be talking to you. And why should I even agree to go to this restaurant with you? You put spies on me!'
'Oh, please John, don't be so dramatic.' He took a step forward and stared with such piercing intensity that John felt goose pimples spread on his back and his hair rise. 'The one good reason is that I enjoyed our last time together. And I don't mean just because of what happened at the hotel. I enjoyed talking to you, I enjoyed your company. And I would venture to say you enjoyed mine too. I regretted not staying, I regretted not exchanging contact information, I regretted we only had that one evening together. Another good reason for you to come with me, is that I'm trying to have a "proper date" with you, to show you that you are more than just a good shag to me (albeit an excellent one).'
John's forehead was scrunched up as he pondered about what he heard. Looking into his eyes he still felt it, that strong attraction to this strange man. He had hoped to see him again, but not really thinking it would ever happen. A date. He lowered his head, laughing to himself. He wants a "proper date" with me. Then he looked up again, a small smile on his face. 'Sherlock, you said?'
'Yes.'
'Interesting name. It suits you.'
'Thank you.'
'You'd better text the bloke. It's getting pretty late.'
Sherlock smirked, 'I already did.'
'When?'
'Just as we walked out of the café.'
Very much like him to just know I would say yes, he shook his head. 'And he's okay with that?'
He looked at his phone. 'Yes, he's waiting for us.'
'We'd better take a cab and not let him wait too long, then.'
Sherlock gave a lopsided smile and turned raising his hand, 'Taxi!'
He felt his chest was about to burst. If he were the sentimental type he would venture to say it was elation. Except he wasn't (the sentimental type). Yet, he felt his own face deform itself into the widest grin.
