A/N: Speedily betaread by Nocturnias, for which I am very grateful. Apologies for how long it took to update, still got major health issues, but hoping the last two chapters will come soon after this seeing as they are mostly written already.
Big thanks to all those who have stuck with this fic and given encouragement.
Chapter 8: Actions better than words
"100th scale."
Sherlock provides that information freely, said matter-of-fact, as if details are what is confusing John at this exact moment.
"I wasn't wondering. You've gone crackers. Literally" he says in disbelief, turning to inspect Sherlock with more scrutiny. Then he turns back to the model, unable to stop himself, he needs to know how it is even possible to get semblance of structure.
"Why this?" John demands as he peers at the dome and resists poking the cocktail stick spike onto.
"Why ever not?" Sherlock says, like he's merely playing devil's advocate rather than defending a conscious choice he's made.
"Apart from the health risk, you mean. I don't think imitating water and mosaic tiles by carving minuscule lines in the mould on the cheese is recommended for your lungs, let alone your, I don't know, dare I say it, sanity."
"I'm perfectly fine," Sherlock retorts churlishly, as he sits up in the background, no doubt already bored with this line of questioning, but John is far from finished.
"Hmm, right." he says, straightening himself up and swinging round to look at Sherlock straight on, to really inspect his reaction, "Says the man who hasn't eaten in how long? Who's made a 100th scale replica of the Taj Mahal out of crackers and cheese-"
Sherlock interrupts expertly, adding his apparently important additional info, "And coffee granule paste, the staining is perfect for detailing." Of course he's leaving out all the actually salient pieces, what John not only wants to know but probably needs to know too, to be sure Sherlock really is fine.
"-and I don't know what else. I don't even want to think about how it glues together."
"With glue, John. Don't be so puerile."
"Is there some..." he can't quite find the right words here, for this particular and very much unforeseen circumstance, so he resorts to waving hands as his brain catches up to his mouth, "reasonable explanation for this? Is it her favourite? "
"Whose favourite?" Sherlock replies starkly, either truly confused or truly good at playing so.
John can barely believe him, regardless of which it is, every sentence coming from Sherlock's lips proving harder and harder to process.
"Oh I dunno, the woman you've been courting unsuccessfully for nearly 6 months. Molly, that's who."
"Don't be absurd," Sherlock bites back, scowling, "Her favourite building is at Bletchley Park. She went there with her father shortly before he died."
His mouth drops and John pauses to take a deep breath before he carries on.
"Me? Me, don't be absurd? I'm going to pretend you didn't say that and that I didn't see that beautiful monstrosity," he says pointing emphatically to the elephant in the room that is only marginally less shocking than that time they had an actual elephant appear.
"And I'm coming back in, a while, when you're making more sense. After you've eaten something."
With that he stalks out of the bedroom. Right after he's grabbed his jacket, he thinks to shout back an addendum of "...but none of that!"
A pint at The Beehive with Greg later and John feels he's replenished his fortitude enough to cope with whatever Sherlock throws at him next. But he decides to enter armed with Mrs. Hudson and a plate of jam scones Sherlock isn't liable to refuse.
John motions through the door to the 'exhibit'. Her face crumples and all she says is "Oh, Sherlock" as if it was a sign to pity him in his misery and not to fear for his mental health more than the other 364 days previously. Still, she seems to have a plan as she goes about dual commiserating Sherlock with platitudes and haranguing him to partake of her wholesome baked goods.
John almost wants to put it on the blog with a headline, but it's hardly his usual fare and he doesn't like to think of how he'd be accused of being jealous. He takes pictures anyway. For posterity, he tells himself. For proof is what they turn out to be because when he peers in the next day the whole thing is gone with nary a crumb to show for it.
He invites Mycroft over for a nice cup of Assam – or so he hopes Mycroft will deem it, he's found Holmes' tastes are hard to predict - and he slightly spitefully hopes Sherlock will choose elevenses to swoop back in and witness the spectacle. John says nothing until the tea is poured, almost enacting a ceremony in serving it precisely, and he is surprised Mycroft never calls him out, merely waits for the reason for their detente to be revealed.
"Do you know what you brother constructed in his bedroom?"
"John, what is the purpose of this conversation?"
He should have expected that response. There's little Mycroft doesn't know, so the more pertinent point is what Mycroft thinks of it all, what insight he might have where John is missing something.
"To find out if you have a smidgeon of care for what's happening to your brother perhaps?"
"Neither Sherlock's artistic or romantic proclivities are a matter I think deserving my attention. Unless you have reason to believe they endanger the nation."
Mycroft sits sipping tea after that, entirely too smug for John's liking as he mulls over the statement.
Like Irene is the hint. Mycroft is comparing this to Irene and John has to admit there was little in common with this to the near pining Sherlock had done over the dominatrix. John just isn't sure if the comment is designed to highlight how small the thing with Molly is compared to Sherlock's interest in Irene, or, how large this is could be to throw him completely off game in more insidious ways, with this simply the radical culmination.
Things appear to go back to normal with relative ease. Sherlock acts like nothing is wrong. The only permanent change is to the schedule they keep for visiting Bart's. It doesn't miss John's notice they are never there at the same time as Molly. He wonders at first if Sherlock is attempting reverse psychology on the poor pathologist. Denying her his presence, trying to draw her back in, but after a whole month of it his faith in that theory falters and he starts to think Sherlock may actually be honouring her wishes to never see him again.
When Sherlock instigates a trip to the morgue with the phrase "Once more unto the breach" it crystallizes a thought that had passed his mind in recent weeks. That Molly might not be the only one Sherlock had hurt.
John couldn't recall a time when the woman hadn't been about fawning at least a little over the detective and these days she had recoiled her adoration, initially aiming for indifference when the trouble had begun but sublimating it more into an intense disapproval of Sherlock for good reason, which his actions had cultivated far too well to the demise of their relationship, whatever it had been when it had imploded in their living room.
Sherlock had once remarked to him genius needed an audience, unaware of how true that rang for himself. John knew where he fit, a friend yes, as slow to admit it as Sherlock had been at first but also audience; someone to be amazed, to share the excitement with, someone who didn't tell him to piss off. That statement in the cab years ago had revealed more of himself than John imagined Sherlock ever intended - he didn't have many people who wanted to be around him and now that count was one less, something he could imagine Sherlock berating himself for internally.
John hated how it had turned out and if he was honest, he could have done more. He could have taken Sherlock more seriously, helped him, or at least tried to steer him a bit more steadily. He could have been there for Molly as more than just an ear to the latest mishap, which he'd found too amusing at the time, happy to share stories of Sherlockian weirdness but not really hearing what it had been doing to any of them except to place blame squarely on his misguided friend. Sherlock wasn't the only one who'd done wrong. He'd watched and waited for it to unfold.
She looked to him firmly right off the bat as he stepped through the doors, making him feel inherently sheepish. There was shock, followed by a hardening of her face very unlike the Molly he was used to.
"Don't say anything."
"But -"
She steps away from the body but not far, not placing the bone saw down indicating she doesn't intend to spend long addressing the chat he'd come to have. She squints from behind the blood splattered visor and teases it up with her wrist so she can see him properly.
"You're going to apologise for him and it'll sound reasonable and I'll want to forgive him. But I...he isn't here himself, is he. Just like I thought. One minute I'm important and the next I'm dismissed, irrelevant. Next case. This is why I didn't say yes and you know it, so... so don't try to make it better. This isn't yours to fix."
John sighs, looking at the exposed guts of the body to avoid her gaze. He'd wanted to fix things, to make up for everything he hadn't thought to do at the time it had gone down but he'd known it was too late. Molly's speech simply confirms it. His visit acts more as a sign he wishes it were different than anything else, that he is sorry even if Sherlock may not deign to say it.
"I guess not. I just, I...I worry," he stutters it out partially, the admission heavy in his throat.
"About me or him?" she asks sharply and he realises he probably deserves that a little. Sherlock may have been avoiding her for two months out of embarrassment, lack of interest or possibly his own silent form of apology but John hasn't had any excuse; just that his priorities rested with Sherlock first and foremost.
"Both of you. I don't want to see it ruin your friendship."
He sees her posture slump a touch as she lets her guard down finally and he smiles briefly despite himself, grateful for the sign she probably isn't going to hold a real grudge against him.
"I'm not sure anymore, if that's what it was. Bit hard to tell with him isn't it. Maybe I was fooling myself."
She sounds resigned to thinking the worst of Sherlock and it saddens him, but he can't justify persuading her otherwise, not on the evidence they have.
"Sherlock's the fool here."
Her mouth crinkles at the corners as she almost smiles at the sentiment, but she pulls the visor down quickly and steps back up to the body, signalling the end of their conversation. Just as well, he thinks, because he has no clue what else he could say to her.
"Goodbye John."
"Why?" he asks bluntly when he returns to 221b, assuming Sherlock will know where he has been and implicitly what he is asking about. He's not obtuse unless he wants to be.
There is a silence, punctuated only by the hissing of the Bunsen burner, but Sherlock nevertheless does answer him after a pause. "There's a peace to such work. Body and mind need to be in perfect unison. Considered thought meets precision of hand and the result is."
For once Sherlock misunderstands. He'd been asking him about the misguided adventure with Molly and yet the answer doesn't fit. He stands motionless in the doorway, coat still on, as he goes through the possibilities. Eventually he does latch onto what he assumes Sherlock is talking about.
"Even if it is a half mouldy tribute to one of the few places you've never visited."
"Mycroft?" Sherlock asks plainly, placing the beaker on the table in some odd surrender to the discussion, not sounding as annoyed as normally he would be referencing the man who potentially gave sensitive information on him.
John takes that to mean he can soften his approach, shrugging off his coat before heading to the sanctuary of his chair, where he kicks off his shoes.
"No. You don't have India in any of your passports. Nostalgic isn't it, to keep all of them? Even the one from your teens."
Sherlock is staring into the flame in front of him as he answers in a singularly detached tone. Avoidance in a manner, however he's still engaged in this sudden explanation John hadn't expected from him.
"They're a record of my travels. Frees up space for more important data."
John knows Sherlock likes to tie things up in data. Ordered by usefulness, categorising like with like, filed away in his big old network of a head. He's so busy pushing it into place, storing it piece by piece that John is certain that's why he misses some types of connections – Sherlock sees far more than most people process but all too often he completely misses the obvious, right in front of him.
"I see, data. Like the details of an inaccurate Taj Mahal? One that happens to match the illustration in a kid's book of fairy tales."
Sherlock's eyes suddenly break free of the meditative trap the fire had provided, to bore deep into his.
"How?"
He can't keep the grin from breaking out around his reply, more than a little self-satisfied at finding the answer to his personal mystery, "I know how to use search by image."
John neglects to mention his thoughts on it though. What it means that the place not entirely set in reality, from that battered but clearly cherished tome he'd located on the bookshelf, symbolises a place Sherlock hadn't been able to go, a dream that could never be.
