Burden of Proof
By Alecto Perdita
Chapter 9- March III (Here I wait)
Rating: PG-13
Posted: September 20, 2012
John finally gets his date with Victor. Sherlock sulks—but not for the reasons that John thinks.
Don't get in our way.
That's what the ghost had said. Our. As in plural. As in more than one.
John wanted to kick himself for missing something so vital. Now Simon—and possibly Sherlock too—were in the hands of the vindictive, living brother of a vengeful spirit. One that had known and probably participated in the supernatural murders of four young people.
His heart leaped into his throat as soon as his cab pulled up just short of the address Sherlock had texted him. The red and blue light from the police patrol cars and the ambulances cast the world in a surreal way. John tossed a handful of notes at the cabby and threw himself out of the vehicle.
Constable Pierce was one of the officers manning the perimeter. As soon as she saw John heading her way, she lifted the tape to let him under. "Mister Holmes is safe. He's in the basement with DI Lestrade."
"Thank you."
When he passed the ambulance, he noticed Simon sitting in the back being examined by a paramedic. There was a thin cut across his neck, but the paramedic was far more interested in the bump on the side of his head. John looked over to the building briefly, reassuring himself that Sherlock was okay and that he could spare a few moments to check on Simon.
"Is it okay if I talk to him for a few moments?"
"He checks out. Just a mild concussion. A few days' rest and you'll be as good as new." She smiled reassuringly at Simon. Then she left them so they could have some privacy.
"Hey, Simon. How are you doing?" John sat down next to the young man on the back of the vehicle. "Bad week, huh?"
Simon stared back with wide and rapidly-blinking eyes. John could feel something inappropriate bubbling in his throat. Simon didn't exactly appear traumatized, but everyone reacted to stress differently. It wasn't John's fault that his often bordered a bit on the absurd.
"That must be the understatement of the millennium," the boy responded dryly. "This whole someone trying to gut me with a knife makes a hell of a lot more sense than...whatever happened yesterday. God, I'm going to be in therapy for the rest of my life. I'm going insane."
Maybe John shouldn't have said anything, but Simon looked so lost. He didn't suppose Mary had too much time to follow up or talk with Simon about what had happened. He could understand how strange the world must look the first time after encountering what was thought to be impossible. "It's okay. You're not going crazy. I promise."
Simon must have recognized or noticed something in John's expression. The young man had resumed his staring, but it was a searching gaze this time. Realization dawned slowly over Simon and he sucked in a loud breath. "It was you. You were the John she was talking to on the phone!"
"I was."
Simon was glancing around at all the other people around them—the coppers, the emergency workers, and the gawking bystanders. "They don't know, do they?"
John shook his head.
The younger man slumped forward, inserting his head between his legs while he gulped for air. It looked almost a panic attack, but Simon was breathing more easily than before. When the paramedic, who was now standing several feet away, noticed, John indicated for her to stay back. She hesitated, but didn't come any closer.
"I'm not crazy then. It all seemed like a nightmare. Your friend didn't stay long after the...ghost burned up." Simon's words were muffled with his face hidden. He raised one hand and waved it abortively a few times before dropping it back to his side.
"No, she had classes to teach today. Are you feeling any better?"
When Simon sat back up, tension was still visibly etched into every line on his youthful face. "Not really, just less like a nutcase. Frank said it was my fault, that his sister couldn't rest in peace because of what we did. If we hadn't played that prank on him, his sister wouldn't have died. Maybe if we had told someone, none of this would have happened. And they're all gone now. I'm the only one left."
Why? That was the question Simon was reluctant to give voice to.
"The police knew about the prank, and her parents knew too. It's in the accident report. Your friend, Zoe, came forward with the truth when it first happened. I know you five tried to save her. Samantha Moore's death was a tragedy, but it was an accident nonetheless."
Silence ensued as Simon digested this new onslaught of information. John could see the same question fruitlessly circling inside Simon's head, like a dog trying to catch its own tail. The agony he must feel over a secret that was never actually a secret, but one that cost him four of his closest friends anyway, must be heartbreaking.
"There isn't always a reason why and you're going to drive yourself mad trying to find one. Ghosts were once human too. It stands to reason that they only make as much sense as us. Which isn't a whole lot given the world we live in." John wished he had more comforting words to share or some better wisdom to impart.
"What do I do now?" Simon asked weakly.
"You live. You move on. Pretend this was all a bad dream if you have to."
"Will I ever to be able to tell anyone the truth about what happened?"
It was at that moment that Sherlock stepped out of the building with Lestrade on his tail. Sherlock was trying to brush the detective aside, but like John, Lestrade knew the key to dealing with Sherlock was stubbornness. John watched for several more seconds, verifying that his flatmate was in one piece before remembering Simon's question. "You can, but there's no guarantee that anyone will believe you."
"I guess you're right." Simon's attention was also elsewhere. Following the other man's gaze, John recognized Hyeonjun standing at the edge of the police perimeter.
Simon rose to his feet slowly, wincing as his limbs jostled. One sleeve rose up to reveal the bruised marks of where his wrists had been bound. The younger man offered a hand to John, which he shook gently.
"Thank you, Dr. Watson. No offense, but I'm kinda hoping we never have to meet again."
John understood—death in all its myriad forms was his trade.
Human beings were amazingly resilient creatures, and he'd like to think Simon would move past this eventually. "Take care, Simon."
-x-x-x-
It was Saturday and Mary demanded a pub night in repayment for the day she had to take off from work. John was a bit torn as he was going to take Victor to dinner that night. Either way, the idea of some time spent away from 221B sounded refreshing. Sherlock had been in a strop since yesterday when he had been denied access to Franklin Moore after the arrest.
John had seen the crime scene photos afterwards, showing all the candles and ritual circle. He had seen that particular setup before (there was a case Mary and he had worked in Glasgow). It was for summoning and binding spirits, which answered at least one question about why Samantha Moore had come back from beyond the grave after all these years. Thankfully, Franklin hadn't been able to finish the ritual before Sherlock knocked him out. There was a chance that the spell might not have worked after Samantha's spirit had been so recently exorcised, but John was glad they never got the chance to find out.
Franklin had readily confessed to all four murders, but Sherlock was still trying to reconcile the conflicting facts as he saw them. The Met, on the other hand, was eager to close the case as soon as possible and was quickly en route to prosecuting Franklin for the crimes. So no one really wanted to listen to Sherlock when it seemed like they had everything in hand, even if the main suspect was rambling about the occult in every statement.
John just hoped his flatmate would stop obsessing over the case soon.
Date night with Victor was delayed yet again as Victor and Mary were both interested in meeting the other.
On his way out, he stopped in front of Sherlock's bedroom door that had been left ajar. "I'm going to the pub to see Mary and Victor. You could come along. Victor is leaving the day after tomorrow."
He sighed when he didn't receive a reply from the other side of the door. Not that he had really expected Sherlock to take him up on his offer, but it was worth a try to try and distract the detective from looking too closely at the discrepancies in their latest case.
By the time he arrived at the Dog's Hair, Mary and Victor had already found each other and snagged a table.
"John," she greeted and picked him lightly on one cheek.
Victor didn't say anything before he reached for John's lapel and pulled him in for a kiss. He couldn't help the hum of pleasure that escaped but was swallowed by Victor's soft lips. Their lips moved sensually against one another, heat starting to coil at the base of John's spine.
"Oh, don't mind me." Mary said dryly. "I wouldn't want to interrupt, though you do owe me a gin and tonic or three." Despite her complaint, there was more than a spark of mischief in her voice.
John pulled away reluctantly, lips still tingling from Victor's touch. "First round's on me then."
After he returned to their table juggling Mary's gin and tonic and two pints (one for him and one for Victor), their conversation settled comfortably into the realm of the mundane. As both of them were educators, Mary and Victor told each other about their work. John loved Mary's stories about her students. They were brilliant injections of normality in his mad, mad life.
They brushed obliquely up against the subject of hunting several times. They allowed Mary to steer them away whenever it happened. That was not what tonight was about. It was about a group of friends going out and having fun.
Victor had gotten up to buy the second round while Mary went off to the ladies' room. John was checking his mobile, surprised that Sherlock hadn't texted him once all night, when his flatmate slid into the chair across from him. He jumped, "Sherlock, what are you doing here?"
The other man sniffed, dripping in condescension. "You did invite me."
"I don't want to know how you found us."
"Really, John, it's a simple deduction at best."
"Nope, I thought about it, but I don't want to hear about your creepy stalker ways."
John was reminded of something he once said to someone years ago: He doesn't follow me everywhere. How naive and patently untrue that turned out to be.
Whatever Sherlock's retort, it was interrupted by Victor's return. Surprise was painted across the professor face. "Sorry, mate, didn't know you were coming. I just got the latest round."
Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disdain. "You know I don't like to imbibe alcohol, Victor."
"Right," Victor muttered—a tight rictus of a smile stretched across his lips.
Sherlock's unwavering scrutiny followed as John reached out and smoothed a hand over Victor's clenched fist. It was critical and sent a spark that was wholly unrelated to Victor's proximity dancing down his nerve endings. Something twisted in John's stomach, but he refused to let his flatmate's disapproval get to him.
Mary thankfully saved them from too much further awkwardness. "Good evening, Sherlock. Joining us then?"
"It would appear so, Ms. Morstan." Sherlock sounded like he had finally warmed up to Mary, even if he wasn't completely comfortable with her.
In retaliation of Sherlock taking his seat, Victor pulled up a chair next to John. He stayed close for the rest of the evening. There were times when John thought the other man was going to sit in his lap. This experience was not helped by the fact that Sherlock remained sour the entire time. John caught himself on the verge of a beleaguered sigh on multiple occasions. Why the hell was Sherlock here if he wasn't enjoying himself? Why did he suddenly feel like a chess piece in some twisted game between Victor and Sherlock?
When Mary demanded that he help her carry her round, he mouthed a fervent "thank you." The two of them jammed themselves up against the bar, not working particularly hard to get the bartender's attention. She leaned lightly against his side, and John allowed his wrecked nerves to be soothed by the contact.
"I think they're fighting over you." Mary wagged an eyebrow suggestively.
He squirmed uncomfortably at the thought. "It's not like that. Sherlock and Victor, they have history together."
She turned to openly observe the two men still seated at their table. John risked a glance and found them silent and staring at one another. It was difficult to deny the heat in their gazes. Did Victor actually want Sherlock?
"Wow, really? What do you know? Sherlock Holmes isn't a cold fish after all. So they were together then?"
"I don't think so. But Sherlock had...a thing...feelings for Victor...I don't know." John tried his best not to get too discouraged while thinking about the two men together. The images came all too easily. They were just too damn good looking and so damn tall (John was perfectly average height, thank you very much, it's not his fault that he was always stuck next to tall wankers that made him look miniscule in comparison). They just fit together—aesthetically like a matched set.
"You don't know which one you're more jealous of." She stated plainly after giving their order.
"Witchcraft," he muttered accusingly (how else could she read his mind so easily?). She giggled.
Her eyes crinkled as she gestured back to their table and smiled. "At least my life's not an old episode of EastEnders."
He was tempted to chuck a drink coaster at her, but she wouldn't even need to dodge as the damn things weren't exactly aerodynamic.
Mary's round turned out to be the last one of the night. She hadn't driven into London and needed to get on the tube before it was too late. Victor agreed to call it a night as he had a lunch meeting with a colleague the next day. John silently thanked his lucky star as he didn't relish the idea of being stuck between Sherlock and Victor without her as a blessed buffer.
He hugged her before she sauntered off in the direction of the nearest tube station, melting away into the late evening crowd. Victor walked with him and Sherlock for a few blocks until they were at a main road where it was easier to flag a cab.
"Good night, Sherlock," Victor declared decisively and pulled John aside. It was a warning to the other man to keep his distance. It was the rudest John could recall of Victor being. Victor leaned in until his hot breath played across the shell of John's ear, causing the blond man to shiver in response. "I'll see you tomorrow night then?" The question was punctuated by the brush of fingers around John's wrist.
"It's a date," John promised.
He could feel Sherlock's gaze burning into his turned back. John was burning up, but he was no longer sure which man was the cause.
-x-x-x-
The pipes clanged as the shower turned off in the upstairs bathroom. John was finished with his shower. Sherlock's previous data collection on the matter suggested that his flatmate took an average of fifteen minutes to get ready for any given date. Twenty, if he was looking to impress for the night. Sherlock pressed his mouth against his folded hand and glared at John's mobile sitting among the detritus on the coffee table.
Victor rang once while John was in the shower, and then texted twice afterwards. Sherlock barely read and processed any of the messages fully before deleting them both with great satisfaction. John would never be able to tell—he always likes to assume the best about people.
Bare feet slapped against the ceiling as John moved into his bedroom, where his suit and tie would be laid out neatly across his double bed.
The phone buzzed again and the vibrations sent a nearby pen rolling. He snapped up the device and opened the latest message. It filled him with a rage that almost sent the phone sailing into a wall. But no, John would definitely notice that. Sherlock stuffed the offensive object in the sofa cushions and moved to take up his violin. He needed something loud and discordant—anything to drown out the angry buzzing in his head.
He managed the first movement of some Beethoven before descending into ear piercing cacophony.
He was angry with himself. All those years where John had objected to the insinuations about their imagined status as a couple had nothing to do with a sexual identity threatened, but everything to do with Sherlock as the other half of that couple. That was a lesson Sherlock should have learned years ago. It was why he had written off the idea of an intimate relationship for as long as he had (not that he had the slightest inkling of attraction in those interim years). Then John Watson came into his life—wrapped in a hideous plaid shirt and smelling like the desert—and wrecked everything.
Now his much vaulted and hard-won self-control was in tatters.
John was moving down the stairs now into the living room. "Sherlock, have you seen my phone?"
He turned to face his flatmate, but the sight greeting him immediately made his fingers wrapped around the neck of the instrument spasm. New shirt. New tie. Recently purchased, probably earlier today while Sherlock was out of the flat. Hair neatly tamed and combed. Trousers recently pressed and not just thrown on. John was trying; he wanted to impress.
"Sherlock, my phone?"
"I don't know." He snapped. A lie, a blatant lie. But as usual, John couldn't tell the difference.
John adopted his most-put-upon-man-in-London expression and started digging through their living room. Sherlock didn't stare (maybe a little) at the man's arse when he bent over to search through a collapsed pile of books by the armchairs. Wasn't noting the way the pelts smoothed out over the curve of the other man's buttocks. Sherlock went back to his violin, drawing a particularly screechy whine from it and causing John to visibly wince.
"Where's your mobile? I'll just call mine."
He grunted noncommittally and whipped his bow in the direction of the writing desk. He and his phone were not currently on speaking terms, as it refused to deliver news of a case to draw John away from his date.
"It wouldn't kill you to pick up around the flat once in a while." John groused as he continued on his hunt.
Boring. Sherlock rather liked the controlled chaos of their shared living space.
"Oh." The man breathed softly and Sherlock sensed a change in mood. The sudden quiet was so out of place that his curiosity quickly got the better off him. One of the desk drawers was open and John held a familiar Vertu Constellation Quest in hand.
John continued, "This is her phone, isn't it?"
Was John trying to be purposely obtuse? "Yes, the Woman's."
A shuttered expression came over John's face. "I see." Then after a brief pause, "Why do you still have it?"
Sherlock shrugged. There was no particular reason. It had been in the rest of his belonging when Mycroft returned his things. He had taken it out and dumped it back into the same place he stored it before leaving. One never knew when a luxury mobile set might turn out to be useful for a case.
John was mumbling something to himself, but Sherlock caught the end of it: ...kept it if she left him. He furrowed his brow in confusion. Irene Adler wasn't part of the equation; she hadn't been in years. She was never again going to be part of anything in their lives. The Constellation Quest was dropped back into the drawer before it was slammed shut. John brushed by him and took his coat off the hook.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock didn't like this lost feeling one bit.
John sighed. "I'm meeting Victor, remember? I'm going to be late. I won't have my mobile, so I trust you can stay out of trouble and keep the flat in one piece for one night?"
He didn't want John to leave, but he liked the idea of being out of contact with John even less. Sherlock dug his doctor's mobile from the couch and called to him just as he was opening the front door. John caught the device deftly and stared at Sherlock in surprise.
"Sherlock?" John's shoulders had slumped in defeat. Why?
"What?"
"You mind, do you?"
"Mind what?"
"Me and Victor."
"Since when have I ever cared about whom you choose to date?"
"You hid my phone to keep me from going out. I think that's a pretty big hint."
"Don't be ridiculous, John."
"I'm not stupid, you know? I know you have feelings for him. Victor told me."
"Victor's mistaken!" Sherlock snarled.
"It's okay if you do, Sherlock. If it really bothers you, I can call this off. You may not believe it, but you are my best friend."
John looked so small and resigned. Sherlock hated it. His friend wasn't meant to look so defeated. He had no doubt that John would ditch his date if Sherlock asked him to, but it would another nail in the coffin to bury their friendship. John was going to tire of making these sacrifices someday. And if he asked John to stop seeing Victor without any intention to follow through with his own advances (the mere thought of shamming it with Victor made Sherlock feel sick), the resentment would only grow.
It was a lose-lose situation. Lose John now, or lose him later.
"It's fine," At John's disbelieving expression, Sherlock added, "Really, John. Victor hasn't been a concern for many years."
Like Irene. Neither of them were part of the picture anymore. Why couldn't John see that? It should be obvious.
Their eyes locked from across the room. Something unseen thrummed in the space between them. It was weighty and made it hard for Sherlock to tear his attention away from John.
John's mobile started ringing, breaking off their gazes. "It's Victor," he read off the caller ID.
"Go," Sherlock turned back to the windows.
John's voice faded out as he descended the stairwell to the street below. "Hello? Sorry, Victor. I'm on my way over—" The rest of the conversation was swallowed by London's evening traffic, and then silence.
He retreated into his Mind Palace, revisiting old memories from uni he never deleted. Every once in a while, he was tempted to purge all things Victor Trevor related. But it was a lesson he couldn't afford to forget, especially now given his feelings for John.
He sorted meticulously through the remaining memories, reliving much despised moments of weakness and shame. He even remembered hating Victor a little by the time he left Cambridge. Despite his old friend's assurance to the contrary, Sherlock could no longer be sure their friendship could have lasted even if Sebastian Wilkes hadn't come between them first.
He couldn't let history repeat itself again—not with John. Sherlock had already lived without John for too long. He didn't like who he was in those years in hiding. To go back to that would destroy him. John was integral to the Work, and Sherlock needed the Work more than anything.
But the longing wouldn't abate (it wreaked havoc on his thoughts), nor would the sense that Victor was wrong for John (at least Mary had hidden depths; Victor was shallow in comparison).
He grabbed his mobile from under a pile of old newspapers; fingers itching in irritation. He typed out a message addressed to John.
TO: John Watson
Victor only pursues emotionally unavailable men, the ones that cannot or will not return his affections.
As soon as he affixed the period to the end of the sentence, he was hitting the backspace button furiously. No, that made him sound like a jealous lover (which he absolutely, absolutely was not). He closed the window and opened up a new blank message to Victor's number instead.
TO: Victor Trevor
There's no place on earth you can hide if you hurt him. SH
He didn't receive any reply—not that he hadn't expected to. But as Sherlock suspected, John didn't return to 221B that night.
-x-x-x-
John would have thought that dinner would be awkward after the conversation he just had before leaving Baker Street. But Victor had a way of putting people at ease (the complete opposite of Sherlock), and John found it a little too easy to put his flatmate out of mind.
"You should come with a warning," John said at the restaurant.
"Good thing I'm an unassuming old professor of boring literature. Imagine me as a criminal mastermind."
John pushed back at the sudden intrusion of Jim Moriarty into his thoughts. "We'd all be doomed." In a sudden fit of audacity, he squeezed Victor's knee under the table.
So when Victor invited him up to his hotel room for a drink, how could John say no?
The moment John stepped into Victor's room, the red-haired man had him pinned against the back of the door. A hard thigh insinuated itself between John's legs and a tongue in his mouth. He groaned and grabbed onto the other man's jacket, drawing Victor closer. This, the taste of Victor's mouth and the heat of the taller body pressed so closely that they could melt into one another, was so gloriously familiar. John remembered other aspects of the life-affirming sex they had in the master bedroom of a house in Cambridge—like the weight of Victor's cock in his mouth, the slide of skin against Egyptian cotton, and the play of moonlight over Victor's face when he finally orgasmed.
It had been so long since he'd been this close to someone—since far before Sherlock even came back into his life.
Victor pulled back far enough for their eyes to focus on one another without crossing. "Will you stay the night?"
John's mouth ran dry at the idea. It was a tempting offer. Victor was gorgeous and more than a little interested going by the half-hard cock nestled against John's stomach.
The other man leaned forward and nipped his jaw. The action was accompanied by a wicked roll of his hips that sent all of John's blood rushing south. "Say you'll stay, John. We don't have to make a fuss about it. I'll be heading back to Cambridge in the morning, so help make my last night in London a memorable one."
"You mean the murdering spirit wasn't memorable enough for you?" John fought back with a palm pressed against the front of Victor's trousers, who let out a delicious groan and then bit his ear lobe in retaliation.
The taller man pulled John away from the door to the bed in the center of the room. Victor's fingers were still looped through John's belt as his free hand began deftly unbuttoning his own shirt buttons, slowly unveiling a line of tanned flesh. "Exhilarating, yes, but not really the sort I was hoping for."
John had nowhere to go but down when Victor's grip transferred from his belt to his tie. He straddled across the other man's lap, taking the time to admire the view as the silk around his neck was being undone. "Yep, you should definitely come with a warning label. A regular menace." He said, alluding to their earlier conversation. He reached up and pushed the fabric off Victor's shoulders to unveil more skin for perusal.
A rumble of laughter rolled off the torso pressed against John's chest. His shirt was untucked from his pants and a pair of warm hands slid up the skin of his back.
"What does that say about you then, Doctor Watson? On the lookout for trouble then?" Victor whispered huskily.
I said "dangerous" and here you are.
John dove forward and captured Victor's lips to shut the traitorous voice in his head up. The other man melted back into the mattress, allowing John to comfortably rest his weight. His hand found and tightened in Victor's red curls (shorter than... no, he was not going down that road). John pressed harder, grinding their hips together as he thrust his tongue into Victor's pliant mouth. He could do this, he could forget about...
Then his phone in his pocket chirped twice in succession. It had been silent all night. Not a peep. Until now. And there was only one person that would text him that many times in a row.
John apologized as he sat up, "I'm sorry. I'll turn it off after I check it."
There were two text notifications, but neither of them was from Sherlock. One was Lestrade hounding him about paperwork needed for the Yard, and the other was Mary wishing him well on his date with a salacious smiley face. John should have felt relief, but it eluded him.
"Is it Sherlock?" Victor asked.
John placed the phone down on the duvet between them. "It wasn't him."
"You sound almost disappointed."
"Victor..."
The man rolled away and pulled on his wrinkled shirt, before doing up the buttons.
John's mouth ran dry as he groped around for any excuse within reach. How did he begin to explain his complicated, but ultimately futile feelings for his flatmate? He wanted Victor. He wanted to want Victor. He tried again. "Victor." But when words eluded him again, he grabbed the other man's shoulder, spun him around, and sealed his mouth to his. Victor stilled under him and his soft lips pursed in a grimace that John could not ignore.
Then Victor's hands moved to rest against his ribs and gently pushed him away. "Don't."
"I'm sorry."
"It was fine. We're two consenting adults. I meant it when I said we didn't need to make a big deal out of this, but you can't help it. It can't not be a big deal to you, can it?" Victor sighed. It was a heavy and resigned sound.
John repeated himself, "I'm sorry." He was ready to die from shame. This was not how he intended the evening to end. "I shouldn't be here. I can't do this to him." He got up to retrieve the jacket he had discarded on the floor on the way to bed. The silence was overwhelming as he shrugged the outerwear back on.
Victor was muttering something underneath his breath. It sounded vaguely like "you two are hopeless."
"He still has feelings for you." John couldn't rid himself of the image of Sherlock from before he left the flat. His friend had purposely maintained a blank face, but John recognized the signs of something more—something pained—swimming underneath the surface. There was no way he could easily brush their last conversation off or take Sherlock's platitude for real. Not when John had just stumbled over Irene Adler's old camera phone again.
Sherlock's heart may be unfathomable, but it did exist.
"Did Sherlock say something?" Victor asked.
"No, but he didn't have to. I could tell."
"Is that really what you think or is that the excuse you're telling yourself?" Victor's tone was a familiar one; it was disbelieving. He sounded like everyone else that never believed John when he tried to convince them that he and Sherlock were not a couple.
"There's nothing between me and Sherlock." John almost instantly regretted saying his flatmate's name when Victor looked up sharply at him.
After scanning his face carefully, Victor said, "You can tell him."
John wondered just how obvious his infatuation was if Victor could see right through him. It seemed almost everyone except for Sherlock had noticed. But this sort of emotional stuff was always a blind spot for the great detective. "I can't," he swallowed around the lump now lodged in his throat to speak. "I just can't."
"John, have you ever considered the possibility that he might return your feelings? You'd never know unless you said something."
His mouth flapped open and shut several times as he tried to put together a response of any sort. There's no way John can say anything to Sherlock. He'd sooner tell his friend about the supernatural and hunting before mentioning his absurd infatuation. "This is Sherlock we're talking about. He can't..."
"Can't what? You don't think he can love at all, or that he just can't love you?" Victor challenged.
"I don't want to talk about this anymore," he snapped in return.
Frustration colored Victor's features. He didn't seem ready to drop the subject yet, but he threw his hand up in the air and capitulated. "I'm just trying to help, but that's hopeless as long as we're all intent on being properly stoic British men."
The simple truth was no one could help John. But he had been resigned to that fact a long time ago, probably when he first realized he loved Sherlock. "I should go. Good night, Victor, I hope you have a safe trip back to Cambridge."
Victor rose from the mattress, causing John to tense when the other man came near. He leaned forward and gave a chaste press of lips against lips before whispering, "Goodbye, John Watson."
Outside the hotel, John hailed the first cab to cross his path and gave the driver Mary's address. Half an hour later and twenty pounds lighter, he was turning his key in Mary's front door. The hallway was dark, but John could still make out the edge of the devil's trap peeking out from under the askew rug. Blue light flooding out from the living room along with the muted sounds of a television set.
"John, is that you? If not, I should warn you, whoever you are, that I have a number of firearms and I'm not afraid to use them." Mary called from the other room.
"Announcing your advantage ruins your element of surprise." John replied as he went to her. As he entered the room, he could see her comfortably ensconced in the sofa with a pot of tea on the table in front of her.
"Wouldn't be a fair fight otherwise."
"No, I suppose it wouldn't be."
"What's wrong?"
"I don't want to go back to Baker Street, can I stay here for tonight?"
She was studying him. He could sense all the questions floating around in her head, but dreaded answering any of them (but he would because she was Mary). But she didn't ask him anything. Instead, Mary scooted over on the couch and lifted the corner of her afghan. It was all the invitation John needed.
"We're watching QI. I'm halfway through the second season." She declared and offered him a sip of tea from her mug.
The warm liquid rolled across his tongue in a tapestry of subtle favors. She favored any number of loose tea leaves that he had no hope of identifying. It was good though and warmed the pit of his belly. John undid his tie and chucked it at the telly when Alan Davies made a particularly scorn-worthy pun. Mary giggled helplessly and fell against him. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and held her closer.
This was fine, better than fine even.
"Thank you," he whispered into her hair.
She shushed him in favor of Jimmy Carr, but not before he heard her quiet and satisfied hum first.
-x-x-x-
For Sherlock, morning didn't come soon enough. Had Sherlock been the kind of person to lose sleep over personal drama, it would have been that sort of night. But he regularly deprived himself of sleep as it was, so it wasn't an unusual occurrence when he didn't go to bed. He broke out John's collection of QI season DVDs just to have some noise running in the background.
He had no idea when to expect John back, as he had collected relatively little data about John after a successful date (rare and far in between as those were). Victor's train had been due to leave King's Cross at 11AM. It was almost noon now. It was also entirely possible that their date had gone so well that Victor decided to take a later train to get more time with John.
That thought alone caused a violent twist in Sherlock's gut.
He reached for his phone and willed Lestrade to call with a case or Molly with an interesting body for him to examine. Or a text from John. Or god forbid, even from Victor. But there was only the sound of early weekend traffic to break the quietness of the flat.
"Hoo hoo," Mrs. Hudson called from the front door she had just strolled through carrying a tray of tea and fry-up. "It sounded like you pulled another all-nighter, so I brought you boys a bit of a late breakfast."
As soon as she entered the kitchen with her load, Sherlock heard a cluck indicating her ever-present disapproval of the state of their flat. He ignored her and unfurled the day's copy of The Sun in search of anything even mildly diverting.
"John, dear, come down and have a bite." Their landlady called up the stairs to John's bedroom. When she didn't receive any immediate reply, she tried again, "John?"
"He's not here, Mrs. Hudson." He snarled and turned noisily the next page (boring, boring, deathly tedious, the brother-in-law did it and it was covered up with his business partner's help...).
"I didn't hear him leave this morning."
Sherlock gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to grind his molars. "That's because he never came back last night. A. Date."
Mrs. Hudson cheerfully plopped down next to Sherlock on the sofa and smoothed out the wrinkles in her mauve dress. He buried his nose further into the paper in an attempt to convey just how unwelcomed the idea of further conversation was. She either missed that or she was ignoring his reticence (given that it was Mrs. Hudson, it was almost undoubtedly the second option). "That sounds lovely. He hasn't gone on one since you both came back to Baker Street, has he? Although there was that lovely girl, Mary,"
(And to think Sherlock would now to be longing for those days when Mary Morstan was his biggest threat [non-threat]...)
"She seemed sweet, but you could tell they were only interested in being friends. They just didn't have that spark. I could tell. John used to have the worst trouble dating. I remember he was too busy chasing you around to pay any attention to those poor girls."
"Mrs. Hudson, please..." Sherlock pleaded.
She soldiered on though, "It's good that he's getting back on that horse. As George used to say, 'you can't win the game if you won't play it'."
"Yes, because we should all be taking advice from your serial murdering ex-husband," he muttered irritably under his breath.
Before she could scold him, the door downstairs opened and closed with a brisk slam.
"Oh, that must be him. I'll leave you boys to it." She said and exited the flat with a swiftness that her infamous dodgy hip belied.
Sherlock tried listening to the indistinct conversation being held at the bottom of the stairs. But they were too quiet and he too far away to make out anything. When John finally started mounting the stairs minutes later, the pace was animated with a touch of hesitation. It sounded as if John was at least content. Sherlock hoped that meant John would not see fit to restart the same conversation from last night. The last thing he wanted to talk about was Victor.
"Morning, Sherlock." His flatmate greeted when he stepped into the flat.
Sherlock fixed his eyes on the paper and grunted slightly in reply. He was putting it off, but he wasn't ready to lay eyes on John and deduce all of last night's activity in a glance yet.
"Please don't do this," John was exasperated now. "Mrs. Hudson said you were particularly being a brat this morning."
Sherlock snapped the newspaper shut and threw it down on the coffee table before turning his attention to the other man.
A different outfit from last night—from the several outfits he still kept at Mary's house? Confirmed by the smell of lavender (Mary's favored scent) and the distinct musk of Mary's Harrow home clinging to John. His back ached as it always did when he fell asleep on the couch, and there was no such furniture in Victor's hotel room. Additional evidence of his time with Mary was found in the syrup stain on his shirt cuff, paired with the bag from Kopapa in Covent Garden placed on the kitchen table.
Conclusion: He spent the night at Mary's, and she drove him back into the city where they had breakfast together before John came the rest of the way back on the Tube.
Implication: John had not spent the night with Victor. Hadn't even seen him off at the train station. John's relaxed mood signaled a clean yet amiable break.
"What?" John fidgeted nervously under his gaze.
"You've been with Mary."
"Uh, yeah. We had breakfast this morning."
"You slept on her couch last night."
"Do you want to talk about—"
"No," Sherlock cut in before the name Victor could be said. "No."
John seemed willing to accept the change in topic. "Okay, have you eaten anything since yesterday? There's Mrs. Hudson's fry-up. Otherwise, I have some leftover banana French toast from this morning."
"The French toast and a side serving of Mrs. Hudson's eggs."
"Coming right up, your Idleness. I'll bring you a cuppa too."
Sherlock's phone chirped. At first, he favored it with only a half-hearted glance until he noticed who the text message was from.
FROM: Victor Trevor
Take good care of him. The threat is an implied one, but you probably already deduced that.
The bang of cutlery against plates calmed the last of Sherlock's nervous energy. John was home and he wasn't going anywhere. Victor wasn't going to steal his flatmate away and even Mary could only borrow John for brief periods. This was fine. Sherlock would count his blessings for every moment that John chose to stay. It was more than he had any right to hope for.
So I know some people thought the big reveal might have been this chapter, I'm sorry! I'm not trying to tease y'all.
I'm personally super excited for the next two upcoming chapters. Because the reason I wrote the first almost-65k words of this fic was so I'd have a reason to write what happens next. Look at me babble and probably build up unrealistic expectations. So here's the preview for the next chapter.
Chapter 10- Easter I (A demon named Charlie)
Sherlock starts on a new case while John is out of town. He's going to regret not waiting for his partner's backup first.
I'm still not completely happy with the way this chapter turned out, so there may be some major edits coming in the future.
Thanks to everyone that reviewed the last chapter: Sendai, Mel, filmkid21, Scarlett, and Angelwings23123; and all of you other lovely story followers. Comments are love, and thus a more vicious motivator!
