The Science Of Seduction
::::::::::
By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep
:::
Chapter Nine: Sister Act
:::
I love my sister. Really. She and I have never gotten along, and the story behind that is complicated and a bit childish, but we still love each other. That's what I told myself, anyway, when she turned up on the doorstep of 221B Baker Street. She said she'd heard I was 'shacked up' with some bloke, and that she was just stopping by to 'check up on her baby brother'. I didn't believe her for a second, and as it turned out, I was right...|
"So."
Harry ignored his attempt at initiating conversation, poking around the living room curiously and cautiously. She had already gotten something of a shock when she had barged into their home and gone straight for the fridge to swipe a drink. Apparently, the sight of pickled tongues in a jar was an unsettling one. John, for his part, maintained that it could have been much worse.
She had thus far avoided going anywhere near Mort, which amused John to no end. Perhaps they could set him up outside the flat - he would never have to see Harry again.
She's your sister, he thought a bit guiltily. You can't think that about your sister, even if just being in the same room makes you want to claw your own face off.
It was a familiar feeling. He'd been doing this odd dance of 'I love you because I have to, but when I strangle you it'll be because I want to' with Harry since they were ten and twelve respectively, about the time their parents had decided that Harry was their own personal gift from God.
Not that John was bitter.
"You never could keep a place clean, could you, baby brother?"
John grit his teeth. He wanted to snark back, really, but she was his sister. She'd wanted to reconcile before he'd been shipped abroad, and he'd frozen her out. If she wanted to do the sisterly thing now, after so many years of being decidedly un-sisterly, the least he could do was let her. The problem was, John wasn't so certain she really wanted to smooth over their relationship. He would give her the benefit of the doubt, but if he found out she'd simply been evicted again and needed a place to stay, he wouldn't be in the least surprised.
"It's clean enough," he replied neutrally. Sitting in his favorite armchair, he leaned back, fingers tapping on the arms as he avoided Harry's gaze. "No one's been buried beneath falling mountains of refuse yet, anyway."
To her credit, Harry's laugh didn't sound nearly as fake as John expected it to.
The silence that ensued would have been a very awkward one had Sherlock not chosen that moment to thunder up the stairs and burst in dramatically. At times, John could almost hear a trumpeting fanfare, and he could definitely imagine a spotlight snapping on and a crowd cheering whenever Sherlock made such an entrance.
Always so theatrical, that man, John thought fondly.
Sherlock was tossing his coat, scarf, and gloves about, which struck John as very odd. The consulting detective was always meticulous with his clothing, a compulsion that never seemed to strike him in any other area of his life except for The Work.
He had little time to think on it, though, because Sherlock was lunging forward and grabbing John by the wrist, tugging him along into the kitchen.
"You'll never guess what turned up in Mr. Goringe's postmortem tox screen, John!"
"Probably not," John replied calmly.
"Kavain! Almost obscene levels! Isn't it fantastic?" Sherlock clapped his hands, smiling gleefully, like a child that's just gotten a pony for Christmas. "Just marvelous!"
"I'm thrilled." John waited for a beat, raising an eyebrow as he and Sherlock stared at each other. "Er...what is kavain?"
"Oh, come on, John, you're a doctor," Sherlock said with a huff, flinging his arms out and nearly backhanding Harry, who had strayed too close to the hazard that was Sherlock on a roll.
John rolled his eyes, ignoring Harry's indignant squawk. "Am I allowed to sneer at you when you state the obvious, or do you have a monopoly on all statement-of-the-obvious sneerage?"
Pausing as he opened his mouth to reply, Sherlock's brow furrowed and he studied John closely. "You're cattier than usual, John, what's wrong?"
"Absolutely nothing. I'm fine. We're all fine, aren't we, Harry?"
Sherlock's gimlet gaze turned on John's sister, who was looking more and more unsettled by the second. He scrutinized her, looking for all the world like he'd only just noticed her. John was well aware that Sherlock had not only noticed her before he'd even entered the apartment, but had probably deduced why she was there, how long she was staying, and what she'd had for breakfast shortly after his entrance.
After a couple of beats, Sherlock tilted his head and said, "Congratulations on being two months sober. I expect your new girlfriend is delighted, although I would suggest you find a woman with better taste in perfume if you're so allergic. Oh," he added as he turned his back on John's bewildered sister, "and do try not to leave clumps of hair in the shower like you do at home - it's unhygenic."
John wanted to laugh at Harry's scandalized expression, and he wanted to hug Sherlock even more; the doctor honestly felt that he'd never adored Sherlock more than he did just then. Sadly, partly because he really was trying to patch things up with Harry, but mostly because it wouldn't do to let Sherlock think being tactless towards strangers was acceptable, John huffed loudly.
"Can you not be rude to people you've only just met? Especially when I happen to be related to them?"
"I fail to see what sharing genetic markers has to do with how I approach strangers, John," Sherlock muttered distractedly as he pulled out a tin of dried plant matter. "Do you remember Wilma Redding?"
"The government lady who was murdered with tea," John replied, moving to lean against the sink.
"Kava kava tea, John," the detective elaborated, shoving the tin under John's nose and smiling at him in a way that made John's stomach flip. "Which leaves traces of kavain in the body after ingestion. Don't you see?"
Pushing the tin away and raising one eyebrow, John shook his head. "No, I don't. Unless you mean the odd coincidence that two people were drinking calming tea when they were killed."
"Don't be dull, John, you're better than that," Sherlock snapped. "Coincidences don't exist."
John opened his mouth to reply in a dry, witty manner like he always did, but Harry stepped between them and jabbed Sherlock in the chest with one finger. "Excuse me," she snapped, "but who the hell do you think you are to talk to me like that?"
Sherlock raised one eyebrow, glancing over at John, who could only shake his head and shrug helplessly.
"I am Sherlock Holmes," he replied, turning back to Harry, "the world's only consulting detective, although that's who I know I am, not who I think I am, and I have no reason to speak to you in any other manner, as you are in no way remarkable save for your relationship with John. As that is a precarious bond and has been strained for some time, I see no reason why I should extend any of the respect I have for your brother towards you. I believe I have already stated as much, and I will not do so again - I hate repeating myself. Now do the collective IQ of the world at large a favor and be quiet."
As Harry sputtered furiously, John amended his earlier thought - this was the most he'd ever adored Sherlock. It helped that his insides were all warm and happy-bubbly at Sherlock's admission of respect. To his credit, John did not melt into a puddle of smitten goo at Sherlock's feet. He did grin like the besotted fool that he was, though, and he prayed that Harry hadn't caught it. Her visit was going to be taxing enough without adding her gloating into the mix.
The next week (Oh, God, isn't she ever going to leave? I know she's my sister, but I swear, I'm going to push her out of the window if she doesn't leave!) was just as infuriating and tiring as John had expected it to be. Harry spent each excruciating moment criticizing everything she could think of.
"Christ, John, could you be any more of an old man?"
Probably, John thought, but he didn't say anything.
"That's the most hideous jumper I've ever seen you wear, and that's saying something."
You have the most hideous face I've ever seen anyone wear, and that's saying something, John wanted to reply, but he didn't.
"Really, little brother? You listen to this trash?"
You must mean the garbage that's constantly spewing from your mouth, was John's silent rebuttal.
"You always make the tea too strong; compensating for something much?"
No, Harry, it's kava kava tea, and I'm hoping that if I drink enough of it, it'll render me mercifully dead, he spat at her in his head. Still, he didn't say anything.
Every little thing she could possibly find to pick at, she did. John, who was used to this sort of thing from her, sucked it up, smooshed all his ugly thoughts into the steel box in his brain with all his other ugly thoughts, and ate more ice cream than perhaps he should have.
He was a doctor, after all.
On the seventh day of Harry's visit, though, the Ugly Box in John's head was too full to squash anything else in, and he was starting to worry that the lid might pop open and all the black and horrible feelings would come bursting out. It was no surprise, therefore, that things were about to come to a head.
John had sprung for Chinese because he didn't trust himself with a cast-iron skillet while Harry was around, and Sherlock was later than usual. The older man wasn't too worried, since Sherlock had texted him saying that he was detained at Scotland Yard (John wasn't sure if he meant that he was busy or that he'd been arrested, but he was so far past caring at that point, and he hadn't bought a return ticket), but Harry was fuming.
"You'd think he could at least be on time for dinner," she snorted, digging into her orange chicken while John relocated a jar of dead whip scorpions to the designated Sherlock Shelf. He wasn't thrilled about them, but at least it was a clear container this time. He had not been too pleased when he'd opened what he thought was a tin of Quality Street, only to find it was a tin of dead grass snakes. He wasn't sure if Sherlock knew it was illegal to harm grass snakes in Britain, but he figured that in cases like these, plausible deniability was his friend.
He had taken to outright ignoring Harry, which had the added benefit of pissing her off royally. Sherlock, however, delighted in taking every opportunity to needle Harry; he deduced her affair with a coworker, revealed the obsessive eBay habit that she indulged in to compensate for the teetotaling, even commented on an allergic rash she had on her inner thighs. John was just thankful he didn't say anything about how Harry might have gotten a rash there. Love her, hate her, she was still his sister, and that was a creepy place in his mind that he didn't want to venture into.
Had John not been so familiar with Sherlock's ways, he would never have noticed that the younger man's treatment of Harry was, in fact, very different from the way he treated most people, and not in a nice way. It was on par with the vicious intensity with which the detective tore into Sally or Anderson - a single-minded dedication to crushing the spirit, the mental equivalent of a knee to the groin. Or whatever the female version would be.
Unlike his attitude towards the latter two idiots, however, Sherlock was not lashing out at Harry to defend himself. For all her grumbling and glaring, Harry had seemed reluctant to attack Sherlock. John guessed that the verbal dressing-down she'd gotten at that first meeting had made her wary of poking that particular sleeping dragon. No, Sherlock was baring his fangs in John's defense, which almost made putting up with the woman worth it.
Almost.
Harry was still muttering under her breath when the man in question barged into the flat, shouting for John to clear space in the freezer for brain matter. Harry took one look at the glass jar full of pieces of a human brain suspended in what looked like lemon jelly and slammed her soda down on the table.
"God, could you be any more of a freak?"
The detective didn't get a chance to reply, because a red haze filled John's vision as his Ugly Box burst open, and he was striding across the kitchen and yanking Harry's chair back from the table so hard he nearly tipped it backwards. Towering over her, he held her shocked gaze and growled.
"Get. Out," he snarled, ignoring Sherlock's sharp intake of breath. All he could focus on was Harry.
How dare she? How dare she?
"You stupid woman," John hissed. "How dare you speak to Sherlock like that?" When Harry opened her mouth to reply, John slammed one hand down on the table, rattling glasses and sending a carton of dim sum toppling onto the floor. "Shut up. Shut the fuck up. I've put up with your mouth for a week, Harriet. I've tried, really tried, to let it go, but you just can't let up, can you? Well you can insult me all you like - pick on my clothes, my job, my height, whatever the hell you want, because I probably deserve it - but you will not come into my home and insult my flatmate. I will not allow it. Now take your attitude and your opinions and get the fuck out of my flat!"
To her credit, Harry didn't flinch away or scurry out of the room. He hadn't expected her to. He knew he could be incredibly intimidating when he set his mind to it, but not with Harry. She was as stubborn as he was with a proud streak a mile wide, and she wasn't about to leave without making it perfectly clear that it was on her terms.
"Fine," she snapped, leaning back and crossing her arms challengingly, "I'll leave when your freak boyfriend apologizes for being such a creepy, arrogant twat."
In a flurry of motion, John grabbed Harry by the wrist and hauled her out of the chair, dragging her towards the door. "OUT!"
"John-"
Paying Sherlock no mind, John led Harry down the stairs, past a dismayed Mrs. Hudson, and shoved her out the door. He took great delight in slamming it in her face as she turned to speak.
John took the stairs two at a time and started combing the flat with frenzied motions, Sherlock trailing behind him listlessly. As he snatched up all of Harry's belongings, scattered about as if she owned the place, he muttered to himself angrily.
"Who does she think she is? Never, ever going to...can't believe she would...can definitely believe she would...the absolute nerve of her..."
"John-"
When he'd stuffed Harry's duffle with all her stray possessions, John marched to the window, opened it, heaved the bag out, and slammed the window shut with an almighty bang that seemed to echo for eternity.
He should have felt bad. He'd just thrown his sister out on the street, literally. And for what, a single snide remark about his flatmate? His flatmate, who had spent probably his entire life being called a freak, and never seemed to notice or care?
John grit his teeth, chest heaving as he drew in great gasps of air as if to cool his blood. He remembered the look on Sherlock's face when that fool of a banker spouted abuse at the man laughingly, as though smiling when you professed your disdain of someone would make it okay. There had been a moment where Sherlock had practically wilted, curling in on himself and glancing away, so very vulnerable that it had taken a great deal of restraint not to simply haul Sebastian across the desk and throw him out a window.
Sherlock was saying his name again, softly, and John blinked up at him wearily. "Something wrong?"
Jaw working as his mouth gaped open and snapped shut, Sherlock looked to be at a loss for words. "John," he started to say again, hesitating, "you...didn't have to..."
"Oh, that." John shrugged as though it had been nothing special, but his wry grin said otherwise. "She's been getting on my nerves for ages."
"But...John, she's your sister. I may not know much about normal familial relationships, but..."
"Eh," John waved one hand distractedly. "I'll get her something nice for Christmas and we'll be...well, less angry. It's fine. Er..." Licking his lips, he gave Sherlock a once-over. "Are you okay?"
There was a long pause wherein Sherlock studied John as though he'd never seen him before, and every particle of John's body felt suddenly electrified at the sensation of having Sherlock's undivided attention.
Then Sherlock reached out, grabbed John's face between his hands, and crushed their lips together with a sigh.
Most likely, the kiss only lasted for seconds. John couldn't be certain, because his every last neuron went into nuclear meltdown the moment his mouth met Sherlock's. It could have gone on for years, and it still wouldn't have been enough, that much John was sure of.
He had given a lot of thought to what his first kiss with Sherlock would be like - not that he'd ever expected a first kiss, or any kind of kiss, but Sherlock had a way of making him drift into soppy, harlequin-romance-novel daydreams. He had imagined being overcome with lust and dragging Sherlock into the bedroom. He had imagined Sherlock rejecting him and ordering him to move out. He had even, depressingly, imagined that their first kiss would be as Sherlock died in his arms, which had always seemed more likely whenever Sherlock was on a case.
John, it turned out, did not have an imagination vivid enough to do the reality of kissing Sherlock justice. It was so very warm, and so very chaste, and the only thing John had time to think before it was over was that Sherlock must have had coffee at Scotland Yard, because he tasted of coffee, and John had never loved the taste of coffee more than he did in that moment.
And the it was over, and John's insides were wonderfully warm and his face where Sherlock's hands had been were cold as the detective pulled them away, and his lips tingled beautifully.
Letting his eyes flutter open, John swallowed hard and resisted the urge to either touch his lips or yank Sherlock in for another taste.
"Was that right," Sherlock asked, and John must have imagined the breathlessness, because his flatmate looked as calm and composed as ever when they locked gazes.
John swallowed again. "S-sorry?"
"Gratitude is expressed through intimate contact between people who care for each other. I wanted to...well," he floundered, brow furrowing as he once again scrambled for the right words, "I am touched that you were willing to defend me at the risk of irreperably damaging your relationship with your sister, John. I simply wished to express my thanks."
If the floor beneath John's feet had caved in and sent him tumbling to his death right at that moment, John would have welcomed it. He felt his face heat up and his left hand twitched twice as mortification flooded him. He wanted to scream, to curl into a ball and cry, to beg Sherlock to stop jerking him around before he broke John entirely.
Instead, he said, "Oh. That's...you're welcome."
And then he went to the kitchen to clean up the spilled takeaway and put the kettle on for tea.
Much later that night, after John had slipped between his sheets numbly and drifted into uneasy dreams, his mind still not quite engaged, he was awoken very abruptly by Sherlock shouting his name hysterically and pouncing on him. It was a good job Sherlock's cry had jolted him awake, because half-asleep John would undoubtedly have thrown anyone jumping on him across the room.
"John, John, John, wake up, wake up, John, wake up, John, John, John-"
"What, Sherlock," he groaned, reaching up to scrub at his face with both hands. "What is it? If you've melted the television again, you're paying for a new one this time."
"I'm Harry, John!"
John let that sink in, considering it carefully before he decided that, no, it wasn't his sleepy brain, that definitely hadn't made sense.
"Um, could you elaborate? Preferably after you've stopped kneeling on my liver?"
"Don't be dull, John, your liver is much higher than-"
"Sherlock."
"Right, sorry." The lanky man rolled off of John, sitting cross-legged with his back against the wall as John wearily pulled himself upright.
"Okay. Let's try this again."
"John, I've been thinking-"
John rolled his eyes. "You never stop thinking."
"-and it's occured to me that I'm as bad as your sister," Sherlock finished, seemingly unaware that John had even spoken. Then, before John could form a reply, he plowed on. "I take you for granted John. I always assumed that you'd be beside me always, but I never take your feelings into account. I'm selfish, John, I know that, I've always known that, but I don't mean to be. Not with you. You're my friend, aren't you, John? I should be more considerate, less hurtful and careless with your feelings, and I try, really, I do, but it's hard, and I'm terrible at this whole caring business. I'm sorry, John. Honestly."
John flopped back onto his pillow and covered his face with his hands. "I swear to God, Sherlock," he moaned against his palms, "you're going to be the death of me."
"I-"
"Oh, shut up," he said fondly, peering at his best friend through his fingers. This constant up-and-down, back-and-forth had his thoughts in knots, but damned if he didn't love every second of it. "You're nothing like Harry, Sherlock. You don't mean to be cruel or whatever. You're just...you. And that's fine," he continued hurriedly at Sherlock's dismayed expression. "It's all fine, Sherlock. I know you, and I know that you care, and that's enough, okay? Just...stop worrying about it."
Looking unconvinced, Sherlock gnawed on his bottom lip and sighed through his nose. Groaning again, John sat back up.
"Look," he began, not really wanting to get into this, but needing to reassure Sherlock so the man would leave him in peace, "Harry and I have always been at odds, ever since were were kids. Growing up, you wouldn't have recognized us. I was such a wild kid, always running about, making trouble. Harry was the good daughter, perfect marks in school and polite and athletic. She was everything my parents ever wanted in a child, and I was everything they dreaded. She would bring home swim meet trophies, I'd bring home black eyes. She'd volunteer at a homeless shelter, I'd spend my summers racing cars of dubious origin."
Sherlock's eyes flickered to John's face, his only outward sign of acknowledgement.
"When we were...God, I was sixteen. It seems so long ago. Harry had turned eighteen, and my parents were so proud of her - valedictorian, university, charming boyfriend. Then one day she showed up to Christmas dinner drunk with a pierced tongue and a girlfriend with green hair. The whole evening was like a slow-motion train wreck.
"To make a long story...well, less long, Harry was suddenly the black sheep in the family, and it was all up to me to make my parents proud." John let his head thud against the headboard, staring at the wall blindly, remembering days of arguments and crying from his mother and realizing that if he didn't shape up his parents would never be able to hold their heads up again. "I hated the thought of living the sort of bland, perfect life they imagined for me, but I hated the thought of breaking their hearts even more. So I gave up the racing, scrubbed the black nail polish off, traded in my band shirts for jumpers, and went about creating the son they wanted. Went to uni, went to medical school, dated nice girls. When that got to be so dull I thought I'd kill myself, I joined up and skipped off to the Middle East to get shot at, ended up getting shot. The rest you know."
He sighed, reaching up to knead his shoulder lightly before he continued.
"Harry always hated me when we were young. Looking back, I know it was because she wanted the freedom I had, with no expectations or pressure to be the best, to be perfect. And I hated her because everything seemed to come so easily to her, even the adoration of our parents. And then, later, she hated me for taking her place as the family's favorite child. She still hates me," he finished bitterly, the taste of discontentment sharp and unwelcome in his mouth.
"And that's why you put up with her attitude this week," Sherlock said softly, slowly rubbing the hem of his dressing gown between his fingers as he peered at John curiously through the gloom. "You feel guilty, for allowing your parents to pressure her, and then for allowing them to reject her when she acted out. You believe that if you had been a better son, they might not have been so focused on her success that they drove her to rebellion."
"Right on all counts," John replied tiredly, pressing the heel of his hand against his shoulder and allowing the dull ache to soothe his heart.
"Then why do you put up with me?"
Pausing, John squinted, trying to see Sherlock's expression in the dark. All he could really make out was the extraordinary gemstone color of Sherlock's eyes, and he spoke entirely honestly.
"Because I like you," he said.
"Oh."
And there was really nothing more to say.
Quite honestly, that day was one of the most intense emotional rollercoasters I had ever been on. I wasn't sure how much more of the uncertainty and intensity I could take before I broke. Fortunately, I didn't have to wait to find out, and I'm still not sure if I should blame Lestrade, Mycroft, or Mrs. Hudson. Or perhaps I should thank them, because if it weren't for their admittedly misguided help, I might have remained adrift in ambiguity forever...
:::
To Be Continued...
:::
A/N - Agh! OMG! *hyperventilates*
Nine Is Fine! =D Sorry, a little Rah-Rah Cheer was needed just now.
I can't believe I actually finished this chapter. Now there's only one more to go! Oh. Em. Gee. I might actually finish this without all of my hair going gray! Which is great, because I couldn't pull it off as well as Rupert Graves. I might be biased tho, because he's just darling, innee?
I have to say, my reviewers for this story are absolutely full of win. You guys are so very amazing, and I'm honored that you feel my humble tale of hot chocolate and fetal pigs is worth noticing. Your kind words and helpful critiques give me the strength to muddle on, and I most emphatically thank you all. *hugs*
On another note, there is a CafePress shop up called The Brain Attic (link will be posted in my profile). My sister (Plus2-minus1-brilliance) and I put it up, and there is a section just for Team Shwatsonlock merchandise of my own design. Granted, there's just the one design up for now, but it's a nice one, and I'm terribly proud of it. Pop in and take a look...and maybe buy something? =3 Teehee.
Review! I need the extra push to cross the finish line!
Songs for this chapter: 'The Things You Do' (Bowling For Soup) and 'Moves Like Jagger' (Maroon 5).
Peace.
Akiko