Brace yourself: it's a long one. At least for my standards.
- Your blood tests look fine. You don't suffer from tachycardia and heart problems don't run in your family so chest pains and palpitations might be signs of stress, like I said the other day.
John is double checking Aida's medical records; she's buttoning up her blouse while he's turning the pages, absent-mindedly humming to himself.
- Is there something that worries you? A stressful job maybe…sometimes it's just the city. Every now and then a break is needed.
- I do have a stressful job, but it's been years now, I can't imagine while all of a sudden-
The doctor shifts on his feet and smiles - one of those unintentionally charming, warm and beaming smile.
- You're a professor, right?
- How…yes, Oxford. Who told you? – She frowns.
- Oh, nobody, it's just…it's sort of a talent that I've apparently picked up from a friend. Bad company brings bad habit.
She gets off the exam table with a hop and straightens up, grinning at him.
- A friend who's a bad company?
- No, actually, it's just…my best friend is…challenging? I don't know if it's the proper way to describe him but you get the gist.
Aida chuckles and fiddles with her hair.
Is she flirting? Oh God no, please don't.
- Well, as I said, nothing to overly worry about, at least for now. I think it's a temporary phase you're going through, it might resolve itself naturally and I'd like to be sure of that before prescribing meds. You're forty and it's the first time you're experiencing this kind of distress so I'm pretty sure you're going to be just fine, as long as you detect the source of the problem.
She leans forward, showing off her cleavage, and John can help but notice.
Oh for fuck's sake…
- I really don't know what could be the problem.
- I'm – he clears his throat – …I'm not a therapist but I can recommend you a very good one. It might help.
John feels nervous and ill at ease: he knows very well that sometimes his innate kind manners – especially with patients – can be misinterpreted and it actually happened a lot during his career. This usually dwindles with time, once they realize there's no chance in hell that something could happen, but it's uncomfortable nevertheless. Plus, although he considers himself a confident person, aggressive women have always been able to dig up his clumsiness, especially in these situations.
- Thanks, I think it would.
He nods and takes a small piece of paper, writing down Ella's office number while Aida looks around her: she knows who he is, where he lives – but most importantly with whom – and she's also noticed the press clipping that John put into a frame and placed on a shelve behind his desk.
Fortunately for her, she's a good liar.
- Wait…are you…that John Watson?
- I'm sorry, what?
She points at the frame behind him and he turns around, blushing a little when he realizes what Aida's talking about.
- Oh, that. Yes, I suppose I am.
- So Sherlock Holmes is your "bad company"!
- Guilty as charged.
John smile is quickly replaced by a confused frown.
- So you read the blog, I assume. You're American; I don't think we're that famous.
- Oh well. I'm a criminologist and what you do is basically my life.
- What he does.
- But you caught it, apparently.
Yes, I'm tainted.
- Besides, I knew him.
- You what?!
His eyes widen, gaping at her in shock, alarmed and curious at the same time.
- Oh, it' nothing, we met when we were young, in Venice.
- Venice?! That's…strangely romantic.
- Tell me about it, I had a huge crush on him.
- You what?!
John's befuddlement seems to amuse Aida.
- Yes, of course! Have you met him? Sure you must have noticed his bizarre…charm.
- Yes, I've noticed. He's like a magnet and we're all made of iron.
- That's…spot-on. So you…I mean, if you don't mind me asking. Is it true? That you two…?
- Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no, no, no. No.
- That's a lot of no's.
A skeptical grin forms on her face and John finds himself blushing again.
Bloody hell, I will never get used to this.
- No, seriously, we're not. I'm just tired of repeating that there's nothing between us. And I honestly thought it was a thing of the past, already settled and confirmed.
- I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude, I was just curious.
- No, don't worry, a lot of people are. Never understood why.
- Well, you would make a cute couple.
- Thanks, I'll keep that in mind – he chortles.
- So...the number?
- Right, sorry, here. She's a great therapist, she helped me a lot with the…thing that happened with Sherlock.
- Oh, that. It was so sad.
- Yes, well. It all turned out for the best, right?
She smiles broadly but as soon as John turns to his computer her face changes in something that can only be described as purely wicked. After a while, they shake hands and Aida stands up, making sure to draw attention to her body while she turns her back to John; she stops on her way out and leans against the door frame.
- By the way, tell him I say hi.
It's almost a whisper and John can't help but shiver again.
- Sure, will do.
Sherlock is sprawled across his bed, his palms flattened against the warm sheets and his eyes closed.
Feeling guilty was never a problem for someone like him: he's never felt trapped between the truth and a necessary lie, never experienced the paralyzing fear of knowing that is too late, that a simple omission of truth has started an avalanche, tumbling down on them and getting closer and closer.
He's never been a liar either, lying has no reason to be when you decide that brutal honesty is your trademark, that you don't care about hurting other people's feeling; the filter between his brain and his mouth is pretty loose, if not missing.
The sound of John dragging his feet as he climbs the stairs makes him suddenly aware of his surroundings so he springs up from the bed and strides in the living room as the doctor enters their flat.
- Evening.
John decides that the growl that came out of Sherlock's throat is his idea of a greeting, while the detective sits down at his microscope, pretending to experiment on something.
- Tea?
- Mmm.
- I take it as a yes.
He turns on the kettle and after a couple of minutes he slides Sherlock's mug across the table
- What's new?
- Obviously nothing.
- Of course.
He takes a couple of sips and leans back on his seat; he knows almost nothing about Sherlock's past and he just started to open up so John fears that an ill-timed personal question would scare him away.
The curiosity, though, is eating him from the inside.
- So…I met someone today.
Sherlock looks up to him for a second before resuming his fake experiment.
- John, far from me to tell you how to live your life, especially on this matter, but isn't it a bit early for romantic involvement with another woman?
John leans forward as if something kicked him in the stomach.
- No, you idiot. It's not like that. It was a patient. She told me you knew each other when you were young.
Sherlock freezes; the test tube he's holding suddenly breaks in a thousand little shards.
- Jesus, Sherlock!
- No, it's nothing, don't worry.
- Don't be daft, you're bleeding!
He walks over to him and lifts his right hand: the detective doesn't even have the time to make him feel like an overprotective mother that John is already picking up the pieces of glass with a pair of tweezers.
- What's gotten into you, what happened?
- Nothing John, stop being melodramatic, it happens.
- If you say so.
A hiss escapes from Sherlock's mouth and he immediately withdraws his hand, looking at it and pouting like a kid who just broke a window while playing soccer.
- Stop being such a child!
John sighs and tries to take Sherlock's mind off the pain by asking him about Aida.
- So this woman, Aida Hoffman, claims to know you. She told me you met in Venice and that she had a crush on you.
Sherlock is suddenly grateful that John's is focusing on his hand, grateful that his look of sheer terror is going unnoticed.
- Irrelevant.
- Don't be ridiculous. Sometimes I forget that you didn't just pop up out of thin air when I met you, that you have a past and memories. You don't share them and it's fine, I'm not asking you to. I'm just saying, it's nice to know that some things happen to geniuses too.
- Like what, exactly?
- You know…crushes, first love. Normal stuff.
- What makes you think I reciprocated her puerile obsession?
John looks up at him and smiles.
- Figures. So she was madly in love and you just, what, didn't care?
- Basically. She was my first kiss, though.
The doctor grips lightly at Sherlock's wrist, staring at him, silent for a couple of seconds.
- This is so weird.
- What?
- You, experiencing normal things like a first kiss.
- Please don't tell me you actually believed Mycroft.
John starts cleaning his wounds, relieved to have something to keep him busy, something that lets him avoid Sherlock's gaze without having to explain why.
- I don't know, you never talk about this. I don't like jumping to conclusions without having enough data.
The detective smiles, mostly because John doesn't realize what he just said.
- What did you talk about?
- Nothing really, I knew him, he was weird but I liked him, we were young and that's it.
- Good.
- I don't understand why you kissed her if you didn't like her, though.
- She was aesthetically pleasant and I was curious. You don't have to marry someone to share a kiss, I just seized the opportunity she gave me. I knew she liked me, I wanted to collect data about it and I did it.
John's hand lets go of Sherlock's wrist and laughs, before washing up and taking his seat again.
- So even as a teenager something like kissing was nothing but a chance to store information inside your mind palace.
- Exactly! Just like sex.
The doctor chokes on his cold tea and chuckles.
- Sorry, sorry! It just feels…weird.
- John, I'm human. And I'm…me, you know who I am, do you really think that my constant thirst for knowledge would stop me just because sex isn't my priority?
- It isn't?
- What do you think? Sexual impulses are physiological and unavoidable for a healthy human being. I don't ignore them I just don't act on them and focusing on my work usually does the trick. I don't go around looking for sex, my brain doesn't work like that. It's not a physical need for me and once I got it out of my system that was it. If I was to choose to have sex now it would be a cerebral necessity, my body would respond to a mental impulse. I guess I would – as you peasants might say – literally fuck the brain out of somebody.
John frowns and shakes his head.
- I don't know what's more upsetting, hearing you say "fuck the brain out of somebody" or the fact that what you just said actually makes a lot of sense.
Sherlock smiles, his words cut off by a beep from his phone.
"Your John is so handsome and adorable. I almost felt guilty for a second".
So this happened. Thanks for the reviews and the alerts and the favs and all that. Getting feedbacks helps a lot.