CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THE BEGINNING, AND JIM
Dinner is nice. Not spectacular, but John doesn't need spectacular. Sarah orders in from a sandwich shop around the corner and they eat together at her dining room table. They chat about people they've seen at the surgery. Sarah doesn't ask about Sherlock – she probably has a sneaking suspicion that he and John are a bit closer than friends, John imagines – but of course he comes up in conversation every now and then. John can't help it, really. Sherlock has become such a big part of his life now that he doesn't really know what else to talk about.
Sarah mentions the thing with Scotland Yard and the glowing man from a month or so ago (John chokes on his food when she brings it up.) "Were you and Sherlock there when it happened?" she asks. John, who doesn't want to lie too much, answers, "Yes." "Do you see it happen, then?" "No." That's the end of that.
After dinner, John helps clean up, and thinks back to the tantrum Sherlock threw earlier that day, which induced him to leave the flat in the first place. God, did he need some air. After a moment's thought about the state he's inevitable going to find Sherlock in when he returned, he turns to look at his quasi-girlfriend (proper terms have never really been discussed.)
"Hey, erm," he says, walking up to her, "do you mind if I stayed here tonight? I don't really want to head back to the flat just yet."
Sarah gives him a knowing look. "Sherlock?" she asks, and John nods. "Alright. You can have the sofa."
"Thanks," says John, smiling. He puts the last dish away.
•••
John didn't bring pajamas, even though he had thought about the possibility of sleeping here, because that would have been a bit presumptuous. He spreads out the blanket on the sofa and props up his pillow. He stares at the set-up, and thinks.
Should he try to sleep with his wings bound underneath his jumper, or should he take it off and risk Sarah seeing them? He starts to sit down before his changes his mind and yanks the jumper off, casting it onto a nearby chair – his wings practically sing with relief. The last time he tried to sleep with his wings bound, he'd stayed up all night in agony. John can only go so long with the things pinioned against him before he starts to loose his mind a bit. Besides, Sarah already went off to bed.
John's lying down when he realizes that he needs to use the loo. He stands and walks down the hall, stretching out his wings as he goes, sighing a little bit at the freedom and absence of pain. He's almost to the door when he hears it.
"John?"
Bugger, is all he thinks, and he turns. Predictably, Sarah's standing there, and predictably, she looks a bit shocked.
John holds in a sigh. He's not particularly in the mood to go through all this again. "Yes?" he says, trying not to sound exasperated.
Sarah takes a moment to collect her thoughts. "Okay, you've got wings," she says, pointing at them.
John nods.
She thinks again. "Are you a fairy, John?"
John raises an eyebrow – he wasn't exactly expecting that. "Yes," he says, and after a moments thought, adds – "Is that all right?
Sarah takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Sure. It's fine, I just… okay." She turns to walk back, but stops herself. "You know, my, my friend. In college. She was a fairy. That's how I… anyway."
John nods, relaxing. "So you don't have a problem with it?"
She shakes her head. "No, of course not. Why would I?"
John doesn't have anything to say to that.
He nods to her, tells her goodnight, and slips into the loo. Once he's finished, he goes back to the sofa and closes his eyes. It takes him a while to fall asleep – probably because of the unfamiliarity of the place – and when he does finally slip into unconsciousness, he dreams of Baker Street, and of Sherlock. There isn't much else in his life for him to dream about.
•••
John wakes in the slow, painful, groggy way. Light streams through the windows and Sarah's walking around, already dressed. His back is killing him.
"Morning," Sarah says, from the other room.
"Morning," he says in return.
They slip into a few minutes of quips and slightly flirtatious jokes, about which John isn't sure how he feels. Their relationship was never really defined, although he knows at least some part of him really does fancy her. They've never gone any farther than kissing and for the time being, John doesn't really have a problem with that. He's not sure where they're headed, or even where they've been.
After a while, Sarah walks off to take a shower. She leaves the telly on, which John glances at as he stretches. He wonders what sort of a distaster he's going to find the flat in when he gets home. Hopefully, Sherlock has gotten over his sulk; maybe Lestrade already showed up with a new case. God, that'd be lovely. He stretches out some more, trying to get the kink out of his neck. He slips his jumper on over his head.
"…Baker Street…"
John looks up.
He stares.
Oh god.
He watches until he can't anymore. He stands and makes his way through the living room.
He says a few words to Sarah as he walks out, his mind racing with uncontrollable panic. He tries texting Sherlock, but he won't answer.
Oh my fucking god.
He won't answer.
The tube ride home has never taken so long.
By the time John runs onto Baker Street, his heart is threatening to burst. His eyes are clouded with panic, but not so much that he can't see the people, the police tape, and the building across the street from his flat, completely blasted open.
He hardly thinks as he runs up into 221B. When he sees Sherlock sitting in the not-too-awful wreckage, fully dressed, holding his violin, opposite from Mycroft, he feels an explosion of relief inside him, although he doesn't show it. He merely remains calm, makes jabs at Mycroft (mostly for Sherlock's sake) and tries to ignore the fondness filling every crack of his chest.
He's safe. For now, at least.
Good.
•••
Molly brings her index finger nail up to her lips and gives it a small nip – a discreet nervous habit she's developed in the last few years. Jim notices and smirks a little bit in a fond sort of way; he seems to find her nervous ticks endearing, somehow, which Molly doesn't mind one bit.
"I, erm," she says, "I have to help him with. Something."
"What sort of thing?" Jim asks, sliding his hands into his pockets. Molly doesn't find it very attractive when he does that, but she doesn't show it. She's starting to get over the thrill of this whole cute-boy-wants-to-date-her thing, anyway, but it might be worth sticking it out a bit longer.
"Oh, just, things," she says. And there is always Sherlock, of course. How could she ever have a casual relationship with someone when he's always showing up, all gorgeous and brilliant and single? "He always needs something or other when he's on a case. Just assisting with things."
"What, so he's on a case now?" Jim asks. Well, relatively single. Even she can tell how in love Sherlock is with that friend of his, as much as she likes to deny it. Honestly, Sherlock and the doctor's relationship is doing far better than her own, and they're not even officially "together."
"Something about shoes," Molly explains. "And a bomb, I think. He doesn't really tell me a lot of details."
Jim tilts his head in curiosity. All right, it is fairly attractive when he does that, she'll admit. But only fairly. Maybe just enough. "Can I come with? You've told me so much about him. I want to meet him."
Molly takes a deep breath. On the one hand, having her quasi-boyfriend in the same room with Sherlock Holmes might prove a bit problematic – on the other, this might give her a rare opportunity to show the great Mr. Holmes that she doesn't depend on him as much as he may like to believe. On the surface, at least. Well, it's worth a shot.
They walk to her morgue together, although not touching, and walk in. Sherlock and his friend are there, looking at – she remembered correctly – a pair of trainers. She breathes deep and begins.
•••
The door slams shut – quietly – behind her. Molly clenches her fist and turns on him.
"What do you mean, 'gay'?" she asks – her voice is shaking a bit too much, whether with anger or disappointment she's really not sure – "We're together."
"And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly, you've put on three pounds since I last saw you," Sherlock remarks, and Molly's blood boils as her heart sinks.
"Two and a half," she spits. This is just adding insult to injury.
"Mm. Three."
"Sherlock," Dr. Watson begins, but Molly cuts him off.
"He's not gay!" she practically shouts. She's still shaking. Oh god, each time, each bloody time, she tells herself that she's done with him, that she's not going to take this from him anymore – and each time she forgets and falls for it and falls for him and why can't she just be done with all this? "Why'd you have to spoil–? He's not."
Sherlock scoffs (to her further fury). "With that level of personal grooming?"
"Because he puts a bit of product in his hair?" Doctor Watson interrupts incredulously – Molly thanks silently thanks him. "I put product in my hair."
"You wash your hair. There's a difference. No, no. Tinted eyelashes. Clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines, those tired, clubber's eyes. Then there's his underwear."
Oh my god. Molly's heart leaps into her throat and her face begins to heat. Surely, surely Sherlock isn't going to start making bloody deductions based off of her quasi-boyfriends underwear? And she thought this couldn't get any more humiliating. "His underwear?"
"Visible above the waistline," Sherlock remarks, quick, as always. "Very visible. Very particular brand. That plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here," –he lifts up the dish to show her; Oh god No– "and I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain."
Utter silence.
Everything in Molly's bones is screaming for her to simply run from the room. She wishes in this moment more than anything that she could simply disappear, could fade away from existence, never have to face this infuriating man again.
Something keeps her in place.
Maybe, she wonders later, it was the memory of her involvement in the Mason and Hamilton case, the one time she had something that Sherlock didn't, the one time Sherlock needed her. Whatever it is, she stands her ground – although her insides are begging her to flee – and stares that god-awful man straight in the face.
"I don't care what you think he is," she says. Her voice shakes just a bit more than she would like it too. "I don't… I don't care. He wouldn't lie to me like that, he just wouldn't."
To her infuriation, Sherlock sighs a drawn out sigh and looks back at her with that oh-you-idiot expression she sees so often. "Then I suppose he's told you that he's a fairy as well, has he?"
For the second time, quite utter silence.
Molly takes what slightly resembles a deep breath. "I'm sorry?"
Sherlock takes a deep breath – preparing to launch into deductions again. "He was wearing a thin t-shirt, but several layers of clothing underneath, including Ace bandages, obviously binding something. The way he held himself, with his back arched – careful not to hunch forward at all, in case anything might stick out. Also, the way he walks – as if he weighs around half as much as a normal human being, just as John does." – Molly sees John shift uncomfortably in her peripheral vision – "Finally, the suggestive fact that he's wearing contacts and does need them, as seems to be a pattern. Like I said, he doesn't seem to be very honest with you, Molly, and I'm sure there are quite a few more things he isn't telling you. I'd quit now."
The world is spinning with anger and hurt and confusion. She needs some air – she needs to get out of this room. She opens her mouth to say something, but her mind is going in too many directions at once to form coherent words, so she does just what her gut has been pulling her to do: she flees.
•••
John sighs and crosses his arms. "Charming. Well done."
Sherlock looks up at him – real, honest confusion is written across his face. "Just saving her time. Isn't that kinder?"
"Kinder?" Mother of god. Sometimes, John honestly cannot believe this bloody man. "No. No, Sherlock. That wasn't kind."
Sherlock says nothing, and looks back at the trainers. John looks at the floor. After a moment, he speaks.
"You were able to deduce that he's a fairy," he remarks.
Sherlock peers up at him. "Yes," he responds.
John pauses. "You've been observing me," he says.
Sherlock looks away, and says nothing.
"You knew," John continues, thinking, "that I weigh half as much as a human. How did you know that?"
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Not that difficult to observe, John."
"How much do I weigh?" John asks. Challenging him, to a degree.
Sherlock looks up at him, surprised. He narrows his eyes. "Somewhere around ninety, one hundred pounds?"
"Eighty."
"Close. How does that work?"
"Hollow bones," John replies. "I'm not sure what else. I have to be lighter in order to fly."
"Mm."
"Why do you care, exactly?"
"You know everything there is to know about my anatomy," Sherlock replies, looking back down at the trainers. "You know exactly how I work. You understand my body. I am taking it upon myself to understand yours."
John furrows his brow and stares. He wasn't really sure what he expected Sherlock to say. "That's, er…" he mumbles, "oddly touching."
"Is it?"
"Coming from you, yes, it is."
The man pauses, and then the barest hints of a Sherlockian grin flit across his lips. John feels something tugging in his chest at the sight, and attempts to ignore it. For the first time, he fails.
Sherlock starts going off about the trainers again. Something about vintage models or shoelaces or eczema or… something. John doesn't really care at the moment. He's sure that it will all come back to him in a while, when they're off chasing a bomber somewhere and trying not to get shot, and he'll feel the adrenaline rushing through his veins and clicking his brain back into gear, but for now… for now, he's puzzling over the warm twinges that squeeze his lungs every time Sherlock's face catches the light just so, and wondering why it feels so lovely.
•••
AN: Heeeyyy! Gosh, sorry for the super giant hiatus! It was a big mess of schoolwork and stress and writer's block and I am so sorry I made you all wait so long. I hope this chapter was worth it... :) Until next time!