Through Your Eyes: Part 14
'Thanks for walking me home, John.' Sarah said as she ascended the steps leading to her apartment, Sherlock trailing politely behind. 'Although you didn't need to. I am a big girl y'know.'
'It was a pleasure.' Sherlock replied smoothly. He had read somewhere that this post-dining behaviour was some sort of obligation, although thanks to John's befuddled brain Sherlock couldn't remember which books had demanded it. 'And it didn't seem fair to leave you prowling the streets for a cab.'
'Yeah, but it's only nine o'clock and it was hardly a crime hotspot, was it? No, wait – don't answer that. I've carried pepper spray on me ever since our first date anyway, so I would have been fine. Oh whatever, screw it. You know I'm a sucker for chivalry!' She paused at the top of the stairs and launched into a bone-crushing hug, which lasted a fraction of a second too long. 'Thank you. And I'm still really sorry about how much of a bitch Mrs Smythe was to you too. We should do this more often, as friends.'
'Goodnight, Sarah.' Sherlock pried her stubborn fingers from his lower back. 'I am sure that something could be arranged.' He turned, managing three creaking steps before Sarah called out to him.
'John!' Sherlock glanced over his shoulder to view Sarah with her key hovering above the door. 'I almost forgot to ask; are you seeing anyone at the moment?'
This was definitely classed as a minor annoyance. Social niceties aside, Sherlock had had a relatively pleasant evening. Amidst the accoutrements of a three course meal (paid for by John's ever-straining credit limit of course), there had been enlightening and intelligent conversation; initially encompassing new surgical procedures and Sarah's professional whining before progressing onto his recent cases in glorious detail. He had been probed and prodded for every scrap of information. The attention to which Sarah had given John's "extra-curricular activities" was positively reverent, not even shying away from the most gruesome of detail. Sherlock had even been allowed to berate the waiter for the lateness of the food. His overall verdict, until this moment, had been that Sarah was remarkably enjoyable company. But then she became predictable. Even without a detective's brain, Sherlock should have seen that particular question coming a mile off. He realised that he was probably a little at fault, although he was at a loss on how he might have mislead her; the only occasions that Sherlock ate socially was with John, with the events filled exclusively with nagging and wistful sighs, so he lacked comparisons. Unfortunately, Sherlock wasn't currently equipped to deal with Sarah's changing (but probably ever-in-the-back-of-her-mind) interests. After the cold responses he had received from both parties the other day, he wasn't entirely sure whether John had a girlfriend anymore. And there was the complicated prospect of furthering his revenge, although Sherlock would not stoop to embroil someone whom he could actually tolerate in his and John's war games. Besides, if Sarah and John had indeed, as Sherlock had previously deduced, reached the point of intercourse, anything which happened now would prove extremely awkward.
'It's complicated.' A satisfactory response, yet Sherlock was effectively giving nothing away.
'Oh.' Sarah barely concealed her disappointment. 'Where did we go wrong, John?'
'I don't know.' It was the truth; Sherlock was perplexed at why John could not pin any woman down, least of all Sarah. A minutely guilty part of him thought he should at least enquire on John's behalf. 'Was it him?'
To Sherlock's surprise, she laughed. 'No! Do you seriously think that I would spend half of dinner talking about all that stuff you do if it was Sherlock's fault?' Sarah paused. 'Although Jeanette seems to think he was the main problem. She felt like she was going out with an extra person.'
'You talk to his – my – other ex-girlfriends?!'
'Oh, yeah; we've got our own blog and everything. "The Many Women of John Watson: What The Hell Happened?" We update and message every Tuesday.' She gestured a theatrical banner, grinning.
'Really?' Why did so many people feel compelled to air their pointless drivel to the virtual world?
'No, you idiot!' Her smile faded slightly as her key finally slipped into the lock. 'I see just Jeanette at book group. It's how you met her, remember?'
'Of course.'
'See you at work then. I hope things get uncomplicated soon.' Sarah offered him a small smile before Sherlock was left gazing up at the frosted glass of the closed door.
He wrapped his arms around himself defensively as he drifted into the night; there was just enough of a breeze to cause him discomfort, whipping between the gaps in the new suit. Sherlock missed his coat. The dull ache in his shoulder had sharpened and he was feeling sorry for himself. Being someone else wasn't quite as fun as he had anticipated. It wasn't that he was miserable, rather that viewing life in slow motion was causing Sherlock to become lazy, and laziness had an eventual habit of morphing into boredom. Perhaps the tedium depended upon whose body he was occupying? Although an obvious guinea pig lived within 221B, if Sherlock had done this intentionally he would not have chosen John. This, he was ready to admit to himself; in spite of this particular situation's complexities, there was a certain level of ordinary which was in no way fascinating. Sherlock snorted at the thought of how much Hell he could raise in his brother's body; but the amount of brainpower would feel too close to home and Mycroft himself would surely be a painful adversary. Clearly the experiment would need to be refined at a later date. As for now, a ceasefire was in order. After all, vengeance would be a more subtle, simpler affair if Sherlock regained possession of a superior mind. He began to text.
Enjoying the party? SH.
No. Fuck off, arsehole.
Language, John. SH.
Oh, I'm so sorry: Fuck off PLEASE, arsehole.
Not what I meant. SH.
Yeah, well one of your Uncles has been sniffing around after me for hours, so forgive me if I don't care.
Sherlock paused to shudder at that image; he knew exactly who John was talking about. His relationship with Uncle Felix had been that of one-sided perversion since before Sherlock had turned eighteen.
Has Mycroft threatened to castrate him yet? SH.
No. Why do you care?
Because you have already allowed my body to be violated once and I will not let it happen again. SH.
By the way, we need to talk. SH.
We're talking now.
Face to face. SH.
Why should I EVER talk to you again?
Which house are you in? SH.
Somewhere in Oxfordshire. Don't try to distract me.
Describe it to me. SH.
Very oak-panelled, lots of dead things. A Victorian's wet dream. Why?
To answer both of your questions; I can get you out of there. SH.
Sherlock sat on a park bench, fidgeting, as he waited for a reply to his last message. He hated being nice; it would always backfire upon him later, but it was necessary if he wanted to get his own way.
So, I bailed out and went for half 'n' half on the Sarah front. If you are seeing an end, don't worry – I've got at least another five chapters or so in me. This one just tightens things up a bit. Reviews are positively adored. :)