Hello again - here's another transition chapter - first discussion of Sherlock's deductions. Yeah, he's unravelling John's secrets a bit more quickly than the doctor's comfortable with. Could there be any other way? This one was challenging to write. Let me know what you think!
As always Thank you, thank you, thank you for your reviews, follows, and favorites. I am so...surprized? honored? pleased? confused? overwhelmed? with the support I receive for this story. I truly appreciate it. :)
Best,
-M
John took the seventeen steps on his way to 221B with no hesitation, no subtle limp altering his gait. His Mycroft-fascilitated visit with his sister and whatever strange errand he'd needed to run had gone well, then, Sherlock observed.
"Hullo, Sherlock!" John called cheerily as he shut the door behind him.
"Hello, John," Sherlock responded, gliding quickly over to him, searching him over with his eyes, leaning over him for a better look. John started at the attention and attempted to twist around only to have his head caught by two slender – yet deceptively strong – hands. Sherlock turned John's head this way and that, tipping his chin down towards his breastbone as he inspected his head.
"Extraordinary," he breathed in a rumbling whisper of baritone, the expression of the lightning strike of discovery.
John jerked his head away - good mood subdued - and turned a cautious eye to Sherlock.
John cleared his throat. "What's 'extraordinary'?" he asked, feigning innocent interest but failing to disguise the slight quaking of uncertainty, of fear.
"Oh, don't be dull, John!" Sherlock chided, maintaining intense eye contact. "You know just as well as I do." He considered his words as he spun away with a flourish and slouched into his favored armchair. "Perhaps – in this instance only – better than I do," he mused to himself, then with a warning look to John: "Don't get used to it."
John sighed. His steps to the kitchen were heavier than they'd been on the stairs. Sherlock heard the telltale sounds John setting the kettle to boil.
He was surprised when the doctor emerged from the kitchen sans mugs and deposited himself on the edge of his customary seat.
"Alright then," John directed the gaze of his deep blue eyes flecked with emerald at Sherlock.
When did his eye color change? Sherlock wondered as he observed the green glint now present. He thought he'd noticed something similar once before. Interesting.
Sherlock quirked his eyebrow at John.
"Let's have it then." John exhaled deeply through his nose and straightened his posture.
This is the soldier, not the doctor. Sherlock observed the set of his shoulders, his rigid back, hands placed palm down on his knees - a position that allowed for instant action. Sitting at attention. He recognized it as one of John's coping mechanisms – finding solace in protocol, drawing strength from ritual and regulation even in the civilian world.
"You should be dead." Sherlock's voice rang with the thrill of a true puzzle.
John's flinch was admirably contained. But, sitting as he was across from Sherlock Holmes, it hadn't gone unnoticed. Besides, those candid reactions to unexpected (but feared) statements of fact were the precise reason Sherlock chose to be so blunt. The surprised responses of humanity were treasure-troves of data to be collected.
"I'm not." John stated. He hadn't missed a beat. Not a denial, Sherlock noted.
"Uncanny, that." Sherlock replied, fighting a grin. How he relished an entertaining conversational partner!
John swallowed, tongue tasting his lips. Sherlock knew it as one of his tells.
"I'm not sure I understand." John prevaricated.
Sherlock could have groaned. "I hate repeating myself, John," he complained.
"Sorry, have you repeated yourself?" John quirked his head to the side. Meant to seem confused, but actually challenging me, Sherlock deconstructed the motion.
"Don't be dull." Sherlock's voice neatly walked the tightrope between frustration and petulance. He suppressed an urge to roll his eyes.
The kettle clicked off in the kitchen. John did not get up.
"I don't know what you want me to say, Sherlock." John reasoned. "I'm quite clearly Not Dead."
"Obviously." Sherlock did roll his eyes. It was hard to tell when John was being purposefully obtuse and when he actually couldn't see what Sherlock was getting at. "But you should be."
John had just parted his lips to respond when Sherlock barreled on, giving no openings for further attempts at deflection. "The amount of blood you left here yesterday evening was significant, John. When I returned to tell you about the jade pin, I encountered a rather gruesome tableau," Sherlock's countenance unexpectedly shifted. The downturn of his brow reflected the confusion, rage, sorrow – hurt – he had experienced when he thought he'd lost John.
John's posture stiffened, then softened at the rare expression of humanity from Sherlock.
Sherlock took a deep breath and began again, choosing to ignore John's response to his unfortunate exposure of weakness. "They surprised you in the flat. You opened the door willingly – perhaps expecting a delivery order given you were on a date and there was no eligible dining fare in the flat – yet managed to put up a fight with the first assailant, though you missed his partner waiting on the stairs. While you were occupied, the second man grabbed the unopened Pinot Grigio from the table as you grappled with the first assailant and Sarah stood worthlessly in the corner."
John had been watching Sherlock with his usual open admiration until that last bit. "Leave off her," he warned, "She had a hard night and performed admirably."
"Admirably, John?" Sherlock scoffed. "She would have had a clear line of sight to the second assailant as he snuck up behind to bash your head in, yet failed to warn or otherwise aid you in any way."
John rubbed his forehead and slouched over in his chair. "She's a GP at a local clinic, Sherlock, not some judo expert or vigilante in her spare time!"
"Hmm," Sherlock sniffed, condescending. "In addition to the ineptitude of Dr. Sawyer," he continued, unable to resist one more jab, "one other conclusion was quite inescapable based on the evidence."
John licked his lips in the silence that followed. "Oh?" He prompted when it seemed clear Sherlock would not continue on his own.
"The blood, John." He stressed. "There was far too much of it for only one injured party. You should have died last night or barring that be severely weakened, possibly comatose." Sherlock's mouth twisted with displeasure.
"Yeah," John snarked, "Sorry to disappoint." He stood and turned to restart his tea-making rituals.
Sherlock blinked, then leapt from his chair with a smirk to follow John into the kitchen. "Oh, how could I be disappointed with that, John? I'm fascinated."
John's posture stiffened and froze for a moment before he continued his movements, rubbing a hand absently across the thigh of his leg with the psychosomatic limp.
"Yes, at least this time you don't seem to have picked up any lasting psychosomatic damage, Captain Watson." Sherlock tested his hypothesis about John's war injury like tossing out conversational bait. He heard John come to a complete stop in the kitchen and waited for him to reappear from his hiding place behind the cupboard.
"No, Sherlock." John's face was stern – jaw set, brow lowered – but his eyes were too large, belying his fright. Hit a nerve then, Sherlock applauded himself for his insight.
"Am I wrong?" Sherlock searched his expression for deception, for confirmation.
John didn't answer for some time, seemingly contemplating a safe response.
"Am I wrong?" Sherlock asked, more urgently, arms clasped tightly behind his back as he attempted to restrain himself.
"No." It came out as a choked whisper. The admission seemed to cost John something. He diverted his eyes and grasped the frame of the kitchen's entrance.
"Ha!" Sherlock laughed, jumping onto the couch, "I knew it – John, that's fantastic!" He twirled about on the cushions, stopping only when he registered John's body language. "What?" he asked as John eyed him skeptically.
"That's not what people usually say." John allowed himself a small smile, seeming surprised by his reaction as he recalled a conversation in the back of a taxi on the way to their first crime scene together.
Sherlock smiled back – the honest smile reserved for John and Mrs. Hudson – "What do people usually say?" He played along, picking up on John's rhetorical game.
John sighed, "I wish it was only 'piss off'." John recalled the necessity of his flight from the Wizarding World, and rubbed at the place where a lightning bolt scar had once marked him as different for everyone to see.
Sherlock didn't speak, looking hesitant for once.
"It's usually something along the lines of 'Freak,' followed by fear or threat of experimentation." He looked at Sherlock, searching for rejection. "No experiments." He warned, and turned back again to his tea.
"But John!" Sherlock cried, "How can you expect -"
"Try exerting some self-control." John suggested, cutting him off as he poured hot water into two mugs.
Sherlock scoffed. "Self control is boring."
"I'm serious, Sherlock," John warned, all warmth gone from his tone. "I'm not a guinea pig."
"Of course you aren't," Sherlock agreed, sounding nearly affronted.
John blinked, deflating a bit as his anxiety subsided. "Right." John swallowed a bit. "So, no experiments, then," he confirmed.
Sherlock tilted his chin down in contemplation. "Mmm," he mused, mumbling into the steepled fingertips against his lips. He turned quickly back around "Perhaps not the types of experiments you mean. But certainly naturalistic observation in the name of science should be acceptable."
"In the name of…" John muttered and trailed off. "This is serious, Sherlock. I don't want to be - can't be in some write up on your blog! Do you know what that would do to my life?" He shouted. Angry, hurt, afraid, Sherlock catalogued, disappointed in John's lack of trust.
"Are you being purposefully stupid today, John?" Sherlock chided. "If I documented my observations of you in my blog, either no one would believe me and I would lose credibility, or the wrong sorts of people would believe me and then you would most certainly become a freak under a microscope in some secret lab somewhere." It was obvious to him this would be an unacceptable outcome. Sherlock had grown accustomed to his flatmate and assistant. He could hardly imagine life without this endlessly intriguing old army doctor. No, Sherlock would not betray John's secrets. He'd guard them more jealously than the man himself, if it would keep him safe.
John gave a shudder and tried to turn from Sherlock's intense scrutiny. He nearly did flinch when those pale eyes widened with sudden realization as he'd seen so many times before when the detective had made a connection.
"Why doesn't my brother have you under a microscope, John?" Sherlock asked, only to shush him with a hand motion when John opened his mouth to reply. "Save the lie. Tedious. There's more to you than this…particular quirk…isn't there, John?" His voice was low and melodic, thick with anticipation of discovering the deeper puzzle.
John turned away and pressed his lips together in a tight line, as he leaned against the countertop.
"Why does my brother feel he owes you favors?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he contemplated the shift of muscles in John's back and shoulders, clearly indicating discomfort. He was right; there was a connection between Mycroft's preferential treatment of John and John's…quirks.
John sighed, releasing some of the tension, but remained facing away from Sherlock. "I can't tell you that," he sounded defeated and spoke to the countertop covered in the necessaries of tea preparation instead.
"Wrong." Sherlock corrected him.
John turned, eyes suddenly greener than they'd been before – almost luminescent. "Right. If you can deduce it, fine," John ground out through a tensed-again jaw. "But I can't tell you. Please accept that. I can't help that your brother was already in the know."
John stood like a man who would fight to maintain his ground. He would not give up on this point. But he had left Sherlock an alternative. All he had to do was deduce it.
"Fascinating!" Sherlock hissed, mind expanding with possibilities and the thrill of their new game. He turned immediately and plucked up his violin from where he'd left it in the sitting room, beginning to saw away again with no apparent melody in mind.
John sighed and picked up two now-ready mugs of tea from the counter, depositing one on the table nearest the detective – even though he suspected it would go ignored – and returning to the relative shelter of the kitchen to cradle his own between his hands. Life in 221 B was certainly a rollercoaster. Even so, a smile tugged ever so subtly at his lips as he sipped his tea and contemplated his bizarre friendship with his flat-mate. He'd known Sherlock would figure out his secrets in time, and was surprised to realize his good mood - though temporarily disrupted - had not dissipated with Sherlock's deductions. He tried not to chuckle as Sherlock paced in the other room, now producing wild-sounding music similar to some hungarian dances John had once heard, with a scowl on his face.
Without a doubt Sherlock Holmes would pick apart John's secrets. And for once, John was not afraid they would scare him away.