**Maybe you should reread the last chapter before because this is the development of that same scene...?**
Summary oh the chapter:
"Victor Trevor seemed to fit enough. He fitted Sherlock's expensive suits, his public school accent. He even woke up in the middle of the night to answer Sherlock's calls.
They could be boyfriends, for all John knew."
CHAPTER 21
John sat on the couch trying to be there, but he was reeling.
His mind only knew two things.
First and most important, Sherlock had brought back John's belongings – and, okay, maybe they weren't John's anymore, but well. And what did that mean?
Sherlock had kept all that furniture, had probably put it in storage or something. He could have thrown it all away, yet he hadn't. Was he trying to comfort John? It sounded silly, but deep down John knew it was the approach Sherlock would choose. And if it was really that...
What did it mean?
John stole furtive glances at Sherlock. He didn't want to miss any small gesture, because some of them – or maybe all of them combined – might make John finally understand why. And especially why now.
John turned his head to look at the man sitting on his armchair – and Jesus, didn't that make him an enemy on principle?
John had never seen someone look so inside his element around Sherlock. And although he was not really listening intently to anything that what was being said, he was vaguely aware that the guy was a family friend, had known Sherlock all his life – and John was pretty sure those were the actual words that he had heard not over half an hour ago.
John felt like he had been sitting there for at least five years.
He tried to look at the man objectively.
He wore a bespoke, stylish three-piece suit, and his expensive cologne made him a strong presence in the room. He had an easy grin that seemed almost out of place for John, and the most startling blue eyes John had ever seen.
The guy's eyes – Victor Trevor's eyes, John's brain finally caught up – were open and warm.
Although John already disliked him for reasons he could barely understand, some rational part of him argued that Victor didn't show any signs of being a threat.
Threat to what exactly? John asked himself not for the first time since he had sat down on Sherlock's couch – was it now their couch again?
He tried to analyse the scene in front of him, and the only thing John could conclude was that those two men were close. Victor's attention seemed entirely focused on Sherlock, and all the jokes that he made where clearly meant to be fond, not hurtful, which was very different from what John was used to. People tended to lash out at Sherlock, paying his harshness evenly.
Where the hell had John been that Sherlock had got himself a new old friend and John hadn't even noticed? Since when had they been this close? Had Victor always been there while John and Sherlock lived together, had Sherlock escaped to see his friend?
Had they been communicating online, had they texted each other three years ago?
John was suddenly angry with himself for not paying enough attention to what Sherlock and Victor had been saying in the living room. Victor had probably talked about it. Sherlock, though, wouldn't be arsed to let John know anything.
But when it came down to it, it didn't really matter how they had kept in touch all those years ago. John had at least the guts to admit to himself that the only thing that bloody mattered was if they had kept in touch in the past two years. And he was sure that this information had not been brought up at all.
John wished he could have been angry about his suspicion, but he felt drained, mostly sad. He looked at both men in front of him and tried very hard not to let his mind wander into guessing territory. He would never be able to deduce their relationship, and how unfair was that?
He gathered all his strength to brush aside thoughts of Sherlock and Victor in touch while Sherlock travelled through Europe bringing down Moriarty's network. He didn't want to think about Sherlock visiting Victor in Paris ('I had been living in Paris for the last five years,' this John had heard Victor say; 'I probably should thank Sherlock for that, he was the one who almost bullied me into learning French').
Looking down at his hands, John noticed they had curled into tight fists. It was a fair physical reaction to the shit his brain had come up with. He took a deep breath and looked back at Sherlock and Victor. The lawyer was looking at Sherlock fondly for reasons John chose not to dwell on.
("I'm just another boring lawyer."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, please, Victor, modesty has never suited you."
"True," Victor grinned at the detective. "I am just another one of those absolutely brilliant lawyers.")
John cleared his throat and knew even before he had refocused his eyes that the sound had been aggressive in the living room. What was he even still doing there? He tried not to wince at the look Sherlock was giving him.
He was probably reading all John's awkwardness in the line of his shoulders. John knew then that Sherlock would know absolutely everything John had just thought and John felt himself go weak with embarrassment –
God, if this day could just end!
He smiled at Victor politely, trying to hide the resentment that growing inside him. The fact that he was sitting in John's chair only made it harder.
"Pearson was never right in the head," Trevor was saying.
Oh. Had Sherlock told him about their case, then? And had it been their case? John didn't know.
His surprise must have shown in his face because Sherlock spoke up.
"Victor was Michael's friend at Eton and Oxford."
Of course he was.
"Friend is a bit of a stretch," Victor raised one imperious eyebrow at Sherlock. He did it with a graciousness that John had only seen in one man before. "But yes, John, it was me. One day someone –" Victor paused, looking pointedly at Sherlock. "Someone wakes me up at one a.m. expecting me to just jump right in and tell him at once everything I know about Michael Pearson, Charles Mills and Margaret Smith's relationship," he mimicked Sherlock's voice when in the middle of a case.
It was a fairly good impression, if John was being honest with himself.
Sherlock rolled his eyes at Victor. "Well, it is John's fault. He spoiled me," his lips quirked up.
John did not confirm nor deny that information.
"You were always a spoiled brat," Victor laughed at him. "It just got really extreme."
And even if he didn't want it to happen, John snorted. Victor did have a point.
"As I said, it is your fault," Sherlock said again, directly to John. As if this weren't the closest to some sort of declaration he had ever come to, at least in front of other people. "You always take my calls," Sherlock smiled lightly at him.
"Yes, I do," John gave in, shrugging. He felt spooked by the memory of Sebastian, the obnoxious banker and of being used as a trophy by Sherlock back then.
It crushed him that this could be the same thing. Was John just something Sherlock paraded when it suited him to show other people that he was capable of maintaining an acquaintance?
And was he? John asked himself bitterly. Or was John just the most stupid human being on planet Earth?
Victor had got a strange look on his face while watching John and Sherlock's exchange. His eyes went a bit unfocused as if he were thinking hard about something important.
Victor smiled at Sherlock, but John thought his eyes had something sad in them. "You are two of a kind."
John was utterly surprised by how badly he wanted to punch Victor right then. What did that look mean? Was it pity?
Before he could understand it, Victor jumped out of his seat.
"Well, let's get going, shall we?" He said brightly, grabbing his coat from the back of John's chair. "I'm ravenous."
Sherlock stood, buttoning his jacket and checking himself in the mirror as the vain git he was.
As if he needed it.
It took a moment for John to acknowledge what was happening in front of him. Victor was taking Sherlock out to dinner.
And where had John been all this time that he hadn't known –
But he refused to let his face show how shocked he was. Because that was Sherlock's life and the detective was a grown man, he could bloody well do whatever he wanted, as long as he was safe.
John held his shoulders especially high and watched while Sherlock and Victor got ready to go out. It anguished John, but relieved him in equal measure. He couldn't wait to be alone. He couldn't wait to have the time to make sense of all this. There he was again, an hour later and still spinning out of control.
"John!" Sherlock said, startling him.
John sighed. Fuck, he really wanted this sodding day to end.
"What?" John said, barely looking up from where his eyes had been glued to the coffee table, watching the movement Victor's feet on their carpet from the corner of his eyes.
Sherlock's carpet.
Mrs Hudson's carpet. The Queen's carpet...
It didn't make any difference!
"What?" He asked again when it took Sherlock too long answer.
The detective watched John like a hawk.
John was torn between a strange kind of relief it brought to him and the unnerving feeling that Sherlock would see exactly how pathetic John was being.
How petty, how broken, how... jealous.
And, shit, this wasn't the time for admissions of that kind.
"Aren't you coming?" Sherlock asked him, searchingly.
"Of course, you are very welcome to join us, John!" Victor smiled at him. John was angry to notice how sincere he sounded. "Good god, I miss Angelo," Victor groaned, grabbing his case.
And John was not thinking about how Angelo was Sherlock and John's thing, he wasn't. He also wasn't thinking about how much of a fucking idiot he was. It was a sodding restaurant for Christ's sake, not a sanctuary. Angelo had other costumers.
Sherlock had other friends.
Aren't you coming?
There wasn't a chance in hell that he was stepping into Angelo's in a party of three.
"Uh- No," he declined, not explaining further. He honestly didn't think they would mind that much.
"Could you wait here a moment?" John asked, out of blue, startling Sherlock and Victor. Victor frowned, but Sherlock just nodded.
John turned to the detective. "Phone," he said.
If Sherlock had been surprised by the request, he didn't show it before picking his phone from his pocket and placing it carefully in John's hand.
John's phone was still down, but he'd be damned if he would just let Sherlock walk out of Baker Street in the company of a man John had never seen before.
John unlocked the screen – Sherlock had never bothered to change his passcode.
It's John. Victor Trevor...?, John typed. He knew Mycroft wouldn't need more than that.
The reply came in less then a full minute.
It's a friend. The background checked clean. All clear.
John could have typed back asking for detail on Sherlock, but he knew Mycroft would have his little brother covered.
John handed Sherlock his phone back.
"Thanks," Sherlock cleared his throat, awkward and full of something else John was too tired to think about.
"No problem," John replied.
Always, he wanted to reply. Because that was it, really. It didn't matter the circumstances, John would always have his back.
Victor smiled at John as if he knew what John was thinking. Well, maybe he did.
In that moment, not going out to dinner with them was for Sherlock's benefit. He deserved to go out, to step out of their throat-clogging relationship, their life-threatening routine.
Goodbyes exchanged and Victor already walking down the stairs, Sherlock stopped on his way out of the door, turning back to look at John.
He had this look on his face, and it made John sick because he was sure Sherlock knew. He knew how pitiful John was.
"Are you sure –"
"Absolutely," John said, coldly. "Have to call Mary. She is coming back in the next few days," he lied.
And for the life of him, he had absolutely no idea where that had come from.
"Oh," Sherlock frowned. And John could see that Sherlock was surprised. He was probably asking himself how he had missed that information in the wrinkles of John's jacket or something.
John hated that Sherlock was not his normal cunning self then, that he just stood there looking like he had been slapped – a look that John would know, because he had seen Sherlock be slapped more times than he cared to remember at that moment.
"Goodbye, Sherlock," John said, climbing up the stairs to his room without waiting to see Sherlock leave.
After taking a shower and putting on his pyjamas, John went to the kitchen to fix something to eat. He was starving, but couldn't be bothered to call for food or – god forbid – go out to eat alone. He decided that toast and beans would have to do and set himself on preparing a strong cup of tea to go along with his meagre dinner.
Finally being able to turn on his phone, John wasn't surprised by the amount of missed calls he had. Mary had left him five voice mails and a dozen texts, although she was not answering any of his calls now. It was frustrating how they kept missing each other. He tried to tell himself that it wasn't his fault, but it was not an easy task.
The truth was that it had just slipped his mind that he had someone else to answer to these days. And what kind of fiancé did that make him?
John sighed, bringing his dinner to the living room. He stopped abruptly, looking warily at his armchair.
He was a bloody idiot. After all those weeks of whining about it, right now it felt almost alien for him to sit there.
He turned back to the kitchen, sitting at the table to eat. It would have been too uncomfortable to eat in the living room anyway, John told himself. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that being in his armchair without Sherlock across from him would be worse than not having his armchair back at all.
His mind kept going back to the memory of Sherlock and Victor going out to dinner together and of how utterly devastated John had felt.
It was just another facet in his constant instability around the detective, John supposed. Just one more thing he had to keep buried deep down. It was not the first time that the thought of his insides trying to drown him seemed like a good metaphor for his life.
It was tiring, to say the least, to be bound to watch himself all the time, to keep pressure on his wounds so his guts didn't spill all over his feet.
From the moment he had woken up – all fuzzy and warm because of that dream – things had only gone south.
He hated that. Hated how out of control he felt. He had loved how content he felt in his dream; it was painfully opposite to how hollow he felt chewing mechanically in their kitchen. The reality was not as smooth and happy as his idiotic dream haze made him feel.
As if the death threats, being back at Baker Street, and forgetting Mary when they were just months from their wedding weren't enough, now there was this Victor bloke, showing up out of nowhere, fitting in Sherlock's living room as if he had always been there.
Would Victor be Sherlock's next flatmate? Not that he needed one, of course. He could probably buy the whole building if Mrs Hudson were up to selling it.
But then again, Sherlock himself had never needed to share the rent. John had figured that out alone. There was just no way William Sherlock Scott Holmes could not afford 221B by himself. For some reason – and John had never figured it out – he had preferred to have John's company.
Well, but that was the past. He could share the flat with whomever he pleased these days. And wasn't that wonderful?
John gave up trying to eat the toast. They felt like barbed wire in his throat. He grabbed his cup of tea and stepped bravely into the living room.
He would sit in his damn chair, thank you very much.
He turned on the TV, but kept the volume down. A little moan escaped his mouth. He loved that chair, it was a bit worrisome how much.
John closed his eyes. He would just pretend he wasn't bothered by the emptiness of the armchair across from him and he would be fine.
"Woo hoo!" A familiar voice called from the kitchen. Mrs Hudson hadn't bothered to knock, and John was glad for it.
"Good evening, Mrs Hudson!" He called from the living room.
"There you are," she said, pleasantly, from the kitchen. "What are you doing glooming in there?" She asked. By the sound of it, she was stocking Sherlock's fridge. John heard her tutting. "Are these ears? Honestly, you boys –"
"Not my fault," John laughed.
Mrs Hudson finally came to the living room to greet John properly. She turned on the light and looked around the living room and beamed down at him. "That's much better," she patted him on the shoulder. And John didn't need to ask her what was better, because he knew and he agreed wholeheartedly. That was much, much better.
"Is he working?" She asked, sitting on Sherlock's armchair. John suspected she was the only one with clearance to do that.
"No, he went out to dinner," John answered. With a friend, he could have said, but didn't.
"Oh," Mrs Hudson said. "With Victor?" She asked eagerly. Her eyes had something mischievous in them.
John winced inwardly. Mrs Hudson was on first name basis with Victor.
"Yes, with Victor," John nodded, trying to pretend it didn't feel awkward for him to be talking about that. He wanted to ask her a billion things about Victor. Since when was he a regular at Baker Street?
Did he – oh god – Did he spend the night?
"It's good for him to have a friend right now," Mrs Hudson said, if a bit sadly.
"It's always good to have a friend," John conceded. It was good for Sherlock, John knew that, he knew he was being extremely unfair to the whole situation. He just couldn't stop behaving defensively.
"Yes, that too," Mrs Hudson sighed. "But he will need one now, John, what with the marriage and everything. It's been hard on him."
John frowned. "Marriage?"
Mrs Hudson giggled. "Your marriage, John! Have you forgotten?" She shook his head at him, as if he were a helpless case.
John did feel like one.
"What does my marriage have to do with it?" He asked, harshly. Sherlock was off to have dinner with some bloke and suddenly it was John's fault?
"Well, you moved on," Mrs Hudson tutted at him. "And he was gracious about it, but don't let it fool you for a second, it has not been easy for him." She sighed heavily, looking at John in a way that conveyed all her life experience. "It changes things, marriage. You think you will do the same things and be the same person, but you won't. In a heartbeat everything else is left behind."
John refused to agree. It wouldn't be like that. Sherlock and him had overcome a shit ton of things, marriage was nothing compared to that.
Of course, they were just a ghost of what they had been in those good old days, but still –
"Isn't that a bit dramatic?" He retorted. "People get married all the time and don't lose their friends. We'll be fine."
Sherlock was fine. He was perfect, he was having a night out, having fun with his new friend.
"Oh, dear, I don't think other people have the relationship you two have, now, do they? I lost my best friend after my wedding. She left the party early, I never saw her again," Mrs Hudson smiled sadly. "And it's worse for him, you know how he is. You know how he loves you, really. And now you are marrying someone else, John. He is hurting, I hope you can give him some time to heal."
Mrs Hudson had never in her life made so little sense, John was sure of that. She had read too many Austen novels, had watched too many soppy movies.
"Sherlock and I have never dated, Mrs Hudson," John told her, tiredly. For as long as he lived, he would be having this conversation with her.
"Of course not," she scoffed. "You were married."
They were what now?
John was stunned into silence by that. What the actual fuck.
He opened his mouth to retort, but she just pointed around her at the living room, at his armchair, his desk.
Apparently she thought that it made some sort of point. It did not. It really did not.
"Look, Mrs Hudson," he started, deciding it was better to just leave it because he was getting dizzy. "Sherlock is fine, he went out to dinner. His friend seems a good bloke, they have been friends for forever, apparently," John said, trying not to sound resentful. "Everything is fine," he repeated.
It's all fine.
Things were going to be damn fine, John would make sure of it. If only Mrs Hudson stopped talking nonsense at him.
"I hope so, dear," she smiled kindly at him. "How are the wedding plans?"
It took a few seconds for John to understand that question.
Mrs Hudson couldn't possibly understand the mess John's head was at that moment, so he didn't even consider telling her about it.
"Great," he said, going for an excitement he obviously didn't have in him.
God, he was just so damn tired of everything.
"Well, I think I am going to bed, if you don't mind," he said rather abruptly, standing up and taking his half-finished mug to the kitchen.
"Oh, of course, you must be tired. How was work?" She asked, standing up too.
John smiled at her. It was always nice to have someone take an interest in his day. Sherlock would never ask something as mundane as this.
"It was quiet," he answered.
Boring, a voice too much like Sherlock's supplied in his head.
"Good," she came up to him and patted his cheek. "Get some rest, John, you look like you need it."
John held himself against the will to lean into the touch and hug Mrs Hudson for dear life. He was more than forty years old, it was too late to be needing a motherly cuddle.
His life was a fucking roller-coaster, yes. But he had to put some sense in it. He had to stop spinning like a bottle at a teenage party and get a hold of himself.
After Mrs Hudson left, John intended to turn off the lights and head to bed, but for a moment he just stood there staring blankly into the room. He rested his back on the wall behind him and sighed, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes.
God, he loved this place. It didn't matter how many hideous things it made him remember – finding a head in the fridge, bullet holes on the walls, facing an empty armchair – they would never erase the good memories he had of it – patching up Sherlock, laughing at Sherlock while he shouted at the TV, searching Sherlock's hair for shards of glass after an experiment gone wrong that ended up in a minor explosion.
And okay, maybe Mrs Hudson had made some bit of sense when she identified what Sherlock and he had had all those years ago as a marriage. He supposed it had been a bit like that.
They had shared many things. Hell, they had shared almost everything, from bank accounts to meals, from the couch to a cupboard once. John snorted remembering that case. Trust Sherlock to find it reasonable to hide for five hours in a sodding cupboard plastered to his side, of course. They were bloody ridiculous.
They were two of a kind, as Victor had so enigmatically put it.
They had been, John was sure. It made him desperate how much he wanted that surety back.
Victor Trevor seemed to fit enough. He fitted Sherlock's expensive suits, his public school accent. He even woke up in the middle of the night to answer Sherlock's calls.
They could be boyfriends, for all John knew.
And didn't it make an awful amount of sense? Just because John himself had never dated Sherlock, it didn't mean other people wouldn't. Molly was dying to do it, never mind the boyfriend she had now. The Woman, she had been close to – no, not really. John could not picture Irene and dating in any universe.
Just because Sherlock had never dated John – and they had never, not that John had ever, ever let himself dwell on it because fucking Christ he didn't need that kind of pain in his life, please – it didn't mean he wouldn't want to date other people.
Why wouldn't he date rich, smart, easy going, one hundred percent clean of war wounds Victor Trevor?
And why would anyone not date Sherlock?
John was kidding himself. He could think of a hundred reasons why most people in their right minds would never date Sherlock Holmes.
But then again, maybe Victor wasn't most people.
And John... Well, John simply didn't matter.
The sound of a key in the lock snapped John out of his thoughts.
He stayed there, leaning dumbly on the wall, watching as Sherlock walked inside and hung his coat and scarf. He looked at John and frowned.
"All right?" He asked, unsure.
"Yes," John cleared his throat, straightening his back and stepping away from the wall. It was so damn good to see Sherlock again, never mind he had left less than two hours ago. "You are back early," he tried to say it lightly. He was sure he had succeeded, but then this was Sherlock Holmes, the most observant man in the world.
"Ah, well, it's Friday, there are too many people out," Sherlock made a face, turning his back and going to the kitchen.
"What's in the bag?" John asked, noticing Sherlock was carrying a plastic bag.
"Have you eaten?" Sherlock asked, without paying any attention to John's question.
"Yes," John said defensively, because he didn't want to admit he had felt too drained to go out.
"No, you haven't," Sherlock said, but it didn't sound harsh, just amused. John looked up at him and the detective pointed at the plate with unfinished toasts and the mug of tea on the counter.
"What's in the bag?" John asked again.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Dinner, obviously," he said distractedly while walking up and about the kitchen, grabbing a plate and a fork and – god – was that a bottle of wine?
"You just went out to dinner," John smiled at him.
"This isn't for me," he said, while setting the plate. "Angelo insisted, you know how he is."
Sherlock hadn't just brought John's dinner, he had brought John's favourite ravioli. The ravioli John had not eaten in ages because it was something only Angelo could make and John would never set foot in that restaurant without Sherlock.
John tried not to moan at the sight of the dish, but his mouth watered.
Sherlock handed John his plate and his glass of wine. He had an almost boyish smile on his face. It was such an unusual look on him, and at the same time it was one of the most beautiful things John had seen in his life.
Fucking hell, what was he even thinking.
"Thank you," he said. For not lashing out about how incredibly stupid I am, he thought.
Before he could sit at the kitchen table, Sherlock interrupted him with a hand on his shoulder.
"No," he said, a bit louder than necessary. He took away his hand, but John could still the ghost of it on him. "I thought –" he cleared his throat and took a deep breath. John couldn't look away, Sherlock seemed so unlike himself. "How do you feel about the violin?"
John grinned at him.
John felt ecstatic about it, actually.
He grabbed his plate and his glass of wine, and they went to the living room. Sherlock walked straight to where his sheet music and the violin stood and started preparing himself.
John was transfixed by it; his heart pounded loudly on in his chest. He thought hysterically that if it beat any louder, Sherlock surely would be able to hear it.
He sat on his armchair then and it felt right. Finally. After a day of things seeming out of place, he was finally where he should be. He could feel it in his bones.
And it wasn't about the chair, not really. The dim light and the taste of the wine on his tongue gave John enough courage to admit that home had less to do with the furniture and more to do with being across from the very man in front of him.
And he was some sight, John though, letting the wine mollify him.
Sherlock took off his shoes and his jacket, which he threw on his armchair. He rolled up his shirt's sleeves to his elbows and popped open his first buttons, showing the white expanse of his neck.
He could be a model for a painter, John thought idiotically. He was so –
Beautiful, his mind prompted.
Beautiful, John supposed. It was simple as that. The sight of him playing his violin with his eyes closed and his lips parted softly was just about one of the most erotic things John had ever seen.
John rested his head back on the chair and forgot everything else, including his food.
And if his mouth went a bit too dry, well... He was blaming it on the wine.
Notes:
Ok, so I am very tired of apologizing all the time for how lame I am and how I can't even update this properly.
I have been a mess lately, depression got the better of me.
What have you all been up to?
I've been working, staring at walls and jogging to produce endorphins. Trying not to get crazy and all that. Wish me luck.
Thank you all for the support, you guys are really amazing.
I am sorry for being the worst at multichapter fanfics.