Warning - mostly unnecessary bit of sexy fantasy times ahead. All of the chapters titled In Somnio, in fact. The bit at the start, and tiny bit at the end. Mature audiences only, please.
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Sherlock arched his back, stretching with a groan of relief. His flat in Holloway was littered with boxes awaiting the removers at the end of the month. He'd quite miss it - a little bit down at heel, with an edge that offended Mycroft. Sherlock had got the skull print from a nearby street artist for whom he'd done a small favour.
One its best points of the area was that he could receive dubious visitors of all descriptions without anyone taking note - like Amy, who'd come by early this morning. The news she'd brought had been interesting. Disturbing. Since she'd left, he'd been on the sofa with his laptop precariously balanced on a stack of boxes, combing the Internet for information about John.
John Watson.
Amy had sat in a chair she'd dragged in from his destroyed kitchen ('Someone get tetchy with you, Mr. Holmes?') with a mug of coffee. Basic pleasantries completed, he'd impatiently glowered at her. She'd grinned at his expression, and started her report. Sherlock sat on the sofa, elbows resting on knees, leaning forward. At last.
"First off, your man is half a lunatic. Didn't figure him for it at first. Okay. First he goes to St. Paul's, spends about two hours there. He comes out, and walks around some more. Goes past Bart's, then visits the Museum of London. That took another two hours. I thought you said he was an ex-soldier - I mean, what's the walking stick for? He limps a little, but he just keeps going."
Sherlock pondered this, hands folded under his chin. The limp and walking stick were symptomatic then, but not of an injury. Something deeper, most likely psychosomatic. He said nothing, so she continued.
"And he never looks where he walks, does he? Started crossing roads just before the lights changed - twice! Never turns his head to the side. So, he's wandering, playing tourist. Killing time, looked like to me. He has dinner at a curry place, then gets a bus towards Somerset House, and then down to Brixton. Brixton! Jonesy did the tailing there. Your man John starts walking, it's like he's on a bloody holiday looking for the worst places, the darkest spots, his coat open, wallet in his back pocket. I mean - Somerleyton Estate? Gang territory? Does he have a death wish?"
"Killing time, indeed, " murmured Sherlock. There was a twisting feeling inside his chest. He wasn't sure whether it was from his atrophied conscience or from excitement. John - is... indescribable.
"Oh, and by the way, next time you want us to follow someone, let us know he's possible a violent nutter, won't you? He scared the piss out of Jonesy by turning round on him. Jonesy thought he was going to be clubbed down. Your man seemed to think he was after his wallet and phone, and didn't look much troubled at the idea. Jonesy backed off, fast. Scared him." Amy looks aggrieved.
Sherlock got up and began pacing. "Jonesy got too close. Idiot. Do you have anything concrete for me?"
Amy reached into her padded jacket and pulled out a slip of paper. "Name and address. Everton got this to me this morning. He lives in Streatham Hill. John Watson."
Sherlock took the paper. Are his fingers trembling slightly? Ridiculous. Amy stood, and he walked her to the door, seeing her off with another monetary reward and instructions to continue the surveillance. He wanted all of John's habits, his patterns - Sherlock needs information to sift and parse and know. He closed the door, rested his forehead and palms against it for a moment, then pushed off wildly, spinning around, grinning.
Yes. Yes.John Watson!
He clapped his hands together and tapped them against his lips, pacing back and forth. This was wonderful information, just what he needed.
/ superfluous cane / intermittent limp / ex-soldier / needs excitement / to forget? / feel alive? / unafraid of dangerous situations / Oh John / You must be so BORED / You are perfect
Sherlock twisted round, eyes darting over the packing boxes. He delved into a box labelled 'medication', pulled out his box of nicotine patches and pushed up his sleeve. There. Pleased expression still lingering on his face, he began to pace through the stacked boxes, meditating.
He'd been right - as an assistant, John would be perfect. Oh, how Sherlock wants to -!
John had mentioned the gap left in his life when he'd come home, the lack of... what had he said? Colour. Sherlock could help - he was going to save John Watson from ennui. How alike we are.Of course, there was the disturbing trend of John's patterns of self-destructive behaviour. Visiting the worst council estates in London, picking fights and jumping into traffic...
God, look at the insane fearlessness of the man. What a waste!
If that wasn't John's way of writing an open letter to the world, saying, "Just take your best shot, finish me if you can," then Sherlock was no student of behaviour. These suicidal tendencies had to stop, and what better way, what safer way to lessen them yet still fulfil John's need for excitement than by joining Sherlock...
He won't. He's not going to want to meet you. He wants to forget you.
Sherlock abruptly halted, chest tight. John... John. Well. Things were just about as bad as they could be, between John and himself. Between 'Hardwin and Hugh'. Swearing under his breath, Sherlock walked faster, as if to outpace his stupidity, brushing against stacks of boxes and causing them to sway with the turbulence of his passage. You have no idea what John will do if you suddenly show up. No - wrong. You do know. Amy told you what happened with Jonesy.
Chance of potential violence perpetrated upon one Sherlock Holmes by one John Watson? High. John looked quite fit, for a 'medical discharge.' It was going to hurt, when they met. Sherlock bit his lip thoughtfully, picturing that compact figure coiling up for the blow. Yes, well. He'd admit it - he deserved to be knocked down. If it relieved John's feelings, he would endure it. He would do much to re-connect with John. But any overt attempts to contact John would likely be completely rebuffed. John would never stay with him. How - ?
Data. He toed several boxes towards the sofa and placed his laptop on top. First search string. Sherlock muttered the words aloud. It felt natural - speaking to John. "John Watson. Army. Let's see you, John."
Simplicity.Worlds could be moved, with the application of the correct data and a consulting detective at one end. One of the top results had been the blog of one John Watson. His eyes hungrily skimmed, finger scrolling and tapping through comments and entries. Very few, as it turned out.
"Doctor Watson. God, John! Why couldn't you have just said -? I know. Boundaries." He read on. Recently returned from Afghanistan. Afghanistan! Sherlock groaned, and tapped his forehead with one fist. "Of course. There's always something - stupid to have assumed Iraq. Idiot!"
He took note of names - Harry Watson (Is that your brother? Harry gave you an overly complicated mobile - technophiles tend to be male. And there's this innuendo about Ella. High probability of male sibling, then). Bill Murray (He told you about Lizzy. He was trying to contact you several days before.) Ella Thompson (Aha! Your doctor - you missed your appointment. She recommended this blog? Ridiculous notion).
But of John? Nothing, barring a description of his night out with the rugby lads. Empty.
"John, where are you? This - this isn't you."
/John you are full of words / I've heard your eloquence / but there are none here / this void isn't you / you are so much more / I would like to show you / I can fill in the blanks /
Sherlock rubbed a thumb over the user picture of John. It did not sum up the man at all - the unexpectedness, the complexities of him. And yet - how to meet him? Sherlock did not wish to be rejected again. His thumb twitched, and John's face was momentarily obscured by distortion, the serious face twisting.
No, that would be... bad. How - ?
The cryptic advice Mycroft had given intruded. 'Take a new approach. It will show you how to correct the original problem.' Sherlock considered. A new approach to the original problem. The problem was that he had got John involved with his experi - with himselfunder false pretences. And yet... how to meet John without the past getting in the way? How to show John what he, Sherlock, was really like?
What was it John had flung at him at the end of their call? 'What do I really know about you? Nothing. Who are you? What's your name? Where do you live? What are your habits? What do you do?'
"John, when we meet, I promise you will have your answers," Sherlock told the user pic. "Still - I need a method of meeting you that will allow you to feel in control. Not as though I had - "
He grimaced. Tracked you down? Stalked you? Dug up all the history I could on you? That was not likely to make John feel comfortable. No... what he needed was a neutral setting. Sherlock could not approach directly. So - a third party introduction. From someone John knew? An 'accidental' meeting, to allay John's suspicion.
He needed to arrange... serendipity.
Sherlock's fingers flew again - search string: John Watson. Doctor. Hospital. Training school. Result: St. Bartholomew's Hospital, Smithfield. A browse through some networking and classmate-finding sites and he had the best possible connection that would lead him to John - Mike Stamford. Mike and John had finished the same year. Best of all, Mike was teaching three days a week at Bart's, and Sherlock knew him personally. He went back to John's blog, and touched the picture again lightly with a forefinger, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth. Risky, Very, very risky.
A small voice at the back of his mind warned him that this wasn't good, that this arrangement smacked of the same subterfuge that had poisoned his relationship with John in the first place. It's your nature, isn't it, Sherlock? You hide yourself so well, you may as well be constructed of lies. Let's not kid ourselves - you are still not being honest. You want to protect yourself.But Sherlock shoved the thought away. With such a high risk factor, he wanted to load the dice in his favour as much as possible, while still leaving John free will. If he failed, his options would narrow considerably.
"I will do my best to intrigue you, John," murmured Sherlock. "It's what you want, isn't it? The prospect of danger and excitement. To help you live completely in the world, instead of being detached. It's chancy. I hate that. But... the alternatives are less attractive. Or have lower odds. So." His brain began constructing lists, probabilities, pros and cons, scenarios, back-ups.
Within a few days, with the help of his network he would know best how to make sure that the paths of Mike Stamford and Dr. John Watson converged. Doctor. Ex-soldier. Phone sex operator. His enigma. Decision made, Sherlock stretched again, some of the pent-up tension leaving his body. He peeled the spent patch from his forearm, folded it several times and flicked it towards an open packing box.
So close, so close. He could almost hear John's voice, the low amused chuckle he made. To have the intimacy of shared thoughts again... He could scarcely wait.
"John," he said to the small face on the laptop. "Can you comprehend what I am doing for you? This may be one of the most difficult things I have ever done." Sherlock's thin face was serious but calm.
The silence in the flat was smothering. "I only hope... Well. I will show you what I am like, why I am alone. You may not like it. But I want to give you answers, give you what you need. I want to be as fascinating to you as you are to me. This will work - you and I. You'll see. I can't wait."His eyes closed, and he finally smiled, allowing himself at last to feel the anticipation. His muscles relaxed and his head fell back against the sofa.
That's... um. Lovely, Hugh.
"Not Hugh. Not for much longer, John. Please. Call me Sherlock. I am... looking forward our meeting. So much."
Well. That's good. I'd hate to see what state you would work yourself into, otherwise. Don't you ever eat?
Sherlock smiled, eyes still closed. "I've been strangely busy. Of course, you wouldn't know anything about that, would you."
Don't think I would. What have you been doing?
"Looking. Waiting. To see you."
I see you now. Listen, just so we're clear here - this is a fantasy, right?
"Of course it is, don't be ridiculous. I want to hear your voice. I'm using my memory of your speech patterns, intonation and timbre to construct a scenario whereby I can listen to you speak."
Okay. Um. Why?
"For the purpose of masturbation, John. As regards to meeting you in person, I finally have a course of action to pursue. It's been stressful, this past month. I want to relieve some tension. Ergo... "
Oh. Well. As long as you are pursuing a higher purpose then. What a mind - like a finely tuned engine.
"You're smiling. I can hear it in your voice."
I am. Open your eyes. Look at me, Sherlock. Let's begin.
Sherlock bends his intellect to the task, and in his mind's eye, he opens his eyes and lifts his head slowly. The fantasy begins.