Disclaimer: I am obviously not owning a thing.
Sherlock does keep Irene's phone as a memento. Not of the Woman herself, he certainly does not care wherever she goes from Karachi, or if she ends up getting herself and Kate murdered, someday, by being her frustrating self. No, he keeps it to remind himself of her lesson.
John is not behaving as he does because he's a natural sadist, who delights in his soulmate's agony. No, he possibly is a sweet, attentive lover (jury is still out on that, actually, he seems to go a long way to please his occasional partners, but their turnover rate speaks of some flaw the sleuth is still blind to)…Just repelled by the very idea of Sherlock being his destined companion. Truly and deeply.
Should he offer to move out? …Maybe it's his selfishness (not to speak of all his other shortcomings) that makes John despise him, because as soon as he considers the option, his very soul recoils against it. He's still rating whatever measure of comfort their cohabitation provides over his soulmate's happiness. If asked about it, his blogger would deem it more than a bit not good, certainly.
So, instead of talking about it (honestly, Irene – for all her cleverness – can be surprisingly oblivious to the most obvious consequences), he hides. In his mind palace, mostly. There, he can mould things as he pleases. He's not hated. He's not despised. He can cobble together these few times John touched him for medical reasons – to patch him up after a skirmish or another – into soft caresses against naked skin. Is he torturing himself, when he knows he will eventually have to come back to reality – the one where he's rejected? Maybe. But he can't make himself stop.
The pull of old vices is a siren's call, now. When his inner world is so much more tempting than the harsh truth, why not enhance it a bit? Dampen this, brighten that. He knows how to do it. But… "Do you really want to disappoint everyone?" Teen!Sherlock wonders from his attic. You'd think the boy would be a rebel like all teenagers, but truth is, he was still only playing around with substances then. It's only later they became his crutch against the world. Teen!Sherlock, apparently, is more concerned about being even more rejected than he already is. "Lestrade will deny you cases…and John… you know what John thinks of substance abuse. How many times did he visit his sister past here? Once? Twice?"
Sherlock will die if he sees his soulmate twice a year. That is a fact. He does not need evidence. He knows. So that's out of the window. Still, his brain is fixated on drugs, and Irene, and the Soulmate Conundrum…
The point is, it's useless to 'talk it out', because John would just deny anything. It seems to be his favourite technique, and his blogger would probably, if asked by a stranger, claim it is a 'white lie', an act of kindness. With most people, that would be true, too.
But the sleuth's brain has been eating itself for lack of data, split between, "I don't want to acknowledge this," and, "What if it's fixable? What if it's a thing, or a dozen things, of a thousand things (much more likely) I can change? Habits can be dropped, or modified. Skills can be learned. Does John think I'm too stupid? Doesn't he know the lengths I'd happily go to for him to be proud to publicly recognise me as his soulmate?"
What if the sleuth takes a page out of the Woman's book? A tiny bit of non-consensual drugging? Not with anything addictive, God no, his blogger would murder him if he did – and be fully right to do so. But pentothal could be an interesting option. Or, even better, something with similar effects he can concoct himself, because getting his hands on it would undoubtedly raise all sorts of flags with Mycroft. John would not be able to deny it. Sherlock would know the reason for his behaviour, instead of letting his own self-hatred run amok.
As always, once he gets an idea stuck in his head, there's no way to talk himself out of it. For a few days, he spends all his time ignoring everything else (including offer of cases, but then again, there's nothing over a four) and researching. Strictly on his computer, because he can favourite pertinent websites without John getting a whiff of it.
He also borrows his flatmate's medical texts, and that wakes the doctor's curiosity. "If you have questions, you can always ask me, you know, don't you?" the man queries.
The sleuth simply nods, not looking up from a very interesting page about the functions of different parts of the brain.
At that, with a somehow strained laugh, John adds, "You're not thinking of storing all that knowledge by yourself so you won't need my input on cases anymore, are you?"
Finally, the sleuth looks at him – rolling his eyes would be rather pointless if his reluctant soulmate couldn't see it. "Of course not, John, don't be ridiculous. That would be an awful waste of brain space. Do you copy on your pc what you have saved on cloud?...On second thought, maybe you do. Anyway, even if I did learn all of this by heart, I still would lack your experience, and that helps tremendously reach the correct conclusion quickly. No, this is simply a bit of light reading. Unless you're opposed to me borrowing the book?"
"Of course not," the doctor reassures him. "Still trying to wrap my mind about this being 'light reading' when I crammed so hard for this exam I practically passed out at the lunch table after I took it because I hadn't slept for three days."
"And you scold me," Sherlock huffs at the revelation. "Hypocrite."
"I was considerably younger and more stupid – and I learnt the hard way that it wasn't a sustainable regime. Which you still seem to have missed, somehow," his blogger retorts, but without heat. After all, they'll have this conversation many more times still. There's no doubt. Getting too impassioned would be a waste of energy.
"Yes, well, maybe we're different," the sleuth remarks, before plunging back in his research. He pretends not to hear the mumbled, "You're still human," because scolding the man for stating the obvious would only distract him now. He's on a mission.
It takes him two weeks to acquire the necessary data – only because he's been overly careful, of course. Not wanting to be caught at it, nor (much more) to damage his soulmate's brain, means that he can't carelessly discard details he would otherwise delete.
Finally, he starts the actual production stage of his homemade truth serum. John is at work, which is perfect for the detective's need of secrecy. Now, he just needs to add a drop of this and an ounce of that, and filter it afterwards…By the time his flat(soul)mate gets home, it'll be ready. It's a pity he can't test it beforehand, of course. But he very much doesn't want to learn all of Mrs. Hudson's secrets (he's afraid he'd be traumatised for life) and his usual 'test on yourself' routine would be more than disastrous. Never mind. He's pretty certain that at least this will not cause damage.
When John comes home, at lunch (short shift today, much to Sherlock's happiness), he stills on the doorstep. "You cooked?" he asks, sniffing cautiously.
"I ordered," the detective mentions airily, "Angelo was only too happy to deliver." Which is true. If he added a bit of a secret ingredient to John's favourite dish, that's not something he will confess just of yet.
His blogger's sigh of relief should be insulting. He is a seasoned chemist, how hard can cooking lasagna be? (He might have to try it someday, if it will get him points with John). Instead, he just waves John to come over and enjoy. As long as the man doesn't suspect a thing, better not stir the quiet.
The doctor doesn't need him to repeat the invitation. A moment, and he's sitting at the table and tucking in. "I think I might love Angelo," he groans after the first bite.
The sleuth keeps his eyes down, on his own food, to hide the flash of pain he knows he won't be able to suppress. John does throw the word love around so casually…for everyone but him, apparently.
"Want a taste?" John offers, smiling and holding out his fork with a bite. Normally, the detective would already have helped himself to the contents of his flatmate's plate – and his soulmate would have retaliated in kind. This time, though, he can't risk it. So he shakes his head and pointedly eats one of his tortellini alla boscaiola.
He watches his flatmate like a hawk, though, wondering if there will be some sign of his drug taking effect – increased talkativeness, relaxation. It's hard to determine, though, because Angelo's best food works like magic to relax John and put him in a good mood anyway.
Unable to wait anymore, as soon as the last bite is eaten, Sherlock casually asks, "Why do you hate your middle name so much, anyway?" It's a control question. He's certainly not going to delve in their confusing relationship (or lack of it) dynamic if his formulation is useless. John's obvious reluctance to share what is, ultimately, useless trivia (at least in the eyes of most, as the sleuth is a glutton for any John-detail he can amass) speaks of a story behind it all. He could discover it, with a mix of research and deduction. But making John share willingly what he doesn't want to is a good test.
His flatmate bites his lips, and for a moment the detective suspects he'll have to start anew. But then John shrugs, and mumbles, "It was my uncle's name. Seriously, what was my father thinking? The man was a total asshole."
Bingo! It is effective. Now he can finally have his answers. Well, after, because now that John started talking, he doesn't seem to be able to shut up. It's like a dam has been broken, and Sherlock knows instinctively that interrupting him now would mean hurting his soulmate, and forever ignore this side of him. His answers can wait.
"I mean, my Da was bad enough – not purposefully cruel, but a bit too fond of his drink, just like Harry. And yet, he was very very sure he knew what was right – and was doing it. But uncle…he was a snake. I just wish auntie Susan could have met you before she did him. I know, I know. Impossible, given the timeline. But you'd have seen through him. You'd have told her, 'Yup, he might have your soulmate's name, and look like he's sure you're his, but run away. He might seem a pleasant fellow, but he's a whited sepulchre. He'll hurt you and persuade you you're guilty. Run away while you can.' Heck, I still feel guilty about not telling her, and I was five when they married. My Da had to know how awful his brother was, even before. That kind of thing doesn't suddenly start one morning," John confesses, voice drowsy.
Sherlock should comfort him, shouldn't he? Assure him it was not his responsibility to warn his aunt. Tell him that nomen omen is utter twaddle, no matter what the idiot masses think, and that being named after an abusive asshole is not some sort of secret shame. Besides, statistically there are thousands of people with the same name with a pristine character.
Instead he's entranced by the slow, dreamy flow of details – about the Watsons' family life, Harry, john's childhood. Poignant things, silly things – a whole world that John would have never shared otherwise. The sleuth keeps quiet, but – after a few hours of uninterrupted chatter – provides tea. John must be thirsty by now. He's hoarding trivia like a dragon hoards gems, but eventually, his blogger's words drift to nothing, and he yawns widely.
"Goodnight, Sherlock. I'm going to bed," the blond announces.
Suddenly, the detective is panicking, "Wait! I need to ask…"
"Tomorrow. I promise I'll tell you anything, but I really can't keep my eyes open now. Some of us are human, you know," John declares, before marching towards his bedroom.
Oh well. Tomorrow. That's an idea. After all, he learned how to create the truth serum. He can dose his soulmate again any time he wants. Today is a definite win.
The following morning, John's alarm doesn't ring. He wakes up uncharacteristically drowsy, and yawns widely. If there's one thing the army hammered into him, it was to be battle ready as soon as he opened his eyes…if he wanted to stay alive. But now, he can't seem to get rid of the mental cobwebs. It's odd.
One look at his phone, and an adrenaline surge brings him back to lucidity. Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck. He's already an hour late for work. For all the days for him to oversleep, and Sherlock to not saw at his violin or cause an explosion in the wee hours of the morning, it had to be today. Sarah will have his hide – he can't even claim it's case related, this time. Just old good Murphy's law.
He stumbles downstairs, slams the bathroom door behind himself, and showers in record time. John is just throwing a quick look at himself to decide if it would be acceptable not to shave, when his useless flatmate calls to him through the door, "John? Are you okay? Don't you usually have coffee first?"
"When I'm not an hour late, sure!" the doctor growls back. Is Sherlock concerned with his breakfast, now? The world is ending, isn't it?
And then the world suddenly stops making sense, because the sleuth yells at him, "You're not, John! You don't work on Thursdays."
"Yep, only it's Wednesday," his flatmate snaps. "Losing track of time again?"
"I'm not," the detective states, opening the bathroom door and brandishing his own mobile phone. "Look!" Privacy is never the highest of priorities for him; bless the army for accustoming John to sharing his morning rituals with a crowd.
Instead of being crippled by shyness, he turns to obey… and it does indeed read Thursday. Still, John frowns, mistrustful. Not that he can imagine a reason for the man to purposefully make him miss work. But he can't imagine the reason for half of Sherlock's actions anyway.
"Oh, for the love of something!" the sleuth blurts out, frustrated. Check your computer. Check teletext! You don't think I can hack teletext, can I? You'll find they all concur on it being Thursday. Will you relax and have breakfast, then? Or do you prefer rushing to the clinic and making them think you're an idiot? I'm looking out for you."
John double checks – of course he does – and the whole world agrees with his flatmate. He flops into a chair in the kitchen, suddenly exhausted despite having just woken. "Tell me we have coffee. Tea. Something," he asks. Since Sherlock is right, there's no need to starve himself – he's famished.
"Of course we do," the sleuth agrees, being uncharacteristically solicitous – and if that shouldn't worry John, nothing does, but he can't be properly suspicious before coffee. So he just nods and takes the cup offered to him and swallows a long sip.
"Jam, honey, beans, eggs…what are you up for?" the sleuth queries airily, flitting around the room as a drunk bee – apparently unable to decide on a course.
That, finally, clicks in John's muddled brain. "Ok, who are you and when have you managed to change my obnoxious flatmate with a Stepford wife?" he quips.
The detective stills immediately, flushing prettily – his neck too, and isn't that gorgeous. Christ, no, it's too soon for John to fight off the man's beauty. If (and it's a big if, but it's looking more and more probable each time he thinks about it) Sherlock is his, his attitude makes obvious he doesn't want John. So drooling after him is useless. Not that John can blame him. He wouldn't want to be bound to himself too. Especially if he was a gorgeous genius who could have anyone if he so much as blinked in their direction.
And speaking of blinking, the consulting detective is doing a fair bit of that, before deciding to enquire, "Stepford…?" unwilling to repeat the other word. Oh God – he must think John is coming onto him and uncomfortable, and possibly the 'married to my work' spiel is about to be repeated.
"Pop reference," the doctor hurries to say, and the lovely blush disappears, but Sherlock relaxes too – not about to bolt or snap. "The classic perfect housewife dream of every man in 1950s. and apparently of some idiots even now, but they must want to be bored to death. There's a twist, but I think we should really watch that instead of me just summing it for you."
At that, the detective pouts. "If you don't like me trying to be considerate…"
Finally, John's eyes narrow, while he moves to snatch himself a toast (and honey, on principle, just because it's Sherlock's favourite). "But you're not. Not usually, at least. And what might have prompted this, mmm? Let's see how I manage to deduce."
Sherlock gives him the go ahead with a languid wave, clearly not impressed with the man's intentions.
"I happen to have lost a day. A whole fucking day, full 24 hour, because I might have sworn on my life it was Wednesday. Now, what might have caused that? No binge drinking, I should have the mother of all hangovers, and I don't. No early onset Alzheimer, there would have been previous symptoms. One doesn't go from perfect memory to losing days in the blink of an eye. That applies to most other brain-damaging illnesses, too. Traumatic amnesia? I lack the trauma in the first place. At the very least, I'd have a bump, if not worse. Drugs? Sure, that is possible. But they're not my idea of a fun time, so they would have to have been administered without my consent. And accidentally, my former junkie flatmate is oh so very – and atypically – thoughtful…what might be the cause of that? Guilt, maybe?" the doctor harangues heatedly.
The sleuth has to concede it: for a first autonomous attempt at deduction, it's impressive. But it is on a medical issue, and John is a very good doctor – so it is to be expected. Instead of denying the obvious, he hurries to refute the one accusation he finds most insulting. "It was not for fun!"
"Then what?" John asks, glowering at him.
"For science, John!" he declares, just about biting down an 'obviously'. After all, "To obtain the answers I need but that I still lack because I got too entranced by the details of your not exactly willingly shared family life," would probably do nothing to placate the man. But he should understand the preoccupation of a scientist.
The former soldier's frown doesn't abate at all – if anything, he's certainly broadcasting, "I know ways to maim you even you can't imagine, consulting detective and all". So the sleuth petulantly adds, "You haven't even missed work! I dosed you once you got back home, so seriously, what's the big deal?"
John can't help it. He groans in despair. Sherlock really doesn't get it, does he? "The 'big deal' is that you gave me something that wiped out 24 hours that happened both before and after his administration, and 'for science' means you weren't sure of its effects… you could have murdered me, Sherlock! That goes beyond a bit not good."
The sleuth huffs. "Don't be so dramatic, John. I had it perfectly under control. True, I might not entirely be aware of the formulation's consequences, but I was absolutely sure it would not be lethal."
"Dramatic? I'm the dramatic one, now?" John is not raising his voice; if anything, he softens it. From his flatmate's frown, it's clear that he suspects at least that this means he should seriously start to worry, and preferably back away. "Well, I hope you got all your data – or your fun, because I'm still not convinced this isn't what this was about. Because I promise you, Sherlock, if I lose any more days, you won't like my reaction."
"What? Oh, come on, John! I understand wanting to be abreast of my experimentation, but say I tell you Friday I'm going to dose you the following day. It's not like you ever do anything but be unspeakably dull on Saturdays, unless we have a case. I'll make sure you take notes of any message you receive. There are details I still need to analyse. And with these side effects, it's not like it would be feasible to experiment on myself. Why would you want to impede the progress of science?" the consulting detective protests, as if the blond was the unreasonable one.
"Because you're not curing cancer, or Alzheimer, or whatever. If anything, you might hasten their insurgence. There's a reason experiments have strict protocols, and one starts on animals first. Science doesn't progresses by drugging unwilling people anymore. And thank God for that!" the doctor lectures, glaring daggers at the madman.
"If you weren't so unreasonably unwilling, I wouldn't need to be sneaky about it! And I wouldn't be able to suss accurate data from animals," Sherlock retorts, throwing his arms in the air in frustration.
"I don't know if you thought it would, but this doesn't make it better, Sherlock. Seriously," John replies, crossing his arms. "You don't want to cross me about this."
"Is that a threat, John?" the sleuth hisses angrily. As if John had been the one mistreating him. John has been a soldier, but the consulting detective has been taking on criminals for years before his blogger came along.
Maybe a scuffle will help vent their apparently reciprocal pent-up grievances, the devil on the doctor's shoulder whispers. Thank God, he has still enough sense to shudder at the prospect. "What? No!" he blurts out, looking as aghast as he feels. "I thought you needed a flatmate, though, and if I can't feel safe in my own home, you'll leave me no choice."
The detective swallows once, before stalking to the sitting room and flouncing on the sofa, back to the cruel world. "Oh, fine," he mumbles. "No more missing days. But you'll have to live with the consequences."
"Now you're the one being ominous," John yells at him, around a bite. Rude, yes. He's not much in the mood for finesse.
"Don't be stupid! As if I would willingly let you be hurt!" Sherlock growls back, curling up even more.
"That's actually sweet, but try to prove it, will you?" the doctor asks. The last bite, and he follows the most maddening man alive to the other room. They can get around to clearing the table later.
The sleuth huffs wordlessly, apparently not believing him worth of an explicit acknowledgment. The blogger is so badly tempted to pet the sulky, overgrown child, but stills himself. The consulting detective is not actually a child, and offering affection when he's been used as guinea pig without his consent would be sending the wrong message.
"Suit yourself," John sighs, instead. "I'll go get dressed…and consider if I want the public to know how wild the life around you is."
"You adore it," Sherlock retorts, refusing to turn around still.
"Are you talking to the cushion?" the doctor quips, smiling. "Because I suspect that not even it appreciates the things it's gone through." His flatmate has little respect for people; the furniture, if it could talk, would undoubtedly have nightmarish tales to tell.
"Idiot," the detective mumbles, without heat.
"Git," John replies fondly. "You're lucky I don't have anywhere else to go." He's joking, of course. You couldn't make him leave Sherlock at gunpoint. But his soulmate (after Irene's revelations, the chances that they're actually soulmates and, very simply, he didn't pass muster shot up) needs to have some rules set for him. And no one else is going to.
The consulting detective is grumbling something, but if he waits for the conversation to end, with the man's pet peeve for having the last word, John will be undressed all day. So he just does what he's announced. The sleuth needs to know that he will stick by his word.
Actually, now that he thinks about it, he sounds considerably as someone trying to train a puppy, he ponders with a secret smile. Which is weird, because he would swear that if Sherlock were to be suddenly turned into a pet, he would be a cat. So does this mean that everything he does is destined to be in vain? Cats are famous for training their owners, instead of the inverse, and God help him, the sleuth is already more than halfway done with him, if he's honest. Should he just give up any hope of enforcing the most basic of limits?
No, he cannot give up hope. Otherwise, he could as well leave Baker Street. True, it feels like that might rip him apart, and he's afraid he wouldn't be able to go through with it. But losing days whenever Sherlock feels like it? Being a guinea pig at any moment? Not knowing what any cup of tea or rice leftover might hold? He'd lose his last shred of sanity, and while he's never minded life being interesting, he needs to know that Sherlock is not an enemy. A fascinating asshole, sure. A maddening genius, of course. But ultimately on his side. John is not a worthy soulmate, and that's logic, and fine. But he needs to be something more than a convenient guinea pig, thank you very much.
