A/N: Two chapters in one night - muahahahaha! Just a little one to keep you going until tomorrow.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

He didn't sleep.

He couldn't sleep.

Finally, at six o'clock, he gave up.

Knowing as he did that it was completely inappropriate to do so, John could not fight the urge to simply get dressed and leave his room; the bed was just too judgemental, staring at him in consternation as he pulled on his jeans and a clean white t-shirt, throwing the grey jumper on over the top and glaring right back at the badly-made bed before turning and slipping out of the door as quietly as he could. He navigated the hallway without too much fuss, creeping over to the stairs and holding his breath as he descended them as slowly as he possibly could – this evidently turned out to be a mistake, every single stair creaking and alerting his pathway to the entire house no matter how gently he placed his heel to the wood beneath them. He cursed quietly as he hopped over the last step and landed quietly on the balls of his feet, forgetting that there were wooden floors all throughout the house and almost slipping over; he grabbed the banister and prayed for dear life that he wouldn't fall, gritting his teeth and feeling relief wash over him as he managed to pull himself upright.

He wandered into the kitchen, wondering if it would be simply too assuming of him to make himself a cup of tea – he decided that, yes, that would be absolutely inappropriate and would probably make far too much noise anyway. Instead he turned his attention to the huge pile of washing up sitting on the draining board, his fingers itching as he edged towards the dishcloth and padded over to the mess of pots and pans with a fierce resolution that he should do something to show his appreciation for their letting him stay; they'd been so kind to him so far, with no real necessity for it. They didn't know him from Adam yet they'd welcomed him so warmly and with such an amazing feast... he had to prove his gratitude somehow, and this was as good a start as any. It took him over twenty minutes to dry everything up and leave it in neat piles on the sparklingly clean countertop; he had decided from the beginning that he didn't want to risk putting it in the wrong place or, worse, dropping one of the heavy pans to the floor and waking up the entire house in doing so, so he settled for lining it up in size order before stepping back to admire his work -

The creak of stairs behind him alerted him to the fact that he was no longer the only one awake, whirling around with an apology on his lips.

"I'm so sorry if I woke you."

Wanda shook her head with a smile as she walked into the kitchen already dressed, raising her hands to deflect his words. "You didn't, John, don't worry. Tim and I always get up early in the morning and go for a walk. Did you sleep all right?"

He lied through his teeth, feeling no guilt whatsoever in doing so. "Like a baby - I think it's the most comfortable bed I've ever slept in!"

"I'm so relieved, it's a new bed, you're the first to sleep in it! But look at this – Tim, look at this!" Her husband was making his slow, quiet way down the stairs, offering John a small smile and nod as he wandered to stand beside his wife; he slid his arm around her waist without even hesitating. "You didn't need to do the drying up, John, you're a g-"

"I know I'm a guest," he quickly cut in, shoving his hands awkwardly into his pockets, "but you've been so kind to me, I had to do something to repay you somehow. This doesn't even come close, but... it's the only thing I could think of."

"Should've made a cup of tea," Tim joked as he relinquished his grip on Wanda, walking around John and picking up a pan and a stack of plates, starting to put them away, "Wanda would've adopted you on the spot!"

Whacking Mr. Holmes playfully on the arm, Wanda shook her head. "Always teasing me, just like his sons, they're all as bad as each other – speaking of which, what are yours and Sherlock's plans for today?"

Ah. Damn. "Well, we haven't actually made any as of yet, and I don't want to disturb him whilst he's still unwell..."

"Well, would you like to come for a walk with Tim and I?" She seemed as if she genuinely meant it, her eyebrows raised as she pointed to the door leading out to the pathway. "I warn you, we do like a long one, but if you feel like a good old wander...?"

John hesitated, unsure of his place. "Well, I mean... if you wouldn't mind me tagging along..."

"Not at all," Tim said, closing a cupboard and turning to face the two of them. "No doubt she'd love to pick your brains a little more, she barely scratched the surface last night -"

"You make me sound like I was interrogating him!"

He loved their banter. Absolutely loved it. To his surprise he realised it reminded him of his and Sherlock's back-and-forth whilst cooking, though perhaps not quite so domesticated. "No, I'd love to come with you, explore the area a bit. And as long as you don't shine a spotlight in my eyes you can ask me anything you like."

- X -

Wanda took him for his word. They'd filled about half an hour with mindless chitchat, Tim telling him random bits of information about the area, commenting on the houses they passed and somehow being able to spout every name and add a little factoid about each person as he reeled them off; Wanda rolled her eyes every few minutes and shook her head at John, though he never once took it to mean that she was actually bothered by it. The truth was that he was sort of fixated on their relationship, unable to stop a small grin spreading on his face as they verbally sparred in the sweetest, gentlest way he'd ever experienced and somehow feeling, not that he was outside of their sphere, but that he was somehow involved in their little jokes. It was refreshing. He was undeniably glad that he'd come with them.

That, of course, was shortly before the questions began.

"So, John!" They were making their way over a stile, John hopping over easily and waiting as Tim helped Wanda. She landed beside them and blew a strand of hair from her lips, barely stopping for breath as she began to walk again. "Seeing as everything we've learned about you so far came from Mycroft, I have to ask – how did you and Sherlock meet?"

Either he would have to be painfully honest or he'd have to lie; he wasn't sure which he would rather do. "Did Mycroft not explain?"

"Oh, well, you know Mycroft. He wasn't very forthcoming with any details."

John nodded, hesitating as his mind raced over what he could reasonably say and what he could omit without seeming as if he were hiding something. He decided to compromise. "Well, I was struggling with my workload and so my course leader passed on my name to him and... yeah. That's about it, really." He forced a laugh, not wanting to come across as unwilling but not sure how much more he should say. "He ended up being a godsend and we ended up being friends."

"He's so intelligent," Wanda said somewhat wistfully, shaking her head back and forth as she took a giant step over a puddle, "just like his brother. I have no idea where they it from."

"She'll have you believe she's a dolt like me, but what she's not telling you is that she's a certified genius," Tim said good-naturedly, coming up on John's other side. "A mathematician!"

"Oh, you -"

"Sherlock mentioned it, actually," John said with a grin, despite knowing it had actually been Greg. "He sounded very proud."

Wanda shot him a look. "Now, John, don't you lie to me, I can always tell! I know he thinks I'm no better than anyone else, even if technically I do have the IQ of a genius..."

"No, really," he insisted, "it was actually quite touching. It's obvious he adores you."

He took a fierce satisfaction from knowing just how much it would irritate Sherlock to know what he was saying.

Wanda's cheeks were rather flushed. "Oh, well..."

"So if you spend as much time at Sherlock's house as Mycroft says you do then you must know Greg Lestrade?" Tim had his phone out in front of him suddenly, flicking through various screens until he'd pulled up a photo; he passed the phone to John, who found himself looking at a photograph of Greg, a girl quite a few years younger than him and two people who could only be his parents. "Good lad, Greg. Fantastic hockey player."

John couldn't agree more, with the 'good lad' part at least. "He's a good mate, really nice guy. Sherlock's lucky to have a housemate like him."

"From the way Mycroft's been talking it sounds as if you'll be joining them soon!" Wanda's eyes were curious – oh, she had so many questions. John could see it burning like a fire within her. It made him nervous. "Sounds like you three are quite the little friendship group!"

John found himself wondering with some intensity just what else Mycroft had been saying. "It is good fun spending time with them both. We've cooked some wicked dinners."

Mrs. Holmes stared at him in amazement. "I'm sorry, did you just say that my son has cooked? A meal? An edible meal?"

"Oh yeah," John enthused, purposefully not explaining that Sherlock was better at complaining that he was bored of waiting for it to be ready than actually being helpful, "pesto chicken, lasagne, shepherds pie, you name it. He's quite the chef, with a little help!"

"Did you hear that, Tim?"

"Yes dear."

"I'll have to have some proof of this magical skill in the kitchen before he goes back in September," she mused, winding her way around a bush of berries and idly plucking one off to pop into her mouth. "You'll have to help me convince him though, John, I imagine I'll need your input!"

John wasn't sure he could convince Sherlock much of anything at the moment. "Not sure I'll be very influential, Wanda, I won't lie to you."

She wasn't having any of it. "Nonsense. You're his friend, of course he'll listen to you. Mikey's already told us what you did with him in regards to his... well. His problem."

So she did know that John was aware of Sherlock's wavering addiction. "He seems to have told you lot in a very short space of time."

"Oh, no, he told us about that a month or so ago." She was nodding even as she seemed to think it over. "Yes, that's about right, isn't it Tim? End of April?"

John was intensely confused. "I was under the impression that you didn't know I existed until two days ago."

Tim dropped himself gently into the conversation. "Well, he never put a name to you, just referred to you as 'exhibit A'." When John didn't laugh, he smiled apologetically. "Sorry, I'm not a man of humour, Wanda will tell you. He didn't give you a name, just mentioned a friend who was keeping an eye on him."

"Naturally we put two and two together when Mycroft asked us if you could come and stay. I hope you're not upset that he told us about you?" Wanda seemed genuinely concerned. "He was very complimentary, or at least complimentary in his own way..."

"No, no, it's absolutely fine – I'm glad you knew something about me before I got here, it would've been very awkward to turn up without you even knowing my name." He could only manage a small smile. "Clearly Sherlock wasn't ever going to tell you about me."

Wanda shared a look with her husband. "Well... we did wonder why he didn't bring you up. You're obviously a very nice young man who, despite his terrible manners last night, seems to have a lot of... affection for you -"

"Sherlock's not the sort to have friends, you see," Tim informed him, though it was fairly obvious from the novelty of his arrival that it was an unnecessary statement to make. "Neither of them are. You're the first person we've ever been introduced to."

John frowned. "What, ever? He didn't have any friends at junior school?"

"Not a single one. Well, he had that boy at boarding school -"

"No," Wanda interrupted her husband, suddenly looking like a lioness in all her trembling ferocity, "I won't have you utter his name, Tim, certainly not when referring to Sherlock's friends. He was never a friend to him."

Tim reached out and took his wife's hand. "Sorry, dear. You know I didn't mean to upset you."

John said nothing, knowing as he did that they were referring to Peter – Sherlock's gateway into opiates. He took it upon himself to take control of the conversation, feeling partly responsible for no good reason other than his own discomfort. "Well, like you said, Sherlock's secretive. And it's an unfamiliar situation for him to be in. He probably didn't know what to say about me, or how to bring it up."

Tim offered him a grateful smile; Wanda allowed herself to be distracted. "Well, we know about you now. The two of you are obviously very close."

"He's the best friend I've ever had," he said honestly, shrugging as if it was of little consequence. "I'm lucky to know him."

It was absolutely the right thing to say; Mrs. Holmes' face lit up with a giant beam. "Oh, you are sweet. He's lucky to have you too, John. Heavens knows where he'd be if he didn't have you."

John said nothing.

- X -

The tuxedo fitting was... odd, to say the least. The shop was tiny, boutique almost, made worse by the fact that both Mycroft and Sherlock had decided (or more likely been coerced by their mother) to come along; luckily Sherlock muttered about needing to go to the Post Office, slinking out of the little shop and down what could barely count as a high street without even a word of farewell and leaving John feeling an odd mixture of relieved and disappointed as he watched his friend walk away. He didn't have long to dwell over it, however, as Wanda soon took charge and demanded to see the shopkeeper's range of waistcoats.

Waistcoats. He'd never worn a waistcoat in his life.

As if stripping down to his underwear in the middle of the shop wasn't uncomfortable enough – because a shop that small couldn't even fit a curtain into its cramped corners to protect his modesty – he had to somehow resign himself to Mycroft smirking behind his back as Mrs. Holmes darted back and forth with various jackets and bow ties, holding them up against John's bare skin and proclaiming them to either be too dark, too bright or too pale. Tim seemed content just to nod and agree with his wife's analysis, looking around himself with mild interest as if he'd never been to such a place; John wasn't a fool, he knew that Tim was merely trying to give him some semblance of privacy. Even if Wanda seemed determined to treat him like a third son, completely non-perturbed in the sight of his faded boxer shorts, Tim seemed at least to understand just how gut-wrenchingly awkward John was feeling. Mycroft naturally just worked to heighten his discomfort, commenting on how Sherlock wouldn't like certain cravats and colours, making a point to twist his face in disgust and say in deep, mocking tones, "oh no, he'd despise that on John" or "we don't want Sherlock to think John looks ugly, do we?" - luckily Tim was too busy pretending to be interested in buttonholes and Wanda too focused on finding the perfect tuxedo to notice, but John was positively fuming by the time they'd finally found a combination of colours and styles to suit him.

In the end they – they being Wanda and a vaguely agreeable Tim – chose a charcoal grey tuxedo jacket and trouser ensemble with a silvery tie and grey/silver waistcoat; Wanda was so complimentary as he turned in a reluctant circle for her that he actually started to feel good about it, catching his reflection in the misted mirror and finding himself genuinely surprised at just how much it suited him. On his third turn – spurred on shamefully by Wanda's constant remarks on how handsome he looked – his eyes glanced out of the window and found themselves meeting the icy, narrowed gaze of the young man who was now holding a brown envelope to his chest and staring intently at the scene separated only by glass in front of him; Sherlock was watching him with all the intensity of a hawk watching its prey, and for a moment John could focus on nothing more than the sheer fervour behind the gaze. It made his spine tingle.

A gentle prod to his shoulder jerked him back to the room, his head whipping around to face a very smug looking Wanda.

"You wait, dear, all of the women will be falling over themselves to dance with you. We'll take this one, then, Franco."

Franco – the shopkeeper – nodded, advancing upon John to take his measurements.

When John turned to look back out of the window, Sherlock was gone.