A/N: I know, I'm messing with the background story of a main character (John is as much a main character as Sherlock, because you can't have one without the other). I hope this isn't too heretic. -csf


3.

I never understood Sherlock's fascination with my upbringing, it's as if the genius detective wanted to study the very fabric that makes up John H. Watson. What makes me unique, what gives me my personality, what gets me ticking.

Once I assumed this interest was just another way for Sherlock to desperately study humanity, to catalogue it, to dissect it and normalise it within it set of expected occurrences, triggers and responses. Utilising his flatmate just a convenient way of going about it, a proximity solution or a handy test subject with an unhealthy knack for forgiveness. Sherlock never once stopped at a healthy distance from open manipulation. From Baskerville's sugared coffee to puppy eyes when another severed hand finds its way to the fridge's vegetable drawer, the best explanation of his behaviour that I got out of Sherlock was "because I trust you and wouldn't trust anyone else the same way". Apparently only I can be a guinea pig for a blind test, and only my carrots are worthy of convivial gatherings with body parts.

I nearly smile to myself when I think back on how easily the two of us found our rhythm, our balance, despite our differences.

I don't believe, for a second, that he's the worse flatmate out of the two of us. Sherlock has only shown incredible kindness and understanding for a homeless veteran having serious issues adjusting to civilian life. In the 221B's early days, many times I woke up from violent nightmares or fought oblivion in panic stricken flashbacks, not to mention the short temper that gave me mood swings. Possibly I still have mood swings.

Now I have heard horror stories on how Sherlock chased away potential flatmates Mrs Hudson or Mycroft tried to plant in Baker Street, for much less than the disturbance I caused myself.

The average bloke Mycroft chose and vetted personally tried to tidy up the kitchen. As he finished pouring peroxide solution down the sink and binning liver cirrhosis samples, he got shot by poisonous darts flying from down the corridor. He later woke up at A&E's doors with his belongings in a bin bag beside him and a forensic tag on his left big toe. Of course I'm not sure if it wasn't a combined manoeuvre from the Holmes brothers, that one, as he had taken up Mycroft's bribe to spy on the younger Holmes.

The young lady Mrs Hudson ushered in turned out to be more messy than Sherlock himself, a tall order. They were mostly ignoring each other, she kept to the sofa munching on crisps all day and eyeing Sherlock as he paced the living room in one of his deduction rants in different outfits – suits, pyjamas, bedsheets. I've done that myself, on occasion, it's highly entertaining. It wasn't until Sherlock realised the reason that she never answered any of his angry tirades that things went wrong. Turns out she didn't speak English at all, so she never understood Sherlock. Or the telly. Only thing we know about her quiet self is that she really liked crisps. And that she's now on the run from an Soviet secret society for having failed them to properly spy on the Holmes brothers. A Bond girl she wasn't, or at least the Holmes brothers were impervious to her charm attempts.

I asked Sherlock if like a true Bond Girl she too dressed, well, charmingly on occasion, attempting to seduce him. He just shrugged. He never paid attention, he said. She could have been a stunning lady in a skimpy outfit that the consulting detective wasn't about to pay any heed, not with a good case in hands anyway. Yet he always complains about my jumpers...

The one flatmate that touched Sherlock's violin (to move it from the sofa to the desk) got hunkered down by a huge net sprung from the ceiling; he left of his own volition, as soon as he managed to extricate himself from the net.

And the other one that lost all composure when Sherlock shot a bullet through the afghan blanket to study the burnt edges created turned out to be Mycroft himself, worrying about his brother alone in the flat without a handler; and Mycroft isn't trying for the flatmate role ever again.

Also, Mycroft has the most violent reaction to the words "fire in the hole!" now.

Yet, somehow, I can clean the kitchen, touch the violin, eat crisps in front of the telly, and much more. Sherlock wouldn't dare dead body tag me, he knows I'd set him right. I think that's the difference right there. Everyone else was taken back by the wondrous phenomenon that is Sherlock Holmes. I was never taken back, I was attracted towards the magnificent genius within the vulnerable, kind person buried in the caustic, acerbic shell. If Sherlock experiments on liver samples, I tell him to open a window for fresh air. Body parts don't bother me as much as they should. If he picks up a gun, I just say "give it back, it's mine". What shocked others the most, I take in my stride.

I don't want to change Sherlock in the thing that makes him so far apart from the rest of us. I will only nag him in as much as for him to take care of himself better; eat right, sleep enough, have a good laugh once in a while. And that's alright.

For his part, he's not nearly as inattentive as he'd like me to believe, he too keeps an eye on me. Such as right now. I know he cares. He just goes about it the extra mile, and in an unorthodox fashion, because he's Sherlock. And I wouldn't change him for the world.

.

'How can you not remember the house number of this house you grew up in, John? Were you never considered in danger of getting lost and having to ask an adult for help returning you home? Because, seriously, John, you do make me retrieve you quite a lot, now I think of it!'

'Kidnapping doesn't count, mostly because I only get kidnapped on account just you, Sherlock Holmes.'

John's grin is defiant, amused and adorable, but it does little to pacify Sherlock, in all appearances.

'Just answer the original question, John', he demands, dignified.

'The house number? I don't know... It was the one with the yellow door. No, not really yellow, more like ochre. And it was the one after a big tree full of flowers.'

'It wouldn't bloom all year round.'

'I didn't stay there long enough to have seen the tree without flowers. I... we moved around a lot, for some reason. I always thought dad had some difficulty pinning down a job for long.'

'Now you are starting to suspect it was due to your grandfather's homicidal tendencies?'

The blond doctor shudders in his uncomfortable train seat.

'Jeez, Sherlock, don't mince your words, huh?'

'Just clearing the air, John, you can thank me later.'

The doctor is feeling little in the way of gratitude. He elects to look out of the train window to the monotonous countryside landscape. Agricultural fields and a few isolated houses.

'Maternal or paternal lineage, John?'

Blue eyes snap back to Sherlock's eager face, as if magnetised at once.

'He was my mum's dad. My other grandfather, on my dad's side, was a paratrooper, killed in action. I don't suppose I was very creative when it came to career choices', John adds sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head. Blond strands of hair are statically electrified into standing up by the fraying jumper cuff, Sherlock notices. He fights the impulse to smooth the ruffled hairs with the back of his fingers (because that would be efficient, but John might not like it).

'Tell me about Hamish.'

John blinks, a quick eclipse of his cobalt blue eyes in order to rearrange his expression into sheer amazement.

'I never told you his name.'

Sherlock shrugs, keeping this one a secret. John's mother clearly called the shots in the marriage, and she wouldn't middle name her baby boy over a war martyr from her husband's side of the family. No, John Hamish Watson was clearly named after her own father. He is a ghostly figure exerting a large influence in the Watsons, even to this day.

'He was a great grandfather. Built me my first slingshot. He lived with us and got along great with me and Harry too. Built her a slingshot too. Dad and granddad had a bit of a row from time to time. Mum always stepped in and made everything right.' John's smile turns nostalgic and he directs his gaze away. Sherlock can recognise the sadness in those cobalt blue eyes, but knows it's mostly due to John having lost his grandfather and parents long ago and still missing them.

Sherlock is sure the mourned family members would have approved of John as the incredible man he is today. Whether Sherlock approves of those relatives is still too early to say.

The detective tries, not for the first time, to picture John's ancestor. The murky contours of a man emerge from the sighting in a family photo album, but Sherlock needs more. The friendly demeanour, the wide smile – not quite John's grin and yet it carries similitude, it's just that John's smile is unique to Sherlock – and the comforting bedside manner that translated in the everyday pictures from John's childhood. Sherlock wants to understand, evaluate and predict the shadowy man that comprises this doctor Hamish. Unlike in John's fears, Sherlock doesn't believe in personality by genetics. However, a child is not an impervious entity either, it absorbs influence from those around it. John is the person he is today also due to the retired(?) doctor's influence, and that is exactly what intrigues Sherlock and worries John.

'Sherlock.'

John leans towards his friend, as if by shortening the geographical distance he can muster Sherlock's undivided attention. Under the scent of tea tannins, gun oil and yes, strawberry jam, Sherlock asks himself why John would think he needs to make an effort to grasp his attention. Sherlock would have to make an effort himself to release John from his mind.

'Thanks for doing this for me. I slept better last night thanks to this. Fell asleep while you were playing Scheherazade on the violin, it was hauntingly beautiful.'

Pale skin turns pink with uncustomary shyness.

'Thank you, John. Now if only there was some tea in this infernal train...'

John sighs and gets up from his seat. 'I'll go see what I can get. A sandwich too?'

'Surprise me, John.' You always do.

.

The train platform wasn't particularly crowded. That was Sherlock's first hint of foul play when a couple of men walking side by side were heading straight towards them. Yet plenty of people have bad manners and worse geographical orientation. Sherlock glared from the towering height of his billowing coat and they swerved fractionally. The detective turned his attention towards John, who was animatedly talking about some cartoons he watched as a kid, when the second hint of foul play materialised drastically. One of the men shoved John in his frail shoulder, causing him to lose balance, almost toppling over and hurtling towards the parallel stretch of tracks. Sherlock's quick intervention, grabbing John, stopped the poor doctor from falling onto the rails.

A few people close by gasped, the majority never noticed, particularly due to the noise from the incoming train onto that platform. That moving train, tons and tons of impeding momentum, escalated the incident to a murder attempt. Poorly carried out, but state coups have been executed on less preparation by unstable dictators.

Still grabbing onto John's black jacket with shaky fingers clawing deep into the fabric, understandably possessively, Sherlock searched the anonymous crowd for the two criminals in tandem. He couldn't locate them. He's lost too much time saving John. No, delete that, John's safety is the success here. Even if the criminals get away this time.

He looks down on John. 'Are you alright?'

The doctor rubs his shoulder with little actual concern. Still, for all his bravado and cool headed essentials, he looks dazed, in a world of his own.

'John, I said: are you alright?'

'Yeah, yeah... Caught me off guard, that's all.'

Sherlock takes one last sweeping glance around the platform, his face set in stone, murderous intent reflected in his chiselled jaw.

'Who were they?' the blond doctor verbalises the question in both their minds.

'No idea?'

'None whatsoever.'

'John, you almost got killed. Thank you, John, you never fail to surprise me', the detective murmurs in awe, circling a friend arm around John.

If the doctor thinks that's a bit not good, he doesn't say it this time.

.

TBC