A/N: Sorry for the huge delay, real life got in the way of my best intentions, and I missed this all the while.

So we left Sherlock and John as teacher and student in the Science of Deduction. Small set-up scene for plot sake. -csf


2.

Sherlock Holmes is mesmerised by that small crinkle in his doctor's expressive face, almost miss-able in the crisscross of creases to the fair skin, unmistakably tanned by the sun. No longer the soft golden hue of distant desert sands from when John first returned to London, but the subtle freckles of melamine and the brush of tan in the honest forehead, upturned nose, and squared jaw. The sun loves Captain Watson like an old friend and adores his features with the intimacy of an old lover. Sherlock's breathing hitches as those big bright blue eyes, so open and expressive, target the cafe's crowd. Those pools of sorrow and laughter, of mischief and loyalty, round impossibly further, in a softening look of innocent curiosity as John tries to deduce a crowd of strangers. His scars marred fingers twitch, his hand wrapping negligently around the paper cup coffee, resting, at ease, the fighter's interlude as he and Sherlock have each other's back.

John being able to hold his ground when it comes to deducing Sherlock is still a shock to the detective, but no longer a surprise. After years of close companionship, and given the short doctor's natural ease in human connection, Sherlock accepts, reluctantly as it may be, that he himself has become somewhat... readable to John. It was bound to happen. It should disturb the ascetic genius who has long disavowed all humanity as incompetent thinkers and doers and kept them afar, it really should make Sherlock rave and rage, but this is John. His John. He trusts John with his life, so he has learned to give up some control, and learned to trust John with the knowledge of Sherlock. Some knowledge. Not all knowledge, not everything, not the dark recesses of himself that not even Sherlock admits to himself, that one day shall too be explored, like dark spidery corners of his mind palace closets, and Sherlock won't be surprised if he finds in them traces of John's presence; fingerprints, DNA traces, warm and fragrant teacups.

As John scans the crowd for an easy target to deduce, Sherlock shamelessly studies John.

The doctor must be aware; his whole persona slightly smug at captivating Sherlock's whole attention, pinpointing it in the here and now, taming erratic deductions and discordant train of thoughts as a maestro brings together the contribution of different instruments in an orchestra. Brilliant.

John is his conductor of light right now, bubbling this protective home glow around just the two of them. This greasy, grating, over stimulating café is suddenly the centre of Sherlock's realm. Sherlock could get used to this, if only John stays.

'The two blokes at the corner table.'

'Hmm?'

Sherlock stirs back into focus, amazed at his concentration slipping. He follows John's gaze to two military men, portly and loud, bickering in a friendly manner at the far end of the room.

Familiarity. John is still unsure about deducing. He is willing to indulge Sherlock, shows no physical trace of avoidance, something else must be holding him back. John's right hand, curled around the coffee cup, now lukewarm and barely palatable; inner tension, readying for a fight. Loosened thigh muscles, shoulders set squared in a comfortable "at ease" stance, not a physical confrontation. Not emotional, either. The man are clearly military, familiar ground, but John is far too relaxed for old acquaintances or painful memories. Preparing himself for a mind challenge, then. But this is a café, the two patrons are irrelevant, why is John pressuring himself? Deduction: he wants to impress Sherlock, do well.

Oh, John. Sherlock doesn't require another brain. What he sourly lacks he finds sitting next to him at this very moment.

'No pressure', Sherlock adds.

John rolls his eyes at him, assuming the indolent tone is meant to mock him. John is incredibly unobservant. It's going to be a long training course.

'Navy, not army,' John starts. 'The tattoo on the taller guy's neck shows that. Retired, the Navy doesn't like tattoos visible when wearing a uniform. His mate is still active duty. Thick rope burns on his hands, from handling the ship's equipment.'

'What else?' Sherlock demands in a low, grave voice.

John grimaces. 'You're not looking at them, mate!'

'I don't need to stare. A glance suffices to tell me all I need to know.'

'I guess... Right. That's it, I guess. Given that they are not in uniform, I think it's double points for my deduction. I saw that tattoo and compared it to my internal database of military knowledge, right? Should count for something!'

'Is that really all you can do, John?' Sherlock drawls. John just about growls, then blinks and adds:

'Taller guy has had at least three surgeries on his hip replacement. The way he seats, avoiding the gluteus maximus on the left buttock, he's probably had a hip replacement after part of his pelvis got shattered at some high impact hit. There's hardly any warzone going on that would justify it as a war injury, so a serious accident while serving peacetime manoeuvres at sea. No shoulder, arm or hand constrains visible on that side, and he even sits at his mate's left, exposing his vulnerable side to the bustling crowd. Trust me, you get used to avoiding that really fast when you sport such injuries, so he's got no other reason to protect that side. Just a hip replacement then. Maybe walking on deck, something slipped someone's grasp, hit him hard, tough luck. He's back on land, on a pension and maybe a new job.'

Sherlock nods. 'Accounting. Today is his off day.'

'How do you know that?'

'Look at how he arranged his coffee, his bun, his phone. Desk job, obvious. The new callous on his index finger in his dominant hand, from pounding an old style calculator, the type that accounting firms hold onto.'

'Oh, wow. That's incredible.'

'So you keep telling me. Where is his sailor friend heading to as his ship leaves tonight?'

'Tonight?'

'He paid with cash and is trying to leave an odd amount of loose coins as tip. Who pays with cash these days and leaves odd tips, unless they're trying to get rid off the local currency before shipping for months?' Sherlock speaks at his staccato pace, hurling deductions at poor John, pressing him to respond just as fast. 'Where, John?'

'Japan', John answers, looking stunned at the words coming out of his mouth.

'Why Japan?' Sherlock asks, grinning like a madman.

'That's green tea he's bought, and he doesn't like it, he's not drinking it. He was trying it out. He's leaving tonight, if he's not having an old favourite for the last time in a while, then he's looking towards the future and where he's going.'

'True. Although he's a sailor, so Japan might not be the only landing port he visits.'

John frowns to himself all of a sudden.

'So, I actually got stuff right?'

Sherlock waves away with a careless hand. 'You missed the cars, a mortgage, and an embezzlement scheme in progress, but not too shabby a start, John. You show potential. I'm mostly intrigued by your pattern of work.'

'That I deduced medical information? You shouldn't, I'm a very good doctor.'

'No. That you work better when I pressure you.'

John chuckles and leans back on his seat, his big bright blue eyes shining in challenging tones like a cave full of precious sapphires. 'So do you, mate.'

.

TBC