Thank you for the follows, reviews and favs! :)
A/N: As you might know, there is a bit of a time lapse between the Great Game and the Scandal in Belgravia. That's what happened during that summer in my version :) It was supposed to be two chapters, but I'm going on vacation, and it wouldn't do to leave a cliffie for too long (the cut is marked with a *, just so you know how evil that would have been).
Disclaimer: 'Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. You recognize it, I don't own it.
# #
It was mid-May, and Joan had somewhat processed and dealt with the emotional trauma from the pool incident and whatever happened during her trip to the other side of the world. Her physiotherapist back home was a slave-driver, but the motion range and the sensitivity in the left arm were returning, slowly but surely, to normal. Or at least the 'normal' established before meeting Jim.
Sherlock, in the other hand, was still tip-toeing around her. The relative calm was much appreciated for a couple of days, but started to get rather ridiculous after a week. It reached a boiling point when the detective washed the dishes. With actual, honest to God, soap.
"Alright, that's enough" Joan snapped, having discovered the kitchen counter in pristine condition in the morning. Sherlock glanced at her over the paper, surprised at the outburst. "Out with it. What's wrong?"
"You'll have to elaborate, John" the man looked thoroughly confused at the situation.
Joan closed her eyes to count to ten, then took a sit at the kitchen table. Which was void of any lab equipment. That's very disturbing, she noted absently. "I know I'm always complaining about cleaning, but it worries me even more when you actually do it. What's wrong?"
Holmes stared blankly for a minute before a small smile tugged at his lips. "Nothing. I'm in the middle of an experiment, if you must know."
The doctor leaned back. "Really?"
"Yes." The sharp intonation indicated that the conversation was over. Prat. "Now, do you mind fetching some butter in the fridge?"
Wary, she complied, pulling the fridge's door open with caution. However, no safety measure could have prepared her for the sight. Wh… it… UGH. This is… this… "SHERLOCK!" the ex-soldier roared, slamming the poor appliance shut. There was shuffling of paper and Joan found herself glaring at the top of Sherlock's head, while he was filling in some sort of checklist at an impressive speed. Experiment, huh. "Sherlock Holmes" Captain Watson growled in warning. "What have you done to our food?"
"Nothing you haven't seen before, John" the accused replied without looking up, too busy finishing his graphs. "Just some fast-growing black mold, not very exciting. I needed to document your genuine reaction to it, however."
Joan felt her eyelid twitch. "My reaction?" She was rather surprised at the stillness of her voice. I'm not strangling my flatmate, I'm not strangling my flatmate...
"Yes. You are an invaluable resource to gauge the potential reaction to unexpected stimuli. Allows to me to adjust the settings before the next raid by the Met." He finally looked up, and cocked an eyebrow at her. "Problem?"
Feeling the initial anger lose ground to bemusement, Joan counted to five this time before answering. "How long have been setting 'traps' for them to find?"
"After the second time they'd done it" he smirked. Joan sighed heavily, last bits of righteous fury fading away. "Are you mad?"
"Not much" the doctor replied, falling back onto the chair and running a hand through her hair. "But you're cleaning it today." Her mad scientist of a flatmate rolled his eyes, but nodded. "What else should I be aware of?"
Sherlock taped the pen against his chin in thought. "Avoid the microwave" he finally stated, eliciting a weary laugh from her. Well, I was probably overthinking it. He's back to normal.
She pulled the scattered papers closer. "Want to add a real medical touch to it?"
# #
"How the hell was I supposed to know that?" Joan was fuming. Sherlock took a cautious step back, but made his own displeasure quite apparent.
"I don't know, John, maybe by actually looking this time!"
They were standing in front of an old warehouse, illuminated by headlights and flashing sirens. Their latest catch was lead to the patrol car in handcuffs by a scowling Donovan. The rest of the police force kept stealing glances at them from a safe distance.
"You explicitly told me to go left, Sherlock. How was I to understand that it actually meant 'go straight then take the second turn right'?!" Joan had a point that Sherlock did not want to concede. They had almost lost the thief at the very last moment!
"You need to get better at picking up the clues. We were lucky this moron got lost in his own warehouse."
The doctor's glare could have turned him into ashes. "Picking up the clues, seriously?! It'd be much easier to think of a code."
OH. Sherlock's discontent at the case's resolution promptly melted away at the prospect of a new project. He looked at Joan wide-eyed, as if hearing her say anything remotely coherent for the first time ever. "That's… actually a very good idea, John." He grabbed her hand and pulled towards the main road, disregarding the sputtered protests. "Come, we need to start working on it now."
# #
July came around. After the flashy stand-off in Soho, there had been a lull in cases. While Joan occupied herself with typing out her case notes about superheroes and ninjas, Sherlock was getting increasingly restless. Perhaps, he had gotten too used to have quality stimulation for his brain, but these few days felt like some sort of gruesome torture. No clients. No running experiments that kept his interest. No cases from Lestrade. Not even a phone call from Mycroft. Nothing. Even the violin didn't soothe him anymore.
"John" he called from the couch. The blogger hummed in response from the kitchen. "I'm bored."
"You are not touching my gun" came the unforgiving verdict.
"But Joooohn…"
"If you want to shoot things" she said sternly, coming in full view with two steaming cups of tea, "you come to the shooting range with me. It's not negotiable."
Sherlock rapidly estimated the walking distance to the shooting range John haunted occasionally, the potential affluence in the afternoon, and concluded that it was too much effort and not enough challenge. "Jooooooohn" he pleaded again, this time schooling his features into what Joan called his 'kicked puppy look'. She just rolled her eyes while placing the mug full of tea on the coffee table.
"Do you want me to call Lestrade for you?" she inquired after seven minutes, forty-two seconds of silence.
"Already done" he drawled. "He got nothing on."
"Did you suggest taking a look at cold cases?" Sherlock perked up at this. Cold cases, while rarely difficult, presented the challenge of having no crime scene and only second-hand reports to work with. It was far from his usual exercises, but beggars can't be choosers. He lunged for his phone.
# #
Unfortunately, this distraction didn't last as long as expected. Five hours later, he was back from NSY, having dumped his conclusions upon Lestrade (and a haggard Dimmock), and bored again. Joan was curled on her chair, texting someone with a soft smile. "I'm bored" Sherlock announced to the room before even taking off his coat.
"Jesus, Holmes!" Joan looked up, startled, and removing small earbuds that prevented her from hearing the bored menace coming up stairs. Distant sounds of drums and guitars vibrated in the air until she hit pause.
Sherlock huffed and dropped into his own chair. "Bored, John."
"Already?" she sounded resigned.
"Always" he grinned back in a rare moment of self-depreciation, before his brain supplied an alternative. "Can I borrow your skirt?"
"My sk… what?!"
"For science, John!" he sprang up, ready to rush upstairs, but a steady hand caught the back of his shirt.
"Don't you dare try and ruin the only skirt I own" growled the irritated soldier from the chair.
"You never wear it!"
"It's part of my dress uniform!"
"My point exactly, you never wear it and never will again!" The words left his mouth without a second thought, and he kept on tugging John's fingers away from his shirt, when they unclasped by themselves to his disappointment. He expected more of a fight, was counting on it even.
Looking around, Sherlock was met with a deeply hurt expression on Joan's face that was quickly clouded by a rising tide of anger. Uh-oh. Rewinding the conversation in his mind, he winced at his own gaffe.
Fact: John is still sensitive about being discharged.
Fact: I just reminded her of it, and intended to destroy one of her few souvenirs from the army days.
Suggested course of action: Placate.
"Um…" he started, unsure. Joan's glare intensified, and she finally got up. In other circumstances, Sherlock would have to admire the readiness of her combat stance and the obvious killing intent that filled the room in seconds. "John?"
Her voice was deceptively sweet: "You are not to touch my clothes."
He took a step back and raised his hands in a calming gesture: "Concern noted."
It didn't seem to appease her all that much, but she looked less likely to jump at his throat now. "Whatever" she huffed, while brushing past him, heading for the door.
"Where are you going?"
"Out."
Well, that went well, mocked Mycroft's voice in his head. But he was still bored.
# #
Joan had intended to go for a run that day anyway. She just had a valid reason to angrily glare at passersbys while stretching in the nearby park to warm up. While the burning feeling subdued a bit, people were still avoiding her. An unfortunate soul bumped into her when she was getting up from redoing her laces, and gave a high-pitched yelp. Apparently, she forgot to stop glaring.
"This is utterly tedious" suddenly said a familiar voice literally in her ear.
It was her turn to yelp, while lunging to the right, ready to parry. Sherlock smiled condescendingly at her. "Can't I have a moment of peace?" she growled, unamused.
"How mundane" he drawled in response.
"Go get un-bored elsewhere." She grabbed the smallish bottle of mineral water from the thigh holster and violently unscrewed the top. "I'm not in the mood."
"What are you doing here anyway?" Sherlock inquired, blatantly ignoring her mutterings.
"It's a park, Sherlock" she found herself explaining despite her best judgement. "A public area. Some people come here to exercise in peace." The accent on the last word was evident, but not to Holmes.
"As I said, tedious." He glanced at her. "It clearly doesn't work for you."
Joan felt her left eyebrow twitch. Doesn't work for me. You arrogant little…
"Watch it, git. I'm still fit enough to take you out."
She should have recognized the gleam in those eyes. "Prove it."
# #
He tailed Joan to the park, for lack of better things to do. His survival instincts might be dormant most of the time, but he wasn't about to experiment on her clothes after the scene they just had. Not for another week at least. Joan was however his primary source of entertainment during off-cases periods. He was bound to find something interesting while following her.
Seeing the ex-soldier doing furious sit-ups on a deserted lawn, he smirked. Physical exercise to steam off the anger. Basic, but effective. Does it work for boredom?
He marched back to Baker Street to change into his (rarely used) sport clothes, and rushed back, a mind-folder already filling with details of the experiment.
Tested Hypothesis: physical exercise as a temporary solution to boredom.
Required conditions: one-on-one fight controlled environment.
Bonus objective: assessment of John's battle technics.
Processing data. Fact: John is likely (84%) to avoid hurting me in a mock-fight. Estimating possible alternatives. Fact: Anger will lower (-3% to -17% by insult) John's tolerance for my antics.
Suggested course of action: get John angry enough to fight me seriously.
Protocol 14.2 engaged.
"Prove it."
# #
Joan glared silently at him, before jerking her chin towards rather secluded clearing behind a bush of trees. "You're on" she said darkly, feeling quite murderous. She had just noticed that the consulting git was wearing sport clothes. He planned this. The understanding of the ruse just made her more irritated. It never sat well with the doctor being manipulated into doing something. Pulling on her half-mittens to prevent some of the damage to the knuckles, she glanced over to her flatmate, whose skinny frame was a striking contrast to the usual muscle mountains she had to train with. She wasn't fooled, having seen the man in action, but he is sooooo up for a surprise.
They circled each other, gauging the opponent. Sherlock took the first swing, that Joan easily side-stepped. He lunged again, and this time she blocked and countered. He barely avoided it, initial glee slightly fading from his face. He started to realize that he might be in trouble.
Joan was used to be underestimated. She frequently used her smaller frame and lighter weight as cornerstones of her strategy. She was faster, and more flexible in her moves than most trained fighters. She had also an intimate knowledge of pressure points of a human body, and used it shamelessly to disarm and subdue.
At some point, Sherlock seemed to adapt a little to her style, and managed to counter more hits than in the beginning. He twisted and jumped, and overall tried to exhaust his opponent. Where he drew his stamina from was an eternal mystery. A direct punch brushed her temple in a near-hit, and she reacted on instinct, diving, turning and kicking hard.
Sherlock leaped back to avoid her foot, and glared. "It's against the rules."
"Oh, now you think of rules?" she hissed, thinking of all the times they argued about slimy experiments in the fridge. And in mugs.
"Just because your simple little mind can't comprehend it…" he started, but was cut short by a mean left hook that was mostly avoided, but clipped his arm nevertheless.
"And your oh-so-brilliant mind can't comprehend the simple concept of biological hazard!" she growled, twisting and blocking the counter-attack. They weren't doing a conventional match anymore, it became more of a free fight with a vicious verbal exchange as a bonus.
"Such big words, John! For someone who needs a list for groceries, you're making progress!" Kick. Block.
"I haven't seen you doing the shopping, you lazy ass!" Turn. Punch.
"I have more important things to do!" Twist. Jump.
"Oh, yeah, like what, Mr I-will-starve-to-death-if-left-alone?!" Grab. Punch.
"I certainly won't! I don't need a babysitter!" Kick. Block. Jump.
"Yes, you do, you bloody inept git!" Block. Block. Punch.
"Not a simple-minded, useless pest like you!" Twist. Breathe.
Sand on her teeth, sun on her skin, liquid iron on her hands. Blood thumped in her ears like thunder. Kill.
The following seconds blurred into a flash of red and blue in her memory. She came to herself staring coldly at the winded Sherlock, who laid wide-eyed on the wilted grass, her fist mere millimeters away from his nose.
Someone gasped in the sidelines, and suddenly she was very aware of the crowd gathered to watch them fight, probably thinking they were some kind of performers.
Stiffly, Joan got up, tugging to remove the mittens and pointedly not looking at her vanquished flatmate.
"John…" he whispered, sounding so afraid. She didn't care. Ripping the half-mittens off with her teeth, she marched away.
# #
The plan was progressing nicely. They were engaged in a fight, and Joan looked angry enough to not pull punches. As expected, her fighting style wasn't conventional, but suited her to a tee. He wasn't used to such rapid and calculating opponents, but it wouldn't have been a challenge otherwise. He didn't however expect to have so many close brushes.
Recalibration ongoing. Opening detected. Engage.
She managed to avoid the hit. The retribution however was an unpleasant surprise. Counter detected. Retreat.
He jumped backwards, feeling her feet skim on his stomach. "It's against the rules" he protested half-heartedly - he wasn't one to fight by the rules either.
"Oh, now you think of rules?"
Opponent's anger level lowering. Need to maintain and increase. Protocol 14.2 reengaging. "Just because your simple little mind can't comprehend it…" DANGER. Retreat.
"And your genius mind can't comprehend the simple concept of biological hazard!" Continue to engage.
"Such big words, John! For someone who needs a list for groceries, you're making progress!"
"I haven't seen you doing the shopping, you lazy ass!" Anger levels still insufficient. Continue to engage.
"I have more important things to do!"
"Oh, yeah, like what, Mr I-will-starve-to-death-if-left-alone?!" Touché. Defense protocol 2.1 engaged.
"I certainly won't! I don't need a babysitter!"
"Yes, you do, you bloody inept git!" Counter-kill engaged.
"Not a simple-minded, useless pest like you!" DANGER. Disengage. Retreat. Retreat…
Joan's features hardened, and her stance, which was all solid edges and energy crackles, suddenly became a sharp icy scalpel. Sherlock didn't even have time to react to the storm that pounded onto him, precise and painful hits raining mercilessly. A hard kick to his stomach cut his breathing, and he fell on his back, gasping for air. The soldier was onto him instantly, and he had two seconds to ready himself for the punch that would have broken his nose, when it stopped as suddenly as it started. Blue eyes focused on him with a coldness that was much scarier than the smoldering anger he had grown used to.
Then she looked away, and Sherlock found himself wishing for the cold glare. "John…" he called from his pitiful sprawl on the ground. She didn't even look at him and walked away.
He rolled to get to his feet, still panting heavily. John. "John?" She was already marching away in the distance. Staggering, he trailed after her.
# #
Useless pest.
Well, f uck you, Holmes.
It took a lot to drive her into killing mode, but the bloody idiot just did it. She stood on the street for a few seconds, before coming to a decision. Giving a sharp nod to herself, she turned and rapidly walked away, in the opposite direction from Baker Street.
After making sure that Sherl… the annoying f ucker wasn't following her (that kick to the stomach was overkill, he could have ruptured something… Have to make sure he gets checked in the hosp… No, no, NO, Watson! Don't care, remember?), she stepped into a Starbucks, and got a coffee. Something scalding was exactly what she needed. While waiting for the paper cup, she fished out her phone and dialed someone who would understand.
"Hey" a pleasant female voice answered after three rings.
"Hi Mary" she sighed.
"Something wrong?" the woman had always been perceptive.
"Yeah, well… can I crush at yours tonight?" That was awkward.
"Sure" Mary replied after a short pause. "I'm heating up the pizza, come along."
The petite blonde opened her door with a smile. "Just on time, Jay." Looking her over, Mary cringed at the sweaty clothes and pushed her towards the bathroom. "First, a shower for you." Joan didn't protest.
They fell into an easy routine, bantering over pizza and sipping beer on the couch while watching crap telly. Mary was an old acquaintance (you meet all kind of people during deployments), who became a friend a couple of years ago. Joan had been on leave and very surprised to meet the supposedly dead woman in London. She also helped Mary get a job at Sarah's clinic recently, and without a rowdy detective to steal her time, Mary became a permanent nurse there while Joan remained a temporary feature.
"Wanna talk about it?"
Joan sighed. She really didn't want to. "I might be looking for a new flat." Sherlock had provoked her. She had attacked to kill. The decision to get away was mostly anger and hurt at his harsh words, but also shame at having lost control.
Mary hid her surprise well. "What happened?"
"We had a fight." Joan didn't look at her friend, preferring to talk to her beer.
"Don't you every day?"
"A real one." She sighed again, looking at the empty bottle mournfully. "He called me a useless pest. I punched him into next week."
A small hand patted her leg. "Jay… He's wrong."
A shudder ran down her spine. "It still hurts." Useless. As in Kandahar, with a bullet hole in her shoulder, hearing her comrades shout, cry, and rasp their last breaths, through a fog of white-hot pain. As after an aerial raid, with patients being rushed in, and not enough nurses or surgeons to keep them alive, to keep them from bleeding out. As after opening her eyes to see a young man, a kid really, fall with a bullet in his brain, and feel nothing but unforgiving iron biting her wrists. Useless.
"You're a hero, John" Mary said calmly, maintaining physical contact, grounding her in London. "I've witnessed it. And if Holmes is dumb enough to not see how awesome you are, well, bully for him. You have comrades who would gladly take you in."
A grateful smile tugged at her lips. "Thanks."
"Here when you need me, girl." They lapsed into comfortable silence, munching on the lukewarm pizza. "So, would you like to move in here?"
Joan actually gave it a thought. There were reasons she didn't go look for help after her discharge. She liked to stay independent, even when it failed miserably in the beginning (let's forget about that bedsit). Sherlock had been a breath of fresh air in her marshland of independent greyness. But she could manage without him. Without experiments, sleepless nights, psychotic criminals and cold, crushing comments. I'm useless to him. The thought had stung. Just another notch on your heart, Watson.
"Yeah, I think I do" she finally answered. *
# #
Sherlock got home to an empty flat. Unsure whether he should feel relieved (no more conflict) or terrified (where is John?), he slid down the wall in an undignified heap.
Fact: John had intentionally hurt me. She was literally about to kill me.
Fact: she stopped.
Assumption 1a: she wasn't that angry. Likelihood: 3%.
Assumption 1b: she refrained from doing permanent damage by ingrained professional ethics. Likelihood: 97%.
Fact: John reacted strongly to my words. Archive retrieval: "…simple-minded, useless pest like you!"
Fact: it was not the first time I disregarded John's intelligence. This had never garnered that reaction.
"I don't get it…" he grumbled to the ceiling. Certainly, John knows that I value her input? He tried to remember an instance where he had expressed that feeling. He came up blank.
"Idiot" Joan's voice rang in his mind.
Last time he tried to push her away willingly, she saw through him. He had said worse things that time at the hospital. What was different now?
Assumption 2a: we were too caught up in the fight, and our sensitivities were heightened by the adrenaline.
INCORRECT: if it had been a mere emotional outburst, John would have apologized by now.
Assumption 2b: John believed I had voiced my real opinions.
But it didn't make sense.
Mrs Hudson found him like this, sweaty, cold and confused, curled on the floor, two hours later. "Oh Sherlock, what's wrong?" she fretted.
"Mrs Hudson… I don't know what I did wrong" he confided softly.
She tugged at his elbow, to make him get up. "Go get a hot shower, dear. Then you'll tell me everything around a nice cuppa." Sherlock diligently complied for once.
"You had a big fight?" Martha asked when a clean and warmed Sherlock emerged from the bathroom. He blinked at her in surprise, accepting the mug she put in his hands. "You have a black eye, dear." Holmes gingerly felt the soreness around his left eye, admitting defeat. "Tell me."
And tell he did. Even the bad things they said to each other. The landlady sat across the cluttered kitchen table, and frowned more and more as the story went. When he grudgingly shared the "useless pest" part, she gasped, apparently scandalized. "Oh, Sherlock!"
"What?" he spat defensively.
"How could you say that?" she cried out.
"We were fighting! I didn't mean it!"
It looked like Mrs Hudson was silently counting to ten, then she glared at him sternly: "You know exactly what you did, young man. You aimed to hurt, and now you face the consequences."
"But I don't understand!" he whined, trying to avoid the glare behind his mug.
"You told John that she was a burden! If she hadn't already made a number on you, you would make acquaintance with my frying pan, Sherlock Holmes."
Fact: John had trusted me. Fact: John had always put away everything she was doing or had planned to assist me. Fact: John blames herself for events out of her control, including not helping other soldiers when she was injured, or not keeping me from harm when I willingly ran into it.
Fact: I told John that she was useless, carelessly playing on this insecurity.
Fact: John hadn't come back to the flat.
Conclusion: John wasn't coming back.
"What have I done?" Sherlock whispered, hands clutching at his curls. The elderly lady came to his side and patted his still dump hair. "What do I do now?"
"You messed up. And you are going to fix it."
"How?" he looked up, every bit a lost child.
"You are going to apologize."
# #
Joan woke up with a clear mind. Her muscles felt sore, but it was to be expected. She ate her breakfast with Mary, then left to collect her stuff from 221b and to warn Mrs Hudson that she must start looking for a new tenant. She was going to have some free time again in her life.
She half-expected to find a black car waiting for her, but surprisingly Mycroft Holmes made no attempts at stopping her. Weird. He's always creepily aware of everything I do.
The 221 building was silent. She pondered the merits of speaking to Mrs H first, but decided against it. Having her stuff waiting in the hall would make it easier to avoid being persuaded to stay. Crossing her fingers for Holmes being out, she tried to make no noise on the stairs. She was going to go directly to her room, but a whiff of detergent caught her attention on the landing. She dared a look inside the flat and froze.
It was clean. Oh god, he cleaned again. I wonder what horror did he stash around this time? Catching herself smiling, Joan frowned instead. Nope, nope, nope, good pranks don't make him a better person. A glance to the kitchen revealed it in a pristine state too. And the fridge was clean of all experiments… there were even containers with her favorite dishes stored in there. Huh, not the usual mold then. No, Watson, this is still not an excuse.
Shaking her head, the doctor crept upstairs to her room, determination still unwavering. Until she stumbled upon a surreal scene.
In the middle of her room was a box, full of what she recognized as her books usually kept on shelves downstairs and some other trinkets. Slumped uncomfortably against her bed, drooling on her afghan, was one Sherlock Holmes with an empty bottle of wine in one hand and his phone in another.
Joan blinked. Then pinched herself. The hallucination didn't go away.
What the…
Sherlock let out a loud snore that made her jump.
Alright, Watson. You are not freaking out now.
She came closer, noting the pasty skin and the yellowing black eye, and actual tear tracks on his cheeks. He'll have a killer headache. Eyes falling on his phone, she suddenly remembered that her own phone went dead last night, not that she had cared at that moment. Moving as silently as possible, she got out and down to the living room. The phone was immediately plugged in, and powered up.
A long string of messages came in, making her wince. All were from Sherlock. Looking at the twenty-four frigging texts in apprehension, Joan glanced helplessly around the flat. Even a visit from Mycroft would be welcome right now.
The texts didn't go away. I could delete them all. Grab my bag and get out.
It'd be easy, I'll be free.
I am so regretting this later… she thought, opening the text conversation.
"Dear John, I believe I should apologize for my recent behavior. Please come home, and I will do it in person. - SH"
"Dear John, I am truly sorry. I didn't mean it. - SH"
"Dear John, I understand that you are angry with me. It was a horrible thing to say, and I hurt your feelings, and I would understand if you never talk to me again, but can you just let me apologize properly? - SH
"John, please. - SH"
"I cleaned the flat. Mrs Hudson helped, but it still counts, right? - SH"
"I cleaned the fridge. No experiments this time, promise. - SH"
"John. Come back. Please. - SH"
"I'm sorry. - SH"
"Mrs Hudson told me to get you a diner. I got take-aways from Angelo, he really outdid himself. Please come back. I'm sorry. - SH"
"John."
"I didn't mean it"
"You are not a useless pest. Nor simple-minded."
"You said that I'm an idiot. So please forgive me."
"Are you leaving for good?"
"Youre never comin back, right"
"u hate me."
"i Am sor ry"
"jOhn"
"sorry"
"if ou leav, im getting yor things ready, so u wont nd hate me more"
"i thInK im dru,nk"
"im so sorry john i need you to stop th wine"
"jooooooooöohn"
"im so so so sorry please plz john plz sor ry ry sory"
Joan stared at the written evidence of her flatmate's guilt-trip. Oh my god… Her resolve to leave and never look back shattered irrevocably at the "u hate me". Damn that idiot. Sighing, she went to grab an aspirin and a glass of water. Something told her that a hung-over Sherlock was worse than a bored one.
Her phone beeped again, and she glanced at it warily. But it wasn't another of Sherlock's drunken texts. Nooo, it was an email from his older brother. With a video attached.
# #
Sherlock hadn't been idle after Mrs Hudson left him sulking. He thought of what would make his apology more credible. Doing it in person would be good. To this regard, he sent a text. Then he thought of all these times when Joan complained about the state of the flat and the kitchen. So, he did everything to make them clean again. Most of the chaos ended up stuffed in his bedroom, but he wasn't using it that much anyway. Martha checked up on him when he was sending the eighth text, and suggested he prepared her something to eat for a change. His mind helpfully supplied the list of foods that John seemed to appreciate more than the rest. He rushed to Angelo, and came back an hour later with a bag of take-aways, two bottles of red wine and a long list of tips on how to woo a woman that he promptly deleted.
Joan was still not there. And she was not answering her messages. Or the calls.
Staring at his phone, as if the device had personally offended him, Sherlock uncorked the wine and took a sip at the bottle. It was surprisingly good, and somehow abated his itch for stronger substances that resurfaced at times of high stress. It also had a quick effect, since he survived solely on tea since last Monday, three days ago, despite Watson's best efforts to feed him.
Progressively losing his sharp focus and the hope of seeing Joan ever again, he thought of at least texting her his thoughts.
She stayed silent.
The wine was good.
Fact: John isn't answering. Conclusion: John is gone.
Fact: her things are still here. Conclusion: she will to come to get them.
Fact: John hates me. Assumption: she won't want to see me. Conclusion: I won't impose on her, so she won't hate me more.
Finding that his legs became a little difficult to move, Sherlock rummaged in his room to find a suitable box. Passing by the kitchen to finish the first bottle and grab the second one, he stumbled into the living-room. There were medical journals on the shelf. John will want them.
He somehow managed to gather all the books, his clouded brain identifying which books belonged to Joan with an unexpected level of accuracy, and to drag the box upstairs with the wine bottle tucked under one arm. He had sent some more texts between two steps.
Feeling utterly miserable, Sherlock sat on the floor, banging his head against the bed, drowning in John's scent. "Jooooohn…" he whimpered to the empty room. Random facts flashed through his mind.
i) John has nightmares, but she sleeps well when I play Bach. He started to hum the familiar melody, hoping to soothe his absent friend.
ii) John makes good tea. Sherlock took another gulp of wine, but it tasted nothing like John's tea.
iii) She had saved my life after knowing me for barely a day.
iv) John missed the army. They were fools to let her go. I am a fool too.
v) She had saved my life at the pool.
vi) John hates skirts and dresses, but wants to grow her hair longer. It suits her. I won't tell her though. The speed of hair growth was one of his running experiments, and he had added some untested substances to Joan's shampoo without her knowing.
vii) She refused to be pushed away even when I tried real hard. And I am now a little scared of her punches. "You're too cool, John" he giggled, eyes closed.
viii) John is my friend.
ix) I had badly hurt my friend.
There was no more wine in the bottle. Instead, salty tears ran unbidden on his face. He banged head against the bed again. The room spun. He vaguely remembered typing something before passing out on the floor.
# #
He awoke to a blinding headache and a dull pain in his neck and lower back. Staring blankly at the ceiling, he absently catalogued the cracks in it. They hadn't been there before. Or maybe I hadn't been here before… Sherlock frowned, trying to remember his current location. It wasn't his room. Or the living-room. Or Mycroft's place. He hadn't any restraints, so it was safe to assume he hadn't been kidnapped.
The previous night was a painful blur. Strange.
He tried to rewind his memory further, and gasped, events from the park coming into sharp focus. Sherlock lurched forward, intent on getting up and running to find his blogger, but his body had other ideas. His vision swam. A plastic bucket miraculously appeared in his lap, and he dry-heaved into it, mostly stomach acid tainted with red (wine?... Evidence: bottle of Côtes du Rhône. Hypothesis confirmed.).
Panting heavily, still staring at the bottom of the bucket, Sherlock suddenly became aware of someone's breathing above him. "Mrs Hudson?" he inquired weakly. The stranger huffed. Too young. "Mycroft?" he tried again, his brain still muddy and unable to correctly process the information. He almost expected to hear the insufferably pained voice of his brother asking "Have you made a list?"
"Third time is a charm" replied another familiar voice instead. Sherlock's head shot up fast enough to make his neck crack, and he was immediately forced to close his eyes and slump against the bed, fighting the combined onslaught of nausea, headache and dizziness. "Stay put, you idiot."
"John…" he mumbled, cracking open an eyelid. Joan was there indeed, staring down at him with an unreadable expression.
"Here" she handed him a glass of water and what he assumed was some medication to mitigate violent hangovers. Cataloguing symptoms for later analysis.
"John" he repeated, not certain whether he could handle longer words at the moment.
"Yeah." He gulped down the aspirin and water, feeling marginally better. Psychosomatic effect. The medicine didn't have time to work yet. Cataloguing stimuli for later analysis. His eyes roamed the room, unable to stay on his flatmate, for fear to see the cold finality of a farewell. "I see you have gathered my stuff?" she commented off-handedly.
Sherlock's eyes snapped back at her, panicked. "I…" There was indeed a box full of Joan's books and trinkets from downstairs. He vaguely recalled that there was a reasoning behind this. Must have been. But he found himself unable to explain it. It is the right moment to apologize, supplied Mrs Hudson's voice in his head. The words, however, didn't come to him. John is going to leave forever.
# #
Joan observed Sherlock's awakening with mixed feelings of amusement, worry and vindictiveness. Worry was wining, as the man owlishly blinked at the ceiling, unaware of his surroundings. Sherlock Holmes was always aware of everything. At least, she managed to prevent the mess by pushing a helpful bucket into his lap when the idiot suddenly jumped up.
"Mrs Hudson?" Sherlock asked from the bucket, gasping for air. She quirked an eyebrow, but remained silent. His shoulders tensed. "Mycroft?"
Oh, come on… "Third time is a charm." She probably shouldn't have talked, as the man almost fainted trying to get a look at her. "Stay put, you idiot" she admonished, mildly concerned. Hangovers always looked worse than they were.
"John…" He sounded both awed and scared.
"Here" she handed him the aspirin and the water, skeptically eyeing the paleness and the sweat forming on his brow.
"John" came the unhelpful response.
"Yeah." She waited for her patient to swallow the pill and finish the water, before attempting to communicate again. "I see you have gathered my stuff?" Wrong thing to say, apparently. Sherlock suddenly looked like a dear caught in headlights, eyes glued to her face, starting to hyperventilate. Joan frowned. Sherlock seemed to sink further down to the floor. Damn hangovers and idiot flatmates… "Alright, we're not having this conversation while you're in that state" she decided, and moved to grab his arm.
Somehow, she managed to pull the limp detective onto her bed. He wasn't resisting, just staring at her unwaveringly. Shifting his impossibly long legs on the bed, Joan absently checked his vitals. "Sleep it off for now. I'll make you something to eat when you can hold it down."
"And then?" His voice was a little shaky, and Joan frowned again. He probably didn't eat anything with that all that alcohol.
"Then we'll talk." She fished out a bottle of water she kept under the bed. "Here, you need to hydrate yourself." The man obediently took the bottle, and looked up at her with wide eyes, prompting a small smile out of the doctor. "Good boy" she chuckled, patting his hair.
# #
Unexpected stimuli detected. Imminent overload. Reboot required.
"Sherlock?"
Shut down in five… four…
"You're blinking way too much."
…three…two…
"Sherlock…"
One. Sleep.
# #
In hindsight, Sherlock's reaction was rather funny. The moment her hand touched his unruly hair, he tensed and started blinking rapidly, his face going alarmingly blank. "Sherlock…" and then he slacked on the bed with a soft snore.
Ah.
Joan just watched him for a moment, but it appeared to be normal rem sleep. Grumbling to herself about odd metabolisms, she went back to the kitchen.
It was late afternoon when she finished preparing a chicken soup and heard hesitant steps descend the stairs. Sherlock appeared in the doorframe, disheveled, barefoot and nervously scrunching an empty water bottle in his hands. Joan gave him a passing glance and pushed a steaming bowl on the recently cleaned table. The detective eyed it as if it had sprouted fangs and threatened to attack him. "Eat" Joan said evenly, while stirring milk into her tea.
Sherlock gingerly sat at the table and took up the spoon. After more hesitation, he finally started eating. Sighing over reluctant patients, Joan grabbed the other chair.
"How do you feel?" she asked when the man had finished his bowl.
"Better" he replied, gazing upon her with eyes full of questions and a timid hope.
"Please don't do that again." He frowned in confusion. "Get yourself drunk beyond reason" Watson clarified.
"I won't?" The reply was tentative and Joan could almost imagine the unsaid "if you forgive me" hanging between them. She didn't quite know how to act on it. "John…" Sherlock started after minutes of awkward silence.
"I said bad things too" she interrupted. It shouldn't be so difficult to say. "I'm sorry too. And you're forgiven. Let's just avoid sparring in the future, ok?" She gave him a small reassuring smile. Her head was still pounding from the emotional rollercoaster of the last two days, but she really couldn't hold a grudge against those eyes.
Sherlock's expression went from confusion to crushing guilt to bewilderment to ecstatic glee while she was speaking. "Agreed" he said, looking revived, a huge grin plastered on his face.
# #
Three days later, Sherlock hacked into Joan's computer again, simply because it was getting harder to accomplish each time he got caught. He hadn't expected to find a new folder in the middle of the desktop named "Your punishment for hacking me again." Feeling rather curious and a little apprehensive, he opened it. There was one video in it with a telling title of "Curiosity killed the cat, Sherlock."
Deeming himself better than the proverbial feline, he clicked on it.
It was a security camera feed from their flat. Mycroft. The screen was split into six parts, showing respectively stairs, kitchen, both bedrooms and the living room from two different angles. Note to self: find and destroy the bugs. He watched as himself from a yet undetermined point in time came into the kitchen with shopping bags. The night after the fighting incident then. The apprehension grew, and Sherlock repressed the need to fidget. Or slam the computer shut. His counterpart unloaded dishes into the fridge, and sat at the kitchen table, sipping wine directly from the bottle. The video sped up, and he saw himself stumble around with a box, meandering to Joan's bedroom, and crushing on the floor, all the while slowly consuming the wine. The last couple of minutes showed him gesturing wildly, typing something on the phone and falling asleep. Luckily, the quality of the recording was bad enough that his face wasn't clearly visible. He was relatively certain to have cried that night.
Sherlock continued staring at the screen after the video ended, an embarrassed flush starting to slowly rise on his cheeks. He carefully turned off the laptop, and pushed it as far away as possible, in case it decided to pop up more incriminating videos. Note to self: stop hacking into John's laptop. His phone beeped with an incoming text: "She warned you. MH"
That's it. "MYCROFT!" he roared, and rushed out of the flat, a plan for vengeance already forming in his mind. First, let's get some chocolate and scones…
Joan jumped out of the kitchen, ready to fight, only to see her flatmate run out with murderous expression on his face. She was about to call Mycroft, but noticed in time that her laptop changed places. Smirking rather impishly, she shook her head, nodded at the hidden camera and went back to the interrupted tea-making process.
# #
A/N: The fight and the reconciliation bits were inspired by "Hard Knocks" (laureleaf). Drunken Sherlock was my idea of fun, though :)
Rightie-o, hope you enjoy a good summer holiday! Irene is finally making an appearance next time, I promise.