Disclaimer: I still own nothing. I promise to inform you all if Mofftiss gifts Sherlock to me (yeah, as if LOL)
John needs a healthy dose of normal after the whole Moriarty business. They haven't caught him, and it terrifies him that a criminal mastermind obsessed with his flatmate is still on the run. But they've been allowed a reprieve, and John decides he's going to go on with his life and pretend his life doesn't turn around his sociopathic friend and the games he's involved with.
Since for some mysterious reason, despite everything that happened during the Blind Banker case, Sarah still considers herself his romantic partner, he decides to concentrate on her. After he'd run away from her at the start of this latest case he hadn't even sent her one apologising text, so now he does, explaining in few words how hectic and absurd his life has become lately and pleading for an occasion to make it up to her and make her a very happy woman.
It's John who suggests taking a holiday together, and it's not just because Adam invited him relentlessly since they stroke up a good friendship in Afghanistan that he proposes New Zealand. He needs to get away from his overwhelming flatmate, the emergencies he creates, his needy texts and the way he always manages to ruin any date. Being poles apart should (should) be enough to protect them from Sherlock's influence.
Sarah is keen on this holiday together, smiling at the prospect and thinking it will all be very romantic. Sherlock, instead, tries to dissuade him. It doesn't surprise John – no doubt the man wants him to his beck and call for hare-brained errands. Though his arguments are compelling.
"You don't need to change hemisphere to bed her. She wants to get off as much as you do. And if you really want to go on holiday, why in God's name the set of the Lord of the Rings' movies? Have you not heard enough hobbit jokes about you in your teenage years? Why not…oh I don't know. Sussex maybe?" the sleuth complains. And considering his knowledge of popular movies, his flatmate is either a closet Tolkien nerd or he has researched New Zealand once John mentioned it. In order to dissuade him. Which is…flattering, almost.
"Because I don't have friends in Sussex," John replies easily, when the true answer would be 'because you'd come and drag me away from Sussex for a five or higher. Maybe even to get the milk.'
Whether because he's aware of being lied to (though the doctor certainly hopes not) or because he's jealous of John having other friends than him (but he wouldn't would he? I mean, they're not kids anymore) the detective makes a face at his answer.
And so John is on a plane, Sarah cuddled beside him, and talking excitedly about how wonderful it's going to be, and how scared she was when after running away from her John didn't contact her anymore, because she just knew he would be risking his life with his crazy flatmate again. "I know you were in the army, but you don't need to put yourself on the line anymore, John. You've done your duty," she says.
"Sorry Sarah, I didn't mean to make you anxious," he replies, renouncing at the idea to explain to her that he's not helping Sherlock for some misplaced sense of duty, but because it's the most alive he's ever felt ever – even if it scares him, what might happen, and what it might mean to the blogger.
And then they're finally in New Zealand, Andrew is winking at him and welcoming them (with a hobbit joke, the sleuth was right about that), and after a stroll they get to the bed…and despite Sarah kissing him a few times, he falls asleep on her like a log. Oh well. Twelve hour differences are enough to confuse anyone's internal clock. He will do better. Give her the proper romance they've come here seeking.
The following day, they visit breath-taking places (including some places that were sets of the Lord of the Rings trilogy, to Andrew's helpful suggestion and Sarah's insistence – she seems to find the idea very funny). To have his revenge, John proposes having bungee jumping from the Kawarau bridge into the gorge (to be honest, he's mildly disappointed that humongous king statues are not part of the scenery, himself). It might not be particularly romantic, but Sarah is a good sport, and understands that a good dose of adrenaline is the best way to keep John happy.
Especially because he's disappointed, instead of happy, about his flatmate not texting much – well, for his standards at least. There are maybe a dozen texts a day from Sherlock, when they'd arrive easily in a hour when he was back in London. John's trying to tell himself that the git is being considerate, but Sherlock doesn't do considerate does he? No, probably he just knows that John can't come back on any of his whims, so that's why he limits himself to the odd, "Bored," and "We have no milk," not to mention the famous, "Did anyone get murdered there still? I might join you for a four," which makes John smile when he really shouldn't, because he's come here trying to get away from Sherlock, so why is he missing him? He's with Sarah! He should want for nothing.
To make it up to Sarah, he brings her in the best, most romantic restaurant (according to Andrew) and showers her with compliments. He even ignores one of Sherlock's texts which comes midway through dinner, even though he's curious what he might be saying (to be fair, he most probably complains about Mrs. Hudson's cooking skills – the woman promised John to keep her lodger fed, so that he won't have to come back to a passed out in hunger flatmate).
Afterwards, they retire to their room, and John is firmly decide to show his girlfriend that he can make her see stars…and then. Then simply John can not get it up. It's really embarrassing, not to mention the first time it happened to him. Why now? He knows often it's just stress, but John has always thrived on stressful situations. Is he putting too much importance on this relationship because Sarah is his boss too and it backfired? Or maybe it's something else? He's forgotten all about the causes of erectile dysfunction. (Wait, there are some drugs, ain't they? Sherlock wouldn't dose him with a slow acting one before he left, would he? He's not so mean).
Of course, that he can't make love to her doesn't mean that he can't satisfy her in other ways (and he most certainly does, he must prove his ability – they haven't had sex yet, and if things continue this way they're never going to), and he does, much to Sarah's pleasure.
The fact that she's not required to do anything in exchange leaves her feeling more than a bit selfish, but they agree to blame it on a rest of jet lag (which might be actually the weakest excuse imaginable, but is better than really questioning the why) and actually laugh about it, a bit strained though it is. Really, John is too lucky. How has he managed to get her?
He might as well check Sherlock's message right now. "Got a case. At most a three. So nothing worth blogging about either way. SH." And still, John can't help but miss being on a case. At least things would be less awkward for him. And he can't help but feel a twinge of worry – what if he's attacked? Anyway, Sherlock managed cases without him for years, he tells himself firmly, so there's no reason to wonder about him. Sarah. His priority is Sarah. Not cases (and certainly not cases worth only a three in Sherlock's scale).
The following day Sherlock does not text at all, which makes John totally distraught. His friend is known to occasionally misinterpret how much a case is worth. And even a simple case might turn ugly if his friend goes after a murderer alone and is taken by surprise. The doctor is sorely tempted to give a call to Lestrade, or Mrs. Hudson, or God help him even Mycroft (if anyone knows what Sherlock is up to it would be his stalker brother) but then he firmly tells himself not to be an idiot. Sherlock might have solved this already and simply be his lazy self. Why, maybe he's not up yet – for all that he doesn't like to sleep when there's something to do, his flatmate can be awfully indolent when it suits him.
Sarah notices his being preoccupied, of course, and asks him if anything is wrong. "Nothing," he assures her, apologising, and tries to concentrate on the wonderful, caring woman at his side. Or the amazing sights Andrew suggested for their excursion of today. Or anything that is not Sherlock bloody Holmes. How is it that is flatmate haunts him even poles apart? John needs to start building a life for himself. One that does not orbit around Sherlock. Is it his friend's name that makes it so damn difficult for him? (Not his Sherlock, he reminds himself sharply for the millionth time).
Thank God that at dinner he finally receives a text. This time there's no way that he's not going to check what it says. A million possibly anguishing news run through his mind. Solved it. It turned out to be a five, after all. You'd have liked it. SH Oh. So he was just busy with the case. And he's not hurt (he'd have mentioned if he was right?) He's not captured. He's not anything. Perfect. That's…perfect. He starts answering before he realizes that it's a rude thing to do while on a date. You'll have to tell me all about it when I'm back. JJohn Of course, he receives the reply he expects. Emoticons are juvenile. SH Maybe they are, but his relieved smile needed to come across. Just then, a pointed look from Sarah reminds him he's not even supposed to be texting. He sends a last one anyway. I'm on a date – can't text. And Sherlock replies – because the git just has to have the last word – Why are you doing it, then? SH That, John leaves without an answer. After all, no doubt his flatmate can deduce the reason by himself. "Sorry, it was Sherlock," he finally apologises "he's been on a case, and I was worried what might have happened to him."
"So that's what was wrong with you today. Is he fine?" she queries.
"Yes. Yes he is," John replies – and he's finally breathing right for the first time today.
"I do like that of you, John – how much you care for the people you love. Especially since I'm one of them," she remarks, smiling.
"You're the one I love the most," the former army doctor replies, smiling widely at her. He's gotten off easy hasn't he?
Later, in their room, they're kissing, and this time he has no problems at all about making love to her. He's pleasing her, and having a jolly good time. This. This is what his life should be. Loving, and loved, pleasure and her smile and how long has he gone without it? Too long. The more he gets involved with making love, the more his mind blessedly blanks out. It's almost a Buddhist experience – he guesses reaching nirvana might be very close to this. He doubts Buddhist meditation is half as fun, though.
He doesn't know what he's doing, entirely blissed out, his mind not connected at all to his mouth. It's the only reason he can possibly scream, "Sherlock!" the moment he comes. Of course, it doesn't go very well.
Sarah is forgiving, and understanding, but even she has limits. She pushes him sharply off her. "What the fuck, John?"
"No, look, God, Sarah, I'm sorry, it's not what you think, I swear," he blabbers.
"Explain," she utters coldly, frowning. She's using coldness to cover the hurt. He's hurt her, and he didn't mean to do so. He never wanted to.
"It's not him," are John's first, hurried words.
"Somehow I find that hard to believe," Sarah spits out, sarcastic. "Sherlock isn't exactly a common name."
Instead of countering, John shows her his soulname.
"John, you're really not helping your case here. No wonder he invited himself to our date! It's amazing that he let you do such things without showing up to drag your trashy self back home," Sarah hisses.
"It's not bloody him, ok? His soulmate's dead. He told me so himself. Bloody text him if you don't believe me! And I wasn't thinking of him right now. I suppose – I was feeling so good right now that I felt like I was with my soulmate, hence why I called you with her name," thee blond doctor yells, frustratedly throwing his arms in the air.
"Her name?" she queries, raising an incredulous eyebrow.
"Look, I bloody like girls. Who's to say Sherlock isn't a gender neutral name? I mean, it must be. I'm not in bloody love with with my bloody flatmate!" John protests vehemently.
"Swearing like a brain-damaged sailor, who only remembers one swear word, isn't going to help your case either, John. If anything, the only thing it makes me think is, the lady doth protest too much – though I really can't call you ladylike. This was nice, sure, but…soulmate-worthy? It wasn't. I don't know if your mind was still on Sherlock's case, or if you do are involved despite whatever you say, or even if you're really not his soulmate. Or if he's yours but you aren't his," Sarah replies coldly, and progressively more venomously. "What I do know is that I can't keep being involved with you if you won't do me the common courtesy of knowing who you're fucking. I have more self-respect than that." She starts to pack her things, eager to move out – to be back in her own home, in London.
"Sarah!" he whines piteously, trying to persuade her. "I'm sorry, but I'm really not –"
"I'll see you at work, John. And you're lucky to be such a fantastic doctor, or I'd consider letting you have the whole day to bond with your soulmate, no silly shift to come between you," she says, leaving without looking back.
Oh well. At least he's not out of a job. He's messed up royally, but this holiday won't render him broke. See? He knew that she'd take things the wrong way. This is why he needs to hide his soulname to the world. Nobody would believe him otherwise.
John comes back from his supposedly week-long holiday earlier than planned, and that is a good thing. A very good thing, as far as Sherlock is concerned. If only because he'll finally get to have some decent tea. And because Lestrade will insist less that he should bring cops with him for backup when investigating. Gavin suggested Donovan, can you believe that? As if they could stand each other for more than five minutes. Now John will be back on cases, and everything will be right once again (and no, he's not missed John, he just finds him…convenient).
"Convenient. Yeah, sure. Keep telling yourself that," teen Sherlock snarls sarcastically from the attic.
"Shut up!" his adult self grumbles angrily.
The detective has behaved quite marvellously lately, not begrudging John his holiday with Sarah too much (despite finding the whole idea distasteful – did John really need to flee so far to cater to his bodily needs?) and doing his best to not cockblock his friend like John had complained so often that he always did. Hence cutting down on the texting, even if he wanted to every seven minutes on average. But it was all-too-clear that John was not searching for romantic places to woo his boss, he was fleeing from Sherlock (wanting 'space' he supposes you'd say) and so he'd restrained himself, no matter how annoying it had been. Thank God that case that had taken his mind off the need to talk to John (but not off John himself, whose absence from his side Sherlock felt like an utterly wrong shift in the time-space continuum).
At the very least, John should turn up happy, and sated, and satisfied with Sherlock giving him the space he wanted so bad. Instead (only because his holiday has been cut short? Well, it wasn't the detective's fault this time at least) when his flatmate comes back, he's frustrated with the whole world. Well, that isn't fair. He could have been frustrated at home, and Sherlock would have had his company. "If you didn't get off enough times with Sarah yet, you could have stayed away," the sleuth says petulantly once John snaps at him – over a trifle like, "Is it possible that there's never milk for a decent cup of tea in this house unless I'm the one buying it?" too.
"Sarah broke up with me – and don't tell me you hadn't deduced it already, you great git," the doctor quips angrily.
He might have if he wanted to, surely – but he tries not to think about his flatmate's sex life, if John isn't flaunting it in his face (which, to be honest, most of the time he actually is).
Still, there's something odd going on with John – while he says this, he blushes, embarrassed. Being dumped should not evoke that reaction. Not in someone who's engaged in the dating game since adolescence.
Sherlock levels his flatmate with an inquisitive look, his curiosity piqued, now determined to come to the bottom of this mystery. John jumps, as if scalded, and takes quick refuge in the kitchen, away from his friend's prying eyes.
"Oh no you don't! Don't you dare deduce me about this, Sherlock!" he yells from safety.
"Oh come on! How bad can it be?" the sleuth yells back, the shadow of a whine in his voice. He's really curious, now.
"I won't evermore be in the same room as you, Sherlock!" John threatens now, half scared and half angry.
"We live together – you won't be able to!" the detective bits back, affecting more certainty than he possesses. John wouldn't, would he? Not over such a trifle.
"Try me!" his blogger yells back. It might be a temporary thing, of course, but does Sherlock really want to lose his company over the breakup with Sarah for an unspecified length of time (and John can be bloody stubborn, he knows that by now)? Have to wait for Mrs. Hudson's tea (and she'll assume John is catering to him and not come anymore) or make his own? With the trip length, he's waited almost four days for a decent cup of tea.
"Fine! I won't deduce you, John. Just come back here!" the sleuth – not pleads, he doesn't ever plead. He's demanding, that's what he is doing. And if his tone is less demanding and more whining, John is not going to hold it against him.
As soon as John is back, all things are clear, of course. "As I am your friend and not a prospective romantic partner, you do not have to keep your reputation and hide so hard from me not being able to perform the once. It happens to everyone, John," he can't help but mention. Really, his blogger should not be so embarrassed. He doesn't see Sherlock as a prospective romantic partner…does he?
"Sherlock!" the doctor yells, more embarrassed and frustrated than angered luckily, but then looks almost – relieved. Because Sherlock has not mocked him for it? Probably. His other friends probably would have, the sleuth realizes suddenly. Then again, they don't appreciate John half as much as the man deserves.
"I can't turn deducing off and on. It's my brain. It doesn't work like that! Can you stop thinking? Nevermind, you probably can," he tries to explain. Judging from John's glare, he's told the wrong thing again. He can't ever do the right thing, can he? "Tea?" he adds hopeful, the way a child would ask, "Peace?" after arguing with a friend.
"I'm not getting to the shop for milk right now. I'm knackered," John points out, grumpy.
"We can borrow Mrs. Hudson's. She won't begrudge us enough for a couple of cups," the detective says with utter certainty.
"You go down and ask her – it's your fault that there isn't any in the house in the first place. I'll put the kettle on," his friend finally caves in with a put-upon sigh. This suits Sherlock. It suits him very much. Perfect John tea coming in minutes, finally.
Mrs. Hudson's naturally agrees, as she's kindness personified. But she clicks her tongue once at Sherlock and tells him, gently reproaching, "You really shouldn't rather do without things than go shopping, Sherlock. You can't expect John or myself to get everything for you all the time. It doesn't work like this when you care about people."
He takes the milk and the scolding with a vague, "Yes, yes, Mrs. Hudson." She knows he cares for John - but doesn't know how much, does she? Well, she can't, Sherlock himself is not sure how much he loves his flatmate some days. It's all so confusing. Anyway, she knows, Moriarty knows (that's what he was implying when he kidnapped his doctor), Mycroft knows (but only because he knows everything in the world)…If it continues like this, everyone will figure out that he has a heart, despite his claims to the contrary. That simply won't do. He has to do something (but what?).
That's something to ponder another time. He gets back to John, bringing him the milk with a smile, and a moment later receives in exchange a cup of perfect tea. He inhales the aroma, loving it, takes a little sip and sighs in pleasure. He doesn't moan at least, though he's been in danger to do so. "I missed this," he admits without thinking.
"Well, good to know that my tea-making skills made you miss me. Why so few texts from you, then? There was no 'You should be here making my tea. SH' in my inbox," John teases gently.
"I thought you didn't want to hear from me while you were busy making love with Sarah. How was I to know that she was stupid enough to be in the process of breaking up with you?" Sherlock replies, taking another, longer sip of liquid heaven.
"You were being considerate," his blogger says, sounding incredulous.
"I can be. On occasion. Don't expect it often, though," the detective warns, smirking.
"Don't worry, I won't. And here I thought the reason was that you had already got bored of me," the doctor quips, with a grin of his own.
"You're the least boring person I know, John," the sleuth admits honestly. He can't imagine ever being bored of his flatmate. John is such a delightful nest of contradictions. Sherlock could easily spend all his life unravelling it. (But he won't, of course, they won't last that long – they won't last long at all, in all probability. John will get fed up with him and leave, like everyone else ever does.)
"Wow, that's quite the compliment, coming from you," John acknowledges, "I'm honoured."
"You should be," the detective counters teasingly.
His flatmate shakes his head in fond exasperation. Truth be told, he's missed this easy banter, it's quite obvious. Never as much as Sherlock missed it – truth be told, he's been awfully lonely these past days, Mrs. Hudson's well-meaning intrusions notwithstanding. He used to be alone all the time, but never lonely. Living with John is changing him – and not for the better. He's not about to give it up, though. Certainly not. (But he can't turn needy now, either. He's over thirty, for God's sake. He must be a strong, independent man.)
Then John surprises him, once again (how can Sherlock ever tire of him?). "I missed you," he says simply. They were British. The sleuth was sure that they simply didn't talk feelings.
"Sarah wasn't sufficiently engaging?" he can't help but ask, gleefully hoping for a resounding yes.
"No, she was great, and despite how it ended…well, I had fun. We went bungee jumping, you know? Might go back at Andrew's sometime, if only for that. I think you'd have liked it, too. But I guess I am used to being texted every ten minutes by now. Not knowing what you were up to, I couldn't help but be concerned," his friend replies, laughing.
"Ugh. Don't say concerned, please. You sound like Mycroft," the detective demands, making a face at the idea.
"Sorry. But your brother isn't that bad, you know. At least he cares for you," John points out, thinking bitterly about Harry and how with her dependence she doesn't care about anyone anymore. Not even herself, much less John, no matter what she says when trying to guilt trip him into something.
"Don't be fooled, John. Mycroft only cares about food, if he cares at all. Oh, and his umbrella, naturally. He wants me to be well simply because otherwise it would reflect badly on him. Mycroft is all about keeping appearances, and nothing else," Sherlock rants. He didn't mean to. Things just… slip out when he's with John. He isn't as careful, as guarded as he's always been. It is a huge relief, to be able to say everything that's in his mind without fear of judgement. (His doctor never, ever has mocked him, or used what he revealed against him – that makes him unique.) But Sherlock isn't sure that he isn't growing too relaxed. Won't this carefree sharing come bite him in the ass sooner or later?
"If you say so. As a younger sibling myself, I'd like to know that Harry would look after me a quarter of what Mycroft does, though. Even if I'd probably happily do without the stalking via CCTV," the doctor admits with a smile.
"You can't have the one without the other. If you like him so much, I'll be glad if you want to borrow Mycroft as big brother and take him off my back," the detective declares, with a slight pout.
"I don't think he'd agree. But now let's forget Mycroft and tell me all about your case, mmm? Or have you deleted it already?" John prompts gently.
"Oh no, I've not deleted it yet. I knew you'd want to hear about it – what sort of blogger would you be otherwise?" the sleuth replies, joining his hands in his usual thinking pose to aid the recollection of every detail. More than 'knowing' John would be interested, in truth, he had hoped so – hoped that John would be eager even for a second-hand experienced case. The man likes their investigations almost as much as Sherlock himself, and the detective is delighted by such an attitude. He recounts the recent case without indulging to say how much he's missed his friend, but going through each tiny detail – many of which make John smile and, in one glorious occasion, giggle (God but the man has a lovely laugh).
"Wish I'd been with you. Did you really deduce it all from one stray cat?" his friend remarks at the end of his tale, still laughing.
"Do not make me repeat myself, John. Of course I did. Why would I lie?" Sherlock bits back, pouting.
"Oh no I wasn't accusing you. But well, you've been very lucky then, haven't you? What if it'd been run over?"
"Then I would have to find other clues. But I would have solved it, John. Of course I would have," the sleuth counters. Luck means nothing. Only his brain matters.
"Of course you would have," John echoes, appeasing, and no matter how much Sherlock hates repetition, his pout vanishes and he's mollified. From anyone else it could sound sarcastic, a mocking, but John is honestly believing that Sherlock could solve anything, no matter how flimsy the clues he was given (well, maybe excluding Cluedo – but that is a game with illogic rules, and does not matter), and it is flattering.
"Pity I won't be able to blog about this – I wasn't there, and well, I try to blog about things I've been there for. You might want to make a post on the Science of Deduction, though. "About animal alopecia and its significance." Might be funny to read," the doctor suggests with a smile.
"My blog is not supposed to be funny. And animal alopecia is a too-wide topic, that would undoubtedly require plenty of experimenting beforehand. On different species," the detective remarks with a mischievous look.
"Oh no, you aren't bringing a number of mangy strays inside the flat. Forget I said anything. In fact, delete it right now – I want to see you do it," his friend orders, not entirely mock-sternly.
"I can go into my mind palace, of course, but you wouldn't be able to know what I'm doing in there," the sleuth points out, annoyingly reasonable.
"You better delete this experiment, because if you don't, the day you are finally bored enough to try it I will make you adopt them all," John says seriously.
"Shouldn't that be a threat for Mrs Hudson rather than me? I doubt she wants so many pets in the house forever," Sherlock states, with a little smug smirk.
"Oh no it's a threat to you, Mr, because they're going to be your pets – which means that you are the one who will have to care for them all. Feeding, and cleaning, and walking, and petting, and making sure they don't destroy the house – why, depending on the dimensions of your experiment, you might need to move to a bigger house. One with a big garden," John states matter-of-factly.
"You wouldn't chase me away from the flat over one scientific experiment which you suggested, would you, John?" the other gasps, horrified. His friend has just returned and he's already talking of – of forcing him to move away. That must not happen.
The doctor does not reply, only levels him with a look that says clearly, "Try me."
With a huff, Sherlock plops down on the sofa and starts clearing his recent memory cache from the blasted thing. He will remember this deletion was under constraint, though, and sulk about it. John will have to make a lot of tea to make it up to him.