Disclaimer: I still do not own a single thing.
John has ended his little patrol, and he's eager to report to his colleague (they're colleagues, at least…here). Yeah, he'll admit it, if only to himself. He doesn't want Sherlock alone with the…yeah, let's keep calling her the woman, but God knows that the blogger has a whole thesaurus of terms he'd rather call her, and none of these are particularly appreciative.
Besides, the sleuth looked uncomfortable in her presence, so he'll probably welcome him. And in case he does not, and would rather get a more personal taste of her indisputable talents…well, though luck. Payback is a bitch, and the detective has cockblocked his flatmate often enough that he's overdue for a taste of it. So John briskly marches back to the bedroom he left the others in.
Whatever the doctor expected, it wasn't this. A near-unconscious Sherlock and a dominatrix that admits blithely to having drugged him, at the same time reassuring John and refusing to bloody confess what she used so he can take the necessary measures? The blogger is a gentleman, always has been, but now he's really, really tempted, for the first time in his life, to wring a woman's dainty neck. He would, if he wasn't busy checking the consulting detective's state.
Irene seems to ignore the near-murderous waves emitting from him (underestimating him, which is usually something that benefits John both in combat and in day-to-day life, but now it just annoys him greatly).
Before leaving – and with the sort of visits she's receiving, it is a wonder that she didn't just get the hell out of here as soon as she incapacitated the detective – the dominatrix feels the need to brag about Sherlock's interest in her by revealing the exact nature of her safe's combination. There's a mischievous glint in her eyes, but the blogger doesn't lose his time trying to puzzle the reason for it out. He has bigger things to worry about. Like his friend condition.
Honestly, if she wanted a jealous reaction, she missed her mark. The only fleeting thought related to the quip John allows himself is a silly consideration about how Sherlock missed his own calling…as a Savile Row bespoke tailor. For all the women John has seen naked, he wouldn't be able to watch someone and figure out their measurements down to the exact inch.
(He will be jealous, of course he will be jealous…later. When he's less worried. and he will scold himself for it.)
Before he can figure out what to do, John hears a yelled, worried, "Sherlock!" that makes him sigh in relief. He knows that voice.
"In here, Greg!" he shouts back. He could use some help, and that Lestrade has answered the random shots' complaint is lucky chance.
"Is he hurt badly? What happened?" the inspector queries, looking at the lying sleuth with almost paternal concern.
"Not grievously wounded. Just drugged," the doctor explains quickly, instinctively taking his patient's pulse with one hand and carding the other's fingers through his curls.
The policeman's face crumbles in disappointment, and he shakes his head sadly.
"He didn't mean to, Greg! He has *been* drugged," John points out vehemently.
"Are you sure?" Lestrade asks, voice so very quiet but stern at the same time.
"I am. It's all fault of the bloody woman who is behind the dead body in the other room, too. But that will keep, and I guess you didn't arrive alone, so you can leave whoever it is guarding the crime scene. Would you help me bring Sherlock home? I can't exactly carry him by myself," the blogger assures, shrugging. Otherwise he'll have to call an ambulance, and then they'll bring Sherlock to a hospital, and the consulting detective will be so annoyed when he's back to consciousness.
It is testament to the inspector's friendship that he replies, "Sure. Just let me tell Sally." Of all the cops, John can't help but feel a twinge of regret that she's here – the spiteful woman is not whom he wants to witness the frailest of his friend's moments. But as long as she doesn't leave the crime scene, they can probably avoid her. She will know what happened – and mock them about it – but she will not see him. And once Sherlock is fine again, he can deal with her taunts easily. John leaves it to him, because the way he's tempted to personally deal with Sally would get him thrown in jail for assaulting an officer. John is a gentleman, but sergeant Donovan is very good at making you forget her gender.
Lestrade is back, and they have a momentary setback when they try to carry Sherlock. The sleuth has been still and mumbling slivers of apparently unrelated words until now, but when Greg tries to hold his legs he kicks weakly and uncoordinatedly. Sherlock's semi-delirium, too, is interrupted by a slurred but surprisingly rational sentence. " D'nt touch. 'Ont touch. Only Jawn can touch."
John can't help it – he hugs his friend tighter. The detective is drugged with God knows what, and somehow still recognizes him and trusts him.
Lestrade lets him go, and laughs good-naturedly. Afterwards, he gets his phone out and starts filming the sleuth who somehow, despite the impairment of his fine motor skills, seems determined to climb on John's lap and cling to him. "God knows I've seen him drugged, but I've never seen him get all cuddly," he remarks, with an apologetic look. Maybe it's the type of drug, but the inspector suspects it has more to do with the people involved, and his smile says as much.
"Love, it's only Lestrade" John murmurs soothingly, the endearment slipping out without him noticing. No sense calling him Greg and puzzling the tripping sleuth further. "You have to let him touch you – you're too tall for me to carry alone."
"No woman...woman," Sherlock mumbles, before going quiet again.
"No, she's gone," the doctor assures.
Their next attempt goes well, with the detective surrendering his body to be lifted and carried away. He's still, as much as he can, leaning over John, which means that the inspector does less than his own fair share of work, but the doctor doesn't complain. Honestly, John finds the detective's limpet attitude rather endearing. And if the sleuth is still huffing broken pieces of…are these deductions? He just said 'hiker,' didn't he? Is he working the case they've been so rudely pulled away from? in John's ear, he just smiles and tries not to let the tickle of his breath make him laugh and possibly jostle the man.
At least the detective being out of it means he does not protest about being hauled into a police car, to the enthusiasm of the neighbourhood who sees the gun-wielding maniac of before hauled away and imagines him jailed for life – someone is clapping, for God's sake.
When they arrive at Baker Street, though, Sherlock is once again randomly waving his legs, apparently with coordination enough now to accidentally-on-purpose (they might never know) kick Greg's arm and then somehow stumbling out of the car by himself.
John hurries to catch him before the man can faceplant on their threshold, but his sudden bout of energy makes clear that he can now drag his flatmate home with a bit of cooperation that makes the inspector's presence unnecessary, and Lestrade does have a body to clean up (what will the CIA have to say about that?). Still, before thanking him and sending him on his way, the blogger has one curiosity to appease. "Gunshots might have been reported, but you couldn't be sure that had been an actual murder. So why did you came? Not that I'm not very grateful for it."
"I got a text from Mycroft's PA, 'requesting' my presence on the scene. Sadly, it's not the first time that happens – and it always means that Sherlock is in trouble."
John nods his thanks and proceeds to hold a stumbling but somehow responsive, if not alert (the sleuth is responding all right, at least to physical stimuli like hitting the steps…what that warps into in his mind the doctor has no idea) flatmate up the stairs and into the flat.
It does not surprise him that Mycroft set up an alarm system with the inspector, God knows that his little brother is prone to getting into trouble. The doctor is even grateful that his friend had someone by his side when he needed it. But a part of him can't help but wonder if, after all, Greg is on the elder Holmes' payroll. Did Mycroft attempt to buy him out too? The detective didn't seem at all surprised when his brother tried to with John.
Irrational as it might be, the blogger feels as if he should have been there for Sherlock before. Right, it is hard to be there for someone you don't know yet, but fuck it, his brain said. Maybe only because he's Sherlock (why did John have to land with such a name as his own destiny?), but his brain insists that instead of getting shot in the bloody desert he should have looked harder. Located him earlier… and made sure it wasn't Lestrade's job to handle the consulting detective's doped self. Pushed the genius to give it up earlier. (The inspector's reaction before was that of the disappointed and the weary, but absolutely not of the surprised.)
The doctor manages to drag his patient to his room, and the sleuth lands awkwardly on the bed, one arm somehow folded beneath himself. At that, he whines pathetically. John automatically makes him more comfortable, and finally notices (it's true that he doesn't observe, but frankly he's been so upset over the whole drug thing that he has not noticed anything else) the tiny bit of inked flesh clasped by the bracelet. That must hurt. When he moves to open it, though, Sherlock trashes violently.
"Don't…not…no," the detective groans loudly.
His blogger has no idea why this would happen. Sure, his flatmate is always very careful to hide the name-blob (it has to be a blob, by now, since his soulmate is dead according to him)…it makes sense that he doesn't want to be remembered of that. But that he would prefer to remain in pain rather than risking glancing at it…isn't that a bit much?
He simply refuses to leave Sherlock to suffer. They'll have to work around it. So he roots around his friend's bedroom, finds a soft, silk, dark blue handkerchief (figures someone like his posh flatmate would have cloth handkerchief at all, nevermind silken ones) and ties it laxly over the bracelet. Then he works blindly under it to unclasp the name covering and lets it fall to the floor. There. His friend won't have to see the painful reminder of his blob.
Instinctively, the sleuth brings his hurting wrist to his mouth and starts licking and sucking the abused flesh trough the cloth, quite literally licking his wounds, and John averts his eyes. He shouldn't find the sight enticing, but there's something, perhaps the muffled moans his flatmate lets out, that are short-circuiting his brain. Fuck it. He needs out of the room. So, instead of continuing to undress the detective (definitely a bad idea, now), he simply busies himself by taking off the man's shoes, somehow pushing his legs on the bed and tucking him in. There. Done.
John needs out. There's no way he's going to watch over his patient. He tells himself he's going to check on him, periodically, but just now he needs tea. And maybe ice. And to think of anything else but the sounds Sherlock – damn his name! – can apparently produce. He should turn on the tv, or the radio…anything that makes noise that could drown out the ones running on repeat in his head.
The blogger would pat his own back if it made sense, because it works. When, a couple of hours later, he hears an urgent, garbled call and a rather suspicious thud, he rushes over to his friend's room, his head completely clear of impure thoughts.
The sleuth managed to fall from the bed, and seeing him aware and responsive – well, more responsive than he's been since he's been dosed – is a relief. Even if apparently he has some troubles separating the truth of what happened (not that he was aware for most of it) from whatever dream he's been immersed in, but that's not too worrying. He seems positive that the Woman has invaded his bedroom.
It makes sense, of course, that she'd be in his hallucinations, being the one who caused them in the first place. Still, John can't help but feel the pinprick of illogic, shameful jealousy. Why can't the detective delete her? (Because they're still mid her case, don't be ridiculous, he tells himself.)
The consulting detective scouring the room in search of the dominatrix is kind of adorable, honestly. But he needs more rest, not to try to move furniture to check non-existent hiding spots. As if John would let Irene get at him after what she's done. Doesn't Sherlock trust his blogger to protect him?
So, obviously, the doctor bodily drags his favourite patient back to bed. The sleuth, despite his anxiousness, is blessedly unresisting. Once again, he covers Sherlock with the sheets – it won't do for him to catch a cold while he sleeps off whatever he's been injected with. He pats his friend lightly, in a fond and reassuring manner, like with a child. Only later John will be hit by exactly what part of him he's been patting – but it is not his fault that the consulting detective has such a pat-inviting rump, or that any other part of him is so sharp-angled.
At the moment, though, he's too busy reassuring his friend that all will be fine, and that while he might not be at his bedside, he's not too far – never too far – ready to answer any call and help with whatever might be needed, to ponder about anatomy.
Of course, instead of offering a thank you (he doesn't expect one, of course not!) or even a simple acknowledgement, the bloody detective manages – even while not entirely aware – to make him feel useless with a curt sentence. Oh well. Sherlock doesn't mean it…does he? Let's be honest, he probably does, and he's right about it, too. No, no – tomorrow things will look up. They have cases to work on, and ways to distract themselves from being gloomy. He gets blue when he's alone, but he's not now. That's all that matters.
He's just left Sherlock to rest, when he hears a sound he remembers too well. Discounting the idea that Irene is actually hiding inside the sleuth's closet, it means he recorded it. And for whatever reason decided to play it. (One.)
The following day sees Mycroft hovering over their quiet, comfy breakfast. With his little brother promising him the photos for yesterday night, it is not surprising. Sherlock is well again to be sassy at his brother, which makes John gleeful.
He can't help but add his own two cents, because let's say it, there is no way the British government did not know about how many people the dominatrix had pursuing her, and he did not bloody warn them. So a bit of bickering is the least he can expect. It is one thing to try to keep the sleuth blind about his client (nevermind that did not work). It is an entirely different thing to hide the dangers of the job.
Until John's satisfaction is suddenly ruined by the bloody orgasmic moan. The detective is not replaying it, so why? Oh – text. Someone has been awarded a personalized ringtone. Nobody has that honour. Not Mycroft, if only so his brother can decide to ignore the call/text without checking the caller's id. Not John, whom the sleuth contacts the most. Once, when his flatmate asked out of curiosity (he does have a special ringtone for his sister), the consulting detective said it was a juvenile practice and that he was capable of deducing who was anyway. But apparently Irene fucking Adler is worth being juvenile over. Good to know. Two, the doctor automatically tallies.
To John's surprise, while the Holmes brothers usually fight wordlessly, in glares and dissonant violin notes, Sherlock actually gives voice to what John has been thinking, and calls out the British fucking government on his lack of warning. Sometimes it is good to be mind-read. It gives him, at least, the chance to snark at Mycroft too, and – to his delight – the all-powerful politician gets scolded by Mrs. Hudson like a wayward child.
John can't help but feel happy when the sleuth and he chastise the annoyed, snide Mycroft together. It is good to know they are on the same wavelength, and the elder Holmes cowering and obeying is just the cherry on the metaphorical cake.
If only his mood didn't get immediately ruined by moan number three… He can't help it. He addresses the question the moment Mycroft is otherwise busy.
'Joke', the sleuth claims. Well, John is not an idiot. Sherlock can hack into his computer any time he so chooses. He can probably hack his brother's bloody computer, too, despite it being the most protected in England. He can certainly change the ringtone of his own damned text messages if the obscene sound makes him uncomfortable. In fact, any sane person that has an often-intruding elserly woman and generally is not a shut-in would have changed that bloody text alert after hearing it the first time.
The fact that his flatmate has not done so means that he enjoys hearing that…that. Not that his blogger can fault him. If one thing is clear, by now, is that Sherlock tends to get a boner for cleverness, and being outsmarted (even if the doctor personally considers drugging someone cheating) ensures that the consulting detective will not forget the Woman easily.
And apparently Mycroft is not as clever as he believes himself to be, if he thinks he can take Sherlock off the case with a word. It's one thing to distract him from cases that are, apparently, absurdly simple (though John still doesn't get the dead-in-an-empty-field thing) by offering something better. But even if the sleuth weren't fascinated with the dominatrix, he's on the case now and will not abandon it until it's solved. Or at least until Lestrade comes along with a serial killer. Because the alternative is being bored…which the doctor has soon learned is toxic to Sherlock. You'd think his bloody brother would know that.
Not that John would not love if they just forgot the very existence of the unprincipled woman, but he knows his limits. All he can do is ensure he looks out for his flatmate…and keep counting texts (not that he does that on purpose, exactly – it's more of a reflex). Maybe he should talk to the detective about this, God knows that his friend messes with his love life on a regular basis. But the problem is that the sleuth's meddling most often reveals things John ignored ('just trying to make her boyfriend jealous, John' and 'stalker-type, John' among others). While Sherlock is all too aware of every flaw the Woman might have, and if he chooses to contact her anyway…well, he's over thirty, and certainly free to pursue every unwise relationship he wants.
The one good thing is that they are not texting all the time like love-struck teenagers. For days, the dreadful sound will not ruin the atmosphere of 221B. Then, suddenly, there'll be three or four messages in a day. John is trying to figure out a pattern, a reason, a catalyst…but he is not the one with the deductive powers, and without actually reading the texts, he has no chance to figure it out.
The fact that he seriously ponders 'borrowing' Sherlock's mobile phone to read all his conversations with the Woman should scare him – he's becoming rather more like Mycroft than it is acceptable. About that, maybe he should consult the elder Holmes? He's pretty sure that the British government could hack into his little brother's texts… But why would he share them with John in the first place? And what happens if (honestly, it's more of a when) the sleuth notices he's been hacked?
No, no, that's all more than a little not good. He's not Sherlock's boyfriend, nor his soulmate (no matter how much he wishes for it) and has no right to snoop in or control his flatmate's love life. And it is a love life, because if the consulting detective was working on Irene's case, despite his brother's vetoing it, with all these texts he would have been able to track her somehow. Obtain her number and from that her position. The sleuth is a brilliant hacker when he wants, and the fact that he has not yet done so means that he is not trying.
The not working and yet not refusing to continue chatting with her (about what? John is burning with the need to know) means that she's not boring. Somehow. So what can he do? The only feasible thing is get the sleuth a new bone to munch on – metaphorically. A mystery. Any mystery. Hopefully it would be enough to distract the man from his budding relationship, which is about the opposite of sane and safe.
Lestrade would call if he had cases, so there's no sense in going to bother him. Clients can't be engineered, either. But he needs a puzzle for his friend. A riddle. Only he has nothing to offer...or has he? Sherlock deduced him to the marrow on sight. But there is one thing the sleuth has never remarked upon. One tiny detail that John is…not ashamed by, but annoyed by, so he's certainly never volunteered the information. Something that is, he hopes, random enough not to be easily deduced. If he can tease his flatmate properly, maybe he will be distracted by his budding relationship. Things should hopefully still be embryonic enough that a challenge to his deductive powers might lead the detective to forget any flirting, God bless his rather obsessive nature.
So yes,maybe it is a rather insane plan, but John is just looking out for his friend, because when your girlfriend to be starts your relationship by drugging you up to the gills, maybe you really shouldn't continue fawning after her. (Seventeen. We are at seventeen.)
The next time he opens the blog to check if anyone has commented, and Sherlock comes to read over his shoulder – the man has no sense of personal space at all, not that John is complaining – he utters casually, "I was thinking to change my blog's name. You know, 'The blog of John H. Watson' could make someone curious to discover what the H. stands for…and I really wouldn't want that." Reverse psychology at his finest, but with a man as curious as a monkey, it works like a charm.
"Why? How bad can a name be?" the detective asks immediately, almost breathing it in John's ear and – dammit, he needs space!
"I just don't like it. And I'd thank you to leave it at that," he replies. Hook, line and…
"Oh come on, John!" his friend whines petulantly. "You know I will deduce it anyway!"
…sinker.
"No you won't," the blogger challenges, smiling. "There are no clues for you to work out." At least he hopes so. This game has to last if he wants to take his friend's mind off Irene.
"Is that a challenge, John?" Sherlock rumbles, his voice velvety-dark (and now John is starting to have synaesthesia chaos in his mind, this has to stop!).
"It is not," the blogger counters, and the sleuth grins smugly…at least until he continues, "Just a fact."
At this, the consulting detective frowns. "What will you do when I do deduce it?"
"I wasn't aware we'd started a bet," the doctor points out, hiding his gleefulness and apparently nonchalant. "And anyway, I already do everything you ask of me. Don't I?"
"Then you will abstain from dating. For a week. At least I won't have to listen to you grousing how I ruined your chances of getting laid by texting or some other inane excuse," Sherlock declares haughtily. Well, this is certainly something John would not usually comply with – not without much complaining.
"And if you can't, for a week you will have to eat whatever I put in front of you, no fussing," John retorts. The main aim is to distract his friend from Irene, but it does not mean that he cannot try to milk the occasion for all its worth. Sherlock does need to be fed a bit.
They shake hands to seal the deal. Let the investigation start.
Sherlock knows he shouldn't have asked for such a prize. John might be his soulmate, but he has clearly rejected that status. As such. he is perfectly free to search companionship wherever he prefers. But a sweet, sweet week where he doesn't have to see the man smarten up to impress some boring, not even all that pretty woman, or come back with that too smug-expression and reeking of her perfume (fine, that might be only due to the sleuth's overacute senses, but still) is too appealing to pass up.
Besides, John frowns every single time Irene texts. He doesn't mention it, apparently having decided that if they have no bond at all the detective is free to entertain whatever relationship he wants, but he doesn't like it. Which is the only reason he has not changed the woman's obnoxious text alert yet or just blocked her number.
If she talked about something sensible, instead of doggedly insisting about 'having dinner' with him, they might have a friendly and informative relationship. But there's no asking her for explanations when she stubbornly wants into his pants. That's not an exchange he'll ever agree to – he didn't for drugs, for God's sake!
But nevermind the highly amusing and satisfying annoyance his soulmate implies, rather than showing. If his blogger would say Sherlock is not allowed to pursue her (not that he's pursuing – he's just…letting himself be pursued), the double standard would make the consulting detective furious. Instead, John does not speak…but he grimaces. Sherlock doesn't think the doctor is feeling as aggravated by it as his serial dating hurts him, but hey, even a tiny hurt is a way to get back to him. To see how he likes being in the detective's shoes, for once.
As for their bet, the consulting detective has no doubt that he can solve that quickly. Maybe he will change Irene's tone for the week of respite he'll win himself, so both can have a blessed good time. Given that his soulmate's parents have given him the most bloody common name in existence, just checking the statistics of most popular names in the years around John's birth should ensure his victory, with no more than one or two tries.
…He should have known better than assuming things. Mycroft would be so disappointed in him if he knew. If he'd been named something ridiculously dull like "John Henry" his friend would not have expressed any distaste over it, or tried to conceal it. Hell, he probably would have put the whole name on his blog's title instead of 'John H.'.
No, no, he must think…embarrassing names? Odd sounding names? Names that lend themselves to ridiculous shortenings? He would do better, he's sure, if he weren't distracted by the fact that apparently the threat of having to go without a date for seven days straight, when inevitably Sherlock deduces it, means that he's anxious to make up for it by pulling as often and as many insipid women he can while he's still able to.
It's galling. It's not just that his soulmate is parading his conquests (or might as well, given the sleuth has to watch him dress up for them – after a few unfortunate meetings, the doctor learns quickly not to let any of them into the flat). It's that, while the consulting detective is clearly not good enough for him, John is about the opposite of finicky when picking up a partner.
Someone wonderful like the former army doctor deserves only the best, and Sherlock is ready to admit he's not that – in none of the definitions of the word, probably. But these women…they are not exceptionally witty, or smart (in fact, the lot of them are unspeakably dull). They're not breathtakingly beautiful. They're not even especially kinky – hell, if John had hooked up with Irene's sub because she knew how to accommodate his sexual needs, and he believed Sherlock could not (though he should ask – whatever it was, the sleuth would certainly try, if it warranted him acceptance), it would make at least some modicum of sense.
But apparently the requisites for being John Watson's partner include only a)lady parts (which the detective sorely lacks) and b)being painfully average. Given that John is anything but average, he's smart and competent and charming and handsome, one can't help but wonder why he would pursue such blatant mismatches so stubbornly.
Annoyed at his own impasse, he tries to distract John from his frankly awful serial dating by going back to the plan Irene's case so rudely interrupted. Aka, how to seduce John H. Watson in – hopefully – three moves.
1) Wake up to his flatmate already puttering in the kitchen (the former soldier kept the army schedule, while without a case Sherlock tends to store up on sleep he'll lose when he has something to ponder upon) and brush his curls the tiniest bit so they don't look like a bird's nest but are artistically mussed.
2) Drape the bed sheet over himself ancient Roman patrician style.
3) Glide out of his room and gracefully…faceplant on the floor, the damn sheet tripping him when he's not yet awake enough to coordinate all his limbs?
That's not what he meant to happen. John's reaction isn't even his instinctive "Are you okay?" but an irrepressible, full-bellied laugh. Well, he supposes that he does look rather ridiculous… the consulting detective starts giggling too, shaking his head at his own idiocy. Fine, seduction failed, but he got that happy chortle out of his soulmate, which is almost as good.
John helps him up, and lets his eyes wander over the sheet-clad body, to check he didn't get hurt after all. And Sherlock really shouldn't like John's attention and the contact of his skin, however fleeting or with whatever flimsy excuse he can earn it, but he does.
Days go by and sort of blend in a mix of annoying texts (to both, now; however pleasing it is to see John glare at his phone, one would think Irene would have given up her unwanted advances by now never receiving acknowledgement), random cases too silly to even be worth of mentioning in the blog and the much more challenging Name issue. The sleuth hasn't been this obsessed with someone's name since he suspected Victor's middle name might be John. As for John's middle name…maybe something from an ancestor? But how far back? (He needs data on the doctor's family, pronto.)
Until the day they go from an internet phenomenon to something more. Some BBC journalist overhears Lestrade (after a conference about some boring murder or other, so simple he didn't even think to call Sherlock because the man would only pout) saying he needs to bring some old case files round to Baker Street. After understanding the whom, what and why, the man decides to invite them on Crime Watch to solve famous historic crimes. Or, to be precise, invites Sherlock.
The world's only consulting detective insists that he will need his trusty assistant with him, so John ends up in front of the cameras, too. The stupid BBC insisted for him to wear the hat, and that would have been a dealbreaker for him if John didn't looked so damn pleased that his talent was being recognised. (This is another thing he cannot figure out. John is interested in what other think…not only about himself, but about his flatmate too. Why does he care?)
The actual show is boring, really, if not for John's steadying and…not enamoured, don't get ahead of yourself, he still doesn't want you, but decidedly applauding presence.
Until they get home and John has just had time to frown at yet another text from Irene when he receives a call. From his sister. The woman is screeching so loudly Sherlock can hear her five paces from the mobile phone, though he cannot understand very well what she's saying.
John screams over her, "No he's not! He's not, I tell you!" before retiring to his room to have such a conversation in private and slamming the door behind him.
Oh. Harry must have watched the telly, and the fact that "Sherlock" Holmes was beside her brother would make even a hopeless alcoholic suspect that her brother had found his soulmate…and just conveniently forgotten to inform her. The sleuth might not be an expert about human interaction, but he knows that finding fate's intended for you is usually something to be shared with dear ones. Even celebrated.
Of course, that happens when you aren't so disappointed in whom you got saddled with that you will stubbornly deny the obvious. Poor John, having to deny any bond with him because really, the sleuth is barely human – ask anyone. He cannot be a proper soulmate.
Still, the casual announcement – the following day – that he's spending Christmas with Harry when no hint to it had come before (and we are in the first week of December already) makes Sherlock whine, "Why?"
Does John really need to go to prove to his sister that yes, there is nothing between him and 'Sherlock'? In a "See? He's not here. I would have dragged my soulmate along," kind of way, he supposes. John does not like his sister, or her addiction, and he anyway has never contacted her more than exchanging a bunch of texts on his blog. And now suddenly he needs to spend Christmas with her. Is this denial at his finest? Punishment for the sleuth for…he's not sure, for being himself, probably?
Of course, he's used to being alone. Mycroft has long lost the will to enforce seasonal reunions that would only make them terribly uncomfortable, as long as his spying tells him his little brother can be left to his own devices without irreparable damages.
Still, he has found his John (one who would balk at the claim, but still nevertheless his, teen!Sherlock insists…or is it the reverse?) and he thought he would have the chance, for once, to…dare he say cuddle, even only in his own brain? It's unfair that he's going to be denied it.
If he can find evidence, maybe he could persuade John that, despite the Christmas tropes, he doesn't need to spend the celebration with his family (excluding him to make a statement out of it). In search of help, he heads for the morgue almost automatically.
Molly is always eager to help him, and she's…well, to be brutal, average enough that her words might be taken seriously. She's not a freak. As soon as she sees him, the pathologist blushes and stammers out, "I – I am on the lookout for these fingers you asked me, but really, I've not yet…"
The sleuth waves away her concerns. He's not here for that. "You do have siblings, right?" He has deduced as much, but apparently asking is the polite thing to do, and he wants to be on her good side.
"…Yes?" she replies, looking startled. Why does she sound unsure? One'd think that at least the immediate relations would not be forgettable.
"Do you all get together at Christmas?" the detective keeps interrogating, stern – not that it helps the poor girl relax.
"No." Oh well, at least she's sure of this.
"Why not?" Sherlock queries, looking intently at her. Example is good, arguments would be better to offer in defence of his theory.
"Well, one is living in the States," she points out, shrugging.
"One. Meaning you got more. Do you meet with these?" the consulting detective asks, wondering if he might find evidence against his wishes after all.
"Not really. We're all very busy, and…well, to be honest they used to tease me horribly, so now I just sort of text them the greetings of the season and leave it at that. It's not like they invite me, either," she admits, voice small and tight and just this side of not crying.
"You're a wise woman, Molly. If they disappoint you, they're not worth your time. Then why does not John see this?" Sherlock remarks, frustrated.
"See what?" she retorts, puzzled enough that the anguish evaporates.
"He doesn't like his sister. She's divorced, and an alcoholic, and just…well, really, he hasn't interacted with her at all this year but for a handful of her comments on his blog. And yet he's going to her for Christmas!" he rants, stopping himself shy of pulling at his hair.
"So you'll be alone?" the pathologist asks, and she's not flirting, she's…compassionate? Does even Molly pity him, for fuck's sake?
"Mrs. Hudson is not going anywhere," re rebuts gruffly. He's not even sure, she might be going to her sister, but he'll be damned if he lets himself be commiserated. "I just don't get why John would willingly go to see someone he can barely stand," he can't help but add, a hint of whine in his voice. He knows why, but he just wishes things were different.
"Well, you said she's an alcoholic – maybe he's just worried about her?" Molly wonders, always oh-so-kind.
"If he thought that his presence would stop her he wouldn't have become my flatmate in the first place," the sleuth points out sharply, waving her hypothesis away.
"Yes, but…" she objects, still. He does not want objections; he wants proofs to back up his wish.
"It's perfectly useless for him to go," the detective declares. He can deny all he wants. His name will always betray him. He can tell Harry that he can't stand his soulmate, but not that he hasn't found him. His sister won't believe him.
"Did you tell John you'll miss him?" Molly queries, a tiny smile on her lips.
Sherlock looks literally scandalized. Being that needy? This…relationship between them has to be unspoken, lest his soulmate snap and leave.
Still… "You might be onto something, Molly," he acknowledges, before rushing away. He has wondered long and hard about if they should share Christmas gifts at all – what would be expected, and what might the proper present be. Now he knows. He might not say 'I'll miss you', but he needs a gift that will remind John of all the fun they had together and make him want to come back quickly, rather than – teen! Sherlock is secretly terrified, though he won't speak up – stay with her and cut all ties with his disappointing soulmate.
Well, he knows the perfect gift. Sure, going back to that shop might seem like a hazard, but there's the chance that, with the cover dropped, the Tong let it go, or that whoever mans the shop is a random gofer, that will not remember the man who's ruined the hairpin operation.
"One lucky cat," he requests, unable to stop himself from grinning at the idea of John's face. Gag gift? Remember how happy we can be and how much fun we have together souvenir? Implicitly reasserting their bond token? (John might be furious at being implied as the 'wife' but if he refuses to be Sherlock's man he'll have the gift he bloody deserves and he better not complain.) It's an everything at the same time present, which makes it ideal. Well, with that his Christmas shopping is done.