Disclaimer: nothing mine. Duh.
In the following days, Sherlock considers his chances. Technically, he could drug John again –its effectiveness has been proven, and his soulmate would have no choice but to confess. He could know everything. Every single reason the idea of being his makes John balk. The sleuth expects there would be quite a list. Then again, what if John follows through with his threat?
John leaving. John shutting him entirely out of his life, not just his bed or his romantic endeavours or whatever else he'd clearly not good enough for. It would murder him. Well, he would kill himself. It's a scary thought, but he might as well admit the truth, if only to himself. Now that he's had a taste of his soulmate's companionship, the mere idea of being forsaken entirely makes him physically ill, bile rising in his throat. It's pathetic of him, but he'll take whatever he can get.
So no, no more truth serum for his blogger. At least not until he's managed to eliminate the unforeseen amnesia side effect. This leaves him – as always – with only his own speculations for company in the long hours between cases, when John is at work and the sleuth is abandoned to the tough mercies of his own restless brain.
He has acquired so much new data about his soulmate, after all. Surely this should help him to figure out why, exactly, the man balks at the idea of any relationship beyond the mere cohabitation between them. The new knowledge should make Sherlock happier, but honestly, it makes him only bitter.
He's the first to admit he's not a perfect man. Why, he could write you a bullet point list going on for at least ten pages of things he does, says, is, that would make any sane person run for the hills. Some of these he could easily change, if only he bothered to do so. Some would require most extensive intervention, both on a physical and psychological level, and he wouldn't do that for anyone. Well, unless he was beyond sure that his own metamorphosis would secure him John forever.
But the whispered confessions of his soulmate (because John is, he is, no matter how bad the man wants to deny it) make the sleuth wonder if his deadly sin is not being annoying, arrogant, or childish. Not being too pale, or too skinny. Not even microwaving eyeballs and leaving mould cultures in the bathroom.
No, the one thing that is utterly wrong with him is something Sherlock can't help. Not without changing his whole identity, and he's not going to. Not even for a soulmate. Besides, it's beyond hypocritical of John to demand it of him (not that he still has – not in so many words), when his blogger shares the very same characteristic. What characteristic? Being a man.
John has muttered about his father and the man's obsession for continuing his line. Just as well that he's dead already, because the temptation to meet him and point out how unwise that project is could prove overwhelming for the sleuth. It's not that he wishes that Watson senior had never reproduced – if he hadn't, there wouldn't have been a soulmate for Sherlock to obsess over. But his genetic material clearly wasn't stellar enough to render it being lost a tragedy.
It's not that the consulting detective is some sort of eugenics advocate, or if he is, he lacks the hubris of most people endorsing this opinion, who somehow always think their genes are good enough to pass down. No, Sherlock has never minded that he wouldn't have heirs with his soulmate – not the natural way, at least. After all, he might be moderately clever (Mycroft concedes, now), but there's that pesky tendency to addiction to consider. And even besides that, brains in his family – no matter how sharp, or perhaps because of it – can eat themselves alive, making the Holmes boys rather hard to deal with. So no, the detective has never thought that his genes' persistence should particularly be ensured.
And yes, Sherlock is ready to believe that John hangs the sun in the sky every morning (yep, the common idiom might mention the moon, but John is definitely a sun type of person, brighter than a mere moon can hope to be). For all his knowledge of astronomy, it might even be true – though, unless John can do it in his sleep, the evidence is against it, because Sherlock has seen more dawns than his frustrating flat(soul)mate. John is handsome and brave and has the best aim the detective has ever seen.
This doesn't mean that the Watson genes require passing down to such an extent that anyone unable to do so should be deemed unworthy of being one's companion. They have their own deficits (including, from what John said, the same tendency of Sherlock's towards addiction, with only a different poison of choice in alcohol).
Besides, the best qualities of his blogger are not natural talents, but learned, and if he's secretly so obsessed with children, he could pass them on even if they adopted. John's kindness. His bravery. His empathy. His sense of justice. Heck, even his cooking ability. They are all his own, certainly not genetic hand-outs from his ancestors. And the same way Sherlock is trying – slowly, looking to his soulmate for guidance – to better himself and acquire at least part of the ones he lacks, any child could do the same. Any child would, because who wouldn't want to be just like John?
If his blogger doesn't realise as much, he's even blinder than the sleuth has always thought. Of course, it might not be that at all to turn John off him – God knows he doesn't lack flaws. But there's another hint about that, making the detective so angry he can barely contain himself. John's girlfriends. It appears that the man is not selective at all. Most people have a type – physical, psychological, or further characteristics they're attracted to (like status, money, etc.). The most you can say about John's girlfriends is that they're females.
Brunettes, blondes, redheads, skinny, plump, uni students, freelancers, managers…John will pursue anyone, as long as they have the right anatomy. Which means that said anatomy is all that matters to him, isn't it? Well, isn't that…shallow? That looks less like an attempt to indulge in one's preferred pleasures of the flesh and more like a, "God, please, let me find any 'carrier' so I will have followed my father's diktat, even when I'm perfectly aware the man was an asshole and I've done my best not to be like him. Also, he's dead, so he's not likely to turn up and scold me." Honestly, John, what the fuck?
He doesn't come out and say as much, of course. He should admit what he's dosed John with, and all the things he unwillingly confessed, after all. If the doctor is already that miffed about being drugged to begin with, knowing he's been made to confess the most painful details of his youth is not likely to endear him to John, or make the man receptive to his complaints.
So he does what he can, in the passive-aggressive, loud but wordless way that is his only option. If, instead of being pulled from nightmares and lulled back to sleep by the softest, gentlest of melodies, his doctor is awakened in the middle of the night by a rambunctious rendition of Leporello's aria, he has only himself to blame.
Mozart and Da Ponte might as well known John, and based their Don Giovanni (aka Don Juan) off him. The catalogue aria – with the thousands of notches in the ladykiller's belt, divided by nation – is obviously his blogger's theme song. The fact that John doesn't realise as much – Sherlock highly doubts that his soulmate is well-versed in operas – doesn't mean that he can object. He's warned John about the violin since the start.
And the doctor doesn't – not as such. What he does, though, wrong-foots the detective. As always. Instead of yelling, or thumping with the first object at hand to make him stop, or ignoring him and make a mental note to buy ear plugs (it's a wonder he doesn't own any still, actually), John pads downstairs. And then he asks softly, "Penny for your thoughts?"
That gets the sleuth to stop his racket. "Why?" he queries, turning fully towards John, needing to examine and deduce him, instead of pretending he's uninterested in his *flat*mate.
"Well, you said you play the violin when you're thinking," John mumbles, ending with a giant yawn. "You clearly have much to think about at the moment…So I was thinking, you know. Maybe talking out loud would help. Having to actually explain things forces you to clarify your ideas. Tried and tested in uni."
"You want to…help me reach a conclusion?" Sherlock asks, putting his instrument down without even realising, because why isn't John following pattern and hating him now – for a good, sensible reason at least?
His blogger yawns again. "Since you won't let me sleep anyway…figured that the quicker you solved whatever, the quicker we could all go back to bed," he replies, shrugging. He doesn't demand the detective to bring his thinking elsewhere. He doesn't threaten to break the fucking violin unless it's silenced.
He just breaks Sherlock's heart all over again, because he's starting to think why people would suspect an intelligent being to be behind the soulmate imprinting. John is really perfect to be his companion… if only he could tolerate the idea of it. "Go back to sleep," the sleuth murmurs, putting the violin back in its case, so that the doctor will see and not doubt that the concert will restart as soon as he's out of sight. "I think you just helped me solve it." He doesn't offer details, of course. John is too tired to care at the moment anyway.
"Good to know," his blogger replies, "Good night, Sherlock." He walks back up to his room, in a daze…and Sherlock gives up and imitates him, by trudging to his own bedroom. He doesn't believe he will be able to sleep – his brain too full of confusion to settle – but he might as well ponder while horizontal.
In the end, the sleuth does fall asleep, fifteen minutes later, in the midst of a debate on the relative influence of nature vs. nurture – as well as a side enquire about if whatever determines the soulmarks should be considered nature, or if some sort of ridiculous notion like fate should indeed be considered. After all, that the matches – the ones that find each other, anyway – are indeed one another's perfect companions sounds like a statistical improbability.
Before, he would have surmised that the ones who did find each other exaggerated their compatibility to begin with, because of societal pressure. But having someone who refuses the status, and yet is so…caring, when the detective is doing his level best to be obnoxious, he's starting to suspect the old tales might have a point.
He can never reach a conclusion, and isn't that galling. But it is possible to slip from mind palace to REM sleep – and dreams he frankly…didn't expect, not with how upsetting the matter seems to be to both of them (more so for John when he's involved). It's even easy.
He wakes up on the cusp of fulfilment (because the universe hates him), biting back a whimper. Why couldn't he sleep another fifty seconds? The fact is, he can't finish – not while thinking of John, when the man so clearly and loudly refuses to be his partner, and certainly not while thinking of anyone else. It's maddening. His body knows what it wants (and it wants it now…or, preferably, thirty seconds ago), while his brain balks at it.
It's happened other times, of course, since John moved in. But before, he always finished in his sleep, and he could tell himself it was physiological, that it didn't matter, that he didn't even remember his dreams (he did). Now, he has to consciously take the decision to indulge – to fantasise – and it's not fair. It's not fair, when he yearns, but the fear that John – even oblivious as it is – would read his actions, written all across his body for anyone to notice, and be angry.
So he fists the sheets and waits, tries to think about anything else but how easy it would be to…but you know how it is when trying not to think of something. Why does his transport hate him so? And his brain should really know better. He whimpers, then decides that the way to distract one's brain and body – if his mind palace fails him (and that's cruel) – is the internet. Stretching one hand to get his phone on the side table, he opens a tab randomly, not even noticing what he's clicked.
Oh. It was the 'for the purpose of blackmail' favourite videos. Mrs. Hudson's exotic dancing. That is a lucky strike – doesn't that work wonders to kill his libido entirely. Thank God – he was so high-strung a minute ago he wouldn't even have managed to get himself under the shower for a cold one without snapping.
John appears entirely unaware of his flatmate's plight, and chooses to ignore the nighty stint, considering it just one of Sherlock's many quirks. He never asks what case the other man was working on. After all, he would probably be told that he can't understand, or that it's already finished and so boring.
Luckily for everyone's sanity, they have another case the following day - even if, once again, the sleuth is deeply disappointed. Just someone that 'invited' them to a crime they had committed, wondering if the consulting criminal is, indeed, as great as everyone says. Well, as John's blog says.
John can't help but wonder if Ella's suggestion is doing more harm than good. Sure, he's happier than he's even been. But this comes from Sherlock, from being allowed to participate in the Work, not from his readers (numerous or aristocratic as they are), or what little fame he's acquired.
Sure, his posts gain them clients - and the consulting detective needs all the cases he can get, so John is not about to stop. But stalkers and other various insane people seem to religiously check his updates, too. How many more madmen will find them because John puts them out there? He ponders the question for a good half an hour, before giving up his worries. He'll just have to protect his friend from whatever threat comes across them.
That's his whole point, after all. Sure, he's a doctor, and – at the moment – late for work, so he better run. He's a biographer/PR man, too, but given how miffed Sherlock is by the 'unscientific' style of his blog, he'd be fired twice daily if that was his main use. He's a cook, when his conscience insists that they cannot survive on takeaway, but Mrs. Hudson could easily replace him for that…to his great relief every time he has to go to a conference and leave the sleuth alone). He's an all-around PA, official Passer of Pens and Phones and why is he visualising this in all capitals? He needs more coffee before he goes spare.
But most of all, he's the consulting detectives's live-in bodyguard, running after him at the drop of a hat and ensuring that the man has some form of backup. God knows that the man seems allergic to it at times. One'd think that Sherlock is trying to get himself murdered, eventually. It might explain why he does his best to drive everyone he meets to a murderous rage on a regular basis…John included.
No, no, he needs to stop being distracted. Work first. His frustrating flatmate later. His work is certainly enough to keep him busy. John rushes out of the door, and for the rest of the day he has barely time to go to the bathroom between patients, a seemingly endless line of coughs (one whooping), flu, upset stomachs and other assorted illnesses. None is serious, luckily for his patients, but their sheer number is exhausting.
He trudges back home, hoping to God that his flatmate has not indulged in experiments that have required the intervention of firefighters, or left him a bigger mess than he's equipped to deal with (and he's equipped for very little at the moment).
Thankfully, the flat is not a warzone, but when Sherlock takes a look at him and warns, "I know you want to wash the hospital off you, but three minutes, please!" before darting into the bathroom, he sighs. He should be thankful that the chaos has been confined to one room, he supposes. Better not to think too deeply about what might currently reside in their sink. He just hopes the man remembers to disinfect it properly, but he probably should give it an extra wipe, just in case.
He hopes for a not-bloody bathroom at best; entering the room at Sherlock's call to find it filled with at least thirty flickering candles, the tub filled (with just water, it appears) and a flatmate with an expectant look in his face makes him stop and laugh. "I've already published that blog post, you know. Don't you think that immediately reusing the murder method would be a bit of a giveaway even for the Yarders? I'm not even questioning your intention to murder me, but really, I expected better of you," he teases.
Sherlock pouts, because of course he does. "Now you're being purposefully obnoxious. Of course I could murder you anytime without rousing suspicion, but this isn't about that. I'd always known you like long baths, your one indulgence you'd really missed in the army, and you know, unless we get a case midway, I'm more than happy to leave you to it. But I'd always thought all you needed was water and time, and this last case evidenced that maybe I'd missed a detail," he retorts.
"Did you now?" John asks, tiredness momentarily forgotten in the pleasure of banter.
"You looked positively wistful seeing the murder weapon," the sleuth declares, "and as if you thought it a horrible waste of nice things. So I went and got you a few of these. Thought you might…like them today, given the day you had. You can keep the bathroom door open if it reassures you, I have no objections."
Had he looked wistful? He didn't think he had, but figures that for the world's only consulting detective he's always an open book. That Sherlock knows how draining his day has been is expected, really. But for him to go out and get him all this without a request is amazing – and baffling. The detective has gone shopping. Willingly. For him. John is tempted to pinch himself hard, but doesn't. If he is actually dreaming (and it certainly looks like the most probable option), he doesn't want it to stop.
Hoping that his slowness to reply will be tagged down to fatigue and not to being absolutely stunned, the blogger quips, "Thanks, but I'll pass. Not on your kind extra, thanks by the way, but on the open door option. Part of the luxury we didn't get in the army was privacy, you know."
The consulting detective frowns, frustrated at himself. "Of course. Always missing something. Well, then – enjoy," he says, before disappearing back into his room.
And John does, oh how he does. He undresses quickly and sinks in the water, unable to repress a groan of pleasure. It's hot just as he likes. Is he so predictable that Sherlock can draw him a bath this perfect? One'd think that at least London traffic is chaotic enough to make such an endeavour impossible. (Unless…no, of course he wouldn't enlist Mycroft's help.)
Some of the candles are scented, but it is a subtle smell that just relaxes him further. Most of them are there just to please the eye, though, and – because Sherlock is nothing if not thorough – in a veritable rainbow of nuances. The doctor half expects to have to fill a chart afterwards, grading the hues for their effect on his nerves or something. An unbidden smile lingers on his lips.
For a moment, he wonders when was the last time someone did this for him. After a good long pondering, he suspects – with a point of sadness – that nobody ever did. He's the one who usually goes all-out romantic for his girlfriend, which is only proper, he supposes. And usually now, his relationships end too soon for any girl to become too invested in him, true.
But why has no one tried to spoil him before Sherlock entered the picture? Do people reserve their more attentive side only to their soulmates? That seems hardly fair, with how many people never find theirs.
And sure, the tub might not be the place to rethink relationships' dynamic – in the world at large and his especially – but actually, why not? He has time, quiet (because his flatmate doesn't seem – luckily for him – to be engaging in anything destructive) and no other urges.
Part of him wonders why he's even kept the dating game so long when most of the effort was his own… and since he's ready to admit he's not the most fully dedicated person, what does this make his partners? Of course he's never been too deeply upset by losing them. He must have sensed that they weren't too dedicated, either.
Why is he even still trying to find a girl or another, then? He has Sherlock. And yes, the consulting detective is not interested in having sex with him, but there's so much more that he receives. Purpose, mostly – what he'd lost after the war, but really, the man always amazes him. When he's in the mood, like tonight, John will find himself utterly spoiled.
Sex is important, of course. But is it worth the amount of effort he puts in that, when he could spare time, money and stress and just buy a toy or two? …After all, he has found his soulmate. Irene's hints make it so much more probable. Sherlock might not want to acknowledge it (after all, John is not someone you can flaunt around), but he's certainly being thoughtful when John needs it. Their relationship might not be one of these romances novels are made of (not even Harry, who read them all, ever mentioned body parts in the fridge) but isn't this the point of soulmates? That they're what you need?
True, there's still a chance that Sherlock is a homonym and his soulmate, if not dead, is somewhere out there and he didn't feel like discussing it. though, John is taking his bet. Not pushing it, of course. It would be bad form to ask to discuss what they're so happily ignoring. If the sleuth wants to pretend they're just flatmates, he certainly has a right to do so.
It doesn't mean that John has to keep up his side of the game. Besides, with how often the consulting detective 'accidentally' interrupted his dates, with an excuse or another (mostly cases, of course), he doubts that Sherlock will object or mock him if his relationships end on the backburner for a while. Just a little while.
In the meantime, he can figure out if the man is indeed his soulmate (probabilities right now look around 88%), and if there's any way he can persuade Sherlock to give them a chance. Not necessarily in the physical side of things, more in the 'reciprocal acknowledgment' matter. Preferably a public one, but he doesn't want to push the detective too far. Just a "You're mine, and I'm not going to toss you into the bin anytime soon," would be nice to hear.
A yelled, "Dinner's ready," is almost as nice in the moment. The doctor fully expected to have to fend for himself (and his friend) once he finally dragged himself out of the tub. That the sleuth thought to procure food too…well, that's sweet. Not an adjective most would associate with the consulting detective, true, but then again, most people don't know him. (Does he, even? He's not sure.)
So he sighs, gets out of the tub and towels himself swiftly before putting on a bathrobe. There's a delicious smell wafting in, and while he's pretty sure it means Angelo cooked it, so technically the detective shouldn't have used 'ready' so much as 'here', John isn't going to nitpick it. Sherlock still ordered, somehow divining (sorry, deducing) what he would crave.
The least he can do is thank him in earnest and tuck in, licking his lips without even realising. The sleuth's smug smile is well deserved, so the doctor doesn't feel even the lightest flicker of annoyance he normally would when the man thinks he can just push people around. This is not being domineering. This is using that brilliant brain of his to please the people in his life and ensure they have everything they can wish for.
Christ, but John is the luckiest bloke on Earth. Of course, anyone who's found one's soulmate (or is persuaded they have) would subscribe to that. But not all of them get a bloody genius as their own. Now, if only Sherlock wasn't (most probably) ashamed of him…well, John would die on the spot, his heart imploded by sheer happiness, probably. So maybe things happen for a reason, like his ma used to say.