I'm back! Amazing, huh?
Is this some sort of efficiency being put to good use?
I'm actually trying to be on top of this for once. It bothers me when I don't update for a while and I really wanted to get this story out there as soon as possible so I could return to my usual content and stop procrastinating, and so I decided to actually work like I'm supposed to.
Determination. It works wonders, apparently.
So here I am, bringing you the second installment of a story very few people may actually end up reading. I hope that everybody who stuck around for the second half isn't dissapointed.
Anyways, I'm going to stop stalling by providing endless exposition.
Onwards to the writing!
Molly wonders, sometimes, why exactly she could never seem to shake her stubborn crush on Sherlock Holmes.
The notion was infuriating.
She loves him, of course, and everybody knows it. But in recent years, as she's spent more time with him, she realized she needed to love him as a friend. He would never make her happy, never be the doting partner she always fantasized about, or at least, not to her. His heart wasn't ever really into anything, except for his work, his experiments, and his family. Sherlock Holmes simply didn't have space left in his emotional repertoire for romanticisms and pointless sentimental affairs, but there was always a window into the realm of friendship, and Molly had grabbed for it with swift, strong, decisive hands.
This was a strategic move, the end of an era. She might never get married and have children like she's dreamt about as a little girl. Molly Hooper, with her sweet smiles and gentle attitude, was made for motherhood, for nurturing. She quite liked the idea of taking care of people, of being taken care of, and perhaps this was why she had fancied Sherlock Holmes for the longest time. If anyone was in dire need of affection, of being watched over, it was Sherlock, with all of his midnight locks and bright eyes. He was intriguing, a rare and beautiful creature, but a broken one nonetheless.
For ages, she adored him, resigned to her fate on one side of the spectrum and still holding out hope for a remarkable, inconceivable realization on his end, where he woke up and remembered that he could let himself be taken care of for once, that he could let Molly be that person to care for him. She lived to help people. She reveled in the warm glow of usefulness, though she didn't have many friends.
Now, she's been free of her lingering feelings for one crime fighting detective for years, since way before Rosie's third birthday. It was when Sherlock had calmly sat her down, apologized profusely for forcing her to admit her sentiments over the phone, and explained that he had never meant to be cruel. He thought it was the only way to save her from Euros' twisted games, and for this, Molly was grateful. She understood.
But she also understood that she was torturing herself by staying fixated on the most incredible man she's ever known. Sherlock Holmes was wonderful, but he was simply not right for her. He would never be who she needed him to be, never fall into her arms like a missing puzzle piece, never comfort her on her worst days.
The detective, as he so promptly put it, wasn't made for love.
Nevertheless, the brunette thinks he might have stumbled into it, though.
As much as she couldn't see it before, perhaps the reason his heart could never be occupied by such notions of romance was because he had already found his version. It came with compositions at sunrise and picking up takeout, stealing jumpers for experimentation and purposefully doing unspeakably disgusting things with pieces from the morgue in the kitchen sink, just to get a reaction.
John Watson, she believes, is exactly what Sherlock had needed, even if they might never end up together like that. And Sherlock, though he fights so hard against the ideals of sentiment, certainly acts the closest to affectionate he can get when it comes to Watson and his daughter, who was practically the detective's daughter, too, at this point. To any outsider, the dynamic was obvious, if not complex.
It's strange, but sweet, this other side to the three of them. They were made to be a group.
This is why Molly found it so amusing that Rosie started playing rugby.
"It's a contact sport," the blonde explained to her unofficial aunt one day as they went shopping for bras, something Moll would definitely not trust the boys to handle. She loved her friends fiercely, but Sherlock would almost instantly blurt out some fact about the materials or the fit that would make the whole affair unbearable and John would simply feel awkward the entire time, and thus she had wordlessly volunteered to buy the garments herself. "And I think that the exercise would be beneficial, and I could get an additional scholarship to university if I'm any good. The female teams have less people to pull from, after all, and it's a way to meet new girls my age, anyhow. Perhaps the constant running will give me practice if I ever decide to take up the family business."
"And what business is that, Rosie?" The eleven year old had smiled fondly at her aunt as if running the idea over and over again in her head, trying to figure out which fantasy seemed best.
"Why, consulting detective, of course. I'd imagine I'd be a great one, too, with enough practice, and with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson as my private mentors . . . well, Scotland Yard always needs a helping hand, right?" Molly grinned right back because isn't that fitting and naturally, she shouldn't expect anything less than exceptional from Rosamund at this point, even in her ambitious career choices. She was raised in a household that torches eyeballs with a bunsen burner and has a copy of the periodic table that's she's had completely memorized since age nine. Hell, Molly once walked in on Rosie sitting in the upstairs room, which was John's old quarters and now her bedroom, with a copy of the Iliad. In Greek. The eleven year old taught herself both Greek and Latin, alone, because she figured it would be 'interesting'.
Rugby was certainly not the same as learning a new language, but as far as the unexpected, it was far up the list.
It starts to make sense, though, once she thinks about it.
"You guys can watch me play together!" Rosamund tells them when she makes the team - she's always had a way of picking things up effortlessly, and rugby tryouts turned out to be no different. John, who was quite the rugby player back in high school and uni, beams at his daughter like she's just invented the cure for cancer, and Sherlock nods and says something along the lines of 'sports are wonderful for blood flow', which is technically approval. Molly, of course, simply hugged the blonde preteen and muttered, "I knew you could do it," into her ear.
What they hadn't realized when they agreed to see Rosie compete was that they were signing up for every game, without failure or exception.
Every. Bloody. Match.
Molly didn't mind rugby, but she didn't know a lick about it. She tried - really, she did - and though John and Rosamund and even Sherlock, as un-sportsminded as he was, explained its rules over and over again, the information never clicked.
She's admitting it. She doesn't get rugby. She's failed at being British.
Maybe it's not entirely true, but after five games - two of which she froze to death on the benches during - Molly feels as though she should have a vague idea of what is happening now.
She has absolutely no clue. Still.
"I bet you'd understand rugby," she sighs as she prepares another body in the morgue, this one belonging to a slightly heavyset older gentleman. He said nothing in response. "You're probably an expert, huh? Could you, I don't know, give me some pointers? I have a game to catch in another two hours after work and I could use the help."
Predictably, the corpse kept its mouth shut. Molly snickered, her soft laughs echoing across the virtually noiseless, empty room.
"I don't blame you for withholding the information. The strong and silent type, I see. An admirable quality in a man." She finished her session with the dead man by scribbling a few notes down onto a clipboard and initialing the sheet. "Well, another lovely chat, sir, but I have other things to do now. Maybe you'll find another employee to chat up rugby with." The body was carted away, and then the reminder of Rosie's match, specifically how freezing it would be once more, slipped back into Molly's mind. She shuddered.
"At least the corpse is going to be inside later this afternoon," she groaned, already anticipating the nip of the frigid air.
Of course, not to mention that the dead body still possessed more knowledge on rugby than her. The woes she must face.
The next few hours flew by, and before she knew it, she was heading to the cold stands, shivering madly. Silently, she contemplated the poor life decisions she had made up until this point - namely not bringing a bloody coat - before looking around for the Baker Street boys (and really, 'The Baker Street Boys' would be an excellent band name, looking back). She spotted them, unsurprisingly, across the field, having just arrived only minutes before the game would start.
Briefly, Molly wondered why Rosie had wanted to join a sport with such inconvenient hours. Sure, she could get off work in time, but Sherlock and John had cases that stretched long into the night, and frankly all of Rosamund's big games took place smack in the middle of the week, which was a virtual rush hour in 221B. They would almost always have to rush in, last minute, what with traffic and cases and the trek to the field.
Then Molly realized how cramped the available seating was behind her, how the men would have to be practically breathing down eachother's necks on this cold evening in order to sit together, and then a lot of things made perfect sense.
Slightly devious, perhaps, but one couldn't deny that her scheme was genius.
Sherlock seemed to notice the same lack of personal space when they reached the bleachers, frowning rather dramatically.
"The only other spot next to Molly would be a tight fit for both of us, John. Maybe I should just stand over here." Playing into his daughter's hands, Watson shook his head.
"No, it'll be fine. It's not like we're strangers or anything, and besides, it's bloody freezing out here." John climbed onto the edge and patted the seat next to him. "Well?" Awkwardly, Sherlock lumbered onto the strip. "See? Close and all, but we fit."
"Close indeed," the detective managed dryly, and if Molly didn't know him better, she would dare say that he was starting to blush, pressed up against his best friend.
They remained that way for the span of the entire game, and when Rosie's team won, Molly jumped up, cheering for her niece.
This was only one of many games, though.
"Lestrade decided to come along, this time," John mentioned passingly. He was washing dishes in the flat and Molly was drying, as she had been invited over for dinner. "Rosie practically begged him to come see after he said he played a bit of rugby in uni, so now he's pretty much guaranteed to arrive." At this she smiled.
"That much of a pushover for Rosie?"
"Scared of her wrath, more like, if he doesn't make it." She hummed.
"Makes sense."
"Rosamund in a rage is a sight to behold, even if it's the last thing you'll ever see," he said, a sentiment which would have almost been fond if it wasn't accompanied by a shudder.
Well then. Lestrade was joining their rugby support group.
How would Rosie manage to inconspicuously shove her fathers together via matches now, Molly had wondered.
The solution, in fact, came with a fundraiser.
With baleful eyes, two rugby girls sat behind a foldable white table with an enormous dispenser in the middle. A stack of white cups were held behind their operation.
"It's just one pound for a steaming cup of hot chocolate," one pleaded, batting her eyelashes innocently. "The rugby team really needs the money for competition and every little bit counts." Ah, so they were bleeding money out of the folks on the benches. Effective, she had to admit, given how absolutely dismal it had been.
"Sorry, but I don't have any cash on me," Molly said, sidestepping the table. It was a shame, though. Hot chocolate would be more than welcome at the moment.
She sat down at the far end of the bleachers, just like any other time, watching the rugby girls' lucrative business with a chuckle. In another life, they might have been wonderful con artists.
"Hi, Molly," comes the voice of Lestrade, partnered with a friendly smile and a styrofoam cup in hand. Clearly, he hadn't been able to avoid the sale. "How are you?"
"Freezing and very, very tired," she responded, shivering on que. With a frown, he handed her his cup. "What are you doing?"
"I don't need this, I was just guilted into buying it. You could probably use it right now." She blinked before slowly taking the tiny glass from his fingers.
"Thanks, Greg," she muttered, her face already filling with red at the sudden warmth. The hot chocolate was sure to be scalding, which wasn't necessarily a bad thing given the weather. "I'll pay you back." He waved her off.
"Don't bother. It's nothing." Sherlock and John, ten minutes later, arrived last, and John instantly veered towards the hot chocolate booth.
"Can we have a - "
"We're pretty much out of cups, Mr. Watson, but Rosie saved you two a glass," smirked the girl behind the table, holding up a hand. "You'd better go find a seat." Molly stifled a laugh. Lestrade glanced at her curiously.
"What's wrong?" the officer asked, laying a hand on her shoulder.
"Rosamund's trying to set up her fathers. It's amazing they haven't noticed before now. John plays into her hands beautifully at these matches."
"Really?" he hummed, starting to laugh. "I've got to see this."
"It's subtle is the problem. I'm starting to think it's more of a conspiracy theory than anything else."
"Yeah, then - "
"Can we move past you?" John questioned politely, cup in hand. Sherlock flicked the lapels of his coat upwards against the wind. Wordlessly, Molly and Lestrade made way so that the two men could sit behind them, scrunched up in the corner like always. By now, Molly was fairly sure Rosamund had warned off all of the other parents in order to reserve that spot. "It's really bloody cold outside, isn't it?"
"Good thing Rosie left you cocoa, then," Molly responded, trying to keep the amusement off of her face. It wasn't working.
"Yes, I'm sure John's appreciative," the detective mumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets. The doctor glared at him.
"We can share. You know that, right?"
"We can, but I don't drink that much anyhow, and she only left one cup for a reason."
"Sherlock Holmes, beneath all of your genius you are a normal human being and I know for a fact that you could use a hot drink. Take a sip, for god's sake."
"John, you're being ridiculous. Really, I'm okay."
"Sherlock . . . "
"John . . . " Predictably, the detective lost that battle and ended up snatching the glass from his partner's hands in a fit of annoyance. Lestrade shot Molly a glance that said 'you're seeing this, right?' while they bickered.
It's a little bit adorable, actually.
"Good, Holmes?" The words are genuinely inquisitive, and the blonde's companion rolls his eyes without any of the usual bite.
"Yes, it's good, Watson. It's overly sugary, though. Typical of eleven year olds, really - the concentration could use more balance." It's a run of the mill Sherlock response, but his cheeks are pinched with red in a way that might have nothing to do with the cold.
After that, Greg made an effort to come to every match, more to watch his top consulting detectives than anything else.
"It's like seeing a terrible chick flick in which the main characters are totally oblivious to the fact that they're being set up," the officer explained to the brunette, and she nodded in agreement.
"A soap opera you really shouldn't be invested in but can't stop watching."
"Exactly!"
Perhaps Rosamund had done her job a little too efficiently, at the pitch. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes always did something insanely couple-y without trying to that it was a miracle her plot hadn't been unveiled already.
There was two months ago:
"I couldn't find my coat today, Sherlock, but you didn't have to give me yours."
"Yes I did. You were cold. The logical solution is that I give you mine."
"I swear I put it back in the closet! I know I did, and clearly you didn't take it." Molly could guess who stole it. "But speaking of missing clothing, where are my jumpers?"
" . . . Perhaps I set one on fire. As an experiment, of course."
"An experiment? Just one, really?"
"Maybe two. Possibly three. You need to do repeat trials for a reliable result, of course."
"I'm warning you, Sherlock, you need to control yourself. I can't keep going shopping for new sweaters every single time you decide to destroy them."
"Please. They're ugly. I'm doing society a favor."
"I'm going to have to start walking around shirtless, soon."
"I don't see anyone complaining."
"Sherlock."
"Boys, boys, your daughter has the ball," Molly had interjected, effectively cutting off further argument. Then, they had calmed down, but then two weeks later:
"This reminds me of that football movie, for some reason. Sherlock, what was the one about the Indian girl who wanted to play football?"
"That was Bend it Like Beckham, John, and it was only on two nights ago. Your recall is horrific."
"Right. Good movie, though. Good cast." The detective snorted.
"Her closeted friend was ridiculous, though. Beckham isn't all that attractive, anyhow. It would have made far more sense if he had developed a crush on one of his close male friends instead of a visually unappealing celebrity with football history. That's how the real world works." This was, Molly thought, the closest they would get to a confession from Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade, as if thinking the same thing, raised his eyebrow in correspondence.
"I'm sure lots of people had celebrity crushes, Sherlock, and Beckham was a successful player. Anyhow, what would you know about the way the poor guy's crushing habits work?" The ebony haired man huffed, crossing his arms.
"It's not exactly a secret that I like men and women, John, males in particular, even if I rarely feel attracted to anyone specific. It's intriguing personalities that I look for. So yes, I know how gay crushes work. I don't live under a rock."
" . . . I mean, I've never given your sexuality much thought, or my own for that matter, but that's fine. I guess I'm the same. It's more the person than the gender that I care about, even though I'm more inclined towards women. I just never . . . I don't know, met a bloke I fancied like that."
"You'd date a man? I thought you were straight."
"Again, never gave it much thought. But sure, I guess I'd go out with a guy, but I'd have to really like the individual."
"Interesting."
"Can this riveting discussion on sexual identity maybe wait until after I've left?" Greg said, the words coming out as more of a plea than a question. Again, they shut up, though Molly is entirely convinced that the rustling noises behind her came from John pinching his partner and vice versa in retaliation.
A month later, this happened, too:
"Holmes, what are you doing?"
"As miraculous as it is, John, I haven't rested in over three days, and as soon as we get home we'll be back on the case. I'm not getting anything done now, so I might as well sleep."
"No, no, I get that part, but why are you leaning on me?"
"You're going to be my pillow. I'm sorry, Watson, but I can't exactly lean on a random stranger and use their shoulder as a headrest. You'll have to do."
"Great, I'm being demoted to a glorified headrest."
"Pillows don't talk, you know."
"Neither do unconscious people. Look, just get comfortable already and fall asleep, I'll wake you up later."
"I knew you'd see it my way."
"Sure, Sherlock. Whatever you say."
"Sarcasm doesn't suit you, John." In minutes, the detective was lightly snoring on the bench, and the doctor's arm was around his waist so he wouldn't fall over. It remained there for the rest of the game.
Of course, then there was today, and nobody Molly frankly couldn't forget about the events of today if she tried.
She was proud of her niece, though. A little in awe of her conniving streak, but proud nonetheless.
At first, it was shaping up to be a disappointingly drama-less afternoon. Though everyone was packed like sardines, as per usual, Sherlock and John had yet to bicker like teenagers again, which was, sadly, half the reason Molly came to these matches. Sure, she loved Rosie, but this? This was the entertainment aspect of the night that she lived for.
And then, her niece came over, grinning, absolutely filthy from rugby.
"Did you see the last play? That was awesome!" Rosamund exclaimed, not caring about the way her uniform was slathered in dirt.
"We saw," Molly replied warmly, ruffling her hair as it attempted to escape her ponytail. "Quite a game."
"You don't even understand rugby, though."
"I don't have to to know that you're wonderful at it."
"I would hug you, but I'd get you all messy."
"I appreciate the sentiment behind that, then."
"Honestly, I came right from the station and these clothes are going in the wash later anyways. I'll hug you," Greg shrugged, and with a crooked smirk Rosie complied, squeezing him as hard as possible.
"Thanks for showing up, by the way. You don't have to."
"Of course I do. I can't miss one of your matches. When you become famous, you better send me tickets, alright?"
"Duh," she responded, rolling her eyes in a fashion greatly mimicking Sherlock's. It was almost funny to see it on the face of an eleven year old. "Anyways, I'd better get going." Her blonde father nodded.
"Okay, well we'll just grab a cab and - "
"No, Daddy, tonight's the sleepover, remember?" the young girl said, crossing her arms.
Right. The rugby team was hosting a sleepover tonight at the captain's house.
Hey, at least 'Aunt Molly' hadn't been the only person to let that thought slip her mind.
"The sleepover?" John cast a look at Sherlock, who nodded.
"The sleepover. Tonight. At Jessica Somethingorother's place."
"Jessabelle Norton, actually, but close enough," Rosamund corrected, hefting her duffel bag. "I've got my stuff right here, so just pick me up at noon tomorrow. You have the address, Dad?"
"I've got it, yes," the detective answered with his usual exasperation, as if she couldn't ask a more ridiculous question.
"Good. Dinner's on the table, so you'll be fine. I love you guys!" She quickly kissed them both on the cheek, as a regular squeeze would have covered them in grime, before running off to reunite with her teammates.
"Wait, dinner's on the table? She made dinner?" Watson repeated to himself after she left. He turned to Sherlock. "Did you know about this?"
"What makes you think I knew?"
"You're Sherlock bloody Holmes, don't you know everything?"
"Apparently not, John. How inconvenient, I know. It would make solving cases significantly easier, I must say."
"Apparently, since we already have dinner made, would you like to accompany us back, Molly?" the doctor invited, shaking his head. "Frankly, I haven't been in the kitchen since breakfast, so I have no idea what she's done since she got back from school, but hopefully you'll enjoy it."
"Why not?" This was her incredibly naive response.
Oh, how blind she had been.
The kitchen, for one, was spotless, without a dirty dish in sight. Two plates laden with pasta salad sat on the table, next to eachother, with Sherlock's experiments neatly shoved to the side for once without being disrupted. A pair of cocktails - yes, cocktails, because apparently her eleven year old niece could make cocktails now - sat innocently on the counter, and an electric candle was placed in the center of their meal.
Pasta a la candlelight, apparently. Molly should have known.
Of course Rosie wouldn't pass up the chance to further the bonding process while she wasn't around. Naturally, this would have been made into a date of sorts.
It was kind of hilarious, in a way.
What was less hilarious, though, was the fact that John instantly started choking on air the instant he understood what was happening. Sherlock stood next to him, awkwardly patting his back and generally looking very concerned. This continued for another five minutes while Molly spectated, resisting the urge to call Greg and inform him of this new development.
John got the clever idea to text his daughter.
Hey, why did you plan a date for your dad and I?
What do you mean, Daddy?
I mean I nearly died of a stroke a few minutes ago when I saw what looked like a romantic venue.
Ah, that would be problematic, huh?
You think?! A candle, Rosamund. A bloody candle.
It gets dark without the lights on, so I figured I'd put one there so you could see. And?
What about the drinks? Where did you learn how to make cocktails and why would you?
I got curious. I wanted to try out a new internet recipe. Consider it an experiment, minus the human liver and toes in the freezer.
John glanced at his partner.
"There are toes in the freezer?" The tall man shrugged in response.
Yes, alright, but two plates of italian? Seriously?
Well, there are two of you, right?
Molly came over, too.
There was silence on the other end as if Rosamund was considering her options.
Make her a sandwich or something, then. I may have left some leftover pasta in the fridge for tomorrow if that helps.
So, I guess you're alright . . .
Why did you get so freaked out about going on a date with Dad, though? Are you scarrreeeedddddd?
No, of course not.
John typed that text out almost instantly.
Riiiiiiiiiight.
Rosie . . .
Kidding, kidding. Give Dad a kiss goodnight for me.
Very clever.
Awwwwwww . . .
I love you.
Love you, too. Tell Aunt Molly I love her too!
Bye, Rosie.
Bye, Daddy ;)
Oh, her niece was good.
Better than good, actually. Rosamund, even at age eleven, was a mastermind in the making, and Molly was a proud witness.
Honestly, if they didn't get together before Rosie moved out, due to rugby alone, Molly would be surprised.
It turns out that sports matches can be interesting, after all.
Sherlock Holmes wasn't accustomed to being in complete darkness. The partial depths of night from inside the great shadows of 221B, sure, but the lamps from the streets always cast enough light to work with. The underbelly of London contained in passages and subway tunnels, certainly, but the dim glow of his and John's respective phones were usually enough to see with. Even on the few occasions someone dared to kidnap him, the perpetrators preformed a shoddy job with tying the blindfolds, and the faint impressions of movement and bright spots lingered beneath the edges of the cloth.
Today was different. There was no languid 2am streetlight, no cellphone screen, no itchy blindfold with a terrible knot.
Perhaps, he deduced, someone had upped their game and kidnapped him with some efficiency for once. Maybe he was simply in a pitch black room without any windows. Or, just possibly, he was finally dead and consigned to purgatory, if such a mortal, foolish concept existed.
Wait, no. His eyes were just closed, actually.
The detective almost feels embarrassed, thinking about it.
With a great deal more effort than it should have taken, he forces his eyelids to retreat, and his vision, blurry and patchy from a distinct lack of use, begins to restore itself.
Sherlock is in a hospital.
Certainly, this isn't good.
Right, well, he's laying on a bed, for starters. That's something, isn't it?
So he's the injured sop in this scenario. That rarely happens.
The sheets are starchy, most likely new, and the tacky blue paint on the walls seems fresh. Given the distinct absence of any particular lingering scents, this room hasn't been in use for very long, or at the very least, it's rarely used. However, he's willing to bet money on the prior notion. It's clearly a hospital, and given the sheer number of cases and accidents London goes through, keeping a single cell out of commission would make no practical sense.
So, it's a new hospital, only open for about five months at most. Now it's only a matter of which hospital.
No . . . No, open a year, not five months or less . . . ah, the only new outfit within London under those descriptions is St Bartholomew's new sister branch, a recent commission undertook by a private benefactor. It's been open to public use for the last four months and two weeks. This means he's in southern London, near the outskirts of the city, about a thirty minute drive from his flat and his experiments and his Watsons.
Good. He wants to check out and be back in his own, far more familiar bed as soon as possible.
Why is he in a hospital, though? He doesn't recall being sick, or much of anything that would lead to a sick visit.
Sherlock tries to sit up and reassess his state when he instantly winces, recoiling.
Ah, he knows that sting. A nasty scrape from a gunshot, probably acquired during on of their many cases. The fact that he doesn't remember something as damning as a bullet to the side is also indicative of a minor head trauma, which fits considering his distortion and the dull throbbing at the back of his skull.
Brilliant. A head injury.
Now he knows where he is and what's happened, more or less, he can deduce how to leave and who's with him. How long has he been out?
This time, instead of pushing up, he blindly grabs for a button on the underside of the bed. With a self satisfied grin of success, he pushes the top arrow, and the headrest elevates slowly. A typical feature in the new models.
This is significantly better than his view of the ceiling and a small portion of the wall, especially since he can now spot Watson in the corner, slumped over in a very uncomfortable looking plastic chair.
"John," he starts, wincing at the harshness of the words. Odd - the scratchy quality of his vocal chords projected implies that they haven't been utilized in at least a day or so. They are tinny, rumbling in a way that most people suffer through in the mornings. However, he is not most people, and he is almost always talking, keeping his baritone in practice unintentionally.
Not a good sign.
"John," he repeats again, this time around with more force and direction in an effort to clear his passages. The doctor stirs, opening bleary eyes.
"Sherlock? You're awake?" he says, his lids peeling back at the speed of light.
"Yes, John, don't act so surprised," the detective responded, though he sounded far more fond than he intended.
"God, Holmes, how long have you been up? Was I out for long?"
"Well, I've been lucid for all of five minutes, tops, but you are slightly harder to puzzle out. Judging by how easy it was to rouse you, as it only took a few moments, my guess is, at most, a half and hour. If not you would have entered the next phase of sleep, inducing a deeper unconscious state and - "
"Do you have any idea how worried I was, Sherlock?" he says, and suddenly John Watson looks downright murderous. Normally, this wouldn't threaten Sherlock, as John was John and very unlikely to start a physical altercation, but seeing as he was lying in a hospital cot at the moment this could turn to the problematic. "I was here by your bed for a whole bloody thirty hours!"
"Forgive me, Watson, but I actually have no idea why I'm in St Bartholomew. Could you please refresh my memory before scolding me for being unconscious?" With an incredulous, terrified look, John sat on the foot of his bed.
"We were on a case and we had the subject cornered. Lestrade's crew was on his way, only a block from the bloke's flat. However, he pulled a gun on me from across the room, safety off. He was a botanist, and you grabbed a handful of dirt and were prepared to throw it in the guy's eyes and disarm him, but as we distracted him, Lestrade arrived and Anderson kicked down the door. He accidentally pulled the trigger in surprise and you . . ." Watson swallowed, directing his gaze towards the ceiling. "You shoved me out of the way, you stupid man. He grazed your side fairly badly and you hit your head on the corner of a desk. I didn't . . ." He swallowed again. "At first, I thought you were dead, Holmes. You've been in a coma-like state for the last several hours and I've been scared out of my bloody mind that you might not wake up." Initially, Sherlock puzzled over what a normal human response to this scenario would be. Surely there must be something he could say to calm John down. He was clearly very shaken by this.
"Well, I'm sure in a few days I'll be right as rain. When can I check out?" The doctor blinked.
"What?"
"I said, when do we get to leave and go home? I have several experiments going on at the flat that I need to catalog."
"I don't think you understand this, but you have a side full of stitches and you've experienced a serious head trauma. No, you're not leaving the hospital for at least the next few days." The detective blinked.
"John, I'll be alright. I'll be back on the job in no time; it's just a flesh wound."
"Just a flesh wound?" Watson sprang up, walking to the side of his partner's head in two short strides. "Just a flesh wound, Holmes?! You took a bullet for me!" The dark haired man shrugged.
"You would have done the same for me, John. You know you would have. In fact, Mary did do the same for me." Sadly, the brief mention of the doctor's late wife didn't distract him in the slightest. Perhaps more assessment was required.
"Of course I would have, Sherlock, but good God, that is not the point right now!" the doctor snapped, practically face planting.
"Then what is?"
"I don't want to see you in a hospital bed, on the back of an ambulance, ever, ever again." His blue eyes wavered as if beginning to drown in tears and memorabilia. "It was bad enough the first time they took you away."
"John, this is not Reichenbach," he said softly, daring to move his hand over John's. "I'm not leaving."
"I don't think you can make that choice as a ghost, Holmes. It should have been me. It should have been me on this stupid cot, you know that?"
"You're being irrational."
"Me?" The ex-army man shuddered with a frightening, melancholy laughter. "Me, irrational? Sherlock, I thought you died again. I thought I - "
"It doesn't matter if I die," the detective whispered quietly, turning his gaze back to the ceiling. "John, you're not me. It wouldn't have mattered. You have Mrs. Hudson and Molly and Lestrade and Mike and Rosie. You don't need me." John stood solemnly at the side of the bed, looming over it like a hallowed specter, for once his passive features becoming completely unreadable.
"How can you even say that?"
" . . . What?"
"You really think you don't deserve this, don't you?" he mused, looking his partner directly in the eyes. "God, Sherlock, you said I had them, but did you ever think that maybe I need you too? That maybe I can't do this without you anymore, and neither can they?"
"You managed the first time around." John shook his head instantly.
"I was a wreck, even then, Holmes. If you died now, there would be nothing to put back together." The blonde brushed a thumb over the detective's knuckles in a tender fashion, skimming the skin with a quick swipe. "Bloody hell, mate, I have no idea what I'd do without you." At this point, and perhaps it was due in part to the drugs racing through his system and the brief charge of contact and those words - too honest, and far too Watson to be resisted - Sherlock was lost, and his legs were numb and his side ached and his mind was leaden but he knew he needed to do something.
In a surge of endorphins (he refuses to admit that chemical balances may have had nothing to do with it, so endorphins it is), he propels his face upwards in order to capture John Watson's lips.
It is not what he expected.
There are salty, surprised tears streaking down John's cheeks, and for the first few seconds everything tastes like saline. And then, he molds to the surface, learning the dips and curves of his partner's mouth, trying to memorize what it feels like to press against him like this. Then, there is tea leaves, a sweet undertone in contrast to the bitter, stinging drops of before, and traces of spearmint from a stick of gum, and it is a unique yet enticing taste.
In a completely unanticipated move - surprising, as Sherlock takes great care never to give into bodily impulses - he runs a tongue tip over Watson's teeth, finding the surface warm and smooth and somehow mesmerizing. As he leans in further, he finds himself moaning - an actual, full-bodied, rather embarrassing moan, and this is when he finally notices that John hasn't pushed him away for kissing him out of impulse, for enjoying the kiss fully because he figures it'll be the first and last chance he'll get to do so. Instead, John had closed his eyes and let it happen, leaning further over the side of the ridiculous hospital issue bed.
It's incredibly life-affirming, actually.
And so, Sherlock grips the front of his old sweater with hands still stiff from sleep, hands that would be very easy to disentangle from but haven't been shoved away yet, and he basks in the feeling of warmth in his gut that travels all throughout his synapses and into his toes. A warmth that only comes from John Watson, from being content.
He would say that this strange warmth was love, but that might be a little too presumptuous. It's not like Sherlock knows much of love, anyways - he's far too ornery, not made to handle an instrument other than scalpels and a microscope. A heart would not be a good thing to entrust him with, and yet, John's already been toying with his for the last several years. It seems fitting, almost.
But eventually, as they are simple organisms at their heart of hearts and they require oxygen for biological sustainment purposes - how dull - they end up pulling away, gasping for air. John's lips are puffy in a way that they haven't been in years, since long before his wife died, and it gives the detective an inexplicable wellspring of pride to know that he was the one kissing Watson senseless.
"That was . . ." the blonde begins, running a palm through his locks with wide eyes. He doesn't quite know how to finish, though, so instead he blushes a bright scarlet at the memory that took place only moments ago. "That, I mean . . ." Sherlock winces, anticipating the worst.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid. For someone so smart, he can be so remarkably idiotic.
"I'm sorry to make you feel uncomfortable, John. I didn't want to - "
"That was brilliant," he completes, letting go of a breathy chuckle. "I haven't been snogged like that in years." Sherlock clears his throat weakly.
"You're . . . not offended? Not, I don't know, disgusted?"
"You're my best friend. Worst comes to worst, what, did you think I would just abandon you over one impulsive action?" he asked, moving his digits from his hair to his forehead. "And I liked it, I think." A small, almost impercievable smile comes to his face. "I liked kissing my best friend." The detective allowed that to sink in, replaying the words in his head.
"I don't expect anything from you over it. I'm not going to sit around and beg for something more if you're not willing to give anything. Heaven knows that with us and Rosamund and - "
"I'm sensing a 'but' in this sentence, Holmes."
Teasing. That's normal.
That's good, right?
Damn it all. There are too many hormones. Too difficult to predict the outcome.
"But maybe I didn't let you know this before and I should now. I've come to develop . . . lapses in coherency for you, John. Stirrings."
"You mean feelings, I take it?" Feelings. Sherlock had never been fond of the phrase. Feelings meant serious attraction, the kind with empathy, and empathy lead to an unbreakable attachment and he really can't stand to loose anybody like that. Anybody he cares too much about, though it may be a little too late for that now. Not saying anything, letting John have his space, hadn't stopped anything from developing, anyhow.
"Yes, feelings, John," he finds himself saying regardless. "Very, very private, one-sided ones. We sleep in the same bed John, do you recognize how precarious a position that would put our dynamic in?"
"You've never had a problem dancing with danger before."
"You've hardly ever been on the line before, either." He took a deep breath. "I'm not going to demand anything from you, Watson. You deserve better. But, perhaps, would you consider me? Is there a way you could possibly push past your many grievances - bloody hell, John, don't smirk like this is somehow funny, I'm very well aware of what I'm like to coexist with, thank you very much - and just tell me if I'd have a chance?" The blonde remained quiet, still smiling in a rather unnervingly distant fashion, and his gaze wandered to the floor as he thought. For an aching moment, the other man tensed, preparing in advance for a possible pitfall. Finally, a shaky sigh broke the silence.
"This is the stupidest thing I'm ever going to do, isn't it?" the blonde muttered softly at the cool tiles, shaking his head as if already blown away by the weight of his unspoken actions.
Eyes locked once more.
"I'm so happy you're still alive, you idiot," he says, and it's not some grand gesture or romantic intonation, but it works. He brushes a few strands of ebony out of his best friend's face and gives him a small squeeze on the shoulder. "How's that for an answer?"
"Pretty wonderful," he says, briefly reaching out and squeezing back. Suddenly, he is grinning, a wide, spectacular, real beam, because he is happy, the one he only pulls out once in a while.
Happiness is rather exhausting, though, and he finds his arm growing heavier, his eyelids dropping inwards. The detective is drowsy again, as are most patients who need to succumb to the body's natural healing processes after a trying ordeal.
For once, he doesn't feel the need to fight it.
"I'm not going anywhere, you hear?"
It's the last thing he can make out - a worn, utterly familiar voice coming from his partner - before he willingly surrenders to the clutches of sleep.
Rosie had an inkling of what happened in the hospital room when her father comes out, face full of red and lips bruised. It's not exactly hard to spot, and she's always found her father particularly easy to read anyhow - John Watson, to his daughter, is about as subtle and secretive as a bull in a china store. His emotions are hard to miss, as they're often written all over his face.
She's been trying to secretively shove her parents together for nearly two years via rugby - hell, the whole team was on their side, silently trying to instigate an intervention without actually instigating an intervention.
A day in St Bartholomew, wondering if her Dad was going to wake up, was what prompted a make out? Seriously? Not the constant cramped quarters or the cuddling, but a serious head injury brought on by a murderous botanist going on a killing spree?
Well, it's certainly an interesting love story, for sure, if not a slightly disappointing commentary on her matchmaking skills.
Aunt Molly lifts an eyebrow, as she has been waiting with Lestrade and Rosamund for the last few hours in the hall, yet says nothing. Instead, she excuses herself for a bathroom break, sensing the start of a private conversation.
"So, you and Dad made out," the official teenager starts - being thirteen rules. "I bet someone's happy about that, based on the dopey grin on your face."
"Sherlock's still Sherlock," he says, clearing his throat and giving his daughter a sideways glance. "It doesn't necessarily mean anything. It's not exactly a full blown thing, Rosamund, it's one kiss."
"But you enjoyed it."
"Well, yeah."
"And so did he." She looked her father up and down. His sweater was slightly untucked, as though someone had pulled at the middle of the fabric, and his irises clouded. It was almost too easy to draw the obvious conclusion. "Being the instigator, I'd imagine he had to."
"Yes, Ro."
"And once he's better, you're going to start dating like civilized people instead of batting around the issue like the terrified children you are."
"That's a lot to - "
"Well, aren't you? Daddy, I love you, but you can't be this dense." Rosamund's dad, the great John Watson, co-consulting detective and doctor extraordinaire, almost appeared nervous, like a child getting caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "You've actually begun to feel something for Sherlock Holmes, Daddy, and that's fairly serious to me. I suggest you actually start going out already to put the rest of the civilized world out of its misery."
" . . . Did you know? That he . . . you know," the man mused, frazzled in a good way. "And you think it's a good idea? God, it came out of absolutely no where, and I have a feeling this is going to start moving all too fast, you know? And I'm terrified because I like this. I'm actually looking forward to it."
Rosamund didn't consider herself an expert on the human condition. How could she be, at only thirteen? And although she adored that age - not too young to be treated like a child, not too old to be underestimated, which was often a great asset, and a prime number, made for mathematical appreciation - it didn't come with the perks a long, lucrative life did, such as wisdom. Humanities alluded her, though general cleverness couldn't. While this may be true, however, she was a fair sight more observant than the majority of the population thanks to her upbringing, and that came with sensibilities that would have otherwise flown over her head.
"I think that's what being in love is, Daddy," she told him, hugging her father tightly. "It's not meant to make sense. It's messy and horrid and makes you do dangerously stupid things. It's supposed to cloud your better judgement, and I think if you ever feel like you have it all figured out, if you're not aching all over or falling too fast or dropping too hard, then you're doing it wrong. Love is terrible, and wonderful, because it lets someone see the absolute worst in you and forces you to test yourself over and over again. You're meant to drown, but enjoy letting the water crash overhead."
"Rosamund," he begins cautiously, pulling away slightly. "When did you get to be so damn smart? I know you didn't learn it when I was around. I think I would have noticed." The blonde smiles, a clever, crooked thing that soon becomes blinding in the thin, sterile hallway.
"When I was hanging out with Dad. When I was talking with Aunt Molly. When I was baking with Mrs. Hudson." He nods, ever so slightly, a spark of understanding that she can almost perceive hanging in the air.
"Well, then, thank god for that."
"Pretty great, huh?"
"Elementary, darling."
Elementary.
What a curious phrase.
For the longest time, she enjoyed complex words, the ones with pretty notations. Brooding, in particular, was such a funny one. Prerogative, derivative, inclination, prose, meandering, hydrogenous - there were so many beautiful, multifaceted notations to choose from. Collecting words had become a bit of a game for her, over the years, but elementary was the one she liked being called the most. There was something odd about it, something ornamental and antique yet soothing, endearing, even, that drew her in.
Elementary. Indeed, this was what she aspired to be, and she took a great pride in her achievement of that grand title.
And only one week later, something even more elementary than her own intelligence rolls around in the form of a disgruntled Sherlock Holmes, arriving back at 221B after the accident, which he can now recall and recite in depth, perhaps too much so for her other father's liking. He moves around in a slow, even pace, still recovering, and John Watson hovers over him at all times like he's afraid the tall figure is a piece of ceramic about to burst. Rosamund is less worried - the mischievous spark in his eyes is still present, as is the molten steel resolve. Sherlock Holmes is certainly not going anywhere - not her Dad. Not now.
The house is more alive with both parents securely back inside, and even the light that pools at the foot of her windows is brighter, somehow. It possesses a new, iridescent quality, a shimmer that had been lacking. His experiments, which she has been taking care of so fondly, are back in the hands of their proper owner. She can only hope she's diluted the acids correctly - her private sessions with her father on advanced chemistry have been falling behind due to their most recent case, and so she's mainly going off deduction and prior knowledge. But Avogadro's number and gram to molarity conversions haven't failed her yet, so anything is possible.
Everything is blissfully abnormal again, and it suits their family like a glove, she supposes. Just the three of them.
"John, I'm tired. I think I'd like to retire to bed," Sherlock mentions suddenly, stopping his private conquest of the violin and placing the instrument gingerly on the windowsill. His lips pucker up as if having tasted something sour. "Bedtimes. At nine at night. Distasteful." However, as he walks towards the downstairs bedroom, John reaches out with a smile.
"Wait for me to finish cleaning up and I'll join you." The detective doesn't grin - not after giving into the biological need to sleep, of course, because the practices of mere mortals are so very tedious, but he does straighten his back, relax his hands, loosen the knots in his forehead, and frankly that's just as good as if he had smiled, anyways.
So. Maybe some things have changed for the better, Rosamund figures. As to where it can go - well, one would hope there's only up from here.
Now that seems elementary.
YESSSSSSSSSSSSSS. Another chapter completed in less than a week - again, actual efficiency on my part? Whaaaaaat?
I know, I know, Transitions will be updated, but I just couldn't stop writing for this. Once you have a good idea, you tend to ride it out until its conclusion, and now the second installment is done and ready for posting. In my haste, I may have cut some corners. I'm sorry if you think quality dropped or something, but frankly I'm just so relieved that it's out there and completed. I hope it's been entertaining so far, readers!
Again, this is my first entry into the world of Sherlock via writing, so I'm sorry is personalities got skewed. I tried to make it as accurate as possible in the inevitable time crunch I've placed on myself.
Please please please leave a review. I want feedback - it helps me improve and lets me know what I could tweak or add onto. Besides, I love hearing from people - I read my positive comments on bad days or whenever I need a pick-me-up. It lets me know I'm doing something right.
I don't know. A little cheesy, maybe, but I've long since resigned myself to the fate of a cheese ball. It's a curse I've had to withstand.
Thanks for getting this far, regardless! The third part will be better, I swear, as I will take slightly more time in order to smooth out the edges and progress things at a more reasonable pace. And, of course, there will be Johnlock, because honestly I'm absolute trash when it comes to Sherlock ships.
I may have a slight problem.
Totally healthy.
Hopefully I'm not alone there.
Anyways, be sure to favorite and follow this and me! I'm not trying to advertise myself, but it's something I really appreciate and it shows support for the story - it's what encourages me to keep at it.
See you next chapter and have a nice day.