John leaned forward from his crouching position on the floor and struggled to get the fire going. The cold seemed to have entered his very bones and he felt every joint ache. I am getting old, he thought sighing loudly. The wave of self-pity and melancholy seemed to have him firmly in its grasp.
A pot of some pasta cooked on the stove, which he would soon toss with some ready-made sauce and have in front of the telly.
He was bored to death. He missed Sherlock. Even a Sherlock who pottered around the house and exclaimed things from time to time was better than this cavernous silence that surrounded him. It was barely eight in the night and his choices were to continue watching telly or read up some more on the medical journal that had been delivered today or go upstairs or watch some porn while jerking off.
God, he was done. Done with life, done with living. What a mess!
Taking a cold beer from the fridge and having assimilated his dinner, he walked back and flicked the telly on. Some minutes later, filled to the brim with tasteless food and a pint, tired from the day, he dozed off on his chair.
It could have been minutes or hours later that he suddenly jerked out of his nap. He could hear voices downstairs. Sherlock's unmistakable baritone and another male voice interspersed with Mrs Hudson's. John straightened in his chair and righted his clothing, wiping off a spot of drool on his face.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs and Sherlock strode into the living room, owning it immediately the way he owned any room he chose to walk into.
A slim, good-looking blonde man of about thirty followed him in. Dressed in an elegant formal business suit and a long overcoat, he walked in peeling his leather gloves off. Accepting the man's coat as he took it off to hang behind the door, Sherlock gestured towards John, and made perfunctory introductions.
"John, this is Peter Campbell. Peter, this is my flat-mate and friend, Dr John Watson."
Clear hazel eyes that shone from an intelligent face met John's as he stood up and shook hands.
"Dr Watson, pleasure," he said agreeably.
"Good to meet you, Peter," John nodded.
Peter stood quietly, as his eyes moved from Sherlock to John.
"I had assumed you would be out for drinks with your clinic staff tonight, John. Isn't that what you normally do on Friday nights?" Sherlock murmured as he glided into his bedroom.
John returned to his seat and watched Peter surreptitiously and waited for Sherlock to return. He answered as Sherlock came back out, "Yeah, decided to skip it today."
Sherlock moved around fetching water for his guest, seemingly oblivious to both John's curiosity and Peter's silence. When he walked back into the living room, he turned to Peter, "Stay here. I have some supplies to fetch. Won't be long." He turned without waiting for a response and thundered down the stairs in that decisive way he had.
"Please have a seat," John gestured towards Sherlock's chair.
"Thank you," Peter smiled.
The two men watched the telly silently for some time, though John found it impossible to concentrate on anything and tried to think of ways to find out more. The entire situation fell so much outside the normal paradigm, he was not very sure how to behave. Who the hell was this guy?
"So….." John began. "You are a friend of Sherlock's?"
"Oh no, I just met him today. A mutual friend introduced us." There was something beguilingly open about his expression that warmed John towards him.
"Oh you are a client then?" asked John.
"A client… gosh no, no. Just someone hoping to spend some time with him, that's all." Peter answered. He seemed to hesitate, "Dr Watson, I hope I am not intruding on anything between the two of you."
John laughed and hastened to reassure him, "Oh God no, we're just friends. And please call me John. I must say this is the first time I have ever heard of anyone wanting to spend time with him voluntarily."
Peter's nod was non-committal as he looked around.
Dammit, he had put Sherlock down again, thought John. It was like a disease with him for fuck's sake.
In a hurry to undo the impact of his previous words John asked, "So what work do you do, Peter?"
"I own a company, Campbell Enterprises. Not a very original name I'm afraid," Peter said, the smile back on again. "We manufacture car accessories. My main factory is just outside Birmingham. It's a family business, has been in our family for generations."
"Oh, good," John said as he thought that explained the fine clothes and the quiet air of class that seemed to effortlessly hang around people like Peter and Sherlock and bloody Mycroft.
Why was this man here? Since when did Sherlock start tolerating strangers? What was this, a date? Don't be ludicrous, John.
They both looked up at Sherlock striding back into the room.
John watched in amazement as Peter was out of the chair like a shot, almost standing in attention as Sherlock walked in. He stood still with his eyes on Sherlock as Sherlock shrugged off his coat and hung it behind the door. From the deep pockets of his coat, Sherlock took out a paper bag, misshapen due to its contents and walked towards Peter.
Both men ignored John as Sherlock stepped forward to stand well into Peter's personal space, one hand in his trouser pocket. He flicked his gaze across his face, looking down at the shorter man, eyes moving at a rapid pace as they scanned. It was the look that made him look simultaneously like a curious child and an all-seeing God from whom nothing could be hidden. It would take a veteran in all things Sherlock to withstand the onslaught of that intensely focussed gaze. Peter was not a veteran and still he looked back, a determined look on his face and eyes that looked almost… pleading? John may as well have been part of the furniture for being allowed to witness what was clearly a very unconventional private conversation taking place. And then slowly, almost deliberately Peter lowered his eyes to the ground and just stood there with his head bowed down.
The moments seemed to tick by as finally Sherlock smirked, his quick one-sided lip rise, but there was something like approval in his eyes when he handed the bag over to Peter. Inclining his head he gestured towards his bedroom, "In there. Get ready. I'll be there in some time."
There was a hint of an order in his words, though with that unearthly deep voice of his almost everything that he uttered sounded imperious. He moved away and swept his laptop from over the bench to settle down on his chair without looking up to watch what Peter was doing.
John looked on with his mouth agape, as the younger man walked away, holding the paper bag, without even glancing at John, straight up to Sherlock's bedroom. He walked in closing the door behind him.
A heavy silence followed in his wake, the only sounds in the room the super-fast staccato of Sherlock's keystrokes. John sat there with bulging eyes that flicked between the bedroom door and Sherlock, as if waiting for an explanation of what the hell just happened? None was forthcoming as Sherlock ignored him.
Breathing heavily now as chaotic thoughts swirled in his head, John tried to get a handle on himself. A relative stranger had just walked into Sherlock's bedroom. With his blessings. On his instructions. What the fuck?
John decided there was no hope in hell of sleep tonight if he did not get any answers soon. He stood up and paced a few steps before placing himself before Sherlock.
"Right then," he began, "who is that and what is he doing in your bedroom?" John hated how belligerent it made him sound.
"Hmmm….." Sherlock hummed absently as his fingers flew over the keyboard.
"Sherlock!" John repeated, voice insistent.
Sherlock looked up, expression impassive and raised a challenging eyebrow, "Problem?"
John backed down straightaway. "No….no," he shook his head emphatically. "No… that is not what I am saying. Just….. who is he?"
Sherlock shrugged casually, "Peter Campbell. An acquaintance if you must know."
"What's he… why is he in your bedroom?"
Sherlock look amused as he responded, "You tell me, John. You've attempted to bed half the populace of Great Britain. Why would someone I've just met be in my bedroom?"
"But… but you don't….. I mean… you haven't…." John spluttered as he took a few deep breaths and clenched and unclenched his fists. Sherlock looked on, amusement gone now, replaced by a certain hard edge around his narrowed eyes. That aloof hard look pulled John back from whatever precipice his psyche seemed to be hovering over, ready to tumble down and be destroyed forever.
"Sorry, sorry. None of my business." He waved his hand about, "Maybe I should…. Maybe I'll turn in. It's been a long day," he finished weakly.
"Excellent idea, John. Good night," Sherlock responded as he turned back to the laptop.
"Right." John stood up and took his plate to the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of cold water and tried to stay in control of himself. He glanced helplessly at the closed door of Sherlock's bedroom which seemed to silently mock him, his imagination in overdrive trying to figure out what "get ready" meant in this context. And then his gaze turned towards Sherlock, still dressed in his suit, the alien lights of the laptop reflected on that clear pale skin, ethereal eyes focussed on what he was doing, seeming to have forgotten that a man was waiting for him to enter that bedroom and … then what? Fuck him? Get fucked? Did Sherlock do sex? Casual sex? What were the 'supplies'? Condoms? Lube?
When you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable must be the truth, the Sherlock voice in his head said.
He drained the last of his glass and walked upstairs slowly. It was going to be a long night.