Domesticity seemed the height of the duo's corroborative skills. Without need of conversation they knew exactly how to share the communal rooms like the kitchen and bathroom, the right-handed/left-handed battle fought and won in years past till all the concessions and compromises were stone set and second nature. Soap on the right, toothbrushes on the left next to the toothpaste with the cap on but not screwed down. A towel over the lip of the tub to put down as a mat. Clothes in a pile in the corner and a cloth on the counter to dry hands but more importantly the mirror if a shower fogged it over. They rearranged the living room so the couch was further back and two chairs were more present near the fire. The kitchen table already had a few items from their walk set up for Sherlock's consideration. Six months of trying to learn Mary's preferences had left John just a little impressed by their bachelor efficiency. Even if it wasn't ideal for some people, it was rather perfect for Sherlock and himself.
With the fire crackling away at his feet, John sat quite comfortably in one of the wooden chairs, book in his hands as their breakfast sat heavy in his gut. He could hear overhead the light stomping of Sherlock's feet as he dressed from his bath, making John smile in past relief that his had not been the second floor bedroom. It was nice all the same. Routine. Warmer than an army's barracks but just as ordered despite the assuming chaos. Home. John breathed in deeply, exhaling though his nose as he turned the page, following his latest hero through an open door at the behest of a femme fatale. He rather liked the way the author described her breasts as "buoyant". It painted an excellent picture in his mind's eye of the sort of bouncy walk some girls had that left their breasts in a constant wave of motion like buoys close to shore.
He was only a few pages in to his next chapter when Sherlock trod back into the den, dressed sharply in a pair of denim jeans and belt, his plain white dress shirt tucked in but unbuttoned to the sternum. Mary had packed "outfits" while John had just made sure there were far more socks that were really necessary for a week retreat. He hadn't seen Sherlock in jeans in... well, it warranted far too long a pause for thought. He couldn't help but smirk at the snug fit along the slender, almost spindly legs that seemed longer than humanly possible. "I am beginning to think Mary might have a thing for your bum," he noted as Sherlock turned to grab his laptop from the kitchen counter before joining John at the fire.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, sitting down with none of his usual grace as he set the computer over his crossed knee. "Your wife has been admiring my backside since you were both dating. Not exactly front page news."
"Color me scandalized," John quipped, chuckling to himself as he turned his attention back to the page. He rather liked quiet mornings. Nearly all his mornings in 221B had been of the quiet sort with Sherlock doing one thing and John enjoying another, sharing space like astral bodies crossing paths but never colliding. Mary liked to chat while John tried to read the news. He'd gotten used to the interruptions but still rather enjoyed the immersion of silent companionship. One of married life's many concessions. But not right now. Now the hero was pacing the dark room, gun drawn, dame clinging to his jacket for safety as they waited for an ambush or full on attack.
About the time the hero had found a third dead body, this one dumped behind the hotel in a skip, Sherlock had lost interest in his own entertainment pursuits. John hadn't noticed himself under his friend's observant stare, engrossed as he was, but soon the intensity of it caused his head to roll up from the typeface to see himself under full scrutiny. "What?" he asked.
Sherlock nodded to the book. "You actually enjoy those things."
"Is that so surprising?"
"Yes. They're terrible."
John scowled, his nose crinkling over his thin lips. "They are not terrible. Lots of them are really very good. It might not be as clinical and realistic as those true crime books you go on about but plot-wise I think you'd be surprised. Right up your alley, really."
"A bible's worth of dribble concocted by an idiot." Sherlock had the laptop closed on his knee, his cheek propped against one fist as he gestured with the other. "After all your time in observation of me, how can you ever really consider that sort of vomit entertainment? Mystery writers have no idea what they're doing. They make up details which allude to one aspect of a character but then completely derail reality in a reversal based on the fact that they don't actually understand what those details mean themselves. They'll put everything there which says the man has sleep apnea and a neighbor whose dog keeps him up all night but then turn him into a deep sleeper in a set of upscale flats. It's just words; pretty arrangements of letters which spell out nonsense to idle minds that have nothing more important to conceive of themselves."
The more Sherlock ranted on the stupidity of the mystery genre, the less he needed to. John could have easily finished it for him. "Write what you know" had always been his instruction in primary school English classes when assigned some creative topic to prove he possessed an imagination that could conform to scholastic standards. A writer with sleep apnea might write certain habits into a character not realizing they were indicative to their own personal experience with sleep rather than the norm. It was curious in a way how much Sherlock would probably be able to deduce about a writer from mistakes in characterizing their characters. Sherlock's vast wall of nonfiction suddenly made a lot more sense. Reading fiction to a mind like Sherlock's must be as discombobulating as any man reading a book upside-down.
John scratched behind his ear, listening to him go on, full of understanding but irritated all the same by his tone. "If you're so appalled, why don't you try writing a book, then?"
Sherlock nearly rolled his eyes at the suggestion, setting the laptop on the floor beside his chair. "Waste of my time. What's the phrase? Those who can, do? Well, I can. No point in making up what there is to find for myself in the world."
John nodded slowly, lips pursed. "Well... I can't. It's nice to pretend sometimes that I still can, though." He paused to watch the fire dim in Sherlock's argumentative eyes, clearing his throat of the sudden thickness lodged in it.
Though the fire was dim, it had not died. Sherlock's more somber approach lacked in little insistence. "You still could."
"Mary wouldn't be too pleased if I made a habit of it. If they were just those nice, calm cases with the stolen broaches and missing treasures that would be one thing. But even those cases tend to turn into something bigger. And my priorities have changed now. I have someone waiting for me at home where in the past if I didn't go, I would be the one waiting up worried the next phone call would be from Lestrade telling me to hurry down to Barts while they wheeled you into surgery." John's mouth felt dry, his muscles oddly tense. "I still dread that call," he admitted, voice going slightly hoarse. It seemed such a simple thing to say but behind it the dam he'd constructed seemed weaker for it, emotions seeping out where the braces were no longer holding firm. It had to come out one way or another before they returned to London. He took a deep breath, looking at the ceiling for a second before giving up on tact and doing as his friend had always done: say exactly what he was thinking. "You... you really have no idea what it was like getting a late night call from the Detective Inspector that night you got yourself arrested. I have never been happier to be told you were in possession of drugs. I'd already had you decapitated and eviscerated in my head before I picked up and said hello. And all I could think about was how I'd been clipping my toenails, watching telly with a packet of crisps and how... wasted my time was spent when I could have instead been protecting you."
Sherlock seemed taken off-guard, his posture straighter and shoulders back in a gentleman's defense. His face quickly washed to vacant, divorced of all but wit and annoyance. "How long has that been on your chest?" he asked flatly.
"God... every second since I saw it was Lestrade calling." John breathed deep again, something in his chest needing more air than the room could provide. He hated how hard it was to pretend it didn't affect him. He still wanted to hit him. He wanted to shake Sherlock and scream at him and sit him in a corner to think about what he'd done. And he hated how well he knew the futility of it all. "I gave you hell pacing through my study. For days all I could think about was what I could possibly be doing with my life that is more important than being there where you need me and at the same time reminding myself that I'm not responsible for your well being and that it's stupid to put so much blame on myself. And that's just after a call where everything's more or less alright. The day you get shot-or god forbid killed-I don't know what I'm going to do. Because I will always believe I could have saved you. Not that you think about that when you do something stupid."
"Lestrade really scared you that badly?"
"You scare me. Sherlock, it's you who charges in without a thought to himself, chasing answers and expecting his body to come along regardless of condition. The way you live frankly terrifies me when I'm not there to look after you. You don't even look where you've going half the time but with me there at least someone had your back."
Sherlock began to look affronted, a scowl deepening against his brow as he sat back in his chair, fingers steepled before his chest. "You should have more faith in me than that."
"You got arrested for cocaine."
"Don't act like that proves your point." The detective scrunched his face with impunity. "You know how many alcohol related deaths occur every year? No one's arresting you for having a wine rack."
"You are comparing apples and oranges and you know it."
"I'm not the one who got married. I remember quite clearly telling you it was a terrible idea and here I am, right as usual."
"Getting married wasn't wrong. Falling in love was not wrong. The only thing I have done to you is think about myself for once."
"Then don't get in my face when I do the same."
The knock at the door could not have come at a better time. John wasn't sure at what point they'd both stood, at what point he'd risen on his soles to get in Sherlock's face, at what point Sherlock had come to stand with his hands planted on his hips, head pulled back in disgust of John's advance. He wasn't sure at what point the conversation had become a fight. But the knock made them both pause, attention diverted, as they waited for the percussive reprise.
Knock, knock, knock!
They both turned to look at the door, seeing through the open windows two men looking back in at them, their faces perhaps even more wary than their own.
"That's the vicar," John said, remembering the young man's face from the day before.
"That's a client," Sherlock corrected. He rubbed his hands together with interest, the past five minutes forgotten as he made his way purposefully across the den towards the door where the men were waiting.
John scoffed as he followed. "Out here? Now? Sherlock, vicars are known to make house-calls, you know."
Sherlock ignored him as he held open the front door. The vicar's ashen face did not even attempt a smile as he stood before them, his dog collar crooked and his grey cardigan buttoned up with missing holes and extra buttons. "Sorry to disturb you. I was hoping to speak with Dr. Watson," he said, the man in his company giving Sherlock a hard look of consideration.
"Dr. Watson is no longer in my employ. You may direct all your inquiries to me," Sherlock stood aside, holding the door open with a disastrous grin on his face. "Don't doddle, you'll let the chill in."
John was only a few steps behind Sherlock, more than near enough to shoulder his way in front of him with an apologetic smile. "Sorry, you'll have to excuse my friend. He's a-" vicar present, "-jerk. Something I can help you with?"
"Actually-"
"Are you Sherlock Holmes?" The companion asked. He was dressed far more like a gentleman than a fisherman with a thickly grown beard defending his age.
Sherlock nodded just once, his eyes invested in the details of the stranger while the vicar's brightened slightly with an almost hopeful gleam. "Harry down at the store said he recognized John from his blog. Said you both worked on just these sorts of things."
"What sort of things exactly?" John asked, ignoring the nagging voice in the back of his head that cautioned him to not get them involved, to turn them away now before they could say another word and trap them all in Sherlock's curiosity.
"The sort that have the power to frighten a woman to death and scare two men so far from their senses they may never return to them," the vicar said, a visual chill running down his spine at the memory of their fate.
"It's the Devil's work, Mr. Holmes." The companion said, with the conviction of a sinner. "The Devil walks among us now in moors of Tredannick Wollas."
