A/N MindPalaceofVersailles did a LOVELY sketch for a scene in this chapter. Go check it out and give her some love (if you look under the "John and the Genie" tag on Tumblr, you'll see it. Or go check out this same chapter on AO3, where the art is at the bottom.)
Thanks again to my awesome betas Snogandagrope and TheScienceofObsession; cheerleader MildredandBobbin, and Brit-picker StrangeGibbon. This wouldn't be half as good without you!
Chapter 2 - Ritual
John closes the door to the bedsit with relief. He doesn't think of it as home, not in the least, but it is warm and has a place to sit down. He puts his bags on the desk, one steaming gently from the fish and chip van around the corner. He sheds his jacket and hangs it conscientiously on the hook behind the door.
He plans to refurbish the lamp with the kit he uses for his gun. Sharing tools between the gun and the lamp feels laden with meaning, which he simultaneously savors and attempts to ignore. He doesn't understand why he finds the lamp so compelling. Cast iron isn't one of his favorite materials, and candles and incense are something he associates with former girlfriends rather than using them as a meditative tool. But he can almost feel electricity buzz, when his hands caress it; can feel a tug running from his fingers through his arm to his heart. A warming spark that fills him with life, extrinsic for so long, and an unnamable yearning. It speaks to him, in a language he doesn't understand, but whose musicality sings in his soul. And lately his soul has been so dark, such a husk, that he doesn't want to challenge this feeling. Just basks in the lamp's vivifying current, and pushes questions and scepticism to the back of his mind.
John takes his time, assiduously avoiding the caustic thought that he is making ritual out of the lamp. He sets out the fish and chips, an uncharacteristic extravagance meant to commemorate the nebulous thrill the lamp generates in him. He sets the lamp carefully on the desk blotter and, pulling his cleaning kit from the drawer, arranges that beside it. Then he begins to eat.
It is almost like how he remembers morning masturbation: the slow, self-indulgent way he enjoys the food; gazing at the pointed horns of the moon on the cap of the lamp. He rolls the smooth, flaky flesh of the fish over his tongue, and breathes the aromatic air of vinegar until his whole head and chest are saturated with the flavor. He swallows water from the little cup next to the sink. He hasn't bought a drink; after all, it is very hard to eke out room and board on a military pension. He finishes the last chip, soggy now, and ties the paper cone back up in a plastic bag to prevent the smell from pervading the bedsit.
Now he lines his gear up, as if this is the moment he's been building up to. He sets the lamp in the center of the desk in front of him. Rust clings to the grooves inset along the body and spout. Decades of lamp oil, gunk, dirt, human oils and discarded skin cells, soot, who knows what.
He runs a finger along the seductive curve of the spout, eyes closing, focusing on the cool metal, textured and pitted. He can trace the wandering line that makes a vine, weaving its way past the little cap, blooming into tendrils as it heads for the handle. The handle rises on a graceful arc, the vine transforms to scales and terminates in an open-mouthed snake, or perhaps a dragon.
John opens his eyes and picks the lamp up with both hands. It begins to warm under his touch. He places his index finger over the sharp horns of the crescent moon and presses down, relishing the sting of their points. He opens the cap, lets it dangle by its delicate chain, and peers inside. It is too dark to see much, of course.
He feels inside with his finger. Sticky grime, much like the exterior.
He likes the solid weight of it, the way it fits in his hands, its sensual curves and lines.
He puts it down again and adjusts his desk lamp a bit. Already, just from handling it, he feels he's got his five pounds' worth. Between the lamp and the fish and chips it'll be beans, bread, and pot noodles till his next veteran's check. But that's alright. At least he didn't have to buy a bunch of cleaning materials.
John dampens a cleaning patch with solvent and sweeps it slowly all over the lamp, until the room is redolent with the stinging pungence of kerosene rather than fish and chips. He lets it soak in for a few minutes, just staring meditatively, and then breaks out a copper brush, gently scrubbing to loosen the debris that time has adhered to the carved surface. Black and rust and gray flakes and bits begin to accumulate around the lamp. He gets what he can on the inside, too, even poking the muzzle brush down the spout of the lamp, pistoning it through until the opening becomes less clogged and passage is unhindered.
The desk is a mess when he is done, and he's completely sacrificed a hand towel to the proceedings, now foul with dirt and oil. Used cloth patches fill half the desk bin, and John's fingers and nails are nearly as filthy as the cleaning supplies. He brings the whole affair to the bathroom and washes what he can in the sink, until the water runs clear.
Now he's ready to oil it. 'Season' the iron, as his grandmother used to do with her skillets. It is thrifty, practical, and somehow appropriate to use his gun oil for the purpose. He tilts the little bottle over the lamp, allowing drops to fall here and there, over the handle, down the horns of the moon, into the groove of the vine. He uses the side of his finger to smooth the oil around, until the lamp damply shines. He selects a microfiber cloth to sacrifice for the event.
And now he rubs.
He leans back in his chair, eliciting the groaning squeak that heralds a shift in position, and holds the lamp gently cradled in his right hand. He runs his fingers first along the long sides of the spout, circling the hole in the center, the lid dangling to the side, and then over the curve of the handle. It is like stroking a lover, he thinks. Or his gun. Actually, more often than not, there's no difference between the two. He follows the caress with the slick cloth, focusing intently, rubbing gloss and shine back into the lamp. He pushes hard. Elbow grease is needed, psychologically if not actually. He forces the oil into the pitted metal. He polishes with fervor and dedication, vision, a little bit of obsession, and an intense emotion wavering between love and ferocity.
While John is thus occupied, there is a soft susurrus, little more than an exhalation. John glances curiously toward the door, wondering what it could have been. He shrugs mentally and goes back to polishing the lamp.
It takes another fifteen minutes until he's satisfied. All traces of rust and dirt are gone, and the old lamp softly gleams. The intricate tracework of vines and abstract patterns are vivid, and feel seductive under his blackened fingers. Even the points of the horned moon catch and hold the light. John holds it up and admires it. He leans forward to reach for a cone of incense when,
"I'd really rather you didn't."
John fumbles the lamp and whirls around, falling sideways out of his chair as he does so. The fall is controlled, and he has the desk drawer open and his gun out almost before he can properly look at the unknown and uninvited man he finds sitting on his bed.
The gun is unloaded, but John hopes the intruder doesn't know that. He doesn't have time to pull out his ammo box and load the magazine. His hand fails to shake, and he sets the lamp gently down to hold the grip of his SIG with both hands. He points steadily at the stranger's forehead. "What the fuck? Who are you? How did you get here?"
The man subtly scoffs. Eyes the same pale silver as stars are intent, flicking rapidly up and down his body, seeming to catalog everything about him. He shows no fear of the weapon in John's hands. His dark hair is longish, wildly curling and tousled. His skin is fair, smooth and white as moonlight. He says nothing, just stares back as John takes him in, heart pounding. He doesn't move.
The stranger is showing a lot of skin. He sits on the bed, leaned back against the wall, and his legs are pulled up. He rests his chin on his knees, arms loosely clasped around them. Gauzy trousers come to an embroidered cinched-in end at the gentle swell of his calves. The fabric is sheer gray, and John can discern the rounded curve of arse and hips to either side of his ankles. His feet are shod in soft, curling slippers of purple and gold. There are gold bracelets on his wrists, and embossed leather bands around slim-muscled biceps. Tiny jewels flicker in his hair, and rusty henna patterns his hands and the tops of his feet.
John licks his lips.
"Who are you?" he asks again. He rises to one knee, and keeps the gun pointed at the stranger.
The man shakes his head in evident disappointment. "Pedestrian! Tedious!" he mutters. "Sherlock. My name is Sherlock. But that's the wrong question. It's not going to get you on the right track. Come on," he encourages, as if he is a teacher dealing with a rather slow student.
"How did you get in here?" John asks. He rises to his feet, not noticing that he doesn't lurch.
Sherlock nods at the gun. "We both know that's empty. Really. You can relax. Do you plan on bludgeoning me with it? I'm here because you called me. So unless it's what you wish for, I'm not here to hurt you."
Even though John is the one with the (empty) gun, he does not quite feel like he is in control of the situation. He jerks his chin to the side, "Get off my bed. Move slow!"
Sherlock gives a rather Gallic shrug and eels off the bed, keeping his eyes on John. God, is he lithe. A cropped vest, deep purple embroidered with gold and flashing jewels, couldn't possibly close across his smooth chest and barely reaches his bottom rib. His torso is endless; there's more henna around his abdomen and a purple jewel sits in his navel. A thin trail of dark hair leads down to the broad, embroidered waistband of his ridiculous trousers. John guiltily jerks his eyes back up to the man's multicolored gaze when he realizes he's ogling.
Sherlock smirks at him and continues to wait.
"Why are you dressed like that?" John asks stupidly.
"This is my loungewear, and all I ever get to do is lounge. For gods' sakes. Is your brain really that ossified? Those things need exercise, you know. How long has it been stagnating? Your whole life? Is it hopelessly atrophied?" He glares at John, fingers twitching in the gauzy fabric of the ballooning trousers. "I can see that you're trainable. Clearly you're a doctor. Just as obviously recently invalided home from military service. Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"What?" John is starting to believe this stranger's assessment that he is stupid. Who the hell breaks into a man's house just to insult his intelligence? John begins to slip from battle-ready to a kind of alert bemusement.
"Afghanistan or Iraq? Those are the two wars your country is fighting right now where you could get a tan." He gestures with his eyes to John's wrists, where the sleeves are rolled up out of the way of polishing. There's a distinct tan line across his wrist bones. "That's a military-issue cane, a service weapon, a veteran's cheque at the corner of your desk. This is not magic, John Watson."
John gapes at him. "How do you know my name?"
"Look. May I move? Do you feel comfortable that I'm not about to rob or murder you? Certainly I would have made some sort of effort by now, if that had been my intent." He moves anyway. John steps back, keeping his distance, but not complaining, keeping the useless gun raised.
The man strolls over to the desk, slinky and swaying. John stares. There must be some sort of layering under the sheer trousers, and John is somewhat disappointed (and mortified) to realize that he cannot see any detail in the groin area. That sumptuous backside faces John, who can count all six knobs of his lumbar vertebrae.
The stranger bends over the desk, lifts the envelope and says, "Name, John Watson." He carelessly drops the envelope and picks up John's mobile. He turns it in his hands for a moment, then says, "You've got family, but you won't go to them for help. You're clearly strapped for cash," he non-judgmentally indicates the pitiful bedsit and John's frayed jumper, "but you've got this expensive mobile. Obviously a gift. "Harry Watson", just as obviously family. Probably a brother, as this is a young man's gadget. You've got problems with him: maybe you liked his wife, maybe you don't like his drinking..."
John blinks in surprise, and doesn't realize he's lowered the gun a bit. "That's just fantastic. How brilliant. You got all that from one envelope, a phone and a look around the room, did you? That... was amazing. " For an unguarded moment, a vivid grin lights up his gray face, and Sherlock's eyebrow lifts in surprise.
"Do you think so?"
"Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary." John is still wearing an open, delighted expression.
"That's not what people normally say," Sherlock says, a little uncertain.
"What do people normally say? Get out of my flat?"
Sherlock narrows his eyes into slits, but then flashes an almost-smile. "No. More like, Shut it and grant me my wish already."
It takes a minute for that to fully sink in.
John's smile slowly fades into suspicion. Right. How had he ever managed to relax his guard with this... very singular... stranger on his turf? Wouldn't his therapist have a field day, with all her harping on his trust issues, to know that he was even letting the man speak, much less wander about, without becoming territorial and aggressive.
But even if 'Sherlock' had triggered (funny word to think, with his hand wrapped steadily around his gun) a defensive instinct, John thinks he'd still let him stay, without kicking him out or calling the police. Just because it is something. Something is happening to him at last. Someone has penetrated the isolation in which he's lived for the months. Of all the monotonous, monochromatic, oppressive days since he's been shipped back to England, today stands out. In the middle of the toxic haze that forms his life stands this intriguing mystery man. He fairly glows against the background of despair. The miles of milky skin and carnal grace; his utter, misplaced confidence in invading the flat of a traumatized soldier; the odd intensity of him, in his eyes, his focus, his bearing; the complete lack of fear; the provocative, entirely outlandish garb, which really could only be termed a 'costume'. How was John permitting this?
Wait. What?
John's brain comes full circle while Sherlock impatiently waits. He looks at the freshly restored, lovingly polished lamp on the corner of the desk to Sherlock, decked out in his fancy dress, and something clicks.
John leans against the wall and stares at Sherlock. "What? Are you supposed to be some kind of genie?" He begins to giggle. He just can't help himself. "Of course you are. Of course. Look at that costume. God, it's fantastic." His laugh is sweet and infectious, and Sherlock, again to his surprise, finds his mouth curling at the corners.