***As always, a big thanks to my most amazing, patient and ever-on-call betas snogandagrope and ScienceofObsession. MildredandBobbin chimed in as well, giving me some good insight into the Problem With Harry, and I'm grateful for that! We dragged this chapter right up to the last possible minute, it was so recalcitrant, and it's fought back by becoming twice as lengthy as I usually have. So... without further fanfare... we present:
Chapter 7: If Sherlock Had a Job
Sherlock is vibrant as they enter the Tube. It is midmorning, so it is nowhere near as crowded as during commute hours, but the car they're on is nearly full, and Sherlock's eyes are flickering over the people around them so fast and relentlessly that he almost appears to be having a seizure. John grins, tucking his cane close against his leg.
"Enjoying the Tube, then?" he asks.
"I've been here before, John," Sherlock replies absently. "Thirty-three years ago. Much has changed, of course, but not as dramatically as you might expect."
"The 'Mrs. Hudson'? What did she wish for?" John asks, intrigued. He was still in primary school! Think of that.
"Her husband was on death row."
"Yeah? You stopped him from being executed?"
Sherlock tilts his head, looking down at John, who is swaying gently, grasping the strap to keep his balance. The pale, angular face is expressionless and his eyes are cold: "Oh, no. I ensured it."
John blinks, surprised. "She wished her husband dead?"
"She tried. We had to work around the constraints of the wish, of course, and a lot of it turned out to be nothing but legwork. It worked out in the end."
"But, that's horrible."
"It's much more common than you think. For example, see that woman there?" He indicates, by pointing with his chin, a middle aged woman belligerently taking up two seats, using shopping bags and an umbrella to keep the hoi polloi at bay. Her fat fingers flash with diamonds, and designer sunglasses cover her face. Her mouth is drawn down into a forbidding frown, but John can't tell who she is looking at, if anyone.
"Mid-forties. Married straight out of the schoolroom, to a man at least 15 years her senior. He allows her to shop, to keep up appearances, but it's only through lines of credit at the stores. Very controlling. That is why she's here on the Tube, of course. She's trying to stockpile her cash allowance. If you look closely, you can see yellowed bruises under her watch, and her right cheek shows the characteristic swelling of an old black eye. Her makeup is enough to hide the bruising, but not the shape of her face. He beats her."
John peers at the woman in fascination. Until Sherlock pointed out these things, he'd have just thought she was a poncy, forbidding woman who was miserable being stuck with the dirty public. He can make out the slight lack of symmetry in her cheekbones, and the bruises on her arm are very faint. He shakes his head in wonder, looking back up at Sherlock. "Really?" he asks. "That's amazing."
Sherlock continues, never looking away from his subject, "I imagine she has two children: that would be the bourgeois husband aping his betters in seeking an heir and a spare; and both are at boarding school. One of those bags contains school uniforms, I recognize the ties to be of Eton, a school centuries old, even in my day. There is ink on her fingers, and a card shop bag sticking out of her purse: she is left-handed and was writing letters to her boys. The bruises are on her left wrist as well, sharpest on the inner side, meaning he grabbed her when she tried to hit back, so she's not a coward. See the broken nails on index and middle fingers? She struggled."
John looks at the woman with new respect. As a doctor, he has of course encountered many cases of domestic violence. But he wonders if this one wouldn't have passed under his radar, the signs that Sherlock was reading were so subtle. "Yeah, ok," he says. "But why do you think she wishes him dead? Do you... I don't know... hear that somehow?"
Sherlock looks back at him, eyebrows lifting in a small sign of approval. "Very good, John," he says. "Good question. No, I cannot 'hear' anyone's wishes, thank the gods, as it would be tedious in the extreme. I am far more interested in facts.
"See the bag by her feet? It's from a chemist. She went through its contents in her lap just a moment ago. Pellets for dealing with household rodents, an anti-nausea and an anti-diarrheal. I imagine she's been slowly poisoning him over several weeks, and they are treating the symptoms with the medications I've mentioned. The fact that she's got a new box of rat poison indicates that she's on the second go-round. She probably won't be caught. It's very neat, and an excellent strategy for getting out of an abusive relationship."
"That's. Good god. That's-"
Sherlock interrupted him. "Given the timing, I'd say the husband began to abuse the boys over the Christmas holidays. She tried to defend them, and things became steadily worse."
"We have to stop it. We have to tell someone-"
"Why?" Sherlock looks genuinely curious. "She's hoping to rid the world of a violent, unpredictable man who has no qualms about hurting women and children. He's not a loss."
John is speechless for a moment. The train lurches to a halt, and the woman gathers her packages and leaves. John watches her mingle with the crowd and vanish. She is limping a bit.
Sherlock nods to himself. "Lamed. That means there's a lot more damage that we couldn't see. Not unexpected. I suspect bruising of organs, perhaps some cracked ribs."
John squeezes his cane in sympathy, bumping softly into Sherlock as the train starts up again, and says, fascinated and astonished, "That was incredible."
Sherlock looks down at him, reserved and a bit stiff. "Do you think so?"
"Yes. Oh, yes. I don't know of anyone else who can see what you do. You'd make an incredibly sharp detective, you know."
Sherlock's expression softens, although he doesn't do anything so gauche as smile. "Thank you," he finally says.
John smiles back at him, and feels a knot in his chest loosen, just a wee bit, and the anguish from that morning recedes just a little more. "It's only the truth," he protests. "You've got an amazing talent for observation. It's a pity you can't make a career out of it."
Sherlock's face freezes at that, and a small moue of distress flashes almost imperceptibly across it. He shifts his weight and stares out of the window, at the flashing lights of the tunnel. "Yes," he agrees.
They are silent for the remainder of the ride.
After a freezing five-minute walk from the Tube station, they get to the coffee shop, Sherlock barging in ahead of John, eyes bright and engaged. He pauses a moment, just over the threshold, and John almost crashes into him. He puts up his hand, pushing against the gray-clad shoulder at eye-level in front of him. "What're you doing?" he asks, amused. "Move, you great oaf. It's cold out here."
Prodded, Sherlock prowls forward, his burning glance taking in all the patrons in the shop. He heads unerringly towards Harry, who is petite with short blond hair, like her brother, and dressed in a somewhat rumpled business suit in rust with a white shirt. Her face is lined, she's several years older than her brother, and decades of hard living have left their mark. She's animated enough, though. Perhaps because she's mostly finished her coffee. There's an empty espresso cup pushed to the side.
"You must be John's alcoholic sister," is the first thing Sherlock says.
John thumps him, hard, with an elbow. "Shut it, Sherlock," he hisses. "I'm not going to be able to take you anywhere."
Sherlock's eyes dart around her face and body, reading information like a book. "And a Sapphist as well, I see."
The woman at the booth looks up at Sherlock with a forbidding stare, and then shifts it to her brother. "John," she says in a dangerous voice. "Who the hell is this? I didn't think you had any friends."
Sherlock pulls off his scarf and shrugs out of his coat like he's about to perform a lap dance, and slides gracefully into the booth. John takes off his jacket and thunks in next to him, leaning the cane against the back of the bench. "Hi, Harry," he says wearily. Spending time with Harry always involves walking on eggshells, as she came into the world with a very concentrated dose of the Watson temper. "Ta for that. I do have friends, you know. This is Sherlock. Um..." John trails off, having no idea what Sherlock's last name is. Neither he nor Harry make a move to embrace, or even touch hands.
Sherlock bypasses polite chitchat and reaches for Harry's coffee, bringing it close to his face and sniffing experimentally. "Ah!" he says. "Whiskey. As I predicted. You are, however, less inebriated that I would have guessed." His gaze flickers over her again. "A flask in your breast pocket, I see."
"Piss off," Harry says too loudly, frowning at him. "It's certainly none of your business. Johnny, why the hell did you bring this poncy git?"
"His name is Sherlock. Harry, you're making a scene," John says tightly and quietly. He reaches forward to pull Harry's coffee towards himself, to see if it's spiked or not, but Harry grabs it back. There is a brief, undignified struggle, and much of the drink is sloshed out on the table. Harry regains possession.
There is enough 'coffee' on John's hand for whiskey fumes to rise to his nose. He leans across Sherlock to grab some napkins, and begins to clean up the mess. It's rather a metaphor for his relationship with his sister, now that he thinks about it. "Really, Harry?" he asks. "It's barely after lunch, and you have to go back to work. This is why we're meeting at a coffeehouse, for god's sake. I thought after Clara, you'd decided to go on the wagon."
Harry shrugs carelessly. "I'm fine, Johnny." She grins and touches the tip of her nose with first one forefinger and then the other. "See? Legally sober. I can pass any test you set for me. It's just a little nip. Christ, you're such a stick-in-the-mud. She pierces Sherlock with a gimlet eye, same deep blue as her brother's. "Next time, genius, keep your mouth shut about it. Did your mother raise you in a barn?" She pauses to defiantly sip the coffee in her mug. "Now. Just so I know whether or not I'm gonna have to pound on you: What did you call me? Saffy... something?"
"Sapphist," Sherlock supplies helpfully. "A woman who is sexually active with other women."
John drops his hand to just above Sherlock's knee and squeezes, hard enough to hit the nerve and make him jump. "Enough," he says, "or I'll leave you at home next time."
Sherlock looks injured and begins to sulk. He stares outside.
Harry chokes and sputters for a moment, and then begins to laugh. "Christ, John. What are you doing with this wanker?" She sprawls against the back of the booth, arms out to both sides along the bench. "I think I like you," she says to Sherlock. He appears unimpressed with that revelation "No, really," she insists. "Sapphist. Who the hell says that? I've never even heard that word before."
Sherlock opens his mouth to elucidate, but she waves her hand in dismissal. "No, no, I don't really care." She leans forward to continue, stops short of planting her elbows on the table, and gives a disgusted look at the pile of soggy napkins on the table. "Ugh. Johnny! You spilled it." Her gesture indicates that she expects John to clear off the table.
He looks at the mound of sodden, reeking napkins, and stands up. He pulls a five pound note from his wallet and hands it to Sherlock. "Here. Go to the counter and ask for two small coffees. Give them this. Also, if you don't mind, dump these in the bin as you go." He scoops up the sodden pile and drops it in Sherlock's hands, grinning at the disgusted look on his face when he does so. Serves him right, for provoking his sister with the alcoholic Sapphist comments.
Sherlock obeys, distracted by the opportunity to explore more of modern times, or whatever it is that interests him so much. John scoots in front of Harry once again.
They sit in awkward silence for endless minutes. There isn't much in John's life that he can talk about. I'm not suicidal these days because now there's a possibly magical genie living in my flat just doesn't seem like a good conversational opener, and certainly not anything he wants to share with his sister.
"So, tell me how things have been," he tries.
Harry rolls her head on her neck. "I've got a new girlfriend," she announces slyly.
John is not surprised to hear it. If 'tomcat' were female, it would apply to Harry. "Is that so? Who is she?"
"Her name's Melissa. She's in the Army, just like you. But not broken." Harry's hand flies up at that, covering her lips, and her face twists in apology. "Oh, Johnny! I didn't mean-"
Sherlock comes back in time to hear her, and looks disdainful, but holds his tongue. He hands John a small mug, coffee gleaming darkly within. John stands up and allows Sherlock to slip into the booth before sitting back down.
Sherlock leans forward, resting his chin on steepled fingers. He stares, unblinking, at Harry. "She's taller than you, with long black hair and olive coloring," he says, rich baritone taking on the already familiar cadence of deduction. "Stronger than you, too, I'd predict. Short nails. Prefers to be on bottom, if you happen to be lying down. Somewhat rough in her upbringing and habits; so you represent, even the sot that you are, a step up in the world for her. A bit overweight. And you are aroused by controlling all of that, aren't you? She could knock you down in a fight, but she doesn't, and you like the illusion."
Harry gapes. "How can you possibly know that?" But she looks less offended than intrigued.
John takes a sip of his coffee. It is undoctored, just the way he likes it. He raises his eyebrows at Sherlock and murmurs, "Cheers." Sherlock blinks acknowledgement at him, then turns back to Harry.
"There's a lipstick mark on the top edge of your collar, which indicates that your partner was standing next to you, with her head inclined at a bit of a steep angle when you embraced, so: taller than you. The particular shade of orange would suit only an olive complexion, but other than that, it was a bit of a shot in the dark. There's a long black hair on your shoulder, obviously not yours or a pet: must be the new partner. There are scratch marks just under your collar, there, which are broad and shallow, indicating that the nail was blunted, softened by the pad of the finger. The size is a guess, but I can see you're an insecure dominant, so it was a good one. And an alcoholic such as yourself would only be a prize for an uncertain social climber," he pauses a moment, fingers flicking a rhythm over his chin, and then continues, in a more aggrieved tone, "I would not, however, have predicted Army. Always something."
John's mouth splits in an open, amazed grin. "That was bloody brilliant, Sherlock!"
Harry narrows her eyes, "Yeah, that was a good trick." A grin like John's creeps over on her face. "You're an arse. But John's right. That's bloody nifty. Wouldn't you be fun at a party." She jerks her head at her brother, and flaps one lazy hand. "Smart aaaand pretty: lucky boyo. Where'd you pick this one up, Johnny?"
John dodges that question. "Where did you meet Melissa?" he asks instead.
"Bloody gym, what do you think?" Harry grins lasciviously. "Free show in the showers, every day! And there's a lot of Melissa. She can bench press 10 stone! So I offered to let her try it on me."
Conversation drags in fits and starts, desultory. Sherlock doesn't bother to get involved, instead occupying himself with the passers by in the street. John can practically feel him observing and analyzing, as if a gentle current runs through the point where their arms touch.
Harry finishes her coffee and digs in her purse for a cigarette.
"Harry, you can't smoke in here," John chides.
Sherlock's head snaps around and he gives John a quick glance, eyebrow lifted. He looks at Harry, the pack of cigarettes, and then thoroughly checks out the shop, noting the lack of smoke, lack of ashtrays, and discreet No Smoking sign near the register. He hums thoughtfully. "Where do the people smoke, then?" he asks John.
"Outside," John answers. "Some clubs and pubs. Your own flat. That kind of thing."
Harry looks narrowly at Sherlock. "Have you been living under a rock?"
John quickly intervenes, rather than admit that the last time Sherlock wandered in London it was 1980. "He's been out of the country." Well, it sounded better than He's been in a lamp.
Sherlock, eye on Harry's pack of smokes, pushes back their half-drunk coffees and begins to herd John out of the booth. "Let us be off, then. Come, we're done here." John barely has time to grab his cane, Sherlock hurrying him into his jacket, before he and Harry are swept outside. Sherlock turns to Harry right away. "I'd like one of those, if you don't mind." His tone implies that she will of course 'not mind' and not only that, she'll be quick about it.
Harry looks bemused, then a flash of contention crosses her face, and then she shrugs and taps a Lark out of the soft pack in her hands. She hands it over, and Sherlock takes it delicately, nimbly twisting it around as he examines it from all sides. He runs it under his nose and closes his eyes, inhaling. "Tobacco, clove, hints of cocoa and carob." He smells again, and looks surprised. "Sugar?" He touches the tobacco end to his tongue. "Huh."
Harry stares at him like it's a side-show act. And then, Harry guffaws. She laughs so hard she's bent over double, snorting on the inhale. "Jesus fucking … . Johnny. Who is this? Freaky ponce." She can't stop for a while, and their odd trio attracts amused stares from other people hurrying by. Her laugh trails into a giggle, high and sweet, and for a moment, she sounds like a soprano version of her brother. Sherlock is nonplussed.
"Harry. Just-" John doesn't actually know what to say. Sherlock holds the cigarette near his mouth in an obvious invitation to be lit, and Harry, trained by many nights in pubs, automatically reaches up and lights it for him. It takes her several tries, and Sherlock finally captures her hand to hold it steady, while he draws in air, until it's lit.
"Heeey," says Harry, brilliant with an idea. "You can smoke in clubs."
John looks at her, rolling his eyes at the non sequitur. "Yeah," he confirms. "You know that."
"And I'm going to a club! This weekend." She gives Sherlock a companionable shove on the chest. He takes an offended step back. "You should come." She laughs again and looks at her brother. "Bring your poncy friend. He can slum. It's a masquerade! And you can meet Melissa."
There is no way in hell that John is going to play dress-up and hang out at a gay club on costume night to watch his drunk sister paw at her newest girl-toy. He opens his mouth to say so, but Sherlock gets there first.
"A club for Sapphists?"
"Wha-?"
"God, Sherlock. Yes, a gay club. Men and women both, I imagine." John draws in breath to give their excuses and is again interrupted.
Sherlock exhales smoke thoughtfully, reaches out and splays his hand on John's shoulder, surprising him into immobility, and says, "That sounds very... interesting." He glances at John, down and sideways so that chalcedony eyes are half-hidden by lashes, and his look says, clear as day, John, do let's go.
John purses his lips and furrows his brow a little, signaling back, Seriously? This is Harry we're talking about. It's bound to be a disaster. Not to mention it's theme night at a gay club.
Sherlock turns his head to look at John straight on, and his hand twitches on John's shoulder. But I want to. Think of all the different people there will be to watch. And I haven't been out in so long....
John's shoulders slump a little, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. Yeah. All right.
Harry starts laughing again. "Fucking hell, John," she snorts. "It's like you're married or something. When did you decide to swing the other way?"
John is frozen, flashing to the rub-off earlier. "What? No-"
"Look at you. I just watched you have a whole conversation. Ha! No words. Don't think I didn't see it." She giggles again, clenches her fist, and bangs it hard on Sherlock's shoulder. He looks haughty and quizzical. "I'll see you Friday, then. The Wharf. Bye." She turns without further ceremony and strides back to work.
John zips up his coat and shoves a fist into his pocket, cane held loosely in the other. "Well," he begins.
Sherlock arranges his own coat and scarf, and gives John a half-smirk, half-smile, having won the silent debate to his satisfaction. "Where to now?" he asks, willing to concede power on the heels of his victory.
John sighs, and then smiles back. Sherlock's cheeks and nose are tinted pink from the cold, but his lips are as pale as wax. He pulls again on his cigarette, the lines of his body confident, effortlessly projecting unconventional chic. I am so outclassed, John thinks. But he shrugs and says, "I thought we might go to Barts and visit Mike."