As John slipped into Sherlock's crazy lifestyle, he just hoped he wasn't making a mistake.
There was no question that he felt more like himself than he had since the bullet had ripped through his shoulder. He had lost the army, lost his career as a surgeon, but helping Sherlock solve cases made him feel alive again.
He kept reminding himself that this was, out of necessity, only temporary. There would come a time when he would have to quit, to take up his responsibilities as Earl. Just as soon as he felt up to the challenge. Just as soon as he was on his feet again.
He tried not to think about the fact that it was only thanks to Sherlock that he was on both feet at all.
Of course, it wasn't like he was shirking his duties entirely, either. He still had regular Skype meetings with the family lawyer and business manager. He'd been lucky all these months that they had never questioned why he was never accessible any other way. He wondered whether they were simply that unobservant or just being discreet. Either way, they had never commented on his tan or military haircut, and he had always made a point of not wearing his uniform when they spoke.
In a way, it had felt like old times the day he was talking to them in his room when Sherlock started shooting the wall downstairs out of sheer boredom.
But, no. John wasn't ready to give this up. Not yet. He just wished his list of excuses weren't getting so short.
He was still amazed that Sherlock hadn't pried into his family (that he knew of, anyway). He hadn't decided if Sherlock just found the idea enervating and dull, if he truly didn't care … or if he was trying to be discreet. Because to John's own shock, Sherlock was not actually a terrible flatmate.
Oh, to be sure, he had his flaws. The body parts around the kitchen, for example, made the doctor in John cringe. (He didn't care how careful you were, cross-contamination of the food supply was a serious issue.) Sherlock's manners were inconsistent, his demands often peremptory, and his lack of consideration when he was in a lazy mood … well, he wasn't ideal.
Except … he also treated John like an equal, or a near-equal, at least—something John was sure Sherlock didn't do with many people. He was casually generous with his belongings (and assumed John would be the same—security on his laptop was non-existent these days, which was turning into a problem). But most important, he had very quickly become a friend.
In no time at all, Sherlock Holmes had managed to fill all the gaps in John's life—the companionship of the army, the professional challenge, the excitement and feeling of purpose. All things that he had loved about his life the last fifteen years.
And all things he didn't expect to have once he finally turned away from this and applied himself to his ultimate calling of Earl.
John had always been proud of his heritage. He still was, in fact. It was just so … dull. Paperwork and meetings. The occasional parties that he'd managed to avoid by being abroad all these years. (Thankfully his family all thought he avoided the elite, popular spots out of principle rather than because he had been deployed in an active war zone. He'd needed an excuse for never being on the Riviera when his so-called friends were.)
He was definitely running out of time. Not only was Sherlock's attention (or lack thereof) something he could not depend on, but the longer he was in London, the more likely he would bump into somebody who knew him as John Brandon, not John Watson.
Like when John had followed him into the bank for the Blind Banker case. He was grateful Sherlock took his uneasiness as insecurity at the lush surroundings rather than an outright fear that he'd bump into his cousin Sara, but John had ended up snapping when Sherlock introduced him as a friend—and John was definitely observant enough to recognize that he'd hurt the man's feelings.
No, this little masquerade couldn't go on forever. Nor could he forget Mycroft's warning that Sherlock wasn't going to take this well, when he found out John had been keeping a secret.
To be honest, John wasn't entirely sure why he hadn't come out and told Sherlock about his title. It's not like Sherlock was going to be awed or impressed by it—John could think of few people who would be less impressed by something as relatively meaningless in the 21st century as a title. No, part of him whispered, it was more that he would make it real. His father would very definitely be dead, and all John's avoided obligations would suddenly become very … unavoidable. The minute he said it, it would become tangible and real and he would have no more excuses.
And, anyway, wasn't Sherlock the one always going on about being observant? It wasn't entirely John's fault if Sherlock didn't notice that his flatmate was an earl, was it?
It wasn't like John wasn't meeting his responsibilities. He had told Sherlock he was interviewing for a locum doctor, but he actually had gone to the library to do some paperwork and planning. It wasn't like he could concentrate in 221B, after all, or could afford to leave his correspondence lying about. But still, it wasn't like he'd actually gone to a doctor's office that day, and Sherlock hadn't noticed. No comments about the lack of sterilizing solutions or scent of illness on his clothes. John just couldn't tell if his flatmate hadn't noticed, or if he didn't care.
John admitted that he'd actually like to see how long it took for Sherlock to piece this together, but there was one thing that was worrying him.
Mycroft knew.
If he had learned anything about the two brothers in the weeks he'd lived with Sherlock, it was that they did not get along. At all. His flatmate was likely going to be less upset that John successfully kept a secret than that Mycroft had known all along.
But, really, how was John supposed to let him know? Sherlock took such pride in figuring things out, it would be better for John if he just … let him. Instead of telling him. If Sherlock didn't realize that John was feeding him clues, all the better. Sherlock would have the pleasure of deducing something, John wouldn't have to come right out and tell him (an awkward conversation he was always happy to avoid), and by then, John would be ready to deal with his own family.
Really, this was the only way to go.
Stealth Deduction.
Perfect.
#
Or maybe not. The next time they went to the bank, John had actually seen his cousin Sara in the hall as he collected the check from Sebastian. He had explained to Sherlock when he ducked aside to avoid her. (In fact, it had worked out for the best, because it had given him a chance to clarify why he'd been so jittery that first time, when he'd inadvertently hurt Sherlock's feelings.)
"I'm surprised you have such a bad relationship with your family," Sherlock told him, watching him carefully. "You don't seem the type to hold a grudge."
John just shook his head. "It's not like that. We get along fine. I just don't want them to know I'm back yet."
"So, you're hiding," Sherlock said, a gleam in his eye.
"I'm stalling," John corrected. "The minute they know I'm back, I'm going to get sucked into a vortex of family issues … and won't have any time to help you anymore. For now, Skype is as close as I want to come to any of them. A returning soldier deserves some rest and relaxation, doesn't he?"
"You make your family sound worse than mine," said Sherlock with a glimmer of interest.
John wasn't fooled, though. He was well aware that Sherlock wasn't remotely interested in his family—or, at least, only insofar as they affected John … because that affected Sherlock.
He honestly didn't think Sherlock would care about John being an earl. If anyone was disinterested in the nobility, it was Sherlock Holmes. He liked or disliked people solely on their own merits—family background didn't matter. John had seen him be friendly with his homeless network and completely rude to the wealthy … and vice versa. He was entirely ecumenical in his dislike. He only cared about how interesting they were, or how their existence affected him.
So, no, John being an earl was never going to faze Sherlock, but if his family obligations started interfering with The Work, well …
The problem, though, was that John was finding it harder to drop hints about his family than he had hoped. Sherlock's disinterest meant that he didn't care when John asked him to be quiet while he Skyped from upstairs. The knowledge that John had a cousin working in the same bank as Sebastian barely elicited a shrug. (Though John wondered if the reaction would have been different had Sherlock known his cousin Sara was one of the Vice-Presidents and not just a mid-level assistant.)
Even John's obvious lack of practicing medicine didn't raise any flags. John had told Sherlock he'd gone on a job interview to excuse a meeting with his lawyer, but his ongoing absences never seemed to make his flatmate curious.
As mysteries went, it was baffling John. He hadn't shared a flat with Sherlock for long, but the man was practically insatiable about wanting to know everything. John wasn't vain enough to think that his movements would be overly important to Sherlock, but still … he was deliberately allowing inconsistencies to occur, solely to whet Sherlock's curiosity. So, why wasn't it working?
In all honesty, he wished Sherlock would say or do something, because it was becoming a strain. More than ever before, John felt he was living a double life and it was exhausting. He had invested in a second laptop where he kept all the documents and files connected to his 'family business.' He kept it outside the flat, stored in a locked cubby at an office share he'd rented, from where he conducted whatever business he needed. In a way, it was a comfort keeping it all very separate from 221B, but it was also a complication he regretted.
He had only himself to blame, of course. He could have told Sherlock about this that first night. He had referred to family obligations, after all, and stressed that they might make his tenure at Baker Street a short one, but Sherlock had never followed up.
And so, with each delay, each fib about where he was going, he was digging himself deeper, and he hated it. John Brandon was never meant to live a lie, after all, and while two separate lives had been easy enough to keep apart while he was in the army, now that he was back in London … well, there was too much time dodging relatives and skulking about under Sherlock's radar.
And the stress was beginning to show.
#
Sherlock lay on the couch, watching John gather his keys and phone and such, not bothering to move as his flatmate headed toward the door. He just grunted and gave a faint hand-wave as John said goodbye, pretending not to notice how the other man's shoulders slouched ever so faintly as he went through the door.
Sherlock didn't move until he heard the street door close, and then he was on his feet, tearing off his dressing gown and reaching for his jacket. He grabbed his coat as he tore down the stairs, bursting onto the pavement as he looked for John, just disappearing around the corner. He gave a nod to Jamie across the street who pelted off to give the sign to the rest of the Network. On the off-chance he lost John in the crowd, they would keep an eye out.
Because Sherlock did want to know where his flatmate was going several times a week.
John had said he was applying for locum work as a doctor, but he never came home with any signs of practicing medicine. No scents of alcohol or sanitizer. No vomit from small children, no indications that he had worn his stethoscope or set foot within a block of a medical practice.
He was not showing any signs of being short of money, though, even on his army pension, and this was what was bothering Sherlock. John had outright told him, the night he shot the cabbie, that Mycroft had offered to pay him to spy on Sherlock. He'd claimed to say no.
What if he had lied?
If so, that would change everything Sherlock knew about the doctor. No longer would John be the trustworthy, loyal friend—a word Sherlock had only started using in his mind since the Blind Banker case. (An absurd name.) If John truly had been compromised by Mycroft, well … clearly that would change matters.
In purely practical matters, this would be problematic because it turned out that John was perfectly acceptable as a flatmate. He wasn't overly annoying, he did the shopping with relatively few complaints, and if he protested about food contamination, well … Sherlock could forgive that. With John's medical training, he probably couldn't help that any more than he could help the nightmares that interrupted his sleep. The odds of finding another flatmate able to put up with Sherlock would be … slim.
He wondered how he'd been so blind. Sherlock strode down the street, chastising himself for his idealistic faith in John, presumably because the man had saved his life. (Though Sherlock was as certain as ever that he'd picked the correct pill.)
Of course John was being paid to be his flatmate.
It really was the only logical explanation; he'd been a fool to hope otherwise. Really, the only true question left was how had Mycroft found him? And known that John, of all possible flatmates in the city of London, would be the one that Sherlock accepted.
Because, they were definitely heading away from Harley Street, and Sherlock did not know of any medical practices in this district at all.
So, John had lied.
Sherlock wondered if he was going to walk in on John reporting to Mycroft—though that would be absurd. What would be the point? The man reported on Sherlock's movements almost daily by means of his blog. (Such an innocent, obvious means of communication, too. How had he missed its true purpose? How had he fallen for the "therapy" excuse?) What possible reason could there be for him to take the risk of a face-to-face meeting?
Unless it wasn't Mycroft at all? What if John was a plant for Moriarty? He had shown up, after all, just as Moriarty appeared on Sherlock's radar. The challenge of that would almost be worth the rather odd and unfamiliar feeling of betrayal.
He was so caught up in his thoughts, he almost missed John's turn into a rather nondescript office building.
He watched through the window as John strode down the hallway, obviously familiar and comfortable. It wasn't the first time he'd been here.
Sherlock noted the door he entered, and then paused outside, longing for a cigarette. Now, he thought, the truth would come out, except he wasn't sure he wanted to know. What if he walked through that door and discovered something that ruined the friendship he had forged with John?
Still, it was better to know, wasn't it? That had been the mantra of his entire life, after all.
Even so, it took him longer than he would have liked to force himself to walk through that door, but eventually, bracing himself for the familiar sting of betrayal, he pulled open the door and went inside.
#