"Are you trying to get someone killed?" shouted Sherlock, as he approached the police who were moving to surround John.
They halted.
One of the officers opened his mouth.
"Don't speak," snapped Sherlock, sending him a glare. "I'm in no mood to listen to your idiocy."
"Sir," began another officer. He eyed John nervously behind Sherlock's shoulder.
Sherlock held up one hand, fixing his eyes intently on the man.
"Where's your superior?" He could see Ingleson approaching rapidly. Sherlock took a step back and smiled politely. "Ah, Ingleson, you complete and utter imbecile, I'd like a word."
"Mr. Holmes," greeted Ingleson, coldly. His voice rattled in his chest like a tin of nails. Another gesture of his hand allowed his men to relax.
"Sherlock," said Lestrade, out of breath, as he jogged up to the two men.
"Lestrade." Sherlock glanced at the phone still clutched in Lestrade's hand. "How is Ms. Thompson?"
"Out of town," replied Lestrade with a grimace.
"Unfortunate timing. Did she have any suggestions?"
Lestrade closed his eyes; beside him, Ingleson looked impatient, or possibly constipated.
"Mr. Watson has a phobia of being in hospital," said Lestrade. "He won't go willingly."
Sherlock glanced behind him at John, feeling a flutter in his chest.
"So you're going to force him?" asked Sherlock making no effort to hide his distaste.
"We could take him to the station instead, if you think he'd go."
Sherlock shook his head regretfully.
"I don't see another option, Sherlock."
"We should just shoot him," muttered Ingleson. Lestrade and Sherlock both glared at him; he looked away.
"You do realize that you're talking about a man who dedicated his life to protecting our country," said Sherlock, acerbically. The other men around them shifted uneasily.
Sherlock tilted his head, hearing the word "station" echo in his head, teasing at his memory. He began to pace, thinking rapidly. He stopped abruptly turning to face Lestrade.
"A place of safety can be a friend, correct?" asked Sherlock slowly.
"It's unusual, but, yes." Then Lestrade shook his head. "But Sherlock, we've already eliminated everyone Mr. Watson knows. None of them are suitable."
"He could stay with me," suggested Sherlock, feeling hopeful for the first time. The mental image of John with him in 221B filled him with warmth; he wanted to make this happen. "I could be his friend."
"You don't even know the man," protested Ingleson.
"He trusts me," said Sherlock, not looking away from Lestrade. "I've never… Please, I could be his friend."
Lestrade looked dumbfounded, staring at Sherlock as though he were seeing him for the first time.
"I-" He shook his head, glancing at Ingleson who glared mulishly. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but okay. If you can get Mr. Watson to agree peacefully and calmly, he can go home with you."
"Yes!" Sherlock twirled around, leaping lightly into the air.
"Not so fast," said Lestrade, reaching out to trap Sherlock's arm. "I think it's time you introduced me to your new beau."
Sherlock scowled, annoyed with Lestrade's teasing.
Turning away but lingering long enough for Lestrade to fall into place by his side, Sherlock pasted a smile upon his face that became more real the closer he drew to John. John had retreated further down the alley where he waited tense and watchful. His eyes never left Sherlock as he approached, not even to examine his companion.
"John," said Sherlock, stopping an arm's length away from him.
The single word was all that was necessary for John to relax. All of the air left his body in a great rush. With one hand, he massaged the back of his neck while he shoved the other into his pocket to hide the faint trembling that would not abate. John smiled stupidly at Sherlock.
"Yes, well." Sherlock shuffled his feet slightly in embarrassment. "I did tell you that I would take care of things."
Lestrade cleared his throat. They both turned to him to find him watching with far too much amusement – the bastard. Sherlock struggled to portray his usual detachment; a quick look towards John found a similar blankness, though his was more wary. Lestrade looked uncomfortable momentarily before he gave Sherlock a pointed glare.
Right, he wanted introductions.
"This is Detective Inspector Lestrade," said Sherlock, taking a step closer to John. "Within the Yard, he is without peer. He is one of the few who are willing to admit when they are out of their depths and on occasion, very nearly approaches competence."
Lestrade blinked, his brow creasing as he eyed Sherlock disbelievingly. Sherlock smiled blandly, a mere twitch of his lips, which seemed to reassure Lestrade because he turned back to John.
"Gregory Lestrade," he said, holding out his hand.
John stared at it for a long, very awkward moment. His eyes flickered from the hand to Sherlock to the equipment attached at Lestrade's belt and back to the hand. John reached out and gave the hand a quick shake, taking a step closer to Sherlock as he retreated until they were close enough to share body heat but still not touching. Sherlock found the sensation peculiar- he wasn't a stranger to physical contact but it was usually done at his initiative with his focus firmly on external observations; people rarely invaded his personal space.
"I just wanted to let you know that I've spoken with your therapist. She'll be here with you tomorrow when we cover all of the legal details."
John stayed absolutely still.
"I believe Sherlock had something to ask you," said Lestrade waving his arm at Sherlock, accompanied by another pointed look.
"How do you feel about the violin?" asked Sherlock, turning to face John more directly. "I frequently play in the middle of the night or whenever the mood strikes. I find it helps me think. I don't play every night, of course, so it might not be an issue but I prefer to inform you in advance. Well?"
John looked bewildered while Lestrade looked exasperated.
"That's not what you're supposed to be asking."
"It's not?" Sherlock was confused. Shouldn't flatmates, even temporary ones, know the worst of each other? Ignoring Lestrade, he continued to John. "Normally I'd warn you that sometimes I don't speak for days but we're quite complimentarily matched there."
Sherlock smiled but it faded into a frown when he noticed how lost John seemed like he wasn't quite tracking the conversation properly.
Lestrade let out a loud sigh.
"You're supposed to be asking him if he would like to go home with you, instead of to hospital."
"Of course, he wants to," said Sherlock raising his voice. Lestrade was being stupid, but John was just standing there so very still, and… Sherlock froze, suddenly afraid that he had misread everything. "Don't you?"
John looked frightened as he stared at Sherlock with wide eyes.
"Oh," said Sherlock, feeling hurt. He held himself stiffly as he tried to move away.
John's hand darted out and grabbed Sherlock's sleeve, at this rate his jacket was going to be hopelessly wrinkled.
"I think that's a yes," said Lestrade, sounding suspiciously gentle.
Sherlock looked at John.
"Oh," said Sherlock again, as his perspective flipped. He let John settle back against his side.
"You should probably be terrified," said Lestrade ruefully. "He nearly burned down his last place, but given the situation, I doubt one night would harm you."
John was staring at Sherlock, thoughtfully; Sherlock wondered what he saw, something told him that John saw more than people normally would.
Lestrade brushed off his suit and checked his watch.
"Let's get you checked out by the paramedics so you can go home with Sherlock."
John went rigid. He stood frozen for a long paralyzing moment before his hands clinched into fists that curled up against his chest. He began turning red as he wheezed and coughed as though choking past something lodged in his throat.
Lestrade stared at John with equal parts pity and discomfort.
"So it's not just hospitals."
Sherlock threw him an impatient glare as he gently lowered John into a seated position. He rubbed John's back, whispering in his ear.
"Just breathe. You're fine. You're safe."
John's breathing slowly calmed although it remained irregular. He did not open his eyes.
"John has had a very rough day," said Sherlock, his tone suggesting no arguments. "His tolerance for strangers is not at its best."
Lestrade raised his hands in surrender but didn't bother to apologize. He was smart enough to know that neither would appreciate it.
"I'll just go speak with the paramedics," he said, leaving the two of them alone.
They sat in silence. John was motionless.
As if it belonged to someone else, Sherlock found his hand reaching over to comb through John's hair. His hair was soft, minutely coarser where the blond was fading to grey, and damp with sweat. It released a floral scent when it moved, different from the minty or medicinal smells that Sherlock would have expected. Did someone else pick John's shampoo or did he shop products by discount?
John raised his head, looking at him with surprise.
Sherlock let his hand fall back to rest against his hip but John didn't seem unduly perturbed by the presumptive gesture. John rested his head on his knee. His eyes were tired and old, defeated.
"We'll get you home," whispered Sherlock. John merely sighed.
They watched as the scene of crime officers were finally allowed into the alley now that John was no longer an issue. They moved cautiously as they processed the scene, casting frequent nervous glances in their direction. Ingleson was gone, replaced with another Detective Inspector who was currently speaking with Lestrade and paramedics. The two shook hands.
Lestrade jogged back to their position.
"They've agreed to forgo the examination but they want to give you something to relax on the way home," said Lestrade, with a nod towards the paramedics hovering around the ambulance.
John recoiled, shrinking away from him.
"So that's a no," said Sherlock. There was no way that John would be able to tolerate their medical attention, but he agreed that John needed some type of chemical help if they were going to make the trip across London without John panicking. "Would you," began Sherlock hesitantly, "would you let me give you the injection?"
John froze, thinking, before slowly relaxing. He looked up at Sherlock with a blank expression on his face.
"Right." Sherlock sighed. "Give me a moment."
"I'll walk with you," said Lestrade, quickly.
Sherlock patted John on the shoulder as he rose to his feet. Lestrade walked by his side towards the ambulance, leaning in closer so that no one would eavesdrop.
"If he's this volatile over a sedative," began Lestrade, "How safe is he going to be in your flat?"
"I can handle him."
"Not if he panics."
Sherlock gave him an impatient look.
"He's done nothing but panic since we've been here. I can handle him. We'll be fine."
"Look, I can see why you like the bloke," said Lestrade, shoving his hands in his pockets with a frustrated sigh. "But I can't forget that we have a dead man lying feet away from us that he put there."
Sherlock paused, turning towards the body, silently watching a SOCO photograph blood splatter. Finally, he nodded, conceding that Lestrade had a valid concern, flawed though it was.
"John Watson is not a danger to me, and if you really believed that he was, he'd be in restraints right now. I will, however, be mindful of his difficulties."
"Thank you."
Sherlock knew better than to hope that Lestrade would finally stop talking so he quickened his steps, eager to reach the paramedics before Lestrade could pursue further conversation. He slipped into the role of a concerned friend as he greeted the two, pushing down the observations that threatened to bubble out. He heard them give their names but deleted them immediately, no need to waste even short term memory.
"Mr. Watson has agreed to a sedative. Unfortunately, the same circumstances that prevent him from being examined make him hesitant about receiving medication from a stranger."
The female paramedic stepped closer to him; she looked a bit like Molly only older with curly hair. He smiled at her, catering to her sympathetic response. The other paramedic- short, fat, mouth-breather- looked bored.
"I was hoping, given that I have some training, that you would permit me to administer the injection."
Sherlock did his best to look trustworthy and winsome.
"Oh," said the woman, drawing a hand up to her mouth. She took a step back and glanced at her partner.
Sherlock stifled a sigh, frustrated that the one most likely to give in to his request was also the one most likely to deny it because it went against regulations.
"Your request is highly irregular," said the man; he had pushed himself forward eyeing Sherlock's pockets with undisguised greed.
Sherlock fingered his wallet, thoughtfully. He wasn't opposed to bribes, though he preferred favours.
"There's a cab in route," said Lestrade, sliding into the conversation, ending any potential transaction.
Sherlock didn't mind the interruption. The woman, now eyeing her partner warily, suddenly seemed much more receptive.
"Did you approve of his request, Detective Inspector?" she asked.
"I did," replied Lestrade, giving her one of those grins that always made women smile. "We're not trying to step on anyone's toes, but Sherlock does have experience."
Only Sherlock noticed the grimace that followed that statement.
"And the Met will assume full responsibility?" she asked shrewdly.
"I promise." Lestrade's trustworthy look was much better than Sherlock's. He blamed the badge which is why he so frequently borrowed it.
"Then I will allow it," she said. "Give me a second to gather the supplies."
Her partner looked disgruntled but she silenced him with a look.
She climbed into the back of the ambulance and began opening drawers. She collected a small pile of items, folding them all up in a disposable furniture protector; the syringe she kept separate. As she placed the package and syringe into his hands, she kept up a steady litany of instructions, none of which he needed and were therefore completely ignored.
"Thank you," he said, once she finally fell silent.
He debated telling the woman of her partner's inappropriate interest in the pregnancy that she was trying to hide behind a breaking button but his desire to return to John kept him silent. Sherlock gave them both a polite smile and a tip of his head, tucking the medical supplies under his arm.
"That was tedious," said Sherlock, as he once again knelt down before John. "You owe me."
He unfolded the disposable furniture protector upon the ground, smiling at the sight. In addition to the requested supplies, the paramedic had included sufficient wound wash, gauze, plasters, and tape to attend to John's minor scrapes and cuts. Sherlock pulled on a pair of gloves with a snap.
"First aid before or after?" asked Sherlock.
John held out his right arm.
Sherlock folded back John's sleeve, positioning his hand in Sherlock's lap. He carefully tied the tourniquet around the bicep and wiped the skin with alcohol. He could feel the blood vessels with his thumb so he knew he would not have difficulty administering the injection but it was odd working from this angle.
John made a soft gasp- not so much a sound, just the air catching in his throat. Sherlock glanced up from where he was positioning the needle, but John's gaze was focused on the crook of Sherlock's elbow. Sherlock ran a finger down the sleeve of his jacket, pushing away dark memories.
"Yes," said Sherlock softly. John turned his head to watch Sherlock with sad blue eyes. "It was quite some time ago. I'm clean now."
John gave a shaky smile.
Sherlock used the distraction to slide the needle home. John tensed at the prick. Sherlock rubbed his thumb in circles against John's forearm as he fed the medication through the needle. Pulling out the syringe and capping it, Sherlock depressed his thumb against the injection site. John watched him calmly as the application of a plaster completed the procedure.
"There," said Sherlock, feeling pleased with his work. "Who needs a medical degree?"
He glanced up at John, expecting to see him smile, but instead he seemed pensive and a bit sad. Sherlock filed the observation away. Squirting cetrimide on a gauze pad, Sherlock began to gently wash John's face. The cut began to bleed again as the dried blood was removed, but John remained still, passively allowing Sherlock to continue his ministrations. Sherlock placed a plaster over the injury which gave John a roguish appearance.
"Are you hurt anywhere else?"
John stared blankly, his eyes drifting to focus on the wall over Sherlock's shoulder.
Sherlock sighed. He wet another gauze pad and pressed it into John's hand. He waited to see what John would do.
John glanced at Sherlock, his expression revealing nothing. He lifted up the edge of his shirt, still loose from his trousers, revealing an abrasion on his abdomen. John pressed the gauze to the wound gingerly, his face contorting into a grimace. He handed the soiled cloth back to Sherlock.
Sherlock gathered the rubbish into the palm of his hand so that as he removed his glove it remained bagged in the now inside-out glove. He repeated the process with the other glove as he rose to his feet.
"I just need to dispose of these," he told John.
John blinked at him sleepily, as the medication began to take effect. He didn't even seem to notice that Sherlock had gone and returned.
"Let's get you out of here," said Sherlock. He reached down and grabbed John's hand helping him to his feet and then tugging him towards the waiting taxi.
John stopped; he looked down at their joined hands with a bemused expression. He looked back up at Sherlock.
"Is this not what people do to offer comfort?" asked Sherlock. A multitude of images of people holding hands flickered through his mind. "It seems to work for mothers and crying children."
John looked distinctly unimpressed with the comparison.
"Fine!" He released John's hand, since it obviously bothered him so much. Sherlock would very much like to cross his arms and pout but he settled instead for simply taking a small step away from John.
Fingers brushed against Sherlock's wrist. He looked down and watched as John slowly took his hand. This time John was the one to give a light tug in the direction of the waiting taxi. Sherlock smiled, manoeuvring so that he could lead the way.
They separated in the cab, sitting across from each other.
"Baker Street," he told the driver.
John sat prim and proper with his back rim-rod straight and his hands folded in his lap. He was the picture of polite alertness, but his wide, exaggerated blinks betrayed the sedative's influence.
"You may rest, if you would like," offered Sherlock, knowing that traffic would make their journey long.
John turned his head away, watching the buildings pass slowly.
Sherlock was reminded that despite the day's events, they were still strangers to each other, so he observed and learned, filing away the bits of John Watson. The ride across town wasn't long at all.
John was both hesitant to leave the taxi and relieved to escape; a fascinating contradiction. Still, Sherlock was glad to see the new surroundings revive the man. He had come to expect a certain degree of fortitude from John that the melancholy watcher in the taxi had lacked, but perhaps it had merely been the drugs subduing him.
Sherlock threw some money at the cab driver and hurried across the pavement. John was staring up at the building, his expression obscured by the darkening twilight.
"Welcome to 221B Baker Street," said Sherlock with a flourish. He threw the door open with a loud bang.
"Mrs. Hudson, I've brought home a visitor," shouted Sherlock.
She opened the door to her flat, peering out curiously.
"This is John Watson," stated Sherlock, almost proudly. "He's a decorated war veteran with PTSD so please don't upset him."
"Sherlock! Really!" She swatted him in the arm before moving closer to take a gander at Sherlock's new friend.
The afore-mentioned John Watson was shuffling nervously by the stairs. He held a hand out to her in greeting. She clasped his hand, leaning in close.
"He hasn't kidnapped you, has he?" she whispered loudly.
"Mrs. Hudson!" exclaimed Sherlock, sounding scandalized while John grinned.
"Show your guest in, Sherlock. I'll bring up the tea, since I doubt your cups are safe."
"That was Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock, in a fond tone, as she disappeared back into her kitchen. "She's my landlady, but she's infinitely more tolerable than most."
Sherlock mounted the stairs in his customarily rapid fashion, taking the steps in pairs. John lingered behind, climbing slowly. He trailed the palm of his hand along the ancient wallpaper. He appeared calm and introspective so Sherlock patiently allowed him to take his time.
"Welcome to my home," said Sherlock, feeling unexpectedly anxious.
John looked around him, humming faintly, the first sound Sherlock had heard him make. Sherlock peered at the room, trying to see it as John might be seeing it. People frequently referred to his collections of belongings as clutter, but he had difficulty living in any other manner. Each item in the room was useful and important; things he might need to use or reference at a second's notice, which he couldn't do if they were shut away in drawers.
John wandered the room slowly, smiling softly as he fingered the skull. He never even questioned its presence. Sherlock relaxed the more John seemed to approve.
When Mrs. Hudson entered the flat with a tray of tea and biscuits, she found John seated comfortably in the dusty red chair. His head was tipped back, almost as though he had been sleeping, but his eyes opened as he heard her approach. Sherlock was sprawled haphazardly across the couch in his usual indolent manner, watching John discretely.
John pushed his hands against the arms of the chair, levering himself into an upright position.
"No, no, dear, don't get up," said Mrs. Hudson, but John's eyes were focused on the tea tray.
Sherlock quickly crossed the room, taking the tray from Mrs. Hudson before John could and placing it on the table, swiping a biscuit as he did so. He pulled out a chair for Mrs. Hudson and then took his seat across from John. Their new arrangement was surprisingly domestic, which accounted for why Mrs. Hudson looked so pleased with herself, but Sherlock found that he did not mind.
"It's lovely to see Sherlock bringing someone home. I do worry that he'll get lonely up here," said Mrs. Hudson, handing out the mugs. "I would ask how you two met, but knowing Sherlock, it's probably best not to pry."
John smiled but his eyes were unfocused as he stared at his tea. He took a sip, lifting the mug in her direction in a display of appreciation. Mrs. Hudson really did make the best tea.
"Have another biscuit, dear. You're losing weight again."
Sherlock stared down at the plate that had been shoved under his nose. The sweet, buttery taste from the first biscuit still lingered on his tongue, and he had no desire for another, but Mrs. Hudson was watching him hopefully and John's eyes were suddenly hawk-like, assessing. Sherlock forced down the smallest biscuit, washing it away with two hot gulps; they both seemed satisfied.
"There's another bedroom upstairs," she told John, when she couldn't take the silence a second longer- normal people did seem to find it unnerving, "if you'll be needing it."
She looked between the two men, uncertainly. John's face paled and he stared at Sherlock with wide eyes.
"Relax. I have no intention of molesting your personage."
Sherlock watched in amusement as John's face flushed. The colour started at the base of his neck and slowly rose until the tips of his ears were red.
"Right then. I'll go give the bedding an airing," she said, gathering up the remnants of tea. She turned towards John. "Sherlock's a good lad, but he's not very mindful of the cleaning."
"My sleeping quarters are perfectly pristine," objected Sherlock.
John bent at the waist, leaning down to examine the pile of periodicals perched next to his chair. He looked up at Sherlock with a brief smirk.
"There will be none of that from you, Mr. Watson," said Sherlock sternly, but he could not help smiling as he said it. He could still hear Mrs. Hudson's laughter as she moved up the stairs.
"I suppose now that you're full of tea; it would be a bad time to ask if you desired supper."
John spread his hand on his belly rubbing it languidly.
"I will ask again in an hour," said Sherlock, noting signs of recent weight loss. He remembered rolling up the arm of John's shirt; there was a peculiar discolouration that only came from cold eggs. "Most people eat constantly and you barely touched your breakfast."
John stared at Sherlock incredulously.
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"It was obvious from the stain on your sleeve."
John lifted his arm, peering intently at his sleeve. He glanced at Sherlock somewhat dubiously, looked at the stain again, and then sat back in his chair. He made a gesture in the air, almost like a one-armed shrug.
"You believe me?" asked Sherlock, stunned. Anyone else would have been accusing him of fabricating details.
John's gaze flitted quickly around the flat before lingering steadily on Sherlock.
"And you don't mind?"
John smiled at Sherlock. His eyes were filled with emotions that Sherlock could not read, but they did express how very much John did not mind.
Something inside Sherlock trembled. He did not really know what he was feeling but it was…it was something good; he didn't want this feeling to end.
Suddenly, John shifted in his chair, looking distinctly uncomfortable and vaguely distressed. His legs pressed closer together.
"Through the kitchen to the left," instructed Sherlock.
John gave him a grateful glance as he hurried out of the room.
While John was occupied, Sherlock rummaged through his wardrobe searching for clothes that might fit John. Finally, he selected a pair of loose grey sweat pants and a soft, white cotton tee that should stretch enough to adjust to the different contours of John's body, although they would still be long. Grabbing a towel from the cupboard, Sherlock timed it perfectly so that he was standing in front of the door to the bathroom when John opened it.
He blinked in surprise, taking a step back.
"I thought you might like a shower," explained Sherlock, holding out his armful.
John blinked again. He reached out slowly, taking the offered items carefully. He took two steps backwards, again moving very slowly, and then shut the door in Sherlock's face.
Sherlock waited for the sound of water to spin away, striding into the kitchen to check on his latest mould culture.
John emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam with his clothes balled in his hands. He smelled cleanly of Sherlock's soap. His hair, spiked from the water, still had droplets clinging to the tips. His bare feet padded softly on the flooring, with his ankles hugged by the rolls of excess fabric. Sherlock snickered silently at the too large clothing.
John crossed his arms, glaring at Sherlock from across the kitchen, somehow aware of what Sherlock had been thinking. Sherlock was delighted that his new (friend?) acquaintance wasn't as blind as the masses.
"Very good, John," said Sherlock, approvingly.
John's brow wrinkled. He shook his head, looking away from Sherlock.
He stepped into the kitchen, pausing as he noticed the make-shift laboratory. He moved towards the table, leaning over to inspect the equipment, glancing at Sherlock for permission as he did so. Sherlock waved him forward, curious to see what he would do. John's hand ghosted over several of the items but never made contact. He flipped through the notebook filled with Sherlock's notations; his forehead creasing with concentration as he read. He seemed impressed as he closed the cover.
That lasted until John opened the refrigerator; it seemed that John had very strong feelings about the proper storage of human remains. He was mildly disapproving about the pig livers cooling on the top shelf- something to do with sanitation if his glances at the sink were to be believed, as though Sherlock ever actually used the space for food- but was offended by the human hand stuffed in the vegetable tray. John physically recoiled, spinning around to glare at Sherlock.
Sherlock cocked his head to the side, watching John with intense interest. He did not understand why John was so angry at the presence of the hand. It wasn't squeamishness. He didn't find it freakish. Then John closed the tray with such respect and regret that Sherlock felt he almost had the answer, but it was lost with John retreating from the room. Sherlock let out a frustrated huff and stalked after him.
John was framed by the window, staring out at the night. His hands were spread, pressed against the glass, stretching the t-shirt tight across his shoulders. Sherlock could see the lines of the latissimi dorsi and the bulge of the trapezius through the thin fabric. When John faced the room again, his anger had faded leaving him looking tired.
"Do you like curry?" asked Sherlock, in a subdued voice, looking for something to distract John from the upset. Caring about someone else's opinion was turning out to be more work than Sherlock had anticipated.
John's eyes shifted towards Sherlock, disinterestedly.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Discarding his suggestion, he phoned Angelo's asking him for a take away meal for two, his choice. Angelo was predictably delighted at the prospect of feeding Sherlock- and a companion!
Sherlock made a note that Angelo was never to meet Mrs. Hudson; he wasn't sure he would be able to survive their inevitable collusion.
He tossed his phone on his desk, turning to find John watching him. Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets, standing there uncomfortably, feeling the weight of his gaze. John's expression softened and the tension that had been hanging in the air faded away. Sherlock felt like he could breathe again.
John turned his attention to the bookcases. He glanced over his shoulder at Sherlock, asking for permission.
"Feel free," said Sherlock. He spread his arm to encompass the whole flat. "You needn't ask for anything."
John smiled at him shyly.
He slid his fingers along the spines of the books with a reverent expression. Pulling one out- a history of early organ transplantation- he flipped through the yellowed pages, seemingly fascinated with the detailed illustrations and photographs. His head bent over the page as he inhaled the old book scent.
With one last hesitant glance, John carried the book back to his chair and settled down to read. Thoroughly approving of the quiet activity, Sherlock stretched out on the sofa assuming his preferred thinking position. He flexed his toes against the end of the sofa, humming happily to himself. He took time to begin piecing through the day's events; not a full exploration in his Mind Palace, not with the delivery of food imminent, but a peaceful moment of recollection, reliving the highlights.
A companionable quiet drifted over the room, comforting and warm which made the ensuing knock at the door seem intrusive and unwelcome. Sherlock heaved himself up from the couch, stomping lightly to return feeling to his limbs, as he opened the door. Tony stood on the other side beaming and holding up a giant, delicious smelling paper bag.
Sherlock scowled at the interruption and snatched the bag away. Tony, well accustomed to Sherlock's antics, merely tipped his hat.
"Enjoy your meal, Mr. Holmes," he said with a laugh. He stood once on his tip-toes trying to peak over Sherlock's shoulder at John, and then jogged back down the stairs, out onto the street.
John raised a single eyebrow as he eyed the mammoth-sized bag of take away.
"Angelo doesn't know the meaning of portion control," muttered Sherlock. He left the food in the living room while he fetched a mismatched pair of plates and cutlery from the kitchen.
Sherlock picked at his food as he watched John from the corner of his eyes. John ate his food rapidly but neatly. He seemed to enjoy the flavour but dedicated no time to savouring it. Clearly, a remnant of his time in the army. As John's eating slowed, Sherlock began noticing signs of fatigue.
"Tired?"
John clasped a hand over his mouth to hide a yawn.
"I'll show you upstairs," ordered Sherlock, placing his fork on the table.
John made a strange twitch like he had started to shake his head and then froze. He pushed back from the table retreating to the other side of the room where he very deliberately took a seat. Sherlock followed, pulling his chair to better face the telly; he could hear the scrape of wood against the flooring as John mimicked him.
Sherlock tossed the remote to John who quickly selected The One Show, not because he had a particular interest in the program but because he felt it would be a neutral choice. Sherlock let the matter lie; he would have other chances to determine John's taste in television, and find it suitably dreadful, no doubt.
They watched in silence, or rather, John watched the telly and Sherlock watched John, at least, until the drivel distracted him.
Sherlock made a frustrated groan, thrusting his open hands at the telly.
"How can people believe such nonsense?" he asked, after a particularly illogical story.
John shot him an amused glance, smothering a laugh. He shook his head.
The next time Sherlock glanced at John; he had shifted in his chair and was leaning back with his eyes closed, breathing slowly.
"You really should go to bed."
John shook his head sluggishly, half-asleep.
"Don't blame me when your neck cricks."
He took the opportunity to turn off the telly.
"Do you mind if I play?" asked Sherlock, causing John to shift restlessly, but he was clearly well on his way to being asleep. Sherlock judged him unlikely to be bothered by the music as long as it wasn't too vigorous. John shifted again as Sherlock moved.
"Shh," said Sherlock softly. "I'm just getting my violin."
The notes poured out of him in a slow mournful tune as he recreated a song he had heard two days ago. At the time, he had derided its simplicity but now he used it to soothe John deeper into sleep. John's limbs went limp as he lolled in his seat. His breathing deepened, becoming steady puffs of air.
Sherlock seamlessly switched into free-style using the short puffs as a metronome. They soared together, floating on the sound. Sherlock and the violin were one, and John; John was there underneath it all guiding them. Sherlock had never felt so content.
AN: Thanks again to K_for_kurfuffle. The song that Sherlock begins playing for John was inspired by Ghost Lullaby by Max Ablitzer. You can find it on Youtube.