I need a car at the Royal Marsden in three quarters of an hour. The Granard House entrance. –SH
He's not going to tell the fading young woman wrapped in an over-large, repugnantly brown, but undoubtedly warm jumper that her husband isn't waiting until she's gone to move on.
You do not have a medical appointment today. –M
He's not going to tell the middle-aged man who has no one else in the waiting room that his doctor, young and inexperienced, is looking for someone to hold his hand as he breaks the bad news.
I never said I did. Your network must be failing. –SH
He's not going to tell the worn young couple with the baby in their arms that the news is good. He figures John would tell him that even good news should come from the right people.
The delay in response makes it more difficult to obey John. Flipping up his collar and hunkering down inside his coat to use it as blinders doesn't help much. Good Lord, he's been reduced to comparing himself to a skittish horse. At least, he is until his phone rings off at him again.
John has an appointment. Surgery, in fact. –M
Finally. Apparently, even being the British government has its limitations.
Impressive. Do you have our NHS records linked to your desktop or did you actually have to talk to someone and impress upon them your importance to retrieve the information? –SH
A little bit of snarky tit for tat with his brother should be enough to distract him from the damp-eyed weeper next to him. John always frowns at him, disappointed, when he makes people cry. He also refuses to believe that it is ever unintentional, which means he is usually right. Not that he ever gets much confirmation on that from Sherlock.
Does it matter? When will John be moving to his sister's? –M
John should be glad he has only his sister. Brothers are more trouble than their worth.
He's not. Why does everyone assume that? –SH
It is a ridiculous notion after all.
You, my dear brother, are not the nurturing type. –M
Of course, he isn't and not very fond of this caring lark. However, the doubt is irritating. He's a genius and very capable of managing to learn a new skill.
I do what is necessary. John is necessary. –SH
Should I point out the innuendo there? –M
How puerile Mycroft can be.
You just did. Will the car be there or not? –SH
This game has lost all savour. Sherlock just needs to know that he can get John safely home.
Of course. I want to watch this play out. –M
He doesn't have to think very hard to read between Mycroft's lines. Sherlock has no intention of failing for his brother's amusement; he owes John too much to not manage it.
Just send the car and the driver. None of your other lackeys are needed. –SH
The car pulls up immediately for them, clearly having been waiting patiently around the corner, as they walk slowly out of doors. Slowly, due to John's system still processing the anti-anxiety drugs they pumped into him. Sherlock is afraid that he'll have to credit the drugs with allowing him to bypass John's usual tendency to walk around the cab and usher John into the side nearest the walkway instead. Habits that ingrained are hard to trip up, especially in the case of a man as steady as John.
Now, they're settled into the seats comfortably and John is firmly strapped down in his belt. A captive and docile John is the best John to have this discussion with. He's unlikely to believe anything Sherlock says about him otherwise.
"John, you, yourself, said that you are a part, an important part of my work."
First, the slow blinking to indicate John thinks he misunderstood something Sherlock said. "What?" Second, the turn and tilt of his body to indicate that his whole attention has reverted to where it belongs, on Sherlock. "Sorry."
"You said I get all of my cases due to your inane blog." That still rankles a bit. Why does it seem that no one cares for the logic or the science of what he does? "That's important to me." Very true, despite the fact that it makes no sense.
John's face creases back in a pleasant way as he says, "You really should learn to resist insulting me at every turn and I've noticed."
"Noticed? Are you finally learning my methods?" Now, that is a nice thought and just to reinforce it for John what exactly he has been doing every time he explains himself to John, he says, "I do keep trying to teach you."
"Is that what you've been doing when I thought you were just showing off?" John shakes his head and Sherlock is pretty sure he sees a very small roll of John's eyes. "No, you're just far more tolerable as a flatmate when you've a case."
"Tolerable? I'm not the one always leaving the milk out to spoil." Ridiculous man, always going on about the milk and ruining it within days all by himself. "Do you talk to your other friends like that?"
"No." John huffs out softly. "Just the mad detective one."
Oh, that does sound like good news, with clarification. "I'm not mad." He's not; sociopathy isn't classified as such. "I'm a genius, which might look like madness to the uninitiated."
"And I'm among the initiated?"
Sherlock ignores the amusement in John's tone in favour of being pleased with John for following along with the thread of what Sherlock intends to say. "Of course, you have regular contact with me."
"Who wants a baptism by fire when you can just have contact with genius?"
A baptism by fire? What on earth is John on about? Baptism, by its very definition, involves immersion in water. "I am a genius."
"So you've said, just a dozen or so times this week."
He is not that redundant. "I'm dedicated to the truth. People seem to need to hear it often." Even if he is; he is pretty sure that it isn't his fault.
"Did you just make a joke?" John's hand is on the door handle; they've just arrived, but he seems to know that this conversation isn't quite over.
"Joking is what people do." Just because the conversation isn't over doesn't mean Sherlock knows what he's supposed to say.
"You aren't people." Sherlock knows that he's very different and very special, but somehow that doesn't seem like a compliment from John. "Stick to deducing and stealing body parts from Bart's."
"No more parts until you're well. I said I would do it and I will." Once more he has to reassure John that he is actually capable of this.
"Hmm. Forgot about that." John says as he puts his hand to the car door and opens it. Clearly, he wants the conversation done.
"How? I keep saying it." He has and it's frustrating, but John seems bound and determined to believe him incapable of handling cancer. "I know I said it at least once when you were in the room because I remember you responding." The last part he practically shouts at John's back sliding out of the car.
There, John stops and turns around. His set face is a blank as he takes a moment to stare at Sherlock. "No, I forgot that I wasn't exactly well."
What? Sherlock takes a minute to think about that comment and even his intellect has difficulty explaining that. "You forgot you aren't well?"
The only answer is a sigh, a 'Yes,' and a John Watson walking around the car.
"How did you delete that so quickly?" Impressive considering that fact that John has always seemed to be so disdainful and disbelieving of Sherlock's methods in memory storage. "You were on an OR table half an hour ago." Sherlock says to John's back as he gets out of his own side of the cab.
"Trying not to think about it." John is refusing to look at Sherlock and is determinedly sticking his key into the door of 221.
"Trying not to think about it?" Then what is John thinking about? He's too quiet and his shoulders are too set for John to be doing anything other than thinking. "Why?"
John doesn't have to avoid Sherlock's searching stare for long; Mrs Hudson swings the door in and away from John's hand. "Mrs Hudson!" is a bad attempt at concealing his suddenly unsupported sway, but Sherlock is sure that their landlady is kindly ignoring what she thinks is John's war wound.
At least, that's what he thinks the meaning of the cheery way Mrs Hudson says, "Boys! There you are. Where have you been?"
Sherlock is also sure that Mrs Hudson doesn't think too hard about John's relatively cryptic, "Out." She hustles them both into the building and gets to the point, "That nice detective inspector is here. I talked him into a cup of tea because I knew you'd not be long. You boys never are when you haven't been out on a—"
In an uncharacteristic act of rudeness, John interrupts Mrs Hudson to turn to Sherlock to say, "I wonder what sort of case he has for you to wrap your mind around."
"Nothing interesting enough." What is interesting is Mrs Hudson's general lack of response to the inconsideration, a testament of Sherlock's usual manner, and the ways tiredness and pain are drawing lines across John's face. The subtleness is amazing. The overall shape of his face is the same, but the slight deepening of the parenthesis around that sensitive, emotive mouth is practically screaming at Sherlock.
The fact that he's staring sidelong at John as they mount the stairs is the only reason Sherlock knows John is talking. First, John repeats back, in a careful deadpan, "Nothing interesting enough." And then he asks, in an amused tone, "You're back to rating cases on a one to ten scale?" The amusement irritates Sherlock. He just can't figure out why.
"Nothing of the sort. I never stopped. It's a very efficient system." He's positive that he already explained this to John and he refuses to repeat himself. There has been enough of that lately.
John's face tightens into a wince and Sherlock knows that John somehow manages to believe that he's hurt Sherlock's feelings. Even though it's really quite unnecessary, Sherlock nods to graciously accept "You're an idiot" as John's apology, that is, until John says, "What do you have for us today, Greg?"
That's it. Tonight, he's researching having it tattooed to his forehead, but until then Sherlock sticks to repeating himself, "He has nothing. I'm not taking cases."
"Not taking cases?" Great, now Lestrade seems to feel he has a say. "Sherlock, taking cases, sometimes quite literally, is what you do. You know, when you're not insulting me, the entirety of the Scotland Yard and the majority of the poor unfortunates that make your acquaintance."
Lestrade makes it sound like Sherlock enjoys shooting fish in a barrel.
"I'm taking a sabbatical." He'll have a year to learn a new skill, a year to heal John.
"A sabbatical? When did you decide this and when were you going to tell me?" Sherlock is surprised at John's shock. Doesn't he know that he needs someone, Sherlock, around when he's ill? "What are you going to do instead of take cases?"
John needs to rest and to not be insulted, but the thought of that doesn't have much effect on tempering Sherlock's irritation as he says, "We did discuss this. I said I would do this."
"Oh. Oh." The wealth of understanding flooding into John's voice fills Sherlock with the hope that they can have a new conversation until John ruins everything by saying, "Oh, no. That is not acceptable. I will not have you sitting around here bored to annoy me to death."
"Not acceptable? I have studied all possible outcomes of the situation and have come up with the best solution."
Sherlock can practically hear the gears turning in Lestrade's head, so it comes as no surprise when Lestrade blurts, "What situation? What solution? What is going on?"
Apparently, all the time watching Sherlock's process isn't enough time for Lestrade to be able to come to the conclusion that John is ill. How disappointing. "John has cancer, lymphoma to be exact."
Lestrade ignores John's attempt at scolding Sherlock to ask him directly, "Lymphoma? Will you be alright?" Sherlock knows that Lestrade only asked because he genuinely wants to know, but he doesn't seem to want the answer just this moment. He's managed to pace from the seat he'd taken at the table near the window to the kitchen and back again, all without looking at John. "Christ. Cancer."
"What's this? Cancer? Who has cancer?" Mrs Hudson bustles in with a tray of food no one trusts Sherlock to not contaminate. As she sets the tray on the table and hands John a cup, she says, "My husband, his cousin had it. Didn't end well, I'm afraid."
Sherlock does not care for the way the muscles in John's face slacken or the way his skin pales.
"John has lymphoma, Mrs Hudson. He tells me it should end well."
The sound of Mrs Hudson's wounded coos at John are almost covered over by John's near shout, "Sherlock! Don't tell all and sundry, especially when not even Harry knows." Yes, he was here for that aborted phone call. "My sister doesn't know!"
There can only be one explanation.
"You can't keep it a secret. People are going to find out."
"It does help that you tell them and, no, it is not a secret, but I would like some control over my own life." The way that Lestrade focuses on Mrs Hudson's comfort and not on Sherlock and John is very revealing. He does that every time he agrees with John, but won't interfere because he believes it to be counter-productive.
"No one is controlling you."
The steady way John catches his gaze tells Sherlock that he's not dignifying that with a response and he says, "Besides, it's just wrong, no offence, that Mrs Hudson and Lestrade know before Harry does."
"And Mycroft. And your oncologist." When in doubt, be as literal and truth-oriented as humanly possible.
"When did you tell your brother? Never mind, don't tell me." John's shocked tone reminds Sherlock that he has been meaning to rethink that rule since they met.
He decides that it's a thought for a later date and says, "I didn't have to tell him. He has access to your NHS files."
"Jesus. NHS records. Is nothing sacred?" John sounds exhausted; Sherlock really is going to have to rethink that rule, especially in conversations with John. He takes a mental note to not delete that thought. "No, no, Mrs Hudson, Greg, don't apologize. I'm sorry. I'm just frustrated and tired. I'm sorry."
Mrs Hudson is the first to speak, "You're fine, dear. You just need some rest. Don't worry about us." She walks down to her flat after a soft pat on John's hands and with a sad smile on her face.
"No worr—" Lestrade starts, but most of what he says is so very banal, so Sherlock cuts in with, "You should be in bed, then."
John turns to stare at him and then sighs and says, "Greg, do me a favour and take him with you. I'm going to bed."
John's footsteps up to his bedroom are slow and Sherlock is dumbfounded.
Didn't John hear anything Sherlock said?