This Charming Man
AN: First off, I can only apologise for how long it's taken me to update this story! I promise I haven't given up on it, and I won't bore you with the reasons for not writing more - exams, revision, etc. And the second apology is for how bad this update is - I somehow managed to delete the final draft. Yes, technology loves me. Anyway, thank you for sticking with this story. You are wonderful.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson belong to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, but not me. Unfortunately.
Chapter 2
After his first meeting with the mysterious Sherlock Holmes (or the taxi hijacking, as John insists on calling it), John had found himself thinking about what the stranger had said – you all see but you don't observe. It was true; when Sherlock Holmes had looked at John, he hadn't really been looking at him at all. John could feel the intensity of his stare and he swore he could hear Sherlock's mind cataloguing every tiny detail about him. It was all very odd. John wonders if he'd ever see the man again.
As it happens, it isn't very long after that when Taxi Hijacking Number Two takes place. That Friday evening, John is stood outside his flat, checking his watch anxiously and waving his other arm at the taxi coming towards him.
He hurriedly drops his cane into the backseat and awkwardly follows it, reminding John why he doesn't travel by public transport. His bloody stupid leg makes everything ten times more difficult and there is no way in hell he would try to negotiate the escalators in the Tube like this. He'd be trampled alive.
"Marylebone High Street, please- Oh for god's sake!" he splutters, when he turns and nearly collides with a dark-haired head.
"Evening, John," says Sherlock Holmes cheerfully, clambering into the cab, one hand pulling the door shut behind him and the other holding his Blackberry close to his face, his nose practically pressed against the screen.
"You again-" John starts, annoyed. He stops, his curiosity beating irritation. "Wait, how do you know my name?"
"Your blog. Obviously," Sherlock sniffs. His phone vibrates and he begins to type a message in response, frowning slightly.
"How-" John finds himself unable to complete his question again, and shakes his head. He's beginning to learn not to bother questioning Sherlock Holmes, as it inevitably leads to more confusion. "Okay, fine," he sighs.
The consulting detective finally tears his eyes away from his phone and stares fixedly at John. "Who is Sarah?" he asks casually, then continuing to text swiftly. His thumbs move so quickly they're practically a blur.
John's eyes narrow and he frowns. "How the hell do you know about Sarah?"
"You're clearly going on a date, John," he rolls his eyes disdainfully, curling his lip at the word. "You're dressed smarter than usual, you keep checking your watch, you don't want to be late." He pauses. "Plus, your phone is sticking out from your jacket pocket and you have a message from your date."
"You've got to stop bloody doing that," John grumbles, shoving his phone back into his pocket. He folds his arms and looks out of the window to watch the streets passing by. "And Sarah is actually-"
"Don't tell me," Sherlock interrupts. He hums thoughtfully. "Hmm … would have to be someone you'd see regularly, but you don't get out of your flat much. Ah, I see – she's a doctor at St. Mary's and you see her when you go for weekly check ups. She gave you her number – two, three? Three – weeks ago and you've been texting ever since." He smirks at John's astonished expression and pulls out his mobile with a flourish, his face still smug.
"And how would you know how often I leave my own flat?"
Sherlock sighs, exasperated, as if it is perfectly obvious. "Really, John. These questions are getting so repetitive. You have a limp - it's difficult for you to get around which is why you prefer to travel by taxi. You're living off an army pension and you don't have a great deal of money so you don't go out much," he continues. "And those shoes are several months old but barely scuffed."
John tries to right his expression and scowls. Sherlock seems to enjoy watching John being so utterly shocked, the git. He honestly doesn't know how Sherlock can reel off these facts about his life with complete ease. There was no way he could possibly tell all that from John's appearance. Maybe I'm being stalked, he thinks to himself. He makes a mental note to check for hidden cameras or tails when he next leaves his flat.
The pair sit in silence. John hopes he won't be late meeting Sarah. He'd immediately been attracted to her when they'd first met around a month ago. She wasn't anything special – and John didn't mean that negatively – she was simply kind, funny and rather pretty too. Normal. She was just the kind of steady, reliable woman John could see himself marrying in the future.
"John, it would be much appreciated if you could stop your right leg from twitching. It's most distracting."
"I can't help it," John says defensively. He tries to stop his dodgy leg from jiggling up and down. "It plays up when I'm-"
"What?"
"Oh for- when I'm nervous!" John hisses.
"Why on earth would you be nervous?"
"I want her to like me, okay? You know, when you meet someone you want to make a good impression, don't you?" At Sherlock's blank expression he sighs. "Maybe not." Come to think of it, he couldn't imagine Sherlock's confidence ever being anything less than fully functioning.
"I rarely feel the need to make a good impression on anybody."
"You astonish me," John grumbles sarcastically. He wasn't sure that leaping into a total stranger's cab and nearly causing them a heart attack screamed 'good first impression'.
The pair fall silent and both stare out of the passenger windows. Sherlock checks his phone impatiently, punctuating his soft muttering with the occasional huff. John just steals quick glances at his watch and prays he won't be late.
"You think you're unattractive," Sherlock says a few minutes later. It was a statement and not a question. "Which explains the nerves."
"Yes," John answers shortly. He doesn't want to discuss the ins and outs of his dislike of his short stature, scarred shoulder and permanent limp, especially not when the man next to him could easily pass for some kind of male model.
"That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard."
"For crying out loud, it's alright for you to sit there in your expensive shirt looking like-" John trails to a stop before he can say anything embarrassing. "It's fine for you. You're tall and dark and mysterious. People find that attractive!" He bursts out, mentally replaying his rant when Sherlock raises his eyebrows. "Oh God, uh- not that I think that. Just people in general. Obviously," he covers quickly.
In truth, John could not deny that Sherlock was quite – okay, very – good-looking. The contrast between his dark hair and pale, angular features was striking and his tall slender frame only added to his attractiveness. John suspected that his well-tailored clothes cost more than an entire year's worth of his army pension. He made John feel rather inadequate, sat next to him in a cardigan. Sherlock looked unlike anybody John had ever seen before.
Of course, the fact that he was a complete and utter git with no manners to speak of was not entirely appealing.
"It's ridiculous that someone like you should care," Sherlock snorts. "Your height makes women feel comfortable, it makes you appear less intimidating, and your wounded shoulder and bad leg add to that 'fallen war hero' image -" he traced inverted commas in the air with his long fingers. "-you have. It's attractive," he states matter-of-factly.
John chokes on his objections. He's not too sure whether to feel flattered or irritated. He's about to question Sherlock on what he meant by 'someone like you', but at that moment Sherlock flings open the door and hurtles out of the still-moving cab, waving a fistful of notes into the taxi driver's startled face.
"Goodbye, John Watson!" he yells out behind him, taking off down a nearby alley. John stares after him in disbelief, before slowly shaking his head and slamming the door shut. He continues to watch the mad detective as the cab slowly pulls away.