A/N: I can only apologise for how long this took. It was the result of reading a truly beautiful fic and feeling extremely inadequate and then writers block took hold. I'm sorry D: but hopefully the truly enormous size of this chapter will make up for it! Please tell me when you think! R&R!
He was careful not wake John as he slipped from the bed, slowly unwinding the doctor's arm from around his waist before sliding horizontally out of the bed to soundlessly land crouched on his feet. He stood and glanced out of the window, he hadn't slept again. His mind had been too busy focussing on both how they were supposed to find Moran and how he was going to get away unnoticed. He stretched his arms and tiptoed from the room, toes curling against the cold of the wooden floor as he made his way into the bathroom, showering quickly and returning to change in silence all the while forcing himself not to look at the doctor. He wasn't sure he could resist the urge to leap back in the bed with him if he did and so instead he turned sharply on his heel and swept from the room.
The night before his first order of business had been to find John's parents address, simple enough really he just checked the stack of letters, cards and notes John would receive in the mail and yet would never open or even acknowledge other than to stare blankly at them for a moment before sliding them into a drawer in the desk. Sherlock had never mentioned it so he suspected John had no idea he even knew. (Frankly he thought it was idiotic of the doctor not to guess, after all Sherlock noticed everything.) The detective had waited until John had offered the spare room to Harry and both Watson's had gone to bed, clearly believing him to be asleep. As soon as he was free to he got up and rushed to the desk, sliding a small stack of the letters out and carefully forcing a nail under the glue separating the envelope and sliding the note out. It was handwritten, useless updates about a cat of theirs and asking what he was doing in London, if he had found a job, why hadn't he written back in so long.
Sherlock had thought for a moment why John would write back at all after the way they treated Harry and how clearly still affected John was by it. He looked back down resisting the urge to read through every single one of them but instead forced himself to concentrate on the return address noting it instantly and quickly sliding the letter back inside the paper casing, sealing it and leaving everything as it had been when he found it. Then he had affected a tried slump (Not difficult to fake, after all, underneath the buzz of his planning he was still fatigued.) and had trotted upstairs to crawl into bed with John, hiding his face so the doctor wouldn't see the light of excitement in his eyes.
After all it was supposed to be a surprise and he didn't want to ruin it.
The next step of course was to get away without arousing suspicion and for this he needed help.
"Hello?"
"Dr. Barrows?"
"..."
"It's Sherlock."
"Oh right...okay...Is.. Is there a problem? Mr Holmes? "
"I need to see you, today."
"Okay... do you need to see me right now or..."
"No, I will meet you at half ten in your office."
"Okay, okay I will see you then."
Sherlock hung up and smirked, ah perfect. He strode across the room flinging himself into Johns chair just as the doctor padded into sight, yawning and scratching his stomach. He blinked sleepily as he made his way into the kitchen. "Were you just talking to someone?"
Sherlock smirked but put on a defensive tone. "Yes." He wrapped his arms around his legs and buried his face into the fabric of the chair, careful to keep his back rigid as to give the impression he was trying to hide, like he didn't want John to ask. The doctors' warm hand landed on the back of Sherlock neck and he turned his face fighting to keep his expression blank. (But for entirely different reason than John would expect.) John stared into his eyes for a moment frowning a little before pressing a soft kiss to his forehead and shuffling backwards to sit in Sherlocks chair.
"What do you have planned for today?" (Oh if only he knew.)
Sherlock stayed silent and John licked his lips glancing up at the clock. "You didn't sleep again."
Again he said nothing.
"Look, I know it was Barrows. You can tell me about it you know."
Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say something but instead looked away as if embarrassed. John sighed and Sherlock looked back up, staring a few moments as if considering what to say, he opened and closed his mouth a few times for good measure before mumbling under his breath, diverting his gaze as he spoke. "I am seeing him at half ten." John smiled warmly at him eyes lighting up a little but he caught himself, lifting his head and nodding a few times as if it was not important, as if Sherlock was silly to hide it.
"Okay good, that's okay. Becker can take you to your appointment and I can take Harry out to a show or something, she said she wanted to see more of the city."
Sherlock lifted his chin and John reacted to the click of the kettle in the kitchen with a jerk of his head before getting up and ruffling Sherlocks hair as he walked past. "Thank you for telling me." The detectives smirk dropped, he felt a stab of what could almost have been guilt deep in his gut and he didn't reply instead staring down at his ring. No, he was doing the right thing; this was going to be worth it because John would forgive him if Sherlock got his parents to accept him. Of course he would.
Becker was quiet in the car, glancing at Sherlock every few moments as if to check he hadn't simply thrown himself out of the window in a bid to escape. The detective staunchly stared out into the road and kept silent, the more it seemed he was in a strange mood and 'needed' to see Barrows the better. He made sure to hunch over as he got out of the car, nodding as Becker gestured for him to lead into the office and gazing resolutely at the floor when the receptionist spoke to him. It was difficult but no more than the personas he used to extract information from widows and murderers. Finally Barrows called his name and Sherlock left the small waiting room without looking back, glancing up at the doctor as he entered the room.
Barrows seemed concerned but hid it well under a mask of professionalism. As soon as the door closed Sherlock let out a breath of air and strode across the room, staring out of the windows to assess his best exit. "Sherlock...what are you doing?"
"You didn't honestly think I called you to talk did you?"
He wasn't really talking to the man, merely voicing his disdain to the air around himself. Suddenly a large rough palm on his bicep and he was spun around, the doctors fingers holding him tight enough to stop him wrenching his arm free but not enough to hurt. His eyes were ablaze and he was frowning. "Sherlock. Sit down." He tugged but the doctor didn't release him and so Sherlock took a small side step back towards the desk and the chair and they walked in tandem, Barrows slowly placing Sherlock in the chair and carefully releasing him, eyebrows furrowed as he suspiciously considered the detective.
For a moment he was back at school, back in front of the assembly being outed as a bad child, as a skiver. The odd feeling of being on display as two hundred pairs of eyes bore into you, knowing that you had missed class, that you had broken the main rule and gone out of school bounds and that you were a bad student and a terrible boy. He had stood there, tiny hand clasped respectfully behind his back chin up, wide eyes blinking out at the boys who had always hated him, always noticed that there wasn't anything normal about Sherlock Holmes and the cool click in his mind as his eyes connected with the older Mycroft.
The treasure of the school, head boy, captain of the cricket team and apple of their mother's eye.
His eyes pitied and it was then Sherlock decided the last thing he ever wanted, the worst thing he could ever have to endure, was pity from his brother.
"Why did you come here today?"
Well, there was no harm in being honest. "I needed a solid excuse to be alone for long enough that I could leave unnoticed."
"Unnoticed?"
"Yes, being under constant guard kind of makes it difficult for anything to be a surprise."
"A surprise? A surprise for who?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow and Barrows leant against his desk, endlessly long legs crossed at the ankles, finger stroking his chin.
"For John."
"A surprise for John... What could that possibly be?"
"It's a wedding present."
"A wedding present."
It appeared Barrows had been replaced by a particularly large and upper class parrot. Sherlock decided to sit up properly, steeping his fingers and glancing around the office before fixing his gaze back on the doctor but didn't try to move from the chair. He had to pick his moment.
"Where are you going?"
"I am catching a train."
"Right... You have a guard for a reason Sherlock. Why don't you ask that surprisingly handsome man who follows you around everywhere to go with you? Why is it so important that you do this yourself?"
Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. Really, this man was an idiot, so very like the doctors of Sherlocks past. Trying so hard to appear nonchalant as they attempted to force themselves to understand his mind, his thoughts, and most pathetically of all his motivations. It was pitiable really. "Because he would tell Mycroft where we had been and John would want to know and he would know all about it before the surprise even happens. This way I can pretend to be working on a case and nobody would know until the wedding day."
"You think John would be pleased that you lied to him?"
Sherlock thought about it and he came to the same conclusion he had that morning. John would forgive him as soon as he saw his parents at their wedding, as soon as they saw how happy Sherlock had made him. "That is irrelevant."
"No it is not, and not to mention that your brother has already informed me that you are in a lot of danger, enough danger that wandering off on your own would be frankly idiotic."
Sherlock leant forwards in his chair fingers grasping the wooden arms as he fought to bite down on the indignant rage building in his chest. He couldn't look at Barrows so instead he glared at the floor. "Forget what Mycroft says. I kept myself alive without him before and I can do it again. The only reason I let him get so involved is because I can't keep John safe on my own, I'm dangerous to him and Mycroft lessens that if only by a small amount. Now if you will excuse me doctor I have a train to catch."
Sherlock got up from the chair and knocked past the doctor's elbow striding to the window, popping the latch and letting it spring open. There was a five foot drop to the pavement below and Sherlock quickly stepped up onto the windowsill glancing back at Barrows surprised face for a moment. He stared back, gaze slowly turning calculating and thoughtful. "If you would, please do not raise the alarm for a few minutes. The commander is considerably faster than would allow me a clean escape."
Barrows nodded only slightly and almost as if he hadn't realised he had done so and Sherlock grinned dropping out of the window and landing hard on the pavement below. He rolled over and sprang upwards barely noticing the flare of pain on his shins. They would probably bruise. He all but ran down the street, turning left at the corner and forming a weaving path, ducking into alleyways and hiding in groups of people to avoid Becker spotting him if the doctor did give him up too quickly.
Thankfully he reached the station unabated and arrived at the ticket desk panting heavily. He took a moment to take a deep breath before buying a ticket to Cholsey and trotting to the right platform with a minute to spare. He glanced around the wide open space and something or rather someone caught his eye, a woman sat on a bench nearby smiling warmly at him. Sherlock considered her out of the corner of his eyes for a second watching her gaze trial up and down his form for a few moments. After around ten seconds of hidden glances the man next to her looked up at her face and then at him and for fraction of a second his eyes betrayed a almost manic glee before he frowned and put his arm around her, making the woman turn back to him.
Sherlock turned back just as the train door pulled in front of him and decided exactly what he needed to do. He jumped on the train and walked through the carriages, weaving past old men, students and families with screaming children to the back of the train where, just before the doors closed, he leapt off onto the empty platform. He smirked and walked over to the ticket desk smiling warmly at the woman inside. She frowned at him and titled her head.
"Haven't you just bought a ticket?"
He glanced at the retreating carriages and grinned, a quirk of his eyebrow somehow unsettling the woman inside who clasped her hands together on the desk, glancing at the train and back with a suspicious light in her eyes.
"Missed the train." He bought another ticket and moved away from the woman's accusing stare, placing himself on the bench with a smug grin on his lips. They would probably be realising they had lost him right about...now. Idiots.
He had been on the train almost twenty minutes, slumped in the corner of a table seat with his head leant against the glass, eyes staring outwards. He was too excited to sleep and even if he did manage it, without his phone to wake him he knew he would sleep through his stop. They pulled into a barren station, and from Sherlocks position he couldn't see a single person on the platform his thoughts turning to why they had stopped there at all when three men appeared in the carriage doorway, smirking and laughing amongst themselves, glancing back to an extremely angry fourth man.
The tallest one turned around and his eyes roved the vacant seating, his gaze falling on Sherlock and he grinned leading his companions over to where the detective sat. They clumped themselves around him, the angry man still mumbling furiously to himself. Sherlock made a point of not looking at them, instead listening in on their conversation with his eyes closed. They seemed to be trying to convince the angry man that some sort of presentation had gone well and that his bad feelings and negativity were unfounded. It wasn't working, he just began groaning loudly to himself with his hands cupped over his face and they all decided as one to ignore him.
After twelve minutes of incessant chat the angry man mumbled that he was going to the toilet and left the carriage abruptly, the commotion caused by his movements' making the detective look round. The tallest man was at next to him, elbows leant on the table as he scrawled in a battered notebook. His clothes were modern but held the image of a man who very mush wished to come from Victorian times with his tight tailored waistcoat and suit. The two men sat across from them were dressed much more commonly, one with piercing blue eyes wore a simple blue shirt, rolled up to the elbows and was staring back him without a word. Sherlock looked away to the third man, slumped on the desk with his head propped up by his hands watching the first man writing, murmuring suggestions to him. His hair was frizzy, curling around the neckline of his simple black jumper and he spoke with a slow considered tone.
There was a crashing outside the carriage and all three men and the detective looked up to watch the fourth man, shorter than the rest and ten times angrier. He walked back to them extremely quickly with a confident strut showing off his well tailored trousers and the tightness of his black t-shirt. He joined them at the table and glanced around, eyes falling first on the third man and then following his gaze to Sherlock.
"Who are you?"
Sherlock frowned; he should be suspicious of everyone. He carefully checked them all, glancing at the notebook and the way they held themselves and sniffed. They were business men, or something very like it. "I'm Sherlock."
The man raised an eyebrow and the detective was then forced to shake the hand of every man at the table. "Where are you heading?"
"Cholsey."
The first man smiled warmly and leant towards him a little. "Us too, well to Cholsey and then to Wallingford actually."
Sherlock checked them again and lifted his chin, "What do four business men have to do in Wallingford?"
The first man grinned and they all smiled amongst themselves, the angry man seeming to brighten up exponentially. "We are writers, we all come from Wallingford and are going back there to write our new series."
The detective was then forced to listen to their new ideas; to the premise of the show and to what he had 'missed' the previous series. For some reason he group seemed to have decided that he was to continue travelling with them because as the train pulled into Cholsey his sleeve was tugged by the second man who was still talking and he was forced to walk with them to their car, a moment's hesitation going unnoticed by the men. They were too busy excitedly arguing over a certain plot point as he was pushed in to be squashed between the slow speaking man and the angry man in the back of the car.
Eventually they pulled into the car park of a pub in a small village that Sherlock assumed must be Wallingford. He could hear a river nearby and great oak trees lined the gravel expanse of the parking bay. It smelt like damp grass and fresh air. Sherlock turned up his nose. He hated fresh air. He was shuffled out of the car and the men grouped together vaguely gesturing to the pub. He thought for a moment. He knew the address of John's parents but he did not know the location and forcing himself to leave his phone behind meant he was without his internet. (It had seemed a good idea at the time. Ensuring Mycroft couldn't track him using it and he wouldn't have to spend all his time avoiding phone calls.) He was lost.
So he agreed and followed them in ordering a beer and never drinking it. Eventually their conversation slowed and Sherlock decided now was his time to pounce. They came from the village and so there was a chance that they knew John, or at least his family. "You all grew up here?"
"Yeah"
"Oh right... do you know a guy called John...John Watson?"
All of them grew visibly surprised and cheerful. "John! Of course we do! He was in our class; quiet lad went off to train with the army graduating year."
Sherlock smiled. "Oh right, so you'd know where he used to live, I mean where his parents live?"
"Wait...why do you..."
Sherlock watched each of their faces drop and wondered why they had suddenly gotten so upset. He reviewed what he had said but couldn't see anything in there that would offend the men. So he waited. "He told me to come and talk to them, to invite them to a family reunion sort of thing."
Sighs all round and Sherlock shrugged.
"God for a second there I thought you were going to say he died in service or something."
"Oh no, he is living in London actually."
"Ooh London, whereabouts?"
"Near Regents park actually."
"Ooh that's nice."
He almost swore. It didn't matter when John was right now. (Well, it did matter but he couldn't afford to get distracted, especially not by sentences that made his chest ache.) All that mattered was that he found his parents. "So his parents...?"
"Oh right right, no you are right. Come on."
He was led out of the pub and through the narrows streets to what seemed like the main road in the village. "See that house there, with the sign in the window. That's the Watson place."
"Oh, thank you."
"Yeah, see you around mate." They all raised their hands in goodbye and Sherlock all but ran away from them, down the road towards John's parents house.
He paused for a minute just outside the door, barely glancing at the paper sign taped neatly to the window as he rapped on the clean white plastic. He was left waiting for merely two minutes before a short grey haired man opened the door looking him up and down with dark almost black-brown eyes and a face that minus the stiff grey handlebar moustache and furry brows could almost be a mirror of his son's. He did however lack the laugh lines around his eyes and was dressed in a twee three piece suit complete with stiff grey tie to compliment the white shirt and blue pinstriped fabric clasped around his stout frame. He had the air of a man that was good in an emergency, and more importantly very good in a fight.
Sherlock smiled (Honestly for once. It was, after all interesting to see what he may end up waking up to each and every morning in the distant future. If they both survived. Which was unlikely) and affected a confidant if slightly sheepish pose waving a hand awkwardly. His mind had gone blank in that second and he had no idea what to say to get himself inside.
"You the new lodger?"
That could work. "Yes, yes I am."
"Come in."
Well. That was easier than expected.
He was led into the tight hallway, wallpapered with hideous brown flowers from the 70's and with bare floorboards, buffed to an impressive sheen. Shoes were stacked in a small rack by the door and there was an umbrella stand decorated with camels. Clearly a holiday token of some sort. He followed the stout man into a living room, larger than expected with hard wood panelled walls, the bare brick above painted an inoffensive cream colour that were in stark contrast to the deep blood red carpet and mismatched sofas. (Although all were in some varying shade of red. An attempt at a match had clearly been made...and failed.)
After a moment's pause he settled on the closest red monstrosity and placed his hands together on his knees to smile his best charming smile at John's father. The news was on the TV. Some sort of crisis or accident had happened and the reporter was talking very quickly with a stern expression. Sherlock looked away. "Mary! The new lodger is here...you know...What is your name again boy?"
"It's Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."
The fluffy eyebrows rose like a shot and he put his hands on his hips before hollering again. "You remember...Sherlock...as if you'd forget a name like that."
The man turned and dropped into a comfortable looking brown armchair, perfectly posited in front of the TV with a stand next to it covered in tea stained magazines obsessively stacked straight. So one of his parents was clearly much more of a 'slob' than the other, interesting. "You a foreigner?"
"Uh no I-"
An equally short woman burst through a farmhouse style door to Sherlock right, shuffling into the room much like Mrs Hudson did on a Sunday afternoon laden down with a tray piled high with a pot of tea and the sort of buttery fluffy cakes only woman of a certain age knew how to make or where to buy. She gave her husband a stern look and smiled warmly at Sherlock. Her eyes were also brown but an almost golden shade and much more like her son's with deep laughter lines and a wide open face. Her posture was also very much familiar, rigid back with strong wide shoulders and the considered footwork only a soldier would have.
Fascinating, Johns father the family doctor and his army wife.
It appeared John had hit the winning streak of family work tradition. "Oh Simon hush, Sherlow is a...interesting name."
"It's Sherlock."
The detective bowed a little at her as he had stood on her entry. (It was important to always appear respectful when working a mark.) "Oh I am sorry dear. Sherlock. Well...where are your bags dear?"
"I uh...got into some trouble with the hotel in London and my bags were misplaced. I have money enough to pay you rent and to buy any replacements I will need so you need not worry."
"London eh? You one of those business types? You know stocks and all that?"
"Oh, no actually. I'm a...writer."
The men from the train had inexplicably jumped to the front of his thoughts and Sherlock tilted his head and affected a bashful smile.
"A writer? Well that isn't what I'd call a job now is it..."
Johns mum hissed and Simon glanced to her rolling his eyes and glancing Sherlock up and down. "I'll need £100 deposit, cash."
Sherlock smiled and dug into his wallet pulling five crumpled twenties from within, handing them over and looking to John's father, not breaking the eye contact until he did. After a second a strong hand gripped his and Sherlock fought the urge to attempt to crumple his fingers as the doctor crushed the bones in his hand to dust. After a double beat of pumping up and down John's father released him and Sherlock took his hand back, careful to keep his face neutral. Best not show any weaknesses.
His eye flickered around the room and caught on a large photograph of John in his formal uniform on the mantelpiece. He looked devastatingly handsome and it took Sherlock a moment to control the possessive smirk from sweeping over his face. He walked towards it and reached out before thinking better of the movement, crossing his hands behind his back and bending to get a closer glance. John looked happy, his boyish face still unaffected by the ravages of war and yet he could still see the simple pleasure his work brought him and the excitement in his eyes. He ignored the voice in his head telling him that this John would never have wanted Sherlock. He imagined himself at that age and cringed. Not John would have never have even noticed Sherlock.
"That's our boy, John."
"He is a soldier, like you."
Mary blinked in surprise and frowned at him from her position at his side. Sherlock backtracked for a second. He had to explain, he had to treat them like the morons he had been surrounded by before John had appeared to act as a delightful buffer. "Uh, I mean, you have a military posture...it's the one thing all military people share..."
"Oh, you have been in the forces?"
Sherlock thought about it for a moment, no that would be a stretch too far. "No but I did know some soldiers back in London..."
"Oh, well what is the city like? Did I mention John just moved there, he is so busy these days he doesn't really get a chance to write. Actually you might have met him! Doctor John Watson..."
"Uh no, no I don't think so."
"For god's sake Mary it's a big city he isn't going to know every man in there."
"I know that Simon but you never know do you."
Sherlock stood awkwardly as they bickered, looking around at the pictures until his eyes caught on the family picture hidden far in a corner. John's fathers' hair was the same light blonde that John's was and his moustache was bordering on ginger. Mary had brown hair curling around her ears and Sherlock could see a shadow of Harrys wild grin on her lips. Sat side by side in front of their parents were a very young John, probably around 6 or 7 with neatly combed hair and a tiny version of his father's suit. His expression was sombre, calmer than the even younger Harry, no more than a wild looking toddler clasped in his arms with her chubby fingers arched around his neckline and wild curls obscuring his face a little as she grinned up at him. She clearly adored him; even Sherlock could see that and John's careful hold on her told him just how close the siblings were.
Sherlock thought of a similar picture hung above one of the fireplaces in the summer house. Mummy regal in black and his father no more than a distant memory of pipe smoke and stern ticking offs stood behind her, enormous hand leant on his partners shoulder as hers were on the shoulders on the already towering Mycroft with his exact smarmy expression and puffed out posture stark in contrast to the odd angular thin child Sherlock was, his hair combed tightly into submission but still twisting rebelliously about his ears and his gaze off to the side. Probably distracted by an assistant or some movement in a street outside. Something infinitely more important that the documentation of his awkwardness and of his isolation from a picture perfect family that he just didn't understand.
"You have a daughter?"
The mood in the room changed suddenly and Sherlock smirked inwardly to himself. He had noticed...good for him. "Yes, we had a daughter called Harriet."
Sherlock frowned. "Had? Oh I am sorry I didn't-"
"No dear you weren't to know."
The Watsons shared a secret (Well hardly, since Sherlock had noticed it and all.) glance of solidarity and Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Well, if you will excuse me. I have had a long day...do you mind showing me the room...?"
"Of course." Johns father jumped to his feet and walked from the room, Sherlock thanking Johns mum for the cake she shoved into his hand as he left and the two men climbed the stairs in silence. He was shown the bathroom and then a large room around the size of the kitchen at 221B with a bed, desk, chair and wardrobe lined up against one wall with a small two seater sofa against the opposite wall along with a corner unit on which was perched the largest most ungainly television Sherlock had even seen. He listened patiently as Johns father explained rent and bills and thanked the man as he was handed a set of keys.
When he was finally left alone he strode to the bed and sat down, staring hard out of the window at the neat little garden to the back of the house and far over the fence to the distant river flowing beyond. He stayed in that position for a while wondering if John had gotten back from showing Harry around and if he had been told that Sherlock had gone AWOL yet. He probably had, he was probably very angry right now. Stamping back and forth in the flat, shouting at Mycroft and at Becker with his large strong hands balled up in anger and his voice still careful, still considered even as he shouted and the fast paced upright march he would take on as he fought to stop himself form punching something.
Sherlock chuckled at the idea of Mycroft cowering in the wake of his fiancée's anger but it was only shallow, deep down he couldn't ignore the pang in his chest at the idea of his actions causing so much distress to the doctors to the strange shining creature he had somehow managed to snare. Sherlock bounced off the bed and strutted around the room for a moment, hands on hips as his mind tried to recoil as fast as it could from his dark thoughts and he distracted himself by looking through the faded aged books on the shelf and out of the door into the tight corridor to the battered wardrobe.
He froze and stared at it for a long moment before his curiosity got the better of him and he was striding across the room and out of his door. He glanced around listening intensely to ensure he wouldn't be disturbed as he flung it open and looked inside. There hung several discarded shirts and t-shirts and piled at the bottom amongst ancient trainers and what looked like unworn dress shoes were boxes. Boxes and boxes and Sherlock yanked them from the cupboard ferreting them away into his room and flinging them across the floor, carefully lifting the lids and examining Johns toys. Small figurines of soldiers and a chess set and a collection of some sort of trading card and in one box a enormous book with a battered cover that was taped over in many places the pages tinted by age and complete with a damp musty smell.
Sherlock slowly opened the cover, careful not to tear the sensitive binding and it was a book of fairytales. Sherlock lifted the heavy book in his arms and carried across the room kicking his shoes off and laying the book on the bed as he shucked his jacket off his shoulders and climbed into the sheets. Rain began to fall outside of his small window and Sherlock reached out, lifting the metal hatch to swing the window open wide until the pane bounced lightly off the outside wall of the house and he was exposed to the cold wind brought up by the thickening downpour and he sighed looking out at what he knew would be London's direction. Back at his childhood home he had always gone outside to his secret hidden place and had sat staring out at the rain as it bounced down over Mummy's perfectly managed gardens and he remembered the whistling of the wind as it bent the trees around him and the very spark in the air, charged with energy as a thunder storm rolled in over the land around him.
A crack of lightening over a garden not a mile away and Sherlock lifted the book up onto his knees, spreading the pages and glancing down at the words.
He had never been one to read fiction, most of his books were for reference, textbooks, essays, scientific papers and he flipped through the pages glancing at the hand drawn illustrations with the hole in his chest growing somewhat deeper as he stared and he wondered if Johns mother had read this book to him as a child, if she had perched at the end of the bed and spoken in soft lilting tones to him as he drifted off to sleep. He tired to imagine Mummy in the same situation and shook his head to clear the image from his mind, it was just so jarringly wrong.
Sleep did not visit him and so he sat until the heavy fragrant rain turned to a misty drizzle of dawn looking at the words and trying to imagine the story in his mind. Trying to lose himself in the fairy tale world. Eventually the odd silence of the night was broken by ordinary people waking up to go to their ordinary jobs and to do ordinary things and soon he could hear the Watsons moving around and he waited for it all to go quiet downstairs before he sneaked out to the bathroom and cleaned his face and attempted to finger brush his hair into something slightly more respectful. He had to keep up the impression that he was normal after all.
He left the small space and wandered around the top floor for a few minutes, ducking his head into rooms and out again in case someone was inside. He couldn't help himself, he wanted to see where John had grown up, to see a normal family life. In the very last room, more a raised level than room sat the dismantled remains of laptop and the tea stained carpet around a fallen mug betraying a frustrated sort of outburst. Sherlock saw the parts on the desk and his fingers twitched. He did have to endear himself to Johns parents and if fixing this computer fell into that category as well as being somewhat engaging to the detective all the better. He slid into the chair and turned the device over examining the parts scattered about the desk. It was all very simple really.
By the time he made it downstairs Johns father had already left for work and Sherlock plodded into the kitchen to the delighted cooing of Johns mother. She pushed him into a rickety wooden chair at a similarly rickety wooden table and pushed a plate of bacon and sausages and eggs in front of him and Sherlock tried to politely say no but she put her hands on her hips and suddenly the look was baring down at him and Sherlock decided it was definitely a genetic trait and he hadn't eaten in as long as he could remember and so he picked up a fork and shuffled the surprisingly good food into his mouth.
Yet again a Watson had forced him to eat.
She turned away from him and began washing pots in a large deep sink and Sherlock licked his lips. He was curious...okay not curious, he needed to know everything all the time about every single aspect of John and what better way to learn about someone than to ask his mother? Sherlock thought about what to ask her, what his first question to be and he decided on the perfect beginning. However, when he opened his mouth to ask the first thing to come out was, "What happened to your cat?"
His eyes had fixed on a empty cat food bowl on the floor and then to the cat flap in the back door and Johns mother turned back around wiping her hands on a tea towel. "He has gone missing actually. How did you know we had a cat?"
Sherlock froze. He couldn't tell her that he had read the letter where she waffled on about the creature to her son and he was attempting to appear normal so he couldn't tell her that it was obvious from the way she patently wouldn't look at the bowl and the way she had moved the night before, glancing around the room as if expecting a fourth 'person' to be there. "I just guessed what with the empty bowl and everything."
Johns mother finally looked at the bowl and stared for second before looking back at Sherlock. "So you're a writer...are we talking novels or articles or plays..."
Sherlock didn't know. "Novels." He just said the first thing she did.
"Oh, can I ask what your story is about?"
Sherlocks fingers tightened on his knees and he glanced around the room. He didn't know what to say. He wasn't good at making things up, not like this. He could weave fantastic lies when he needed too but coming up with a fictional story, something creative and entertaining. No he couldn't do that. So instead he told her about something he did know. "It's about a detective and his...friend. They solve crimes."
"Oh I do love a good crime novel. What is it called?"
Inside he smirked because for some reason a certain image floated to the forefront of his mind and he looked away from her and out of the window at the grey sky. "The red sweater." Sherlock waited for her response but she didn't give him one she instead reacted to the click of the electric kettle on the unit and began pouring a pot of tea and Sherlock sat or a second thinking over his next words in his head and he knew it would be a bad idea but he couldn't resist and well, he had never been one for impulse control.
"Actually, the detectives...friend is a soldier."
She looked at him her soft gaze turning confused and she titled her head. "Oh..?"
"Well you said your son is a soldier and you were one so I was wondering if you could give me a sort of general picture of what a real solider is like...I mean you don't have too..." He affected a nervous tone stumbling over his words carefully and fumbling with his fingers. Her expression softened instantly.
"No dear...It is okay-"
He left the little tumble down house some time later with a fake smile on his face stating he needed to buy supplies. It seemed that John had had an idyllic childhood at first, his mother told him stories of summers spent going for picnics by the river and how proud she was of him and how much they loved him. But then Sherlock had asked about Harry and John's mother had gone quiet and Sherlock had asked if there had been an accident and she still said nothing and Sherlock apologised and Johns mother had gotten a strange look in her eye before turning to him and asking him a question.
"What would you do if the child you had loved and poured your every minute into chose to turn away from you and your life? Chose to hurt you?"
Sherlock had sat in silence for a moment. He didn't know what he would do, he couldn't imagine ever having children and he didn't have the best track record talking to people younger than himself and so instead he thought about John. What would the doctor say if posed the same question? "I would try to understand their point of view. I would forgive them."
Johns mother had stared at him like he was the ghost of her past and she frowned and Sherlock had leapt to his feet glancing out of the back window to avoid her wide eyes. Their jovial conversation had taken an odd, almost menacing tone and he knew he had to escape. He had to make her like him and this clearly wasn't the way to go about it. He had stood awkwardly in that kitchen looking around at the things that cluttered the walls and the shelves wondering just how much of it belonged to his fiancée and suddenly the silence was broken by Johns mothers hands slapping together and that smile. She had the same smile John would get when he was trying to snap Sherlock out of one of his moods and even thought he was hurting as well, even though the nightmares, their life together, even though it all frightened them he was going to smile and be cheerful and then everything would be okay. Sherlock automatically smiled back and she shook her head.
"Look at me, waffling on. I'm sure you have a busy day ahead of you."
And so he had left scuttling outside to freedom, walking the small selection of shops buying three new suits and two pairs of trousers along with underwear and a new slightly shorter military style jacket from a fawning tailor. He hadn't had one new customer buy so much all at once for years.
The detective returned to the house at around midday and crept upstairs placing his bags on the bed before leaving again. As quiet as a ghost. He wandered in the opposite direction this time, to find a place where he could think. He strode away from the house to the bridge nearby and he leant on the edge peering down at the water and he thought about what he could do to make them like him, to make them see. He heard footsteps cross behind him, hesitating just behind his back before picking up speed and leaving the bridge. Sherlocks eyes flickered to the side to see a tall man in a red coat trot away down the road.
He didn't look back and Sherlock stared down into the river. He could see tiny fish flashing by under the water just as a light sprinkling of rain began to fall and the drip drip of water splashing into the almost silent river floated up at him and Sherlock watched the stupid fish bob to the top to catch flies that weren't there, enticed by the sound of movement on the surface. He remembered fishing in the lake out in the country that one long summer with Jeremy and how he had told him wild stories of catching catfish the size of Labradors.
It was then he thought of that stupid cat and before he could stop himself he was striding back across the bridge and around the corner to a small path that led behind the houses of the main street and he counted the little brick walled gardens off as he trotted down the drizzle soaked pathway. He stopped when he came to a grey painted wooden gate and he stood on tiptoe to reach over and unlock the catch letting himself inside. Crouched in the corner he made a map in his mind from flattened grass and worn paths caused by the cats' movements leading over the opposite wall and onwards. He stayed there for a moment, inhaling the smell of the damp grass and feeling it cold and crisp under his fingers before he was up and away, striding back out of the gate to look for further evidence of the Watsons cat. It took him twenty minutes of shuffling along on his knees, leaning down so his chest brushed the floor, his eyes following what he couldn't be sure were regular paths when he came upon a seemingly forgotten shed stood in the back entranceway further down the street. He leapt to his feet and walked up rapping on the window and peering inside.
"Cat. Watson cat?"
John had said something along those lines whilst visiting a cat sanctuary for a case. He had walked along the cages peering in with a strange goofy smile on his face tapping lightly on windows and whispering to the 'kitty' reacting to him inside. Sherlock smirked as he remembered that now familiar lurch in his stomach as he watched, the way he had been so oddly distracted by the image. It had seemed insignificant in passing but now he knew it was anything but. He listened hard but heard nothing from inside the shed, pressing his ear up close to the in glass window pane his eyes automatically staring blindly out and then he saw it.
An open window, muddy paw prints smudged and a small collection of cats grouped around a large food bowl on the counter. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and headed directly for that window, the cats there perking up as he approached and attempting to rub up against him as he looked in close at the paw prints. His work was hindered however by the strange feline collective on the windowsill, now batting at his curls and rubbing their heads against his. Sherlock stood and put his hands on his hips.
"Now stop that. Have you seen the Watson cat?"
He froze and blinked heavily. He had gone insane. He had finally managed it, after everything it was a pack of probably feral flea-bitten cats to make him lose it. He was glad Lestrade wasn't here to see this. Sherlocks fingers found their way into his hair and he dug his nails into his skull, freezing when a frail voice rang out surprisingly clear in the damp air. "Mr. Fuzzles? Are your little friends here to see you?"
Sherlock dropped to the floor to avoid the old woman seeing him lurking in her garden and was joined by one of the fluffiest of the cats, a brown and black creature with pale blue eyes that pawed at his collar as he lay not breathing in the mud. He was supposed to be endearing himself to the Watsons, not getting himself caught trespassing in neighbours gardens.
He lay for a few seconds until he heard the patter of her heels moving back over the carpet and leapt to his feet. Looking inside the window he could see cats everywhere in the room beyond, old sofas and tables cluttered the room and cats lay, played and slept on every surface. Clearly the woman was very fond of cats. Sherlock sighed; he really had limited time until Mycroft found him so it was better to be proactive. He reached out and lifted the window, sliding it open enough to slip inside. The cats scattered and watched with interest as Sherlock climbed into the room peering around at his feline companions. He looked at the ones with collars, checking tags and trying to avoid the hordes of meowing nudging cats now swarming about his feet.
That was then he saw the closet and the cats grouped around it. They looked at him and Sherlock stared back. It was almost as though they were pointing the closet out to him, as the swarm at his ankles dispersed and walked towards the previously avoided corner as one. Sherlock blinked.
He was imagining things, seeing patterns in random events.
Regardless his sleep deprived mind thought, there is no harm in looking. He reached out and pulled on the handle, pressing it down and yanking the door open, it swung back heavily and Sherlock looked down to see three cats curled up in boxes and on top of old coats, blinking at him and running from the room. He bent down as they darted through his legs and tried to grab the only one with a tag.
'Bruce'
On the back the name and number of the Watsons house. Sherlock beamed. He held it long enough to read the tag before the pitter patter of kitten heels on ancient carpet returned and the cat pushed away for him, scratching Sherlocks face as it catapulted from his hands. He cursed under his breath and slipped backwards into the cupboard as the woman trotted into the room. He waited there, in the close darkness with his ear against the door listening intently for her to walk away. After a tense few minutes he prised open the door and peered around to see se was gone, leaping from the closet he tiptoed through the room searching and peering at the cats. It was then he spotted Bruce sat amongst a small group in the corridor, hungrily wolfing down an over flowing bowl of at food. Sherlock walked towards them and they all froze peering up at him. Sherlock stopped and stared back. He knew deep down that if he took one more step they would scatter and so he leant down slightly cooing softly at them.
"Bruce. Bruce stay there."
He leant forwards and took a single soft step the cats blinked at him and all at once shot away from the bowl, Bruce heading off down the corridor and towards the front door. Sherlock followed him slowly, stopping when he reached an open door the soft sounds of a radio filtering through the muggy sugar scented air. He peeked around the doorframe and caught a glimpse of the old woman watering her plants with shaky hands. He waited for her back to be turned before jolting across to leap at Bruce. The cat sprang away from where it had been sat at the bottom of the stairs licking its paws, and landed two steps up. It peered at Sherlock through its lamp-like eyes and the detective snarled under his breath crawling towards it with his hand out.
"Bruce Bruce Bruce."
Sherlock reached out and his fingers brushed over the fur on its chest before the doorbell rang out behind him and Bruce, now spooked, ran up the stairs and around the corner. Sherlock heard movement in the other room and followed his quarry up pausing at the top and wondering which room it had gotten into. He poked his head into the room directly in front of him just as the old woman appeared downstairs, messing with the multitude of locks on the front door and the detective ducked into the room. It was empty bar an old chest of drawers and a welsh dresser leant up against the wall and Sherlock swore, careful to be as quiet as possible as he edged his way back out onto the landing. He ducked around the corner to avoid being seen by the woman and the man who had appeared at her front door and skirted into the room to his left.
It was pink. Pink everywhere from the bedspread to the walls and the carpet and the curtains and every statue on the wooden units. Sherlock shuddered and glanced around spotting a flicking tail under the bed. He dropped silently to his hands and peered in at Bruce. The cat blinked arrogantly back at him. His focus and determination seemed to crumble all at once and he sighed desperately. "Come here Bruce. Please, I need John's parents to like me." He was clearly insane. He was so desperate to make this surprise work. To make John happy.
Bruce blinked slowly at him and Sherlock winced. He was pleading with a cat. How the great fall. He had his face leant against the carpet, trying not to inhale the thick pink threads whilst simultaneously trying to smother himself in the stupid floor, when a much smaller head rubbed through his hair. He looked up to see Bruce's eyes right in his face. He smiled hesitantly and sat back on his legs Bruce strutting up to him and curling around his knees.
Sherlock felt an odd warmth in his chest and reached out carefully lifting the creature into his arms.
He held Bruce close to his chest to avoid him escaping and made his way back out of the room, careful not to lessen his grip as he paused in the landing, listening to see if the woman had finished at her door and sighing in relief when he heard the sound of pans in the kitchen somewhere at the back of the house. Sherlock carefully descended the stairs and reached for the locks on the door but they were complicated and he manoeuvred his furry quarry around in his arms to free one hand and quickly tried to release the various metal pulls, knobs and catches before yanking the door open and slipping out. In the daylight he could see that Bruce was a slightly fat grey haired cat with large green eyes and thick soft fur. He seemed (Like all other cats.) to like Sherlock, staying still in his arms and blinking slowly as though being rescued from days locked in a cupboard was inconsequential.
The detective walked down the street ignoring the slightly alarmed expression of a woman walking down the opposite side of the road with a small child. Probably because she recognised the cat. Sherlock tried to smile in a friendly manner but this seemed to frighten her even more and she increased her speed, hurrying the child along whilst averting her eyes. The detective frowned; perhaps he hadn't gotten a hold on this 'human' thing as well as he thought. Or perhaps he needed John around to humanise him. His frown deepened and Bruce meowed softly on his arms reaching up to nuzzle just under his ear. Sherlock moved his hands to hold the creature tightly as he headed around the corner and down to an alleyway that led to the path at the back of the gardens. He decided it was better he avoided people.
The back door to the kitchen was unlocked and Sherlock let himself in, surprising a crowd of eight old women sat on mismatched chars around the table with John's mother sat as the figurehead. All at once they turned and stared at him eyes drifting over his face and down to Bruce and then to the state of his knees. "Mrs. Watson, I believe I have found your cat."
"Oh my god."
She jumped to her feet and rushed around the table taking the cat from him and hugging it to her chest as another woman bounced up from her chair and reached for the cupboards filling the cat bowl as the other women cooed over his return. They were all smiling and so Sherlock stretched his lips over his teeth and stood helplessly in the doorway until they noticed him again. "Oh Sherlock dear...dear dear..."
The women were now checking him out curiously and Mrs. Watson blushed a little, using one hand to gesture towards the detective. "Pardon me ladies. This is our new lodger Sherlock, he is a writer."
They cooed at him much like they had at the cat and the one closest to him reached out rubbing his knee and then sniffing her fingers. "Have you been crawling around on the floor?"
Nine sets of curious eyes fixed on his face and then on the blood on his cheek and the mud on his front and the moss-stained fabric of his knees and Sherlock gestured vaguely at Bruce who was chowing down enthusiastically having been placed down at his owners' feet. "I was tracking the cat."
A brief awkward pause. He looked anywhere but at their faces, still thinking about John and about how easier things were when he was around. "Thank you Sherlock dear. Oh your poor face."
She reached out and placed two fingers on his chin, turning his face into the light to get a better look at the damage. After a moments pause she exhaled, seemingly satisfied he was largely unharmed. "Perhaps you would like to get cleaned up?" He ducked his head respectively and swept from the room, all too thankful to escape. As soon as the old wooden door swung closed he heard a barrage of questions assault John's mother about the handsome new lodger.
On his way back down the stairs he heard the front door click and glanced up, eyes catching those of Johns' father. "Mr Watson."
"Sherlock!"
There was a brief pause in which John's father gestured towards the detective as a somewhat anxious or unsure gesture. Funny, John had the same physical tic. Something ached deep in his chest and Sherlock fought to keep the neutral expression on his face. Johns father looked up at the stairs, to the door of the living room and then as if deciding on something back at the detective."Ah uh... You didn't happen to take a look at the laptop upstairs did you?"
He raised an eyebrow. Oh good, he noticed. "Oh...yes. I'm sorry; I didn't mean to...I was just... I couldn't help myself." He had always been good at faking anxiety.
"Oh no, no no. Thank you! I was having trouble getting around the graphic card issue and-"
"No trouble."
There was another brief pause and John's dad took a few steps forwards and one to the side so he was hovering in the living room door with a polite smile. Sherlock wasn't sure what that smile meant and so e tried to mirror it, tried to put Johns father at ease. "Is Mary in?"
"Yes she is having a meeting in the kitchen."
"Ah I see. Okay. Don't mind me then." He lifted his hands in an oddly sheepish gesture and Sherlock sniffed. John's father was a strange man, funny and affecting one moment, judging and cold the next. Fascinating. The man had left by the time Sherlock looked back up.
When he returned to the women they had stopped talking about him and were instead arguing about a crisis and how preparations had been made months in advance. Sherlock frowned and tugged on his clean white shirt, tucking it into his new black trousers and combing fingers through his still damp hair. He opened the door to the kitchen slowly and stood quietly with his hands behind his back, all the years he spent as a child being taught how to be respectful, how to talk to his elders and how to make a good impression on the parents of a prospective wife finally had justification. One by one the women fell silent staring at him and glancing amongst themselves.
Johns mother smiled at him having just two seconds ago been shouting the loudest of all about how they had no idea that this would happen. "If you will forgive me Mrs. Watson but I couldn't help overhearing. Is there anything I can do to help you ladies?"
The nearest woman to him blushed and they all hid smiles. (Although Sherlock could clearly see they were flattered. He made sure to appear innocent on the outside but inside, inside he was smirking. He had them.) A large woman sat in the furthest corner with a poorly fitted short sleeved blazer and long pink skirt scoffed. "Not unless you can find a viola player at short notice you can't." The women looked downtrodden and Sherlock allowed a handsome smile to stretch over his teeth, ducking his head to appear shy before lifting his face with a bashful glance around.
"I don't know much about a viola player but I could help you if you want a violin instead..."
It turned out that John's mother was in fact chair of the local drama club and that a tribute to a local playwright had been planned for months. The only problem being that their viola player had pulled out last minute leaving the club without the pivotal character and only one day to find a replacement. Sherlock had never felt so magnificent, stood to the side of the stage with a child's borrowed violin and dressed in a bright red waistcoat with intricate purple thread and his face obscured by a gold painted mask. He did not have any lines, just a few short pieces of music and a few gestures. The woman had spent most of the intervening hours between the kitchen meeting and the locating of the violin murmuring among themselves that surely he wouldn't be able to play the music to the same degree with only an hour or so practice. Sherlock chuckled under his breath, their faces had been priceless after his fifth attempt at recalling the tune he got it pitch perfect.
They had shut up after that, now openly admiring his skills.
He took a deep breath, the stage was covered in strewn hay for the farm scene and he knew his cue was coming up. There was a tinkling on stage and Sherlock began the countdown. He had a minute to go, energy thrumming in his fingertips he remembered being a child. His first recital with the parents of his classmates and Mummy sat in the centre of the audience with Mycroft perched beside her.
Father had other business to attend to, much more important than his sons' first ever live performance. Business he would not return from.
Sherlock sniffed and finished the count bouncing out onto the stage with a large grin and beginning to play.
During the interval he sat alone, politely nodding and smiling at his fellow 'actors'. They seemed hesitant to talk to him, probably because he was reading through the music for the second half, eyes down face pinched in a focussed frown. He wondered vaguely if it was that he was concentrating or if it was his natural social alienation. Although... when he did glance up they would smile at him, honest open faces that seemed to understand how important the music was, perhaps just this once his personality was not an issue.
He was glad that they chose not to bother him; unfortunately however four men in particular did not fit this bill. "Sherlock!"
He was surrounded. The detective glanced up and plastered a polite smile on his face. "Hello."
"We saw you in the play! You never said you were going to be in it! We would've got better seats!" It was the tallest man of the four business men from the train, the angry man patting him on the shoulder as the remaining two nodded along in agreement, all so happy to see him.
"I didn't know I was going to be when I met you. I came along when the original player pulled out."
"Oh well, you are pretty good."
"Thank you." He glanced at the time, "I apologise gentlemen but I only have five minutes to remember this piece..."
"Oh no, no no. Although, tell you what, we will meet you afterwards? Go for a celebratory drink?"
Sherlock found himself nodding despite himself and the group of men disappeared as quickly as they had appeared. Only to be replaced moments later by Mrs. Watson. "Oh Sherlock, thank you dear I really can't thank you enough. We were in a real pickle before you came along." She ducked down and pressed a kiss to his cheek before striding away, ordering actors to hurry up[a and get dressed with a hand outstretched.
The detective didn't practice the song. He sat in shock for a moment. No wonder John was so kind, so enthusiastic, so warm to people. It seemed that everybody here was. Not once had he been looked at as a strange alien creature that needed to be changed or was unworthy in any sense. Not once had he received anything but warmth and acceptance. He grinned. Yes, acceptance that they will soon show to their son and to their daughter. Surely if they could see that Sherlock was capable of making their son happy and that someone as good as the detective, as kind could love another person of the same sex then perhaps they were wrong to banish their children from their sight. Yes. This would show them, this would show everyone.
Suddenly he was being clapped at aggressively; taking this as his cue to get ready he got up from his seat and wandered to the curtains to wait for his signal.
After the play he joined the other actors on stage to bow to the crowd and for once he didn't have to fake his smile, warmth and affection washing over him like the tides and he was bustled backstage, hands clapping down on his shoulder and people hugging him seemingly without caring whether he participated or not. This broke the rule about asking and Sherlock stayed stiff, awkward on the sidelines. He wasn't sure what to do with himself but again this was taken care of as the four businessmen returned and he was dragged from the backstage area, out of a side door and away down the recently rain soaked streets.
The air was shockingly cold out here and the sweat drying on his neck and arms stung as he was tugged along, still wearing the red waistcoat over his white shirt, the mask turned around to point off the left side of his head rather than covering his face. Thankfully he had placed the violin down before leaving and he turned out the other men's chatter as they wove through back streets and down tiny alleyways coming out at a small pub somewhere near the river. Sherlock could hear it not forty feet away.
It was drowned out by raucous laughter and slurred speech as he was forcibly pushed into the pub. It was a tiny suffocating space with stools and tall tables everywhere, people crammed into every corner and yet his companions seemed to know exactly where to stand at the right moment to secure one of the coveted curved seating booths and he was pushed down into a seat whilst the man with the too-blue eyes walked away to buy the drinks. It was too hot in here and the detective lusted for the cool of the outside world again, where he could breathe. Sherlock opened his mouth to mention that he didn't drink but he was being ignored and all three other men were glancing around, waving and shouting to other patrons.
They shouted back in response and Sherlock watched the different groups with mild interest until his eyes caught on a familiar face and he frowned trying to focus but the man disappeared in a blink of an eye and Sherlock couldn't see where he went. He huffed, frustrated.
He hoped he would get his chance when the blue eyed man returned but instead a large pint was slid in front of him and the tallest man raised his glass prompting the other three to mirror him. "To a great performance." They knocked glasses and sat staring at Sherlock. He looked at them, their eyes darting expectantly between the glass and the detective and he looked down.
He knew it was a bad idea. He knew it was but he was here. Alone. London was so very far away and who would know? He would drink just one. Just one and that would be it and he would stop and get up and leave and go to bed early. Ready to win Johns' parents affections in the morning. The addictive part of his brain screamed at him and Sherlock could feel the hunger in his fingers and he swallowed hard. Ever since he had gotten clean he had managed to force himself not to imbibe any drug. He knew it was a bad idea but they were still looking and he thought about the last time he had gotten drunk and how he had told John he loved him and how well it worked out in the end and really it couldn't hurt. His heart beat was slowing and time moved down until he could see his hand reaching out in slow motion, water trickling down the outside of the glass and over his fingers and down and he licked his lips and lifted the glass to his mouth. It clinked against his teeth and he lifted the drink and tipped some of the liquid into his mouth and it was bitter and slipped down his throat and Sherlock froze. What was he doing? But when he opened his eyes the glass was half full and the other men were laughing and cheering and smiling at him and Sherlock grinned, giddy with his body's relief and at his new found 'friends.'
Perhaps one little drink wasn't the end of the world.
Time seemed to melt away as he drank pint after pint listening to the other men chat and joke and laugh and it all came so easily to them and it seemed that the happier they got the deeper the hole in his chest got. He thought of London, of rain streaked buildings and the creaking floorboards of the flat and of John. He missed him, it was a similar ache to the one he experienced for his work when left away too long and he closed his eyes trying to picture the doctors face but he was too drunk, his mind too sluggish.
"Hey, what's eating him?"
The men collapsed into peals of laughter and Sherlock opened his eyes the man with the curly hair closest to him paused and the smile slid slowly off his face. "Hey, you alright? We were only joking?"
Sherlock shook his head and leant forwards but his head felt too heavy and he was propelled forwards, elbows landing heavily and painfully against the wooden edge of the table but saving his face from making the same impact. "I miss John." His words were slurred and he stared down into his drink as the other men's laughter died down.
"What? You miss him?" "
Yeah. Is that...Is that normal?" He had no idea if this was how relationships worked. Was he supposed to feel so guilty? There was staunch silence before one of the men spoke.
"Uh...not really. You've only been here what...two nights? I mean I love these guys but I'm not weeping into my pint when I haven't seen them for 48 hours."
Sherlock laughed and wobbled in his seat, weaving to the left and leaning sluggishly against the tallest man who had his head lent back against the wall and was leaning back on his shoulder just as heavily. "Yeah but he isn't just my friend is he..."
"He isn't?"
"No stupid. That is why he gave me this!" he lifted his ring and it wove around in front of his eyes, bobbing up and down in the golden light.
"He gave you your hand?" There was a pregnant pause and the men chuckled sleepily, Sherlock smirked shaking his head. They didn't understand!
"No! He gave me the ring imbecile. He is marrying mee."
"The...whaa? John is gay?"
Sherlock thought about it. Truth be told he didn't know what John was, but he did know one thing. The only thing that mattered. "John loves me."
They were frowning and Sherlock felt his good hazy mood darkening, the warmth in his veins slowly eking out to ice. The four men shared glanced and the tallest one (Seemingly the spokesman of the group.) turned to face the detective. "So you are getting married to John? John Watson?"
"Yes."
"And you are down here to..?"
"Invite his parents to the wedding."
"And nobody else."
"What?"
"He isn't inviting us?"
Sherlock knew this. He may be drunk but his mind was still working. At least to some degree, a measure enough to know that his best bet here was to act as what Mycroft would call 'damage control' or he would call ' deducing a possible reason that is both blatantly inoffensive but believable'. "Well he doesn't actually know I'm down here. He hasn't told his parents that he is marrying another man or even that he was ever dating anybody because what happened with his sister. So he hasn't been telling anybody apart from the people that know because of me telling people about it. Like now."
Apparently his drunken mind was not as good at crafting lies as it was at just blurting out the truth. This would be an important thing to remember. For once he felt what could almost be anxiety about their reactions. They shared looks and the tallest man leant in close his beer spiked breath warm against the detectives face and he sluggishly turned his head to make lazy eye contact. "So...We are invited then?"
Their priorities were clear then. "I assume so."
The mood suddenly snapped back to the joyous celebratory glee from before and the angry man reached out all but shouting to the other patrons.
"This calls for celebration! Our friend here is getting married! We need beer, a lot more beer!"
He didn't know what time it is, where they were going or why the man in the red coat had been following them for the last ten minutes. He giggled to himself, the frizzy haired mans arm around his shoulders as Sherlock leant into him, his sluggish brain reminding him he had seen that man before. When they were in the pub, he had been across the way, slinking behind the quiz machine but he had seemed familiar then. He frowned in confusion. Sherlock vaguely remembered bumping into him as they left; he was slightly shorter than the detective (But then most people were.) and had glared him. Sherlock laughed again.
He was probably here to fight with him or something.
By the time he had stopped giggling into the now drizzle soaked air the man was long gone. The other three men were wobbling along ahead of them, the angry man jigging and singing loudly with the tallest mans hands around his waist as they drunkenly danced. Sherlock sniggered and clung to his walking partner who was mumbling to himself. "Where are we going?"
The man just looked at him with a dopy smile and shrugged. The smile was wiped off his face mere seconds later as he turned a fascinating shade of white before wrenching himself from Sherlock and tripping over his heels to lean over the wall at the wide of the road, shoulders hunched as he vomited. Sherlock wobbled over screwing his face up at the smell and the man turned to him miserably. Sherlock lifted his hands and shrugged and the frizzy haired man groaned leaning against him again, staying close to the wall to use it as a support to pull them both along. His knees were weak and he fought to keep upright as they moved in tandem, giggling to each other as the blue eyed man began singing along with the dancing pair. It was obviously familiar to all of them because they made the same gestures at the same point as they sang the words and Sherlock laughed. This must be what having friends was like.
They were on a bridge, that much was made clear when his partner had to stop again to throw up, splashing into the water below. The other three men had finally noticed that they were trailing behind and made a precarious journey back towards them muttering sympathy and sleepily leaning against each other. Sherlock took a few steps from the close group. He felt alienated all of a sudden and took a faulty step backwards, tripping over his own feet and stumbling backwards.
It was only because of this he saw the man on the bicycle coming, red coat fluttering softly in the misty rain and Sherlock seemed to see him in slow motion, wobbling sideways to cling to the edge of the bridge wall to get out of the way. But the bicycle changed it path and the man sped up as he came over the crest, Sherlock had barely a second to realise what was about to happen. Not enough time for his alcohol steeped mind to react.
A hard elbow to the chest and he was floating in the air, the flick of red over the edge of the bridge before the ice cold surrounded him and he sucked in a gulp of water as he tried to gasp in shock. His chest couldn't move, the water was so cold and he could feel his back sinking down to hard pebbles. It was dark down here, murky and if he listened behind the roaring of running water in his ears and the frantic pitter patter of his heart he could hear the drip of water on water. The rain had gotten heavier. He was running out of oxygen, opening his mouth desperately and he choked on the water his mind suddenly kicking in and he flailed helplessly flinging his arms and legs out and his mind screamed.
It was his nightmare, it was reality and he couldn't get out he couldn't find the surface.
Was his body going to wash up on the shore? Or would it travel downstream, discovered miles from the town. Miles from anybody who knew him, anybody who cared for him. He thought about John having to identify his water bloated body and he despised himself for ever leaving John. He would die alone. His eyes slid closed in the deepening darkness and he knew this was it, all the sound drowned out.
He was dying here, in the silence.
Suddenly strong arms closed around his waist and he was being pulled, dragged out from beneath the surface and he was held against a chest with powerful legs pounding away beneath him. The rain fell on his still closed eye lids making them twitch but he couldn't open them, he was blind, he was deaf. He couldn't breathe and his skin was numb and he was lying on his back and someone was pounding on his chest and then lips closed around his mouth, pumping air into his lungs and he chocked as the water came back up and his head was pushed over his saviours knees his only focus the burn as he threw up and the sting of the water on his chest and he gasped for air. Sucking it down and clinging desperately to his saviour like the mast of a sinking ship in a storm. His hearing rushed back to him and he listened to the panicked yells of the business men, calling his name shoes on gravel as they ran to him and then the body beneath him tensed and he was flipped over and Sherlock blinked rapidly in the now torrential downpour, his eyes flickering sluggishly across his new friends and then to the face of his saviour.
His golden angel.
"Sherlock?"
His heart hammered in his chest and that face, those eyes. They bore into him and he was so grateful, so very very grateful with his hand outstretched he dragged it down that face, thumb catching on a full bottom lip and he left it there for a second as he watched the emotions skitter across his saviours face. His eyes were wide and Sherlock grinned, he couldn't help it. The pure joy cut short by the look in his angel's eyes, his chest reopening the wound he had suffered for days. Something was wrong. Finally his new friends caught up and they crashed to the ground around him shaking and hugging the man holding him.
"Oh my god! John!"
The doctor blinked shell-shocked to his childhood friend and they smiled and man handled the detective, pulling him from Johns lap and to his feet, the doctor pulled up to and as Sherlock stumbled over to lean against a tree, sliding to crouch on his heels trying to ground himself and breathing deeply eyes fixed on his fiancée. John was surrounded a vague smile spreading across his face as his friends greeted him and hugged him and congratulated him and John blushed and gestured weakly and Sherlock was only a hardly aware of the businessmen telling John about Sherlocks plan and the look in his eyes as he looked over at him.
It was like a slap to the face and Sherlock looked away. He couldn't hold that gaze. He felt ashamed, of what he did not know but it stung in his chest and he got to his feet. He felt disappointment that his surprise had been ruined, that he had failed again. "I-"
He stumbled as his head swam and John was suddenly holding him up and looking apologetically to his friends, shaking rain from his eyes. "I need to get him inside. I will find you tomorrow?"
"Yeah no of course. Of course...is he going to be okay?"
Sherlock slumped. Thankful back to be in Johns arms even if his hold was less loving more a bit too tight, too cold, too wet. He didn't hear the doctors reply just the slightly too rough push as he tried to get him to walk ahead and so he did. He didn't look back he didn't think he didn't speak. He just concentrated on breathing and on the cold that numbed his entire body and the pounding in his head and the burn on his chest and he walked on autopilot leading the doctor home. John followed without a word his hand fisted in the back of Sherlocks shirt as if to catch him if he collapsed again and he led him to the front door of the Watson house and he unlocked the door and stumbled inside and up the stairs and he pitched forwards collapsing on the bed.
It didn't occur to him that John had stopped at the front door. He lay face down on the bed and thought about how wet the covers would be now he was on top of them. But that didn't matter now because he could here Johns fast erratic breathing in the doorway and then the minute where he took a deep breath and then sure capable hands were on him lifting him into a sitting position and the top of a soaking wet head was brushing against his chin as a ice cold ear was pressed to his chest and he just took a few breaths and it seemed to satisfy the doctor because he pulled away, checking his pulse on autopilot.
He felt broken, he felt like he had so long ago on the floor of that room talking to the floorboards. He thought about being back at Mycrofts mansion and standing in the cleansing rain and how angry John had been and how carefully he had taken care of him, how reverent his hand been. He looked up trying to find the familiar warmth in his lovers' eyes but John was just blinking at him. Blank and expressionless until a tiny frown appeared on his brow and he looked right into his eyes. Sherlock couldn't breathe.
"Sherlock..."
He opened his mouth to say something, to explain, when two familiar faces appeared in the doorway. John froze at the stifled gasp and turned slowly on his heel to see his parents staring back at him and his mother beamed and reached out to him and John sucked in a haggard breath and she took a step towards him pulling him into a tight hug and John put his hands on her back and looked to his dad who was smiling too and they were so happy and so pleased to see him and John was wearing the same empty expression as Sherlock and he wondered if his parents had any idea of the situation they had just walked in on.
When she pulled away Johns mother kept her hand on her sons back and put a hand on his face smiling warmly at him. "Oh John, what are you doing here? You never said you coming to visit?"
John was stiff in her arms and he reached up pulling her hand from his face and half turning to glance at Sherlock and then back to his mother. She smiled and gestured towards the detective, John staring blankly at him and Sherlock just stared back...
"John, this is our new lodger. Sherlock."