Note to self: Never trust fanfiction to actually save your editing and copy everything before saving. It will save much unnecessary heartache and foul language. Also these chapter titles. I give up. I half wanted to call it 'Toasty Paedophilia" because why the fuck not. Beta'd by gbheart.
Chapter 2 - Assumptions and Deductions
When John finally finished class, the first thing he did was check his phone. The fact that he only had three texts awaiting him was inconsistent. Sherlock had seemed to be quite an avid texter and bored to the point of no return. He'd mentally prepared himself to have to scroll through at least over 50 texts, many of which would likely proclaim life as being tedious and not worth Sherlock's time.
Of course, three texts were not 50. Just when he thought he had this miniscule part of Sherlock Holmes figured out, the man blew away his assumptions, as easily as a butterfly in a gust of wind.
(10:22am) (Sherlock Holmes) - I've dismantled
the toaster. -SH
(10:41am) Also, out of sheer spite and hilarity,
I've conducted an experiment on burning said
toaster. -SH
(1:48pm) Mrs Hudson decided to pay me a social
visit. Inform Mycroft that he will be paying the
damages in my stead. -SH
John let out a horrified chuckle; this was absolutely barking mad. Who took apart toasters as a way to relieve boredom, and no doubt piss off siblings? Apparently Sherlock did. The same man who he'd signed up to check up on every day, for at least a couple of months, and provide medical advice for in the future. Why had he even deemed breaking the toaster as the most suitable form of entertainment? And, not only that, why did he then set fire to it? Surely he had books or something.
He jumped when Mycroft Holmes seemed to materialise in front of him, without so much as a brief hello.
"Christ!" John breathed, and shot a small, apologetic smile at Mycroft.
The smile was ignored. "How is communication between you and my brother going?"
He glanced down at his phone with a tense look. "To be honest, I have no idea. He seems…" he tried to find a word that didn't express his distaste at the texts he'd just read, "amiable enough."
Mycroft gave him a condescending smile. "Amiable, really? I haven't heard someone describe my brother as amiable, for quite some time. Your discomfort with the situation isn't easily hidden from me. Both my brother and I are incredibly proficient with reading people – try and move past your need to adhere to social mores that dictate false niceties, and tell me truthfully what you think."
John stood still, completely shocked. Mycroft's eyes raked over him, and not in an appreciative or seductive manner, but rather like he was being deconstructed: different pieces of information being taken and compartmentalised to form a dossier on one 'Future Dr John Hamish Watson'. Those eyes finally rested on his face, and a look of pleasant calm washed over Mycroft, as though the creepy scenario, just a second ago, had been a figment of John's overly active imagination.
"Right then," John said, with a slight hitch in his voice. "He dislikes me, has a fairly macabre sense of humour, wants his stuff back, and broke the toaster. That about sums up our communication." He couldn't help but make the last word sound sour.
Mycroft nodded his acquiescence, before abruptly turning away, with the same flair and drama as yesterday, and leading them to the black car he'd seen only briefly before.
The car trip was spent in complete, though amused in the elder Holmes' case, silence.
John couldn't help but feel Mycroft's stare, as they exited the car. He saw the flicker of a curtain above them, and he somehow thought of Sherlock dashing away like a blushing maiden. The thought was ridiculous enough for him to smile briefly.
Mycroft followed him out of the car and handed him a set of keys. "Needless to say Sherlock won't always feel obliged to let you in," was the explanation.
Baker Street seemed like a quiet sort of area. True, there was traffic and the endless mulling of people coming to and fro, but there didn't seem to be anyone yelling like madmen – or women – and no cars bolting down the road with huge sounds booming from their exhausts. The atmosphere outside was calm; John just wasn't sure what to expect of inside 221B.
Mycroft stepped forward, as John observed his surroundings, and tapped on the door, with the handle of his umbrella, thrice.
A moment later, the door shot open, and a motherly sort of woman bustled into view.
"Mrs Hudson, this is Doctor Watson." He said flatly. "Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson."
They greeted each other with warm smiles, and she hastily let them in.
"He's been up there all day; Lord knows what the boy's been doing! I checked up on him, and there was the toaster all in pieces – put into little piles with notes about the metal." She gave a little indignant huff and waved for them to go upstairs. Mycroft stayed back, for a moment, to inquire about something – most likely the damages – but John took the open doorway as a sign to go straight on in.
Just in case, he knocked on the doorframe.
A split second later, Sherlock burst into view, all brutal energy and efficient grace. He was still dressed in pyjamas and a dressing gown, however, that didn't detract from the all-consuming atmosphere that Sherlock was surrounded with. He was half a head taller, and, if it weren't for the fact that he'd been told of the five year difference between them, he'd say Sherlock was only eighteen, if not a lanky teenager who had already gone through all their growth spurts.
"May I borrow your phone?" Sherlock asked immediately, his voice surprisingly deep.
He gaped. Not even a simple hello then? "Can't you just use the landline?"
Sherlock's brows furrowed, and he took a step closer, entering John's personal space without a single sign of discomfort.
"I prefer to text."
John edged away and stuck his hand quickly into his pocket, pulling out his mobile and quickly passing it over to his new 'patient'.
Sherlock spun the phone in his hand twice, quickly observing both its faces and sides, before turning it on and tapping away quickly, much quicker than John had ever done, and handing back the phone with, what John didn't really believe to be, a sincere thank you.
His observations were cut off as Sherlock spun on his heel and flung himself mindlessly onto the sofa, before settling into a perfect stillness, only cut by him steepling his fingers beneath his chin and wiggling them for a moment.
A quiet tone sounded from behind him, followed by the footsteps of what sounded like Mycroft. He turned with a strange expression, only to see the man staring down at his phone with muted disdain.
"Really, Sherlock?" He said, and swept past John, only to pause at Sherlock's frozen frame.
The tension was palpable.
"I'd hoped to avoid any sort of communication between us in spoken form, but even that seems to be out of your grasp. You're welcome to leave at any time; the door is, after all, just within your reach."
Mycroft sighed, "Such a child."
"And yet you're leaving me alone with an older man who has bisexual tendencies." Sherlock hissed bitterly. "Condoning paedophilia now, Mycroft?"
"Implying you are below the legal age, which just so happens to be false."
"I was six years ago, and, correct me if I'm wrong, but you did just call me a child."
"Hey!" John demanded, and they both looked at him with blank expressions. "I'm right here."
Sherlock sat up as quickly as he sat down, fixing him with a dark glare, while schooling his face to one of over enthusiasm. "Really?" He asked in a voice too high to not be sarcasm. "I hadn't noticed your presence! Brilliant." His gaze worked its way up to Mycroft. "You've secured me an idiot. Congratulations."
Just like a child, Sherlock bounded off the sofa, aimed one last menacing look at Mycroft, and then stormed off, leaving the two of them watching the back of his dressing gown with anger.
"Let me guess," John began. "He gets better? He doesn't like strangers?"
"I've been told you enjoy a challenge."
He scoffed. "There just so happens to be a difference between 'challenge' and 'colossal prick'."
Mycroft ignored him and instead presented him with a neatly £100 folded note. "A bonus," he whispered, and walked out the door, shutting it with a little click that seemed to have a rather difficult air of finality about it. He shifted from foot to foot, trying to decide what to do with himself.
On one hand, Sherlock already seemed like a right bastard and probably didn't deserve any of his time. On the other hand, he'd just been paid enough to pay part of his bills next week, and it'd just be rude to not at least attempt this.
He slipped his shoulder bag off and onto the sofa, before following the route Sherlock had taken, which led directly to the kitchen.
The kitchen seemed to mean experimental area, because the remains of the toaster were laid out in neat, precise piles. Next to each pile, there was a little note saying how much each pile had spent in direct contact with the flame. There was a thirty-second pile, one-minute pile, two-minute pile, and finally a five-minute pile. The bulkier pieces were off to the side, and every little plastic ornament that had once adorned the toaster had seemingly been melted into one distorted pile of utter uselessness.
He allowed his eyes to pass over the beaker of questionable fluids, which looked suspiciously reminiscent of the liquids they used to preserve flesh in the morgue, and focused on trying to get past the clutter on the floor. There were books and random sheets of paper stacked in organised chaos against the edges. He looked back to the sitting room and frowned at the sight of an empty bookshelf.
No real organisational skills then, either.
To his surprise, the door to Sherlock's room was wide open, the edge of a bed just in view. He cautiously stepped into the threshold, to see Sherlock lying on the bed with a look of pure distaste aimed in his direction.
"By paying you extra upfront, Mycroft was ensuring that your inner morality would come into play, and you'd stay out of respect. It's almost a nice form of bribery, if you look at it in the right way."
He frowned, and Sherlock sent him an unsettling grin.
"Oh, don't worry, he plays everyone like that; few people realise it's even occurred, until someone with higher intelligence points it out."
"And you consider yourself to be of 'higher intelligence'?"
The grin turned feral, and Sherlock angled his head towards him. "Graduation soon then, doctor? You'll finally have the time to seek proper employment, to pay back your debts to your brother. It's a shame he'll spend it all on drinking. You're trying so hard to maintain proper contact, however, it's almost like a barrier between the two of you. Not to mention the recent divorce – now that's just terribly inconvenient."
He'd felt Mycroft deconstructing him, whereas Sherlock had simply taken the facts, laid them out bare on the table, and then arrogantly quirked an elegant brow at him.
"How did you know all that?"
"I didn't." Sherlock said cryptically, before closing his eyes and replicating the position he'd taken on the sofa, mere minutes before. "As you're now considered my doctor, I should warn you of the symptoms I'm likely to go through. Personally, my physical symptoms are limited to mild tremors and headaches. As with all cocaine users, emotional withdrawal symptoms are nearly all present: anxiety, restlessness, irritability, insomnia, as well as tiredness. Poor concentration, depression, and social isolation are to be expected, also."
"Jesus," he breathed, and sat down on the edge of the bed. Sherlock's eyes snapped back open to regard him curiously, before slipping half shut, subtly observing him. "Well… I've definitely seen irritability –" Sherlock scoffed, "and social isolation."
"Why do you assume this is social isolation?"
He looked around the room quickly. "There aren't any get-well cards and nobody wishing you a speedy recovery."
Sherlock's eyes followed the same path his had chosen, lingering on the bedside, just like John's had. His mouth quirked downwards briefly, before his eyes rested neutrally in front of him again. "Logical assumption."
"But?" John prompted.
Yet again, Sherlock's eyes flicked over to him so quickly, that it was almost scary.
"But that would imply there is someone to send said well wishes."
The silence was thick – thicker than the blanket covering Sherlock's bed. John's mouth opened and shut pointlessly, as he tried to collect his thoughts and steer them away from the dangerously uneasy conversation they'd just had. He stared at his shoes fruitlessly and wriggled his toes. It didn't help that Sherlock hadn't even moved, since the last word fell from his lips.
He went from looking at his feet to Sherlock's own bare ones. They were pale, with not even a hint of a tan line where his pyjamas had ridden up slightly to reveal his calf muscle. Maybe Sherlock simply deigned to constantly wear long trousers? He certainly didn't seem like the type to take picturesque holidays at idyllic, sunlit attractions. As rare as proper, full-blown sunlight was in their dreary climate, even he had a line from where his socks had stopped the sun, although that could be blamed on Rugby, which he used to play regularly.
Sherlock's voice broke through his thoughts rather easily.
"You asked how I knew about you."
Definitely a better topic than social isolation and the thought of feet.
"Yes, how did you know?"
Was it really so obvious? Was it written all over his face and the way he acted?
"I didn't know; I observed." Sherlock began, and John was sure that Sherlock was miffed that he had accused him of 'knowing'.
Sherlock stretched out his hand and quirked his fingers expectantly. "Phone," he demanded, and John fished it out for him again, gently placing it on his upturned palm.
Sherlock gave it a long look, before taking a breath and launching into his explanation. "Your phone: it's expensive, email-enabled, and with an MP3 player. You're a training medical student who doesn't have enough time to incorporate a proper job into his study time; you wouldn't waste money on something like this. It's a gift then.
"Scratches: not one – many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. Someone like you wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this. So, it's had a previous owner." He flipped the phone onto its front, so that the back is clearly displayed. "The next bit's easy; you know it already." He looked at John expectantly, and he had to force himself to respond.
"The engraving."
Hints of a smile tugged at Sherlock's lips. "Harry Watson, clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father – this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but then again you're a medical student who wouldn't have enough time for extended family – unlikely they'd feel obliged to help you.
"Now Clara," his voice turned decadent. "Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment – an expensive phone suggests wife, not girlfriend. She must've given it to him recently; this model's only…" He appraised the phone carefully, "six months old. Marriage in trouble, then. Only six months old, and he's given it away? But if she left him, he would've kept it; people do – sentiment. No, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you. That says he wants to keep in touch. You're obviously not living the richest lifestyle, as a medical student, and yet you won't go to your brother? That says you have problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, or maybe you don't like his drinking."
"How can you possibly know about the drinking?" He staggered his words, trying to wrap his head around what was being spouted at him. People aren't meant to be whirlwinds of knowledge like this. It's foreign and alien to see someone straying so far from normal. As strange as Sherlock's angular face, cat-like eyes and short, black curls.
"Shot in the dark," Sherlock said, with another barely there, proud smile, "good one, though." He paused for another short breath, before continuing his deductive monologue. "Power connection, with tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night, he goes to plug it in to charge, but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone – never see a drunk's without them."
"You said I was bisexual." We've known each other for less than a day and you found that out before my own lesbian sister did!
"In the window, I was watching. When you left the car, you quickly checked out the entire street, including the people on it. Unconsciously, you did so for both genders of a suitable age bracket. Your interest in the passing people was subtle – a look and nothing else. You may think you hide it well, but it only takes someone to really look, to see." He flips the phone twice in his hand, quickly checking for anything he may have missed, before ceasing movement entirely and looking briefly John. "You were right."
"I was right? Right about what?"
"I do consider myself to be highly intelligent."
Sherlock was very pointedly avoiding meeting his eyes, instead casually twirling the phone and thumbing over the scratches with delicacy.
"That," he paused, and Sherlock looked innocently up to him, "was amazing."
And it was amazing. This was what Lestrade had meant, when he had said Sherlock was all too smart. He'd held back absolutely nothing from his observations. There was no bias in what he said, pure fact overriding Mycroft's 'social mores that dictate false niceties'. It hadn't been nice at all. Brutally efficient, straight to the point, and mostly correct. Was this what he saw when speaking to other people? Did certain parts of their person stand out immediately, so that he could form his own opinion of them, within seconds?
"You think so?" He stared at Sherlock and saw honest confusion written in his eyes.
That would imply there is someone to send said well wishes. Lestrade had also said Sherlock didn't associate with people much. If this was the sort of behaviour Sherlock displayed to everyone, then of course barely anyone would speak to him. That would also mean that no one legitimately stopped to appreciate his intellect, and that he'd be cast out of most social circles.
"It was extraordinary – quite extraordinary."
Sherlock's thumb stopped running over the marks completely, so instead, all his attention focused on John. "That's not what people normally say."
"And what do people normally say?"
He was sent a brief, awkward smile – the same you see on someone's face, when they're telling you something bad. That sort of tight-lipped smile that meant 'I'm okay with this, don't worry.' "Piss off."
John laughed because, in some ways, it was genuinely humorous. He could tell that that was the toned down version of what was usually said but didn't call him out on it; conversation had been much too taut and awkward before.
"So, hungry?" He asked. Food was generally a simple affair that didn't spark any amazingly uncomfortable situations.
Sherlock handed him his phone, before waving his hand in a non-committal manner. "Eating slows down my thinking process."
He opened his phone and casually went through the different options. "I'm fairly sure you told me that boredom was likely to kill you one day. If we slow your thought process down, then boredom will take longer."
"Surprising logic there."
He opened up the recently sent messages and gave Sherlock an exasperated look.
Messages Sent (3:41pm) (John Watson) - Sod off. -SH
"You sent your brother a text telling him to sod off? He was in hearing distance!"
Sherlock sniffed imperiously, and he sighed.
"Right. I'm off to get takeaway. Don't do another toaster fiasco."
"That would both imply I own another toaster, and that the original experiment was, indeed, a fiasco, both assumptions being incredibly false."
John sighed. "Well, you did break the toaster."
Sherlock gave him a cold look. "Considering my current predicament, I'm sure we can make an exception. It was either the toaster or the kettle. The kettle, being key in making both tea and coffee, was discarded from experimental purposes. I suggest you leave for that takeaway now, before conversation strays to something superfluously unwanted again."
He left without a goodbye, but, just as he left the front door, he got a new text.
(4:12pm) (Sherlock Holmes) - There's a nice
Chinese with interesting fortune cookies. I highly
recommend it and will text you the address, in a
moment. -SH
(4:13pm) If that's acceptable, of course. -SH
He smiled.
(4:14pm) (John Watson) - If it's expensive
then I'm charging everything to your brother.
(4:14pm) (Sherlock Holmes) - By all means,
buy out the entire restaurant. -SH
He smiled even harder, when the address was sent through, calling a cab and getting in with glee.
Could be much, much worse, he thought, still smiling.
AN: As always feel free to give constructive criticism. I've got plans for the next chapter and what some of the main plot is going to be now. If you have any ideas then feel free to.. unleash them on me? Also I mentioned that Sherlock has short hair. I did mean for it to be that way (look up Sherlock Pilot on Google Images, it's adorable how the hair makes him look so much younger). He looks so precious and young and I just really want to give him a hug. Oh god I need to stop now before I have some desperate fangirl moment *insert some flailing gif here*