(A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who's read, favorited, followed, reviewed, ANYTHING this story! I'm having such a good time writing this, and having you guys along for the ride makes it even better. Also remember that feedback/reviews are love. 3)
Lestrade's interrogation takes a couple of hours. Unfortunately, John doesn't have a lot of useful information to impart. He was attacked from behind by at least two men bigger than he (though most men are bigger than John's modest 5'6" frame), a sack was shoved over his head and he was taken to a tiny flat in an unknown part of London (most likely close to Trafalgar Square but he can't be certain)(he is certain, however, that Sherlock Holmes would've known exactly where he was). There was only one man in the flat, the man who strapped an explosive vest to John's chest and placed him in Trafalgar Square. No names were ever mentioned.
"It can't possibly matter about names, though, can it?" John asks, frustrated. Lestrade has asked the same questions several times over and they're not getting any further than when they started. "Surely they'll've run out of town by now?"
"I must admit I'm surprised they allowed you so much exposure to one of their own." Lestrade says. He's divested himself of his jacket and has his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow. The desk is littered with coffee cups and crisp packets from the vending machine down the hall. Someone named Sally Donovan had poked her head in briefly and Lestrade had asked her to bring in some nibbles. Her nose had wrinkled but she went.
"They must have thought the puzzle couldn't be solved. That's what he called it when I spoke to him on the phone - Holmes and the man who called while you were coming to get me." John is curious about this puzzle and the men who play with crimes for fun.
Lestrade scoffs. "He must not know Sherlock then. Never had a crime he couldn't solve." He takes a long drag from his lukewarm coffee. John wants to hear more about Holmes and his relationship with the Yard but doesn't ask - not the appropriate time and all that. Instead, he sips his tea - coffee reminds him too much of sun and sand and blood - and tries to recall anything else about the abduction.
An hour later, Lestrade calls it a night. He gives John his card and insists John call at any time if he feels like he's in danger or if he remembers something, even if it might not seem pertinent. As John leaves the office, he hears Lestrade pick up the phone and say the name "Mycroft." Recalling the name, he hurries away before he hears something he may regret later.
The way to the door is not complicated, but John takes his time. His leg aches from sitting for too long and the lack of adrenaline pumping through his body. Everyone has gone home for the night, making the building eerily quiet, though John only half-notices. He's too busy musing on how far he's come from what he said to his therapist not two days ago: "Nothing ever happens to me."
John stops just outside the door to breathe in the night air of London. He catches the faint musk of cigarette smoke before he hears, "Dinner?"
The voice rumbles through him, awakens a part of him he thought he left in Afghanistan. The reckless adrenaline junkie who put himself in the line of fire on purpose day after day. The man who voluntarily covered the front line and performed surgery on a helicopter. Twice.
Sherlock Holmes materializes from the shadows, a fire burning in his cold eyes, intent on John. John Watson knows a challenge when he sees one, and so far, he's not backed down once.
He raises an eyebrow and quips,
"Starving."
"You don't have a girlfriend, then?" John asks Holmes as they wait for their food to arrive. They're in a very cozy hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant owned by and named after a man called Angelo, who greeted Holmes as an old friend. He said anything on the menu was free for Sherlock and his date. John protested he wasn't a date, but it fell on deaf ears. Later Angelo brought a candle to the table. More romantic, he said. John allowed Holmes to order for him, as he knew the restaurant better. Angelo threw him a knowing smile and John surrendered. He could do worse than tall dark and handsome.
"Girlfriend... no, not really my area." Holmes murmurs. John stares for a moment, realizes his mistake.
"Oh, right. Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way - "
"I know it's fine." Holmes stares intently at John, as if memorizing him in this moment. He volunteers no more information.
"So you've got a boyfrien - "
"No."
John blinks a couple of times, unable to get a handle on this strange man but intrigued nonetheless. "So you're unattached then." Silence. "Like me."
They lock eyes over the candle. Holmes' gaze scorches through John's whole body. What must this man be like in bed? The thought is unbidden, unwanted, and John is shocked at himself. Fortunately, their food arrives at that very moment, allowing John to avert his eyes from Holmes' and gather his thoughts, though he has a sneaking suspicion that the self-proclaimed "consulting detective" knows exactly what went through his mind and has cataloged all of John's responses. He smirks and John's sneaking suspicion is confirmed.
"I'm flattered by your interest, John, but I should tell you that I consider myself married to my work..." Holmes vigorously applies himself to cutting his chicken parmigiana into minuscule pieces. John's jaw has the indecency to drop open again before he begins sputtering.
"That's not - no, I didn't mean - I just meant - we both - "
John stops attempting to make sentences when he hears a rumbling chuckle from the other side of table.
"I know what you meant, John." Holmes' voice is soft, intimate. John blushes furiously. He knows Holmes is watching and is conscious of his every movement. Compared to the feline grace of his companion, John feels gauche and ill-bred.
"Where do you live, John?" Holmes asks at length.
"Just a small bedsit the army's letting me while I find something else. Haven't had much luck, though. Can't afford London on an army pension."
"You wouldn't want to be anywhere else, though, I imagine."
John laughs. "No. I love it here. I've been to most of the surgeries within walking distance of my flat, though none are hiring at the moment." At least, none are hiring an ex-army doctor with a tremor in his hand and a psychosomatic limp. He clenches his jaw in frustration as his left hand shakes. Holmes studies him for a moment, then sits back in his chair.
"How do you feel about the violin?" he asks abruptly.
"Love it. Used to play the clarinet, myself." John answers easily, once again tucking into his spaghetti bolognese with renewed gusto.
"Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?"
"What are you talking about?"
"I know a flat in the center of London that we could afford if we split the rent."
"You're barking. In the center of London?"
"I know the landlady. She owes me a favor and said she'd reduce the rent if I could find someone with whom to share it." Holmes maintains eye contact and John resolutely refuses to look away. He raises an eyebrow.
"What kind of favor?"
"Her husband was set to be executed in Florida."
"And you made sure he wasn't?"
"Oh no. I ensured that he was."
A moment passes while John processes this, then he throws his head back and laughs for the second time that day. Holmes quirks his lips upwards in the semblance of a smile.
"Meet me there at 7 tomorrow. If you like it you can move in as soon as is convenient." Holmes throws his napkin on the table and stands to leave. John, still with half a plate of food left and an appetite to match, stares at him. When he begins to lay down his fork, Holmes waves at him to stay seated. "Just got a text, Lestrade needs me. Stay and eat. Tomorrow, 7pm." He begins to sweep away dramatically, but John stops him.
"I don't know where I'm meeting you - "
"The address is 221B Baker Street. Evening!"
And with a swish of coattails, he vanishes into the night.
John's cab pulls up in front of 221B Baker Street at five til 7 the next evening. He pays the driver the exorbitant fare, then extracts himself and his cane with difficulty. As he straightens, his cane slips off the curb and he feels himself falling. Before he hits the pavement, however, a strong hand wraps around his arm, arresting his fall. John feels himself being pulled upward and ends up flush against a long, lean torso covered in a silk shirt and wool coat. The air is knocked out of him but not because of any impact - it's the proximity to Sherlock that gets his heart beating faster and his blood humming through his veins.
Bollocks.
John pushes away from Holmes faster and more abruptly than is polite. He focuses on getting his feet and cane on solid ground before he looks up at the facade of the building. It is tall and thin, made of light grey stone. An imposing black door with a silver knocker guards whatever might lay inside. A window above the door is emblazoned with "221B" in gold lettering. Everything about the places screams wealth and affluence. John already feels out of place and they haven't even gone inside. Suddenly he realizes that Holmes still has a hand on his shoulder and turns to him.
"Are you alright?" Holmes asks, pale eyes searching John's face.
"Yes, thank you." John's throat is dry and he fights an almost uncontrollable urge to lean back against Holmes' chest. "Happens about once a day. More if someone kicks it out from under me while I'm being attacked." John cracks a sardonic smile. Holmes stares at him for a moment, then the front door opens.
"Sherlock!" An older woman is on the front stoop, wearing all purple and a brilliant smile. She holds her arms out and waves the two men over. Holmes allows himself to be enfolded in a brief hug before introducing her to John as Mrs. Hudson, the landlady. She ushers them inside and up 17 steps to a spacious flat.
"Well this could be very nice. Very nice indeed." John says as he surveys the sitting room. It's an utter wreck - obviously the old tenant hasn't left yet. "It needs a bit of cleaning up, though." he says at the exact moment Holmes cries "That's why I've already moved in." John looks at him sharply, but Holmes is already breezing into the room, picking up bits of paper and straightening pillows. He stows a small pile of mail on the mantle, then ensures it stays there by sticking a large knife into the center of the pile. John merely looks amused, then sees the human skull farther down the mantle.
"That's a skull." he blurts out, pointing his cane at it. Excellent observation, doctor. he thinks, grimacing. Holmes glances up, then nods.
"Old friend of mine. Well, I say friend..." he trails off, giving John an appraising look. It is an oddly intimate look, and John tingles all over under the heat of it. He feels himself being pulled forward towards the other man.
"There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two bedrooms." Mrs. Hudson bustles in with a tray of scones, then stops abruptly, looking around. "Sherlock, the mess you've made..."
"Of - of course we'll be needing two bedrooms." John stammers.
"Oh don't worry dear, we've got all sorts around here. Mrs. Turner's got herself some married ones." She speaks in a hushed voice, as though she doesn't want the married ones to hear her speaking of them.
Just as John is about to ask to see the second bedroom, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade strides into the room. If he's surprised to see John there, he doesn't show it. He looks right at Sherlock and says,
"We need you."