A/N - Takes place after John and Sherlock have a little domestic at the beginning of The Great Game. John grabs a cab across the street and manages to get far enough away by the time the bomb goes off that he won't hear about it until morning. After a long cab ride around London with no real destination in mind, he finds himself at Sarah's flat.
Sarah opens her door before he knocks, one brow arched and a half smile on her lips. "So, what's he done this time?"
That John is apparently so transparent and predictable just kicks his irritation up another notch and aims it fractionally in her direction. "What makes you think I'm not just dropping by to say hello?"
She closes the door behind him and takes his coat. "I'm trying very hard not to roll my eyes. Go sit by the fire and I'll make some tea." She puts his coat in the closet and turns. "Or would you prefer something stronger?"
Tempting, but no. "Tea sounds fine, thanks."
He shouldn't have barged in without calling, but he hadn't started out to come here. He just had to get out of Baker Street before he said something he couldn't take back. The contrast between Sarah's spotless modern decor and the comfortable clutter of 221B is striking and welcome right now. The only similarity between the two locations is the cozy fireplace and the two facing chairs in front of it. In Sarah's flat, the chairs are fashionable, and matching.
By the time she comes out with two mugs and sits in the chair facing his, John has his temper under control.
She tucks her feet under her and sips for a moment. "Did you walk all the way from Baker Street? You look a little windblown."
"I had the cabbie drop me off a few streets over." He smiles an apology. "I was hoping the walk would improve my mood."
"Did it work?"
"A bit. Feel free to kick me out if I begin to chew the furniture."
"Count on it." She smiles. "So, what did he do to chase you out at this time of night?"
He shrugs. "Complained about my blog. Shot holes in the wall. The usual."
Her eyebrows rise. "I hope that's a metaphor."
"No, he actually shot holes in the wall. With a gun."
She looks mildly alarmed. "I hope you took it away from him."
"I locked it up, not that it stops him. He was being a prat, and I wasn't in the mood."
"So you're surprised that he didn't like you telling the world that he doesn't know how the solar system works? The man has no sense of humor." She's not even trying to hide her amusement.
"You read my blog?" He honestly never considered the possibility that people Sherlock knows (and several at the Yard who actively dislike him) might read it. He will have to censor the personal comments a bit.
"Of course. I always read your blog. Although, if I didn't have first hand knowledge to the contrary, I would think you made up most of it."
He winces. "Yeah, sorry about that first hand experience. Again. And thank you for not laughing in my face when I asked you for a second date."
She gives him an exaggeratedly coy look and drops her voice to a sultry purr. "The last thing you make me want to do is laugh, John."
It's so over the top that they both laugh, and it breaks John's' mood.
She reaches over and pats his knee. "That's the John Watson I know. Do you feel a bit less like chewing the furniture?"
Oddly enough, he does. "Yes. Thank you."
"Are you calmed down enough to go home, or do you want me to order take away? Anything but Chinese." She smirks at him.
"I'm starved, now that you mention it. Whatever you want, I'll buy." He starts digging into his trouser pocket for his wallet.
She orders Chinese after all, and they sit in front of the fire and eat out of cartons with chopsticks. It's a pleasant, relaxing contrast to the mood he'd arrived in, and he finds himself feeling a tenderness that is mostly gratitude. "I'll wash the dishes," he offers, picking up the disposable cartons and chopsticks, waggling his eyebrows.
"You're a generous man." She leans back and stretches her bare toes toward the fire. They've been sitting on the floor with their backs resting against the front of the sofa. "Do you want to watch telly?" She calls out to the kitchen where John is washing his hands.
"Not really." He comes back to the living room and sits down on the floor next to her. "Thank you for not slamming the door in my face. The least I could have done was call and see if you had company."
She gives him a sideways glance, smiling at the fire. "I don't know anyone at the moment who would still be here at this time of night. Except you."
He thinks there might be an invitation in that. "Thank you. Does that mean you would consider letting me stay?"
Her smile slips a bit, and she turns to look at him directly. "I like you, John, but I know better than to get involved in a triangle." She pats his hand. "I'm very happy to be your friend, for now. Let's not get ahead of ourselves."
He hadn't heard anything past 'triangle'. "Don't tell me you believe that nonsense, too." He drops his head back and closes his eyes.
"What nonsense? That you and Sherlock are joined at the hip? You are. I just haven't made up my mind about whether I'm ready to take second place to your hobby." She takes a breath. "How many girlfriends have you had since the two of you started living together? And I'm not being nosey, I'm making a point."
He sits up and looks at her. "Single dates don't count, right?"
Sarah rolls her eyes. "Girlfriends, John. Not dates. More than a single date, yes."
"In the past three months, just two."
She raises both brows. "That doesn't include me, does it?"
He tries his shy smile. "I didn't want to presume."
She sees right through him and waves off the comment. "Did you break it off with either of them?" She asks as if she already knows the answer.
"Not exactly."
"Not exactly. That means 'no'. Did either of them break it off without mentioning Sherlock as the reason?" She seems to think she knows the answer to that one, too.
"I think I will take you up on that offer for something stronger than tea."
"Port okay? I also have a bottle of Scotch. Somewhere." She gets up without having to put her hands on the floor, just lithely rises to her feet.
"Port would be great, thanks." Warm and soothing, but not potent enough to drop his guard. Or hers.
She comes back with two good sized glasses and hands one to him. They sip silently for a bit. It's really quite good, and he feels his tension loosen.
"So, did they?"
It takes him a moment to recall the question. "His name did come up, yes. Both times. He's an irritating prat, but there's not much I can do about it. "
She watches the fire for a bit. "You could move out."
He looks at her, but she keeps her focus on the flames, sipping from her glass. "He doesn't irritate me that much. And the work we do makes up for it, most of the time."
"Not tonight, though." She turns to look at him. "What made this time different?"
It's a fair question, and he gives it some thought. "He doesn't usually get personal with the insults. I write the damn blog to help him get clients, but he doesn't seem to know that." It's actually the only real contribution he makes to their partnership, so Sherlock's slam felt like a rejection of a lot more than the blog entry.
"He hurt your feelings."
He winces and takes a long sip. "Well, that makes me sound vaguely pathetic."
She bumps her shoulder gently against his. "Having feelings doesn't make you pathetic. It's one of your finer qualities."
He snorts at that. "According to Sherlock, they're my biggest failing, next to my dismally normal I.Q."
"Is he really a genius?"
"Yes."
"And you wonder what he sees in you."
She's hit the bulls eye, and it makes him pause. "What are you, a mind reader?"
She shrugs. "I had a flatmate at uni who was a bloody genius, too. It can be intimidating, even when the genius has an actual personality."
He suddenly feels protective of his friend. "That's a bit uncharitable, don't you think?"
She smiles at the fireplace. "I was just testing the waters."
"Sorry?"
She scoots a bit so she's facing him directly. "Putting aside for the moment that I was nearly killed on our first date by the circus performers he took us to see, I'm trying to decide if I'm willing to keep trying to win over your friend in order to keep seeing you."
"You don't have to win him over." He nearly said 'can't win him over' which is, sadly, probably true.
She studies him for a moment. "You really believe that, don't you?"
He chooses his words more carefully this time. "I can't make him behave, but I can keep you from having to put up with him. We'll just stay out of his way. You don't have to make him like you, Sarah. You would be with me, not Sherlock."
"And if we're on a date and he calls you to meet him somewhere for one of your cases, are you going to tell him no?"
He frowns. "If you got a call to go tend to a patient, would you tell them no?"
"It's not the same thing, John. If I had to tend a patient, it would be because a life was in the balance, and that's not quite the same as a puzzle that could easily be solved later."
"They're not 'puzzles'. And he would only call me if he needed backup. His life could easily be in the balance, if he went in alone. I've only just recently convinced him that he needs backup. I'm not going to refuse and undo all that. The last time he dashed off without me, he was nearly strangled to death. I-" She's giving him a knowing smile. "What?"
"You didn't hear yourself just make my point?"
He returns her smile with a rueful grin. "A bit, yeah." He sighs. "Did I just prove that I'm more trouble than I'm worth?"
She gives his thigh a chaste pat. "Not at all. I'm just telling you that I know what I'm up against. And you are most definitely worth the trouble." She gets to her feet again with that same effortless move. "Now, I've got to be up in a few hours for work. You're not on until day after tomorrow." She offers him her hand to help him up.
He briefly considers trying to duplicate her move but thinks better of it and takes her hand. "Are you tossing me out?"
"You'd never get a cab at this hour. I've got a lilo in the closet." She heads for the one where she hung up his coat. "I think the air pump is in here, too."
So, not inviting him to her bed. He's a little disappointed, but considering their conversation, he shouldn't be. "I'll just kip on the sofa."
She stops and turns back to him. "Sure? It's no trouble. You'll end up with a stiff neck."
The innuendo that pops into his head must show on his face, going by the narrow look he gets in return. He feels his cheeks heat up. "I've slept in tighter spots." That's still a bit risque, but she smiles.
"I'll get you a blanket."
The sofa is too short to allow him to stretch out, but he doubts he's going to do much sleeping. He's too keyed up, even with the second glass of port she poured for him before she headed back to her bedroom. He sips it and watches the fire, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of her flat.
He remembers how strange Baker Street had seemed the first night, and how he'd actually felt a bit homesick for his ridiculous bedsit. He'd been glad to be out of it, but a new place always took some getting used to. He'd always had problems with new places, which was especially odd for a soldier who moved as often as he'd done, and slept in places that ranged between dead silence and active gunfire. Gunfire, he could tolerate, even sleep through. But the subtle creaks and whispers of a strange flat could keep him awake all night. It was odd how quickly 221B had become home.
He finishes his wine and takes the glass out to the kitchen, making his way by the dying light of the fire. He notices that Sarah has an old electric clock over the stove that emits an annoying hum, and he frowns at it. He'll be able to hear it from the sofa, now that he knows it's there. He puts the glass in the sink and goes back to the sofa.
He does want to keep seeing her, but she's right. Sherlock will always be a factor. The scenario she used to make her point was absolutely true. He would drop everything, if Sherlock needed him. The work they do is dangerous. Any woman he becomes involved with will have to accept that. Sarah thinks it's a hobby, and that's a bit condescending. He'll have to explain the facts to her more clearly.
As the fire finally goes out and leaves the room in darkness, he really can hear the damned clock in the kitchen. He closes his eyes and replaces it with the memory of a violin.
End of A Study in Pique - part 2 of the series The Hazards of Living with a Genius