I shamelessly used ideas of dear librarianmum for my plot holes)))
Warnings: AU!, spoilers to 1 season, pre-slash
After a heated argument with the Detective Inspector, involving much shouting and swearing, Holmes subsided almost sulkily into his armchair, grabbing his laptop and muttering about GPS locations. In John's opinion Lestrade did not look even amused, just asking Holmes to cooperate.
"Her phone!" shouted detective. "It's so obvious even your team could get that clue."
He started tapping instructions feverishly into his laptop ignoring them all.
"He means that if victim's phone was not found on her or in her suitcase then it could be with murderer." John tried to smooth things by explaining Holmes's reasoning as he understood it so far. And everything was ok until GPS clue gave nothing.
"Noooo! It can't be right." After that came new round of shouting.
When Mrs Hudson came in to report the arrival of a commissioned taxi – and started to get involved in the row too, Holmes left them abruptly, not bothering with explanations or even sharing his guesses. And the team had no choice but to depart. Not least because it had become obvious that they had wasted their time searching for non-existent drugs, of that fact, John was for some reason absolutely sure now.
He liked Sally, evenAndersonhe found more-or-less tolerable, but they, in fact Lestrade's entire team, clearly disliked Holmes. John had heard and learned a lot of interesting things about his employer and prospective flatmate, and it all boiled down to one thing – the world's one consulting detective was not easy to cope with. Well, John was not much surprised, all things considered.
"Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?" Lestrade was genuinely puzzled.
"You know him better than I do, Greg," was John's calm answer. He began to feel a bit suspicious about the ease with which others seemed to accept his sudden appearance in the detective's life.
"I've known him for five years and no, I don't."
"So why do you put up with him?" It was John's turn to be puzzled.
"Because I'm desperate, that's why."
And John knew that feeling all too well. He swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded to the DI. In parting, Lestrade made a strange remark, the sense of which John did not want to ponder.
"And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and I think one day, if we are very, very lucky, he might even be a good one."
John could only guess what Greg had in mind telling him that. He really didn't believe that he could have a positive impact on a person like Holmes. Therefore he decided to simply ignore the possible hint.
After Lestrade's hasty withdrawal, John was standing at a loss in the middle of the empty room. The laptop screen glowed blue, its low hum sounding loud in the resounding silence. He looked around with regret, wondering how less than a day his life had turned from a bit boring and monotonous to complete chaos.
But now he was by himself again, John could return to his other problems, punctured by late night calls. And he should be where he was really needed, which meant that he needed to stop feeling sorry for himself and just leave.
The laptop suddenly beeped and lit up, drawing John's attention. He'd forgotten Holmes' muttering over it earlier on, and moved towards it curiously. The screen showed a GPS-system, which appeared to be tracking a phone, and he suddenly realised what Sherlock had been doing. But the detective had left without waiting getting any result as it seemed. A chill ran down his spine. What was it Mrs Hudson had said earlier… a taxi?
The system had found the phone and, hence, the killer, but this time the red dot was moving indicating the route being taken along the streets ofLondon. His heart skipped a beat. Perhaps for just moments like this, he let his life turn into chaos over and over again, but now he couldn't care less.
John picked up the laptop and quickly ran down the stairs, grabbing his jacket along the way. Outside he jumped into the first taxi and gave directions. Before rushing in an unknown direction pursuing a potential murderer, he had to be prepared. And to be more accurate –armed.
Sitting back as the taxi drove through streets ofLondon, John could only think about whether or not he would be in time. His intuition was telling him that this might be the last night in Holmes' life. He was very sure the posh git had deliberately gone on his own to meet the killer while they all were arguing back atBaker Street.
When the dot finally stopped moving, John shouted the final directions to the taxi driver, and they arrived in a dark, empty street. After overpaying the less-than-impressed driver, John jumped out and ran over to check out an abandoned cab. Nothing remarkable, except for a scrappy photo. And nothing more. Nothing that could tell him anything about the man who had already sentenced four people to death.
He checked the laptop again. Unfortunately, no matter how modern the GPS-system was, it couldn't specify in which of the two absolutely identical buildings he should look for Holmes and the mysterious killer. The only thing he could do was to choose at random and hope he was not mistaken. For the sake of speed, he dropped the laptop onto the back seat of the cab and made his decision.
Running alone through dark corridors was not as exciting as runing after Holmes driven by instincts and knowledge of all the dead ends and detours. In addition, John could not allow something to happen to the detective. Even with their brief acquaintance and uncertain prospect of working together, he felt responsible for the other man's life.
He guessed that drugs were not only one of Holmes's addictions. Excitement mixed with adrenaline and desire to prove that he was smarter than everyone else, was a much more dangerous mixture. Add to this his inflated self-importance and the apparent disregard for his own safety and as result, it appeared that no one else but John Watson was available to help him. He had to methodically search for Holmes floor by floor in the dark.
"Sherlock!"
A dim light in the window of the opposite building had accidentally attracted his attention, and it eventually became the only chance of salvation for Holmes in the current circumstances. The detective was also very lucky that John had great night vision and was able to shoot straight.
He did not want to kill. Pulling a gun out of the table's drawer while a taxi was waiting for him, John did not think he would have to shoot in cold blood. And worse – kill someone. And now his main priority was to be as far away from the killed cabbie, from the police he had anonymously called and from Holmes as humanly possible.
But first he had to retrieve the laptop from the abandoned cab, try to discreetly return it toBaker Streetand finally return to his business. Affairs that, in general, were not associated with saving life of an arrogant detective.
He was able to distinguish the sounds of approaching sirens and quickened his pace. John only once allowed himself to turn around. He could see a dark figure frozen on the porch but chose to ignore the man. He knew the heavy feeling of being watched when every action, every movement were stored and analyzed.
John turned and took out his phone.
"Where are you?... All right, I will be there in 40 minutes or so." He very much hoped that he would actually get to Harry's apartment in 40 minutes. Although he'd managed to delay the family reunion he still could not avoid it.
The sound of his footsteps echoed hollowly in the dark street, bouncing off the walls of abandoned buildings and warehouses. A decent citizen had nothing to do in this area ofLondonthis late at night, so John just pulled up the collar higher, holding back a desire to start running.
No sane cabbie would have picked him here, so Watson had already walked two blocks. Only near a busy highway was he able to catch a cab, which drove him to Harry's flat.
He heard loud shouts even from the stairs. It was surprising that the neighbours hadn't called the police. Although it was also very possible that they were just accustomed to this. John had to knock a long time before he was finally heard. All the way here, he had been mentally preparing himself to what would come.
Clara and Harry. Harry and Clara. And he himself.
"Harry."
"Oh, my baby-brother…." Matted blond hair and pale face. He didn't want to remember his sister like this.
"John, tell her!"
"No more of it! Especially for him!"
"You've to go to the clinic! You need help!"
He'd seen variations of this scene many times. However quickly he came, everything went according to the same scenario and ended about the same. Clara, his sister's ex, slammed the door and he could tend to his sister. And every damn time he could not get rid of the feeling that what was happening suited absolutely everyone except him.
When he'd finally put Harry to bed, tidied up slightly and left, it was already very late at night. John had seriously considered the option of staying overnight on a narrow uncomfortable couch, but the prospect of communicating with his hung-over sister in the morning did not appeal to him.
Imagine his surprise when a familiar beautiful woman came out to him from a familiar car.
"Doctor Watson."
"Hello there," John greeted her sadly. He had no desire to deal with either Holmes right now. "Tell Mycroft, I'm tired, need to go home and will meet him any time tomorrow."
After a short pause, spent as he guessed on passing his request to her superior, he was still kindly waved towards the car.
"Get in. Please."
The trip was comfortable but not particularly pleasant. And the presence of a beautiful woman who was typing constantly did not brighten his mood in the slightest. After a brief exchange of courtesies, John knew only her fake name and that she had no desire to maintain a conversation with him. He could only silently watch the changing scenery outside and think.
He had a strong suspicion that, from now on, everything that happened to him would be somehow connected with Sherlock bloody Holmes.
It was kind to give him a lift to his flat so he did not have to go back through the city. He would hardly have been able to explain himself to a random patrol if they found the gun on him.
The dark flat greeted him with silence. Only after turning on the lights did John realize what had confused him in the outline of familiar objects. His things were nowhere to be seen. He examined the wardrobe and the bedside tables – there was nothing left. And he knew exactly who was behind this.
Jumping several steps at once, John hastened to go down in the hope that that the black car had not had time to move far and there would be no need for him to get toBaker Streeton foot with no hope of catching a taxi. To his surprise the car was still present at the very same spot.
"Want a lift?" asked Anthea, not looking up from the screen.
"If you would be so kind." John didn't bother to disguise his sarcasm.
He did not even have to say the address. As soon as the door slammed behind him, the car moved forward smoothly, and again he was left only to enjoy the night life.
Despite the very late hour, the door was opened by Mrs. Hudson who gently patted him on the shoulder and pushed him towards the stairs. Of course, first of all he had to make sure that his conjectures were correct.
"I'm here to bring your laptop back and make sure…" John pushed the door open wide and abruptly broke off. The room was full of boxes, he even saw a sleeve of one of his sweaters hanging invitingly from one.
"I decided not to delay your move in here," explained Holmes, rising to meet him. It was as if nothing had happened earlier that evening. "But I didn't unpack until you chose a bedroom."
John rubbed his eyes wearily and gathered his thoughts. His prepared speech was forgotten in instant. He just needed more time to think over what had happened to him.
"Is there a bedroom upstairs?"
"Yes."
John threw the laptop on a chair and walked out, quietly closing the door behind him.
Something prevented him from sleeping peacefully. Some kind of idea, a vague sense of anxiety at the edge of consciousness. His usual nightmares gently flowed from a dream to an uneasy slumber full of the sounds of an unknown building and the street outside.
John finally woke up and tried to make out the outlines of his new room in semidarkness. After his dramatic departure from the living room, he had flown up the stairs and immediately locked the door. Looking around and not noticing anything unusual, he had turned to a closet to find clean linen and made the bed. This simple activity had calmed him down, so in the end he was able to get some sleep.
Thoughts tossed clumsily around his head, not allowing him to focus on anything in particular. After all the walking and excitement, John felt drained and exhausted and now couldn't sleep properly.
Why, of all the possible people, had Holmes chosen him? Why had he, John Watson, decided to trust Holmes? He found it easy to get on with people, being by nature a friendly and sociable person, but to become friends with him, a potential candidate had to pass the test, as John called it himself. If they got the required number of points at that level – welcome to the next. And it had been like that for the entirety of his adult life.
It was much easier in the Army. The system not only stripped you of your individuality but also allowed you to see everything in a different light, including relationships. First and foremost, relationships.
He had never had occasion to complain of the speed of his reaction to sudden threats, but as he drew his gun from under the pillowand pointed it at the other man's chest, he already knew he was too late. Did not have time to react, to remove the safety catch and, most important – to notice a threat.
Of all things, John Watson did not like to lie even in cases of extreme necessity, least of all to himself. And he could not ignore the facts when they were so obvious. From the very first minutes of their strange acquaintance he had not seen a threat in Sherlock Holmes.
"What are you doing here?"
"Just wanted to make sure you are comfortable." Holmes pushed his hand with the gun to the side.
"And? Satisfied?" John tried to pull a blanket higher to shield his body from that piercing gaze, but all his attempts were unsuccessful.
"Yes…. You're very quiet and have trained yourself not to cry even while having nightmares."
John sat down sharply; he did not want to sleep any more. But he also wanted to shove the man now sitting on his bed onto the floor. Or simply to explain the basic rules of conduct with strangers who did not like it when someone broke into their bedroom in the middle of the night. But in the end he just decided to radically change the subject of their discussion. Ok, he doubted that he would get rid of Holmes that easily, but one could always try. And now he had the opportunity to satisfy his curiosity.
"What does Mycroft do for a living?"
"As my dear brother likes to say, he has a minor position in the British government."
"Hardly believable."
"Still he is perhaps the most dangerous man in your life, but right now I'm not interested in discussing my brother." Hot breath suddenly enveloped the skin near his ear. John tried to more away, but an escape route was blocked by his own pillow.
"Then maybe you need help with something? Some experiment?" John wanted to move their talk as quickly as possible to a professional basis.
The silence was his only answer. Then he felt the bed shifting under the weight of Holmes, as he rolled over to other side. John could not help but notice displeasure when it was so clearly demonstrated.
"How do you feel about the violin?"
"Sorry what?"
"I play violin when I think. And sometimes I don't talk for days. We need to know the worst about each other."
"I don't think it's the worst," growled John. It seemed he was not the only one who liked to change the subject in the middle of a conversation.
"You're right but you will have time to get used to me." And with that enigmatic comment, Holmes left the room, much to John's relief.
The next morning began with John Watson searching for his toothbrush. He first of all dragged a few boxes with his stuff upstairs. Arranging the sweaters and shirts on the shelves, he quietly wondered at how carefully his clothes were folded and how all the fragile items were packed.
Homes had had no more than two hours to arrange his hasty move-in, though there were not a lot of things to begin with. And John did not like the idea of someone else digging through his underwear. Although, most likely, everything had been organized by Mycroft.
Remembering the night invasion, he checked the lock. There were no visible signs of a break-in, but he clearly remembered locking the door from the inside. Well, he understood hints, although that didn't mean he had to like it.
A careful and thoughtful examination of his new room in the morning light did not reveal anything interesting. A completely normal room. Mrs. Hudson was a nice old lady, but she did not really bother to care for her own property when with a proper approach these apartments could bring her considerable income.
An inspection of the bathroom and kitchen showed mixed results. John reluctantly agreed that it was possible to live in comfort in his new surroundings, but for now he should conduct a spring clean. Which he was going to do immediately after breakfast and a trip to the nearest supermarket for the necessary cleaning products. And after the inspection of the contents of the refrigerator and kitchen shelves he had to abandon the idea of breakfast in the flat as there was nothing more or less suitable for the purpose.
Only once he was outside did he realize that he had not seen Holmes that morning. And he was not sure he wanted to.
After a long-awaited sip of tea and a light breakfast in the café downstairs, John decided to visit Lestrade; he wanted to clarify something with Greg.
The DI's department at New Scotland Yard was full of hustle and sounds as usual. Lestrade waved at him in greeting through the glass. It seemed his phone conversation was not a pleasant one, so John decided to wait for him outside the office.
He did not believe that Sally Donovan just wanted to come over for a casual chat. They had never really talked, just exchanged meaningless words of greeting and that was all.
"Hello, John."
"Good morning, Sally. How are things?"
"The criminal world ofLondonwill never leave us without work… John, what links you to Sherlock Holmes?" He liked Sergeant Donovan for her bluntness, though sometimes her straightforwardness made him feel slightly awkward.
"I…. I will work as his assistant." John put his clenched hands in his jacket pockets, wondering why he felt like he was confessing to something shameful.
"I understand. He is a true genius. But I want to give you some advice. Stay as far away from Sherlock Holmes as possible."
"Why?"
"Do you know why he is here? He is not paid or anything. He just likes it. He gets off on it. The more complicated the case, the better. And know what, John? Someday it won't be enough. One day we'll stand around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one to put it there."
"Why would he do that?"
"Because he is a sociopath. Sociopaths get bored. You are a good man and I really don't want to see you become a victim of his boredom."
John shuddered. He knew that it was too late for that kind of warning. And, once again, it was all about the one and only Sherlock bloody Holmes.
"John, come in." He exchanged a firm handshake with Lestrade. "Sorry for keeping you waiting."
"Greg, do you have some free time now?"
"For you - of course. You wanted to know something?" Lestrade nodded to a chair.
"I wanted to ask you about Holmes. Greg, you mentioned that you've known him for a long…"
"Yes, I mentioned that we've known each other for more than five years, but it doesn't mean anything. I refer to him in the most extreme cases. You saw for yourself he is not the most pleasant person to work with. Moreover, he refuses to even glance at most of the files considering them to be not worthy of his attention and time. Will you be his assistant?"
"Yes. The pay is good and…"
"I don't want you to think that I, or someone from the team, don't want you to work with him," Lestrade hastily interrupted him, ruffling his hair restlessly. "Quite the contrary."
"You think I can have a good influence on him?"
"I'm sure of that. And John… If I only knew…. I mean…"
Lestrade fell silent, not finishing his thought. John even thought that the DI was a little embarrassed. It seemed a good moment to make his rather unusual request.
"Greg, can I have a look at the cases Holmes has helped with?"
Lestrade nodded wearily and promised to give him a list of every single one involving Holmes and only asked in return that it remained between them. Of course John agreed; he just wanted to know for himself that Holmes was really as good as everything suggested he was. It was one thing to tell the history of one's life at one glance, and quite another to solve crimes and bring justice.
After parting with Greg, John went to Tesco. And then, with his hands full of packages, he waited for Mrs. Hudson to open the door for him.
Cleaning up the kitchen floor he looked around with a sigh of relief. John had no plans to clean up or throw away any of Holmes' experiments, he simply hoped to create some free space from the suspicious-looking bowls, pots and dishes. He suspected from the very start that it would not be easy for him. When he finally finished with the kitchen and bathroom, he felt hungry and a bit angry. Sinking wearily into the chair and stretching his legs, he wanted to rest a bit and then to try to prepare a simple late lunch, or early dinner all considering.
Mrs. Hudson, who had stopped by to drop off his newly cut key and to check on him, went through the small kitchen, she even looked in the fridge. Her behaviour spoke louder than words – she clearly did not expect much from him as a new tenant and was pleasantly surprised now.
"I'll make you a cuppa," she said, complacently.
"Damn it!... Sorry, I'm so sorry. It's just sometimes…" John took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself. He just liked for everything to be neat and in order, and really did not enjoy cleaning up after others.
"A cup of tea would be lovely. Thank you." Now he was ashamed of his outburst. Mrs. Hudson did not deserve such behaviour. If anyone deserved it, it was Holmes, who was currently absent.
John always controlled his temper and emotions perfectly, but when his ordered boring life was collapsing under the pressure of circumstances, it was difficult for him to remain unmoved.
"Only this once, dear. I'm not your housekeeper."
"Couple of biscuits too. If you got them."
"Not your housekeeper."
John thought sadly that it seemed more likely that he'd be the housekeeper here. But he did not care. It was enough if he was well paid and not asked to do something illegal.
Holmes's behaviour indicated an inflated ego, inflated beyond any measure of self-esteem, a lack of respect for others, the rejection of basic social norms, a lack of self-preservation, but most of all, a confidence that the world revolved around him and for him. Add to this the knowledge that he could get away with almost anything, because of all the people who needed his help and assistance, and the detective became intolerable.
A sudden call distracted his sad thoughts. John apologized to Mrs. Hudson and hoped that later he would have an opportunity to learn from his elderly landlady something about Holmes. He also realized that she must know Holmes from a somewhat different angle than Lestrade and his team.
Clara's voice sounded frustrated and a little irritated.
"Are you free right now?"
"Where do you want to meet?" asked John; he decided to postpone the tea and the cookies for later.
"Pub on the corner."
"When?"
"In an hour?"
"Deal."
His day was not exactly full of work, important meetings or events, so John could afford an unscheduled meeting, and amazingly Clara, who had a full timejob, could apparently do so too.
He was met with the usual roar at the pub. He greeted the bartender and several regulars. He really liked the relaxed atmosphere and the sense that people did not care a bit about him. He was more than happy with that.
Clara had not arrived yet, so John took a pint and sat down at an empty table away from the entrance. He had never considered himself paranoid, though healthy suspicion was something he was rather comfortable with. And yes, he was somewhat surprised and not in a pleasant way that his sister's ex had called him and invited him to the type of establishment that she was not very fond of for obvious reasons.
Maybe it was too early to tell, but a vague sense of anxiety would not leave him. And if, a few months ago, he could put it down to coping with his adaption to civilian life and then on his confrontations with Harry, now he was simply not certain why he felt this way.
"Have you been waiting long?" asked Clara, sitting opposite him.
John looked at her over the edge of his glass; she looked overwrought and somewhat jerky.
"No. Not at all…"
After a moment's silence, she gave up:
"I… I'm sorry for my unexpected call," she burst out and hesitated. Now John was really confused and agitated.
"What's happened?"
Harry's ex wife relaxed at once:
"Perhaps this is all just nonsense, but lately it seems to me that I've been constantly watched… And not in the way that Harry watched me when she was at her jealous stage."
"You think it's a stalker?"
"No…. I don't know. Sounds silly, but I can't shake this feeling of persecution."
"Have you noticed anything unusual?" He had some not-unfounded suspicions of his own. Ok, he was pretty sure who could be behind this.
"Yes. No… I don't know! I just thought it would be a good idea to talk to you. You well.. have more experience in all this.. And…"
"I don't think it's something serious. But good you called me."
His phone suddenly came to life forcing John to wince. The screen glowed invitingly.
Baker Street. Urgently. SH.
"You were in my room."
"And? You don't even sleep there." John had only just stepped in when he was forced to make excuses. More precisely, he hoped that his voice did not sound apologetic although he did not know who he was trying to convince. He had only glanced at Holmes' bedroom once just to check the correctness of his assumptions, and, of course, he was right.
Holmes pulled up the corner of his mouth. He quickly ran his eyes up and down John and frowned. Watson suppressed the desire to follow the other man's example and also look at himself. He smelled of the pub, which was not a bit surprising, but in spite of this there was nothing odd or strange in his appearance. Dark jeans and handy jacket, not new, but he never sought out fashion unlike some, if expensive shirts and suits were any indicator.
"I had to hurry up and get across town just for this?" John decided to clarify. For some reason he did not hope that the detective would dissuade him otherwise.
"Not only," - Holmes vaguely replied, and when John tried to take off his jacket quickly added. "Don't bother - we're going out. And take your gun, it might be useful. Don't pull a face, of course I know you have a weapon."
In fact, with these simple words, began three very difficult days for John, during which he really had not eaten, slept in total no more than 15 hours and accompanied Holmes to the kind of places that he had tried to avoid at all cost, even during his troubled youth. And he did not have to shoot, even though all sorts of things happened to them.
It was strange to see how appropriate Holmes looked in the luxury apartment where the murder was committed, but also in theLondonslums where the investigation led them. John had to make calls to Lestrade with a breathless voice while running to report their movements. He did not relish the idea that because of the detective's negligence, the evidence would never get to court or worse, because of an inability to produce it in court, to trial at all.
Holmes had not slept, ate almost nothing and still managed to look fresh and rested at the end of the third day when the case was triumphantly solved, John was barely standing on his feet and was dreaming of finally sleeping in his bad, without having to sound calm and cheerful while talking to a drunken Harry.
Being a good citizen, John voluntarily endured the tedious preparation and signing of numerous protocols and statements. The whole time he was talking to Lestrade's team, Holmes nervously cut circles around them but evidently preferred not to intervene. When his patience was finally exhausted, he just rudely grabbed John by the arm and led him away from the bustling police, crowd of curious people, cars, hubbub and the entire bustle.
"That's the first and the last time you will so uselessly waste my time. Tomorrow Lestrade will appear with the necessary papers and you'll just sign them where needed."
In the taxi on their way back home, John almost fell asleep, but different thoughts were keeping him from finally sliding into oblivion. Holmes had not just untied a high-profile case, he had also reopened a dead case. And more than once John had had occasion to contemplate the detective's genius and utter disregard for the feelings of others. He'd waved off threats and insults as easily as he waved off "not interesting" cases. And for all his actions he had always had one excuse – functioning sociopath.
They were met with peace and quiet atBaker Street. John stood in the kitchen over the kettle and could not decide whether he could live without a cuppa and couple of crackers, which he knew were waiting for him on the high shelf in the left cabinet over the sink. He'd put them there himself three days ago.
"Now you don't have to waste time reading Lestrade's reports. You saw with your own eyes how I work and how good I am." Holmes stood behind him. John felt the hot breath on his hair, which made him very uncomfortable.
"Indeed. I don't need to worry about that, do I?" John muttered, not without sarcasm, his remarks addressed to the kettle. Suddenly, his arm was grabbed and he was pulled around aggressively.
Gray eyes peered intently into his face. John did not know what Holmes wanted to see in his features and what he actually saw. If not for the strong hand holding him confidently, he would have slid to the floor out of sheer exhaustion. It seemed that the idea of having a late tea was not a good one.
If Holmes needed a companion he was ready to become one, God only knew, the man really needed one. John nervously licked his chapped lips trying to find the sand that did not exist.
John Watson did not consider himself someone special or significant. Just an ordinary man with ordinary desires. Ok, maybe not every normal person would leave a successful medical career, family and friends to enlist in the army. Perhaps not every doctor that gave the Hippocratic oath, would take a gun and use it for its intended purpose. Maybe not every written-off surgeon with a slight tremor in his hands would earn his money pulling out bullets and patching up criminals, thieves and murderers. But no one could say he didn't consider himself the most ordinary man with simple needs.
For months, his most cherished wishes had been to help his sister and sort out his gambling debts. So when he was taken upstairs to his room, rudely pushed into the bed and ordered to sleep, John just took everything as it was.
He had energy only to pull off a sweater and throw off his shoes. He knew too well that in the morning he would feel uncomfortable. John could not bear to sleep in street clothes, it was too close to his restless sleep on duty in a field hospital inAfghanistan. The idea of the shower was rejected as inappropriate and not feasible at this time.
John ran his thumb wearily over his lips. They were burning as if he had been kissed.
To his surprise, Holmes didn't mention a word about what had happened in the kitchen that night, not in the morning nor a few days later. Which John would have been happy to forget but could not get out of his head.
Lestrade came just two days later, with all the necessary papers. As Holmes had predicted, Greg gave him some blanks and reports to sign. John without any hesitation agreed to be a witness at the trial, which aroused deep gratitude in the DI. He would have agreed anyway, but he was pleased to know that he would be helping not just to bring some justice but also assisting DI Gregory Lestrade, who he was developing a great deal of respect for.
He liked Lestrade. Honest, open, a little trite, always impeccably dressed and always pleasant to talk to. A couple of times they even went to pub to have a pint. John was aware that Greg was in the process of divorcing, and spent all his time at work was not the most useful solution in his situation. And now they had another thing in common to discuss – Sherlock Holmes.
John had long ceased to visit his psychoanalyst. From the beginning he regarded their sessions as useless and redundant, but one advice he nevertheless decided to follow: to write a blog. Besides, now he had something to write about. Previously, he simply could not share the impression of extracting two bullets without anaesthesia in a dark room of a random club, but now he enthusiastically wrote in his blog about Holmes and their cases.
John Watson shut the lid of his laptop with a loud bang and reached for the phone. He well remembered that he had left it lying on the table this morning just after breakfast. There was no sign of it under books or anywhere on the table now. John checked all surfaces in the room on which he could automatically have left his mobile. The only logical explanation, the first coming to his mind was one – Holmes.
Only the detective might need his phone when he had a few on himself already. John strongly suspected not of them belonged to Holmes; who the rightful owners were, he could only dimly guess.
But the constant disappearance of his mobile into Holmes' hands was not the detective's only oddity. John did not see how, or where, he slept or ate. Holmes even got dressed somewhere else.
And this other place was, of course, his other apartment, where he probably ate normally and slept in peace, not tormented by the awful sound described as "playing the violin" by Holmes. Where he could look into his cupboards and fridge without finding something shocking in the form of body parts or something equally dreadful. Unlike John.
Holmes usually just suddenly appeared in his life and inexorably changed John's day to suit himself. Most often, when John was least expecting it, and was just going to drink tea or have a snack, or watch TV, or take a bath, or go to bed or head for one of Bill's shifts, so in the latter case, he would urgently have to find a replacement.
This time was no exception. John heard the door slamming just as he began to brew his tea. Reaching for the top shelf, where he had hidden all the clean mugs, John took out one more cup and made tea for two.
John put the two cups on the table and pushed one in the direction of the detective standing in the kitchen doorway. Holmes watched him while typing something into a phone. John's phone. What a git.
"What do I need to do to make you stop nicking my phone?"
"You can start calling me by my name. At least in your thoughts for now."
"Hurry up," Holmes impatiently tapped his fingers on the table.
John was not going to indulge the desires of a certain detective at the expense of his own health, so he did not hurry and chewed his dinner properly. It was his first normal meal in two days. At this rate, he wouldn't need to worry about gaining any weight at all.
Injury, prolonged recovery and the constant stress in which he had lived since his return to civilian life had not had the best effect on his appearance. Now he constantly had to conceal the loss of muscle mass under shirts and sweaters. And coexistence with Holmes meant irregular meals and a constant lack of sleep.
"I'm almost finished."
"Eating is boring." Holmes frowned and with a theatrical gesture pushed the plate away from John.
He could not help but marvel at the other man's mind and attention to details, even while he was quietly, to himself heartily, wanting to punch Holmes. Feelings of hostility lived peacefully side by side with a sense of admiration for the man.
"You know you are just impossible, right?"
"And you are not the only one constantly reminding me of that. Boring."
John chuckled and hurried to pull on his jacket. Any delay could lead to him being exposed to the cold air as he was – in a shirt and light sweater. Two days ago, when he was just agonizing over the mundane dilemma of whether to make himself tea or watch TV, he hadn't expected Holmes to suddenly appear, though he should have foreseen this particular scenario – namely to be forcibly pulled out into the street without a coat to escort Holmes to the next case.
Typically the detective's clients were fairly wealthy or even extremely rich, but often his attention was attracted by the cases of the most ordinary people. The main thing they had in common was that they were interesting and could help to dispel the boredom from which Holmes suffered constantly. Another call from Lestrade promised just such a complicated incident.
Greg shook John's hand with obvious relief when they finally arrived at the crime scene.
"I'm glad you're here."
"Sorry?"
"You are good influence on Sherlock. When you are with him, his company can be even tolerable."
"What's happened here?" John decided to quickly change the subject.
"Murder." The DI smiled at him. At that, John glanced reproachfully into Greg's warm brown eyes and shook his head. Greg even tried to look guilty.
"Young male. The identity of the victim is being established. No traces of housebreaking."
John looked around with some attention. A normal flat, the most commonplace, however expensive, furnishings. He watched Holmes enough to figure out how he applied his method. Of course, he was far from Sherlock in his observation skills, but he might as well try.
The body position was clearly indicating the fact that the death was sudden and, apparently, came almost instantly. And if the door was still intact then the victim had let his own killer in or he had entered in a different way. John checked the windows, one was open, and all the surrounding buildings outside. They were really too far away for a sniper. An examination of the body revealed nothing special to him. The guy had had no chance, and the shot in the head was a clear indicator of this.
After watching Holmes' usual chaotic behaviour, John decided to join Lestrade near the wall. When Sherlock was in the mood, he willingly shared with them his conclusions and how he came up to them. But it seemed that today was not such a day.
"Sniper." Holmes delivered his verdict aloud, returning again to his study of the corpse.
Lestrade went to the window and shook his head in doubt.
"It's impossible."
"It was a first-class sniper," Holmes answered irritably. "John, let's go."
Only at the exit of the building, was Watson able to catch up with the detective. While he was saying a polite goodbye, Holmes was already pushing the door and apparently was not going to wait for him.
"Care to share your thoughts?", John asked, not really expecting to get an answer. He was curious, even though his role as a glorified errand boy, who was only needed so the detective wouldn't look ridiculous talking to himself in cabs or on the street, had never been particularly attractive to him.
Holmes, as expected, did not answer, passionately typing on his phone.
"You know, if it was a sniper, it's only logical to check the trajectory of the bullet, find a building from which he presumably could shoot. Then check out who had access to it and so on."
"You watch TV too much, John. And that is police work…. Besides, they still won't find him. Our sniper is too clever for that. So we'll go another way."
John was surprised by the so-easily slipped in "our" and "we", but he decided not to give any value to it. And the next two days he decided to classify as a useful public work, during which he was lucky to be able to show once atBaker Streetand get a change of clothes. He grabbed what was clean and went out again. And if he knew beforehand that the nights would be so bloody cold, he would have dressed more warmly. There was also a four-hour shift from Bill where he was fortunate to get some decent sleep, apart from that, he was out of luck.
Dinner was a nice but personally for him a rather vital exception, because while on the trail of an investigation Holmes ate nothing on principle, saying that refusing food sharpened his mental abilities. John was glad that such a rule was not extended to him.
At the exit of a restaurant, following yet another meal that was only consumed by the doctor, Holmes suddenly stopped to change direction, so John had to swerve at the last moment to avoid bumping into the detective's back.
A familiar polished black car was parked near the curb. When they approached, the door swung open and Mycroft himself appeared before their eyes in an impeccable suit and…. with an umbrella.
"Good evening, John."
"Hello, Mycroft." John was a little confused.
"What of the sniper?" Holmes senior asked, not wasting any more time.
"Without a doubt, it's the same person," Sherlock answered briefly, and winced as if from toothache.