A/N: My friend and I were talking about how Mike is basically the ultimate matchmaker and somehow this came out? Ahem. Enjoy?
Word Count: 1,200+
Pairing(s): John/Sherlock
Warning(s): Mike Stamford centric. Hints at something nearly psychic but not actually, perhaps a bit OOC on his part if you can call it that. Ridiculous amounts of romanticizing of relationships, gay marriage, and Sherlock's pyro phase. Also, alludes to thoughts of suicide. Possibly a bit AU with how things are timed in their schooling/Mike and Sherlock's meeting, but I don't know. ALSO: brief mentions of rape, domestic abuse, ect.
Stamford Wives
The thing about Mike Stamford was that he knew people. He wasn't especially smart or charismatic; he bumbled through life with an unassuming smile and an entirely unthreatening demeanor, the kind of man you'd trust with our children over the weekend or your car with the keys in the ignition and wallet in the glove compartment. Rightfully so – the greatest wrong Mike had ever committed was under aged drinking at University, and even that was infrequent and, then, dwindled down into nothing as it tended to make him queasy.
Mike Stamford could also see straight into your soul without even trying.
It wasn't a skill he was even remotely aware of possessing, but possess it he did. There was not a poker face that Mike could not see past – he knew a stranger more than they knew themselves nine times out of ten. Had he been the type, he could have been quite the manipulative man. He wasn't. But the hyper-focused sympathy gave him an advantage, whether he knew it or not. It meant that masks were self portraits, that lies were transparent, that trust was both easy and hard – that the victims (and, sometimes, the culprits) of domestic abuse or rape could not go unnoticed in his practice, that discrimination was an absolute impossibility, that no matter how deep in the closet you happened to be the doors were made of glass, and that reaching out to his students was made much simpler as they instinctively liked him for his inherent understanding. It meant that, whether anyone (including Mike Stamford) was aware of it or not, everyone around him was exposed.
For Sherlock Holmes, it meant that when he said, "Who would want me for a flat mate?" Mike knew he meant, "I'm lonely and no one likes me much."
Now, on a surface level, Mike had no reason to like Sherlock Holmes; it wasn't as if the fondness was requited. The first time they met Mike said, "Hello," and Sherlock replied, "You are approaching me out of severely misguided sympathy. Your sympathy is not often misguided, but tonight I assure you it is – I sit alone only because everyone here has an average-level IQ and are therefore not worth my time; does that quell your curiosity? No. You are here because although you'd much rather be out with your friends watching them get drunk and making friendly conversation with girls you pity more than you like, you really must study. You study a lot – you have to, if you plan on getting that medical degree, especially since you aren't technically intelligent enough to be the surgeon you want to be. No – they want you to be; you want to help people but high stress level situations intimidate you, you wanted to be a doctor but not anything as intense as trauma center, yet nothing so boring as a general practitioner. Perhaps you'd make a good teacher - nevermind that. The stress is already getting to you – not only from the creeping in of your chosen career path but because your parents expect quite a lot of you. Oh – parent. My mistake; pity about your mother, she understood you quite a bit better than your father ever did, you don't get on as well as you'd like although you still wear his old wedding ring around your neck. Why doesn't he wear it – moved on already? Yes, I see, and you've been eating your feelings. The pastry shop near your dormitory is open 24-hours, the powdered donuts are your frequent purchase. You always manage to burn off the calories but I assure you that won't last long. Now, I could continue but you are rather dull; please scurry off unless you plan on gaping at me a while longer. I'm experimenting." Mike did scurry off, heavy with the knowledge that Sherlock had absolutely no idea just how offensive he'd been and shell-shocked by the bitterness buried behind those ghoulish eyes of his.
The second time they met it was roughly fifteen minutes later when the books on Sherlock's desk burst into flames and Mike happened to be closest to the fire extinguisher.
Yes, Mike had plenty of reason not to like the detective, but he did. Maybe it was sympathy – he saw straight through that mask of indifference Sherlock coated himself with so thickly, saw the broken-up, lonely man struggling to sustain his own overpowering mind. More, though, Stamford saw the potential, the massive flurry of aimless energy in need of a filter. It threatened to tear out of the man at any moment, beaten down only by the worst of methods. Mike thought perhaps he shouldn't be, but he was intrigued by the man to the point of coming to visit him from time to time during University and, later, after losing contact while Mike was in med school and Sherlock was fighting a battle with cocaine, Mike visited the detective's blog and exchanged small talk (or, rather, gave small talk and received mostly nonsense and interrogation in return) when he saw Sherlock at Bart's. Mike didn't fool himself – he knew they weren't friends and that Sherlock tolerated him only reluctantly.
Still, Mike found himself fretting over him, caring as he cared for everyone, feeling empathy. Mike had never been alone a day in his life, not truly alone, and he couldn't fathom the idea that Sherlock wanted to be. Mostly because Mike knew Sherlock didn't want to be, not at all, even if Sherlock had convinced everyone – convinced himself – otherwise.
Meeting John Watson that day was the mother of all coincidences, to say the least. Mike was glad to see John for the obvious reasons – they'd been friendly in med school and seeing John come back from Afghanistan, even as damaged as he was, was a blessing if there ever was one. And, anyway, Mike understood John; he was a soldier through and through, even before he enlisted, taking on the world with cool determination and a strong heart. He fell into the soldier life graciously and was torn out of it just the opposite, baring more wounds than the literal. Going back to civilian life? Well, Mike could see it, even if John's therapist didn't get it – there was no going back for John. He'd gotten a taste of what he wanted – needed – out of life and without it, Mike could see straight away that the hole it left would only get wider. Eventually, and Stamford knew this instinctively, it would envelop him completely; premonitions of dark things, final things, reflected in Watson's eyes, and it was all Mike could do not to look horrified.
It meant that when John said, "Who would want me as a flat mate?" Mike Stamford knew he meant, "I need to meet Sherlock Holmes." Or, at least, he should have meant that; he might as well have, as clearly as Mike knew it just then. The thought of it swelled and burst in Stamford's chest and he laughed; the image, for whatever reason, was euphoric.
Yes, it was a long shot, maybe, but then all good things were, and despite his demeanor Mike did not often doubt his hunches. He had no reason to now: Watson and Holmes fit like perfect puzzle pieces, sliding into one another's lives like they'd been there all along. Sherlock let John into his life, made him whole again and in return, John gave Sherlock enough love to make up for all the years Sherlock went without it. Perhaps claiming it as perfect would be arrogant, rude even, but if there were ever something so rightfully claimed it would be this; there are not many matches for such men, after all.
Mike Stamford never receives a thank you for bringing them together, but that's OK. The wedding invitation was close enough.
Reviews would be glorious.