Chapter 6

16 June, 13:25 Central Africa Time Zone

Gafunso Project dig site, Gafunso, Rwanda

Sweat dripped down Sherlock's back, running under the bandana tied around his neck. He reached up and swiped at his forehead with the back of his hand. It was an exceptionally hot day, the hottest they had experienced since arriving in Rwanda three weeks ago. The sunshade strung up over the dig site was blocking out the mid-afternoon sun, but the heat was near unbearable.

He was making sketches of the site as it was laid out before him, his pencil strokes strong and sure. In his mind's eye he had begun to recreate the scene of chaos, murder, and death that had led up to the resulting gravesite he was standing in. He usually preferred not to give too much thought to the faces and lives of the remains he worked on, but being so immersed in this project had made his normal detachment near impossible. He was finding it hard to ignore the scenes of panic and fright that were edging into his dreams at night. He woke up with the imagined faces of the nameless victims floating in his head.

The team had continued to excavate without him, as he was on doctors orders to limit the amount of bending and stretching he did. He had restricted most of his work to data collection on the remains that had been removed to the research tent over in camp. He detested relying on the other researchers for the digging. But the wound in his leg seemed to be healing, even though the sutures itched like the devil himself and the healing skin felt tight.

"Wotcher, Sherlock!" a voice called out above him, startling him out of morbid reverie. Molly was gently making her way into the shallow cut made by the archaeologists. "How goes it?"

"Just making some preliminary sketches before we start excavating the next level."

"Mmm. Are you anxious to be able to start helping with the excavation?" she gestured to his leg.

"I'm anxious to take back the reins on my research. I don't trust anyone to do my work for me," he said gruffly. Molly pursued her lips into a tight line.

"We're all doing our best here, Sherlock. Everyone cares about this work and is doing all they can to help you out." He made a hmph-ing noise in his throat. "A 'thank you' to the team wouldn't go amiss, you know?"

Sherlock turned to face her, an insincere and mocking smile plastered to his face. "Thank you, Dr. Hooper, for not bunging up my work."

"Don't mention it." After spending several weeks now with him, Molly seemed willing to overlook his typically rude behavior. He knew, however, that some members of the team were not as forgiving. There was a fair amount of grumbling, but they seemed to grudgingly put up with him. He was not shy to say that he was a brilliant asset to the team, as much as they would like to deny it.

"So, how is your leg?"

"Fine."

"When do you head back to the hospital to have the sutures removed?"

"Day after tomorrow."

"Will Dr. Watson be there to take them out?"

"How should I know?" Sherlock kicked a bit at the dirt.

"He was quite handsome, wouldn't you say?" asked Molly, adopting an air of casualness.

"If you're asking me to comment on his objective level of attractiveness, it hardly seems relevant to his skills as a physician. But yes, the man possessed all of the necessary attributes to qualify as instinctually 'attractive,'" he made air quotes around the word. "His facial features were proportional and symmetrical. His eyes were a rich color of blue, which is inherently attractive due to its overall rareness in humans. He was physically fit, demonstrating his ability to fight off predators and flee from danger. He had a respectable amount of hair on his head, and his hands were strong and able, again, appealing on an evolutionary level." He paused in his analysis, looking down at Molly. "However, given your tone, I'm assuming you're fishing for my personal opinion, and not an academic one. I'm afraid, Dr. Hooper, I won't be falling for your trap."

"Oh, but you already have, Dr. Holmes, in your own way," she laughed. "I suppose you were your usual charming self with him?"

"Why should I have been charming? The man was sewing up my flesh with a rather sharp needle."

"Sherlock, you just as well as admitted you found him attractive. Why not put a bit of effort into being more friendly when you see him again?"

"What would come of that?"

"Do you like him?"

"What's with all these questions? Are you trying to fix me up?" he looked at her suspiciously.

"I suspect you might be a lot nicer to work with if you were shagging someone." Sherlock gaped at her. "You could at least try flirting with him and see what happens. He might be interested."

"That's doubtful. I was quite rude to him."

"All the more reason to try and be more friendly when you see him again. Chat him up a bit."

Sherlock shook his head. "This is ridiculous. You have no way of knowing what affect sex would have on my personality."

"Well it certainly can't make you any more of a prat than you already are."

"Just because you and nearly everyone else on this dig project has paired up like bloody animals on Noah's ark, doesn't mean that I also need to find a sexual partner." Now it was Molly's turn to gape. "Oh yes, I may not be a Casanova, but I observe, Molly, and the sexual tension on this site is thick enough to cut with a plastic butter knife. My sex life is none of anyone's business, least of all yours." He climbed out of the excavation site and started to stomp off towards camp. She hurried to catch up with him.

"I'm sorry if I've presumed too much—if I've insulted you. I had just assumed you were…"

"I was what, exactly?"

"You know...gay."

"This societal need to label a person's sexuality is inane," he said. "But that's not the issue here. I hate having my private affairs poked at. I'm a private person and prefer to keep it that way. You all may be willing to have your private lives bandied about like some ridiculous reality show on telly, but I am not."

"So you are then?"

"Am what?"

"Gay," Molly said, exasperated at having to repeat herself.

"Did you not just hear me tell you that I'd rather not discuss it?"

"If you are, that's fine. My aunt and her partner are gay and live in Portland, in the States."

"Well bully for them."

"It's just, it would be totally fine if you were gay."

"I know that." Molly said nothing, her eyes fixed on him as they continued to amble back towards camp. The silence was deafening, as she appeared to be waiting for him to speak. He exhaled an exasperated sigh. "I really would rather drop this line of questioning, Molly. I am not ashamed of my sexuality, and I do not judge you or anyone else for seeking comfort when we're taking on this emotionally taxing work during the day. But, for the last time, I'd prefer to be left out of the gossip pool." She nodded, accepting this, and began to talk about her research, obviously looking for a safer, more neutral topic of conversation.

He had told the truth, that he wasn't ashamed of his sexuality. But what he wouldn't admit to anyone else was that he was confused by it. He had been with both male and female partners, though the number of each was quite small. The experiences had all been enlightening and moderately satisfying, but he still couldn't see what all the fuss was about. It was his observation that the human race was entirely too caught up in sex and the pursuit of it. In the first few experiences he had, he had been upfront with his partners, letting them know that he wasn't looking for a relationship. He had been in the midst of his graduate studies and had thought it might be about time to try it out. But inevitably, after several weeks of physical encounters, his partners started pushing more and more to spend time together, connect on an emotional level, something he simply did not have the time nor the inclination. He had tried to explain that his research was the most important thing to him, and while they all seemed like nice, rational people, each one of them had ended the encounters when he had refused to make himself emotionally available to them.

After finishing his PhD, Sherlock had tried again. A few times, he met people at a university mixer or some other social event, chat with them for a bit, and then went home with them. Two of those times, he allowed himself to be drawn into what could, objectively, be called a relationship, but usually around week six, he grew bored and ended it. He didn't know if it was a lack of physical compatibility or if he had simply not found anyone with whom he connected with on a personal level. Either way, he had quit seeking it out. He put no stock on the conventional idea of "fate," but he thought that if he were meant to be in a committed relationship with another person, man or woman, he would know them when they were presented to him. Sherlock wasn't willing to place himself on the Kinsey scale; he hated labels. What he would admit was that he had, at one time or another, been physically attracted to both men and women, and that he had engaged in intimate relations with both.

During his musings, they had arrived back at camp. Molly headed off in the direction of the larger tent that served as the de facto common room and dining area. Sherlock, needing to clear his head, opted to head to the tent that held the recently excavated remains. He wanted to conduct some more analysis on one particular set of bones that had been extracted from the site. He felt keyed up after his conversation with Molly, and he knew that work would be one of the only things that would calm his mind. He only hoped the tent would be empty.

Fortunately it was, and he pulled his notebooks, kit, and a box of gloves from the cubby labeled with his name. The sun had sunk halfway down the sky on its descent to the horizon, but he would still have a couple hours to work before he would have to switch on the generator that powered the utility lights in the tent. He pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves, flipped open his field notebook, and settled in to work.

It was an hour later, when he felt a tingling sensation on the back of his neck. He paused in his examination of a series of cracked rib bones and reached up the rub at the prickling skin. Behind him came the sound of someone clearing their throat.

"Ahem," and Sherlock turned to find Dr. John Watson standing in the open flap of the tent's entrance, shifting nervously. "All right? Sorry to interrupt. They said I would find you here. You seemed pretty caught up in your…" he trailed off, but gestured to the bones lying on the table. Sherlock wasn't sure how to react to the doctor's surprising appearance in his research tent. He defaulted to sarcasm.

"I didn't realize you made house calls, Dr. Watson."

"I don't, typically. But I was in the neighbourhood, so I thought I'd pop by and see how your leg was fairing."

"You were in the neighbourhood?" Sherlock arched an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Well, in a manner of speaking."

"I see." They regarded each other across the tent. Sherlock suddenly felt very uncomfortable and he wasn't sure why. His conversation with Molly earlier was looping in his mind and he suddenly found, uncharacteristically, himself formulating an apology for his behavior during their first meeting.

"Dr. Watson, I should probably apol—"

"So, Dr. Holmes, how's your research—" they had spoken at the same time, their words tumbling over each other. They paused, and Dr. Watson smiled awkwardly at him.

"Please, call me John—"

"You can call me Sherl—" once again their words rushing over one another.

"You first," said Sherlock.

"Oh. I was just going to ask you how your research was going."

"Uh. Well," he nodded absently. "Yeah, very well. We excavated the top level and exhumed three complete remains from the site. I've been working with this fellow here, seems he put up a bit of a fight. There are some cracked ribs here, and several broken metacarpals here on his right hand. There are also a few older, healed fractures in his radius and ulna, right here, indicating that he had been in a few scrapes years before his death. It helps to identify the body, if you can piece together their back-story. We would like to be able to contact his family, if we can figure out who he is and then find them." He was rambling, going on like a bloody ninny, and he knew it. He never rambled. But John seemed interested, leaning over the table and looking where he had indicated. A faint scent of clean sweat, dusty earth, and ethanol wafted up, catching Sherlock in the nose. He found himself wanting to lean forward and catch more of it.

"Were you out seeing patients this afternoon?" Sherlock asked. John stood up and looked surprised.

"I was, in fact. How did you know that?"

"You smell."

"Pardon?" John lifted an arm and took an exploratory sniff at his underneath.

"You smell like you've been walking outside most of the day - like the out of doors. There's also a trace of ethanol and latex, from your gloves, I expect."

"Oh," John said, visibly relaxing.

"It's a pleasant smell," Sherlock affirmed.

"Well, thanks? I suppose?" Sherlock shrugged. "But yes, I was out visiting the nearby villages. Not everyone is able to make the trip to the hospital, so the doctors take turns doing weekly rounds to check on things, administer minor care, or make arrangements for them to come down to the hospital for more involved cases."

"So you really were in the neighbourhood, then."

"I was," said John. "I was finished with my rounds, and realized I wasn't too far from where I had heard your camp was. I figured I'd come by and check on your leg."

"But I'm coming to the hospital the day after tomorrow to have my stitches removed," said Sherlock, puzzled. "Why stop by when you were going to see me in two days?"

"I…" John flushed visibly. "I was in the neighbourhood," he finished lamely.

"So you've said," Sherlock persisted. John huffed a breath in annoyance.

"Well, sorry for bothering you, Sherlock. Just come by in a couple days, like planned, and I'll see you then, all right?" he turned and left the tent, stalking off into early evening sun. Sherlock gritted his teeth. So much for being nicer he thought and mentally kicked himself. He hurriedly shoved his notebooks and kit back in his cupboard and rushed out of the tent after him.

"John! Hold up!" He was standing beside a rather beat up looking bicycle, strapping his bag onto the rack behind the seat. Sherlock jogged over to him, wincing at the slight pain in his leg.

"You shouldn't be running on that leg."

"Wait, John. I'm sorry. Thank you for coming by to check on me-on my leg."

"Mmm," he hummed a noncommittal noise, but had ceased preparations to leave.

"I'm sure you're thirsty? Would you like some tea? We have some in the dining tent. The light should be good in there, if you still want to look at my sutures. My leg feels fine, but if you want to look at it, you can." Rambling again.

"All right," he said, unhooking his bag from the bicycle. Sherlock led him into the large dining tent and gestured at the few tables lined up there. "I'll go fix us some tea then?"

When Sherlock had sorted out two cups, he carried them over to the empty table John was seated at. Nate and Lincoln were seated a table away, but otherwise, the tent was empty. He set the cups and saucers down on the table and sat down next to John.

"So…" Sherlock cast about for something friendly to say. "Were you busy today? A lot of patients?"

"Just the usual lot. A few cuts and bruises. There were a couple new cases of cholera, but I had to send them down to the hospital to be treated. Not much I can do for them in their home." He took a sip of his tea and immediately grimaced, visibly swallowing. "Ugh! This tea is downright awful. This is, tea, isn't it?"

"Yes of course it's tea. What's wrong with it?"

"It's just...not good." Adjectives for just how bad it was seemed to fail John at the moment. "You taste it." Sherlock sipped from his own cup and shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't taste anything wrong." John grabbed the cup in front of Sherlock and took a small sip.

"No. That's bloody awful," he grimaced again, this time adding a shudder. "Do you have taste buds, Sherlock?"

Sherlock stiffened. "I do. And they're in perfect working order, I assure you."

John suddenly looked suspicious. "How's your cooking?"

"I don't."

"You don't, what? You don't cook?"

"Not as such, no," he looked embarrassed.

"Well what do you eat?"

"A lot of takeaway, I guess. Here, in the field, it's mostly MREs. I can handle boiling water, John," he said when John looked at him dubiously and then pointedly down at their quickly cooling cups of tea. "I can!"

"Hmmm. Well something else in the process seems to have gone awry then. Where's your kettle?" Sherlock indicated to the far corner where a small table was set up with an electric kettle, a large jug of potable water, a selection of tea bags, and a stack of cups and saucers.

Minutes later, John returned with two further cups of tea, setting one in front of Sherlock, who took a cautious sip. Tasting no discernable difference between that and the first cup, he shrugged. John threw up his hands in frustration.

"Maybe you should have your taste buds checked out," he said, sipping from his own cup. He nodded in satisfaction. "Much better. I cannot believe you can't make a proper cuppa."

"No one's complained before," he grumped. "Besides, what I lack in tea making skills, I assure you I make up for in other ways." Too late, he realised the double entendre and blushed. John laughed, nervously. For a minute they sat, sipping their new tea, in awkward silence.

"Well," said John, finally. "Let's have a look at that leg. Shift up here and stretch it out on the bench. Roll up your trouser leg too, if you don't mind." Sherlock tucked up his trouser, revealing the bandage on his calf. He positioned himself sideways on the bench, reclining back on his hands and stretching his leg out in front of him. John extracted a pair of gloves from his bag and pulled them on. He knelt on the ground, his head level with Sherlock's right hip. Gingerly, he peeled back the medical tape that held the gauze bandage in place.

"Looks good. It's healing well. I'll definitely be able to take these out in two days." He gently probed the flesh of Sherlock's leg, inspecting the wound. Even through the latex, his fingers were warm and sturdy, the touch tender. Sherlock relaxed into the sensation of the strong fingers stroking his calf. All too soon, he was pulling his hands away and pulling a fresh bandage from his bag. After covering the sutures, John tugged off his gloves, tossing them back in the bag. Then, with his bare hands, he reached up and unrolled his trouser, his fingers inadvertently grazing the skin behind Sherlock's right knee. Sherlock jerked at the touch, startled by the physical connection.

"Sorry," John said, smoothing the fabric as he unrolled. The look on his face was neutral and betrayed nothing.

Sherlock was suddenly seized by an impulse. He pulled his leg away and sat up. "No, John. I'm sorry," he said. John looked up at him, confusion clear on his face.

"About what?"

"For my behavior last week, in the hospital," he looked down at his hands. Now that he had begun the apology, he found he was quite nervous and unsure of what to say. This was not something he was well acquainted with. "I'm sorry that I was rude and insulting. It was uncouth and boorish of me. I appreciate that you helped me, and I showed it by behaving poorly." John seemed stunned into silence. He knelt there, his hands resting in his lap, gawping up at Sherlock.

"Oh," he said, finally recovering. "Uh, no worries. It's fine. I've gotten worse." Sherlock blew out a breath that he didn't know he had holding. There was another stretch of awkward silence. He cast around for something else to say.

"I probably should—"

"It's starting to get dark—" They spoke over each other, again. John looked at his watch and gathering up his bag.

"I probably should head back to the hospital. It's not a great idea to be on the road after dark."

"Right. Well I'll be in the day after tomorrow. So I'll, uh, see you then?"

"Yeah. See you then," and John was off.

Sherlock lay awake in his tent, staring up at the fabric ceiling. The time spent with John that afternoon had given him quite a bit to ponder. The physical attraction was something that could not be denied. The shock of feeling John's fingers brush against his skin as he tended to him was...well...shocking. He wasn't sure what to do with those feelings; attraction to another person was something he only had noticed peripherally before. In all of his previous relationships, if it existed, he considered it an added bonus. But this was vastly different. It was visceral, his reaction to John's touch. He was unsure what do with all of this, so he mentally pushed it aside, resolving to assess it a later time.

The second thing he was battling with was how at ease he had felt in John's presence. There had certainly been a few awkward moments, but even in those, he had felt more comfortable than he had ever before. He was not someone who felt comfortable around people; frankly, he preferred to avoid any unnecessary interactions. He didn't know what to make of this.

He rolled over on his cot, tucking the second batch of thoughts away for later. As his mind settled, finally empty, he started to slip into sleep. Before he did, however, one final thought drifted across his half-conscious mind. He thought that, perhaps, he was looking forward to his hospital visit.