Chapter 8

22 June, 19:45 Central Africa Time Zone

Gafunzo Project dig site, Gafunzo, Rwanda

If asked, Sherlock Holmes would deny ever entertaining the idea of romantic or sentimental notions, let alone actually ever having experienced them. He fervently believed that those sorts of ideas were a sign of weakness and led to nothing of purpose. It was fine for others; those who could afford to sacrifice their sanity and logical reasoning were welcome to wallow around in the torment, uncertainty, and inevitable misery that accompanied so-called "love." But Sherlock had survived thirty-three years on this celestial ball without forming any sort of emotional attachment, and he was certain he could go another forty-six (give or take a few years off the average life expectancy of a male living in Great Britain) in the same unencumbered state.

What was the point, honestly? What did attaching oneself to a single individual to whom you become emotionally dependant achieve? In a similar vein, Sherlock would also scoff at the suggestion of having a confidant or a friend that he shared his thoughts with. His brain was a machine, pragmatic and methodical, and could be relied upon to process information, suss out problems in a logical pattern, and return to him the answers to his queries, emotional or otherwise. Why would he need a friend, an unpredictable variable, in his life, especially if one was not given to these aforementioned emotions or sentiments?

He had been struggling for the past three days, walking around in a stupor and going through the motions of working. As each day had passed, his mood had sunk deeper and deeper. He knew that his co-workers were avoiding him - his snapping outburst at Lincoln earlier that morning in the dining tent had been inadvisable. He had spent the remainder of the day in the research tent, sequestering himself and his restless melancholy. Currently, he was meant to be comparing the remains of two young males he had excavated the previous week. In reality, twenty minutes had passed without him doing more than staring off into space and chewing on his biro, as he was want to do when deep in thought (the trouble with this was that he often ended up with a mouthful of blue ink). There was a noise outside the tent and Sherlock returned to the moment with a start, looking down at the notes he had made in his field notebook. It was all gibberish, incorrect calculations and useless details. This put him even deeper into his foul mood and he threw his pen across the tent in anger. Seeing the futility of continuing to try and work, he gathered up his things, shoving them haphazardly into his cupboard, and stormed out of the tent. He needed some fresh air and a place to sit quietly, so he struck out in the direction of a rocky outcrop that he had come to regard as his thinking place.

The mere fact that he couldn't concentrate, couldn't focus on the work that was meant to define him, was infuriating. The machine that was his mind fed off facts, processed evidence, and churned out deductions. He felt as though a gear or pin was out of balance in the assembly and all it was producing now was sooty smoke and an awful clunking noise. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and ring finger, massaging his tear ducts. A headache had been brewing all day and his temper was simmering near the surface. As he headed away from camp, he passed several of the others on their way from the dig site towards the dining tent for dinner. They called out to him, but he ignored them, desperate for some isolation and peace. He arrived at the cluster of craggy rocks and sank down to the ground, his back to one particularly uncomfortable boulder. He let his eyes fall closed and listened to the wind rushing down the nearby mountain.

Sherlock knew what the problem was, or part of the problem, at least. That Bloody Kiss. He was so ashamed to have let himself get swept up in the moment, letting his judgment be coloured by such base emotions as lust and desire for this gentle doctor. Sherlock Holmes, M. Sc., Ph.D., is not governed by anything other than facts and logic. But ever since he had met John Watson, he had been struggling to comprehend his feelings and make sense of them. Perhaps he should start by establishing why it was that this particular person - this singular man - what it was about him that caused this reaction in Sherlock. Yes, Sherlock nodded to himself. Tackle this problem using logic. Deduce the facts, process evidence, and find the answer.

He had already arrived at many conclusions about John Watson. John was the sort who needed to feel useful, hence the military service and now NGO work. The two careers had other things in common as well: they both attracted adventurers, risk-seekers, and people who didn't shy away from a little bit of danger. John's career as a trauma surgeon further supported the hypothesis that he was a bit of an adrenaline junkie; that was not the career of a timid person. He had served in Afghanistan longer than any compulsory period. There was clearly some reason he had stayed, and then a reason that had caused him to leave. Was it duty to queen and country? Loyalty to commanding officers? Or someone else?

John was also a gentle soul. Sherlock had not been an easy patient to manage, and yet John had treated him with far more care than Sherlock had deserved. He had seen John with a few other patients and saw how calm and careful he was with each of them. It was also clear that he had earned the respect of the rest of the hospital staff. In a simple word, John Watson was a good man. He was a loyal man, a risk taker, and a nurturer. Did any of this explain Sherlock's reaction to John? Sherlock was not usually one to put words to feelings. How would he describe the way he had been feeling since he met John? He was ready to tear his hair out in frustration. Christ. How do regular people live like this?

"Sherlock!" Molly's voice rang out as she came into view across the rocks. "There you are! What are you doing up here?"

"Seeking some peace and quiet, if you can imagine," he bit out. She really did have an impeccable habit of turning up when he least wanted to see her.

"Oh," she said. Not to be deterred, she drew up next to him, with her hands on her hips, and looked down at him on the ground. "Did you eat yet?"

"Not hungry," he said sullenly.

"Well you should eat anyway."

"Hmph."

Molly settled on the ground next to him, sharing his rocky backrest. "Budge over, Sherlock." They sat in silence for several minutes, each lost in their own thoughts, and listening to the wind swirl around them. Sherlock could tell she was waiting for him to speak first, but hang it - he was entitled to his privacy. The silence stretched on, he became restless and shifted uneasily. Finally, he sighed heavily.

"What do you want, Molly?"

"Me? I don't want anything," she responded, all casual innocence.

"Everybody wants something."

"I just thought you might like someone to talk to. You've been in such a strop the last few days."

"I'm fine. It's all fine," said Sherlock, darkly. He didn't care if she believed him or not. He was fine. Just a bit of a mental malfunction that he needed to sort out and he would be right as rain again.

"All right. Well if you change your mind, I'm here if you need to talk." She didn't move and they continued to sit there. Darkness was beginning to fall gradually around them, but the lights from camp were close enough for comfort. Once again, the wind was the only noise. Every so often, when the wind shifted, Sherlock could hear conversation from camp drift across to where they sat. Minutes ticked by.

"How do you do it?" he asked quietly.

"Do what?" Molly asked, without surprise or hesitation.

"Live with all the feelings?"

Molly looked askance at him. "Live with feelings? Well I suppose I do it the same way all the rest of us mere mortals do, Sherlock."

"How do you stop them from affecting your judgement and decision making?" His voice was small, almost as if he were afraid of giving voice to his thoughts.

"I'm not sure we're meant to. I would say that's what they're for. How do you make decisions if not by gut feelings?"

"Logic. Facts. Rational thinking?" His tone implied that this was quite obvious and that Molly was dense for not seeing so.

"Those are all well and good, Sherlock, but isn't that a bit robotic? What do you do when your emotions are leading you in direction different from the logical one? A direction that differs from the facts?"

"Ignore them. I generally believe that sentiment and emotion is an unreliable metric with which to measure actions."

Molly stared at him in disbelief. "So you ignore them?" Sherlock nodded. Molly continued to stare at him, then narrowed her eyes in suspicion. "What's this all about?"

Sherlock avoided her gaze. "I am merely speaking in hypotheticals."

"Bullshit, Sherlock." Molly's eyes continued to study him, as if she could suss out the truth somewhere on his person. Then suddenly, her eyes widened and he heard her quick intake of breath. "This is about that doctor bloke! John Whatsit!"

"Watson. John Watson," corrected Sherlock miserably.

"Ah ha!" she laughed gleefully and clapped her hands once. "I knew it! You see! You're not the only one with deduction skills."

"Yes, yes, you're bloody brilliant, Molly." He shifted away from her as though he could avoid this conversation by turning his back to her.

"Oh, Sherlock! How does it feel to be mortal? To know you're not above having a feeling heart?"

"It feels horrible, and I thank you very much for not spreading it around that I've become some mooning adolescent. Oh do pull yourself together, Dr. Hooper!" he berated as Molly continued to cackle, nearly rolling on the ground in mirth.

"The iceman has a heart!"

"That's quite enough!" he shouted. Molly seemed to regain control of herself, letting out one last hiccup of laughter.

"So what's the problem then? Do you like him? Or is this just a physical thing?"

"That is most assuredly none of your business."

"Sherlock, if this is the cause of your foul mood this past week, then why not talk to someone about it? I promise," she drew her index finger across her chest in an X. "I won't laugh anymore. Nor will I tell anyone. I am the soul of discretion." She looked at him earnestly.

Sherlock worried his bottom lip between his teeth, his instinct warring with desperation. He was not one to confide in others. Embarrassment to even find himself in this situation igniting every instinct of self-preservation. On the other hand, he often found that talking out loud helped him process his thoughts better. He had a skull back home in his flat that he often exercised his dilemmas through, but he supposed Molly was the next best thing.

"All right," he acquiesced. "I'm not...I'm not sure where to begin?"

"Well to start with, what's got you in such a mood?"

"As I said earlier, I don't usually indulge in sentiment. I suppose that is what I'm feeling at the present moment. This aberration is frustrating and perplexing. It's distracting me from my work, which is exactly why I try to avoid it."

"So you do like him? It's more than just a physical attraction?"

"I don't know!" Sherlock drew his knees up towards his chest, wrapping his arms around them and grasping his elbows. The posture was positively adolescent. "The amount of time we've spent together could be measured in hours. How is it possible to articulate or trust feelings that have been formed in such a short amount of time?"

"Well what does your gut tell you? Do you just want to shag him? Or do you want to spend time with him? Talk to him? Learn more about who he is as a man?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. What did he want? He knew that the short amount of time he had spent in John's company had been easy, disarming, and enjoyable. He wanted to know more about John - not just the things that Sherlock was able to deduce, but more. "I suppose that I would enjoy pursuing a personal relationship with him."

Molly, somewhat successfully, stifled a laugh. "Well be sure you phrase it just like that when you declare yourself to him."

"Declare myself?"

"Well, yes. Do you just expect him to guess at what you're feeling?"

"Surely it should be obvious."

"Well it might not be."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "So what do I do now? I can't continue on this way," he said, gesturing in the general direction of his head.

"What way?"

"This way. Short tempered, foul mood, unable to focus or concentrate on my work."

"I would start by talking to John. Has he given you any indication that he might return your favour?"

"Mmph," Sherlock snorted. "I dare say." Molly gave him a questioning look. Sherlock cleared his throat, a flush creeping up his neck. "Uh, we had a moment of physical intimacy the other evening."

"You naughty boy!" She crowed and gave Sherlock a playful slap on the arm. "You were holding out on me! Well then...yes. I suppose that does clear a few questions up. So what happened after your...moment?"

"Nothing."

"What do you mean 'nothing'?"

"I mean you came along yelling like a banshee and interrupted us. I came to my senses and we parted ways. I have neither seen nor spoken to John since."

"So you ran off?"

"I suppose one might say that."

"Oh Sherlock," she moaned and hung her head.

"What?"

"So this man kisses you - I assume that he made the first move?" Sherlock nodded "- and you run off without a word into the bloody night?"

"Not good?"

"A bit not good, no."

Sherlock was beginning to lose his patience with this conversation. "So what do I do?"

"You go down there to his hospital and you apologize."

"I seem to be doing a good amount of apologizing to this man," Sherlock grumped under his breath.

"Yes, well it's to be expected to abandon your comfort zone when you're wooing someone."

The blush crept further up his neck, reaching his face and Sherlock clenched his fists. "Sherlock Holmes does not 'woo'," he said, his tight Oxbridge accent became even starchier.

This time, she could not contain her laughter. "Ho boy, you're too rich!" He shot Molly a look. "Haven't you dated other people before?"

"Define 'date'?"

"Been in a committed and mutually beneficial relationship with another person; connecting on both an emotional and physical level?" Molly shook her head as if she couldn't believe she was defining what constitutes as a relationship to a thirty-three year old man.

"I have been in casual partnerships with other people, but no, I wouldn't qualify them as what you just so succinctly described."

"That is both shocking and yet one hundred per cent believable."

"Yes, yes. I am a cynical and emotionally unavailable man who lacks the basic qualities of openness and apathy that are necessary when undertaking a relationship. I believe this has been well established." Sherlock exhaled an annoyed sigh.

"Those are things that you can learn, though. Especially if it's for the right person."

Sherlock mulled that over. Did he want to learn how to make himself vulnerable? To be open with someone like that went against every instinct that he had. Furthermore, there were reasons that he had avoided relationships in the past: work, his career, and the solitary life that he had built for himself. Was he willing to compromise all of that for one man?

23 June, 8:36 Central Africa Time Zone

Kibogora Hospital, Kirambo, Rwanda

The next morning, as Sherlock parked the bicycle that he had borrowed from Lestrade outside the doors of Kibogora Hospital, he thought again that he was about to apologize to the same person for the second time in almost as many weeks. It was, apparently, becoming quite the habit, although he was discovering that it wasn't any easier the second time around. He felt nervous, keyed up, and still a bit short tempered even after his conversation with Molly the previous day. He wasn't quite sure what he was going to say, nor what he hoped the outcome of the conversation would be. He was also unsure of what sort of state of mind he might find John in - Molly had led Sherlock to believe that John might be upset over Sherlock's abandonment and subsequent lack of communication. Sherlock blew out a breath, straightened his shoulders, and pushed open the doors of the hospital.

John was standing with his back to the front doors, leaning over the nurses station, scrawling on a chart. One foot was hooked behind the other, and his right hip was cocked to the side. Sherlock could tell by the way he was standing that it had been a long night shift and that John's back was bothering him. As Sherlock stood there, admiring the strong lines of said back and shoulders, John's hand reached behind him to rub the small of his back through his blue scrub top. Sherlock shook himself - he couldn't stand here admiring John's arse all day.

He stepped up behind John and cleared his throat quietly.

"If you're here to be seen, please sign in on the sheet over there," said John in French, gesturing to the clipboard with his biro without turning around.

"Pardon, but I believe I need to see a doctor," Sherlock smirked; the sense of déjà vu was not lost on him.

John paused in his note writing, but didn't turn around. The shoulders that Sherlock had been regarding seconds ago were suddenly stiff with some mystery emotion.

"Dr. Holmes," John said tightly. "I believe I discharged you from my care a week ago." The barely restrained anger in his voice caused Sherlock to wince.

"John - Dr. Watson - is there somewhere that we might speak - privately?" Sherlock caught the eye of the blonde nurse listening closely on the other side of the desk. At least she had the decency to look a slightly embarrassed.

"Oh so now you want to talk? Now you're interested in having a discussion?" John's voice had ticked up in volume a few decibels.

So perhaps Molly was a bit right about John being upset. "John, -" Sherlock started to say, pitching his voice low and quiet to imbue some calm into the situation. Before he could continue, however, John slammed shut the patient chart he had been working on, pushed it across the desk to the nurse, and turned, storming down the hallway - all without even glancing at Sherlock. Unsure, Sherlock risked a look at the nurse. She gave him a sympathetic look, but twitched her head in John's direction indicating that he should follow.

Sherlock headed after John, hurrying to catch up. John turned into an empty exam room, and as Sherlock shut the door behind them, he turned to look at Sherlock for the first time. He stood at parade rest, regarding Sherlock with a scowl and Sherlock felt his anxiety ratchet up another level. He had a feeling that John was not going to make this apology as easy as the first time and he suddenly had no idea what he was going to say. All the words that he had prepared had flown from his head. His attempts to deduce and read the situation were failing him. John was obviously quite upset, but over what, exactly? What would be the best thing to say to him?

"At ease, soldier," Sherlock joked, hoping a bit of humour might diffuse the tension. John's scowl, however, turned into an almost-snarl.

"What do you want, Sherlock?"

"I was told that you might be in need of another apology from me." John's eyes widened and took on a dangerous glint.

"Oh, fuck off, Sherlock! You came down here to apologize because you were told to? Well Christ, that's just what every bloke wants to hear after he's been left literally holding his dick in his hands. Ta very much for the apology!" John moved to brush past Sherlock and leave the room, but Sherlock stepped to the side to block his way. John drew up short before colliding into Sherlock.

"Look, John. I'm trying my hardest here not to totally botch this - "

"Well try again."

"But I am truly sorry for - "

"What? What are you sorry for?" John's voice had risen to shouting level.

"Will you let me finish?" Sherlock shouted in retort. "I am trying to bloody apologize to you! I am attempting to be emotionally open with you and you...you won't bloody shut up for one minute!" John's mouth shut with an audible click and his expression shifted to a mixture of surprise and fury. Sherlock's breath was coming in quick gasps, as his emotions simmered at the surface of his psyche, like oil in a hot pan. Silence rang loudly in the small, sterile room.

"Now then," Sherlock started with a soft voice. "May we sit down and discuss this as two rational adults in control of their emotions?" He gestured to the gurney as he took a seat on the stool. John sat, their positions reversed from their first meeting. Sherlock braced his hands on his knees and leaned forward.

"John. I am honestly, truly, sorry for running off the other night and subsequently ignoring you. I acknowledge that it was absolutely roguish behaviour and unbefitting of my, uh, of the sentiment that I hold for you."

John was still silent, but the expression on his face shifted again, this time fully from anger to surprise. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out, so he shut it again.

"It's okay," said Sherlock with a hesitant smile. "You can talk now. I won't shout."

"Why? Why did you shut down like that? Do you know how embarrassing that was?" John's voice held a pleading note to it.

Sherlock scuffed his feet and avoided John's gaze. He had hoped to avoid this part, but now he recognized that had been a futile hope. Of course John would want to know not only that Sherlock was sorry, but also why he had left in the first place. He blew out a breath and toed at a spot on the vinyl floor.

"I was ashamed. Embarrassed by my behaviour."

John blanched at that. "Oh god. You mean, you're not gay? Did I totally misjudge the situation? Oh my god, you - "

"No! No. Oh hell. I'm making a total cock up of this," Sherlock sighed, ruffling the thick dark curls on his head. He finally raised his eyes to meet John's beseeching gaze. "I am shite at this - if you haven't noticed. Being emotionally available and open is...hard, to say the least."

John's face relaxed slightly, giving way to a patient, if still cautious expression. He nodded at Sherlock, allowing him to continue when he was ready, uninterrupted.

"The Kiss was lovely. I most assuredly enjoyed it. But you have to understand, John, I'm not the sort of person to get swept up in emotions." Sherlock felt a flush creep up his neck. It was suddenly quite warm in the small hospital exam room. "I wasn't embarrassed by what we were doing. I was embarrassed that I let myself get caught up in the moment and let it get out of hand."

"Are you regretting that it happened?"

"Was it enjoyable? Absolutely. Was it advisable? Perhaps not." Sherlock maintained John's eye contact. What was John thinking? Did he regret The Kiss? Did he want to do it again? Did Sherlock want to do it again?

"So you liked it?" John's face broke into a slow smile - an expression that made Sherlock's stomach do loops. He rolled his eyes.

"Smug doesn't look good on you, John."

"I rather think a little gloating on my part is allowed." Sherlock's blush deepened to a most unflattering amaranth colour. "But let me get this straight," John continued. "You were embarrassed that you enjoyed yourself?"

"More that I allowed myself to get lost in the moment and let things progress so far. I am not usually susceptible to sentiments like lust."

John merely rolled his eyes. "Let me guess, when you go to bed with someone, it's usually a calculated and well planned move?"

"What is so wrong with that?" Sherlock threw up his hands in frustration. First Molly and now John was questioning his romantic (if you could call it that) methodology. "When you approach such interpersonal relationships with a logical plan, I find that the involved parties are more likely to achieve the desired outcomes."

"Wow. It's a wonder you're single, Sherlock." John said, dryly.

"My relationship status has always been by my own choosing," said Sherlock defensively.

"Okay, fine." John raised his hands in acquiescence. He shifted uncomfortably on the gurney, the paper sheet crinkling under him. "But where does this leave us?"

Sherlock felt equally as uncomfortable. He focused on John, attempting to glean some idea of what would be the correct answer to this. "I don't know," he answered truthfully.

"It's obvious there is some attraction here between us," said John, gesturing between himself and Sherlock. "But I think we can agree that these aren't ideal circumstances to be starting up a new relationship?" His left foot jiggled where it hung just above the floor. Sherlock watched it, realizing that John was nervous of how Sherlock would respond.

Truthfully, Sherlock was disappointed. Just as he had told Molly, he enjoyed spending time with John. However, John was right; something inside Sherlock told him that it would be a waste of something potentially great to pursue this now.

"I do agree. We barely know each other, and I'll be heading back to London for the Fall Term in just a few weeks - "

"Exactly," John visibly exhaled. "Maybe when we're both back in London…" he trailed off and shook his head. He looked speculatively at Sherlock.

"What?"

"Do you believe in fate?"

Sherlock snorted. "Amor fati. Fatalism is a sound logical argument that I have accepted. But I have a suspicion that is not precisely what you are referring to."

"No. I'm not talking about some Nietzschean construct here. I'm talking about two people meeting purely by chance, as if by some predestination," John caught Sherlock's exaggerated eye roll but ignored it and looked down at his hands, clasped in his lap. "Look. All I'm saying is if something is meant to happen, whether it happens right now or in six months, it'll happen."

"You don't think that's putting the cart before the horse?" asked Sherlock. It felt like a lot of pressure to place on a relationship that didn't even exist yet.

"Not necessarily. I'm not making you sign a contract or anything. We're just agreeing not to enter into anything now. When we're both back in London, if things haven't changed, we'll just see what happens."

"And in the meantime?"

"And in the meantime, we'll be friends."

Sherlock stared. "Friends? I...I don't, I uh...I don't really-"

"You do have friends, right?"

"I have co-workers, family, acquaintances, but no, there is no one I would call a friend."

"Well then, Sherlock Holmes, I am glad to be your first friend," said John, smiling and eyes sparkling. He stuck out his hand to Sherlock. Sherlock took his hand, shook it, and found he didn't want to let go.