Chapter 9
13 July, 16:56 Central Africa Time Zone
Kibogora Hospital, Kirambo, Rwanda
Over the weeks following their agreement to become friends, John and Sherlock saw each other nearly every day; mostly over food, cups of tea (brewed by John) or long walks. Depending on John's schedule at the hospital, he would ride his bicycle up to the dig site to have lunch with Sherlock and the research team. He enjoyed the company of the researchers and took a miniscule amount of pleasure watching Sherlock struggle through interacting with people. Call him a sadist, but John liked to watch the man squirm a little bit.
John couldn't help but notice of the difference in Sherlock when they spent time alone. Around others, Sherlock appeared bored, listless, and fidgety. He had a low tolerance for soliloquizing (though Christ knows he did enough of it himself) and when he did do more than sit there silently brooding and offering an eye roll, he was a terrible judge of his audience, either speaking at length about some topic only of interest to him, or saying wildly inappropriate things that either affronted or embarrassed. John was unsure how to interpret Sherlock's change in character when they were alone. Sherlock enjoyed (or at least pretended to) lingering over tea and talking, sometimes for more than an hour at a time. The eye rolling was usually kept to a minimum of once every twenty minutes (John was counting his blessings on this one) and sometimes he allowed John to speak for a full five minutes without interruption. In the weeks since they had established their friendship, they had spent countless hours talking about everything and absolutely nothing at all; swapping childhood stories (5-year old John's imaginary friend Frankie; Sherlock's first fist fight at age nine over a pair of pinched roller skates), favourite telly shows (John: I Love Lucy and Fawlty Towers; Sherlock: anything with David Attenborough) and foods (John: roast chicken and Black Forest Cake; Sherlock: anything that came in a takeaway container), celebrity crushes (John: Daniel Craig and Scarlett Johansson; Sherlock: "I refuse to dignify that question with a response."), and dream holidays (John: Fiji; Sherlock: Montréal).
On this particular day, Sherlock had finished up his research, bicycled down to the hospital, and sat patiently in the hospital waiting room while John to finished up his shift. Dropping off the last of his charts at the nurses station, John came to Sherlock, stripping off his white coat as he did.
"All right? You haven't been waiting long, I hope?"
"Not too long, just a few minutes. Gave me a chance to catch up."
"On what, exactly?" John asked. Sherlock sat on a metal folding chair, empty hands clasped loosely in his lap, his long legs stretch out in front of him casually.
"I had some mental filing to do," Sherlock tapped his right temple with his pointer finger. "It gets crowded up here and if I don't organize, I can never find anything when I need it." His hand dropped back in his lap as he looked up at John with a completely straight face.
"Right," said John slowly, an amused grin playing across his face. "Well let me just change out of my scrubs and I'll be ready to go in a jiff. You okay to wait another minute or two?"
Sherlock waved him away with a dismissive gesture and John headed into the staff lounge. Three minutes later he returned to the waiting area, dressed in a short sleeve, plaid oxford shirt, khaki shorts, and his trainers.
"Ready?"
"Ready," replied Sherlock, standing and following John out the main hospital doors. They stopped just outside, John breathing in the fresh air. He hadn't been outside since his walk from his room this morning—over ten hours ago.
"Where to today?" he asked, shading his eyes against as he looked up at Sherlock. "Your pick."
"Let's walk down to Kivu. Shouldn't be too many midges at this time of the evening."
"All right," said John and they set off.
On the days when John worked through lunch, this had become their habit: a pre-meal walk followed by dinner in the hospital canteen before Sherlock trekked back up to camp. Usually they alternated choosing the destination, and John had noticed Sherlock's predilection for Lake Kivu, which lay less than a kilometre to the west of the hospital. It was an easy walk, staying on the roads that wandered through the village of Kirambo. It was slow going though; John liked to stop and chat with the villagers they passed. He had been in Kirambo now for almost eight months and recognized most everyone, at least by sight. Former patients and family members liked to stop John, and with the limited amount of Kinyarwanda that he knew, he was able to have short conversations. John could tell that it made Sherlock uncomfortable, all of the strangers, but he never complained. John had introduced him to much of the village on their first few walks to the lake. Sherlock never said much, though John had a hunch that even after just a couple months in country, he had as good a grasp on Rawandan as John did.
As they walked the dirt paths of Kirambo, people waved at them from doorways and children ran up to John to shake his hand, something they seemed to find eternally amusing. This was something John had come to find that he loved. Serving at Camp Bastion, John's patients were soldiers only—he had had no interaction with any Afghanis and had only picked up a word or two of Pashto over the years that he served. He had never expected to enjoy being a part of the community, something that was undeniably true here in Kirambo. The community of soldiers he served at Camp Bastion, while a different sort, was as much a community as the people who smiled up at him now. As he and Sherlock continued to move through the village, John realized that this was something that he knew he would long for no matter what direction his career took next. To feel not only as though he were making a difference, but also knowing that his patients valued his contribution in the community.
John had never been one to do much planning for the future. He had jumped into the RAMC figuring he would serve until he was done. Matt's death had unequivocally brought an end to that phase of his life, but it was only when he stepped off the plane at Brize Norton, that he realized he would have to figure out something to do with the rest of it. Again, he had given no thought to his life after the WHO, a job that he figured he'd continue to do until he was through with it, for whatever reason. Lately though, he had begun to think more about life after Rwanda. He could apply for a transfer and work somewhere else besides Rwanda, but that would still keep him out of the UK. He could leave the WHO altogether and find something in London, an idea that held more appeal to him now than it had two months ago.
It was pointless to deny that he was making plans for his future with consideration to the man walking beside him now. John and Sherlock had not spoken again about their non-relationship or its future since their conversation in the exam room three weeks ago. John wasn't sure where this was going, but he did know that he had already begun looking forward to returning home to London for his holiday break. At that point, he expected he had better have some idea of what he wanted out of his life, both in terms of his career and his personal life.
They had finally come to the edge of Kirambo, and the water of Lake Kivu sparkled beckoningly through the trees. As the children fell back and returned to their mothers calling them for dinner, John saw Sherlock relax beside him. John gave a quiet chuckle at his expense and Sherlock caught his eye, aware that he was being laughed at.
"Your adoring fans finally gave it up, I suppose," Sherlock scowled, craning his head around to watch the retreating children.
"Oh hush," said John laughing. "They're just excitable kids." Sherlock made a grumph-ing noise in his throat and John elbowed him chidingly. They broke through the treeline at the edge of the lake and headed down to what John had come to think of as "their" spot: a large tree that had fallen out of the woods, balanced on the muddy bank of the lake, and hung out three metres or so above the water of the lake. John carefully followed Sherlock out onto the log until they were clear of the bank and directly above the water. They settled on the log, it's wood smooth under them. John carefully unlaced his trainers, pulled off his socks, and set the shoes next to him, swinging his bare feet as he did so. Sherlock's boots remained firmly on his feet, and John knew the look Sherlock was shooting his way: something to the effect of how plebeian of you, John. He ignored it.
"How was your day?" he asked Sherlock. "Were you able to match those femurs you had found the other day?"
"I did, yes. Chas was able to help me pair them up and give them an approximate age…" As Sherlock launched into a summary of his day, John studied his face. This evening, the sun was a blaze of persimmon in the hazy sky. A soft, warm breeze ruffled the dark curls on Sherlock's head. The low angle of the light had reduced Sherlock's pupils to a pinprick and their normal pale slate-grey colour had darkened and taken on hints of blue. The last few weeks had brought out a persistent sun-flush high on Sherlock's cheeks, as well as a constellation of freckles, which John found altogether endearing. John's gaze had dropped to Sherlock's heart shaped mouth when he realized the lips were no longer moving and the only sound around them was that of the lake lapping against its shore.
"John," Sherlock's baritone voice rumbled in that way that stirred up sensation low in John's abdomen. John's eyes snapped back up to Sherlock's eyes.
"Huh? Sorry, I drifted a bit there. You were saying something about Molly?" John hoped that had been what Sherlock was talking about. He had decidedly not been paying attention and it likely showed.
"John," Sherlock said in that same voice. "You can't look at me like that."
John felt himself blush, but decided to feign innocence. "Look at you like what? I wasn't looking—"
"Like you are hoping I'll kiss you." Sherlock leaned forward and invaded John's space. His eyes dropped closed and John heard him inhale sharply, as if trying to breathe John in. John scooted down the log, putting a few more centimetres of space between them.
"I—I wasn't," he stammered, a jittery sensation prickling over his skin and making his foot swing below the log nervously.
"You were," Sherlock said, eyes open again and a dark eyebrow raised. "We had an agreement, John. Don't look at me like that if you expect me to honour our agreement."
"We had an agreement," John repeated. Damn the agreement! He really wanted to lean back towards Sherlock and snog that smirk right off that smug face of his. But after agreeing to limit their relationship to "just friends," they also decided that included a moratorium on all things physical. It was bloody frustrating, but something in John's gut made him feel as though it would be worth it to wait. Not just for the delayed gratification—though that'll be well worth it, thought John with a flare of excitement—but when he finally took Sherlock to bed, he wanted it to mean something greater than just scratching a mutual itch.
The last few weeks had proven to John that while Sherlock could be a stroppy prat, he was someone that John undeniably felt a deep connection to. He fervently hoped that Sherlock felt similarly, though the man was as unreadable to John as a cave full of hieroglyphics. Occasionally, John would catch Sherlock with a look on his face; a puzzled expression, as if he were trying to suss John out. For a man who could read what exactly John had eaten for lunch as well as how many days it had been since John had done laundry, there seemed to be something about John that stumped him.
"You're right," said John as Sherlock settled back in his own personal space on the log. "Of course you're right."
"Of course I am, John. Really, you may as well go ahead and accept that I am right 92 per cent of the time."
"A bit of an egomaniac, are we?"
"Hardly. Just a self-confidence that has been reinforced by decades of evidence."
John could hardly argue with that. He picked at the log under his thighs, tossing a bit of bark into the water beneath them. For a few moments they were they were quiet, enjoying the open water around them and the companionable silence. After a minute, John had the sudden urge to hear Sherlock's voice again.
"Tell me about your—"
"Nope," Sherlock interrupted. "Dull. I'm tired of playing of these tedious 'first date' conversations. Come on John, ask me something at least slightly interesting."
"Fine." John cast about for something Sherlock might find suitably interesting. "Tell me about the first case you worked on. Is that better?"
Sherlock's eyes took on an eager and excited glint. "Oh yes, John. That is a very good story." He straightened his posture looked out across the lake.
On the horizon, the sun was aflame and sinking swiftly below the mountains on the opposite shore. John hardly noticed though, as he stared rapturously up at Sherlock's face. More than just the deep timbre of his voice and his animated features, Sherlock was a great storyteller, and his ability to lose himself in his own narrative cast a spell that John was finding it hard to break away from.
"And that's the tale of the Vernet Garden Murders," said Sherlock, his hands falling limply to his sides from where they had been gesticulating throughout the tale of his first foray into detective work.
"Brilliant," John breathed, his voice a mere whisper into the growing dusk.
Sherlock turned his head and caught John's gaze, holding it as his own eyes crinkled into a small smile. "Really? You think so?"
"Bloody fantastic—I mean, yeah, it was brilliant," John said, blushing at the same time.
Sherlock's smile broadened and John felt a clench in his gut—something he had felt the whisperings of over these last couple of weeks began to voice itself in a louder murmur—and he had to look away. He reached for his socks and trainers, tugging them back on in turn.
"We should probably head back," he said as he laced up the left shoe. "I'm famished. Are you hungry? Will you stay for dinner?"
"I'll stay for a bit. Not too hungry though," replied Sherlock, taking the hand John had extended and allowing himself to be hauled to his feet. They carefully made their way back to shore and began picking their way through the trees.
"So how often do you help out on cases then?" asked John.
"Every couple of months or so. I have obligations to my department at the university that keep me busy, but I make time for cases when they come up," said Sherlock. He held a low-hanging branch up out of the way as John ducked below it. "My connections with the Met are actually how I came to be hired for the teaching position. I finished my PhD shortly after helping with my first case and was looking for a postdoc fellowship. A few of the faculty at UCL work on a consulting basis for the Met and when the fellowship opened up in the Forensics department...well I suppose the quality of my fieldwork and research outweighed my difficult personality." He shrugged.
"You say that like you're a complete ogre to be around," said John, a hint of disbelief in his voice. "I'll admit that sometimes you can be a bit of a prat, but you're basically harmless."
Sherlock shook his head, a small scowl on his face. "I have a limited amount of patience for people, John. I'm afraid I've given you a false sense of who I am."
John reached out, grabbed Sherlock's elbow and pulled him to stop. They stood, facing each other in the middle of the dusty road that led back to the hospital. "Have you lied to me in any way? Have you pretended to be someone you're not?"
Sherlock shuffled his feet, looking uncomfortable and refusing to meet John's eyes directly. "No. No, of course not. I've been nothing but honest with you."
John gave his upper arm a squeeze and then dropped his hand back to his side. "Well then I have no doubt that the man I've come to know is the true Sherlock," he said as they set off again. "And I have to say, I quite like him."
Beside him, Sherlock blushed and appeared momentarily speechless. The hospital came into view as they crested the last hill.
"I feel comfortable with you, John, like I do around no one else." Sherlock's voice was barely a whisper and John thought maybe that he had imagined the words, but then Sherlock spoke again, just as quietly. "I don't know what that means, and I can't deduce the implications of it, but it's true." Instead of replying, John grasped Sherlock's left wrist in his right hand, holding on tight.
They had reached the hospital's courtyard, and John once again, dropped his hand. "You'll come in for a bite?"
"Sure, for a moment," replied Sherlock, looking up at the dark blue sky. "I'll have to head back soon." John nodded.
They had settled at one of the tables in the hospital canteen, John's plate mounded with food, while Sherlock's held only a few smaller servings, before they spoke again.
"How did you come to be a doctor?" Sherlock asked, pushing his sweet potatoes around his plate.
"I was a good student in school and scored well on my GSCE's. At that point I didn't really any particular ambitions, but when you have good marks, people are usually saying stuff like 'oh, you should be a doctor.'" He chewed a mouthful of plantain, considering. "I was good at biology, and have always liked working with people, so I figured 'why not?' My mum was so chuffed when I told her, at age fourteen, that I wanted to be a doctor. She would brag about me to all her friends, going on about how nice it would be to have a doctor in the family. By the time I took my A-levels and graduated, I felt like I had little choice but to go on to medical school. Fortunately, I enjoy it and it's been fulfilling."
Sherlock regarded him, speculatively. "But then you decided to join the military," he said, stating a fact instead of posing it as a question.
"Uh, yeah. I did." John didn't care to begin the conversation about Matt and John's military career. Not only was that too heavy for the present time, but also John didn't think he was ready to talk to Sherlock about Matt. He wasn't sure what that meant, his own hesitancy about broaching the subject, but there it was. Sherlock seemed to sense John's unease and thankfully didn't press the issue.
"Your mother's disappointed you've spent your medical career abroad." Again, a statement and not a question. John acknowledged this with raised eyebrows, but answered anyway.
"Yeah, I suppose she is. I guess it's harder to show me off to her friends when I'm saving lives on other continents. It's also harder for her to set me up with so-and-so's daughter when I'm never home." He shrugged trying to adopt an air of nonchalance, but caught Sherlock's eye. "The few people I've taken home to meet my mum have been women." He coughed nervously. "Just, ah...just so you know."
Sherlock didn't say anything, but continued to watch John over his teacup as he took a long swallow. John watched the muscles of his throat working through the process of deglutition and his body began a low-grade hum. It was this moment that struck John. He found that he was obsessed with this simple physiological process and wanted to watch Sherlock do it time and time again. Mouth, pharynx, epiglottis, and oesophagus. The contraction of the hyoglossus, genioglossus, and styloglossus. John wanted to run his fingertips over the smooth, pale skin of Sherlock's throat and feel him swallow.
Sitting in the half-lit hospital canteen, in the presence of a handful of hospital staff, and eating rapidly cooling sweet potatoes and ugali, John Watson realized that he was lost to this man. He wanted to watch him swallow and then take him home to his mum, for Christ's sakes. Who the fuck am I? John Watson doesn't pine. He doesn't swoon. And he certainly doesn't want to sit around, mooning like some gormless moron and watching people swallow! John Watson is a practical man, a man who has sensible relationships with nice people—usually, but not limited to women—not poncy, self-obsessed academic types who look like they just simultaneously stumbled out of an archaeology tent in Giza (the outfit and the smudge of red dirt across one cheekbone) and a lover's bed (God - but that hair!).
John stood, stumbling a bit on weak knees and snatched up both his and Sherlock's empty mugs. "More tea?" he asked, not sticking around to hear Sherlock's response before practically running over to the table that held the electric kettle and teapots. He needed a minute, at the very least, where he wasn't face to face with the column of pale neck that was currently the source of his own personal crisis. As he waited for the water to boil, John stared unseeing at the dregs at the bottom of his teacup. This, whatever this was between him and Sherlock, had gone from a physical lusting, to a tentative camaraderie, to a deep friendship, arriving at a full blown pining over the course of six weeks. His feelings had moved so fast, John thought that he may be suffering from mental whiplash.
The water had boiled, and as John filled the teapot, he took several deep breaths. This didn't change anything, he knew that. He had been taken by surprise by the voracity of his feelings, and was struggling to get a hold on them. John felt like he was a rock climber, fingertips scrabbling at the edge of a rocky cliff, grasping at something solid to hold onto as he tried to pull himself up and over the summit. He still knew that it would be foolish for many reasons to start up anything with Sherlock leaving in seven weeks. They would have their chance, though. John would be returning to London for the holidays and he and Sherlock would talk and figure everything out.
John returned to the table, full mugs in hand. Sherlock was tapping at his phone, seemingly unaware of the cataclysmic shift of John's emotions. John allowed himself a few seconds of unabashed gazing, his eyes roving over the smallest details of Sherlock's face. 'Beautiful' was about the only word that John could attribute to the crystalline grey eyes, the sharp cheekbones, the rose-red mouth, and the carefully mussed curls.
Pathetic moony teenager, said a little voice in his head.
"I probably should be going," said Sherlock, not looking up from his mobile.
John looked at his wristwatch, surprised at how late the hour had grown. "Will you be all right getting back?"
"Yes, I'll be fine." Sherlock finally looked up and caught John's eye. "Thank you for dinner, John."
There was something of a look of understanding and open honesty in Sherlock's eyes, and for a moment, John was panicked to think that Sherlock had guessed the sudden depth of John's heart. But then, Sherlock blinked, and the look was gone, replaced by his usual expression of detached practicality. He stood, tossing back his head and downing half of the fresh tea.
"I'll get those," said John as Sherlock began gathering up his dishes. "You had better hurry on back up to camp."
"Thanks," said Sherlock, tucking his mobile into his trouser pocket. "I'll, uh, see you tomorrow?" he asked, sounding a bit uncertain.
"Of course. My place or yours?"
"Lunch tomorrow? You'll be out on your rounds anyway, right?"
"Yes. Great." John leaned over the table to gather up Sherlock's dishes. He felt Sherlock's warm hand descend onto his shoulder, squeezing briefly. John looked up in surprise. Their touches were limited to the friendly and unintentional—a hand up from sitting on the log by the lake, or an accidental brush of hands as they both reached for the teapot. This, like John's grip on Sherlock's wrist earlier that evening, was entirely different. Sherlock's mouth twisted into a small half smile. He squeezed John's shoulder again, then dropped his hand, and was gone.
John dropped back into his seat, head hung low and left arm crossed over his chest, gripping his right shoulder. He sat there for several long minutes, seeking to trap the warmth in his trapezius muscle that Sherlock's hand had left there.
Pathetic, said the voice again.