Chapter 10
20 August, 10:22 Central Africa Time Zone
Gafunzo Project dig site, Gafunzo, Rwanda
"It's amazing the kind of junk one can acquire after twelve weeks of living in the bush," commented Molly as she tossed two spare notebooks, a handful of writing implements, and a dog-eared copy of Robbins and Coltran Pathologic Basis of Disease into the open box at her feet. "Eugh!" She exclaimed, withdrawing her hand from her cupboard. A dead, but rather large centipede dangled between her index finger and thumb.
"Be glad that's dead," said Karyna, her voice muffled from where she was digging through a box under one of the long tables set up in the tent. On her knees, she crawled backwards out from underneath the table, dragging the box with her. She rocked back to her heels and stood, unceremoniously dumping the box on the worktop. "The other night I was walking to the latrines and nearly stepped on one of those Bush snakes."
"Oh, that was you?" asked Molly. "All the screaming?"
"Ha. Ha," she answered dryly. "I didn't scream...much." Karyna continued to sort through the bin in front of her. "Oi! Sherlock, are these yours?" She held up a wooden handled trowel and brush. Sherlock looked up from where he was transcribing notes, squinted at the tools in her hand, and shook his head 'no.'
"No. They're Lincoln's. Look at the initials on the handle." He bent back over his laptop, typing furiously. The women behind him continued their chatter, but Sherlock tuned them out in favour of his own thoughts.
The research team would be leaving Gafunzo in three days and there was a lot of work to be done before then. The dig had been completed; earlier that week they had held the reburial ceremony for the remains they had excavated. Now all that was left was the tedious chore of cleaning and packing. Sherlock was not the only one at camp walking around in a cloud of tension and anxiety; several of the researchers were scrambling to meet deadlines with publishers or their departments. Furthermore, after twelve weeks of being in each other's hair, tempers were short and the team was starting to wear on each other's nerves. Arguments and petty squabbles over who used up all the water in the solar shower and didn't refill it or whose turn it was to make supper were breaking out with increasing frequency. Everyone, for the most part, was eager to get home and back to indoor plumbing and reliable electricity.
Sherlock on the other hand was feeling more than just his normal end of the dig anxiety. He loved fieldwork; be it an archaeological dig or working a case with Scotland Yard. Teaching allowed him to establish a name for himself through his research, and it had the added benefit of keeping him in London where he could be available to the NSY for cases. But the end of every dig gave him a feeling of melancholy that was inescapable. Sherlock had withdrawn from the research group over the last week, drawing inwards on himself and avoiding even Molly and Lestrade.
He was emotionally compromised and spent every waking minute evaluating his sanity. The last few weeks had brought one Major John Watson, M.D. into his life and loathe as he was to admit it, Sherlock was struggling to come to terms that in just a few days he would be face to face with a life without John.
Never before had Sherlock been reliant on anyone for any emotional reason. He had been a fully independent child, raised by a steady rotation of hired household help and only peripherally by his mother and father. Mycroft had left for Cheam when Sherlock was just three years old and as such, Sherlock had been reared virtually as an only child. When it was his turn to leave home and begin the gauntlet of boarding schools, he had isolated himself, earning himself the diagnosis of antisocial personality disorder from several child psychologists. It wasn't until he was a teenager at Harrow that he learned that the occasional socialization with classmates kept the teachers and school psychologists at bay. These friendships were always superficial and lasted only as long as they were beneficial to Sherlock.
Oxford introduced Sherlock to a variety of people, some of whom he found tolerable and who took their studies as seriously as he did. Would he call them friends? Perhaps, but never were they deep friendships and Sherlock never hesitated to abandon them when they had run their course. As far as romantic relationships went, Sherlock never had the patience nor the inclination to begin such attachments. Over the years he had casual relationships that were mostly physical in nature, but again, these were usually short-lived and devoid of any sort of romantic attachment on his part.
Now here he was, in the midst of what was possibly the most inconvenient moment of his life to be growing sentimental about someone and he was struggling to deny the way that John Watson had knitted himself into the weave of Sherlock's life. In all honesty, John's appearance was extremely ill-timed. Sherlock's professional obligations were his entire life right now: he was chasing tenure, conducting research, had several articles in different stages of composition and publication, teaching courses and advising students, serving on faculty committees and the other departmental twaddle he was forced to submit himself to, and trying to find time for cases with Scotland Yard when he could. There was simply no room in Sherlock's life for John Watson.
And yet. Sherlock was horrified with himself for even considering making room for John. He could take fewer cases with the police. He might be able to drop one or two of his research projects or politely decline the latest offer to edit another round of articles for ArchiLib. But why would he do these things? This wasn't Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes would never put another person above his work, would never sacrifice his career for another person. And yet, he was, inexplicably, considering it. If he had learned only one thing since the moment that John had sewn back up the torn flesh of his leg, it was that having this man in his life was something that he had never known he was missing.
29 June, 16:03 Central Africa Time Zone
Gafunzo Project dig site, Gafunzo, Rwanda
Tuna and sweetcorn had never been one of Sherlock's favourites, but unfortunately it was a staple of a lot of digs. The bread was a dry and crumby, further adding to the unpalatable state of the entire meal. Sherlock glanced across the table at John, checking if he was finding the sandwich equally as dismal. Apparently not, as he had already finished his and was eyeing Sherlock's abandoned half with undisguised hope.
"Oh go ahead," Sherlock sighed and pushed his plate across the table to John.
"Ta," said John, smiling. "Have my apple?"
"No, thank you." Sherlock shook his head and sipped slowly from his tea—prepared by John.
"Is this a common occurrence here, afternoon tea? I feel like I'm sitting at Claridge's, minus the whole running water situation of course."
Sherlock snorted. "Claridge's has never served tuna and sweetcorn in all its long existence." He caught sight of John's raised eyebrow and interpreted his unspoken question. "It's a bit showy, but mummy does enjoy taking tea when she's in London visiting. She prefers the Ritz, but my brother would divulge state secrets for a piece of the chocolate gâteau at Claridge's."
John rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, a handful of people arrived and sat down around them, depositing cups of tea and plates of biscuits. Across the table, Sherlock huffed audibly, but said nothing.
"You must be Dr. Watson," said Kayrna, sitting to Sherlock's right.
"Ah, yes. Yes I am," John said, shaking her proffered hand.
"You're Dr. Watson?" asked Lestrade, who was sitting next to John. He seemed a bit sceptical at John's identity and his eyes kept darting back and forth between John and Sherlock, as if trying to sort something out.
"I am," said John, a bit bemused and taking the inquisition in stride. "Do you need to see some identification?" He made to reach into the back pocket in his trousers for his hospital ID card.
"You just seem a bit too, forgive us, too nice to be hanging out with the likes of this prat." Lestrade gestured at Sherlock with his teacup. John bristled, the fingers of his left hand drumming on the tabletop. The fact that he seemed insulted on Sherlock's behalf, ready to defend him to these virtual strangers, made Sherlock's heart leap. John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock cut him off.
"I have some redeeming qualities, Lestrade," he said, tracing the rim of his own cup with his index finger. "Unlike yourself, who is practically useless and hasn't spoken to your estranged wife in four years."
John looked shocked, but Lestrade simply laughed. Sherlock caught John's eye and dropped him a wink (a wink?!), attempting to ease any remaining tension. Over the past month, the research team had taken Sherlock's prickly personality in stride. There was an easy exchange of insults and ribald jokes that cemented a tenuous camaraderie that usually came with living together in the rough for an extended period of time.
"I think you've just proved my point, Sherlock." Lestrade turned to look at John once more. "Have you discovered any of these alleged redeeming qualities yet?"
John glanced at Sherlock quickly and his look made Sherlock's heart beat just a bit faster. "The jury is still out on that one, I'm afraid." Given the elevated pulse Sherlock could see beating away in John's carotid artery, Sherlock suspected John was also thinking of The Kiss from ten days ago. Testing his theory, Sherlock let his tongue flick across his bottom lip, his gaze never leaving John's. Sure enough, John's mouth opened an infinitesimal amount, eyes locked on Sherlock's mouth, which quirked into a small smirk.
"John, I don't believe you've met everyone here," said Sherlock, deliberately fingering the top button on his khaki shirt. Flirting was not something that came naturally to Sherlock; it required too much subtlety and nuance that he found tiresome in most social interactions. Seduction however, was something with which he was a bit more familiar. Years ago, when he had been seeking out bedfellows, he had no qualms exploiting his ability to read his partner's desires and physiological responses. Sherlock found that he did not feel the slightest bit of remorse about torturing John through the means of seduction; he certainly wasn't the one that had decided on abstinence during this phase of their friendship. But John was a romantic, something that Sherlock would have ordinarily scoffed at as sentimental drivel, if it weren't so bloody endearing. Still though, the man deserved to be tormented just a little bit.
Sherlock lifted his hand away from his shirt and indicated the man sitting next to him. "This is Greg Lestrade, he's our project leader." John blinked owlishly, returning to the moment and glared at Sherlock, knowing full well what Sherlock had been doing. Sherlock arched one eyebrow and gave a coy, half-shrug. John turned to the man Sherlock had indicated, shaking his hand.
"Nice to meet you, Greg," he said and gestured to Sherlock. "It's kind of you to take on this charity case. I hope his department is paying you a bit extra to take him off their hands for the summer?" Sherlock rolled his eyes and went on to introduce John to the rest of the people that had joined them for tea.
Within minutes, John had launched into a story about something or other that had Lestrade and the others laughing so hard a few of them were wiping away tears. Sherlock let John's words wash over him as he watched the man comfortably chat with people he had only just met. How is he so relaxed? Sherlock could barely tolerate them and he had spent nearly every waking minute of the past four weeks with them. John had only just met them and already was seemingly at ease in their presence.
As Sherlock sipped from his now cold tea, he regarded the crowd sitting around the table. In any situation, John's ability to make the people surrounding him comfortable was truly remarkable. The body language of everyone was relaxed: they leaned forward, like sunflowers straining towards the sun that was John. Each of them was smiling and their postures all at ease. Sherlock noticed this phenomenon when he had visited John at hospital as well. The other doctors and hospital staff respected John and looked to him for advice and leadership. Furthermore, they enjoyed his presence and would often seek him out.
This was dramatically different from how people behaved around Sherlock. He was under no false impressions of how people perceived him. He did not put people at ease, he rarely joked around, and found small talk and personal anecdotes tedious. Friendly was never a word anyone would use to describe him. Furthermore, his penchant for speaking honestly and bluntly regardless of the circumstances often came off as abrasive. He had little patience for the common habit people had of relying more on body language and the unsaid words to convey their true intentions.
Despite all of this, Sherlock recognized the peace that he felt when he was around John. It was moments like this one, when he could observe John as he interacted with others, that he recognized the appeal and what it was that people find so alluring. John Watson was not like other people. Sherlock relished the time spent in his company and found himself longing for just a smattering of John's attention—to have just a sliver of the John's consciousness directed at him. Did this make him ordinary? As ordinary as the others seated around him that clamoured for just a second of John's attention?
Amid a crowd of people, he leaned forward, reaching towards the sun.
July 6, 18:23 Central Africa Time Zone
Gafunzo Project dig site, Gafunzo, Rwanda
"So what's on for dinner tonight?"
Sherlock dug through the plastic bin filled with foil, vacuum-sealed packets and extracted a couple, tossing them onto the stainless steel worktop. "How about chicken cacciatore? Or there's lamb vindaloo with rice?"
John groaned dramatically. "Sherlock, I cannot eat another one of your awful MREs. I guarantee you that both of those options will taste the same, and not at all like either chicken cacciatore or lamb vinadloo."
"Well, what does it matter if they don't taste as they should? In case you haven't noticed, we're not exactly at a Michelin star restaurant. Perhaps you should lower your standards a bit?" He tossed the silver packets back into the bin, kicking it back into place under the worktop. "Do you want to head back down and eat at hospital? I'm a little weary of ugali and yams, to be honest."
"Me too," said John nodding in agreement. He looked around the small kitchen, a thoughtful look in his eyes. A temporary parquet floor had been laid directly on the red dirt. Two stainless steel worktops stood opposite each other, bins and boxes full of non-perishable food stacked underneath the tables. A small iceless cooler sat in one corner of the large tent and held the essential perishables (milk for tea and butter for toast). The only other appliances were a large, propane camping stove with four burners, the ubiquitous electric kettle, and a camping sink that drained into a 25-litre bucket standing underneath. John knelt down and peered into the bin that held most of the communal food and started pawing through the tins and boxes.
"You do remember that I don't cook," said Sherlock, reminding John in case he suddenly expected him to whip up something.
"Yes, a fact that I'm still puzzled by," answered John, depositing the few tins he had selected on the worktop and moving over to the shelf holding the small jars of spices and dried herbs. "How is it that someone as brilliant as yourself never learned to cook? It's not that hard, you know."
Sherlock wasn't sure if he should be flattered at being called 'brilliant' or insulted that John was suggesting that he couldn't handle something as basic as preparing a simple meal. "It may be easy, but it requires time and patience. Why waste the time cooking when I can have takeaway brought to me?"
"Because it tastes better? Because it's healthier for your? Because of the sense of satisfaction that comes with sitting down and enjoying a meal that you prepared yourself?"
"Not worth it," replied Sherlock, dismissively. John shook his head in disbelief and began opening tins of chickpeas.
"Where are the pots and pans in here?" he asked, looking around.
"How should I know?" Sherlock answered, but came around the worktop to help him look.
Ten minutes later, Sherlock found himself with a rather sharp knife in his hand, tears streaming down his face, and an unsympathetic John instructing him on the proper way to chop an onion.
"I had no idea that cooking was so undignified," grumped Sherlock, wiping his watery eyes with John's borrowed handkerchief.
"You're doing a fine job," offered John, adjusting Sherlock's grip on the onion. "Just tuck your thumb back with the rest of your fingers there. I've sutured you up once already, and don't care to have to do it again so soon. Good. Now dump all of that in the pot. Wait! Not the onion skins." John darted forward to pluck the papery skins from the pot.
"Wouldn't it be easier if you just did this all yourself?" whinged Sherlock half-heartedly.
John laughed and pointed a metal spoon at Sherlock. "If I'm going to cook you a delicious meal, the least you can do is help. Would you find the cumin in that pile over there and measure out a tablespoon into the pot?"
Soon the kitchen was filled with the rich smells of tomato, turmeric, cumin, and onions and a small crowd of hungry archaeologists had gathered in the doorway.
"Sherlock," said Lestrade. "I didn't know you knew how to cook?"
"Of course I can cook! You don't think someone educated at Cheam, Harrows, and Oxford can do something as simple as prepare a meal?" Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John bite back a laugh and shake his head.
"It looks to me like John is doing most of the cooking," said Molly, catching John's expression.
"Yes, all right Molly. Thank you." said Sherlock, loudly. He lifted the lid on one of the pots on the small stove and peered authoritatively in at the contents. "John, I do believe the rice is finished," he pronounced.
"Uh, not quite. You see how there's still a bit of water in there? You need to wait for that to finish cooking off."
Sherlock slammed the lid back down. "Well it's almost finished then."
"Why don't you pull out dishes and cutlery for everyone," suggested John. He turned to the onlookers. "Will you all be joining us?"
As the group settled down to eat, silence descended in the dining tent. For a full two minutes, the only noise was that of chewing and the occasional loud sip of tea.
"This is the best bloody chana masala I've ever had," announced Nate, breaking the silence. Noises of agreement echoed around the table.
"Yeah. Thanks, John," said Lestrade. "You're welcome to come cook for us anytime," he said, winking.
"Come on now! I helped! Don't I get any credit?"
"Sherlock, we all tried you spaghetti marinara that first week," said Lestrade, grimacing at the memory. "No offense mate, but you should leave the cooking to John from now on."
Choosing not to dignify that with a response, Sherlock merely took another bite of the curry.
"If all of John's cooking is this good, Sherlock, you've got to marry this man," said Molly gesturing with her fork between the two men.
Sherlock froze mid-chew, the food in his mouth turning to sawdust. He couldn't swallow or look at John, so instead he shot Molly the coldest look he could manage with a mouthful of half-masticated chickpeas. Molly smiled slyly at him. Next to him, John cleared his throat loudly and took a sip of his tea.
"Uh, ta, Molly," John stammered. "Ta very much."
The rest of the meal passed easily and without any more suggestions of marriage or lifelong commitment. Lincoln offered to clear away the dishes, and everyone else drifted off to their various evening pursuits, leaving John and Sherlock at the table.
"I should probably be heading back," said John. "Unless you've made something for pudding? A nice trifle perhaps? With crème anglaise?"
"Oh shut up."
John laughed and placed his hand on top of Sherlock's where it rested on the table. He gave it a light squeeze and let go as he stood, stretching his back. His t-shirt rose up to reveal a bit of skin dusted with fair hair above the waistband of his jeans. Sherlock's mouth went dry and he averted his eyes, swallowing the rest of his tea in one gulp.
"Aaahh," John yawned. "I'm knackered." He picked up his and Sherlock's empty teacups and carried them over to where Lincoln was standing at the utility sink. "You'll come down tomorrow?" he called over his shoulder to Sherlock who was staring down at the tabletop. "My shift is from one to midnight, but we can have lunch before I go on duty, if you like."
Sherlock's thoughts were sluggish from curry and the closeness of John. The whole evening had felt comfortable and intimate: cooking together, arms brushing against one another while standing in front of the stove, sipping tea after dinner, making plans for the next day. Without making the conscious effort, Sherlock easily swapped the setting of rural Rwanda with that of his flat in London. Well that's interesting, he thought. The ease at which John slotted himself into Sherlock's everyday life was somewhat startling. Here, in Rwanda, their whatever-this-was felt almost dreamlike. They were living in a bubble that was untouched by the trivialities of real life: money, squabbles over whose turn it was to do the washing up, dirty socks on the floor, and what to watch on the telly.
"Hello? Earth to Sherlock? Can you hear me Major Tom?" John was standing next to Sherlock, waving his hand in front of his face.
"Oh. Sorry, all that curry has gone to my head, I think." That, and just thinking about the rest of our lives together. This was ridiculous. They had agreed just to be friends, and Sherlock was already picking out paint swatches and imagining sharing The Times over tea and toast. Get a hold of yourself, Holmes.
"Right," said John, giving Sherlock a concerned look, and reached out to pat his shoulder. "If this is how you're going to be whenever I cook you a proper meal…" he trailed off. "Anyway, you'll come for lunch tomorrow?"
Sherlock shook his head. "Sorry, I've got a report to finish before we begin the next round of excavation on Wednesday. What about at the end of the week? Dinner on Thursday?"
"Yeah that'll work," agreed John. He sighed. "Well, I had better go." The hand on Sherlock's shoulder slid down to cover Sherlock's bicep. John pinched the fabric of Sherlock's shirtsleeve between his thumb and middle finger, rubbing the fabric as though to memorize the texture. The touch was soft, familiar, and incredibly distracting. Then, he dropped his hand and raised his gaze to meet Sherlock's, a wistful look in his eyes. "I'll see you Thursday then?"
"You will. Be safe getting back."
"I will." And then John left, leaving Sherlock behind with his thoughts full of curry and the future.
07 August, 10:03 Central Africa Time Zone
Gafunzo Project dig site, Gafunzo, Rwanda
Sherlock did not typically work with an audience, let alone an audience he was interested in impressing. True enough, archaeology is a team effort, at least until the artefacts were out of the ground. Once his prize had been deposited on his worktop, it was more of a one-man show, preferably without spectators. At UCL he had the run of one of the smaller forensics labs: his odd hours and penchant for chasing away interlopers with a well-placed insult pretty much guaranteed that he could work undisturbed. Sherlock was extremely particular about his work environment—eighteen degrees Celsius, fifty-five per cent relative humidity, and 75-watt lighting. He had installed an excellent quality sound system in his lab back in London and preferred a classical soundtrack when he was working; Schoenberg and Webern had proved to be some of the best music to deter visitors.
Of course preferences on things like lighting and relative humidity had to be tossed out the figurative window on dig sites. Currently the temperature was in the low-eighties, but lately the afternoon high had been closer to the nineties with a relative humidity nearing ninety per cent. The lack of electricity meant he had to keep to daytime working hours, instead of the late-night schedule he preferred. All of this was an inconvenience, but one he could easily work around. What he struggled with was the necessity of sharing a workspace with a dozen other people. Archaeologists were usually quite particular about using their personal tools, but he was still continually finding things that did not belong to him mixed in with his things. It was not unusual for the research tent to be full of archaeologists and most of the team seemed content to work in each other's space—chatting about their findings, asking questions or opinions of each other, swapping dig stories. Instead of the background noise of Mahler and Pärt, he was forced to listen to Molly and Karyna's incessant chatter or Lestrade's horrible jokes.
As the team's only forensic archaeologist, he had suffered through an annoying amount of interest in his work through the entirety of the trip. He truly detested explaining himself, and found the frequent requests to narrate his work tedious. Furthermore, the team had discovered his knack for deduction and were eager for him to perform his talents on their own projects. It was tiresome and made him feel not a little bit like a performing monkey.
As he was discovering more and more these days, John Watson was the exception to these rules, instead of the normative. He enjoyed having John around when he was working, and the good doctor had proved to be moderately helpful in several instances when a small degree of medical knowledge was necessary. The week previous, he had excavated a skeleton with several nasty bone fractures. Most of the victims from the mass grave had died of one or two gunshot wounds. This particular skeleton however showed signs of several massive traumas: the entire right ilium and ischium was shattered and the left maxilla, zygomatic, and sphenoid bones were equally as wrecked.
Sherlock had been puzzling over the level of injury to the remains (male, 45-60 years old) laid out in front of him for nearly twenty minutes now, jotting down hypotheses in his notebook as they came to him. Blessedly, the tent was empty of additional archaeologists and he was allowed to think in peace. John, who wasn't due at hospital until later that evening, was sitting in a camp chair in the entrance to the tent, reading one of his dull mass-market paperback crime novels. The silence that had permeated the tent for the past fifteen minutes was broken by the occasional buzzing insect and Sherlock's quiet humming of Mahler's Fifth Symphony. It was a comfortable and tranquil setting, and Sherlock was surprised to find that he was finding John's quiet company comforting.
The comfort didn't keep his frustration with the current set of remains in front of him at bay, however and Sherlock heaved another heavy sigh—his third in the past five minutes.
"What is it, Sherlock?" asked John good-naturedly, without looking up from his book. "Bones giving you some trouble?"
Sherlock didn't reply, but hummed the opening scherzo theme of Mahler's second movement even louder in further demonstration of his frustration. Predictably, John marked the place in his book and set it aside, giving Sherlock his full-attention.
"Stumped? Do you need to talk it out? I can be a pretty good sounding board, you know," John asked, spreading his hands in a "bring it on" sort of gesture.
"I don't get 'stumped'," huffed Sherlock. "The answers are simply eluding me at the moment."
"Well, do you want to take a break? Come back later with fresh eyes?"
"No, John, that won't help. I've only been working for a couple of hours. My eyes are plenty fresh."
"All right, fine," said John, shrugging in acquiescence. "Just keep the caterwauling to a minimum, or you'll start attracting animals." He bent and picked up his dull book once more, flipping through pages until he reached his bookmark.
Sherlock bent back over his bones, index finger tapping his lips thoughtfully. Quiet descended once more, as Sherlock moved on to the Ländler melody of the second movement and kept the volume to a non-animal attracting level.
Suddenly he stopped humming and tilted his head, regarding the back of John's head.
"The grocer did it, you know."
"Hmm?" queried John, absently.
"He works for the mafia—the green grocer. He's one of their hit men. I believe he and the renegade federal agent have a standoff when the agent unwittingly stops off to buy some peaches on his way home. He recognizes the grocer from the crime scene, there's a gunfight during which the agent is shot, non-fatally—don't worry, and backup arrives to arrest the grocer cum hit man."
John had looked up from his dull book and was regarding Sherlock with a murderous expression. "Just because you've read this one before doesn't mean you get to ruin it for me, Sherlock! I was enjoying this!"
"I haven't read it. I value my free time too much to fill it with drivel like that."
"Well I happen to like this 'drivel'. So thanks for ruining it!" John dropped the book to the ground without marking his place. "If you haven't read it, then how do you know about the green grocer?"
"You left the book behind last week. I found it and made it through the first chapter before I grew bored. It didn't take too much before I had the rest of the plot sussed out, at which point there wasn't really any need to continue reading it, was there?"
"Yes, but I hadn't figured it out yet!" bemoaned John. "I was enjoying it and would have liked to work out the end on my own."
"Oh," replied Sherlock, as though he had never thought of that possibility. "Well I'll endeavour to remember that for next time." John shyly smiled at him and it appeared all was forgiven. John seemed to like it when Sherlock alluded to a future together—a future in which John would read dull crime novels on the sofa in Sherlock's flat and Sherlock would make an effort not to ruin the plot of said dull crime novels. When either of them made mention of a yet to be determined relationship, Sherlock always experienced a swooping sensation in the pit of his stomach and John gave him a shy little smile, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to. Sherlock had to admit that it was fairly adorable.
"Anyway," said Sherlock, fluffing his hair nervously with one hand. "Since you're not busy, I wouldn't mind a medical opinion here." He gestured to the skeleton.
"Of course," John answered as he stood and came over to stand beside Sherlock at the worktop. "What seems to be the issue?"
"Every other set of remains we've excavated from the site has had similar injuries: clean gunshot wounds, a few broken bones and dislocated joints, and a few blunt force traumas. You'd expect all of that from a situation like this."
"A situation like what?" asked John quietly.
"Prisoners, rounded up and held somewhere, then executed and buried in a mass grave," Sherlock said simply. Beside him, John stiffened slightly, but remained quiet.
"Sorry," he said after a beat of silence. "You get used to death, obviously, working in a war zone. But this is a different kind of carnage…" John shrugged like he had run out of words.
"Is it?" asked Sherlock. "In my experience, violent deaths are elementally all the same. There's a killer and a victim, sometimes more than one of each, and the outcome is consistent even if the details change. The end of life."
"True. But there's still something about this that hits me differently from what I saw in Afghanistan."
"The Rwandan genocide was portrayed by the Western media as a slaughter. The victims were defenceless and stood no chance against the Hutu's," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "In your war, it's two seemingly equal sides actively engaging each other in conflict. You see it as more of a fair fight. The numbers are also a bit different. Only about five hundred British forces have died since the beginning of the war in 2001. Between fifty thousand and a million Tutsi died in the one hundred day conflict." Sherlock shrugged one shoulder. "Again, the outcome is the same—a loss of life. But it's the details that are different."
"Yeah," breathed John. "You're right."
They stood quietly for a moment, lost in their own thoughts, before John shook himself and spoke again. "You, uh, wanted some help?"
"Oh, yes!" said Sherlock. "This poor fellow suffered a massive amount of trauma. Aside from the shattered hip and skull, he had bad break in his right fibula and ulna and a few broken ribs. His patella is shattered as well, and there is a crack in the femur below. He was obviously beaten, but why just him and no one else? And why with so much force?"
"Why do you say that? His leg wasn't broken, just fractured. The beating wouldn't have been too extreme, or you'd see more than some fractures and a couple of broken ribs."
"But how do you account for the pulverization of the hip and face?"
John didn't respond, simply crossed his left arm across his chest, supporting his right elbow. He worried his bottom lip with his right thumb and index finger. Thirty seconds passed where he circled the worktop quietly, occasionally bending over the remains for a closer look.
"Do you have a magnifying lens?" he asked, holding out his hand. Sherlock dropped his magnifying glass into John's open palm. It was a heavy thing: wooden lathed handle, worn smooth from centuries of use, topped with a thick ocular lens surrounded by a brass ring. The weight of it surprised John and he looked up at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow.
"Bit old-fashioned," he said.
"It's a Corfield. Manufactured in Wolverhampton in 1822. Mycroft gave it to me after I solved my first case for Scotland Yard."
"Mycroft?"
"Oh, er, my brother. He's a nuisance and a total arse, but he gives great gifts. Not that I would ever say that to his face."
"Hmmm," John hummed, bowing back over the mangled pelvis of the skeleton before him, this time, peering through Sherlock's magnifying lens.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, handing the lens back across the table. "Just here. Come look." Sherlock came around the worktop to stand next to John. He bent at the waist to examine where John had indicated, a spot where a larger piece of bone had separated from the sacrum. "See how the connective tissue has broken down? And those small cracks in the diaphysis? I would guess this man had a very mild case of osteogenesis imperfecta." Sherlock straightened up and regarded John very closely.
"Go on," Sherlock said slowly.
"Well, uh," John fidgeted and blushed slightly under Sherlock's close scrutiny. "There are several healed breaks and fractures, more than the average person might have. You can also tell from the bowing in the limbs. The femur, tibia, fibula, humerus, radius, and ulna all have a very slight curvature to them." Sherlock cocked his head, continuing to stare, which made John's eyes widen in something akin to alarm. A quiet buzzing filled Sherlock's head, drowning out all other noise and thought to a murmur. Sherlock blinked, as all of his perception narrowed singularly onto John. Sherlock saw nothing else, save for John Watson.
" I–I would guess," continued John, stuttering slightly, "that he wasn't beaten with any more force than others, b–but there were already weak points in his h–hip and facial bone structure," John finished in a rush.
Something finally clicked in Sherlock's thoughts, causing him to break away from his inspection of John's face and begin pacing the small tent, hands palm-to-palm and tucked under his nose. His thoughts began revving back up to their normal, analytical speed.
"He was protecting him," muttered Sherlock.
"I'm sorry, who?"
"John, pass me that folder over there," Sherlock demanded, ignoring John's question.
"Which folder?"
"The red one, with the site surveys." John handed him the correct folder and Sherlock paced to the empty end of the worktop, spreading various sketches of the dig site out. Long fingers danced across the papers until he found the one he was looking for and plucked it from the stack. John had come to Sherlock's side and silently peered down at the drawing. Sherlock could sense his unspoken questions and head him off.
"Each time we dig down another layer of the site, we take a sketch. In our case, we label each set of remains with a number that allows us to record their location relative to the other remains in the grave. Obviously the bodies in this grave were buried with little or no identification, but we have been able to identify some of them. More can be done once we're all back in our labs with more equipment." He gestured to the bones next to him on the table. "This collection of bones was found next to the set of another male, 25-35 years old, number 0067-235A." He pawed through the papers on the table in front of him, picking a stack of papers clipped to one another out of the mess. One long index finger trailed the paper, flipping one page over another until he found what he was looking for.
"Ah," he breathed, running his finger horizontally across the page. "Number 0067-235A is one of Molly's." Sherlock spun in place 180-degrees and crouched down to peer under the tables in the tent where numbered and labelled clear plastic bins were stacked. By this time, Sherlock was back up to full-tilt in his analytical process. It felt wonderful, this part of the work. His blood was pumping, his mind was clear, and his thoughts were clicking along at a delightful pace. Despite the relatively normalcy at which he was currently operating, there was something different about this particular instance of deductive reasoning. John was still standing, by the worktop, arms crossed over his chest, silently watching the search. Sherlock was pleased with how he felt working under John's watchful eye. It felt as though every decision, every deduction had a new purpose and importance. Sherlock normally did the work because it pleased him. But now, here in this tent with John watching, he wanted to do the work, to solve the mystery because it would please and impress John. There was a new sort of clarity blooming over the entire process.
"Here it is," Sherlock whispered, pulling the bin out and carrying it back over to the table. Removing the lid, he and John leaned over the contents: white acid-free tissue paper wrapped around and among ecru coloured bones. In a clear plastic sleeve resting atop of the tissue paper were more papers, these pertaining specifically to number 0067-235A.
"Oh good, Molly's pulled his DNA already," Sherlock reached around John and snagged his notebook. He made a few notes as he murmured to himself, echoing his scribbles. "Molly...DNA...for...number...0067-235A. Compare...to...number...0067-236A?" He set his notebook aside and reached into the plastic bin, brushing aside extra tissue paper.
"John, osteogenesis imperfecta is genetic, correct?"
"It is. Inherited or it can be caused by a genetic mutation. I haven't heard of any sort of racial or ethnic variations, so it would be as common to find someone here with O.I. as it would be someone in a western country."
"Yes, all right. Good. Can you take a look at these bones here and see if you notice anything that would indicate another case of O.I.?" Sherlock waved a hand over the contents of the bin and fixed another look on John.
"You want my help?"
"Why not? You correctly diagnosed the first case—"
"Sure but—"
"Just take a look. Molly won't mind and it's not like anyone's life is dependant on your diagnosis. I just want your medical opinion. I trust your medical opinion." John still seemed dubious, but nodded his head in agreement.
Sherlock left him to it and returned to the side of the first skeleton. Reaching across the workstation, he pulled two nitrile gloves from a box, snapped them on, and set to work. Twenty-five minutes later he had five plastic centrifuge tubes with samples of pulverized bone packed away for testing back in London. He turned to find John bent over the bones he had laid out on the table. Sherlock pulled off his gloves as he came to stand behind John, humming "Dem Dry Bones" under his breath.
"I'm glad to see you still recall the basics of human skeletal anatomy."
"Yes, Dr. Morris would be thrilled that I retained something from his lectures," John joked dryly.
"Well, doctor? What is your medical opinion?" asked Sherlock leaning to look over John's shoulder. With any luck, there would be evidence of the degenerative bone disease and the two skeletons could be linked together, bringing the mystery of their identity closer to a conclusion. Sherlock's mind tripped along, thinking ahead to testing DNA and the other lab work he wanted to conduct once back in London.
John turned away from the table, his chest bumping against Sherlock's, who stood close enough to see the dusting of pale freckles across John's cheekbones. All thought screeched to a halt and their surroundings faded away Sherlock watched as John took in a lungful of the air between them, pupils simultaneously dilating with arousal.
"Sherlock," John said quietly, his voice slightly strangled sounding. "You're standing a bit close." He reached up and placed a warm palm on Sherlock's chest, directly over his pounding heart. As John pushed gently, his fingers curled slightly inward, grasping the cotton fabric of Sherlock's khaki shirt; his body's instincts of drawing Sherlock closer and pushing him away warring with each other.
"John…" moaned Sherlock. He inclined his neck and brought his face cheek-to-cheek with John's, as though he was preparing to whisper a delicate secret into John's ear. Instead, he ghosted his mouth over John's earlobe and down the side of his neck, all the while breathing in the heady scent found there. John's fingers tightened their twisted grip in Sherlock's shirt as he groaned and tilted his head away, accepting Sherlock's phantom of a caress. The atmosphere in the tent was heavy and thick as London fog with their mixed arousal and mutual torture. Christ, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to trace John's sternocleidomastoid muscle with the tip of his tongue. The memory of John's flavour was a faint memory along with the rest of their shared kiss those weeks ago.
"No…." whispered John with fierce longing and Sherlock thought he could hear his own frustration echoed in that one uttered syllable. "No!" he said more forcefully this time. John's fingers relaxed their grip in Sherlock's shirt and he shoved him fully away from him. Sherlock shook his head to clear the dull roar that filled his ears. John reached up and scrubbed his face with both hands, a distressed groan emerging from behind his palms. Sherlock rubbed his own palms, slightly damp with desire and adrenaline, on his trousers. His stomach quaked with a variety of emotions. He can't believe he had pushed John into that situation. Hell, he had practically trapped him against the table and mauled him without even a second thought to John's request of keeping their relationship platonic.
"John, I'm sorry—" he began, but John held up a hand to stem the beginnings of an apology.
"No need to apologize," John said sounding sad and resigned. "I should probably go. You're a little too tempting at the moment and I don't want to force you into a situation you'll resent me for."
"Resent you?" Sherlock spluttered. "I don't think—"
"Sherlock, please," pleaded John. "I'm incredibly embarrassed right now and fighting a hard on." Sherlock (barely) managed not to confirm that pronouncement for himself and kept his eyes on John's rapidly flushing face. "I'm just going to go now." He waved a hand at the bones on the table behind him. "There is evidence of osteogenesis imperfecta in this set of remains as well. I think you'll find that the two men were related when you run DNA analysis."
John sidestepped Sherlock and practically ran out of the open tent flaps. "I have to get to work," he called over his shoulder. "I'll see you later, Sherlock!"
Sherlock stood in the mouth of the tent, watching as John disappeared over the horizon. This time he seemed to be the one left standing with a racing heart, an aching erection, and a buzzing head.