A/N Sorry it took so long to post this chapter. At least it's longer than usual :D
Warnings Colorful language (That means that John swears a lot. I told him to stop but he won't listen. He's very stubborn really.)
Chapter 9
John left his flat at 0730. There were still no police. And, better yet, there were no psychopaths waiting on his doorstep either. He strode briskly down the foggy road.
Men and women passed him by; they weren't being stalked by madmen in bespoke Westwood suits. They weren't dragged through the sewers by giants. They weren't obsessing about tall, dark strangers in their bespoke suits. Christ, does everyone own a ruddy bespoke suit?
Wait, I even own a ruddy bespoke suit, thanks to Psycho-Mor-whatever.
He walked to his favorite coffee shop. It was small, very clean but just a bit run down, rather like John Watson, he smiled to himself. I ought to take notes and write a book.
Inside, faded curtains framed the clean window. John inhaled the strong scent of fresh coffee. He avoided the higher priced specialty drinks and ordered coffee with milk, no sugar, at the scarred wooden counter.
The former army officer sat at his favorite outside table. His back was to the brick wall so no enemy could sneak up on him. He had a good view of the street and could keep an eye on the shop's patrons. The rooftops were clear and there was no suspicious activity from the many windows looking down at the coffee shop.
From this table, the ex-soldier could escape back into the café or down the street if needed. The parked cars could offer cover; of course, that delivery truck would provide the best cover.
The fog made everything more challenging, as it offered cover to any threats. Still, a bit of fog wasn't going to stop Captain John Watson Ret. from enjoying his coffee and his newspaper.
He scanned the street once more for threats like insurgents, snipers or psychopathic ballroom dancers. Luckily, none were found, yet.
He would remain alert. He noted the customers who entered the little coffee shop; he watched for when they departed too. He sipped his coffee and opened the newspaper. The headline was not unexpected.
Mycroft Holmes, Aged 42 Shot Dead
Neighbors Live in Fear as Police
Search for Unknown Assassin
Officials will not speculate as to the motive for the
apparent assassination of a government worker. The
long-time official died at the scene…
John read the front-page article intently. A tall man appeared out of nowhere; he read the headlines over John's shoulder.
"Terrible business that," he said, in a soft, deep voice. "I don't know what the world is coming to, do you?"
John froze at the soft voice over his shoulder. Where the devil had he come from? John had been watching the street and the sidewalks. The man hadn't been in the shop when John bought his coffee. Was there a back door? There must be a back door.
The ex-captain was furious at himself for letting the man sneak up on him. And I'm being rude.
"Oh, um, yeah. Um, dreadful, really dreadful," agreed John dutifully. No one had ever bothered him here. And now the man was seating himself at John's favorite table.
What was the world coming to?
"I'm sorry, any one sitting here?" asked the interloper, a tall redhead, with dark brown eyes. He made as if to stand up again.
John shook his head no, smiled a bland fake smile and pretended to read his paper.
Silly git, anyone could see John was busy. At least the man had a nice smile, fake, but nice. John smirked behind his paper; the git probably thought everyone fell for his fake ingratiating smile.
The barista came out of the shop to ask if the man wanted to order anything. John was stunned. He'd been coming here everyday for weeks, and never once received table service.
Obviously, she fell for the man's fake smile.
"So what's good? Any recommendations?" The man had a nice voice, almost a baritone. He had a trace of accent, probably Swedish?
John belatedly realized the man was asking him for advice. "Um, coffee? Coffee's good." Well duh, this is a coffee shop. Idiot. I'm being an idiot. "Um the cappuccino is really good here. Get the cappuccino; it's my favorite," decided John.
The man flashed the melting barista an incandescent grin, "Two large cappuccino's please. Do you take sugar?" he asked John.
John blinked up at the ginger, "I, I have a coffee."
"Ah, but not your favorite. No sugar for him? Yes, and three for me, thank you Dorcas," she beamed back at the young redhead wearing a leather jacket and jeans. Was it any wonder he got table service; look at his figure. And with a face like that? With those chiseled cheekbones and that smile?
What the hell? I went twenty years without hankering for another man and in the last two days I get a crush on a man I'll never see again, and I'm attracted to another in spite of the fact he's a psycho-nut job, and now I'm admiring an absolute stranger.
Talk about a sexual identity crisis. I should go back into counseling. Or maybe I should get laid. God, think about something else, Watson.
The ginger sat smiling vacantly while John desperately tried to start a conversation. "Watch football much?"
"No," said the handsome redhead. I'm an idiot, thought John. Of course he's not a football fan. He probably likes astronomy or painting or music. Ask him about music then?
John was saved by the return of the barista. She set John's coffee down without looking at him and then leaned over so that the tall redhead could admire her ample cleavage. Silly tart, thought John, he's not even looking. John restrained himself from smirking.
"Um, thank you for the coffee," said John, to the young, well, younger, man. The man wasn't really all that young, just a couple years younger than John. He certainly wasn't too young. "It's good. The cappuccino, I mean. I hope you like yours." I sound so stupid, complained the ex-soldier.
"More than adequate," said the ginger, obviously well-educated and no doubt rich. Still, he sipped the cappuccino happily enough.
Apparently this man was comfortable without constant conversation. Well, fine. John didn't really get into small talk either. John flashed his companion a small smile, his eyes bright.
Out of habit, the captain scanned the street and rooftops, at least as much as he could see through the mist. The fog kept the rest of London at a distance, and John relaxed, sipping his coffee.
"I see you're a fan of pugilism," offered the tall, brown-eyed man.
"What? Oh, the bruises. Um, no. I got into a bit of a scrape at a bar the other night." said John. Shite, now I sound like a drunkard or a tough.
"They look recent and painful, especially that lip," said the ginger, licking his lip. Good God, is he chatting me up? The ginger smiled at John. Turning to check on the patrons, John noticed that the barista was glaring daggers at him. Well, she thinks he's chatting me up. John smiled.
"I've had worse. No big deal. Um, John, John Watson," he stuck his hand out uncertainly.
"Sven Sigerson, pleased to meet you, John," his large hand enclosed John's with warmth. He held John's hand a few second's longer than necessary. His smile lit up his whole face.
John Watson, an ordinary name, thought Sigerson, for an apparently ordinary man. That idiot Dorcas clearly overlooked John Watson; she'll never know what she missed, he thought smugly.
"Do you like music?" blurted out John, blushing afterward. John Watson blushes nicely, thought the ginger. I like the way his blue eyes pay attention to things. He may actually be capable of proper observation, if well-trained.
"Yes, I do, classical music; I prefer the violin," said Sven Sigerson
"Well, the violin is my favorite classical instrument," lied John. Ah, he's pretending to like the violin in order to interest me. How pedestrian, yet rather cute. Delete that. Not cute. I don't do cute. Delete. Delete.
IDIOT! He knows I'm lying, thought John, catching a frown on the ginger's face. Oh dear God, I'm going to lose the patient. "Actually, I don't know much about classical music. I really do like the violin though. I like sad violin music," said John. Why did I just say that?
AH! The former officer can't maintain the lie. He's compelled to tell the truth. A truly honest man, how odd. And there it is, the sadness in his blue eyes. That is honest. He is so very sad.
"Sad because you lost someone or sad because you were hurt by someone," asked Sigerson, now intent. The case could wait a bit; he was about to find out about the real John Watson.
"Lost someone," said John, honest but curt. "You?"
"Me?" asked the ginger.
"You. Did you lose someone or were you hurt by someone? It's a fair question,' challenged John.
"Neither, I'm too busy with the Work," said Sven, startled into a moment of honesty.
"D'you have a girl friend?" asked John sipping his cappuccino, the newspaper long forgotten.
"No, not really my area," said the ginger, slightly confused because the discussion had drifted off course. John Watson was advancing steadily now.
"Boyfriend then? Which is fine," said John with raised eyebrows.
"I know it's fine," John can't seriously be interested in me; I haven't even shown him how smart I am. I should try deducing something for him…
"So you're unattached, like me," Yes. I should say, yes, thought Sherlock, suddenly flustered. But that might complicate the case. It's the case that matters. The Work is all-important.
"Ah, Watson, I think I should tell you that I consider myself married to my work and while I'm flattered…" said Sven.
"No, no I wasn't...I was just, um making conversation," said John, blushing. Idiot, I'm an idiot. And it's over. Flat line. Time to call the code. The patient is dead at 0907. Cause of death, terminal idiocy on the part of the doctor.
"You never said who you lost," said Sven.
"No." said John. "No, I didn't. Thank you for the coffee, Mr. Sigerson."
John got up, still bright red, wearing his dignified face and standing at attention. He limped over to tip his empty cup in the bin.
Wait. No, thought the consulting detective. What did I do? I let him surprise me. I fell for his meek, unassuming demeanor. I forgot he's an army officer, an officer with four tours and special training. I should have predicted that he could become assertive. And why should that have mattered anyway.
He's getting away.
He was interested. He thinks I rejected him. No, no, no. He's not the type to beg, and he won't force himself on anyone, too much the honorable gentleman. So he won't try again Why, why, why did I just tell John Watson that I was married to my work?
Mr. Sigerson rose up quickly. John ignored him and turned to walk back to his flat for another fun-filled day of 'Why should I even bother?' and 'There must be fifty ways to kill a soldier.' Maybe, I'll finally start that stupid blog. Not.
The soldier turned enough to eye the tall ginger as he binned his trash. His wide brown eyes met John's with a hopeful expression as he followed. Wait, didn't he just shoot me down?
Hold on…Sigerson's hair and eyes are wrong, of course. This man smiles more than he did. This ginger is much nicer than him.
John had an eye for a good figure. Sigerson had the same figure, broad shoulders, narrow hips, and long neck. And he was exactly the same height as the consulting detective. John's blue eyes narrowed and then widened in comprehension. Son of a bitch!
"Nice accent. Had your bit of fun? Enjoy your little masquerade, Mr. Holmes?" snarled John. He pivoted and marched down the street. Well, quick march with a limp.
Bugger it! He was so very, very tired of the games these self-professed geniuses played. Why can't they all, just leave me the hell alone!
He began hobbling home. Only now, did he remember that he'd lost his cane. More importantly, while he hadn't needed it since yesterday, he wasn't sure he'd make it home this morning without one. Dammit!
Why had the leg pain gone away? Why did it just come back in full force? Damn my leg!
Sigerson/Holmes was easily keeping up with the angry ex-soldier. "Please do not take offence, Dr. Watson. I assure you I wasn't playing games with you."
Staring straight ahead, John snorted derisively. Jesus, he was another sodding mind reader, too.
"I apologize. I let sentiment get in the way of business," said the tall ginger. His hand hovered over the shorter man's arm, wanting to stop his retreat.
"Whatever are you going on about?" demanded John.
"I meant to question you about your meeting with Moran. But I got distracted," confessed Sherlock, glancing down at the frowning blond. And even that frown was distracting, thought Sherlock with dismay.
"Distracted?" John slowed down, because the 'psychosomatic' leg pain felt pretty darn real. It hurt.
"I was flattered by your obvious interest in me, even though I hadn't made any deductions or demonstrated my superior intelligence," Sherlock confided.
"What, you think people can't like you unless you impress them with how smart you are?" asked John, frowning more, his forehead deeply furrowed.
"People who tolerate me do so because of my genius," admitted the lanky ginger.
"Maybe you should try to dazzle them with your incredible modesty, Mr. Holmes," said John his lips tilting up in a tiny grin.
"Ah, sarcasm. It was inevitable I suppose," said the consulting detective. Trying to hide his regret and embarrassment behind his cold façade. It took a moment before he realized that the doctor did not, in fact, deny his interest.
"Well what do you expect when you brag about your superior intellect. No, don't interrupt. I get it, that you're smart, really smart, a genius like the Irishman, Mor-whatever, but that doesn't give you the right to…Hey! What the hell is the matter with you?" squealed John. He was truly mortified by his squeal but the tall berk with the fake red hair had picked him up by his elbows and then twirled him around.
"Say that again," demanded Sigerson/Holmes staring intently into John's eyes.
"I said that you don't have the right…"
"No, the name, you said a genius like Mor-whatever. You have part of a name. His name. The name of the criminal genius, who arranged Mycroft's assassination. You are brilliant, John," said the handsome berk.
"I, I…Oh,well….Moran let it slip yesterday, in between threats and smacking me around," said John, regaining his composure, and looking up at the thin redhead. He was intensely pleased at the detective's praise. "At first, I thought maybe the lunatic's name was Moran, too. But they don't look or talk alike, and Moran has basically said that he and Mor-whatever are, well, lovers I guess... except psychopaths supposedly can't love."
"Mor, Moore, Morris, Morrison, Morgan, Morse…" muttered Sherlock, tapping two fingers against his cupid's bow.
"Mordred," offered John.
Sherlock glanced down obliquely, "This is serious, Dr. Watson. I'm trying to think," he said with disdain.
"I am serious. I think he's a lot like prince Mordred. Dark, evil, handsome, scheming against the King…" said John.
"Wait, you think that the Mor-person…"
"Mor-whatever, Mr. Holmes,"corrected John.
"Mor-person, Mor-whatever. What does it matter? The point is, you think he's handsome. And can you possibly be likening my fat brother to King Arthur? That's absurd. Whatever goes on in that funny little mind of yours?" asked Sherlock/Sven offended.
"It's Mor-whatever, until I find out his real name. And your brother isn't fat; he's bossy," said John, his hand clasped behind his back."And he's obviously pretty powerful because he shut down Scotland Yard's homicide division the other night, organized this counterplot against Mor-whatever overnight; he certainly covered up the death of that double agent…"
"Yes, yes, Mycroft likes to pretend that he has a minor role in the British Government. You'll find that in reality, he is the British government, when he isn't the CIA or MI6," scoffed Sherlock, his eyes narrowed in irritation. Did the little blond admire both the Mor-person and Mycroft? That was ridiculous... and worrisome.
"Oh God, I haven't asked. Um, how is he since I, since he, um, got shot?" inquired John.
"Fine. He's fine. He has extensive bruising and probably a cracked rib," said the consulting detective. "And now you will want to waste time, worrying about him. Don't. You warned him in advance about the dangers. You advised him to wear more armor. He disregarded your advice and suffers accordingly."
John's eyebrows had drawn low. "He's your brother, Sherlock."
"And I visited him, in his secret hide-away. He's not nearly as uncomfortable as Lestrade made out. A day or two of rest and he'll be holding the reins of government as tightly as ever. I brought him cake. He loves cake," Sigerson/Holmes smiled smugly. "He loves cake and Lestrade, his lover, surely you remember him, John," said the fake red-head with a pointed sideways glance," "and he loves controlling everyone's life, especially mine," finished Sherlock/Sven, his smile gone. He glared at a CCTV camera; John followed his glance and looked up too.
"Is that camera following us? Your brother isn't watching you on camera?" asked John, staring at the camera and turning to walk backwards, leg pain forgotten.
"He watches me constantly. He'll be watching you too, now. Don't stare, John, the Mor-person is certainly watching you."
"You're staring."
"We can't both stare."
"I don't like being watched," muttered John. "Are they really watching me when I walk around?" He scanned the rooftops and windows again. He gazed suspiciously at an older man wearing a puffy coat that could easily conceal weapons...
"John, Mycroft has had you watched ever since you came to the Yard. I'd guess your Mor-person hacks into Mycroft's monitors, but he may have his own cameras in your flat," said the consulting detective grasping John's wrist and pulling him along.
"No. Wait," demanded John, pulling his arm free from the red-headed whirlwind, "What do you…No. You think they have cameras in m' flat? That's..that's…Oh My God! Do they have cameras in the loo? No, I won't stand for this. I took a bloody shower this morning. Were they watching me shower?"
Sherlock tried to picture what the soldier might look like in the shower hair dripping, skin glistening, hands full of suds sliding over his hard…
"Well dammit, Holmes or Sigerson or whatever you call yourself, are they watching me in the loo or not?" the angry blond had grabbed a fist full of Sven's leather jacket. "Well?" he shook the taller man once. He was surprisingly strong.
Sherlock rolled his eyes at the CCTV camera that was pointed at them. Big brother would be interfering soon, if John kept up the threatening act.
"Calm yourself, John. Mycroft never puts cameras in the bathroom," well, almost never, Sherlock amended silently.
"Well," said the blond, letting go of the taller man's jacket. "Well, it's just that it's humiliating, that's all. So um, sorry. Sorry if I wrinkled your coat," he smoothed the jacket front down. It was really more of a caress. JOhn cleared his throat in embarrassment.
The former captain stepped back and stood in parade rest, his face turning a delightful shade of scarlet. John looked quite nice in scarlet, thought the disguised detective.
John pursed his lips, "You called me John."
"First names make more sense, if we're to be working together, John," said Sherlock, smirking and dragging the shorter man forward.
"Who said we're working together? You can't possibly work with me. That Irishman is a psychopathic killer. And he seems to think I'm his boyfriend, and you just said that he's probably watching me. You're endangering yourself right now, just by walking with me."
"Hence, my disguise."
"No. I don't see how that helps. If he goes after you as Sigerson, that's still you and you're still the one who'll get hurt, so no."
"Your needn't concern yourself over my safety," said Sherlock stiffly.
"I'll bloody well decide for myself who I choose to be concerned about, Sherlock," said Dr. Watson emphatically.
Sherlock smirked. John finally said his name, and John was concerned about him. Brilliant.
"Sven," said Sherlock, with a curl of his lips.
"What?"
"My name is Sven right now," said the faux Swede. "Do try to keep up, John."
John blinked, confused. What the hell was I talking about, wondered the doctor?
"You do want to stop the Mor-person, once and for all, don't you?" asked Sherlock, tilting his head. Maybe John didn't want to catch the Irishman. Maybe he did like the criminal Irishman, more than he let on.
"Yes, of course," snapped John, remembering the point of the argument, "and I'll coöperate fully with you and the police, but from a distance. You need to stay away…"
"I will not keep my distance. I will investigate, identify and locate the Mor-person. I will allow you to work with me, or I can just work on my own," said the consulting detective.
Oh God, the thought of the younger man running afoul of the dangerously psychotic Mor-person, no, MOR-WHATEVER, chilled John. At least, if we work together, maybe I can protect him, the soldier reluctantly decided.
"OK, we'll try it, but Sherlock…"
"Sven," corrected the smug ginger.
John pinched the bridge of his nose.
"OK, Sven…"
"And John, we'll have to part ways after you eat breakfast," said Sherlock. "We'll meet secretly in my hotel room this evening. I don't want to make the Mor-person suspicious."
"You're doing that on purpose, just to be irritating, aren't you?" asked John waspishly.
"Hmm?"
"You keep changing the subject and you insist on saying Mor-person, just to irritate me."
"Why would I do that," asked Sven/Sherlock, with wide-eyed innocence.
"How the hell should I know? Because you can? And don't you live in London? Why the hotel room?" asked the little blond, belligerently. His hands were balled into fists as he confronted Sherlock/Sven again. John Watson was cute, yes cute, when he was angry.
It was unfortunate, but there it was. The ex-soldier was cute. Sherlock was attracted to him; it was illogical and a waste of time to deny it any further.
At least, John Watson showed more promise than any of Sherlock's past interests. There was even a very remote chance he could have a real relationship with the former doctor who seemed to remain attracted to Sherlock despite his superior intellect and abrasive personality.
"I think we'll stop here for breakfast, John," said the tall ginger, standing in front of a busy café. "You seem rather tired and some rest seems to be in order. Although, I must say, that I was pleased to note that while your limp returned briefly, it has disappeared while we were walking," he held the door open for John. "Which begs the question, where is your cane, John?"
John had finished his rather large fry up. Sherlock had refused to order food of his own, but then stole John's bacon and a piece of buttered toast with jam.
The blond sniper had tried to tell Sherlock what had happened to him the day before. It took quite a while because Sherlock interrupted for clarification or to ask for detailed descriptions of people and places.
Needless to say, John's breakfast was cold by the time he finished it.
Unfortunately, the consulting detective did not care about the number of roses in Mor-whatever's underground bedroom, even though John had counted them three times.
After the rose debacle, Sherlock despaired of John's intellect out loud and repeatedly. Fortunately, the former army captain had quickly learned to block out Sherlock's insults in lieu of moving the conversation forward. Besides, one did not serve four tours in the military without developing a thick skin.
"So going backwards, it was while we were dancing; he put the moves on me," said John, quietly so no one else would hear.
"The moves?" asked Sherlock.
"Yeah, you know, he was, um, whispering in my ear, calling me his…his pet and um kissing me, and then I pulled away. And that made him mad. And he bit me. He bit my neck," John was scarlet once more. He reached up to rub over his wound. Thankfully, the shirt covered the plasters. "It bled quite a bit and probably should have been stitched up. Then again, it's got a high likelihood of infection, mouth's a dirty place, really, so leaving it open might be for the best. It's not as though scarring matters at this point in my life. It still hurts like the devil, let me tell you." John shook his last piece of toast at the pale man for emphasis.
Sherlock was silent, his full lips pressed together in a thin line. The psychopathic criminal bit John hard enough to draw blood. Clearly, John could not be allowed near that maniac again. This situation was already out of control.
"Right," said John, trying to lighten the detective's suddenly grim mood. "So the good news is that my tetanus is up to date; the bad news is that I probably should have taken rabies vaccine, yeah?" said John with a small smile.
"This isn't a laughing matter, John. You can't seriously consider him your boyfriend. He's a cruel and abusive man, and he's already hurt you. He's very, very dangerous, and you must stay away from him."
"Hello? I don't consider myself his boyfriend. I only went through with the, well you know," said John, waving his hand about vaguely. "Because your, um relative, insisted that he could catch him. For the record, I am not attracted to men who shoot their employees brains out for getting mud on the carpet. I'd just as soon not go near the psycho again without a sidearm and half the police force. He sipped his cold coffee and toyed with the doughnuts that he ordered to tempt the overly thin man in front of him. He pushed the plate closer to the fake redhead.
"In fact, continued John. "I've never even had a boyfriend, unless you consider last night a date and I don't and anyway it was under duress. Mor-whatever is not my boyfriend. I'm probably not even really gay."
"Then you would probably consider dating the right man, as long as he didn't gun down his employees,'" said the consulting detective, with a smirk. His brown eyes fixed on John, who was blushing yet again.
"So you're wearing brown contacts then. Very clever, sure fooled me," said the little blond, trying to change the subject. He looked up at Sherlock from under his frowning brow and then quickly lowered his eyes. John is still interested in me, then. For some unaccountable reason, that was pleasing to the consulting detective.
However, the former soldier seemed uncomfortable with his own homosexuality. That was displeasing.
"You're uncomfortable with your homosexuality," said Sherlock. It was a statement, not a question.
"What? No. I'm not, much. I mean I never really think about it," said John. "I've just never dated a man; I like women too. I mean; I like women."
"You're attracted to men," said Sherlock smirking. You're attracted to me. Look at those pupils dilate. And that blush…
"ME? I'm not, no, not since Uni, and I'm attracted to lots of women too," said John.
"You're also attracted to the Mor-person," said Sherlock coldly. Someone like that should never get his hands on John Watson. Never.
"That's different. That was not attraction. That was just…well, I can't help it if my body responds when someone….It wasn't attraction, not like with y'…It was just a physical response…And how the hell do you know anything about it, anyway," John ended with a mutter.
'I deduced it from your behavior today and the other night at Scotland Yard. I deduced it from your rambling and barely coherent statement about your activities last night," said the consulting detective.
"Now wait a minute, if my story rambled it was because you kept interrupting me," defended John.
'And now, when a virtual stranger is confronting your gender identity, you are more concerned about whether your discourse was concise or rambling," stated the ginger. "It was rambling, I'm afraid."****************
"I can deduce that you've repressed your homosexuality for most of your life. Indeed, you've nearly convinced yourself that you were heterosexual since Uni. Your newly reawakened attraction to men has made you uncomfortable. Yet, you're not against homosexuality in principal. You were being open and honest when you said it was fine. I haven't seen any sign of strong religious values that would cause you to repress your sexuality… no something happened," The red-headed detective raised his steepled hands in front of his mouth. "Your sister is a lesbian. Ah, that struck a nerve, your hand is shaking. People disapproved. I would not be surprised if she faced bullying. Ah, your frown says yes, but your lowered brows indicate that there was more. Your family, no your parents disapproved when your sister came out. In fact they disapproved violently, and you felt obligated to maintain the peace, and I strongly suspect that you felt obligated to support your sister at the same time. Yes, a difficult juggling act. It took all of your emotional reserves to satisfy both halves of your family. Hence you remain single and unattached despite your longing for a partner."
Sherlock looked out the window to street glistening in the light rain. He waited for the anger, the rejection; it was inevitable.
"That…was amazing," said John, hiding his tell-tale hand.
"Really, you think so?" said Sherlock, suddenly uncertain. He turned back to his companion.
"Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary," said John.
"That's not what people normally say."
"What do people normally say?"
"Piss off," answered Sherlock. His lips quivered into a smile as his companion chuckled, turning his head to keep himself from dissolving into giggles. They sat with matching grins for a few moments, before John cleared his throat.
"Your parent's reaction to Harry must have been difficult?" asked Sherlock, with unaccustomed tact.
John's boyish grin disappeared abruptly.
'Of course, it was difficult for Harry," agreed John. "My parents practically disowned her…"
"I meant that it was traumatic for you, John," said Sherlock, "After all, you changed the course of your life for them."
"It was hard for Harry, it wasn't a big deal for me. I handled it," said John, squaring his jaw. "Anyway, what difference does it make now?"
John stared at his cold coffee, hiding his stupid, stupid hand in his lap. The consulting detective did not reply but kept his eyes on the ex-soldier.
"Look, I took care of her, Harry, when she came out; I tried to, anyway. I fought the bullies at school until they left her alone. I stood up for her at home. I always protected her from him, from my father. After she left, I was always bloody there for her. I took care of her when she drank, and I cleaned her up enough to go back to school. You know, she's a successful bigwig at a bank now. So it's worked all worked out, yeah?"
"I took care of my parents too," continued John: he licked his lips. "They were devastated. I mean, it was their own fault; they drove her off, but they mourned. It was like Harry had died. My mother really needed me, especially when my father turned to drink. She relied on me to be strong and to be… to be the son she always wanted. So, I did what was necessary. No big deal. It's what a man does." John pursed his lips again and nodded as if agreeing with himself.
"How old were you?" murmured Sherlock.
"Old enough," said John into his coffee. "You know in Afghanistan, a boy becomes a man by thirteen or fourteen. That's true in lots of places. It's no big deal."
Really? No big deal, thought Sherlock. It made you who you are today. Ready to sacrifice yourself for almost anyone, even a stranger. It made you reject your sexuality for two decades. No big deal, indeed,
"OK, it really doesn't matter," added the ex-soldier quickly. "But, I suppose, well, maybe, sometimes I might be bisexual. It hasn't been an issue for years. All that time I was attracted to women."
"And I don't know why I'm telling all this to you, I mean; we've just met. I've never told any of this to anyone. Not even to…And now it bloody well doesn't matter. Who would want me now? No man or woman in their right mind would want an unemployed, wounded veteran with PTSD."
"The Mor-person wants you," said Sherlock
"My point exactly, Mor-whatever is not in his right mind," said John emphatically. He looked up, his blue eyes challenged the consulting detective.
I want you, conceded Sherlock, but his reply only echoed in the halls of his lonely mind palace.
"Right," said John Watson, briskly. He stood straight, as if at attention. Somehow this discussion made him even sadder that the consulting detective had rejected him. Not a big deal. I can handle it. "Right. I have your map; I will meet you at your hotel at 1800 hours. Thank you for breakfast, Sherlock Holmes."
A/N And thank you for reading my story. I'd love to hear your thoughts, comments, criticism and suggestions. I'd love to hear from you via a review or PM.
Special thanks to those who have reviewed my story including AiLoveS, ruvy91, EJ12212012, Wicked Winter, Quiet Time, InuChimera7410, power0girl, SamuelE8688 and Guests. Thank you for taking the time to review. Your reviews and comments are the main reason I stay motivated.
Disclaimer-I do not own the rights to SHERLOCK or the characters from the show.
Speaking of the show, I read about rumors that PBS may run season 3 at the same time as the BBC. That would be too wonderful and so is probably not true. Still, we can hope. :D