A/N: Hello all! I'm sorry I missed last week though I am very glad you all got to meet my boyfriend Shai, who posted for me last week. I have an ovarian cyst. It's still small so I'm unlikely to need surgery but I'll certainly keep y'all updated. I can now eat, walk, and think again, so I'm super excited to come back to Johnlock!
Chapter 28
John walked out minutes later to see Sherlock bent over the desk on his laptop, writing an email. A sure sign he was looking for a new case and had solved one without needing to leave the flat. Feeling rather desperate for Sherlock to find one, John hid in the kitchen and started microwaving his very over-seeped tea.
He got hopeful when he heard Sherlock mumbling.
"Elite guard. Why this particular grenadier? Curious."
John swallowed down a gulp of bitter now-scalding tea. He thought Sherlock was faking his interest but decided not to mention it. He'd fake his own if it'd give them a case, a semblance of normalcy. Sherlock turned around, his posture stiff and ran his finger over the surface of the desk next to him as if checking for dust.
"A private in Her Magesties' household guard. Forty enlisted men and officers. Thinks he's being stalked," Sherlock listed quickly, suddenly brushing off his finger and moving to grab his coat. He hesitated by the door, his coat in his hand and his pale eyes nervous. "Coming?" he asked.
John blinked rapidly. He wanted to ask what was odd about the case but then, he didn't want to mangle their flimsy lie. Instead he tossed back another gulp of the nasty tea and left the mug in the sink.
~~/~~
They walked in silence at a slower pace than John expected. They took the Jubilee line, a strange change from Sherlock's usual habit of hailing a cab every time they needed to travel for more than two meters. It looked like Sherlock was drawing the case out as long as possible and wasn't managing to be at all subtle about it. Given that, again John didn't question it, and they rode in relative peace to Westminster Station. From there they walked at a remarkably slow pace until John was grinding his teeth, ready to berate the man for testing his limits so openly, and worse for underestimating him.
They arrived at the palace finally and Sherlock strode up to the officer of the guard apparently undeterred by the armed soldiers shouting to stay back. John obeyed them, remaining by the tourist fence until the officer recognized Sherlock and shushed his soldiers. Sherlock gestured to John to approach as if they'd agreed upon this mode of entry from the start.
"We're here to see Private Steven Bainbridge," John announced, pretending they had an appointment and handing over his military I.D.
"He's on duty right now, sir," the soldier replied, visibly mollified by his rank. John waited for a better answer as he was trained to do with subordinates. "But I'll certainly let him know when he's free," the guard added.
"And when will that be?" Sherlock demanded and the guard drew up in pride. He recognized Sherlock but he was still talking to a civvie, John thought.
"Another hour," the guard replied. John blew out a breath, knowing what that meant. Waiting in more of their damned endless silence.
"Thank you," he said as patiently as he could and they retreated. Sherlock led him to a park outside one of the entrances and they sat on a bench conveniently overlooking the on-duty guards. It didn't take long to get awkward. John fiddled with his makeshift sling, deciding it was passed time to do away with the bloody thing and trust in his strength training. Sherlock clasped his hands on his lap in that oddly schoolboy way he had.
"Do you think they give them classes?" Sherlock asked out of the blue. John looked at him but found no clues forthcoming in Sherlock's stiff expression.
"Classes?" John asked finally, glad to be talking.
"How to resist the temptation to scratch their behinds," Sherlock clarified without looking away from the stiff, silent guards. Small talk, John recognized, though he didn't at all know what to do with it, coming from Sherlock. Surely the man was beyond miserable to be trying.
"Afferent neurons in the peripheral nervous system," John commented. Sherlock frowned and turned his head, clearly confused. John didn't blame him; he couldn't figure out what he was attempting to add to the conversation either. "Bum itch," he reiterated. Sherlock's face cleared as if that'd helped.
"Oh," he said.
This was horrible. It was better when they weren't trying to talk.
"So why don't you see him anymore?" Sherlock asked and John was only more confused. He must have looked it, for Sherlock added, "your ex-commander Sholto". John swallowed, guessing that in the absence of a case Sherlock was finding a different deduction to show off. John didn't know how to express how this time, when it came to Sholto and the war, John desperately wished he wouldn't. Another loss, another tragedy. Now, apparently, Sherlock knew about all of them. Not a thing to show off, if that was what Sherlock was attempting.
"He was decorated, wasn't he? A war hero," Sherlock asked, sounding uncertain about that conclusion. Maybe a guess, maybe just a push for more information. John sighed. James Sholto. A vastly respectable man, crushed by his losses in war. Perhaps Sherlock did have a greater point to this.
"Not to everyone," John answered honestly, letting go of his sling. He cleared his throat and Sherlock looked away, staring at the palace. John was grateful. "He led a team of crows into battle-"
"Crows?" Sherlock asked quickly and John clarified.
"New recruits. It's a standard procedure to break the new boys in, but it went wrong. They all died. He was the only survivor. The press and the families gave him hell. He gets more death threats than you," John recounted.
"Oh, I wouldn't count on that," Sherlock replied grimly. John decided not to argue. Sherlock was likely right, when it came to strict numbers.
"Why have you suddenly taken an interest in another human being?" John asked and Sherlock's jaw clenched.
Crap.
"I'm… chatting," Sherlock pronounced uncomfortably. John felt his eyebrows rise at the admission and turned to look at Sherlock Holmes, who had always held such distain for chatter. "Won't be trying that again," Sherlock drawled.
"No, I mean… how do you know about him? I don't think I've ever mentioned him," John backtracked, shaking his head.
"Oh," Sherlock said, only looking more uncomfortable. "You said it in the hospital…Screaming," he explained. John closed his eyes. Small talk. They were pants at this.
"Changing the subject completely…" John started, unsure what to change it to. "They are fully operational soldiers, not just ceremonial," he answered finally, jerking his head toward the guards on duty.
"Hmm," Sherlock grunted. John nodded, waiting a moment for the awkwardness to pass. To his surprise, Sherlock had disappeared from the bench entirely. John stood up and glanced around him, entirely perturbed, only to spot Sherlock rushing up the grass back to him. "We'll go in to meet with the sergeant, sneak around a bit, and meet with Bainbridge as privately as possible."
John nodded and started down the hill with him, trying to pretend like it was perfectly normal for Sherlock to turn around and explain himself to anyone.
"Sounds good," John croaked out, as if he didn't sound entirely ridiculous and likely to end both of them in jail. Sherlock grinned, obviously excited, and started back down the hill.
~~/~~