10. The numbers

It was a nice Summer evening, and John removed his jacket and slung it over his shoulder, the other hand in his pocket. Sherlock glanced and noted how the new shirt hugged his torso.

'So, did you have a good time, Sherlock?'

'Hm. With your closer friends it was tolerable.'

'Oh, come on. You were fascinated with Max being a sniper.' John had observed Sherlock closely at dinner. That had been unusual for him, to show so much interest in someone. It left John unsettled.

'Yes, that was quite interesting. Your other mates are just apes. Or teenagers, which is the same.'

John laughed at that. It pleased Sherlock when he could make John laugh. 'I suppose you're right. They can be like that when all of us are in the same room. But one on one, they are all good guys.'

'You and Max seem to get along very well. Were you ever trained as a sniper too?'

'No! God no. That's not for me. But Max is really good, it's quite astonishing how steady and accurate he is. You can tell his level of concentration just in the way he carries himself. He never wastes movements.'

'You admire him.' A statement, not a question.

'Of course! He's brilliant at what he does.'

Sherlock winced internally at the word. 'One can sense the potential for violence in him. Some sadness too.'

'Yes, I know what you mean. I can't imagine how much of a psychological impact being a sniper must have on anyone. It's already hard enough to be a soldier...' he trailed off, unwilling to continue.

Sherlock waited. When John didn't continue, he added, 'In a way, you're almost like him.'

'How so?'

'The doctor and the soldier, calm and potential for violence underneath the jumpers.'

John chuckled, 'Oh come on, I'm not that violent.'

'Says the man who punched me in the face, then tried to strangle me...'

John laughed at the memory and Sherlock joined in, pleased.

'Hey, you asked for it. And not only with words...'

'I had to, you were just wasting time.' Then, after a pause, 'How did you become friends?'

'Oh, the usual. I saved his arse in a shootout, patched him up a couple of times.' Then, after a pause, 'Once he actually saved mine.' Sherlock wanted to know more, but John's face had darkened and it didn't look like he wanted to talk about it. Usually he would've blazed his way into making him talk. But then he remembered a more nagging question in his mind.

'You didn't mention the other girls.'

'What other girls?'

'Your mates listed many more than the nine you told me about.'

'Oh, that. Well, this was when I was much younger... I mean...'

'...You had one night stands.'

'Well... When I was sent abroad I had just broken up with Lilly. It was one of the most serious long term relationships I've had. We had been together for five years, we were going to get married and all. But it was not meant to be. So I basically went crazy, desperately trying to forget her. That's how this whole TC thing started.'

'Understandable. How many?'

'Erm... five.'

'Countries?'

'Ah. Hm. Let's see, Spain. United States. One was English too. Hm, another German girl. And... Australia.'

'Fourteen in eighteen months?'

'Well, they weren't real relationships, so I'm not too concerned with "propping up my numbers" by mentioning them. The guys just love the story and the idea of it, making me look more like a sleazy womanising pig.'

'But surely you have counted and know your "numbers".'

'Sherlock! That's personal! Not to mention ridiculous and juvenile!'

'Your reaction would indicate that the numbers are either too low or too high. I seriously doubt it's the former.'

'Sherlock!'

'It's quite easy to arrive at a number by extrapolating from the known data I already have.'

'Shut it, will you? That's stupid.'

'One can assume you started at age fifteen or sixteen. Perhaps the first girlfriend lasted a year. After that, a quick series of non-serious dates, nothing that lasted too long. Then going on an average of two a year, minus the time in Afghanistan that, according to you, didn't allow for much dating. Take into consideration that one long term relationship that lasted five years and yet allowing for maybe two of three that might have lasted a couple of years... Mmm. F... orty... one!'

John stopped walking, his face fell and he was once again staring open mouthed, eyes wide.

'John, John, you astound me. I had never pegged you as promiscuous,' he teased. He was pleased that he was able to read John's minute reactions in the fractions of seconds as he tested the numbers to pinpoint that one.

'Sherlock!' He just couldn't believe it. How much more intruding could he be? And how did they get on this topic? And how did he guess the number? John felt himself go crimson. This made him look like a promiscuous jerk. But really, aside those one night stands and the faster rate of dating abroad and at Baker Street, for most part he had had one or two girlfriends a year, sometimes none - during his tours, for example. He braced himself for what would come next.

'Your mates, they were right about Gwen.'

'What? You too?' That was unexpected. 'Come on, Sherlock. Look at her. She's way out of my league. She seemed to like you though.' And I saw you looking at her, he added to himself.

Sherlock noticed John threw a sideways glance at him, evaluating his reaction. 'So? So does Molly.'

'Sherlock! Gwen is nothing like Molly. Surely even you can see that.'

'That means exactly the same to me. Not interested.'

John sighed and shook his head at that.

….

John had not been lying. He was tired after a day in the sun. He went to the bathroom and came back smelling of toothpaste, in a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. Sherlock took his turn, but when he was done, John was already asleep. Sherlock left the lights on for a while, watching and thinking. After a couple of sleepless and boring hours in the dark, he got up and opened the curtains to look at the night outside.

He could see small fishing boat lights in the distance, some stars, and the pool next door, softly lit. He had enjoyed seeing John so carefree in the pool yesterday. So much so that he forgot himself and undressed in front of Sherlock. He could see now why the Army had been the ideal place for John. The proximity of danger seemed to be what kept him so relaxed, at ease. Just an afternoon with his mates and he acted completely different. He remembered John smelling of sun and chlorine, face and eyebrows sun kissed. The edge of a tan line at his waist. He turned to observe. Under the lights coming from outside, he watched the sleeping form on the bed, now on his stomach, facing away from the window. Sherlock remembered seeing him at the pool in a similar position. How perfect he had looked. With a rush of heat, he felt it again. That arousal. He contented himself in looking at John for now.

After a while it became unbearable. He got dressed and went for a walk on the deserted and dark beach.

…

John woke up with a start around four in the morning, sweating and panting. As expected, being close to the guys brought back ugly memories and nightmares. Blinking, he saw the curtains were open, allowing some distant boat light shine inside the room. He stumbled over to close them, when he noticed Sherlock's bed was empty. His eyes moved to the bathroom, but it was also empty. He frowned and hazily worried. He closed the curtains, laid down still groggy, thinking of getting up to go looking for him. Then he heard soft steps outside the bedroom door. Soon the door opened, and John allowed himself to drift off again. He knew it was Sherlock.