John woke up the next morning with a smile. The danger was temporarily gone. The Dream of Sherlock getting half his head blown off having been replaced by a new kaleidoscope of colours and sounds that made no sense whatsoever. It was a bit like a modern art exhibit, interesting but completely nonsensical.
Then his smile dropped when he remembered giving Sherlock his notebook. In hindsight, that may not have been his smartest move, because now, John had no clue how Sherlock would react and he'd be on edge until he heard from the man again. John had liked talking to Sherlock, had been completely engrossed by his stories as a consulting detective and the way he could deduce anything from little details. He had reveled in the easy camaraderie that he missed so much from his days as a soldier when everything had been just peachy - if you discounted the scorching heat, the damned dust that got everywhere and the occasional skirmishes.
John sighed. It was not use mulling it over, he would just have to wait and see. As usual. That could be his new moto: "John Watson, Wait & See". He put the kettle on, then turned the telly on full blast, hoping it would help him not think about the multitude of ways Sherlock could react badly to his notebook, but he was immediately interrupted by a knock on his door. Sherlock? Even if he'd hoped he would come back, he hadn't imagined it would be this soon. In not time though, he had the door open, deflating a bit when he was faced with a homeless bloke. He didn't know they did door to door begging now.
"John Watson?" the young man asked.
"Yes?" John answered with a frown.
"Delivery from Sherlock Holmes," he said and dropped a heavy, leather bound book in his hands before scuttling off without another word or backwards glance.
John looked down the hallway but the homeless man had disappeared around the corner. Weird. Since when were the homeless employed as delivery boys? Or maybe the young man wasn't homeless, but just had terrible hygiene and a bad dress sense. Given his dreams, John had come to accept the strange without a second thought, so he shrugged and closed his door to inspect the book. No apparent title. He opened it but the pages were blank too, a journal then. A white scrap of paper that had been trapped between the pages fluttered down to the floor.
I never thanked you, it read. Consider it done. SH
John chuckled because, true to character, he wasn't technically saying thank you, but the sentiment was there. He lay the new journal on the kitchen table. It was of much better quality than his Tesco notebook, but that would be like comparing a four years old's crayon drawing to a Van Gogh painting. John brushed his hand against the smooth, creamy pages, imagining how much nicer it would be to write in this journal than his notebook. Did that mean Sherlock had read it already? And did this gift mean Sherlock believed him and would be staying in touch? Or was it some kind of parting gift? John closed the journal after he'd safely tucked Sherlock's note in the middle of it for safekeeping.
One hour later, he received a text from Sherlock. John wondered if the man had deduced his phone number from the pattern of his knitted jumper or some other equally astounding detail, or if he'd just snooped around while John had been making tea. Both seemed equally possible at this point.
Meet me at 221B Baker Street at earlier convenience. SH
John felt a weight lift off his shoulders. Sherlock still wanted to see him, despite his notebook and the crazy secret it contained. Being already dressed, fed and a new entry for the fourth dream filled in his new journal, John texted back:
On my way. JW
Then, he saved Sherlock's number in his contacts.
John took a cab. He didn't really have the money for such a luxury, but he wanted to meet Sherlock as soon as possible and it would save him the trouble of finding out how to get there. 221B Baker Street turned out to be a small building with a little café at ground level. John quickly spotted Sherlock waiting for him on the pavement, pacing back and forth. He looked very agitated but broke into a smile when he saw him.
John glanced nervously at the café. If Sherlock wanted to talk about his notebook, he would have preferred a more discreet location, but Sherlock steered him towards the imposing door of the building instead.
"So, what are we doing here?" John asked, as they paused in front of the door.
"Just visiting," Sherlock replied, taking out a key to open the door.
"This is your place," John accused, pointing at his key. "Even I can deduce that much. I may not 'observe' like you, but I'm not blind either, or do you take me for that much of a - what did you call that forensics guy? - a dim-witted moron who can't tell his arse from his elbow?"
Sherlock chuckled.
"Oh, no. Anything but," he replied, leading the way up the first flight of stairs.
John had the uncanny urge to count the number of steps on his way, just in case Sherlock quizzed him about it later. The man was turning him into a real nutcase.
"So? What do you think?" Sherlock asked after he flung open the door at the top of the stairs.
John walked around the living room, bigger than his whole bedsit put together, but dusty and cluttered, in a good way. It felt lived in, and homey, in its own strange way, and despite the oddities lying around everywhere.
"It's...nice?" John answered, not sure why Sherlock had asked. He hadn't figured him out to be one who fished for compliments so he had no idea what he was getting at.
"So you'll move in?" Sherlock asked, bouncing eagerly on his feet, unable to contain his excitement. It was endearing, this over-enthusiastic side of the man he was seeing for the first time.
"I'm sorry, what?" John blurted out, certain he must have misunderstood.
"Think about it, John," Sherlock urged, making wild gestures with his long arms and big hands. "It's perfect. I need a flatmate, you definitely need a new place. And this way, it'll be easier for you to keep tabs on me. I'm sure it'll save you a lot of time."
John blinked. It did make a lot of sense if he thought about it. He'd always know what Sherlock was about, what he was working on, who he was after... He could even help him figure out his Dreams, especially the when and where, and be forewarned about it. Maybe John wouldn't even have to tackle would-be murderers to save Sherlock, not alone at least.
"But... Wait! This means you actually believe me?" John asked, not daring to believe it. "About the… you know?"
John blushed, too embarrassed to say it out loud. How could Sherlock just accept it so easily?
"Your dreams?" Sherlock asked, seemingly amused at John's discomfort. "I think visions would be a more apt description, but yes, I do believe that's the most likely solution to what's been happening. It explains why you're always in the right place, at the right time, saving my life, but asking nothing in return, not even attempting to ingratiate yourself to me. I'm sure if I hadn't hunted you down, you would have continued to remain in the shadows. Am I right?"
John nodded dumbly.
"There is actually a more down to earth solution - can you guess?" Sherlock asked. "One that doesn't require my needing to adjust to a... paranormal component."
John's eyebrows drew down as he thought about it. He would have prefered Sherlock ask him how many steps there were in the staircase after all since he knew the answer to that and didn't want to pass for an idiot. But what was it he had mentioned earlier about 'ingratiating himself to him'... had people tried that before? Getting close to Sherlock to use his rare deductive skills maybe? John could see the appeal, but how could he manage that? It took him a few more minutes to come up with an idea.
"If all of this was planned?" John ventured, not sure how to formulate it. "I mean… if everything was an elaborate plot? Fake murder attempts against you with someone swooping in at just the last minute to save the day, purposefully disappearing to catch your attention? And a false notebook too, obviously, to make it seem more real? But… well… that would take a hell of a lot of planning, wouldn't it? Men and money… and someone very clever behind it all. Is that it? The more down-to-earth solution? Because it sounds pretty crazy, even to me."
But Sherlock was smiling.
"I knew you'd get it," he said and that sounded almost like praise coming from him.
"You did point me in the right direction," John replied, trying not to sound too pleased. "But why did you rule that out? Given these two solutions, I guess most anyone would pick elaborate conspiracy over prophetic dreams."
"Because of you," Sherlock said simply, his inquisitive eyes boring into his as if he could see everything there was to know about John Watson, as if he was an open book.
John had the ridiculous urge to cover himself with his hands. He shook his head, breaking the eye contact which had him so completely mesmerized, and wondered if Sherlock was any good at hypnotizing people.
"I don't understand," John breathe out.
"I can read people, John, and I know you're not lying. I'd wager you're not any good at it, since you had difficulties simply evading questions," Sherlock smirked. "It would take an exceptional actor to fool me, so, if you're not part of the 'elaborate plot', that means there isn't one. And once you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."
Sherlock make a gesture like a magician would make at the end of a magic trick, ta-da, and John would have liked nothing better than to argue with him, but he was right, wasn't he?
"Brilliant, as usual," John blurted and he could actually see Sherlock preen under the compliment. It never got old. "So you're serious? About having me as a flatmate?"
"Of course I am," Sherlock scoffed. "I'm not in the habit of saying words I don't mean. That would be a terrible waste of time. But I imagine I should mention I'm not that good of a flatmate. The last one only lasted two weeks, in fact."
"What did you do? Deduce the hell out of him?" John could see how that could be embarrassing.
Sherlock grinned toothily, looking like a malevolent dragon, but shook his head.
"Look in the fridge," he instructed, then crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for John to do as he'd asked.
So he did. John had a feeling he'd be doing that a lot, just blindly obeying the man. He walked into the kitchen, taking in the abysmal mess it was in, and he briefly wondered how Sherlock managed to cook for himself. Standing before the fridge, John took a deep breath, expecting the worse, and opened the door.
"Jesus! Is that a lung!" John cried out, loud enough for Sherlock to hear. "And why the hell do you have a bowl of ears in here? Human ears! And are those- Oh, for God's sake!"
John banged the fridge door shut and returned to the living-room.
"Okay, that was pretty gross, not to mention unsanitary, so I can sort of understand why your previous flatmate left. But you should really be more careful about cross-contamination. Keep your body-parts in the lowest part of the fridge and well wrapped maybe? It's a wonder you don't get sick all the time."
"If I do that, will you move in with me?" Sherlock bargained, puppy-eyed, and how was John supposed to resist that?
John looked around, the flat was quite large and right in the middle of London, close to Regent Park he'd noted. Prime estate which had to cost a fortune.
"I'd love to, Sherlock, but I really don't think I can afford it. I can barely afford where I live now and… well, you've seen the place."
Sherlock's lips pressed into a flat line for just a second.
"The landlady owes me a favour, a big favour, and she let's me live here for next to nothing," he explained carefully, as if he was gauging John's reaction with every word. "And you've practically put you life on hold, because of me..."
"Because of the Dreams," John corrected. He didn't want Sherlock to have some misplaced guilt.
"For me, then. Protecting me takes up all of your time," Sherlock said and had to put a hand up to silence John before he protested again. "It does. There's no point denying it, it's a fact, and because of it, you're still unemployed, and alone. No friends, no romantic partners, and your relationship with your brother is frankly laughable."
John tried not to grin at Sherlock's error, especially when it was said with such conviction. It was a first, as far as John was concerned, and maybe he'd point it out to Sherlock one day, or invite Harry over and just watch his face crumple with confusion. Well... he was really considering moving in, wasn't he?
"You're acting as a bodyguard would, John, a very efficient and dedicated one at that, and I should probably pay you for your continued service, but you wouldn't accept it, would you? You're too 'honorable' to accept money from me. So, at the very least, let me give you the spare room. It's only gathering dust anyway."
John was torn. On the one hand, it felt like he was accepting charity from Sherlock, but on the other, he had a spare room and was incapable of keeping a flatmate for any significant amount of time. This could work out. He could protect Sherlock better this way. He only had to swallow his pride.
"You're sure you can afford this place?" John asked to give Sherlock one last chance to back out of the arrangement.
Sherlock made a strange snorting sound that John didn't know how to interpret.
"I already am, aren't I?"
John grinned.
"All right, then. It's decided. But I will pay rent whenever I get a job, and I'll help with the bills in the meantime."
They shook hands to seal the deal. John was surprised that Sherlock was as happy with their agreement as he was, but maybe the other man was just relieved to know John would always be around to save him, instead of hoping he would show up at critical times.
Sherlock showed him around the flat and to the spare room which was one flight of stair up, giving him even more privacy if he needed it. It was better than anything John had hoped for and once he got the flat back under some semblance of order, by clearing all the empty teacups littering the place for starters, it would look even better.
But for now, Sherlock was anxious to discuss the notebook and his previous Dreams as well as the new one that had started. He seemed fascinated by the Dreams, maybe because it was something he couldn't shove under his microscope to coax answers out of -although he had insisted John give him a blood sample, 'just to check'. For what, John wasn't sure. That he wasn't mutant of some kind? An alien?
"I've been reading a lot," Sherlock said and John pointedly glanced at his bookshelf and the various piles of books towering in front of it.
"Oh, really?" he asked and chuckled, but Sherlock shushed him with a playful swipe at his shoulder, the good one fortunately.
"Yes," Sherlock growled. "You can't be the first person with such an ability and after some research, I found numerous references over the centuries of protectors, guardian angels, good samaritans, champions, guardian spirits and more, all over the world, who all had a common goal which was to relentlessly protect a sole person over the course of their life. Some of these also mentioned the protector had been reborn before taking up the role. The texts I found weren't very specific about this, but… "
Sherlock leaned closer, peering into his eyes once more.
"Tell me, John Watson, did you die in Afghanistan?"
John paled. Had he? He had prayed not to die when he'd felt his blood pour out of him under the blinding sun. He had begged whatever God was willing to listen to spare him, and he had come through it all with a limp, an injured shoulder and The Dreams. But had he died? Flatlined before being shocked back into existence? John didn't know, hadn't wanted to know, and he told Sherlock as much.
"I have my medical file in my stuff somewhere, if you want," he offered, knowing Sherlock wouldn't be satisfied until he had solved the mystery. Upon his discharge, John had been given a fat folder of his military record, medical file, honourable discharge certificate and whatever other paper they felt necessary to include, but John had simply stuffed it at the bottom of his pack and left it there to rot with the other memories of the war he never wanted to revisit.
"Good. I could have gotten it through other means, but this will save me having to call in a favour. I thought it might be better to ask you first, too" Sherlock added uncertainly. "Right?"
John smiled reassuringly. Sherlock was not very good at normal human interactions judging by the stories he'd told him yesterday.
"Yes, Sherlock, it's better to ask first. Do you know someone in the army who could have procured you my file? It's supposed to be private, you know?"
"Better than that," Sherlock replied. "You might want to watch out for my brother, by the way. Now that you're my flatmate, he's probably going to kidnap you to have a 'heart to heart' discussion." Sherlock muttered. "But be careful. He might not look it, and despite what he might say, he is the British Government, and he absolutely cannot know about your ability or he'll have you locked away in a lab somewhere with mad scientists poking at you to find out what makes you tick."
John blinked at the sudden dump of information. That was a lot to take in and he had too many questions rushing forward and tripping his tongue, so he latched onto the most surprising.
"Your brother is the British Government?"
"As good as."
Okay, that was actually worrying. John certainly didn't want anyone taking a particular interest in him, least of all the British Government personified. John slowly breathed in, and out, trying to slow his racing heart, then looked back up at Sherlock with a resolute expression. He could do this. He'd been to Afghanistan, tackled a knife-wielding maniac in the middle of a busy street, taken out a sniper in the middle of a crime scene surrounded by Scotland Yard… Surely, facing Sherlock's brother would be a picnic in comparison.
"Anything else I need to know?" John asked, not really expecting anything, but Sherlock looked uncomfortable and hesitant. "It's okay. Don't tell me if it's something I don't need to know. I didn't mean to pry."
Sherlock's shoulders dropped a little, tension easing out of him. So he was hiding something. Maybe it was just something embarrassing. John had plenty of embarrassing secrets he'd rather Sherlock didn't know so he could sympathize.
"So… a guardian angel, eh?" John asked to change the topic, the corners of his lips quivering up. "Should I purchase some wings or a halo or something?"
"That would be highly impractical," Sherlock answered so seriously, John couldn't help but laugh. He'd thought he wasn't bored before with his mission to rescue The Man, but living with Sherlock was turning out to be even more entertaining.
The next day, John had officially moved in. He didn't have a lot of stuff to move around. In fact, everything fit in a couple of bags, which was a bit pathetic, but thankfully, Sherlock did not comment on it and welcomed him back.
John then went on a cleaning spree, much to Sherlock's disgust and the landlady's delight. Mrs Hudson was a sweet old lady who liked complaining about every little thing, including buttons, crumbs and dust, but she made the best scones John had eaten in a while, and he happily accepted her open invitation to tea.
On the second day, John handed Sherlock the medical transcript of his hospital file after he'd been shot, granting him an honourable discharge and a one-way ticket back home. Nothing exceptional: a bullet to the shoulder that had shattered his bones, lots of scarring tissue, residual tremor, nerve damage and a psychosomatic limp… but as it turned out, he had flatlined, just as Sherlock had thought, which seemed to give credit to his theory about guardian angels. John didn't know what to think. As a doctor, he knew it was just a matter of restarting a specific organ, the heart, but if there was more to a human body than flesh, blood and bones... a soul… Where did it go when the body could no longer host it? Honestly, John had no recollection of the time between him being shot and waking up in the hospital. He didn't like thinking about it, so he dropped the subject and thankfully, so did Sherlock.
After just a week of moving into 221B Baker Street, John felt completely at home and he couldn't understand why Sherlock had had so much trouble keeping flatmates in the past. He could be a bit quiet at times, but so was John, and Sherlock had even kept his end of the bargain by carefully storing his spare body-parts far from their actual food and he went the extra mile by making sure his strange experiments did not spread all over the place like they had obviously done when he first visited. Sherlock could be charming when he wanted, too, especially when he played his violin, so John decided his former flatmates must have been idiots.
"John? John! Wake up!"
John flinched and rolled off the sofa, landing on the hard floor with a grunt. He glared at Sherlock who looked entirely too amused.
"You're lucky I don't sleep with a gun on me," he muttered.
"Oh, I know you keep it in your bedside table. Besides, you would have dreamed about killing me and prevented yourself from doing so."
John rolled his eyes.
"Stop being such a smart-ass, Sherlock…" John said, dusting himself off with a glance at the clock. It was barely eight o'clock. He must have drifted off to sleep listening to Sherlock play and hadn't even had his dream yet. "What did you want? I'm assuming it's important."
"That depends. Fancy accompanying me to a crime scene? It sounds promising."
John stared at him. Sherlock really wanted him to tag along? John had come to understand his consulting job was everything to him. He lived for his work, the same way John lived for his Dreams, so he was a bit surprised he'd want him there, but John nodded and they were sitting in a cab a few minutes later, Sherlock filling him in on what he knew.
"You know the suicides I told you about?" Sherlock said, waiting for John's nod. "They're finally calling me in on it. Apparently, the last victim left a message. Oh, this is so exciting!"
Sherlock was rubbing his hands together in anticipation, sitting on the edge of the seat and his legs bouncing up and down. He really was getting off on this, but who was John to judge? He got off on saving Sherlock by taking out his foes. To each his own.
"Who's this?" The policewoman who had called Sherlock a freak asked when she spotted John trailing behind him.
"My bodyguard," Sherlock answered without missing a beat, and it was worth it just to see the startled expression on her face when she looked him up and down, unimpressed.
"You've got to be kidding me," she sneered.
She had to be the most disagreeable person John had ever met, and his drill sergeants had been fucking pains in the arse. No wonder Sherlock always ranted about the people he had to work with at Scotland Yard. John gave her his most manic smile, full of teeth but lacking any trace of humour, and she recoiled slightly.
"I assure you I'm quite capable. It'll only take me ten seconds to sprain your wrist if you'd care for a demonstration?" John asked, the same way he would offer tea to a guest.
Sherlock seemed amused by John's polite threat, but the woman… not so much. She probably wouldn't let him access the crime scene now, just out of spite. She opened her mouth, about to say something a bit not good judging by her pinched expression, but another person joined their little party and at the sight of him, John wished he could hide behind Sherlock.
"Sherlock! What's the holdup?" Detective Inspector Lestrade asked. "I don't have all night, you know? Who's he?"
Lestrade stared at John, narrowing his eyes at him.
"Don't I know you from somewhere?"
"No!" John replied. Damn... Too quickly. Too categoric. Way to be suspicious.
Sherlock's eyebrows rose in surprise. John had forgotten to tell him about catching a drunk Lestrade out of a pub to worm information out of him. Lestrade stared at him suspiciously.
"I mean, I just have one of those faces, you know…" John added vaguely.
"The freak says he's his bodyguard," the woman scoffed.
"His bodyguard?" Lestrade said derisively. "Oh, never mind. Come on, you two. I'm running late."
They followed the inspector to an abandoned, run down building and up several flights of stairs where a woman in a pink coat lay face down on dirty floorboards. Sherlock started hovering over her, seeing things only he could interpret and whipping out his magnifying glass, his phone, barking at a man and closing the door in his face before spewing out a stream of 'obvious' deductions while John had a hard time not blurting out how brilliant he was.
"How long did you say she's been dead?" Sherlock asked.
"Why don't you ask Anderson," Lestrade groused, pointing at the closed door while John strode forward doing a quick examination and giving his best estimate.
"How do you know that?" Sherlock asked, frowning and observing John as closely as he had the pink lady. "I missed something. What did I miss?"
"I'm a doctor, you idiot," John answered fondly, feeling like snickering at Sherlock's gobsmacked expression, but holding it in.
Snickering next to a dead body just didn't seem right. John had wondered how long it would take Sherlock to find out what John's real calling was. Did he really think he was just a foot soldier? Sure, there was nothing to indicate he was a doctor. He didn't practice, had stored all his medical books in Harry's attic when he left for his first tour, and the subject just never came up, but, since Sherlock seemed to know everything about everyone, John had been biding his time until Sherlock found out from some weird, unexpected detail. He was almost disappointed having to confess it out loud, although Sherlock's befuddled expression was rather funny.
"You are?" Sherlock asked. "How did I miss that?"
"How could you not know that?" Lestrade exclaimed. "Jesus, Sherlock! Do you just pick up random strangers off the street to bring them on crime scenes, now? This is not a bloody playground, you know!"
"Where's her suitcase?" Sherlock snapped back.
"What suitcase?" Lestrade asked.
"Her suitcase! Her suitcase!" Sherlock insisted. "What did she do with it? Eat it? It has to be around here somewhere!"
And he continued muttering about a missing suitcase, without giving any explanation whatsoever, then made his way out, Lestrade and John hot on his heels until he ran and disappeared around the corner, leaving the two of them bent double and panting. Damn but Sherlock could run fast. He'd had a glimpse of it in his dreams and when he tried to evade him after saving him from certain death, but he hadn't realized just how much. John would have to get back in shape if he hoped to be able to tag along.
"Aren't you supposed to follow him?" Lestrade asked in between breaths, gesturing in the direction they had last seen Sherlock's coat tails flapping out of view. "I thought you were his bodyguard?"
"Nah," John said dismissively, knowing Sherlock was in no immediate mortal danger thanks to his Dreams. "He's good for now. Do you know where I can get a cab?"