A/N: An homage to old detective novel stereotypes, I suppose. Part one. -csf
1/2.
'Sherlock, must we do this?'
With a smirk that almost could be referred as affectionate, the tall, dark haired consulting detective grabbed the pristine lines suit jacket and donned it on, unhurried. Unlike his more customary sleek classic style, this suit was created to arrest looks and elicit a response. The deep, saturated purple vest – that was getting a record number of hits of John's attention, if that was anything to go by – was dutifully covered by the second skin formal black jacket that seemed to know every line of Sherlock's figure and hugged them with possessiveness.
Mind you, not that Sherlock didn't usually get a response from his dark, overbearingly expensive suits whilst visiting the Yard, the morgue, or a dingy crime scene in a back alley. In fact, the detective prided himself on his looks, as vain a creature as a naturally handsome man with a good yearly income could effortlessly be. It was the right time to outdo his everyday work clothes, that was all.
He had often prodded John to spruce up a bit too. John should look exquisite in a well tailored suit, created to fit as a second skin over the former soldier's still fit physique. Sherlock would have seen fit to parade John through the Yard, awarding the attention and praise that John never got with those baggy jumpers with fraying cuffs. The doctor was well liked all around, but regularly disregarded as an extra on set. Still, that did complement well the consulting detective's high energy, maniac tirades and brusque deduction hurling all around. Where Sherlock enjoyed the attention, John coveted the background. Two of the same exuberant mould would have been too much, perhaps.
Somehow, the army doctor seemed to find attempts at prompting him attention wasteful. John was far too honest, too modest, and clearly too shy, to pull off such an ascend to the spotlight.
Unless, of course, Sherlock coaxed it out of him for a case as a higher cause. And that was exactly what had happened. Opportunity had met the goal.
A murder had been pre-announced for the Royal Gala. Mycroft Holmes had sighed as if the criminal intents directly collided with his best efforts to keep the nation safe, and immediately had deployed his younger brother to "take care of it". He refused on principle, they "negotiated" it, Mummy was involved, Sherlock and Mycroft were dully scolded.
Mummy was now out of the way, but not before appointing John as the mediator between her sons. What followed on was a bit of an argument between Sherlock and John about what exactly "taking care of it" entailed, or as the former soldier thought of it, the terms of surrender.
Sherlock was perfectly happy with idling around, waiting for a corpse to pop up at the Gala, traumatising the guests, and then he was already the first detective on the scene. John declared an intention to take up a long range gun and survey the guests arriving at the Gala through the weapon's mire from the opposite rooftop. Sherlock protested that the murder would be far more interesting if it was committed inside the building, where John's mire and ammunition were incapable of reaching. John enquired about the number of windows. Sherlock blurted out the number, his mind a vast repository of such information. Only when John mentioned smoke curtains launched through the chimneys in order to slow down the murderer, did Sherlock firmly put a halt to Captain Watson's besiege operation, lest the number of casualties multiply and divide the detective's attention too much. One victim was desirable, several heart attacks much more of a hindrance.
John then scolded the consulting detective, and asked him for the near impossible. Sherlock was to prevent the murder, stop the crime from happening during the ball. Solve it before it happens.
Not even Mycroft had attempted to order the genius about like that. Depriving him of a gory case, instead making the two the bodyguards to some hapless halfwit allowing himself to be targeted so easily. Sherlock's mood soured. He had told John just how he'd prefer a fresh murder, thank you very much.
John had stood there watching him in awestruck horror, and then just let his head drop to be cradled by one shaking hand. That left hand. The one that betrayed the price a foreign war had taxed on a soldier that didn't belong in the desert. From the sunny open plains of Afghanistan, John had returned with more than a tan. Yet he had never demanded the recognition he deserved for doing right by strangers in a faraway land, for being the doctor and the protector. To John it was a no-brainer, he did what he did because he believed it was the right thing to do.
Sherlock finally rationalised it. He was only being asked to prevent one lousy murder. Surely John wouldn't oppose the fingers in treacle decomposition experiment in their kitchen if Sherlock solved a murder before it even got committed.
And so, weighing his advantages – definitely it wasn't an effort to be selfless and good, of course not – the genius detective had caved in.
A bit more difficulty wasn't disagreeable, and unbeknown to John, if the murder couldn't be stopped in time, well, Sherlock still had his dead body in the Royal Gala. Win-win situation, really.
Amusing puzzle, so delightfully pre-announced.
More likely, and this wasn't something Sherlock liked to admit even to himself, the detective would always cave in to John Watson's wishes, particularly after the rooftop at Bart's, and the way the two men had been so violently torn apart. It had scarred them deeply, and the invisible wounds were still felt fresh and tender. These days, a frown from John, an imprecation or a nervously bit lower lip were fast to get under way crumbling the detective's defences; it was annoying, and Sherlock still fought it, only to find that John occupied more and more bearing in his decisions.
Demanding Sherlock to be the hero John saw in him.
It was despicable. Sherlock had always enjoyed being a jerk and keeping humanity at bay. Look at him now, hooked up on the one person he admired so much.
It was abhorrent. Up until John grinned that thousand suns smile at him and it suddenly calmed the whirlwind storms of ideas, deductions, facts and figures in constant upheaval in Sherlock's mind. It was black magic of some sort. It was disconcerting, as the genius never before had depended so much on someone else's input to quieten his overburdened mind. It was putting too much out on John's hands; John, the guardian of Sherlock's sanity these days.
Unassuming, modest, shy John. Well, Sherlock was about to challenge that! He had insisted John was to be present at this Gala as well. Mycroft had acquiesced, thinking John would be a natural at the role of a bodyguard to this stunning society figure of Sherlock Holmes at a Gala, among London's crème.
No, that was not the way Sherlock wanted John, as a subordinate. Sherlock was intent on having John as an equal, beside him, dazzling strangers with those midnight blue eyes that mirrored the starry desert nights, whose sand was etched in tiny freckles, barely visible, at the corner of those big expressive eyes in the summertime. An elegant companion, military habits paying off to keep him fit, trimmed waist, broad shoulders and powerful legs, surely John was as desirable to the high society as any of the stuffy stereotypes that abounded in that select fringe. In the way of Sherlock's plan, only that self-erasing modesty that was absolutely vile in a hero like John.
Tonight was the night, Sherlock was determined, when John Watson would bloom like a social butterfly, right at his unfaltering partner's side; Sherlock was keen to take some credit, after all, modesty did not particularly suit the detective.
'No, no, not that old thing! Your suit has arrived while you were showering, John.'
Suspicion and trepidation flooded those big blue eyes, as John already dutifully looked around for the package. Sherlock waited for John to find the suit carrier and unzip it with economic gestures. A breathless imprecation emanated involuntarily from the army doctor.
'Sherlock, this must have cost more than my salary at the surgery.'
'Undoubtedly.'
John turned around to face his partner.
'Why do you want me to look like... this?'
There was curiosity and implied trust, emanating from the doctor.
Sherlock smirked smugly to his reflection in the mirror. 'Oh, I thought we could give it a try... Objections?'
'Yeah.' But none was put forth in words.
The detective's eyes narrow dangerously.
'What then?'
'Jeez, did you take my measurements while I was asleep or something?' Apparently John had already derailed himself as he observed better the gifted suit, holding it as if he was afraid of marking it somehow and not getting it refunded.
'Being observant is an integral part of my work.'
'I'm feeling a bit exposed here.'
'You've got nothing to worry, John.'
The sidekick's attempt at smiling is too unsure. Half-way into adorable.
John is rapidly caving in to Sherlock's request. He too gives up far too quickly nowadays, as if trying to savour every minute he has with his detective, trying to hoard good, positive memories from the borrowed time they share.
The army soldier straightens his shoulders at last – he's not a coward and he'll face whatever Sherlock's plan may be with trust and trepidation – and he shakes his head to say, levelly:
'Right. You thought of everything, so tell me this. Where am I even supposed to hide my gun?'
Sherlock blinks rapidly in front of the mirror. John huffs, rolling his eyes. The Great Detective is buffering his brain synapses again. He groans in exaggerated fashion and snaps the suit out of the carrier. It's navy blue, soft as a kitten, and constructed as a work of art. He puts it on with the practiced gestures of a man used to wearing uniforms. Not much difference, back straight, don't slouch, pull your sleeves down, don't get crumbs on it.
If this catches them a murderer, then John will put up with the suit. It's actually more comfortable than any suit John has ever owned.
By golly, there's a silk pocket square in there too! What is the silk for, to clean his missing gun?
.
Sherlock Holmes is all natural elegance and keen angles as he approaches the Gala in energetic, determined but unhurried footsteps. He glances accusingly at the shorter blond, when John again falls back a step by habit. John is by nature the faithful bodyguard, the second-in-command, the juxtaposition to Sherlock's brilliance. Sherlock won't have that tonight. He insists on giving John equal share of the spotlight, having him taste the insane high-speed world of elite society first-hand. John looks positively uncomfortable, exposed, contrived, under the polite exterior that John has cultivated all his life. He catches up with Sherlock, only to fall back a dozen steps later, as a recalcitrant child.
The genius cannot understand it, no matter how much he tries. He sees John – kind, brilliant, amazing, gifted John – once more trying to hide from life itself, and he just can't understand what would possess the short blonde to so efficiently efface himself.
They are greeted at the door by famous faces and fake ingratiating smiles. They duck away and dive right in a grand hall where luxurious socialites and artists of the hour mingle in strange, well-rehearsed ensembles. There are peers of the realm and government ministers, lobbyists and grand estate esquires too. A few waiters pass along with platters of champagne and nibbles, mostly ignored by the guests.
John calls one nearby with a quick whistle as if he was back in the pub, and Sherlock winces. The tall waiter reacts stiffly, taking his time to turn and offer the champagne flutes. John reaches to the platter that is revengefully held a few inches too high for comfort. He gets a glass and holds the platter in place as he hands that first glass to Sherlock. The waiter tries to nudge the platter free.
'Hang in there, mate, I want one too', John protests. The waiter's facial response reminds Sherlock of his brother Mycroft, for some reason.
John gets himself a fancy glass of champagne and drinks half of it in one go, wondering how much more of this he can put up with. This is the Holmes world, polite, educated, snobbish. Governesses, butlers, private tutors and horse riding lessons before tea. Private art exhibitions in the rose garden and silver cutlery buffed every morning. John could go on and on, envisioning the Holmes childhood household as Mycroft's three piece suits predicts, but it dawns on him that silver forks might have been a bit of a stretch, and overall the whole thing he's angrily imagining is... terrible for an inquisitive, unique, quirky child as Sherlock would have been.
John glances at the poised detective and laments the child that no one in the Holmes family easily understood. No wonder Sherlock is the rules breaker, the man who despises social convention and glamourizes the socially unacceptable art of murder. The posh suits are but an ingrained mark of the status Sherlock had to fight in order to become himself.
John looks down and thinks he might just understand Sherlock a little bit better after tonight.
He's stunned as there's a loud crashing noise nearby. It's the arrogant waiter, tripping over his feet and falling, along with the shiny platter and a lot of crystal glasses, against the polished floors.
A surprised murmur rises from the startled guests, quite a few step back even though they are at a safe distance. Sherlock scrutinises the audience carefully, ignoring the waiter getting up from the floor.
'You tripped him, huh?' John murmurs, so that only the detective can hear.
The detective flashes a proud smile. 'I wanted to study the reactions in the crowd. Find out who is dangerous and who thinks they may be in vital danger.'
'And here I thought you were defending my honour', John says casually.
The detective glances at him sharply.
'It was a joke, Sherlock.'
There can be more than one single reason for everything.
A cursory glance reminds Sherlock that John was trained as a soldier, one more person in a regiment, a cog in a machine that tolerated little differentiation from the modelled norm. John is more at home in a uniform or the casual second-hand clothes he brought in his meagre luggage into Baker Street. Being one of a crowd is the way he is used to facing life. The notion of being avenged, protected, doesn't come naturally to John. He's unattached – he said so himself during that disastrous dinner at Angelo's – but not in the way he meant it. John was unattached to life outside the high stakes, highly dangerous ways of the war. Whereas Sherlock had a lifetime of accumulated trinkets and clutter (all useful for his cases, or souvenirs thereof), John had given away anything he possessed prior to the war, like a man that had settled his affairs and never expected to come back. Sometimes John was, to Sherlock's eyes, still a ghost forced to face the improbable reality of being actually alive after the war. And Sherlock rebutted these embedded traits with the fierceness of a friend who knew John's alive better than the man himself.
John was a mesmerising mixture of light and shadows, of sunshine grins and depressive moods, an intoxicating mystery to unravel, a man with so many layers that he had lost himself in his own constructed persona. Sherlock was deeply intrigued.
'Any suspects yet?' John sharply calls him back to the case.
'No. These people are used to displaying layers of appearances and scripted reactions. They won't reveal themselves so easily. We will need a more structured approach, John.'
'Right. What's the plan?'
Same old John Watson.
'What do I do when I arrive at a crime scene?' the consulting detective asks, patiently.
'Annoy Lestrade, or any other Yarder present?'
Sherlock chuckles. 'Besides that. I locate the victim. It's time to pick ourselves the next murder victim, John.'
The way John glances around covertly is a testament to his secret missions in Afghanistan. Definitely alive and present. Probably missing his gun too.
.
TBC
