A/N: Having a small break by proxy with these two loveable idiots. Anyway, have a great 2024. -csf
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Sherlock likens his great mind to a powerful engine or computer, his hard drive the centre of his brilliance and the sole reason why so many other lives are saved, so many wrongs are righted and half of London now owe us a favour. I beg to differ with Sherlock's hard drive theorem. I believe Sherlock's immense genius is powered by the soft heart of an idealist, the sensitive soul of an artist, and the discernment of a person with a vision of a better world and who is brave enough to be the hero we all need right now. Of course, Sherlock laughs in my face if I'm to tell him this much. So I usually don't say it.
Not out loud.
I just write it on my blog.
Yes, that old thing. My blog still carries on, just not as frequently updated as it once was. Not for lack of Sherlock's brilliance, more as a social media experiment gone awry, where envious and judgemental trolling commentators were taking too much of my time and embroiling me into purposeless feuds. Yet, sometimes, late at night or at a long supermarket queue, the sheer familiarity of taking my laptop out and writing about the day, about the Work, about Sherlock, is something I realise I'm missing so much, that I go back to it for a little while longer. One more piece. One more recount of shared adventures. One more post.
It's a bit like my own (less than secret) addiction, I suppose. Only I go and share it eventually with a crowd of internet strangers – and a few familiar faces that always pick up on being put into my stories, like Greg Lestrade the other day; "Mate, can't you make me sound a bit less daft around Sherlock?" And really, I feel for Lestrade, I too know only too well what it's like to stand with a genius, open for the inevitable side-by-side comparison. It's detrimental to one's self-esteem.
The last blog piece I posted, I did it to celebrate Sherlock's immense success with The Case of the Inverted Thief. Everyone loved it, except for Sherlock – which is as good as it gets. But then I had some 5.6K responses, only some 35 of those from people I know in real life. Thank you very much, Mrs Hudson, you are always a keen supporter, and, yes, Molly, this was the case with the dismembered torso, so you don't have to read it, as you know how it goes. About 4K were generally positive or tagging other people into it, and reading the other ones was a waste of brain synapses, as Sherlock would put it.
And I suspect Sherlock did read a great part of these 5.7K responses – the number is still growing. He wouldn't come out of his bedroom (and liberate my laptop) for 4 days straight, and, by the time he did, my friend looked gaunt and exhausted. You know Sherlock, he can be obsessive about anything he finds interesting or that he does not understand. And the internet's interest in my recounts of our cases together is something that Sherlock truly cannot wrap his head around.
It's good to see him outside his bedroom at last, looking inside the fridge for some snack. Sherlock is a constant grazer, and it suits him to always have easy pickings in the fridge. I go on about making us both a cup of tea, the kettle just boiled. It takes me a few minutes of absent-mindedly scrolling through my phone to notice that Sherlock is still standing in front of the fridge, his lanky body framed by the overworking fridge's light.
'Mate, you alright?'
I wince at my grammar, but know it is a sure-fire way of engaging Sherlock the grammar crusader.
As I expected, he comes back to life. Much like a computer screen left on screensaver mode, or an appliance left on standby, powering back on.
I frown at that, and almost miss his derisive retort back: 'Just drop it, John. You're a doctor, surely you are capable of determining basic life stats?'
Being alright is much more than breathing in oxygen and pumping blood through the body. My head tilts sideways, as I ponder the challenge in front of me. Forget his words, Sherlock is ever the dramatic one of the two of us. Yes, yes he is, Lestrade. I am finding Sherlock's behaviour akin to a child hiding something from me. And there I find it. He pockets his phone. Right, we were both lost in our devices. Is he still reading the comments to my blog post? As he – lord forbid – created a social media account with his real name? Is he being contacted by another Nigerian prince operating from a basement in Blackpool?
Yes, Sherlock once fell for that one; it was a source of endless amusement for his older brother, Mycroft Holmes.
I toss my own phone on the cluttered table between us. That move catches my friend's interest and his tired bloodshot eyes focus on me with renewed interest. The grey orbs turn liquid quicksilver, his attention fully captivated like nothing he could find on the internet.
Sometimes I still have it in me. This incredible power to redirect Sherlock's spiralling mind into something tangible, something happening now.
Nodding to myself, pondering my options, I slowly pace around the table, invading his side, his territory, challenging his safe ground.
Reverting to type; always the soldier in the battlefield, John – I berate myself. Stand down, soldier.
'Got some free time?' I ask, nonchalant.
He raises his chin – challenge accepted – long before he gets my drift.
'For you? Always, John.'
His pupils dilate, his jaw tenses wolfishly. Sherlock's full scrutiny is as intense as it is is dangerous and intoxicating. It will never get old.
I shiver, knowing this is the momentous beginning of a nice adventure – or a grave disaster.
'Digital detox. You and me. Out of that door. Tell Mrs H, and she can tell anyone who is looking for us in the next couple of days not to bother.'
Those timeless grey eyes squint, like a vampire's eyes preying on me, luring and fascinating me.
No need to work it so hard, Sherlock, I came up with the idea, I'm never backing out now.
Although… what on earth am I telling work to justify another sudden rescheduling?
'We did that whole road trip thing once already, John. Can't you come up with something new?' the detective drawls, languidly.
Oh, the daring and the cunning. Captain John Watson, formerly of the 5ft Northumberland Fusiliers, does not take challenge kindly. This is battle.
'I figured I didn't need to try all that hard, if I'm to outshine a fridge.'
Door still open, motor overheating, light starting to flicker behind the genius.
He smirks. 'You keep telling me I don't eat enough, John. Do make up your mind.'
I lean forward and smack the fridge door shut. This leaves me inches from the genius' smug smirk.
Well, actually, from his collarbone. But there is plenty of challenge, let me tell you, in his skinny collarbone, coming out at angles from a taunt shirt with a couple of buttons undone showing off flawless, smooth and pale skin, so I focus on his mouth and eyes instead. And I gulp dry.
'Last time I had to come up with the whole plan, and you just had to let go of your control over every minute detail. Can you do that again?'
He takes a sharp intake of breath, the breastbone nearly popping another button off his shirt. At least, that's what I gather must have happened with the top buttons of shirt. I never even seen them actually fastened. For all I know Sherlock buys shirts with the top buttons painted on, just to entice half of London.
'Missing those army days, Captain Watson?'
I square my shoulders, ready for war, but regretfully find myself biting my lip, which is less than harsh posturing.
'You have no idea.' The truth slips out of my mouth before I can censor it.
Oh, the notion of my infuriating flatmate actually following my orders – an old army veteran could get high on that daydream. But I know better than to dream impossible dreams.
'Fine, John. Then you lead again, and I follow and critique. I can pack and be ready in 10 minutes, and you always have a packed bag at the bottom of your wardrobe anyway.' He turns his back on me and starts to walk away. Suddenly the kitchen feels cold and empty, and I'm left utterly confused as to what I agreed to do; more than that, what I made Sherlock agree to do with me, in an explosive escalation. I need to call in sick for work with another handy excuse, and cancels Friday night's pub outing with the Yarders. Sherlock choses this time to crash my thoughts with the timely question:
'Tell me, John, why are you always a flight risk, with a prepacked bag? Is it a habit from all those previous unsuccessful relationships?'
I shut my eyes tight and count to ten.
No, let's make it to a hundred.
Ten minutes later, I hoist over my shoulder my prepacked bag, resentful over Sherlock's insightful observation. No, I don't know why I always have a prepacked bag in my wardrobe. I just do. I wasn't trying to run away from my former partners, nor was it a habit from the army, and certainly it isn't that I am some criminal on the run. I'm just used to having things packed, ready to move on, no fixed abode, I suppose. As a child my family moved around a lot, at university I changed dorms a bit and had roommates with sticky fingers, in the army we moved bases as we were needed, and after that… Sherlock Holmes gave me a home, but he is the epitome of the unexpected, so I guess I just kept it up out of habit.
Didn't even think he knew. Which means he has been snooping around my room again.
'I'm a detective, John,' he drawls, 'what did you expect as you signed up to live with a detective who works from home?'
I huff and chuckle all at once, like a stuffed nosed dragon.
He smiles minutely to the Underground window next to him, recognising the fight leaving me. I can see it in his reflection over the brightly lit carriage window in a dark tunnel under London.
'Did we need to take the peasants' transport, John?'
He mocks. Sherlock dislikes the Underground for one reason only, and that is the number of deductions he must endure. He can't turn them off, he says. I clear my throat, glance around checking for threats in the dozens of passengers around us, and wonder myself why we didn't take a dammed cab.
'Your brother will have more difficulty finding us here. I don't want him following us around, Sherlock.'
His face lights up. 'That's the spirit, John! Mycroft is a pompous prying prick.'
Three stance alliteration; usually reserved for when Sherlock is feeling contented.
'No, or actually, yes but, I mean…' I sigh, before I brave on: 'Mycroft could call you, present you with a case, and you'd bail out on this in no time, I know you would.' Heck, Sherlock would pull the alarm button and crawl his way out of the Underground tunnel if Mycroft were to ping him in the intermittent internet signal over a good case right now.
'Jealousy and possessiveness. John, you are being so interesting right now. You're setting up quite the expectation for this city getaway.'
Yeah, shooting myself in the foot here. Keeping Sherlock Holmes engaged is like trying to trap all the smoke from a burning room inside a perfume bottle.
'I'm not jealous, and we agreed, mate.'
His small smile slides to one side of his face, ironically. 'Not defending your possessiveness, then.'
I glare at him. 'So, what, you're mine? My what? My genius flatmate?'
Suddenly he seems a bit solemn and honest, when he tells me: 'I don't know. Despite all the blog posts, I still don't know. You keep me guessing, John. It's a great gift of yours, that you are still undecipherable to me at times.'
I blink and look away. 'Oh, shoot. Next stop's ours. Come on, you git! We need to make our way out.'
'Here?' he derides. 'There's nothing here!'
I nearly stumble as he barges into me because I froze still. Looking over the shoulder I give him my best sunshine smile and elaborate: 'Nothing, really? Or nothing you know about yet? When you exclude the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth, a genius once told me.'
He huffs and mutters something about the Improbable and the Impossible, and John Watson being clearly the impossible kind. I just grab his hand and guide him out of a quickly filling Underground station.
Onto nice adventure,
or grave disaster.
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(hopefully TBC)
