Chapter Seven: A Potent Magnifier
Come 5:30 PM I was finishing dinner and Sherlock texted me from wherever he had gone to let me know that he would not be back to Baker Street any time soon. That was fine with me, I needed a little bit of space and quiet anyway, so I took my dinner upstairs and ate it in bed while I watched a movie.
On Tuesday, Sherlock still wasn't back home. I took the opportunity to spend the day cleaning and organizing 221B-2.
On Wednesday morning I drove to meet John at my old apartment one final time.
I pulled Sherlock's Mercedes into the parking lot and observed John hanging by the back door, hands in his pockets. He looked up briefly as I pulled the car into a spot; the AMG exhaust was fairly audible- it was one of my more favorite things about the vehicle, besides the incredible sound system.
John did a double take as I got out of the car, beeping it locked behind me.
"What happened to the bike?" He called to me as I walked across the lot to him.
"Sherlock hid it." I responded. "This is his car."
"He wasn't messing around when he said he wanted to buy one, I guess." John followed me into the building and to the lift. I tucked myself against the back wall, looking down at a scuff on my Docs.
"How is everything going?" John asked hesitantly. "Sherlock had been talking about going to California for a case, something about decades of thefts. I haven't spoken to him since I told him I couldn't be away from Rosie for a month."
My head shot up. "A month?"
John looked at me in surprise at my reaction as we exited the lift on my floor.
I sighed and we walked to my front door. I unlocked it and let him into the mostly empty flat.
"Movers should be here soon." I told him and started gathering last minute items. I walked into my old bedroom and started pulling things out of the closet. "I'm going with him."
I called to John from the closet. In a moment John was standing at the door.
"You're going to California with Sherlock for a month?"
"Well, he told me it would be two weeks or less."
"What about your Dad?"
I glared at John, taking a handful of old coats and throwing them onto the bed. "What about him? And how do you know about my Dad?"
John shifted uncomfortably. "Sherlock may have filled me in on some of the details of your arrangement when he was trying to guilt me into coming with him."
"It's always nice to be a second option." I muttered. "Granted you would probably be much more help to him investigation wise. I get the feeling I will be there as a driver and personal chef only." I saw a large box on the top shelf of the closet and stood tiptoe to reach it.
"Hey can you reach this?" I asked John, exasperated.
He chuckled. "Now there's a request I don't get that often, unless it comes from a preschooler."
"Well, you've got like six inches on me so gloat away, I guess." I stepped back and let him try at the box. He looked determined to reach what I could not but still had to hop a little to grab it. He pulled it down and handed it to me promptly sneezing.
"Bless you." I told him and turned the box on its side. "Oh my god…" I murmured.
"What is it?" John asked, sniffling.
"It's my telescope." I smiled. "I actually thought this had gotten lost in the move here, I didn't know the movers had stuck it back there. My 100 level astronomy teacher gifted it to me when I graduated with my Astrophysics degree." I pulled the canvas carrying case out of the cardboard box. "I wish I had some place to set this up."
"You could try the roof, at Baker's Street." John suggested.
"That's a great idea." I smiled.
John chuckled to himself and I looked up at him quizzically. "What?"
"Your astrophysics degree. Sherlock tried to convince me not to hire you because he has such a distaste for space related sciences. Absolutely pointless to him."
I burst out laughing. "You're kidding me. Space is pointless? The questions of the origins of existence?"
John sat on the edge of the bed and shrugged. "Unnecessary details in his Mind Palace."
"Oh yeah, the Mind Palace. I appreciated your write up about that on your blog. It was…poetic."
John looked chuffed. "Poetic? Really?"
"Well, yeah. I really enjoyed your blog. The pictures you paint with your words are vivid and original. Do you still write at all? I hope?" I started shoving leftover things into a box, willing this process to be over already. The last dregs of moving are always the most mentally taxing.
"Actually, I do. I don't publish it. At least not much of it. Sometimes I write things anonymously, post thoughts on Twitter, that sort of thing."
There was a loud knock on the door and I trotted to open it. It was the movers and I instructed them with the rest of my items, rushing to box up the rest of it, trying to stay out of he two men's way. I was glad John had come to chaperone me because one of the men did make me a little…nervous. I couldn't put my finger on what it was. He didn't seem threatening but he seemed to be…observing me.
Two hours later the movers had come and gone from my old apartment to my new, John had gone home, and I was left alone to try and make my new apartment a home.
Two hours of that and I wanted to pull my hair out by the ends.
I paced the floor.
I played the piano.
At 4:00 PM I ordered myself an entire pizza and ate it on the floor while I read a paper one of my former professors had just published, hoping none of the research would preclude my dissertation defense before my appointment in two months. Luckily, it did not.
Much later that night, around nine pm it was finally dark enough to haul my telescope to the roof and set it up. I put my sights on Venus, which that night was positioned in the Sagittarius constellation. I remained mildly interested in astronomy, but it was the physics of the farther reaches of the universe that kept me engaged enough to complete my degree. Since leaving the field, there had been a number of observations and discoveries that I was envious to be a part of, but that segment of my life was long gone. It had been less than a decade since I had graduated but it seemed like a couple lifetimes.
"So, you really did move in."
My blood ran cold and I snapped from my bending position, spinning around, my hand moving toward my abdomen, inches away from the gun I kept on me in the interior pocket of my leather jacket.
"Don't reach any further, Ms. Patrick."
I didn't recognize the man in front of me one bit. He was tall, probably twenty years older than me, dressed in a three-piece suit with an umbrella in his right hand, its pointed end balanced against the man's right shoe.
I became aware of the distance between me and the man and the edge of the roof. Trying not to cast my eyes away from the man, I calculated every escape permutation.
"Am I supposed to know who you are?" I asked tersely.
"Absolutely not." He smiled in a manner that was probably supposed to be threatening. "So, you live with Sherlock Holmes?"
"I definitely wouldn't classify it that way." I answered. "More like a closely located employee. Are you a friend of his or something?"
"I wouldn't classify our relationship that way." He said with a smirk, echoing my reply.
"Well, can I help you with something?"
"You're an employee? You're not an additional part of this recent…sex fascination that he's been having."
I snorted. "Decidedly not."
He narrowed his eyes and raised his head. "But you would like to be."
I opened my mouth to defend myself before opening my eyes wider. "Oh my god, you're his brother."
It was the man's turn to look mildly surprised. "He told you he had a brother?"
"No. But there's no way you guys aren't related." I took a couple steps closer, and the man stiffened, looking put out by my sudden examination of him. "God, how did I not notice right away?" I narrowed my eyes. "Six years older."
"Eight."
"The drug use."
"...Probably."
"You're worried about him. Checking up on me." I crossed my arms. "You don't look like law enforcement, but I could be wrong, I don't have a lot of experience with British cops."
He sneered at me. "I am most certainly not a cop."
"Government. So, you know everything about me. Facts wise. You wanted to get a sense of me…personally?"
"Don't flatter yourself, I'm not here to ask you about your hopes and dreams and favorite color. I need to make sure you are not a danger to Sherlock's sobriety. Or any other part of him, for that matter."
"Me, dangerous? To him?" I laughed. "Not hardly. I'm simply a disposable commodity."
"A commodity he is taking out of the country for a month?"
"Why does everyone know it's going to be a month except forme?" I complained to myself. The man tipped his head in annoyed confusion. "Honestly, I'm pretty much a driver and a cook at this point."
"Those seem to be rather mundane positions for a woman with three degrees and her name on a dozen published papers about physics and recently, chemistry? You will be getting your doctorate in biochemistry in two months, correct?"
I wondered how he knew that. Must have interviewed the committee or something. "Assuming I am successful in my defense, yes." I said slowly.
"I read your paper. Given that you have successfully defended two theses already, I don't doubt you will be able to defend a paper like this. It's almost…revolutionary."
"I get the feeling you're not trying to flatter me."
"No, not at all. I am illustrating in plain English how odd it is that someone of your intellectual caliber has chosen to fill her time with…well, all of the things you have chosen to fill it with, historically and currently."
"I don't know what to tell you, Sherlock's Older Brother." I smiled to myself at the acronym I had just created, and the man had such a grimace on his face at my satisfied expression that I knew he had to have realized it himself as well. "I guess I'm just not as wise as I am smart."
His joyless smile reappeared on his face. "I don't like the spots in your history. I don't like the holes. In your story. Or your arms."
I cast my gaze downward. I took a couple deep breaths, chewing the inside of my mouth. "I understand your hesitancy about me." I said quietly. "I haven't done my best with the gifts I've been given. I haven't been…focused. I dealt with my demons in the worst way possible. And I don't know how useful your brother will find me, ultimately. I know I can do the job I have hired to do. I can promise you, without reservation, Mr. Holmes, that I am no risk to your brother's sobriety. I wouldneverenable…or, or…encourage…" I shook my head, trying to find the words. "I could never forgive myself if I took someone else down the road that almost ended me. And I couldn't fathom destroying a mind like Sherlock's. I think I've destroyed enough potential for one lifetime, don't you?"
"Maybe temporarily squandered, Ms. Patrick." He straightened up and turned around, yanking open the roof access door. "I look forward to your next publication."
Thursday morning, I woke up suddenly, my eyes opening immediately, my heart racing. I felt unnerved, like I had just been awoken by a nightmare. As my eyes rested unfocused on the crown molding of my ceiling, I tried to remember what I was dreaming about before I woke up.
All I could remember was dreaming about lying on the beach. Spread out like a starfish in the sand, facing a sky that was less blue than bright burning white. The sun sank into my skin hotly and it felt so real that when I woke up, I was shivering cold.
I picked up my phone. 6:00 AM. No messages. I wondered if Sherlock was planning on coming back ever. Hopefully Sherlock's Older Brother wouldn't blame me for anything that happened to him. He seemed like someone who could make me disappear.
Having already gone missing once in my life, I knew that I wouldn't be missed.
I stretched languidly and stumbled into the bathroom. As I was staring at my ridiculous pile of frizzy brown hair and a brand new line across the width of my forehead, I heard quiet music drifting from somewhere outside. Piano music. Liebestraum No. 3 by Liszt.
The music got louder as I moved through my bedroom out of the bathroom, and I realized it was coming from my piano.
It was probably Sherlock, I thought, but after the unexpected visitor last night, I couldn't be sure.
Luckily, I hadn't installed my jacket and purse hanging hook in the front room yet, so my leather jacket was draped across my dresser. I reached into the interior pocket and pulled out my Glock, holding it behind my right leg and opening my door slowly, peering through a couple inch space.
The music had stopped, and no one was sitting on the bench. No one on my couch. I couldn't see the dining table from my angle, so I opened the door wider and peered around. Nobody. I came entirely out of my room, still holding the gun down by my thigh and looked behind the door.
What the hell? Was I hallucinating?
"A gun?"
I shrieked and spun around, jumping backward.
"Sherlock! What the fuck, did you just teleport in here or something?" He smirked at me as I stomped back into my bedroom, shoving my gun back into my jacket and stomping back into the front room, where Sherlock was again sitting at the piano and playing Beethoven this time. At least I thought it was. I couldn't quite place the tune.
"Is that a licensed firearm?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at me.
"You know it's not. What have you been up to? Still planning on going to California?" I walked over and sat next to Sherlock on the bench, forcing him aside on the bench with my ass. As my legs hit the cold bench I realized I wasn't wearing any bottoms, just a heather gray Oxford tee shirt and pink polka dot knickers. I shrugged internally and started contributing to whatever it was Sherlock was playing.
"What are you doing?" He asked, feigning annoyance as I played a few keys in the upper range. "Also, yes, still going to California. I was wrapping up another case in the meantime. Thought it was murder, faked death for insurance money, very boring."
"Well, you saw what I've been up to. Cleaned downstairs. John helped me finish moving in yesterday."
"Yes, John has been extremely helpful, hasn't he?" I looked over at Sherlock, but his expression was impassive.
"I met your brother." I said, not taking my eyes off of him. He stopped playing, the last chord ringing through the air.
"Oh?" He asked, mask still intact. "Did he take you to his secret lair?"
"What? No." I plunked an E key gently a couple times. "He found me on the roof."
"Why were you on the roof?"
"Found my telescope." I smiled at Sherlock. He raised an eyebrow.
"Did he offer you money to spy on me?"
"What?Again, no. What kind of relationship do you two- never mind. No, actually, he just let me know he doesn't like the cut of my jib."
"He said 'jib'?"
"Not in so many words, no. But he definitely doesn't trust me. Read my dissertation, though. Have you?"
"Yes, of course. I thought it was brilliant." He said quietly and quickly, standing up from the piano bench. "Hold on, did he introduce himself as my brother?"
"Well, no, but you guys are like the same person from two different universes, it was easy to make the connection."
Sherlock snorted and paced back toward me. "The same person? Are you insane?" He curled his lip at me.
"You see, that facial expression alone is a sure sign of shared DNA." I put my hands up in an innocent shrug and smiled sweetly at Sherlock. He continued to look put out by the comparison but I just stared at him fondly until finally he sneered at me.
"What?" He hissed.
"I'm glad you're back. I was bored without you." I told him, running my hands softly over the piano keys and playing a simple sonata.
He stopped in his tracks and his facial expression shifted to one of surprise and confusion but when he spoke it was with the same annoyed tone.
"Why? It sounds like you had all sorts of company and distraction while I was gone."
"Distraction. Yes, I suppose." I looked down over the keys as I played them, swaying softly as I was apt to do.
"Would you stop that?" Sherlock grumbled, though he appeared to be forcing a small smile away from his lips.
"Why? Do you have a request?"
"Yes. That you stop playing." I ran my hand over the keys from high to low and then slammed the piano shut. "Fiiiine." I sighed exaggeratedly.
I stood up and brushed past Sherlock to get to the front door.
"Where are you going?"
"Gonna get some coffee! I've just woken up, after all. So where were you, anyway?" Sherlock followed me as I plodded downstairs to 221B-2 and the precious coffee machine.
"I told you, I was working on a case."
"I know you were, I was just curious what kept you away from home for days. You don't have to tell me, I was just…curious." I opened 221B-2 and walked into the kitchen, Sherlock following behind. "Are you still planning to head to California?"
"If you mean are we both still going to California, then yes, I am."
I retrieved the coffee filters from the cupboard, standing on my tiptoes. Sherlock stepped beside me, placing a hand at the small of my back and grabbed them from my reach just as my fingers touched them.
I didn't want to grumble at him since he was technically being helpful. I looked up at him and held my hand out to receive the filters. He had a devious glint in his eye and a smile played upon his lips. He was up to something.
"What?" I asked him suspiciously. His smirk grew wider and his eyes bounced over my face. His face came closer to mine, as he tucked the filters behind his back. His left hand remained on my back, moving to my right hip as he slunk around in front of me.
"What are you up to?" I asked, a little turned on but mostly annoyed by lack of caffeine and this frequent game of getting me riled up and then leaving me to my own devices.
"What makes you think I'm…up to something?" His voice became very low and sensuous, his face coming close to mine. My eyes narrowed in suspicion and I opened my mouth to say something when I was interrupted by John Watson's voice calling out from the front room and getting closer.
"Sherlock, I don't know why I have to come all the way here just to tell you again that I am not leaving my daughter for a mon– Oh. Ohhh my gosh."
As I turned toward the sudden interruption, Sherlock took the opportunity to reach his hand lower and grab my right ass cheek, knocking me off balance and pulling me toward him, casting one final smirk at me before we both looked at John, who at first averted his gaze and then, as he saw my face, did a rapid double take.
"Del. Del…and Sherlock."
"Hi, John." I glared at Sherlock and dug the heel of my right foot into his left instep. He yelped and released my ass and I elbowed him in the stomach.
"Yes, hello, John." Sherlock bent over slightly, grabbing his stomach with a groaning voice.
"I don't mean to…interrupt…Sherlock asked me to come by and…I'm sorry it's hard to talk to you when you're not wearing any trousers."
"That's fine, I'll go finished getting dressed and leave you two to chat." I smiled gamely and walked past John, slapping him on the side of the arm as I stomped past him. Sherlock trotted after me, following me as I left the apartment.
"Come now, Delilah, there's no reason to be cross, I had no idea that would all culminate in such a perfectly timed manner."
I tried to slam the door shut on him but he was too quick and shouldered his way in, grinning.
"Maybe not precisely like that. You set it up, though, you psychopath."
A grin that didn't reach his eyes spread across his face. "High functioning sociopath, actually-"
"Oh shutup." I hissed, walking into my bedroom and ripping off my shirt and throwing it on my bed as I tried to locate the bra I had discarded the previous night. I turned around and shoved Sherlock in the chest with my pointer finger.
"You're not either thing, you're anidiot."
Sherlock reddened and snickered at me unkindly. "You are callingmean idiot?"
He looked down at my bare chest and then back up at my face, his eyes blinking once more than they needed to but he maintained his angry facial expression to an admirable degree.
"I'm sorry, are my breasts distracting you?" I seethed at him through gritted teeth and pushed past him, finding my bra on one of the kitchen chairs and slipping it on, clipping it in the back and adjusting myself, stomping back into my bedroom and crawling across my bed to get to the pajama pants thrown across the foot of the bed. I grabbed them and as I was moving backward off of the bed I felt a hand grab the back of my neck, and Sherlock pressed into me from behind. It would have been extremely compromising if he had ever once made good on any of his threats-slash-promises, but as it was I was just thoroughly vexed and frustrated.
"Sherlock!" I growled and moved forward again to wrest from his grasp but his hand on the back of my neck tightened and his other hand grabbed my hip, pulling my ass against his clothed hips.
"Stay." He said sharply. I balled my fists into my duvet and glared back at him from over my shoulder.
"Let. Me. Go." I demanded through gritted teeth.
"I am not physically stopping you from leaving-not really. Yet you submit to my pressure. You follow my commands." His hand raked forward from my neck to the base of my skull, threading into the hair at the back of my neck, which he then grabbed in a handful and pulled my head back firmly. I let out a surprised gasp, except it was also a trembling moan.
"You're angry and frustrated and I haven't even given you an incentive, and yet- you submit to me."
"You're my boss." I gasped out, the angle my throat is bent backward at making it hard to talk or even breathe. "I have to."
He laughed derisively. "As if you would ever submit to a man out of obligation of employment." He released my hair and my head fell forward, my hair falling in a tangled mess of brown curls over my shoulders and draping onto the bed. As his right hand gripped my hip against his, his left trailed down my body away from my head, over my neck, his palm splaying out between my shoulder blades and traveling over my back, like he was maximizing the amount of skin he was claiming through touch alone. As his left hand neared my left hip I lurched forward, wresting myself from his grasp and onto the bed, turning over and sitting up to look at him.
I wanted to kill him. Sitting on my bed in my bra and panties I was at a tactical disadvantage, surely. My burning gaze landed on him and I observed his face before he had a chance to replace his mask of impassivity. There was a slight blush peeking out from under his collar and his eyes were heavy-lidded. His respirations were higher than usual and his eyes were a blue made darker by pupil dilation.
As he was testing his control of me, he was testing also his control of himself.
It wasn't just about teasing me- although that still remained the primary endeavor. He seemed to be playing a game with himself as well. I thought back to the scant details he had given me about his sexual encounters. There were no games in those- they were a clear cut matter of boy meets partner, boy propositions partner, boy is ultimately left spent yet underwhelmed by transaction. He hadn't had the misfortune- or pleasure- of delayed gratification.
As I made my deduction, my eyes locked onto his and his gaze refocused onto mine in that moment. His face went from aroused to devious, and then as his eyes were trained on mine, startled. I was not as good at hiding my innermost thoughts as he was, so he had to have seen the satisfaction I took from extrapolating his game.
I found myself at another flash decision point. Firstly, I had to decide what outcome was most important to me- power or sexual gratification. Sexual gratification would not ultimately preclude my possession of power in the situation, but I knew that sexual tension was a potent magnifier.
But it had also been a very, very long time since I had been intimate with another person. Iknewthe sex would be good between us because I had faith he could please me and I had faith also that I knew what could please him.
I grabbed my pajama pants and pulled them on clumsily, jumping out of bed and walking into my closet.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked me as I pulled on a tee shirt.
"I'm going downstairs to finish making coffee." I said simply, devoid of any attitude or tone.
"I wasn't finished with you." He grabbed me by the arm before I could leave my bedroom.
"Aren't you?" I told him, running my eyes from his hand on my arm to his face. Almost as if burned, he released my arm and let me walk out of the bedroom, following me as I walked to my front door.
I walked down the landing to 221B and opened Sherlock's flat door, but he kept going, heading for the front door.
"Where are you going?" I called after him.
"I'll be back Friday morning. Six a.m. or we will miss our flight!" He warned me and slammed the front door behind him.
I rolled my eyes and walked back into Sherlock's flat to finally get myself some coffee. I was a tad startled to see John sitting in the armchair across from Sherlock's, as I had forgotten he was there momentarily.
"Howdy." I said awkwardly, pausing a moment and then heading into the kitchen.
"So…" John called after me, watching my movements through the kitchen. "How's it going?"
I looked up at him while pouring water into the machine. "Why don't you tell me?" I said to him.
"It looks like you two have gotten…close." He remarked, looking a mixture of amused and concerned.
"It does look that way doesn't it? Per his machinations, I assure you." I flip on the maker and plod into the front room, deciding to drape myself over Sherlock's chair in a possessive manner I knew would annoy him. Would that he were there.
"Seriously, though." He leaned forward slightly, meeting my eyes. "Is everything okay? Is he…crossing any lines?"
"It depends on what you mean by line." I answered, running my hand through the end my tangled curls. "Tell me, John, were you aware of his recent…experimentation?"
"I'm assuming by the sexually charged nature of what I walked into you mean his 'sexperiments'?"
I sit upright. "No, he's not actually calling them that."
John chuckled. "As far as I know, only I have been calling them that. But with Sherlock lately…who knows?"
"Guess who I met last night?"
"Has to be Mycroft." John smirked.
"His name is Mycroft? What the hell is with this family's names?"
John looked like he wanted to say something but decided not to. Instead, he just shrugged with an amused smile.
"I want to tell you something, John, but only because I'm worried it might affect Sherlock, and you're his best friend. You know him best." I started hesitantly.
"Maybe. But please, go ahead."
"I'm a recovering heroin addict. Three years sober. That was part of the gap in my resume. I withheld the information because I didn't think it would be relevant. But Mycroft has concerns about that, with Sherlock's past addictions. I don't blame him. Two addicts in close proximity is typically a bad idea."
I saw John take a breath and swallow, his gaze down toward my bare feet.
"I know about it. Mycroft told me."
"Oh." I look down also. I nod. "Again, I wasn't trying to lie it's just…"
"You'd rather put it behind you." He looked up at me, his bright blue eyes intense but his gaze felt reassuring. Like he saw me, truly, but still trusted me. "Sherlock is not the typical addict. Which isn't to say that relapse isn't possible…usually under extreme pressures. When Mrs. Hudson died and I had just moved out…we were worried. Myself, Mycroft, all his other friends. Instead he…focused on other things."
"Do you think the sex is an addiction?" I asked.
John grimace. "I don't think so, but I don't live here anymore. It could be a problem. Have you seen it being a problem? I know you've only been here a very short time."
I shrugged. "I don't know. He's been gone, said it was for a case, for a couple days. Besides that…I mean, I live upstairs mostly, it's possible he brings people here and I don't know. I'm not sure. And John…" I open my mouth and close it again, not sure how to say what I'd like to communicate.
"Yes?" He asked, looking at me kindly. I took a moment to look at his face. From what I knew of humans and the typical trajectory of aging, I felt he had just as many laugh lines as he did worry lines. Decades full of pain and joy, and a lot of life still shining behind his eyes which so frequently shown with a shrewd kindness. I could see why Sherlock would look past the obvious wisdom and see more simplicity than existed. Though that characterization was from John's earlier blogs. In the last decade and a half it very much seemed as though Sherlock had come to deeply respect John. For the most part. Sometimes Sherlock didn't seem to respect anyone. Even himself.
I shook my head a little, realizing I was probably making John uncomfortable with what was surely a too-long stare.
"I absolutely don't deign to place myself above relapse. I'm no better than any other addict. That said, my rock bottom was death. I literally died. For almost ten minutes. They didn't have to crack my chest, but-" I lifted up the left side of my shirt, and my bra just a little. Under my left breast was a scar, and another slightly lower and midline. Sherlock had most likely been staring at those and not my breasts when we were upstairs earlier.
"Pericardial window?" John asked.
I nodded. "At any rate, I know all addicts say this but-"
"You're certain you're done."
"It sounds stupid to say."
"Do you think you'll be okay being around him? Not for his sake- for yours?"
I looked at John, frowning slightly. I hadn't considered it. "I think so. I haven't been tempted. Although if he started using, I guess I couldn't predict how I'd deal with that."
We spent a moment in silence and then I jumped up to grab my coffee. "Would you like a cup?" I asked John.
"Please. Black."
I prepared our cups and handed him his before sitting back into Sherlock's armchair.
"Where did Sherlock go, by the way?" John asked. "He texted me this morning and told me to meet him after I dropped Rosie at daycare."
I shrugged. "How is she? Still torturing you with the Beatles?"
John sighed at the ceiling dramatically. "Somehow she figured out that Yellow Submarine was also a movie. So now that is playing on the telly about six times a day."
I grimaced and laughed. "It really could be worse."
"I don't know, could it?" He asked incredulously and then laughed again.
"I'm so sorry. Kind of." I grinned coyly at him and gave him a wink. He chuckled, looking down at his coffee and then taking another drink.
"She's been asking when she can come over and play the piano again." He said quietly. "When Mrs. Hudson was alive, she used to let Rosie into her part of the upstairs to use the piano. And sometimes Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson would watch her if I had an appointment. Or a date."
He flinched when he said that, though I wasn't sure why.
"I know we didn't really discuss that in your interview, but-"
"John, I would be happy to help however I can. If you guys ever come over, the piano is as good as yours. And eventually, when you get to know me better, know that I am truly trustworthy, I don't mind…occasionally babysitting." I laughed. "I don't know if all kids are like her, but she was way less scary than I thought she'd be."
"I'm sure at some point I'll take you up on that." John smiled at me. "And I do trust you."
"Partly." I correct him. "And that's okay. She's your world."
John nodded. "She is. I never thought anything would pull me away from…certain parts of my life. Certain propensities. But my responsibility to her makes the decision easy. Which is part of what I was prepared to say to Sherlock when I came over but…he groped you and then left, so I suppose that won't be necessary."
He lifted his cup to me and I shook my head, lifting mine as well and we both drank a silent toast to Sherlock Holmes.