It is extremely disturbing. He can’t recall the last time he lost himself in here. In his own Mind Palace, no less. How did this happen? And where is the exit sign? The one reading: 221B Baker Street.
He finds many signs on his walk through the corridors but they’re all wrong. They are pointing at the rooms, the nooks, the cabinets, the books, the floorboards; in short, everything. But not the exit to his physical home.
Sherlock is rarely frightened. Not anymore. Not since John moved into his flat. The feeling of fear courses through his body now, though. His claustrophobia – the mania he hasn’t felt in years – has made a dramatic appearance, making his skin crawl uncomfortably.
“I need to find the exit,” he mutters to himself over and over, like a mantra.
Sherlock almost weeps with relief when Mind Palace John magically appears in the hallway outside the library.
“John,” he whispers reverently.
“Fancy meeting you here,” John quips, mirth visible in all his features.
Sherlock wants to kiss him but that’s not allowed. John is his friend, nothing else. He is as heterosexual as Sherlock is homosexual. Not a great match, that.
When Sherlock decides to ask John for the way out, John has vanished. The space he recently occupied still radiates a warm glow.
***
Sherlock wonders how long he’s been trapped. He can’t even recall why he entered in the first place. Was it to search for something, or was it to escape his own living room? He never leaves - at least unnecessarily - to his Mind Palace if John is present, but perhaps he went out on a date again. If Sherlock isn't playing the violin or performing an experiment to stave off the tedium of John's absence, he tends to walk through this place for a while. The fact that he can’t remember the reason for coming here, is unsettling.
Mycroft has of course taught him everything about the comings and goings, but Sherlock can’t remember if he ever mentioned how to escape his own head if he got stuck. Most likely, it didn’t occur to his brother that it was an option. Mycroft has always had better control of his emotions than Sherlock. He will obviously deny this to his dying day, but inside his mind he can afford to be gracious.
“Are you still here? I’m waiting for you, you know. There’s tea and biscuits.”
John has returned, but he disappears faster than Sherlock can respond.
***
At the end of the corridor is a green sign, which Sherlock supposes is the one he’s been searching for, but when he walks toward it, the sign transforms into a painting.
The Reichenbach Falls.
It had been a gift from… a client? Or was it some politician? An insignificant detail at this point, obviously.
The painting gives him the shills; an expression John would use. It is ominous and if he concentrates, he can hear the sound of the grand waterfall.
“John? Where are you?”
Why hasn’t he thought of calling out for the man earlier?
Sherlock contemplates that he might be drugged. Perhaps he isn’t –
“You called,” John says calmly, suddenly standing beside him.
“I did. Thank you for coming. I… I can’t…”
Sherlock is slightly embarrassed to admit that he’s adrift in his own head.
“Lost, are you?”
“Yes,” Sherlock whispers.
To his horror, he feels a burning sensation in his eyes.
A warm hand slides into his, and the words “come on” are uttered.
Is John holding his hand?
Sherlock looks down and sees that they are indeed holding hands. However, this is Mind Palace John, a fictional version of his friend, not the real one.
“Here we are,” John says softly.
They stand before a door which opens a crack. Scents of tea, gingernuts, leather, books, and dust invade Sherlock’s nostrils. There’s also the unmistakable and unique smell that belongs to the man who’s sitting in his chair sipping tea from his RAMC mug – John. The real John. His John.
***
“You’re back,” John says with evident relief and warmth.
Sherlock blinks and nods; his voice seems to be out of order at the moment.
“Come sit. There’s tea and your favourite biscuits,” John coaxes.
Sherlock stands from the sofa and walks over to his chair.
“Did you finish cataloguing?” John asks.
The look on his face is different somehow. More open, fond, and… something else Sherlock is unable to deduce.
Tea first, then –
“You don’t remember, do you?”
John’s voice is sad all of a sudden.
“What?”
“Why you retreated to your Mind Palace,” John explains.
His voice is still –
“Oh!”
Images of John cupping his face, kissing him softly on the lips, telling Sherlock that he… loves him.
“Oh,” he repeats.
“Right,” John sighs, “that didn’t go according to plan, I see.”
“John.”
His words elude him, and John seems unable to decipher what Sherlock is trying to convey.
Action, Holmes.
He steps closer to John’s chair, pries the mug out of his hands, and curls up in John’s lap, mirroring the army doctor’s ministrations from earlier.
“I love you too,” Sherlock whispers after glorious minutes of kissing.
“Thank God! I thought I’d scared you away,” John exclaims, so relieved it nearly breaks Sherlock’s heart.
“Never!” Sherlock says emphatically.
“What took you so long, then?”
“I couldn’t find the correct sign, but then I called out for you. The other you, and he led me back.”
“Clever guy that one.”
“Most definitely no idiot.”
“High praise, love.”
Sherlock hides his blushing face in the crook of John’s neck and wonders if he will ever get used to being called ‘love’.
He doesn’t say it out loud, but apparently John knows him too well.
“I will repeat it until you believe it, but I will never stop,” John assures him, and that is the best answer Sherlock has ever got in his life.
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John puts his bags down inside the flat and grins broadly.
“Hello, sexy husband. I’ve missed you.”
On further inspection, Sherlock looks exhausted and slightly ruffled. His curls are a mess, the front of his grey shirt is full of dark, wet stains, (from tears?) and his frown is deep.
“John.”
Sherlock’s voice sounds relieved but also vexed.
“Is everything alright with our Rosebud upstairs?”
That frown only appears when something’s amiss with their daughter, or when the detective is deeply engrossed in a case. Having been in regular contact with his husband during his stay in Glasgow, John knows the case got solved this very morning.
“She’s fine. No thanks to Molly Hooper, mind you!”
“Molly? What on earth is wrong with – “
“We have to find someone else to look after Rosie when Hudders is unavailable, John.”
“Sherlock, darling, what are you on about? Molly adores Ro, and vice versa.”
“That is neither her nor there. You weren’t here to witness…”
Sherlock trails off and pinches the bridge of his nose. John’s stomach churns from worry and concern, and he makes his way over to where Sherlock is sitting. He kneels in front of him, grabbing his hands and kisses the knuckles.
“Tell me,” he urges softly.
Before Sherlock can open his mouth, a tiny voice is calling from the top of the stairs.
“Papa. They’re still here.”
John’s heart clenches when he hears his daughters tear-filled voice.
“I’ll go, Sherlock,” he says and kisses his forehead before making his way upstairs.
“Daddy!”
Rosie’s happiness at seeing him, fills John’s chest with love for this little girl who lights up his and Sherlock’s life on a daily basis.
“Rosebud, what’s the matter? You’re supposed to sleep at this hour.”
Her happy expression changes immediately. Tears stream down her flushed cheeks and her bottom lip quivers.
John scoops her up in his arms with more effort than last month. At the age of six, Rosamund Watson-Holmes is heavier than she looks.
“She inherited your sturdy bones.”
Sherlock’s voice in his mind is teasing, and John shakes his head to tend to the matter at hand.
When Rosie is safely back in her bed, she pleads for John to take a very good look under her bed and in her wardrobe.
“There are monsters,” she whispers, her eyes wide with both excitement and fear.
“Sweetheart, there are no such thing as monsters. Not for real.”
“I can hear and see them!” his stubborn daughter insists, so John searches the room, and comes up emptyhanded.
“Not a monster in sight!” he proclaims triumphantly.
Rosie looks sceptically at him, but her eyelids are getting heavier by the second, and when John wraps the duvet around her and hums the tunes of a lullaby he used to sing when she was smaller, she finally drifts off.
***
“So, what’s this nonsense about Molly?” John asks when he joins Sherlock on the sofa some minutes later.
Sherlock makes himself comfortable with his head in John’s lap, and John cards his fingers through the silky curls relishing the proximity.
“Molly picked Rosie up at school today since I had to help Gerard with closing the case. Apparently, our dear friend took it upon herself to educate our precious daughter by reading an illustrated edition of Frankenstein to her. And no, not a child-friendly copy.”
“I see. Molly’s sense of humour is a bit morbid, but so is ours.”
“Quite, but the difference is that we are able to censure the grisly bits where Rosie is concerned. Molly clearly has no boundaries in that department,” Sherlock huffs.
“True. Her awkwardness in social situations is legendary, which most likely has to do with her job. Being surrounded by dead people all day long – “
“Oh, hello, have we met? I deal with corpses just as regularly as Molly.”
“You do, my love, but there’s a difference. Who waits for her when she gets home? A cat. Have you ever heard of friends other than us?”
“I suppose not.”
“She’s lonely, Sherlock, and I won’t have any part in removing Ro from her life. It will destroy her, not to mention our daughter. She’s her godmother after all. I’ll have a talk with her, alright?”
“Fine,” Sherlock replies, though it’s clear that he needs more convincing, and John gets an idea.
***
“What are you doing?” Rosie asks Sherlock when she comes back from school the following day.
Sherlock is wearing his safety goggles and the thick rubber gloves he uses on his more toxic experiments. Said experiments are normally performed inside 221C these days, but this charade is all for Rosie’s benefit.
“I have created an anti-monster spray,” Sherlock declares and retrieves a spray bottle from the kitchen table.
Rosie’s eyes go wide with surprise, and when Sherlock has removed his gloves and goggles, she launches herself at him and hugs him tightly.
“You are the best!” she exclaims and kisses his cheek.
“It was actually Daddy’s idea,” Sherlock says softly and cradles her face with his right hand.
“Really? That’s brilliant!”
“Did someone call my name?” John asks from the doorway.
Sherlock snorts, but his fond smile doesn’t fool John.
***
That night, Rosie’s room gets a few well-placed sprays of the concoction Sherlock made, which smells like freshly cut grass and a hint of honey.
“Are they gone now?” Rosie asks before Sherlock turns out the light.
“Oh, yes,” Sherlock assures her.
“Most definitely,” John concurs. “No one can withstand Papa’s chemical magic. Sweet dreams, Rosebud.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes at him, but he makes sure only John sees it.
It is so rare to witness John struggling with food. He is not a picky eater like me. In fact – before we visited my parents - I had no idea if there was any food he couldn’t stomach.
Currently, he is trying his best to put on a brave face when exposed to my mother’s cooking, which is detestable at best. One should think that she grew up in a place where there was no way to preserve fresh food, but her parents had access to both fridge and freezer. Nevertheless, she cooks everything to an unrecognisable mush when Father isn’t quick enough to suggest that he make dinner.
In all fairness, I did warn John that the culinary “treats” in my childhood home would leave him nauseous and appalled. Of course, he thought I was just being my dramatic self.
“Sherlock, darling, I have met your parents, and they are lovely. Surely, your mother knows how to cook. She’s an intelligent woman.”
“Intelligence has nothing to do with it, John,” I tried to reason with him, but to no avail.
“We are visiting your parents this weekend, and that’s final,” he said in his captain’s voice.
“Fine. Consider yourself warned, though. I suggest you bring some snacks with you, or you will get all grumpy when you’ve thrown up after dinner.”
Suffice it to say, I was not rewarded with a snog after that statement.
***
“Have some more broccoli, John,” my mother urges him.
He swallows thickly and looks at the almost grey bits of broccoli he is offered. I decide to rescue my poor boyfriend.
“I will have some,” I say, grip the porcelain bowl with the atrocities, and feign loosening my grip. With a spectacular crack, the bowl hits the tiled floor, spreading the disgusting vegetables far and wide, while the bowl only gets slightly chapped.
“William Sherlock Scott Holmes!”
“Apologies,” I mutter and sweep up the gooey mass with some thick kitchen roll.
I catch John’s eye when I seat myself again, and I must look away quickly lest I fall into a fit of giggles. He is obviously aware that it was all a ploy to save him and his dignity.
***
“Thank you for that, love,” John whispers when we’re tucked up in bed later.
“I did contemplate to let you suffer through it, but I want you in her good graces. She already adores you for putting up with me, but I have no idea how she will react if she gets wind of your true opinions about her cooking.”
John shudders by the mere thought; Mummy can be quite intimidating.
“I guess this explains your aversion to eat properly,” he muses. “If your childhood was filled with overcooked – “
“It was, John. Only Mycroft and Father’s cunning ways kept me from starving. I didn’t have broccoli for ages until Angelo persuaded me to taste his after I had told him about my abominable experience with it. He was outright scandalised when I told him Mummy boiled them for twenty minutes.”
“It shouldn’t be done like that!”
John laughs when I imitate Angelo’s voice and accent, and he ends up gasping for air when I continue.
“She thinks the vegetables are alive and need to be annihilated?”
“Oh my God,” John wheezes, “he didn’t know how funny that was, did he?”
“Of course not, John. Food is a very serious business for Angelo. I thought you knew that.”
John sobers a bit and clears his voice awkwardly.
“Well, yeah, I do. Remember when I told him how my mum used to make Carbonara?”
It is my time to start laughing.
“Cream, onions, and garlic, John. What was she thinking?”
“Dunno, but I’ve never been more grateful for my mum’s passing than I was then. He was very gracious about it afterwards.”
“Obviously. Family is also extremely important to the Italians. You can dine there for free on your own now, you know. He felt awful when you told him your mother had been dead for more than a decade.”
“And why would I go to Angelo’s without you, my darling? To quote our Italian friend: “It shouldn’t be done!”
“Quite right,” I agree.
***
The next morning, John rises early to beat Mummy to the kitchen.
“Heaven knows what she is capable of doing to the scrambled eggs, not to mention the bacon,” he whispers when I complain about him leaving the bed - and more importantly me - in favour of cooking.
All that aside, the breakfast is a great success if my mother’s gushing is any indicator.
“How do you manage to get the eggs so fluffy but not runny, dear?”
“It’s fairly easy. You just finish them when they’re still a bit wet. The temperature in the eggs will ensure that the mass keeps cooking for a few more moments after they’re taken out of the pan. And then they’re perfect.”
“I will try to remember that. Or perhaps you can remind me, darling?” Mummy addresses Father, who makes just as perfectly scrambled eggs as John does.
My Father agrees vigorously, but his expression is somewhat sceptical. Mummy’s ability to forget domestic chores in a heartbeat is after all legendary.
I've witnessed Sherlock do this on a number of occasions, and the fact is, I'm no stranger to the concept myself.
When I’m writing a blog post, when I’m in the kitchen making dinner, when I’m daydreaming about my mad flatmate in the shower, are some examples of me being stuck inside my head. Of course, I don’t have a Mind Palace like he has. I don’t walk down imagined corridors, into libraries, labs, cellars, and what have you like he does when he leaves for his spacious second home.
Unlike him, I’m easily roused out of my torpor. Just a touch to my shoulder, my name softly spoken, or the scent of tea, is enough to pull me back to the present.
I’m not in the habit of losing myself in thoughts for longer periods like Sherlock does. Mostly, only a few minutes have passed before I’m back to full consciousness. Therefore, it’s utterly fascinating to me that my best friend can stay in his Mind Palace for endless hours.
“Have you ever got lost? Been unable to return?”
It’s a ridiculous question, of course, but I’ve always wondered. His answer both worries and astounds me.
“I have. Only once. It was unnerving.”
“Oh, wow. But… um… how – “
“Mycroft.”
Of course, his brother and mentor – the man who has taught him this memory technique in the first place – would come to his aid when he realised that Sherlock had lost himself in his head.
“How? When?”
“I don’t recall how. It was years before we met. I was… high.”
Despite that I’d suspected this, it hurts to hear him admit it. The stinging sensation in my heart - as if I’ve been stabbed with a stiletto - is as real as the toast on my plate.
“I’m glad he was there,” I say quietly.
“Indeed,” he agrees.
***
For each passing week, it happens more frequently. And it doesn’t only apply to when I’m in the flat. Even at grim crime scenes I lose myself in thoughts of Sherlock.
His agility – jumping over fences like an athlete. His large hands – gesturing elegantly. His voice – deep and resonant, speaking to my very core. His lips – lush and breath-taking. His hair – tousled or perfectly coiffed. His coat, his tight trousers, and shirts – making my knees weak.
“Out with it!”
I’m so startled, I nearly topple over. A large hand grabs my elbow gently, and Sherlock’s baritone scolds someone called George for being rude.
“Come on, John. We have a killer to catch!”
And without further ado, I’m running after my mad and gorgeous detective, while my phone buzzes in my jacket pocket.
Later - the killer is behind bars, and Sherlock delights in my adoring praise of his flawless deductions – I get a chance to check my mobile.
Are you ok? You lost yourself in your head again today. Like Sherlock does. What’s going on, John? Out with it!
“What does Gavin want?” Sherlock drawls from his chair.
“Nothing,” I say.
My blush is competing with the flames in the hearth, and I’m one hundred percent sure Sherlock knows I’m lying. He always does.
***
One of the many perks of Sherlock retreating to his Mind Palace, is that I get to observe him undisturbed. I only let my gaze linger when his eyes are shut. Granted, I’ve tried to wave my hand in front of his face when they are open; he doesn’t even blink, so I know it’s safe. Nevertheless, I don’t want to push my luck.
What will he think if he saw me drinking him in like a man finally reaching an oasis in a dry desert? It doesn’t bear thinking about.
At the moment, Sherlock’s eyes are closed, so it’s safe to ogle his lithe frame, his steepled hands, his slightly parted lips. I let my eyes wander and linger wherever they desire. My tongue darts out to lick my chapped lips, and to my horror I realise that I’m drooling slightly. Christ.
When I have swiped the moist away, Sherlock’s eyes are open, meeting mine with an unexpected fondness. I find myself unable to look away. Maybe it’s time to stop this pretence and just dive into the unknown.
“So, this is what Gerald meant,” he murmurs.
“What?”
“His remark, and I quote: ‘Out with it.’”
Shit. He heard that. Obviously. His hearing is –
“John, don’t. Please.”
Please, what? I can’t comprehend what the familiar voice asks.
When something warm registers on my face, I open my eyes to find Sherlock kneeling in front of my chair, his delicate hands cupping my face.
“You need to stop doing that,” he whispers, “it feels like you’re leaving me.”
“I would never do that to you, Sherlock,” I say softly, and lift my own hands to caress his precious head.
“Good.”
We are both properly present when our lips meet for the first time. After all, this isn’t something any of us would want to miss.
John Watson - former army surgeon and captain of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers - is contemplating how to get the job done. The job the bullet that robbed him of his dreams and career failed in.
He’s at his desk, pen in hand. Around him, crumpled sheets of papers are strewn. Scrapped ideas.
His hand holding the pen is trembling. It doesn’t stop no matter how hard he tries to focus on the blank sheet of paper that’s lying on the surface underneath the insufferable extremity.
He tosses the pen across the small room and gets up to pour himself two fingers of whisky. Sometimes, the alcohol helps with the tremor.
***
Finally, the list is finished. It’s rather pathetic when you cast one glance at it. Only four bullet points. He must choose one, though.
Gun (find an angle that won’t cause to much of a mess for those who has to clean up afterwards)
Bridge (check the tide table and which time there’ll be fewer people about)
Roof (ascertain if the door to Barts’ roof is still easy to pick)
Starvation (tell Ella that you won’t need her services beforehand)
John reads it over a few times, then scraps the last point on the list. He doesn’t know if he’s got the willpower to stop eating and drinking.
Having checked the Thames’ tide table and which bridge is the best for his purpose, he finds it’s too much of a bother. Besides, he can’t be certain that an imminent death awaits him in the murky river. Knowing his luck, he’ll end up being rescued and even more invalided than he already is.
He knows the gun will do the trick, but he’s somehow reluctant to go with the obvious. It couldn’t harm to check that door first. No one would survive jumping off that tall building, and it might be easier than using the gun. It wouldn’t surprise him if his body betrayed him at the last moment; starting to shake the second he pulled the trigger, leaving him with a disfigured face instead of his brain mass scattered all around.
“Just one more day,” he mutters to himself. “I’ll check the door tomorrow and if I can get out on the roof, I’ll come back in the evening when the place is more deserted.”
***
As of late, John hasn’t paid much attention to the date. It doesn’t matter to him if it’s winter, or summer, March, or October, Wednesday, or Friday. But today – his last day – he makes an effort to register such a thing. His mobile screen tells him it’s January 29, 2010. Nothing remarkable about that. He can’t recall if he knows of anybody who’s born on this date. Upon further consideration, he doesn’t know a single soul born in January.
Since he has to encounter people other than pedestrians and shop employees, John takes a shower, shaves, and puts on his most decent checkered shirt. He glares daggers at his most hated object before he grabs the cane and limps out of his bedsit.
***
For a late January day, the weather is rather pleasant, so John decides to take a stroll through the park before making his way to Barts.
His heart sinks in his chest when someone calls his name, but he perks up when he recognises his former student friend, Mike Stamford. John has always liked him, and it feels like fate when the doctor discloses that he teaches at the hospital where they trained together, John’s destination.
“If you don’t have any plans for the day, I could show you around,” Mike proposes.
“I’d like that!” John exclaims a bit too enthusiastically.
Mike gives him an odd look, but doesn’t remark any further, just gestures a hand in the direction of his workplace.
***
John isn’t prepared for the nostalgia hitting him when he walks around at Mike’s side.
“A bit different from our days, I’d say,” John states when he looks around the modern lab.
“Agreed. The students aren’t though. They’re just as insufferable as we were,” Mike sighs, then grins.
“Speak for yourself,” John teases.
Mike’s phone pings with a text.
“Sorry, John, I have to go. Apparently, one of my students has…”
He shakes his head exasperatedly without finishing the sentence.
“You can see yourself out, can’t you?”
John nods and nods again, when Mike proposes they meet up for a pint the following week. He gives the well-meaning doctor a fake phone number, and they part ways.
Instead of taking the lift, John opens the door to the fire exit and the stairs. He doesn’t want to encounter anyone on his way to the top of the building.
To his surprise, he finds the door to the roof ajar.
“Fuck!” he mutters. “How typical.”
He turns to descend when a deep voice interrupts his steps.
“Don’t mind me. There is plenty of space up here. I won’t stand in your way.”
John freezes, unable to move. What the hell is going on?
Apparently, his legs move without his permission, and moments later he steps out on the roof. A tall man in a grand coat is leaning against the air vent, smoking a cigarette.
“Those will kill you, you know,” John remarks drily.
“Mm. A slower death than what you have in mind, though.”
A blush forms so quickly on John’s face, it makes his knees wobble.
“Easy, soldier,” the man rumbles and steadies John with a hand on his elbow.
The touch does a strange thing to John’s heart. It’s as if the chain that’s held it in a vice grip for ages is breaking. He feels light; almost carefree.
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He has an ambivalent relationship with the Tube. The invention is genius, of course, but sometimes there are too many people who can’t seem to comprehend how to behave. Especially when embarking or disembarking the carriages. Grown ups suddenly seem to have left their common sense behind on the platform or inside the train.
“Mind the gap,” the familiar voice tells them all.
At least, this announcement seems to register in everyone. To this day, Sherlock has never encountered anyone who has seriously miscalculated entering or leaving the train. He knows it occurs obviously; people are idiots after all.
What he has experienced in abundance, however, are morons trying to get on the train while others are trying to get off. Simultaneously. It’s evident than neither of these human beings have any clue about logistics. Or physics for that matter.
Because of this, he avoids the Tube like the plague in the rush hours, not to mention in the summer when hordes of dim-witted tourists are invading the city.
Sherlock is aware that not every place on the planet have underground transportation systems like London has, which the forementioned tourists prove on an hourly basis, but surely one should expect people to do their research before travelling to a large city. They don’t even know how to place themselves on the escalators, for goodness’ sake! There are signs which inform them to stand on the right so that people like Sherlock, who’s always in a hurry, can leap up the moving device on the left side. Sometimes, he wonders if they’re all illiterate.
***
“Watch your step!”
“Are you talking to me?”
Sherlock is genuinely puzzled. Nobody ever tells him to mind where he’s going. He never stands still long enough.
“Yes, you moron!”
And then, Sherlock finds himself manhandled to the side by a strong but small man with blue eyes, blond hair, tanned skin, and an abandoned cane that lies some feet away on the platform.
“You were about to step right into – “
“Afghanistan or Iraq?”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
***
“Oil spill. Watch…”
Sherlock’s arms flail in an attempt to regain his balance when his shoe slips on the spilled oil, but just before he falls, strong arms catch him.
“I’ve got you,” John murmurs close to Sherlock’s ear.
His face flushes as if he’s suddenly been exposed to a roaring fire. Before he’s able to catalogue how his body responds to being held by John, his equilibrium is restored, and John retreats.
“Thank you,” Sherlock mutters.
He’s mortified to find himself in such an undignified situation, witnessed by his capable flatmate who more often than not, praises Sherlock’s agility. This calamity will certainly put a stop to that.
“Are you alright?” John asks quietly.
“Of course,” Sherlock says with false self-confidence.
***
“Fucking idiot!”
“Indeed.”
“Did he just try to walk straight through me?”
“So it seems.”
“I fear for humanity, Sherlock. Truly.”
Sherlock hums in agreement and relishes the fact that they are pressed tightly together in a packed carriage. The man who moments earlier tried to disembark the train, clearly needed glasses. Granted, John isn’t as tall as Sherlock, but he isn’t small as a child either. John had tried to prevent the collision from happening, but the train was simply too crowded to move more than an inch. Sherlock on his part, had been too preoccupied with his phone to stop the stupid man. However, he quite enjoys having John plastered to his side after the incident, so there’s that.
A jolt makes a woman lose her balance, and to steady herself, she takes a small step toward John. Her high heel lands heavily on John’s foot, who cries out in pain.
“Watch your step!” Sherlock scolds the unlucky woman, who apologises with pink cheeks and a nervous laughter.
“It’s fine, Sherlock,” John mumbles, though his grimace tells another story.
“Are you hurt?”
“It’ll probably bruise, but nothing’s broken,” John assures him.
Sherlock looks sceptically down at him and manhandles John to stand closer to the side of the door where no one can reach him.
“Oi! I’m not a puppet you can just – “
“Shut up, John. I need my blogger and doctor unscathed.”
John starts to giggle once he’s finished rolling his eyes. This always leads to one thing – Sherlock joins him. It is impossible to stay imperious and aloof when he hears John’s laughter, which is extremely contagious.
“You madman,” John grins once he’s composed himself.
“You call me such lovely things, John.” Sherlock says softly, quietly.
John inhales sharply and meets Sherlock’s gaze. The silent conversation that takes place, is impossible for the other passengers to decipher, but the sparks that fly like fireworks through the train, does indeed register. Not on the Richter scale, but close.
For as long as I live, I will never forget the day Sherlock brought John home. He was so proud – Sherlock, I mean – to finally have found someone. A friend at least, though I suspected it wouldn’t take long before they’d only need one bedroom. John scoffed when I mentioned it, which I suppose was fair. It had only been ten minutes.
After John had shot that awful cabbie – yes, I do have my sources, thank you very much. Besides, I’m neither deaf nor blind; like some… As I was saying: things changed between the boys after that night. They had clearly been to Sherlock’s favourite Chinese restaurant; I could smell the soy sauce and shrimp chips – the entire meal, come to that – when they returned. I was certain John had no clue that Sherlock never took anyone out to dinner. My conviction also included the fact that the good doctor hadn’t the foggiest about the significance this mundane action was proof of. To anyone else, a dinner invitation was an everyday occurrence, but to Sherlock…well, it was more like a love declaration really.
I knew that Sherlock’s overbearing brother had tried to threaten and bribe John mere hours after their meeting at St Bartholomew’s. I was also aware that it would take more than a big cheque and poorly hidden innuendos to sway the likes of John Watson.
***
“John, dear, will you – “
“He’s busy,” Sherlock interrupted.
“I’m not, Sherlock,” John protested and sighed exasperatedly.
That was a promising start, I thought.
“What can I help with?” John asked politely.
Sherlock had a lot to learn from John when it came to manners.
“Only a light bulb, dear. But my hip won’t allow me to climb the ladder today.”
The impressive eyeroll Sherlock gave me did not go unnoticed, but it certainly went uncommented.
“No problem, Mrs H. Lead the way,” John said; still polite.
“I have already estimated the time frame for this endeavour, Hudders,” Sherlock muttered darkly.
“Don’t you worry, dear. I will hand your precious blogger back to you unscathed,” I teased, which made John’s ears turn dark pink alarmingly quick.
***
When John busied himself with changing the light bulb, I put the kettle on. I knew John never refused tea, no matter the hour. The shortbread I placed on a porcelain plate, made his eyes sparkle, and a genuine smile appeared.
“I haven’t had those in ages,” he stated emphatically when I urged him to taste the biscuits.
He closed his eyes and sighed happily while he chewed. This smoothed out the lines on his face, and I could easily picture him as a boy and a teenager.
“So, John, do you like it here? Sherlock isn’t driving you around the bend with all his quirks and oddities?”
I tried to sound innocent, making conversation rather than interrogating the man.
His face lit up, and I knew he was telling the truth when he gushed about the low rent, the excellent location, and he also made sure to praise my baking while he was at it.
As I said: a polite man.
Before I got the chance to ask about the queries he hadn’t answered, he continued.
“Sherlock…God, where to start? He’s obviously brilliant and extraordinary. A bit mad. Extremely untidy. He’s got no boundaries, you know. But that brain of his…”
He stared into space for a long while, and then he smiled broadly as if remembering a particularly fond moment.
“But it’s more to him than that. I felt it the second he stood next to me in the lab at Barts. There was an invisible connection between us. Utterly curious. Electric, almost. I didn’t even know his name yet, but I knew that my life was about to change. For the better. I was so sure of it.”
“And now?” I prompted when he fell silent again; my patience was wearing thin at that point.
“I was right. My life is getting better by the minute. Being allowed to live and share space with him is…more than I could ever have hoped for. He gives me purpose. I feel valuable, needed; cherished even. Sherlock saved my life that day and I can never repay him. He scoffs at that, of course. Tells me I saved him as well, which I found utterly ridiculous. Until I learned about…his previous troubles. The drugs.”
“I know, dear. So, you will stay, then? You will break his heart if – “
“For as long as he’ll have me.”
Forever, then, I thought to myself. There was no way Sherlock would throw John out. He was already head over heels.
John bid me goodbye, and I heard Sherlock’s deep voice complaining: “She interrogated you. More subtle than Mycroft, but still. Insufferable busybody, is what she is.”
“She just looks out for you, Sherlock.”
“Did you…”
“No, but I think she’s clever enough to figure it out. At least if she dusts upstairs.”
“Oh, she definitely will. Probably the next time we leave the flat. Mark my words.”
“Agreed. Now, how about…”
The talking stopped, but the muffled sounds I heard before I closed my door, were convincing enough. My job was done, and I decided to celebrate with some Stilton, port, and Moulin Rouge.
Sherlock fandom - ACD version today to celebrate the master's birthday.
Clueless
To him, everything is obvious. Where science and the Work is concerned at least. In other aspects, the great Sherlock Holmes can be completely ignorant. When it comes down to sentiment and matters of the heart, his mind is obscured by darkness. That is how he has described it to me in the privacy of our home.
“I will never comprehend how you put up with me, dear boy,” he murmurs against my neck, hiding his abashment and flushing face.
“My dearest one,” I soothe him, “it is rather obvious, is it not?”
“Not at all, John.”
“But you do believe me when I say I love you, do you not?”
“I never doubt you, my heart. Still, I can’t help but question your motives.”
“My motives?”
“There is always something.”
“So you keep saying, and yet…”
I let the sentence hang between us for him to pick up whenever he is ready.
“And yet you are here every day when I wake up or come home from a nightly encounter with the Irregulars.”
“This is true. What may you deduce from that, my darling?”
“The signs are obvious enough, and I know I should trust my instincts.”
“Are you saying you cannot?”
“Not per se.”
“You are being quite Delphic, Sherlock.”
“I am aware, John.”
“Tea?”
“Please.”
***
Some days later, I am using my shoelaces to tie up a rather volatile villain to keep him restrained until the Yard’s finest find it in themselves to come to our aid. It is not so much my own, but Sherlock’s aid I am referring to. The blasted criminal administered a blow to my beloved’s precious skull before I could tackle him to the floor. Had I not taken the Hippocratic oath, I am not sure I would have let the culprit live.
Because we are (almost) alone – the man on the floor is unconscious – I dare to use a less formal tone when I address my injured beau.
“Dear boy, how is your head?”
“Dreadful.”
“I am sorry I was unable to get to you fast enough, my dear.”
“Shh, John. I was at fault, not you. I thought his moves would be obvious. A miscalculation on my part, I’m afraid.”
“You need to more careful, you realise,” I whisper in his ear, and plant a soft kiss to his temple. “If I lose you, I don’t know who I am anymore.”
Sherlock opens his mouth to say something saccharine - if the fond look in his eyes is any indication - but of course, the police choose that moment to burst through the door.
***
Thankfully, Sherlock shows no signs of having a concussion, so I let him sleep once I have divested him and arranged the blankets around him like he prefers. He is asleep before I reach the threshold, which speaks volumes about his fatigue.
In the morning, I wake to a blissful warmth. I can admit that my body is no longer as young and robust as I would like – it aches in most places – due to the tackle I performed the previous evening. Being enveloped in Sherlock’s tight embrace, helps immensely, though.
I try to turn in his arms, but his grip on me tightens, indicating I should stay as I am.
“Not yet, my heart. My head is fine, but your body needs more rest, and I find that I am quite amenable to stay in bed for a while longer.”
I hum contentedly lifting a hand to cover his.
Soft and warm lips are pressed to my nape and then Sherlock inhales.
“I have come to a conclusion,” he informs me.
“You have?”
“Indeed. I have decided to throw all sense of logic overboard when it comes to you.”
“Dear me! Should I be worried?”
He huffs exasperated but kisses me again all the same.
“Last night, you correctly ascertained that I was not concussed, which meant I was able to observe you closely when you weren’t focusing on me.”
“I see. You did not think it impudent?”
“Why on Earth would I think that? I observe you constantly!”
“Very well, then. Do continue.”
“I would if you could stop interrupting me repeatedly!”
“I am merely making conversation, Sherlock.”
“You can count yourself lucky I adore you so much.”
“Oh, I do, my precious love, I do.”
“John!”
“Yes, my darling.”
I turn in his arms now; I miss seeing his beautiful face.
“Tell me. Please,” I whisper and pecks his lips gently.
“It was as clear as day, John. If I had been severely hurt by that villain, you would have served time for your actions. That is how much you love me, and I decided to stop questioning it. I realised in that moment, that everything can’t always be properly explained. It just…”
He stops speaking, as if lost for words, but I have an inkling of what he wants to convey.
“It is what it is?” I suggest.
“Precisely, my dearest John.
“Quite obvious, that,” I murmur, just to get in the last word – if he will let me.
In lieu of answering, he cups my cheek, gives me an intense look, and kisses me until we both forget anything but each other.
