fic for wssh-watson: Neeps and Tatties
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holmesticeTitle: Neeps and Tatties
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wssh-watson
Author:dryadinthegrove
Verse: Sherlock BBC
Characters/Pairings: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes
Rating: PG13, pre-slash
Warnings: none
Summary: A person lived with someone long enough, of course they got curious.
Also on AO3: Neeps and Tatties
1) Loons
The study was everything a study should be: warm, close, dark. There was a Turkey carpet on the floor and two old wingback chairs upholstered in yellow chintz that had seen better days. Firelight cast flickering shadows against the book-lined walls, the contents within protected from heat and dust by glass doors. An alcove provided a cabinet of whisky, along with a couple of bottles of port and sherry.
A log on the fire shifted, sending a shower of sparks flying upward. John glanced out the window. Although he could still read without one of the lamps turned on, dusk was falling swiftly. The view was nothing to write home about, merely a bit of lawn before the forest encroached, yet he felt as utterly at home, as if he and his ancestors had grown up here. The forest looked after him as he looked after it, and if that wasn't a bit of poetic nonsense at the hands of malt and barley, he didn't know what was. On the other hand, Gordon had said they were distantly related, and being an genealogist, he should know. Anyway, it was very kind of him to offer the place in lieu of payment for services rendered. A case of identity theft, money laundering, and murder that had brought John and Sherlock to Edinburgh where they had all too soon learned that the depths of depravity were not owned by London alone. A harrowing chase through the underground vaults of the city had frazzled their nerves nearly to the breaking point, capping off the end of several months of hard work on human trafficking for Mycroft. John had thought he had understood how low humanity could stoop while in Afghanistan; Eastern Europe had proven him wrong. They had both needed a break, with even Sherlock looking utterly exhausted by the time the job had been 'completed'. Halted for an instant, more like. Not only that, old injuries had risen their ugly heads, to the point where Lestrade had simply shaken his head, refusing to pass them any more cases until they had had a rest.
Now they were in this truly lovely Victorian hunters lodge, resting and recuperating all by themselves save for the day cook. Gordon's summer home, it was filled with all the accoutrements and period furniture anyone could want. Indeed, John rather felt as if he had been thrown back in time. There should be dogs at his feet and the chatter of servants in the corridor, the rustling of a newspaper and the tick of a windup clock on the mantelpiece. Well, the last two actually existed; there was a clock on the mantel and a newspaper was being read by the man in the chair opposite. John took a sip of whisky - god, it was fine - and picked up his book again. Well, he called it a book, but it was really a journal filled with the owner's beautiful handwriting. He read a page or two, turned it over to look at the cover, noting the patchy dark where the oils from the owner's hand had marked the leather. He had chosen it at random, as it was only one of a few books without an author picked out on its spine. The surprise, as always, lay on the inside.
"Sherlock, listen to this," said John. He cleared his throat. "'I, of course could tell no one of what had befallen me. Being a man with unusual tastes in matters of love, I had refrained from anything more than the most casual of touch. To find myself thus enamoured of my friend - it was shocking, most of all to me, who had not realized the depths of my passion until it was almost too late.'"
Sherlock bent the top corner of the paper over to peer at John. "Yes? What about it?"
"Don't you think that's rather brave of a gentleman to write, never mind publish, in...1840?"
"Many books of that nature were written in the 19th century, John."
"Yes, I know," John forced himself to say calmly. "I just wouldn't expect it to be out in the open, on the bookshelf like this. The laws against Homosexuality took effect in what, the 18th Century?"
"1553," Sherlock said primly. "Decriminalized in 1967."
Hunh. "That's...wow."
Sherlock flipped the paper up, then down again a moment later, a quizzical expression on his face. "Did you think no one would notice?"
"What, homosexuality?" John thought it over for a second, then shrugged. "Not really, no. I just assumed that if two blokes wanted to be together they would find some sort of work where they could. Shepherding or something."
"I suppose that for people like you it's easy to forget that Christianity has much to answer for in this country, as well as others."
People like you?
Sherlock must have twigged John's annoyance. "By which I mean non-religious."
John pondered. No, he wasn't religious per se, he didn't go to church on Sundays or the high holidays, but he had a soldier's liking for it. He wouldn't consider himself pious only in the foxhole, it was just that his concept of god and holy things was perhaps more philosophical than simple church attendance might allow.
With a sigh, Sherlock folded the paper and put it on the table next to his chair. "In this age we fail to remember that religion was all in the 16th century. The rhythm of life was the rhythm of the church, with very little between."
"You would have hated it," John said, chuckling.
"No doubt homosexual relationships were rampant, but as the punishment for being caught was prison, Bedlam, or worse..." Sherlock trailed off to stare at the fire. "There are many countries today in which anyone being caught would be a death sentence. Even so called modern countries."
At the look on Sherlock's face, John sobered. While both Holmes brothers had kept shtum on where Sherlock had been for the three years he had been away, John had noticed that some of Sherlock's idiosyncrasies had become downright pathological. It wasn't the soldier's instinct that he had gained, not quite. There was a depth of paranoia and alertness that simply hadn't been there before. If John didn't take the seat with his back to a wall, Sherlock did. If John wasn't keeping an eye on the unusual when they were in public spaces, Sherlock was. If John ate, so did Sherlock, although it wasn't necessarily a lot of food. Still, it was a notable difference. Even Sherlock's sleep patterns had been altered. He slept whenever he could, wherever he could, when he was tired. He no longer complained of being bored when they were without a case. He had...matured. In a way, John was sorry to see Sherlock's exuberance tempered, even as he was glad he no longer had to deal with the kind of nonsense that lack of sleep and food brought. Whatever Sherlock had been through, it had clearly changed him forever.
John took another sip of whisky. Thank god times had changed in Britain. No, that wasn't quite right, was it? Harry had had a terrible time with their parents, but that was part and parcel of growing up in that bloody house, gay or not. She was out, though he wasn't sure if she was proud. She seemed happy? He should make the effort to call more often...he wished talking to her didn't bring up things he didn't want to think about or discuss. God, he didn't want to think about it any more; it was over and done with years ago.
For his part, my friend, whom I had known for years, took singular advantage of my hapless state. As I write these words now, I am astounded my powers of observation were so lacking. Of course, I was very young in the ways of the world, for my heart had yet to be broken. Little did I know what was to soon befall me.
John snorted softly. "You and me both, mate."
For no small amount of time did I labour under the misapprehension that my school friend cared for me. We spent many hours together,roaming the fields and forests of --moor, stopping at farmhouses for bread and sweet butter and a bit of cheese for our supper, the roughest of working mens pubs for our ale. I imagined it all as the forerunner of our lives together. Yes, in my innocence I thought we would do this and more, wandering in the museums and cities of Europe, in the most perfect state of love not yet carnal. I had no idea this was only a prelude to his marriage to Lady -- of ---. She was merely a friend of the family with whom he had regular correspondence.
Yes. I was that much the fool. Pity me, for the depths of my own delusion.
John shook his head. The poor bastard. There really was nothing worse than falling in love with someone who didn't return your affections. He would never forget Sharon, much as he would have liked to. Or Dora. She at least had deigned to give him a hand job at Richard's party before telling him to piss off, so there was that. He considered himself lucky, though, to have eventually been able to have a high rate of return from the women he set his cap to. Which was not the most politic thing to say these days, but it was the truth. He would deny it to his death bed, but secretly he was quite proud of being Three Continents Watson. Thing was, he was pretty sure he was more of Casanova than a lout. At least he'd never gotten the impression, he'd never heard an inkling of a rumour that he was a bad lover, and that counted for something. Or at least it did in his view. After all, hadn't Leonie played that one Missy Elliot song to death, winking at him and telling him he made her scream God on the regular? Too right he did.
The End, when it happened, was sudden and brutal. After an afternoon's walk, and a lovely caper on the banks of the ---, where I kissed him - yes, feeling daringly hot blooded and bold with desire, I kissed him - we returned to the college we were attending.
John eyed his glass - there was less than a finger. He was sleepy and buzzed and shouldn't really have another, but fuck it, they were on holiday.
Some time later he cracked one eye open, then the other, gazed at Sherlock's beloved profile, the structure of his face thrown into further bas-relief by the firelight. Oh, but he was feeling contrary tonight. "Have you ever thought about it? Kissing another bloke?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"I have."
Sherlock looked directly at him and blinked, his eyes a little too wide. The great faker knew exactly what John was on about, even if he didn't want to admit it. "Really?"
He nodded, amused at the sensation of his brain sloshing around inside his skull. Yes, definitely no more drinking.
"People have small minds, John. I would have thought you would be used to the comments by now."
"That's not what I'm talking about and you know it," John tapped the book gently, making it rock on the arm of the chair. "I'm just saying."
"You were married. To a woman, I might add."
John shrugged. "What's your point? It's not that big a deal, not these days. I mean, not in Britain. Not with non-religious people."
Sherlock glanced up at him from beneath lowered lashes, his entire body still.
"Anyway, have you? Kissed a bloke?" asked John, before taking another sip of whisky. He didn't know why he wanted to know, he just did. Besides, it wasn't anything else but the truth. A person lived with someone long enough, of course they got curious. Sherlock had seen him through a multitude of girlfriends, which of course didn't include the women John had slept with and never brought home, because no, and of course he had gone and gotten himself fucking married, for fuck sakes, so little wonder Sherlock was giving him that look. "I'm just curious. We never talk about this sort of thing."
"This sort of thing?" Sherlock asked haughtily.
Nervous, for as John had just said, they never talked about this, not when it concerned their own relationship. He shrugged a little, as if to say, You don't have to talk about this, but I am. "Perfectly natural to wonder about someone, what they'd be like in bed, what they liked or didn't."
"I don't…speculate."
Which was ridiculous, coming from Sherlock 'Only Consulting Detective in the World' Holmes. John knocked back the rest of his glass and carefully placed it on the table between their chairs. The decanter was right there, it would be easy enough to pour another finger or two, but he was already very pleasantly buzzed and didn't fancy trying to make it up the stairs with poor balance. Well. He had tried. Given Sherlock's bombastic relationship with Mycroft, John was hardly surprised to find Sherlock quiet on matters pertaining to his own body. Maybe Sherlock would find a partner some day, or maybe he had it off on the regular with one of his...cronies. Who that might be, John didn't know, though he found the very idea irritating. In a weird way, Sherlock was his - that's just how it was. He could grudgingly admit that Sherlock deserved someone to love him too, someone who wasn't John.
Christ, he needed to go to bed, he wasn't making any sense to himself. John got up and stretched, groaned at the popping of his spine. He did a little side to side stretch too, immediately felt better for it. "I think I have to go to bed."
"Sleep well," said Sherlock, now gazing at the fire, brows drawn down in thought.
John paused halfway to the door, looked over his shoulder at the great idiot, his own companion.
Oh fuck it, why not.
He strode over to Sherlock with far more confidence in his steps than he might possibly have felt, or maybe his forward momentum was a little fast, he had drunk quite a lot, actually, given that parts of his brain were suggesting his sudden thought might not be a good idea after all. Then again, why the fuck not? Sherlock glanced up at him blankly, then canted his head to one side slightly, brows furrowing. John put one hand on the wing of the chair, the other on the arm, leaned in close. "Can I kiss you?"
Sherlock blinked at him.
John took Sherlock's silence as neither a yes nor a no, but rather a pregnant pause where anything was possible. He slowing leaned forward and touched Sherlock's lips with his own.
He pulled away slightly.
Sherlock blinked.
He went in again, this time more slowly, keeping his eyes open for signs of distress. This time Sherlock's eyelids fluttered, and that was all the answer John needed. He pulled back again, smiled. "All right?"
Sherlock jerked a nod.
"Good night," said John, waiting just long enough to make sure Sherlock didn't want another kiss. Not that he was necessarily interested himself...he would hate to deprive Sherlock of something he wanted, that was all. With this in mind, he left the room, carefully closing the door behind himself. A satisfactory experiment. He went upstairs to his room, washed up and performed his usual nightly ablutions before falling into the massive bed. Big enough for four, if a person were so inclined. Ah, there had been a time in his life when...drink had loosened him up enough to contemplate memories of leave, Colchester when he was a lad, frantic couplings when he was a med student, half-insane with exhaustion from being on duty for 24 or 48 hours. Necessary training, and it was that that killed any thoughts of further stress relief between the sheets. He curled up on his side, cozily wrapped in an old-fashioned down duvet, a fluffy (but not too fluffy) cushion beneath his head. He was half-way asleep when he thought of what he had done in the study, and gave a 'ha!' as to his own chutzpah, as Steinberg would have said. Before he got blown up, anyway.
2) Porridge Oats, traditional
"I've heard about this, but I've never actually experienced it," John looked doubtfully at the bowl of porridge in front of him. Unlike the sugar, butter, and cream laced hot dish he was partial to on special occasions, this bowl was of the very traditional variety. Instead of sugar, there was salt, and instead of cream, there was whisky.
"That's the way my Gran used to make it when I was a little girl," said Mrs. Boyd, hands clasped in front of her waist. Her pinny was gaily floral and very representative of her personality. John had no doubt that she and Mrs. Hudson would get along fabulously. "Not for me, obviously, for my grandfather. But he snuck me spoonfuls when she wasn't looking, and I loved it!"
Judging by the rosiness of Mrs. Boyd's cheeks, she still did. John dutifully took a bite, chewed slowly. It...wasn't terrible. It wasn't great, either, but obviously Scotsmen had different standards back then. Or something, because he couldn't think of any reason anyone would add whisky to porridge oats.
"Isn't that lovely? The perfect thing after a cold morning on the shoot. Of course back then you had everything else for breakfast too," said Mrs. Boyd, folding her arms and apparently settling in for the long haul by leaning against the sideboard. "It was so grand, when the lodge was filled with people. Mr. Carnahan loved his hunting, he did, and the fishing, too. Cook, she was my mum, taught me everything she knew. Those were the days."
John managed to eat the majority of the bowl - thank god it was small - before resting his spoon on the saucer. "Any chance of an egg?"
Mrs. Boyd started. "Of course, of course! I'll fry a couple up with a nice bit of bacon and tomato, a couple of mushrooms, too. Would you like some, Mr. Holmes?"
"Yes, thank you," Sherlock came around John's left to take a seat at the table.
"Sleep well?" asked John, pouring tea into a cup. He pushed it towards Sherlock along with the sugar bowl.
"Mm."
"I slept like a rock, actually. Between the bed and the whisky I was out like a light," he continued, hoping to ease any awkwardness Sherlock might feel. The kiss had come back to him as soon as he had woken, and he could have kicked himself at his own stupidity.
"I...I should like to go in to town today," answered Sherlock quietly.
"Of course," said John, a bit nonplussed. He hesitated for a moment. "Do you want company?"
Sherlock nodded.
"Okay...we can try lunch at the pub, yeah?"
They fell into a silence. John took the initiative and split the two day old Scotsman on Sunday into two halves. He kept the sports section for himself, figuring he could lose himself in the rugby scores and let Sherlock get through whatever crisis he was having. Which wasn't really fair of him, since he had precipitated the crisis in the first place.
Shit.
It was no use. They were going to have to talk about it.
"Jo - "
"Sher - "
John shook his head, motioned towards Sherlock. "You first."
Sherlock pursed his lips, then said something completely different from what John was expecting.
"Do you like the book?"
"The journal? Yes, yes I do," he took a sip of tea and gathered his thoughts. "It's rare to come across an autobiography that hasn't had the most intimate emotional details of a person's life edited out. Here they are, though, in their most raw state. I'm actually surprised it wasn't burnt after being written. I keep reading, hoping for a happy ending."
"You're not…bothered by the subject?"
John paused with his toast halfway to his mouth. Why on earth - ? What kind of man did Sherlock think he was? Surely Sherlock knew better by now. Surely he had known since the day they had met…? "My sister is gay, I was in the Army, I'm a doctor, I could care less."
He hadn't lied to Sherlock, the night before. The thought did pop in to his head from time to time, about Sherlock and whether or not he was happy, but the truth was that it was none of his business. As long as no one hurt Sherlock - in which case John would have some things to say - John was content that Sherlock was content.
After breakfast, they went for a walk. Sherlock was eager to see their surroundings, something about animal tracks and insects, bird's nests and spider casings, while John just wanted to get the hell out of the house. All those weeks of running around in London and Dubrovnik and Budapest, he found he couldn't give up the physicality of it all. He itched for action, not unlike his time in Afghanistan, when he was honest with himself. Besides, he had to work off his hangover.
The fields and hills surrounding the lodge had turned into shades of gold and ochre and sienna brown, interspersed with distant rectangles of the deep, black green of national forest pines, and the lighter greens of the natural forest in the area. The lodge's drive was private, running nearly two miles before it joined the main road. The metal gate was closed, though not locked, but Sherlock ignored it in favor of climbing over the stone wall. John followed, glad he had thought to bring his leather gloves, a habit he had picked up while Sherlock was gone. A gift from Mary, of all people. He still wore them, even after everything that had happened, because they were just a pair of gloves and thus useful and it wouldn't do to waste a useful thing.
He was almost at the point where he didn't have to remind himself of such every time he put them on.
Despite the moisture in the air that promised rain at some point in the day, John quite enjoyed the walk. He felt strong, a man not quite in the peak of physical perfection, but not far off it, either. Sherlock still had a bit of a hitch in his gait from falling down the steps along the Thames, which was only to be expected given the rain and poor night time light. He had hit the shingle hard enough to knock the wind right out of him, waving John after Tucker when John would ordinarily have stopped to make sure he was all right. John had brought Tucker down just past the bridge, nearly sending them both into the water. By the time John was bringing Tucker back, Sherlock was limping toward them.
John was too used to soldiers trying to be macho to allow Sherlock the chance to tell him that he was fine. He simply nodded at him, barked "At home," and miracle of miracles, Sherlock had simply accepted the command with a great deal of grace. Back at the flat John did some gently probing and while no bones had been broken, Sherlock was going to be in some pain for a few days yet.
The pub, when they finally reached it, had a roaring fire going in the heart, and was, even at this time of day, filled with locals. There was a brief lull in conversation as folk looked to see the visitors, but the volume of laughter and talk soon regained its strength. Though it was a little soon after his breakfast, John found he was hungry enough to eat lunch. One homemade steak and kidney pie and a bowl of buttery mash later, he was utterly full and quite pleased about it. Even Sherlock had eaten, which still surprised John. He was glad to see it, however. Neither of them were getting any younger.
Later, when they had had enough socializing, they struck out back to the lodge. Mist was falling heavily, not quite enough to be rain, the wind picking up as daylight began to low. Glancing at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, John was taken by the notion of him being a hero in some 19th century romantic novel, one by the Brontes or Austen, Eliot or Hardy. All he needed was a wool cape, though the Belstaff was a pretty good imitation of one.
3) Tea and Butteries, Warmed, with Blaeberry Jam
There was a case.
Just as John was beginning to feel less relaxed and more antsy, the Postman was shown into the snug by Mrs. Boyd.
"Craig was just passing and I thought maybe you could solve his problem," said Mrs. Boyd, so much the mirror of Mrs. Hudson that John found himself wanting to call home just to find out if she wanted anything.
"I'm sure it's nothing so dramatic, nothing that won't resolve itself," added the postie, a pained expression on his face.
John nodded. "Why don't you tell us anyway," he said, because often the people who needed help the most were the ones who asked for it the least. Besides, Sherlock hadn't said anything yet.
"Well, it's just that mail has gone missing from my house. Including my passport. This has happened before, so I've made sure to have a locked mailbox...
The case was child's play, and why Sherlock had gone on with it had John wondering. The postie was missing mail from his house for several weeks; turned out his aunt had been collecting it in the mistaken belief he had gone to Tenerife for three weeks. Beyond simple, nothing a few enquiries wouldn't have fixed. Oddly, John found himself unsatisfied with the result, even though the 'mystery' was solved. He felt himself out of sorts, lately, prone to long walks along the lane or through the fields. Sherlock was doing the same, funnily enough. Occasionally they met at the pub for lunch, or tramped up into the hills, although neither of them had brought gear for such activities. Despite the time of year, the weather mostly held when they were out and about, apart from the one time they were caught in a sudden burst of rain, becoming drenched in seconds. Luckily they were only a mile from the lodge, an easy enough run. John noticed that Sherlock had a hand to his side when they arrived, pain from the bruised ribs, but Sherlock seemed in good spirits nonetheless. John figured anything serious would have Sherlock in a different state altogether, and thus said nothing.
An hour later, freshly bathed and in warm clothing, they met back in the snug by mutual agreement. John read a few more pages in the book, details of the author's background, before setting it down to pour himself yet another whisky. A bad habit to take up, even on holiday. The secret thrill of it had him enjoying it even more, made him a little reckless.
"Do you think you would have married, back in the day?"
Sherlock made a moue of distaste. "To a woman?"
John shrugged one shoulder. "Sure. Someone smart, like, I dunno...Irene Adler, say."
"Irene?" huffed Sherlock incredulously. "A snake if ever there was one."
A comment which left John blinking in surprise.
"Mary," Sherlock announced. "If I were forced to marry, it would have been Mary."
"You - you remember she almost killed you, right?"
"Yes, but she had her reasons."
After a pause in which all John could do was stare at Sherlock, mouth open, "Are you fucking kidding me? All we went through and you'd marry her? Her?"
"Is that so wrong?"
"Yes - yes!" John bounced out of his chair to pace in front of the window. "My god, how can you be so - yes! I'm sure you're unaware, but men don't often announce to their best male friends that they would marry their friend's wives, especially when that wife has tried to kill them! When that wife is a proven liar! An actual assassin!"
Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his mouth, watching John carefully and with a little sadness in his gaze. "We're none of us free in the department of murder, John."
It was a comment that had John staggering to the whisky. He poured himself a second glass, added several drops of water. He drifted over to the window to stare out window. As happened every night, the mist was falling over the hills, ensuring the forest was no more than a dark haze within. Soon half the meadow would be gone, and then all would be invisible apart from the immediate spill of light from the window. When he felt ready, John took a deep breath. "What do you mean?"
"John."
He closed his eyes at the gentle tone in Sherlock's voice. "Are you saying - did you - have you - ?"
"I was away for a long time, John. I did what I felt was necessary. I did it to protect myself and those I love."
"Of course you did," John said equally softly. For of all the things he knew about Sherlock Holmes, his loyalty was beyond reproach. Still and all - Mary? "Why? Why her?"
Sherlock took his time in answering. "She was intelligent. Kind. Compassionate - "
John snorted.
"She was nurse, John. That was part of her job. She was like you."
"What?" John half-laughed, half-gasped. He turned around to look quizzically at Sherlock, who was still and earnest in a way John rarely saw any more, for Sherlock had learned how to use his words. "Like me? How?"
A second later John could have kicked himself. He may not have shot Sherlock, but - no. No, he wasn't ready to face what he had done. Not yet. Maybe not ever, if he could help it.
"I...can't explain further."
"You mean you won't," said John, sitting down in the chair he'd come to consider his own. Elbows on knees, he stared into the depths of his glass as if it could give him an answer. "Well. That's alright. We all have our secrets."
And then he winced again. He chuckled bitterly. "Can't seem to stop putting my foot in it, tonight. Sorry."
Sherlock said nothing. Instead, he stood, straightened his jacket, and took the single step to approach John.
"Sorry," John repeated, forcing a smile he didn't feel onto his lips. He shook his head. "Don't know what's wrong with me, lately."
Swift as a bird, Sherlock bent down and kissed john on the cheek. When John looked up, surprised beyond all measure, Sherlock merely nodded once. "Read your book. I'm going to take a bath. Good night."
"Night," John murmured, unable to think of anything else to say.
4) Black Bun
"'And so my friend proceeded to disavow me. I will not repeat the words he used, or the names they hurled at me as I stood there, the blood draining from my face, my fingers, my very heart,'" John read aloud, shaking his head in disbelief. "What an utter wanker."
Evenings were spent in the snug no matter if they were apart or together during the day, Sherlock flitted from book to book, muttering to himself and occasionally making calls in French or Italian and once, Greek. John found himself listening with bated breath, for though he had heard Sherlock 'speaking foreign', as his Granda would have said, it never ceased to give him a little thrill. Ridiculous, of course, because he knew more than a few multilingual people, but there it was. Something about Sherlock speaking in tongues was magical, miraculous, lovely to listen to and beautiful to behold. It made Sherlock seem...other worldly, even more so than normal. And how funny was that? To find his friend still so extraordinary, even after all these years?
Right now it was Sherlock's turn to stand in front of the window, arms folded, his back to John, who silently admired his friend's physical form, slim in his suits, surprisingly muscular when out of them.
"People are rarely who they appear to be on the surface," murmured Sherlock.
John bobbed his head in a little 'yes-no' gesture. "I think most people are, actually. We just choose to believe some things over others. Of which my marriage is the perfect example," he said morosely.
Sherlock conceded the point with a nod. "Mary was a consummate actress."
"I think you liked her more than I did," said John slowly, because he simply could not understand why. "I mean, she completely snowed me...and you. So why doesn't that bother you?"
Sherlock finally turned around, leaned against the windowsill. John was abruptly glad he had lit a few lamps before dinner. He had agreed with Mrs. Boyd about the day being right dreich, the morning's low and dark clouds never clearing. He hadn't been tempted outside at all, though Sherlock had popped out for a few hours. Lights had been necessary all day, in fact, though he had mostly sat next to the window in order to start Lewis Grassic Gibbon's 'A Scot's Quair', a classic he had somehow missed in school. Soon enough he had been called back to the journal and now only had a few pages left.
"I...I don't know," said Sherlock, looking at the floor. "She made me feel...normal, I suppose."
"Normal...yeah, I get that. She had a talent for that," John answered, wishing he knew better words, a better way to tell Sherlock he was the best man John had ever known, how absolutely extraordinary he was, how phenomenally special he was in his difference. Yet, at the same time, he understood what Sherlock meant. Mary had made him feel normal too, after Sherlock was gone. She had accepted his grief and his pain and made it all right. Had made it...normal. Through her actions, had made it clear that it was perfectly acceptable, perfectly ordinary to cry and cry again, to suffer for want when the person you loved most in the world died. Which then made him wonder how Sherlock had felt, that she could do that for him, too.
The silence became oppressive, so John picked up the book and began to read again. "'I stood there, frozen to the spot, and listened to it all, trying to ignore the looks of pity, the looks of disgust, from the other patrons.
And when they were done, when their fun was over and they turned their backs to me, talking about what they were going to do that evening, gambling or the theatre or studying for the next exam, when it was finally possible for my knees to unlock, I turned around and left the pub. I did not pack my things, nor did I return home to my family.
I walked through the town, oblivious to my surroundings, only to discover when the sky began to lighten that I had walked through the night and was soaked to the skin. Thoroughly chilled, I knocked at the door of the nearest farm, hoping for a cup of tea before I returned to the college. The kind woman who opened the door took one look at me and shooed my inside. Not content with feeding me toast and eggs and rashers of streaky bacon, plus three cups of strong hot tea, she made me change into her good husband's nightclothes, wrapped me in a blanket and set me before the fire. I was not long there before a fever took hold of me that I could not shake, with the result that I spent some weeks as a resident in the eldest son's room.'"
"Poor sod," said John. "Bad enough to fall for someone who could care less, even worse to be treated like that. And in public! If the author were my friend I would have hunted down those bastards and given them what for."
Sherlock chuckled. "You're a true friend, John, in the best meaning of the word."
"I have my moments."
"Many of them," Sherlock said fondly. "My blogger."
John felt his cheeks heat and hastily looked down. Since Mary's death, Sherlock had become much more effusive with his feelings, and John wasn't sure he was entirely comfortable with it. Not because Sherlock was being honest so much as John felt he should be honest in turn, and he...he was not good at that. "Shall I read on? It's almost finished."
"Yes, do," said Sherlock, adding another log on to the fire. "But first, I need a hot drink. Want anything?"
"Maybe just a glass of water?"
Sherlock nodded and slipped out of the room, leaving John to gaze at the fire and wonder just what the hell he was doing. Lately, over the past few weeks working the case that had taken them abroad, he had found himself thinking of Sherlock a lot, in ways that were, frankly, confounding. Yes, Sherlock was incredibly attractive, both physically and mentally. He was also a pillock, but then so was John. This was different, though. Mary had said something, once, to the affect that John didn't have much room for anyone in his life besides Sherlock, and that if he wanted to be a proper father, he was going to have to make a choice. At the time he had scoffed at her, thinking he knew better. The baby was here now, and he had discovered there was some truth to her words after all. Truth, but not the whole truth. Rosie was a good baby, a pretty baby, and he loved her with every fiber of his being - just as he did Sherlock. A different kind of love, obviously, though not by much.
Four months in and he was still getting used to the idea of being a parent. Thank god for Mycroft and nannies, which let him live in the best of worlds. She was safe no matter what he did or where he went, and that was the most important thing. She would grow up protected beyond anything he or Mary could have coordinated by themselves, with Mycroft for her uncle.
John rubbed his forehead, suddenly exhausted by his complicated life. Yes, Rosie would be better off if her mum was still alive, but Mary wasn't, end of. Rosie would still be loved, was loved by everyone who knew her. Even Harry was there for her, which was...which was good. Very good. Maybe gave her a bit of purpose in staying off the alcohol a bit more.
His train of thought was interrupted by the mug placed on the side table, the rising steam scenting the room with sugar and cocoa. "Oh my god, this is perfect."
"I thought so, too. Made in the American manner, with milk," said Sherlock, taking a seat. "I grew to love it when I was - "
"You'll have to tell me, sometime. I'll let it cool a bit." said John, filling the space left by Sherlock's abrupt stop. He lifted the mug to his nose. Yes, perfect. He set it aside and picked up the book one more. "Ready?"
"Mm."
"There's a bit of a break here...ah.
'By the time I fully recovered my health, the term was over and I was sent home for the summer. Though I was determined to never return, Father was of a different mind entirely, and I was made to go back or suffer my inheritance. Father is very strict in this manner, believing in the power of Education about all. Also, he does not wish to see the house or his fortune squandered in ignorance.
At college, my former friend was gone. The friends of his who remained completely ignored me, although the majority of them also tried to catch me on my own and force me to perform acts - suffice to say they were illegal, even in the privacy of one's home.
In time, I graduated.
With my father in good health, I went to South America in search of adventure and the pursuit of my own fortune. There was much toil, and danger, and more than once I nearly lost my life to disease and snakes, to a wild boar's tooth and the resultant infection. I accomplished what I set out to do, and within a few years returned home, triumphant in will and spirit.
I spurned any and all attempts of romantic inclination at home and abroad, preferring not to take the risk of entanglement or worse, a repeat of what had happened with my friend. If I had known I was to see him but one other time, perhaps I would have been less adamant in matters of love.
I was in Bath, waiting for an acquaintance I had met on the ship, and decided to take the waters at the Pump Room, trying to dispel the slight nausea I had been feeling upon my return to England, when I saw my old college friend and his wife across the spring. He was staring at me, distracted enough that his wife had to tug at his sleeve to garner his attention. As soon as she realized he was looking at me, she looked, and then gave a little wave. He immediately forced her hand down, and that was enough for me. I tipped my hat at her, turned, and promptly left the Pump Room.
Once outside, the man I was to meet was rushing up the street, and I gladly accepted his invitation for a chop and a glass of beer at -—, on -- Street. It was far enough away that I was sure my old friend would not find me. Not that I wanted him to. No, I wanted him to know how much of a success I had made after our last encounter. He had not destroyed me as I had once feared. If anything, he had freed me from a lifetime of subservience at his feet, of being a slave to a love from which I did not know I suffered. Thus fortified with satisfaction, I went on to thoroughly enjoy what time I had in Bath - albeit it was not long, for I was busy with formulating a journey to Mexico, and beyond to California and the wilds of Canada.'"
"Fascinating," said Sherlock, cradling his mug in his hands. "A rare man, to find happiness in the face of such hardship."
"Oh, I don't know," John answered, eyeing Sherlock with the slightest smile. "I think I'm rather closely acquainted with one, myself."
Sherlock looked at him, twitched away. "Hardly. Look in the mirror, John."
"You really don't give yourself enough credit. Oh, there's one more entry - " John crossed his other leg and took a sip of water, as Sherlock had managed to bring up a glass along with the hot chocolate. "This is dated some six years later.
'I had forgotten I even wrote this journal, finding it some years after Father's death, and long after Mother moved to the Italian Coast for the warmth and the sea air. How much has changed in the intervening years.
I have a companion, now, and in this book I shall call him 'Victor'. He is the most wonderful creature I have ever met, full of life, vim, and vigor. He is everything my old college friend was not, and it was not until I met him that I understood the difference. His courtship was slow and steady and even now I wonder at his patience, for I was horrible in my disbelief of the depth of his feeling, and cruel in the way that only the desperate can be.
We are happy. I am happy. Beyond happy. I doubt I have felt this since I was the littlest child, excited by the idea of a full belly and the promise of a nap after chasing butterflies in the garden.
Should I be lucky enough - '" John turned the page, and then flipped through the remainder of the book. The rest of the pages were blank. "That's it, that's all he wrote, whoever he was."
"A member of Gordon's family, his third great Uncle Oliver," said Sherlock.
"Oh come on, how on earth do you know that? And don't even tell me you deduced it out of thin air."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You know my methods by now."
John gave him the hairy eyeball, thought about the lodge. "You saw the family tree in the attic. Do you know what I had to do to uncover it?"
"Yes," said Sherlock, grinning. "Your hand prints in the dust were a trail even the Yard could follow."
He had to laugh at that, because it was only the truth. A moment later he sobered, having brushed the now warm mug with his hand. He switched glass for mug and took a cautious sip. God, the cocoa was sweet and strong and a smidgeon salty. All it lacked was whipped cream and a shot of Amaretto or hazlenut liquor. "Will you ever tell me? About when you were away?"
Sherlock stilled, his mouth drawn down so much that John was instantly sorry he had asked. "Listen, it's okay - "
"It's fine. I should tell someone, and of all people you would probably understand the most."
"That sounds ominous."
"I've done things, John. Terrible things."
John had to blink twice to make sure he wasn't seeing things, but it was true, there was the slightest tremble in Sherlock's chin. "Hey," he said, setting the mug down, and then again, sharper. "Hey! Sherlock, it's fine, it's all fine. You're here with me and you're going to be fine."
He sure as shit hadn't seen this moment coming, and he had imagined a lot where Sherlock was concerned. Sherlock's throat worked and his nostrils flared and that was it, John was on his knees in front of Sherlock, taking the mug out of his hands and replacing it with his own. He squeezed Sherlock's hands tightly. "You may not have been in Afghanistan, but I know you've been through the wars. I've seen the scars. Yes, you've tried to hide them from me but I'm a doctor, I have ways."
"Sorry," said Sherlock, his voice thick. "You're right, this has been a very odd week."
John nodded, relieved that Sherlock wasn't crying. He wasn't sure he would know what to do with a crying Sherlock. He could barely stand it when he cried, himself. "Hell yeah it has been. Shall we go home tomorrow, or stay a few more days?"
"Maybe another day or two."
"All right. You can always change your mind in the morning, yeah?"
"Yes."
"Good," John got to his feet, knees creaking. "Now come on, get that down your neck and I'll put you to bed, maybe read you another bed time story."
"Oh, goodie."
John shook his head, amused. Crisis averted. For the moment, anyway. As much as he didn't want to face what was coming, maybe it was better if they stayed here. Maybe Sherlock needed to air things out just as much as John did. Maybe...maybe they needed to do it together, rather than apart. They were always better together.
"John?"
"Mm?"
Sherlock looked at him earnestly. "Do I get a kiss to make it all better?"
Right. "If you like."
"I do, John. I do."
Recipient:
Author:
dryadinthegroveVerse: Sherlock BBC
Characters/Pairings: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes
Rating: PG13, pre-slash
Warnings: none
Summary: A person lived with someone long enough, of course they got curious.
Also on AO3: Neeps and Tatties
1) Loons
The study was everything a study should be: warm, close, dark. There was a Turkey carpet on the floor and two old wingback chairs upholstered in yellow chintz that had seen better days. Firelight cast flickering shadows against the book-lined walls, the contents within protected from heat and dust by glass doors. An alcove provided a cabinet of whisky, along with a couple of bottles of port and sherry.
A log on the fire shifted, sending a shower of sparks flying upward. John glanced out the window. Although he could still read without one of the lamps turned on, dusk was falling swiftly. The view was nothing to write home about, merely a bit of lawn before the forest encroached, yet he felt as utterly at home, as if he and his ancestors had grown up here. The forest looked after him as he looked after it, and if that wasn't a bit of poetic nonsense at the hands of malt and barley, he didn't know what was. On the other hand, Gordon had said they were distantly related, and being an genealogist, he should know. Anyway, it was very kind of him to offer the place in lieu of payment for services rendered. A case of identity theft, money laundering, and murder that had brought John and Sherlock to Edinburgh where they had all too soon learned that the depths of depravity were not owned by London alone. A harrowing chase through the underground vaults of the city had frazzled their nerves nearly to the breaking point, capping off the end of several months of hard work on human trafficking for Mycroft. John had thought he had understood how low humanity could stoop while in Afghanistan; Eastern Europe had proven him wrong. They had both needed a break, with even Sherlock looking utterly exhausted by the time the job had been 'completed'. Halted for an instant, more like. Not only that, old injuries had risen their ugly heads, to the point where Lestrade had simply shaken his head, refusing to pass them any more cases until they had had a rest.
Now they were in this truly lovely Victorian hunters lodge, resting and recuperating all by themselves save for the day cook. Gordon's summer home, it was filled with all the accoutrements and period furniture anyone could want. Indeed, John rather felt as if he had been thrown back in time. There should be dogs at his feet and the chatter of servants in the corridor, the rustling of a newspaper and the tick of a windup clock on the mantelpiece. Well, the last two actually existed; there was a clock on the mantel and a newspaper was being read by the man in the chair opposite. John took a sip of whisky - god, it was fine - and picked up his book again. Well, he called it a book, but it was really a journal filled with the owner's beautiful handwriting. He read a page or two, turned it over to look at the cover, noting the patchy dark where the oils from the owner's hand had marked the leather. He had chosen it at random, as it was only one of a few books without an author picked out on its spine. The surprise, as always, lay on the inside.
"Sherlock, listen to this," said John. He cleared his throat. "'I, of course could tell no one of what had befallen me. Being a man with unusual tastes in matters of love, I had refrained from anything more than the most casual of touch. To find myself thus enamoured of my friend - it was shocking, most of all to me, who had not realized the depths of my passion until it was almost too late.'"
Sherlock bent the top corner of the paper over to peer at John. "Yes? What about it?"
"Don't you think that's rather brave of a gentleman to write, never mind publish, in...1840?"
"Many books of that nature were written in the 19th century, John."
"Yes, I know," John forced himself to say calmly. "I just wouldn't expect it to be out in the open, on the bookshelf like this. The laws against Homosexuality took effect in what, the 18th Century?"
"1553," Sherlock said primly. "Decriminalized in 1967."
Hunh. "That's...wow."
Sherlock flipped the paper up, then down again a moment later, a quizzical expression on his face. "Did you think no one would notice?"
"What, homosexuality?" John thought it over for a second, then shrugged. "Not really, no. I just assumed that if two blokes wanted to be together they would find some sort of work where they could. Shepherding or something."
"I suppose that for people like you it's easy to forget that Christianity has much to answer for in this country, as well as others."
People like you?
Sherlock must have twigged John's annoyance. "By which I mean non-religious."
John pondered. No, he wasn't religious per se, he didn't go to church on Sundays or the high holidays, but he had a soldier's liking for it. He wouldn't consider himself pious only in the foxhole, it was just that his concept of god and holy things was perhaps more philosophical than simple church attendance might allow.
With a sigh, Sherlock folded the paper and put it on the table next to his chair. "In this age we fail to remember that religion was all in the 16th century. The rhythm of life was the rhythm of the church, with very little between."
"You would have hated it," John said, chuckling.
"No doubt homosexual relationships were rampant, but as the punishment for being caught was prison, Bedlam, or worse..." Sherlock trailed off to stare at the fire. "There are many countries today in which anyone being caught would be a death sentence. Even so called modern countries."
At the look on Sherlock's face, John sobered. While both Holmes brothers had kept shtum on where Sherlock had been for the three years he had been away, John had noticed that some of Sherlock's idiosyncrasies had become downright pathological. It wasn't the soldier's instinct that he had gained, not quite. There was a depth of paranoia and alertness that simply hadn't been there before. If John didn't take the seat with his back to a wall, Sherlock did. If John wasn't keeping an eye on the unusual when they were in public spaces, Sherlock was. If John ate, so did Sherlock, although it wasn't necessarily a lot of food. Still, it was a notable difference. Even Sherlock's sleep patterns had been altered. He slept whenever he could, wherever he could, when he was tired. He no longer complained of being bored when they were without a case. He had...matured. In a way, John was sorry to see Sherlock's exuberance tempered, even as he was glad he no longer had to deal with the kind of nonsense that lack of sleep and food brought. Whatever Sherlock had been through, it had clearly changed him forever.
John took another sip of whisky. Thank god times had changed in Britain. No, that wasn't quite right, was it? Harry had had a terrible time with their parents, but that was part and parcel of growing up in that bloody house, gay or not. She was out, though he wasn't sure if she was proud. She seemed happy? He should make the effort to call more often...he wished talking to her didn't bring up things he didn't want to think about or discuss. God, he didn't want to think about it any more; it was over and done with years ago.
For his part, my friend, whom I had known for years, took singular advantage of my hapless state. As I write these words now, I am astounded my powers of observation were so lacking. Of course, I was very young in the ways of the world, for my heart had yet to be broken. Little did I know what was to soon befall me.
John snorted softly. "You and me both, mate."
For no small amount of time did I labour under the misapprehension that my school friend cared for me. We spent many hours together,roaming the fields and forests of --moor, stopping at farmhouses for bread and sweet butter and a bit of cheese for our supper, the roughest of working mens pubs for our ale. I imagined it all as the forerunner of our lives together. Yes, in my innocence I thought we would do this and more, wandering in the museums and cities of Europe, in the most perfect state of love not yet carnal. I had no idea this was only a prelude to his marriage to Lady -- of ---. She was merely a friend of the family with whom he had regular correspondence.
Yes. I was that much the fool. Pity me, for the depths of my own delusion.
John shook his head. The poor bastard. There really was nothing worse than falling in love with someone who didn't return your affections. He would never forget Sharon, much as he would have liked to. Or Dora. She at least had deigned to give him a hand job at Richard's party before telling him to piss off, so there was that. He considered himself lucky, though, to have eventually been able to have a high rate of return from the women he set his cap to. Which was not the most politic thing to say these days, but it was the truth. He would deny it to his death bed, but secretly he was quite proud of being Three Continents Watson. Thing was, he was pretty sure he was more of Casanova than a lout. At least he'd never gotten the impression, he'd never heard an inkling of a rumour that he was a bad lover, and that counted for something. Or at least it did in his view. After all, hadn't Leonie played that one Missy Elliot song to death, winking at him and telling him he made her scream God on the regular? Too right he did.
The End, when it happened, was sudden and brutal. After an afternoon's walk, and a lovely caper on the banks of the ---, where I kissed him - yes, feeling daringly hot blooded and bold with desire, I kissed him - we returned to the college we were attending.
John eyed his glass - there was less than a finger. He was sleepy and buzzed and shouldn't really have another, but fuck it, they were on holiday.
Some time later he cracked one eye open, then the other, gazed at Sherlock's beloved profile, the structure of his face thrown into further bas-relief by the firelight. Oh, but he was feeling contrary tonight. "Have you ever thought about it? Kissing another bloke?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"I have."
Sherlock looked directly at him and blinked, his eyes a little too wide. The great faker knew exactly what John was on about, even if he didn't want to admit it. "Really?"
He nodded, amused at the sensation of his brain sloshing around inside his skull. Yes, definitely no more drinking.
"People have small minds, John. I would have thought you would be used to the comments by now."
"That's not what I'm talking about and you know it," John tapped the book gently, making it rock on the arm of the chair. "I'm just saying."
"You were married. To a woman, I might add."
John shrugged. "What's your point? It's not that big a deal, not these days. I mean, not in Britain. Not with non-religious people."
Sherlock glanced up at him from beneath lowered lashes, his entire body still.
"Anyway, have you? Kissed a bloke?" asked John, before taking another sip of whisky. He didn't know why he wanted to know, he just did. Besides, it wasn't anything else but the truth. A person lived with someone long enough, of course they got curious. Sherlock had seen him through a multitude of girlfriends, which of course didn't include the women John had slept with and never brought home, because no, and of course he had gone and gotten himself fucking married, for fuck sakes, so little wonder Sherlock was giving him that look. "I'm just curious. We never talk about this sort of thing."
"This sort of thing?" Sherlock asked haughtily.
Nervous, for as John had just said, they never talked about this, not when it concerned their own relationship. He shrugged a little, as if to say, You don't have to talk about this, but I am. "Perfectly natural to wonder about someone, what they'd be like in bed, what they liked or didn't."
"I don't…speculate."
Which was ridiculous, coming from Sherlock 'Only Consulting Detective in the World' Holmes. John knocked back the rest of his glass and carefully placed it on the table between their chairs. The decanter was right there, it would be easy enough to pour another finger or two, but he was already very pleasantly buzzed and didn't fancy trying to make it up the stairs with poor balance. Well. He had tried. Given Sherlock's bombastic relationship with Mycroft, John was hardly surprised to find Sherlock quiet on matters pertaining to his own body. Maybe Sherlock would find a partner some day, or maybe he had it off on the regular with one of his...cronies. Who that might be, John didn't know, though he found the very idea irritating. In a weird way, Sherlock was his - that's just how it was. He could grudgingly admit that Sherlock deserved someone to love him too, someone who wasn't John.
Christ, he needed to go to bed, he wasn't making any sense to himself. John got up and stretched, groaned at the popping of his spine. He did a little side to side stretch too, immediately felt better for it. "I think I have to go to bed."
"Sleep well," said Sherlock, now gazing at the fire, brows drawn down in thought.
John paused halfway to the door, looked over his shoulder at the great idiot, his own companion.
Oh fuck it, why not.
He strode over to Sherlock with far more confidence in his steps than he might possibly have felt, or maybe his forward momentum was a little fast, he had drunk quite a lot, actually, given that parts of his brain were suggesting his sudden thought might not be a good idea after all. Then again, why the fuck not? Sherlock glanced up at him blankly, then canted his head to one side slightly, brows furrowing. John put one hand on the wing of the chair, the other on the arm, leaned in close. "Can I kiss you?"
Sherlock blinked at him.
John took Sherlock's silence as neither a yes nor a no, but rather a pregnant pause where anything was possible. He slowing leaned forward and touched Sherlock's lips with his own.
He pulled away slightly.
Sherlock blinked.
He went in again, this time more slowly, keeping his eyes open for signs of distress. This time Sherlock's eyelids fluttered, and that was all the answer John needed. He pulled back again, smiled. "All right?"
Sherlock jerked a nod.
"Good night," said John, waiting just long enough to make sure Sherlock didn't want another kiss. Not that he was necessarily interested himself...he would hate to deprive Sherlock of something he wanted, that was all. With this in mind, he left the room, carefully closing the door behind himself. A satisfactory experiment. He went upstairs to his room, washed up and performed his usual nightly ablutions before falling into the massive bed. Big enough for four, if a person were so inclined. Ah, there had been a time in his life when...drink had loosened him up enough to contemplate memories of leave, Colchester when he was a lad, frantic couplings when he was a med student, half-insane with exhaustion from being on duty for 24 or 48 hours. Necessary training, and it was that that killed any thoughts of further stress relief between the sheets. He curled up on his side, cozily wrapped in an old-fashioned down duvet, a fluffy (but not too fluffy) cushion beneath his head. He was half-way asleep when he thought of what he had done in the study, and gave a 'ha!' as to his own chutzpah, as Steinberg would have said. Before he got blown up, anyway.
2) Porridge Oats, traditional
"I've heard about this, but I've never actually experienced it," John looked doubtfully at the bowl of porridge in front of him. Unlike the sugar, butter, and cream laced hot dish he was partial to on special occasions, this bowl was of the very traditional variety. Instead of sugar, there was salt, and instead of cream, there was whisky.
"That's the way my Gran used to make it when I was a little girl," said Mrs. Boyd, hands clasped in front of her waist. Her pinny was gaily floral and very representative of her personality. John had no doubt that she and Mrs. Hudson would get along fabulously. "Not for me, obviously, for my grandfather. But he snuck me spoonfuls when she wasn't looking, and I loved it!"
Judging by the rosiness of Mrs. Boyd's cheeks, she still did. John dutifully took a bite, chewed slowly. It...wasn't terrible. It wasn't great, either, but obviously Scotsmen had different standards back then. Or something, because he couldn't think of any reason anyone would add whisky to porridge oats.
"Isn't that lovely? The perfect thing after a cold morning on the shoot. Of course back then you had everything else for breakfast too," said Mrs. Boyd, folding her arms and apparently settling in for the long haul by leaning against the sideboard. "It was so grand, when the lodge was filled with people. Mr. Carnahan loved his hunting, he did, and the fishing, too. Cook, she was my mum, taught me everything she knew. Those were the days."
John managed to eat the majority of the bowl - thank god it was small - before resting his spoon on the saucer. "Any chance of an egg?"
Mrs. Boyd started. "Of course, of course! I'll fry a couple up with a nice bit of bacon and tomato, a couple of mushrooms, too. Would you like some, Mr. Holmes?"
"Yes, thank you," Sherlock came around John's left to take a seat at the table.
"Sleep well?" asked John, pouring tea into a cup. He pushed it towards Sherlock along with the sugar bowl.
"Mm."
"I slept like a rock, actually. Between the bed and the whisky I was out like a light," he continued, hoping to ease any awkwardness Sherlock might feel. The kiss had come back to him as soon as he had woken, and he could have kicked himself at his own stupidity.
"I...I should like to go in to town today," answered Sherlock quietly.
"Of course," said John, a bit nonplussed. He hesitated for a moment. "Do you want company?"
Sherlock nodded.
"Okay...we can try lunch at the pub, yeah?"
They fell into a silence. John took the initiative and split the two day old Scotsman on Sunday into two halves. He kept the sports section for himself, figuring he could lose himself in the rugby scores and let Sherlock get through whatever crisis he was having. Which wasn't really fair of him, since he had precipitated the crisis in the first place.
Shit.
It was no use. They were going to have to talk about it.
"Jo - "
"Sher - "
John shook his head, motioned towards Sherlock. "You first."
Sherlock pursed his lips, then said something completely different from what John was expecting.
"Do you like the book?"
"The journal? Yes, yes I do," he took a sip of tea and gathered his thoughts. "It's rare to come across an autobiography that hasn't had the most intimate emotional details of a person's life edited out. Here they are, though, in their most raw state. I'm actually surprised it wasn't burnt after being written. I keep reading, hoping for a happy ending."
"You're not…bothered by the subject?"
John paused with his toast halfway to his mouth. Why on earth - ? What kind of man did Sherlock think he was? Surely Sherlock knew better by now. Surely he had known since the day they had met…? "My sister is gay, I was in the Army, I'm a doctor, I could care less."
He hadn't lied to Sherlock, the night before. The thought did pop in to his head from time to time, about Sherlock and whether or not he was happy, but the truth was that it was none of his business. As long as no one hurt Sherlock - in which case John would have some things to say - John was content that Sherlock was content.
After breakfast, they went for a walk. Sherlock was eager to see their surroundings, something about animal tracks and insects, bird's nests and spider casings, while John just wanted to get the hell out of the house. All those weeks of running around in London and Dubrovnik and Budapest, he found he couldn't give up the physicality of it all. He itched for action, not unlike his time in Afghanistan, when he was honest with himself. Besides, he had to work off his hangover.
The fields and hills surrounding the lodge had turned into shades of gold and ochre and sienna brown, interspersed with distant rectangles of the deep, black green of national forest pines, and the lighter greens of the natural forest in the area. The lodge's drive was private, running nearly two miles before it joined the main road. The metal gate was closed, though not locked, but Sherlock ignored it in favor of climbing over the stone wall. John followed, glad he had thought to bring his leather gloves, a habit he had picked up while Sherlock was gone. A gift from Mary, of all people. He still wore them, even after everything that had happened, because they were just a pair of gloves and thus useful and it wouldn't do to waste a useful thing.
He was almost at the point where he didn't have to remind himself of such every time he put them on.
Despite the moisture in the air that promised rain at some point in the day, John quite enjoyed the walk. He felt strong, a man not quite in the peak of physical perfection, but not far off it, either. Sherlock still had a bit of a hitch in his gait from falling down the steps along the Thames, which was only to be expected given the rain and poor night time light. He had hit the shingle hard enough to knock the wind right out of him, waving John after Tucker when John would ordinarily have stopped to make sure he was all right. John had brought Tucker down just past the bridge, nearly sending them both into the water. By the time John was bringing Tucker back, Sherlock was limping toward them.
John was too used to soldiers trying to be macho to allow Sherlock the chance to tell him that he was fine. He simply nodded at him, barked "At home," and miracle of miracles, Sherlock had simply accepted the command with a great deal of grace. Back at the flat John did some gently probing and while no bones had been broken, Sherlock was going to be in some pain for a few days yet.
The pub, when they finally reached it, had a roaring fire going in the heart, and was, even at this time of day, filled with locals. There was a brief lull in conversation as folk looked to see the visitors, but the volume of laughter and talk soon regained its strength. Though it was a little soon after his breakfast, John found he was hungry enough to eat lunch. One homemade steak and kidney pie and a bowl of buttery mash later, he was utterly full and quite pleased about it. Even Sherlock had eaten, which still surprised John. He was glad to see it, however. Neither of them were getting any younger.
Later, when they had had enough socializing, they struck out back to the lodge. Mist was falling heavily, not quite enough to be rain, the wind picking up as daylight began to low. Glancing at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, John was taken by the notion of him being a hero in some 19th century romantic novel, one by the Brontes or Austen, Eliot or Hardy. All he needed was a wool cape, though the Belstaff was a pretty good imitation of one.
3) Tea and Butteries, Warmed, with Blaeberry Jam
There was a case.
Just as John was beginning to feel less relaxed and more antsy, the Postman was shown into the snug by Mrs. Boyd.
"Craig was just passing and I thought maybe you could solve his problem," said Mrs. Boyd, so much the mirror of Mrs. Hudson that John found himself wanting to call home just to find out if she wanted anything.
"I'm sure it's nothing so dramatic, nothing that won't resolve itself," added the postie, a pained expression on his face.
John nodded. "Why don't you tell us anyway," he said, because often the people who needed help the most were the ones who asked for it the least. Besides, Sherlock hadn't said anything yet.
"Well, it's just that mail has gone missing from my house. Including my passport. This has happened before, so I've made sure to have a locked mailbox...
The case was child's play, and why Sherlock had gone on with it had John wondering. The postie was missing mail from his house for several weeks; turned out his aunt had been collecting it in the mistaken belief he had gone to Tenerife for three weeks. Beyond simple, nothing a few enquiries wouldn't have fixed. Oddly, John found himself unsatisfied with the result, even though the 'mystery' was solved. He felt himself out of sorts, lately, prone to long walks along the lane or through the fields. Sherlock was doing the same, funnily enough. Occasionally they met at the pub for lunch, or tramped up into the hills, although neither of them had brought gear for such activities. Despite the time of year, the weather mostly held when they were out and about, apart from the one time they were caught in a sudden burst of rain, becoming drenched in seconds. Luckily they were only a mile from the lodge, an easy enough run. John noticed that Sherlock had a hand to his side when they arrived, pain from the bruised ribs, but Sherlock seemed in good spirits nonetheless. John figured anything serious would have Sherlock in a different state altogether, and thus said nothing.
An hour later, freshly bathed and in warm clothing, they met back in the snug by mutual agreement. John read a few more pages in the book, details of the author's background, before setting it down to pour himself yet another whisky. A bad habit to take up, even on holiday. The secret thrill of it had him enjoying it even more, made him a little reckless.
"Do you think you would have married, back in the day?"
Sherlock made a moue of distaste. "To a woman?"
John shrugged one shoulder. "Sure. Someone smart, like, I dunno...Irene Adler, say."
"Irene?" huffed Sherlock incredulously. "A snake if ever there was one."
A comment which left John blinking in surprise.
"Mary," Sherlock announced. "If I were forced to marry, it would have been Mary."
"You - you remember she almost killed you, right?"
"Yes, but she had her reasons."
After a pause in which all John could do was stare at Sherlock, mouth open, "Are you fucking kidding me? All we went through and you'd marry her? Her?"
"Is that so wrong?"
"Yes - yes!" John bounced out of his chair to pace in front of the window. "My god, how can you be so - yes! I'm sure you're unaware, but men don't often announce to their best male friends that they would marry their friend's wives, especially when that wife has tried to kill them! When that wife is a proven liar! An actual assassin!"
Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his mouth, watching John carefully and with a little sadness in his gaze. "We're none of us free in the department of murder, John."
It was a comment that had John staggering to the whisky. He poured himself a second glass, added several drops of water. He drifted over to the window to stare out window. As happened every night, the mist was falling over the hills, ensuring the forest was no more than a dark haze within. Soon half the meadow would be gone, and then all would be invisible apart from the immediate spill of light from the window. When he felt ready, John took a deep breath. "What do you mean?"
"John."
He closed his eyes at the gentle tone in Sherlock's voice. "Are you saying - did you - have you - ?"
"I was away for a long time, John. I did what I felt was necessary. I did it to protect myself and those I love."
"Of course you did," John said equally softly. For of all the things he knew about Sherlock Holmes, his loyalty was beyond reproach. Still and all - Mary? "Why? Why her?"
Sherlock took his time in answering. "She was intelligent. Kind. Compassionate - "
John snorted.
"She was nurse, John. That was part of her job. She was like you."
"What?" John half-laughed, half-gasped. He turned around to look quizzically at Sherlock, who was still and earnest in a way John rarely saw any more, for Sherlock had learned how to use his words. "Like me? How?"
A second later John could have kicked himself. He may not have shot Sherlock, but - no. No, he wasn't ready to face what he had done. Not yet. Maybe not ever, if he could help it.
"I...can't explain further."
"You mean you won't," said John, sitting down in the chair he'd come to consider his own. Elbows on knees, he stared into the depths of his glass as if it could give him an answer. "Well. That's alright. We all have our secrets."
And then he winced again. He chuckled bitterly. "Can't seem to stop putting my foot in it, tonight. Sorry."
Sherlock said nothing. Instead, he stood, straightened his jacket, and took the single step to approach John.
"Sorry," John repeated, forcing a smile he didn't feel onto his lips. He shook his head. "Don't know what's wrong with me, lately."
Swift as a bird, Sherlock bent down and kissed john on the cheek. When John looked up, surprised beyond all measure, Sherlock merely nodded once. "Read your book. I'm going to take a bath. Good night."
"Night," John murmured, unable to think of anything else to say.
4) Black Bun
"'And so my friend proceeded to disavow me. I will not repeat the words he used, or the names they hurled at me as I stood there, the blood draining from my face, my fingers, my very heart,'" John read aloud, shaking his head in disbelief. "What an utter wanker."
Evenings were spent in the snug no matter if they were apart or together during the day, Sherlock flitted from book to book, muttering to himself and occasionally making calls in French or Italian and once, Greek. John found himself listening with bated breath, for though he had heard Sherlock 'speaking foreign', as his Granda would have said, it never ceased to give him a little thrill. Ridiculous, of course, because he knew more than a few multilingual people, but there it was. Something about Sherlock speaking in tongues was magical, miraculous, lovely to listen to and beautiful to behold. It made Sherlock seem...other worldly, even more so than normal. And how funny was that? To find his friend still so extraordinary, even after all these years?
Right now it was Sherlock's turn to stand in front of the window, arms folded, his back to John, who silently admired his friend's physical form, slim in his suits, surprisingly muscular when out of them.
"People are rarely who they appear to be on the surface," murmured Sherlock.
John bobbed his head in a little 'yes-no' gesture. "I think most people are, actually. We just choose to believe some things over others. Of which my marriage is the perfect example," he said morosely.
Sherlock conceded the point with a nod. "Mary was a consummate actress."
"I think you liked her more than I did," said John slowly, because he simply could not understand why. "I mean, she completely snowed me...and you. So why doesn't that bother you?"
Sherlock finally turned around, leaned against the windowsill. John was abruptly glad he had lit a few lamps before dinner. He had agreed with Mrs. Boyd about the day being right dreich, the morning's low and dark clouds never clearing. He hadn't been tempted outside at all, though Sherlock had popped out for a few hours. Lights had been necessary all day, in fact, though he had mostly sat next to the window in order to start Lewis Grassic Gibbon's 'A Scot's Quair', a classic he had somehow missed in school. Soon enough he had been called back to the journal and now only had a few pages left.
"I...I don't know," said Sherlock, looking at the floor. "She made me feel...normal, I suppose."
"Normal...yeah, I get that. She had a talent for that," John answered, wishing he knew better words, a better way to tell Sherlock he was the best man John had ever known, how absolutely extraordinary he was, how phenomenally special he was in his difference. Yet, at the same time, he understood what Sherlock meant. Mary had made him feel normal too, after Sherlock was gone. She had accepted his grief and his pain and made it all right. Had made it...normal. Through her actions, had made it clear that it was perfectly acceptable, perfectly ordinary to cry and cry again, to suffer for want when the person you loved most in the world died. Which then made him wonder how Sherlock had felt, that she could do that for him, too.
The silence became oppressive, so John picked up the book and began to read again. "'I stood there, frozen to the spot, and listened to it all, trying to ignore the looks of pity, the looks of disgust, from the other patrons.
And when they were done, when their fun was over and they turned their backs to me, talking about what they were going to do that evening, gambling or the theatre or studying for the next exam, when it was finally possible for my knees to unlock, I turned around and left the pub. I did not pack my things, nor did I return home to my family.
I walked through the town, oblivious to my surroundings, only to discover when the sky began to lighten that I had walked through the night and was soaked to the skin. Thoroughly chilled, I knocked at the door of the nearest farm, hoping for a cup of tea before I returned to the college. The kind woman who opened the door took one look at me and shooed my inside. Not content with feeding me toast and eggs and rashers of streaky bacon, plus three cups of strong hot tea, she made me change into her good husband's nightclothes, wrapped me in a blanket and set me before the fire. I was not long there before a fever took hold of me that I could not shake, with the result that I spent some weeks as a resident in the eldest son's room.'"
"Poor sod," said John. "Bad enough to fall for someone who could care less, even worse to be treated like that. And in public! If the author were my friend I would have hunted down those bastards and given them what for."
Sherlock chuckled. "You're a true friend, John, in the best meaning of the word."
"I have my moments."
"Many of them," Sherlock said fondly. "My blogger."
John felt his cheeks heat and hastily looked down. Since Mary's death, Sherlock had become much more effusive with his feelings, and John wasn't sure he was entirely comfortable with it. Not because Sherlock was being honest so much as John felt he should be honest in turn, and he...he was not good at that. "Shall I read on? It's almost finished."
"Yes, do," said Sherlock, adding another log on to the fire. "But first, I need a hot drink. Want anything?"
"Maybe just a glass of water?"
Sherlock nodded and slipped out of the room, leaving John to gaze at the fire and wonder just what the hell he was doing. Lately, over the past few weeks working the case that had taken them abroad, he had found himself thinking of Sherlock a lot, in ways that were, frankly, confounding. Yes, Sherlock was incredibly attractive, both physically and mentally. He was also a pillock, but then so was John. This was different, though. Mary had said something, once, to the affect that John didn't have much room for anyone in his life besides Sherlock, and that if he wanted to be a proper father, he was going to have to make a choice. At the time he had scoffed at her, thinking he knew better. The baby was here now, and he had discovered there was some truth to her words after all. Truth, but not the whole truth. Rosie was a good baby, a pretty baby, and he loved her with every fiber of his being - just as he did Sherlock. A different kind of love, obviously, though not by much.
Four months in and he was still getting used to the idea of being a parent. Thank god for Mycroft and nannies, which let him live in the best of worlds. She was safe no matter what he did or where he went, and that was the most important thing. She would grow up protected beyond anything he or Mary could have coordinated by themselves, with Mycroft for her uncle.
John rubbed his forehead, suddenly exhausted by his complicated life. Yes, Rosie would be better off if her mum was still alive, but Mary wasn't, end of. Rosie would still be loved, was loved by everyone who knew her. Even Harry was there for her, which was...which was good. Very good. Maybe gave her a bit of purpose in staying off the alcohol a bit more.
His train of thought was interrupted by the mug placed on the side table, the rising steam scenting the room with sugar and cocoa. "Oh my god, this is perfect."
"I thought so, too. Made in the American manner, with milk," said Sherlock, taking a seat. "I grew to love it when I was - "
"You'll have to tell me, sometime. I'll let it cool a bit." said John, filling the space left by Sherlock's abrupt stop. He lifted the mug to his nose. Yes, perfect. He set it aside and picked up the book one more. "Ready?"
"Mm."
"There's a bit of a break here...ah.
'By the time I fully recovered my health, the term was over and I was sent home for the summer. Though I was determined to never return, Father was of a different mind entirely, and I was made to go back or suffer my inheritance. Father is very strict in this manner, believing in the power of Education about all. Also, he does not wish to see the house or his fortune squandered in ignorance.
At college, my former friend was gone. The friends of his who remained completely ignored me, although the majority of them also tried to catch me on my own and force me to perform acts - suffice to say they were illegal, even in the privacy of one's home.
In time, I graduated.
With my father in good health, I went to South America in search of adventure and the pursuit of my own fortune. There was much toil, and danger, and more than once I nearly lost my life to disease and snakes, to a wild boar's tooth and the resultant infection. I accomplished what I set out to do, and within a few years returned home, triumphant in will and spirit.
I spurned any and all attempts of romantic inclination at home and abroad, preferring not to take the risk of entanglement or worse, a repeat of what had happened with my friend. If I had known I was to see him but one other time, perhaps I would have been less adamant in matters of love.
I was in Bath, waiting for an acquaintance I had met on the ship, and decided to take the waters at the Pump Room, trying to dispel the slight nausea I had been feeling upon my return to England, when I saw my old college friend and his wife across the spring. He was staring at me, distracted enough that his wife had to tug at his sleeve to garner his attention. As soon as she realized he was looking at me, she looked, and then gave a little wave. He immediately forced her hand down, and that was enough for me. I tipped my hat at her, turned, and promptly left the Pump Room.
Once outside, the man I was to meet was rushing up the street, and I gladly accepted his invitation for a chop and a glass of beer at -—, on -- Street. It was far enough away that I was sure my old friend would not find me. Not that I wanted him to. No, I wanted him to know how much of a success I had made after our last encounter. He had not destroyed me as I had once feared. If anything, he had freed me from a lifetime of subservience at his feet, of being a slave to a love from which I did not know I suffered. Thus fortified with satisfaction, I went on to thoroughly enjoy what time I had in Bath - albeit it was not long, for I was busy with formulating a journey to Mexico, and beyond to California and the wilds of Canada.'"
"Fascinating," said Sherlock, cradling his mug in his hands. "A rare man, to find happiness in the face of such hardship."
"Oh, I don't know," John answered, eyeing Sherlock with the slightest smile. "I think I'm rather closely acquainted with one, myself."
Sherlock looked at him, twitched away. "Hardly. Look in the mirror, John."
"You really don't give yourself enough credit. Oh, there's one more entry - " John crossed his other leg and took a sip of water, as Sherlock had managed to bring up a glass along with the hot chocolate. "This is dated some six years later.
'I had forgotten I even wrote this journal, finding it some years after Father's death, and long after Mother moved to the Italian Coast for the warmth and the sea air. How much has changed in the intervening years.
I have a companion, now, and in this book I shall call him 'Victor'. He is the most wonderful creature I have ever met, full of life, vim, and vigor. He is everything my old college friend was not, and it was not until I met him that I understood the difference. His courtship was slow and steady and even now I wonder at his patience, for I was horrible in my disbelief of the depth of his feeling, and cruel in the way that only the desperate can be.
We are happy. I am happy. Beyond happy. I doubt I have felt this since I was the littlest child, excited by the idea of a full belly and the promise of a nap after chasing butterflies in the garden.
Should I be lucky enough - '" John turned the page, and then flipped through the remainder of the book. The rest of the pages were blank. "That's it, that's all he wrote, whoever he was."
"A member of Gordon's family, his third great Uncle Oliver," said Sherlock.
"Oh come on, how on earth do you know that? And don't even tell me you deduced it out of thin air."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You know my methods by now."
John gave him the hairy eyeball, thought about the lodge. "You saw the family tree in the attic. Do you know what I had to do to uncover it?"
"Yes," said Sherlock, grinning. "Your hand prints in the dust were a trail even the Yard could follow."
He had to laugh at that, because it was only the truth. A moment later he sobered, having brushed the now warm mug with his hand. He switched glass for mug and took a cautious sip. God, the cocoa was sweet and strong and a smidgeon salty. All it lacked was whipped cream and a shot of Amaretto or hazlenut liquor. "Will you ever tell me? About when you were away?"
Sherlock stilled, his mouth drawn down so much that John was instantly sorry he had asked. "Listen, it's okay - "
"It's fine. I should tell someone, and of all people you would probably understand the most."
"That sounds ominous."
"I've done things, John. Terrible things."
John had to blink twice to make sure he wasn't seeing things, but it was true, there was the slightest tremble in Sherlock's chin. "Hey," he said, setting the mug down, and then again, sharper. "Hey! Sherlock, it's fine, it's all fine. You're here with me and you're going to be fine."
He sure as shit hadn't seen this moment coming, and he had imagined a lot where Sherlock was concerned. Sherlock's throat worked and his nostrils flared and that was it, John was on his knees in front of Sherlock, taking the mug out of his hands and replacing it with his own. He squeezed Sherlock's hands tightly. "You may not have been in Afghanistan, but I know you've been through the wars. I've seen the scars. Yes, you've tried to hide them from me but I'm a doctor, I have ways."
"Sorry," said Sherlock, his voice thick. "You're right, this has been a very odd week."
John nodded, relieved that Sherlock wasn't crying. He wasn't sure he would know what to do with a crying Sherlock. He could barely stand it when he cried, himself. "Hell yeah it has been. Shall we go home tomorrow, or stay a few more days?"
"Maybe another day or two."
"All right. You can always change your mind in the morning, yeah?"
"Yes."
"Good," John got to his feet, knees creaking. "Now come on, get that down your neck and I'll put you to bed, maybe read you another bed time story."
"Oh, goodie."
John shook his head, amused. Crisis averted. For the moment, anyway. As much as he didn't want to face what was coming, maybe it was better if they stayed here. Maybe Sherlock needed to air things out just as much as John did. Maybe...maybe they needed to do it together, rather than apart. They were always better together.
"John?"
"Mm?"
Sherlock looked at him earnestly. "Do I get a kiss to make it all better?"
Right. "If you like."
"I do, John. I do."
no subject
Date: 2017-12-17 05:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-20 08:20 pm (UTC)Sure, John, sure... :)
What a wonderfully descriptive story! I love how they used the journal to open up about their own lives. Such a sweet ending too, just lovely! Thank you for sharing this!
no subject
Date: 2017-12-21 03:43 am (UTC)