Fic: Wasteland (Sherlock)

[broken_cinders]

This is just a piece of something I've been playing with. It might turn into something, it might not. In no way should it ever be considered a finished piece of writing. It's never even heard of a beta, so feel free to point out any errors/problems you might encounter.

Title: Wasteland
Fandom(s): BBC Sherlock
Character: John, Sherlock
Pairing(s): Gen
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 4,432 words
Disclamer: Not mine. If you recognize it, I had no hand in making it. I do not own any of the BBC Sherlock characters, settings, or other miscellany. They belong to Moffat, Gatiss, et al. I'm just borrowing.
Summary: When you're 20 and drunk, everything seems like a good idea. Ten years later, you just hope it doesn't come back to bite you. Especially when your genius flatmate is standing next to you and the entire Met is watching.
Warnings: Meh. A few curse words.



John pushed his way through the crowded hotel entrance and out into the cool, autumn morning. Sherlock was still inside showing off, but they had learned everything they were going to. It wasn’t often he had a willing audience so John let him preen. John had long ago given up on convincing him that major crimes - anything that involved murder or someone getting hurt in some way - were not occasions to be gleeful in front of the civilians, but today he had them eating out of his hand. John was just surprised that the great detective had allowed things to go on so long. Normally he was as shy of large crowds of admirers as John was. Especially when the cases turned out to be simple.

Lestrade had called them in that morning baffled by the robbery of a locked vault guarded by a loyal, now deceased, employee and monitored by cameras that hadn’t seen a thing. Of course, Sherlock had figured it out in about three seconds flat and was explaining his observations over with a flourish to Lestrade, the hotel manager, and what seemed to be the entire staff all crammed into the front foyer around a laptop someone had procured for Sherlock’s demonstration. At least he was not pouting.

John leaned up against the stone wall beside the door, relishing the chill after the heat of the hotel. Sherlock burst through the doors and arrived at John’s side in a flurry of coat and bouncing hair. John smiled at the boyish gleam in Sherlock’s eye.

Sherlock schooled his features and fell into step as John pushed off and started towards the road in search of a cab to take them home. “Well, that was exceptionally dull.”

The words lacked the waspish sting that they would have had if Sherlock was truly disappointed in the outing. John hummed, not really in the mood to respond.

“Lestrade is slipping. This one wasn’t up to his recent standards.”

John shrugged. “They can’t all be criminal masterminds. You seemed to enjoy yourself at any rate. At least it was a bit of a distraction.”

Sherlock huffed but John wasn’t fooled. He could see the smile in the other man’s eyes and that glint that said he probably got just as high off of showing off as he did off anything else. John shouldn’t be encouraging it, but that was Sherlock.

Sherlock was about to say something else when a man dodged in front of them. He was thin and pale skin peaked out at the collar of his leather jacket. He looked to be in his late twenties, his hair flopped over in a way that might have been cool a half dozen years ago. He stopped in front of them, panting slightly from his jog.

“’Scuse me,” he said to John. “But do I know you?”

John frowned. He had never seen this man before in his life. Which meant it was probably a fan of his blog. Lovely.

“No, sorry. I think you’ve got me mixed up with someone else.”

The man’s eyes went wide. “You are him!”

John glanced up the street, looking for a quick escape. “Sorry, I don’t know you.”

John took a step to his left, dragging Sherlock along by his sleeve.

“No, no.” the man said. “You’re him. You’re Watson.”

“You’ve got the wrong person, mate.” If he could just make it back to the hotel, Lestrade and his gang would provide a barrier between them and the man. Most of the crazies let off when they saw police around.

The man kept pace with them. “I’d know that voice anywhere. I only saw you live that once, but I knew I recognized you!”

John stopped. “Wait, what?” He asked stupidly. Live? His voice? People only recognized him because of that stupid picture from the papers. He really looked at the man. His dark hair was slicked to his head and his eyes gleamed in a way that he normally associated with Sherlock’s fan club.

“Yeah, man. It was at Porter’s back in ’97. You guys were awesome. I can’t believe you’re here!”

Then it occurred to him what the man was actually saying. John’s eyes grew wide. He fought down a flush of embarrassment. Trained army doctors do not blush.

“Oh, well. Thanks.” He said with a sheepish grin. His hand found the back of his neck. From the corner of his eye he could see Sherlock watching with that detached look he got. It always reminded John of an evil scientist in the middle of an experiment. Or maybe someone watching a particularly enthralling tennis match.

“Do you think I could have your autograph?”

John blinked. “You want my autograph?”

“Well, yeah. How often do you meet John “The Flood” Watson?” John chuckled nervously at the nickname. He hoped to God no one ever found out the story behind that one. “Benny’s never going to believe I actually met you. We were your biggest fans back in the day. Whatever happened to the band? You were going strong until bam, 1999 hit and nobody ever heard from Wasteland again.”

“Wasteland?” Sherlock asked with a raised brow. John could see the cogs turning in that brilliant brain even now. Bugger.

The man nodded emphatically. “Yeah. Wasteland. They were the best student band around until they fell off the face of the planet. Their last album won a couple of awards in the music scene. And,” he said, turning to John, “I own all three of them. You were a brilliant lyricist. I really did hate to hear you guys had broken up. No one seemed to know what happened.”

John blinked. “Oh, well you know. Life. We graduated and I went on to medical school and the army. George had to move back to Scotland for a while. We just sort of fell apart.”

The reality was much more complex, of course. Derek had a meltdown over the pressure of performing, practicing, and studying, even at the small time level they played at. John was really in school to be a doctor and singing never paid the bills. There was the fight over whether to take the record deal since it would mean touring for a couple of months, especially since they only formed the band as a result of a late night of drinking and $100 bucks to another of their friends that they could write a song and get it aired over the radio, back when there was still a show for local talent.

Then George’s mum had died. That call had been followed shortly by one for John telling him Harry had stumbled out in front of a car in a drunken stupor and was in intensive care. That incident preceded her first attempt at AA. In the end no one could justify staying together.
“You were in the army? Wow! That’s incredible.”

John shrugged. “Yeah, I was a medic.”

“You know, my son wants to be a doctor. He’s obsessed. My wife made him one of those lab coats for his last birthday.”

John was feeling a little overwhelmed. He felt himself shift awkwardly, reconsidering the dash back to the hotel. “That’s nice. It’s a great career if he’s not afraid of a little hard work.

The man was nodding seriously. “That’s my William. Stubborn to the core. ‘Course, he’s only six. Guess we’ll have to wait and see.” The man laughed a little. “I can’t believe it’s really you. And that you’ve done all that stuff.”

John just shrugged, unsure what to say.

The man seemed ready to say something more, but Sherlock cut over him. “John, we still have that case for Mycroft. Best we got on with it before he gets testy. He always did know how to throw a tantrum.”

John cast him a grateful look as the man in front of them nodded. “Right, sorry. I just had to say hello when I recognized you.” He patted down his pockets looking for something. He came up with a handful of bills and a dirty napkin. Smoothing out a five pound note he turned to Sherlock. “You wouldn’t have a pen would you?”

Sherlock snorted, but before he could say anything rude, John had produced his own pen that he had been taking notes with. The man passed him the bill and smiled at him. “If you could just make it out to David.”

John took the note and looked at it. “I’ve got a note pad if you’d prefer,” he said in a daze.

The man shook his head. “Nah, that’ll do just fine,” he said with a grin.

John scribbled down a brief note and handed the bill back to David. The man smiled brilliantly as he read it. “Ta!”

He turned and made his way back down the sidewalk, jogging over to a woman who was watching him questioningly. John watched as he waved the bill at her and pointed their direction. He glanced at Sherlock to find him disappearing into a cab. Across the way, Lestrade and his team were standing outside the hotel doors watching with interest. Donovan was whispering to Anderson who smiled a nasty sort of grin. John huffed and followed Sherlock into the dark interior of their cab.

They were silent on the way home. John was used to being categorically overlooked when in the presence of his flatmate, and quite often even when he wasn’t. He found the whole experience uncomfortable. It was the sort of thing he might have liked when he was twenty and still had a taste for fame. Now, with reporters fishing around constantly and his name in the tabs, he was quite ambivalent towards the whole ordeal. It was nice to be noticed as something other than Sherlock’s lackey.

Sherlock had withdrawn into one of his thinking moods again and John was happy to let him stay that way. He wouldn’t know what to say at this point.

They arrived at Baker Street and filed up the stairs. It was a full thirty minutes of comfortable silence before anything else was said. John sat with a cup of tea at his elbow, engrossed in a book, while Sherlock resolutely ignoring the sandwich John had placed in front of him.

“Wasteland, John?”

John barely managed to not upset his mug when he started. He glared at Sherlock. “What?”

“What sort of name is Wasteland?”

John sighed and went back to his book. “Leave off. It was two in the morning and we were drunk.”

Sherlock leaned back in the chair. “I never knew you could sing.”

John shrugged, still feigning interest in his book. “It was a long time ago.”

He could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him for a long moment before the detective sighed, grabbed his laptop, and settled back down into a sulk. John should have known it wouldn’t be that easy, although it was a few days later before he heard anything else about it.

John hugged his paper grocery bags close to his chest as he fumbled his way in the door. One of these days, he was going to guilt Sherlock into doing the shopping. This was getting ridiculous.

He eyed the stairs considering the likelihood he would make it up them with all his bags. It was no good. He was wider with his load than the stairs. He’d have to leave some here and make two trips. He briefly considered calling his useless lump of a flatmate, but he could hear music of some sort from upstairs and knew he would be ignored. Odd. Sherlock wasn’t usually one to put on music unless it had to do with a case. Maybe it was the television. Or maybe they had a client?

John let a couple of bags drop to the ground and hoped for the latter as he climbed the stairs. He wasn’t in the mood for a bored Sherlock.

When he reached the top he thought he might recognize the song. The guitar riff seemed vaguely familiar. Then the lyrics started and he froze. That was his music. Sherlock was listening to his music.

He took a deep, bracing breath and pushed on into the flat. He resolutely ignored everything as he went back for his other bags and brought them up. He got almost through putting things away in the fridge when Sherlock sat up from the couch and peered through the doorway at him.

“Oh good, John. You’re back.” The stereo clicked off and Sherlock unfolded himself. “Lestrade texted. We’ve got a case.”
John glanced up. “And you’re here because?”

“It was a four. I was busy.”

“Okay? If you think I’m hauling the laptop around again so you can sit in the flat in a bed sheet, you’re going to be disappointed.”

“No, I wanted a word with Lestrade anyway. But it’s so obvious, even Anderson in his bumbling can’t really destroy anything of importance. If we leave now we can still catch them at the crime scene.”

John straightened up from the fridge and folded the bag, laying it on a clear patch of counter with the others. “Fine, but you’re not going in your pajamas. Go put some pants on.”

Sherlock disappeared into his room and John wandered over to the stereo. Lying there next to the speakers was a brand new CD of Wasteland’s second album. John had always thought the second one was the best.

They had recorded it in a dark little room somewhere over in Essex. A friend of Derek’s had an uncle who owned a studio. He had let them use it for cheap at the wee hours of the morning. They recorded half one night and the rest the next. He’d been a zombie through his classes for two days, but he could still remember the tingling high as they worked through the morning. That feeling alone had made it a close call when it came time to vote whether they should stay together as a band or get on with their lives.

John had never found anything quite like the quiet energy of recording music at four in the morning while everyone else was asleep. He had Sherlock’s mad adventures now that kept him busy, kept him sane, but it was a zen sort of madness, not the pure creative energy that had filled that little studio. But perhaps it was just one more type of adrenaline high. John seemed to be very good at finding those.

He set the case back where he found it and turned to find Sherlock watching him from the doorway. Didn’t the man know it was creepy to be watched like that? John attempted a smile.

“Where did you find that? I didn’t think there were any more copies around.”

Well, he supposed that there were probably still a couple of boxes tucked away in George’s garage, assuming he still lived in his mother’s old house. Along with a box of band tees and maybe even some of their kit.

Sherlock scowled. “I didn’t. My usual acquaintances knew of the band, but didn’t have any copies. Mycroft forwarded me these.”

John shrugged and moved for the door. He desperately hoped Mycroft hadn’t sent anyone to break into George’s house. Was nothing sacred to the Holmes brothers? “So this case. Where is it?”

They made it to the crime scene in good time. Sherlock filled John in on the important details - successful businessman, late thirties, married to an unfaithful wife, killed in a room locked from the inside - as they rode towards the scene.

When they arrived, John wished he’d stayed home. He really should have for a six, but Sherlock had a bad habit of finding trouble where he shouldn’t and John was feeling restless. He did not want to sit in an empty flat and not having anywhere else to go, he had tagged along.

He scowled when they reached the door and found Donovan waiting for them. When she caught sight of John, she turned on him wide-eyed, conveniently stepping to block the entryway. She laid a hand on his chest and pretended to fan herself. “Oh there he is. Mr. Watson! My hero! Oh, I might swoon.” She was going to find herself on the floor sooner than she thought if she did not remove her hand.

Sherlock was thoroughly annoyed by her antics. “Well go on then,” he said. “At least you wouldn’t be in our way. Either swoon or step aside. I have business with Lestrade.”

She scowled at him. “And why should I?”

“I believe your boss called me. That would indicate he wants me inside where I can be useful. Unless they’ve suddenly come up with a clever way for rooms to be on the outside of a house.”

She glowered at him, but stepped aside. “Freak’s here,” she said into her walkie.

Sherlock pushed past her and John followed. As he made his way down the hall, Sherlock shot back over his shoulder. “And it’s Doctor Watson.”

The case was as Sherlock had said, simple and boring. John was really just along for the hell of it at this point. He suspected Sherlock had been equally as
bored if he had left the house for this. Even his deductions were somewhat lackluster. Although lackluster Sherlock was still miles beyond anyone else he knew.

And what exactly did it say about him that he found a murder boring? He was picking up Sherlock’s bad habits. He only contributed to correcting the time of death. Lestrade kept shooting him funny looks. He and Sherlock spoke in the corner while John examined the body. It made him nervous. Sherlock talking to anyone in the corner typically meant he was planning something. But Lestrade seemed equally as harassed and annoyed with Sherlock as usual, so John had nothing to go on.

As they were leaving, John noticed Anderson and Donovan whispering by the police tape barrier. He had mostly ignored them until, just as he was heading towards the waiting cab, they started harassing him. Shouting after him.

“Mr. Watson? Can I have your autograph?”

“I’m such a fan.”

“Really, sign my shirt!”

“Me first!”

“Mr. Watson!”

“Mr. Watson!”

As John sank into the cab, his face burning, they burst into cackles. Wankers. He was trying to remember why he shouldn’t shoot anyone at a crime scene. Next to him, Sherlock scowled.

“Ignore them.”

John swallowed, reigning in his temper. He took a deep breath before he felt calm enough to speak reasonably. “I know Sherlock. Not exactly anything new for us is it?”

Sherlock cocked his head and examined John. “I suppose not.”

John chuckled. “Maybe I should have signed her shirt. Her face would have been priceless.”

Next to him, Sherlock snorted. Then both were cackling, earning worried glances from the cabbie.

When they were safely ensconced in their living room, John considered Sherlock over the top of his paper. He was pacing, which really meant he was thinking. About what, John didn’t want to know. He was curious about Sherlock’s reaction to his band, but he knew Sherlock would be brutally honest. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“Either ask me your question, or go back to your paper,” Sherlock snapped, not pausing in his pacing. “You’re thinking too loud again.”

John grimaced. Fine. Git. “What did you think?”

Sherlock flung himself into his chair and stared at John. “About what,” he asked. His tone was distracted. Maybe now was not the time to have this conversation.

John shrugged. “Nothing. Never mind.” He slapped his paper closed and stood to go to his room. Sherlock frowned up at him, finally looking up at him properly.

“Context, John. I think about a lot of things. We’ve worked several cases in the last few days, I have three experiments going, and we’ve had a half dozen conversations today alone. Which are you referring to?”

John shook his head, losing his nerve. “Nothing, Sherlock. It’s not important. Go back to your thinking.” He moved off and upstairs to his bedroom leaving Sherlock to scowl after him.

He shut the door and locked it. It wouldn’t keep a determined consulting detective at bay for long, but with Sherlock downstairs thinking, he probably had at least an hour or two before it would be put to the test. He ought to install a bar. Much more difficult to jimmy open.

He sank down on his bed flopping back. Somehow he never expected Sherlock to find out about Wasteland. It was utterly ridiculous. Mycroft probably knew the minute John met Sherlock and all Sherlock would have to do would be to ask for his file - the one John knew Mycroft kept locked in his desk drawer. Not that Sherlock would ask. He’d see it as cheating. Still the man knew everything else with a glance. Why not this?

John shook his head and sank down to the floor so he could reach under his bed. What was more surprising was that Sherlock had obviously never found his stash. He reached up and under the lip of the bedframe and pulled out a small box. Setting it on the bed, he lifted the lid and smiled. There, folded neatly on top, sat his t-shirt. James thought it would be a good idea for them to all look the same, so they had ordered matching shirts to wear to gigs. John couldn’t believe he’d ever been that scrawny. He’d gotten used to his army physique. He must have looked like a twig back then. Setting it aside he thumbed through the other contents. There were copies of their CD’s and the handwritten lyrics he’d saved. At the very bottom were a collection of old photos from when they’d been together. There were a few band photos of them playing, but most were random. Taken during jam sessions or while they were hanging out. One was of John at George’s for Christmas dinner. Another of James in a pirate hat sitting astride a park statue of a horse.

John smiled. He hadn’t looked at these in ages. He flipped through the collection, smiling at the half remembered antics. He only stopped when his stomach reminded him he needed dinner. He briefly toyed with going out, but it was pouring and the fall weather had turned nippy last week. It wasn’t worth it. He’d have to cook.

He gathered everything up and tucked it all back into its box. He unlocked his door and stuck his head out. Sherlock was shuffling around downstairs and he could hear the strains of the violin played softly. At least Sherlock had calmed down. He never played quietly when he was agitated.

He made his way to the kitchen as quietly as he could. Grilled cheese and soup sounded good tonight. With the damp chill and a desire for comfort foods, that would do nicely. He grabbed a can of tomato soup and opened it. Pouring it into a pot to heat on the stove, he added a little basil - his mother’s secret to tomato soup. He pulled the butter and cheese from the fridge and made the sandwiches while the skillet heated. With those frying, he set about finding dishes fit to eat from. There were two bowls clean and a handful of silverware, but the plates were all dirty. He rescued the one from his breakfast, he’d only had toast after all, and then hit the one Sherlock had picked at a sandwich from with a paper towel. By the time he was finished, the soup was hot and the sandwiches were done. He cut them in half and dished them up.

He put their plates on the table - blessedly free of questionable experiments - knowing Sherlock had heard him and would come eat if he was hungry. John started on the soup. He was about halfway through the bowl when Sherlock finally settled his violin and consented to come sit and eat. He attacked the meal like he hadn’t had food for days. Like John hadn’t set something out for him with every meal. The silence settled between them as they slurped and crunched their way through dinner. As John was finishing his sandwich, Sherlock leaned back in the kitchen chair and watched him.

“It was tolerable,” Sherlock said.

John glanced up at him, confused. “The soup? If you didn’t like it, all you had to do was say so.”

Sherlock frowned. “No, the soup was fine.”

“Then what are you talking about?”

“The music. It was tolerable. The melodies were, as whole, moderately catchy, the guitarist played competently. The keyboardist actually showed some promise. The lyrics, while not particularly verbose, were refreshingly devoid of most of the inane sentimentality that plagues modern pop. The drummer, however, wouldn’t be able to find a steady tempo if it beat him over the head.”

John snorted. “Jamie wasn’t that bad.”

“He sounded like a lame horse galloping.”

John smiled. Okay, maybe Jamie was that bad. “He did improve with time.”

Sherlock made the concession with a nod of his head. “I presume, after Mr. David’s comments, that you were the primary lyricist.”

“Well, yeah.” John shrugged. “It started as a stupid bet. We wanted to see if we could get a song on the local radio show. The boys knew I had done some writing in the past and asked me to give it a go.”

“They weren’t half bad, John.”

John blinked at him. “Really? You think so?”

Sherlock nodded. “And why did you never mention you could sing? In fact, I’ve heard you sing, but not like that. I have to say, of the group, you were the most musically talented.”

John could feel a blush creeping up his neck. He fought it down, determined not to embarrass himself. “It’s been years, Sherlock. Besides, it’s not exactly like singing Christmas carols while tipsy is anyone’s finest moment, you know. And I don’t know. It never occurred to me. It’s not like singing was ever a useful skill in the army. Or here. What would I do, croon the criminal masterminds to sleep?”

Sherlock grinned. “Maybe not, but it would provide a wonderful distraction.”

John frowned. “No,” he said. “Whatever you are thinking, no. I know that look and I’m not going to be fooled twice.” Or thrice, but Sherlock didn’t have to know that.

Sherlock sank back in his chair, a pout tugging at his lips. “But John!”

“No.”